Dino Day

I'm going to start with today's toss.  I dusted the bedroom this morning and, of course, moved all the stuff on top of the dressers and the bookcases and such.  On one of the dressers was this ceramic dinosaur bank that I've never used and is a constant temptation to OJ whenever he's visiting.  He wants to play with it but I'm afraid he'll break it and hurt himself.  Today it occurred to me that it's something I've never used and will never use and it needed to find a new home.  Why was I keeping it?  Out it went.

More tomatoes are turning red.  Seems like every time I go out into the garden more of them are a shade of pink or orange.  Yay!

This little chickadee came to the feeder today.  I love them, they're so zippy and bouncy.

I saw this yellow safflower in the asparagus patch and wondered where it came from.  Then I realized that I put safflower seeds in the platform feeder and the chipmunks climb up to stuff their cheek pouches with the seeds and then scamper down to "hide" them in the ground.  Sometimes they sprout and this one grew to flower.  And it has a bug!

This afternoon I cast on a preemie hat.  When I pulled out the yarn a different hat pattern came with it so that's what I made.  The pattern calls for a pompom.  I'm undecided about making a tiny one for it or not.

05 August--Barbara Malcolm, Better Than Mom's. 

Brady was resistant at first when Fay suggested he hire Naomi.  “Not on your life.  I do not want one of those druggies and sluts back there in my kitchen.” 

“Brady, I am surprised at you.  You have spent all of your pension and most of your savings to drag this place back from the brink.  And you have kept it afloat even after the interstate was built and Mason Street stopped funneling trucks and tourists to your door.”  She glared at him, her fists on her hips in the universal frustrated woman pose.  “This would be a perfect job for Naomi and I happen to know for a fact that she knows how to make gravy without lumps.” 

Brady matched her pose with the universal stubborn man’s pose of arms crossed across his chest.  “And how do you know Naomi makes unlumpy gravy?” 

“Because she feeds me nearly every night.” 

“What?” 

Fay dropped her fists from her hips and began picking at a ragged cuticle.  “Well, when she found out I either bring something home from here or nuke a frozen burrito or eat a jar of salsa with chips, she hollered at me, said I would be getting rickets or scurvy or some such one day and she did not want that on her conscience.”  Fay plopped down on the end stool at the counter and rested her cheek on her hand.  “She sends her son Marcus down the hall about three times a week with a plate.  Sometimes she will call, and I go over there and eat, or she might bring a casserole down and we will eat at my place.  She is a real good cook, Brady, and she really needs a job.” 

Brady leaned his forearms on the counter next to her.  “So how come she is on welfare if she is such a good cook?” 

“She has been trying to find a job that will let her keep closer tabs on Marcus.” 

“Who is Marcus?  Her pimp?” 

Fay’s hand swung up and slapped Brady’s arm.  “Man, the way you talk.  No, Marcus is Naomi’s fourteen-year-old son.  She is trying to keep him in school, so he does not become like the other slackers.  His football coach thinks he might have a future as a, what did she say, oh yeah, a running back whatever that is.  So, she takes him to school of a morning, picks him up in the afternoon after practice, and makes sure he does his homework instead of hanging out under the streetlight with his buddies getting into trouble.” 

Brady grunted. 

Fay kept talking.  “I thought that if you gave Naomi a job, she could run home after the early rush, take Marcus to school (it is only about eight blocks), and then be back almost before we knew she was gone.  She would get off an hour before school is out so the afternoon and evening would be no problem.  What do you think, Brady?  Are you willing to give her a try?” 

Brady got up and poured himself a cup of coffee.  He lifted the cup inquiringly at Fay, but she shook her head.  “I might,” Brady said.  “Is she interested in working here or is this one of your harebrained ideas?” 

“Those punch cards weren’t a harebrained idea, were they?  I thought I would run the idea by you first.  I did not want to get Naomi’s hopes up if you were totally against it.” 

“So how are you going to handle it?  Just tell her flat out I will give her a job?” 

Fay snorted, a very unladylike and un-Fay-like sound.  “No.  I thought I would float the idea by her like I had just thought of it, tonight at supper.  Then suggest she stop in tomorrow after the breakfast rush, but before lunch, and maybe you could offer her a chance to help out, just to see how the two of your work together.  I mean, it will still be busy enough that she will have to kind of leap into action and you can see how she would handle the pressure.”  

“That would be all right, I guess.  If her gravy is as good as you say, she will be hired.” 

Fay leaped off the stool, kissed his cheek, and swung around him into the kitchen.

 The two men sitting at the end of the counter nursing cups of coffee nudged each other, looked at Brady, and said together, “Oooh, Brady.” 

He looked at them and turned to go back to his stove.  As he shouldered his way through the swinging door he said, “Shut up.” 

Today would have been Durwood's birthday.  He'd have been 81 years old.  It was a tough day.  I miss the old guy.

--Barbara