Blood You, and Turkeys

My alarm goes off at 4:30, which seemed appropriate to accommodate this day's scheduled blood test at 7 a.m.  Driving in the early morning gives you a look at a different world, at the risers, the gleaners, the last of the nocturnal critters, feathered, hoofed, or wobbling on the sidewalk with a steak sub in hand.  Morning light is unique in illumination, as if the buildings and trees themselves blink awake as much as we do; as if the cat were punching out at the clock, mouse in tow.  No one else is on the road in most instances, except for people who have to be somewhere.  Not a shopper, Sunday driver, or a carload of kids going for ice cream are out and about; you and anyone else have direct purpose.

I wore sleeves able to be pushed up, found a list of to-do things in my purse from last year while in the waiting room, and was musing 'what on earth was I thinking's while going down the roster.  Wooden rug?  Really?  I was called and followed the lady into Room 1, which had photos of pets dressed up as Universal movie monsters, and a plastic goldfish bowl with a plastic goldfish in it.

"Oh, how cute!" I said, thinking that not only would my class of first graders enjoy a fake goldfish, but it would be one they couldn't kill.  The phlebotomist did not respond, tending to her work, and I then surmised that this was not her room.  How could she be responsible for pictures of a daschund dressed as Frankenstein's monster, or a corny plastic goldfish?  This gal was cold business, no fun or conversation was overlapping her borders.  Okay, no problem, everyone has their worries for the day, I can sit still for a minute, here's my lab order.   I signed a paper, verified my phone number and made a fist.

"Keep your arm straight," she said while tightening the band above my elbow.  'Kay.  She tapped where my vein was supposed to be and slammed that needle in like she was saving my life.  What?  Ow ow ow!  Jeezus H.  I thought she hit an artery. There was no name tag on her paper lab coat, so I began memorizing her physical features in case identification was necessary for filing a police report regarding the size of the bruise I was going to develop.  Older, short, glasses, balding with two headbands pushing back her hair to a starting point above her ears.  Pale turquoise nail polish.  At-ti-tude.  Ow.  It was over quickly.

She pulled the needle out, and fumbled with the cotton while my arm spouted dark blood.  Blood is not bright red like in the movies, but dark, like oxblood cherries.  It doesn't turn the familiar Crayola red until it oxidizes--cut open a package of fresh ground beef, give the newly exposed meat a few minutes, and it will become scarlet.  She used three cotton balls to stop the blood, put the tape on lopsided, added more tape and said You're. Done.  Have. A. Good. Day.

I pressed down on the spot to staunch the flow and get the coagulation going, it was 7:20 and I was back in the car; wanted to head out to Trader Joe's as it wasn't much further, yet they didn't open until 8...by this time, I was headed past the cemetery where my grandparents are buried, and hadn't checked in on them since last year.  The gates were open, so here was somewhere to be for fifteen minutes; morning light still made everything ethereally pretty, and driving slowly allowed the headstones to be seen.  There was a Viking helmet on a slab, Father Time standing with a baby angel in front of him; most were simple rectangular chunks of granite with names engraved.  I swear there was a Ringenbel.

Well, that would be nice, a stone marker, I'd like that, when--turkeys!  There was a pair of handsome, giant turkeys, their feathers shining bronze in the sun emerging from the brush, as my car nosed towards the area where my grandparents are buried.  I stopped to let them pass, except they didn't.  The Turkey King started bobbing his head, his red-skinny neck undulating up and down, gobbling.  Another not happy with me.

Come on, move it, you two.  Nope, no moving o metal square beast, you have entered our kingdom and must answer questions three to pass.  I nudged forward to more irate gobbling and the Turkey King started pecking the car bumper indignantly, the other hung back a bit, letting the boss do the work of telling this intruder off.  The more I came forward, the more aggressive the animal became; is the winter broom still in the car?  These things were huge, large enough that they could really do damage with their spurs unless I grabbed one by the neck and made him into dinner.  That would happen only if I'm attacked, and I won't be attacked if I don't get out of the car.  That however, was not happening, as no turkeys are keeping me away from my grandma and grandpa.  What the hell is in this car that will help?

Bird seed.  I have a bag of birdseed in the car at all times to feed sparrows who have learned to wait  at the parking lot fence in the morning.  I rolled down the passenger window, and launched a fistful of songbird mix at the two avian knuckleheads who knew what it was and left the bumper as quickly as if they were Trick or Treaters, and I had thrown full-size Baby Ruths onto the lawn.  I wondered if someone fed them regularly so that they've learned to carjack visitors for a shakedown.

I was able to pull up the last thirty feet to where I needed to be, and eyed the birds, forming a strategy if these bastards came after me while checking the grave.  I grabbed a handful of seed to take, and went to my first visit, Mr. Kontos, who is just a few feet before my grandparents.  George Kontos was my high school art teacher, who died supposedly from lead then used in pottery glazes.  He was a kind, gentle man, and I make sure to say hello and pull the overgrowth away from his plaque.  Here, Mr. Kontos, have some birdseed just in case the turkeys come by.  There were now three of the hoodlums pecking the grass in search of millet and sunflower seed who weren't interested in my presence at all, perhaps they didn't associate me with the seed exploding from the car, perhaps the car itself was considered to be an obedient serf. 

My Grandma Ida Ruth and Grandpa Stephen Potter are just under the purple martin house that has been repaired, their plaque is in good shape, and I need to get some flowers for them, with an American flag.  They were both born in 1896; Grandma would have loved watching the turkeys, so I sprinkled some bird seed about, telling her that she might get visitors.  Her maiden name was Rechenberger; her mother's maiden name was Coburn, and that's the name I selected for myself and legally paid for.  I said goodbyes, went to where my Aunt Dorie is buried, then turned towards the Boulevard.  I made it to Trader Joe's and bought a consolation bouquet for myself.  Now, I am done.

The day is on the other side of afternoon, soon to be evening, then midnight dark; my sore arm is still achey from the reincarnation of Jack the Ripper, yet it has been a good day overall.  Good to see a friend.  Mackerel clouds tell of rain within 24 hours, their scalloped ridges ordered in rows as they swing through the prehistoric sky.  This is the atmosphere that hovered over the dinosaurs, with a tad more oxygen then than now; there float particles that existed when megaturkeys lurched through forests, when Rome was contrived and diminished, when bread came in cellophane wrappers with a Jiminy Cricket sticker on the end.  When thylacines and quaggas cantered over ground, before starlings were introduced to Central Park, before the first gong sounded, before the last ankylosaurus laid down.

Float into the world of the subconscious, where sandman dreams collect and sort themselves out, where wishes and cakes soaked in rum syrup sit in jars, waiting to be opened.  Be the sky, and watch the earth unfold.  Sleep well, dear heart.