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.”

Logan’s School Program

Logan made a special trip across the street to invite us to his end of year school program. We wouldn’t have missed it for anything. Parents and guests were seated when the kindergartners came in and stood around the edge of the auditorium. The music teacher announced a “Kodak moment”, inviting adults to find their child and take close ups before the program started.

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Every child had a special part, either singing, announcing a piece, or acting in a skit. Most of the time Logan was on the corner nearest us.

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Shawn and Bob invited us to join them for pizza at the Rendezvous restaurant near the school. Their daughter Courtney was there, as well.

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Shawn told the story of Logan’s tooth, and I wanted to see the space where it had been. He kindly posed for me.

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As we waited for the pizza to come, Courtney began sketching the back of Logan’s head while he played tic tac toe with me. I shouldn’t have been surprised at how good it was, because Shawn is very artistic. Talent must run in the family. If I had done anything half that good, I would have taken it home and framed it.

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Logan wanted her to draw a tooth fairy, which she did. It’s the upper one in the photo, a happy tooth face with wings. That didn’t coincide with Logan’s idea of the real tooth fairy, so Courtney drew a more traditional one to please him.

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Logan ate one slice of pizza, pulled his arms into the body of his shirt, and leaned against the back of his chair. Shawn explained why Logan was tired. He pulled that tooth out the night before and was convinced he had to stay awake until the tooth fairy came to take his tooth. They didn’t realize that at first, but finally Bob sneaked in and did the job so everyone could sleep.

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My Most Meaningful Trophy

I’m not going to ask neighbor Bob to build me a display case, but I’m very proud of my new trophy for walking. After I retired and moved to North Carolina, I extended my walking schedule by one day. John joined me, so it’s on our agenda to walk six mornings a week. We go to the creek and back, a two-mile walk which takes about an hour. Please note that John could walk twice as fast, but he restrains himself by walking not more than two paces ahead of me.

Several years ago I bought a 10-pair bag of socks, rotating them once a week. That means each pair is worn six hours a week unless it rains. I lost four socks, so each pair is now worn every eight weeks. Don’t worry; this is not an arithmetic problem. After years of steady walking, I finally wore a hole in the heel of one sock. This is my hard-earned trophy.

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I hope to wear out a few more. Since I have equal opportunity sock employment, I expect more holes in the future. If you are eager for a math problem, could you take the statistics here, project them in the future, and tell me if I have a lifetime supply left?

Mouthful Mumble

Neighbor Amy has only three weeks to go until moving day, so I drop everything to run errands with her. She is terribly busy picking up boxes, dropping things off at Goodwill, taking garbage to the dump, and buying supplies for last minute projects. I just go for the ride and the chance to visit and laugh. Laughter is a key component.

There were two letters on the center console which I had kept pinned down with my elbow. Amy is a fast driver, though I think all four wheels stayed on the road. As she drew up to the curbside mailbox, I handed her the envelopes. She poked them toward the chute, withdrew her hand, flipped one letter over, and licked the flap.

“Th un nah ee ulled,” she said, as her tongue traced the edge of the flap.

I was already laughing when I asked, “What did you say?”

“This one was not sealed,” she replied, grinning and laughing. We were on the way to pick up her dental records, and I thought she sounded like she was in the dentist’s chair already, with her mouth full of instruments.