Tuesday, July 23, 2013

The Potato Bug and the Worm (what is this? Aesop’s Fables?)

Most mornings this summer, as I am just on the verge of waking, I hear the squeek of our front door opening followed by the whoosh and click of it closing.

The first few times I was alarmed. “Which of my children just left the house?” “Why did they leave?” “Why aren’t they coming right back in?”

But now I know. I just smile to myself and curl back to sleep for a few minutes.

It’s Goldie. If I looked out the window, I’d see her – messy blonde hair and pajamas – crouched down in the gutter . . . saving potato bugs.

Those silly bugs. They don’t know well enough to steer clear of danger. They’re always wandering into the gutter – oblivious to the possibility that water might come gushing down it at any moment and carry them to a miserable end.

In Washington, it was worms. Nearly every night it would rain. Out the worms would crawl – only to find themselves stuck on quickly drying pavement as the morning dawned.

Luckily, for many, there was Goldie – worrying over them when no one else would.

I suppose one could heartlessly point out to her what a small dent her dedicated service to these lowly of the low is making; how few she is really saving. But, even if they did, it wouldn’t matter. She seems to have her own little view of life that meshes wholeheartedly with the somewhat over-told, and sentimental starfish tale. You know: “There are miles of beach! Thousands of starfish! You can’t possibly make a difference.”

(And, of course, I am taking great liberties in my use of quotation marks.) Still, the well-known reply: “It makes a difference to this one.”

Bless her tender little soul. She’s quite fond of pouring love into people . . . and things . . . and small creatures. I don’t know that anyone wants to be compared to a potato bug. Definitely not a worm. Starfish certainly make for a lovelier metaphor. Still, I am quite certain I will see this same behavior extend to many who might be struggling a bit when Goldie chances upon them.

And . . . some lovely pictures of Daisy taken, surprisingly, in our bathroom. Sometimes you find lovely light in the most unlikely places. Ooh . . . I was totally not still playing on the above metaphor, but . . .

Saturday, July 20, 2013


Testing. Testing. One. Two. Three.

My poor blog. Apparently it’s controlled by auto pagination. Maybe all blogs are. Maybe all humans are!!! Terrifying.

I don’t really know what auto pagination is. I have just been trying to figure why my blog will only show one post per page lately and that word keeps coming up. Maybe because I use 8 million photos? Maybe I need to reduce their quality somehow? Maybe . . . maybe . . .

Who knows. I don’t know. Alas.

Anywho, that is all neither here nor there, but I am just putting a post with two pictures up to see what happens. Carry on.

Hey Mom! Hey Dad! Lovely roses!

Friday, July 19, 2013

With the Nobel Prize . . . Or, Even, With Nothing Close To It

I am quite certain, were Jesse offered the chance to go to Disneyland – all its glories described in detail – or to stay here and help his dad fix a broken part on the washing machine, the washing machine would win out.

“I wonder what you’re going to do when you grow up, Jesse,” I mused the other day. “I wonder how you’ll use your smart little brain.”

His response was a sigh of, “ I just want to take a washing machine and an oven apart.”

Those are his grand aspirations.

And, its nice to think that he might wow the world some day. It’s nice to think that this exhausting childhood of things taken apart and curiosities seldom satisfied will run its course. That it will culminate in . . . my son, builder of rocket ships. Or . . . my son . . . inventor of intricate, life-saving medical devices (“How’s Jesse you ask? Oh, he’s doing well. You knew already that he won the Nobel Prize in 2043, and now he’s just working for NASA, and doing a little research for the Mayo Clinic on the side. Nothing fancy. Just the usual.”)

But if, instead, he simply realizes his current aspirations – if he fixes washing machines with the best of them; if he never meets a broken sprinkler part he can’t conquer, or an electrical situation his wits aren’t a match for?

Well, that will be pretty grand too.

Turns out my highest admiration, my deepest respect, my most loyal ties, and my strongest affections are given quite independent of grand achievements and laudable accomplishments.

So, plug along, little man. Fix brake pads, seal leaky faucets, or go ahead and win a Nobel Prize. Those things will all only be additions – little pluses – to the wonder that is already you.

And . . . drumroll . . . (or, actually, probably the very opposite of drumroll) . . . pictures off the cell phone from the last month:
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