Doctor’s Appointment and Day Trip

by Bella Rum

I had an appointment with my cardiologist at 9:00am yesterday. I’m not fond of him. He is a peculiar man, but he wouldn’t bother me a bit if he checked my groceries at the Food Lion, or if he tuned up my car or even if he was a member of my family, but he’s the guy responsible for my heart if something goes wrong. I love weird people. Really, I do. My crazy Aunt Ruby is one of my favorite relatives – in small doses – but he’s my cardiologist, for Pete’s sake. He looks like a character in that Tobey Maguire movie, Pleasantville. I almost see him in black & white tones or sepia. His matching shirt/sweater vest/tie combos, complete with pressed & creased pants and tasselled loafers are only the surface, though. The real problem is that I cannot communicate with him. He’s socially awkward. I can’t imagine that he’s married, but I can imagine what his kids would look like: they’d wear suspenders, bow ties and tasselled loafers and sport Alfalfa haircuts. My doctor is Alfalfa all grown up.  alfalfa

H, who has a knack for turning unpleasant days into fun days, suggested that, after my appointment, we drive over to Colonial Beach and eat at a seafood restaurant on the water. It was a beautiful day. The air was crystal clear, and the sky was cornflower-blue with cirrus clouds that – when you squinted – looked a little like Donald Trump’s hair, which I’ve recently been compelled to study… closely. When I see him, I press pause, scrutinize, roll it back, pause, scrutinize, go forward, pause, scrutinize… Can you believe I’m admitting this? That is some hairdo and deserves examination. I’d love to see it when he gets out of the shower. Now, mind you, I have no place to judge. If you could only see me when I get out of the shower. There would be no pausing; fast-forward would be your best option.

a photo I shot in November of 2011 – from a post about The Streets of Colonial Beach

colonial-beach

So we spent our Veteran’s day eating seafood, looking out at the water and driving around a charming, early twentieth-century town. Last night, our seven-year-old grandson called. He said, “Nona, I’d like to congratulate grandpa for being a veteran.” Oh, my gosh. Grandchildren are the best ever. Rhett once told Scarlett that if admiration was what she wanted, she’d have to wait for grandchildren. Ain’t that the truth? So he talked to H and said good things. Pretty sweet stuff if you can get it.

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