Car Repair Purgatory

I got to the dealership ten minutes early.  None of the mechanics, valets, and managers wore masks, so I sat on an outside bench in the shade.  I read a mystery while waiting for an oil change.  After I got tired of the plot twists, I took a walk and passed men wearing green vests and facemasks. They sprayed the weeds and bushes in front of the dealership. I went beyond the Wawa and took a cut-off to a medical building lot.  A man wearing a grimy coat sat on the ground near a rusty grocery cart.  A cluster of palms hid him from view from the road.  He said hello as I passed by.  “Morning,” I replied. 

I returned to the dealership, took a spot on a different bench, and tried to read.  I felt a sharp pinch on my calf, looked down, and flicked a green bug off my leg.  A red welt swelled on my forearm.  Chiggers?  The sprayers must have missed a spot.  I scampered to another bench.

After I saw several cars drive off, I went inside to find Drew, my repair manager.  Before I opened my mouth he said, “I just checked on your car.  There are two or three ahead of you.”  I answered, “It’s been an hour and a half.”

I took a walk in the opposite direction.  When I returned hot and sweaty, I found all benches occupied.

I finished the book while standing in a shadow alongside the showroom wall.  The heat had risen into the nineties.  I felt lightheaded.  A shaded bench opened, so I sat and slumped.  At the three-hour mark, a message appeared on my phone.  My car was ready.  I went inside to pay, but they wrote off the charge.  Drew said, “You shouldn’t have to wait that long…We had a couple mechanics call in sick…Covid.”

I felt punchy on the drive home.  I needed lunch and a cool drink.  When I pulled into my driveway, I checked the oil life reading.  It hadn’t changed to 100% as expected.  It was as if nothing had been done.

I told Judy not to talk to me.  After I cooled down, I explained what had happened.  Then I called the repair department.  A receptionist said, “They didn’t reset it?!  Go to “settings” on the main screen.  Follow the prompts.  If you can’t change it, bring it in.”  “Will I have to wait?” I whined.  “No,” she said, “We’ll take care of it right away.”

The car interior had heated up to about 100 degrees.  I opened two doors for a cross-breeze and followed the receptionist’s directions. But “settings” didn’t offer the right options.  I fished the manual out of the glove compartment and found different instructions.  After two tries, I reset the oil life reading.

After recovering from heat exhaustion, I considered raking leaves and mowing the lawn.  Judy said, “No!”  I took a nap instead.

“I Have a Right to Say What I Think”

Me: Judy and I went to the Easter service at Winter Park Presbyterian. The choir sang Handel’s “Halleluiah Chorus.” They did a good job weaving all those voices back and forth. And the church was packed!

Sal: You’ve been going to all these churches. Have you ever considered coming back to the Catholic Church?

Me: No.

Sal: Why not?

Me: I don’t like the organization. I don’t like the scandals. I don’t like the experiences I had in parochial school.

Sal: Well, you got married in the Catholic church, didn’t you?

Me: I didn’t want to. But I thought that it would make a big mess if we got married somewhere else. I would’ve been happy with a civil marriage.

Sal: Oh. But then you went to the Quakers all those years.

Me: We’d still be Quakers if we could find a good meeting.

Sal: I never understood why you would go there just to sit and stare.

Me: It’s silent worship. It’s like praying.

Sal: Well, you could do that at home. Why bother leaving the house? No music, no sermon, no–

Me: Haven’t you ever attended a silent vigil at church, where they do a reading, sing a hymn, then let you pray quietly as a group? Didn’t that mean anything to you?

Sal: I hate all those vigils where people stand by the side of a road and hold up signs and candles and… Wasn’t Nixon a Quaker?

Me: Yes, he was…

Sal: Are you done with teaching yet?

Me: I’ve got finals this week, but Crealde keeps going till mid-May. I’ve mostly got good students this semester, but things are getting weird in Florida.

Sal: Weird?

Me: The governor and the legislature have decided to attack higher education. They’re promoting a conspiracy theory that professors are trying to turn students into Communists. We’re the enemy.

Sal: It might just be me but living seems a lot harder these days.

Me: Hey, good news: I managed to finish a portrait commission yesterday. Remember how I hurt my back and couldn’t work for a week? I had to rush to catch up and managed to hurt my lower back again. But it’s done, and I’m delivering it on Monday.

Sal: Has she seen it yet?

Me: You mean the lady who commissioned the portrait? I attached a jpeg to an e-mail. She liked it.

Sal: Hmm.

Me: She did.

Sal: I always thought that you would’ve been a good pharmacist.

Me: What?

Sal: A pharmacist.

Me: You told me that before. I never considered it.

Sal: Sometimes, a common job is easier in the long run.

Me: There were no jobs for biology majors back then. Even if I had stuck it out, I would’ve had to go on for a masters and a doctorate. Biotech didn’t exist in the early 80s.

Sal: I always thought that you would’ve been a good pharmacist. You wouldn’t have to interact with people much. I know how you don’t like to talk to people.

Me: I never wanted to be a pharmacist. And doing something you hate isn’t easy.

Sal: Still…

Me: That ship sailed forty years ago. And you can’t predict what you’ll pick up along the way. I found out in grad school that I could teach. Teaching is what I do to make a living. Teaching.

Sal: My cousin Ralph, you know, the retired professor, called the other day. He sounded confused. He asked me what my maiden name was. I said, “It’s the same name as your last name.”

Me: Well, he might be getting a little cloudy upstairs. I met great aunt Martha at an opening when she was in her eighties. When we spoke, she seemed drifty. Maybe your cousin inherited the tendency from his mother.

Sal: Aunt Martha never liked me. I said what was on my mind, and she didn’t care for that one little bit.”

Me: Okay…

Sal: She didn’t want to have anything to do with me. But I have a right to say what I think. Don’t I?

Me: Umm…

Escape

Judy and I took a road trip to North Carolina to visit my son, his wife, and friends we had not seen in years.  We had only ventured to the Florida coast at Christmas, so this first long excursion of the year eased our growing pandemic agoraphobia.

We stayed at an Air B-n-b in Durham.  The house rested on the mid slope of a steep yard in a quiet, semi-wooded neighborhood.  Birdsong woke me in the morning instead of my Orlando neighbor’s muffler-less truck.  I never heard the customary nighttime sounds endemic to home: sirens, booming stereos, revving engines, and squealing tires.  The rental’s wooden floors did make every footstep a chorus of groans and creaks, but the noise sounded like friendly accompaniment.

We dined on a back porch the first night but ate most of our meals at son Alan’s townhouse.  He and Amy made waffles, steak, chili, and gumbo.  I usually cook two or three meals a day, so a break from kitchen duty made me feel somewhat guilty.  It felt wrong to be served, but then again, I enjoyed taking it easy.

We hung out at Alan’s talking, touring their new place, and exchanging news.  We had not seen Alan and Amy since last September, so we enjoyed the simple pleasure of sharing space with them.  Our visit with our old friends, Anne and Jim, seemed like an effortless renewal of an interrupted conversation.  Everywhere we went felt like a pleasant reunion:  no dramas; frank but happy sharing.

We visited Duke Gardens, the UNC Botanical Garden, and a lovely park with shady paths running beside a river.  We noticed, as we drove around town, that city planners had minimized scorched earth strip development.  Trees and greenery took up more space than concrete and asphalt.  Local museums remained Covid-closed, but restaurants and stores did brisk business.  Some establishments required masks and distancing while others did not.  Alan took me to an Only Burger store so that I could taste spicy grease served on a bun.

On the first night, Judy took a walk around the Air B-n-b yard and sat on the front porch.  She came inside and said, “We have to move some place just like this.”  We have been longing to escape from the noise, congestion, and incivility of Orlando for years.  We hope to live in a smaller town with less traffic, paved sidewalks, bookstores, a downtown with restaurants and coffee shops, and parks. A slower pace would be wonderful.  We also would like to live within driving distance of one of our children.

I have a few more birthdays coming before I retire, but we might make our move before my social security kicks in.  We do not want to wait until we are too old to enjoy one last adventure.

Rocking the Lifeboat

I made the mistake yesterday of watching the news and looking at a few posts on Facebook. I noticed a restive spirit rising in folks who’ve convinced themselves, aided and abetted by the president, that it’s high time to restart the economy. A few folks out on the fringe also have begun to assemble for public protests and to worship in crowds inside their churches. They claim that their constitutional rights supercede the governors’ orders to shelter in place.

I realize that attempting to reason with diehard cultists is a fool’s errand. They believe that the Democrats exaggerated the coronavirus threat to derail the economy to dethrone their idol. According to conspiracy theorists, media reports about deaths in New York, Detroit, Louisiana, Washington state, China and Italy are scare tactics. The misled liken covid19 to having the flu. They quote influenza death rates for the whole of 2019 and compare them to covid19 deaths for the first four months of 2020. “Alternative fact” devotees seem unable to believe that doctors and nurses are running out of equipment, are dealing with overflowing ICU and emergency rooms, are getting sick and dying themselves, are begging for help. They note that flu never caused so much difficulty, so covid19 couldn’t be doing that. Trump has even stated that hospitals, doctors and nurses must be scamming to get more equipment than needed, perhaps in an attempt to sell surplus supplies “out the back door”.

For folks who believe all that, there’s no point in starting a endless debate. But I hope that there are a few swaying in indecision. I want to offer an analogy:

Think of the quarantine as a lifeboat riding waves in a storm. We’re all huddling while the waves dash against the side of the boat. To stay afloat, we all have to keep our seats, bail water, and take turns rowing.

Someone might say that it’s okay to take a break, to rise and stretch. For those of you who want to “live free or die”, we’d like to give you a second boat where you could do exactly as you wish. But there isn’t a second boat.

And we’d appreciate it if you didn’t drown the rest of us.

*This morning I saw a report stating that Florida beaches have started to reopen. Local officials hope, hope that folks will maintain social distancing while frolicking on the sand. Photos of recent visitors show people crowding together. The hashtag accompanying the images is FloridaMorons.

Mold, Mold, Mooooolddd!

We’ve had a lovely Christmas break. Guests and family filled our house. We overate, exchanged presents, talked, and passed around my three-month-old granddaughter.

Judy and Ava on Christmas Day

And we watched “White Christmas” one night. The kitschy musical had no message besides the following: middle-aged weariness confronted by unexamined attraction leads to happily-ever-after marriages. A few obstructions (that could have been easily avoided if open and constructive communication had been practiced) formed the plot line.

One of the songs, “Snow, Snow, Snow!” definitely did not apply to our holiday season in Florida. Our temps hovered in the high seventies and crested at 80 degrees one day. The lows bottomed in the mid 60s. Greenery abounded. A few plants flowered. I wore a Hawaiian shirt on Christmas day.

A high pressure system situated east of the Bahamas streamed hot, humid air from the Caribbean onto Florida. Skies clouded over. Rain fell. Neither the heat pump nor the air conditioner adequately addressed the situation. Rain water slipped between the edge of the foundation and the cinder block wall of the back bathroom creating a bath mat-soaking minor flood. Mold grew on the back side of my bedroom cabinet and night stand. A dark, gray-green patch spread further across a panel on the uncompleted porch enclosure.

I hummed a few bars from “Snow, Snow, Snow!” this morning for Judy’s benefit. Then I broke out with, “Mold, mold, mooolddd! We’re living in a place that’s filled with mold. Moooo-old! My face, my hair, my hands and feet smell like mold.”

Selling Out

Bougainvillea Looking West

An artist walked through my warehouse studio during an open house fifteen years ago. I had landscapes hung in a small room, narrative figure paintings in the larger, better lit room. Steve pointed to the landscapes and said, “This is where you sell out.” He turned to the figure paintings and said, “This is where you’re telling the truth.” I replied, “I haven’t been able to sell more than a half dozen of the landscapes. Please tell me how I can become a sell-out.”

Approaching Storm

U.S. 27-Lake Louisa

I’ve often divided my practice into different subject matter and styles. I painted landscapes to spend time with my fellow painter and friend, Brenda, and to find peace. The figurative paintings took a lot of physical and emotional energy out of me. Painting at a remote location, taking notes from nature, calmed and recharged me.

Haunted Meadow-Lake Woodruff

I haven’t headed out with my French folding easel and a blank canvas in a couple years. Painted the last completed landscape from a cool spot under my front yard magnolia in 2017. But I received an e-mail recently. A colleague recommended my landscapes to a city art director. A slot had opened in the schedule at the main house of Leu Gardens in Orlando. I agreed to deliver 30 framed paintings on November 21st.

I pulled paintings off a studio rack, gathered them from closets and corners in the house, and made selections. When I looked at the chosen group, I noticed that color harmony and softer light had become more dominant throughout the twenty year span of work. The early landscapes had more edges and tension. The latter pieces gave off a sense of peace.

Then I remembered another reason why I painted outdoors all those years. Sometimes, when annoyances, distractions and concerns about outcomes fell away, I felt like I had begun to become immersed in nature. I felt part of a bigger flow, a current in a broad stream.

Winter-Lake Woodruff

And that was good.

The Cone of Uncertainty

Looking west at clouds circling counterclockwise.

9/2 Morning

A pleasant, cool breeze blew this morning as I picked up odds and ends in the yard. The outer-outer-outer bands of Hurricane Dorian spun through every hour or two in puffs and gusts of wind and rain. This mild zephyr was peripherally attached to the monster pounding the northern Bahamas.

I bent down to pick up a pot filled with dirt and a dead tomato plant and thought about Douglas Adams and his “Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”. At one point the novel’s unlucky hero finds himself aboard a space vehicle under attack. He pushes a button in desperation just before a missile strikes the ship. He activates the Improbability Drive. The missile gets caught in the improbability zone, converts into a whale, and falls toward a planet. The creature innocently ponders its situation. As the surface of the planet looms nearer and nearer, the whale wonders if he’s about to make a new friend.

9/2 Afternoon and Early Evening

I spent time baking muffins, cookies, and chicken. Judy hard-boiled six eggs. We’re trying to get ahead of the game if power lines fall. Also swept and vacuumed knowing that a storm enervates more when one stares at dirty jobs left undone. Did two loads of laundry: work shirts, pants, socks, towels. Never know how long the power might be out.

The five o’clock forecast puts us outside the cone of probable paths: the eye is unlikely to pass over our house. The predicted path swings 50 miles off the coast giving us 90 to 100 miles of breathing space. I can feel the tightness in my shoulders ease up a bit.

Felt guilty again after watching news and video reports about the Bahamas. Dorian slowed almost to a stop over the islands today. The impact with the islands slowed its windspeed. Our damage should be much lower while theirs is already obscenely high.

Nearly dead maple at the end of the driveway.

9/3 Early Morning.

Woke up in front of the TV. Fell asleep while watching news reports repeat themselves: stationary Dorian still batters the Bahamas; reporters stand on south Florida beaches pointing at waves; mini-cams scan deserted streets and boarded up buildings on barrier islands; evacuation hold-outs explain their reasons for staying; police chiefs restate warnings that stragglers will be left to their fates during the storm. Drifted off to sleep. Woke again at 4 a.m. Nothing much had changed. Started to feel like a patient in an oral surgeon’s waiting room–dread and the urge to get things over with competed for dominance.

We hunkered down during the passing of two slow moving hurricanes, Jean and Frances, in 2004. Jean took two days to cross the peninsula but arrived in Orlando as a Category 1. Can’t imagine what it would be like to sit under Dorian for 36 hours.

9/3 Midmorning

Took a short walk up Chilean Dr. with Judy. A gap in the bands gave us an interval of sunshine and soft breezes. Cars are huddled together in driveways and carports of the houses on either side. Few people were out. The sounds of saws ripping plywood, hammers and drills had died away. Preparations completed. The neighborhood had the stillness of a sleepy Sunday morning.

The latest track pushes farther to the east. The bad weather will start around 7 p.m.

9/3 Evening

Overflowing gutters. Car parked close to house to act as windbreak.

View out the kitchen window. Neighbor’s satellite dish: possible projectile.

A strong gust of wind and pounding rain hit around 8. Felt my anxiety spike and grew impatient and snappish. Spent the evening watching a favorite movie while occasional bands passed through. Radar reports showed that we were sitting in a trough between more violent squall lines. The lights didn’t flicker once.

9/4 Morning

Dorian’s eye is 50 miles north of us out at sea near Daytona Beach. Saw a guy taking a walk while a stiff wind ruffled his shirt. He stopped in front of our yard, turned his back to the wind, lit up a smoke. Weather reporters say that we might see a bit of sunshine around sunset.

The dead maple at the end of the driveway didn’t drop even one branch. The power line cutting through a line of trees along our east fence swings free and still looks sturdy. Hurricane hangover day: still have three cold beers in the fridge.

Will look up Bahamas donation sites tomorrow.

Why Does Anyone Want to Live in Florida?

Spent the last four days scanning the NOAA website for the latest Hurricane Dorian track. Every time I saw the path cross central Florida I felt a familiar sense of dread. When the path passed over other parts of the state I felt guilt mixed with relief. Better them than me. Oops. Now the forecasted track has drifted east out over the ocean. I’m starting to cautiously relax.

I’ve weathered three tropical storms and four hurricanes in the last 27 years. Can’t say that I’ve acquired battle-weary nonchalance about the latest threats crossing the Atlantic or popping up off the east and west coasts. Instead I feel wary: come September and October, storms strike from every direction except due north.

Talked to my Dad yesterday while waiting for another track announcement. He asked, “Why would anyone want to live in Florida when you have to go through this every year?” Throw in long, hot summers (May to November), mowing the lawn nine months of the year, high crime rates, Florida men behaving badly, tourist-sensitive economies, real estate busts and booms, a crackpot legislature intent on damaging the environment and underfunding schools, and listening to extended Orlando newscasts (commercials) about the latest theme park attractions, and I’m ready to pack bags and sell the house.

Had to top off an elderberry tree growing near the house yesterday. Tropical storm force winds might have whipped its former branches against roof and windows. Stood on a sinking ladder (loose mud beneath me) while I sawed away. Leaned from side to side to rebalance the ladder as droplets showered down from the leaves above.

The tree had been a source of comfort for my wife. She could look out her bedroom window to admire butterflies sipping nectar from its frilly white flowers. Birds came to eat the berries. Lizards sunned on its branches.

Walked around the yard near sunset after returning from an anniversary dinner with Judy. Mellow light filtered through orange-pink-gray clouds. The firebush and passion flower vines are in bloom. Purple and white berries weigh heavily on beauty berry branches. An almost cool breeze blew from the west. A deep sense of peace and belonging settled on me.

Told my Dad that we’d probably move after a kid’s family settles down and I retire. I don’t think we’ll stay in Florida, but there’s times when I’m tempted.

Rain Today (August 3)

The wet weather season in Florida follows a daily pattern: the sun blasts till four or five in the afternoon; sea breezes collide with hot, humid air; thunderstorms rage for about an hour. We’re not used to overcast and persistent light rain. We get depressed after a day or two passes with no clear skies and puffy cumulus clouds to cheer us. We are spoiled.

The remnants of a tropical wave are sliding up the east coast of Florida today. The cluster of clouds too far away to send us even a breeze has gifted us with an influx of abundant moisture. Intermittent showers soaked us the last two mornings and afternoons. A puddle on the front porch lingers from a yesterday afternoon downpour. The damp air slows evaporation to a halt even though the temps are in the high eighties.

I’ve got an electric mower and can’t mow in the rain, so the lawn had a chance to grow unheeded even as my neighbors braved the weather to cut with gas powered models. Skipped a few chances to get the job done during the week to devote time to a remodeling project. A strip in the side yard grew to nine inches in the meantime. Managed to mow the lawn this morning before the drip began.

I worked for about an hour, picked up a few mosquito bites and came in soaked with sweat. My shoes dragged sand into the house. The mower quit on me once when a fuse inside the outdoor outlet triggered for unknown reasons. Had to flip the mower over twice to clear mucky wet grass clippings from around the blade. Hit two fire ant mounds with the mower but managed not to get bit. They usually seethe out of the ground when disturbed but seemed to find the dull, wet weather dispiriting. They only felt like putting on a moderate show of aggression.

The gloom makes me gently sad today. It’s a French sort of melancholy, a cozy slide into Thelonious Monk “Round Midnight” blues.

Read a post by my brother recalling that August 3 is the anniversary of my sister’s death. Six years have passed. The pain has faded somewhat. The soft rain seems appropriate.

Don’t Let It Bug You

Mrs. Owenby said to my wife, “Honey, there isn’t a single bug in that house!”

Judy hadn’t mentioned the possibility, but the old woman seemed eager to reassure her when we closed on the house. Mrs. Owenby’s son apologized after business had been concluded by saying, “We tried to get it clean, but it’s not perfect.”

A few days later, we got a babysitter to watch our four and one-year-old while we began to thoroughly clean our new home. I vacuumed and picked up a stray pea or two in the dining area. Then we noticed straight pins along the baseboards. Mrs. Owenby had used them to pin elaborate arrangements of window curtains in place. After we got down on our knees to make a close inspection (one-year-olds stick anything in their mouths), we started to find dead bugs at the edges of the carpet. Mrs. Owenby should have said, “Honey, there’s not a single living bug in that house!”

And she still would have been wrong. Wolf spiders had survived the Owenby spray-fest and stalked across ceilings and walls at unexpected moments. We spent years squishing them into submission, and sometimes found more lurking on the front porch waiting for an opportunity to invade. I killed one near the doormat one day. It had a blobby white “backpack” that released dozens of little spiders once torn open by my shoe.

We turned on an episode of “Star Trek: The Next Generation” last week. Judy and I wanted to relax after a long day, but the show was a suspense thriller about an inside plot to undermine the Federation. Tension built up as Captain Picard discovered that ships and men had been shifted to odd assignments, and ships had self-destructed for unexplained reasons.

Captain Picard returned to Federation headquarters to report his findings and discovered that the admiralty had been compromised. Scorpion-like aliens had implanted themselves on the brainstems of key officers and controlled their actions. Picard and Riker used their phasers to stun the admirals, and little creatures exited mouths and attempted to crawl away. One bug made it to the next conference room, shimmied up the leg and torso of a blond-haired junior admiral, entered his mouth and made a bulgy lap or two around the inside of the man’s neck. Blondie explained that the aliens were a superior race bent on infesting human beings. “We are the brains, and you will be the brawn,” the man said smugly.

Riker and Picard decided not to worry about the prime directive and lasered the crap out of Blondie’s chest. A fiery hole opened, and a giant cockroach, the ringleader of the plot, emerged to die in agony.

At that exact moment, a two-inch cockroach flew across the dining room ceiling. It’s wings made an unpleasant clacking sound. No ray guns were available, so I grabbed a magazine, chased and killed it with a hard swat.

I got a strip of paper towel to pick it up off the floor. Crunched it again to make sure that it was truly deceased.

The bugs are coming for us again. But they won’t take over, Mrs. Owenby. Not on my watch, honey. Not on my watch.