Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Ringing



Darlings. These are for you. I've missed you too. Thank you for your notes and letters. There are no excuses. I should have written to you more often. But, sit with me for a minute, will you? You have your coffee or cuppa? Okay then, let's visit.

I've noticed recently, there are several things which wake one from a dead sleep: real or figurative.

A phone which rings at nine at night when your baby is horrendously sick and you have finally managed to get the torrent to slow enough so that she can sleep for a minute next to you, is one of those things. Even if she were well, I hate the time I have the children cuddled in their short little-hood to be infringed upon. Who doesn't? They will only be babies for about five minutes, the next thing you know they are deeming certain forks at the table, "inappropriate."

As life has progressed, I have had all those late night calls that somewhere the world was on fire and someone needed informed: In graduate school on a paramedic unit the sound of a phone ringing in the blackness of night likely meant someone's future literally was ablaze, and in my career when bombings or acts of nature occurred and it involved colleagues or our partners, then the phone would ring and ring.

The call that woke my tiny girl and I that night was not an emergency though, at least not any of the sort I've known. But it hammered the silence in a house that had struggled for it, deserved it. And it hammered a lot of other things too.

Sometimes a call is not just a call. Sometimes it is a wake up call: Your baby is sick. You choose the important thing now; take that call and allow the day to overtake the night and the sanctity of a home. Or you take your stand for the world you have made outside your work.

All of a sudden, you realize, only in theory, why the famous line in the sand was drawn at the Alamo, and you know just where yours is located.

My line is at seven pm in the evening. After that, the caller risks waking me in more than one way.

That is to say, gorgeous ones, I'm back.

13 comments:

Acanthus and Acorn said...

Catherine,
As the mother of teens, never were truer words spoken! It really does only last about five moments. And, the moments are all so sweet and to be cherished, even the sick ones. Mine are still using forks and I'd like to think it's because I took the time to nurture and care.

Glad your back and I just love the pussy willow branches, these look incredible! A pretty reminder that mine could use a refresh.

Heather said...

Glad you are back!

BRASWELL said...

so glad you are back. I look forward to your postings. xxpeggybraswelldesign.com

Darla Mae said...

I love the pussy willows! My tree died and I have yet to replace it.I am thinking of buying a pink pussy willow tree.....maybe one of each?! Glad you are back!!

Dovecote Decor said...

Just found you! Loved the post! Drop by to see our fabulous imported French Basketeer Giveaway. To quote Andrea plastic bags are “so passé!”

Best,
Liz

Karen said...

Welcome back!

Sharon Crute said...

It's your eloquent voice, inspiring, graceful, introspective, intelligent. I don't always let you know I've been here but do know that I have, quietly, and I've been moved.

The Countess of Nassau County said...

Oh honey I've missed you!!!

Jane and Lance Hattatt said...

Hello:

We are newcomers to the world of blogging so I hope that you will forgive our not knowing that you have been absent.Still, it is good that you are back and we shall look forward to reading your future posts [as Followers]!

ADG said...

You've given up on blogging no?

The Graceful Wife said...

I love your blog. You have such a good head on your shoulders! Thanks for all the terrific postings!

angelo h said...

Beautiful photo. I think that is perfect decor for my mantel. :)

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The French Tangerine said...

Can't believe I have just found you.. not sure how I could've missed you, but thrilled to be on board.
What a great blog and wonderful writer you are..
Jan