Dragging my feet
Inevitabobble, isn't it. Not death and taxes, but the sun's track, its orbit. All summer when the earth has tilted so that
the sun's path is to the north, it passes over our condominium
building here and never shines in our face or in our south windows.
Summer is obviously over though, because the sun is moving south:
Friday evening for the first time, half the setting sun was still
behind the building and half was shining in my face as I sat on my
porch looking west. In a few days it will show me no mercy for six months, all day blinding reflection on the surface
of the Bay. Fortunately and thankfully, we've bought and Joe
installed solar shades that admit 10% of light, cut glare and
reduce the sun's heat while still admitting our wonderful view.
Otherwise,
the inevitable jumps out at me as this MacBook takes longer and
longer to boot. After a full charge last evening, as reported by the
green light on the charging cord, it took forever to boot. These
things happen and these times come. Considering new computers a waste
of money, I bought this one refurbished from Apple in 2009 or 2010, a year or two before going to Cleveland in January 2011, remembered because I took it to Cleveland and used it there. Even used, Apple is pricey, so to replace it I may try MacOfAllTrades. They're cheap,
but they come without the software I use. I might rather stick with
Apple. There's no emergency or rush, I'm dragging my feet.
We
have dragonflies here, flitting round off my seventh floor
condo looking for – whatever they eat. Maybe mosquitos, we
used to call them mosquito hawks. All the best to them, but I've not
seen, felt, heard or scratched a mosquito up here in the 8 2/3 months
since we moved in.
Summer's
having one last hack at me. On the porch last evening the little
machine said 88F 50%. In my school days, school days, dear old golden
rule days, my favorite season was summer vacation. Now it's
staycation year round and this hottest summer on record has me
looking forward to fall if not downright winter. Already, Robert and
I've moved our walk start time from 6:00 to 6:30, last week shifting
to 7:00. It's minimal exercise that we do to stay alive, and reminisce about growing up in the Cove seventy years ago.
We've been friends and classmates seventy-three years. Both eighty, we lived across Massalina Bayou from each other, and attended each other's 7-year-old birthday parties.
Saturday:
a busy one from dawn to dark, and that's not a threat, that's a
promise. My father liked to say that. “... and that's not a threat,
that's a promise.”
The blog is spontaneous, and for
some reason, this triggers the time we were out on a
date in the Plymouth woody. I think there were six of us in the
three seat wagon, two front seat, two middle seat, two back seat. The
brakes were a little soft, going to mushy. Anyone who's heard this
before, scroll to bottom and cut off before it goes dark. At some point in
early evening that night, I had to start pumping the brakes in order
to slow and stop the car, so I was driving slowly,
cautiously. Staying off Harrison Avenue, driving north on Jenks Avenue, likely enroute to the Tally-Ho, I saw the light at
Jenks and 11th Street go yellow, then red. Or maybe it was a stop sign. Already slow,
foot off the gas, coasting, I started pumping, but the pedal went to
the floor. I pumped frantically, nothing. The car coasted. Pump,
pump, pump. Nothing. Slowly approaching the corner, I looked both ways:
cars moving through the intersection in both directions. I opened my
door, the heavy wooden driver's door, and started dragging my left
foot, trying to bring the car to a halt.
Slowly, finally, with no
rubber left on my shoe sole, I did: the car stopped rolling just
short of the intersection. Just short.
When traffic cleared, I shifted into low (three on the tree)
and slowly headed home to get the other car, the 1948 Dodge sedan in the carport at home. This would have been what? 1952
maybe, 1953? I don't think 1954 when Linda and I had a date alone every
night but one all summer (raging story for another time) or as late
as 1955, because by then away at college and university we had stopped the double-dating and triple-dating from high school. So 1952 or 1953.
Maybe 1951, but I don't think so. 1952.
Safely home, I eased the 1949 Plymouth woody wagon into the carport, cut the
engine, asked the others to wait in the Dodge, and, not anticipating
what awaited me, opened the front door and went into the living room
to get the key to the other car. The scene was grim. Grim.
Air thick. THICK.
My father stopped talking the instant I walked in the front door, and
glared at me. My mother looked at me, visibly
upset. His jaw set, my father glared. Glared. You
did not want the man glaring at you, I hadn't had the hand or belt in
years, but a glare could signal the beginning of a (shudder) Talk.
My father's Talks were
legendary, all three of us had been recipients. Through those years, Walt
and I were the silent victims of the Talks, only Gina had courage to
mouth back at him, which only raised the temperature in the Northern Hemisphere. Anyway, surprised, I
sensed something was coming.
Sheer coincidence, my father had been in the other car, the Dodge, the car I had come to get, at the 11th and Jenks intersection as I rolled up with the door open, dragging my left foot. Furious, he'd assumed -- what? I said, “The station wagon has no brakes, the pedal's to the floor, I came to swap cars.” Primed for attack, my father was gunning for me and not waiting to listen nor wasting the opportunity. Even if nobody else on earth does, my brother would understand; only my brother and I know and understand from whence we have come to this point in life. Not hearing my explanation, my father lit into me. He was too angry not to do so. Puzzled, I stood my ground calmly and told my mother again, I don't know why he's mad at me, the station wagon has no brakes, the pedal's to the floor, at Jenks and 11th I had to open the door and drag my foot to stop it. It can't be driven, don't drive it tomorrow. I've come to swap cars, everyone's outside waiting. My father stopped talking. My mother said, “he needs the car keys.” I repeated, the station wagon has no brakes, it needs to go to the shop tomorrow, and in his silence before he said oh and, I think reluctantly began to relinquish his anger, I took the Dodge keys and left. Next morning my mother told me that before I walked in the door my father had been so angry at me, raging that I was not to be allowed to drive the cars again.
Sheer coincidence, my father had been in the other car, the Dodge, the car I had come to get, at the 11th and Jenks intersection as I rolled up with the door open, dragging my left foot. Furious, he'd assumed -- what? I said, “The station wagon has no brakes, the pedal's to the floor, I came to swap cars.” Primed for attack, my father was gunning for me and not waiting to listen nor wasting the opportunity. Even if nobody else on earth does, my brother would understand; only my brother and I know and understand from whence we have come to this point in life. Not hearing my explanation, my father lit into me. He was too angry not to do so. Puzzled, I stood my ground calmly and told my mother again, I don't know why he's mad at me, the station wagon has no brakes, the pedal's to the floor, at Jenks and 11th I had to open the door and drag my foot to stop it. It can't be driven, don't drive it tomorrow. I've come to swap cars, everyone's outside waiting. My father stopped talking. My mother said, “he needs the car keys.” I repeated, the station wagon has no brakes, it needs to go to the shop tomorrow, and in his silence before he said oh and, I think reluctantly began to relinquish his anger, I took the Dodge keys and left. Next morning my mother told me that before I walked in the door my father had been so angry at me, raging that I was not to be allowed to drive the cars again.
A great deal about my upbringing influenced the way I tried to raise my children that I am told I love far too much, too dearly, too protectively, too dotingly. I think my brother has loved his children the same way, maybe from the same history. By far, I did not always succeed in being kind and gentle, but one of them told her mother, "We always knew Dad loved us."
Eighty and dragging my feet
Thos+