The Return of the Magi

When John packed away the Christmas decorations in January, our three wise men were missing. I wrote about it (click here to read), and we continued to look for them in all kinds of crazy places. We knew that if we found them, it would take us by surprise.

John opened a drawer in the credenza looking for candles. Lo and behold, there they were! All three were tucked neatly beside the candles.

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He had no memory of putting them there. He began to wonder if he had stowed them himself, planning to take them out on Epiphany. Well, this year there was no star in the East shining in that dark place. Our Messianic heralds were mute and still. I find it amusing that the whole time we were looking for them, they were a couple of inches below their allotted place. In the photo, John’s hand is about where they should have been kneeling before the Christ Child.

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It may be my imagination, but they seemed to be a bit shrunken. I set them on the table that was decorated for Flag Day, hoping they would perk up and stretch a bit. Surely they are enjoying this out-of-season holiday, considering they would normally be packed in the stifling attic!

Wedding

Many weddings are alike. The bride wears a long white dress, and there is special music. Groomsmen appear much more formal than in everyday life, and if the women are lucky, they can wear their gowns for other occasions. There are a few tears sprinkled over smiling faces. Somewhere in the congregation is a person who pulls everything together and manages to smooth over any irregularities. The solemn ceremony is followed by a terribly noisy gathering where a white cake is cut by the newlyweds and smeared over each other’s faces. Did I get everything?

What sets every wedding apart are the individuals who play the roles. We met our bride and groom at a funeral last year, the groom being the son of John’s first cousin. The attendants related to the groom were familiar to us, and we were pleased to meet other relatives and friends of the couple.

The toy camera, being tiny and discreet, took photos during the ceremony and two after it.

Others taken afterward were a bit beyond Toy’s abilities, but valued despite their flaws.

I went back and found a photo taken of John’s cousin Harold at our rehearsal dinner. Harold was the ten-year-old in this picture taken 52 years ago. The current picture of John and Harold was taken during the recent reception. He aged quite well, don’t you agree?

Waffle House

The hotel did not have free breakfast, so we went to the Waffle House around the corner. I had the best seat in the place where I could watch the staff working. What a beehive of activity! The wait staff almost ran, rushing from table to a point where they shouted orders at the cooks. At least three cooks stood at their stations, slinging food about efficiently. Their feet hardly moved. The man I could see best was the one who continuously cooked waffles, made toast, and buttered it. The next man cooked eggs and bacon, lifting a heavy bacon press from time to time to remove cooked slices. I have no idea how they remembered what to put on the plates. Grits were added last by the waitress. She used a dipper to plop a pool of grits on the side. I was amused, too, by the menu listing city ham. City ham? What was that? Then it came to me. We were in the South where country ham is often a salty choice. This made you think about the specific kind of ham you were going to get. At the edge of the dining area, the waitresses scraped the scraps into a garbage can. There was no room or time for a bus boy to operate.

John saw another quiet drama at the door. A couple came in, spoke to a waitress, and went back out. She handed them mugs of coffee outside the door, where they smoked cigarettes and sipped coffee until a table was ready. He didn’t think that would happen in the North.

I love eating slowly, savoring every bite. That was hard to do with the wait staff whizzing by and shouting orders, the cooks slinging food, and the line at the door growing longer by the minute. Our seats had no chance to cool before a foursome was sitting down to order. I couldn’t think of digesting my food until we were out of sight of that whirl wind.

How would you peg this establishment? The food was fast in a sit-down environment. Would its genre be fast down food?

Generation Gap

We used to hear people talk about the generation gap all the time, but I don’t remember hearing it lately. Going to a wedding rehearsal dinner brought it all back. We were the oldest ones there – third tier generation, I’d guess. John’s cousin, father of the groom, was almost one step below, and the young people were just a bit older than our grandchildren.

The first thing that hit me was height. Those young people were tall! Of course, John and I have shrunk an inch or so, exacerbating the difference. They were tall and thin. The women wore beautiful short dresses with flared skirts. No one my age could have gotten away with that.

Hair color was another difference. I think there were two women in the whole room with long dark hair, lustrous hair. I was the only one in full, natural gray. There was one man with naturally blond hair. The rest of the men were dark or graying.

The older two sets mingled well. Most of us had never met each other before. I loved watching the exuberance of the post-college group. They knew each other well, had a recent shared history, and teased each other constantly. They focused on celebrating the marriage of dear friends. The closeness will be challenged now, with various ones moving out of the area. We found out that our bride and groom will be moving to Florida after the honeymoon. They will keep up better than our generation, but distance will change their closeness.

Everyone was offered the same food and drink. I think young people ate less and drank more. The glaring difference was coffee. There was none! Coffee was always the obligatory quiet end to dinner for us. It was certainly not important to twenty-somethings. We got senior coffees at MacDonalds to take back to our quiet hotel room.

New Respect for Stonehenge Movers

Grandson David was talking about quartz in front of neighbor Amy, and she told him she had a big rock he should see. This was quartz on steroids. She offered it to us, saying it would look good in our garden. You see, Amy has a vested interest in our garden. She and Ron lived at the end of the street several years before the first owners moved a modular house next door. Amy and neighbor Shawn shared cuttings and plants with the owners of our house, and that is why our garden looks as good as it does now. Amy also knew I needed lots of guidance. I was a pre-novice, totally disinterested gardener two years ago.

David loved the small boulder, and his enthusiasm motivated John to accept Amy’s offer. We brought tools to Amy’s yard, meeting her on her mower. The most useful thing I did was to stand on the shovel that had pried the rock up while the men hoisted it onto the hand truck.

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060816 Moving the rock (2).JPG — Referring to the camera, John said, “Put that thing down and come here!”

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The fellows pulled that heavy, heavy load up a grassy slope and attached it to the mower. Amy drove it to our house.

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While I tried to decide where it should be placed, they made the decision to offload it at the only spot the mower could get to. Wise move. We may shift it a few inches, but it won’t go far.

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What a struggle it had been! I now have a very healthy respect for prehistoric people who moved enormous bluestones to Stonehenge. I asked everyone to pose for a victory photo.

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Amy also gave us a bench for the pergola. One more trip with the mower, and the bench joined Amy’s birdbath under the wicked wisteria. The scene is deceptively peaceful, don’t you think?

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The Reluctant Gardener

When we moved almost two years ago, I had no intention of working outside. I’d been married for 50 years and never had to tend a garden. The problem was, we ate most of our meals on the screened porch overlooking the previous owner’s flower garden. It wasn’t too bad the first summer, but the next season it was a mess. I had to look at it, sometimes three times a day. I was told all I had to do was to keep the weeds down, but how would I know what was weed and what wasn’t? They don’t come out of the ground with tags saying, “Pull me.”

I began going out there, discarding what I thought looked ragged. I had the loyal support of three master gardeners, two of them right next door. If they had a mission of making me into a gardener, they had an uphill fight. I doubt I’ll ever consider myself a real garden woman, but I’m beginning to wonder. We had been away from home for six days. Within one hour of unpacking the car, I found myself in the garden dead-heading the roses and looking hopefully to see if any of the seeds I’d planted had sprouted. Sounds like the gardening disease had gotten me. Further, I was inordinately pleased to see leaves identifiable as four-o’clocks and nasturtiums. It’s too late to return to my former state, isn’t it?

The Music was Too High

I dream almost every time I sleep, and I’m still wondering who is in charge of my dreams. I couldn’t come up with these things in my wildest imagination. The one I woke with this time involved music. Someone insisted I stand with the choir and help them sing a piece I’d never seen before. Luckily, we were at the back, and no one was watching us. I looked around desperately for the music. When I spotted it, I hissed, “It’s too high.”

That would lead you to believe the music was out of my range, that it was too high for me to sing comfortably. No, that wasn’t the problem. The sheet music was dangling about 15 feet above our heads. I could barely see that it was music, much less see my notes.

Two Funerals and a Birthday

We planned to drive north for grandson David’s 21^st birthday. When daughter Kate’s former father-in-law died, we took David with us for the wake and both funerals. Most folks don’t have two funerals, but Walter did. He had been a deacon in the Catholic Church for over 30 years, serving parishes on Long Island and in Connecticut. Both were well attended. John was impressed that the bishop spoke at the second funeral. Walter had been in the first class for deacons taught by the bishop. David knew Walter as a kind grandfather, because he treated his step-grandson just like the others. They drifted apart when the marriage failed and the older couple moved to Massachusetts.

It was unfortunate that David’s special birthday was the day of the first funeral. He said he didn’t want anyone to mention it until after the services were over. We went to the wake the first afternoon and to the first funeral the next day. After the service, we drove to New Jersey to have dinner with Kate and Michael. John bought a small chocolate cake for the required candle and singing Happy Birthday.

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We then drove to Long Island, because the second funeral was at 9:45 the next morning.

After the second funeral, we continued with the day as it had been planned. Having an afternoon and evening, we could see only family and friends who were in the immediate vicinity. We had a delightful lunch with John’s sister Barbara and Thom and sat chatting by the pool. That evening we had dinner with friends Ruth, Al, and Karen. Al brought David into the conversation, talking about Concordia College as it had been when he went there and how things were different for David at the same college now. Several times David laughed heartily. On the way back to the hotel, David commented on what a good day it had been. It felt like the special birthday he had wanted.

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The next morning we left the hotel at 5, picked up David’s clothes in New Jersey, and spent the night in Virginia. It was time to relax before going the rest of the way to NC. The fellows went out train watching while I cuddled up with the computer. I’m sure we were all equally happy with the arrangement.

Fast Food – Fast Way to Die

Magazines and newspapers are forever telling us that fast food is unhealthy. John and I rarely go to those places, but we were traveling and wanted a quick meal. I have to admit that I like all the fast food places and sometimes crave a good hamburger that I didn’t cook myself. Up till now, I thought I could get away with an occasional indulgence. I won’t say which chain we went to, but the sign said they are known for their burgers and shakes. My question is, are they known for good ones or bad ones? You be the judge.

John unwrapped his hamburger before I did, and the first thing I noticed was fat dripping down onto the wrapper. He has been avoiding beef since the insertion of a stent, and this had to be the worst thing he could have eaten. He knew it and said so. I looked around at the other customers. They were all of advanced age, well advanced. We might have been the youngest ones there, and we are not spring chickens. We are more like dead-of-winter chickens. A man with a cane approached the counter, accompanied by his gray-haired wife. They hadn’t even ordered when he keeled over onto the floor, breaking his glasses. Can you imagine an eatery so bad that just thinking of ordering would do you in?

Young people rushed to the old man’s aid. They picked up the pieces of his glasses and hoisted him onto a chair. A teenager behind the counter tossed a cup to a coworker near us, and she filled it with water at the drink station. Do you suppose they were good at this rescue because they had a lot of practice???

The old couple pulled themselves together and hobbled out. He was probably too shaken to think of eating. I wouldn’t be surprised if he learned his lesson and will never go back to that place. This dramatic warning did not faze us, not in the least. We calmly finished our burgers and fries, licked our fingers, sucked on our shakes, and toddled out. Does anyone have an antidote for nightmares? I have a feeling we should have one handy.

Wearing a Gun

As usual, neighbor Amy had me in stitches. She didn’t mind that I wrote about her gun, so here is her story:

Amy grew up in the South, so guns were nothing new to her. Her dad had guns, and so did husband Ron. Unlike me, she shot guns herself. She also owned a pistol. I’m not sure why she recently got a conceal and carry license. Possibly there was a discussion in her church after the mass shooting of people in a Bible study group in South Carolina. Also, her moving date is coming up. She’ll be leaving our bucolic area to live in a city. In any case, she took the course, had the proper credentials with her, and went to the pawn shop in Waynesville. I was thrilled to be there running errands with her, because I had never been in a pawn shop before. While she looked at guns, I checked out the jewelry, all the rings, anyway. The shop had mostly firearms and musical instruments. She bought a small pistol and went back another day for a holster.

We were riding in the car when Amy told me about wearing the gun. She was working around the house and decided she might as well get used to having it on her. The telephone was in her usual pocket with the gun in the holster above it. Somehow she butt dialed one of her nieces and gradually became aware that voices were coming from her pocket. By this time in the story, we were parked. She demonstrated what happened. In fumbling quickly for the phone, she drew out the gun instead. There in the car she had the gun in her hand, and with mock horror, was looking down the barrel pointed toward her face.

She exclaimed, “What if I shot myself in the face with a loaded gun? They’d say the cause of death was trying to answer the phone! I think I’m going to have to change which pocket I use for the phone.”