John Burridge

Probably the best way to describe the gatherings in full force is "a frat party with lots of theatre people."  Or possibly a slightly grittier version of backstage at The Muppet Show.  

Since there were so many relatives scheduled to attend the fancy birthday lunch, there was a raffle to "sit at the captain's table" with the birthday girl.  Since the instructions didn't specify a limit, Mark proceeded to fill out multiple tickets with his name on them.  This sparked a loud discussion among his sisters about the interpretation of the rules and whether Mark was stuffing the ballot or not.  During this time, The Child (at least) wrote Mark's name on an extra ticket, and somebody else submitted a ticket labeled "Anyone BUT Mark."  

When the tickets were drawn, Mark's name was drawn five times (six if you count "Anyone BUT Mark"), and after a consultation, Mark's Mother decreed Mark disqualified.  

"I've been sent away!" said Mark, "Banished."  Smeagol-like, at the fancy birthday lunch, he sat down at the captain's table and pretended to lick the forks.  

The lunch was a hearty Italian meal, with several courses (I had salmon).  The strangest aspect of the party was that it was the same venue as Mark's Mother's 70th birthday, but the room seemed smaller somehow. We couldn't figure out if the room had been painted a white back then and that the now red walls made the space seem closer, or if there had been some slight remodeling or additions.  

Sunday started out typically. Mark and I had talked about getting up before dawn and going to Delta Ponds to try an spot some more beavers.  I woke up around 6 AM, peered between the blinds at what I thought was an overcast morning, groaned, and burrowed further under the covers.  

Around 7 AM I did toddle out of bed and found Mark in the living room.  The sun painted high clouds magenta, and the waning full moon hid behind the two pines to the west.  I realized I was a Bad Husband for keeping Mark from his early morning nature walk, and said that we should go—but Mark said we could go in the evening.  

After breakfast, I thought I'd join a Zoom writing session of folks I know, but then I got a blind spot in my vision as I was trying to catch up on social media on my phone and the next thing I knew, there was a vibrating spiral of blue lightning in the middle of everything, which put the kibosh on reading or doing anything requiring sight.  

I ended up napping outside all morning on our deck furniture.  In the sunlight. It got up to 65F.  This is two weeks after the snow and ice storm and about a week of temperatures in the mid-20s.  I think I might have gotten a mild tan.  

To recap the last few weeks.   

Through a series of events, the Day Jobbe has expanded to full time.   It's mostly remote, and I drive in to work some days.  I am doing a combination of departmental intranet design and web site management.  It has been a reminder of how brutally insurance benefits are awarded (or not) to vested employees. 

My extended family is doing mostly well and managing to stay healthy during the pandemic.  

The cats have crossed another threshold with the dog and are more likely to spend the night in the house (rather than the garage) with the dog.  The cold might have something to do with this.  They also seem more tolerant of the dog in general, and no longer zip out of a room whenever she appears.  

The last few days have been overcast and rainy.  We need the rain, but it would have been nice to see the crescent Moon sweep by Mars yesterday evening.  It seems so strange that we're in the last week of Spring, the Summer Solstice is in six days -- and then the days will grow shorter and dark again.  Oh well, best not to borrow from the shadows until they're actually here.  Better instead to appreciate the slanting northwestern sunlight making the arbor vita glow like green velvet against the steel and slate colored clouds, and wonder how the dying sun will stoke the clouds into coals.  Better to enjoy the cool evening, and growing perception of the trees' scintillating auras as the twilight deepens. 

There was a family birthday party over the weekend -- it was refreshing and weird to have all of us sitting down at the same table and sharing a meal.  Hugging people feels elemental.  Some people when you hug them feel like a river; some feel like knots of wood;  others feel like a layer of sand over solid rock.  Other people hug you like a half-closing door, their frame rigid while a part of them swings -- and you find yourself gingerly holding a doorknob when you thought you were going to press fully into a door to open it.  Some people hug you like they'd hug a cliff, holding on, fingers pressed into crevasses or around anchor points; or they are the cliff, steady and unmoving, while you find a purchase.  Sometimes, you feel the boulder in a person's chest, or the breath flowing in and out and in and out between you.   And some people aren't there yet, holding themselves in some pocket universe that's out of phase with the rest of the cosmos -- when you hug them it's like typing the word "hug" on a keyboard, or hugging them with arms that have fallen asleep, or it's like hugging a shadow.  

I can only imagine how strange it will be to go back to work in an office when it opens back up in September.