Sunday was my father's 72nd birthday.
If he were still alive, I would probably have bought him candy: Goldberg's [sic] Peanut Chews or JuJuBes for nostalgia, dark chocolate for something that actually tastes good.
Can you say "celebrate" when mourning the departed? If so, we celebrated with lunch at Skillet Diner in New Ballard, which turned out to be one of the loudest choices possible. Had Dad been alive, he might have had trouble hearing the conversation, and he would have played the Thought-You-Saider's game; if it had been post-stroke, we would have said, "Say 'Say it again, please,'" instead of groaning.
The food was delicious. (You can add a fried chicken thigh to just about any dish – the Seattle version of "put a bird on it."). A beer was knocked over and we dashed out of the way so nimbly we all stayed dry. A good sign.
Then we walked to the Locks and found the new heron-nesting tree. (In case my sibs are reading this, my birding expert says yes, those smaller ones could have been babies). Watching herons fly makes me wonder how anyone could have ever missed the connection between them and pterodactyls.
The weather was Seattle-perfect: coolish, sweetly clean from days of sunbreaks alternating with rain that sometimes went sideways and came with a church-smashing lightning strike, lightly sunny. There's an intoxicating spring smell these days that always reminds me of falling in love with my husband.
I think Dad would have enjoyed himself. He would have been glad we came together because of him, for him, for us.
And he would have been able to eat all the Peanut Chews himself.
If he were still alive, I would probably have bought him candy: Goldberg's [sic] Peanut Chews or JuJuBes for nostalgia, dark chocolate for something that actually tastes good.
Can you say "celebrate" when mourning the departed? If so, we celebrated with lunch at Skillet Diner in New Ballard, which turned out to be one of the loudest choices possible. Had Dad been alive, he might have had trouble hearing the conversation, and he would have played the Thought-You-Saider's game; if it had been post-stroke, we would have said, "Say 'Say it again, please,'" instead of groaning.
The food was delicious. (You can add a fried chicken thigh to just about any dish – the Seattle version of "put a bird on it."). A beer was knocked over and we dashed out of the way so nimbly we all stayed dry. A good sign.
Then we walked to the Locks and found the new heron-nesting tree. (In case my sibs are reading this, my birding expert says yes, those smaller ones could have been babies). Watching herons fly makes me wonder how anyone could have ever missed the connection between them and pterodactyls.
The weather was Seattle-perfect: coolish, sweetly clean from days of sunbreaks alternating with rain that sometimes went sideways and came with a church-smashing lightning strike, lightly sunny. There's an intoxicating spring smell these days that always reminds me of falling in love with my husband.
I think Dad would have enjoyed himself. He would have been glad we came together because of him, for him, for us.
And he would have been able to eat all the Peanut Chews himself.
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