technical difficulties
I don't know how to make the link work as such, I promise that it is worth the hassle to copy and paste and go read. Words are much easier for me to play with than the tech stuff. Marian
New thought: (I am slow to get smart) copy and paste for myself the portion about Mom. Here it is, this is Alison's voice:
I had a friend, growing up, who felt she was not supposed to come home with dirt on her clothes. A young lady was not to do that.
Which is how I learned early on to treasure my mother’s take on us after a good day down at the creek or in the woods in the back yard: she would give us an appraising look with a grin on her face and pronounce, “You must have had *fun* getting THAT dirty!”
She had this big bicycle horn she would raise high and honk to call us home from all over the neighborhood; all the other parents and children knew that sound and if we didn’t hear it would go, Hey, you, your mom’s calling you.
We would hold back and go one at a time, then run from our game of four-square or what have you on up the sloping street to Mom, especially in the summertime when the light continued for so long after dinner: run run running trying to pick up speed and at the end leaping up into her arms where she would swing us around and around and around on the grass next to the street, often till we were so dizzy we would fall down in delight when she let us down into the grass (or if that didn’t work, airplane our arms around and around till we made ourselves dizzy enough). Just every now and then, she would fall down laughing too.
We learned we couldn’t be jealous and try to push ahead of the next kid–Mom couldn’t catch two at once. She was perfectly capable of turning her back and chirping cheerfully as she walked away, “Nope! Lost your chance!” Awww, MOooooommmmm…” We had to take turns.
New thought: (I am slow to get smart) copy and paste for myself the portion about Mom. Here it is, this is Alison's voice:
I had a friend, growing up, who felt she was not supposed to come home with dirt on her clothes. A young lady was not to do that.
Which is how I learned early on to treasure my mother’s take on us after a good day down at the creek or in the woods in the back yard: she would give us an appraising look with a grin on her face and pronounce, “You must have had *fun* getting THAT dirty!”
She had this big bicycle horn she would raise high and honk to call us home from all over the neighborhood; all the other parents and children knew that sound and if we didn’t hear it would go, Hey, you, your mom’s calling you.
We would hold back and go one at a time, then run from our game of four-square or what have you on up the sloping street to Mom, especially in the summertime when the light continued for so long after dinner: run run running trying to pick up speed and at the end leaping up into her arms where she would swing us around and around and around on the grass next to the street, often till we were so dizzy we would fall down in delight when she let us down into the grass (or if that didn’t work, airplane our arms around and around till we made ourselves dizzy enough). Just every now and then, she would fall down laughing too.
We learned we couldn’t be jealous and try to push ahead of the next kid–Mom couldn’t catch two at once. She was perfectly capable of turning her back and chirping cheerfully as she walked away, “Nope! Lost your chance!” Awww, MOooooommmmm…” We had to take turns.
Wait, where's the rest of the post?
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