I have evolved to the Blanche DuBois stage of my life.
Not the descent into madness that only a Tennessee Williams character can experience. But the part where I rely upon the kindness of strangers.
But, in my case, friends.
Since I broke my ankle, every day tasks take on a patina of difficulty. In some cases, impossibility.
Simple jobs like cooking or bathing take more timing and balance than a Cirque du Soleil silks act. But they can be done.
Some, can't.
Because I cannot get my clothes to my laundress, my maid, Dora, has been washing my clothes and hanging them to dry. She is here only one day a week. The clothes are hung on Friday. Even though they are dry by the afternoon, I have had trouble figuring out how to drag a basket out to the line, unpin the clothes, fold them, and get them back in the house.
And that was my problem this week. On Sunday afternoon, I had given up. I was going to wait until Dora returned this coming Friday.
On Sunday evening, I decided to take a photograph in the front court yard. When I opened my door, my clothes were sitting, neatly folded, in a laundry basket. Topped with a green Easter egg.
You already know I raised in a household where there was no Easter Bunny. And I knew immediately who my secret benefactor was: my land lady.
I have long styled myself as a rugged individualist. Probably why I call myself a libertarian.
But this injury has taught me a bit of humility. To recognize my limitations, and to be thankful for the friends in my life.
Grace note: When I opened the door, the first thing I noticed was a fledgling weaver finch cowering in the corner behind the basket. When I moved, it flew to the top of the basket -- right next to the Easter egg. One of those moments, I wish I had a camera with me. For a moment, I thought my land lady was St Francis -- in addition to being Florence Nightingale.
Not the descent into madness that only a Tennessee Williams character can experience. But the part where I rely upon the kindness of strangers.
But, in my case, friends.
Since I broke my ankle, every day tasks take on a patina of difficulty. In some cases, impossibility.
Simple jobs like cooking or bathing take more timing and balance than a Cirque du Soleil silks act. But they can be done.
Some, can't.
Because I cannot get my clothes to my laundress, my maid, Dora, has been washing my clothes and hanging them to dry. She is here only one day a week. The clothes are hung on Friday. Even though they are dry by the afternoon, I have had trouble figuring out how to drag a basket out to the line, unpin the clothes, fold them, and get them back in the house.
And that was my problem this week. On Sunday afternoon, I had given up. I was going to wait until Dora returned this coming Friday.
On Sunday evening, I decided to take a photograph in the front court yard. When I opened my door, my clothes were sitting, neatly folded, in a laundry basket. Topped with a green Easter egg.
You already know I raised in a household where there was no Easter Bunny. And I knew immediately who my secret benefactor was: my land lady.
I have long styled myself as a rugged individualist. Probably why I call myself a libertarian.
But this injury has taught me a bit of humility. To recognize my limitations, and to be thankful for the friends in my life.
Grace note: When I opened the door, the first thing I noticed was a fledgling weaver finch cowering in the corner behind the basket. When I moved, it flew to the top of the basket -- right next to the Easter egg. One of those moments, I wish I had a camera with me. For a moment, I thought my land lady was St Francis -- in addition to being Florence Nightingale.
