I'm tired and sore but I know you are dying to know if I really called the store at 5 a.m. You know I did. Was there any doubt? Mr. Land was very nice and absolutely shocked that I would call at that hour. And, no, I didn't bring up the experience with his hateful brother. He'd probably heard about the uppity Negro anyway. He referred me to someone who does the work on his home. I guess you can't get a higher recommendation than that.
Waited for a decent hour to start calling all of the contractors I've been referred to. I NEED some water. Busy; busy; I'm busy. Realtors' office needs a paper signed. When will I be in Ripley? Moving in that direction. I got there just before the office closed at 5 p.m. Where were you all that time? I can't begin to tell you. I got a call from my favorite shopping place asking if I intended to complete the order. I thought they had reshelved everything. Assumed that the nitwit had wiped the order out of the computer and I would start from scratch. Okay, I'm on my way. If I can get the order finished before 2 p.m., I can have delivery on Saturday.
I left Home Depot at 1:50 p.m. I made sure I had toilets, kitchen sink, base cabinet, faucets, you name it. Only paying one delivery charge. The fly in the ointment this time wasn't the personnel but the computer system. Because I was purchasing tile, they had to use a more cumbersome system. Cumbersome is not the word. Obsolete would be better. Down I-40 I go.
Since it is a holiday weekend, people are taking off in droves and police are in the usual hiding places. "Click it or ticket" is in full drive. More calls coming in with regrets; backed-up, etc. Fine. I really don't need to answer the phone while driving. You can tell I'm still a novice at this cell phone thing. I should follow my own advice and let it ring.
Back to the subject. It is a 60-mile trip to Ripley from Cordova. An hour's drive. Sometimes more. But I'm not in a rush so I can look around. Flags popping up all over. One of the mini-mansions has every architectural feature the owner ever wanted and was determined to have: upper level decks, sunrooms, gazebos, white railing on every porch and upper level. You can see it for miles. In passing, I noticed that it sat beside a pond. Excuse me, they have two. One very large and then a mini-pond in front of the house.
Stopped at a glass company in Covington to see if they could provide an estimate on the cracked glass in the front door. Since the mother was talking about how she was trying to help her son out but wasn't good the computer, I asked her to let her son know that I was available for part-time clerical work. Turning onto Rte. 51, I see a thrift store that I have never had the time to visit. I'm not in a rush and pull in. Very good pieces along with not-so-good pieces. The owners are Black and invited me to visit their church. The husband is a deacon. Now, you already know that I don't want to drive the short distance to Henning. You can guess how I feel about driving 10 miles or so to Covington. Explained that it would be a while before I did but I'd get in touch. "He will direct your paths."
Back on the road. Hit the realtors' office and chatted a while. I received the distinct impression that one of the roofers I have asked for an estimate is not one I want to use. Down to the house to unload the car: weed killer, paper towels, things that I could carry with me. I NEED WATER.
Streets roll up early. It's 6 p.m. and the square is almost empty. Reminds me of the commercial in which the man yells "Where is everybody?" Headed back to Cordova, I pull out my GPS system and decide that I'll follow it instead of going the known route. It took me out of town a different way. A carnival is going on; cars parked everywhere. That's where quite a few of the people are.
This route takes me through Henning, Alex Haley's hometown. The locksmith said that Henning makes Ripley look like a blooming metropolis. I agree. A red caboose sits at permanent rest beside a sign that says "Henning Welcome Center." I wasn't sure if the caboose served as the center or was just a picturesque sidebar. I've told Mr. Magellan that I want the shortest route home. After all, I've had a very early and busy day. I'm tired. Why did that silly machine drop me right back on Rt. 51? That's the route I take anyway!
Mr. Magellan's ladies and I got into a mild disagreement on route 70. They wanted to go straight; I wanted to turn. Guess who won? Ding, ding, ding. "Make a legal u-turn"; Ding-ding-ding. "Make a legal u-turn in .4 miles." Ding, ding, ding. "As soon as you are able, make a u-turn." We're going straight, sister. "Calculating the route." Thank you.
I decided to let them lead once we got back on I-40. Wrong move. Didn't I say the shortest distance? They did, however, introduce me to more of Shelby County's towns. (For the newcomers, Memphis is in Shelby County.) Major, major homes. Somebody's got money down here. On Dexter Road. Are you sure? I haven't seen these homes before. I knew I shouldn't have followed this thing, I just knew it. Oh, make a turn on this street? And this one? Here we are the complex. Amazing. I still think it took me a longer time to get home.
I was dozing typing this; however, I am now wide awake. The patio door is open and a sound I hadn't heard before, like electrical wires burning, starts. I go to the door to investigate. Is it the electrical room? No smoke. Sounds like rain, maybe. Not rain. Leave the apartment and stroll out to the front. It's the sprinkler system, stupid. I notice that I've become more jumpy since leaving D.C. Not a good thing.
I'll catch you up on Saturday later. In the meantime, please pray for Sen. Ophelia Ford. She has serious issues and needs prayer and immediate help.