Departures

I have to give this trip mixed reviews. It was overdue, and this situation clearly needs more attention. I don’t know how to do that. As usual, as the moment of departure nears, I am torn. I am happy to be going, eager to be home, and yet….

And yet.

There are several loose ends that will undoubtedly take a month or more to sort out. I don’t know if I solved the mystery of the Vegetarian Menu or not, but I elevated it to Jackie in the front office, and she claims to have fixed the matter.

I would be appalled, if I was Big Mama, but she did not mention how bad it was. She peers around the Challenged Dining Room and imagines the relationships between the people. She has created quite a society there.

I sing “Goodnight Irene” to the old lady at the next table, since that is her name, and she seems to like it. That table still interacts with one another, a couple and two ladies to make a foursome. Raven and Big Mama sit alone.

Karla, the Dean of the wait staff, has been intervening to get her real entrees, but when she is not on duty, three courses of vegetables are the order of the day. It happened, possibly for the last time, at Lunch on Thursday. She fairly well, but picks at the food. When it is nothing but veggies she doesn’t eat. I don’t blame her a bit.

Wasn’t it President Bush the First, who said: “I say it’s broccoli, and I say the Hell with it?”

The Last Official Act with the elderly was to get Raven a shave and a hair cut, so he won’t be too outré in appearance. He was getting along to Howard Hughes territory, with huge sideburns and white wispy hair down over his ears and down his neck. Sherri is very nice in the beauty salon.

Having declared my absence to Big Mama, I actually got some work done at the house. I cleaned out the new reefer, which had a bunch of stuff that had been in the old icebox and was a year beyond expiration date.

Made some real progress on Raven’s office, a bizarre and sad experience from which I had to take frequent emotional breaks. There were perhaps fifty plastic storage boxes all stacked up in a weird sort of chronological order. Some of them were simple milky-clear Tupperware containers, and others complex portable filing schemes, two of them soft-fabric tactical systems for the busy executive who needs their information neatly filed while parachuting into intense negotiations.

Or something. The contents were all the same. Newspaper clippings, hundreds of dead batteries, dozens of empty notebooks and battalions of pens, paperclips and pencils. There is some correspondence and files on the Fleetwings Seabird airplane that Uncle Jim designed in the 1930s and other family stuff. I did not touch any of that and concentrated on thinning out the plastic farm and the endless unopened containers of office supplies.

There were some interesting technological objects as well. Did you know that Sony tried to launch a whole standard of data discs that failed? The format sank like a stone. I had never seen one before, and it was a bit like finding a library of BetaMax tapes. He has three of the players, naturally.

The clippings in the boxes gave a clue as to what he was seeking: prostate natural cures, senior health issues, and memory.

I realized how it happened to him, the transformation into Raven, He knew it was happening, creeping up behind him. He started dozens of lists of things to do, and then lost the pad. He did try to do something about it, and though he lost, he certainly did make an effort. As he slipped away the plastic boxes filled with hope and air piled up.

I managed to fill up the side of the garage that I had cleaned out last time, but the mass is generally sorted by empty plastic containers, gadgets from Radio Shack, and unused office supplies.

If anyone ever has time, there might be a yard sale in the Spring, opening up the contents of the Big Top garage, or just look at it, tag items for interest, and send the unused stuff to Good Will and the rest to the dump. I would like to get to the point where we can assault the paper records that make sense in a holistic manner, though that will take more time than any of us have at the moment.

The Green Car turned over and I ran it long enough to fill the house with fumes, but I did not have time to get a trickle-charger to keep the battery topped off. I have one in DC, and will try to remember to bring it up here. The little reefer downstairs is unplugged and defrosted and the new microwave is hooked up and works.

Washer and dryer work, as does the dishwasher. All clean on departure. Big Top thermometer and top and bottom floors of the main house are set to 62 degrees.

As usual, there was far more to do than I got done, but as a status check for the real deal, Mom is living in a fusion of Turner Classic Movies, the Hemingway festival next year. The Fox News phase of their lives seems to have passed. Raven is resting.

Leaving shortly for the 15 hour drive home.

The Caddy is beckoning, and the road is open. There is a White Castle I know of, just off I-75 a couple hundred miles from here. It is the last outpost of the franchise on the way east, and it is looking a lot like lunch.

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com