Hubby was released from the hospital on Friday, home by noon, and asleep within an hour. His body has demanded a lot of sleep since, for which I’m so very grateful. He’s not an easy one to keep down, let me tell ya!
I chuckle at his selective independence. At the same time that he was teasing me about being a babysitter that he didn’t need, he would point at an obstacle for me to move/remove/undo, expecting me to respond expediently to the sign language.
Twenty-two years will do that to a couple. Give you simple expectations of your mate and the freedom to say what you think, whether it’s right or not.
Today, Hubby is transitioning. He is exerting his right to be independent: making the coffee, putting on real jeans rather than sweatpants, talking big about what he’s going to do against doctor orders, and grilling me about my lawn mowing methodology.
Some things are just going to have to be as they are. I set the mower two inches higher when I mowed this morning; and I didn’t detail the lawn afterwards – but I didn’t do it the way he would have…
The grass is mowed, so mission accomplished!
The great thing about manual labor is that it frees your mind to delve into spaces and realms that aren’t tied directly to “what’s for supper”, or the grocery list, or the bill paying, etc.
My mind wandered past the mundane and into the archives today, and it occurred to me that I have been in transition mode for a while.
Hillbilly to Hebrew
I recall during the early years of grade school, a teacher had asked us to find out about our ancestry. So, I went to my best resource, Mom.
I asked “what are we Mom?”
Well, she must have been in fine humor that day because she answered me “hillbilly”.
And that’s what I reported back to the class.
I’m really glad that I don’t recall the reaction, as I’m certain that teacher was moved to either shock or laughter!
I thought Hillbilly was my label for a long while.
It did make sense, somewhat.
The family reunions for Mom’s side were happy, musical affairs, always including acoustic guitars, tambourines, banjos and mandolins. Bluegrass was always the theme, and quite a few of the relatives could play and sing.
There’s a small town (population 200 or so) that several of the relatives call home, so when we all assembled to enjoy each other’s company, moving from house to house – mostly barefoot – it seemed like it was “our town”.
They’re fabulous memories to have: My hillbilly memories.
For the record, it turns out I’m mostly German/English.
Whatever that means.
You see, I’ve transitioned.
I don’t want to be thought of as hillbilly
I have a preference now, and no – it’s really not Hippy either, hehehe.
Because I’ve taken the label of Hebrew – in fact, it was a label that was given me by my Priest.
Accepted; willingly, eagerly, and with great respect for the serious implications that it requires.
You see, I have agreed to keep the law of Torah as best I can in a world that is not conducive to Torah.
It’s complicated, yet breathtakingly simple.
If only Hubby were so simple to handle post surgery!