Wherein Other Names Besides

Terry Jones has passed.  It was only a few weeks back that Neil Innes had died, in the last days of 2019.  And I’ve traded notes with my sister and my mother and my friends.  I've rewatched the Mr. Creosote, The World's Deadliest Joke, Mr. Hilter . . .  there are so many bits to reconsider, now that he’s gone.  I caught an interview from a few years back where he was so disarmingly jovial and approachable, though it would be all but impossible to meet him and not want to discuss this role or that.  And now it is impossible. 

I went to Dick’s sporting goods store yesterday.  My older daughter had an eye exam over in the mall and while she was being looked at, I took the gift card my mother had given me and tried to procure a pair of cross-country ski boots.  I know its childish, but I can’t think of this store without imagining the boardroom conversation wherein other names besides “Dicks,” were presumably bandied about.  Any rate, Dicks does not carry ski equipment, be it cross country or downhill.  I looked about for a bit and decided upon a grey winter coat.  I’ve had the same big puffy, down coat for years and always take flack from my wife when I wear it because it looks like its ten years old and coughs feathers.  This is warm enough for most things and presentable for a business meeting.

My daughter was back with Dr. Rubin.  He’s a lovely man and, as I always remind him, he’d cared for and indeed wisely diagnosed glaucoma early in my grandmother.  That someone is tending to her that also saw my grandmother is unfathomable for my older one.  “How old is he?” We chatted a bit.  He was just back from Florida.  He likes Florida. He was deflated to have to return to the cold.  An interesting observation of his, he never noticed, until someone mentioned it that Florida was very, very flat.  Once it had been brought to his attention, he couldn’t get it off his mind and it annoyed him, in a manner not unlike the time he drove across the country and the vast expanse of Nebraska left him feeling unprotected and uncomfortable. 

We had an hour to kill before the glasses where ready and we drove over to the younger one’s school to watch her play basketball.  I was proud of her.  It was never my sport and she looked good out there.  They were shut down by the visiting “home schooled” kids, who had their own team that played as though they were an institution.  I got to chat with a teacher or two, the nurse and the principal.  He drew my attention to the fact that there was one person around who might be my vintage, from 1984, and soon I was chatting with Chris the grounds keeper and soon we were trading names from thirty-six years ago. 

Wednesday, 01/22/20