At a Local Family-Owned Hardware Store

At a Local Family-Owned Hardware Store

SETTING:

          Aisle 16, between the rope on 16a and the bolts in 16b

CHARACTERS:

          Tall muscular guy in his thirties, long pony tail half-way down his back;

          Short, heavy-set woman in her sixties, pushing medium-length gray hair               out of her face

ACTION:              

Man takes one bolt from a slot, examines it, puts it back, takes another and repeats process.

Woman studies rack of packaged rope, reaches up, touches one, screws up            her eyes.

CONVERSATION:

Woman:      Excuse me, could I ask you a question?

Man:           Sure, but I don’t work here. I’m just another customer.

Woman:      Oh, that’s all right. I don’t think I need someone with special qualifications for this. This question is just in the regular person category.

Man:           Okay. Go ahead.

Woman:      I need to buy rope, but they have all kinds of varieties here, and I don’t know which one would be strong enough. Does this seem to be a strong rope?

Man:           What are you going to use it for?

Woman:      I want to tie a mattress to the roof of a car and drive it about ten miles.

Man:           Oh, I did that once.

Woman:      Oh, and then I’ll have to drive a different mattress back home.

Man:           Well, let me take a look. (He touches several ropes.)

Woman:      You said that you tied a mattress to the roof of a car and drove it                             someplace?

Man:           Yeah.

Woman:      Then you’re the exactly the right person for me to ask! How did it go?

Man:           It was a disaster. The mattress flew off the top of the car.

Woman:      Oh. I was afraid of that.

Man:           The air gets underneath the mattress. It just flies up.

Woman:      I was thinking I’d get pretty strong rope.

Man:           If you look at these, the package tells you how much weight they can                      handle. See, this one can take a 20 pound load, and this one is 33.

Woman:      I see. Okay.

Man:           Get the 44 pound. That’s a lot of weight. That might be enough.

Woman:      Thank you. I figured I’d tie that mattress in at least two or three places. Think that might work?

Man:           That’s a good idea. I only tied it in one place. That didn’t work.

Woman:      See? You’re a great person to ask. You have experience with this.

Man:           Yeah, except the mattress flew off my car roof. What a mess. But, hey,                    good luck!

Woman:      Wait. I have one more question. Did the mattress survive?

Man:           That’s a good question. Yeah, it did.

Woman:      Not a total loss, then. Thanks.

~Kate Lydon Varley

Friday, Three Thirty

Women mostly, some widowed,

A sprinkling of men, veterans all,

And maybe they’re bowed, but unbending still,

They gather.

Once hardscrabble kids, some wore Government Issue,

Some made do by washing their clothes every night,

Kids blackening potatoes over campfires in the graveyard,

Shivering, mittenless, on crisp winter nights,

Some sent off to relations rich enough to feed them,

Longing for mother and father and home,

Some walked miles of dark streets under twinkle of stars,

To deliver morning papers before going to school, or

Shoveled slop after school at the pig farm,

Some soda jerking, store clerking,

Gathering cast-off metal for scrap,

Errand boys and babysitters, some

Waited on tables at the local coffee shop,

Scrounging their pennies,

Saving their pennies

Adding them up.

Ten cents would buy a ticket to the movies

For previews, newsreels, even cartoons,

And then the main show, a great double double feature

Tarzan the Ape Man, The Wizard of Oz,

It Happened One Night, Dancing Lady,

The Pride of the Yankees, You Can’t Take It With You,

Heroes and baseball, fantasies and music,

Bright wisps of fabric on legs kicking high,

And dreams that inspired, dreams to remember,

While tucking a small piece of cardboard –

It would do for a sole –

Into an old worn-out shoe,

Maybe scuffed, maybe well-worn, but shined up smart anyway.

These kids, who jitterbugged into the night,

Twisting and turning, pushing and pulling,

Waving a finger high in the air,

Gleaming eyes, gleaming hair, everything gleaming,

Even their dreams,

Especially their dreams.

These scrappy, scrawny kids

Who left school days behind to go fight a war

In Europe or in Asia, while some stayed home waiting,

Holding real tight to those hopes

That someday, yes, someday, things would get better,

Someday, they’d do it, the wars would be won,

Someday, the boys would come back,

Home to the girls they loved,

Who held down the fort,

Tending those home fires,

Keeping things running,

Working and praying, hoping and dreaming,

Writing and waiting for

Someday.

Dreaming those dreams big enough to last a lifetime,

Someday, those boys would get educations.

Someday, they’d manage to find themselves jobs.

Someday, they’d find ways to buy their own houses

And they’d get a chance at a dream of a life

With a good job, and a car, and a home and a yard for their kids

Who could go out to play,

Who’d always have enough to eat,

Who wouldn’t have to work every minute of the day

Because times might still be busy, but not quite so hard.

On the far side of dreams now,

Some things aren’t so rosy.

Investments are dwindling, and costs going up.

Financial security ain’t all it’s cracked up,

So it seems.

Counting their pennies,

Making do,

They hope it’s enough.

They’re all making their way,

Some walking, maybe not so fast, but still on their own,

Some with canes, some with walkers, some of them in wheelchairs,

Heading to the big room with pushed-together tables.

They now carry glasses tucked in a breast pocket,

Dangling from a cord around the neck,

Perched upon a nose grown prominent with years,

And one of their number holds a green-handled magnifying glass,

All the better for seeing things with.

They bring with them pads of dog-eared yellow paper,

Filled with the lovely script they’d learned

At wooden desks with inkpots and wrought iron legs in school houses long gone.

Those with hearing aids settle down near the center,

Those who hear well fan out to the corners.

They gather each week for writing workshop.

Sharing the bounty of stories,

Pieces and scraps and bits of their lives,

Of hard times and good times,

Working and playing, struggle and triumph and loss and love,

Youth and age, feats of daring and laughs that last,

The heartbeats  of kids who never gave up.

Today's Rant

Today, I wrote an enthusiastic email, in all sincerity, thanking a human resources professional for letting me know that I am not among those chosen for further consideration for a job.

Yes, you read that right. I thanked someone who told me, we’re not sure yet which candidate we’ll choose to fill our opening, but it’s definitely not going to be you.

And yes, there was not even a drop of sarcasm in my email.

What the?

Here’s What the:

At one time, long, long ago, when many out there in cyberspace were not yet even born, it was common practice for a company to respond to an application – in writing, or perhaps by phone. In any case, they let you know whether or not you were chosen, or were even still in the running.

It’s true. I swear, it’s true.

Companies actually showed sufficient consideration of an applicant’s effort to let them know their status in regard to a potential job!

You might ask, what was up with that?

I, instead, ask, what’s up with the currently common practice of ignoring applications that aren’t chosen?

Sure, bottom line, it takes time to respond, and time is worth something.

Well, guess what, employers – it takes time to put in an application, and the applicant’s time is also worth something.

Kudos to the woman who sent me today’s rejection! She proved that human decency is not yet dead.

Surprise on a day in spring 

                                              Embedded Figure

                                              It is not for me

                                              that our white azalea

                                              erupts  into snowy blossom,

                                              nor for the shaggy bees

                                              who jealously chased me away.

                                              It blooms instead

                                              for the rabbit hiding underneath,

                                              who carved an indentation in the mulch,

                                              stretched a delicate forepaw

                                              and carefully washed her face,

                                              then settled in,

                                              ears twitching sentry duty,

                                              eyes falling closed

                                              for just a bit of nap.

                                                               Kate Lydon Varley

 In coming weeks, I will be joined in this space by some of my writing buddies. But here's a start for today ~

To Sleep, Perchance

                               Kate Lydon Varley

My husband Tom and I have always had our differences. Take, for instance, sleep.

When we first got married, I moved into Tom’s townhouse, an hour’s drive from where I worked, and joined his crazy morning routine. “You’ll shower while I shave,” he told me, and then I’ll shower while you dry your hair.” Sounds reasonable, but – and this is a big but – we were getting up at five in the morning. Not just once in a while. Not just for a few weeks for some special project. No, this was going to be every single weekday, up at five a.m. to the dulcet tones of a classical music station.

“I can’t wake up if it’s just music. I need an alarm,” I said.

“The music is enough,” he insisted. “I always wake up to music.”

At five in the morning.

But I don’t think it was the music that woke me. No, it was the sudden flood of blinding light when Tom jumped out of bed and flipped the light switch at the first note of Bach or Haydn or Saint Saens.

Those first months of our marriage, I was horribly sleep-deprived. Not only did my wonderful new husband get up before the roosters, he also stayed up with the owls. I may be the only newlywed wife who had to beg her husband to come to bed, and he’s probably the only newlywed husband who habitually wasn’t ready to turn in yet.

What did he want to do instead of going to bed? Oh, watch something interesting on television, if there was anything interesting, or read a book, or listen to music; great ideas, but not if you’re falling asleep-on-your-feet tired.

 I actually managed to stay awake through most episodes of “Paradise Postponed,” the Masterpiece Theater offering that fall. The program was over by ten o’clock, so we could hurry brushing teeth, and get into bed by, what, 10:15, maybe?

No way.

My husband has the largest classical music collection known to humankind, which is a wonderful thing, mostly. But at ten p.m., when I was desperate for a good night’s sleep, it was hard to appreciate that he wanted to listen to music before turning in. He’d select an album, place it on the turntable, set it spinning, squirt a drop of liquid onto his special little cleaning tool, run it across the record’s surface, carefully set the stylus to come down precisely where he wanted, and settle down on the couch, a beagle at his side.

That delayed bedtime at least a half hour.

Then it was time to take the dog out – put on his jacket, zip it up, get Cleo’s leash, fasten it to her collar, tell her that he was taking her out so that she could be a good, clean, honest, puppy dog beagle girl. (Why honest, I don’t know, but that’s what he said.) When they went out the door, and I would dash upstairs to get ready for bed. Twenty minutes later, I was definitely ready, but, more often than not, he was still downstairs with the dog. If we were lucky, we’d get to bed by quarter past eleven.

Quarter past eleven! And I had to get up in less than six hours!

I worked at a job where I needed to be alert and attentive, sensitive and perceptive. I had always made sure that I got a good night’s sleep, so that I would be at my best for work. After a month or two of married life, I wasn’t sure I had a “best” to be at anymore.

When I got pregnant, things became markedly worse. I was already tired, and suddenly the fatigue was ever so magnified. Most nights after we’d eaten and done the dishes, I’d fall asleep on the couch. I’d be out cold, and suddenly I’d be awakened by Cleo’s excited barking when she and Tom went out for their usual evening excursion. I’d drag myself upstairs, get ready for bed, and curse the clock.

With children, some things changed. I was awake in an instant at the sound of a baby crying, and could get up multiple times without cursing. Although I stopped working, I still got up early to have breakfast with Tom before he left for work. But if I was exhausted, I could catch a little more sleep, if the baby wasn’t up yet.

Sleep deprived still? Well, yes, but going without sleep for a baby seemed different. And anyway, I could nap when the baby napped. Tom never napped.

One of my early illusions about Tom was that, given a shorter commute, he would get up at a more reasonable hour. No. Even the rare times when he’s been working close to home, he’s up in the wee hours. But no matter how early an employer wants him to get up, he’s willing. For a while, although we lived in the Philadelphia suburbs, he worked for a company headquartered in New York, and sometimes needed to attend meetings in Manhattan at eight in the morning. He did what any crazy person would do. He’d go to bed at about eleven fifteen, then get up at three in the morning, go through his usual routine at his usual leisurely pace, and catch a train at something like five in the morning  to get him to New York in time for his meeting. No, he couldn’t just do things faster so he’d be able to sleep a little later. And yes, the dog did seem surprised about her middle-of-the night walk, and was seldom, as he’d tell me, “productive” at 3:30 a.m.

I love him, but this man drives me crazy. What’s more, these days, going to bed at 11:15 at night isn’t good enough for him. He still gets up at five, but we don’t even go upstairs to get ready for bed until eleven thirty or later.

I can’t stand the lack of sleep. So, although we go to bed at the same time, Tom and I don’t get up at the same time. We have only one alarm clock in our room, and resetting the alarm for me, although doable, does disrupt his routine, so I don’t like to ask him to do it.

Because he likes his routine: alarm at five, shower, dress for dog walking, enjoy that morning walk with said dog, make breakfast, listen to music, do his weight lifting exercises, and then back upstairs to brush teeth, change into his suit, and so on. I, meanwhile, am sleeping. All I ask him is, could you please wake me up in the morning when you come back upstairs.

For years, his way of doing that was to tell me about his morning walk with the dog. So, I, sound asleep, would gradually become aware of someone talking quietly in the room, telling me such things as, “Daisy had a double header this morning. It’s a good thing I had an extra bag with me.” Or, “The neighbors’ dogs barked at Gracie so much,  she wouldn’t go. Keep an eye on her, because she may need to go out suddenly.”

I finally told Tom that my morning shouldn’t start with stories of dog poop before I even get out of bed.

So he began waking me, or so he said, by telling me something else. What, I can’t tell you, because I usually slept through it. Once in a while, I’d become vaguely aware of someone quietly mumbling nearby. If I opened my eyes, I’d find it was Tom, telling me something like what temperature it was outside, or whether rain was expected.

Not once did he ever do anything helpful, such as saying my name, and telling me in a gentle but firm voice that it was time to get up.

So, I explained to him this wasn’t working. He needs to call me by name. People pay more attention when you call them by name, I told him. For some reason, this was a strange idea.

Didn’t your mother do that when she woke you when you were a little boy? I asked.

I don’t remember her waking me, he said. I remember an alarm clock.

Hmmm.

I gave instructions. I gave directions. I even suggested a script.

Nope. He can’t do it. He tries, but he can’t do it. To be fair, he has stopped waking me with stories about dog poop, but that’s about as far as it’s gone.

His best effort now, when he comes back upstairs, and after he brushes his teeth, is this: he’ll stand next to the bed, buttoning his dress shirt, and say quietly, are you getting up, Kate?

According to him, I sometimes murmur unintelligibly, sometimes say no, but usually agree to get up. I may tell him to have a good day, or drive carefully on his way to work, or to Princeton or the airport, or to wherever the heck he’s going that day. I don’t remember anything about it, though, because I’m still asleep. Sometime after he’s left, I wake in a frenzy: late getting up again!

The problem, really, is simple: I love to sleep, and he doesn’t.

The solution, which I've taken years and years to figure out, is also very simple.

I really need to get a noisy, buzzing, irritating alarm clock of my very own!

.