This Never Happen Before

I am done with shucking out dollars to do laundry, and purchased one of the newer models of countertop washer and a separate spin dryer.  It will take care of the smaller pieces, and it was freeing; no more hauling baskets in the elevator, or hoping that the towels didn't get stolen, or that your underwear didn't catch fire in the dryer.  I don't know how that occurred, but it did.  A neighbor who saw the smoke pulled them out; apparently they jammed between the tumbler and gasket, igniting.  He kept apologizing, I was embarrassed, but the crowd of people who had gathered to see the fire were highly entertained.

The delicates weren't even of the frou frou variety, just working girl Hanes Her Ways, now with burn marks.   I don't know which would have been worse; a Victoria's Secret $18 sneeze of elastic, or these plain white ones because the guy who saved the day was holding my undies up high for everyone to see how he was a hero.  He's a good egg, but shy of a few place settings.  I tossed them away, because if I ever got hit by a car while wearing scorched underwear, my mother would have crawled under a rock.

So I recently ordered a small washer capable of a 5 pound load; it arrived within the week.  While assembling the thing and drooling over how much easier this task would be, I noticed a nasty bottom corner crack with the back panel also broken off.  Not to mention the "Free Laundry Basket" unfolded with dirty prints on it and a tear at one of the seams.  What puzzled me was that there is no damage to the box it came in, the styrofoam was intact; to me this indicated that whoever boxed this machine had worked a double shift that day.  I emailed the distributor in California through Amazon.  This is part of what was sent back:


"Thanks for your E-mail. We're sincerely sorry to hear that you receive a damaged package. Since this problem never happen before, the damage may caused by the improper shipment. On behalf of my company, I would like to offer our most sincere apologies for the mistakes that UPS Shipping Company made while handling your product during the shipment. Please kindly understand that, we as a seller, cannot control the unexpected shipping problem occurred, like the weather problem, the bumping shipment or careless deliveryman's handling or other UPS’s logistic arrangements. 1 out of 100 packages may get dents, cracks, crashed and other problems, we're deeply sorry for this."

Those were my italics.  Since I've figured out which buttons to push for italicizing, emphasis has elevated my silent elocution and feelings.  After reading the "This never happen before," I felt disbelief. How many of these things have they sold?  Manufactured in China, it had a long trip to get here, and mine was the very first to create such a disappointing transaction?  Really.  The bumping shipment was not evident by the boxes' condition.  Could the delivery man have mind powers that can bend spoons, and he inadvertently cracked the casing when hiccuping? Why does this feel like I'm headed for Weaseltown?

Reasonably, they want photos "to faster the speed of return request", which is on my agenda after this missive, so that "Your kind efforts will promote us to better product and service." can occur.  Amazon is pretty good about their outliers, and so far any issues have been resolved; the statement of "this never happen"  is so full of baloney, since in my lifetime, nothing within the realm of physics or human nature has ever happened never.  Maybe I'm communicating with Yoda.

So off I go with a charged phone, wish me luck.  Further, any wisenheimer who suggests my new nickname is "Firepants" (it already happen), I guarantee they will faster the speed a punch in the nose and thus be in the category of 1 out of 100 to get a dent or crashed.

Today was one of the bitterest of Arctic cold days, and I took a sick day from work as the students were told to stay out of the -21 wind chill.  Got some things done, others are still on the burner, like that pot of chili.  I will gratefully fall to sleep this evening, as the fours hours I got last night will be evident after suppertime.  Skies are clear, the cloak of bleak emptiness hovers over the region; this summer will have fewer skeeters, which is nice for humans but not for the birds and bats that dine on them.  Everything cycles, there is no such thing as never under earthly law; miracles, kindnesses, imbalance or even, cracks or missing pieces appear and dissolve before our eyes, a magic trick.  

Sleep well and warm, contrariwise.  See you in Always.  

Pascuum, E Lecto

This is an inside out post, one about daylight and movement of another sort, of investigating the reason to step forward, to be pulled arisen by the invisible magnet of curiosity, responsibility, and any other -ity you can suppose.  Get up, you Lazarine; face the canvas of living, and pull the colors together to form an image of interaction more vertical than horizontal.

Oh this brings me back to the days of getting my son out of bed during The Teen Years, when mumbles and lies were exchanged then elevated to threats.  Finality?  A short glass of cold water poured delicately into his Aquarian ear. A spoonful.  He never was angry, bless him all blinking and bed hair, understanding that getting him up required massive energy, and that I had to get to work as well.  It took over 45 minutes to raise the unconscious.  Now.  Now.  Get up, Buzz.  Up, c'mon boy!  You gotta get up, now.  NOW.  I. Will. Get. A. Glass. Of. Water. And. Pour. It. On. Your. Head.

Always, always give fair warning when liquids are involved.

Getting out of bed is harder to do during the darker mornings of a northern winter, especially when the outside air of the room is not as warm as the inside air under the covers.  I love wool blankets, their texture is pleasant and not slidey, they stay put.  Three is just right.  And a bed warmer that takes the chill off the mattress, on just long enough to give the effect that you are climbing into a nest of warm flannel, almost as good as sheets fresh out of the dryer.  Wait.  Oops.  Slid backwards, this is supposed to be about getting up, not going to bed.  Ahem.

But it is easier when the sunrise happens at a saner 5:30 a.m., and the birds are yelling their heads off; you notice it the most when you've been outside through the night, for the scenery slowly changes.  The black of midnight turns to a navy blue in which the natural world is grey, no colors yet.  Crepuscular.  Then it lightens even more and the stars disappear and the moon melts into the sky; morning noises are percolating, usually with robins being the first harbingers.  A glow in the east made with roses of brilliant pinks and gold announces Sol as the earth rotates into arrival position, leftover energy ever dispersing, spinning, from the beginning bang.  Sunrise.

Color, life, and morning greetings, whether human or not, create the first music that resonates and establishes an awareness of time, thus determining the tilt and shifting of the day.  Dog owners receive wet-nose-with-toy greetings and have no choice in any five-minutes-more nonsense.  For the rest of us, there is sleep in our eyes, we stretch and roll over.  But the sun.  It's an otherworld. Come participate, make life, come out of drowsy somnambulance, sleepwalker.  You're needed, a necessary part of the canvas in someone's life whether you know them or not.

I am not one to explode out of bed unless there is need, then I will be the first up and out.  Think you can beat me?  Oh ho, my feet are moving before breath exhales.  Become a parent, and you will understand.  But other than emergencies concerning alligators hiding under beds to eat children, it takes a while to click the 'on' switch.  Rising early, however, is a quiet treasure, even just to putter about the place.  Clink of cups, rattling spoons, feet on linoleum, are amply magnified as no other background noise interrupts.  You are ready for whatever the day brings.

So, get there.  Contribute.  Smooth a path, figure it out, bear a burden for the larger reward of knowing who you are, knowing that you did well with what you could.  Yet, what is this elf called Day, this ethereal grasp that we share in light?  No great secret.  It's love, plain and simple.  Love of this earth and most of the living things on it, and that includes people.  Not everyone; you don't have to love everyone, lord knows not all the pieces fit evenly; the commonality found in every corner of this planet, however, is the connection between each other and the adventure in learning that.  Reach back into memory, think of an accomplishment and how you felt that day, that moment; you are mirrored in every human face and yearning to become a part of a whole.  That's plenty of motivation.

The light of the sun lowers blood pressure and ten minutes of summer sun produces 10,000 international units of vitamin D.  In winter, if you live north of the 33.74 latitude, which is Atlanta, Georgia in the USA, the sun doesn't get high enough for the ultraviolet B rays that produce the vitamin to reach us, so supplement.  I'm not going to recommend a dosage, but look at the stats, 10,000 IU's in ten minutes, in contrast to the government advisory which claims 400 is plenty.

And you thought you would get through this post without a science lecture of some sort.  Ha.  Slipped one in on ya.

Be well, ascend, rise, meet the day with cheer.  I shall save the glass of water for the plants.  Peace and balance.

Florida Timetable

A boatload of small dogfish was at the dock; onlookers clustered, fascinated by the eyes which strongly resemble human.  It was hot, and the fishermen moved quickly to unload the catch which may have been destined for fish and chips, pet food, fertilizer, or shark oil.  The species has since been placed on the Vulnerable list, the numbers in the North Atlantic have been depleted radically.  They looked like babies, young sharks netted before adulthood, but that was purely sentiment on my part for their full size is no more than 2 1/2 to 5 feet.  We were in Key West, bohemian and roughened by sun and salt spray.

A grocery provided bread and bologna, mustard; we took the Fiat 128, parked it under a palm tree and went to a white, coarse-sanded beach with towels and plastic ware.  I was brown already from months spent in St. Pete, but the brightness of the solar glare was more intense than on any other Floridian day.  It speared into the Gulf waters, illuminating colored ideas of sponges and odd, round corals; the broken waves of light shimmered and shadowed things I had only seen in books, or not at all.  Life, salt water life was detonating at the edge of civilization; can you imagine what was beyond this first twenty feet of ocean?

A smarter man had found a raft with a clear bottom to view the seascape, as there certainly was no walking about to be done without shredding yourself into strips for the fish to tease; the corals were sharp, the spiny animals were sharp, the barracuda that hovered were toothed and as goggle eyed as   dinosaurs fed dope.  Did not look like there was anyone home in there, the vacant yet frantic stare was only a split second evaluation of my edibility compounded by memory loss.  They checked me over at least four times before remembering that oh yeah, this food smells like Bullfrog tropic tanning oil.

After, we walked around Mallory Square and hung about watching the street players until time for sundown, which was like going to a really cool outdoor church.  People clapped, raised their arms, then dissolved as quietly as the descending sun into the various bars for more party time.  We were on the way back north, and so found ourselves traveling from the furthest point of the Keys all the way up to New York State in a little over 32 hours.  It was March; I had cut offs and a tank top in the Keys, a sweat shirt in Georgia, then long jeans and more layers in the Carolinas.  We were freezing as we rumbled into Pennsylvania snow and finally culminated the event in snowdrifts as high as the car, which valiantly motored through every state until dying in the driveway of destination.

After a few days of respite, repairs, and visiting relatives, the car was loaded and turned west to Chicago.  I think I was in shock, from the change in weather to the mindset that here we go again, following nothing.

Florida was odd in the beauty of the coastline contrasted with the empty strip malls of the interior, or the corner stands of boiled peanuts and oranges amid derelict areas of a hardbitten economy.   St. Pete at the time had none of the new projects that have since been built, such as the Salvador Dali Museum.  When walking to the grocery, cars of a venerable age would weave across lanes, the only clue that there was a driver would be a pair of hands gripping the steering wheel at ten and two o'clock, and a fedora type hat in between.  It was odd enough to see cars from the fifties and sixties in excellent shape, but to not view a complete driver was alarming.  I would trot down a side street instead of the main road, to avoid any curb-jumping nonsense.

It was a total experience which taught me much about the natural world, with imaginary forms seen only in dreams made real, in colors and mass, of shells and hibiscus, of dolphins and jellyfish and thunderstorms hard and fast almost daily, with the sun out and drying with such diligence that the puddles would be over, gone in fifteen minutes.   Just enough time for a lizard to get a drink.

Ah, now.  Imagine that Key West may be the very place that the Sandman carries his sand from, to sprinkle it in the eyes of dreamers.  Weave your thoughts above the banyan trees filled with green parrots, through corals whose fingers hide rainbowed fish.  See if there's a girl on the beach, looking towards the open sea, shells strung about her neck, listening to the song of the gods.

Sleep and let go, ebb and neap.  Good night.

Littoral Zone

Sit down.  You're going to get a short, essential education in this missive, there is no use trying to escape.  Scream if you must, it will do you no good.  Between the wide wide ocean and the furthest furthest shore is the geographic area known as the littoral zone, which extends from the land to about six hundred feet out to blue water.  This is divided into three parts, as are most sensible things.  Example: bread, stuff in the middle, bread.  See?

These three described areas include the supralittoral, which is the water from the highest point of tide towards inland; intertidal is the space between high tide and low tide; and sublittoral runs from the low tide zone out to ocean for 200 meters, about an eighth of a mile.  I am not dealing with the sublittoral at the moment, for that's where the sharks live and like to stay unless you are a dopey kid swimming by the Florida Gulf shore at sundown whereas an aggressive bull shark may shove itself into the intertidal zone and grab you by the arm.  Luckily, this kid's uncle, who didn't think a shark would beach itself for a warm, juicy 9-year-old, grabbed a chunk of driftwood, jammed it into the mouth of the animal and pulled.  Most of the boy was saved.

When I lived in St. Petersburg, Florida, there was a beach several blocks away separated from the mainland by a stretch of water.  At the time, access was public; you just had to look for openings in the seawalls between the shell shops and motels which led to miles of sand along the Gulf Coast.  At the end of the supralittoral zone, high tide reached an apex, marked by piles of drying sea grass that had been pushed into scalloped edges, trim for the frothy flounces of salt water traced in sand.

Pen shells, calico scallops, and cockles were strewn along the edge of tide as if a sea parade had left behind molluscan confetti.  I couldn't get more than a foot before I would be on my knees, poking through layers of shells to find miniatures of whelks and bright orange pectens to put into my basket.
If a storm hit, the wild waves cast pieces of finger sponges colored vivid red, orange, and purple; these weren't worth saving and would rot on the back stairs if I tried to dry them.  Still, they were fascinating.   I had not seen such things before, and the shoreline introduced so so much of a contrary briny universe to people, to both the visitors and natives who had lived there since childhood.  The enchantment just didn't wear away.

Walking closer to the intertidal zone, small breathing holes told where coquinas, the tiny butterfly clams, were burying themselves as fast as they could if the next wave washed away their sand.  Terns and sandpipers would bobble, heads down;  a keen eye watching for these bubbling holes which meant lunch.  These tiny clams, no larger than 3/4 inch, could be gathered and made into broth, and the multi-striped sunset shells were often glued into mosaic pictures by the locals.  I kept a small hinged box full, and have them still.  They remind me of many things.

By this time, you were wet up to your ankles and if you went to the sloped water's edge, there were small stingrays and white ghost crabs sloshing about as each nutrient rich wave hit.  Wear old sneakers or those fancy water sandals and shuffle along, warning the stingrays that you are coming.  Here you might find a shell before it was tossed ashore, a roller whelk or strombus; larger crabs scuttled sideways and demonstrating their claw size by waving testily, so watch it.  Dead jellyfish would be spectacular in iridescent colors, but for god's sake, don't touch for the stingers still hold active venom.    Even a dried one is to be given a wide berth.  The cannonball jelly has an antigen that reduces arthritic pain, and jellies have also been used as a food source by the Chinese for thousands of years.  I'm not messing with them, thank you.

Further down the Gulf coast was DeSoto National Park, where the warmest water I have ever been in flowed over rippled sand.  Shallow with miniscule wavelets, it was warm bath water, and as I sat, neon blue pipefish, (they look like a seahorse that sneezed itself straight), came over to see what I was and softly nipped at me, the group not coming to consensus one way or the other.  It felt like tiny pops against skin, and shushing them away did not prevent their return to continue nosing at me.  An interrupted crab broke up the party, a beautiful, spotty thing, who did that angry claw waving business and chased this interloper out of Crabland.  It was time to start dinner anyways.  I walked by white cranes and red hibiscus to the dry sand, but the message that the pipefish told me remains inside, happy.

Ducks with bright blue bills would dive under the water of Tampa Bay, to reappear yards past the original position, usually with a small fish as prize.  Washed up would be cavernous horseshoe crabs, starfish, or shark egg cases called mermaid's purses.  Chains of whelk egg cases, pieces of fish skeleton,  bladderwort, periwinkles, King's crown shells, fossilized shark teeth; all mysteries were laid out before me, I was undone.  I will go back to live there some day, when I am done with apple trees and lilacs.

Someday you shall see the dolphins play, leaping through the wake of a boat or rising from the depths for air.  Watch a lazy, tall fin weave idly back and forth as a shark meanders just below surface, looking...looking.  The sun sets in an explosion of fiery cloud, making you believe that you will live forever if only in the molecules of salt, or perhaps in the heart of a tiny, blue, nosey fish, as beautiful as any stolen jewel yet more so, for it contains the song of life.   Mother ocean, father sea.

Tonight in this latitude, the Arctic air is arriving to tell us that we are not such a big deal and to zip up that coat.  The cats are glad to be inside as am I.  Time for bedding down, to swim in the waves of sleep as each stage of slumber is cued for entrance.  Be warm, human heart, be safe.  Dive under to face your dreams, return again to later rise with the day.  Sleep well, taste salt; wild one.

Alright already, Cupid

If you are a male and would like to get acquainted, do not pose holding a dead fish in the back of your boat with a can of Coors in the foreground unless you are hoping to snag someone who needs a green card.  Likewise backwards baseball caps, sunglasses, or No Apparent Shirt On.  Using the term "porno" in your name tag is disconcerting, as is "steaknsex", "lonewolf" "clawhammer" or, uh, "deepstrokes".  Jesus. There are places to get that sort of thing taken care of, and it won't be at the coffee shop where I'm at; in fact, it won't be within a 5 mile radius of where I'm at; in further fact, I am armed at all times with an IQ ten times higher than the amount you paid for that photo mosaic of the Enterprise made up of tiny pictures from Season 6.  That you are standing in front of.  I can't imagine.

I don't mean to sound naive or high-falutin', but there are signals that women watch out for; and yes, there are those who are trolling for encounters and frankly have their own site over at the browser whose last syllable rhymes with "zoo".  Ungulates, carnivores, and lampreys may be found as determined by personal criteria, and if you are both happy with that, bless your hearts and enjoy the conversation.  Over there.  Waaay over there.  At least you are being honest.  Am I judging?  I guess so.  Yes.

Because: I have been out on enough of these meetings to have learned to make sure someone at home knows where I am and with who, expects me to return by a certain hour, will call and check in to see how things are going.  The most harmless appearances can be camouflage, physical looks are less important than what you are doing with them when you take that selfie to post.  Staring at a focal point off camera with eyelids not touching your pupils.  Looking worried.  Looking up, as if you are watching the squirrels get their net ready.  Mouth open, but not in a smile.  Both eyebrows raised like I just pulled your toy poodle into the pit.  Cut it out.

There are those whose family has taken their photo, surrounded by relatives in a probably normal backyard or finished basement.  Please don't be kissing the dog, holding a baby, a stuffed toy, or a rifle.  You might like to foster trust, so sure, put personality in there, but keep some limits.  In the third row down is a picture of a nice looking fellow in glasses at a patio table, sitting behind a decorative terrarium jar.  The plants inside are slamming healthy and green; this man is working the floral vibe and caps that off with a piece of polished driftwood also on the table.  So, what's the problem, you ask; well for starters, look at his hand, the left one, the one with the pale emblem of a missing ring on his I'm Married finger.

My cousin found a lovely woman who is a professor, and I could name four other couples who successfully found each other online.  Last summer, I met someone who was a computer (plus) guy who edited (plus) the local cultural newspaper (plus) and had just written an article concerning union law (okay).  The waiters at the mom and pop restaurant became alarmed when Mr. For the People began yelling expletives and slapping his upper arm while raising a fist to agree with himself that corporations should get it up the bottom for effing with unions.  Effing bastards.  I HATE THOSE GODDAM EFFERS.

Whoa, thought I, since when do Sys Admin have discernible blood pressure?  What the hell was in this man's morning chai?  I smiled, had another sip of my Vernor's, and pretended I suddenly didn't speak English that well.  Do svidaniya.  Eto ne rabotayet. U menya yest' ovets, kak pravilo.  He later messaged me that he had a wonderful time; I messaged the dating service that to get my name the hell off their list would be enchanting, even though it gave opportunity to practice fake Russian.

Another candidate, Mr. Fencing Guy, had the patience of boa constrictor waiting for a bird to hop closer on a branch.  Not my usual type, but I thought maybe I was missing something through pickiness.  Too darn tall.  Blue eyes.  Wouldn't have considered him except for sort of an acquaintance, as I was taking fencing classes where he worked as well, and there he was, online.  Picnic in the park, Fourth of July?  Sure, good with me as my girlfriend has your license plate number and physical description and knows where you live.

Chatty and cordial, a small flag went up when I opened the car door myself and he nipped that HE gets the door for his date, what did I think he was, an uncaring slob?  Whut-oh.  He sulked, didn't talk; we got to the park and he relaxed a bit after downing a fried dough and the fireworks began.  Told me about the time his aunt took him to the circus as a small boy, and the Percherons, the immense, spotted grey horses known for staying calm amid clamor, circled the ring.  He continued to relate numerous observations, yapping away, and honest to god, I can't tell you.  Can't.  Won't.  But it ended the date on a very weird note, and I switched fencing clubs.  It was becoming tiring, this escaping.

So throughout college and raising Bri, I decided that even though I wanted an adult life, juggling paperwork and job work required attention and so the social life went on the backburner with a few here and theres, a couple of incidental relationships, and one older professor who was adorable but received a grant to go to Papua New Guinea.  He wrote about the tribe he was with, and was sick to death of roast cockatoo.

Buffalo is fast becoming a city of younger people, which is wonderful for its rejuvenation, but I recently and often have gotten invitations to move to the Boston, Massachusetts area by a very dear friend.  Oh, I would be near the ocean, and in other light, newer scenery, whether woods or subway-lined city blocks.  It's a thought, twiddling around in the brain, and plans and formal papers are being filled out to allow movement, perhaps even to Florida.

Lights on the tops of buildings have come on, the Saturday sun has set; tomorrow, a guest from out of town will be here for the night and preparations are to be made.  Wind your way home after the day's adventures, see what's in the fridge; the snows are here again, muffling the world with soft cotton blankets and lining the pine trees with sparkling white.  Write a story, you're good at it; make a note to remind you of something; draw up a list of ideas, of plans, groceries, of anything.  See what comes out, you may be writing to your own self of desires and wishes, the sort that bubble up through the waters of memory and realization.  Someone will be there, with a last light on, waiting to read.

Long Ago, With Soup

St. Petersburg, Florida was an idyll of opulent flowers, palmetto bugs, Donald Duck orange juice, scarlet red ibis, and waves, ocean salt waves which threw shells onto the beach.   It was beautiful.  I gathered tiny coquinas in a colander for clam broth, and squeezed giant, misshapen lemons to make meringue pies.   A phone call from Illinois suggested a job with more money, and so it was followed; a drive up to Chicago was done with the worldly belongings shoved into a Fiat Spyder 128, with two cats and a bag of shells still holding grains of precious sand.  I was moving to the prairie, the flattest part of the nation and it drove me mad.

Not a ripple or hummocky knoll, a hill, nor a roll in the ground that made you stretch to accomplish; the  world was flat and to sail over the edge sent you straight to hell into the maws of sea monsters, the plesiosaurs who swam in the shallow seas that once washed over this toneless tabula.  It wasn't noticeable in the city, for your neck was kept tipped back while viewing the tall buildings, the tall buildings which eclipsed the sun; and there were people.

Now Florida had people also, but these of Chicago ran and scampered and shot across intersections on foot at speeds to be admired, coats billowed forward like sails before the wind.  We had arrived in early spring, still tanned from the tropical sun and thoroughly unused to the Ice Age occurring amidst the chockablock rectangles of the city that was famous for Burning to the Ground.  That minute we found a studio apartment with a window that opened to a brick wall; it had a Murphy bed and MGB-sized cockroaches that would have beaten the sass out of the palmetto bugs.  It was the color of a bologna sandwich; I was glad there weren't any sharks in Lake Michigan.

My job to start was as an assistant manager at a high rise that charged omnivorous rent but Ha! had just as many ubiquitous cockroaches.  It was an answer the phone job that made $63 dollars a week.  If I worked at the cafe in the same building, the pay was $80; it went into the communal bank account anyways but was far more interesting than listing complaints on deliveries and lost newspapers, so I switched to working in the illegal prep kitchen in the back where I learned to further my soup making education.

The cafe needed a vat of soup every day, so I would dig through recipes and then trot up the street to a grocery that had anything I needed: odd, out-of-the-way pastes; canned conch, file powder for gumbo,  frozen rabbit, lime leaves, juniper berries, zatar.  Onions, celery and carrots were chopped and sauteed in gobs of butter by the pound, and I was able to experiment, finding the best and the challenged.  One of the usual customers that would stop in was David Mamet, the playwright; he liked chicken rice with apples and an espresso after.

Making soup everyday, it was heaven, the best part of the job.  The fellow I lived with brought home a Vietnamese boat-person who had been sponsored by a local church, but already set up in another apartment with his nine relatives and working at the cafe as a busboy.  He had been dishonored by his sister-in-law, and so was cordially invited unbeknownst to me, to live with us.  We'll tell her you're only here for a few days, she'll get over it.  He taught us some hand-to-hand combat and how to take care of a cold by dipping a quarter in Vaseline and then scraping it along one's back, raising welts on either side of the spine, and then a fishbone pattern going down.  It was supposed to draw the blood to the lungs, but left large, red stripes that eventually bruised purple.  I never let those two idiots get near me.

Chicago was fun, especially that I could walk to the Lake in a few blocks, or stick my hand up and a cab would be there.  People were out on the sidewalks at all hours, and because of the Chicago police, it was fairly safe in the area we lived; they would stop you if you were walking down North Clark Street in broad daylight and ask for identification.  This wasn't unusual at all, we were reassured.  

The cafe eventually ran out of money due to mismanagement; a move back to Buffalo created a semblance of stability and I was glad to be near my Mom again.  Neither sharks nor cockroaches visited; Brian arrived.

I am glad to be in my own place now, without insects or fish with teeth.  It's peaceful, maybe too quiet, but then it allows me to continue experimentation with my art and writing.  I continue to build, and have bought more wood for stability, just a brace here and there, nothing apparent, but like invisible hands, it will hold everything up.  I can't wait till it's done and this three day weekend will contain an explosion of creative furniture-spackle-paint-saw-and-sand business that I hope will finish at least by Monday.  Come over if you have knowledge of paint rollers or drills, or can pretend to.

Home is for recharging, a base where you know you are loved and safe from the dids and didn'ts of life.  A winter's night is for sleeping under covers and head to pillow; for dreaming questions before  falling into Nod.  Answers will come, and will most always echo yes, my friend.  Sleep well, surrender to your own, wise self.

Carol of the Eggs

Sunday breakfast....

Soundings

Dark in itself is not energy; it is a lack of light, which is is a visible wavelength of electromagnetic radiation that also has properties exhibited by particles.  Light has substance, dark is simply the absence of it.  Think the same way about cold, as the absence of heat energy.  Looking out this nighttime window, there is a thick fog rolling in, illuminated by the mostly orange city sodium lights, thus filling the dark with the dull flame of a smothering phantasm.

When very small and visiting my grandparents on their street which was a cathedral with arching elm trees, we had to leave our house out in the country by 5:30 a.m., to be dropped off by my father and then picked up again at the end of his work day.  My mother and I would let ourselves in and sit quietly waiting for them to wake not long after we arrived, just as dawn was rising.   But often there was fog, a roiling dragon of wet cloud scuttering up one street and down the next, over the sidewalks of slate and through the leaves of the trees.  At the time, Buffalo was still an important harbor on the Great Lakes, and many ships would try to find their way past the shoals with nothing but skill and the assist of a diaphone, a two-toned foghorn.

I remember my Mom saying, "Shhh.  Listen," and a far-off, low pitch would sing out in the amorphous air, while the smell of the Lake told of freighters and tugs, of blue pike and giant sturgeon.  Ghostly, forbidding, hollow, it would send a thrill up my spine as if hearing an abyssal voice from a riparian sepulcher; a verdict that was also a life saving guide, a guardian.  The sound would bounce off the fog ensuring that the lonely, shoulder-heaving sigh was heard for great distances.

The valves used the same principle as a Wurlitzer organ, and in fact were constructed by Robert Hope-Jones, the originator of the theatre organ.  It pointed away from shore, and performed at 128 decibels, the same as a jet engine; signs warned to stay back at least fifty feet.  Still standing, it was silenced about 1962 when technology caught up with the shipping industry; the pipes are rusted but observable at the South Buffalo Lighthouse.

Mom told me that the foghorn was helping the boats in the harbor reach the docks safely, for there were many breakwaters and places to run aground.  Coal was being brought in for the steel mills and foundries, grain was shoveled into silos to make flour.  My Uncle Ray worked on a tug that nosed the huge ships up the Buffalo River, slow and steady, to the grain elevators that unloaded tons.
He would often come home chilled, in spite of a heavy peacoat.

What sounds pierce the air now?  There was a bottle light on the breakwater that would emit a screech every few minutes until recently; now in the morning the only announcing sound I hear is the train, as it huffs and sounds entry into the Exchange Street tunnel; listening, I can hear it make the next tunnel in Depew, ten miles away.  The lift bridge at the foot of Ferry Street blasts out a warning before the immense, cantilevered tank fills with water that causes the bridge to tilt upwards, allowing masted boats and tall cruisers access through the channel.  Still, railroad crossings clang warning bells when the gates go down on either side of the track, churches and college belfries ring out carillons or the equivalent thereof, and some factories yet have whistles to mark shifts.  

I have a gong.  Not overlarge, but not the smallest, either.  It leaves a pleasant, low sound vibrating through the room when struck that seems to clean the air and chase away negativity.   A different message than a warning or timekeeper, it is there purely because of it's musicality, but it does perform as a signal to start the day or to allow the subconscious night to begin.  Like a thank you, with the sound waves stretching to who knows where.

Good night, good night, traveller.  It is three days since the blizzard and the warm temperatures have brought rain, melting the snow.  Two days ago I heard the trees alive with sparrows and cardinals calling in clear, strident tones; I am here, I am here.   Oh, it was a good feeling that they made it through the unbearable winds and below zero weather.   After you tighten the latches and switch out the lights, before you sail to dreams, lay and listen, listen for signals.  Shhhh.

Bedtime Story

I have this bed that I dragged home both by foot and in the old Ford Escort wagon I owned; the headboard wouldn't fit in the back and be damned if I let anyone else get this treasure.  Everything else fit inside the car, the rails, the hardware, the footboard; the headboard had an immense crack running through it but there was potential.  I staggered home a long half block down the street to the apartment Bri and I were in at the time, carrying this wide, lopsided find.  In heels.

Went back and got the car, and if the tires danced home from the joy of finding a cracked antique, I was   just as pleased myself.  The bed had been in a garage for years, was missing ornaments and had that split.  One of the rail hooks was missing, but it was beautiful, an Eastlake walnut three quarter bedframe which needed a thorough scrubbing.  O lucky day!  Probably the best haul out of the garbage in my history.  I changed clothing and got out the furniture oil and rags; assessment began.

To assemble it, I needed a replacement d-shaped brace for the end of a rail, but where the hell to find one?  The date stamped on the others says June, 1871, so you know Home Depot won't have it.  The Old House Journal supplied a listing for a southern company that would cast a part from whatever you sent down to them; I wrapped up one of the other three braces and mailed it off to North Carolina where indeed, it was duplicated.  And it fit.

A carpenter was able to mend the split and turn new ornamentation on his lathe; another company fitted finials.  The famous and nearby Home Depot cut slats for me, and a pediment that matched the style was found on eBay.  It was like assembling a puzzle when all the pieces were brought together, a tall yet narrow behemoth of deep colors, with inserts of olive wood.  Biggest problem was yet to come, which was finding a mattress in the necessary size; they weren't made anymore and because the braces had to be secured with  additional pieces of wood, the whole computation was thrown off as it was.

The project had built an expense budget that I kept level with artwork I did for people, mostly of their kids.  A couple of dogs.  A house portrait.  Inside murals.  I got it together, but flopped my twin mattress on top, which sufficed and left an area to store reading materials on either side.  It's a handsome thing, this bed, and was used until the day I stood on the frame to get a waggly spider and thus recracked the headboard.  Aughh!  The spider blessed a small god and got away; I flumped down, miserable.

The split was long, and as I had no resources at the time due to college fees, (textbook: $160, are you kidding me?), it was braced and put away until a year ago, when a very kind friend and her husband offered to repair it, using an ample piece of walnut from her Rhode Island uncle's old loom.  All the pieces were now ready for reassembly, but I wanted a three quarter mattress and to special order one to be made was exorbitant, a dilemma until this memory foam stuff appeared.  You order a mattress online, it comes rolled up in a box; you uncurl the thing like a fruit roll-up and wait three days before it expands fully to what it's supposed to be.  It is in the fourth hour of decompressing, and I can only hope, as according to online reviews, that it softens up a bit.  Wonderful! says Jay of Quincy, MA.

So, I am rebuilding the bed and the cats are delighted with the old mattress propped up in the hallway; they climb it like the Matterhorn, run the length and hiss names at each other.  The pediment and crown found on eBay will be refinished, and then I shall sleep soundly in my Victorian Eastlake bed, circa 1871, made by T + Son, as inked on the inner sides of the rails.

Tonight, after three days of blizzard, the sky here is overcast with only a slow flutter of snowflakes idling descending to building ledges, branch, or ground.  Lord knows how any birds survived this bitter cold, they don't hibernate and can only hang on with their tiny feet as the gales blew.  The weather bureau says that tonight there may be sightings of the Aurora Borealis; I've seen them twice in my life.  The first time I was eight years old, and the skies were lit with pink and brilliant blue streaks; the second, I was in my twenties, and saw the phenomena appear as a slow, wavy green curtain.  I would love to see them again, unlikely here for the low clouds obscure the universe, and otherwise, they rarely reach this area.

There is a place in Finland that has constructed glass igloos in order to observe the Northern Lights and stars, for there the Lights are an every night event and were once thought to be the snow cast up to the sky by the tail of a great fox. The Algonquins saw them as fires built by the Great Creator, to show the earth his ongoing love.  Today, the visitors to Finland look up and see the same moon and the same almost-eternal rotation of the stars as I do in my position on the other side of the world.  Magic or science or creation, the crackling static is a gift to us, showing that in spite of whatever travails exist, there are celestial embodiments of beauty to delight in.

This is a cold night, the snow crunches under foot.  I am inside now, and warmed, turning in to silently burrow under wool and quilt.  Imagine a dream before you slip away to sleep, let it rock you to slumber.  Rise up with the morning, meet the day.

Hold Tight

Small pleasures are the sweet liquescence filling the chalice of life; like drops of nectar gathered by bees, they are delivered as minor achievements that contain bits of happiness, modicums of success.  Sure, there are goals met in larger context: the arrival of a child, a graduation, a home, a sustaining love, a lifelong struggle to find an answer met; these exist but in singular, spaced doses.  What I am thinking of are the minor joys, the jelly-side-upness of the day.  Without them, there is drudgery, leading to feeling ineffective, unloved, futile.  This is how to be happy; the necessity of grief is real and will continue to be so, there is no soul that hasn't met the blunt force of hammer to hope, it is to our credit that we haven't slid back into the antediluvian ooze of time, into some subterranean burrow void of light.  Stretch, my friends.  Take chances.  There are many that you will win.

Some bits of history; few better, a short pandect worse than average.  You've been there in varied manner, can't tell me otherwise.  My childhood was not happy, I held my breath for at least the first eighteen years, scared to death of the man who was my father.  Even as a grown up, visiting him to see if he was alright, he would shuffle towards me in his walker but I always, always made sure there was a clear path between me and escape.  Throughout my life, he would swing at me, cursing my existence, yelling Biblical tracts about whores and how my then six year old self would be no better.  I tempted him.  You take it from there.

His alcoholism reinforced his self-righteous delusions, plus his role as a Master Sergeant responsible for teaching the men hand to hand combat during WWII both combined into a constant hurricane of hell for my mother, brother, and myself.  My brother had it better, but we were kept separate, I was not to contaminate the boy with girl germs.  John was stirring Jello one Thanksgiving morning, he was two years old, standing on a stool, watching the orange swirl created with the spoon.  My father entered the knotty pine kitchen, and went ballistic.  Any excuse to tear up a holiday set him off on a gleeful tirade, and here we go; you're making a woman out of him, I don't ever want to see him doing a woman's job, and smash went Mom's china turkey platter against the wall.

My defense was to disappear into reading and drawing, to roaming the fields of Clarence, New York, learning where the first of anything would bloom, and to be as ungirlish as I could.  I envied the bubble bath and dresses of my next-door cousin, but learned to put on a grateful front for the Zorro costume Dad brought home for me.  The play guns and baseball mitts were ridiculous, but of course, I thought there was something wrong with me, that I didn't live up to the dream.  We always had paper and crayons, it was acceptable that I indulged in something that was truly mine, my drawing; Mom adored me, and was also glad that finally there was a silent leeway for my existence.  I still wasn't allowed to eat at the dinner table, supper was given to me on the floor in the living room, on a spread out newspaper.  No complaints allowed, but I was just as happy to be away from the regular table; the tension my father exuded flooded the air with an angry, generated charge.  Why put yourself in the line of fire?  It's the reason I changed my name legally to Coburn.

But this missive was to be of the happiness to be found in the day, for it is there if you recognize when you are at the receiving end of a gift of wonder.  I learned many things from that growing experience; patience, kindness, compassion; that there are people who have been through better and those who have been through much worse.  That animals are healers, that there are people who are as well.  That being who you are is valid, as long as there is no harm to others; that my faults are human, and do not make me unlovable.  Working together brings strength, having a common purpose fosters unity.

So, my ones, admire the mollusk, who forms its shell from calcium carbonate to be a house carried on the animal's back.  Look, a hyacinth bulb for two bucks and now there is a green sprout and roots in the glass; a dear friend sends over a plate of leftovers, the cat purrs and brings cat toys, yeast grows to make bread, and the universe hums to a thunderous music in spite of human foibles.  Life goes on.  Do what good you can for the world.

There is a fable that a monster is chained to the side of a mountain; to keep the chains strong, the elaborate colored eggs called pysanky are made.  In years when there are enough pysanky, the monster is held tight; else the chains break and evil is loosed to roam the earth.  These:

Cold weather, the direst in 40 years say the media outlets, will arrive in this town by tomorrow evening.  I am here, there is warmth, gas in the car, and food.  A node is forming on the orange tree that was grown from a seed.  There are new paints and paper.  I am a lucky girl.  Sleep safe.  Goodnight.

Redundant Comfort

The wind chill hit fifteen below, pragmatically closing the area schools with a quiet, frigid air system solemn as Marley's ghost.  Being on an upper floor of the building, I gain the mostly pleasant heat rising from the floors below, and have no need to turn on the steam radiators, only on the coldest of nights.  Even then, I'd rather just toss on another wool blanket.

But on a day like today, you can do three to five things at once, for there is no hope of getting me outside unless a friend needs a trip to the emergency room, which is unlikely to happen.  Predicted cold got me to the grocery yesterday to get the elixirs of life, namely cat food, milk, and white popcorn kernels.  There are several types of popcorn, the mostly decorative blue, black jewel, red, yellow and white.  The usual, sanely priced popcorn comes in yellow; it pops larger, fluffier and has a cornier flavor than the white, which I currently am fond of...smaller, sweeter and full of good things for your eyes.  Like lutein.

There are even divisions of types within the colors; corn that is meant to be covered in caramel pops in a rounder shape; movie popcorn is meant to pop large and sturdy; the home brands are engineered to pop fluffier, with more jagged edges to catch butter.  There I go again.  Too much information.

But this morning after coffee, what does one do when it's this cold and you want some background warmth?  One of the more forbidden of sins these days, bake bread.  When did bread become an enemy?  I have many friends doing the gluten free business and they are meowing about how their health has improved, they feel better, and so forth.  I haven't tried it yet, even though I gave up carbs for a damned good long time as well as butter; no, the brain didn't work any quicker nor did the weight disappear.  And what else is there in life, if there is no bread nor butter?  Just a bit.  Maybe another.  Look at me daintily dabbing on a modicum of butter.  Eensy.  Did you know that butter contains more
Vitamin A and selenium than most foods?

Well, there is now a loaf of bread rising to bake, and let me say that on a very cold day, the aroma of bread filling the apartment makes it brighter, cozier, and Marley's ghost has sat down in anticipation of one slice, buttered.  The teakettle has shrieked accomplishment in boiling water, and tea is steeping.  I am sanding a bed rail to fit a D-ring from 1871, and have plans to paint canvas.  Want to get this bed together first; pay no attention to the sawing noises, cussing out of cats who want to see what's going on, or any number of colorful swears.  These animals have no concept of handsaws, kerfs, or miter boxes.

A cold night coming again; be warm, be safe, pull up the covers.  Toss out a handful of seed for the birds, and if you can, put out a dish of warm water.  They will eat snow as a last resort for hydration,  but the amount that it lowers their tiny body temperature does not outweigh the necessary intake of food to produce warming energy.  And food is scarce.  So it helps.  Sleep deep, sleep well.  Goodnight.