Punxsutawny Phil was right, Winter has stuck it out, with more storms and lower snow levels predicted for next week.
But Spring is less than two weeks away – this I know because the tree outside my bedroom window is bursting with pollen-laden flowers.
My son’s face has healed up very well after his recent tiff with a car over right-of-way. He admitted to me, he was at fault – oh well, at least he’s big enough to admit it. Some cyclists have to learn the hard way, and in this case, luckily, the ER bill will be the most painful takeaway.
I told him to remember the whole incident when he’s behind the wheel of his F-150.
My husband and I are still moving, having decided to sublet most of our apartment here in town. Our lives have changed, our kids are out, we don’t need so much space. The extra rent will be helpful in finishing off the mortgage.
Sitting here, looking at stuff to be packed up, it’s overwhelming. But when I’m sitting in the shack, it seems soooooo doable. So peaceful up there. It’s going to happen.
So I work a little here, a little there, to get out of the apartment, decide what goes to the shack, what gets boxed up and stored, and what goes to the Salvation Army or The Dump. My husband has emptied the shelves in his shop, thrown out at least one truck load of spare bike parts, old tools, wood scraps, etc, to make room for our “heirlooms”. Lots of old dishes – both my mother and my husband’s mother had kept it all, boxed up very carefully, gorgeous china keepsakes, some practical, some not. There’s a porcelain honey jar shaped like a big honey bee, a cheese dish with tiny porcelain mice, a butter dish with porcelain flowers for the handle, etc.
Then there are keepers full of toys and other kids’ stuff – like the wooden headed puppets from Aunt Inge, or the plastic Coleman stove and lantern we bought for our kid’s third birthday. Handmade sweaters my husband’s grandmother made for our kids, along with my mother’s baby clothes sewn by my great grandmother. My mother’s first shoes, and her tiny spoon. All these keepers, stacked on each other.
And then there’s the photo albums. A-may-zing! A picture of my mother, still in diapers, dressed in a cousin’s cowboy hat and fringed gloves, toting a tiny Daisy rifle. An earlier photo of my grandfather and grandmother when they were courting, my grandfather holding his Winchester and my grandmother holding a string of ducks he’d shot. Pictures of the Sacramento River during the floods of the early 1940’s – my grandfather standing in the driveway of his farm, leaning on our front gate, the flood waters swirling around his hips – but he’s holding one of the first cans of Pepsi, and he’s got a big grin on his face!
And so many others pictures of people I don’t even know who they are!
But I have it all packed, all organized, ready to go onto the shelves that line the little shop. Someday I hope it all holds as much fascination for my kids as it has for us.
I’ll keep you posted.