A Day Alone

Because John was playing trains in Tennessee, I began the day walking alone. He misses the walk from time to time, so it wasn’t terribly unusual for me to go by myself. Planning a day only leads to frustration. If I’d planned to write or clean or play the piano, something would have come up. As it was, I drifted across the street when Shawn called to me. She and her daughter were sipping coffee on the porch. I’d been wanting to visit with her after her total knee replacement, and this was a great time. Her knee is coming along nicely. In fact, her scar is prettier than either of mine.

Her husband Bob came in from running an errand, and he said, “Y’all look like hillbillies sittin’ on the porch.”

We had to laugh. I was in my rumpled walking clothes, and they didn’t look a whole lot better.

The other day I saw a rogue wisteria vine winding itself around the skeleton of a butterfly bush. Today was the day to attack that. Gardening is like eating potato chips. You can’t eat just one. Well, you can’t stop with killing one little vine, either. I hacked at the big wisteria for good measure, trying to make sure it knows who’s the boss before it gets grandiose ideas. I pulled a few weeds and picked up some dead stuff left from last year. That was enough for one day.

Breakfast was a leisurely affair. John and I often chat after a meal, but this time I enjoyed the mountains and watched a pair of wrens building a nest under the eaves of the porch. A gentle breeze kept whirligigs going. Blogging takes longer all the time as I find more and more excellent writers I want to follow. It was nice to have nothing to hurry for.

Neighbor Amy was on my mind. She sold her house in 2.5 days last week, and she streaked over to Charlotte for the day to look at a condo that had just come on the market. Young Logan came over after school. He watched TV for a little while, played games on John’s computer, batted a balloon around with me, and announced he was hungry. Shawn texted back a yes when I asked if he could have sausage and a biscuit with me. Her friend was bringing their dinner, but it hadn’t arrived yet.

Just before eight, Amy’s car zipped in. I wanted to see how her day had been, and it was Logan’s bedtime. I wondered how I could get him to go home happily without telling him firmly, “Go home!”

I said, “Get your shoes on, Logan. It’s your bedtime. When you get to the bottom of the stairs, I’ll start the timer and see how long it takes you to get home.”

I was quite pleased at how well that worked. He raced home as fast as his legs could go. I called out that it had taken him 10 seconds. Before I could turn around, he was back at my steps wanting to do it again. The third time I told him to touch his front door. With all that commotion, Bob came out to see what was going on, and that was the definitive end of our play time.

Several times I’ve compared myself and Logan to Mrs. Wilson and Dennis the Menace. I have two cartoons that seem to sum it up. In one the frumpy white-haired woman with glasses is shown reading indulgently to the little boy.

042916 Mrs. Wilson and Dennis.JPG

The other is documentation that Dennis, like Logan, is five years old. No wonder we seem to be living these cartoon characters!

042916 Documentation that Dennis is five.JPG

Lightheaded

Once I understood why I liked long hair, I could cut it off. While the weather was cool, hair brushing against my neck felt luxurious. I had to think about why it pleased me. You see, I never had anything near my neck until I grew up. When I was in my 20’s, I wore turtleneck tops and warm scarves, having moved from Tennessee to New York. I felt cosseted and pampered with luxuriously soft fabrics caressing my neck. Long hair gave me the same feeling. It wasn’t the same as the temperatures rose, and what was once a luxury became a curse. I didn’t have to live with that botheration and begged son $ to trim it. We had the barbering session on the open deck near the bird feeder. A lot of the hair blew off in the wind, but some of it was recycled. I saw a song sparrow carry off one big curl in its beak. You know the old saying, hair today and gone tomorrow.

042716 Curls.JPG

Making Music

We mostly sat around talking while John’s cousin Peter was here. He was on his way to a gathering of musicians, so I asked if he would play his mountain dulcimer for us. Neighbors Shawn and Bob were entertaining a multitude of friends, but Amy was free to come. I was interested in his tuning the dulcimer by clamping a gizmo on it that showed when the string was in tune as he plucked it. Amy had one request – Amazing Grace – which he played easily.

041716 Peter with mountain dulcimer.JPG — Peter plays his mountain dulcimer

Peter is learning to play the langspil. He used a tiny bow, probably the size of a child’s Suzuki violin bow. I’m rather envious, because I’d love to learn to play the hammered dulcimer. I haven’t earned the right yet. Only when I regularly set aside time to practice the piano will I consider taking on a new instrument.

042716 Peter playing the langspil.JPG — Playing the langspil with a small bow

Peter with instruments.JPG — Langspil and mountain dulcimer

Family Time

Our son $ (short for $pencer) came over especially to be with John’s cousin Peter who was here for a couple of nights. Peter is a most interesting person who draws the family like a magnet. I should have had many anecdotes to write about, but my head recorder was not operating properly.

Perhaps other places in my head were not quite right. When discussing where we’d go for barbeque, I mentioned Haywood Smokehouse, only it didn’t come out that way. I said “Smokewood Hayhouse.”

No matter what I called it, we all enjoyed chicken, brisket, and pulled pork. The table was littered with barbecue sauces. We had sweet red, Piedmont, big Texas, Carolina, strawberry chipotle, and japple (jalapeno and apple). Those were only the ones we requested from the menu. I wish I’d counted the choices.

042616 Peter JC $ at Haywood Smokehouse.JPG

I’m not sure the others were around when I asked $ about the wild fire raging near his place in Hot Springs. It was exciting to watch helicopters scooping water from the French Broad River to dump on the fire. There were more people around, too, because the Appalachian Trail goes right through the town. Parts of the trail were closed because of the fire. There was lots of smoke. $ said he went outside carrying a cigarette, but instead of lighting it, he said to himself, “What’s the point?”

John spoke of historical trains coming into Asheville. The same company had trains coming in on two different time zones. Back then the line went near or through the city. $ found a map with the old boundaries and showed Peter. They were intent enough on the image that they didn’t protest publicly when I took their photograph.

Music to Dust By

I try not to think about dusting, it being one of my least favorite chores. I avoid it as long as possible. There comes a time when it simply has to be done. I have a dust meter, do you? It’s the top of my jewelry box. When the afternoon sun shines in, that dust stands up and salutes. If I left it another day, I’m sure the dust would have a rehearsal on the parade ground.

John might have been planning to listen to a NY radio station or music at his computer. To avoid a music war, I asked him, “Could you put on some music to dust by?”

He asked whether it should be choral or orchestral.

“Orchestral. It needs to be very loud and happy.”

If I’d thought about it, I would have known he wouldn’t have much to choose from. I’ll bet he could fill 24 hours playing funeral masses or another 24 with Gregorian chant. When I reached the living room, I saw I’d left some CD’s near the player the last time he was away. He put in the one I handed him. It was lovely having an assistant. As the beginning bars of Brahms’ first symphony filled the house, I flitted off to flick the duster in every direction. As the last bombastic chord sounded, I sat down. Perfect timing! How long did the dratted chore take? 47 minutes and 67 seconds. I must remember to set chores to music.

An Exciting Service

I saw the old man standing near the front of the church and wondered why an usher paused near him, looking over his shoulder. All was made clear when he faced the congregation, still fiddling with the microphone. He explained that at almost 90, he was the oldest of the retired ministers in that church. He thought he was in charge of the service next week, but when he got to church, he found out he was on that day. That’s why he was not robed. He certainly had everyone’s attention! He asked two elders to do the liturgy so that he wouldn’t have to stand so long. He hoped he would remember what he had studied to preach the next week. We laughed when he said he always told young pastors to keep the sermon short, and he thought his would be. With that, we plunged into the service.

I was shocked when the man read the text for the sermon, and it had come from today’s reading. He proceeded to speak on the topic, obviously without notes. He even referenced a passage that came before the reading. As John said later, you don’t preach for 60 years without gaining experience.

I felt a kinship with the pastor, though I couldn’t blame age for my lapse. About 30 years ago I sat down in the pew, wondering why the organist wasn’t playing. Pastor Koepchen came out of the sacristy and looked directly and pointedly at me. I turned and looked back at the organ and the empty organ bench. I’ll bet I was up those steps and playing the first hymn in one minute flat. Since I got my dates mixed up, I wouldn’t have had music with me and no shoes, so I probably played barefoot to feel the pedals, which I couldn’t do wearing heels. Some memories are very good, because you know they are going to stay in the past.

Shaking Amy’s World

Amy and I went out for a casual supper. Because John had a play date with trains in Tennessee, I wanted to go out cavorting myself. Old bones don’t cavort easily, but dinner at the diner seemed about the right speed.

As I got in her car, I said, “We could get a milkshake after supper.”

She understood I was offering to make amends for having cheated her out of a chocolate shake at Biltmore several weeks ago. As we walked in the Haywood Café, Amy read a sign on the window – something about hand dipped shakes. It was raining, so I didn’t actually read it for myself. We decided to get a small sandwich to eat there and a shake to go.

I had no idea that ordering would be so amusing. Amy wanted a grilled cheese sandwich with bacon. She said to the waitress, “Make the bacon well done, but not burned. I don’t want it limp and flapping in the breeze like they do it at burger joints.”

I was laughing and told the young woman to make my BLT with well done bacon, too. I told Amy I always accepted whatever bacon the cook threw on a sandwich. It never occurred to me to specify its condition. The waitress filled up a whole sheet on her pad, writing down our detailed instructions for two simple sandwiches.

I struggled to get the top on my shake as Amy sat sipping hers. She appeared to be sucking on the straw normally, not with cheeks drawn in and eyeballs popping out. As we got in the car, I tried the first sip. The shake was solid! Nothing came through that straw. Amy’s cup was almost empty. I put mine between my knees, hoping to warm it before I began to shiver.

“Did you have trouble getting it through your straw?” I asked.

“No.”

I said, “If I sucked that hard, all my teeth would come out.”

The one request I had was to take her photo holding the cup, but I forgot to get out the camera in the café.

I reminded her, “I still have to take your picture.”

Amy said, “My shake is almost gone. I’ll suck on yours while posing.”

I may be a slow thinker, but I didn’t fall for that one. Come to think of it, I should have accepted her help. It’s an hour later, and I still have ½ inch of liquid to go.

042216 Amy with milkshake I owed her.JPG

Another Milkshake Disaster

When we made plans to go to a concert in Knoxville, John said we’d go early and eat dinner there. My counter suggestion was to eat a small fast food sandwich before the concert and have a milkshake on the drive home. Things began to go astray when we saw a restaurant we’d never noticed before, Aubrey’s. The chicken salad sandwich sounded innocent enough, but it was huge. We both also had creamed spinach, which was so good we had to stop ourselves from licking the dish. The milkshake question was answered later.

The tour concert was performed by the choir of men and boys of St. Thomas Church on Fifth Avenue. We used to go to evensong there about four times a year when we lived on Long Island. After moving, John began to listen to their streaming services at SaintThomasChurch.org. The concert was in a downtown church in Knoxville. The building was much, much smaller than their home church, so we could see the faces of the singers. The music was powerful, almost overwhelming. However, the thing that affected the entire audience was the frigid temperature. The locals knew to bring warm wraps. John snuggled into his suit jacket, while I secretly plotted a way to climb on his lap, if necessary. What saved the evening for me was the huge program. I laid it across myself from shoulder to shoulder and whispered to John that I’d ask for his program for my lap if my teeth began to chatter.

The milkshake question came up as we headed home on I-40. John asked, “Do you want to get a shake?”

I replied, “That was the plan. I’m game if you are.”

John said, “If we’re going to get a shake, we’d better stop now.”

I didn’t understand the immediacy, but I said, “You ought not to ask me, because that’s the way I cheated you and Amy out of a Biltmore treat. If you want one, you ought to say so.”

Without further quibbling, he said, “I want one.”

We pulled up to the drive-in menu, and John ordered one strawberry shake (his lifelong favorite) and one chocolate. The voice from the box said, “We don’t have strawberry. We’ve shut the machine down.”

Aaaauuuugggghhhh! I should have insisted we go elsewhere, but while I hesitated, John said to make it two chocolate ones. I know that the particulars will be forgotten, and in the retelling of the milkshake saga years down the road, it will somehow be ALL MY FAULT. John is not vindictive, but he is good at reshaping a story to tease me.

One Foot in the Fast Lane, One in the Slow

The little toy camera caught only one tiny bit of Logan’s day. The boy was proud to show John, Amy, and me how fast he could run. That was life in the fast lane.

John still seems to be in tune with small children, but I’m having to dust off my skills. I was never a quick thinker, and I’m trying to get up to speed to outwit Logan. Believe me, his brain runs faster than his legs.

When my alarm sounded, I lay in bed for a few minutes checking messages on the phone. Our special guest woke a half hour before his getting up time, which I interpret as his having had plenty of sleep. He danced very quietly to my bedside, and I spoke to him to let him know I was aware of his presence. John directed him to dress for school. Logan responded that he didn’t have any clean clothes.

“Yes, you do,” said John, “Your dad brought them over yesterday. They are on the counter in the bathroom.”

I was closest, so I went to the door to find Logan sitting on the floor, clutching his orange shirt from the day before. It must have been his favorite shirt. He insisted it was clean in a voice that said he was teasing. I countered that he wore it the day before, having photos to prove it. He laid it on the floor, and I picked it up to look at it. I left him to get dressed, pointing out the clean shirt and shorts. Some of my old parenting skills surfaced, so I carried the orange shirt with me. I always had a hard time trying to stay ahead of my own children. After many years, I found that using humor or being wordless got the quickest and most compliant results. There was no way I was going to turn around and find the contested shirt back on the body. Can you imagine two old people wrestling a five-year-old to the ground and getting the shirt off his back? My bet would be on the boy.

All was quiet for a few moments as I went back to my computer. Of course, my mind was not quick enough. I was holding the orange shirt in my hand, and I squeezed it hard as I heard very quiet little feet coming up behind me. Quick as lightning, Logan’s hand was on it as he teased that he had found it. John came in and tickled Logan. As he picked him up and flipped him, I stood up. While Logan’s eyes were upside down, I shoved the shirt under the duvet. I wish you could have seen the bewildered look that flashed across his face. He KNEW the shirt was in my hand, only it wasn’t there. He looked around the vicinity and figured he had been tricked. In two minutes he was racing out of the bathroom, properly dressed up to the top button on his shirt.

An orange shirt is the icon of life in the slow lane. I don’t think quickly, and I don’t move quickly, but once in a while experience will ensure that I win. As I walked out of the bedroom, I had a thought of losing. What if I forgot I put the shirt in the bed and got tangled in it that night?

I didn’t forget, not while writing about the experience.

A Day with Logan

The first day keeping our favorite five-year-old neighbor began at bedtime. It feels like we entered the ancient way of counting days from sundown to sundown. This day seemed to begin when we picked up Logan from school. We were impressed with the very safe and efficient system for parent pickup after the buses left. All children were inside the building while cars were moving. Aides worked the line of cars, taking down the name of the student being picked up. Only that group was allowed out of the building, then the process began again for the next set of cars.

Logan is allowed only half an hour of TV at home. We tried to keep him busy doing various things so that we wouldn’t have to enforce that rule. I find the boy amazing. He can manage things I can’t, like doing two things at once. He talked to his dad on the phone while playing a computer game at John’s desk.

041816 Logan talks to Papa while gaming.JPG

His athletic ability always surprises me. I was talking to John in the kitchen, and he said, “Turn around and see where Logan is.” With no booster he had soundlessly hoisted himself onto the counter and was playing with the salt pig.

041816 Hopped on counter by himself.JPG

One of these days Logan is going to find a way to ride my exercise bike. It’s a real stretch right now. He also played with our glider, which thankfully did not go on the roof or get hung in a tree. He and John also kicked a soccer ball around for 15 minutes. John had his exercise!

041816 Bicycle is a stretch.JPG

Neighbor Joyce came in sight as we finished dinner on the porch. Logan asked to be excused so that he could talk to her. She found a tiny blue bird’s egg which she gave him to take to school. Bath time was next. Logan opted to take a shower rather than a bath in our huge tub. The shower was more his size. The day ended with his reading two homework books to John. If he got up during the night, we were not aware of it.

041816 Homework reading.JPG

John put his head under the blanket the next morning to wake Logan. The boy snuggles into the covers for a minute and then explodes into action.

041916 Logan wakes up.JPG

In a trice he was ready for school, having found his clothes and put them on.

041916 Ready for school.JPG

I got out of the car to chat with Marla, walking her dog near the bus stop. Logan met the dog while pretending to be warm. For the record, his jacket was in his backpack, but in 41 degree weather, he said he didn’t need it.

041916 Logan meets Albert.JPG

I got the picture I wanted of the little boy approaching the huge yellow bus.

041916 Logan at the bus.JPG