Old House Interiors
Jeff had asked Dr. Porter months ago
whether he would be able to go deep sea fishing with the guys from church. Dr. Porter said to cover up and he’d be
fine. So as the day approached, there
was much anticipation.
Five days before Fishing Day, Jeff
was down with a cold and low-grade fever.
It started with a loss of appetite which is highly unusual for Jeff so I
knew something was going on. His energy
level had been low and I thought he might have been sad about that. For two days he slept a lot and ate very
little. Fishing Day was coming and it
wasn’t looking very good for Jeff!
The day before the trip, Jeff
insisted that he could go. I gently
asked, “Are you sure? You can’t change
your mind when you’re out at sea. And it
could be pretty miserable if you can’t sprawl out to rest.” He insisted, “I’ll be alright.”
On Fishing Day at o’dark thirty,
Jeff crept out of bed, quietly dressed and left the house for his
adventure. I had my reservations. I got up at a decent hour and wrote Keith a
letter, “Dad will either have a great time or be glad he tried it.” It was a long day and I cleaned the house and
took my mother out to lunch while Jeff was gone. By the end of the day, Giblet was parked with
her nose toward the door looking as anxious as I was feeling.
Jeff returned late in the day. He looked like he’d spent the day outside,
despite wearing his UV clothes and floppy hat all day. The rash on his face actually looked
better. And he didn’t head off to bed
right away as I thought he might. He
told me he caught two fish but when I looked in his hands, at the cooler, I
didn’t see any signs of these fish. Jeff
said, “John took them home. We’re
invited to a fish fry tomorrow at his house.”
I briefly thought this might be a fish story like when my father brought
a deer home from a hunting trip and it was really his buddy who killed it.
“So,” I said, “if I want to eat the
fish you caught, we have to go to John’s tomorrow and the only way we can have
it prepared is fried?” Yep.
Jeff said he had a standing spot on the
fishing boat but couldn’t stand that long.
He sat on his cooler. After
relating who caught how many fish and how busy the mates were untangling lines,
Jeff showered and put shorts on. I
noticed his ankle was swollen, probably from sitting funny on the cooler. He seemed to have had a good time,
though. I asked, “So you’re glad you
went?” He said, “Well… I wouldn’t go
again next weekend if anyone asked me to.”
“What about next year?” I
asked. He thinks maybe…
We did go to John’s and it was fun
although I only ate a couple of bits of fried fish and Jeff’s appetite still wasn’t
back to normal.
Now the story of the magic purse: I went to the post office this morning to buy
stamps for my letter-writing to Keith at Marine boot camp. I put a letter to Keith on the counter and
asked for stamps. The burly clerk
shouted, “Elena!” Then he muttered to
me, “I hope she sees you before you go.”
I thought how truly thoughtful some people are when they learn you have
a son in the Marines. Was he was calling
“Elena” because he noticed the Parris Island address on my letter and “Elena”
is one of those people who like to express their appreciation for those in the military? This has happened a few times so maybe it was
happening again. When my transaction was
almost finished the big man said, “I was hoping she could come out. She would love your purse.”
Thirty years ago I purchased an
awesome purse in the bargain basement of Bamberger’s for $3, I think. That was a bargain, even then. It was sort of like a basket. I lined it with
colorful scarves and enjoyed for many years until a couple of the stick pieces
broke. Evidently, I showed the broken purse
to Kim many times over the years and related my ideas of ways to repair
it.
A few weeks ago, Kim returned from a
thrift store shopping trip with a “surprise” for me. It was The Purse! She paid $1.50 for it and was “pretty sure”
it was the one! And it was - an
unbroken, identical purse! I was
carrying it the day Jeff got his immunizations at Penn. By the end of that day, Jeff was rolling his
eyes every time someone said, “I like your purse!” People in the elevator commented on it. The nurse who checked Jeff’s wrist band almost
screwed up his paperwork because she was so excited about the purse. When the nurse
who was giving Jeff his shots began to fuss over the purse, I hid it to prevent any mishaps until after she was
finished her important job and then I told her the story.
I went to church with my mother and
the lady behind me tapped me on the shoulder to say, “I love your purse.” At stores and restaurants and at work,
everyone who beholds the purse comments on its awesomeness. One day, I was talking to Kim and told her I
wasn’t even sure whether I’d ever gotten rid of the old, broken one. Sure enough, I searched in my closet and
found it. AND I saw - and now remembered
- that Jeff had devised a way to repair it but I’d put the thing away and
forgot it was usable. So I gave the
original magic purse to Kim.
We recently ran into a classmate of
Jeff’s from his St. Ignatius days. The
two men chatted and Jeff told Carl, “I’m more or less retired.” Ah, that’s good. That says in a nutshell what Jeff and I have
been discussing about how he might spend his time. It brings to mind my Grandfather Schmidt who
did retirement especially well, I think.
He puttered at hobbies, did projects for family members, kept his house
in good order and occasionally took on a paying job. He and my grandmother traveled a little,
too. “Retired” is somehow an acceptable
way of viewing his current situation.
Jeff is down to 5 mg of
Prednisone. Pray for a continued,
successful taper, please.
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