"My GOD," he gasped, "You're a knock-kneed pronator!" "Beg pardon?" I asked politely. The way he was looking at my feet kinda reminded me of cat in a tuna store. Or in heat. "Knock-kneed pronator! In my entire career I've only met one other knock-kneed pronator. Wow!"
The old soldier came ramrod-straight to attention, one hand steadying the rifle he carried on his shoulder. He stared ahead through silver spectacles, mouth grim and every hair in place. He wasn’t in dress blues, but his good suit was blue and he’d festooned its lapels with an intricate wealth of ribbon and brass from the War. His cap read [...]
Well, I'll be a birdie's uncle...maybe literally. Hard at work coding a website this afternoon, but a strange banging kept breaking into my concentration. Finally, I looked out the window and saw the bluejays at it again, trying to build a nest on my back porch light. Apparently the mister bluejay decided that gravity (or the big, gaping hole between light posts) has nothing to do with their continued inability to get twigs to stay on the light. The problem is they just aren't building hard enough.
My favorite neighborhood urchin is now old enough that a day’s hard playing leaves him as fragrant as used gerbil bedding. It’s really quite amazing how far the scent carries. Feet. Yards. Blocks, even. While I’m wondering whether subtly suggesting a little soap, water and deodorant would crucify his fragile preteen psyche, his best friend screeches up beside us.
The bluejays are at it again. When I moved to Oregon I was charmed to find not only the old, familiar white-bellied jays of my youth (Scrub Jays, a name that's frankly condescending and ought to be changed) but also the sleek, sapphire-and-black Stellar Jays. They're both beautiful critters, a pair of each live in my backyard and, for the most part, they get along pretty well (or at least they keep a lid on disagreements). ...except in spring, when they go to war for my back porch light.
"You know," Dad said grimly, "If you ever achieve half the talent, intelligence or kindness of your mother, you'll be very, very lucky." He was right. I'm still working on it. When he said that, I was maybe 13, in trouble again; most likely Dad had caught me arguing furiously with Mom and sprang to her defense. (My teenage years were not exactly smooth sailing--I think of them as one long and arduous fight against authority.) I suspected he was right, but boiling oil wouldn't have gotten me to admit it. Thank heavens we grow up...
I'll bet YOUR pizza guy doesn't deliver tokamak and bosons with the pizza, no extra charge. Mine does.
The old woman totters into the store and gives me an anxious look. "You're not the regular girl! She knows I can't buy anything but she lets me just look. That's still OK, isn't it?" I smile and tell her I'm fine with her visit to Fireborne, my friend Becky's gallery. Reassured, she turns to examine the glass in the window. She moves slowly, painfully, sidestepping her way down the display, and misses nothing. "I see she sold the green bowl," she says, pointing to the vase that's apparently replaced it.
My friend Becky's out for a few days, so I'm babysitting her gallery (do you call that gallerysitting?) and writing this between sales lulls. Becky and her husband Len are lovely folk; their gallery, Fireborne, is in downtown Portland near Pioneer Square.
"Naaah. I don't like that one. Let's try it again." He peered into the computer screen, hand poised over the trackball. "Ready...ready...ready....NOW!" He clicked firmly. "YES! That's the one I want," and began tapping at the keyboard. "You're going to a lot of trouble for my ID photo," I observed. A new client required that I have a corporate ID to move about their building, so I'd stopped in at the security desk to have the guard fix one up.
