ginnygram

Emily, this is your fire. When we  build a fire down at the lake, I name it. I’ve named fires for Ellie (often) and for police officers and for firefighters and in honor of 9-11 and for lots of new babies like Charlie and Felix and Miles and Arthur and Ian and Cooper and Jonathan and Gloriana. So much love goes up into the heavens, whether or not I know your gods (I just typed dogs, by the way). Last night, my fire-naming ceremony went something like this: “You fire, you be strong and brave. You be healthy and happy. And know you are loved. You burn, Emily. You burn.”

I love that my daughter is a cop. One Christmastime, when she was little–too little to read–we were in the grocery store with her grandma Gigi. “Gigi,” she said, looking at the Happy Holidays paint-writing on the dairy cases, “I did not know you have gangs in Danville.” Let’s just say that my mother was a little less than thrilled that her four-year-old granddaughter had a speck of knowledge that street gangs exist. Anyway, that was pretty much when I knew my daughter was going to be the law, that it was in her DNA. She is balanced about it though. She may carry ‘cuffs and a Maglite, but she carries them in a really cute handbag with her lip gloss.

Of course I had many thoughts today, but I went into capital T Today with Two Big Thoughts: That I would write a ginnygram about my friend Emily, AND that I wouldn’t cry when I visited her in the hospital, where she’s kicking some serious leukemia bottom.* Who knew that I would a) be speechless about Em, and b) that although I wouldn’t cry about her, I would cry about this.

This is a thank-you note from my sister-in-law Pammy that we got today. She lives in a home with other adults with disabilities that range from the profound to I don’t even know. The last time we met with staff to set some goals for her, we suggested that she write letters. (And BTW, even though the date is 2011, she really means 2012.)

I don’t know if you can actually read this, but the last sentence is this: “Sorry its not very neat, but I don’t have any lines.”

As if everything would be okay, if only we had lines.

*Mama, this censor is for you.

Our New England forebears had to make do and solve problems with what they had on hand, and we call that Yankee ingenuity. So, finding himself needing to clean the lake house gutters and without a ladder tall enough to reach them, my husband crafted this beauty. Yes, it is a currycomb and a potato masher all duct-taped to a telescoping boat hook. It worked like a charm, no one fell off the roof, and I don’t like that kind of potato masher anyway.

This weekend was the Mountain Man Rendezvous in Bridgeton, Indiana. We made a U-turn, and went to check it out. One day soon, I will post about morels and more. But today, I will tell you about a charming moment when we were appreciating a potter at work. This darling Hoosier in the red sweatshirt turned to me and said, “I don’t know about you, but ever since I saw that movie Ghost, I’ve wanted to learn how to do that. It’s hot, right?”  And the man throwing the pot smiled and said, “It’s always been a favorite at my house.”

Small blue-glazed pitcher that we bought = $12.00. Story = priceless.

Now don’t get all misty on me, when I tell you that this particular little black dog is chasing squirrels in heaven. So then why am I posting this, if I don’t want you to have something in your eye? Because part of getting to know me means you have to know that I’m a softie, who doesn’t mind paws on the table once in a while. Elbows, never. Paws, okay. And also, you can see that I may love vintage tablecloths. And that I was going to do something with liquid starch–oh yes, block doilies. Gosh, I must have been going to dust, too. I don’t know about you, but I’m worn out just looking at this picture. C’mon, Winnie, let’s go fix a drink.