I Took The Day Off

 I didn't do much today beyond the basics--yoga, meals, shower--you know, the basics.  I walked up the street to visit with my neighbor, LJ, for a few minutes and admire his ATV which looks like a stripped down Jeep with smaller tires and no doors.  I can tell how much he likes it by how clean he keeps it.  Looks like a fun toy.  We talked about social distancing and getting older, typical 2020 conversation.

The Stella d'Oro lilies are still going.  Not every day and not on every plant but there's usually a bloom or two shining out from the top of the retaining wall.

The sedum is starting to bloom.  These clusters will turn pink in the fall.

 

 

 

My preferred knitting needles are wood.  I like that they aren't too slippery so the yarn grips them a little and my stitches don't go fonging off when I don't want them to but the other day I realized that the yarn was gripping the needles a bit too much.  Maybe my stitches were too tight but, whatever the reason, I felt like I was fighting the needles so I went downstairs and dug out metal circular needles in the correct size and knitted the cast toe sock onto them.  Much better.  This is the beginning of cast toe sock number four.

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

Naomi was definitely an asset in the diner.  She worked hard and had an angel’s touch with biscuits, they nearly floated out of the pan.  She thought Brady’s insistence on having three homemade soups on the menu every day was right on, and on her afternoons off would scour cookbooks in the small branch library nearby for recipes to add to her repertoire, especially vegetarian ones.  On Sunday’s customers in the diner were treated to Naomi singing along with the radio.  She begged time off to go to church where she was in the choir so she would come to work right after the service, uplifted and filled with music.  Brady would have the radio tuned to his favorite jazz station and Naomi would sing along while she cooked to keep the buffet filled. 

“You missed your calling, Naomi,” Brady said, after fielding compliments both on the food and her singing, which floated out the kitchen with the enticing, smells of simmering onions and peppers.  

“What are you talking about?” she said.  

“You can really sing.  Even the customers say you have a voice like an angel.” 

“Do you mean the customers can hear me?”  She put her hand over her heart. 

“Of course, they can.  You are singing like you do in church.  I am sure the boys down at the muffler shop can hear you too if the wind is blowing right.  You are really belting out the tunes.” 

Naomi turned pale.  “I am so sorry, Brady.  I will stop.”  She plunged her hands into a huge bowl of meatloaf she was mixing. 

“Oh no, you will not,” Brady said.  “I like your singing, the customers like your singing.  I hear you singing, and I think you like working here.  Please do not stop.” 

The roar of a large group of motorcycles going by interrupted the peace of the Sunday morning.  In a very few minutes, the roar was back, and it was obvious that a number of them turned into the parking lot and stopped.  All over the diner people decided not to linger over coffee.  They called for their bills, hastily paid, and left just as the first leather-clad, bearded man in black pulled open the door.

            Those customers not lucky enough to have been served yet or those only on their first trip to the brunch buffet were trapped.  People by the windows looked out to see the double row of shiny black and chrome motorcycles neatly parked at the edge of the lot.  Cold visions of Hell’s Angels and the havoc they wrought in 1960s California raced through minds that had been chilled by the movie when they had first seen it through the fogged up windshield of the drive-in.   Marlon Brando in black leather, cigarette dangling from his lips, sailing down the highway followed by his gang, though scary in cinematic black and white, was not nearly as frightening as the flesh and blood men who burst into the diner; their rude laughter shattering the Sunday morning calm. 

Fay hurried to greet them hoping to steer them to the table in back where she could keep an eye on them and they were furthest from the buffet, trying to give the regular customers, the normal customers, a chance to eat their food in peace.  But she was unsuccessful.

 The one she assumed was the leader, a tall grizzled man with ice blue eyes, skulls tattooed on his knuckles, and Fearless Leader embroidered on his jacket, said, “That is okay, babe.  We will just sit there.”  He pointed at the currently empty twelve seat counter. 

“Oh, okay, fine,” she stammered, hating that her pulse began to race when he winked at her.  She hurried around the counter to set coffee mugs at their places as they sat down and was surprised that three of them wanted decaf.  She watched their confidence as they walked to their stools, heavy boots thudding on the linoleum, pulling their leather gloves off, and laughing with high spirits.

The seven men that had followed Fearless Leader into the diner were a motley lot.  Most of them had beards wild and tangled from the wind and wore bandanas, mostly black, tied tight above their eyebrows.  Fay thought Fearless Leader looked like Sean Connery with his silver hair, neatly trimmed beard, and icy blue eyes; Fay thought Sean Connery was hot.  The other seven were a mixture of tall and short, portly and thin, with graying hair worn Oakridge Boys style or bald.  She suspected that the bald ones were really balding and had shaved their heads in a vain attempt to make it look like they were bald on purpose, instead of by accident.  They were all in black leather jackets, all in chaps—some with fringes and studs, some plain and unadorned.  The sound of their footsteps in their heavy black boots echoed in the diner.  One or two of them wore a single earring in his left ear lobe. 

Fay could never remember if wearing a flower over her left ear meant she was single or married.  She thought, I wonder if there is a similar code for earrings.  A quick glance at their hands revealed an even split in the wedding ring department.  Dang, Fearless Leader wore a ring.  Oh well, can’t win them all. 

“Hey, did you see the name of this place?” the one with Mom’s Revenge embroidered on his jacket said, looking proud. 

“Yeah, Better Than Mom’s,” Thunder-pants said with an evil grin.  “You are not much of a cook, so they do not have far to go.” 

“Hey, watch what you are saying,” Mom’s Revenge said, and he shoved Thunder-pants into the wall, a clatter of gelatin molds fell around him as he staggered upright.  The men started laughing at the mess they had made. 

From behind the counter, Fay pointed at Thunder-pants.  “You pick those up, mister.”   She turned to point at Mom’s Revenge.  “And you help.” 

That wiped the smiles off the men’s faces.  “Yes, ma’am” they said together, and they bent to pick up the fallen decorations. 

The other six bikers chuckled and shoved their way to the counter, leaving spaces for the other two, as if they had assigned seats or a pecking order in the group.  Oh lord, this is going to be a long day, Fay thought. 

Today's toss was a stack of cookbooks I seldom used and won't use again.  A couple of them were Durwood's what-to-do-with-too-many-tomatoes books which I don't have to worry about since I didn't plant a half dozen tomato plants therefore I can keep up with eating the produce.  Tossing something every day has turned into a "basic."

I spent the afternoon watching the first three episodes of Downton Abbey.  I'd forgotten how much I liked it.  I might do something tomorrow or maybe not.  Time will tell.  I'm trying to stop should-ing myself.

--Barbara