Sudden deflation crisis

The other day I logged onto the computer to see about selling my old Mercury truck. I’m not holding out much hope that anyone will actually WANT it, but at least I can say I’m making an effort—albeit a perfunctory one. I decided to give it national exposure in the old cars magazine put out by the folks up in Vermont—publishers of Hemmings Motor News. I went through the process of describing the truck, even posted a photo of it, which would display for free on their site—at least for a little while, then tried to pay. It was the trying to pay part that got tangled up. When I was down to the very last field, the last tidibit of information that had to be filled, in, the computer balked. Their site up in Vermont had had enough of me and my old truck, apparently—didn’t really want to be bothered. The snafu was enough to render all of my efforts null and void. Thank you for calling, please come again. Have a nice day.

I called the phone number listed to talk to a representative—a real, live human being who might be able to help. She didn’t know what to make of the situation.
“Oh dear,” she said.
“Yes, this is kind of frustrating,” I replied, “Especially since the computer is supposed to make it EASIER to get this done.”
She went and checked with someone up there in Vermont.
“Chances are your ad went through, but we’ll check on Monday to make sure—and call to let you know.”

On Monday I was wrestling with some tables, getting them back into the truck after offloading them on Sunday to help move some big black furniture. Puffy things had been in the new Ohio truck, leather softness with a bed built in, and big cushions and everything lumped together called a “sectional.” I don’t even want to go into it. Not now, anyway. The phone rang. It was my contact in Vermont--cold country, oozer of maple sap, with eight inches of snow just fallen. She was calling to tell me that my ad had not gone through, and would I like to take care of it over the phone? Certainly, I said.

Everything the kindly woman said was perfectly understandable to me, though many miles separated us, and possibly some of our words were transmitted through cold cables buried under New England byways, ragged and forlorn bits of cornstalks withering in the frigid winter air, while we talked of the old truck and what exactly was it that I wanted to sell anyway?

I took a break from my table-moving activities, was not to be defeated in my efforts to advertise the old truck, to see what would come of it. I understood every word of what the Vermont woman said, down to the amount of snow that had fallen. Here is what I must have sounded like to her:

Biff barn bats
Battling worn hats
Hearts won with less
Than tired old cats

Loaded hellers
Half-pint tellers
Mid-day bustlers
In onion cellars

Dearth of mirth?
Nay, aye, nay
NO!
Please say
It isn’t so

So there was much lost in translation, my words maybe leaking into the soft loamy earth under the corn, the rows not rows any more, but uniform white with some corn-markers battling the frigid air.

“The second letter is “T” as in “truck.” This is me trying to impart my email address.
She read back her interpretation, missed almost every single letter.
“Ok,” the cheerful Vermont woman said, “P” as in Peter….” She was going to continue on to the next wrong letter.
“You’re kidding, right?” I said, now incredulous. “I even said: “T” as in “TRUCK.” We’d been going back and forth interminably, it becoming obvious that maybe she had a hearing problem—or just wanted to hear certain things more than others.
“Okay,” she said, then continued, reading back my email address, getting more than half of it wrong. It took SIX tries before she had the seven letters and two numbers correctly transcribed onto whatever instrument she was using in snow-laden Vermont.

I thanked her for her time, said I appreciated her calling back to let me know about the ad. I spent the better part of a half-hour with her, placing an eighteen-word advertisement—the cheapest one I could buy. Since I was now without the service and convenience of the online advertising forum, I imagine I will not have the benefit of a photo accompanying the ad. All of that information had been cancelled, lost, when the computer had balked at my efforts. The woman from Vermont had told me so:
“It’s all gone,” she said.

I put the rest of the tables back, made room on the front porch for my project—which I’d left off Sunday in order to get the fluffy, impeccable furniture on the other side of town. Sure, I have a truck—yes, you can borrow it to get your new sectional furniture. I would have gladly handed over the keys, stayed on the porch cutting wood and screwing it into place. But there was one problem: The truck was illegal in just about every respect. I was driving it with borrowed tags, had not bothered to get insurance yet—and the front tires were on the verge of exploding. All of this in spite of having spent roughly three thousand dollars on safety-related repairs. It remained to get the new tires, have the inspection finished up, and make a trip to the motor vehicles agency to get the truck legally in my name, with its very own license plates, a blanket of protective insurance and maybe even a nice new spare tire to round things out.

But the black and fluffy furniture would not wait, did not want to know about my problems; for my problems now included the massive pieces waiting across town, just on the other side of the harbor—a mere trip through the tunnel and we’d be there. So we met, the furniture-getters and I, in front of the ragged house with the torn-apart porch. And we unloaded the truck of its cargo, the stuff of my business, that should really stay in there, should not see the light of day except for the markets. It all came out. The soft, plush leather of the puffy recliners and sofa bed wouldn’t have it any other way. It was too bulky.

And we carted those other things from across town, stuffed them into the truck any old way, for I am really not a furniture-mover, have only fallen victim to the crime of owning a truck, a strange brotherhood are we: When you have a truck, even a tiny little thing—word gets out. The truck can be running on four flat tires, barely held together with string, but—goddammit—it’s a truck. We can put things in that truck. Lots of things. The ironic part of it is this: most of the time I have been called on to help move things that could have easily been stowed in my little station wagon. But we show up with the big van, the big engine using big gas, the owners of the thing to be fetched convinced that the dimensions of their purchase warrant a big rig—maybe even an eighteen-wheeler, a Peterbilt or Mack. Their ideas of the thing’s importance and stature are all out of proportion. And we place the delicate and diminutive thing back there, with gobs of space all around it, as if it were some museum piece, come to town in a traveling display. Carefully throw open the doors with a bit of drama and ceremony and reveal—what is it, exactly? It’s dark in there, and kind of hard to see. Oh—there it is—a little table! Look! There’s a little table in there! I was expecting something bigger, but it’s just a little thing! Come over and look at this, Mildred—they’re carrying around this itty-bitty thing in that big truck—looks kind of funny, huh?

But the puffy leather ensemble was not an itty-bitty thing. It needed the big truck for once, the illegal vehicle miling along under the radar of law enforcement—for the time being. Until someone ran a red light, broadsided me, sent the puffy things onto their sides, spilling here and there, a curious spectacle for the rainy day crowd, idling by in their cars and SUVs. That did not happen.

We got the things back across town, the only highlight of the day was when I maneuvered ahead in the race to the toll-booths at the tunnel entrance. I had to halt my enthusiasm, realized that I was in fact being an obnoxious asshole, as I now had to squeeze into the line already waiting patiently. They have different booths, see—and I couldn’t use just ANY booth: I had cash, and was only welcome at a cash booth. So I consulted my right-side mirror, saw that a white pickup was going to let me squeeze in front, had no way of thanking him, for this truck has no rear window or way of signallling. It was rainy and miserable and cold out. The wipers washed away the drops to reveal a darkening and dismal end to the dreary day.

At the toll-booth I handed over my money, told the woman I was paying for the white pickup behind me. I drove on, got through the tunnel. On the other side I saw the pickup come alongside, window open, the man waving his thanks. It actually caught me by surprise, as I’d all but forgotten about it—my worried mind dwelling on the marginal truck, the hazards of driving it in inclement weather, the consequences of having a misshap. The next day I would finish up the work needed to make it a legal vehicle. Then I would hand over the keys to all comers, let them take it out on the highways, just leave me alone with my porch and my decaying old house. Just take the truck—and godspeed. But above all—leave me the hell out of the whole project.

The next day I drove down to the tire shop, had them put on two new tires, explained that—no, I don’t want those real expensive ones with the fancy tread. See, I only drive the thing maybe three times a week at most, don’t need all that high-priced crap.
“Ok, we have these tires—for about sixty dollars less apiece.”
“Yes—yes, those are the ones I want,” I said. “Do you have anything cheaper?”

The tire-man—the young fellow who actually installed my tires—had a line on a good used tire that I could have as a spare. He brought it out. The thing was actually brand-new, looked to have no wear at all, even a sticker still applied to it.
“Twenty bucks,” he said.
It was a done deal; he even mounted it on my spare rim, took the old worn-out spare, a dismal example of a tire, and discarded it. I couldn’t have been happier. Now it just remains to fix up a mounting bracket under the truck, secure tools down there with the tire and hit the road—confident that I can handle a “sudden deflation crisis” with ease.

One thing leads to another

The front porch is about one-third completed now, needing many additional boards to finish up the floor. I have moved my equipment and materials over to the section that has a new floor installed, and will start on the rest of the porch in the coming days—weather permitting. I still need to add reinforcing lumber along the aged and weakened timbers. I’ll do this before starting on the floor for the remaining sections.

This porch business is not really a high-priority project; for overall livability, it does not affect the house or its future occupants so much. However, the psychological effect cannot be overestimated: The sight of the peeling, flaking boards, the very stuff you step on when you first approach the entrance, is a source of malaise every time I enter the house. I don’t like the crunching and gritty feel of the old paint underfoot, the dried and worn boards that have outlived by many years their usefulness, the gaping hole that actually opened up—an old patch job that was slapped together by someone way back when. I hate all of this, just want to be rid of it—to see it gone, replaced with fresh lumber screwed into more fresh lumber underneath, knowing that this work will last for future summers, winters, the weather-resistant wood welcoming the snows and rains and footsteps of children and their parents, the solid stuff underfoot inspiring confidence, pride in coming home to such a tidy and stable little abode. The porch is going to look great—I just know it.

I have even started to think more radically about revamping the front of the house altogether. As is typical with these little Cape Cod-style homes, the front is semi-enclosed, having something of a skirt around the front porch. This skirt is about three feet high and topped by a ledge that you can put planters, flower boxes on, or just sit on if you like. My idea is this: To do away with the solid skirt, with its horrid asbestos shingles; leave the ledge as more of a railing—like you would see on the front of Victorian or maybe colonial homes with their sweeping porches and banisters and railings. Open up that skirt (for lack of a better term), replace its solid façade with spindles that tie in with the new woodwork of the flooring and add as well some banisters and a wooden set of steps to lead up from the new concrete walkway. It may clash, however, and I don’t want that. I would rather keep it the way it is, and not necessarily like it, rather than change it to a conflicting style and like it even less. I have seen what happens when people hit upon what they thought was a good idea, execute the plan, and then lay bare the horrible results—usually right there on the front of their house. The effect can be somewhat humorous at times, but is often more ugly than anything else.

In any case, I plan to do away with the steps that now lead up to the porch They are an amateurish and over-wrought attempt at masonry, made of crudely-laid bricks over a concrete form. It is a difficult decision for me to just do away with them, since they actually work just fine as steps, are not hazardous or in any way dangerous to trod upon. However, I have convinced myself that they are unbelievable ugly, bring down my mood every time I see the things—and therefore must go. It is not just an excuse to wield the heavy and stone-smashing maul—an easy outlet for my pent-up rage. Although there is that, I must admit. It is instead a general renewing of most elements of the house, the harmonizing of the different pieces that have to work together. Why have a beautiful new porch with ragged and poor-looking steps leading up to it? Why, I ask you? So—as you can see—one thing leads to another.

"There is nothing worse..."

December 24, 2007

At the market I am mostly interested in getting things sold quickly, helping customers, cutting down on the time they have to wait. But, being very visual in nature, wanting the presentation to look nice, I employ my helpers to draw up little signs that emphasize the product and its possible uses. Some of them are talented artists, even students at the local college of art. They do excellent work, stuff that the customers even comment on. Then I try my hand at these little sketches, want to put my own stamp on the display. The results are nothing short of terrible; clunky, belabored scribblings, with dark lines hinting possibly at a dark nature hidden therein. Some of the signs, meant to be innocent representations of prices and their corresponding products, are in fact frightening. But, pressed for time, I hastily put them out anyway—especially when I don’t have my talented help with me, have only someone who is good at selling and other tasks more closely associated with organization and re-stocking. It’s at these times that I have to be the default artist, the scrawler of self-conscious and incomprehensible works. I look at a piece of bread, the depiction in one of my signs. It could easily be a torpedo or a bomb. No one would mistake it for what it is actually supposed to be. This weighs heavily on me.

December 25, 2007

Christmas day, and finally time to think about eating. I put out some of the meat I bought at the butcher’s last week, wanted to put it to use before the fresh products started to spoil. Three sausages were there—three different kinds. In addition, some good stewing beef, cut into cubes, still wrapped in its paper in the fridge. It would have to wait.
At the last market I bought some enormous carrots for the stew, some onions and potatoes as well. The carrots, freakishly large, looked dangerous. I tried cutting them into little carrot sticks for a Christmas Eve get-together. They were still too large. The remaining bent and orange roots are still too many for me to use, but I’ll do my best to stuff them into the stew. Maybe tomorrow, that’s what I think.

I started a fire for the sausages, put some wood together out back and piled the reluctant kindling into the little Weber grill I occasionally use. The fire didn’t want to catch, having just finished up a prolonged and soaking wet spell. For a little while it looked promising, as if the blaze might get going. Then it would sputter out, smoking in a desultory kind of way, just a few embers glowing at the bottom. They soon would go out, too. I went next door, picked out a scrap piece of pine lumber, turned on the table saw, and cut at the board again and again. I shaved off wafers of kindling—good, dry pieces of untreated pine. I cut up most of the small board, leaving a chunk for future use. Then I gathered up the pieces and started over. This time the blaze was instant, the work of a match and a small splinter of dry pine. The rest of the wood caught fire and I went inside to tend to other cooking matters. I’d already boiled the fresh sausage, as the specialists who know these things had instructed long ago. Seven minutes, they all agreed, then onto the fire for some color—but not too long. I remembered the German lady’s words:
“There is nothing worse than a dry sausage.”

So the embers glowed down to just a bed of simmering fire, no real flames now—the substantial pieces of wood all gone, leaving just this. I finished up my project in the kitchen, making a batch of macaroni and cheese, moving things about and out of the way for the small meal. In between the sausage and the macaroni, I would run upstairs to see what was unfolding on the television. My favorite show, featuring a fat man and his attractive wife, was playing. They were trying to have a baby, and his parents were coming to stay for a few days. I wanted to see how they would work around this. As usual, this is a show I discovered about five years after it made its debut. As a result, the episodes I watch are all reruns, as they are not currently making new shows. It has ended for good, from what I understand.

Earlier in the day I’d arisen while it was still morning—but just barely. With mild temperatures, I decided to paint the floor of my new shed. The large sheets of wood I’d just installed would quickly deteriorate if left unfinished. I backed the riding mower out of the space and onto the lawn, hooking it up to the battery charger to give it a little boost to help weather the winter. It had actually started under its own power, had sounded strong and hardy as the little motor turned over before firing up.

I took out a can of Bob Vila paint that I found in the basement, an ultra high-quality finish that I’d bought for about two bucks at Sears. It was discontinued, no longer offered, and they wanted to be rid of the paint. For that matter, they may want to be rid of Bob Vila as well; I don’t believe he and Sears still enjoy a relationship. This was the paint that I remember the young salesman telling me would be suitable for a “tank.” I hadn’t really known what he meant, but saw that—when I spread the paint around with my roller—it did if fact look like the stuff they painted military equipment with. I used an unorthodox approach to my painting: To keep my equipment clean, I simply poured directly onto the floor the paint that I would then spread with my roller. It worked just fine, and I didn’t have to clean up the paint-roller pan that I would have normally used. I should say that the Bob Vila paint did a fantastic job, covering the space easily and thoroughly. If it is warm again tomorrow, I may put on another coat.

I did nothing in the way of work on the other house. The shed doesn’t count, as this is really something I use for my own house. I did, however, put an online ad—with photo—for the lock I just removed from the front door. Someone already responded to the ad, said she would pick it up this Friday. I listed it for five bucks, would probably give it away if it came down to it. But still: Five bucks—nothing to sneeze at.

Kiln Kaddy

I installed the new locks on the front door, the polished steel looking more formidable and sturdy than the cheap brass-plated finish on the old Defiant locks. The keys turn smoothly in the deadbolt and the keyed knob. They both use the same key, so you don’t have to fumble around to make sure you have the right one for the two locks. This is a step I know I will have to repeat in the not-too-distant future, since I plan to replace the door itself. Seeing this door at the entrance makes a bad impression; it is one of those cheap, hollow-core doors that would easily be kicked in by someone serious about gaining entry in a violent, uninvited kind of way. The best locks in the world won’t prevent the door itself from splintering. Up in the middle, near the top of the door, is a little square window that you can peer through to see who’s outside. I don’t like the window, either. Not really sure why—I just don’t like it.

Thursday morning my helper came over before his regular workday began, met me at the house and we drove out to see the wood I’d told him about. Through the nearby town, then further west we drove, until finally we came to the piles of large logs—cut to mostly fireplace length. They were along the side of the road, near the driveways along that stretch.
“See those logs?” I asked, pointing. “Pretty nice, huh?”
“Those are all pine,” was his reply.
Oh. I guess I should have known from the white interior, wouldn’t have really cared, since I didn’t know that pine was not regularly burned in the fireplace or home heating systems.
“It’s too sappy,” he said.
I did know that a lot of sap would create large deposits of creosote, cause problems with the chimney, possible fire hazards. That was to be avoided if possible. We turned around and headed back to my place.

As we approached my town, I brought up the sandwich place he’d introduced me to—not far from the main street. Should we stop and get a bite to eat? It was around ten-thirty in the morning and we had done nothing in the way of work. We turned around to grab a couple of sandwiches. I had a grilled ham-and-cheese that took about five minutes to order. It was actually one of their menu offerings, so it wasn’t like I was just making stuff up. The counter-man had to know if I wanted the bread toasted, would I like the breakfast version or the lunch? There were a couple of other questions that involved details of these sandwiches that I’d never considered before, didn’t know they were even options presented to the general public—just kind of imagined that the people who dealt with the simple sandwich used their own discretion to make sure that it came out right. My helper, whom I refer to as Big Joe Ostrowski—or “Big J.O.” had his regular overstuffed turkey sandwich.

We sat and ate at a leisurely pace, mealtime never being much of an occasion for hurry where I’m concerned. Not that anything is much of an occasion for hurry, come to think of it. I saved some of my sandwich—which was ok, but not like the Chestertown one—for later. Big J.O. saved some of his, too.

Back at my place we continued to not do much in the way of work. I busied myself with cleaning the fluffy and crinkly autumn leaves that had fallen from my two cherry trees out front. The leaves had been whisked onto the front porch, making autumn drifts here and there, burying my boots and shoes that I sometimes took off before going inside. I got this all cleaned up, stuffed the leaves into large paper sacks for the yard waste pickup. Over at the other house, J.O. took exact measurements for some corner braces that I wanted to replace on the porch. These were to go wherever the old, sometimes rotted braces had been attached. I’d removed the old ones, wasn’t confident that I could accurately cut new ones with my table saw, so left this project to my helper.

After he’d written down the measurements, we loaded a couple of pieces of lumber into the truck, headed over to his workplace—where he was installing the fixtures for an upcoming art exhibit at the local college. We parked the truck outside the entrance to the fine arts building, took our lumber inside and used Big J.O.’s super-accurate saw to make the precise cuts. The workplace was in the middle of a cavernous gallery space, a little larger maybe than a high-school gymnasium. It was empty, save for a few wall fixtures that had been assembled and pushed aside to keep them out of the way. These things were on sturdy casters, could be positioned anywhere they needed to be. The materials that went into their construction made them incredibly heavy. It was J.O.’s job to build these things.

We drove back to my house after stopping at the big lumber-supply house, where I picked up more flooring for the porch, some more two-by-four pieces to help shore up the porch supports. The longest of these measure ten feet, to allow them to span the long timbers that support the porch. The previous ones I’d used—eight feet long—weren’t quite long enough. By the time we got back to my place, it was just about time for J.O. to leave. He needed to get started back at his regular job—the gallery where we’d just cut some wood.

I bade the young man good-day, started in on the corner braces he’d just cut. I screwed them in place with the new cordless tools I’d bought at Sears—and which cost twenty bucks less than what I’d paid the last time I visited the store. There was a special Christmas sale going on, it appears. They seemed to have about a billion of these cordless drill and driver sets sitting around, and maybe were going into hyper-sale mode. In any case, they were now twenty dollars less.

I’d wanted to fasten some of the new floor onto the porch, start putting the walking surface together, but decided to skip it. The day was fast drawing to a close, the light dimming in the sky, and my Christmas display was out on the lawn, set aside to make way for the porch work. I cleaned up my materials and tools, put some things in the house, and put the trees back into place. My JOY sign had stayed, it not being in the way. I plugged it all in, saw that the trees and JOY sign were lit up as they should be, and called it a day.

Back at my house I received a call from the lady who was selling a kiln through the free online classified advertisements. I am not particularly interested in owning a kiln, do not aspire to be a potter, but my friend wants one. Since this is the friend who fixed my car and would accept nothing for his trouble, I decided to purchase this kiln for him. He too does not fancy he’ll be working with clay any time soon; rather, he needs the high-temperature capabilities of this oven to preheat cast iron parts prior to welding. This is a critical step for cast iron, apparently, as it is not a material that is easily welded while cold. My understanding is that it tends to crack. So he had it in mind to locate and purchase a kiln.

I’d gone back and forth with this woman quite a few times, had looked at the clay-baking oven and had measured it to see if it would fit my friend’s needs. Satisfied that it would do the job, we agreed on a price—a little less than what she’d been asking. I didn’t feel too guilty about asking her to compromise a little, because I was not interested in the many molds and accessories and shelves that were included with the sale. She could sell these things to another clay-worker, easily make up the small difference in price. These things were all horrible, the terrible building blocks of the detritus that finds its way into yard sales, thrift stores--to languish there for all eternity, until finally someone gets the idea to just throw the damned stuff out or crush it into little bits to make up a new driveway or add to the gravel out next to the industrial yard. Little statues, angels, ashtrays, maybe small vases or cups—all of that stuff was there. Normally interested in the workings of things, in how stuff is made, what goes into its fabrication, I actually felt an aversion to the stacks of pasty-white molds strapped together, waiting for the next person to putter around with them. If she’d left me alone with the hideous things, gone to look at her stories on the television, I would have been tempted to take them—one by one, then in pairs and bunches—and smash them onto the concrete of the cluttered basement floor. My face reddened with rage, my temples bulging with emotion and exertion, I would grab an armful of different ashtray molds, hurl them to the floor, relish the splintering of the pasty-white clatter, grab some more and hurl them about, then against each other, until they were all annihilated. I didn’t do that, told her instead that she could keep the things, try to find a new home for them. But there was one more thing: Could she wait and see if a woman who had contacted her long ago was still interested? Sure, I said.

About a week went by. Could she have more time? I told her she could take all the time she needed, knowing pretty well that this mystery woman probably was not serious, had only casually inquired about the kiln, was not ready to accept such a thing into her life and take on the responsibilities attendant to its ownership, maybe thought better of introducing the pasty-white and dusty molds into her household, couldn’t really admit that she was up to the task. I could wait; I had my little station wagon at the ready, knew how I was going to dismantle the circular contraption—hexagonal in shape and stacked up and down like a small Tower of Pisa. But this thing didn’t lean.
“Take all the time you need,” I said.

So she called; I told her I would like to come get it that evening, as I knew the following day would be filled with various chores. I asked if we were still agreed on the price, and she said yes—telling me that the price I reiterated on the phone was ok. When I drove over to her house on that chilly evening she told me—as I was taking it apart—that the price was fifty bucks more than the one we’d spoken of on the phone. When I told her we’d agreed on a lower price, she reluctantly decided to honor that one. I honestly don’t think she knew what she said on the previous occasions, did not really take too much notice of these petty details. My impression was that, as soon as something was said, it was instantly relegated to her dusty attic of cluttered memories, the place where it was hard to really find anything for all the mess. This was not intentional on her part, was merely the way she processed life, sludging through the thick muck of words, language and all of the other useless stuff, just pushing it aside as so much debris to be knocked out of the way. None of it really made any sense.

So I filled the car with the oven’s parts, carefully placing the fragile fire-brick material into the cargo area of the station wagon. If you drop this stuff, it will shatter like glass. It was not too heavy, but heavy enough. A little metal stand was included—an old bolted-together thing that kept the kiln off the floor. The manufacturer’s tag said that the maximum temperature inside the thing could reach 2400 degrees Fahrenheit. I thought that that sounded like a lot.

Back in my Christmas workshop I put together a little dolly on casters—swivelling wheels that would make the heavy oven easier to move about my friend’s shop. This would be a specially-added touch on my part. Everyone likes a good dolly, a thing that makes movement almost effortless. Who wants a kiln sitting around, taking up space, always in the way when you’re trying to get things done? With some simple persuasion from the flat palm of your hand, the kiln can now be moved around to where the kiln-owner deems it most convenient. I was going to ask an artist friend to draw up a little promotional pamphlet for the optional “Kiln-Kaddy,” as I dubbed my contraption. It would show a 1950s housewife, resplendent in apron and a stylish feather-duster, flicking at the kiln with her dainty and painted red nails. One hand would be swishing the duster at a countertop as the other hand indifferently and with seemingly no effort pushed aside the kiln on its patented “Kiln-Kaddy.”

The caption would read: “All new for 1957! With “feather-light touch control,” moving your kiln about the house is effortless! Never again will you slave and dust, trying to clean around a kiln that just won’t move—it just sits there!” I decided to skip the promotional pamphlet, as I really wanted to deliver the kiln to my friend that evening. I did, however, paint the little metal stand in a rust-resistant satin black finish. It looks much better.

So I spent the morning with this, decided that no work would take place on the house, that the kiln would monopolize my time that day. I had my portable heaters going—one of them propane, and the other electric. They kept the workspace fairly warm, and made it possible to paint. I put the little dolly together with some of the scrap wood I had lying about, screwed the wheels onto the underside and tested it out. I then brought the whole thing over to my friend’s shop, where he was pleased to receive the thing. He’d wanted to buy it previously, but I’d stalled while the woman was deliberating over whom best deserved the kiln and its terrible accessories.
“She can’t make up her mind,” I’d told him. “We’ll just have to wait.”

The next day I worked my regular Saturday market, had a good outing, predicted fairly well the quantities that I needed. Bad weather was predicted, but this did not materialize. Instead, it turned into a bright and sunny day, with fairly mild temperatures. For the next day’s market downtown—which would be my last for the year in that place—I got the truck loaded and put everything into place in order not to have an early-morning ordeal. My quantities were miniscule for this market, and it turns out I predicted—with almost pinpoint accuracy—that I was going to sell very little there. As a result, I had only a muffin and a croissant left at the end of the day, some loaves of bread, and that’s all. A woman who scavenges the leavings of the different vendors came by my small pile of trash I’d stacked for the trash men. I had maybe a half-dozen of the long French breads in the truck, had no use for them, was going to drop them off at the convent on the way home—where they would use them for mealtime for the elderly residents the sisters housed there. I gave them to the woman instead. She comes by after every market, only goes through the different things that are still edible, never asks for anything. I often leave her something, or just give it to her if I see her before leaving for the day. On this day she spoke, telling me that she feeds many different people with the leftovers. She had nice fresh baguettes on this day, as they turned out pretty well.

I should mention that this market—the last one downtown—was accomplished by myself. Having skipped last week’s market, my helper didn’t understand that she was expected to join me on this day. It didn’t matter; I had plenty of time to put the elaborate display together, put absolutely every single thing in place, and—here’s the icing on the cake—I even remembered to individually bag orders for different people whom I knew would be coming, would want that one item, and would be surprised when I just produced the bag and handed it to them. It worked like a dream. Part of my reasoning for this added step was that, since I’d brought so little, I didn’t want my regular customers to be disappointed when they showed up for just the one thing, and I had to tell them I was already sold out.

I brought some boxes to the market as well. These were crude, wooden things I’d screwed together, thinking they would be useful way back when. Made of thin plywood, they were still in good shape, and even had hinged doors. Nothing really fit correctly on them, since my skills in that regard leave something to be desired, but they looked and acted like boxes, and you could even sit on them if you wanted to. I had two of them—and wanted to give them away to the first takers. They were just taking up space, were some of the many items I’d cleared off the front porch. I loaded them into the truck that morning—remembering as I left the house that I wanted to be rid of them.

My neighbors with the Christmas trees took them. I offered them first choice—or “right of first refusal” as people like to say. I approached the man with the severe expression, who’d helped me two weeks ago with my trees, explained that I was going to put the boxes out for someone to take away, and could they possibly use them? He consulted with his elderly partner, they agreed that there was maybe some use they could put the things to back at the farm, and took them over to their space. They positioned them next to the truck and sat down on them—one box per man. I was elated. They’d already found a better use than they'd seen on my front porch.

I’ll romanticize about the boxes for a little while now, reminisce into the future about their fate, their workings, their outings in a hay-field, the crop dry and ready for mowing. A wrench or some heavy cable maybe stored in the box, possibly a small quantity of feed for an ailing calf with its concerned mother, lying side-by-side in a distant pasture too far from the barn.
“Just shovel some feed into that box, we’ll drive it out there, see how they’re doing.”
A sunlit august afternoon, the shaft of light splintered into thousands of flecks as the barn’s doorway welcomes the summer day’s warmth. The boxes stand under some hanging tools, now there is dried dirt at the base, dust coats the worn wood. A boy, the youngest of the neighbor’s, sits to watch the men work on a machine that needs repair. Wanting to be out of the way, for fear they might holler at him, he sits on the tall box, rocks the creaking thing back and forth, the day unfolds slowly to his unknowing rhythm.

"Defiant is for hosers"

Yesterday evening I got in the little car and drove to the grocery where the hip and “in-the-know” crowd shops. I even remembered to bring my canvas shopping bag from the farm market. The store was full of the regular black-clad youngsters bustling about with great purpose, their movements unusually lively and energetic. There must be some motivation therein; I compare this crew (and the store calls them a “crew”) to the personnel at the giant supermarkets—the men and women in their store aprons, looking blankly at nothing in particular, or—if you happen to be in their line of sight—right through you. Groceries and grocery-related items are foremost on their minds, apparently. The customers are an afterthought. Not so with the crew of thin and lanky and progressive-looking youths who seemingly run the alternative (but increasingly mainstream) little store. Anyway, I bought some shrimp, a bottle of sparkling cider, and a box of the orange sticks that have become a favorite. They’re chocolate-covered, have a jelly filling.

I put my groceries into the car’s small trunk, saw that I’d left my large serving bowl in there—the one that I’d put delicate little holiday sandwiches in on that rainy night. It took up considerable space. I put my canvas market bag next to the sandwich bowl, carefully closed the lid so as not to damage the tiny car, and walked over to the coffee shop and bookstore nearby. I grabbed a copy of my Hemmings, which I’d already received in the mail, but wanted to sit down with some articles I hadn’t read yet. I would read the store’s copy while I drank a coffee and ate something rich and horrible. I looked at the offerings, chose a double-rich choco-blast brownie—or something to that effect. Then, thinking I would stem the hemorrhaging of money a little by ordering a plain beverage, I took a small coffee—black. I was ready to sit down with my coffee and brownie, needed only to pay. The lights flickered, went out as they rang up my sale. They flickered on again, then off. Then once more they came on, then off for good. They told us all to leave the store—those people who ran this darkened place where you could hardly see anything. I’d gotten away with a free brownie and coffee, since I’d made a point of starting to eat it while I was waiting for the lights to go back on. This left me feeling rather pleased with myself, but not as happy as I might have been: What would have put the icing on the cake is if—just before the lights had flickered, then gone dark—I’d changed my order to an ultra grande vanilla latte el supremo with extra whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles, please. And anything else you can throw on there—just add that, too. As it is, I was stuck with my small coffee—black.

I didn’t want to leave the place, was unhappy to be going.
“I want to stay,” I whined plaintively.
The servers and young man who took my order nodded sympathetically, sad to kick out their customers—even the ones who came in and made off with free stuff.

So it was out to the cold, dark parking lot with my brownie and coffee. This was not ideal, as the little car does not make for a good eatery. The stickshift, the console, everything is kind of in the way. It seems that the car was built more for people who want to avail themselves of its performance characteristics. That was just fine—so long as the coffee people were going to let me stay at their place. The tinny little station wagon, however, makes a fine dining room—a veritable carryout on wheels. There’s a place for your beverages, the passenger seat does nicely as a makeshift table, and there is no shifting gears to be annoyed with. When you’re finished, you can just throw the trash in the back. It’s plenty big.

God how it was dark outside. You really don’t realize how much light the lamps give off until they’re all extinguished. Everyone backed out of their spaces, trying not to hit each other, snaking out towards the exit. Out on the road the traffic lights were dark. Sirens wailed from behind, a large fire truck passing the row of stopped cars as we waited to get out onto the main road. Then—again—the same fire truck, this time coming back, passing us from the opposite direction. These blackouts get everyone all mixed up, it seems—even the people who are trained to deal with the big emergencies, the crashed cars and burning buildings, the things that fall from the sky. It was just too goddamned dark, see—how can you know where you’re going when it’s that dark? So the sirens wailed, going in many different directions, and the cars honked at the lame and timid drivers up front, those who did not take advantage of the break in traffic while the emergency vehicles bullied their way onto the main road. They sat there stupidly, waiting until the cross-traffic got going again, then waited some more. More honking.

I finally got out onto the roadway, saw that police were at the next intersection directing traffic, had no one at this particular crossroads, which was pretty important. They were overtaxed, the police; the blackout was pretty extensive, the whole shopping plaza was dark, and much of the surrounding area besides. I’d gotten a free coffee and brownie, so I was doing ok this evening.

December 19, 2007

I drove out to the diner this morning for a waffle and sausages. I washed it down with some iced tea, read my Washington Post, and set out for the hardware store nearby. At the store I picked up some deck screws to fasten the boards down onto the floor of the new porch next door. I also chose a new lock for the front door. My helper had eyed the deadbolt and keyed doorknob I’d installed some time ago.
”Defiant, huh?”
Yes, it was a Defiant brand lock. Was there a problem?
“Defiant is for hosers,” he said—or words to that effect.
I asked him for his thoughts on locks, ones that could be counted on more than these Defiants that he spoke so disparagingly of. He recommended Schlage as the best, then perhaps Kwikset as a more reliable alternative—and one that would cost less than the fancy Schlage. I picked up a Kwikset deadbolt and keyed doorknob for the front door. I’d meant to do this long ago, since my former tenants presumably still have keys for the house. Not that there’s anything worth stealing, but still. Truth be told, the Defiant lock DOES seem a bit sticky, hard to work when you put the key in to unlock it. It leaves something to be desired where locks are concerned. I’ll be happy to be rid of it.

Driving back through town I stopped at the farm supply store, talked to the store man and his cat sleeping on the warm printer at the front counter. Miss Penny, not wanting to entertain visitors or be bothered even by mice, hardly stirred when I tried to rouse her. She curled up tighter, brought her large bushy tail around in front of her face, and snuggled in a little more, wanting just to be warm and left alone. I talked to the store man, who recounted his recent trip to France, and had his helper bring up a fifty-pound bag of squirrel corn for me. The squirrels have depleted the supply from last year, finished off the few ears from the ornamental corn shocks I’d put around, and now had visited a mostly empty feeder for the past few days. Fifty pounds of ear corn would change all of that.

This just in: Recently, as I was glancing at the online ads posted for free, an unusual one caught my notice. A tractor-trailer full of field corn was listed—fifty-thousand pounds worth—for the cost of delivery and unloading. I thought of all that corn, the many squirrels and other critters it could feed, thought about the truck backing up to the yard, the mountain of corn that would result. Fifty thousand pounds. Imagine that—all that corn. I wanted the corn, resisted hard the temptation to pick up the phone, give the corn-man directions, tell him that—you know, this is a residence—the corn is just going straight into the backyard. Is there a problem with that?

I put the lumpy bag of corn into the convertible’s trunk, found that it fit almost exactly. It is a one-bag trunk. Now I know. The car is getting about all right in the dry weather, is not fogging up like it did on that rainy night of the party and the little sandwiches. The sandwich bowl is still back there, however. Oddly enough, there are two pomegranates as well. I don’t remember buying them.

I left the store man and Miss Penny, felt guilty that I didn’t give the helper a tip for fetching the bag of corn. He’d dropped it at the loading dock, near where the car was parked. I’d been talking to the owner and petting Miss Penny at the time, didn’t think to give him something for his trouble. Normally I would, had I not been distracted. As I drove away I noticed another man who’d bought the same thing—a bag of corn—slip the helper a bill as he went on his way. I felt in my pocket: I had one single dollar. The moment had passed. I’ll remember next time; most likely, in my neurotic and overblown way, I’ll dream up some pretext for going to the store, for getting a big bag of something or other, will make sure that the helper—who most certainly won’t be the same one—is given a token of appreciation. That’s just the way it goes.

Driving home I saw men from the road maintenance crews pruning and cutting away large pieces of trees. They may have been doing maintenance for the overhead power lines—I’m not sure; in any case, they were producing a goodly amount of cut wood. I phoned my helper, whose family heats the house entirely with wood. I explained the situation, that many of the people in these houses along the road probably didn’t want the wood, would be glad to see it gone.
“Do you know which ones don’t want the wood?”
“No—I didn’t ask around,” I told him. “I’m just coming back from breakfast, wanted to let you know about the wood.”
“How much wood?”
“A lot—probably a couple of cords by the time they’re all finished.”
“Enough to fill a pickup?”
“Yes—and then some.”
I offered to help him with the wood if he wanted to go out and get some of it. I said that I wouldn’t be lifting the large pieces, would prefer to split them up right there on the spot. My back wouldn’t tolerate the strain. He said ok, would think about getting some of the wood, might drive out there to ask the people there if they wanted it or not.


At home the day was grey but not too cold. I started cutting some pieces of lumber to fit around the sides of the porch—and a piece of trim for the front as well. Working alone, the job was not too difficult, and I made good progress. When I’d had enough, was tired of the porch, I went inside to rip away more of the kitchen flooring material. The stove and refrigerator were in the way, had to be moved around, but they were fairly easy to push out of the way. I got the pressed cardboard-like material torn up, cut into smaller pieces, and boxed some of up for the trash pickup on Thursday. I would get to the rest of it later—when the dust had settled. The flooring material is very heavy—much heavier in fact than the walls of sheetrock that I’d ripped away from the bathroom and kitchen. I tried not to overload the boxes, out of consideration for the trashmen. Tomorrow, If I have some help, I’ll move the kitchen stove and refrigerator into the utility room. For the moment, they’ll be out of the way.

Next I took out my new set of locks for the front door—the deadbolt and the keyed knob. They are an exact fit to replace the set that I removed—the reluctant Defiant that becomes more difficult to unlock each time I open the house. This one would be better, I thought. I remembered my helper’s words: “Defiant is for hosers,” or words to that effect.

JOY

I missed a dentist appointment this morning. It was scheduled for eight o’clock, a time I normally don’t go to see the dentist. It’s possible they will charge me for the appointment, since I didn’t call beforehand. I hope this isn’t the case.

This day was cold, with the afternoon turning even colder. The half-wit told me that she liked the trees, added that a house just burned in the next town over, due to something related to Christmas trees. I thanked her for the information, scratched my head and thumped my belly and said, “I sure hope nuttin’ like that happens roundabouts here.” Then, pointing to the house, said, “Sure would be a shame—see them poor old trees and the house all sizzled up, like.” Then I belched to help emphasize my point.

I put together the crowning jewel of my little Christmas display: The word “JOY” outlined in letters that I cut from scrap wood, screwed together against some more scrap pieces, then stapled strings of clear lights to it. I hung it from the space between the two trees, framing it perfectly—its scale just proportionate to everything around it. One slight problem, however: You have to use your imagination to be able to read what it actually says. If you stand on the front lawn, there is no doubt whatsoever; the word stands out against the white letters that comprise it, the little lights doing a good job of illuminating everything. A little further off, however, near the road, things get blurry. Most people, I imagine, will see a three-letter word, scan their brains for what they know of Christmas, and will probably come up with the correct translation. Some might even be able to make out what it says. No matter—I’m happy with how it turned out, will turn it on every evening with the trees, and enjoy the little light show next door whenever I drive by. Just so long as it doesn’t get all sizzled up, like.

Just a word about the wood I cut the letters from, then I’ll let the matter drop. Back when I was tearing apart the bathroom, I set aside a square piece of white-painted plywood. This came from what made up a crude access panel at the front of the bathtub and shower. Behind it were the pipes that made the shower and bath work. I thought maybe I could put it to use some other time, for some other project. It later turned into JOY.

Now the outside temperature is closer to what I consider “bitter,” I finished up the little JOY sign in the cold house next door, the space being mostly used to fabricate Christmas decorations at the moment. With the new power tools I just bought, the work went rather quickly, with few, if any, delays.

December 18, 2007

Off to a late start today, I began by taking care of some housekeeping, going to the bank—that kind of thing. Morning was pretty well spent by the time I finished with these few chores. Then I headed next door to see what I could do about the residual water remaining in the heating system. With prolonged periods of freezing temperatures looming, I wanted to make sure the pipes would weather the cold snap. If I took no precautions now, I was looking at the possibility of many burst pipes—the victims of solid ice expanding in the old heating system and rupturing the steel tubes that had held up for so long.

I cut away some shelving near the ancient furnace—the old heating machine dating most likely from the days when coal was delivered. Now converted to oil, it was probably among the most inefficient of furnaces around. When the time comes, I plan to replace it, hook up the natural gas line, use that fuel to fire up the new furnace. For now, this is what I have to deal with. I found a faucet down near the bottom of the unit, at the rear. With the shelves removed, it became easier to work down there. I was able to remove just a few of the home-made workshop shelves, leave the others in place—so that it looks like they were the only ones that were ever there. You don’t miss the old shelves. I like that.

I turned the faucet with the help of a pipe wrench, got a good flow of water, and turned it off after a minute or so of filling a bucket. I heard the whole house gurgling, great bubbles of air belching toward the roof as the house’s old pipes and radiators emptied down towards the basement. That sounded encouraging, I thought. Since I didn’t really know what I was doing, was acting more on instinct or intuition, I felt that the sounds I heard were a good sign. It may be the case that—when it comes time to actually refill the system—it will be a real pain-in-the-ass; nevertheless, I think it would be more trouble to replace the old cast iron pipes that burst during the winter.

I hooked up a garden hose to the faucet at the bottom of the furnace, snaked it through the basement door, and out into the yard. There it produced a good quantity of water for the better part of a half-hour. I know that this water was coming entirely from inside the house, for I’d already disconnected the water supply some time ago. I then went upstairs and loosened the connections at the individual radiators, allowing them to drain more easily. More gurgling ensued as I undid the bleeder screws and the large pipe connectors in the different rooms. I looked at my hose out in the yard; a good flow was still coming out, but I decided to cut it off. No sense in overdoing it; I think the system was mostly drained, and any additional water was coming from the furnace and possibly the expansion tank.

Casting about for something to do, I cleared some odds and ends out of the kitchen and started to cut away the floor covering there. This consisted of some newish vinyl tiles I’d installed when I first bought the place, followed by some thin, wooden lawan—followed by the old greenish tiles that were so popular in the 1950s. I’d meant to rip everything out, but those 1950s tiles stick like you wouldn’t believe. They’re very tenacious. They are also probably made out of some fairly nasty material that I don’t want to be ripping into. So they’ll stay. They’ve been here this long, no sense in upsetting them now. I’ll lay another sheet of the thin flooring material over them, then put the final floor covering on top of that. I’d wanted to start with a clean slate, because—once I’d removed all the cabinets and fixtures earlier on—the flooring was at different heights underneath. The metal cabinets and counters were some of the earliest things in the house, judging by the condition of the floor under them. Among the trash and debris that I scooped up from the floor was a tattered piece of calendar from 1957.

With the scraps from the floor piling up, I decided to quit for the day. I’d taken the enormous radiator away from the wall, and was pleased to see that it dribbled only a few drops of water from each end. To get it to budge, I’d used an old pine two-by-four—eight feet long—as a lever. The radiator is about five feet long, a couple of feet in height, and weights probably three hundred pounds There still remained the refrigerator and stove to deal with; I would have to move them out of the way to finish removing the flooring material. I put most of the debris into a box and my big plastic trash can, and called it a day. I will try to finish removing the floor by Thursday, when my next trash pickup is scheduled.

"Eat some of those"

The other tree is up now, the two framing the entrance of the house, providing a Christmas welcome to the hollow and cold place. Inside, tools are strewn about, a table saw straddles the living room and dining area. A bathtub is in the dining room itself. With the heating system open, it is impossible to fire up the furnace—even if I wanted to, which I don’t. The place remains uninhabitable. Out front the trees sparkle with color, the tiny lights announcing—with their dainty bulbs—that this is a place where the spirit of the season is kept alive. Odd, that; through the past several seasons, I’ve made something of an effort to keep the house looking vital and lived-in from the outside. Flowers in high summer, autumn decorations of corn and pumpkins, and now this. All the while the house would be suitable only as a temporary stopover for a vagrant. I might want to look at my priorities, re-evaluate where I should be putting my efforts.

As an aside, the squirrels are enjoying the many ears of corn I picked from my discarded corn shocks. I’d had them on either side of the entrance—much like the Christmas trees, along with some pumpkins. Now I’ve dragged them around back and was surprised to find that the corn they yielded was bountiful. I picked a little over a dozen ears off the tall stalks, shucked a few, and put them out for the squirrels on their backyard feeder. It is the same kind of “field corn” used for cattle and livestock—and for feeding squirrels.

I went over the other day and screwed a few boards in place, getting the front porch a little closer to being a regular porch again. The wood I put in consisted of pressure-treated studs, mated to the existing joists to help keep the old porch stable in the coming years. Rather than completely tear out all of the old supports, I decided—on the advice of my helper—to simply shore up the aged wood that is already there and lay the new floorboards over that. I agreed, this being a simpler approach than rebuilding the porch from scratch. It still doesn’t look like much of a porch, however.

This weekend I drove into town for my regular Saturday outing, mostly sold what I had to offer, and went home. This was a particularly cold day that—oddly enough—didn’t affect me so much. My customers were shivering, reluctant to exit their warm hands from gloves, remarking on the temperature that was well above what one would consider bitter, but still cold. It was probably in the thirties or so.

That morning I got out of bed, expecting it to be cold. This may be the first line of defense. The next line is plenty of clothes; I started to put on whatever I happened to see. Several tee-shirts weren’t out of the question—if they happened to be convenient to where I was dressing. Maybe a long-sleeved undergarment, then a turtleneck if one was handy, then a shirt or two, a sweater, a Pendleton light woolen jacket, then a regular jacket as well. No—I wasn’t so cold on Saturday. I didn’t even need gloves, although I did light my gas-fired appliance that radiates such welcome heat. I just like having the thing around.

I put some rolls aside to make little sandwiches with. I’d actually bought the ingredients for the sandwiches the prior day—an unusal showing of forethough for me. I was looking forward to a family get-together, a traditional event at my cousins’ house in Virginia. It is a chance to see them, which I rarely get to do. I would make the little sandwiches with ham and swiss cheese, butter the bread, spear them with a toothpick and skewer a green olive on top. The bread I used was the good focaccia—one of my favorites, it being made with Italian herbs and seasonings and sun-dried tomato. It’s a very tasty bread. I was originally planning to use the little French rolls, which are basically a nice white bread, crusty but light on the inside. I’d sold too many of them, hadn’t set them aside soon enough, so I used the extra-good focaccia and cut it into smaller pieces to make it go farther.

I finished my efforts on this cold Saturday, was still looking forward to seeing the cousins, then looked at the clock. It was around three in the afternoon. The drive out into the country would take a good hour-and-a-half. This would put me perilously close to sundown, and their invitation stated that the open house was from one o’clock until dark. I pictured in my mind arriving late with my sandwiches, there being few or no people around, my wondering hosts looking at me questioningly. I decided to skip it. So now I had a bowl of little ham-and-cheese sandwiches on good focaccia bread. I talked to my brother, who mentioned that the big holiday blowout at his musician friend’s house was that night and that I was invited. I’d forgotten about it, but had actually planned to go. Now there was still hope for my little sandwiches, so appealing in an old ceramic mixing bowl with a small chip missing for an old-timey effect.

I took a nap, got up and showered, didn’t bother to shave—which was probably a mistake; I was looking pretty rustic, even more so than the mountain man at the market who comes by to share tales of hunting and killing various critters with me. At least he shaves. I put my little sandwiches in the back of the sports car, the hardtop keeping the rain at bay on this late-autumn evening. It had been a long while since I’d driven the thing, was surprised to see that it was reluctant to even start. The battery was tired, didn’t want to get the thing going in the cold and the damp. I finally eased it into starting the motor, kept the engine revs high to avert a stall, and let it warm up a little to get used the idea of hitting the road again.

Instead of going straight to the party, I stopped by the Mexican restaurant I like, ate a platter of enchiladas, and got back on the road, heading south into Montgomery County. It was then that I realized the car was all but undrivable in the rain. The defroster, which at one brief time worked just fine—now didn’t work at all. For that matter, the only place that blew warm air was the main vent situated in the middle of the dashboard and at the sides. Soon the cramped little cabin steamed up—the windshield not very different from a fogged shower stall on a cold winter morning—after a very long and very hot shower. I simply couldn’t see out the windshield—or any of the other windows for that matter. This made way for a new driving technique, in which I steered with one hand, constantly wiped at the fogged and re-fogged glass with a paper towel with the other hand, and then used whichever hand didn’t need to be wiping or steering to shift when necessary. My sandwiches rode in the trunk—there not being very much room up front.

I thought about abandoning the car altogether for the winter months. I’d bought it not so much to be a car, but to be a giant ornament—a gaudy and huge belt buckle that I could ride around in, announce my virility and obvious last-gasp effort to attract a specimen—any specimen—from the opposite sex. But now it was just being a regular old car, not so much wanting to cooperate with my schemes. It was breaking, acting tired, wanting mostly just to be left alone—or at least to spend a nice peaceful time with the expensive mechanics I bring my car to. When I scrape a few dollars together, I’ll bring it in. At the moment I can’t face them again; my days have recently been filled with an unceasing chain of visits to fix one thing or another. They have around three thousand of my hard-earned dollars to make their Christmas a little merrier. So, for the moment, the car can’t be driven with its cabin closed up. Unless seeing things on the road—or the road itself, isn’t a huge priority. Maybe I can push it down the backyard under some brush and branches, haul it back out when the weather turns fair. That’ll teach it.

I came in with my little sandwiches, knew that the disconnect would be immediate—the appearance of a scruffy, unshaven single man holding a bowl of delicate and well-thought out little holiday morsels. I would offer the half—joking explanation:
“I’m quite the homemaker, you know.”
The attractive guests were chatting around the table of holiday offerings, not many of them yet touched. The things there looked good, but quite a few were ready-made platters from the stores, things they offer to busy people to make entertaining easier. A shrimp ring was one of these things. I made straight for it, being something of a shrimp-hog. I ate one after the other, was not satisfied until I’d depleted most of the outer ring of shrimp. I considered the inner ring. Should I start in on that, too? I felt justified, having brought one of the best things there. Through mouthfuls of shrimp, I encouraged the other guests to try the sandwiches. They were nestled in the bowl, not really easy to tell right off what they were. The guests just needed some guidance, that’s all.

“Eat some of those,” I would say. “Eat lots. I brought them.” Then I would pop another shrimp into my mouth.
The reaction was unanimously good; one man ate one after the other, much like my shrimp, until he’d finished off four of them. And that was by HIS count. The actual total may have been higher. Others would come in, look at the different things, pause in front of the giant wraps with different meats and so on curled up inside.
“Don’t take one of those,” I would admonish. “Try this instead.” The guest would do as I instructed, be immediately pleased with their choice. I would eat more shrimp.

I finally went downstairs to where all the music was happening. The bands in that place were composed of serious musicians—large ensembles that had worked out every last song to the very last note. Nothing was unaccounted for, no note was lost, no stray beats or anything that couldn’t be readily explained musically. The arrangements sounded like they were being played on the radio, by the actual people who made the original recordings. I ventured to sit in at the large array of percussion equipment, being restless and bored with listening for the time being. This was probably not the best idea; there was nothing actually wrong with my playing, but—having studied the songs so seriously and with such utter attention to detail—the members of these groups saw no room for improvement or improvisation. I ceded my place quickly when I saw the regular percussionist make his appearance. My playing—unlike my sandwiches—was not readily received with great joy. One guest did remark, however, that he thought I was “very good.” So there’s that.

With the last sandwich gone, I picked up my old ceramic bowl and made for the door. It was around midnight, the music would be going all night long until the early morning, and there were more bands to play. The woman who ate my last sandwich had tried one of the wraps, declared it “horrible,” then bit into the ham-and-cheese on focaccia, declaring it absolutely delicious—or words to that effect. In any case, she was pleased.

The rain was pouring down now, the weather cold. I aimed the car haphazardly towards what I believed was the center of the road. Peering through the windshield, which had every appearance of being a smokescreen, was more than difficult; it was next to impossible. I kept at it with my crumpled napkin, jerking the car to the right and left when I thought I was maybe too close to the median or about to go into the ditch. I crawled along at around twenty miles per hour, determined not to drive the car into a tree—which is what I was convinced it had in mind for me. Once I made it out to the main road, I could wipe and drive with no problem: I was in high gear now, no more shifting for the time being.

I got home around one in the morning, unplugged the bright trees next door, and went upstairs to bed. No market the next day: I would normally have one on Sunday, but decided—due to my disappointing outings there—that I would skip this one. The weather was another factor which weighed heavily in my decision; the people who do the weather had predicted with great certainty that there would be ice, ice, and more ice on this Sunday morning.
“Watch out for all the ice!” they would say.
It rained all night. The next morning, after most of the market was over, I finally got out of bed. It was still raining. I saw no ice.

Christmas workshop

It has been raining steadily for the past few days, the hours enveloped in a uniform grey that is punctuated by fog and periods of no rain. The periods of no rain don’t last very long. I walked over to check on the new shed, curious about its ability to weather the rain. It was dry inside. I’ll say this for the horrible little thing: It seems watertight.

The lumber I recently bought is neglected, all but forgotten on the front porch next door. If I don’t fasten it down soon, put it in place and screw it tight, it will start to warp—the poor-quality boards twisting this way and that, teaching me a lesson in procrastination. I would rather that not happen. I DID go over there, however—to erect the two Christmas trees I bought from my neighbors at the market. I put together an elaborate little stand made of scrap lumber—one for each tree. You can put a container of water down there that the trunk sticks out of. I use a cut-off milk jug for the purpose. The trees are very small and spindly—the way I like them. They look just fine with some lights, and are no trouble trying to get them to stand up straight. They’re quite light. The man I’ve bought them from the past two years looks as though the weight of the world is on his shoulders, his large frame sheathed in the workman’s jumpsuit—the tan fabric of the thing specked with the months and probably years of work it’s seen. His countenance is nothing short of severe; selling Christmas trees to the fathers and kids who come by is not joyful work for him. He and his elderly partner simply load the things into an old International truck with canvas flaps at the back that serve as doors, set the best ones out, leaning against the truck’s sides and its front, and wait for the December shoppers who come through the dark parking area under the expressway. I am just next to them with my French bread. I always seek this man out, bypass the more friendly and kindly-looking oldster who is paired with him. I explain my Christmas tree needs to him, he asks an unexpected question—like, “How tall?” His brow is furrowed, as if the answer may somehow shape world events. It’s a reasonable question, but one that takes me by surprise. I simply don’t care how tall the tree is, only want a couple of specimens that are weakly-looking and not good candidates for adoption. They must actually LOOK like trees—that is my only criteria. Once I’ve dressed them up, they’ll be just fine.
“Oh—I don’t care,” I say. They’re for the front porch, really. Don’t need to be tall at all.” I look at a row of smallish trees leaning over behind the main trees.
“A couple of these will do,” I say. “I’m looking to spend about twenty bucks.” I know I am being ultra-cheap, but also know that practically no one wants these little, misshapen trees. He gives me a pair of handsome and—to my eye—well-formed trees. One of them has branches that are kind of flattened against its sides.
“They’ll probably come out once it’s set up,” he says.
I don’t care one way or the other.
“Yes, they probably will,” I say.
This Sunday I’ll see if they want something from my stand: a French pastry or piece of bread—anything to make the time spent in that dreary place more tolerable.

One of the trees is up, its lights sparkling with different colors and a good few clear ones besides. It looks fine over at the right side of the front porch, just at the top of the steps where you go up to enter the house. I’ll put the other one on the left, to frame the entrance with these festive trees. I am using the lights I put on just one tree last year to cover these two little trees—so they may look a little more spare than usual. So far the one I’ve put up looks nice. If I have enough lights, I will use some scrap plywood to cut out the word “JOY” and cover the letters in lights. Then I’ll put it out somewhere near the trees—maybe in the middle. I am looking forward to this.

With all the tree activity and the rain, I’vd done nothing for the past few days on the house itself. The living room area has been turned into a Christmas workshop for trees.

Frosty

I used this day to recuperate from the previous four days of considerable activity. Considerable for me, anyway: Two markets, then two days spent on the eastern shore listening to trial testimony from a parade of witnesses who couldn’t really remember much of anything. Or—if they did—they weren’t letting on. At least there was the ham and cheese sandwich—grilled—that made the trip worthwhile. But I needn’t go into that again.

Two years ago at Christmas I drove cross-country, taking a route through some of the poorest areas of Kentucky and West Virginia. Outside the grim mountain homes, mostly trailers parked haphazardly in hollows and next to streams, were brightly lit ornaments of the season: Reindeer with sleds, Santa Claus, lights strung here and there, and—of course—Frosty the Snowman. I was struck by how the spirit of the season was irrepressible, couldn’t be stamped out. There was still hope.

Frosty

Jagged winter
At the forest edge
Cold coal water
Down from the mines

Frosty’s out front
With his plastic pipe
Rusted trailer
Down by the pines

Leaves are unsnowed
Outside the door
Brittle Christmas
Dark on the ground

Mountain rusher
Through picture ice
Crackling winter
The only sound

Tar paper, Tyvek
Silver and blue
Inside stirrings
Slippers and robe

Joy is contained
Steps are subdued
Night’s barely day
The house is still cold

Get up, Christmas
Smoke from the stack
Bright boxes await
The day’s first light

Kids are up now
Peering outside
Frosty’s lit up
With his plastic pipe.

Best grilled ham-and-cheese ever

The following has nothing to do with the house renovation project. Rain and work have prevented me from making any further progress over the past three days. I did, however, take out two large bags of yard clippings and branches for the yard waste pickup. When I returned home this evening, they were gone.

I drove into the city on Sunday to offer my baked goods for sale. The people stayed away in droves. It being a particularly gloomy day, maybe they thought that a few more hours in bed would be preferable to venturing out on this the last day of the weekend. I was grateful for the regulars who showed up—rain or shine. To add to the misery, the truck’s check engine light came on during the short trip into town. I’d just paid to have this fixed, but realize—the way these things work—that it can be wholly unrelated to the repair that was just performed.

Saturday was an unusually unprofitable day as well; I enlisted the help of just one other person to keep the sparse crowd served, and this was just as well--we were never particularly busy. Grey and damp, I think we are in for a very long cycle of this kind of weather—possibly lasting the winter and into spring. Freezing drizzle is predicted for Saturday. With almost no precipitation this summer, we’re now in a game of catch-up. I don’t mind catching up on some much-needed rain, but maybe it could happen during the week. Saturday’s temperature was mostly in the forties, but the sun broke through and warmed the now-balmy day at precisely twelve o’clock, just as I was packing up to leave. On the way home I had the truck’s window open, letting in the sun-warmed air. It was around fifty-five degrees.

I had a fire-sale of leftovers on Sunday. This helped some, but not enough. Henceforth I will be cutting back drastically on my quantities. I’ll have just enough for the faithful few who come out, but not much more than that.

I dropped off the truck Sunday evening at the shop, left a note explaining why it was back. The young woman there who runs the front counter knows that I don’t need it until the weekend, so most likely will take a look at it when they have some time. If it needs yet more work, I’ll have to evaluate exactly how much money I want to keep pouring into this thing. Right now the dollars seem to be leaving the household faster than I can replenish them, and the winter is promising to be a harsh one—making a further dent on my potential earnings.

Monday and Tuesday I drove down to the eastern shore to a town that straddles the Chester River. This scenic place was the setting for a job that needed to be taped. I considered just spending the night, the drive being about seventy-five miles each way, but decided on Monday evening to return home. The commute was fine, the gloomy weather continuing with drizzle and thick fog, but not affecting the roadways so much.

At lunch on Monday I asked the young woman at the front desk of the hotel where I could grab a bite to eat. We had a full hour or so before the start of the next part of the job, so I wanted to sit down with some food and relax. It was late in the afternoon, and we’d been going since around nine in the morning. The job was taking place at one of the big chain hotels—in a conference room reserved for that purpose. She directed me to a nondescript carryout on the corner just down the road. I’d told her that I was in a hurry and she replied that this place was my best bet. I walked down to the one-story building that had the look of a beach hamburger joint about it. You walked in and stood at a counter with homemade signs announcing the offerings in front of you. They didn’t seem to be organized in any particular way, but I took my time, making sure I didn’t miss that one item that might be just the thing I wanted.

I’d had my heart set on a hamburger or cheeseburger with fries. These things were offered, but then I saw that they also had a grilled ham and cheese.
“I’ll have a grilled ham and cheese,” I said. “Dark, please.” In addition I took away a small fries and a coke.
Just as soon as I’d placed my order, lunchtime stragglers came wandering in—about a half-dozen in all. Every one of them wanted a cheeseburger. Some wanted just a cheeseburger, some wanted one with fries, but the one thing that bound them all, the young and old, the workers in their dried-mud bluejeans, their pickups parked outside, the young girls from Washington University and Salisbury State, was that they ALL ORDERED CHEESEBURGERS. I began to resent my grilled ham and cheese over on the corner grill way in the back. These people must know something, I thought. I’ve ordered the one thing that no one in this place would ask for, would not consider; this selection was put on the posted menu just out of courtesy—to kind of make it look like they were trying harder, knowing all along that no one would choose the lowly sandwich.

I took my lunch back to the conference room, opened the bag with its fries and sandwich, carefully arranged my newspaper so that I could eat and read. This is always something of an ordeal for me. It is never a simple matter of just sitting down to eat; since I take an inordinately long time to get through a meal—any meal—I need something to fend off the inevitable boredom. I took a bite. This was the best fucking grilled ham and cheese in the world. It had no equal. The ham was tender, lean, sliced thin and layered as if it were from the best New York deli. The cheese was melting from the sides of the well-toasted bread—the color dark but not too dark. Inside, the bread was fresh and light—not dried out. Jesus Christ I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. I started to tell my colleague on the job, the woman who was taking down the transcript. I knew that my enthusiasm might frighten her, make her want to move away from me, maybe take a place in another room while I calmed down a bit. So I kept it low-key, calmly told her that perhaps she might look into getting one of these grilled ham and cheese sandwiches. Just a thought—but, hey—this one is pretty darned tolerable. The fries were good, too.

Later I walked down to the little shopping area to take a look around. We still had time, and I wanted to explore the stores in this place. They had the ones I love, that make my simple life such a pleasure: Rite-Aid, a Radio Shack—and a place called, mysteriously enough—Rose’s. I wanted to find some audio cassette tapes, having forgotten a supply before leaving the house for the long drive to this place. The woman in the Dollar Store told me about Rose’s.
“Maybe they have them there,” she said. I thanked her and walked down to the end of the row of stores, past the Acme supermarket and a place that did nails.
A woman in Rose’s directed me to a display in the crowded and bountiful store. There I found cassette tapes—brand new—for two bucks a pack. You get two decent tapes per pack, and the price is practically a giveaway. I bought two of them, enough to hold me until I returned home to replenish for the next day.

On the walk back to the hotel I stopped in at the carryout again. The place was called Downey’s—had been there for some thirty-odd years. I’d noticed a young Salisbury State girl ordering a shake on my previous visit. Now I wanted one. This was like a little vacation for me. I got an enormous strawberry shake, carried it back to finish up the day’s work. I reiterated to my colleague:
“You really ought to try one of those grilled cheese sandwiches.” I left it at that, sat down with my equipment and sipped my milkshake, waiting for the job to get started.

The next day I came back early in the morning, was there before most of the others. The woman from the previous day had decided to stay the night, having work to do in her room. She’d gone out for a bite to eat the previous evening, had tried the place I’ve come to love.
“It was probably the best grilled ham-and-cheese sandwich I’ve ever had,” she said.

A Christmas Tarp

No work today on the house--just this Christmas poem I've put to paper:

A Christmas Tarp

Christmas is upon us
Hark!
Let’s gather ‘round
The Christmas Tarp!

Laze about it
Rake some leaves
Shake it
In the Christmas Breeze

Tarps are for Christmas
Christmas Tarps
Not gilded, gleaming
Angel’s Harps

Bring us together
These Christmas squares
Drapers of
Decrepit stairs

Band-Aids over
Holey roofs
Meeting place
Of hapless goofs

You have one ‘round
I know you do
I have two:
One white, one blue

So celebrate
That kingly Lord
By fastening
Our bungee cords

Optional “Interim Phrases.” Can be sung as a hymn, solemnly, with feeling:

It’s often told
As the babe lay
Asleep
Amidst his Christmas hay

That Animals looked on
Some few:
A moose, a cat,
A kangaroo

How easy
To clean up the mess
If one lone tarp
Had been a guest

Alas, no tarp!
The wise men beamed
No vinyl,
Polypropylene

End of “interim phrases.”

Bag up Christmas
Wrap it tight
Then tarp it
On this Christmas night!

It took two-and-a-half days of never-ceasing effort to produce this writing--alone in a soft white room, with no food and only a half-glass of water. From the house next door I heard Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler,” played over and over from a broken stereo.

"Go get yourself a coffee."

Yesterday I spent in the nation’s capital, with a room full of lawyers, people who couldn’t even agree on whether to start the proceedings or not. Some procedural or ultra-confidential information had to be dealt with first, was weighing heavily on those in the room. I sat in the back—at the end of a long conference table—with my writing tablet and magazine. Later, at lunch, I bought the Post. I walked in the brisk December air to a local eatery that seemed popular and fast. Just on the verge of ordering a tuna sandwich, the woman in charge of the soups saw me looking her way. Encouraged by my glance, she asked if I’d like a soup. I walked over, ordered a chili.
“Make it a large one,” I said. I was in that kind of mood.

I took my chili and some chips back to the big law firm, not far from all of the important things in Washington—the train station, the capital building, and other things that escape me at the moment, but are surely important. The day was made colder by my forgetting a winter coat as I left the house. Eager to get on the road, facing a two-hour trip into the city—a drive of just under forty miles—I got in the car and fired it up in just my tweed blazer, a hand-me-down from my father many years ago. I had neither gloves nor a hat too boot. No boots, either.

When the job ended it was after dark. We’d started around ten in the morning and now it was past seven o’clock. I got my things together, all loaded onto a little hand-cart, and went out into the cold of Washington on a December evening. I couldn’t find my car. I’d parked it in haste, moving it from an illegal spot just in front of the building, to a parking garage nearby. The attendant had put a little tag on the windshield and directed me to park downstairs. The upper level spaces were reserved. He gave me no ticket, no receipt, and I didn’t think to ask for one. I’m accustomed to parking in these places, have done so for a few years now, and thought nothing of leaving my car there. The job was scheduled to start in a few minutes, and I didn’t want to hold it up. It being just one minute before ten o’clock, I was able to take advantage of the “early-bird special:” Thirteen bucks for all day.

I walked around to all the nearby garages, found them closed, the doors pulled shut, no signs welcoming parkers at this hour. Some were open, but the one I’d parked in was not among them. I finally left my little cart with a pair of sympathetic garage attendants, wheeled it into their office. I was sure I would find my car and return to fetch it in a few minutes. No such luck. Something was wrong, and I could feel the confusion and self-doubt mounting as I walked the cold city streets, past the winter city-dwellers in their fashionable furs and hats, warm leather gloves keeping them comfortable on the short walk from a heated limousine to the bright glow of a welcoming hotel lounge or restaurant. Sometimes I would enter these places, in my inadequate jacket, and warm myself for a few minutes. Then I would be on my way, making endless circles, starting from the office building where the job had taken place, going past all the garages—about a dozen of them. The ones that were closed I sneaked into as a sleek resident would exit, ducking into the door before it closed completely after the car. I would wander the empty car-caverns, knowing that my garage didn’t look like this, would just walk, because I had nothing else to do.

I returned to pick up my things. I took my phone, wearily called my sister in a nearby suburb and said I was coming to spend the night. I explained that I’d lost my car, it was locked in a closed garage, and I would have to fetch it tomorrow. I was rather vague about what had happened, because I didn’t really know myself. I was tired, cold, confused, and hungry.

I took the train from Union Station, a direct trip to her area. The elevator carried me and my equipment down to the train level, something I hadn’t really thought of beforehand. The escalators would have been my first choice, but I wheeled my cart to the steep bank of electric stairs, looked stupidly at the moving steps, then at my cart, and wondered what to do next. I followed the signs for handicapped access, and got on the slow elevator. Tired and out of sorts, the door closed in front of me for the short trip down to the next level. When it stopped, nothing happened. I waited there, looking at the door in front of me—wanting it to open. The door BESIDE me had opened, had done it with stealth, silently. I hadn’t even heard it.

I got into bed, was asleep in the warmth and comfort of the cozy room, was soon dreaming fantastically of finding my car, exultant at my success, my prowess, how my solid efforts had yielded such impressive results. I awoke to find that this was not the case.

The next day was colder, with some icy stuff falling from the sky. Confident that I would soon find my car, I unhurriedly made my way to the now-familiar neighborhood as I got off the train. I stopped at one of the fancy, warm hotels, its large foyer a veritable shopping plaza of commerce. There I ordered a doughnut and a Danish. The grand total for these two breakfast items was $5.75. The counter girl put my purchase in a little bag, and I also bought a travel-size packet of nose tissues. I re-entered the cold, just a block or two from where I’d left the car. I still couldn’t find it. I walked past the actual garage several times, the sign outside reading: ‘Monthly and hotel guests only.”
“That can’t be me,” I thought. “My garage had a sign stating clearly that an early-bird special was offered.” I remembered it well: Thirteen bucks if you parked before ten. The implicit message I gathered from the sign I read was that no early-bird special would be offered, for the simple reason that only monthly parkers and hotel guests were welcome there.

I continued on in the cold icy stuff, holding my little bag, wanting this odyssey more than anything to just end. I’d had enough, had walked enough, was tired and hadn’t eaten anything—although my more than generous hosts of yesterday evening had tried to make me take something this morning. I stopped at yet another garage. This one was a secure area, the guard held out an arm, forbidding me to venture further. He could see that I was upset, cold, barely holding onto any vestige of reason. He wanted to know what was wrong. I explained about my car. He calmly told me to go around the corner, visit the “Sunspot” store and eatery there, get a coffee and retrace my steps.
“Go get yourself a coffee.”
I did as he said. I had bought the morning paper earlier, when I was confident that things would go well; I read some of it while I drank my warm coffee and ate the items I’d bought elsewhere. This was forbidden—a sign posted in the warm little shop said explicitly not to do that. Health department regulations.

With a little more energy, a bit of clearer thinking, I went outside, leaving my paper for someone else to enjoy. It was barely used, as I’d hardly read any of it. I walked past the same garage that had previously scared off daily parkers with its sign that read “Monthlies and Hotel Guests Only.” Here is what it now said: “Early-Bird Special: $13.00 if in by ten.” I walked into the garage, followed the familiar and steep ramp downstairs, found my car where I knew it would be. I tossed my cold coffee into a wastebasket and drove off, taking New York Avenue out of town to pick up the parkway to Baltimore.

Later my helper came over to do some more work on the front porch next door. The icy stuff was still falling, but it was not raining. As a result, we did not get too wet. The wood I’d bought the other day was rather wet, however; we put it onto the porch and tried to dry it, taking a heat gun to it until the extension cord overheated and burned the end off. This slowed our progress somewhat, so we set about clearing some of the area in front of the house, getting the trash and leaves and so on that had collected over the years from out of the bushes and into trash bags for the yard waste collection. Our rakings looked dirty and terrible on the recently-fallen snow, but I felt better about being rid of the stuff.
I fastened down exactly two boards, still need to put another three into place, but will wait until the lumber has dried off.

Having eaten very little since morning, we had some of my beef stew I’d just made in the slow cooker, a dish that I will probably make a lot more of. With some fresh French bread and cider, we had a good lunch. My truck was ready down at the shop, and we went to fetch it as well. It only remains to put two new tires on it and it will be ready for re-inspection. I’ll do that sometime in the coming week—am not in any particular hurry.

"DON'T GO IN THE SHED!"

The other porch is mostly taken apart now. Actually, the part you walk on is completely gone, leaving a treacherous path to the front door as the would-be visitor gingerly balances on the wooden joists that make up the substructure. Seeing the obvious danger of leaving it like that, my helper and I loaded up the truck with some big sheets of four by eight sheathing, putting them into place as a temporary floor while I gather the other materials to make a more permanent job of it. I plan to use the pressure-treated wood that is so popular with deck-building these days. I am not crazy about the material, but it is less costly and requires less maintenance than some of the other choices.

I picked up enough wood to finish up the floor for the shed. As soon as the wood is fastened down, I’ll go to the bottom of the yard to fuel up the riding mower and drive it into its new shelter. It’s been outside long enough now that it’s starting to rust; giving it a place indoors is not going to help it much at this point.

This evening I worked into the late day, racing against the fading light as I tried to make the new floor fit properly inside the flimsy shed. The wind has been howling these past two days, with lots of branches and debris being thrown around. Surprisingly, the shed held fast. The wind was so strong during the night that it threw my porch swing—perched on a ledge and not attached to anything—onto the driveway. I got out my new drill set and cordless screwdriver from Sears, set to the task of fastening some of the wood to the shed’s specially-designed sub-floor. This sub-floor came as a complimentary extra for my having taken advantage of the exceptionally good price that the shed was offered for. Really it is just a series of bright metal pieces, fitted together and tied into the bottom of the shed. The wood that I just bought screws into these pieces, keeping the floor from coming into direct contact with the ground. I suppose there is some benefit in that.

As I knelt on the new wood, screwing the pieces into place, I received a call. I was alone on this cold and windy afternoon, the shed door open wide to allow the day’s last light to brighten my work. I took out my foam earplug and took the call—a friend wanting to know if I needed any help with the shed. We talked for some time, spoke of various things, and presently I felt a light weight on my left shoulder. My cat—the one with unusual markings that I call “The Grizzler”—had jumped up onto my back and was now perched next to my head, like a furry vulture. She stayed on my shoulder while I talked, looking over the work I’d done and unconcerned with whether or not she was causing an inconvenience. She is actually very light, and it was easy to forget she was up there. I should add that—if I’d ever WANTED her to perform such a feat, she would have balked at the idea of sitting—even for a split second—on my shoulder. I concluded the call and encouraged her to jump off--something that she didn’t want to do. I convinced her that it was time to leave when I got up to fetch some materials in the house.

The shed’s door is already broken. The comically-cheap little plastic gizmo that gingerly holds the door against its grooved slot, naturally chipped off. Since there are two doors, the other one is okay for the moment. They slide together, meeting each other in the middle. As the outside air grew colder and more winter-like by the minute, I took the little piece off the door and tried to make a quick repair. It will hold for a little while, until the broken piece lets the door slip off its track again. This shed is just a point of departure, I’ve decided; it was never meant to be a viable structure by the fiendish designers who came up with the most understated and anemic examples of sheds. They anticipated that Americans, in their endless quest to tinker with things and make them better, would just use their own ingenuity to bolster the little tin can, to get some spare parts out, some hardier materials, and have at it. The ones who don’t know this—who just accept that this is how a shed is meant to be, don’t question the rattling sheet metal, the doors that drop away before the thing is even finished, who point proudly to the already-rusting sides and proclaim the dreary little thing a success, a veritable coup of design and utility—are doomed. They plug away at it, fixing it endlessly, putting it back the way it was, which was never right to begin with. And, because they know the shed like no one else, because they tore themselves and gnashed their teeth trying to get the horrible thing to fit properly—only THEY CAN USE IT. Heaven forbid if the wife or kids should want to get the lawnmower or some trash bags out of the thing. I can hear it now, the hapless father looking up from his yard project, seeing his son going towards the flimsy little hut—his purpose unmistakable. He intends to enter it for some reason.
“DON’T GO IN THE SHED!” He screams frantically, trying to ward off the inevitable disaster, the thing he’d just fixed for the ninth time. But it’s too late; his son—wanting to fetch a can of gasoline for his mini-bike—has his hand already on the door handle. With one nonchalant motion, the casual sweep of his arm as he pulls the door aside, he has wrenched it from its mooring, splintered the little plastic piece yet again. The door hangs, its thin metal making a sound like baking sheets hitting the ground. The boy stands baffled, amazed at his own strength—not sure whether to put the door down or not. This was entirely unexpected. His father, with a watering can and some garden gloves, holds his head in anguish.

I’m already planning the first improvement: Sturdy rollers that will slide easily in the door tracks. These will replace the plastic pieces—about the size of the end of your thumb—that the metal doors hang on. It’s likely that I’ll never get around to putting this improvement in place, will probably live with a shed whose doors are perpetually open; not only open, but propped at odd angles because they now don’t fit right on account of the broken plastic pieces. But I can dream, can’t I?