Grand Central Station

 

That’s what the cottage was like today—Grand Central Station. The PT guy always comes early, sigh, so I was up and at my desk by eight, if not exactly dressed for the world and professionally presentable. I called the plumbing company to report a leaking pipe, and to my amazement, my favorite plumber was here by eight-thirty. So he and the PT guy crossed paths for the second time in less than a month. I’m sure Dan the PT man thinks I have an odd relationship with my plumber, but if he saw the bills he’d know exactly the nature of the relationship.

Actually, the plumber, Keith, has been keeping my house running for almost thirty years, and I consider him a good friend. And being one of his longtime customers has its advantages, as it did when a pipe burst during snowmageddon. Today it was a kitchen faucet that whistles and whines at us, especially when we’re washing dishes in my kitchen which has no dishwasher. I thought I could fix it, spent a long time on the phone with a Delta rep (it’s a Delta faucet) who said she’d send me the wrench or key to clean out the aerator. But then yesterday we noticed water collecting in the recycle bucket that is stored under there. So I called for Keith. His verdict: order a whole new head. Delta has amazing records—with my name and address, they pulled it right up, knew what I had, and are sending the head which has a lifetime warranty. But with a warning that we must “flush the system” before installing. I know how to install, but I guess I’ll have to call Keith again about the flushing part. Maybe he and Dan can meet again😊

They both left, and I sort of fiddled at my desk, waiting for the PT nurse who comes once a week and was due any minute. Instead of the nurse, we got a storm. The sky turned really dark and the rain, while not torrential, was pretty heavy—as it has been for day after depressing day. And the atmosphere also depressing. Impulsively I contacted the three friends I was to have supper with and suggested rescheduling. It took a bit of coordination to check everybody’s schedule, change the restaurant reservation, etc., but we are now on the Sunday supper. It reminded me of that old saying, “Morning gray, evening red/brings down rain on the traveler’s head/,morning red, evening gray, speeds the traveler on his way.” Not sure I got that right. But, of course, by late afternoon the sun came out, and it would have been a lovely evening to go to dinner. See that egg on my face? One friend wrote cheerily that she heard that egg and sunshine were good for your complexion.

The nurse never did come, so she’ll come tomorrow. Sigh. Another interruption in the middle of my work morning. I did actually write a bit on my new mystery today. Working on getting myself back into the middle of it after too many distractions.

Late this afternoon, the yard crew came, which led to the usual frantic barking from Sophie, who now sleeps peacefully at my feet. And then, since the rain had stopped, our usual Tuesday night neighbors came for happy hour. Though the sun was shining, it was still too damp to sit outside, so we were in the cottage. Much talk of politics, both the city run-off schedule for June 3 and the 2022 election in which we are all determined that Governor Abbott must go. Abbott is pretty sure of his base, but I read somewhere that Beto O’Rourke, who says he won’t run, is out-polling Abbott. Politics is a funny business.

I am ambivalent about Beto, though I was fiercely for him when he challenged Cruz Whatever, but Democrats must field a strong candidate against Abbott. He and the Republican controlled legislature have been on the wrong side of every issue: abortion voter suppression, liquor to go (I don’t mind at all if people drink, enjoy wine myself, but the potential for deadly accidents and short tempers is appalling), critical race theory (which is a fancy way of saying do not teach the racist history of this country), constitutional carry (another fancy phrase that means almost anyone can walk around with a loaded gun any time—combine that with liquor to go and what could possibly go wrong?), health care for trans teens (though I understand, with gratitude, that one is dead for this session). I am appalled. One of my friends wrote that she was sure the Republicans are working toward a state where only white, male property owners can vote—they’ll call it constitutional originality. I’d laugh, if it weren’t so serious.

Now, as grand central station aka the cottage closes down, Jacob is outside in the dark hitting practice golf balls into the cage he has in the driveway. The other day he presented a sight so touching it almost made me teary—rain, gentle but steady, was coming down, and Jacob was out there, hitting golf balls and oblivious of the soaking he was getting. God bless Jacob…and God bless golf. I have much to say about teens who find something they are passionate about, but I’ll save it for another time.

Sleep tight. I hope each of you have found what in life you’re passionate about.