Carrying on my Mom's tradition
There’s evidence that the Negress knitted in public on her birthday, which went well with some World Cup matches (one of Italy’s flameouts) and a lovely dinner treat from my pal Kathy. I got carded when I ordered the Casa Lapostolle Cuvee Merlot, which isn’t bad since I passed the a half century mark a bit ago. The NBA finals weren’t over by the time my birthday rolled around, but the Stanley Cup had ended satisfactorily (still can’t believe the Blackhawks traded my new future ex-husband Dustin Byfuglien) so much was well.
Then I was ambushed by Father’s Day and my heart. My father died in 1994 and getting e-mails from various commercial enterprises suggesting I buy stuff for him is unnerving. I guess I could have his Netflix subscription sent to the cemetery. I’d start with “Hoop Dreams” and “He Got Game.” He’d like those. He’d probably like the World Cup but the flopping and vuvuzelas would get on his nerves.
Having crappy blood conveyances killed my Dad after a pair of heart attacks, a quadruple bypass and then series of strokes in short order. I miss the smell of shoes being shined on Sunday while the Redskins played. I miss the excursions to the old Cole Field House where we would go to the Maryland state high school basketball tournament. We always bought peanuts from the blind vendor outside of the arena. My Dad disliked baseball enough to cancel his Sports Illustrated subscription in the summer, resuming at the introductory rate in the fall using another family member’s name. He was also sneaky about empowerment. I was told since I was a girl I wasn’t strong enough to hold the electric mower on the three terraces in the back yard. He was going to Hechinger’s (another Washington ghost) and he’d do it when he got back.
So, of course I mowed the whole thing before he returned. It became my chore after that as it became his chore to take me to hockey and baseball games. I saw Derek Sanderson when the Hershey Bears played the Baltimore Clippers in the very old version of the AHL (this was the Eddie Shore being a nutjob in Springfield era). Now the Bears are the Caps top farm team. The world shrinks when you least expect it. My Mom, robbed of everything by dementia, could grow just about anything indoors or out. The Negress splits the difference, picking dead leaves off the violets between knitting baby sweaters and watching sports (The Tour de France starts soon. Can you stand it?)
But some of my Dad’s crappy conveyances are inconveniencing the Negress right now. The beta blockers are not as a bad as I thought and resumed exercising. I am still raising money to go to Napa but I am not walking the half marathon (the podiatrist is rejoicing since my ankles have tendonitis). But much is good so we soldier on.
In case you were wondering, the Negress didn’t win the Bloggie or whatever it’s called. It was nice to be a finalist and the winners are deserving, but the Negress couldn’t go to Walla squared for the conference this year. Plus, the Negress knows she should link more and network more and act like this blog is the center of the known universe. But then the Negress would be an “acclaimed” wine blogger instead of a happy blogger who mostly writes about wine and takes time to knit and look for work and see my friends. That stuff is the best acclaim of all.
