terrypetersen

There’s no one thing that’s true. It’s all true. (Ernest Hemingway)

Jay and I arrive at the parking lot at John Bryan State Park—no bathroom within sight. I was sure there was at least an outhouse the last time we were here. We are on our way for a hike that will last several hours through the park and into Clifton Gorge State Preserve. We are walking for the exercise, but we are also escaping life’s pressures and enjoying the glory of God in nature; don’t want unnecessary internal distraction.

Then, my sister Claire calls. Church ended later than usual. She will meet us in a half hour. Ah, we have thirty minutes to find the required services.

It doesn’t turn out to be as easy as we thought it would be. We see a building off to the left on one road, and then notice another, “The Dayroom.” We wonder what that is, and decide to check it out. After all, a room open for the day should have indoor plumbing.

The parking lot is filled, but we find a place nearby and walk to this Dayroom. The building is surrounded by people in costume.

“Do you know if this building has a restroom?” Jay asks a man dressed as a Red Cross nurse. He has on a garish red and white dress, complete with padded chest. Yet his mannerisms are masculine. He has a thick salt-and-pepper beard and ready smile.

He drops his cigarette to his side. “Sure. There is a wedding going on inside. I’m the father of the bride.”

A young boy, perhaps eight or nine years old, in a black cape, directs us to the sides of the building we want.

Inside is a small kitchen where someone is busily preparing meat, perhaps turkey or chicken. The smell is enticing. However, I have no plans to crash a wedding, only borrow one moment in a restroom stall. The main room remains Halloween dark. I see the bride in a gown that looks more packed-in-a-box ready than forever-in-debt Nordstrom.

The room is rich with laughter and music. No one stops me.

When Jay and I leave the building, father-of the-bride is still outside greeting guests and laughing about what a picture of himself he is giving his nephews. He shows us his fingernails, painted a bright red.

I laugh too. Later we discover the outhouse I remembered is on the trail, out of view of the parking lot. Doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t have had the same story to tell if we had found it.

When Jay and I married, we had the tux-and-fancy-gown-style wedding. In a church. Traditional all the way.  That didn’t affect much of life after “I do.” That’s the part that really matters, the part that can’t be predicted. We’ve had some wonderful times; we’ve seen tragedies. No one day is truer than another.

However, I know that it helps to laugh, whenever possible. Like physical exercise it keeps the only-human muscles going.

Here’s to real life! Blessings upon all.

An education isn’t how much you have committed to memory, or even how much you know. It’s being able to differentiate between what you know and what you don’t. (Anatole France)

Our microwave decided it was overworked and gave up one morning. I don’t recall what year it moved into our small home, but it has lived on our counter top a long time. Perhaps it thought it had been taken for granted long enough because it lit up, spun its glass bottom twice, then stopped, as if to say, Sorry, I’m tired. Hire an appliance that doesn’t know what it’s up against. Okay?

So microwave went to the curb on trash day and was taken to a new home before the trucks came. Whether it was for an autopsy or revival we will never know. When we bought its replacement we decided a cart would be a nice idea. The store where we purchased the microwave didn’t have any carts, but an employee suggested another place nearby.

There weren’t any carts in that store either, but there was one available in their catalog—unassembled.

“We can put it together for you, for a fee. Or you can do it yourself in about an hour,” the only person working in the store said. He showed no affect whatsoever, so I couldn’t tell whether he was bored or irritated with us.

We decided we could find someone to help us. However, the most carpentry-oriented persons weren’t available when the box arrived. One person offered, even though it wasn’t his forte; he gave more time and effort than he had.

Uh huh! Is an hour in actual or geological time? Side K or was it L fell as soon as it was screwed in? I observed. My mechanical abilities, or lack of them, are well known. I stood by for emergencies only—such as the appearance of blood. Fortunately, that didn’t happen. But anything that looked like a cart didn’t appear either. In one and one-half hours we had three wobbly pressboards with stripped screws.

I suspect it didn’t help when I fell over the assembly later.

Calling all persons who have a mechanical IQ that recognize more than rightsy-tightsy, lefty-loosey! Unfortunately they were all involved with real life situations of their own. Sure, I can save all the pieces until the time is right, but asking curious children not to touch is the same as asking for further investigation.

It was time to give up, even if it was costly. And it was. My engineer brother told me pressboard is unforgiving. The contacts fit one way, no room for error. He told me what needed to be done with dowels and a drill. Not the assignment for a newbie.

The cart is completed. Not gorgeous, but upright.

Lessons for all artist types who need dictionaries in hardware stores: Stay away from pressboard if you are attempting do-it-yourself with anything more complicated than a poster. However, if you’ve done anything like we have, just go on and make a joke about it. Life is too precious to get stuck in corners that won’t meet.