Marvin, Where Are The Raisins?

Dean and I got around to celebrating our 39^th wedding anniversary over the Labor Day weekend.  Waaaaaay back when we got married, telephones were rented and when you talked, there was no pacing from room to room, or relaxing on the deck while you visited with friends.  If you took one step too far you either pulled the phone off the table or the receiver flew out of your hand, ricocheting back and leaving another dent in the wall.  If you wanted a phone different than the standard black with rotary dial, the rental cost was higher.  And if you wanted the sleek and sexy Princess Phone with the amazing lighted push button dial – well, that cost even more.  Television dials did not go higher than 10.  And if you were lucky enough to own a car, since the car engineers were never able to figure out a way to design a car dashboard that would hold a reel to reel, your only choice was a radio.  And you paid extra for it.  

The “gym” wasn’t a place; it was something we were sent to during our school day.  A onesie wasn't baby-wear, it was a one-piece, snap-fronted bloomer girls had to wear when they participated in “gym”.  Not that Dean and I didn’t get plenty of other exercise.  We did knee bends whenever we walked over to the TV to change the channel (when we actually had a TV).  We built up our biceps lifting that heavy black phone receiver and we peddled bicycles since we didn't always have a car. 

Boy, writing that wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done.  I knew I was old but now I feel old.  Dang it.  Maybe that face in the mirror staring back at me every morning really is me.

Anyway, even though it’s been a busy summer and we were worn out from doing, heck, I don’t
know … stuff … we managed to fit in an anniversary weekend at this beautiful Bed & Breakfast.

We'd forgotten what it was like to be able to sleep in later than 5:45 a.m.

On a Saturday.

With no dog toenails clicking anxiously back and forth from dog bed to door to human – stare –  to door to human – stare – to dog bed to door to human – stare.  




Or to sleep in later than 5:45 a.m. on a Saturday without cat love.  Miss Sophie knows the alarm goes off at precisely 5:45 a.m. and so at precisely 5:43 a.m. she begins pawing my face and walking on my head.  She's determined that my hand will be on her head ready to begin petting her when the alarm begins beeping.  Even though I've explained to her the difference between a work morning and a weekend morning she just doesn't care.  Why should she?  She sleeps at least 15 hours every day.  She gets her morning petting, I get up, get dressed, look around and she's curled up sleeping. 

We'd forgotten how it feels to sleep until we wake up on our own; to get up when we want to.  And then have a leisurely breakfast after we had slept in until we wanted to wake up.  I repeat.  On a Saturday

It ~ Was ~ Heaven.

One evening we ate dinner at an unassuming little restaurant recommended by the B&B folks and they did not steer us wrong.  It was cozy and quiet and the food was amazing. 

At the Devil's Backbone

To work off the food and the wine and the incredible dessert, we did a little hiking.   

Little did we know what awaited us at home.

We were relaxed and happy and refreshed and no longer sleep-deprived.  And we were blissfully unaware that while we were gone there was apparently a party taking place at our house.  And it must have been quite the party because there was damage.  Things were stolen.  But the culprits were sneaky and silent because when we got home our neighbors said not a word to us about it.  Dean was the first to discover it.  It was his things that were stolen.  And his heart was broken.  It’s still a little broken.  And I felt so bad for him.  It kind of spoiled the tranquility and serenity of the weekend.

When we left we had these succulent champagne grapes growing on our vine.

When we came home we had stems.

We aren’t positive who did it but whoever it was, they were tall.  They ate a chunk right out of the grapevine. 










They ripped off the netting and broke the trellis and trampled the ground all around the front of the vine.

We don't have proof, but we're pretty sure it was either Harvey or Bambi.

Don’t feel too bad for us, though.  Well, don’t feel too bad for me.  Because it just reinforced something I’d been thoughtfully recommending to Dean. The destruction and theft convinced him my plan really was a good one.  It proved to him I was right.  Discovering our missing property and the destruction that had been wreaked while we were gone was confirmation that he should have been acting upon my gentle suggestion.  He finally agreed.  We need to train that grapevine to go up and over the deck and give us some shade.

I helped him out by unraveling the wire-like fingers of the vine ...

pulling it up from between the deck planks ...

and weaving it temporarily through the deck rails.  

Now all he has to do is construct some kind of pole and wire system to hold the vine up above the railings and across the deck to the roof.  And then unravel the temporary vine weaving and attach it to the pole/wire system he develops and constructs.



I don't know why he rolls his eyes when I describe this small project.  He should be happy to know that soon he'll not only have clusters of grapes hanging out of reach of Harvey and Bambi, he'll be able to reach up, pluck a grape and eat it without even getting out of his deck chair.

 

Oh ... wait a minute ... you thought there had been a party of humans? 

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Marvin, Where Are The Raisins?