Today is my stepdaughter’s 28th birthday. We have no idea how that happened, nor I any idea how this chatty—and sometimes mouthy—scrawny 5-year-old weaseled her way into my heart 23 years ago when her dad and I first met; from a headstrong, determined, too-bright-for-her-own-good little child to a determined, intelligent, and inquisitive adult full of love and possibility. We couldn’t be more proud of her but sometimes wish she didn’t live an ocean away. Travel restrictions and quarantine rules continue to keep us apart.
It is also, of course, Cinco de Mayo—commemorating a single battle in the Franco-Mexican War in 1862. For a lot of Americans, though, it’s an excuse to drink Dos Equis and gorge on tacos, enchiladas, and burritos (no, I don’t have a problem with that). It’s also World Math Day (or as the Brits say, maths). I don’t do numbers—I’m more of a word person—but I’m grateful for those who can cope with them, especially my accountant.
More digging today (for the contractors, not me), and the backhoe broke down again. They managed to get it working long enough to haul it away. The guys started hand-digging one of the egress windows, and I was amazed at how deep they got with just a couple of shovels. Typically, I laugh when a television show or film depicts a person with nothing more than a spade digging a large hole for whatever reason (usually to bury a dead body) and how quickly that person can create a grave-size trench in unforgiving soil. Maybe I shouldn’t laugh, since it appears possible to achieve.
Had a long and pleasant conversation with Mamacita, who got a kick out of my describing the deep caverns now surrounding my house and the broken-down backhoe and piles of dirt which turned to mud after the rain. “Come to expect this sort of thing for the rest of your remodeling project,” the wise one predicts, “Nothing is ever done on time.” I fear she may be right.