Ignominious Entrance
Last night when I got home around 8:30 from having spent four hours in parent-teacher's conferences, I had a terrible time getting into the house.
In the car, I acted imprudently, as most males do in this regard, and grabbed the four pieces of school "luggage" that needed to go to the house with me: my lunchbox (small ice chest type), my laptop, my notebook carrying case, and my purse--two handles in each hand. At the front door, I reached up with one of my well-filled hands to turn the doorknob. That triggered an unfortunate cascade of events.
The handle came unseated from its moorings on the top of the lunchbox. As the box plummeted to the concrete of the front porch, the lid snapped out from its molded plastic hinges. The lid and a container of wonderful bean soup that I was saving for my supper disappeared under the overgrown yew right next to the porch. The other contents of the lunch box were scattered on the porch floor.
I carried the detached lunchbox handle inside, along with the three remaining items in my hands. After I had found a parking space for them and complained loudly to Hiromi, I went back outside to gather up the debris and to see if I could recover what was hiding under the yew. I couldn't even see the missing items. Back inside for a flashlight.
Now I could see the lid, but I couldn't reach it. Back inside for the grilling tongs. Even so it was an awkward stretch--down, over, and down again over the edge of the porch, with the yew branches poking uncomfortably into my face. There. The lunchbox lid was pinched and retrieved.
I still couldn't see the plastic-lidded glass bowl with the bean soup, but decided it must be in the one spot I couldn't see. I "swept" the spot with my long tongs and brought the bowl back within visual range. Another long reach and I had my soup in hand. Finally.
Hiromi had just arrived home too, and was puttering around in the kitchen, preparing domburi. "Did you eat?" he asked.
"No."
"Do you want some of this?"
"Sure. I'll put this bean soup in the fridge for tomorrow evening."
When we were ready to sit down to our simple little feast, the phone rang. Dorcas had an emergency that she could not take care of, with Shane gone to a Choice Books meeting (in Virginia?). I told her we'd be over as soon as we had eaten.
About a quarter of a mile from home, as we were headed over there, Hiromi calmly noted that we were out of gas. The needle indeed was exactly on empty. Our only cell phone was at home in my purse. We hoped we could make it to Partridge. We did, and Hiromi filled the tank when we got there. I was ever-so-glad I hadn't run out of gas on the way home from school, in the chilly, windy dark.
On to Shane's place. On the way I told Hiromi about the coyote I had seen near David & Susanna's place, and we talked about being close to the time when hitting deer is a hazard of nighttime driving.
All was serene inside the house when we got there. Tristan was lying sleepily on the recliner, Carson was in bed, and Dorcas was ready to show us what needed to be done. Hiromi did it. Tristan was communicative enough to show us three fingers (carefully raising them one at a time) to tell us how old he is now. I didn't kiss him goodnight since I thought the garlic breath from the kimchee Hiromi had served with his domburi would probably cancel out any intended goodwill.
Hiromi and I headed home companionably and got inside the house without incident this time. Finally.
*******************
Today the newspaper carried the obituary of my high school typing and P. E. teacher, Merle Harris. Not everyone gets a 6 ft. 4 (6?) inch former college basketball player for a typing teacher. This one didn't have too many problems keeping order, especially the day after he quietly picked up a chalk piece from the chalkboard tray and fired it at Randy P., who was messing around with his typewriter instead of looking up and listening to the teacher.
The Harrises lived at the intersection of Trail West and Partridge Road, in the northwest quadrant. After he and his wife divorced (she was the daughter of the local Hubert Morgan), he moved to Arizona. According to the obituary, he played for Hutchinson Junior College in its basketball glory days when they won took third place in the NJCAA basketball tournament in 1957, with Sam Butterfield coaching. Mr. Harris had also played basketball at K-State, as I recall.
Mr. Harris taught our girls' P.E. class only after Mrs. Guzman, our first teacher, disappeared without warning during the school year. None of us ever knew for sure why she didn't come back, but there were whisperings of her having needed to leave the country for some reason--perhaps because of she or her husband not having legal arrangements in order for living here.
In the car, I acted imprudently, as most males do in this regard, and grabbed the four pieces of school "luggage" that needed to go to the house with me: my lunchbox (small ice chest type), my laptop, my notebook carrying case, and my purse--two handles in each hand. At the front door, I reached up with one of my well-filled hands to turn the doorknob. That triggered an unfortunate cascade of events.
The handle came unseated from its moorings on the top of the lunchbox. As the box plummeted to the concrete of the front porch, the lid snapped out from its molded plastic hinges. The lid and a container of wonderful bean soup that I was saving for my supper disappeared under the overgrown yew right next to the porch. The other contents of the lunch box were scattered on the porch floor.
I carried the detached lunchbox handle inside, along with the three remaining items in my hands. After I had found a parking space for them and complained loudly to Hiromi, I went back outside to gather up the debris and to see if I could recover what was hiding under the yew. I couldn't even see the missing items. Back inside for a flashlight.
Now I could see the lid, but I couldn't reach it. Back inside for the grilling tongs. Even so it was an awkward stretch--down, over, and down again over the edge of the porch, with the yew branches poking uncomfortably into my face. There. The lunchbox lid was pinched and retrieved.
I still couldn't see the plastic-lidded glass bowl with the bean soup, but decided it must be in the one spot I couldn't see. I "swept" the spot with my long tongs and brought the bowl back within visual range. Another long reach and I had my soup in hand. Finally.
Hiromi had just arrived home too, and was puttering around in the kitchen, preparing domburi. "Did you eat?" he asked.
"No."
"Do you want some of this?"
"Sure. I'll put this bean soup in the fridge for tomorrow evening."
When we were ready to sit down to our simple little feast, the phone rang. Dorcas had an emergency that she could not take care of, with Shane gone to a Choice Books meeting (in Virginia?). I told her we'd be over as soon as we had eaten.
About a quarter of a mile from home, as we were headed over there, Hiromi calmly noted that we were out of gas. The needle indeed was exactly on empty. Our only cell phone was at home in my purse. We hoped we could make it to Partridge. We did, and Hiromi filled the tank when we got there. I was ever-so-glad I hadn't run out of gas on the way home from school, in the chilly, windy dark.
On to Shane's place. On the way I told Hiromi about the coyote I had seen near David & Susanna's place, and we talked about being close to the time when hitting deer is a hazard of nighttime driving.
All was serene inside the house when we got there. Tristan was lying sleepily on the recliner, Carson was in bed, and Dorcas was ready to show us what needed to be done. Hiromi did it. Tristan was communicative enough to show us three fingers (carefully raising them one at a time) to tell us how old he is now. I didn't kiss him goodnight since I thought the garlic breath from the kimchee Hiromi had served with his domburi would probably cancel out any intended goodwill.
Hiromi and I headed home companionably and got inside the house without incident this time. Finally.
*******************
Today the newspaper carried the obituary of my high school typing and P. E. teacher, Merle Harris. Not everyone gets a 6 ft. 4 (6?) inch former college basketball player for a typing teacher. This one didn't have too many problems keeping order, especially the day after he quietly picked up a chalk piece from the chalkboard tray and fired it at Randy P., who was messing around with his typewriter instead of looking up and listening to the teacher.
The Harrises lived at the intersection of Trail West and Partridge Road, in the northwest quadrant. After he and his wife divorced (she was the daughter of the local Hubert Morgan), he moved to Arizona. According to the obituary, he played for Hutchinson Junior College in its basketball glory days when they won took third place in the NJCAA basketball tournament in 1957, with Sam Butterfield coaching. Mr. Harris had also played basketball at K-State, as I recall.
Mr. Harris taught our girls' P.E. class only after Mrs. Guzman, our first teacher, disappeared without warning during the school year. None of us ever knew for sure why she didn't come back, but there were whisperings of her having needed to leave the country for some reason--perhaps because of she or her husband not having legal arrangements in order for living here.
posted by Mrs. I (Miriam Iwashige) at
8:05 PM
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