Pull weeds, paint windows

It's a Zen thing. Before enlightenment: pull weeds, paint windows. After enlightenment: pull weeds, paint windows. Path to enlightenment: pull weeds, paint windows. What did I do on my summer vacation? Pull weeds, paint windows.

Gven Golly and I spent some time with a couple of advanced souls at their mountain hermitage this weekend, and one of them celebrated another spin around the solar system. I think we learned a thing or two, though not necessarily the kind of wisdom you can easily restate in an imperative sentence, a la Poor Richard's Almanac or Confucius' Analects. But still, you go to Fairfield Glade for a couple of days and come back thinking differently.

It was Dad's birthday, and Mom cooked a great meal on Friday: barbecue ribs, mashed potatoes, green beans from the garden, and German chocolate cake, all preceded by a fuzzy navel (vodka, peach schnapps, orange juice). We watched a little TV, talked about stuff, and called it a day.

Saturday morning we had French toast for breakfast and got some chores done (two guesses). I hung out with Charlie most of the time, while Gven and Helen did their thing, kind of a generation/gender tag-team match.

Dad and I wandered around the yard, checked out which flowers are still going strong and which ones are about done for the year. I swear I have never seen a bigger tomato vine than the monster that planted itself, like a true Tennessee volunteer, beside the dahlias and dianthus in the flower bed beside the driveway. The potted tomatoes on the deck are almost as big. Clearly they all have been getting lots of tender loving care.

So I pulled weeds, mostly crabgrass, while Dad mowed the lawn. Then we quit to check the new dehumidifier in the basement. I asked him what he wanted to do next. He set me up with a bucket of beige paint, a wide brush, and a shiny new stepladder, and I painted the panels above and below the windows on the front of the house. So now everything matches, and there is peace in the kingdom.

Now I remember some of the weekend conversation. In no particular order, Charlie and Helen talked about the Winona State homecoming weekend coming up in October, how much the campus has changed, and some of the buildings, friends, and basketball teammates they remember; the grandchild who is a high school senior this year, his lack of definite plans, his supportive family, how fast kids grow up; the phenomenal coincidence that Chas Golly's neurosurgeon in Cookeville, Tennessee, grew up in the house across the street from the cemetary in Stewartville, Minnesota, where my grandfather Charles L. Golly and his father Charles A. Golly are buried; the upcoming family reunion in October celebrating Mom and Dad's sixty-fifth anniversary; some of the family history of Helen's mother, Delia Jeska, her immigrant parents' early deaths, her brothers and sisters, Helen's Aunt Marie who practically raised Grandma Delia, Aunt Ollie who saw the world, nieces and nephews, some of whom I actually remember.

Saturday night we grilled hamburgers and enjoyed Helen's famous potato salad, preceded by a fuzzy navel and followed by a little TV, some talk about beach volleyball and the value of a good setter.

Sunday morning we went out to breakfast at the Fat Chef, nice little place on Peavine Road. We had a great breakfast, talked about this and that, and we were on the road on schedule.

I hadn't touched the manuscript I brought along with the intention of editing a chapter for Dr. Bear's book on Confucian practice, yet the whole weekend had been a lab practicum in filial piety. I hadn't touched the stack of DVDs I packed with the thought of watching one or two before returning them to Dr. Jack Thunder. But the point of going to the hermitage was to be there, and that's what we did.