Guided by Voices

It is Martin Luther King Day and I am tired. The last 48 hours or so have been a whirlwind of activity around here. My friend Don was here Saturday and Sunday. He and his friend Cathy were traveling from Los Angeles to North Carolina where he is taking up permanent residence. Last night, I had a bunch of folks over for dinner since Don was in town.

By the way, this is why I didn’t do the usual Sunday post. The only reason I mention this is that I have gotten a few inquiries about it. It is gratifying to know that people actually read this stuff.

My house, like many of the houses here in the People’s Republic of Hillcrest, is small. But it has a large deck, a spacious kitchen and a nice porch. When the weather is nice, people can spread through out the house or go outside. I have had a lot of fun here. Last night was no exception. I had stuff going on the grill and on the stove. Everybody brought a little something. And soon my little house was full of the happy sounds of friends talking and laughing.

I used to entertain with something approaching frequency. Indeed, my brother John once dubbed this section of real estate “The F Street Sports Bar.” People have always felt free to just show up for something to eat or drink, with emphasis on the latter. From this porch swing I have fed and watered happy people, depressed people, drunks, psychopaths, liars and saints. I have dispensed whisky and legal advice in equal measure. I have urged second helpings while withholding judgment. Sometimes troubled souls just need a place to light for a bit, somewhere where nobody will read them the Riot Act.

Here is a secret that I have learned from years of this ministry: Want to know a sure fire way to help a woman stop quit crying? If you are cooking, give her a bit of something for her to taste. Ask her what she thinks it needs. Works every time. Really. I once, with a hastily produced buffalo wing, staved off a complete meltdown this one woman was having over an exceedingly dubious relationship with a coworker.

Her: "How could I have done this? How did I get myself into this situation?"

Me: "Here. Eat this."

Her: "Gee. That's good.

Me: "How about another?"

Her: "Sure. Thanks. Got any more wine?"

Of course, if you don’t happen to be cooking at the time or if you happen to be the reason for the crying jag, you are pretty much stuck. And while I don't have any experience with crying men in the house, I suppose there's no reason it wouldn't work with them either. If "Why don't you dry the hell up?" didn't work first

Anyway, somewhere along the line I just kind of stopped having people over. In fact, as I sit and write this, I’ll bet that last night was the first time I’ve had folks over since last spring or so. I had forgotten how good it is to hear other voices floating back to me in the kitchen. I had forgotten there are two ways of learning who is coming through the front door: People don’t knock. Instead they call out “Knock, knock!” Secondly, as each person shows up, they are greeted by everyone else hollering out his or her name. Who needs an intercom?

And I had forgotten how happy these sounds have always made me.

Proving once again that great minds think alike, I was cornered in the kitchen by Karen as I was loading the dishwasher.

K: “Ya know it’s been a long time since you’ve done something like this.”

Me: “I know. It has.”

K: “You need to get back to having people over. Everybody always has so much fun and you enjoy doing it so much. Ok?” She had the “agree with me or I will hit you in the head look.”

Me: “You’re right. OK.”

And she is right.

So let’s put it this way: The F Street Sports Bar, along with the proprietor, was closed for renovations. It is now back in business.

It will be good to hear the voices again.