Herban Sprawl

Yesterday couldn’t make up its mind about its weather. One minute we needed shades, the next we didn’t. For the trifocular among us, it was annoying, but the occasion was so exciting, it was a small price to pay.

There was the usual assortment of politicians and big donors assembled, but the overriding message of the day was the thanks due to “those without whom.” When the first speaker, the Congressman, spoke, he mentioned volunteers by name, which was rather nice. I was sitting beside Cookie, and I could tell he was gratified. And it’s true - had it not been for the hardy group of people from this community, the whole event would not have happened. Instead, there would still be gardens lined up along the canal bottoms where the boat shimmered up to the dock.

The ride itself was wonderful. The Volunteer has electric engines to power it through the bridge pylons where it meets up with Larry and/or Moe. Once the mules are hitched, they amble on up the towpath, pulling the boat along. It’s quiet, it’s smooth and the view from the upper deck is lovely. The poison ivy is tremendously lush this year!

The boat goes nearly to the aqueduct, where the captain turns it around and it heads back to port.

I can’t describe the feeling of that first ride - exhilarating? auspicious? satisfying? singular? defining? All I know is that I kept thinking about how hard everyone had worked for that moment, how much frustration went into the business concerned with filling the ditch with water, all the political maneuvering and then, the past nine years when help arrived to get the dream of a boat converted to a reality. I kept hoping the souls who had passed on were with us in spirit.

Today, when we took the ride as tourists, along with number one grandchild and her family, we got closer to the aqueduct, and it was then that I sensed the spirit of Louie the Blacksmith - I think it took the generational gravitational pull, but he was definitely with us and pleased as punch.

So, if you are passing through and it’s between April 1st and October 31st, be sure to take a ride on The Volunteer. When you get to the aqueduct, holler out a big hello for me, y’hear? And, in the Visitors’ Center, leave a generous contribution. They have a $300,000 debt to cover, and since I haven’t hit Powerball yet, they need whatever you can spare!

Greetings from the friendly Midwest. We arrived yesterday in time to get a preview of the Visitors’ Center for the Illinois Michigan Canal, which is great, collect Bob and motor off to Ron’s Cajun Connection. I had crawfish etouffee, which was yummy. Big Kitty had shrimp Creole and red beans and rice. Bob had alligator and frog legs and boudin. We were stuffed, but Ron makes some pretty fabulous pecan pie, so BK and I shared while Bob kept his all to himself!

Afterward, we drove down to the canal so I could see the boat. Wow!!!! She was moored in the middle of the canal so that no one will meddle with her. We also met Larry and Moe, the mules who tow the boat. (They take turns.) And, just like Larry and Moe, Larry is friendlier and Moe is cranky. (Maybe he should have been named Simon?)

When we got up this morning, it was raining, but now, at nearly noon, it is clearing up. Good thing, too. The christening is at one!

Called Uncle Earl this morning. He was having his coffee correcto, if I know him… he said the mules got loose the other day and were found up the towpath near Utica, grazing in some guy’s yard!

Time to plaster and paint my face and get ready for the big “doings” in a while. More later, and hopefully, a picture! Stay tuned!

That’s line I’d like to apply to the fool who lives in the White House, but instead find myself sending out to the heavens for George Carlin. Carlin spoke for all of us who were generally aggravated by the way things work in America. We like it here, but there are a lot of things that drive us crazy and Carlin expressed those things better than anyone.

I always appreciated his joke about locked gas station restrooms (“Are they afraid someone’s going to come in and clean them?”) and his great word play. Most of all, as I aged and grew more liberal, I was amused by the things he chose to poke at, like profanity.

I’m sorry he’s gone. This election year would have been a bonanza of material for him and we would have loved everything he had to say, even when it hit home ever so painfully, as it often did.

Thanks, George. Thanks for reminding us about the things we do that are steeped in hypocrisy and immorality. You were better than any Sunday school teacher I ever had!

Happy Birthday, Cuz!

Today’s paper reprinted an article from the Farmer’s Almanac about flag etiquette. I read it carefully to see if anything had changed since my one and only year in the Brownies. It’s all the same. There is some comfort in that, considering as how the rules on never wearing black to a wedding, the dates for patent leather and white shoes, or other details have shifted.

Miss Manners would disagree – the rules haven’t changed. People just don’t observe them.

In any case, when it got popular to fly American flags from everything, we resisted. It isn’t that Big Kitty and I are unpatriotic; we just don’t see flag waving as productive. Big Kitty knows from flag etiquette as he served in the Air Force. He is what is known as a Vietnam –era veteran. (He was stationed in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan at the K.I. Sawyer Air Force Base Hospital, playing vampire and lab detective.)

During the height of flag-waving, I noticed the numbers of flags that were flying improperly, and those seemed to be the very people who were the most interested in proving they were more patriotic than the next guy. I also noticed a lot of flags that needed to be disposed of. (Fold the flag respectfully, get a good fire going, set the thing into the flames reverentially, and salute while you let ‘er rip.) The thing is, and a lot of people don’t know this, but if your flag has gotten tattered or torn, or faded and nasty from displaying it improperly, all you have to do is contact the local American Legion or Veterans of Foreign Wars, and they will attend to matters for you. A lot of times, the vets will bring in a scout troup when they are doing a flag disposal in order to teach them how it’s done.

So today, on Flag Day, if you haven’t bothered to check yours lately, please do so. We will all admire your superior knowledge of flag etiquette if you take down one that needs to be consigned to the campfire. It’s the patriotic thing to do.

Was the recent campaign successful? Was it worth all the trouble? It depends on who you ask. It also depends on your perspective regarding the goals. The goals meant one thing to some of you and other things to others of you. I’ve had some interesting email. (I have to fix the ‘comments’ issue! Some of you have had some priceless remarks!)

Here is the gist of where we were when the end was in sight. A truce was brokered by a very bright person with the best of intentions. Egged on by the peer group who agreed that a clean room wasn’t too much to ask and that the room in question was pretty disgusting, the agreement was made.

Now in every deal, the deal maker has to include items that s/he is already willing to give up in order to make the other party believe they have gotten a deal. In my case, it was money for laundry. I never expected to be paid, but I included it so I’d have something to give away in negotiations while leaving my core demands intact. Years ago my dad told me something very valuable. “In every deal there is a ‘screwor’ and a ‘screwee’. Make sure you know which one you are.”

The deal was struck, but then the Partier of the First Part got into an unnamed substance (don’t let your imagination run amok, here) and the peer group got upset. The parent was called in a panic and he went into high gear. The upshot is that The Room didn’t get cleaned, but the Partier of the First Part has had his lease terminated. As my uncle Cookie once said, “A guy who doesn’t know where he’s going is going to wind up somewhere else.”

Now I had a decision to make. Do I keep to my campaign or accept the parental tough love action as a good ending place?  The point was to get the room cleaned, and moving out will accomplish that goal. Works for me!

I loaded the laundry into Red Rocket and off we went. (Not before I forgot to pack the things I had so carefully put onto hangers, but that’s what happens to people when they get in a hurry.)

Some things came out in this drama that probably could have gone unsaid, but the bottom line is this:  people who make excuses for those who are not doing what they are supposed to do are doing the perps no favors. All they are doing is fostering a climate of permissiveness that does not reflect the expectations of people in the real world.

Dr. John Rosemond talks about this a lot in his parenting column. I saw it time and again as a teacher. Parents who came to school loaded for bear over discipline we were forced to enact on their unruly children had two options: whether to continue to defend indefensible behavior (and look like fools), or to get a grip and rein in their children (we called it being the adult in the relationship). The ones who went with the first option usually had some lawyer on retainer within the first six months of the school’s action, and that person was kept busy, and well-paid, until the juvie judge had had enough and sent the kid to juvenile jail.

For now, I can say I, personally, am finished with this chapter. I hope and pray the young person comes to his senses and does not go down that long road of no return. If he does, it won’t be because some of us didn’t care enough to try to hold his feet to the fire. We tried. He faces a long row to hoe, but if he has a reason to change his attitude, perhaps that row will become a very productive one. Perhaps then he can find redemption.

I’m one of those half-full people. I want to believe that lessons will be learned, eventually, and that the future will be better. Things happen for a reason, and sometimes that reason isn’t revealed to us until much later - at a time when we are ready to be receptive to the message, perhaps. Regardless, my hope is that a change of venue will change the outlook of this person, and that the person taking him in will learn to quit making excuses for him. In time they might quit blaming everyone else for their own bad aim when they shoot themselves in the feet.

Let’s say prayers for peace and tranquility, not to mention a good, heavy rain to banish negativity. Case closed.

My pupil and I are reading Summer of My German Soldier. In one scene, Patty comes home to Ruth who is washing clothes with a wringer washer. There are generations of Americans who have no clue as to that rather crude saying, “Whatsa matter? Get yer tit caught in the wringer?” They have no idea what a wringer washer is. I had to make sketches and explain how one worked.

In those days, sorting laundry was taken to unbelievable lengths because the same tub of water was used for successive loads. If the first load got bleached, then the next loads got some, too. I tend to go in the opposite directions with my Maytag, simply because I don’t want the stray droplets to find their way onto something I don’t want bleached. The House Goddess cleans with bleach, so you can well imagine her work pants! She laughs about it. She brags that she even drank bleach as a child and lived to tell the tale!

And so, as I was on the second to last load of TBHG’s laundry today, I filled the tub with hot water, added a prodigious amount of bleach – I would have earned The House Goddess’s Seal of Approval – and then dumped in extra detergent. We are talking socks. We are talking strap undershirts  like old men with hairy ears used to wear outside at night while they tended their tomatoes in the 100 ° heat of the prairie evenings. I am here to tell you, I gave it my mother’s best tricks, and she was star launderer. Those clothes flapping on the clothesline were sparkling.

I came down to check. The wash water was the color of mud. It didn’t look good.

I came down when I heard the dryer go off, emptied it, and opened the washer. Ick. I had wanted to add more bleach, but I was afraid it would eat the knitting. I needn’t have worried. They looked just as bad as they had looked when I put them in. You’d never know I had even bothered.

I put on my handy dandy latex gloves and separated the old man undershirts from the socks and threw the socks into the dryer. The fact is, the old man undershirts did come out somewhat better in a second go-round with more bleach, but still not up to my pristine standards. When you consider how filthy and odoriferous all these things were to start with, there really is an improvement.

Some might wonder about the sanity of such an adventure, but there comes a time when a person has to stand up for what’s right. The Colonel was right when he advised to “never get into a pissing match with a skunk.” But no one should have to live with such a slatternly skunk in his/her midst, and especially not when the circumstances are driven by the forces of obstinacy for the sake of obstinacy. Sometimes it takes an outsider to call a spade a shovel and help that family get on with it.

Big Kitty has taken note of the gallons of water this has taken and suggested the price needs to be raised. Actually, I am pretty sure I’m washing these things for the Goodwill, so I’ll ask our tax guy if I can deduct a month’s water bill. If I write someone off, you better believe it’s because they belong in the File of Lost Causes.

Yesterday’s post was probably a mystery to most of you. As it happens, The Big, Hairy Galoot was living in a trashed out room that reeked. I could smell it every time I went down the hall to use the bathroom. It doesn’t have a door because TBHG lost door privileges a long time ago. He hangs a sheet over the doorway.

One day the sheet was down and I made the mistake of looking in. My mother would have been rolling in her grave! I was telling The House Goddess about this and she did what The House Goddess does. She declared in no uncertain terms that if he thought he could pull that in her house, he’d soon find out what was what. As we talked, I began to reflect on the different things parents have done over the years to get the attention of their wayward teens.

I was feeling really bad for the others in that house, but I was feeling even worse for the slob that claimed that space for his own. That kind of reeking disorder is indicative of what is going on within that person. It gives pause, if you know what I mean.

Armed with three contractor sized trash bags and a pair of latex gloves, I invaded Galoot’s space. I didn’t tell his parental unit, and I made his sister go outside so she couldn’t be accused of being a party to the event. I scooped up every item of clothing that was out and not on a hanger. I filled all three bags. It was a nasty business. That room needs to be fumigated!

I actually found an uneaten sub sandwich, wrapped in foil, buried in a laundry basket of dirty clothes!

After loading it all, I left him a note, pinned to the curtain, explaining that if he wanted to know what had happened, to go to my blog. Pops and his intern came home to help his daughter with her bathroom needs and we all had lunch. I wouldn’t comment on what I had done, since the point was to alleviate that parent of any responsibility in the matter. It was a matter of perjury. I didn’t want him involved because this had become my battle. I was the one who decided to act.

Once home, I dumped the contents onto my front yard, and with yet another pair of latex gloves, fished through the mess to sort laundry.  If there was anything in the pockets that needed to be saved, however trivial, it got saved, but other than that, the trash was trashed and the clothes were carefully sorted. Then I began laundering. The dirty socks are still outside. We’re talking teen-aged boys, here. If any of you saw Zits when Jeremy stuck out his foot and a plant wilted, you understand why they’ll stay outside until it’s time for their load. For now, they are getting a good airing. My basement, however has nonetheless taken on a disgusting odor!

I was in the process of putting dinner on the table when TBHG called, fuming and carrying on. The excuses were stellar. His time is limited, he has dinner out on Thursday night for a friend’s birthday, etc. etc. It was all designed for what he thought would be an inevitable and easy negotiation. Oops. Auntie doesn’t negotiate. Ask Kody, John, Troy or Jessica. Auntie says what the deal is and that’s the deal. Either follow the program or suffer the consequences.

We ignored the constant ringing of the phone, and not until I had finished dinner did I pick up. That’s when I told him for the second time to quit wasting time; just get started. He wanted to negotiate but I didn’t give him a chance. Then he committed the fatal error. Do. Not. Tell. Auntie. To. Shut. Up. I hung up.

Interestingly enough, he had time to throw all the wrought iron patio furniture around the back yard, but no time to clean the pigsty. He had time to go to a friend’s to cook up a lie about some of the filthy clothes that were stuffed hither and yon in that pigsty. (They belonged to someone else who got them from someone else who died and he’s gonna press charges. “I’m gonna press charges, too,” he told me in his phone message.) But no time to clean up the pigsty.

This battle probably raged in that house all night, and all because he’s lived in that mess for 18 years and won’t accept that no one else in that house wants it around anymore. He’s also not understanding that at 18, and considering the unnecessary grief he’s caused, that his parental unit can very easily tell him to pack it all up and vamoose. I would, but that’s me. His parental unit isn’t mean. Tricky and sneaky, yeah, you betcha. Mean? No. Emphatically no.

On one level I feel sorry for the kid. He’s had some sad things to have to deal with, but it’s time for him to quit making excuses and start acting his age. “You want this stuff?  Then you’ll need to manage your time very, very carefully. You might have to forego dinner out with your girlfriend. Meanwhile, don’t skip out on work because you owe Auntie $50 in laundry charges!”

I pointed out to him: he had two piles of laundry in front of the washer, so if he was desperate enough for something to wear, he could have done some laundry and that would have been that. My holding his other clothing (the pile on my lawn was about two feet high and five feet in diameter) had nothing to do with the fact that he just didn’t want to be responsible and he was determined to show me what a badass he could be. In the time it took for him to demonstrate his own stupidity in managing a situation, he could have had the room cleaned - before I had finished the last load, which as of this morning is still on the front lawn (I wonder if the grass is dead).

It was more important for him to maintain his persona of mean little kid than it was to show the maturity of an eighteen year old. It’s easy for me to shake my head. I don’t live with the little snot and it wasn’t my patio furniture he flung to the winds last night. But as Big Kitty and I discussed it over dinner last night, given our dispositions and given the fact that our families had cursed us with the vow of the frustrated (I hope you have one just like you one day!), we really don’t think we would have allowed a kid to gain the upper hand in our household. We subscribe to the House Goddess’s way of doing business. We probably would have gone in the other extreme of strict, just to be on the safe side! (We were holy terrors – both of us!)

For someone who doesn’t even know if the folder he receives on graduation will actually contain a diploma (or a letter saying, see you in summer school, sucka), he’s got a lot of nerve tossing the wrought iron patio furniture hither and yon. Like I said, his parental unit is very, very patient. I’m starting to wonder if he doesn’t have a few more surprises he’s waiting to spring on that brat. I sure hope so. I could use the gold brick he excretes if Dad actually parlays my antics into some real sh**! (Come on, Guy, I KNOW you can do it! You are one of the smartest people I know…have some fun. Empty the rest of the smelly mess into the driveway today. I’ll even help! I’ve got more latex gloves!)

As to The Big, Hairy Galoot, the final auntly words, “Kid, I told you I don’t play. It’s time to grow up, face your responsibilities and learn how to deal. Your way doesn’t work. When you destroyed your dad’s property, you sealed the deal with me and there will be hell to pay. If it doesn’t come directly from me, it’ll be the very next time you pull something stupid. Landlords don’t much like holes their walls.”

Dear Big Hairy Galoot,

The absence of clothing is my doing. Your parental unit did not receive advance warning of my intention, nor did he even know I had considered this measure. Therefore any acts of retaliation toward him would be completely unwarranted. I assure you, his shock at what has been done will be quite genuine. Any retaliatory acts against me or mine would be viewed dimly by Big Kitty. Do not play with him – he certainly won’t play with you and he’s wilier than you’d ever imagine.

I have removed the mess because I couldn’t stand the sight of it. Every time I passed by, the negativity seemed to roar from your room. If you’ve intended this as a statement, the only one it is making is that you are slovenly and inconsiderate. I don’t want to believe that of you, but the mess pretty much sends that message.

Nowhere is it written that parents must provide for children beyond the basics of food, clothing and shelter. You have treated the latter two items with disdain. Having no pride in your home may seem like a cool way to defy your parent, but in reality it demonstrates a complete and utter disregard for the others who inhabit this home.

The filth is unsanitary and it goes a long way in explaining your attitude toward your life and your future. The problem is, as I see it, you are determined to maintain a recalcitrant attitude just to prove a point. The point has been proved. You are eighteen. It’s time to grow up and out of this childishness.

You may have your belongings back once you have met my auntly conditions. They will have been laundered, so you are going to owe me some cash, just as you would owe Mr. Wheeler if you had dropped off your clothes at his business. Lucky for you, I don’t intend to charge you the same rate.

The primary conditions I am imposing are these:

You will clean up the rest of your room, including scouring and sanitizing the bathroom, wiping down the furniture with the appropriate cleaning solutions and running the vacuum. It has to be clean and orderly.

You will clean up any trash you and your friends have left in the rest of the house or yard or the outbuilding.

You will launder your bedding and put the bed back to rights.

You will assist your parental unit with the yard this week so that it is presentable for graduation day, whether or not you will be graduating.

You will pay me $5 per load, and please understand, I am a stickler for sorting laundry so that the colors don’t run and ruin the load. In return, your clothes will be neatly folded and ready for you to

Make and keep an appointment with Remona (or Scott) to have your hair styled before graduation. (Notice I did not say cut off. I said styled. It’s stringy and unattractive.) My treat.

The secondary conditions I am imposing are these:

Put away belongings and help keep the house, yard and pool area straight for the remainder of your time in this home.

Keep your room and bathroom clean and orderly for the remainder of your time in this home.

Treat this home and its inhabitants with respect and consideration – that means no more of the storage shed shenanigans, etc. Since you are one of the inhabitants, I expect you to treat yourself with respect and consideration, as well.

When you meet the primary set of conditions, I will deliver your laundry when I come out to tutor. I will advise you of the number of loads it took to properly launder your clothes and you may leave me cash beforehand. If Remona (or Scott) is unable to fit you in this week, I will accept a reasonable substitute. Regarding the secondary conditions, if I run a surprise inspection and find your room in disorder, I will once again relieve you of your wardrobe.

As a member of my extended family, you are very important to me, and that is why I am taking the trouble to jerk a knot in you. Because I want to believe you are just a big, hairy galoot, I am anticipating that you will be a good sport and go along with the program. If you don’t, well, I guess you’ll have to use your hard-earned money to buy a new wardrobe, because these things will be going to the Goodwill. (And don’t bother calling Mommy for help because that will just make me dig my toenails in deeper.)

I’m not kidding about any of this. If I didn’t care about the miserable state your life is in, I wouldn’t bother. Since you feel compelled to do stupid stuff  like hammering holes into the walls of your room or destroying anything you wish, then you ought to understand that you are a mere trainee when it comes to throwing tantrums. I have many more years of experience at this.

And in terms of whether you think you need to worry, my uncle Cookie, sniffed, and with tears in his eyes, said, “She’s so devious. I’m so proud!” I learned at the knee of an expert and I was a very, very good student.

So there it is. I am making a statement. I have given you a list of very achievable objectives, and you have the option of meeting them. If you don’t, you are out a lot of clothes. I’ve taken pictures of the state of your room, too, so there will be plenty of evidence as what has driven an adult in your life to tie the knot and jerk it with force.

Since you blithely ignore your parent, demonstrate disregard for your home and belongings, it seems to me you need to consider what it might be like to be without the aforementioned. I’ll be happy to set up a meeting for you with a friend of mine. He’ll be tickled to tell you about life on the inside, beginning at age 18. He’ll also tell you that I’ve been a loyal and generous person to him and that I forgive his lapses, sometimes even when he doesn’t necessarily deserve it.

If you think you deserve nothing, then that’s what you’re going to get. If you think you deserve better than what you are getting, then you have to start giving yourself better. Others will follow your example. I’m giving you a chance. Are you man enough to take it?

Love,

Auntie

For anywhere from a million to nearly four million, we could buy a Frank Lloyd Wright Usonian house and move to Minnesota. My brother-in-law keeps me up to date on all the Wrightian news, and the other day he sent a piece from the N.Y. Times about two homes that are currently on the market. We are all FLLW fanatics in our family.

I didn’t used to like the Usonian houses until I visited Kentuck Knob, a home designed for the owners of the local dairy near Bear Run, PA. But then I “got it.” I was a Fallingwater Resident that year, one of thirteen teachers chosen nationwide to live and study architecture at what is arguably the world’s most famous private summer home. Kentuck Knob is owned by that cute little dark-haired guy standing next to the limo in that picture of Princess Diana in the skin-tight stunning black cocktail dress. He’s Lord Palumbo and he made his money in the London real estate business. He collects architecturally significant buildings like I collect Dept. 56 lighted Chicago landmarks.

I think the reason I have begun to appreciate the Usonians is that they appeal to the way I’ve come to live. I used to think we needed to have a separate den where we could watch television and leave our piles of books and papers with impunity. I thought a living room that was kept tidy for guests was the thing to do. The House Goddess has erased that concept with one look and shake of her head. “What’s this pile of paper you ain’t touched in four months, Girl?”

And indeed, about the only thing I don’t much like about the Usonians would be the kitchen and dining arrangements. I like a bigger kitchen, but I’d be happy with another galley style kitchen, as long as it was properly set up. I prefer a separate dining room for parties, but I like an eat-in kitchen for just us. Wright used to lavish attention on dining rooms in the Prairie houses, but the Usonians got a built-in table that was usually attached to a wall at one end. They just don’t foster great dinner conversation and conviviality.

The more I watch the dismal housing market and the mushroom-like development of McMansions that teeter off hillsides like Snuffy Smith’s cabin, the more I’ve come to realize that Big Kitty and I have a rather unorthodox set of ideas, as compared to what the contractors are trying to sell to a pretty aesthetically challenged American public. I am reminded of one of Les Moore’s remarks in Funky Winkerbean when he and Lisa were house hunting. He was looking at a McMansion and commented, “It looks like it was built by Frank Lloyd Wrong.”  I couldn’t agree more, Les.

I am glad we listened to Bubba Chet and rejected the notion of a house built on a slab. Where do you go during a tornado warning? As we learned last week, they may be an anomaly for our area, but the warnings should always be heeded. Besides, where else would the cat boxes go?! Usonians didn’t have basements, either -

As I watch the so-called green home that was built last year and is still unsold, it hit me that the house is low on common areas and big on private areas. The opposite is true of a Usonian. The long, lean lines of the Usonian, with its siting specifically arranged to take advantage of solar energy, would be stellar made with today’s technology. A Usonian loggia constructed of Trex? The radiant heating that could be run with thermal core energy? The technology of tilt-in windows with R-ratings that would protect the home from the elements while bathing it in sunshine? Mr. Wright would be in hog heaven. So would I. And wouldn’t it be nice to construct a little compound of these ADA approved homes? Talk about cradle to cradle!

In May we were treated to a “we’re on our way through and thought we’d stop for lunch” visit from gal-pal, Lil Linda. She was a part of the Breakfast Club back in the day when we were students at Monmouth College (the one in Illinois - the one with the oldest continuous rivalry west of the Alleghenies against the Knox Siwash). When I went to Chicago for grad school, she was a student in Northwestern’s med tech program, and we have many tales about our first experiences at bluegrass festivals that are probably not PG-13. We also spent a lot of time in the bleachers at beautiful Wrigley Field. Lil Linda was a Bleacher Bum in that ill-fated season when the Mets ruined everything.

Anyway, she and her beau, Bob, were en route to Gulfport, MS, where Louis Sullivan had a lovely summer home – now destroyed by Katrina, I believe. Bob’s son lives there and the two Mainers were scouting a location for a home in the sunny south. When they got to the Star City, we bopped over to BGF’s law office and then went to lunch at Mama Maria’s. Afterward, they headed off and BGF and I commented that Bob was a really nice guy. We left it at that.

The other day I got a postcard from California – from Lil Linda. It turns out Bob had proposed during that trip and they were getting married in California (I got the card about 2 days after the fact, I think.), and only her sister, brother-in-law and mom would be present. “No presents,” she scrawled.

As if.

I had hardly read the thing myself when I speed-dialed BGF and shrieked, “You won’t believe it!” And then I read him the card. He did his share of exclamation points and we hung up feeling utterly delighted for her.

Lil Linda and I are separated by one week, birthday-wise, and one month from BGF. This is her first marriage and that we really felt good about Bob goes a long way in our exhilaration over the event. BGF was heard muttering at our wedding back in ’86, “I can’t believe she’s finally doing this!” In the marriage business, he wins the prize for sheer numbers of weddings. I’m only doing this once. If BK throws me over for a trophy wife, then fine. It’ll be me and the cats. So Lil Linda joined the club, wins the prize for waiting the longest, and we are very, very happy for her.

Now, about that present. I got to work and found her something vintage that I know she will love. And she better use it! There is no way she’s gonna go do something this momentous and not have it commemorated by something appropriate from the M.C. Breakfast Club, Class of ‘73!