The World is Too Much with Us

On an otherwise quiet night, the plunk of fingers on keys is punctuated by the hiccoughs of a wide-eyed Bird who needs no rest. High, soft, little hiccoughs that startle me even when I try to anticipate them.

Twenty-seven years ago Saturday, except the day was instead an Easter Sunday, a wrinkled baby arrived, and her father named her Abigail Joy. Hard to believe that I'm not still 12, grubby with tomboy outdoorsing, or 16, still grubby with the same, or 22-- you guessed it-- with grubby bare feet taking me down the aisle to John, or even 23, 24, 25, or 26 (yep, still grubby). I feel too young to be so old, which is a feeling I'll have every year until I die. (And some give me a well-deserved chuckle, "Twenty-seven? You're a babe in the wood, Abigail Joy.")

We spent the first half of Saturday moving slowly and contentedly at home before going out for greasy food, ice cream, and sliding. It was a good day. Not only did I receive $ expressly for greasy food and ice cream, but my Mopsy gave, among other things, a copper curiosity which made me laugh aloud with delight. John gave me music and the promise of lenses that darken in light. (I have cataracts and bad, squint-eyed sight. New York requires me to wear my glasses while driving, and I perch sunglasses over my regular glasses. No longer!) Dude and Dudette shocked the stuffing out of me with a sewing machine that they'd hidden in storage during their last visit. I'm keeping my trusty, old one for regular sewing, but this one has fancy stitching features and a button holer! Now I need not borrow a fancy machine for the applique of the still-unshaped summer quilt, and I can make other cool things with the push of a pedal.

We worshipped with joy on Easter Sunday, knowing that Death is defeated--a risen Lord! I prepared a pint-sized feast while the girls napped. A smaller ham, though still too large, sat on our table because we celebrated at home. John didn't trust our car's weak heart to last all the way down to Long Island and back, although we sorely wished we could be with our Owen kin. We haven't made the trip down since last summer, so it's long overdue.

And now, tired eyes turn traitor. The Bird has stopped her high-pitched hiccoughs, and I'm off to bed. See pictures below if you need a few playgrounds, greasy food, and the color of boiled eggs. (*Grandmothers-- The Easter morning pictures were snapped in hastiest fashion right before we walked out the door. If you want some smiles, we'll bring them in person!)

*** Actually, it's now Tuesday noon. The girls and I just completed a visit with our friendly laundromat, and a clothesline too heavily burdened fills our yard.