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Saturday June 3, 2000
"Dionysius the Elder, asked whether he was at leisure, he replied, 'God forbid that it should ever befall me.' " Plutarch, Apophthegms of Kings and Great Commanders
zoey pretends to dine as in an old photo of a french café
bike riders descend on Sweetish Hill in a colorful throng
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club life Because our downtown exercise and social club (Metropolitan Club) has lost its lease and will close, we joined Westwood Country Club, a fairly full-functioned facility sans golf. How perfect is that? It is close to our house. Four minutes, Forrest says. Close anyway. Still, my own invented sport, eXtreme dog walking, holds some sway with me. So SuRu, Zoey, Chalow and I attack Clarksville. We don't make it too tough, however. We park on 10th by the park. After some pooping and scooping in the park, we go to Sweetish Hill and give the dogs water and ourselves a snack. We do attack a couple of hills but, all in all, it's a short walk in the heat. We are still testing Chalow (and getting used to the heat). When I get home, Forrest is ready to try Westwood. He says I can rent a locker and stow some stuff and we could work out. We ride these high tech bikes while watching a TV we can't hear (you have to tune in the FM broadcast of the sound). The workout area is low-ceilinged and a little seedy. Ditto the locker rooms. Clean and equipped with good machines, though. Missing is my Met Club favorite, the Stairmaster. Not one of those things with paddles. No. It's like a short escalator going the wrong way. Ah, well, I'll adjust. (Never mind that it's been months since I went to the Met Club. Cleaning out my locker there will be interesting.) I leave T-Shirts, surf shoes, a bathing suit, tennis shoes, socks, a tennis racquet and balls in the newly rented locker. Now to find someone to play tennis with. Or even racquetball. They have courts. If I'm not mistaken I have some equipment in my Met Club locker. FFP cooks chicken for lunch. He's on a chicken kick and cooks lots of it. The good news is that he uses different rubs and sauces. We are waiting for my Dad to come down as we've gotten a message that he's bringing a load of stuff. He shows up about 1PM and we feed him leftover chicken. He's happy with that. While Forrest goes to shop at Central Market (for more chicken and other provisions), Dad and I take the stuff in his van and unload it into the storage unit. Dad has a few old beer cans (collectible?) and a Coke bottle with straight sides. There is an old churn, a ceramic jug, more of my mom's miniature hobby stuff. The unit is almost full. We fit boxes and stuff in like a puzzle. My dad knocks his hand on something where he already has a band-aid and it bleeds. His skin is wearing out. One injury he had caused the doctor to say his skin was too fragile to stitch. Still...he heals fast, he says. He is going to live at least seven more years, he says. Then he might take another option. He is 83. That chore done, Dad rests and Forrest and I go to Oshman's and buy new workout shorts and tennis togs and a bathing suit for Forrest. After all, we are going to get active at the new club, right? OK, let's test the food service. Cousin Robert, Dad, Forrest and I go to the grill at Westwood. Club food it is. There is a decent bottle of Acacia Pinot Noir (although the wine list is generally weak). We decide Robert's sole is the best dish. Families enjoy their dinners in casual clothes. It's nice enough. We may even actually spend the required food debit. The Seasons is a little more crowded than last night. Rebecca plays gracefully and we hear out a set before retiring. It's a good life, as my dad says, 'if you don't weaken.'
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