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Mon, Jun 21, 2021, 11:30 PM
Went to Ninian this afternoon. At Hardware Store #1 I did not find the principal plumbing item I hoped to find, an American Standard Faucet Cartridge #994053. Not a problem. The Internet says I can get it from ACE Hardware for $9.99 plus $38.45 shipping. Yes, that’s what the Internet says.
At Hardware Store #2 I found signs on the front door saying “STORE CLOSED” and “STORE WILL OPEN SOON,” which I understood to mean “BUT NOT TODAY.”
At Hardware Store #3, Tractor Supply, I couldn’t find a plumbing department so I asked a cashier if they had one, and she said, “Yes! A small one, back of the store, behind the Customer Service desk.” I didn’t bother looking.
Drip, drip, drip. I shall try again, tomorrow or soon.
Still in Ninian at four twenty, Celeste and I, not having had much of a lunch, went to Culver’s for an early supper. We each had a Pub Burger, which I rated “Not Horrible.” Then we each got a sundae and, as we took our first bites, Celeste waved at a passing blonde lady and exclaimed, “That looks like Vicky!” and it was Vicky. And Will. From Madison. And Will’s sister Martha was with them. Martha used to be Clerk of Galloway County Courts until she retired in 2000. I once phoned her, when I was moving here from Hawaii, to get a recommendation for a Wisconsin lawyer to revise my 1992 Trust. We had a nice visit, the five of us. C. and I had not seen Will and Vicky since the funerals.
So we finished our sundaes and then went to Aldi. We were shopping-while-NOT-hungry, but we still purchased lots more than we had on our list, including some fine-looking peaches that are already smelling good, though I’d say they are not yet soft enough to eat.
Then we went to the farm and then we went home.
The End.
Sleep well.
Love, Dave
Tue, Jun 22, 2021, 8:05AM
Whoa, whoa, sorry! One more thing. I thought I was done with my Monday report when I sent it last night, but I woke this morning with a headache, and I realized I left out a major event of the day.
When we were leaving Fjord to go to Ninian, we were kind of rushed, on account of, well, because I’m always kind of rushed and insufficiently prepared. Celeste and I got into the car, which, you know, I always back into the garage, and we pulled out and idled in the driveway a minute, my foot on the brake, transmission in neutral. We keep a white envelope with our Leaving Home checklist written on it on the little shelf in front of the shift lever, and I try to remember to look at it as we begin every trip, large or small. B,B,B,U,Z, et cetera, and it all seemed okay, and Celeste asked, “May I close the garage door?” and I said Okay. She pushed the button on the remote. That’s her job, since I usually do the driving.
I shifted again into Drive, and then I thought of one more thing. I said, “Do you have our Aldi list?” And C. said, “Yes, it’s on your clipboard.” I turned to look at the clipboard I’d tossed onto the back seat, and I said, “No, that’s my plumbing list. Please open the garage door again.” I put the car into Park, engine running, hot day, air conditioner running. I hopped out and sprinted the few steps back to the house and ducked under the slow-rising wooden, raggedy-painted garage door and dashed over to the steps up to the mudroom in time to hit the button on the wall and stop the door before it got all the way up. I figured, Why put any more wear-and-tear than necessary on this ancient Sears electric garage door opener? I went into the house and found the Aldi list on the dining room table, turned right around to go back out and started looking over the list as I walked. This was another big white envelope with a bold black Sharpie list, and I was still reading it when—BANG!—I smacked the top of my head, HARD, against the bottom plank of the stopped-in-place garage door.
If I’d been checking for mail on a smartphone I’d’ve deserved it, but, geez, I was just looking at a grocery list—who could have imagined a garage door at five feet five-and-a-half inches off the garage floor? I hit it so hard it rattled in its metal tracks, and a spray of white paint chips, a galaxy of little bits of leaded paint, exploded all over my black T-shirt and all over the floor in the doorway of the garage.
I held my hand to my head for a moment and then checked my palm for blood. Then I staggered over to Nurse Celeste and asked for a phrenology exam. She dusted paint chips out of my crewcut and confirmed that I had a new bump rising, dead center, top of my head, but she said I looked fit to drive.
I said, “I’ll be right back,” and I went back to the house, ducking way the hell low under the garage door, of course, and got a soft ice pack from the freezer, wrapped the pack in a washcloth, and refrained from reading any envelopes or consulting any smartphones on my way back to the car.
Here ends Part Two of this adventure. My head is still tender. If you don’t receive a Tuesday Evening Report, I suggest you call Celeste on Wednesday to find out if I am dead or hospitalized.
Have a great Tuesday.
Love, Dave
♦
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