This morning had a clear sky, finger-painted in red near the horizon with lingering dark hesitating before sliding below the horizon where the next group of people, plants, animals, and mineral deposits were waiting for dawn. Because the temperature registered as 36 degrees with prediction of low 50s by the afternoon, I chose a raincoat over the tedium of wearing a down jacket, making my steps lighter, my head held higher, compared to the hunched, bedeviled doldrum of a winter-weary Monday through Friday.
Neighbors and I awaited the elevator, the familiar "ding" announced the opening door, and we saw that half the elevator had been egged, a substantial puddle of yolk pooled on the linoleum. Eggshells were lodged where the ceiling met the wall, orange streaks amid the glaze of the egg whites streaming down; we gingerly got on, and once on the ground floor found more smashed eggs outside on the sidewalk. Other neighbors related that the second elevator had been egged as well.
Coming back after work, lugging groceries, I saw a police car pulled up on the lawn of the apartment building, behind a large van. Huh, could the police be interested in eggs? This is a city property, there's been worse than that sort of mess, maybe there's been a fight, an erratic tenant. Ah well, just be ready to duck. Another car was backed up to the door, sometimes movers will park there to load up, and it was the first of the month; as I got nearer, the lettering on the door said "Medical Examiner". Oh no. Who?
Three other tenants were in the lobby along with a collapsed gurney, a black wooden board on top in the shape of a simple coffin. Apparently it was too large for the elevator. Two of us had just entered the area in front of the elevators and were checking for mail, another said not to worry, that they were up on the 11th floor and would likely be a while. However, it wasn't. The doors slid open and two policemen came out, positioning themselves to prevent crowding of the occupants and the grey body bag which lay on the elevator floor that was still damp from mopping up broken eggs.
Two men in business dress came out and adjusted the gurney to proper height, then picked up the body bag by either end. It slumped in the middle, seemingly small; mentally I ran down the list of possibilities. There weren't any elderly residents in this building any more, but the shape suggested a human of slight stature, one of whom there wasn't much left. A woman dressed in a black blouse and pants was smiling and thanking the officers, the last to emerge from the chamber of the lift. Coroner?
They spoke in quiet voices or not at all; the remains were handled carefully but with efficiency, everyone was professional, including the observers. One man who had gotten his mail left as the group appeared, another man and his daughter waited off to the side as things were taken care of, this last journey on earth for the young man who had passed away.
"You know the guy who sat out back? This was him. He was only 40, just a baby."
My heart sank, for he was known to me, and would sometimes answer a hello, sometimes not. The waiting man, his daughter, and myself traveled upwards to our own floors in the space that seconds before had held a somber assemblage transporting, in dignity, evidence of a life lived.
Is there reason for posting so private a topic? I have little, if any, standing on the subject, but having academically studied death in college through a mostly anthropological lens, I believe in personal privacy yet would like to hear more conversation regarding stages, the reality, philosophy, and traditions. Investigate cultural practices, such as the charnel houses designed by Catholics (Italy, Czechoslovakia), mummification (just about everywhere), the dressing of bodies of loved ones and keeping them in the family at the dinner table for years (Papua New Guinea); the celebration of the Day of the Dead where skulls of loved ones are carried in windowed boxes and brought gifts (Mexico). All of this happens, has happened, and is expected to be by varied people who don't view death as a final goodbye, but as a continuation of life.
I have experienced a close death, that of my mother, it is one of the most precious of gifts I have had, being able to be with her when she died. Other deaths can only be considered tragic, and they leave huge holes behind that will not be healed but might be patched. All you can do as a bystander is to remember, and honor the family as well as their loved one. None of us gets away without a bit torn out of our chests, and I would include companion animals in that. Love is love.
Love them, then; love us, love yourself. Love as much of this world as you can to sustain what we have, and be grateful for having breath another day, or the use of limbs, or for friends, or a place to sleep safely. It will be okay. All of it. Say your goodnights and drift away, take a boat riding over the swells of night, pull in the sail, sidle through dreams, carve slow arcs through the welkin by turning the rudder. Lullaby, lullaby, hush, sweet one.
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Wednesday, February 22, 2017
Bees and Robins
Roger is washing my arm, Snowbelle is on the opposite side, and I may become the salami in the middle of this sandwich, as they both hate each other. Haaaaate. And cat hate is immense hate. You haven't been hated until you've faced the slitty glare of feline malevolence, it's like getting sliced by a laser into deli ham. No resolutions have been broken for there were none to be allowed, the last peal of the last New Year's Day bell rang deaf on feline proclivities.
A wild hive of bees had swarmed to the side of a building next to my pharmacy, this happened maybe ten summers ago, and found a small entryway, a hole, in the cement block chosen by the queen. I was in the parking lot when the swarm arrived, the air filled with bees circling, looking for an adequate place to land. They were still swarming when I left, a dome of bees forming around the entryway of their new digs. It was soothing to be a part of it, I felt no fear which may have been stupid, but these were honeybees, and they are pretty docile and efficient in that they just want to get on with their lives.
A few had landed on me, confused, or I was in the way, and were shaken off to rejoin the excited moving in day. I was thrilled to see honeybees on the lower west side of the city, where most trees had been cut down, homes boarded, and poverty weighed on shoulders. Few bees were still errantly swarming here and there by the next day, and bee business began; I hoped that the humans inside the block building wouldn't spray their newest tenants.
At home, I looked up apiarists and sent emails out, hoping that one would come and coax the insects into proper bee management, but not one answered. If anyone wished to eliminate them, there could have been enlisted assisted murder by city pest control; to save them was not something I could do alone, so I just watched. Years went by, and they weren't exterminated or pestered, I wondered how much honey was accumulating in the wall, were the humans aware of the situation, and were these an escaped hive? I felt safe when I saw the bees, and imagined the Bee Patrol saving me in case I was mugged in the parking lot. My little brown, stripey friends.
In reality, I enjoyed watching them through the seasons, the warming of spring, the slippage of summer into fall into winter. How long would they last there, it has been ten years with no sign of them being disenchanted with their home. Well, something good is taking place, for last week, there was a white box sitting on a newly installed ledge which seems to be a container for bees. I am guessing that finally, an apiarist has landed with hopes of snagging the hive and what, relocating? Assimilating? Bees have been having a hard time lately, with entire colonies wiped out...what has kept this one going for a decade? That just may be what needs to be found out, why this colony has survived when many have not in regards to the climate change and use of pesticides.
Tuesday, I heard a robin, or so I thought. Living next to a highway blurs the everyday sounds from the trees and sidewalks so that a heavy snowstorm is welcome, it's the only thing that quiets the roar. The next day, I startled four robins that were turning over last fall's leaves in search of what they mostly eat, bugs and worms. It was so good to see them, yet I worry that they arrived too early and may be caught in a late ice storm. There is a flock that lives year round in Delaware Park, savvy enough to forage the zoo for edibles, but the ones I saw in the maples were new, sleek from their long trip up. Nothing like that orange-red breast to cheer a Northerner's heart.
Buds are swelling, Easter candy is out, crows are calling, gulls fill the air over the Niagara corridor above the river, appearing as a squall of snow dipping and diving, yelling their heads off. Gull experts come from around the world to study them, as we may have the most species of gulls appearing in the same vicinity at once during migration, interspersed with mergansers, scaups, grebes, loons, cranes, teals, mallards, wood ducks, buffleheads, coots, geese, wigeons, quicks, quacks, and paddywhacks. Even without the green that my more southern friends are enjoying, life is burgeoning. Waking up. Staggering to the kitchen for coffee. The groundhog needs to adjust his timing, for in spite of the six weeks more predicted, we are forgoing thick layers of down for maybe just a scarf to run out to the car.
Yesterday turned into morning into today, and will do so until the sun ceases to be, and time extends into whatever planetary rotation humans have leapt to. Will we ever live on Mars? No doubt that explorers will get there, what will they do with that extra 39 minutes and 35 seconds compared to Earth's straight 24 hour day? I am telling you, it will drag. No where to go, an average of -81 degrees, all carbon dioxide with some water vapor. The year is near twice as long. New holidays need invention, a corner oxygen bar constructed, and greenhouses that convert the CO2 into O. Two moons, though. That would be pretty. Get that red dust ground into your clothes, people would know what planet you've been playing on.
The light lasts longer, doesn't get pitch dark until 6, more reasonable than 3:30-4 meaning that Vitamin D is being produced in our sorry winter hides. When the buds do open into leaves, that will mean more oxygen is produced, giving us that spring freshness bordering on happy insanity. You will bounce, guaranteed. Then after a day of gadding, of hanging sheets out on the line, of flinging open the windows and enlisting family to dust and haul out, have supper and check latches. Test the doors, put out candles and turn in; think of Pisces swimming through the waters of Aquarius, with Neptune at the apex of the water-bearer. Little fish weaving in schools through the starlight, nebulae, clusters. Good night.
A wild hive of bees had swarmed to the side of a building next to my pharmacy, this happened maybe ten summers ago, and found a small entryway, a hole, in the cement block chosen by the queen. I was in the parking lot when the swarm arrived, the air filled with bees circling, looking for an adequate place to land. They were still swarming when I left, a dome of bees forming around the entryway of their new digs. It was soothing to be a part of it, I felt no fear which may have been stupid, but these were honeybees, and they are pretty docile and efficient in that they just want to get on with their lives.
A few had landed on me, confused, or I was in the way, and were shaken off to rejoin the excited moving in day. I was thrilled to see honeybees on the lower west side of the city, where most trees had been cut down, homes boarded, and poverty weighed on shoulders. Few bees were still errantly swarming here and there by the next day, and bee business began; I hoped that the humans inside the block building wouldn't spray their newest tenants.
At home, I looked up apiarists and sent emails out, hoping that one would come and coax the insects into proper bee management, but not one answered. If anyone wished to eliminate them, there could have been enlisted assisted murder by city pest control; to save them was not something I could do alone, so I just watched. Years went by, and they weren't exterminated or pestered, I wondered how much honey was accumulating in the wall, were the humans aware of the situation, and were these an escaped hive? I felt safe when I saw the bees, and imagined the Bee Patrol saving me in case I was mugged in the parking lot. My little brown, stripey friends.
In reality, I enjoyed watching them through the seasons, the warming of spring, the slippage of summer into fall into winter. How long would they last there, it has been ten years with no sign of them being disenchanted with their home. Well, something good is taking place, for last week, there was a white box sitting on a newly installed ledge which seems to be a container for bees. I am guessing that finally, an apiarist has landed with hopes of snagging the hive and what, relocating? Assimilating? Bees have been having a hard time lately, with entire colonies wiped out...what has kept this one going for a decade? That just may be what needs to be found out, why this colony has survived when many have not in regards to the climate change and use of pesticides.
Tuesday, I heard a robin, or so I thought. Living next to a highway blurs the everyday sounds from the trees and sidewalks so that a heavy snowstorm is welcome, it's the only thing that quiets the roar. The next day, I startled four robins that were turning over last fall's leaves in search of what they mostly eat, bugs and worms. It was so good to see them, yet I worry that they arrived too early and may be caught in a late ice storm. There is a flock that lives year round in Delaware Park, savvy enough to forage the zoo for edibles, but the ones I saw in the maples were new, sleek from their long trip up. Nothing like that orange-red breast to cheer a Northerner's heart.
Buds are swelling, Easter candy is out, crows are calling, gulls fill the air over the Niagara corridor above the river, appearing as a squall of snow dipping and diving, yelling their heads off. Gull experts come from around the world to study them, as we may have the most species of gulls appearing in the same vicinity at once during migration, interspersed with mergansers, scaups, grebes, loons, cranes, teals, mallards, wood ducks, buffleheads, coots, geese, wigeons, quicks, quacks, and paddywhacks. Even without the green that my more southern friends are enjoying, life is burgeoning. Waking up. Staggering to the kitchen for coffee. The groundhog needs to adjust his timing, for in spite of the six weeks more predicted, we are forgoing thick layers of down for maybe just a scarf to run out to the car.
Yesterday turned into morning into today, and will do so until the sun ceases to be, and time extends into whatever planetary rotation humans have leapt to. Will we ever live on Mars? No doubt that explorers will get there, what will they do with that extra 39 minutes and 35 seconds compared to Earth's straight 24 hour day? I am telling you, it will drag. No where to go, an average of -81 degrees, all carbon dioxide with some water vapor. The year is near twice as long. New holidays need invention, a corner oxygen bar constructed, and greenhouses that convert the CO2 into O. Two moons, though. That would be pretty. Get that red dust ground into your clothes, people would know what planet you've been playing on.
The light lasts longer, doesn't get pitch dark until 6, more reasonable than 3:30-4 meaning that Vitamin D is being produced in our sorry winter hides. When the buds do open into leaves, that will mean more oxygen is produced, giving us that spring freshness bordering on happy insanity. You will bounce, guaranteed. Then after a day of gadding, of hanging sheets out on the line, of flinging open the windows and enlisting family to dust and haul out, have supper and check latches. Test the doors, put out candles and turn in; think of Pisces swimming through the waters of Aquarius, with Neptune at the apex of the water-bearer. Little fish weaving in schools through the starlight, nebulae, clusters. Good night.
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