Sunday,
February 16, 2003
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cold but the sun shows itself SuRu is going to try to intersect with a friend running the marathon at 2222 (Allandale, Northland, Koenig, 290) and Shoal Creek. We agreed on twenty to eight, figuring to get to that corner by eight. I get across the street before there are two many runners. There are just a group of elite guys, spaced out pretty well. By the time we get to the intersection, it is after eight. We wait around, get run out of someone's driveway. "Would you not stand in my driveway? It's bad enough I have to put up with this noise every year but then I have people standing in my driveway!" [Note to bitchy lady: we don't run marathons. If they relied on us, there wouldn't be a marathon. There is, though. Not our fault. And, the end of your driveway doesn't belong to you anyway. We moved, though.] We don't see the friend. Or another friend who is supposed to be watching here. Maybe we are too late. We do see a lot of other people who do provide the fodder for marathons. Three mariachis. People wearning garbage bags against the cold, windy day. After yesterday's shirt sleeves, I have on my anorak, my muffler, my gloves, my band over my ears. We go back through the neighborhood. We wind around a bit but mostly go back home. When I turn on Shoal Creek again there are stragglers. The neighbors are picking up their cheering parties. I go in and download some pictures. FFP gives me some pictures to scan. Now that he can get the car out of the garage, he goes to the club. I start making some tuna salad, but we don't have any apples. I get almost everything else in there and put it in the frig. I haven't eaten anything. I should eat. When FFP comes home, he showers. The shower in back isn't draining. We jump in the car and go to catch the first showing of Chicago at Gateway. We read until it starts. I like it although I will confess to a moment or two of drowsiness. When we come out of the movie, the sun is shining but it's still cold. We go toward home, stopping at Randall's. We are going to get apples and Drano. We also get green onions, lettuce, spinach, chicken livers, shredded cheese, bananas, some salad dressing and eggs for good measure. We eat at home more these days and, hence, we shop more for food. But we don't buy too much at once. At home, I finish off the tuna salad and we both have a bowl. I halve the last grapefruit and we share that.
I decide it's time for exercise. Sure we did a dog walk, but I should do more. Shouldn't I? So I go. FFP decides to go, too. But we take separate cars. He's already been once. We won't want to stay the same amount of time, probably. Sure enough, he leaves before I finish my biking (still reading Joan Didion). I do a bunch of upper body stuff. It is OK but doesn't feel strong and right somehow. There were lots of cars when I got to the club. When I leave, though, it's very, very quiet. A basketball game that was going on is over. It is getting dark. There is a big moon. I was thinking, while I worked out, that I'd been trying my whole life to peek into the private enclaves of the privileged. I've done it, too, sometimes. Seen the fancy hotel rooms, the big houses, a few cruise ships. Not the major enclaves, maybe. No private yachts. Still. Except for skiing. I don't know skiing and I've never even been close to skiing unless you count going up on Mt. Hood in Oregon to have a picnic and riding the lift. It was summer but you can always ski there apparently...there was snow. (Our friend bought FFP a shirt that said 'Endless Winter' on it.) Oh, sure, there are plenty of other experiences the rich know about, stuff I hear discussed at the club. All, in all, I think I understand how the inner sanctums look and feel, though. And that's all I wanted to know. I didn't want to live there. I just wanted to be able to describe it with some accuracy. Although I do like a game of tennis on a wonderful court now and then or a fine meal with obsequious waiters and giant linen napkins. I wouldn't mind living in an enclave but, all in all, I think I'm actually happier not doing so.
FFP suggests salad for dinner. Fine by me. I'm not feeling too hungry. Later I'll eat some tuna salad and some cheese and hot sauce and chips. FFP pours me a sherry, too. Hits the spot. We are old fogies, having a sherry in the evening. Dad called today. He 'checks in' every day. He called a second time, too, to tell me that he was looking at my cousin's daughter's wedding invitation. And that her middle name was 'Laura' (which she doesn't use) and that he had an Aunt Laura. I thought he was going to ask me to buy a gift for her. "Are you getting her a gift?" "No, I'm sending a check," he said. I feel bad that I don't spend more time with Dad. What would we do, though? Sit together and read? Well, I'm helping him provide food for Senior Activity Day this week at his church. That will be something. I also talked to Dad's younger sister. She is in Mesquite but will go back to Maine in late March. She was talking about getting her sisters to come from West Texas and go out and see the old farm. She is excited about the oil wells there. They have mineral rights and Dad and his sisters get small checks off of it. Small but big enough to make a difference to them. Last time I talked to this aunt she was going through old slides that her two older sisters had left when they died. She has sorted out some for me and some for the other nieces and nephews that have us in them or something. She was worrying about this in a way I understand. You want to preserve this stuff, this past, but there is too much of it and it's in the way. This phone call she was going through a similar agony with a bunch of souvenir spoons. My Aunt Mary had a collection of them. This aunt, the youngest of all the brothers and sisters, has decided to distribute the spoons, nine each, to all the nieces and nephews. I already got a few of these. I walk over to the shelf where they are displayed, sticking out of a brandy glass. I know these little items don't matter, that they will leak away when the owner dies, lose their purpose. I've seen this with my mom's stuff for sure. We don't let go because it seems wrong. My cleaning out activities have left me standing in a room a lot of times, holding some thing. And thinking, "Why really? Why keep it?"
FFP and I catch some TV in the evening. He dozes some in his chair. It's my theory that he gets more chair Z's than me and that's why he can get up earlier. I read some of the pile of old papers. Then I go to bed and read my book.
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Jesus, methinks, wouldn't run the marathon, but who knows?
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171
JUST
TYPING