I’ve been sitting here staring at the screen and thinking it was too big a day to squeeze into this little box in front of me.

Okay, let me try. Church renewed the soul, as it should; a dinner potluck with friends did, too. That ended early because there was this lecture that some people wanted to go to and it sounded interesting so we went, and… Yeah don’t have to do that one again. But whatever.

The one thing that saved it was that we ran into my second cousin (who had looked as ready for this to be over with as I had been) and her face lit up when I came over afterwards. Lisa told me she had seen my mom yesterday at her dad’s 95th birthday and how great my mom had looked. It clearly made her day to be able to tell me that, while I said, Happy Birthday to your dad!

He and my mom are the only two surviving grandchildren of their generation, their famous grandfather having been born in 1856. My grandmother had raised Lisa’s dad/Gram’s nephew for awhile after her sister/his mother had died from childbirth–penicillin was known but not widely enough available yet–and the two cousins are close.

I’m glad they got to see each other. I’m glad I got to see his daughter!

Our youngest grand is four going on five. She decided she wanted to try out having shorter hair, and so her long hair that was nearly always pulled out of her face in a ponytail now has a sweet curl under her chin.

You know those little white stickers that say Best By (date) on stuff at the grocery store? They’re designed not to come off easily. Matter of fact, if long hair brushes against one that was only half attached, well, soap and cold water doesn’t get them out.

Hot water didn’t get them off. Last-resort alcohol wipes that typical remove adhesives didn’t really touch the stuff (those were followed by much rinsing).

It wasn’t till the brilliant thought of, well, how about oil, then?

Should have done that first. But by then the last half inch of that lock of hair looked like dreadlocks. Trying to tease out individual strands at a time rescued only a few. At least I’d managed to work the papery clump down that far, and I’d been planning on a trim soon anyway–

–and with that I snipped it off because I was dying to fall into bed and call it a day and be done with it all.

And so today I made that appointment and went in for that trim because it felt like I no longer really had a choice.

This much.

The stylist spritzed and combed, then held scissors and strands out for me to see, a little unsure: this much?

Me on impulse, wanting every tiny residual bit of that glue gone for good in case there was any left: how about another half inch?

Then there’s always that evening things out. Then she blowed dried it.

Which leaves me with a question mark. I won’t know till I let it curl itself up as it dries naturally just how short it’s going to look. It hasn’t been this short in twenty years. It’s what I had them do but it wasn’t what I’d planned. It feels very strange.

But I do know I get to go tell Lillian that I copied her pretty haircut. And you know she’s going to love that.

It’s not just twelve. It’s not even just 34. It’s 408 individual decisions, after hearing and observing and considering all the evidence and asking for a repeat on salient points and then coming to a unanimous decision of unanimously guilty.

Even from the guy who at the outset said he got his news from the former guy’s website: thirty-four of those decisions were made by him.

As Doonesbury cartooned re Nixon years ago, GUILTY GUILTY GUILTY!

Knowing all that the little mobster’s minions were capable of, those jurors chose to vote what they knew to be true for our children’s children’s children’s sakes as well as ours. They are heroes.

An hour later, my phone rang.

A driver had zoomed through a right-on-red and suddenly found my kid on the hood of their car, waved hi as the pedestrian slid off, and kept on going.

The car coming up behind him was an ambulance. A picture got taken of the guy’s license plate and they called another ambulance and the cops.

The ER said no breaks found, and that is a very very good thing, but it’s going to hurt for awhile.

Meantime, the jury in New York City decided that there would be no breaks in the rule of law no matter what the defendant’s former title was–not on their watch!

Leftover strawberry pie filling (I know, you’re going what even IS that? Left over? How?) but there was: blendered strawberries, just enough sugar, cornstarch, boiled and now well cooled.

I quietly threw some blueberries in for my beloved who, inexplicably to me, likes to eat small fruits that are frozen, spooned it into mini molds (Bakedeco.com has lots) and threw them in the freezer for, I dunno, whenever.

It was worth it just for the look on his surprised delighted face after I pulled them out today and he asked, What IS this?

One small corner of the sour cherry tree, making promises. You should see the rest of it!

A solid bit of progress on the baby blanket.

And…

A neighbor had a spot prepared and pots ready to go in–of some beautiful trees and an ornamental grass that is invasively free-seeding, something I’ve been fighting in my back yard and despairing over and that shreds your skin if you try to pull it out once it’s gotten bigger, but she couldn’t know that. It’s marketed as drought–resistant. I saw it as we were getting in the car for a grocery run.

On the way home my sweetie said something that turned into comparing Costco’s new employee who was clueless but trying to be helpful to the CVS employee who’d stood there arms folded smirking as she ran out the six minutes on the clock while a pharmacy customer begged, to tears, for her to just fill her prescription, knowing the place would be closed on the morrow. I later filed a complaint and so did the customer.

“She should have been fired,” he said, and he was certainly not wrong, but I was like, let’s change the subject. Living through that once was enough.

Got inside, started putting groceries away, and the freezer with the broken shelf erupted. When I tried to rescue everything, he came in the garage just at the wrong moment, oblivious, and got in the way by trying to hand me something else to add and did I want to take one of these new macarons out of the box first? They were good!

Just. (Steam, meet ears.) Wait.

Got that dealt with, came back in, and told him, I am in a crabby mood. I don’t know why I’m in a crabby mood, I don’t want to be in a crabby mood, but I am.

I will go hide in my room, he said mildly.

We had run out of almond flour. I needed it for what I wanted to make for a potluck tomorrow. That was one of the reasons for the Costco run, and once I had everything in place and done at last, I opened a bag and started the familiar pattern. A cube of boiled pureed organic seedless mandarins out of the freezer (not THAT shelf), two cups of almond flour, eggs, butter, plain yogurt, panella sugar (might as well use the last of it up), set out the blueberries, too…

When suddenly I heard the words spoken softly, but carefully just loud enough for me to hear, coming from down the hall:

“Sneak.”

(Wait what was that? Did he say?)

A little closer. “Sneak.”

(He DID say that. Where is he.)

“Sneak.” He scootched just around the corner into sight. “Sneak.”

(What ARE you doing.)

“Sneak.” And this time he reached in for what, when my parents did it back in the day we kids would grimace and tease, Ooh, mushy-gushy in the kitchen!

And I laughed and laughed and kissed him again and that was that.

“Ginny?!”

She stopped in her tracks and exclaimed, “I thought that was you!” as we threw our arms around each other.

I was at the clinic for my follow-up to see if they needed to do retina surgery yet.

That department has always been busy in the extreme when I’ve been there, with an employee lounge turned into an overflow waiting room, but at that particular moment there was a single person in the original waiting room and the receptionists were waiting for anyone to show up. One of them called over to me with a smile, Name? Birthdate? so she could check me in without interrupting the joy any longer than necessary; it was putting a smile on her face, too.

We caught up a little bit and then they called Ginny back.

Since I wouldn’t be interrupting any other patients, I turned to that receptionist and explained, My kids are 36, 38, 40, and 42 this spring, and she was the kindergarten teacher to all of them.

Kindergarten! Wow!

I waited my own turn, sitting there remembering the time I’d attended the funeral of our favorite fifth grade teacher, gone far too soon. Ginny had been there. At one point after the service, a 6’9″ young man was helping the family move a tall easel covered in flowers to where they wanted it for their luncheon, and he spotted us talking and came our way with it.

“Alison,” Ginny said, “You need to step out of this man’s way.”

“Ginny,” I said–“That’s my son Richard. He’s coming to say hi to you!”

“OHMYGOSH! Ohmygosh, he’s not little anymore, is he!”

I wished we’d had more time. I always wish for more time when I’m with her. Soon enough they called my name. Did some tests, dilated my eyes, talked to the doctor and the med student tagging him for the day, came back out, and once again as I approached the desk, needing to schedule the next followup, she was coming out, too.

This time we had about fifteen minutes to ourselves. It was glorious. And you know a retired kindergarten teacher would love hand knit finger puppets and she did.

Both her kids had had twins, all four grands were born the same year, college is coming up in a couple of years, and everything is all at once for everybody. She asked after mine.

She had retired, then she had subbed, then covid, then–

–Parkinson’s, and she couldn’t risk falls around the little kids now.

“Oh I’m sorry!”

“Yeah,” as she looked me in the eyes, “I am, too.”

But she knew I knew about living with…stuff, health wise, and I think it helped to be able to talk about it to someone who simply understood and that you just go on with what you have the best you can.

She had put those finger puppets on and she kept them on and we laughed about flamingoes in her lawn and they were still on as they called her back to finish her appointment; we said our goodbyes.

Her one kid who lives a plane ride away is coming with her family next week, the other is nearby. There will be a grand time and Ginny will be surrounded by love and by teenagers, who are such interesting people to talk to, always.

This was our teacher who’d built a little enclosure with hanging beads, ’60’s hippy style, with the monarch butterflies inside it that she had had her students raise. If a kid was getting angry and full of feelings he didn’t know how to deal with, he got a few minutes to calm himself in the butterfly room.

Where the rule was you had to be absolutely still so as not to scare nor injure these delicate, beautiful creatures the kids had put their hearts into seeing coming to be.

The orange and black monarchs would peacefully land on their shoulders or head or arms or everywhere, wings gently folding and unfolding.

It was Ginny’s cure for Nature Deficit Disorder.

Oh, and I got to tell her when I came out: they told me things looked better than they’d expected and for now I don’t need to do surgery.

Because I knew that when you’ve struggling with a new diagnosis, when hope seems a difficult thing, borrowing a piece of someone else’s helps.

You know how when you’re going to meet someone that someone you love loves, you hope you’ll instantly love them too and that they’ll do the same for you? And then–you do?

And then you just fervently hope?

I told my kids earlier this year, She’s the happiest I’ve ever seen her. He’s clearly good for her and good to her and she for him.

On a side note, he also happened to love the hat I introduced myself to him with a little while back. For all the hundreds of hats I’ve knit, I’ve never made any other quite like that one, just different enough with its gansey motif in a dark denim shade.

He was wearing it when they showed up today and told us their happy news together.

Her mother would have been so thrilled for them both.

—

2000. The fierceness all over again of missing her as I typed this took me by surprise. But we could be there, and they let us be, and that was high honor indeed.

I caught the rabbit nibbling on my sour cherry blossoms.

Then for several days it avoided this strange new thing.

Today, not so much. And it kept going back in there! Hawkproofing, what’s not to love, right?

Meantime, I had this moment of, hey, that’s it: the infamous white beam! And the gray grooved interior wall in the living room! Ours was exactly like that, only a fair bit darker of a shade in a shaded room, terribly depressing, the only thing I really didn’t like about this house. It took us six years to get rid of it and it may be why I dislike gray on walls so much. Our contractor nailed wallboard over ours, but anyway, here’s a listing that takes me straight back to when we first walked in the door here. Same builder, same floor plan. This one has not been changed much.

Picture number 18. See that white beam connecting the refrigerator side to the oven side?

Eileen, DIL of the then-owners, was in the kitchen, phone in hand, as we and the realtor came in. She saw Richard’s forehead matching up with that board and said to the person on the other end, Oh, THESE people aren’t going to buy this house!

What she also knew was that the master shower had been remodeled to be short enough for her Japanese in-laws. The shower head hit him near bellybutton level, and the stall was small enough that he couldn’t fit in it to kneel down under it.

Within a day or two we had a telescoping shower head. Later, the stall became part of the hallway to the new master bedroom and that beam in the kitchen was the first thing the remodeler took away.

So it was kind of fun to explore our pre-remodel house in those pictures without having to actually live in it again.

4/20/2024 is the same backwards and forwards. His birthday number is, too.

Aid approved at long long last by the House of Representatives for Ukraine’s survival was the best present he could have asked for.

We went to a barbecue at a friend’s, where I offered a young mom a hummingbird finger puppet and found out it was her daughter’s third birthday. Everybody sang the song to the both of them as she happily waved her new pet bird way high and I’m sure to her it was singing, too.

I came home and planted future-8-foot-high sunflower seedlings at the fence line in celebration of the news of the day, back there where it turns a corner.

We were enjoying some old rock classics after dinner; I was finishing off the last of the blue on the afghan, there was the occasional comment back and forth, we were enjoying each other’s company on this fine spring evening.

And then Black Magic Woman came on.

That one always, always, I said, takes me back to that guy at the Stanford clinic in Redwood City.

He raised an eyebrow in question.

I was working on Mathias’s baby afghan, I told him, the one in the pattern with circles surrounded by contrasting colors and then more contrast at each edge: all those balls of yarn hanging down. I was well into it and it covered my feet. You were having some testing done that was going to take a long enough time for me to declare that one a portable project for the day because I really wanted to get it finished.

Just before you came out there was a guy being wheeled past me by a couple of family members and he had them stop a moment. Right in front of me.

He made a point of looking, really looking, over the expanse of afghan, the needles in my hands, and then up to my eyes, which he held in his for several heartbeats.

And then again with slow deliberate motion to make sure I understood how he much he meant this, he raised his whole arm in an emphatic thumbs-up with an exclamation point at the end, nodding.

Then he glanced over his shoulder at his family affirming that it was okay to move on now and they did.

It was one of the great compliments of my knitting life and I will never forget it.

And the guy was, if not actually, then a dead ringer for Carlos Santana.

Richard considered that a moment.

“Well he does live around here.”

My columnar apple, not that it has anything to do with the rest of this post.

Wear casual, my sister-in-law told us last week: the groom is going to be wearing shorts. They expressly said they want it casual.

I don’t want to dress fancier than the bride, I told her, it’s not my place, and so the peach-and-cream outfit I’d asked my neighbors about stayed in the hotel and my plain cotton skirt and top were just right. A Ukrainian gerdan was my only dress-up and hey I wear those everywhere.

I thought of a family member whose introduction to Thanksgiving dinner with her future Arizona in-laws was paper plates at the picnic table outside; we’re all used to what we’re used to.

But for her sake I was pleased to see the bride wore a beautiful white gown. No frou-frou, no train, just a classic v-neck knee-length dress in a very pretty fabric. She got to look her best on her day, while making sure their friends were comfortable being themselves. It was for them. She was just a deeply likable person, and I thanked her for making our nephew so happy. And I thanked him for choosing her.

I had wondered what the next big project was going to be. Now I know. There’s a baby on the way on my husband’s side of the family and some serious celebrating to do. I’d say more, but I’m not sure they’ve announced to everybody yet and they haven’t quite quite hit that three month mark yet.

The woman next door and the one across the street were talking and that was my chance: I ran outside.

Is this blouse too white for a wedding? I told them I’d asked my husband and he’d shrugged an I don’t know! Not a guy kind of question, I needed a woman!

They laughed, then exclaimed over the perfection of the outfit (they were very kind) and said the cream and the peach, just perfect.

Just the fact of what the question was for left us all happily remembering our own day.

I typed that before we left, knowing we’d get back really late tonight.

That was before we got booted off the plane…

Anybody else play Hellowordl to warm up for Wordl? Y’know, where there’s no once-a-day limit? Great word retrieval brain exercise.

I also find it a pun incubator. As in:

Equip: to send a joke to a comedian online.

But then you get to the real Wordl, and today’s bot helpfully suggested I could have chosen its word for my next guess.

It stumped me. That is the last place I expect to see a word I’ve never heard of. My heavy Merriam Webster on the floor was raising its hand excitedly, going, *I* know, *I* know!

Talus. (Flipflipflip.) Refers to where the slope of a hill suggests gold underneath. (What the hey, Wordl?) Current usage is more, the rock debris at the bottom of a cliff and especially a slope caused by such, and definition two, the bone that bears the weight of the body and with the other leg bone forms the ankle joint. Or just call it the entire ankle.

Wait. Seems to me if you’re talking anatomy, which seems a pretty specific and medical category, you don’t want to be throwing meanings at the wall to see where they stick or go splat.

(Equip. That one’s for you, Dad, I can hear you laughing up there from here.)

Today:

1. Enjoy the sunflower sprouts.

2. Be glad the twice-a-month gardener day turned out to be the day after the neighbors’ guy pruned their stuff and saved labor by dumping it all on my baby peach tree on our side of the fence and leaving it. Debate telling the neighbor, who would surely never know otherwise. She’s about 90. I offered my guy a bonus for the extra time spent and he just waved me away with a chuckle: it happens. The peach tree only lost a branch or two, thankfully. (Not that it had very many in the first place.) It will have extra sunlight for a couple of months, so that’s good.

3. Get a visit from Richard’s sister who flew in this afternoon to see the California relatives, take her out to dinner, have a fine time, take pictures (not posting her picture). Wish for better lighting, resolve to finally fix that entryway one that blew in the power failure.

4. Find slightly more sympathy for the neighbor’s gardener. But not a whole lot. (Honey, you got the entryway, the edge of the living room and family room, the kitchen, and the top of the dining room table.)

5. Be glad it fell after he stepped far enough away from it that none of it hit him.