On the occasion of fixing the young woman’s lawnmower, I’d composed a poem for the event. Sadly, since the event was never held, the poem is now relegated to these obscure pages. We would sit, eating her offering of sandwiches, and I would sit erectly, in my tight and high-waisted matador pants with a silk sash around the middle. Atop my head would be an enormous pink sombrero similar to the one in front of Sancho’s Vision Tarp. I’ve taken a liking to it. Clicking on the modern vinyl floor would be boots made of the finest Spanish leather that I’d just bought for the occasion. I would ask if she had a Sprite in the fridge. With ice, please. Then, laying a scarlet kerchief on the table in front of me, I would pose the bit of verse on it, framed in the bright color of the fabric. In total, it comprises about twenty-five pages. Most of it we can do without. Here is some:
…
Off again
I’d take my leave
And quit
The Milky Way
Through emptiness
Of deep, deep space
I’d stop
The mower blades
But up ahead
I see the lights
I’m homesick
For my ma
No turning back
I’m too far now
I’ve hit
Andromeda
Touchdown on
A planet
With ravines
And rocky crags
Also a large
Shopping mall
Called
Okor’s Slabs and Bags
Okor stands
Ten stories tall
In each hand
Is a sack
This shopping mall’s
One thousand miles
Measured
Front to back
He laughs and rattles
The huge sacks
His feet
In giant socks
“Come to Okor’s!”
He commands
“We’re more than
Slabs and rocks!”
Now me he spies
On my machine
Next to
A stack of bags
“YOU THERE!”
Now Okor is mad
“You best be
On your way!”
“But still you sit
On that machine
Oh, well--
There is a bench.”
“Sit down yonder
Mower man
I never liked
The French!”
“Their bread is hard
Their wine is purple
The streets smell
Like wild hogs
“Try to take three
Steps,” he said
“And—oh my god:
THE DOGS!”
Don’t even try
To roll your “arrs”
“cause if you
Get it wrong
It’s like a crime
Against mankind
They’ll drop you
Like a bomb!”
“One other thing…”
Big Okor said,
I got up from
My bench
I agree,
Huge Mall-bag Man
But
I’m not even French!
No sooner had
I said the words
He grabbed
A slab of rock
“These are on sale,
You tiny thing:
Buy two,
The third’s half-off!”
Just barely missed
A crushing step
From Okor’s
Clumsy gait
I drove my mower
Through the rocks
And out
The exit gate
A three-eyed thing
A sentinel
With hands like
Speckled hens
“Thanks for shopping
Okor’s!
Be sure to tell
Your friends!”
And the young woman, who’d listened politely, her hands folded in her lap, wanting more than anything for this situation to end, would throw out these words:
“Oh, that was interesting; mowing the universe: I’d never have thought of that.”
And I would finish my sandwich, with the not-very-good cheese, because it’s the low-fat kind that people eat these days, and besides isn’t even real cheese. I’d look at the day outside—the kids on bikes quietly enjoying the overwhelming beauty of a late-spring sky ushering in the softest of breezes, so that pedaling isn’t too difficult at all, and the flowers in the newly-planted beds tilting just slightly with the caressing air-currents. Even the cars would seem to have stopped in their endless careening about; silence accompanied by the calling of birds would reign. White, frilly curtains would flutter with the day’s promises. And with every minute passing, my presence becoming more of an encumbrance, would offer this:
“I guess I should go. Good luck with the mower.”
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Mattock de joie
I wheeled the old Dodge pickup up the long driveway, past a field just readied for the planting season. Up near the house, another field rose up to the sky and a groundhog was munching on something he’d found there in the dirt. He was far enough off that we didn’t concern him, and he didn’t bother to look up at the visitors exiting the rusty truck. My barber, that cutter of hair, was tidying up his walk, sweeping away at some grass clippings. The garage he’d built next to the house was bigger than the house itself. At King’s urging, I’d come up to look at an old Honda motorcycle the man had sitting in his garage. I’d only been mildly interested, but now with the enthusiasm of my friend working away at me, I thought it would be fun to at least see the machine.
We uncovered the bike, shook off the dusty cloth that had cloaked it for about twenty years, discovered a machine in fairly decent condition. There was some rust on the chrome, but it looked like maybe it could be cleaned up. It also sported a clear windshield, which I thought looked ridiculous on the little 350cc motorcycle, and a backrest—or “sissy-bar”—that was popular back in the day. We discussed the bike, said all that could really be said about an old thing that had been taking up space for so many years, and I offered him two hundred dollars. I didn’t need another project, knew that it was insanity even to be entertaining the idea, but thought that it would be well-bought for that price. The barber was more inclined to accept three hundred, and I made it clear that I didn’t even find the prospect of buying it for my price that exciting; I already had an old Honda and it was in much better shape and actually ran. I told him these things, and finally he agreed to hand over the bike for $250, a price that I’d also balked at, until he and Oort exercised that subtle coercion, that two-against-one mind battle. It was a little foolish to drive up to the northern part of the next county and come away with nothing, after all. So we loaded up the bike in the special carrier back there in the truck and drove off. Back at Oort’s shop, I removed the windshield and backrest and oiled up some moving parts that were no longer moving. That was a few weeks ago and I’ve mostly forgotten about the bike—not having seen it since then.
Yesterday I went off in search of a mattock—a garden tool that digs into the ground and chops at roots and small trees that need to be cut. It was a regular outing for me, and I drove the little car over to the Do-It Center in the next town to buy one. Afterwards I’d stop at the Mexican place and have lunch to celebrate its purchase. At the store they had precisely the tool I was looking for, although they called it a “Pulaski Axe.” I looked it over, weighed the fiberglass handle in my hands, felt the lightness of the sharpened steel head, and decided that this tool was for me. “Okay, so they call it a Pulaski Axe,” I said. “It’s still the same as a mattock.” In truth, the ancient mattocks that I find at the farm sales are heavy things, easily wear out the user, but do a generally good job. They typically only cost a dollar or two, however—but need sharpening, and the handles are usually good for one or two uses before the dried and worm-eaten wood snaps in two. My new axe had a fiberglass handle, which the bugs don’t find attractive.
Back at the house I worked away most of the day digging up roots from the unruly hedge I’d chopped back with J.O. the other day. We’d done some work on the deck next door, had installed the upright posts, then had turned our attention to this green buffer along the side of the house, just adjoining the neighbor’s yard. I started the chainsaw and cut the thing down, even with the ground—or almost. I’ve planted plenty of new trees and greenery over the years, so doing away with this hedge did not make me feel too guilty. It was impractically placed down there at the bottom of a steep little hill, and made for difficult—if not impossible—access with the lawnmower to cut back the grass there on the steep terrain. And, because it was so difficult to get to, trimming the hedge became something that I rarely got around to. As a result, it often sprouted a carnival of greenery: Other trees would grow up within the hedge, and the poison ivy that is overtaking everything would also find a good home there. It had to go.
With deliberate strokes, I aimed the mattock at the ground around the stumps of the old hedge, severed the roots and pulled out the remnants that were poking up from the ground. I didn’t swing the thing any more than I had to, since I knew how tiring this activity could be. The lightness of the tool made it easy to work with, and didn’t cause too much fatigue. It really is a fine mattock. With about half of the remaining roots dug up, I started in on the abundant hedge greenery that lay all over the lawn, waiting to be discarded. The grass and clippings pickup was the next day, so I thought it would be best to start bundling this stuff up for the recycling people to cart away. They pick it up in a big truck and turn the stuff into mulch. I thought it would be better than loading it into my truck and carting it to the waste station, where it just gets thrown in with the general refuse, and does not get recycled. Plus, with gas nearing four dollars a gallon, it would be nice to keep the truck parked as much as possible.
Sunday night I drove down to the center of Baltimore to hear a local jazz trio perform. They played in a little place on the corner of a somewhat blighted crossroads, but not too far from the art college. Their pizza is reportedly excellent, and looked it—with very thin crusts topped with a variety of appetizing offerings. I was sorry I’d eaten recently at the Mexican place and was still quite full. I did order a plate of breaded onion caps, however, and ate those with two cranberry and vodkas. A cute but drunk young woman next to me invited me to try her fries with mayonnaise—an offer that was impossible to refuse, since she was practically forcing one of them on me. I did allow as it was pretty good, although I didn’t tell her I am not too fond of mayonnaise in general. Too eggy. The fries were excellent, however. She was with a young man who had to be none too pleased that she was engaging this stranger next to her, but I went along good-naturedly with her questions and general drunken exuberance. At least she didn’t want to start a fight. I hate that.
The jazz trio, which I’d seen many times before, was excellent, and the drummer spent a good deal of time talking to me, explaining some of his technique and how he practiced. I was particularly interested in some footwork between the high-hat and bass drum that seemed perfectly synchronized, couldn’t quite fathom how he’d come to get to that point. He explained that he isolated those two pieces, didn’t work on anything involving the hands, and practiced until it became second nature. Then he didn’t have to think about those things down on the floor while he was doing intricacies involving the hitting of the upper drums and cymbals.
They had a singer this time, and she was every bit as accomplished as the trio that backed her up. She did unusual songs, foreign things that she introduced with an explanation to kind of get people in the mood for what was coming. These songs were in Hebrew and Yiddish. The drunken young woman thought she was great, although she didn’t sing “My Funny Valentine,” as she’d wanted. It wasn’t a Funny Valentine kind of evening.
I finally drove my beloved Dodge pickup to a local dirt site to take the much-awaited photos for these pages. As I’ve chronicled here, the truck set me back three hundred dollars and runs fine—so far. I’ve put new brakes on the rear, but that’s about it. The other day I stowed the spare tire underneath, which required some minor repairs and the freeing of rusted nuts and bolts, but everything went back together okay and it was only a small outlay of time. One trick I’ve learned from various mechanic friends is to apply heat to a rusted fastener to get it to move. For example, if a nut is too stubborn to budge, simply heat the thing to almost glowing red with a torch and try to turn it again. It will free up, owing to the action of the heat on the metal, which expands with the application of the torch. It’s of course not perceptible to the eye, but the molecules in there get excited and start running around and it’s then that you go for it. This worked on the truck the other day, as I needed to loosen part of the spare tire holder to make the whole thing function as it should.
Of course I photographed the truck in its natural environment—a dirt site. Pictured with the old Dodge is a tractor that sells for approximately $275,000. It’s a pretty nice tractor, as it has a fully-enclosed cab, air-conditioning and heat, and possibly a stereo in there as well. The blade is also extra-wide, which adds to the cost. The yellow crawler is a little too nice for my taste, owing to the fact that it’s not old and beat-up, but I couldn’t find anything like that around here, so I settled for this one. It was close and didn’t require too much gas to get there. I tried to find someone to ask permission for a short photo-shoot, but the worksite was deserted: everyone had gone home for the day.
We uncovered the bike, shook off the dusty cloth that had cloaked it for about twenty years, discovered a machine in fairly decent condition. There was some rust on the chrome, but it looked like maybe it could be cleaned up. It also sported a clear windshield, which I thought looked ridiculous on the little 350cc motorcycle, and a backrest—or “sissy-bar”—that was popular back in the day. We discussed the bike, said all that could really be said about an old thing that had been taking up space for so many years, and I offered him two hundred dollars. I didn’t need another project, knew that it was insanity even to be entertaining the idea, but thought that it would be well-bought for that price. The barber was more inclined to accept three hundred, and I made it clear that I didn’t even find the prospect of buying it for my price that exciting; I already had an old Honda and it was in much better shape and actually ran. I told him these things, and finally he agreed to hand over the bike for $250, a price that I’d also balked at, until he and Oort exercised that subtle coercion, that two-against-one mind battle. It was a little foolish to drive up to the northern part of the next county and come away with nothing, after all. So we loaded up the bike in the special carrier back there in the truck and drove off. Back at Oort’s shop, I removed the windshield and backrest and oiled up some moving parts that were no longer moving. That was a few weeks ago and I’ve mostly forgotten about the bike—not having seen it since then.
Yesterday I went off in search of a mattock—a garden tool that digs into the ground and chops at roots and small trees that need to be cut. It was a regular outing for me, and I drove the little car over to the Do-It Center in the next town to buy one. Afterwards I’d stop at the Mexican place and have lunch to celebrate its purchase. At the store they had precisely the tool I was looking for, although they called it a “Pulaski Axe.” I looked it over, weighed the fiberglass handle in my hands, felt the lightness of the sharpened steel head, and decided that this tool was for me. “Okay, so they call it a Pulaski Axe,” I said. “It’s still the same as a mattock.” In truth, the ancient mattocks that I find at the farm sales are heavy things, easily wear out the user, but do a generally good job. They typically only cost a dollar or two, however—but need sharpening, and the handles are usually good for one or two uses before the dried and worm-eaten wood snaps in two. My new axe had a fiberglass handle, which the bugs don’t find attractive.
Back at the house I worked away most of the day digging up roots from the unruly hedge I’d chopped back with J.O. the other day. We’d done some work on the deck next door, had installed the upright posts, then had turned our attention to this green buffer along the side of the house, just adjoining the neighbor’s yard. I started the chainsaw and cut the thing down, even with the ground—or almost. I’ve planted plenty of new trees and greenery over the years, so doing away with this hedge did not make me feel too guilty. It was impractically placed down there at the bottom of a steep little hill, and made for difficult—if not impossible—access with the lawnmower to cut back the grass there on the steep terrain. And, because it was so difficult to get to, trimming the hedge became something that I rarely got around to. As a result, it often sprouted a carnival of greenery: Other trees would grow up within the hedge, and the poison ivy that is overtaking everything would also find a good home there. It had to go.
With deliberate strokes, I aimed the mattock at the ground around the stumps of the old hedge, severed the roots and pulled out the remnants that were poking up from the ground. I didn’t swing the thing any more than I had to, since I knew how tiring this activity could be. The lightness of the tool made it easy to work with, and didn’t cause too much fatigue. It really is a fine mattock. With about half of the remaining roots dug up, I started in on the abundant hedge greenery that lay all over the lawn, waiting to be discarded. The grass and clippings pickup was the next day, so I thought it would be best to start bundling this stuff up for the recycling people to cart away. They pick it up in a big truck and turn the stuff into mulch. I thought it would be better than loading it into my truck and carting it to the waste station, where it just gets thrown in with the general refuse, and does not get recycled. Plus, with gas nearing four dollars a gallon, it would be nice to keep the truck parked as much as possible.
Sunday night I drove down to the center of Baltimore to hear a local jazz trio perform. They played in a little place on the corner of a somewhat blighted crossroads, but not too far from the art college. Their pizza is reportedly excellent, and looked it—with very thin crusts topped with a variety of appetizing offerings. I was sorry I’d eaten recently at the Mexican place and was still quite full. I did order a plate of breaded onion caps, however, and ate those with two cranberry and vodkas. A cute but drunk young woman next to me invited me to try her fries with mayonnaise—an offer that was impossible to refuse, since she was practically forcing one of them on me. I did allow as it was pretty good, although I didn’t tell her I am not too fond of mayonnaise in general. Too eggy. The fries were excellent, however. She was with a young man who had to be none too pleased that she was engaging this stranger next to her, but I went along good-naturedly with her questions and general drunken exuberance. At least she didn’t want to start a fight. I hate that.
The jazz trio, which I’d seen many times before, was excellent, and the drummer spent a good deal of time talking to me, explaining some of his technique and how he practiced. I was particularly interested in some footwork between the high-hat and bass drum that seemed perfectly synchronized, couldn’t quite fathom how he’d come to get to that point. He explained that he isolated those two pieces, didn’t work on anything involving the hands, and practiced until it became second nature. Then he didn’t have to think about those things down on the floor while he was doing intricacies involving the hitting of the upper drums and cymbals.
They had a singer this time, and she was every bit as accomplished as the trio that backed her up. She did unusual songs, foreign things that she introduced with an explanation to kind of get people in the mood for what was coming. These songs were in Hebrew and Yiddish. The drunken young woman thought she was great, although she didn’t sing “My Funny Valentine,” as she’d wanted. It wasn’t a Funny Valentine kind of evening.
I finally drove my beloved Dodge pickup to a local dirt site to take the much-awaited photos for these pages. As I’ve chronicled here, the truck set me back three hundred dollars and runs fine—so far. I’ve put new brakes on the rear, but that’s about it. The other day I stowed the spare tire underneath, which required some minor repairs and the freeing of rusted nuts and bolts, but everything went back together okay and it was only a small outlay of time. One trick I’ve learned from various mechanic friends is to apply heat to a rusted fastener to get it to move. For example, if a nut is too stubborn to budge, simply heat the thing to almost glowing red with a torch and try to turn it again. It will free up, owing to the action of the heat on the metal, which expands with the application of the torch. It’s of course not perceptible to the eye, but the molecules in there get excited and start running around and it’s then that you go for it. This worked on the truck the other day, as I needed to loosen part of the spare tire holder to make the whole thing function as it should.
Of course I photographed the truck in its natural environment—a dirt site. Pictured with the old Dodge is a tractor that sells for approximately $275,000. It’s a pretty nice tractor, as it has a fully-enclosed cab, air-conditioning and heat, and possibly a stereo in there as well. The blade is also extra-wide, which adds to the cost. The yellow crawler is a little too nice for my taste, owing to the fact that it’s not old and beat-up, but I couldn’t find anything like that around here, so I settled for this one. It was close and didn’t require too much gas to get there. I tried to find someone to ask permission for a short photo-shoot, but the worksite was deserted: everyone had gone home for the day.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Louis Cat-Doors
“You got air in that thing?” The half-wit was standing in the driveway, next to the white car she was always splashing with water. The rear tire was completely flat. Up on the new deck, I was installing posts with J.O., wanted to continue with that, but told the woman I’d be down in a minute to help her out. I took the reserve tank of air out of the back of the truck, hooked the hose to the tire, and watched as the shiny white car rose a few inches with the inflation. Her daughter and her daughter’s man-friend looked on, having poked at the tire a little just recently, saw that it was flat, and those gathered there told me that the man-friend had plugged up the hole. “This is getting good,” I thought. “Maybe I’ll tarry a bit here; the posts can wait.”
“It takes 44 pounds,” the man-friend, that plugger of tires, said.
“That seems like an awful lot,” I said, getting my voice together for these times. “You hafta go by what it says on the car, if’n y’all don’t want it so’s yore tire gets all exploded.” I looked at the car, directed the half-wit to open the door. “See? It says right there by the door jab: 34 PSI.” Then, to show that I was just like one of them, wasn’t so bad after all, I plopped myself down in the dust and gravel of the driveway, started rolling around. With the warm sunshine dappled on my body, I kicked my legs in the air, pushed around a little with my arms. “I shore am tired,” I said, kicking some. “But I got the most turble itch.” I shoved off with my legs, raking my back along the mix of sand and dust and gravel. “I’m gonna scratch some.” I slid along the ground as I’d seen the cats do, dragging my back across the rough and pebbly surface. “Shore feels good.”
“You want I should give you something?” The half-wit was standing with her mouth open, the thick spectacles making her eyes blurred with even more confusion. I stopped my scratching down there on the ground. She wanted to pay me for the air. “I reckon fifty cent oughtta be all right,” I said. “Leastaways, that’s what they make you pay at one of them air machines down to the fillin’ station.” I slid along the ground a little more, added: “If’n you ain’t got the money right now, I kin come ‘round after lunch. Me’n J.O.’s gonna buy a Frosty an’ a ice cream once’t we get the fifty cents.” I added that I reckoned fifty cents wasn’t asking too much, on account of what they charged at the garage, repeated that she didn’t even have to go to the machine, that I’d had the air right there at her house, had saved her a trip. I rolled over two or three times, covering my jeans and shirt in the warm dry dust, shook the dirt out of my hair. I added this:
“You might’n gotten it fer less, but Miz Pamela down t’the market give me a whole dollar to bust up a Louis Cat-Doors what she said her granddaddy kept fancy pillers in an' said it was french. But she didn’ want the Louis Cat-Doors no more an I said if’n you got them fancy pillers I’ll bust it up fer a dollar. But after she thought on that said she ain’t had them pillers no more an besides they wasn’t no good on account of her granddaddy was real old. I says to her I don’t know what a Louis Cat-Doors is but you show me where it is an’ I’ll bust it up fer a dollar an also you shore you aint got them pillers on account of mine is wore out from when I was jes’ a kid.”
I made the half-wit understand that Miss Pamela no longer had the pillows, and that somehow my activities there in the driveway with her flat tire were related to my busting up the Louis Cat-Doors. I was on my belly, pushing off with my feet, scooting into the short grass. “Now I’m itchin’ all over,” I said. If you ain’t got the fifty cents, I guess I kin come ‘round after lunch.”
Down at the end of the lane, just before the levee, the trees reached for each other, embracing up high where no one looked—their rich-breathing canopy exhaling the passion of summer, but aloof and cool against a hot august sky you couldn’t see. Down there it was dark, and the levee rose beyond the lane’s end like it was the edge of the world. I got up, brushed off my dirty pants.
“I have to go back to work now.”
“It takes 44 pounds,” the man-friend, that plugger of tires, said.
“That seems like an awful lot,” I said, getting my voice together for these times. “You hafta go by what it says on the car, if’n y’all don’t want it so’s yore tire gets all exploded.” I looked at the car, directed the half-wit to open the door. “See? It says right there by the door jab: 34 PSI.” Then, to show that I was just like one of them, wasn’t so bad after all, I plopped myself down in the dust and gravel of the driveway, started rolling around. With the warm sunshine dappled on my body, I kicked my legs in the air, pushed around a little with my arms. “I shore am tired,” I said, kicking some. “But I got the most turble itch.” I shoved off with my legs, raking my back along the mix of sand and dust and gravel. “I’m gonna scratch some.” I slid along the ground as I’d seen the cats do, dragging my back across the rough and pebbly surface. “Shore feels good.”
“You want I should give you something?” The half-wit was standing with her mouth open, the thick spectacles making her eyes blurred with even more confusion. I stopped my scratching down there on the ground. She wanted to pay me for the air. “I reckon fifty cent oughtta be all right,” I said. “Leastaways, that’s what they make you pay at one of them air machines down to the fillin’ station.” I slid along the ground a little more, added: “If’n you ain’t got the money right now, I kin come ‘round after lunch. Me’n J.O.’s gonna buy a Frosty an’ a ice cream once’t we get the fifty cents.” I added that I reckoned fifty cents wasn’t asking too much, on account of what they charged at the garage, repeated that she didn’t even have to go to the machine, that I’d had the air right there at her house, had saved her a trip. I rolled over two or three times, covering my jeans and shirt in the warm dry dust, shook the dirt out of my hair. I added this:
“You might’n gotten it fer less, but Miz Pamela down t’the market give me a whole dollar to bust up a Louis Cat-Doors what she said her granddaddy kept fancy pillers in an' said it was french. But she didn’ want the Louis Cat-Doors no more an I said if’n you got them fancy pillers I’ll bust it up fer a dollar. But after she thought on that said she ain’t had them pillers no more an besides they wasn’t no good on account of her granddaddy was real old. I says to her I don’t know what a Louis Cat-Doors is but you show me where it is an’ I’ll bust it up fer a dollar an also you shore you aint got them pillers on account of mine is wore out from when I was jes’ a kid.”
I made the half-wit understand that Miss Pamela no longer had the pillows, and that somehow my activities there in the driveway with her flat tire were related to my busting up the Louis Cat-Doors. I was on my belly, pushing off with my feet, scooting into the short grass. “Now I’m itchin’ all over,” I said. If you ain’t got the fifty cents, I guess I kin come ‘round after lunch.”
Down at the end of the lane, just before the levee, the trees reached for each other, embracing up high where no one looked—their rich-breathing canopy exhaling the passion of summer, but aloof and cool against a hot august sky you couldn’t see. Down there it was dark, and the levee rose beyond the lane’s end like it was the edge of the world. I got up, brushed off my dirty pants.
“I have to go back to work now.”
Monday, May 19, 2008
"What do you know about lawnmowers?"
I looked over past postings to these writings, realized with horror that some passages had been repeated, that the whole post had a somewhat butchered look to it. It’s my computer; it has a hairline trigger—a key, that if struck accidentally—randomly repeats passages either partly or in their entirety. It’s one of the best computers money can buy, but at these times I want to stomp on the keyboard, grab it by its little cord, swing it around and around, smashing it into things. When I’ve done that for a while, I would gladly rip the cord out, take the keyboard and strike it repeatedly against the monitor, listening while the computer voice—which I’ve inadvertently activated—says, “Opening Windows. Windows closed. File unkown. Recent items: Safari. Closing safari…” and so on. As I was writing this little passage, the computer actually did exactly what I was referring to. It’s funny that way.
“So, G.—what do you know about lawnmowers?” I regarded the pretty young woman who’d asked me this, felt the air between us become thinner. At that precise moment, as the words left her lips, a slight blip in the machinery that runs the universe occurred—a skipped beat if you will. Somewhere high in a New York tenement, with a flickering bulb and a weary tenant laboring over a stuck toilet with plunger, the rusted and ancient sink drip drip dripping more rust-colored water down the sides of the worn porcelain, trickling past the meager sliver of soap, the plunger finally breaks off, snaps the cheap wooden handle. Undeterred, the tenant works at the clog with the broken stick, beholds five one-hundred dollar bills floating up from the muck, fishes them out, puts the stick down for a while, sits at the edge of the tub. Somewhere in Missouri a jagged line opens in a highway, becomes a crack, a cat jumps down there and is rescued and on the news, people from all over wanting to adopt that cat. In Kansas, in a little town near the Colorado border, a restaurant has run out of seafood and it’s their busiest weekend. They need fish. Out on I-70 a fish truck has wrecked, spilling frozen crabs, lobsters, orange roughy and salmon steaks onto the highway. The radio alert goes out: All those in need of seafood are to report to the scene and gather up as much as they can.
I steadied myself, considered my words carefully—although my upper lip was trembling, my thoughts racing to get ahead of what I had to say. “I. KNOW. EVERYTHING. ABOUT. LAWNMOWERS.” Although far from the truth, what I’d just uttered was close enough for the current circumstances. Whatever trifling bit of obstinacy her machine was posing could be easily remedied—of that I was sure. I nearly blacked out; there was surely a ringing in my left ear, and in my right ear I had gone perhaps completely deaf. My feet seemed to have swollen to elephantine proportions. I waved an unsteady hand for something solid to grab onto, tried to regain my composure. I got into the specifics of the symptoms, woozy with the delight of the topic. I spoke in surgically precise terms of oil and carburetors. If I’d had a lectern, I would have lowered my spectacles, offered a brief seminar there in the room, shuffling papers and referring to notes, but often speaking off the cuff—from my wealth of knowledge.
“I will help you fix your machine,” I said. “I’ll require a sandwich,” I added. She acquiesced to my offer and the sandwich provision.
And then, in an imperceptible act of self-correction, the universe shuddered back to normalcy, the lawnmower was forgotten, nothing came of it, nothing ever would. I would be providing my own sandwiches—or go to a place that sells them--as most people in a smoothly-running universe do.
That evening I pulled up to the rib place, looked down at my stockinged feet. The socks were white and clean, but no shoes were to be had. I’d gotten into the car shoeless, as was often the case, had counted on there being a pair down there on the floor. On this evening there were no shoes. I looked stupidly at my feet, then at the restaurant. They had a carry-out counter, where people picked up their ribs, crab-cakes and so on. Maybe I could go there, try to look inconspicuous in the busy foyer. I weighed my options, which weren’t abundant, started the car and went home. In front of the television, with one of those animal rescue shows playing, I ate roasted and salted peanuts one after the other, tossing the shells into a bowl. It takes a lot of peanuts to make a meal: They’re rather small.
“So, G.—what do you know about lawnmowers?” I regarded the pretty young woman who’d asked me this, felt the air between us become thinner. At that precise moment, as the words left her lips, a slight blip in the machinery that runs the universe occurred—a skipped beat if you will. Somewhere high in a New York tenement, with a flickering bulb and a weary tenant laboring over a stuck toilet with plunger, the rusted and ancient sink drip drip dripping more rust-colored water down the sides of the worn porcelain, trickling past the meager sliver of soap, the plunger finally breaks off, snaps the cheap wooden handle. Undeterred, the tenant works at the clog with the broken stick, beholds five one-hundred dollar bills floating up from the muck, fishes them out, puts the stick down for a while, sits at the edge of the tub. Somewhere in Missouri a jagged line opens in a highway, becomes a crack, a cat jumps down there and is rescued and on the news, people from all over wanting to adopt that cat. In Kansas, in a little town near the Colorado border, a restaurant has run out of seafood and it’s their busiest weekend. They need fish. Out on I-70 a fish truck has wrecked, spilling frozen crabs, lobsters, orange roughy and salmon steaks onto the highway. The radio alert goes out: All those in need of seafood are to report to the scene and gather up as much as they can.
I steadied myself, considered my words carefully—although my upper lip was trembling, my thoughts racing to get ahead of what I had to say. “I. KNOW. EVERYTHING. ABOUT. LAWNMOWERS.” Although far from the truth, what I’d just uttered was close enough for the current circumstances. Whatever trifling bit of obstinacy her machine was posing could be easily remedied—of that I was sure. I nearly blacked out; there was surely a ringing in my left ear, and in my right ear I had gone perhaps completely deaf. My feet seemed to have swollen to elephantine proportions. I waved an unsteady hand for something solid to grab onto, tried to regain my composure. I got into the specifics of the symptoms, woozy with the delight of the topic. I spoke in surgically precise terms of oil and carburetors. If I’d had a lectern, I would have lowered my spectacles, offered a brief seminar there in the room, shuffling papers and referring to notes, but often speaking off the cuff—from my wealth of knowledge.
“I will help you fix your machine,” I said. “I’ll require a sandwich,” I added. She acquiesced to my offer and the sandwich provision.
And then, in an imperceptible act of self-correction, the universe shuddered back to normalcy, the lawnmower was forgotten, nothing came of it, nothing ever would. I would be providing my own sandwiches—or go to a place that sells them--as most people in a smoothly-running universe do.
That evening I pulled up to the rib place, looked down at my stockinged feet. The socks were white and clean, but no shoes were to be had. I’d gotten into the car shoeless, as was often the case, had counted on there being a pair down there on the floor. On this evening there were no shoes. I looked stupidly at my feet, then at the restaurant. They had a carry-out counter, where people picked up their ribs, crab-cakes and so on. Maybe I could go there, try to look inconspicuous in the busy foyer. I weighed my options, which weren’t abundant, started the car and went home. In front of the television, with one of those animal rescue shows playing, I ate roasted and salted peanuts one after the other, tossing the shells into a bowl. It takes a lot of peanuts to make a meal: They’re rather small.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Order of Freemasons
May 15, 2008
Fourteen hundred pounds. I’d underestimated the weight of the furnace a bit, and since I adhere to a policy of accuracy in these writings, thought I’d set the record straight. Although I’d broken the different sections of the boiler up into fragments, the individual pieces were still quite heavy and required a good deal of effort to heave them off the back of the truck. Cast iron, or “sheet iron” as the scrap people designate it, comes apart after some liberal applications from a heavy maul-- in this case, one that weighed around twelve pounds. Here is the technique: First you put in earplugs to protect against the deafening racket, then smash the long-handled maul against the same spot again and again until fractures appear and a piece finally cracks off. If you’re lucky, it will be an especially big piece, and not just a little one that doesn’t do much at all to diminish the overall weight. Then you move on to the next section, have at it again, until you’ve accumulated a nice little pile.
At the salvage yard it was a landscape of truck axles, big steel wheels, tanks, big chunks of aluminum, whole buses that people just like me were towing in to be weighed and cashed in—and of course my red Dodge pickup with 1400 pounds of scrap. There is sometimes a line to get into this place, and I waited behind an old Ford pickup with leaning boards for sides, and junk heaped much higher than the boards themselves reached. The flimsy siding warped and leaned with the tremendous weight, and the whole truck listed to one side, straining to maintain an upright posture. A few tired ropes, slackened and useless, wound their way around the unstable load, with barbecues, a child’s bicycle, a washer and dryer, a vacuum cleaner and myriad other things making up the eclectic menagerie. It was a miracle that the truck made it over the potholed streets of west Baltimore without the whole business giving way. He made it to the scrap yard just in time.
As I pushed my offerings off the back of the truck, a scrap yard man in a little wheeled tractor drove up to the side of the truck, lowered the forks of the lifting machine in greeting. I looked up.
“You the one with the Masons?” he asked. The clatter and noise in this place is loud, to say the least, so I had him repeat his query. I still wasn’t getting it, even after a couple more times, at which point I would have been pissed off if I were doing the repeating. He maintained his good humor, however.
“Masons?” I finally said.
He said that I looked like a man who came in, belonged to the Order of Freemasons, a somewhat secret society, and one that is much in prominence in Poe’s “A Cask of Amontillado.” I didn’t bring all of that up.
“I know who the Freemasons are,” I shouted, “But I’m not one of them! You’ve got the wrong guy.”
He apologized, said he hadn’t seen this man for some time, but remembered that he had a red truck and was rather slim.
“I’ve only had this truck for a short time,” I said, just to be able to say something. But I wanted this scrap yard-man to be my friend, to talk to him about Freemasons, maybe even bring up Poe’s story if I could somehow work it in. That would be a challenge. Maybe he knew of it already, would want to recommend books to me, things I didn’t know about. What I REALLY wanted to know was how this yard-tender, driving around in his little forklift, tidying up, moving car axles, motors, the stray refrigerator, had come to be talking about Freemasons with a casual visitor—one of the many hundreds of people who come to unload their scraps for a few extra bucks.
At the exit they weighed my truck again, figured out how much lighter I was than when I first came in, and paid me for the stuff I dropped off. When I cashed in my ATM card there at the cash pickup, I was $150 richer and absolutely elated. Forgotten immediately was the toil, the bashing and pushing and shoving and struggling with the heavy things, ant-like, with a huge nibbled-off piece of a leaf on my back. “This is like getting money for free,” I thought.
Fourteen hundred pounds. I’d underestimated the weight of the furnace a bit, and since I adhere to a policy of accuracy in these writings, thought I’d set the record straight. Although I’d broken the different sections of the boiler up into fragments, the individual pieces were still quite heavy and required a good deal of effort to heave them off the back of the truck. Cast iron, or “sheet iron” as the scrap people designate it, comes apart after some liberal applications from a heavy maul-- in this case, one that weighed around twelve pounds. Here is the technique: First you put in earplugs to protect against the deafening racket, then smash the long-handled maul against the same spot again and again until fractures appear and a piece finally cracks off. If you’re lucky, it will be an especially big piece, and not just a little one that doesn’t do much at all to diminish the overall weight. Then you move on to the next section, have at it again, until you’ve accumulated a nice little pile.
At the salvage yard it was a landscape of truck axles, big steel wheels, tanks, big chunks of aluminum, whole buses that people just like me were towing in to be weighed and cashed in—and of course my red Dodge pickup with 1400 pounds of scrap. There is sometimes a line to get into this place, and I waited behind an old Ford pickup with leaning boards for sides, and junk heaped much higher than the boards themselves reached. The flimsy siding warped and leaned with the tremendous weight, and the whole truck listed to one side, straining to maintain an upright posture. A few tired ropes, slackened and useless, wound their way around the unstable load, with barbecues, a child’s bicycle, a washer and dryer, a vacuum cleaner and myriad other things making up the eclectic menagerie. It was a miracle that the truck made it over the potholed streets of west Baltimore without the whole business giving way. He made it to the scrap yard just in time.
As I pushed my offerings off the back of the truck, a scrap yard man in a little wheeled tractor drove up to the side of the truck, lowered the forks of the lifting machine in greeting. I looked up.
“You the one with the Masons?” he asked. The clatter and noise in this place is loud, to say the least, so I had him repeat his query. I still wasn’t getting it, even after a couple more times, at which point I would have been pissed off if I were doing the repeating. He maintained his good humor, however.
“Masons?” I finally said.
He said that I looked like a man who came in, belonged to the Order of Freemasons, a somewhat secret society, and one that is much in prominence in Poe’s “A Cask of Amontillado.” I didn’t bring all of that up.
“I know who the Freemasons are,” I shouted, “But I’m not one of them! You’ve got the wrong guy.”
He apologized, said he hadn’t seen this man for some time, but remembered that he had a red truck and was rather slim.
“I’ve only had this truck for a short time,” I said, just to be able to say something. But I wanted this scrap yard-man to be my friend, to talk to him about Freemasons, maybe even bring up Poe’s story if I could somehow work it in. That would be a challenge. Maybe he knew of it already, would want to recommend books to me, things I didn’t know about. What I REALLY wanted to know was how this yard-tender, driving around in his little forklift, tidying up, moving car axles, motors, the stray refrigerator, had come to be talking about Freemasons with a casual visitor—one of the many hundreds of people who come to unload their scraps for a few extra bucks.
At the exit they weighed my truck again, figured out how much lighter I was than when I first came in, and paid me for the stuff I dropped off. When I cashed in my ATM card there at the cash pickup, I was $150 richer and absolutely elated. Forgotten immediately was the toil, the bashing and pushing and shoving and struggling with the heavy things, ant-like, with a huge nibbled-off piece of a leaf on my back. “This is like getting money for free,” I thought.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Farm Pants
“Mama, I’m going out! I’ll be back soon!
With a carrot in hand, a carrot that would be part of a warm meal in the autumn of 1937, Tricia’s mother turned, wiped her hands.
“Do you think you can find a moment in your busy life to shovel a little coal downstairs?” This was delivered with the expectation of protests, delivered in a resigned kind of way, knowing full well the reaction from young Tricia.
“Mother! My dress! I just changed, and now it’s coal you want!”
“I’m sure the Simpson boy can wait while you stoke the furnace a bit. He’s no stranger to coal dust, as I warrant their house will be warm for his young lady’s visit.”
Tricia went upstairs, defeated by her mother’s words, huffing as she put on the baggy denim trousers that she called her “farm pants.”
Her mother, who had now started on the potatoes, laughed as she turned and saw the girl heading down into the basement. This she heard from the steps, petulantly, as Tricia made for the coal chute: “The Madisons are getting a new oil furnace, tra la la la la! No more shoveling coal for the Madisons! But, no—we would never imagine such luxury! We’re happy to go mucking around down in the cellar, where the most dreadful things live! We’re happy to be with the spiders, positively look forward to heaping big black chunks of coal into that horrible machine!”
The Madisons. Over in their driveway was a nearly-new car, one of the bright and shiny Chevrolets with plenty of chrome and flashy green paint.
“Maybe you should live with the Madisons if we’re not providing as you see fit!” This was lost in the scraping of the coal shovel against the pile, while Tricia in her farm pants labored over the coal chunks and dumped the fuel into the maw of the glowing orange fire-box. She looked down at her soiled and coal-dusted pants.
“My goodness! These old farm pants are too good for this horrible work; just look at them! I’ll bet Alicia doesn’t have to wear farm pants! I would bet that no one over in the Madison house will have to wear farm pants once their new oil-burner is heating the house! The dirtiest work they’ll have is picking up the telephone, asking Maylene for the connection to the fuel oil people!” Acting out her imagined scenario:
“Hello! Yes this is the residence on Maiden Choice Lane. Yes, of course we have an account with you—it’s the new house with the crabapple tree out front, only there aren’t many crabapples this year. Yes, that’s the one! Will you please send your man around with a truck of that wonderful fuel. We needn’t be home, will most likely be away—you can simply send a bill or slip it under the door. Father will take care of it!”
Seventy years later, down there in the dark room with the worn workbench and stuff of years past, the canning jar lids nailed still to the ceiling rafters in a home-made storage system of hanging jars that you simply unscrewed from the ceiling to retrieve a nut or bolt or faucet washer, I labor again over the old coal-fired furnace. But this time I am bashing it to bits, hauling away its unwilling and heavy parts. If Tricia could only see.
With a carrot in hand, a carrot that would be part of a warm meal in the autumn of 1937, Tricia’s mother turned, wiped her hands.
“Do you think you can find a moment in your busy life to shovel a little coal downstairs?” This was delivered with the expectation of protests, delivered in a resigned kind of way, knowing full well the reaction from young Tricia.
“Mother! My dress! I just changed, and now it’s coal you want!”
“I’m sure the Simpson boy can wait while you stoke the furnace a bit. He’s no stranger to coal dust, as I warrant their house will be warm for his young lady’s visit.”
Tricia went upstairs, defeated by her mother’s words, huffing as she put on the baggy denim trousers that she called her “farm pants.”
Her mother, who had now started on the potatoes, laughed as she turned and saw the girl heading down into the basement. This she heard from the steps, petulantly, as Tricia made for the coal chute: “The Madisons are getting a new oil furnace, tra la la la la! No more shoveling coal for the Madisons! But, no—we would never imagine such luxury! We’re happy to go mucking around down in the cellar, where the most dreadful things live! We’re happy to be with the spiders, positively look forward to heaping big black chunks of coal into that horrible machine!”
The Madisons. Over in their driveway was a nearly-new car, one of the bright and shiny Chevrolets with plenty of chrome and flashy green paint.
“Maybe you should live with the Madisons if we’re not providing as you see fit!” This was lost in the scraping of the coal shovel against the pile, while Tricia in her farm pants labored over the coal chunks and dumped the fuel into the maw of the glowing orange fire-box. She looked down at her soiled and coal-dusted pants.
“My goodness! These old farm pants are too good for this horrible work; just look at them! I’ll bet Alicia doesn’t have to wear farm pants! I would bet that no one over in the Madison house will have to wear farm pants once their new oil-burner is heating the house! The dirtiest work they’ll have is picking up the telephone, asking Maylene for the connection to the fuel oil people!” Acting out her imagined scenario:
“Hello! Yes this is the residence on Maiden Choice Lane. Yes, of course we have an account with you—it’s the new house with the crabapple tree out front, only there aren’t many crabapples this year. Yes, that’s the one! Will you please send your man around with a truck of that wonderful fuel. We needn’t be home, will most likely be away—you can simply send a bill or slip it under the door. Father will take care of it!”
Seventy years later, down there in the dark room with the worn workbench and stuff of years past, the canning jar lids nailed still to the ceiling rafters in a home-made storage system of hanging jars that you simply unscrewed from the ceiling to retrieve a nut or bolt or faucet washer, I labor again over the old coal-fired furnace. But this time I am bashing it to bits, hauling away its unwilling and heavy parts. If Tricia could only see.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Landslide
May 9, 2008
“Bubble Mango! Bubble Mango! Bubble Mango!”
I was finishing up my meal, which included an enormous bowl of noodle soup and the spring rolls that I love. At the back of the Vietnamese restaurant the server was yelling over and over the order for the bubble drink.
“There must be something to this,” I thought. “Goddammit, now I want a bubble mango!”
I caught his attention as I was scooping up some stray noodles from the bottom of the bowl—the rice kind. This particular dish comes with the udon noodles, but I don’t like them so well. Too fat. So I have them make it with the rice noodles, which they always dump in as a clump—as if it were at one time part of the enormous ball of twine and had been sitting around waiting for an occasion like this. It comes apart easily enough, though.
“Bubble Mango!” I shouted. “It’s good?”
“Bubble Mango! Bubble Mango!” He repeated. They were already making my drink.
“Ok, but just ONE.
“Okay! Bubble mango!”
The drink was actually quite good. What I hadn’t bargained for, however, was the unusually wide straw. Not long, but very wide—as if maybe something large had to make its way up the tube. I soon found out what it was, as a glob of darkness (maybe the “bubble”), ascended like one of those elevators in the ritzy shopping malls, where you can see the people go up and down. I considered this thing in my mouth, being uninitiated, and felt that maybe I shouldn’t be eating it. I was a little put off by the texture, which was chewy, but not in an altogether pleasant way.
“Okay, so what’s this stuff in the bottom?” I asked. Upon closer examination, I’d noticed that the very bottom of the cup was taken up with the little black globs.
“Tapioca!” Said the server. “Tapioca seed!”
“I guess that’s okay.”
“You like? Bubble mango!”
“Yes, it’s very good,” I said. The service at this place has greatly improved. The small man who served my food, went about the restaurant yelling about the bubble drink, was actually quite welcoming. I’ve not been there in probably a year, and remember the service as being indifferent at best. You were served everything all at once—drinks, too—then were ignored by the busy wait staff. I didn’t mind so much, being a low-maintenance diner, but it was nice to see that they appreciated the business. I took my bubble mango drink out to the car, drank the rest on the way home.
I’ve pried apart much of the enormous furnace, separating the different sections to make it easier to get them out of the house and into the truck. These things are put together like an enormous cast-iron sandwich, with the final size of the boiler determined by how many sections are fastened together, side by side. I cut through the retaining bolts with my metal saw to make fast work of freeing up the sections. It took much less time than I’d imagined, and only remains to get the heavy pieces carted out to the driveway and loaded up. This means another trip to the scrap metal facility, which is always a fun time for me. It’s like a regular holiday there, but I look around and see that the men in dirty overalls and pickup trucks like mine don’t seem to be enjoying the outing so much.
May 11, 2008
On Sunday I loaded up the little car with some drum equipment, headed out to Montgomery County to attend a friend’s celebration for his parents’ 50th wedding anniversary. This event was close to the area I used to live in, was surprised that I could navigate there without benefit of a map or directions—it being many years since I’ve had to go to that place. The reception and celebration was in the brand-new activities hall that adjoined the equally-new chapel on the grounds of a Catholic School in Potomac. To call it a “Catholic School” is a bit misleading, or disingenuous. This place arose from the moneyed landscape of that area, the result of massive fundraising and apparently very deep pockets. Those who wanted to see the place get built did not cut corners: The twenty acres or so were meticulously landscaped, the buildings looked like they belonged there since time began, and you got the impression that you were entering an exclusive club, one that rivals the membership of the intellectually elite ivy league schools. I was on the grounds of a center for Opus Dei.
My friend, now a priest, gave a mass—a celebration of his parents’ unity and long run, but one that he said would also count towards the next day’s mass, which happened to be Sunday. “That’s just perfect,” I thought. “Now I can skip church.” The “chapel,” which was really a mini-cathedral, had just been dedicated the previous Saturday. There was marble from Italy, beautiful glass doors with etchings of angels behind the altar, life-size statues of saints, and Jesus depicted as a young boy (befitting the school setting), offering his mother Mary a rose. He also held in his other hand a scroll or piece of parchment, perhaps his grade report for the lessons just ending.
When the holy prayers started, I remained mostly silent, letting the centuries of religion wash over me, being merely a stone in the stream. Besides, they were so friggin’ long, you really had to know them, had to be part of this for longer than I care to think about. The psalms I could sing along with, although the melodies were not exactly intuitive, the phrasing sometimes strange. The prayers, however, transported me back to that time of mystery, the one that I idealize in writing and sometimes in speech, because it was without our trappings, our toasters and matching washers and dryers, the SUV in the driveway. But the people, I now realize, were the same as now. And I respected those around me, so knowing of these prayers, able to summon them up at will, repeat them over and over in devotion and as a source of comfort. For they knew as well that they were the same as those early church-goers, wanted mostly to continue what those others started in those centuries with much lost and many pieces still a puzzle, but their conviction and belief unwavering. For me to sit and stupidly mumble some words would very well approach the ultimate in absurdity and silliness. I kept silent.
Being one of eleven children, Father Joseph had many nieces and nephews. With few exceptions, his siblings had gone out and quickly continued the work that their parents started—getting married and having as many kids as possible. I spoke with one of his sisters, now settled in the Midwest. Every seat in the minivan has a child’s safety seat, she said, because the weight requirement for these seats includes children up to eighty pounds. She went on to explain that this was ridiculous, because many children reach the age of ten or so and still don’t weigh eighty pounds.
“What ten-year-old wants to be riding around in a child’s seat?” she asked.
“I would not want that,” I said. “I would feel foolish.”
She appeared to be about twenty-five or so and had five children.
I would be remiss if I did not mention that every single female in the family was gorgeous; any one of them would stand out in a crowd. To see them all together was a bit intimidating, or maybe just too much. I think there should be a rule that allows them only to go out into the world singly, so as not to overwhelm the rest of us. The men were universally well put-together as well, with classically handsome good looks and fine builds. How they managed to pull this off is beyond me. Eleven kids. There may be more—some that I don’t know about.
We played some music--father Joseph, his brother and I. I’d loaded the car with some scant drum equipment, modified my setup to accommodate the limited space in the 2-seater and what I thought would be the expectations of the gathering of family and children. It turns out I made the right choice. We started late, played rather well considering we’d never really approached music together, had certainly not practiced. It could have been absolutely terrible. But it was not terrible, and at some times it was rather decent. With the hour getting late, and an early-morning Sunday looming for me, I packed up and hit the road, mingling with the angry and drunk Montgomery County drivers out for a Saturday night romp around the beltway. The first accident was actually BEFORE the beltway—a minor mishap involving two cars and not much in the way of damage. On the beltway itself, it was just excessive speed and continuous weaving and tailgating that ruled the day. The other side had a pretty serious backup where someone had not managed to get to where they were going safely, had been waylaid there in the high-speed lanes of the super speedway. The other day, coming back from visiting Miss Penny the cat, a woman had rear-ended a new-ish car with her shiny and large Honda sedan. The impact had been great, as she’d actually knocked the other car several hundred feet down the road, where it sat with a crumpled and bent rear end. The woman now stood in the roadway, in front of her own car, talking of course on her cell phone. I am always amazed and wondering that people don’t at least stand OFF the traveled part of the road, take a few steps to get up on the grass or maybe on the other side of the guardrail. They seem to think that standing next to their car will somehow protect it from further damage, will impart the message to unwitting motorists who are ready to ram it, “Hey, I’m standing here, so don’t smack into my car or I’ll come after you with my cell phone!” I think the real reason they stand around in the road, with cars whizzing by within inches, and ready to collide with them or their disabled vehicles, is that they have never walked anywhere, maybe don’t realize that cars can run people over, and that it’s actually quite dangerous to be out in the road mingling with them.
Landslide
There is a recurring song, one that plays only at those times of greyness, early dawn, or during missions that are vague, pointless, ill-advised or a combination thereof. It can be in Missouri or Indiana, watching the sun come up over Denver as I-70 sees the first light of day, with hundreds of miles of roadway used up and stops only for gas and the junk they sell at the quick-stops for sustenance. And then, as dimness turns less dim, the thoughts you have unfocused or blank or trying to shift gears between blankness and coherence, the song comes on—right on cue. This is not even a matter of déjà vu now, it is simply expected. Whatever movie that is playing that involves your life, has this one song for those times, and the radio people put it on then. It’s probably Stevie Nicks, or one of those Fleetwood Mac people, and she puts her heart into it, but you don’t hear it really, because it’s just the background theme to whatever is playing out in your life, something at that particular time that is maybe between major scenes, just filler material until a more interesting part comes along, gets the plot moving again. In French, you have of course “chansons d’amour,” or love songs. This one I call a “chanson de chagrin.” It’s three in the morning, darkness and mist shroud a rural two-laner that may be beautiful, but you can’t really see it. Whatever thoughts come out of the landscape, settle there, mostly involve staying awake, not running off the road into some area that you can’t see but you know vaguely is out there, will suck you down. The only radio station you can tune in has static, plays advertisements for new and used farm equipment, for fertilizers and seeds, for Bob and Betty Ferguson, who run the insurance agency for your home and car and farm needs. Then the ads stop and another station slips in, one that plays music.
“I took my love and I took it down
I climbed a mountain and I turned around…”
“Bubble Mango! Bubble Mango! Bubble Mango!”
I was finishing up my meal, which included an enormous bowl of noodle soup and the spring rolls that I love. At the back of the Vietnamese restaurant the server was yelling over and over the order for the bubble drink.
“There must be something to this,” I thought. “Goddammit, now I want a bubble mango!”
I caught his attention as I was scooping up some stray noodles from the bottom of the bowl—the rice kind. This particular dish comes with the udon noodles, but I don’t like them so well. Too fat. So I have them make it with the rice noodles, which they always dump in as a clump—as if it were at one time part of the enormous ball of twine and had been sitting around waiting for an occasion like this. It comes apart easily enough, though.
“Bubble Mango!” I shouted. “It’s good?”
“Bubble Mango! Bubble Mango!” He repeated. They were already making my drink.
“Ok, but just ONE.
“Okay! Bubble mango!”
The drink was actually quite good. What I hadn’t bargained for, however, was the unusually wide straw. Not long, but very wide—as if maybe something large had to make its way up the tube. I soon found out what it was, as a glob of darkness (maybe the “bubble”), ascended like one of those elevators in the ritzy shopping malls, where you can see the people go up and down. I considered this thing in my mouth, being uninitiated, and felt that maybe I shouldn’t be eating it. I was a little put off by the texture, which was chewy, but not in an altogether pleasant way.
“Okay, so what’s this stuff in the bottom?” I asked. Upon closer examination, I’d noticed that the very bottom of the cup was taken up with the little black globs.
“Tapioca!” Said the server. “Tapioca seed!”
“I guess that’s okay.”
“You like? Bubble mango!”
“Yes, it’s very good,” I said. The service at this place has greatly improved. The small man who served my food, went about the restaurant yelling about the bubble drink, was actually quite welcoming. I’ve not been there in probably a year, and remember the service as being indifferent at best. You were served everything all at once—drinks, too—then were ignored by the busy wait staff. I didn’t mind so much, being a low-maintenance diner, but it was nice to see that they appreciated the business. I took my bubble mango drink out to the car, drank the rest on the way home.
I’ve pried apart much of the enormous furnace, separating the different sections to make it easier to get them out of the house and into the truck. These things are put together like an enormous cast-iron sandwich, with the final size of the boiler determined by how many sections are fastened together, side by side. I cut through the retaining bolts with my metal saw to make fast work of freeing up the sections. It took much less time than I’d imagined, and only remains to get the heavy pieces carted out to the driveway and loaded up. This means another trip to the scrap metal facility, which is always a fun time for me. It’s like a regular holiday there, but I look around and see that the men in dirty overalls and pickup trucks like mine don’t seem to be enjoying the outing so much.
May 11, 2008
On Sunday I loaded up the little car with some drum equipment, headed out to Montgomery County to attend a friend’s celebration for his parents’ 50th wedding anniversary. This event was close to the area I used to live in, was surprised that I could navigate there without benefit of a map or directions—it being many years since I’ve had to go to that place. The reception and celebration was in the brand-new activities hall that adjoined the equally-new chapel on the grounds of a Catholic School in Potomac. To call it a “Catholic School” is a bit misleading, or disingenuous. This place arose from the moneyed landscape of that area, the result of massive fundraising and apparently very deep pockets. Those who wanted to see the place get built did not cut corners: The twenty acres or so were meticulously landscaped, the buildings looked like they belonged there since time began, and you got the impression that you were entering an exclusive club, one that rivals the membership of the intellectually elite ivy league schools. I was on the grounds of a center for Opus Dei.
My friend, now a priest, gave a mass—a celebration of his parents’ unity and long run, but one that he said would also count towards the next day’s mass, which happened to be Sunday. “That’s just perfect,” I thought. “Now I can skip church.” The “chapel,” which was really a mini-cathedral, had just been dedicated the previous Saturday. There was marble from Italy, beautiful glass doors with etchings of angels behind the altar, life-size statues of saints, and Jesus depicted as a young boy (befitting the school setting), offering his mother Mary a rose. He also held in his other hand a scroll or piece of parchment, perhaps his grade report for the lessons just ending.
When the holy prayers started, I remained mostly silent, letting the centuries of religion wash over me, being merely a stone in the stream. Besides, they were so friggin’ long, you really had to know them, had to be part of this for longer than I care to think about. The psalms I could sing along with, although the melodies were not exactly intuitive, the phrasing sometimes strange. The prayers, however, transported me back to that time of mystery, the one that I idealize in writing and sometimes in speech, because it was without our trappings, our toasters and matching washers and dryers, the SUV in the driveway. But the people, I now realize, were the same as now. And I respected those around me, so knowing of these prayers, able to summon them up at will, repeat them over and over in devotion and as a source of comfort. For they knew as well that they were the same as those early church-goers, wanted mostly to continue what those others started in those centuries with much lost and many pieces still a puzzle, but their conviction and belief unwavering. For me to sit and stupidly mumble some words would very well approach the ultimate in absurdity and silliness. I kept silent.
Being one of eleven children, Father Joseph had many nieces and nephews. With few exceptions, his siblings had gone out and quickly continued the work that their parents started—getting married and having as many kids as possible. I spoke with one of his sisters, now settled in the Midwest. Every seat in the minivan has a child’s safety seat, she said, because the weight requirement for these seats includes children up to eighty pounds. She went on to explain that this was ridiculous, because many children reach the age of ten or so and still don’t weigh eighty pounds.
“What ten-year-old wants to be riding around in a child’s seat?” she asked.
“I would not want that,” I said. “I would feel foolish.”
She appeared to be about twenty-five or so and had five children.
I would be remiss if I did not mention that every single female in the family was gorgeous; any one of them would stand out in a crowd. To see them all together was a bit intimidating, or maybe just too much. I think there should be a rule that allows them only to go out into the world singly, so as not to overwhelm the rest of us. The men were universally well put-together as well, with classically handsome good looks and fine builds. How they managed to pull this off is beyond me. Eleven kids. There may be more—some that I don’t know about.
We played some music--father Joseph, his brother and I. I’d loaded the car with some scant drum equipment, modified my setup to accommodate the limited space in the 2-seater and what I thought would be the expectations of the gathering of family and children. It turns out I made the right choice. We started late, played rather well considering we’d never really approached music together, had certainly not practiced. It could have been absolutely terrible. But it was not terrible, and at some times it was rather decent. With the hour getting late, and an early-morning Sunday looming for me, I packed up and hit the road, mingling with the angry and drunk Montgomery County drivers out for a Saturday night romp around the beltway. The first accident was actually BEFORE the beltway—a minor mishap involving two cars and not much in the way of damage. On the beltway itself, it was just excessive speed and continuous weaving and tailgating that ruled the day. The other side had a pretty serious backup where someone had not managed to get to where they were going safely, had been waylaid there in the high-speed lanes of the super speedway. The other day, coming back from visiting Miss Penny the cat, a woman had rear-ended a new-ish car with her shiny and large Honda sedan. The impact had been great, as she’d actually knocked the other car several hundred feet down the road, where it sat with a crumpled and bent rear end. The woman now stood in the roadway, in front of her own car, talking of course on her cell phone. I am always amazed and wondering that people don’t at least stand OFF the traveled part of the road, take a few steps to get up on the grass or maybe on the other side of the guardrail. They seem to think that standing next to their car will somehow protect it from further damage, will impart the message to unwitting motorists who are ready to ram it, “Hey, I’m standing here, so don’t smack into my car or I’ll come after you with my cell phone!” I think the real reason they stand around in the road, with cars whizzing by within inches, and ready to collide with them or their disabled vehicles, is that they have never walked anywhere, maybe don’t realize that cars can run people over, and that it’s actually quite dangerous to be out in the road mingling with them.
Landslide
There is a recurring song, one that plays only at those times of greyness, early dawn, or during missions that are vague, pointless, ill-advised or a combination thereof. It can be in Missouri or Indiana, watching the sun come up over Denver as I-70 sees the first light of day, with hundreds of miles of roadway used up and stops only for gas and the junk they sell at the quick-stops for sustenance. And then, as dimness turns less dim, the thoughts you have unfocused or blank or trying to shift gears between blankness and coherence, the song comes on—right on cue. This is not even a matter of déjà vu now, it is simply expected. Whatever movie that is playing that involves your life, has this one song for those times, and the radio people put it on then. It’s probably Stevie Nicks, or one of those Fleetwood Mac people, and she puts her heart into it, but you don’t hear it really, because it’s just the background theme to whatever is playing out in your life, something at that particular time that is maybe between major scenes, just filler material until a more interesting part comes along, gets the plot moving again. In French, you have of course “chansons d’amour,” or love songs. This one I call a “chanson de chagrin.” It’s three in the morning, darkness and mist shroud a rural two-laner that may be beautiful, but you can’t really see it. Whatever thoughts come out of the landscape, settle there, mostly involve staying awake, not running off the road into some area that you can’t see but you know vaguely is out there, will suck you down. The only radio station you can tune in has static, plays advertisements for new and used farm equipment, for fertilizers and seeds, for Bob and Betty Ferguson, who run the insurance agency for your home and car and farm needs. Then the ads stop and another station slips in, one that plays music.
“I took my love and I took it down
I climbed a mountain and I turned around…”
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Miss Penny
May 5, 2008
The other day I decided I would be one of those people who cares about the appearance of their automobile. I was going to wash my car. “This is great,” I thought; “I’ll be a regular guy.” I studied carefully the instructions on the bottle of car wash, used a clean pail and rags, and hosed down the machine—then running the soapy rags over the maroon, or “merlot” finish. The cats looked on with interest, wondering no doubt why I was suddenly veering from my policy of neglect and indifference that I imposed on my belongings. In the most perverse way imaginable, only the things deserving of the least care are lavished with undue attention. If it is rusted and not in operable condition, it gets moved to the top of the list. Those finely-tuned and almost pristine objects I take great care not to think about too much.
With the washing done, I dried the finish in the late evening dimness, following the car wash people’s instructions not to clean the car in direct sunlight or very warm weather. Then I applied the wax, which was probably a good idea. I’ve had the car for almost a year now, and have never waxed it or thoroughly washed it. Occasionally I’ll hose it off at one of those self-serve washoriums where you wield a high-pressure hose that hisses out water and soap. That’s about it.
With the waxing done, and the finish polished to a high-shine, the car looked fantastic. The whole business only took about an hour, which was not too bad—including the wash and wax. I went inside to change into some better clothes, having decided to go out to eat. About ten minutes later, I came out to admire the car and put the top down for the ride over to Ellicott City. Planted across the deck lid of the trunk were the unmistakable paw-prints of the smaller cat, tracking mud across the mirror-like finish. I had to laugh, as I’d expected this. There was really no way to keep the cats off the car, so it didn’t make any sense to try. The little cat had simply wanted to see what all the fuss was about. With her muddied feet, she was obviously not impressed with my work—and showed it in the best way she knew.
With the top down, I was out on the road for about five minutes before the sky—which had been clear and cloudless all day—began to spit rain in a desultory, half-hearted kind of way. I tuned in the rain station, and they said that, yes, rain was on its way. But it wasn’t a regular kind of rain—one that washes and clears away the dirt from the road, running down the curbs in little rivulets. This kind of rain is welcome, as it evenly coats freshly-washed cars in a uniform blanket of dirt—so that they still look kind of clean. The rain that now fell started and stopped in fits, with a few big droplets hurled groundward in an angry kind of way, then nothing. Then a few more droplets, with each little shower kicking up splotches of moistened road grime that now stuck to the car’s finish like crazy glue. I didn’t know until next day the overall effect of this drive through the half-wet landscape, only found out what my efforts had come to when I went to take a drive out in the sunshine and clear air of a beautiful spring Sunday. The car, which had looked beautiful for about ten minutes after waxing it—now had angry splotches of dirt haphazardly applied, like little stickers, all over the once glistening finish. The contrast was remarkable: You could still see the shiny paint in between the dirt patches that clung like barnacles to the finish. The car looked about a hundred times worse than if I’d just left it alone and had followed my usual policy of neglect.
On Sunday, with my dirt-splotched car’s open cockpit letting in the beautiful afternoon, I headed to a party up in Pennsylvania. In the town of Saint Paul de Vence, it is all fruit trees a-blossoming—the apple trees, peach trees and cherry trees festive in the afternoon sunshine. Actually, I believe it was just the apple trees now in blossom, as the other trees had already flowered and dropped their colorful petals. And—truth be told—Saint Paul de Vence is a town in France, but there should be one in Pennsylvania as well. With the big Civil War battlefields behind me, I turned the speckled car off the old Lincoln Highway and onto a side road of turns and rolling hills.
Earlier, two friends who happen to be musicians hailed me from the car in front. I’d been following them for some miles, wondering at the slow bastards hogging the road in the little Ford. At a crossroads south of Gettysburg, the driver exited, waved his arms, yelling my name. They’d recognized me behind them, wanted me to get in front, since I knew the way better—having taken that path often over the years. I gladly obliged, blasting obnoxious country music into the clear country air as my car sped past theirs. I let up on the gas, however, as I was in no particular hurry—and mostly just wanted to enjoy the ride. Both of them commented on the license plate, wanted to know why it said “LAVERN’S.” I set them straight, telling them that it was an acronym for LA VIE EN ROSE and did not say LAVERNZ.
“Look at it,” I said, “Sound it out: LAVENRZ.” Ok--it's a stretch for the "rose" part, but it's the best I could come up with.
“Yeah, it says Lavern’s,” they replied. This unfortunate incident notwithstanding, we all had a good time, and the food and music were excellent.
Just a side note: Up at the orchard I visited one last time with the farm tractor I’d purchased maybe a year ago. I’d let it sit, thinking that at some point I’d come with King to fetch it, bring it back home, fix it up. The motor was locked up, needed to be torn down and gone through to see what was the matter. Most likely rain had gotten down into the exhaust, rusted the engine’s innards—made it unwilling to budge. King and I looked it over. “Yep, she’s locked up,” he said.
“Yep,” I replied.
Then we both looked at it a little more, saying yep, with King bemoaning the fact that the machine had been allowed to fall into such neglect, as it had been a fine tractor with a good little motor.
“Yep,” I said. “But it’s not my fault: It was like that when I bought it.”
“Yep,” he said.
I could have said yep one more time, but decided to hold off until later. I asked my friend, the host of the party, to sell it again, as a man running a piece of heavy equipment had expressed interest in it. He’d been there clearing some land with a big tracked machine, had seen the little tractor sitting in the new spring grass. Like me, he’d wanted it for whatever reasons.
“It’s unlikely I’ll ever come and get it,” I said. If I can get what I paid for it, I’ll be happy.”
I returned home late, the night air becoming remarkably chilly for an otherwise warm May day. I put up the top, turned on the heat, and stopped for coffee to stay awake. When I finally pulled into the driveway, I spied Saxon--shirtless--out back playing with the pipes. Caught momentarily in the headlights' beam, he lumbered off into the woods, where I could occasionally catch a glimpse of him peeking out from behind a tree. Before turning in for the night, I looked outside once more, saw in the bright moon's glow a large tree rustling back and forth, its upper branches shivering with motion. Saxon was scratching his back.
Shortage of Cats
Recently I’ve become aware that the internet showing of cats has dipped dangerously low, to well below 350 million images. It’s during these times that the images have to be replenished, so that they are at a more comfortable 400-450 million photos, videos, sketches, portraits, or other types of images. I’ve done my part, by going to the farm supply store and photographing the store cat, Miss Penny, who normally sleeps atop the computer’s printer during inclement weather, but was actually receiving visitors out on the loading dock today. She is not always the most gracious hostess, but the fine warm weather brought out her best mood, and she allowed herself to be photographed and petted before heading inside for the evening. While I was there I bought a bag of potting soil for some flowers I picked up at the Sunday market.
Out in front of the other house I planted the many petunias in flower boxes--an odd preoccupation of mine, considering how much work remains to be done on the house itself. It is still uninhabitable but—never mind—it has pretty flowers out front. With the new porch, everything actually looks very nice. I would want to live there.
Down in the basement I spent an hour or two disconnecting the ancient coal-fired furnace, which had in years past been converted to an oil-burning unit, then abandoned altogether by me. I’m all for reconnecting with things from antiquity, but this behemoth is ridiculous: It no doubt gobbles up fuel at a greater rate than anything built these days, and was never intended to be used with oil anyway. Its time has come. With the main pipes disconnected and the electricity cut off to the furnace, it remained only to wield a heavy and long-handled maul to break the thing apart. I managed to smash some heavy pieces off, remove the fire-bricks from inside, and get the dirt and muck shoveled out from the bottom. With a few more whacks from the heavy hammer, the thing toppled forward—about one thousand pounds of cast iron dead on the floor. I kicked at it a little to see how willing it was to move from that spot. It gave no indication that it was going to move—ever again. I’ll have to reevaluate my options, which may include hiring a group from the labor pool that meets downtown. They’ll be no strangers to this kind of work.
The other day I decided I would be one of those people who cares about the appearance of their automobile. I was going to wash my car. “This is great,” I thought; “I’ll be a regular guy.” I studied carefully the instructions on the bottle of car wash, used a clean pail and rags, and hosed down the machine—then running the soapy rags over the maroon, or “merlot” finish. The cats looked on with interest, wondering no doubt why I was suddenly veering from my policy of neglect and indifference that I imposed on my belongings. In the most perverse way imaginable, only the things deserving of the least care are lavished with undue attention. If it is rusted and not in operable condition, it gets moved to the top of the list. Those finely-tuned and almost pristine objects I take great care not to think about too much.
With the washing done, I dried the finish in the late evening dimness, following the car wash people’s instructions not to clean the car in direct sunlight or very warm weather. Then I applied the wax, which was probably a good idea. I’ve had the car for almost a year now, and have never waxed it or thoroughly washed it. Occasionally I’ll hose it off at one of those self-serve washoriums where you wield a high-pressure hose that hisses out water and soap. That’s about it.
With the waxing done, and the finish polished to a high-shine, the car looked fantastic. The whole business only took about an hour, which was not too bad—including the wash and wax. I went inside to change into some better clothes, having decided to go out to eat. About ten minutes later, I came out to admire the car and put the top down for the ride over to Ellicott City. Planted across the deck lid of the trunk were the unmistakable paw-prints of the smaller cat, tracking mud across the mirror-like finish. I had to laugh, as I’d expected this. There was really no way to keep the cats off the car, so it didn’t make any sense to try. The little cat had simply wanted to see what all the fuss was about. With her muddied feet, she was obviously not impressed with my work—and showed it in the best way she knew.
With the top down, I was out on the road for about five minutes before the sky—which had been clear and cloudless all day—began to spit rain in a desultory, half-hearted kind of way. I tuned in the rain station, and they said that, yes, rain was on its way. But it wasn’t a regular kind of rain—one that washes and clears away the dirt from the road, running down the curbs in little rivulets. This kind of rain is welcome, as it evenly coats freshly-washed cars in a uniform blanket of dirt—so that they still look kind of clean. The rain that now fell started and stopped in fits, with a few big droplets hurled groundward in an angry kind of way, then nothing. Then a few more droplets, with each little shower kicking up splotches of moistened road grime that now stuck to the car’s finish like crazy glue. I didn’t know until next day the overall effect of this drive through the half-wet landscape, only found out what my efforts had come to when I went to take a drive out in the sunshine and clear air of a beautiful spring Sunday. The car, which had looked beautiful for about ten minutes after waxing it—now had angry splotches of dirt haphazardly applied, like little stickers, all over the once glistening finish. The contrast was remarkable: You could still see the shiny paint in between the dirt patches that clung like barnacles to the finish. The car looked about a hundred times worse than if I’d just left it alone and had followed my usual policy of neglect.
On Sunday, with my dirt-splotched car’s open cockpit letting in the beautiful afternoon, I headed to a party up in Pennsylvania. In the town of Saint Paul de Vence, it is all fruit trees a-blossoming—the apple trees, peach trees and cherry trees festive in the afternoon sunshine. Actually, I believe it was just the apple trees now in blossom, as the other trees had already flowered and dropped their colorful petals. And—truth be told—Saint Paul de Vence is a town in France, but there should be one in Pennsylvania as well. With the big Civil War battlefields behind me, I turned the speckled car off the old Lincoln Highway and onto a side road of turns and rolling hills.
Earlier, two friends who happen to be musicians hailed me from the car in front. I’d been following them for some miles, wondering at the slow bastards hogging the road in the little Ford. At a crossroads south of Gettysburg, the driver exited, waved his arms, yelling my name. They’d recognized me behind them, wanted me to get in front, since I knew the way better—having taken that path often over the years. I gladly obliged, blasting obnoxious country music into the clear country air as my car sped past theirs. I let up on the gas, however, as I was in no particular hurry—and mostly just wanted to enjoy the ride. Both of them commented on the license plate, wanted to know why it said “LAVERN’S.” I set them straight, telling them that it was an acronym for LA VIE EN ROSE and did not say LAVERNZ.
“Look at it,” I said, “Sound it out: LAVENRZ.” Ok--it's a stretch for the "rose" part, but it's the best I could come up with.
“Yeah, it says Lavern’s,” they replied. This unfortunate incident notwithstanding, we all had a good time, and the food and music were excellent.
Just a side note: Up at the orchard I visited one last time with the farm tractor I’d purchased maybe a year ago. I’d let it sit, thinking that at some point I’d come with King to fetch it, bring it back home, fix it up. The motor was locked up, needed to be torn down and gone through to see what was the matter. Most likely rain had gotten down into the exhaust, rusted the engine’s innards—made it unwilling to budge. King and I looked it over. “Yep, she’s locked up,” he said.
“Yep,” I replied.
Then we both looked at it a little more, saying yep, with King bemoaning the fact that the machine had been allowed to fall into such neglect, as it had been a fine tractor with a good little motor.
“Yep,” I said. “But it’s not my fault: It was like that when I bought it.”
“Yep,” he said.
I could have said yep one more time, but decided to hold off until later. I asked my friend, the host of the party, to sell it again, as a man running a piece of heavy equipment had expressed interest in it. He’d been there clearing some land with a big tracked machine, had seen the little tractor sitting in the new spring grass. Like me, he’d wanted it for whatever reasons.
“It’s unlikely I’ll ever come and get it,” I said. If I can get what I paid for it, I’ll be happy.”
I returned home late, the night air becoming remarkably chilly for an otherwise warm May day. I put up the top, turned on the heat, and stopped for coffee to stay awake. When I finally pulled into the driveway, I spied Saxon--shirtless--out back playing with the pipes. Caught momentarily in the headlights' beam, he lumbered off into the woods, where I could occasionally catch a glimpse of him peeking out from behind a tree. Before turning in for the night, I looked outside once more, saw in the bright moon's glow a large tree rustling back and forth, its upper branches shivering with motion. Saxon was scratching his back.
Shortage of Cats
Recently I’ve become aware that the internet showing of cats has dipped dangerously low, to well below 350 million images. It’s during these times that the images have to be replenished, so that they are at a more comfortable 400-450 million photos, videos, sketches, portraits, or other types of images. I’ve done my part, by going to the farm supply store and photographing the store cat, Miss Penny, who normally sleeps atop the computer’s printer during inclement weather, but was actually receiving visitors out on the loading dock today. She is not always the most gracious hostess, but the fine warm weather brought out her best mood, and she allowed herself to be photographed and petted before heading inside for the evening. While I was there I bought a bag of potting soil for some flowers I picked up at the Sunday market.
Out in front of the other house I planted the many petunias in flower boxes--an odd preoccupation of mine, considering how much work remains to be done on the house itself. It is still uninhabitable but—never mind—it has pretty flowers out front. With the new porch, everything actually looks very nice. I would want to live there.
Down in the basement I spent an hour or two disconnecting the ancient coal-fired furnace, which had in years past been converted to an oil-burning unit, then abandoned altogether by me. I’m all for reconnecting with things from antiquity, but this behemoth is ridiculous: It no doubt gobbles up fuel at a greater rate than anything built these days, and was never intended to be used with oil anyway. Its time has come. With the main pipes disconnected and the electricity cut off to the furnace, it remained only to wield a heavy and long-handled maul to break the thing apart. I managed to smash some heavy pieces off, remove the fire-bricks from inside, and get the dirt and muck shoveled out from the bottom. With a few more whacks from the heavy hammer, the thing toppled forward—about one thousand pounds of cast iron dead on the floor. I kicked at it a little to see how willing it was to move from that spot. It gave no indication that it was going to move—ever again. I’ll have to reevaluate my options, which may include hiring a group from the labor pool that meets downtown. They’ll be no strangers to this kind of work.
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