The Margaritaville Child Labor Report & Why I Am Going to be Cremated
It's so nice to have an extra pair of hands. Last night after dinner and a stunning sunset walk on the beach, I put the girl to work. The garage cabinets were installed yesterday, and it was the granddaughter's job to put my five million photo albums into one of the new cabinets.
Even a ten-year-old knows excess when she sees it. Yes, there are many wonderful memories that are contained those books, but I feel saddled by the bulk of it all. And the fact that Mr. Ex took most of the photos. I have no desire to look at even a single photo of the man. This Thanksgiving I will begin to lobby my daughters to weed through and save only the photos that are still relevant. Rather than connecting with people at social events, Mr. Ex hovered on the edges behind his camera. We have photos of everyone who ever crossed our path. Do we really need them? I say listen to the ten-year-old.
This morning as we wait for the "blind man"--the guy who will be installing the blinds, we built (it was a pre-fab kit, mind you) a garden bench. The girl got to see her grandmother wielding a power drill and an allen wrench. Everyone should have a drill/driver, in my opinion. Handiest gadget ever. The bench is now successfully installed next to the hose by the back door, and there is plenty of room for three grandchildren to sit and be blasted free of sand and beach tar by their grandmother. Plus the bench is pretty gorgeous and can be moved to the patio for parties. And can I say again, how wonderful it was to have an extra set of hands?
The next project coming up after this break is a potting table. More about that later.
Oh, and the surgery on the kid's bathing suit was successful. The lining was snipped out, and a half cup of sand freed from its confines. Hello, bathing suit manufactures, are you listening?
More about the beach last night: The was a dead dolphin lying on the sand. Sea gulls were dining. I spotted it first and warned the girl. She took it in stride, and even was willing to look. Maybe a bit less squeamish than I. I delivered my standard wisdom. "Good for the seagulls; bad for the dolphin." And then we talked about how maybe it wasn't actually bad for the dolphin. Maybe it was sick or injured. Maybe it's time on earth was just meant to be finished. As we walked back to the car and saw the carcass a second time, another beach walker paused near the animal, hands outstretched, and appeared to offer a prayer. The girl and I stood silently atop a dune and honored the moment.
I've delivered the good/bad analysis of death and animals eating other animals numerous times in my tenure as a mother and grandmother. It's a little trite, and I'm relieved that I have elected to be cremated so none of my children or grandchildren, will say,"Bad for mom/grandma; good for the worms."