After two weeks of nursing that ankle, I finally went to the podiatrist yesterday. He x-rayed it and saw severe tendonitis, the result of my walking awkwardly while I favored that ankle. He said if I had not come in when I did, I would have developed stress fractures in a couple of days.
So I'm doing a little work around the house, then sitting down for half an hour with my foot up. It's very frustrating, as I'd like to be getting a lot done around the house and it ain't happening.
But as I move a few boxes around and settle a few things in the kitchen, I remember a story from Memorial Day weekend of 1996.
John and I had just bought our beloved house on Irving Street overlooking the National Zoo. (I always say he bought me a house instead of a big diamond.) We were to move on Monday, and Saturday I had set the day aside to pack up the kitchen and as many other things as I could. John's daughter and son-in-law were coming over to help me with the packing.
On Friday night we walked from his house on Argonne over to our favorite restaurant, Cashion's Eat Place on Columbia Road. As we walked out the front door of the house, we realized it was raining. So we walked a half block over to Harvard, where his car was parked. He opened the trunk, pulled out his golf clubs, extracted his golf umbrella, replaced the clubs, locked the car, and off we went.
The next morning he had his normal oh-dark-thirty tee time. I was not pleased that he was going to the club when his kids were going to be there helping me. He should be right there with us, making this move happen.
He dressed, walked out to the car, and opened the trunk to put something in his golf bag. Oops. It was no longer there. Some
Or the Universe decided it was in his best interest to be a good husband for the weekend.
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