People know that I can find things, I have always been a good locater of tangible objects at decent prices. A firm believer in that you get what you pay for, it still rings true that there is nothing like a bargain to make my hunter-gatherer ancestors stomp victoriously around a fire, hooting and reenacting the exact moment the cash register completed the transaction. Mine. No, you can't have it.
The school nurse had come to me with two requests, first, a family is currently living in a shelter; one of my students with two grandparents. She missed school a couple days because she doesn't have a winter coat. The grandmother comes to me at breakfast time for my kids and asks if it's okay that she takes a breakfast. I shove as much as I can into a bag for her and hope it doesn't get noticed, for I am breaking a law concerning federal blah blah and blah. Come and get me. I have been caught on this before at another school, and got a finger in my face. That's okay, you gotta shake your finger at me, go ahead. I silently observed that there was a piece of breakfast hanging off the chin of this digit shaker while her cafeteria uniform was crisply starched. Go, me. It's the little things.
The other request was for a wheeled back pack for another first grade student who had recent hip surgery in hopes of straightening out the onset of scoliosis. So today, even though it was Black Friday, I ventured out to the thrift shop, which happened to be having a half off anything and everything sale. It looked like a bomb had gone off in the store. But there was a very new looking L. L. Bean wheeled backpack with nice, tight zippers, wheels, a working handle, and it was pink. Marked at $3.98, I got it for two bucks after the half off deal.
I congratulated myself with a spin around the store, found a nice leather jacket for $20, and--hold me back! In the furniture section was an aged, upholstered chair. A round thing, with a high back, all of it sitting on a spoon-carved base. Ugly as baboon's you-know-what. This apocalyptic object was from the late 1800's, recognized by me as an Eastlake piece made of of horsehair, dark walnut, wheeled legs, and it was marked $19.98! But wait! The $19.98 was crossed out and below that was scribbled $9.98. Do you see? It was half-price day and I could get this thing for five bucks! Why? Why this chair, you muse. Let me tell you.
Years ago, I found most of the pieces of an Eastlake three-quarter bed frame on trash day and carried it home, piece by immense piece. No one else had scooped it up because of a long, wobbly split in the headboard that was to me, a minor inconvenience. I'd figure something out, but right now I want this. It's a free antique. It's, it's, well, history! How can you toss out history? But this was in a neighborhood where the people cut down the city-planted trees in that space between the curb and the sidewalk, because the fall leaves would mess up their yards, gutters, and the driveways that got washed every evening. A split headboard would send some of them over the edge.
All the bed needed was a few ornaments repaired, the split, and the missing ring which locked one of the four sides together. I found a foundry that recast antique pieces, got it, and had the headboard repaired. I love the carvings; it was the seed of the, what the heck was it called, two words, mmmhhhh. Hang on a sec. Arts and Crafts, the Arts and Crafts movement. A turn towards the simple lines of nature as contrasted with the heavy furniture and draperies of the Victorian era. And I was gonna stuff this chair in the front seat of my Cavalier because it was now part of my boudoir set; it matched the bed. $5! Eastlake! But very strange looking! Whee!
After much geometry and physics, I got the thing into the folded down seat, partly resting on the dashboard, but I could easily shift and see to drive. I patted the chair and told it that it was going home.
I do tend to anthropomorphize things. Once I get it upstairs, I'll post a photo, but it is staying in the front seat tonight as I don't feel like wrestling it back out after carrying bags of groceries, and a plan has to be hatched as to getting this beauty through the slush, mud, and salt mixture that is bubbling between the parking lot and the building door. I often curse the day I gave away my hand truck.
But I am going to Canada tomorrow morning, and have to get the chair upstairs by nine, Canadian customs would not look kindly upon me taking a chair for a ride across the border. I'll do it, I'll get it inside. I can lift it for short bursts; nah, I'm not worried. Maybe it could be balanced atop my shopping cart. Maybe I can tie boots on the four legs and push, giving the neighbors a Topic of the Day.
The dark sky is lit by the city; several of the tall buildings are festive in red and green lights for the holidays. December coming is a lovely month, even without the mid-winter holidays; something to be said for staying close to evening home fires, a bowl of soup, lighting candles. Tuck under the blankets and extinguish the light, say a thank you for another day of work, play, breath. Sleep is a temporary forgetting, a welcome shade to be pulled down between day and the realm of night. Orion is rising in the east, the nebula in his belt producing stars approximately 1,300 light years away. Fascinating, that we can see into our past, for the star light reaching earth began its journey that many years ago. Our planetary illumination has yet to reach that end, could we pull the beams back to us, read a bedtime story of enormous proportion?
Sleep well, it has been a day of ups and downs; chairs and plans. Let thoughts travel, speed of light.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Plecky the Plecostomus
It started as a project to entertain the cats, this aquarium. 15 gallons, which in the fish world is small potatoes; in the world of landlords, it means renter's insurance which you should have anyways. There was an angelfish and a variety of platies, a colorful, prolific breeder fish that soon filled the small tank with bodies of all hues. Lovely, really; soothing to watch, but there were too many fish and so, my son upgraded me to a twenty gallon tank with a piece of warped tree branch and black sand, populated it with some kind of shrimp besides the fish, and stuck in some plants. It was beautiful, hypnotic. The fish were enchanted as well by the surroundings and soon populated the extra five gallons with more platies.
I couldn't give them away, no one else had tropical fish and if I took them to the fish store, they would be used as feeders. So began this minor cat diversion; it turned into a National Geographic special and guess what happened next. Yup, I upsized again, but this was sort of a gift of the universe thing, or so I told my gullible self. The school I work at was getting rid of an aquarium stand, a stand that had once held a 52 gallon hex-front tank that had developed a leak. The stand was there, free, so of course I grabbed it.
The fish store had started to be happy to see me, and gave me a deal on exactly the tank that fit the stand; of course, that meant it had to be outfitted with filters, powerheads, gravel, and a couple of rocks for ambience. But it looked terrific, and the floor held up under the pressure of weight, for one gallon weighs 8.34 pounds; multiplied by 52 equals 433.68 pounds. Almost a quarter of a ton. Thank goodness this building is made of cement slabs. Gunk then began to grow on the side of the glass, so I bought snails. El Mistake.
They made baby snails, lots and lots of baby snails. Snail eggs are tough to scrape off the sides, and what kills them would cause a mass extinction of everything, which was not what I wanted. But there is a species of fish called a clown loach which eats snails, at $10 a pop. They like to swim in schools, to purchase one would cause it psychological confusion so I came home with three. The fish store gave me a coupon for goldfish. These pretty little loaches ate every snail in the park within a week, then looked for more. I came home with frozen brine shrimp; you know them as sea monkeys. The loaches grew and the gunk on the plate glass returned; what you need next lady, is a plecostomus. $3.50. It'll clean your glass.
I looked at this fish, barely two inches, and figured there would be lots of room for him in the tank, his little sucker mouth hung onto the side, his crescent-shaped omega eyes blinked when he would pull them into his head. Very primitive looking, as if he knew the time before the dinosaurs. No fish scales, he was armored with plates and appeared to belong in a Devonian museum exhibit. Okay, fish, let's see what you can do. The loaches had begun dining on the platies till the population became manageable, the snails were gone, and all I needed was the glass to have less algae.
He was friendly, and would come up to the top of the water to have his nose rubbed, all I had to do was call him. And look, he's growing. Fish sites said they eat fruits, this species originated in South America in mangrove swamps, and they jump. I bought zucchini (yes), honeydews (yes), cucumbers (no), and watermelon (yes, most of the time). I anchored the food with a small stainless steel spoon after discovering that silver is an antibacterial and killed all the good bacteria which kept the tank clean and the fish happy.
All the nutrition made this fish grow and grow. Now I worried about him jumping out of the tank as I would hear the cover bang in the night; there are now rocks on top. As he reached ten inches, more rocks were recruited; some mornings his nose would be sore.
Today I brought home a few of the guppies from my class to live in the big tank over Thanksgiving vacation, figuring they would have a better chance here if they all weren't squooshed into the small tank in my class. This is just lovely to the pleco, who thinks dinner arrived a day early. Like a shark, he's positioned himself under the small group and bam! Jumps. The cover rattles when he hits it, and since he has now grown to fifteen inches, I just piled more rocks atop. Have to go rescue guppies, they can sit inside a plastic container for the night, poor things. I'll find some fake plastic seaweed, there's some in the cabinet under the aquarium stand, so they can hide. It will work.
One of my little boys who is in the after school program was waiting in the class for it to start; he was looking out the window and called to the girl who was waiting for them, both six years old. "Look, look," he called to her, "Come here and look!" I thought he was watching the buses load and saw a friend. She went over to the window, and he made room for her to see.
"Look," he said, "isn't it beautiful? The snow is covering the branches of the trees, it's beautiful."
A six year old boy not only commenting on the glory of a scene, but also having a desire to share it with his classmate. Of course I was turned to mush. This kid is not in a good place at the moment because of family crises, but he was able to be enchanted by the lacy branches heavy with winter. I was so happy for him.
The season has settled in, and the children were wild to see the snow. It's the best to play tackle football in, they tell me, because when you fall the soft snow cushions the impact. They will be able to run and jump themselves, and carelessly let themselves flop into the blanket of white. It will be years before someone tries to put rocks on top of their exuberance, to contain them under the weight of decorum.
What do you hear in the night? What dreams and visions appear? Stories, they are all stories brought forward from the depths of memory and of hope, of beauty and of pure winter snow. You do so much good for this world. I can just tell.
I couldn't give them away, no one else had tropical fish and if I took them to the fish store, they would be used as feeders. So began this minor cat diversion; it turned into a National Geographic special and guess what happened next. Yup, I upsized again, but this was sort of a gift of the universe thing, or so I told my gullible self. The school I work at was getting rid of an aquarium stand, a stand that had once held a 52 gallon hex-front tank that had developed a leak. The stand was there, free, so of course I grabbed it.
The fish store had started to be happy to see me, and gave me a deal on exactly the tank that fit the stand; of course, that meant it had to be outfitted with filters, powerheads, gravel, and a couple of rocks for ambience. But it looked terrific, and the floor held up under the pressure of weight, for one gallon weighs 8.34 pounds; multiplied by 52 equals 433.68 pounds. Almost a quarter of a ton. Thank goodness this building is made of cement slabs. Gunk then began to grow on the side of the glass, so I bought snails. El Mistake.
They made baby snails, lots and lots of baby snails. Snail eggs are tough to scrape off the sides, and what kills them would cause a mass extinction of everything, which was not what I wanted. But there is a species of fish called a clown loach which eats snails, at $10 a pop. They like to swim in schools, to purchase one would cause it psychological confusion so I came home with three. The fish store gave me a coupon for goldfish. These pretty little loaches ate every snail in the park within a week, then looked for more. I came home with frozen brine shrimp; you know them as sea monkeys. The loaches grew and the gunk on the plate glass returned; what you need next lady, is a plecostomus. $3.50. It'll clean your glass.
I looked at this fish, barely two inches, and figured there would be lots of room for him in the tank, his little sucker mouth hung onto the side, his crescent-shaped omega eyes blinked when he would pull them into his head. Very primitive looking, as if he knew the time before the dinosaurs. No fish scales, he was armored with plates and appeared to belong in a Devonian museum exhibit. Okay, fish, let's see what you can do. The loaches had begun dining on the platies till the population became manageable, the snails were gone, and all I needed was the glass to have less algae.
He was friendly, and would come up to the top of the water to have his nose rubbed, all I had to do was call him. And look, he's growing. Fish sites said they eat fruits, this species originated in South America in mangrove swamps, and they jump. I bought zucchini (yes), honeydews (yes), cucumbers (no), and watermelon (yes, most of the time). I anchored the food with a small stainless steel spoon after discovering that silver is an antibacterial and killed all the good bacteria which kept the tank clean and the fish happy.
All the nutrition made this fish grow and grow. Now I worried about him jumping out of the tank as I would hear the cover bang in the night; there are now rocks on top. As he reached ten inches, more rocks were recruited; some mornings his nose would be sore.
Today I brought home a few of the guppies from my class to live in the big tank over Thanksgiving vacation, figuring they would have a better chance here if they all weren't squooshed into the small tank in my class. This is just lovely to the pleco, who thinks dinner arrived a day early. Like a shark, he's positioned himself under the small group and bam! Jumps. The cover rattles when he hits it, and since he has now grown to fifteen inches, I just piled more rocks atop. Have to go rescue guppies, they can sit inside a plastic container for the night, poor things. I'll find some fake plastic seaweed, there's some in the cabinet under the aquarium stand, so they can hide. It will work.
One of my little boys who is in the after school program was waiting in the class for it to start; he was looking out the window and called to the girl who was waiting for them, both six years old. "Look, look," he called to her, "Come here and look!" I thought he was watching the buses load and saw a friend. She went over to the window, and he made room for her to see.
"Look," he said, "isn't it beautiful? The snow is covering the branches of the trees, it's beautiful."
A six year old boy not only commenting on the glory of a scene, but also having a desire to share it with his classmate. Of course I was turned to mush. This kid is not in a good place at the moment because of family crises, but he was able to be enchanted by the lacy branches heavy with winter. I was so happy for him.
The season has settled in, and the children were wild to see the snow. It's the best to play tackle football in, they tell me, because when you fall the soft snow cushions the impact. They will be able to run and jump themselves, and carelessly let themselves flop into the blanket of white. It will be years before someone tries to put rocks on top of their exuberance, to contain them under the weight of decorum.
What do you hear in the night? What dreams and visions appear? Stories, they are all stories brought forward from the depths of memory and of hope, of beauty and of pure winter snow. You do so much good for this world. I can just tell.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Millipedia Manyleggeda
You may have heard them, they were squealing for the fun of squealing; EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. It really depends on context, each of these children had seen bugs before; hell, most of them have seen rats, loose dogs, and crazy adults. How is a bug, a relatively small creature, able to pull out screams not echoed between walls since I brought home that lab mouse? Maybe it's a territorial instinct; I don't think millipedes have ears, thank goodness.
The science kit offered by the Board of Ed had a coupon for moss, water plants, insects (said the label, but wait...), and guppies. I was the only teacher who ordered them for the kids, heck, what can happen with bugs and guppies? The kit was to demonstrate the interdependence between species and kingdoms; water plants give off oxygen for the fish, the fish and snail excretions feed the plants. The Circle of Life, in Room 219. I'm not sure what circle the millipedes were to exhibit, they are nocturnal and have mostly stayed bunched up under the moss. We also received a packet of Armadillidium vulgare, or what I called potato bugs when I was little. Roly Polies. The little grey bugs that roll into balls when disturbed. You've held them, or should have.
I put the box covered with Warning! Live Animals! stamps on a desk in front of everyone, and opened each box with ceremony and a short science lecture. Say Arma. Dilli. Dium. Very good. Now try "Armadillidium." Yes, ha ha that's fun to say, isn't it? Okay. Okay. OKAYYYY. STOP. They were deposited in the terrarium and one of the kids was assigned to walk around with the small plastic case so each kid could get a look at something they've seen almost everyday during the summer. This is when the squealing began if the bugs moved, which they did.
Well, okay, they'll be talking about this at home, telling their families what they saw today; let's open the millipedes next. A white paper canister was loaded with damp sphagnum moss, and even I had a jolt when I lifted it and saw the size of these things. Up to four inches long. Four, with anywhere from 80 to 150 pairs of legs. They were curled up like cinnamon buns, just like the little millipedes that I was sort of expecting. Hokay. Segments, antennae, legs, blah blah, as I held one of the cinnamon buns in my palm. It reacted to the warmth of my hand and without a drop of shyness, uncurled and started waggling its antennae, then took off on a trip up my arm.
It was fascinating to watch, and I believe my kids think I'm a physicist now that a bug has crawled up my arm. It tried to go up my sleeve at which point I picked it up and put it back into my palm. They don't move quickly, but this bug was determined. It was a female, which is determined by the legs; females have an unbroken line of legs, the males have seven up front and then a gap before the rest of the legs are aligned. They are rather graceful in a rippling gait, their little jointed feet moving like waves, with the antennae gently tapping and testing. I have to say, I like them.
But they aren't bugs; they are arthropods, related to spiders, crabs, and barnacles. This surprised me, for they sure look like bugs, but I have never read up on zoology, so the division of subphylums is a mystery. They eat rotting fruits and vegetables or conveniently, a sprinkle of fish food; there is a tiny saucer of water that they can't drown in, and since one got out the other night and the maintenance engineer flushed it, the plastic container is inside a giant ziploc with holes poked.
The potato bugs need nothing but a spray of water to keep the environment moist, they'll be satisfied with the detritus from the leaf mulch that came with the pack. Now, we tend to think these things are bugs also, but they aren't; let me tell you that if the cats began to bark, it would be as logical. These little dudes are crustaceans, one of the few terrestrial species on the planet, cousins to lobsters, crabs, and shrimp. To me, that is fancy. They breathe through gills.
We did the snails without a lot of fanfare, I'll get some of my seashells out for comparison and wait till they wake up. Then we got to the big event of the afternoon, the fish. Good thing I had prepped the three gallon aquarium the day before, for the kit came with gallon tubs that had to be returned after we humanely disposed of the fish. Plastic, they were plastic for heaven's sake; I get more in Chinese take-out, and the supplier wanted them back? What, they cost more than 27¢? And just how do you humanely dispose of guppies? Flushing isn't it.
Anyways, as I lifted the plastic bag, there was quite a bit of thrashing. These guppies were big, and there were nine males and nine females. No one at the supply house had read of the two or three females for one male ratio in Guppyville, so if I don't split them apart, we will have very stressed fish, 18 in a small tank that are producing fry like bunnies. I could have 100 fish in a month. Some will have to come home to my tank here, but I have a feeling the angelfish will be a little too happy for the step up in its diet. So this means I should get water plants for my own aquarium which means I'll probably have snails hitchhiking on the plants, which means a gabillion snails. This circle of life has rippled out to my home address already.
There are nose prints on the outside of the glass tank, the kids are fascinated, and that is my reward. I don't care what they learn about the critters, as long as they see them and know that you treat animals kindly, that's all I ask at six years old. And what are the potato bugs called, I asked. "Daffadillies." That they got that far was amazing, it shows they were paying attention and gave it the old college try, belying curiosity and a pride in being the only classroom with pets.
I've been thinking of a snake for years, but would have to bring it home with me during the summer, and frankly, a growing snake should have room to slither about. I don't mind feeding it a thawed dead mouse once every few weeks, just that wiggling the dead mouse to make it seem alive, well, I couldn't do it with a straight face. I'd be making it talk like Mickey, and since I can't stand Mickey Mouse (I liked Donald Duck, who seemed more true to life, at least in my childhood), it would be dramatic and full of false hope.
Mickey: "Help, help me, pleeeease."
Me, Wiggling the Dead Mouse By the Leg: "Oh Mickey, hang on, I'll save you!"
Mickey: "Oh thank you, thank you, I will never forget this. The Mouseketeers will throw a big party,
and sure, you can bring your friends, too!"
Snake:
Me, WDMBL: "Aw, gee, Mickey! That's great! Come on, buddy, give me your hand. Say, you think
you could get us a few bottles of Taittinger's, you know, to celebrate?"
Mickey: "Uh, I don't think Walt would like that..."
Me, WDMBL: "Gee, Mick. Too bad. See ya."
Snake:
Mickey:
Me: "And I don't even care for Taittinger's."
The End, by Susan Coburn
The winds are blowing in a change of weather; tomorrow the temperatures are to remind us of gloves and mufflers, and to stick a snow shovel in the car. Sleep comes easier under thicker blankets, and pillows are deeper; the world itself has gone into a dream, a somnambulant stage of stasis where millipedes and tiny terrestrial crustaceans have dug in and entered hibernation. The birds have gone south but for the hardy red cardinals, the starlings, sparrows, and juncos. Wild ones are in nests and caves, sleeping, metabolism slowed just enough to prevent freezing. Take care of them, take care of yourself, sleep well; go down into the depths of cyclical sleep, rise and fall, ebb and flow. The tides of night. Let them come.
The science kit offered by the Board of Ed had a coupon for moss, water plants, insects (said the label, but wait...), and guppies. I was the only teacher who ordered them for the kids, heck, what can happen with bugs and guppies? The kit was to demonstrate the interdependence between species and kingdoms; water plants give off oxygen for the fish, the fish and snail excretions feed the plants. The Circle of Life, in Room 219. I'm not sure what circle the millipedes were to exhibit, they are nocturnal and have mostly stayed bunched up under the moss. We also received a packet of Armadillidium vulgare, or what I called potato bugs when I was little. Roly Polies. The little grey bugs that roll into balls when disturbed. You've held them, or should have.
I put the box covered with Warning! Live Animals! stamps on a desk in front of everyone, and opened each box with ceremony and a short science lecture. Say Arma. Dilli. Dium. Very good. Now try "Armadillidium." Yes, ha ha that's fun to say, isn't it? Okay. Okay. OKAYYYY. STOP. They were deposited in the terrarium and one of the kids was assigned to walk around with the small plastic case so each kid could get a look at something they've seen almost everyday during the summer. This is when the squealing began if the bugs moved, which they did.
Well, okay, they'll be talking about this at home, telling their families what they saw today; let's open the millipedes next. A white paper canister was loaded with damp sphagnum moss, and even I had a jolt when I lifted it and saw the size of these things. Up to four inches long. Four, with anywhere from 80 to 150 pairs of legs. They were curled up like cinnamon buns, just like the little millipedes that I was sort of expecting. Hokay. Segments, antennae, legs, blah blah, as I held one of the cinnamon buns in my palm. It reacted to the warmth of my hand and without a drop of shyness, uncurled and started waggling its antennae, then took off on a trip up my arm.
It was fascinating to watch, and I believe my kids think I'm a physicist now that a bug has crawled up my arm. It tried to go up my sleeve at which point I picked it up and put it back into my palm. They don't move quickly, but this bug was determined. It was a female, which is determined by the legs; females have an unbroken line of legs, the males have seven up front and then a gap before the rest of the legs are aligned. They are rather graceful in a rippling gait, their little jointed feet moving like waves, with the antennae gently tapping and testing. I have to say, I like them.
But they aren't bugs; they are arthropods, related to spiders, crabs, and barnacles. This surprised me, for they sure look like bugs, but I have never read up on zoology, so the division of subphylums is a mystery. They eat rotting fruits and vegetables or conveniently, a sprinkle of fish food; there is a tiny saucer of water that they can't drown in, and since one got out the other night and the maintenance engineer flushed it, the plastic container is inside a giant ziploc with holes poked.
The potato bugs need nothing but a spray of water to keep the environment moist, they'll be satisfied with the detritus from the leaf mulch that came with the pack. Now, we tend to think these things are bugs also, but they aren't; let me tell you that if the cats began to bark, it would be as logical. These little dudes are crustaceans, one of the few terrestrial species on the planet, cousins to lobsters, crabs, and shrimp. To me, that is fancy. They breathe through gills.
We did the snails without a lot of fanfare, I'll get some of my seashells out for comparison and wait till they wake up. Then we got to the big event of the afternoon, the fish. Good thing I had prepped the three gallon aquarium the day before, for the kit came with gallon tubs that had to be returned after we humanely disposed of the fish. Plastic, they were plastic for heaven's sake; I get more in Chinese take-out, and the supplier wanted them back? What, they cost more than 27¢? And just how do you humanely dispose of guppies? Flushing isn't it.
Anyways, as I lifted the plastic bag, there was quite a bit of thrashing. These guppies were big, and there were nine males and nine females. No one at the supply house had read of the two or three females for one male ratio in Guppyville, so if I don't split them apart, we will have very stressed fish, 18 in a small tank that are producing fry like bunnies. I could have 100 fish in a month. Some will have to come home to my tank here, but I have a feeling the angelfish will be a little too happy for the step up in its diet. So this means I should get water plants for my own aquarium which means I'll probably have snails hitchhiking on the plants, which means a gabillion snails. This circle of life has rippled out to my home address already.
There are nose prints on the outside of the glass tank, the kids are fascinated, and that is my reward. I don't care what they learn about the critters, as long as they see them and know that you treat animals kindly, that's all I ask at six years old. And what are the potato bugs called, I asked. "Daffadillies." That they got that far was amazing, it shows they were paying attention and gave it the old college try, belying curiosity and a pride in being the only classroom with pets.
I've been thinking of a snake for years, but would have to bring it home with me during the summer, and frankly, a growing snake should have room to slither about. I don't mind feeding it a thawed dead mouse once every few weeks, just that wiggling the dead mouse to make it seem alive, well, I couldn't do it with a straight face. I'd be making it talk like Mickey, and since I can't stand Mickey Mouse (I liked Donald Duck, who seemed more true to life, at least in my childhood), it would be dramatic and full of false hope.
Mickey: "Help, help me, pleeeease."
Me, Wiggling the Dead Mouse By the Leg: "Oh Mickey, hang on, I'll save you!"
Mickey: "Oh thank you, thank you, I will never forget this. The Mouseketeers will throw a big party,
and sure, you can bring your friends, too!"
Snake:
Me, WDMBL: "Aw, gee, Mickey! That's great! Come on, buddy, give me your hand. Say, you think
you could get us a few bottles of Taittinger's, you know, to celebrate?"
Mickey: "Uh, I don't think Walt would like that..."
Me, WDMBL: "Gee, Mick. Too bad. See ya."
Snake:
Mickey:
Me: "And I don't even care for Taittinger's."
The End, by Susan Coburn
The winds are blowing in a change of weather; tomorrow the temperatures are to remind us of gloves and mufflers, and to stick a snow shovel in the car. Sleep comes easier under thicker blankets, and pillows are deeper; the world itself has gone into a dream, a somnambulant stage of stasis where millipedes and tiny terrestrial crustaceans have dug in and entered hibernation. The birds have gone south but for the hardy red cardinals, the starlings, sparrows, and juncos. Wild ones are in nests and caves, sleeping, metabolism slowed just enough to prevent freezing. Take care of them, take care of yourself, sleep well; go down into the depths of cyclical sleep, rise and fall, ebb and flow. The tides of night. Let them come.
Saturday, November 16, 2013
Let It Sand
When stellar dust particles collide with molecules of gas, those molecules are knocked into others, subsequently creating wind that reaches light year proportions. If you want to view stellar dust in action, view a nebula for a few million years or so to see the bumper car reaction. These winds carrying stardust move from 20 - 2,000 km/s and are a continuous emission from stars made not only of dust, but of metals, the ingredients for new stars; thus new solar systems.
These stellar winds are either visible or seen only through ultraviolet light; you've seen them at work in the constellation Orion, in nebula M42. Look to the middle "star" in Orion's sword, if it looks fuzzy, that's because of the gases and dust being blown around within the nebula. There are about 2,000 stars inside, spreading across 20 light years. Go get binoculars.
So then, there is dust being carried about the welkin of the celestial sphere by wind; eventually it piles up and forms stars. Here on the planet. we have snow which piles up into great, arced drifts also shaped by wind, often burying the car if not the house. Each flake forms around a particle of dust or pollen and when it has enough weight, descends to earth, carried by wind. The temperature determines what type of flake forms and how it lands, in the world of snowflake chemistry.
Last week this area received the first snowfall, enough to bring out the plows to salt and clear the city streets; it had been raining, and as the nighttime temperature dropped, the groundwater became ice, slick and near invisible. Over that came the snow in a steady flurry, just enough to coat the cars and grass; I could hear the joy in every child's heartbeat as it arrived.
I live next to a raised highway that has to be heavily salted, and so for the first time this year, the sound of a plow carving through the slush rattled under the orange glow of the old sodium vapor streetlights. It was a familiar, unwanted noise that reminded me another year had passed. Goodbye summer, goodbye late fall, goodbye the last of the homegrown tomatoes at the Farmer's Market. Hello, winter squash.
Then it came to me via a friend who knows that plows were out also to the west of my own lake, plowing sand. Sand? Snowplows plow sand? I had never thought of it, but if you live near a substantial beach, wind blows sand across roadways, up driveways, and buries the sidewalks. When the winter winds rise from the southwest across this other lake, dunes will form in your front yard; one of the local signs of spring are the "Free Sand" advertisements that residents hopefully post, optimistic that others will come and claim a truckload. The thing is, any blizzard will not only drive snow halfway up your door, but sand as well. So, what does that portend?
You can take the kids out and build a snowsandman, pack a darn heavy sandball that will knock out a neighbor, and build a fort that will take mortar shells. I imagine many a garage holds a Bobcat Front Loader for deeper mounds; while hand shoveling smaller drifts calls for strong coffee, a stronger back, and sympathy afterwards. This area has the largest tract of freshwater dunes in the world, created by glacial movement; living by these clear waters is more than worth dealing with the inconvenience.
Years ago, when living across on the other side of the lake in a large city, I lived two blocks away from the shore. No sand blew in onto the streets, for much of what was there is anchored by the most colorful array of smooth pebbles that I was always stuffing into my pockets. Granite, quartz, gneiss, greenstone, and feldspar found their way home with me, and I still have many which I use for balancing stone towers.
Tonight, as I drove along a far road, the full moon was pink; a blushed, golden pink like a luminous shell glistening wet from salt water ablution as it climbed the great circle of the meridian. Hanging over the fields filled with old goldenrod stems, now brown with their stalky, skeletal spines, this disk was a liquid, radiant counterpoint to the scumbled wildflowers. Funny to think that the lunar surface is bleaker than the last few stems of a hibernating field, yet upon solar illumination, appears incandescent.
I felt lucky to see it rise, an illusion of depth making it appear larger . It isn't, you know; measure it sometime, and you will find it is the same size at moonrise as it is at zenith; it's only the nearness to the horizon that makes it seem large.
Sleep well, it is a quiet night without storm or wind, and a low cover of clouds hides the stars, the progeny of nebulae, the makers of star dust. Dream of where you came from, that the iron which sluices through your veins was once carried by stellar winds. Earth, Venus, Mars, and Jupiter are part as well, and spin through space around their human offspring. Let the planets intermingle orbit, cross paths, and speed on; they will mark the ticking of time as you let go of day and visit the soothing night, you piece of starlight.
These stellar winds are either visible or seen only through ultraviolet light; you've seen them at work in the constellation Orion, in nebula M42. Look to the middle "star" in Orion's sword, if it looks fuzzy, that's because of the gases and dust being blown around within the nebula. There are about 2,000 stars inside, spreading across 20 light years. Go get binoculars.
So then, there is dust being carried about the welkin of the celestial sphere by wind; eventually it piles up and forms stars. Here on the planet. we have snow which piles up into great, arced drifts also shaped by wind, often burying the car if not the house. Each flake forms around a particle of dust or pollen and when it has enough weight, descends to earth, carried by wind. The temperature determines what type of flake forms and how it lands, in the world of snowflake chemistry.
Last week this area received the first snowfall, enough to bring out the plows to salt and clear the city streets; it had been raining, and as the nighttime temperature dropped, the groundwater became ice, slick and near invisible. Over that came the snow in a steady flurry, just enough to coat the cars and grass; I could hear the joy in every child's heartbeat as it arrived.
I live next to a raised highway that has to be heavily salted, and so for the first time this year, the sound of a plow carving through the slush rattled under the orange glow of the old sodium vapor streetlights. It was a familiar, unwanted noise that reminded me another year had passed. Goodbye summer, goodbye late fall, goodbye the last of the homegrown tomatoes at the Farmer's Market. Hello, winter squash.
Then it came to me via a friend who knows that plows were out also to the west of my own lake, plowing sand. Sand? Snowplows plow sand? I had never thought of it, but if you live near a substantial beach, wind blows sand across roadways, up driveways, and buries the sidewalks. When the winter winds rise from the southwest across this other lake, dunes will form in your front yard; one of the local signs of spring are the "Free Sand" advertisements that residents hopefully post, optimistic that others will come and claim a truckload. The thing is, any blizzard will not only drive snow halfway up your door, but sand as well. So, what does that portend?
You can take the kids out and build a snowsandman, pack a darn heavy sandball that will knock out a neighbor, and build a fort that will take mortar shells. I imagine many a garage holds a Bobcat Front Loader for deeper mounds; while hand shoveling smaller drifts calls for strong coffee, a stronger back, and sympathy afterwards. This area has the largest tract of freshwater dunes in the world, created by glacial movement; living by these clear waters is more than worth dealing with the inconvenience.
Years ago, when living across on the other side of the lake in a large city, I lived two blocks away from the shore. No sand blew in onto the streets, for much of what was there is anchored by the most colorful array of smooth pebbles that I was always stuffing into my pockets. Granite, quartz, gneiss, greenstone, and feldspar found their way home with me, and I still have many which I use for balancing stone towers.
Tonight, as I drove along a far road, the full moon was pink; a blushed, golden pink like a luminous shell glistening wet from salt water ablution as it climbed the great circle of the meridian. Hanging over the fields filled with old goldenrod stems, now brown with their stalky, skeletal spines, this disk was a liquid, radiant counterpoint to the scumbled wildflowers. Funny to think that the lunar surface is bleaker than the last few stems of a hibernating field, yet upon solar illumination, appears incandescent.
I felt lucky to see it rise, an illusion of depth making it appear larger . It isn't, you know; measure it sometime, and you will find it is the same size at moonrise as it is at zenith; it's only the nearness to the horizon that makes it seem large.
Sleep well, it is a quiet night without storm or wind, and a low cover of clouds hides the stars, the progeny of nebulae, the makers of star dust. Dream of where you came from, that the iron which sluices through your veins was once carried by stellar winds. Earth, Venus, Mars, and Jupiter are part as well, and spin through space around their human offspring. Let the planets intermingle orbit, cross paths, and speed on; they will mark the ticking of time as you let go of day and visit the soothing night, you piece of starlight.
Monday, November 11, 2013
The Old Pink
It has frozen a slice of time so that you can walk into a piece of your past, the shivery excitement of either walking into a possible bar fight or a slide across the floor on a puddle of Miller's. Oh, those 7 ounce Miller's splits, three for a dollar. Heavens. I don't even like beer, but it was a cute way of drinking out of the little bottles, like you were playing dolls and here were doll-sized beers. "Now lay down and have a nap, Thumbelina, Mommy is cracking open a cold one."
Actually, you couldn't slide on the floor unless you went straight down and even then, someone would catch you since it was so packed. This is The Pink Flamingo, as it was called, and a good way to end a night out with the crowd. Now it's referred to as The Pink, and I guarantee you will not find a friendlier dive bar in town.
We decided to go for a drink after some crazy purse shopping at KMart, of which I had not been in for years; I avoid it as the one near me usually looks like a bomb went off in it and a few of the employees appear to have plates in their heads with matching silverware. But I was pleasantly surprised at the success my friend had, and she then showed me where there are good jewelry deals. Really, I thought, and then saw the $2,449.00 gold chain for sale in the case. KMart sells $2,000 dollar chains? Yup. Other pieces also carried labels for hundreds, hundreds of dollars, right next to the aisle where you can buy stick-on plastic tiger fingernails. It was too much, and I am always glad to get out of there, for somehow that particular store latches onto my psychic aura and has tried to jump me in the Electronics Department. I have evidence that the store is a breathing organism, with the staff as it's minions doing the bidding of Cthulu the Unspeakable.
We were ready and headed for the part of the city called Allentown, originally an area of cow pastures but now the Bohemian hub of the city. Once gentrified, it has gotten a reputation for being a rougher part, there are no illusions on Allen Street. First of all, you must have your ninja driving license for there is parking on both sides of the very narrow street and so it always looks like you're headed into oncoming traffic. But every knows this, and mostly take their turns without scraping off the side mirror.
At the corner is the apartment building where the Bubble Man lives....haven't seen much of him, only once this summer. He thought a way to make people happy was to blow bubbles out his window and there would be billows of bubbles weaving in and out of traffic in rainbow iridescence. It was historic.
One of the trickier things is to find a parking spot. Yes, there are cross streets, but they are all one way leading into Allen so you have to find the block before and then sluice down wherever which landmark you would like to end your journey at. The homes are enchanting, gingerbreaded, creaky tales with enormous tree roots pushing up the sidewalks.
We walked up the stairs in anticipation and entered a long, dark room with stools pushed up to the wooden bar. Four men were sitting in front of a television and my friend and I went to the opposite end. It was very dark, and an odd aroma redolent of bleach was permeating the atmosphere; the bartender came over, and we thought we would stay for one drink and then move on down the street to Gabriel's Gate, which has brighter lights and popcorn.
Having not seen us before, the bartender dropped by and asked if it was our first time in. Oh, no no no, the both of us had been there in earlier incarnations, this was a trip through nostalgia. "Well, welcome to The Pink," grinned the young man and raised a glass with us. It was an eventful evening, for after other people filtered in, everyone talked to everyone else. Drinks were bought for us, and conversation was happily argumentative and not brilliant. Eventually, the bartender showed us his tatts, a Buddha on his chest, elaborate sleeves, and after my friend asked if he had any Jewish tattoos, he said yep and pulled up his pants leg. Something in Hebrew. The word "forever", perhaps.
This inked man, whose name was Chris, was commenting on how the bar has a rep for being friendly, and told us how a group of older women comes into the bar to watch General Hospital at two in the afternoon, Monday through Friday. Rules, there are rules. No one can talk while the program is on, only during commercials or you will be told to get the hell out. This, happening in what was once one of the toughest bars in the city.
Now a crowd was coming in, younger folks, and Chris had to go to his next job down the street. We hung out for a while, as the music ranged from Peter Tosh to X, then decided to say our farewells and trot over to The Gate for food.
One other thing about The Pink: toilet paper. In the Ladies Room, each partition had at least seven rolls of toilet paper hanging on a clothesline running through the center of each roll. Do you know how reassuring that is? It was a lovely, considerate gesture, along with the layers of graffiti that would hypnotize an archeologist.
So we went and had wings and a tuna melt, then found the way back to the car. Now, my friend was wearing her biker jacket and boots and across the way a man was singing a one o'clock in the morning song, loudly. Very explicit words, making it up as he went along. We walked by and got caught up in his impromptu rap and the leather boots and jacket became verse number 27. My friend was so tickled she let him know with an appreciative yell back. He said thank you. I couldn't see where he was because I was focused on where the curbs were, and grabbed her arm tighter in case I had to pull her out of some Allen Street paramour's line of vision if he came over to introduce his cray cray self. My adrenaline was getting ready to administer a beat down, when she told me that he was inside a house, just hanging out a window. Oh. Thank god, for these days I couldn't knock over a french fry, but I pretended to put my super powers on hold anyhow. You're lucky this time, Rapper Nutjob Guy; to infinity and beyond.
The night was damp with drizzling rain, we missed most of it by luck and timing, and yet it was as phantasmagoric and thick with night breezes as any walk in the dark could be. Something clicks in the human mind during the hours after sunset, whether fomented by stories, cultural training, or an outer zeitgeber pushing the temporal rhythm towards night. Our vision is limited, so our other senses are heightened; hearing and touch, and the air is filled with odors made clearer. Is it the sensory input that provokes night behavior? It was a different world on Allen Street after dark; during the day, it's dress and antique shops.
The moon was a sliver run over by clouds, winter is coming, dark has its rule. Stand at your outside door and breathe in the sharp air of the coming snows, the tannins of the dying leaves; breathe in as an animal, and learn your world. Sleep well and sleep deeply, dear friend, the moon will set as it rounds the horizon, then will descend further to the other side of the planet as it travels before the constellations of Pegasus and Sagitta. Lay still, be warm. Good night.
Actually, you couldn't slide on the floor unless you went straight down and even then, someone would catch you since it was so packed. This is The Pink Flamingo, as it was called, and a good way to end a night out with the crowd. Now it's referred to as The Pink, and I guarantee you will not find a friendlier dive bar in town.
We decided to go for a drink after some crazy purse shopping at KMart, of which I had not been in for years; I avoid it as the one near me usually looks like a bomb went off in it and a few of the employees appear to have plates in their heads with matching silverware. But I was pleasantly surprised at the success my friend had, and she then showed me where there are good jewelry deals. Really, I thought, and then saw the $2,449.00 gold chain for sale in the case. KMart sells $2,000 dollar chains? Yup. Other pieces also carried labels for hundreds, hundreds of dollars, right next to the aisle where you can buy stick-on plastic tiger fingernails. It was too much, and I am always glad to get out of there, for somehow that particular store latches onto my psychic aura and has tried to jump me in the Electronics Department. I have evidence that the store is a breathing organism, with the staff as it's minions doing the bidding of Cthulu the Unspeakable.
We were ready and headed for the part of the city called Allentown, originally an area of cow pastures but now the Bohemian hub of the city. Once gentrified, it has gotten a reputation for being a rougher part, there are no illusions on Allen Street. First of all, you must have your ninja driving license for there is parking on both sides of the very narrow street and so it always looks like you're headed into oncoming traffic. But every knows this, and mostly take their turns without scraping off the side mirror.
At the corner is the apartment building where the Bubble Man lives....haven't seen much of him, only once this summer. He thought a way to make people happy was to blow bubbles out his window and there would be billows of bubbles weaving in and out of traffic in rainbow iridescence. It was historic.
One of the trickier things is to find a parking spot. Yes, there are cross streets, but they are all one way leading into Allen so you have to find the block before and then sluice down wherever which landmark you would like to end your journey at. The homes are enchanting, gingerbreaded, creaky tales with enormous tree roots pushing up the sidewalks.
We walked up the stairs in anticipation and entered a long, dark room with stools pushed up to the wooden bar. Four men were sitting in front of a television and my friend and I went to the opposite end. It was very dark, and an odd aroma redolent of bleach was permeating the atmosphere; the bartender came over, and we thought we would stay for one drink and then move on down the street to Gabriel's Gate, which has brighter lights and popcorn.
Having not seen us before, the bartender dropped by and asked if it was our first time in. Oh, no no no, the both of us had been there in earlier incarnations, this was a trip through nostalgia. "Well, welcome to The Pink," grinned the young man and raised a glass with us. It was an eventful evening, for after other people filtered in, everyone talked to everyone else. Drinks were bought for us, and conversation was happily argumentative and not brilliant. Eventually, the bartender showed us his tatts, a Buddha on his chest, elaborate sleeves, and after my friend asked if he had any Jewish tattoos, he said yep and pulled up his pants leg. Something in Hebrew. The word "forever", perhaps.
This inked man, whose name was Chris, was commenting on how the bar has a rep for being friendly, and told us how a group of older women comes into the bar to watch General Hospital at two in the afternoon, Monday through Friday. Rules, there are rules. No one can talk while the program is on, only during commercials or you will be told to get the hell out. This, happening in what was once one of the toughest bars in the city.
Now a crowd was coming in, younger folks, and Chris had to go to his next job down the street. We hung out for a while, as the music ranged from Peter Tosh to X, then decided to say our farewells and trot over to The Gate for food.
One other thing about The Pink: toilet paper. In the Ladies Room, each partition had at least seven rolls of toilet paper hanging on a clothesline running through the center of each roll. Do you know how reassuring that is? It was a lovely, considerate gesture, along with the layers of graffiti that would hypnotize an archeologist.
So we went and had wings and a tuna melt, then found the way back to the car. Now, my friend was wearing her biker jacket and boots and across the way a man was singing a one o'clock in the morning song, loudly. Very explicit words, making it up as he went along. We walked by and got caught up in his impromptu rap and the leather boots and jacket became verse number 27. My friend was so tickled she let him know with an appreciative yell back. He said thank you. I couldn't see where he was because I was focused on where the curbs were, and grabbed her arm tighter in case I had to pull her out of some Allen Street paramour's line of vision if he came over to introduce his cray cray self. My adrenaline was getting ready to administer a beat down, when she told me that he was inside a house, just hanging out a window. Oh. Thank god, for these days I couldn't knock over a french fry, but I pretended to put my super powers on hold anyhow. You're lucky this time, Rapper Nutjob Guy; to infinity and beyond.
The night was damp with drizzling rain, we missed most of it by luck and timing, and yet it was as phantasmagoric and thick with night breezes as any walk in the dark could be. Something clicks in the human mind during the hours after sunset, whether fomented by stories, cultural training, or an outer zeitgeber pushing the temporal rhythm towards night. Our vision is limited, so our other senses are heightened; hearing and touch, and the air is filled with odors made clearer. Is it the sensory input that provokes night behavior? It was a different world on Allen Street after dark; during the day, it's dress and antique shops.
The moon was a sliver run over by clouds, winter is coming, dark has its rule. Stand at your outside door and breathe in the sharp air of the coming snows, the tannins of the dying leaves; breathe in as an animal, and learn your world. Sleep well and sleep deeply, dear friend, the moon will set as it rounds the horizon, then will descend further to the other side of the planet as it travels before the constellations of Pegasus and Sagitta. Lay still, be warm. Good night.
Friday, November 8, 2013
Stipe, Pileus, and Cap
Look; get over it; I like IKEA. In fact, I would have IKEA's child if that were possible. I know, I know; not only have you heard that before regarding clam chowder and Buster Keaton, but you also know that some of their products last, yet others disintegrate upon the first washing. Nonetheless, I generally like the style plus the idea of family as it's incorporated into the furniture settings, and love to put things together. So I subscribe to their EXCITA UPDATUM emails and well here we are, God Jul. The Swedish Christmas decorations are now available, and oh, hold me back, THERE'S MUSHROOMS!! Enchanting fabric mushrooms to hang on the tree, the kind with red caps and white stems, known to us mycology folks as Russula emetica.
This calls for a run up to the Canadian IKEA.
Now since you thought this was to be about furniture, let me clarify: no. This is about my fascination with that creature who has now claimed an entire kingdom for its own, the fungi. Specifically, the fleshy fungi we call mushrooms; the rusts, yeasts, blasts, smuts, molds, and the very interesting slime molds are left to high-powered microscopes. I'm a visual sort, and like to hold what I'm looking at, if not eat it. Don't get all goosey-loosey, because if anything, I am not advising that you go out and pick mushrooms; lord, lord no. Too many chances for near misses, and one variety, Amanita phalloides, the Death Angel, makes you sick as hell, lands you in the hospital where you feel better after three days, and then wham, kills your liver in hours and you die. It tastes lovely. There are a number of them that will allow you to think you are going to see your next payday, but then ha! the rug of life is pulled out from under your feet.
So, if you get lost in the woods during mushroom season, try to be lost with me along, cause I can probably pull you through and deliciously, as well. But please don't forage and then toss a silver dime into the cookpot. Allegedly, if the dime turns black, the mushrooms are toxic; if it remains shiny, they are safe; this is a lie the neighbors will tell you when they are trying to get rid of you, permanently. Do buy them from either the grocery or one of the mushroom vendors recently found at Farmer's Markets. Or go to an Asian store, they usually have fresh specimens of unusual varieties which are edible. Okay, enough lecturing scholarship.
Neither animal nor plant, their cell walls are composed of chitin, the stuff of crustacean and insect exoskeletons. There were two species my family would gather when I was little; Suillus luteus, and Boletus edulis; they both surprised me with their undersides, for there were no gills, just a layer of a porous, spongelike surface. The Suillus have an aroma of wild woods and wet grasses; they like to grow under larch trees and have a viscous cap, their common name is Slippery Jack. The Boletes are a dry mushroom whose stipe is thicker than the cap when young; it smells almost of ammonia until fried in butter or added to a soup, and then it shines. Buy them dried in cellophane bags, they're called Porcini.
I studied wild mushrooms as an adult with a local mycology group at the Museum of Natural Sciences, then found courses in college, both giving me enough training to identify at least twenty edible and eighty toxic species. Small beans in the mycology world, but enough for me. I will never eat anything that could possibly be cross-identified with a poisonous species, there is just too much variation to make it either safe or worthwhile. But in the meantime, they are as beautiful as seashells. and as curiously engaging in every rainbow color, a few will glow in the dark; they are anti-carcinogenic and good for you; eat one like a vitamin pill every morning, before your daily apple.
The Christmas tradition of mushroom ornaments seems to come from the European fairytale, and my tree is full of Deutsch Pilz fungal festivity. Really, it looks better than it sounds; I'll take some tree selfies this year. See if you can spot the new IKEA additions, you'll win a hard Christmas candy filled with raspberry that's stuck to the bottom of the bowl at Grandma's.
To the south of this city, there was given a blanket of snow, and as I walked to the car earlier, the bite of winter blew around me even though it was still in the 40 degree range. You could see the snow falling in dark bands over the Boston Hills, causing a tentative look towards the last remaining bright fall leaves clinging to the trees. Dark in the morning when I leave, dark at night when I return. No wonder I feel like soup and a blanket on the couch.
The crescent moon is low in the sky, the two Dippers are to the north, ladling and pouring out the Milky Way. Sleep well in the same gravity that holds us all safely, tethered to the ticks and rhythms of living. Be at peace, be at rest. Good night.
This calls for a run up to the Canadian IKEA.
Now since you thought this was to be about furniture, let me clarify: no. This is about my fascination with that creature who has now claimed an entire kingdom for its own, the fungi. Specifically, the fleshy fungi we call mushrooms; the rusts, yeasts, blasts, smuts, molds, and the very interesting slime molds are left to high-powered microscopes. I'm a visual sort, and like to hold what I'm looking at, if not eat it. Don't get all goosey-loosey, because if anything, I am not advising that you go out and pick mushrooms; lord, lord no. Too many chances for near misses, and one variety, Amanita phalloides, the Death Angel, makes you sick as hell, lands you in the hospital where you feel better after three days, and then wham, kills your liver in hours and you die. It tastes lovely. There are a number of them that will allow you to think you are going to see your next payday, but then ha! the rug of life is pulled out from under your feet.
So, if you get lost in the woods during mushroom season, try to be lost with me along, cause I can probably pull you through and deliciously, as well. But please don't forage and then toss a silver dime into the cookpot. Allegedly, if the dime turns black, the mushrooms are toxic; if it remains shiny, they are safe; this is a lie the neighbors will tell you when they are trying to get rid of you, permanently. Do buy them from either the grocery or one of the mushroom vendors recently found at Farmer's Markets. Or go to an Asian store, they usually have fresh specimens of unusual varieties which are edible. Okay, enough lecturing scholarship.
Neither animal nor plant, their cell walls are composed of chitin, the stuff of crustacean and insect exoskeletons. There were two species my family would gather when I was little; Suillus luteus, and Boletus edulis; they both surprised me with their undersides, for there were no gills, just a layer of a porous, spongelike surface. The Suillus have an aroma of wild woods and wet grasses; they like to grow under larch trees and have a viscous cap, their common name is Slippery Jack. The Boletes are a dry mushroom whose stipe is thicker than the cap when young; it smells almost of ammonia until fried in butter or added to a soup, and then it shines. Buy them dried in cellophane bags, they're called Porcini.
I studied wild mushrooms as an adult with a local mycology group at the Museum of Natural Sciences, then found courses in college, both giving me enough training to identify at least twenty edible and eighty toxic species. Small beans in the mycology world, but enough for me. I will never eat anything that could possibly be cross-identified with a poisonous species, there is just too much variation to make it either safe or worthwhile. But in the meantime, they are as beautiful as seashells. and as curiously engaging in every rainbow color, a few will glow in the dark; they are anti-carcinogenic and good for you; eat one like a vitamin pill every morning, before your daily apple.
The Christmas tradition of mushroom ornaments seems to come from the European fairytale, and my tree is full of Deutsch Pilz fungal festivity. Really, it looks better than it sounds; I'll take some tree selfies this year. See if you can spot the new IKEA additions, you'll win a hard Christmas candy filled with raspberry that's stuck to the bottom of the bowl at Grandma's.
To the south of this city, there was given a blanket of snow, and as I walked to the car earlier, the bite of winter blew around me even though it was still in the 40 degree range. You could see the snow falling in dark bands over the Boston Hills, causing a tentative look towards the last remaining bright fall leaves clinging to the trees. Dark in the morning when I leave, dark at night when I return. No wonder I feel like soup and a blanket on the couch.
The crescent moon is low in the sky, the two Dippers are to the north, ladling and pouring out the Milky Way. Sleep well in the same gravity that holds us all safely, tethered to the ticks and rhythms of living. Be at peace, be at rest. Good night.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Free Flowing
I am doing a little dance because after two days of clogged mess, my tub drain is working again without retching up chunks of black. If I ran water in the bathroom sink, it backed up, if the guy next door took a shower, it backed up, bringing select, viscous clods of black matter. This was a sudden affliction, there was no slowing or gradual clog, I just heard a gurgle and backwater was coming in like a hell tide.
After just going through this in the kitchen last week, I have learned not to get the Drano that flashes the "Commercial Strength" logo or the word "Guaranteed". I'm not driving back to the hardware for a $9.00 refund when it costs me near five dollars in gas and time to get there. That stuff doesn't work, in the past I have poured bottles of it down the drain for one big reason. Hope. Hope that it provides resolution and be done with it, because the one true way to clear a stubborn drain is with a homicidal dose of sulphuric acid. If you've ever read the warnings on the bottle, you make arrangements for who will take care of the cats after your demise.
The font is in red, and yells, WARNING: MAY CAUSE SEVERE BURNS OR DEATH. The bottle is plastic and contained within a separate, ziploc bag for storage after, so nothing made of meat, including you, comes in contact with spillage. It can burn a hole through a hand and the label advises in a serious tone heard in documentaries narrated by Calvinists that you should hold the bottle at arm's length while pouring it into the water supply. I searched for the industrial goggles I wear when dealing with power tools, couldn't find them, so I grabbed my plastic rhinestone sunglasses. Check. Put on the elbow length rubber gloves from the kitchen, buttoned up every button on my shirt and tucked sleeves into the tops of the gloves. Got a box of baking soda to neutralize accidents, of which I wasn't going to have any.
Had to chase the cats out of the bathroom, opened a window and poured approximately a cup of acid into the abyss. The bottle also mentioned that once the product was out in the open and down the drain, a bowl or a bucket should be inverted over the opening in case of eruption. What? A miasma of fumes emitted up from the drain, with hissing and internal bubbling sounds echoing through the Stygian pipes; I covered it with a bucket, and then it erupted.
Scads of black bubbles roiled like a geyser from the seventh circle of hell and began to fill the tub; if blood and fire had begun to rain down from the bathroom ceiling, I wouldn't have been surprised. See? Messing around with dangerous chemicals attracts trouble and plague said my mother when my chemistry set filled the house with noxious gases. Well I wasn't messing, this was serious business and besides, my Mom was frightened of mustard, for heaven's sake. The phone book touted mustard as a useful emetic and it killed ants. Proof enough for her; don't put too much on your sandwich, it could kill you.
The acidic froth billowed out from under the bucket and covered the bottom of the tub before subsiding. Black. Hissing. Ebbing and flowing as if it had breath. Yikes, I thought and imagined if it continued, if some neighbor decided to pull the plug on their nightly bath, would it then find a path into the community drain via Apartment 9? Overflow the tub? Dissolve the cats? Checking to make sure the gloves and goggles were secure, I grabbed the box of baking soda and mixed a solution in the sink. The wicked foam was finding it's way back down into the depths of the pipes, and after the last vestige of liquid disappeared, I poured a cup of the solution into the drain, just like it said to do if you were in the State of California, for neutralization.
Oh, that was fun. Another flume of water and acid sluiced up, bubbling like we had hit oil. Brown, this time; viscous; was this progress? Again the tub was filled with an inch of death, again I waited it out until the fluid slunk back into the mystery of city apartment drains. C'mon, c'mon, I gotta get to bed; but by that thought I recognized my usual turning point where I would have said the hell with it and poured the whole bottle down the pipes, closed the door and went to bed. Perhaps age brings sanity and patience, for as appealing as this was, being dog-tired and having driven home in the rain, at night, with my eyes dilated from an exam, impatience was pushed aside, and prudence sat down and smoothed her apron. I actually have an Aunt Prudence in the family history. By her looks, she could have taken on a bear. This was a drain. Calm down, girl.
After the tub emptied again, I spent time being fascinated with sprinkling sodium bicarbonate directly into the drain and getting the hissing going again. As long as there was a reaction, there was still acid that required neutralizing. But heat, wasn't heat being produced, could it explode the pipes, and what if this backed up into another local tub? Would I have melted someone's toes while they were showering? It was scientifically exciting until the baking soda ran out. Time had passed for the required remedy to be achieved, and so I tried flushing the drain with cold water. Har de har. Nope. More sludge, more foam, more chunks of black. That went down and then without me doing anything further, the tub filled with yellow liquid. Clear yellow. Like urine. Now what? I had had enough science and scary chemicals for the evening, and so closed the door to the bathroom and went to bed.
Morning. All ablutions and fussing were carried out at the kitchen sink, I put my contacts in by looking at my reflection in the microwave door. Before heading out to children, it made sense to do a test run to see if water would successfully vortex down and out the pipes. Nope. More resistance like a relative that won't go home, fingers dug into the door frame. Well, something to look forward to after work, the whole bottle of murder will go down next; I can only hope that the Water Station has the wherewithal to handle corrosives in city sewers. Hm, need more baking soda.
That late afternoon, there were no new clots of black slime mapping out a history of further backwashes; the tub was clear. Uhhhh, okay, let's go slow. First a cup of water, another, another, turn on the faucet, it's running, turn on the tub and wow! Done! It's gurgling like a spring brook! Unknown whether the drain cleaner did the deed, or if maintenance kicked in from another tenant calling in a complaint. The bottle of miracles and peril is now in the ziploc bag, in another plastic bag, in another plastic bag; three plastic bags ought to do it, don't you think?
I scrubbed out the tub with a Mr. Clean Magic Eraser (it's melamine, folks; no magic), and Googled "sulphuric acid". It's the most important chemical in the world, and is used in manufacturing almost everything. I found a recipe for making your own. Geez. No thanks; says to boil it down on an outside barbeque grill. Are they nuts?
But now I'm content, one more piece is back in place besides my pupils returning to normal size; that was freaky, looking at myself in the mirror with those immense black holes staring back. I scared me a bit. Fit perfectly with the sulfuric fumes, all I needed was a pitchfork.
Sleep well tonight, dream of solutions and flow, structure and plans. The planets spin and stars wheel through the celestial vault, while our Northern Hemisphere falls quiet with the early lowering of the sun. You have earned your rest, all will be well. Good night.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
