I found Dud frozen in his living room the other day. No, not physically frozen to death, even though the outside temps were in the minus digits. He was just staring into space, a glassy look on his face. When I asked what he was doing, he said: “Waiting.” “Waiting for what?” I asked. “Anything; something; I don’t really know. Just waiting.” And I had to admit I understood his meaning.
It is an odd thing, but having recently moved from our home town to a new environment entirely, we seem to be in a constant state of waiting for the next thing to come along. Now, these are usually good things: A birthday party; a dinner planned for weeks; a visit to a nearby town for a meeting with loved-ones from far enough away that a “meeting place” between becomes practical; doctor’s appointments or tests; etc. There seems never to be a time when there isn’t something coming up that will require attention. And in new surroundings, a new town and new State, there is much more of the air of adventure involved than would ever be involved in the old familiar stomping grounds.
Even as I write this, I’m waiting to hear about the fate of my old pile of Jeep as it sits in a garage waiting to be checked. It didn’t start again last night, necessitating another call to Triple A. Then a call to my son to beg a ride home while I wait to hear the news. This is the same car, you’ll understand, that wouldn’t start in December and had a new starter put in as a result. And it didn’t start again about 2-or-3 weeks ago. That time the tow-driver did me the favor of playing around until he got it to start, so that the garage mechanic couldn’t trace the problem in a car the started fine. Finally, this time I threatened tantrum and even bodily harm if the tow-truck driver tried to “fix” anything before the garage looked at it. All I have to do now is wait for them to call.
And through all of this I am waiting to find out how recent efforts to re-organize new living arrangements and pay down some bills will effect my plans for summer visits and (hopefully) arrange a Kflembeauski Tournament this year. (For those who don’t know, that tournament is a golf outing I invented years ago to get my family – the Katarzynskis, Beaumonts and Flemings – together for a day of golf and dinner and general fun when they are scattered farther afield each year. It works some years because time off works out, and sadly not other years because of outside obligations.) Waiting to find out if the tourney will happen is the biggest nail-biter of the current year, since it’s been FOUR years since we competed. Grandson Cory won that one, and currently still possesses the coveted Kflembeauski Cup – a used ice cream bowl that I bought in Waterford, Pa. so it could be called Waterford crystal.
Finally, those of you silly enough to anticipate and even (dare I say it) wait for my next posting, have done me the great honor of waiting for this little message. For that I thank you, and if you haven’t really been “waiting” as such please let me go on thinking you might.