Boys, Birthdays, and Love

Boys, boys, boys.

"Connor I want to draw your picture."
"Okay, but I won't sit still."

"Connor come give me a kiss."
"I don't want to come give you a kiss. You may kiss me though." So I did, seventeen times.

When Mark Harris tells you he is "time traveling" into the future to wish you a happy birthday, don't believe him. He was late...

My spectacular tomato plant now has fourteen nubbins, still nothing red and ripening. Maybe the next two weeks of 90 degree weather will give it a boost. I can't tell you how tall that blooming plant is, well, yes I can, it is taller than me, and I think it has a drinking problem. Its thirst is insatiable. Of course it is planted in a grocery sack, my version of a container garden. If I were smarter I would have planted it in a true planter, a ceramic or wooden one that you can buy at any outdoor store, but no, I have to make do with my Dansko reusable grocery bag. It is cute as can be, but just a tad low class.

I am a low class sort of make-do can-do personality type. Use what I have is my belief, and if I don't have it I will take someone's cast offs. I look around my condo and nearly all of it is Reduce, Reuse, Recyle. That is partly belief, partly finances, partly genetics. Mom was an expert at making do with what she had. God I love that.

My friend Mary philosophized on the observation that peoples outer personalities are a reflection of their interior selves. Woe is me if that is true. My exterior is filled with stuff, interesting stuff, lots and lots and lots of interesting stuff. Connor is convinced the horse skull sitting on my book shelf is actually a dinosaur skull. I scored on that one, not every granny has a dinosaur skull.

See, scary stuff if that dinosaur skull is a reflection on my interior personality. Or the smashed burnt trombone, or the twenty year old dried Maple leaves, I love my Maple leaves. Or the coffee table made out of stacked books, the thirty to forty year old hot wheels, jars for moonlight and peace I bought when Christian was three years old. I love my stuff, but don't like to think about what it portends of my interior. I'm thinking I'm pretty low class.

Speaking of low class, I had my birthday dinner at the locally famous Ezell's Fried Chicken. I thanked the boys for joining me in a slumming kind of birthday dinner, and Christian said, hey this is a step up, it isn't Ramen Noodles. I love boys.

Ezell's was the closest thing to Southern slumming as I could get and it was fantastically satisfying. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, hot rolls, and fried okra to die for. Now that Ezell's is selling fried okra I have a go-to okra place when that Southern yearn hits me hard. The okra didn't have a cornmeal breading like Mom used to make, (can anything be like Mom used to make) but it was very light and delicious. Okra that tasted almost like okra from a garden.

My tomato garden is still trying.

I have such a tiny life the the BIG events are my tomato plant and an air conditioner. The air conditioner my three sons bought for me for my birthday. I knew I could love inanimate objects, but I didn't know how much. I run that thing until I am freezing. Freezing bliss. And Seattle is expecting another one to two weeks of 89 degree weather, maybe even up to 94 degrees. I'll think about the electric bill tomorrow.

Did everyone see that moon last night? That Blue Moon? Full Blue Moon isn't until Friday night, but last night was pretty spectacular. I have always been fascinated by the moon. I learned late in life that Neomia was somehow Greek for new moon. How did Mom know?

And shadows: I have been, and continue to be, absolutely fascinated by shadows. There is no meaning, no direction, no manifestation, no projection. It just is. I am fascinated by the fact that shadows don't always tell the truth. Straight sticks can make a circle shadow, circles can make a boxy shadow. Was it Socrates, Plato or Aristotle who used the shadow-in-a-cave as a metaphor for man's understanding of reality? Reality that isn't really the real reality.

Metaphor? Don't know, but I would like to turn that fascination into passion. How does one do that? How does amazing turn into inspirational turn into creativity? Fascinating. And also makes me head hurt.

"It's in the detail, passion is in the detail" according to Richard Saul Wurman. I love TED and the passion and detail it brings into my life whether I agree or not.


On a sad note; Christian's little dog, Tiki, died. Christian swears it waited for him to come home. He said he came home and Tiki jumped in his lap for cuddling (not a cuddling dog) and then lay on the floor and died.

When Christian got Tiki he said, It's not the dog I would have picked, but she needed a home and I needed a companion.

When he was sharing the news he said he figured Tiki lived half of her life.

I love Christian and I love how he loved his dog. She will be missed, any life force is missed when it is gone, but this was Christian's Tiki. I share his grief so deeply. Love your children and you can't help but share their grief.

I guess I was feeling a little down and was searching for comfort meatloaf, yes I made some, and comfort fried chicken, and comfort okra, and comfortable temperatures.

It all happened. The comfort of boys, birthdays, and love.