"I'm not that kind of cat"

Sunday I drove the beautiful new Chevrolet to my friend’s shop. I met him there around eleven in the morning, then left at eight-thirty that evening. I helped him first with a short project he needed to accomplish, then wheeled out my classic 1972 Honda motorcycle to see what could be done. It was waiting in the back room, a project that I’d bought some years back, had never quite gotten around to. Now it was time.

I should mention something about this friend, who has helped me with mechanical projects and mishaps in the past. His knowledge and authority about all things mechanical is nearly unrivalled in its depth and breadth. Trusting a vehicle to him—anything from a 1910 Ford to a current model luxury car—is like having a world-renowned authority undertaking repairs on the thing. His knowledge is that extensive. Knowing that my old bike was in his hands was a source of indescribable comfort—entirely out of all bounds with the simple matter in question: The fixing up of a historic and not very valuable motorcycle. No, this was something much more. It was as if suddenly I were transported back to childhood, where the decisions of life were made for me. Now here was my mama, comforting me, telling me that everything would be all right, tucking me into my warm bed, turning out the lights and softly closing the door. The next morning was Christmas, and beautiful things awaited me: The excitement of the day, the presents in their gleaming wrappers, the simplicity of childish thoughts and preoccupations that dwelt primarily on having fun and indulging in the new wonders that made up a young life. It was like that.

We worked together, he telling me what needed to be done, trusting me with the simple things that he felt I could handle—like changing the oil and getting some different parts reattached. He handled the bulk of the repairs—taking apart the fuel system, cleaning it out and reassembling it. Mostly I stood by, eating my salted peanuts in the shell, making a mess of his shop, munching away as he blew solvents and compressed air through the clogged fuel passages. He checked the bike over thoroughly, took off the metal plate that covered the ignition system, found the hardened mud of some stinging insects that had made their home in there at one time, and got the dirt cleaned out. Then he checked to see that things were working the way they should, and we started the bike. A miracle moment, that; for years it had sat dormant, no one paying any attention to the old Japanese motorcycle from the early 1970s. Now it was time to fire it up and hit the roads again—a nostalgic journey back to the days when motorcycling was catching on in a big way, with small bikes like this appealing to a young crowd that suddenly could afford a gleaming, chromed offering from the Japanese. They were so simple, so inexpensive, and so beautiful to behold. The soft California colors promised fun in the sun, with a laughing girlfriend holding on tight, her hair in a band, the small machine effortlessly pulling them towards a sunset and bonfire on the beach. I could cry.

I insisted on riding it just one time before leaving. I fired it up, rode it to the garage door and back, refusing his offer to open the door and allow me access to the freezing evening outside. This wasn’t California; there was no warm sunset or bonfire by the beach beyond the cold garage door. There was ice left over from the recent snow, frozen—concrete-like—against the cold and unforgiving pavement. God it was cold outside. Inside the garage all was well; the old bike was back in its special room with the other projects. I would go home, pull the covers up, roll over to a peaceful slumber, dream of warmth and youth and the days of spring that could not arrive soon enough, would welcome me with my new toy, would look on from singing trees, from green new pastures, from suddenly warm breezes and understand my quest to recapture something that was lost.

I’d left the house that morning, delayed by my uncooperative cat. My rendezvous was to be at eleven, but I was now running late. I’d let her out to romp and play in the cold January air. Now she knew I was looking for her, but would not exhibit herself. Her coloring is that of the fall and winter—her varied coat blending in perfectly with the dead leaves that I never rake up, or the wilted weeds that tilt this way and that in the unkempt yard. She was invisible. I would call and call, knowing that she was nearby, observing me. If by chance I should discern her outline against the perfectly-designed landscape, her immobile frame at ease in the wild disarray, she would consider me impassively, her eyes showing an expression of neither surprise or wonder. She might have some slight interest in why I persisted in this activity—this going forth in the cold to try to root her out. If she had a thought at all, it might be this:
“I never come. Why do you try to get me to? I’m not that kind of cat.” Then, continuing on in that vein:
“I’ve been here—what, three or four years? Have I ever ONCE come running when you called?” I would have to admit that she hadn’t—that the only times she’d come was when I’d tricked her into thinking that I WASN’T looking for her, that I just happened to be out in the yard for a walk. She had a point.
“That other one,” she might add, “That big grey cat, she might come. But I don’t. I never do.” It’s true: The big grey cat comes when I call her—sometimes. In any case, I’ve never discovered her trying NOT to be found, just watching me. Usually she comes out in the open, just to see what’s happening. So, with the cold winter morning making me shiver, and the small cat undoubtedly watching me from close by, I went back inside. I’d made up my mind to leave her some food and get going, so I took the bag of cat food out on the back deck, got ready to pour some into her bowl, and watched as she ran up the steps, wanting to be fed. This was unexpected, but I didn’t waste any time: I grabbed the energetic little frisker and hauled her inside, where she would be warm and comfortable. Then I barred the way with my foot as the big grey cat tried to escape. They were both safely inside, and I could now leave.

Saturday’s market was a chilly event, a frosty morning that was mostly overcast, with temperatures that didn’t rise much out of the thirties. For a little while the sun came out, then went back behind the clouds. I turned off my portable heater, then watched as the temperature dropped again. I had on about five layers of clothes, was not really cold—just the occasional chilly fingers that asked for a little warmth from the propane burner. My neighbor at the market spoke of a day about six years ago that stuck in his memory: He said that the wind chill on that market day made it feel about twenty degrees below zero. I’m glad I was not there.

Termites of June

I drove over to the big hardware store, bought about twenty pine two-by-fours to shore up the kitchen wall. This is the wall that separates the bathroom and kitchen. I don’t really need that much wood, just thought it would be nice to have it around—just in case. I left the old truck parked in the damp evening air, took instead the little station wagon. I thought maybe I would load the wood on top, but this car actually handled all of the lumber inside. I unloaded it at the house, stacked the boards on the sawhorses on the new porch, and went inside to look around.

I had to move the gas stove out of the way, then the refrigerator. They were both already disconnected, so it was just a matter of moving them. When I’d cleared a space big enough to work in the kitchen, I started cutting away at the rotted and bug-eaten wood in the wall. It was this wood that would be replaced with the new pine studs. Although there was a good-sized area of damaged wood, I felt some satisfaction that I was tackling the job myself. This was one of those times when I could justify—at least in my mind—taking on this project. The reason is this: Had I engaged a contractor to come in and do the renovation work, they would have given me an estimate based on what they were seeing in front of them. They couldn’t tell what was behind the walls, would have no way of knowing that there was bug damage. With my budget stretched to the limit, the discovery would only add many more dollars to the previous estimate, which was probably already going over budget.
“We’re going to need to take out all of that wood, put in new studs. That wasn’t included in the original estimate.”
“How much?”
“Looks to be about fifteen hundred dollars.”
Knowing that I could easily do the work myself, I would have no choice but to give the go-ahead. There was no changing course in mid-stream; I couldn’t pick and choose what aspects of the work I wanted them to do. So, confronted with the termite-chewed timbers, I didn’t feel so bad. This was my problem.

January 24, 2008

The problem I was feeling so smug about, having licked the termites in my mind, is now monumental. Much of the house’s main support is eaten away—a veritable banquet for the little bugs. They’ve gone on their way now; no longer is there evidence of their presence. What they’ve left me is a good-sized calling card—in the form of a half-eaten main beam. My ire is up, and when that happens, I give vent to it with a horrible poem. Normally I wait for things to settle down a bit, but in this case, waiting is not an option. No—it must all come out now.

You bugs, You bugs!
Why can’t you be
The kind
That fly around?

Or sting me on
My pale white ass
Or
Crawl upon the ground?

I much prefer
That kind of bug
Not that
Kind which is you

You eat the wood
Where people live
You chew
And chew and chew

You hear me, bugs?
I’m talking here
Although
I know you’ve gone

The house still stands
Its main support
A hero
In a song

Should it fail, too
Collapse all down
The rooms
One giant spill

Be ye assured
Blithe nibblers, you
Of where
I’ll send the bill

This poem I have already submitted to the following publications:

“Mite News”……..a monthly glossy that follows termites and their activities.

“Bug Monthly”…..This is a less glamorous newsprint edition that comes out weekly, contrary to its name. It is a general treatment of bugs and bug-related items.

“Les Termites de Juin”…This is a French publication (transl: “the termites of june”) It is a fanciful treatment of termites, their habits, and a general extolling of their existence through verse, song and certain forms of modern dance. It has a rather limited audience.

One publication only, Bug Monthly, replied, saying in their form letter that they’d already chosen a termite poem this year. Besides, they added, even if they’d received my poem at the same time as the other, they still would have chosen that one. For one thing, they said, it’s much shorter. They were kind enough to tell me that it was submitted by Joel Ouragon of Noel, Oregon, and included a photocopied version of his work:

Them ‘mites is mighty hard at work
Their giving me a run for my money
Mites is hard at mites
Their putting up a fight
When you spray at them
Sometimes their dead
But they might have
Already ate a lot

---Joel Ouragon

So we’ve put that behind us. I’ll formulate a plan of attack in the coming days, possibly involving a simple fix, like bolstering the existing wood with a new support screwed into it. I’ll cut away all of the rotted and bug-eaten wood first, see what I am left with. I can always add additional vertical supports in the basement—something I am loath to do. It cuts into the available floor space down there, which is not ideal. I would rather leave things the way they are. Right now I have stopped, my progress halted after the discovery of extensive termite damage. The upright supports between the bathroom and kitchen are cut away and discarded—gone with today’s trash. It was this project that led to the finding of large-scale damage in the first place; once the studs were removed, I realized that there was very little in the way of support down their at their base. I also discarded some now-defunct electrical wiring, strands of copper sheathed in their antique jackets of cloth wraps.

Today I pulled away from the car rental place, at the wheel of a gleaming new Chevy. Every radio station was tuned to rap and hip-hop, the speakers blaring this music at three-quarter volume when the car was handed over to me.
“Music loud enough?” I asked the helpful young rental man.
“They was listenin’ to it like that,” he offered by way of explanation. “They” were the people who just got the car cleaned up for another trip upon the Maryland highways. It had been returned maybe a half-hour before, the renters no longer needing its service.
I eased into the new seat, got it adjusted, turned the power mirrors so I could see, and found the volume knob for the radio. I turned it down, then tuned every single station to classical music, jazz, NPR, news and some other selections that would piss off future renters. This car was much nicer than mine, which was in the shop, being repaired for the collision damage it had sustained just recently. The car that I am now driving tells me different things, like what the outside air temperature is, whether I should maybe check the tire pressure, and a whole host of other things that my car keeps mostly silent about. As I said, it is MUCH nicer than mine. I’ll put a CD in tomorrow, maybe listen to my beloved Edith Piaf. Either that or some truck-driving songs—it’s a toss-up.

"Is he not fragrant?"

January 19, 2008

Car accident yesterday—an unusal event for me, in that I was actually involved in the mishap. I was taking a routine trip to the big hardware store to get a key made for the new truck—a spare to attach somewhere in case I get locked out or show up to drive it away without a way to start it up. As I approached the road the store is on, a woman was nosing her car out of a gas station to my right. I was in a line of traffic, driving along at maybe twenty-five miles per hour. I edged around her, steering my car to the left. At that moment she pulled out, hitting the side of my car—over on the passenger side. We pulled over, exchanged information; it was a miracle—in my disorganized way—that I was able to find my insurance card and so on. I finally discovered it, along with the owner’s manual—in a bag of trash.

I saw no damage to my car until later, when I stopped by the place where I keep the work truck. I parked it in the light, having noticed on the drive over from the hardware store that the car was pulling to one side. It was then that I noticed where her car had hit mine: There were scrapes along the front wheel and fender and the door itself. I tried the door, unable to open it without getting caught on some bent metal. I took one of my wrecking bars—which I happened to have in the back of the car—and pried the metal aside. The door opens just fine now, and the car doesn’t look so bad. The woman who hit me had some damage to the front of her car; the bumper was scraped and the license plate torn off. A young bearded man who materialized out of the night went and fetched her license plate from the roadway. The two appeared to know each other, although I am not certain of that. Her car was a late model, red sporty-looking thing that she said she’d just purchased maybe a few weeks ago.

I called the police through the 911 number from my car, and a female officer and her partner arrived fairly quickly. I didn’t have high expectations where they were concerned, and they didn’t disappoint: The two of them stayed in their warm car, not wanting to exit on this chilly evening. The officer pleasantly told me that all she cared about was that the two of us—the young woman and I—had exchanged insurance information. Other than that, she couldn’t care less. I was hoping that, in the interest of helping my case, she would look at the damage, hear our stories, and assign blame to the young woman who’d struck my car. I thought that, ideally, the following should have transpired:

Officer, taking in the scene: “Good heavens! What mischief have you wrought here? Look at what you’ve caused—the mayhem, the mayhem! Oh God see how you’ve damaged that poor man’s car! Behold the scratchy abrasions, the intrusion of carelessness into the fine green of this lustrous road machine. Do you not look where you’re going? Have you not eyes to clearly see?” Then, indicating my person, standing apart in the cold January air: “Behold the victim! Is he not a man of good will? Doth he harbor any ill towards you and your conveyance?” Then, dabbing at her eyes with a soft tissue, in a voice choked with emotion: “Is he not fragrant?” For my part, I would be succumbing to the cold, flapping my arms up and down in an effort to keep warm, doing an impromptu version of the “chicken dance” there in the gas station parking lot.

“This is going to take some time; I have much work to do here. May as well make yourself comfortable.”

After an hour or more, the police officer would exit her car, go to the sporty red car that hit mine. She would hand over one citation after another, some of them sounding like things she made up just for this occasion.

“This one is for failing to yield the right of way.” (She actually deserved that one)
“Here, look at this one—you were probably speeding. I’m giving you one for that, too.”
“This one says you were driving recklessly—at night. And near a gas station.”
“Here is one for ‘wanton disregard for public safety.’”
“Here’s a new one that I just made up: ‘Using your car as an illegal battering ram.’”
“The rest of these are just miscellaneous charges, some of them may be dismissed in court: ‘Associating with the feeble-minded, bearded thin people, too eager to attain a fast-food establishment (she was on her way to a burger joint across the street), attempting to incite a small riot, not maintaining control over a non-truck style vehicle, speaking harshly to a meager and innocent man, causing pain and suffering and mental anguish in a parking lot, causing also those things in a non-parking lot environment, and this last one is a favorite of mine: ‘Making an officer chilly on a cold evening—with a warm cruiser waiting nearby.’”

She would tear off the many sheets of citations, hand them over to the young woman. I would be free to go and get my key made and drive over to where the truck was parked. The officer might even buy me a hot coffee, seeing how anguished and upset I was. I would thank her for the coffee, not being really anguished or upset at all.

None of that happened; the officer powered up her window, shutting out us accident victims and the cold night, and drove off in her police cruiser. She was smiling and chatting idly with her partner—who could have been her boyfriend along for the ride for all I know.

January 21, 2008

Brutal, hideous cold here, the high temperature being maybe in the high-twenties during the daylight hours. At night it hovers around ten degrees. The few inches of snow linger, its crust a sharp and crackling layer when trod upon. I trod upon it often, as I go next door to attend to things, and maybe look around a bit. The work has mostly stopped, as it is just too goddamned cold. Surprisingly, though, it is actually warmer inside the house than outdoors. I would expect the temperature to be about the same; however, some of the sun’s heat gets trapped inside the cold rooms, rendering the space a little more tolerable. It is still pretty cold, however. The little work that remains on the porch floor will have to wait; it needs the removing of some shingles, and for that I have to wet down the area to help prevent airborne dust from the toxic material. Wetting it down in these conditions would result only in a layer of ice, defeating entirely my intent. I may go into the kitchen to start work on that area. Maybe not.

I was spared the extreme and bitter cold on Saturday, the market being chilly but not overly so. The high that day reached maybe into the forties or even fifty degrees. It was Sunday that the wall of arctic air swept across the country—affecting areas from the Midwest to the east coast. We are currently in its grip.

Yesterday I hiked with my brother, who’d located an antique dump truck on the grounds of what had once been a working farm. We walked through the crisp and brittle parkland on the abandoned farm’s periphery, and finally got to a clearing. I was struck immediately by the contrast before me: What remained of the farm’s original land was hemmed in by the state park we’d just exited, and by immense housing developments just a little distance away. Within sight of the old outbuildings, with some good wood and other materials still stowed away, were the French doors of the backs of the new homes, the children’s playsets and barbecue grills marking the boundary between the old and the new. Not so long ago this was all woodland, with the farm’s fields cleared to make space for whatever crops or activities they engaged in there. We came upon the dump truck, which had been left for dead. Needing repair at one time maybe thirty or forty years ago, it was parked and then forgotten. Then the land was sold and no one cared much what happened to it any more. It was someone else’s problem. It appeared to be maybe from the late nineteen-forties, but could have been older. Searching for any kind of markings, I finally decided it was most likely an International brand truck. The carburetor had been removed many years before, so that the elements—the summer rains and winter snows—were allowed to seep into the engine. It was most likely full of water by now, with the freezing and thawing cycles perhaps cracking the heavy iron of the old engine block.

January 22, 2008

It’s not so cold today, just a little rain. I may buy some fresh new pine boards to replace the ones in the kitchen wall, where some termites have damaged them from years past. I will cut out the old wood, put the new studs in place and ready the area for the installation of new wallboard. It is likely that I’ll replace all of the antiquated wiring that now runs through that wall and which is now exposed—making the job easier.

Steps

A few months ago the people down the street rebuilt the concrete steps that lead to the walkway in front of their house. Cut into the side of a little hill, the workers first dug out the area with an excavator. They worked at the pathway itself, too—wanting to do a thorough job of it. Over the course of a month or more they would return, two men taking precise measurements, using string and wooden forms to get the steps and walkway right. I would pass by, watching as the forms were built, then seeing the large cement truck arrive with a load of concrete to finish off the steps. The job unfolded slowly, but with great care and attention to the details that would make the work last.

This past Saturday I awoke early for my morning work. There was noise outside, as if from a large truck or service vehicle. Peering through the blinds, I saw some flashing lights from the beacon atop a tow truck. It was a few houses down the street. I got in my car and drove into the pre-dawn night, slowing as I passed the house with the new steps. On the front lawn were the outlines of automobile parts—large pieces that had recently belonged to a working car, the occupants careening wildly along the residential street, their merriment perhaps helped along by an open container of Budweiser, with several empties strewn about the floor—or tossed out of open windows on the chilly night. Deafening music blasted the interior of the car maybe, making it a screaming whistle, a cacophonous bullet blasting through the sleeping night. The occupants were unaware of anything—of themselves, the silent neighborhood, didn’t know even what strange combination of events made up their lives. They were having fun. Their car squarely clipped the new stonework, the brand-new steps that the skilled tradesmen had labored over with string and wooden forms cut to precise measurements. It then continued on, its extreme speed stopped by a phone pole, which was then severed with the impact. The utility pole hung there, suspended by the wires that it was supposed to be supporting. Its base was a jagged sawtooth of splinters---a gigantic toothpick. The steps were ruined.

This evening I drove around looking at people’s front steps. Many of the houses in this area are identical to mine—or at least very similar. I wanted to see how the wooden stairs would look out front. Many of the steps were made of brick and poured concrete, and one example was treated with a mosaic of broken tiles. Very colorful. There were many wooden stairs, however, and for the most part they tied into a railing that surrounded the porch. Some thought went into making the steps work with the rest of the house’s façade. I looked at these wooden steps and thought about how they would work with the front of the project house. I finally came upon a house that was almost identical, down to the brittle shingles that covered the exterior. They’d erected wooden steps out front, and they seemed to work ok—the effect was not at all visually jarring or incongruous. Since it is a question of building only three steps to reach the porch, the whole business will hopefully be understated. They will be rather wide, however—at least five feet, I think.

Around noon I set about working on the porch again, keeping at it for a few hours in an unusual show of perseverance. The left side—as you face the house—is finished. It required much cutting and trimming of the house shingles and the new wooden flooring to make it fit correctly, but the overall effect is good. Tomorrow I will have to do more cutting and fitting on the right side to make the last two or three boards go into place. This process takes me an exceedingly long time, as I ponder interminably each cut and measurement. At least my measurements are coming out ok, as having to do it over would take even longer. I don’t think I could bear it.

While I am doing this mostly cosmetic work, other projects loom. I’ll have to start putting the bathroom together sooner or later. I can’t postpone it indefinitely. Likewise the kitchen, which shares a wall—now demolished—with the bathroom. Last night a show came on the television about the making of different things. The last thing they highlighted was the manufacturing of toilets. It is fairly involved, as these things are baked in huge kilns that make the clay mixture hard like glass. A lot of running around is involved; in fact, one tee-shirted man had the job of running around a huge room full of drying clay toilets, trying like crazy not to let them dry out too fast. If they did this, they would develop cracks. Small cracks could be fixed by wiping down the clay with a wet rag or sponge. Larger cracks would make the new, green toilet—still in its formative stage—worthless. After the toilet is fired once in the kiln, it gets its glaze of white—much like a coffee mug or breakfast bowl would be glazed by an artisan wanting to decorate it with a colorful glass-like coating. The whole business again goes into the kiln and gets fired to melt the glaze and make it adhere to the new toilet. Once the new units are considered more or less ready for the public, some of them are tested to see how well they flush. They put all kinds of things down there, things that you would never imagine a toilet could handle. These toilets did just fine; they made it look easy.

In the interest of belaboring the topic of steps, here is some verse about them.

Out of the night they came
Days off
While the men
Measured and toiled

Their creation was this:
Crushed and half-bubbly
Beer cans
Broken glass and spit

The men bent over
Not hearing it coming
Brows furrowed
Their hands shaped their work

Those others, strangers
To right angles
Careening, roller-coaster style
Their senses muffled, muted

Came at the men
After they’d done
What they’d come
To do

They were days off
Belching in rhythm
To screaming and crackled
Loudspeakers

The men wiped their hands
Their worn gloves encrusted
With dirt, concrete, the
Stuff that life is made of

Those others paused,
Into a quick-stop
Their food turning slowly
On a metallic spinner

Mealtime done
Their wake of colored wrappers
Pristine wiener cartons
Make a hyper-display of autumn

One glance back
Looking at their work
The even steps
The smooth pathway

You could put a marble
There
And it would not roll
One way or the other

But these others rolled
Wildly, their cause
Known only to them
Or maybe not

In a small blink of time
They wiped it out
What the men
Had spent days on

They would laugh about it
Belch
Then laugh some more
Then maybe belch again
Only louder

January 17, 2008

Snow today. By the time I got started, around noon, light snow was falling steadily. I cleared away the other side of the porch, where I still needed to put down a few more boards. I moved my workbench and materials over to the finished side, but then realized my one hand was cold. I got it warmed up a little, put my heavy work gloves back on, then started cutting away some edges to make way for the new wood. This was enough for one day. My hand was getting cold again, and now it was snowing harder. Besides, I would have to deal with the shingles, something that requires a good deal of protection from the dust and a means to clean up any residue. I didn’t want to get into all of that today.

With a few inches on the ground, the traffic on the road was creeping by. I decided to head out. The little two-seater would be of little use in the deep snow, so I got the truck started and cleared it off. I drove it over to where my car was parked, then picked up the little station wagon, which did just fine in the snow. I took a circuitous route back home, driving the back roads near Ellicott City, and getting stuck behind a cautious driver. This was on a snowy two-laner, the plows not yet having made a pass down the country road. But the car ahead was not going too slow, not really slow enough to warrant passing it in the deep and slippery snow. There was a time when I would just go ahead and do it, not mindful of the risks, but things have changed. Finally the slow car made the decision easy for me: Up ahead, about the length of a football field—or maybe a little farther—a tow truck’s lights and some commotion were visible. It was way up there, where the road ended at another road, and a stop sign halted traffic at the top of a small hill. Not knowing what to do, the car in front of me stopped there in the road. Confused thoughts made the driver halt, thoughts of snow and tow-trucks and the terrible unknown that lurked up there by the stop sign, and just what the hell was going on way up there, anyway? Impossible to tell. I got my car easily around the stopped car, drove ahead to the intersection, and turned right onto the other road. Back there, behind the stopped car, others were starting to gather, stopping too—the confusion apparently contagious. I love the snow.

Back home I pulled the car into the wide driveway next door. I ate a bacon cheeseburger I’d taken away from the carryout up the street, and started over to my new storage shed. There I exited my beloved snow-blower. This thing is a treasure in the winter snows, making a snow shovel and its backbreaking work mostly obsolete. Now there was a good accumulation, maybe four inches or more, and the little machine fired right up. I cleared away first the half of the driveway belonging to the project house, then started on the other half—the one belonging to the half-wit and her husband. I did this not out of any particular goodwill or kindness of spirit; rather, I simply loved seeing the machine churn out great spouts of snow, throwing it way over into the yard. It shoots it miracle distances, the gushers of white arcing gracefully through the winter air. It’s practically effortless. You have to love snow to understand—otherwise this doesn’t make any sense. If I could, I would take the machine to bed with me, but in a friendly, non-sexual way. I have way too much respect for it to take advantage of it in that coarse, base fashion. As for the snow, I feel that we are partners in joy, the white fluff allowing me to get it once again into the air, to see it fall anew—a delightful replay of its initial coming.

I then turned the machine on my own driveway, which is not so fun to clear off. It is extremely steep and rough, with bricks making up most of the pavement. And there is stuff growing between the bricks, so that weeds and dirt and greenery are spewed from the chute along with the pristine snow. I don’t like that very much. So I cleared the little area behind the snowbound convertible and called it a day.

With the outdoors becoming wet and nasty for the foreseeable future, I’ll have to turn my attentions to the inside of the house. There is some bug-damaged wood in the wall that once separated the bathroom and kitchen. I’ll replace these supports with new lumber, and also string some new wiring through them. The kitchen is the one room in the house that benefits from multiple electrical outlets. All of the other rooms are lucky to have even one outlet to plug things into—and the stairs leading up to the second floor are dark; no one saw fit to install a light at any time to make the passage a little safer. I plan to correct that.

A note about this blog: I don’t know that anyone actually reads it, but I DO tell people about it from time to time. It is mostly an exercise in writing for me, and—hey—if the material is interesting to a broader audience—so much the better. But that is just an aside; the main thing I wanted to point out is that I’ve just figured out—more or less—how the photos work in this forum. When I post a photo along with an entry, which I may not always do, I also add one that appears as a duplicate, but VERY LARGE version. I only recently figured out where this duplicate appears: It appears if you scroll down through ALL of the blog entries, just keep scrolling, and at the end will appear all of the duplicate photos—only very large, so that you can actually see them.

$75.00

With Saturday’s market came a chilly morning, followed by fabulous sunshine, warm temperatures—and a considerable line of customers to buy my products. My one helper and I did our best to keep up, slowly working through the line of mostly patient buyers. By the time I came up for air, my watch read a quarter to eleven—fifteen minutes remaining in the market. I really had no idea that the hour had gotten so late. For this day in mid-january, it was a pretty phenomenal outing.

On Thursday I worked for a few hours on the house, getting more of the porch put back together. I even made a custom cut, like the kind Big J.O. had done the other day, and it came out fine. Now the entrance to the front door has all new lumber to walk upon, and it remains only to cover the last third of the porch. This shouldn’t take a terribly long time, as all of the new supports are in place, and it only needs the fastening down of new floorboards to complete the project. I’ll turn my attention to the stairs at some later time. I plan to demolish the crude and amateurish brick and stonework that now greets visitors to the house, and replace it with a set of wooden stairs and banisters. The overall effect will be more harmonious with the material that now makes up the porch.

I drove the new market truck over to my friend’s shop to do some cosmetic work on it yesterday. Working in the heated garage, it was a pleasure to scrape and grind at the rusted areas on the rear of the truck, apply some paint and primer, and drive it away. My work was not very thorough, needing the services of a body and paint shop to do it properly, but it was better than nothing. It is much improved back there, and the rust will be held at bay—at least for a little while. This afternoon I received in the mail a photo of the rear of the truck—the very area I’d been working on. It was taken by the kind people of Baltimore City, with one of their unmanned traffic cameras. My offense: Running a red light. Total cost for crossing the intersection after the light had changed: $75.00. Seventy-five bucks would buy a lot of porch lumber. My only other regret is that they could have caught me on camera AFTER I’d fixed up the back of the truck. It would have made a much nicer photo. I may send them a new picture with my payment, so that they know my truck does not always look so shabby.

Today I went out into the afternoon chill to get a bit more accomplished on the porch. I would like to get this project mostly out of the way before going back to the other jobs awaiting me inside the house. I fitted more braces to the corners, using some of the scraps left over from the treated lumber. These were going to be discarded anyway, so I thought it better to use them to shore up the porch’s underpinnings. Using the handheld circular saw set at a forty-five degree angle, it did a fine job cutting the braces. I screwed the pieces into place, then put more of the decking down to see how things were going to look. I have almost enough wood on hand to finish up the floor.

I broke off around four o’clock to put my chili ingredients together. Rushing to cut the meat and assemble the ingredients, I didn’t do a very thorough job of it. I left out the cumin and parsley flakes—two things I did not have on hand. But I had everything else: The chuck roast, the onions, garlic, chili powder and stewed tomatoes. I sautéed the meat and onion and garlic, put the rest of the ingredients in the large iron skillet, and let it simmer for a little while. I was in a hurry, as I had to attend a market-related meeting in town this evening. I couldn’t linger over the chili. I finally dumped everything into the slow cooker, set it on low, and took off. It was now after sundown, and I’d gotten a fair amount accomplished.

I returned home around nine, having stopped at the store for some rice. I picked up a bag of some kind of quick-rice mixture, made by the folks at Lipton. It was a version of rice pilaf, with some other things added. I didn’t feel that this was an ideal choice for my chili, but decided that it was quick and easy to mix up. I also picked up some of the parsley and cumin I’d not put in the recipe. Maybe I’ll add it later, although the flavors may not mix thoroughly. While in the store I walked over to the frozen foods aisle to see what was doing with the rock-hard foods. They were offering Breyer’s ice cream—two cartons for only five bucks. They were practically giving it away. A man there was feverishly tossing aside one carton after another, unable to find the flavor he wanted. It looked to be a mission of utmost importance: No cherry vanilla, and he may as well not go home, simply unable to face his family. Being an old hand at the ice-cream game, I told him they had more of a selection at the end of the aisle, in the freezers up there. Here’s what I said:
“They have more ice-cream up at the end.”
He thanked me, tossed a few more cartons aside, and went down to look at the Turkey Hill selection. I shouted after him:
“Stick with the Breyer’s! It’s better ice cream.”
He determined that the Turkey Hill selections cost considerably more than the Breyer’s and turned his attentions back to the sale items. Truth be told, I don’t know if Breyer’s actually IS better than Turkey Hill. It’s the only ice cream I buy, so I have no basis for comparison. But I don’t like the name Turkey Hill, so there’s always that.

At home I put together the quick-rice mix and spooned my chili over it---the meat coming out nice and tender. Although I’d left out two of the main spices, the meal turned out pretty well. The recipe is unrivalled in its simplicity, so I imagine I’ll be making this often. In the future, I’ll try to put in ALL of the ingredients. I may even try some beans, depending on my mood.

A note on the spelling of chile: It seems that, in recent entries, I hit upon the spelling of chili that pertains to the country of that name. As I wrote it down, I thought, “This doesn’t look quite right. Such a simple word, but something about it doesn’t click.” The fact that I’d misspelled it is probably the source of this malaise. Thinking about chili and then about Chile, I got tired of the exercise and went to bed.

"So there's more to this than just the bacon."

I finally started work around one in the afternoon. I first drove up to the little shopping area that once made up the Paradise neighborhood of this town. It is still hanging on, but much changed. The store that was—since the nineteen-forties—a general grocery and beer and wine shop, is now a full-blown liquor store. I’ve been in there, and their selection is impressive. If I drank, I would go to that place; I think you can find just about anything related to booze there.

I was in the mood for a hamburger, didn’t want to prepare anything myself, so I headed up to the little lunch counter where they had a special advertised. A bacon cheeseburger and order of fries and drink would cost about six bucks. I brought the combination of lunch and breakfast home and read the paper while I ate the fries and cheeseburger. The whole thing was exceptionally good—especially the burger. I was wondering what made it so good, with each bite revealing more crunchy goodness. Must be the bacon, I thought. But the roll was good, too—a nice, puffy Kaiser roll, with seeds.
“So there’s more to this than just the bacon,” I mused.

With lunch accomplished, I walked over to the other place and cut a couple of corner braces, then installed them. I took one plank and attached it to the new section of flooring, then pretty much stopped for the day. All of this took me about an hour-and-a half. I got stymied with a board that needed a special cut to clear one of the porch supports. Normally not very good with this kind of thing, this step had me baffled. There was the potential for mangling a good deal of valuable lumber by proceeding without a clear plan, so I let it be. I went inside to look again at the bathroom. There were a few boards against the far wall that I’d not removed yet, so I put a piece of wood down as a temporary work platform, and pried the worn and splintered material away. I was better with this kind of work.

Later my helper, Big J.O. came over and took a look at the work that had stopped me in my tracks. He took some measurements and got the wood cut properly. The fit was precise. I’d not yet put my tools away, so this whole endeavor did not take much time. Later we sat at the dining room table and ate some of the chocolate-chip cookies I’d just baked—the cookie dough being left over from an exceptionally large batch I’d whipped up for the holidays. Also there was pudding—with whipped cream. I felt that—after five days of antibiotics—my restrictions regarding dairy products should be lifted. I decided to get back to it with a vengeance. I think it was actually six days. Maybe five.

At around eight o’clock I drove up to the library to return a workout book I’d never read and for which I now owed a fine. This book was written by a Navy Seal, one of those ultra-special mission people who have to be in absolutely top physical form. They do things like running forever through the surf and sand dunes, while the stragglers collapse and are required to do even more rigorous work to make up for their feebleness. I got the book home, set it on something in the hallway, then covered it so that I needn’t look at it again. This was as far as I got in my plans to get in shape—Navy Seal style. I couldn’t bear to return the paperback to someone personally, knew that they would just spontaneously burst out laughing when they saw the material I’d checked out. So I sneaked in the library just before closing, nonchalantly walked to the deserted counter, and casually slipped my Navy Seal book into the slot. I had on a Thomas Jefferson wig, dark glasses, and a trenchcoat like the kind you might see in a film noir. Atop my head was a small hat after the fashion of Laurel and Hardy. If anyone recognized me, it’s only because they’ve seen me in this getup before.

I felt that soon there should be a lot of chile in my life. I wanted it to be good, with big pieces of beef, so I went to the cookbook section, plucked a few tomes off the shelves, and flipped through the pages of a likely candidate. This one specialized in Tex-Mex cooking, had lots of recipes with a lot of ingredients—some of them pretty disgusting. As much as I enjoy bacon, I couldn’t really see myself sautéing most of the ingredients in the leftover bacon grease one recipe called for. I moved on. A recipe that Ladybird Johnson was supposed to have given out required very few ingredients, and most importantly called for the big beef I like. A chuck roast, to be exact. Why she was handing out recipes for chile is something I’m not too clear about, but she was the first lady, and could do pretty much whatever she wanted. I do know that her highway beautification project resulted in a good many wildflowers planted along the big interstates. I enjoy them every time I drive by. I think this recipe calls for about five ingredients, and the typical kidney beans that are present in so many popular recipes are absent. I bought a can of them anyway, just to see what happens. I also went to the store and bought a chuck roast and some other things, thinking that tomorrow I would assemble the meal and possibly use the slow cooker—even though it’s not called for. I like to justify having the slow cooker around. It DID cost the better part of twenty bucks, after all.

For dinner I had two baked potatoes and some corn on the cob. The corn was obviously not in season, but was surprisingly good nonetheless. As I sat at the dinner table, reading through the free classfied ads that had come in a little publication with the Thursday mail, I thought—apropos of nothing—about a visit I’d had at the farm market some time ago. A young woman had approached my bread stand, pencil and paper in hand, and maybe a recorder as well. She was a student reporter from the local college—a place that had once been an all-female institution. Could she ask me some questions? Sure—flattered at the attention, I made some time for her. She was bubbling over with enthusiasm, was simply astonished at the offerings there before her, never knew that such a thing existed in Baltimore—just a stone’s throw from the college itself. She had to know everything—simply EVERYTHING—about this wonderful place and how it came to be. Responding to her genuine interest, I answered her questions, elaborated a little, told her the history of the place. Her thanks were endless: Thank you thank you thank you—oh god thank you so much.
“You’re welcome. Call again,” I said.
She gave me a handwritten slip of paper with her name and the web site where I could view the finished article.
“It will be in the next issue—be sure to read it!” she said.
“Okay,” I replied, becoming—almost for a brief instant—as enthused as this young person in front of me.

About a week later I unfolded the slip of paper on my desk, crumpled with a few dollar bills and receipts. I logged onto the computer. I had to read through the article twice, was about to start on it a third time. There it was—the reference to the farmer’s market. It seems that, while buying a few things at the local Dollar Store, the cashier there told the young reporter about—and I quote—“…a cheap farmer’s market nearby.” That was the extent of the reporting on the market: Five words. And it didn’t sound like much of an endorsement, either. At least the young woman had bought a few things from me. There’s always that.

Don't go in the bathroom

It’s almost mid-January and the weather has been clear, cloudless days with temperatures in the low seventies. The house was so super-heated that I had to throw open the upstairs windows, turn back the curtains and shades, and let the full day in. The night, too—as I couldn’t sleep in the hothouse conditions created by the freakishly warm winter days. I have done nothing on the house, other than to go over and fetch an old metal toolbox I want to use for some other purpose. It was down in the basement, so I brought it up yesterday to see if I could make it fit under the Ohio truck with some bolts and other fasteners. Into the box I’ll put the tools and tire-changing equipment needed in case of such an emergency. For some reason I like the idea of having it stored under the truck—down where I’ll mount the spare tire.

Today I drove out into the day’s unusual warmth, headed across town to a house on one of the many rivers that feed into the Chesapeake Bay. The owner there had emailed a response to an ad I’d posted for some obsolete shingles I needed for the exterior of the renovation project. His shingles were covering an old outhouse, he said. It sounded like an interesting outing, if nothing else. When I arrived, I found his wife inside the house, directing me to just go ahead and start removing the things. Her husband was down at the garage, putting brakes on the car. I had on my denim overalls, too hot for the day, and a baseball cap with the American flag emblazoned on the front. I took to the brittle shingles, cracking a good many of them, but not caring too much one way or the other. I didn’t need too many full pieces—mostly just patches here and there where some of the smaller shingles had been broken or subjected to abuse.

By and by my contact arrived from his garage down the quiet street. With long, flowing white hair, a bandanna and denim bib overalls similar to mine, I felt I was looking at myself in about twenty years—maybe sooner. He had considerably more girth, however, something that I aspire to but feel is not within my reach. Not at this time, anyway. We talked about the placid riverfront properties, the changes that have taken place back in this secluded area, the arrival of public water—and maybe sewer. I don’t remember if they had that, too. He said the property was once a honky-tonk of sorts, a watering hole where men and women met and had a good time back when moonshine stills were in operation. According to the oral histories he knew of the place, it was known for prostitution as well. I looked around me, at the sparse housing, the small places built for vacations or summer houses, the remote solitude of the tranquil and quiet setting.
“Those people had to be serious about having a good time if they came all the way out here,” I commented. The roads leading to this place were not great; back in the thirties it was most likely a mud bog.

In the garage was an old Ford from the 1930s—a total restoration project. It had been parked there for more than thirty years, he said. I went into the garage--not used to being opened up—to retrieve some more shingles. Three of them, to be exact. But these were intact, full pieces that were not broken. Inside was a technology museum of the past, every gadget that had had its day and probably worked still, more or less. He knew about them all, the boat radios, the citizen’s band transmitter and so on. The old Ford was nestled in a dark cocoon of gadgets, bottles, tools, the clutter of about forty years of hoarding and never throwing anything out. I felt right at home in there.

I gathered up my cracked and broken shingles, put them in the back of the car, and chatted for some time with my new internet friend. He showed me around front, the small yard ending at a pier that listed this way and that—its further end looking like an invitation from a funhouse boardwalk. The still water of the river rippled with a lone duck diving from time to time for some food. Far off were some buildings and the outline of the Key Bridge. You could hear the traffic as a muffled roar, not too loud but always present. My work there was done; I bid the man good-day, thanked him for the shingles, and was gone.

January 9, 2008

Toward the end of the day I cut and ripped away at what remained of the bathroom floor. It’s trash day tomorrow, and I wanted to leave a small offering. The floor is gone now; if you were to accidentally walk in there, you would end up in the basement. There is no reason to go in that place: The tub and sink and toilet and radiator are all absent, the pipes leading to these fixtures are gone as well. The two remaining radiator pipes I removed today. Fixing the large jaws of the pipe wrench on the old pipes, they twisted away—one by one—without breaking. They are old but stout pipes. I will most likely replace them anyway; these things are fairly inexpensive from the building supply place, and the old ones have a good deal of rust and scale built up inside. They don’t look so great on the outside, either.

The little bit of debris I generated fit easily into the plastic trashcan I inherited from the previous tenants. A good deal of the house is going into the trash, to be carted away a little at a time. I have even considered replacing ALL of the wood flooring on the first level, since it is not in great shape—showing scars and stains and wear from the many years of people treading upon it, dancing, throwing things down in anger. The floor has gotten the worst of it. But I have seen floors in homes much older that have been brought back to life by skilled refinishers. It would probably be easier to spend the time on refinishing the existing floors, rather than starting anew. I’ll have plenty of time to ponder this. Tomorrow is the last day of antibiotics for my bacterial affliction; I’ve taken it easy for the most part, tried not to push things, and feel that I am healing well. The warm weather has plagued me by its ill-timing. Had I not been sick, I would have made much progress on the porch, probably finished most of it in the comfortable outdoors of January in Maryland. At least that’s what I tell myself.

"I have no problem with fresh oranges"

After a night of worsening symptoms, including a raspy voice that could barely form words, I arose Sunday morning to seek help. Turning on the computer around six, before the day had become light, I found a location nearby that I could drive to. My condition didn’t warrant the emergency room, but I also didn’t want to wait until Monday—when I could try to see my regular doctor. So I settled on one of the “urgent care” facilities, thinking that I might get the antibiotics I needed to start healing this thing. Normally averse to these kinds of measures, I decided it best not to wait it out—as the symptoms might lead to something worse and potentially more difficult to cure.

I pointed the little two-seater car into the dense and chilly morning, the wipers working to clear the moisture and occasional drizzle off the glass. It was a little after seven, and I’d resolved to be the very first one at this care facility, so as to eliminate any kind of waiting—something that I absolutely hate. They opened at eight, and I drove up to the deserted place as the employees were arriving from their recent sleep, their Sunday mornings taken up with the care of sick people. The place looked less than inviting-- pretty dismal, actually. Across the street was a chicken joint, a little further up a quick-lube place, then a dealership that offered used Ford automobiles. Immediately surrounding the little medical building was a mishmash of different buildings, jumbled together at odd angles—their purpose a mystery. No signs out front indicated if they’d once been used for a commercial purpose or if they now in fact entertained customers seeking their services. One squat place was painted in a thick red, white, and blue motif. Next to this small building was parked a late-model Pontiac, nose against a drab grey wall. Presently a red pickup drove up, a woman got out, started the Pontiac, and the two vehicles drove off together.
The staff trickled into the back door, then a woman got out of her car and headed up front to the patient entrance. I hopped out immediately and waited out there by the door; the hour was just a few minutes after eight and I was not going to blow my lead at this point. My timing was good; as soon as the sullen receptionist opened the door and wordlessly allowed us to enter, more patients arrived. During my wait, a good many sick people arrived, waiting there in the reception area with a nice television broadcasting probably the most uninteresting program possible. It was possibly a show on time-share opportunities in exotic places, where you could get away from this place and have some digs all your own in Miami Beach or some such place. It was about ten minutes past eight, the day’s light was trying to penetrate the thick morning, and our little crew was gathering there on Ritchie Highway in the town of Glen Burnie.

It was clear they wanted to be paid at this place. Signs indicated that I would be forking over $135 as a new patient, and only a hundred bucks if I’d been to see them in the past three months. If it had been longer than three months, we were back to the original $135 fee. This was a bit more than my doctor’s office would charge, but I was being seen more quickly, so I felt that I was not too badly off. It was a business, after all—not an emergency room, where they are required to treat all comers, regardless of ability to pay. Besides, even if I’d gone to an ER, it is likely I would have never been seen; the others coming to that place would probably be far worse-off than I, suffering wounds and lacerations and the like. I would have constantly been pushed to the back of the line as another bandaged or limping customer walked through the door. All I had was a sore throat and an increasingly hard time speaking.

I filled out their paperwork, writing my address and personal information no fewer than three times on different forms. I guess the $135 fee doesn’t include much in the way of clerical work, as they require the patients to do this for them. I filled in the forms in my incomprehensible scrawl, showed the woman there my license to help clarify matters, and handed over my credit card. It wasn’t too much longer before I was called to see the doctor. I was—in fact—the very first patient. A young woman took my vital signs, wrote down the information and had me wait on the examination bed for the physician. He came in, listened to what was the matter, checked in my ears and throat, and told me he was prescribing antibiotics and did I have any questions? I wondered about his instructions not to drink juice—since I’d been drinking a lot of it. I thought it was actually good for me. I’d quaffed a whole bottle of Welch’s grape juice, for that matter.
He told me that he was worried about the sugar in the juice creating an environment for bacteria, for things to grow back there in my throat. I nodded, not having had anyone say anything like this before. I was getting my pills, and that was the main thing. I would follow his instructions about the juice and milk products, since it sounded like they had a ring of truth. Fresh oranges, I asked?
“I have no problem with fresh oranges,” he said.

At the Walgreen’s just a short drive down Ritchie Highway, I stopped to fill my prescription. There was not much activity in the big store, this being still early on Sunday morning, but the woman told me it would take maybe forty-five minutes to get me my medicine. I decided to stick it out, although it would have probably made more sense to go home and visit the local Rite-Aid. I picked up a few items in the large store, wandered through the marked-down Christmas items, the different products looking like they’d been thrown every which way in order to get at the best ones. A woman was there with her shopping cart, picking over the very last leavings—marked down a whopping seventy-five percent.

Back home I ate some marked-down oranges—six for ninety-nine cents—and watched endless episodes of the wickedly funny animated series Futurama. They were playing them back-to-back, a benefit of my cable tv service. When I later consulted the television guide, there was a block of about eight episodes strung together. After three of them I’d had enough. They’re good, but still. For Monday I resolved to do nothing. I didn’t want to risk being sick next weekend, when I would have yet another market to deal with. For the time being I’ll take my antibiotics and try to relax. I’ll also eat plenty of oranges.

Tuxedo cat

The work next door has stopped for a few days. Increasingly weak and congested with flu-like symptoms, I’ve decided to take it easy for the time being. I drink my grape juice, eat fruits and hope for the best. The coughing isn’t too bad, but occasionally I’ll pop a cough-drop to help sooth my throat.

During this time a black and white tuxedo cat has appeared, meowing loudly out back. Friendly and not at all averse to the two cats who actually live here, it is intent on one thing: Being fed. The sooner the better. I’ve put some food out on two occasions, but don’t really feel the cat is wanting for sustenance. He looks healthy, is wearing a flea collar, and seems to have plenty of energy and a shiny coat. Being a typical cat, he recognized me as an easy mark and is no doubt manipulating the situation so that his visits here result in a full belly.

A new year

January 1, 2008

Last night I went out, spent a good deal of time celebrating the arrival of another year with music, an outdoor fire, friends—and maybe a coke or two. There were many talented musicians there, persons who had diligently studied their instruments, had put in the grinding hours to perfect technique and precision. Nevertheless, I was also allowed to play, invited to take a spot at the drumset—my often-random jabbings at the percussive things resulting in an interesting mix of sound. Having some familiarity with the material, it was not a terrible hardship to suffer my playing for a little while. Those present seemed to enjoy all of the musical offerings—no matter who was actually playing the songs.

Almost precisely at twelve midnight, with couples moving together to get their New Year’s embrace, the electricity went dark. No light anywhere, except for some candles. This continuedß for the next two hours, until around two in the morning. Someone had turned on the big television, watched for a few seconds the incomprehensible ball falling to mark the transition of time. I’d stood by, making wisecracks to mask the obvious state of being alone on this holiday. If I had to be solitary, I may as well be entertaining. I struck up a conversation with a likely woman from the Midwest, felt things out there in the dark. She was attending the party with her husband of nine years.

Januuary 2, 2008

Now it is that after-holiday time, when everyone has to get back to it. It is almost surprising for me to walk into a government office and see the workers there doing what they do, getting paperwork filed, filling in forms, and so on. You’d expect the new year to be celebrated for a bit longer—maybe until August or September, when it’s really gotten underway and you can look back on things to actually celebrate. Plus, there’s always the new year looming just a few months away.

So I awoke with a headache and a very sore throat, thinking that this was maybe a sign to stay in bed for a little while. The cats—one in a laundry basket and the other on a pillow—seemed in no particular hurry to face the day, so I got up, took some aspirin, and went back to bed. I thought that I should accomplish at least a little something, so I started my day just before noon, got shaved and left to have my Ohio truck’s inspection finished up. Then off to the motor vehicle agency to wrap up the whole business.

As I mentioned before, I had two new tires installed to meet the safety requirements laid out by the state’s motor vehicle code. This cost me around $250. When I casually mentioned this to my mechanic friend, he told me that he had the identical tires, hardly worn at all, waiting to find a new home. I’d stopped by his shop on New Year’s day to say hi and found them there—the tires he’d spoken of. They were, in fact, identical.

At the department of motor vehicles things went smoothly. I transferred the license plates from the old van (which I’d been using anyway) to the new Ohio truck. The woman there put the registration in place so that the old tags now went with the new van, and I was finally legal. My headache wasn’t much abated, so I looked at my Washington Post, which just got a price hike to fifty cents, and waited. It seems that the state legislature had just raised the fee for getting a new vehicle title to more than double the old fee—which was twenty-three bucks. Had I gotten this paperwork done before 2008, I would have enjoyed the lower fee. One of the women there groused that O’Malley was not her governor, that she had not voted for him, didn’t like all these new fees and taxes. For my part I have no great feelings about him one way or the other, regard him as mostly a harmless leprechaun.

Later I ate the rest of my beef stew and headed over to the cold house to make some more progress on the bathroom. I thought it would be pleasant to get at least a little work done. I cut at the old pine floor with the circular saw that cuts at an odd angle. I only use this saw for demolition work, since it really doesn’t require precise cuts. For these jobs it works just fine. I cut up and removed over half the floor, finding the skeletal remains of a mouse in the process. It looked to have been a healthy mouse in its day, well-developed with a large frame. I hope it was able to enjoy its time in the house—before it finished its run there under the bathroom floor, just above the basement ceiling.

I boxed up the floor and the mouse skeleton and set the trash out for tomorrow’s pickup. I try not to load down the trashmen every week with these leavings, but it seems like it’s about time that I put something out there for them. There are four boxes plus one trashcan—a medium offering. This night is cold and clear, a typical winter evening. The wind has subsided somewhat, but has been blowing and gusting all day long—making the chilly temperatures feel even colder. If this continues into Saturday, it will be a cold market.

Earlier I’d gone to the local mega-grocery to pick up some sandwich meat. I was in the mood for ham. A woman there was ordering micro-quantities of just about every goddamned meat there was. Plus cheeses—she wanted those, too. Everything was light banter with this odious woman, who fancied herself quite clever.
“I’ll have a heavy quarter of the Mortadella,” she would say, ordering something that sounded like a macabre offering from the underworld. The meat-clerk, who had already bagged about fifteen different selections for her, was not in the mood for lighthearted banter.
“Is that too much?” she would ask—indicating the meat lying on the scale.
“No—I said a HEAVY quarter,” replied the clever woman.
And on and on like this. Her husband stood by with the cart, used to his wife’s displays of “personality.” At parties he would say things like, “Oh—you know my Doris, she’s a real character! A real live wire! A FIRECRACKER I tell ‘ya!”
“I’ll have a heavy half of the domestic Swiss.”