Cursive, boys, and a day of minor domestic crises

Jacob’s friend Colin is spending the night tonight, and they are in high spirits. In the interest of giving Christian a bit of peace and quiet, Jordan sent them out to me to practice their cursive. This made Jacob indignant because he’d already done his cursive for the day. But I never knew cursive should be so funny Hilarity ensued. Giggles and high-pitched screams. No wonder Christian needed twenty minutes off.

Even minor domestic crises come in threes, I’ve decided. This morning, I knocked, pushed, shoved, whatever, the control to my bed, the thing that raises and lowers the head and foot, etc., off the bed in the tiny space between the bed and the wall. Before I was out of bed for the morning, I fretted about that, fearing I couldn’t reach down and get it out. Then I’d have to ask Jordan, which struck me as bothering her. But I discovered there really is a small space between bed and wall, and I reached down and got it easily. Lesson learned about those controls I keep on the bed—the thermostat, the bed control, and the cell phone. I will now watch where I put them.

Next I discovered that the commode was running—again. It does that with far too great frequency. Not a major problem because all you have to do is reach in, adjust the flap, and stop it. But it becomes a major problem because the top of the tank is heavy enough that I can’t balance and lift it. Jordan fixed it, and I called our contractor who said it might be a minor adjustment and he’ll come by in a couple of days to see if he can fix it. I’m hoping to avoid the expense of a plumbing call. I adore the man I consider our family plumber, but his company is merciless with charges for every little thing. A trip charge is exorbitant.

I got ready to cook my breakfast and blew the fuse in the switch plate where I plug in the hot plate. Try as I might, I never can restart that thing. Christian came out and fixed it for me. He says I don’t push hard and fast enough to connect it to whatever. “An electrician you’re not,” he said, and I told him about a former employee at TCU Press who used to roll his eyes and explain to people, “She’s not handy.”

So crises solved. And no rain today. The Atmos (gas company) crew chief came by and inspected the problems his crew’s work had caused—a sprinkler head that bubbles constantly, two sinkholes in the backyard that get worse with every rainstorm. And they’re fixed. Kudos to Atmos, because the workers are without exception pleasant, willing to help, and the crew chief is really easy to work with, grateful when we appreciate his men.  What a pleasant change from what might have been.

So here I sit, with giggling boys and a dog who wants to be part of the fun but isn’t sure how. Wonder if my twenty minutes if almost up.

Parties and birthdays and oh the fun!

Today is a happy birthday for the oldest of my boy grandchildren—Sawyer Hudgeons (if I could remember all four of his names, I’d use them). My Austin hard-rock kid is thirteen today. Sawyer definitely marches to his own drummer….er, guitar. He’s been going to the Austin School of Rock for at least two years now, and shows real talent both on the guitar and singing, performs easily and happily. Besides that, he’s a happy, sweet boy. I can hardly believe it’s thirteen years since we all rushed to Austin to celebrate his arrival.

And today was Jacob’s belated—adult—party. In truth, Jordan used his birthday as the occasion for her first big party in my house. The house has a happy party record and over the last twenty-five years has been the scene of cocktail parties, baby showers, humongous birthday celebrations, and most of all—tree trimming parties. In recent years, they’ve been strictly no-tree tree-trimming parties, but they were as full of laughter and love and food and wine as ever.

Jordan once again showed herself the mistress of party giving. Tonight was potluck, with some really good contributions. Jordan and Christian provided beer and wine—we’re stocked for months to come—along with meatballs. And a sheet cake. Everyone gathered round to sing happy birthday to Jacob, and I looked at the people—a happy mix of people of all ages. Two of Jordan’s friends who are special to me brought significant others I’d not met before and was glad to meet tonight, though they need to come back when it’s a little quieter and we can visit. One of those longtime friends, David, has been like family since he was fifteen. As he left the cottage tonight he said, “Tell the blog world hello for me.” So there you have his greetings.

Some people drifted out to the cottage, and I had a separate party there but went inside for the cake-cutting. Lots of fun. Now there’s a group on the patio outside my door, and I’ll join them in a few minutes.

A bit of trivia: I wrote Jacob a note and gave it to him this morning--long, funny story but my point here is that he handed me the note and said, "I can't read cursive, Juju." I had to read it to him. I am horrified--and a bit angry--that this child completed fifth grade without reading cursive. I vaguely remember they studied it, maybe third grade, and practiced but apparently not long enough nor hard enough. How will he function in the world? How will he sign a check. Someone pointed out to me that today they don't sign checks. Cursive is irrelevant, but I read somewhere learning cursive fine tunes the brain, just as music does. I'm on the prowl for workbooks with the Palmer method.

And an odd new imaginative exercise: designing niche literature courses. For some reason last night, in that twilight between sleep and full wakefulness, I was designing a lit course around the theme of old men. I decided to start with King Lear and include Tuesdays with Morrie. Didn’t get much further, but the idea has great possibilities. Is it an indication I want to teach again? No way. I love my retirement life and my writing life.