Food Stories

I rarely clip coupons, as the expiration dates, remembering that I have one, or having to buy 2 or 3 items to get a dollar off are reasons uninspiring.  Not that much of anything is used in the household, and certainly not brand name products; thrift stores, Aldi's, and Amazon are the triumvirate powers, the Bermuda Triangle which suck in my debit number and spit products back out.  Cash?  Hardly, and that is why the fast fingered thief who recently took my wallet for a holiday just got away with six dollars.

The counter clerk at the post office was handed the slip, asked me for identification, then trundled over to a small table where about 8 plastic envelopes, golden with a jolly Santa illustration, sat lined up.  It was still a minor miracle sponsored by St. Anthony as I sat in the car and opened the packet, spying that first corner of familiar red, indeed, my wallet.  Everything, every little nuance, cat stickers, friend's house key, wadded tissue, debit card, license, tool kit, Triple A, Blue Cross Blue Shield; all  still there.

Plus more; a Groupon coupon for fast food delivery from a local Thai restaurant that I never would have clipped or used.  Food delivery is not in my history; growing up in the fifties, only the milkman brought food to the door where we lived out in the sticks of Clarence, New York.  Cottage cheese in plastic cups called raffiaware, Squeezies of lemon or orange sherbet, margarine that had a colored tablet to be mooshed into the grayish slab, butter, ice cream in cardboard cartons; that was about it.  When we moved to Tonawanda, a bread man would roll his truck down the street, throwing candy at the kids and ringing a handbell.  But regular food?  There wasn't even a pizzeria to order from, much less have it brought to the house.

There was a Hobart's slaughterhouse, however, where you could get really fresh ground beef; my Mom would go with my Auntie Ann, who knew how to drive and had a car.  It put both me and her off from eating hamburger for months.  Aunt Ann and my Uncle Bob would also rent a chicken plucker, then get 100 chickens to process and keep in one of their giganto chest freezers; I would be invited to help, which I did, gladly.  Innards fascinated me, and learning the colors of what each organ was matched the transparent overlays of the human body in my science book.  By the time the chickens got to me and my cousin Michelle, they looked like the supermarket sort, except the guts needed scooping out with rubber gloved hands.  They smelled burnt, for my aunt would singe the pinfeathers over her gas stove after my uncle had defeathered them, after killing.

Sometimes an egg would be there, the shell not quite formed; these went into a plastic sandpail.  You saved out the dark red chicken livers, hearts, and gizzards, were very careful with the green gallbladder, the crop was just above the stomach fascinatingly filled with grit, the lungs were pink, and there was something yellowish, a pear shaped thing.  The guts would go into a metal bucket, which my uncle sold to a farmer down the road, Mr. Wuhlers, for his pigs.  Wuhlers was an old German fellow who had seven springs on his property and stories of bobcats and fishers disturbing his animals, and my father would haul buckets of the spring water for my mother to drink when she was pregnant with my brother.

Even if we went to a drive-in movie, Mom would pop our own corn and take it in the large yellow bowl.  When little, I only remember two places that we ever went to; one was Ted's Hot Dogs under the Peace Bridge when we would visit my Grandma and Grandpa in the city, the other was the Turkey Roost, which was just down the way on Main Street near Gunville Road.  They raised their own white turkeys in a coop around the back.  Noisy things.  A Henry's Hamburgers later opened up on Sheridan Drive with fifteen cent hamburgers that made my father's eyes pop open and his pupils spin like cherries from a one-armed bandit in the cartoons.  Fifteen cents!  A working man's dream.

In the city, there were more offerings such as a popcorn cart, the rag and bottle man, a wagon pulled by a horse with produce, and a fish market that had the live fish swimming against the front window. I don't remember a restaurant down on Grant Street, at least one that we went to except for the counter at Woolworth's, which would sometimes be a stop during a shopping trip, but just for tea.

So when the Groupon coupon appeared in the returned wallet, I knew that it wasn't there prior.  Was it meant as a consolation prize?  Was the man saving it for later and just slid it into one of the card pockets?  Did whoever put the wallet into the mailbox add it?  I don't know, nor  is there any temptation to use it.  $12 dollars off a delivery means that the sum of the product is close to an amount I wouldn't pay for real food from a real grocery.  Plus tip.

Maybe I need to get with the times, friends (younger ones, to be sure) order online and have it brought to the door.  Food trucks ride the streets in battalions, gathering in Larkinville during summer months.  There is an Ice Creamcycle Dude who pedals his wagon all over the city, offering deals if you can answer a geography question.  Food is a way of exploring, of being in sync with your fellow creatures, including the dog and cat.  Funny how it's turning into delivery of pre-measured ingredients for a dinner or as a menu choice from a virtual ghost restaurant.

The wind is coming from the east, with a drop in temperature causing the rain and fog to crystallize into snow.  It's cold in here, since the windows are all on the east, and the hot weather air-conditioner is in one of those windows with drafts abounding.  It is New Year's Eve, a night to watch the old year dwindle and creak quietly away into squalling new resolutions at midnight.  Perhaps later in the week, an unfamiliar venture into online food is in order; after all, paper towels and cat food arrive at my door these days, why not Thai?  My Grandma's recipe for Cabbage and Boiled Wieners in white sauce is shaking its ancient head in dismay, while murmurs of Pho suggest gastronomic ethernet escapades.

Good night, good night all and Happy New Year.  At midnight, my Mom would wake me to hear the factory whistles and church bells sounding at the strike of twelve.  In the lonely darkness, peering out the back screen door at low stars hanging in the pitch black sky, the far off sounds would carry through the cold air, alive, connected, haunted.  I knew that somewhere, a person had toggled a switch, pulled a lever or rope that created a call of celebration acknowledging another revolution around the sun.  It was all that we did, she would hustle me back to bed as if it were a secret, and I would lie under the wool blankets with my cat Smokey, talking to God about wishes.

Sleep well.

St. Anthony

I was brought up strict Roman Catholic, the kind that sat through the Tridentine Mass, lived through meatless Fridays, and pinned Kleenex to the top of my head if I forgot my chapel veil.  As far as those Fridays, my Protestant mother cooked me a hot dog for lunch one time, and made me swear not to tell my father.  Her imagination for Fridays included fishsticks, and whatever else could not be meat but was a cooked meal.  She had the law as laid down by my father that dinner was to be hot, not breakfast food, and included me not eating with them at the table.

Her go-to Friday night supper was usually mashed potatoes (hot), Birds-eye bright orange squash (hot), and fried eggs (hot).  We weren't a fish eating family unless it came from the frozen food section in rectangular sticks and was breaded.  Even those were consider fancy, exotic, and desperate.  Picky food for blue collar families.  But then, the Church said no meat, and if you were over the Age of Reason and ate it even if your own mother put it on your plate, it was a venial sin; if you actively planned to go to your Protestant friend's birthday barbecue and ate a hamburger on purpose, now that was a mortal sin, an offense against your relationship with God.  Two hamburgers and here come the pitchforks.  However, if Mom threatened to clop you one in the head if you didn't eat what was put in front of you, that was understood and accepted as an act of self-preservation

Sort of like you can kill a dude if you are in danger of losing your life from his actions.  The rules and regulations of the Church, well, I'm not familiar with the latest interpretations and revisions for I stopped going once I found out that after annulment, dotting all the i's necessary, and paying $350 for the process, that attending Mass was allowed, but not communion.  I was supposed to go to "Divorce Class" for another fee.  These days, 25 years later, it seems to have let up a bit, and an annulment gives you a pass to belong fully to whatever the Church is dishing out. Still, if you remarry without an annulment, you are not considered as being married by the Church. You are to live together as brother and sister, and unable to participate in sacraments.

But, there are perks to being Catholic, and the biggest one besides the elaborate pageantry with candles, incense, mysterious rituals, visions, miracles, resurrections, and intercessions are the saints.  I can't begin to tell you the exact number of saints there are, and many were declared so simply by the Church upon their death until the year 1234, when it was decided that the process needed tightening up.  Criteria were established, so that just anyone killed in a brawl could not be found as deserving of reverence as a genuine, living on bread-and-meat-brought-by-a-raven holy person.

Each saint has the ability to intercede with God, to speak to God on human behalf; each one of them, and there are over ten thousand, have a connection to their life on earth.  This means that you can pray to the saint who has the most expertise in the area addressed.  For instance, St. Columbanus is the patron saint of motorcyclists because he traveled, wandering through Europe.  St. Ambrose is the patron saint of beekeepers and candlemakers, St Theresa of Avila favors lacemakers and chess players.  You got a problem, the Church has a pavilion full of saints.  This also underscores the life after death thing, if you have a whole, working, categorized community in another dimension.

So, this is the story: On December 9, twenty days ago, my wallet was stolen out of my purse which was in a drawer in my classroom.  There was only $6 in it, and I will only say that it was not a student.  Today, twenty days later, I found a notice in yesterday's mail that the post office is holding a lost wallet for me, $3.60 postage, please.  My wallet?

A friend had suggested that a prayer to St. Anthony might get it back, and I think I snorted; now, I have begged St. Tony for car keys a hundred times, but a wallet stolen by a perp?  Naw. No. Har de har har.  But I talk to the unknown regularly, so why not?  Presumptuous of me, why should anyone listen about a wallet when so many serious problems trouble the world?  Yet I did; I apologized for bothering him, but if he had connections, and if it wouldn't hurt anything or anyone, it would be nice to have it back, thank you, and here in the mail is a notice saying come and get it, after you pay the postage.

Don't forget, that if you ever do find a wallet, a driver's license, or government I.D. card, you can drop it into a mailbox and the USPS will put it in an envelope and get it to the owner.  I want to find out the particulars, such as which mailbox, when was it dropped in, and then ask if I should call the police as I had filed a report regarding the incident.  Probably.

But then, there is still this business with St. Anthony, or was it merely the wheels of time?

The corner to 2020 is sliding into place, a leap year, a Chinese year associated with the rat, indicating prosperity.  Light is gaining a toehold, and cats and saints are keeping score in the matter of lost things.  Roscoe stole the bath tub plug and plopped it into the cat food, still has my twenty dollar bill, and returned the lost Apple Watch.  St. Anthony has revealed places hiding car keys, cell phones, Finnegan the kitten, my mother's engagement ring, and simple calmness.  Calm.  Calm down, girl, it will reappear; and if not, you just live without it.

Within the curved hulls of sailboats, there are bunks with high wooden rails to keep you from rolling out if the weather is rough.  Mattresses are thin, made to be shaken and aired above decks; a decent blanket is cotton in summer, wool for colder nights.  When you are on a boat, this is what you see before retiring: the black evening sky full of stars and planets, the luminous Milky Way spilling across the vault of heaven and you wonder, what am I supposed to be doing here?  When you fold under the blankets, and lay on the flattest of pillows, you will feel the heartbeat of the earth contained in water's waves, pulsing and rocking your bed in rhythm with current and tide.

Sleep then, and pass through the door of forgetfulness.  Night will cover you.

Halloween At Last

It's my favorite holiday during my favorite time of year; leaves smelling of tannin shush shush around your feet, it isn't so dad-blamed hot, and my favorite color of orange is exploding in heavy pumpkins and the insides of squashes.

But, and it took me years to realize, it was the only holiday that my father didn't tear to pieces while  others he chewed up with his petulant bullying.  Any holiday, religious or not, was game for a loud and long demonstration of why he had to put up with you people.  The 4th of July, potato salad flew while my Mom cried; Christmas, for heaven's sake--you'd think that the apex of holidays for his religion would have soldered his mouth shut, but no.  I was a whore, my mother was a whore, goddammit this is Jesus' birthday, Jesus cleaned out the temple of moneychangers you lousy bitches  this is righteous anger from God while my Mom and brother cried, the volume alone terrifying.  Thanksgiving, my three year old brother helped stir the orange Jello and blammo, you're making him a woman, I remember the sound of the spoon clattering against the white glass bowl as my brother's face changed.  Thunder and hellfire, brimstone and death threats.  I learned what the word decapitation meant way too early, no wonder I slept with a night light until I was 21 and out of the house.

Halloween was the odd man, in that my father would buy the costumes at Western Auto on his way home from work.  The first one he got me was of Hot Stuff, a cartoon-based red devil, he seemed happy with his choice.

"What on earth ?" asked my mother.  Not one that a girl would usually choose, but to complain was to ignite a running fire.  Next year was Donald Duck.  Then Zorro.

Nonetheless, he would hide and leave answering the door to my mother, and the crowds of kids with their parents were probably the saving grace which put the brakes on his performance.  No arguments, not one broken dish or torn up sweater or smashed glasses.  It was freeing, to be out with your friends, going from house to house for treats, coming home with loot to examine and classify, and all of it was like advancing through a nighttime paradise.

I liked being something different than what I was, for the undercurrent of hatred for women unless they were mummified nuns permeated our childhoods more than I could appreciate.  I just thought that he hated me and adored my brother and it was my fault that he didn't like me.  Putting on a plastic mask and playing at being something else, devil or duck, was a small magic.

There was a year when we lived out where weasels ran and foxes stole eggs, way out in undeveloped Clarence, New York.  It was punctuated with dairy farms for the most part, wheat and corn fields, and cricks of clear water.  An old farmhouse owned by the Wohlers on Gunville Road stood unpainted and unelectrified, heated by a pot belly stove. To make a bit of Halloween for me, my father took me there, where Mrs. Wohlers had made orange frosted cupcakes from the wood cooking stove.  I remember sitting on his lap, and Mr. Wohlers bringing out his concertina which scared me, for it was loud, noisy, and frighteningly happy, the sort of thing to be avoided at all costs.  I began crying, embarrassing my father and scooting us home, with a couple of cupcakes wrapped in paper that had an odd, smoky flavor.   I wished I had been able to learn more about them, but they were a separate world and it was hard enough to negotiate the one I existed in.

We eventually moved to Tonawanda, New York, away from all the angry neighbors who had enough of us, where there were sidewalks, corner stores, custard stands, a Kresge's five and dime, street lights, and close houses.  The neighborhood had a few kids and we would strategize what streets we would approach and when.  Beggar's Night would take in our own street and Ferndale Avenue, on Halloween we expanded the radius to include Delaware Road, and decided to stay off of Knoche Road, for it was haunted.  

It was before plastic shopping bags, so we used the brown paper grocery bags as we ran across lawns and hoped the bottom would hold.  People handed out full size candy bars, which were a nickel each at the time, bubble gum, apples, small bags of popcorn, homemade cookies that would get mashed up by the apples, and coins.  Strangest thing ever handed out was orange juice popsicles, which were gratefully accepted after deciding that they weren't poisoned.  

Arranging groups of bounty according to similarities would take up the remaining night.  How many Oh Henrys?  Baby Ruths?  Clark Bars?  Chinese Bubblegum?  I would be gladly left alone, to regale the evening that happened without a what about me inferno as he continued to be sober, quiet, and reading passages from the missal.  I didn't have to talk to anybody till the next morning for school, for it was a time before parents checked candy for tampering.

I still enjoy Halloween as the most fun of holidays, for there are no feelings of loss or of memories best left in the cellar.  Children still are sticky happy with fun-size (how much fun can you have with something that small?) candies or the lord knows Now and Laters or Sour anythings.  I don't care for the horror now added, the bloodied plastic corpses or mangled limbs, but that comes from the real pronouncements my father would make of what he would do if we pushed him too far.  Some of the things he said would get him arrested these days.  Take it easy on your neighbors, you have no idea what some are going through within the alleged framework of family.

The sun is on the downward side of grey sky, headed for an hour earlier sunset as the earth still spins at the same speed, but with the axis tilting the Northern Hemisphere away as far as it can go come December, shortening our daylight. It's the reason this country flips hours in the summer. The use of electricity is decreased when the hour of light is placed at the end of day, and people are said to enjoy the longer summer evenings. About 40 countries use this switching of clocks to make the most of daylight when the lengthening occurs, which makes economical sense but frankly, I never get used to it.

Sleep well then, with innocence, for you are.  The dark is a blessing that stops the troubles of day as we sleep, suspending them on a string between dreams and morning bells.  Slide through the layers of nocturnal dormancy, while the subconscious bubbles to the surface like an amphibian taking breath.  Sleep on the waves of transitional slumber, your coracle taking you to answers, questions, night, day, echo, and contradiction.  Good night, my dear heart.









  

Roscoe Grounding

The grass is 8 inches tall in the city lot, and there is wind coming off the lake which creates waves of blades rising, roiling, shushing. The trees with their summer leaves are blustering as wind fingers through the clusters, branches nodding, yup and yup and yup; I sit at the red light in my car, watching, wondering how happy the trees are to feel the wind, how awake the grass is after being thrumbled by the quick breeze.

This evidence of life will fill you, like paw prints in snow, telling that you are not alone nor lost but are part of a cycle, the immensity of which is mostly incomprehensible not only in size, but in metaphysics.  Mystery, this; full of mystery.  For this reason, not only am I glad for trees and grass and flowers, but for the other living things trying to hang onto this whirling ball of rock and water.  The absurdity grounds me, providing a starting line for figuring out, except that I never will.

Roscoe, the cat I write often about, his black immensity, Sir Loin of Fuzzham, ye black hole of Raguel, the commander of earth and wind, concerns himself with many day to day duties, first of which is getting in the way.  He also enjoys stealing my stuff, but further, has found items that had been lost for years.

For example: an Apple iPod watch/music thing that was a gift from my son; well, it disappeared long before Roscoe arrived but days hence was left sitting mid floor in the living area, brightly red and dusty. WHERE, where did you find this??? Thank you dear cat!  I don't know if he recognized gratitude, but I know it was expected by the superior, leonine prance and pounce at my foot.  No compunction regarding claws, this one.

Truly I hadn't understood, in my humaness, his career as a retriever of objects; really, to me he was just moving items from one place to the random next, but then the supply of things to find became boring to him.  For that, his nostrum was to create an assortment of convenience, a cavalcade of objects fancied because of what they were made of, of how much noise would come out of me when something was missing, and most of all, what could be accomplished.  He concocted an armory of weapons, which represented the larger part of his cache, including an entertainment section as well.

You think this cat had no rhyme nor reason? Well, you decide. Lazing about on an early spring Saturday in blankets because it was too cold to get up, digital clock numbers edged toward brunch rather than breakfast and no plate of cat pah-tay had yet appeared.  I was getting to it, but Roscoe had a plan.  First, he charitably washed Kai who bit his ear, causing him to retaliate, causing me to flip blankets and dispense of Roscoe, who I felt bad for since he was doing a rare good deed.  I dozed again, until suddenly, a Dr. Scholl's blue shoe insert came at me, and hit me in the face.  Not dropped off, but flung like DiMaggio hitting one out of the park.  I heard a woo-hoo! as I saw a black hind end fly off the bed.

Emptying pockets of contents and storing them safely, especially car keys, is of notable consideration; during our beginning relationship, there on the counter I left two singles and a twenty dollar bill. Morning comes and there is only one single; fortunately, the cat was trotting tail high down the hall with a bill in his mouth, but it was only the other dollar. Yet three weeks later, by the water dish, the twenty reappeared, lord knows where he puts this stuff.  He still has another twenty from another time when I wasn't thinking.

Now, I get things from eBay; the breakables are padded these days with plastic bubbles, but more wonderfully often, long serpents of brown paper.  The cats love to tear through them, play cat fort, and make impressive skids at admirable speeds.  So here are some glass bottles for me, and here is fifteen feet of paper wadding for you to play in, have at it, kids!

I was not paying close attention while examining the bottles--"Black Cat Stove Polish"--but felt a delicate drop of something light on my foot. Thinking it was Roscoe bringing a piece of the play paper as a gift, I bent down to ooh and ahh for him, but noticed that it was a bill of some sort, a green back, a simoleon. Wow! Maybe it's the other twenty from months ago, but NO!  It was not.  It was a two dollar bill and where the hell this animal found a two dollar bill with Thomas Jefferson looking at me I have no idea. Where would he get a two dollar bill? Was it caught in the paper stuffing from the seller of bottles? Should I ask the person? "Uh, did you by accident lose a two dollar bill because my cat brought me one and I don't know what day it is anymore?" Perhaps it was stuck up in the couch.  Perhaps if I clap loud enough, fairies will appear.

His preoccupation momentarily is with the bathtub plug, it goes for walks around the apartment; additionally, plastic lids, my flip flops that now have vampire fang marks, three-inch iron nails from the Civil War, the new kitten Finnegan, earrings, wrapped cough drops, a string of Tibetan flags, shoes, shoe inserts, and my contact lens case have all been attended to.  He is intelligent, one of the smartest animals I have lived with.  It is an honor.

As I sit in early August, the daylight is going away earlier; it is only eight p.m., and the tone of the sky is changing to twilight leading to dusk; it will be dark by nine when only weeks ago the sun barely touched the horizon.  Bird migration has begun for those species who need to be in place by September; cicadas vibrate, and the orange daylilies are finishing.  Peaches and corn are coming to market, tomatoes soon; the earth spins to the east in prograde motion, counterclockwise with daylight shortening as the planet tilts.

Our moon is slowing us down by gravitational pull; the days are now longer than they were during dinosaur times, when they lasted closer to 23 hours.  Would we notice?  Probably, for it isn't that the day loses an hour at the end, but each hour would be over two minutes less; by the end of the day when the sun goes down, we would possible feel a little bit rushed, that there wasn't enough time to complete business.  Just enough to make us anxious, and head earlier to bed.  Imagine, you would be only 58 and a half when you turned 60.

Sleep well, it feels as if the thickness of the heavy summer heat has dissipated and the air has slipped into a clearer realm, one of my favorite parts of night.  Day phantoms are suspended, and lovely, clear air washes over all as we drift amid the waves and troughs of dreams.  Good night.

You Did What?

I looked at a kid today.  There were two candidates; the first one was wanging a plastic light saber around in a thrift store, not watching what was happening and completely unconcerned with body space of other shoppers.  ROWRRR ROWRRR ERRRROWWW!  Wap. Bam. Bash.

The mother walked as if she were a grand parade about seven feet ahead, and seemed to be as out to lunch as a BLT without tomatoes.  Now, in my head, my first grade teachering gave several solutions to the oncoming tornado of plastic, which was beating on racks of clothes, metal shelving, and buggies that were in the way.  None that could be implemented.  There was not one word from a parent, yet several yelps from other adults;  I took off towards another department,

I had to, I had to go in an opposite direction so as not to burst my teacher aorta; it runs up the side of the head and throbs at miscreant hobgoblinery.  Many, many adults have one under other designations, such as the You Did What artery, the Have You Lost Your Mind vagus branch, and the What On Earth Were You Thinking cerebrospinal canal reflex which creates superpowers in vision, hearing, and levitation as you can lift a kid up and suspend them midair with your brain voltage.  You've been there.

This child kept up the joy he felt, the ferocity of dunning his imaginary enemies until Mom Herself got hit.  Woof.  Electrochemistry erupted into a solid, then liquid, then gaseous state of matter as the grand regalia came to a halt, and the immense box store shook with a What Are You Doing Have You Lost Your Mind double header.  With swears I hadn't heard before, but apparently the kid had.  He wasn't too upset, and truthfully, neither was Mom because she tossed the toy into the cart instead of javelining the ceiling.  The child let out a half-hearted wail, but then began hopping around the cart for if he couldn't swing the sword around, he would dance on behalf of its glory.  The parade regrouped and sallied forth like a Buick covered in tissue paper flowers.

The next stop was grocery shopping, which needed attention the past two weeks; it went smoothly to the end in the frozen food section which is sort of encased in the middle of the aisle.  I just finished finagling with the sliding window and gripped the handlebar of the cart, ready to roll, but who is this? Coming towards me at a fair clip was a child who made a game of sliding along the freezer window while carrying a half gallon of milk.  Maybe six, seven years old, just my type, a first grader.  I didn't wish to hit her with my cart, and waited to see what direction Miss Fairydust would tinkle off to; however, she wanted my direction, not slowing until she caught my eye.  She paused, expecting me to move out of her way.

It's not a glare or frown, it is a calm, expressionless look which indicates that you put children between two pieces of bread with ketchup and eat them, and is this one volunteering?  This is not a stare of indignation or harrumphinity, but a cool, transmitting-information-through-eye-contact exchange.  You are actually happy that here is a new food source, and your spaceship is hovering just above the cloud cover, complete with a gingerbread oven.  She was all ready to continue hoppity-skippity, expecting me to react to her cuteness and make way for the Year of the Child, but no.  I have been done with cute for years.

We exchanged a fair bit of silent knowledge about what was happening, she got orientated, and an awareness clicked in her eyes like a signal from NASA had warned her that the aliens were not piecake friendly, and did not put up with Fairy Princess nonsense.  They were not here to give her a golden flag. Good to know that she will not be eaten if she just goes along her way.  She did, she walked around the cart while watching me, and continued her slide down the aisle, supported by the freezer case in which I opined to myself that it would store a lot of children for later.  I thought, my god, what did I just do?  I LOOKED AT A CHILD that wasn't mine, that I had no responsibility for, who wasn't hurting anything except expecting me to get out of the way of her tippy-toeing.

But really, every year with the new crop of students, I get a few who are indulged by parents until they can't figure things out for themselves.  I still have parents who do their kid's homework, allow them to interrupt conversation, or give them things they don't need.   These particular images almost guarantee that the child will become an entitled teenager, and then guess what kind of adult?  Not one looking for ways to help the community, lemme tell ya.  In spite of wondering if I did the right thing, I hope that the little girl maybe learned a bit of give and take.  She certainly figured things out.  I have a few at school who would have climbed into the cart and asked for ice cream.

Look, there are invisible rules that everyone could learn to follow, and it all goes to the main theme of being kind, loving your neighbor, treating people as you would like to be.  A bit of debate happened earlier, when a colleague mentioned that she separates her kids into boy and girl lines when traveling in the school halls.  A comment was made that whoa, what do you think you are doing, that's odd, please stop separating by gender.  Well guess what, so do I with my kids.

At six years old, the boys like to hit the girls, often in the butt; they push and shove to get ahead.  They want girlfriends, the girls want boyfriends, they have kissed each other, gossiped about who did what with who, and well, general yuck.  It is easier and more relaxed with some separation.  They aren't separated in the classroom, so there is appropriate interaction; but they desperately want to be grown up and so imitate what they see.  Teaching them to be kind and to respect each other's differences whether boy/girl, short/tall, or brown/sort of brown is critical to them becoming successful adults.  I guess I'm okay with standing my ground when faced with a six year old child who thinks that I am in her way rather than the opposite.  Besides, I hadn't paid for the ketchup yet.

It was a clear, cold day for errands, and most were accomplished.  Crows were calling this morning while foraging, Lulu is shedding her immense undercoat, and tulips were for sale at the grocery.  We have gained about an hour of light since the winter solstice, and for heaven's sake, Easter candy is on the store shelves.  But now it is dark, groceries are put away, Kai is on my lap, and the day is winding down.  Covers are calling, one of the wool blankets has been chewed by Snowbelle and needs repair, which can be done with a felting needle and roving.  It's a pink blanket, and the repairs will be made in varied colors for effect; just think, little six year old girl, would you like to learn how?  Grow.  Read. Try.  Err.  Try again.  It's fun, and opens the world.

Each of you has a talent, a hobby, a wish in your heart that casts itself over the waters which ripple in recognition.  The earth knows you, the oceans call, the points of light in the night sky shine down as you contemplate and dream.  You are part of it.  Sleep, my searching friend.

Smellicious

Bit of a touchy subject, but if it allows me to extoll the benefits of pine tar soap, so be it; no sensibilities will be offended.  Maybe a little banged up.

In this country, keeping your aroma invisible is a national pastime and thank goodness for that.  My son has traveled here and there, and has reported back that some areas of the globe are at the other end of the spectrum.  The other end, over the cliff, and out back of the shed.  Face it, folks; we're mammals, and if you can point in the direction of another mammal that smells pleasant naturally, you are most likely looking at a healthy cat.

Dogs smell doggy, apes smell ape-y, and if you've ever smelled a live chicken, we aren't talking about  Colonel Sanders's recipe.  The thing is, there are many species that have protective, odorous emissions, from birds such as hoopoes, to insects, to the homegrown skunk, and these aromas are usually connected with body fluid that comes from near the part which is almost always located at the back end of business.  There are birds who will projectile vomit to frighten off predators, and beetles who have separate compartments for the chemicals hydroquinone and hydrogen peroxide.  When alarmed, the insect sprays both fluids at the same time; they combine and react, causing the new solution to reach almost 100 degrees Celsius.  Science, this bug has a doctorate in.

My millipedes, currently in hibernation, leave a small, malodorous puddle of dilute cyanide if I pick them up; it doesn't seem to bother me, and I do wash up before sandwiches, but enough of it could kill a small mouse.  I've read that lemurs get drunk on it.

But, ah!  Humans!  We are a singular species who create odors from almost every part of us; on top of that, we are covered in microorganisms who digest these volatile confits, and produce smells of their own.  A skunk produces less on it's skin than we do, and lord have mercy if you are a human teenager going through a time of life when one is abounding with an extra dose of bacteria.  Here is a short list of excretions: water, proteins, amino acids, urea, ammonia, lactic acids and salts, which means sweat, urine, breath, saliva, breast milk, skin oils, and sexual secretions all contain scent-communicating chemical compounds.  Now, so do other animals, but humans have more scent glands than almost any other mammal in their skin.  Therefore, greater the potential to produce.

Here is not so wonderful news; there is an old people smell.  It's not offensive, but it scientifically exists, just as baby, teenage, young adult, and middle age do.  You want amusement, type "old people smell" in the search bar, and stand back; there are causes both natural and dietetic, and the serious truth that if you are old, you have old things and these items smell after 30-40 years of existence and so you carry that with you, and smell like the couch that either a number of pets have sat on over the years, or candy-sticky, pizza-faced youngsters.  Or you, on a sweaty summer day.  Or again, you, relegated to the couch in pajamas slathered in Vick's.  It's a good argument for new furniture.  And anti-smell pills.

I have taken chlorophyll for years, and notice when I don't.  Recently, a purchase of pine tar soap was slapped into an order so I would make the free shipping mark, it was the cheapest item to add.  When it arrived, the smell reminded me of a fresh asphalt parking lot, and woof, why do people use this?
But I tried it out, and within a day, I remained fresh and approachable till the next ablution; within a week, most of my stubborn athlete's foot has disappeared; and best of all, no further is the fragrance of yesterday's chili dogs apparent after a long day.

Also, celery helps your smell from the inside outwards, persimmon soap neutralizes a chemical produced by aging skin, and as your older pituitary gland is not firing out as many signals to do so, remember to drink water like it's your job.

Now tell me, and you are lucky if this was; after a bath and clean jammies, Mom would make the bed with you in it once the bottom sheet was on.  We didn't use top sheets in our house, so the wool blankets were parachuted right on top, covered by a cotton comforter just out of the dryer.  Were the sheets and pillowcases hung out on a wash line in the sun?  Glory.  It was like having a nest in bed smelling like outdoors, like Mother Nature came inside for a visit.  Like things were okay.  Like that "if I should die before I wake" part didn't mean a sweet child like you even if you did cut your own hair earlier that day, because the smell of everything said comfort and safety.

Good night, good night, this chill day ends overcast and darkening a bit early with the cloud cover; time for soup, the cats' dinner, and a few chores before sleep.  The first week of February has ended, with hopes looking toward spring; dreams of housecleaning and sweeping out corners have begun. Floral displays of potted tulips and daffodils whisper come hither messages to the winter-weary traveler, and starting seeds indoors for gardens is beginning.  Sleep then, hibernation lasts a few more weeks of wind and cold; the new moon rises in direct east, and travels to west until the first quarter.

I think of the ones outside; the birds wait for the new buds as much as you or I, the trees ache for sun and sap rising.  Sleep well, tuck under.  Let go, I will watch over for you.

Candles and Cats

What other profession, tell me, anticipates being closed by weather and has created a whole mythology surrounding it?  Like a Rain Dance, a wish on a star, or as my Mom taught me, lick your thumb and twist it into your opposite palm, making a wish when the first robin is seen.  School teachers have rituals to bring on the snow or subzero cold here in Buffalo, New York; this allows a day off, there are 4 built into the school calendar for such emergencies.

But what do you do?  Travel bans are usually placed, advisories listed, sections of thruways closed, shops closed, banks, courts, and metro bus service limited.  You stay out of the way so the emergency crews can dig out, get folks to hospital, put out fires. This situation does not generally allow errands to be performed, or haircuts, or going to lunch with friends.  You are in the house, and are expected to amuse not only yourself, but any family members home with you while making lunch and dinner with whatever you brought into the house before the storm hit.

If you aren't lucky to have stopped at the grocery previously, you get to dig the back caverns of the cupboards, looking for cans of what?  Grey green beans?  Lychees?  Molasses--where the heck did that come from?  Check expiration dates so as not to poison anyone.  Break down and bake bread, follow a salt-rising recipe if no yeast is growing in regions relegated to the refrigerator.  Cookies.   Hope to heavens that you have enough pet food, toilet paper, and Get Candles.  More on that later, back to the teacher thing.

Yes, we dance when there is a snow day, yes we wear pajamas inside out, put spoons in the freezer, and a toothbrush under our pillows.  No, I don't know how that got figured, and there are many I have missed, but these are the mainstays.  This all comes down to spending precious time with our families, reading a book not connected to curriculum, maybe getting ahead with lesson plans, building, painting, communicating; things that we don't get to do normally.

A teacher's weekend whips by faster than an express train.  Saturday is mostly errands, figure out dinner, get things around the house vacuumed, cleaned, laundered.  Maybe you work a second job. Sunday is school work day, the ubiquitous lesson plans, divining homework papers, mayyybe a visit or a movie but probably not, for you are exhausted by the demands of the career, and are pulled like a wishbone with family desires and responsibilities.

I guarantee you, we are not lounging on the chaise eating bonbons while watching the dog show, we are worried about everything.  Teachers are worriers.  Did this kid get it?  How do we know the kid got it?  Did I differentiate enough, list objectives, state the instructional shifts, work with the bubble kids, do restorative circles, follow the CHAMPS protocol, is that kid all right, who needs mittens, who needs support, who needs structure, and observations are taking place where administration comes into your room with a checklist to see if you touch all bases and get rated highly efficient, efficient, developing, or, you poor mess with a master's degree, who let you into the building?

No wonder the mythology surrounding blowing snow exists.  Truth be told, I don't know a teacher who doesn't wonder if their students are warm, having a meal, or are being taken care of.  It's what we do, it's why this country gets away with the unusually low rate of pay; we don't complain.  We just do the job, heavens forbid if we react to the fact that we have an average of 8 years of education in order to be certified, we incur incredible loans, and sometimes have desks thrown at us by angry kids.  Oh, and now we practice "Shelter in Place" and "Code Lockdown" in case of a shooter.  Somewhat different than crouching under your desk to save you from an atomic blast.  Just as scary, though.

Snow days relieve a lot of job stress, shoveling off the house roof is actually soothing in comparison. So we dance.  Who else does?  For 8 years of college, I could be a Physician's Assistant.  I could be a dentist, making two to three times what I do.  Any number of money making careers take less time, but here we are, short staffed, short on supplies (we buy most of ours), short on salary.  Because we love what we do in spite of the rate of burn-out.  No lie, when you see a retired teacher, they look five years younger and have a healthy flush to their face.  So bring on the blustering winds, the snows that grind the city to a halt.  Help out the people that work through a blizzard by shoveling, offering a hot drink, staying off the road.

This is the second subzero freeze in January; the first one, this apartment complex had little heat until two days into it.  This second one began well, but since the population is mostly hunkered down and in residence, again the heat and hot water are dwindling in temperature.  Sure, put on a sweater, but other remedies include tea lights and cats.  Or a big dog.

The cats call a truce, mostly, when the cold slithers into the cracks, and sleep in closer proximity or try to pile onto my lap.  The lap business is nice, but getting up for tea, a pencil, or bathroom foments disruption which includes swats and name-calling.  Candles are quieter, but you still have to keep an eye on them...an up-ended terra cotta pot over a tea light will hold the heat and radiate it outwards, heating a smallish room.  Still, watch the thing, place on a non-flammable surface.

Back in the fifties, no one thought of lighting a candle for decor, except for formal dinner or Catholic bothering some saint; that burning candle business began in the later sixties, perhaps to cover the amount of marijuana being ignited?  These days, the candles have come a long way from the 25¢ paraffin emergency pack from the hardware, now they are scented, in jars, and are given foofy-foo names that would have us 50's kids rolling like squirrels in acorns. Harvest Whimsy.  Rain Fairy.  Sentient Forest.  Calm Down.  How about Burning Pumpkin, Help My Hair's On Fire From Leaning Over The Cake, or Spill Your Vodka Drink On The Decorative Candle While Wrapping Christmas Presents And Setting the Paper On Fire From The Alcohol Merry Christmas The Building Is Now On Fire, Too.  That last one actually happened.  Second floor, smoke damage traveled up the stairwells, water damage from the fire hoses demolished the apartment below.

I have a pile of blankets and comforters on the bed layered like a 4-foot tall lasagna.  Got rid of the polyester sheets which were horrid to sleep on, and purchased cotton, which is a dream.  I am ready for whatever heating emergency occurs, within reason, and am armed with a stock of pillar candles from IKEA and Walmart.  And cats.  Four.  The blizzard blotted out the sun--even though there are now 30 minutes longer of daylight this end of January, you couldn't tell when day became night; the city sounds were quieted by the snow, and one could be lulled to sleep by the rocking of spinning tires down on the street.

Sleep tonight, I will be turning in early, no news if the streets will be clear enough for buses, or if the temp will be considered safe for students to be in.  Last night, I dreamt of white envelopes; they were discards, and I retrieved them from recycling.  Dreamland is strange, mostly disjointed for me; no predictions or solutions, just moving pictures seemingly not connected.  Some are repetitive; the Chinese restaurant while a tornado is flying outside, the Easter candy shop on a path in the woods,  taking a 1950 Hudson to the mechanics, replacing wooden floors in my old house.  Not one twitchet of sense in that, but never mind.  You dream, dream of warmer days and warm hearts.  Of summer grass that releases that grassy smell as your feet run, as the sun goes down and twilight begins, when you try to squeeze that last moment to extend into another universe where you know you are wanted. Sleep, dear hearts.

Captain Banana Peel

Fresh sheets and the sandman had first led to quiet dreams, then at morning Kai cat was still on my pillow; oh, precious weekend! But phantom dozing fingers of forgotten thoughts ended when the black planet Roscoe crashed in, nailing poor Kai, followed by his proceeding to chomp her head.  I had shook the blankets, which trampolined him towards the end of the annoyed bed, if a bed had opinions. Blankets that had once been layered wool on wool, scratchy grandmother blankets that were meant for cold nights, were now willy-nilly. 

He reconnoitered with intent on harrying her tail, but enough was enough in Blanketland, which was fast becoming the Pile of Random Ideas. Sorta covers. A garage sale pile of linens. I grabbed him with two hands to redirect his plan, and Roscoe let loose with the worst cat fart ever.  The aroma--a miasma that hung in the air like a viscid Borealis made of Ice Age pony meat--stayed, toadish and doughy, and I thrashed, thrashed blankets, black cat, pillows and remnants of wishes into a mass of agitation. WHAT was that?  What on earth did that cat eat?  It was time to get up and tend to cat food, which was someone's idea all along.

They all lucked out as there were no more cans of mouse loaf, so chunky tuna was decanned onto the plate, yippee yippee. Happy tails, truces, and promotions for all.

The next day while sitting at the table, I noticed Mr. Business fiddling with something on the floor; let me see what it is.  He kept his head down but raised his eyebrows, as if cats have eyebrows, grabbed the thing and ran down the hallway, defiant.  He made it to the water dish, dropped the treasure in and sat; I  fished the item out in spite of his trying to paw my hand away while watching the water turn blue.  It was a roll of small Tibetan flags that I had bought from the incense store; they now hang from the bathroom mirror drip drying, where only if he grows wings will he retrieve it.

He mouths and steals, part crow, part terrier, part trebuchet.  I found one of the gongs' hard rubber mallets chewed in half; there was a missing phone cord snickered under a pillow, and lastly, the grocery list left on the counter had been delicately shredded into diminutive bits.  He hides my socks, nicks earrings, steals paper money, only sometimes returns it.  Twenny bucks, gone but restored 4 days later near the water dish with a stolen fabric rosebud.  He has his touches. A cherry cough drop was added to the water dish, turning it vivid pink.  

I moved the couch in anticipation of the incoming television; Roscoe was helping, curious, everything he does is a first time for him as he is still a baby at 7 months, 2 weeks old and a solid 12 pounds. The couch is now against a wall, forming a cat conduit behind it. 

My friend took off his shoes, putting them in the hall while we visited. When it was time to go, he went to retrieve his footwear; I heard him say, "There's only one shoe." What? "There's only one shoe, it must have been the cat..."  Oh good lord. A bit of a scurry happened before he found it behind the couch amid a pile of cat toys, no denying that it was Crazy Guggenheim at work. Roscoe would drag home a two-door car if I let him outside.

It's been awhile since relating this story, for Roscoe is now 15 pounds and living up to his namesake in size, Mr. Roscoe Arbuckle.  The feathered thing on the end of a fishing pole contraption stirred sabertooth instincts, causing great leaps and once caught, growls of possession.  I couldn't figure what the hissing was about, but finally sensed that he held the line responsible for taking his prey away, and thus hated that string with the intensity of a drunk swinging at the air.  He had hissed before, but the snarls set me back a little. Ooo, nize keddy. Mama gunna tell you a story if you it up the tuna fitch and brink her the dollah off the table you stole. Nu?

Outside the snow had started.

I don't think downtown got as much of the storm that inland areas did, the winds from the Lake usually blow falling snow towards the east.  Yet it is bitter cold today, with predictions of a low pressure system set up by the Canadian Rockies, an Alberta Clipper, which will create severely frigid air to hang over the city tomorrow morning. 

Last night, there was to be a spectacle around midnight, the Super Blood Wolf Moon plus a total lunar eclipse, which is enough to set off a month of New Age hooha.  'Blood' because sunlight still hits the moon a bit, but is bent towards the red spectrum by Earth's atmosphere; each month's full moon usually has a Native name, and January's is Wolf.  Super because the perigee is about 16,000 miles closer than usual.  Moon is simply moon.  Wolf, Snow,Worm, Pink, Flower, Strawberry, Buck, Sturgeon, Harvest, Hunter's, Beaver, and Cold.  There you have it, some science, some myth; a balanced almanac.

I am searching for slippers, perhaps Roscoe's cache should be investigated; right now he is speaking in tongues at the string attached to the feather toy, for tiring him out is a good thing.  The day stretches on, we have gained about 25 minutes since winter solstice, and it is well appreciated.  The blankets are orderly once again, layers of wool and cotton and pillows are smoothed; this bleak, hibernal night will arrive clear with the vault of heaven cloudless and open, hence providing the day's gathered heat an escape into the sky.  Morning could present us with 10 to 20 below zero.

Get ready for sleeping well and warm, count your kids, cats, and dogs; find gloves, find scarves, ready the pot for morning tea, get out the thermos; all before the evening origami of folding yourself under the covers, and thank whomever you like for this blessing of night.   Dream, remember; I will not forget you.