Enthusiasm, or the lack thereof.

In spite of it being a gorgeous day here,  even though it hasn’t totally warmed up,  I can’t say that my mood is anything more than lacklustre.   That’s one way of putting it. 

I want to start off by saying though,  “Dad’s don’t always know”,  which was a thought I had this morning when I saw these two.

When I happened to notice them up ahead of me,  the little guy had taken a tumble,  and the Dad was negotiating some sort of rescue operation.  We’ll say the little person is a boy, but I’m not really sure.

Don’t get me wrong,  it’s not like the kid was in any imminent danger or anything,  but I see this sort of thing way,  way too often,  where the Dad figures he’ll do the right thing and take over looking after the kids.  And that’s a good thing.  Really.  But you just hope that the kid survives is all.

What I mean by that is, most of the Dads wouldn’t have a clue if it jumped up and bit them in the hind end.  And that’s because,  for the most part,  ‘Moms know’,  and ‘Dads don’t’. 

I think, if it had been me,  (and I’ll admit that I’m in the “Dads don’t know” group) the kid would have ended up in the buggy,  and that would be that.  He/she would fuss a little, and maybe be a bit upset,  but there wouldn’t be any of this business of taking a header into the sidewalk.  I don’t think there would have even been a first time.  Walking along and being all independent like is all fine and dandy,  at home in the living room,  but out here on the street, taking a tumble hurts.  And there’s no need for it. 

In this case,  I actually felt kind of bad for the kid,  since sometimes kids need to actually have a parent handy who knows what to do.

Like I’ve said,  I’ve seen it way too often.  A kid with a dirty,  grubby face that,  if the Mom were there,  would have never got that bad.  Or playing with the dog poop while Dad has a chat with his buddy?   I think you know what I’m talking about.  This isn’t just me either.  Travelling Companion has pointed out the odd doughhead Dad from time to time.   They’re out there.  The Dads who haven’t a clue.   I try to look away,  since it’s too hard to watch.

And yes,  I’ve seen a few distracted Moms too,  but they will by and large be looking out for each other’s kids.  Some sort of maternal instinct.   Or something.

 

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OK,  I’m glad I got that off my chest.

 

So it’s Friday,  which is a pretty good thing,  although I have this suspicion that T.C.  will be a bit late again tonight.   Yesterday was their “forecast call”,  whatever that means,  and she was there until some time around eight.  I know this since I had offered to drive her in the morning,  just as a good will gesture,  and then when I was more or less underway to pick her up again at the end of the day,  I was given the “wave off”.   Kind of like when the third base coach figures it’s not safe to try and go for home?   So I had to wait.

It’s also March ninth, a day on which one of my brothers has a birthday.  It so happens that I’m the youngest of the bunch,  coming in at a mere 55,  whereas this one older brother has just turned 66.   Seems scary to me,  but I guess he’s handling it.   So far.

Anyway,  if it’s at all possible,  I try to call certain individuals on their birthdays,  even though there may also have been a card sent,  just to chat and see how things are going. 

There might be some kibitzing and teasing about getting old and “infernal”,  as our father used to say.  That kind of thing.

The ever so slightly tricky bit is,  there’s that whole time difference thing,  which makes it a five hour difference between here and Nova Scotia.  So I have to kind of watch the clock,  and make sure I don’t roust someone out of bed at some not so very pleasant hour of the morning.  

Just the same though,  my brother didn’t sound like he was really in the best of spirits,  and it turns out it was for a good reason.

For many years now,  he has had a hobby farm in rural Nova Scotia,  in the Annapolis valley to be more precise,  and has taken great delight in playing around with draught horse for the better part of 30 years now.  At one time he had as many as 22 Percherons in his barn,  but for the last few years he’s been parting company with enough of them,  such that he now only owns four.  

The thing is though,  there’s actually a total of eight horses in his barn.

The other four don’t belong to my brother,  but rather to a young lad who lives with his family just about a half a mile up the road.  This fellow has been like a “right hand man”  for a number of years,  and was as good a horseman as any young man could be who has worked with horses for the better part of his life.

Now,  you’ll notice I said “was”? 

Well,  that’s the tough part.  It seems this young lad had come by late on a Sunday afternoon to feed the horses and such,  and was on his way home at around five thirty,  when he met with an unfortunate circumstance.

As my brother tells it,  he had just put on his good clothes to go off to church,  when the ambulance,  firefighters and an RCMP cruiser came racing up the road,  to the spot where this young fellow had managed to get himself killed under his own truck.  It was just one of those fleeting things,  where a decision was made that turned out to be fatal.  He was just a fine young man.  He was 19.

So my brother has a funeral to go to on his birthday. 

A little tough to wish a Happy Birthday I’m afraid.

 

Not sure how long the link will be up,  but these days you can find announcements on the web.   From the funeral home.

 

 

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