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| Cathleen, me, and Russ |
I waited
in Mister C’s long, hairpin queue and flipped radio stations to familiar voices
and classical music. Meanwhile, young staff hustled moving all makes and models
of autos.
Opening
doors. Wiping. Closing doors. Wiping. Reaching over windshields for the perfect
shine. If they weren’t thoroughly enjoying themselves, they had me fooled.
Amused by the
synchronized movement of the machinery and employees, I forgot to shift into
neutral when directed into the tire guides.
Embarrassed,
I couldn’t locate my gearshift in the dark. The word “Alzheimer’s” whispered in
my head. “I’m sorry,” I said to the attendant. “I’ve not driven in quite a
while.”
He smiled.
“Happens all the time.”
I intended
to call the Rochester Chamber of Commerce to praise Mr. C’s manager and team for
their discretion with patrons who experience slips of mind.
Rather, I
forgot those ambitious folk until yesterday when I faced the challenge to finally
hang new curtains in our master bedroom.
What, you
may ask, do those kids in Mister C’s Car Wash have to do with me hanging
curtains?
Well, for
one, I didn’t forget this valuable reminder—if you don’t use it, you lose it.
You see, my
history with curtain rod bracket installation isn’t boast worthy. The screws fell
out of the drywall, and although we have a stash of the appropriate anchor, I
avoid using them. They fell out too and made a larger hole to patch and paint.
Considering
I didn’t marry a handyman, I was on my own.
Secondly, the
enthusiasm of those young men and women drying cars and trucks recalled the
positive experience of bracket installation lessons from a friend several years
ago.
So I carried
a pencil, hammer, nail, and Black & Decker drill upstairs where the project
waited.
After a
deep breath and prayer, I climbed my yellow kitchen stool, an Armada Flea
Market find. While my husband picked strawberries at Blake’s in Almont, I hung
the sheers in one fourth the time it took to iron them.
Down to the
kitchen I went to compose the grocery list for our barbeque with Cathleen and
Russ today. We can’t remember our last visit together.
Truth is, we’re
hungry for good company and strawberry-rhubarb pie with Cook’s lavender lemon
honey ice cream.
This
morning, while the strawberries and rhubarb marinated in sugar, nutmeg, and a
pinch of salt, I messed up doubling my butter crust recipe.
Try, try
again.
While the
pie cooled, I prepared summer’s first bowl of potato salad. Cathleen called
from Dearborn. “All our roads have flooded! Will tomorrow work for you and Mel?”
Dear
Reader, I cannot thoroughly enjoy the first strawberry-rhubarb pie of the
season without friends at our table.
“Tomorrow
at three. I’ll hold the pie and ice cream.”
