March 23, 2008
With Reynard firmly in the noble lion’s good graces, he embarks upon his pilgrimage. His first stop is home, where his loving wife is waiting with their two kids. The lion, in his beneficence, sent along the ram and Cuthbert the hen to accompany him on the first part of his journey. At the house, Reynard invited the hen inside for a few moments. Once there, he summarily bites off Cuthbert’s head and devoured the rest of the poor animal. The head he saved, putting it into a bag that the king had lent him. He then summoned the ram, telling him that the bag contained a letter, and that he would entrust this thing to him to safely transmit to his majesty the lion.
“Tell our most noble king the lion that you helped in the writing of this letter, that—for the most part—you were its author. He will be most greatly impressed with your skill and bestow on you surely a great honor.”
The ram, having not the least idea of how to compose a letter, was much pleased to be given credit for such a thing.
“Imagine!” Me writing a letter…and for the king, no less!”
So he took the bag from Reynard, fastened it around his neck so as better to carry it.
Proud was he the ram, as he made his way through the forest and back to the king. Anticipating the gladness of the court to hear his tidings, he made haste to put quickly his trip behind him. At the court, he presented the king his good wishes, and indicated the bag around his neck.
“There’s a letter in there for you,” said the ram. “And I helped write it. Or, mostly writ it. In any case, it’s for you.”
The lion bade one of his clerks take the bag from the four-legged beast’s neck, see what this letter business was all about. No sooner had the bag been liberated than the clerk, an animal by the name of Blastart, withdrew the last remaining part of Cuthbert’s person—his poor head.
“Why, damned be the very air we breathe, which of a sudden becomes heavy and seemeth not very able to sustain us. Damned, too, the withering things of the forest, the verdant and life-giving things. Damn it all to hell, that’s the head of Cuthbert!” The ram was just as astonished as the rest, not being able to make any sense of this new turn of events. It’s true, the fox had told him that Cuthbert might be detained a little longer, then rejoin the others when his business there was finished, but the ram had not expected this.
“And you!” Roared the lion, addressing the ram. “Given just this moment your witness of what layeth in that bag, so shall your end be no different from that of the hen’s!” Things got a little confused at this point, this being the 1400s and all. Somehow it was concluded that the ram would forever be the enemy of the wolf, and all members of that sheep family should be smote wherever they be.
In the course of the confused raging against the absent fox and the hideous gift he’d made to the king, the lion remembered of course to pin the blame on his good dame the queen.
“This is all your fault!” the lion roared; “Without your counsel, I should never have believed that pointy-eared scoundrel so rightly named Reynard!” Others in his court came to her defense, pointed out that rightly she believed the light-footed and cunning animal.
“Er, he WAS rather convincing,” said one of his clerks, a mouse by the name of Clark. “He even brought the poor hare to testify as witness to the existence of the terrible land called Krekenpyt.” At this point the others murmured their concurrence, said that the hare, whose word was above reproach, helped greatly in the fox’s case. Theirs was an opinion offered almost in one voice: “Yes, we should all have believed the hare,” they said. “We’ve never known him to speak in a false voice. And we WERE all just a bit skeptical about Krekenpyt, which until now was unknown to us.” Yes, the others agreed, Krekenpyt was a mystery.
So there was feasting, ordered by the king. The occasion of poor Cuthbert’s death did not warrant celebrating, but the prospect of fetching the wretched fox and bringing him back to face his due was cause for eating and dancing and merry-making. Everyone had a good time, and they even stomped the forest ground with the lively “Hovedance,” their movements gay and wild and without care. This writer believes that, there in the waning years of the Medieval times, the animals of that land danced with abandon, arm in arm, paw in paw, one partner to the next, and then switching back again. Years later, centuries and many waters raining down through the skies, over rugged precipices, and melts and hardships and glad tydings marking the passing of time, came what we now know as the “hoe-down.”
So, for the moment, the tale pauses, the animals are left to enjoy themselves in the woods, and I take up the thread of where I left off at the other house.
March 27, 2008
This morning I awoke with a strong wanting of more sleep.
“I’ll go see what can be done about the stairs,” I thought, “Before the rain starts.”
The sky was heavy with the threat of showers, was promising a moist outing, so I thought I would do a little more on the new stairs out front, then take a nap—possibly not getting up again for the rest of the day.
It did in fact rain. Just a little, not so much that I couldn’t continue with my work, so that’s what I did. Always, the promise of a nap was right around the corner.
“I’ll just finish up these little pieces of wood, get some odds and ends screwed in place, then rest,” I thought. I went like that throughout the day, stopping for lunch and a quick read of the paper, then back to work. By five-thirty the new steps were mostly done. I’d affixed the handrails to the sides, had cut off most of the excess length of the upright posts, and had even cut spindles to ornament the sides—four spindles on each side. Then I took the sturdy pieces of scrap metal from the defunct farm implement, heated two pieces to cherry red, and bent them into ninety-degree brackets to secure the two front posts to the concrete anchors in the ground. I then painted them a rust-inhibiting flat black and called it a day.
Later, I sketched some ideas for the kitchen and bath layout, and tried some drawings from the book entitled, “How to Draw Anything,” by the British woman who was fond of drawing her cat. It turns out that the only thing I am capable of drawing is a likeness of Charlie Brown the cartoon character—only depicted as an old man. He is fairly cranky, this older Charlie Brown, and is often given to outbursts.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Reynard Condemned
The stairs are coming together well enough. J.O. and I spent some time the other day cutting the side sections, or “stringers,” that the steps fit on. This work has to be fairly precise, as having off-kilter stairs can be dangerous and makes a bad impression. That’s why I had J.O. around: Although I’ve done this work on my own, I wanted these stairs to turn out right. So far so good.
Yesterday I planted the two support posts that the stringers will attach to, fixing them to the bolts cemented into the ground. The posts are sturdy and straight, won’t budge any time soon. I used steel brackets I cut from my scraps, bent into shape with the gas torch. The metal is thick and strong, having been cut from pieces used on farm machinery. These brackets will be mostly hidden down there at the bottom of the posts. As an added touch, I thought to leave some overhang on the sides of the steps—so that the treads extend beyond the handrail and posts, leaving a little shelf. If it doesn’t look too strange, these side-shelves can be used to place flower pots, help adorn the porch and stairs. I’ve noticed that some people put their plants and flowers on the steps themselves, but it seems that maybe an unwary step-walker might knock against them, fall down or trip. This way, the flower pots will be off to the side—not in the area where people walk. If the look isn’t what I expected, I can simply cut off the overhang.
Out back I’ve done nothing further on the deck. High winds bringing a cold front have hammered the area, sending anything not fastened down blowing away or skittering down the street. I came around the house just in time to see a large plastic sheet slowly moving down the street, away from the house. As I thought about going to retrieve it, the wind picked up, giving the slow-moving sheet an extra shove. “Someone will find it,” I thought, “Will bring it home and make it their own.” If not, I would make sure to look for the big thing the next time I drove down the road, would put it in the car and give it a ride back to the house. It was the plastic I’d used to cover the new walkway while the cement cured.
As a note of explanation, I should maybe address why I am doing the projects in the order I’ve chosen. To a casual observer, someone maybe not even a little interested in home renovation work, it might appear that getting the house habitable might be a priority. To that person I would say that it IS important to get the place put back together, have a useable kitchen and bathroom, working heat and electricity—maybe a few faucets where you can clean up after a hard day’s work. But all of that work is going to get done anyway—I have no choice in the matter. In other words, it’s not optional. But the projects that deal with the niceties, the enhancements—the new porch, the deck out back, the more attractive stairs—I know from experience that they would most likely never get done. I would be so incredibly burned-out from the never-ending work involved inside the house, that I would, at the very end of it all, step back and say “To hell with it. I’m done.” And the house would remain the poor, abused-looking thing that it is. I’ve seen another place that was purchased just down the street. The house looks even worse than mine; but the investors renovated the whole interior, did a pretty nice job of finishing things off in there. However, they didn’t do anything with the exterior, and it looks like another typical, dilapidated house in an area of mostly neat homes maintained by their appearance-conscious owners. So I had to be honest with myself, realistic in my expectations and deal with the things that I knew would be put on hold indefinitely. Besides, the outside work is just more fun.
REYNARD FACES THE LION IN HIS COURT
When last we visited with our friend from the 1400s, he’d reluctantly agreed to accompany his nephew to hear the charges against him in the Lion’s court. This was the third attempt to get him to go; the bear failed in his mission, and so did Tybert the cat, both of whom were sorely abused for their efforts. On the way to see the Lion, Grymbart has Reynard do some penance, and the two finally appear before the fox’s accusers and the Lion, who has the role of judge in this affair.
With the arrival of Grymbart and Reynard comes a great tumult of voices, each wronged animal wanting to be heard above the others.
“Look at my head!” lamented Bruin the bear.
“I lost an eye!” cried the cat Tybert.
“I’m almost dead!” shouted the wolf.
In all of these proceedings there appears to be no special reliance on courtroom protocol or procedures; the lion allows the animals to make their accusations, and then hears the fox defend himself in his turn. He summarily declares him guilty and condemns him to death by hanging.
“We would desire him to be dead,” says one of the animals. On this everyone is agreed, needing no additional reflection or time to ponder the poor fox’s fate. This departure from normal judicial proceedings may be how matters were settled amongst beasts in the woods of fifteenth century Europe. The people’s courts may not have meted out justice any the better, for all they were concerned.
So Reynard, condemned to death, offers the king riches beyond all imagining. Here is what he says:
“Sire, sorrowful be me, as before you and your Dame Lion I stand, looking forward to being no more. But it is with good that I have acted, and it was with treachery that Bruin the bear would behave towards you.”
The fox then explained how his very own father he one day spied hoarding away some treasure in a hole, placing the jewels and gold in there and then covering up the hiding place so that it looked no different from the ground of its surrounding.
“He then took his tail,” said the fox, “and swished it around, so as to better smooth the dirt and make the place look like any other.”
“Hmm..swished the dirt, did he?” said the lion.
“Sire, he did swish the dirt,” replied the fox.
Then Reynard went on to explain that his father and Bruin the bear were planning a campaign against the very exalted and ennobled sire that stood before the humble fox, that they were offering a month’s pay in advance to anyone willing to take up arms in their cause. They sent out notice through the forest, posted messages and so on, so as to spread the word, and a great many interested parties responded.
“They posted messages?” said the Lion.
“Sire, they did post messages,” assured the fox.
Then Reynard explained how he went to that hole, the hiding place of the treasures, said that it was not so well-hidden that he could not again find it. While his father and Bruin were out enlisting the help of the forest beasts, posting messages and so on, the fox and his wife worked through the night to remove the treasure—the many gold and silver things and stones of great value besides.
“There were stones, too?” asked the king.
“Sire, there were many stones,” said the fox. “And they were of great value,” he added.
“When my father came to that place, wanted to extract some treasure to pay the treachery workers, lo did he find the hole without valuables, containing only dirt and empty space. It is then that a great sadness was beset upon him, and he went quickly to end his sadness and his life—mine own father.”
Reynard explained to the interested King and his Dame how he’d saved the royal couple from this terrible uprising, this paid rebellion, and—further—he had much riches from the King Ermeryk that he would gladly make a gift of.
“King Emeryk?” asked the Lion.
“Yes, it is from he that flow these riches of which I speak.”
“And where are they now?” asked the king.
The fox replied that these things were hidden now in a faraway place, a land called Krekenpyt.
“Krekenpyt?”
“Yes, sire. Krekenpyt. It is a faraway place, a forest thick in trees and great in region.”
“Well, I’ve heard talk of Paris, London, Cologne and Aachen,” said the Lion. “But never this Krekenpyt. You must be making it up.”
At these words the fox became as if he were from insults suffering, made angry a request to the hare, who happened to be nearby.
“Hare, have you heard of this forest they call Krekenpyt?” he aked.
The hare bore out the story, said that were it well he’d never visited that place, as terrible were his days there.
“So you see,” said the fox, “There IS a Krekenpyt!”
“Ok, ok,” replied the King. “Sorry I doubted you.”
So arrangements were made to go retrieve the treasure promised by the fox Reynard.
“Surely you will come with us—my Dame and I?” said the lion.
And the fox made his excuses.
“Well, about that,” he said. “It is so that the Pope forbids me passage in that land, that for deeds of mine I am not to be seen there. And, besides, do you really want to be seen running around with the lowly, ill-regarded fox?”
He then went on to assure the king that he would put things to right with the Pope.
“Immediately I leave you, I will straightaway go to Rome, seek absolution. I’ll do this right away,” said the fox.
“Then, once that business is taken care of, I’ll take to the sea, make for the holy land, do some penance there and see what can be done about me. I plan to make a thorough job of it. I’ll let you know when I get back,” he added.
When the fox had finished speaking, the royal couple—in their gratitude—made him a most eminent member of their court. He now held a position of some authority. When the other animals—most notably the bear and Tybert the cat—heard what had happened, they couldn’t believe their ears.
Yesterday I planted the two support posts that the stringers will attach to, fixing them to the bolts cemented into the ground. The posts are sturdy and straight, won’t budge any time soon. I used steel brackets I cut from my scraps, bent into shape with the gas torch. The metal is thick and strong, having been cut from pieces used on farm machinery. These brackets will be mostly hidden down there at the bottom of the posts. As an added touch, I thought to leave some overhang on the sides of the steps—so that the treads extend beyond the handrail and posts, leaving a little shelf. If it doesn’t look too strange, these side-shelves can be used to place flower pots, help adorn the porch and stairs. I’ve noticed that some people put their plants and flowers on the steps themselves, but it seems that maybe an unwary step-walker might knock against them, fall down or trip. This way, the flower pots will be off to the side—not in the area where people walk. If the look isn’t what I expected, I can simply cut off the overhang.
Out back I’ve done nothing further on the deck. High winds bringing a cold front have hammered the area, sending anything not fastened down blowing away or skittering down the street. I came around the house just in time to see a large plastic sheet slowly moving down the street, away from the house. As I thought about going to retrieve it, the wind picked up, giving the slow-moving sheet an extra shove. “Someone will find it,” I thought, “Will bring it home and make it their own.” If not, I would make sure to look for the big thing the next time I drove down the road, would put it in the car and give it a ride back to the house. It was the plastic I’d used to cover the new walkway while the cement cured.
As a note of explanation, I should maybe address why I am doing the projects in the order I’ve chosen. To a casual observer, someone maybe not even a little interested in home renovation work, it might appear that getting the house habitable might be a priority. To that person I would say that it IS important to get the place put back together, have a useable kitchen and bathroom, working heat and electricity—maybe a few faucets where you can clean up after a hard day’s work. But all of that work is going to get done anyway—I have no choice in the matter. In other words, it’s not optional. But the projects that deal with the niceties, the enhancements—the new porch, the deck out back, the more attractive stairs—I know from experience that they would most likely never get done. I would be so incredibly burned-out from the never-ending work involved inside the house, that I would, at the very end of it all, step back and say “To hell with it. I’m done.” And the house would remain the poor, abused-looking thing that it is. I’ve seen another place that was purchased just down the street. The house looks even worse than mine; but the investors renovated the whole interior, did a pretty nice job of finishing things off in there. However, they didn’t do anything with the exterior, and it looks like another typical, dilapidated house in an area of mostly neat homes maintained by their appearance-conscious owners. So I had to be honest with myself, realistic in my expectations and deal with the things that I knew would be put on hold indefinitely. Besides, the outside work is just more fun.
REYNARD FACES THE LION IN HIS COURT
When last we visited with our friend from the 1400s, he’d reluctantly agreed to accompany his nephew to hear the charges against him in the Lion’s court. This was the third attempt to get him to go; the bear failed in his mission, and so did Tybert the cat, both of whom were sorely abused for their efforts. On the way to see the Lion, Grymbart has Reynard do some penance, and the two finally appear before the fox’s accusers and the Lion, who has the role of judge in this affair.
With the arrival of Grymbart and Reynard comes a great tumult of voices, each wronged animal wanting to be heard above the others.
“Look at my head!” lamented Bruin the bear.
“I lost an eye!” cried the cat Tybert.
“I’m almost dead!” shouted the wolf.
In all of these proceedings there appears to be no special reliance on courtroom protocol or procedures; the lion allows the animals to make their accusations, and then hears the fox defend himself in his turn. He summarily declares him guilty and condemns him to death by hanging.
“We would desire him to be dead,” says one of the animals. On this everyone is agreed, needing no additional reflection or time to ponder the poor fox’s fate. This departure from normal judicial proceedings may be how matters were settled amongst beasts in the woods of fifteenth century Europe. The people’s courts may not have meted out justice any the better, for all they were concerned.
So Reynard, condemned to death, offers the king riches beyond all imagining. Here is what he says:
“Sire, sorrowful be me, as before you and your Dame Lion I stand, looking forward to being no more. But it is with good that I have acted, and it was with treachery that Bruin the bear would behave towards you.”
The fox then explained how his very own father he one day spied hoarding away some treasure in a hole, placing the jewels and gold in there and then covering up the hiding place so that it looked no different from the ground of its surrounding.
“He then took his tail,” said the fox, “and swished it around, so as to better smooth the dirt and make the place look like any other.”
“Hmm..swished the dirt, did he?” said the lion.
“Sire, he did swish the dirt,” replied the fox.
Then Reynard went on to explain that his father and Bruin the bear were planning a campaign against the very exalted and ennobled sire that stood before the humble fox, that they were offering a month’s pay in advance to anyone willing to take up arms in their cause. They sent out notice through the forest, posted messages and so on, so as to spread the word, and a great many interested parties responded.
“They posted messages?” said the Lion.
“Sire, they did post messages,” assured the fox.
Then Reynard explained how he went to that hole, the hiding place of the treasures, said that it was not so well-hidden that he could not again find it. While his father and Bruin were out enlisting the help of the forest beasts, posting messages and so on, the fox and his wife worked through the night to remove the treasure—the many gold and silver things and stones of great value besides.
“There were stones, too?” asked the king.
“Sire, there were many stones,” said the fox. “And they were of great value,” he added.
“When my father came to that place, wanted to extract some treasure to pay the treachery workers, lo did he find the hole without valuables, containing only dirt and empty space. It is then that a great sadness was beset upon him, and he went quickly to end his sadness and his life—mine own father.”
Reynard explained to the interested King and his Dame how he’d saved the royal couple from this terrible uprising, this paid rebellion, and—further—he had much riches from the King Ermeryk that he would gladly make a gift of.
“King Emeryk?” asked the Lion.
“Yes, it is from he that flow these riches of which I speak.”
“And where are they now?” asked the king.
The fox replied that these things were hidden now in a faraway place, a land called Krekenpyt.
“Krekenpyt?”
“Yes, sire. Krekenpyt. It is a faraway place, a forest thick in trees and great in region.”
“Well, I’ve heard talk of Paris, London, Cologne and Aachen,” said the Lion. “But never this Krekenpyt. You must be making it up.”
At these words the fox became as if he were from insults suffering, made angry a request to the hare, who happened to be nearby.
“Hare, have you heard of this forest they call Krekenpyt?” he aked.
The hare bore out the story, said that were it well he’d never visited that place, as terrible were his days there.
“So you see,” said the fox, “There IS a Krekenpyt!”
“Ok, ok,” replied the King. “Sorry I doubted you.”
So arrangements were made to go retrieve the treasure promised by the fox Reynard.
“Surely you will come with us—my Dame and I?” said the lion.
And the fox made his excuses.
“Well, about that,” he said. “It is so that the Pope forbids me passage in that land, that for deeds of mine I am not to be seen there. And, besides, do you really want to be seen running around with the lowly, ill-regarded fox?”
He then went on to assure the king that he would put things to right with the Pope.
“Immediately I leave you, I will straightaway go to Rome, seek absolution. I’ll do this right away,” said the fox.
“Then, once that business is taken care of, I’ll take to the sea, make for the holy land, do some penance there and see what can be done about me. I plan to make a thorough job of it. I’ll let you know when I get back,” he added.
When the fox had finished speaking, the royal couple—in their gratitude—made him a most eminent member of their court. He now held a position of some authority. When the other animals—most notably the bear and Tybert the cat—heard what had happened, they couldn’t believe their ears.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Bruce Milo
I was intent on landing a blow somewhere on my opponent. Anywhere would have been fine, but of course I was going for a good shot to the face or maybe even the general area of the head. My arms were a flurried blur of confused motion—an eggbeater of activity, but with little purpose. I thought that I could get in a good one and ward off the incoming fists simultaneously. I think maybe it has to be one or the other. In any case, it was probably the fourth grade and I was fighting like a girl.
“Gerrit!” I paused, a couple of lag screws for the deck in my hand. Someone had hailed me from behind—back there in the Ace Hardware. “Can’t be me,” I thought. Who the heck is that guy, anyway?” I turned, greeted the man who most definitely knew me, couldn’t hide my confusion, so I didn’t try.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m drawing a blank.” This isn’t actually so unusual for me, as I sometimes don’t recognize people of my current acquaintance. Mostly I do, but sometimes I don’t. But this was different, this was my adversary from grade school, the guy whom the girls adored, who always had an easy way about him, but also knew how to take care of himself.
“Bruce Milo,” he said, and I knew the name immediately, was glad that he had greeted me, was more than a little astonished that he could remember my face, the one that has changed into that of a middle-aged man’s, was no longer the smooth and boyish mug surrounded by my grade-school curls.
He was picking up some things for his company, was stocking up on oils and lubricants for the machinery of his business, which deals with the tearing down of things. I gave him my information, told him maybe I’d have something to tear down, maybe not. In any case, it was good to see him. I drove home, my new lag screws on the seat next to me, wondering about life, but certain of this one thing: Bruce could still kick my ass if I angered him. Much has changed about me in the intervening years, but I have not become a better fighter.
And on Sunday there was this: that terrible radioed nuisance that comes on NPR. I am drawn to it like a moth to a Japanese lantern on a hot August night. It is so terrible I can’t stay away. You have to stare, jaw slack and mouth agape, and wonder at the noises coming from the radio. They started, the car entertainment duo, like this: Reading regurgitated material they idly plucked from the internet. The stuff was not interesting or clever to begin with, but is enhanced in no way by their retelling. Further, they can no longer “sell” it—even they are tired of the stuff, their lame and forced guffaws half-hearted at best. I actually feel kind of bad for the poor guys. This week’s lead-off was something they called “The Wisdom of Homer.” But instead of references to Greek mythology, they riffed on Homer Simpson, the cartoon character who comes on tv. This had the potential of being quite funny, but the things they read were sad and tired, their delivery forced, each one trying to uphold his end of the non-existent hilarity. If there were people out there whose brain cells were stirring to life at the sound of this inanity, they were most likely on life support, their lids flickering a silent rebellion against this assault on what little intellect they had left. So I listened to the show, tolerated the snorting and the guffaws for a short while, then had to turn it off. The callers were not interesting or annoying enough, had the most mundane of problems, and I already knew the answers to most of their questions anyway. What little enjoyment I got resulted from hearing the hosts dish out bad advice.
Today was beautiful, starting out cold then getting warmer—easing the transition into springtime. During the warmer time I mixed up my remaining bags of concrete, worked on the dry ground, with the fresh topsoil underfoot, and shoveled the four bags of mixed up material into the post-holes I’d dug. There was enough concrete to fill the holes to the proper level, and just a tiny bit left over. I will let it cure for the next two days, then put my posts and main deck supports in place—setting the stage for the actual decking to be laid. I have much wood on hand, so the work should progress quickly. Later, J.O. came over to take away the cement mixer I gave him. After it gave up, I told him to take it away. It turns out that the machine had a relatively minor problem, but I don’t care: I don’t need another project at this point, and this one promises to be a source of constant frustration. For my future large-scale concrete needs, I’ll call the people who run the mixer trucks. They make house calls. I took a photo of one of the cat's paw prints in freshly poured concrete from the other day, and finished up, putting my tools away until tomorrow.
“Gerrit!” I paused, a couple of lag screws for the deck in my hand. Someone had hailed me from behind—back there in the Ace Hardware. “Can’t be me,” I thought. Who the heck is that guy, anyway?” I turned, greeted the man who most definitely knew me, couldn’t hide my confusion, so I didn’t try.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m drawing a blank.” This isn’t actually so unusual for me, as I sometimes don’t recognize people of my current acquaintance. Mostly I do, but sometimes I don’t. But this was different, this was my adversary from grade school, the guy whom the girls adored, who always had an easy way about him, but also knew how to take care of himself.
“Bruce Milo,” he said, and I knew the name immediately, was glad that he had greeted me, was more than a little astonished that he could remember my face, the one that has changed into that of a middle-aged man’s, was no longer the smooth and boyish mug surrounded by my grade-school curls.
He was picking up some things for his company, was stocking up on oils and lubricants for the machinery of his business, which deals with the tearing down of things. I gave him my information, told him maybe I’d have something to tear down, maybe not. In any case, it was good to see him. I drove home, my new lag screws on the seat next to me, wondering about life, but certain of this one thing: Bruce could still kick my ass if I angered him. Much has changed about me in the intervening years, but I have not become a better fighter.
And on Sunday there was this: that terrible radioed nuisance that comes on NPR. I am drawn to it like a moth to a Japanese lantern on a hot August night. It is so terrible I can’t stay away. You have to stare, jaw slack and mouth agape, and wonder at the noises coming from the radio. They started, the car entertainment duo, like this: Reading regurgitated material they idly plucked from the internet. The stuff was not interesting or clever to begin with, but is enhanced in no way by their retelling. Further, they can no longer “sell” it—even they are tired of the stuff, their lame and forced guffaws half-hearted at best. I actually feel kind of bad for the poor guys. This week’s lead-off was something they called “The Wisdom of Homer.” But instead of references to Greek mythology, they riffed on Homer Simpson, the cartoon character who comes on tv. This had the potential of being quite funny, but the things they read were sad and tired, their delivery forced, each one trying to uphold his end of the non-existent hilarity. If there were people out there whose brain cells were stirring to life at the sound of this inanity, they were most likely on life support, their lids flickering a silent rebellion against this assault on what little intellect they had left. So I listened to the show, tolerated the snorting and the guffaws for a short while, then had to turn it off. The callers were not interesting or annoying enough, had the most mundane of problems, and I already knew the answers to most of their questions anyway. What little enjoyment I got resulted from hearing the hosts dish out bad advice.
Today was beautiful, starting out cold then getting warmer—easing the transition into springtime. During the warmer time I mixed up my remaining bags of concrete, worked on the dry ground, with the fresh topsoil underfoot, and shoveled the four bags of mixed up material into the post-holes I’d dug. There was enough concrete to fill the holes to the proper level, and just a tiny bit left over. I will let it cure for the next two days, then put my posts and main deck supports in place—setting the stage for the actual decking to be laid. I have much wood on hand, so the work should progress quickly. Later, J.O. came over to take away the cement mixer I gave him. After it gave up, I told him to take it away. It turns out that the machine had a relatively minor problem, but I don’t care: I don’t need another project at this point, and this one promises to be a source of constant frustration. For my future large-scale concrete needs, I’ll call the people who run the mixer trucks. They make house calls. I took a photo of one of the cat's paw prints in freshly poured concrete from the other day, and finished up, putting my tools away until tomorrow.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Housekeeping
Just a note about photos. For some time, I could no longer post the larger images that appear at the very bottom of all the postings. I no longer knew how to do this--I was stymied. Just this evening I have rediscovered this technique and will put larger versions of the photos way down there when appropriate.
Mary and the Newborn Jesus
The nativity characters were huddled next to a pile of truck tires. Directly in front of them lay some steel fencing on the ground. Looming high was a plastic bed-liner, the kind of thing you put in the back of a pickup truck to protect the metal floor of the cargo area. Mary and the wise men had electrical cords extending from behind. The sheep and camel and other animals also had cords, the better to illuminate and see them at night. The contrast was striking—one of the many unlikely scenarios played out at my beloved machinery sale. The poor, huddled group, with their main focus the baby Jesus, looked to be seeking refuge from the masses of junk and machinery that surrounded them. Their dim and faded colors were putting up a brave front. Maybe bring home the camel, decide on a whim to plug him in, watch in surprise as he actually lights up. Most likely, be content with the expected outcome of a dark and silent camel, showing no signs of life. God, I love this sale.
I didn’t buy anything, this go-‘round. This always gives me an inexplicable feeling of satisfaction, the sensation that I got away with something, didn’t succumb as I so often do. To keep things going, I bid on exactly one item. One bid, that’s it. It was—of course—a riding mower, and it eventually sold for way more than I would have paid, even if I’d needed it. So there’s that. And then I saw the twin to my old compressor in the basement, the ancient service-station relic dating from the 1920s. This one appeared mostly complete, had the parts necessary to maybe get mine going again—or at least use it as a reference. I lingered, talked about an old Maytag washing machine with two oldsters idling away the time. One of them recounted how an acquaintance from some time back was doing the wash with one of these antique machines. The top part, near where you put the clothes in, has a wringer where you run garments through one at a time. It is powered by the machine itself, not hand-cranked like some very old models. As this woman of his acquaintance leaned over, her breast got caught in the rollers, was squeezed terribly. I’m just saying what I heard. After that, I got in my car out in the grassy field and drove off. If I can’t actually pinpoint the pleasure I get from not buying anything, the opposite is true for the feeling I have when I purchase something at one of these sales: I feel cheapened, abused, as if I’d been violated in a very public and humiliating way. No rhyme nor reason, just the way I feel. Probably not as bad as the woman felt with the washing machine, however. That really hurt.
So today I loaded the sticks of bread into the little car, drove over to the elderly couple and sat and talked for a while. A television show came on their more-than-large tv, and—as luck would have it—it dealt with the Burgundy region of France. So we watched that. The narration was of course in English, so every now and then I would try to translate, in my limited French, what the narrator was saying. One monastery—not Cluny—had ten thousand monks at one time around the thirteenth century. They would all go off to bed in their dormitories, lie down to sleep fully clothed.
“Ils dormaient tout habilles,” I said, explaining how they slept with their clothes on. We all found this detail unpleasant, but not as unpleasant as that incident with….well, you know. This monastery, the one that was not Cluny, was world renowned for its efficiency of operations. It succeeded in preventing people from pillaging the church; then it went about a colossal fund-raising campaign that reaped huge financial rewards. When nobles were dead and departed, the priests from the monastery that was not Cluny benefited from being named as heirs in the huge estates. They arranged for this in life, explaining that the nobles would be prayed for regularly, giving them a better chance at entering heaven. Many of them signed up for the plan. Better to be safe than sorry, they said. Actually, it was most likely the institution, and not the priests themselves, that were named as the recipients of posthumous benefits.
Later, I drove home and worked on the deck area over at the other house. This involved digging the post holes very deep, owing to the plan I have for a patio under the deck. It will be a sunken patio, accessed by two small steps from the yard beyond the far edge of the deck. There is actually a very good reason for doing this: Right now, the entrance to the basement is difficult at best. There is a door, to be sure, but knocking your head on low-lying obstacles is a constant menace at this entrance. If I lower the level of the lawn where the deck is, everything will be at the proper level for walking straight into the basement. No stepping down, no stepping up. No one will knock their heads this way, unless they are VERY tall. So the holes for the deck’s upright supports must be extra deep, to account for the dirt I will be removing in that area. I plan to hire a couple of casual laborers for this project, get the area dug out and maybe install a drainpipe leading to the lower part of the yard. This will keep my sunken patio from flooding and washing into the house via the basement.
With the day getting late and chilly, I took a few photos, put the grizzled cat in the house, as she was spending way too much time playing in the dirt, and drove down to get some groceries. This put the day past nightfall, nothing more to do but chronicle the events and eat. Pictured are two antique beer bottles the Bobcat men dug up—intact—from their backyard excavation.
I didn’t buy anything, this go-‘round. This always gives me an inexplicable feeling of satisfaction, the sensation that I got away with something, didn’t succumb as I so often do. To keep things going, I bid on exactly one item. One bid, that’s it. It was—of course—a riding mower, and it eventually sold for way more than I would have paid, even if I’d needed it. So there’s that. And then I saw the twin to my old compressor in the basement, the ancient service-station relic dating from the 1920s. This one appeared mostly complete, had the parts necessary to maybe get mine going again—or at least use it as a reference. I lingered, talked about an old Maytag washing machine with two oldsters idling away the time. One of them recounted how an acquaintance from some time back was doing the wash with one of these antique machines. The top part, near where you put the clothes in, has a wringer where you run garments through one at a time. It is powered by the machine itself, not hand-cranked like some very old models. As this woman of his acquaintance leaned over, her breast got caught in the rollers, was squeezed terribly. I’m just saying what I heard. After that, I got in my car out in the grassy field and drove off. If I can’t actually pinpoint the pleasure I get from not buying anything, the opposite is true for the feeling I have when I purchase something at one of these sales: I feel cheapened, abused, as if I’d been violated in a very public and humiliating way. No rhyme nor reason, just the way I feel. Probably not as bad as the woman felt with the washing machine, however. That really hurt.
So today I loaded the sticks of bread into the little car, drove over to the elderly couple and sat and talked for a while. A television show came on their more-than-large tv, and—as luck would have it—it dealt with the Burgundy region of France. So we watched that. The narration was of course in English, so every now and then I would try to translate, in my limited French, what the narrator was saying. One monastery—not Cluny—had ten thousand monks at one time around the thirteenth century. They would all go off to bed in their dormitories, lie down to sleep fully clothed.
“Ils dormaient tout habilles,” I said, explaining how they slept with their clothes on. We all found this detail unpleasant, but not as unpleasant as that incident with….well, you know. This monastery, the one that was not Cluny, was world renowned for its efficiency of operations. It succeeded in preventing people from pillaging the church; then it went about a colossal fund-raising campaign that reaped huge financial rewards. When nobles were dead and departed, the priests from the monastery that was not Cluny benefited from being named as heirs in the huge estates. They arranged for this in life, explaining that the nobles would be prayed for regularly, giving them a better chance at entering heaven. Many of them signed up for the plan. Better to be safe than sorry, they said. Actually, it was most likely the institution, and not the priests themselves, that were named as the recipients of posthumous benefits.
Later, I drove home and worked on the deck area over at the other house. This involved digging the post holes very deep, owing to the plan I have for a patio under the deck. It will be a sunken patio, accessed by two small steps from the yard beyond the far edge of the deck. There is actually a very good reason for doing this: Right now, the entrance to the basement is difficult at best. There is a door, to be sure, but knocking your head on low-lying obstacles is a constant menace at this entrance. If I lower the level of the lawn where the deck is, everything will be at the proper level for walking straight into the basement. No stepping down, no stepping up. No one will knock their heads this way, unless they are VERY tall. So the holes for the deck’s upright supports must be extra deep, to account for the dirt I will be removing in that area. I plan to hire a couple of casual laborers for this project, get the area dug out and maybe install a drainpipe leading to the lower part of the yard. This will keep my sunken patio from flooding and washing into the house via the basement.
With the day getting late and chilly, I took a few photos, put the grizzled cat in the house, as she was spending way too much time playing in the dirt, and drove down to get some groceries. This put the day past nightfall, nothing more to do but chronicle the events and eat. Pictured are two antique beer bottles the Bobcat men dug up—intact—from their backyard excavation.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Bobcat Men
This morning I awoke early, after a night of uneasy sleep. There were dreams, of a disturbing and bizarre nature. More about those later. Today I’d be entertaining the Bobcat people—excavators utilizing a machine called a Bobcat. This is a brand name, applied loosely to that configuration of excavator, and those who operate and spend time around these machines understand the reference. This one, however, was a real Bobcat, not just a generic one.
A little before seven-thirty, as the day was still getting its first light in the sky, they rolled in with a large flatbed truck, a dump-truck, and of course the Bobcat itself—the star of this whole production—taking the place of honor on the back of the flatbed. They got the machines in place, had a brief consultation with me to go over the area of work, and had at it. There was not a lot of talk.
I stood back, held my breath, as I watched the tracked excavator approach a corner of the massive concrete patio. It slid the toothed digger underneath, started to lift. I had no idea of the thickness of this slab, knew only that I’d tried to strike it with a heavy, long-handled maul a few times. The blows simply bounced off, making scarcely a scratch in the surface. I knew it was thick, that’s all. We watched, the foreman and I, as the corner of the patio slowly groaned into the air, the more than ponderous weight held by a few inches of the digger’s front shovel. The operator then let it go, slammed it to the ground, broke the huge piece into large chunks. That was the death knell for the patio. Maybe a little more than two hours later, the thing was history, the pieces scooped into the back of the dump-truck, and a load of fresh topsoil spread around where the patio had once been. That area of the backyard is now ready for me to make my mark on it, to build the new deck, possibly an arbor at ground level—below the deck. Whatever I want to do. With their equipment, their experience, their ability to work quickly and efficiently, these men accomplished in a few hours what would have taken me several weeks to finish. It’s unlikely, however, I would have been able to do a thorough job of it: The slab was just too thick for a do-it-yourself project. The mighty Bobcat, pictured small in the less-than-adequate photos that accompany these writings, is deserving of reverence, humility, and the respect often accorded only to diggers of a much larger stature.
“How’re the stairs going?” The man appeared to have the genteel appearance of the popular chicken promoter, Colonel Sanders. How could he know about the stairs, I thought?
“Seems you’re spendin’ an awful lot of time rippin’ stuff apart, ain’t doin’ so good at putting things back together.” This Colonel Sanders was mean. He took a long puff on a fat cigar, the end glowing red with his inward breath. It’s true, the front steps, object of my nighttime thoughts, occupier of my daytime fantasies, were coming to naught. The front walk was finished, however. I thought maybe the Colonel had mistaken me for someone else, had gotten me confused with another person who’d confided in him about THEIR stairs.
“Ummm, okay I guess. Uh, what stairs are you talking about, please?”
“FRISKY!” He shouted across the dim space to an ink-black cat. “Get down off of there at once!” The cat made straight for the cigar-smoking chicken promoter, tore at the leg of his white trousers. Instinctively, the frothy-haired man dropped his hands to his crotch, guarded his most treasured anatomy.
“You nearly cost me my manhood, you fucking cat! It ain’t gonna happen again!” he bellowed. The cat let go, batted at the lit cigar, made the colonel flinch and burn a hole in his pants leg. Now I knew who the man was, realized as he hopped about, swatting at the neatly fringed hole and the reddish skin of his ancient leg. This was the priest in the fable of Reynard the fox, the man who’d arrived, all naked, to flog the cat who had so terribly been tricked into being trapped as he tried to get at the many mice promised by Reynard. The cat perched itself on a dusty case inside the museum of random regrets, licked delicately at a front paw, minding not in the least the priest—I mean, the colonel.
While the colonel put some distance between himself and the cat, I went over to the case where the cat was cleaning itself. I rubbed at the dusty glass, saw through the dim illumination this random regret: Why weren’t there more peas? There were other regrets in there, but with time and neglect the papers were yellowed, some could no longer be read, and others were turned over---their regrets a mystery played out to the floor of the wooden and glass cases. I thought it best not to ask the proprietor, the colonel-looking man, if I could please see those other regrets. It didn’t seem like that kind of thing was done.
I wandered around, the cat remaining as before, watchful of the curator, but giving no outward appearance of concern. Grooming first one paw, then the other, Frisky acted as though he had not a care in the world. There were other cases, some of which looked to have had visitors recently. The dust was wiped away a little, and there were some smudges that appeared to be from hands, people leaning over, trying to get a better view of the contents. This one, printed on a piece of scrap paper, read: I should have left the roast in longer. Then, leaning against the inside edge of the case, on a torn three-by-five lined card, printed neatly: Maybe asking Jim would have helped.
I remembered my other visit, the one to the museum of random thoughts, thought that I’d try the gift shop—even though this museum looked different and darker and altogether more frightening than the other one. Also, this was a dream museum, so I didn’t know if they’d have a gift shop. I asked the curator, the Colonel Sanders man.
“It’s up front, next to the door,” he said. “Can’t miss it.” This was offered in a tone that suggested if I did miss it, I was every bit the moron. I went up front, wandered into an empty room, thought immediately I’d made a mistake. I came back out, looked at the curator, expecting him to start yelling at me or Frisky.
“That’s it! That’s it!” He shouted. “Go ahead, look around!”
“There’s nothing in there,” I said. Even for a dream gift shop, this one was really lacking.
He was darning his torn trousers, closing the burned hole with yellow thread that contrasted sharply against the white pants.
“We had a tour bus Thursday,” he said in a disinterested way. “They musta bought up everything.” He looked around, grabbed a plain drinking glass from a shelf.
“They didn’t get this, though!”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Museum glass, just ain’t got the writin’ on it yet. But it’s same as the one’s got the writin’. Only one we got, ‘til we get more.”
Frisky lunged from behind, knocked the one plain museum drinking glass with no writing clear across the room, smashed it into a million pieces. The curator jabbed himself with the sewing needle, bellowed while his face filled with red.
“You were asking about the stairs,” I said, edging my way towards the door and the empty gift shop. I felt I needed to offer an explanation, a reason why my progress was so slow. I was leaving anyway, so now was as good a time as any to explain myself to the beleaguered and fuming curator. “It’s just that, you know, sometimes I’ll have a job, I can’t always spend all the time….”
I wanted to tell him that I’d hired some men, good men who would be coming next day, but my speech became molasses-slow, impeded by that dream-goo that makes it hard to say anything. I wanted to say that I was working on the house, doing what I could, but that sometimes I had to get help, get experts—people who knew what they were doing.
“You know, I have to do that sometimes,” in my speech that sounded like my mouth was being held shut by rubber bands.
“Anyway, I would have bought the glass—the museum glass, if it weren’t for Frisky.” He was bellowing as I slipped out the door into the crazy-house street filled with jagged rooflines and lampposts that reached to the sky. The last thing I saw was Frisky, on an upper shelf, licking his belly. I looked at the clock: The Bobcat men would be here in two hours.
A little before seven-thirty, as the day was still getting its first light in the sky, they rolled in with a large flatbed truck, a dump-truck, and of course the Bobcat itself—the star of this whole production—taking the place of honor on the back of the flatbed. They got the machines in place, had a brief consultation with me to go over the area of work, and had at it. There was not a lot of talk.
I stood back, held my breath, as I watched the tracked excavator approach a corner of the massive concrete patio. It slid the toothed digger underneath, started to lift. I had no idea of the thickness of this slab, knew only that I’d tried to strike it with a heavy, long-handled maul a few times. The blows simply bounced off, making scarcely a scratch in the surface. I knew it was thick, that’s all. We watched, the foreman and I, as the corner of the patio slowly groaned into the air, the more than ponderous weight held by a few inches of the digger’s front shovel. The operator then let it go, slammed it to the ground, broke the huge piece into large chunks. That was the death knell for the patio. Maybe a little more than two hours later, the thing was history, the pieces scooped into the back of the dump-truck, and a load of fresh topsoil spread around where the patio had once been. That area of the backyard is now ready for me to make my mark on it, to build the new deck, possibly an arbor at ground level—below the deck. Whatever I want to do. With their equipment, their experience, their ability to work quickly and efficiently, these men accomplished in a few hours what would have taken me several weeks to finish. It’s unlikely, however, I would have been able to do a thorough job of it: The slab was just too thick for a do-it-yourself project. The mighty Bobcat, pictured small in the less-than-adequate photos that accompany these writings, is deserving of reverence, humility, and the respect often accorded only to diggers of a much larger stature.
“How’re the stairs going?” The man appeared to have the genteel appearance of the popular chicken promoter, Colonel Sanders. How could he know about the stairs, I thought?
“Seems you’re spendin’ an awful lot of time rippin’ stuff apart, ain’t doin’ so good at putting things back together.” This Colonel Sanders was mean. He took a long puff on a fat cigar, the end glowing red with his inward breath. It’s true, the front steps, object of my nighttime thoughts, occupier of my daytime fantasies, were coming to naught. The front walk was finished, however. I thought maybe the Colonel had mistaken me for someone else, had gotten me confused with another person who’d confided in him about THEIR stairs.
“Ummm, okay I guess. Uh, what stairs are you talking about, please?”
“FRISKY!” He shouted across the dim space to an ink-black cat. “Get down off of there at once!” The cat made straight for the cigar-smoking chicken promoter, tore at the leg of his white trousers. Instinctively, the frothy-haired man dropped his hands to his crotch, guarded his most treasured anatomy.
“You nearly cost me my manhood, you fucking cat! It ain’t gonna happen again!” he bellowed. The cat let go, batted at the lit cigar, made the colonel flinch and burn a hole in his pants leg. Now I knew who the man was, realized as he hopped about, swatting at the neatly fringed hole and the reddish skin of his ancient leg. This was the priest in the fable of Reynard the fox, the man who’d arrived, all naked, to flog the cat who had so terribly been tricked into being trapped as he tried to get at the many mice promised by Reynard. The cat perched itself on a dusty case inside the museum of random regrets, licked delicately at a front paw, minding not in the least the priest—I mean, the colonel.
While the colonel put some distance between himself and the cat, I went over to the case where the cat was cleaning itself. I rubbed at the dusty glass, saw through the dim illumination this random regret: Why weren’t there more peas? There were other regrets in there, but with time and neglect the papers were yellowed, some could no longer be read, and others were turned over---their regrets a mystery played out to the floor of the wooden and glass cases. I thought it best not to ask the proprietor, the colonel-looking man, if I could please see those other regrets. It didn’t seem like that kind of thing was done.
I wandered around, the cat remaining as before, watchful of the curator, but giving no outward appearance of concern. Grooming first one paw, then the other, Frisky acted as though he had not a care in the world. There were other cases, some of which looked to have had visitors recently. The dust was wiped away a little, and there were some smudges that appeared to be from hands, people leaning over, trying to get a better view of the contents. This one, printed on a piece of scrap paper, read: I should have left the roast in longer. Then, leaning against the inside edge of the case, on a torn three-by-five lined card, printed neatly: Maybe asking Jim would have helped.
I remembered my other visit, the one to the museum of random thoughts, thought that I’d try the gift shop—even though this museum looked different and darker and altogether more frightening than the other one. Also, this was a dream museum, so I didn’t know if they’d have a gift shop. I asked the curator, the Colonel Sanders man.
“It’s up front, next to the door,” he said. “Can’t miss it.” This was offered in a tone that suggested if I did miss it, I was every bit the moron. I went up front, wandered into an empty room, thought immediately I’d made a mistake. I came back out, looked at the curator, expecting him to start yelling at me or Frisky.
“That’s it! That’s it!” He shouted. “Go ahead, look around!”
“There’s nothing in there,” I said. Even for a dream gift shop, this one was really lacking.
He was darning his torn trousers, closing the burned hole with yellow thread that contrasted sharply against the white pants.
“We had a tour bus Thursday,” he said in a disinterested way. “They musta bought up everything.” He looked around, grabbed a plain drinking glass from a shelf.
“They didn’t get this, though!”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Museum glass, just ain’t got the writin’ on it yet. But it’s same as the one’s got the writin’. Only one we got, ‘til we get more.”
Frisky lunged from behind, knocked the one plain museum drinking glass with no writing clear across the room, smashed it into a million pieces. The curator jabbed himself with the sewing needle, bellowed while his face filled with red.
“You were asking about the stairs,” I said, edging my way towards the door and the empty gift shop. I felt I needed to offer an explanation, a reason why my progress was so slow. I was leaving anyway, so now was as good a time as any to explain myself to the beleaguered and fuming curator. “It’s just that, you know, sometimes I’ll have a job, I can’t always spend all the time….”
I wanted to tell him that I’d hired some men, good men who would be coming next day, but my speech became molasses-slow, impeded by that dream-goo that makes it hard to say anything. I wanted to say that I was working on the house, doing what I could, but that sometimes I had to get help, get experts—people who knew what they were doing.
“You know, I have to do that sometimes,” in my speech that sounded like my mouth was being held shut by rubber bands.
“Anyway, I would have bought the glass—the museum glass, if it weren’t for Frisky.” He was bellowing as I slipped out the door into the crazy-house street filled with jagged rooflines and lampposts that reached to the sky. The last thing I saw was Frisky, on an upper shelf, licking his belly. I looked at the clock: The Bobcat men would be here in two hours.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Stuck kitchen drain
Monday is as good a day as any to get probed. So off I went to the gastroenterologist, where the dreaded colonoscopy was performed. Since I was there, I thought maybe I’d have them check out the other end, too. One stop service. I’ve had a good deal of difficulty swallowing foods, even liquids sometimes get backed up—kind of like a stuck kitchen drain. When this happens, a good deal of gurgling takes place, people turn and stare, only adding to my discomfiture. It is not pleasant. The kindly doctor came to me after the procedure, told me that my esophagus was constricted to the point where he couldn’t pass his instrument through.
“Well, that explains a lot,” I said.
He prescribed an acid blocker, said I should take it twice a day, since the condition seems to be related to extreme acid reflux. He said that things didn’t look cancerous, but that obviously I should have a larger passage to allow for normal eating and passage of foods. I said okay. Likewise, down below, things looked normal there. Big relief, as the preparation for this procedure is nothing short of hideous. No eating for twenty-four hours, liquids only, then a twice-daily dose of stuff to get everything cleared out—if you catch my drift. That stuff alone takes away your appetite, makes the thought of food so unappealing, that—well, never mind.
So, drugged and groggy, I came home—driven by my brother. Now I am allowed only liquid foods after this procedure. Not sure why, but I am following the doctor’s instructions. I was actually looking forward to some beef enchiladas from the new Mexican place I just tried over in Columbia. I think they’re swell. The nurse asked me what I had in mind to eat, as I was dressing to leave.
“Well, I want some enchiladas,” I said.
“Oh, no, no, no! No enchiladas for you!” She went on to say that if I liked yoghurt, this would be a good time to have some.
“I love yoghurt,” I said. “I’ll go home and eat a lot of it.”
So I sat in bed, watched some stories on the midday programming offered by the television, ate ice cream and yoghurt, and had some soup as well. I had no discomfort after the procedure. Oh—another thing: If you have the endoscopy procedure, you have to drink a thick goo of foul-tasting stuff that is supposed to numb your throat. This happens right before they turn out the lights and administer anesthesia. Skip the endoscopy, unless there is some problem up top.
So after a while I tired of being abed, got up to see what was doing outdoors. The excavator man called, asked if tomorrow would be a good time to come out and start ripping up the patio area. I told him that I’d been sidetracked with the sidewalk project, that Wednesday would be better. This will give me a chance to go out and dismantle the rest of the strange and ugly aluminum landing that someone erected out back. It is truly horrible. So, late this afternoon, I gathered up my power saws and went to cut away some more of the landing. I concentrated on the steps, since they are a separate part, can be taken away without causing the whole thing to collapse. The excavator man agreed, said okay to Wednesday.
Here, then, is a tribute to the horribleness of the strange aluminum landing. I take the thing as personal affront.
Refuser of all beauty
On spindly legs
Built by hairy chests
Nourished on kegs
“Let’s build something like that!”
Enthused a doof
Came his cohorts sliding
One by one off the roof
We’ll drink to its start!
We’ll drink to its middle!
Hey, I cut a fart!
Now I’ve got to piddle!
So they drank and they built
Screwed it all together
Upon its thin stilts
Worked through the fair weather
“Looks like prison,” said one
“Maybe a factory,” another
“Oil refinery.”
This one was his brother
Sure is something
They all agreed
Slapped each other’s backs
Smoked some weed
Then they got in the Dodge
Another beer run
It’s Ernie’s turn
That’s Jake’s sister’s son
Back at the thing
They swept with a broom
The tiny platform
Shit! There’s not enough room!
“Well, that explains a lot,” I said.
He prescribed an acid blocker, said I should take it twice a day, since the condition seems to be related to extreme acid reflux. He said that things didn’t look cancerous, but that obviously I should have a larger passage to allow for normal eating and passage of foods. I said okay. Likewise, down below, things looked normal there. Big relief, as the preparation for this procedure is nothing short of hideous. No eating for twenty-four hours, liquids only, then a twice-daily dose of stuff to get everything cleared out—if you catch my drift. That stuff alone takes away your appetite, makes the thought of food so unappealing, that—well, never mind.
So, drugged and groggy, I came home—driven by my brother. Now I am allowed only liquid foods after this procedure. Not sure why, but I am following the doctor’s instructions. I was actually looking forward to some beef enchiladas from the new Mexican place I just tried over in Columbia. I think they’re swell. The nurse asked me what I had in mind to eat, as I was dressing to leave.
“Well, I want some enchiladas,” I said.
“Oh, no, no, no! No enchiladas for you!” She went on to say that if I liked yoghurt, this would be a good time to have some.
“I love yoghurt,” I said. “I’ll go home and eat a lot of it.”
So I sat in bed, watched some stories on the midday programming offered by the television, ate ice cream and yoghurt, and had some soup as well. I had no discomfort after the procedure. Oh—another thing: If you have the endoscopy procedure, you have to drink a thick goo of foul-tasting stuff that is supposed to numb your throat. This happens right before they turn out the lights and administer anesthesia. Skip the endoscopy, unless there is some problem up top.
So after a while I tired of being abed, got up to see what was doing outdoors. The excavator man called, asked if tomorrow would be a good time to come out and start ripping up the patio area. I told him that I’d been sidetracked with the sidewalk project, that Wednesday would be better. This will give me a chance to go out and dismantle the rest of the strange and ugly aluminum landing that someone erected out back. It is truly horrible. So, late this afternoon, I gathered up my power saws and went to cut away some more of the landing. I concentrated on the steps, since they are a separate part, can be taken away without causing the whole thing to collapse. The excavator man agreed, said okay to Wednesday.
Here, then, is a tribute to the horribleness of the strange aluminum landing. I take the thing as personal affront.
Refuser of all beauty
On spindly legs
Built by hairy chests
Nourished on kegs
“Let’s build something like that!”
Enthused a doof
Came his cohorts sliding
One by one off the roof
We’ll drink to its start!
We’ll drink to its middle!
Hey, I cut a fart!
Now I’ve got to piddle!
So they drank and they built
Screwed it all together
Upon its thin stilts
Worked through the fair weather
“Looks like prison,” said one
“Maybe a factory,” another
“Oil refinery.”
This one was his brother
Sure is something
They all agreed
Slapped each other’s backs
Smoked some weed
Then they got in the Dodge
Another beer run
It’s Ernie’s turn
That’s Jake’s sister’s son
Back at the thing
They swept with a broom
The tiny platform
Shit! There’s not enough room!
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Reynard Repents
Reynard Repents
Arriving at the home of Reynard, a place he occupies with his wife and two children, Grymbart explains his mission.
“So it is thus that I have appeared here, dear Eme,” which means “uncle." “Should you refuse my company, stay put, it will not go so well with you and the king,” he explained. “In short time your house will be surrounded, all that you hold dear will be taken—both the living and things that be not animated.” He mentioned this in reference to Reynard’s wife and his two sleeping kids.
Reynard thought it well to accompany his nephew, Grymbart. But long he worried about his fate, thought that maybe some penance would do him good.
“If you think you can be serious about it,” said Grymbart, “I’ll help you with the penance.”
So Reynard recounted a great deal of evil he’d done towards others. The poor wolf was many times the victim of his misdeeds, and had suffered greatly—more so than any other animal of Reynard’s acquaintance. He’d gone so far as to call the wolf a relative, a family member, knowing that he had no relation whatsoever with the beast—other than that of a fellow dweller of the forest.
“I knew all this, yet confided in the wolf, as to better gain his confidence. I even had close relations with his wife.”
Knowing that Reynard had probably not told everything he’d been guilty of, Grymbart nonetheless prescribed a dose of penance.
“Take this stick, he said, and three times thrash yourself with it. Once the thrashing is done, lay the stick upon the ground and jump thrice over it, without bending your knees.”
He explained that the fox’s penance should be complete at that point.
Reynard did what he was told, thrashed with the stick, then jumped over it in the fashion prescribed. When this was done, he was happy.
“Now, as long as you can stick to it, and not be swayed from your course, you should be fine,” said Grymbart.
As they walked the path, they came upon a convent, the black-robed nuns thronging in the courtyard. There, too, were the fat hens they kept at that place, pecking and foraging on the ground. Reynard very nearly leapt the fence to get at the hens, was reminded by Grymbart of his promise and the penance he’d just done.
“Oh, yes—that,” said Reynard, promising anew not to let any distractions veer him from his course.
Soon they came to the place where the lion held court, and were greeted with great earnestness and solemnity of spirit. It is here that the lion first addresses the accused, and also here that the fox has a chance to defend himself against the accusations.
Interruption
Before continuing on to the next chapter, I will mention that verily it seems have I veered from the narrative which concerns the improvements made to the house, its structures and gardens. This detour into the fifteenth century—and long before that—is no brethren to the tale first I have sought to tell—other than they are both told in words. The origins of the fox and his forested companions date to several centuries before the translation of 1480 upon which I rely here. Many of these tales take place in France, although an original manuscript—thought to be very important—has been lost. That one dates to the early thirteenth century. When reading through the old English, I rely on scanning the pages for familiar words, picking out things that may sound interesting in our modern tongue, and including them in this text. Otherwise, the tale is purely paraphrased, and all quotes made up.
Arriving at the home of Reynard, a place he occupies with his wife and two children, Grymbart explains his mission.
“So it is thus that I have appeared here, dear Eme,” which means “uncle." “Should you refuse my company, stay put, it will not go so well with you and the king,” he explained. “In short time your house will be surrounded, all that you hold dear will be taken—both the living and things that be not animated.” He mentioned this in reference to Reynard’s wife and his two sleeping kids.
Reynard thought it well to accompany his nephew, Grymbart. But long he worried about his fate, thought that maybe some penance would do him good.
“If you think you can be serious about it,” said Grymbart, “I’ll help you with the penance.”
So Reynard recounted a great deal of evil he’d done towards others. The poor wolf was many times the victim of his misdeeds, and had suffered greatly—more so than any other animal of Reynard’s acquaintance. He’d gone so far as to call the wolf a relative, a family member, knowing that he had no relation whatsoever with the beast—other than that of a fellow dweller of the forest.
“I knew all this, yet confided in the wolf, as to better gain his confidence. I even had close relations with his wife.”
Knowing that Reynard had probably not told everything he’d been guilty of, Grymbart nonetheless prescribed a dose of penance.
“Take this stick, he said, and three times thrash yourself with it. Once the thrashing is done, lay the stick upon the ground and jump thrice over it, without bending your knees.”
He explained that the fox’s penance should be complete at that point.
Reynard did what he was told, thrashed with the stick, then jumped over it in the fashion prescribed. When this was done, he was happy.
“Now, as long as you can stick to it, and not be swayed from your course, you should be fine,” said Grymbart.
As they walked the path, they came upon a convent, the black-robed nuns thronging in the courtyard. There, too, were the fat hens they kept at that place, pecking and foraging on the ground. Reynard very nearly leapt the fence to get at the hens, was reminded by Grymbart of his promise and the penance he’d just done.
“Oh, yes—that,” said Reynard, promising anew not to let any distractions veer him from his course.
Soon they came to the place where the lion held court, and were greeted with great earnestness and solemnity of spirit. It is here that the lion first addresses the accused, and also here that the fox has a chance to defend himself against the accusations.
Interruption
Before continuing on to the next chapter, I will mention that verily it seems have I veered from the narrative which concerns the improvements made to the house, its structures and gardens. This detour into the fifteenth century—and long before that—is no brethren to the tale first I have sought to tell—other than they are both told in words. The origins of the fox and his forested companions date to several centuries before the translation of 1480 upon which I rely here. Many of these tales take place in France, although an original manuscript—thought to be very important—has been lost. That one dates to the early thirteenth century. When reading through the old English, I rely on scanning the pages for familiar words, picking out things that may sound interesting in our modern tongue, and including them in this text. Otherwise, the tale is purely paraphrased, and all quotes made up.
Tybert the Cat
So it goes with Reynard the fox, that twice now he is summoned to appear before the King of beasts, the lion. The bear failed miserably in his mission, having gone to fetch the pointy-eared animal and bring him back. When finally the bear made his appearance, being named Bruin, and once a great and fearsome beast, he was a sad sight to behold. For a great distance he “wentled” his way back to the court, bare of the skin from his front feet, missing an ear or two, and bleeding red from his head. What exactly transpired between Bruin and Reynard is not exactly clear, but the king, upon seeing the poor bear, became enraged anew.
“So now we have to go get him again!” roared the lion. “Tybert, this task falls to you.”
So Tybert the cat responded, “Why me? If the bear, who is surely much sturdier and robust than I, could not succeed in this task, what makes you think I’m going to fare any better?”
“Well, you are his friend and all,” said the lion. “Besides, I’m the king, and you have to do it. There will be no further discussion.”
So sadly Tybert leaves the court in search of Reynard, who is reported to be at home.
Upon arriving at Rynard’s house, Tybert is greeted warmly, offered some honey before turning in for the night.
“Don’t you have anything else?” the cat asks.
“What did you have in mind?” replies the fox.
“A nice fat mouse would be good. Do you know where we can find any?”
“OH! It’s a mouse he wants! It so happens that the priest, whose house I visited just this evening last, has been sorely plagued by these little runners. They have caused him no small amount of hurt.”
“Can we go there?” asks Tybert.
Since the priest in question lived not far from Reynard, the two go off together in search of an evening meal for the cat.
Upon arriving before the small hole, which the fox has traditionally used to gain entrance to the Priest’s estate, the two stop and consider the opening in the wall.
“You go first,” says the fox.
“Me?” replies the cat.
“Yes, go ahead. There are plenty of mice on the other side. Let me know when you’ve had your fill.”
So the cat enters that hole, is immediately caught in a trap, or “gryn” that the priest has set. For it was on his last visit that Reynard took one of the priest’s hens and made off with it. Well the fox knew what awaited him on the other side of the hole, as the priest was not to be fooled twice.
The fox, delighted not to have been caught in the gryn, asks from outside the hole if the cat is enjoying his feast of mice. Then the priest, hearing Tybert’s laments, gets up, and--naked as the day he was born--goes to where he has set the trap. There he flogs the cat without mercy, so that the poor creature is beaten within an inch of his life, and loses an eye to boot. Then it is the priest who suffers a blow to his body and manhood; for, during a pause in the beating, the cat makes straight for the area between the priest’s legs, an area held dear by the priest and his woman, and does great harm to that region, so that the priest is sorely impeded in his ability to function that way. Harsh are his laments. Harsher still the laments of his wife, who rues the day the gryn was set, a gryn meant to trap the hardened criminal Reynard, but that has trapped instead this cat.
So, as the priest lies naked and bleeding, and his attendants see what can be done about his wounds, Tybert gnaws at the thing that binds him, sets himself free and now is outside the walls of the estate. Now it is the cat who comes wentling back to the court, reports what has happened on that evening where he and Reynard were supposed to dine together on mice. The king’s rage is now doubled.
“Twice we have gone to fetch the accused fox! Twice has he befuddled our efforts! Oh, good grief, here we go again!” And now he asks the assembled animals who will be so audacious as to try anew, seeing the sore hurt that the fox has caused the previous two messengers.
Then it was that the nephew of Reynard, Grymbart, spoke up.
“I think that my uncle, having been summoned twice, should have one more chance to show himself here. If still he refuses, then I believe he should be judged guilty of his offenses in his absence.
“Hmm, that’s a good idea,” says the king. Now, who wants to go and inform him of all this?”
Grymbart spoke anew, saying: “If you will order it, I shall be the one burdened with this task. Say the word, and I will be off to my uncle’s house to tell him the wishes of the court.”
So it was that Grymbart, nephew of Reynard, set out to fetch his uncle and escort him back to the lion’s court to face his accusers.
“So now we have to go get him again!” roared the lion. “Tybert, this task falls to you.”
So Tybert the cat responded, “Why me? If the bear, who is surely much sturdier and robust than I, could not succeed in this task, what makes you think I’m going to fare any better?”
“Well, you are his friend and all,” said the lion. “Besides, I’m the king, and you have to do it. There will be no further discussion.”
So sadly Tybert leaves the court in search of Reynard, who is reported to be at home.
Upon arriving at Rynard’s house, Tybert is greeted warmly, offered some honey before turning in for the night.
“Don’t you have anything else?” the cat asks.
“What did you have in mind?” replies the fox.
“A nice fat mouse would be good. Do you know where we can find any?”
“OH! It’s a mouse he wants! It so happens that the priest, whose house I visited just this evening last, has been sorely plagued by these little runners. They have caused him no small amount of hurt.”
“Can we go there?” asks Tybert.
Since the priest in question lived not far from Reynard, the two go off together in search of an evening meal for the cat.
Upon arriving before the small hole, which the fox has traditionally used to gain entrance to the Priest’s estate, the two stop and consider the opening in the wall.
“You go first,” says the fox.
“Me?” replies the cat.
“Yes, go ahead. There are plenty of mice on the other side. Let me know when you’ve had your fill.”
So the cat enters that hole, is immediately caught in a trap, or “gryn” that the priest has set. For it was on his last visit that Reynard took one of the priest’s hens and made off with it. Well the fox knew what awaited him on the other side of the hole, as the priest was not to be fooled twice.
The fox, delighted not to have been caught in the gryn, asks from outside the hole if the cat is enjoying his feast of mice. Then the priest, hearing Tybert’s laments, gets up, and--naked as the day he was born--goes to where he has set the trap. There he flogs the cat without mercy, so that the poor creature is beaten within an inch of his life, and loses an eye to boot. Then it is the priest who suffers a blow to his body and manhood; for, during a pause in the beating, the cat makes straight for the area between the priest’s legs, an area held dear by the priest and his woman, and does great harm to that region, so that the priest is sorely impeded in his ability to function that way. Harsh are his laments. Harsher still the laments of his wife, who rues the day the gryn was set, a gryn meant to trap the hardened criminal Reynard, but that has trapped instead this cat.
So, as the priest lies naked and bleeding, and his attendants see what can be done about his wounds, Tybert gnaws at the thing that binds him, sets himself free and now is outside the walls of the estate. Now it is the cat who comes wentling back to the court, reports what has happened on that evening where he and Reynard were supposed to dine together on mice. The king’s rage is now doubled.
“Twice we have gone to fetch the accused fox! Twice has he befuddled our efforts! Oh, good grief, here we go again!” And now he asks the assembled animals who will be so audacious as to try anew, seeing the sore hurt that the fox has caused the previous two messengers.
Then it was that the nephew of Reynard, Grymbart, spoke up.
“I think that my uncle, having been summoned twice, should have one more chance to show himself here. If still he refuses, then I believe he should be judged guilty of his offenses in his absence.
“Hmm, that’s a good idea,” says the king. Now, who wants to go and inform him of all this?”
Grymbart spoke anew, saying: “If you will order it, I shall be the one burdened with this task. Say the word, and I will be off to my uncle’s house to tell him the wishes of the court.”
So it was that Grymbart, nephew of Reynard, set out to fetch his uncle and escort him back to the lion’s court to face his accusers.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Howdy!
“So what is it that you do, exactly?”
My date and I were headed to a company function, an event held by my work, so that we employees could enjoy an evening of drink and food, uninhibited by the regular workaday concerns. The theme was—I think—“Cowboy Night.” At least there were many references to the old west, gunfighters, saloons and gambling. And everyone said “Howdy!” I said howdy, too—not wanting to be too outside the spirit of things.
“I, umm..you know—when someone needs a…”
The truth is, what I did for a living is something that no one should ever talk about—not even long after the person doing the job is dead. Not ever. If someone were to be tempted to put into words what I did, that thought should be wrapped tightly in a sealed tube, shot into outer space, where no one could ever get at it—unless it accidentally dropped back down to earth and someone found it on the ground.
I knew already that my date wasn’t much inclined to like me so well, that for her this was an outing, a brief diversion. I was a charity case. She looked smart in her close-fitting jacket, a stylish scarf or something along those lines casually draped about her neck. We’d chanced upon each other at the book club, in a moment of weakness or just not much caring, she said, “Why not?” Lisa was—in fact—head of the Ultra Molecular Biology Omni Yingling lab, most commonly referred to as UMBOY. I, on the other hand, tracked and inventoried parts for agricultural tractors. Not just one brand, but several different ones, because the enterprise I worked for distributed these parts to different dealers and parts suppliers. Oh god.
“I make Moon-Pies,” I said. This couldn’t be any worse than what I actually did, and I already knew that Lisa and I were not destined to “hit it off,” as they say. I had nothing to lose.
“Yes, Moon-Pies,”I reiterated, warming to my subject, as I took in her wide-eyed and unspeaking response.
“When anyone on the East Coast needs some, they have to call my office. Then I issue an order, either approving or denying the request.” I said this with an air of importance, as if I wielded a good deal of power, being something of a mega-merchant, but also one who is entrusted with dispensing careful judgments that may affect thousands—if not millions—of people.
“I’m the one who decides.”
“Don’t customers just buy them from your company?” Now it was Lisa, Miss Omni-Yingling, trying to shoot holes in my important spiel—not caring much about Moon-Pies, one way or the other. She yawned a lot. “Why don’t they just call up your salespeople, ask for an order of Moon-Pies, and tell them where to send it?” she asked. “Personally, I never eat them—I don’t know what the fuss is all about.”
I explained that not all stores carried this product, that there was a screening process, and that no one could ever know what was involved.
“Suffice to say,” I said, “Not all customers measure up.” I winked, tipped my hat, and said, “Howdy.”
At dinner there was no more talk of Moon-Pies. We sat down in the hall devoted to the gala event, watched as servers in black bowties placed warm rolls on the table. Then it was the main course, after nibbling on some breads and other things. I remember the soup was very good. With my delicate constitution, I could eat scarcely anything that was placed before me. Red meat dripping with blood makes me sick; fresh fish just out of the ocean sends me to the ground, writhing in convulsions—like a fish out of water. It may be a sympathetic reaction—I don’t know. Both a juicy red steak and some kind of fish were served that night. I looked at my plate, picked a little at the potato, didn’t want to make an issue of this wonderful food that everyone was devouring, pausing every once in a while between bites to say howdy to a passing acquaintance or one of the bigwigs making the rounds. Lisa seemed to be doing pretty well with her portions, which were fairly small—owing to the high quality of the meat and fish. My company had paid a good deal for me and my companion to be there—of that I had been reminded during the weeks leading up to the event. I would often hear my boss lamenting one of my co-workers—a man notorious for accepting these high-priced invitations, then not showing up.
“You know what I’m gonna do if Franks (the coworker’s name was Mr. Franks) doesn’t show? I’m docking him eighty-five bucks from his check, that’s what!”
Every few days this would be repeated. After the first warning, I got the idea that I’d better show up, or pay for the evening regardless. Eighty-five bucks. It did seem like an awful lot, especially since I couldn’t eat much more than some bread and a little potato.
So Lisa got up, left the table. Where she went I don’t know—not then, not now. I didn’t much care, for this was my chance to wipe my plate clean. When she returned, she had fresh servings of meat and fish—untouched—on her plate. During her absence I’d been saying howdy, telling the others at the table how good the food was, and what a shame that Lisa hadn’t touched hers.
“This food is so good,” I’d say, “That I swear I could eat double portions!” Then, turning to a graying man passing in a cowboy hat, “Big Ed! Is that you? Howdy!”
Feeling very satisfied with myself, pointing to my empty plate, I told Lisa what a delicious meal it had been. “Look! There’s scarcely anything left—even the potato is mostly gone!” I enthused. She was immediately suspicious of the fresh servings on her plate, with her remaining steak and fish pushed slightly aside.
“They came around with extras,” I said. “I saw that you were enjoying the meal so much that I thought you should have some.” Then I added, “I’d be glad to help you out, but I am really full; I’ve never had such good steak and fish!” I rubbed my belly, resisted the temptation to say howdy, then went ahead and said it anyway.
I didn’t want to linger in that place, was more inclined to be away from the event hall and the people I had to work with five days a week. There was bound to be talk of tractor parts, other work-related references. Besides, the silent auction was all themed around automotive and light industrial things. Sponsors of racing cars and similar things were represented. There were bound to be questions about how Moon-Pies fit into this scenario. I explained to my date—who wasn’t much interested in sticking around—that maybe we’d better be on our way.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said, “After all that steak and fish, I need to lie down and take a good long nap!”
I let her out at her door, leaned in for a last-ditch kiss, watched as she turned her cheek to deflect one full on the lips. On the way home I rolled down the window of my ailing Toyota, watched a lively dog cross a deserted city intersection, and yelled, “Howdy!”
Back to reality: Bone-crunching, backbreaking work on the house is what it is. Never-ending bags of cement, poured one by one into the clattering and clanking mixer, then poured back out again as a thick soup of sidewalk ready to be smoothed over in the prepared area. God, it just never ends. These bags weigh eighty pounds each, and sometimes I carry one by myself. For laborers around town, it is customary to see them hauling these heavy weights around on worksites or places where a mixer truck has not supplied the cement. Mostly, J.O. and I carry each one together, but it’s still heavy and awkward.
Finally, this afternoon, I just gave up. Not wanting to load more of the hideous things into the truck by hand, but needing to restock, I had the store people load a complete pallet of them with a forklift. Over thirty-three hundred pounds is what these forty-odd bags of cement weighed. Big J.O. and I made the drive home, the few miles covered with the two of us holding our breath, waiting to see of the overloaded truck would break. It ran fine; the rear end was sitting much closer to the ground, and the front wheels were light on the road, but it didn’t so much as hiccup on the ride home.
My date and I were headed to a company function, an event held by my work, so that we employees could enjoy an evening of drink and food, uninhibited by the regular workaday concerns. The theme was—I think—“Cowboy Night.” At least there were many references to the old west, gunfighters, saloons and gambling. And everyone said “Howdy!” I said howdy, too—not wanting to be too outside the spirit of things.
“I, umm..you know—when someone needs a…”
The truth is, what I did for a living is something that no one should ever talk about—not even long after the person doing the job is dead. Not ever. If someone were to be tempted to put into words what I did, that thought should be wrapped tightly in a sealed tube, shot into outer space, where no one could ever get at it—unless it accidentally dropped back down to earth and someone found it on the ground.
I knew already that my date wasn’t much inclined to like me so well, that for her this was an outing, a brief diversion. I was a charity case. She looked smart in her close-fitting jacket, a stylish scarf or something along those lines casually draped about her neck. We’d chanced upon each other at the book club, in a moment of weakness or just not much caring, she said, “Why not?” Lisa was—in fact—head of the Ultra Molecular Biology Omni Yingling lab, most commonly referred to as UMBOY. I, on the other hand, tracked and inventoried parts for agricultural tractors. Not just one brand, but several different ones, because the enterprise I worked for distributed these parts to different dealers and parts suppliers. Oh god.
“I make Moon-Pies,” I said. This couldn’t be any worse than what I actually did, and I already knew that Lisa and I were not destined to “hit it off,” as they say. I had nothing to lose.
“Yes, Moon-Pies,”I reiterated, warming to my subject, as I took in her wide-eyed and unspeaking response.
“When anyone on the East Coast needs some, they have to call my office. Then I issue an order, either approving or denying the request.” I said this with an air of importance, as if I wielded a good deal of power, being something of a mega-merchant, but also one who is entrusted with dispensing careful judgments that may affect thousands—if not millions—of people.
“I’m the one who decides.”
“Don’t customers just buy them from your company?” Now it was Lisa, Miss Omni-Yingling, trying to shoot holes in my important spiel—not caring much about Moon-Pies, one way or the other. She yawned a lot. “Why don’t they just call up your salespeople, ask for an order of Moon-Pies, and tell them where to send it?” she asked. “Personally, I never eat them—I don’t know what the fuss is all about.”
I explained that not all stores carried this product, that there was a screening process, and that no one could ever know what was involved.
“Suffice to say,” I said, “Not all customers measure up.” I winked, tipped my hat, and said, “Howdy.”
At dinner there was no more talk of Moon-Pies. We sat down in the hall devoted to the gala event, watched as servers in black bowties placed warm rolls on the table. Then it was the main course, after nibbling on some breads and other things. I remember the soup was very good. With my delicate constitution, I could eat scarcely anything that was placed before me. Red meat dripping with blood makes me sick; fresh fish just out of the ocean sends me to the ground, writhing in convulsions—like a fish out of water. It may be a sympathetic reaction—I don’t know. Both a juicy red steak and some kind of fish were served that night. I looked at my plate, picked a little at the potato, didn’t want to make an issue of this wonderful food that everyone was devouring, pausing every once in a while between bites to say howdy to a passing acquaintance or one of the bigwigs making the rounds. Lisa seemed to be doing pretty well with her portions, which were fairly small—owing to the high quality of the meat and fish. My company had paid a good deal for me and my companion to be there—of that I had been reminded during the weeks leading up to the event. I would often hear my boss lamenting one of my co-workers—a man notorious for accepting these high-priced invitations, then not showing up.
“You know what I’m gonna do if Franks (the coworker’s name was Mr. Franks) doesn’t show? I’m docking him eighty-five bucks from his check, that’s what!”
Every few days this would be repeated. After the first warning, I got the idea that I’d better show up, or pay for the evening regardless. Eighty-five bucks. It did seem like an awful lot, especially since I couldn’t eat much more than some bread and a little potato.
So Lisa got up, left the table. Where she went I don’t know—not then, not now. I didn’t much care, for this was my chance to wipe my plate clean. When she returned, she had fresh servings of meat and fish—untouched—on her plate. During her absence I’d been saying howdy, telling the others at the table how good the food was, and what a shame that Lisa hadn’t touched hers.
“This food is so good,” I’d say, “That I swear I could eat double portions!” Then, turning to a graying man passing in a cowboy hat, “Big Ed! Is that you? Howdy!”
Feeling very satisfied with myself, pointing to my empty plate, I told Lisa what a delicious meal it had been. “Look! There’s scarcely anything left—even the potato is mostly gone!” I enthused. She was immediately suspicious of the fresh servings on her plate, with her remaining steak and fish pushed slightly aside.
“They came around with extras,” I said. “I saw that you were enjoying the meal so much that I thought you should have some.” Then I added, “I’d be glad to help you out, but I am really full; I’ve never had such good steak and fish!” I rubbed my belly, resisted the temptation to say howdy, then went ahead and said it anyway.
I didn’t want to linger in that place, was more inclined to be away from the event hall and the people I had to work with five days a week. There was bound to be talk of tractor parts, other work-related references. Besides, the silent auction was all themed around automotive and light industrial things. Sponsors of racing cars and similar things were represented. There were bound to be questions about how Moon-Pies fit into this scenario. I explained to my date—who wasn’t much interested in sticking around—that maybe we’d better be on our way.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said, “After all that steak and fish, I need to lie down and take a good long nap!”
I let her out at her door, leaned in for a last-ditch kiss, watched as she turned her cheek to deflect one full on the lips. On the way home I rolled down the window of my ailing Toyota, watched a lively dog cross a deserted city intersection, and yelled, “Howdy!”
Back to reality: Bone-crunching, backbreaking work on the house is what it is. Never-ending bags of cement, poured one by one into the clattering and clanking mixer, then poured back out again as a thick soup of sidewalk ready to be smoothed over in the prepared area. God, it just never ends. These bags weigh eighty pounds each, and sometimes I carry one by myself. For laborers around town, it is customary to see them hauling these heavy weights around on worksites or places where a mixer truck has not supplied the cement. Mostly, J.O. and I carry each one together, but it’s still heavy and awkward.
Finally, this afternoon, I just gave up. Not wanting to load more of the hideous things into the truck by hand, but needing to restock, I had the store people load a complete pallet of them with a forklift. Over thirty-three hundred pounds is what these forty-odd bags of cement weighed. Big J.O. and I made the drive home, the few miles covered with the two of us holding our breath, waiting to see of the overloaded truck would break. It ran fine; the rear end was sitting much closer to the ground, and the front wheels were light on the road, but it didn’t so much as hiccup on the ride home.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
PEACE
“You’re soft!” The half-wit was chewing her gum contentedly, surveying the work I’d just done. This included breaking the sidewalk into chunks with a twelve-pound hammer, digging out a substantial area to widen the existing pavement, cutting the black asphalt with a special saw to get the concrete and driveway to meet up precisely. Also, I’d demolished the front steps, tightly held together with mortar and bricks. No easy task, that; I’d thought the steps would come away easily—a cake-walk. This was not the case. Then I’d jacked up the cab of the truck, fooled with the steering linkage, got the machine in good enough shape to cover a few more miles. Lastly, I’d mixed and poured concrete piers for the new porch stairs I’ll soon build. Along the way, I’d talked to a man from a local excavating company about digging out the back patio area. He’d stopped by and given me an estimate.
“Yore gonna get blisters!” she took a break from her chewing, bovine-like, leaning against the white car she used to get back and forth to the Burger Palace. “You best wear TWO pairs of gloves, else’n yore gonna get sores!”
I changed the subject, weary of talking about the constant work I’m engaged in, no patience for the inane talk of gloves and sores.
“They’re buying pretty good at the burger joint?” I asked.
“Oh! Them peoples is always buying burgers! They don’t never stop!” This was delivered with a combination of satisfaction and wonder—wonder at all those people who come in to buy hamburgers.
“You’ve gotta be ready for all those folks, I imagine,” I said.
“Whoo-ee! There’s some come in, twelve, fourteen, seventeen dollar of hamburgers!” This took me a little by surprise, wondering who in the world needed that many burgers. By and large, I didn’t really care, just so long as we weren’t talking about the house.
“Mmm..that’s a lot of burgers,” I said.
“They was a big scare, ‘count of folks thought maybe we wasn’t gonna make no more hamburgers,” she said.
I thought it unlikely that the customers came in to buy record numbers of burgers because they thought the char-broiled delicacy would no longer be available. I just figured they needed a lot of hamburgers. I was finished work for the day, didn’t mind the pointless conversation so much.
“Hmm, so they came in to stock up, huh?”
“Yessiree!” Yessiree, yep. Ok, gotta go—I’m finshed for the day.
She paused in mid-chew. “So you didn’t work today?”
J.O. should come over tomorrow, help move some bags of cement from the colosso-hardware and building supply. I’m not convinced that this is the best way to go, given my experience today with the cement mixer I bought some time ago. I’d brought it out today to mix up the material for the steps, found the thing fairly underpowered and struggling to get one bag mixed up. It was, however, much easier than mixing it by hand; if the machine lasts the duration of my house project, I’ll be happy. Then I can discard it.
Since the excavator man said that he’d be able to come out fairly soon to do my patio demolition, I started dismantling the hideous aluminum landing and stairs that jut out from the backside of the house. This involved cutting neatly through the railings with the Sawzall, throwing the things into a pile at the end of the driveway. Then I backed off some of the long screws that hold the side of the structure to the house, left them in place until I have help to safely topple the whole thing. There were two pieces of wood that someone had added as a kind of decorative trim piece to the metal installation. I kicked at one, freeing it up immediately from its unlikely marriage to the metal stairway. The other one didn’t want to be divorced so readily. One blow with the heavy six-pound hammer sent it flying. I’ll build a small deck of roughly the same proportions as the metal landing, with the area underneath perhaps a small brick patio bordered by lawn. I must remember to go in the house, fasten a piece of lumber across the back door, and leave it there until the deck is built. I don’t need anyone stepping outside into the void.
Yesterday I picked up a piece of equipment from a friend north of town. He lives in one of those communities that is always described as “quiet.” Unfortunately, this description is usually applied on the evening news, in the wake of a rampage by some irate neighbor, or some other ghastly event that takes the quiet community by surprise. The houses date back to maybe the late-fifties, are all ranchers, and most have a garage or carport. A house in the big development ran probably six thousand dollars when first built. The calm is overwhelming when you drive through such a place at midday. The homeowners there are at work mostly, one of their two cars maybe still in the carport. Lawns are manicured with a precision rarely seen even in a high-priced salon. Sunlight casts sharp angles of shadow from the low-pitched, understated roofs, porches, and fences. You don’t even hear dogs barking. Where are the dogs? Everyone has a dog these days, so where are they? I picked up the item—some incomprehensible piece of equipment that is a puzzle to use—and drove the deserted streets back to the main road. On the way out I took a photo of my friend’s banner hanging in the warm March air. “PEACE,” it said.
At the parts counter the Ford man was telling me the only difference between the two spare tire “winches” was that one had a male end, the other a female.
“I’ll take the female one,” I said. It was the only one he had, and this would save me the trouble of having to order the one that was supposed to be installed on the work truck. The winch is one of those ingenious devices that cranks up and down, uses a piece of sturdy cable with a special end on it to secure the spare tire under the back of the truck. I may have written in these pages that I’d wanted to modify some other gadget I’d found for the purpose, but my friend King recently reported to me that the original equipment device could be had for a modest sum of money. I decided to spare myself the additional time and aggravation, just go and buy the damn thing from the Ford dealer.
Later, when I pulled the truck into King’s shop, exited my new winch from its box, and slid underneath to install it, I found immediately that it would not work. Thinking initially that it was simply another puzzle I had to work through, I visited a similar truck in the garage, peeked underneath, and saw that my recently-purchased part was of a different design. So, the only difference was NOT one of female or male connectors; this was an issue of having a device that was inverted in its design for whatever application it was intended for. It was like the other one in ever respect, except that it was built upside-down. It wouldn’t work for my truck—not now, not ever. The fascinating thing about this is that the parts man’s job is pretty simple: Get the right part to the customer—whether it is someone like me, or a mechanic in the shop that needs to get a car fixed and back on the road. He deals with everyone who needs parts; it’s all he does. And this part, quite frankly, was an exceedingly simple one to identify and sell. Had he not bothered to say that the only difference was that the two parts had different types of connectors, I would have simply told him to order the correct one, since he didn’t have the one for my truck. But, since he’d volunteered more information, information that I hadn’t even asked for, I was out on the road on a late Tuesday afternoon, using up gas and time, running a fool’s errand. King will order the correct part, it will cost about half of what I paid, and I’ll drive back to the dealer tomorrow or the next day to return this one. Yes, I am pissed off.
“Yore gonna get blisters!” she took a break from her chewing, bovine-like, leaning against the white car she used to get back and forth to the Burger Palace. “You best wear TWO pairs of gloves, else’n yore gonna get sores!”
I changed the subject, weary of talking about the constant work I’m engaged in, no patience for the inane talk of gloves and sores.
“They’re buying pretty good at the burger joint?” I asked.
“Oh! Them peoples is always buying burgers! They don’t never stop!” This was delivered with a combination of satisfaction and wonder—wonder at all those people who come in to buy hamburgers.
“You’ve gotta be ready for all those folks, I imagine,” I said.
“Whoo-ee! There’s some come in, twelve, fourteen, seventeen dollar of hamburgers!” This took me a little by surprise, wondering who in the world needed that many burgers. By and large, I didn’t really care, just so long as we weren’t talking about the house.
“Mmm..that’s a lot of burgers,” I said.
“They was a big scare, ‘count of folks thought maybe we wasn’t gonna make no more hamburgers,” she said.
I thought it unlikely that the customers came in to buy record numbers of burgers because they thought the char-broiled delicacy would no longer be available. I just figured they needed a lot of hamburgers. I was finished work for the day, didn’t mind the pointless conversation so much.
“Hmm, so they came in to stock up, huh?”
“Yessiree!” Yessiree, yep. Ok, gotta go—I’m finshed for the day.
She paused in mid-chew. “So you didn’t work today?”
J.O. should come over tomorrow, help move some bags of cement from the colosso-hardware and building supply. I’m not convinced that this is the best way to go, given my experience today with the cement mixer I bought some time ago. I’d brought it out today to mix up the material for the steps, found the thing fairly underpowered and struggling to get one bag mixed up. It was, however, much easier than mixing it by hand; if the machine lasts the duration of my house project, I’ll be happy. Then I can discard it.
Since the excavator man said that he’d be able to come out fairly soon to do my patio demolition, I started dismantling the hideous aluminum landing and stairs that jut out from the backside of the house. This involved cutting neatly through the railings with the Sawzall, throwing the things into a pile at the end of the driveway. Then I backed off some of the long screws that hold the side of the structure to the house, left them in place until I have help to safely topple the whole thing. There were two pieces of wood that someone had added as a kind of decorative trim piece to the metal installation. I kicked at one, freeing it up immediately from its unlikely marriage to the metal stairway. The other one didn’t want to be divorced so readily. One blow with the heavy six-pound hammer sent it flying. I’ll build a small deck of roughly the same proportions as the metal landing, with the area underneath perhaps a small brick patio bordered by lawn. I must remember to go in the house, fasten a piece of lumber across the back door, and leave it there until the deck is built. I don’t need anyone stepping outside into the void.
Yesterday I picked up a piece of equipment from a friend north of town. He lives in one of those communities that is always described as “quiet.” Unfortunately, this description is usually applied on the evening news, in the wake of a rampage by some irate neighbor, or some other ghastly event that takes the quiet community by surprise. The houses date back to maybe the late-fifties, are all ranchers, and most have a garage or carport. A house in the big development ran probably six thousand dollars when first built. The calm is overwhelming when you drive through such a place at midday. The homeowners there are at work mostly, one of their two cars maybe still in the carport. Lawns are manicured with a precision rarely seen even in a high-priced salon. Sunlight casts sharp angles of shadow from the low-pitched, understated roofs, porches, and fences. You don’t even hear dogs barking. Where are the dogs? Everyone has a dog these days, so where are they? I picked up the item—some incomprehensible piece of equipment that is a puzzle to use—and drove the deserted streets back to the main road. On the way out I took a photo of my friend’s banner hanging in the warm March air. “PEACE,” it said.
At the parts counter the Ford man was telling me the only difference between the two spare tire “winches” was that one had a male end, the other a female.
“I’ll take the female one,” I said. It was the only one he had, and this would save me the trouble of having to order the one that was supposed to be installed on the work truck. The winch is one of those ingenious devices that cranks up and down, uses a piece of sturdy cable with a special end on it to secure the spare tire under the back of the truck. I may have written in these pages that I’d wanted to modify some other gadget I’d found for the purpose, but my friend King recently reported to me that the original equipment device could be had for a modest sum of money. I decided to spare myself the additional time and aggravation, just go and buy the damn thing from the Ford dealer.
Later, when I pulled the truck into King’s shop, exited my new winch from its box, and slid underneath to install it, I found immediately that it would not work. Thinking initially that it was simply another puzzle I had to work through, I visited a similar truck in the garage, peeked underneath, and saw that my recently-purchased part was of a different design. So, the only difference was NOT one of female or male connectors; this was an issue of having a device that was inverted in its design for whatever application it was intended for. It was like the other one in ever respect, except that it was built upside-down. It wouldn’t work for my truck—not now, not ever. The fascinating thing about this is that the parts man’s job is pretty simple: Get the right part to the customer—whether it is someone like me, or a mechanic in the shop that needs to get a car fixed and back on the road. He deals with everyone who needs parts; it’s all he does. And this part, quite frankly, was an exceedingly simple one to identify and sell. Had he not bothered to say that the only difference was that the two parts had different types of connectors, I would have simply told him to order the correct one, since he didn’t have the one for my truck. But, since he’d volunteered more information, information that I hadn’t even asked for, I was out on the road on a late Tuesday afternoon, using up gas and time, running a fool’s errand. King will order the correct part, it will cost about half of what I paid, and I’ll drive back to the dealer tomorrow or the next day to return this one. Yes, I am pissed off.
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