Today I looked over some photos I took a decade ago, and I found one that delighted me anew because I’d forgotten the moment it captures. There is my daughter striding in front of me (just like she did at the park a couple weeks ago), and my dad stands in profile beyond the depth of field. Back then, he still wore short-sleeved Oxford shirts every day. For years, he had the fixed idea that his Oxford shirt should have a 15½” neck. Back when I was in high school, I made the error of giving him a pink Oxford shirt with a 16″ neck for Father’s Day. It lingered in his closet not because of its color but its size. Years later he abandoned the style altogether rather stoop to buying a larger size.
Dad almost always wears short-sleeved shirts. I have rarely seen him in a fully long-sleeved shirt. I inherited Dad’s short arms, and I can’t wear full-length sleeves without rolling them up. The picture above reminds me that my daughter shares in this trait, too.
Our morning glories made their inaugural climb despite the rain.
My parent’s street today:
Lima is full of residential scenes that make sense in widescreen.
Btw, there are ongoing dramas for friends and family of mine. I avoid mentioning such matters because doing so with much coherence could invade the privacy of the people involved. With that aside, I can no longer resist mentioning that my mother had washer number six delivered today. There’s no typo in the preceding sentence. My mother has found no less than five washers lacking since the beginning of May. Today Dad returned number five for the sixth pretender to the throne.
I don’t know the finer details of this appliance series, or how my dad overcame the obstacles of returning so many washers. Is he starting to feel like someone who’s been struck by lightning multiple times in dubious circumstances? Did he just give up around washer three or four and start donating the rejects to secondhand stores? I remember watching a Weather Channel special years ago in which a woman had survived three lightning strikes and was reluctant to describe how ordinary the scenes were when it happened. She was struck the third time while washing dishes. Her predicament reminds me just a little of my parents’ marriage.
My washer and dryer were made in 1987 and still launder clothes well with fantastic inefficiency in water and electricity use. I’m so fortunate they show no signs of collapse. I just didn’t inherit enough of my mother’s force of personality to find worthy replacements for them.
I will close with a rainy scene from today’s garden. Incidentally, my washer was spinning with ease as I walked outside to take this picture: