And no, the story is not done.

The firemen have gone; there is no fire left to fight.

I was walking near the ashen ruins. A car turned into the drive. The passenger side window rolled down. I walk over. The driver, a woman of a certain age that is quite a bit more than mine, leans over and says, “They burned down Grandpa’s house.”

Kind of takes you down.

But, we had a great conversation. I learned a history of my neighborhood, or should I say former neighborhood I never knew before. The woman’s family sold the house to Dick Hughes after her grandfather died. And she had cousins who lived in my house in the 1940’s. Of course, the house didn’t have running water then.

She just wished she'd have known. She would have loved to have gone in Grandpa's house one last time.

Chez Scribner: I knew thee well.

It's not as elegant as when the Scribner's lived here, so many years ago.

But it was like losing an old friend.

A smoky old friend.

Richard was appalled when I left the house with a stick and marshmallows!

There went the neighborhood!

I’ve decided to be a prophet when I grow up.

You see, I met the deity of the right wing, and (s)he’s way cooler than they give credit.

(S)he did ask me to deliver a message:

“I gave you intelligence so that you could reason things through. The world has changed since the bible was written, so many, many years ago. Common sense would dictate that priorities and procedures would have to change, too. Use the friggin noodle I gave you. Because if I have to come back down to earth to straighten this out, so help me, I’m gonna leave the domestic house cats in charge!”

I look at Max and Spike.

Trust me, you don’t want that.

Farewell to the Hughes house

Dick Hughes moved away a couple of decades ago. He was the last person who cared for the home.

First flame.

Holy Smokes!

Umm, I think my umbrella was in there.

Eerie

Just a thought.

Okay, I have an idea I’d like some religious right-wingers to think about.

(Religious right-wingers frequent this page.)

Let’s pretend for a second that your god does exist. Let’s say that your god is truly loving and wants the best for his people. So, 2,000, 3,000, 4,000 or however many years ago he instructed humans to write his rules (bible). He, being loving, sets rules that make sense for survival of his people. He forbids pork or shellfish, because they hide undetectable disease. He knows that people are dying as fast as they are being born, so he opposes any sex that doesn’t lead to procreation. He forbids shaving beards, because that is just stupid.

Fast forward, however many years it takes to get to today. We have ways to tell if pork or shellfish are trouble, so most sects allow eating them.

The population of planet earth is toying with maximums. Perhaps your god would say that gay marriage (and sex without procreation) is okay.

I do still support beards with all my heart.

Just a thought.

Riot like it's 1969

Happy Stonewall Day!

When you look out your front window

And all you can see are firetrucks, you either immediately revert to your childhood fantasy about fires, your lusty desire for all firemen back when you were a trifle younger, or you think your house is on fire.

I'm not going to tell you the order my thoughts went.

But, they were all here:

Turns out they’re just doing practices, in case the houses next door catch fire this Saturday. Wow, wouldn't that be freaky!

Half Time!

Three weeks down, three to go. And as is unfortunately true to the course, we have little to report.

Richard is exhausted. That is a side effect of both chemo and radiation. So even though he has had almost two weeks off from chemo, the radiation has kept him sleepy. He has to be careful what he eats so it doesn’t upset him, but he must eat. He is down 40 pounds. (Okay, he was a little tubby there for a while: even Max joked.) And things don’t taste right. How the hell you suppose to know if you want some halibut tonight, when you don’t know which of the many nuances it is going to take on?

He isn’t complaining. He leaves that up to me. Have I told you how bad my carpal tunnel was, or have I mentioned the “festering wounds of a dimension and severity seldom seen out the tropics” recently? Yeah, I thought I had.

Richard is a few days behind schedule, but he is losing his hair. I guess I am a little surprised how traumatic that is for Richard. In truth, until he mentioned it, I never had thought that this was the visual. He can no longer pretend. So I’m gonna probably have to deal with reality someday soon.

Nah, not my style!

I have made a horrible error.

Whoa, I’ve got to come clean on this one, and it is a biggie.

A couple of days ago I mentioned “vestal virgins and volcanoes” in reference to the Summer Solstice. Well, that was a boo-boo. It seems the “vestal virgins and volcanoes” are appropriately tied to the Super Moon (tonight), while it is “sex, drugs and rock and roll” that should have been tied to the Summer Solstice.

Sorry if I screwed up your holidays. (I’m still not sure when the goat sacrifice comes, but I’ll let you know when I figure it out.)

I sure hope you didn’t waste any vestal virgins because of my misinformation.

I love "Pickles"

 I refuse to grow up, and you can't make me!
Thank you, Brian Crane!

I'm not sure if it means anything

But since Bernadette of Lourdes was put in the prestigious coffee cup rotation, there has been horrible flooding in Lourdes. Perhaps I should reconsider.

Happy summer solstice to you all!

Hope you’re well supplied with vestal virgins and volcanoes. ‘Tis the season!

There was a time

There was a time I felt guilty about leaving Richard in Portland.

Times have changed.

I no longer feel guilt, but unbridled anger that Richard gets to spend the week in that adorable apartment across the street from Providence, while I am stuck in this flea-infested, hell-hole of a harbor in a violent storm.

Do you have any idea how tempted I am to take his radiation therapy just so I can enjoy some me time in the big city?

Oh, come on. It’s just a joke. And it’s not that bad of a joke. If you can’t laugh, what is left!

Happy Father's Day!

The curse of the small town.

I saw my doctor today: my doctor, not Richard’s doctor, not Trixie’s doctor, but my doctor. Dr. Foster doesn’t know Richard. She knows of him, but that is all. I had convinced myself that this was my final refuge: the last place on planet earth where I could play the medical patient extraordinaire. (My surgeon goes to church with Richard. I knew I couldn’t really convince him that I was the 'medical patient extraordinaire'.)

I was wrong. Dr. Foster first words were, “I heard about Richard. How is he doing?” It is the curse of the small town. There is no escaping reality.

To say in Dr. Foster’s defense, she really cares. Every time my eyes misted over, hers did too. I really like her.

And Richard is exhausted. Two weeks down, four to go. It is grueling. His taste is wacked out. He says water tastes horrible. His appetite is gone and he has heartburn. But the exhaustion is the big thing.

But, he has decided he wants to go back to his 40 year reunion from Catholic University in late September. I am all for that! Yee-haw, trip back east (DC and New Jersey… and some places in between!)

I’m sorry.

I forget from time to time that many of you are not worldly enough to be familiar with the provenance of coffee cup delineation conventions. I will give you a rudimentary introduction.

First, there are three broad categories: Demi Tasse, Norme Tasse and La Tasse Grande – Small Cup, Regular Cup, and Real Cups! I’ve never dealt much in Demi Tasse, but I have a reasonably sized (not large, by any extreme) conglomeration of Norme Tasse, and although my La Tasse Grande is limited in numbers, it is powerful in scope. It was a finalist in last year’s CA (Cupper’s Association)’s award for excellence. Yes, I am very proud.

For each of the three broad categories, there are three “Rubique de Stockage”. “Rubique de Stockage” doesn’t translate well to real life, but it is something along the line of “Worth in Life”.

There is the Attic Dwellers. They are the downtrodden, the abused. When you hear of a coffee cup revolt in the Middle East, you know it came from the Attic Dwellers.

One major step above the Attic Dwellers is the, Seen but Not Used. They are the ones given the respect to be viewed by the public, with no chance of a sweet kiss. They gather dust. You really don’t want to have mouth-to-mouth contact with them.

And above the Seen but Not Used, are the cups in The Rotation. Think about it… there are 3 or 4 hundred cups in the house. Eighteen get into The Rotation. There is major jealousy and anger when one is replaced. (It was Astoria Column that was replaced by Bernadette of Lourdes. If you get mean and nasty emails from the Column, you know it is because he has accessed my email account.)

There are some shades between the categories, like Yogi’s revered status, but I hope you all have a better understanding of the critical issues of coffee cup delineation.

Thank you.

Richard is still okay.

I’m not meaning to sound like I’m going soft on religion.

But I’ve moved Bernadette of Lourdes into the prestigious coffee mug rotation. She previously occupied the “In view, but never used” position, as opposed to the “in rotation” status she currently enjoys. This is a major coup in the coffee cup community. Trust me, we had some major “cocky” attitudes this evening.

Lourdes and Bernadette mean a lot to Richard. To Richard it was worth two days in Iceland: we worked out a compromise.

He lost. I loved Lourdes. I don’t think you could say the same about Richard and Reykjavik.

Added bonus

I got to see Abby & Steve!

1 down, 5 to go.

It wasn’t a bad week. Well, not for me. But I didn’t have back surgery or chemotherapy or radiation. I did have a nasty hang nail, but I’m guessing that ain’t gonna grab me no sympathy votes.

Richard is okay. He’s not bubbling with energy and he isn’t loving life right now, but he is okay.

And me, I started mowing the lawn for the first time this year. I like to think of it as harvesting the wheat!

And don't ask me why the picture is sideways. If I knew why, I would have fixed it.

What I learned today.

Mrs. Laurer, (yes, she is real) got out of the hospital today. One of the times I was scampering in, she was being assisted out in a wheelchair.

At times, Trixie has an iron bladder. After 13 hours home alone, she really didn’t want to go outside.

Chemotherapy is not a spectator sport. The actual dripping of the drug is really tedious. It is much like watching grass grow, but without the warm sun on your shoulder. But, there is a camaraderie that I hadn’t expected.

And no matter how logical it may be, it just doesn’t seem right to leave your partner at an apartment in Portland, as he begins a very trying treatment for a serious disease. But Richard doesn’t want to spend three hours a day in a car, when there are these delightful apartments right across the street from Providence. He will come home for weekends, and I’ll go in and see him.

Richard is well.

Come back, Edith Bunker!

Another one of the greats from my youth has passed.