Sunlight reached the tops of the trees this morning, glancing off the straight brick walls of the tallest buildings and into my open window. It broke into a hundred spectacular shards of light, each divided into the colors of the rainbow, spangled, moving; the pieces of glass hanging from the curtain rod had taken the substance of illumination and broke it, tamed the waves into a secret spectrum. Spheres of dissected sunlight swung around my room, each containing the the brilliant colors of light recognized by the human eye that are all around us, but that we seldom see. When the colors blend together, light appears white. A moon beam, a sun ray.
Before dawn, all is grey. It takes light to produce color, so my question is, are we a gray world, made of monotone bleakness changed only by the magic of light reflected from objects? Are we truly living in a black and white film? What reason for color, then?
There isn't any reason, just existence; the way it is, full of wonder and the quiet joy of witnessing a spray from the hose causing an arc of color in the sun. Light brings us a bird of incandescence, flashing a blue so concentrated that he is the messenger of a faraway universe, where cerulean fires explode, escape, and grow wings. We see the heartbeat of a ruby-throated rose, the inflamed velvet petals which spiral open and pull you into the volcano's rushing pulse. The luminous, undulating Aurora Borealis displays a charged, jade green light as it hangs in the night sky, it's lavish, lazy movement mimicking the billowing surges of tall summer field grass, verdant and roiling under a warm wind.
But this color business, how does it work? A chameleon will imitate a complex design of hues in minutes; species of octopods and cuttlefish can match a pattern in seconds. So in dull light of no color, would these animals become as grey as the surrounding environment until the sun arose to turn on the show? It makes you wonder what color the layers of earth are below each shovelful, until awoken by the sun or the lights of humankind. Nothing, the color of cold rock and soil is nothing, until you reach the solid, molten alloy of iron and nickel that is the core of our planet for it is as hot as the surface of the sun, over 5000 degrees, and to a lesser amount, the magma surrounding it. You dig down into the planet, the temperature rises 150 degrees each mile you drill; red hot rock produces an amazing amount of geo-thermal heat anywhere you go on earth.
The wrapped in paper-waxen fragrance that hits when you open a fresh pack of crayons announces the range of colors you have at your disposal to illustrate and describe your small kingdom. The names have changed, not always for the better--Asparagus?--but the the sense of power bestowed upon you is tantamount to owning your decisions on paper. The colors in an 8 pack are workable, basic, and can teach how to blend in order to get a bigger range. There are 16, 24, 48, and 64 packs that expand the choices and lend to more sophisticated depths; however, and this may sound idiotic, in the dark, they are all the same color. It runs away, as ethereal as a phantasm, a wisp, a magic trick by the cosmos.
But for sleep, the brain benefits from the absence of light, for even the green digital numbers of the alarm clock signal wakefulness. Any light whatsoever is affecting our sleep patterns, with blue light being the most disruptive to melatonin cycles. Wearing amber lens after sundown while using electronic devices suppresses blue light, allegedly increasing the depth of sleep. Checking the store, there is a whole culture of orange light, including the glasses, light bulbs, and books. Amber lenses sharpen up your night vision while driving; I'll let you know.
But for now, the temperature has dropped into the teens; blankets and comforters are spread, the darkness bids me to turn in. Latch the doors, outen the light. Climb into solace and repair for the daylife that occurred, let yourself follow the longer winter nights into slumber. Soon enough you will stir, now it is time for unfettered dreams to run through fields of thought, fields of yielding to the night. Sleep safe, sleep well.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Millipede Striding
A phone conversation was being finished at about 8 p.m., and we were going through the gradual winding down that Americans tend to consider polite and friendly. At that moment, I saw something that I knew what it was and where it came from, but you know how you look five seconds longer to ascertain that yes indeedy, this is what it is.
Traveling calmly on an outing, one of the four inch long millipedes skadoodled forward onto the area rug in front of the couch. I saw the animal going along in wavy strides, not a foot away from me. I had to look twice, and then noticed Kai and Snowbelle sitting up straight and watching the hundreds of legs ambulating. Millipedes give off a toxin as tiny beads of liquid along their sides, and maybe this is what kept the cats from enjoying a crunchy snack. They were attentive but no predatory signs given, no crouching or slashing tails; the arthropod was uninterrupted. But how the heck did it get from the kitchen, and by some small god's grace, end up in front of me to be rescued?
The busy thing had to first escape over the side of the plastic tub, drop down to the floor about four feet, and then walk the equivalent of twenty-five bug miles to get through the hall and into the living area. Any other place, and it would be like traversing the dark brown linoleum desert, inhabited by giant annoyances with curious paws. But since this is a dark brown animal, the camouflage was perfect. Still, there would have been no rescue if it had not appeared like just another family member coming into the living room to situate themselves on the couch, and pass the cheese and crackers, please. How ya doon?
I yelped, explained to my friend that excuse me please, one of the millipedes got out; I surprised it so badly that it curled around my finger in a knot and hung on for dear life. Don't bite me, don't bite me, don't bite me I chanted, even though the bite of this species is little more than a tiny nip and yes, one got me before. At the time I had thought, are you biting me? and watched a determined, angry head latch into my palm. Hey this isn't bad, I figured, and thank goodness, for it was in front of my class. No student had to catch a falling teacher or call 911.
This one was an active coil of muscle, and wouldn't let go, having to be shaken (gently) off. Some fresh lettuce leaves were put into the not-a-bug-arium, which were eaten overnight. I like these critters, they move elegantly, are relatively curious and open to handling. The only problem is that they're nocturnal, therefore the 8 o'clock walk around town. Even more interesting, they're crustaceans.
Yup, that's the size of them. Pretty neat, huh?
The temperatures are mild compared to what was, the snow has receded, and many parts of the city are flooded with the runoff and swelling cricks. It will freeze again, as predictions take the temperatures down to 21 degrees; no doubt that this was a hard winter. But do you feel the changes, gradual as they are? Nearing the end of February; in six more days we will be in March, filled with winds, ice storms, and more snow; yet it won't be the Arctic snap that bared the landscape of every living thing at its worst.
Think of spring, the equinox, planting seeds and sharpening mower blades; of fresh winds carrying the song of returning growth. Have done with the chores of the present and walk silently in dreams; listen for robins calling, the crack of shifting ice that sounds like a rifle shot. Even the night stirs with movement as warmer currents flow over hills, blowing away detritus and pulling shoots from soil, tiny points of green unfolding night and day. Rest, now, drop gratefully into softness and slide into the layers of sleep, each with its own purpose. What truths become visible when we dream? Good night, traveller.
Traveling calmly on an outing, one of the four inch long millipedes skadoodled forward onto the area rug in front of the couch. I saw the animal going along in wavy strides, not a foot away from me. I had to look twice, and then noticed Kai and Snowbelle sitting up straight and watching the hundreds of legs ambulating. Millipedes give off a toxin as tiny beads of liquid along their sides, and maybe this is what kept the cats from enjoying a crunchy snack. They were attentive but no predatory signs given, no crouching or slashing tails; the arthropod was uninterrupted. But how the heck did it get from the kitchen, and by some small god's grace, end up in front of me to be rescued?
The busy thing had to first escape over the side of the plastic tub, drop down to the floor about four feet, and then walk the equivalent of twenty-five bug miles to get through the hall and into the living area. Any other place, and it would be like traversing the dark brown linoleum desert, inhabited by giant annoyances with curious paws. But since this is a dark brown animal, the camouflage was perfect. Still, there would have been no rescue if it had not appeared like just another family member coming into the living room to situate themselves on the couch, and pass the cheese and crackers, please. How ya doon?
I yelped, explained to my friend that excuse me please, one of the millipedes got out; I surprised it so badly that it curled around my finger in a knot and hung on for dear life. Don't bite me, don't bite me, don't bite me I chanted, even though the bite of this species is little more than a tiny nip and yes, one got me before. At the time I had thought, are you biting me? and watched a determined, angry head latch into my palm. Hey this isn't bad, I figured, and thank goodness, for it was in front of my class. No student had to catch a falling teacher or call 911.
This one was an active coil of muscle, and wouldn't let go, having to be shaken (gently) off. Some fresh lettuce leaves were put into the not-a-bug-arium, which were eaten overnight. I like these critters, they move elegantly, are relatively curious and open to handling. The only problem is that they're nocturnal, therefore the 8 o'clock walk around town. Even more interesting, they're crustaceans.
The temperatures are mild compared to what was, the snow has receded, and many parts of the city are flooded with the runoff and swelling cricks. It will freeze again, as predictions take the temperatures down to 21 degrees; no doubt that this was a hard winter. But do you feel the changes, gradual as they are? Nearing the end of February; in six more days we will be in March, filled with winds, ice storms, and more snow; yet it won't be the Arctic snap that bared the landscape of every living thing at its worst.
Think of spring, the equinox, planting seeds and sharpening mower blades; of fresh winds carrying the song of returning growth. Have done with the chores of the present and walk silently in dreams; listen for robins calling, the crack of shifting ice that sounds like a rifle shot. Even the night stirs with movement as warmer currents flow over hills, blowing away detritus and pulling shoots from soil, tiny points of green unfolding night and day. Rest, now, drop gratefully into softness and slide into the layers of sleep, each with its own purpose. What truths become visible when we dream? Good night, traveller.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
Names Changed to Protect My Quiet Lifestyle
"Umbrella, Umbrella? Where are you?" Mom was tall and looked like she smelled odd when she was a girl. Nope, not holding nothing back here. Her mother's pale face and constant talking whether Umbrella was there or not hinted that she was a mouthbreather when little. A child who smelt like sour milk and chicken noodle soup lunch two hours after the fact. The kind of kid that has leftover food behind the ears. "Umbrella! Come here! Ooh, I wanted to show you the bracelets; I wasn't sure if you'd like this one or not." Umbrella was maybe five and still had baby fine hair wisped around her head like a halo that had dropped down to her ears. She was fast, nimble and argumentative.
Now, fast and nimble are fine and keep you out of the way of traffic; after listening to Umbrella ignore and argue with her mother, I imagined her standing in the street, blabbing at the cars in her little ghost voice that they'd better not hit her before getting splatted by a you-talking-to-me fender. It was a pleasant reverie, until I was snapped back to attention. We were in another aisle, by the needlepoint kits and there was Umbrella, running ahead of her mother and emptying the bins of embroidery thread onto the floor. "No, Umbrella, you are being silly," chortled her mother, hoping that we would catch the cute actions of her darling; "I don't need that color. Put it back, hahaha."
Hahaha my foot. Umbrella kept it up, enjoying her mother's semi-confusion at parenting. "This one. This one. You need this one." "Nooo, I don't need those colors, now put them back. Go pick up Mr. Fluffles (name also changed)." Mr. Fluffles was a stuffed icon apparently indentured as a servant to Miss Umbrella, who left the mess on the floor and ran to get the adored, floppy toy before he could escape. His button eyes looked up at me in desperation.
My friend whom I was with was expertly searching for a color of thread to complete the kit she selected, and had way more patience than I; this reporter had to walk away as the method of Reasoning With a Five Year Old's Undeveloped Brain was jumping up and down on my last nerve in stilettos. In my world, there is one warning, phrased in civilized English but the kid gets the meaning behind it. Those are not for you to touch. Let's keep the store looking nice, so Santa won't forget to bring you anything next Christmas, and I don't make you go live in the garage. Ignore me, and we are both in the car headed home; you are now responsible for hunting your own food, and I hope you are good at catching squirrels.
When we left the aisle, Mom was still standing in the same place as Umbrella made her way through the merchandise; grabbing, squeezing, tossing. Mom looked at us with a grin, and sour milkily sighed, shrugging her shoulders; still talking loudly to someone, she bent down and began to resurrect what her tornado had torn apart. As a teacher, you can imagine my blood pressure level. Please god, please let Umbrella be in my class next year. Seriously. She will be walking in line and saying please and thank you in three days. I will remove the golden flagpole her mother has Umbrella perched on, and get her busy on those numbers. Yes, I love children. With ketchup.
Grandmas were there with other children, searching through the section of do-it-yourself playfun kits designed for the elementary crowd. Noises of interest were used to attract the child to what ever item was deemed appropriate by the adult. Most of the kids were happy and if they weren't certain about the item, would say appropriate responses. Not "Eeeewwwww," but "Is there one with beads so I can make bracelets?" I heard clever children negotiate appropriately, it's no crime to ask for what you want if offered choices.
This was not the case with Appendix, who wanted what he wanted and if that looked bleak, was taking hostages and having a ska-reaming tantrum to supposedly initiate the battle at Jericho. "You're stupid. You've got money for this one. That's the one I want, idiot." I actually heard this in Target, at Christmas. I took a look at Appendix and recognized him as a fifth grade student from my old school, who gave teachers similar treatment. In this case, Mom crumbled; this kid had a monster father who spouted jerk responses that the school was not understanding his son. You got that right, bud. She probably receives the same at home.
Appendix got what he wanted; in this case, I think the kid needs counseling and meds; when he saw me, he smiled and waved, and his nicer sister came over to talk. Part of her job was to keep an eye on her older brother; apparently Appendix was going to go to a different school where understanding abounded, rather than to a pediatrician to see which menu item was missing. The coup de grace occurred in the parking lot, when the econo-van sized soda he got at the snackbar on the way out exploded through the lid from his jumping around victory dance, soaking the lad with sweet justice and a syrupy sugar coating.
I read today that schools have been given the forefront job of socialization and deciphering mental health issues of the students. Why it waits till a kid reaches school age is beyond, waaay beyond my ken. There are Kindergarteners who are out of control, running the halls, through the cafeteria, screaming; parents will sell the kid's meds, save them up for the weekend, take them themselves, or just not get an evaluation of their child. "He doesn't do that at home, what are you doing to make him angry?" Uh, expecting him to do his work? How will these little people function as adults?
Hug your own children when you see them, and be happy that you have the sense to put your foot down or get help. Be ecstatic that they aren't Umbrella or Appendix because of appropriate expectations and structure; you raise kids to be sustaining contributors to life, to wave good bye when they leave, prepared to make mistakes and learn from them. It doesn't always turn out that way, sometimes good parents have troubled kids, and vice versa; keep going. Love them. Just keep the precious ones away from me in the store, especially if I have a large burlap bag and a brick in hand.
Another friend who lives to the north commented on the silver stars shining last night as she walked home. As I drove home just before sunset, hundreds of gulls hung over the edges of the river for almost a mile; I wondered if they were searching for the little silver minnows that begin running alongside the berms in early spring, but it's too soon, isn't it? Silver minnows, silver stars; both moving in directions dictated by the swirl of galaxies and currents, reason whirled.
We are observers of the natural world, and have witnessed this latest cold season as an unveiling of what is beneath the leaves, the growth, the covering of grasses; the bare bones of earth. Here is the framework of support for the green luxury coming, these rocks apparent through melting snow, the leafless branches of trees as skeletal architecture. It has reached the furthest depth of winter, and is ascending upwards, Dame Nature stirring; the birds say so, the fish are traveling to the warmer Buffalo River to spawn; the constellations are changing as Orion turns down the covers and the Big Dipper rises. Let them, let yourself.
Your arms are branches, let green leaves grow from them, maple, elm, oak and birch; the birds will come and sit in the shade, sing, then fly upwards and far, as we would have it be. Light to dark, shake out the covers for a spring airing, fold heavy blankets to the end of the bed, sleep in anticipation, dream of new shoots. Be well.
Now, fast and nimble are fine and keep you out of the way of traffic; after listening to Umbrella ignore and argue with her mother, I imagined her standing in the street, blabbing at the cars in her little ghost voice that they'd better not hit her before getting splatted by a you-talking-to-me fender. It was a pleasant reverie, until I was snapped back to attention. We were in another aisle, by the needlepoint kits and there was Umbrella, running ahead of her mother and emptying the bins of embroidery thread onto the floor. "No, Umbrella, you are being silly," chortled her mother, hoping that we would catch the cute actions of her darling; "I don't need that color. Put it back, hahaha."
Hahaha my foot. Umbrella kept it up, enjoying her mother's semi-confusion at parenting. "This one. This one. You need this one." "Nooo, I don't need those colors, now put them back. Go pick up Mr. Fluffles (name also changed)." Mr. Fluffles was a stuffed icon apparently indentured as a servant to Miss Umbrella, who left the mess on the floor and ran to get the adored, floppy toy before he could escape. His button eyes looked up at me in desperation.
My friend whom I was with was expertly searching for a color of thread to complete the kit she selected, and had way more patience than I; this reporter had to walk away as the method of Reasoning With a Five Year Old's Undeveloped Brain was jumping up and down on my last nerve in stilettos. In my world, there is one warning, phrased in civilized English but the kid gets the meaning behind it. Those are not for you to touch. Let's keep the store looking nice, so Santa won't forget to bring you anything next Christmas, and I don't make you go live in the garage. Ignore me, and we are both in the car headed home; you are now responsible for hunting your own food, and I hope you are good at catching squirrels.
When we left the aisle, Mom was still standing in the same place as Umbrella made her way through the merchandise; grabbing, squeezing, tossing. Mom looked at us with a grin, and sour milkily sighed, shrugging her shoulders; still talking loudly to someone, she bent down and began to resurrect what her tornado had torn apart. As a teacher, you can imagine my blood pressure level. Please god, please let Umbrella be in my class next year. Seriously. She will be walking in line and saying please and thank you in three days. I will remove the golden flagpole her mother has Umbrella perched on, and get her busy on those numbers. Yes, I love children. With ketchup.
Grandmas were there with other children, searching through the section of do-it-yourself playfun kits designed for the elementary crowd. Noises of interest were used to attract the child to what ever item was deemed appropriate by the adult. Most of the kids were happy and if they weren't certain about the item, would say appropriate responses. Not "Eeeewwwww," but "Is there one with beads so I can make bracelets?" I heard clever children negotiate appropriately, it's no crime to ask for what you want if offered choices.
This was not the case with Appendix, who wanted what he wanted and if that looked bleak, was taking hostages and having a ska-reaming tantrum to supposedly initiate the battle at Jericho. "You're stupid. You've got money for this one. That's the one I want, idiot." I actually heard this in Target, at Christmas. I took a look at Appendix and recognized him as a fifth grade student from my old school, who gave teachers similar treatment. In this case, Mom crumbled; this kid had a monster father who spouted jerk responses that the school was not understanding his son. You got that right, bud. She probably receives the same at home.
Appendix got what he wanted; in this case, I think the kid needs counseling and meds; when he saw me, he smiled and waved, and his nicer sister came over to talk. Part of her job was to keep an eye on her older brother; apparently Appendix was going to go to a different school where understanding abounded, rather than to a pediatrician to see which menu item was missing. The coup de grace occurred in the parking lot, when the econo-van sized soda he got at the snackbar on the way out exploded through the lid from his jumping around victory dance, soaking the lad with sweet justice and a syrupy sugar coating.
I read today that schools have been given the forefront job of socialization and deciphering mental health issues of the students. Why it waits till a kid reaches school age is beyond, waaay beyond my ken. There are Kindergarteners who are out of control, running the halls, through the cafeteria, screaming; parents will sell the kid's meds, save them up for the weekend, take them themselves, or just not get an evaluation of their child. "He doesn't do that at home, what are you doing to make him angry?" Uh, expecting him to do his work? How will these little people function as adults?
Hug your own children when you see them, and be happy that you have the sense to put your foot down or get help. Be ecstatic that they aren't Umbrella or Appendix because of appropriate expectations and structure; you raise kids to be sustaining contributors to life, to wave good bye when they leave, prepared to make mistakes and learn from them. It doesn't always turn out that way, sometimes good parents have troubled kids, and vice versa; keep going. Love them. Just keep the precious ones away from me in the store, especially if I have a large burlap bag and a brick in hand.
Another friend who lives to the north commented on the silver stars shining last night as she walked home. As I drove home just before sunset, hundreds of gulls hung over the edges of the river for almost a mile; I wondered if they were searching for the little silver minnows that begin running alongside the berms in early spring, but it's too soon, isn't it? Silver minnows, silver stars; both moving in directions dictated by the swirl of galaxies and currents, reason whirled.
We are observers of the natural world, and have witnessed this latest cold season as an unveiling of what is beneath the leaves, the growth, the covering of grasses; the bare bones of earth. Here is the framework of support for the green luxury coming, these rocks apparent through melting snow, the leafless branches of trees as skeletal architecture. It has reached the furthest depth of winter, and is ascending upwards, Dame Nature stirring; the birds say so, the fish are traveling to the warmer Buffalo River to spawn; the constellations are changing as Orion turns down the covers and the Big Dipper rises. Let them, let yourself.
Your arms are branches, let green leaves grow from them, maple, elm, oak and birch; the birds will come and sit in the shade, sing, then fly upwards and far, as we would have it be. Light to dark, shake out the covers for a spring airing, fold heavy blankets to the end of the bed, sleep in anticipation, dream of new shoots. Be well.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
Living Without
I was her anchor, her voice of reason and calm. She pulled me forward from a hellish childhood and showed me defiance and independence; things did not have to be the way it was according to other voices, I had to learn to trust and listen to my own. Not always making the best choices, she wasn't considered a "good" girl by her family or their circle of friends and she believed them, leading to a crooked road walled by stone that she finally couldn't escape. Her mother would began sentences, "Even though you're adopted..." and attributed her failings to genetics inherited from her real mother, a young girl who had given her daughter to the nuns at Father Baker's. Her biological father was listed as a toymaker. I was fifteen, she was fourteen when we met, at Scouts.
Her family thought Scouts was a way of taming her; I saw it as an acceptable way to escape my home if only for hours. She smoked and liked boys, as did most of the other girls in the troop; she snuck out of her house to go to dances at the local Catholic high schools. Put makeup on only to have it scrubbed off by her parents, and would reapply it once outside. Her father would hit her with his steamfitter's fists, in a bid to appease his wife; a woman who could look through you with dark, lifeless eyes above the thin line of a smile. They liked me, as I would get her home on time, c'mon, c'mon, we gotta go, you'll get grounded or beaten or worse, put out on the street.
Growing through ups and downs, marriages, and moving to different states would separate us from time to time, but it always was as it had been. She became ill with an autoimmune disease, and that, combined with a three pack a day habit took her away one cold November day. Her doctors had given her too many pain meds, sleep meds, anxiety meds and the aneurism that killed her in the middle of the night was said to be a result, but no one knows for sure. I have my own theory, that deep sorrow created by rejection and a convoluted twisting of her trust in relationships bore her down to a numbing stupor of legal drugs, leading to the one day she was gone.
It feels like an empty jar, a hole in the wall of consciousness that doesn't heal but overlaps into this continued life. I miss her dearly.
We have clocks that divide the days, calendars that separate the months into years; but no measure will erase memory until our own days change and disappear into endless realms, where clocks stand still. Is there an afterlife? Absolutely. How is it managed? That is a charlatan's trick, to claim prophesy of is and isn't, to dangle promises like apples. Hope. It’s the second best remedy for sorrow.
This morning I heard a crow yelling it’s barking head off, possibly heralding the change of the slowly rising temperature. Winter weather is not over yet, for there are 21 days until spring with plenty of room for more snow and freezing rains, but the extended light of the sun lifts our heads and hearts, for the cycle is returning to the start of running sap and breaking ice. Warmer days and cold nights awaken the maple trees with human dreams of pancakes. Sleep, first; the night is full of the forgiveness of time, of hours lost, and gives peaceful time to remember before falling. Remember when. As I look forward, you are there.
Sunday, February 16, 2014
Made Visible
Step forward, chin up; daylight is returning and has increased from the eight hours, twenty minutes of the winter solstice to ten hours, eight minutes for today, February 16th. Tomorrow, the 17th, it will have increased by a substantial four minutes.
Subtle indications point out that I am not the only one who notices; the indoor plants are leaning more towards the window and sending out shoots; the cats, bless they hearts, are shedding. Combing takes place twice a day and if I wanted a sweater of cat hair, now would be the time to gather the softer undercoat that is coming out in clumps.
This increase in light causes the human heart to thump a bit louder; in spite of continued ice storms and snow; having an increase of light sings a song of renewal as the planet revolves around the sun. During the winter months, the earth tilts so that the solar rays are aimed at the Tropic of Capricorn south of the equator, giving Australia its summer in December. As the earth wobbles back, each day the sun climbs higher in our northern sky until June 21, when it will point directly at the northern Tropic of Cancer during the noon hour. We are in flux, and as has happened for millennia, the days are growing longer in light, as the whole puzzle wheels through the sky towards a temporary stasis.
I am grateful. The winter is dark, we travel slower because of weather, trudge with heavy boots, bundle in insulating layers that restrict movement. Here in this latitude, we shed our winter skins gladly, quickly, ready; even so, there is more precipitation of the frozen kind to come. Yet with the increasing light, it’s time to emerge from snowy doldrums; I don’t mean to say that it is a season of eternal dormancy, for a walk in the snow at night is filled with crystal flakes, alive and radiant in the light cast by moon or flickering streetlamp. Last night, here in the middle between harbor and downtown, there were bunny tracks, the familiar hopping pattern marking a search for food where the summer vegetable gardens grow.
I can get in trouble with the management, but some surreptitious carrots may be dropped in the furrows. If only they weren’t so bright orange against the white. Night is an excellent veil for dispensing criminal carrots; my friend in another complex faces the same threat, so she compresses raisin bread into doughy balls and tosses them behind the hedges that sing with sparrows. But the rabbit prints were lovely last evening, and did glimmer, sparkling, in the remnants of a waning moon. With hands in pockets, or clasped in warmth, a walk in the snow can be energizing, making the summer invisibility of rabbit tracks appear, an exposure of the life that goes on around us unseen but for these soft imprints.
There is so, so much that our human senses cannot detect going on, extending through this earthly plane. The generalization that love never ends is complicated, immeasurable; yet it provides humanity with an analogy of expectation that those who are now invisible to us still exist. Their footprints come into view in some everyday thought, in memory, a note found in a drawer. Daylight returns.
The snow has stopped, the sun is setting to rise again tomorrow a bit earlier; the night is a respite full of whispers and silence, murmurs and images. Gather the hours as you would the wild red strawberries that crowd the fields just before summer solstice, string them as beads on stems of grass, a chain of life. Hold the composition close; tell, remember. Sleep will plait time into woven stories, and form pleasant dreams that become gnomons of counted chapters. Untether. Tuck under covers. Dream...
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Pull of Gravity
It was two minutes of frantic waving with a bath towel and swearing before I realized that it was the smoke detector further down the hall that had gone off, the first one, closer to the kitchen, isn't even a smoke detector; it has the job of carbon monoxide alerter. Waving a towel at a CO3 alarm does nothing except increase the mighty fine vocabulary of panic as to why this plastic demon is not shutting up. Once I addressed the right appliance, things got under control and the swearing also sputtered to a slow, relieved end. I set up a fan in the kitchen aimed at an open window; it was a successful precaution, and delivered us dinner with no further yelling from the alarm system.
Today was a day of catching up on domestics, namely of retrieving the earring that had gone down the bathroom drain, especially since a lipstick followed it this morning. Go me. There's a trap, a U-bend, that fastens on with plastic slip nuts easily turned by hand; no need to drag out the big, lunking plumber's wrench. I cleared out the undersink cupboard and put a bucket below the connection to catch the water, earring, and lipstick; twisted the pipes apart and abracadabra. Nothing.
Now, the earring was a slip of a thing, but I didn't think it would wash away; just hadn't noticed that this trap didn't have the small catch-all of a drain-out plug which usually snags small items. But the lipstick. Where the heck would a heavy lipstick get itself to? And how did it get around the bend? After three seconds of amazement, I put the pipes back together and learned a lesson regarding cheap, shallow, u-bend drain traps.
When I was a kid, one of my goldfish slipped down the drain as the fish bowl was being changed. The sink had a rubber plug that needed better closure, for my hand snagged the ball chain and floop! Down went Algernon. The pipes were exposed, but made of metal not designed for hand maneuvering and required a wrench; I zipped down to the basement workbench, grabbed one besides a round plastic dishpan. My parents never asked what I was doing unless they smelled something burning. Me with a wrench and dishpan hurrying into the bathroom raised no interest; either they trusted me or more likely didn't see me, I was very good at being invisible.
A few twists and a flash of orange into the pan deemed success, and even better, the fish was fine if not a tad shaken by the mystery tunnel adventure. Phew. Back into the tightly plugged sink while I tightened up the slip nut, being very careful not to leave any scratches on the metal for which I could catch hell but what else was new, you had to take chances and save a fish. Going to a parent would have meant either a "leave it for your father" or the end point of the solution regardless, a paternal blast of water to wash the fish into the main pipe leading to the town sewer.
I had trained Algernon to weave around my fingers for petting, and to swim through the hoop shape of my thumb and middle finger. We did a bit of that, I hand scooped my circus fish back into the bowl, scrubbed out the sink, then trundled us upstairs to my room to read.
There is now a 52 gallon tank in front of me with a large fish who will let me pet his nose and will gently grab onto my fingers with his catfish mouth. He's happier since the classroom guppies have infested the home tank due to school closings, he must like the company.
Time passes, folds and circles round the silver stars, another day ends with a sigh. Let your dreams be busy as you are in slumber, surrendered to nature's soft enchantment, sleep, tuck under; the universe shifts.
Today was a day of catching up on domestics, namely of retrieving the earring that had gone down the bathroom drain, especially since a lipstick followed it this morning. Go me. There's a trap, a U-bend, that fastens on with plastic slip nuts easily turned by hand; no need to drag out the big, lunking plumber's wrench. I cleared out the undersink cupboard and put a bucket below the connection to catch the water, earring, and lipstick; twisted the pipes apart and abracadabra. Nothing.
Now, the earring was a slip of a thing, but I didn't think it would wash away; just hadn't noticed that this trap didn't have the small catch-all of a drain-out plug which usually snags small items. But the lipstick. Where the heck would a heavy lipstick get itself to? And how did it get around the bend? After three seconds of amazement, I put the pipes back together and learned a lesson regarding cheap, shallow, u-bend drain traps.
When I was a kid, one of my goldfish slipped down the drain as the fish bowl was being changed. The sink had a rubber plug that needed better closure, for my hand snagged the ball chain and floop! Down went Algernon. The pipes were exposed, but made of metal not designed for hand maneuvering and required a wrench; I zipped down to the basement workbench, grabbed one besides a round plastic dishpan. My parents never asked what I was doing unless they smelled something burning. Me with a wrench and dishpan hurrying into the bathroom raised no interest; either they trusted me or more likely didn't see me, I was very good at being invisible.
A few twists and a flash of orange into the pan deemed success, and even better, the fish was fine if not a tad shaken by the mystery tunnel adventure. Phew. Back into the tightly plugged sink while I tightened up the slip nut, being very careful not to leave any scratches on the metal for which I could catch hell but what else was new, you had to take chances and save a fish. Going to a parent would have meant either a "leave it for your father" or the end point of the solution regardless, a paternal blast of water to wash the fish into the main pipe leading to the town sewer.
I had trained Algernon to weave around my fingers for petting, and to swim through the hoop shape of my thumb and middle finger. We did a bit of that, I hand scooped my circus fish back into the bowl, scrubbed out the sink, then trundled us upstairs to my room to read.
There is now a 52 gallon tank in front of me with a large fish who will let me pet his nose and will gently grab onto my fingers with his catfish mouth. He's happier since the classroom guppies have infested the home tank due to school closings, he must like the company.
Time passes, folds and circles round the silver stars, another day ends with a sigh. Let your dreams be busy as you are in slumber, surrendered to nature's soft enchantment, sleep, tuck under; the universe shifts.
Friday, February 14, 2014
Holiday de Escuela
I have got to remember that I've brought home the snails and millipedes for this next week that school is closed, and that they are still in my satchel along with homework papers. The millipedes are famous for getting out, and must be secured so that a cat and arthropod 3 a.m. rumpus does not occur. The pseudo-bugs do give a mild bite that surprises more than stings, but not enough for a cat to notice.
Today's Valentine activities were harrowing but pleasantly so; the kids brought in more candy than at Halloween and Christmas combined and were soggy by the end of the day. I bought sheet pizzas for them, for how could I not when a small boy had written to me "Happy Valentine's Day. I hope we have piss," meaning, of course, pizza. We divvied up the bags of candy and I did not let them eat any of it, they would have been sick after the cheese and pepperoni, the cupcakes, the cookies, and then the snow peas the cafeteria sent up as a snack. One wise guy, however, popped a cellophane wrapped, oversized gumball into his mouth. I'm not eating it! It has the wrapper on it! Visions of Heimlich maneuvers danced in my head.
By that time, the kids were zombified and staggering from food overload; there were no arguments except that they all wanted to carry their bags home in hand, not in their backpacks in order to show off their loot. Oh ho no, said the mean teacher. Not one body is leaving this classroom if I see a bag out. Do you not think that the older kids on the bus would steal them from you? Well, they would and you know it. Put them away. Now. Hisss.
There is a Promethean board in the room that I have little clue how to master, but figured out how to pop in a dvd after I got back my connecting cables that other teachers had "borrowed". My foot. Borrowing means asking first, not sneaking away without any written indication as to whose filching was taking place.
The kids and I had decided that enough school work had been accomplished, and so watched a SpongeBob Squarepants movie. Patrick Starfish is a character usually wearing pants; an ongoing joke was showing him with no pants, causing the kids to scream appreciatively but wait, I thought. Starfish don't wear pants to begin with, and neither does Donald Duck, but that doesn't cause any reaction whatsoever. Context, people, it's all in the context.
Glad to get home, got shined up and went with a grown up friend for supper; most enjoyable as talking to an adult after a day of six year olds is refreshing and resets the synapses. This adult has also offered to help knock a frame together for my canvas, another exciting adventure; I have no qualms about painting, it's getting the thing to it's destination that is problematic. But first things first, and that is to stretch a seven foot canvas, perhaps six; the paper for a rough sketch is tabbed to a wall and ready for pencil and measurement. And I have a week, a whole week with little other responsibilities. I am almost delirious.
A lovely day in all, a day of exchanges and goggle-eyed children who are probably still awake at this close to midnight hour, catapulted forward by sugar. Their little selves in jammies may levitate an inch above the bed tonight from all of the godawful Laffy Taffy they've ingested.
Here is where we part and say good night; go to our own cupboard of dreams for solace and thought, climb abed and fall. Night of transparent shadows covers our meanderings, darkness rings the garden of dreams. Good night, good night. Sleep, innocent.
Today's Valentine activities were harrowing but pleasantly so; the kids brought in more candy than at Halloween and Christmas combined and were soggy by the end of the day. I bought sheet pizzas for them, for how could I not when a small boy had written to me "Happy Valentine's Day. I hope we have piss," meaning, of course, pizza. We divvied up the bags of candy and I did not let them eat any of it, they would have been sick after the cheese and pepperoni, the cupcakes, the cookies, and then the snow peas the cafeteria sent up as a snack. One wise guy, however, popped a cellophane wrapped, oversized gumball into his mouth. I'm not eating it! It has the wrapper on it! Visions of Heimlich maneuvers danced in my head.
By that time, the kids were zombified and staggering from food overload; there were no arguments except that they all wanted to carry their bags home in hand, not in their backpacks in order to show off their loot. Oh ho no, said the mean teacher. Not one body is leaving this classroom if I see a bag out. Do you not think that the older kids on the bus would steal them from you? Well, they would and you know it. Put them away. Now. Hisss.
There is a Promethean board in the room that I have little clue how to master, but figured out how to pop in a dvd after I got back my connecting cables that other teachers had "borrowed". My foot. Borrowing means asking first, not sneaking away without any written indication as to whose filching was taking place.
The kids and I had decided that enough school work had been accomplished, and so watched a SpongeBob Squarepants movie. Patrick Starfish is a character usually wearing pants; an ongoing joke was showing him with no pants, causing the kids to scream appreciatively but wait, I thought. Starfish don't wear pants to begin with, and neither does Donald Duck, but that doesn't cause any reaction whatsoever. Context, people, it's all in the context.
Glad to get home, got shined up and went with a grown up friend for supper; most enjoyable as talking to an adult after a day of six year olds is refreshing and resets the synapses. This adult has also offered to help knock a frame together for my canvas, another exciting adventure; I have no qualms about painting, it's getting the thing to it's destination that is problematic. But first things first, and that is to stretch a seven foot canvas, perhaps six; the paper for a rough sketch is tabbed to a wall and ready for pencil and measurement. And I have a week, a whole week with little other responsibilities. I am almost delirious.
A lovely day in all, a day of exchanges and goggle-eyed children who are probably still awake at this close to midnight hour, catapulted forward by sugar. Their little selves in jammies may levitate an inch above the bed tonight from all of the godawful Laffy Taffy they've ingested.
Here is where we part and say good night; go to our own cupboard of dreams for solace and thought, climb abed and fall. Night of transparent shadows covers our meanderings, darkness rings the garden of dreams. Good night, good night. Sleep, innocent.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Undercurrents
Most of you know that after yesterday's long work schedule, turning the car ignition key resulted in continued dark and silence; no rumbled hum, no check engine light that's been on over half a year. My car battery was dead. Triple A, which has been with me for 27 years, amused themselves with a three a.m. chance of rescue; I had my phone and charging cord so I sat down inside on the yellow linoleum of the school, plugged in and got my thumbs busy to pass time. Once Canada had gotten the call, she hastened with determination and love to the rescue. Many, many other offers had come, people are so kind; Diane arrived in record time.
We aligned cars, and tried with no success. Weather was becoming bitter, so we hopped back into her car to warm up and text our Auto Parts expert; fingers were not working well, the phone was slow.
There was a tap at the window, and I recognized the older man standing there; he was the sex offender whose arrest I had found on a crime link two weeks ago, a rapist who had attacked a 74 year old woman. "Crime reports" is a website introduced through a local news station; every reported crime is listed, and I check every so often as to who are the people in my neighborhood. Within a close radius of the school are three convicted offenders; two have involved children as young as six, the third was standing in the street outside of the car window, asking if we needed any assistance.
He was polite, cordial, 78 rpm chatty, and knew which terminals were the correct ones; after three tries my friend's car powered up mine. That's what neighbors are for, he said. You're the teacher, aren't you? Uh, yes, you know who I am? He related that he sees me walk up the street to work, and knows that the red car is mine. My brain is trying to keep up, trying to decide if my recognition of this memory were true. Two girls, one high school age, and the other about nine exit his house in the morning, I presume to be on their way to school, so it wouldn't be too odd for him to see teachers walking past with their cloth briefcases. Was this him?
He asked if we needed anything else; we said no, but thanks for the help, and I slid into Diane's car to see if she wanted to go grab a drink and to tell her who I thought our benefactor was, as I had related the story of my investigation to her earlier. We decided to go to Gabriel's Gate in Allentown.
The temperature had dropped from a pleasant mid twenties into frigid crispness that fox-bit bare hands and cheeks; the city streets became slick with black ice, as Di followed me in her car. We traversed a roundabout into the narrow street of destination, and suddenly surrounding us at an intersection was fire, captured within thousands of brilliant spherical glazings: the Bubble Man was out. I hadn't seen him in ages.
Behind a window in the third story of a hundred year old building lives the Bubble Man, a retiree who needed something to do. What he decided upon was to send bubbles out into the world where Allen Street intersects Elmwood using gallons of solution, bubble wands, and a circular fan. Here he was, ten o'clock at night, inventing bubbles that became glowing orbs, illumined by the sodium street lamps into orange and gold baubles of flame, rising in murmurations, then this: they froze. Became glassine ice and descended slowly, bouncing off car roofs and car hoods and people walking and the steak sub shop greasing the first floor. It was enchanting, a wizard's effect on everyday life traveling over everyday pavement, a pulling back of the curtain. Oh, thank you, Bubble Man. A glissade of magic, a telling of fortune, the opening of a treasure chest. People lifted their faces to catch them.
We arrived at Gabriel's Gate, warmed up, and eventually both of us were grateful to be on our way home about midnight; I decided to drive a short ride to boost the charge and took the expressway that edges the rim of the city. Got home, and sent my friend the crime link with a photo. It's him, she said. She also checked on his vehicular plates, registered to the name recorded in the report. This morning, as the two girls were leaving the house he was there, to drive them. Good morning! How's the car? The car's running well; I can't resolve your history, particularly with my own and for so many other reasons. I will be civil, but guarded.
I have had a total of 11 hours of sleep over the past three days; tonight I will be under the covers ten minutes after this story is posted and slip into the realm of the unconscious, amid mists and layers of breath. A grateful sinking into the pillow, untethered and floating softly free. Next week is a mid-winter break, a very good idea as far as I can tell. Wait and see what I do. But now, bring me to sheets pulled up close and heavy quilts on top, I am tired. My arm is pretty banged up, but it works. Sleep, lend me your grasp, pull me under. Good night, my dear, dear friends. Good night, Canada. Love you.
We aligned cars, and tried with no success. Weather was becoming bitter, so we hopped back into her car to warm up and text our Auto Parts expert; fingers were not working well, the phone was slow.
There was a tap at the window, and I recognized the older man standing there; he was the sex offender whose arrest I had found on a crime link two weeks ago, a rapist who had attacked a 74 year old woman. "Crime reports" is a website introduced through a local news station; every reported crime is listed, and I check every so often as to who are the people in my neighborhood. Within a close radius of the school are three convicted offenders; two have involved children as young as six, the third was standing in the street outside of the car window, asking if we needed any assistance.
He was polite, cordial, 78 rpm chatty, and knew which terminals were the correct ones; after three tries my friend's car powered up mine. That's what neighbors are for, he said. You're the teacher, aren't you? Uh, yes, you know who I am? He related that he sees me walk up the street to work, and knows that the red car is mine. My brain is trying to keep up, trying to decide if my recognition of this memory were true. Two girls, one high school age, and the other about nine exit his house in the morning, I presume to be on their way to school, so it wouldn't be too odd for him to see teachers walking past with their cloth briefcases. Was this him?
He asked if we needed anything else; we said no, but thanks for the help, and I slid into Diane's car to see if she wanted to go grab a drink and to tell her who I thought our benefactor was, as I had related the story of my investigation to her earlier. We decided to go to Gabriel's Gate in Allentown.
The temperature had dropped from a pleasant mid twenties into frigid crispness that fox-bit bare hands and cheeks; the city streets became slick with black ice, as Di followed me in her car. We traversed a roundabout into the narrow street of destination, and suddenly surrounding us at an intersection was fire, captured within thousands of brilliant spherical glazings: the Bubble Man was out. I hadn't seen him in ages.
Behind a window in the third story of a hundred year old building lives the Bubble Man, a retiree who needed something to do. What he decided upon was to send bubbles out into the world where Allen Street intersects Elmwood using gallons of solution, bubble wands, and a circular fan. Here he was, ten o'clock at night, inventing bubbles that became glowing orbs, illumined by the sodium street lamps into orange and gold baubles of flame, rising in murmurations, then this: they froze. Became glassine ice and descended slowly, bouncing off car roofs and car hoods and people walking and the steak sub shop greasing the first floor. It was enchanting, a wizard's effect on everyday life traveling over everyday pavement, a pulling back of the curtain. Oh, thank you, Bubble Man. A glissade of magic, a telling of fortune, the opening of a treasure chest. People lifted their faces to catch them.
We arrived at Gabriel's Gate, warmed up, and eventually both of us were grateful to be on our way home about midnight; I decided to drive a short ride to boost the charge and took the expressway that edges the rim of the city. Got home, and sent my friend the crime link with a photo. It's him, she said. She also checked on his vehicular plates, registered to the name recorded in the report. This morning, as the two girls were leaving the house he was there, to drive them. Good morning! How's the car? The car's running well; I can't resolve your history, particularly with my own and for so many other reasons. I will be civil, but guarded.
I have had a total of 11 hours of sleep over the past three days; tonight I will be under the covers ten minutes after this story is posted and slip into the realm of the unconscious, amid mists and layers of breath. A grateful sinking into the pillow, untethered and floating softly free. Next week is a mid-winter break, a very good idea as far as I can tell. Wait and see what I do. But now, bring me to sheets pulled up close and heavy quilts on top, I am tired. My arm is pretty banged up, but it works. Sleep, lend me your grasp, pull me under. Good night, my dear, dear friends. Good night, Canada. Love you.
Sunday, February 9, 2014
How Do You Know These People?
Years ago, going over to Canada was easy and expected; it wasn't unusual for American kids to have Canadian friendships. You'd meet at Crystal Beach Amusement Park or on one of the Lake Erie beaches, Fort Erie, or Niagara Falls at the godawful wax museum. It was a badge of honor if you had a Canadian boyfriend, even though that meant few and far encounters unless he could drive.
People crossed all the time with their families to visit, and would spend the day at the Falls, or hit Fort Erie for the teacup shops or Chinese food. Canadian ice cream is creamier, Canadian bacon is baconier. The people are exceptionally nice, and you were pretty much safe unless you ran into another American. Things changed, and now if I point out my school window to across the river at our neighbor to the north, the kids have never heard of the place, and that's a shame.
Now a passport is required, costing over $100 per adult and $82 for all children under 16; you have to have one, regardless of age. So for a family of four, it will need an outlay of $446 dollars just for legal documents; I wonder how much that has curtailed a Sunday drive over to Canada? I wonder how many American kids have Canadian friends? Don't ask if they can tell you where Ontario is.
I have a Canadian friend. We met through the internet as we both belong to The International Buster Keaton Society. International, folks. She's a curling stone's throw away...ask me about curling stones later and Canada's new, clear plastic money. A wonderful game for her is to mock my flat A's to the point that I tell her I'm gonna smack her. Go ahead, smaaack me, she says. I don't hear the difference until her mother does an American accent, and then I'm on the floor, rolling.
But we're friends and have several commonalities besides Keaton; she will spend time over Stateside, and I get over to Canada maybe three times a month. The problem is this: alongside the overloaded bridge and truck traffic, you are lined up with sometimes up to one hundred cars wanting to get into the Canadian side. So you inch up, inch up, watch the water gauge to see if the engine is overheating and 20 to 40 minutes later arrive at the Canadian customs officer for the interview.
Country of citizenship? Where are you headed? What are you doing there? How long will you be in Canada? Are you bringing in any food, firearms, drugs, or alcohol? Have a nice day, ma'am; and I'm off.
Getting back in to home base is different; again the wait, but longer; sometimes you will be in one spot for 25 minutes, as the lines on either side of you progress to cars you passed at Netherby Road twelve miles back. This can indicate many circumstances, the most likely being that the American customs officer is taking his or her duty on a marathon run. They have been instructed to drill the entrants as if illegal aliens were stuffed in our tires.
"Citizenship?" United States. "Where do you live?" Buffalo. "How long were you in Canada?" Went over about 12:30 this afternoon. "Where did you go?" Chippewa Falls. "Why did you go there?" To visit a friend. "How do you know this friend?" We've known each other for two years, and met on the internet. "Internet?"(raised eyebrow, possible sex traffic here), "How did you meet on the Internet?"
Oh boy, here we go. We both belong to the International Buster Keaton Society. This brings a concerned look from the officer. "What?" WE BELONG TO THE BUSTER KEATON SOCIETY.
Frowns. "Buster Keaton? Who's Buster Keaton?" Crap. He was a silent film star, a comedian, a director, a wri- "And this person is a member of this club also?" Yes, yes she is. "She? Did you go anywhere with her?" We went to the movies. "Movies? You went to Canada to go to the movies? Don't they have movies here in the States?" Yes, but this was a silent movie. "And this was that Buster Keaton fella?" Yes. "Where is this club?" Jesus, did I not say the word internet? It's not a clubhouse sort of club, it's a group of people who interact through the web. "Where is it based?" I'm not going to say that we're all over the place, this man wants a solid answer to understand. Muskegon, Michigan. "Where?" Muskegon, Mich-i-gan. My government dollars at work. "And you go there? With this person?" Yes, and we sell Burmese aliens at the concession stand as housekeepers.
Last night, after the how do you know this person question, the young officer thought he was going to give me a hard time for some god knows reason. I look pretty harmless, in my opinion. It was after midnight, bitter cold, and I was tired. "How do you know these people?" We've known each other for quite a while. "How did you meet?" I didn't want to go through the Buster Keaton thing. Didn't want to. We just know each other. Period. Wrong answer. Mr. Huffy then asked, "Have you ever lived in Canada?" No. "Have these people ever lived in the States?" No. Coup de grace, a la Perry Mason: "Then how do you claim an international friendship?" Bam on you, lady.
Okay, okay. Deep breath. We are both members of The International Buster Keaton Society. "What?"
We are both members of The blah blah blah blah blah. "Who is that?" Silent film star, yap yap yap, gurgle gurgle snarf. This man is puzzled. "Did these people give you anything?" What? No. "Did you buy anything while in Canada?" I frowned. Movie tickets? For some reason, his face changed when I frowned at him; he folded. Did he realize that I thought he was going overboard and became embarrassed? Did I look like his mother? After that, he couldn't wait to get rid of me. He typed in something on his keyboard, read whatever Magic 8 Ball answer appeared, and handed me my passport card without ever looking at me again. Why is it so hard to get back into my own country?
You cannot make faces at them. You cannot be annoyed at them. You cannot tell them things that you would ordinarily say if a friend were asking these questions. Besides, anyone that knows me knows who Buster is by now. I've been asked what I do for a living, the school's address and phone number, how long I've been teaching, what is that in the back of my car (usually thrift store picture frames), why are they still there, why haven't I taken then out of the car (because I usually have my arms full of schoolwork or groceries), and, what do you mean by jewelry? The women officers are much more reasonable, and if I say that I bought household items from the Burlington IKEA, they aren't going to ask me what a household item is.
Read these names: Alberta, British Columbia, Manitoba, New Brunswick, Newfoundland and Labrador; Nova Scotia, Ontario, Prince Edward Island, Quebec, and Saskatchewan. The three territories are Northwest Territories, Nunavut, and Yukon. And that's Canada. You are not allowed to own a gun, pull out into an intersection to make a left turn even if the light is green, and you have to go to a special store to buy alcohol, including beer. They did away with the penny. Their Cadbury chocolate is imported from Britain and if you can find the stuff brought in from Ireland, I understand that's even better. I love their hamburgers, and the folks really do say "Eh?"
I guess we all just want to get home, find a home, make a home, keep safe. By the time I returned to the parking lot outside my apartment building, it was 12:30 in the morning and still. The winds and storm had calmed, and what ambient light existed made sparkles in the thick covering of snow. Silent night. Stille nacht. I have one old frame left in the back seat, but I am not hauling it in this night; the frigid bitterness nips and grabs at me, I want to get inside and email my friend of a safe arrival; we do that to make sure.
Inside are blankets and layers of wool, warmth that lulls and comforts like a mother's lap. Put away the day and slip into the coracle of sleep; steer and paddle, be pulled by the tide out to deep waters filled with tales and dreams; with wishes and desires. Your boat is sturdy, your heart is strong; listen to the water slip...slip...slip...slip along the sides, pull you towards destiny undecided. Sleep well this coming night, beating heart.
People crossed all the time with their families to visit, and would spend the day at the Falls, or hit Fort Erie for the teacup shops or Chinese food. Canadian ice cream is creamier, Canadian bacon is baconier. The people are exceptionally nice, and you were pretty much safe unless you ran into another American. Things changed, and now if I point out my school window to across the river at our neighbor to the north, the kids have never heard of the place, and that's a shame.
Now a passport is required, costing over $100 per adult and $82 for all children under 16; you have to have one, regardless of age. So for a family of four, it will need an outlay of $446 dollars just for legal documents; I wonder how much that has curtailed a Sunday drive over to Canada? I wonder how many American kids have Canadian friends? Don't ask if they can tell you where Ontario is.
I have a Canadian friend. We met through the internet as we both belong to The International Buster Keaton Society. International, folks. She's a curling stone's throw away...ask me about curling stones later and Canada's new, clear plastic money. A wonderful game for her is to mock my flat A's to the point that I tell her I'm gonna smack her. Go ahead, smaaack me, she says. I don't hear the difference until her mother does an American accent, and then I'm on the floor, rolling.
But we're friends and have several commonalities besides Keaton; she will spend time over Stateside, and I get over to Canada maybe three times a month. The problem is this: alongside the overloaded bridge and truck traffic, you are lined up with sometimes up to one hundred cars wanting to get into the Canadian side. So you inch up, inch up, watch the water gauge to see if the engine is overheating and 20 to 40 minutes later arrive at the Canadian customs officer for the interview.
Country of citizenship? Where are you headed? What are you doing there? How long will you be in Canada? Are you bringing in any food, firearms, drugs, or alcohol? Have a nice day, ma'am; and I'm off.
Getting back in to home base is different; again the wait, but longer; sometimes you will be in one spot for 25 minutes, as the lines on either side of you progress to cars you passed at Netherby Road twelve miles back. This can indicate many circumstances, the most likely being that the American customs officer is taking his or her duty on a marathon run. They have been instructed to drill the entrants as if illegal aliens were stuffed in our tires.
"Citizenship?" United States. "Where do you live?" Buffalo. "How long were you in Canada?" Went over about 12:30 this afternoon. "Where did you go?" Chippewa Falls. "Why did you go there?" To visit a friend. "How do you know this friend?" We've known each other for two years, and met on the internet. "Internet?"(raised eyebrow, possible sex traffic here), "How did you meet on the Internet?"
Oh boy, here we go. We both belong to the International Buster Keaton Society. This brings a concerned look from the officer. "What?" WE BELONG TO THE BUSTER KEATON SOCIETY.
Frowns. "Buster Keaton? Who's Buster Keaton?" Crap. He was a silent film star, a comedian, a director, a wri- "And this person is a member of this club also?" Yes, yes she is. "She? Did you go anywhere with her?" We went to the movies. "Movies? You went to Canada to go to the movies? Don't they have movies here in the States?" Yes, but this was a silent movie. "And this was that Buster Keaton fella?" Yes. "Where is this club?" Jesus, did I not say the word internet? It's not a clubhouse sort of club, it's a group of people who interact through the web. "Where is it based?" I'm not going to say that we're all over the place, this man wants a solid answer to understand. Muskegon, Michigan. "Where?" Muskegon, Mich-i-gan. My government dollars at work. "And you go there? With this person?" Yes, and we sell Burmese aliens at the concession stand as housekeepers.
Last night, after the how do you know this person question, the young officer thought he was going to give me a hard time for some god knows reason. I look pretty harmless, in my opinion. It was after midnight, bitter cold, and I was tired. "How do you know these people?" We've known each other for quite a while. "How did you meet?" I didn't want to go through the Buster Keaton thing. Didn't want to. We just know each other. Period. Wrong answer. Mr. Huffy then asked, "Have you ever lived in Canada?" No. "Have these people ever lived in the States?" No. Coup de grace, a la Perry Mason: "Then how do you claim an international friendship?" Bam on you, lady.
Okay, okay. Deep breath. We are both members of The International Buster Keaton Society. "What?"
We are both members of The blah blah blah blah blah. "Who is that?" Silent film star, yap yap yap, gurgle gurgle snarf. This man is puzzled. "Did these people give you anything?" What? No. "Did you buy anything while in Canada?" I frowned. Movie tickets? For some reason, his face changed when I frowned at him; he folded. Did he realize that I thought he was going overboard and became embarrassed? Did I look like his mother? After that, he couldn't wait to get rid of me. He typed in something on his keyboard, read whatever Magic 8 Ball answer appeared, and handed me my passport card without ever looking at me again. Why is it so hard to get back into my own country?
You cannot make faces at them. You cannot be annoyed at them. You cannot tell them things that you would ordinarily say if a friend were asking these questions. Besides, anyone that knows me knows who Buster is by now. I've been asked what I do for a living, the school's address and phone number, how long I've been teaching, what is that in the back of my car (usually thrift store picture frames), why are they still there, why haven't I taken then out of the car (because I usually have my arms full of schoolwork or groceries), and, what do you mean by jewelry? The women officers are much more reasonable, and if I say that I bought household items from the Burlington IKEA, they aren't going to ask me what a household item is.
Read these names: Alberta, British Columbia, Manitoba, New Brunswick, Newfoundland and Labrador; Nova Scotia, Ontario, Prince Edward Island, Quebec, and Saskatchewan. The three territories are Northwest Territories, Nunavut, and Yukon. And that's Canada. You are not allowed to own a gun, pull out into an intersection to make a left turn even if the light is green, and you have to go to a special store to buy alcohol, including beer. They did away with the penny. Their Cadbury chocolate is imported from Britain and if you can find the stuff brought in from Ireland, I understand that's even better. I love their hamburgers, and the folks really do say "Eh?"
I guess we all just want to get home, find a home, make a home, keep safe. By the time I returned to the parking lot outside my apartment building, it was 12:30 in the morning and still. The winds and storm had calmed, and what ambient light existed made sparkles in the thick covering of snow. Silent night. Stille nacht. I have one old frame left in the back seat, but I am not hauling it in this night; the frigid bitterness nips and grabs at me, I want to get inside and email my friend of a safe arrival; we do that to make sure.
Inside are blankets and layers of wool, warmth that lulls and comforts like a mother's lap. Put away the day and slip into the coracle of sleep; steer and paddle, be pulled by the tide out to deep waters filled with tales and dreams; with wishes and desires. Your boat is sturdy, your heart is strong; listen to the water slip...slip...slip...slip along the sides, pull you towards destiny undecided. Sleep well this coming night, beating heart.
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