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So I'm on the train this one morning and as we pull in to Hoboken, last stop, the aisle is crowded with tense commuters waiting to get off, and an attractive young woman in a business suit is standing with her back to the door, facing the crowd. She says in a conversational tone, "Good morning, everyone, this is Mai Ling from the New York office, and I'll be chairing the meeting this morning. Can we start by introducing ourselves?" The rest of us exchange glances, but then we realize that she's not looking at any of us, and she’s wearing a Bluetooth earpiece – she’s chairing a teleconference.
The train bumps to a stop and she staggers but she doesn’t miss a beat in conducting her meeting. Her eyes still unfocused, she says, "Good morning, Fred, and thanks for joining us so early from Dallas." The guy standing immediately in front of her – dungarees, hard hat, metal lunch box – has had enough. He leans down into her face. "Open the goddam door, willya, lady, fer Chrissakes?" he says loudly. Startled, she spins in place, pushes the door button, scoots out onto the platform and is gone, jabbering and gesticulating her way toward the ferry dock.
It was only afterward that it came to me – the opportunity that I had missed. If I had been quicker on the uptake, I could have leaned in close to her Bluetooth ear and said, "Come back to bed, Mai Ling, please? I want to try that thing with the ice cube again."
Probably would have gotten me clobbered, but it would have been worth it.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Belated Easter Greetings
Daughter Laura reminded me last night of my favorite Easter story, which I wish I had posted yesterday, but what the heck, here goes...
When I was a teenager I knew a man who was then in his 80s, name of Reginald Thayer. He had once been the chief engineer of the City of New York, and owned more fascinating conversation, and could tell more wonderful tales, than anyone I've ever met. He was a dignified, imposing, intelligent man – not large, but handsome, with a full white beard cut in the sharp Victorian manner, great bushy white eyebrows, and a full head of white hair. So self-possessed, so bright of eye, and so ready of wit was he that even as froward and bumptious teenagers we were respectful of him and sought out his company whenever we could. He was the patriarch of an extended family household that was one of the joys of my youth and the source of much of my education, a welcoming family with characters galore, not to mention three very attractive granddaughters of around my age, with each of whom I seem to recall being in tragic, unrequited love at one time or another... but I digress.
Reggie was, among many other things, a devout atheist, and had resisted decades of effort on the part of his wife and daughters to civilize and make a proper Christian of him. He steadfastly refused to go to church under any circumstances – a source of great embarrassment to the ladies, who were members, like generations before them, of the congregation of St. John's Episcopal Church in Getty Square in Yonkers. Once – just once – they had prevailed upon him to join them. No one was quite sure why, but one Easter Sunday, one year when his daughters (the mother and aunts of the girls I grew up with) were all teenagers, he agreed to accompany them to church. This would have been in 1939 or 1940, I think.
The girls and their mother were extremely nervous, and begged him not to say anything to disgrace them, and especially not to get into any arguments about – or even comment on – theology, religion, beliefs, or anything else that he might consider situation-appropriate. Please, Papa, if you love us, please don't embarrass us. Reggie merely looked at them, and did not answer.
But at the church itself things seemed to go well. Reggie smiled politely, murmured appropriate greetings when introduced, and seemed serenely indifferent to the mild stir of surprise his presence caused. He stood when the others stood and sat when the others sat, and, if he didn't give the responses or join in the hymns, he held his book like everyone else and made a decent show of paying attention. It was with a certain feeling of relief that the ladies preceded him in the line of worshipers leaving the church.
As was customary, the pastor stood on the steps of the church just outside the large double doors, and shook the hand of each congregant leaving. "Christ is risen!" he greeted them, and each answered in turn, "Christ is risen indeed!" before releasing his hand and making way for the next in line.
This was the last hurdle, then – but the girls' mother knew that it was the most perilous. She watched Reggie anxiously to see his reaction as the girls each gave their answer to the reverend, curtsied prettily, and stood aside. Reggie seemed detached; had an almost dreamy look on his face that she very much feared did not bode well. Then it was her turn, and if her voice cracked a little with the tension that good man of God appeared not to notice. But as she let go of the minister's hand, instead of walking down the steps, she stood rooted there – and her daughters rooted beside her – to watch Mr. Thayer meet the minister.
"Christ is risen!" said the pastor enthusiastically, gripping Reggie's hand in fellowship. There was a long silence as Reggie seemed to come into the present. He looked down at their two clasped hands, then looked back up at the other man. He tilted his head to one side and raised his great eyebrows in polite surprise.
"Indeed?" he said.
And, gathering up his brood, he led them away.
When I was a teenager I knew a man who was then in his 80s, name of Reginald Thayer. He had once been the chief engineer of the City of New York, and owned more fascinating conversation, and could tell more wonderful tales, than anyone I've ever met. He was a dignified, imposing, intelligent man – not large, but handsome, with a full white beard cut in the sharp Victorian manner, great bushy white eyebrows, and a full head of white hair. So self-possessed, so bright of eye, and so ready of wit was he that even as froward and bumptious teenagers we were respectful of him and sought out his company whenever we could. He was the patriarch of an extended family household that was one of the joys of my youth and the source of much of my education, a welcoming family with characters galore, not to mention three very attractive granddaughters of around my age, with each of whom I seem to recall being in tragic, unrequited love at one time or another... but I digress.
Reggie was, among many other things, a devout atheist, and had resisted decades of effort on the part of his wife and daughters to civilize and make a proper Christian of him. He steadfastly refused to go to church under any circumstances – a source of great embarrassment to the ladies, who were members, like generations before them, of the congregation of St. John's Episcopal Church in Getty Square in Yonkers. Once – just once – they had prevailed upon him to join them. No one was quite sure why, but one Easter Sunday, one year when his daughters (the mother and aunts of the girls I grew up with) were all teenagers, he agreed to accompany them to church. This would have been in 1939 or 1940, I think.
The girls and their mother were extremely nervous, and begged him not to say anything to disgrace them, and especially not to get into any arguments about – or even comment on – theology, religion, beliefs, or anything else that he might consider situation-appropriate. Please, Papa, if you love us, please don't embarrass us. Reggie merely looked at them, and did not answer.
But at the church itself things seemed to go well. Reggie smiled politely, murmured appropriate greetings when introduced, and seemed serenely indifferent to the mild stir of surprise his presence caused. He stood when the others stood and sat when the others sat, and, if he didn't give the responses or join in the hymns, he held his book like everyone else and made a decent show of paying attention. It was with a certain feeling of relief that the ladies preceded him in the line of worshipers leaving the church.
As was customary, the pastor stood on the steps of the church just outside the large double doors, and shook the hand of each congregant leaving. "Christ is risen!" he greeted them, and each answered in turn, "Christ is risen indeed!" before releasing his hand and making way for the next in line.
This was the last hurdle, then – but the girls' mother knew that it was the most perilous. She watched Reggie anxiously to see his reaction as the girls each gave their answer to the reverend, curtsied prettily, and stood aside. Reggie seemed detached; had an almost dreamy look on his face that she very much feared did not bode well. Then it was her turn, and if her voice cracked a little with the tension that good man of God appeared not to notice. But as she let go of the minister's hand, instead of walking down the steps, she stood rooted there – and her daughters rooted beside her – to watch Mr. Thayer meet the minister.
"Christ is risen!" said the pastor enthusiastically, gripping Reggie's hand in fellowship. There was a long silence as Reggie seemed to come into the present. He looked down at their two clasped hands, then looked back up at the other man. He tilted his head to one side and raised his great eyebrows in polite surprise.
"Indeed?" he said.
And, gathering up his brood, he led them away.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo
Cold but severe clear weather today here at the lake. Our journey and arrival were not without excitement, of course, me being me, and having the famous Phelps luck. After we loaded the Tahoe to the point of suspension-creak, we started it up and got a light on the dash that said the transfer case was in Neutral. I pushed the button to put it back in 2-WD. No joy. Pulled out the operator's manual. Transfer case not in index, but for transmission see p. 2-26. There it said not to put the transfer case in Neutral unless the parking brake is engaged because Park won't work if transfer case in Neutral. Fair enough. See page 3-32 for how to put transfer case in Neutral. Presumably this would give the lay reader an indication of how to take it out of Neutral, too. Page 3-32 explained that R stands for Reverse, and should be used when backing up the vehicle is desired. It went on to explain the uses of the other gears, and what 2WD, and HI, LO and On-Demand 4WD were good for, and said that for information on putting the transfer case in Neutral, see, you guessed it, page 2-26. Drove to All-Trans transmission, where they put it on the computer and the lift and discovered that there's a slightly leaky seal on the back of the transfer case; they didn't have and couldn't find a new seal, but filled the fluid back up and blessed our trip up here and back, and said they'd fix it on Tuesday. By now it was 11:30 a.m., not the 8:00 a.m. start we'd planned, but what the hell. With stops for supplies and such we got here at around 4:30 p.m.
I scouted for mice -- dead or alive, mice must removed from any premises to be occupied by The Lovely Former Ada Santiago of Ponce, Puerto Rico, so it shall be written, so it shall be done. No mice. Turned on the heat, the refrigerator; closed the faucets and the petcock on the water heater, and flipped the circuit breaker for the water pump, which fired up nicely and all hell broke loose. With a loud bang gallons of very cold lake water began spraying all over the basement through the very suddenly separated joint where the in-flow pipe meets the overhead water filter. Frantic expletives ensued, but I got the breaker open again. I am no kind of plumber. I got out my pipe wrenches and vise-grips and such and determined that even with all that weaponry, there was no effing way I was going to do anything about this. Called a local licensed plumbing and heating purveyor. Contract killers work cheaper than these guys, but they are very pleasant, very efficient, very professional, very effective, and very willing to work on Good Friday evening (for overtime rates, they cautioned) -- unlike any of the three jack-leg plumbers I know up here, who work very cheap, but none of whom was to be found.
Plumber Pat asked my permission to finish his dinner before driving up the mountain to us, which I very magnanimously granted. I mean, what the hell. That's me all over, magnanimous. When he came he showed me the flaw in the installation that had led to this catastrophic failure (too much tension on the joint); he added a new section, using the new plastic pipe that apparently installs with a butter knife and seals with a cheerful thought (I have GOT to learn how to use that stuff), and we turned on the system. "I hear water," said Pat, and it was true. Pressure had blown yet another joint, this one at the back of the basement, but thankfully just this side of where the pipes enter the crawlspace under the kitchen, said crawlspace being not much more than 18 inches of almost inaccessible dismal, dark, and filth. This new break needed to be re-soldered, but Pat made short work of it, and left whistling. The office will send me a bill, which is probably a much safer system for the on-site mechanics, who might be in danger from suddenly penniless customers presented with bills, and therefore with nothing left to lose.
Anyway, as I say, today is beautiful, though chilly. Ada forgot her camera at home but I used the Flip Mino to document the ice remaining at the edges in our little inlet. Only random minor piles of snow are left in the woods, in shady spots. Otherwise we're right on the verge of Mud, which is the season that passes for Spring up here. Soon it will be black-fly time, and warm enough to get back to work screening in the porch against the black flies, who will probably be more vicious than ever this year because they'll sense that the screening-in in progress is directed against them, and they will be hurt, and feel the need to lash out. In the meantime I just saw a couple of little patches of ice being blown down the lake by today's brisk t'gallants'l breezes, and I shouted, "Icebergs!" and ran out to FlipMino them, much to Ada's startlement, and now I'm back inside writing to you, Dear Reader, while continuing to murder, by hand-held vacuum cleaner, the spontaneously regenerating lady bugs who are popping into existence at the rate of approximately 8.4 per hour at the sunny window next to my computer. I expect that the pain in my wounded shoulder, which pain has been exacerbated by earlier today moving the canoe and kayaks off the shelter of the porch, where they had spent the winter, will abate with the liberal application of Labatt's Blue, which commences now. Stand clear of that refrigerator. I have just decided to take my retirement in installments, a day at a time whenever the opportunity arises, like Travis McGee, in case these are the only retirement days I ever get, and so for the rest of today, I am retired. Bottoms up.
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