Winding it up. A late post

 

Lost California Project:: Anza Borrego #1, #3, and #2

Monday, 7/18

I just got done setting up the day's work. It's finishing day; messy, tedious, frustrating, finishing day(s). But I took a W&B, and a sudden  cascade of thoughts and feelings rolled over me, so I walked away from the table, and sat down here at the desktop.  Mary is down in San Clemente with her nephews and niece. 

Saturday was the memorial service for Mary's brother's wife, Martha, who died some weeks ago. This came right on the heels of her husband, Mary's brother, Randy's death in December.

 Martha. Randy. Chris. Max. Larry.  All people I knew on a first name basis. None had the coof. You know the meme: I'm not saying it was... but...

Randy and Martha's four sons, and their families had  all flown out for the service. It isn't easy to get all the families in the Winans clan gathered. Sunday night they made a snap decision to do the scattering while almost everyone was together. They decided on San Clemente where the family once owned a condo above the beach. San Clemente is fifty six miles from here. As I write, the Winans clan is down there scattering the ashes: Randy, Martha, and Mary's mother and father, as well.  Mary is riding down with her niece, Katy, and she left the house a little before four this morning.  I am normally a very early riser. Three thirty is not uncommon, yet despite a sketchy night's sleep, I did not awaken and hear her leave.  Mary exempted me from attending and for that I am grateful. One hundred and twelve miles of So Cal traffic grateful.

Even so. I should have gone. Can't undo what's not done. Mary is sometimes too easy on me. Most wives would have insisted. I took the easy way out.

 I didn't attend the service, either. The family are all members of the uptown Methodist Church. I've attended services there, and I don't care for the female pastor. I attended services for Randy there just a few months back. For that service I was slightly late; the attendance was light, and I declined to wear a mask. I sat in the back, alone in a pew, but I had to leave early anyway.

Martha was active in her teaching profession; she knew a lot of people, and she had many friends, and former co-workers. The church was crowded. Every single person, family, and guest, was masked. Those few who were not masked on the street reflexively, dutifully, and unconsciously donned one as they drew near. It was done without hesitation, without a second thought; as customary as wiping your feet, or saying, "good morning."

This included my wife. She too, put on the mask and walked right in. I got near the doors, and felt that sickening rush of adrenaline. I could feel the amygdala hijack coming on. I balked, and walked off. I will not put that thing on  my face. Period. This has gone from  intense dislike, to aversion, to full blown phobia.  It has gone far deeper than a matter of principle. Remember Kevin McCarthy near the end of the old "Invasion of the Body Snatches?" The thought of strapping that filthy thing to my face, and being crowded into that church, elbow to elbow with hundreds of the faceless sent me into panic mode. I sat on a bench out front, and waited quietly for the service to be over.

Tue. 7/19

I spent the rest of the day, Monday, sanding. I started in dry with the 150 grit Emory cloth to work out the tool marks, and then stared the wet sanding with a couple of passes at 220 grit, then 320, and finished the day with one pass at 400 grit.

Close inspection this morning called for going back for another pass at 320, before working through 400, 600, 1000, then finally 2000 grit wet. Then it was soft cotton cloth, and Simichrome polish. It's wet messy work. After a while my hands were breaking out from the sweat and heat. It felt better to leave the rubber gloves off.

 

  Only problem with leaving the gloves off was that I sanded a goodly amount of skin, and even a little blood from my fingertips. They are now pink, silky smooth, and excruciatingly sensitive. Later today I'll go back and rough finish the base with some #2 gauge steel wool.

So now I have to take a break from the stones, let my fingers heal, and get the garage cleaned out again. (yuk)

Odd how stuff works, I clicked on facebarf, yesterday, and had a "your memory"  about cleaning out the garage from a few years back. Gosh, that's what they must mean when they say, "history repeats itself."