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26
May 11

Lawn drama

Mowed the lawn today, because it needed it. Not convinced at all that I needed it. But the guy that mows the lawn for our neighbors rode by and stuck out his tongue, so I suppose it was time.

I am still feeling more than a little beat up from last weekend’s adventures, mind you. At least I can stand up and sit down down without sounding like I spent the night being tortured by ninjas, and that’s progress, but lifting and bending are still not the best ideas. That’s OK for mowing, though, because I can push and walk with the best of them. Unless that’s what the neighbor’s guy was suggesting …

The problem is in the removal of the clippings. Our new mower has a giant bag on the bag of the thing, designed to catch each singular blade of grass, lest it somehow sully the neighborhood’s image. I can do the full lawn in four bags, which means stopping the engine, bending over, disengaging the bag, hefting it up and wrestling the giant maw into an uncooperative garbage bag. Then there is the lifting by the strap on the back of the bag, and the shaking and pouring and dislodging of lawn litter.

All of these things hurt.

And it was turning warm today, too.

But I got the job done. I drove around two nearby neighborhoods to seek out the neighbor’s lawn man and return his rhetorical fire.

Or I would have, if I hadn’t thought I’d lost the cat. When I walked back through the garage I noticed the interior door wasn’t latched. And so now the fears begin. Allie is strictly an inside creature, having lost her predator and adventuring instincts long ago. When we do take her out she finds the spot of dirt nearest the door and rolls in it. This cat is a dog trapped in a cat’s body, I’m convinced. Her being outside for any length of time, though, won’t end well and now I’ve invited her to the big bad world because I was taunted outside by a lawn man.

Quick sweep through the house: nothing. Hustle through the yard: nothing. Through the house again, calling her name again: still no cat. Outside once more. Did she get through the neighbor’s fence? No cat. Down the street, with no luck. I text The Yankee, feeling like a total jerk. She’s on her way home anyway and her car passes me as I walk up the other side of the street looking. Still nothing.

I walk back to my driveway as she walks outside.

“She’s asleep in the dining room.”

Dreaming of chasing squirrels, no doubt. Good cat.

adventures / iPhone / photo / weekend — Comments Off
22
May 11

That’s gonna leave a mark

It is so hard to say goodbye to a four-star hotel. Especially when you know you’ll never stay at a Ritz again.

Though, I will say this: our ironing board was missing a foot, making it rickety. And the electric outlets in our room were installed upside down. Maybe it is really the Rits-Karltown, and we were mistaken.

But the towels, good heavens the towels were luxurious. You dried yourself clouds who had the misfortune of getting too close to the laundry room. The wait staff waded down into the infinity pool to bring drinks. People there fell all over themselves to help you. Breakfast this morning was the best buffet you could ever experience. The place smelled of potpourri and there was fine oak in dark accents everywhere you looked. Everything was granite-topped or better. Fine place.

After breakfast we checked out and went back to the lake house. Dave wanted to take us all out on the boat, so there we were, enjoying the sun and the breeze and a quiet stretch of Georgian lake and pine scenery.

Dave broke out the jet skis and people took turns riding them. One of them came free and The Yankee wanted to ride. She invited me along and I’m thinking She’s never driven one before. I’ve never been on one before. What could go wrong? I ask you again WHAT COULD GO WRONG!?!?!?!?

You drive a jet ski a little differently than other things that are not nautical. We putt-putt away and she says “How do you turn?”

“Wide. It doesn’t spin on a dime.” She turns the thing back in the general direction of the pontoon and guns it. We accelerate. We’re moving at a good clip. I glance down at the digital speedometer and see 52. (It should be noted we were on the slower of the two jet skis. And, if you are unaware, when you get in the 40-plus range on water, that is serious.)

I say “Slow down!” just as we cross a wake and are both elevated out of the seated position.

In the moment I had left before my savior called me home I decided it was either me or both of us. I pushed her shoulders down, forcing her back toward the jet ski and pushing me away. I fly off the thing somewhere in the neighborhood of 50 miles an hour. (Let’s call it 65, just to be safe.)

I managed to get my body turned to the right and tuck my right arm back in something close to a normal position and have mostly exhaled when I hit the water. And, if you’ve never done this: hitting the water at 145 miles per hour is not unlike hurling yourself into a sturdy wall.

I go under. And all of these are the first seven rapid-fire thoughts, occurring much faster than I can type them or you can read them:

1.) OOOOF!
2.) I’m glad for this life jacket.
3.) This is what death feels like.
4.) I’m going to die now.
5.) This is what broken ribs feel like.
6.) Wind, knocked out of me.
7.) Force breathing, force breathing.

That all happened in the amount of time I hit the water, submerged and the lake halted my flailing and flopping. I’d landed on my right side, feet towards the still-traveling jet ski, head back pointing at nothing in particular, and I took it all on my rib cage.

I haven’t absorbed a good shot like that in a long while. She said that by the time she had the jet ski turned around to find me she could already hear me grunting and straining to breathe. (The best way to do it, I believe, is just force your body to do it. The first two or three tries are no fun at all, but at least after that it is over and you can breathe again.) So I was in the water, thankful for the lifejacket (which I ordinarily hate) because I didn’t have to worry about swimming. I could just sound like some martial arts expert chopping a noisy tennis player in half while the tennis player volleys.

She turns to come back and I waved her off because that was all I could think to do. I really wanted to breathe and didn’t want to have to floating into her novice jet ski self. Finally I got it together enough that I brought her in, but I couldn’t climb on the stupid thing because I was wet, weak and slick from sun block. So she had to almost pick me up, like you see in westerns from time to time, but with much less grace. And that was pretty much my day. Before everyone got done with the boating I had gotten good and stiff.

I had some Advil at the lake house and then we hit the road. Just got home, in time to take some Ibuprofen and am moving verrrry gingerly. I haven’t bruised up, I can breathe, I don’t think anything is broken, but I got beat up good!

friends / iPhone / photo / weekend — Comments Off
21
May 11

A wedding in four pictures

If you’re going to get married on a lakeshore in Georgia, this is a beautiful place to do it. Our friend’s parents built their beautiful place here as a retirement home a few years back and now it has more than a little family history to it. Lovely people, all, and they threw a wonderful party for their son, who’s as good a man as they come, on his big day.

I say that about a lot of people here, but Dave is truly a terrific guy. He went to high school with The Yankee, joined the Marine Corps and then went to Penn State. He moved to Atlanta about the same time his parents did. Also in Atlanta, at that time, was my best girl. They truly bumped into each other in the produce section at the grocery store there, meeting again 1,000 miles from home in a city of five million people. His best man, there, went to high school with them as well. Turns out he just moved back to their hometown. He’s in computer networking and now lives in a home built in the 1750s. (Update: I didn’t get the full story, but it seems that one of the first free black men that fought in the Revolutionary War lived in that home.)

There were two ring-bearers, brothers, who beat each other up all day. When they came down to the pastor and the groom they were swinging the ring pillows around out of youthful boredom. Everyone was fairly surprised they didn’t have a pillow fight. There was a flower girl with curly, yellow hair who was too cute for words. They sent all the kids down and figured, “Whatever happens, happens.” Everyone thought one of the three of them would steal the show, but it turned out to be this rascal.

The father of the bride gives away his daughter. It was a lovely little service, and they danced away the rest of the night in the sweet Southern air.

adventures / Friday / friends / iPhone / photo — Comments Off
20
May 11

Weekend trip

Packed for the weekend. Loaded the car. Changed the oil. Got gas. Found it six-cents-a-gallon cheaper almost immediately thereafter. Considered a haircut, but I was already late and there was a wait. Bought a shirt. Left town.

I stopped at the state line at the self-proclaimed world’s largest fireworks warehouse:

Click to embiggen.

That’s with the free Panorama app on my iPhone, staring into the sun and, thus, guessing. Nevertheless, the place is big.

I’d been tasked with getting sparklers. We’re attending a wedding in Georgia this weekend and the good people of that state frown on sulfur on a stick. Strictly in an advisory role, I thought I’d stick my head in this place. If it is the world’s largest, and if it is 20 minutes from my home, I should get to know the folks.

Their sparkler section is as big as apartment I once rented. The place is wonderous.

Worked my way up to Atlanta to pick up The Yankee. She’s been out of town at a conference this week and is coming home just in time for our friend’s big day. Somehow managed to avoid interstate tangles and then moved through the line at the airport at an astonishing four feet per minute. The terminal drop-off road has three lanes and for the most part only the inside and the center lane are used for disgorging airline passengers. It doesn’t matter on what end of this mess your person waits. You still have to make it through the crowd. They’ve just left, or are just dreading the airport experience and so rules and safety don’t mean a lot to them in that first/last moment of freedom. How people don’t get maimed here daily I do not know.

There actually was an ambulance on the curb with the lights on. Couldn’t say what the problem was, but it is both sobering to know the airport has its own medical fleet. If you must get on board that rig you’ll be waiting for 90 minutes before you can depart. No cell phones, and no checked bags. Also, the EMTs give you a Freedom Rub. It is entirely possible you wind up at one hospital and your belongings are discovered en route to Croatia. This is not the place to be hurt or ill.

Anyway. Picked up The Yankee and we headed east, to a lake about halfway between Atlanta and Augusta. That’s where our friend’s wedding is tomorrow. Checked into our posh hotel, headed out to the site of the big ceremony, the family lake house, and enjoyed a beautiful evening. Most people we did not know. The Yankee went to school with the groom — and his best man, who was there tonight. She knows the parents of the groom. We also know the bride, but that’s about it. We’re strangers to everyone else. Lovely people, though, and a charming place to see the big event tomorrow. It will be perfect, with a side of Georgia in May.

Went back to our hotel, the Ritz, where they have a fire out back and let you circle around for S’mores. I had two. Because, really, how often do you get to have S’mores? Answer: Not often enough, and that should be remedied.

Hit the pool, and then The Yankee hit the wall. She’s been traveling for the better part of the last two days and it is late. So here we are, ready to relax. (We ended today with S’mores and will start tomorrow with a lake and an infinity pool. Done and done.)

Auburn / cycling / iPhone / memories / photo / Wednesday — Comments Off
18
May 11

Warmer and just as perfect in every way

Nice ride on this sunny, warm morning. Down the hill that is daring to wreck me. I hit a big bump there this morning I hadn’t discovered before. It was so big, and the speed so great that I swerved and wobbled the rest of the way down the path. And this is how I know I’ll never be a good bike rider: the speed I reach on this downhill is what the best bikers in the world do when they are simply pedaling hard.

So there’s that. Up the subsequent follow-up hill, through the stores of temptations — the cupcake boutique, the ice cream shop, the donut factory and more. I meandered back toward campus, turning by the old dorm that is now an apartment complex and work my way into a road full of traffic, including an intersection where I almost became a hood ornament. And then back to the quieter roads, past a golf course and the airport, onto another big road and then down the slow, gentle hill that means you’re almost home. There’s only one more big stretch after this, and that’s where a truck decided to get as close to me as possible and honk his horn. I passed him later and it was tempting to return the favor, but I didn’t. He was in a big truck, I was on a carbon frame.

Somewhere midway through the ride I challenged two guys on Harleys to a race. They just laaaughed.

One day I’m going to do a video of all of this. Nothing like a little multimedia humility as you work your way through the gears.

Went to Niffer’s tonight, because I wanted steak fries. I was going to grill, but I had no charcoal. The realization of which also made me think Grilling for one is silly. I’d watched an episode of The Pacific last night and at one point a Marine gets a little reprieve from the horrors of island fighting and goes back to a hospital and is talking with a psychiatrist. There are fries. The Marine picks one up with a curiosity and amazement that turned into this bemused expression “I just saw all of the things I saw. Here’s a fry.”

Whenever a food is reduced and elevated like that, I figure you have to seek it out. So I wanted steak fries and Niffer’s provides. The waiter took my order — and I am the guy that orders without need of menu, so this is easy on him — and disappeared. A young lady brought my food. Another waiter offered me a refill. My guy was gone until it was time for the check. Behind the pole, above, you can see his arm. He was complaining of having less than $200 of sales for the night. “How is that even possible?” Oh I have an idea.

But I enjoy Niffer’s, this guy aside. It is the town’s quirky decor, with cutesy names on the straightforward menu place. It is one of the remaining locally authentic places found on the ever-shrinking list of “Places where we hung out when I was in school.” They are celebrating their 20th anniversary this year. I’ve ordered pretty much the same thing every time. Their first menu is hanging on the wall. That sandwich would have cost me about four bucks in 1991.

I suppose my first visit there was 15 years ago. Keely, the owner, was on the floor then as she still is now. Seldom is the place not hopping. Tonight was one of those nights, but I got there late, on a Wednesday and the university is between semesters. She comes to visit our table every so often. She doesn’t know me from anyone, but every so often she brings free food with her. Not much has changed about her place in most of that time.

Towns change. Businesses thrive and fail. People retire or get bought out or the rent gets too high or whatever. Graffiti is painted over. New people come and institutionalize their memories as being The Memory of how it should all be just so. You can’t begrudge them that, but you’d like it if a few more things had remained, all the same.

Learned the magazine to which I submitted an article last night is going to run another essay I wrote earlier this year. It actually relates to the idea above, which is both coincidental and sad. Not every part of my day is like that, I promise. Re-reading the thing, though, I cringed at a few points and beamed with pride at a few others. I wrote that. It is a running goal, write something with sentiment that doesn’t become maudlin.