Gary and Elle spent most of Saturday in our drawing room coming to grips with the manual for a fireplace of which we had, practically on a whim, relieved the hardware store the day before, a prelude to the snowstorm we were assured would descend upon us on Sunday.
Their application allowed us to keep an appointment with the aarp experts providing a free tax preparation service two streets away; not that being at home would have enabled us to contribute much to their labors.
Then, in the afternoon, when the assembly was complete came the long, patient dialogue about re-arranging the furniture, the better to receive the benefit of flames now flickering from the cabinet housing the Visio TV.
Gary and Elle, remember, were the neighbors who drove us to Phoenix for my heart operation and housed Janice at their son’s place for a week while the surgeons performed their sleight of hand.
And yesterday, still awaiting the snow, we were at their place, along with neighbors Corky and Mal, to share Indonesian cooking which, strangely enough, they hadn’t undertaken since four years ago, when we were all in Phoenix for the operation!
The easy interaction, the almost family closeness, might lead you to think we were living in a climate of advanced tranquility.
Except that in Phoenix the legislators are putting their heads — if not their minds — together, to fashion legislation anointing Samuel Colt’s revolver as something they call a State Gun. This is the memorial the Republicans in Arizona want to set up about the shooting, and death of six, in Tucson, the other day.
