Summering

I recently sat next to the Henwife at knitting group. I like the Henwife. She knits beautiful garments from ethereal plasma. And she keeps excellent hens. And rides to hounds. And has a house in France. ("Oh, it's just such a mess," she says. "My husband inherited it and sometimes I just wish he'd sell it." Yeah. I can imagine.)

The Henwife was knitting next to me while I crocheted. We discussed her recent trip to the opera festival and she asked me where I would be vacationing this summer.

At my advanced age, I am finally, finally learning something about human interaction.

For example: For years when people asked me if I saw such and such a TV show, I would say that I didn't have cable or an antenna. They looked at me like I had two heads. I eventually learned to avoid explaining my cheapskatedness by saying, "Oh, I missed that. What happened?" Because I realized that people didn't give a damn if I'd seen the show - they just wanted to talk about what they thought of the show.

Henwife's question wasn't so she could lord it over me that the house in France, etc. etc. She was making conversation.

My only thought of getting away has been to Happy Valley to revisit the nuns and the silence and the river. And the food. It turns out Happy Valley has raised its prices. Almost doubled them, in fact, but it's still a deal.

And it turns out to be exactly what Dr. Yeeeooow charges for one visit.

I replied that I hoped to go to Happy Valley - hey, I'm still hoping - and we went on to discuss the beauty and joys of Happy Valley.

Meanwhile, I have accepted that Mrs. Snootyville truly is Mrs. Snootyville and has no time for the likes of me. You don't have to be super sensitive or a genius to figure this out. There is one person and one person only in the group that she seems to like. It's only natural, because everyone likes Mrs. R. for her accepting good nature, charity work although she herself is far from wealthy, among other good things.

Mrs. Snootyville ran along some dialogue about where her son would be going for his PhD. He had his MFA from the University of Iowa (oh. Instant author.) and was considering going to the Southern Illinois University. "I don't know where that is," said Mrs. S and went on.

Quietly, to the Henwife, I said, "I would think it would be in Illinois. Somewhere in the south."

Henwife laughed quietly and said, "Becs, you're funny! Who knew?"