Lazy Sunday

 It was a beautiful day today.  I went over to DS's this morning to spend a little time with the family and to deliver a bunch of canning jars to my wonderful DIL1.  Evidently jars are scarce this year so instead of donating them to Goodwill I got to give them to them for homemade pickles, applesauce, and tomato sauce.  It felt good and was a great way to start the day.  The rest of the day I goofed off.

It wasn't until after dark that I realized that I'd neglected to take any pictures of fruit or flower to put on here so I went out with my camera and snapped a few.  But first, there was the moon shining in the clear sky.  I know it looks like it's a full moon but it isn't, only about three-quarters, still bright and beautiful.

Here's today's token lily.

And the ripening tomato.  In the dark.

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

Brady felt a bit awkward sitting in the chair in front of his desk in his office.  He was usually the one lolling in the ratty padded desk chair he had gotten on close-out at Big Lots because it was missing a caster.  He had bought a replacement caster at the hardware store that was just a teensy bit bigger so sitting down in his chair was an adventure.  Depending on where the just too big wheel ended up, the chair either tried to throw you face down on the desk or toss you over backwards.  He smiled when he watched Officer Bates gingerly settle his bony behind in the chair.  Ah, Brady thought, he has already learned.  This is one smart cop.  Officer Bates leafed through his notebook, eyes down, in what Brady interpreted, correctly as it turned out, as a ploy to put him off balance. 

After about five minutes that Brady spent calmly sipping his coffee watching the policeman play his part, Officer Bates cleared his throat, and squinted at him.  “Having financial problems, Mr. Gallagher?” 

Brady nearly burst out laughing.  How clichéd can you get?  “No, I am not.  Are you?” 

Officer Bates wondered what made the people in this place think that his interrogation was a two-way conversation.  “Did you hire someone to come in and trash the place, Mr. Gallagher?” 

“No, Officer Bates, I did not.  I love this place and my customers.  I have every intention of cleaning up the mess and getting open again as soon as possible.  Tomorrow if I can.”

Officer Norman Bates scribbled furiously in his notebook.  He wished he were like the British police officers he read about in his favorite mysteries.  They always had a convenient underling to sit quietly in a corner taking notes, while the Superintendent strode about barking questions and intimidating the suspect.    But no, here he sat hunched over this too small desk in the cramped office of a diner in a town the world was passing by, investigating a crime probably done by some illiterate high school dropout with no job, a pregnant girlfriend, and a street name like Metal Head who he would never find or, if he did find him, the guy would be too stupid to think of a believable lie but the evidence would be too thin and some slick tongued court appointed attorney who was not even old enough to shave would get him off on a technicality and he would have to look at young Metal Head hanging with his gang as he cruised the neighborhood in his patrol car and know that the little creep was laughing. 

God, he hated his job.  Even though he had passed the sergeant’s test years ago, old Wendell was grimly holding on to the only sergeant position in the small force and Norman was sure Wendell would die in harness.  Wendell sat and snoozed behind the Property Department desk four days a week, bleary-eyed and confused.  Every time he tried to organize the crap hole that he had let Property become things got lost and the mess got bigger.  Twice a year the captain drafted a couple of the younger officers to go in on a Saturday to clean up.  The next Monday Wendell would come in, survey his neat and shiny domain, and complain to anyone who would listen that he could not find anything since some comedian had messed up his filing system.  More like a piling system, Officer Bates thought. 

But he had this particular crime to investigate today and he was absolutely certain that Frick and Frack, or Robinson and Davies, would inadvertently destroy any tiny bits of evidence there might be in that unholy mess out front.  He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that they would find the fingerprints of every resident of Stinson on the door handle overlaid with the prints of various truckers and vagrants.  His vacant gaze fixed on Brady. 

Brady sat calmly waiting for Officer Bates’ next question.  Brady could wait forever.  He had spent nearly twenty-five years in the navy.  Everyone knew that the real motto of the military, whatever branch you had the misfortune to experience, was hurry up and wait.  So he could wait with the best of them.  He was an Olympic class waiter, patient and happy to be sitting indoors and in a semi-comfortable chair.  Not that he was not totally upset that his pride and joy had been invaded, but he was not about to let anyone see it.  Oh, maybe he would ask Naomi out tonight and bend her ear for an hour or so over a few drinks and a bowl of bar pretzels.  He felt so easy with Naomi and he had been so reluctant to hire her.  Not only because she was Fay’s friend but also because he’d only ever worked with men in galleys, never women.

Today's toss was a bag of tins.  You know, those decorative boxes that your granny or great-aunt put butter cookies in at Christmas time or your mother-in-law used for a sewing box.  Those.  I found about a half-dozen of them downstairs, bagged 'em, and put them in the car.  What will I find tomorrow?  Wait and see.

Today would have been Mom's 92nd birthday.  Happy Birthday, Mom!

--Barbara