The text from my mother-in-law was direct, though I didn’t see it for hours. My attention was focused on the snow-covered highway and a catch-up conversation with my son. When we finally stopped for dinner, I assumed Penny was checking in on our travels or finalizing whether they were coming for the holidays. But her news was much more important.
We hadn’t planned on going away for our anniversary, even though it’s a major milestone. Before my next column runs, Curtis and I will hit the quarter century mark of marriage. To be clear, this doesn’t mean we’re old. It means we were young.
Driving around town with Santa hats, ice cream and holiday music became a yearly tradition of hunting for holiday displays and the best Christmas lights. For only the price of gas and some ice cream, it was an evening of entertainment and family fun.
The holidays are well-seasoned with concerts, recitals and plays. As a parent of a musician, it’s the Christmas tradition I enjoy the most. But as I anticipate another season filled with song, I have one dread – the audience member, or more, who upstages the performers and mars the music.
The crowd parts like biblical waters, creating a human aisle in the cafeteria, now echoing with a crescendo of clapping. At the end, a boy waits with flowers, a sign and a smile. Marker on poster-board spelling a clever question, often ending with, “Hoco?”
Fall is my favorite season. Like Baby Bear’s porridge, it’s not too hot and not too cold. You can enjoy the vibrant colors wearing light layers without shivering or sweating. My only complaint about fall is that it procrastinates in the morning.
The first time Ian asked for a suit, he was about 7 and I was so shocked he wanted to wear anything besides sneakers and shorts, I bought pinstriped pants with a matching shirt, tie and vest in the children’s department the next time I went shopping.
Before this month I’d have asserted that I’m not gullible, susceptible to spoofing or easily manipulated. I understand and speak sarcasm fluently and have prided myself on seeing through attempts to hoax, deceive and distract, no matter how subtle.
As my family can attest, certain sounds send me over the edge. They spark a revulsion so deep it must be genetic. At least two of my children share my aversion, though in varying degrees.
