We had an uneventful trip home today, my favorite kind of car trip without nasty traffic. We stopped en route to purchase more memory for my computer (Jim) and pick up the dog from the kennel (aka dog spa) with $30 penalty for Sunday pickup. Jim also picked up homemade jams and beef jerky at exit ??? I don’t recall, but we got gasoline there.
Our home isn’t home unless all of us are in it. It’s too quiet without Zoe trying to trip me with an armful of laundry, so we had to pick her up right away after picking up more memory…. Perhaps as we get older we can pick up more human memory, but I don’t think the pharmaceutical companies have that in mind.
Many things went through my mind, especially the last song Juni Fisher sang and dedicated to Nanny, The Whipporwhill Song, in which a mother calls for her children and brings them home. When we moved from our small village out to what I now recognize to be a “Gentleman’s Farm” out in the country when I was eight years old, my sister and I toughened up right away and went toe-to-toe with our two neighbor boys near our age.
We learned within a week to climb a ragged rope 150′ down to the creek. The people who sold us their unfinished house, that we spent three years finishing, also sold us an old station wagon. When there was fifteen minutes to dinner on the table, Mom would go out to our parking lot and hit the car horn three long blasts. That meant come up the cliff, get cleaned up, wash your hands and be at the table. We did so right away.
When Juni sang her Whipporwhill Song I was in tears remembering my mother who died just weeks ago. My song was three car blasts to get us up from the creek. I guess we never learned how to whistle or sing a bird’s song. The old station wagon used to be my bird song. But I now have my home. Dee
Cooking with Dee 