Science is unsure, wiping sweaty palms against a waistcoat already stiff with the crusts of human fluid before attempting to pull a squirming, kicking rabbit out of the endless deep of a black hole hat. It's a first time performance, and the magician is holding his breath as sure as the audience; the reputation of Hippocrates is on the line, the desire to succeed immense. Training, guesses, and belief in chemical possibilities straighten his spine as the arm with the rolled up sleeve plunges down into the hat, in search of that rascal rabbit which is life. Clinical trial Number One.
The man is a color you see in cookbook plates from the fifties, not quite real, oddly off, yet green is green and yellow is called vanilla. You can tell the colors were painted on in watercolor, that the inks the printer used were stock. His limbs flap as he gestures, the muscles melting into bone giving a rubbery appearance partially due to the lack of hair; here is a doll in need of a sewn wig, painted eyebrows, lashes. Startlingly blue eyes look past the speaker, slightly unfocused; everything, everything is off, as if a learning artist sculpted an image of this man in a Saturday morning class.
Can I say he is fading? Not without being unfair, the new tumor in his brain will be targeted with gamma knife radiation, a complicated plan that focuses 200 beams of radiation, which alone will not harm surrounding tissue, but at the pinpoint where those beams meet gets a solid dose of concentrated magic. There is more to the preparation than to the actual procedure, one show only; depending on size, the shrinkage may take two months; the intruder is compared to a pea, one that is felt through a hundred mattresses. Who knows, who knows. Even the grand machine of Science understands that hypothesis is a prediction, anticipated by earlier, exploratory practice where sometimes the wires are visible.
Yet it is as if I am seeing double; there is the man walking outside of himself only by inches, not separate but neither together. The medication can provide the side effect of hallucination, the side effect of death; he says his dreams are vivid nightmares which he accepts as part of the illusion, designed by the brain as a response to supposed daytime alarms. I feel as if I am the one witnessing things not there; this is not the man yet of course it is; this is not real but that is error; I hug him as I leave, and the eternal awkwardness which exists between us is captured fleetingly through our disappearing reflections in invisible mirrors multiplied, then dismissed by a simple square root of a rational number. The two of us have been through the same mill, in spite of being kept apart within the same house. Now that was a heck of a magic trick.
I am exhausted with today's revelations, but for heaven's sake; nothing compared to what the patient is auguring, calculating, wishing. He is watching for that celestial rabbit to appear, the well-spring of sustenance; for himself to come out the other side of the rabbit hole and have restored the missing pieces in order to move forward. Years have whirled past on the dull green wheels of hospital and tests, procedures and treatments, disappearing through chasms of yesterday. It's hell being sick, your life is a series of shadows and rearrangements, discomforting ripples blurring the storyline, and eventually you fall into magic.
Here is what I wish, for I am no less considerate of enchantment: that you go find and listen to the unceasing waves that will crash on shores longer than humanity will exist on this planet. Always the waves, the waves, the lull of the foamy waves. Echo their song, feel the tidal pulse pull you up to supernal lunacy, for life is a rhythmic phenomenon of motion. Sleep well and in peace. I will watch over you. Goodnight.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Border Funnies and Film Festivals
"Turn your car off and give me the keys. Shut your mouth and don't say a word."
I had pulled my car up to the kiosk and the customs officer taken my passport before I could get a look at him. His steely voice meant stomach-knotting business, and I thought my life of crime had caught up with me except what on earth could that be? Did I do something ten years ago invoking legal suspicion? Did the unqualified plastic container I put into the recycling bin break the machinery, causing a government collapse somewhere? What the hell kind of aggressive circus did I fall into? They can't prove anything; these aren't the droids you're looking for.
I handed him the keys, and decided that I am not going down without a fight of logic based on my intelligence versus troglodyte theatrics; however, both you and I know that many innocents are shanghaied into a maze of locked doors through grisly consequences provided by liars in charge. Was this the week that first grade teachers were being culled? Was this person a psychopath? I turned to read his body language, looking for clues as to how I managed to be the subject of the forthcoming interrogation, except the man now had an immense grin on his face. Andrew. Andrew Defoe, you turkey, I almost threw up on my steering wheel. The above is true, except I didn't use the word turkey.
He was just full of himself, laughing as he handed back the car keys. His mother and I had been close; she is missed dearly. "Did you have a good time?" he asked, meaning my trip into Canada. Yes, except for this part. Excuse me while I find my internal organs, which I think are hiding under the front seat.
A friend and I had gone to a talk and showing of three short Mary Pickford films that was held at a posh hotel/spa/yoga retreat in St. Catharines, Ontario. The presentation was quite well done, and after, there had been a party; when that ended, the group moved to a seating area, with furniture drawn by Looney Tunes. The author joined us for an impromptu conversation, while some of the group crashed a wedding whose bridesmaids were dressed in green sheaths and looked like asparagus. We were then invited to another party where the river of free drinks flowed and everyone was either a Rocky Horror extra, or pledged costumed allegiance to Stanley Kubrick. It was the Niagara International Film Fest, and they had just finished a Peter Sellers film to much inebriated delight.
They were all charming, in spite of stating that Buster Keaton would not be on future programs as he wasn't a Canadian; we sort of wondered later in the car while enjoying Happy Meals from the neighboring McDonald's if "The Railrodder", a fun piece funded by the Canadian government starring Buster, should have gained him recognition. Plus, a Canadian stamp featuring this role just came out, could there be an honorary service recognizing Keaton? Is this not what the Queen's people want?
After brainstorming ideas together till two a.m., I stayed over at the house, and was able to have coffee on the patio in the morning while watching the birds, squirrels, and bunnies at the feeder. It was idyllic. Her mother and I discussed rose bushes and wildlife, British chocolate and the school board. A trip to a local shop and lunch rounded out a lazy day, and then it was time to turn home.
The bridge was backed up, and cars inched slowly across while hanging hundreds of feet in midair over a ripping fast river. I don't think of such things as dangerous, even when the span shuddered as a semi shifted and roused itself to move forward three feet. After a half hour of this, the tired traveller ran into the final scenario of Now What provided by the above mentioned Mr. Defoe, the humorous, beloved customs officer. It was good to see him. I'm still ratting him out to his Dad.
Bed is calling, and I shall answer. So many new beginnings this past week, look forward to see what approaches and work hard to reach it. Sleep within innocence, for day has turned; the quiet night has arrived, on tiptoe.
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Zoo
The zoo, as usual, is under construction; great heaves of rock torn out of the 1930 bear exhibit are piled to the side for reuse as part of the Arctic display, which the polar bears will inhabit. Digging machines chirr and bite at the bedrock of limestone and chert; the elephants are kept indoors when construction is going on right next to their house. Pathways are narrowed, then sometimes come to a dead end without warning. Several exhibits are empty, or contain one lone duck family. It is our day for a field trip to the zoo.
It always costs me at least fifty dollars for a field trip. I don't mind the kids whose families can't afford the fees, those I'm glad to take care of; what gets me is the minutiae of late-paying kids after the deadline and the money is already mailed in so there ends the early reservation price, the extra parents who show up at the entrance and claim they paid you for a ticket, the kids who paid but are absent and the rigamarole you go through to get a maybe refund from this particular public venue, as well as the ticket I have to buy for myself.
The students are excited, and I know it will be a different day populated by personality tics exhibited by each kid in handling excitement and new scenery. I've done this before, it will be okay. Well, all in all, it was, but lord have mercy; these adults had on blinders as far as sanity and thinking that I was there to take care of them as well. There weren't chaperoning adults, these were monolithic chunks of lead with human legs. But we'll get to that later.
Lunches are sent along, provided by the cafeteria, and are usually, relatively, sufficiently fine. Several glitches, however, happened. School buses can no longer wait in the zoo parking lot, as the new idea was to fence it in and charge cars $4 for parking; the buses have to drop off the groups down the road a piece, and then we walk back to the entrance. Because of this, the three cases full of bagged lunch can't be left on the bus until time to retrieve, we can't carry them to leave on a picnic table because of rain, thieves, and seagulls; so the suggested solution was to have each child carry their lunch through the park themselves.
Oh ho, no, I thought. A paper bag in the hands of a six year old will not last a two hour walk around; an adult would have trouble as well for these are not the paper bags of yore that could hold a ham and a bag of oranges, these are mockeries, shams pretending to have function. I opened the zippered case holding the supply for my group, and lo, the kitchen had put into each bag a frozen cup of chopped strawberries in juice. Frozen had become slush, thus the condensation was soaking through the bags besides a few busted containers. Red, sticky syrup oozed through gashes in the white bags; folks, it was a car crash even before leaving the school, for no way were they transportable outside of the vinyl case. I grabbed the container holding what I imagined was 24 lunches, and lugged it onto the bus besides my purse, the asthma inhalers from the nurse, the first aid kit, and a reusable shopping bag with a raincoat plus a student's raingear which was a plastic poncho in a pouch. I was going to carry this myself while wrangling 24 excited children through construction sites.
After we got there, a woman got on the bus and announced that there was to be no picking of flowers, pulling leaves off trees, or sticking your hands in the fountains, or we would be told to leave. Now, I agree with the general premise, but telling them the consequence in a long sentence went right by them. You have to break it apart and use Story Voice; all they heard was pick flowers, pull leaves, and play in the fountain. Yes they did, especially the ones who had their families with them.
The parents who had prepaid met us at the gate, I had four adult tickets; me, a mother, and a Mom and Dad who were telling me they needed another ticket for Auntie, gimme. Uh, can't do that, I have no more, go buy one. This was related in my best broken Spanish which bounced off their heads and if they yelled what they wanted, maybe I would understand. You don't get to be a teacher without becoming a smiling wall of No; years of hassles over nonsense like this have taught me that repetition and then continued action towards your own goal will get my class to where I need them. These people had no qualms about holding up the line of groups behind us, making my kids stand and wait listening to their song and dance; or ignoring the idea that I wasn't the Fountain of Free Tickets.
Did I mention that Mom wore a blouse with a large cut out area in front covered by see-through gauzy fabric so that her (black) bra, cleavage and maybe that was her navel were visible to the kids and my face as she was two heads taller than me? I explained one more time, smiling and empathizing, and then turned to shepherd my children thru the gate. Mom and Dad looked exasperated, but ebbed away to find a ticket on their own. Okay, down to business, and why is the ticket sheet not perforated? Oh crap, they're stickers which peel off and get slapped onto a child. The gatekeeper volunteer was an older gentleman with a clipboard and patience, who watched as I was peeling these impossible things off a floppy sheet that had succumbed to humidity. Now, I had a turn at holding up the growing line.
Four of my kids had brought in money at a late date, and so I told him I had to buy four tickets; wouldn't you expect the ticket booth to be at the new entrance? Noooo, it was halfway around the block, through the parking lot and down the street at the old entrance. Oh lovely. Urban planning my foot, who thought this one up? I am still fumbling with sticker tickets while shoving kids through the gate, for if you put a sticker on a kid's chest, they freeze, look down in amazement. and start with taking it off, putting it on, nope, don't like that place, take it off, put it on. After pasting them with a sticker, you gotta catapult them towards the target with the flat of your other hand, while telling them DON'T YOU MOVE FROM THERE.
Mr. Clipboard had had enough of this new entry system himself besides probably me, and motioned to just scoot the four kids without tickets in. Bless him. Bless that man.
Hokay. Count heads, get them in a single line so they can see the elephant through a window after walking up a narrow causeway. The teacher ahead of me grabbed her kids three at a time and counted out loud to FIVE before snatching them out of there so the next three could see the elephant to the count of five. We were next, but who pushed up front with cameras and their special darling? Mom and Dad, with Auntie. My kids were trying to see while Auntie took photos, blocking the view. She's done. Nope. Now she's done. Nope. HANG ON KIDS, YOU'LL GET TO SEE THE ELEPHANT ONCE NAOMI'S AUNT IS FINISHED TAKING PICTURES. The classes behind us groaned, she finally moved, and then we did the assembly line look at the elephant, with my kids wriggling back down the compressed causeway. STAY THERE AND WAIT FOR ME, PLEASE. Field trips are lots of yelling.
Heading over to the barn where various farm animals are kept, my kids got to see a turkey, a seven hundred pound pig, a cow, and a donkey. Again, the walkways were constricted, several groups were scattered inside, and I realized that first graders aren't tall enough to see anything over the side of a barn wall. They enjoyed it, We lined up outside for a head count and Jesus have mercy, where the hell are Naomi and four other girls? My kids told me that Naomi's Mom had grabbed all the Spanish bilingual girls and took them off to see other exhibits. WHAT?? I can't tell you what I was thinking. We had to go find Mom and her little party. She hadn't gotten far, and the class spotted her before I did. They were gleeful, and asked, Are you gonna kick her butt, Ms. Coburn?
I explained to Mom that the girls had to stay with me, and do not take them anywhere else. Oh, Naomi wanted her little friends with her, I was told. By this time I was wishing I had a brick. My shoulder ached from the fifteen pounds of lunch and junk, my class was starting to scatter once they realized I was not going to kick anyone's behind, and Naomi put the saddest pout face on, with tears. She wants them with her. No, no, no, that's not how it works, legally, I am responsible for them. By State Law, I can be sued if anything happens to them. Mom's face changed channels when she heard the words legally and law. Oh, okay, I understand now. Naomi was still working on an Academy Award.
Uh-huh. I am watching you, lady; I know she will try it again. This is the parent who brought in a four-course birthday party with balloons, sheet cake, paper blow-outs, red punch, grab bags, and a baby after I told her, nicely, no. I don't have time for cutting and pouring since I have this thing called teaching math happening. Bring in cupcakes, they work so much better. Ha. She had no knife to cut the cake with, and sat back with the baby while the class exploded with joy; math was shot to hell, I cut cake with the blade of my big scissors and poured juice, then had to wipe down the room from supermarket frosting. You try to keep the relationship congenial, the woman has never threatened to have me beat up or my tires slashed. Her daughter is just an overindulged terrapin crying about things it cannot have. Hope she grows out of it, in spite of her mother.
The kids were tired from walking distances between inhabited exhibits, and frankly, I am tired of this zoo as well...lots of slick design built around rathole environments. A kid of mine threw something into the lion pit. Another broke line screaming, flapping, and running at a gull; by screaming, I mean screammmmming while Dad stood back, smiling. They broke ranks, argued about who was "skipping" who, whined about how not fair it was that they couldn't go on the bungee jump, whined about "they wannaaaaa". When the parents who came bought french fries and cones for their own, the rest of the class sang dirges of oppression regarding the mean teacher who would not buy them a dead bug from the sidewalk. We need to eat lunch, let's find benches, GET IN TWO LINES. FACE FORWARD. No child under the age of ten walks in a straight line, watching where they are going.
I sat them down. You. Here. You. HERE. If you continue to complain to me about who you are next to, I will wait until you are sitting quietly before handing out any food. SIT. Most of the kids take what comes their way, flexible and appreciative with manners. Others fight against Galileo's theory of heliocentricity, and claim ownership as the Center of the Solar System. It's a scattered band of six that perform dramatic interpretations of It's Not Faaiiiirr until I lower the boom. Sure, most of these kids go nowhere, they are overexcited six year olds, three are behaving poorly because they think they are home free with Mom or Dad to support them, but lose your mind more than once with a display of petulance or destructive amusement for your own benefit, and your tiny life will change immediately.
You will be mine, possibly with ketchup. I open the case of lunch.
Inside is a mess of strawberries and cheese. The cafeteria did not provide sandwiches, but gave the kids a slice of banana bread or a muffin, string cheese, fruit punch, carrots and unfrozen moosh, now coating shreds of what were once bags. I have to scoop out with two hands a pile of lunch and shredded bag for each child, and find out at the end that the cafeteria did not pack enough. Three hungry small faces amp up the background music of sadness, so I scramble and pilfer food that others were not watching. There weren't enough drinks, which meant I forfeited my bottle of water while grabbing the syrup-coated garbage, in order to fend off wailing sea gulls. The kids ate, enjoying themselves, while I appreciated the fact that they were sitting. Still.
Naomi was still pouting, apparently not enjoying herself; she walked up to me as her and her Mom were having a lunch at a further away table. Not sure of the answer, just in case it was a legitimate gripe, I asked her what was the matter? Honey? She still was wanting her bestest friend in the whole world to come sit and have lunch with her. I bent down to eye level and went over again how the class was to stay together; she was with her mother, and under parental control. Besty had to stay with me, as I was not going to chase Mom down again if she disappeared like she did earlier. It's my job to watch Besty. Call her up on the weekend for a playdate. You want to sit with her, come on over and sit with the class, there's room, we'd be glad to have you! The face grew even longer as this child has learned that she will not get her way with me by using the sad face. And if she really wanted to sit with the other child, she would have plopped her behind down next to her. She went and reported to Mom.
Mom came over, wanting to know why the other child couldn't sit with them. Because: I am in charge of this group, and I am not losing my job if something happens. You are Naomi's mother, you get to take care of Naomi. I have no authorization to allow anyone to leave my group. It's the law, (MY law, lady; especially now that you've proved self-serving). Naomi was standing behind her Mom, waiting for me to crumple under the force of maternal indignation. The alleged best friend could care less about sitting with Naomi and was enjoying her strawberry spattered string cheese. Mother and child went back to their own bench, grousing. This mother had asked earlier, what could be done to get her child to read better? This kid tells me she has a headache, is tired, and then cries. Does the same thing at home, says Mom. Really?
The bathrooms are large, close, but not close enough. After lunch, I was able to find two long benches, loaded them with children and barked you get in and get out, I am watching the door. Hurry up, everyone has to go. Understand? I sent three at a time; the boys were all done quickly, but only one of the first set of girls reappeared. Nitsy and Ditsy were reported as playing in the sink with the soap and washing their hands over and over. Since no parent was around, they had all taken off, what do I do? I sent the girl who is my junior deputy sheriff in; tell them to get out NOW. Nope, we aren't coming. I have a class of children that I can't leave, all have to pee, and I am not letting more than 3 boys and 3 girls out of my sight at a time. Even that is scary. I saw a mother leaning against the concession stand wall, talking on her cell phone; fortunately, she responded, coming over for guard duty and I was able to go into the women's restroom.
The two girls, still messing around with lather, jumped when they saw me. Out. Now. Meanwhile, back at the bench, one of my other girls punched one of my boys because he pushed her, which meant he got knocked into her by horsing around. There is no discourse of reason, the reaction is to hit because that's what the family told you; you get hit, hit back. He had a red mark, meaning I would write up an accident report for him, and a behavior referral for the girl. The street-toughened mother watching them said to me, "I don't know how you do it." There was an hour and a half to go.
We retrieved a lost sweater, then puttered around looking for animals to look at, searching for the absent father who had disappeared with his own child after I yelled at Datsun for throwing a rock over the barrier wall for the polar bears. We were leaving soon, and Datsun was supposed to go to his mother's this weekend, which I thought odd since Sunday is Father's Day; I have her number in my cell, called her. She messaged him as he won't answer the phone when her number shows, and poof, they were walking up within minutes, thank heavens.
Every time my attention is not on the class, if I am talking to another adult, my kids wander, spin out of orbit. I had to gather the twenty-four of them again into two lines, making sure they didn't run ahead of me; I was running on adrenalin and fumes by then. We were able to find a bald eagle, a reindeer, and a duck on a rock. No lions, monkeys, zebras, rhino, or tigers. The snake house was open, and the kids eyes rounded when they saw the middle coil of an anaconda, big as a man's leg. Can he eat you? Yes, especially first graders because they are so juicy tender. C'mere, Fizzy, let's see if he's hungry...go ask him if he wants a sandwich. They laughed and went on to be amazed by turtles and the one lone alligator living on a fiber glass pink beach.
Datsun and Dad had disappeared again. We were heading in a wavering path towards the exit gate, a large, rotating forkish thing supposedly to keep you from stealing a wallaby. Juniper, Adriatica, Naomi, and Fizzy had been signed out by their mothers on my roster, the rest were to return to school with me, including the legally battled over Datsun; would his father try to pull a fast one and take his kid with him? I called the mother again, who messaged the Dad, who brought the kiddo back just as the downpour began. We scooted under a canopy, and I was amazed that I had to yell about not licking rain from the supports. There were 30 minutes till the bus was to arrive from the half mile away church parking lot it was assigned to, but once everyone was seated on the cement, they chatted incessantly; I was able to see bits of the real child, not the one I have to compress into a test box, not the one who competes with me for class control and attention with exceptional neediness. They were playing, nicely. Sweetly.
One did escape, the rain licker, to stick her hands into the fountain. Get Back Here got her back. Jellybean asked for his poncho, he was very proud of it, bright yellow and long enough for him to trip over. I found the head hole, then tied front and back into big knots to shorten the thing. He undid them within ten minutes so his friends could share the poncho while standing under the canopy. Datsun and Dad materialized, and after the thirty minutes, so did the bus. Sometimes kids fall asleep after a field trip; not my guys. They sang every kid song they knew.
We arrived at the building, it was almost time to pack up and go home for the day. I got them all on the right buses, came back into the building and staggered to my Teacher Only chair. There was a bagel left from a morning breakfast given by the SPCA for teachers who participated in the kindness program; it was one of the best bagels in the kingdom. There was a questionnaire for me to fill out regarding the be kind to animals project, and did I observe any positive impact with my class? You mean by throwing rocks at the polar bears?
From what I saw, they were enchanted with every aspect of seeing faraway animals, from the tiny yellow frogs to the elephant nervously rocking back and forth as children yelled at the top of their lungs how big she was. Trees, starlings (those are baby vultures, I was told), goats and a lynx that was said to be a coyote were absorbed and appreciated. One of the things I noticed was that first graders are too short to see over the hedges and barriers used to surround the animals, explaining why they climbed on the railings to see better. The layout currently has blocked access with no signs explaining such, and there was more space devoted to amusements and pizza wagons than in past years. All in all, I was exhausted but grateful that no blood was spilled and I didn't have to open the emergency first aid.
Pulling up into my own parking lot, I noticed a small head looking at me; it was one of the woodchucks eyeing the aftermath of the tremendous rainstorm of Thursday night. No wind; however, the rain came down so hard that I couldn't see the downtown buildings as the sheets of rain hid their immensity. The woodchuck's field was just mudded up a bit, and down at the bottom of the slope was the brown rabbit having supper. After the frantic erraticism of the zoo trip, it felt peaceful to watch these two animals mull over the green shoots and clovers, not pacing, rocking or on a pink beach. Calm.
Well, this was long, maybe too long; it performs a catharsis, though, and everyone has a return button if they want to go back the way they came. Cooler and brighter this late afternoon, I have picked up Tulip from her surgery, she is sleeping and doesn't have to wear a collar to keep her from chewing at the stitches. She was very glad to get back home herself. Fingers crossed.
What did you do today? If anything, trust yourself. This evening will be cooler than average, the crops are already set back by two weeks, yet the woodchuck routs for grubs and new grass here in the city; the lynx sharpens its claws on tree bark, the zebra nickers in the herd, the elephants sigh in deep rumbles with their families; all are drawn back to home from the scattered day when night draws near. It flutters softly over the descending sun like a raven's wing, calling everyone to sleep. No difference is there, look at the horizon yourself, between sky and water or land when the stars are hidden by clouds, you can't tell where it begins or ends; it looks into a quiet eternity.
A clear night is filled with sharp crystals crossing the vault of heaven, the calendar wheels on; sleep peacefully, with the light of the stars idling across your face like a knowing hand. Night stops everything, your body in still suspension lays in its splendor, held by gravity yet extending towards the celestial realm, to translate the golden threads of day. Be well. Good night.
It always costs me at least fifty dollars for a field trip. I don't mind the kids whose families can't afford the fees, those I'm glad to take care of; what gets me is the minutiae of late-paying kids after the deadline and the money is already mailed in so there ends the early reservation price, the extra parents who show up at the entrance and claim they paid you for a ticket, the kids who paid but are absent and the rigamarole you go through to get a maybe refund from this particular public venue, as well as the ticket I have to buy for myself.
The students are excited, and I know it will be a different day populated by personality tics exhibited by each kid in handling excitement and new scenery. I've done this before, it will be okay. Well, all in all, it was, but lord have mercy; these adults had on blinders as far as sanity and thinking that I was there to take care of them as well. There weren't chaperoning adults, these were monolithic chunks of lead with human legs. But we'll get to that later.
Lunches are sent along, provided by the cafeteria, and are usually, relatively, sufficiently fine. Several glitches, however, happened. School buses can no longer wait in the zoo parking lot, as the new idea was to fence it in and charge cars $4 for parking; the buses have to drop off the groups down the road a piece, and then we walk back to the entrance. Because of this, the three cases full of bagged lunch can't be left on the bus until time to retrieve, we can't carry them to leave on a picnic table because of rain, thieves, and seagulls; so the suggested solution was to have each child carry their lunch through the park themselves.
Oh ho, no, I thought. A paper bag in the hands of a six year old will not last a two hour walk around; an adult would have trouble as well for these are not the paper bags of yore that could hold a ham and a bag of oranges, these are mockeries, shams pretending to have function. I opened the zippered case holding the supply for my group, and lo, the kitchen had put into each bag a frozen cup of chopped strawberries in juice. Frozen had become slush, thus the condensation was soaking through the bags besides a few busted containers. Red, sticky syrup oozed through gashes in the white bags; folks, it was a car crash even before leaving the school, for no way were they transportable outside of the vinyl case. I grabbed the container holding what I imagined was 24 lunches, and lugged it onto the bus besides my purse, the asthma inhalers from the nurse, the first aid kit, and a reusable shopping bag with a raincoat plus a student's raingear which was a plastic poncho in a pouch. I was going to carry this myself while wrangling 24 excited children through construction sites.
After we got there, a woman got on the bus and announced that there was to be no picking of flowers, pulling leaves off trees, or sticking your hands in the fountains, or we would be told to leave. Now, I agree with the general premise, but telling them the consequence in a long sentence went right by them. You have to break it apart and use Story Voice; all they heard was pick flowers, pull leaves, and play in the fountain. Yes they did, especially the ones who had their families with them.
The parents who had prepaid met us at the gate, I had four adult tickets; me, a mother, and a Mom and Dad who were telling me they needed another ticket for Auntie, gimme. Uh, can't do that, I have no more, go buy one. This was related in my best broken Spanish which bounced off their heads and if they yelled what they wanted, maybe I would understand. You don't get to be a teacher without becoming a smiling wall of No; years of hassles over nonsense like this have taught me that repetition and then continued action towards your own goal will get my class to where I need them. These people had no qualms about holding up the line of groups behind us, making my kids stand and wait listening to their song and dance; or ignoring the idea that I wasn't the Fountain of Free Tickets.
Did I mention that Mom wore a blouse with a large cut out area in front covered by see-through gauzy fabric so that her (black) bra, cleavage and maybe that was her navel were visible to the kids and my face as she was two heads taller than me? I explained one more time, smiling and empathizing, and then turned to shepherd my children thru the gate. Mom and Dad looked exasperated, but ebbed away to find a ticket on their own. Okay, down to business, and why is the ticket sheet not perforated? Oh crap, they're stickers which peel off and get slapped onto a child. The gatekeeper volunteer was an older gentleman with a clipboard and patience, who watched as I was peeling these impossible things off a floppy sheet that had succumbed to humidity. Now, I had a turn at holding up the growing line.
Four of my kids had brought in money at a late date, and so I told him I had to buy four tickets; wouldn't you expect the ticket booth to be at the new entrance? Noooo, it was halfway around the block, through the parking lot and down the street at the old entrance. Oh lovely. Urban planning my foot, who thought this one up? I am still fumbling with sticker tickets while shoving kids through the gate, for if you put a sticker on a kid's chest, they freeze, look down in amazement. and start with taking it off, putting it on, nope, don't like that place, take it off, put it on. After pasting them with a sticker, you gotta catapult them towards the target with the flat of your other hand, while telling them DON'T YOU MOVE FROM THERE.
Mr. Clipboard had had enough of this new entry system himself besides probably me, and motioned to just scoot the four kids without tickets in. Bless him. Bless that man.
Hokay. Count heads, get them in a single line so they can see the elephant through a window after walking up a narrow causeway. The teacher ahead of me grabbed her kids three at a time and counted out loud to FIVE before snatching them out of there so the next three could see the elephant to the count of five. We were next, but who pushed up front with cameras and their special darling? Mom and Dad, with Auntie. My kids were trying to see while Auntie took photos, blocking the view. She's done. Nope. Now she's done. Nope. HANG ON KIDS, YOU'LL GET TO SEE THE ELEPHANT ONCE NAOMI'S AUNT IS FINISHED TAKING PICTURES. The classes behind us groaned, she finally moved, and then we did the assembly line look at the elephant, with my kids wriggling back down the compressed causeway. STAY THERE AND WAIT FOR ME, PLEASE. Field trips are lots of yelling.
Heading over to the barn where various farm animals are kept, my kids got to see a turkey, a seven hundred pound pig, a cow, and a donkey. Again, the walkways were constricted, several groups were scattered inside, and I realized that first graders aren't tall enough to see anything over the side of a barn wall. They enjoyed it, We lined up outside for a head count and Jesus have mercy, where the hell are Naomi and four other girls? My kids told me that Naomi's Mom had grabbed all the Spanish bilingual girls and took them off to see other exhibits. WHAT?? I can't tell you what I was thinking. We had to go find Mom and her little party. She hadn't gotten far, and the class spotted her before I did. They were gleeful, and asked, Are you gonna kick her butt, Ms. Coburn?
I explained to Mom that the girls had to stay with me, and do not take them anywhere else. Oh, Naomi wanted her little friends with her, I was told. By this time I was wishing I had a brick. My shoulder ached from the fifteen pounds of lunch and junk, my class was starting to scatter once they realized I was not going to kick anyone's behind, and Naomi put the saddest pout face on, with tears. She wants them with her. No, no, no, that's not how it works, legally, I am responsible for them. By State Law, I can be sued if anything happens to them. Mom's face changed channels when she heard the words legally and law. Oh, okay, I understand now. Naomi was still working on an Academy Award.
Uh-huh. I am watching you, lady; I know she will try it again. This is the parent who brought in a four-course birthday party with balloons, sheet cake, paper blow-outs, red punch, grab bags, and a baby after I told her, nicely, no. I don't have time for cutting and pouring since I have this thing called teaching math happening. Bring in cupcakes, they work so much better. Ha. She had no knife to cut the cake with, and sat back with the baby while the class exploded with joy; math was shot to hell, I cut cake with the blade of my big scissors and poured juice, then had to wipe down the room from supermarket frosting. You try to keep the relationship congenial, the woman has never threatened to have me beat up or my tires slashed. Her daughter is just an overindulged terrapin crying about things it cannot have. Hope she grows out of it, in spite of her mother.
The kids were tired from walking distances between inhabited exhibits, and frankly, I am tired of this zoo as well...lots of slick design built around rathole environments. A kid of mine threw something into the lion pit. Another broke line screaming, flapping, and running at a gull; by screaming, I mean screammmmming while Dad stood back, smiling. They broke ranks, argued about who was "skipping" who, whined about how not fair it was that they couldn't go on the bungee jump, whined about "they wannaaaaa". When the parents who came bought french fries and cones for their own, the rest of the class sang dirges of oppression regarding the mean teacher who would not buy them a dead bug from the sidewalk. We need to eat lunch, let's find benches, GET IN TWO LINES. FACE FORWARD. No child under the age of ten walks in a straight line, watching where they are going.
I sat them down. You. Here. You. HERE. If you continue to complain to me about who you are next to, I will wait until you are sitting quietly before handing out any food. SIT. Most of the kids take what comes their way, flexible and appreciative with manners. Others fight against Galileo's theory of heliocentricity, and claim ownership as the Center of the Solar System. It's a scattered band of six that perform dramatic interpretations of It's Not Faaiiiirr until I lower the boom. Sure, most of these kids go nowhere, they are overexcited six year olds, three are behaving poorly because they think they are home free with Mom or Dad to support them, but lose your mind more than once with a display of petulance or destructive amusement for your own benefit, and your tiny life will change immediately.
You will be mine, possibly with ketchup. I open the case of lunch.
Inside is a mess of strawberries and cheese. The cafeteria did not provide sandwiches, but gave the kids a slice of banana bread or a muffin, string cheese, fruit punch, carrots and unfrozen moosh, now coating shreds of what were once bags. I have to scoop out with two hands a pile of lunch and shredded bag for each child, and find out at the end that the cafeteria did not pack enough. Three hungry small faces amp up the background music of sadness, so I scramble and pilfer food that others were not watching. There weren't enough drinks, which meant I forfeited my bottle of water while grabbing the syrup-coated garbage, in order to fend off wailing sea gulls. The kids ate, enjoying themselves, while I appreciated the fact that they were sitting. Still.
Naomi was still pouting, apparently not enjoying herself; she walked up to me as her and her Mom were having a lunch at a further away table. Not sure of the answer, just in case it was a legitimate gripe, I asked her what was the matter? Honey? She still was wanting her bestest friend in the whole world to come sit and have lunch with her. I bent down to eye level and went over again how the class was to stay together; she was with her mother, and under parental control. Besty had to stay with me, as I was not going to chase Mom down again if she disappeared like she did earlier. It's my job to watch Besty. Call her up on the weekend for a playdate. You want to sit with her, come on over and sit with the class, there's room, we'd be glad to have you! The face grew even longer as this child has learned that she will not get her way with me by using the sad face. And if she really wanted to sit with the other child, she would have plopped her behind down next to her. She went and reported to Mom.
Mom came over, wanting to know why the other child couldn't sit with them. Because: I am in charge of this group, and I am not losing my job if something happens. You are Naomi's mother, you get to take care of Naomi. I have no authorization to allow anyone to leave my group. It's the law, (MY law, lady; especially now that you've proved self-serving). Naomi was standing behind her Mom, waiting for me to crumple under the force of maternal indignation. The alleged best friend could care less about sitting with Naomi and was enjoying her strawberry spattered string cheese. Mother and child went back to their own bench, grousing. This mother had asked earlier, what could be done to get her child to read better? This kid tells me she has a headache, is tired, and then cries. Does the same thing at home, says Mom. Really?
The bathrooms are large, close, but not close enough. After lunch, I was able to find two long benches, loaded them with children and barked you get in and get out, I am watching the door. Hurry up, everyone has to go. Understand? I sent three at a time; the boys were all done quickly, but only one of the first set of girls reappeared. Nitsy and Ditsy were reported as playing in the sink with the soap and washing their hands over and over. Since no parent was around, they had all taken off, what do I do? I sent the girl who is my junior deputy sheriff in; tell them to get out NOW. Nope, we aren't coming. I have a class of children that I can't leave, all have to pee, and I am not letting more than 3 boys and 3 girls out of my sight at a time. Even that is scary. I saw a mother leaning against the concession stand wall, talking on her cell phone; fortunately, she responded, coming over for guard duty and I was able to go into the women's restroom.
The two girls, still messing around with lather, jumped when they saw me. Out. Now. Meanwhile, back at the bench, one of my other girls punched one of my boys because he pushed her, which meant he got knocked into her by horsing around. There is no discourse of reason, the reaction is to hit because that's what the family told you; you get hit, hit back. He had a red mark, meaning I would write up an accident report for him, and a behavior referral for the girl. The street-toughened mother watching them said to me, "I don't know how you do it." There was an hour and a half to go.
We retrieved a lost sweater, then puttered around looking for animals to look at, searching for the absent father who had disappeared with his own child after I yelled at Datsun for throwing a rock over the barrier wall for the polar bears. We were leaving soon, and Datsun was supposed to go to his mother's this weekend, which I thought odd since Sunday is Father's Day; I have her number in my cell, called her. She messaged him as he won't answer the phone when her number shows, and poof, they were walking up within minutes, thank heavens.
Every time my attention is not on the class, if I am talking to another adult, my kids wander, spin out of orbit. I had to gather the twenty-four of them again into two lines, making sure they didn't run ahead of me; I was running on adrenalin and fumes by then. We were able to find a bald eagle, a reindeer, and a duck on a rock. No lions, monkeys, zebras, rhino, or tigers. The snake house was open, and the kids eyes rounded when they saw the middle coil of an anaconda, big as a man's leg. Can he eat you? Yes, especially first graders because they are so juicy tender. C'mere, Fizzy, let's see if he's hungry...go ask him if he wants a sandwich. They laughed and went on to be amazed by turtles and the one lone alligator living on a fiber glass pink beach.
Datsun and Dad had disappeared again. We were heading in a wavering path towards the exit gate, a large, rotating forkish thing supposedly to keep you from stealing a wallaby. Juniper, Adriatica, Naomi, and Fizzy had been signed out by their mothers on my roster, the rest were to return to school with me, including the legally battled over Datsun; would his father try to pull a fast one and take his kid with him? I called the mother again, who messaged the Dad, who brought the kiddo back just as the downpour began. We scooted under a canopy, and I was amazed that I had to yell about not licking rain from the supports. There were 30 minutes till the bus was to arrive from the half mile away church parking lot it was assigned to, but once everyone was seated on the cement, they chatted incessantly; I was able to see bits of the real child, not the one I have to compress into a test box, not the one who competes with me for class control and attention with exceptional neediness. They were playing, nicely. Sweetly.
One did escape, the rain licker, to stick her hands into the fountain. Get Back Here got her back. Jellybean asked for his poncho, he was very proud of it, bright yellow and long enough for him to trip over. I found the head hole, then tied front and back into big knots to shorten the thing. He undid them within ten minutes so his friends could share the poncho while standing under the canopy. Datsun and Dad materialized, and after the thirty minutes, so did the bus. Sometimes kids fall asleep after a field trip; not my guys. They sang every kid song they knew.
We arrived at the building, it was almost time to pack up and go home for the day. I got them all on the right buses, came back into the building and staggered to my Teacher Only chair. There was a bagel left from a morning breakfast given by the SPCA for teachers who participated in the kindness program; it was one of the best bagels in the kingdom. There was a questionnaire for me to fill out regarding the be kind to animals project, and did I observe any positive impact with my class? You mean by throwing rocks at the polar bears?
From what I saw, they were enchanted with every aspect of seeing faraway animals, from the tiny yellow frogs to the elephant nervously rocking back and forth as children yelled at the top of their lungs how big she was. Trees, starlings (those are baby vultures, I was told), goats and a lynx that was said to be a coyote were absorbed and appreciated. One of the things I noticed was that first graders are too short to see over the hedges and barriers used to surround the animals, explaining why they climbed on the railings to see better. The layout currently has blocked access with no signs explaining such, and there was more space devoted to amusements and pizza wagons than in past years. All in all, I was exhausted but grateful that no blood was spilled and I didn't have to open the emergency first aid.
Pulling up into my own parking lot, I noticed a small head looking at me; it was one of the woodchucks eyeing the aftermath of the tremendous rainstorm of Thursday night. No wind; however, the rain came down so hard that I couldn't see the downtown buildings as the sheets of rain hid their immensity. The woodchuck's field was just mudded up a bit, and down at the bottom of the slope was the brown rabbit having supper. After the frantic erraticism of the zoo trip, it felt peaceful to watch these two animals mull over the green shoots and clovers, not pacing, rocking or on a pink beach. Calm.
Well, this was long, maybe too long; it performs a catharsis, though, and everyone has a return button if they want to go back the way they came. Cooler and brighter this late afternoon, I have picked up Tulip from her surgery, she is sleeping and doesn't have to wear a collar to keep her from chewing at the stitches. She was very glad to get back home herself. Fingers crossed.
What did you do today? If anything, trust yourself. This evening will be cooler than average, the crops are already set back by two weeks, yet the woodchuck routs for grubs and new grass here in the city; the lynx sharpens its claws on tree bark, the zebra nickers in the herd, the elephants sigh in deep rumbles with their families; all are drawn back to home from the scattered day when night draws near. It flutters softly over the descending sun like a raven's wing, calling everyone to sleep. No difference is there, look at the horizon yourself, between sky and water or land when the stars are hidden by clouds, you can't tell where it begins or ends; it looks into a quiet eternity.
A clear night is filled with sharp crystals crossing the vault of heaven, the calendar wheels on; sleep peacefully, with the light of the stars idling across your face like a knowing hand. Night stops everything, your body in still suspension lays in its splendor, held by gravity yet extending towards the celestial realm, to translate the golden threads of day. Be well. Good night.
Tuesday, June 10, 2014
Beer With Me
My friend in another country pays exorbitant prices for any alcohol, and so I usually bring a bottle of wine or a six-pack when I cross the bridge. Within the Province of Ontario, citizens have to go to a special store to purchase beer and liquor, and have a limited allowance regarding how much they can cross the border with. Currently, we here in the States may bring up to 24 twelve ounce cans, 40 ounces of liquor, or 1.5 liters of wine without paying import taxes, so I am often the rumrunning American with a Buffalonian accent which they better stop making fun of, or no more Stella Artois. Flattened a's are not for Canadian amusement, eh? Don't even get me started on curling.
In the aisle of the supermarket mercado, a tower of cardboard six packs wavered as the weighted carts loaded with various tubers and styrofoam packed chicken trundled past. I was there, looking for a requested brand, reading labels, amazed at the newer variations of brew; everything was crammed together, compounded by the manner of setting out random piles of grocery items on the diagonal. The Tower of Summer Shandy being one.
I am not much of a beer drinker, don't care for carbonation or the bitterness; therefore shopping for a certain brand involves contemplation and reading of labels. It ain't like the old days, when Buffalo had 39 breweries with names like Schmidt's, Simon Pure, and Iroquois; now there are Pliny the Younger, Double Dead Guy Ale, and Hell Hath No Fury Ale. Takes some education in language arts to get through the roster.
Because of the diagonal set-ups of merchandise, because I turned to get out of the way of a juggernaut shopper, the purse on my shoulder neatly launched the top case off the beer tower and after the tinkle of glass came the hiss of disseminating fizz, with a lovely, clear aroma of lemon. Flavored beer ran yellow down the aisle, and I went to get help. They were very nice and made the "Are you kidding?" face when I offered to pay for the disaster. Only slightly embarrassed, for who on earth stacks a tower of single six packs five feet high and then expects stability? Make a pyramid, for gosh sakes. Physics, people.
Today I was given a mission to find a new release, a creamy ale called Orange Blossom; the first three stores were sold out; the fourth displayed eight single bottles with nothing in a pre-constructed pack, so I grabbed them and headed out as we were on the way to Toronto for a Keaton film. At the cashier, I noticed each single bottle was ringing up at $4.99 which meant escalation of pricing into the stratosphere, for here in Buffalo, five time eight equals forty. Forty dollars for eight bottles? I don't pay forty dollars for almost anything that doesn't have electrical circuits, and this was before tax and deposit were added on. Uh, say, are these really $4.99 a bottle?
The cherub-faced young man wasn't sure, couldn't find it listed, and so called a front manager. She came over and said, "We can't sell you these." What?
Because the bottles were just in my cart without a surrounding cardboard box, I was not allowed to purchase them. "What do you want to do with these?" she asked. What?
Not being a beer buyer, the brain ran through the list of recall concerning if there was a magic about this, what did the manager mean, is there a secret code for entering beer world? Did I knock something over in this store? Were they mad at me?
Apparently, I took the bottles from a shelf where the cognoscenti select individual brands to put in a origami type cardboard box with a handle. Then you can buy it, but only six, not eight except if I filled another divided box with four other beer species. She finally understood that I wanted to buy all the beer, which apparently was not obvious even though it was in the cart. Maybe I wanted to give the beer a ride around the aisles prior to lining it up on the cashier's conveyor belt, where it could further enjoy a little ride and experience a temporary Beer Freedom before being replaced on the shelf. Oh, you want to buy it? Yes? She disappeared for ten minutes to find a box that would make it legal, discussed it with the head of Beer who said there wasn't anymore to be had since it was new to the market, and everyone in line behind me was white-knuckling their shopping carts.
I told the young man to cancel me out and continue with the other customers until the manager reappeared. Why I needed a box is a mystery, for the bottles would be covered by the reusable shopping bag, thus preventing the impropriety of a wild beer out in the open. But, you must have a box. She came back with a flimsy, brown, organically correct compostable beer carton, printed with soy ink.
It wasn't strong enough to hold anything on its own, and had to be bolstered by additional support; yet it was now right, and she calmed down. The young cashier was unnecessarily apologetic, it certainly would have gone smoother if there were large signs with available cartons in a friendly rack, but both he and I learned something about purchasing beer in this grocery. A box makes the price go down to $9.90 a six pack. 40 ounce bottles, however, need no cardboard wrapping and can just be plopped in a bag; this makes no sense, and as with most rules, remains a mystery as to conceivability.
Toronto was lovely, so unique, busy, thriving, expensive as hell, but so is everything in Canada. A fifteen dollar hamburger is not unusual, but Canadian beef does have a wonderful flavor. Flavour. I wanted to stay in the realm of silent film, with the pub across the way carouseling around a Sunday jazz trio. Next week, it's the Arctic Monkeys. Don't ask me, I just said yes, I'll go. I'll go and learn something new with my knowledgeable friend. I come from the era of the Turtles, Three Dog Night, and Iron Butterfly; Arctic Monkeys sound like fun. An outdoor venue, here's hope it won't rain. We should bring some beer.
Driving back to my city just at sunset, the drizzle performed the enchantment of a partial rainbow; it was a stout pillar of fire rising into the coming dusk as the last rim of orange sunlight folded into the horizon. It was enjoyable to watch, eventually fading to a flamed wash in the sky, a ghost of light broken by raindrops into violets and blues bending at 40-degree angles; the oranges and reds are exposed at a 42-degree angle.
This morning, the young rabbit was out on the strip of scrap land between the parking lot and a higher street; this is where the woodchucks live, they shoot dirty looks at the intruder eating in their minute field. The rabbit's back was to me, but he isn't skitterish at all, his delicate, shelled ears did turn back to listen. I made kissy-bun-bun noises, turned to get in the car, and there he was. He came up to the fence and sat on his hind legs, front paws up, looking at me. Does he know that I'm the one who illicitly pushed carrots through the fence links during early spring, when ice still was? He put his order in and I found a carrot for him later. The morning sun had lit up the brown ruff at the back of his neck into warm rusts tipped with black and gold.
Tonight, there is a small breeze that causes the window chimes to sound intermittently, like a reticent memory; they remember briefly, then forget. No stars are out, for the low clouds are bringing more scattered rain, making the evening seem even closer. When you can look up to see the stars, you are looking into forever; under the blanket of clouds, you are in your own room. Sleep well, traveller, sleep well, rabbit; get to bed for an early rise, sort out the dry grass lining the burrow, turn down blankets, slip into the soothing dark. Close your eyes, think of things to be; all will be well. Good night.
In the aisle of the supermarket mercado, a tower of cardboard six packs wavered as the weighted carts loaded with various tubers and styrofoam packed chicken trundled past. I was there, looking for a requested brand, reading labels, amazed at the newer variations of brew; everything was crammed together, compounded by the manner of setting out random piles of grocery items on the diagonal. The Tower of Summer Shandy being one.
I am not much of a beer drinker, don't care for carbonation or the bitterness; therefore shopping for a certain brand involves contemplation and reading of labels. It ain't like the old days, when Buffalo had 39 breweries with names like Schmidt's, Simon Pure, and Iroquois; now there are Pliny the Younger, Double Dead Guy Ale, and Hell Hath No Fury Ale. Takes some education in language arts to get through the roster.
Because of the diagonal set-ups of merchandise, because I turned to get out of the way of a juggernaut shopper, the purse on my shoulder neatly launched the top case off the beer tower and after the tinkle of glass came the hiss of disseminating fizz, with a lovely, clear aroma of lemon. Flavored beer ran yellow down the aisle, and I went to get help. They were very nice and made the "Are you kidding?" face when I offered to pay for the disaster. Only slightly embarrassed, for who on earth stacks a tower of single six packs five feet high and then expects stability? Make a pyramid, for gosh sakes. Physics, people.
Today I was given a mission to find a new release, a creamy ale called Orange Blossom; the first three stores were sold out; the fourth displayed eight single bottles with nothing in a pre-constructed pack, so I grabbed them and headed out as we were on the way to Toronto for a Keaton film. At the cashier, I noticed each single bottle was ringing up at $4.99 which meant escalation of pricing into the stratosphere, for here in Buffalo, five time eight equals forty. Forty dollars for eight bottles? I don't pay forty dollars for almost anything that doesn't have electrical circuits, and this was before tax and deposit were added on. Uh, say, are these really $4.99 a bottle?
The cherub-faced young man wasn't sure, couldn't find it listed, and so called a front manager. She came over and said, "We can't sell you these." What?
Because the bottles were just in my cart without a surrounding cardboard box, I was not allowed to purchase them. "What do you want to do with these?" she asked. What?
Not being a beer buyer, the brain ran through the list of recall concerning if there was a magic about this, what did the manager mean, is there a secret code for entering beer world? Did I knock something over in this store? Were they mad at me?
Apparently, I took the bottles from a shelf where the cognoscenti select individual brands to put in a origami type cardboard box with a handle. Then you can buy it, but only six, not eight except if I filled another divided box with four other beer species. She finally understood that I wanted to buy all the beer, which apparently was not obvious even though it was in the cart. Maybe I wanted to give the beer a ride around the aisles prior to lining it up on the cashier's conveyor belt, where it could further enjoy a little ride and experience a temporary Beer Freedom before being replaced on the shelf. Oh, you want to buy it? Yes? She disappeared for ten minutes to find a box that would make it legal, discussed it with the head of Beer who said there wasn't anymore to be had since it was new to the market, and everyone in line behind me was white-knuckling their shopping carts.
I told the young man to cancel me out and continue with the other customers until the manager reappeared. Why I needed a box is a mystery, for the bottles would be covered by the reusable shopping bag, thus preventing the impropriety of a wild beer out in the open. But, you must have a box. She came back with a flimsy, brown, organically correct compostable beer carton, printed with soy ink.
It wasn't strong enough to hold anything on its own, and had to be bolstered by additional support; yet it was now right, and she calmed down. The young cashier was unnecessarily apologetic, it certainly would have gone smoother if there were large signs with available cartons in a friendly rack, but both he and I learned something about purchasing beer in this grocery. A box makes the price go down to $9.90 a six pack. 40 ounce bottles, however, need no cardboard wrapping and can just be plopped in a bag; this makes no sense, and as with most rules, remains a mystery as to conceivability.
Toronto was lovely, so unique, busy, thriving, expensive as hell, but so is everything in Canada. A fifteen dollar hamburger is not unusual, but Canadian beef does have a wonderful flavor. Flavour. I wanted to stay in the realm of silent film, with the pub across the way carouseling around a Sunday jazz trio. Next week, it's the Arctic Monkeys. Don't ask me, I just said yes, I'll go. I'll go and learn something new with my knowledgeable friend. I come from the era of the Turtles, Three Dog Night, and Iron Butterfly; Arctic Monkeys sound like fun. An outdoor venue, here's hope it won't rain. We should bring some beer.
Driving back to my city just at sunset, the drizzle performed the enchantment of a partial rainbow; it was a stout pillar of fire rising into the coming dusk as the last rim of orange sunlight folded into the horizon. It was enjoyable to watch, eventually fading to a flamed wash in the sky, a ghost of light broken by raindrops into violets and blues bending at 40-degree angles; the oranges and reds are exposed at a 42-degree angle.
This morning, the young rabbit was out on the strip of scrap land between the parking lot and a higher street; this is where the woodchucks live, they shoot dirty looks at the intruder eating in their minute field. The rabbit's back was to me, but he isn't skitterish at all, his delicate, shelled ears did turn back to listen. I made kissy-bun-bun noises, turned to get in the car, and there he was. He came up to the fence and sat on his hind legs, front paws up, looking at me. Does he know that I'm the one who illicitly pushed carrots through the fence links during early spring, when ice still was? He put his order in and I found a carrot for him later. The morning sun had lit up the brown ruff at the back of his neck into warm rusts tipped with black and gold.
Tonight, there is a small breeze that causes the window chimes to sound intermittently, like a reticent memory; they remember briefly, then forget. No stars are out, for the low clouds are bringing more scattered rain, making the evening seem even closer. When you can look up to see the stars, you are looking into forever; under the blanket of clouds, you are in your own room. Sleep well, traveller, sleep well, rabbit; get to bed for an early rise, sort out the dry grass lining the burrow, turn down blankets, slip into the soothing dark. Close your eyes, think of things to be; all will be well. Good night.
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