Apoclalyptic country drop-in or ordo Finanjo

It takes a lot of work to move into a new place. Outside of the simple act of physically hauling all of your stuff, loading and unloading it, there is the evaluation of it all. Here is a case in point. When L. and I were first married, she decorated in “mild country” with hearts, apples and bears. Over time, most of this has been sent back to the shadows from which it came, but some pieces avoided the axe—until now. Now, as we open boxes and sift their contents, there is a reckoning. This is the Great and Terrible Day for every frame, every candle holder, every ounce of bric-a-brac and nostalgia from little plastic cards with inspirational messages to a miniature butter churn.

The new world (ordo novum) is somewhat like the old one, sage and burgundy do appear, but now in deeper, wine-colors. There is a certain commonality; both my Mother- and Sister-in-Law have picked up on the move to Napa in kitchen décor. You get the feeling of great, subterranean tides at work, such as those which design men’s ties. Gone are solid colors in favor of late-80’s geometric shazam. Pleats, however, will forever fatten the male midriff unless something truly messianic is done to stop it.

The in-laws have taken to stopping by. This is totally new. L. stopped by just last week, and everyone got a kick out of it. Continents or oceans have always separated everyone from each other; stopping by is like the miracle of train travel to 18th century humanity. I would probably stop by, too, if I had grandkids so close by. The thinking is as follows: “I could be here in my home folding laundry that only I and my wife/husband care about (and then only tacitly), or I could be playing with my grandchild.”

Caleb can sit up now. He can also execute a sophisticated combination of rolls and lunges, scoots and twists to reach any geographic location he desires. When he gets himself stuck under the couch, he cries until someone pulls him out. And, occasionally, he barfs for no reason. He did this yesterday, during the first “stop by” by afore-said in-laws.

Kara has run into her first taste of ordinary school life. Despite the “Christian school” label, her Kindergarten is showing its spots. One little girl, I’ll just call her Pushy Petunia, tries to run the show. If I understand Kara’s puzzle-like descriptions, this girl tells Kara what to do and excludes her from play. Mentally, I’ve given Pushy the forearms of a merchant marine along with sweaty, black body hair. She’s probably a sweet-looking little girl whose parents want her to reflect good values. And then there’s the teaching response. When L. brings this to the teacher’s attention, Mrs. Find-a-New-Job (Finanjo) makes it fairly plain that Kara’s problems are Kara’s fault. This kind of attitude reminds me of, say, the quality experiences I had in Tennessee’s public schools. Never mind the woman that ran the car inspection station, a 2nd year transplant from Cape Cod, who begged me not to send Kara to public schools here, “because they are years behind Massachusetts schools.” Well, Maam, when it comes to Christian love at Christian schools, I have to say I agree. The love and care that Beacon (Christian Academy) showed for every child is totally absent from the remarks made by Mrs. Finanjo, or the attitude allowed to fester in Pushy Petunia.