Eight Pounds of Sloppy Joes

Jacques Cousteau (Adam) educating the masses

A walk on the flood wall this morning before the rain starts. The day clears in early afternoon but the pools remain closed. Thinking about calling the mayor on this one . . . Guess I will need to start cleaning this house although I am loathe to do so. The bathroom on this floor needs immediate attention. This is the bathroom the grandsons use and I have witnessed eight-year-old Adam doing some creative peeing. Hand on hips as he swivels in a circular pattern all the time trying to keep the urine in the bowl and always with limited success. As Adam has been known to say, the bathroom? That's where the magic happens. I don't know what that means but a BM keeps him in there for thirty minutes sometimes. The man cannot be rushed. Several times toys have needed to be run through the dishwasher due to an accidental dunking while Adam is sitting on the pot. Living with Adam means always having bleach in the house.

Hah! The wusses have finally opened the pool. I am in for a pleasant surprise as there are only four women at the pool. The laps lane is smooth and I glide along the surface with barely a wave behind me. I didn't realize the water plant next to the pool makes whoosing and whirring sounds. The screaming hordes always block it out. I can see the bluffs of Wisconsin on one side of the pool and the woods of Eagle Point on the other. Small batches of yellow leaves dot the trees here and there. Autumn.

I cooked eight pounds of sloppy joes for Mom's family reunion tomorrow. Enough for an army and that is what will be there. Groan. Whose idea was this? I will not stay long - I am not the reunion type. I smell like an onion.

Taught Dad how to sew a button on a shirt today. Everybody should know how to sew a button, make a pot roast, and do his own laundry. Love his questions: why shouldn't you wash towels with clothing? Why are there two different water temperatures with each wash cycle? How often do you wash a toilet? How often do you water plants? Dad's turning into a housewife.

I'm getting too brown. And I get brown. It's that Slavic, Mediterranean skin tone I inherited from my middle European relatives. I'm in too much of a hurry to get into the pool. While working at the nursing home a woman with dementia - she came from one of the wealthier families of Dubuque - and I became fast friends and had many conversations - not all of them with a specific point. Last year at summer's end she did not recognize me but told me with a slightly patronizing look, it's good that they give you people a job. When I was 15 I was crossing a street in Chicago to meet my father on the other side. Two black men whistled at me and Dad laughed saying, that's what you get for getting so brown. Years later I think, this was about the time that black men were whistling at white women and not having to pay a terrible price. I need to get the sun screen.