In The Shade

A friend called me from the Coast today and we chatted for 45 minutes, something I will rarely do, except with those whom I have known intimately for years, so that the absence of the physical gesture can be filled in by my memory.  We chatted, but she wanted something serious, my advice on what was troubling her these days, an inclination to let things go.  It concerned her.  She is sixty five or thereabouts, employed part time, whether to fill time or her pocketbook, it's hard to say.  But she has noticed that she often is uninterested in pursuing what she knows are worthwhile activities.  For instance, a friend recently berated her ever so gently for claiming to be deeply concerned about environmental pollution, but not willing to get out and demonstrate against the pipeline.  What does it mean? she said.  I am eighty three, said I, and I do not demonstrate, what is worse do not read the relevant newspaper articles to follow the pro's and con's of the issue.  I am dropping off the map, so I was not the one to give an answer.  Today has been very hot and muggy, and my husband and I sat under the pergola shaded by the wisteria, entertaining two friends for a (well, if I do say so myself) fabulous chicken dish of my invention, followed by an exquisite strawberry tart with perfect pastry crust (brought by one of our guests), along with a nice enough white wine.  I have been suffering for over a week now with horrendous arthritic pain in my knee and leg, a very new experience for me, but as we all know the common fate of old timers.  I can't seem to get beyond the pain, and sink back into the indolence of the delightful meal in the shade of the wisteria.  I have created a scene of extraordinary luxe, calme et volupté which agreeably challenges the random sharp pains that shoot through my leg and knee.  So I am not the least bit comfortable, in fact suffering rather much, but adapting myself to the illusion of goodness by living in the fantasy of the lovely day, maybe a Renoir day in the shade of the wisteria, with the delicious bits of chicken there on the platter before me.  I am supposed to go to Manhattan in ten days time.  It will be my July visit, but it will not make up for days lost when the pain was simply too extreme to go there at the beginning of June.  I went for three days last week, and in fact I am just back, because I very much wanted to see a friend in her recent play, and I was going to test the waters.  It was so difficult to get  about in my pain, I felt so buffeted by all the busy, hurried, laughing, happy young people about me, afraid maybe, certainly disinclined to go back.  I doubt that I will go in July despite the blessed relief of getting away from all the local village idiots who feel compelled to shoot off Fourth of July explosions for days on end.  My husband is scheduled to have a serious medical procedure shortly.  That will concentrate my attention, and I will feel some real purpose attending to him.  I won't have to think about anything.