Day the 189th

Reader, how I long for this week to end...

I mean, this work week, of course. Working 40 hours in 4 days (I know...I'm whining...and I'm thankful for work - don't get the wrong idea...) for THREE WEEKS IN A ROW has been...a bit on the much side.

And today, I only will have to work 15 minutes late and then I will have my 40 hours...after working until 8 pm 3 days in a row.

Good, I have your sympathy now...

So...last night, I ate scrambled eggs complete with peppers and cheese and sour cream, washed down with iced tea. And then, read my latest amour, The Girl Who Played With Fire, the 2nd volume of Stieg Larsson's Millenium series, the first of which is The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. I've seldom enjoyed a heroine more than Lisbeth Salander. I like her toughness and her strength and her self-sufficiency. But what I do not like is how cut off she is from community, from other people. I don't remember who said it, but the saying, "No man lives to himself alone" rings in my mind. Poor Lisbeth is more isolated than imaginable, and this nearly spells her demise.

And yes, I think about my own life, and how important it is to have a community.

Speaking of which, thank you dear followers of this blog, and welcome to Deana, #37. It's a small following, and I cherish each of you.

Okay, enough of the mushiness...

Lunch today is sort of a pickup set of things from home - some bread, some peppers, some mushrooms and some artichoke hearts. Why? because that's what was there and heaven only knows that I was too tired to fix something for today...I absolutely HAVE to start exercising to have more energy. Plus, it's supposed to be really good for the brain...keeping my brain active and not allowing it to deteriorate...no pressure, Weltha, just keep in mind that exercising slows the decline of age...mind, body, and spirit.

I was thinking of my father today - the Master Griller. Well, at least according to my mother. Both of my parents liked hamburgers and like so many of their generation, they liked their meat VERY WELL DONE. Which means that the hamburgers my father cooked on our grill resembed hockey pucks - shrunken, bulging in the middle, burned black on the outside, and grey on the inside. And dry. My brother George told me once that when Mom was alive, he would call and say, "I'm grilling hamburgers - want me to come get you?" And the answer was always yes, and when it was time to go home, he sent her with a package of highly over-cooked lumps of meat, and she was delighted.

But my father always made a ritual of the grill - loading the bottom with charcoal (he discussed charcoal with me - the best to use, etc.), dousing it with lighter fluid (and I loved the smell of the fluid), starting the fire. I remember the acrid smell of charcoal and lighter fluid and the heat. And then, the coals allowed to turn white, sprinkled with wet mesquite wood to flavor the smoke, and then the smell of the cooking meat, whether barbequed chicken, or steak, or hamburger, or even hotdogs for my birthday one year. I think we talked outside - it was an excuse for me to hang out with my father and spend time with him. He was easy to be around, always explaining everything he did - he was a teacher and all 3 of us have inherited this explaining trait - and letting us help when needed.

My father was a jewel - extremely intelligent, slightly diffident, shyly friendly with his children, authoratative on such diverse topics as the proper decoration of Christmas trees and the correct way to build a fire in the grill. I miss him - I miss watching him at the grill, fishing with him in the canoe, driving with him down to Linden for the 4th of July, hearing him sing "Home on the Range" and (my favorite) "The Road to Mandelay." I miss watching him in the evenings as he read his favorite Westerns and mystery novels. He was not a 'great' reader late in life - he read to amuse himself. I remember him turning up the volume on Wagner and the Ride of the Valkyries for us - and of course, for himself. Wood Family Theme Song.

He was a child of the Edwardian Era, and I still have pictures of him in his knickers and middy top, his hair carefully parted and combed, an expression of slight dismay at being called from his games for the photographer. He remains to me both mystery - as every parent is to each child - and someone whom I see when I look in the mirror, when I complain about rap music, when I read a book on a dark evening...

Independently,

Weltha