Watching: The first A&E Hornblower movie, which I taped last night. It's been awhile since I've read the Forester novels, so I'm not sure whether it is a faithful adaptation, but I do like Ioan Gruffudd, the young Welsh actor playing Hornblower. He does an admirable job of capturing not only the shyness and inexperience of the young midshipman, but also his intelligence, courage, and resolve.

Blossoms: Grape hyacinth, johnny-jump-ups, and tiny, white star-like wildflowers that I don't know the name of are blooming in the open lots. A couple of weeping cherry trees along Princeton Pike are blossoming. Weeping cherries always makes me think of Tab's father who used to love watching them bloom every year.

Tumbled

January 1979. The worst month of the worst year of my life. My family had moved to Maine the summer before. The six of us were crammed into a tiny, two-bedroom mobile home, while my father took his time finishing our house. It was a long, cold winter filled with way too many unpleasant memories to dwell on. I've tried hard to forget most of it, but one thing I can't forget: In January, my father suddenly stopped speaking to me and my sister Lori.

It took us awhile to that he wasn't talking to us; he was a mercurial, unbalanced man, with obsessive-compulsive tendencies and was often angry about something. But this was different, a glacial coldness that lasted for days. Finally we asked our mother what was wrong with Dad. She told us that Dad was offended because Lori and I had laughed at the half-time show during the Super Bowl. Since he himself liked the show, he took umbrage at our mocking it. Of course. Makes perfect sense to freeze out your oldest daughters for weeks because of some imagined slight, doesn't it?

For a long time afterward, whenever I thought about this incident or talked about it with close friends, I always put a kind of comic spin on it: "Can you imagine something so ridiculous??!!" Compared to some of the physical abuse my father meted out to my sisters and me over the years, the silent treatment wasn't such a terrible thing. Many years later I was reminiscing about that horrible winter with my mother, and I suprised myself by breaking into uncontrollable tears. I hadn't known until that moment how much his not speaking to us had wounded me.

Tab and I talked last night, and I learned why he has been so moody. He was hurt by something I said in an argument we had last Tuesday night. While I was sorry that I had hurt him and apologized for it, I was unnerved to think he's remained upset about it for so long. I get mad quickly, but I get it over quickly, too. I realize everyone handles feelings differently, but it bothers me to think that someone might stay mad at me for days. All day today I have been off-kilter, and I think it is because this incident reminds me too much of that awful month in Maine all those years ago.

Tonight I realized I am not just sad but angry at Tab. Mad at him for holding back from telling me what was wrong, for not giving me the opportunity to understand and apologize but instead taking out his anger and hurt on all of us for five days. I really want us to be open about what is bothering us. We talked again tonight about the need to tell each other when something is wrong. I am feeling more hopeful about everything. Our marriage is the most important thing in my life. I love him with all my soul, and I want us to be able to work through problems as they arise and not let misunderstandings destroy our relationship.

I spoke to my mother in Maine tonight about what has been going on, and she had an analogy I liked: "It's like you are in one of those rock tumblers that Pop-pop used to have. It's polishing off all the rough edges and what will be left is a thing of beauty."

"And a joy forever, right, Mom?"

Despite my flippant remark, I did appreciate her words.

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