On my bedroom dresser sits a little bank that knows how to keep track of the loose change I occasionally deposit in it, and it displays the amount it contains for all to see. Yesterday one coin dropped through the slot but the number on the display didn’t change. I had not been paying attention up to that point, so I dumped everything out to investigate. Eventually I got to the root of the problem; I discovered a coin the size of a dime but the color of a penny that wasn’t one of ours at all. Probably Canadian or British, I thought, but no -- the woman’s head on one side was definitely not Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor-Mountbatten. Taking off my glasses to have a better look (doesn’t everybody do that?), I saw that one side of the coin read “1 cent 1967” and the other side had the words “Juliana Koningen der Nederlanden”
-- a Dutch coin! Perhaps
Carolina was just passing through on her way to feed Evie and Naloma and Willem? Perhaps Joran van der Sloot escaped from his Peruvian prison and ate lunch at our local Subway? Perhaps I have too vivid an imagination? Anyway, finding a coin from Holland in my change was a first for me.
Mrs. RWP and I drove all the way into downtown Atlanta yesterday, a distance of about 40 miles (80 roundtrip, in case anyone is counting) to obtain for our daughter a copy of her marriage certificate. The Fulton County Courthouse is just one block from the State Capitol Building. We drove in on I-75 but came back on surface streets just to be different. Along the way we passed Northside Drive Baptist Church where Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter attended while he was governor of Georgia, and we passed the runway at Dobbins Air Force Base where Air Force One always lands whenever the current occupant of the White House comes to town, and we passed the Big Chicken in Marietta, best-known landmark of all locally. Eventually we got back home after stopping for lunch in Canton. We each had a Roast Chicken Club Sandwich with Curly Fries and a Senior Drink (root beer) at Arby’s because we didn’t want to risk running into Joran van der Sloot at the Subway.
We had a bad thunderstorm last evening, this front being what was left of the one that spawned the terrible tornado in Joplin, Missouri, earlier this week. Once again we were out on the road, headed to a program at our grandson’s school. The sky was black and the winds were high and it was raining too hard to call it cats and dogs, more like horses. I would not have been surprised to see Evie and Naloma and Willem falling out of the sky. Someone reported grapefruit-sized hail north of us and another reported baseball-sized hail, but I think the reports must have been exaggerated. The weather man on the car radio said that the TTI (Tornado Threat Index) was only a 3 out of a possible 10. Our rain gauge, when we returned home, contained more than two inches of water.
My neighbors have gotten a new doggie, a miniature Schnauzer, and have decided to put up a fence so that their pet can have the run of the back yard. The surveyors came and erected three stakes, complete with bright pink ribbons flapping in the breeze, along the property line. Jethro doesn’t know quite what to make of these new additions and is even a little spooked. I’m sure he will follow all ensuing events with interest and report back to us.
Today I have to attend a wedding rehearsal at 1:30 for the wedding tomorrow afternoon of 82-year-old Andy and his 80-year-old bride, Ann, where I will be playing piano. And no, their names are not Raggedy. No modern music for them, thank you. They have requested “O Promise Me,” “Because,” Noel Stookey’s “Wedding Song,” and Albert Hay Malotte’s “The Lord’s Prayer.”
Keep your eyes peeled. You never know what you might find.
