I arrived home at my parents’ house on Friday evening, around 6pm. It was still light out. My father appeared out of one of the sheds clad in a feed company baseball cap and filthy lab coat over his clothes (his standard uniform when working in the garage, which is his real home). He came over, said hello, and promptly walked around to the back of my car and stared at the bumper. I joined him and pointed out the three new scratched spots. He agreed that that wasn’t bad at all, considering the worst case scenario of being sandwiched between two 18-wheelers, one of which is moving toward you. Oh, and THEN I got a welcome home hug. Then he spent the next hour or so changing my tires. Then he spent a chunk of this morning “going over” Giuseppe, which involved checking all fluids and identifiable parts, greasing things, topping up things, using the long-handled scrubber brush to clean the snow off the car (which afforded the opportunity to clean off the road dirt at the same time), and cleaning the windows. Heh. Do I know my Daddy or what? I also got Mom to hem two pairs of pants for me. (I am das gute Kind. In exchange I installed the digital camera software, explained how to use GTalk, made half the food for the remainder of their Weekend With Company, emptied the dishwasher, and tidied the kitchen.)
I spent this morning in my mother’s kitchen, chopping veggies and assembling lasagne and whatnot and singing along to 50s songs and old country. (Mom had the cd player on random.) My friends would be appalled at some of the music I know. Hehe!