Back to school

A rainy morning as I write the blog I intended to write last night, my thoughts full of seven grandchildren going back to school this week. I’m particularly celebrating Miss Morgan Helene of Tomball, who turned into a teenager yesterday—that all-important thirteenth birthday—and starts eighth grade today. Her brother, Kegan, had a soccer tournament which he said he wanted to win for her birthday—and he did! Thirteen is such a wonderful age—sometimes so grown up but, thank goodness, still many times a kid. Morgan requested flannel one-piece pjs for her birthday, thinking ahead to how cozy they’ll be on their annual ski vacation. If she can think that in August, more power to her!

Joining Morgan and Kegan in the back-to-school rush are two boys in Austin, a high schooler in Frisco and her big sister, a university student in Colorado. And finally my local homeboy, Jacob who starts seventh grade and, over my loud protests, will play tackle football. Perhaps that is why I dreamt I went to get him at some kind of athletic practice (and my dog—don’t know how the dog got in there) and found him in a bloody bandage. Then he sort of disappeared from my dream as it turned out I had brought home the wrong dog—one with straight fur on its ears and not Sophie’s doodle curls. I think that came from marveling at Sophie’s ears yesterday.

I hope the school year for all of them is off to a better start than my dream would suggest. They are all wonderful children (what else?) and I wish them the many blessings school can bring—knowledge, friendship, lessons in life.

Went to church yesterday via the computer which I do more often than I like. I have become a believer in sitting in the front row of church. My family were always back-of-the-church people, but Christian has converted me to sitting right up front, where I can be sure both God and the preacher see me. Nonetheless, yesterday I was confined to signing my name on the roster of those who attended remotely.

The sermon, part of a series based on Ephesians, was “Words Matter,” and at one point the minister said no one in his family ever, not ever uses the word “hate”—they don’t hate people, they don’t hate broccoli—you get the idea. I remember a conversation with a grandson along the similar lines. He, a young Sophist, suggested it was a bit weak to say, “I dislike a tight collar.” I wish I had been firmer about the evils of hate—the ugly, nasty, destructive feelings the mere use of the word unleashes. A good lesson with which to start the school year.

May the school year be blessed for you and all the students you care about.

Haircuts, “the” wedding, and a golf tournament

My youngest grandchild, Kegan David, got a hair cut today. Normally a boy’s haircut is a big step in his initiation from toddler to childhood, but not so with Kegan. He’s twelve, and he’s worn his hair shoulder-length for a couple of years now. When I was in the rehab facility, he came to see me, and an attendant asked if he was my granddaughter. I said no, my grandson, but his dad assured me it was okay. Kegan was used to the confusion, and it didn’t bother him.

The thing is, Kegan’s is a super soccer player. He’s small for his age, but he makes that up in determination, and he’s a tiger on the soccer field. At the age of ten, he was invited to play with a team of twelve-year-olds. His goal became getting his hair long enough to wear a man-bun, like the European soccer players, and he achieved that. But it seems the school he attends harbored some suspicions about long hair and exerted pressure to have him cut it.

Two weeks ago or so, he cut a couple inches off, but this weekend, when he was up here visiting, he still had that shoulder length, fine, blonde hair. His dad said today, back home, Kegan announced, “It’s time.” I’m so pleased that his parents let him be the one to make that decision. His mom says he likes his new haircut and grins all the time. I’m waiting for a report when he makes his debut with his new look at school tomorrow. Mom Lisa just happens to teach at the same school he attends.

Other than that, a lazy day. I guess I’m still recovering from the heady events and lack of sleep of the first part of the weekend. If I’m that tired, just think how Harry and Meghan must feel. I’ve read more about the new Duchess of Suffolk in the last day—she is much more than an American movie star. She’s known for being an activist, particularly for feminist causes, and apparently, she and Harry may take royal public service to a whole new level. I’m cheering for them. They sure are a stylish couple, and who but a strong woman would walk down the aisle alone, trailed by those adorable bridesmaids. I’ve also read much about her mother, Doria Ragland, and come to a great admiration for that woman who sat alone in great composure during the ceremony. Surely, she passed some of her strength on to her daughter.

My take-away from the wedding, besides awe at the wonder of it: the word bespoke. I knew it before but was never sure of the meaning. Now I’ll never forget. Everything Meghan wore was bespoke—made especially for her for the occasion. I’m working on understanding the “quire” of a church. Dictionary doesn’t help much—it’s says a quire is four sheets of paper folded to form eight leaves. We used to call that f&gs back in the day in publishing—folded and gathered proofs, but not bound. Clearly not what was meant when the news reported that Prince Charles met Meghan at the quire of the chapel.

On the home front, Christian marinated and grilled salmon tonight, and we had a wonderful supper. Christian and Jordan will disappear this week, wrapped up in the events of the Fort Worth National Invitational Golf Tournament. I liked it best years ago when we could just call it “the Colonial,” but I’ve never been a fan. Who wants to walk around a hot golf course following men who are chasing a little white ball? For Jordan and Christian, it’s a big event.

Should be an interesting week. How about yours?