(I love this song. I really do.)
My dad lives in Wisconsin with my stepmom Michele and my two half brothers Bobby and Andy. I see him perhaps once every couple of months; Christmas, one of my sister's birthday's, a week or two during the summer, and a couple other miscellaneous visits throughout the rest of the months. I never really gave this a thought until I was talking to Annie and mentioned him and we started discussing the whole situation. I don't think we went really in depth, but it was enough. It has been on my mind since and invariably I started to wonder what it means to have normal parents. And I came to this conclusion. I have no idea whatsoever what it means to have normal parents. And neither does anyone else for that matter. I only have what I grew up with, and that is a father who lived a human life, full of mistakes and moments of personal perfection, and loves me in his own way. I wish I didn't take him for granted so much.
Onto lighter topics, I love the smell of fresh basil. Emmy's growing some behind our apartment on the small stoop we claim ownership to. I was sitting on the steps tonight, watching the fireflies come out (I missed them last summer when I was in Spain) and the smell of basil slipped over. For one brief moment it was summer like it should be; steady without the stress of school, slow from the heat, with an underlying scent of something spicy, like the promise of possibility. Nothing beats the smell of fresh basil on a hot summer night. Maybe funnel cakes from the fair, but really, funnel cakes pretty much rock my socks. Oh, and shaken lemonade too, with the funnel cakes. But that's specific to night time fairs with ferris wheels and pretty lights, rodeos/county fairs with animals on display for 4H, and baseball games, which then include brats with mustard and grilled peppers and onions. And the lemonade can't be watery, it must have lots of sugar, and be slightly warm, I'm very particular. Okay, how about this, nothing on its own singularly beats the smell of basil on a hot summer night. And the smell of storms and rain does not count because the consumption of rain water is highly inadvisable and the smell of basil strictly adheres to my love of food. If you haven't figured this out by now, I love good food almost as much as I love reading good books. It comes in second. Third is good music, fourth is good movies/television. First is a tie between good books and good company.
So I visited the art library today and fell in love. There are these desks next to the windows that overlook the fountain and each of them are assigned to grad students. They even have name tags on them. Aside from the pretty view and the alluring name tags, they have a shelf of books above them. The grad student can check out books to put on the shelf, I suppose so they don't have to carry around the books and can work on their master's with one less worry. Anyway, they are perhaps the most - I don't know what word to use for them. I want to say quaint, but it's not quaint per say. It's beyond that, it's an inanimate piece of someone's life that tells a story of that person. There was one chock full of books about Buddhist art. They were just so pretty, in a weird OCD yet artsy way. Maybe it's just my bibliophile nature getting the better of me. Regardless, I adore them and felt the need to share the adoration.
I love Bones. Look below for case in point.
(Clark Kent, meet Wonder Woman)
1 comment:
Like I said when we were talking, I think normal is just based on your own perception of the situation. I also think a lot of us tend to take our parents for granted a lot of the time because they've always been there and we can't imagine a time when they won't be. It's sad when people don't realize it before hand though so at least we have a head start on that.
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