Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)

Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.

This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

And then, Sunday. Up early as usual, with nary a whistling child to be heard. They're a lot like deer--ubiquitous out of season, invisible on opening day. Saturdays they're up at dawn creating havoc (the children, not deer), then come Sunday they are nearly impossible to get out of the bed, even if they got into bed the previous night at a decent hour. ::sigh::

Dress, breakfast (I think), run around as usual getting all the Bibles and classbooks together, dash out the door, and then are forced to hear the five-thousandth repetition of Oldest's Diana DeGarmo CD. I never thought I would say this to her, but I actually encouraged her to bring her CD player and headphones the next time we're in the van. I think if I hear that crap again, I'll go mental. Or more mental.

On to church, teach class, learn about Cornelius, still can't get Rebecca to say anything (but I know she listens intently, so it's not like she's not learning anything), on to worship, am set upon by Boy on the left and Tiny Terror on the right who decide I would make a dandy giant fluffy pillow and proceed to fall onto me and go to sleep. Services over, off to the other side of the county to see Ashley's other grandparents, then the chance to duck out early due to more activities back at the church building and the need for me to take some food to a lady whose husband just passed away.

I spend part of Saturday night calling around and making sure folks were lined up to take some meals to her. I don't know what folks in other parts of the world do, but around here we try to make things a bit easier on folks by keeping them from having to fix food for themselves and the inevitable horde of folks who come to pay their respects. Long time ago, you actually cooked a meal, but since no one cooks anymore, you wind up going to the store or to KFC for some chicken. It's still appreciated, though.

Anyway, I had to make sure someone was lined up for the week to make sure food was always in abundance. I hate calling around like this, mainly because, despite the amount of blabbering I do on here, I am actually a bit on the quiet (some probably say standoffish) side, and the circumstances make it even more difficult. Add to this the occasional need to exert some good-natured (at least over the phone) encouragement to those who might be less inclined to help. I called one young lady and said we were getting meals together, and she flat out told me she doesn't cook. She's a young mom with a job and a husband and odd work hours, but, still, you figure they must eat something. Enter the good-natured encouragement, in which I said, "Well, you could go in together with your mom and..." "Oh, well, she cooks even less than I do!"

Good-nature does have a limit, I suppose--"Ahhh. Well, I guess you'll just have to go to the store and get something and take over there. I'm sure [the widow] will be grateful no matter what." ::sigh:: I hate calling people.

Anyway, Sunday was our day to take food, and since we were having to run from the west side of the county back over to the east, we were pretty much forced to get something already made up. The lady we were fixing for was expecting some people from out of town, and allowed that some sandwich fixings would be good to have, so Reba told me that Winn Dixie had some deli trays already made up. I dropped everyone at the building and went on my hunting and gathering mission.

First, I drove past Wal-Mart to Winn-Dixie, walked in, and was met by a decided lack of meat and cheese trays. "Do you have any cold cut trays already made up?"

"Uhhh, well, maybe." Nothing like confidence, eh? We went and looked, and nope, no trays. "How long would it take you to fix one up?" She looked blankly up toward the ceiling and allowed that it might take thirty minutes or so. I, being on something of a schedule, thanked her and went on my way to find something quicker. Say, how about that new Food World!? Drove another mile down the road, walked in, looked for sliced meats and cheese trays, found none, although I did find a much more engaged deli staffer who allowed that such a thing as a meat'n'cheese tray might take forty-five minutes or even an hour. How flippin' hard is it to slice off some meat and cheese onto a plastic tray?! Apparently, pretty hard.


This is turning into a big deal. But, at least, there was one last hope. Wal-Mart.

Walked in, turned the corner into the deli, and there stacked like cordwood were tray upon tray of sliced animal flesh, along with similar slices of curdled and hardened mammal milk. I could have saved about forty-five minutes if I had just stopped there first. Oh, well.

Got a tray, got a vegetable tray, got a couple of loaves of bread, got a pound cake, got a gallon of sweet tea, got a pint of cole slaw and a pint of potato salad. OH, and BATTERIES! I was informed on my way out by a certain teenaged daughter of mine that SHE needed BATTERIES! It's very important to remember your priorities in life, you know.

Checked out and headed back up the road again, passing the meat-tray-less Winn-Dixie again, and then found the lady's house. Hard to miss with all the cars parked outside. More than calling around and getting food together, I find it very difficult to take it to the intended recipient. I'm always at a loss for words, but then I remember how much it meant to have people come by after my dad died. I didn't stay long because she had other company, and it was getting back toward time for church to start.

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