Burdenofglory’s Weblog

What’s going on in this picture?

A.  Maddie and Marcus are comparing leg lengths.  (Hinrichs girls, if you can help it, don’t marry a man with long legs, or your children will have no torsos.)  Have you ever noticed that Marcus’ legs come up to my shoulders?

B.  Marcus is comforting Maddie before he removes her appendix.  Need to save money for college and weddings, you know.

C.  Marcus is Maddie’s psychiatrist, and he charges her 25 cents an hour to hear all her 13-year-old angst.

D.  Marcus and Maddie are looking at the clouds, seeing what their shapes remind them of.

Hint:

I actually did write other blog entries this week, but they remain in the unpublished file.  They pretty much lament the fact that Ashley is growing up, I’m not getting any younger, and pretty soon no one will need me anymore.  Blah.

It’s a good thing Marcus planned a Memorial Day outing, to give me some perspective.

First we went to Wyuka.  They have a service at 9:00am every Memorial Day.  A parade, complete with bag-pipes, marches through the cemetery to start things off.  Those bag-pipes always get to me.

We say the Pledge of Allegiance, someone sings “The Star-Spangled Banner,” and there is always a speaker.  The speaker is usually a veteran, and explains to us why freedom isn’t free.  Two years ago a soldier from Afghanistan told us the media does not reflect the reality of what is really going on, and newspapers are bad for the soldiers’ morale.  He told us how important their work was over there.  It was really good to hear that.   Today a general told us to teach our children about the sacrifices made for our nation.  Because if a generation doesn’t have to pay anything for their freedom, they won’t appreciate it.  He is right.  Humans have a way of forgetting their blessings.

Later in the ceremony, people line up to put up wreaths to honor dead soldiers.  This is a extremely moving.  Many people in the line must be assisted, since they are elderly.  A Vietnam vet always brings a rifle, a pair of muddy boots, and a helmet to lay down at the memorial.  When he salutes it, there isn’t a dry eye in the place.

Finally, balloons are released, “Taps” is played, and there is usually a flyover (not today).  Very cool.  We are always glad we went.

After the service, we all met at Woods Park to play softball.

Don’t you love how Maddie hops onto home plate?

Then off to Aunt Rachel’s house for a picnic.  Cooper enjoyed the watermelon, and we enjoyed watching Cooper enjoy watermelon.

The baby robins in Rachel’s tree wanted to picnic, too.  We had a lot of food, but no one remembered the regurgitated worms.

Driving home in the Chevelle is usually an adventure, but not enough to keep anyone awake in the backseat.

Happy Memorial Day.

Marcus’ parents, and his Aunt Anna and Uncle Bob from South Dakota stopped in for supper tonight.

Aunt Anna raises Irises, and sells them all over tarnation.  She wanted to stroll in the yard and check out my flowers.

I realized the sun was just right for pictures of humans, instead of just yard art.

Can we get through an evening without the comedy team?

Yes.  We’re hicks.  Jen-you-wine.

But it was a beautiful evening, just the same.

Jake always looks sad.  When I get up in the morning, he follows me from window to window, putting his paws on the window ledges, and whimpers like he’s trapped under a semi-trailer.  If he sees you walk by the front picture window, he gets on the swing so he knows you see his sad face.

When you feed him, which is his favorite thing to do in the world, he has the same expression, only his tail is wagging.  How can I trust him?  Even after he is fed, he will look sad and starving, like master forgot to feed him.  He dejectedly walks to his food bowl, trying, in vain, to show the nonobserving human that he has missed a meal.  How many times have I asked the master if he forgot to feed Jake?  The answer is always the same, and against sad dog’s favor.

Therefore, I nominate Jake as “Most Pathetic Dog,”  not because he is pathetic, but because he is the best at looking pathetic.  He is 11 years old, and I think the kids have learned their pathetic look from him.

“Please, Mom?”  (Insert pathetic look here.)

In 1972, hand-held calculators were first introduced.  The first LCD watch could be purchased for $2,000.  Watergate was just going down. “Bloody Sunday” sees 13 Roman Catholics shot dead by British troops at Londonderry in Northern Ireland.  Federal Express was founded, and delivered 16 packages its first night.  J. Edgar Hoover died after directing the FBI for 48 years.  Apollo 16 astronauts brought back 214 pounds of lunar rock and soil.  A U.S. table-tennis team visited the People’s Republic of China, initiating the era of “Ping-Pong Diplomacy.”

But most note-worthy of all, my bro-in-law, Justin, was born.

We had a 1972 party to celebrate.  Justin outdid himself.  I am not sure what threw him over the top:  the gray wig, the fake chest hair, or the gold belt.  He just looked so, so seedy. He is a master of disguise, wearing costumes whenever called upon.  For Ashley’s 15th birthday, he dressed up like Captain Jack Sparrow.

He won the Oscar for best costume, of course.

Last year Justin had a President’s Day birthday party.  He was Martin Van Buren, complete with gray hair and mutton chops that would make Elvis cry.  Naomi, his wife, dressed up like Laura Bush.  All she had to do is part her hair differently, and she was a dead ringer.

Two years ago, he had a spy party.  We all dressed up like spies.  Obviously.

Justin tied string all over the living room, and we had to try to get across the room without touching string.  Just like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible.  Kind of.  And we all ordered food from a menu that sounded Russian-Cold-War-ish.

OK.  Back to 1972.  Naomi kept her mom’s skirt from who knows when, and a shawl her big sister, Rachel, knitted in the 6th grade.  She parted her hair in the middle, and she transformed into Flower Child Galore.

My mom-in-law, Malinda, not only made this fine quilt-like skirt, but this strawberry dress, also.  She can still wear it.  She had just gotten off the plane from India the day before this party.  She doesn’t miss a beat.

I didn’t do so well.  I found a retro t-shirt in Rebecca’s drawer about some basketball championship from 1971.   I brushed my hair for the first time in years, to bring about its natural frizz and sticky-outiness, but it wasn’t too impressive.

Maybe next time I’ll make it to Goodwill to find a really fine costume.  But what’s the point?  I could never compete with Justin.