An anniversary

Today is my parents’ anniversary. They married in a private ceremony in the living room of our new home just after I turned 6.

I was in Boulder on this date 14 years ago. My son was 2 and my daughter was 9 months old.

As I did every few days, I called to visit with Nana. My grampa said she couldn’t come to the phone. She was sick.

From 1,000 miles away, I worried all the time. Too sick to talk on the phone was awfully sick.

I had to drag it out of him, but I learned that she had thrown up black and bloody stuff, and then collapsed.

My call interrupted his trying to scrub the stain out of the white bathroom carpet. It never did come out. I will withhold my comments about having a white bathroom carpet in the first place.

I hung up and called mom at work. She left immediately.

Auntie Martha, whom Mom had called, had gotten to my grandparents’ house in five minutes and called an ambulance.

I grabbed the kids and got on the next flight to California. I was there by 5 p.m.

My poor parents spent their 20th anniversary with me and babies all over their house.

Nana was OK. She had taken an aspirin and made a hole in her stomach.

Happy anniversary Mom and Dad.

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