In Which My Wife Communes With Sheep
My lovely bride is at the Black Sheep Gathering in Eugene, Oregon for the weekend, leaving all things domestic behind for four days of spinning and natural fiber exuberance. God speed Mrs., and PLEASE do not bring home an actual sheep. If you think I’m kidding, you must not be a regular reader. The over and under is about 50/50. As I sip my coffee in her absence (thank you summer vacation!) I reflect that
Years ago, I took my girlfriend (now the author of this blog) to her first Grateful Dead concert. We drove the 100 miles to Eugene in her 1969 Volkswagen Beetle, which seemed appropriate. Upon arrival, we were pulled over by one of
About 45 miles from home, the old Beetle finally gave out and died. Like elephants knowing where to go to die, the old beast had succumbed to the hippie car graveyard after taking in one final Dead show. It wasn't too long after that Jerry Garcia passed away, changing things for the hippies of Eugene and their highly annoyed brethren forever.
Here’s hoping for happy experiences on her current trip. We hope she has a great time, and anxiously wait her return to domestic bliss…without a sheep. Please.
The following phrase was uttered during the whirlwind which was my wife packing for her trip: “I’ll call you on Friday from the festival to give you the instructions on how to post to the blog.” She said this while staring intently at her spinning wheel, trying to calculate how that would fit into our little Honda, along with all of her other belongings. (No, I didn't’t help with the packing. I have serious spatial issues (the “It-will-all-fit-despite-the-basic-laws-of-physics” syndrome), so I was asked to stay out of this one. Fair enough.) I knew this wasn't going to happen. Once she became enthralled with all things ovine, she wasn’t calling with any instructions. She did call, late (9pm +) to say good night to the smallies and tell me about her wondrous time in
To my admitted surprise, she did not bring home a sheep.