It's summer, and I'm pretty sure ''m the reason why, so you're welcome. I can't do a thing about all this water, but I really think I'm the reason it's summer.
A while ago I needed a warm shirt because we were going to be eating outside, so I reached into my bottom dresser drawer to find a sweatshirt that's been there since we vacationed out east years ago. As I fumbled around under stuff, my hand stopped on something soft and warm.
A sweater. A black sweater. Not new, but warm. It fit perfectly. Haven't the slightest idea where it came from, but nobody took it from me when I found it, so it had to be mine. I loved it and for the next few days, wore it constantly.
I felt like Valerie Bowman when she was little and refused to take off the outfit she got for Christmas.
Didn't even get my sweater washed for a second round of wearing before the temperature hit 85 degrees and there would be no way to wear it comfortably. So, you're welcome.
You're welcome. Thank you. I'm sorry. All good words. But even those words don't make everything right. Think about this.
Take a plate. Throw it on the floor. It breaks, right? Now say I'm sorry. Saying I'm sorry won't put it back together. Saying I'm sorry might soothe hurt feelings, but it's likely things will never be the same.
Except, of course, if the plate doesn't break. My nice little story doesn't make any sense if that plate doesn't break.
Well, in concept it would, but in reality, not so much.
Even thinking about breaking plates takes my memory back to when my daughter was little. We lived in a tri-level home and fixed up a room in the basement with carpet, a sofa and a recliner and a television sitting on a platform hung on the wall.
It's no secret I don't like mornings, so Dana would get up, grab a cup of cheerios and go to the basement to watch TV. I could barely run that simple remote, but she had it down pat.
Occasionally I'd find a cup with a minor chip in its edge and would complain that Corelle wasn't supposed to chip. Wasn't until years later she fessed up to standing on the arm of the sofa and bouncing the cup off the carpet-covered cement floor just to see if it would break.
When I get back to Dana's little-hood, it's no big step to go back to when I was in sixth grade at the elementary school in Vincent, in a class of 12, the first time I wasn't the only one in my class. That's where I met Barbara Erickson.
She's now Barbara Muklebust and she lives in Denver. I'm going to Denver to see Dana (see, there is a reason why things connect in my mind) and would like to see her too, but I don't know how to find her. Can anyone help? An email address? Phone number?
I'd appreciate any information.
So long friends, until the next time when we're together.
Sandy Mickelson, former lifestyle editor at The Messenger, may be reached at email@example.com.