Thursday, August 18, 2011

The Toaster May Be Next

I appear to be at war with the inanimate.

Not having declared this war myself, it is obvious who the aggressors are. They are my blender, my vacuum cleaner, my car (the ringleader, I suspect) and a dozen other artifacts the purpose of which I thought, mistakenly, was to serve me. Last week, a new recruit joined the ranks seeking to separate me from my sanity.

But first, let’s go back to that ringleader. The Brown Goddess, as my friend Jody dubbed her, apparently has the hots for my mechanic. This summer I have taken her for oil changes, tire changes, filter changes, and a few weeks ago she came up with her biggest coup yet.

It was 104 outside, and I had an interpreting assignment. Halfway to my destination, the temperature gauge in the car shot up to the danger zone. I pulled over and came to stop under a tree. Sitting there for a while, I pondered and my forehead grew damp from the heat. I had just topped off the coolant the day before. The needle sank back down and after a few minutes, I started her up. The needle stayed down in the happy zone – until two blocks later, when it skyrocketed again. I pulled over and waited again. Beads of perspiration dripped onto my phone as I called the agency and told them I would not make it to the assignment on time. They arranged for a replacement. After a few minutes of planning my next move, I turned the Goddess’ nose homeward.

Remember, her personal agenda was different from mine. In starts and stops (letting her cool down periodically), I made my way toward home. Mere perspiration was but a memory; I was driving a mobile sweat lodge. We continued this way until I neared a turn: one way would take me home, the other led to my mechanic’s shop. Mechanic, the Goddess insisted, and the needle shot up to the danger zone again.

Pulling onto a side street about a ¼ mile from the shop, I sat under a tree and talked to the Brown Goddess, woman to machine. I explained that this wasn’t the most convenient time for her to leave me high and dry. Then I turned the key again. This time, nothing.

Actually, not “nothing”. She made a rather frightful buzzing sound and the clock on my radio reset itself. Then, in that hot and silent afternoon, the Brown Goddess talked back.

“Boom...BOOM... Boom...BOOM...” she said. The sound was unmistakably coming over the speakers, but the radio was off. In fact, the whole car was turned off.

“Boom...BOOM...Boom..Boom...BOOM”. A rhythm was developing. In a minute or two, the Goddess sounded like a teenager cruising the main drag. She rocked out and I sunk into the seat in abject embarrassment. John would have loved this, I thought.

Which is about when I heard the guitar. One...two...three...four. What sounded like a single string being picked on a bass guitar floated out of the speakers I had turned off. A moment later, the rhythm stopped and all was silent.

All but the laughter that I couldn’t seem to stop. The Brown Goddess had spoken.

Eventually, I called roadside assistance and was towed to the mechanic. The Goddess had blown a hole in her radiator. A few hours and an empty wallet later, she was home and I was hoping for a truce.

There have been no more trips to her mechanic. She hasn’t broken out in song again. But I know the revolution lingers on:

Last week, my grand-dog came to stay for a week. She is the size of a small pony and has a bladder to match. The day she arrived, I found that the lock on the only door leading to the fenced-in yard refused to open. It won’t budge. And so I have to put the leash on Maggie and walk her out to the back yard through the garage and side gate, in my bathrobe, and then patiently wait while she “does her business”.

Reinforcements in the shape of my handyman should arrive tomorrow. Meanwhile, I hear the lock got a promotion and now prefers to be called “Sarge”.

Sunday, August 14, 2011

Friends

Friends

We were six years old, and Elaine was walking me home. I had spent the night at her house; she didn’t live near the other missionaries, but rather in the native settlement nearby. So we had to walk from the Quichua village, past the airfield and the clinic and the school and on down the road to where I was staying.

We often discussed matters of great importance, such as whether her brother really could type without looking, and whether my mother was going to sing in church. We knew that there was a war on somewhere in the world because the adults talked about it. And we had heard the story of David and Jonathan in the Bible and knew that they set the standard for friendship. We, it was obvious to both of us, were just that kind of friend.

And so she walked me home. When we got there, we realized that she would have to walk all that way (miles, it seemed) back to her house alone, so we did the only logical thing. I walked her home.

Halfway there, we realized that we could potentially spend the rest of the day walking each other home, and we were both due at our respective houses by sundown. So we compromised. We would part ways at the airfield, each only walking half the way home by herself.

But if we had to part ways, we would do so in a manner worthy of David and Jonathan. We remembered that the Bible story said they “wept and fell on each other’s necks”. We could simulate the tears. But the neck-falling-on business was tricky. Like short, ungainly giraffes, we stretched our heads up and tried to bump against the other’s neck with our own necks. All we got was sore and dirty from missing each other and ending up on the ground.

Maybe we could just do the tears and hug so our necks touched and still satisfy the legacy of those great Biblical friends. So we scrunched up our faces, stretched our necks and embraced. David and Jonathan would have been proud.

We were still friends when I went up to boarding school in seventh grade. Elaine was my first roommate. Once, we got mad at each other and made a line down the middle of the floor with tape. Afterward, we pushed our beds together in the middle of the room. Because we were friends.

This weekend, Elaine came for a visit; she’s on a trip with her daughters. Thirty-four years have flown by. There’s grey under the Miss Clairol, a few wrinkles and hopefully more wisdom. We went to visit some of the people we called “Aunt” and “Uncle” when we were little. Then two other friends, dear women we grew up with, came over. Jill, Ruth, Elaine and I looked at old pictures and laughed and remembered.

Tomorrow, she’ll leave again and I won’t walk her home. There will be no neck-falling and I doubt there will be tears.

But with all the different paths our lives have taken, we are still friends. David and Jonathan can still be proud.