50th Wedding Anniversary Party, Part 2: Blowing a Fuse

Meanwhile Jill finished traying some snacks with a friend I hadn't seen since a teenager. Earlier that morning Gail came to my parents' church--the first time she'd been to church since her husband died in January. She had cried through most of the service, remembering the man who lost his life to Lou Gehrig's disease. Being around us, she said, was very comforting. She absolutely loves my parents who gave her rides to church and a cleaning job all through her teen years.




Look out that window. See the snow? You'd think it would deter old people from going out, but it didn't.

And look at that those young people trying to help their stressed-out mother.(I hesitate to put this butt shot on the internet, but it reminds me of how my children helped out and encouraged me in a pinch.)

What was the pinch? Coffee urns not working! Twice we blew a fuse from an unforeseen draw on the electricity: the photographer had two very bright floor lights and a laptop plugged in. We had two coffee urns, a hot water urn, and a crock pot of apple cider plugged in. ( I was about to "blow a fuse" of my own because cold people would be seeking hot coffee very soon,)

Once again, my quick-thinking and capable husband came to the rescue, flipped some switches, and we were back in business, except with the coffee urns spread on east and west sides of the room to ease up the circuits. Telling guests that "regular coffee is over there" felt like telling them to swim the English Channel, and I let that bother me. My daughter told me not to stress about it, but I did. "Only in America" is what I had to whisper to myself. It's what I say when I realize what a spoiled brat I am to be in culture that "hmphs!" about the mildest inconveniences.

Next time I think I'll bow out of not only anything technical, but anything electrical as well. It triggered a hot flash. Only in America.