As we rounded out our summer weeks, our weather turned delightful - the kind of delightful that makes you feel suddenly capable of life’s toughest challenges, like cleaning out the workshop, getting a jump start on your taxes, or eating one less cookie after dinner because crisp air reminds you that life is worth jumping into. You should keep spry and fit. Do you think that’s why those Scandinavians are so progressive? This crisp, hopeful air?
I have a reptilian love for the hot weather, so I’ll rarely complain about it hindering my enthusiasm, but after months in the nineties, the seventies almost tickle your skin. I’ve also noticed that this kind of Hawaiian weather can fool you into thinking that you want to do things you don’t actually want to do - like move into an bungalow in a schlubby part of town where you could afford to buy a house without needing a mortgage. Because in this weather, even
The Hood feels picturesque and well worth the savings. “This weather is dangerous.” I told Brett, and he agreed.
I had my official first day as an intern at Brett’s company when he bit off a huge job in Hilton Head that first resulted in needing to book a hotel room for “just a night” and then resulted in asking his wife if she’d drive down and crawl around under the condos with him. I thought of the hundreds of hours Brett logged at ol’ Lux n’ U tearing down wedding decor at midnight, so I left Mom and Dad some pet-care instructions and barreled down the road to my first and second days as an assistant (to the) engineer. It was a dirty, slightly sweaty job up under a crumbling building from the eighties. We were measuring the piers it sat on and that required sliding around on your belly, climbing up over insulation and HVAC tubes, and doing a wispy swatting maneuver to get the cobwebs off your nose. I logged a number of hours sitting next to disturbingly motionless spiders.
Brett and I decided it would make him look unprofessional if the point-of-contact person found out I was Brett's wife, so we decided I was just an office assistant (This is true. I write a lot of Brett’s more complex or confrontational emails.) and that I volunteered to give Mr. Brett and hand in the field. On my drive down I came up with a whole backstory. Brett poached me from my family’s property management and development company. I’ve worked in Mr. Brett’s office for a little over a year now. My husband, Casey, works in IT and we have two cats.
We were halfway through my first day, eating our lunch, when the Head Guy came over. Brett introduced me just as “Laura” and I made some comment about being glad to get out of the office. Then, when we found out the guy is originally from Syracuse, NY, Brett blew our cover by talking about our last trip up to see our friends in Rochester. The man’s eyes flicked suspiciously back over to me where I responded with a look of professional defeat. Days later, on Thursday of Brett’s “I’ll be done by Tuesday” job, he saw that guy again and was asked, “Hey, that woman that was helping you? Is she your wife?”
So now Brett looks silly, bringing his wife to work. We are hopeful he assumes this is a family business.
In other news, I have been trying to harness- train Cam, the handicapped cat. “Handi-Cam” He is as happy about it as Brett is, which is to say they are both bothered by my intentions. Brett is horrified that a neighbor will see me “walking a cat,” while Cam maintains that when wearing the harness, he cannot move his legs. I scoot him along in the grass and he just lets all four legs drag behind him.
He wants to be outside, mind you, but he doesn’t like the harness. So mostly we just sit out in the grass for awhile and then I carry him back in. On our most recent “lesson” he army crawled away from me, so I’ll mark that as progress.
Mom and I recently stepped out for a day of errands together and when I jumped in her car at our rendezvous spot, she was fiddling with her shoes. “The bottom of my shoe just fell off!” and then she held it up. We laughed and laughed at this because she and I (and Grandpa Bob) notoriously wear our clothing items until they combust and the people around us think we are absurd because of it. It is very “Mom” to be wearing shoes that you can feel pebbles through. When we finished laughing I suggested we run into the store and grab some glue but Mom said it was fine. She’d carry on without the bottom.
A couple hours later, as we walked into a consignment store, the bottom of the other shoe just dropped right off in the parking lot. Mom simply bent down, picked it up and tossed it in the trashcan by the store's front door. “Shall we?” And we stepped in to look around. She walked along, remarking that she could feel everything she stepped on, but also managed to find some cute seashell pictures to hang in a bathroom. We went in opposite directions and while I was sorting through a rack of clothes I heard Mom come up behind me, giggle and simply say, “Hey Laura?” I turned to find her stifling her laughter.
When we finished guffawing, she shuffled (literally) back to the car while I waited in the checkout line with her seashell pictures.
Ever since we've gotten back from Florida, I’ve found myself deeply missing Olivia. Seeing her everyday was the best. Now she’s at school and I only see her on Sundays. She’s all long-legged and talkative and I’m disheartened by how fast its all going. I think the best word for it is crestfallen.
Loosely related, I watched a show about centenarians the other day. They're all ready to die. They had lots to say about life and young people and grief and what not, but what really struck me was how none of them looked much older than their mid-eighties. "Why, you don't look a day over 86!" It made me wonder if you get to a point of decrepitude where upon the skin has sagged as far as possible given the volume and mass within it. Sandbags finally settle somewhere, you know? The hair goes wispy. The ears go long. The bottom teeth become quite prevalent. BUT, you only look 84, so... a silver lining?
Lastly, I joined Dad for a day of his Handyman/ Problem-solving services and we wound up on a small farm in Ravenel working on what Mom calls The Crapper 2000. The organization that took Dad to Burma a few times to get clean water at the orphanage, is now working on getting a version of gas cooktops available in some small villages in Africa. They discovered a manure-based opportunity for such undertakings and ol' Popples U had to go out and troubleshoot it.
They'd put too much water in the crap bag so the gas wasn't drifting out. While Dad tinkered with valves and tubes, I wandered the property, cooing at animals that seemed burdened by my presence. I looped back around to help Dad. It was hot and sunny, and we were in a shadeless area next to a huge bag of cow crap with off-gasing capabilities, so.
I'll zoom ahead and tell you that when we saw we were missing a part and couldn't get things moving, I suggested we just press down on the crap bag. Dad thought it was a good idea, so he held the valve while I gently laid my body upon the giant bag. Dad was looking up at me, waiting to hear or smell the farty gases, so he didn't noice that all the poo water was bubbling up and puddling around his hands. When I noticed, I yelled, "Oh no!" and Dad simply continued looking at me with a pleasant, curious look on his face. "It's getting all over your hands!" That's when he looked down to find the warm poo particles flowing between his fingers.
His reaction was understandably elementary and I could sense that he would not appreciate my laughter. I struggled to keep it to myself. He immediately went running off towards the barn in search of soap and water. That's when I was able to indulge in my amusement. We rode the 45 minutes home, both drench in sweat and smelling like farts. A special memory for sure.
I have since checked on the status of The Crapper 2000 and it is up and running -certain to debut in Africa soon.
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