Bright spots. That’s what you need in February. Like Valentine’s day – or, more correctly – Saint Valentine’s day. Even though we have basically no idea which particular Valentine it is we’re celebrating (which in itself is kind of charming), we’ve been celebrating for over 1600 years (which in itself is kind of alarming). At what point hearts and lace and hormones entered into the fete, nobody is sure; they think maybe it was Chaucer – which would explain the hormones, at least (whan smalle fowles maken melodia). Whatever, we do know it happened before Hallmark came along and packaged the whole thing in folded card stock.
I, for one, love Valentine’s day. Giving them. That’s my favorite part.
Delivered flowers and a couple of pounds of chocolate aren’t so bad, either.
And then, sometimes, things actually happen. This may be the last time they happen for another week – but hey – you take it where you can.
On Presidents’ day, I went down to feed the horses. When I came out of the barn, I saw all these suspicious guys, bundled up against the cold, walking slowly down the street behind a couple of trucks. Weirded me out. I couldn’t figure out what they were about. Then I saw the flags. I knew that the Boy Scouts put out flags on every national holiday on this street – by subscription. I’d seen it before. One flag in each yard. But this – this was something else again. I don’t quite understand it. Presidents’ day has become more like a huge commercial sales day than like a patriotic and moving celebration. But when I looked at what they had done, my throat began to close up. All these flags, with the mountains behind – symbols of strength and stubborn determination. Of faith unmoved.
Of sacrifice to protect this: the heart of America – the fertile, open land, also a symbol of the wide open opportunities here, the call to work and harvest what you’ve sown – the wide sky through which the falcon ranges on wild arcs.
Yeah. A dreary February day. Ugly, dull weather. But blazing now in brilliant bunting – too wandering a line to be quite military, but snapping bravely in the perverse winds. A surprise. I went down the road a girl bent to heave hay—weary, a little discouraged, feeling her age. But when I raised my eyes, I was suddenly an American. And that means give me liberty or give me death. Get out of my way, because I’m going to do it, come hell or high water. Not much gray in that.
Here is a picture of my brother and his wonderful wife, two years ago.
A large presence, wouldn’t you say? But in the last several months, the two of them got serious about health and living, and did something about it. This is my brother this week, standing here with my Gin (here from RI for a short dang ten days).
Holy CATS!! Lookin’ GREAT. And here’s a scientific conclusion: losing body mass does NOT mean losing silliness. No risk of that at all. So do not fear –
This is utterly amazing. So many years, I was worried every time he sat in my twig rocker. Now he can dance on my head. Looks TONS like our dad – except for the beard, which my father would NEVER grow. But then, he did finally buy a pair of jeans . . .
Last, but not least, the ten days with Gin and Max. When they leave, there will be an aching hole in this house. Which summons the usual caveat: you who think your children are wearing you out, who cannot wait till they are grown? It will happen soon enough. So very, very soon. And those of you who look at your children without seeing? You will feel that keenly in years to come. Parenting years are tough in so many ways, but if you do the job right – stick to it, rise to it, love it – then you too will be left in pools of tears when they, having come to visit, leave again. Dang it.
But that’s the way with bright spots – they leave echoes in your eyes. So when the brightness fades, it takes you a while to see clearly again.
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