Fuzzy Weather

California is nearly first in offering the “unlimited refill” policy at all of the fast food places. In Texas, I have to go back to the counter and purchase a refill for thirty nine cents. It’s not the money so much as the time and effort. But, I forget, they’re more energetic back in Texas.

Lydia picks up her new glasses, today. You may recall that she broke one lens in New Orleans during Mardi Gras. Lately she complains that everything looks crooked. When I examine the new lens, I get the impression that the graded glass—she uses graded bifocals—was ground off axis…considerably. No wonder she is getting nauseous. She digs out an old pair of safety glasses to use.

Meanwhile, the day is clear-blue perfect, warm, apple and fig trees are in fuzzy with blooms, and the smell of warm earth permeates the air. Daffodils are poking their heads up, everywhere. A late freeze would be very damaging to the nut harvest.

Skipping ahead to Thursday, we escape into the Schlotzsky’s on Arden Avenue in Sacramento—hungry for another “Small Original” on jalapeno bread, a bag of vinegar flavored chips, and drinks. Ah, here comes the owner bringing us our usual dish of crisp, pickled okra.

We drop off more slides of steel plate surfaces and the undeveloped pictures Robert took at Jill’s wedding. Also, we pick up some beautiful paper, gray with random weaving, to print the “Rotary Path” calendar that I have created and reproductions of Lydia’s portrait that I have finished. We’ll slip cards with Lydia’s portrait on one side and the “path” on the other side into special envelopes and give them away at the conference in Anaheim.

Lydia dictates some personal notes into her tape recorder as we drive around Sacramento. She records some thoughts on her childhood in highly analyzed terms—so little emotion expressed, so much pain described.

While driving through the neighborhood the next day, I return the waves of some of my neighbors. I get along with my neighbors as long as their guns remain locked to their racks in their pickup trucks. Their wives smile hopefully at me. Do they want to escape from their prisons and their ever-alert wardens?