July 26... the Solitary Woman and the Chromatic Armada
I spent a sizable amount of the morning sunning on the deck like a giant cat. I've also got a new "friend". Another enormous dragonfly I've named Foxy Brown. Where The Lavender Menace enjoyed hanging out, Foxy keeps her distance. She wasn't my only visitor, either. While enjoying my grapenuts and coffee, a chipmunk was playing king-of-the-hill by herself on the woodpile beside the porch. She was clearly troubled by fleas. There are a lot of finches around here -- Michael calls them "twurps". One with a red stripe on his head keeps dropping by, but his yellow sisters in the trees remain unimpressed by us. Perhaps he swoops because he supposes that we are macking on his twurps.
Once Michael had thoroughly bored himself by honking away on the concertina (sidenote: I now firmly believe this is where the term "honky" originates), he proposed we go for a swim at Russian Beach. It was exactly as it was the day before -- the same woman was sitting in the same spot, reading the same book, smoking the same cigarettes. Like the day before, we tried to not destroy her solitude. This time she invited us to swim in her space. "It's warmer over here" she said.
And she was right. She joined us after awhile, exchanging the small talk of strangers. I never did catch where she was from, I thought maybe Michigan, but Michael thinks further upstate. All four of her children went to a small "university" in Stubbenville, Ohio, because they all "liked the family atmosphere". Being a bitch, I found this rather tragic, but also being sort of a hippy and keen on keeping the negativity down as much as possible, I kept it to myself. I had remarked that, although stupendously huge, I'd enjoyed OSU's diversity; Stubbenville I believe boasts both country AND western. Oh no... apparently there are people from all over the world attending "university" in the family circle of Stubbenville. Sent by the missionaries, I wonder...
I really am a bitch.
Eventually our beach mate went back to her reading. The water was chilly and darker than usual from all the rain the week before. Michael amused himself by making enormous bubbles with his fists that sounded like aliens landing when they break the surface. We discuss the best way to create bubbles. It's a science... apparently.
We were then visited by the Chromatic Armada... three tiny, neon colored sailboats packed with well-behaved, bronzed teenage Aryans, bedecked in all manner of appropriate safety gear. We were in the process of ignoring them (please note... the act of ignoring has now become a process), enjoying our bubbles, when the Young Aryans joined hands and voices in a song of thanks to the Lord, God, our Savior for things like rain and appleseeds. I waited for, but did not hear the verse on thanking God for Trust funds and high-yield dividends, and tiny chromatic sailboats. After some good natured giggling, they broke out into the School House Rock song that teaches us all how to recite the Constitution. Following this mirth, their "leader" began a lesson of which, blessedly, we could not hear. I wondered if they noticed the red-haired witch who was neither dissolving, nor bobbing in the water, or the wolfy man-of-the-wood, locked in unholy and unnatural alliance of childish bubble-making hexes with lake monsters... presumably.
They never did get into the water to play. Once the lesson was over, they simply shoved off into the great lake, singing the reprise to the Constitution, their neon sails cheerful, stiff triangles in the wind.
Michael then decided to prowl upon a family of ducks that had just emerged from the nearby reeds, by creeping up half submerged like some hairy, blunt-toothed gator. Focused on his task, he didn't notice he wasn't the only one stalking ducks -- the Solitary Woman, who had left and returned with a whole pie, also brought along a husband carrying a bulky camera and tripod. He had clearly been tracking them along the rocky length of the shore and Michael had just spoiled his beach shot by scaring the crap out of the ducks. Now that everyone's solitude had been destroyed, we decided to return home for lunch.
Lunch -- same as yesterday, just as tastey. And I make the discovery that I have totally burned the crap out of myself. I liberally apply lotion while Michael naps until dinner.
We made homemade pizza... I had bought a frozen crust that, in my infinite wisdom, I had allowed to defrost in the fridge over night. Prior to my shower after lunch, I had set it out on the counter -- presumably to rise like mad into an uncontrollable, writhing , doughy blob monster, contained only by the plastic bag it came in. When I went to use it, it'd grown so large I had to use a turkey-size broiling pan. It turned out unintentionally Sicilian and tastey, and fucking enormous.
It grows dark. Remarkably, there are no sounds of night bugs, which we kind of miss. Michael sips Jameson and we talk of family politics and listen to the vast amounts of still ear-ringing nothingness. We try to go out to see the stars, but there are just too many mosquitoes thirsting for our pizza soaked proteins. This is very disappointing, as there is nothing like the spectacle that is a clear sky in the mountains. This house has everything, yet nary a can of Off.
We'll be off tomorrow in search of Off.
Once Michael had thoroughly bored himself by honking away on the concertina (sidenote: I now firmly believe this is where the term "honky" originates), he proposed we go for a swim at Russian Beach. It was exactly as it was the day before -- the same woman was sitting in the same spot, reading the same book, smoking the same cigarettes. Like the day before, we tried to not destroy her solitude. This time she invited us to swim in her space. "It's warmer over here" she said.
And she was right. She joined us after awhile, exchanging the small talk of strangers. I never did catch where she was from, I thought maybe Michigan, but Michael thinks further upstate. All four of her children went to a small "university" in Stubbenville, Ohio, because they all "liked the family atmosphere". Being a bitch, I found this rather tragic, but also being sort of a hippy and keen on keeping the negativity down as much as possible, I kept it to myself. I had remarked that, although stupendously huge, I'd enjoyed OSU's diversity; Stubbenville I believe boasts both country AND western. Oh no... apparently there are people from all over the world attending "university" in the family circle of Stubbenville. Sent by the missionaries, I wonder...
I really am a bitch.
Eventually our beach mate went back to her reading. The water was chilly and darker than usual from all the rain the week before. Michael amused himself by making enormous bubbles with his fists that sounded like aliens landing when they break the surface. We discuss the best way to create bubbles. It's a science... apparently.
We were then visited by the Chromatic Armada... three tiny, neon colored sailboats packed with well-behaved, bronzed teenage Aryans, bedecked in all manner of appropriate safety gear. We were in the process of ignoring them (please note... the act of ignoring has now become a process), enjoying our bubbles, when the Young Aryans joined hands and voices in a song of thanks to the Lord, God, our Savior for things like rain and appleseeds. I waited for, but did not hear the verse on thanking God for Trust funds and high-yield dividends, and tiny chromatic sailboats. After some good natured giggling, they broke out into the School House Rock song that teaches us all how to recite the Constitution. Following this mirth, their "leader" began a lesson of which, blessedly, we could not hear. I wondered if they noticed the red-haired witch who was neither dissolving, nor bobbing in the water, or the wolfy man-of-the-wood, locked in unholy and unnatural alliance of childish bubble-making hexes with lake monsters... presumably.
They never did get into the water to play. Once the lesson was over, they simply shoved off into the great lake, singing the reprise to the Constitution, their neon sails cheerful, stiff triangles in the wind.
Michael then decided to prowl upon a family of ducks that had just emerged from the nearby reeds, by creeping up half submerged like some hairy, blunt-toothed gator. Focused on his task, he didn't notice he wasn't the only one stalking ducks -- the Solitary Woman, who had left and returned with a whole pie, also brought along a husband carrying a bulky camera and tripod. He had clearly been tracking them along the rocky length of the shore and Michael had just spoiled his beach shot by scaring the crap out of the ducks. Now that everyone's solitude had been destroyed, we decided to return home for lunch.
Lunch -- same as yesterday, just as tastey. And I make the discovery that I have totally burned the crap out of myself. I liberally apply lotion while Michael naps until dinner.
We made homemade pizza... I had bought a frozen crust that, in my infinite wisdom, I had allowed to defrost in the fridge over night. Prior to my shower after lunch, I had set it out on the counter -- presumably to rise like mad into an uncontrollable, writhing , doughy blob monster, contained only by the plastic bag it came in. When I went to use it, it'd grown so large I had to use a turkey-size broiling pan. It turned out unintentionally Sicilian and tastey, and fucking enormous.
It grows dark. Remarkably, there are no sounds of night bugs, which we kind of miss. Michael sips Jameson and we talk of family politics and listen to the vast amounts of still ear-ringing nothingness. We try to go out to see the stars, but there are just too many mosquitoes thirsting for our pizza soaked proteins. This is very disappointing, as there is nothing like the spectacle that is a clear sky in the mountains. This house has everything, yet nary a can of Off.
We'll be off tomorrow in search of Off.