The Burrow

Recycled from a previous year.  Happy Labor Day!  My Zaydeh was a paperhanger. So was his son, my uncle. They belonged to the Paperhanger's Union. When he retired, my Zaydeh got a lapel pin and a photograph of himself and the also-retiring Union Rep. The Union Rep got a pension and health insurance. No one knows if he got a copy of the photograph, too. It was that kind of complicated relationship to Labor, with a capital L, that dominated my growing up years. Daddooooo's father owned a business. G'ma's father was a worker. That dynamic influenced their relationship in the same way that her parents' accented speech and his parents' religious devotion were there, bruising the edges of what must once have been love but wasn't anymore. I sat on my Zaydeh's shoulders as he bounced me around the living room, singing Zum Gali Gali , a Zionist work song with one line, repeated over and over: the pioneer is meant for work; work is meant for the pioneer.  ...

My summer was planned right through the last weekend in July.  I had appointments with Pilates or Yoga or the gym or walking with Brenda Starr filling the bulk of my calendar.  I was in waiting mode, not signed up for classes or planning short jaunts to cooler climes.  A grand-daughter was coming, and I was in hurry-up-and-wait mode. Three weeks later, I came home for five days, then left again for a long weekend.  We came home on Monday afternoon; TBG had cataract surgery on Wednesday morning. I must have unpacked and repacked and unpacked again, because there are no suitcases in the halls.  I have no memory of any of it. There's not a lot of laundry, because we haven't been around and in the gym and swimming and going out to eat.  Instead, I have several white plastic bags emblazoned with hotel logos sitting mournfully on the floor of the laundry room.  I don't need them right now; I can live out of my closet instead of my suitcase. I'm home....

It's oxymoronic on its face - there are always clouds and fog and cool ocean breezes in Monterey in the summer.  My backless yellow filmy dress for the reception was aggressively summery... until it was absolutely perfect. We left Arizona under lowering clouds.  We returned to thunderstorms.  In between, we had nothing but sunshine.  It may have been a little overcast on Saturday morning, but we slept late and had a lovely breakfast and by the time we were ready to venture toward the beach there were clear skies overhead.  After spending Friday afternoon poolside with our books and sunglasses, a second day of brightness was an unexpected pleasure. The bride and groom certainly deserved it.  They took care of the entire event.  Calling themselves geographic mutts , their guest list involved travel from Washington, DC, Pittsburgh, Illinois, Boston, California, and points across the Atlantic.  Everyone would have to travel, so the kids...

It's not the prettiest part of the desert, nor the pretties part of the Golden State. Still, it had its moments. The road is straight and flat, even as it goes up and down for miles  The crags of Arizona give way to softer hills in California. The scale of the roads expand, too.  The trucks are lost in the immenseness and closeness of the hills. The road steepens, and the Runaway Truck Ramp signs begin to appear.  They are on both sides of the road, with blockades where there isn't enough room to slow down.  I'm not sure how effective those metal barrels would be. There wasn't anything on the other side of that ramp, either.   The San Joaquin Valley feeds America. The greenery is an overwhelming contrast once you come down into the valley. Trees and more vines   and more trees line the roadside.   So does James Dean.   There are also oil rigs, dipping and raising and dipping a...

Five days passed in 1600+ miles driven, two parties attended, old friendships renewed and new friendships made, outstanding food at almost every stop, and a thunderstorm to greet us as we pulled into the garage here at home. I really need to sit outside and breathe some fresh air.  The lightning ionizes the atmosphere and the creosote is pungent and Cousin Brucie is no longer on Sirius radio, tripping over his thoughts in between giving He Who Will Always Be The Driver tunes to hum.  ***** The driver owns the radio .... and I never drive.  I tried reading on the Kindle, but the power kept running out. I could rant about paper books not requiring anything but ambient illumination, but the need to recharge the thing gave me time to chat over Chad and Jeremy... who were an improvement over the bubblegum theme... who were a disappointment after Dusty Springfield, my favorite she-should-be-more-famous artist of that era. ***** Many of the wedding guests had travel...

Sorry, denizens. Spotty internet reception, a laptop which even Big Cuter couldn't get to turn on, a wedding anniversary to be celebrated..... suffice it to say that today's post was a victim of circumstances.   I'll be back tomorrow. Today, I'm enjoying a road trip with my sweetie, on the first day of the 40th year of our marriage.   Wow.

Driving for hours, and I wasn’t bored for a moment.  I brought the NYTimes Crossword Puzzle pages and a bright green pen, along with a paperback and my Kindle. I never felt the need for more than the occasional clue.  It’s not the prettiest part of America, but it held my attention for seven hours. It rained for a while.  TBG and I agreed that new windshield wipers are nearly as wonderful as new tires, and the only thing more wonderful than new tires is that new car smell.  We had it all and we were happy. We became connoisseurs of road surfaces.  I pretended I was in an off-road vehicle as their tracks across the open space provided the road map for my fantasy.  We had a Coleman cooler filled with ice tea on the floor behind the driver’s seat and my sneakers stowed neatly beneath my own seat. Mr. I Am Too Nervous To Be Anything But The Driver” mentioned the possibility of my getting behind the wheel, but thus far it’s only been another fantasy. ...