It’s not that I’m against celebrating anticipated annual days of note on the calendar—certainly Thanksgiving and Christmas—and I adore the 4th of July and even barely recognized Arbor Day. Veteran’s Day? You betcha. Same with Memorial Day. But Columbus Day? Meh. Presidents’ Day? I guess.
I'm Just Saying
Look, you know that I essentially describe life on the farm: talking toads, apple trees with the occasional foray into pumpkin spice Chapstick, or cats wandering beneath the robes of the Dean of Canterbury Cathedral in his youtube series of ‘Morning Prayers.’
Paul and I have reached the age where birthday prezzies have to require a bit more thought because we essentially have everything we need and how many pairs of slippers can one give, even if the dogs seize upon them shortly afterwards, leaving them in shreds under the bed?
I’m assuming that George W. Crane, Ph.D and M.D. is no longer gracing our planet and that’s a good thing as I’d have to slap and sterilize him in one fell swoop. Of course, it was a different time in 1939, but Dr.
It was while having a good old clear out of unworn clothes and going through boxes which had remain unopened for years that I came across the crisply folded, yet faintly yellowing, neatly typed poem.
During a Zoom call with Paul to his family the conversational ball was being bandied about so frequently that attempting to keep up was nearly futile. Non-sequitors in and out of subjects were the norm but somehow the topic of babysitting came up and everyone had a story to share.
Perhaps it is because both my grandfathers were dead long before I was born, or ever a glimmer in anyone’s eye, but I do feel a slight twinge of envy when I observe that loving bond between Grandpas, Opas, or Papas and their grandchildren.
Let me make this clear: I’m a ‘live and let live’ sorta gal—to the point where I will scoop a drowning Japanese beetle out of the water trough or step in and break up an assault by a hornet upon a horse fly. And I despise horse flies.
Man alive, just when I was feeling at my most world-weary, battered over daily political theater, chalking up yet another Covid-related death in our small town while despairing over those who still refuse to wear masks in public places, comes a story that hit me right in the ‘feels.’
Did you feel it??” friends were shrieking, on social media, email and through the phone. “Earthquake!!”
“They said it was a 5.1!!”
“It knocked over three of Momma’s Hummells and the Barney won’t come out from under the bed!”