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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.

 

 

 

The air was dangerous on Day 5, with alerts and alarms for sufferers of asthma, COPD, and other breathing disorders. I knew it was coming Monday night when I drove home from writing group, kept thinking about that commercial where the elephant sits on the woman’s chest. I like that elephant. I like that he follows the woman around after she gets whatever the chemical is that makes her breathe easier. That doesn’t mean I like having asthma or the feel of a ton of flesh sitting on my chest.

So I stayed in. Really in. I wrote a little, cleaned some, worked on my calendar, answered some long overdue email, and wished I could be outside. Murphy was delighted to have me within reach, despite the chance that I might drop to the floor, slip a plastic cone over her head, and wiggle her stiff old legs. Gordo was pleased because he could graze in peace with no one chasing him across the lawn. And I have to admit that I was a tad pleased to sit with the beginning pages of Elizabeth Warren’s book.

I spent all day, and part of the evening, in The Cellar. The carpet cleaners came at 1:00 o’clock. Due to some unwise planning on somebody’s part, the major traffic pattern in our house is carpeted. The rest, where nobody walks much, is hardwood. We would have preferred hardwood everywhere, but the carpet had just been installed when we moved in, and we wanted to get the good out of it. (I think “get the good out of it” might be another Southernism.)

About 3:00 o’clock, a dear, dear friend called to ask if she could stop by. She was on the opposite side of Nashville, shopping at Opry Mills. It took Maggie a long time to get across town. The traffic was atrocious. When she drove up, I waved her in for big hugs. And she brought a birthday present. The card has a queen cat on the cover who said, “Why celebrate your birthday on just one day?” Inside, it said, “We all love celebrating your birthday month!” Perfect. Just perfect. Then I unwrapped a flamingo bulletin board. Maggie remembered that I like flamingoes one day when she saw the board at a  yard sale.

We caught up. She and her husband have been through a really hard time for over a year, with Jim in treatment for cancer. When I learned that he likes peaches (and Maggie doesn’t), I sent her home with four China White peaches that my son brought from Pratt’s Orchard the first of the week.

I couldn’t say how many subjects we touched on, but the time together was therapeutic. How fortunate that I was “in” for the day–for the celebration!

Day 6–today–held two commitments, a dermatologist appointment for Dad and a piano lesson for Carly. I awoke early, my hands and feet itching, and a bit nauseated. 4:00 A.M. I went to sit in my regular reclining spot on the couch. I read a while, dozed a while. I planned to get out early to wet down the gardens in the back. Dave generously took care of all the pots last night since I planned to leave at 9:00 A.M. for the physician appointment.

Mom volunteered to cook a pork roast for lunch, so I knew I would not cook today. After physical therapy with Murphy, I doused the butterfly garden, the mini-rose and herb site, and set the system for the large corner garden. I came inside to make a proposal to Dave.

“How about if you take Dad to see Dr. Jacobsen, and I’ll finish your watering out front?”

I didn’t have to ask twice. Dave sees Dr. Jacobsen, too, so he could be good help to Dad. And I could take my time, run in and out to finish making fake rain, and harvest anything that was ripe in the vegetable garden.

I brought in cherry tomatoes (dozens and dozens), Asian eggplant, okra, and three kinds of peppers. And one large tomato. Just one ripe big tomato. Vicky drove up outside The Cellar door. We talked “first day of school,” just a half-day, and decided she would call after lunch so that we could settle on a time for the piano lesson. I convinced her to take eggs, peppers and cherry tomatoes. She collected a huge watermelon that Dad saved for the family.

I took the okra next door to ask Mom if she thought it was still good. Okra gets tough when it gets big, and the okra hadn’t been cut for days.

“It looks fine. Now, if that were regular old green okra, we wouldn’t be able to use it.” Our okra is purple. Dad said he couldn’t find any regular old green okra seeds this year. I’m glad he didn’t.

“Are you okay?” Mom asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “My hands and feet are itching so bad.”

“There’s some Benadryl in my bedroom.”

“I don’t want to be sleepy.”

“Why not? You don’t have to do another thing today.”

“Piano lesson.”

“You’ll be able to take a nap before she gets here. I’ll cook that okra tomorrow.”

“I think it better be cooked today. I’ll cook it.”

I managed to fry okra and slice some tomatoes, but after lunch (very outstanding!), I hit the couch. Vicky called at 1:30 to say the kids were both ready to stay at home, just a little frazzled from first-day nerves.  I went back to sleep and woke myself snoring.

Back downstairs, I watched Gordo and Tiny graze. I caught Gordo on camera. I’ll have to show the pictures later because some technical mishap doesn’t allow for an upload.

Now that I’ve recounted most of the excitement from today, I wonder if I’ve just had a boring day and don’t know it. I know I’m happy with it.

 

 

 

 

Jameson and Carly were in the den when I staggered out of bed, their usual habit. Last night we agreed that we would get breakfast and get over to the playground and ball field early. I told them we had to beat the heat, and that they were going home mid-day since I was going to my writing group’s weekly meeting.

“Y’all go get your clothes on and I’ll make breakfast. And pack your bags, too.”

I threw some bacon in a pan and pre-heated the oven. Jameson has become a connoiseur of gravy. His preference is bacon gravy, although I understand he also eats sausage gravy at  home. When I reached for the frozen biscuits, I realized I was a couple short. I knew where I could get some more.

Mom is never out of bed before 7:30. I hit the passageway between our house and their apartment and tiptoed through her bedroom to the kitchen. Her biscuit bag was almost full, so I took two out and snuck back home. She was still snoring.

Jameson wore long black shorts and a black shirt with no sleeves. He showed me his assortment of baseball socks and his new cleats. “And Carly is wearing my black baseball socks,” he said. Her black, purple, and green workout ensemble didn’t look bad with the black knee socks, even with the shiny hot pink shoes.

“I don’t want a biscuit,” she said. Now, Carly always wants a biscuit, and some bacon, and some of Grandmama’s blackberry jelly.

“You’re kidding, right?” I asked.

Jameson stepped in. “Grammy, she’s always grumpy just after she wakes up. She’ll be okay.”

“I am not!” she said.

“What do you want for breakfast?” I asked.

“What do you have? I don’t know what I want until I see what you have.”

I stirred the flour into the pan and added milk. “I have cereal, sandwich thins, English muffins….”

“What kind of English muffin?”

The gravy progressed nicely.

“Plain. They’re in the freezer downstairs.”

“Oh.”

“How about an apple with peanut butter?” I asked.

“No peanut butter, just an apple.”

I dug through a drawer for the apple slicer.

Carly announced last year that she only likes peanut butter on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I thought perhaps she had changed her mind. No.

“I have some boiled eggs,” I said, and she nodded her head.

She emptied out the round yoke and gobbled the white.

“So I suppose you don’t like the yellow part?” I asked.

“Right.” Then she whispered, “I don’t want to go the playground.”

“I suppose you could stay with Grandmama,” I said, “because we promised Jameson last night we’d go to the baseball field today. You agreed, remember?”

“I still don’t want to go.”

“She’s just grumpy,” Jameson said.

After a little PT session with Murphy and Carly’s change of heart, we packed our snack bag with chips, M&M’s, and drinks, then headed across the street and through a neighbor’s back yard to the elementary school grounds. Hard little oval balls caused me to stumble.

“Pears,” Jameson said.

“Are they? Where’s the tree?” I asked.

“Grammy, it’s right there.” He pointed just to the right and up. “Look, some are rotten.” He scuffed the grass with his cleats and then led the way to the dugout of the first baseball field. “I know, I know,” he said, “I’m watching out for their roses.” The neighbor’s boundary with the school property is lined with light pink floribundas.

He set his bag down, unzipped it, and started hauling out gloves and balls.

“I don’t want to play baseball. I want to go to the secret playground,” Carly said, referring to a fenced soft-track area tucked between kindergarten and first grade portables.

“How about if we play at the secret playground for a while, and then work out on the bases?” I offered.

“How long?” Jameson asked.

“Maybe fifteen minutes. You know, we have to budget our time. I told your mom I’d have you home right after lunch.”

“Where are we going to lunch?” Carly asked. “Can we go to Taco Bell?”

I waited for a competing suggestion from her brother. Nothing.

He shrugged and gave in–to all. “Okay, let’s go over to the secret playground. I guess we can call that our warm-up.” He gathered his equipment and zipped his bag.

Most of the portables had a car in front. The teachers were there, getting ready for the first day of school, Wednesday, August 6. A smiling young woman in a white sundress with a clipboard and a map emerged between buildings. She was the new principal, I could tell. She smiled.

“You’re getting ready, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” she said, “and I have to figure out who’s in which portable.” She scribbled on the map.

Carly is almost too big for the secret playground. She grabbed some twisting round bars and swung herself from one to the other until she reached the other side. The last time we were at the playground, she could not make it from one bar to the next and I had to hold her up. Jameson ran for a while on the rolling log, then went to his bag. He tossed a baseball in the air and caught it.

“You want me to throw with you?” I asked. I wore one of the three or four gloves he brought and we tossed the ball back and forth. I’m sure he was surprised at how good I am with a baseball glove–so much better than I am with a football.

When I announced that the warm-up period had ended, Carly begrudgingly left the slide and took my hand as we trekked to the baseball field. All three of us met in the dugout. Jameson handed Carly a glove. She’d already picked up the bat.

“Carly, take this glove and get on first base. We’ll work out on the bases.”

“No, I’m going to bat first.”

“We said you would go through all the bases. Don’t you want to practice?”

“Jameson, you cannot tell me what to do.”

“Don’t you think they’re going to tell you what to do when you play on the softball team?”

“I’m going to bat, I said.”

“You get that glove and get yourself to first base,” he told her, with great command.

She hit the ground with the bat. “No. You’re not going to tell me what to do. I’m going to bat.”

Carly went to the batter’s box and Jameson pitched. He cheered her on. “You almost hit that one!”

“I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” she announced. “Can’t help it. I’ve got to go.”

Jameson tried to convince her to hide herself in some bushes but it didn’t work. He finally walked her back across the field and across the street to the house and back while I stayed with the equipment. I called after them, “Be sure to watch for cars.” I stood and watched them all the way to the street and kept my eyes in their direction.”

I saw their two little heads as they’d just crossed the street on their return. In the yard with the pears, Jameson stomped the ground repeatedly while Carly watched. Then they eased past the roses and broke into a run on the school grounds.

“Why were you stomping out there?” I asked.

He looked puzzled.

“Stomping the ground,” I said. I showed him what I was talking about.

“Oh, I was stomping on rotten pears.”

“We saw Grandpapa,” Carly said. “He was in the garden.”

“And I got some Oreos,” Jameson said.

“I got some Sour Cream & Onion Ruffles,” Carly added.

“Okay, finish your snacks and let’s get with it.”

I set my water on Carly’s bag of chips to keep the breeze from blowing them in the dirt. I told her to watch them because she might lose them to the wind. The third time she lifted the bag, I forgot to anchor it and, poof, it was on the concrete floor.

“Carly, it finally happened.”

The Ruffles were under the bench, most of them on the ground–or floor–and she gave them a hard look. Jameson tipped his soft drink to finish.

“Grammy, could I just reach under there and get them? I don’t think they’re that dirty.”

I looked at the chips. I looked at her. “I don’t care.”

When she pinched the first one, I said, “Blow on it.”

Really, I don’t think they were that dirty.

Somehow the two managed to switch positions on the field, except that, instead of pitching, Carly manned the outfield. Jameson tossed the ball in the air and hit it straight down whatever base line Carly worked on. Somewhere around the shortstop area, the ball hit her ankle. For a brief moment, I thought she’d shake it off, but then drama took hold and she wailed. In the dugout, I pulled her sock down to get a view. The skin was slightly burned, and although I didn’t see a bruise, I thought one might develop. She had stopped crying for a long time but the wailing and catterwauling continued. Jameson ran to the dugout and tried to hug her. She flailed her arms and yelled some more. Pretty soon, she was alternating between fake crying and stifled laughter. Jameson mimicked her. She changed pitches and tones, volume and pattern. He couldn’t keep up. After all, Carly is an entertainer.

We made one more trip to the secret playground, Carly and I. Jameson said he might be there in a few, but just wanted to sit in the dugout for a while. I figured he would follow as soon as Carly and I started down the small hill past the portables.

“He’s not coming,” Carly said, looking over her shoulder.

“That’s okay. Let’s get to the playground. We only have a few minutes before we have to leave and get lunch.”

“But what if somebody steals him?”

“What?”

“What if somebody steals Jay-Jay?” she asked.

“Nobody’s going to steal him. I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“How?”

“How, what?”

“How are you going to keep an eye on him?”

“I’m going to run back and forth between right here,” I patted my foot, “and over there.” I pointed to the gate to the small play area.

On my second run from the playground to my baseball field watching position, the pretty lady in the white sundress stuck her head out from behind one of the portables. “He’ll be okay over there,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

I couldn’t help myself. It was the first time the two had been in separate places when they were in my care. I ran back and forth between the two spots. On my last trip back to the playground (six, I think), Carly ran through the gate.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she said. “Can’t help it.”

“Carly, it hasn’t been that long….”

“No, this is the other kind.”

“Okay, well, let’s collect Jameson and get going.”

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“We’re going to Taco Bell, and then you’re going home,” I said. “I have to go to writing group.”

“Why? Are you writing another one?”

“Well….” I paused. “Yes, I’m writing another book.”

She gripped my hand. “He’s not there!”

“Oh, he’s there somewhere,” I said. A big knot developed somewhere in my midsection, not because I thought someone had stolen Jameson, but because my brain entertained a plot involving a boy missing from his grandmother’s care, a principal who had thought she was keeping her promise to watch him, and the grammy who was out of breath from running twenty yard sprints for almost fifteen minutes. Just the thought of putting that story on paper was enough to make me hyperventilate.

When we crested a little rise behind the first portable (or last, depending on which direction you might be walking), I saw a spot of black on the top of the fence on the far side of the fields. I waved. “See, there he is.”

“No, I don’t see him. Where is he?”

“He’s sitting on the fence way-y-y-y over there.” I pointed.

“What is he doing there?”

I stopped. “I don’t know,” I said. “Jam-e-son! Come on!” I waved again and the spot dropped to the ground and landed on its feet.

He got to the dugout at the same time that we did.

“Let’s get going,” I said.

“Grammy, it’s not time yet. Can we just work on another base?”

“Carly has to go to the bathroom.”

“Again?” He shook his head. “Where are we having lunch? Oh yeah, Taco Bell. Carly wants to go to Taco Bell. And you’re going to your writing group tonight.”

“Right.”

He finished loading the bag and picked it up. “Grammy, did your book ever get published yet?”

“No, Jameson, not yet. I’m hoping it will, though.”

“Me, too, Grammy. Me, too.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

I call my husband’s ex-wife, Barb Kem, my “stepwife.” I didn’t invent this title. It came from my friend, Linda. Barb calls me her stepwife, too. Our birthdays are just five days apart and our husbands were both born on November 27. As far as I know, none of us has sought the services of a seer regarding our astrological closeness, but I will admit I’ve thought about it.

I’m starting today’s entry early. No, I mean really early. I haven’t even made a pot of coffee. I am in the den in my regular spot, a recliner on the end of the couch next to Dave’s chair. With the house so quiet, Murphy’s dream-yelps cause me to jump a little. She is six feet away in her infant Pack’n-Play.

Okay, so we have a playpen for Murphy. The vet told us to keep her confined at night for at least eight weeks. She’s always loved her big blue crate, a real dog crate, but we decided that pulling her out of the crate while her legs are healing might hurt her–or us–so we’re both more comfortable with the travel crib.

Dad always said a dog making sounds like Murphy is “chasing rabbits.” I think I’ve heard Dave say the same thing. Murphy has never chased a rabbit, even though I’m sure she’s wanted to. No, Murphy is probably dreaming about me, pulling her legs, making her “ride the bicycle,” and rubbing her haunches. She doesn’t like her physical therapy sessions but we’re committed. (The “we” in “we’re” might be the royal version.)

I’m dressed and ready to go. Since it rained last evening (shock of shocks!), I’m headed to the  front garden I should have weeded yesterday.

It’s beautiful out there. The calla lilies are blooming and I know the greens I see this morning will be deeper, brighter, happier than they were yesterday.

Two more Shoulds (and Gottas, too): 1. Re-set the trap for Gordo the (Persistent) Groundhog, 2. Pass along a stack of magazines, 3. Contact the Pyrex company about a bowl I bought with a damaged lid.
6:20 P.M.

I love the shady garden on the south side of the front yard. I finished cleaning up out there just in time to make Corn & Tomato Salad to accompany the marinated chicken breasts Dave grilled. Dave used that time to rake and pick up my weeds all around the large bed. I had to use cherry tomatoes for the salad because I couldn’t find one ripe big tomato on the vines. Now, there are a hundred green ones. I look for them all to ripen just about the same time. I’m accustomed to overload.

I sat on the couch after lunch and contemplated a short nap, but my thinking time didn’t last long when I remembered that I wanted to email the Pyrex company. I’m happy that I seemed to accomplish more today. I’ve weeded through the magazines and stashed them all in a tall bag. Murphy was agreeable for her second of third PT sessions today and that makes me smile. But the joy of all joys on this third birthday month day arrived sometime after lunch with Jameson and Carly. They bounded in the house, loaded down with baseball equipment–or is that softball?

We visited for a while in the den and then they headed down to The Cellar. They consider that my place is their place. When I made it down the stairs, we discussed our schedule for this afternoon and tomorrow. I suggested that today we lollygag and watch movies, and then tomorrow morning, head over to the playground and baseball fields immediately after an early breakfast.

Next negotiation, which movie to watch. I’ve bought movies from the cable company because these kids will watch the same one multiple times. Especially Percy Jackson. Dave reminded me this morning that we have to watch The Lego Movie one more time to break even against renting instead of buying. But first we talked about books.

Jameson asked me if I read the Harry Potter books.

“No,” I said, “I just never got to them.”

“Well, I’m reading them this summer. You know, I was too young when they first came out so I missed out on them. Can we have a snack?”

They laid in a supply of Grammy-junk and then Jameson asked if I thought the Harry Potter movies were available to rent.

We searched and found the first movie.

Now this is the “joy of joys” I spoke about. Who knew? I can’t even explain why I would enjoy sorcery and wizardry so much from an eleven-year-old with little round glasses.  I sat on the couch next to Carly and made frequent trips to the laundry room, the kitchen, the desk. Carly announced at 4:00 o’clock that she was ready for dinner, so I popped some popcorn chicken in the oven (“popped popcorn chicken”–funny) and searched for frozen green beans. Carly must have green beans and mac-and-cheese at Grammy’s house.

So now they’re watching the second Harry Potter movie. I’m watching Gordo graze. I would have set the trap but he pushed the trap around the back yard and got the mechanics stuck. Dad says he’ll fix the trap tomorrow.

One more time. I’m going to set the trap one more time, and then I’ll give up. He’s too smart for me.

 

 

Warmer today, lots warmer. Ninety degrees hurts worse now than before that stretch of unseasonal cool weather we’ve had for the last week or so.

I identified my shoulds early. Like, I really should finish weeding the front. I should tie up that sagging morning glory vine on the porch. I should text my cousin James. I should sort all the fabric and notions I lifted out of Mom’s sewing room chest. I should clean up one area of the storage area in the garage. I should make sure I do physical therapy with Murphy at least three times. I should re-vamp my calendar for August and September and print copies for Mom and Dave. I should toss out that dried bouquet on the dining room table. I should gather tomatoes, peppers, okra, melons, and the last of the blackberries. I should re-pot some failing plants from Mom and Dad’s porch. I should do some more work on the unused clothes in my closet. I should make a final trip through my novel and send out query letters. Or letter. I should fold the clothes in the dryer. I should plan Sunday dinner, I should cook Saturday dinner! There was more, so much more.

I know I’m not that much different from anyone reading my shoulds list. We all have lists too long for any human to accomplish in fifteen hours.

Dave called me out of bed a little after 6:00 A.M. On Saturdays, we leave for a meeting at 7:30. I usually refer to these meetings as “my WW meeting.” Before leaving, I lifted Murphy, secured her head in her cone, and gave her physical therapy.

My hair this morning was somewhere in the middle of Rod Stewart, Ellen DeGeneres, and Phyllis Diller in her early years. I sprayed wax finish. I resorted to the curling iron. I got decent enough to go to WW, where I learned that I lost 1.6 pounds this week. We stopped at Wholly Chow for breakfast, a Saturday tradition.

What could I mark off my Should List today? I finished watering about noon, after re-potting two plants. The front beds were still too hard to weed. Dave put more water on them. Mom and Dad din’t want lunch today. Mom was cooking for the church potluck tomorrow–chicken and dressing in the slow cooker–and she thought she’d just fry some chicken for Dad for lunch.

I lifted Murphy from the floor and pulled her cone over her head. She snarls and snaps when I want to move her legs so this is just a protective measure. She’s walking very well today.

I talked with Dave about lunch and dinner. We decided we’d scrounge for lunch and I’d cook stuffed peppers for dinner. I returned to the yard to do a little more and, within half an hour, I was too hot. I sorted the fabric all over the floor in Mom’s sewing room and ate some peanut butter and crackers.

“Dave,” I said, “I’m going to Deborah’s house.” Deborah is a woman who has been helping me with gardening. When I realized that she made every bag and purse that she carries, I told her we should set up an Etsy shop.

“I’ll do the computer work,” I promised her, “and you make the stuff.” We determined that she would start with bags and purses. I assured her there was enough fabric at our house to inventory a small factory. She’s been making some incredibly beautiful purses. Yesterday she made a market bag in just a few minutes. I took more fabric over to her house (remember I got a new supply from Mom’s sewing room) and got a good look at the most beautiful bag I’ve ever seen. It’s a pink rose fabric with garden green trim and lining. Wow.

When I got home, it was time to cook dinner. The stuffed sweet peppers, not bell peppers, were wonderful. I microwaved a couple of Dad’s red potatoes and mashed them up, a perfect and quick complement.

After dinner, I went next door to visit with Mom and Dad. I hadn’t seen them much at all today. One more PT session for Murphy. She didn’t thrash around and throw her head and snarl this time. She made a couple of low growls but I put those legs through their paces. She stood and walked all the way home.

“I’m done,” I thought, but I put dishes in the dishwasher before I settled in.

I didn’t address three-quarters of the list today, but I’m tired. Was I successful? I don’t know. I’m just bound for re-runs of The Big Bang Theory and early bedtime. Hey, not every day is exciting, even the countdown days of Birthday Month. And, by the way, I didn’t tell everything that happened today.

Jameson and Carly are coming tomorrow for a Grammy night!