Author: Diana Blair Revell

Prologue

At 9:00 on Christmas morning, I figured the last thing to go kaput for the year was Dave’s shoulder. His surgery to repair the rotator cuff was scheduled for January 5. I suppose I figured too soon. We’re so thankful that our 2014 trail of breakdowns featured mainly household or driving apparatus, with just a few human chinks thrown in.

The Breakdowns Began

I blame the whole trail of 2014 equipment failures on the coffee pot. We got the most wonderful shiny red Cuisinart, what, three years ago. Two months ago, it quit. We got that pot because our friends, The Grillos of Santa Cruz, had one and it made the best pot of coffee we’d ever tasted, and the pot didn’t drip while pouring. So it was natural that we wanted another just like it, only not red. (I have this plan to re-decorate the red kitchen.)

I went online and found the same pot on Amazon.com and read the reviews. There were several that said the machine just didn’t last long enough. After three years, it’s just done.  Most of these negative comments were followed by, But it makes the best pot of coffee we’ve ever had, so we ordered another one just like it. One mechanically-inclined guy said he took his failed machine apart and noticed some wires that needed to be re-sautered and after five hours of working on this machine, all that would work is that silly little clock on the front. He said he bought another one just like it only in a different color.

We did, too. Our new Cuisinart coffee machine is just like the first, only matte stainless.

About two weeks after setting up the new Cuisinart, cleaning it, and “ahhhh-ing” over the first pot of java, the microwave went all wonky, making a pounding roar when I turned it on. “Definitely in the motor,” Dave said. I chucked the bag of popcorn.

Now, to get the microwave out of the cabinet, we had to take a piece of molding off one side of the cabinet. Dave took the offender to the garage, a place we store anything that anybody within half a day’s driving distance doesn’t know what to do with. We headed out to shop, measuring tape in my hand. The new one had to fit in the old space, less the removed cabinet molding.

When I walked in to Lowe’s, I felt an overwhelming presence of deja vu. I remembered one day, about a week before we moved in this house, I bought and returned three microwave ovens before I got one to fit in that same space–and it only fit because the handy little fellow finishing up small details of remodeling took a saw to the molding. He glued it back once he got the microwave in the little hole. I was determined not to repeat that first marathon shopping experience, so I measured…and measured. Out of the sixteen models on display, I measured twelve and eyeballed the rest.

There were three suitable ones to choose from. I read and re-read the specs for each model and knew that only one was what I would even have. And then I went searching for the boxed item. Aisle 12, Row A, Bin J. I found all the items around that J bin but not my microwave. I called for an associate. A rotund, white-bearded older gentleman with readers straddling his nose looked down at me where I squated on the floor and inched my way across Row A again. He offered me a hand and I took it.

I wanted to ask, “Are you Santa Claus?”, but instead I gave a plain thank you and walked over to my choice on display.

“I want this microwave,” I said.

“That very one?” he asked.

“No, I mean I want one like that but I can’t find it.”

“That’s because we don’t have more of those.”

“No,” I said, “no.”

“I think that model is closing out. How about this one?” He patted an oversized oven that I would have loved if it would fit. It was one of the four I only had to eyeball to know it wouldn’t go in my cabinet.

“It won’t fit,” I said.

“What’s the size of the space?” he asked. “Sometimes you can fudge those things a little.”

“I’ve already fudged. We took out of piece of the cabinet. You’ve only got three models that would fit.”

He grinned. “Well, let’s get you one of those.”

“I would only buy that one. The other two are just not substantial enough.”

He rubbed the tip of his beard. “Sometimes they let us sell the floor model.”

“Well?”

“Well, I need to ask somebody first.” He looked first to one side and then to the other. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

He was–right back. “The big guy says I can let you have it at a ten percent discount, original warranty intact.”

“How nice! Ten percent pays more than the sales tax.”

He laid a finger aside his nose. (I swear, he did.) “Don’t tell anybody,” he whispered, “but I’m going to give you twenty percent.”

I let my mouth fly open in mock surprise while he wrote the price and the manager’s initials on a sticker.

“It’s almost Christmas,” he said. “I’m in the spirit.”

I wanted to say, “Ho, ho, ho,” but I just told him how much I appreciated it.

Dave works on a toilet, it seems, about once a quarter. He started replacing parts on the one in my bathroom the first of November. He declared it fixed sometime before his birthday on Thanksgiving, and we all know “Mission accomplished” doesn’t necessarily mean thinks are okay. I waited about a week to tell him that one flush wouldn’t do it. He explained something about having to get “new guts” because of something in the other box that wasn’t right. I think he started to work on it again the first of December. That was just about the time I noticed the mess under the lid of Mom’s automatic kitchen trash can.

Now the woman is the supreme example of feminism, except when it comes to her co-dependence on this metal can that she can open with a wave over the sensor in the top. She can’t live without it since she got it for Christmas three years ago.

When she came in the kitchen and saw me and the lid under water, I hurried to say, “I had to clean it. I never noticed what was collecting in there.” Under my breath, I added, “I hope I don’t ruin it.”

“Me, too,” she answered. I noted a tad of indignation, maybe even a threat.

I scrubbed and disinfected, scrubbed some more, sprayed with the Odo-ban again, and wiped it dry. The thing wouldn’t open. “Oh, poop,” wasn’t exactly the language I used.

From the den, I heard her say, “She’s broken it.”

“Broken what?” my half-deaf daddy answered.

“The garbage can,” she yelled.

“What?” he yelled back.

I stuck my head in the door. “Hey, y’all, I’m going to work on it. Maybe when it dries a bit, it’ll be okay.”

“What if it’s not?” Mom asked. This time she sounded, well, pitiful.

“Then I’ll get you another one.” I rushed out of the room, through the kitchen, through her bedroom, through the sewing room pass-through to my house.

I went back over in a couple hours to try again.

“Mom,” I called into the den, “I’ll take this home with me. Just use the can without the lid until the new one comes.”

She seemed happy again.

I was happy, too. If things really do happen in threes, here was the end of the era of brokenness. Then Dave said, “You can’t count something that happens to your mom.”

I laid the top on my downstairs work table, never to automatically open itself again–until the arrival of the new replacement can I ordered. It’s just like the old one.

She was thrilled.

“So what are you going to do with the old one?” Dave asked.

“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t think I want it upstairs. Maybe I’ll put it downstairs in The Cellar.”

I installed it in the perfect spot, at the end of my six-foot counter, its permanent location until Dave announced, “You’ve got to move that think. It scares the hell out of me every time I start out the door of the basement.”

Number 3

On the Friday morning after Thanksgiving (and Dave’s 2014 birthday), I ran a load of clothes. (You don’t pry us out of the house on Black Friday.) When I returned downstairs to put the load in the dryer, my Isotoner ballet slippers got wet crossing the laundry floor. (So did my feet.)

When we moved into The Compound here on the ravine, I claimed The Cellar for my own. It’s a 700-square foot walkout basement, complete with kitchen, bath, and laundry room. You might say I inherited the laundry itself. The Cellar needed some serious fixing-up. It still has the same cheap wood-look paneling in the large room and bath, and thin cabinetry installed used, I’m sure, and the ceiling is still wampus and uneven and the drop down tiles need to be replaced. But the myriad ragged layers of dirty linoleum, cracked tile, and bare concrete forced us to cover the floors. I chose a taupe, navy, and black tweedy-looking carpet for two reasons: 1), Carpet would add some warmth on the concrete slab, and 2), No one wanted to even guess at what kind of funds it would take to remove all the old materials and level the floor. I’ve been happy with this flat, tightly woven carpet, even in the laundry and bathroom.

On that Friday, I still liked my carpet but the water seemed to be spreading fast. I checked the hose connections to the washing machine. Nothing there. Then the drain. No problem. I called for my best buddy. He was at the gym. “Dave, Dave, something’s leaking in the laundry room and it’s leaking a lot.”

“The washing machine?”

“No, I guess it could be under the machine, but it seems more like in the front of the machine.” I paused. “Except it’s still moving. The wet is moving toward the bathroom.”

“Better call a plumber,” he said.

“Which one?” I asked.

“Probably whoever you can get here. We used His and Hers a couple of times when we had the home warranty. I think they were okay.”

“Okay, I’ll try them first.”

The phone rang and rang and rang…no answer at all. I googled plumbers in Nashville and started down the list. I decided if I had to leave a message, I’d hang up. After all, I really needed fast. The third number answered on the first try.

“Yes,” the nice lady said. “Now, it will probably be late when they get there, but I’ll dispatch them now. I’ll call you as soon as I know what time they’re coming.”

When Dave walked in the door, I could tell him, “They’re coming. She said late afternoon.”

We gathered towels, rugs, old sheets…anything that would sop up water. I sat at my computer until I decided to take a nap, and after that it was time to go upstairs. I checked the rags. They were all soaked except the two at the edge of the bathroom. I threw the wet ones into the garage and found more dry ones.

A few minutes before 5:00, I called.

“No,” the nice lady said, only this time the nice lady sounded a little, uh, frazzled. “They won’t be there today. They had some big jobs today. We’ll just have to work you in tomorrow.”

“Do you have any idea when I should expect them?”

“Not until mid-morning, I’d say.”

I thanked her, and even told her I hoped tomorrow would be better than today. She said she hoped to high heaven it would be, too.

Saturday morning came. I woke up feeling really down, forgot for a minute that I had a reason to be down. I went downstairs in my pajamas, slipped on my rubber garden clogs, and squished across the floor. All the rags were wet and heavy.

At 10:30, I made a call.

“Do you think they’ll get here today?” I asked.

“I don’t know. They’ve all gone home with strep throat. I’m trying to juggle them around to get to the appointments.”

“All of them? Nobody’s working?” I wanted to be sure.

“Enough to throw off the schedule and back us up. They won’t even get finished tonight with yesterday’s schedule.”

“Uhhh,” I began, “They won’t get here, will they?”

“Well, you’re on the schedule and we’ll do our best to see anybody that was on the schedule yesterday.”

“Okay, I think what I’ll do is to try to find somebody who will come on now. I don’t think this can wait until Monday. Just leave us on the schedule and I’ll call you if I get somebody.”

“Sure will. I’m sorry.”

“Strep throat,” I muttered. “You can’t  help that.”

I don’t remember where Dave was but he was not at home.

I hung up and called the place neither he nor I really love. It’s a regional plumbing and electric company is a three-letter acronym. If you pronounced the word instead of the spelled-out acronym, you’d be talking about one’s nether-region, perhaps in Old English. I’ll use a pseudonym here. CON. You don’t really have to pronounce the word, but I feel proud to have chosen such an appropriate substitute for the real name. You just say it however you want. I’ll be spelling it out. C-O-N.

Now CON does good work, there’s no doubt. But they’re always trying to sell extra service. We’ve never bought into that, but I can imagine some little old lady whose kitchen sink trap is leaking and they sell her a new faucet. And maybe even a sink. She wouldn’t know she’d been fleeced.

Dave walked through the door of The Cellar.

“CON is coming,” I said.

“I thought we weren’t going to call them,” he answered.

“I got who I could get. That other place isn’t coming. They’ve all got strep throat.”

CON’s project manager/sales rep was out in an hour! His name was (let’s rename him, too) Rabbit. After he waded around a bit in the wet carpet, he called Dave and me together so he could tell us the bad news. We met him in the upstairs kitchen. “Your leak is under the slab. When they built these houses sixty years ago, they used cast iron pipe. It corrodes eventually and that’s what’s happened here. I just bet it’s right here in front of this washing machine. See, what happens is, maybe several days ago, the corroded pipe begins to leak. Then the ground absorbs all the moisture it can and when it’s got more than it can handle, that’s when your drain overflows. You’ve got both in here. It did overflow, but the real problem is somewhere in the line–the sewer line.”

Dave spoke up. “So to get in there and fix it, you have to jackhammer this foundation.”

“Yep. That’s really the only thing we can do.” Rabbit smiled. “This is going to be a big job but we’ll take care of you.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “We gotta do what we gotta do.”

Rabbit looked at his notepad and continued. “We’ll take up the carpet in the bath and laundry room, and then about eight feet out into the kitchen/den.”

“I didn’t know it was already in the den,” Dave said.

“I did. I went down there this morning,” I said.

“I’m going to work you up an estimate–if you agree,” Rabbit said. ” I always get approval from the big boss first.” He winked.

“I’ll bring it back this evening. Somebody going to be here?”

I nodded. Dave said, “One of us will.”

“I’ve got the water cut off down there. Don’t use the kitchen sink upstairs, and don’t use the kitchen nor the bathroom downstairs. You won’t get any more water down there than is already there.”

After he left, Dave and I took turns silently shaking our heads at each other.

Dave finally spoke. “If he gets here and I’m not here, be sure to ask him how long it’s going to take to get this done.”

Three. This is the third disaster. This is a big one. Oh, the things we never thought about.

True to his word, Rabbit came about five o’clock to give us the boss-approved estimate. It was close to $14,000.

“How did you arrive at the $14,000?” I asked.

“This is a big job. You’re probably going to need three men on the job, and it’ll take us two weeks, counting the drying time for the concrete. We have to let that stuff cure for two or three days, depending.”

Dave walked in just then. “How long is this going to take?”

“Two weeks. Fourteen days. Now sometimes we can make it in ten days, but we like you to count on fourteen. Then, if we’re early….” He smiled.

“Kinda like a restaurant. They always add on fifteen to twenty minutes for the wait time, then everybody’s happy when it’s, quote, early.”

Neither man even pretended to chuckle at my half-joke.

Rabbit launched into his parting words. “We can take a check today, or a credit card, or we have this really nice option for this type of situation where you can actually fill out a credit request with our bank, and we can go ahead and get started.”

“Like today?” I asked.

Rabbit wobbled his head up and down.

Dave said, “I suppose we better do that. It’ll take me more than a day to transfer funds from the internet bank. How long does it take for the bank to approve?”

“It’s almost instantaneous if there’s no problem.”

When he left, with papers in hand, Dave and I performed our head-shaking routine again.

Two of CON’s guys arrived an hour after Rabbit left, moved appliances, ripped up carpet, and set up dryers, blowers, and dehumidifiers.

“We’re going to leave these going over the weekend, and if you notice any trouble with them, just call in to the office and we’ll come out. We’ll probably be able to start on Monday morning.”

(Not) The End. There’s more to come.

Mom comes home tomorrow. Lord, what a relief. Dad has mourned every day that she’s been gone–which will be twenty-two days tomorrow.

“I miss her so much.”

“She might just sit there in that chair most of the time, but I miss her sitting there.”

“I can’t help it. I miss her.”

“I don’t know why I miss her so much more this time.”

Then, when I said, “Dad, she hasn’t died. She’s coming home soon,” he answered, “Well, I think if she were gone for good, I could get reconciled to it. This is bad, though.” Yeah, Dad. Yeah.

Yesterday, he was particularly blue so I said, “Do you want to go to visit Mom?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble for you.”

I wanted to say, “YOU are trouble for me, Dad.” Sometimes I do say it, and when I do, we both laugh.

So he put his dentures in and we got in the van and headed to Woodcrest, the rehabilitation facility. It’s a skilled nursing facility at The Blakeford, a multi-level living center for seniors.

“Mom will be home in time for your anniversary,” I said.

“Halloween,” he said. “Sixty-eight years. That’s a long time.”

Dad followed me through the front doors and stopped while I signed in at the front desk. When we travel together, he prefers to follow me. Besides, he didn’t know the way to Mom’s new room. She moved just five days before her discharge date. What happened was…

She was in a double room alone until just over a week ago, when a woman from a prominent Nashville family came to be her roommate. Let’s call her Mrs. T, which is not the initial for her last name. The family owns one of the oldest restaurants in town. Mrs. T. is ninety-four and she is a hard woman, according to reports from people who worked for her. We quickly realized whenever she was awake, she would be talking–and cursing. She didn’t yell. She was just loud enough to aggravate.

Mom applied her management skills. In the daytime, when Mrs. T. cursed a blue streak and followed with, “Help me, help me. Jesus, help me,” Mom would ask, “What’s wrong, Mrs. T.? You have everything you need. Now you sit up straight and quit that hollering.”

Mrs. T. would humbly answer, “Okay.”

And then Mrs. T. started ordering Mom around. Mom loved that.

“Hey, you over there!” Mrs. T. yelled. “Get me the nurse.”

Mom was quick to answer. “I will not. You have a call button. Push it.”

“Okay.”

“I can’t eat my dinner. I need somebody to feed me,” she said. “Get somebody to feed me.”

“No. You don’t need anybody to feed you. You pick up that fork and get with it.”

“Okay.”

Mom said she ate everything on her plate that time.

One time, Mrs. T. told Mom to “get your ass over here and help me in the bathroom.”

Mom answered, “Now, look, [first name], I don’t work for you and I never have. There’s no way I can help you to the bathroom.”

I think things would have been fine if Mom could have rested up from her bossing, but Mrs. T. got her days and nights mixed up.

Mom suggested that somebody give one of them a sleeping pill, and she didn’t particularly care which one. She just wanted some sleep.

Finally, she called to say she was in a new room, rooming with a friend from physical therapy.

“Oh, she’s hilarious,” Mom said. “Remember I told you about the one that said she was going to take Dr. Quinn home with her?” (Dr. Quinn IS cute.)

I met Jeri that same day. She was in a considerable amount of pain from a hip replacement, but Mom was right. She was hilarious.

The first thing she said to me was, “Oh, I could have guessed whose daughter you were. Oops, excuse me. Maybe you don’t want to look like that old heifer over there.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” I said. “She’s in pretty good shape for eighty-two years.”

“Yeah,” she said, “you’re probably not going to hold up that well.” Then she laughed.

The next time I visited, Jeri had been out most of the day for a doctor’s appointment. While she was out, she decided to have a haircut. It was really short.

“Look, Ethel,” she said when she rolled back in, “I left here an old woman and came back an old man.”

She came back from therapy yesterday afternoon when Dad and I were visiting Mom. Mom introduced her to Dad. “Jeri, this is my husband, Ernie.”

“Ohhhhhhh, honey,” she said, “I thought he was your son. Whew! Good-looking.”

Mom and Jeri giggled.

Dad just looked from one to the other. He didn’t have his hearing aid. When we’d been there just short of an hour, Dad asked, “You want to go home now?”

“Whenever you’re ready,” I told him.

“We better go. We need to get home before dark.”

Mom held out her arms. “Well, honey, give me a kiss good-bye. It’s just two days now and I’m ready to come home.”

“I cleaned your pantry for you,” he said. (He didn’t, but he thinks he did.)

Mom answered, “You did? You better get some rest before I come home.”

“I will.” He kissed her goodbye.

I said, “Okay, Dad, follow me.”

When we got in the van, I asked him if he felt better now.

“Yes, I do, mentally. But my shingles are causing me a whole lot of pain right now.”

“Let’s go home and get your heating pad,” I said.

He answered, “Mom’s coming home in two days.”

Oh, it’s not mine. No, I officially gave up my birthday month somewhere around Labor Day.

Dad turns eighty-five tomorrow. We celebrated Sunday at his favorite restaurant, La Terraza.

Dad was quiet, but happy. He smiled when he looked around the table at the grandkids and their children. Later he told me, “It got to me. We couldn’t ask for better grandchildren and great-grandchildren.” I know he would have enjoyed being with the West Coast family, too, but that will have to wait.

Tomorrow, he will have a cake and whatever he wants me to cook for lunch. His favorite is shrimp salad. We still haven’t found the right gift and I’m not sure we can by tomorrow. He says we could have let him keep the chicken. The chicken…

Eight or ten days ago, I noticed that all the low-hanging tomatoes had holes. They didn’t look like worm or bug holes. “Looks like a bird’s been pecking on them,” I said, “but this would have to be one very large bird.” I never thought about a chicken.

Friday, Mom and I headed out for some pre-op blood work. “Have you seen Dad’s chicken?” she asked.

“Chicken?”

“In the garden. She’s been in the garden for several days. He’s caught her once.”

“So that’s what happened to the tomatoes!” I said. “What did he do with her?”

“He went up and down the street trying to find out where she belongs. I told him nobody on our street has chickens, so he went over to the next street.”

“We should take her to Kay,” I said. Kay is the woman who sells us eggs. She has six hens, the maximum allowed by city rules, but two of them don’t lay very well. She wants more but she can’t bring herself to get rid of the ones she already has.”

That evening, I asked Dad about the chicken.

“My hen?” he asked. “Well, she’s a sweet thing. When I walk up to her, she just squats and waits for me to pick her up. I need to do something with her. She’s eating my tomatoes and she’s scratching up my mulch.”

“We should take her to Kay,” I said, “the lady we get our eggs from.”

“Who’s Kay?” Dad asked.

Mom was quick. “Kay, where Diana goes and gets our eggs.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

Mom gets impatient with Dad at times. “Yes, you do! Kay, she has chickens,” she said. “Deborah’s mother.”

He stared at her without acknowledgment.

“Deborah’s mother,” Mom repeated.

“The woman who helped you in your gardens?” Dad asked me.

“Yes, that’s Deborah,” I said.

“Then who’s Kay?” he asked Mom.

I turned to Dad. “Was she there today?”

“I didn’t see her today,” Dad answered.

“Well, maybe she went back home.”

I saw her in the garden on Saturday.

Sunday morning, when I popped in to remind Mom and Dad about the birthday party at La Terraza, Dad grinned. “Do you want some eggs for breakfast?” he asked.

“No, I ate a bagel.”

“Sadie laid two eggs.”

“Really? And you’ve named her?”

“Yeah. I built her a pen. Look out the window.”

He had constructed a small cage attached to the back of the apartment. Sadie ambled around inside. She looked content.

“Dad, will she get out to graze?”

“No, something would get her.”

Mom piped up. “Something’s going to get her in that little pen. Raccoons.”

“They can’t get in there,” Dad said.

“You know better than that,” she told him. “Raccoons can get in anywhere, and they’ll eat that chicken.”

“Dad, it’s not right to keep her cooped up like that. She could go to Kay’s and be with the other chickens.”

“Who’s Kay?”

When Mom started to screech again, I excused myself.

After the party on Sunday, I waited until they’d both changed out of their Sunday best and then went over to bring up the Sadie subject again.

“Dad, we’re going to take her to Kay,” I said.

“I carried that hen up and down the next street over and nobody knew who she belongs to,” he said.

“You went up and down the street carrying a chicken under your arm?”

“But I love my chicken,” he answered.

“I know you do, but you have to do what’s best for Sadie.”

“When are you going to take her?”

“As soon as I go get my keys,” I said. “Meet me downstairs at the truck.”

I turned around. “And bring the chicken. You’ll have to hold her.”

“Sadie,” he said.

When I got to the truck with my purse and keys, Dad was waiting. He’d put Sadie in his live trap, the one we use to catch groundhogs. (Actually, we only try to catch groundhogs these days. We’ve given up this year.)

“Oh, you don’t have to go,” I said. “You can just put her in the back of the truck.”

“I didn’t mean to go,” he said.

“Well, let me take your picture with her. You’ll have to get her out of the trap.”

He posed. I couldn’t see the phone’s screen in the bright light, but I snapped several times.

Kay and Deborah were glad to get the new layer. We introduced her to Phyllis and Gertrude and the other girls. They pecked around on each other. Sadie was holding her own when I left.

Monday morning, Dave asked Dad, “What are you going to do today?”

Dad answered, “I don’t know, now that I don’t have a chicken.”

Here it is August 29 and I don’t feel so celebratory. I’m going to ask for more days tacked on to my birthday month. I’m sure to be allowed maybe ten more. Who do I ask, you say? Why, me, of course, and my answer is, “Yessireeeeee!”

Just a few minutes ago, I settled on the couch in The Cellar for a nap. Dave and I are headed to the Towne Centre Theatre to see The Odd Couple–Female Version. The play starts at 8:00 o’clock and anyone who knows me also knows that’s pretty close to my bedtime. My cell phone rang just about the time I dozed, Wal-Mart calling. Even though no one from Wal-Mart has ever called my cell phone before, I answered because that’s where all my parents medical prescriptions are maintained and filled.

“Is this Diana?” the man asked. “Diana,” he said, not “Mrs. Blair’s daughter.”

When I answered yes, he said he was the store manager and that he understood I had a customer service issue on Day 27 of my birthday month. (Okay, he didn’t say that, exactly. He said August 27.)

I did. I had a customer service issue at Wal-Mart two days ago.

Mom and I made the weekly shopping trip two days early. We had to get dressed that morning, anyway, for her annual eye exam, and since we were out already and she had her shopping list with her, I suggested it might be helpful if we just trotted right on down to Wal-Mart. She also needed to drop off a printed prescription, another selling point for Wednesday shopping instead of Friday.

I congratulated myself when Mom was so agreeable. (My sweet mother is always agreeable.) Friday would be the only day this week, and well into next, that nothing would be on the calendar…well, until we met friends for early dinner and then checked out the Neil Simon play. And not having daytime demands would mean I could prepare for the play by, you guessed it, taking a nap.

We reviewed Mom’s list once inside. “It’s not written very well,” she said.

It wasn’t, but I read through quickly and she confirmed item by item. She said she would take care of anything in the pharmacy. I suggested if she had time, and she felt like it, she might wander over to produce to check out the nectarines. We’ve been lamenting the end of the peach season. “Good idea.”

She handed me a $1-off-two coupon from her purse. “And then two boxes of Cheerios.” she said, “I wrote down the two kinds.” I saw the circle around Multi-Grain Cheerios. She had scribbled “Multi-Grain Cinnamon Apple Burst Cinnamon” between the pictures of different varieties and the expiration date.

She called my cell phone to say that she had parked herself and her Rollator walker named Dolly at the front of the store, the basket loaded with nutrition drinks and vitamins and prescriptions tucked inside the top of her Laurel Burch bag.

“Well,” she added, “I can’t find my credit card so you’ll have to check this stuff out, too. I don’t know what happened to it.”

“When did you last use it?”

“I don’t know. I can’t think right now.”

“Don’t worry yet. I’ll look for it when I get up front.” I said I’d be less than fifteen more minutes.

Fifteen minutes later, I was staring at Cheerios, all kinds of Cheerios. I went across each shelf three times and called Mom. “There’s no Multi-Grain Cinnamon Apple Burst Cinnamon,” I said. In fact, I’d already confirmed that there was nothing there with either Cinnamon or Apple in the name.

“Okay,” she answered.

I waited for a few moments. “Mom, what do you want instead of the Cinnamon Apple Cinnamon Burst?”

“Oh! Well, just get me some frosted ones.”

I found them easily and looked at the list. “Cherries. Now I just need the cherries.” I wheeled through the produce and grabbed a bag of sweet cherries.

I keep Mom’s items in the front of the cart, so I always check out her order before mine. It seems easier to spot my mistakes if I do hers first. Sometimes keeping items separate becomes difficult. This week, I discovered my $11.48 bag of chicken in her bags after I’d paid. I looked at the receipt again before I handed it to her.

“Oh, dear Lord, Mom, I have bought you $14.39 worth of cherries.”

“Cherries? I didn’t have cherries on the list.”

I handed her the list since the checker had started to scan my groceries.

“Ohhhhh,” she said, “that says ‘Cheerios’. I sure hope you’re in the mood to eat some cherries because I already have a big bag in the frig.”

When Andre, who was new, started to move my stuff across the scanner, my four nectarines rang up at $1.68 each. I’m surprised I happened to notice. I remarked, “Andre, I do believe those nectarines rang up at ‘each’ instead of ‘per pound’.” It took a few minutes before Andre realized what I was so exercised about, and then he tried everything but he could not force the $1.68 per pound. He called for help.

A blonde woman, younger than I (isn’t everybody?), sauntered down that space in front of the check-out counters (I never know what to call that) and after hearing the problem from Andre, told him that the price for the nectarines was
“1.68 a pound, not 1.68 apiece.” He shyly told her yes, he knew that, but that he could only get them to register at 1.68 each. After she tried to ring them up, she said she would take them over to the produce department to “get them straightened out” and, if she wasn’t back by the time he was finished with my groceries, he should “suspend the order.”

He nodded, and before she made it to the watermelons in the front of the green groceries, Andre checked the last item.

“She said I should suspend your order, okay?”

“Yes, I understand. I’ll just wait over here.” I sat on the edge of the next station’s bag carousel.

“What are we waiting for?” Mom asked from her perch across the aisle. I got up to get closer to her to explain.

Andre started on the order behind me, a large one. I saw Carol coming with a plastic sack just after the first item crossed the scanner. She laid the nectarines beside the register and said, “Just give me a couple minutes and then you can scan them.” Then she left in the opposite direction. I figured there was another computer over there somewhere.

I interrupted Andre in something like a loud whisper. “Am I going to have to wait through that whole order?”

He turned quickly. “No, no, I’m just getting these first three things…”

Carol stepped into the front aisle and called out, “It’s okay, now.”

Andre turned in two circles. “Where are the nectarines? What happened to the nectarines?”

I pointed. “They’re right there. She put them right there.”

Andre turned to his new customer. “Do you mind if I just get these….”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“No problem,” the man said.

Andre entered the code for yellow nectarines and got the number we were looking for. I took the fruit from his hand. “Where’s my produce bag? She took my produce bag.”

Mom perked up. “She put it beside your purse, right there on the buggy.”

“Oh, sorry,” I said–to no one. “Oh, wait, I haven’t paid for these groceries.”

***

“Can we go now?” Mom asked.

“Yes, we can leave. Do you realize that woman never said one word to me? I’m not even sure she made eye contact.”

A clerk from Customer Service stood just to our right in the hall.

I stopped. “May I please speak to the store manager?”

“You want to see the manager? Okay.” She hurried to a door inside the department and knocked. The door opened and then closed. The clerk came toward me. A different front end manager or assistant manager appeared from the left. The clerk spoke immediately to the new woman. “Can you tell Carol that somebody is here and needs to see a manager?” That’s when I first knew Carol’s name. 

“Who is Carol?” I asked.

“She’s the lady coming from the produce department, right there.” The clerk nodded Carol’s direction.

“Well, she’s the person I was about to complain about,” I said.

The new woman said with a smile, “Well, that won’t do. Here, you just wait in here and I’ll get you the manager.” She wanted me to step into the Customer Service department.

“No,” I said, “I’m not waiting.”

But when I saw that Carol was almost in front of me, I told the new woman, “It’s okay. You just stay right here. I’ll tell Carol myself.”

Mom rolled Dolly around me toward the door. Looked to me like she was moving pretty fast. She was making a getaway, but she stopped in front of the vision department.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Carol asked.

“When a customer has a problem, and you have to come out and fix it for them, you really need to say something to the customer. Say ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘I wish this hadn’t happened’ or ‘I hope your day improves after this…Something.”

New Woman nodded in affirmation. “I know that’s right,” she said.

“Oh, I am so sorry,” Carol said. “I really am sorry.”

“Did you notice that you never even spoke to me?”

“I’m sorry. I just wasn’t thinking.”

“Well, I was thinking.”

“See, what happened was those nectarines were in the computer wrong, and to fix that, I have to….”

“I don’t care about that,” I said. “I understand computer problems. I am a little surprised that no one else has complained and it’s almost one o’clock–but my problem is that you needed to apologize. When you have to fix something like this, you represent the store. The checker was doing everything he could, and he apologized, but nothing ever came from you. He needed to hear support from you, too.” I noticed that the customer service clerk was gone. “And the next thing is, I asked to see the store manager. Where was he and why wouldn’t he come out of that office? You see what just happened here?”

“Yes, yes, I do. I am so, so sorry.” Carol took both my hands. “I hope you’ll come back.”

“We okay now? We okay?” New Woman asked. She patted both our shoulders, mine and Carol’s.

“We’re fine,” I said. “Truly, we are fine.”

“I hope we are,” Carol said.

New woman added just as I turned to leave, “You will come back, won’t you?”

“You know, I hate it but I will. I have to. But if I didn’t have to, I wouldn’t.”

“Oh, no-o-o-o-o,” they answered together.

I laughed and waved. “Thanks for listening.”

***

About an hour later, Dave said, “You know those nectarines you bought? One of them has a huge soft spot on it. I put it by the sink. Somebody needs to eat it right away.”

When he left the room, I said, “Gimme the damn thing.” I washed it and cut the soft spot out. I finished it in four bites and still dribbled it all over my clean shirt. And then I went downstairs and wrote an email to Wal-Mart in Bentonville, Arkansas. I made sure to identify the store manager as the latest target of my wrath. After all, Carol and I had everything worked out.

***

So Mike Conley explained to me that he was promoted to this Wal-Mart store just seven weeks ago, that he’s been in management with Wal-Mart for eighteen years, and that he has a reputation for good customer service. He wanted to know when I was in the store and, after a couple of questions, he assured me that the door the customer service clerk knocked on was the door to the accounting office.

“This is no excuse for what you went through, but if you were leaving the store at 12:30, I was at lunch. I wasn’t in my office, but I was not in the accounting office, either.”

Mike Conley asked me to tell him my story. I ended the saga by saying, “If I could, I’d shop at Publix and pay more for my groceries. It’s obvious that they train their employees to take care of customers. Maybe Wal-Mart ought to contract Publix for training.”

He chuckled at that one. “Might not be a bad idea.”

He thanked me several times and wound down our conversation with, “Now what I would like to do is to visit with you sometime when you’re in the store and have a few minutes.”

So I’m going to have coffee with Mike Conley pretty soon. Right now, I’m going to go get a nectarine and then get ready for The Female Odd Couple. I hear it’s funny.

I’m getting behind on this birthday month reporting. Let’s do a pictorial for days eleven and twelve.
Mondays, I meet with a writing group. Two of us have birthdays in August, so Bonnie and I celebrated! We had the most beautiful cake ever and some pink bubbly.

Tuesday, out to Margot’s Cafe for dinner. I can’t believe the only photo we got was the bottle of wine. I’m going to throw in a picture of Margot’s even though I didn’t take the picture.

August 9 is the birthday of a dear friend. She and I celebrate together at some point during the month. On Friday, she emailed that her son-in-law was ending treatment for cancer and that the family sought hospice. Saturday morning, on her birthday, Ronnie died at his home sitting in his swing.
I thought how each event–his passing and her birthday–were life happening. The difference between the two, in this case, is the cancer part. I can’t accept that cancer is just “life happening.”
Another friend, who watched and waited as her sister succumbed not long ago, said, “Cancer is such a cruel disease.” And then, just recently, a dear friend dealt with the surprise of a diagnosis after a routine mammogram. Not long ago, a brother and son of friends passed away much too early from lung cancer.
Cancer is cruel and it should not be part of our stay on earth. Is there anyone who hasn’t been touched, or harmed some way, from this horrible hurt?
Two years ago this month, John and Vicky lost a dear friend to colon cancer. Sarah was Brian’s wife, and mother to Jameson and Carly’s playmates, Camden and Scott. For at least a year, we included Miss Sarah in bedtime prayers on every Grammy night.
***
Saturday morning was quiet, but not in a calming, peaceful way. I was glad when the grandkids came in the early afternoon. So was Murphy. She half-way ran to the door, and since I was afraid she might try to jump, I loaded her into her playpen.
The two older Graham Grands brought pieces, and the peace, of good news. Jameson likes the new middle school and has been accepted into the Cambridge Program. Carly said she “made it” into the Encore group. Jameson was quick to tell me that they watched the third Harry Potter movie. I answered, “Without me?”
They all laughed and told me we could watch the fourth one, and Carly bounced across the floor to land in my lap.
Carly’s dad, John, nicely warned that Carly has been a little “off” this past week. He detailed some of her behavior, which included “constantly starting something” with her brother and “not listening”, and suggested, “I wouldn’t give her too much leeway.”
She is going through some sort of phase, a normal one, I think. She’s already an exhuberant person, in contrast to Jameson’s quiet, pensive self. However, both delight in sibling aggravation in equal measure. They also absolutely adore each other. When John made his statements in Carly’s presence (intentionally, I’m sure), Carly climbed into the overstuffed chair where Jameson sat and snuggled to his side. She was only slightly affected by the discussion, however, because she was up almost immediately, jumping, bouncing, kicking legs in the air.
John told them to be good. They waved him out the door. I suggested that the two go on down to The Cellar (which they consider their personal retreat) while Murphy and I engaged in a physical therapy session.
“Can we have a snack?”
“Sure.”
And the junkfoodfest began.

After the Harry Potter movie and an early dinner (“We’re starving!”–really), it was time for the Hide the Mustard Can game. If you have a huge garage with unmentionable clutter, an empty Coleman’s mustard container, and two kids on rollerskates, this is the game for Grammy et.al. Grammy does not wear rollerskates.
We take turns hiding the can, youngest to oldest. There are lots of good hiding places as you might imagine. Round and round they skate, either looking for yellow-gold or providing clues to its general location.
“It’s in the back left fourth of the garage.”
“Is it visible?”
“No. Well, you could see it if you’re at the right angle.”
“Who’s warmer, me or Carly?”

“Do you give up?”
“No, do NOT tell us where it is!”
“Grammy, you’re burning up! You’re on fire!”
There are no prizes in the Hide the Mustard Can pastime, but we all have great satisfaction that we invented this fun. And then, I do seem to put a couple things in their rightful places every time we play.
We really need to play this game for twenty hours straight. I might get the garage cleaned up.
***
Dave woke me about 6:30. “The kids are up,” he said.
I checked Carly’s hair that we put up in a topknot of pincurls after her shower the night before. It was still wet and I told her we’d have to proceed to Plan B. She said okay. She and Jameson were engrossed in TV–The Ant Farm, I think.
Jameson looked up long enough to say, “Gravy.”
I cooked sausage, bacon, biscuits, gravy. They ate on the coffee table, the usual routine, something they do not do at home.
I dried Carly’s hair and rolled it in tight sponge rollers.Jameson showered–he didn’t want to–and sat down at the piano and played through Beethoven’s Ode to Joy.
“Where did you learn that?” I asked. Although he plays the guitar, he has never had a piano lesson.
“Uhhh, there’s this thing called the internet, Grammy.”
Carly spun toward me. “Grammy! We didn’t do my piano lesson.”
“We have time. We can do it after we finish putting your hair up.”
She’s playing well for less than a year of lessons from a washed-up teacher, and she will do even better. She is diligent, and she may develop a stronger ear.
I was glad that Jameson was clean for Sunday school, and Carly was delighted to show up in curls.
***
“What are your plans for today?” Dave asked.
“Well, I’m going to cook a pasta dinner and then I have to spend some time writing.”
The two of us landed in our recliners in time for 60 Minutes, but it was delayed because a golf game was delayed somewhere. It gave us some time to catch up.
“The super moon is going to be most visible at 7:30,” he said.
“Oooooo, let’s go out and see it. Maybe I should set an alarm.”
“Nah, we’ll remember that.”
At 9:00, I jumped from my seat. “Oh no, we didn’t see the moon.”
“I knew we’d forget it.”
“I’m going out anyway.”
It was halfway up in the sky but so bright it was stunning.
Dave said, “It’s lighting up the whole front yard.”
“Yeah, it is. Ronnie’s funeral is Thursday at the church.”
“I better check to see if I’ve got something to wear that fits.”

This morning I found a card by my bed.

Is he really saying I shouldn’t get a whole month?

It’s the eve of my big day and I got up at 5:30 ready to roll! After a rather pensive and (way too) quiet couple of days, I felt like my old self this morning. With all the morning chores done, I’m fixin’ to get ready for swimming. (We say that thing, “fixin’ to”, in these parts.) I’m going to rock Day 7.

After the swimming…

The water felt wonderful this morning! Our instructor, Dennis, was already in the water. I think he was giving a swimming lesson. I grabbed my phone and snapped the first picture of him talking with a classmate. Then I called to him, “Dennis, turn around. I want to take your picture.”

He wouldn’t turn around. He hollered over his shoulder, “I don’t do photos. No.”

“Are you in the witness protection program or something?” I asked.

He wasn’t joking. He repeated, “I don’t do photos.”

“Okay,” I said, and rounded the pool to take my place in the water.

Dennis is good. We love him. He gives the Senior Water Aerobics class a good workout. I promise, the old girls in that class can outdo a whole lot of younger women.

Today, Dennis worked our legs harder than he has ever done. The moves were all different. It was fun and exciting. About five minutes into the class, he yelled at me. “Why do you want to take my picture?”

I hollered back. “I’m making a birthday book. I wanted you to be in the book.”

“Well, I’m careful about pictures. All I need is for a husband to call me up to ask me why his wife has a picture of me on her phone.” He grinned.

I laughed out loud and said to my nearest buddy, “He obviously does not know Dave.”

“No, really,” he said, “it’s not exactly that. Well, it is, but, see, I stay in enough trouble with my lady already.” And when the class hooted, he grinned even bigger. He’s a showman, in addition to being a wonderful physical trainer. “You can take my picture. Just try to get my good side. After class. It’s a date.”

Mom found out today that she is not the oldest participant in the class. Hessie told her that she’s got her beat by six years, making her eighty-eight years old. I think Mom was disappointed. They work out holding on to the same end of the pool and they check up on each other when one is absent.

Dennis came to us as we pulled on our cover-ups and Mom collected her walker. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you. Where do you want me?”

“Over by the pool,” I said.

He mugged and I snapped several times. When I thanked him, he took a handle on Mom’s walker. “I hope you have a happy birthday. Mind if I ask how old you are?”

“Nope. This is a big one. I’m sixty-five.”

“Nah-h-h-h-h. You’re not sixty-five.”

“Oh yes, she is,” Mom said. “I’m eighty-two.”

“Ain’t no way you’re eighty-two.” He pointed to me. “She might convince me that she’s sixty-five, but you are not eighty-two years old.”

Mom beamed and prissed behind her walker to the locker room across the pool deck in her red swimsuit.

I keep cracker snacks and granola bars in the van’s console for Mom. She has to have something to eat on the way home from the pool. Today she chose a Roasted Almond Bar.

“Oooooo, that’s good,” she said. “That Dennis is cute as a bug’s ear.”

“Yep,” I answered. “Hey, I’m going to stir-fry some bok choy and ground meat for lunch today. Want some?”

***

Dave and I took Murphy to the surgery center at 2:00 P.M. for a follow-up. When we took her in for her two-week post-op visit, he was not pleased with her progress. Today, his whole young face lit up.

“Murphy’s condition today is like night and day different from the last time she was here.”

Dave answered, “We think she’s progressing well.”

“She certainly is.” He told us his findings of her exam and of the biopsy sent in week before last. She’s arthritic, nothing pathological, not much even identifiable except the typical deterioration. We’re to carry on as we’re doing now, physical therapy for at least another four weeks, no stairs, no jumping or romping or running.

While we talked, Murphy charmed. She flopped on her belly and stretched out like a bullfrog. She rolled. She smiled. She scratched one ear in a slow, lazy flop of her left leg. And, of course, everyone who saw her told her, and us, how cute she is, the little wench. None of them have seen her when she doesn’t want a PT session.

We got home with plenty of time left in the afternoon. I wondered if Mom and Dad might want to do some of the shopping we’d planned for tomorrow. Actually, it was a pedicure for Dad and a glasses adjustment for Mom–and both of those things occur at WalMart.

Tomorrow is Friday. Sure, it’s my birthday, too, but it’s grocery shopping day. And this week, Kroger advertised pineapples for $.99 each, pork loin for $1.99 a pound, and three selections of cheeses for $5.00. What caught my eye was not only that pineapple, but bone-in chicken breasts for $1.19 a pound and ten boxes of pasta for $10.00.

Mom and I planned our agenda yesterday and it included Kroger. The schedule was like this: To Virtue Nails for mani/pedis at 10:00 A.M. To WalMart Neighborhood Store at Nippers Corner for groceries. Home to pick up Dad to go to the Super WalMart for his pedicure and Mom’s glasses adjustment. I didn’t discuss small stops I need to make at Lowe’s and Sherwin-Williams.

So our trip today reduced the crowded plan for tomorrow.

By the time we loaded up with pineapples, pork, chicken, and cheese, Mom was tired and Dad was hurting. Shingles isn’t over with when the lesions heal. There’s nerve pain that follows, and it’s anybody’s guess how long it might take to leave a specific individual.

Mom reminded me. “You wanted to stop at Sherwin-Williams.” The store is in a strip center on the back of Kroger. We cut through the parking lot to take a back route to our house.

“I don’t know, Mom, I think Dad’s ready to go home.”

Sometimes I think Dad’s hearing problem is selective. He popped up, from the back seat, “Sis, go ahead and stop at the paint store. You won’t be in there that long.”

I quickly settled on three paint cards of green. I thought I was going to paint the kitchen a steel blue–or blue-gray–until my daughter-in-law Vicky convinced me that green was the way to go. She’s right–so right!  The paint cards are taped to the kitchen cabinets. I think I see the possibilities.

Was that thunder? Yes, it was. Murphy hates storms but she has to go out one more time before bed. Dave just stuck his head inside from the porch to say it’s raining already.