thisendoftheswamp

It is a Rule of the Universe that people who need ten hours sleep always marry people who only need six. As a consequence, I am usually sound asleep long before The Squire comes to bed, and as a rule still sawing wood when he gets up.

This morning I came downstairs at 8:30, fixed my coffee, and sat down at my computer to read the online newspaper and the comics, and generally get geared up for the day. As soon as I started reading the paper, The Squire began handing me pieces of paper to put in the recycling.  “Take this.” “Throw this away for me.” The recycling bin is on my side of the desk, so his requests were not unreasonable, it was simply that the timing was off.

I have a shirt which reads “I drink coffee for your protection”, and it’s no joke. You do NOT want to get near me until I’ve finished my coffee – preferably in peace. I finally asked him if there was any particular reason he felt compelled to clear off his desk now, and just exactly what time had he gotten out of bed, by the way?  “Oh, about seven or so.”

At least he had the good grace to act embarrassed.

We have added a third great grandson to our family.  Grandson Christian and Skye had a son, Xavier, an 9:53 on November 13. He weighed in at 6 pounds, 9 ounces.  Everyone is doing well.  We told the other two young marrieds they need to have daughters to even up the odds.

The Squire has requested (under pain of death – sorta) that I start emptying the myriad boxes, crates, and cartons from my mother’s “estate”. Today, I actually plowed through three cardboard boxes.

A few days ago I had discussed the Charge-a-Plate that most of the people in Baltimore carried in those pre-VISA days. Lo and behold, in one of the boxes, I found my mom’s plate, and the “velvet” lined case used to carry it. Notice on the case itself, a small ring to attach the case to the inside of your purse.  Even though the card carries my mom’s signature on the back, the front is embossed with my dad’s name, Ernest Parker, as it was assumed in the 40s and 50s that the husband would be the breadwinner in the house hold.

Totally worthless, but pretty nifty, none the less. Something for my kids to sort through when I shuffle off.

Last night I tied the dog out about 8:00. When I went out at 8:15 he and the rope were gone. The usual routine. Check the road, and then wander around with a flash light, calling his name. (Why the H— doesn’t he ever pull these stunts during the day, when I can find him?)

I heard him bark once, which gave me an idea where he was – back and to the left. Didn’t find him in the neighbor’s yard, so decided to see if he had wandered into the next yard up. Our neighbor has not mowed his back yard all summer, so I was trekking knee-deep in my robe and a pair of snow boots – I know; always the fashion plate! – tripping over vines and stepping into pot holes.  Finally found the little bugger, snagged on a rosebush, and the line stretched as far as he could go. I had to follow it under bushes and around trees to unhook him, and then the fool wanted to explore some more.

I am too old for this nonsense.

A friend came over today to help me try to finish papering the kitchen (How long, O Lord, how long?) and remarked that one of our light switches was upside down. No big deal. My dad and The Squire had cut the wire too short when they installed that light and it wasn’t worth redoing the entire thing.

On the other hand, all of the switches in the house where I lived with the Late and Unlamented were put in right side up, but wired upside down.

I asked him about it, and he looked at me as if I was a banana short of a bunch. “See that?” he said, pointing to the word OFF on the switch, which was pointing down at the moment, but the lights were on.  He flipped the switch up, so the word OFF was hidden, and we stood there in the dark. “Now, what’s so odd about that?”, he asked.

I didn’t have the heart – or the nerve – to tell him, but it did have a sort of odd-ball logic to it. I simply had to remember they were Russian switches.

Good old Colonel Upizoff.

I stopped at Sheetz this morning to grab a cup of coffee, and had to flip through over a dozen little tags on my key ring before I found the right one for the clerk to scan.

I’m not really complaining about using these tags. Ten cups of coffee purchased at the gas station earns me one free cup, plus they give me 3 cents off each gallon of gas. Our local grocery store has a program that lets you earn credit toward gas purchases, plus your organization can turn in the receipts and get back 2%. (If you see somebody digging in the trash cans, it’s probably a member of our church.) Most drug stores have some sort of “preferred customer” program, and my library card is also on my key ring.

As I was searching for my Sheetz card, I asked the clerk if she was old enough to remember Baltimore’s Charge-a-Plates. It was a metal plate, maybe 2 inches by one, with your name and address embossed on the front. The edges turned over to seal a piece of paper with your signature. Each of the big department stores in Baltimore had a notch on the card. The salesgirl – always a woman – put the card into a machine very similar to the ones in use today, where you slide a bar back and forth over the card to imprint the customer’s name and number. AND, you only had to carry ONE card!

Baltimore also had a delivery business, so you could buy an item at, say, Hutzler’s, tell the clerk it was C.O.D., and the next day, a big brown truck would pull up in front of your house, you’d pay the man, and voila! Plus, it was free.

Those were the days, my friend, those were the days!

This morning I had to run to the grocery store, and saw a man – who had to be my age, at least – schlepping around in his pajama bottoms.  A lot of teens also do this.

Most people don’t wear undies to bed, right? Are these folks wandering around without underwear? Flannel pj’s or not, it must be awfully drafty! If they take off the pajama bottoms to put on what my grandmother used to call “dribs”, why don’t they just pull on a pair of jeans?

About 4:00 this morning, Blazer began a ferocious barking. Nothing particularly unusual about that, as he considers it his business to scare off any wild things that come near the house. (Excluding, of course, leaf-blowing raccoons.) I noticed that the motion light over the drive had gone on, and simply assumed one or more deer had come for a visit.

Until the doorbell rang.

Since deer don’t generally ring our bell (they usually knock) both The Squire and I leapt out of bed, threw on something resembling clothing and dashed downstairs. A Baltimore County police officer was standing outside the dining room window, with his hand raised in an “I come in peace” gesture. We corralled Blazer, who probably would have licked the poor man to death, and opened the door.

It turned out the alarm at church had gone off, and the first person on the call list couldn’t remember the security code, so they had called The Squire. We don’t have a phone in our bedroom, so after four attempts to contact us, the alarm company had asked the county police to come to the house. The Squire dressed and went over, to find all the exterior doors open and unlocked – but the alarm was set, and still ringing. The sacristy and various offices were all locked (separate keys) so nothing had been taken. All was secured, and The Squire came back home.

He swore he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep, but he was snoring the second his head hit the pillow.

Never a dull.

As I was locking up tonight I heard a familiar, but unidentifiable noise.

Not the pump, not the dishwasher, not the fridge doing something new and exciting. The raccoons had managed to turn on the leaf blower.

I really, really wish I had seen that!