Vignette

Once in a while, the Universe allows us to witness a slice of life without letting us know the full story. Just a fragment of a sentence, so to speak. There is no beginning and we certainly are not allowed to know the ending. Bill and I witnessed such a piece on our trip back to Superior last week. It's been hard to get it out of my head. What did happen? And how did it end - happily or sadly?

We pulled into a truck stop in Buttonwillow near Bakersfield. Bill was driving his Chevy and had to go into the adjoining bay for diesel. I pulled into one of about sixteen spaces for gas and went inside to pay. When I returned, the pump on the other side of mine was occupied by a hatchback SUV with a young black woman pumping gas. I set about getting my gas pumped and started wiping down my windows.

At that point, the alarm on what I thought was my Explorer began blaring. I madly scrambled for my keys, but even though I pushed the button the alarm still blared.

"Stop it, Rodney!" the black woman pumping gas into her white Explorer next to me yelled at a boy about nine years old.

Rodney was returning from the convenience store with his dad and a younger boy and guffawing. He clutched his dad's car keys, which he tossed over to his dad. Daddy tried to tried to wipe the smirk off his face when he saw how pissed off his wife was with their actions and the younger boy whooped with laughter and ran to open the back door of the car.

"That's not funny!" Mommy promised, her face looking stern and unhappy with the trio of giggling, idiotic men. She made a road trip look like it was no picnic with that happy go lucky trio.

I gave her a sympathetic smile and finished pumping my gas. When I got into my car to move it across the parking lot to join up with Bill, they were just pulling out ahead of me. I was surprised to see that their hatchback trunk was completely open. Their trunk was filled with luggage and blankets and stuff. I started to beep my horn to warn them, but they were driving very slowly and I assumed they were just going over to park and hadn't wanted to bother with closing the trunk before they opened it again to get something out. Sometimes, I think I mind other people's business too much, so I stopped myself from beeping and crept over to the parking spaces to join Bill.

The white Explorer slowed but headed for the driveway and then a green backpack fell out. I rolled my window down and shouted and the Explorer slowed at the curb. I assumed they knew their hatchback was open and they'd just dropped something out. Nope! They were only checking for traffic and pulled out to the left, preparing to get back onto the freeway. Bill started yelling at that point, but they couldn't hear a thing. Music was on and the kids were tussling in the back seat and I guess neither Mom nor Dad could hear the wind rushing by the open hatchback where their possessions were now going to fall where they may.

I ran over and picked up the backpack. A cell phone plopped out and looking inside, it was plain that this was Mommy's purse! Oh dear, oh dear! What had only seemed like a bad day for Mama was now assuming Excedrin proportions! Bill ran the phone and backpack into the convenience store. We looked up the road anxiously, expecting to see the white Explorer return any minute to find their items.

No such luck. As we made our way back onto the Highway 5 South, we didn't see anymore luggage laying out, but I never saw a white Explorer making its way north either. I can't help wondering how far they must have traveled before they discovered the 'boot' was open. Evidently, when the panic button was pushed by Rodney, the trunk was opened too. Daddy was having too good a time to see his message light that "Tailgate is ajar" was lit, and there was too much noise and confusion to be witness to it. But I bet when it was discovered what happened, that Mama doesn't let him forget this one in a hurry!

Wedding Finery

Tad's and Erin's wedding was a fine occasion. It allowed every single Vogler male from Grandpa Bill to the newest member, three year old Ronnie. a chance to don a tux and and brocade vest and necktie and the shiniest black shoes that ever could be found.



Tad asked me at the Rehearsal Dinner if I would get Ronnie dressed in his tux the next day. Ronnie had been telling folks that he wasn't going to be wearing that thing! So at noon the next day, Willy met us with a very dignified Charlie and Sage who were only too thrilled to be wearing their tuxes and we drove to the hotel in Santa Rosa. (Charlie would strike a stance and say, "Bond. James Bond!" he thought he looked so hot.) Sage was striking kung foo poses in his tux, not to be outdone.

It didn't take Ronnie long to want to dress like the Big Boys and we soon had him stripped down in one of the best men's rooms and tugging on his tux trousers and buttoning up the ivory dress shirt with (get this!) pearlized cuff links. As we had him step into the first patent leather shoe, he whimpered, "That hurts!"

Charlie peered over the bed at him. "'at's okay, Ronnie! It's s'posed to hurt!"

"Yeah!" Sage agreed, "Mine hurt too!"

We jammed his foot in the second shoe and I tied it up. "Dat hurts too!" he murmured.

"Well, ours do too!" Charlie and Sage chorused.

I escorted the trio of tux clad men from the room so the groom and best men could get on with their tuxes. It was now an hour and a half before the wedding would begin. The bride and her maids were on their way back from a nearby salon for hair and nails and the bride's mother was arranging placenames and flowers in the dining room. We stopped in so she could see that indeed the three year old had gotten the tux on.

"Why, don't you look grand, Ronnie!" she cooed in pleasure seeing her baby grandson appearing so grown up.

"My feet hurt!" Ronnie said.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she started to fuss over him.

"Dat okay," Ronnie stopped her. "Dey s'pose to hurt!"

But now the boys needed a nibble. In our haste to get to the hotel by one, and get the boys dressed beforehand, no one had thought of lunch. It was nearing two and I had three hungry boys. We walked through several floors of the hotel looking for an aunt's room that held the promise of Sun Chips and Seven Up but were unable to find it. The men were getting cranky and disgruntled being traipsed through miles of hotel corridors, plus my own feet were getting cranky with all the walking. We headed back to the lobby where I asked the whereabouts of the restaurant. While the desk clerk gave me the information, I had to steer Ronnie away from an assortment of Twix bars and M+M's. I didn't think chocolate would set too well with ivory colored shirts and white brocaded vests!

In the dining room, which was almost vacant, the waitress led us to a banquette with high walls. Sage and Ronnie sat across from Charlie and me. She presented them with the children's menu. There were four items on it, hot dogs, hamburgers, chicken fingers and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

"Look at these prices for a hamburger, Grandma!" Charlie roared, oblivious of the waitress standing by the table. "They want $8.95 for a hamburger!"

"Don't mind the prices," I told him, secretly glad I'd brought along extra twenties for this special day. "What do you want to eat?"

"I'll have a hot dog," Sage decided at once.

"Peanut butter and jelly," Ronnie said. "And French Fries."

The waitress nodded. "They come with French Fries."

"Charlie," I prompted.

"Ohhhhh, I can't decide!" he mulled the few selections over in his head. "They both sound so good: hot dog or hamburger. Hamburger or hot dog!"

"Charlie!" my tone had gotten surlier. He sounded not unlike my old granny when I'd take her out to lunch and it was torture for her to decide on an entree. But Grandma's been dead for twelve years and here sits her great-great grandson doing the same thing!

"Oh, okay! A hot dog," he flopped back in his seat, exhausted with his decision. He still looked darned good in his ivory brocade vest with the cuff links dangling precipitiously from the buttonholes. My little James Bondsians had just ordered hot dogs. What was wrong with this picture?

The waitress returned in a few minutes with three Seven-Ups and straws were unwrapped and plunged in. Ronnie commenced to slurp his down with passion. He could just barely reach the top of the cup on the table by sitting down and I encouraged him to sit on his knees, but the boy was being proper and refused with a sullen shake of his head. Nevertheless, I jerked my hand across the table a number of times to keep the Seven-Up from upending in his lap.

Every time the kitchen door opened, the boys would perk up. Their lunches had arrived! But no, they were being delivered to somebody else. At two fifteen, the waitress came back, empty handed. "I'm sorry," she cooed. "But the chef says he's out of hot dog buns."

"Oh, bring them hamburgers then," I snapped. "But hurry! The wedding starts in forty-five minutes and we don't want to be late!"

She left again. Sage sprawled forward on the table, hungry, tired and ready for something to happen. Ronnie squished his straw so hard with his teeth that he now couldn't draw anything to drink when he slurped on it. Charlie looked about him.

"You know what, Sage?" he told his brother. "This is such a fancy place that you can't see the other people who are eating their lunch! You've never taken us to such a fancy restaurant before, Grandma!"

He was quite right. Burger King and In 'n Out's do not compare with a Hilton dining room.

"You know, Sage, THIS IS WHERE THE RICH PEOPLE GO!" he roared.

I wanted to slink under the table. "Keep your voice down, Charlie," I hissed. "If you're not careful, it will be thirty years before I'll bring you to a place like this again!"

At two-thirty, only thirty minutes until the wedding was to start, the waitress brought in their luncheons. Each one, even the peanut butter and jelly, were served on the biggest platters I've seen. My Thanksgiving turkey platter isn't that big! And next to these, for each boy, was a four inch square dish, brimming with a cup of thick red ketchup!

Little boys .... white dress shirts.... vests and ties... and gobs of red ketchup!

"Be careful," I warned Charlie through my still gritted teeth. "If you get ketchup on your shirt, your mother will kill me!"

"Yeah, then she'll stick a knife in you too!" He took the top of his hamburger bun and liberally doused it in the dish of ketchup. Not to be outdone, Sage took the top off his hamburger and laid it into the ketchup dish too. Sage was sitting catty corner from me and I couldn't lean that far across the table to stop him.

"What in the world are you boys doing?" I asked aghast. Never, in the nine year history of being Grandma to these two boys has there every been a time when ketchup, relish, mustard or any other spread touched the sacred hamburger these boys would eat. If, God forbid, I ordered them one 'with everything' there were either tears or a thorough cleansing of said relishes before a little mouth would touch it. And there they were, dressed to the Nines and Tens in the fanciest duds they've ever worn in their lives, liberally drenching their hamburgers in red ketchup!!! I felt my heart palpate.

I looked wildly around the room, hoping that Daddy or Grandpa or Uncle or SOMEBODY would rescue me! Ronnie's sleeve dropped a quarter inch from his dish of ketchup as he blissfully ate French Fries. Forget the peanut butter and jelly, he was happy with his French Fries. (The night before at the Rehearsal Dinner, the waitress asked him what he wanted to drink. "French Fries," he told her. I told him he could have a Seven-Up. "What?" he asked, as she left the table. "She don't have French Fries?")

Now, Charlie's and Sage's Daddy entered the room and looked around. I waved him over and hurriedly admitted what I had done. "Hi, Daddy!" Sage greeted effusively. "Want a French Fry?"

"I don't mind if I do," Willy said, scooping one up. He was wise enough not to use any ketchup however!

Charlie pushed the remains of his hamburger into his mouth and regarded his dad. "It was okay," he told him, "but not worth eight ninety-five!"

More folks were arriving for the wedding and I got the boys out of the dinette, one by one to square them away. Charlie had a sizable glob of ketchup on his vest. I dipped one of the cloth napkins into a glass of Seven-Up and scrubbed away. Ronnie managed to get a few drops of ketchup on the suit coat after I'd buttoned it up. Seven-up took care of that too. Sage was unscathed, but most of his hamburger lay uneaten. Grandma had fussed at him too much to make it worthwhile eating.

I hustled the Little Men out of the restaurant, leaving a tip too, mind you, and we got out in front to greet our friends and relatives. But it was still some time before my nerves settled down and I could forget white shirts and brocaded vests and sublimely dressed little boys and start to enjoy the festivities!

Exodus

We traveled back to Superior this week, after I had spent four months in the cool Dillon Beach air. The warm (hot) Sonoran desert days feel good after all that frigid cold of the Pacific. So this week I've found my legs again. Yeah, they paled up quite a bit since last May when I last wore shorts. Bill's look incredibly tanned from his summer spent mostly working outside on the house, even in 115 degree weather! (The grandsons have a little action doll in the toy box, dressed in khaki shorts and a canvas vest. Bill and I found it on the beach years ago when Charlie was a baby for him to play with. Charlie immediately named it "Jeff". When Bill returned from Arizona looking so brown this summer, little Ronnie picked it up and asked, "Is this Grandpa Bill?" So it's amazing how good a tan can make you feel (You Action Figure-You!)

The house looks luscious, much better than I remembered. It welcomed me back every square inch of it. In my absence, Bill had the upper and lower driveways poured with new cement and a back yard, under the deck poured as well. He has painted it a light grassy green, so even if grass won't grow in the hot Arizona summers, it still looks like we've got one. He covered over the major part of our upper deck so there's more shade and added misters to cool the air. Already, the parrots are overjoyed about their 'rainforest' in the Sonoran desert and have spent five hours a day enjoying their new climate. He took extra special care of the garden I had recently planted before leaving and now the tiny shoots of fountain grass are four feet high or better and brimming with blooms; the Mexican sunflowers just about took out all the other flowers they grew so hard; and the Mexican primroses are still showing no end in blooming their little pink hearts out. Who knew stuff could grow so well in this heat if they had enough water? I was overwhelmed.

The house, if anything, seems more settled, more content, and yes, more powerful than it did before I left. I guess it's happier with us and knows we mean it no harm. Last year, we had several people walk in and say it felt like the house had wrapped its arms around them like 'a big ol' hug', and this year the feeling is just bigger and more fulfilling and THERE. As if, the house itself has assumed an entity. But... a good entity all the same. It's still welcoming and warm and "glad to meetcha!" And, yes, the house likes the changes that Bill has worked on all summer long. We've plans for more rock work in the front yard and some more garden beds for planting, so we won't be idle this winter. Plus, it will give us reasons for more Boonie trips to collect more rocks.

Okay, so now, I promise in the next few days I will write about the Wonderful Wedding of Tad and Erin last week. I promise I won't be so slow to blog. And even though I'm going to be missing my Little Men (the grandsons) I will include some stories about them from this past summer. Promise!

A Bad Day

First off, my apologies for neglecting the blog. Summer and lots of activities got in the way, but I promise to do better. A rather bizarre story surfaced a week ago and I've got to tell it. I have changed the names of the participants, but the story is so bad it's good to remember when you roll over in bed one morning and think you'll have a 'bad day'. Nah... it couldn't be that bad!

We've got a good customer at the Landing who's been one of our regulars for at leastl twenty- five years. His name is Charles. The last few summers, Charles' wife, Edna has been spending less and less time here, but Charles loves to halibut fish and claims it's more peaceful here than in Lodi with Edna. He's a fairly amiable man. Last week, Charles was out fishing when he received an emergency message from Edna. The night before, Edna and her daughter-in-law and her twenty one year old grandson were on their way to Coalinga to spend the night. Why, Coalinga? Because Edna's son, and the grandson's dad, was getting released from prison where he'd been incarcerated for the past couple of years for drug possession. Charles wasn't with them because he'd washed his hands of his son's actions several years ago and doesn't have anything to do with him. Ditto for his grandson. Grandpa Charles had washed his hands of him about three years ago a) because the kid was gay and b) because he too was having trouble with drugs. Edna persisted in giving both the son and the grandson her attention (and money). They checked into a motel so they could get up good and early to go pick up dad at the prison, but the grandson got to thinking a couple of things. Since he was in possession of some drugs and either a) didn't want to get caught with them in the proximity of a state prison or b) (my personal favorite) he'd better use up his stash before his old man got released and used them up. So the grandson shot up that night while staying in the same room with mom and grandma. Next morning when the ladies woke up, the grandson is dead in bed with an overdose. Oh boy... how low can you go?

When Charles finally got in from fishing six hours later, he calls Edna on somebody's cell phone. I heard him ask plaintively, "Well, do you expect me to come home? I just got here and there's fish biting. You don't need me now, do you?" Phew! Charles-Buddy, haven't you learned anything after forty odd years of marriage????!!! And no, we haven't seen Charles this week. I bet he's stuck in Lodi until next summer.

Have a good day!

Dog Person

I never considered myself a dog person until Chuy came along. I liked dogs fine. I've been owned by a number of them throughout the years. But I've always been partial to cats and never was what you would call a Dog Person. Chuy seems to be changing all that.

Since Memorial Day Bill has spent the majority of his time in Arizona fixing up the house and Chuy and the cats and the parrots and I are here in Dillon Beach. Chuy misses his dad greatly but has wormed himself pretty fully into my life. He realizes I'm a different type of person than his daddy who will rough house with him in the evenings (throwing the stupid "Legs" toy numeroso times to the dog's delight). Chuy's lucky if he can get Mom to throw it five or six times. But Chuy is smart enough to know that each of his parents react in different ways and the doggie has picked up on that.

He knows that when Mom comes home at the end of a busy day at the boathouse, he's prepared to wrap himself around the pillow on the couch so she can lay down and nap for a few minutes before he starts pestering her to play with him. He knows she likes to read a book laying down on the couch while the cats nap on her belly and legs, so he too finds a spot near her head, sometimes kicking her in the face with his little feet while she attempts to read.

Friday I was upset with the puppy for pulling out the newspaper from the macaws' cages while I was working. When I returned every hour or two to walk him, I'd find torn up newspaper scattered around the birds' cages, and I'd reprimand him while I cleaned up the mess. Chuy began hiding behind the couch when I came in instead of greeting me with delight at the door.

So on Saturday, I decided I wouldn't pick up the paper messes each time I came in and not say anything to him. No need to be reprimanding him when it was doing no good, I reasoned. Saturday was a long day and Chuy didn't get out much to play, but each time I returned to the house, he hadn't messed with the birds' papers but he still remained hiding behind the couch, peeking out when I came into the room to see if I was going to yell at him. (I didn't!)

I can hear Chuy's side of the story: I can't understand my mom. Every time she came back to the house on Friday, she was chewing me out for something or other. I took to hiding behind the couch because you could tell nothing was going to make her happy. Then, like magic, on Saturday every time she came in to walk me, she was all sweet and nice and never yelled at me. But I hid out each time anyway. That Mom... you just don't know when she's going to get pissed at you!

So yes, I've become one of those "Dog People". We try to understand what's going on in those little doggie minds and either live with it or try to change the behavior. We delight in those happy-go-lucky doggie grins when Puppy is happy and all is Right with the World. We get all proud when strangers stop to admire our dog and tell us what a cutie he is. (And they are right of course!) We begin to know strangers by their dog's names before we know theirs.

These are just some of the character traits of Dog People I've added lately. I'm sure there are others. I'll probably get worse before I get better. And I still love my cats. But really... Chuy is growing on me and maybe he's just bringing out the inherent Dog Person that lived in me along.

Cleaning Up The World

I have never considered myself a Busy Body and certainly didn't ever think I was the pushy sort of person who constantly told people what they should or shouldn't be doing. But I'll tellya, the older I'm getting, the more I'm fitting into that category.

This week-end, I found myself trying to set some young people straight. Oh yes, for the past forty-something years, since being an adult, I've had to let some young folks know that their behavior needed to be changed. But the things I reprimanded kids for this week-end were things that under normal circumstances, should never be happening anyway.

We have a small store at the Landing where we sell bait and tackle, rent boats and motors and dispense snacks and drinks, particularly coffee and candy. There are usually two or three of us clerks behind the counter and at times we can get crowded with thirty or more people coming in to get their goodies at the same time. Needless to say, July is our busiest time of the year and a week-end is even busier. Our aim is to help our customers get their goods promptly and not have to wait.

There's usually a wait around the coffee counter, where customers draw their own cups of cocoa and coffee. This morning was cold and foggy and windy, so the crowd around the coffee was bigger than usual. Sometimes it's little kids that take more time to get their cocoa cups filled; other times, it's sleepy big people that just don't move very fast before they've had their first cup of coffee. But we try to keep the area clean and tidied up and above all, keep them moving! A young girl and her three brothers came in and began filling cups of cocoa. I was selling bait to another man and didn't look up at first, but then noticed a large down coat, nearly as big as a sleeping bag, spread out on the floor in front of the bait freezer.

"What's this?" I asked, stepping around the counter and picking up the coat. "Who dropped their coat?"

"Uh, it's mine!" the girl, about thirteen, said. She didn't bother to look around as she finished getting her cocoa.

"It doesn't belong on the floor!" I picked it up and put it on top of the bait freezer. "Somebody's going to trip on it."

The girl didn't say anything and in a few minutes, when she was done getting her cocoa, turned and picked it up. I gave her a hard look. I'm sure in her own home, the young girl might carelessly throw her coat on the floor if her mother wasn't telling her to pick it up. But in a public place? Is that something that is becoming a normal thing or am I just being a picky old lady?

Okay, now as far as picky old lady goes, yeah, I've become one! Yesterday, again with a crowd of summer visitors, I looked up from the counter and was aghast to find myself looking at the back of a fat teen-aged girl. Her jeans were loose and hanging half way down her bulging hips. Her panties were more than visible as well as a not very attractive butt crack. She was leaning over the bait freezer picking out crab bait with an equally sloppy young man, but at least his underwear or butt crack wasn't showing.

"Ma'am!" I yelled across the crowded room. "Ma'am!"

She didn't turn or acknowledge or even look up to see who I might be yelling at. Evidently, she hadn't been addressed as "Ma'am!" very often and certainly didn't think she was one.

"Young lady!" I changed my pitch. "Young lady!"

Again, she blithely ignored me, intent on the packages of mackerel in the freezer. Okay, then.... desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Hey, Girl! You! With the pants hanging down!"

Ah ha! I had her attention now. She turned around, her hair hanging lankly into her eyes. "Pull your pants up, Honey!" I hissed, as more customers turned to see what I was harping on. "Your undies are showing!"

She hitched them up and twitched her hips and they promptly sank back down. I guess a belt was out of the question. The boy with her slunk out the door leaving her to pay for the bait.

But I doubt my reprimand did any good. The girl was back this morning, with her pants hanging 'half-ass' off again. Only this time, it was so cold, she was wearing a long parka over the whole lot. Oh me! Guess I should keep my mouth shut. But the older I get, the more I think I need to get this ol' world in shape. One kid at a time.

Best Wishes

We were walking in the park when three year old Ronnie found a dandelion puff.

"Look!" he pounced upon it exuberantly. "You can wish!" He picked the flower and puffed his cheeks out.

"Ronnie's making a wish," I said as Charlie turned and walked over to us.

The little boy blew the dandelion puffs to the wind. His face broke into a big grin.

"What'd you wish for?" Charlie demanded.

"Bananas." Ronnie's attention was on the ground looking for another flower.

"Bananas?" Charlie's tone was incredulous. "You can have bananas! Why not ask for something hard?"

"Like money, Charlie?" I asked.

"No! Like world peace. I would wish for world peace rather than plain ol' bananas!"