At breakfast a guest tells me about Art Garfunkel and his rules for last night’s evening of entertainment. The theater usually serves drinks and dinner just before the show starts. The concertgoers are always “very respectful”, she said. “No one is loud or obnoxious but Art Garfunkel banned us from eating and drinking.They sent an email prior to the show to let us know no one was allowed to leave their seats, not even to go to the bathroom.”
A cell phone rang during Sounds of Silence. An embarrassed elderly man apologized for his forgetfulness but despite that Art Garfunkel “had a hissy fit and walked off the stage only to quickly return and lecture the audience on the fact there should be nothing more important than listening to the music he was sharing,” my guest said. “He humiliated that poor old guy. So I got up and went to the bathroom.”
“Did you leave after that?” I asked.
“No, of course not. I mean I understand the whole cell phone thing but he can’t make bathroom rules like that. Besides, he should have handled the cell phone thing a little more tactfully. I hope they mention his pompous attitude in the Hartford Courant review.”
I like her feisty attitude and notice she is reading a book by Sue Monk Kidd, a writer in my genre, so I pitch my latest novel, Life Is All This, then give her my card and she tells me she will Like me on Facebook.
Back in the kitchen, Rich says, “You have to learn to use your morning voice.” I tell him I don’t think enthusiasm is a bad thing, especially for an innkeeper and a writer trying to sell one book at a time.
A fly fisherman and his friend, here to fish the Farmington River, check in late in the afternoon. After bringing their bags to their room, Rich joins them on the front porch and they share their beers with him. An hour later, he returns to our side of the house to tell me their story.
“They’ve played semi-pro all over the world. Basketball,” then caught himself using that broken English French Canadians use, mixing up their nouns and verbs, so he repeated it because he loves the way it sounds. This time he makes it one sentence and puts the emphasis on “ket”.
“They played all over the world bas-ket-ball.”
In the morning they are the first ones down to breakfast and Rich tells them about Art Garfunkel.
“Unbelievable!” the basketball player turned fisherman shouts. “I kinda thought he was like that. He’s nobody without Paul Simon, you know what I mean? NO BODY. UN-BE-LIEVABLE.”
When Rich returns to the kitchen to make the guy’s mushroom spinach omelet, I say,
“Wow, that guy is loud. I should be married to him, then I wouldn’t have to learn to use my morning voice. We could just shout and laugh all day.”
Last night some of our clothes made it into our closets. Toiletries found their way to our bathroom. My skin is crying out for moisturizer.
My feet are dark blue and I am getting nervous about my appointment on Tuesday and what the doctor will tell me. Last week when I asked if we would see improvement next week, he said, “No, we are looking for no further damage.” So I sit on one office chair on wheels and put my ice covered feet on another, hoping they don’t roll apart.