Let's see what you've brought

I was the one who was keen on meeting my girlfriend's parents. But I was surprised when entering the house I heard my future mother-in-law say "Let's see what you've brought", clearing addressing her remark to my girlfriend, and feeling very much like a What, rather than a Who.

It may have helped that I carried a soft sided leather satchel--grief case, as I called it--that resembled those supplied to federal public servants once upon a time. It didn't help that my future outlaws couldn't pronounce my name. And the fact that I am everybody's friend and feel that everybody can be my friend was like chicken soup, which, according to a wise Jewish mother, "couldn't help, but it couldn't hurt".

To be more specific, being everybody's friend was like cock-a-leekie, hearty and flavourful, and pleasantly thick!

Being thick, definitely mattered, but I had the fatal flaw of being both interpersonally thick and socially thin skinned, which is a relationship disaster. But undaunted, I carried on a conversation with my future father-in-law about the merits of the Beaver Lumber rumpus room built onto the back of his house, that now served as a den--there was a living room, with clear plastic covered backs and cushions that was a receiving room for when the parish priest visited, but was otherwise unused.

Again, it helped that Beaver Lumber was ubiquitous, even at the time.

We got on well, my outlaws and I. I made banana cream pie with Alice and helped Pat remove the pristine gear box from an old Maytag or Kenmore washer. Not only that, but I enjoyed the pie and commiserated with my father-in-law about the terrible fate of the shiny gearbox, given that the washer was only being replaced because the dryer was toast.

Image result for washing machine transmission

But honestly who couldn't love a pie with visible banana slices inside, or a perfectly serviceable clutch that was still capable of initiating rinse and spin?

No, the troubles, if there were any, had to do with the amount of spice I put into the ground beef for after Saturday mass hamburgers, or my sense of al dente where it came to pasta, or my lack of awareness of the tinned Dainty Rice version of Chinese flied lice!

And my daughter fit right in with her love of Riverside Rice Cereal and Team of Wheat.

And the outlaws never did ask my wife "Let's see what you've brought" when Emily Frances was born. The only concern was whether there was a Saint Emily in the same way there was a Saint Francis!

It didn't matter because Bruno and Rosa christened her Emilia Francesca anyway, and in Italy everybody is a saint.

Animals and aliens

When you think of Orwell's Animal Farm , you get stuck on the idea of some being more equal than others. But world peace, galactic harmony, the celebration of diversity and the active practice of inclusion are all achieved in science fiction by casting minorities in the role of animals and aliens. Star Trek comes to mind in this regard, where even hippies were disposed of, Federation style, as sensitive dissenting aliens, not forgetting Spock with his pointy ears! And then there were Wookiees, still man's best friend. Viewing animals as humans--anthropomorphizing--or treating different races as aliens, all of this is shape shifting. This shape is my shade, there where I used to stand--that's Steely Dan.

Of course she's not a true red

As the parent of a "ginger", and having red heads on both sides of the family, and having married into two Irish families, I know first hand that ginger covers the whole spectrum from strawberry blonde (to my way of thinking a classic ginger!), to orange (carrot tops), to a real rust red (what my father in law would call a true red). When Pat Todkill first set eyes on his granddaughter, he remarked, "Of course, she's not a true red". For one thing, Emily the Elder lacked freckles on her face and upper body. For another, she really was and is a strawberry blonde. A further observation. Even people with the raven blackest hair have rust red lights--caveman red, soot covered ochre if you like. Woolly mammoth red. Sometimes it takes just the right light to pick out the smoldering ember, but beard and eyebrows tend to incorporate the tell tale ginger strain, like chili pepper in a spice jar of mixed pepper corns. And, of course, brunette...

Things always end in the Summer

In the middle of the second major heatwave of the season, the City cut the wildflowers along the footpath. I mean they cut everything 30 inches on either side of the pavement, but since the flowers were my friends, all I saw was that they cut the flowers, even though they actually mowed indiscriminately. And it must have been a chore for the labourer in this heat, so his feet were heavy when he made hay of the prettiest parts of the Summer. But I can't get to that right now; I'm still reeling from the loss of chicory, and the other pinks and yellows and blues whose names I was just beginning to learn. "Program, get your program", I heard the barker call on my way to the bleachers. I turned once and caught his eye, and looked at the program in his hand and back into his eyes--all the while his eyes following mine--but then he looked back to his hand, and again into my eyes and he said "You can't tell the player without a card"! Did it matter that ...

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