Well, here it is, my first blog, and the crows must know because they are creating quite a squawk outside in the air. Maybe they're just saying, "Welcome Home, dear, I missed you after a hard day on the hunt." (Not sure what they actually hunt.) Or, "Glad it's Friday, sweetheart," although I never do hear anyone say, "sweetheart" any more.
Why is that? I wasn't called "sweetheart" before or after the Women's Movement" got going strong, but I remember it as a child. Maybe it was used only for children. "God love you, sweetheart, comb your hair,"
or "Sweetheart, for God's sake, stay away from the cheddar/blue cheese (in the fridge door). That's for your father with his beer!"
So now you know two things: I anthropomorphize creatures and love the cheese. At first I snatched a piece of the cheese - let's be honest, a hunk - sampled it because my father ate it, didn't really like it at 3 years old, but really loved my dad. So, the cheese became an acquired taste, especially in that hour or so before he was coming home, when I really missed him most.
He was a traditional dad who married for the first and only time late, at 45, did not go out of his way to "relate" to us except under pressure from my mom, a steady pressure on us all. Yet, he had a voice that let me know he loved me, when he pulled himself out from behind the newspaper or the racing sheets after dinner and came in to the living room to watch TV with us. Something like the dad in the Twilight series, uneasy but well-intentioned, except he wasn't American and he wasn't a "young" 45.
