"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.