Date night

The other day, as I've written, I went dancing with my favorite uncle and we had a swell time swinging and swaying to a live dance band playing the hits of Glen Miller, Benny Goodman, Tommy Dorsey and Woody Herman -- preach your sermon, Herman!  And this past weekend my first cousin once removed (that is, my uncle's son's son -- I think I got that right), who graduated from high school in June and who just finished a summer school course in ballroom dancing, asked me to go dancing with him.  I thought sure, why not?  It'll be fun.  Most males of any age will not dance, so why decline an opportunity?

The dance club I went to with my uncle is closed all this month and there are not a lot of options for dancing that are not some kind of crummy club scene, but I did find a members-only club that features live foxtrot, swing, jump blues and cool jazz by local and visiting bands.  It's located in the defunct railroad station I mentioned in an earlier post. So I bought a membership, pleased to find such a venue, and, as I had done with my uncle, reserved a hotel room for us to change into our dancing duds once we arrived in the big city.

For the long drive from the boondocks to civilization, my uncle lent us his Cadillac CT6-V with, it seemed, all the options, and we started driving for the bright lights of civilization late in the day, enjoying seeing a gibbous moon rise ahead of us.  Once, some antelope darted across the road, and we stopped counting all the coyotes and jackrabbits we saw.  We chatted idly as the miles slipped by, the car a delight to drive, and cuz told me about being in the JROTC and planning to have a career in the navy and that gave us plenty to talk about, and made the time pass quickly. 

At the hotel we changed into our "puttin' on the Ritz" rags and I must say the young gentleman looked quite handsome in a suit and tie and I said so as I retied his tie into a neater knot and made sure it hung straight.  I took a safety pin out of my  purse and fixed the tie to his shirt from behind and out of sight so that it wouldn't fly up, something I always do for el Jefe.  Nobody seems to wear tie pins or tie chains anymore.  My dad always wore a tie pin. 

When he saw my ensemble -- and I did a little pose and pirouette -- cuz's face grew beet red and he sat down with his hands in his lap, not quite the reaction I had expected.  But then a light bulb lit up over my head and I got it:  teenage boy, raging hormones....  So I told him not to worry about it, that sort of thing happens at his age and it was actually kind of flattering.  Remembering my mother's admonitions, I refrained from making any risque jokes. But it was hard.

So off we went to the club, driving this time because it was too far to reasonably walk.  Cuz was silent and stared out the window, not once looking at me.  I was pretty sure I understood why, and thought that, in consideration of him, I should not have worn such a short minidress, although that style is easy to make dance moves in. I let the car parallel park itself -- I could have done a better job; no, really -- and we went in.  The host carded my, um, date and warned us that he could not be served any alcoholic drinks and I said that was fine.  I didn't want any either.  In that case, he said, there would be a slight cover charge to ameliorate overhead.  So we had to pay not to drink.  Never heard of that before.  Oh, well.

We were led to a cozy booth, the kind where both parties sit on the same side, with a good view of the band, which was tearing up the joint with a jump blues number.  We sat it out waiting for our virgin cokes -- when I ordered them 2cuz blushed and I reminded myself that all this was new to him -- and taking in the ambience of the club and watching the other dancers.

The next number was a swing tune that sounded vaguely familiar and we decided to give it a whirl.  At first he was a bit awkward and made some false steps but when I told him to just let himself fall into the music and not think about what he was doing he smoothed out and did much better. We danced three numbers in a row before we sat down again and he was still rarin' to go.  When I slid into the booth and scooched over for him he didn't look away, then he sat down beside me, executing the move rather gingerly and ending up about two feet closer to me than he had been when we first sat down.  

He ordered the cokes this time, as well as some snack food.  While we were eating, he somehow managed to drop his fork and had to duck down under the table to retrieve it.  He spent more time down there than seemed really necessary. Smooth, I thought to myself, real smooth. I wasn't angry or upset, just amused. He surfaced panting slightly and apologized, showing me the fork.  I said he should ask for a clean one but he wiped it off on his napkin.  

A thought suddenly occurred to me and I asked if he had brought his cell phone. He said, of course! and I suggested we have our server take a photo of us.  He was enthusiastic, saying wait till he showed the guys what a hot date really looked like.  I figured he would not mention that his "hot date" was also his cousin.  So we had some snapshots taken and we bent our heads together to look at them, commenting on which one we liked. I took the phone from him to get a better look at the one he liked best and then kind of absently scrolled back to some earlier shots.  

Ah hah!  I knew it.  Upskirts of yours truly.  He tried to retrieve his phone but I held it up high and out of his reach.  But he persisted and I immediately realized doing that was not wise as he leaned over me and pushing me down onto the booth seat with him heavily on top of me. He probably weighed 60 or 70 athletic pounds more than me. I let him have his stupid phone but he didn't let me up right away.  I said, "They are going to throw us out of here in about two seconds if you don't get off of me." He hesitated, mumbled sorry, and let me up.  I was not pleased, but I didn't want to spoil an evening that had just begun and that I had been looking forward to, so I managed a smile and let it go.

I straightened my clothes and excused myself to visit the ladies lounge to get some time to try to figure out how to carry out the rest of the evening.  My plan had been to dance at the club till around 9:30 or ten, then have a late dinner, change back into our driving clothes and head home, getting there around one am or two at the latest.  Now.... Cuz might feel bad about what he had done and just want to go home.  I didn't want him to feel that way, so I thought I would let him know I understood that the situation got the best of him and I wasn't offended, and I didn't mind continuing on with our evening.  Then I considered that I was probably putting thoughts into his head that weren't there.  He might be thinking how he could do it -- and even more -- again.  He was a guy, after all. So I decided that I shouldn't let myself be a literal push-over, but teach him some kind of lesson about how to behave with a woman.  He needed to learn self-discipline.  But I couldn't think how to do that.  A man could have read him the riot act and he would have listened, but a man, even a young one, being scolded or lectured by a woman just finds her annoying.  Doing it is a waste of time.  And I sure wasn't going to pout or sulk or act like I had been emotionally damaged for life.  I have my dignity.  The kid was just a randy jerk.  What to do? 

As I made my way back to our booth deciding maybe the best thing to do or say was nothing, a man who appeared to be in his middle forties accosted me as I passed by his table and invited me to sit down.  I told him I was on my way back to my date.  The band was just starting up another number and he said, "Well, how about a dance first?"  To that I agreed, glad to have the chance to delay deciding how to deal with cuz.  The guy was  a good dancer and it was a pleasure to relax into his lead.  He said my date looked pretty young and I explained the situation and also complimented him on his dancing and how pleasant it was not to have to worry about any clumsy moves.

Glancing over at our both, he said, "Speaking of clumsy moves, I saw the move he put on you.  He must have thought he was in the back seat of his dad's car.  What started it?  Why were you holding his phone away from him?"  I said that he had taken some photos I didn't like.

"Of you?"

"Yes."

"When he dived under the table?"

"Yes."

"Has he been drinking or is he high?"

"Not that I can tell.  Just randy."

"You can't blame him for being that.  If you were my date, I'd be randy, too."

As he said that, he slipped his hand from the small of my back to caress my hind quarters, where he let it stay.  I was about to tell him to keep his hands off the merchandise but suddenly I felt tired.  What the hell.  This evening was not turning out at all the way I had imagined it would.  Let the guy feel me up.  I'd noticed he was wearing a wedding ring, so I asked where his wife was.  He said she was at home.  She had been crippled in an automobile accident and couldn't get around very easily anymore, let alone dance.  

"So you go out and hit on strange women?"

"Pretty much.  Sometimes I get lucky."

"Well, not with me.  Thanks for the dance and the butt squeeze."

"Oh, the pleasure was all mine.  Thank you!  Good luck with your young date."  And he gave me the most lascivious leer.

My cousin stood up to let me in the booth, then slid in next to me.  He started to say something about his previous behavior but I cut him off, saying harshly, "Oh, forget it!"  Then, regretting my peevishness, gave him a peck on the cheek and patted his arm. As I did so, a 50ish couple walked past our booth and the woman said, half to her companion and half to me (as I thought), "Robbing the cradle, I see."  The man said, "Well, some like them young."  And she retorted, "Just like you!" and he replied, "Now wait just a minute, what brought that on?" And they walked away getting into an argument.

My cousin became agitated but I told him not to mind such comments.  We weren't really on a date, weren't a couple, just two cousins out dancing because neither of us had anyone else to dance with. We shouldn't let the misunderstandings and rudeness of others interfere with our evening.  You're always going to run into jerks and you can't let them get under your skin.  That's what they want.  Don't give them the satisfaction.  

Then we got into a discussion of what I found attractive in a man and I mentioned that, among other things, stoicism was very appealing to me.  It demonstrated strength of character, I believed.  I also liked a man who was capable, didn't boast but could get the job done, whatever the job was, without a lot of fanfare.  Of course, he should be physically fit -- no beer belly! -- but I didn't like the gym muscle look.  What I liked was a man fit from working, especially from being outdoors and working outdoors.  He also should like and understand animals, have a nice smile, be even-tempered....  And at this point I realized  I was was just rambling on, enamored with my own blabbering, and shut up. 

I asked him what he found attractive in a woman.  He immediately said, "Someone like you!" and I said, "Oh, get out of town!  You do not!  Come on, think of some girl in high school that caught your eye."

Then he told me about this girl he was crazy about.  He knew where her locker was and he would make sure to be walking down the hall just as she arrived there to get books and notes for the next class.  One time she glanced up as he passed and smiled at him, but he had frozen up inside and ignored her.  The next time he passed by her she didn't look at him.  He was so mad at himself.  All he had to do was smile back and say "Hi."  But he couldn't.

I put my hand on his and said, "There'll be other such girls, other opportunities.  Consider those girls just like me.  You're talking to me, aren't you?  I'm just another person who is enjoying getting to know you.  And you got pretty out of hand there a few minutes ago and nothing came of it because I like you and forgive your idiocies."

"Yeah, but you're different from other girls."

"No, I'm not.  I'm just your standard-issue female."

At this point, the band started a slow swing number and I glanced at the dance floor.  He picked up my cue and led me out onto the floor.  A couple of times his hand slipped from the small of my back to my rump and rested there. I think he was emulating what he saw that man do.  Since I hadn't smacked the creep's hand away, I let my cousin's hand wander.  He kept glancing down and I thought he was looking at his feet to judge his dance steps and I was about to say he would be smoother if he wasn't self-conscious about his movements, but then I realized he was taking in my cleavage.  Apparently, progress had been made in alleviating his shyness around women. 

After one more dance, I asked him if he was hungry and he said he was starving, so we wrapped up our club visit and headed to a local cafe that specializes in burgers made with local beef and he vacuumed up two double bacon cheeseburgers with extra-large sides of french fries and onion rings.  And he still had room for apple pie a la mode.  I had a club sandwich and filched some of his fries and an onion ring.  When I went for another one, he smacked my hand and we both laughed.  Then he relented and let me have it.  Mr. Shy Guy was definitely gone. 

When we got back to the hotel it was just after midnight and the night clerk had come on duty. He remembered me from when I had been there with my uncle.  He looked from me to my cousin and back again, made a sort of twist with his mouth but said nothing.  When we got to our room, my cousin said he was still hungry and looked over the room service night snack menu.  I told him not to order anything that would take a lot of time to prepare as I had promised to get him home tonight and if we stayed overnight we would both be in the doghouse.  So he picked out a strawberry cheesecake and then asked if it would be all right if he also ordered a beer.  I hesitated but said okay.  When I placed the order, the operator asked if the beer was for me, so apparently even the room service staff knew who was in Room 1313. I said it was.  While we waited for the order to arrive, my cousin asked to take some selfies with us together and I agreed without thinking much about it.  Later, I thought, Lord, he is going to show those around to his buddies and it will be obvious we are in a hotel room together.  That little...  But whatever. 

While he ate his cheesecake and drank his beer, I took a shower, intending to change into my driving clothes and get us home, but I'd left them on the bed, so I wrapped the bath towel around myself and went to fetch them. When I came out of the bathroom, my cousin was sprawled across the bed asleep. I tried to wake him, even leaned over and shook him, but the beer and all that food seemed to have finally done for him and he just muttered something.  Then he pulled me down on top of him and slid his hands under my towel, pushing it aside.  After a brief tussle, I broke his grip and got off the bed and retrieved my towel, which he had tossed on the floor next to him.  As I did so, he said, "Wanda, Wanda, I love you," and then he rolled over with his back to me.  I said, "You're on my clothes.  I want my clothes.  Will you please get off my clothes?"  But he didn't respond.

Suddenly I felt exhausted myself and...I don't know...defeated.  This evening had not gone at all as I had planned.  I sure didn't feel like driving a couple of hours through the night, keeping alert for animals dashing across the road, to get back home.  

I noticed the time and remembered el Jefe was going to Skype me in a few hours as he always did since he began this deployment.  I knew I couldn't stay awake that long so I chanced calling him.  I stood by the window to ensure a good connection.  

The street below was empty, bathed in orange light.  Far down the street I saw a small green and blue neon sign alternately flashing  a cocktail glass and the name of the bar: The Green Lantern.  The name seemed familiar and I wondered if it was the title of some 1940s or '50s pop tune.  I imagined Philip Marlowe sitting at the bar ordering a rye and the barmaid looking him over and asking if that was a gun in his pocket or was he glad to see her and he answering it's actually a gun, honey.  Imagining the scene, I chuckled.  I often make myself laugh at the silly thoughts that roam around inside my head.

The Skype connection came through clear and smooth from the other side of the world and el Jefe was there.  I'd explained to him before that I would be taking my cousin dancing so he asked how that went and I told him the whole story, down to the hotel desk clerk giving me the fish eye.  I panned the phone around so he could see my cousin asleep on the bed.  The evening's events he thought funny and also arousing.  I don't know why.  I certainly didn't.

I always provided him relief on our Skypes and this time was no different.  I went into the bathroom but the signal cut out so I had to go back to the window.  I asked if we could postpone until later but he said he would not be available later and please....

I didn't want to turn on any lights and wake my cousin so I pushed the chair from the room's writing desk next to the window to get light from the streetlights and buildings across the street, propped my cell phone on the window sill and satisfied him.

 When the call was over, I slipped my towel back over my shoulders as I stood up and glanced at my cousin.  So engrossed in the call had I been that I'd forgotten about him. He appeared to still be sleeping.  But he could be feigning.  I studied him closely for a few seconds and thought I saw him move. Then I thought, oh, who cares? 

I had another quick shower, then stood beside the bed, hesitating. I looked at the upholstered sitting chair in the corner.  I didn't want to try to sleep in that and I didn't want to sleep on the floor.  I got a blanket out of the closet and covered my cousin, then crawled beneath the sheets, cold against my skin.  I thought I would fall asleep right away, I was so tired, but I didn't.  

I stared up at the ceiling thinking over the evening.  I should be more forceful dealing with people I told myself for the umpteenth time.  But I hate conflict and just want to get along with everybody.  I enjoy pleasing people and making them happy.  So people take advantage.  Well, that was just me.  I couldn't change my personality.  I was who I was.  Finally, I decided that it had been, all things considered, a very interesting evening.  Nothing bad had actually happened. I did get to dance to a pretty good live band, which is what I had wanted to do.  My last thought before I fell asleep was that I really missed el Jefe and wished it was him on the bed next to me. 

 Some jump blues:

Bury My Heart

I have fallen in love with American names, 
The sharp names that never get fat, 
The snakeskin-titles of mining-claims, 
The plumed war-bonnet of Medicine Hat, 
Tucson and Deadwood and Lost Mule Flat.

Seine and Piave are silver spoons, 
But the spoonbowl-metal is thin and worn, 
There are English counties like hunting-tunes 
Played on the keys of a postboy’s horn, 
But I will remember where I was born. 
   

I will remember Carquinez Straits, 
Little French Lick and Lundy’s Lane, 
The Yankee ships and the Yankee dates 
And the bullet-towns of Calamity Jane. 
I will remember Skunktown Plain. 

I will fall in love with a Salem tree 
And a rawhide quirt from Santa Cruz, 
I will get me a bottle of Boston sea 
And a blue-gum nigger to sing me blues. 
I am tired of loving a foreign muse. 

Rue des Martyrs and Bleeding-Heart-Yard, 
Senlis, Pisa, and Blindman’s Oast, 
It is a magic ghost you guard 
But I am sick for a newer ghost, 
Harrisburg, Spartanburg, Painted Post. 

I shall not rest quiet in Montparnasse. 
I shall not lie easy at Winchelsea. 
You may bury my body in Sussex grass, 
You may bury my tongue at Champmedy. 
I shall not be there. I shall rise and pass. 
Bury my heart at Wounded Knee.

~ Stephen Vincent Benét 

 

Shall We Dance?

 In a normal state of mind, you are always thinking a little bit ahead, sometimes quite far ahead, as at the same time you are thinking a little bit in the past, sometimes quite deeply into the past.  But you scarcely notice the present.  It's constantly racing past anyway.  Is it now...or now...or now...or...?

Dancing places you in the moment.  It's the spell of the sensuous.  Neither past nor present exist.  Only now.  Only this instant.  You are intensely aware of yourself at this moment.  You have lost yourself in the eternal present.  

Plus it's fun.

“Dancers are the athletes of God.”
  ― Albert Einstein

A cold earth wanderer

 

She reminds me of me when I was her age, and the people I knew then.

I traveled through a land of men,
A land of men -- and women too --
And heard and saw such dreadful things
As cold earth wanderers never knew.
 ~ William Blake

Guardian Angel, first broadcast by CBS Radio Radio Mystery Theater on July 11, 1978.

The old life fades

 I dropped by a little town, population 400 according to the "Welcome to Shelbyville" sign, to mail a letter at the post office, the only operating business on the main street. The town, which had survived the Great Depression intact, was staggered by the 2008 economic crisis and was only just beginning to recover when the Covid thing hit.  That killed it.  
Anyway, as I was walking by an empty store that I had noticed was being renovated, which piqued my curiosity, a light-brown-skinned man in a huge turban stepped out the door.  I smiled and said good morning, expecting to exchange a few friendly words and maybe learn what was going on.  But he looked over my head and past me, not deigning to acknowledge my existence.  My greeting lingered on the silent air and died forlorn. 

I went with my mother to visit relatives in the next county and on the way back we stopped at a non-franchise, old-fashioned burger joint.  The roadside sign advertising it said, "Open every day since 1942.  Try our garlic fries!"  We placed our order at the window and then sat at one of the picnic tables out back under a shade tree waiting for our meal to be brought to us.  There was a mosquito coil on the table and a book of matches, so we lit it and watched the smoke curl up in the still air.  A woodpecker hammered away nearby, but we couldn't spot him. 
While we were waiting, we saw the girl who had taken our order dash out the back door to a vegetable patch, pick a head of lettuce and a couple of tomatoes and dash back inside.  A few minutes later she brought us our burgers, served with the freshest lettuce and tomato toppings anyone every got.  And she apologized for having taken so long.  I felt like asking her to sit down and join us, but other customers arrived and she headed back inside, wiping her hands on her apron.  The garlic fries were good, and, noticing potato plants in the garden, knew they were made from the freshest potatoes.

While visiting the relatives that morning, my mother's aunts, still spry though they would never see 90 again, and a cousin, I sat quietly in an ancient overstuffed horsehair chair and listened to them talk, once in a while taking a sip of my Jackson's English Breakfast Tea and nibbling on a homemade English muffin served with Frank Cooper's-brand marmalade.  I looked around for Paddington Bear.  You would think these folks were FOB Limeys, but their most recent ancestor to have lived in Albion would have been born in the middle of the 17th century, a Quaker who took up William Penn's invitation to escape the C of E thugs and make a home in Pennsylvania.

A lot of the conversation consisted of mentioning where someone lived, or had lived and necessitated directions to explain where that was.  But to me most of the descriptions meant nothing, nor did the names of the people. 
"She was a Bright and she married that Schoonover fellow who came up from Scott County to work for the Parker ranch.  That was before old man Parker got throwed busting broncs and kicked in the head.  They built that house up on Gregg's Hill just past the old Dodge place.  To get there you'd have to drive the road out of town that goes past Hixenbaugh's store -- oh, that's right it burned down...when was that? My land, that would have been the spring after the flood that washed out the riverside park...I think that was 1988.  Anyway, you take that road and when you come to where the Sinclair Gas station that the Frasers had used to be, slow down and look for a side road on the left that goes down into a hollow and crosses the creek.  There used to be a bridge...no, the bridge I'm thinking of went to the old Tussing ranch. But the bridge is long gone and nobody lives at Tussing's anymore.  Jack Currance's youngest bought the grazing rights and ran cattle on it until he got run over by that Jane Wiles.  She said a bee flew in the window and she was swatting it away and never saw him.  Then the bridge washed out the winter the A&P closed.
"What was I saying?  Oh, yes. There was never a bridge where I'm talking about, you just have to hope the water is low enough to get across.  You'll know you've driven past the turn-off if you come to where the old roadhouse used to be at Parson's Corners.  You know the one, where your Aunt Amelia, home from the state normal school for a visit, met Arthur and he told her he was going to marry her and she said he was the freshest man the Lord every made.  But he did marry her.  It burned down the day my father bought the Hudson.  Grandmother hated that car.  She could never get in or out of it without help. So he traded it for the Studebaker convertible that your great uncle Oliver taught me to drive in.  He  froze to death along with the rest of the crew that winter when the locomotive he was driving got stuck and the rescue engine did, too.
They all froze when they burned up all their coal.  They found Jim Hazlett's body four miles from the tracks, trying to make it to Somerfeld's ranch, they figured. It got down to 60 below zero that month and it didn't rise about 30 below for more than a week and never above zero for the whole month. Jim was John Hazlett's only son and he took it hard and turned to drink and wrecked his car down by where...."
And on and on.  It was hard for me to keep awake, the voices fading into the sound of bees and hummingbirds buzzing around the roses planted all about the house, their scent wafting through the open windows, an uncertain light breeze fluttering the curtains now and again.  Half asleep, I heard a cow lowing and a dog barking in the distance.I must have dozed off for a few minutes because I had a vivid dream about a swarthy man in a turban bursting into the room and ordering us all to get out, the house now was his, as was all the land and we no longer belonged there.  I asked where we should go and he said nowhere, we belonged nowhere and no one wanted us anywhere.

On the drive back, I asked which was the relative who had been shot and never knew it. I had a vague memory of such a person that our visit to the old gals had dredged up.  "Oh, you must mean great-great Aunt Louise," my mother said, and I wasn't sure if the "great-great" referred to her relationship or mine, but I didn't interrupt her to ask as she told the old story to me again.  It seems that in the early 1900s -- my mother thought it was 1909 but wasn't sure -- multiple-great Aunt Margaret, who was heavily pregnant with Louise, was alone at her ranch house just before fly season, a time when all the men would go off to cut and brand the new calves, when the dogs began barking and she heard the horses in the corral kicking up a fuss. Fetching the .44-40 Winchester from above the fireplace, she stepped out onto the porch to see what was going on.  Three men were dragging tack out of the stable and saddling the horses, who were not cooperating with these strangers.  Margaret shouted at them to get away from her horses.  Instead of doing so, at least one of the men drew his pistol.  Who fired first is lost, but a gunfight ensued in which Margaret shot and killed all three men, while taking a bullet in her abdomen.  Rifle against pistol at about 70 paces.  No contest, especially when the woman wielding the rifle was used to dropping running coyotes at greater distances than that.
Fast forward, as they say, many decades into the future and the baby in mommy's tummy that savage day is an old lady who tripped and fell heavily and was taken to the hospital emergency room, where she was X-rayed to see if she had broken any bones.  Fortunately she had not, but the X-ray technician discovered something curious in her hip bone, called in her doctor, who examined the X-ray with some puzzlement.  Then, as required by law, he notified the police, for on the X-ray, clearly visible, was what appeared to be a .32 caliber bullet embedded in her hip bone.  Louise swore she had never been shot in her life, the idea was absurd, and her relatives backed her up.  But the bullet was real and it was there, although clearly she had been shot some time ago.  Thinking and thinking, she finally recalled having vaguely heard about her mother being shot by horse thieves before she was born.  It was the only possible time Louise could herself have been shot, when her mother was still carrying her.
I remembered being shown the newspaper clipping about the incident, the writer treating it as amusing proof that those of pioneer stock were too tough to be killed, and visiting the old ranch on a trip home when I was 10, only an old man caretaker living there, a former cowhand, too busted up from a life of hard work to make a living anymore, allowed to finish out his days there, sitting and rocking on the front porch, refilling his pipe with Prince Albert tobacco from time to time, smoking thoughtfully and telling the occasional visitor about how things were in the old days when there was nothing but wind and tumbleweeds, rattlesnakes and coyotes, thunderstorms and wild horses, and a determination to make something of the land, tame it and make it useful, just as you did the mustangs and the few abandoned feral cattle that dotted the gullies and hillsides, reminders of a past failed attempt to gentle a hostile and unforgiving Mother Nature.
He recalled the incident, hearing the distant gunshots out there on the branding grounds, faint but unmistakable in all that silence, and the men leaping to their horses and racing for the ranch house.  As he told us of that day, he led us over a rise and down into a small coulee, walking slowly, favoring his left leg.  He pointed to some water-worn rocks, barely protruding from the soil.  Three graves.  Unmarked.  "Lost souls," he said.  "God knew who they were but no one else ever did."

 

The day

 There's been a change in the feel of the air, autumn is coming.  The misty mornings, the afternoon breeze, the color of the sky, the chill in the shadows, the red tinge to the leaves of the maples all proclaim it.  It makes me sad to see another summer go.  How very many I've let pass without notice.  How many more will I have?  For all I know, this could be my last.  Or I might have another 50.  But even 50 is such a small number.  I tell myself I should make each day count, accomplish something, enjoy, be aware, be thankful for life.  I try.  But inevitably each day is consumed by routine, by the usual demands that take up time and attention and suddenly I notice the shadows stretching toward the east, and glancing at the time, I am dismayed to see it is already past 5 o'clock.  Where did the time go?  And I still have so much to do.  Well, that's life, too, isn't it?  At least at this time of year there are still hours of daylight left at five; it's only late afternoon. 

Often, I don't eat lunch -- no time -- but I've come to appreciate the ancient advice to eat a hearty breakfast.  It will take you through the day.  And so I do.  And so if I miss lunch I don't really notice, and may not eat until sunset, often dining after everyone else has, bathed in the red rays of the setting sun, supper finished, the dishes washed and put away, the leftovers in the fridge awaiting midnight snackers.

When El Jefe eats alone, he stands in the kitchen beside the sink and often doesn't even bother to take his food out of the pans, but I set a place at the dining room table and eat just as if others were present.  

I like to help make breakfast for the working men of the ranch and I like serving them and bantering with them as they stoke up on energy to manhandle the day.  And can they eat!  A typical breakfast consists of corncakes or buckwheat cakes served with butter, maple syrup on the side, topped with however many eggs requested. There are serve-yourself plates piled high with biscuits, hashbrowns, refried beans, grits, fried steak, spam, ham, link- and patty sausages, bacon and fried tomatoes, as well as tureens of gravy, pitchers of orange and grapefruit juice and whole milk.  There are also servings of peach and rhubarb cobbler, apple and cherry pie, as well as cinnamon rolls, cake and raised donuts, strudel, bear claws and other pastries, all homemade, of course. And, also of course gallons of coffee.

For the men who won't be able to get back to the cookhouse for lunch, we prepare sandwiches and sides and thermoses of coffee.  The men request what sandwiches they want as well as what else they'd like to have, and it's a pleasure to make it for them, taking care with each item to insure it will be fresh and tasty, as well as filling.

While I'm serving the men, they call me darling or honey or sweetie.  "How about some more coffee, honey, and can you reach me that plate of hashbrowns?  Thank you, sweeheart!"  The sexism is just horrible, horrible, I tell you!

This is all over and done, the men gone, the tables cleared and the dishes washed and put away, before sunrise.  Then I go back to the house and see to things there, rousting the rug rats and house apes, seeing to their wants and needs, seeing they eat a healthy breakfast, typically oatmeal with raisins and walnuts with a dusting of nutmeg, whole-wheat toast with preserves, and dishes of fresh strawberries, blueberries or blackberries. peaches, pears or apples, depending on what's ripe.  Then they are off to a half-day of summer school at the ranch school -- yes, it's painted red and, yes, it's just one room, and it was built when Grover Cleveland was president.

Then it's time for my work day to begin....  If I get to bed before 2am, it's a miracle. I do get tired.  But I always find a little time to enjoy myself, tinkle out a tune on the piano, dance to some old records, read, or just doze off wherever I am, like a cat in a cozy spot.

Good times

 I'm not much of a bar-goer because I'm not much of a drinker, but I like the ambience of some bars -- those with a personality and a history and a dedicated clientele. 

The Horse and Cow on Marine Corps Drive in Tamuning, Guam, is one of my select-few favorites.  I used to live within walking distance and often dropped by of an evening just to imbibe the ambience and chat with the bubbleheads. I had a good friend from the Frank Cable (AS-40) who I would hang out with there, nibbling bar snacks and watching the slow-motion riot taking place all around us.  Sometimes civilians or tourists who had heard of the joint would come in, then later complain of the poor service they received. But the bar is not really for them, it's for the Navy and sailors get first priority.

Everything is not

 

 "Have you ever felt depressed?  What a foolish question -- who has not?  But the depression we are concerned with is an unhappiness that seems to descend from nowhere, enshroud us for no apparent reason, and plunge us into a despair as to who we are and what we are doing here and why we are doing it, even whether we are alive and awake or simply asleep and dreaming the whole strange and sorry affair.

"Have you ever felt that there is a beautiful life that you are not leading, a wondrous world you cannot see, a peace and contentment that have somehow eluded you, and have you wondered where the fault lies?  Is it with you or is there no such life, no such world, no such state of being, no such peace or contentment anywhere at all?"   

 "That's what I want: the absence of everything, a place where there's nothing."

"Waking and Sleeping," first broadcast by the CBS Radio Mystery Theater on June 29, 1981.

Candy girl

 “Whenever the devil harasses you, seek the company of men or drink more, or joke and talk nonsense, or do some other merry thing. Sometimes we must drink more, sport, recreate ourselves, and even sin a little to spite the devil, so that we leave him no place for troubling our consciences with trifles. We are conquered if we try too conscientiously not to sin at all. So when the devil says to you: do not drink, answer him: I will drink, and right freely, just because you tell me not to.”
― Martin Luther 

Now this is advice I can follow, my man Martin.  No problemo.  Okay, okay, I drink root beer and just sip a little bit of the happy juice to avoid taking the off-ramp to Barf City, but the "sport, recreate and even sin a little" (a little? #Clears throat# You want to define "a little"? -- our definitions may vary)  I can definitely go for. Anyway,  it's always something.  God didn't give us life just so we could mope, look down at the floor and sigh.  We should be like pixies dancing on a leaf in a ray of sunshine and enjoy our flash of light between the two great darks.

“Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall."
― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

 “A person who does not regard music as a marvelous creation of God must be a clodhopper indeed."
― Martin Luther 

"I want to be pure in heart, but I like to wear my purple dress."
―Anne Morrow Lindbergh

 This may seem like a frivolous post, but reality is tough and often disappointing, sometimes bitterly so, so from time to time you need to break out of your harness, kick down the stall door and make a dash for freedom, exulting in living, simply being alive.  You'll be back under the yoke soon enough.  There's no escaping that.

 

A raw gray, stormy day, the wind driving the rain at a steep angle into the thrashing trees. What happened to summer? Stuck in the house, wearing a sweater and crossing my arms against the cold curling around the windows and seeping under the doors, I have plenty of time to think, time to grow melancholy, to remember, regret and wish.
 
Deep in our hidden heart
Festers the dull remembrance of a change...
~ Matthew Arnold 

Life is first boredom, then fear.

Whether or not we use it, it goes,

And leaves what something hidden from us chose.
~ Philip Larkin 

I often give way to self-pity.

“Do I deserve this? I suppose I must.

I wouldn’t be here otherwise. Was there   

a moment when I actually chose this?

I don’t remember, but there could have been.”   

What’s wrong about self-pity, anyway?
~ Elizabeth Bishop

Who would want to be a stay-at-home mom?

 Or as they used to say, a homemaker.  You are not supposed to want this.  I don't know why.  It used to be considered the happiest life. 

"The most disturbing picture since the Mona Lisa"

 

Les mecs...

 

Happy Anniversary

 

My grandparents were married for 68 years before my grandfather passed away.  They were fruitful and multiplied, producing children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.  And isn't that what it's all about?  Everything else is just static.

My baby-boomer parents got married years later in life than did my grandparents so my grandparents had years more of life together than it is likely that my parents will.  I've often wondered whether it is better to spend your early adult years checking out the world, having various adventures, trying different things, experiencing the hedonistic life, the ascetic life, the gregarious life, the contemplative life, and so on, or whether it is more rewarding to find a good person that you have deep affection for as early a you can and just make your own little universe together, creating and raising a family and letting the rest of the world go by.  I've never been able to decide.

Just ask!

 

I took my uncle, the handsy one skilled in making up colorful lyrics to old pop ditties, to see his ophthalmologist the other day.  I didn't have to, someone else could have, but I wanted to put certain events firmly in the past and make it clear there were no lingering ill feelings.  I also had a reason of my own:  I'd read that a nightclub was having a big band night, featuring a locally famous band and I wanted to go.  I love big band music and the dances that go along with it.  El Jefe is overseas or he could have taken me.  But I knew my uncle loved dancing. Most men these days don't, and if they are willing they aren't skilled.  But my uncle loves to cut a rug.  He taught me swing dancing and foxtrot when I was knee high to Ginger Rogers.  He could also do the stroll and the twist and other later-era dances, right into the disco and house music of his own youth.  I can do all sorts of dances thanks to him.
So anyway, I told him I would drive him to his doctor's appointment if he made it for late in the afternoon and that after we would have a light dinner or something, marking time till the club opened and then go and dance, dance, dance! 
He was a bit surprised and seemed a little abashed, looking down and away for an instant before looking back at me and asking if I really wanted to go dancing with him.  I said, "I wouldn't ask if I didn't want to."  He looked earnestly at me, scanning my face.  I stuck my tongue out at him and he burst into a big grin, saying, "You scamp!" and started to hug me then stopped himself and pulled back.  So I hugged him.  He didn't respond until I called him the world's biggest goofball and then he hugged me too and we stood for a minute.
The day before his appointment, I asked him to pack a bag with a nice suit and accouterments and good dancing shoes and I would also put together an ensemble suitable for tripping the light fantastic.  I reserved a hotel room for us to change in and refresh after he had seen the doctor, and the next day off we went, both of us in a happy, anticipatory mood.  His visit with the eye doc produced better news than expected, so we had that to celebrate. 
I thought we could eat at an inexpensive chain restaurant, but my uncle asked the hotel concierge to recommend a first-class dining establishment and made reservations for us and treated me to a swell feed, as they would have said back in the Forties.  Then we took a walk through a nearby park that had a small lake where boats could be rented and enjoyed the sunset and a cool evening zephyr after the heat of the day.  Then it was back to the hotel to get into our dancing duds and we were off to the club, which was within walking distance.
The band did not disappoint, but the number of other dancers did.  Only a few couples ventured onto the dance floor.  But that gave us room to strut our stuff, which we certainly did. I had no idea my uncle could be so energetic.  But he had led an active life asea and ashore and he was not ready to

slow down. At one point, we did the Big Apple, incorporating into it the Charleston Swing, Truckin' and the Suzy Q moves. Other dancers paused to watch us and applauded. When we sat down to catch our breath, the waiter brought us a bottle of champagne, compliments of the band leader.  We toasted him and his players and when the band took five he came over and chatted with us, sharing a glass.
The evening ended with a series of slow dances that saw us the only couple on the floor.  After the last number, we went up to the band and thanked them all for providing such a wonderful evening.  My uncle bought them all drinks and when they finished them I was surprised to realize it was 2am and the club was closing.
It was too late to drive home and neither of us were really in any condition to do so, being both exhausted and a little tipsy.  So we walked back to the hotel along the deserted boulevard, stopping to look in a few shop windows, greeted the doorman, who had been dozing on a baggage cart in the lobby, got our room key from the sleepy front desk man, who also handed me a message from home, so I called and left a voice mail explaining all was well and we'd be home the next day.
Then we went to bed*

 

*

Oh, please.  Unc was on his best behavior and besides was so beat by the exertions of the evening that he was asleep the minute his head hit the pillow.  So was I. In twin beds!

XyWrite!

One of my relatives was what he called "a newsman" for a career spanning decades.  I have written about him before, recounting his adventures as a draftee army clerk in Viet Nam -- no Rambo he! -- where he got his start in journalism writing for a division newspaper, his only qualification being that he could type.

Anyway, after he retired he wanted to convert all his notes and article files from the obsolete format they were originally composed in to a modern word processor and I helped him with that, giving me a chance to listen to his stories of the long, long ago, which I absorbed with intense interest.

Anyway the second, the format his copy was originally written in was Xywrite.  I quote from Wikipedia: "XyWrite is a word processor for MS-DOS and Windows modeled on the mainframe-based ATEX typesetting system. Popular with writers and editors for its speed and degree of customization, XyWrite was in its heyday [1989~93] the house word processor in many editorial offices." 
After he passed away, I inherited a lot of his stuff that nobody else wanted and was headed for the dumpster.  This included his old boxes of notes, the original Xywrite floppy disks, big ones and small ones, and the converted files he and I had worked on, saved on thumb drives.  It pained me to see how little any of his close family cared for his life's work and as I picked through the remnants of his career I couldn't help hearing his voice in my head telling me of his early days as a police beat reporter covering bank robberies, warehouse heists and car chases, jewelry store shootouts....  Then on to politics and business as he matured in his profession.

Anyway the third, among things I found was this Xywrite instruction manual. It's no mere pamphlet but about 300 pages -- no lie!  It looks practically new but it has post-it notes scattered through it, and some lines of instruction highlighted here and there.  It looks like he needed to know how to do a certain few thing and a lot of the rest didn't concern him, so when he couldn't figure out how to do one of those things he would look it up in the manual, a case of, "When all else fails, read the instructions," I guess.

Anyway the fourth, I got a kind of uncanny feeling looking up what he had once looked up all those years ago, reading his margin notes, noting a 30-year-old coffee stain splotching a page, some cookie crumbs of the same vintage.  I felt as if he were right beside me looking at the pages with me, recalling how he figured out this newfangled computer stuff.  "Why can't I just use my old Royal Standard and hand in the copy like before?" I could almost hear him wondering.  And I wondered why his own children didn't have any interest in experiencing this one last opportunity to be close to him, to get a sense of his life before it all dissolved into the ever-receding past.

Blah blah

No dating apps in his day.  He had to say, "Hey, good-looking!" in person.

I was reading some comments men made about on-line dating services, naturally bad-mouthing them because that's what everybody does about everything on-line.  I don't have much experience with those apps, but one time I did start to fill out a profile on OKStupid or whatever it's called, but I got stymied by the personal profile.  What did I like to do? Hmm.  What should I write?  Geez, I dunno.  There are all sorts of things that I like doing, but when faced with writing a few of them down, I couldn't think of anything.  I guess because there are too many contingencies involved.  Do I like to read?  Depends on what it is, and what my mood is, and what else there is to do.  Ditto just about everything else. Plus everybody writes the same dumb things -- long walks on a moonlit beach, dinner at a cozy Italian restaurant.  Blah. Blah.  So I never bothered to finish.  I guess if I had been serious about it I might have, but I was just curious. The thing is, in meat space as they used to call it, you never talk about stuff like that, you just interact, chat about this and that as you get to know and either like or not like a person.  Would you go for a walk on the beach or go out for dinner with someone you didn't like?  It would be unpleasant and you'd just want to get it over with.  But being stuck in rush-hour traffic with someone you are crazy about might live in fond memory forever.  But you would never write on one of these dating apps that you love being stuck in rush-hour traffic.

Up until the Tailhook blowup in 1991, the Navy and all the armed forces are supposed to have been take-no-prisoners sexist.  But my grandmother was a Navy nurse and my mother was an Army nurse and they never had any problems with sexism, at least that I have ever heard about.  And both married naval

aviators.  And stayed married to them.   In retrospect, from what I have learned, that episode was really an attack by the black-shoe surface Navy against the brown-shoe Navy, which, along with the bubbleheads and SEALs, always got the glory and headlines -- and funding.  Still true.

Anybody who has been in the service has gotten a boatload of inoculations.  When it is time to do medical evaluation the first week of boot camp, recruits line up with their sleeves rolled up. The injections are given in both arms and are often done simultaneously.
You take a step, receive your first round of injections before stepping to the next round of shots. Often, recruits hold a gauze pad in each hand to press over the injections sites before sitting down on the floor in case they pass out.
What shots do you get? Measles, mumps, rubella, flu in season, and, of course, tetanus. Plus, depending on service and assignment, yellow fever, adenovirus, meningococcal, diptheria, varicella, polio, hepatitis-A and hepatitis-B. 
Oh, right, and the infamous bicillin shot in your rump which is injected with a monster needle and is so thick that it seems like forever to all go in, and then it leaves a painful lump that lasts for days.  Many recruits pass out when they get this shot. So many, in fact, that the room where the shot is given has padded floors.  And also these days the shot and boosters for Covid.  So all the armed forces must be dead or dying, right?  All those vaccinations.  All at once.  Has to be.  Right?*  (I've had them all and then some and I'm still here, stomping at the Savoy -- figuratively speaking!)

I was listening to a cache of news broadcasts from WOR New York aired in 1976 and found out that there had been an outbreak of swine flu (influenza A virus subtype H1N1) at an army base and in response the Ford Administration decided to rush a vaccine into production with a plan to immunize the entire population of the country.  But not long after people began getting the vaccine reports began to appear of those inoculated coming down with Guillain-Barré Syndrome, which is associated with paralysis, respiratory arrest and death.  People began refusing to be inoculated despite assurances from the powers that be that the vaccine was safe.  Nobody bought the assurances, saying to Uncle Sam, "Tell it to the Marines, pal!" and in response the government said, "Okay fine, we'll end the mass immunization program.  If you want to get the stupid shot, feel free, if you don't, whatever, man."  About a quarter of the population got the shot, but nobody else bothered, and life went on and no disasters occurred.  Democracy in action:  the government proposed and the people disposed.  What a contrast with today.  Now the government tells the population to stop complaining and do what it is told.  Or else.  No disagreement, no objection, no refusal allowed.  The government is right and the people are wrong.  Period.  What happened in 50 years?  Where did democracy go?  How and why did the government become so arrogant and unresponsive to the will of the people?

I make my own tonkatsu sauce.  I like Bulldog brand, but I usually can't find it.  That's why I started making my own.  The secret is to use mirin, a type of Japanese rice wine.  Mirin is harder to find than Bulldog tonkatsu sauce, but once you have a bottle, it lasts a long time.  Anyway, I found some Bulldog sauce in a Chinese grocery the other day and used it on a croquette dinner I prepared, only to realize that my own tonkatsu sauce was far better.  Others agreed.  When they wondered why my sauce was so good, I said it was because the secret ingredient I put in every drop was love, but actually it's mirin.

 

 

 

*Vaccines typically administered to US military personnel (plus Covid)

Population segment	Vaccine	Vaccine type	Routine schedule for troops*
Trainees	Diphtheria	Toxoid	Single dose
	Hepatitis A	Inactivated	Two doses
	Hepatitis B	Subunit	Three doses
	Influenza	Live or subunit	Annual, seasonal
	Measles	Live	Single dose
	Meningococcal disease	Subunit, conjugate	Single dose
	Mumps	Live	Single dose
	Pertussis, acellular	Subunit	Single dose
	Poliovirus	Inactivated	Single dose
	Rubella	Live	Single dose
	Tetanus	Toxoid	Single dose
	Varicella†	Live	Two doses
	Yellow fever†	Live	Single dose
Routine during career (both active-duty and reserve components)	Diphtheria	Toxoid	Every 10 years
	Hepatitis A	Inactivated	Two doses
	Influenza	Live or subunit	Annual, seasonal
	Pertussis, acellular	Subunit	With Td‡
	Tetanus	Toxoid	Every 10 years
Individualized on the basis of deployment or travel to high-risk areas (both active and reserve components), various alert forces	Anthrax	Subunit	Multidose series
	Hepatitis B	Subunit	Three doses
	Japanese encephalitis	Inactivated	Three doses, boosters
	Meningococcal disease	Subunit, conjugate	Single dose, boosters
	Smallpox	Live	Single, every 10 years
	Typhoid	Subunit or live	Dosage varies
	Yellow fever	Live	Single, every 10 years
Individualized on the basis of occupational or personal needs	Haemophilus influenzae type b	Subunit, conjugate	Single dose
	Hepatitis B	Subunit	Three doses
	Meningococcal disease	Subunit, conjugate	Single dose
	Pneumococcal disease	Subunit	Single dose
	Rabies	Inactivated	Three doses, boosters
	Varicella	Live	Two doses

*

Assumes that the basic immunizing series was received earlier in life. Booster doses may be required at appropriate intervals to sustain immunity. Derived primarily from references 8 and 9.

†

Immunization policy varies among military services on the basis of specific needs.

‡

Td, tetanus-diphtheria toxoids (adult strength).