|
| |
Now, as I am guilty of verbocity perhaps without subject or point, I close the lid on Saturday with introduction and no fanfare....
Greetings, all:
Warm, but overcast, autumnal breeze shaking the trees...
Due to the logistics of getting my wife's and my computer equipmpent hooked up and networked I am standing up, composing on her PowerBook, while she sits below me on her couch and bed working on her big flatscreen G4 that she uses for her art and graphics projects. I feel like I'm monitoring a station aboard the starship Enterprise. Except that aboard the Enterprise, Miró, our perpetually annoyed mostly Siamese cat, named after the only Surrealist a cat can pronounce, wouldn't be curving and purring around my ankles. Now, she is perched upon one of Amie's printers, resembling an Egyptian feline divinity, gazing down at the odd sounds Amie's machine is making: a cat, a dog, applause, a clap of thunder.
We are in the rear, second floor "sleeping porch" of our house, a 1927 Tudor Revival, brick and half-timbered place built as residence and offices for Dr. Abraham Isaac Weinstein, a neighborhood family pracitioner who also performed house calls for the primarily white working class district of Oregon Hill, about two miles due west of our location.
And after prompting, by my fellow Richmond cell member, Isaac; I am finally figuring out how to make entries in the various quarters of this on-going project. As I am. Downstairs, the fat funky bass of Herbie Hancock is wah-wahing away.
So, it's been a domestic day. Breakfast of oatmeal. Lunch of vegetarian Boca burgers and rice. Sweeping the stair and hauling out trash and cleaning the cat box. Ah, the glamour.
This house is relatively new to us; though we've been it since the spring. It is for me the kind of house I usually would've been invited to - it is not a bohemian dream...yet. But, Richmond, among its blessings, still has fine properties available at good rates. We lucked into this one prior to Christmas of last year. I saw an ad in the paper, listing a photograph of the house and looked at it just for amusement and to take our mind offof our troubles.
So we managed to get it, though not after considerable real estate wrangling. We like it here immensely. I am able to walk to work and the theatre and most places I want to visit. Tonight, for instance, we are likely to saunter across the Boulevard Bridge over the James River to friends in the Westover Hills neighborhood. The Boulevard Bridge was constructed, actually, with private money during the 1920s and paid for with tolls. People who lived on the South Bank got chits that allowed them to cross without cost. All others paid a dime. Somehow, though, the bridge got the name of the Nickle Bridge, (I'm thinking perhaps it was shortened from "to nickle and dime" which means to extract money from people in small amounts). Today, though, it costs a quarter. But not for us tonight: we'll be pedestrians.
As notes prior, as I am guilty of verbocity perhaps without subject or point, I close the lid on Saturday. --HEK
 my home page
 comments [0]
| |
| |
|
all articles
