Perfect Timing

Ahhhhh- days off. Just pulled in from Moscow and am sitting at the Rockwood Bakery in Spokane. I have to admit that I both surprised and a bit shocked that they do not have Wi-fi. Even Taco Time in Moscow has Wi-fi. I guess I respect the whole let’s-just-be-the-place-where-people drink coffe-listen-to-Damien-Rice-without-the-internetz-fucking-the-mood kinda place. I respect that. Still, here I sit writing in Word, hoping that I can simply cut and paste this into the Blog.

The drive from Moscow to Spokane is much more beautiful with snow and clear roads. Those two elements don’t often coincide; but today they did. Snow covered hills, blue skies, relatively straight roads, and some shitty rock radio- what else does one need for a road trip?

Today has been one of those days where the stop lights all seem to turn yellow right as your in the middle of the intersection; the lights turn red as soon as you push the crosswalk button; you know- when you feel like your perfectly in sync with things.
I got up after going to bed early at 8- perfect because Grandpa has been up just long enough to have started the fire and finished reading the sports page. Before he hands it to me, he typically starts telling me about how the Cougars or the Vandals or the Zags have done the night before- before I can read it myself. Yet another one of the idiosyncracies which initially was cause to furl my brow, but now just makes me smile. Grandpa lights up like a little boy on the playground when he talks sports- like he and I are neighborhood buddies back home in Wisconsin, pretending to be Bart Starr and the Packers. I love it…mostly.

Then, just as I finish my coffee and the paper, Grandma wakes up. Grandpa hears her rustling and moaning ( for those of you who know Grandma, you know this sound- it’s a bit difficult to describe- something approximating a blend of a rooster’s crow and an orgasm- with a mid-western accent). Grandpa starts running around making her breakfast- typically a perfectly balanced meal of bacon, pancakes with butter and syrup, and coffee. Who could think up a more perfect way to start a diabetic day? So I grab my running shoes and head out the door for my late morning run. It was gorgeous today- about 45 degrees and near cloudless. I stripped down to my t-shirt after the first mile. I made it down the Old Pullman Highway about a mile and turned around (anyone else feel like the wind is always in your face in Moscow?). Anyhow, it felt good to have the sun shining on my back and to be able to sweat and not have it instantly freeze to my face. I wonder if there were some long distance runners in my Nordic ancestry, because I feel more alive when I run than any other time during the day.

Back home just in time to catch the Daily show reruns and stretch. Actually, I think this morning was the Colbert Report. Sometimes I just stretch and listen to Granny and Gramps chatting with each other- I catch glimpses of the love they have shared for 50 plus years. They still find ways of being sweet to each other.

After stretching, it’s upstairs to bake bread. I’ve been using mom’s “dump” recipe (named for the nature of the style of blending ingredients- not the content) for the last several weeks. Granny loves my homemade bread and she’s always brutually honest about providing feedback. The last batch was too dry and didn’t have raisins. So I baked this batch for ten minutes less and tossed some dried grapes in the mix. I think it turned out. As I mix the dough, I chat with Granny about whatever stream of consciousness seems to be flowing at that particular moment (this morning it was the pronunciation of Leah’s boyfriend’s last name- Villegas). For those of you who know my Grandmother- you know her love and curiosity for spelling. Insert Granny voice: “How do you say it again Ikey? Vee –lay-gus?”
“No Grandma, think of the two l’s as sounding like a “y”, I respond.
Granny: “Vee-yah-gas”
Me: “Closer”.
Granny: “Vee-lay-gus”
Me: “No Grandma. Vee-yah-gas!!!!!!”

Win some. Lose some. Anyhow, I finish kneeding the dough and forming the loaves and leave Grandma and Grandpa to their nap and head downstairs to pack the little day bag I’ll need for an overnight with Joel. You know- sportscoat, chinos, and cigarette holder- Joel and I do it right. I call my other Granny in Newport News, VA to check in on her and chat while packing. She is the sweetest ray of Southern sunshine you’ll ever meet. Her soft, lilting Virginian accent and colloquialisms: “Oh, hot dog Ike!” I love it. She gives me the update on her social life, her church, and the relatives. She is still chipper and spry as an 82 year-old woman with two artificial can be. I love her.

Now I’m finished packing and the bread is near done, so I go up to pull it out of the oven, have a quick bowl of soup, and hit the road. Granny is just waking from her first nap of the day and we chat while I bring her a piece of fresh bread. I eat soup and listen again to the babbling brook. I smile, kiss Granny, and say, “See you tomorrow!”

As I’m on the road I realize how helpful Gramps and Granny have been and are for me. Letting me use the truck to visit Dad, Joel, and U Oregon for my interview; giving me the opportunity to save money for a trip to Mexico; and the incalculable feeling of unconditional love and kindness. Some days- especially with the ongoing economic crisis- I feel like a spoiled brat. But mostly I see how supportive and loving my Grandparents are in my life. And more and more, I hope that I am in some small way returning the favor.


Love to you all,

Ike