Apparel

Warm congrats to my cousin, Matthew, and his wife, Megan, on the birth of their second daughter.

Most of my paternal grandparents’ grandchildren began having children rather late in life. So, although perhaps it shouldn’t surprise me, it always does – pleasantly – when another little niece, nephew, or once-removed first cousin comes along.

What a world to come into, though.

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Then again, things arguably were worse in Genesis-time. I have a couple of colorful t-shirts with the caption, “Need an Ark? I Noah Guy.” There’s a picture of the ark on the shirts. (Alas, I can’t find the picture online – just other shirts with the same caption but different artwork.) I obtained these shirts after a children’s program at my church. They were spares.

I wear them around because I’m edgy like that. And because they fit.

No one ever has commented on them – the occasional raised eyebrow is as far as things have gone – until today, when I wore an ark shirt to the to the Salvation Army Kroc Center. (The boys have been taking swim lessons there.)

My goodness, how many laudatory remarks I got.

Did you go to the Ark Encounter?, one man asked.

My people.

Now what I need is a Coach Cignetti shirt to wear to the Kroc.

Independence weekend

It was our most traditional July 4 in who knows how many years. The people next door fed us hot dogs, ribs, and chicken. Then they launched fireworks. The whole neighborhood put on quite a show. Samuel and Daniel twirled sparklers. Samuel dropped his, stepped on it, and burned his foot. What an ordeal that was.

No one displayed much patriotism. The neighbors told me they expect violent upheaval, sooner or later. So, their mood was: It’s party time!

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Today we saw my cousin Matthew and his family. They’re visiting from Montana.

Matthew works in academic support at a small university campus. He worries that his job’ll get DOGE-ed out of existence (or whatever the local equivalent of getting DOGE-ed is).

Not that things are better here: Indiana has passed legislation that’ll axe hundreds of public academic programs.

(See this Forbes report [of limited free access]. And see this list of items for the chopping block.)

Anyway, perhaps Matthew, like me, has caught the apocalypticism bug, because he agreed to read Late Victorian Holocausts with me when the schedule permits. It’s nice when readers of this blog say they want to read things with me.

A couple of field trips

It’s been a colicky few days for Samuel. Now, Karin & I get excited whenever he burps.

Laundry has piled up. Fortunately, there are excellent new washing and drying machines in our building. We put about fifty percent more laundry into each load than we used to.

That qualifies as news.

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I’ve been trying much of the day to read the last thirty-five pages of Ross Macdonald’s The Way Some People Die, to no avail. It isn’t the book’s fault, either.

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My cousin Matthew visited from Atlanta with Megan, his intended. Yesterday, Karin & I took Samuel to an event at Matthew’s parents’ house called “Muffins with Megan.” I’m afraid Samuel stole the limelight too long. Everyone noticed how well-nourished he is. No one noticed his colic. He slept peacefully. Very shrewd.

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He also slept peacefully on Friday, when, at last sufficiently weighty, he was secured to his mother with a Boppy ComfyFit Baby Carrier and transported around the shopping mall. At Barnes & Noble, I found an omnibus of novels by Margaret Millar, the wife of Kenneth Millar (“Ross Macdonald” was his pseudonym).

The volume had some good blurbs:

“Very original.” – Agatha Christie

“Stunningly original.” – Val McDermid

“She has few peers, and no superior in the art of bamboozlement.” – Julian Symons

And my favorite:

“I long ago changed my writing name to Ross Macdonald for obvious reasons.” – Kenneth Millar