TRUMAN

We’ve been plotting and planning and measuring for the new kitchen---just a tiny affair downstairs, one little wall-counter maybe 8’, with a corner turn into 4’ with the stove off on another wall, big and independent, sitting there like a huge squat frog with little round red handles to break the stern black of her face.

I want solid white, sturdy cabinets, with a pale top, perhaps Corian, perhaps not, but what I’d LOVE is one of those concrete counter-tops, pale gray and forever, with the faint marks of the maker’s touch. We haven’t arranged for anyone to do it yet, and the times make me long for dear old Truman Burke---man of all work, who “did for” everybody I knew of.

Daddy did all our building and re-modeling, as he was a master with wood and cabinetry, but Mr. Truman---he was an artist of his own kind.

Truman Burke---that's a Mississippi name, a Southern name, a name for a solid citizen who IS who he is and does what he does and everyone thanks him for it.

“Cars actin’ up. Better call Truman.”

“Truman, would you take a look under there? She’s makin’ that zzzzzwhoo sound again.”

“How’s Marlee n’ em, Truman?”

“How much I owe you, Truman?”

A mainstay of this great nation, a real person who does what he does, raises up from his hunker over your carburetor, wipes his hands on an oily rag, leans into the window and asks about the family. And when the voice from under the hood says, “Try ‘er now,” you know you’re on your way, your day lightened and your way eased by that noblest of Americans---the small-town mechanic/carpenter/handyman/plumber who everybody relies on and everybody knows by name, though it’s not there on an oval over his heart. A man who cleans up nice and shakes your hand in church and will stop anywhere, anytime, to help a stranded motorist/puzzled map-reader/kid hunting his dog.

He’s a man with a calling, perhaps not from On High, but from the earth---the gravel of the first roads, the concrete and the asphalt and Firestone tires and Valvoline and Quaker State and maybe I got a part to fit that.
Truman does his part to lift the flag and keep this country on the move. God Bless all the Trumans---I hope you know one.

DIVESTING

These are the peas which accompanied the post which was published early this morning. I'm removing it, for it was kinda grumpy and I don't want to let that stand.

Instead, in all my delvings into drawers and closets, etc. today, I've decided to open a box---this one is dated 2005--2006, and I hope to find some of those midnight musings in there which might be of interest---it may be just old silly things, with no redeeming qualities whatsoever, but I'll take a look tonight, and see what falls out.

I've never just flat-out ERASED a post, but this one needed erasing---so, bear with me as I get ready for a double house-lightening---BIG garbage day, and a call from the DAV trucks this week. We'll all feel better for the divesting.

See you soon!!!

POST #500---PEAK OF THE WEEK

It’s an old Southern custom for folks of younger generations to address their elders by their first names, with Miss and Mr. appended, no matter what their marital status.

Miss Willa Beth Upchurch (mid-sixties, widowed in her forties) drives over to Miss Ardyth May Jessup’s (mid-eighties, also widowed, just in the last few years) house every Wednesday. She “takes care of” Miss Ardyth May two other days during the week---Mondays, when she changes the linens and gets her into the tub on that big white chair, as well as doing the week’s other laundry, dusting and righting the area around her big auto-chair in the den, with its surroundings of uplifting books, pens, newspapers, spare eyeglasses, big-drink thermos mug (filled with ice water and emptied three times every day), Tums, a box of Kleenex and the big roll of Charmin set on the lid of the adjacent potty-chair. There's also the days-of-the-week-sectioned box of carefully-counted-out medicines which goes with Miss Ardyth everywhere---even to the bathroom, whether she is to take a pill or not. It rides in a little cushioned basket inside the basket of her walker.

Fridays, Miss Willa Beth gives Miss Ardyth another good tub bath, and washes her little dandelion fluff of sparse white hair, getting ready for the weekend and church-if-she-can-make-it.

But Wednesdays---Wednesdays are the days that Miss Willa Beth and Miss Ardyth May drive to The Walmart. It’s THE DAY. They would not miss it, and have driven over through rainstorms, a very alarming water-over-the-road moment once last year, and even an unprecedented ice storm, in which the roads were almost impassable, and the few customers in the store were waited on by the manager and his wife when nobody else could get to work. Worse than the trip through the slick roads, however, was the absence of Miss Ardyth's customary Corn Dog---SHE got there; why would an 18-Wheeler have trouble?


The two ladies sometimes also take a short stroll through Goodwill, for it’s on their way, and Wednesdays flaunt the fading, flappy banner: Senior Day Wednesdays 30% Off. They go there first, for what if there were something really good and they MISSED it?

They make their way up and down the aisles---Miss Willa Beth at a pretty good clip toward the “Plus Boutique” to finger the poly-pants and floral blouses, flipping them out neatly like small bedsheets against her bosom and hips in front to check for size. Miss Ardyth May clops her walker through the purses and craft items, looking for gifts for her grown daughters---mostly picture frames, for those catch her eye every time, and she already has two boxes of them in the guest room closet, each sandwiched like books between single-torn sheets of Bounty. The two dozen purses ranged above, each noosed around a coathanger, hang like tiny sides of beef in their cool gloom, awaiting a holiday.

And then they go to The Walmart, making their way in past the Greeter, checking the buggies for a full-plastic flap on the baby-seat and four good wheels. Those things MATTER.
They stop immediately in the Ladies Room, where Miss Willa helps Miss Ardyth in and out and helps her freshen up after.

They stroll a bit, looking for the perky yellow face, checking out ranks of shampoos, over-the-counter medications, the nine TV screens all blaring Price Is Right---the varying quality and reception causing Bob Barker’s tan to range from George Hamilton to Boo Radley.

They shop a bit, pick up the things on their list, then head for the Garden Department, where they seat themselves in the comfortable chairs ringed round a wrought-iron patio table. They have quite a few sets to choose from, but these chairs are THEIRS--the chairs are a taupey-beige woven sling with black wrought iron---very elegant and strong. It’s where they sit every week, whilst customers pass by and speak and perhaps stop for a hug or a chat.

Miss Ardyth May is a retired music teacher, and her pupils some of the most faithful admirers one could wish---every Walmart visit is occasion of bright, happy exclamations of “Miss ARDITH MAAAAY!! Is that YOU, you Sweet Thing? I’m so glad to SEEEEE yew!” ---this accompanied by the awkward hibble-hops of the young and high-heeled bending to hug an elder who smiles from her nylon-webbing throne, receiving her subjects in the most regal manner.

Along about noon, Miss Willa Beth is dispatched to the snack bar. She orders Miss Ardyth’s customary Corn Dog and Diet Coke and her own small cheese pizza, no sauce---a nod to her own IBS. They set out their lunch and eat daintily, still keeping watch for approaching friends and visitors. Every passerby is greeted, either with fond recognition, a friendly “Hello,” or a cool nod, for they know everyone in town.

Occasionally other ladies in their age ranges will join them, setting up shop for a long afternoon of conversation and banter; the news of the county is thoroughly sifted and discussed, as are church happenings, Club bulletins, social occasions and thorough reviews of newcomers and gossip and the latest family news.

They're an odd little bunch, these Ladies of Wednesday, these store-squatters with big purses and slow, graceful speech; it's as if they have no homes, or are exceedingly wealthy, having rented out an entire floor for their private party. And the store manager would no more mention their constant usage of furniture-for-sale to them, or worse---their children---than he would fly.

With the makeup of the group, there are fits and starts to the conversations, as first one then another has to be excused to the Ladies, and then she has to be "caught up" on what she missed.

Around four, they all start gathering up their things to head home. They’ve gone out for the day, lunched with friends, swapped recipes, gossip and crochet patterns, and had quite as good a time as a much-younger martini-lunch crowd in Manolos. They all head home, refreshed and fulfilled, replete with a week's shopping and social obligations and need-to-know all at once.

Wednesdays at The Walmart Social Club---there’s one near you.

AUGENBLICK

I was about to sign in with a Happy August!! and a description of our weekend---we'd got the children on the road to the beach house yesterday a.m., I deflated quickly and slept all afternoon, and we're putting down new flooring in Caro's bathroom while they're gone.

I was so full of MY tired and my things to do and MY week in prospect, and then we decided to run to Cracker Barrel for a leisurely lunch. We arrived to find the front drive blocked by an ambulance and a firetruck, and since people were still going in and out, we went in.

We were soon seated, in an oddly-sparse area in a corner, where our waiter's first words were: It's a bad day here today. A man collapsed and died right here just now.

We spoke quietly, befitting the gravity of the time; we ate our lunch, talking of the children and the work to come; we clasped our hands tighter than usual, as he asked the blessing on the food and on the strangers in their loss. And we looked at each other in a new, unsure way, I think, with our minds on the fleeting time there is.

Best laid plans, hopes and wishes, thoughts of self and cupboards and mingy-small things like Clorox and Brillo---they are fleeting things, like bubbles in the sun, and we can only look up.

It's been a strange day; I'm going to meditate a while at the dishpan, right some rooms, perhaps make a pot of coffee and put down some things in today's journal. Nothing prepares us. Nothing.

I wish I could hug every single person I love. Right now.

SPRING LEAVES

Nope, not the leaves of Spring.

This is the last day for a while that our BabyGirl will be staying with us, so we took her to breakfast this beautiful morning. When we returned, Chris glanced up when he was getting her out of her car seat, and saw THIS.

(Please click on pictures to enlarge)

Yep---a SPRING in the Leaves. We cannot think of ANY circumstance which would have put a little spring up above our heads---the leaves could never have touched the ground, even in the highest winds, and unless the little fellow took a mighty SPROIIINNNNG from a piece of equipment Chris was working on in his open-air workshop some time ago, and it somehow stuck into a baby leaf, which grew around or through it---we’re stumped. (To round out the tree symbolism).

And nobody did it for a joke---how in a million years would they think we’d SEE it up there, on the bottom side of the leaf---and besides, the leaf is totally undamaged. The spiral winds round the leaf in one place, with no room for having been put there by human hands.

It’s as great a mystery as THIS---far back on the same limb in the same tree:

Caro went out to go to work several days ago, and scuffed her feet through a great pile of fresh-peeled tree bark---it was green and pliable, as if just skinned off the tree. She looked up, and way over her head, the underside of one curved limb was entirely bare of its bark. And aside from lightning, we cannot fathom the mystery of this one, either.

I’ve seen a lightning-struck tree before, and it’s been exploded by the great heat steaming all the sap and juices, and blasting the limb apart---this time, it’s as if someone stood and painstakingly peeled it from one end to the other. Which would have been an impossible, crazy-making task, for it’s a curve UP AND OVER on the underside, about eight feet up.

We used to have a pet house-rabbit who completely denuded a bathroom of its wallpaper, to a height of about three feet---she’d nib-nib-nibble at the baseboard, get those tiny teeth into a tooth-lock on about an inch-wide piece, and S-L-O-W-L-Y back up, paper peeling gently from the wall all the way, until it gave way and tore off like a long strip of ribbon, curling to the floor.

This looks kinda like that---but a troop of squirrels would have to have DAYS to accomplish this, and it occurred in one night. And I understand SQUIRRELY, but WHY WOULD THEY? And why beneath, and not on top, where the purchase was better?

Well, at least only a stranger would find any mystery in THIS: