By Molly MacDonald
In my column two weeks ago, in case you missed it, I wrote that I was suffering (albeit bravely) with the flu. I have since recovered, so you needn’t send flowers. Unless, of course, you want to.
Upon my recovery, I managed to wing my way to Los Angeles once again, this time to attend grandson Dylan’s First Communion. And also to spend time with granddaughter Molly and newest grandbaby, Vincent. And, of course, their assorted parents. It was a wonderful trip with absolutely no glitches. Imagine! The only downside of that is, my numerous misadventures when traveling have provided me with fodder for Inkspots. Coming up with topics every two weeks can be a challenge, so even while I was muddling through lost wallets, missed flights, errant baggage and a deceased cell phone, I comforted myself with the thought that at least I’d have something to write about if I ever managed to get home.
Not so this time. Everything went off like clockwork. I wonder where that expression, “like clockwork” came from? Do clocks work better than anything else? In this computer age, are they still the epitome of smooth sailing? Okay, that’s a bit of a mixed metaphor, but you get what I’m trying to say, right? And now I have an annoying picture in my head of our grandfather clock sailing smoothly across the ocean to Germany, where it came from. I doubt that that will really happen, since the clock has pretty much grown roots in our living room. My sister bought it at a flea market when she lived in Germany in the 1960s. It accompanied her home and has lived here ever since.
Now I’m wondering where the expression “flea market” came from. It isn’t exactly a glamorous image, and I hate to think the grandfather clock has fleas. Or any other kind of bug. I’m not a fan of bugs. At all. I’ve been known to shriek hysterically at the sight of any insect larger than a gnat. I don’t suppose anyone is crazy about bugs, so we all have that in common, right? Although I don’t suppose everyone shrieks hysterically at the sight of them. Only a chosen few.
While on the subject of where expressions come from, I wonder where “sick as a dog” came from. When I had the flu, Seamus, my wonderful German Shepherd mix, was perfectly fine. Not sick at all. He also wasn’t much help, as I wrote then. He was only interested in a.) when he would get his next treat, and b.) when he would get his next walk in the cemetery. Riverview Cemetery is our dog park. I can’t take him to the nice dog park in town because he doesn’t like other dogs. So we walk in the cemetery where my Cordingley ancestors reside. Seamus has no problem with deceased ancestors as long as they aren’t accompanied by un-deceased dogs.
I think I should wrap up this column now in the hope that whoever is reading it hasn’t fallen asleep.
I’ll include here a picture of Vincent as he greeted me each morning when I gave him his bottle. I think Happy is his middle name.
