Holding Pattern

I have not yet got the promo post.  And I lost the vignette one.

I haven’t written Grant yet (I need an assistant.  Administrivia is eating my life.)

Until that time, and in honor of father’s day, some pictures of me (and the last one of younger son, aka the clone) with my dad who is still and always the most awesome man in the world after my husband.  (My kids will get there.  They have to grow into the sheer awesome.  They show good signs of it.)  Oh, yeah, the mug with me and dad on the third picture is my very dear brother.  Yes, that’s our age difference.  And he was the youngest of the grandchildren in Portugal, before I was born.

And now I’ll take said husband out to breakfast and maybe something fun, before we both buckle under to a very busy day.





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53 thoughts on “Holding Pattern

    1. this was the aftermath of the battle of the rings. I was the ring bearer, but I was just short of three and no one had explained what the rings were actually for to me. I was very proud of my little lace basket with the rings. Then the priest wanted the rings.
      A battle royale ensued, during which I bit the poor man, then dove under the altar clutching the rings. I was pulled out. I have a vague memory of being dusted and cleaned and combed. And then I was handed over to dad who was the only who could tame the savage beast WITHOUT smacking me or making a scene.
      So, that’s what you see in that picture. “I might have been the losing side, I’m still not convinced I was wrong.”

      1. What a strange start for a marriage. You may have murder in your eyes, but the bride looks strangely bemused.

        I have never quiet understood the habit adults have of pushing children to do stuff without explaining it to them and then getting upset if it goes awry. Children should be up to understanding a simple explanation of what the task entails if they are capable of the task itself.

          1. There is a tendency for adults dealing with articulate kids to forget that the kids lack experience and knowledge. And everyone in a wedding needs a walkthrough.

            Speaking of that, today Father learned many valuable lessons on why, if none of the lectors are there early enough in summer, you shouldn’t ask the service dog trainer to do all the readings. (Other than the obvious caution about dogs being in/near the altar area.)

            Poor dog was tired, and kept falling asleep during the readings, right next to the ambo. Then the trainer had to wake him up again when she left the ambo again. Two readings, plus the petitions. On Corpus Christi. Yeah, it was funny.

            And since the chapel is dedicated to St. John Bosco, and he was associated with the mysterious dog Il Grigio, Father really needs to figure out a modus vivendi. The dog has good manners and the trainer reads well, but they are already busy working. (And I think everybody was watching the dog instead of hearing the readings.) So points on supporting the work, but drafting people to do jobs … Not always helpful.

            1. Wedding rehearsals are an unknown concept in Portugal. (Or at least were, back then.) They were confused when I demanded we do a run-through the night before my own wedding. And the best man had the rings. NO CUTE KIDS WITH BASKETS.

            2. My sister attended her first Jewish wedding ever as the maid of honor. (She had introduced the bride and bridegroom.) She found it amusing how no one could manage to remember from one step to the next that she knew NOTHING and had to be explicitly told to do everything.

              1. We went to the wedding of a friend’s daughter (we’ve known them for 24 years) and found out it was a Jewish wedding. She was converting. The family is episcopal and it never occurred to them to tell us, which was funny. When told, my oldest son said “that’s the most interesting thing that woman ever did.” 😀

            3. Children don’t have the vocabulary, they have not seen as many seasons, and, thank G-d, they are usually not yet jaded as adults. (Nor do they have adult preconceptions.) I have seen a great number of adults treat children as if they were of lesser intelligence just because of this.

              I have always taken the position that children do not have the same experiential base as I do, but this does not mean they are stupid — even if they are not articulate. The Daughter was not much of a babbler and a late speaker. If The Spouse had not been there when she pronounced, at eighteen months, ‘I see the cat.’ I would have no longer believed she had done so when she deigned to speak again more than a half year later.

              1. MARSHALL. Selective mutism. He only talked (from age 8 months, in sentences) when alone with me. Dan thought I was insane. Fortunately my friend Charles came in quietly and heard him describing his lego city to me, and babbling on when he was 3, otherwise people would think I was nuts.

          2. I have no doubt on doing what you pleased. Most children do. Some children are please to do what they are told at that age, and getting praise from the adults around them. (From Momma’s stories I was the kind of child that had my own mind by that age — and all ages that followed.)

            You cannot expect a child to know the formalities of something with which they are unfamiliar. If you explain what is going to happen you have half a chance they may decide to buy-in.

          1. I can definitely relate to that. I have this wish of just having a wood chest that resembles a pirate chest filled with faceted glass crystals in many colors. I also want a little display shelf of pretty bottles filled with colored oils or liquids and shiny beads and glass balls. A wizard’s shelf as it were.

  1. Obvious as all get-out but if anyone is really pining for a vignette theme, until the Real Thing shows up, consider this admittedly off (odd? Odd?) substitute: Moo.

    Yeah, I’m curious. Also perhaps insane. But not mad. Though perhaps irked at times. Particularly at this (post-)modern age, yes.

    1. Whoever said that cows said “Moo” had obviously been talking about those contented dairy cows that that one milk company used in commercials. The bull below him didn’t Moo, it bellowed with rage. Perched on the branch, he chuckled to think that his portly frame could still climb a tree if properly motivated.

  2. Moo. Something in the woods had just mooed. A deep, rough sound that raised the hair on my neck.

    Heavy, slow animal footsteps.

    Project:Aurochsen had not been abandoned!

  3. “MOOOOOOO!” Bellowed the mega-aurochs, the low, rumbling sound echoing through the forest and shaking the trees.

    The hunter stood his ground, spear at the ready. He would not be cowed.

    1. Interestingly, I spent the entire night dreaming about hunting Aurochs with a bunch of friends. You were one in the party, btw. You kept telling me that that Aurochs were actually deer. I was very mad at you when I woke up.

  4. Alright Orvan, I’ll play your silly game. 🙂

    “So what’s wrong with him.”
    “We don’t know, we think he just wanted to escape from his reality.”
    “I see, and he just sits there going ‘moo’ all the time. Why is he here at research instead of the psych ward?”
    “Well he was, then he started chewing his cud…”

  5. “Moo…?”

    It had a questioning tone to it, that did. Somewhere out there, the bovine lurked, waiting, cunning in its deceit. Could it lure me, into range of its horns, its hooves? Could it get me to react, hearing its call, and find me?

    As a figure of horror, the domestic cow is a ridiculous one. But, consider this: More Americans die every year under cow attack than by sharks or other predators; by comparison, the wolves and the bears are pikers.

    And, here I am, trapped like a dumb animal in this shed, hiding from that horrid thousand-pound beast that lows achingly for my death. No, my friends, the “moo” of a cow is not a pleasant thing to hear, in my circumstances. That beast is out there, and it wants my blood. It’s already trapped me here, and run me to ground, after wrecking my 4-wheeler out in the pasture. I barely crawled to this shed, and hid from it, broken leg and all, while it savaged the wreckage, stamping it into the mud.

    Soon the monstrous beast will cease circling the shed, looking for me, and venture inside to find me, hidden here in the hay. When that moment comes, I am doomed.

    The only thought that sustains me is the knowledge that tomorrow, the butcher comes, and there will only be one cow here in the pasture for him to process, and even though I probably won’t be here to eat them, that animal is soon to be steaks and hamburgers. Cold comfort, that, but still, the children will eat–This winter, at least.

  6. Barn cat raised with cows never learned to properly mew. Liked Kirk’s story best but then this popped into my head. Happy Father’s Day to all.

  7. Without any sign of sail or engine or human hand, the boat glided over the waters. “My soul is an enchanted boat,” he whispered. Nothing answered except cattle lowing from some unseen field. Hidden by trees, he thought, and hoped.
    The sky darkened. The sunset turned richer. A star appeared.

  8. No rooster crowed, no cow mooed, no sheep bleated — he groaned. Dew everywhere, and stiff and cold in every joint.
    He had not been murdered in his sleep. There was one thing. The satchel sat at his feet. Now he could ensure she had not given him fairy gold.

  9. A woman, albeit one as thin and brown as a stick, wearing layers of sleeveless gowns in red and yellow and green, poured out her tea. She reached for the sugar.
    A creamer, shaped like a pudgy black and white cow, trundled down the table toward her. When it reached her hand, and she was still stirring, it mooed.

  10. By the livestock exhibit, little children from the school eyed the cows with large eyes. One cow mooed. Some scurried to the teacher.
    Hope rolled her eyes. Cal smiled. Amazing how pleasant this was, she thought, even though they could not talk of so much.
    Her hand slipped over his.

  11. ok so… your dad… and the last one is your son with your dad?

    your son has a definite family resemblance to your brother (i think that is who that is) and some to your dad when he was younger…

  12. “Let me tell you the true dark story of what happened that August night in 1987. Prisoner number eight had escaped, and joined with confederates who had smuggled in ritual gear. Mighty Aryan magics called up an entity. The entity lowed and ate Rudolph Hess. He’d been a communist plant.”

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