Night Airship

On my way to Washington, DC to visit Brian and Dana; they are presenting an early Thanksgiving and I am flying in quickly over the weekend.  Haven't been to DC since a vacation many, so many years ago, funny that he now lives there amid marble and pomp.  The plane has an organized manner of boarding; you line up according to a number on your pass and file in when called.  No prearranged seating, you sit where available.  I was able to be near a window, just behind the wing.  The acceleration of take off is the best roller coaster ride in the world, and we rose in the navigable air, temporarily headed west.

I can see my house, meaning apartment building; we flew over the city and the Olmstead spoke pattern of street design led to City Hall.  Well, I live just a few blocks down, (now at 10,000 feet); I spotted the water tower atop the building.  The dark beyond is the lake.  It is beautiful at night, the illuminated minuscule globes of human invention delineate roads, shops, neighborhoods.  We have turned to the east; goodbye Lake, goodbye cats, goodbye eardrums.

A miracle just as voluble hangs at the horizon: a wide band of a pale blue glow, the tail of the sun ribboning the edge of black night as it is still day to the west, with the spilled ink of night seeping toward the cities of the plains. (Now at 25,000 feet).  The golden necklaces of coruscating lights below are as casually tossed about as the midnight disrobing by an intoxicated debutante.  Streets and buildings align in undulating light; as close as we are, they can be seen individually, like beads.

The plane is shuddering in clear air, and we are told to refasten seat belts.  Well of course we are bouncing about; it is unusual not to encounter roiling atmosphere, for air moves as much as ocean waves.  Very similar to water is air; just thinner; we are a ship upon its sea.  Does air have waves or tides?  If the moon pulls on the water, does it pull on the substance of air?  Think of how a kite moves, and there you go.

But now, good heavens, we are beginning descent; Hello New Jersey!  It doesn't seem as if we were airborne 15 minutes at the top of the proscribed arc of trajectory, the ship has rose and fell in an extended arch; the glow of cities spot the landscape below. (10,000 feet).  I could reach my hand out the window to gather gold and diamonds; I must fly somewhere closer to Christmas at night, to see houses from above bedecked in red and green incandescent brocade.

Whoa, there's a large city ahead, showing miles of orange and gold lights spread like butter on toast.  I'm hungry.  So many people, so many houses.  Where does the electricity come from?  A lot of it arrives from Niagara Falls, sold to companies lining the eastern seaboard.  Electricity generates magnetic fields, repellant and attractive.  Linemen have to learn of this fascinating physical force when stringing power lines, that you don't want bumping together when the field is created.

We wheel in gently, a roc following a lessening gyre.  My son.  My son is waiting for me, magnetized by an unbreakable link in the repelling and attracting seesaw of mother and child.  I cannot wait to see him.

What the hell is in Baltimore?  Besides crabcakes?  I know nothing of this city except for a rough reputation many years ago.  The wing now tips to the center of the radius, then evens out, slowing.  Orioles and cake.  The wing gracefully tips and levels again; the plane slows, the tail begins to drop and  engines become quiet.  Where the hell is Baltimore?  Individual buildings reappear.  My heavens, did I say this place was large?  We float as a feather; each turn releases energy and pulls us into further descent.  Fog makes fuzzy ghost shapes surround the lit areas of the ground.  I see a star.

There is the Chesapeake Bay; we are over water, and a bridge is glowing, a seeming skeletal spine of brontosaurus watching us, the ballet of metal carving air into perfect geometric arcs.  Engines slow even more, the tips of the wings are folded up as a paper airplane.  Oh my gosh, look, look at the lighted ground, as good as day.  Fog.  Landing gear.  A rush to decelerate and stop.  My son.

Halloween Haiku

Leftover candy,
My favorite kind, Twix bars
How did that happen?

Fun-size candy bars
Are a lie. When I was young,
They were large.  Five cents.

Frozen orange juice
Strangest Halloween offer.
We went back next year.

If you are shaving,
Do not ring my bell unless
You want to be mocked.

Steal my horse skull from
My porch. I hope your
Arse develops a rash.

The meat department:
Cow tongues and.honeycomb tripe
Instant atmosphere.

Stuff child's pajamas
And staple them to ceiling
Of porch.  Look out, kid.

Doorbell rings after
Nine o'clock. Have you no shame?
What are you, twenty?

Check out loot in bag,
Who gave pink wintergreen mints?
Old lady Gorwitz.

Get out of my bag,
Dad.  You already ate all the
Three Musketeers bars.

Slogging

The flight was a lot of fun, retrieved the duffel bag, followed the signs, got to the water taxi, hung out for three hours at a Dunkin' Donuts, worked on laptop, then got onto the 1 o'clock ferry for Provincetown.  This is happening while dragging three bags of equipment and fancies for the wedding of the century; all in all, weighing about as much as a four year old, 35 pounds.  I can do this.  Next time stop at AAA and get one of those wheeled things like every other sane person; nope, not me, make do with what you have and quit complaining.

The ferry ride was long and in rough seas, we rolled from trough to crest, nosediving into the waves, not too bad if I didn't try to read.  I sat with Germans, put my head against the window and dozed.  Now by the time we get there, it's 3 in the afternoon, and I've been traveling for seven hours; not the longest haul, but dragging around crap that women pack for six of them was wearing me down.  I messaged Scotty that I was there and started down the long wooden pier.

There are very large sea gulls here.  Our inland sea gulls would get their asses kicked by these birds; I thought I was looking at pelicans, but nope, gulls.  They scream in almost a human voice, and sound as if they are being murdered, which is disconcerting.  I jumped the first time one swooped over and cussed me out for not having any Doritos, which is the sea gull national food.  These things buzzed about like flying monkeys, looking to see if the crowd was secretly eating french fries and not sharing.

The weather is drizzly and cold from the blowing wind; I am wrestling the three bags and finally loop one strap across by chest and hitch up the other two on one shoulder so I can now clamp them onto my side.  Scott said it was two miles to the Inn, I could walk that, and besides, I think I see the place just where the shore curves in; a bit of a hike and it's cold, but I can do it.  Hup.

The wind is blowing and Provincetown has one of the charming aspects of New England in that there are often no sidewalks, and the shops and houses are right up to the road.  Certainly no room for two people to comfortably pass each other, especially if one of them is lugging a duffel, a loaded briefcase, and a large black case.  I pass the restaurant where the rehearsal dinner is to happen, The Lobster Pot.  Wow, I must be close, red neon lobsters, can't wait to see the inside, must be close.

Lots of little shops and galleries, lovely brick walks, crushed oyster shells and sand are what Provincetown is made of and as I slog by, I see that the tide is out and the giant seagulls are enjoying the local crab population.  Where the hell is this place?  Look up the address, 698 Commercial Street, and I am at 215.  Well, sometimes numbers go fast and the building I think it is looms ahead and thank goodness, for I am exhausted.

The sign out front faces the opposite direction and after I read the address, which is in the three hundreds, the moniker "The Ice House" doesn't surprise me.  I say several swears and what the heck did I pack in these bags?  Onward, and why haven't I heard from Scott?  I leave a voicemail.  A half hour has gone by, and it is another fifteen minutes before I get there.  I call again from a road since the sidewalks have completely disappeared and Route signs are appearing.  Snail Road.  Scott answers, and says oh yeah, Snail Road, look up, I'm waving at you.

I stagger into the parking lot and decelerate into his cuddly self; he asks, "Why didn't you call me?" You walked all the way, carrying this?  It would have been a long way without the luggage,"  The walk did me good, but brain said "no more, please". Checked in, got the room, and one of the best things about it is the concrete floor because tiny grains of sand from the beach are all over the place, like a cottage.  Tomorrow I am going to the shore just across the road, and hope to find more stuff to put into the luggage to drag about.  Wheels, you'd think I would realize that wheels have been invented.

The rehearsal dinner was fabulous, the family members that I met are warm and lovely, the sort of group that takes you in and installs you on the couch with a cold one and the dog sits with you.  Perhaps I shall write of the event, another passage of time, a golden coin spun from the straw of youth.

Morning, before six, a cold wind blowing and I hit the Continental Breakfast bar...it's not like the Muskegon one, but food isn't of interest right now; I want to get outside and trot up and down the beach.  I have Crocs on my feet since I don't want to load my sneakers with sand and figure if the tide is high, getting them wet is no problem.  The company used to advertise them as being able to be put through the dishwasher.  Ick.

A brisk walk along the road leads to a flooded stairway with a path through beach grass and immense New England granite.  Then into the soft sand which is like walking with anchors on your feet, nothing to push off with the ball of your foot, it just goes goosh.  Off I go, amid mounds, mounds, people, of dead brown seaweed and soft sand.  I have a plastic bag with me for washed-up treasures.

Now, those that know me and still love me, understand that I pick up the unusual, the dead, the bleached bone.  Back years ago, I saw a roadkill mostly decomposed buck by the side of a country road and yes, I got a beautiful spine that I bleached out at home.  The puzzle of bones fascinated me, how they fit and allowed curvature and strength; there was a rhythm to it, a descending line of calcium ending in the tiniest of phalanges for the flickering white tail.  My son has it, now; it's safe to come over.

Imagine the curiosity of finding a fish skull with a pointed snout and pointed ribs.  Carapaces from crabs, slipper and clam shells, a string of whelk egg cases and a few shark egg pods.  Broken, beat-up, and sort of still, um, let's say juicy.  I was in heaven.  Stuck my fingers into the ocean and tasted the salt, oh, ocean salt.  Wonder how much it is to buy a small house on the Cape, should talk to my friends and find out.  I'm not rinsing or cleaning anything until I get home.

People were up, walking their dogs.  Friendly dogs.  One very lovely beagle crossed with a tall something which caused black spotting on the torso and rust spotting on the legs with a German Shepherd face.  Pretty girl, who thought my leg was pretty also, when I was talking to her owners and not quite watching her.  She didn't mean what many people think that means, but it just doesn't look attractive and frankly, get the hell away from my leg.  Owners flushed and apologized, I did the Oh that's okay obeisance and mentally sent a warning to the dog's brain that the next time, there will be an accident, like me screaming bloody hell and accidentally launching you thirty yards with my foot.

Huffing with indignation only lasted for five feet, for there amid the piles of seaweed was an immense, washed up horseshoe crab.  Holy crow.  I love these things and took pictures of it; a couple walking by came over and also took pics asking, what is that thing?  Is it still alive?  Um, no, not alive or it would be wiggling legs, trying to get back to the water.  This one was dead as a doorbell.  I waited for them to leave before picking it up, but left it for several reasons: the shell is way too fragile, it was freshly dead and contained all the soft tissues, my bag wasn't large enough, and how in this green world would I explain it at airport security.  God knows how I'm gonna get that fish skeleton through.  If it were deader and more dried, I could have mailed it to myself.

Short science lecture: horseshoe crabs aren't true crabs, they're more related to spiders, but they have wonderful, copper-based blue blood that the medical community extracts to make a bacterial endotoxin.  Living fossils, these.  Declining.  Save an arthropod, today.

That was the highlight of the beach walk, and I scooted back to the hotel to see what was up with the rest of the company.  Today is the big day, and I am so honored to be a part of it.  Going out for another walk with friends to explore the town, will report findings later.  Ciao.

Those skinny sidewalks were packed with people sidling in and out of shops like fiddler crabs; I got a ride down with Damon and after a brief sojourn, went separate ways.  He told me of a sight that I would not want to miss at the library and gave instructions to take the elevator up to the mezzanine, and that when the elevator doors open, be prepared for the sight.  Wouldn't tell me what it was, sweet of him wanting me to enjoy the surprise, and it was indeed.  The library is a beautiful, stately building with charming book shelves topped by carved endpieces, and the tall, arched windows have a stunning view of the bay.  So much light pours in, and, it's quiet, the way libraries are supposed to be.

The elevator doors slid open, and before me was a half-size model of a wooden fishing vessel whose two masts soared through the ceiling through circular openings in the ceiling, and the prow jutted forward through a wall.  It was huge, rigged and almost 67 feet long, 12 wide.  The Rose Dorothea was originally 108.7 feet long with a rounded bow that made her faster than the other schooners, for she could sail closer to the wind.  A better angle, more force to push against the sails and you swoosh off ahead of the other fishing boats. It was built as a tribute to the fishermen of historical Provincetown.

I walked back the two miles, and it was a lot easier without draggling the luggage with me.  I now have a wedding to get to, and need time to get polished up; it will be a fun time, with a union between two loving people who will grow old together, I can feel it.  I am stuffing my pockets with tissues.

Good night all, it will be a night of stars and falling meteorites reflected in the saltwater of the bay. Sleep well.

Wild Blue

Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, I’m on an airplane, a can of people, a refrigerator of humans.  I love flying, especially the taking off part when the substance of air cuts under and over, lifting the whole structure of metal and padded seats by creating lift.  Bouncing on the wheels, the captain put this gal in reverse and pulled back the slingshot of fuel and physics.
Engines rev and it sounds like a cartoon, Daffy Duck traveling in a 21st century space jet voiced by Mel Blanc.  (Do you know that we are in the 21st century now?  Where’s my ray-gun?).  We aren’t moving, the lights go off, I have turned off the damn tv one time already, the screen reignites like a relative wanting to borrow money.  Huh.  Why do I smell fuel burning as the turbines spin?  We begin, ponderous and optimistic in the truth that air is navigable like water, thousands of pounds of air pressure able to lift this behemoth; a product of a hundred and more years of men and women trying to get off terra firma if only for a moment.
Sunny day; there are large, singular clouds, and we will be headed for 30,000 feet.  We are an elephant, determined and slow, plodding to next in line and then, KA-PWING!!!  Ooh baby, we are ON!!   Holy eff, it’s a miracle, we are up, by god, the fall foliage of Western New York laying orange flashes between lakes and ribbons of road.  Sunbeams, clouds like wispy angels hover over the land.  What a view!  Banking, turning, into a cloud and whoa, above, above, we are above the layer of stratus, cumulonimbus.
Why do clouds float?  Because water vapor is less dense and therefore lighter than air.  Ears pop, finally.  Leveling off, we are now above the backs of the clouds; I look down upon herds of white bison, thick white edifices and cloud villages.  Hello, minute earthen world; I look down  at thee and wonder.  What is secondly interesting is the three dimensional aspect of cloud life, it is like looking through a stereopticon, and how is it this effect is not evident from the ground?
This miracle of a thousand minds is now above the Finger Lake region, and from above I can see the striations of water gouged by glaciers.  We have no dinosaur bones in this area, for the ice maidens heaved then pushed them all south, revealing the 350 million year old Devonian bed of the once salt ocean that was here before the dinosaurs.  We have a salt mine buried, still run by Morton in Genesee County; if you clamber in, the workers have carved some of the salt pillars into ghostly figures.  What folks do for fun is such a component of history.  Heads up and pay attention!
What was left were the sea creatures, the tiny first ones; the brachiopods, crinoids, diatoms, and the mice of the sea,  trilobites that scurried and curled and flipped until the mass extinction arrived that seemed to kill everything at once within 2 million years.  Now they are a favorite for fossil hunters, uncloaked from layers of shale cracked open by hand or pick.  A prize in every box, a pearl in every oyster.  Is there not small success in discovery?  And here I am ensconced by a metal box with wings to be opened when I shall emerge as a snail from a shell, a mollusk to fish to amphibian, reptile, to mammal now walking upright, a biped devising fantastic machinery which hurtles through viable substance.
We’ve had four major extinctions in the life of this planet.  The next may take Grandma and the dog.
The cabin shudders as air pockets and turbulence roll under our belly; the engines seem to slow and we drop closer to the clouds to avoid atmospheric mischief turning cartwheels.  As fluffy and benevolent seem the clouds, would I like to fall through one as in a dream?  A dream, sure, but falling through clouds would leave one wet and possibly charged with static.  Someone could stick you upon a wall at a birthday party, like a balloon rubbed on hair.  It surrounds us, this force, I have gotten sparks from my cats’ fur.
But Ah!!  Too soon too soon, descent has begun.  Objects are becoming identifiable and the clouds rub their sides  against my contraption like a horse or a cat will.  Down, lulling quiet, but of course, there is the real concern of suddenly plummeting as a meteor from the sky.  How did pilots see, before gauges and computers?  Insanely inquisitive and brave, those folk, but are we not, too?  To trust and hope that it will work but once again for us; we have been good, have mercy on our pitiful heads.  Descent, a quieting of engines as if we are gliding, a silent paper plane launched and finished with its arc.  Shhh.  Boston Harbor Boston!  The ocean, tides and salt and crabs to nip tender skin. Turbulence nearer ground rattles our container and some human respiration has stopped, held in stasis until the tires hit tarmac.  Turning, banking, ocean wind, Oh Susan, where have you been, I missed you, says Mother Ocean
Hello tiny houses, hello boats, hello dogs that say bahk.  Down and down, lined up with the straightaway.  Engines kick into reverse to slow down into a curtsey and wheels touch and rumble and jeezus it seems we are driving this thing a gazillion miles per hour.  Miss Lady Pilot slams on the brakes and passengers tip forward, praying we don’t crash through the souvenir shop in the terminal.  We slow down amazingly fast, and then ease into Sunday drive look who’s here set another plate speed.  Grass is grass, buildings are buildings and I wait a bit to disembark as my clumsiness usually ends up with some poor victim getting klunked with my carry on.
Everyone is smiling, helpful, and with my Mid Atlantic accent, have pity on me.  I don’t care, I will take all the help I can get and the lovely man who runs the shuttle to the water taxi sees me jump up when he announces “End of the Line!”   I ask if this is the stop for the water taxi, no no no you sit down, I take you there.  This is the end of the line for the subway.  Dokey.  I smile and wave my hand in front of my face, miming that I don’t know where the hell I am.  He smiles, Don’ worry lady, I take you there.  We get to the water taxi stop, and he stands up.  Come on.  He guides me in his thick accent to a stairway leading down to the dock, and waves good bye when he sees I’m on the right track.   Nice fellow, and I told him so.
So there is a battered boat, no sign but there are gold and white checkered flags snapping in the wind while the boat bounces in the bay.   “Is this the water taxi?” I ask, just in case it’s really a pirate ship and I will be abducted (can’t you hear your Mom’s voice in your head? And pirates would lie anyways).  The young man jumps up and says yes ma’am let me help you with your luggage.  Aw.  Sweetie Pie.   The motorboat is enclosed in a plastic cabana and I puddle along as he motors me, the only passenger, perched on the cushion, a rube from the hinterlands thinking “I’m on the ocean!  Whee!”
What a honey, he makes sure I know where I’m going and made a phone call to the station ahead to let them know I’m coming.  It’s a three hour wait, but I have the laptop and here’s a hint for when you travel:  Dunkin’ Donuts does not have Wifi.  So I write this missive and look forward to the next two hour ferry ride if I remember where the hell I put the ticket which is my round trip ticket and if it’s lost, must pay the whole fare again.  Which is a big deal at $85 bucks round trip, and would be one more sign of the missing synapses.  If you see any of mine, mail them back please and I’ll send you a nice, crispy dollar if I remember.
I am excited, my friend from New England told me that they stop raking the beaches on the Cape during the autumn, so alllll the shells and odd little dead animals (carapaced ones, not fish, I’m not that nuts) will be in mounds of washed up seaweed.  It will be a treasure chest of smelly things to sort through, photograph, draw and toss.  Except the shells.  Them’s I’m a-keepin’.
Oh you who dream of connecting machines that compress civilizations and open connective doors, sleep well; searching for answers we are, each of us.  Night tides come and restore us, tell our hearts to lay down for soothing sleep; we put our blankets on the floor so the monsters at the window can’t see us, because of the protective magic of covers.  Covered by Devonian shell or winged metal tube, our talismans allay and battle our fears.  Go fly, in heart or mind, fly and rise above circumstances if only for a moment; pretend it is all right.  It probably already is, so sleep as if your blankets were enchanted cloaks, huddled shells where there is respite and release.  Dream, sweet traveler.  Good night.

Change of Guardian

Today I unpacked belongings and materials in my new room at the new school that I will be at this year, teaching first grade.  After teaching third grade for eight years, these students will seem tiny; tiny I tell you!  They are coming in at five years old.  That's just five years of breathing on this earth, their bodies are not syncopated nor complete, and they spin.  I will try very hard not to scare them, even though I have been told a couple are "runners."

The old school I worked at had moved to a temporary site with all the teacher materials packed up in June; all my stuff went there, so once I found where I was placed, after a week of my name going missing, I went over and sorted out my stuff from what belonged to the school, boxes and boxes of books accumulated over the years and other materials.  Took all damn day.  Told people what side of the room the boxes were in, movers were to come and haul stuff out after I marked the new place on the boxes.

Easy.  Until I got to the school and found that the new teacher mistakenly emptied my boxes and filled her shelves with my materials.  Found a note stating that she went through the cartons to gather District Materials and left me with my personal items.  So, I had to repack all the stuff into about forty boxes, tape and label them again, these alleged 'District Materials' included purchases with my name written in them and a set of 25 Charlotte's Web books.  Find me a district that will buy your class 25 Charlotte's Web books and I will eat my hat.  And anyways, what was with this District business?  I'm still a District teacher, it's not like I was leaving the country.

Thank goodness dear Mr. Mr. got the movers to get my stuff to the new school; that plus 29 other boxed kept at a downtown storage unit made up what I did today; unpack.  The bright and shining spot was that my friend Pauline dropped in from a busy day to help me, God bless that woman.  Smart as a whip and knew where things should go without me telling her.  We got the boxes finished, a very large accomplishment, but I am still behind because of the snafu.  I'll catch up.  This is what told me a story, the unpacking; it is a cobbled story put together by many hands for whom I am forever grateful.

Many items were in small boxes, such as games or flashcards; others were books discarded because the District said the teachers shouldn't use them anymore and to throw them out.  The public would be more than upset to learn just how many educational materials we are told to throw out because they don't meet the new standards of the year, according to whichever book vendor the city purchases from.
Workbooks, instructional books, reading books, fraction games, scientific posters were all handed down to me by generous compatriots through the years.  Today I found that many had the names of the original owner.

I have a sheaf of human body posters and fossil models given to me by Barb Malcolm, her name written on the outside of the flat cardboard box containing them; workbooks and Mailbox magazines from MaryAnn, a fifth grade teacher and science mentor, her handwriting scribbled in pertinent notes throughout the text; books from Linda, paints and holiday materials from Deb; workbooks and art cards from Sue W., math games from Sue H., and storybooks from Sue C.   Dutch shoes, a conch shell, and center materials from Rich; water trays and paintbrushes from Ginny; balances, snowflake patterns from Jane; a survival kit of organizers from Lynn, organized files and  pencils from Joanne; a cactus and books from Barbara Allen; blankets and sheets from Karima so my kids could sit on the grass;  a chalkboard from  Ann;  guppies from Darlene; word wall cards from Amy; a Jeopardy game, a little wooden desk with green legs, and a basket shaped like a duck from Paula and Phil that I use for homework.

I'm sure there is more that will pop up as I unpack further, but these are names that are part of my history and wealth.  There are few people more generous than someone in the education business, especially the folks who have contact with the classroom; believe me, you do not go into this job for the money, there is very little considering the investment in time and finances that is put in, and often must be paid back.  Job security?  Summers off?  Are you kidding?  You have to work to stay afloat at a second job, and are expected to take courses over the summer in preparation for new fall mandates or technological advances.  I have been in a school everyday for the past two weeks, working without pay to get ready for the new year.  And, if you think teaching children is easy, come on in.  You are in for a shock as to what comes out of their mouths or gets thrown at you. It is not a surprise these days, to hear of a colleague being sent to the emergency room for treatment, or for the police to be called to an elementary school.   Last year was the first year that I felt unsafe in my job.  Enrollment at teaching colleges is down, the last I heard, for few want the profession that receives an unfair amount of media and public derision.

We want these jobs for other reasons; to teach the joy of knowledge and the power of critical thinking to children so that when they are adults, they are able to make choices that they have a voice in, and further the good for our community, our earth.  These names I read today as I unpacked reminded me of my friends that I have worked with, and learned from, over the years.  Thank you all for teaching me how to educate a kid, to engage them and meet them halfway.  You are ever in my heart.

I can see the Niagara River from my classroom, and Canada.   The whitecaps on the river today showed the wind coming in from the west, pushing waters high, crashing over the breakwall.  I am water, I flow, break on the surface, and find my own level again.  Good night, sleep well, crash through the wall of dreams; wait and find me, I am still here.  Sleep.