Fire plugs, walkers, and another new word

 

My friend Carol a the base of the world's largest (tilted) fire plug

Fire plugs don’t enter my consciousness much. I was never one of those kids who opened one on the streets of Chicago in summer to get a cool shower. And nowadays, I don’t think they are found much on city streets, are they? But a fire plug gave me a good laugh last night.

Subie and I went to dinner—a whole different story—and she mentioned that our friend Carol and her husband are in the Carolinas. Subie suggested that the highlight of their trip would be a visit to the world’s biggest fire plug, located in Columbia, SC. I was mildly interested, though I hoped they would have other and better reasons for driving all that distance. I love the Carolinas—having spent summer vacations there for several years when my folks retired to Tryon, NC. But I never went to see a fire plug.

After our supper, I went home, cleaned up details on my desk, and started the new entry in the long-running Murder, She Wrote series. Killing in a Koi Pond is something like fifty-fourth out of fifty-five books in the series, but it is the first one that my virtual friend Terrie Moran wrote. She and I are acquaintances through the Guppies subgroup of Sisters in Crime, and we use the same webmaster. So I feel free to fall her friend even though we’ve never actually met. I wanted to read Killing in a Koi Pond to support Terrie and to see how she handled jumping into a long-running series. I think it’s a coup to be asked to “co-author” with Jessica, and I am, as most cozy writers are, a fan of Jessica Fletcher, Cabot Cover-syndrome aside.

So I started the book, and within the first six pages, Jessica is in Columbia visiting the world’s largest fire plug. I have lived all the long years of my life without hearing of this monument and suddenly I hear of it twice in the space of a couple of hours. Naturally I googled it and discovered it was done in 2001 by an artist who calls himself Blue Sky. He had done a mural in 1985 and placed the fire plug so that it complemented the mural. The monument is forty feet tall and weighs 675,000 pounds. It is deliberately off center, imbalanced, as the Leaning Tower of Pisa—in Columbia, it looks like maybe a truck ran into it. Originally it was meant to be a fountain, but the spigots stopped flowing and repair became too costly. If you’re ever in Columbia, don’t miss it.

In other news of the day, I tried out the upright walker, now that it is assembled. And I am devastated to say that it will have to be returned. The base is much wider and larger than my seated walker, so that it is a clumsy thing to manuever and has the turning radius of an eighteen-wheeler. On my one trial I felt it was unmanageable, and the physical therapist likened it to a huge monster. This is one case where Jordan gets to say, “I told you so.” I’ll  stick with my rolling walker with a seat.

So now, Christian and Jacob must disassemble it, though Christian tells me it really is in four large parts held together by only two screws. That alone gives me pause—sounds like it could easily come apart and drop me on the ground. Amazon has a good returns policy, and we will get it off to them shortly.

And today’s new word is—ta dah!—“sockdolager.” Hats off to retired Fort Worth Star-Telegram columnist Roger Summers who used it in reference to an upcoming local election. Our mayor announced her retirement some weeks ago and has been duly replaced by a young woman who has the support of “establishment Fort Worth.” Then this week, county judge Glenn Whitley announced his looming retirement, and outgoing Mayor Betsy Price immediately announced her candidacy for the judge’s position. And then we hear that the new mayor, Mattie Parker, has political aspirations beyond the mayoralty and will be running for the House of Representatives seat now held (for a long time) by Kay Granger, when Granger retires. I wonder if anyone has told Granger that gleeful hands are rubbing together in anticipation of the retirement she hasn’t yet announced. All of that is a digression from the word sockdolager, which means a forceful blow or an exceptional person or thing. Hmm—hope Mr. Summers tells us which definition he had in mind.

And life goes on in Cowtown, where it is now hot and steamy. Summer has come, and I’m already wishing for the rains of earlier in the week.

Rain turns into sunshine

 

Once again, we woke, early, to heavy rain and loud thunder. Sophie cowered by my bed, and evening gray seemed reluctant to turn to daylight. But If I thought we were in for another rainy day, I was mistaken. By ten o’clock, the sun was shining, and the world was beginning to dry out. Now they tell us we’re pretty much through with rain. Not sure I trust that, but we’ll see.

The physical therapist came this morning. I thought it was his last day, but he said no, he would be here again Thursday. Nothing personal, because he is a nice guy, but I was a little let down. I have to get up and going earlier than I like on the days he comes. Still, I can tell that I am much stronger since we’ve been doing the exercises. I am fairly religious about doing them on the days he doesn’t come.

My upright walker is finally assembled, and I will admit it looks like a giant insect of something in my bedroom. I fully expect nightmares. Jordan does not like it, does not trust it, did not want me to try it tonight. It’s been a long day, and I am tired, so I readily agreed to wait until Dan the PT man comes on Thursday.

My busy schedule of appointments—Dan today, a haircut tomorrow, Dan again Thursday, the home health nurse on Friday—means that I open the driveway gate most days, at least for a while. It becomes a problem only because the tiny dog next door has discovered she can crawl under the fence. But then she finds herself in our driveway, bewildered, without any idea of what to do next. It’s only a danger when the gate is open and we don’t notice, because she could go wandering off into the world. Thank heaven, Sophie seems to have outgrown that urge. Soph knows she has a pretty good deal where she is.

The highlight of my day was a trip to Central Market, courtesy neighbor Mary Dulle. First time I’ve been in a grocery store since March 2020 when quarantine began. Just being there, looking at all the produce and grocery items and meat in the butcher counter, was a treat. I had a long list, Mary not so much, but she was so good about getting things I could not reach from the handicap cart which I drove. I must admit I love driving that cart, me who does not particularly like to drive a car. I’m good at maneuvering the cart, even backing it up. I spent way too much this morning, simply because I saw things I couldn’t resist—the biggest, most beautiful beefsteak tomato ever, chocolate truffles, a wedge of Port Salut cheese. What I didn’t buy: Wagyu steak that looked three inches high.

I was delighted that the store requires masks—if you don’t have one, there is a lady just inside the door with a supply. A few customers were unmasked, but not many. We went at ten-thirty, which appears to be an ideal time—very few other customers, no need to maneuver crowded aisles, etc. A great outing, and each time I leave the cottage, whether to dine or grocery shop, makes me more comfortable about getting out in the world. I wouldn’t say I have a case of pandemic anxiety, but I would definitely admit I’ve been way too comfortable staying at home.

Tonight we had a wonderful happy hour spread—the Port Salut I bought along with a cheese that is cheddar with strips of blue embedded (can’t remember the name) and an herbed goat cheese spread that I made this morning. Mary came to enjoy that with us. And then what amounted to a picnic supper—chicken burgers with a lemon basil sauce on potato buns with a slice of that huge tomato from today’s shopping, and a black bean/corn/feta salad. I am full and happy.

Though I have another confession: I didn’t sleep well last night for worrying about balancing the time schedule today. Dan was coming at 8:45, Mary at 10:30. I wanted to get the goat cheese spread into the fridge so the flavors would blend, and the bean salad was to chill at least six hours. In the wee hours of the morning I told myself over and over that the world would not end if none of that was done. But I couldn’t turn my mind away from it. And, of course, I got it all done in good time, read all my emails, did a little bit of business work, and had a good nap. I really need to master this compulsive, middle-of-the-night worrying. It’s only occasional but so annoying when it visits.

Sunshine all day tomorrow. Hooray!