Things happen...

Warning:  if you are not up for a rather tedious complaint, just skip to Part II below...it's the whole point, anyway.  On the other hand, you may miss some significant themes...

It’s been quite the past few days.  I’ll try to begin at the beginning, but, so as not to confuse you, it’s best to ignore dates.

I suppose it began with being too cocksure about life.  Things were working all too well for too long a time.  The trip home from the shore was long and tiring, true, but I’d spent nearly a month at the shore!  Who could complain about that?

And I’d gone to see Eileen and Jim in the mountains, a lovely few days spent doing a complicated kitchen puzzle (I love kitchens), buying (at last) a pair of shoes that I love to walk in, and, as I mentioned in my last post, visiting good friends.

It rained a bit, but that didn’t deter me, much…except on the way into town one late morning for lunch, I’d stopped for gas (nearly empty, but having been too tired to fill up on the long trip there) and discovered my gas tank flap wouldn’t open.  I flipped and flipped the switch.  Nothing.  Huh.  Whoever even heard of such a thing?  Besides, not a loose screw had gone wrong with this car, nearly 10 years old now, since I acquired it.  Why now?

Panicked, I drove down the road a bit and stopped at a car center.  Two men came out to see what they could do.  “Yuh.  It will take two of us,” the service manager said, and after a lot of pulling and tugging at both ends, it opened.  “Now,” the other fellow said, “you ride right down to that station on the next block and fill up.  And don’t let that flap close.  You’ll probably need a new cable…it’s a complicated fix.”

I did as told.  Relieved, I went on to the lovely lunch, came back through yet another rainstorm, where, after the flap blew shut again, another kind mechanic pulled the locking mechanism safely out of closing range.  Jim helped me tape the flap shut with their Carhartt-branded duck tape, left over from the mountain store they ran for years in the north.

The way home was easy.  I stopped to fill up again just before I reached the edge of town, because who knew?  But I felt I was on the right side of things gone wrong.

At home, as I mentioned last time, I found, sadly, my two new trees dying, but otherwise everything else was safe.  For a week.

Then, the universe began to taunt me.  I’d made an appointment for the gas flap to be fixed, but along came the mechanic out to the waiting room.  “We’ve got to order the part…it’s going to take a while.  Let’s make another appointment for next week, ok?”  Sure.  And my registration is due to be renewed, anyway, and the oil needs changing, and the tires rotated, so we could do that efficiently enough.  NP, as the acronym goes.

Getting ready for a long-looked-for brunch with friends this past weekend, Things, as Achebe entitled his book, Fall Apart.

While I was peeling eggs for salad, a series of pings alerted me to a small leak under the kitchen sink.  Really?  When I’m baking and cooking for six, only one of whom has been in my house before?  No worries, though…I would wash up as usual, but empty the collected water into the garden, which would be happy, and call the plumber first thing on Monday.  I felt smugly pioneering.

^{Along about that time, my hero of a floor man came to put in the long-awaited threshold under the new pocket door between  the bedroom/bathroom.  He worked and worked on a beautiful piece of 7-inch oak, put it in place, stained it, and said, “Just let this dry for a few hours before you step on it.”  Right, I said, admiring it.}

I waved goodbye to him and closed the storm door.  It didn’t, however, close neatly.  I looked down to see that that pulley thing at the bottom of the door, the one that regulates how quickly or slowly the door closes, had pulled its mooring in the door frame entirely out. Aggh.  No time to fix it; just hope none of the guests look down as they come in the door.   I undid the pulley thing and put it away.  Perhaps for good.

That evening, the two-hour threshold for the dried stain being long up, I slid the pocket door closed…or tried to.  It seemed that the threshold was too high for the door.  My mind blanked thinking of how that could possibly be.  

Six guests and no closing bathroom door downstairs was not a good option.  I went across the street to borrow a sander from Mr. Steve, our resident wood genius, who also gave me a wood scraper, “just in case.”

I scraped.  I sanded.  I scraped.  I sanded.  Nothing worked.  The lovely wood was hard as diamonds.  I returned the tools, disheartened, and went upstairs to “freshen up” (as my Aunt Vi used to call it) the other bathroom.  Then, practically vibrating with the need to fix something, I decided to attack the door frame.  For that, I had my own tools and the frenetic energy to try.  Getting down on the floor was probably the hardest part of the job...no, I take that back…it was getting up from the floor.

Hammer and chisel and tiny saw in hand, I scraped, cut, tore out the rot that years of rain had rent that lower part of the door frame, before I bought the house and built the covered landing.  I went to the hardware store for some wood filler, but it seemed a weak solution.  In the shed, I found a block of wood nearly the right size for the hole I’d made.  Since I don’t saw thick wood well (as in not at all), I enlarged the hole a bit and hammered it in.  It wasn’t quite flush, but it would do.  Caulking would dry in a few hours, bringing me to bedtime. Then I could paint it over.  Another day, I’d sand it and put on a second coat. No one would notice in the meantime.  I went to bed.

The next morning, my culinary preparations for the brunch almost complete, Joseph stopped over to look at the threshold and offered to try.  He too sanded and scraped, then gave up.  “Let Steve look at it,” he said.  “He’s got the right tools.”

I cleaned up, then awaited my guests.  We had a lovely time…a raucously discussive and delicious time, in fact.  They all brought me flowers, except Alice, who came bearing a jar of special chocolates I secreted away.  Hours later, we all swore to the last person that we would get together again soon.  It reminded me of those lunches, brunches and dinners Jake and I had in Washington all those years…often lasting hours past normal social limits (one  brunch, in fact, had me gathering things for a quick supper eight hours later).  Thank goodness, no one asked to use the bathroom.  They must have been following French custom.

After an easy cleanup, I sat down for a while and finally texted the floor man.  He called immediately, apologetic and promising to come next week if we hadn’t fixed the problem by then.  “Gee,” he said, “I didn’t bother testing the door because the threshold looked and fitted just like the old one.”

Aha.  All heroes have their Achilles heel.  Having taught the Achilles/Patroclos story a hundred times, it was easier to forgive him.  

Next I texted Steve, who was at the gym, but promised to look it over...he had some ideas, he answered.  He arrived with a whole kit of possibilities, but, poor man, he spent too much of his Sunday afternoon belt-sanding, scraping with a sharper tool, sanding again and scraping again, the sweat pouring off him until the door slid easily across 7/8 of the space, and the rest of the space could be jiggled into.  He left me the sharp tool in case I wanted to work on it more (I did) before I stained it.

Add one more to the countless times Steve has saved some project or another.  I owe him a dinner at our favorite restaurant, at least.  Not to mention Cathy, his wife, for putting up with my begging intrusions.  We might have to go to 411 West for her, the restaurant we can all agree on.

That night, all but the car and the kitchen leak in hand, which I could neatly hand to others in the morning, I went to bed feeling back in control.  Around midnight, however, I woke thinking something odd.  Since I’m deaf in my left ear, if I sleep on my right you could throw rocks at my window without me hearing. Out of bed, I followed a sound to the kitchen where the alarm was going off and the lights on the oven were flashing.  I punched the alarm off and punched in the right time on the oven, but some strange yellow flashes outside in the main street caught my eye.  I went to the porch to investigate.  More yellow lights, blue lights too, lit up the corner.  A message on my phone from the power company asked me if my power was on…it was.  An accident I thought, and, hoping no one was hurt, went back to bed.  

The sound of hovering helicopters woke me before dawn.  Even my deaf ear seemed to catch it.  I clicked the kitchen switch…nothing.  My stove lights were out, and the alarm was silent.  Outside the yellow still flashed…in fact there seemed to be more than before.  A new text from the power company shed light on the problem:  Power outage in your area, 288 affected due to a single car accident knocking down a utility pole.  Text us if your power is off.  I did.

Nothing to do but dress and go outside and check.  I knew the pesky helicopters were news people, who should be banned from pre-dawn air traffic.  But first, a text from Joseph, Is your electricity on?  Nope, I answered. And then, he added….I heard the crash....it happened in front of my house, of course…

Joseph was leaving for his company office, somewhere he has not been in months as remote working has continued.  The road was cut off at the corner by power trucks, police cars, then wireless companies.  Some of the crew had worked all night and were waiting for their day replacements.  The utility pole had been cracked at the bottom, as if a giant had snapped it like a twig.  It was hauled up by crane and tethered to a new pole while the wires were shifted.

I went to the edge of Joseph’s lawn to check for damages, but they were confined to the street, thank goodness.  Still, the damaging car had left a good lot of bumper, an insignia, lamp covers and other debris over the torn-up grass and sidewalk.  I could see where the car had plowed into the pole, up on the sidewalk, then down into the street again, where it skidded away.  I still can’t understand how the pole didn’t come down on the car.  I also can’t imagine the speed the car would have been traveling to do that much damage and get away.

So we were out of power for the duration.  The rest of the neighbors who hadn’t a long-abandoned office to escape to were congregating in the street, exchanging stories of the crash and wondering what to do about uncooked chicken in the frig.  Since the morning was cool and breezy, a change from yesterday’s mugginess, I cleaned up some fallen branches in the yard and got ready for my errands…the car repair, etc., shoes picked up at the shoemakers, and a picnic lunch in case the power didn’t return before night.  The refrigerator and freezer would stay shut.

At the car center, I waited an hour or two, happy to be able to charge my phone in the cool lobby.  When the mechanic came out, though, he was shaking his head.  “We have to order another part,” I was told.  “I’ll call you tomorrow when it comes in.”

I went on my way, the gas tank flap still open.

Only 12 hours since its demise, the power is back on.  Most of the utility trucks are gone from the corner, though I’m still waiting for the internet to surface.  I’m not sure when this post will go out, but it has been quite calming, quite a sense of order, to write it. It makes obvious that in between all the broken pieces are the whole moments of enjoyment and relief.

After I pick up Alexander from gymnastics camp in a little while, we will come back for a rest, then maybe pack our picnic and go to the pool where Joseph will meet us after work.  We’ll swim and float and listen to Jake’s cousins’ band play at the Farm.

Tomorrow is another day.

Oh, wait...there's more...here comes part II.

^{_______________________________________________________________.}

^{Part II}

Alexander isn't a happy camper.  Slinging his heavy backpack and lunchbox over his shoulder, brooking no help, he storms his way into the car.  What's up, I ask him?  Nothing.  You look tired, I say.  Did something happen?  No.  I'm just tired.  I now know that this is my true grandson, because I have to admit that that line is also mine when I want to avoid talking.  It goes along with a shrug and a turn-away.

Well, I say cheerfully, we'll go home and have a little rest; then we'll go to the pool to relax.  There's music there tonight.  It'll be fun.

I don't want to go to the pool.  Okay, I say, and the rest of the car ride home is silent.  He needs some time, after all, to decompress a long day.  Silence, I must add here, is not Alexander's usual state of being. He gets into the car, comes in the kitchen door, runs across the yard, talking a mile a minute about what his day is, what he's thinking about, what he needs for his next building project, what someone said to someone, what he wants for his next birthday.  Can I tell you something, Nana? is his theme song.

At a stoplight, I look behind me and see his eyes closing.  Ahh.

When we reach the house, he grabs his ipad and opens it.  He's unwinding a little, enough to ask me nicely if I can help him spell "tactical".  But the internet is still out.  He's annoyed, but I explain that the whole neighborhood is probably down.   He begins Minecraft, which he doesn't need the internet for, and begins to tell me that he has built a farm, though nothing is growing in it yet.  He's busy at it for a while, now and then calling me over to show me the monsters he has to deal with, the darkness he has to wait in, the safe house he's built to shelter him until daylight returns.

Eventually Joseph calls and we negotiate a trip to hear the music at the Farm, though not to swim.  I pull together a picnic in minutes and we head out.

In the car, I say, Listen, Alexander.  I need you to talk to me.  What made you so irascible before?

Nana, can I tell you something? he says in an even voice.  Yes, I tell him.  I want to hear.  What makes me irassissing (sic) is that you are too old.

Really, I say.  Well, I can't help that.  No, I mean you are too old-fashioned.  Oh?  like how?  Well, first, you tell me the minute I get out of camp what the schedule is.  

What schedule is that?  We didn't really have one.  You know, like we are going to rest, then go to the pool...when I'm not ready to hear that right then.

I'm glad you told me, Alexander, I say.  Now I know.

And another thing...your eyeglasses are old-fashioned. They aren't in style now. 

Oh?  What style should they be?  More square, that's how they are today, and not with that lower part of the frame, just the top. You know, Dad has a pair like that...

Hmmm.  I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to wear that kind...my lenses are pretty heavy and they would fall out without the bottom part of the frame.

[Sigh.]  And another thing...your car is too old.  This car is so old.  You must have had it since you were a teenager.

That's true...it's nearly ten years old, but it still works ok. And I just got it four years ago, when I traded with Aunt Mary Ellen...you remember.

Yeah.

Anything else? No, that's it.  We are both glad the air is clear now.

By then we are at the Farm.  We hear the music and begin to look for Joseph.  No one much eats the picnic, except for the dish of cherries, but we have a fine summer evening listening to The Mebanairres, and Alexander is soon running with his gang of wild boys on the playground.

I don't know what I would do without Alexander to bring life into perspective.  Really, I don't.

Small mercies

 

This morning, my first day home after almost a month away at the shore...my travel treat for this year...I got out first thing to give the garden a good watering and pick up the yard.  It's Thursday, so tomorrow early the yard trash people come; I wanted to be ready.  It took me a few hours to make at least a start, but I was glad to spend them in the breezy, still cool(ish) morning.  Between what the wind threw down from the trees and what spiked out from the elianthus and other untidy shrubs, the bin overflowed.  

My yard is mostly shade, except at the end of the driveway where Joseph has a raised bed of greens and beets.  They were glad for the water then, for now it's 91 degrees and climbing, the sun beating down on it as well as on a strange crop of purple weeds growing up through the gravel. 

They are pretty weeds, so I haven't pulled them yet.  They seem to be impervious to heat, drought, and tramping.  I might want to transplant some of them into a pot whose once pretty blue flowers are shredded and brown.  Neglect for a month exacts its toll.

Actually, there are bigger and sadder losses:  the japanese maple and the blue spruce I planted earlier in the spring are gone.  I thought they had had enough water and enough time to settle roots in, but shade or not the heat must have been too much for them.  I might be able to save the maple by cutting it down and transplanting it, but the spruce, despite gallons of water this morning, didn't respond.  The spiders had made veils among its drooping branches from which, when touched, needles fell.

Its demise made me wonder whether planting things too far from their native soil just asks for such loss.  (It reminded me of a line of Eudora Welty..."It's not good to get too far from where you are known and all...") The spruce was a lovely blue/grey tree I hoped would add some exotic flavor to the new spot I'd made in the ivy spread in back.  The arborvitae, on the other hand, planted at the same time not far from the spruce, though for more pedestrian reasons, are more common in this area and seem to be thriving.  Except for two plants on the front slope, so dead as to be unidentifiable, everything there, in shade, watered by rain and by my young neighbor across the street during my absence, also thrives.

l enjoy my morning's watering and picking up, so I haven't done what I should have...put in an irrigation system.  It's hard to do in my uncoordinated yard, but clearly I've got to tackle it before I go away again.

I am glad that among the saved was the great bush of hydrangea, planted when I first moved here, this year flowering lavender, pink and blue.  Its roots must be deep enough to reach unsuspected wells.  

There were a few other small mercies worthy of gratitude this week.  On my way home from the shore I stopped to visit my sister and brother-in-law in the western part of the state, and while there got to spend time with friends as well.  Even before the pandemic's isolation, it had been a few years since we met, and each encounter reflected the way such friends are able, nonetheless, to pick up and go on from where we left off.   Anne noted that she felt lucky in other ways, too.  "We live," she said, gratefully, "mostly peaceful, gracious and healthy days."  Yes.  I hold my breath sometimes thinking of that.