Dear Readers, here is another installment in "Grammys Place", the fictitious bed & breakfast aspect to my blog.
Home and Garden Editor of the Whistlestop Weekly
After spending a delightful afternoon at Grammys Place Bed and Breakfast a couple of weeks ago, I determined that not much time would pass before I returned to interview the proprietors. They have a charming establishment, serve delicious food, and have become a popular destination for travelers in our area. I called ahead of time, speaking to Grateful Grammy herself, to make an appointment for our visit and a tour of the grounds.
Imagine my surprise, however, when I arrived at the agreed-upon time, to have no one answer when I rang the doorbell. I rang several times, each time hearing the chimes to the Hallelujah Chorus, but nobody appeared behind the etched-glass front door. The thought crossed my mind that they couldn't all be deaf. What could they be doing that would prevent them from responding when they knew I was coming?
I remained on the porch, trying to decide whether to be offended or if I should worry that they were all involved in some mishap when this little kid appeared in the driveway, pushing his scooter up the incline. He was a curious-looking little guy with stick-straight hair that covered his eyes. He was apparently the son of either a liberal or an inattentive mother because half of his locks were dyed lime green.
|Rowdy, the neighborhood kid|
"Oh say there, young man," I called out to him. "Do you know if these people are here today? I have an appointment to interview Grateful Grammy this morning."
Looking up from his scooter he stopped and squinted at me through those strands of long hair, then spoke. "Oh yes, ma'am! They are here; somebody's always here. I'll take you inside. We'll find 'em."
And before I could protest or think of a comeback, he was pushing open the front door and motioning for me to follow him. Then in a loud voice he called out, "Grammy! Where are yoooou? Ya got company!"
A female voice called out, from some distance away in the house, "Down here, Rowdy! Come to the basement stairs!"
He again motioned me to follow him as we walked down a hall, past the dining room and the kitchen. We came to a doorway with a staircase going down to a lower level. Each stair had a free-standing floor fan; all were lined up much like school children organized for an activity. At the stair landing stood the woman I was pretty sure to be Grateful Grammy, although she did not at all look like she was expecting me for an interview.
|Grateful Grammy and the floor fans|
"Uh, hello!" I called down to her. "I'm Eves Dropping, from the Whistlestop Weekly, here for your interview."
For a moment she looked a bit bewildered in her apron, with a sheep's wool dust mop in hand; but she quickly recovered herself and smiled up at me. "My goodness, Ms Dropping, I completely forgot! I am soooo sorry!" She began climbing up the steps, wiping her hands on the blue apron, and running a hand over her hair to fluff it up a bit.
"You see," she continued as she reached the top step, "this is the first day of the month and I always clean the furnace room on this day every month. We're also sending all of the floor fans downstairs for cleaning and winter storage. I'm afraid that when I woke up this morning I just got so busy with the house cleaning routines that our interview completely skipped my mind! This is embarrassing!"
I could see that the dear woman was indeed, chagrined. I had no desire to make this more difficult for her than it already was, not because I'm not a ruthless reporter (for I am), but because I rather liked her place and hoped to be welcome in the future for more home and garden stories for the newspaper. All things considered, it seemed that the best solution would be to reschedule the interview and leave quickly with a pleasant attitude.
Relieved at my offer to come another time, Grateful Grammy walked with me to the front door for my exit. I couldn't help but notice yet another interesting sight as we passed the living room, just off of the entry hall.
|Beloved cleans the ceiling fan|
I stopped for a better look at someone hanging from the ceiling fan, with a dust mop in his hand. Grammy followed my eyes and looked nothing short of horrified to see her husband, who is recovering from recent knee replacement surgery, literally hanging by one hand from the centerpiece of the ceiling fan, while trying to take swipes in the air toward the fan blades. She rushed over to stand underneath him, and then, seeing his ladder that had fallen to the floor, grabbed it with both of her hands to set it upright. He deftly grabbed hold of the top rung with his feet and steadied himself.
"Thanks, Honey!" he said to her, and we both were convinced he sincerely meant it! He went on to explain, "I was reaching out to dust that last blade when I lost my balance and the ladder went crashing down to the floor. You appeared just as I had begun to think I would lose my grip!"
He recovered himself and was making his way down the ladder. Grammy was embarrassed enough that she did not even think to introduce me to her husband. I think she just wanted to usher me out the door as quickly as possible so she could forget this most embarrassing day.
I guess I should just keep the events of this morning to myself. But will I?