On the Home Front — Happy Father’s Day

As I suspected, I woke early again Saturday morning (before 4, but I stayed in bed ’til 4:30), this time with my back threatening to seize up, so I headed downstairs to find some Robaxicet to take with my morning cuppa. Something else I’m very glad to be home for — my own blend of tea (Russian Caravan — a slightly smoky black — augmented by just enough Lapsang to up the smoke quotient) — in my very own “fine bone china” mug, with just the right handle and almost the right lip (I compromised because this mug is the perfect size). Like Jack Reacher in Lee Child’s Nothing to Lose, I couldn’t help evaluating teacups while we were away; I was frustrated each morning at one of our hotels with a far-too-small and poorly placed handle which made it impossible to drink a hot beverage without the support of a second hand. Since the cups weren’t fine bone, or even bone, china, they “leaked” heat such that the supporting hand would inevitably become uncomfortably hot, spoiling my enjoyment of an otherwise great cup of tea. Unlike Reacher, a nomad whose only possessions are the clothes he wears (when he needs clean ones, he buys them at the nearest equivalent of Work Warehouse!), I have an accumulation of good choices, although there’s one I favour almost exclusively.

I crept out of the house with my mug of hot, smoky tea and sat watching the sun slightly illuminate the clouds, the best it could do, and began to notice sails on the horizon — unusual to see so many before 5 in the morning. A bit of Googling confirmed my suspicions that they must be coming in off the final leg of the Van Isle 360, and I imagine Pater will pick up the buzz in the harbour when he paddles into town a few hours from now to pick up the papers. Curling up in my big leather armchair with those weekend papers will put the final seal of approval on my sense of happy domesticity. Even the day’s predicted rainfall will not budge the smile from my face — the worst it can do is postpone all that gardening work that awaits me!

I wrote this yesterday but didn’t get ’round to posting it — it didn’t end up raining so I spent several hours in the gardening between bouts of reading the paper in that armchair. As a consequence, I’m again relying on Robaxacet to loosen up my back this morning, but the garden’s looking a bit less scruffy. Tea is steeping as I write, and I’m almost ready to do it all again.

Meanwhile, though, it’s Father’s Day, and while mine has been gone for almost a decade now, my kids, I hope, will all check in to wish their very good father a happy day. And little Nola is surely going to make breakfast in bed for her excellent dad on his first Father’s Day. She’s very lucky in her wise choice of an old man — that’s the two of them above, several months ago at a wedding, with Dad teaching Nola how to rock out a rhythm. We stopped by on our way back from the airport Thursday and visited with the two of them for a while (mom was at yoga class) — as usual, we were struck by how easy Adam is with Nola, even when she howled and howled and howled, making strange at us (well, mostly Pater, really!). So Happy Father’s Day, Adam — hope they spoil you!