On vacation, daughter Jessica and I like to treat ourselves to an extravagant cup of coffee at Starbucks. Something with mocha and peppermint perhaps or chocolate and whipped cream. Something with 7,000 calories that tastes like a melted hot fudge Sundae.
Upon arrival in any Starbucks I immediately wonder where I need to stand to order. No signs, no obvious counter, no one who actually appears to be waiting on customers. It’s like street signs in New England. If you don’t already know where you’re going, you shouldn’t be here. It’s a blatant kind of elitist.
When I finally get Geselle’s eye and she reluctantly takes my order for a cup of coffee, instead of actually getting it for me she hands the empty cup off in the direction of Raul. By way of sweet parting, Geselle tells me to await my prescious drink at the "bar".
Where exactly is the “bar”? Since every available space is covered with single cup coffee makers and espresso machines, coffee from places I assume are still in existence somewhere and more instant coffee packages than the U.S. Army would ever need, the “bar” is hard to find.
It is best to arrive at a Starbucks directly behind another old buck, preferably one with Alzheimer’s disease. Starbucks markets their product almost exclusively to these guys. Since there is a Starbucks on any two corners of any intersection anywhere in the world, these old folks spend all day walking from one to the other. Once outside of this shop the guy now in front of me will take a deep breath, look across the intersection and think to himself, “How about a nice cup of Joe?”
But by following this “regular” user you can discover where to stand to best be seen by Geselle and where the idiot “bar” is located.
Just one more suggestion for Starbucks: put the damn cream and sugar in it. If I wanted to wait on myself why would I be waiting in line for fifteen minutes with five other very confused old people who are already way too high on caffeine while pouty Raul takes his time pouring my stupid coffee.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Monday, November 23, 2009
Untrained Dog Owners
As I rode my bicycle along the beach today on Hilton Head Island with a gray sky and cool breeze, I came upon a large family and their Doberman walking in front of me in the same direction. I slowed until I was noticed. I waited for someone to collar the dog. The fellow I took to be dad, older and heavier than all his teenaged children, had a red plastic extendable-retractable leash in his hand. The dog was not attached to it despite what the large signs said at every beach entrance.
No one grabbed the dog but they did separate so I could proceed along the beach so I went. That’s when I heard dad shout, “Bradley”! I kept biking. He shouted, “Bradley” again with some urgency. I wondered if that could possibly be the dog’s name. Who names a dog Bradley?
That’s when I heard the noise of racing paws and nails on hard sand and there was the Doberman barking, “Woof, Woof” at my heels. This was obviously another well-trained Doberman. Dad screamed, “Bradley stop”. Bradley aimed for my right leg and snapped.
I shouted, “Fuck off Bradley”. He paused. “Fuck off Bradley” I said again. He slowed, then stopped. Obviously, I was not the first teenager to tell Bradley to stop whatever he was doing in this fashion.
I got to the big creek in one piece and sat enjoying the view. The family arrived. Bradley was still loose, but one of the kids herded him away from me without me so much as swearing in his direction. No one came over to say that Bradley is a lovely dog who hardly ever bites elderly bicyclists.
When I finally got back on my bike and turned to head back up the beach, the lady who appeared to me to be the mother of this bunch, older and worn-out looking, smiled and said, “Hello”. I suddenly had the feeling Bradley was not her favorite either.
I don’t dislike dogs, Doberman or otherwise. I dislike people who do not train their dogs and seem surprised by, and even try to justify, the untrained dog’s bad behavior. I once had a boss whose terrible dog knocked a kid off his bike out in the street and bit him. My boss speculated that the kid should not have been riding a bike in the street by his house. That was clearly the only problem.
No one grabbed the dog but they did separate so I could proceed along the beach so I went. That’s when I heard dad shout, “Bradley”! I kept biking. He shouted, “Bradley” again with some urgency. I wondered if that could possibly be the dog’s name. Who names a dog Bradley?
That’s when I heard the noise of racing paws and nails on hard sand and there was the Doberman barking, “Woof, Woof” at my heels. This was obviously another well-trained Doberman. Dad screamed, “Bradley stop”. Bradley aimed for my right leg and snapped.
I shouted, “Fuck off Bradley”. He paused. “Fuck off Bradley” I said again. He slowed, then stopped. Obviously, I was not the first teenager to tell Bradley to stop whatever he was doing in this fashion.
I got to the big creek in one piece and sat enjoying the view. The family arrived. Bradley was still loose, but one of the kids herded him away from me without me so much as swearing in his direction. No one came over to say that Bradley is a lovely dog who hardly ever bites elderly bicyclists.
When I finally got back on my bike and turned to head back up the beach, the lady who appeared to me to be the mother of this bunch, older and worn-out looking, smiled and said, “Hello”. I suddenly had the feeling Bradley was not her favorite either.
I don’t dislike dogs, Doberman or otherwise. I dislike people who do not train their dogs and seem surprised by, and even try to justify, the untrained dog’s bad behavior. I once had a boss whose terrible dog knocked a kid off his bike out in the street and bit him. My boss speculated that the kid should not have been riding a bike in the street by his house. That was clearly the only problem.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
My old house
I have finally finished repairing all the doors in my dining room that did not close. There are six doors in my dining room, which I think is unusual. Two doors lead from the kitchen into the room, one to the wine cellar, one to the attic, one to the front porch and one to the downstairs bathroom. The entry to the formal living room is an archway. That’s because it represents the connection of one very old house, the dining room, to a not very much newer house, the living room, et al.
The dining room actually existed on its own as a house at one time in the early 1700’s, four lots down our street. The living room, den, birthing room and large attic, now two bedrooms and a bath, existed on the current site, first as a Cape half house and later as a full Cape.
The dining room house was dragged down the street around 1800 to 1830 and added to the Cape. On the back of the dining room there was a very old winter kitchen. The summer kitchen and the outhouse were in the back yard on opposite sides of the barn. There are lilacs where the outhouse used to be. I still have the permit that allowed my grandfather-in-law, Frank Crosby, to add indoor plumbing in 1936. Not a moment too soon according to my late mother-in-law.
Frank’s wife Gert complained bitterly that she had no pantry and the wood shed was on the other side of the barn. At different times, Frank went down to the Town Wharf nearby and purchased old shacks from the fishermen there. He had these shacks dragged here, cut down a window at the back of the kitchen and made the opening into a door. Then he stuck the shacks onto the back of the old kitchen. One became a pantry and one the new wood shed.
This whole section collapsed in 1984. An inspection revealed that when Frank had installed a sink in the kitchen, he left the drain pipe under the crawl space to empty into the sand there. Almost fifty years later the accumulated moisture caused the floor to give way and so went the rest of the kitchen.
We rebuilt this area. We created a modern kitchen and family room following the original exterior footprint despite our protestations to the historic commission that there was nothing original about the two fish shacks!
At the same time, we removed an odd projection from the front door. It was a very small shack that Frank had found somewhere, origin unknown, and stuck to the original front door to create a sort of closet for Gert who claimed a great lack of closet space.
This front door is actually on the side of the lot away from the main street the house sits on. This was done purposefully so that the dust from the horse drawn wagons on the dirt road wouldn’t get into the house in the summer when the front door might be open for the breeze.
So now all the doors in the dining room close properly. My guess is that absolutely no one but me will notice!
The dining room actually existed on its own as a house at one time in the early 1700’s, four lots down our street. The living room, den, birthing room and large attic, now two bedrooms and a bath, existed on the current site, first as a Cape half house and later as a full Cape.
The dining room house was dragged down the street around 1800 to 1830 and added to the Cape. On the back of the dining room there was a very old winter kitchen. The summer kitchen and the outhouse were in the back yard on opposite sides of the barn. There are lilacs where the outhouse used to be. I still have the permit that allowed my grandfather-in-law, Frank Crosby, to add indoor plumbing in 1936. Not a moment too soon according to my late mother-in-law.
Frank’s wife Gert complained bitterly that she had no pantry and the wood shed was on the other side of the barn. At different times, Frank went down to the Town Wharf nearby and purchased old shacks from the fishermen there. He had these shacks dragged here, cut down a window at the back of the kitchen and made the opening into a door. Then he stuck the shacks onto the back of the old kitchen. One became a pantry and one the new wood shed.
This whole section collapsed in 1984. An inspection revealed that when Frank had installed a sink in the kitchen, he left the drain pipe under the crawl space to empty into the sand there. Almost fifty years later the accumulated moisture caused the floor to give way and so went the rest of the kitchen.
We rebuilt this area. We created a modern kitchen and family room following the original exterior footprint despite our protestations to the historic commission that there was nothing original about the two fish shacks!
At the same time, we removed an odd projection from the front door. It was a very small shack that Frank had found somewhere, origin unknown, and stuck to the original front door to create a sort of closet for Gert who claimed a great lack of closet space.
This front door is actually on the side of the lot away from the main street the house sits on. This was done purposefully so that the dust from the horse drawn wagons on the dirt road wouldn’t get into the house in the summer when the front door might be open for the breeze.
So now all the doors in the dining room close properly. My guess is that absolutely no one but me will notice!
Monday, November 16, 2009
Magic Bean
This July when the granddaughters were visiting me, they each bought a little gift for themselves from a tourist-type shop. The youngest, Olivia, bought a metal can full of vermiculite and what looked like a pear pit. The can called it “The Magic Bean”.
Well, it wasn’t all that magic, at least at first. The bean simply sort of began to rot as Olivia dutifully watered the can each day. When they were readying to leave, her mother promised I would look after magic bean and bring it to their house when I next visited in the fall.
Eventually I got the “bean” headed in the right direction and it began to sprout. I left it in a sunny corner of the kitchen and it climbed up the leg of a small table next to it. I re-potted it into a clay pot and gave it a little fertilizer.
It climbed up the table and headed for the side door, determined it seemed to exceed my expectations in a straggly, weedy sort of manner.
When I packed to visit this week I unwound magic bean from the table and the doorway and put it in a place of prominence on the floor of the passenger seat of my truck.
Magic bean and I arrived in a cold rain. The next day we all proceeded from the cab of the truck to the house and a nice shelf in the big hallway with lots of light and re-wrapped magic bean around a metal display rack. Olivia was thrilled.
The next day magic bean was minus most of one leaf. On Saturday, we discovered the cat, Emerson, eating two other magic leaves. At this rate, magic bean would be stripped bare in a week. We moved it higher on the rack.
Daughter Jessica was the first to notice how relaxed Emerson seemed that evening. Positively blissed out. Laying around at the foot of the rack looking up with a big shit eating grin.
Now I know the Chinese have exported some amazing things to the U.S. I’ve been to WalMart. But you don’t think they would dare to put that in a can and sell it to kids as “Magic bean”, do you?
Monday, November 2, 2009
I purchased six preserved star fish on the Chinese black market. I put them in the front windows. All the old houses here have those little window panes. Nine over six, six over six, twelve over six. And we all have crap in the windows. Star fish, candles, oil lamps, ship models. I don’t know why. I guess it’s required.
Anyway, I put the star fish in the windows with their good side out. Like you do when you erect a fence. The good side faces the neighbor’s house. Then I took a bike ride by the river and looked at the windows in other old houses. All the star fish were facing into the house with the mouth side facing out. Every single one.
Who makes these rules. And where does one look up the “star fish facing rule for old house windows”!
I know why we have to only have white Christmas lights in our windows during the holidays. The local Historic District Commission requires it. Is there a star fish commission?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)