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Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Sand
Sand. Sand....sand..everywhere. When we come up from the beach, we shower at a place beside the pool house...three places where we can stand and pull the chain. Cool water comes down and washes off all the sand....NOT! I clean sand out of the bathtubs every day...wipe it out of the sinks, sweep it off the porch...and sometimes feel it gritting between my teeth. It's great building material, though. Lydia maintains a picture blog of their sandcastles for the kids. Click here.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Kids
The first week here at the beach we amounted to Lydia, Little Benny, Baby Sadie, and me. Then Dan came down for a day or two bringing with him Andy and Ashley, his other kids. So for most of this past week we’ve been a larger group of vacationers. I’m experiencing culture shock.
For an old lady, an extremely out of shape old lady, to be with tiny children 24/7 is a change. Lydia does all of their care, but they are powerful personalities, requiring attention. The insistence of their needs and wants goes on all day and right up to their bed time, somewhere around 8:30 P.M. Add to that the fact that Baby Sadie got one new tooth last week and another is coming in right now and you have a child who needs plenty of holding and snuggling and so forth and so on. At night she wakes up frequently and cries until soothed and nursed back to sleep by Lydia…who, to her eternal credit, jumps up the second she hears even a tiny peep from the baby. Benny, a child with his own super-crowded internal agenda, has to be told everything about 10 times. “Benny, Benny, Benny, Benny, Benny, Benny….BENNY!!!!!!!” The good side is that these children are adorably cute, charming, sweet, cuddly, interesting, and funny.
And now two teenagers. Mothers of teenagers know that no matter how hard their children try to please, well, they’re teenagers. They criticize food prepared for them and eat it as a special concession. “I don’t know if I like this. I’m trying it, but I’m not sure…” That’s a sample. Whatever they do eat is consumed in a configuration that requires the entire upper body to slump up and over the table, fore arms planted on either side of the plate. They want, at great length, to tell you their thoughts and reactions to everything…mostly consisting of “Like…like….like…like….yuh know, yuh know, yuh know…” They experience sullen sulks at one another and at others in their vicinity when they feel sulky. When you ask them to do something, they tell you that they already did it. On the positive side, both of these kids are sweet and kind to the little children, play with them and help to entertain them, never even think a cross thought about them. That is worth everything to me. I’ll keep on sweating over a hot stove to prepare criticisized meals, make beds, do laundry twice/day and dishes, tidy and clean, listen to minutiae of life’s least important details as long as the teenagers are so dear and sweet to the small children.
I am impressed with Lydia beyond words. How did she grow up to be so kind, so controlled, so funny and entertaining even when she’s tired? She was always a wonderful little girl, but as an adult, she is magnificent. Her children have a SUPER MOTHER. By last night she was so tired that I thought she’d break down and scream, “ALL OF YOU CHILDREN GO TO BED RIGHT THIS MINUTE AND LEAVE ME TOTALLY ALONE FOR THE NEXT TWELVE HOURS!!!!!” But that didn’t happen. She more than sweetly saw each little pest into bed after an evening of fun, love, happiness and entertainment. Then she sat down to work on the sandcastle website she’s doing for the older kids. Lydia brought about thirty books to the beach, has had time to read only one of them, but right now she’s over on the mainland buying two copies of the new Harry Potter book so both older kids will be able to read it without having to wait for turns. If I had any tendency to get on my high horse and lay down the law to these four kids, I’d have to first consider that Lydia, who does 99% of the childcare, is only and always kind to them. Yes, this summer is a bit of culture shock…been a long time since I had a child with me 24/7 and then that child was the perfect little Lydia. However, this is a good experience. I enjoy it.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
The Seaside
“It bucked him up like a week at the seaside…” At the seaside. We’ve been here, for two weeks, three to go. How bucked up am I? Well, quite a bit. Now I can get to the top of the island and back along the beach, pushing a stroller complete with baby and assorted beach toys, and I can do it without feeling as though I may not live to make the return trip. I just trot along briskly and think about colors of the sky/water/beach/sun/umbrellas, and beach chairs and bathing suits and don’t need to monitor my nearness to expiration date. So I’m in better condition overall. How about the down side? That has to do with sunburn. I turned out to be allergic to the really effective kind…my face rose up in blisters which at the same time hurt, itched and burned. Part of a bottle of caladryl later, the blisters have dried into hideous scabs, making me look like a person with a ghastly disease. Also, the boo-boos I sustained the day that I was smacked down and tumbled across the bottom of the ocean, those don’t want to heal. I’m burned to a crisp, scabby, my hair is wild and crazy…a sight likely to frighten the weak and timid.
On the other hand, I feel cheerier than when I came. Ugly or not, I’m chirpy and rested. This has something to do with the way the ocean is. Why do all kinds of people come here year after year, super rich to normal people who have saved and scrimped for the chance to be at the ocean, why do they make the annual pilgrimage to the beach? Maybe it has to do with the fact that the ocean is an overwhelming, unconquerable force of nature. Cuts you down to size, sitting on the beach staring out at an endless expanse of something entirely beyond human control. However rich and powerful you may be, that ocean is not going to answer the phone, take a memo, respond to billing, feel sorry or give in. Everyone gets put into his or her place in the overall scheme of things while looking at the ocean. Only a maniac would be angry with the ocean…the ocean just is. It doesn’t either care or not care. Makes you feel like a child at home. The rules are the rules. Period. You don’t try to dominate; you accept. Comforting from one point of view, oddly like going home to Mom and Dad for a while. Which may account for the fact that grown men with important responsibilities will come to the beach and after a few days fly kites, help to build sand castles, chase Frisbees, body surf, boogie board, wear silly bathing suits, play alongside their children. Next to a gigantic ocean, they, too, feel like children, little, allowed to be carefree kids for a while.
Sunday, July 10, 2005
Life's A Beach
Now on an island off the coast from Charleston, S.C.
No particular agenda eacept ocean, pool, lunch, ocean, pool, dinner, bath, read, bed time...every day. Kids love it. Everyone sunburned badly because for some reason none of our sunscreens are working. Same is true for everyone here. All rednecks.
Have experienced high waves for a couple of days, actual surfable waves. One slapped me down, rolled me across the bottom of the ocean, tumbled me like a shirt in the dryer, threw me out onto the beach where I lay asessing my situation. Decided that I would likely live, got up, and found all my pockets full of sand, my arms and legs skinned, one foot freely bleeding. We're getting the edge of hurricane Dennis and the wind and water are terrific.
Friday, July 1, 2005
Myrtles and Classified Photos
Walking Porque today I very nearly sneezed my nose off. The crepe myrtles are just barely underway and every street is lined with them...what I formerly called "pink trees". Pollen!!!
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This A.M. I had to down tools to rush to a little violin recital featuring Benny. Leaving the house, I saw between me and the street, right beside my myrtle tree, a guy standing doing nothing. I said, in my nosy way, "What's up?"
He squirmed and looked embarrassed and said, "Hi."
Now suspicious, I asked, "No, not 'HI', what's up? What are you doing? You're too old to just be standing on the street curb on a work day; plus you don't live here, plus it's not a bus stop."
He said, "Working for the city."
I riposted, "Now the city pays guys to stand around making no sense and doing nothing?"
He wriggled and looked at his shoes, "Just doing it for the city of Norfolk."
"Right. My point. DOING WHAT?"
"Uh, working for the city."
"Norfolk now pays people to behave inexplicably and to make a mystery about their category of employment?"
"It's classified," he yielded.
"HA!!!" I squawked. "That's rich. Nothing whatsoever done in the name of the city of Norfolk is classified by any government agency with authority to withold info from the public. No, Bubba. You ain't the CIA. Nor the NSA. Nor the FBI. Nor anything sensible and I want to know what's up." I was getting loud.
At that point a woman approached from a position out in the street from which she'd been taking pictures of the yellow building. She was well dressed and held a camera. "Hi," she greeted in a calming the masses manner.
"No, we've had HI," I answered. "What are you people doing? If this guy hadn't engendered suspicion by failing to give me a sensible answer to that question in the first place, I wouldn't still be asking."
"Working for the public safety," she replied.
"Taking pictures to protect me? I don't think so. I don't feel one bit safer knowing that you took pictures. Now, if you brought a bull dozer and began to knock down the yellow apartments, I might perk up, but take a picture? Naaaw. I'm not going in my house and calling up my family and yelling, ' Oh, thank God!!! Some lady took a picture out front of my house. Now I'm safe!!!' "
She pulled out a pen. "If you have a bit of paper, I'll write down my name and number and you can call me later. I don't feel free to discuss what I'm doing while out here in the street, but call me and I'll tell you what's up." I gave her a grocery store receipt and she wrote and I went to Benny's recital.
Just now, home from recital and numerous errands, I called the number. There was no answer but a machine which said, "Hi. This is Linda Bryant, Assistant Commonwealth Attorney, violent crimes unit. Leave a message."
Taking 'classified pictures' for the city of Norfolk. My word, what a lame thing to say. There the woman stood looking at the best witness she could ever want for anything having to do with the yellow buildings and she fed me a line of baby talk. In her place, I'd have been pumping the citizen for information after the first sentence, not standing there making up a silly drama. No wonder prosecuters don't get more convictions. Lord, have mercy. Well, you get what you pay for. Those people don't get much of a salary. In her shoes, though, I'd want to win just because I'd want to win. I'd look at someone like me and say to myself, "Self, this nosy little old lady is in the right place. She's the kind that gets herself into whatever is going on. She must have seen what happens across the street. I must ask her to tell me everything she knows." Instead, "We're taking classified pictures." Oy, vey.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
It's Possible To Cook Like A Lunatic
I know, because I did it. Lydia kept telling me about a dinner party she had arranged for this evening. She kept asking me what I thought she should serve. Those facts coupled with the knowledge that I'm going to be away for five weeks and should empty the fridge of things which might spoil...So I volunteered to cater her party. I put off starting the job because I had one more book to finish of my most recent grocery store book binge. That complete, I stood with the fridge door open for a long time considering my options.
Eventually I made aubergine au gratin. Also I produced two main course salads and baked chicken in teriyaki sauce, sliced it up. I made deviled eggs. Outdoors, I picked an enormous sack of Black-Seeded Simpson lettuce, came indoors and cleaned it and put it into the fridge to recrisp. All of this began to seem like work. By 4:00 P.M. I was hot and sweaty amd wondering if I am a lunatic. Before I actually collapsed on the kitchen floor, everything was finished and Lydia came to collect it. At the last minute I also did a big pot of just-picked Crook-Neck Yellow squash. I did succeed in cleaning a lot of stuff out of my fridge. Also I washed and put away many, many pots and pans. Further, I am tired, so maybe I can sleep tonight. All good points, but I still think I'm a lunatic. What kind of a nut would do all that work for no pressing reason? I could have put the stuff in a sack and given it to a neighbor. There was no moral imperative at work calling out to me to toil over a hot stove on a hot day. Crazy. If I ever run out of other more interesting ideas, I'm going to take my head to a shrink and see if I qualify, officially, that is, qualify as a wacko.
Oh, that latest book binge...the best of them was The Hundredth Man by somebody Kerley. Very good. It's his first book and he looks my age. Guy shoulda started before this. By now he could have produced many entertaining tomes. Instead, he wasted his life earning a living. People!
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
A Pork Chop Photo Album
La Porque, The Photo Shoot
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Time To Visit The Car Wash
Rain fell nearly every day for a month. The grass, the squash, corn, lettuce, and tomatoes all grew amazingly. Then that rain stopped; no automatic watering can in the sky. Been a dry week here on 38th Street. Last night I checked the Weather Channel website. Supposedly, rain will fall here every day for over a week, beginning today. I have no faith. Probably I'll have to make a gesture of some kind. Last time we needed rain, I asked Benny to help me and we carried little buckets of water to all the plants.
Yes, that's silly superstition, but in my experience the rain operates under the direction of an entity which can be motivated, psyched into doing the job. Southwestern American Indians did a rain dance when their corn plants began to dry up. They knew how rain works.
Years ago when Lydia was little, one summer I planted an enormous garden. I remember setting out 250 tomato plants and seeding 20 rows of beans, along with everything else I planted. Way too much work. I weeded and hoed. I worked like an ant. It was overwhelming. And then the rain stopped and I was having to carry buckets of water to all that vegetation. So I resolved to try some old Indian magic...not dancing, but something even more powerful. I washed all the windows upstairs and down, inside and out. I dragged the ladder around. I sweat and toiled. Sure enough it rained that very night. Then days went by and no rain again. I pondered the matter and announced that I was going to town to try out the new coin-operated car wash and I would be calling home to see if rain had begun yet. "Laughter, scorn, hahahahaha, that's crazy." I went to town anyway and put a quarter in the machine, washed the car until time ran out on the wash machine. I went to the pay phone and called home. Any rain yet? No. Back to the car wash. Another quarter. It took three quarters. Rain began to fall out of what had been a blue sky. Back home mutters of unwilling belief abounded. Time went by and we needed rain again. I went back to the car wash. That time it took 50 cents. Another week went by. I got rain for a quarter. My family was frankly creeped out. That whole summer I car washed the rain into existence. Never failed to work.
At last the end of summer approached. My immense garden produced bushels of stuff which I mostly gave away. It was nearly time to go back to school. We had one more long weekend of summer; Saturday, Sunday and then Labor Day. I determined to just sit around, no gardening. I was going to rest and relax, enjoy the quiet. Saturday morning stillness was broken by gun fire. Seated at the dining room table, I watched in disbelief as three teenaged boys strolled up, long guns over their shoulders. They were from the family which bought the house way down the road at the beginning of summer and then never clame to look at their new property. Here they were at last, wrecking the final weekend of vacation, and all of them carrying guns. They stopped directly in front of the house, took down their guns, aimed and shot at something at the top of one of the big trees in the front yard. BANG! BANG! BANG!!! Reload, more banging. I was afraid to go out and yell at them since they aimed generally in the direction of the house. Out the back door, into the car, down the drive, and past the boys who waved at me cheerfully. Idiots. Just true morons...armed and stupid. I drove down to their house and saw four SUV's parked in the yard. They had come in strength. Several adults relaxed on the porch. I got out of the car and approached this new element, "Hi. I'm your nearest neighbor. There are three teen-aged boys standing in front of my house aiming at something up in a tree in my yard and shooting off their guns. This imprisons me and my family in our house. Also, it disturbs our peace. Also, it's against the law. Also, it is terribly dangerous. Would one of you be good enough to go get your kids, bring them back here, provide them with appropriate instruction in gun use and etiquette, and let me have some peace and quiet?" Instead of coming to my aid, one of the biggest men stood and cursed me out, called me all kinds of crazy names. He vaguely waved a bottle of some alcohol-fortified liquid in my direction. Others, similarly supplied, applauded his performance. Well, no use arguing with them. I got back into my car and went to town. The car wash. It was the only way. Since I was angry, I gave it a dollar and a quarter. By the time I got back home, rain ran in sheets across the road. Not only were the boys no longer out shooting at my trees, no one was out doing anything. It was a Noah's Flood downpour. I built a nice fire in the fireplace, got out a book I had started and not yet finished, settled back on the sofa, and had myself a nice, quiet Labor Day Weekend....except for sounds of the deluge outside.
Never Mind The Bacon
Today I tried a real down-south dish...fried green tomatoes. I just thin-sliced them, dipped in beaten egg, dipped in flour, tapped off the extra flour, and fried with olive oil. They cook quickly. It's not something I'd want very often, but it was an interesting taste. A recipe recommended that they be fried in bacon grease. Must be an old recipe. Sounds like recommending that someone add a little arsenic for flavor. The other day I read a recipe for something called an Elvis Sandwich. It amounted to a smashed banana, a pound of bacon, peanut butter, and was fried on both sides like a grilled cheese sandwich. The idea was that frying it on both sides was a way to sop up all the bacon fat from frying that pound of...wow. I can't even imagine it. Supposedly every time Elvis stopped in to visit his mother, she'd make him SEVERAL of those
monstrosities.
Friday, June 24, 2005
They Ate It!!!
Today the kids finally had green eggs and ham day with Lydia in my kitchen. They explored the concepts of gas/liquid/solid/ colloid using kool-aid and eggs and ham.
The made popsicles, they boiled water, they cooked eggs, they made green jello, finally they added green food coloring to ham and presented lunch to everyone.
To my surprise, even Benny ate quite a bit of green stuff. A miracle.
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