Logistics

Not much happening at work, just Pegi and me, and she's gone a lot. I clean up the kitchen, from the docent lunch, then move on to the bathrooms, mop the back hallway. Finals (2) weeks at the college, and I give several students tutorials on various Carter paintings. One young lady is fetching, in her skinny jeans and cropped top, and she's bright, asked several questions that required complex answers. She asked me how I knew a certain thing, about the summer of 1943, and I take her to Sara's office and show her the volumes of letters, and photographs, newspaper clippings, and record books. 1943, I show her, Carter was at Chautauqua, finishing work on "Let Us Give Thanks" so it could be in the Carnegie show that fall. I know about the cabin they were living in, I what were Mary's concerns. For some of the days that summer, that he was Painter In Residence, I know what they had for dinner. Almost closing time, I took a couple of platters back over to the pub (they catered the docent briefing), and the owner wants me to sample a new beer, I'm talking an ounce here, which she hands me in a coffee cup; a lemony thing, "Summer Shanty", and it's nice, in a summery way. On the ridge I see that B is working on his garden fence, so I stop at the top of the hill and walk over, to tell him Howard is bringing a loin, and wondering how many people we might be feeding. We draw the line at ten, agree to meet and discuss the menu. To feed ten people well is not an easy task. I have no doubt that B and I can do it, we cooked for seventy, once, at Howard's 70th birthday as it happens; but everyone else did everything else, brought the potato salad, made the coleslaw, even just opened that can of Medium Black Olives. Some gherkins, a piece of double cheddar, some medium pitted black olives, would be a good lunch, with a smile and a cup of espresso. I start a list. When you live 17 miles from the store, a list becomes very important. Especially because this is a big fucking deal for Howard, the French rights to a book, people flying over to film him; and the same people are making a movie of his masterful novella "The Man Who Walked To The Moon", one of my favorite books in the language. But, slash, And, my dearest friend, Glenn, could well be here the weekend before and we're considering another film also, a low-key study of the art of docenting, wherein we might look closely at a particular flower, a particular painting, or the way drainage affects the driveway. So there's much to think about. And I need to clean the house, a bit, at least, and muck out the outhouse, because I'm not used to this much traffic. When we did "Emily" Linda stayed in town, at Sara and Clay's apartment, and TR had his own place, so the burden was light. A great full moon, though I'd hardly call it pink, and those god-damn Whip-O-Wills make sleep almost impossible. B mentioned, reiterated, something: we were standing outside his cabin, and he noted (it had been much on mind) they we both preferred to be left completely alone. Not quite true, because I look forward to Glenn, and it'll be fun to feed some Frenchmen, and it's just a few days, in the course of a year. The conversation will be top-notch; which, therein, is the rub. Smacks me as elitist, but I'd rather not talk at all if I can't have an intelligent conversation. Definitely not pink, I'd call it a bright yellow white. What? Oh, right, I'd rather be left alone than to have to make small talk about how your dog likes to ride in the car with his head out the window, or wether or not the Red Sox can make the world series. Spare me. I hadn't wanted to get into this, I tend to avoid issues, but there are two worlds, at least: in one of them you toe the corporate line, and in the other you don't. Wrap in my tangled blanket and take it home.