Because of last week's debacle, and because a bunch of us were away this week, we decided to have a barbeque. Part defiant gesture, part practical necessity.
Planning a barbeque for October is either brave or crazy, and since we're either one or the other, we went for it.
We've always spent the extra to buy pre-cooked burgers for these things, since there's nowhere to wash your hands, so the grilling goes quickly and nothing is ever under-cooked.
But then it rained all day. Rain, rain, rain. That's been the whole summer, and it looks like fall is going the same way. It's been good for the pumpkin crop, apparently, but not much else.
Finally, around 4 pm, the sun came out.
I got to the Motel a little earlier than usual and C.L. had made the call that it was a little too cold to sit outside in a puddle eating burgers, so we'd cook outside, eat inside. Slightly less defiant, but needs must when the weather drives.
We brought the barbeque around the building from the west side to the east side near the door and I saw something there that I'd never seen before at the Motel.
A woman was standing outside her room, washing her windows.
Seriously, I've never seen anyone do that.
Q's a new arrival (maybe that explains it), a woman who (common story) had been doing just fine, thank you, and then got sick. She'd been in hospital for months and months. When the landlord had evicted her in absentia, a family member had thrown all of her belongings in boxes and bags and put it all in a storage locker. Some of it was ruined. Now she's starting over from nothing, a single woman in her 50's. The church was able to provide her with a single burner hot plate, which helps. Maybe she's just glad to have windows to wash.
Then the screaming started. Back in crack alley, someone had been drinking and got angry at someone else. The angry person has a history of causing significant physical harm to others, so we stayed where we were. We could hear the manager yelling back. A few more people started gathering around the barbeque, providing colour commentary to the sport before us. Background, stats, personality assessments, odds for and against.
It became clear that the manager was being out-yelled, so a few minutes later a couple of squad cars pulled in. More colour commentary. And, incongruously, a little beagle pup trailing his leash between the mud puddles, hopping around in the middle of it all.
The boys in blue defused the tension and the yeller went back into her room and the game was over. Not sure who won.
The manager came to where we were starting to grill the burgers and hung around for a while, needing to vent. He does have a difficult job. It's just that sometimes you're not sure how much of it is his own doing.
It took three of us to do the grilling. One (me) to assemble and hand out the finished product, one (who'd been drinking a little too much) to flip the burgers on the grill, and one (very patient) to stand there holding the lid open, because it's broken. The unit is one that belonged to a friend of C.L. and when she said she didn't want it anymore, C.L. went and brought it home in her van with the driver's window missing. (She has a blue tarp that fills the space when she's not driving, and just grooves on the breeze when she is.)
I handed a couple of burgers to tidy G., an older man with a bent back. G's hair is always short and combed neatly to one side. He wears a button-up shirt and dress pants, a little too big, maybe, with a belt and rolled up at the cuff. He speaks graciously and softly and has a gentle smile on his face most of the time. He comes every week with a cafeteria tray to get two plates, one for himself and one for his friend who isn't well enough to come to Dinner.
We first got to know G. last winter when his friend was recovering from surgery. C.L. mentioned that they couldn't come because G. didn't want to leave his friend alone until he'd regained his strength. So C.L. would put together take-aways for the pair of them and deliver them across the icy parking lot. Now G. comes every week, takes his place in line and moves with a measured pace to scoop reasonable sized portions onto the plates. He puts together two dinners, carries them all the way across the property, eats dinner with his friend, then brings back the tray for two desserts.
I handed a couple of burgers to one of the chicken-catchers, who came late, only because he'd been wakened by the yelling earlier.
I handed a couple of burgers to the partner of the yeller. This is a man who, over the years, has taken the brunt of the physical harm mentioned above but can't imagine not being together. So here he was, taking two plates of salad and burgers and dessert to his love.
I handed at least a couple of burgers to young O. He's had steady work with an older couple who live in walking distance of the Motel, pulling weeds and trimming trees. It's a perfect arrangement for him. He has deep social phobias and space issues so being needed by two kind people to do outdoor work by himself is a God-send.
I handed a couple of burgers to J., who's trying to get psychiatric help to determine why he keeps doing these things.
A couple to L.L., with the cynical smile and beautiful eyes, for her and her man who wasn't home from work yet.
To G., who is 14 going on 21, but took a break from climbing the vacuum cleaner tree to eat, and take a plate to her mom.
To H., who's within sight of earning his High School Equivalency while working part-time.
To C., who is so proud of her daughter, the honour student.
To G., who is struggling with diabetes and heart disease.
To T., who tells me when he's seen me driving around town.
To A., who wears depression like a hat.
To N., who is probably much smarter than the rest of us and who can read an electrical schematic like the greats read music.
To C.L., who knows more about everybody than she'd like to.
To H., the artist.
To R., the reverend.
To D., the gardener.
To my son, the chef.
To my husband, the blogger.
To B.L., the actress.
I lived in this town for 17 years before I ever drove onto the property of this Motel and now I know all of these people and their stories. Makes me wonder what I'd been missing all that time.
And who.
r
Planning a barbeque for October is either brave or crazy, and since we're either one or the other, we went for it.
We've always spent the extra to buy pre-cooked burgers for these things, since there's nowhere to wash your hands, so the grilling goes quickly and nothing is ever under-cooked.
But then it rained all day. Rain, rain, rain. That's been the whole summer, and it looks like fall is going the same way. It's been good for the pumpkin crop, apparently, but not much else.
Finally, around 4 pm, the sun came out.
I got to the Motel a little earlier than usual and C.L. had made the call that it was a little too cold to sit outside in a puddle eating burgers, so we'd cook outside, eat inside. Slightly less defiant, but needs must when the weather drives.
We brought the barbeque around the building from the west side to the east side near the door and I saw something there that I'd never seen before at the Motel.
A woman was standing outside her room, washing her windows.
Seriously, I've never seen anyone do that.
Q's a new arrival (maybe that explains it), a woman who (common story) had been doing just fine, thank you, and then got sick. She'd been in hospital for months and months. When the landlord had evicted her in absentia, a family member had thrown all of her belongings in boxes and bags and put it all in a storage locker. Some of it was ruined. Now she's starting over from nothing, a single woman in her 50's. The church was able to provide her with a single burner hot plate, which helps. Maybe she's just glad to have windows to wash.
Then the screaming started. Back in crack alley, someone had been drinking and got angry at someone else. The angry person has a history of causing significant physical harm to others, so we stayed where we were. We could hear the manager yelling back. A few more people started gathering around the barbeque, providing colour commentary to the sport before us. Background, stats, personality assessments, odds for and against.
It became clear that the manager was being out-yelled, so a few minutes later a couple of squad cars pulled in. More colour commentary. And, incongruously, a little beagle pup trailing his leash between the mud puddles, hopping around in the middle of it all.
The boys in blue defused the tension and the yeller went back into her room and the game was over. Not sure who won.
The manager came to where we were starting to grill the burgers and hung around for a while, needing to vent. He does have a difficult job. It's just that sometimes you're not sure how much of it is his own doing.
It took three of us to do the grilling. One (me) to assemble and hand out the finished product, one (who'd been drinking a little too much) to flip the burgers on the grill, and one (very patient) to stand there holding the lid open, because it's broken. The unit is one that belonged to a friend of C.L. and when she said she didn't want it anymore, C.L. went and brought it home in her van with the driver's window missing. (She has a blue tarp that fills the space when she's not driving, and just grooves on the breeze when she is.)
I handed a couple of burgers to tidy G., an older man with a bent back. G's hair is always short and combed neatly to one side. He wears a button-up shirt and dress pants, a little too big, maybe, with a belt and rolled up at the cuff. He speaks graciously and softly and has a gentle smile on his face most of the time. He comes every week with a cafeteria tray to get two plates, one for himself and one for his friend who isn't well enough to come to Dinner.
We first got to know G. last winter when his friend was recovering from surgery. C.L. mentioned that they couldn't come because G. didn't want to leave his friend alone until he'd regained his strength. So C.L. would put together take-aways for the pair of them and deliver them across the icy parking lot. Now G. comes every week, takes his place in line and moves with a measured pace to scoop reasonable sized portions onto the plates. He puts together two dinners, carries them all the way across the property, eats dinner with his friend, then brings back the tray for two desserts.
I handed a couple of burgers to one of the chicken-catchers, who came late, only because he'd been wakened by the yelling earlier.
I handed a couple of burgers to the partner of the yeller. This is a man who, over the years, has taken the brunt of the physical harm mentioned above but can't imagine not being together. So here he was, taking two plates of salad and burgers and dessert to his love.
I handed at least a couple of burgers to young O. He's had steady work with an older couple who live in walking distance of the Motel, pulling weeds and trimming trees. It's a perfect arrangement for him. He has deep social phobias and space issues so being needed by two kind people to do outdoor work by himself is a God-send.
I handed a couple of burgers to J., who's trying to get psychiatric help to determine why he keeps doing these things.
A couple to L.L., with the cynical smile and beautiful eyes, for her and her man who wasn't home from work yet.
To G., who is 14 going on 21, but took a break from climbing the vacuum cleaner tree to eat, and take a plate to her mom.
To H., who's within sight of earning his High School Equivalency while working part-time.
To C., who is so proud of her daughter, the honour student.
To G., who is struggling with diabetes and heart disease.
To T., who tells me when he's seen me driving around town.
To A., who wears depression like a hat.
To N., who is probably much smarter than the rest of us and who can read an electrical schematic like the greats read music.
To C.L., who knows more about everybody than she'd like to.
To H., the artist.
To R., the reverend.
To D., the gardener.
To my son, the chef.
To my husband, the blogger.
To B.L., the actress.
I lived in this town for 17 years before I ever drove onto the property of this Motel and now I know all of these people and their stories. Makes me wonder what I'd been missing all that time.
And who.
r
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