July 3, 2007
Tomorrow, July 4, and the town of Seward is as ready as any household might be awaiting honored guests; the lawns are mowed, flowers are blooming in tidy rows, flags are up and out, and a sense of excitement is stirring from the gas stations to the grocery stores. All along the parade route, blankets are already spread out on the lawns, no matter that there is a 50% chance of rain after midnight. There are at least six tents selling fireworks for the occasion, and now that it is almost time, they are offering great enticements to buyers. . . ..“BUY ONE, GET TWO FREE!” The nights are already filled with the sounds and sights of many partakers of the exploding delights, and dogs everywhere are frantic under the onslaught. Except Alphie. He has come from a line of hunters, I suppose, and somehow, a genetic tolerance for loud sounds seems to be bred in. John-paul has come home to photograph the day’s events, and daughter Heidi has decided that her family will be in the parade with herself driving our 1970 MGB and the grand daughters sitting on the back as “softball princesses”. Exactly how this will all work out on a very hot day is yet to be seen; I believe the princess designation is one which they have given themselves, and I also think the entry is in the “Vintage Car” grouping. Six year old Kira speaks glowingly of throwing candy and water balloons – I fear there are some explanation points all over my eyebrows as I listen to her, but I do think it will be an event worthy remembering.
When Charles came in and announced that two of the swallow’s eggs had fallen out of the nest that is over our upper porch door, I immediately offered to clean up the mess. I gathered a bucket, cloth, and spatula, mentally envisioning eggs the size of hens’ eggs splattered over the floor, and when I opened the door and looked down at the miniscule little shell shards and tiny bit of remains there, I truly had a moment of the inner voice saying, “Good grief! What were you thinking?” I was eyeing the two little swallows balanced there on the sculpture and did smile at my own lapse of logic.
My July 3, 2006 entry rhapsodized about it being the last of chemotherapy, having just completed the sixth round, and thinking then that it would be all that I would be doing. Alas, this joy was premature, because now I have completed the 12th round of chemotherapy, and I am looking at a struggle that continues. My blood readings went back down precipitously again this morning, once more presenting us with a questionable future. My life has been enormously blessed, though an aspect of it is learning to accept a slow decrease of energy and selfhood. It might be compared to walking along with fists clutching fine sand, and having the sand escape the grip grain by grain never to be found again. And yet, should anyone ask, “How’s it going?” I’d have to think of the laughter and delight and beauty in my days in spite of this and would truthfully reply, “Can’t complain”.