Titles, Inc.

Ah, Nature.

Our English guest expressed an interest in the Chicago Botanic Garden, and I was happy to take her there until I remembered I am supposed to stay off this foot.  (Darn.  Do I have to tell you?  The surface of our driveway is not level and my shoe caught in one of the cracks and stayed there as I continued to walk.  I caught my balance nicely, proudly, but after two days of pain I reluctantly visited the orthopedic doctor who confirmed there was a broken bone in there and prescribed wearing that rigid shoe and “stay off the foot” until it heals in six weeks.  I rejected the cane.)

We went anyway and to protect the foot, we opted for a ride in the open-sided tram which does a delightful tour of the gardens.  We caught the 3:15 ride which didn’t leave until one of the fellow passengers cell-phoned the office to alert them that we had been sitting, waiting, for 20 minutes.  We felt the chill of the afternoon as we sat trapped in our seats, the wind funneling between the trees at us.  I unzipped my jacket and wrapped it across me so I had two layers protecting my front - ah, the pleasure of large clothes.

The phone call quickly brought a woman who scurried into the driver’s seat and apologized.  A child had stepped off a moving tram.  She was hurt but not seriously injured.  So all the tram drivers rallied round.  “And her mother was right there with her, sitting right there next to her,” she said barely containing her outrage.  (I knew what she meant.  Christine and I later saw a child maybe 2 or 3 years old, toddling alone, and we hesitated, looking around until the mother who was engaged in chatting, noticed the child was not at her side and hurried to retrieve her.)

The ride was engaging. We glided slow motion as the driver told us exactly what we were looking at, every leaf, every tree, every flower.  When we passed the tumbling waterfall she said every garden should have water.  She asked for a show of hands, “Who has water in their garden?”   Nobody, of course.  She said, proudly, “I do.  I took a bowl, filled it with water, and set it in my garden.”  We tried to contain our snickering. Indeed, I have a bowl I try to keep filled for the birds and the squirrels.  The water is always muddy - from the squirrels washing their feet in it, I’m sure.  So I, too, have a water garden.

The tram completed its circle and deposited us to the same spot.

We slowly walked back, paying particular attention to the quadrant of the Heritage Garden that had been pointed out to us.  It is devoted to plants from around the world.  We were captivated by one shrub.  The slim branches were lined with multiples of tiny units, each of two teeny balls, but I can’t think of anything in a cylinder shape that small to compare it to, and between the two tiny cylinders projected a teeny stiff thread.  First we were caught by the miniaturization of the plants, and then we exploded in laughter.  I don’t remember which country sent us this sensual planting.  Christine took a picture.  Maybe the sign is included.

We crossed the wide planked bridge on our return to the car.  It is a wonderful bridge, side rails waist high, with overhead widespread rafters heavily covered with thick clusters of small pinkish chrysanthemums.  Along came the bride in her stunning wedding gown, her groom beside her, followed by three groomsmen in their formal attire, and the inevitable photographer completing the group.  The Botanic Garden has always had a bride being photographed every time I have visited, most popularly in the huge rose garden.  We, along with everyone on the bridge paused to watch.  (Where were the bridesmaids?)  The photographer placed them along the side with the expanse of water behind them and started shooting.

I gritted my teeth.  I said to Christine, “No matter where he stands, he has the bridge cable in the picture.”   After a few pictures, he moved them ahead of us to the other side of the bridge.  We walked on.  I couldn’t stand it.  I turned back, and said to him, “Watch out for the cables.”  He explained, in a foreign accent, that he was using the water for a background.  I pointed to the cable immediately behind the bride’s head.  “See?  The cable.  Watch out for the cable.  It looks like it’s coming out of her head.”  He looked.  He saw it.  “The cable!  Thank you, thank you.”

I said to Christine, “I had to do it.”

I haven’t lived among a bunch of photographers for nothing.

----Florence

Teething

Long ago I opened a recalcitrant bobby pin with my teeth.  (Bobby pin! That verifies how long ago this happened.)  It snapped off the bottom corner of a front tooth.  My smile now looked whimsical, cute, and I immediately went to my dentist to correct that false impression.  He bonded the tooth to make it whole again and it lasted until now.

I barely notice the tiny chip.  So I didn’t realize the chip was encroaching on the tooth.  One morning after brushing I looked in the mirror and by golly, I had a chipped tooth.  On closer scrutiny I saw that my all-day tea drinking had tinted the teeth variations of tea color.

These days you go to a dentist who practices Cosmetic Dentistry.  We discussed the problem: correct the chip and give me a uniform color.  I explained my anxiety.  I did not want the four front teeth to be a sparkling white with the glint shining off in a starburst like in the movies.  A pale ecru will be nice, I decided.  We talk price, and I scheduled myself for this beauty make over.

I was thrilled to see four front teeth intact and everything matching again. 

Shortly after my visit the bottom lip swelled, the side of my tongue was raw and the inside of my cheek was ripped up.  Never mind the pain, I looked like I was punched in the mouth.  The dentist was out of the office for two days.  When I saw him, he found nothing wrong with my bite.  I pointed to the corner of a tooth and said, “Grind this down.”  He obliged.  The raw mouth healed very quickly.

Happy with my teeth again, I admired them with closer inspection. Only now did I notice a thin white line down the edge of one tooth, a ridge across the middle of another, and a somewhat pebbled surface on all.

While I am pondering this, the bill comes.  Yikes!  I phone.  We had agreed on price, what is this?  This, is the price agreed upon X4.  He had quoted @ 1 tooth. 

OK fella, at that price I want movie star teeth.  I was reluctant to go back to him to have them perfected.   If he didn’t get it right in the first  place do I want his hands in my mouth again?  I’ll chance it.  I was back in his chair.

The white stripe?  Just the uncolored bonding material.  The horizontal stripe?  Just the lower half a little higher than the top.  The slight pebbling?  A little bonding smoothed over will make the surface slick again.  Yes.  So why didn’t you do all that in the first place? 

The bill?  We negotiated hard, and I got a little relief there too.

My smile now looks like a million bucks, as the saying goes.

Did I mention that the dentist is a drop-dead gorgeous hunk, with a smile a helluva lot prettier than mine?

Next time I’ll go to a dentist who looks more dentist-y.

----Florence

All Kinds of Customers

When he came into the shop, I greeted him with my usual, “Can I help you?”  I didn’t hear his answer so I went up to him.  He repeated, “Sure you can help me.  Are you a psychiatrist?”  “Close enough,” I told him, “I can tell you how to live your life, I’m good at that.  Even though nobody in my family listens to me.”  He says, “I can believe that.”  “OK,” I tell him, “You’re on your own.  I won’t help you now even if you beg.”  We continue intermittently at this level of abuse while he is looking at the books.  Both of us are enjoying the banter.

His cell phone rings, and after a few moments he moves away to the door.  When he comes back, I ask, “How come you are so sweet to her and so nasty to me?”  He says, “Because she just gave me a $10,000 order. I sent her a full box on spec and she bought it all.”  “That’ll do it,” I agreed.  “If you give me a $10,000 order I will be very sweet too.  It will be hard, but I would make the effort.”  I was dying to know what was in the box, but decided not to push it.

I didn’t recognize this man although he said he gets to town to visit family about once a year and always stops in.  He reminded me which books he bought on his last visit, and now I remember that this was our patter even a year ago.  Eventually he put his purchase on the desk.  It was a very handsome boxed two volume set of Dana’s Two Years Before the Mast.  As I pull out a sale slip to write it up, I murmur just loud enough for him to hear, “Hmm, he’s smarter than he looks.” 

He turns to Heidi back in the office, and in mock rage, says, “Did you hear what she said?  She’s a witch!”  I’m laughing, and Heidi is assuring him that I am really a very nice lady.  I put his book in a bag, and handing it to him, I say, demurely, “Thank you for coming in.”  He says, also very proper, “You’re welcome.”  

When he gets to the door, he turns and laughs, “I’ll see you next year!”

The next customer who came into the store does Spiritual Counseling.  I was very spiritual and polite and self-effacing. 

Boy, this is a hard job.  Look at all the roles I have to play.  It’s theatre and I love it.  Be myself?  Who’s myself? 

----Florence

An Art Fair Under the Blazing Sun

After walking 3 blocks from the car to the first of the art booths at the annual Art Festival  in Highland Park (IL) I suspected there would be no way I could cover every display on every street of this wide-spread feast of art as I had done every past year.

It was HOT.  Everyone had a water bottle or large cup of lemonade.  Yes, I would hold a lemonade too, and aimed for its traditional spot at the end of the first long block.  I walked slowly, looking at the displays along this side of the street. 

Stunning huge glass urns, stunning paintings, stunning jewelry.  It is a juried show and the entry fee is large assuring the most ambitious of works. 

Compelling artwork.  I turned into the display with the Second Place ribbon.  How can one be chosen above another?  This had dramatic women, ovals around ovals, long distorted fingers, strong on the geometric patterns.  The artist, Julio C Garcia, brought his canvasses from his studios in San Diego, CA and Orange Park, FL.

There were several jewelry booths.  I loved the one with heavy antique looking silver, some enhanced with colored stones.  Although I lingered, I could not have chosen a favorite from among the pins, pendants, rings.   Pam Fox said she doesn’t have a store, just a small website, she sells principally at shows.  She came from Sarasota, FL.

Another jewelry display stopped me with its garish colors.  But no, each piece by itself was sharply colorful; laid out together they were eye popping.  So much work on each piece.  He told me it was cloisonné and enameling, explaining that cloisonné was the wiring that separated the vitreous glass enamels.  They, Alexa and Peter Smarsh, also came from FL.  Key Largo.

Further along I was stopped by the playful banner announcing Vincent Van Gourd.  And indeed there was every form and shape of gourd disguised as something else.  I liked the very tall curved gourd musician playing his horn.

I hadn’t reached the lemonade stand yet, and sweat was running down my face.  I made discreet wipes with already saturated tissues, and plodded along. 

I was rewarded by a stand of paintings that had me laughing out loud as I looked and read the captions of one after the other.   The paintings, rather small in scale compared to the others I had just seen, had elegant figures in interesting situations.  These sharply dressed figures were animals in human stance, some mixed in with humans.  They were intriguing even before you read the words which were sometimes painted on the picture, sometimes on cards next to the painting.  The artist, Gene T. Brown from Urbandale, IA, told me his process is mixed media, and pointed out the paper collage that is so integrated that it is of one piece.  I can never remember jokes, so I wrote down one of the captions.  The painting is of two elegant men, really a fox and a rabbit, eating at a small well-set table.  Very handsome picture.  Here is the abridged caption: The hors d’oeuvres were perfect raw.  The Hare was sure the entrée would be to die for.  I laughed and laughed.  Or do you have to be a member of our Pun Club?  I asked whether everyone walked around his booth laughing out loud and he said No.  A lady walked into the booth and was seriously studying one, and I said, “Isn’t it marvelous?  And so cheap. It is only…” and here I stopped to look at the price, “…$500.”  I walked away before I was tempted to reach into my pocket for the $500 I did not have.

The lemonade stand at last.  Five young people working fast to service the waiting crowd.  Ice, sugar, lemon juice and a half of a squeezed lemon rind.  It was real lemon because I was spitting out pits all the way to the bottom of the cup.

I told myself to get back to the car, and returned on the opposite side of the street.  There I was impressed by huge paintings that had the main picture against a background of color that looked like pointillism, but on closer look were golf balls, buttons, clothes pins, paint brushes, dominos, coca cola bottle, belt buckles, all sorts of hardware.  Whatever you have in your junk drawer was glued to his canvas and painted.  A father was telling his kid, “Look, look, here’s a hammer, look a scissors,” pointing to the amazing range of nonsense on the background.  The kid was not impressed.  The paintings were large, 4’X 5’.  The artist, Terry Cannon of Signal Mountain, TN, told me he sold two today, Sunday.  I congratulated him. 

The crowds were huge, and making it more crowded were their dogs and their baby buggies, but they appeared to be “lookers” like me.  This was confirmed by the few artists I asked directly.  The sales were good Friday, and better on Saturday.  Sunday the artists were the entertainment. 

Despite the oppression of the heat, I stopped at several other booths as I made my way back to the car.  The flyers had announced that 250 artists were there on the streets.  I was reluctant to leave after such a small sampling.  I passed a Hinckley table with a stack of pointy cups and drew free water from the huge dispenser.  I looked at the man and asked, “Has anyone poured it on his head?”  He said, “No, but go ahead if you want to.”  I said, “I want to but I won’t” and drank it instead. 

As I dragged through the lot to my car, I could hear the quick step of a hurrying person who called, “Is this the way to the station?” and when I re-directed her, she ran away.  Only a tight train schedule could make one move that fast, I thought.

As I drove away with the air conditioning blasting, I thought to push the button on the car panel that records the outside temperature.  Are you ready for this?  98 degrees.

Were we all crazy?  98 degrees!  As Noel Coward said, “Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.”  And we sure weren’t Englishmen.

 ----Florence