Howdy,
So, today multiple members of the Fam — Team Hawes — weren’t feeling well.
It struck as an onset of what seemed to be rolling in, sure as a San Francisco fog or its AT&T postgame seagulls, circling white birds descending clockwise for their seasoned pieces of millions of dollars of Gilroy’s gift to ballpark garlic fries (a must, no expense spared).
We had hoped to avoid such an onslaught.
Last night Sarah and I had pretty much succumbed to the fact that Sunday morning church would be a divide-and-conquer affair. Had the discussion.
Last night … I should say last evening, because it was last night — mid night, and not just 12:00, two words, not one — that challenged and changed our thinking for conquering even anything.
The older boys slept in separate rooms — as in, Ti got the living room couch (not the first time, and surely not the last) — since Jasper was complaining in a miserable state (not sure sometimes how miserable he is versus how truly miserable he can make it for the rest of us with his hollering). In the middle of the night Jasper has wondered the house screeching out like some sort of mix of alley cat and a neighbor’s goat.
In the middle of last night, Jasper went for a hot bath in hopes that the steam would help with his runny nose and we could get some sleep.
Anyway, the day turned into a lay-low for all of us.
And if I dared to think that a family day home from church would be a “romantic” morning frying a brunch of bacon for a reviving, that daydream was shattered when I went to wipe old, slippery bacon grease out of a glass container for a clean start and it slipped out of my hands, up for a pause and an oh-no, and down on a narrow strip of counter and sink.
The explosion point turned out to be perfect for reaching all over.
All over.
You’ve seen it.
Broken glass.
All over.
The counter, all the way down to a far wall. The baby bottle accessories stacked in a catching drain. The floor on both sides of the peninsula counter, meaning kitchen and living room/hallway. The barstools. The kitchen standing mat and longer rug runner, not nearly long enough to soak up all the sharp shimmers.
And a larger chunk of tumbling glass, the bottom of the busted bowl hit the top of my foot and toes — thankfully only as a dropping-weight pain and not a slicing one.
No emergency. Just exasperation.
At myself and the situation. I hate am not a fan of making those kinds of mistakes. Breaking things. Having glass to clean up, in detail to keep anyone else from unsuspecting injury. One of the Fam merely cruising through the kitchen.
Anyway, romance of the morning sprinkled away in bits of shiny land mines all over my barefooted circumference. A stood for a beat in silence. Being not a fan. My silence made Sarah think there had been a slice.
No. The only slices sizzled on the skillet.
Let me tell you this, as I slipped into an unbridled frustration over my fumble and the no-fun, urgent task ahead, my wife Sarah jumped in to help. She brought me footwear needed for safety and stayed on the job picking up, wiping up, and sweeping up glass shards determinedly to the end with me.
That was romantic.
Thank you, Sarah.
And. Bacon. Bacon always tastes good, so that worked out, too.
—Billy
Reading. Writing. Living.
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