1. I heard an old favorite song from the early 1990s (does the early 1990s qualify for Golden Oldies yet?) on the radio this past weekend: Cantaloop by Us3. This song lives in the same part of my brain as my mother's old Apple Quadra 650, because it was the free song that came with the computer (a few years before iTunes would make its debut!) I was surprised that we didn't already own it, so I bought it. I wasn't the only one reliving my musical past this week, because someone also bought an Agent Orange album. Someone that used to be a skateboarder with long hair. Heh.
2. When everything in your house gets coughed up to the surface you find all sorts of interesting stuff; a lot of lists appeared in strange places in the past few weeks (no surprise there). I flipped open one notebook to see that I had written down "Village Blacksmith Longfellow" for some reason. After googling it, I still have no idea why I would have written that down. If you figure it out, let me know.
The Village Blacksmith
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan:
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hear the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Onwards through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought!
By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
3. The people who lived here before us apparently subscribed to the Sunday New York Times. Matt and I are fast becoming addicted. If this is your strategy to woo potential subscribers, New York Times, it is a good one. When you cut us off we won't be able to manage without it. Very smart on your part.
4. I saw a Terex truck in front of me yesterday and was Ohio-homesick.
5. I've been hardly able to bear my ridiculously long hair anymore while waiting for Maddie's hair to grow at her new rate of 1 inch per six months (at least that's what it seems like) but while reading Laura's blog last night, she mentioned "bohemian updo" as the hairstyle she requested for the wedding she was just in. Since Laura is the most stylish person I know and since everyone in the Air Force already thinks I'm a hippie anyway, I googled it and discovered that age old lesson yet again if you want your hair to look better, you have to actually learn how to do something to it. Thanks to Laura, Paris Hilton (if THAT isn't an oxymoron, that Paris Hilton should be wearing some sort of "bohemian" hairstyle), and some girl who owns a place called Glam Boutique and does hair tutorials on YouTube, I am starting to develop my hair-putting-up skills so I can look more like Margaret Schroeder from Boardwalk Empire.
6. I thought I'd be clever and read the third and last Knufflebunny book (Knufflebunny Free: An Unexpected Diversion) in Target, so as to minimize the chance of bawling over it. Fail.
7. I will be laughing for months over Jody's comment that she won't be able to send me a Tasmanian Devil for Christmas now that we are all familiar with the base pet rules. This wouldn't be so funny if we weren't already on the international watch list for smuggling prohibited substances; I sent her ingredients to make a pumpkin pie two years ago—she had never had one before—and how was I to know that sending a small container of allspice would nearly get us both arrested? I thought the Aussie government might have forgotten about it by now, but apparently they looked VERY CLOSELY at the package of Halloween stuff I sent for the annual Dent-Pruks Spooky Party.
8. We've had two lamps for about three years or so that I've believed to be the worst, cheapest, most poorly constructed lamps known to mankind. And then Matt pointed out I hadn't screwed on the lampshade lock. Ahem.
9. After Bridget's appointment to get her feet x-rayed for orthotics this morning, we went out to lunch at Culver's. She is in the Golden Age of Three right now, and I can't get enough of it.
10. This weekend:
This picture tells many stories: Bridget's delight in messing up all Matt's leaf piles, the last of the weirdo 70º+ days, Matt having to stop every 6 minutes to answer his Blackberry of Doom. (Sometimes it's just the Blackberry, but lately it's been the Blackberry of Doom).