December 29, 2024
Hold the chicken
Today begins in not quite the usual way. I’m down at Umbria soon after it opens again, but this time I grab one of the larger tables in the back because I’m holding it for a coffee date. I walk comfortably back to the table, set my coffee down with spilling nary a drop, pull out the iPad and prepare to fill a few minutes while I wait for the heated quiche to arrive when Julie, the woman sitting across the aisle from me says good morning, smiles and asks how my day is going so far.
And because I’m in some weird, mildly euphoric state of mind that doesn’t really fit any of my normal introverted behaviors, I take the invitation and walk across the space to sit down at her table and talk about what it feels to have suddenly been reborn. Twenty minutes later we’re still at it when I realize my coffee’s getting cold, and the quiche which arrived behind my back is too so I excuse myself to go start breakfast.
While I’m eating, she smiles again and says: well, I have an autoimmune disease too. So then it’s her turn, I listen and ask questions while I eat, and then half an hour later she excuses herself and moves on. So that’s different. Very different, the sort of thing that happens to me maybe once a year if that because I just don’t naturally reach out and expose myself to others like that. It did often in the past though when I was house-husbanding Shawn, because I had an icebreaker - walking the neighborhood with our dog, or sitting in a playground chatting with moms and dads while our kids played on the equipment.
So that leaves me about an hour to hold the table until the reason we’re here today steps in the door, looks down and claims a seat facing me. It’s Johnathan, the man who drove us home from the airport five weeks ago (really? Can so much really have happened with us in only five weeks?)
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And a minute later Rachael turns the corner and sits down too; and before we forget until it’s too late we grab the nearest server and ask her to do the honors for us. Its a toast: to us, and to our friend Frank who’s seventy-eighth birthday is today.
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A fantastic hour or two of nonstop conversation ensues, all three of us getting to know each other really for the first time. We’re just having discussions about whether Jonathan should drive back over next week so we can treat him to a deep dish pie at the Star, when I call time. While we’ve been chatting I’ve cracked the iPad, sneaked a peak at the weather, and was surprised to see there’s an unexpected break in it for the next few hours. Seize the day, let’s shoot the gap while it’s open.
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2 weeks ago
2 weeks ago
The photos on the camera aren’t as sharp either. It’s great for zooming in and spotting things quickly, but it’s not the same as a real optical zoom lens. I suspect I’ll find and identify many more birds with the camera and maybe the Canon, but I’ll bet virtually all of the bird shots I’m pleased with still come from the Lumix. I’m back to thinking I’ll see if I can get one of my older ones refurbished so I have a backup.
2 weeks ago
After that, I head to the nearest streetcar stop to head back north to our neighborhood where I’ve got a 2:30 lunch date with Elizabeth. I get off at the nearest stop, on Johnson, and am just crossing the street to Jamison Square when I look back east and am startled by what I see. Rachael and I have biked that direction hundreds of times over the years on our way to the Broadway Bridge and a ride out to the Columbia River.
What’s changed is that for the first time we can see the complete Union Station. In the past only its Italianate tower was visible, rising above the now demolished warehouses of the old post office that came down over the last few years.
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2 weeks ago
It’s been over a week since I last had lunch with my sister and broke the news with her about my condition. In the meantime she’s been up to Seattle and back to spend time with dad, and my situation has changed dramatically in the meantime. Last time we were sitting back in a dark corner, I couldn’t read a menu without my flashlight, couldn’t actually see Elizabeth all that clearly, and it was a little tough getting home in the near-dark. Today I feel all but normal, and can even appreciate looking at reflections on the face of the glass-fronted building across the way beyond Tanner Springs Park. We have an interesting visit, but since it’s really just family business we’ll leave it at that.
Afterwards Elizabeth steps around the corner to a card shop while I head home thinking I’d appreciate a beer. I mention this to Rachael, thinking I might walk over to the Star and have a Run Wild IPA or pick up a few to bring home.
The smarter half of the team observes that Safeway is just as close in the other direction so I decide to go there. You’ll recall that this is the same Safeway we went to a week ago when we arrived from California, went shopping, and the checkout agent wouldn’t sell me a six pack because I didn’t have any ID on me proving I was legal. So that was strange.
Before I leave, Rachael and I joke about the funny idea that maybe I’ll get carded trying to buy an NA six pack too. Inconceivable of course. We enjoy a few laughs and then I leave, telling her to stay close to the phone in case she needs to walk over to Safeway by herself in the dark to bail me out
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I browse the long aisle of alcoholic beverages hoping to find an NA section and finally discover there’s a six pack I’m quite pleased to see - a Deschutes Black Butte NA porter, a brew that looks like one that would work for me. I take it up to the counter, the bored looking guy (the same one as last week, I think) rings up the sale and then asks to see my ID.
Words are spoken, voices are raised, a slightly embarrassing scene occurs, the assertion is too loudly made that a 78 year old man should be able to purchase a nonalcoholic beverage without carrying ID proving his age. Exactly what is the controlled substance here then, the can? This has the predicted result - nothing can be done. Read the policy on the wall, you can almost imagine him saying.
The shift manager is summoned, the dialog is repeated with the added suggestion that it’s ridiculous to make my wife walk over here three blocks in the dark to bail me out. It takes a few minutes for this young, hirsute, bored, tattooed and overweight shift manager to think this over and eye me to gauge whether I’m a well camouflaged teen trying to cost them both their jobs. He takes the risk, signs the sale slip himself to show he’s authorized it, and lets me know this is a one-time exception. Bring your ID next time, young man.
I slip out the door and escape with my contraband - angry at first, and then grinning at the generous gift I’ve just received - more grist for the blog. I walk home to tell my tale to Rachael, with a certain chicken salad sandwich on my mind.
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On another note, great story!
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