Crabby Codgers - Day Three
The day emerged, at early dawn as sun prevailed, flooding our bedroom with light. Nice. We turned over, and went back to sleep.
Until, as usual, Button jumped down from her place on our orange-velvet-upholstered love seat - a golden-oldie we'd bought almost four decades earlier - and began agitating for breakfast. Ball in mouth as per usual, she begins wheeling about our bed, whining quietly at first, then gradually bringing it up a notch or two until she's obsessively wheedling, loudly imploring us to drag ourselves out of the comfort of our bed.
Riley, who sleeps under the coverlet at the foot of the bed, remains fast asleep, oblivious to the turmoil that grates on our sensibilities. It's more than enough to wake Angelyne, and she pads over from the back bedroom where she sleeps beside her friend Sarah, to see what's up. She knows what's up; she has been long familiar with that particular routine, finds it pretty amusing. Knows it's her opportunity to pack into bed alongside my own recumbent bod.
But it's inevitable, we've got to rouse ourselves, and do. Angie showers, we take the dogs downstairs and let them out into the backyard. Set the table, haul ourselves up to shower, feed the dogs, and Angie then awakens her friend, Sarah. Finally, we're ready to seat ourselves at the breakfast room table. Oranges sectioned for everyone, and bananas. I've prepared piquant Johnson's breakfast sausages, and blueberry pancakes for breakfast.
And once Sarah has finished in the shower, I gather their soiled clothing along with ours for the week and start the laundry. Cognizant of the fact that their stuff has got to be laundered and dried well before they begin packing their cases, since we're taking them downtown at mid-day to transfer them to the care of Angie's mother, who will drive them home once her working day has been completed, in another hour's time, just before the rush-hour begins.
We take advantage of the still-relatively-early time and embark on our usual ravine walk. I grab a digital camera before we leave, determined to have enough photographs out of this visit that I can peruse on occasion when I want to remember not to urge Angie too strenuously to bring a friend along with her.
The girls walk well ahead of us through the ravine, giggling and occasionally knitting arms together. Again, Sarah snaps off a lily and twists it behind her ear. She's decided not to wear her boots, has flip-flops on instead and is doing a remarkably good job of avoiding the large slimy puddles atop the trail, stretching from side to side. It becomes a game with the girls, to see who can leap the furthest.
Back at the house again, we decide it's as good a time as any to continue song selections and get back on the LimeWire program so the girls can get serious about their choices, and at the same time give me the opportunity to download them onto their iPods. This is serious business, after all; they rely on their little musical pets for constant entertainment.
I assure Angelyne that I'm capable of downloading a few songs from the list she has left with me, five pages in number, about 20 to a page, over time. As I rush from clothes dryer to computer. Hauling out the dried clothing, folding it, separating theirs from ours, hauling their little piles upstairs to be packed, and noting how the downloads are proceeding.
I leave them, wrestling on the double bed upstairs, while I prepare their lunch. Fact is, Angie has dispatched me, reminded me of what grandmas are supposed to do, and she's hungry, frankly. As I walk down the hall toward the stairs I fling back at her the comment that I'll really miss her tart little imperatives once she's gone back home again.
I'm sure I hear a startled "Huh?" from my darling granddaughter.
In the kitchen I thickly grate Yukon gold potatoes and onions, and heat a flying pan with extra-virgin olive oil. I take two salmon steaks out of the freezer, drizzle them with lemon juice, butter, pepper and garlic powder. It's started to rain lightly, so I'll just broil them on the counter-top oven. And I put together a small fresh salad of lettuce, grape tomatoes, yellow bell peppers, and baby cucumbers. They'll have what's left of the cherries for dessert.
Later, cleaning up the dishes at the kitchen sink, a few cherry stones whizz by my ear and land somewhere on the floor. It's a dark-blue ceramic floor and I can't see where they've landed. They'll turn up, eventually; no doubt when I dry-mop the floor this evening. Unless someone steps on them and goes sliding in the interim... They've packed though, and they're ready to go, and so are we.
The incessant back-seat chatter resumes, sarcastic, world-weary commentary on everything we pass, everyone they happen to espie on our 20-minute trip downtown enervates us. We will so very much miss their bright, insouciant presence, the dear little things....
Until, as usual, Button jumped down from her place on our orange-velvet-upholstered love seat - a golden-oldie we'd bought almost four decades earlier - and began agitating for breakfast. Ball in mouth as per usual, she begins wheeling about our bed, whining quietly at first, then gradually bringing it up a notch or two until she's obsessively wheedling, loudly imploring us to drag ourselves out of the comfort of our bed.
Riley, who sleeps under the coverlet at the foot of the bed, remains fast asleep, oblivious to the turmoil that grates on our sensibilities. It's more than enough to wake Angelyne, and she pads over from the back bedroom where she sleeps beside her friend Sarah, to see what's up. She knows what's up; she has been long familiar with that particular routine, finds it pretty amusing. Knows it's her opportunity to pack into bed alongside my own recumbent bod.
But it's inevitable, we've got to rouse ourselves, and do. Angie showers, we take the dogs downstairs and let them out into the backyard. Set the table, haul ourselves up to shower, feed the dogs, and Angie then awakens her friend, Sarah. Finally, we're ready to seat ourselves at the breakfast room table. Oranges sectioned for everyone, and bananas. I've prepared piquant Johnson's breakfast sausages, and blueberry pancakes for breakfast.
And once Sarah has finished in the shower, I gather their soiled clothing along with ours for the week and start the laundry. Cognizant of the fact that their stuff has got to be laundered and dried well before they begin packing their cases, since we're taking them downtown at mid-day to transfer them to the care of Angie's mother, who will drive them home once her working day has been completed, in another hour's time, just before the rush-hour begins.
We take advantage of the still-relatively-early time and embark on our usual ravine walk. I grab a digital camera before we leave, determined to have enough photographs out of this visit that I can peruse on occasion when I want to remember not to urge Angie too strenuously to bring a friend along with her.
The girls walk well ahead of us through the ravine, giggling and occasionally knitting arms together. Again, Sarah snaps off a lily and twists it behind her ear. She's decided not to wear her boots, has flip-flops on instead and is doing a remarkably good job of avoiding the large slimy puddles atop the trail, stretching from side to side. It becomes a game with the girls, to see who can leap the furthest.
Back at the house again, we decide it's as good a time as any to continue song selections and get back on the LimeWire program so the girls can get serious about their choices, and at the same time give me the opportunity to download them onto their iPods. This is serious business, after all; they rely on their little musical pets for constant entertainment.
I assure Angelyne that I'm capable of downloading a few songs from the list she has left with me, five pages in number, about 20 to a page, over time. As I rush from clothes dryer to computer. Hauling out the dried clothing, folding it, separating theirs from ours, hauling their little piles upstairs to be packed, and noting how the downloads are proceeding.
I leave them, wrestling on the double bed upstairs, while I prepare their lunch. Fact is, Angie has dispatched me, reminded me of what grandmas are supposed to do, and she's hungry, frankly. As I walk down the hall toward the stairs I fling back at her the comment that I'll really miss her tart little imperatives once she's gone back home again.
I'm sure I hear a startled "Huh?" from my darling granddaughter.
In the kitchen I thickly grate Yukon gold potatoes and onions, and heat a flying pan with extra-virgin olive oil. I take two salmon steaks out of the freezer, drizzle them with lemon juice, butter, pepper and garlic powder. It's started to rain lightly, so I'll just broil them on the counter-top oven. And I put together a small fresh salad of lettuce, grape tomatoes, yellow bell peppers, and baby cucumbers. They'll have what's left of the cherries for dessert.
Later, cleaning up the dishes at the kitchen sink, a few cherry stones whizz by my ear and land somewhere on the floor. It's a dark-blue ceramic floor and I can't see where they've landed. They'll turn up, eventually; no doubt when I dry-mop the floor this evening. Unless someone steps on them and goes sliding in the interim... They've packed though, and they're ready to go, and so are we.
The incessant back-seat chatter resumes, sarcastic, world-weary commentary on everything we pass, everyone they happen to espie on our 20-minute trip downtown enervates us. We will so very much miss their bright, insouciant presence, the dear little things....
posted by Pieface @ 2:49 PM
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