hopeless romantics . . . or rather hopeless at remembering.

 

The other night I had asked Alexa to set an alarm for yesterday morning as we would be picking pears . . . or so we believed.  I had glanced at the calendar and realized that yesterday was mine and Richard’s wedding anniversary.  I started toward the back room to ask him if he wanted to do anything special to celebrate.  I don’t know if I even made it back to the room where he was working on watches.  I am so losing it.  We both are.

          Both of us forgot about it being our anniversary.  We went down to Medford to pick pears which we normally do at the end of August.  No smoke filled the air!  It was great!  But we wondered: Do the pears prefer smoky weather?  I have never seen so many puny pears EVER.  The majority were not even pickable.  What?  It was rather disappointing.  Two people climbed ladders and dropped them down to those who would catch and gently place in their bags.  Rings had been handed out and most pears missed their mark.  I took a few pictures before getting recruited to fold boxes.  I liked that job.

          We did stay longer than normal but have stayed longer if the pears were their normal size.  It wasn’t until we were almost home when we received a text from Ryan wishing us a happy anniversary.  Oh, yea.  Talk about your hopeless romantics . . . or rather hopeless at remembering.

          Facebook reminders of celebrations past . . . many with other nostalgia unrelated to the anniversary itself but anniversary of something else – like the planes crashing into the twin towers just two days after we were married.  Twelve years ago I had gone to Mrs. Cavanaugh’s candies with the second grade field trip. 

Evidently it was “Karen” day one year – I think before 2020 when the name Karen seemed to get a bad rap. That was the same year I put some presidential trivia online for two months.  Ten years ago my mom was dwindling between this earth life and the other side.