After a raucous New Year's Eve spent watching Pride and Prejudice and eating Thai food on Capitol Hill, it is time to turn to the more serious task of examining one's goals for the year. Here goes:
Reclaim other half of the apartment
Use ultra-sharp new knives to debone the shit out of a chicken carcass -- and make homemade broth!
Watch DVDs given as presents for Christmases 2001-5
When asking someone "How are you," actually stop to hear the answer
Bust out the roller skates
Take a morning off to see the baby panda
Dust off the passport, and actually use it
Learn how to flirt
Eat more cheese
Drink more
Fairly attainable, I think. Happy new year!
Sunday, January 1, 2006
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
The Things You Don't Think About
It comes as no surprise to me that ending a six-year relationship is no picnic. By and large, most of the stuff that sucks the most about it is obvious enough to not bear mentioning. It's more the stuff you don't think about that sticks in the craw -- the logistics, the mundane details of ordinary life, etc. To whit, the little things that suck the most:
1. When signing over the lease to the car, having to say that you sold it to the other person for $1.00, because sales tax is less than gift tax. Or something. I'm still not entirely clear on that one...
2. Actually being given the dollar for the car.
3. Realizing that unless you spend an entire Sunday burning CDs, most of your conjugal music collection will be gone.
4. Spending that Sunday burning CDs.
5. Having to change the lease, the insurance, the emergency contact information, the veterinarian records...
6. Tabulating year-end expenses necessitates a transaction-by-transaction trip down memory lane.
7. Getting sentimental at astoundingly awful songs and television moments. I understand getting a bit weepy at some stuff, but not the finale to My Fair Brady or songs with verses like I know you well/I know your smell/I'd share a lifetime with you. If this is ever you -- Seek. Help. Now.
8. Finding the requisite shirts that were left behind and having to ship them along.
9. Realizing that all the catsitters of days gone by were friends of significant other's -- making you That Person That Has To Cut Her Vacation Short To Come Home and Scoop The Cat's Shit.
10. The contents of the Victoria's Secret drawer look awfully silly now.
11. Explaining the situation to the doorman.
12. Explaining the situation to the cat (see final instructions of item 7).
13. Changing the Pictures section on the website...eventually.
Robyn
1. When signing over the lease to the car, having to say that you sold it to the other person for $1.00, because sales tax is less than gift tax. Or something. I'm still not entirely clear on that one...
2. Actually being given the dollar for the car.
3. Realizing that unless you spend an entire Sunday burning CDs, most of your conjugal music collection will be gone.
4. Spending that Sunday burning CDs.
5. Having to change the lease, the insurance, the emergency contact information, the veterinarian records...
6. Tabulating year-end expenses necessitates a transaction-by-transaction trip down memory lane.
7. Getting sentimental at astoundingly awful songs and television moments. I understand getting a bit weepy at some stuff, but not the finale to My Fair Brady or songs with verses like I know you well/I know your smell/I'd share a lifetime with you. If this is ever you -- Seek. Help. Now.
8. Finding the requisite shirts that were left behind and having to ship them along.
9. Realizing that all the catsitters of days gone by were friends of significant other's -- making you That Person That Has To Cut Her Vacation Short To Come Home and Scoop The Cat's Shit.
10. The contents of the Victoria's Secret drawer look awfully silly now.
11. Explaining the situation to the doorman.
12. Explaining the situation to the cat (see final instructions of item 7).
13. Changing the Pictures section on the website...eventually.
Robyn
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Geek Disco
Just as I did when I took half a day to stand in line for six hours for a U2 concert, I just made excellent use of my vacation time this week. I took two days to go to NYC to attend, of all things, a Moby concert at the Bowery Ballroom. No ordinary concert this, but a concert just for fans.
After careful consideration, it was clear to me that the importance and gravitas of this event warranted my absence from work. But then I was dropped on my head a bit as an infant, so my judgment may be a bit clouded. Meh.
Well anyway, it was a very nice thing for Moby to do. And since his sales in the States are not quite what they used to be, he seems to have the time to do it. They love him in Europe, I understand. Them Swedes never gave up on their electronica, bless 'em. Not that Mssr. Mo is relegated to one genre, but nevermind. Moby and Company played for three hours straight, and afterwards he DJ'd for serveral hundred bouncing, happy geeks in a big ol' bouncing happy geek disco. Good times.
In response to a few queries, yes, there are actual instruments played at a Moby show, and actual singers. While he does use a few backing tracks here and there, most of the stuff that's sampled on the record is recreated live, making for a durned good show. The lady singer is particularly awesome. It is not "some dude on stage pushing buttons on a keyboard." That was a few tours ago, and apparently, Moby read the comment cards and stepped up his game.
The rest if the trip included the usual trips to Rock Center to see the tree and to the Met. New ground was broken with a trip to the UN, which I'm sorry to say I never saw before. I am glad that I went after I started working at Save the World Inc., since I am now, as they say, up on my shit. I even asked smart questions in the Security Council room. Holla. I think I would have been thoroughly confused if I went when I was an Entertainment Weekly-reading college sophomore. Not that reading EW is a mark of poor character. I love a good Hot List as much as the next gal.
VERY IMPORTANT: You CAN find decent parking at a garage in the East Village on 11th Street. $30/day is peanuts in Manhattan. No more parking in Newark and taking the PATH train, where people get stabbed and stuff. Not that anyone would ever do that. Heavens no....
Robyn
After careful consideration, it was clear to me that the importance and gravitas of this event warranted my absence from work. But then I was dropped on my head a bit as an infant, so my judgment may be a bit clouded. Meh.
Well anyway, it was a very nice thing for Moby to do. And since his sales in the States are not quite what they used to be, he seems to have the time to do it. They love him in Europe, I understand. Them Swedes never gave up on their electronica, bless 'em. Not that Mssr. Mo is relegated to one genre, but nevermind. Moby and Company played for three hours straight, and afterwards he DJ'd for serveral hundred bouncing, happy geeks in a big ol' bouncing happy geek disco. Good times.
In response to a few queries, yes, there are actual instruments played at a Moby show, and actual singers. While he does use a few backing tracks here and there, most of the stuff that's sampled on the record is recreated live, making for a durned good show. The lady singer is particularly awesome. It is not "some dude on stage pushing buttons on a keyboard." That was a few tours ago, and apparently, Moby read the comment cards and stepped up his game.
The rest if the trip included the usual trips to Rock Center to see the tree and to the Met. New ground was broken with a trip to the UN, which I'm sorry to say I never saw before. I am glad that I went after I started working at Save the World Inc., since I am now, as they say, up on my shit. I even asked smart questions in the Security Council room. Holla. I think I would have been thoroughly confused if I went when I was an Entertainment Weekly-reading college sophomore. Not that reading EW is a mark of poor character. I love a good Hot List as much as the next gal.
VERY IMPORTANT: You CAN find decent parking at a garage in the East Village on 11th Street. $30/day is peanuts in Manhattan. No more parking in Newark and taking the PATH train, where people get stabbed and stuff. Not that anyone would ever do that. Heavens no....
Robyn
Wednesday, November 23, 2005
Enter the Squirrel
We played host to a little furry houseguest last week. Not vermin, mind you. We haven't been blessed with that type of visitor yet (knock on simultaed wood). But because I am a sucker on the highest order, I took in a stray cat.
Not permanently. I'm not that daffy. We were just walking along and I saw the kitty sitting outside on the curb by our building one night, eating bread that had fallen out of a trash can. I don't see strays very often in DC, and when I do I may give them a passing hello, and let them be as they normally look like they know what they're doing. But this one was different. He was well-groomed, not terribly skittish, and looked like he was new to the scene. I initially went back to the apartment, but sentimentality got the better of me and Jeffrey and I headed back out with the cat carrier to wrassle us a cat.
He was a bit cautious at first, but eventually he came right to me. We intended to keep him in the bathroom for the night, and then I'd take him into the no-kill shelter where I volunteer the next day. Easy enough, right? Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
As it turns out, there is only one person at the shelter responsible for processing the cats that come in, and he either had "car trouble" or "heart trouble." Either way, it wasn't good for him, it wasn't good for me, and it wasn't good for Squirrel, as we had (perhaps fooloshly) dubbed the new arrival. The dude wouldn't be in all week. I had to find other alternatives.
After being turned away from the shelter, we realized we had a problem on our hands. For one thing, Tippy hated his ass. He was keen enough to say hello. He's only about a year old, and is very friendly. She however, is a crazy old bitch, and wanted nothing to do with this young upstart who was invading her turf. So we had to keep the cats separated, which was a pain on the highest order, and made it very clear that we could not continue this way.
But unloading a cat is no easy task -- even with a pretty, friendly, ostensibly clean young animal such as Squirrel -- so named for his skinny gray frame and long bushy tail. It was clear to me that he had been owned before. He was well-groomed and so willing to cuddle. We posted signs around the neighborhood, reported him to the animal shelters, but no owner came forward. I called the euthaniasia shelters to see what his odds would be -- and they weren't good.
Thanksgiving was coming up, and we needed to find him a home right away.
So we went on for a week and a half. Though he was a very nice kitty to have around, as long as Ms. Tippy was the alpha cat, there could be no peace. We knew if someone could just meet him, they would love to have him. Finally, we got one of Jeffrey's co-workers to agree to take him over Thanksgiving and another to express interest. It came down to the wire. but the day before Thanksgiving we found the little bugger a home.
It is a lot quieter without Squirrel around, and I have to admit that he had a much nicer demeanor than Tippy. But deference must be given to the cat that came before, and I'm glad that he has somewhere to go. He was as nice a kitty as could be found on the streets, and I'm glad everything worked out. I swore I would never do such a thing again, but as Cassandra said at work, if presented with the same circumstances, she would bet that I would quickly be proven to be a liar on that front.
Robyn
Not permanently. I'm not that daffy. We were just walking along and I saw the kitty sitting outside on the curb by our building one night, eating bread that had fallen out of a trash can. I don't see strays very often in DC, and when I do I may give them a passing hello, and let them be as they normally look like they know what they're doing. But this one was different. He was well-groomed, not terribly skittish, and looked like he was new to the scene. I initially went back to the apartment, but sentimentality got the better of me and Jeffrey and I headed back out with the cat carrier to wrassle us a cat.
He was a bit cautious at first, but eventually he came right to me. We intended to keep him in the bathroom for the night, and then I'd take him into the no-kill shelter where I volunteer the next day. Easy enough, right? Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
As it turns out, there is only one person at the shelter responsible for processing the cats that come in, and he either had "car trouble" or "heart trouble." Either way, it wasn't good for him, it wasn't good for me, and it wasn't good for Squirrel, as we had (perhaps fooloshly) dubbed the new arrival. The dude wouldn't be in all week. I had to find other alternatives.
After being turned away from the shelter, we realized we had a problem on our hands. For one thing, Tippy hated his ass. He was keen enough to say hello. He's only about a year old, and is very friendly. She however, is a crazy old bitch, and wanted nothing to do with this young upstart who was invading her turf. So we had to keep the cats separated, which was a pain on the highest order, and made it very clear that we could not continue this way.
But unloading a cat is no easy task -- even with a pretty, friendly, ostensibly clean young animal such as Squirrel -- so named for his skinny gray frame and long bushy tail. It was clear to me that he had been owned before. He was well-groomed and so willing to cuddle. We posted signs around the neighborhood, reported him to the animal shelters, but no owner came forward. I called the euthaniasia shelters to see what his odds would be -- and they weren't good.
Thanksgiving was coming up, and we needed to find him a home right away.
So we went on for a week and a half. Though he was a very nice kitty to have around, as long as Ms. Tippy was the alpha cat, there could be no peace. We knew if someone could just meet him, they would love to have him. Finally, we got one of Jeffrey's co-workers to agree to take him over Thanksgiving and another to express interest. It came down to the wire. but the day before Thanksgiving we found the little bugger a home.
It is a lot quieter without Squirrel around, and I have to admit that he had a much nicer demeanor than Tippy. But deference must be given to the cat that came before, and I'm glad that he has somewhere to go. He was as nice a kitty as could be found on the streets, and I'm glad everything worked out. I swore I would never do such a thing again, but as Cassandra said at work, if presented with the same circumstances, she would bet that I would quickly be proven to be a liar on that front.
Robyn
Thursday, October 27, 2005
Drag Racin'
Normally I have nothing special to do on a Tuesday night. Especially when I have spent the previous month running all over the eastern seaboard, and barely recognize my own apartment. So when I was presented with an invitation to attend a house party to celebrate Dupont Circle's annual drag races, I was a bit ambivalent to attend. But the need to cultivate meaningful social ties got the better of me, and out I went into the drizzly night.
Now, you must understand something about the drag races -- otherwise known as the High Heel Races. You see, the Dupont area has a rather thriving gay population, and just as it is in Greenwich Village, Halloween is a big friggin' deal. So the Tuesday before October 31 is the day when Dupont's most fabulous drag queens take to the streets in 3-inch minimum heels and sprint, or mince, down 17th Street.
Co-worker Seth was intending to run in his second race in a row. Mr. Seth is not himself, a member of DC's illustrious gay population, but he is evidently secure enough in his own masculinity to pretend for an evening. I was under the impression that others at the house party would be bringing their own fabulous attire, so I brought along one of my wigs (yes, I have more than one) and suitably sparkly makeup and a tiny shirt so I, too, could be festive.
Alas, there was not a large contingent of dressed-up revelers when I arrived, but a blue wig is a terrible thing to waste. So I donned it anyhow, and had makeup maven Cassandra go to town with the blue and green eye shadow. She offered her cosmetic services to other partygoers -- including Alex Angert, a young man who I was rather friendly with in the geek clique at high school and unexpectedly showed up as a friend of a friend. Alex, I'm proud to say, accepted a touch of blue glitter after some gentle prodding, but there weren't many takers. Buncha squares, these young DC wonks.
But glory was to be mine, because since I was the only other person decked out and in the spirit of things, Seth, now sporting a pink bobbed wig and a tasteful strapless number, asked me to be his escort to the race. My job was to hold a hot pink umbrella above him while he paraded with the other participants prior to the race, and depending on the level of precipitation, during it as well. A kept girl, if you will. So we pushed through the throng, and joined about 100 other drag queens on the streets.
Some of these gals clearly had prepared very well. There were folks in ball gowns, some in nicely tailored Lady Diana suits, and, inexplicably, a few dressed like a dragged-up Terrell Owens. Others, like ourselves, were rank amateurs. I was not wearing heels, but thought that my pink and purple galoshes were fly enough given the wet weather.
We intended to stroll the length of the race, as we were by no means among the more serious competitors, but this was not to be. Despite our best efforts to stay in the back of the pack, there were a fair amount of angry queens behind us who wanted to race, dammit. One directly behind us was dressed as the Washington Monument. While being pursued by a large phallus may have been exciting to some of our fellow runners, we were rather scared. So sprint we did. Seth ran ahead in his pumps, and I trailed holding the pink umbrella aloft, feeling rather chivalrous.
We by no means won the race. That honor went to a runner dressed as a nun, who hurried out of the rain to claim her prize -- a bar tab at J.R.'s saloon. We were glad to retreat to the warm house and the cold keg just down the block, to celebrate a night well executed.
Robyn
Now, you must understand something about the drag races -- otherwise known as the High Heel Races. You see, the Dupont area has a rather thriving gay population, and just as it is in Greenwich Village, Halloween is a big friggin' deal. So the Tuesday before October 31 is the day when Dupont's most fabulous drag queens take to the streets in 3-inch minimum heels and sprint, or mince, down 17th Street.
Co-worker Seth was intending to run in his second race in a row. Mr. Seth is not himself, a member of DC's illustrious gay population, but he is evidently secure enough in his own masculinity to pretend for an evening. I was under the impression that others at the house party would be bringing their own fabulous attire, so I brought along one of my wigs (yes, I have more than one) and suitably sparkly makeup and a tiny shirt so I, too, could be festive.
Alas, there was not a large contingent of dressed-up revelers when I arrived, but a blue wig is a terrible thing to waste. So I donned it anyhow, and had makeup maven Cassandra go to town with the blue and green eye shadow. She offered her cosmetic services to other partygoers -- including Alex Angert, a young man who I was rather friendly with in the geek clique at high school and unexpectedly showed up as a friend of a friend. Alex, I'm proud to say, accepted a touch of blue glitter after some gentle prodding, but there weren't many takers. Buncha squares, these young DC wonks.
But glory was to be mine, because since I was the only other person decked out and in the spirit of things, Seth, now sporting a pink bobbed wig and a tasteful strapless number, asked me to be his escort to the race. My job was to hold a hot pink umbrella above him while he paraded with the other participants prior to the race, and depending on the level of precipitation, during it as well. A kept girl, if you will. So we pushed through the throng, and joined about 100 other drag queens on the streets.
Some of these gals clearly had prepared very well. There were folks in ball gowns, some in nicely tailored Lady Diana suits, and, inexplicably, a few dressed like a dragged-up Terrell Owens. Others, like ourselves, were rank amateurs. I was not wearing heels, but thought that my pink and purple galoshes were fly enough given the wet weather.
We intended to stroll the length of the race, as we were by no means among the more serious competitors, but this was not to be. Despite our best efforts to stay in the back of the pack, there were a fair amount of angry queens behind us who wanted to race, dammit. One directly behind us was dressed as the Washington Monument. While being pursued by a large phallus may have been exciting to some of our fellow runners, we were rather scared. So sprint we did. Seth ran ahead in his pumps, and I trailed holding the pink umbrella aloft, feeling rather chivalrous.
We by no means won the race. That honor went to a runner dressed as a nun, who hurried out of the rain to claim her prize -- a bar tab at J.R.'s saloon. We were glad to retreat to the warm house and the cold keg just down the block, to celebrate a night well executed.
Robyn
Sunday, October 23, 2005
It was nice to be away for ten days to see family. I caught a cold halfway through the visit, and spent a few weekday afternoons balled up on the couch in my PJs, watching Price is Right with my brother and having Mommy fix me tea, just like in the long long ago. But now it's back to the city known as Washington, where evidently I have a job and an apartment and a cat and a life of sorts.
Aside from the mundane re-entry to work, this week saw me attending two communal events that spoke very dearly to my little heart. Firstly, I attended my final U2 show of the year this week in DC. A DC U2 show, it turns out, is not an event to go unnoticed in the government and nonprofit sector in which I make my living. Although I had procured my tickets months ago, several staff members who work in our Congressional relations department were given free tickets by DATA, the organization founded by Bono. My boss also received tickets, and had to be briefed as to what, exactly, U2 was. Many a Hill staffer and Administration official was given choice seats around or behind the stage, and normally a fan such as myself would be a trifle miffed at this, but not this time. For I was closing out my last show with floor tickets, which were better than any of the freebies given to the Washington elite. Snack on that, Condi.
Through a series of very fortunate events, and a bit of strategizing, I wound up right in front along the edge of the circular stage. So I was able to watch the whole show with an unobstructed, very close view of the proceedings -- which is a rare and fine thing indeed. I hooted and hollered until my throat was raw, and bounced and hopped until my calf muscles decided to up and take an extended holiday from which they've yet to return (come back soon...all is forgiven). One of the great things about this kind of setting is that everyone down there on the floor is so durned nice and friendly. A few of them are even more scholarly than I am...a frightening prospect. It's nice to be among the other yahoos for a bit.
After that, it seemed like the next opportunity to assemble with other sick-minded brethern united in a frivolous cause would be far off. Happily, I was much mistaken. In going through the several piles newspapers that had accumulated in my absence, I discovered a column telling poor, wayward souls hailing from cities other than DC where they could cheer on their favorite football teams. As this week's Eagles game was not to be televised locally, I got myself hence to the Rhino Pump and Brewhouse in Georgetown this afternoon, expecting a modest gathering of Philly expats.
What a sight met my eyes! A sea of green jerseys, a bevy of beer guts, a torrent of expletives -- by golly, I was home! Two whole floors packed of lunatics who cheered and jeered every play, every replay, and every Chunky soup ad. The Eagles were their dependable, excruciating selves, but managed to pull out a victory in the end, sending the crowd into ecstatic fits. It wasn't exactly the place to strike up any deep meaningful conversations, and it may be a bit hectic for me to attend weekly, but it's nice to know it's there. A convention of football fans may be a bit more belligerent that a U2 gathering, but it's a heckuva lot more accessible. Just as silly though, ay, just as silly.
Robyn
Aside from the mundane re-entry to work, this week saw me attending two communal events that spoke very dearly to my little heart. Firstly, I attended my final U2 show of the year this week in DC. A DC U2 show, it turns out, is not an event to go unnoticed in the government and nonprofit sector in which I make my living. Although I had procured my tickets months ago, several staff members who work in our Congressional relations department were given free tickets by DATA, the organization founded by Bono. My boss also received tickets, and had to be briefed as to what, exactly, U2 was. Many a Hill staffer and Administration official was given choice seats around or behind the stage, and normally a fan such as myself would be a trifle miffed at this, but not this time. For I was closing out my last show with floor tickets, which were better than any of the freebies given to the Washington elite. Snack on that, Condi.
Through a series of very fortunate events, and a bit of strategizing, I wound up right in front along the edge of the circular stage. So I was able to watch the whole show with an unobstructed, very close view of the proceedings -- which is a rare and fine thing indeed. I hooted and hollered until my throat was raw, and bounced and hopped until my calf muscles decided to up and take an extended holiday from which they've yet to return (come back soon...all is forgiven). One of the great things about this kind of setting is that everyone down there on the floor is so durned nice and friendly. A few of them are even more scholarly than I am...a frightening prospect. It's nice to be among the other yahoos for a bit.
After that, it seemed like the next opportunity to assemble with other sick-minded brethern united in a frivolous cause would be far off. Happily, I was much mistaken. In going through the several piles newspapers that had accumulated in my absence, I discovered a column telling poor, wayward souls hailing from cities other than DC where they could cheer on their favorite football teams. As this week's Eagles game was not to be televised locally, I got myself hence to the Rhino Pump and Brewhouse in Georgetown this afternoon, expecting a modest gathering of Philly expats.
What a sight met my eyes! A sea of green jerseys, a bevy of beer guts, a torrent of expletives -- by golly, I was home! Two whole floors packed of lunatics who cheered and jeered every play, every replay, and every Chunky soup ad. The Eagles were their dependable, excruciating selves, but managed to pull out a victory in the end, sending the crowd into ecstatic fits. It wasn't exactly the place to strike up any deep meaningful conversations, and it may be a bit hectic for me to attend weekly, but it's nice to know it's there. A convention of football fans may be a bit more belligerent that a U2 gathering, but it's a heckuva lot more accessible. Just as silly though, ay, just as silly.
Robyn
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Grampy
The reason I had to condense my visit to New York was that I had to fly to Maine for my grandfather's funeral. Grampy passed away on October 5, after being sick for the better part of this year. He was 89.
We had managed to visit Grampy this summer when we heard that he was declining. We discovered that he wasn't faring well at all physically, and every now and again was prone to some bouts of dementia, but by and large he was still with it. He was cranky about the fact that he could no longer do what he pleased or eat what he wanted, but he knew who we all were and seemed to grasp his situation. In the past few weeks he hasn't been as aware. Like Pop-Pop earlier this year, Grampy passed away at precisely the point when we knew that any kind of "recovery" would only prolong any suffering or indignity.
Also like Pop-Pop, Grampy made for good stories. This was a man who waxed rhapsodic about an apple pie that he had in 1939. When he was 80 years old and 100 pounds overweight, he would jump over the side of his houseboat into the water to work on any engine trouble that might occur. He was incredibly literate, and could recall just about every classic novel he'd ever read. He once was buried alive during a construction project, and was interviewed by the local news after he was freed. The newsperson asked him what he thinking while he awaited rescue, probably anticipating some maudlin soundbite about Grampy's love for his family or his faith. Grampy instead responded, "Well, I was thinking about getting out, you damn fool."
Grampy and Grammy were married to each other for 64 years. I'm lucky in that I was able to know him for so long, and talk with him about books and history and how things were when he was a boy (he often started stories with the phrase, "When I was as big as you..."). I'm not so lucky in that I have lost two grandparents in one year, but I suppose that if you approach 24 years of age with three surviving elderly grandparents, you should consider yourself blessed.
Robyn
We had managed to visit Grampy this summer when we heard that he was declining. We discovered that he wasn't faring well at all physically, and every now and again was prone to some bouts of dementia, but by and large he was still with it. He was cranky about the fact that he could no longer do what he pleased or eat what he wanted, but he knew who we all were and seemed to grasp his situation. In the past few weeks he hasn't been as aware. Like Pop-Pop earlier this year, Grampy passed away at precisely the point when we knew that any kind of "recovery" would only prolong any suffering or indignity.
Also like Pop-Pop, Grampy made for good stories. This was a man who waxed rhapsodic about an apple pie that he had in 1939. When he was 80 years old and 100 pounds overweight, he would jump over the side of his houseboat into the water to work on any engine trouble that might occur. He was incredibly literate, and could recall just about every classic novel he'd ever read. He once was buried alive during a construction project, and was interviewed by the local news after he was freed. The newsperson asked him what he thinking while he awaited rescue, probably anticipating some maudlin soundbite about Grampy's love for his family or his faith. Grampy instead responded, "Well, I was thinking about getting out, you damn fool."
Grampy and Grammy were married to each other for 64 years. I'm lucky in that I was able to know him for so long, and talk with him about books and history and how things were when he was a boy (he often started stories with the phrase, "When I was as big as you..."). I'm not so lucky in that I have lost two grandparents in one year, but I suppose that if you approach 24 years of age with three surviving elderly grandparents, you should consider yourself blessed.
Robyn
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