Mr. Weston's recovery is going well. He is up and about and we have named his crutches - Betty and Al. Thank you to those of you who sent good wishes. So very kind and most appreciated.
Yesterday while at work, I picked up my phone and heard, "Hello, gorgeous." Thinking that it was a lunatic I was about to hang up but quickly recognized the voice of my always-makes-one-feel-good Stereo Friend. "You need a night off from nursing. Come over and wine will be handed to you at the door."
How could I refuse? Besides, it was plain that Mr. Weston was relieved to have a night off from his "Are you following the doctor's instructions?" nurse. He was left in the capable yet more lenient paws of Nurse Puppy Weston.
My Stereo Friend kept his promise. He handed me a glass of wine while his partner took my coat. Wine in hand, I was ushered to the stereo and encouraged to pick out a stack of albums to play during dinner. What a treat. What a collection. He has albums as well as 45s for which one must attach a little tower type adapter in order to play.
Looking through the albums was like being sent back in time to when my brother and I were really little and my parents and their friends entertained.
When my parents hosted parties, my mother would put on an exotic ensemble and let me help by putting potato chips in a bowl and pressing the on/off button on the blender as she made clam dip. (As an aside, I asked her to make this for Christmas and I all but took the bowl to another room to enjoy on my own.)
Dad would be in a shirt and tie - his coat hanging on a dining room chair ready to put on when the guests came. My brother would help him make a fire in the fireplace and bring out glasses for drinks.
When others entertained, if a sitter was not available, we were made to go in our loathsome pajamas. This was especially mortifying at one house since I was in love with the teen aged son who could not distinguish me from a tree.
Depending on the house, we were relegated to an exercise room with cot and a cast off TV, a frilly, floral guest room where we were instructed not to touch anything, or a basement den with a bar. This den was a conundrum of adult wonderments. There was a pool table, a German helmet with a bullet hole in it, and this light:
We were instructed not to even go near the pool table but one night out of boredom, mixed our own drinks at the bar. Our creations were distasteful to juvenile palettes so we poured the drinks back into the bottles. Apparently the wrong bottles as we were sternly informed when trouble ensued.
At these parties, the adults would play albums on their old stereos. They seemed to have hundreds of albums. I remember this one in particular because it was highly annoying to adults to have children inquire about this young lady's unusual attire.
My stereo friend has this album and of course I selected it to play. Dinner was enhanced by the Tijuana Brass. Alas, there was no clam dip but this has been promised for next time.
T. and F., thank you again for your gracious hospitality.
Yesterday while at work, I picked up my phone and heard, "Hello, gorgeous." Thinking that it was a lunatic I was about to hang up but quickly recognized the voice of my always-makes-one-feel-good Stereo Friend. "You need a night off from nursing. Come over and wine will be handed to you at the door."
How could I refuse? Besides, it was plain that Mr. Weston was relieved to have a night off from his "Are you following the doctor's instructions?" nurse. He was left in the capable yet more lenient paws of Nurse Puppy Weston.
My Stereo Friend kept his promise. He handed me a glass of wine while his partner took my coat. Wine in hand, I was ushered to the stereo and encouraged to pick out a stack of albums to play during dinner. What a treat. What a collection. He has albums as well as 45s for which one must attach a little tower type adapter in order to play.
| Turntable with gadget for 45s. |
When my parents hosted parties, my mother would put on an exotic ensemble and let me help by putting potato chips in a bowl and pressing the on/off button on the blender as she made clam dip. (As an aside, I asked her to make this for Christmas and I all but took the bowl to another room to enjoy on my own.)
Dad would be in a shirt and tie - his coat hanging on a dining room chair ready to put on when the guests came. My brother would help him make a fire in the fireplace and bring out glasses for drinks.
When others entertained, if a sitter was not available, we were made to go in our loathsome pajamas. This was especially mortifying at one house since I was in love with the teen aged son who could not distinguish me from a tree.
Depending on the house, we were relegated to an exercise room with cot and a cast off TV, a frilly, floral guest room where we were instructed not to touch anything, or a basement den with a bar. This den was a conundrum of adult wonderments. There was a pool table, a German helmet with a bullet hole in it, and this light:
| This is it exactly. Cannot believe that I found a photo of it. |
At these parties, the adults would play albums on their old stereos. They seemed to have hundreds of albums. I remember this one in particular because it was highly annoying to adults to have children inquire about this young lady's unusual attire.
| "Don't ask questions!" my exasperated father would exclaim. |
My stereo friend has this album and of course I selected it to play. Dinner was enhanced by the Tijuana Brass. Alas, there was no clam dip but this has been promised for next time.
T. and F., thank you again for your gracious hospitality.
