An Exhausting Day

           I can’t decide if the day was stressful or exhausting. In the end, I’ve decided that stress is very exhausting. It just plumb wore me out!

          “What happened?” I know you wanna know.

          Mike’s brother Cork (a family nickname for Charles) is talking about coming to visit us later this summer. One of the things he’d like to do is go back to Niagara Falls. He was there several years ago with his late wife and since he’ll be in the area seeing us, he’d like to take his new woman there. Cork says the Canadian side is really cool.

          “We’ll have to get passports,” Mike said.

          Knowing these things can take time, we decided to get the process underway and go to the courthouse in Towanda to apply for a passport card. You don’t need a passport book for land travel into either Canada or Mexico, the card will work and it’s cheaper.

          We get to Towanda, park the car, go into the courthouse, and see a sign that says no cell phones. To save you a trip back to your car, they have little lockers with combinations instead of a key. We didn’t know how it worked but luckily there were directions posted. Put your phone in, pick a four-digit number, close the door, turn the knob, and spin the dial. Half the lockers were locked open but we found one that we could use. We set the combination, went through the doors, and stopped at the security station.

          “Take everything from your pockets and put it in the tray, then put the tray through the scanner,” the guard told us. “Then walk through,” he indicated the people scanner.

          Mike’s belt buckle set off the alarm and the guard used a wand to scan him. I went through without setting off the alarm and the officer was surprised. It took me a few seconds to puzzle it out. Then I realized it was because the underwire in brassieres would set it off. I don’t happen to wear bras with underwires. My fat rolls make them poke me when I sit.

          “Where do we go to get a passport?” Mike asked.

          “They don’t do them here. You have to go to the post office,” he replied.

          Fifteen years ago, we got them at the courthouse.

          We went to the post office there in Towanda and got an education in passports. As long as yours hasn’t expired by more than five years, you can renew. However, if your name changed because you got married, you have to apply for a new one. Mike could renew, I’d have to re-apply. And you needed an appointment.

          “I think you can walk in at the post office in Waverly,” Mike said.

          I don’t remember now why we didn’t go from Towanda right up to Waverly since we were halfway there, but we didn’t. I think it was because we had a couple of more errands to run and couldn’t do it that day — and I was already tired of being out.

          Mike called the next morning and they too need you to schedule an appointment.

          “We could do it at twelve fifteen today,” he was told.

          I’d stay home all the time if I could. I love my house. I love my critters. I love my stretchy paint-splatter pants and shirt. I love to work on my art. Going places takes me away from all those things. However, being an adult, and a semi-responsible one at that, I change out of my grungies and do what I gotta do.

          We went to Waverly.        

            The gal at the post office gave Mike a renewal form to fill out. That was all he needed. For me, she had to have my birth certificate, first marriage license, divorce papers, second marriage license, driver’s license, and my firstborn. We took our forms to a counter and stood to fill ‘em out while she shuffled our papers around.

          And this is where the stress comes in.

          You can’t make any mistakes on your application. No scratch-outs. You have to get a new form and start over.

          I filled out the first page okay. I go to the next page and read: Name of Applicant. I put in my legal first name and see the part I’d just skimmed over. Last, First, & Middle!

OY!

I went back up to the window for a new form. “I messed up,” I told her.

          She handed me a new form.

          I re-filled out the first page just fine and went to the second page. I got my name in the right order this time. The next line asks for Mother/Father/Parent. So what do I do? I put in my mother’s name, left a space, put in my father’s name, and went to the next box.

          Last name (at parent’s birth) it says.

          I put Momma’s maiden name in and left a space and put Dad’s name in.

          The next line asks for Date of Birth.

          There’s not enough room for both their birthdays, I think. Then I see right below that is another box marked Mother/Father/Parent. Poop! I realized they wanted only one parent in the first box and the other parent in the second. Am I the only one confused by the way they wrote it or am I just stupid?

          Other customers were in line to be waited on. Rather than stand in line, I decided to fill out the rest of the form so all I’d have to do is copy it — correctly, hopefully.

          The next line wanted the parent’s city and state of birth. I was pretty sure I knew where Dad was born but I wasn’t as sure about Momma’s. What do I do when I have a problem?

          “Call your mother?” you say.

          And that used to be the right answer, when Momma was still with us. Now I call my older and much-loved sister, Patti.

          “Peggy! It’s on the papers I sent you!” she said.

          “I know, but I’m not at home!”

          “I’m not in the house either. I think, from what I can remember, that Mom was born in Starrucca.”

           It’s a good thing I called or I’d’ve made another mistake! I was thinking it was Thompson.

          When no one was at the window, I went back up.

          “I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I messed up again.”

          She was not happy. She didn’t have any more forms at her window and had to go get more.

          “Thank you,” I said when she gave me one and tucked the others in the rack with her other forms.

          After filling out the first page twice, and not looking forward to doing it again, I realized the pages were detachable. I could use one of the ones filled out correctly and I didn’t have to fill it out again.

          “Now take your time and do it right,” Mike chastised.

          For the third time, I start printing my name in the box. Luby first. My feelings are stung by his remark and I’m mulling it over. My hurt turns to indignation and I’m trying to think of snarky comebacks. I am trying to do it right! Not very snarky and also not out loud.

          It’s just at that point where I’m putting in my first name. I’ve been spelling Margaret for a hundred years and I should be able to write it with just muscle memory. M-A-R-G-A-R-E-S goes my hand all on its own — the s a full and confident stroke of the pen, just like it belonged there.

          I was stunned!

          Where did that come from‽ I think but don’t say out loud. In fact, I don’t say anything for a while. I just look at that s there on the end of my name in disbelief. I take a stab at making it into a t but it looks obvious. No way was that getting through. I’d have to go get another form.

          Much to my embarrassment, I admit, “I messed up again! I’m ready to chuck it all and just stay home! I can’t take anymore!” I lament. “Maybe you need to write it for me.”

          My head was pounding. I don’t even remember what Mike said or if he said anything. I went back to the window. “You’re gonna hate me.”

          She handed me another form.

          “I think I need someone else to write it for me,” I said.

          “I can’t write it for you,” she said snootily.

          I wasn’t thinking about her.

          Mike finished and took his paperwork to the window.

          I can hear their conversation. My birth certificate isn’t any good.

          “Since 9/11 they require it to have the parents listed,” she said.

          I got this birth certificate in 2016, well after 9/11/2001. “Why didn’t they send me a legal birth certificate when I got this one?” I asked and no one had an answer for.

          “You can go down to Tina Pickett’s office and they can send for a new one for you,” the gal said.

          Tina Pickett is our state representative and I didn’t know they did stuff like that.

          The gal at the post office gave us directions. We drove to downtown Sayre, found a parking space, and jacked a quarter into the meter.   

       

          We get to the front door and see a sign taped to the window.

Out to lunch. Back at 1:30.

“Forty-five minutes,” I say looking at the time on my phone. “We might just as well go get our lunch.”

By the time we drove across town to the Chinese restaurant, had the all-you-can-eat buffet, and drove back, we managed to kill an hour.

When we walked in, there was a guy at the counter ahead of us and believe it or not, he was having his taxes done. I didn’t know they did that. Then again, I didn’t know they would get me a birth certificate either.

We chatted while I gave the gal the information to put in the computer. She took my driver’s license and made a copy.

“I’ve never seen a passport card,” she said, so I showed her mine.

I wrote a check for the replacement birth certificate. She’d send it in with the paperwork.

“How much do you charge for this?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “It’s a service we provide.”

Cool!

“I forgot to get gas when we were in Waverly,” Mike said, back at the car. It’s always cheaper there.

To me, it wasn’t a big deal. “So? Let’s go back and get it.”

Mike circled around using the alleyways.

“Why do you always want to take pictures of other’s misfortunes?” Mike asked.

I had no answer for that.

Then, at the gas station, Mike says, “Peg, get your camera and look at that car over there.”

When he said it, there was a truck between us and this little banged-up gray car.

I hope the irony here doesn’t escape you. 

I took pictures of houses as we left town. I’m sure you’ve seen some or all of these before but I for one never get tired of looking at them.

We get almost back to Towanda when my phone rings. It’s Tina Pickett’s office.

“Hello,” I answer.

The gal identifies herself. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice this when you were here, but your driver’s license expired in 2020. I can’t send this in.”

I rummaged around in my purse but I didn’t have any other driver’s license. I knew I wouldn’t. I keep my license in one place and one place only. The only time I take it out is if I’m asked for it. “You mean I’ve been driving on an expired license all these years?”

“Hold on. Let me get into the DMV and check.” After a few moments, she said, “No. You have a valid driver’s license good until August of 2024.”

“What do I do now?” I wanted to know.

“You can stop at our office in Towanda and they can get you a replacement license.” Then she tapped a couple of keys. “Actually, you’re within six months of needing a renewal so you can have it renewed for four years. The gal in Towanda will give you a temporary license so you’ll be legal to drive and she can fax me a copy to send in for your birth certificate.”

They can send for a birth certificate. They can renew my driver’s license. They can do your taxes. Now I’m wondering what else they can do.

We stop at the state representative's office and I walk out with a temporary license.

Going home we pass a bunch of firetrucks and ambulances lined up at a church in Black Walnut.

“Is the church on fire?” Mike guessed when we were still a ways away.

Getting closer, I hazard a guess. "Maybe someone got sick or hurt. They always send out a lot of equipment.”

Passing the church, we see the field is on fire.

One of the things we did while in Sayre was to buy another upper cabinet. Putting this one up took no prep work at all since the space was sitting there waiting for the cabinet. I say that knowing full well that it’s not quite true. There was a small empty shelf in the space that took something like fifteen seconds to take down and was such a minor thing that I didn’t think it was even worth mentioning. We can call it a little white lie, or we can call it artistic license, but the Holy Spirit convicts me and compels me to correct it.

Now I have an empty lower cabinet and an empty upper cabinet.

“What are you going to put in it?” Mike asks.

“I don’t know. As I bring stuff in from the pantry, I’ll put it away there.” Maybe it can house some of my artsy-fartsy stuff, but I didn’t say that.

Speaking of artsy-fartsy...

Lamar’s sister is cleaning out her house. When I got the photo paper from her, she offered me a bunch of CDs.

“No one uses CDs anymore,” I told her. I never thought about using them to make playing card holders.

Then my beautiful sister Phyllis asked for a couple for when she plays cards with Jim’s mother.

“She loves it!” Phyllis told me after she got them.

Then I got an order for four.

Then the church is planning a game night. I’ll probably take Quiddler with me. A card game where you end up holding ten cards in the final round. I’ll make cardholders for game night, too! I thought.

I am never more happy than when I have a project to do. I dug through the leftover material from my COVID mask-making days and picked out several patterns. I made a bunch of buttons with air-dry clay and a mold. Once the buttons had dried for a day or two, I sprayed them with gloss protectant.

I cut circles from the material and ran a stitch around the edge. Then you have to pull one thread to gather the material. Regular thread isn’t that strong and breaks if I pull it too hard.

I need stronger thread, I thought.

We were out the next day so I bought upholstery thread. It’s strong! But I couldn’t get it to work in my machine. No matter which way I turned the tension knob, I had loops on the bottom of the material.

“Some machines won’t work with heavy thread,” my handsome brother David said.

After fussing with it for way too long, I quit. I went back to regular thread and was careful when I pulled it into a gather. Each holder uses two pieces of material. Of all the stitches I pulled into gathers, I only had to redo four.

Tiger helped.

While I was making these, and digging around in my desk for CDs, I thought, I should’ve taken the CDs Lamar’s sister offered me.

I called Lamar. “If she still has them and wants to get rid of them, I could use them,” I told him.

As it turns out, Lamar and Rosie would be in the area where his sister lives and they’d stop and see her.

My phone rings and it’s Lamar. “She had a bunch of CD cases she wanted to get rid of, so I got them for you, too.”

It was more than Lamar could carry on his walk with Tux, so he brought them up in the car — along with Miss Rosie — and we had a nice visit.

Bondi loves Rosie, and Rosie loves Bondi.

Bondi stayed with Miss Rosie for a long time, then she went to visit Lamar and they had a talk — catching up on the news, I guess.

Now I’ve got a couple hundred jewel cases I need to find something to do with.

“Maybe they can use them for crafts with the kids in Vacation Bible School,” Lamar suggested.

I’ve reached out and offered them to the VBS teachers and I think they’re going to take a bunch of them.

Miss Rosie admired my new kitchen cabinets. She’d like to have new cabinets, too.

“Peg’s got a couple of empty ones,” Mike said. “I could rent ‘em to ya.”

Yeah. Mine probably won’t stay empty forever.

I tried a new way to make cards for my girls. Rather than print, cut, and tape images to the card front, I printed directly on the card stock. It was interesting to try something different, but I like my cards better made the other way. I think the girls will be happy to get a card with words of love and encouragement no matter which method I use to make them.

I put a few finishing touches on my acrylic on canvas board painting.

“You know you asked me what would make me happy for my birthday?” my beautiful West Virginia gal asked. “That would make me extremely happy!”

She’s like me. At this stage in our lives, there’s very little we need. If having this as a birthday gift makes her happy, she can have it. Although, it doesn’t seem like much of a gift to me.

I packed it up and sent it to her.

This I know. I like watercolors. I decided if I’m going to keep painting with watercolors, I’m going to buy some new paints.

They came this week. Inside the tin was a card with all the color names. Maybe English is on the other side, I thought and flipped it over. It’s not. I guess I don’t need to know the color names to love them.

I couldn’t wait to try them but had to cool my jets. I was in the middle of playing cardholders and needed to get them off the table before I started anything else. When I finally had time, I used them to paint from one of my photos and I can tell the difference between my forty-year-old paints and the new ones.

This week has been so busy that I only had time to do one painting in my daily painting book.

I have a question for you.

There are lots of resources out there. I signed up for a couple of free watercolor courses but didn’t have time to attend the classes. They sent me a link to a recording of the class, but it would only be active for two days. Then it goes away. I didn’t find two hours to sit and do nothing but watch the class.

There are books out there, too. They start with the basics. Day one is color theory. Day two is mixing. Day three is making leaves, and so on and so forth.

What do all y’all think? Should I go back to basics? Or should I just keep on doing what I’m already doing?

“Peg, you’re a crappy artist and you should throw all your paints away!” you say.

If you think that, I want to know that, too. 

<<<<>>>>>

Good news! Good news!

“Tell me!” you say.

My baby Zebra Finches have fledged! The first one out of the nest was a little white one.

“I have an albino!” I told all my peeps. Now I have to take it back. If he was an albino, he’d have red eyes. Mine doesn’t. That means he’s a white finch.

It was two days later before another baby fledged. This one, and the one remaining in the nest, are both gray.

In a couple of weeks, their beaks should turn orange. At two to three months of age, they should get their adult plumage color.

You should hear these babies! At first, I could barely hear them, but now they raise a raucous ruckus! That means they are so loud!

With that, let's call this one done!