on hot summer days
the ice cream truck beckons youth
canned music piping
to heat-parched children
scampering through neighborhoods
clamoring for treats.
hey mister stop here!
mommy it’s the ice cream man!
may i have a dime?
please? i’ll fold towels.
we’ll mow the lawn tomorrow!
some were even kept.
Awkward is my middle name and composure a foreign concept.
I sometimes imagine carrying on sparkling conversations at dinner parties, but in reality I end up chatting with the hostess’s puppy, to the puppy’s great annoyance.
It isn’t that I have nothing to contribute to a conversation, but that the topics I enjoy (zombies, the Star Wars universe, the undeniable cuteness of my grandchildren and their considerable accomplishments) don’t seem to be of great interest to the folks in our social circle. So next time we are invited to a social event I’m trying a new gambit: Listening.
It won’t be easy. I’m a naturally chatty person. I just hope the hostess’s dog has some snappy chatter.
My mother-in-law, Saint Helen, who I love dearly, celebrated her birthday on the 26th of May. Even though she’s officially retired from the workforce she continues working on an occasional basis in the office of her church.
Saint Helen happened to be working on Tuesday, so the priest and a co-worker offered to take her to lunch for her birthday. Just as their food arrived her co-worker, the office manager, got a phone call from the local police saying that a car had been hit by an apparently drunk driver in front of the church office. Yep, it was my mother-in-law’s car. Wrecked. On her birthday.
She hadn’t had the car long, but she loved it. And she is pretty bummed out. Saint Helen just doesn’t get bummed out. This woman has faced head on more troubles than most of us can imagine, all while holding her head high and pouring out blessings on all around her.
This is one of those times I wish desperately that we lived closer so Studly Doright could help his mom negotiate the trials of dealing with insurance companies. But Saint Helen has other wonderful children who live near her and will gladly be there for her.
If my readers have a couple of good thoughts to spare, please send them her way. I love her very much and she deserves good things.
Armed only with grit and determination
(and a brush, rubber gloves and a tonic for mold eradication)
Fair maiden set forth one morning in May
to for once end this harbinger of death and decay.
Pandora (the music, not the lady of myth)
Heralded maiden’s approach as she addressed the green filth.
“Begone!” she cried and the mold did not budge.
“I gave you good warning, now perish you sludge!”
Fair maid sprayed and scrubbed, her back bent at odd angles
She swept sweat from her eyes and made her old arms jangle.
After hours of labor she rose from tired knees
Expecting to see a sight which surely would please.
Instead a difference she could not discern
“Dammit,” she muttered. “Let Studly have a turn.”
One small section of our wall taken before and after. I guess I made a bit of a difference.
If I were asked to star in a reality tv show I’d instantly do two things:
Examine my life and change whatever it is about it that made them ask me in the first place.
I might consider being part of something like American Pickers or Amazing Race otherwise, just don’t ask me.
Really! And no autographs, please.
Producers wanted me to be on Little Women as the world’s tallest little person. I declined.
I turned down an offer from Mob Wives because Studly Doright is so not a mobster.
I still haven’t figured out what’s real about the women on these shows.
Studly and I sometimes discuss what a reality show featuring us would look like. He works hard, plays golf, rides a motorcycle. I write my little blog posts, read, cook poorly, and drink wine. We could star in “Extremely Boring People of Gadsden County.” Again, no autographs.