My grandfather's name was Poppy. Actually it was Ferdinand, and Fred to his friends, but it was Grandpops to the kids. And I, the youngest of four grandkids, couldn't figure out how to say that when I was small, I guess. So to me, he was Poppy.
Names are a big deal in the family to which I was born. Not your given name precisely, at least not the one you start out with. It's the name that becomes yours over time. Its the name that's chosen for you.
So it's the fourth day of Christmas. We ran the Bay Area traffic gauntlet, visited friends and family, and landed back home in time to have two full days of loafing around the house. Probably the last thing I should do, full of Christmas food as I am, but, my, did it feel good.
So I return from the happiest place on earth. How was it, you ask? I've been amusing myself by telling people it was uplifting, which it was, but in more ways that I intended.
Last Monday, I went to a movie with a friend. Having sort of skipped dinner, I did something uncharacteristic and actually bought food (or the closest approximation thereof) at the theater. My hotdog came with a medium drink. When the clerk hoisted the beverage onto the counter, the resounding thump was followed by a beat of total silence, before my friend and I burst out laughing. The receptical before me was a 44 ounce trough. I would only be exagerating slightly if I said I could fit my cat Weasley in that cup. And Weasley? Not small.
So our days were merry and bright. I hope yours were too. Santa made his appearance, and tracked some boot prints all over the hearth. The cat added wrapping paper to his list of favorite things, along with the big water bowl under the tree which is dangling with a multitude of cat toys. My seven-year-old has been a pretty good boy this year, but seemed to get the idea that volunteering to do the dishes Christmas Eve might sweeten the pot just a little.
I just finished up a sewing project, which is now wrapped up and awaiting judging at the county fairgrounds.
The crunch at the end of a project always makes a godawful mess of my sewing room. If I'm smart (and occasionally I am) I do a good cleanup at the end of it, restoring order to chaos.
I went up to Portland a couple of weeks ago (my traveling shoes have been getting some wear lately) to visit an aunt, some cousins, an old friend, and a beautiful city.
Getting ready to board the plane. My son is plastered to the window at the gate watching the planes taxi up and down. It's his first flight. I wasn't too much older than him when I was flying by myself. Short trips off to see a cousin on the other side of the state. I can't imagine putting this kid on a plane by himself. Is that because to a mother a child seems way smaller than she ever was? Or is it because the world has moved on?