And That Was July...
Fern: In July, three of our major appliances -- the clothes dryer, the dishwasher, the Jenn-air stove-top -- all just died. Is that a sign?
Joe: Sign? Like trouble comes in threes? Hey, I was the one born into old country superstitions, not you. You have to counter magical thinking with logical thinking.
Fern: Like?
Joe: Like the appliances were old. The people who’d owned this house before us bought top-of-the-line everything. But even a Bosch dishwasher -- ours was almost twenty years old -- has its day.
Fern: The air conditioner was checked in July and got a good bill of health. But we probably spend a couple of hundred dollars every year for the company to put on a new filter just to tell us that.
Joe: Luckily, we were able to replace them all—dishwasher, dryer, stove top—and so quickly. And luckiest of all, being able to afford it. Like in that William Faulkner quote about “the old thrill and the old despair of a penny more or less.”
Fern: Or as my family used to say: “Rich or poor, it’s good to have money.”
What has saved my sanity this summer was helping to take care of the babies next door. Neighbor Becky and I (we’re called “The aunties!”) spend a couple hours almost every day rocking and cooing these adorable twins. This July they’re seven months old!
Joe: The two things that have kept me sane this very hot and very humid July are poker and painting—both of which I can do in the coolness of our basement. I’m there right now. The large main room that is my writing area has a fireplace, a sofa for naps, and a poker table with eight chairs; the room behind my desk is a kitchenette with a large window where I have my easel and brushes. This July I’ve finished my latest painting, “Toledo Harbor Light: 1927” which depicts a boatful of bootleg whisky being sneaked into Ohio from Canada. During Prohibition this was an occupation that allowed my father to save enough to open his own grocery store in Toledo. So, he might just be in this picture.
Going down into the cool basement and painting just puts me in a different world.
Fern: A world away from the news of the day for a little while. I don’t know how much worse it can get. Reading the headlines in the morning makes me want throw up. Or cry.
Joe: It’s not healthy to focus on it so much.
Fern: I’ve cut down considerably. I skim the New York Times. I read Heather Cox Richardson for intelligent commentary. I read Robyn Snyder for laughs. I read Art Cullen for both. I make phone calls. But I’ve curtailed the reading that dwells on the malignancy that is now our government.
As you have often told me: I am not in charge of everything.
Joe: Seems to me that your being in charge of me should be enough.
Fern: So this happened last week. Of course, you already know the story.
Joe: It’s a good story. Hope it remains just a story. Go ahead and tell it.
Fern: So last week, a guy parks in the front of the house, gets out and takes a picture of the sign I put up in our front yard.
I thought he liked the sign. Most people would. But then he walks around the front yard and he’s filming our house. And then I notice he’s wearing a red cap.
As he’s getting back into his car, I run out. “Hi there,” I say. “Can I help you?” I am Iowa friendly.
The window of his grey Toyota Rav is open. And yes, he is wearing a MAGA hat. I make note that he is a normal looking white guy. About sixty. Glasses. Balding, I think, though the hat covers most of his head.
“So what is it about America that you like?” he asks.
“Well, it’s a free country,” I say. Smiling. Friendly. I scan the front seat to see if there’s a gun.
He says: “So you like runaway inflation and immigrants committing crimes, raping women and . . .
I interrupt him. “That’s really not the what’s happening, ” I say.
Then I reach out and touch him. I don’t know what comes over me to actually pat his shoulder, but I do. “Hey, what’s your name? ” I ask.
“Joe,” he says.
“Joe! That’s a great name. My husband’s name is Joe.” Then: “What’s your last name?”
Maybe his real first name is Joe. But he’s on to me. “Smith,” he says.
“Ok, Joe,” I tell him. A few more shoulder pats. “You have a nice day, sir.”
As he pulls away, I memorize the license plate, saying the number over and over again so I don’t forget it as I walk back into the house: OTL 533. OTL533. OTL533.
So, hon, do you think we should take down the sign?
Joe: No. Not as long as America is still a free country.
The Iowa Writers’ Collaborative
Have you explored the variety of writers, plus Letters from Iowans, in the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative? They are from around the state and contribute commentary and feature stories of interest to those who care about Iowa. Please pick five you’d like to support by becoming paid. It helps keep them going. Enjoy:
I wonder what that guy was up to? Was he going to put your house on social media? Take a picture to the county GOP meeting and point out where the “enemy” lives among them? Maybe just hoping to intimidate you. If so, he failed miserably.
Just for fun, “. . . mix those babies up”. . .a la Pinafore—see if Mom & Dad notice.