Slowing it Down

My non-teacher friends, the ones who work 5 days a week, 50 weeks of the year, are always interested to know what I'm up to during the summer. I spoke with one of those friends last night and one of her first questions was about my plans for the week.

Of course the summer brings great opportunities for travel and I'm certainly going to do a bit of that. I like travel, but I also like time spent at home. It's during the summer that I get to catch up on the things that have been left undone or half-done over the course of the school year. Like the pile of mail and papers on my dining room table-- I tackled that mess yesterday. Within two hours I had filled a bag of trash and filed papers in their proper places.

I'll take the rest of the summer to work my way through the house, one area at a time, to get rid of the clutter.

Yes, I will head out of town for two or three weeks this summer, but what I like best about these 9 weeks is doing what I want on my own terms and at my own pace.

Tuesday...ugh...

Tuesday has always been my least favorite day of the week. I'm sure I've written that before. The problem with this second day of the week (or third, depending on one's preference for framing the week) is that it's the day the memories of one weekend fade. The next weekend seems way too far away. The only Tuesdays that don't bother me are the ones that come during summer break.

So, in honor of this very last Tuesday of the school year I say...hip, hip, hooray!

Come to think of it, there is another Tuesday that never bothered me...she sat next to me on the bus in first grade.

My Protector

My cat, Scout, takes his job as my protector quite seriously. He spends a good deal of time acting as sentry from the second floor bedroom window. I always know something is amiss out back when I hear the thud of his 17lb self hit the floor upstairs. Next comes the scurry of all four paws down the stairs and to the backdoor.

He has a real problem with other cats prowling in his backyard space. Any cat that comes near is met with the low, guttural growls of my personal security force. The other cats I've had over the years never cared much about me, so it's a nice change to have a cat that shows such concern for my safety. Unfortunately, the past few nights there has been one wandering orange tabby trying to infiltrate Scout's feline perimeter. Orange Tabby shows up at about the same time each night--4:30AM.

Me-ow, that's way too early to be awoken by the sounds of a through-the-backdoor catfight.

Me Cuisine

It's funny how new things wind their way into one's life. For me one of those new things has been cooking. I've lived on my own for over twenty-five years and for most of that time my daily nourishment has come from an assortment of frozen food, cereal dinners and meals without vegetables or creativity. And then I joined a writing group.

The group has done more than raise my self-awareness as a writer; it's also forced me to come up with meals that others would actually enjoy eating. I've learned if you want to be a writer you need to write, and if you want to eat well you can cook it yourself without too much hassle.

Apparently, my friends have noticed. My birthday presents this year included a nice griddle pan, a grilling glove, two nice loaf pans and a cool chopping board with fold up sides that allow for the easy transfer of chopped things right into the pan at hand.

Today I opened up my salad container for lunch and a colleague noted how impressed she's been with the salads I've been eating each day. I watched her open a pizza from Lean Cuisine and smiled as I thought about how long it's been since I've bought a frozen meal. And then I poured my homemade salad dressing over my steak with goat cheese salad and enjoyed my lunch.

The Summer of '88

Yesterday's high temperature was in the 90s. The humidity level was around 70%. Heat plus humidity equals the usual DC summer. I've grown accustomed to the DC summer; in fact I've pretty much grown up with it.

Yes, air conditioning eases the pain, but I haven't forgotten what it was like to live without the comfort of cool, compressed air.

I spent one summer during graduate school as a messenger. I didn't have the guts and coordination to be a bike messenger so I settled for a job behind the wheel of my 1985 red Ford Escort. It was my first car. That means it was cheap ($8,000) and had absolutely no bells or whistles. Okay, it had a tape player. It didn't have A/C, rear window defrost, or automatic transmission. It had windows that were rolled down by hand, two doors without automatic locks and a roomy hatchback trunk.

I drove from office to office throughout the summer picking up packages and dropping them off. Driving in the city didn't offer much chance go faster than 25 mph, meaning it was tough to get a breeze going with my windows cranked open. It was a hot, sweaty summer.

It was the same summer that my grandmother was in the hospital undergoing surgery for cancer. She was in Baltimore, about 40 miles away from my home in Arlington. I made the drive up 295 to see her when I could-sweating my way through the heat that came with rush hour traffic. At one point I was at my wits end. It was close to 100 degrees and I couldn't face the thought of another trip in the red, hot car. Fortunately, my housemate came through and offered up her A/C-equipped Subaru.

What a difference cool air makes. I made my way up to Baltimore smiling at the jammed up traffic. Yes, I was living life on the other side, but I didn't forget where I'd come from. Whenever other cars would try to inch their way in front of me to keep moving I always let the ones without A/C get right in. I knew how much they needed the air circulation.

The Way Life Used to Be

To Whom It May Concern:

Charlie has been absent because he has company and had to stay home and help entertain them.

Sincerely,

Dot

I found this small note in a country store that is easily one of the most fascinating places I’ve stumbled across recently.

My sister has told me about the many afternoons she and her housemate spent at a store called Ann and Tony’s. It was a gas station, a small market, a tackle shop, and a gathering place for the local folk. The owners, Ann and Tony, never cared if you grabbed a beer from the cooler and sat to chat for a while. Jeen reported that it was not uncommon for her and her housemate, Meg, to leave their car parked at the gas pump for close to three hours.

I’ve been in my fair share of small, country stores. There was one up the road from my grandmother’s house. When I was too young to make the trip on my own Granny would take my hand and lead me up the dirt lane and across the road to Palmer’s. The wooden porch out front was home to a huge plug-in cooler with a bright Coca-Cola insignia on the front. The screen door had a tin insert that proclaimed we should all be eating Sunbeam Bread.

My grandmother’s heels would click along the wide plank floors, stirring up the dust and dirt that had found its way through the front door. Mr. Palmer stood tall behind the counter that was lined with an assortment of items- everything from 3-in-1-ONE Oil and fly swatters to Red Hots and my favorite, Good and Plenty.

When I got older I was allowed to walk there on my own, often at the request of my grandmother who was in need of a little cream or a loaf of that soft Sunbeam bread.

Like my grandmother, the store is just a memory now. The last time I drove by that way there was nothing but a grassy piece of land where the store used to be. The memories of Palmer’s had slipped away into the recesses of my long-term memory…until a trip to Buzzy’s Country Store in Scotland, MD stirred them up.

It was Moe’s idea to stop in. She had been given an artist’s rendition of the small wooden shop by her in-laws and wanted to check it out; besides the sign out front advertised “tackle, liquor, beer and souvenirs” and we needed beer.

I smiled as I noticed the large Coca-Cola cooler on the front porch. By the time I heard the second little tap of the wooden screen door closing behind me I could feel my heartbeat speed up with excitement. All those memories of Palmer’s and shopping there with my grandmother came back to me. I stopped inside the front door and took it all in.

There was a small counter with a few bar stools sitting in front of the beer coolers.

“Looks like we need to have a beer here,” Julie remarked.

“Can we?” I asked.

An older gentleman behind the counter spoke right up. “Sure you can. Sit for a spell, grab a beer.”

It took a few minutes to wander the store. The souvenir section was small, but included a few Buzzy’s Country Store t-shirts and hats. The tackle section was a little larger with hooks, line and sinkers. There was some camping equipment and a variety of nets used for fishing and crabbing. Just like Palmer’s there was a long counter with an assortment of penny candy. Behind the counter was a small collection of wines and liquor.

We settled in at the Formica counter and watched the comings and goings of Buzzy’s. The event of the day was the Rockfish tournament going on. An older guy walked in and grabbed a piece of gum from the jar on the counter. He was there to set up for the post-tournament barbecue. Next in came a couple, Linda and Mike. They chatted a bit, asking about the barbecue and the karaoke that was due to start at 4:00. For a small store in a real small town there was a lot going on.

Over the course of an hour we drank our beer and learned a few things. The wide plank floors of the store came from the Confederate prison that was down the road. The building has been on the lot since the late 1800s. The current owner is J. Scott Ridgell; he bought the store from his father, Buzzy himself.

And then there was the note. According to the owner, Charlie is one of a group of regular guys that shows up every day around 4:00 to share some stories, laughs and drinks. After Charlie had missed a few days he presented the note that addressed his whereabouts. I’m sure there were a few more laughs about that.

The tagline at the bottom of the t-shirts sold at Buzzy’s reads, “The way things used to be.” Yeah it is.

Working Together

I spent a good part of the weekend watching the comings and goings of a pair of Osprey. Their nest, complete with a small and unobservable family, was a mere 500 yards from the bay front home I was staying in.

For the most part the pair stayed put. Mother Osprey sat on the nest while Father Osprey kept watch from an adjoining pier pylon. Both raptors seemed content to sit and watch over their young.

I found it most interesting when the mother decided she needed to leave the nest. She would stand up, spread open her wings and take off. As soon as she was in the air the father would move from his perch and jump down into the nest. I couldn't see how they communicated to one another, but was impressed with their ability to work together as a family.