Must be time to go to the Vietnamese nail salon and get them filled and filed. How come when I have things to type they're always long? And how come nail salons are nearly exclusively the purview of the Vietnamese? Is there some sort of cultural imperative toward acrylic nails? My brain feels scrambled today so I make no promises as to the coherence of what follows.
May 17 (Happy 3rd Anniversary, DS & DIL1!)--France, Watch, Young Louis XIV on Horseback. Time was old at my grandmother's house. She lived with tings from the past, nothing modern made its way into her life without a battle. When Mama got worried over her being out there all alone and insisted on having a telephone put in "for emergencies, Mama, just for emergencies," Grandmama gave in with poor grace. She had the telephone company man install the hated black intrusion, as she called it, in the smallest, stuffiest closet in the hall and no matter how loud or long it rang you couldn't hear it from four steps away. There was no gas stove or electric lights. In the pantry there was an ice box, a wooden cabinet with thick sides that needed a big b lock of ice in one compartment to keep food cold. Getting the ice was Uncle Leo's job. He lived on his wife's family farm down the road and come over on Saturday mornings with the block wrapped in two burlap sacks int he back of his midnight blue Ford pickup. He'd drop the tailgate with a clang and rattle of chains saying, "Ma, I don't know why you don't get power out here." She'd stand with her arms folded saying, "So you have a reason to visit your mother every week. I bet if I didn't need ice I'd never see you." She'd turn to go into the house to take the tiny bit of the previous week's ice out of the box and call over her shoulder. "Don't forget to pour some lime down the outhouse before you leave too." Why couldn't she get indoor plumbing like everyone else, I wondered. I hated the outhouse.
That's all, folks! Time to go home from work. I was here from 10-5 and had 2 customers. Two!