Good grief I love this girl, these girls. Today while Mama was off doing a repair, we took apart the picnic table. We did it real slow, without power tools. Roby doesn’t like power tools much. She’s learned to cover her ears, which is good, but I still don’t like to subject her to it much.  As little as possible, really. 

So we took our time with screwdrivers. She’d take the screws I removed and put them in little piles then knock them over then put them in little piles again.

The sticks of this thing were mostly rotting. There was a worm in one, like an earth worm. I have no idea how it got up into the table like that, but there it was. We took the worm out, and we carried each stick together, to the fire pit. I could have done with a wheel barrow, but Roby wanted to help. She’d cling to one end with both hands and put much of her weight into it. It wasn’t much of a help at all and it took ten times as long. 

She might’ve been cleaning up the picnic table, but that wasn’t what I was doing, not really. That was incidental. What I was doing was watching Roby and being thankful for her. That’s why I wanted it to take as long as possible. 

There’s a moment in the film Pirate Radio, which I saw only once where Philip Seymour Hoffman’s character is crying on the deck of the ship because it seems like he is currently living in the “good old days.” I thought that a very familiar feeling, I had it today while Roby and I threw rotten old sticks into a fire pit togehter, then went back for more.