Unquote, Quote

 In the times  of spare necessities and sparse income, owning books was a luxury, and in our house, there was a well worn Webster's Dictionary, the traditional old family Bible, tattered and torn, and a paperbound World War I Memoir Book from my father's days of service. Later, when finances provided for more than the basic necessities, he bought a set of encyclopedias, displayed in a newly purchased bookshelf, the kind with the metal hairpin legs.

  But somewhere in those early days, I recall coming across a book of familiar quotations, not Bartlett's I'm sure, but maybe even an insert from a magazine or such. The quotations seemed largely based on the military. I remember reading them and thinking I could write things like that. Maybe I could be a writer of quotations when I grew up. I figured, given the appropriate circumstances, I could have said "Don't give up the ship, Fire when ready, War is Hell, Damn the torpedoes,  (when I was old enough to swear) and even I only regret that I have but one life to give for my country."  I wasn't sure about not firing until I see the whites of their eyes, but that was probably a one-time thing anyway. 

  I grew out of that stage, realizing it had been the singer, not the song, that had made those words immemorial. My next  career aspirations were to be based on a more realistic foundation. I had read a magazine account of a man who was widely sought out for his intensive knowledge of Shakespeare. He lived in New York City, but speakers and writers across the country, and even worldwide,  went to him for his expertise in  providing  the exactly appropriate Shakespearean quote when they wanted to make some salient point, and sound educated doing so. I had acquired a book, "The Complete Works of Shakespeare," loved to read, so I surmised I could read everything Shakespeare had ever written, and replace that master of Shakespearean quotations. Alas and Alack, I  never pursued that vocation, but just think how devastating it would have been to be replaced by google.

  But fame, illusive as it may be, has at last been captured. I understand someone, somewhere, has heard my words.   There IS more than one way to live a life.

House Cleaning

 The house was cherished by the family for well over 100 years. All who view it say it looks beautiful. Everything is pristine and plain, without any evidence of  the generations who called it home for  almost a century and a half. 

  You are now welcome to make it your  home, fill it with your treasures and memories, and live a busy and happy life there, busy enough to block out the inevitable truth that someday the house will again be stripped of all remnants of  occupancy. Potential buyers will find beauty in the absence of a previous life there. And so  it goes.

Pulled Over

 Dorothy, Dave and I went to dinner at the Eagle Bridge Inn one night. I may have ordered a drink and could even have drunk it, though sometimes I just ordered to be sociable. My dinner partners had several, I'm sure. When we left the place, they decided to dance along the top of the rail fence outside the restaurant, with only some success.  I think they were singing also. I got behind the wheel of my car with Dave alongside me and Dorothy in the back seat. 

No sooner had we pulled onto the highway when we were stopped by the siren of a police car. (I suspect they must have been "observing" the late night activity of those revelers leaving the place of business.) I knew I wasn't in any violation, but the officer approached, asked for my license and said that he had noticed I appeared to be weaving. I was sure I had not been, but I guess they have to give some reason for stopping a vehicle.

   Dave, a seasoned veteran of being pulled over, knew from experience that silence is golden in his circumstance. But my helpful sister in the back seat, still feeling pretty good and now quite amused at my being pulled over, offered this explanation to the officer, "Oh, she always drives like this, weaves a lot."  

 There was no follow-up and we were sent on our way. (I had not tried to balance on the fence.

 

Bicycles

 I have not ridden a bike in a very long time, except for last night in a dream. Of course I was young, or youngish. Even a dream state knows better than to choose old age.

    A man was there, dark haired and it seems he spoke with some type of accent. He persuaded me to go with him to rent bikes, electric bikes as it turned out. I was unsure of how to acess the rental unit. The building was very large, with numerous divisions. The construction was of wood, walls and floors. People were going about their business there, but I didn't know how to proceed, though I wanted to get a bike. The dark-haired man showed up with 2 bikes, so I took mine and decided to ride it through the building to the exit. I felt a little guilty doing so because there were people around and it was inside the building, but it reminded me of a boardwalk so  I thought it was okay. 

 I rode outside and near a lake or some body of water. I was by myself; the man was nowhere in sight. I stopped at some shop and the man was there, with no bike though.  He said he was trying to save his money, not to spend any more than necessary. I kind of laughed and said you'd never know you were trying to save after just spending about $141 or so  on renting  a bike. Then it occurred to me that he may have paid for my bike rental. I knew I hadn't paid, but would find out if it had been paid for when I returned the bike. I wasn't sure, though, about how to get back to the bike rental building. I'm still trying to figure that out.

+Piano Lesson(s)

 Dave took piano lessons as a child, as far as I know the only one in his family who played piano. It's possible his mother may have played because there was a piano in the basement of the Wrentham Street house in Kingston. Or maybe they bought the piano when young Dave showed promise as a player. He was certainly not an accomplished player, but he enjoyed it well enough for him to have bought a second-hand piano during our early marriage years. And he'd sing and play from time to time, when we had house parties or when he was alone with just family, as I recall a largely unappreciative audience. 

  When the family ties to Kingston were ended, the house on Wrentham Street was sold. Dave's father, an accomplished builder as well as mehanic, had added on to the house they had purchased some years before, constructing  a large master bedroom and bath on the ground floor at the back of the house. As it happened this addition prohibited entry on any large scale to the basement home of the piano. The piano was not removable with the new construction. 

The new owners did not want the piano and wanted it removed from the basement. There was no way for the piano to exit intact. It fell upon Dave to deconstuct the piano, which he did with an ax. I asked him how he felt  chopping it up.  He said he felt a kind of revenge for all the times he had to practice on it while the other kids were outside playing.

   

Night Time

 So long ago, at night,I would read in bed, with the radio on and the bedroom window uncurtained so I could see the break of morning daylight. That all changed: he liked the night to be as dark and quiet as possible, no lamplight, no radio playing, and blinds closed tight to stave off the morning light. I adjusted  to the change. Life happens that way.

   Now the choice is mine. There is no longer a radio in the bedroom nor is there a lamp. The television there is not turned on at night, and the ceiling light fixture is turned off at bedtime.The blinds are still drawn, not to keep out the arrival of morning, but for security reasons, the thought of an unwanted figure peering  through the darkness.

 Darkness and silence, when life is put on hold, for a night at a time or forever.

Standstill

 All the same day: No pics, no bank, no sound.

(1) And most critical to my would-be ongoing efforts to downsize by using the same process since the beginnning of time (so to speak) , my attempt to post pictures has met with failure.  A sudden and inexplicable rejection and obscure page appears in its stead. I am unable to load pictures.   Issue unresolved.

(2) Sudden denial  of access to usual login was rejected. Calls to central banking system were not helpful, nor was visit to local branch. Last resort was another call requesting what we hope is the necessary piece of information be sent to me by U.S. Mail. Time will tell as to the resolution.

(3) Rather humorous in retrospect. Since the last Spectrum service call, I noticed I need to have the Volume setting at about 50. I checked with a youngun' who could hear at 23.  I wondered why the first volume settings, up to about 20, are silent, and  figured  it may be adjustable through call to Customer Service. Settings were adjusted through reboot. BUT, then I find I have no Audio at all. Another call took me (us) through a lengthy , involved process. It turns out there is  a mutually devised process synchronizing the volume control on the tv remote with the volume control on the Spectrum remote. It was complicated for both the rep and me, but thankfully resulted in success. I can hear!  (That's if I set the volume at about 47. But I'm calling that a win.