1. New York Leftovers
I crossed the St. Lawrence River from Canada to New York windows wide open. The temperature dropped, bringing joy to driving the Thousand Islands Bridge solo despite the lack of anyone to describe the beauty of the amazing world passing below — a world of clear water, of sunlight bouncing off the waves, of dream homes on islands just large enough for a dream home, of boats cruising the lazy river winding between the many islands, of a world far away from mine. As I drove across, the cool air a sort of consolation prize, I smiled to myself, breathed deeply, and upon reaching the southern shore continued on to Rochester.
That evening, Chachi Bette took treated me to a hip dinner at a hip restaurant she knew in a hip location on a hip street and a old, storied part of Rochester. We walked past big houses and elegant mansions as evening settled and the number of diners on the sidewalks diminished. The next day she took me for a walk thru the nearby cemetery, up hilly drives under towering trees beside gravestones some of which were so weathered that you could read nothing even if you stooped to look. And she took me on another walk later thru the nearby park, up hilly sidewalks and up a long cascade of steps, by one of the city’s reservoirs that usually hold water pumped from the Finger Lakes but were empty for maintenance.
On the evening of that second day, I kept to myself the soreness in my hips brought on by our hilly walks as I did a load of laundry (which I swear was not why I stopped by) and as Bette sat at the Oak table in her dining room cutting onions and peppers and olives and rutabagas and what-all for a tuna-pasta salad that we feasted on later. Ok, I thought: rutabagas fine, but the olives I left for her. She made so much salad, there was plenty for my next day’s drive back to Michigan, where I arrived with a few hours of daylight left.
And oh, was I grateful for Bette’s leftover pasta salad, which I devoured in an instant.
2. Michigan Leftovers
Back in Michigan, I walked alone around the cottage in the cool summertime breeze blowing off the lake. There were things to do inside and out, front and back, upstairs and down, putting away some things, cleaning some things, and packing others, all mixed with sitting on the hill, looking out on the afternoon sunlight glistening on water, listening to Bluejays and Kingfishers and the Great Blue Heron and yes the lonely Loon, and noticing the Hummingbird that had noticed the new Tiger Lily blossom.
Janet came over to announce dinner would be at six. Earlier, she and I had collaborated on the assembly some newly-arrived (and I must say unpleasant-to-assemble) chairs so she and Kent may entertain larger crowds on their deck in a breeze overlooking the water from the top of the hill where their cottage sits. When we had finished the final chair with no leftover hardware (because with me a hardware check is always in order), after I had checked that all the screws were tight (because I pictured with horror one of them sitting back only to have the chair give way), only then did I deploy the chairs to the deck. And I kept my soreness to myself as I stood with a silent old-man’s groan from where we had been sitting.
As announced, dinner was at 6:00. We had pulled pork and chicken and baked beans and cole slaw. And mac and cheese. There was plenty for the three of us and then some. So as Kent announced it was time for him to do the dishes, Janet packed some of the leftovers for me to take with me on my trek back to Texas. And at the end of that next day, after many hours driving south on what was supposed to be a short driving day, I arrived at my camp site with just enough time before dark to eat.
And oh, was I grateful for Janet’s leftover pork and beans and mac and cheese, which I devoured in an instant.