It’s Sunday Night, and I’m Tired or Life Begins Anew

It’s spring here in North Carolina; the trees have leaves, the glorious wisteria is hanging from the trees, the dandelions, so different down here from the ones up north, are up and blooming, and I just mowed part of the lawn. Even my stubborn maple that I brought with me from Upstate New York has finally decided it’s safe and is starting to send out some buds. Even after two years, he still thinks he has to wait until every other tree has its leaves on before he trusts that it’s spring. That’s a tree with a long memory. (I don’t know that it’s a “he.” I’m just guessing.)

And this year, there are actually some activities to go to. Yesterday, we went to a dog fair, my 8-year-old grandson’s baseball practice, the “Blues and Brews” festival at my son’s park (well, it’s not his; he just directs it,) and then went over to his house to celebrate his 44th birthday.

We’ve all been fully vaccinated, but my daughter was exposed to Covid at work, so we kept her outside. Her brother accused her of bringing Ebola to the party, but she got him back with her birthday card to him: “On the day that you were born, the angels got together” (open the card) “and were severely reprimanded.” That’s the kind of card we exchange in our family. If I got a flowery card from my father, I knew his wife picked it out. The last Valentine’s Day card he sent me before he died said, “I was going to send you one of these for your birthday” (open the card) “but I didn’t know your size.” It was a picture of a Chippendale dancer. I…