Back to the Berries

            I ate my way up the driveway Saturday morning. 

            I have the luxury of choosing the best.  Color is only the first criterion because ripeness can be an orange-yellow, orange-red, or purplish-red.  After color comes definition.  There is a certain look to ripe berries, a slight separation occurring where berry meets blossom and in between each seeded bump.  The last test is touch:  the berry should “give” slightly to a gentle squeeze and practically fall off the stem.

            Once I have the perfect berry in hand, I have learned, it is wise to give it a final close-up inspection for insects.  If it passes the test, I pop it in my mouth and enjoy the wild berry combination of sweet and sour succulence. 

            And on the way back down the driveway, mail and newspaper in hand, I sampled berries from the other side.  It was a delicious walk.

           

Good Cheer

            Her voice rang out in the quiet of the Good Cheer Thrift Shop on Saturday afternoon:  “Do you want to get married again?  There’s a wedding dress.”

            Yes, there was a retro wedding dress hanging on the wall.  A woman nearby, evidently amused by Mom’s comment and my embarrassment, pointed out another wedding dress on the other side of the room. 

            Earlier, at the gift shop, I unexpectedly ran into Barbara from choir.  We had a nice visit and then, while I browsed, Mom chatted with the shop owner, who recognized us from the week before. 

            Thus, we were just doing a walk-through of the thrift shop.  I longed to linger and look at every single thing (except for wedding dresses, that is), but Mom was wearing out.  That’s okay. I’ll make a return trip alone next week.

            As we left Good Cheer, Mom asked again where we were. 

“Langley,” I said.

 “Oh, yes, Langley, the other end of the island,” she replied.  “I haven’t been here in ages.  Do we ever go to Langley?” 

“Yes, we come see movies at the Clyde Theater.” 

We walked over to my car parked behind the Star Store and headed on out of town.

 Mom exclaimed every couple minutes over the blossoms and how this has been the prettiest spring in her memory because we haven’t had any rain to blow the blossoms off.

 I thought about how a simple drive gives her so much pleasure, only reminded her once that all we’ve had this spring is rain, and realized that someday I will miss her cheery repetitions . . . even the embarrassing ones.

Saturday Morning

            The newspaper and all its inserts unlock a running commentary.  A moment ago I was writing about berries.  Now I am distracted by ads for Sleep Comfort beds, Freeland headline news, and ice cream recipes.

            I could walk away, and sometimes I do retreat with laptop to my room.  But I need to put together some lunch soon, and Mom so enjoys having an audience for her reading.  We have successfully navigated the morning.  When I offered to choose her outfit for the day and set it out in the bathroom (time for a shower, hint, hint), she was grateful.  Then I helped her find her clean sheets in the linen closet so she could change her bed, which seems to be less complicated than deciding what to wear.  We also hunted up her nail scissors and came to the conclusion it is time to see the podiatrist again.

            This afternoon we will go on a drive, her favorite activity.  Since John is gone this weekend for a couple electric car shows, she is a little anxious.  Going to Langley and browsing in a shop or two should provide a welcome distraction.  Maybe we can even have coffee and a special sweet treat. 

            The newspaper commentary is slowing down, and it is time to make sandwiches.  I’ll get back to the berries later.

Butter, Etc.

            At Grandpa’s house, I snuck little swipes of butter from the butter dish when no one else was in the kitchen.  Such a delicious, slightly salty taste it was!

            Getting caught once was all it took to make that guilty pleasure disappear.

            My sister, who was two years my senior, caught me in the act one day.  With all her eight-year-old wisdom, she instantly devised the perfect punishment for her errant little sister:  she made me eat a whole glob of butter.  It was nasty.  I never was even tempted to take a sneaky swipe of butter again.

            One time I had hiccups and she convinced me that putting salt on my tongue would cure them.  I willingly opened my mouth, stuck my tongue out . . . and she poured the salt.  She was right—the hiccups stopped as I frantically ran through the house, my tongue burning as if on fire.

            My gullibility knew no bounds.  When my mom told us that the pink milk came from a strawberry cow, I believed her.  When my sister asked me to go to the bathroom for her, I puzzled over how, exactly, I was going to accomplish that. 

            But I think I have finally grown up.  On Saturday when my brother Bob suggested we all breathe out cold air to keep the car windows from fogging up, I knew he was kidding.

           

A Sniff In Time

                From the sight and smell of things, Orie has developed more idiosyncratic habits than just standing in his water dish.

                I know this to be a fact because I just scooped his litter box, a simple task I have put off for several days.

                Normally, after such a period of neglect, I pay for my procrastination and deal with significant remains of the days.  Today my job was quick and easy—too easy to bode well.  And here I was hoping that I was merely imagining that the hallway carpet stains were growing.

                It’s hard for me to zero in to a single smelly source for my nose woes because of the numerous possibilities for offense (as in odors, I mean).  My keen olfactory sense is the bane of my existence.  I try awfully hard to breathe in the atmosphere of denial since I lack the physical energy to disinfect the environment.

                But with my bedroom door open (the litter box sits at the end of the hallway right next to it, a most unfortunate location) I can no longer deny the acrid edge that clings to the back of my throat and burns my nostrils.  And, by the way, relocating the litter box does not solve the problem—it just increases the ring around the hallway.

                I am quite sure that the only lasting solution involves ripping up carpet and, perhaps, subflooring.  While I would much prefer a wood laminate to match the living room and kitchen, I dread the cost and mess and inconvenience of having the work done.   Besides, my pocketbook tells me not to cough up so much money until I’m ready to gag.