Hello, Mutter! Hello, Farter! Here I am at Camp Grand-Martyr.
While, Anne is singing,”I am the very model of a dutiful daughter.” I am left to fend for myself. Or rather, I wish that I was left alone, because there are always hordes of mosquitoes buzzing about me and when they bite me, I welt-up like a SOB. Lately, though the wind has kicked up and today I was able to walk the beach with Anne, at her pace, which also is the same one that those flying, six-legged demons seem to prefer, but because of the blessed wind, they were no where to be seen. Golf balls were the walk’s theme. I collected 18 of them. The first few had washed up, but most of them had to be fished out of the water. Where they came from is anyone’s guess.
These balls had positive buoyancy, but only just so. After I had waded out to them, if I tried to spear them and missed, they would sink and take long seconds to resurface. My last experience with golf ball retrieval was in in junior high. When we were living in Maryland, my brother and I would sneak into the Congressional Golf Course, fish golf balls out of the water hazards and then sell them for pennies on the dollar, on the back nine. Those balls had sunk to the bottom. The groundskeepers would occasionally try to shoo us off, but their hearts were never ever in it. What eventually curtailed this rather lucrative trade, was leeches, which we came home with one day. I’ve always suspected those groundskeepers of seeding the water hazards with them.
We partied last night with Anne, Bill and Liz. Liz left today making me the baby again on Curmudgeon Court. Sam and John blew by today, from Atlanta or Newberry, depending upon your point of view. We hope to visit their cabin later this week. John has promised me that they don’t have mosquitoes.
I’m sure that I don’t deserve it, but yesterday, Anne called me a varlet and a pincock. On our anniversary, I might add. She was searching for new expletives and she didn’t want to sound like her mother. (Well, I’m certainly not going to touch that last part.) A varlet in modern usage is simply a valet and if she want’s to walk all over me and treat me like a common servant, well, who am I to say no? But in Shakespearian English, a varlet is a despicable man, which is not what I am. I don’t even recall why she went down this path. As I’ve said, I’m sure that I don’t deserve this. But if she want’s to call me a varlet then so be it. It’s water off this duck’s back.
What I do take exception to is pincock, which isn’t even an expletive, although it certainly sounds like one. The only references I could find on Google was as a family name. If you ask me, this opens up a whole new can-of-worms for those people, but that’s not at all germane here. To put it in a more modern context, for you tech savvy readers out there in internet-land, it’s like she’s giving a one-star Yelp review of me in bed. This isn’t fair, because as the reader can plainly see, there are two fruits from our once blissful marriage. So, I think that I deserve at least a two-star Yelp review. Continuing with this pseudo technology, fake sex diatribe, all this repudiation of me, just makes me feel micro-soft.
We stayed in Boulder, when we visited Rocky Mountain National Park. We could have camped. We had reservations in the park, but reports of avalanches and deep snow dissuaded us from that idea. As it turned out, these were only back-country conditions and we would have been fine. By staying in Boulder though Anne and her sister, Jay, were able to arrange a rendezvous.
Jay’s family was flying into Denver, on three separate planes and they were on a tight schedule to get to Fort Collins. It was Saturday and Boulder’s normal Pearl Street weekend hubbub was intensified by not one, but two festivals. We first tried parking in a close by parking structure. We circled up eight stories and then circled back down eight stories only to find a lot full sign had been put out in the interim. We eventually parked and found the restaurant, which was willing to make a reservation for seven. Our table was called and as we were being seated, when Jay, et. al. appeared. The sun, stars and moon must have been perfectly aligned or at least got into line, bent by the wills of Anne and her sister.
The Dushanbe Teahouse comes from Kazakhstan, Boulder’s sister city there boxed up the place in several hundred crates and shipped it all to Colorado, where it was reassembled and has been a going concern ever since. Its decorative artwork is quite extraordinary. I especially love the interior ceilings. We actually ate outside, because Saturday afternoon is dim-sum day.
Yesterday, the annual 4th of July potluck picnic was held on the beach. This year, the adjacent old cabin hosted the event. Even so, logistics was an ordeal and was made even worse by the hot sun and sand. I think that the afternoon here was hotter than Saint Louis. Our retreat could have been a disaster, if not for the intervention of Dashie, a true angel of mercy, but now all is well again.
Yesterday, Anne and I drove up from Oregon. We let ourselves into Jay and Carl’s house and unloaded all of our stuff out of the Prius, first onto their front walk and then into the house. We’re leaving the car in the driveway until we leave town.
Last night, we now four met with Aimee and MB for dinner at the regatta themed Magnuson micro-brewery by the marina on Washington Lake. That wicked woman, Sue Nommi struck at the brewery, in the form of our waiter, who dumped ice water on Jay and MB. Later, he also forgot Amee’s dinner order, but it was all good in the end and we decamped to Aimee and MB’s place for some after dinner delights.
Today, Jay, Carl, Anne and I took public transit to the Seattle waterfront. We toured Pike’s Market. We shopped yarns, quilts and Metsker’s Maps. Lunch at the Pike’s Place Brewery, then down to the waterfront: Ye Olde Curiosity Shop, complete with three corpses on public display, the destruction of the Viaduct and then the aquarium. It is a nice aquarium, but it could have used more Rock fish. Public transportation home and Indian takeout for a laidback dinner.