I could write an entire blog about my experience this morning standing in line at a Big Lots waiting for a no-brand-name tablet that was going on sale. And I wouldn't write one bad word about Big Lots - but plenty about people in general, people in line, and humanity.
And most people were perfectly nice. But the ugly ones, they were way too ugly for an $80 no-name tablet.
Which I didn't get.
But by the time MyFella, Jamie & I had finished breakfast, we decided that what I really want is a Kindle anyway.
MyFella, "No, that's not enough power for you. You want to be able to run a spaceship."
Me, "No, no, that'll be my new laptop. The Kindle is just to look up things on imdb while I'm watching t.v. And imagine how cool I'll look reading books on the couch with my legs pulled up under me, and my new Kindle in my hands."
So the Kindle is coming, and I'm kind of excited. And no weird people at Big Lots.*
*which remains one of my all time favorite stores. it's the other customers I don't like.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
You have no idea how much I love you.
A 7 year old kid told me that the other night. Just out of the blue. I had decided to drive to my parent's house in my hometown on Valentine's Day after work. The boss let me off just a bit early, and my nephews were staying the night with their grandparents.
And at the dining room table, trying to help him with his homework, the youngest one said, "You have no idea how much I love you."
What a funny thing for a child to say. But I tell you what, it can't possibly be more than I love him.
And at the dining room table, trying to help him with his homework, the youngest one said, "You have no idea how much I love you."
What a funny thing for a child to say. But I tell you what, it can't possibly be more than I love him.
"I drive your truck."
The song came out months later. And the truck is long gone. But I suppose since his is the most recent death in my life, the song would naturally remind me of him.
The white truck, the one in which he taught me to drive. The late model Ford with 4 in the floor, and my scrawny arms too weak to pull it. My grandmother laughing at the site of her descendent jumping over the bumps in the well tilled field.
And time passes, and keeps passing. My brother calls. And within a few hours, I'm taking my mother on a road trip. We've arranged to exchange her like a package, he gets her to point B, I take her on to point A.
He didn't recognize me. I honestly had the impression he didn't recognize anyone in the room. But his personality, his jovial spirit, shone through and he talked to people like he was genuinely glad to see them. He was up occasionally when we arrived. He couldn't walk far, but he walked.
I knew they had married before she was out of high school, he having obtained my grandfather's permission. He would always speak highly of my grandparents, in much the same way that people always speak highly of my uncle. And they would live out their lives together. But I hadn't considered the reality - they grew up in the same small town. They had walked to school together 30 something years before I was even born. There was never a time in their lives when they did not know each other.
He passed away on Monday before Thanksgiving. My grief somewhat abated by the knowledge that, as an adult, I made conscious decisions to see them, to visit them, to drive to their house and spend the weekend with them.
He may not have recognized me the weekend he died. But while he lived, he knew that I loved him.
The white truck, the one in which he taught me to drive. The late model Ford with 4 in the floor, and my scrawny arms too weak to pull it. My grandmother laughing at the site of her descendent jumping over the bumps in the well tilled field.
And time passes, and keeps passing. My brother calls. And within a few hours, I'm taking my mother on a road trip. We've arranged to exchange her like a package, he gets her to point B, I take her on to point A.
He didn't recognize me. I honestly had the impression he didn't recognize anyone in the room. But his personality, his jovial spirit, shone through and he talked to people like he was genuinely glad to see them. He was up occasionally when we arrived. He couldn't walk far, but he walked.
I knew they had married before she was out of high school, he having obtained my grandfather's permission. He would always speak highly of my grandparents, in much the same way that people always speak highly of my uncle. And they would live out their lives together. But I hadn't considered the reality - they grew up in the same small town. They had walked to school together 30 something years before I was even born. There was never a time in their lives when they did not know each other.
He passed away on Monday before Thanksgiving. My grief somewhat abated by the knowledge that, as an adult, I made conscious decisions to see them, to visit them, to drive to their house and spend the weekend with them.
He may not have recognized me the weekend he died. But while he lived, he knew that I loved him.
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