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A bit before eleven-thirty last night my son called me to say that purple car (my father's car) had been causing him adventures and he thought it was driving well enough right then but he was on his way from Oakland, so . . . "And you called me to warn me that you might be needing to be rescued later?" I asked.
"Um, yeah," he said.
"Well, that sucks, but I sleep next to the phone."
This morning, he's home, and I didn't get a call last night, so I suppose that purple car didn't cause him any more adventures but I guess it has to go to Greg at the Engine Room to get its insides sorted out. White car (mine) needs a new alternator and I want to get its suspension checked out because the road to Gloria's has descended into pothole hell and descends a little deeper every day, and especially deeper after every rain. Lately I have to take that road so slowly the speedometer doesn't register it. I should document it. The road is pretty close to unbelievable, and is evidence for why it's better to have taxes and governments with their own transportation departments than private roads with only voluntary expenditures by the immediate neighbors. And green car (the nice fellow's) needs an oil change.
On another front, I took Gloria to the U.U. church yesterday. I don't usually do Sundays, but her eldest who's supposed to do Sundays was in Guatemala doing archaeology. It was pleasant and I don't get why none of her family will take her. She said there were too many people and it's true that it was confusing for her at the end when they were breaking down the meeting room to have room for coffee and cake. But I think she'd like to go again. I didn't suddenly become a church goer but I surely wouldn't mind taking her again even though there kept being triggers for weeping about my father. I don't mind crying now and then. My friend Elizabeth lit a candle for him, in this ritual thing they do where they light candles of sorrow or joy and talk about the dead person or the cancer remission or whatever. The songbook was cool, very thick, with many good songs in it and a preface that reads like one of those jokes that U.U. people tell about themselves. Naturally I think if you're going to have a church at all you're sort of obligated to have good music.
Gloria was also pleased because there was a woman carrying a little dog like it was a purse.
On still another front, Elizabeth's picturewindow was shattered by a large dark grey raptorish bird flying through it (and leaving unharmed after much effort by Elizabeth and her lodger). I suspect it is the same type of hawk we saw so much of on our way South a couple of weeks ago.
"Um, yeah," he said.
"Well, that sucks, but I sleep next to the phone."
This morning, he's home, and I didn't get a call last night, so I suppose that purple car didn't cause him any more adventures but I guess it has to go to Greg at the Engine Room to get its insides sorted out. White car (mine) needs a new alternator and I want to get its suspension checked out because the road to Gloria's has descended into pothole hell and descends a little deeper every day, and especially deeper after every rain. Lately I have to take that road so slowly the speedometer doesn't register it. I should document it. The road is pretty close to unbelievable, and is evidence for why it's better to have taxes and governments with their own transportation departments than private roads with only voluntary expenditures by the immediate neighbors. And green car (the nice fellow's) needs an oil change.
On another front, I took Gloria to the U.U. church yesterday. I don't usually do Sundays, but her eldest who's supposed to do Sundays was in Guatemala doing archaeology. It was pleasant and I don't get why none of her family will take her. She said there were too many people and it's true that it was confusing for her at the end when they were breaking down the meeting room to have room for coffee and cake. But I think she'd like to go again. I didn't suddenly become a church goer but I surely wouldn't mind taking her again even though there kept being triggers for weeping about my father. I don't mind crying now and then. My friend Elizabeth lit a candle for him, in this ritual thing they do where they light candles of sorrow or joy and talk about the dead person or the cancer remission or whatever. The songbook was cool, very thick, with many good songs in it and a preface that reads like one of those jokes that U.U. people tell about themselves. Naturally I think if you're going to have a church at all you're sort of obligated to have good music.
Gloria was also pleased because there was a woman carrying a little dog like it was a purse.
On still another front, Elizabeth's picturewindow was shattered by a large dark grey raptorish bird flying through it (and leaving unharmed after much effort by Elizabeth and her lodger). I suspect it is the same type of hawk we saw so much of on our way South a couple of weeks ago.