Last Saturday we drove to Charleston for my mother-in-law’s 90th birthday celebration.
So did several thousand other folks–not for the party, but for Opening Day of a tennis tournament.
Dearly Beloved has three brothers. Put in terms the way we usually hear it, I’ll quote mother-in-law’s most oft said line: I had four boys, you know.
Four perfect boys. Just ask her.
We had to be reintroduced to some of the younger members of the family at the gathering, we see them so rarely. Our loss, because they are delightful kids. The 12-year-old niece was captivated with Dearly Beloved, telling him, “Daddy said that you’re the smart one, but I think you’re the funny one, too.”
I’m throwing that in because I often make him sound like a jackass, which bothers him not at all, and because I’m about to do it once again.
The last time we came to the beach house-not-on-the-beach, I asked him to cut down a bay tree which I never should have planted in the first place. I had no idea the darn thing was going to think it was a pine; I had simply wanted a few bay leaves now and then.
Instead of cutting it down to the ground as I asked, he left a three-foot trunk. I don’t know why, because it looked terrible– like we’d planted a baseball bat.
I went back to Charlotte and he stayed on at the beach for a few days so that he could play golf. When we talked on the phone, I reminded him that he needed to do something about that silly-looking tree trunk.
“Don’t worry,” he told me. “I fixed it.”
Oh yeah. . . he fixed it.
Niece is right. He IS the funny one. The smart one?