Our 4th

Didn’t we have a fine time Saturday—classically pleasant for us this year. Great weather—a real rarity this spring and summer. Good friends—the same we’ve spent this holiday with for years. Our annual reading of the Declaration, which sounded much better this year than last. And, of course, B’s first Independence Day.


There was much lolling about and inter-generation communing in the beautiful backyard where we gathered...



...along with the traditional imparting of ancient wisdom, unasked for, outdated, and utterly unneeded, yet politely received.


All this, plus good food, good drink, and good conversation. An afternoon like a deep breath of sweet fresh air.

Happy birthdays, my girls

A lovely cool and damp early morning for one of those easy-going smooth and rhythmic runs that happen so much less often than they used to. Better yet, it was followed by a terrific little mid-morning iChat with H and sweet B. Yesterday was B’s 11-month birthday, and today is H’s 20-somethingish. H, B, and A are all coming down out of the hills tomorrow to spend part of the Fourth of July weekend with us. It’s likely the bubbly will flow.

Sweet B

I was in the delivery room when H was born, and when the nurse looked up and said, “It’s a girl,” I thought, “Oh, my god, now what am I going to do?” I had a rough idea of how to approach raising a boy (hand him a baseball), but a girl? No clue.

I learned (I handed her a baseball). And it was good.

H

Kiwi winter (summer?)—maybe

I’ve gotten serious about tramping in New Zealand this February. The Appalachian Mountain Club is running what looks like a terrific “Major Excursion” (the Abel Tasman and Routeburn tracks, and most of the Kepler). The only drawback is that it filled up so fast that I didn’t make the cut. I’m on the waiting list. It sounds a little like the TGOC, doesn’t it? But unlike the Challenge, the AMC is trying to put together another section to meet demand. So I have two reasons to remain hopeful.

I’ve always loved walking with friends and family, but it wasn’t long ago that I would have drilled my own teeth before going on a group trip of this kind. I’m fundamentally shy, and I’ve also been certain there would be at least one person along who would drive me insane and spoil the whole experience. But I don’t much enjoy walking solo, and recent experiences and reports have changed my mind about groups. I had a fantastic time meeting and walking with new friends on the Challenge last year. I’ve had old friends tell me how great AMC and similar trips have gone for them. I’ve also discovered that two of the very few advantages of growing older have been a lessening reserve and more easy going attitude.

So I’m sitting here in my jandals, nursing a jug, and hoping this whole thing doesn’t go down the gurgler.

Back to the flannel

June has been way cooler, grayer, and wetter than usual. The last few days have remained gray and wet, but it’s been getting hotter. It was steamy enough even early yesterday morning that I broke out the old washcloth. I’ve always run with one of these in the humid summer, soaked, wrung out, folded in half, and tucked in the back of my waistband. So here we all are, having complained for a month about the rain, about to complain for the rest of the summer about the heat and humidity.

I’m just happy to be regularly back on the roads. Drip, drip, sting, wipe.

iChat

I’ve written before about how much I love these sessions. Concord, New Hampshire isn’t Minnesota, but it’s still almost 4 hours away from us here in Woodbury, and having left my little lovey cold turkey, I’m grateful for these digital fixes. Here’s a moment from yesterday evening.


These days, B is standing and balancing unaided, and is clearly mere days away from walking—and I think also very close to that first meaningful “mama” moment. She is also regularly using hand signals for “milk,” and “all done,” and sometimes a few others. Not a single tooth, yet, though. She has wonderful care during the day (a big sigh of relief from all of us), and seems to be naturally sweet and cheerful like her mother, as opposed to naturally crabby and hypercritical like that miserable old geezer, her maternal grandfather,

H is finishing up two weeks of orientation at the hospital, and begins her first shift as an MD on Sunday night.

So my girls are good, and so good to see.

It ain’t the Sox and the Yanks

Yes, the U.S. beat Spain in soccer. Those of us who noticed are delighted.

Inevitably, one more “A”

And so another “family value” pol bites the dust—after apologizing to a long, long list, including “people of faith.” It’s not the adultery but the moralizing, psalm-singing, holier-than-thou hypocrisy that drives me nuts. I wish I could train myself to think of it as mere farce, but it gets up my nose every time.

And that’s the last you’ll hear from me about South Carolina Governor, now former chair of the Republican Governors Association, and utter phony Mark Sanford. Best wishes to his shattered family.