Any other Black Hawk Down fans out there? Irene was the code name that signaled the beginning of that disastrous operation in Mogadishu. The pilot of one of the choppers that was later shot down by an RPG called, “Irene, F#*king Irene” as he was lifting off the tarmac. That phrase keeps echoing in my head.
Dad had a doctor’s appointment yesterday morning. I had TWC on and was listening to their hurricane coverage. Now, if you’ve listened to TWC at all in recent days, you know that they equate Irene to the coming apocalypse. I take everything they say with a grain of salt because I realize bad weather equals good ratings for them. But the more I listened yesterday, the more concerned I became.
I finally decided it was time to begin preparing for the storm. A run to Lowes for batteries and the grocery store for nonperishable food items seemed like a good idea. If I’m going to be stuck at home with no power for several days, I want to have something to eat and be able to read by flashlight.
I bought $40 worth of batteries. Every flashlight takes a different size and I know from experience that if you actually try to read by flashlight for several hours, you go through many batteries. Dad looked incredulous, but he hasn’t been without power for days, so he has no idea of how fast you go through batteries and how hard they are to come by when you actually need them. It’s not as if they’re perishable. If we don’t use them now, we’ll use them eventually.
When I got to the grocery store, the bread shelf was practically empty. A quick glance at the carts of other shoppers revealed that they were doing the same thing I was, stocking up on emergency supplies. I bought 8 bananas, bread, Vienna sausage, canned beans, soup, cookies and crackers, Nabs, and instant coffee. When I got home, Dad was back. While he was out, he bought 2 bananas. That was the extent of his hurricane preparations, 2 bananas, one for Friday morning and one for Saturday morning. I just shook my head in disbelief.
When I told him I’d bought several cans of Vienna sausage, he complained, “But I already had Vienna sausage.” “You had 1 can of Vienna sausage. How long do you think 1 can is going to last?” I asked. Now I know why government officials recommend that you check on the elderly. It’s because they obviously are incapable of adequately preparing for an emergency. They think 2 bananas and a can of Vienna sausage will tide them over. Batteries, who needs them?
Mom used to keep 2 small transistor radios in the bedside table. I asked Dad if they were still there. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Well where are they?” “I don’t know.” I went and checked the drawer, sure enough, he’d cleared it out.
“The radios are gone. Where did you put them?” “I don’t know. You don’t need a transistor radio anyway,” he groused. “You do need a transistor radio. If the power and cable go out, the only way you’re going to know what’s going on is to listen to the radio. If you can’t find the transistor radio, you’re going to have to go buy one.” He walked off shaking his head.
I found an old transistor radio while he was still out in the garage searching for Mom’s. I made up my mind if he came back in without a radio and still claiming that we didn’t need one, I was going to listen to my own radio and not tell him anything that was going on. He could just remain in the dark. Fortunately for him, he came back in with a radio in his hand.
I think we’re as prepared as we can be. Dad’s still convinced that I went overboard. He hasn’t been through a hurricane and power outage in years. He’s forgotten how frustrating and inconvenient it can be. It’s better to be prepared than not. I’m baking him a pan of brownies now since if the power goes out he won’t be able to have a bowl of ice cream for his afternoon snack. Every emergency is easier to cope with if you have chocolate. What would he do without me to think of these things?
Irene, f#*cking Irene.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
All Shook Up
Where were you when the earthquake hit? That was the question everyone was asking this afternoon. I was standing at the copy machine when the shaking began. At first, I thought someone was working on the roof. Then it got louder and louder and I realized it wasn’t only the roof that was shaking, so were the walls and the floor. When it finally stopped, I started wondering if it could possibly have been an earthquake. If that wasn’t it, then something in town had blown up.
Someone rang the bell at the front counter, so I went to see if I could help them. The woman and I looked at each other. “Did you feel that shaking?” she asked. “Was that an earthquake?” I asked hesitantly. Neither of us was sure what had happened. She told me why she was there and I went to the back in search of Holly or Nancy.
I found Holly, Nancy, Cindy, and Tom just coming back into the building. They’d gone to the loading dock out back to see what was going on. We were all still asking each other what it could have been and if it could possibly have been an earthquake, something that seemed too unlikely to be true. Then Holly’s husband called with the news that an earthquake had hit Mineral, VA.
I was sure that when I got home to ask Dad if he’d felt the earthquake, his response would be, “What earthquake?” I was surprised when he said he had felt it. He was writing something on the calendar in his bedroom and realized that the hand resting on the sewing machine cabinet was shaking. Then he looked more closely and realized the cabinet was bouncing up and down which he thought was rather odd. Dillon jumped off my bed and hid in the closet, but came out on his own a while later.
Dad said at first he thought the shaking was caused by a big truck or construction equipment. When he went to look out front "to see what the devil was going on", he saw people up and down the street, standing at the curb looking around. That’s when he realized it must have been an earthquake. “Have you ever been in an earthquake before?” I asked. He thought there might have been a small quake felt in Baltimore years ago, but nothing like this.
This is a year of firsts for our town when it comes to natural disasters. Our first tornado and now, our first earthquake. A hurricane is heading our way. All that’s left in terms of natural disasters would be a tsunami and a volcanic eruption. I can hardly wait.
Someone rang the bell at the front counter, so I went to see if I could help them. The woman and I looked at each other. “Did you feel that shaking?” she asked. “Was that an earthquake?” I asked hesitantly. Neither of us was sure what had happened. She told me why she was there and I went to the back in search of Holly or Nancy.
I found Holly, Nancy, Cindy, and Tom just coming back into the building. They’d gone to the loading dock out back to see what was going on. We were all still asking each other what it could have been and if it could possibly have been an earthquake, something that seemed too unlikely to be true. Then Holly’s husband called with the news that an earthquake had hit Mineral, VA.
I was sure that when I got home to ask Dad if he’d felt the earthquake, his response would be, “What earthquake?” I was surprised when he said he had felt it. He was writing something on the calendar in his bedroom and realized that the hand resting on the sewing machine cabinet was shaking. Then he looked more closely and realized the cabinet was bouncing up and down which he thought was rather odd. Dillon jumped off my bed and hid in the closet, but came out on his own a while later.
Dad said at first he thought the shaking was caused by a big truck or construction equipment. When he went to look out front "to see what the devil was going on", he saw people up and down the street, standing at the curb looking around. That’s when he realized it must have been an earthquake. “Have you ever been in an earthquake before?” I asked. He thought there might have been a small quake felt in Baltimore years ago, but nothing like this.
This is a year of firsts for our town when it comes to natural disasters. Our first tornado and now, our first earthquake. A hurricane is heading our way. All that’s left in terms of natural disasters would be a tsunami and a volcanic eruption. I can hardly wait.
Food for Thought
We had a brief, but heavy, rainstorm Sunday evening. It was right around suppertime. Poor Dillon didn’t even finish chasing his food dispensing ball around the den. As soon as he heard the first rumble of thunder, he retreated to the safety of the bathroom.
It had started to slack up by the time I was fixing sandwiches for Dad and me. I managed to drop a small dollop of chicken salad on the kitchen floor. I debated cleaning it up myself, but that seemed like a waste of food. I called Dillon. To my surprise, he hurried out of the bathroom, licked the floor and then retreated to the laundry room.
Dad was surprised to see him out of the bathroom. We sat down to eat and towards the end of the meal, Dillon scooted out of the laundry room to lie down beside the table. When I got up to take my paper plate to the kitchen, he rose to follow. Dad looked surprised and then stricken. “I didn’t realize Dillon was in here. I’d have left him the last bite if I’d known he was here.”
We usually always leave a tiny bite for Dillon. I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks. Who’d have ever thought Dad would feel guilty for not leaving the last bite of his sandwich for the dog.
I asked Dad last night how was his supply of Nabs. “Adequate. Why?” “Because there’s a hurricane coming and Nabs are emergency supplies.” “What hurricane?” “How can you not know there’s a hurricane coming?” I asked. For someone who spends so much time reading the newspaper, he never seems to know what’s going on unless it’s on the sports page.
It had started to slack up by the time I was fixing sandwiches for Dad and me. I managed to drop a small dollop of chicken salad on the kitchen floor. I debated cleaning it up myself, but that seemed like a waste of food. I called Dillon. To my surprise, he hurried out of the bathroom, licked the floor and then retreated to the laundry room.
Dad was surprised to see him out of the bathroom. We sat down to eat and towards the end of the meal, Dillon scooted out of the laundry room to lie down beside the table. When I got up to take my paper plate to the kitchen, he rose to follow. Dad looked surprised and then stricken. “I didn’t realize Dillon was in here. I’d have left him the last bite if I’d known he was here.”
We usually always leave a tiny bite for Dillon. I guess you can teach an old dog new tricks. Who’d have ever thought Dad would feel guilty for not leaving the last bite of his sandwich for the dog.
I asked Dad last night how was his supply of Nabs. “Adequate. Why?” “Because there’s a hurricane coming and Nabs are emergency supplies.” “What hurricane?” “How can you not know there’s a hurricane coming?” I asked. For someone who spends so much time reading the newspaper, he never seems to know what’s going on unless it’s on the sports page.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
"You eat like a stevedore"
Dad came home from the farmer’s market last Saturday with a handful of butterbeans. Literally, a handful of butterbeans. When I told Uncle Bud that I bet there wasn’t even a cup of shelled beans, Dad scoffed that I was exaggerating. So before I cooked them yesterday, I put them into a measuring cup. Not only wasn’t there a cup, there wasn’t even ¾’s of a cup! I took a picture for proof.
Now Dad and I have a considerable difference of opinion when it comes to portion size. He puts barely a spoonful of each food on his plate. I believe in full serving-size spoonfuls at a minimum. He claims I eat more than the normal person. I think it’s no wonder he can’t keep weight on when he eats so little. In addition, I don’t have snacks at 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. like he does. So naturally, I’m going to be more hungry when mealtime rolls around.
When I told him what a pitifully small amount of butterbeans his last purchase amounted to, his response was, “And your point is?” “My point is to educate you as to portion size and the amount you should buy. That quantity of butterbeans isn’t even enough for 2 people.” “You eat more than the normal person does.” “I do not. And how would you know how much the normal person eats anyway? Your servings are definitely not what the normal person eats.” “But I’ve been around other people who eat and you eat more.” “Even if that’s true, vegetables are good for you. You’re encouraged to eat as many vegetables as you want.”
He just shook his head, clearly unconvinced. Then he started complaining about how hard the butterbeans had been to shell. “If they were all that hard to shell, we wouldn’t have any butterbeans. I could tell they were going to be mean to shell when I bought them.” Okay, now we’re getting down to it. It wasn’t that he thought that was an adequate quantity to purchase to feed 2 people. It was the most he was willing to shell.
It’ll be interesting to see what he comes home with today.
Now Dad and I have a considerable difference of opinion when it comes to portion size. He puts barely a spoonful of each food on his plate. I believe in full serving-size spoonfuls at a minimum. He claims I eat more than the normal person. I think it’s no wonder he can’t keep weight on when he eats so little. In addition, I don’t have snacks at 10 a.m. and 3 p.m. like he does. So naturally, I’m going to be more hungry when mealtime rolls around.
When I told him what a pitifully small amount of butterbeans his last purchase amounted to, his response was, “And your point is?” “My point is to educate you as to portion size and the amount you should buy. That quantity of butterbeans isn’t even enough for 2 people.” “You eat more than the normal person does.” “I do not. And how would you know how much the normal person eats anyway? Your servings are definitely not what the normal person eats.” “But I’ve been around other people who eat and you eat more.” “Even if that’s true, vegetables are good for you. You’re encouraged to eat as many vegetables as you want.”
He just shook his head, clearly unconvinced. Then he started complaining about how hard the butterbeans had been to shell. “If they were all that hard to shell, we wouldn’t have any butterbeans. I could tell they were going to be mean to shell when I bought them.” Okay, now we’re getting down to it. It wasn’t that he thought that was an adequate quantity to purchase to feed 2 people. It was the most he was willing to shell.
It’ll be interesting to see what he comes home with today.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Family History
I love old family photos. Dad unearthed these last week. The woman in all 4 of the top photos is his mother. The woman posing with her in the photo on the far right is Miss Sally Allen. We have no idea who Miss Sally Allen was.
The second photo was made into a postcard. It's a photo of 2 unknown men at the Fleming Mill. Fleming was Grandmother's maiden name. Her family operated a mill until the wheel broke. There's an exit off of I-85 for Fleming Mill Road, which was named after her family's mill.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Just call me Hazel
There was a Yankee baseball game scheduled for this afternoon. That would be Dad's afternoon entertainment. He was less than pleased that his least favorite pitcher was scheduled to pitch. "I must not be living right," he grumbled. "I could have told you that," I replied. He was silent for a moment. "Maybe I need to find a new housekeeper," he said.
Good luck with that. I knew he had me confused with a maid! I bit my tongue and walked off. I'm pretty sure most live-in housekeepers get room and board plus a salary and more than a half-day off every week. I'm sure Mr. Baxter paid Hazel more than that. Am I the only one that remembers that old tv show, Hazel?
Dad's definitely getting a tomato sandwich for supper. He's getting tired of them. That suits me just fine.
Good luck with that. I knew he had me confused with a maid! I bit my tongue and walked off. I'm pretty sure most live-in housekeepers get room and board plus a salary and more than a half-day off every week. I'm sure Mr. Baxter paid Hazel more than that. Am I the only one that remembers that old tv show, Hazel?
Dad's definitely getting a tomato sandwich for supper. He's getting tired of them. That suits me just fine.
Rotten tomatoes
I had so many tomatoes come in all at once that they were rotting on the picnic table on the back porch. I started storing them in the basement, hoping the cooler temperature would slow the process. I went down there this morning to discover that a bunch of them had still rotted. I filled up a plastic grocery bag full of rotten tomatoes. I took them to the back fence and dumped them over onto the power line right-of-way.
A little while later, I let Dillon outside for a potty break. He disappeared behind the shed and didn’t come back. I finally went looking for him. He was lying on the ground trying to dig under the fence to get to the tomatoes. He just wagged his tail when I walked up. Obviously, the tomatoes were going to have to be moved.
I got a shovel out of the shed and went outside the fence to start shoveling the tomatoes further away. Dillon just stood there, wagging his tail, watching. The area I was in was overgrown and covered with tall grass and leaves. After I filled up the shovel for the second time, I noticed something moving. I’d disturbed a big gray snake and it was slithering away. It was within a couple of feet of me, but fortunately veering away at a 45-degree angle.
I just kept shoveling and let the snake move along. I wasn’t happy that it was heading into my yard, but it wasn’t poisonous or aggressive so as long as it stayed away from me and Dillon, I was willing to adopt a live and let live attitude. Boy, have I gotten braver in my old age, no shrieking, no shaking knees, no frantic whacks with the shovel. No running to Dad and demanding that he kill it. I just finished moving the tomatoes out of Dillon’s reach.
I did leave the shovel out, just in case I encountered the snake again and it wasn’t moving in the right direction. No sense in being too complacent. When I mowed the grass a little later, I looked closely at every tree root and stick lying around, just in case they suddenly started moving. It pays to be alert. It’s healthier for me and the local wildlife if I see them before I step on them.
A little while later, I let Dillon outside for a potty break. He disappeared behind the shed and didn’t come back. I finally went looking for him. He was lying on the ground trying to dig under the fence to get to the tomatoes. He just wagged his tail when I walked up. Obviously, the tomatoes were going to have to be moved.
I got a shovel out of the shed and went outside the fence to start shoveling the tomatoes further away. Dillon just stood there, wagging his tail, watching. The area I was in was overgrown and covered with tall grass and leaves. After I filled up the shovel for the second time, I noticed something moving. I’d disturbed a big gray snake and it was slithering away. It was within a couple of feet of me, but fortunately veering away at a 45-degree angle.
I just kept shoveling and let the snake move along. I wasn’t happy that it was heading into my yard, but it wasn’t poisonous or aggressive so as long as it stayed away from me and Dillon, I was willing to adopt a live and let live attitude. Boy, have I gotten braver in my old age, no shrieking, no shaking knees, no frantic whacks with the shovel. No running to Dad and demanding that he kill it. I just finished moving the tomatoes out of Dillon’s reach.
I did leave the shovel out, just in case I encountered the snake again and it wasn’t moving in the right direction. No sense in being too complacent. When I mowed the grass a little later, I looked closely at every tree root and stick lying around, just in case they suddenly started moving. It pays to be alert. It’s healthier for me and the local wildlife if I see them before I step on them.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
That's my boy!
We were on our way to breakfast Sunday morning, practically to the railroad tracks, when Dad suddenly starting slowing down and announced that he’d forgotten his wallet. A quick check of mine revealed enough money for us to have breakfast. “But I don’t have my driver’s license,” he said. “Then you’d better turn around right now because the way you drive, you definitely need your license with you at all times.”
I sat in the car while he went inside. I wondered how Dillon would react. “That’s a smart dog,” Dad announced when he returned. “He greeted me at the door, but when he realized you weren’t with me and there was no bacon, he turned around and went back to bed.” Part of the reason that Dad thinks Dillon is amazing is because Dillon largely ignores him.
This morning, Dad made it to the den before I did. Dillon was standing at the door, ball in his mouth, ready to go out. Trying to be helpful, Dad opened the door for him. The second that Dillon realized who was opening the door, he pivoted, looking for me. He wasn’t about to go outside unless he knew where I was. Dad just laughed and let go of the door. I took his place and Dillon bounded outside for his morning potty break.
That’s my boy!
I sat in the car while he went inside. I wondered how Dillon would react. “That’s a smart dog,” Dad announced when he returned. “He greeted me at the door, but when he realized you weren’t with me and there was no bacon, he turned around and went back to bed.” Part of the reason that Dad thinks Dillon is amazing is because Dillon largely ignores him.
This morning, Dad made it to the den before I did. Dillon was standing at the door, ball in his mouth, ready to go out. Trying to be helpful, Dad opened the door for him. The second that Dillon realized who was opening the door, he pivoted, looking for me. He wasn’t about to go outside unless he knew where I was. Dad just laughed and let go of the door. I took his place and Dillon bounded outside for his morning potty break.
That’s my boy!
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Well that's just peachy keen
I warned Dad after he brought home the last bag of peaches that I’d peeled my last peach. If he brought any more home, he was going to have to start peeling his own. I figured that would be the last peach I’d see this summer. So I was surprised to see peaches among his purchases at the farmer’s market this past Saturday.
At first, I was amazed that he was actually going to peel and cut up his own peach. Then after the peaches sat in the bowl for several days, I began to suspect that he’d misinterpreted my comment that he could buy anything he wanted at the farmer’s market. The fact that I said he could buy whatever he wanted didn’t mean I was going to assume responsibility for preparing it. Of course, he could have simply forgotten the entire conversation when I said I was done peeling peaches.
For the first three days, I simply ignored the peaches. On day four, I decided I might be in the mood for a peach, so I peeled one for each of us. I took the opportunity to inform him that I was feeling particularly generous and he shouldn’t expect me to peel the rest. “I’m glad you’re feeling generous today,” he laughed.
I haven’t peeled another peach and the remaining three are still sitting in the bowl. If he’s waiting for me to feel generous again, he can forget it. If he’s too damn lazy to peel his own fruit, he obviously doesn’t want it badly enough. He has me confused with a maid. Every once in a while, I decide enough is enough. This is one of those times. The peaches can rot for all I care.
At first, I was amazed that he was actually going to peel and cut up his own peach. Then after the peaches sat in the bowl for several days, I began to suspect that he’d misinterpreted my comment that he could buy anything he wanted at the farmer’s market. The fact that I said he could buy whatever he wanted didn’t mean I was going to assume responsibility for preparing it. Of course, he could have simply forgotten the entire conversation when I said I was done peeling peaches.
For the first three days, I simply ignored the peaches. On day four, I decided I might be in the mood for a peach, so I peeled one for each of us. I took the opportunity to inform him that I was feeling particularly generous and he shouldn’t expect me to peel the rest. “I’m glad you’re feeling generous today,” he laughed.
I haven’t peeled another peach and the remaining three are still sitting in the bowl. If he’s waiting for me to feel generous again, he can forget it. If he’s too damn lazy to peel his own fruit, he obviously doesn’t want it badly enough. He has me confused with a maid. Every once in a while, I decide enough is enough. This is one of those times. The peaches can rot for all I care.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Screw this
My favorite burner stopped working last week halfway through boiling a pot of water to make my iced tea. It was the small burner at the rear of the stove. It was my favorite because it was out of the way and presented the least opportunity for me to burn myself, scorch a potholder, or melt a plate if I inadvertently set something down on top of it when it was still hot.
“The back burner on the stove doesn’t work anymore,” I announced. “And what do you want to do about it?” Dad inquired. “Well if you expect me to keep cooking, it needs to be fixed,” I replied testily. Honestly, what kind of stupid question was that?
“Do you want gas or electric?” he asked. What? I wasn’t talking about replacing the entire stove only the one burner. “I just want the burner to work again,” I answered. “So what are you going to do?” I love how it’s always my responsibility to take care of these things. “I’m going to call the appliance repairman and get him to replace the burner.” It would have been nice if the burner had died right after I’d cleaned the stove, not that I do that very often. It wasn’t so dirty that I was in danger of being condemned by the health department, but still, you like to make a good impression.
The repairman said he’d be there that afternoon. Of course, that required that Dad be on doorbell duty. He always acts as if that’s such a huge chore. All he has to do is sit in his damn chair and listen out for the bell while reading his book. Yes, it requires that he actually pay attention to his surroundings, but I don’t think it’s too much to ask.
“Did you tell them that I can’t hear?” You know, if he really wanted to hear, he could always see what advancements they’ve made in hearing aid technology in the last 10 years. But that would deprive him of his excuse for not making his own phone calls. I pointed out that if he sat in the chair by the hall door, it would put him right beside the doorbell chime thereby increasing the odds that he'd hear it. "I don't think that would help," was his reply. "I don't see why not. But if that won't work, you can sit in the living room and keep an eye out," I snapped.
The repairman came, found me a used burner, and now my favorite burner works again. You would think electric stove burners would be universal. Apparently, that’s not the case and none of the new burners fit my stove. I guess next time something goes out, we may have to replace the stovetop. Unfortunately, that will probably also involve replacing the countertop since I bet we wouldn’t be lucky enough to find one with the same dimensions as the 40-year-old Frigidaire. It’s not that I wouldn’t like a new countertop, it’s just that I don’t want to go through the hassle.
The same morning that I called the repairman about the stove, I happened to walk out into the garage and glance at my front tire. There was a screw sticking out of the tread. The tire was still fully inflated, but obviously the screw needed to be removed. I went inside and announced to Dad, “There’s a screw in my front tire.” “And?”
Why do I always have to state the obvious? “And it needs to be fixed.” “What do you want me to do about it?” “I want you to follow me to the tire repair shop so I don’t have to sit there all morning,” I snapped. He went out, looked at my tire, and examined the screw. Then came the big debate about whether it was better to drive the car with the screw still in the tire or call AAA to have them put the spare on so I wouldn’t do any more damage to the tire. Dad couldn’t make up his mind.
I got tired of the dithering and called the tire repair shop and asked for their advice. I was told to put soapy water on the tire and see if it bubbled. If so, it was leaking. If not, I could probably remove the screw myself and drive to their shop. Either way, they assured me I’d have time to make it there without being stuck on the side of the road.
I applied the soapy water. No bubbles. Dad removed the screw. Then there were bubbles. The tire wasn’t leaking before, but it sure was now. I didn’t see how this could be considered progress.
I started driving to the car repair shop, Dad following behind. I wasn’t sure how much faith I had in their assurance that I could make it there. Every stoplight caught me and I kept anxiously glancing over at the right side of the hood, trying to see if the car looked like it was tilting down on that side.
Dad just laughed at me when we finally got there. “I could tell you were afraid the tire was going flat. It wasn’t leaking that fast,” he said. If air is coming out of my tire, it’s leaking too fast as far as I’m concerned.
My tire got fixed, we made it back to the house at 11:15 and I still managed to get lunch on the table by 12 noon even short 1 burner. Some of us don’t waste time asking stupid questions, we just do what needs to be done.
“The back burner on the stove doesn’t work anymore,” I announced. “And what do you want to do about it?” Dad inquired. “Well if you expect me to keep cooking, it needs to be fixed,” I replied testily. Honestly, what kind of stupid question was that?
“Do you want gas or electric?” he asked. What? I wasn’t talking about replacing the entire stove only the one burner. “I just want the burner to work again,” I answered. “So what are you going to do?” I love how it’s always my responsibility to take care of these things. “I’m going to call the appliance repairman and get him to replace the burner.” It would have been nice if the burner had died right after I’d cleaned the stove, not that I do that very often. It wasn’t so dirty that I was in danger of being condemned by the health department, but still, you like to make a good impression.
The repairman said he’d be there that afternoon. Of course, that required that Dad be on doorbell duty. He always acts as if that’s such a huge chore. All he has to do is sit in his damn chair and listen out for the bell while reading his book. Yes, it requires that he actually pay attention to his surroundings, but I don’t think it’s too much to ask.
“Did you tell them that I can’t hear?” You know, if he really wanted to hear, he could always see what advancements they’ve made in hearing aid technology in the last 10 years. But that would deprive him of his excuse for not making his own phone calls. I pointed out that if he sat in the chair by the hall door, it would put him right beside the doorbell chime thereby increasing the odds that he'd hear it. "I don't think that would help," was his reply. "I don't see why not. But if that won't work, you can sit in the living room and keep an eye out," I snapped.
The repairman came, found me a used burner, and now my favorite burner works again. You would think electric stove burners would be universal. Apparently, that’s not the case and none of the new burners fit my stove. I guess next time something goes out, we may have to replace the stovetop. Unfortunately, that will probably also involve replacing the countertop since I bet we wouldn’t be lucky enough to find one with the same dimensions as the 40-year-old Frigidaire. It’s not that I wouldn’t like a new countertop, it’s just that I don’t want to go through the hassle.
The same morning that I called the repairman about the stove, I happened to walk out into the garage and glance at my front tire. There was a screw sticking out of the tread. The tire was still fully inflated, but obviously the screw needed to be removed. I went inside and announced to Dad, “There’s a screw in my front tire.” “And?”
Why do I always have to state the obvious? “And it needs to be fixed.” “What do you want me to do about it?” “I want you to follow me to the tire repair shop so I don’t have to sit there all morning,” I snapped. He went out, looked at my tire, and examined the screw. Then came the big debate about whether it was better to drive the car with the screw still in the tire or call AAA to have them put the spare on so I wouldn’t do any more damage to the tire. Dad couldn’t make up his mind.
I got tired of the dithering and called the tire repair shop and asked for their advice. I was told to put soapy water on the tire and see if it bubbled. If so, it was leaking. If not, I could probably remove the screw myself and drive to their shop. Either way, they assured me I’d have time to make it there without being stuck on the side of the road.
I applied the soapy water. No bubbles. Dad removed the screw. Then there were bubbles. The tire wasn’t leaking before, but it sure was now. I didn’t see how this could be considered progress.
I started driving to the car repair shop, Dad following behind. I wasn’t sure how much faith I had in their assurance that I could make it there. Every stoplight caught me and I kept anxiously glancing over at the right side of the hood, trying to see if the car looked like it was tilting down on that side.
Dad just laughed at me when we finally got there. “I could tell you were afraid the tire was going flat. It wasn’t leaking that fast,” he said. If air is coming out of my tire, it’s leaking too fast as far as I’m concerned.
My tire got fixed, we made it back to the house at 11:15 and I still managed to get lunch on the table by 12 noon even short 1 burner. Some of us don’t waste time asking stupid questions, we just do what needs to be done.
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