Swings and Birthdays
I knew I should have hurried to work, but somehow, I couldn't move from my porch. I mean, the day was lovely, no sign of snow or even a chill in the air, and I did have a brand-new porch swing to obsess over. (Or would Oliver tell me it should be 'a brand-new porch swing over which I could obsess?') I might have dreamed the whole morning away had it not been for Hazel, and the if not unwelcome, definitely confounding interloping of Steve into my Denver birthday.
Almost a year of nothing, and Steve sends me a birthday card. Why? I thought I was pretty transparent the last time we met. Oh no, Steve. Did you return from a posting somewhere and miss the door mat you used to walk over? Hmm, enough. I absolutely didn't need Steven Marek's presence on my porch swing. Time to pick up all of my worldly goods (well the contents of my desk) and head to the DLO.
Ah, the DLO, our strange Postables club house, full of books, bears, packages (with and without brown paper and string) and my three favourite people. Rita, who wished me a joyous 'happy birthday' as soon as I walked through the door, Norman who congratulated me on being older (Norman, you and I are going to have a serious chat about how to take to girls some time soon) and Oliver, who stiltedly issued an invitation to dinner on behalf of the trio compete with at least one bounce. At least I got a just for me smile when I mentioned not wanting to leave my porch.
But then I realised that I had dropped Steve's card. I didn't really want it that badly, but I also didn't want anyone at the branch reading its contents (and possibly sharing them with Oliver), so I sprinted to retrace my steps through the sorting floor. That was when the drama began.
I found my card in the possession of someone I did not know. A distinguished gentleman who could quote 1953 westerns at me unfortunately. A gentleman who was looking for Oliver. A man who Oliver obviously knew and wanted nothing to do with. Oliver's …. Dad? Huh.
Wow! To say the Oliver was not happy to see his father would be an understatement. He was at his snarky worst. What did he say? 'Sadly, there are choices that people make every day for which there are no explanations'. Yeh, Oliver, I think I got that you were not talking about the letter we were trying to decipher. I had wondered about Oliver's family over the past few months (I mean he has been eloquent about his grandfather, but his actual parents have never really rated a mention.) – you know, meeting them, wondering what they might think of me – that kind of thing. It seems I am not the only one with a problematic paternal relationship. I hoped his trip to Golden might bring him some calm.
We were trying to deliver a letter that was addressed to someone named Phoebe
Meanwhile, Rita and I were left to try and chase down a dog named 'Liberty'. I decided that if the boys could have a little field trip, we could too. I kidnapped Rita, ostensibly to see someone about a dog, but really because I needed a little girl chat.
Upon arrival, I wondered if maybe the Animal Protection Society was not the ideal place for a little girl time. That lizard seriously had it in for me, and the parrot made an unwelcome third in our conversation. It turns out, Rita had as much to share as I did! Okay, she might have had more. I mean, she told Norman how she felt. Aww. Way to go Rita. She didn't let nothing happen to the two of them! And Norman kissed her! Now she is bemoaning how awkward the night ended. Yup. I feel you, Rita! I wonder what Norman and Oliver had to say about their Friday nights. Did Norman open up to Oliver? Did Oliver open up to Norman?
Upon Oliver and Norman's return, we went to the Mailbox Grille for my birthday dinner. Hmm. I can honestly say I have never had a birthday party like it. Rita and Norman seemed to be off on their own tangent, and Oliver proved that he is the worst – I mean the world's worst - at picking up hints. FYI Oliver, if a woman asks you to come over to help with a little DIY project, maybe you should not suggest that before work is the ideal time for a visit. I had visions of a nice glass of wine enjoyed on my porch swing once Oliver had adjusted whatever needed adjusting. Maybe even watching afternoon turn to twilight while listening to some romantic sounding tunes? Nope. Oliver is going to begin the day with carpentry. Sigh.
Perhaps that was payback for my …. I nearly wrote meddling, but maybe invested interest in Oliver's life sounds better? Yes, payback for my interest. Things with his father did not go well. How is it that he was so sure that I should read the card my father sent me last year, opening myself up to that pain, letting forgiveness into my heart, when he was not willing to do the same. Oliver's dad seems desperate to talk to him, and Oliver is being pretty awful to him. I wonder what past hurt caused such a sizeable rift? I don't know what went on, but Oliver's dad doesn't seem a villain at all.
Now, before I sleep, I need to write something about the letter we began to unravel today. Norman and Rita, in their own individual and unique fashion, deciphered the name on the envelope. Phoebe A MI… was in fact Phoebe Amiddon, the daughter of missing soldier Lt Randilynn Amiddon. Did this mean that Randy was alive? Or was it proof she was dead? How were we to pass on such a damaged and unclear message to a fourteen year old girl who was faithfully tending to the yellow ribbon around a tree as she waited for the return of her mother?
Goodnight diary. DIY, scorched letters… lost fathers. I wonder what else tomorrow will bring?