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missing Macca in Vancouver

The most beautiful sight in the world – my daughter asleep on the kitchen sofa with her baby asleep on her chest. The cornbread is in the oven, the beer is in the fridge, the nacho ingredients are on the counter, the tall boy is stretched out watching an uplifting show about a Mexican drug cartel. All this gathering and preparation for a stupid football game I couldn’t give a damn about – but I do cherish the ritual.

I rode my bike to the Y this morning and sensed the testosterone in the air – lots of macho stuff happening all over town this afternoon. Soon, the gladiators will enter the ring, huge, padded, vastly overpaid men attempting to wrestle a disc of pigskin up and down a field. Senseless. Fun. When the game starts, I’ll be doing something else.

But I am sad today, and no, it’s not the dusting of snow this morning, the chill in the air. My beloved Macca is in Vancouver tonight, and there’s a rumour he’ll be accompanied by Bruce Springsteen. When I heard about the concert, I was tempted, despite the absurd inconvenience and cost, to fly to Vancouver, visit my dearest friends, and go to this concert. After all, am I a mad Macca fan, the kind who does that sort of thing, or not? Not. My good sense prevailed. And today, I REGRET IT! I could be watching Macca and Bruce!

No, instead I’m here, watching sleeping deliciousness with the good smell of cornbread in the air. Lucky lucky me. Paul, a rain check, please. Come back to TDot soon and bring the Brucester with you.

Five hours later: the youngsters have departed, and worn out Glamma has started the cleanup. What a lot of energy and equipment a baby needs – my house was chaos in minutes, and he can’t even walk yet. Wonderful chaos. I watched half time – poor Gordon Lightfoot at – what, 75? – a bit shaky, though we love him; Carly is adorable and the Biebs too, though wearing something truly bizarre. My small visitor ate an avocado and some refried beans as we had our nachos; he had several bottles, a jump in his Jolly Jumper, lots of bounces from every adult in the vicinity and slept, briefly, twice. They all left before the game ended, because the roads will be wild tonight.

Toronto is winning, I gather, though I don’t know, because as soon as they’d gone, I turned it off. Ah, silence. The cat and I are together again, side by side, enjoying listening to nothing. Everything they said about being a grandparent is true: you get to love them to bits and then you get to give them back.



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About Beth

I began keeping a journal at the age of nine. Nearly fifty years later, I started this online journal, sharing reflections, reviews, updates, and the occasional secret.

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