All in the Family

Karen's best friends might be her animals, mine my vegetables, depending, of course, on how you define "best friends." Sometimes I think we don't spend enough time defining what we mean.

Both yesterday and today I froze spinach, New Zealand spinach. I planted New Zealand spinach seeds three years ago. No need to replant, maybe ever. If I didn't like it, I might call it a weed. Instead, it's a good friend, gradually taking over the garden bed under the special ash tree. It's a great friend to have because it's the longest standing spinach I've ever known. Unlike the "regular" varieties of spinach, it lasts three seasons, through the heat of summer into the cold of winter.

By the way, Virginia's very sick. In fact, she told me to stop writing this blog for a while. I'm thinking about taking her up on it. I get as many visitors when I don't write as when I do. Two years of blog posts can do that to you. Besides, my handwritten journals say what I want to say, probably better than this.

The latest issue of Time has an article on favorite children. I never gave that much thought until my sister talked about it ten or fifteen years ago. The article mentions a woman who blogged about her favorite child. As you might imagine, she took a lot of heat for it. It's one of those taboos good parents keep to themselves.

I've known people who live for their families. They seem to get together with their parents and siblings whenever they've got spare time. Of course, they live close together. They're so busy with their atomic family they have trouble squeezing in time for friends. At the other end of the spectrum, I've also known people who admit they rarely see their siblings and would never choose them for friends. I suppose most of us fall somewhere in between. 

Many families are like animals and plants. Animals and plants often let you know they like you, at least they seem to, but they don't talk much. That is, they don't mention the pain they suffered when an offspring went through a divorce, or the job they left because, well who knows, they quit, were fired, or laid-off. They avoid discussing why the partner of their gay son or daughter doesn't show up at albeit rare family gatherings or how they felt when their nudist uncle invited them to a club meeting, after discovering he and aunt judith have been living separate for years and finally signed divorce papers. Instead, about all you really know is what they ate for dinner. 

Good friends, the ones I see frequently, talk about those things. Who's family? 

Synchronicity

I don't think I ever mentioned that I have a co-author working on this book.  I do most of the writing, but David is a huge asset because he comes behind me and straightens me up, sort of like the reviewers that read scholarly articles before they're published.  Another big benefit is the bounce-off blessing.  If you're a self-employed "expert" writing from home, you know what I mean.  It can be lonely in this nerdy world.

The more I write this stuff, the more I feel like water behind a closed spigot.  Yes, Virginia, you're percolating and I'm itching to let you out.

I've gone off track as usual.  Oh yes, synchronicity, that's where I was headed.  David emailed a couple hours ago to say he was packing things into his car to head up to Pennsylvania.  His father appears to have had a stroke or mini-stroke.  About the same time, one of my brothers emailed to say my mother was complaining about high blood pressure and had ended up in a hospital emergency room.  She's probably going home this evening.  I hope David's father gets to go home soon, too.

This reminds me of another synchronous moment.  Thirteen years ago, when my father was struggling with cancer, the father of one of my best friends had a deathly illness, too.  Our dads died within minutes of each other.

"Do your mother and David's father know you're working on that book?" says Virginia.

"My mother does," I say.  "I don't know about his father.

"He probably does," she says.  "Maybe you'd better keep these things to yourselves.  Stress might be contagious."

Hmmm.  I doubt it.