Monday, July 7, 2008
WOW, then WOW!
I used to paint my nails all the time. I preferred such a dark red that it was almost black. In fact, before I discovered Revlon's Vixon #63 (which, for all I know, doesn't even exist anymore), I'd put down two layers of black and one of red, and it was great.
I would also paint at least one fingernail an entirely different color, usually green or blue, usually the pinkie, but sometimes the ring finger. It made people crazy. They were certain it had to mean something. If they weren't my own nails, I'd agree: I prefer fraught. But it meant nothing. It was just to shake it up. On the super-rare occasion when I wear earrings, I don't: I wear earring, singular. Just because.
When it was time to take off the polish, I'd be so relieved, somehow, by the clear, fresh, unpainted nail again. It looked so pretty, all pale and nice and healthy-looking. But when I put on a fresh coat, I was thrilled with having the color again. "Again." As if it had been weeks instead of minutes.
Well, it's been a long time since I've painted my nails -- maybe since I've started painting other things -- but I had the same experience this morning. Benji and I went to the car wash.
Mike always wants to know what Sunny was doing, since they're his dogs, after all (or so he thinks). Usually I'll tell him that Sunny was crying at the door, pawing at the kick-plate, whining and trying to come out with us, scrabbling and clawing while I used my foot to shove her snout back into the house. The truth is that she's almost always sleeping. She turned sixteen in January. She deserves to be absolved from chores.
I wanted to see if the high-pressure hose at the car wash would knock the paint off those white plastic lawn chairs. It WILL! This is very exciting. This is the first time that I've had hope that something can be done with those chairs besides leaving them out and hoping someone will steal them.
There's a drawback. I spent two dollars on one chair and I didn't complete the task. I used some of my time to flush the chips of lime 1-SHOT down the drain. I don't want the Car Wash Cops to come get me for littering. Still, just knowing it's possible is a thrill.
The same thing happened with the chairs as used to happen with my nails, though. Oh! it was so good to see the paint and the ugliness from months outside get washed off that chair! The pine needles and lizard droppings and yellowed clear-coat were swept away. The clear, clean white came through again, looking all fresh and lovely! Ahh!
Ooh! and then I started thinking about how cool it would look with that blue on it!
I would also paint at least one fingernail an entirely different color, usually green or blue, usually the pinkie, but sometimes the ring finger. It made people crazy. They were certain it had to mean something. If they weren't my own nails, I'd agree: I prefer fraught. But it meant nothing. It was just to shake it up. On the super-rare occasion when I wear earrings, I don't: I wear earring, singular. Just because.
When it was time to take off the polish, I'd be so relieved, somehow, by the clear, fresh, unpainted nail again. It looked so pretty, all pale and nice and healthy-looking. But when I put on a fresh coat, I was thrilled with having the color again. "Again." As if it had been weeks instead of minutes.
Well, it's been a long time since I've painted my nails -- maybe since I've started painting other things -- but I had the same experience this morning. Benji and I went to the car wash.
Mike always wants to know what Sunny was doing, since they're his dogs, after all (or so he thinks). Usually I'll tell him that Sunny was crying at the door, pawing at the kick-plate, whining and trying to come out with us, scrabbling and clawing while I used my foot to shove her snout back into the house. The truth is that she's almost always sleeping. She turned sixteen in January. She deserves to be absolved from chores.
I wanted to see if the high-pressure hose at the car wash would knock the paint off those white plastic lawn chairs. It WILL! This is very exciting. This is the first time that I've had hope that something can be done with those chairs besides leaving them out and hoping someone will steal them.
There's a drawback. I spent two dollars on one chair and I didn't complete the task. I used some of my time to flush the chips of lime 1-SHOT down the drain. I don't want the Car Wash Cops to come get me for littering. Still, just knowing it's possible is a thrill.
The same thing happened with the chairs as used to happen with my nails, though. Oh! it was so good to see the paint and the ugliness from months outside get washed off that chair! The pine needles and lizard droppings and yellowed clear-coat were swept away. The clear, clean white came through again, looking all fresh and lovely! Ahh!
Ooh! and then I started thinking about how cool it would look with that blue on it!
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Chairs and Tables
So look. See the blue and brown and orange and red chairs on my porch. Now imagine there to be three black ones and one blue and one red with no designs at all. There. Now you've got a better idea of my porch right now. Oh. Add five matching tables, please.
Yes. Of course I could have taken a picture of it but I think we all need to use our imaginations this morning, don't you?
I'm painting these chairs for Lee only because I love him. I've had it up to here with painting plastic chairs. No matter what Mister Krylon has to say about Fusion, no matter what Mister Rust-Oleum has to say about his plastic primer -- their pants are on fire. Period.
Okay, my friend Pam has had success with painting plastic chairs, but she doesn't stack them, and there's the rub. These poor painted chairs can't take even normal use, let alone abuse. I was at Gulfport's Tuesday Market in the rain. One of the chairs tipped over into a small plot of wet, loose mud, and even that scratched the paint. And they were clear-coated.
Lee, however, promises never to stack them. He says he tips them when not in use. I'm afraid that even tipping will hurt the poor delicate things.
Still, a painted chair is so nice compared to a plain old white one or a plain old green one, fading and mouldering into leprosy.
I've had a traumatic time with these chairs. I use 1-SHOT on my cars (despite the fact that it causes cancer in California), and I thought it would stick to anything. I only thought that because I was a total idiot about paint. Now I merely a semi-total idiot about paint. Anyway, I have eight -- count 'em! -- plastic chairs stacked up in my yard, waiting for further attention. These are the chairs that 1-SHOT didn't work on. I've spent way too much time trying to peel off the paint, but only some of it comes off. Perhaps I'll try power-washing them at the car wash. In the meantime, can you say White Trash?
Oh look! I also added a picture of a table I painted for an acquaintance. I painted four chairs for her, in four colors, and then, weeks later she wanted a table. I like it.
That's Benji in the background, practicing gnawing his foot off in case he ever gets snared by a bear trap. The table in on my studio -- a 20"x40" folding table. Ah! At last! the proper use of those inch marks!
I have to work on Liz's book today, too. It's going to be fine. For those out of the know, let me say that I'm typesetting the book for her, although I believe they're calling it "formatting" in these desktop-publishing days. Damn kids!
Anyway, I just have to process a bunch of photos for the book. We've given ourselves July 14 as the deadline, but we're allowed to cheat. Isn't that Bastille Day? Hmm ... my calendar says it's merely a Bank Holiday in Northern Ireland. Man! I'm glad I checked my calendar! I haven't even sent out the invitations yet!
Friday, July 4, 2008
Fourth of July
Well, I went off this blog to go see if The Battle Hymn of the Republic has anything under the sun to do with patriotism, and I was certain I'd saved what I had written. Alas (or not), it was lost. Here's what you don't get to hear about:
- the noise level of my neighborhood at ten at night on the Fourth
- a profoundly hideous vocal concert in a southern city (I'm omitting the name of the "musical" body and its host city to protect the guilty)
- an excerpt from a bit of writing about my mother and her favorite holiday: the Fourth of July
What you do get on this national holiday, then, is this:
_______________________________________
Thursday, July 3, 2008
LMTs
Today we'll see what I write about when I don't feel like writing.
I'm all out of whack because I didn't get to sleep until three in the morning and within ninety minutes of finally awakening, I had a massage with a new therapist.
How many of you out there have had a professional massage? Raise your hands. Don't be shy. I've arranged this blog in such a way that while I can see your hands waving enthusiastically above your heads or just sort waggling at the ends of your wrists (depending on your own personal experiences), the other readers cannot. Your anonymity is safe with me.
The most important thing to remember while receiving a massage is to keep your eyes shut. I learned this in childhood, as I'm sure you did, too: If I can't see you, you can't see me. If this weren't true, no one over the age of twenty-two would ever get a massage.
I've been naked and relaxed in the presence of at least twenty massage therapists -- female and male -- and only one has ever started me off on my back. It was awkward and I wish she hadn't done it. I need that half hour on my belly with my face in a cradle, relaxing and drifting, following the flute and wind chimes in the music as they evoke other lifetimes and sweeter days, completely forgetting that I'm roaring naked, all splayed out on a table in front of a total stranger.
When the therapist indicates that it's time to roll over onto my back, I'm so dreamy and slow, so otherworldly, that I wouldn't care if the entire tenor section of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir were watching.
But start me off on my back, when I'm fresh from the streets and the drive over and the introduction to the new therapist, and yikes! I'm not going to like it.
Today's therapist was the second, then, to start me off on my back. I objected to that, but only mildly. By the time there's nothing between me and the world but a thin cotton sheet, all my firmness and courage dissipates. The woman has seventeen years' experience giving massages, and she starts us all off on our backs, so there we are. I even gave her a truncated, verbal version of this blog entry, but she just chuckled.
Not only was I not relaxed enough to be ignorant of my surroundings -- which included, by the way, a healthy, fit, fully-clothed person, as opposed to my flabby, overweight, bumpy, hairy, splotchy, naked person -- but she started right off at my face, so her face was mere inches from mine. It was just too vulnerable a position. I was squinting, which is not the most relaxed position for the eye lid, but if I didn't squint, then maybe my eyes would fly open because of that same involuntary reflex that caused me to giggle during communion at church camp when I was eleven and the pastor thought it would be cool to evoke the first-ever communion by having only twelve of us in a small room with just candlelight. If I hadn't squinted this afternoon, then I might have actually made eye-contact with this massage therapist, and then I'd never get another massage in my whole life ever again I mean it.
So the massage, you see, is successful only when there's complete trust founded on mutual understanding -- and blindness on my part.
I'm all out of whack because I didn't get to sleep until three in the morning and within ninety minutes of finally awakening, I had a massage with a new therapist.
How many of you out there have had a professional massage? Raise your hands. Don't be shy. I've arranged this blog in such a way that while I can see your hands waving enthusiastically above your heads or just sort waggling at the ends of your wrists (depending on your own personal experiences), the other readers cannot. Your anonymity is safe with me.
The most important thing to remember while receiving a massage is to keep your eyes shut. I learned this in childhood, as I'm sure you did, too: If I can't see you, you can't see me. If this weren't true, no one over the age of twenty-two would ever get a massage.
I've been naked and relaxed in the presence of at least twenty massage therapists -- female and male -- and only one has ever started me off on my back. It was awkward and I wish she hadn't done it. I need that half hour on my belly with my face in a cradle, relaxing and drifting, following the flute and wind chimes in the music as they evoke other lifetimes and sweeter days, completely forgetting that I'm roaring naked, all splayed out on a table in front of a total stranger.
When the therapist indicates that it's time to roll over onto my back, I'm so dreamy and slow, so otherworldly, that I wouldn't care if the entire tenor section of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir were watching.
But start me off on my back, when I'm fresh from the streets and the drive over and the introduction to the new therapist, and yikes! I'm not going to like it.
Today's therapist was the second, then, to start me off on my back. I objected to that, but only mildly. By the time there's nothing between me and the world but a thin cotton sheet, all my firmness and courage dissipates. The woman has seventeen years' experience giving massages, and she starts us all off on our backs, so there we are. I even gave her a truncated, verbal version of this blog entry, but she just chuckled.
Not only was I not relaxed enough to be ignorant of my surroundings -- which included, by the way, a healthy, fit, fully-clothed person, as opposed to my flabby, overweight, bumpy, hairy, splotchy, naked person -- but she started right off at my face, so her face was mere inches from mine. It was just too vulnerable a position. I was squinting, which is not the most relaxed position for the eye lid, but if I didn't squint, then maybe my eyes would fly open because of that same involuntary reflex that caused me to giggle during communion at church camp when I was eleven and the pastor thought it would be cool to evoke the first-ever communion by having only twelve of us in a small room with just candlelight. If I hadn't squinted this afternoon, then I might have actually made eye-contact with this massage therapist, and then I'd never get another massage in my whole life ever again I mean it.
So the massage, you see, is successful only when there's complete trust founded on mutual understanding -- and blindness on my part.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Dogs and Stingrays
My youngest brother said, referring to plant poison, "I'm sure you'll write about it in your blog ..." and so the pressure's on!
But first ... have you thought about that Altoids tin with quarters in it? I haven't. I quit thinking about it as soon as I discovered that it was gone ...
Today I tried to help a little girl quit being afraid of dogs. Benji -- a fifteen-pound, black-and-white, cute-as-can-be mutt of some sort, with whom I am completely in love -- and I were walking around Gulfport. We didn't mean to. We meant to mail the landlady's lease to her in Atlanta, which we did, and then we meant to go into Small Adventures, a little bookstore, which we didn't. Instead, we walked up their wooden ramp but then bypassed the door. We went down the back steps and into the back alley of a bunch of businesses.
Benji, never a scavenger, was particularly interested in a big square black dumpster that announced (in a booming voice) that it was for discarded cooking oil only, and that it was private property. I was so busy gazing at it and wondering why, for instance, it would be square. I connect liquids with roundness -- like milk tanks in the barn and milk tankers on the road, like gasoline trucks, like grape juice, like cement trucks ... or am I going too far with the liquid thing? Yes. Surely I am.
But yes: liquid and round, not liquid and square.
Okay. You've got your square cardboard cartons for milk and some juice, but originally, the way god meant it, it came in round bottles.
I also wondered who picks this oil up. I've never in my life seen a square (?) tanker coming to get the discarded cooking oil. Perhaps Texaco comes for it, shouldering in on the cooking-oil cars.
Well, while I wondered all that, Benji was LICKING the weeds around the dumpster. I would have dragged him off by his collar, his feet flailing in the air, his trachea collapsing, his torso writhing as it twisted wildly to evade my grasp -- except that he came willingly, as he always does.
It turned out that we were stuck in the alley. All the buildings are connected. So we wandered around till we got out. We went out on a street and I heard the ominous sound of dog tags. It's only ominous because Benji, alas, doesn't get along with other dogs. I turned and looked. Two big, mottled dogs were standing at attention across the street, wondering what we were up to, wondering if there were a game to be played, a snack to be had, a sudden war, what? In the end, the dogs and I just looked at each other, wondering. Benji, on the other hand, was snoozling around in some weeds, paying attention to none of us.
The critters at home act like this, too. I'll look up from the keyboard and see that Benji's on his couch, looking at me like, "What? What're we gonna do now?" And Mittens will have her head up, too -- amazingly -- unfurled from the wooden table long enough to maintain a similar gaze aimed at me. Sunny's on the floor, looking up at me expectantly.
What do they want?
Benji and I rounded the corner, back on the civilized sidewalk now, and there was a young man with two young sisters or two young daughters or something. I can't judge ages. It seems like I used to be able to at least guess the decade, but even that dubious skill was lost when I turned forty.
I overheard the littler girl telling her father that she's afraid of dogs. Well, I can't tolerate that, so I told her Benji's nobody to be afraid of. I asked if she'd come pet him but she just stared at me. The older girl came willingly. Benji, on the other hand, was snoozling around in some other weeds, paying attention to none of us. When he could be convinced to join the fun, he showed up with teeny little plant pods on him. I picked them off while the bigger girl pet him and then the littler one decided not to be afraid of him, and she pet him, too.
I told her that she can no longer say she's afraid of dogs. I gave her permission (like it's mine to give) to say she's afraid of all dogs except one. "And if there's one, there's got to be two."
There's no logic to that, but no one was screaming for logic ...
I was always afraid of dogs when I was a kid. Well, and when I was a grownup, too. Even little dogs could kind of spook me. I don't really understand it. We had a dog once, Gramps. He was a beagle-mutt, I think, from Bliss (NY), I think. Still, I've always been at least wary of dogs.
I can't believe how important they are to me even now.
I was herded by a border collie one time. It was so strange. I was in Napoleon, Indiana, which harbors about two hundred souls. Sunny and Benji weren't in my life then. I don't know if it would have made a difference.
I was at my friend Beth's house and she was gone. I strolled out of town, which was four houses down. It was May and just gorgeous, especially to someone who hadn't seen a real spring in more than a decade. I saw lilacs again! Oh my! I saw my first-ever beaver in a creek. It was great. I was ambling down this country road, feeling fine, and up on the left came a farm house. When I got even with the house, a big ol' collie came out barking. It came right up to me. Its mouth was about the level of my hands as they hung down, a fact I was extremely tuned to. It stood in front of me and did not budge. I was scared and then, of course, I remembered the admonition about dogs: Don't let them know you're scared.
Right.
I tried to walk around the dog, but it followed me. It stuck to me like Benji's little green seeds. That collie just walked and nudged until it had me completely turned around and heading back to where I'd come from.
I wish I had a video of that. (See how modern I am!)
I'm off to a ballgame tonight to help Steven celebrate his birthday. I really like him, but I am not a sports fan. Mike'll buy me hot dogs and ice cream, though, and there will be laughing and screaming even though I don't even how how football's played. It's the Rays and the Red Sox.
And who names these teams? I remember cheers from high school -- Red and white! Fight! Fight! and (for Warsaw) Orange and black will fight 'em back! -- so, clearly, danger and warriorlike behavior are involved. I get it with the Rays. Seems like they were better as Devil Rays, but who am I? It's about stingrays and they are scary. Fine.
But Red Sox? They can't even spell it right. Maybe if it were Red Socks there'd be some hint of the violence we require in sports. Otherwise, what? I'm supposed to be afraid of underwear?
And how 'bout them Jazz? Now there's a scary name. Look out or we'll come in on the off-beat!
But first ... have you thought about that Altoids tin with quarters in it? I haven't. I quit thinking about it as soon as I discovered that it was gone ...
Today I tried to help a little girl quit being afraid of dogs. Benji -- a fifteen-pound, black-and-white, cute-as-can-be mutt of some sort, with whom I am completely in love -- and I were walking around Gulfport. We didn't mean to. We meant to mail the landlady's lease to her in Atlanta, which we did, and then we meant to go into Small Adventures, a little bookstore, which we didn't. Instead, we walked up their wooden ramp but then bypassed the door. We went down the back steps and into the back alley of a bunch of businesses.
Benji, never a scavenger, was particularly interested in a big square black dumpster that announced (in a booming voice) that it was for discarded cooking oil only, and that it was private property. I was so busy gazing at it and wondering why, for instance, it would be square. I connect liquids with roundness -- like milk tanks in the barn and milk tankers on the road, like gasoline trucks, like grape juice, like cement trucks ... or am I going too far with the liquid thing? Yes. Surely I am.
But yes: liquid and round, not liquid and square.
Okay. You've got your square cardboard cartons for milk and some juice, but originally, the way god meant it, it came in round bottles.
I also wondered who picks this oil up. I've never in my life seen a square (?) tanker coming to get the discarded cooking oil. Perhaps Texaco comes for it, shouldering in on the cooking-oil cars.
Well, while I wondered all that, Benji was LICKING the weeds around the dumpster. I would have dragged him off by his collar, his feet flailing in the air, his trachea collapsing, his torso writhing as it twisted wildly to evade my grasp -- except that he came willingly, as he always does.
It turned out that we were stuck in the alley. All the buildings are connected. So we wandered around till we got out. We went out on a street and I heard the ominous sound of dog tags. It's only ominous because Benji, alas, doesn't get along with other dogs. I turned and looked. Two big, mottled dogs were standing at attention across the street, wondering what we were up to, wondering if there were a game to be played, a snack to be had, a sudden war, what? In the end, the dogs and I just looked at each other, wondering. Benji, on the other hand, was snoozling around in some weeds, paying attention to none of us.
The critters at home act like this, too. I'll look up from the keyboard and see that Benji's on his couch, looking at me like, "What? What're we gonna do now?" And Mittens will have her head up, too -- amazingly -- unfurled from the wooden table long enough to maintain a similar gaze aimed at me. Sunny's on the floor, looking up at me expectantly.
What do they want?
Benji and I rounded the corner, back on the civilized sidewalk now, and there was a young man with two young sisters or two young daughters or something. I can't judge ages. It seems like I used to be able to at least guess the decade, but even that dubious skill was lost when I turned forty.
I overheard the littler girl telling her father that she's afraid of dogs. Well, I can't tolerate that, so I told her Benji's nobody to be afraid of. I asked if she'd come pet him but she just stared at me. The older girl came willingly. Benji, on the other hand, was snoozling around in some other weeds, paying attention to none of us. When he could be convinced to join the fun, he showed up with teeny little plant pods on him. I picked them off while the bigger girl pet him and then the littler one decided not to be afraid of him, and she pet him, too.
I told her that she can no longer say she's afraid of dogs. I gave her permission (like it's mine to give) to say she's afraid of all dogs except one. "And if there's one, there's got to be two."
There's no logic to that, but no one was screaming for logic ...
I was always afraid of dogs when I was a kid. Well, and when I was a grownup, too. Even little dogs could kind of spook me. I don't really understand it. We had a dog once, Gramps. He was a beagle-mutt, I think, from Bliss (NY), I think. Still, I've always been at least wary of dogs.
I can't believe how important they are to me even now.
I was herded by a border collie one time. It was so strange. I was in Napoleon, Indiana, which harbors about two hundred souls. Sunny and Benji weren't in my life then. I don't know if it would have made a difference.
I was at my friend Beth's house and she was gone. I strolled out of town, which was four houses down. It was May and just gorgeous, especially to someone who hadn't seen a real spring in more than a decade. I saw lilacs again! Oh my! I saw my first-ever beaver in a creek. It was great. I was ambling down this country road, feeling fine, and up on the left came a farm house. When I got even with the house, a big ol' collie came out barking. It came right up to me. Its mouth was about the level of my hands as they hung down, a fact I was extremely tuned to. It stood in front of me and did not budge. I was scared and then, of course, I remembered the admonition about dogs: Don't let them know you're scared.
Right.
I tried to walk around the dog, but it followed me. It stuck to me like Benji's little green seeds. That collie just walked and nudged until it had me completely turned around and heading back to where I'd come from.
I wish I had a video of that. (See how modern I am!)
I'm off to a ballgame tonight to help Steven celebrate his birthday. I really like him, but I am not a sports fan. Mike'll buy me hot dogs and ice cream, though, and there will be laughing and screaming even though I don't even how how football's played. It's the Rays and the Red Sox.
And who names these teams? I remember cheers from high school -- Red and white! Fight! Fight! and (for Warsaw) Orange and black will fight 'em back! -- so, clearly, danger and warriorlike behavior are involved. I get it with the Rays. Seems like they were better as Devil Rays, but who am I? It's about stingrays and they are scary. Fine.
But Red Sox? They can't even spell it right. Maybe if it were Red Socks there'd be some hint of the violence we require in sports. Otherwise, what? I'm supposed to be afraid of underwear?
And how 'bout them Jazz? Now there's a scary name. Look out or we'll come in on the off-beat!
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Coins
Remember when people used to call diabetes sugar diabetes? It was sometimes shortened, but shortened to sugar. Yes, children, as in, "Have you heard? She has sugar!" Now we say "diabetes." I wonder when they made the switch.
Of course, cancer was occasionally called The Big C, as if naming it would cause it. For all I know, it would; everything else does.
I have five green plastic lawn chairs to paint, but the chairs are not new. I took them to the car wash yesterday to _____. Yeah. You fill in the blank. Gee, what do you think she did at the car wash?
Anyway, it was actually kind of fun. It was about seven at night, and I was hot and sweaty because it's Florida. When I'd squeeze the trigger, turning the hose into a pressure hose, the chair would go flying across the bay (not Tampa Bay, you understand). I'd aim it right down into the hollow legs of the chairs, so I could remove generations of minute critters. Naturally, they'd all splat back at me, which I found refreshing, even though Florida tap water isn't very cool. I drove home picking bug elbows out of my hair.
I also drove home without that Altoids box filled with quarters. I'd put it on top of the coin box because I knew a single two-dollar session wouldn't cut it. So what do you think? Do you think the box of quarters was still there this morning? It's been raining every day, so I would think the car wash wouldn't be all that busy, and it's very gloomy this morning. What say ye?
It's Canada Day today, so, um, go, Cannucks! I don't believe I know any Canadians, although I've been there, if course. I grew up in the Buffalo Snow Belt, so there were always Canadian coins around. I went to the World's Fair in 1967. I don't remember the name. Expo '67? Maybe ...
I took a train from Buffalo to Montreal in about 1976 or so. I went to AA's fiftieth birthday there in '85, just before I moved down here.
Yuck. And now I see something I don't like about blogging: It's too public. I know. Let's all pause for a giant DUH. Still, I always think my life is an open book, but apparently it's not. I mean, there are things I'd like to say about the World's Fair, but what if my family's listening? and about the first trip to Montreal with Carl Ham, but what if you respect me ...?
Well, about the World's Fair, my whole family except Jim, the oldest, went. We borrowed all kinds of camping equipment because we couldn't afford a hotel, of course. The rest of them wanted to go to a separate island at the fair that held the amusement park. Amusement parks have never amused me, so I stayed where I was. I promised to stay right there at a park bench, and except for a moment -- or could it have been an hour? -- when it started to rain and we went up under some trees, I did stay there.
Did you notice the "we"? I was sixteen-almost-seventeen and these two French-speaking boys started speaking French to me. I'd had two years of it and the one -- Camille, who hated his name because it was a girl's name -- spoke fairly good English. The other was Pierre, who spoke no English. We had to limit our communication to gazing into each other's eyes, which we did most vigorously.
When the rain quit, we went back to the bench, but my family never showed back up. I assume they all hated me by then. The park actually closed and it got to be midnight. The boys stayed with me, but I wasn't willing to leave because I'd promised to stay.
Finally, a park official found us and brought us to a subway or something, where my family was. I couldn't believe how upset my mother was. She was actually rude to the boys, which was mind-boggling. I expected everyone to just be fine with everything. It never occurred to me that perhaps I'd ruined their whole day at the World's Fair.
For some reason, Mom did the driving. She never drove when Dad was around, but she did this time. And she made a wrong turn. We didn't get back to the campsite till three in the morning. But the tent and everything was gone. It turned out that a fire had started somehow, and everything had burned to a crisp. As I recall, only a transistor radio (remember those?) was alive. All that borrowed equipment -- the tent, the sleeping bags, the cooking gear -- was burned.
We slept sitting up straight in the car -- six of us! -- for about three hours, then we woke up and Dad drove us to Vermont for breakfast, and then down to Plattsburgh to drop my sister off for college.
If anybody yelled at me about that day, I must have blocked it out of my memory.
Yuck.
Well, gee, Happy Canada Day!
Of course, cancer was occasionally called The Big C, as if naming it would cause it. For all I know, it would; everything else does.
I have five green plastic lawn chairs to paint, but the chairs are not new. I took them to the car wash yesterday to _____. Yeah. You fill in the blank. Gee, what do you think she did at the car wash?
Anyway, it was actually kind of fun. It was about seven at night, and I was hot and sweaty because it's Florida. When I'd squeeze the trigger, turning the hose into a pressure hose, the chair would go flying across the bay (not Tampa Bay, you understand). I'd aim it right down into the hollow legs of the chairs, so I could remove generations of minute critters. Naturally, they'd all splat back at me, which I found refreshing, even though Florida tap water isn't very cool. I drove home picking bug elbows out of my hair.
I also drove home without that Altoids box filled with quarters. I'd put it on top of the coin box because I knew a single two-dollar session wouldn't cut it. So what do you think? Do you think the box of quarters was still there this morning? It's been raining every day, so I would think the car wash wouldn't be all that busy, and it's very gloomy this morning. What say ye?
It's Canada Day today, so, um, go, Cannucks! I don't believe I know any Canadians, although I've been there, if course. I grew up in the Buffalo Snow Belt, so there were always Canadian coins around. I went to the World's Fair in 1967. I don't remember the name. Expo '67? Maybe ...
I took a train from Buffalo to Montreal in about 1976 or so. I went to AA's fiftieth birthday there in '85, just before I moved down here.
Yuck. And now I see something I don't like about blogging: It's too public. I know. Let's all pause for a giant DUH. Still, I always think my life is an open book, but apparently it's not. I mean, there are things I'd like to say about the World's Fair, but what if my family's listening? and about the first trip to Montreal with Carl Ham, but what if you respect me ...?
Well, about the World's Fair, my whole family except Jim, the oldest, went. We borrowed all kinds of camping equipment because we couldn't afford a hotel, of course. The rest of them wanted to go to a separate island at the fair that held the amusement park. Amusement parks have never amused me, so I stayed where I was. I promised to stay right there at a park bench, and except for a moment -- or could it have been an hour? -- when it started to rain and we went up under some trees, I did stay there.
Did you notice the "we"? I was sixteen-almost-seventeen and these two French-speaking boys started speaking French to me. I'd had two years of it and the one -- Camille, who hated his name because it was a girl's name -- spoke fairly good English. The other was Pierre, who spoke no English. We had to limit our communication to gazing into each other's eyes, which we did most vigorously.
When the rain quit, we went back to the bench, but my family never showed back up. I assume they all hated me by then. The park actually closed and it got to be midnight. The boys stayed with me, but I wasn't willing to leave because I'd promised to stay.
Finally, a park official found us and brought us to a subway or something, where my family was. I couldn't believe how upset my mother was. She was actually rude to the boys, which was mind-boggling. I expected everyone to just be fine with everything. It never occurred to me that perhaps I'd ruined their whole day at the World's Fair.
For some reason, Mom did the driving. She never drove when Dad was around, but she did this time. And she made a wrong turn. We didn't get back to the campsite till three in the morning. But the tent and everything was gone. It turned out that a fire had started somehow, and everything had burned to a crisp. As I recall, only a transistor radio (remember those?) was alive. All that borrowed equipment -- the tent, the sleeping bags, the cooking gear -- was burned.
We slept sitting up straight in the car -- six of us! -- for about three hours, then we woke up and Dad drove us to Vermont for breakfast, and then down to Plattsburgh to drop my sister off for college.
If anybody yelled at me about that day, I must have blocked it out of my memory.
Yuck.
Well, gee, Happy Canada Day!
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