Stimulating Saturday

          I was mad at John last night. We’d planned to go see Deborah’s artwork in Fredericksburg and he wanted to go late in the day.  When I suggested we go earlier, he said I had a bee in my bonnet. First of all, I don’t own a bonnet but I do think I should get myself a cowgirl hat pretty soon because my poor old Laker hat is looking awfully worn. Second, there are no bees this time of year. There was a fly in the kitchen yesterday but I killed it with the neon green swatter Diane Bopp gave all the members of our yoga class, about five years ago.

          So I just ignored him, last night.  I watched a little basketball in the bedroom and “Chopped” the show I’ve become addicted to: four chefs are given baskets with four totally un-related ingredients and must cook an appetizer; the worst one is eliminated and the next three must prepare an entrée with a new basket of weird foods; the last round,  dessert has only two and they dash about frantically to get their preparations done in time.  I’ve watched so many episodes lately, that when I eat my own concoctions I turn into the three judges: the woman with sleepy eyes, who looks likes she’s about to eat the chefs; the other woman with a girlish look but cutthroat comments, and the jovial Latino man who is extremely discerning.   After my shows were over, I went to sleep. No reading.

          This morning I got up before John and had a pretty pleasant walk with Walter; we didn’t encounter any other creatures, except for a man in a golf cart looking for his two missing little dogs who ran away last night. Walter was friendly, let his head be petted.

          When John came into the kitchen in the morning, I left to check emails.  When he’d gotten his breakfast and taken it into his office, I got my breakfast, then washed my hair.  Now that I was clean I was ready to communicate with him. I called his business line.

          “I’m going to go to Market Days,” I said, “Would you like to go with me.?”

          “I’m just about to jump in the shower,” he said.

          “Then how about in an hour?”

          “Ok.”

          Sometimes I feel like a little girl with my disapproving father, when I go out with John.  The Lincoln has a lot to do with it. A lot different than how I felt driving in the 1968 Caddie with the top down! And different than the shiny black Taurus with spotless red interior, the first years we were together - all those romantic business trips. My favorite was the red F-150 truck. It was pretty, but masculine. When I sat next to him it felt like we were on a living room sofa, gliding along above the road . . . but again, I digress!

          We ended up having a pleasant day. The low angle of the sun cast lovely long shadows. It was cool in the shade but toasty in the sun. I chatted with many vendors at Market Days, which is held monthly, except January and February, on the courthouse grounds. I came home with half-a-dozen business cards.  We ate a big old brisket sandwich (cold bun! why they don’t keep some in with the warm meat, I don’t understand).  I was happy to meet a  woman who volunteers to trap feral cats and get them spade.  By the time we left, music was playing, but we were on our way to Fredericksburg and couldn’t stay.

          By now John had become more talkative and more fun to be around. The drive to Fredericksburg was calming, as always. The wild grasses have turned beige, and parts looked like the Saranghetti. But mostly it was just relaxing - wide vistas of rolling hills.

          Fredericksburg was teeming with shoppers. Four-lane

Main Street

is crammed with little shops and restaurants. I was reminded of the stream of tourists in Las Vegas crowding the Strip. I had the same reaction here as I did there: no desire to join them. Luckily, Deborah’s art was far down the main drag where things opened up and there were trees and less people.

          The gallery is a separate building that is usually used for catering events.  I loved being there!  There were four women artists, three local and one who travels the world. Deborah’s work was my favorite. The others were wonderful and I was appreciative of their skill and liked much of the subject matter, but I didn’t have the same emotional reaction to their work. Deborah’s paintings are alive.

          It was invigorating to be around so much beauty – the paintings, the sculptures – all those colors and textures; and the women themselves.  It was inspiring to be around such prolific, creative women! Plus, two of them were tall and Deborah’s husband is tall and I realize how much I love to be around tall people. John says it’s because of my father, who was 6’3” most of his life. Maybe that’s part of it, but tall people are just so much more elegant, than us average height humans.

          Of course we didn’t buy any of the art. We’re starving artists, ourselves, in a way: I, the poet; John the speaker wizard.  But it’s ok. I feel like the homeless person who sleeps on the beach, under the stars, appreciating the salt water scent and sound of the waves more than the “successful” people, locked in their houses with the windows closed.