The Father floated back home again today at about 2- a few hours before I expected him, days later then planned.

Mr.Jo is fixing the wood rot, The Boy’s bike is repaired, the horse is not going to die ( wonder where The Girl gets her rather melodramatic flair ? ), the gift for The Baby’s boyfriend’s birthday party arrived just in the nick of time, the bus strike is over and despite having to do a last moment triage yesterday of important things to do ( which saw the trip to the big grocery store fly out of the window), we have enough toilet paper to last for a day or two more.

After two weeks in India, we had a very Dutch dinner this evening and shall all loll about, eating sausage rolls of various sorts ( who really needs toilet paper ? One can fake that, but not a tasty family snack on the first night home) as we watch football.

Here at Casa Kitchen we shall be rooting for Portugal.

Yes, the long, long days of being a single mother ( without a car) are over.

Thank God it is Thursday.

I must admit that yesterday I simply fell apart.

The cherubs have been behaving like three Pit Bulls locked together in a shower cell for the past few weeks and then that darn, vicious, bloody dog fight.

I was at a loss as to how I could handle The Father being away for almost two weeks. And it showed.

The Girl gave me a big hug and kissed me. It made me cry, for it has been many years since she and I have had physical contact.

The Father had me lay with him on the couch, as we all watched Jurassic Park together, even though I had just washed my hair and his shirt must have become quite wet.

After many a discussion, it was decided that The Boy would wake me up in the morning, at 6, that The Girl ( who is on *sick leave* from school ) would walk Elvis at 8.

I did not hear The Father leave in the wee hours of this morning, but at 5.30, I heard The Boy moving about. Must have to take a leak , I thought.

But no, when he came into my bedroom at 6, he led me downstairs. He had turned on the coffee pot and by my chair at the table was a steaming cup of coffee and the newspaper.

The Girl crawled out of her nest and walked Elvis at 8. Then she went back to sleep, she is still sleeping, as I write.

All that I can see is an aura of love surrounding me.

Which rather startles me, I must admit.

As The Father takes off for 11 days in India on Friday, the question comes up : who is going to walk Elvis and when. After I was dragged across a cobblestone street when two little yappers would not stop yapping at Elvis, I have avoided walking him alone.

As he is becoming rather Faustian in girth, I have started a long walk after dinner, and usually The Boy and The Baby come with me.

This evening, no one would join me except The Baby, and so, as we marched out of our walled garden, I told her that her job was to be the scout, to keep a lookout for other dogs.

All went well, we passed through the tunnel of bats and Elvis took a leak on the right, just as he does on every single walk. From the corner of my eye, I could see a man and a dog about 100 meters away from us on the left. I kept Elvis walking on the right side of the tunnel and asked The Baby to turn around and see if the dog was on a leash ( leash law here). She turned around to look, but before she could give me the low down, a silver grey, shepherd size dog was standing nose to nose in front of Elvis.

We could see the rather Faustian owner jogging over to us. Elvis was wagging his tail, but the other dog was stiff as a board, his tail straight up in the air. I pointed out to The Baby that this was a very aggressive posture, and sure enough, the dog attacked Elvis. The Baby ran out of the way and I dropped the leash. Sure enough, a full fledged dog fight started, nothing funny about it.

The owner reached us and I apologized, in my wishy washy way saying that Elvis was a big dog and I was just a little person. He tried to pull his dog out of the fight and eventually did so. I picked up Elvis’s leash and brought him back a few meters and told him to sit, which he did.

And then he did something very out of character : he pulled away from me ( I dropped the leash right then and there), went over to the other dog ( who was laying by his owner), bit the dog on the tail and then came back to me.

I asked the man if his dog was ok, and once again apologized, in my wishy washy way. He was very nice about the whole matter, nearly apologizing himself. Perhaps he did, it was all such a blur, so fast.
But the fact of the matter was, he did not have his dog on a leash and his dog attacked Elvis.

And then we walked on, moving out of sight as we reached a corner of the dike. The Baby was very upset, almost crying, but I managed to turn it around and by the time we reached our little walled garden, we were smiling and saying, well, at least we have something interesting to tell and ha, ha, Elvis got the last bite.

So much for my first attempt- after many months- of walking Elvis by myself ( strength wise).

For a few years before I had The Girl, Dad and Wicked Step- Mother lived in Germany. The Father and I would drive down there almost every weekend, and once more, I went home again ( you know, that place where you hang your hat).

I was about three months pregnant with The Girl when they decided to move to Alabama : Wicked Step- Mother wanted to be near her own mother, who was in her 80’s. I suppose that if they had known that Granny E. would still be driving her tractor 14 years later, they might have hung around a bit longer, but- of course- they don’t print that sort of news in the daily astrology column of most newspapers now, do they ? In fact, Granny is pushing 100 now, and was doing fine and well until her older sister died two years ago.

During the past 16 years, Dad and Wicked Step- Mother ended up caring for a lot of Grannies: Granny E., Bucky ( Dad’s mother), and Frenchy ( my mother’s mother- boy, I am so glad that they pulled her out of that pisspot of a nursing home she was in up in Detroit…).

Now, one of the things Dad told me was that as Bucky and Frenchy neared their just rewards, they both had an irresistible urge to *tell all*, of their hidden , deep and dark secrets, of their regrets and of the things that they wished had done differently.

I am now beginning to believe that this is a stage that all go through, as the light leading to the pearly gates nears.

Now, we have been going over to Alabama now for a number of summers. It started innocently enough, Dad and I chinking glasses of gin together ( not that I like gin, but he drinks it because he recalls his Irish Grandma sneaking into the kitchen for a nip or two as an evening progressed) and I would ask him about the family ( you know, me and that whole Kerlin stuff).

This all progressed through a number of summers. The next step, was his deep desire to tell me what my mother was really like, as a person, not just as a mother. Ok. Nothing bad there, but also nothing that I knew she wanted me to hear.

And then came his stories. At first they were ok, I have adored Dad since I first opened my eyes. First there were his stories about being a Ranger, of the different wars he had been in and how he felt about the experiences.

But then he had an irresistible urge to *tell all* about himself. As one summer melted into the next, the revelations became harder and harder to accept with a loving comment, although my love for him forgave him everything.

And last Summer, I simply learned too much, heard too much, saw too much.

I came home filled with rage.Why ? I suppose that I felt that all that I had been told had taken away my memories of my childhood. I knew that I grew up in a big, fat lie.

Of course, I said nothing to Dad, I am far too wishy washy for that, but I raged and lashed out for months after I returned home.

And I told The Father that if I never saw Dad again, I would not care.

But my own Rosebud has brought me back, has made me see what I can choose to remember : my memories or his.

Almost every day, I hold my Rosebud, and in her, I find the truth.

Last night, The Father asked me if I had heard from my Dad lately.

Oh, I said, I called him about a week ago.

Oh, I said, I don’t know that he will call me again.

And I resumed watching the TV show once more.

Imagine that.