Wind, Rain, and Lightening – and a Baptism

2 Jul

Yesterday, The Squire and I drove to Hyattsville for the baptism of our newest great-nephew. Because of the storm, what should have taken 45 minutes to an hour took almost two hours.  Missed the main event, but we got there in time for communion.

Power was still out – all of our delays were caused by having to go blocks out of our way to avoid downed power lines and non-functioning traffic lights. The GPS lady was having a hissy fit, re-calculating our route every five minutes. Several tornadoes went through the area, and trees were uprooted and broken off all over the place.  Over a quarter million without power in the Baltimore area, and 3 million up and down the east coast. And, of course, every single one of them wants to be the first to have their power restored. Nothing can be done until the trees are removed, which the public refuses to grasp.

The church was like an oven. One of the ushers, bless him, came down the side aisle with cups of ice water! What a wonderful idea!

The baby’s mom had asked us to bring rolls to the party to make sandwiches, which we couldn’t get on Saturday because our local store was closed. We had to stop on the way to the party, and the only open store we could find  was a Mexican supermarket. Now, my only word of Spanish is “gracias”, which wasn’t much help. Instinctively, I reverted to the languages I do know – French, German and Cherokee.  Except that in times of stress, I mix them up. (Not that a soul would have known; they just assumed I was some crazy gringo anyway.) Ou est le brot? Pain awadulia. (I want [French] bread)  Wo is das gadu?  I was finally reduced to drawing a picture of a loaf of bread, and then a man came by with a loaf in his cart, and I grabbed it and asked “where is this”? Clutching his bread to his breast, he pointed that-a-way and scuttled  off.

One thing I like about my family is that they generally manage to be cordial to their exes. My brother-in-law’s former wife recently lost her husband, and for whatever reason, Social Security declared both of them dead. When her checks stopped coming, she called them to ask why, and they told her she was dead. On my best day, I couldn’t say, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Smith, but you are dead.” A note from her doctor didn’t do it. Her son had to take her down to the Social Security office to sign a “Resurrection Form”. (The mind boggles.) First, Ginny had to sit there while they looked at her from all angles (presumably to make sure Carl hadn’t just propped her up or something) and then she had to actually sign a form and say “I am alive”.

My nephew remarked that Jesus managed to do it without all that paper work. To which his father-in-law replied, “Well, no wonder the Romans were mad. He didn’t go through the proper channels!”

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