Travel notes.
Subtitle: Keep it all in the family?
Got home safe and sound woke up the next day, drank half a cup of coffee, and wound up at the doc-in-the-box. Funny thing, after going through it all? The doc gave me the exact same kind of medicine Sister was on.
I was in and out in less than two minutes, armed with a script for some antibiotics. A transcript, it went a little like this:
“I just got back from being with family (no mention of overseas travel or ten hours in a confined space), and Sister came down with some infection, and she probably passed it on to me.”
“Did it have name?”
“Huh?”
“Like ‘monkey pox’ or ‘SARS,’ or ‘Swine Flu’?”
Grin. “No.”
He felt, listened, looked and wrote a prescription for some dope that’ll get me all better. After one day, I already feel better.
I’m wondering if this qualifies as a family tradition, the getting sick and spreading it all around. Happens every other year, or so it seems.
Travel notes: the anchovy forks:
Sister and I have a long running feud that stems from a love of anchovies. It started as children, I’m sure, and given my sister’s propensity to stretch and mold the truth to for any applicable situation, I’m not sure just exactly how reliable she’ll be as a source.
The problem cropped up several years ago after our parents had moved into their retirement home, a new place, all on one floor, and only three bedrooms. As in, one bedroom for Ma Wetzel’s office, a bedroom for master’s beds, and a single guest bedroom. Which is a good idea as it precludes any chance of Sister or me trying to move back in. Not that it would happen, but you never can tell what the whims of Fortune’s gentle zephyrs will do.
Somehow, we’d wound up in Dallas at the same time. So this was far enough in the distant past that I had a lover in Dallas, and I would stay with her, rather than impose on the good will of the parents. Plus my sister would be – perforce – out of my immediate business. Nothing’s more awkward than a bouncing Gemini at 5 in the morning, ‘Hi! Talk to me!”
So it was over Caesar Salad one night, and the two of us, Sister and me, we were gently arguing about who got the little tin of flat anchovy filets. Ma Wetzel noted the discord and in her matronly attempt at harmony, there appeared two cans of filets at the next meeting. And ever more.
So Sister, in her wisdom, as is her wont, employed her wisdom on this diverse occasion, procured two jars of special anchovy filets, done British style, complete with a little anchovy fork shrink-wrapped to the jar. That was the fun part. Really, the anchovies are less of a meal and more like a little love token, an offering.
I love them. She did point out that the anchovies are really rather good during peak stress times, as well as peak physical labor, “Oh yes, lots of salt to replenish the salt you just sweated out, and then there’s the protein. It’s really good, too.”
I was just a little worried about the sodium, but she’s the microbiologist, so I can defer to her on this point.
I packed the two jars of anchovy filets, wondering about the forks. Less than three inches long, and by my standards, only good for digging anchovies out of the jar. But I separated the forks from the jars as I was carrying that precious cargo with me. Turns out that it was completely unnecessary, but I try to be as accommodating as possible.
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