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…
![The Chapel Hill Police Department said in a news release it was diverting traffic from East Franklin Street and Roosevelt Drive after a crash knocked over an electrical pole and lines.]( "The Chapel Hill Police Department said in a news release it was diverting traffic from East Franklin Street and Roosevelt Drive after a crash knocked over an electrical pole and lines.")
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.
