The Photograph

An excerpt from one of my journals

Retiring to the front porch with a dewy glass of sparkling pink is definitely in order after a day like today. Receiving the long stem of crystal in one hand and a plate of brie and olives in the other, I follow my knight in shining armour to the comfort of our white wicker chairs on the front porch. After stretching out my stubby but shiny legs I realize how much more work we are in for. The porch of our turn of the century home is in vital need of replacing. The wood, I'm sure, is only being held together with the remainder of flaking white paint. We will keep the 60's cement slab and tear down the rest. We decide together that it would be doable to put the original look back on the house with a veranda over top. I sigh thinking that he really is my true knight for that is exactly what this lady wanted to hear.

Puddles remain on the recently widened pathway leading up to our front door. There is a constant dripping reminder of the moisture that had fallen throughout the day. The rain collected in various trees, the neighbour's roof and our leaf-filled gutters. The sky is grey and quiet. A fantasy plays in mind where there is a mute button for county road traffic. That would be appreciated and provide a complete and perfect feeling of serenity.

Pain begins to ebb through my battered feet as the numbness fades from my heels. The reality of using long strides, forced with short legs compounded with a full day of hammering the tongue and groove pine floors with my soles has begun to set in. I sigh and smile as I recall the collection of local and frequent out-of-town visitors. I believe nearly every hat and pair of gloves were paraded around the tearoom today. I snuggled new babies, baked huge quantities of scones, hugged some of my favourite regulars, whipped cream until I could hear the cows complaining from the fields, and embraced the reality that I was going to do it all again come Monday.

After a few sips of raspberry wine, I put my head back and breathed in deeply, smelling the wetness of the garden out front. My toes seem to be holding onto the nail polish I applied to them weeks ago for a Sunday outing. My feet could really use a good soak in a hot tub of Angels Wish Tea. The combination of relaxing lavender, rose petals, and revitalizing Rooibos, not only provides some much-needed aromatherapy but also would do my puffy puppies good. I could even give myself a pedicure while I'm at it. Or, I could fill my glass again and just think about doing it. Sip a little more, write a little more, watch people on the main street a little more.

There's a woman getting out of her car with a camera in one hand and keys dangling in the other. She's telling an older woman; with a voice the entire neighbourhood can hear (despite the speeding trucks and tractor-trailers), to get out of the car. The elder woman obliges by carefully creaking the door half-open. Slowly a foot hangs out from the bottom while a withered hand grasps the edge of the window frame. Her head and body are still out of view. Now two feet stretch out and point toward the sidewalk with her head and shoulders creaking out from the side of the heavy car door. She remains in a crumpled position as she shuffles to the sidewalk.

There's the teapot! Stand over there, mother. No, not there - there. Oh no, I don't want the car in the picture. Stand on the path Mother.

The younger woman was checking her lens cap and eyeing up her options. A crackling withered voice breaks through the early evening chirping songs of the crickets. Oh look, there's a big teacup.

Excitement bates the all-new prospect of the ultimate tea pot photograph.

Mother, is that a giant teacup? It's so cute. Stand with it. Stand with it just like this so I can take the picture. Now don't move. Mother, don't move. I have to go over here now.

After one final adjustment to Mother, the fussy one heads toward the path leading away from the giant teapot. She seems as though she is literally bubbling as she takes exaggerated snappy footsteps on the crushed limestone.

Dear, there's dirt in it! Mother's voice is starting to snap and crackle.

That's okay Mother, it looks like coffee.

Position and pose. Right hip out, toe forward, leaning in with a singing voice, Okay.

Steady as she goes. I swear she is going to fall in the Yellow Potentilla bush. Why am I sitting here? Why don't I offer to take the picture for them? My husband gives me the look. The look that tells me that they are fine and I need to just sit and mind my own business. But there is a sweet spot just a little further down the path. I would have to straddle the White Potentilla and push the periwinkle aside with my foot a little, but that's the perfect spot. That spot was a discovery I made earlier in the year while trying to accomplish exactly the same goal for several others. I should mark the spot with a special stepping stone, a cement slab hidden in the garden with an X marking the perfect place to take the perfect giant teapot picture. But, then again, maybe it's more fun this way.

She repositions herself with her right toe pointing forward… inching more forward… leaning in and over a little… a few shifts with the hip and maybe…

Click!

Poor Mother. I do feel for this woman. I would have to assume the domineering brunette is indeed her daughter. Anyone else would've noticed that mother needed a little more compassion. Or did she? I didn't once hear any complaining. She simply complied with an on cue smile. And all the while I sat quietly, unnoticed, watching the tourists in my garden, waiting for them to take their perfect photograph. Too bad they missed the dining experience.

As they load themselves back into the four door-sedan, I sip a little more. While they drive away, I sink into my wicker chair a little deeper. By the time the sound of their exhaust dissipates into the dusk I've decided that maybe a refill is in order and that I would skip the foot soak.