Please Happy

Spent the day on the eastern shore at Grandpa Dwyer’s house on Memorial Day. We watched the osprey watching the fish, we followed the pairs of mallards. We watched the neighbor couple paddle their kayaks cutely by, and the other neighbor couple baton down the hatches of their sailboat when the wind picked up, when the sky went from light to deep grey.

We sat like that for ours, in the house, looking out the windows. And talked about Mom and Dad and marriage and relationships. And sex and partnership and money and getting old. We talked about Jesus and Mary and Catholicism and magazines. And Abortion and stem cell research and Notre Dame. And knee surgery. Grandpa just got home from knee replacement surgery. On both knees. Steri-strips taped to incisions on right and left, ice machine plugged into the wall, walker with tennis balls on two of the legs, wheels on the other. Grandpa, 84, would prefer to just start jumping immediately, so we have to remind him sometimes that the walker is necessary. Still, he walks fast, one bruised, skinny leg in front of the other, and never needs help.

Just before dinner, conversation had turned from serious and intense to light again, and we were ready for burgers and salad. Grandpa was about to hoist himself up onto the walker, and paused.

“I hope you know Lauren,” he said, me standing close just in case he needed help. “There isn’t anything you can do that will make me stop loving you.”

I didn’t know what to say except thank you. I love you, too.

“And you can talk to me about anything, I mean that,” he said. “I will listen and I’ll tell you what I think. … And I mean anything.”

Amazing.

Remind me to repeat this to my own children.

Visited Garrison’s Cyclery today, with my latte in one hand and clipless pedals in the other. I want to ride a bike, I told the desk guy. They don’t rent them there, but he called a competitor down the road who does. Impressive.

Turns out, the desk guy is Rob Garrison, as in, The Owner. Just opened the shop in February. Bold move during this economy in the small town of Centreville (near Wilmington, DE and Chadds Ford, PA). Said it’s going well.

Handed me a business card and told me to enjoy my rides while I’m in town.

Logo and contact info on one side, “Ditch The Keys” and business hours on the flip side. Love it. Inadvertent environmentalist.

Of course, not all cyclists are green. And bike commuters have many reasons for choosing two wheels instead of four. They save travel time (especially if car traffic sucks), get/stay fit, save money … and help reduce their carbon footprint.

As I got back in my car, still holding my latte and pedals, I thought about the shop. That a new, mainstream business printed cards that promote alternative transportation (yes, it’s the transportation they’re selling, but still) left quite an impression. I turned on the car, pulling past the shop to headed downtown. Next time, I decided, I’ll bike.

Garrison’s Cyclery: open every day but Monday. Ditch the Keys.

Another group email from my sister Anna, who lives as a dancer and creator in Brussels. She sent this to the family Sunday morning.

Hi My Loved ones,

This is dedicated to Dad, who passed on the Whaley Annoyance gene to his oldest (me).

While I’ve grown mildly tolerant of tapping on desks, windows and thighs, I can only last about a minute when it comes to straw-slurping, knuckle-cracking and loud-typing.

Apparently, if my siblings did anything to annoy me when we were young (including, but not limited to, telling a story too slowly, sniffling excessively or making any sort of repetitive sound), I would squeeze the offender’s wrist (hard), and say “Stop Doing That!” Mark and Anna claim I would turn red and shake while performing this punishment. But, I’m pretty sure that’s an exaggeration.

While on retreat with Zen master Thich Nhat Hanh last year, I could barely pay attention to the Dharma talk because of the throat-clearing, candy-unwrapping, neck-cracking, position-shifting (clothes-rustling) from the supposed mindful audience. If it wasn’t for my meditation practice, annoyance would consume me.

Being trapped for four hours in a drawing of an MRI machine with Chinese water torture-esque teddy bears = annoyance + primal fear. But, Mrs. Philips looks pretty docile. That’s because a. she has a teddy bear fetish, and her most erotic fantasy is being trapped in a world where teddy bears are repeatedly lowered onto her body and reeled back up. b. She’d do anything for a mustached man in a doctor costume. c. She hasn’t had a shower in weeks. The coffin-like tube is actually a washing machine. The teddy bears are thrown in for comfort during the spin cycle.

The comic comes from Married to the Sea, an ingenious Web site introduced to me by la bloggess, Rachel Stevens.

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Tetons zip below

bubbles rise past lime and ice,

green sword catches light.

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Sometimes ads just strike me. Sometimes awe-inspiring, sometimes nauseating. I hope it worked out for this lady (from her smile, I’m guessing it did. Or is she smiling at the Idea of Happiness?) Maybe instead of a personal ad, she should answer one for a surf workshop, a triathlon camp or a writer’s retreat. Oh wait, writers aren’t typically a happy bunch. Right. Yeah, instead of delving into the damp, drizzly November of her soul, she’s probably better off accessing happiness by entering her gender, her ideal mate’s gender and zip code.