Chapter 17

Nikki’s turn:

I know we don’t play that whole ‘title’ and ‘hierarchy’ and ‘job description’ game so the business configuration today is not likely to be the business configuration for tomorrow. Today Cindy’s out at the engineering office and I’m here at 3Sigma Robotics trying to herd cats.

The cats in question are all over the place. Terri’s found a good reason to be in Jerry’s pocket. They have a robotic arm to play with. Robotic arms are a dime a dozen. Jerry and Terri are pushing some limits on weight and motion, using a rotary screw made up of composite balls in a tube with threads and a shaft with more threads. The hand at the end of the arm is an old design, so they’re doing speed and precision trials. I don’t worry about those two.

Rachel’s working with Vicki on academics.

Derek’s out doing research on commercial lawnmowers, bothering one of Henry’s yard guys. The yard guy’s been told that first, this is part of the job, second, there’s a stipend for being part of an R&D team, and third, prod Derek into a bit of exercise in Spanish.

Yes, we’re a bit free about spreading a little money around. We find that people are a lot more likely to help if there’s an idea that there is payment for the aggravation of having a twelve year old boy ask questions about why you do things and HOW you do things.

For the munchkins, though, the last couple of hours of this day are devoted to Mizz Lee, our Teacher Emeritus. Yes, she’s supposed to be an English teacher, guiding inquisitive minds in grammar and vocabulary, but she pushes them into literature as well, and for the rest of us, Mizz Lee is a parent or grandparent or something esteemed and venerated.

My cellphone rang. Mizz Lee. “Hi, Mizz Lee. How are you today?”

“Pleasantly satisfied, dear. A little creaky, but satisfied.”

“You have the kids today,” I said.

“Yes. I am looking forward to it. Are you too busy for me to drop by early to have lunch with you?”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” I said. I didn’t add that an opportunity to dine with Mizz Lee would only be superseded by an end of the world event. “I will be looking forward to it.”

She showed up with a tray of pastries, a BIG tray, which she left in the break room, and she appeared at my door with a bag from a local deli. Nice thing about college towns is the variety of interesting foods.

“I remember you said you found a love for pastrami,” she said. “I share that affliction. What are two Southern girls doing, liking pastrami?”

I’m still digesting the idea that she and I are ‘Southern girls’, what with me being nineteen and her in her seventies, but we did end up here having lived in the same corner of Louisiana.

She continued, “We’ve become somewhat homogenized. The old regional lines have been crossed so many times ... I won’t even begin to approach Grandma Desai’s impact...”

“And she even gets upset because her son added hummus to their appetizer menu,” I laughed.

Mizz Lee smiled. “Yes. We discussed that intrusion over some of that delicious tea she saves for her friends and family. She called it ‘foreign food’. I just smiled. She picked up the absurdity.”

“It’s NOT the same hummus as that place on the other side of the campus. They claim it’s an authentic recipe. Grandma Desai admits that hers is more Hindi, that the name is there to help people decide it’s what they want.”

“She says they drizzled a bit of olive oil over one of their dals and served it as hummus. With a choice of naan or papadum. It’s a meal unto itself,” she said as she unwrapped a beautiful pastrami sandwich.

I retrieved a couple of cans of ginger ale. I know she likes it. We bowed our heads to say grace for our meal. I knew she would do it. I follow because first, I respect Mizz Lee and her life, and second, because I truly AM grateful.

“Mine’s thicker,” I said, noticing her sandwich.

“I had to instruct the young man to make mine a bit lighter. Told him to put the extra meat on YOUR sandwich. I don’t need as much protein, and I do know how you enjoy pastrami.”