Excitement reigns high these days and the questions are endless:
Hello from Gloria’s mom’s front porch. It’s a beautiful day to relax at my little patio table, with a cup of coffee in my favorite mug. It’s a “sisters “mug, and yes, of course, it comes from one of my two sisters. They both live 400 miles from here. Daniel, Gloria, and their flock of six children are spending a week in Danville, Ohio, with “Ohio Dawdys” (grandpas)
I put Hosanna and Joshua in our single stroller, and I headed out the lane. We were going to the neighbors for a quilting. I’ll stop at the mailbox and grab the mail on my way, I told myself. Opening the mailbox, I was delighted to see a letter from a very dear friend and reader, Mrs. Weber from Cincinnati, Ohio.”
Years ago, Patrick McManus lamented that he had never had a dog he could be proud of. Me, too. Having spent a portion of my youth watching “Lassie” I yearned for a smart dog like that. In hindsight, of course, it’s fairly evident it wasn’t that Lassie was so blindingly brilliant. It’s that Timmy was terminally clumsy at best and a total moron at worst. Seriously, how many wells can a ten-year-old fall down? After the sixth or seventh one, wouldn’t a reasonably observant kid start looking out for them? Or at least not strike out over the fields without pitons and crampons and other-ons so he could climb out sans benefit chien? Apparently not. Lassie, whose magnificent ruff remained suspiciously spotless and unmatted while digging dirt and pulling ropes and parting the waters, was on call 24/7 to rescue hapless Timmy. That’s just the kind of dog he was. (Yes, in quite a blow to female empowerment everywhere, Lassie was a he.)
A very experienced traveler whose advice I cherish once let loose with this pearl…”Under no circumstances go through Chicago.” Apparently I needed not only to cherish the advice but to heed it because I went through Chicago and it ate my iPad. In the never-ending search for the fine balance between an airline with cheap fares and an airline that has a reasonable maintenance reputation, I ended up in the very windy city. To rationalize my decision, I went to Midway airport, not O’Hare. It’s possible Amelia Earhart isn’t really lost. She’s still in a holding pattern over O’Hare waiting for a gate to open up.
My computer, which still isn’t speaking to my phone, is more reluctant to obey than ever. I feel like the parent who brought a sinless babe into the world, nurtured it, loved it, cared for it, attended to its every need only to see the kid end up a serial killer. While my computer has not, technically, murdered many people, it is on the cusp of killing me from sheer frustration. It performs most tasks acceptably well. Not really stellar, you understand, and certainly at its own snail-like pace, but I harbor a smidgeon of hopefulness that it will eventually do what I want it to do. Except retain all five hundred eighty songs on iTunes. I fully realize that by even using the phrase iTunes I am hopelessly dating myself. It is also of note that my computer, a PC, refuses to autocorrect iTunes to iTunes. Can’t we all just get along?
It might be time to give our friends across the ocean a break. True, they are pretty easy targets with all their assorted goings-on but as my neighbor Maddie says, don’t be so judgy. The French elect a man to lead the country and then almost immediately the streets are filled with people marauding and rioting and toting libelous placards in protest against him. (Wait … that sounds vaguely familiar and not overly crazy.) The Greeks can’t balance a budget. (Wait … that sounds vaguely familiar and not overly crazy.) The Brits can’t decide if they want to play and share well with others. (Wait … that sounds vaguely familiar and not overly crazy.) The Russians, well the Russians are crazy from the head cuckoo bird Putin right down to the poorest, meanest peasant. They can’t even kill their enemies in a civilized manner. Poor Alexei Navalny was poisoned with a particularly nasty agent. When that failed to silence him, Putin put him in prison. Navalny went on a hunger strike in protest of not being able to consult the physicians he wants to oversee his care. That is obviously not crazy and something all of us can relate to. Even without the poison.
Wednesday was one of those days. It was after supper, the children had gone outside to play, and Joshua was extra fussy. This handsome little boy with bright blue eyes, a pet by all, was having a rough day with teething. Wearily, I glanced across the messy house, wondering just how much management I had left.
Editor’s Note: Gloria’s husband, Daniel, is writing the column this week, Gloria will return next week!
The flowery May, who