It's snowing!
I am about as excited as that three year old in the photo. It's been YEARS since I've been in a snowstorm, and it's beautiful.
I'm in Lake Geneva, where my father and stepmother have rented (for two years, subject to renegotiation) the actual house he grew up in, which is so fucking lovely. It's this tiny place, built in 1880. But as my father says happily, it's been renovated until it's "just like a condo!" It's got up to four possible bedrooms, three of which we're using tonight -- the main bedroom, which was my father's grandmother's room, and now belongs to Mary and him; the next largest bedroom, which was his, and is now mine (they had a futon sofa delivered for it this afternoon), and I am sitting at my father's ancient desk, typing, while looking out on, as I said, snow, and a Civil War era cemetery across the street, and a teeny-tiny bedroom, which had been his uncle's, and is now being used by my mom. I love my mother and father's post-divorce relationship.
I think I am perhaps a tiny bit drunk. We went out for margaritas at one bar, and then a pretty good Mexican dinner at a nice, fairly authentic restaurant -- Mexicans are the fastest growing demographic in Lake Geneva. I think it's kind of hilarious to drink with your parents. Well, my mother doesn't drink. My father and Mary do, though. I also think it's hilarious to go to a bar where boyscouts under fourteen years of age try (successfully) to sell you raffle tickets. Ah, Wisconsin, how I love you.
The ONLY fly in my personal ointment right this second is the horrible light jazz or whatever they call this crap that my father always, always has the radio tuned to. I think as a special concession to my arrival on Monday night, he had an Irish folk show on the car radio when they picked me up at O'Hare. Anyway, though, I can put my own music on, with headphones, if I want to. But I think that first, I am going to call M.
Tomorrow, I get to cook. I love cooking Thanksgiving. It never feels like pressure to me, maybe partly because my father insists on this absolutely unchanging menu dating from 1956, so I know exactly what I'm doing. It's a comforting ritual.
PS -- Evanston was gorgeous, too -- I am going to include some photos from yesterday's foggy walk home to my dad's place.
The view towards the main business street near my dad's house:
And the view down the street that leads towards his street:
Oakland never looks like that, even in the fog. There aren't enough trees for me in the Bay Area.
Oh, and here's me, really blurry:
Okay. I should quit playing on the internets now.
I'm in Lake Geneva, where my father and stepmother have rented (for two years, subject to renegotiation) the actual house he grew up in, which is so fucking lovely. It's this tiny place, built in 1880. But as my father says happily, it's been renovated until it's "just like a condo!" It's got up to four possible bedrooms, three of which we're using tonight -- the main bedroom, which was my father's grandmother's room, and now belongs to Mary and him; the next largest bedroom, which was his, and is now mine (they had a futon sofa delivered for it this afternoon), and I am sitting at my father's ancient desk, typing, while looking out on, as I said, snow, and a Civil War era cemetery across the street, and a teeny-tiny bedroom, which had been his uncle's, and is now being used by my mom. I love my mother and father's post-divorce relationship.
I think I am perhaps a tiny bit drunk. We went out for margaritas at one bar, and then a pretty good Mexican dinner at a nice, fairly authentic restaurant -- Mexicans are the fastest growing demographic in Lake Geneva. I think it's kind of hilarious to drink with your parents. Well, my mother doesn't drink. My father and Mary do, though. I also think it's hilarious to go to a bar where boyscouts under fourteen years of age try (successfully) to sell you raffle tickets. Ah, Wisconsin, how I love you.
The ONLY fly in my personal ointment right this second is the horrible light jazz or whatever they call this crap that my father always, always has the radio tuned to. I think as a special concession to my arrival on Monday night, he had an Irish folk show on the car radio when they picked me up at O'Hare. Anyway, though, I can put my own music on, with headphones, if I want to. But I think that first, I am going to call M.
Tomorrow, I get to cook. I love cooking Thanksgiving. It never feels like pressure to me, maybe partly because my father insists on this absolutely unchanging menu dating from 1956, so I know exactly what I'm doing. It's a comforting ritual.
PS -- Evanston was gorgeous, too -- I am going to include some photos from yesterday's foggy walk home to my dad's place.
The view towards the main business street near my dad's house:
And the view down the street that leads towards his street:
Oakland never looks like that, even in the fog. There aren't enough trees for me in the Bay Area.
Oh, and here's me, really blurry:
Okay. I should quit playing on the internets now.