School time has come again, again

                It can’t be late August already! But, alas, it is. School has started for another year, but the only association I have is through photos of teachers and how long they’ve taught, adverts in the two daily papers, and, oh, yes:

                Two Saturdays ago, I had to have some printer’s ink, so I took the back way to Office Depot. The parking lot was loaded! What was happening? A sale, perhaps? Inside, school supply lists greeted the shoppers. Folks of all ages, singles and families, were going hither and yon.

I zoomed into the ink shelves and quickly found what I needed—nearly a hundred dollars for a box of black and three colors! Came back to the counter as the second in line behind either a mother or a teacher, or both. After she’d checked out myriad school supplies and turned to herd her children and purchases out the door, I asked the clerk, “Wha. . . .?”

“Tax-free weekend,” she said. Of course. That’s the closest I’ve been to school children, teachers, and parents so far, and I would like it to stay that way.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Attending the visitation of the mother of an Ebenezer UMC friend, I was drawn back into the mid-sixties when I taught half-days at Bauxite. Here among the friends of the family were some already retired, former students—Dr. Russell Burton, David and Rick Burrow, Bruce Carlisle, Mark Gillis, Judy Allred Teague, and Steve Perdue.

Looks like I’m eating my words. One very dear and close group of friends are those who went through Bryant Schools together ‘way back in the mid-fifties. We seven or so “’54 Girls” eat breakfast together once a month, and not a meal goes by without someone mentioning an event or a feeling or an epiphany from those days. We are all 81 now and none of us who attend are on canes or walkers. Hearing-aids perhaps, yes.

That’s not to say the entire class is living and thriving. No, several, both men and women, have died and at least one is in a nursing home. But the ones still around are busy—one plans monthly programs for a widows-widowers group; one plays the piano for a small church fifteen miles away; one volunteers both at hospice and a care facility; one drives out west occasionally to visit family; one plays bridge and hosts regularly.

May we all obey the rules when around schools, school buses—flashing lights mean stop—and wish Godspeed on all teachers AND students. And parents/ guardians.

Alternately whining and gloating- a ceiling re-do

          Ordinarily I consider myself a non-whiner, but the first week in August was an exception. When the ceiling replacement crew didn’t show one afternoon as promised, uh, scheduled, I waited. Waited. Yawned. Drank more coffee because I couldn’t take my usual afternoon nap.

          He’d accidentally broken a window, which I had warned the supervisor about, since the ancient glass was thin and had lost a lot of caulk in the frames. When quitting-time came the day before, I whined inwardly about not getting a nap, drank more coffee, tried to perk up and work at something until ten o’clock. I’d texted the supervisor, who hadn’t heard about the window and didn’t know why the crew didn’t show. 

              The first night without anything in the window but the screen, I jury-rigged a temporary cover of Schwan’s bags and duct tape.

The next morning, as the foreman guided their pickup-hauled, long equipment trailer into the front yard, and the four-person crew bailed out of the cab, I tore off the makeshift cover, wadded it and assigned it to the trash bin. Who knew I could have used it one more night?

                When I (pleasantly) inquired about why they didn’t show up as planned, the foreman told me about another crew at another place where one of the workers quit and left a huge mess that had to be cleaned up, pronto. He had forgotten about the absent glass until I reminded him. They attached the sheetrock—after having to go to Home Depot for “required” insulation, taped and mudded (I had to look up “mudded”) the joints and left it to dry.

                My empty window frame jury-rigging for Wednesday night was a lot simpler: push-pinning a beach towel into the upper frame.

Thursday morning, the third day, they came back carrying the glass, which they seated in place from the outside (sorry, irises, that you got tromped on by the young man) and caulked into the frame, which was how it was originally installed. Dried out lath mortar wasn’t the only thing that had deteriorated over the span of 84 years; so had the window caulking. No wonder the glass rattled in the wind.

On Friday, after telling me he’d be here at 8, they arrived at 9:30. I’d been working in the early-morning, shaded iris-and-yucca bed, and was just before texting the project manager, when the red pickup hauling the long trailer drove up. Again, I teased him, “I thought you told me you’d be here at 8!” And he mumbled something about it being when they told him to begin work.

But, at 1:30, after four days, they called it done, replaced the ceiling fan/light fixture, moved the 4 large pieces of furniture back in place and left. Instead of calling “Gracias,” I hollered “Thank you!” Antonio, Gesus and Luiz waved as they piled into the truck with Alfonzo driving.

What an experience! Now to get the windows washed, the book-and-glass shelves dusted and put back. . . I can’t even think about going through all the books and papers.

How about a nap, first.

Four writers enjoy a week away, thanks to the gift of a reserved-but-unneeded condo

  For a month the writers group, variously known as LBJ&P or PBJ&L (peanut butter jelly and…), had anticipated the last week in July as our much-needed, extended get-away. A sister, newly-moved from Virginia to Little Rock, gave me, Pat [aka Penny] the week she had reserved, but didn’t need.

Three of the writers would leave husbands, grandsons-for-summer, and various pets. I left feline Greye to the care of close-by daughter.

The condo opened Saturday afternoon. I found a sub for church the next morning, and left in time to get to Hot Springs by 4.  Oh, the weight-lifting exercise getting my stuff down six wooden steps while holding on to the rail with one hand, six more steps to the door, leg lifts into the suite, then relief as I set each box and sack down and pulled the suitcases-with-rollers to their places. Since I was first, I took the large bedroom.

                                                           Bed as computer table

We’d agreed to manage our own breakfasts, to potluck lunches and possibly eat out for some dinners. Soon, Bridget called and said that when her four-year-old grandchild was back into his mother’s care, she would drive over. The other two would arrive on Sunday as planned.

Barb (Bridget) and Jan (Juanita)

Lydia (Lynda)

                When we were all in place, the fridge groaned.

Bridget brought out colorful mini-journals, stickers,and markers. We were to choose one, add our names and decorate the covers. “Every day, we are to write in each of them something positive,” shesaid. That night, we feasted on Lydia's [aka Lynda’s] enchilada casserole––a request.

Our “scheduler,” Lynda, suggested we eat breakfast at eight, then write from nine till eleven-thirty. Does that sound like a long time? It isn’t, not if you have a goal or project. And we all did. Lunch at noon. Either write all afternoon, or nap, or we could take a break and “do the town.”

Bridget and Lynda set up their workplaces at the dining table, Juanita, from a comfortable chair (with a side table) by the window, and in the large bedroom, I spread out on the bed. 
Monday afternoon, we visited the Higdon Ferry flea market. My sisters might be glad to know I didn’t buy one pear-motif thing, not one piece of blue glass, and not one book!

One afternoon, we visited The Winery for a taste test, and purchased either wine or various related items. On the way back, we stopped at Rod’s Pizza. Each took home one-half pie for later.

Wednesday morning, three of us had to high-tail it back to church in Benton for the final bell rehearsal before a presentation on Saturday. Juanita stayed behind, tasked with preparing lunch “from anything in the fridge or on the counter top.” It was a repast fit for a fancy tearoom, with a pastel presentation centered with a tray of fresh fruit. Oh, my.

Thursday morning, my son Eric, from Hot Springs, came over for a short visit. He said he heard us use names of folks he hadn’t thought about in many years. That evening, we ate at Outback––with steaks.

Friday, the last full day, we worked as usual, reviewed each other’s pieces—when asked––and listened to additional chapters of future novels or revisions of earlier works. Lynda and Juanita were leaving from wherever we ate, so Chili’s it was. Soon, the storm hit and rain blanketed the mountains ‘round about.

Bridget and I finished the evening doing our own things, both at the dining table. We had made a week’s circle together and would check out early Saturday to get to our presentation site by ten a. m.

Each of us enjoyed the respite from home, the deepened fellowship, and exulted in the amount of writing we accomplished, thanks to our benefactress, Barbara Stefan.