I just posted, but
hell, why not stay on the roll.
And roll is what made
me remember that I did not mention one of the other nice things about being
here. Our next door neighbors are a young couple with a most adorable son.
Miyako is from Japan and adores my mother. She and her 2.5 year old, Noah,
often stop by to visit. Miyako found out that I love Japanese food and agreed
to teach me how to make sushi rice (yay!). Also, she treated us to homemade
California roll last night. Kill me now good. It was like dessert.
Friday.
Very quiet here today as I nurse a bit of a white wine indulgence. I looked around for Janet only to find her sitting in the backyard in the sun, humming to or chatting with herself, her cat Ariel beside her, cleaning herself, and Emmylou quietly tinkerbelling around. (Gosh, I only right this minute realized where the name Tinkerbell would have come from. Duh.) Mom looks so small in the bright light, either lost or swallowed up a bit. Several times this morning I have thought about suggesting a task or a trip only to let it go.
I was happy and thankful to get an hour of reading in a warm tub.
8 days later, and it certainly doesn't feel like it.
Tonight is the February Family Friends birthday hang out. I am making a Texas Salted Chocolate Sheet Cake for the occasion, fresh guacamole (avocados abound), and a turkey broccoli casserole that my mom requested. The last cake I made was for MMA about a year and a half ago and it was excellent.
(Breaking news for me ... I am on the bed writing this and Emmylou just climbed up on my back to take a nap. This is significant as I do believe she is working on her lapcat skills. Yay. But I feel something wet on my back ... is she drooling or bleeding?)
This week was largely about getting ready for the soireé. The patio reclamation project is coming along and I am hoping to have a birthday bbque (sorry my beloved East Coast folks) just to have a target to get the rest cleaned up. As there are no more scheduled events coming up, I will have the mental space to figure out what I am going to do with myself.
I finished Nora Webster. What a beautiful piece of writing. Perhaps the themes of love, loss, expectation, and how the hell do you become yourself are particularly poignant for me.
It had come to her in one second what death meant: her mother would never speak again, never come into a room again. The woman who had given birth to her was not breathing now and would not breathe again. In some ways, Nora had not bargained for this, had always felt that there would be time for herself and her mother to meet and talk with ease and warmth, or something like warmth. But they never had, and they never would now.
And
What was strange as she began to look at her mother again was how little she was sure of. The details of her mother's face had vanished, but there was an expression still, a sense of someone. And then that sense became more exact, more clear, the more she watched. She could see other people in her mother's —the faces of cousins, the Holdens and the Murphys and the Baileys and the Kavanaghs; the faces of Catherine and Una; Nora's own face; the face of Nora's children, especially Fiona. It was as though her mother in this long night became all of them.
My grandniece (greatniece?) is a throwback to this side of the family as perhaps I have mentioned her before. She is thoroughly into music (her father is a successful professional drummer and her mother was a manager). As I have asked her about venues and bands, she invited me to an excellent show, to see a young British band, The Hidden Charms, at a completely cool, very very small venue, Amplfyi. Although I may have been the oldest person there, there were other oldsters as well. The band has an early Who/Yardbirds/British blues invasion sound and they are quite good musicians. And cuuuuuute.
Friday.
Very quiet here today as I nurse a bit of a white wine indulgence. I looked around for Janet only to find her sitting in the backyard in the sun, humming to or chatting with herself, her cat Ariel beside her, cleaning herself, and Emmylou quietly tinkerbelling around. (Gosh, I only right this minute realized where the name Tinkerbell would have come from. Duh.) Mom looks so small in the bright light, either lost or swallowed up a bit. Several times this morning I have thought about suggesting a task or a trip only to let it go.
I was happy and thankful to get an hour of reading in a warm tub.
8 days later, and it certainly doesn't feel like it.
Tonight is the February Family Friends birthday hang out. I am making a Texas Salted Chocolate Sheet Cake for the occasion, fresh guacamole (avocados abound), and a turkey broccoli casserole that my mom requested. The last cake I made was for MMA about a year and a half ago and it was excellent.
(Breaking news for me ... I am on the bed writing this and Emmylou just climbed up on my back to take a nap. This is significant as I do believe she is working on her lapcat skills. Yay. But I feel something wet on my back ... is she drooling or bleeding?)
This week was largely about getting ready for the soireé. The patio reclamation project is coming along and I am hoping to have a birthday bbque (sorry my beloved East Coast folks) just to have a target to get the rest cleaned up. As there are no more scheduled events coming up, I will have the mental space to figure out what I am going to do with myself.
I finished Nora Webster. What a beautiful piece of writing. Perhaps the themes of love, loss, expectation, and how the hell do you become yourself are particularly poignant for me.It had come to her in one second what death meant: her mother would never speak again, never come into a room again. The woman who had given birth to her was not breathing now and would not breathe again. In some ways, Nora had not bargained for this, had always felt that there would be time for herself and her mother to meet and talk with ease and warmth, or something like warmth. But they never had, and they never would now.
And
What was strange as she began to look at her mother again was how little she was sure of. The details of her mother's face had vanished, but there was an expression still, a sense of someone. And then that sense became more exact, more clear, the more she watched. She could see other people in her mother's —the faces of cousins, the Holdens and the Murphys and the Baileys and the Kavanaghs; the faces of Catherine and Una; Nora's own face; the face of Nora's children, especially Fiona. It was as though her mother in this long night became all of them.
My grandniece (greatniece?) is a throwback to this side of the family as perhaps I have mentioned her before. She is thoroughly into music (her father is a successful professional drummer and her mother was a manager). As I have asked her about venues and bands, she invited me to an excellent show, to see a young British band, The Hidden Charms, at a completely cool, very very small venue, Amplfyi. Although I may have been the oldest person there, there were other oldsters as well. The band has an early Who/Yardbirds/British blues invasion sound and they are quite good musicians. And cuuuuuute.
looks like away cool venue!!!!!!
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