A Post In Which I Wax Memories and Sort of Whine
Sunday isn't what it used to be. We used to have a routine. Back in the day, i.e., before the invasion (F.Y.I., little white men started showing up almost 4 years ago) and weekend work schedules we would do stuff on a Sunday (except during football season of course, that called for a different routine).
It was automatic and not even discussed. We got up, loaded the
kids dogs in the back of the Explorer and headed to Marymoor Park, perhaps the greatest off-leash park within a beautiful park ever known to man, or dog for that matter. Yes, we were those people that thought of our dogs as our children- not in a making them wear sweaters and carry them (too big) through Trader Joe's sort of way, but more of a we gave them names and fed them on a regular basis sort of way. You know, like kids.
There would be coffee and bagels and NPR on the way. We would park and support the local economy by buying the dogs a couple of squirrel-shaped biscuits. The main ingredient? Redhook. Man, those biscuits
were looked good.
The remainder of the day we would drive around and hit markets and festivals. At some point we would head home and take the dogs for one more outing in the Mercer Slough, which was, for all intents and purposes, our yard.
But that was a different time and a different state. Things are not that simple anymore.
There is a festival here today, but it is nasty outside. It is cold, which in itself would not be bad. It is raining, which I don't mind, even with the cold. It is windy, which I cannot deal with. It is always windy here. It is not breezy, but violent gusts of unstoppable wind that blow with malice and discontent. I do not care for it.
The kids, while having slowed us initially, are primed for a good Sunday now, but I fear they may never know it. They may never know what it means to look forward to a day like the ones we used to know.
My wife is working today, as she does nearly every Sunday now, and it just wouldn't feel right going someplace special without her. Besides, she has the checkbook.
Now I spend my Sundays watching the wind through the window and wishing it would blow away. I play with the boys, drink my coffee and miss my wife. It is not what I hoped it would be.
I wanted life to be lived, not remembered.
Like our routine.