Chugging Along

Chapter 40 - Waiting For God Knows

June 12, 2014 - Suffolk, England

Behind me, as I sit here typing, the US Open Golf something is being watched, soon to be followed by football in 20 minutes at 11:00pm. It's not quite as distracting as trying to think while in the same room as Turner Classic Movies at top volume, or the Weather Channel but it's right up there. Why do I have so little interest, in fact I think I can safely say no interest whatsoever in anything to do with SPORTS? Can I blame my parents? I'd like to. I hate the sounds of crowds roaring, I hate the sound of sportscasters' voices and how they speak to one another like this is a very interesting subject and they are discussing very important points. I especially hate during golf commentary how they suddenly sort of whisper, which almost makes me turn around to see what everyone's holding their breath over—but deep down, I suppose what's really at the root of this gross intolerance is that I don't rate sport, in general, as a way to make a living, or as an achievement, and never have, except possibly ice dancing or giant slalom if Norwegians are in the lead. Fine, okay, as a way to kill time at recess maybe on the playground or in retirement but I look at these people leaping around and after two minutes of whatever all I really want to do is say oh for God’s sake, grow up, it's a ball, you're going to spend your life messing around with a stupid ball?

Okay done. And what about the salaries?? (Oops, not quite done) Obscene. And PS if you are playing for Middlesex or Chicago or Rio, you ought to be FROM there. In my opinion.

Okay. So. Now that I've managed to alienate most everyone, I can report that things have been relatively calm over in Becket. I have had a few calls from Bonnie as of late, asking me to explain something while Peg is on the phone so Peg can hear it from my mouth. For example. In regards to this recent property developer I mentioned who's bought land next to us and can't figure out one of the boundaries—I emailed Bonnie saying my friend David Jenkins from Middlefield the town next door would be walking the Ronning property for me at some point this week, acting as my eyes, since I'm not there, except I used the work "proxy", not "eyes" and this led Peg, in tears, to believe I was selling the house without her knowledge and that Jenkins would be doing the deal. So I had to clear that up and about 12 other things she hadn't quite got straight.

”Mama, how's Daddy doing?”
”I'm not getting any sleep.” “What's wrong?”
“He looks dead, but then suddenly he perks up again. That man has absolutely no interest in anything. I don't know what I'm going to do with him.”
“Mama, listen, Mike Sacks, that nice guy from Vanity Fair who interviewed you for that book of his that's coming out next week on comedy writers— he wants to do a radio interview with you for I think NPR. Are you up for that?”
“I'm going just crazy with these nasal polyps. (VOICE SUDDENLY HOARSE) Don't I sound awful??”
“You sound fine. Shall I tell him yes?
“Of course!”

She then launched into how she needs help with dinner, then how she doesn't want help with dinner.

It's all worrying.

But. I am here. They are there. If I pray, when I pray, all I ask is that please please let her, and Daddy too, stay alive and vaguely "with it" until I get her website launched. Okay, true, I also pray for them not to be in pain and when they "go" to let them go quickly—but my main prayer, the big one, the ever present one, is about hanging in there please please Peg until the website's up. I tell myself it's so she can bask in all her glory again, in the thrill of being rediscovered at the age of 97 by a whole new audience (and, trust me, she needs an audience), so she can re-live her days of fame.

But of course what I'm really doing is setting myself up for disappointment. I don't mean she won't get the attention or accolades, she will, but what I'm angling for here, basically, is gratitude. In my mind I imagine my mother is throwing herself at my feet in appreciation of all my hard efforts. Which she won't. Of course. Even if she could get up again. She just won't. And then I'll be annoyed, because—that's what daughters are for.

Although, get this—on the phone today she said "Your birthday present might be a little late."

Birthday present. She hasn't remembered my birthday in about ten years, probably more. Fifteen. So maybe, just maybe, I'm thinking I should cut her a little slack, this woman, my mother. My mother who remembers her fans Tom and Donna’s birthdays in Seattle. And her fan Steve’s in Florida. My mother who once said, when accused one year of forgetting my birthday (June 18th, if anyone would like to get me something small this year, a token is fine) that she “only remembers birthdays that are important to her.” To which her grandson, then 14, chipped in “Nice going, Grandma.”

I hope it's not a multicoloured sweater with knitted balls on it. Let you know on the day. About the time I'm annoyed at my husband for not having planned anything except a baked potato. Speaking of setting oneself up for disappointment. Can we win? No.