ramblings

Finally I've changed my weight ticker on the sidebar.  I'm gardening now, so I'm much more active; a couple of pesky pounds came off, in spite of our Easter gluttony.  This was not my normal weigh day, but since I missed the Monday weigh-in, I decided to do it today.  
It's cool right now, but I can almost guarantee we'll be going for a motorcycle ride later; the hour-by-hour forecast says it should be 58 degrees by eleven o'clock, and if Cliff sleeps until ten as usual, that's just about when we'll be heading out.  He doesn't work Fridays, so we should get our fill of riding.  
Last night I thought of something from my childhood:  As far back as I can remember, my mom told me stories about what a fussy baby I was in the evenings.  I had "the six-month colic".  She explained to me that babies with colic had it either for three months, six months, or nine months.  An old wives' tale, of course, but I soaked it in.  I loved hearing stories about my infancy.  Mother told me that she, Daddy, and my sister Maxine (age sixteen) took turns walking me for about three hours every evening while I fretted, puked and cried.  She asked the doctor if there was anything she should do to help my evening bellyaches; he said as long as I was gaining weight and doing fine on her breast milk, I was healthy, so not to worry.  I'd outgrow it.  This was the same country doctor, by the way, who once told them, "Don't worry about what she eats, just as long as she eats."   
You won't hear doctors saying that today.
For some reason it made me feel loved and very special to picture my family walking the floor with me every evening.  It still does today.  I like to think of them carrying me around in the living room with the switchboard in the corner, perhaps singing to me as they walked.  
Mother showed me how they carried me:  They'd face me forward, sit my bottom on one hand, and put the other hand on my belly.  I will attest to the fact that this is a sure-fire way to make a crying baby hush.  It's also good because when he spits up, it isn't on your shoulder or down your neck... it goes on the floor, or at the worst, on your hand.  

It must have sunk in pretty well, because in this picture, I'm about two years old, and I'm holding my doll in the same manner my family held me when they walked me with "the colic".  
By the way, notice the screen door in the background.