Another rainy day

After rain

Last week was totally humdrum, with absolutely nothing blogable happening.  I got most of my little task lists completed, but the big task was mowing the lawn.  I had timed myself doing it, and was surprised to find that the entire enterprise – from decision to do it to putting the lawnmower away again – took a grand twenty-six minutes.  Not much, eh?  You would think this infobit would spur me on, and reduce my reluctance to get moving on the task at hand, but such was not the case.  On the first scheduled lawn mowing day, I went out, looked things over, and decided that the grass was really not, after all, that tall, and it did not, in fact, need to be mowed quite yet.  Maybe in a day or two it would.  When the day or two passed, there was some other reason not to do it.  Perhaps I didn’t have time because more important activities loomed, or perhaps I was just too tired.  Another day wouldn’t matter.  Finally, I was getting really determined not to let another hour of procrastination elapse by without my grass being brought to submission. I got up, ready to work on it, but alas, it was raining.  Yesterday, once again, I had a full agenda which included mowing the lawn and going on an afternoon Camino walk with fellow parishioners.  Well, it was raining again.  Not much, but enough to discourage lawn mowing.  I was getting set to go on the walk when my darling girl called to see if I would like to go to a movie.  This is such a rare and precious event, that I dropped all else, hopped on my bike  and rode off to the cinema.  What fun!  And dinner afterward at our local!  I came home utterly knackered and collapsed into bed with a good book.  Today, however, I am determined! But wait – is that a drop of rain I see?  And it is awfully windy.  Hmmmmm! What to do?

 Update: I went out after writing the above, and it’s raining – sort of, anyway.  But enough to preclude any lawn mowing.  Tomorrow is another day, as you-know-who said. 

Further update:  It dried up a bit, and I actually did it. I had been also puttting off shopping, and finally having done that, I was inspired.  It look twenty minutes this time.  Was that worth a week and a half of guilt? Actually, it really was raining a lot of those days, so not really a week and a half of total guilt.  But on the rainy days, I fretted about having frittered away previous opportunities.  I love my new lawn mower!  Remind me about this when it is time to mow again.

Pina colada made by Becca  - one more temptation luring me away from lawn mowing. It was very yummy, and it was an effective deterrent to garden work. 

A Reminiscent Day

A reading déjà vu!  I went to a very tiny grammar school (thirteen in my eighth grade class.) There was, to compliment the tininess of the school, a tiny library, one shelf long, at the back of the classroom.  These were books we were encouraged to read during “quiet study time.” They were often read surreptitiously during math or catechism times as well.  Most of the books I read in the eighth grade, have faded into the mists of forgetfulness, but one from the little library which I remember reading was “The House of Seven Gables.”  It was delightfully creepy, slightly shocking, and I altogether loved it.  Since that one was so good, I also read its companion, “The Scarlet Letter.” This one I did not love so much.  You may find it difficult to believe, but even though in the eighth grade, I had only a vague concept of the true story of the birds and the bees.  Hence, “The Scarlet Letter” was both mysterious and shocking to me, and in great part incomprehensible.  Still, after all these years, it has stood out in my mind in ways that most of my other reading did not.  I have reread “The House of Seven Gables” several times, but never was really tempted to pick up “The Scarlet Letter” again.  At least not until recently,  after Rachael and I went to see Lillian Gish in the silent film, which was glorious.  It seemed like quite a different story than the one I had read so many years ago.  Well, I thought, that’s how movies often are - not really true to the original novel.  I loved the movie so much that I decided  I had better reread the book.  Well, here is a third version.  This is even less the book I read years ago.  Odd how a book can completely change its character when read later in life. 

Anyway, as I started reading it, I was transported back Sister Hilda Marie, the termagant who taught the eighth grade, her little library, and reading in the classroom while supposed to be doing other things.  Later that evening, at work during my break time,  I finished my current read-on-the-computer-during-workbreaks book, “The Hound of the Baskervilles,” the fourth and final Sherlock Holmes novel, and, casting about for my next workbreaks book, decided to reread the short stories from the start.  I opened up “The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,” and the first story was “The Red Headed League.”  Wow!  As I began to read, I was routed on another trip back to St. Thomas School.  This book was also in the library, and was my first introduction to Sherlock.  I remember being astonished by Sherlock, the whole idea of a Red Headed League, and delighting in the adventures with Holmes and Watson yet to come. Two trips down the same literary memory lane in one day.  I was thrilled and a not little creepified!

A Remarkably Hideous Day

I was sadly examining a favorite grey, white, red and green sweater I had knitted, and was finding that a wretched moth had eaten up most of the grey parts, leaving me with a useless and ugly wad of yarn.  Just then, I heard a tap, tap on the door, woke up and was relieved to realize that I was having a bad dream.  Knowing that it was Rebecca ready to go for our morning run, and thinking that perhaps she had not brought her key, I staggered down to let her in.  In a haze, I made us tea and got my ugly running outfit on. I always gasp, moan, and complain about my suffering for our whole run.  It is, I suppose, a good kind of suffering.  But suffering nonetheless.  Afterward, I had errands to do, and noble Rebecca agreed to go with me to keep me company, despite having many tasks of her own. Margaret wanted to come too, and I had misgivings about that, but she was pathetic, and we let her come along. Our errands took us through a construction area in Chinatown on and shortly after we passed through the construction, we heard a “chunkita, chunkita,” sound coming from the rear of the car.  I pulled over to check the tires, but they looked okay.  We went on our way, and as we went, the chunkita waxed and waned.  Rebecca was nervously visualizing the axel breaking, and I was sadly visualizing spending lots of money on car repairs.  We decided to go to Hilltop gas station and see if they could diagnose the problem.  They immediately diagnosed a flat tire.  Margaret, who loves Hilltop because it means a dog cookie, was thrilled, but Rebecca and I were not.  It would take about a half hour for them to get to it.  Aaargh!  My milk would get sour.  They said I could leave it in their refrigerator, so we deposited it among their lunches, gathered up Margaret and Rebecca’s groceries and staggered off, laden like little pack mules, to Rebecca’s house to have a cup of tea and wait out the half hour. 

We still had an errand or two, so we returned, got the car with its fixed tire, and proceeded on with our shopping.  As we went down the road, we both felt that we were still hearing a subtle “chunkita, chunkita.”  We went to the bank and the pharmacy and then made our way back to Hilltop. Margaret was ecstatic.  Two visits to dog cookie heaven in one day!  The fellow who had helped with front tire heard the “chunkita, chunkita” as we drove in, this time from a rear tire.  It had a huge big unbelievable thing stuck in it.  Double aargh!  But, once again, they fixed it. I delivered Becca to her house, returned home myself, and feeling that I needed comfort, sought out a secret cache of Cadbury’s Eggs that I had bought on sale after Easter.  I had one, and it made me feel a little better, so I had another and it made me feel sick.  Really sick.  I took to my bed and inwardly cursing myself for being a piggy, and whining about my upset tummy.  A nap did not really help. Margaret, on the other hand, was having as marvelous a day as I was having a horrible one.  Two visits to Hilltop and than an afternoon in bed with Mom.  What could be better?  

A Fun, Fun, Fun Day in the Sun

My friend Laura, recently retired and hence the object of much envy, has long wanted me to come visit her in West Seattle, instead of her always visiting on this side of the water.  But, alas, the drive across that awful bridge is just too daunting unless I have Rebecca along for moral support. So, wanting to get together with Laura and to explore some of fabulous West Seattle, I rode the bus across the even more terrifying Alaska Way viaduct.  The danger there is earthquakes, as the viaduct is reputed to be on its last legs.  The least tremor and it will go crashing to the ground, crushing all within crushing distance.  Awful indeed, but less immediate than the horror of changing lanes on that frightful bridge.  The bus was a pretty yellow and red, super fast, direct one and got me there in minutes.   We started our adventure at Mexican restaurant where I ordered a too giant burrito that I was unable to finish (and hence felt guilty about – I am such a good Catholic – always feeling guilty about something.)  But I had no trouble gulping down the yummy horchata, a most delightful Mexican summer treat.

Our true intent was not really lunch, but a walk in Lincoln Park,  through the forest and along the beach. The first thing I did was to lose my glasses, but Laura and St. Anthony worked together as we retraced our steps, and Laura found them. Had she not, it would have been particularly distressing as it would have been the second pair of glasses I had lost in two days – the first pair having gone missing in my premier glasses-losing place, the Cathedral. 

Laura found my glasses by this rose bush

I believe that the last time I visited a West Seattle beach was an evening when I was about eleven years old.  I came with my grandmother, several great aunts – her sisters - and a then youthful Aunt Dakki. The beach was a narrow one, surrounded by deep forest, and reached by a dirt road, and in its remote position, quite deserted, except for us. There was the huge trailer of a logging truck parked nearby, and logs floating along the water’s edge.  I fancied myself a mighty lumberjack as I danced from log to log, risking a splash and a salty dip. Everyone was certain that I would fall in and get wet and dirty. Then - Oh dear!  My grandmother, had to go to the bathroom.  The only private place seemed to be under the logging truck.  So under it she crept.  When she emerged, the back of her coat had the greasy imprint of the underbelly of a logging truck on it.  This adventure remained a family story for years, and Dakki still occasionally refers to it.  Everyone, including my grandmother, thought it was funny, but if it had been my coat, I would have been sad.  I was relieved, however, not to be the one to have gotten dirty, despite their dire predictions.

Afterward, we had tea and coffee at this adorable person's coffee shop.
 She waited vigilantly under our table for a crumb of biscotti to drop,

A Knackering Day

Whew!  At the crack of dawn (nine-thirty) Rebecca came by to pick me up for our run.  She is patient and encouraging, but I am sort of a geezer, so I whine and wheeze all the way.  We go a little further each time, despite my moaning, and I actually wheeze a little less – at least I think so.  My whining is unabated, however.

But that was not the truly knackering ordeal.  For years I had the same gardener, whom I liked a lot, and who did a lovely job.  But sometimes these relationships just go south, and this one definitely did.  But what to do now? My faithful readers will know that while I love my garden to blossom and be beautiful, my enthusiasm about working outside and getting it that way is absolutely nil. I truly envy those who enjoy gardening.  Sadly, I would so much rather cook – or even vacuum and iron. 

My grass was the big worry. Samos nobly mowed my lawn several times, but this seems like too much to ask of a friend, especially one who lives as far away as he does.  The prospect of doing it myself loomed ominously.  Many advised me to get an electric mower, but …. way too scary!   I am sure I would mow off my foot, or worse poke out my eye with a flying stone thrown from under the mower blades.  Rebecca, who used to suffer taking care of our yard, seemed a trifle schadenfreudig at my dilemma, no doubt thinking that I had been insufficiently grateful when she was doing it.  (N.B. I was always terribly grateful, and marveled at what a nice job she did.)  Despite schadenfreude, she nobly helped me get a push lawn mower (i.e., powered by me!) from her favorite on-line gardening tools place.  When it arrived, the prospect of assembling it was overwhelmingly daunting and sent me into yet another garden-related blue funk.  She had it together in no time, while I sat by and mewled at the prospect of actually using it. 

Well, today was the dreaded day.  The grass was looking very tall and perky, and I have a spate of busy days coming up.  By the time I would be able to get to it again, it would be knee high.  No more procrastination, I guess.  This morning after our run, as I was bemoaning my situation and the prospect of actual yard work, Rebecca thought I was asking her to do it for me, and started to mewl herself.  I explained that I needed moral support for getting it outside and doing the first pass.  We took it out and gave it a go.  It worked!  Rebecca whipped up and down the grass for a few lanes, and then, feeling little twinge of jealousy, I said, “My turn! My turn!” or words to that effect!  Yay!  And triple “yay” because after she left, I actually did the whole thing myself. Folks passing by seemed to be amazed by such an obsolete looking machine.  I, in full Tom Sawyer mode, offered to let them try it, but I didn’t get any takers. 

Dare I say it?  It was sort of fun.  I think, however, that it was the type of fun that is fun the first time only, and then gets old very fast. 

Oh dear! I think I feel a nap-attsck coming on!

Yet Another Fun Day (or two)

Playing Quiddler with the Aunties

I wasn’t particularly looking forward to the Memorial Day weekend, as I didn’t have anything planned – at least not anything more exciting than cleaning house.  In fact, I was a little resentful that I hadn’t been scheduled to work, reaping in all that overtime holiday pay.  But, the weekend turned out to be a really fun one. On Saturday, I helped my friend Michelle make curtains for her bedroom.  We hauled my sewing machine and the requisite gear to her house.  I had made a careful mental list of all that we would need and gathered it up well in advance. When we got to her house and opened up the machine, I was horrified to see that there was no bobbin in it, and worse yet, no little plate that covers the bobbin.  We drove back to my house, and couldn’t get in.  Aaarrrgh!!  Something was amiss with the door knob.  Fortunately, I was able to get in the back door, but when I searched my sewing room – no little plate.  Given that it was clear plastic, I must have taken it off to get the bobbin out at the end of the last project, and forgotten to put the little plate back.  Rebecca wondered why I would take the bobbin out, but explained that I used the bobbin thread to make the buttonholes. “Why would you do that?” she wondered. Well, because that’s what I do.  Generally when I get to the end of a sewing project, it's late and I am tired.  The perfect time to do something really, really stupid.  I must have gathered the plate up with all the sewing detritus and thrown it away.  While I was frantically thrashing around looking for it, Michelle fixed the front door.  Some good came of this disasterlet.  Fortunately, Rebecca let me borrow her machine and also the instruction booklet which I had also forgotten to bring. My machine is still so new that I have to look at the directions to thread it and to wind a new bobbin. It is totally not intuitive – unlike my sainted and dearly departed old sewing machine. Michelle and I, after tracking down Rebecca, meeting her at her house to pick up her machine, finally got to work.  We had frequent tea breaks, but just seemed to  more and more droopy.  When the curtains were done, they looked fabulous, but we were limp rags.  Michelle had specially purchased my favorite hearty tea, but later that evening, when putting things away, she discovered that the tea was decaf!  No wonder we were so exhausted after our busy day.  I went to bed at the unheard of hour of eight pm.

More fun on Sunday!  The Schola end-of-the-year potluck is the social event of the season!  I had looked at the calendar months ago and was sad to see that I would be working that weekend.  This was a disappointment, as I really enjoy this annual get-together.  After Mass, someone said, “Will I see you at the party this evening?”  I was shocked.  I had been certain it was the next week.  That was a happy surprise, so I rushed to the store to get the ingredients for my pot (coleslaw,) and hurried home to make it. The only downside to this was that if I had been better prepared, I would have arranged a ride for myself.  My faithful readers know how I hate to drive, particularly into unknown territory, and especially alone.  Joanne, a Schola member and one of those faithful readers, was concerned, and inquired about my trip to the party.  It had been mercifully uneventful, as I had mapped out my route in advance.  She then worried about my trip home, and was, I think, anticipating my account of the horrors of my return journey. But, mirabile dictu, that too was without incident.  Not even any traffic delays.  Yay!

Pauline's card shuffling machine must be over 60 years old!

On Monday, I had an indoor picnic with the Aunties. We played Quiddler, and I am happy to say that I won.  I never win when I play with The Twins.

Faux food - non-alcoholic beer and vegetarian weenies. Yum!

A Fun and Novel Evening

Allison, one of my most favorite nurses, is moving across the country to live near her family.  This is great for Allison, but not so great for us.  We will really miss her!  There have been several “Farewell” get-togethers, but for one reason or another I haven’t been able to attend any of them. Finally, there was a gathering on an evening when I wasn’t working.  Yay! A bunch of my colleagues were going to meet at a karaoke place.  It was even nearby, so that Laura and I could walk.  On our way, we saw a nice bee sitting on an onion flower and enjoying the sun,  and then we

stopped at the Seattle University chapel – a little island of light and tranquility in the midst of the neighborhood hubbub.

When we arrived, the atmosphere was very different from that of the onion and the chapel.  

This was a new experience for Laura and I.  Everyone else was about 400 years younger than we, and lives in a totally “other” musical world. 

We felt a little "out of it."

Neither of us know any popular music after 1962.  We wanted to sing Hank Williams or Elvis, but they seemed to be out of favor with the younger set.  We sang “Your Cheatin’ Heart,” and got booed off the stage.  We blamed this on the fact that it was in a bad key.  The younger set was fabulously talented!  What a happy surprise this was, although I don’t know why it should have been.  My coworkers are an amazing bunch, both in the great care they give our patients, and in their many faceted “at home” lives. 

Apple and Allison selecting the next selection

Ron and Maria checking the options

JuYeong giving it her all!  She was fabulous!

Jarrod emoting exquisitely

Darling Apple delighting us

Jarrod and Andy between sets

Maria, Apple, and our dear departing Allison

Thanks to Laura for many of these photos.