SPEAKING A NEW LANGUAGE

Un nouveau langage, par Rich Paschall

What if you could wake up tomorrow and be able to speak a new language?  Suppose you did not have to work at it at all.  There would be no boring repetition of words and phrases.  You would not have to study rules of grammar.  You would not have to learn to conjugate.  You would not take home lessons to write out.  The language would just be there at your command.  Your speech would be fluent and your understanding clear.  What language would you choose?

My best guess is that most people would consider a language of their ancestors.  If they came from Poland, then Polish might be their first choice.  In a city like Chicago, with a large population of Polish immigrants and descendants, this would make perfect sense.  If you have a relative that speaks the language, wouldn’t you be pleased to speak to them in their own language?  Your Polish grandmother would be so proud, and you, of course, would take great joy in this.

My elementary school was largely populated by kids of Irish descendent.  The Irish priests and an Irish American Bishop, who was also pastor, of course attracted a large student body made up of blond and red-haired children.  I can not say I ever heard any Gaelic, however.  I suppose some spoke it.  Many had a brogue so thick, I could not understand them.  Still, I can not say I was interested in knowing Irish language.

For much of my life, I lived in a German American neighborhood.  My maternal grandmother spoke German and would sometimes gossip (I thought it was gossip, anyway) with other old German-speaking neighbors.  The parish we lived in after the grade school years, was largely German American.  It was started by German immigrants who built the church.  For decades there was a mass in German.  I thought it would be cool to know this language, especially years later.  I was encouraged to take Latin in high school.

This proved to be a big disappointment as we grew up and took part in German fests.  There was Mai Fest and Oktoberfest and Rosenmontag and more feasts then you can imagine.  We learned songs in German and sang along at dances, festivals and anywhere a band was playing.  Unfortunately, my conversation was limited to Guten Tag, Auf Wiedersehen und zwei Bier bitte!

Sprechen sie Deutsch?

Sprechen sie Deutsch?

Years later as many Hispanic groups arrived and there were many more Spanish speakers, it seemed to me that learning Spanish would make far more sense.  The old Germans I knew were dying out, my grandmother was gone and I had less occasion to speak German.

Clearly, there would be a large Spanish population from Puerto Rico, Mexico and a variety of Spanish-speaking countries.  I have neighbors from Guatemala nearby.  There are ethnic restaurants all around and in the summer, Spanish music fills the air in our area of the city.  There are so many cultures I could learn if I knew this one language, it seemed like a logical choice.

What is the second language of your community?  Is there even a second language?  Perhaps you are in an area where you only hear English and there is no immigrant population or descendants to pass along another language.  Even if this is so, would it not be great to learn another language and travel to countries where this language is spoken.

In recent years, the desire to automatically know German, Spanish or even Polish have given way to another.  While all of the above would be interesting and certainly useful, not just if I travelled to countries where these languages were spoken, but even right here in our local communities.  I still have a different interest in a language I would never have thought to learn just a decade ago.  Friendship has become the determining factor.

My previous job brought in interns from other countries, particularly France.  As a result I made a number of friends from France and even got to know other friends and family members of these co-workers.  It was not just that I learned some of the culture.  Yes, we went to French restaurants and talked about their local communities.  Of course, we talked French politics and sports.  Indeed I learned about the regions that were home to many of my young French colleagues.  But in the process, something important happened.

This way?

This way?

Now one of my best friends in the world is a Frenchman.  We have gone on many adventures here and in Europe.  I have visited his home and the home of his parents.  We have visited all across Alsace.  For six years, France has been on my vacation list.  It turns out that the language I would like to know tomorrow when I wake up is French.  It is not about the neighborhood I live in, the ancestors I have, or the neighbors that have recently moved in.  It is not about my grandmother.  It is not about my parish.  It is not about countries I may someday visit.

The language I would like to know is all about my friends.  In fact, it is about one of my best friends, and it does not matter that he is fluent in English.  My friends and community are all French and I wish I could more fully participate in our adventures whenever we meet.  Is there a better reason than friendship to know another language?

WOULD YOU LIKE TO STAY FOR DINNER?

CELEBRATING THE FAMILY WE NEVER MET AND MAYBE DON’T WANT TO

“So,” says Uncle Shmuel, who having appeared out of nowhere, now miraculously speaks vernacular American English — albeit with a heavy Yiddish accent, “Nice place you got here. I see you keep your animals in your house. That one there sounds like a pig but looks like a dog.”

“They are our pets, Uncle Shmuel. The oinker is Nan. She just makes that sound. She’s kind of old. I think that’s the dog equivalent of ‘oy’.”

“Pets, shmets. Animals. In the house. What’s next? Toilets? Never mind, your life, your choice. Oy.”

“Can I give you something to eat? Tea? Coffee? Cake? If we don’t have it, I can go out and buy some.”

“Are you Kosher?”

“Uh, no. Not Kosher,” and I shiver, remembering the bacon that has passed through our kitchen. “Oh, wait, here’s my husband. Uncle Shmuel, I’d like you to meet my husband Garry.”

Shmuel looks shrewdly at Garry, then at me. “He doesn’t look Jewish.”

Garry’s eyes twinkle. “But really I am,” he says and deftly pulls a yarmulke out of his pocket. It say “Joel’s Bar Mitzvah” across the back in big white letters. Fortunately, Shmuel doesn’t notice.

“So,” Shmuel continues after a pregnant pause, “You have problems with the Cossacks?”

“No Cossacks, but lots of politicians,” I reply.

“Cossacks, politicians, there’s a difference?”

“Not so much,” I admit.

“And for a living you do what?”

“We’re retired. But before that, I was a writer. Garry was a reporter. On television.”

“What’s a television?”

I look at Shmuel, realize we are about to embark on an extended conversation, so all I say is: “Oy vay is mir!” Which seems to sum it up.

Oy vay. Can someone set the table?

HEY MOM! THEY’RE ALL HERE!

In Israel, they have a word that translates loosely to “close-far.” It refers to the tribe of “almost relatives” by marriage or informal adoption. This includes all the rest of the folks who claim some sort of relationship to you, like your cousin Alfie’s second wife’s husband’s niece.

Picnic-Crowd

I recommend we have a Gathering Day during which we collect all these “relatives.” The ones who are related by blood, albeit so distantly we are unclear on lines of descent (but are sure they are there, somewhere), the kids mom and dad fostered while their parents were getting a divorce. The related-by-marriage to second and third cousins and their off-spring. The brothers-in-law of our sister-in-law, twice divorced and their adopted children’s children from their third marriage.

A mighty big picnic. With guitars. And booze. Lots of burning meat. A sing along to which everyone brings their favorite dishes.

Ya think? We get a day off from work during the best time of year for warm, sunny weather and do it in a public park. It’s safer in public.

We will call it Extended Family Day. It would be a huge hit! The greeting cards and invitations alone would generate a ton of money and maybe some new jobs! No downside unless you are unlucky enough to come from a family dominated by bad cooks.

Who’s ready to jump on my bandwagon?

Don’t be a spoil sport. Even if you have no known relatives or none you want to know, you can invite all the fake aunts and cousins — or hook up to another group and be one of the almost relatives in someone else’s clan. Anyone for whom you feel even the vaguest familial attachment will suffice.

On this special day of days, water is as thick as blood!

IT IS SO ORDERED

Equality and the Supreme Court, Rich Paschall

While the Supreme Court decision on gay marriage was expected by some, it was a total shock to others.  Nevertheless, people took to the street to celebrate their activism.  Many had demonstrated in front of the Supreme Court in recent weeks. People carried signs and waved rainbow flags.  Politicians made speeches about what the Supreme Court should do.  There were articles and editorials.  The rhetoric on the topic hit new highs (or lows, depending where you are) and social media exploded with cute (or not so cute) graphics (internet memes) in support of one side or the other.  None of this mattered, nor should it have.

In the Spring of 2013 when two landmark cases were about to be decided (Hollingsworth v. Perry, No. 12-144 and Windsor v. United States, No. 12-307), the Sunday Night Blog offered an opinion on another important case U.S. Supreme Court v. Public Opinion.  The first case dealt with California’s Proposition 8 which eliminated the right of same-sex couples to marry in California.  The court could have side-stepped that one easily, and in a way, they did.  They ruled that those who had brought the case had no legal standing as they were not harmed.  In essence, they told the Ninth Circuit “the appeal to the Ninth Circuit should have been dismissed for lack of jurisdiction” as there was no harm to those who brought the appeal.  Same sex marriage resumed in California.  Interestingly, Judge Kennedy dissented.

In the other case Edie Winsor, whose marriage to Thea Spyer was recognized in the state of New York, found that her marriage was not recognized by the federal government when her partner died.  She lost everything for her lack of being able to inherit from her partner.  This was due to the highly controversial Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA).  It seems the federal government could not declare on one hand that whoever a state recognizes as married is married, and then say it does not apply to all people. DOMA was a clear violation of states’ rights as well as civil rights. Here Judge Kennedy wrote for the 5-4 majority, stating  “The federal statute is invalid, for no legitimate purpose overcomes the purpose and effect to disparage and to injure those whom the State, by its marriage laws, sought to protect in personhood and dignity.”  While the ruling tossed out DOMA, it left gay marriage to the states.

Taken April 28, day of oral arguments to Supreme Court, CC License

Taken April 28, day of oral arguments to Supreme Court, CC License

In the court of Public Opinion, the people have no standing when it comes to the Supreme Court.  It does not matter how many people show up with rainbow flags or protest signs.  It does not matter how many politicians or activists  make speeches from the court-house steps.  It does not matter how many presidential candidates come out for or against the issue.  In fact, it is likely few candidates actually read the case or the court’s ruling.  The movement of public opinion in favor of gay marriage should actually have nothing to do with the court’s opinion.

The Supreme Court is there to rule on the law as it applies to the Constitution.  They are not there to rule in favor of shifting opinions.  They are not there to write laws.  They are not there to grant new freedoms.  They are there to hear how the case before them is to be considered in light of the law of the land, The United States Constitution.

In the case of Obergefell v. Hodges (14-556), Director Ohio Department of Health and similar cases from three other states, the justices were asked to take on the matter of same-sex marriage as being protected under the Fourteenth Amendment in all states. It became clear that any ruling by the Supreme Court would impact same-sex marriage nation wide.  So the question became, does the 14th Amendment to the United States Constitution mean same-sex marriage should be recognized and legal everywhere?  When the court took on these cases as one, there was no opportunity to side step the issue.  The justices had to decide two fundamental questions.  Does the 14th amendment require states to license same-sex marriages?  Does the 14th amendment require states to recognize those married in other states?

The debate outside was not important to the court case.  The important debate was inside the Supreme Court.  What was said? These debates are not held in secret and in fact, you may hear the oral arguments of question one here and question two here. If you have the time to listen, you will hear the often debated issue of the definition of marriage being raised.  Is the court redefining marriage?

In the end, the court is not changing institutions on us or rewriting the law, they are strictly dealing with the protections of the 14th amendment.  Justice Kennedy again wrote for the 5-4 majority.  His opening line of the decision in fact stresses the law of our land is being upheld: “The Constitution promises liberty to all within its reach, a liberty that includes certain specific rights that allow persons, within a lawful realm, to define and express their identity.”

But is the court working against the writers of the Constitution?  Do they have the right to offer an opinion that takes away the right to define marriage at the state level?  Are they working within the framework of their assigned duties.  Again, Justice Kennedy for the majority: “The generations that wrote and ratified the Bill of Rights and the Fourteenth Amendment did not presume to know the extent of freedom in all of its dimensions, and so they entrusted to future generations a charter protecting the right of all persons to enjoy liberty as we learn its meaning. When new insight reveals discord between the Constitution’s central protections and a received legal stricture, a claim to liberty must be addressed.”

So, they addressed it head on.  Many will celebrate while many, who have not read or considered the legal matters here, will bemoan the state of our nation and the Supreme Court.  Chief among the complainants is the Chief Justice himself: “Five lawyers have closed the debate and enacted their own vision of marriage as a matter of constitutional law. Stealing this issue from the people will for many cast a cloud over same-sex marriage, making a dramatic social change that much more difficult to accept.”  To call the majority of the justices “five lawyers” shows a level of disrespect this decision is likely to see for decades to come.  The battle for equality will continue.

SPODE’S TOWER

Blame it on my upbringing, the odd traditions of my mother’s family. Basically, we say “I love you” by giving each other stuff. All kinds of stuff. Art, furniture, gadgets, clothing, books, whatnots. We were never a touchy, feely, huggy family nor verbally effusive. We rarely said “I love you.” I’ve had to learn to say the words. I’d still rather buy you a present.

spode's tower plateOver the course of life with my family, I got clothing (used and new), pottery (ugly and uglier), jewelry, paintings (“No, really, it’s okay … you keep it … please!”) and whatever else came to hand. If someone had a sudden unplanned attack of the warm fuzzies, they might give you the nearest small object — ashtray, silver cigarette holder (from my mother, who never smoked), old souvenirs from Coney Island, empty cigar boxes (Uncle Abe). No wrappings or bows. Spontaneity precluded amenities. It was my family’s version of a hug.

One time, my dearest favorite-est aunt gave me the coat off her back while crossing 6th Avenue in Manhattan. It was mid-winter in New York and definitely not a good time to be coat-less, but I had said I liked it and she needed to express her love right then and there.

“Please, Aunt Kate,” I cried, hoping the people swirling around us didn’t call the cops, likely thinking I was mugging my elderly aunt. “I am wearing a coat. You gave me this coat years ago. I wear it all the time. I love it.”

Which only made it worse. “That old thing,” she cried. “You need a new coat.”

“When we get home,” I promised. “You can give me the coat at home.” And she did. And I wore it. For many years until it fell apart. I knew I was wearing her love and it kept me very warm.

When I lived in Jerusalem, I bought a box of odds and ends from a little shop on Bethlehem Road. They had been cleaning out their back room. They said “We don’t know what’s in here, but you can have it for five dollars.”

I took the box home and began to sort through it. I found tiny carved ivory elephants, amber beads, buttons from dress shirts, old agora and a green, crusted thing I was going to throw out until a friend said “Hey, that’s an old coin.”

I stopped. Looked at it. “How can you tell?” I asked.

“That’s what old coins look like,” she said. “Soak it in lemon juice for a few days and see what happens.”

I soaked it for two weeks and it still looked like a piece of green crusty metal. Finally, using a toothbrush and copper cleaner, I extracted an ancient bronze coin, circa 77, the second year of the First Jewish War Against the Romans. The date was on the coin in old Hebrew script.

I had the coin appraised at the Rockefeller Museum. It was the real deal, but not worth a fortune – maybe a couple of hundred dollars, if I could find a buyer. So I turned it into pendant and wore it on a ribbon. When my mother came to visit, she admired it. Of course I gave it to her. When my mother died, my father gave it back to me, but it disappeared. I suppose it will turn up someday in another box of odds and ends and become someone else’s treasure.

You had to be careful in my family. If you admired something you were going to own it. There was a hideous pottery owl that looked like its eyes were bleeding. Chartreuse with scarlet eye sockets. I was caught staring –and had to say something. It was a masterpiece of sculpting, but the overall effect was gruesome. So I said: “It’s … really interesting.” It was, in a ghastly way.

“It’s yours!” cried my mother. I detected a note of triumph. I still harbor a suspicion she had gotten it from some other family member and was just waiting for the chance to move it along. Tag, I was it.

The ultimate example of family love en passant were the dishes. It was my fault. I started it. I bought them from a barn on a back road in Connecticut in the early 1970s. I was poking around a room full of pottery and turned one over. It was Spode. The markings looked to be late 19th century. Eighty-six pieces, including a chipped sugar bowl and eight demitasse cups minus saucers … and a set of saucers without cups. In pretty good condition, all for $30.

Spode's Tower

It turned out to be Spode’s Tower. The dishes were old and delicate, so I never used them fearing they’d get broken. They stayed in the closet and gathered dust. Years passed.

One day, my mother admired them. Faster than you can say “Here, they’re yours,” I had those dishes packed and in her car. She loved them, but they were old and, it turned out, valuable. So she put them away and never used them. One day, my Aunt Kate admired them, so Mom gave them to her. Kate then gave my mother her set of bone china for 12 which she didn’t need any more, the days of big dinner parties being long over.

My mother didn’t need such a large set either, so she gave Aunt Kate’s set of 12 to my brother, who gave my mother his china for six. My mother gave my brother’s dishes to me while Aunt Kate traded my Spode for Aunt Pearl’s old china. Aunt Pearl packed the Spode away in a safe place, because they were old and valuable and she didn’t want to break them.

Twenty years later, Garry and I went to visit Aunt Pearl. She had the Spode, carefully wrapped and boxed. She gave it back to me and we took it home. She had saved them all those years. Of course, I never used them. I eventually gave them to Owen and Sandy who had the sense to sell them. They knew they would never use them and neither would anyone else.

Love can be wrapped in paper and carefully protected. There is love. There are dishes. And there are memories of my family, carefully stored, ready to be given. To you, if you like.

BECAUSE TOMORROW

Eat, Drink, and Be Merry … NOT

We are not eating, drinking, or being merry today. Garry is sick. He has been for about a week. It started with a bug bite. I thought it might be a spider — or a tick — but since we didn’t see what bit him (only the results), we can merely guess.

It was ugly and Garry didn’t realize what was going on because the bite site was on the lower part of the back of his left calf, right above the ankle. Not a body part easily accessible visually — or any other way.

By the time he found it and showed it to me, it was rather alarming. Large dark grey irregularly shaped blisters surrounded by a dark red, swelling. I’ve never seen anything like it and I’ve seen a lot of stuff. I cleaned it out with surgical iodine (the legacy of all those surgeries), slathered it with antibiotic cream, bandaged him up and he seemed to feel better. That was Thursday … and he had been limping and in pain since the previous Sunday.

Garry portrait hadley

This morning he woke up with a fever, shooting pains up both legs, and a headache that feels like his head is going to explode. Garry never runs fevers. Never. In more than 50 years, I can’t remember him ever having a temperature above normal.

The area around the bite looks worse. Two of the lesions on his leg (there are four) have turned black. Nasty.

Found a doctor, got him there. There is talk of Lyme disease, exactly what I’ve been worrying about. This is Lyme disease central and we live in the woods.

animals-deertick-female-01

Before we can even begin to diagnose Lyme, he first needs to deal with the skin infection that has developed around the wound.

Monday, we need to try to get blood again. They couldn’t get anything out of his veins this morning. Three stabs was enough. He’s dehydrated and exhausted, so I brought him home. Garry is just where he wants to be right now. Home. Wrapped in sweat clothing, blankets, and head phones.

You won’t find him on the Internet today. Me neither, sorry.

I’m going to sign off after this, because I have to finish eating and drinking, then get to the pharmacy for antibiotics and antihistamines.

This is the first time I’ve driven a car in about a year, but it really IS like riding a bike, but easier — no balance required.

SERENDIPITY PHOTO PROMPT 2015-8 – A FACE IN THE CROWD

SERENDIPITY PHOTO STORY PROMPT

WEDNESDAY – 2015 #8

Welcome, again, to Frisbee Wednesday. I don’t have two posts in me this morning, so I have linked to the Daily Prompt for no reason, except to let my friends know I’m here. If this confuses you, I’m sort of sorry, but not really.

Today we celebrate the sound of a wren singing and a sliver of sunshine I saw briefly this morning. I didn’t realize it was Wednesday, honest to whatever until I saw Evil Squirrel’s post. “Self,” I said to myself, “I have to do something about this.” And here I am, in the middle of our late spring mini-winter, doing something.

So that you can, on this hopefully improving day, write something about a picture. Or think about doing it. My picture, your picture, someone else’s picture.

My picture for this week …

72-Crowd-KK-Grad-GA_026

Please try to add your own ping back (links). If you aren’t sure how to do it, put your link in a comment. That works too.

I didn’t honestly think I’d do it this week, but no matter where I am, I feel the call … especially since the weather has been miserable, cold, rainy, and in the tall mountains of Vermont, there was sleet. In June.

Please link back to this post so other people can find you. And me. My effort for this week follows.


 A FACE IN THE CROWD

I haven’t talked about my granddaughter’s high school graduation. First and foremost, let me say this about that. It happened. She graduated. Not merely did she graduate, she graduated on the Honor Role. She got into the college of her choice. Has a scholarship to cover tuition and books. Found a great job with training, decent pay, employment to coördinate with classes. Well, bust my buttons, who’d have thunk it?

72-KK-Grad-GA_051

After all the angst and drama of Kaity’s personal high school reality show, the kid got it done. No one is more thrilled than I, except perhaps her over-indulgent grandfather, aka Garry “The Legend” Armstrong.

That’s the good part. The rest …

72-KK-Grad_045

After a month of May during which no rain fell, graduation day dawned dark, cold, and rainy. With a hint of foreboding. The family — me, Garry, Owen (dad), and Sandy (mom) — gathered in the parking lot of the new high school. It was too early, so I suggested brunch. We adjourned to the breakfast joint in town and ordered the usual. Bacon. Eggs. Home fries. Toast. Coffee.

It took a long time to get the food. Every other parent and grandparent was also fortifying him or herself for the upcoming event.

72-KK-Grad_033

Scheduled to start at one, the festivities started at one. Without being able to use the great outdoors, the graduates, appropriately gowned and capped, marched around the gymnasium. They were smiling, giving little waves to the occasionally whooping audience.

72-OIL-KK-Grad-GA_063

We are not, as a family, whoopers. We managed some enthusiastic applause when we weren’t taking pictures. You knew we’d be taking pictures, right?

Garry had coerced a friend who is a videographer to shoot too, so it was an effort worthy of Cecil B. DeMille. We were all ready for our closeups.

72-KK-Grad-GA_079

The gym was hot, airless, and smelled like sweaty parents. Initial enthusiasm faded quickly as endless, dull speeches, heavily laden with every cliché ever used at such an event, commenced. And commenced. And commenced. Local pols and students with apparently no time restrictions droned on, interspersed with a band which tried hard to end at the same time — ultimately succeeding in at least that. My mother believed if they ended together, they were not a complete failure.

72-KK-Grad_005

The singers … well … it’s hard to justify them. Bad doesn’t cover it. An American Idol judge would have felt obliged to physically eject them from the stage. With extreme prejudice.

After they (mercifully) ended, the audience sat in stunned silence, grateful for a respite. All too soon, the principal arose from her chair to begin the longest, dullest, most amateurish speech in the history of high school graduations.

72-KK-Grad_011

It wasn’t merely too long. Her abilities as a public speaker were profoundly lacking. Maybe she’d written the speech the night before and not read it through, counting on her talents (NOT) as a thespian to carry the day. She should have skipped it entirely. It was a bad speech given by an inept speaker to an uninterested and slightly hostile audience.

She stumbled, back-pedaled, tried (obviously desperately) to find something to say about each graduate, even when she clearly didn’t know the kid. At all.

72-Crowd-KK-Grad-GA_018

The audience was slumping, murmuring. My back was spasming. Garry was limping. Graduates were talking lethargically amongst themselves about what they would do later … if they were ever finished with this … ceremony.

72-KK-Grad_095

By the time it was over, the wind outside had picked up, the temperature had dropped into the low forties. Party plans were abandoned due to exhaustion. It was almost four pm. It was pouring, but at least the speakers, screechy singers, and off-key instruments were — at long last — silent.

72-KK-Grad-GA_078

We were allowed to creep out of the bleachers and go home. We had survived. Don’t we at least deserve a tee-shirt?

We survived Graduation 2015. On to college!

SERENDIPITOUS PHOTO STORY PROMPT – I SHOULD STOP TRYING

SERENDIPITOUS PHOTO STORY PROMPT –
WEDNESDAY – 2015 #5 – I SHOULD STOP TRYING

I’ve decided to do this once weekly. I will publish it out every Wednesday (because Wednesday is the middle of the week). Yes, that’s the real reason.

Please try to add your own ping back (links). If you aren’t sure how to do it, put your link in a comment. That works too.

Every Wednesday or until I throw in the towel, I’ll publish a picture and write something about it. You can use any of my pictures — or one of your own — as a prompt. If you find my subject interesting, by all means, extrapolate. Any length is acceptable from a couple of sentences, to a chapter from your upcoming novel.

Please link it back to this post (ping back) so other people can find it.

What do I mean by “story” and “pictures”?

Story. Words. Poetry, prose, fact, or fiction. A couple of lines, a fanciful tale.

Pictures. Video if that’s your thing. Scanned pictures from your scrap-book. Weird pictures from the internet. Cartoons. Pictures of your family vacation and how the bear stole your food. Any picture you ever took and would like to talk about.

SIMPLE

It sounds simple. It is simple. Every picture has a story or ought to. There are no rules. Follow my lead, ignore me, follow someone else’s idea. Any picture plus some text. Short or long, truth or fiction. Prose or poetry.

One final thing: If you want to get notices of these posts, you’ll have to subscribe to Serendipity. I’ll try to title relevant posts so you can easily recognize them.

My effort for this week follows.


 I SHOULD STOP TRYING
72-Fishing-GA-Sunny-Sunday_049

Garry took the picture that first warm day of spring, the first warm day since winter. It was our first photo excursion, the first time anyone could go out in short sleeves. The snow was gone. Finally. No leaves yet, but you could see buds if you looked carefully.

Two weeks later , the leaves have exploded. Even the oaks are in full leaf, heavy with foliage. The lilacs are blooming, tulips are bright in the garden. The sun filters gently through the trees.

Garry is in New York, visiting one of his brothers. I am not invited. We will have been married 25 years this September and somehow, I have never managed to become part of the family. After all these years, you’d think it wouldn’t hurt so much, wouldn’t you?

It’s time for me to stop trying to fit in. Fit into what? I don’t even know what that means. I’m too old for this nonsense.