Warning: this is a post so random, shallow, eclectic, pointless, even I am left scratching my head, and asking: What? Why? Who... hey, are there any cranberry bagels left?
I could stop now.
But I have this compulsion to write: I haven't been taking pictures lately. And by "lately," I mean in the last 48 hours. It concerns me. And I ponder the reasons. I think it has something to do with how slow I've made my poor computer, by loading it with 150,000 photographs, which sort of eats up a lot of hard drive space. Now, when I edit images to post in Chickenblog, the computer crunches and grinds, smoke rises in small, choking spirals, and I have to wait insufferable minutes for things to happen.
OKay, I probably should stop now. This post is already raising red flags in my mind. In spite of my virtual Internet anonymity, I still aspire to be a blogger of estimable note, and I am pretty sure that drivel, like this, is not the path to success.
This is our corn harvest.
(objects in picture may appear larger than they actually are)
These three, small ears of corn represent toil, vigilance, devotion, sacrifice, sweat, labor, and wishful thinking, on my part. The gopher, responsible for the pitiful quantity of corn, lost the war, but the collateral damages were, obviously, severe. If we were inclined to eat gopher, we'd be hosting a hearty feast.
My mom and I were on our phones this morning. She was updating me on the plans for Grandmother's ninetieth birthday extravaganza. It has not been an easy party to organize. There is no lack of enthusiasm for the occasion, it's just been a challenge for her to get all the moving parts, dates, venues, and peoples to cooperate and coordinate. Anyway, I am in awe of her work.
But. Today she asked me about our "talent gift." Someone got the bright idea that we could demonstrate sweet skills for Grandmother, by singing, or playing an instrument, dancing, juggling, reciting... by being talented and entertaining. Oh, Lord. She told me about cousins, and skits, and songs, and harmonizing, and all the sweet things other people are rehearsing, and then there was this long, awkward pause, and I realized she was waiting to hear about our part in the show... what are we planning?
Oh, Lord. We. Uh. We.
Do you know that Max can play Ode to Joy on a toy accordion? Seriously. The accordion is cheapy, but Max taught himself, and it actually sounds pretty good. Personally, I cannot imagine squeezing one end, with one hand, and fingering keys with the other hand, staying in rhythm, hitting the right notes, and making music, but Max can do it. The trouble is he cannot bring himself to do it in front of anyone.
Do you know that William, Max, and Alex can sing? Sing well. I like it. No, I love it, when they sing. (I cannot sing; that's something I was told, in no uncertain terms, one Christmas, in front of family, and the message and damage are permanent.) Naturally, I fantasize about being able to sing decently... decently enough to be heard, and appreciated, and the boys, who can sing well, would rather not, thank you very much. Life is funny like that.
We are thinking of resuscitating the initial prototype of the automaton we brought to Maker Faire. So far, it is a hand that can write and draw. Hey, how cool is that? And how cool would it be if the automaton drew a picture for Grandmother, and wrote a message. It could write: Happy Birthday Grandmother. We love you. Our song is quiet and shy, but you inspire us to make, tinker, play, and celebrate!
hehehehe... I was just now trying to think of a conclusion, or something to kind of tie the loose ends together, and then I remembered: I have no point. It is something of a relief.
I cannot restore the time you lost, reading this post, but you have your whole beautiful life ahead of you, so get over it.
Go forth, and be merry! Have a bagel! Or something.