The Right Spoon
January 23rd, 2010
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the sistuh.
I would like to comment on one of your photos, (since this is the only place to make such a comment):
It’s the one of the lamppost wrapped in duct tape. And your question as to WHO would wrap a lamppost in duct tape. The answer: You. About 15 years ago.
I’m guessing a 10-11 year old boy, bored with covering every empty glass and plastic bottle in his house in duct tape, ventured out into the street in search of something else to wrap. The enticing roundness of the lamppost was too much to resist, and, breathless with excitement, he swathed it in silver joy.
THINK of the duct tape you could’ve wasted if you had grown up in a CITY!
Nate
Well, you could just email me… but yes. I probably would have done just that. Recall, the joy of creating my first duct tape soccer ball! My first duct tape pet! You’re right, there is something rather wonderful about ’swathing’ things in ’silvery joy’.
Carla
This happens to me each time I go home. I end up guilty too because my mom is so convincing about how good it is that I am there with her. 10 days is my usual limit.
Last time I was home though this did not happen. I had even set up an escape home at my friend Molly’s. It may have been the 13 month old (I never imagined there could be something more entertaining and hear warming than a puppy. EVER), or my brother being home, or that I cooked until I could not think of peeling another garlic clove. But the fact that I really was needed, right at that moment, is really why. I forget sometimes that my family is a question on a math test in a way. If you miss one part, or get it mixed up, whatever comes out of all that work is the wrong answer. I got to fix a lot of missing “Carla’s” in this family equation this year.
So when you hit your anxiety switch, think of the good you are doing, by just being there. After all, what is more important than your family? (and petting animals always helps to calm the nerves;)
m.
“…a home, a single place where all the physical evidence of your history exists, where you can dump things as proof of a continued, changing life; a place to return to for reassurance that, in fact, your life is real for being identifiable and locate-able in a place other than where you happen to be at a given moment. “