This cat, this large boy cat who is bigger than many dogs, has been assailed by tics and twitches of the stomach, eventually losing appetite and hiding, which is the definite signal for vet intervention. He isn't that lovable, not a cuddler, nor likes being picked up; he is the first at the door to greet me with many chirps and meows, and will go to the dripping bath tub tap to get a drink, getting his head wet, then coming to me into the living area to be tissued off. He will do this three times in a row for the attention and fuss.
He was sitting calmly at the vet's when I first saw him, the young vet tech said that this was the mellowest cat he had ever, and so I brought him home to balance out my then four girl cats. However, this tech lied, sort of; Steve isn't bothered by noise, and if something crashes, he runs towards it to see what happened. I dropped a glass a week ago, and his insistence at being at the scene of the crime, INSISTENCE, earned him a small swat with the broom as he was fighting my pushes to get his butt out of there; it's broken glass, you eedjit! And if you have ever dropped an IKEA glass, you know that the Swedish Bork Bork Borkness splinters into a million shards and flies out in exacting concentricity. It is the devil in silica with the breath of pickled herring. I should switch to industrial strength Anchor Hocking.
So he is the protector of the house, the ambassador who greets you, he's the dog. Steve had been declawed, (and it's a butcher job), then abandoned by his original owners to an outside life which you just don't do to a cat without claws, possibly because he can be a son of a bitch; neighbors took care of him through the winter, leaving him outside however, and eventually bringing him in to my vet to see if he could land a home. They left a $100 fund to entice anyone to adopt him, a kitty bed, and numerous toys. They cared for him, which told me that under the gruffness was perhaps indeed a mellow personality. I'm good with rescues, drawing out the oddities while finding the goodness inside, unless they are insane, and yes, there are animals as susceptible to brain chemistry as we.
The first time I combed him, he twitched in surprise as if what the hell is this but I like it. I stopped before he decided he had enough, but the next day, guess who was sitting at the combing station, which is the toilet with the lid down. He grew to be fond of me, so fond that one night I dreamt that Alan Rickman was massaging my foot; Alan purred...rrrrrrt, baybay, and I awoke; it wasn't Rickman, but Steve, having a date with my blanketed foot. He was launched off with several swears, whacked with a pillow, and hasn't done it since. Neither has Alan.
The first time Mr. Mellow went back for a physical check, he drew blood on the vet and two of her techs, crapped and peed on the examining table, and told all of us to go to hell. He now has a flag on his file, but I told them, look, I got him from you folks, how is this unknown? They gave me the haha smile, we pulled one on you because you understand animals bait. Sure, but don't enlist me to reform a wolverine. Steve's okay. He has a warmth in him that wants to be loved; he recognizes that and has his temper, but is working with me on trust issues. He's a good boy. He hates Cracky McCrackhead.
After a battery of god knows the price tests and knocking him o-u-t so they could get a blood sample, he was declared healthy and the loss of appetite was the result of intestinal inflammation. They gave him a shot of prednisone and 12 tablets for me to give him at home. Har. I may be able to get the first one in as it will be unexpected, but the next and next and next, well, I'd rather give him shots. A friend had wrapped her cat up in 70's curtains like a golden Egyptian cat taco to get a pill in, but they become adept at closing their throats and spitting it out and I can't blame them. Steve loves chili, so without onions or raisins (I put raisins in), he gets a spoonful. I mashed up a tablet into a bit of chili, tasted it, and if you learn anything in this lifetime from me besides that IKEA glasses shatter, know that prednisone is one of the bitterest, tongue-killing, dandruff from a bear's ass substance on this planet. No chili is covering that, and so I dumped experiment #1 down the sink, wondering how drain bacteria reacts to steroids. Yah. We pomp it opp, make sandwiches right out of yoo refrigerator, lady.
Yesterday I erred and read through Stephen King's "Misery". I should not read Stephen, as affable a fellow he seems to be; I don't watch films where people get hurt, I don't read mystery, horror, or crime stories. The imagination interprets each creak and sigh of the building as a break-in; I go through the victim's terror, what drive does someone have to create horrific pain to another? Nope, no thanks. It happens, all this horror happens, and reading the psychological methods King designs for his characters scares the bejeesus out of me to the point of nausea. But scientific applications don't bother me, I wanted to be a medical illustrator; I'll be the first one to go find your pancreas if it drops out and help put you back together.
King's story stayed with me for much of the night before turning in, but then Steve the Cat came by and butted his handsome head into my shoulder. Kai was on my lap, and Snowbelle at the end of the sofa, as she is now. The apprehension left, as the cause of it is dead and scattered, and to further a change in course, I picked up a Garrison Keillor book of verse to read and remember. Steve stayed with me, for which I was glad to see him on the way back to his old self, and also for his company.
I dreamt of fields and snow. Large flakes scuttered down, weaving trails in the air then settling into the tall, now yellowed grasses. Houses were at the far end of the field, and I was visiting my Grandmother in one of them. She always served peas in milk and butter, and there was a bowl on the table. It was a simple image, but a memory of safety and love conjured at just the right moment. There are pleasant memories from long ago that hold us to a steady course, think of one now, reflect upon it as you lay in bed this evening, happy in the knowledge of you, a part of you which stays by your side. A truth.
Time disappear, silver moon rise.
Tuesday, December 30, 2014
Sunday, December 28, 2014
Ring In the New
Just be sure that you are ready; flying willy-nilly into a half-baked idea costs time, can present bottomless regrets, but teaches your ass to prepare and keep both eyes open. Taking chances seems to be encouraged, how often have you heard that career-wise you should follow your heart? Well, good luck, philosophy degree; nice knowing you, Liberal Arts; you'll be working somewhere soon, but most likely not in your area of choice; scrabbling for medical benefits will become your mantra, as will paying off whatever student loan lingers. And it will harangue you, like Marley's ghost rattling chains at the beginning of each month, sliding the icy grip of frustration around your heart. If it weren't for this, you could get a car. A home. Go on a trip. Breathe.
Do I regret college, the master's degree? Sometimes. I will never make enough money in this poor district to pay back the loan until I am 85; the thing to do is get a second job. Invest in getting my art out there within its limited audience. But going to school helped me, helped my self-image after being told I wasn't smart enough by one particular entity; well, I missed summa cum laude by four tenths of a point, but will gladly accept magna just as happily. Smart? I'm smart. I could wrap my brain around your neck and start you up like a lawnmower.
I wasn't prepared to support my son and myself adequately with the little education that I had when leaving the marriage. Regrets on the divorce? Only that I didn't borrow the money for a lawyer and went the route of a mediator as I wanted to be out as fast as possible. Gave up a lot, said the lawyer who reviewed the paperwork, but at the time there was no time. How could I have been ready? To me, marriage wasn't supposed to be a competition, a place where an emergency hatch was necessary; was that naive? Warning signs were everywhere, yet I clung to the image of helping in hope that it would be good enough. I had little security as it was, how could it have been any worse the other side of the signed papers? Would have been better having a source of substantial income had I gained a degree earlier in life.
But woulda, coulda, shoulda. Just examine your motives, are you escaping and have a place to stay? Are there accommodations for your kids and pets? Can you support yourself, or do you still have to rely on the potential ex's money? What about health insurance? Food? If the situation is dangerous, get out immediately; if not, find what is out there to help you, and let me tell you, not much. You had better learn how to take care of yourself, for jumping into a new situation without a way for you to support yourself is difficult but not impossible.
Women file for divorce more often than men, with the most cited reason being neglect. Indifference. Becoming strangers to each other. Not physical abuse or alcoholism, but being ignored. Is this such a great demand, to be able to trust, feel emotional availability, thoughtfulness? To participate in each others' lives? Find out which part is missing, learn what you need, and find out what you need to do to grow into the next phase of life. Don't depend on anyone else to do what you must for yourself; it's a battle, but you will gain a self-confidence that will carry you through to safety.
But tonight, this winter night, each of us tuck in, settle, let go. Let go of every influence that takes you away from becoming, that is a cover for the deeper issues inside. You know what they are, you can face them and put forth resolution under your own steam. You can, you are wonderful, marvelous, a force of life made of the carbon which built the stars. See yourself in them. Sleep, now. I will watch over.
Do I regret college, the master's degree? Sometimes. I will never make enough money in this poor district to pay back the loan until I am 85; the thing to do is get a second job. Invest in getting my art out there within its limited audience. But going to school helped me, helped my self-image after being told I wasn't smart enough by one particular entity; well, I missed summa cum laude by four tenths of a point, but will gladly accept magna just as happily. Smart? I'm smart. I could wrap my brain around your neck and start you up like a lawnmower.
I wasn't prepared to support my son and myself adequately with the little education that I had when leaving the marriage. Regrets on the divorce? Only that I didn't borrow the money for a lawyer and went the route of a mediator as I wanted to be out as fast as possible. Gave up a lot, said the lawyer who reviewed the paperwork, but at the time there was no time. How could I have been ready? To me, marriage wasn't supposed to be a competition, a place where an emergency hatch was necessary; was that naive? Warning signs were everywhere, yet I clung to the image of helping in hope that it would be good enough. I had little security as it was, how could it have been any worse the other side of the signed papers? Would have been better having a source of substantial income had I gained a degree earlier in life.
But woulda, coulda, shoulda. Just examine your motives, are you escaping and have a place to stay? Are there accommodations for your kids and pets? Can you support yourself, or do you still have to rely on the potential ex's money? What about health insurance? Food? If the situation is dangerous, get out immediately; if not, find what is out there to help you, and let me tell you, not much. You had better learn how to take care of yourself, for jumping into a new situation without a way for you to support yourself is difficult but not impossible.
Women file for divorce more often than men, with the most cited reason being neglect. Indifference. Becoming strangers to each other. Not physical abuse or alcoholism, but being ignored. Is this such a great demand, to be able to trust, feel emotional availability, thoughtfulness? To participate in each others' lives? Find out which part is missing, learn what you need, and find out what you need to do to grow into the next phase of life. Don't depend on anyone else to do what you must for yourself; it's a battle, but you will gain a self-confidence that will carry you through to safety.
But tonight, this winter night, each of us tuck in, settle, let go. Let go of every influence that takes you away from becoming, that is a cover for the deeper issues inside. You know what they are, you can face them and put forth resolution under your own steam. You can, you are wonderful, marvelous, a force of life made of the carbon which built the stars. See yourself in them. Sleep, now. I will watch over.
Sunday, December 14, 2014
Dorothy Mae
My Ford Escort was in the shop for brakes, and I remember the walk from the funeral director's to the subway station, having had to "borrow" the money from him to take the train to home. Rain hit the snow on the ground, causing each footstep to churn the mixture into slush; I was grateful to reach the doors of the train station, inside it was warm. Took the rail home, and walked the two blocks to the apartment, still raining in big, sloppy drops that were on their way to becoming snow as the temperature dropped.
Brian was there already, for I had sent him on ahead in the taxi we had taken to get to the funeral home. I don't remember much of that day after that, except for unpacking the Hefty bags the nursing home had given me and Bri to take my mother's belongings in, but the morning remained clear as any, each minute had it's own title, beginning, middle, and ending till the next breath, the next breath, the last breath.
Today is the anniversary of my mother's death. Someday I will forget it, as sure as everything else will be, except not today. I had visited her that night before, taken to the nursing home by my mother-in-law after she was no longer my mother-in-law. Little did I know it would be the last time I saw my Mom; just two days before, she was up, sitting in her wheelchair, and I wrapped my scarf around her neck, she loved sunflowers so. Didn't know who I was anymore, but that didn't ever bother me; I knew who she was, and chatted with her about people she knew, told her stories, talked of her parents whom she thought were still alive. But there was a marker that gave me a wrenching realization that time was ending; her ankles and feet had blotches of grey. Not pink-grey or blue-grey, but grey as paint, not human flesh. Circulation was shutting down. I left my scarf with her and kissed her goodbye. I love you, too, she said.
That last night, she had developed a high fever, 105°; my brother had visited and told me that as he took her hand, she screamed at the pain and sat straight up in bed, something she had not been capable of in years. I saw her after he had left, curled on her side, able only to nod as if in a dream; sleep, Mom; I love you. She nodded in agreement. The next morning there was a phone call from a nurse saying that if I wanted to see her, I had better get to the nursing home, now. My son and I clambered into a cab that got us there quickly, where my father and brother already were.
The lady who shared her room had been put in the lounge area, my brother and I went in to her room along with Bri. She was on her back, staring at the ceiling, her pupils so wide that you could not see the iris, and breathing in gasps. I am not going into details of the next three hours; suffice to say that she ebbed away softly as a tide leaving the shore. Bare minutes before, as I held her, I felt a wave of dizziness grab me; oh no, I thought, not now; but inside of me came an image of a golden shape ascending against a reddened sky; did it have wings? My brother and I cupped her cheeks as she passed.
Brian and I stayed to gather her belongings, and to make arrangements for her to be picked up. The plastic bags of her belongings went with Bri in the cab after I was dropped off at the funeral home to sign papers. Sludging through the snow and ice underscored the hollow shock of losing her, in spite of her incapacities visited by old age and the eventuality of life.
Who was she? Born in 1920, she knew the Depression, of going without, of gathering hickory nuts in the woods for a sweet. For a while, she was sent to live with relatives in Elmira, New York; the reasons were never clear to me, I am guessing it was not an unusual thing to do in those days, but why her? Because she was the oldest, or was there an affection for her that wasn't available at home? She lived apart for a few years, then returned when my grandparents moved to Buffalo, going as far as the ninth grade before getting a job as a waitress in a restaurant where my grandmother was a cook and grandfather was a porter till World War II began and he got a job in a toolmaking plant.
She taught me how to string wild strawberries on a long stem of grass, to hold a blade of grass between my thumbs as a reed for a whistle; to wrap waxed paper around a comb to make a kazoo,
to watch for falling stars, to make do with what I had. Go find a stick to play with, she'd tell me. Okay. I had a great collection of sticks. She found fossils of corals, or chunks of obsidian to show me; grew roses, taught me not to kill bugs, to be kind to others, to draw a tree. Was she book smart? No. But she was one of the most forgiving practitioners of human benevolence. We were kicked out of a department store once because she stood guard at a drinking fountain labeled "Whites Only" while an elderly black man got a drink. The one marked "Colored" was out of order, it was a hot day, he was wearing a suit, and it was before stores had air conditioning. The floorwalker came over and Mom, who wouldn't open her mouth to say anything, gave him the what for, saying that the man wanted water. You need to leave now, and so we did. Thank you, ma'am, the man had said before he also was removed from the gathering crowd.
The flowering vines on my window sill show brilliant orange, their tubular throats open with white stamens; other are smaller, pale violet with spots, but again, a physiology of open mouths, singing a silent song. It is a rainy day over snow, just as it was in 1999; I remember the ache of the cold but the drive to take care of my Mom pushed me forward; I wish I could have done more for her, but couldn't afford. The best thing I can do for her now is to be someone she would be proud of, to sign my middle name when I can; Dorothy.
Mama, your grandson is getting married next October to a beautiful girl, you would love her; he has grown up and is working in Washington, DC. I'm doing well, the car is hanging on by a thread, but I'm not scared; smaller problems have a way of working out in the end. I hope this finds you well, and I must tell you, I am really happy you didn't name me Merry Christmas like you wanted to. Thank you, Mama. I remember. I dream.
Brian was there already, for I had sent him on ahead in the taxi we had taken to get to the funeral home. I don't remember much of that day after that, except for unpacking the Hefty bags the nursing home had given me and Bri to take my mother's belongings in, but the morning remained clear as any, each minute had it's own title, beginning, middle, and ending till the next breath, the next breath, the last breath.
Today is the anniversary of my mother's death. Someday I will forget it, as sure as everything else will be, except not today. I had visited her that night before, taken to the nursing home by my mother-in-law after she was no longer my mother-in-law. Little did I know it would be the last time I saw my Mom; just two days before, she was up, sitting in her wheelchair, and I wrapped my scarf around her neck, she loved sunflowers so. Didn't know who I was anymore, but that didn't ever bother me; I knew who she was, and chatted with her about people she knew, told her stories, talked of her parents whom she thought were still alive. But there was a marker that gave me a wrenching realization that time was ending; her ankles and feet had blotches of grey. Not pink-grey or blue-grey, but grey as paint, not human flesh. Circulation was shutting down. I left my scarf with her and kissed her goodbye. I love you, too, she said.
That last night, she had developed a high fever, 105°; my brother had visited and told me that as he took her hand, she screamed at the pain and sat straight up in bed, something she had not been capable of in years. I saw her after he had left, curled on her side, able only to nod as if in a dream; sleep, Mom; I love you. She nodded in agreement. The next morning there was a phone call from a nurse saying that if I wanted to see her, I had better get to the nursing home, now. My son and I clambered into a cab that got us there quickly, where my father and brother already were.
The lady who shared her room had been put in the lounge area, my brother and I went in to her room along with Bri. She was on her back, staring at the ceiling, her pupils so wide that you could not see the iris, and breathing in gasps. I am not going into details of the next three hours; suffice to say that she ebbed away softly as a tide leaving the shore. Bare minutes before, as I held her, I felt a wave of dizziness grab me; oh no, I thought, not now; but inside of me came an image of a golden shape ascending against a reddened sky; did it have wings? My brother and I cupped her cheeks as she passed.
Brian and I stayed to gather her belongings, and to make arrangements for her to be picked up. The plastic bags of her belongings went with Bri in the cab after I was dropped off at the funeral home to sign papers. Sludging through the snow and ice underscored the hollow shock of losing her, in spite of her incapacities visited by old age and the eventuality of life.
Who was she? Born in 1920, she knew the Depression, of going without, of gathering hickory nuts in the woods for a sweet. For a while, she was sent to live with relatives in Elmira, New York; the reasons were never clear to me, I am guessing it was not an unusual thing to do in those days, but why her? Because she was the oldest, or was there an affection for her that wasn't available at home? She lived apart for a few years, then returned when my grandparents moved to Buffalo, going as far as the ninth grade before getting a job as a waitress in a restaurant where my grandmother was a cook and grandfather was a porter till World War II began and he got a job in a toolmaking plant.
She taught me how to string wild strawberries on a long stem of grass, to hold a blade of grass between my thumbs as a reed for a whistle; to wrap waxed paper around a comb to make a kazoo,
to watch for falling stars, to make do with what I had. Go find a stick to play with, she'd tell me. Okay. I had a great collection of sticks. She found fossils of corals, or chunks of obsidian to show me; grew roses, taught me not to kill bugs, to be kind to others, to draw a tree. Was she book smart? No. But she was one of the most forgiving practitioners of human benevolence. We were kicked out of a department store once because she stood guard at a drinking fountain labeled "Whites Only" while an elderly black man got a drink. The one marked "Colored" was out of order, it was a hot day, he was wearing a suit, and it was before stores had air conditioning. The floorwalker came over and Mom, who wouldn't open her mouth to say anything, gave him the what for, saying that the man wanted water. You need to leave now, and so we did. Thank you, ma'am, the man had said before he also was removed from the gathering crowd.
The flowering vines on my window sill show brilliant orange, their tubular throats open with white stamens; other are smaller, pale violet with spots, but again, a physiology of open mouths, singing a silent song. It is a rainy day over snow, just as it was in 1999; I remember the ache of the cold but the drive to take care of my Mom pushed me forward; I wish I could have done more for her, but couldn't afford. The best thing I can do for her now is to be someone she would be proud of, to sign my middle name when I can; Dorothy.
Mama, your grandson is getting married next October to a beautiful girl, you would love her; he has grown up and is working in Washington, DC. I'm doing well, the car is hanging on by a thread, but I'm not scared; smaller problems have a way of working out in the end. I hope this finds you well, and I must tell you, I am really happy you didn't name me Merry Christmas like you wanted to. Thank you, Mama. I remember. I dream.
Thursday, December 4, 2014
News Flash: First Graders Understand Silent Film
And just how old is a first grade kid? Ranges from 5-6 years old, and so that means their taste in humor is as sophisticated as one of this week's spelling words, which is "but". Studying the short /u/, you see. However, when writing the word on the board for them to copy into their journals, I am supposed to sound it out then say it, "buh-uh-ttt, but". Snickers are barely stifled, and I hear, "Ms. Coburn said but." I hear the word repeated several times until I glance over my shoulder at the miscreants, then return to the board. Repeat the roster of six words with me, boys and girls: sun, run, fun, but....BUT!! Wooooohoooheehooohahahahahhaaa!!! Okay. By the second day, they're over it.
I have two runners; what's that, you think; well it refers to students who either get so overwrought that they bolt out of the classroom because you insist they put their name on the paper, or just think it's fine to go visit their cousin in the third grade down the hall up on the next floor when I let them go to the bathroom and then it's Hiyo Silver!
So because I have runners, I am supposed to tag them, but how the hell can that happen without the kid ripping it off as fast as they are made, unless administration allows staples. That part was a rough day; the kids were tired, cranky, and it was 1:30 in the afternoon. This, I thought, is a perfect time for Social Studies, yeah, Social Studies; so I prepped the kids in case any one of the higher ups, like my boss, walked in while the lesson was going on. Girls and boys, I have a treat for you, this is a movie where there was NO TALKING, they hadn't figured out how to record sound on film so you could hear the actors speaking. They put signs in the movie to read, called intertitles; let's see which words you know, and for our observation, I want you to be able to tell me what part you liked best. This is history, how they watched movies in the old days. If anybody asks you, THIS IS HISTORY. Six year olds will throw you under the bus if they think it means they will get an M&M.
My laptop was connected to the Promethean board, and I punched up Buster Keaton's "The Scarecrow". The piano accompanying the film was quick, punctual, and accentuated Buster's various dilemmas. They liked the breakfast table scene with the hanging condiments; when breakfast was over and Buster and Eddie Cline dumped the remains down a chute to the pigs, my inner city kids yelled LOOKIT THE COWS!
These scenes got laughs: anytime Buster fell or did a roll; Sibyl Seely snapping her fingers under Joe Keaton's nose with his missed kick of retaliation; Luke the Dog chasing Buster, climbing the ladder, running around the top of the stone structure after Buster, then diving into the hay was a very big attraction. I GOT A PIT BULL AT HOME. MY DOG CAN DO THAT TOO! Buster, scooped into the winnowing machine, and then being ejected in his underwear elicted EEWWWWs. His dressing himself as a scarecrow and kicking the two men arguing got the loudest laughs, the scene where he walks across the water on his hands received admiring whispers of lookit that, that's awesome! Buster slid down a bank and took off running; my guys helped him out by taunting the pursuing men, BUH BYE SUCKAHS. The largest participation happened when he tried riding the replica of a horse; the kids kept yelling "THAT'S NOT REAL, THAT'S A FAKE HORSE, congratulating themselves that they were smarter than that guy on the screen.
The closing frames got a big laugh, and it went by so quick I was surprised the class caught it; Buster, after being submerged, stood up and spat out a stream of water. The kids roared, then clapped as the last intertitle announcing the end appeared. Lights came back on, and we discussed what they saw that was different, what they thought was funny, did they like a film where you couldn't hear what people were saying? Overwhelmingly so. My observational one said it well, "The piano did the talking." Brilliant child, not bad for 6 years old. Welcome to the Coburn Film Historical Social Studies Find a Word You Can Read and Learn About Buster Series.
When the moon rose earlier, just before five p.m., it was a paten, a gong, the polished breastplate of an idol's armor; rose gold and exalted as it ascended, phantasms reaching out from either side, like the halo surrounding an angel's tumbled hair. Now silver, it sees you as well as me, busy in life, pushing on, dragged forward by the sun; yet, pause and wait under this celestial waxing. Tomorrow will be a full moon, let your lunacy shiver through your core and become, fall, tilt the balance; rock the leveling scales and find your dearest dream, the one that will and has been with you always.
Sleep, the moon will watch over you, the stars shall echo your sighs.
I have two runners; what's that, you think; well it refers to students who either get so overwrought that they bolt out of the classroom because you insist they put their name on the paper, or just think it's fine to go visit their cousin in the third grade down the hall up on the next floor when I let them go to the bathroom and then it's Hiyo Silver!
So because I have runners, I am supposed to tag them, but how the hell can that happen without the kid ripping it off as fast as they are made, unless administration allows staples. That part was a rough day; the kids were tired, cranky, and it was 1:30 in the afternoon. This, I thought, is a perfect time for Social Studies, yeah, Social Studies; so I prepped the kids in case any one of the higher ups, like my boss, walked in while the lesson was going on. Girls and boys, I have a treat for you, this is a movie where there was NO TALKING, they hadn't figured out how to record sound on film so you could hear the actors speaking. They put signs in the movie to read, called intertitles; let's see which words you know, and for our observation, I want you to be able to tell me what part you liked best. This is history, how they watched movies in the old days. If anybody asks you, THIS IS HISTORY. Six year olds will throw you under the bus if they think it means they will get an M&M.
My laptop was connected to the Promethean board, and I punched up Buster Keaton's "The Scarecrow". The piano accompanying the film was quick, punctual, and accentuated Buster's various dilemmas. They liked the breakfast table scene with the hanging condiments; when breakfast was over and Buster and Eddie Cline dumped the remains down a chute to the pigs, my inner city kids yelled LOOKIT THE COWS!
These scenes got laughs: anytime Buster fell or did a roll; Sibyl Seely snapping her fingers under Joe Keaton's nose with his missed kick of retaliation; Luke the Dog chasing Buster, climbing the ladder, running around the top of the stone structure after Buster, then diving into the hay was a very big attraction. I GOT A PIT BULL AT HOME. MY DOG CAN DO THAT TOO! Buster, scooped into the winnowing machine, and then being ejected in his underwear elicted EEWWWWs. His dressing himself as a scarecrow and kicking the two men arguing got the loudest laughs, the scene where he walks across the water on his hands received admiring whispers of lookit that, that's awesome! Buster slid down a bank and took off running; my guys helped him out by taunting the pursuing men, BUH BYE SUCKAHS. The largest participation happened when he tried riding the replica of a horse; the kids kept yelling "THAT'S NOT REAL, THAT'S A FAKE HORSE, congratulating themselves that they were smarter than that guy on the screen.
The closing frames got a big laugh, and it went by so quick I was surprised the class caught it; Buster, after being submerged, stood up and spat out a stream of water. The kids roared, then clapped as the last intertitle announcing the end appeared. Lights came back on, and we discussed what they saw that was different, what they thought was funny, did they like a film where you couldn't hear what people were saying? Overwhelmingly so. My observational one said it well, "The piano did the talking." Brilliant child, not bad for 6 years old. Welcome to the Coburn Film Historical Social Studies Find a Word You Can Read and Learn About Buster Series.
When the moon rose earlier, just before five p.m., it was a paten, a gong, the polished breastplate of an idol's armor; rose gold and exalted as it ascended, phantasms reaching out from either side, like the halo surrounding an angel's tumbled hair. Now silver, it sees you as well as me, busy in life, pushing on, dragged forward by the sun; yet, pause and wait under this celestial waxing. Tomorrow will be a full moon, let your lunacy shiver through your core and become, fall, tilt the balance; rock the leveling scales and find your dearest dream, the one that will and has been with you always.
Sleep, the moon will watch over you, the stars shall echo your sighs.
Sunday, November 30, 2014
Breathe
If there is anything that we share with our ancestors, it's that we live under the same sun, and walk on our hind legs. What about the air, are we breathing the same air as in the time of the Romans? Stegosaurs? Technically yes, not the exact same configuration, but those molecules of oxygen and nitrogen have been on the earth for that long; they break down, regroup, and there you go. The particles you breathe today may have come out of either end of a sauropod, or of a Roman gladiator; very little disappears from earth beyond the atmosphere. I hope your coffee wasn't in your hand when you read that.
The question I have is, does it smell different? Does breathing fresh air in a pine forest (you need to do this) provide as delightful an experience as it did in the 1800's? Tree leaves produce oxygen, so you will feel a bit buzzed in an area heavy with foliage, and in the stillness of a forest, where the growth settles the wind forces, and things are quiet, oxygen hangs around a bit longer and concentrates in little currents.
You want to feel revived? I urge you to find a houseplant, preferably a prolific one like a spider plant or a philodendron; now, stick your face into the leaves and inhale. Don't be clumsy and inhale dirt for that's where the molds thrive, but in the crown of green leaves, hang your face in there and breathe. Your headache is gone? You're welcome. And don't worry, the plant likes it, for you exhale carbon dioxide, just what the critter sustains itself on.
Springtime is not just jumping lambs and more daylight; the green things are returning, and when they do, you are getting the oxygen those plants are pumping out and thus feel more alive. But the aroma, was it different so many centuries ago? Maybe not so much as you go trundling through the woods, but within the boundaries of a town, it has to be; today we have cars, two centuries ago, it was horses, oxen, and other four-legged beastie things. Swamps come and go, factories arrive and disappear, new chemicals are found, anything which consumes energy gives off exhaust. Those of you that have traveled, could you tell if you were in Thailand or Egypt if you stood still with your eyes closed and fingers in your ears?
Once civilization arrived, so did herds of cows, pigs, and horses; according to ice core samples, this change created enough methane to affect the atmosphere. Move into the Middle Ages, where sewers were a rarity and slop was dumped directly into the streets; this was also pre-Speed Stick, folks, so double up on those pomanders and hankies. Dead things were used as ammunition for catapults and trebuchets, so these people knew not about the germs so much, but they did understand stinky.
In centuries following, along came the belching Industrial Revolution, pushing tons of coal into the air, along with the minerals and toxins from smelting iron, carbon monoxide, and as the cities became packed with workers, the gutters and bins overflowed with refuse. The girls selling violets weren't just offering a visually pleasing bouquet, they were providing olfactory rescue if you had to walk more than a mile through twisty, narrow streets. People in charge soon decided that a street shouldn't be a cesspool, and eventually installed sewer systems. Civilization took one giant step forward as grateful as a foot that had missed an ochre-colored, glutinous puddle.
But lets turn towards other things; science has found a way to extract scent without harming the flower, and the largest fragrance manufacturer in the world has a very lucky man going about and capturing what may be the last fragrances of rare flowers. Kept in chilled aluminum flasks, the essences will last for at least two hundred years, when science may recreate some of the smells that have disappeared. Isn't that, I mean, isn't that just a wonder?
We are in winter here in the Northern Hemisphere, and in cold air, molecules travel at a much slower rate, and our noses don't pick up as much to smell. Because winter doesn't present the menu of aromas we normally enjoy, this is the time of year that we light more scented candles, make hot soups, and bake cookies. The indoor smells take precedence over the outdoor emptiness; oh, our busy, busy brains. I get a kick out of us. For the most part.
So, what would my favorites be? Dorian mentioned old books, and in my mind, that sweet tannin wafting through the air not only smells good, but alerts my head to the wondrous things inside. I like cinnamon cookies in the oven; old, heavy roses, horses, salt water, lumberyards, a hammer striking a nail, fur on a living animal, drawing paper, gum erasers, blankets and sheets hung on the clothesline, brick and stone, rain, unscented candles burning in a candelabra, bee's wax. Fallen leaves, dirt, a cut pumpkin, a fresh cotton shirt, those large Christmas tree light bulbs that smell like the tree is going to burst into flames because they get so hot, and clams.
Swirl around yourself tomorrow, and find what smells are reassuring to you, or that bring forward a memory of younger days, like H-O oats cereal which was my favorite, a toasted oatmeal that gave off a nutty, steamy aroma that my Grandma made for me as I sat at her maple table and listened to the fog horn on a chilly morning. They just tore down the remaining buildings maybe four years ago. See how it works? Now, you remember...
Sleep, sleep my dears, you well deserve it and the night has charms of its own. A crushed sachet of lavender under the pillow? No? Perhaps some rose cream over tired hands. Bergamot, jasmine, sandalwood; these are the best to induce calm, to swaddle you in the cloak of sleep...chamomile, lilac, and ylang ylang, which slows down the nervous system. Dream of fields, of nights filled with blooms. Good night.
The question I have is, does it smell different? Does breathing fresh air in a pine forest (you need to do this) provide as delightful an experience as it did in the 1800's? Tree leaves produce oxygen, so you will feel a bit buzzed in an area heavy with foliage, and in the stillness of a forest, where the growth settles the wind forces, and things are quiet, oxygen hangs around a bit longer and concentrates in little currents.
You want to feel revived? I urge you to find a houseplant, preferably a prolific one like a spider plant or a philodendron; now, stick your face into the leaves and inhale. Don't be clumsy and inhale dirt for that's where the molds thrive, but in the crown of green leaves, hang your face in there and breathe. Your headache is gone? You're welcome. And don't worry, the plant likes it, for you exhale carbon dioxide, just what the critter sustains itself on.
Springtime is not just jumping lambs and more daylight; the green things are returning, and when they do, you are getting the oxygen those plants are pumping out and thus feel more alive. But the aroma, was it different so many centuries ago? Maybe not so much as you go trundling through the woods, but within the boundaries of a town, it has to be; today we have cars, two centuries ago, it was horses, oxen, and other four-legged beastie things. Swamps come and go, factories arrive and disappear, new chemicals are found, anything which consumes energy gives off exhaust. Those of you that have traveled, could you tell if you were in Thailand or Egypt if you stood still with your eyes closed and fingers in your ears?
Once civilization arrived, so did herds of cows, pigs, and horses; according to ice core samples, this change created enough methane to affect the atmosphere. Move into the Middle Ages, where sewers were a rarity and slop was dumped directly into the streets; this was also pre-Speed Stick, folks, so double up on those pomanders and hankies. Dead things were used as ammunition for catapults and trebuchets, so these people knew not about the germs so much, but they did understand stinky.
In centuries following, along came the belching Industrial Revolution, pushing tons of coal into the air, along with the minerals and toxins from smelting iron, carbon monoxide, and as the cities became packed with workers, the gutters and bins overflowed with refuse. The girls selling violets weren't just offering a visually pleasing bouquet, they were providing olfactory rescue if you had to walk more than a mile through twisty, narrow streets. People in charge soon decided that a street shouldn't be a cesspool, and eventually installed sewer systems. Civilization took one giant step forward as grateful as a foot that had missed an ochre-colored, glutinous puddle.
But lets turn towards other things; science has found a way to extract scent without harming the flower, and the largest fragrance manufacturer in the world has a very lucky man going about and capturing what may be the last fragrances of rare flowers. Kept in chilled aluminum flasks, the essences will last for at least two hundred years, when science may recreate some of the smells that have disappeared. Isn't that, I mean, isn't that just a wonder?
We are in winter here in the Northern Hemisphere, and in cold air, molecules travel at a much slower rate, and our noses don't pick up as much to smell. Because winter doesn't present the menu of aromas we normally enjoy, this is the time of year that we light more scented candles, make hot soups, and bake cookies. The indoor smells take precedence over the outdoor emptiness; oh, our busy, busy brains. I get a kick out of us. For the most part.
So, what would my favorites be? Dorian mentioned old books, and in my mind, that sweet tannin wafting through the air not only smells good, but alerts my head to the wondrous things inside. I like cinnamon cookies in the oven; old, heavy roses, horses, salt water, lumberyards, a hammer striking a nail, fur on a living animal, drawing paper, gum erasers, blankets and sheets hung on the clothesline, brick and stone, rain, unscented candles burning in a candelabra, bee's wax. Fallen leaves, dirt, a cut pumpkin, a fresh cotton shirt, those large Christmas tree light bulbs that smell like the tree is going to burst into flames because they get so hot, and clams.
Swirl around yourself tomorrow, and find what smells are reassuring to you, or that bring forward a memory of younger days, like H-O oats cereal which was my favorite, a toasted oatmeal that gave off a nutty, steamy aroma that my Grandma made for me as I sat at her maple table and listened to the fog horn on a chilly morning. They just tore down the remaining buildings maybe four years ago. See how it works? Now, you remember...
Sleep, sleep my dears, you well deserve it and the night has charms of its own. A crushed sachet of lavender under the pillow? No? Perhaps some rose cream over tired hands. Bergamot, jasmine, sandalwood; these are the best to induce calm, to swaddle you in the cloak of sleep...chamomile, lilac, and ylang ylang, which slows down the nervous system. Dream of fields, of nights filled with blooms. Good night.
Thursday, November 27, 2014
Morning Embroidery
People that you didn't know existed appear; an older man wheeling laundry in a shopping cart, a young man carrying a paper plate of toaster waffles to his car. Who are these people? Two neighbors I hadn't seen in months were just as surprised to see me with "I thought you moved" expressions.
It's a different world at 5:30 a.m. in winter, in the dark. The sky had changed from streetlight punctuated midnight to the dull blue which announces the impending dawn. Is there a word for the changing color, that one existing between the sepulcherious black where you can't see your own hand and the rising light of blended gold and rose? Dawn is the part with colors, as far as I know, but if you've ever driven through night and into the morning day, the switch to that deep blue prior to the glow of pre-sun atmosphere is as welcome as the thought of toast and eggs.
I saw the pre-dawn this morning, while sitting in the back of Addisu's taxi. Terrestrially, a few Christmas lights hung in windows of houses, and one creche was already in full shepherd, for the season is upon some of us.
Surgery had been scheduled at six freaking fifteen, and we got there amid quiet streets; the people that were up had business to tend, there was no hesitation in their walk, they were getting into the buildings which held their assigned roles. Mine was of patient with a stack of filled out forms set to hand in, yet the clarity of morning air pulled me as a sea anchor, changing the purpose temporarily from medicine to breathing the morning air as yet untouched by the sun.
Night air was once considered poisonous, a miasma filled with decomposed matter that brought disease and rot from organic debris, including that which wafted up from the buried in the cemetery. Breathe that stuff in, and you're asking for trouble, said the early 19th century. To me, there is less clutter at night, when the cooling air staunches whatever effluvium has been warmed by the sun; oil on the pavement, dumpsters, something sticky. The air at night has less caustic abracadabra and fills you with clear draughts of oxygenated energy, waking a far away human traveling with their pack.
Everything went well, and they wheeled me out, still quite jolly from the IV; I love anesthesia.
Golden people that melted into golden puddles filled the time spent under; no, I have no idea. Back home, I slept.
But these folks, the ones on a different time schedule yet exist at the same address, the ones I never see; this is intriguing, like crepuscular animals who blend back into the bushes at daylight. I guess it works that way, and has ever since time became more than a rising moon.
Sleep in complete darkness if you can, it allows the deepest level of sleep to lengthen, for we are wired to respond to light. Breathe in the night air. Burrow. Warm. Heal.
It's a different world at 5:30 a.m. in winter, in the dark. The sky had changed from streetlight punctuated midnight to the dull blue which announces the impending dawn. Is there a word for the changing color, that one existing between the sepulcherious black where you can't see your own hand and the rising light of blended gold and rose? Dawn is the part with colors, as far as I know, but if you've ever driven through night and into the morning day, the switch to that deep blue prior to the glow of pre-sun atmosphere is as welcome as the thought of toast and eggs.
I saw the pre-dawn this morning, while sitting in the back of Addisu's taxi. Terrestrially, a few Christmas lights hung in windows of houses, and one creche was already in full shepherd, for the season is upon some of us.
Surgery had been scheduled at six freaking fifteen, and we got there amid quiet streets; the people that were up had business to tend, there was no hesitation in their walk, they were getting into the buildings which held their assigned roles. Mine was of patient with a stack of filled out forms set to hand in, yet the clarity of morning air pulled me as a sea anchor, changing the purpose temporarily from medicine to breathing the morning air as yet untouched by the sun.
Night air was once considered poisonous, a miasma filled with decomposed matter that brought disease and rot from organic debris, including that which wafted up from the buried in the cemetery. Breathe that stuff in, and you're asking for trouble, said the early 19th century. To me, there is less clutter at night, when the cooling air staunches whatever effluvium has been warmed by the sun; oil on the pavement, dumpsters, something sticky. The air at night has less caustic abracadabra and fills you with clear draughts of oxygenated energy, waking a far away human traveling with their pack.
Everything went well, and they wheeled me out, still quite jolly from the IV; I love anesthesia.
Golden people that melted into golden puddles filled the time spent under; no, I have no idea. Back home, I slept.
But these folks, the ones on a different time schedule yet exist at the same address, the ones I never see; this is intriguing, like crepuscular animals who blend back into the bushes at daylight. I guess it works that way, and has ever since time became more than a rising moon.
Sleep in complete darkness if you can, it allows the deepest level of sleep to lengthen, for we are wired to respond to light. Breathe in the night air. Burrow. Warm. Heal.
Friday, November 14, 2014
After...
I wish I had some stars to see; something to look into that never ends, the closest thing to infinity that gives a sense of forever. I want to see forever, a Mobius strip of energy which absorbs time, shatters the hours and days into clusters of galaxies spiraling, wheeling, careening through airless space.
On a near winter night, the ice of starlight pierces the cold as coruscating diadems, but I know them; Orion, the Big Dipper, Cassiopeia. They are fiery bastions of measured life, telling the seasons for as long as we humans have been, yet, they are limited as well; constellations are held by the same law that nothing ever stays the same. Stars spread apart, new ones are born, others flicker into oblivion; even they disappear. But space remains and will not fold into itself for a time beyond measurable thought; when it does happen, one final origami trick, shall it tumble, explode into a thousand paper cranes and become another once upon a time?
I want to look, to forget momentarily that I am mortal, pinned to the planet; my desire is to see the window of forever. Let me be a part of infinity, of no hands spinning around an ivory dial, to where quaggas and dodos bray, where loved ones wait, where death explains itself in humbled murmurs.
Bed, let me find you and wrap myself deep under heavy covers; give me dreamhorses to gallop through starfields till sun up, let the striped, desert quagga be my courser.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Tulip Night
You know how you wake up in the morning, and click into the routine that gets you up, brushed and presentable, but there is nothing nothing nothing that reveals what is to happen in the next hours, before the hand of the clock again passes midnight into the day after, and eventually begets memory. You learn to accept loss or go mad, regardless of faith or experience; your heart is a bit more ragged each time but also grows a shield of certainty that carries you through.
Even so. Death is a quickly closing door that pinches our fingers as we are the ones left behind; for all of it's inevitable reason, the stopped heart of one is tethered to the living beat of us, we who are still here. Then you meet with a cascading series of firsts; the first night alone, the first night without, the first daybreak, the first breakfast, the first game, the first weekend, holiday, year; life goes forward, if not completely steady in its stride.
Memory is formed from looking back at the lasts; the last talk, the last time that. No, it's not counterproductive to look back, as long as you realize where you belong in this life and the responsibilities of living, to yourself and those within your circle of knowledge and love. Humans regale in taking photographs, writing stories, or talking about their heroes and ancestors. I guess it helps that connection we have with each other, here or hereafter.
Today is the anniversary of my dear friend's sudden death, some five years ago; it is also the fateful night, tonight, that my darling little cat Tulip collapsed, the labored breathing that had begun three days ago increasingly difficult and final. I rushed her to an emergency vet, where it was supposed that the cancer of the early summer had taken over and run through her like mycelium. I held her while the euthanasia was administered, and felt the one last heartbeat.
I am home, and time that had slowed is now speeding up; the lasts and the firsts have begun. Already in October, I had lost my oldest cat, Min, who lived to be twenty-one; I remember that last time I saw her living, insisting on sitting in the bathtub for some crazy reason, wobbling even as she sat and butted her head into my hand. The memories intertwine, threading strands of who we are with who they were, making a lovely, orchestral harmony known as us.
Sleep, my baby, sleep my darling girl, I am glad I was able to be yours, just as you were mine, if only for a short ten years.
Count the clouds, I saw a star on the way home tonight.
Even so. Death is a quickly closing door that pinches our fingers as we are the ones left behind; for all of it's inevitable reason, the stopped heart of one is tethered to the living beat of us, we who are still here. Then you meet with a cascading series of firsts; the first night alone, the first night without, the first daybreak, the first breakfast, the first game, the first weekend, holiday, year; life goes forward, if not completely steady in its stride.
Memory is formed from looking back at the lasts; the last talk, the last time that. No, it's not counterproductive to look back, as long as you realize where you belong in this life and the responsibilities of living, to yourself and those within your circle of knowledge and love. Humans regale in taking photographs, writing stories, or talking about their heroes and ancestors. I guess it helps that connection we have with each other, here or hereafter.
Today is the anniversary of my dear friend's sudden death, some five years ago; it is also the fateful night, tonight, that my darling little cat Tulip collapsed, the labored breathing that had begun three days ago increasingly difficult and final. I rushed her to an emergency vet, where it was supposed that the cancer of the early summer had taken over and run through her like mycelium. I held her while the euthanasia was administered, and felt the one last heartbeat.
I am home, and time that had slowed is now speeding up; the lasts and the firsts have begun. Already in October, I had lost my oldest cat, Min, who lived to be twenty-one; I remember that last time I saw her living, insisting on sitting in the bathtub for some crazy reason, wobbling even as she sat and butted her head into my hand. The memories intertwine, threading strands of who we are with who they were, making a lovely, orchestral harmony known as us.
Sleep, my baby, sleep my darling girl, I am glad I was able to be yours, just as you were mine, if only for a short ten years.
Count the clouds, I saw a star on the way home tonight.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Not in the Papers
Last Saturday the congregation of a local church put on a dinner for it's veterans in the convention center downtown. It was a pishy posh affair, from what I heard from Fred, also known as Chucky, a church member who tended bar for the crowd. He would pour a row of shots and one for himself, so by the time the ruckus began, he was feeling no pain, even though he ended up overnight in the VA hospital. Chucky is in his early seventies; the vets attending averaged mid-eighties, but apparently the fighting spirit and sense of dignity carries on, possibly abetted by the free-flowing alcohol.
There were speeches, tributes, glories; things were going great until the last ancient speaker introduced his wife, who was to present a recognition plaque to the Men of the Church, and looked as though she were around when the pyramids were built.
"Here is my wife, Mrs. ______," said the speaker.
A voice from a back table yodeled the clarion call, "I had her years ago."
Now, most of these men are at least 84 years old, but that didn't stop the speaker from approaching the heckler and lambasting him one in the cakehole. These two elderly men had to be pulled apart by other elderly men, so besides taking time for the effort, bodies were pushed, shoved, and eventually slugged. Tables went over. The war was on.
Chucky yelled to his crew to get down to the floor, as chairs and decorative centerpieces became airborne. He later declared that the brawl was a good party indeed, after he was x-rayed for getting clipped in the back of the head while breaking up a grappling match.
The police were called to restore order, ambulances arrived, no arrests were made, and the incident never happened according to local media or the pastor, Chucky's brother. The Fighting 49th was treated, bandaged, and sent home to their wives, secretly wishing they would have a chance to punch a smart aleck next weekend. Not too many showed for the Sunday service, the absence not noticed due to the attending wives, whose broadcasted glares dared anyone to inquire. Hats were pinned a little more tightly to the head that day.
You have a pleasant night, and realize what beating hearts exist under a suit and tie while sitting with the congregation. These men faced the unthinkable, and are still upholding a sense of duty and honor; I wonder if that had to do with how the media completely let this slide under the rug. Foolhardiness or bravery? Most likely a mix of the best of both. Sleep well, put an extra blanket at the foot of the bed. Good night.
There were speeches, tributes, glories; things were going great until the last ancient speaker introduced his wife, who was to present a recognition plaque to the Men of the Church, and looked as though she were around when the pyramids were built.
"Here is my wife, Mrs. ______," said the speaker.
A voice from a back table yodeled the clarion call, "I had her years ago."
Now, most of these men are at least 84 years old, but that didn't stop the speaker from approaching the heckler and lambasting him one in the cakehole. These two elderly men had to be pulled apart by other elderly men, so besides taking time for the effort, bodies were pushed, shoved, and eventually slugged. Tables went over. The war was on.
Chucky yelled to his crew to get down to the floor, as chairs and decorative centerpieces became airborne. He later declared that the brawl was a good party indeed, after he was x-rayed for getting clipped in the back of the head while breaking up a grappling match.
The police were called to restore order, ambulances arrived, no arrests were made, and the incident never happened according to local media or the pastor, Chucky's brother. The Fighting 49th was treated, bandaged, and sent home to their wives, secretly wishing they would have a chance to punch a smart aleck next weekend. Not too many showed for the Sunday service, the absence not noticed due to the attending wives, whose broadcasted glares dared anyone to inquire. Hats were pinned a little more tightly to the head that day.
You have a pleasant night, and realize what beating hearts exist under a suit and tie while sitting with the congregation. These men faced the unthinkable, and are still upholding a sense of duty and honor; I wonder if that had to do with how the media completely let this slide under the rug. Foolhardiness or bravery? Most likely a mix of the best of both. Sleep well, put an extra blanket at the foot of the bed. Good night.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
My Friend: Wish You Were Here
Growing up in a severely constricted, scary household had me by the throat once I entered my teen years; what was expected of me had never been taught as the folks in charge weren't too sure themselves. By this time, my Mom had given up and went into alcoholism, not in league with, but in defiance of, the addled king. I couldn't blame her; it was a loss for myself and my brother, however, and we hung on as best we could, my brother was less affected as he was the boy, and therefore favored by the noise of the house. It wasn't all wonderful for him, the same expectations of magical thinking were applied to his future. Me, I was the first born, a girl who was supposed to be a boy born in the age when gender was a surprise at the end of pregnancy.
No bubble bath, I had to use Spic 'n Span; no purses, dresses, or the fake plastic lipsticks; no fancy soaps; none of that stuff, Mom and I were told, for that would make me any number of yelled words connected with street walking, punctuated by a fist in the wall. My defense was to disappear; become as needy as a plant, just water me once in a while; I arose into books, drawing, the fields. Scrubbed the fossils I found, picked up frogs. Those were acceptable, as were the cap guns, mitts, bats, and the comic books; Dad viewed me as a personal failure. Now, some of those were truly my own interests, but I'll be damned if I want to hear how I stand like Eddie Matthews at home plate because I bat left.
The trouble with being a kid is that you have few points of reference, especially if you live in isolation, out in the sticks. Church yammered on about how you weren't supposed to think about sex but you were to examine yourself for sexual thinking at prayers morning, noon, and night. Television programs approved by the Catholic Union and Echo may they burn in hell portrayed families that played out scripted family interactions where problems were solved in jolly fashion, not made to go away by smashing glassware or animals. I thought there was something wrong with Ozzie, a father/husband character in a popular program; why isn't he screaming about why I don't smell like Spic 'n Span this week, piney fresh, because Mom switched to more flowery Tide?
Now, this isn't what the entry is meant to be about, but this prelude describes where I came from; a scared kid who had little interaction with others until we moved to a suburb with sidewalks; now there were children on the street and places easily accessed; a playground, stores, a custard stand. My eighth grade IQ tested off the charts, and the school wanted to send me to courses at a private college, but the books would have cost $60 that nope, we can't afford, and besides, she doesn't need education. Saving that investment for the boy.
I would find ways to stay out of the house; go to the supermarket and read soup can labels, order a coke at Woolworth's and sit for an hour. Staying in my room wasn't an option, for that was being "antisocial" towards the family; so I brought my books and art downstairs. I couldn't sit in the backyard, for my father thought that would entice neighborhood men to watch me, and Dad began a fantasy to hold us under his thumb that he had a WWII machete and would decapitate any of us at anytime. The dictionary explained that word to me, and I became even more complacent to protect my mother from any outbursts. There never was a machete, it turned out.
One way I found to escape were the Girl Scouts, an acceptable organization that was connected to the Mariner branch. Thursdays, I would go and staple myself to a chair, hoping no one would speak to me, just let me stay here, let me watch. By this time, at fifteen, some of the other girls were wearing makeup, had learner's permits, and smoked. Some of them had fathers that they loved, it was weird to me, seeing a healthy relationship with a male parent. No, it can't be real, something is fishy here. I just didn't realize that I was the one who came from the distorted background.
Eventually, when we weren't singing Kum Ba Yah, I got to know some of them and was stunned at the liberties they had through stories of travels, boyfriends, families. One girl was dressed better than the others, wore jewelry, makeup, and kept Marlboros in her purse. No clue, no interest in putting myself amidst any circle, even though the other girls were friendly but mystified by me. What caught their interest was that I was funny and a bit of a daredevil, having been climbing trees and picking up snakes since when.
Halloween came, and for a costume I dressed as Chaplin; won a prize, and the girl with the jewelry thought it was the funniest thing ever, and started to sit with me, tell me about her boyfriend, sneak out for a smoke, and eventually invited me over to her house, two blocks away from the church basement where we met. Her name was Nancy; she became my best friend for forty years until she died a short while ago. She was the antithesis to my everything; her parents were also strict, but her response was unbridled glee at escaping out of her house and hitchhiking to a store where she shoplifted makeup. I was horrified, and made her pay or I was leaving, DO NOT get into that car, and can you teach me how to put on makeup?
She did. She drew that severe line midway on the upper lid, painted single eyelashes on the bottom; pale frosted lipstick, teased hair, and I looked like I came out of the To Sir With Love movie. She had fake I.D., and got us past the bouncer at a local kid's bar--at the time, drinking age was 18. We were 16. It was my job to drag her out at 11, so we would make her parent's curfew; her family came to appreciate me and my sense of following rules. I didn't drink, didn't like what I saw my own family go through; and I didn't smoke.
It was illicit, against almost every tenet exhorted by my father, and it felt wicked good. I should have focused on the college scholarship I had won, but again, was told no school for me; but how could I get a job without training? They don't just hire you off the street, so Dad had a friend who worked for the phone company and I interviewed. And again. And again. Three times I went there, and wasn't hired, got yelled at what the hell is the matter with you until Dad called his friend and was told my voice was not within the criteria. Too low. Too this. Too that. Nancy pushed me into a job at a big box store, where I sold donuts and expeller-pressed cookies. Her doing this gave me a key to the door of independence, and soon I was able to move out into my own apartment; I hated leaving my mother, but getting away for my own safety was paramount.
I worked, saved, and went out on Saturday nights; Nancy was put into nursing school, but was kicked out for sneaking her boyfriend inside. No, she wasn't perfect, far from it; but she enjoyed living, loved history and politics, and would do anything if she loved you. She suffered internally, for her mother would tell her that even though she was adopted, they loved her just as much, which is a pretty crappy thing to say. They attributed her wild ways to genetics, not that she had to sit on a chair for three hours at a time while Mom played cards. We stood by each other forever; but I couldn't save her from the addiction to pain pills that ate her life away. By that time she lived in Atlanta, Georgia with her then husband, and was filled with other sorrows due to marital troubles and family matters. She's been gone five years, and I miss her.
She was brave, resourceful, more than generous; compassionate with animals except for the monkey who stole her cigarettes out of her purse in Costa Rica; she was always searching for love, thought she had found it, but unfortunately that turned out to be another story. For all her poor choices, I could trust her to the ends of the earth and back, even when her strength and emotional health were being chipped at by medications, family ills, and her own intense self-doubt. I see you in the leaves, Nance, the leaves that fell at the base of the immense maple, the one we climbed together to watch the sun go down. Happy Birthday.
No bubble bath, I had to use Spic 'n Span; no purses, dresses, or the fake plastic lipsticks; no fancy soaps; none of that stuff, Mom and I were told, for that would make me any number of yelled words connected with street walking, punctuated by a fist in the wall. My defense was to disappear; become as needy as a plant, just water me once in a while; I arose into books, drawing, the fields. Scrubbed the fossils I found, picked up frogs. Those were acceptable, as were the cap guns, mitts, bats, and the comic books; Dad viewed me as a personal failure. Now, some of those were truly my own interests, but I'll be damned if I want to hear how I stand like Eddie Matthews at home plate because I bat left.
The trouble with being a kid is that you have few points of reference, especially if you live in isolation, out in the sticks. Church yammered on about how you weren't supposed to think about sex but you were to examine yourself for sexual thinking at prayers morning, noon, and night. Television programs approved by the Catholic Union and Echo may they burn in hell portrayed families that played out scripted family interactions where problems were solved in jolly fashion, not made to go away by smashing glassware or animals. I thought there was something wrong with Ozzie, a father/husband character in a popular program; why isn't he screaming about why I don't smell like Spic 'n Span this week, piney fresh, because Mom switched to more flowery Tide?
Now, this isn't what the entry is meant to be about, but this prelude describes where I came from; a scared kid who had little interaction with others until we moved to a suburb with sidewalks; now there were children on the street and places easily accessed; a playground, stores, a custard stand. My eighth grade IQ tested off the charts, and the school wanted to send me to courses at a private college, but the books would have cost $60 that nope, we can't afford, and besides, she doesn't need education. Saving that investment for the boy.
I would find ways to stay out of the house; go to the supermarket and read soup can labels, order a coke at Woolworth's and sit for an hour. Staying in my room wasn't an option, for that was being "antisocial" towards the family; so I brought my books and art downstairs. I couldn't sit in the backyard, for my father thought that would entice neighborhood men to watch me, and Dad began a fantasy to hold us under his thumb that he had a WWII machete and would decapitate any of us at anytime. The dictionary explained that word to me, and I became even more complacent to protect my mother from any outbursts. There never was a machete, it turned out.
One way I found to escape were the Girl Scouts, an acceptable organization that was connected to the Mariner branch. Thursdays, I would go and staple myself to a chair, hoping no one would speak to me, just let me stay here, let me watch. By this time, at fifteen, some of the other girls were wearing makeup, had learner's permits, and smoked. Some of them had fathers that they loved, it was weird to me, seeing a healthy relationship with a male parent. No, it can't be real, something is fishy here. I just didn't realize that I was the one who came from the distorted background.
Eventually, when we weren't singing Kum Ba Yah, I got to know some of them and was stunned at the liberties they had through stories of travels, boyfriends, families. One girl was dressed better than the others, wore jewelry, makeup, and kept Marlboros in her purse. No clue, no interest in putting myself amidst any circle, even though the other girls were friendly but mystified by me. What caught their interest was that I was funny and a bit of a daredevil, having been climbing trees and picking up snakes since when.
Halloween came, and for a costume I dressed as Chaplin; won a prize, and the girl with the jewelry thought it was the funniest thing ever, and started to sit with me, tell me about her boyfriend, sneak out for a smoke, and eventually invited me over to her house, two blocks away from the church basement where we met. Her name was Nancy; she became my best friend for forty years until she died a short while ago. She was the antithesis to my everything; her parents were also strict, but her response was unbridled glee at escaping out of her house and hitchhiking to a store where she shoplifted makeup. I was horrified, and made her pay or I was leaving, DO NOT get into that car, and can you teach me how to put on makeup?
She did. She drew that severe line midway on the upper lid, painted single eyelashes on the bottom; pale frosted lipstick, teased hair, and I looked like I came out of the To Sir With Love movie. She had fake I.D., and got us past the bouncer at a local kid's bar--at the time, drinking age was 18. We were 16. It was my job to drag her out at 11, so we would make her parent's curfew; her family came to appreciate me and my sense of following rules. I didn't drink, didn't like what I saw my own family go through; and I didn't smoke.
It was illicit, against almost every tenet exhorted by my father, and it felt wicked good. I should have focused on the college scholarship I had won, but again, was told no school for me; but how could I get a job without training? They don't just hire you off the street, so Dad had a friend who worked for the phone company and I interviewed. And again. And again. Three times I went there, and wasn't hired, got yelled at what the hell is the matter with you until Dad called his friend and was told my voice was not within the criteria. Too low. Too this. Too that. Nancy pushed me into a job at a big box store, where I sold donuts and expeller-pressed cookies. Her doing this gave me a key to the door of independence, and soon I was able to move out into my own apartment; I hated leaving my mother, but getting away for my own safety was paramount.
I worked, saved, and went out on Saturday nights; Nancy was put into nursing school, but was kicked out for sneaking her boyfriend inside. No, she wasn't perfect, far from it; but she enjoyed living, loved history and politics, and would do anything if she loved you. She suffered internally, for her mother would tell her that even though she was adopted, they loved her just as much, which is a pretty crappy thing to say. They attributed her wild ways to genetics, not that she had to sit on a chair for three hours at a time while Mom played cards. We stood by each other forever; but I couldn't save her from the addiction to pain pills that ate her life away. By that time she lived in Atlanta, Georgia with her then husband, and was filled with other sorrows due to marital troubles and family matters. She's been gone five years, and I miss her.
She was brave, resourceful, more than generous; compassionate with animals except for the monkey who stole her cigarettes out of her purse in Costa Rica; she was always searching for love, thought she had found it, but unfortunately that turned out to be another story. For all her poor choices, I could trust her to the ends of the earth and back, even when her strength and emotional health were being chipped at by medications, family ills, and her own intense self-doubt. I see you in the leaves, Nance, the leaves that fell at the base of the immense maple, the one we climbed together to watch the sun go down. Happy Birthday.
Sunday, October 26, 2014
Gnomon for Brian and Dana
The angular piece of a sundial, the blade which casts a shadow to mark the hours, is the gnomon; used in a literary sense, it indicates milestones of time, a marker of life's significant events. Would you think a ceremony, a signed paper, a broken plate change feelings? I will bet you ten dollars it does, for it's a promise; not that the words or actions prior meant nothing. Dana and Brian both have upheld and made sacrifices for the other, and I never imagined them breaking apart, but here is a view of the page some couples will turn.
You're more settled with yourself, and may describe the sensation as a profound recognition of creating something good; Brian and Dana have been building upon what works and what doesn't for years, but I wonder if seeing friends decide to embark, they recognize how their own perceptions of those friends may have changed due to respect of the solidifying process. Those that know you will look at you differently, for that big step has been taken. It's a lovely thing, marriage.
It takes active work to maintain, it doesn't make you more grown up, change your personality, your partner's personality, or the cat's. You reflect on what you can do to make it work, and you make sacrifices. There is no 50-50, sometimes it's 80-20, get on with it; marriage does not invite instant glorification of your partner; that should have been figured out beforehand.
You're calmer in knowing that someone is there for you, to support your dreams, to talk to any time you need them, to go places with. Dana and Brian will live longer, married, if statistics prove correct. Healthwise, each will benefit. The security and comfort of having another person who loves you by your side will cause mountains to fall to their knees.
You are committed not so much to the piece of paper, but to each other; you believe that your partner is in it for the long haul and they are; to them you are smart, capable, compassionate, and reliable. Faithful is a pretty good point of reference also. No person or activity comes before the relationship; yes, there is your own time, yes, you need personal space to recharge, but essentially it goes from "me" to "us".
Bri and Dana pretty much have this down, but still, I believe there will be a new marker; they will remember the date, the anniversary, the time of. Our families will come together and grow, the ripples expand, a new cycle begin.
The sun is on the other side of five o'clock, in a descent to the horizon; the last yellow rays are bouncing off slate grey autumn clouds, the kind that look like they could drop six inches of snow in an hour. Fathers are visiting with sons, mothers have come together and slapped high fives, (right, Dorian?). Whispers of colder weather will be underscored by the time change next Friday, Halloween at midnight. Ah, blankets, shake them out; if you are lucky to have a clothesline, hang them outdoors for an hour; breathe in the leafy air, the tannin and damp earth quietly settling from the summer hustle here in the north. Sleep, hold, yes, and yes. Good night.
You're more settled with yourself, and may describe the sensation as a profound recognition of creating something good; Brian and Dana have been building upon what works and what doesn't for years, but I wonder if seeing friends decide to embark, they recognize how their own perceptions of those friends may have changed due to respect of the solidifying process. Those that know you will look at you differently, for that big step has been taken. It's a lovely thing, marriage.
It takes active work to maintain, it doesn't make you more grown up, change your personality, your partner's personality, or the cat's. You reflect on what you can do to make it work, and you make sacrifices. There is no 50-50, sometimes it's 80-20, get on with it; marriage does not invite instant glorification of your partner; that should have been figured out beforehand.
You're calmer in knowing that someone is there for you, to support your dreams, to talk to any time you need them, to go places with. Dana and Brian will live longer, married, if statistics prove correct. Healthwise, each will benefit. The security and comfort of having another person who loves you by your side will cause mountains to fall to their knees.
You are committed not so much to the piece of paper, but to each other; you believe that your partner is in it for the long haul and they are; to them you are smart, capable, compassionate, and reliable. Faithful is a pretty good point of reference also. No person or activity comes before the relationship; yes, there is your own time, yes, you need personal space to recharge, but essentially it goes from "me" to "us".
Bri and Dana pretty much have this down, but still, I believe there will be a new marker; they will remember the date, the anniversary, the time of. Our families will come together and grow, the ripples expand, a new cycle begin.
The sun is on the other side of five o'clock, in a descent to the horizon; the last yellow rays are bouncing off slate grey autumn clouds, the kind that look like they could drop six inches of snow in an hour. Fathers are visiting with sons, mothers have come together and slapped high fives, (right, Dorian?). Whispers of colder weather will be underscored by the time change next Friday, Halloween at midnight. Ah, blankets, shake them out; if you are lucky to have a clothesline, hang them outdoors for an hour; breathe in the leafy air, the tannin and damp earth quietly settling from the summer hustle here in the north. Sleep, hold, yes, and yes. Good night.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
Mercury Retrograde Up To Here, Alice
There's this astrological business that happens when the orbit of Mercury goes to the other side of the sun, and so from Earth, appears to be going backward when it's just getting ready to loop back. During this event, named the Mercury retrograde, computers frizzle, transportation frazzles, arguments break out, communication is worse than yesterday's spaghetti, and money disappears. I love October, it's my favorite month, but this year I can't wait for the 25th, when little Mercury falls back into an approved orbit.
This month my eldest cat Min passed away; she was twenty-one and frail. The fuel lines were replaced in a half-baked manner so they leaked gasoline all the way to Michigan. When in Michigan, the brake pedal went all the way down to the floor on a Saturday; Triple A towed it, the garage looked at the car Monday, sent to Grand Rapids for parts, they arrived and were the wrong size. More days in the hotel, which is not a bad place to be unless you are downtown and a drugstore is not within walking distance. So the hotel bill was going up, money was dwindling, and another fish died at home, my five-inch clown loach.
I received a written reprimand at work due to the number of days missed, and some of the kids had taken my board magnets, broken them apart for ammunition, gone into my desk and stole crackers, divvied them up between backpacks, took over one hundred colored pencils for friends and family, threw green beans all around the cafeteria; I tell you, the teachers were really really really glad to have me back. It took two days to get those nutjob children back in hand. A few phone calls (What? My child did what? No he did not. Wait till he gets home.).
At the drugstore, the engine would not turn over, an hour later, Triple A said it was not the battery. No fuel pressure. The gas was still leaking, WHICH IT WAS BEFORE THE BRAKES WERE FIXED, and since it had been freshly installed to a very big number of monies, perhaps it was just a loose clamp? No no no, lady. The people who installed your brakes punctured the lines, that's why you're getting that drip. You need a fuel pump and we'll switch the lines to nylon.
I have never had a fuel pump, just the part, cost $355 dollars. This must be the pump of pumps, the king of the fuel lines, the fuel pump of the Kennedys. Cab fare to get to work, and getting yelled at by Alphonso the cab driver (WHY DID YOU CANCEL? Well, I was waiting forty minutes in a freaky neighborhood when you said ten?) were minor roles in the overall scheme. I learned the bus route. Even bigger monies for this car repair, but I will not go back to these people again. I need to find a Carm or a Wilson. Carm fixes cars, hey, no problem. Wilson bends auto frames back into shape with his bare hands. I still have a broken coil up front; it sounds like the front end is being banged on by pneumatic drill when I turn left. Safe, they said, and slapped on an inspection sticker.
Mercury retrograde is similar to the full moon thing that makes schoolchildren crazier and more emotional; of course, the moon is always there in whole, whether it is lit up or not; so, is it the illumination that releases floods of dopamine throughout usually calm circuitry? Many, many medical institutions and fisheries swear by the effect; I'm still up in the air about this astrology business, I believe in alarm clocks and chemistry, even though Sagittarian traits seem to fit. Even though I just took a step backwards in the kitchen, and my bare foot went into the cat's Supreme Supper. Try getting cat food out of a braided rug. What next. One week left of this Mercury hoo-ha.
But many good things happened, numero uno being that my brother's brain tumor was successfully treated by gamma knife radiation. The doctors put titanium screws into his skull and locked them down to make sure not a wiggle would happen during the procedure, and the result was apparently total disappearance. He's still able to walk around the house under his own steam. While I stayed at the Holiday Inn in Muskegon, they kept the bill at the convention rate several days over, a substantial savings. My ingenious friend Pauline found a key to get into my apartment to take care of the cats for the extra days, bless her. I discovered a Geastrum saccatum under a pine in Michigan, an earthstar mushroom, a species I had not seen before. Old and new friends taught me things, helped me through; a night drive by lake waves was extraordinary.
Seasons are changing, the colors as I drove back home were dwindling to bare tree branches reaching upward, revealing what was hidden by the green leaves during the summer. It opens your eyes, to see what was hidden come forward. Sleep well, listen to the wind as it roughs around corners, and know that it was partially formed by pressure gradient force trying to even out differences, smooth the blankets, create balance. Peaceful night.
This month my eldest cat Min passed away; she was twenty-one and frail. The fuel lines were replaced in a half-baked manner so they leaked gasoline all the way to Michigan. When in Michigan, the brake pedal went all the way down to the floor on a Saturday; Triple A towed it, the garage looked at the car Monday, sent to Grand Rapids for parts, they arrived and were the wrong size. More days in the hotel, which is not a bad place to be unless you are downtown and a drugstore is not within walking distance. So the hotel bill was going up, money was dwindling, and another fish died at home, my five-inch clown loach.
I received a written reprimand at work due to the number of days missed, and some of the kids had taken my board magnets, broken them apart for ammunition, gone into my desk and stole crackers, divvied them up between backpacks, took over one hundred colored pencils for friends and family, threw green beans all around the cafeteria; I tell you, the teachers were really really really glad to have me back. It took two days to get those nutjob children back in hand. A few phone calls (What? My child did what? No he did not. Wait till he gets home.).
At the drugstore, the engine would not turn over, an hour later, Triple A said it was not the battery. No fuel pressure. The gas was still leaking, WHICH IT WAS BEFORE THE BRAKES WERE FIXED, and since it had been freshly installed to a very big number of monies, perhaps it was just a loose clamp? No no no, lady. The people who installed your brakes punctured the lines, that's why you're getting that drip. You need a fuel pump and we'll switch the lines to nylon.
I have never had a fuel pump, just the part, cost $355 dollars. This must be the pump of pumps, the king of the fuel lines, the fuel pump of the Kennedys. Cab fare to get to work, and getting yelled at by Alphonso the cab driver (WHY DID YOU CANCEL? Well, I was waiting forty minutes in a freaky neighborhood when you said ten?) were minor roles in the overall scheme. I learned the bus route. Even bigger monies for this car repair, but I will not go back to these people again. I need to find a Carm or a Wilson. Carm fixes cars, hey, no problem. Wilson bends auto frames back into shape with his bare hands. I still have a broken coil up front; it sounds like the front end is being banged on by pneumatic drill when I turn left. Safe, they said, and slapped on an inspection sticker.
Mercury retrograde is similar to the full moon thing that makes schoolchildren crazier and more emotional; of course, the moon is always there in whole, whether it is lit up or not; so, is it the illumination that releases floods of dopamine throughout usually calm circuitry? Many, many medical institutions and fisheries swear by the effect; I'm still up in the air about this astrology business, I believe in alarm clocks and chemistry, even though Sagittarian traits seem to fit. Even though I just took a step backwards in the kitchen, and my bare foot went into the cat's Supreme Supper. Try getting cat food out of a braided rug. What next. One week left of this Mercury hoo-ha.
But many good things happened, numero uno being that my brother's brain tumor was successfully treated by gamma knife radiation. The doctors put titanium screws into his skull and locked them down to make sure not a wiggle would happen during the procedure, and the result was apparently total disappearance. He's still able to walk around the house under his own steam. While I stayed at the Holiday Inn in Muskegon, they kept the bill at the convention rate several days over, a substantial savings. My ingenious friend Pauline found a key to get into my apartment to take care of the cats for the extra days, bless her. I discovered a Geastrum saccatum under a pine in Michigan, an earthstar mushroom, a species I had not seen before. Old and new friends taught me things, helped me through; a night drive by lake waves was extraordinary.
Seasons are changing, the colors as I drove back home were dwindling to bare tree branches reaching upward, revealing what was hidden by the green leaves during the summer. It opens your eyes, to see what was hidden come forward. Sleep well, listen to the wind as it roughs around corners, and know that it was partially formed by pressure gradient force trying to even out differences, smooth the blankets, create balance. Peaceful night.
Sunday, October 12, 2014
In Waves
I am sitting on fossilized ferns that are trapped for the next several million years in grey stone; sandstone, flint, and shale are jumbled in immense chunks, now shaped by the force of the lake and the cycle of freezing and thawing. Pushed by water, scored and cracked apart by climate, the sedimentary layers become part of the basin. Hauled from who knows what quarry, these monuments were placed to stop the erosion of the shore, or at least slow it down. The currents and waves have been tamed by banks of riprap and man-made constructs forming a harbor for ships, rather than allowing this rough, shallow lake to crack open wooden hulls and ship masts during a gale. There is a contract online stating how much and what size rock was purchased, who dredged, and who poured concrete.
The lake and harbor are flat today, no swells or roiling foam; there is a pleasantly fishy smell being brought to shore by a warm autumn breeze. Horsetails in the sky claim precipitation in 24 hours, the small ripples of the lake dabbing absentmindedly at the rocks say they don't know of any rains coming from the west. Only when a motorboat goes by do the small waves make a half-hearted attempt at enthusiasm.
To the west is another gouge where glaciers pushed and pulled back and forth over eons; it's why there aren't any dinosaur fossils laying around. The beasts were here, but the glaciers pushed them south as they scraped the layers away down to the Devonian age, as if a great, white hand cleared the table of evidence. Lake Michigan is deeper, larger, and has produced an amazing amount of silica quartz sand, which continues to deposit as freshwater sand dunes on its eastern shore.
I lived in Chicago for a while, on the western side of the lake, and there is sand, but it is also decorated with colorful displays of rounded stone; pinks, dull reds, green, white, blue, black, ochre. There are still some in a basket, as I lived hardly two blocks from the water, yet didn't pay much attention to the lake itself as life was too complicated for much beyond the city. This year, the few days spent at the eastern shore showed me waves generated by coming storms and sand flung across the road up to the homes, bordered by scrub grass clinging to hope.
We had gone for a drive, and in the dimness of near midnight the froth of the waves rolled in, visible in the cast-off light of lamps. High waves drummed the beach, cascading and falling forward, dashing themselves upon the sand in furious rows. The atomicity of the first wave was reconstructed by the next, displaying a natural consistency in isolation of each movement, forming a durable engine of sand delivery. Pushing, forming, depositing the rounded granules of silica and the tiny tiny shells of freshwater mollusks, the waves were an insistent force pounding the shore, their voice a thrashing heart plummeting over and over. It was a lovely example of a natural power.
There was a translucent layer of snow in the southern tier this morning, signaling the inevitable change to a darker season; a trip to the Farmer's Market yesterday was filled with people buying bushels of squash and apples, the last corn, the last tomatoes. Laying in for winter. As I sat on the rocks today, ladybugs flitted about, landing on my jacket and stretching wings; they'll be searching for a winter haven soon. Time pulls them forward, as it does me and you. Sleep well, warm heart.
The lake and harbor are flat today, no swells or roiling foam; there is a pleasantly fishy smell being brought to shore by a warm autumn breeze. Horsetails in the sky claim precipitation in 24 hours, the small ripples of the lake dabbing absentmindedly at the rocks say they don't know of any rains coming from the west. Only when a motorboat goes by do the small waves make a half-hearted attempt at enthusiasm.
To the west is another gouge where glaciers pushed and pulled back and forth over eons; it's why there aren't any dinosaur fossils laying around. The beasts were here, but the glaciers pushed them south as they scraped the layers away down to the Devonian age, as if a great, white hand cleared the table of evidence. Lake Michigan is deeper, larger, and has produced an amazing amount of silica quartz sand, which continues to deposit as freshwater sand dunes on its eastern shore.
I lived in Chicago for a while, on the western side of the lake, and there is sand, but it is also decorated with colorful displays of rounded stone; pinks, dull reds, green, white, blue, black, ochre. There are still some in a basket, as I lived hardly two blocks from the water, yet didn't pay much attention to the lake itself as life was too complicated for much beyond the city. This year, the few days spent at the eastern shore showed me waves generated by coming storms and sand flung across the road up to the homes, bordered by scrub grass clinging to hope.
We had gone for a drive, and in the dimness of near midnight the froth of the waves rolled in, visible in the cast-off light of lamps. High waves drummed the beach, cascading and falling forward, dashing themselves upon the sand in furious rows. The atomicity of the first wave was reconstructed by the next, displaying a natural consistency in isolation of each movement, forming a durable engine of sand delivery. Pushing, forming, depositing the rounded granules of silica and the tiny tiny shells of freshwater mollusks, the waves were an insistent force pounding the shore, their voice a thrashing heart plummeting over and over. It was a lovely example of a natural power.
There was a translucent layer of snow in the southern tier this morning, signaling the inevitable change to a darker season; a trip to the Farmer's Market yesterday was filled with people buying bushels of squash and apples, the last corn, the last tomatoes. Laying in for winter. As I sat on the rocks today, ladybugs flitted about, landing on my jacket and stretching wings; they'll be searching for a winter haven soon. Time pulls them forward, as it does me and you. Sleep well, warm heart.
Monday, October 6, 2014
Muskegon Adventure
It took an easy six and a half hour drive to get to Muskegon, Michigan, and the half was mostly wandering in the dark looking for the route to the hotel. You know how you are sure that you know the way, and then the star descends and neon signs scream in red and bright magenta with little illumination of street names, and you can't tell where in the hell are we? But we got there, in Good Old Car. One admirable thing, Muskegon labels its streets well, unlike Boston, Mass, where visitors are netted and scaled like tuna when they find themselves miles away from the intended destination.
So this is Muskegon, a small town sort of city where many wondrous things occur; it seems as if Jack planted the beanstalk and suddenly, there is a soaring monument to the sport of snurfing, a silver totem celebrating the origin of snowboarding, created here by Sherm Poppen, the father who bound two skis together. It's outside the window of the hotel in the middle of a rotary, by the historic Frauenthal theater.
You'll see the hospital where Iggy Pop was born, and the Brunswick company where bowling balls are made. Here also is the reason I visit every first weekend in October; Muskegon is silent film star Buster Keaton's home. This year I was part of the committee that kept the schedule running, did errands, introduced presenters, and greeted people; it was a terrific way to interact.
Wanting prints of some artwork, I was on the way to the local shop to order; Google gave directions, and I couldn't find the place, not having driven down the road long enough. Frustrated and scheduled to be somewhere else, I temporarily retreated.
A kindly fellow brought out paper, marker, and got busy; the directions were then described, repeated, outlined, and made artistically scientific, it was comparable to a cartographer's thesis. After about ten minutes, it was decided to simply get in his car and be driven out. Success, and many thanks.
The next day, I went in my car out to the named street and instead of turning the instructed way, I took the opposite direction. It was said that I had to go far out, so the distance wasn't alarming until I got to the orange striped barrels and the street changed into a suburban cluster of cul-de-sacs; several loops later, I refound the detour, but heck, this didn't look right and the way back was closed.
Head towards the west and you'll eventually run into water, which I did; sandy sandy Michigan beach was being whipped across the road at a clip generated by the temperature drop over the frothing lake.
Having never driven across sand before, I went slow; it felt like driving with no traction and squishy. Remember that word, squishy; it will appear again when the story gets to the brake part.
I asked a visitor who was taking photos of the waves how to get back to the main part of town, and she happily said to pick a road and turn right; she was also a visitor who was giddy about being polished by wind and sand, enjoying the furious scene. I ended up in familiar territory, and got to the museum where it was near lunch. Drove again over to the restaurant, ate, was going to find the print shop again with corrected synapses, and my foot went right smack down to the floor when stepping on the brake pedal; the car slowly decided to squish to an uncertain stop, luckily on a side street. Not good news, I had to be in Buffalo to teach kids on Monday, this was Saturday afternoon.
Triple A guy thought there was air in the line and I needed a cap. There are no caps, was later stated by those in the know. Others mentioned a possible master cylinder which, holy crow, would cost a sacred cow. The tow truck took the car to a brake garage, which did not open until this morning, Monday, and it couldn't be looked at till later in the day. By now chunks of ice were hurtling down, thunder and lightning adding just the perfect, dramatic, movie touch.
My roomie wanted to get back, so she took a cab and rented a car; last I heard, Flint, Michigan has good polka stations. Called the school, took two more days off, and tomorrow may have the same cab driver get me to the repair shop. Nothing bad has happened in the last three hours, so I am taking that as a good sign.
I love to drive, and will do so in a much happier, less ignorant of circumstances frame of mind. Tonight will be peaceful, and maybe I will see stars, though unlikely under the sporadic cloud cover. Right now I have a television, and will be watching old movies and typing, typing, the incessant typing that explains life to me. I appreciate your patience and indulgence. You sleep well, these colder nights call for blankets and deep dreams, slumber dreams, dreams of falling stars. With love to all.
So this is Muskegon, a small town sort of city where many wondrous things occur; it seems as if Jack planted the beanstalk and suddenly, there is a soaring monument to the sport of snurfing, a silver totem celebrating the origin of snowboarding, created here by Sherm Poppen, the father who bound two skis together. It's outside the window of the hotel in the middle of a rotary, by the historic Frauenthal theater.
You'll see the hospital where Iggy Pop was born, and the Brunswick company where bowling balls are made. Here also is the reason I visit every first weekend in October; Muskegon is silent film star Buster Keaton's home. This year I was part of the committee that kept the schedule running, did errands, introduced presenters, and greeted people; it was a terrific way to interact.
Wanting prints of some artwork, I was on the way to the local shop to order; Google gave directions, and I couldn't find the place, not having driven down the road long enough. Frustrated and scheduled to be somewhere else, I temporarily retreated.
A kindly fellow brought out paper, marker, and got busy; the directions were then described, repeated, outlined, and made artistically scientific, it was comparable to a cartographer's thesis. After about ten minutes, it was decided to simply get in his car and be driven out. Success, and many thanks.
The next day, I went in my car out to the named street and instead of turning the instructed way, I took the opposite direction. It was said that I had to go far out, so the distance wasn't alarming until I got to the orange striped barrels and the street changed into a suburban cluster of cul-de-sacs; several loops later, I refound the detour, but heck, this didn't look right and the way back was closed.
Head towards the west and you'll eventually run into water, which I did; sandy sandy Michigan beach was being whipped across the road at a clip generated by the temperature drop over the frothing lake.
Having never driven across sand before, I went slow; it felt like driving with no traction and squishy. Remember that word, squishy; it will appear again when the story gets to the brake part.
I asked a visitor who was taking photos of the waves how to get back to the main part of town, and she happily said to pick a road and turn right; she was also a visitor who was giddy about being polished by wind and sand, enjoying the furious scene. I ended up in familiar territory, and got to the museum where it was near lunch. Drove again over to the restaurant, ate, was going to find the print shop again with corrected synapses, and my foot went right smack down to the floor when stepping on the brake pedal; the car slowly decided to squish to an uncertain stop, luckily on a side street. Not good news, I had to be in Buffalo to teach kids on Monday, this was Saturday afternoon.
Triple A guy thought there was air in the line and I needed a cap. There are no caps, was later stated by those in the know. Others mentioned a possible master cylinder which, holy crow, would cost a sacred cow. The tow truck took the car to a brake garage, which did not open until this morning, Monday, and it couldn't be looked at till later in the day. By now chunks of ice were hurtling down, thunder and lightning adding just the perfect, dramatic, movie touch.
My roomie wanted to get back, so she took a cab and rented a car; last I heard, Flint, Michigan has good polka stations. Called the school, took two more days off, and tomorrow may have the same cab driver get me to the repair shop. Nothing bad has happened in the last three hours, so I am taking that as a good sign.
I love to drive, and will do so in a much happier, less ignorant of circumstances frame of mind. Tonight will be peaceful, and maybe I will see stars, though unlikely under the sporadic cloud cover. Right now I have a television, and will be watching old movies and typing, typing, the incessant typing that explains life to me. I appreciate your patience and indulgence. You sleep well, these colder nights call for blankets and deep dreams, slumber dreams, dreams of falling stars. With love to all.
Saturday, September 20, 2014
Goodbye, Dear Antediluvian
It was a lovely, bright morning. A Saturday morning with looking ahead plans to take care of, and things began well; the bathroom was cleared of spidered legs, none were found; a shake of the covers and I call it a made bed. Time to go get donuts for the men that were going to work on the fuel solenoid and other expensive mysteries of the car. Do not read further if you are eating a tuna sandwich or anything, really. Death and cadaverine are on their way.
You know the promenade once you start heading for the door; you pick up speed, grab the laptop to do work, and glance at the fish to make sure things are all right. Well, they weren't, and it took me no seconds to realize that the immensity being held by the filter was the plecostomus, awfully, completely dead. Floating head up, clinging to the filter as he would; but by this time a white fungal growth was erupting in patches. His beautiful omega eyes had become milky white.
There was no net large enough to contain him, so I got a kitchen rubber glove, lifted the lid, and batted him towards me with the fish net that I had. There was weight, and the resistance I had to picking him up snarled and prickled my senses. What would it feel like, would he hold together, would I get the ook on me, he can't be dead, my poor fish. He had grown to 13 - 14 inches in the almost decade he lived. But, you do what you must do and be honorable about it, no whining, for he was a good boy who swam to the top to have his nose pet.
I tried to get him by the head, yet when I picked him up, fluids that were not water poured out, fouling the tank with internal putrefaction. The angel fish was fine, the two corys were alright, but the water smelt of foul rot; I dropped him into the plastic garbage bag lined with paper toweling, and carried the package to the bin. Then commenced the cleaning of the tank to restore water quality, the car went further down the list of necessary actions.
I have a 60 foot siphon that reaches the sink so no hauling of buckets has to occur, especially with this 52 gallon tank that I feel will be finding a new home and the remaining fish downsize. This was good, but there was also the fact that when a fish dies, oil is released and floats on top of the water in flat globules. Flat, greasy, stinky fat. I had removed the dead fish in time before the whole carcass was defatted, so there was not much; but let me tell you, it is as potent as a dead skunk on the highway. Again, what can one do? No gloves, for they would have filled with the tank water. Note to self: see what shoulder high rubber gloves cost. But as a human, I am washable, and so plunged in with the business end of the siphon to get as much fetid water out as possible.
No cats were interested, thank heavens. Me, the siphon, the sides of the tank, the net, all were coated with a slick, glistening fish oil which does. not. scrub. out. After restoring the tank with a cycle of fill, flush, fill, flush, the final clean up was to get this effluvium of hell contained and disappeared. I soaped the hose, net, filters, and outside of the tank many times with small success and the death of a toothbrush. Human pores are another story, and be thankful you aren't near me except now I smell better than I did earlier.
Nothing. Nothing worked. Online suggestions were lemon juice, vinegar, dish soap, toothpaste, hydrogen peroxide, Comet; I polished myself pink yet still smelled like a 1300s cesspool. I couldn't take the car in like this, I couldn't go with a friend out in the crowd to see the Maritime boats. They'd wonder what the hell was that, and I'd attract gulls. I tried wearing long sleeves, but it was like a warming oven for a can of exploded tuna. No lotion, bleach solution, or acetone (yes, I tried) removed the aroma enough that people wouldn't keel over. Okay. I had things I could do inside.
It is now hours later, and the fish tank is bubbling but it's still surprising not to see the pleco hanging off the side of the glass. I also wish there was a yard to bury him in rather than just dumping the remains into the trash bin, but then everything is transient. A horrid morning, a sad morning, and his gift of fish oil lingers; but it's changing. No longer a mephitic fist, it has become more fishlike, as if I had been out on the lake, hauling nets. It's the marine of the sea, the underlying piscean aroma that washes the shore; more tolerable to me, but still I insist on solitude, away from public noses.
The remaining fish are subdued, and an unusual companionship has temporarily blossomed between the angelfish, a temperamental snip, and the loach, who meditates. They are staying close together, and certainly notice the hole left by our large friend.
Sleep is hours away; I do not want the dreams that came last night. Vivid, lost, frustrated, and within view of my old house, it was one that I was glad to wake from. No nightmare, but numerous dead ends and rooms too open to view; I was sharing a house with strangers whose boundaries pushed mine into a knot as there was no division between rooms. I could see into their dining area from my kitchen, my bedroom was up in the ceiling behind a trap door.
Tonight I hope to ride on the back of a finned giant, a plated catfish who can swim the rings of Saturn and embroider luminous trails between the stars. I shall remember you until my own star fades.
You know the promenade once you start heading for the door; you pick up speed, grab the laptop to do work, and glance at the fish to make sure things are all right. Well, they weren't, and it took me no seconds to realize that the immensity being held by the filter was the plecostomus, awfully, completely dead. Floating head up, clinging to the filter as he would; but by this time a white fungal growth was erupting in patches. His beautiful omega eyes had become milky white.
There was no net large enough to contain him, so I got a kitchen rubber glove, lifted the lid, and batted him towards me with the fish net that I had. There was weight, and the resistance I had to picking him up snarled and prickled my senses. What would it feel like, would he hold together, would I get the ook on me, he can't be dead, my poor fish. He had grown to 13 - 14 inches in the almost decade he lived. But, you do what you must do and be honorable about it, no whining, for he was a good boy who swam to the top to have his nose pet.
I tried to get him by the head, yet when I picked him up, fluids that were not water poured out, fouling the tank with internal putrefaction. The angel fish was fine, the two corys were alright, but the water smelt of foul rot; I dropped him into the plastic garbage bag lined with paper toweling, and carried the package to the bin. Then commenced the cleaning of the tank to restore water quality, the car went further down the list of necessary actions.
I have a 60 foot siphon that reaches the sink so no hauling of buckets has to occur, especially with this 52 gallon tank that I feel will be finding a new home and the remaining fish downsize. This was good, but there was also the fact that when a fish dies, oil is released and floats on top of the water in flat globules. Flat, greasy, stinky fat. I had removed the dead fish in time before the whole carcass was defatted, so there was not much; but let me tell you, it is as potent as a dead skunk on the highway. Again, what can one do? No gloves, for they would have filled with the tank water. Note to self: see what shoulder high rubber gloves cost. But as a human, I am washable, and so plunged in with the business end of the siphon to get as much fetid water out as possible.
No cats were interested, thank heavens. Me, the siphon, the sides of the tank, the net, all were coated with a slick, glistening fish oil which does. not. scrub. out. After restoring the tank with a cycle of fill, flush, fill, flush, the final clean up was to get this effluvium of hell contained and disappeared. I soaped the hose, net, filters, and outside of the tank many times with small success and the death of a toothbrush. Human pores are another story, and be thankful you aren't near me except now I smell better than I did earlier.
Nothing. Nothing worked. Online suggestions were lemon juice, vinegar, dish soap, toothpaste, hydrogen peroxide, Comet; I polished myself pink yet still smelled like a 1300s cesspool. I couldn't take the car in like this, I couldn't go with a friend out in the crowd to see the Maritime boats. They'd wonder what the hell was that, and I'd attract gulls. I tried wearing long sleeves, but it was like a warming oven for a can of exploded tuna. No lotion, bleach solution, or acetone (yes, I tried) removed the aroma enough that people wouldn't keel over. Okay. I had things I could do inside.
It is now hours later, and the fish tank is bubbling but it's still surprising not to see the pleco hanging off the side of the glass. I also wish there was a yard to bury him in rather than just dumping the remains into the trash bin, but then everything is transient. A horrid morning, a sad morning, and his gift of fish oil lingers; but it's changing. No longer a mephitic fist, it has become more fishlike, as if I had been out on the lake, hauling nets. It's the marine of the sea, the underlying piscean aroma that washes the shore; more tolerable to me, but still I insist on solitude, away from public noses.
The remaining fish are subdued, and an unusual companionship has temporarily blossomed between the angelfish, a temperamental snip, and the loach, who meditates. They are staying close together, and certainly notice the hole left by our large friend.
Sleep is hours away; I do not want the dreams that came last night. Vivid, lost, frustrated, and within view of my old house, it was one that I was glad to wake from. No nightmare, but numerous dead ends and rooms too open to view; I was sharing a house with strangers whose boundaries pushed mine into a knot as there was no division between rooms. I could see into their dining area from my kitchen, my bedroom was up in the ceiling behind a trap door.
Tonight I hope to ride on the back of a finned giant, a plated catfish who can swim the rings of Saturn and embroider luminous trails between the stars. I shall remember you until my own star fades.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
Friday, August 1, 2014
A Trip to the Vet's
I was peed on by a dog today. A little, white rat bastard of a dog at the vet's. This is why, even though I have owned two beloved dogs and known many others, my leaning is towards cats. I will watch my language through this post.
One of the cats needed a small but important procedure, and to take a cat to the vet, you sanely need a two day warm-up. First, you get the carrier out, ha-ha, look, it's just the carrier, no one is going anywhere; leave the carrier in a place where the cats will pass by it during the day, so that it becomes part of the furniture arrangement for them. Have the door open.
The day before, tip the whole thing up on one end, so that when the time comes, you can casually drop the cat in like a reverse rabbit out of a hat trick. Check the door to make sure it is firmly set within the hinges, and will swing shut one-handedly.
The day of the appointment, do not call kitty kitty kitty, for the cat knows. I will put on a short play, and maybe have a book, a paper, or a plant in hand and not even head for the cat. Not even go near the cat. I carry my book around the apartment, like there is book business to be taken care of, nothing to do with cats, nope. When I've walked around enough so that the cat ignores what I'm doing, I nonchalantly walk by, set down whatever I'm carrying, and gently but firmly swoop up the cat and lie to it. What a good kitty you are, such a good cat, we're going for a short ride to see grandma and I think Sammy Davis Jr. will be there (I love Sammy Davis Jr.), we can stop for ice cream, blah blah blah. The cat is tense but really likes ice cream, so there may be a deal.
At the upended cage, put the cat in hindquarters first, that way they can't brace themselves with their front paws against the frame of the carrier door. Do it fast, and they won't know what happened. The whole thing is easier if they're asleep, but there is something unfair about that. Tulip, who recently had surgery, was the one going; she was given to me by the vet who said that since I was so good with cats, I won Door Number Two, behind which was a small teapot shaped animal. She was frightened of everyone, and stayed in the Room with Books for four years. Four freaking years. Of course, the white cat who is short one vertebrae, has bad knees, hops, and is basically a Special Olympics cat bullied her, lorded it over, was the cat of cats until one day Tulip snapped and beat the snot out of Snowbelle. Now the roles have switched, and Tutu lives anywhere she wants and will chase the white demon to under the bed.
Anyway, the point of all of the above is that Tulip is a ninja at hiding; I started carrying a plant around an hour earlier, because it would take that long to find her. She was nowhere, a flashlight to look under dressers, beds, and in the back of closets revealed her powers of invisibility. You get goofy when the appointment is nearing, and start looking in obtuse places, like, did the cat accidentally get stuck in the refrigerator? Vents, behind folded towels, in areas that she would have to melt herself into a pancake to fit into, nada, my friend.
There are three dressers, and she was in the second drawer of the second dresser, managing to wedge herself under the loose top drawer and in with the winter sweaters. She is a small cat. The stunned look on her face when the drawer opened was gratifying, as if Holmes caught Moriarty. Scooped her up, did the rear end first into the carrier, and latched the door. She cries pitifully, and adds further pathos by essentially giving up and laying on the floor of the carrier, dismal, sad, on the way to the gallows. Tulip would give the Broadway stage a run for their money.
At the vet, three different owners have the same breed of dog, bichon frises, and are talking as to how amazing it is that they have the same breed, with appointments on the same day. I had gotten up to Purell my hands, and noticed the owner of one was looking at the available adoptees, apparently unaware that her dog was whizzing on the swinging door to the reception desk. Then he peed on the display of canned food, then he peed on the available adoptee. THE OWNER DID NOTHING. Come on Sherbet, let's go sit down. She was either blind to the color yellow, rock stupid, or just plain rude. The receptionist got gloves, spray, paper towels, and wiped up the three puddles Sherbet the fireman bestowed on the surroundings.
She, her boyfriend, and Sherbet were called in, whatever exam needed was done, and they came struttin' back out, big smiles as everything must have gone well. I'm not watching the lawn sprinkler, lord knows why I expected one of the adults to be aware, right then I was telling Tulip how big guy cat Steve could make a sandwich out of any of these little bichon freezie pop dogs, when the nice lady next to me gasps. Oh! says Sherbet's owner, he's peeing on your shoe-leg-purse. Another Trifecta. Did she pull him away? NO, SHE DID NOT. I gave the little creep a shove and if I was not in front of people, Sherbet would have been the Canine Sputnik of 2014, or I would have given him to the restaurant up the street. They sell goat, why not French dog?
No assistance, no help with paper towels, there was one "I'm sorry," before turning back to the counter to pay the bill. I got the disinfectant spray and toweling, and cleaned up as well as I could before it was Tulip's turn. The lady next to me, who worked at the SPCA for ten years, asked the owners if the dog was recently neutered? Nope, no, he was fixed when we got him. Did you get him from a puppy mill? Nope. They seemed offended that the rest of the world thought less of Sherbet than they did. Their entire lives must be anointed with dog whizz.
When home, I tossed the shoes and pants, and dabbed the purse with hydrogen peroxide, but have a feeling that it will be discarded as well, for every time I look at it, I will think of Sherbet, which will make my blood pressure go up, and it's pretty good right now. So, how was your day?
I'm going to bed. It's the Farmer's Market tomorrow with Pauline, and then a Day of Art. Maybe soup. Pauline and her husband have a very nice dog, he's a good fella who could wear Sherbet as a corsage. The night holds promises; the farmers may be out picking in their fields even now, some rise at three in the morning to bundle carrots and Swiss chard. Stir your dreams, wrap them in endeavor. Good night.
One of the cats needed a small but important procedure, and to take a cat to the vet, you sanely need a two day warm-up. First, you get the carrier out, ha-ha, look, it's just the carrier, no one is going anywhere; leave the carrier in a place where the cats will pass by it during the day, so that it becomes part of the furniture arrangement for them. Have the door open.
The day before, tip the whole thing up on one end, so that when the time comes, you can casually drop the cat in like a reverse rabbit out of a hat trick. Check the door to make sure it is firmly set within the hinges, and will swing shut one-handedly.
The day of the appointment, do not call kitty kitty kitty, for the cat knows. I will put on a short play, and maybe have a book, a paper, or a plant in hand and not even head for the cat. Not even go near the cat. I carry my book around the apartment, like there is book business to be taken care of, nothing to do with cats, nope. When I've walked around enough so that the cat ignores what I'm doing, I nonchalantly walk by, set down whatever I'm carrying, and gently but firmly swoop up the cat and lie to it. What a good kitty you are, such a good cat, we're going for a short ride to see grandma and I think Sammy Davis Jr. will be there (I love Sammy Davis Jr.), we can stop for ice cream, blah blah blah. The cat is tense but really likes ice cream, so there may be a deal.
At the upended cage, put the cat in hindquarters first, that way they can't brace themselves with their front paws against the frame of the carrier door. Do it fast, and they won't know what happened. The whole thing is easier if they're asleep, but there is something unfair about that. Tulip, who recently had surgery, was the one going; she was given to me by the vet who said that since I was so good with cats, I won Door Number Two, behind which was a small teapot shaped animal. She was frightened of everyone, and stayed in the Room with Books for four years. Four freaking years. Of course, the white cat who is short one vertebrae, has bad knees, hops, and is basically a Special Olympics cat bullied her, lorded it over, was the cat of cats until one day Tulip snapped and beat the snot out of Snowbelle. Now the roles have switched, and Tutu lives anywhere she wants and will chase the white demon to under the bed.
Anyway, the point of all of the above is that Tulip is a ninja at hiding; I started carrying a plant around an hour earlier, because it would take that long to find her. She was nowhere, a flashlight to look under dressers, beds, and in the back of closets revealed her powers of invisibility. You get goofy when the appointment is nearing, and start looking in obtuse places, like, did the cat accidentally get stuck in the refrigerator? Vents, behind folded towels, in areas that she would have to melt herself into a pancake to fit into, nada, my friend.
There are three dressers, and she was in the second drawer of the second dresser, managing to wedge herself under the loose top drawer and in with the winter sweaters. She is a small cat. The stunned look on her face when the drawer opened was gratifying, as if Holmes caught Moriarty. Scooped her up, did the rear end first into the carrier, and latched the door. She cries pitifully, and adds further pathos by essentially giving up and laying on the floor of the carrier, dismal, sad, on the way to the gallows. Tulip would give the Broadway stage a run for their money.
At the vet, three different owners have the same breed of dog, bichon frises, and are talking as to how amazing it is that they have the same breed, with appointments on the same day. I had gotten up to Purell my hands, and noticed the owner of one was looking at the available adoptees, apparently unaware that her dog was whizzing on the swinging door to the reception desk. Then he peed on the display of canned food, then he peed on the available adoptee. THE OWNER DID NOTHING. Come on Sherbet, let's go sit down. She was either blind to the color yellow, rock stupid, or just plain rude. The receptionist got gloves, spray, paper towels, and wiped up the three puddles Sherbet the fireman bestowed on the surroundings.
She, her boyfriend, and Sherbet were called in, whatever exam needed was done, and they came struttin' back out, big smiles as everything must have gone well. I'm not watching the lawn sprinkler, lord knows why I expected one of the adults to be aware, right then I was telling Tulip how big guy cat Steve could make a sandwich out of any of these little bichon freezie pop dogs, when the nice lady next to me gasps. Oh! says Sherbet's owner, he's peeing on your shoe-leg-purse. Another Trifecta. Did she pull him away? NO, SHE DID NOT. I gave the little creep a shove and if I was not in front of people, Sherbet would have been the Canine Sputnik of 2014, or I would have given him to the restaurant up the street. They sell goat, why not French dog?
No assistance, no help with paper towels, there was one "I'm sorry," before turning back to the counter to pay the bill. I got the disinfectant spray and toweling, and cleaned up as well as I could before it was Tulip's turn. The lady next to me, who worked at the SPCA for ten years, asked the owners if the dog was recently neutered? Nope, no, he was fixed when we got him. Did you get him from a puppy mill? Nope. They seemed offended that the rest of the world thought less of Sherbet than they did. Their entire lives must be anointed with dog whizz.
When home, I tossed the shoes and pants, and dabbed the purse with hydrogen peroxide, but have a feeling that it will be discarded as well, for every time I look at it, I will think of Sherbet, which will make my blood pressure go up, and it's pretty good right now. So, how was your day?
I'm going to bed. It's the Farmer's Market tomorrow with Pauline, and then a Day of Art. Maybe soup. Pauline and her husband have a very nice dog, he's a good fella who could wear Sherbet as a corsage. The night holds promises; the farmers may be out picking in their fields even now, some rise at three in the morning to bundle carrots and Swiss chard. Stir your dreams, wrap them in endeavor. Good night.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Ante Meridiem, Post Meridiem
From now on, I will get up and out before 9:00 a.m. if I want to go for a walk down to the berm, because, one: the day was sunny and hot, and required sunblock so now I smell like sunblock; and two: it was unusually crowded and felt like I was at the county fair, weaving in and out between people that were meandering but would suddenly stop midst meander to report on some occurrence or photograph a blurred moment, and I would have to throw on the brakes. Or almost tripping over the couple who were laying on the Canadian goose pooped grass sans blanket in the middle of a pathway through the public garden making no sense whatsoever. Of course anyone can lay on the grass, but right in front of the entry to the bricked walk? If I were a goose, I would have made an organic statement. If I were a Canadian, I would have inquired politely if they thought civilization was a recent idea.
Because I am an American, I used my garden path rage to step up the pace and buzzed around them, since the alternate route was a steep hill. But it was hot, and by this time I was soggy and wondering what on earth possessed me to think that this was an idea of merit. Coming to the railing beside where the two rivers meet Lake Erie wasn't any cooler, but I pushed on because I am taking a damn walk, you jazz-loving, grass-rolling tourists from the 'burbs.
I made it halfway down the berm before deciding that staggering from the heat wasn't that attractive, came about, and headed back across the asphalt towards home. Everything was soggy, including my sun spotted brain. Heat does not agree with me, and many of my jobs included working in restaurant kitchens in front of broilers and fryers during the summer. I would get tiny blisters all over, my whites sticking to me like Saran Wrap; the wait staff would keep us going with pitchers of ice water and cola, in hopes of getting their quiche out first.
Living in Florida was different, the heat was humid but you had the ocean to jump into and frankly, one could walk around like Jungle Jane with next to nothing on. I tell you, I have seen centenarians elasticized in speedos or origamied into bikinis. Nobody cares, it is just too freaking hot.
Got back and splashed water over my face; broke out the ice and loaded a glass for water, more water. Summer is overrated in my opinion, until the sun gets close to the western horizon, spills a hymnal spectrum, then reddens, descends, and the night hawks come out. Blessed night, when the day crowd has retreated and life slows down to an observant, sphinxlike measure. The night ones walk through the stillness of shadows, and can hear their own footsteps on the pavement; heavy doors are pulled open, dreams are spoken out loud. Colors disappear until a candle on the table blazes, casting an illuminating glow on many a question.
How could you know? Has anyone told you of the night? Sensation is magnified; sight, touch, hearing, smell; all increased to make up for the lack of depth in night vision, the reduced line of sight. Come home to sleep, and the night will soothe and calm, sending the brain into subconscious levels till we are no smarter than a lizard scurrying to the end of a branch. Yet inside works the laboratory of thought, instinct, premonition as we sleep, dreaming of tides, of searching for home.
I will tell you a story. Sleep well.
Because I am an American, I used my garden path rage to step up the pace and buzzed around them, since the alternate route was a steep hill. But it was hot, and by this time I was soggy and wondering what on earth possessed me to think that this was an idea of merit. Coming to the railing beside where the two rivers meet Lake Erie wasn't any cooler, but I pushed on because I am taking a damn walk, you jazz-loving, grass-rolling tourists from the 'burbs.
I made it halfway down the berm before deciding that staggering from the heat wasn't that attractive, came about, and headed back across the asphalt towards home. Everything was soggy, including my sun spotted brain. Heat does not agree with me, and many of my jobs included working in restaurant kitchens in front of broilers and fryers during the summer. I would get tiny blisters all over, my whites sticking to me like Saran Wrap; the wait staff would keep us going with pitchers of ice water and cola, in hopes of getting their quiche out first.
Living in Florida was different, the heat was humid but you had the ocean to jump into and frankly, one could walk around like Jungle Jane with next to nothing on. I tell you, I have seen centenarians elasticized in speedos or origamied into bikinis. Nobody cares, it is just too freaking hot.
Got back and splashed water over my face; broke out the ice and loaded a glass for water, more water. Summer is overrated in my opinion, until the sun gets close to the western horizon, spills a hymnal spectrum, then reddens, descends, and the night hawks come out. Blessed night, when the day crowd has retreated and life slows down to an observant, sphinxlike measure. The night ones walk through the stillness of shadows, and can hear their own footsteps on the pavement; heavy doors are pulled open, dreams are spoken out loud. Colors disappear until a candle on the table blazes, casting an illuminating glow on many a question.
How could you know? Has anyone told you of the night? Sensation is magnified; sight, touch, hearing, smell; all increased to make up for the lack of depth in night vision, the reduced line of sight. Come home to sleep, and the night will soothe and calm, sending the brain into subconscious levels till we are no smarter than a lizard scurrying to the end of a branch. Yet inside works the laboratory of thought, instinct, premonition as we sleep, dreaming of tides, of searching for home.
I will tell you a story. Sleep well.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Storytime
"Books, books, books! Thousands! Millions of them! All spines intact! All these will I give you if you will obey me," said Harper Collins, Doubleday, Pantheon, and Random House.
I am hauling out over one hundred books so far, in the soon to be reached goal of eliminating the book case in the living room/studio for room to set up the H-frame easel just given to me by a dear, retiring art teacher. The above quote, twisted from Renfield in Todd Browning's film Dracula, indicates how many I have accumulated over the past twenty years due to a happy belief that the world is an evolving, large place with much to know. However, if I ever equated books with happiness, that was only a partly right supposition, built on the ancient history of my aunt's attic which was lined with shelves of books. The house had been owned by a dentist, and at the top of the scary, corkscrew stairway you scurried through the first room haunted by shapeless, crumbling furniture, then arrived at the second room which had an Oriental rug layered with a hundred years of silent dust. And there they were, the glorious, wooden shelves lining two whole walls, packed with books.
The shelves were filled with cloth-bound, hardcover editions of The Bobbsey Twins, Alice in Wonderland, and hundreds of others that, in the attic heat, gave up a sweet, papery aroma which still drives me delirious when opening a book from a former century. No glossy paper, no slick glossy covers, sometimes a handwritten note inside a front board. This trove was there when my Aunt Dorie bought the house; she would allow me to select a few, then get more when those were returned. It was part of the respite of visiting her and my cousins on Lafayette Avenue in the city, for I was allowed books at home.
In an attempt at creating a library of my own, I have amassed six bookcases worth, plus the books which sprout like mushrooms after a rain on smaller pieces of furniture, in a stack by the bed, or on the kitchen counter. And the art table. And the dresser. Everything flat has a purpose. They are sort of organized by subject; all the fungi books near the seashell identification guides and all other science. Silent film has three shelves to itself, then medieval stuff, humor, reference, poetry, home, cookbooks, theory, ancient civilization, the little bit of fiction, and art. Sort of. But since moving things around, it's jumbled, but I love it. Almost the same papery fragrance, they are comforting, practical; they give me roots.
Cookbooks are the easiest to pull; there are a few specialty books, like for cakes, various cultures, or soup that I will keep besides the old standbys. But I will never make my own sauerkraut. Then there are the philosophy books which have teeny tiny print and references by the yard; I've kept a few of those, but hermeneutics? Nah. No more. Algebra. Hamiltonian paths are lovely, and the basis for one of my favorite computer games, Planarity, but it's taking up needed shelf space. And so on. It is looking successful.
You will find things in books that will never make it onto the internet; old dictionaries have words no longer used; old cookbooks will list hygienic standards, and advise against going out into the night, when poisonous vapors waft up from the ground. Don't hang around swamps. Don't overheat your brain. Turning pages is a treat, and works without batteries; you can bookmark a page, write a note; go ahead, use pencil.
Reading in bed is a lovely pleasure, and there is a stack of books next to the bed; some are being read again, others have new subjects and ideas. One of the first animals to crawl out of the sea was a millipede-like segmented creature, which is why today's modern millipedes belong to the class of crustacea, like crabs. This stuff fascinates me, where things came from and where are they going, mineral, animal, vegetable.
Sleep well this cool summer night, take a book in with you and read; what is the commonality which links you to this story, whether of earth or city, fact or fiction? You learn of the world, but you also get to know the secrets of yourself, and what to do about it. Fall into your pillow, I shall meet you up in the stars, midst the calm darkness, dreaming of wishes, dreaming of time. You storybook, you.
I am hauling out over one hundred books so far, in the soon to be reached goal of eliminating the book case in the living room/studio for room to set up the H-frame easel just given to me by a dear, retiring art teacher. The above quote, twisted from Renfield in Todd Browning's film Dracula, indicates how many I have accumulated over the past twenty years due to a happy belief that the world is an evolving, large place with much to know. However, if I ever equated books with happiness, that was only a partly right supposition, built on the ancient history of my aunt's attic which was lined with shelves of books. The house had been owned by a dentist, and at the top of the scary, corkscrew stairway you scurried through the first room haunted by shapeless, crumbling furniture, then arrived at the second room which had an Oriental rug layered with a hundred years of silent dust. And there they were, the glorious, wooden shelves lining two whole walls, packed with books.
The shelves were filled with cloth-bound, hardcover editions of The Bobbsey Twins, Alice in Wonderland, and hundreds of others that, in the attic heat, gave up a sweet, papery aroma which still drives me delirious when opening a book from a former century. No glossy paper, no slick glossy covers, sometimes a handwritten note inside a front board. This trove was there when my Aunt Dorie bought the house; she would allow me to select a few, then get more when those were returned. It was part of the respite of visiting her and my cousins on Lafayette Avenue in the city, for I was allowed books at home.
In an attempt at creating a library of my own, I have amassed six bookcases worth, plus the books which sprout like mushrooms after a rain on smaller pieces of furniture, in a stack by the bed, or on the kitchen counter. And the art table. And the dresser. Everything flat has a purpose. They are sort of organized by subject; all the fungi books near the seashell identification guides and all other science. Silent film has three shelves to itself, then medieval stuff, humor, reference, poetry, home, cookbooks, theory, ancient civilization, the little bit of fiction, and art. Sort of. But since moving things around, it's jumbled, but I love it. Almost the same papery fragrance, they are comforting, practical; they give me roots.
Cookbooks are the easiest to pull; there are a few specialty books, like for cakes, various cultures, or soup that I will keep besides the old standbys. But I will never make my own sauerkraut. Then there are the philosophy books which have teeny tiny print and references by the yard; I've kept a few of those, but hermeneutics? Nah. No more. Algebra. Hamiltonian paths are lovely, and the basis for one of my favorite computer games, Planarity, but it's taking up needed shelf space. And so on. It is looking successful.
You will find things in books that will never make it onto the internet; old dictionaries have words no longer used; old cookbooks will list hygienic standards, and advise against going out into the night, when poisonous vapors waft up from the ground. Don't hang around swamps. Don't overheat your brain. Turning pages is a treat, and works without batteries; you can bookmark a page, write a note; go ahead, use pencil.
Reading in bed is a lovely pleasure, and there is a stack of books next to the bed; some are being read again, others have new subjects and ideas. One of the first animals to crawl out of the sea was a millipede-like segmented creature, which is why today's modern millipedes belong to the class of crustacea, like crabs. This stuff fascinates me, where things came from and where are they going, mineral, animal, vegetable.
Sleep well this cool summer night, take a book in with you and read; what is the commonality which links you to this story, whether of earth or city, fact or fiction? You learn of the world, but you also get to know the secrets of yourself, and what to do about it. Fall into your pillow, I shall meet you up in the stars, midst the calm darkness, dreaming of wishes, dreaming of time. You storybook, you.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Suburban Gullywash
Today I went through a McDonald's drive thru; things have changed in America even out in the glazed plains of the outer suburbs. Surrounded by immense stores singular in design, ubiquitous in the use of plastic forms for decoration, this McDonald's was an island in asphalt, barricaded by yellow curbs, organized by yellow arrows, and miniature arched signage.
A large semi blocked the first ordering intercom, on its white side was printed a model burger stacked evenly with green leaf lettuce and the slogan "I'm lovin' it". I scooted around to the second intercom, order given and then around the bend to the first window, which was closed. It stayed shut until the young man partially slid it open, said, "That'll be $7.06", and promptly closed the window again. When I waved the money at him, he reopened the window then reshut it tightly, only opening it partway to hand back the change. On the window was a sign, "No video recording, photographs by camera or cell phone allowed." They weren't lovin' that.
I drove to the next window, which was shut, I waited a bit for the food person to arrive with the order. He cracked open the window, scooched the food out, Haveaniceday, and bam. Closed up tighter than a quahog clam. Made me feel dangerous, a hoodlum in a 2001 Chevy Cavalier. Since I am fairly harmless looking, it can be surmised that this has become company policy at this base in the suburban strip mall village. Go to a McD's in my neighborhood, and there's a chance you can come home with tabs of LSD. No lie; the manager was supplementing his income at the drive thru. Ask for Demmie.
But both you and I know why this is happening, go to any video website and type in "McDonald's fight" to witness tantrums fueled by drugs. Chicken nuggets make people go crazy, they ought to install sprinklers like in the produce section of the supermarket at the order intercom, and load them with dopamine. Everyone would be happy. Reports state that the most common drugs in the water supply are Prozac, Effexor, and Tegretol, all mood stabilizers; now that society consumes a packaged, filtered product, we miss the side effects which have the potential to make you see that missing cheese on your burger isn't a personal jab at your shame in not getting what you want. Drink more water out of the tap, people.
Back in the city, a friend and I walked over to a nearby restaurant for lunch; it was full of people under 35 and felt more like a franchise cutie pie brewery one would encounter out in the 'burbs. There are several of these establishments, newly built, full of signage with clever sayings, and by clever sayings, I mean something a nine year old with a permanent marker would write on his sister's dresser. So, is the reverse happening, that the recently developed part of the city is becoming a calming bowl of cornflakes? Huge resin figures of humans doing funny things inhabit this brewery, lending a carnival merry-go-round atmosphere, with smaller versions adorning the taps. Whee. The food was okay, the crowd was okay, you knew there weren't going to be any fights, particularly after a wedding party entered in heels and suit jackets, looking for lemon drop martinis.
On the surface, suburbia looks rather flat and the inhabitants like it that way; the arguments, oddities, and the anonymous are expected to stay within boundaries outlined by expressways and poverty levels. I can't say I blame folks for being cautious, they only want to get home in one piece; but keeping the upsettedness of people with few social skills out by keeping your windows closed won't deter a frustrated human displaying poor judgment from walking through the front door and launching "Wet Floor" signs over the counter. You have to learn to deal with life, at least through first-hand observation; do stay out of the dangerous neighborhoods, but come walk a city sidewalk and you'll breathe easier knowing that your intuition will take care of 95% of the problems.
The kids working at the McDonald's looked tense to me, maybe they went through shut-the-window instruction that morning, maybe there was an irate customer raising indignant hell the day before; maybe the drive-thru lines that I've experienced were manned by servers who had seven inch hairpins hidden under their Happy Hats. It was just different, and I wondered at the transposition of attitudes between city life and the suburban population.
The beautiful, beautiful rain has stopped, and here is the sun nearing the end of day horizon; a walk by the slabs of limestone and chert was lovely as the small waves of the lake and river mouthed at the stoney shore. I inhabit a pocket of space, only as big as peripheral vision and the depth before me creates; there are no people, I am framed by rocks, the zenith of the sky, and the stretch of water before me, a small slice of world, a narrow vision. There is peace in it, but lacking anything more than what attributes are held by silent nature until a young brown rabbit appears in the midst of clover at the end of the rocks. Another mammal, like me; warm-blooded, primate meet lagomorpha, how are the kids? Visible life changes the ethereal scenery into tangible, solid earth beneath foot and paw; good night, rabbit, time to get back home.
It is a blank, starless night still and covered by low clouds hanging above, full buckets of rain contained within. Today the rain shushed and shushed against the leaves of the maple trees, coming down in white sheets, droplets uncountable. Now the ground is soaked, yet in the dark the cool breath
of the earth meanders around corners and trees, over grasses and sleeping rabbits. Rest well, dream much. Latch doors, tuck under. Let go. Love well.
A large semi blocked the first ordering intercom, on its white side was printed a model burger stacked evenly with green leaf lettuce and the slogan "I'm lovin' it". I scooted around to the second intercom, order given and then around the bend to the first window, which was closed. It stayed shut until the young man partially slid it open, said, "That'll be $7.06", and promptly closed the window again. When I waved the money at him, he reopened the window then reshut it tightly, only opening it partway to hand back the change. On the window was a sign, "No video recording, photographs by camera or cell phone allowed." They weren't lovin' that.
I drove to the next window, which was shut, I waited a bit for the food person to arrive with the order. He cracked open the window, scooched the food out, Haveaniceday, and bam. Closed up tighter than a quahog clam. Made me feel dangerous, a hoodlum in a 2001 Chevy Cavalier. Since I am fairly harmless looking, it can be surmised that this has become company policy at this base in the suburban strip mall village. Go to a McD's in my neighborhood, and there's a chance you can come home with tabs of LSD. No lie; the manager was supplementing his income at the drive thru. Ask for Demmie.
But both you and I know why this is happening, go to any video website and type in "McDonald's fight" to witness tantrums fueled by drugs. Chicken nuggets make people go crazy, they ought to install sprinklers like in the produce section of the supermarket at the order intercom, and load them with dopamine. Everyone would be happy. Reports state that the most common drugs in the water supply are Prozac, Effexor, and Tegretol, all mood stabilizers; now that society consumes a packaged, filtered product, we miss the side effects which have the potential to make you see that missing cheese on your burger isn't a personal jab at your shame in not getting what you want. Drink more water out of the tap, people.
Back in the city, a friend and I walked over to a nearby restaurant for lunch; it was full of people under 35 and felt more like a franchise cutie pie brewery one would encounter out in the 'burbs. There are several of these establishments, newly built, full of signage with clever sayings, and by clever sayings, I mean something a nine year old with a permanent marker would write on his sister's dresser. So, is the reverse happening, that the recently developed part of the city is becoming a calming bowl of cornflakes? Huge resin figures of humans doing funny things inhabit this brewery, lending a carnival merry-go-round atmosphere, with smaller versions adorning the taps. Whee. The food was okay, the crowd was okay, you knew there weren't going to be any fights, particularly after a wedding party entered in heels and suit jackets, looking for lemon drop martinis.
On the surface, suburbia looks rather flat and the inhabitants like it that way; the arguments, oddities, and the anonymous are expected to stay within boundaries outlined by expressways and poverty levels. I can't say I blame folks for being cautious, they only want to get home in one piece; but keeping the upsettedness of people with few social skills out by keeping your windows closed won't deter a frustrated human displaying poor judgment from walking through the front door and launching "Wet Floor" signs over the counter. You have to learn to deal with life, at least through first-hand observation; do stay out of the dangerous neighborhoods, but come walk a city sidewalk and you'll breathe easier knowing that your intuition will take care of 95% of the problems.
The kids working at the McDonald's looked tense to me, maybe they went through shut-the-window instruction that morning, maybe there was an irate customer raising indignant hell the day before; maybe the drive-thru lines that I've experienced were manned by servers who had seven inch hairpins hidden under their Happy Hats. It was just different, and I wondered at the transposition of attitudes between city life and the suburban population.
The beautiful, beautiful rain has stopped, and here is the sun nearing the end of day horizon; a walk by the slabs of limestone and chert was lovely as the small waves of the lake and river mouthed at the stoney shore. I inhabit a pocket of space, only as big as peripheral vision and the depth before me creates; there are no people, I am framed by rocks, the zenith of the sky, and the stretch of water before me, a small slice of world, a narrow vision. There is peace in it, but lacking anything more than what attributes are held by silent nature until a young brown rabbit appears in the midst of clover at the end of the rocks. Another mammal, like me; warm-blooded, primate meet lagomorpha, how are the kids? Visible life changes the ethereal scenery into tangible, solid earth beneath foot and paw; good night, rabbit, time to get back home.
It is a blank, starless night still and covered by low clouds hanging above, full buckets of rain contained within. Today the rain shushed and shushed against the leaves of the maple trees, coming down in white sheets, droplets uncountable. Now the ground is soaked, yet in the dark the cool breath
of the earth meanders around corners and trees, over grasses and sleeping rabbits. Rest well, dream much. Latch doors, tuck under. Let go. Love well.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Refrigerator of Natural Science
According to the microwave, it's 88:88 o'clock, a time found in Brobdingnagian clocktowers; I've unplugged several appliances to clean under them, and haven't reset the green blinking displays yet. There's more unplugging to be done, so for the moment A Real Clock of economical plastic from IKEA measures the hours.
And finally comes the day to clean out the refrigerator. It's a dedicated sweetie pie that has been working secondhand for me since 1995, almost twenty years. Sure, no light inside, and the freezer is a manual defrost that does not get cold enough to keep ice cream solid, but it was given to me by a good person and those happy wishes have kept the appliance going just fine for me. I do have a small chest freezer, as I am a conservator of sour cherries and on sale meat; this is where the rare ice cream carton lands and hides till I find it. It is my next project to thaw and arrange.
The ice and permafrost have built up in the upper regions of Siberia to the point where the flimsy plastic inside door won't shut. Only a couple of defrostings happened over the winter; once a week is the very best for smooth sailing and quick finishes. However, I have not been diligent, for many excellent reasons, and so here we are. Tool checklist: rubber gloves, a hairdryer, and a big whomping flathead screwdriver are lined up on the counter and I unplug this not too large refrigerator, surveying the white layers of ice. Plastic packages of spinach and peas are right on top; one gets tossed and the other is put into the microwave for supper. Mystery enters and swishes its cape, for now there is nothing but mounds of fluffy ice. I chop some out and make a snowball.
I find a bag of the sour cherries, frozen parsley, lima beans, blueberries and bacon. A pack of bacon. Another pack of bacon. Another pack of bacon. It must have been on sale. A plastic bag, the sort that you bring groceries home in, partly waggles the not-locked-in-ice part and is squishy. It's a bag of wool scarves; oh right, cold storage, as it were. Years ago a woolen sweater became fodder for clothes moths, so now I am cautious; this is why I keep clothing in my freezer. Only I forget where I put it; my favorite scarf is then missing, "I leeffffttt it somewhere". Who would ever think of looking in the freezer for their clothes? Not me. Only in spring, just like lost winter mittens in the backyard appear during thaws, the missing are resurrected on Defrosting Day.
The packages have been chopped out and put in a box wrapped in a blanket, and serious work begins; I snap on the gloves, plug in the sturdy hairdryer, and turn on the heat, aiming for the back of the compartment. The hot air then swirls around and is able to soften everything up; if you do a spot by spot method, you will, my friend, be hacking at ice till St. Swithin's Day, which is July 15th.
'St. Swithin's day if thou dost rain
For forty days it will remain
St. Swithin's day if thou be fair
For forty days 'twill rain nae mair.'
Help yourself out by leveraging the blade of the screwdriver at areas of perceived weakness, chop carefully through the rack which holds the freezing coils; glaciers break and are caught by the drawer designed to do so. The drawer. This drawer has a flap that says "Winter position" and "Summer position," and if that happens in moments of clarity, well, fine. But I'm not staying up nights worrying about it.
As the drawer catches the thawing chunks and melt, I tussle them out one-handed as the drawer still is immobilized by ice. Stalactites and stalagmites are tossed into the kitchen sink to dissolve and why is this one brown? Brown ice is not a good sign of anything, yet more appears, browner. Stygian. I trace it back to a plastic container with a cracked bottom that once held beef stock, and has now mostly emptied itself into the catch all. I remove the mess and soap it out, scrubbing corners with a tooth brush; almost finished. The ice is gone, the coils are clean, and finally, the Glacial Age has subsided.
I put surviving food packets back, toss the wheat grass, congealed spinach, and the door now shuts, just lovely; I look at the refrigerator shelves, which have the appearance of a Jenga tower. Things are crammed in stacks, so it is to begin from the top down; after the frozen mammoths found in the freezer, this job turns out to be a lesson in natural sciences. This grey thing, for example. Round, hard, a rock in the fridge? Welp, there's a stem end, andddd, it's a lime! Technically.
There's a canister of whipped cream that was shoved over the edge of the wire shelf, circa April 2012; eggs from last year, two plastic bags that now hold produce that I don't know what it is, desquamation from the outside in has done a favor and reduced fibers to liquid. Oh come on, you never forgot there was broccoli back in there? A brown paper bag of potatoes has grown fingerlike roots, and there are foot long onion leaves growing from defunct bulbs; carrots have begun rooting and sending up shoots. This is biology, stubborn life within the Kingdom of Flora; let me next introduce you to the Kingdom of Fungi in one word: cheese.
Now cheese is a dairy base, the softer ones such as Brie, or the blue ones, such as Roquefort, have been given over to mold to flush mycelium through the curds (the blue stuff is Penicillium), or form an outside crust that softens the inner loveliness. Sideline: yeast (fungi) makes the dough rise; top with Brie (softened by fungi), add mushrooms (fungi) and you have the Kingdom of Fungi Pizza. Neat, yes? Yes? Anyways, there is good cheese, and moldy cheese that Dr. Jonas Salk would be proud of; it seems the supermarket brand is intact, yet the organic local variety has more blue fuzz than a 70's shag rug.
So did you know that pickles can get moldy? I didn't. But look, we are on the bottom shelf, and all that's left are jars of jelly with barely one spoonful left; I don't even care for jelly that much, but am loath to throw food away. Obviously. Toss, toss, toss. The bins at the bottom are emptied and washed in the sink, everything is wiped down, and this looks so good that I should take a photo except that posting a photo of your fridge's insides is pathetic.
A refrigerator is a repository for food, all food, any food, and it can stay there for years; lord have mercy if you ever get inside a restaurant walk-in fridge. Don't ever order mousse, although I think that craze disappeared; I can give you an excellent recipe that won't upset your stomach, putting it politely. If you do indulge and don't get ill, that's because it's been made from a powdered mix you add milk to, like instant pudding except we will charge you $7 'cause we grated chocolate over it.
In one "restaurant" you could not throw anything away without the manager's approval, even if it was starting to look like a troll doll and spreading spores to it's neighboring stored menu items. In all restaurants I ever worked in, (except Chicago), if something landed on the floor, it was picked up and redished. We were to save cherry tomatoes from customer's plates, wash them, and plop them in the next salad. And butter for lobster or garlic bread? Scraped also from plates and melted down. Complain and send a steak back? If you're the hated owner of the place, the cooks will drop it on the floor and stomp it a few times. They put cigarettes in your trout's mouth for the server to pick out. Do not think this doesn't happen, I can call in witnesses.
When I moved back to Buffalo and worked at a chain restaurant, I was opening line cook because I knew how to put the complicated soft serve machine together. Were the parts ever washed? Mostly nope, unless I raised Cain with the dishwashers. Taken apart, put in a tub of water to soak overnight, not even rinsed off before being reassembled, with curds of soured mix coating the springs and widgets. But anyway, the part that I was getting to was the rats. Flip on the lights, and they would run over the Belgian waffle irons, as no one in their right mind would be able to throughly clean six of the things and get all the bits, so it was a waffle fest for the vermin. Uh, I think I've gone on too long, and best advice is to stay away from chain restaurants. There are never enough staff hired to take care of all the Board of Health rules, and an independent owner has a lot more to lose and probably cares about the place.
Except the last guy I worked for, he thought he was Frank Sinatra's evil twin; if you didn't want another drink after he offered, he'd put a gun to your head. I don't miss working in restaurants, but it has come full circle with my refrigerator patiently holding jars of applesauce from 1997. Appreciate your own cooking, my friend. Slapping peanut butter on bread counts, for you know that only you have been licking the side of the jar with your fingers, and not sharing it with something that has a pink snakey tail and squeaks.
The rainstorms have subsided, and everything that lives outside has had a drink of water; everyone inside has been served. Come on over and see my clean refrigerator, it now goes with the rest of the kitchen and is humming away.
Be gentle, be kind; sleep well and deep. Good heart, I can just tell.
And finally comes the day to clean out the refrigerator. It's a dedicated sweetie pie that has been working secondhand for me since 1995, almost twenty years. Sure, no light inside, and the freezer is a manual defrost that does not get cold enough to keep ice cream solid, but it was given to me by a good person and those happy wishes have kept the appliance going just fine for me. I do have a small chest freezer, as I am a conservator of sour cherries and on sale meat; this is where the rare ice cream carton lands and hides till I find it. It is my next project to thaw and arrange.
The ice and permafrost have built up in the upper regions of Siberia to the point where the flimsy plastic inside door won't shut. Only a couple of defrostings happened over the winter; once a week is the very best for smooth sailing and quick finishes. However, I have not been diligent, for many excellent reasons, and so here we are. Tool checklist: rubber gloves, a hairdryer, and a big whomping flathead screwdriver are lined up on the counter and I unplug this not too large refrigerator, surveying the white layers of ice. Plastic packages of spinach and peas are right on top; one gets tossed and the other is put into the microwave for supper. Mystery enters and swishes its cape, for now there is nothing but mounds of fluffy ice. I chop some out and make a snowball.
I find a bag of the sour cherries, frozen parsley, lima beans, blueberries and bacon. A pack of bacon. Another pack of bacon. Another pack of bacon. It must have been on sale. A plastic bag, the sort that you bring groceries home in, partly waggles the not-locked-in-ice part and is squishy. It's a bag of wool scarves; oh right, cold storage, as it were. Years ago a woolen sweater became fodder for clothes moths, so now I am cautious; this is why I keep clothing in my freezer. Only I forget where I put it; my favorite scarf is then missing, "I leeffffttt it somewhere". Who would ever think of looking in the freezer for their clothes? Not me. Only in spring, just like lost winter mittens in the backyard appear during thaws, the missing are resurrected on Defrosting Day.
The packages have been chopped out and put in a box wrapped in a blanket, and serious work begins; I snap on the gloves, plug in the sturdy hairdryer, and turn on the heat, aiming for the back of the compartment. The hot air then swirls around and is able to soften everything up; if you do a spot by spot method, you will, my friend, be hacking at ice till St. Swithin's Day, which is July 15th.
'St. Swithin's day if thou dost rain
For forty days it will remain
St. Swithin's day if thou be fair
For forty days 'twill rain nae mair.'
Help yourself out by leveraging the blade of the screwdriver at areas of perceived weakness, chop carefully through the rack which holds the freezing coils; glaciers break and are caught by the drawer designed to do so. The drawer. This drawer has a flap that says "Winter position" and "Summer position," and if that happens in moments of clarity, well, fine. But I'm not staying up nights worrying about it.
As the drawer catches the thawing chunks and melt, I tussle them out one-handed as the drawer still is immobilized by ice. Stalactites and stalagmites are tossed into the kitchen sink to dissolve and why is this one brown? Brown ice is not a good sign of anything, yet more appears, browner. Stygian. I trace it back to a plastic container with a cracked bottom that once held beef stock, and has now mostly emptied itself into the catch all. I remove the mess and soap it out, scrubbing corners with a tooth brush; almost finished. The ice is gone, the coils are clean, and finally, the Glacial Age has subsided.
I put surviving food packets back, toss the wheat grass, congealed spinach, and the door now shuts, just lovely; I look at the refrigerator shelves, which have the appearance of a Jenga tower. Things are crammed in stacks, so it is to begin from the top down; after the frozen mammoths found in the freezer, this job turns out to be a lesson in natural sciences. This grey thing, for example. Round, hard, a rock in the fridge? Welp, there's a stem end, andddd, it's a lime! Technically.
There's a canister of whipped cream that was shoved over the edge of the wire shelf, circa April 2012; eggs from last year, two plastic bags that now hold produce that I don't know what it is, desquamation from the outside in has done a favor and reduced fibers to liquid. Oh come on, you never forgot there was broccoli back in there? A brown paper bag of potatoes has grown fingerlike roots, and there are foot long onion leaves growing from defunct bulbs; carrots have begun rooting and sending up shoots. This is biology, stubborn life within the Kingdom of Flora; let me next introduce you to the Kingdom of Fungi in one word: cheese.
Now cheese is a dairy base, the softer ones such as Brie, or the blue ones, such as Roquefort, have been given over to mold to flush mycelium through the curds (the blue stuff is Penicillium), or form an outside crust that softens the inner loveliness. Sideline: yeast (fungi) makes the dough rise; top with Brie (softened by fungi), add mushrooms (fungi) and you have the Kingdom of Fungi Pizza. Neat, yes? Yes? Anyways, there is good cheese, and moldy cheese that Dr. Jonas Salk would be proud of; it seems the supermarket brand is intact, yet the organic local variety has more blue fuzz than a 70's shag rug.
So did you know that pickles can get moldy? I didn't. But look, we are on the bottom shelf, and all that's left are jars of jelly with barely one spoonful left; I don't even care for jelly that much, but am loath to throw food away. Obviously. Toss, toss, toss. The bins at the bottom are emptied and washed in the sink, everything is wiped down, and this looks so good that I should take a photo except that posting a photo of your fridge's insides is pathetic.
A refrigerator is a repository for food, all food, any food, and it can stay there for years; lord have mercy if you ever get inside a restaurant walk-in fridge. Don't ever order mousse, although I think that craze disappeared; I can give you an excellent recipe that won't upset your stomach, putting it politely. If you do indulge and don't get ill, that's because it's been made from a powdered mix you add milk to, like instant pudding except we will charge you $7 'cause we grated chocolate over it.
In one "restaurant" you could not throw anything away without the manager's approval, even if it was starting to look like a troll doll and spreading spores to it's neighboring stored menu items. In all restaurants I ever worked in, (except Chicago), if something landed on the floor, it was picked up and redished. We were to save cherry tomatoes from customer's plates, wash them, and plop them in the next salad. And butter for lobster or garlic bread? Scraped also from plates and melted down. Complain and send a steak back? If you're the hated owner of the place, the cooks will drop it on the floor and stomp it a few times. They put cigarettes in your trout's mouth for the server to pick out. Do not think this doesn't happen, I can call in witnesses.
When I moved back to Buffalo and worked at a chain restaurant, I was opening line cook because I knew how to put the complicated soft serve machine together. Were the parts ever washed? Mostly nope, unless I raised Cain with the dishwashers. Taken apart, put in a tub of water to soak overnight, not even rinsed off before being reassembled, with curds of soured mix coating the springs and widgets. But anyway, the part that I was getting to was the rats. Flip on the lights, and they would run over the Belgian waffle irons, as no one in their right mind would be able to throughly clean six of the things and get all the bits, so it was a waffle fest for the vermin. Uh, I think I've gone on too long, and best advice is to stay away from chain restaurants. There are never enough staff hired to take care of all the Board of Health rules, and an independent owner has a lot more to lose and probably cares about the place.
Except the last guy I worked for, he thought he was Frank Sinatra's evil twin; if you didn't want another drink after he offered, he'd put a gun to your head. I don't miss working in restaurants, but it has come full circle with my refrigerator patiently holding jars of applesauce from 1997. Appreciate your own cooking, my friend. Slapping peanut butter on bread counts, for you know that only you have been licking the side of the jar with your fingers, and not sharing it with something that has a pink snakey tail and squeaks.
The rainstorms have subsided, and everything that lives outside has had a drink of water; everyone inside has been served. Come on over and see my clean refrigerator, it now goes with the rest of the kitchen and is humming away.
Be gentle, be kind; sleep well and deep. Good heart, I can just tell.
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