It's really going to happen! I am going to meet my parents in Santa Fe in August. We have talked about this for a long time, and we are really going to do it. They will drive there in a leisurely fashion, and I will fly there with the wonderful free ticket I received for my birthday.
Once we meet up, we will take it slow. That's the Santa Fe way, right? We will go to the O'Keeffe Museum, the International Folk Art Museum, maybe Petroglyph National Monument in Albuquerque, and Taos. My dad wants to see some of the acequias. The engineer is still curious at eighty-one. I am hoping to go to the Santa Fe Opera, perhaps for a performance of Don Giovanni. I have been curious about the opera in Santa Fe ever since my aesthetics professor, Nelson Potter, first talked about it in 1975.
We have the whole summer to fine tune the plan. For now I need to figure out the plane ticket. What a delightful gift for all of us!
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Sunday, May 23, 2004
Crockpot worries
Talked to my folks this morning. They reported that their plan for the day was to clean the
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.
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.
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