Vivian K. Perry here, happy to report that I’m turning fourteen today!
Where have the years gone? Time seems to be flying by ever since we moved out of the city, back when I was only three. And I’m hoping for many more years yet on this side of the sod. My staff is doing everything they can to keep me happy and healthy, I can certainly vouch for that.
Anyway, I’m off to celebrate my special day by going outside to explore Perry’s Point for the millionth time.
Thanks for visiting and have a purr-fect week! Head bumps and sandpaper kisses, ♥ Vivian ♥
The above photo was taken by my son’s significant other, Jennifer (yes, another Jennifer, but I’ll return to that topic in a bit).
Vivian was enjoying a catnap in our back garden that day. Some days during summer, she crawls into the wild rosebushes in our garden for naps that can last for hours! She hasn’t got the life, I know. Thinking of the photographer reminded me of something I wanted to share.
First, about the southpaws: I am a lefthanded person. I was one of those little girls whose grandmother tried to switch her over to righthandedness, whether I was holding a spoon, fork, crayon or pencil. But I was having none of that. No siree bob. Mom finally convinced my Nanny Lambert that it was useless for her to keep trying.
I was the only lefty in my immediate family. My parents, sister, and brother were all righthanded. But then something interesting happened.
I had: 1 GIRL and 1 BOY
My brother had: 1 BOY
My sister had: 1 BOY and 1 GIRL
Three of those boys, our only sons, were born lefthanded! What are the odds on that?
Now, back to the “Jennifers.”
There are three other Jennifers in my extended family. No, none of them were named after me (shucks).
These other Jennifers are the wives/significant others of mine and my siblings’ three sons! All three couples have been together for years. ❤
Funny how life in all its randomness created such a happenstance. Do you have any strange coincidences in your family? Many southpaws? While thinking on that, have another, more closeup look at our Vivian. Thanks again for the great capture, Jenny!
Last week while I was sifting through old papers, I found this piece of writing from decades ago. Thankfully, we have all made peace since then . . .
Once upon a time, there was a girl from St. John’s. At the age of fourteen, she moved around the bay with her family. She hated her curly hair, adored her Persian cat, and loved to get lost inside stories and songs.
When she grew older, she fell in love and got married. She was happy. She had a beautiful little daughter. Not long after, she gave birth to a handsome son. She liked to tease him and call him her little “curly boy” because he so much reminded her of herself.
A few times, when she and the husband had terrible fights, she had to take her girl and boy to her parents’ house. But the husband would always tell her how sorry he was, and she would go back because she loved him, and wanted to believe him.
Eventually, she stopped believing. She moved back to St. John’s and started a new job and a new life. She still had her beautiful daughter, but she lost her curly-boy to his dad.
She found someone who reminded her of her love for stories and songs. She loves her cats, still hates her curly hair, and misses her son with an ache that never goes away and leaves her pillow wet with tears every night. Still, she knows she is doing the only thing she can.
She hopes someday he will understand how, once upon a time, there was a girl from St. John’s who couldn’t fight anymore, and only wished for
a happily ever after.
In the midst of the pandemic as well as my deep despair over everything that is going on in the world right now, comes a welcome respite of joy and gratitude.
My only sister and her husband became grandparents last night, to a perfect little girl who was longed for and whose mom went nine days overdue before finally going into labour late yesterday morning. I am brimming with happiness for them all.
Due to Covid-19 restrictions, my nephew was only permitted to stay in the hospital during labour and delivery, so like my sister and her husband and her other grandparents, he now has to wait until mother and baby are discharged to be with them.
A side note: when this same nephew was a baby and my firstborn was a young girl, she absolutely adored him. How do I know? Back then, she had a locket. She kept a pic of him in that locket along with a pic of herself. I smile whenever I think of it.
I can’t help but recall how thrilled I was when I became a grandmother fourteen years ago, to a dear little bundle who felt like a gift from heaven for all of us. And now my memories take me back to the day my own daughter was born.
I became a mom when I was barely a woman myself. So young I was, a child having a child. It didn’t take long, though, for me to make my baby a priority and to fall in love in a way I never had before.
Eight years ago, I wrote a short poem about it.
Remembering that day in June
when you were small and pink and new
your needs so urgent, your helplessness
eclipsing all I’d planned to do
Your eyes, the bluest I’ve ever seen
gazed into mine, I drank you in
strawberry mark on your behind
that perfect dimple in your chin
The tiny o your lips would make
when, nursing done, you fell asleep
that newborn smell, the lightest heft—
who knew that love could feel so deep?