Serenity and Aggravation

Yesterday's post provided a few pictures of our trip to the Island on Tuesday.  We picked the absolute most perfect day for time on the beach.  You may note the long sleeves and wonder, but trust me.  It was 78 degrees and yet the breeze from the sea gave us a cool experience.  Late in the afternoon, the fog drifted in, completely obscuring the pier a few hundred yards to the south.

Our ferry ride back to the mainland was quite unlike the trip over, for the first crossing was in sparkling sunlight, the second, not so much.  I mentioned that we could stop at the grocery to fill the short list of needs, but that we had to get hooked up before seven so I could watch NCIS.  But...

We arrived back at our home base, hooked up and...

No power.  I notified the camp host who showed up with tools and testing equipment.  A number of neighbors, old guys, dropped by as well.  We old guys are helpful like that.  Determination: problem is my connecting cord, wire near molded plug has broken.

Allen next door says, "I'll take you to Wallyworld, see if they have one."  They didn't.  Ace was closed, and O'Reilly doesn't carry such stuff.  Back at the campground, Allen hooked me up with an extension through the window so I "wouldn't have to go without morning coffee."  Thanks, Allen.

Somewhere in the night, three-thirty or four, it started to rain.  And it rained.  And rained.
Then around nine when I was up and ready to ride the bike in search of part, oh, Noah, didn't it rain! Well, there was finally a break and I bicycled to Camper Clinic where I obtained part.  You guessed it.  Before I got home...  Okay, I was  a little damp, but I did the necessary repair and we have power again.

Yet, the really fun part has yet to be told.  While we old guys were fooling around with the electrical box outside, BBBH went to the fridge to make preparation for supper.  She opened the door and it fell off.  Lower hinge, plastic of course, had broken.  No lady was injured in this episode.  We still have condiments and milk in the fridge in the rec hall.

After lunch I biked to Carquest where I obtained epoxy repair kit.  I hope that worked.  We'll find out about 5:30!*

Oh, the joys of the RV life.  If you are already doing it, you know what I mean.  If you are thinking about it in your future, think on some of these things.  Not that I want to discourage you from the fulfillment of a dream.

*Seems to be holding; groceries rescued and brought home.  Oh, and I didn't mention that the humidity was so high in here that the GFCI for the outlets kept tripping.  That's resolved now, too, via the expediency of less moisture in the air.

To the Island

"13"

A year ago today I wrote a glowing tribute to my wife and the twelve happy years of marriage we had experienced together.  I prefaced the article with the above picture, and I repeat that here now because 1) we don't look any better today than we did then, and 2) it is quite possible that this is the most recent picture of the two of us together.

So.  Today is our thirteenth wedding anniversary.  The number won't seem very large to our contemporaries in this walk down life's pathway, but to two people who were well into their sixties before they started this adventure, it seems pretty significant.

This thirteenth year was no less tempestuous than any of the previous years, but the love is stronger, and if we live long enough we'll let you know how year fourteen went, in, say, about 365 days.

I still love you, JoAnn.

p.s. It turns out that there is a more recent picture, and I've used it before, too.  We were in the jewelry store, just before Christmas.  And here's how it was done.

She took a picture, I took one; and here we are!

Well Wishes, Dumb Story

Well Wishes
Tomorrow our friend, Chuck, will leave his Secondary Roads for the sterile environment of the operating room.  We are sending him warm good wishes and praying the Lord will watch over him and Sylvia and guide the hands of the medical team that will be carving on his great toe.  May you heal quickly, recover fully and get up on those feet without pain soonest, Chuck!

Drop in on Chuck and wish him well.

Dumb Story
Duck walks into a convenience store and asks, "Do you have any grapes?"  Clerk says no, and the duck leaves.  Next day, duck returns and asks, "Do you have any grapes?:  Clerk again says no, and the duck leaves.  

Day after that, duck walks in the store again and asks, "Do you have any grapes?"  Clerk screams at the duck, "You've come in here the past two days and asked if we had any grapes.  I told you no every time that we don't have any grapes!  I swear if you come back in here again, and ask for grapes, I'll nail your webbed feet to the floor!"

Duck left, and returned the next day.  This time he asked, "Do you have any nails?"  Clerk replied, "No," and duck said, "Good!  Got any grapes?:"

That's no duck.  It wants no grapes.

We Need Each Other

Yep.  Sometimes you just feel like you need a hug.  Lucky Hedgehog, has a whole coterie of pals to make him feel wanted.

Super Bowl XL-something something

Super Bowl Sunday. I could easily ignore this strictly American phenomenon and pass on the game without a mention. I am not an avid sports fan, although I do enjoy watching a well-played game on occasion. I grew up in an era when baseball was The Great American Sport. In many ways, baseball is still the greatest sport played in this country, but it is clear that football has supplanted it as King of Sports in America.

The spectacle that a very high percentage of people in this country will find themselves united in watching this evening is grandiose beyond description. Every facet of the broadcast from the introduction, through the game itself, the half-time gala, and the presentation of the spoils of war at the finale will be over the top. It is so designed. The intent of all who planned and all who participate is to assault our eyes and ears with stimuli above and beyond.

Yet even as we are politically divided as a nation, we will be a divided unity, so to speak, in support of the heroes of the turf. For no game can be played without the taking of sides. I surprised myself a few minutes ago in talking with my brother-in-law, for it seems that I do know who the opponents shall be tonight. It isn’t that I really care, but rather a fact of life. Our fixation on sports and the “heroes” who engage therein is such that we are flooded with information that we often do not seek.

Paul wrote, “Don’t you know that they which run in a race run all, but one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain.” (I Corinthians 9:24) And so it is with this spectacle, for even during the pre-season last summer, every team in the NFL had its eye set on the prize. And yet, this evening, but one of them will be crowned Champion of the World.

And again, an admonition that we are given to apply in our spiritual life, may apply to the combatants in this final football showdown of the year. “Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us.” (Hebrews 12:1) To each team, set aside every impediment and play patiently. (Oh, yes, I know that there are fans for whom razzle-dazzle and showmanship trumps patience and hard work, but that is not the winning way.)

Paul also told us (one of my favorite scriptures) “Physical exercise profits little.” (I Timothy 4:8) Okay, perhaps with the exception of the hard work it takes for the gladiators whose goal it is to win a championship. Yet the crux of the matter is contained in the rest of the verse, which says, “But godliness is profitable unto all things, having promise of the life that now is and of that which is to come.” So in the combining of physical exercise with godliness we all may find gain.

Good luck, football players; happy times, football fans. Have a great evening. I’ll probably be watching a movie.

Stitches

We had a pitch-in, or potluck, or carry-in whichever you call it in your neck of the woods.  The event was held in the "Rec Hall."  I have mentioned before that I think these parks designate their social center this way because they cater to "wrecks."

But enough of that.  Adorning the interior walls are bulletin boards, pictures of fish, and other artistic creations.  I could not lean far enough over the table to get a "square" shot of this item, but it interested me.  In what way, you might ask, did I find it interesting?  Right; it portrays some old "Victorian" painted lady from a bygone era.  I've seen lots of them for real.  They are interesting to look at, but I'd never want to live in one.  Thinking about the utility bills alone is enough to deter me from such desires.  Then the maintenance.  But never mind.

The reason the picture "interested" me is this.  My mind being of a mathematical bent anyway, wandered to the questions 1) How many stitches are in that thing?  2) How long would it take for someone to install those stitches? and 3) Why ever would she want to do it?

The first two questions remain a puzzle.  But my mind has been satisfied as to an answer to the third.  Everyone engages in something that puzzles others.  I mean, I blog.

Of Cabbages and Things, or #T

The Farmer Takes a Wife

The Spouse, the lady of the house, quirked her way around a corner, conversationally speaking, and went into a nostalgic mode. She regaled me for an hour with memories of things as they were, or might have been. I don’t question her accounts; I just listen. Until, that is, she says, “Are you listening to me?” or “Did you hear me?” Well, yeah, I heard you. How could I not? Oh, you said “listening.”

There is an abundant number of stories of family members and acquaintances long gone down the river of time, and the interrelationships among them.

For instance, sister Donna married when she was fifteen. The twenty-six year old farmer to whom she was espoused moved her into his grandmother’s old farm house. Its most modern conveniences were hinges on the doors, for there was no indoor plumbing, no washing machine, no refrigerator. It was almost instantly clear that slopping the hogs and milking the cows was part and parcel of this city girl’s life as of immediately. Churning the butter and bottling the milk was also on the list of chores, and butchering the hogs and beeves would show up on the list in due time. Also, bearing children was a crucial part of her role, and by the time she was nineteen, she had three of them.

Arnold was not a violent man. His measures of “correction” were much more subtle and less likely to leave marks or scars of the physical kind. For example, when Donna had failed to measure up to expectations in some area, Arnold seated her in a kitchen chair in the middle of the floor and would not allow her to get up until he was ready for her to do so. I mean, a Chicago girl needs discipline, yes, sir, that is what she needs. “Think on your shortcomings, Girl. Think hard, and realize how you can fix them.”

Dawn to dusk, chores, kids, scrubbing and so on. Then supper ready and on the table when Arnold got in from the fields. The string snapped. It was just after their sixth anniversary, not that it was mentioned by the loving husband.  Arnold was in the field with the old Oliver, the day was stifling, muggy and hot. The kids were whining, the flies making an ungodly buzzing throughout the house. “That’s it. I am out of here.”

Donna crammed what few possessions she considered to be “hers” into an old cardboard suitcase,  fastened it with a belt, stuffed the kids’ clothes into two old flour sacks. She loaded this and the children into the decrepit old DeSoto, got in, and started the thing. She rested both hands on the top of the steering wheel, the kids, the oldest in back with the baby and the middle child in the front seat beside Mama.  “Now what? The jackass went to the north field right along the main road. Okay, I’ll take the road to the west and run less risk of his seeing me leave.” 

 Which she did. She had driven scarcely three-quarters of a mile before she saw the tractor in the middle of the road headed straight toward her. She pulled as wide to the right as she could without putting the car into the barrow pit, but Arnold saw what was coming and would not yield. She stopped. He stopped. He climbed deliberately down from the high perch atop the machine and walked slowly up to the driver’s side of the DeSoto. Donna rolled the window up to within three inches of the top.

 “Whut the hell you think you’re doin’?” the man hollered.

“I,” the woman sweetly replied, “am going to town.”

“The hell you say.”

“I won’t be back. This is the end of the line, right here, right now.”

It was as though a straight pin had punctured a child’s balloon. All the bluster was gone. The realization that Donna meant what she said penetrated Arnold's awareness that quickly.

“Leave the boy here,” he pleaded.

“No. You will only make of him the slave I’ve become. We are going. Move that piece of crap so I can get around.”

Arnold climbed up on the tractor and jerked the levers that put it in motion. He swung aside and Donna drove past, on down the road, the dust cloud roiling behind. No one saw the tears rolling down Arnold’s cheeks, muddy rivulets in the creases around his mouth.