My son, who has never come closer to a farm than a Ventura County strawberry field, can pick a ripe cantaloupe at the supermarket. One of those genes that skips a generation now and then. His grandfather and great-grandfather knew their produce; I, on the other hand, have brought home melons that - for a few days, anyway - were only fit to serve as doorstops.
His last triumph was a pair of mostly-greenish, loofa-scratchy and webby looking things that were perfect sweetness inside. Since I pick husbands as well as I choose cantaloupes, I think, if the possibility ever appears again - and if it does it will be without any seeking from me, I swear - I will let my son do the selecting. Should there ever be another, a sweet one would be welcome.
Last Thursday, June 17, would have been my 38th wedding anniversary. We lasted 22 years. I was betting on our little family, not based on anything other than wanting so much for it to be true. Too many sure things had already been sighted thumbing rides out of town; I should have known.
Some of us come from places that nullify rational thought, giving all notions equal value; a land where there is no such thing as a bad idea. A former roommate devised her own method of learning to parallel park near her job on Capitol Hill; it consisted entirely of smashing into the cars ahead and behind as many times as it took to shoehorn herself into a spot. We lacked the skills, the simple, basic information, to fashion anything enduring out of faulty parts.
Just the act of thinking, of remembering, takes all my energy. I have found truths worth telling, the words are just out of reach. This will either vanish as soon as I post it or it will be continued. Come back, please, and find out.