Mistress of all she surveys…


This time next week, Reid will be in London to begin his first international work venture.  He’s landed a short term assignment to oversee a digital something-or-other project.   His skills will indeed span an ocean.  Sure, he missed the queen’s 60th jubilee by a couple of weeks but in his spare moments he can wander over toward the Olympic venues.  I suppose there’s no bad time to be in Britain but this would seem a particularly great time.  The wheels are turning toward a short visit to the kid.  The letter written today will be the last he receives on paper for a while.  He’ll get his by email attachment while he’s across the pond.

I’m bored. Tend to my needs or feed me, one of the two.

Then there’s Emma.  The 24 hour all-Emma-all-the-time channel is still in the works, but the little wonder continues to elbow her way to the top of Ellen-Tim society.  She’s gaining weight, cementing her position as the mistress of all she surveys, and becoming accustomed to ruling the roost.  Gramps is all for that.  It didn’t take long for her photos to be displayed prominently throughout the house.

Fittingly, Reid and his niece highlight last week’s letter:

——————-

June 4, 2012

Ellen/Reid: The work week got off to a rocky start (as if starting at 6:15 Eastern every morning isn’t rocky enough) although things have smoothed out since the early pandemonium.  Still a few hours to go but the placid waters could change if someone else’s heartbeat quickens and their problem becomes my problem.  Actually, I do work with a capable bunch of good people.

I figured out why the little blue birds died.  They got drenched in cold water.  They adjusted the lawn sprinkler system, and two of the strong streams of water take a direct pass right over the hole in the bird house.  I didn’t notice that until this morning and that rankles me.  Water was literally running out the bottom of the box.  Blue birds were re-nesting, and they’ve gone away because the (^&%$@# sprinkler comes on twice a day.  I’ll take birds over a green lawn any day.

Man, Reid, you will be in London near the peak of Olympic festivities.  What an absolute madhouse that place is going to be for nearly your entire time there.  But I suppose that is half the fun, rubbing shoulders with the rest of the world.  I’ll send a note to Mike Hill to see if he’ll have time to have a cold one with you.  Not certain of my travel plans there but it would be a great short trip to take if you have a floor available for sleeping.  A couch with a pillow would be what I’m used to.  Still unclear is what the heck you will be doing over there by day.  I didn’t have my wits about me to ask you about that.  My bad to leave England off the list of countries you’ve visited.  No doubt it won’t be the last.

The photos of Emma should arrive any day now, and already I’m ruing the dull-headed lapse of no wallet size shots to foist on my friends who ask to see her.  What a dang oversight that was.  A lot of good 5×7 shots will do sitting in the house.  I’ll send the photographer a new order to ship some down this way.  That is certain to double the thickness of my wallet.  Nothing wrong with ample supplies of granddaughter photos.  According to informed sources (Felicia and others) it isn’t uncommon for babies to be cranky in the 5 – 8 p.m. timeframe.  She will get over that soon enough.  It’s just heartening to see she is gaining some weight and putting a little beef on herself.  This past weekend, one of the people who asked to see Emma’s photos said her daughter is expecting, but to break the news of the baby’s sex, the expectant couple will host a cake-type of unveiling party.  Their doctor gives the parents a sealed envelope containing the baby’s sex which the parents take to a bakery.  The baker makes a cake that is either pink or blue on the inside and covers it with white frosting.  The ‘sex’ is unveiled when the cake is cut.  Is there nothing that escapes the clutches of the wedding industry in its pursuit of making a fast buck?  It’s total insanity but I wish that was my idea.

The lettuce garden that has faithfully furnished lettuce every day for weeks is on its last legs.  That’s the way it goes.  It goes to bolt (seed) and that’s the end of it.  But the patio tomato plant is beginning to come on like gangbusters.  The fruit are about the size of a racquetball but that is a serious upgrade from the total, utter and abject failure of tomatoes in years gone by.  It provides a little bit of hope that for once there will be delicious BLTs at some point this summer.  In a tip of the hat to my doctor, the bacon will be of the turkey variety.

Okay, the call of work is still loud and clear.  It must be answered.  I’ll be in touch again in short order.  Emma and London aren’t such bad topics to talk about.

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