I don't have anything against the Radisson as a hotel - I just don't like most hotels.
This morning we're meeting our friends later than usual, 9 am. Then we're off to the north section of town, the Italian St. Anthony's Festival! Now, I'm set for some fun there.
But I was up early - really early. I can't seem to find my "sleep number" on the Sleep Number bed. Couldn't turn on the TV and couldn't turn on a light to read, so I just plopped down in front of the laptop at the desk and turned down the brightness on the screen. It was so quiet in here that I heard my other neighbors:
1. Somebody else was unhappy about the bed; whoever it was tried three times to get that number right. 2. Bathroom duties. I wonder if that somebody drank too much water before bedtime; it went on and on. 3. Flush. 4. Back to finding the number. 5. Back to the bathroom. This time, I wondered if this person ate too much fiber yesterday. 6. Flush. 7. Yawn - big yawn, and stretch. I did - I heard it. 8. Opening the drapes - and then the sliding doors to the balcony. (My curiosity got the best of me. I opened our balcony doors and stuck my head out. Yikes, there he was, on the balcony - in his skivvies! I ducked inside; I mean, I have on jammies but they're not that attractive.)
I sat back down at the desk, thinking maybe, since "he" was out on the balcony catching the morning air, that I would be released from participation in a stranger's morning routine. So now...where is all that flushing coming from? And now who's pumping up that Sleep Number bed?
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Boston Today
What were the chances that Ted Kennedy would die while we were in Boston? We are - in Boston, and he did - die. Today is the funeral and everybody who is somebody is in Boston, including the President.
We're staying over in the Theatre District, a couple of MTA changes from the JFK Library and several miles from Mission Hill, where the mass will be said this morning. But anyone can feel the grief, the pride, the celebration of life for the last Kennedy "grownup." Every TV involves the watcher in these special events, especially to warn away the non-dignitaries from the celebratory sites.
Bostonians are friendly and talkative. Dave and I noticed that the first time we visited the city in 2006 and we talked about it when we got home. We decided that it must have been a happy time for Boston for some reason and we just happened to enjoy the good mood. Nope - they still outdo Southerners for hospitality and helpfulness; they volunteer directions and restaurant recommendations. And they speak objectively about their politics.
Yesterday, a former teacher and tour guide overheard us at the Starbucks on the corner across from the hotel. We had decided to pick up a car at the airport and drive to Maine for the day.
"Well," she said, "Let me tell you how to get to the airport." And then she added, "I'm going out to the Library - my ninety-year-old woman wants to sign the book for Teddy." She further told us that not everyone in Boston loved Kennedy so much; he lost a lot of blue collar support, she said.
From the six-deep line of people on the streets as the hearse went by, we couldn't imagine that there was a Bostonian anywhere around that didn't consider Teddy Kennedy a favorite son.
We're staying over in the Theatre District, a couple of MTA changes from the JFK Library and several miles from Mission Hill, where the mass will be said this morning. But anyone can feel the grief, the pride, the celebration of life for the last Kennedy "grownup." Every TV involves the watcher in these special events, especially to warn away the non-dignitaries from the celebratory sites.
Bostonians are friendly and talkative. Dave and I noticed that the first time we visited the city in 2006 and we talked about it when we got home. We decided that it must have been a happy time for Boston for some reason and we just happened to enjoy the good mood. Nope - they still outdo Southerners for hospitality and helpfulness; they volunteer directions and restaurant recommendations. And they speak objectively about their politics.
Yesterday, a former teacher and tour guide overheard us at the Starbucks on the corner across from the hotel. We had decided to pick up a car at the airport and drive to Maine for the day.
"Well," she said, "Let me tell you how to get to the airport." And then she added, "I'm going out to the Library - my ninety-year-old woman wants to sign the book for Teddy." She further told us that not everyone in Boston loved Kennedy so much; he lost a lot of blue collar support, she said.
From the six-deep line of people on the streets as the hearse went by, we couldn't imagine that there was a Bostonian anywhere around that didn't consider Teddy Kennedy a favorite son.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Moving
Dave and I are going to move. Not far away but to somewhere completely different from the upper-middle affluence of Brentwood. We’ve been in dialogue for some time with my 80-year-old parents. It’s time for them to leave the farm; there will come a time shortly when they will no longer be able to drive themselves around Chestnut Mound, Dillard’s Creek and Dickens Hollow (say “holler” and you’ll talk like the rest of us…).
Dad retired from the Granville United Methodist Church on Father’s Day this year – but he didn’t quit work. He had already contracted as a substitute teacher at the high school in Carthage. Mom, on the other hand, maintains her position as a bookkeeper at D. T. McCall’s and works four and a half days per week.
So we thought we had some time to look around; we thought we could “stage” this two-story, steep-staired Brentwood home and get it on the market, oh, maybe February. We even rented a storage unit and started moving “extras” out of the house. (You know, of course, “staging” means you have to have an almost empty house save for a few items to show that someone could live in it: I don’t get it, but I’ll do it.)
And when Cry-Leike put the sign in the front yard, we’d start looking for a new home where none of us had to haul creaky bones up a set of steps to bed and where Grandmama and Grandpapa would be “separate but accessible.” We talked about buying a house with enough land to develop a good-sized modular home in the back, maybe even enclose a passageway. None of us wanted to be under any foot, no matter whatever size socks or age of whichever feet. We did not talk too much about finding the new home first, before Mom and Dad quit work, before Di and Dave might sell the house.
God is such a trickster… I mean, “Trickster.” With Her usual supply of surprise, She laid a house in the path in front of us when we got lost on the way home from ThriftSmart. No kidding. My goddaughter, Andie, and I took donations to this ecumenically-run church shop. Andie being home from Ithaca College without a job, she was more than willing to work a few hours a week for us packing up and sorting books, pictures, and the good crystal.
When we left ThriftSmart, both ends of Nolensville Road were blocked by street repairs so we took a turn up Northcrest, a street I’d never driven. After wandering and backtracking and seeing a familiar landmark at the end of one street, we were on our way home when Andie said, “Dinanah, I think I saw a house for sale back there – with an apartment.”
“Really?” I asked. I hadn’t seen it. “Maybe we should turn around and check it out.”
“So where’s the apartment?” I asked.
“There, over that garage.”
How could I have missed it? Huge. It was huge. The house was pretty, but the landscaping unloved and lonely. The sign said nothing about an apartment.
“Maybe the apartment isn’t for sale,” I said. “Let’s just write down this realtor’s number and I’ll call her tonight.”
Dad retired from the Granville United Methodist Church on Father’s Day this year – but he didn’t quit work. He had already contracted as a substitute teacher at the high school in Carthage. Mom, on the other hand, maintains her position as a bookkeeper at D. T. McCall’s and works four and a half days per week.
So we thought we had some time to look around; we thought we could “stage” this two-story, steep-staired Brentwood home and get it on the market, oh, maybe February. We even rented a storage unit and started moving “extras” out of the house. (You know, of course, “staging” means you have to have an almost empty house save for a few items to show that someone could live in it: I don’t get it, but I’ll do it.)
And when Cry-Leike put the sign in the front yard, we’d start looking for a new home where none of us had to haul creaky bones up a set of steps to bed and where Grandmama and Grandpapa would be “separate but accessible.” We talked about buying a house with enough land to develop a good-sized modular home in the back, maybe even enclose a passageway. None of us wanted to be under any foot, no matter whatever size socks or age of whichever feet. We did not talk too much about finding the new home first, before Mom and Dad quit work, before Di and Dave might sell the house.
God is such a trickster… I mean, “Trickster.” With Her usual supply of surprise, She laid a house in the path in front of us when we got lost on the way home from ThriftSmart. No kidding. My goddaughter, Andie, and I took donations to this ecumenically-run church shop. Andie being home from Ithaca College without a job, she was more than willing to work a few hours a week for us packing up and sorting books, pictures, and the good crystal.
When we left ThriftSmart, both ends of Nolensville Road were blocked by street repairs so we took a turn up Northcrest, a street I’d never driven. After wandering and backtracking and seeing a familiar landmark at the end of one street, we were on our way home when Andie said, “Dinanah, I think I saw a house for sale back there – with an apartment.”
“Really?” I asked. I hadn’t seen it. “Maybe we should turn around and check it out.”
“So where’s the apartment?” I asked.
“There, over that garage.”
How could I have missed it? Huge. It was huge. The house was pretty, but the landscaping unloved and lonely. The sign said nothing about an apartment.
“Maybe the apartment isn’t for sale,” I said. “Let’s just write down this realtor’s number and I’ll call her tonight.”
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Awake all night?
If you were, you should have called me and we could have hung out together. Actually, I woke up about 1:30, my mind awhirl about our new home, what I have to do before the women's convention (Savannah - September 15-21), then "eegads - we're going to Boston before that!" (August 24), and my dad's 80th birthday celebration on September 12 at the family reunion.
What do I give my sweet, sweet daddy for his birthday? Books are always good, but I don't have a title in mind right now. He likes clothes, but he doesn't use many. Tools? I don't think so - We're trying to slow him down.
So what kept you awake? Something you did... or something you didn't do? I almost always opt for that second condition - Seems safer. But here's a quote to remember for the sleepless guilty - and the guilty sleepless: When we are tired, we are attacked by ideas we conquered long ago. Friedrich Nietzsche.
Smart guy, that Nietzsche.
What do I give my sweet, sweet daddy for his birthday? Books are always good, but I don't have a title in mind right now. He likes clothes, but he doesn't use many. Tools? I don't think so - We're trying to slow him down.
So what kept you awake? Something you did... or something you didn't do? I almost always opt for that second condition - Seems safer. But here's a quote to remember for the sleepless guilty - and the guilty sleepless: When we are tired, we are attacked by ideas we conquered long ago. Friedrich Nietzsche.
Smart guy, that Nietzsche.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Beginnings...
It's a way to force writing every day. It's a plan to empty my mind of what needs to be gone, or out there, or just "said." I'm about to make myself a promise - never to write when I've had more than one glass of wine. It's hard to tell if my opinion is as worthy after twelve ounces of pinot grigio as it is on iced tea or green-label coffee.
About tea - I don't like sweet tea. I'm a real Southerner, but I prefer unsweetened with the occasional packet of Splenda. In order to redeem myself, I feel I must say that I love turnip greens, fried chicken, and dried beans of any kind. My husband Dave and I have good friends in the Santa Cruz hills who have ordained a motto: Whenever we get together with the Revells, there's going to be some pig involved. (They're speaking of pork - and I confess, I love any kind of pig on a platter.)
What will I tell you about? Here's a list: thoughts on faith, reading recommendations - both spiritual and otherwise, grandchildren, my writing, moving two households into one (my parents are moving with us...), music. Maybe I'm ADD; so many topics run through my mind.
I hope you become a friend.
About tea - I don't like sweet tea. I'm a real Southerner, but I prefer unsweetened with the occasional packet of Splenda. In order to redeem myself, I feel I must say that I love turnip greens, fried chicken, and dried beans of any kind. My husband Dave and I have good friends in the Santa Cruz hills who have ordained a motto: Whenever we get together with the Revells, there's going to be some pig involved. (They're speaking of pork - and I confess, I love any kind of pig on a platter.)
What will I tell you about? Here's a list: thoughts on faith, reading recommendations - both spiritual and otherwise, grandchildren, my writing, moving two households into one (my parents are moving with us...), music. Maybe I'm ADD; so many topics run through my mind.
I hope you become a friend.
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