The shopping cart had one of those wheels that thunked with every rotation; at a moderate speed, it gave the impression of a tower of soup cans toppling, but of course I was stubborn. I can live with this, no need to exchange carts, thunk thunk thunk, here I come. Of course one would rather have the stealth cart, whereas you can sneak up on food in hunting mode as if you had to kill your own wildebeest for dinner, rather than merely sorting through styrofoam trays of prepared meat. Not me. Thunk.
I rounded corners on two wheels, zipped down aisles, I was on a mission and had to be in Canada in an hour; customs these days takes longer and I hadn't cleaned out the back seat of my car. Clattered into the cashier's lane, loaded the conveyor, pushed up to the chip reader and hey. There's a bill on the floor, a greeny, folded piece of cash, someone dropped a dollar. Picked it up, unfolded, and was looking at the fuzz-faced 18th president, Ulysses S. Grant. Fifty dollar bill, folks.
"I just found this on the floor," I said, while handing it to the cashier; both our faces reflected what finding fifty bucks means, and what it probably meant to the person from whom it slipped. She called the manager, explaining that she thought she knew who dropped it, the lady two people ahead of me who was fumbling with wads of paper money from her wallet. If they can trace back the number on the plastic card used for "bonus prices" that most customers have, she might be found; nonetheless, the fifty would be put in the vault.
Did I hesitate to turn it in, think of nonchalantly tucking in my purse? You betcha, for maybe three seconds, but one of my jobs in this life is not to creep myself out, and that would have. Truth, only three seconds of morality dancing, the time it took to rise from picking it up before I knew it was Unconditional Surrender Grant's denomination. Even if it was only a buck, a fin, a sawbuck, a double sawbuck, I would have turned it in--coins, however, are fair game.
Was there a glimmer of angelic halo over my head as I put the bags in the car? You know the feeling, at least I hope you do, after you've done a good deed without fanfare; it's okay to pat yourself on the back. I thought Mom would be proud of me. This illuminative glow above my head was completely lost on the customs guard, who grilled me as if I had my tires stuffed with body parts to sell at market.
My car is part of my storage room, besides the fact that carrying stuff through the parking lot and into the building is a part time job. This is not appreciated by government on either side of the Niagara River, which led to my arranging objects the next day to make it look like there was less. Like when you were a kid and pushed your vegetables around the plate, so wide swaths of ceramic real estate would separate the green beans boiled until they were grey further apart. It would give the air that you did something, that you worked those green beans over, ingested the select, and were too full to complete the deed. But, look at the space where there were vegetables! Alakazam!
The winter shovel was still there, the IKEA footstool upside down for stability, the cardboard sheets to be hauled into school, the two bottles of on sale windshield washer fluid, cowboy boots that need to be reheeled, and two good sized boxes addressed to Tunisia all sat on the back seat. What's in those boxes? I told the officer. She frowned a frown not so much that she didn't know what the object was, but that she disapproved of the kind of person who would send this frivolity. I misread her expression, and proceeded to explain what the thing was, what you do with it, and she stopped me with an "I know" and then said, "I see a chair."
A chair? Oh, the footstool that I bought from the thrift store, I haven't lugged it upstairs yet.
"Who drives around with a chair in their car?" She was testy. I just looked at her, patiently waiting for more; didn't she see my halo? How quickly one falls from grace. What are you bringing in with you? Cat treats. Cat treats? Yes, the kind my friend's cat likes aren't sold here in Canada, so I'm bringing her two packs. Who is this friend? What's her name? Where does she live? Do you have any alcohol, firearms, or drugs? Are you leaving anything in Canada? Yes, cat treats. By then, she just wanted me to be gone.
Have a good day, she mumbled, giving me my passport. Because the same thing happened on the way back into the States, it was time to enforce organization to save future customs officers from apoplexy, so today I cleaned out my car with the push-your-vegetables-around-your-plate method, as I don't have room in the apartment for most of the stuff. I surprised myself by discovering that I'm driving around with three chairs, not just one. There is the aforementioned IKEA footstool, which will make it home someday; a folding chair for sitting at beaches and parks, and a very portable folding camp stool for when I am in the quarry bashing open rocks, looking for trilobites. Thank goodness no one was that irritated to have me pull over for a car inspection. Three chairs, yikes.
The wind is in a tizzy, a tumbling gallop through branches and 'round corners, blustering and buffeting in a thousand voices. I wonder how the birds hang on, where do they hunker down in a storm; yesterday I saw the tiniest fluff of a chickadee gathering material to construct a marvel, a nest. In this newly green, vivid tulip world, you get distracted by the flowers and birdsong; only when storms roll in do you imagine hardship amid the fresh daffodils.
Sleep well as the earth changes from day to night, as shoots push further even in the dark, as seeds prestidigitate into searching roots and lifting heads. Yes, you can use the word magic, for it is; a conjuring by the universe, the same one that created you with complexities and compassion, designed to be intelligent, to use our wisdom in safeguarding the smallest finch whose heartbeat matches our own. To sleep, then, my dear, human friend. Good night.
Sunday, April 30, 2017
Tuesday, February 28, 2017
This Morning Had a Clear Sky
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
Pink Moon
Rosey-posey, dappled pink moon, full as a court duchess at a pastry table, hanging low in the western sky; it was a startling vision, the full moon just setting as the sun arose. The dawn was roseate, blushing at the morning sight of couples rousing, tossing off covers, readying for the day---Madame Luna caught the sun's flushed bewilderment and laughed, for what did you expect in the early residue of night? It is her belief, you see, that the day hides more than in the night, when faces are unmasked, when quieter desires become apparent. During the day, we wear suits and bindings. After sundown, well.
This gorgeous sight of lunar pink showed the moon's markings as striations and stipples, and I wished I wasn't driving, for seeing this great airship would have occupied a morning's time. Fingers of clouds stretched from the east, reaching in peach and rose colors for the zenith of the sky, where other billowing legions clustered, holding the contents of a coming storm. It wasn't a bad drive; when I turned north and the moon was hidden by city buildings, I forgot the descent of the pink empress and concentrated on snagging a reasonable parking spot on the street.
In class, we talked of reading, writing, and 'rithmetic until an announcement came over the p.a. that all after-school activities were canceled due to the impending weather. Impending? Let's look. Nothing but dark, low clouds slowly advancing towards the school from the lake, it could get here, it couldn't, do they have a premonition that we are missing? On the Promethean board, I pulled up a local weather station--the kids were amazed at the satellite photos showing the advance of the snowstorm--and then wham! The outside windows were assaulted by a blast of pure happiness, for the kids yelped and ran to the window to see. SNOW! It's snowing! The houses across the street were temporarily invisible, and only the red glow of rear lights could tell you where a car was. Alright, skedaddle back to your seats, this needs a plan.
Get math done up while I call a few parents to tell them that their child is coming home right away, then, we are getting ready early. I want everyone bundled, wrapped, with a hat, gloves, and no complaining about zippers on coats. If it gets too bad out, we may be staying here overnight, so I can teach you at two o'clock in the morning. Yay, said the kids. Not the reaction I was expecting, but the idea of raiding the cafeteria for dinner was a dreamed-of adventure. There's pizza down there.
Teachers were scooted out as the building was closing at 3, and just as well; the number of car accidents was phenomenal in the two mile stretch I needed to travel. One side of the street was locked with cars; blue and red lights flashed from police vehicles, it was like driving over applesauce on ice; everywhere everywhere everywhere, the streets were jammed as all employees were trying to leave the city at once, with major routes snaffled, and the Skyway closed. A nine- minute drive took me a half hour, with diversions through neighborhoods I've never seen. But Rudy, my car, and I got home. Rudolph Valentino. No, I don't know why, it just happened.
This is the vacuum created by a snowstorm: no sound, all the traffic that runs by year round is muffled or simply not there. It's a rare quiet in the apartment, interrupted only by the thunder of metal behemoths eagerly pushing the snow into mannerly furrows. A few lights on downtown buildings are showing, but the grey-orange sky flurries still are blanketing the cars in the lot, turning them into squarish marshmallows, at least in my view from the ninth floor. If the moon is still full, no one could tell. But, you know, if you put a spoon under your pillow at night, it's guaranteed to present you grandly with a snow day. Retired teachers are not allowed to clap gleefully. No clapping. Stop that.
Wowsers! Lightning just crackled, followed by thunder; thundersnow happens in a lake effect storm and the city lights have disappeared again, so maybe I won't even need a spoon.
I and the cats are warm, the millepedes are warm, the snails are warm; I imagine any sneaky spiders are warm. Do you know if you are loved? I do, and am. A student came in with her mother at 11:10 today; her stomach had been hurting earlier, but now that she was feeling better, she asked her mother to bring her to school. The class is a safe haven, she hugged me when she saw me. That, ladies and gents, is my job, my main purpose, for if you are scared, how the heck can you learn anything when you are on tenterhooks and six years old? The student twirled around me, a small moon orbiting a planetary teacher.
Good night, good night, good people. And you are good; and it is so. See past the masks of daytime, and contemplate the freedom offered by setting suns and rising moons, by lightning in snowstorms, by words and wishes. The world hurts less with your magnificent spirit. Sleep, dog; sleep cat; sleep child. I will watch over.
This gorgeous sight of lunar pink showed the moon's markings as striations and stipples, and I wished I wasn't driving, for seeing this great airship would have occupied a morning's time. Fingers of clouds stretched from the east, reaching in peach and rose colors for the zenith of the sky, where other billowing legions clustered, holding the contents of a coming storm. It wasn't a bad drive; when I turned north and the moon was hidden by city buildings, I forgot the descent of the pink empress and concentrated on snagging a reasonable parking spot on the street.
In class, we talked of reading, writing, and 'rithmetic until an announcement came over the p.a. that all after-school activities were canceled due to the impending weather. Impending? Let's look. Nothing but dark, low clouds slowly advancing towards the school from the lake, it could get here, it couldn't, do they have a premonition that we are missing? On the Promethean board, I pulled up a local weather station--the kids were amazed at the satellite photos showing the advance of the snowstorm--and then wham! The outside windows were assaulted by a blast of pure happiness, for the kids yelped and ran to the window to see. SNOW! It's snowing! The houses across the street were temporarily invisible, and only the red glow of rear lights could tell you where a car was. Alright, skedaddle back to your seats, this needs a plan.
Get math done up while I call a few parents to tell them that their child is coming home right away, then, we are getting ready early. I want everyone bundled, wrapped, with a hat, gloves, and no complaining about zippers on coats. If it gets too bad out, we may be staying here overnight, so I can teach you at two o'clock in the morning. Yay, said the kids. Not the reaction I was expecting, but the idea of raiding the cafeteria for dinner was a dreamed-of adventure. There's pizza down there.
Teachers were scooted out as the building was closing at 3, and just as well; the number of car accidents was phenomenal in the two mile stretch I needed to travel. One side of the street was locked with cars; blue and red lights flashed from police vehicles, it was like driving over applesauce on ice; everywhere everywhere everywhere, the streets were jammed as all employees were trying to leave the city at once, with major routes snaffled, and the Skyway closed. A nine- minute drive took me a half hour, with diversions through neighborhoods I've never seen. But Rudy, my car, and I got home. Rudolph Valentino. No, I don't know why, it just happened.
This is the vacuum created by a snowstorm: no sound, all the traffic that runs by year round is muffled or simply not there. It's a rare quiet in the apartment, interrupted only by the thunder of metal behemoths eagerly pushing the snow into mannerly furrows. A few lights on downtown buildings are showing, but the grey-orange sky flurries still are blanketing the cars in the lot, turning them into squarish marshmallows, at least in my view from the ninth floor. If the moon is still full, no one could tell. But, you know, if you put a spoon under your pillow at night, it's guaranteed to present you grandly with a snow day. Retired teachers are not allowed to clap gleefully. No clapping. Stop that.
Wowsers! Lightning just crackled, followed by thunder; thundersnow happens in a lake effect storm and the city lights have disappeared again, so maybe I won't even need a spoon.
I and the cats are warm, the millepedes are warm, the snails are warm; I imagine any sneaky spiders are warm. Do you know if you are loved? I do, and am. A student came in with her mother at 11:10 today; her stomach had been hurting earlier, but now that she was feeling better, she asked her mother to bring her to school. The class is a safe haven, she hugged me when she saw me. That, ladies and gents, is my job, my main purpose, for if you are scared, how the heck can you learn anything when you are on tenterhooks and six years old? The student twirled around me, a small moon orbiting a planetary teacher.
Good night, good night, good people. And you are good; and it is so. See past the masks of daytime, and contemplate the freedom offered by setting suns and rising moons, by lightning in snowstorms, by words and wishes. The world hurts less with your magnificent spirit. Sleep, dog; sleep cat; sleep child. I will watch over.
Sunday, December 11, 2016
O Canada
Moving to Canada been on your mind lately? Thinking about butter tarts, hmmm? Maybe knowing that Canada legalized same sex marriages about ten years ago would allow sleep to come sooner at night? Tired of those pesky pennies? How about some excellent chocolate from England, Ireland? And speaking of chocolate, you're just dying for one of those Kinder eggs, illegal here in the US; forget the candy and go buy a US of A legal semi-automatic AK-47, you wanna live dangerously already. How about adding a /u/ after an /o/ in several words, rounds out that flat Americaan accent that causes Canadians to double over in guffaws, but that's probably as snarky as they get. They'll slap you on the back and buy you a brew to show no hard feelings.
Going over to Canada used to be fairly easy before passports were required, we'd pile into the Ford wagon to go see Niagara Falls, or a date night would be at a Chinese restaurant in Fort Erie, Ontario. I had Canadian friends when I was a kid, and we would trot around the now all-gone amusement park at Crystal Beach or go to Thunder Bay and swim in the breakers coming off the Lake. It's where loganberry drink originated, and french fries with brown gravy live. Throw cheese curds in with the french fries, and you have the high octane fuel known as poutine, designed to keep a Canadian warm in winter. These are mostly outdoor people.
They really do say "Eh?" at the end of a sentence, as a request for agreement, or how about that; it was my turn to stifle a smirk as a friend said it, just like the Canadians portrayed on Saturday Night Live. I was thrilled, it was like finding out something really is true. Eh? It doesn't fall easily to me to stick one on after my commas and periods, but listening to a fast conversation with a group of six Canadians sounds like a vowel convention. Ay? Aih? Ah noo, eh? Raght, eh? Whudja think, lad, eh?
One of the funniest, weirdie moments came when my friend's Canadian mother did an American accent; hearing what you sound like to other people is like looking into a funhouse mirror. You see the contortions of your own language, similar to when you first hear the sound of your own voice.
Go to a restaurant anywhere, even just over the Niagara River from Buffalo, New York, and the panoply of accents displayed by customers ranges from proper London to Galway to the Hebrides. The ear trains itself to discern colloquial conversations that eliminate syllables by blending all the letters, as well as the back-in-the-throat, thick as porridge roaring Scotch, often heard when their team scores. The further east you go towards Montreal, the more French, and government signage is printed in both English and French everywhere. A human United Nations is in Toronto (pronounced Tronno by the natives); T-Town has every ethnicity, fabulously amazing neighborhoods which cater to cultural requirements, districts where English is a second language, and most of all, everyone is welcome.
Crime is minimal; for example: a friend goes walking at night, a brisk walk for exercise, at night, in the dark. I flipped. If I have to go down to my parking lot, I arm myself mentally and scan the pavements for lurking shadows, and here she is, galloping aboot after sundown. She frowned a bit when I asked her if it was safe. Sure it is. Why? American me warbled on about muggings, thievery, kidnappings, shootings, abrasions, hangnails, and low-flying owls. Shootings? Oh right, eh. You folks have guns. Here's a news flash: hunters are allowed rifles, but Canada severely restricts hand guns resulting in only 172 fire-arms related homicides in 2015 for the whole, immense country. The States had 11,208 homicides not counting suicides, accidental fatal discharges, and gun deaths with "undetermined intent".
The passport restrictions now require planning for a drive, children under 16 need a certified birth certificate, everyone else must have a passport. Families may not be able to afford parental and older sibling documents, when all it used to be was a tank of gas and you could take the kids for ice cream at the dairy in Fort Erie, or fried lake perch in Port Dalhousie. Rent a cottage on the shore and vacation, stop at the diner for burgers. They don't ask you rare, medium, etc.; all burgers are well done. BUT THEY ARE SO GOOD.
Canada is a great friendly neighbor that doesn't easily get riled or scream if McDonald's screws up the order, there is little drama. I think socially, it's a behaviour-conscience population that gets embarrassed if you aren't having a nice day. Alcohol is bought at special stores, everything is expensive (butter $6 a pound except it isn't a pound it's a metric something), teachers are paid very well, and healthcare is free--although there are catches to that. Speaking of metrics, they only switched over from the Imperial system in the mid-seventies, so most Canadians are well-versed in both. Me? I like when the speed limit says 100, but it means 60 mph. The little things.
The clouds are not American, neither the sky nor wind hold boundaries over the globe. The air we breathe circulates, pushed by streams and currents in the atmosphere, the molecules of oxygen break apart and find themselves reattached to carbon or a part of photosynthesis and become a tree. Very few oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon molecules escape into space, we are working with what we started with; what this means is that we share what the dinosaurs had, what the slow, chunderous continents pushed and pulled apart; what the oceans first said. In the the time of reptiles, us cousins would have been dead, for the air was 30% oxygen. Whee, you think, I'll get the laundry folded in no time. But, no.
We can live comfortably between the ranges of 19.5-23.5%, can survive at 15-28%; over that and a human suffers vasoconstriction, muscle twitches, edema of the lungs, and possible death. Forest fires raged out of control during those eras in spite of the humidity, according to the rock record; even wet plants will burn then. Once the larger animals began eating the plants, the oxygen dropped, and here are you and I, pterodactyl-free, (they couldn't fly in this atmosphere anyhow), waving at each other out our windows.
There has been a drowsy snow all day, leaving little but a slippery covering over the city. I heard the first snowplow dozing along, spreading the ubiquitous salt; I saw the first orange sky of winter, as the sodium lights glowered on the sheet of snow in the air. The back room is chilly, so I will unearth wool blankets from the linen chest and find real jammies. There is something comfortable about the deep sky, emblazoned by city lights and whatever refractive cosmos exists temporarily on the other side of the planet. But listen; December 21st is coming, the winter solstice, marking the longest night and shortest day, and then it changes. It shifts, the north pole will start to tilt towards the sun, and the days will begin to return to light. Count the time, my friends; sound the gong at 10:44, Universal Time.
Until then, love your loved ones, pet the cat, feed the dog, find your slippers, and a cup of tea. Settle with a book, bustle with the holidays. Love each other with compassion, kindness; reach out and tiptoe into a life that could use a bit of warmth. I read in one of H. Kushner's books a saying from the Talmud, that when you do something good without being asked, God says that for this moment, the world was worth making. You are good, you do good. The world spins on.
Going over to Canada used to be fairly easy before passports were required, we'd pile into the Ford wagon to go see Niagara Falls, or a date night would be at a Chinese restaurant in Fort Erie, Ontario. I had Canadian friends when I was a kid, and we would trot around the now all-gone amusement park at Crystal Beach or go to Thunder Bay and swim in the breakers coming off the Lake. It's where loganberry drink originated, and french fries with brown gravy live. Throw cheese curds in with the french fries, and you have the high octane fuel known as poutine, designed to keep a Canadian warm in winter. These are mostly outdoor people.
They really do say "Eh?" at the end of a sentence, as a request for agreement, or how about that; it was my turn to stifle a smirk as a friend said it, just like the Canadians portrayed on Saturday Night Live. I was thrilled, it was like finding out something really is true. Eh? It doesn't fall easily to me to stick one on after my commas and periods, but listening to a fast conversation with a group of six Canadians sounds like a vowel convention. Ay? Aih? Ah noo, eh? Raght, eh? Whudja think, lad, eh?
One of the funniest, weirdie moments came when my friend's Canadian mother did an American accent; hearing what you sound like to other people is like looking into a funhouse mirror. You see the contortions of your own language, similar to when you first hear the sound of your own voice.
Go to a restaurant anywhere, even just over the Niagara River from Buffalo, New York, and the panoply of accents displayed by customers ranges from proper London to Galway to the Hebrides. The ear trains itself to discern colloquial conversations that eliminate syllables by blending all the letters, as well as the back-in-the-throat, thick as porridge roaring Scotch, often heard when their team scores. The further east you go towards Montreal, the more French, and government signage is printed in both English and French everywhere. A human United Nations is in Toronto (pronounced Tronno by the natives); T-Town has every ethnicity, fabulously amazing neighborhoods which cater to cultural requirements, districts where English is a second language, and most of all, everyone is welcome.
Crime is minimal; for example: a friend goes walking at night, a brisk walk for exercise, at night, in the dark. I flipped. If I have to go down to my parking lot, I arm myself mentally and scan the pavements for lurking shadows, and here she is, galloping aboot after sundown. She frowned a bit when I asked her if it was safe. Sure it is. Why? American me warbled on about muggings, thievery, kidnappings, shootings, abrasions, hangnails, and low-flying owls. Shootings? Oh right, eh. You folks have guns. Here's a news flash: hunters are allowed rifles, but Canada severely restricts hand guns resulting in only 172 fire-arms related homicides in 2015 for the whole, immense country. The States had 11,208 homicides not counting suicides, accidental fatal discharges, and gun deaths with "undetermined intent".
The passport restrictions now require planning for a drive, children under 16 need a certified birth certificate, everyone else must have a passport. Families may not be able to afford parental and older sibling documents, when all it used to be was a tank of gas and you could take the kids for ice cream at the dairy in Fort Erie, or fried lake perch in Port Dalhousie. Rent a cottage on the shore and vacation, stop at the diner for burgers. They don't ask you rare, medium, etc.; all burgers are well done. BUT THEY ARE SO GOOD.
Canada is a great friendly neighbor that doesn't easily get riled or scream if McDonald's screws up the order, there is little drama. I think socially, it's a behaviour-conscience population that gets embarrassed if you aren't having a nice day. Alcohol is bought at special stores, everything is expensive (butter $6 a pound except it isn't a pound it's a metric something), teachers are paid very well, and healthcare is free--although there are catches to that. Speaking of metrics, they only switched over from the Imperial system in the mid-seventies, so most Canadians are well-versed in both. Me? I like when the speed limit says 100, but it means 60 mph. The little things.
The clouds are not American, neither the sky nor wind hold boundaries over the globe. The air we breathe circulates, pushed by streams and currents in the atmosphere, the molecules of oxygen break apart and find themselves reattached to carbon or a part of photosynthesis and become a tree. Very few oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon molecules escape into space, we are working with what we started with; what this means is that we share what the dinosaurs had, what the slow, chunderous continents pushed and pulled apart; what the oceans first said. In the the time of reptiles, us cousins would have been dead, for the air was 30% oxygen. Whee, you think, I'll get the laundry folded in no time. But, no.
We can live comfortably between the ranges of 19.5-23.5%, can survive at 15-28%; over that and a human suffers vasoconstriction, muscle twitches, edema of the lungs, and possible death. Forest fires raged out of control during those eras in spite of the humidity, according to the rock record; even wet plants will burn then. Once the larger animals began eating the plants, the oxygen dropped, and here are you and I, pterodactyl-free, (they couldn't fly in this atmosphere anyhow), waving at each other out our windows.
There has been a drowsy snow all day, leaving little but a slippery covering over the city. I heard the first snowplow dozing along, spreading the ubiquitous salt; I saw the first orange sky of winter, as the sodium lights glowered on the sheet of snow in the air. The back room is chilly, so I will unearth wool blankets from the linen chest and find real jammies. There is something comfortable about the deep sky, emblazoned by city lights and whatever refractive cosmos exists temporarily on the other side of the planet. But listen; December 21st is coming, the winter solstice, marking the longest night and shortest day, and then it changes. It shifts, the north pole will start to tilt towards the sun, and the days will begin to return to light. Count the time, my friends; sound the gong at 10:44, Universal Time.
Until then, love your loved ones, pet the cat, feed the dog, find your slippers, and a cup of tea. Settle with a book, bustle with the holidays. Love each other with compassion, kindness; reach out and tiptoe into a life that could use a bit of warmth. I read in one of H. Kushner's books a saying from the Talmud, that when you do something good without being asked, God says that for this moment, the world was worth making. You are good, you do good. The world spins on.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
