Yesterday, the hot chick who's going to be penetrating the William Rivers Pitt dropped by, to be sure I understood how things are going to work on Tuesday; for some obvious reason she got the quite accurate impression that I am at sea as to what happens on Tuesday, but am just going to take it as it comes, as I always do.
Oh my. There haven't been this many people here since some sort of family reunion in 1926 or something.
Here, I had anticipated being the solitary audience.
Among the lesser of circa 1,528 things she told me, was her inquiry about the reliability of the town inebriate, the guy who mows the grass here late at night, after it's dark. She hired him to set up the apparatus, because it's quite a bit.
Well, I told her, there shouldn't be any doubts about his competence; he does know this stuff.
She knew that; she's been around here before, and knows people, and knows what people know.
However, while it will be done right, and on time, she shouldn't worry if he waits until 11 p.m. Monday night, to set it up, under the light of the moon. It'll be okay, no problems, other than this dark-of-the-night thing.
Well, I'll just take it as it comes. We'll see what happens. It should be interesting.
She noticed I had been going through some old family photographs; I told her one of the nephews had wanted some illustrating the time and life of his late paternal ancestor. His paternal ancestor was quite a bit older than myself, and so the time and life of each of us was different, but I believe I can do okay; I jump at any chance to dump old family photographs on anyone willing to take them, and in this case, the nephew is going to get six three-ring notebooks of photographs, all assorted and identified.
Whew. Another circa 1500 pictures taken off my hands, lightening the load.
She asked if I was in any of them, and I said yes, one of them.
I showed it to her. It was taken by a neighbor the summer I was four years old, and my younger brother, two, and when our paternal grandmother from northwestern Pennsylvania stayed with the family, in a small town along the quiet placid serene Platte River of Nebraska.
The three-story house, surrounded on three sides by a wide veranda, cherry trees all around.
The blind and arthritic very ancient grandmother, sitting in a rocking chair on the veranda.
Two toddlers on the ground below, "digging" dandelions.
The younger of the two, blond-haired and brown-eyed and tanned skin, smiling at the camera, his face smeared with dandelion dye.
The older of the two, brown-haired and grey-eyed and white-as-a-sheet skin, not even aware the photographer is present, intensely concentrating on a dandelion that seems like none of the other dandelions.
It will be a long time yet, barring any unfortunate accident or something, before I grow old and wither away, but this was probably the last time I will ever set my eyes on that particular picture. Not that I have any hostility about that particular photograph; only that there are s-o-o-o-o-o many pictures the faster I can ditch them, the better.
Besides, their images are permanently etched in the memory anyway.
This was the grandmother who bestowed upon me the title "young man," much to the derision of the teenaged brothers and sisters. I had no idea what she was calling me, but I did have the sense that she had ennobled me with a monicker given to no one else. She died when I was 8 years old, but I still remember every detail of that loving, caring face.
And my younger brother, who died when he was 17 (and I was 19), even though he favored our much-older brothers and sisters over me--it cannot possibly be easy, being a younger sibling of a deaf person--we were close enough that to this day, if I could draw or paint, I could create an eminently-reasonable likeness of him.
Memories are Eternal; photographic paper fades and crumbles.
