Tuesday, September 19, 2017


My writing dry spell continues.  So I must impose upon my dear readers this preservation of what my husband calls The Family Anals, that is, various conversations recorded for Common Household Posterity. 

* * * * * *

I was impressed when Younger Daughter effortlessly used the word “epistolary” in reference to an English paper she wrote about an epistolary novel.  But my husband hadn’t heard it yet, and I wanted her to impress him, so I prompted her.
Me, to Younger Daughter:  Use the word “epistolary” in a sentence.
YD, taken off guard: Um, “The novel was written in epistolary format.”
Husband, solemnly: “He carried an epistolary on each hip as he strode into battle. He was ready….
YD:  Ready to write letters!
Husband: He fired off six words before anyone could blink an eye!  “It was the best of times.”
YD:  “It was the worst of times,” they fired back!
Husband:  The bullets were filled with wit.

* * * * * *

Me:  I think YD is dissecting a pig today.  A fetal pig.
Husband:  It’s going to be a cutting edge day.
Me: I think you can save the Dad jokes for when the kids are here.

* * * * * *

Husband, trying to impress the kids with how hard it was for us in our college days:  We had to write before writing was even invented.  I had to use a typewriter that didn’t even plug in.

* * * * * *

Husband, reading the newspaper:  Here’s one thing I find difficult to believe.
Me, bursting out laughing:  Just one thing?

* * * * * *

YD: What if there was a service to help super-villains get vengeance?
Husband: What if Superman could hire a hit man?
Me:  You are NOT helping to restore my faith in the universe.

* * * * * *

September 8th, in the morning, we are getting ready for work.  In the past ten days the United States has endured several massive hurricanes in the south and horrendous wildfires in the west.
Me:  In addition to all the other crap going on, there has been a large earthquake in Mexico this morning.   It’s time to start wondering if Armageddon is coming.
Husband:  Well, at least Son finished his college education before it gets here.
Me, looking in my underwear drawer:  At least I got all my bras washed in time.
Husband:  Yes.  So you can stand before the Angel Gabriel in a clean bra.

* * * * * *

Me, reading The Jewish Chronicle weekly newspaper:  The ceremony of redemption of the firstborn donkey will be performed at the Hillel Academy.
Husband:  They better leave my ass alone.

* * * * * *

Husband is hunting through the newspaper for news about the state going broke.   He says, “I don’t see anything in here about the state budget… unless you count the obituaries.”

* * * * * *

That last one just about says it all.  The state budget is dead, once again. Our main empty-nest activity is reading the newspaper aloud to each other. The civilized world itself seems to be hurtling downhill.   We’d better be praying hard to redeem our asses. 

Monday, September 11, 2017

The Field

In memory.

The September 11th memorial in Somerset County, Pennsylvania.

Recognition of Flight 77 at  Pentagon

The field

Recognition of Flight 175 at 2 World Trade Center

In memory of two precious children
Dana Falkenberg and Zoe Falkenberg
and their father Charlie Falkenberg,
husband of Leslie Whittington
who all gave their lives that day
on Flight 77 at the Pentagon.
All friends of my brother.

In memory of Leslie Whittington,
wife of Charlie Falkenberg and
mother of Dana Falkenberg and Zoe Falkenberg

Love must prevail, somehow.
Photos taken in April 2017.