Set 'em up, Barkeep!

I was in my early twenties when my mother was very ill and was hospitalized a number of times. One time I stopped at the hospital on my way home from work and my dad was already there, feeling worried and sad and helpless, as we do when a loved one is ill and there’s nothing we can do about it.

When visiting hours ended and we were on our way out to the parking lot,  I suggested that we meet somewhere for a drink before going home. I thought we could both use one. Dad agreed, and we went to a local restaurant that had a nice cocktail lounge.

We sat at the bar, and Dad ordered scotch for me and beer for him. I don’t recall what we talked about, but between the booze and the comfortable companionship, not to mention my father’s irrepressible sense of humor, we were able to relax and simply enjoy each other’s company.

The first drink was so good, we ordered another round. “This one’s on me,” I said, getting out my wallet and putting some bills on the bar.

“Oh, no,” the bartender said, slightly alarmed. He leaned over the bar toward me and said in a hoarse whisper, “You let him pay!”

He was serious, and my dad was delighted. For long afterward, he would smile to himself whenever he remembered the bartender thinking he was capable of picking up a young girl.

It made me smile too. Still does.

Inauguration Day

I sometimes have trouble falling asleep, especially now that I am retired and keep weird hours because I have no place to get up and go to in the morning.

At various times in my life I have lain awake because I was worried about something -- how to pay my rent, could I find a job, will I pass the test, am I sick or getting sicker, is it requited love, what did I eat to give me such heartburn, and, especially, wondering why I can’t fall asleep.

In all my 70 years of life, however, I have never once gone to bed worrying about the direction in which my country is headed, nor have I ever worried about losing those things I innocently took for granted – my country and its leaders keeping me safe from enemies foreign and domestic; striving for, if not achieving, equality for all; establishing just laws and tasking responsible, intelligent people to carry them out.

Until last night. It was the only time in my life I have ever gone to bed afraid for the future of my country.

Sad goodbyes, indeed

At the beginning of her cooking show on the Food Network, Ree Drummond introduces herself as “a writer, blogger, photographer, mother, and accidental country girl.” She lives on a ranch in Oklahoma with a husband, four children, and a bunch of dogs.

Last week, she published a blog posting entitled "A Sad Goodbye" that began, “I don’t want to write this post, but I have to write this post.” She goes on to describe the passing of her most famous and beloved Basset Hound, Charlie. It is a moving piece, dwelling not on his illness and death but celebrating his life and his place in hers.

I know how Ree felt, not wanting to write that post. My beloved Chihuahua, Soji, died in the fall of 2015, and I did not want to write that post either. Unlike Ree, however, I did not make myself do it.

I’m sure Ree felt obligated to share the news with her legions of fans, whereas Soji’s importance was limited to relatively few of us.  Nevertheless, even fifteen months later, I still don’t feel like I am capable of writing about my remembrances of Soji and the joy she brought into my life.

I have mentioned Soji in any number of postings over the years, and those glimpses into our life together and our love for each other are probably more telling than any tribute I could write about her now.

My condolences to Ree and her family, and my thanks for inspiring me to write even this much in memory of my tiny dog.

Was he worth his salt?

My Aunt Blanche has a vast collection of salt and pepper shakers. Most of them are souvenirs she picked up on her extensive travels in North America. They number in the hundreds.

Up until about 40 years ago, she kept them in a huge cabinet with glass doors that her father built for her. Nowadays they are packed in cardboard boxes, wrapped in old newspaper.

It has been decades since I’ve seen any of them, but there is one set I remember particularly because it was so silly that it made me laugh out loud.  They were shaped like tombstones, and the salt shaker bore an inscription I've never forgotten:

Here lies
Salty McQuaid,
Slow on the draw,
And now he’s daid.

There was a matching pepper shaker, but I don’t remember what it said. I don't know where she obtained them, but I'd have to guess it was out West somewhere.


STOP THE PRESSES!

Through the miracle of the Internet, I have found a photograph of those salt and pepper shakers. The other guy, it seems, was Pepper Wyatt ("talked too much but now he's quiet").

I swear, you can find anything out there on the Internet.