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Dad's appointment is at 9:30, so we've got to get an early start. It's not as if we aren't both up and about by that hour. My dogs typically start moving around before the school bus rolls by, around 6:15.
The two kids that live here full-time ride their bus to elementary school in McGill - about 45 miles south. When they're old enough to go to "middle school" the ride is a dozen miles longer. In winter, they get on before daylight, and get off after sundown. I feel for them.My morning routine typically involves a rather leisurely pace toward the activities of the day - once the initial flurry of pet breakfast action has passed. This has evolved more or less due to winter weather. When it's cold, one has the tendency to linger over coffee, Facebook, and now - The Blog (which I'm somewhat embarrassed to report, still takes nearly a week to compose and complete for publication)- and then, usually several rounds of Mah Jong - just to check that the cogs are functioning - while waiting for the sun to make his appearance and purge the frost from my windshield.
Thus, it's no great challenge to get ready to go to town at our usual Wednesday time: 9 am. Moving our departure up to 8:15 introduces an urgency to the plan. I had suggested that this appointment could be postponed to a later date, since Uddin had not looked at Dad's shingled leg (which was bandaged, at the time) and his only interest had been in the old man's high blood pressure. It seemed to me that it might be reasonable to move the appointment to a date AFTER the cardiologist does his bit (on April 17). He would not hear of that.
At 8:00 my hair still is a major frizz bomb because I hadn't been able to locate a comb after my bath last night, so I'd just run my fingers through the tangles -- and I still haven't located a comb -- and that's when I remember that I still have not replaced the old license plate with the new one. No time for that, now ... if Dad isn't ready to go, I can put it on up there while I'm waiting.
At 8:10 I grab a banana clip and shove it into my jacket pocket, and I'm on my way up the hill to pick up Dad, when I see him driving down in his pickup. We meet at the Y and he asks if we're taking my car? "Yeah - unless you want to take the truck?"
"No. That's OK ... I'll meet you back up there."
I swing wide to the edge of the brush, and continue up past his front door and back up into the steeply sloping upper parking slot, pulling forward now, so we're heading in the right direction.
Meanwhile, he has turned around and is approaching as I get situated near the front door, allowing plenty of room for him to bring the truck past. He turns it around into his usual parking place, then grabs his jacket and cooler bag from the back seat.
By the time he gets everything into the Jeep, we're only a few minutes behind schedule, and should have plenty of time to spare.
"You look spiffy!" I comment. He's wearing gray dress slacks and a blue checkered shirt that I haven't seen before. I confess, this may be a distractive move on my part; because I can see that he is a tad aggravated over the switcheroo. He had thought I was late, and that he must have misunderstood the "plan".
"My other clothes ... I look like a carpenter in them. Or a mechanic ..." he says. "This shirt has been in my closet for a long time. I don't think I've ever worn it."
"We must have got a lot of water," he comments as I'm maneuvering the Jeep alongside a new wash that has formed in the driveway that goes past the goat people's shack.
"Yeah. Bud will be filing a complaint with the County." I smirk
"A complaint against me?"
"Yeah. Like he did when the snow melted and was running into his yard."
Referring to that time - two winters ago, or was it three? - when this downhill neighbor complained to the County that snow was melting off Dad's property and running onto his. (I may expand on the details of that scenario, sometime.) Dad rolls his eyes and snorts.
The County had sent a man out to look at the "damage", and their response was pretty much the same as Dad's was, just then.
Down in the bottom land, en route to the highway, I'm elated to see that spring run-off has finally started coming into the valley. People here think I'm weird (not just for this), but I love this big empty playa when it's filled with water from the melting mountain snow. Once it goes green, there will be Canada geese, mallard ducks, American avocet, and curlews. And shooting stars. Antelope with babies, and coyote pups will appear with regularity. Later, cattle will come in and spoil the ambiance of the place, but the dogs and I will come down and romp around before they do.
By the time we're to Schellbourne, I've put some distance between us and the truck, though it is keeping steady apace with us. Nevertheless, I feel justified for having rushed the stop.
"It was nice to have Pete stop by, yesterday." he mentions.
"Oh? Pete Boundy?" I didn't know he had been there.
"Yeah. He came and stayed for -- it must have been about four hours."
"Wow! What did he know?"
"Well, most of the time we were talking about that bearing he brought out." (Needless to say, I have no idea WHAT bearing, for what machine, or WHEN it was brought, though if I thought it an important matter, I would ask.)
"He is having trouble with his vision, too." There sure seems to be a lot of that going around. "I showed him my magnifier, and he was pretty impressed with that!" (The magnifier is a visual aid that magnifies and projects full-size documents onto a large flat screen monitor.)
"He's had a really tough year. First his father died, then two of his brothers, and his wife..."
"Ooh. That's terrible!" I didn't know that he had been married. In all the years I've known this old friend of Dad's, I have never seen him with a woman, and nobody has ever mentioned his spouse. I'm a little more familiar with his two brothers, Paul and Bob. I thought I had seen Paul in town, last time we were there. As for their father -- I would have assumed he'd been gone long ago.
"Both of his brothers died?"
"Yes. Jack and Bob."
"Oh. Jack. I never knew Jack." I glance over to see if he caught the humor? Doesn't seem so. (Also, I thought that Jack Boundy was the father, and that he has been gone for around five years.)
"How old is Pete?"
"He's ... I guess he must be in his seventies."
"Jack and Bob, they were older. They both got messed up in the war. They were both paratroopers." I have this romantic vision of the movie star heroes of WWII, steel-spined jocular men in well-pressed jumpsuits, saluting, with a helmet tucked loosely into an armpit and ascot flying in the breeze.
"Bob used to tell me about some of the crazy things they used to do, then." He elaborates. "Once, he said he wanted to get a Jap flag. You know, they used to take them for souvenirs ... "
"Right."
"And so he went into one of those caves. You know, they had cleared those caves out with flame-throwers ..."
"Yeah ...?"
"So he went into one of 'em, going to get that flag .... and those Japs in there were all purple and swelled up. Rotten (or rottin')."
"Oooh!" I scrunch up my face in revulsion. Wasn't quite expecting that.
"He got sick and he couldn't get out of there fast enough, so he forgot all about getting that flag." Dad continues, "He was pretty messed up from all the stuff they saw over there in the War. Jack never drank much, but Bob -- he could pretty much make up for both of them."
Northbound traffic on 93 had been steady and astonishingly heavy since we'd got up on the highway. "Wow! There is a LOT of traffic today! Way more than usual!"
"Snowbirds trying to get home for Easter." he theorizes.
"Oh! Yeah, probably." I agree. It's a constant stream all the way to McGill.
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| A Halo of Clouds dancing around Heusser Peak |
I note a reproving look from my passenger, but no comment. Far in the distance, approaching rapidly, is a car from Idaho that will pass us before we get to the reduced speed zone on the north end of McGill.
We travel along in silence for a while. I start thinking about an encounter I had on Facebook, yesterday, and I laugh out loud. Now, I have no choice but to share:
I got into a little altercation on Facebook, yesterday." I laugh. "This lady from Texas threatened to 'open a can of whoopass' on me" I giggle. "and she called me 'sugar britches'". Now I'm laughing all the more and he's grinning at me, waiting to hear the juicy details
What did you do to make her want to whoop you?"
Well, I have this one Facebook friend who is always posting controversial questions, just to stir the pot. So he had asked, "How do you conservative Christians feel about your president with the porn star?"
Dad chuckles, waiting for me to continue.
"And most of them were saying things like, 'Judge not, lest you be judged' - and that kind of crap ... and I said that I thought that that's what elections were all about: judging a person's character and qualifications ... "
"And she said - basically - that character had nothing to do with qualification to do a job ... so I said," [now I'm really laughing] ... "Oh, So character has nothing to do with qualification to be the leader of the free world .. "
"And then she got all bent out of shape and said she was a good South Texas Republican woman, so she was going to leave the conversation because otherwise she might be tempted to 'pop a top on a can of whoopass' on me."
I'm laughing all the more, envisioning this very pale big-haired blonde with an apparently very affluent lifestyle (as I had discovered from visiting her Facebook profile) putting up her dukes, ready to take me on.
I'm eight years older than she claims to be, but I figure an old rural Nevada girl could kick ass right proper on a petite flower like this tough talker.
The mental image of that hypothetical cat fight makes me laugh even more. Dad just rolls his eyes and shakes his head. He's not impressed with violence, generally. Having nothing contemporary to add, Dad starts telling me about his latest audio book, which about King Charles the First, of England. He says that the English at that time ... "Well, they were just ... like ... dogs. Especially the royals. They were like dogs."
"Seems to go with power, doesn't it."
"Yeah," he agrees. "Yes, it does."
As we approach McGill, Dad resumes his historical review, which continues most of the way to Ely;
"Yeah, Pete said it was such a nice day [yesterday], that he just had to get out. He drove out the back way." He gestures toward the road that runs along the base of the mountains along the southwestern edge of Steptoe Valley.
"Pete was a skimmer at the foundry in McGill. That was the highest paying position in the whole operation. Of course, he had worked for Kennecott right from the time he finished high school until they shut down. (This would represent a time period of around 40 years or longer.) "After he retired from there, he went to work for Placer (Mining Co.) until he retired again."
"That's pretty common in those places."
"It's very common! It was the same way at the Manor. They'd steal everything that wasn't nailed down!"
[And yet, that's where they chose to deposit my grandmother ....?]
I am always amazed by steadfast people like Pete; who seemingly never weary of routine. Definitely not MY style.
First stop of the day is the Wm Bee Ririe Clinic. All of the handicap parking spaces are filled, so I drop Dad off at the front entrance and drive around to the north side of the building. My hair is still a fright, and no comb in sight. I twist it up into a bun and clip it. By the time I get inside, he is standing at the admissions desk. Since he can't hear what the clerk is asking, he hasn't gotten anywhere. "Date of birth?" Once we've got over that ID hurdle, it's a quick process and we're given two sheets of paper and told to go ahead to the waiting area. This time, we know where that is, and head in that direction.
Dad detours to the restroom while I continue on to the waiting area, deposit his papers in the plastic folder on the wall, and take a seat among three other waiting individuals; one of whom is in a wheelchair. They seem to be all together. KSL TV is running in the background.
Dr Uddin is seen striding past in the direction of the exit. I hear Dad's voice greeting him as they pass in the hallway. He comes shuffling around the corner and takes the seat next to me in the waiting area.
Before long, a nurse in colorful scrubs and a ponytail comes around the corner and leads us off to the restricted area to be weighed. 237.6 - down .4 from last week (or, had the previous nurse simply rounded off?). She comments that his oxygen level is low, and directs us into the same exam room we had been in last week. And we wait.
After several minutes, the same nurse comes back in, checks his blood pressure (slightly high, she says), and then she takes another oxygen reading, stating that it's better now, and that sometimes the level drops after exertion ... the exertion to get from the waiting area to the nurse's station? Well, I'm sure she knows more about these things than I care to learn.
...... and we wait ......
Eventually, the young doctor comes in. He's wearing olive drab slacks, a long-sleeved purple pin-stripe shirt, and a gray ultra-swede vest with mustard accents. Not a combination I would ever think of putting together, but he carries it off perfectly.
He had changed Dad's blood pressure medication, and now asks if there are any side effects? Nausea? light-headedness, cough?
"Oh, yes. The cough. The pharmacist told me I might have that and I do."
"Okay, we can try a different one." He asks which pharmacy and texts it in to Ridley's Market.
Once done there, we make our way back to the main reception area, where Dad tries to goad me into going up to the admissions counter, rather than the appointments counter.
Again, I suggest making his next appointment for after the cardiologist exam, but no. That isn't until the seventeenth, and Uddin had told him to come back in a couple of weeks. Well, he may as well get full use of that insurance he's been paying through the nose for, these past many years. He's set up for 10:30 on the eleventh.
Once done there, we make our way back to the main reception area, where Dad tries to goad me into going up to the admissions counter, rather than the appointments counter.
Again, I suggest making his next appointment for after the cardiologist exam, but no. That isn't until the seventeenth, and Uddin had told him to come back in a couple of weeks. Well, he may as well get full use of that insurance he's been paying through the nose for, these past many years. He's set up for 10:30 on the eleventh.
I have my own appointment with the surgeon on the third, and by now have made it abundantly clear that Dad is not invited on next week's trek. I'll have enough to deal with, that day.)
Back in the car, I ask Dad what else is on his agenda? It's a short list.
"I need to go to Bath on the way out. "
"What do you need at Bath?"
"I need to get some waterproofing foam to seal the bonnet around the old stovepipe hole. It didn't leak before, but last time it rained, I had nearly a gallon of water pour in through there. I think it runs down the corrugated tin, and right into that hole," I explain. "And I need some screws." I always need screws. I like to keep a massive supply on hand. I think screws and cordless screwdrivers are among the greatest inventions ever created by Man.
But it's early, and I have been meaning to take care of this other matter for a long time: "Do you want to swing over to Mount Wheeler Power and switch my meter over from your name into mine?" We had talked about this before, but just hadn't gotten around to doing it.
"Oh! OK."
Strike a blow for independence!
Once there, we're directed into a small office with large glass window. I tell the young woman the object of our mission and she pulls out a couple of application forms, then peruses her monitor searching for a trace of my former account(s). I tell her there might have been one many years ago, under a different last name. No result, so I am going to have to pay the deposit. Do I want to pay in full today, or half now, and the other half in two weeks? Based on my average bill for the last three months, the amount is $213. WOW!! I'm paying three months in advance, based on the bill for the COLDEST MONTHS of the year? Isn't that fine timing! If I had come in August, the deposit amount would have been $90. I clench my teeth and fork over my debit card ... so much for that nice little cushion I thought I had left over from last month.
She says that she needs two forms of ID. Drivers license, social security card, passport, or birth certificate. Wow! I need all that just to open a utilities account? This is more complicated than buying an automatic weapon. I don't have any of the three other options and she says that I can just bring one in, later.
While we're at it, I suggest that this might be a good time to take Mom's name off Dad's account ... (She has been deceased for fourteen years. Doesn't seem that long at all.) The clerk is very affirmative on this idea, explaining that there will be dividends to be gained. All he needs to do is bring in her death certificate. (I doubt that this will ever happen.)
While we're at it, I suggest that this might be a good time to take Mom's name off Dad's account ... (She has been deceased for fourteen years. Doesn't seem that long at all.) The clerk is very affirmative on this idea, explaining that there will be dividends to be gained. All he needs to do is bring in her death certificate. (I doubt that this will ever happen.)
ZOIKS! That was painful! I console myself with the fact that the deposit is refundable after twelve consecutive on-time payments. Since I have set up auto-payment, there should be no issues along those lines, and the refund will come just about the time that my car registration is due, next time. Further, if I somehow manage to submit a photo that makes the cover of the utility's monthly magazine, I'll earn a credit toward my account. That isn't a given; it would simply be icing on the cake.
Crossing Great Basin Boulevard into Ridley's parking lot, I calculate what's left in my bank account, deduct the impending internet payment and a few other things, and determine that, yes, we can still eat, the rest of this month.
In Ridley's Market, Dad heads immediately to the OTC meds department and stops at the toothpaste section. He's in search of "filler" for his dentures. There are two kinds of what I think he is looking for; one covers the whole plate, the other is a horseshoe shaped pad. No. That isn't it. As nearly as I can make out, it's a powder that is supposed to fill gaps between the denture and gums. His plate is loose, he says, and it's irritating. The only other products are adhesives; Poligrip or Fixodent. I don't think either one of those is what he's looking for, but he decides to take the latter.
"We're going to start down there." He states with purpose, gesturing toward the produce department.
"Yes. Good!" I'm already heading that way ... breaking from routine has not served us well, on our last two outings.
But then he remembers his prescription and shuffles off to the pharmacy, only to be told that it isn't ready, so if we have any shopping to do ... Of course.
While he heads off to the restroom, I make my standard quick pass to the other end of the building, stock up on chicken, grab some pepper jack cheese and a pint of half-n-half. (I guess this is not my week to go vegan.) Add a big can of apricot nectar and a plastic jug of mango nectar - these two will be merged to create my special "house blend" -- this is about all the fruit I will consume in a week.
By the time he reaches the apple bin, I'm back and available to read prices.
Every week, it's the same routine with approximately the same shopping list of gotta-gets: Veggies, oranges (not from Chile), bananas (the bigger the better), grapes (if they're not "too expensive"), milk, cereal, bread, cookies.
Today there's one extra thing on his list: steel wool. It's a tough decision to make; whether to get the all-steel ones (which I really dislike because they rust and invariably leave streaks on the edge of the sink), the copper ones (he thinks they won't stand up to the task he has in mind), or the type with a sponge inside (Nope. That's not gonna work.) So he finally decides on the steel ones, even though the price is too high... Then, across the aisle we discover the plastic "Scotch-brite" scrubbers. Some have sponges attached, some are just pads. After about five minutes of discussion on the virtues of these, versus the ones in his basket, he opts to stick with the old tried-and-true.
Also at the bottom of his list: "chuck". Another stop at NAPA Auto Parts to see if they have the one that was presumably put on order.
In the cereal aisle, he's searching the bins of enormous bags of kiddy cereal, in search of frosted shredded wheat squares. I hand him a "small" orange bag like he bought the last time. "No. That stuff isn't very good." It's the store brand: Western Family.
OK. How about this one? Malto Meal... a five pound bag of sugar-encrusted squares. That's the one. Cool.
We're earlier than usual getting through checkout, so there's just one quick stop at the pharmacy window to pick up his prescription and we're on our way. Wouldn't it be great to get home before 2 pm for a change!
"We're going to start down there." He states with purpose, gesturing toward the produce department.
"Yes. Good!" I'm already heading that way ... breaking from routine has not served us well, on our last two outings.
But then he remembers his prescription and shuffles off to the pharmacy, only to be told that it isn't ready, so if we have any shopping to do ... Of course.
While he heads off to the restroom, I make my standard quick pass to the other end of the building, stock up on chicken, grab some pepper jack cheese and a pint of half-n-half. (I guess this is not my week to go vegan.) Add a big can of apricot nectar and a plastic jug of mango nectar - these two will be merged to create my special "house blend" -- this is about all the fruit I will consume in a week.
By the time he reaches the apple bin, I'm back and available to read prices.
Every week, it's the same routine with approximately the same shopping list of gotta-gets: Veggies, oranges (not from Chile), bananas (the bigger the better), grapes (if they're not "too expensive"), milk, cereal, bread, cookies.
Today there's one extra thing on his list: steel wool. It's a tough decision to make; whether to get the all-steel ones (which I really dislike because they rust and invariably leave streaks on the edge of the sink), the copper ones (he thinks they won't stand up to the task he has in mind), or the type with a sponge inside (Nope. That's not gonna work.) So he finally decides on the steel ones, even though the price is too high... Then, across the aisle we discover the plastic "Scotch-brite" scrubbers. Some have sponges attached, some are just pads. After about five minutes of discussion on the virtues of these, versus the ones in his basket, he opts to stick with the old tried-and-true.
Also at the bottom of his list: "chuck". Another stop at NAPA Auto Parts to see if they have the one that was presumably put on order.
In the cereal aisle, he's searching the bins of enormous bags of kiddy cereal, in search of frosted shredded wheat squares. I hand him a "small" orange bag like he bought the last time. "No. That stuff isn't very good." It's the store brand: Western Family.
OK. How about this one? Malto Meal... a five pound bag of sugar-encrusted squares. That's the one. Cool.
We're earlier than usual getting through checkout, so there's just one quick stop at the pharmacy window to pick up his prescription and we're on our way. Wouldn't it be great to get home before 2 pm for a change!
On our way, I move over two lanes into the right lane allowing plenty of leeway to turn right at the light and get on into the east end of town. I'm almost parallel to Washington Federal Bank when my eye is grabbed by the blue and yellow sign across the way.
"NAPA!" I exclaim, careening across two lanes in order to make a quick left turn into the parking lot. To my great surprise, Dad seems not to have noticed the last-second switch, and he is pleased that we have remembered this little side stop. We probably wouldn't have turned around to come back, just for this errand. I drop him off at the door and go park at the curb facing the bank. It's a rather slopy parking lot, and I always try to avoid him having to maneuver its uneven rough plane.
"NAPA!" I exclaim, careening across two lanes in order to make a quick left turn into the parking lot. To my great surprise, Dad seems not to have noticed the last-second switch, and he is pleased that we have remembered this little side stop. We probably wouldn't have turned around to come back, just for this errand. I drop him off at the door and go park at the curb facing the bank. It's a rather slopy parking lot, and I always try to avoid him having to maneuver its uneven rough plane.
Inside the auto parts store it's a dead animal bonanza. Enormous elk and deer heads adorn every wall and column, along with the stuffed carcasses of other wildlife, such as cougar, coyote, bobcat, and a wild turkey. With so much dead wildlife overhead, if they were to all come to life, one would be trampled into dust. All taxidermy now reminds me of Norman Bates.
Dad is already at the site where we did our last exploration in search of a locking air chuck for his compressor. We examine every fitting on the rack - at least once. Finally, we go to the counter and ask if they had the one he had requested? He didn't have his name on the order, so we're not expecting satisfaction. The very tall bearded man behind the counter lumbers off into the nether regions of the store while we stand around waiting. Dad notices that they seem to be getting more and more room in this store .... several racks behind the counter have been removed, and there is quite a large empty space there. He comments about that to the tall man, who has returned with the aforementioned fitting. After some discussion, Dad makes the purchase, sniping on the way out, that that shouldn't have cost more than three dollars.
Quick stop at the Texaco:
"Nineteen dollars. Two seventy-three. It went up a dime." The pump actually produces a receipt, this time.
Right and then left, Bath Lumber comes into view, several hundred yards down. I drop Dad off at the front door and go to park. Some dumby pulls through the opposite parking space and into the one I was about to pull into, so I drive down three more spaces.
Dad is in deep conversation with store owner, Tom Bath, when I make my entrance. I shoot by on the opposite side of the check-out station and make a beeline for the restroom. The ladies' room at Bath is always clean, and usually unoccupied. Its location is also very handy to the fastener bins, where I purchase drywall screws by the pound.
I check out my items and ask the lady at the register if she has seen my dad? "He was right there talking to Tom, last time I say him."
I leave my purchases on the counter and go back to find the old man. He comes forth with a couple of sheets of sandpaper. "You done?"
"Yep. Are you?"
His sandpaper tally is around $2, so he decides not to put it on his charge account, telling the cashier happily that he probably won't be getting a bill for this month. We haven't been in the store all month!
In fact, I did get the feeling that the cashier suddenly did realize that we hadn't been coming around for a while.
Dad is in deep conversation with store owner, Tom Bath, when I make my entrance. I shoot by on the opposite side of the check-out station and make a beeline for the restroom. The ladies' room at Bath is always clean, and usually unoccupied. Its location is also very handy to the fastener bins, where I purchase drywall screws by the pound.
I am so experienced at this by now, I can usually judge one pound by feel, before ever setting the bag into the scale. I love that cool magnetic grabber thing, that releases when you pull the lever. Today, I'll take a pound of 1-1/2" shorties @ $2.49.Straight on through the paint section, then left, to pick up my waterproofing foam, and I'm ready to head out. A store employee is putting out garden hoses in the main aisle - On Sale! 50' for $9.99 or 100' for $14.99. Dad approaches from the direction of the restrooms, and then disappears while I am studying the hose situation. They're cheap crappy ones, but I grab a 100 footer that should get water from Point A to Point B for one season, anyhow.
I check out my items and ask the lady at the register if she has seen my dad? "He was right there talking to Tom, last time I say him."
I leave my purchases on the counter and go back to find the old man. He comes forth with a couple of sheets of sandpaper. "You done?"
"Yep. Are you?"
His sandpaper tally is around $2, so he decides not to put it on his charge account, telling the cashier happily that he probably won't be getting a bill for this month. We haven't been in the store all month!
In fact, I did get the feeling that the cashier suddenly did realize that we hadn't been coming around for a while.
In the meat case aisle, I see said friend with her ever-present younger sister, and a former friend of ours - well, acquaintance to me - who is the current BFF of my former BFF. I stroll down to their vicinity as Dad peruses the packages of chicken in the case.
"What's this? A committee meeting?" I smile.
"Actually, yes. We're getting the stuff for the Easter egg hunt on Saturday."
I do sort of miss being involved in the McGill Revitalization Committee. (I was inducted as VP at the initial organizational meeting, but dropped out after the first year because it's just too far to drive on a regular basis, in addition to the trips I'm now doing with Dad every week.) It was a good feeling to contribute to the community that I grew up in.I squeeze in between sister and friend, touching her shoulder.
She looks surprised and squeals, "OH!" while returning my hug.
The girls go on to tell me that my friend has driven down here (several blocks), despite the fact that she cannot see. "Cataracts!" she crows merrily.
"You have got to meet my new baby!" (No need to explain that she is talking about a dog. I know this.) She launches into the saga of the new puppy's conception, and says that her ex-husband, with whom she still cohabitates, believes that her current dog is the father. Her daughter's chiweenie is the mother. But she knows that her Pomeranian is NOT the sire. It surely is a schnauzer ... or something like that.
I'm suddenly feeling claustrophobic - as I often do when pressed into close contact with groups of people. "I need to go read labels," I excuse myself and go back to the meat case, where Dad is blindly exploring the beef options.
My friend breaks away from her pack and comes up behind Dad, grabbing him in a massive bear hug so squishy, I can barely see his blushing face. "How are you doing, Pop?!"
She doesn't wait for an answer, but now launches into the story about how, one day last October, she had experienced these "grease spots" in her eye, had tried to clean them off her glasses, but with her glasses off, the streak was still there. So she eventually went to optometrist and discovered that she had cataracts. And given that cataracts are very treatable, she was overjoyed to learn that she had cataracts. And she will be going to Reno for surgery very soon...
Her cohorts have finished their business with the shopkeeper and move toward the front of the store. As she passes by, Little Sister nudges me, "Can I bring her out to your house, and you can take care of BOTH her and Dad ...?"
"No WAY!!" I cry - as Big Sister continues her saga of impending cataract surgeries, and how great it is that the problem is a fixable one, rather than MD or glaucoma.
Her companions are motioning to her from the register that they are ready to roll. She continues talking as she walks backwards toward the waiting women. We exchange waves as they all exit the store.
I don't really need anything here, but don't like to come in without buying SOMETHING. I select a half-ripe pear and a box of chocolate parfait caramel Nips. I keep telling myself that I am not going to buy those anymore - because I will devour the whole box before sundown. (There aren't that many in there.)
Dad has managed to accumulate a pretty full basket. As he is signing his credit card slip, the cashier asks if he wants a copy?
"Um. I guess so."
"The register tape," I explain to her - exactly as always. He likes to review how much he has paid for things, and compare to what he would have paid at the bigger store in Ely.
Outside, the three women are still visiting. Little Sister is holding the tiny dog, as all three engage in a lively conversation that I am not remotely interested in hearing.
I put my little bag of groceries in the back seat and tell Dad that I am going to look at the puppy while he is sorting his stuff, putting cold things into the insulated bag.
It's a darling little puppy, wearing a denim dress with "Mommy's Girl" printed on the back. I'm allowed to hold her briefly, and the poor little thing is shaking and scared by all the activity and noise. I try to soothe her, but suppose that I am just part of the problem. The store cashier comes out to look at the dog, so that's my cue to hand her back over to Sis to direct into another embrace that is probably more upsetting than comfort.
The old man is waiting to go, and I, too, am anxious to get on down the road.
It's a beautiful warm Spring day, and the long drive is made pleasant by our observation that things are 'greening up', and we just hope there will be more precipitation coming.
- Between me and the living room there is one gate and two doors.
- The gate has a bar bolt near the bottom (because Ruby learned to push the bottom of the gate just enough to squeeze through). The bolt is designed to open from inside, but it can also be opened from outside by reaching through the fence and sliding the bar out of the keeper ring.
- The front porch opening is protected by a wide screen door to which I have added a wood panel at the bottom and clear vinyl at the top, so it's a nearly solid piece. This latches from outside with a horseshoe through a leather loop, OR inside a little board rotates to hold it closed. Closure serves mostly to keep the dogs from rushing into the yard, and to direct the wind away from the front door, which has been known to blow open when our wind velocity is ... well, normal.
- Beside the front door (inside the porch) is a table that I often use to set my groceries or firewood on, so as to leave my hands free to open the front door (which is very sticky). Typically, I will bring a load from the car, set it on the table, open the door and greet the exuberant crowd of dogs - and sometimes cats, as well .... Then, once things have settled down, I'll go back out and retrieve my goods, carrying everything into the porch, then go back and close and bar the gate, and latch the porch door so the dogs don't go out into the front yard.
- When I have firewood, I tend to throw it piecemeal into the yard, then bar the gate, allowing the dogs to mill around the yard while I bring the wood through the porch and into the house.
This day, I opened the hatch on the Jeep, opened the gate, carried a few pieces of wood to the front door, opened it, and stood still for a few seconds, waiting for the dogs to stop jumping.
As I set the wood down, all three of them rushed the door, and the second door, and the gate ... whereupon they leaped joyfully over the cargo of wood, into the back of the Jeep.
They were so happy to be inside, I relented ... while they were bouncing and drooling happily in the car, I hauled in my few bags of groceries and left them just as they were, on the front room table. And we went for a ride back down to the bottomland, where they made full use of the broad landscape.... there were no ducks in the little pond yet.
If you enjoy riding along on our little adventures, and would like to know when new pages are posted, please Like and Follow our Facebook Page: "Riding In The Car With Dad"
If you enjoy riding along on our little adventures, and would like to know when new pages are posted, please Like and Follow our Facebook Page: "Riding In The Car With Dad"
It was a restorative little venture - only about five miles from home, and we all came back refreshed. That's when I realized that I had still not replaced the old license plate.
I don't know how many more times we're going to make this journey. I guess we'll just keep going for as long as Dad will let me drive.
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