maple twirlies out of the gutters. Dad would go up the ladder, and Mom would stand at the bottom to catch him, I guess. This was not a reassuring image.
Mothering teen boys has given me some practice with going about my day and letting worries stew in a little crockpot all their own. I don't have to watch the pot or stir it, and the worries usually turn out okay. This crockpot approach let me go on with my errands and swimming, even though I knew my eighty-one year old Dad was up on the ladder. Like a teen boy, he's going to do what he wants to do.
My mom must know about slow-cooking. She left me a phone message that they had completed the gutter endeavor without incident. They have a bumper crop of soggy twirlies that will have to dry before they can be bagged for the trash.
