Poisonous Campaign
I woke up this morning to find a severed horse's head at the foot of my bed. This morning I awoke at dawn and there was a chill in the air. The pine boughs outside my window are weighted heavily with chirping birds. The sky is blue. Winds have shifted from the north to the southwest. Chainsaws churn against heavy lumber in the distance.
Yesterday I received two packages. In one package was a clear plastic bag knotted at the top and containing one dozen mouse traps. Also in the box were three plastic imitation granite boulders, hollow, with hinged lids and two entrance holes and four metal rods for each on which to thread chunks of poison. These I have loaded up and placed around the perimeter of the bighouse, with some of the contents of the other package, four pounds of rat and mouse poison. The other item in the second box was non-odorous deer repellant concentrate, as compliment to the locally purchased odoriferous deer repellant.
I placed poison chunks throughout the inside of the house too. I don't know if this battle is any more winnable than certain Mideast conflicts but the war is on. Told recently that two-thirds of the rodent population are against my methodology I was heard to respond--"So?"
Arrogance is rarely justified.
This morning I awoke with an imitation fur covered plastic mouse resting on my crotch.
Somehow they have gotten to her. I thought she was a trusted ally but clearly she has gone double agent on me. Maybe she is still sore about the ovary removal procedure. This cat won't hunt.
I'm heading out soon, across the DMZ to check my IEDs.
War is hell, for the losers, and the writers, and the photographers, and the families of the dead.
...more recent posts
Turn It On High
I suffer from the cognitive bias that the full moon effects my mood. There is no hard science to support the full moon being a mood affecter and I don't look forward to the full moon as a reason to expel stored up erratic emotions but occasionally I blame my unstable behavior on it anyway.
The night before Bernadette leaves I petition angrily--could I just have a few more inches of the bed? She says I am taking up one half of the bed but I think I am only taking up one third. I only want enough room to support my skinny left arm which is hanging over. She gave up a couple of inches and I reached up and closed the blind behind me to block out that goddamn full moon shining on my head and then burrowed myself into Bernadette's neck. The next morning I made eggs over medium with microwave-heated left over scalloped potatoes. Bernadette said I needed to reheat them in the oven when I made them for myself next time. The number of points on the list of reasons why I would not do that were so numerous the math of it all made my head explode right there at the breakfast table (number one--I am pro molecular structure distortion). Bernadette said you wanna fight and I said yes, but we didn't put the gloves on.
I dropped her off at Dulles and drove home in heavy traffic, wishing we could fight some more.
I stopped at a bookstore in Warrenton and bought the new Richard Price in hardback, which is a thing I rarely do, buy hardbacks. At the pizza joint next door I read the first sentence. Some cops in Lower East Side New York are staked out one diagonal block from Bernadette's place, looking for street dealers to bust. I transport there and watch. Richard Price comforts me. I walk up to a restaurant at the next corner and sit at the bar. A man named James, without asking, puts before me an astoundingly good Bloody Mary.
At the bookstore while in the Ps I also picked up a Richard Powers, an early one, The Prisoner's Dilemma. I was good to go when a young woman carrying a miniature tray of coffees walked by and offered me one. I enjoyed it and moved over to survey the state of PK Dick in the modern book world and it appears to be healthier than it ever was. Pretty much every novel and some new collections are shelved and although I think all of the "previously unpublished" stuff is already out, there seemed to be some new arranging of it. I don't buy his stuff anymore I just like to see so much of his collection on the shelves, which was never the case when I was avidly reading him years ago.
I would have picked up the Ulysses Simpson Grant memoir but it was not available and I already have too much to read anyhow.
At the bargain books section I picked up a shiny new copy of Strunk and White, which I do periodically out of some vague sense of sentimentality (did my father give me my first one?), and although I haven't ever really studied it, I probably should, and hold onto the hope that I will. If you need a copy you can have one of mine. I leafed through a TS Eliot and found it to my liking so I added it to my stack and went to stand in line at the checkout.
There waiting I saw a tabletop bowling game and picked that up too so I can play in the future with Bernadette, who suffers from my lack of original excuses for not wanting to bowl.
The next day was yesterday which was Easter Sunday, all day long. I collected some garbage and took it to the dump. On the way out the driveway I saw a Blue Heron over by the pond so I reversed back up and across my front yard and went inside to get my camera. I crept up on it and took some pictures. Eventually it took flight towards the next door neighbors house while I blindly let the auto shutter click away. After the dump I came home and performed a few outdoor chores.
I wasn't sure I was ready to be into college basketball madness yet but while surfing the Internet I discovered that CBS was streaming all the games live so I checked in and got hooked, switching between three games going on at once and the early games were some humdingers and the later Memphis v Mississippi St game was not too shabby either. I spilled half a beer on the bed and then later some Maker's Mark and still later I spilled some bottled water on the floor. So my bed is like a boilermaker, with water on the side.
I have some sardine pasta which I am going to heat in the microwave for breakfast, although look at the time, how it flies forward when we relive the past.
I am not that stubborn about molecular structure distortion. I have ordered a new Swedish made portable barbecue grill to facilitate cooking in an approaching future which has me moving back and forth between North Carolina, Virginia, and New York and in that future I will probably wrap my leftovers in foil and heat them on the grill. Aluminum foil causes madness. Perhaps there is no way around madness. Or maybe I will give in and wad up all my aluminum foil and put it in the microwave and turn it on high.
I suffer from the cognitive bias that the full moon effects my mood. There is no hard science to support the full moon being a mood affecter and I don't look forward to the full moon as a reason to expel stored up erratic emotions but occasionally I blame my unstable behavior on it anyway.
The night before Bernadette leaves I petition angrily--could I just have a few more inches of the bed? She says I am taking up one half of the bed but I think I am only taking up one third. I only want enough room to support my skinny left arm which is hanging over. She gave up a couple of inches and I reached up and closed the blind behind me to block out that goddamn full moon shining on my head and then burrowed myself into Bernadette's neck. The next morning I made eggs over medium with microwave-heated left over scalloped potatoes. Bernadette said I needed to reheat them in the oven when I made them for myself next time. The number of points on the list of reasons why I would not do that were so numerous the math of it all made my head explode right there at the breakfast table (number one--I am pro molecular structure distortion). Bernadette said you wanna fight and I said yes, but we didn't put the gloves on.
I dropped her off at Dulles and drove home in heavy traffic, wishing we could fight some more.
I stopped at a bookstore in Warrenton and bought the new Richard Price in hardback, which is a thing I rarely do, buy hardbacks. At the pizza joint next door I read the first sentence. Some cops in Lower East Side New York are staked out one diagonal block from Bernadette's place, looking for street dealers to bust. I transport there and watch. Richard Price comforts me. I walk up to a restaurant at the next corner and sit at the bar. A man named James, without asking, puts before me an astoundingly good Bloody Mary.
At the bookstore while in the Ps I also picked up a Richard Powers, an early one, The Prisoner's Dilemma. I was good to go when a young woman carrying a miniature tray of coffees walked by and offered me one. I enjoyed it and moved over to survey the state of PK Dick in the modern book world and it appears to be healthier than it ever was. Pretty much every novel and some new collections are shelved and although I think all of the "previously unpublished" stuff is already out, there seemed to be some new arranging of it. I don't buy his stuff anymore I just like to see so much of his collection on the shelves, which was never the case when I was avidly reading him years ago.
I would have picked up the Ulysses Simpson Grant memoir but it was not available and I already have too much to read anyhow.
At the bargain books section I picked up a shiny new copy of Strunk and White, which I do periodically out of some vague sense of sentimentality (did my father give me my first one?), and although I haven't ever really studied it, I probably should, and hold onto the hope that I will. If you need a copy you can have one of mine. I leafed through a TS Eliot and found it to my liking so I added it to my stack and went to stand in line at the checkout.
There waiting I saw a tabletop bowling game and picked that up too so I can play in the future with Bernadette, who suffers from my lack of original excuses for not wanting to bowl.
The next day was yesterday which was Easter Sunday, all day long. I collected some garbage and took it to the dump. On the way out the driveway I saw a Blue Heron over by the pond so I reversed back up and across my front yard and went inside to get my camera. I crept up on it and took some pictures. Eventually it took flight towards the next door neighbors house while I blindly let the auto shutter click away. After the dump I came home and performed a few outdoor chores.
I wasn't sure I was ready to be into college basketball madness yet but while surfing the Internet I discovered that CBS was streaming all the games live so I checked in and got hooked, switching between three games going on at once and the early games were some humdingers and the later Memphis v Mississippi St game was not too shabby either. I spilled half a beer on the bed and then later some Maker's Mark and still later I spilled some bottled water on the floor. So my bed is like a boilermaker, with water on the side.
I have some sardine pasta which I am going to heat in the microwave for breakfast, although look at the time, how it flies forward when we relive the past.
I am not that stubborn about molecular structure distortion. I have ordered a new Swedish made portable barbecue grill to facilitate cooking in an approaching future which has me moving back and forth between North Carolina, Virginia, and New York and in that future I will probably wrap my leftovers in foil and heat them on the grill. Aluminum foil causes madness. Perhaps there is no way around madness. Or maybe I will give in and wad up all my aluminum foil and put it in the microwave and turn it on high.
Cat Love
You can't really raise a cat without sometimes engaging in tough love tactics. My cat is coming up on eight months old and I just had her spayed the other day. The doctor told me a couple of things to be on the look out for that would warrant bringing her back in. When she didn't eat the first evening I didn't worry too much about it. Midway into the second day I got a little worried but decided to try her on some soft food, which she has never in her life had before. Oh she ate that right up. No appetite problems here at all. I explained to her that you're not getting this everyday. We'll finish up this can and then you go back on the dry. I got you that big bag of Science Diet kitten formula and there's still pounds and pound of it left. That's your food. That's what you're going to eat. The next day I put the dry out and she wouldn't touch it. You damn well better eat that food missy. Bernadette and I agreed, oh she'll eat it when she gets hungry enough. 24 hours later she still wasn't eating so I mixed some of the dry in with a few tablespoons of wet. She seemed to begrudge the crunchy bits but she ate it up anyway. Later in the day I put a small bowl of dry on the ground and she walked right by it like she's blind in both eyes. You can be that way all you want but when this turkey and gravy stuff is gone there ain't no more wet food in the house. And even if I were to get you some more you're not eating it every meal. You hear me? You've got to meet me halfway. You eat this delicious, and I might add, rather expensive, dry food and I'll give you some of this disgusting wet stuff once in awhile. Like once a week. But not everyday. I don't know how long I should withhold soft food from her if she won't eat the dry. I think one or both of us maybe has some kind of emotional or behavioral problem. I don't know if maybe I should schedule us for an outward bound program for troubled fathers with troubled pets. My Vet alluded to a pet psychic that she consulted with about her own pets. Honestly though, I don't think I love my cat enough to consult with a pet psychic. I think I'm having a breakthrough here. I think admitting you don't love your cat enough is half the battle. The other half of the battle will be getting that funnel in her mouth.
You can't really raise a cat without sometimes engaging in tough love tactics. My cat is coming up on eight months old and I just had her spayed the other day. The doctor told me a couple of things to be on the look out for that would warrant bringing her back in. When she didn't eat the first evening I didn't worry too much about it. Midway into the second day I got a little worried but decided to try her on some soft food, which she has never in her life had before. Oh she ate that right up. No appetite problems here at all. I explained to her that you're not getting this everyday. We'll finish up this can and then you go back on the dry. I got you that big bag of Science Diet kitten formula and there's still pounds and pound of it left. That's your food. That's what you're going to eat. The next day I put the dry out and she wouldn't touch it. You damn well better eat that food missy. Bernadette and I agreed, oh she'll eat it when she gets hungry enough. 24 hours later she still wasn't eating so I mixed some of the dry in with a few tablespoons of wet. She seemed to begrudge the crunchy bits but she ate it up anyway. Later in the day I put a small bowl of dry on the ground and she walked right by it like she's blind in both eyes. You can be that way all you want but when this turkey and gravy stuff is gone there ain't no more wet food in the house. And even if I were to get you some more you're not eating it every meal. You hear me? You've got to meet me halfway. You eat this delicious, and I might add, rather expensive, dry food and I'll give you some of this disgusting wet stuff once in awhile. Like once a week. But not everyday. I don't know how long I should withhold soft food from her if she won't eat the dry. I think one or both of us maybe has some kind of emotional or behavioral problem. I don't know if maybe I should schedule us for an outward bound program for troubled fathers with troubled pets. My Vet alluded to a pet psychic that she consulted with about her own pets. Honestly though, I don't think I love my cat enough to consult with a pet psychic. I think I'm having a breakthrough here. I think admitting you don't love your cat enough is half the battle. The other half of the battle will be getting that funnel in her mouth.
Pruning With Poncho
As it turns out the rain has not stopped. I have headphones on and am listening to Diana Ross but was listening to Gillian Welch when by sense of vision I thought the rain had stopped. When I took the headphones off I could still hear it though. I went outside to feel it. It's wet. I have a rain poncho but I got to be straight with you--I am not that dedicated. Sometimes I wish I were but I spend most of my energy just trying to be happy with my imperfect self.
I am eating bread. Mr. BC came out to see my visiting siblings just before Bernadette and I returned from NY on Friday and pulled a Rodney Dangerfield at the local gourmet market. I'll take two of those, one of these, give me three of those thingies, some of that cheese, one each of every kind of bread you have and one each of everything you can put in a container and two of those ice creams (the pistachio one my bastard nephew must have eaten for breakfast, he's not really a bastard, he has two parents, but you know what I mean) and BC brought almost a whole case of wine from the Napa vineyard of Adman's friend, Spence. We had to drink three, or maybe four bottles before we decided that yes it really was a pretty tasty offering from Spence's nascent vineyard. I'm pretty good at pretending ignorance so I could pretend that I don't know what it costs but Adman told me what it cost when we drank it at his place in PA so I'm not drinking any more of that Spence, unless I run out of things to write about and feel the need to once again make fun of BC for his abundant and ongoing generosity and misplaced trust in me to leave his wine alone. No, I'll save that wine for a rainy day. Ha, get it, Mr. BC?
I don't know, it's not raining that hard, maybe I should put the poncho on. Bernadette is illustrating all day and the cat is sleeping (probably trying to figure out why her belly is shaved and where the hell did her ovaries go). I don't think I can sit here any longer. The cat woke up. She hears a bird outside but is supposed to stay inside for 5 more days. I'll give it a try anyway, with the poncho.
As it turns out the rain has not stopped. I have headphones on and am listening to Diana Ross but was listening to Gillian Welch when by sense of vision I thought the rain had stopped. When I took the headphones off I could still hear it though. I went outside to feel it. It's wet. I have a rain poncho but I got to be straight with you--I am not that dedicated. Sometimes I wish I were but I spend most of my energy just trying to be happy with my imperfect self.
I am eating bread. Mr. BC came out to see my visiting siblings just before Bernadette and I returned from NY on Friday and pulled a Rodney Dangerfield at the local gourmet market. I'll take two of those, one of these, give me three of those thingies, some of that cheese, one each of every kind of bread you have and one each of everything you can put in a container and two of those ice creams (the pistachio one my bastard nephew must have eaten for breakfast, he's not really a bastard, he has two parents, but you know what I mean) and BC brought almost a whole case of wine from the Napa vineyard of Adman's friend, Spence. We had to drink three, or maybe four bottles before we decided that yes it really was a pretty tasty offering from Spence's nascent vineyard. I'm pretty good at pretending ignorance so I could pretend that I don't know what it costs but Adman told me what it cost when we drank it at his place in PA so I'm not drinking any more of that Spence, unless I run out of things to write about and feel the need to once again make fun of BC for his abundant and ongoing generosity and misplaced trust in me to leave his wine alone. No, I'll save that wine for a rainy day. Ha, get it, Mr. BC?
I don't know, it's not raining that hard, maybe I should put the poncho on. Bernadette is illustrating all day and the cat is sleeping (probably trying to figure out why her belly is shaved and where the hell did her ovaries go). I don't think I can sit here any longer. The cat woke up. She hears a bird outside but is supposed to stay inside for 5 more days. I'll give it a try anyway, with the poncho.
Spring
I ran across the property dodging raindrops. I was on rosebush 81 when the rain started. Pruning them way back in an attempt to correct the deformity of their growth caused by hungry deer. There are about 200 more around the bighouse but I won't have to prune all of them severely. I have two different kinds of deer repellant I will be trying this year. One is made from putrid egg concentrate, garlic, pepper, and other essential ingredients. The other is supposed to be odor free. I have weed killer. I have rose fertilizer. I bought two bags and then got them home and read they treat 100 square feet. Make me laugh with your 100 square feet of coverage. I need a bag that covers 5,000 square feet. There's a thousand square feet of yellow roses just by the bocce court alone. I ordered 4 pounds of single feeding, strongest on the market mouse killer from Gemplers and a dozen of their high quality spring traps and three faux rock outdoor bait stations. I am preparing for a massive campaign of death to all rodents. There will be the smell of death in the air, make no mistake about that. I tried to make friends with them but that hasn't worked out so well. I am not a hunter or a murderer by nature but evidently circumstances arise in life where you have to play out roles that you did not foresee. I will survive it and remain primarily a pacifist. My apologies to the souls of a hundred dead rodents. Looks like the rain has stopped. Let me get out there to rosebush 82.
I ran across the property dodging raindrops. I was on rosebush 81 when the rain started. Pruning them way back in an attempt to correct the deformity of their growth caused by hungry deer. There are about 200 more around the bighouse but I won't have to prune all of them severely. I have two different kinds of deer repellant I will be trying this year. One is made from putrid egg concentrate, garlic, pepper, and other essential ingredients. The other is supposed to be odor free. I have weed killer. I have rose fertilizer. I bought two bags and then got them home and read they treat 100 square feet. Make me laugh with your 100 square feet of coverage. I need a bag that covers 5,000 square feet. There's a thousand square feet of yellow roses just by the bocce court alone. I ordered 4 pounds of single feeding, strongest on the market mouse killer from Gemplers and a dozen of their high quality spring traps and three faux rock outdoor bait stations. I am preparing for a massive campaign of death to all rodents. There will be the smell of death in the air, make no mistake about that. I tried to make friends with them but that hasn't worked out so well. I am not a hunter or a murderer by nature but evidently circumstances arise in life where you have to play out roles that you did not foresee. I will survive it and remain primarily a pacifist. My apologies to the souls of a hundred dead rodents. Looks like the rain has stopped. Let me get out there to rosebush 82.
Some Family History
A thing that most of us are ignorant of is that my grandmother gave birth to my mom and then a year later, in 1918, went off for a ten year stay to the State Hospital in Austin. It is my understanding that she died there. My grandfather we knew nothing about until two years ago, four of my mother's step-siblings showed up at her funeral. She had never met them in life. They were in their seventies and although I did not meet them at the funeral, my sister did, and kept up with them by email for awhile after that. Apparently grandfather had tried over the years to establish contact with the family but our mother, who I guess was confused and upset by a lifetime's worth of imagined abandonment, was resistant to his efforts. She was raised briefly by her grandmother on the farm east of Austin near Elgin, and then by an aunt and uncle in South Texas, near the King Ranch. In her lifetime all but the most convoluted and possibly twisted facts of her brief memory of her father were kept from us. I know nothing of the events that led to my grandmother's insanity or if the nature of her illness was actually severe or just something similar to that suffered by the many of my contemporaries who pop anti-depressants, but even allowing for the primitive state of psychology in 1920s Texas, ten years seems like a long time to be institutionalized for a minor illness. Grandpa remarried and had another family and they have lived all their lives in small college town south of Austin. One of my brothers went to college in that town over thirty years ago and by accident ran into my grandfather's new wife, who was working in the college cafeteria, and so I have known most of this story for that amount of time, but wasn't sure I believed it until it was confirmed two years ago. My brother had confronted my mom about the story back in those days but apparently she did not want to talk about it. Some people like to hold onto things, to the grave.
Grandpa parked his truck on the side of the road and got out to get his mail. The parking brake failed and he was run over and killed
I sent an email off to the State Hospital in Austin to inquire whether or not it was possible to access patient records from the 1920s. I received back a failure of delivery notice.
A thing that most of us are ignorant of is that my grandmother gave birth to my mom and then a year later, in 1918, went off for a ten year stay to the State Hospital in Austin. It is my understanding that she died there. My grandfather we knew nothing about until two years ago, four of my mother's step-siblings showed up at her funeral. She had never met them in life. They were in their seventies and although I did not meet them at the funeral, my sister did, and kept up with them by email for awhile after that. Apparently grandfather had tried over the years to establish contact with the family but our mother, who I guess was confused and upset by a lifetime's worth of imagined abandonment, was resistant to his efforts. She was raised briefly by her grandmother on the farm east of Austin near Elgin, and then by an aunt and uncle in South Texas, near the King Ranch. In her lifetime all but the most convoluted and possibly twisted facts of her brief memory of her father were kept from us. I know nothing of the events that led to my grandmother's insanity or if the nature of her illness was actually severe or just something similar to that suffered by the many of my contemporaries who pop anti-depressants, but even allowing for the primitive state of psychology in 1920s Texas, ten years seems like a long time to be institutionalized for a minor illness. Grandpa remarried and had another family and they have lived all their lives in small college town south of Austin. One of my brothers went to college in that town over thirty years ago and by accident ran into my grandfather's new wife, who was working in the college cafeteria, and so I have known most of this story for that amount of time, but wasn't sure I believed it until it was confirmed two years ago. My brother had confronted my mom about the story back in those days but apparently she did not want to talk about it. Some people like to hold onto things, to the grave.
Grandpa parked his truck on the side of the road and got out to get his mail. The parking brake failed and he was run over and killed
I sent an email off to the State Hospital in Austin to inquire whether or not it was possible to access patient records from the 1920s. I received back a failure of delivery notice.
For Me And You
As a person not so musically adept it oddly struck me that one of the string players was out of tune or out of sync and if that ubiquitous number played at so many weddings was discordant to my ears then what must it have sounded like to those know their music?
Then the guitar player plugged in and asked every one to stand and as it was so shortly after the preacher had just said we could sit down it felt almost like a revolution, one where musicians and preachers battle for supremacy. The guitar strummer instructed everyone to clap along and Bernadette clapped along. I wanted to tell her that being dragged along to these family weddings does not mean you have to clap when told to. Instead, I just waited out the song while occasionally looking at the big screen with the projected lyrics. It wasn't but a bit later that we were instructed to raise our right appendages in the fashion of a laying on of hands and I did this, so who am I to tell Bernadette not to be a hand clapping sheep? She is no sheep I can tell you that and I am sure she clapped only because she felt like it. I on the other hand raised my arm in the air because I felt that being a sheep in this case would be better than being a sacrificial lamb.
It was a nice wedding affair in any case, perhaps a little long seeming at times but then made up for later by a quickening of pace.
At the dinner afterwards my oldest brother led a few devout Texans in the singing of the Eyes of Texas, which is the University fight song and although I won't fact check this, may also be the state song. The wedding was in Virginia.
Who knew that three quarters of the remaining attendees were Canadians? When they got their chance they sang the Canadian National Anthem, which is quite lovely, and again there was the feeling of revolution in the air. A not so old white haired gentleman weaved between the tables waving a small Canadian flag.
Then came a bunch of heartfelt testimonials from friends and relatives of the bride and groom and while I wasn't altogether bored to tears I got within a hair's breadth of it. If there had been alcohol served I would have let my tears flow and when asked if I was all right I would have confessed to one of my new best friends, my new Canadian drinking buddy, that yes I was all right, I'm just allergic to Canadians. We would have gotten a hearty guffaw out of that one and he would have come back--Steers and Queers, nowhere but Texas, which frankly I don't think is very funny.
By all reports, God was in the room and so I should have thanked Him in person for the 9-year-old sister of the bride singing the Sinatra classic, L-O-V-E, which goes like this:
L is for the way you look at me
O is for the only one I see
V is very, very extraordinary
E is even more than anyone that you adore can
Love is all that I can give to you
Love is more than just a game for two
Two in love can make it
Take my heart and please don't break it
Love was made for me and you
L is for the way you look at me
O is for the only one I see
V is very, very extraordinary
E is even more than anyone that you adore can
Love is all that I can give to you
Love is more than just a game for two
Two in love can make it
Take my heart and please don't break it
Love was made for me and you
Love was made for me and you
Love was made for me and you
There is nothing like a clear-voiced and confident 9-year-old girl singing Sinatra to restore your faith in all that is right in the world. She narrowly beat out the Canadians for song of the day and was at last counting in a too close to call tie with the chocolate cream filled cupcakes as things that made the trip worthwhile. The Honorable Mentions go to my few family members in attendance. It's good to be together once in awhile.
As a person not so musically adept it oddly struck me that one of the string players was out of tune or out of sync and if that ubiquitous number played at so many weddings was discordant to my ears then what must it have sounded like to those know their music?
Then the guitar player plugged in and asked every one to stand and as it was so shortly after the preacher had just said we could sit down it felt almost like a revolution, one where musicians and preachers battle for supremacy. The guitar strummer instructed everyone to clap along and Bernadette clapped along. I wanted to tell her that being dragged along to these family weddings does not mean you have to clap when told to. Instead, I just waited out the song while occasionally looking at the big screen with the projected lyrics. It wasn't but a bit later that we were instructed to raise our right appendages in the fashion of a laying on of hands and I did this, so who am I to tell Bernadette not to be a hand clapping sheep? She is no sheep I can tell you that and I am sure she clapped only because she felt like it. I on the other hand raised my arm in the air because I felt that being a sheep in this case would be better than being a sacrificial lamb.
It was a nice wedding affair in any case, perhaps a little long seeming at times but then made up for later by a quickening of pace.
At the dinner afterwards my oldest brother led a few devout Texans in the singing of the Eyes of Texas, which is the University fight song and although I won't fact check this, may also be the state song. The wedding was in Virginia.
Who knew that three quarters of the remaining attendees were Canadians? When they got their chance they sang the Canadian National Anthem, which is quite lovely, and again there was the feeling of revolution in the air. A not so old white haired gentleman weaved between the tables waving a small Canadian flag.
Then came a bunch of heartfelt testimonials from friends and relatives of the bride and groom and while I wasn't altogether bored to tears I got within a hair's breadth of it. If there had been alcohol served I would have let my tears flow and when asked if I was all right I would have confessed to one of my new best friends, my new Canadian drinking buddy, that yes I was all right, I'm just allergic to Canadians. We would have gotten a hearty guffaw out of that one and he would have come back--Steers and Queers, nowhere but Texas, which frankly I don't think is very funny.
By all reports, God was in the room and so I should have thanked Him in person for the 9-year-old sister of the bride singing the Sinatra classic, L-O-V-E, which goes like this:
L is for the way you look at me
O is for the only one I see
V is very, very extraordinary
E is even more than anyone that you adore can
Love is all that I can give to you
Love is more than just a game for two
Two in love can make it
Take my heart and please don't break it
Love was made for me and you
L is for the way you look at me
O is for the only one I see
V is very, very extraordinary
E is even more than anyone that you adore can
Love is all that I can give to you
Love is more than just a game for two
Two in love can make it
Take my heart and please don't break it
Love was made for me and you
Love was made for me and you
Love was made for me and you
There is nothing like a clear-voiced and confident 9-year-old girl singing Sinatra to restore your faith in all that is right in the world. She narrowly beat out the Canadians for song of the day and was at last counting in a too close to call tie with the chocolate cream filled cupcakes as things that made the trip worthwhile. The Honorable Mentions go to my few family members in attendance. It's good to be together once in awhile.