My daughter Virginia and her husband Andy, with their 6 month old Cici, are leaving Orem this week to move to San Antonio, Texas. Since I don't really travel anymore, due to health and finances, having lunch with them today is probably the last time I'll see them for some years to come.
Andy has a good position in the oil field waiting for him. I'm sincerely happy that he will be able to provide well for his family. But right now the coming deprivation gives me an ashy, stale spirit.
I made a pasta casserole for our lunch, with coleslaw on the side. Dessert was Jello. Bottled spring water to drink. Andy and Sarah had good appetites, and I gave them the leftovers to take back to her sister Sarah, whom they're staying with this week, for their dinner tonight.
I suppose the next time I see Cici she'll be a teenager, and I'll be a poster boy for senility. Every time one of my kids leaves for a far away destiny, I die a little bit -- that's because I'm greedy and jealous and scared. Why can't everything stay exactly the same, except continue to get better just for me? Is that an unreasonable request to make to God?
I gave Virginia a small clown statuette as a going away present, and a can of Saint Luke's Prickly Heat Powder to Andy -- because he's got a problem rash.
Babies experience the anguish of separation dozens of times each day; so I guess I'll get over my anguish eventually
I just hope she doesn't grow up and marry someone named Bubba
Andy liked the store bought Jello. Virginia wouldn't touch it
The problem with catching people off their guard with a camera is that sometimes they look mad when they're not -- such as in this photo.
They stuck around for a good hour after lunch to chat. Andy tinkered with my laptop and Chromebook to remove some of the junk that was slowing things down. But then it was time for them to leave. I walked them out to their car, parked in the shade. It was 101 today.
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