As I mentioned before, Henry does the cooking. Actually, he is something of a gourmet cook. He is very much like Chuck in that the better the meal, the more dishes there are to wash later. After a wonderful meal of fresh tuna with a Creole sauce, Henry suggested that Jim and I could use the dishwasher for whatever dishes it would hold, rather than wash all of them by hand. He had used it last year, but not yet this year. We loaded the dishwasher, hand-washed what didn’t fit in it, and started it up. While we were having our after-dinner drink of St. James rum, the lights went out. We re-set the circuit breaker, and the lights went out again. We determined that the culprit was the dishwasher, so we un-loaded it and washed the dishes by hand.

The next morning Jim and I accompanied Henry on a trip to the produce market and the Carrefours Supermarket (like the Jewel-Osco here, but with wider aisles). Marty decided to stay home and work on her book, and while we were gone M. Andre, the landlord, paid a visit. Marty explained that the dishwasher was mort, and M .Andre decided that the best thing would be to let it finish its cycle. Since there were no lights on in the lower part of the house, turning the machine on didn’t trip the circuit breaker. So, the dishwasher was running, M. Andre left, and Marty went back upstairs to work.

When we returned from our shopping expedition, the entire first floor of the house was flooded. Marty, of course, had no idea this was happening, and was extremely apologetic. The four of us got to work with squeegees, brooms, and mops. Jim and Henry dragged the sopping area rug out of the livingroom and placed it over two benches to dry under the overhang of the patio.

It was a short-lived disaster. Once the water was pushed out of the house, Henry made a lovely plate of crudités (including avocado wedges and some shredded papaya---unripe papaya is used in salads), and after lunch we took off for the beach and more snorkeling

I was disappointed in the fruit at the supermarket today. The apples were soft, the pears were hard, and the bananas were green. It was such a contrast to Martinique, where one goes to the open-air market every day for perfectly ripe fresh produce. Henry does the cooking in his and Marty’s household, as Chuck does in ours. Every day while I was there he fixed a healthy breakfast consisting of a banana, a wedge of melon and pineapple, whole grain toast, and café au lait. Also at each person’s place was a four-ounce container of Dannon Natural, plain yogurt—no fruit. I can’t find those little containers anywhere here.

I spotted it first below a collapsed fish trap. I raised my head to see who was closest, and I got Marty’s attention. “Turtle!” I said, and pointed downward. She glided over to where I was and we both put our faces back down into the warm water and watched the sea turtle swim out from under the trap only to hide in a crevice beneath a rock.

This was my sixth snorkeling foray that week, and the second that day. I had heard from Jim how much Marty and Henry loved to snorkel, and I remembered with some trepidation my only attempt at it on the cruise we took in 2000. We were on an excursion from St. Thomas to Trunk Bay on St. John, a truly beautiful beach. I was ready to try snorkeling, I really was. But then there were all these cautions—“Don’t touch the yellow discolorations on the rocks…..once you’re out there, don’t stand up….”. And I was required to wear a flotation device which didn’t seem to want to inflate properly. I had my own snorkel and mask, but didn’t really know how to use them, and I paid to rent some ill-fitting fins, which I had trouble getting on my feet. I finally gave up and told my companions to go on. I stayed near the shore and just enjoyed splashing around in the water, wondering what I was missing. Well, now I know.

Marty is Jim’s sister, and she and her husband Henry live in southwest France. Jim and I visited them there in October of 2001 (don’t bother searching the archives for an account of the trip---this blog didn’t begin until March of 2002). In France they live in a 200 year old stone cottage heated only by a wood-burning stove, so in the winter they go to Martinique. Henry is a retired farmer from California, and Marty has a PHD in Sociology, but her real talent is for writing romance novels. She hasn’t been published yet, but I’m sure that once the first novel is published she’ll have no trouble selling whatever she submits. I have had the privilege of reading two of Marty’s manuscripts and a few chapters of the book she is working on now.

I was determined that I was not going to chicken out at snorkeling like I did on my first attempt. The three-bedroom gite that Marty and Henry rent every year has an above-ground swimming pool. The day we arrived, I had time to practice in the pool. Breathing with one’s face in the water is really an unnatural act, and it takes a little while to get used to. That practice session really helped, as did the planter’s punch Henry served, because the next day when we went snorkeling for real I was able to keep up with everyone else, and a whole new world was open for me to see.

It sure seems cold here after spending a week in Martinique where the temperature never drops below 65. And what's that white stuff on the ground here?

So, where, at my mature age, do these maternal feelings come from? Ben mentioned that his pants were torn and had some holes, and I immediately took him out and bought him a pair of shoes, two pair of jeans, and a pair of dress pants. Because he is an "almost" adult, he is now wondering how to pay me back out of his meager part-time paycheck. I told him not to worry. That's why he gives us a set amount each week, so when he needs something it won't be a hardship for us to provide it.

I really like having Ben here. I was sort of cheated out of enjoying the fruits of my labors with Will, since he decided at a very young age that he had to "get on with his life", so he dropped out of school, got a job, and lived on his own. By the time he realized he needed to be responsible in order to get along in the world, he was being responsible for someone else. That's ok. I'll get it back from him later. When I'm 95, I'll probably make his life hell. He'll never know where I am, because I'll forget to tell him I decided to go somewhere for the day. I won't answer my phone if I don't feel like talking to anybody and he'll think I've fallen and I can't get up. Of course, by that time I'll probably be having my great-grandchildren living with me.

Two Things That Weren't My Fault (entirely)

Sunday Chuck and I sang in a Lutheran Choir of Chicago concert in Crystal Lake, IL. It was a really good program which included some spirituals, some Baroque music and some more modern things. A good portion of the program was music we were familiar with, but there were a few new things. But of all the things we could worry about, our signature song, Beautiful Savior arranged by F. Melius Christiansen, was the last thing anyone would think could go wrong. But it did. Embarassingly so. I was afraid it was my fault, because this is my first concert singing first soprano instead of second. When I heard the pitch, I tried to find my beginning note and failed miserably. Unfortunately, so did the rest of the first sopranos. We were at a loss for almost the entire first page of the piece. This is a song we know well, and have done at almost every concert for the 55 plus years we have been in existance. After the concert, as we were changing out of our choir robes, our director asked all the first sopranos to raise their hands. I thought, we're in for it now. Then he said, "It wasn't your fault. We were given the wrong starting pitch."

The other thing was at work today. I'm still being trained for my job, and don't really know enough about it to recognize a wrong instruction. It's just lucky I had to ask a question about something, or Sheila would never have realized that what she told me originally was wrong. I spent the whole day going over and correcting work I had done on Friday. But I think I'll always remember which figure to use in this particular computation.

Well, my company, at least my part of the company, is up and running on the new system. It was pretty smooth, compared with some conversions I've been through. The major problem was that nobody could print anything at first on Monday morning, but that was sorted out by the afternoon. Other sections of the company are due to convert to this system in August. There will probably be a major reorganization then because instead of being several small companies dealing with the same customers separately, we will be one big happy family.

As a result of the conversion Frank was permanently laid off. His job became, as the British say, "redundant". His main duty had been to print and distribute large reports. With the new system, everyone will be doing their own reports at their own location. I'll miss him, even though I didn't usually have much contact with him. He was kind of a gloomy guy, and I used to tease him by calling him "Mr. Sunshine". Before she died, Frank's wife worked in the same beauty shop I go to, and Julie, my beauty operator, says that Pam taught her a lot of what she knows about doing hair. Frank will be ok, though. He still has money from a large settlement he got when Pam was hit by a car. She did recover from the injuries she received in that accident, but later succumbed to cancer.

Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. ----Albert Einstien

No matter how many times we watch it, the result will be the same.