Wednesday is Here
Here being where we live. The foothills of the Blue Ridge, more or less. Where nothing much goes on if you're not looking. I shall probably have to change the name of Wednesday's subject so as to widen the theme. I know what I mean, but in my head (not to mention my heart) "here" varies.
Last Friday was Veteran's Day and we celebrate veterans here, not just on November 11th but at Christmas and on the Fourth of July. This year was more festive than usual, what with the Blue Star memorial being unveiled on Route 60, and the reception at the Arts Council later. Our congressman, Virgil Goode, was there (I missed the speech since I was elsewhere having an MRI done. But we did arrive in time for the food and the fun).
The Honorable Goode told us about the two immigration bills working their way through the bowels of the House. We'll be posting about one of them on Gates of Vienna shortly.
What do you do when you miss the outdoor speeches in the cold? We took pictures, ate fruit and cheese, and schmoozed with those who came in to warm up.
This is our oldest veteran, but I didn't get his name. I will have to ask Martha, who knows every nook and cranny of the county, and is sure to know his name, his kin and what church he goes to. And how he got his medal.
He was at the other end of the hall (as you can see in the second picture). This means he was not near the food -- it is my philosophy to begin any function by standing near the food -- so by that by the time we got to him he was ready to leave.
I think that's a purple heart he's wearing, but I'm not sure. The camera failed to catch his nice smile.
I will admit it: the second picture was taken for no other reason than that I thought they made a handsome couple. The Morrises.Her name is Dottie, I do remember that because we talked for awhile before I realized they were together. As you can see from this, and from the following picture, he cuts a dashing figure.
You will notice also that there are paintings hanging on the walls. These are the Baron's landscapes and they hang here every year in November. It used to be when he was a full-time artist that by November his painting season was done. It was getting too cold to sit outside, mise en scene, so he would have a show the last week in October and the paintings would hang through November. But then The Boy had college to go to and so the Baron, being a good dad, went back to work in techno-land. Still, come November, the paintings hang, like the leaves in Shakespeare's "bare, ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang."
I miss, oh I do miss the smell of summer turpentine.
The last picture is for Martha. She is the engine that makes the Arts Center go, from the gift shop to the musicales, to the tearoom to the balloon concession -- Martha makes it shine. This time, she had been there the week before overseeing the painting of the walls, then re-hanging the Baron's paintings in time for the reception, and then going off to work for eight hours at the Medical Center. The woman with her back to the camera, Denise, did yeoman’s work at the food table. Later we talked about her adolescent daughter and how she worries about getting her through this age alive and not pregnant. Single parenthood is soooo hard. I think she's doing a good job, though. Her child loped around the room, awkward and out of place with all these fogies, but she smiled. And the only metal on her face were her braces. Denise will do fine.
Later, the Baron came up and said "I heard you talking to that woman about her dream. What was that about?" But it wasn't really about anything. It's just what came up. With guys, other topics come up. I'll bet we wouldn't want to know what they were, either.
Which reminds me of a joke one of our commenters sent me the other day. It's old, but worth repeating, just for the sake of clarifying the vive la difference thingy:
His and Her DiariesThanks, Buddy. I always liked that joke. Dave Barry has a longer version of it somewhere, but this is a nice one, too.
1. HER DIARY
Saturday night I thought he was acting weird. We had made plans to meet at a bar to have a drink. I was shopping with my friends all day long, so I thought he was upset at the fact that I was a bit late, but he made no comment. Conversation wasn't flowing so I suggested that we go somewhere quiet so we could talk. He agreed but he kept quiet and absent. I asked him what was wrong; he said nothing. I asked him if it was my fault that he was upset. He said it had nothing to do with me and not to worry.
On the way home I told him that I loved him, he simply smiled and kept driving. I can't explain his behavior; I don't know why he didn't say I love you too.
When we got home I felt as if I had lost him, as if he wanted nothing to do with me anymore. He just sat there and watched TV He seemed distant and absent.
Finally, I decided to go to bed. About 10 minutes later he came to bed, and to my surprise he responded to my caress and we made love, but I still felt that he was distracted and his thoughts were somewhere else.
He fell asleep and I cried. I don't know what to do. I'm almost sure that his thoughts are with someone else. My life is a disaster.
2. HIS DIARY
Today the Red Sox lost, but at least I got laid.
Maybe when we're down that way again, we'll get a picture of the Blue Star memorial. It looks right nice, as they say around here, and you can see it from the road as you drive by.
UPDATE: Gryffilion sent the URL for the original narrative by Dave Barry:
The Story of Roger and ElaineBut the suffering isn't even half over at this point. Go see the whole misery at the link above.
Let's say a guy named Roger is attracted to a woman named Elaine. He asks her out to a movie; she accepts; they have a pretty good time. A few nights later he asks her out to dinner, and again they enjoy themselves.
They continue to see each other regularly, and after a while neither one of them is seeing anybody else.
And then, one evening when they're driving home, a thought occurs to Elaine, and, without really thinking, she says it aloud: ''Do you realize that, as of tonight, we've been seeing each other for exactly six months?''
And then there is silence in the car. To Elaine, it seems like a very loud silence. She thinks to herself: Geez, I wonder if it bothers him that I said that. Maybe he's been feeling confined by our relationship; maybe he thinks I'm trying to push him into some kind of obligation that he doesn't want, or isn't sure of.
And Roger is thinking: Gosh. Six months.
And Elaine is thinking: But, hey, I'm not so sure I want this kind of relationship, either. Sometimes I wish I had a little more space, so I'd have time to think about whether I really want us to keep going the way we are, moving steadily toward . . . I mean, where are we going? Are we just going to keep seeing each other at this level of intimacy? Are we heading toward marriage? Toward children? Toward a lifetime together? Am I ready for that level of commitment? Do I really even know this person?
And Roger is thinking: . . . so that means it was . . . let's see... February when we started going out, which was right after I had the car at the dealer's, which means . . . lemme check the odometer . . . Whoa! I am way overdue for an oil change here.
I love funny stories about the differences between men and women. I don't like the anti-men putdowns, though. Some women need to learn that the wide use of Viagara is just maybe an indication of their diminishing allure as fishwives.
Just a thought.