November 20, 2009

Never Dull Or Boring

I bought JR’s Fiat, and daily for the next few weeks attempted to get it running again.

Himself: Swam. Job searching tho nothing to apply for, meeting, forgot lunch, did thrift stores for turquoise ornaments.

Herself: Swam, wrote, printed five pages to take with me to the Thursday Writers, Kinko’s, coughed, Writers group, thrift stores when I got some modern turquoise balls…..more on Ebay but just am watching.

Reading: The Cooks Catalogue

Balance: Snuggled with G over a little TV.


January 18:
Mammograms this morning. They found a spot in my left breast when I had the rehab physical, and I dared not leave the mammogram undone. At the hospital, the office people were scattered, but the woman doing the mammogram was wonderful. I felt like a pancake, how silly. Then to Jo’s at noon. I woke her up, and she staggered around muttering about the sleeping pills she had taken the night before. I understand, for the pain must be intense. We chatted sitting on her bed sipping our respective coffee and teas as she woke up. I needed comfortable company, and she offered this.

January 20:
The doctor called. Nothing malignant, just fibroids!

I have done a trade with JR. He got my VW, and I got his Fiat sports car. Today I spent hours with Frankie and JR getting the Fiat running. Dear Frankie used his Datsun and pushed the Fiat around and around the big parking lot near JR’s house. JR tore the carburetor completely apart twice, the first time a jet had unscrewed itself and the second time he discovered that he had left out a major gasket. Eventually it started running, belched huge clouds of smoke, and then it went from four cylinders to two. A very frustrating time.

March 7:
Fran and I, blowing our noses constantly with a cold, spent the afternoon dickering with the Fiat. No running lights or brake lights yet. Fran was easily distracted from the electrical problems to the radio, and he installed a couple of his speakers in my car then gave them to me. What a dear man. Then he wanted to make a short test jaunt up to the corner store to see if they worked. Lessa hopped in the back. I started it up with a roar, and I hung a U-turn.

Fran yelled, “Wait. I have to shut my trunk. It’s full of tools.”

I pulled over to the left hand side of the street giving easy access to Fran’s car. As he jumped out and ran around to shut the trunk, I looked up to see a police van blocking the front of the Fiat with its lights flashing and a police officer standing there with a shot gun in his hands. The rear view suddenly matched. Frightening. They didn't want us.
All day across the street from us a 280Z had been parked. Now a young, golden haired man was spread eagled up against the side of it.

“Get that car outta here,” said the cop in front.

As I started it up I wondered if he was now going to turn that gun slowly around on me as I drove away with no muffler?

Lots of excitement when we got home. The Z had been stolen. The silly car thief had left his wallet and money on the front seat. Because this new car was so very out of place in our neighborhood, it called attention to itself. Someone called the dealer in LA whose name was on the tag.

“It isn’t stolen,” said the dealer.

“Go look out on your lot,” the cops said.

Sure enough it was.

March 31:
Two hospital trips in the last few days. Friday, after a day of errands and friends and a little wine, I was just settling down to decorate my new journal when Will called needing a ride to the VA hospital. I thanked God that I had eaten, was grateful I owned a warm coat with a hood as well as gloves. I did a rattling, seat of the pants, top down, ride over to Will’s house then drove him up to the VA in his own car. Four hours we waited and saw no one. There were only two pendings ahead of him and I didn’t understand the long wait. The warm heated hospital air combined with the wine to make me sleepy. A very kind clerk found me a corner out of the wind that had a light where I could smoke and read at the same time.

Sunday morning Lessa called with symptoms that sounded like appendix. The doctor, after talking with her on the phone, told me to take her to the emergency room. We found someone to give us a ride to mother’s Oldsmobile and that got us to the hospital easily. Tests, and more tests found out she had a white count of 17,000, and a severe kidney infection. She refused to stay in the hospital, who could blame her, so they shot her full of antibiotics and a painkiller, and sent home told to drink water, water, and water.

This morning she said she felt awful, but the pain has been pulled down to a point she could stand it. She has been making a lot of funny little jokes and smiling, so I know she will be fine. Lenora has been kind to her sister this morning; then again, Lenora went to a concert last night to see “Journey,” and poor Lessa missed it.

April 9:
Al and I left the bar laughing, and two blocks toward home we encountered a shopping cart.

“Would you like a ride home?”

“Sure,” I said grinning.

All the people who live on Abbott Street now have something to talk about for the next day or so. In the dark of the night, we careened madly down the center of the street laughing and shouting. I was waving my arms like a bird and laughing non-stop. Frankie jogged alongside talking and laughing as Al pushed me through the laundry-mat, through the liquor store and into Jimmy’s. More laughter…then down the block we went. There we ran into our resident police officer. He will never believe me a sober responsible person again. Later Al confided in me that he had always wanted to do that. Everyone had always turned him down. I’m so glad I took that ride, for it has given me one of those marvelous, hilarious forever memories all on two glasses of wine.

April 22:
I gave Jo a call. She borrowed one of my old journals to read, and it depressed her so terribly that she can’t talk about either the book or her feelings about it. I, who always so blindly just go on my way, had no idea this would happen if she read it, and I am truly horrified.

Duck brings me out of my funk when he calls. Everything is going so much better for him now tho he seems damaged and slow. It pleases me no end to hear that he is out and about going to the theater, concerts, or even hunting for a scooter. He can no longer afford a car.


  1. Amazing. Every word, every "every day" experience. I am stunned at how much you remember with these wonderful journals, how much I have forgotten because I didn't write. And also pretty sure that if I had written, I would have shocked myself when I read about it now! You are the brave one - seems like you have always been so.

  2. Perhaps dogged would be a better description. :)

    Thanks for your kind words.

  3. It was nice to remember Duck, referring to him in this and the next post. You make me wish I'd kept journals, but they wouldn't have been anywhere near as well written. This reads like a novel. Maybe you should send it out as fiction.


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Peter in front of a wall sculpture. We were invited up to Peter Knego’s home to see the latest installation.   Abstract flat ...