Day 46: In My Mother’s Shoes

While I’ve been deeply grateful to those of you who have left encouraging comments here, none has touched me so deeply as this, from this morning:

I believe that is among the most significant information for me… The web site taste is wonderful…

—A personal message in my spam folder

Speaking of taste (hmm, this segue is a stretch), this guy was so into his acorn this morning that he let me stalk him for ten minutes. I figured out I can get closer if I keep my face behind my camera as I take a slow step forward. This was about four feet away. Man, I hate squirrels. It took scores of shots to get a decent one, without weird shadows and blurs and branches in the way. Look how sharp those claws are. I stay vigilant while shooting these pictures, in case one of the buggers decides to turn on me.

I feel badly for my mother, who (due to a storm yesterday) has had no telephone, Internet or TV service for most of two days. Talk about being cut off from the world. What would I do in her shoes? I’d go even more nuts than I already am, without doubt. Actually, I wouldn’t be caught dead in her shoes. This is her closet. Clearly she has her particular preferences as to style.

Do you know that dictionary game in which you find a word that nobody in the group knows, and each person makes up a meaning? The goal is to guess the real one, and to identify the authors of the imposters. When I was growing up, my father was always the most creative. I was looking through the old family scrapbooks and found this example from the early 1970s:

Gomuti: n. A people of the Tasmanian highlands whose principal tribal edict requires its chieftains to moisten their chins before each ritual presentation of oblark therules.

—Peter Allison

You probably already know the real definition, but just in case, here it is:

Gomuti: n. A Malayan feather palm (Arenga pinnata) that has large leaves with the bases densely clothed with fibers, yields a sweet sap from which jaggery and palm wine are made, and has a pith that furnishes a sago.

—Merriam-Webster

I finally broke open my brand-new sketchbook and nervously made my first scratches in pencil. It was a total bust. I wasn’t going to show the result to you, but I have little else to put up. Here:

It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever done but it’s even more amateurish than usual. See what I mean? No? Oh, okay. I’ll show it to you a tiny bit bigger.

I got to have a not-frequent-enough video chat with Jesse and Eleni, and then some solo Ember-time. She likes to carry me with her (on the cell phone) to the trampoline and prop me up at the edge so I can watch her bounce. Her latest trick is to wrap herself in a colorful parachute and jump essentially blind:

I wonder when I’ll see her again.

The third of four batches of puzzle pieces arrived, along with a cryptic note from Molly that began:

Lo—you are the reigning monarch of dance
Youthful, too, and filled with compassion…

This is what I’ve got on the puzzle. I don’t even know if it’s right-side-up. Now I’m more mystified than ever.

Wait: Molly is messing with me. That quote is from ABBA, the band that makes me homicidal.

I just heard from my Sacramento buddy that she’s been reading The Daily Drivel. Hi, Lila! Another Zoom chat before long? I have such loyal and patient friends.