Grandchild No. 1 spent the night with us last night, and even though he’s a very tall, big-footed 7, he’s not too cool to dig just hanging with Lolly and Pop. We had our own little garden party at The Bernice Garden last night and went to the low-key watermelon fest at the same place this morning – and he was as happy as could be with the low-key, old-school entertainment.
Ricky Nelson would be proud. The boy is true to himself, and I expect he’ll stay that way. He comes from slightly quirky stock.
His Lolly, for example, was bereft upon hearing first thing Saturday morning that J J Cale had died suddenly. No, I never met him. Never even saw him in concert that I can remember, yet he played a huge part in my life.
This morning it was back to the garden (I keep hearing “Woodstock” in my head) for the Watermelon Festival and to paint Wish Locks.
John has been in Farmboy Westley mode lately (“as you wish”) so he took it well when I told him I was having a musical emergency and really needed to dart in Best Buy to see if by some chance the store had a copy of Bruce Springsteen’s The River on CD.
My late-night dates with Bruce have left me in critical condition and I only have the double album on, well, album (in one of those boxes on the same shelf, I think) with no turntable. They didn’t have it, so Amazon Prime will deliver it soon.
Along with another book to add to my stack. I’m helpless. I’m an addict.
Thank the stars I married a farm boy.