When my brother completed his 24 hour shift, he found a note in his car saying ďWe love you, fire department!Ē, $50, a bag of cherries, and some chocolate. Exhausted as he was, he smiled.
The problem may be the whole BTU thing. Maybe British Thermal Units are just too polite. "I say, heat, could you please turn it down a wee bit? It's a trifle uncomfortable at the moment." Whereas American Thermal Units might say something like, "Heat, I'm only gonna tell you once. Outta here or your ass is nuked."
I hoped Henry would either understand or want the food enough to come back in half an hour or so when the coast was clear, and he did. He complained more than usual, though, and who can blame him?
Apparently the miracle is taking longer than expected, since B called Dolly to tell her to tell me they're staying longer. Hope I don't kill the plants with my heathen lack of gardening skills.
To my credit, I have fed and watered both the indoor and outdoor cats, and made a grocery list, so I can at least say Iím getting organized, even if Iím not (and Iím not) actually organized. Time to get on with it.
I dragged Self from the BART station, only to see the bus I needed - wanted at that point, so lowly have my desires become - pull away from the curb and go merrily on its way. The thought of waiting for the next one could not have been a less appealing prospect, even when provided with water and a library book.
Looking up from the deeply disappointing bus schedule, I noticed a line of happy yellow cabs, sitting across the street, calling my name.
Who was I to resist?
Do I get credit for taking the bus to BART, even though I took a cab home? Is a cab bad, or, since it's used by others, sort of serial car pooling, sort of OK?
Why is it always so much better to be driven than to drive oneself? Even the skankiness of popular murder location International Boulevard seems merely colorful from the back seat of a hired vehicle.
Why is it that cabs and hotels, where you know other people have sat and slept (among other things), seem luxurious and delightful?
It was foggy inside (my head) and outside (the house) this particular morning, par for the course of a Northern California summer (insert Mark Twain remark here). As I reached for my favorite mug, I noticed that the teeny kitchen counter was teeming with ants.
I had been invaded overnight!
I removed them hastily, shuddering and trying not to scream. How can anything so small be so gross? I wonder if the Oakland hills are actually anthills.
The Temptations came on, and Ray convinced me to do the Temptations Walk with him, so there we were, dancing down the soda aisle.
I did not sleep well.
I sat with my back to the window during the meeting.
Iím sitting in the passenger seat of my own car, a 1966 silver blue Mustang convertible with its white top down (when I had that car, I used to have the top down unless it was flat-out raining). My good friend Paul is driving.
ďJesus,Ē he says, leaning over the wheel. ďI feel like Iím back in ĎNam with all these Asians trying to kill me!Ē
I look around in a panic, but weíre alone. I help him up, and make the long, slow progress to my grandmotherís deep blue coffin. My grandfatherís hands shake, clutching his cane.
Together, we gaze at the beloved face, the still hands. Looking at her hands, unmoving for the first time, I realize sheís gone. Looking at my grandfatherís face, as he looks at the woman he loved for more than half a century, I wonder what he sees. What I see is that his eyes have lost their light forever.
After the funeral, her granddaughter walks through the still house, on a hot and dusty summer afternoon. She stops in front of the fireplace, where her grandmotherís birthday cards still stand.