Oblivious

“I didn’t do it!”

Sounds like something a seven year old child would say when caught in the act of perpetrating a misdeed doesn’t it? Well, you’re close it was my 80 year old mother-in-law when she stained our brand new living room carpet. The word OBLIVIOUS explodes in my mind; lacking remembrance, memory, or mindful attention. I’m trying to be civil. But with absolute certainty, it’s lack of mindful attention!

You see each year my mother-in-law invites herself for the wonderful Thanksgiving dinner Lori so lovingly prepares. Then proceeds to stay until after January of the new year, anyway . . .

This whole episode started in late October, our aquarium leaked and ruined what was left of our carpet. It was a slow leak and wasn’t noticed for a couple weeks. What a mildew mess. So now we have no choice but to replace it. Without hesitation we shopped around and found just the perfect carpet, at a great price, in hopes of having it replaced before Thanksgiving. Sadly it was not to be. The Monday after Thanksgiving the carpet installers show up and do a beautiful installation.

You’ve all experienced it, the pride of ownership. Our home had a facelift, no stains from previous pet accidents, no threadbare tracks from the mother-in-law’s walker, no ugly paths from the living room to the kitchen. We were so proud.

Then the disgusting tracks from the walker began to appear.

“Don’t worry,” said Lori it’s just the nap from the carpet. “This carpet is thicker and once vacuumed it will return to its new look.”

“Ok, if you say so,” I said.

A few days passed. Our new living room looked like a train had passed over the carpet from multiple directions. It was time to vacuum. I’d seen enough.

I fired up the Dyson. If you’ve never used a Dyson before let me just say this, it has the power to suck ground squirrels from their burrows. Well, not really, but you get the idea. To my astonishment the tracks from the walker were lifted. The carpet regained it’s plush, even appearance except for . . . The grease stains left in the pile.

“What! Grease stains!” I ejaculated.

Immediately came the infamous words, “I didn’t do it.”

“Then who did?” I asked. “The cat?” Oblivious . . .

I immediately tipped the walker up to examine its wheels. And what to my wondering eyes did appear but a big wad of despicable, greasy gum stuck to the wheels.

“Did you check your walker after going shopping?” I asked.

“No. I’m very careful not to run over anything,” she said.

“Then where did this wad of grease come from?” I was fuming. I just shook my head, shut my mouth, and cleaned the mess - Oblivious . . .

All I can say is when faced with the ultimate in selfish stupidity it’s best to go for a long walk to calm your nerves. Did the grease come off? Thankfully, it did.

Once again, the unexpected joy of family and the holidays - enjoy yours!

Oblivious . . .

Comments

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

Rediscovering the Magic of Summer . . .

Summer mornings, especially on a holiday weekend, have a special magic. The air is cool, the world quiet, and the day full of possibilities. This July 4th weekend, Lori and I decided to capture a bit of that magic by beating the holiday traffic with an early morning bicycle ride. We went through our usual pre-flight checklist: Stretched out the morning stiffness. Filled the water bottles. Strapped on the helmets. Checked the tires. Three tires passed inspection. The fourth had apparently declared independence. The rear tire on my e-bike was flatter than a Kansas highway. “Well, it looks like we’re not riding today,” Lori said, with the calm acceptance of someone who had already mentally promoted coffee to the day’s main event. “Why not?” I replied. “I’ll ride my old bike.” She gave me that look —the one that safely translates as, "Are you sure about this? " “Absolutely,” I said. “Why not?” I dragged the bike stand out and surveyed my options. One glance at the aggressive gear...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

Misfits at Halloween

In this episode - Misfits at Halloween . . . It’s autumn, and Halloween is approaching - how do you capture the experience, the smells, the rustling sounds of multicolored falling leaves, the quiet, peaceful feeling, the solitude of life in a small town? News flash, I’m here to tell you it’s not always as tranquil as sentimental storytellers like to depict it. Admittedly, like all agrarian communities, Cuba had its pranksters. Thankfully, though, in our small, rural farming community of the late 1960s and early 70s, I’m happy to report there was no teen violence, no gang shootings, and no serious vandalism. Well, ok, we did torment the local policeman, who we dubbed Barney Fife (I don’t remember his name). In the fall, most families would have harvested their gardens by Halloween, but inevitably, there would be leftovers. A group of us would hide behind Jim Welch’s garden fence on Main Street and hurl the leftover, soft, rotten tomatoes at Barney’s squad car as he patrolled the town. F...

On The Fly

Search This Blog