My weekend started off well enough. Kicked it off by meeting up with an old friend Saturday morning. And by old, I mean the person, other than my Dad, who I have been in continuous contact with the longest. We were classmates from pre-school through our senior year of high school.
And, as with most of the people I like, he moved away…not long after graduation. For the last several years he’s been living in Atlanta. Long enough to lose his Minnesotan accent entirely, replacing it with a muddled and hard to place patois. He regaled me with tales of his life there, working for the Cartoon Network, seeing movies at the Starlight Six…a fabulous looking drive-in theater with six screens. By visiting family this weekend he was missing the annual Drive Invasion, a weekend of 15 bands and 8 B-movies (with vintage movie trailers) for just $25. There’s always next year (I wouldn’t mind heading down for it myself). We spent some time reminiscing about our former teachers and classmates…but strangely our perspectives seem to be so different, with each of us retaining very disparate sets of memories. Certainly there were some we shared, but often he would mention a name, one that sounded familiar and I felt I should know, but I just couldn’t conjure up a face to go with it. Guess we’re getting old. Old enough that too many of our former classmates have already passed away.
After seeing Noel I’d planned to continue on to family day at the Walker, but the little man was far too antsy and demanded to go home. I acquiesced, as I often do, figuring it was about time for lunch anyhow. After walking in the door, though, I was ready to turn around and get back in the car. The husband can really throw me for a loop sometimes. When we’d left him he’d just gotten home from one of his overnight shifts. I expected him to be vegging in front of his computer. Instead of relaxing, though, he decided to do something productive. Like me, his motivation comes so rarely, in fits and starts, that I stand back and watch when the mood strikes him. But I have to question the wisdom of ripping up the last bit of carpet in the house, in the middle of the hottest, most humid day of the weekend, without knowing what was hidden underneath. Results were mixed. In the hallway at the top of the stairs, the area bordering on the three bedrooms and bathroom, the wood floors are in good shape…as are the bottom set of steps. The landing is a bit sketchy, with some sort of faux parquet layer glued on top. That leaves the top set of steps. Absolutely dreadful. The treads are covered in flaking white paint (possibly lead-based), with the remains of some sort of brown glue running down the centers of each in a wide band (likely some sort of old non-slip carpet pad stuff). And at least one step is badly cracked. Rather than trying to sand and stain them, the husband is looking into replacing them. Himself. I’m a bit uneasy, with thoughts of the spice rack that Homer built. Nonetheless, I tried to do my part in phase one of this impromptu project. I got down and dirty, pulling out carpet staples with my delicate little hands. After about five of them my trigger finger was blistered…and soon my knuckles were all torn up. Not to mention the debris that’s been wreaking havoc with my already aggravated allergies. I wonder how useless I’ll be in phase two.
