Sunday, May 24, 2015

Sunday: many hands

A Sunday morning of furrowed brows. Ed, reviewing any number of sticky problems (how to get that weed out of the veggies patch... when to put in the last of the tomatoes... how to crate the new invention he has designed... how big should the opening be for the patio door)...


Me -- wondering if Snowdrop will adapt quickly to a time of many helpful hands (after being sequestered for all those days with, unfortunately, only one set of hands -- ones that had that habit of doing everything in one predictable way).

Too, I wonder about the Great Writing Project. I finally let go of my manuscript and send it to a trusted literary type to read. Will I be rewriting it substantially after I hear from her?

And I think about this simple fact about grandparenting: it's easy and tough all at the same time. Oh, I saw this early on, even as I was a kid, cared for by my own grandmother. But kids don't generally worry about the subtle twists and turns of the human condition and so I took note, but moved on. Yes, my grandma stood on her doorstep and cried each time our family car pulled out of her gate and turned toward Warsaw and I thought it was sweet that she should miss us so much, but my next thought was about the boy I loved in school and how cool it was that I would be seeing him later that day.

Today, I thought, too about the weather: I am not disappointed in the rains that greet us in the morning. I know it's a holiday weekend and I wish that a better weather situation would meet the needs of all those who want to grill, boat, play ball. But I am grateful for this day of garden quiet. Since it is so wet, I cannot work outside and just today, that's a good thing. I need an uncomplicated stretch of time.

Flowers: wet with the nighttime rains -- the sustained kind that I normally associate with Great Britain -- I still am tickled to see the explosion of more and more iris blooms.



Still morning, still wet. But here's the exciting part of the day -- I am continuing with the Mother's Day celebration with a brunch out, for the seven of us: my two daughters and their husbands, Ed, Snowdrop and me. My youngest daughter and her husband are in town for a wedding and now today we can come together over brunch for foods and stories, punctuated by Snowdrop's coos, gurgles, groans, gaggles and other 4.61month old vocalizations. 

(Our no nonsense server looks like she is pressing Snowdrop to make up her mind as to which item to order.)


(Snowdrop's uncle listens attentively as the little one explains that she likes her piggy blanket just fine for munching purposes.)


(Snowdrop's aunt joins in on the reassurance that piggy blanket is a perfect brunch munching item.)


(Snowdrop's aunt picks her up to convince her that the waitress will not mind it if she does not order off the menu.)


Here are my most favorite five young people!


(Snowdrop's dad let's the little girl sleep for a bit.)


(Snowdrop's mom gets the girl ready for a feeding by putting on a new bib from aunt and uncle.)


And finally, Snowdrop seems to be asking, almost in disbelief at her own good luck -- you mean you guys love me and are thrilled to see me again? How cool is that!


The visit ends, the rains continue, the cheepers hide, the flowers droop.

At the farmhouse, Ed and I attack the porch door project. Ed cuts strips of drywall, I suck the plaster dust out.


At Home Depot, we spend a good hour (or two, or more...)  talking to Ed's newest bud, the guy who sells patio doors and who is willing to field every question Ed throws at him about the installation process.

We don't buy anything today. We need to do more measurements and Ed has to study the various possible mechanical issues in taking one window out and putting a new door in. I half worry about being the designated assistant (carrying the doors alone is going to be... interesting). But I put those thoughts aside. My hands may not be as tough and strong as his, but they're strong enough.

Though by evening, I conclude my hands have done enough for now. We pick up a pizza and settle into the quiet of an evening at the farmhouse.