Ah, Bruce. Where are you when I need you?

In the last week, an odd form of courtesy has befallen me, and I don't like it one bit.  It involves parking, a thing I am very good at.

The first incident happened to me while I was parallel parking on a street just off the Marietta Square. Parking was at a premium, and I was elated when I found a largish spot between two parked cars. Or rather, a parked car and one, just in front of me, with a driver still in the car, having just completed what he apparently felt was a spectacularly good parking job and  had to pass his skills along to me.

As I maneuvered the rear of my car backward,  a silver haired driver sprang from his driver's seat like St. Nick and began waving and gesticulating as if he were guiding a 707 into its berth at O'Hare. When I turned the wheel, he pantomimed the same, shouting when he thought I had turned too far or not far enough.  A space I could have whisked into with no fanfare became a three act play with choreography, as I went forward and back, turn to the right, turn to the left, pause, begin again. Left alone, I would have been fine. With this parking aficionado, it took me forever to finally complete the job to his satisfaction.

The second incident, just this morning, involved the simplest of parking maneuvers, a straight back- out from a shopping center parking spot. This was not a particularly busy location, and I was unlikely to be swiped by passing cars.  Once again, silver haired and full of human kindness, this gentleman who had parked next to me jumped from his car and swooped in right behind my car. Presumably he couldn't hear my expletive as I nearly knee-capped him.  Waving and gesturing to indicate all was clear, he guided me back past the SUV on my other side, and got me into the stream of non-existant traffic with nary a dented fender.

What is this?  What have I done to attract the attention of these unwanted helpers?  Have I forgotten how to drive? Do I look befuddled?  I don't think so.  I don't do befuddled, and my children are still willing to ride with me without grabbing for the keys.  Is it the gray hair? Misplaced Southern manners? I'm not sure, but twice in a week? Something is afoot.

 I suggested to my family that maybe I should do a full McClain.  No, not John McClain (think Bruce Willis.)  I am talking Shirley.  Flame red spikey hair, lots of scarves and jewelry, plenty of make-up.
Scare the Bejesus out of these old guys who want to help a little old lady. It's not as bad as it was in Ireland where everyone calls gray haired women "Mother."  That is the definition of ego deflation.  But...you old goats, if I want parking help, I'll let you know, O.K? Maybe Bruce Willis' John McClain is a better model for me after all.

A little stir fry sauce in the pantry can be a very good thing.

With the nearly silent hum of the dishwasher in the background, I have a moment to look back on the last few days.

The untimely deceased dishwasher was replaced by by my husband at around 4 a.m. the morning of Christmas Eve, with only the smallest leak dripping into a bucket under the sink.  By Christmas Eve, he had that conquered and we could dirty our dishes without fear.

My favorite day of the year had arrived, murky and cold. No, not my birthday. Not even Christmas.  No. Winter Solstice. My daughter says it is because I am a Druid, but I share my love for this day with my late father-in-law, who was anything but a Druid.  It is the moment that days start getting longer.  Spring is stirring, the earth is turning, and it will be green again. He would noticeably brighten and his spirits would lift, just as they sank at Midsummer's Eve, when the days slowly grew shorter. The one thing, I think, that we had in common.

Our two children were with us, and happy to be here, and that, of course, makes me happier than anything else. On Christmas afternoon, we took our two dogs to an open field close to Kennesaw Mountain, where we could walk and they could run with unbridled glee. This time no deer were in evidence, no other people or dogs, and we had just the blazing blue sky, winter woods and soaring hawks for company.

And then home for Christmas dinner.  This time, determined to cut down on on the work of producing our traditional replay of Thanksgiving dinner, I had the turkey cooked by Publix, and picked it up Monday. "It's fully cooked," the lady reminded me.  "Just warm it in the oven. Directions are on the package."

And so, trustingly following directions, I put the bird, still in it's inner wrapper, into the roasting pan. And when the oven timer summoned me, I pulled it out of the warm oven and cut the cover only to discover... a raw turkey! Publix! How could you do this to me, I who spend an absurd amount on your wares, day after day, week after week?

After my initial panic and too shocked to cry, I sliced the raw meat, just enough for modest servings(our daughter is vegetarian and her tofurkey with wild rice stuffing was perfectly cooked and delicious - I couldn't bear to eat that turkey,) threw the meat into a deep skillet with stir fry sauce and a few other things, and produced edible, if somewhat Japanese restaurant flavored turkey. And only about an hour later than the announced dinner time.

The sides and dressing were great, made by me or Whole Foods. The beet salad, not a hit, no surprise to me, was an experiment. I happen to love beets, the "in" vegetable of the moment. They remind me of childhood holiday dinners, but without the goat cheese and chopped walnuts that graced my beets, resting picturesquely in a nest of butter lettuce and purple radichio. My son even had seconds of the stir fried turkey and is still alive this morning, so all is well.

So we come to Boxing Day. Between now and New Year's Eve, it is time to clean out the fridge, with everything but the truly current food stock cleared away for the New Year. And with a husband who is one of five "kids" who still give one another Christmas gifts, which nowadays consist of baskets filled with forbidden sweets, crackers and cheeses, wines and etc., that means a post Christmas selection that looks like the interior of Dean and DeLucca for friends who wander in had leave with chocolate covered coffee beans, brie en crout and gourmet jelly beans.

To her everlasting credit, our dear daughter took the largest, most lavish (but wine free) basket, given to her in thanks by a very large family of out of town friends whom she hosted for a couple of days last spring, and gave it, along with some kid oriented gifts, to a large family who would never see such bounty. Hers is the very definition of a good soul,  and she blesses us in so many ways.

So, I go forward bravely toward the New Year, counting Weight Watcher points, never skipping the gym except for major holidays, and always keeping some stir fry sauce in the pantry, because you never know when you will need it.

Rituals and weight loss

We have a ritual in my family.  It is not limited to Christmas, just the major holidays that involve a lot of eating. A major electrical appliance crashes just before or even during the holiday, and our local Lowe's delivery man gets a call, brings a new appliance to our house, greets our dogs by name, asks to be remembered to any family members not present and then disappears until the next holiday, next appliance crash.

Last time, our refrigerator checked out the day before Thanksgiving (this was a year or two ago) while entrusted with our turkey and everything else  I was planning to serve.  This year, our dishwasher gave up on Thanksgiving, refusing to pump adequate water to distribute the soap. It made a brief comeback so that a repair man said it might hold up a while longer. Repair was possible for an estimate equal to the cost of a new dishwasher. It did hold up, unrepaired but with our fingers crossed, until the Sunday before Christmas. Our faithful delivery guy delivered a new dishwasher today, Dec. 23, but alas, no installer will be available until the week after Christmas.

I'm OK with washing dishes, but with four major meals in a two day period, my husband has undertaken to install the dishwasher himself.  He is more than moderately handy and installed a dishwasher in another house not long ago, so you might ask why five hours after wrestling it into place (and removing the old dishwasher), and leaving a wake through the living room, den and kitchen, we are not hearing the comforting swish of dishes being washed .

One word. Instructions. No mention of how to hook it to the electricity. Internet not helpful. Suggestion of pulling it back out until an installer can come, not well received.

I'll leave this saga here, since I plan to go to bed soon, but I'll let you know how it turns out.

In other news, three days ago was my one year weight loss anniversary.  My goal was 100 pounds. I succeeded in losing 75, so I have the rest to look forward to in the New Year.  Since I  gained a lot of muscle, and muscle weighs more than fat, the result size-wise is a somewhat slimmer me than the loss of 75 really indicates. But, anyway, it was a full time time job to work with a trainer, completely restructure my nutrition, and retrain my brain. Time well spent, in my opinion.

Never explain, never complain

Regarding the title of this post, just let me add, No one cares, any how. Let's just say it has been a long and strange autumn. And now to what I was talking about when last we met. Or close to it, any way.

About Jack.  I went back to my hometown for my 50th high school reunion, which was, all in all, a good experience. I also arranged to meet and old and dear friend who was not in my h.s. class, for lunch, along with another friend of ours from the "old days." This friend, whom I am calling Jack, was a larger than life character, a prodigy, wealthy and good looking, who had just sort of dropped off the radar. It was a long and complicated process to get in touch with hime and to set up a meeting. I could give the CIA and Homeland Security a few tips for reaching those who don't want to be found, but I did reach him, which is all that counts.

I had heard that he had disappeared after his wife died a couple of years ago, that he had sold his palatial home, that he was in a wheelchair, a drunk, a drug addict. And I'll admit that in those few times I actually reached him by phone, the conversations were bizarre. He had a host of charming memories of things we had done and the people we had done them with that never happened. Ideas forgotten in mid sentence, repeated questions, confusion about dates and place.  But then, we all do some of that, don't we? Don't we?

So, as he requested, I called him when I got into town to remind him of the lunch we had planned for the next day. No answer. No answer late into the night.  Early next morning, the third member of our party called to say he had reached Jack and he was expecting us. Lunch. 11:30.

Jack had moved into a one story home once owned by his family. When I approached the front door, I could see through the extensive front windows, the dining room with glittering chandelier, crystal, plates and cutlery, set for at least a dozen people. Another person, a youngish man ( to me that means 40ish)  answered the door. Butler? House manager?  Probably not in a golf shirt and Bermuda shorts (it was warm that weekend.)

And there was Jack. Leaning heavily on a walker, blonde hair now white, body thin, features old looking. Long hair works with a tan and blond hair. With white hair, it is just sort of creepy.

We sat in the den , an impeccably decorated, cozy room he said he seldom left.  He keeps it at the temperature he likes, has a fire in the fireplace whenever he wants it, and seldom goes outdoors.  Read: Never.  The beautiful slate terrace visible just outside overlooks a valley of hardwoods. Inviting all weather furniture is scattered about, stone sculpture punctuates expert plantings.

The unknown man who answered the door turned out to be a friend and houseguest, a world traveler, from his tales, who has been in Antarctica six times. Funny, charming. Not exotic by the standard of Jack's friends. We talked at length and Jack broke down and cried once, when his late wife was mentioned. His memory and wit seemed sharp, no signs of drink or drugs.  And no signs of food, either.

After a couple of hours, someone dropped a heavy hint about lunch, which passed unnoticed.
Into the afternoon, after a house tour, a discussion of the provenance of a number of pieces of art (We found these Carnival costume designs when we were in Venice...)I excused myself, citing a later appointment with a friend (whom I prayed would feed me.)With my pending departure, Jack cast about for food, which seemed to be an very short supply.  That which he had was frozen and not promising. No wonder he's thin.  And repeatedly, he urged for me to stay with him, in one of the guest rooms with a bed so high and enormous it would take me a ladder to get into it.  No, thank you. Can you say "all the tea in China?"

It was a little bizarre, although not the strangest get together I have ever had.  I don't know whether that says more about him or me. I want to go back, maybe in the spring when I plan to pass through town, collecting an old friend for a trip to New York.  And next time I'll visit armed with a fully stocked picnic basket.