* The first day of spring began just as it should, with sunshine and daffodils.
My mother always said it, and my father. I suppose everyone's parents did: spring has sprung. Why don't I say things like that? Why don't I have a vocabulary full of colorful sayings? Why don't colloquialisms roll of my tongue like jewels, enriching an otherwise bland comment?
"Lord willin' and the creek don't rise," says my husband in anticipation.
"It don't take long to look at a horseshoe," he replies to any, "That didn't take long!"
"Looks like they opened up a new box of worms!" he comments when traffic is heavy.
I am a metaphor mixer. I get all those kettles and frying pans and boxes of worms mixed up. I don't understand "I've slept since then" and "herding cats." And if I do understand them upon the umpteenth explanation, I still would never be able to repeat them in casual conversation. I have considered cultivating the gift of colloquialism, but somehow it seems phony to have to learn to use them. Things like that should come naturally.
* My mother laughs at me for taking photos like this. It's just laundry on the line. But to me, this is beautiful. This is my mother. She'll be 86 in just two weeks, and still she hangs laundry out every sunny day—and even some not-so-sunny days. She'd sooner hang laundry on a drying rack in front of the fireplace than use the dryer. Is it her Depression-era save-a-penny ethic, or is it the joy of fresh-smelling clothes? I don't know. I just know that these things that once drove me crazy—the economizing and the stiff jeans—now make my heart swell with love.
* And this makes my heart swell with love, too. That's my mother surrounded by little ones: two great-grandchildren and two grandchildren. There were three more of her grandchildren and one more great-grandchild there that day as we celebrated grandchild #10's first birthday (that's the little one in blue at her knees). It was madly chaotic and lovely.
* Waffles this morning, and fresh strawberries and a fire in the fireplace. Spring was short-lived. We are back to gray skies and a threat of snow. The animals are curled into balls of fur and the fleece blankets are back scattered on the sofas. Tomorrow, Randy and I go away to celebrate our 24th anniversary. Twenty-four years! Next year, we'll head to Italy for #25. I know—sooo