Carols and Daves

Painted Gourd Lady
water pipe cover

I’m trying not to be a fatalist, otherwise I’d have to believe in reincarnation, just to explain things.  But the Forces at Work show me glimmers of the improbable, just to make me believe in the possible.

I’ve been accused of making up names for people, which happens to be true; sometimes because my memory is so dismal, other times not, like the co-worker who waltzed into my office one day, head-to-toe in purple.  Barney was born.

I distinguish between a couple via He-Tracy and She-Tracey.  I called a fellow artesan Mona Lisa for the first 4 days of a craft festival, just to discover, when called on it, her true name engraved on the bottom of her ceramics:  Joan.  I try to use association to help, but apparently I got my female historical figures mixed up

I would see Snowbird friends Carol and Dave when they left the cold of their Midwestern home to enjoy the wintertime in sunny Puerto Rico.  When good friend Lizette began dating future husband Michael, I introduced them to Carol and Dave when we all unexpectedly met.   Michael corrected me.

“Omar.”

I corrected myself.  “Michael Omar.”

“No, just Omar.”

“Who’s Michael?

“I don’t know; you’ve been calling me that since we met."

He’s still Michael, and whenever Lizette refers to him, she invariably switches to M. as well, just so I can follow along.

Fast forward to Eagle Point.  I called neighbor Carol’s husband ‘Dave’ for a year before learning, for the umpteenth time, that his name is Larry.  I continued mixing it up until finally it became Larry-Dave.  At first I think it grated on him, but, like Michael, once he got to know me better, he learned to just accept it with a smile.

Particularly during the times when I’m single, I takes great effort to go out and speak to people.  It’s a wonder I married at all.  So I stopped next door to introduce myself to my neighbors and drop off a package of You Bake ‘em’s! for Brutus, a beautiful German Shepherd puppy, twice BC's size.  A nice young couple in their late 20’s, they live in a vintage Airstream trailer.  My initial aversion to their long hair, tie-dyed clothing and crocheted caps must have been just like our parents in the 60’s.  Shame on me.

Personally, I don’t understand the appeal of flashing back to the 60’s, and 70’s.  What for?  There doesn’t seem to be the accompanying level of activism as back then, unless you’re traveling overseas.

“My name’s Dave,” he began.  I tried hard not to roll my eyes upward as I waited for, surely enough,

“Carol’s inside.”

It can’t be.  So, do I call him Dave-Larry-Dave?

Luckily, I’ve only run into her.