I washed the Prius this morning, which really has nothing to do with anything…..except for the fact that, you know, one thing leads to another. A clean Prius led to wanting to put it back into the garage. As most of you know, we live on the property where I grew up (from age 6 until I moved into my own apartment at age 22). And there isn’t a paved driveway.
An unpaved driveway means the car brings lots of dirt into the garage. So I decided to sweep out the garage, before I put the Prius away. But I couldn’t find a broom anywhere other than in Ray’s shaping area (surfboard shaping) behind the garage. I was barefoot. And I wondered out loud if I really wanted to navigate the ground between the back of the house and the broom without shoes. Ants. Stickers. Ray recently fought with a cactus back there and the cactus won. But I went for it. And I took note of the apple trees on my way.
Feet, none the worse for wear, and sweeping out the garage, I noticed my name and hand-print and the date the foundation was laid imprinted in the cement. It was right there in the front corner, by the garage door opening. No surprise it was there. I knew that. But I was surprised it was 1959, because we bought the house in 1957 and I don’t remember not having a garage for two years. I had pretty small hands when I was eight.
I could vaguely remember my dad initiating that sequence of events which left the evidence that I was indeed there on that day. And I imagined him noticing it throughout the years as he walked by it several times each day. He lived in this house until the day he died on July 11, 1992.
And I was the “apple of his eye.” I know what that feels like because I have children. And now my daughter knows what that feels like because she has Everett. Everett Paul Ferraro. My dad’s name was Paul Everett Palmer. He would SO love his great-grandson!