Category: LIFE

The Sage Pointe Nine – Too Many Toys for the Toybox

A Lesson on Gluttony.

Previously, I wrote about the Weede family and their fusty skunk hijinx, and that story kept on expanding over time, not only with the odors, but with their possessions, too.

To recap:  In one apartment lived the matronly mother and one of her grown sons.  Directly across the hall lived her daughter, her husband, and their passel of kids.  Then one hot mid-summer day, the Weede family expanded their population in the Sage Pointe complex with the matron’s other son, his girlfriend, and their baby who all moved in with her.  That made a total of nine Weedes in two apartments: five people in Mamma Weede’s place, and four in the other.

One of the messes in the common areas that pointed to the Weede family was the indoor pool area.  It became messier with a sickening overload of beach balls, floats, and tiny plastic toys sitting at the bottom of the pool that they left, as if the pool area was theirs alone.  They wouldn’t clean up their possessions.  Instead, they left their things for other residents to trip over.  Moreover, that family complained a lot when the pool was in repair.  La-di-da.  It even got to a point that they left their pool toys all over the common property, and one beach ball made it to the pond area, and it’s been sitting there for months upon months.  There it is in the lower portion of this photograph, in all its pink and white glory:

In the end, the Weedes’ presence swelled with their toys, tricycles, sand shovels, dolls, and baseball bats that hung like spores in the common areas, tucked around the buildings, in the grass, and by the pool.  They were a reminder that some households don’t just live in a building; they colonize it and make it unpleasant for the other owners who respect neighbors.  Yet, at Sage Pointe, the Weedes were not merely neighbors.  They were an atmosphere of eccentric proportions that took over and conquered.

It’s something to behold when people have so many possessions that they don’t miss them when they are scattered hither and yon.  That’s the clue when gluttony becomes the norm.

 

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The Sage Pointe Nine.

Previously, I wrote about the Weede family and their fusty skunk hijinx, and the story kept on expanding over time.

To recap:  In one apartment lived the matronly mother and one of her grown sons.  Across the hall lived her daughter, her husband, and their two kids.  Then one summer, the Weede family expanded their population in the Sage Pointe complex with the matron’s other son, his girlfriend, and their baby who all moved in with her.  That made a total of nine Weedes in two apartments: five people in Mamma Weede’s place, and four in the other.

With this addition came much more garbage in the dumpster.  Almost overnight, the garbage dumpster was overflowing only a couple of days after the garbage was picked up.  It was hard to say if it was only because of the three-person increase overnight in the building’s population, or not.  Some of the garbage dumped pointed to other people, so it probably was a combination of more people in the building and those other residents who were getting ready to move out (and that’s another story),

But what did point to the Weede family was the indoor pool area.  It got messier and messier with a sickening overload of beach balls, floats, and tiny plastic toys sitting at the bottom of the pool that they left, as if the pool area was theirs alone.  They wouldn’t clean up their possessions, but rather, they left their things for other residents to trip over, and they complained a lot if the pool was in repair.  La-di-da.  It even got to a point that they left their pool toys all over the common property, and one beach ball made it to the pond area:

Although their contributions to the marijuana stench in the building decreased for a while, it eventually returned.  The entire floor in the hallway was an aromatic offering that ranged from “forest‑floor funk” to “burnt tire with herbal aspirations.”  They left the elevator lingering with the aroma of greasy chicken and the tang of old tacos.  Their front doors were like portals to a different dimension, one where the ventilation systems and their filters went to die and rot.

In the end, the Weede clan became less a family and more a weather system that rolled in without warning, reshaped the landscape, and left its own peculiar sediment behind.  Their presence swelled and receded, their odors rose and fell, their toys multiplied like spores in the humid air of the indoor pool.  The areas outside their storerooms got to a point that they looked like a flea market with all the junk, furniture, and other assorted garbage left out.   And though their skunky fog ebbed for a hot minute, it always found its way back, drifting through vents and lingering in the hallways like a reminder that some households don’t just live in a building; they colonize it and make it bad for the other owners who respect neighbors.  Yet, at Sage Pointe, the Weedes were not merely neighbors.  They were an atmosphere of eccentric proportions that took over and conquered.

 

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An Evening Meant for Peaceful Elegance.

A Lesson in Civility.

Last Saturday morning, the air was warm and fresh as it came through the open windows where a bird sang his morning greeting in the oak tree just outside the windows.  I headed downstairs to the kitchen for a cup of hot coffee.  After pouring my cup and taking a sip, I turned to look out the window at the burgeoning dawn.  The sky, while it mostly was a pale robin’s egg blue, it was the ribbon of yellows and oranges that caught my eye, but it did not last.  Within the minute, it disappeared while the sun rose above the horizon.  Poof!

Later that afternoon, Best Friend suggested we treat ourselves to a nice dinner out at a place with comfortable booths, and I agreed at once.  I recommended a refined restaurant on the outskirts of town, the kind we visit only on special occasions.  He made an 8 PM reservation, and once our usual Saturday chores were behind us, we dressed for the night.

He wore a dark suit with French cuffs and his best cuff links.  I chose an all‑black dress and carried a silver clutch.  The drive was easy, traffic was moderate, and the sky above us glittered with stars, a first‑quarter moon, and a few wisps of clouds drifting lazily across the darkness.

We were seated at our usual quiet corner table overlooking the river, which is a view that never disappoints us.  One of the things I like about this restaurant is the seating, with its high backed booths that make lingering over a meal feel luxurious.  I’ve even joked that they’d make a fine addition to our own dining room, if we were to ever change the décor.

We ordered cabernet sauvignon and a small appetizer of prosciutto-wrapped asparagus while we waited for our main entrée of rib eye with twice baked potatoes.  Our table felt like a small island of refinement amid the evening bustle.  A crisp black linen tablecloth draped gracefully, its smooth surface catching the soft flicker of the white candles set between us.  Their warm glow cast gentle halos across the glassware, making the cabernet shimmer like garnet.  Overhead, crystal chandeliers floated like luminous constellations, scattering delicate prisms that danced across the high‑backed booth.  The whole setting created a cocoon of quiet luxury and an atmosphere meant for savoring, lingering, and speaking in low, contented tones.

We settled into light conversation until a pair of women burst in with a gust of noise and bravado.  They spotted friends at the bar, and from that moment on, the restaurant’s atmosphere shifted.  Their loud chatter and laughter dominated the room, making it difficult for anyone else to enjoy their own conversations at their private tables.

Nights like this remind me how delicate civility can be and how quickly it can be undone by those who mistake volume for presence and carelessness for authenticity.  A beautiful setting, a fine meal, a shared moment of peace: all of it deserves a measure of respect.  When people abandon that, they don’t just disturb the room; they diminish the experience for everyone around them. And perhaps that’s the real loss, not the noise itself, but the growing sense that grace, courtesy, and simple self‑awareness are becoming rarer than a quiet table by the river. Nevertheless, we enjoyed our meal and our time together.

 

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Hot Tea and Buttered Bread.

A Lesson in Appreciation.

As I stepped onto my terrace and looked across the meadow this morning, a small breeze brought a reminder that was a chill in the air, and 74 degrees Fahrenheit is a chill when the daytime air temperatures have been in the upper 90s!  Last night, a bit of a cold front passed through, along with a heavy thunderstorm, as it sometimes does here.  Now, this morning, I inhaled the fresh air and watched as the rising sun brought the dew on the grass to sparkle and glisten.  The colors of the new sunrise shifted from a pink-apricot sky and settled into a mundane blue grey.  The clouds were just as grey, too.  I wouldn’t be surprised if it rains again later this day.  In the distance, a flock of birds chirped away.  A fresh new day is upon us!

Here we are, mid-summer.  The days are warm, the thunderstorms are strong, and every day is fresh with new life.  I took note that the trees are fully leafed out and green in their full summer regalia.  Even the fields are inviting.  I went back inside just as the breeze kicked up again.

Oh!  There it is!  The timer just went off on the stove.  You see, the bread I’m baking this morning is done.  It’s a pan de mie with oats.  It is a French sandwich bread with a tender crumb and baked in a Pullman load pan.  It’s among the best breads I bake.

It’s now time to bring out the butter and a hot cup of Earl Grey breakfast tea to get my day started!

What is familiar in my world is comfort, just as the changing seasons, jazz, and a slice of hot buttered bread and hot tea are.

 

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Dead Man Dripping.

A Lesson in New Décor, a Bath, Dying, Waterfalls, and Horror.

When I lived at Whispering Oaks Condominiums many years ago, I had a cute place on the first floor.  It had two balconies, a galley kitchen, two bedrooms, two baths, and a combination dining room-living room.  It was small, decorating was easy, and I made it cozy.  All was serene until one Saturday night when the water came down in glistening sheets along the living room wall.  It came not from the condominium above, but from the condominium above that on the top floor.  The water continued flowing down to the garden condominium, below mine.

The owner was at work that evening, since he worked nearby at Marshall Field & Company department store, and he worked a late shift that evening.

Why the water was coming from that unit on the top floor, was anyone’s guess at that point.  That is, until the firemen reached the top-floor unit and found the door locked tight.  It was an ominous quiet, broken only by the sound of relentless water streaming from beneath the doorframe. With a sharp crack, they forced their way in, only to be greeted by the surreal sight of the overflowing bathtub, its porcelain edges barely visible under the torrent.  The man, naked, pale, and motionless, lay slumped against the tub’s curved back, his arm draped on the side of the tub, and a twisted grimace frozen on his lifeless face.  The scene was both tragic and bizarre, a moment frozen in time, where the quiet intimacy of a bath had turned into a macabre tableau.

The body in the bathtub was an older man, the roommate of the owner.  He evidently was drawing his bath while he sat inside the tub, died at some point, and the water kept pouring and pouring from the faucet and over the sides of the tub, throughout that unit and down to the three units below.

When all was said and done, the amount of drywall and painting repairs was enormous for all four condominium units, but insurance helped.  Repair crews swarmed the building in the weeks that followed, wielding industrial dehumidifiers and cutting through warped drywall.  The affected residents exchanged tired smiles in the lobby and hallways, commiserating over the shared ordeal.  The owner of the unit, still reeling from the news of his roommate’s passing, tried to reconcile his grief with the practical nightmare of insurance claims and restoration costs.  Each floor of the building bore its own unique scars from the incident of a soggy imprint of a life, and death, left behind.

Several months after Joe’s live-in boyfriend, Guiseppe, died in the bathtub, another waterfall occurred.  Joe scheduled carpetlayers to remove his old carpeting and install fresh wall-to-wall shag carpeting.  The residents in the general area heard the soft tapping of hammers and thought little of the work being done.  But soon after they saw it.

Water was once again running down their living room walls.  The wall was glistening with the water dripping and flowing down.

Once more, the residents living below Joe ran upstairs to see if it was his crew that caused a small waterfall.  And sure enough, it was.  The carpet layers hit a water pipe in the floor when they were reinstalling new carpet tack along some of the walls.  A hole in the pipe was punctured, and voilà!  The waterfall.

Once again, his insurance had to pay for drywall and painting repairs in the three condominiums units below him that were affected.

 

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Who Will Sit at My Table?

A Lesson in Lust and Trickery.

I’m just going to mention this now and then let it go, for it is a lesson for me for the future.  Over time, I’ve taken more discernment with people with whom I choose to surround myself.  Yet, every now and then I slipped in my judgement of who I let sit at my table, so to speak.

Oh, yes, I’ve let the wrong people into my life.  And sometimes I very imprudently let them overstay their welcome.

And for what?

Many times it was to make that other person feel good.  Well, I foolishly thought, I don’t want them to feel bad that they aren’t welcomed here, in my life.  These were people that liked me, but I knew deep down they were not the types of people I should have allowed in; they were the opposite of my own sensible values.

How stupid of me.

There are many examples I could give you, but I’ll give the most recent example of a luncheon I hosted.  I invited two people.  One of those people asked me if his current “love of his life” could come, too.  I thought about it for a bit, then assented.  All I knew about her was that she had a bunch of kids.

Okay.

Later I found out that she was married.  Still is, as far as I know.  That horrified me.  It angered my best friend.  I deeply regret allowing her to come into my home under that situation, being married to someone else.  Now, it should be no surprise to you that she is not welcomed in our home ever again.

If I would have known that she was still married, I would have replied, “Sure, she can come if she brings her husband.”

Oh, well.  Twenty-twenty hindsight, you know.

This is just one of many lousy choices I’ve made with allowing the wrong people to be around me.  Do I regret those poor choices I’ve made?  Of course I do; and who doesn’t?  Anyone who says that they don’t regret their poor choices is a fool, and a bigger fool if you don’t learn by it.  Yes, I learned a good lesson, which is to learn from those mistakes and not rush in making a decision on who belongs at the table.  Be astute.  Be guarded.

Here’s to a great rest of this year with whomever you and I decide to sit at our tables in the future.

And now, I put that person out of my mind, banished for all time.  Ciao!

 

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The Flashing Enigma.

A Lesson in Rubbish.

Back in the spring, for seven relentless days and nights, a strange light pulsed from deep inside a solitary garbage bag in the apartment house dumpster.  Two months on, I can almost imagine it is still flashing in a landfill:

 

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Happy 250th!

Driving around town whilst taking care of errands, I waited for the red light to change.  The sun was out, the weather was pleasant, and traffic was light.  I looked to my right, and saw this interesting sight:

The New Liberty.

I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about the United States and how much it’s changed.  It’s no longer a young, beautiful woman personified as Liberty, but an old guy in a wheelchair.  Little promise of a good life, but one that necessitates taking on a crushing job with little promise of advancement.  Maybe I think too much.

The light changed, and I drove off, leaving Mister Liberty to his corner.

Happy 250th!

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Twinkie’s Temper Tremors.

A Lesson in Anger and Envy.

Twinkie Terwilliger had all the charisma of a dirty wet dishrag.  He took offense at anything that didn’t cater to his inflated sense of self-worth.  The moment someone failed to shower him with praise, acknowledge his so-called brilliance, or metaphorically place a sparkly golden trophy in his hand for simply being present, the subsequent scene was inevitable.  He couldn’t stand other people holding the limelight or doing something better than he, and his envy got the better of him.  His fragile-as-glass ego shattered into a million pieces, and therein the theatrics began.

His eyes bulged as if they might pop from their sockets, his face flushed a shade of deep red.  His entire body tremblef uncontrollably, reminiscent of someone in the throes of psychogenic tremors.  To the untrained eye, it might have looked like a medical emergency, but those who knew him understood that it was just another of Twink’s infamous tantrums.

As his voice rose, so did the drama around him.  He just had to be always be right, no matter the subject.  Everyone else was wrong in his mind.  He jabbed a trembling finger toward his supposed offenders, the veins in his neck strained with every shouted word, his bald head turned a bright beet red.  “There you go again!” he bellowed, and his voice cracked as if rehearsing for a poorly performed stage play in the junior high thespian club.  The words echoed sharply and accusatory, and it left his targets unsure whether to laugh, apologize, or simply walk away.

At workplace meetings, his fellow meeting-goers were drawn in by the commotion.  Their expressions were a mix of disbelief and thinly veiled amusement, and many were unable to suppress a smirk or guffaw.  Yes, they had seen this performance before, yet it still left them to marvel at the sheer cheekiness of it all.  Moreover, there was a certain dark humor to watch a grown man who’s sixty years old throw a tantrum that rivaled any spoiled toddler in a toy aisle.  Not a meeting went by where he didn’t scream and shout at perceived insults to him.  He also invariably imagined that he was insulted at every turn, for he had a serious paranoia problem.

When he was back in the neighborhood throwing tantrums, he had a personal crusader.  His father, whom everyone called “Papó,” inevitably stepped forward to be Twink’s personal crusader.  He completed the absurd tableau.  Papó nodded solemnly and would then puff out his chest past his beer belly.  His face wore a forced mask of indignation on behalf of his son.  “He’s just passionate,” Papó explained to the gathering, as though this outburst were some misunderstood acts of controlled brilliance.  He, defending his sixty-year-old child as if he were still a little boy on the playground, being teased for wearing a pink elastic eyeglasses retainer on his head!

The crowd would disperse, with knowing glances exchanged and whispers passed among them.  Meanwhile, Twink stood tall once more and basked in his father’s validation, as if he’s won a moral victory that rivaled Napoleon.  The storm would subside, until the next perceived slight against him stirred it anew with his temper tremors.

 

 

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