I spend weekends trying to bide my time and hope they pass as quickly as possible. This often starts with a lunch of beef phở at the local Vietnamese restaurant. Next a grande cappuccino. Then on to Golden Gardens Beach on Puget Sound. I find it nicest there when the sky is overcast and the wind is up, as there aren’t so many people crowding it. This usually gives me my first chance of the week to truly relax and let go of all my worries. My lungs breathed in the salty air with gratitude. This air is as refreshing as a cold glass of water in July. If the Olympic Mountains are visible I stand in awe of them for some time. This reminds me of why I have stayed here in Seattle. It isn’t the climate which has kept me here, nor is it the happening music scene. It is the dramatic vistas that slam me in the face whenever I turn a corner.
Last weekend I included a trip to goodwill in search of bargain home décor and accoutrements. I started with a thorough scan of the books in search of treasures to add to my unread collection. It is interesting to note the books people easily part with. I see lots of biographies and memoirs. Sultry romances and detective novels. Virtually every book Jimmy Carter has ever written, as well as Henry Kissinger’s exegesis of our present geo-political conundrum. I came across a Malcolm Gladwell book which I quickly stuffed under my armpit. This was a successful hunt so far. The cd section offered a tired purview of those girls ululating about ex-boyfriends and I decided it was time to move on to furniture.
I walked past the ratty couches. There were some sturdy rocking chairs, but I had no need for one. I thought back to my older brother when we were growing up. He was a rocking chair enthusiast. He was always seated directly in front of the t.v. due to his sight impairment, rocking away in the green chair. It was a fixture in the living room. Noone else was to sit in it, especially me. But there were also other uses for it such as cracking walnuts and peanuts under the rockers. I would sometimes get into trouble for attempting to slip them under the rockers as my brother watched his favorite shows: Sanford and Son and M*A*S*H*. Redd Foxx elicited peals of laughter from him that no one else could. I suspect he was also a great admirer of Hot Lips Houlihan though he would never have admitted it.
So on back to pictures. The Monet was still there. I saw a woodcut print of Hanover, Germany, my abode of three remarkable years. I hesitated before it for a couple of minutes. Should I get it? Should I pass? I had enough memories of Hanover that could not be complemented or enhanced by it. I passed it up and started rummaging through other pictures. I found the one I needed--a picture of downtown Seattle at dusk with a violet glow. The glacier of Mt. Rainier hovered in the distance, drawing the eye away from the space needle and skyscrapers in the foreground. I couldn’t pass it up for $4.99. Plus the picture was taken from the vantage point of Lower Queen Anne, where I lived previously and it struck a chord of familiarity.
Who would ever buy used shoes? Who would offer them up for donation? There was always a line of SUVs backing up to drop off items that had surpassed their usefulness to the owners.
A quick stroll through the housewares section. Somali and Hispanic women perused partial dish sets as Boy George lamented lost love. Perhaps time to wrap up.
Back to the house to the insatiable feline, Coltrane, and chilled sake.
