While we waited for breakfast outside our diner this morning, a family of four arrived, settling down at a catty-corner (and socially distant) table.

The little girl, a toddler, turned around and smiled at us, wide eyes welcoming, two curly pony tails sprouting from the top of her head. She tapped her tiny black sneakers on a rung of the highchair. Converse style — holding barely five inches of feet. 

Children — and diners — are good for the soul.

✧✧✧

About this time last year, we put the diner on speed dial. We're still sticking to outdoor seating, but, with vaccines, I can see a booth in our not-too-distant future!

We discovered our lower limit for al fresco dining: 42 degrees and sunny. It helped to have a coat long enough to sit on, a cushion against the chill of metal chairs. Today — a cloudy 51 — was a cinch.

One more reason to love spring.

Diner takeout. An early pandemic essential.

 Nothing like a bit of vertigo to boggle the brain.

Last Sunday, the walls of our bedroom went for a spin. Not a fun trip for me.

I’ve experienced vertigo before,* and fortunately this bout was brief, but, as usual, the aftereffects lingered. 

It’s as if someone hammered a gong inside my head. All those vibrations bounced around like a game of pinball—and my brain had a lot of quarters.

On Monday, I made it through work without … tilting.

I wear reading glasses, and at the end of the day, I get in my car, take off my Covid masks and switch from reading glasses to driving glasses. My brain knows the drill.

As I sat back in the driver’s seat that afternoon, I couldn’t find my driving glasses. I checked the case, my bag, the glasses holder at the top of the windshield.

Nothing.

Finally I found them … on my face.

(You probably saw that one coming.)

Full disclosure, I have caught myself wearing my “missing” glasses before. My brain can slip a gear all on its own, but vertigo certainly jumpstarts the process. 

It’s been a week now, and the fuzziness in my head has subsided—for the most part. Last night I almost put a cereal box into the cupboard with our plates and mugs.

Boggle, anyone?

 ——

For more adventures in vertigo, along with the science behind it, see: Listing to the left ...

See you next time!

On this summery day at the end of winter, I checked off a chore long lingering on my to-do list.

I took down our Christmas lights.

To be fair, I did unplug them a couple Fridays ago. After sunset that night, I took one last look at those brilliant LED colors, gave them thanks, and tugged the cord from the porch outlet.

I stood a moment in wistful darkness.

I can explain why I put off the chore for so long — cold, snow, rain, the aforementioned to-do list — but the main reason is a simple one: In the dead of winter, I like holding onto light.

 

That, and a personality trait summed up perfectly in a greeting card that makes me laugh:

“I used to just crastinate, then I decided to go pro.”

It’s good to know thyself.

 As I was driving home from work today, just before noon, I heard Joe Biden solemnly swear “to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States.”

I began to cry—tears of relief and joy—and then jubilantly beeped my horn ... for several blocks.

Hey. We do it for World Series and Superbowl wins, why not for democracy?

Revenge of the turkeys?

Growing up, I always loved my mom’s display of little holiday candles: pilgrims and turkeys on Thanksgiving, choir singers and Santas at Christmas.

I’ve inherited a bit of that collection, and I think of her every year when I set them out.

Maybe it’s just 2020, but this year my brain leaped to a decidedly darker display.

This tragic scene decorates our piano. Seasons spent melting a bit in Mom and Dad’s attic gave the woman the perfect posture for her role. No, I did not behead the pilgrim. That happened in a (perhaps) accidental fall. 

I suspect our cat.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.

We’re together in heart.

We did. Yesterday. You can, too.

T-shirt from League of Conservation Voters. 

I wear my heart on my ... shirt.

 

A reprieve, for now.

Happy, weird Easter.

For those who celebrate the holiday, I hope you've shared the day with family and friends -- together or at a distance.

A

I'm feeling the pang of traditions put on hiatus by this pandemic, eased a bit by the flurry of shared messages and photos that came pinging throughout the day.

My extended family has a dark tradition of beheading the holiday butters: bunnies, lambs, turkeys. (I think even Santa lost his head one year.)

The role of executioner rotates through the grandchildren. Don't worry, we did not traumatize them at an early age. We waited until their sense of humor veered to the dark side before handing them the butter knife.

For now, I've stashed this year’s bunny butter in our refrigerator. 

His “best by” date is July 21, and I’m hoping we’ll be able to celebrate Easter together by then.

Alas, the bunny’s next stop is the freezer.

Not sure which fate is worse.

This guy's not having the happiest of Easters.
(He is delicious, though.)