Between home invasions
They were here for a week, and now the house is so quiet. No shrill races on the deck. No whiney demands. No overturned furniture, no spilled juice.
Which is pretty noteworthy for brothers, ages 5 and nearly 8. I can think of only one time, maybe two, when their Mom had to intercede. They ate pretty much what was put in front of them and asked to be excused before leaving the table.
Samuel looks out for his younger bro, Uriah, which results in some collaboration between them. I guess I should be careful of bragging too much. They are just two little boys, after all. One of them loves to push or pull my little sweeper around, and believe it or not, the place looked pretty decent. Considering.
In the attic, they found a cache of building toys, blocks, things little boys remember even if their grandmas do not. The big attraction here was the spa that sits in our deck. Too small to provide seating for two adults, it is still big enough for young pirates to cannonball into from the deck. The glee was as palpable as the water, splashed all over the deck, the deck chairs, and nearby windows. There is enough shade back here under our trees that sunscreen was not necessary.
The next most popular sport was the golf cart, of course, and that provided excuses for many an errand. Like a ride to the children’s section of the library. That went so much better than I expected. Both boys were attracted to the computers, but quietly stood in line behind the children who got there first.
You have to understand why these simple facts mean so much to me. We see these lads so infrequently, maybe twice a year, that we are stunned at the development of their social skills.
So. On to contemplate the next visitors. Our German daughter Mary will be arriving the first of next month, accompanied by her significant other, Rainer, and his older son, Hartmut. We’ll have a few days together, traveling in Florida (every German’s favorite U.S. destination), then Hartmut’s main squeeze will arrive and the whole party will jet to Las Vegas.
“Danny” is her name, and she couldn’t get away from her job earlier than that. She works for a mortician and is majoring in classes that will lead to that profession.
We’ve met her briefly, but to be honest, I don’t remember what she looks like. And I don’t know how good her English is. Rainer’s is excellent.
I must write Mary and remind her about sleeping accommodations here. Our “guest” room – a.k.a. Dave’s office and computer room – has twin beds. That will work for Mary and Rainer but even though Hartmut is in his late 20s, I really don’t apologize for asking him to sleep on an inflatable mattress on the floor of the loft. I just hate to ask a young woman to do that too. We love our little house, but now and then it does let us down.
I suppose Dave and I could sleep in the camper – it’s perfectly comfortable for weeks on end when we travel. Hmm. And there is a motel less than a mile from our house. You just can’t get there from here.
Can’t be done, not by golf cart. There is no cart path connection between Braelinn Village Center, near which we live, and the intersection of Crosstown Road and Ga. Highway 74 South.
Visitors especially find that there’s something special about driving a golf cart through the trees and neighborhoods. It’s part of the Peachtree City mystique.
Wish we could just hand them a map and the golf cart keys. Meanwhile, there are windows to be washed, some touch-ups places on walls both inside and out, worn-out flowers to be replaced in pots and hanging baskets around the house.
Makes me tired just to think of it. Maybe I’ll just have a glass of tea and take a nap….