Where to begin the tale? Several weeks back we had people over, E. and J. I think, opened a bottle of white wine, found that it tasted awful, discovered that we owned a whole case of it, courtesy of a trip to Seattle for highland dance, a stay in a hotel that did wine tasting, a discovery that Fred Meyer (our local supermarket) was selling a whole case for seventy three dollars. The day following our discovery of the problem, I called the fellow I know at Fred Meyer to explain and ask for guidance. "Open two other bottles," said he, "and see if the problem is unique to one bottle." My ear memory tells me that's not at all how Americans talk, but that was the gist of what he said. I did as he suggested, called him back, found that he was on vacation. Then we were on vacation. Then he was away from his desk...you know how this goes. Eventually we talked; I explained that something was rotten in the whole case. He said he'd talk to the distributor.
This tale isn't just about wine; we're getting to finches. And more.The distributor said, essentially, tough luck. Said the F.M. fellow, "If you've owned the wine more than fourteen days, he's not interested in taking it back." He was apologetic..., and then he said, "Why not call the winery?" This I did, talked to a nice guy, weekend staff, who said that the relevant person wasn't in, blah and blah. Someone would call me on Monday. I thought, "Possibly."
Monday passes. No call. I figured we'd cook with the stuff; worse things have happened in the world. Then that weird thing that happens sometimes with phone calls...happened. I finished one phone call, momentary pause, instant ring. I assumed it was the person calling back to say one more thing. But no. It was the winery. What was the nature of my difficulty? I explained. The lady suggested that I should get in touch with Fred Meyer.
I laughed.She wanted to know what was funny and, more importantly, she took her job seriously. I told her the tale. She passed me to her boss. I repeated the whole thing and said that if there was nothing they could do, I'd understand. I bought the stuff, my responsibility. He said he'd send me nine bottles, by UPS. I said I thought that was more than fair. "Give your e mail address to..." the first lady.
By the time I was done with the details of my e mail address, and the weather, we were somehow up to a full case that was going out the door the following day. I said that I'd be more than happy to spread the word that Arbor Crest vineyards are very fine people.
UPS called. Or rather a recorded message from UPS was played to our recorded message machine. "We'll be delivering an item that requires an adult signature, some time between 8 a.m. and 7 p.m., press one if you understand your responsibilities, press two if you want your duties to be explained in Spanish, press three if you're a Bolshevik who doesn't want to stay home and wait for us all day."
Today began--yes, we're getting closer to the finches--today began early, five thirty to be exact. It shouldn't have; the start time was just my brain's whim. I did, however, have to get up at a good hour because B. was driving the truck over to take the boat down to the yard before hie'ing himself in to go spend the day compiling, which is how he spends his time...in software. B., the black belt, mounted an Aikido demonstration yesterday, after crabbing all day Saturday, and though he was happy with how it went, his ring finger was large and swollen on account of it having been dislocated and popped back in.
I had to take the Volvo in for an oil change. This being about the same direction as the boatyard, we planned a convoy: truck, boat, Volvo, dropping one at T.S. and continuing on to R and M Marine, where Hoss (yes, he does look a bit like the fellow in Bonanza) was waiting for our engine. All went well. B. dropped me back here, where I, getting on with a survey of the literature on what's been happening in the academic study of memory over the past twenty years, kept an absent-minded eye out for the UPS truck.
At lunchtime there were several calls about what the Volvo needed. I decided that there was little harm in doing none of it and then planned, with the aid of this computer, a public transportation trip to pick the car up. I wanted to see what the new rail line to Wilsonville was like. All I had to do was walk from the house to the light rail, take the light rail one stop, pick up the train and hie me to Wilsonville. According to my computer, Wilsonville trains run every half hour.
I opened the front door and retrieved the U.S. mail, only a small fraction of which comes to this house. Sorry, joke. I'm amused by the thought that we get the U.S. mail. I opened the back door to put the dog out. I heard strange noises. Finches had found a way through some small gap in the bird netting, and were getting at the wine grapes. Now they couldn't find a way out and were crying in distress. What was a person to do? Knowing no recipes for roast or fried finch, and seeing how beautiful the finches were, I cut great holes in the netting and set them free.
Who cares about mere grapes when such birds are crying out?There was a noise at the front door. The UPS guy had arrived. If the finches hadn't delayed me, I would have missed him. Hooray for kindness and mercy.
I walked to the light rail, took my one hop stop to the Beaverton transit center, which has been described in the paper as where all forms of public transit--light rail, somewhat heavier rail, buses, taxis--all meet, found the platform for Wilsonville, saw that three people were waiting, figured it would be less than half an hour. Half an hour passed. I rose, looked for an explanation, found the world's smallest printed timetable...which revealed that there are no trains to Wilsonville between the hours of nine a.m. and four p.m. None, nada, nyetski. No mention of this on the computer.
I looked around for a bus route map. None, nada, nyetski. Eventually I found a bus driver who was having a smoke and asked. She thought a number somethingorother went where I wanted to go. Meanwhile there was this guy from Korea who was totally baffled by the system. "What is 'All zone ticket? I have monthpass. Do I need All Zone?" I walked him around the few pieces of information on show, found I couldn't answer his question definitevely. There were no uniformed humans to ask.
So, two hours after setting out, I picked up my car and resumed my inalienable rights of American citizenship, zooming home in a privately-owned Volvo in ten minutes. All this, in the West Coast town that congratulates itself on its devotion to public transportation.
The finches flew away and are now no doubt eating someone else's grapes. Carry on. David Ritchie, Portland, Oregon ------------------------------------------------------------------ To change your Lit-Ideas settings (subscribe/unsub, vacation on/off, digest on/off), visit www.andreas.com/faq-lit-ideas.html
