We begin with the tale of a defective defective glass. That is not repetition
as in the name Boutros Boutros-Ghali but a full description of the glass. When
we visited J back east we came one day to a winery that offered sparkling wine,
served in a glass with a defect. The idea was that bubbles would form where
the defect was and so rise in an attractive column. E. saw that I liked the
idea and so sent off for a set of four, which she presented as a Father’s Day
gift. Clear thus far?
For one reason and another there hadn’t been a moment to try them out until
yesterday evening when two friends came to dinner. They were celebrating their
wedding anniversary so it was apt that I had chilled some sparkling wine. Out
came the glasses…which failed to do their thing. The defect proved defective.
A long period without rain caused Mimo to expostulate yesterday morning when
she confronted wet stuff falling from sky.
“What do you call this?”
“Rain.”
“I know it’s rain, but why?”
“Because.”
I find enigmatic answers to be useful in my daily round of divine duties; it’s
essentially the principle we used early in parenting. Say less, seem
mysterious. Didn’t work in this instance, Mimo being Mimo.
“And another thing. Why was I not invited to this wedding you were eating last
week?”
You’ll possibly remember the misunderstanding. I said that E. was getting
married and Mimo wondered whether “married” is something you can eat. Clearly
she’s been thinking this over and reached the conclusion that a wedding
involves some kind of feasting. She is, of course, not wrong. We had salad,
pizza, cheesecake, all foods she would enjoy. And I failed to bring any home
for fowl consumption. I thought maybe I should go with the predator theme.
“There were hawks overhead. You wouldn’t have been safe.”
“Where was the feast?”
“In a field. Out in the wine country.”
“The country complains?”
“Different spelling. Not w-h-i-n-e. Wine is a drink, made from grapes. We
could make some with the merlot and cabernet ones above your head here.”
“I was wondering what the point of those is. I’ve tried them when they fall;
not good at all.”
“Are you complaining about the taste of wine grapes?”
Till now Mimo has shown very little indication of having a sense of humor, but
she was somehow delighted by the play on words. Possibly this is a sign of
senility? She walked up and down muttering, “Call me the wine whiner.”
This being the week of Yom Kippur, I wished her, a good final sealing.
“Bonkers,” was all she said by way of response, wandering towards the spot
beneath the oak-leafed hydrangea she has chosen for her daily sits.
I think she may have taken up meditation.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
