A week of surprises and the expected
I came home from work the other day, gave Better Half a little “hello” peck and headed straight to the kitchen where I dropped my purse and book bag like a way-too-heavy barbell.
I felt like a kid home from a long school day, ready for some din-din.
“Close your eyes,” I heard Better Half instruct, interrupting my intent to open the refrigerator and scrounge around for something to eat or drink or both.
My peepers shut, I heard him open the refrigerator door instead and rustle around for something he apparently found with little effort.
“OK,” he said in a sing-song fashion. “You can open your eyes now.”
“Surprise — Happy Wednesday,” he added, holding something toward me, something in a plastic grocery store bag.
A present midweek?
I’m thinking good things usually come in grocery bags, especially when you’re hungry.
I’m thinking, oh, boy, maybe it’s the early yield of brother-in-law Bud’s home-grown lettuce. Yum! A fresh salad!
Or maybe it’s a hoagie. That’s good, too.
But it was flowers, not food — a bouquet of yellow beauty. A feast for the eyes, not the stomach.
I looked at Better Half in disbelief, probably because he is not a flower guy. A card guy under stress, but not a flower person.
The last time I got flowers from him, we were dating. That was decades ago.
“You did not get me flowers,” I said to him, verbalizing his confession on his behalf. “Did you?”
My son’s face verified what I already knew to be true. He had not.
Father-son laughter further verified the correct assumption.
It turns out a friend had stopped at the house earlier in the day to surprise me, to brighten my day with some flowers as only this friend full of spontaneous good-will gestures could.
That’s the kind of week it was — one marked by surprises and one full of the fully expected, too, including my first sunburn of the season.
I will never learn to put sunscreen on the tops of my feet.
That always seems to happen on Memorial Day after the sun only seems to hit the tops of my feet not covered by my sandals. And this happens when I’m standing under a tree for shade.
Go figure. Makes for unique tan lines. There are no perfect tans in my world.
Or fly-free picnics for that matter.
I am amazed that all the children I know only seem to have conversations in the kitchen doorway on days when you’re hosting a picnic.
They cannot talk through the screen, only on the threshold, in door-open, fly-welcoming fashion.
Have picnic, have flies.
It could be grounds for being bent out of shape about a lack of insect intervention or child control, but a bouquet of flowers wins.
A feast for the eyes beats flies having a feast.
(Kiaski, a resident of Richmond, is a staff columnist and community editor for the Herald-Star and The Weirton Daily Times. She can be contacted at firstname.lastname@example.org.)