Minnesota Son's Birthday

Today is the birthday of Fiorella's oldest child, and Fio can't help but reminisce a little. Minnesota Son was a big baby, just over ten pounds, with black hair and blue eyes, and, as the nurses had said, exceptionally pretty for a newborn.

The dark hair soon fell out, and medium brown hair came in at about the same time the blue eyes turned brown. Fio's brown-eyed mother was thrilled.  She held Son in her arms and, with her blue-eyed daughter standing beside her, said, "I think dark eyes look more intelligent."

Son was a good baby and slept through the night so early that it scared Fio the first time. He was an early walker too, but the talking came late, probably because, as Husband and Fio finally discovered, he needed tubes in his ears.

He was a very active child, learning to ride a two-wheel bike when he was three, and he loved playgrounds--always trying to figure out how things worked, like when he hunched down and peered at the motor under the merry-go-round. Later on, he learned how to fix anything mechanical, and now he can take on anything electronic.

He's good with animals and was always musical, a  talent that has blossomed through the years, as has his art. And he  has a great speaking voice and vocabulary and uses good grammar.

But most important, Son has a good heart and loves his wife, his family, and his God.

Fiorella is blessed.

The Sonnet Sonnet

Yesterday was Poetry Day so here goes

         

    The Sonnet Sonnet

A sonnet is the clever use of rhyme

In patterns such as Petrarch might employ

Or Shakespeare's playful whimsy intertwine

For centuries of lovers to enjoy.

A sonnet is an unrelenting beat,

The blood's intrinsic pulse of weak and strong,

That runs full-tilt for five iambic feet

In three times four plus two, a discipline of song.

A sonnet is a message of the heart,

Of Wordsworth's wonder, Milton's heavy hand,

Of Keats's classic skill, of Shelley's art.

Of Browning's love songs from a foreign land.

    While others seek the chessboard on a day,

    The sonnet is my choice of game to play.

In Memoriam

Happy birthday to my father, who sang "Little Brown Jug" to me as he drove me to Sunday School when Mother was in the hospital giving birth to my brother, who taught me how to swing a golf club,  who financed my daughter's college education.  Dad had a generous heart and a noble spirit.
And I hope he is with me still.

Walking Dead

Daughter tells her that it's related to her double-thick eyelashes, but Fiorella has heart problems.  It's only because of an artificial aortic valve, which protects her from congestive heart failure, and a pacemaker, which keeps her heart in lock-step, that Fiorella still treads this earth.

But is this the real Fiorella or some kind of golem?  Is Fio who she thinks she is, or merely an expression of her former self?

The walking dead are among us, and Fiorella is one of them,