Tuesday, April 18, 2006

muscles and names

What to do with grandmothers over the age of 65 who refuse to act as though they are grandmothers? I suppose that if I were to really check I would find that I act precisely like most American grandmothers do.
And yet, I feel a whole lot more like Marcy, the Sierra and Rockies peak bagger than I do like Paula Anderson, the lover of cats and grandchildren.

It took me all of 45 seconds to recall Paula's name, not an unusual state of affairs for my mind. If one is so confused as to not be able to remember names of folks one has known and appreciated for forty years, how does one travel in foreign countries? What kind of strange altered state of consciousness evolves to allow one to find one's way? Not that I have ever been very good at finding my way. Rather, I am almost always lost; one of the reasons I am so enthralled with the tall Aussie dude who always knows his way except, of course, when he is lost which does happen every now and again.

Mostly he is right on. He knows his way around the physical world. He not only knows where to walk; he knows how to wave a magical saw or plumbers tape to lure the physical world to respond to his wishes. He knows all the technical crap that I just don't have the time nor the inclination to learn.

Not to mention that I also don't have the physical prowess to make the physical world kneel to my command. I often forget just how powerful muscles are and why they are essential to make the world work.
Sometimes it is more than a bottle I need opened. Sometimes it is a refrigerator I need moved or a mattress flipped over or even a plant dug up and moved in the front garden.

Who can do that? The Australian not only can; he actually does those tasks that I find difficult, and he does them with a suggestion that they are really just trifling nuisances rather than major impediments to the functioning of the world.

I remember the day that my computer needed a connection to the 'nether' world of the net. The Aussie bloke went into his magical storeroom, exited with blue cable, attached that cable to the lines in his computer room on the other side of the house and ran cable along the ceilings of the downstairs rooms, drilled a hole in my floor, asked me exactly where I thought I wanted my computer to sit, and hooked the whole thing up to my happy lil Mac.
Without his prowess, I would be sitting on the floor besides his desk typing away on my laptop.

Could that be why he moved with such alacrity to install the cables to my office? Does he prefer his privacy? No, not my Aussie bloke. Not much!!