Day 42: Today was a good day. R needed to get his haircut, and so J and I were invited to invade his kitchen, and prepare a wonderful dinner, which we did. Wonderful caprese salad, wonderful dinner salad, wonderful music, wonderful friends.
When R arrived, he and I observed that coming home to a houseful of friends who have made you wonderful food must be one of life's treasures.
And, yes, I know, this is starting to be one of those blog posts where I talk about how awesome my friends are.
While they are awesome in every possible way, and while I love them, and while that's a completely appropriate way to sum up the day, instead I'm going to tell you an entirely non-Sacramento-related story, and I beg your indulgence, gentle reader, for a few minutes, while I tell you about a Man.
Every senior generation permits themselves the right to dictate what they are called by their grandchildren. At the least, this is true in my family.
My paternal grandparents are Grandfather (deceased, and beloved), and Grandmother (alive, and also beloved!). My maternal grandparents are Grandma (alive and beloved), and Papa (pronounced "paw-paw", and also alive, and also beloved).
And so when my niece and nephew came to be, their grandparents sought their own identities as well.
Their maternal grandparents (my sister's mother and father, and therefor my own as well) were to be "Grandfather" and "Gamma" (this latter, is, seriously, an artifact of Noah Wylie's character on "ER", as well as her wish that I was a surgeon). Their paternal grandparents are "Grandmother" and "Papa John".
And it is now, gentle reader, that we turn our focus, laser-like, to Papa John.
He's not a pizza magnate, for one thing.
No, Papa John is, and there is no escaping this, the salt of the earth. He is the everyman, and he is weathered, and he is strong, and he is wonderful. In the years that I have known him, he has been unfailingly kind to me, my sister, our family, his own son, and, of course, to his grandchildren, upon which he dotes in the best way.
Papa John is fluent in the language of football, baseball, and Andy Griffith.
Papa John is southern, and baptist, and, frankly, holy.
Papa John is the kind of man who can cast a fishing pole into a lake, and mean it. And the fish would respect that.
He's Southern, with a capital S, and over the years I've known him, I've always appreciated that he lives life, even when it's very hard. Chuck Norris has nothing on this man.
My Brother-In-Law, henceforth referred to as BIL, decided to take his children and Papa John on a tour of the East Coast, and to a slew of professional baseball games, at some of the most iconic stadiums ever built.
Their first stop was in NYC.
Now, I could tell you that they took the kids to see "Wicked" on Broadway (which they did).
I could tell you that they took the kids to a Yankees game (which they did).
I could tell you that they took the kids to see the Statue of Liberty, to see the 9/11 memorial, to see the Empire State Building (all of which they did).
But, mostly, I could tell you that this man, this traditional, southern, wonderful man, spent at least a fraction of his time in New York City having a conversation with a dude with a cat on his head:
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
When R arrived, he and I observed that coming home to a houseful of friends who have made you wonderful food must be one of life's treasures.
And, yes, I know, this is starting to be one of those blog posts where I talk about how awesome my friends are.
While they are awesome in every possible way, and while I love them, and while that's a completely appropriate way to sum up the day, instead I'm going to tell you an entirely non-Sacramento-related story, and I beg your indulgence, gentle reader, for a few minutes, while I tell you about a Man.
Every senior generation permits themselves the right to dictate what they are called by their grandchildren. At the least, this is true in my family.
My paternal grandparents are Grandfather (deceased, and beloved), and Grandmother (alive, and also beloved!). My maternal grandparents are Grandma (alive and beloved), and Papa (pronounced "paw-paw", and also alive, and also beloved).
And so when my niece and nephew came to be, their grandparents sought their own identities as well.
Their maternal grandparents (my sister's mother and father, and therefor my own as well) were to be "Grandfather" and "Gamma" (this latter, is, seriously, an artifact of Noah Wylie's character on "ER", as well as her wish that I was a surgeon). Their paternal grandparents are "Grandmother" and "Papa John".
And it is now, gentle reader, that we turn our focus, laser-like, to Papa John.
He's not a pizza magnate, for one thing.
No, Papa John is, and there is no escaping this, the salt of the earth. He is the everyman, and he is weathered, and he is strong, and he is wonderful. In the years that I have known him, he has been unfailingly kind to me, my sister, our family, his own son, and, of course, to his grandchildren, upon which he dotes in the best way.
Papa John is fluent in the language of football, baseball, and Andy Griffith.
Papa John is southern, and baptist, and, frankly, holy.
Papa John is the kind of man who can cast a fishing pole into a lake, and mean it. And the fish would respect that.
He's Southern, with a capital S, and over the years I've known him, I've always appreciated that he lives life, even when it's very hard. Chuck Norris has nothing on this man.
My Brother-In-Law, henceforth referred to as BIL, decided to take his children and Papa John on a tour of the East Coast, and to a slew of professional baseball games, at some of the most iconic stadiums ever built.
Their first stop was in NYC.
Now, I could tell you that they took the kids to see "Wicked" on Broadway (which they did).
I could tell you that they took the kids to a Yankees game (which they did).
I could tell you that they took the kids to see the Statue of Liberty, to see the 9/11 memorial, to see the Empire State Building (all of which they did).
But, mostly, I could tell you that this man, this traditional, southern, wonderful man, spent at least a fraction of his time in New York City having a conversation with a dude with a cat on his head:
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
And that's the best thing I saw today. :)
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