Mama San
The soft tinkling of windchimes, playfully agitated by the warm blowing wind of beginning summer, do nothing to wake me out of my sleepy stupor, even seducing my leaden lids to drop further, only to stop short of making me nod out. There's nothing on earth I would like to do just now than to sleep, which I can really do if I wanted to, except that a catnap squeezed in between now and 20 minutes after would guarantee for a headache, which I do not fancy having today. No. It's too warm outside and I have too many things to do. My brewing cup of coffee should pick me up in a bit.
The past week was a dizzying whirl of activity and not in the way that exciting things go. My days just seem to have been a series of errand after errand after errand, the driverless life making me one girl on the go. The gas receipts that have accumulated in the console of our serviceable, semi-battered, white pick-up, the transport of the moment, piles high, and bears witness to how I have run the city in circles these days. And no matter how my finicky daughters, these kids, detest riding it to school for fear of looking derelict, I say that the pick-up is the most approprite to use these days, with very cold air-conditioning ( on top of being the more economical ride compared to the two guzzling SUVs in the garage ) that makes me want to live in it.
Death, the third and hopefully the last one to visit my sphere these past two weeks, do nothing to ease our schedule. My dramaholic mother-in-law, finally bereaved of her emphysemaed 89-year old Mama, is seemingly oblivious to the long drive to the mortuary for most of us, and arranged for a 10-day wake (where complete attendance is required of sons and in-laws every night) to give enough time for her brother, who is thankfully arriving today from California.
Night vigils are the best way to catch up on family gossip, the star of which is the dead celebrant Mama, who seemed to be a woman ahead of her time. During her heydey back in the 30s, she, according to one mischievous aunt, was very bohemian and a wild creature, renown for her many shocking adventures with Papa, her deceased first husband. Their exploits, I hear, were the type enough to raise eyebrows even today, the telling of which makes me wanna go on a fit of uncontrollable chortling, like my sisters-in-law. Once we warranted a very stern look from the mom-in-law, who certainly has no idea on what we could possibly find funny on a preferably solemn situation as a wake. One of these days, I'm gonna tell my daughters on their groovy great grandmother, this cursing, chain-smoking, black-jack playing, always impeccably groomed, ex - English Lit teacher and bohemian party lover. There's nothing like a rich and colorful history to enhance the future generation, after all.
Meanwhile, the soft tinkling of the windchimes play hypnotic, luring like a siren call to my nice wonderful bed, really not too far from where I'm at. And just about now, I hear the faint gurgling of brewing coffee, the smell wafting strong and potent, calling me to get up, gulp down, get terribly caffeinated and get the hell out of here, now, before it gets too hard to.
Goodbye.
Filed Under: Mementoes
The past week was a dizzying whirl of activity and not in the way that exciting things go. My days just seem to have been a series of errand after errand after errand, the driverless life making me one girl on the go. The gas receipts that have accumulated in the console of our serviceable, semi-battered, white pick-up, the transport of the moment, piles high, and bears witness to how I have run the city in circles these days. And no matter how my finicky daughters, these kids, detest riding it to school for fear of looking derelict, I say that the pick-up is the most approprite to use these days, with very cold air-conditioning ( on top of being the more economical ride compared to the two guzzling SUVs in the garage ) that makes me want to live in it.
Death, the third and hopefully the last one to visit my sphere these past two weeks, do nothing to ease our schedule. My dramaholic mother-in-law, finally bereaved of her emphysemaed 89-year old Mama, is seemingly oblivious to the long drive to the mortuary for most of us, and arranged for a 10-day wake (where complete attendance is required of sons and in-laws every night) to give enough time for her brother, who is thankfully arriving today from California.
Night vigils are the best way to catch up on family gossip, the star of which is the dead celebrant Mama, who seemed to be a woman ahead of her time. During her heydey back in the 30s, she, according to one mischievous aunt, was very bohemian and a wild creature, renown for her many shocking adventures with Papa, her deceased first husband. Their exploits, I hear, were the type enough to raise eyebrows even today, the telling of which makes me wanna go on a fit of uncontrollable chortling, like my sisters-in-law. Once we warranted a very stern look from the mom-in-law, who certainly has no idea on what we could possibly find funny on a preferably solemn situation as a wake. One of these days, I'm gonna tell my daughters on their groovy great grandmother, this cursing, chain-smoking, black-jack playing, always impeccably groomed, ex - English Lit teacher and bohemian party lover. There's nothing like a rich and colorful history to enhance the future generation, after all.
Meanwhile, the soft tinkling of the windchimes play hypnotic, luring like a siren call to my nice wonderful bed, really not too far from where I'm at. And just about now, I hear the faint gurgling of brewing coffee, the smell wafting strong and potent, calling me to get up, gulp down, get terribly caffeinated and get the hell out of here, now, before it gets too hard to.
Goodbye.
Filed Under: Mementoes
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