Sentimental Journey

This should come as no surprise by now, but the local Veteran’s Day parade is among the long list of things that make me cry. If I ever get a role in a local production of Steel Magnolias, I want to be Truvey because “happiness through tears” is apparently my favorite emotion. I can’t seem to help it. Every year I watch the parade as it passes in front of my workplace. Every year I try to hold that bottom lip still, and every year I have to pick it up off the curb. This year was no different.

Our community does a good job of saluting its veteran’s on Veteran’s Day, I think. Employees from the downtown business district come outside to watch the parade, and schools from all over the region bring in busloads of children who wave their flags from the sidewalks and yell out their thanks to the veterans who walk and ride by on floats. And it’s always the school kids who make my eyes start to well up, especially the really young children.

But it’s the veterans who keep me from staying composed, with their smiles.

And quiet gestures, like the occasional wave to a stranger.

Or a salute.

Or a connection with one of their own.

And respect from those who understand the price paid for being able to wave a flag on a city street.

Or perhaps paid that price.

And while I thought for just one tiny moment, I was going to be able to keep that fat tear from sliding down my cheek this year, this sign drifted across my lens and pushed that tear and a few of its buddies to my chin.
I don’t know who Papa Raymond was but that sign sent my soul on a sentimental journey to those years ago when my long dead grandpa shared his World War II stories. As I sat on the curb pretending to take pictures, I kicked myself for succumbing yet again to my emotions.

However, as I type this many hours later, I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided that the day I don’t feel the emotion behind the waves and salutes and flag waving, will be a sad day indeed. Perhaps, it’s a good thing that I always cry at the parade.

An Update to A Story we Brought You Earlier

SOMEONE loaded the spare refrigerator we keep in the garage onto his dollie and rolled it down the street to the new house yesterday, along with the freezer. SOMEONE hosted poker night at the new house last night, and SOMEONE reluctantly had to make a trip back to the old house for paper plates and cornmeal, because I had forgotten them. Late last night when SOMEONE went to get his nightly bottle of water out of the garage refrigerator and realized it wasn’t there anymore, that SOMEONE said, “This is getting old!”

And while I’m beginning to suspect that SOMEONE has a spare roll of toilet paper hidden in the old house, SOMEONE mentioned this morning that he wanted to move our clothes to the new place before this weekend.

Game. Set. Match.

The Reason I Ended up with Briars All Over the Seat of my Dress on the way Home From A Funeral in the Country

And had to hide my backside with my purse when entering a McDonald's in order to pluck them off in the bathroom.

October 9th, 2009--Rural southern Illinois

Movin', Movin', Movin', Keep That Husband Movin'

I'm not naming any names, but someone around this house is dragging his size 13 feet on getting stuff packed up and moved to the new house. That someone is apparently overwhelmed at the thought of sorting through fifteen years of stuff and moving it to a new location. That someone needed some motivation since the holiday season is looming, and we need to get relocated before that madness starts.

So, yesterday I packed up every last item in the kitchen and moved it into the new house. There is nothing to eat in this old house and nothing to eat it with or cook it with. I figure that will get old fast and should speed things along nicely. Oh, and just as an additional precaution, tomorrow I'm sending all of the toilet paper except one roll to the new house. I figure he should be ready to load up our clothes in about two days, depending on the amount of fiber he eats this weekend.

And All Was Right With The World

We had new furniture delivered last Friday, so you know what that means. Yes, the Big Ass Chair has arrived. Never mind the beautiful bedroom suite or the cool coffee table, all Hubby could talk about was his new chair. The big 'ol recliner that holds two, count 'em TWO, people.

From the minute the delivery truck pulled into the driveway, he was all, "Hey, it's here!" and "Isn't she a beauty?" And, "LOOK, here it comes now!"

He parked his backside in it before the delivery guys' hands were off the smooth, soft microfiber.There was oohing and ahhing and, "Hey, check this out!" as he lovingly tested the chair like Ralphie fondled the leg lamp in A Christmas Story. And just like Ralphie, he snuggled up with his Red Ryder chair and drifted off to a place where little boys' dreams come true.

He needs to watch the reclining action on that baby. It could put somebody's eye out.

It's Official, I Have Become my Mother

When I was a kid and my parents built a new house, circa 1977, my mother’s favorite color was red. It still is. She picked out red shag carpeting and red and white curtains for the living room. Even in the 70’s it was a bold decorating move. Stylish too, up until around 1994 when she finally got rid of both items. For years, I would enter that room and shake my head at that red rug and curtains. I swore I would never put anything that loud in my house.

As I stood in our new house the other night, admiring the area rugs I had just picked for the dining and living rooms, I realized they are both red. Red, red, red. Not pale. Not shy. Bold, lively red.

Would someone please pass the salt? This crow is a little bland. And while I’ve never been a fan of it, I seem to be developing a taste for it later in life.

PS…Share with me dear readers, the moment you realized you had become your parent(s).

Weekly Photo Challenge-"Well Groomed"

This one is the story of two flower girls, one who looked forward to her job and another who didn't. I took it at a wedding back in April.

Check out the other entries here.