November 29, 2004
Wolf Fangs 2004
Last night Rakkity sent me the link to this summer's hike into the mountains by the "fogies foursome." The mountain range now has a pseudonym to keep it annoymous and unfindable, at least by readers of this blog. Rakkity tells me the accompanying text is sparse, but when time allows, he will add more. Yes, I guess I did complain, but it's sparse by his standards as well as mine. Take a gander at last year's adventure.
Clouds drifing into the Rift.
Hiking down to the Rift.
November 28, 2004
Florence's Birthday
We celebrated Flo's birthday last night at the Hopkins'.
She'll turn 92 on Monday.
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Matt and Flo, with Mary peering out from the centerpiece.
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Flo told this story last night:
Im sitting with my friends at Concord Park and this lady walks up, bends down, looks into my face and asks, "What is your name?"
"I tell her Florence Canning. She takes a step back and asks, "How do you spell that?"
" I tell her its C-A-N-N-I-N-G. Canning peaches, canning pears, canning pickles. She disappears and I dont see her until the next day when shes getting ready to leave. I approach her and ask, "Do you remember my name?"
"Why of course I do, she replies. It's Florence Pickles."
November 27, 2004
Thanksgiving 2004
Rick and Eileen Cote, nearby neighbors and close friends of Peter and Patti, invited us all to their house for Thanksgiving. The dining table sagged under the weight of food prepared by the Cotes, which included TWO turkeys cooked by Rick, and assorted dishes brought by guests. Mary Hopkins sent us north with her creamed onions and sweet potato casserole as well as Charlies perfect corn muffins, and Karen Grojean and Linda Laughland made apple pies.
Photo Gallery
Charlie's perfect muffins presented at dinner, but oddly, not an even number.
Robert always washes our Thanksgiving dishes - is there a more thankless task? Here he is continuing the tradition at the Cote's. He oughta get a medal.
November 26, 2004
Trading Stories II
Chris isn't as long winded as I am...
Heres mine. Robbys at my house and Matt calls us on his cell phone. He tells us hes nearby, sitting on the railroad tracks. All of a sudden we hear the blast of the train whistle and then Matthew screaming, Oh SHIT.
November 25, 2004
Trading Stories
It was the end of the summer and Chris was working with me on those condominiums. He was about to leave for baseball camp, vacation, and then the beginning of school.
Hey, go.
Go?
Yeah, go.
Go?
Its your turn. Start!
Start?
Come on, this work will bore us both to death without more stories. I told the last one, and now its your turn.
No, you go.
Why me?
Youve lived longer. You have more stories.
Our story telling began days ago. Chris tells a story, I tell one, then he tells one, and that helps us survive our mind-numbing days. Even when were lifting beams or replacing supporting walls, wed tell stories. We stopped only when we were glued to our ladders working on those tall chimneys.
Okay, Ill start. This one is about trains and walking the train tracks. Something you and your sixteen year old friends are familiar with. I was fifteen at the time.
Glenn and I ...
Its always Glenn and...
We were inseparable, which might not have been a good thing. This time we brought Arnold, who, to be honest, was as much mascot as friend. Glenn always included Arnold, although he was slower, clumsier and odder than the two of us. In a three way race, Arnold would come in last behind the turtle and the rabbit. I hate to admit it, but we made fun of him when he wasnt around; in fact, we made fun of him when he was with us. And our constant needling killed any trust between us. Remember the firecracker story and how I couldnt convince Arnold to throw his M-80s away as the cop was sneaking up behind him?
We lived within three blocks of one another, a few miles from downtown Cincinnati, so these tracks werent in the sticks as they are here in Acton. Anyway, Glenn and I, wearing out traditional white shorts and black BVD muscle t-shirts, met Arnold at his house. It was early, sticky hot and we had no plans but to walk those tracks. Our previous hike-the-tracks distance record? All the way to Ann Rushs, a girl I had a crush on in junior high. This time we passed behind her house, wending our way through what little undeveloped land remained.
After two hours of following the tracks, we emerge from the woods. No longer are we in amongst the trees and the distant houses; were at the top of a hill with a view of the city. The ground descends to the street, and a railroad trestle stretches off in the distance over the cars and the houses and the factories below. A majestic view for us suburban boys and an enticement richer than a root beer float.
Are we going to turn back and go home, or follow the tracks out on this wooden trestle? There are two obvious problems. To walk on the trestle you have to skip from one tie to the next because in-between those ties is nothing but air. No more gravel, no more mother earth. The bigger problem is the rightful owner of those tracks, Mr. Freight Train. Id like to say the three of us weighed the pros and cons, but that would be a lie. Instead, Glenn and I convinced Arnold it was perfectly safe.
As soon as we strut onto the trestle, and dont ask me why, chalk it up to the times, street kids below begin throwing rocks at us. This forces us further out, away from the boys and their stones, but also away from the safety of land.
Now were on the trestle and giddy. With each step forward we gain about a mile in altitude. We pass a rickety, wrought iron, wooden floored platform, about four feet square, which hangs off the side of the tracks. We look at it and laugh. Standing on the tracks over the ant colony below is bad enough, but there is no way were going near that thing. What if it breaks off? We keep walking, staring into the city haze, hoping to see the end, where the trestle again marries mother earth.
Every hundred feet or so, I bend down and rest my ear on the sooty iron rail to listen for an oncoming train. I learned that from Tonto and The Lone Ranger. Were hundreds of feet out on this trestle - from the street we surely look suicidal - when it finally penetrates our thick skulls - this is crazy. Well never reach the other side, and if a train comes, we wont be able to outrun it. And as if on cue:
I heard a whistle, squeaks Glenn.
No you didnt. I put my black ear back on the rail.
Arnold looks into the distance and then back at me and says , Oh no!
I jump up and sure enough, way off, but not way off enough, is a black locomotive, its single head light shining, steam from its smoke stack trailing.
We freeze. How fast is it going? Who cares? We turn and run, but its hopeless. Were miles from land and running for your life on railroad ties linked by the void is a nightmare. Try practicing back flips on the rim of the Grand Canyon. And besides, we have our mascot, Arnold. If Glenn and I beat the train, Arnold wont.
Terrified, we squawk at one another.
You idiot. Why wed come out here?
Shut up.
My mother is going to be so mad.
Shut up and run.
Im going to fall.
Shut up.
I glance back at Arnold and he appears to be running on strips of flypaper. Soon, hes twenty feet behind us. Faster, Arnold, Faster, I shout, but he cant move quicker, and this time its not because he thinks were playing some prank. There is one choice - the scary platform- and Glenn and I leap onto it. We look back and theres Arnold, a flailing cartoon character outrunning a freight train. We holler and wave our arms like the pit crew at a stock car race and Arnold finally lumbers onto the platform.
The three of us pin ourselves against the rusty back rail as if fat balloons on a dart board. The train roars by and like a popsicle stick strummed between your teeth, our floor rattles up and down. I cant see the rocks whizzing by our heads because my eyes are closed. Arnold moans like a kicked dog, and Glenn, convinced were going to be launched into space, or some part of the train will decapitate us, sounds like hes reciting the rosary.
Now, you tell your story.
My story? Is that all? Chris replies.
What do you mean is that all? Im here arent I? The train went by and we walked home. And you know what? We didnt learn a thing from that. Youll see. Ive got more stories, but lets hear yours first. "
November 24, 2004
Blazing Borealis
A mighy fine rakkity discovery . Helen Virginia, click on the link, go have coffee and a nap, and then come back. They are worth waiting for. The bottom of the page links are impressive too.
They are rumors, not yet debunked by snopes.com, that the Beartooth II saga is nearing completion.
November 23, 2004
65th Birthday Celebration
Bob Hopkins responding to his brother-in-law, David's toast. My toast preceeded his, and I'd like to think I softened Bob with more from The Limerick Machine:
Bob could see he'd not been understood
"Orange cake with orange frosting is good!
Mary, don't blow your lid -
it's what I loved as a kid
Takes me back to my days in the 'hood!"
Young Bob's days in Deerfield were bliss
But an off year his new wife did not miss
Finding one old bad grade
But one comment was made:
"Geez, I thought you were smarter than this."
There once was a shrink, name of Bob
Who thought he did quite a fine job
'Til a patient named Daisy
Said, "I'm not stupid, just crazy!
Find someone less discerning to rob!"
November 20, 2004
Unbelievable
Last night we had dinner at the Quarterdeck in Maynard with Mark and Ginger. We had four distinct choices: Indian, Thai, and Korean, but we chose fish. And it was delicious. Especially the appetizers: seared Sashimi cut wafer thin with a narrow crust of peppercorns and mustard, Coconut Crusted Scallops with chili sauce and the New England staple, fried clam bellies.
Sometime during the evening someone says the word "interesting."
I launch into one of my mini tirades.
Me: "What is the single most overused, boring and meaningless word?"
Ginger: "Interesting?"
Me: "No, worse.
Diane, Fascinating?
Me: Worse.
For me the word is unbelievable, and Im sure someone will guess it. I pause again.
Mark: "I love you?"
November 19, 2004
Last of Crawford Pond
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Add cold weather and rain to this landscape and you can see why Mark Schreiber pushed so hard two years ago for a change in venue. He had just returned from Glacier National Park (this reminds me, Rakkity, how about Beartooth II?), having hiked in view of the majestic peaks, under the endless deep blue skies.
The truth is, most of our Maine camping trips look like this. It is a testament to our photographic and editing skills (Adam, Dan, me), that each year we produce a travelogue the Maine Chamber of Commerce would pay to have.
I snapped this shot as we were leaving our campsite, after the colorful tents had been removed. Note, reflected in the water, the wonderful gray ceiling, an arms length away, and all the vibrant fall colors long gone.
Touch Me
Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that's late,
it is my song that's flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it's done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am.
- Stanley Kunitz
November 18, 2004
Orange Hats
Lunch atop LIttle Boardman Mountain which is at the other end of our campsite on Crawford Pond. Mark and Chris Schreiber and Mark Queijo.
Yes, it was hunting season.
If you look closely youll see two missing items. Adam is the most obvious, the pan to cook Jans corn chowder (in the large yellow ziplock), less so. I think weve done this before, brought soup, the stove, but no pot. I know for sure weve hiked miles on only one bottle of wine. Both hardships for the sort of getting away we do.
Peter: Helens back is hurting her again and they sent a new physical therapist, not the old one she liked so much. She tried to explain to this new person how her pain was related to the stenosis, but was told stenosis is another word for arthritis. Helen replied, Oh, I thought stenosis was a narrowing of the vertebral canal.
We both laughed. Some young chippy (Rolands word) underestimating her eighty-seven year old patient. Peter and I have been humbled often, but in a somewhat more gentle, motherly way.
Me You know shes just too aware to put a pillow over her face, isnt she?
P.S. Helen's original therapist returned yesterday.
November 17, 2004
Tall Guy
Behind the "tall guy." Charlie, the violinist, has known Steven since the sixth grade in Levittown NY.
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November 16, 2004
The Club
Karen called me two weeks before Stevens 60th birthday party to ask if I would say a few kind words about her husband. Im a practiced toastmaster, having presided over thanksgiving dinners at our house for twenty years, and I said, Sure. I knew there would be others singing the praises of this fine man, and I knew they would all be spontaneous, from the heart and delivered with the passion of a Robert Frost at JFKs inauguration. How to compete?
I licked my chops
Why not write to Stevens brother, Igor, in Ohio and and prod him for some dirt? I do, after all, have a reputation to uphold; I do after all, have a younger brother. Here is what Igor sent, which I happily read aloud.
My younger brother Steven and I lived in Sweden from 1948
to 1954. We came there from Hungary with our parents. When we arrived in Sweden,Steven was three years old and I was eight.
Weboth went to school in Malmo, Sweden, and we each had our own circle of friends. However, when Steven was abouteight years old he wanted to join a social club to which I belonged. This club of 13 year olds met on weekends at a friend's home in their basement. We had fun gatherings with model trains, ping pong and other hobbies of interest to boys at that age.
There were some younger kids hanging around us,younger siblings and friends of those siblings. They includedseveral admiring younger girls. Steven wasone of these "wanna bees". He wanted to joinour club, but he was repeatedly told he was too young.
************I paused to hand Steven this photo of The Club with the president pro tem, Igor, in the center. Note his smile. Though Steven listened in good humor, I could see those long simmering, painful memories bubbling up. As if on cue, Steve declared how angry it made him to be excluded from The Club...***********
This must have upset him. Finally one day he came down in to the basement where the model railroad tracks were neatly laid out, and he proceeded to tear them up in a fit of anger. This was a bad day for us all! After that episode my brother was politely banished from the premises.
I am not sure he ever forgave us. We have long since forgiven him.Severalmembers of this club recently metfor reunions, once in Dayton, Ohio and once in Sweden. The club's steering committee has invited Steven to finally join the club, but he has refused to acknowledge our invitation.
I think it's time to bury the hatchet! Get over it, Steven! We want you to have a happy rest of your life beyond 60. Have a great celebration with your family and friends.
your loving brother,
Igor
But it doesnt end yet. Days before his birthday, Diane and I made a list of relevant facts, some of which came from the loving brother, and I fed them to Adam, the limerick machine. I ended my toast with these:
Margit said to Semyon, "I'll grant you
He needs some help with his pas de deux
But it isn't by chance
He left history for dance
Our boy don't look bad in a tutu......
I take frequent calls from our host
And his birthday gives me license to roast
I know all things mechanical
To Steve are satanical
But without me the man can't burn toast...
The stripper to Steven seemed spastic
And he hollered, "You could be fantastic!
I can help with your issues -
I've a couch and some tissues."
As he slipped his card in her elastic.
Sunday, I wrote Igor to describe the previous night's events and to thank him for his contribution. He sent this, a photo of the original train tracks:
November 15, 2004
November 14, 2004
Parting Company
I carry the box of newspapers and plop them down next to the lawn mower, the lawn chairs, and other assorted junk from my garage. I’m multitasking, cleaning the garage and sanding cabinet doors in my adjoining shop. That’s why I’m wearing hearing protectors, and when Dolly calls, “Michael,” it only registers as a light tap on my mind’s door. I pull out the wheel barrow, and this time, hear a harder knock, “Michael.”
I look over to see Dolly framed in the hollow between the row of tall evergreen trees and the skinny dead maple that separate our yards. She rarely crosses my property line, as though that hollow represents a door and she is waiting to be invited in.
I pull off my earmuffs, wave, and walk over to her.
Dolly, almost eighty now, is wearing dark pants, a cream colored top that matched her makeup, and a blue jacket. She mostly dresses in navy blue, what I imagine she wore in her youth, when she brushed off those flecks of dandruff and strands of tinted blonde hair.
“I never see you anymore,” she says.
“I know. I should have trimmed those evergreens when Lew asked. Now we can’t see each other’s houses."
“And your truck is so quiet.”
My old truck, my red Nissan, had a metal ladder rack that clanged when I pulled into my bumpy driveway. I hated the noise; I was embarrassed by it. Dolly, who felt safer when I was home, told me it comforted her.
“I know. It doesn’t wake the neighborhood. What’s up?”
“It’s my door. I need you to fix my door.”
Dolly lives in a small cape with weathered shingles that have never been painted. Folks with houses near the sea don’t bother with paint, but instead of flat shingles weathered an ocean gray, hers are mildewed black and brown with curled edges. Not much has been done to the house since her husband, Lew, died, and that was fifteen years ago. We walk up the three steps to her deck over the now soft floor boards. Dolly points to the inner door, ‘What do you think?” I pull open the blue screen door with the single rusty, coiled spring, and looked closely at her entry door. The blue paint is still flaking and the windows are still smudged with finger prints. I turn the tarnished brass knob and let go. The door opens as if touched by a spring breeze.
“It seems to be okay, Dolly.”
“Are you sure?”
I open and close it again.
“It works fine. I wish I worked as well.”
“What about over here where my sleeve gets caught?”
Dolly points to a recess on the doorframe where maybe a lock for the screen door had been.
I hesitate, not sure what to say. Of all the repairs her house needs, this isn’t one.
“How about this door?” Dolly put her hand on the wooden screen door.
Relieved we’ve moved from the chink in the door frame to something real, I said, “It’s old, but it works too. I could replace it with an aluminum door with glass. The new self-storing doors look like combination storm windows, but instead of seasonally swapping the screen for the glass, you simply raise one pane of glass in the summer and lower it in the winter.” As soon as I began, I knew Dolly was lost. I didn’t know she was about to have company.
“I had to take my cat, Pumpkin, to the vet. She was doing this.” Dolly pretended to pull at her shoulder with her teeth. “He said Pumpkin was too young when she was... you know.”(She wouldn’t say weaned.) ‘He said she was looking for a ... .”(She wouldn’t say nipple.)
“But Pumpkin is okay now?”
“I would hope so. I clap my hands and she comes. Honest and truly, the neighbors must think, “That crazy lady.”
That was the last intelligible thread in our conversation. We talked about her cat sucking on something, which led to her granddaughter’s baby, and then to the neighbor walking up the street, back to her cat, to Matt on Halloween, to shopping, to the upcoming winter weather, to her neighbor, Mary. On the surface you might say where’s the gibberish? But imagine writing our dialogue, then cutting the sentences into thin strips, grabbing a handful, and flinging them onto the floor. Pick sentences at random and you have Dolly and Mike.
Diane tells me this is classic dementia, when someone continually changes thoughts, a sentence at a time, smiling and nodding when it might seem appropriate, but it is not. Except it is I, who smiles and nods.
I try bringing us back.
“Dolly, look at Mary’s house. Her storm windows work like your new storm door would.” Only Dolly’s blank stare can compete with mine.
I gave up.
“By the way, how is Mary? I never see her.”
“She doesn’t leave her house.”
“How does she eat?”
“I buy her milk.”
I imagine a cat. I also picture one widow who no longer makes much sense taking care of a widow whose car has been tarped for three years. I need something solid to lean against, and this porch isn't it.
“I’ve got to go Dolly, but I’ll take care of your storm door.”
Not long ago, our talks would end on Dolly’s porch. Now Dolly imitates Mary. The conversation speeds up when it’s over. I walk backwards past her clothesline and the scrawny apple tree, smiling as Dolly chases after me with her voice. I pause at the skinny dead maple, nod as if I’ve understood her, and wave one last time.
My orchid, which blooms every year at this time, has ten buds.
November 13, 2004
November 11, 2004
Belief-O-Matic
Take the Belief-O-Matic test
Here are my results:
1. Unitarian Universalism (100%)
2. Liberal Quakers (96%)
3. Neo-Pagan (85%)
4. Mainline to Liberal Christian Protestants (85%)
5. Secular Humanism (74%)
6. Taoism (74%)
The warning signs on our street have gone, so this is it for mountain lion updates. The latest theories are : an exotic pet release, a Bobcat, or a big dog. The best are individual reactions. Here are two emails Ive received, both from women:
I was just talking to my friend (who sent the track photos and like me, is wild about wildlife...) and said to him, "This is like a hurricane. There are those who put plywood on their windows, buy out the grocery store, and hunker down at home. Then, there are the storm-chasers, who go for a walk on the beach as the hurricane approaches.........With this mountain lion, there are those who yell at me to stop walking my dog and get inside....and then there are people LIKE me, who walk along the tracks, with dog, hoping for a sighting and wishing I carried some bacon for bait!!"
and
(Remy is her dog)
Remy has been taken by his grandmother to Cambridge for a few days. She was concerned about his safety in light of the mountain lion. Somehow she did not seem as concerned about my plight as the person attached to the other end of the leash!
November 10, 2004
Mountain Lion
At 1:30 a.m. today residents of Mohawk Drive (Indian Village)Acton reported hearing a loud growling noise outside their home. Officers responding heard the same growling noises and saw deer running scared through the area. The Environmental Police were contacted and advised the officers to stay out of the woods for the night hours and they will follow up today. Officers at one point saw the animal and described it as a long tan cat possibly 5 to 6 feet in length staying very low to the ground.
Residents are advised to use caution in or near wooded areas.
Frank J. Widmayer III
Chief of Police
Acton Police Department
November 09, 2004
Happy Birthday Charlie Hopkins
Hey Susie.
Hey Mikie.
I have a question for you.
Well.
I have this package I want to send Charlie. Im late, I cant get a hold of Mary, and I need his Deerfield address.
I can hear Susan mumbling, Charlie...find my file, find by contents, then a laugh, then I laugh because I know shes using Sherlock on her Mac. Here it is...but its not his Deerfield address. If you send it to Deerfield in care of Charlie, Im sure it will get there.
But I know he has an address with his dorm or whatever. He gave it to me once. Im also thinking, Charlie...Deerfield and a zip...yeah, sure, that will get to him.
I hang up and search for his sister Julies address. I find a Robert Blake and a Julia Blake, separate listings, same town, and figure that must be the one.
One ringy dingy, two ringy dingys, three ringy dingys...Hello.
Julie?
Yes.
This is Michael Miller.
Ive never called Julie, and I think shell be surprised but ... .
Hi Michael Miller. I was just mailing a ____(dont want to give it away) to Charlie.
What a coincidence.
Ive got his address but not his zip code which I was about to look it up.
What a coincidence. I have ____ that I want to send to Charlie, I cant find Mary, and I need his address. I stick the phone in the crook of my neck and get ready to type.
Its Charlie at Deerfield Academy
I passed this portable flashing road sign near Idylwilde last night, and I almost missed the warning flashed after Use Caution.Toto barked in the back seat as I backed up for a second look.
November 08, 2004
Drucilla Strain & Florence Canning
First cousins at First Communion
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All grown up
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November 07, 2004
Promises
I make promises I cant keep. Chriss influence on our camping trip for instance...Im bored with the idea. The problem is, Ive told the stories too many times, and my brain will freeze if I attempt to write them.
Better is his dads email to Molly, Chriss sister:
Dear Molly,
Chris and I just came back from camping with Mike and Mark Queijo in Northern Maine. Chris is now a man, having passed the wilderness test of being able to drink fine wine and beer in one hand, listen to Red Sox on radio with the other and then get up in the morning (not afternoon) and hike for several hours.
We have given him a local Indian name, "SOS", which means "tall one who holds the radio." If you're interested in history, the short version is "radio holder" or in Chipawa "SOS," pronounced "sauce" as in curry sauce. Happy show. Dad
*Editor's note: Yes, he did get up before noon, but is 11:59 really before noon?
The expanded view of Chris crossing the stream as requested by fellowphotographer with the ip number (12.148.2.90 ) equivalent of a single digit license plate.
The Kibbe addition, circa one year later. Can anyone tell what is wrong with this photo? Hint: The barely discernible black object is the gas grill, the pupurlish object is a hardy mum.
November 06, 2004
Ice Water
Hiking the Appalachian Trail near our first nights campsite, we came to this foot-numbingly cold stream. Its about fifty yards wide, and while the trail ends on one side and clearly begins again on the other, we thought, this is not possible. They cant be asking "us" to roll up our pants and walk through this. Somewhere there has to be a bridge, a shallow area with rocks we can hop, or a gondola with a colorful shade-providing umbrella and a snappily dressed, chilled-wine providing gondolier.
Chris leads the way, a bit upstream from the trail crossing, in deeper water.
November 05, 2004
More Crawford Pond
Marks customary camping clothing is Early Hobo. This time, however, dressed in wool pants given to him by Adam, and a spiffy blue jacket given to him by his brother, Mark resembled a model from J.Crew. Here, he's careful not to get his feet damp.
The Bigger Picture
Speaking of bums, how about this pair enjoying a beer before hopping the next train?
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November 04, 2004
Morning Stroll
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Sunday morning Mark was awakened by the sound of sloshing water. He didnt know the source, but at first thought it was the guys in the other tent, shaking water jugs like maracas. When he connected the noise to reality - two moose walking in ankle deep water five feet from the door to our tent - he reached over and grabbed me.
I was, as he had been, sound asleep. Mark, determined not to let me miss the brown behemoths, grabbed my sleeping bag at my shoulders and shook me - hard. I thought it was Carl Williams, my roommate at IU, waking me up. Instead of, You slept past your French final! I heard, LOOK! MOOSE!
Encased, chrysalis-like in my mummy bag, I bent at the waist, and fell forward far enough for my head to stick out the door. There they were, the ponderous pair, now about twenty feet from my face. I looked at them, they stopped, looked back at me, and then ambled on.
November 03, 2004
A Nice Hole
Another Sunday, another Rick Scalise performance. It was Halloween, and Rick played classical music that might loosely be associated with the event. He began with Gounod's, "Funeral March for a Marionette, which is more commonly known as the theme music to .....Alfred Hitchcock Presents. He also played Liszt and Bach and ended with Peer Gynts, Hall of The Mountain King. Flo and I sat in what Rick refers to as the expensive seats - a couch with the best view of his magical hands.
I counted twenty people, which is fewer than usual, but only one person with their chin on their chest, asleep. Or should I say, one person who fell asleep twice. The second time I woke up, I noticed Flo looking at me with a Santa Claus twinkle in her eye, as if to say, Yes, you fit right in. It wasnt the music, believe me, it was the previous days logging adventure.
Diane and I both think that Flo is much closer to accepting her new living arrangement, and at six months, she is right on schedule. She has two new buddies. Sylvia, though she was taken from CP in an ambulance yesterday, and Bessie. In fact, to insure that help were available, should it be needed, they got together with Lois the other morning, and each filled out a three by five card with their names, telephone numbers and addresses.
I met Bessie at the end of the concert. She is another gentle soul who, though she calls Flo, Dot, is very much in the here and now. Diane will argue this point, but Ive always thought Flo to be the most (as Susan would say) crisp amongst her peers, and I believe that is a big reason shes been so lackluster about her new living situation.
Bessie provides comfort and empathy, and they both talked about how difficult the adjustment. Bessie compared moving into Concord Park with giving up her car, which she now admits was the proper thing to do. When Flo grumbles, Bessie counters.
Flo: You eat, and then you go to your room. You come down here for this, and then you go to your room. You play cards, then you go to your room.
Bessie: But you get up and someone else makes you breakfast. Someone else makes you lunch and dinner, too. The food is good, and you dont have to do the dishes or your laundry.
Holding hands with Bessie, Flo smiled and agreed. I dont want my daughters to feel guilty forever for putting me in this hole. When she finished the sentence she laughed as hard as Ive seen her laugh. I thought shed double over.
Bessie squeezed Flo's hand and said, But its a nice hole.
November 02, 2004
Timber
Siblings - Mark, Jon and Jan.
Saturday was the annual tree cutting day at Mark Queijos. Adam and I drove out together and along with Al, Jan, Brett,Jon, John, Dwight, Kevin, Mark and Jan, we chain-sawed nine trees into splitable length logs. Twas another long, hard day, with two notable events. First, Janice Elaine Queijo Carpenter, Marks sister, not to be confused with Janice Elaine Queijo, his wife, slipped and broke her wrist. Both bones.
A few words about that. Nobody except the other Jan knew that Jan had fallen. No yelps, no nothing. She walked into the house and returned holding an ice pack on her wrist. Without a hint pain, she announced that she could no longer help clearing trees because she couldnt lift anything, and besides, she needed to go to the hospital. I asked her to move the ice pack so I could see her wrist. It was an ugly, swollen, bruised peach color with bony bumps in places that should have been smooth. I said, Its broken. I thought, Im so glad Im not married to you; I know nothing about dress sizes.
Secondly, the tallest oak tree we cut down almost fell onto Marks house. Had that happened, it would have crushed it. The Queijos live in a Deck House - I dont know if that is a regional-only company - but its primary function is to be open and allow in a maximum amount of light. It most closely resembles a timber frame house with glass - a mere play thing to the mighty oak.
After Mark cut the customary pie shape from the side he wanted the tree to fall, he began cutting from the backside - the house side. Instead of falling away from the house it leaned into the saw, binding the blade. From where I stood, I could clearly see the future - two months work for me - and I hollered, Its falling this way.
What you cant see is the house-saving, hefty, yellow, nylon rope tied about a third of the way up, and anchored on the other end by four men who are now desperately trying to pull the tree in their direction. Fortunately for Mark, for all of us, they succeeded.
If you click on the Quicktime movie, youll see two things. The tree leaning towards the house and (look closely) Mark jump up and run. Hes not running away, per se, hes running to his garage to retrieve his maul and wedges. He reasoned, by pounding the wedge into the saw kerf he could tilt the ten ton tree away from his beloved house? Talk about stopping pterodactyls with a fly swatter, but in a panic, what would you do?
November 01, 2004
Roe v. Wade
Sunday's phone conversation with my mother. I lead off.
Have you talked to Peter?
Yes. Hes very busy, which is good.
Thats what he tells me. And still no place to live. I cant imagine having to move because of other peoples whims. Hes too old for that.
Remember, Mack was forty-eight when we moved to Evansville.
I didnt know that. Hmmm, that helps anchor that move in time. Before I forget, I wanted to ask you about a story you told me. The one where Brian came running into the house and said, Mommy, you have to spank Joan? Did he say, mom or mommy?
Which one was that? Oh, the black girl. I dont know if he said Mom or mommy, but he said, Spank her, you have to spank her. Can you imagine, a seven year old giving orders like that? I asked why, and he said go outside and youll see why. I ran outside and there was a limousine parked next to the Ranger Station. This was when we lived in Indian Hill. There was a little black girl alone in the car without her father, the chauffeur. Joan and her friend Barbara Burdett...Joan would have been about four...they were singing, Shes a little nigger baby, shes a little nigger baby. Can you imagine?
I can and I cant. Youre the one who asked every waitress in every restaurant we ever stopped in if those We Reserve the Right to Refuse Service to Anyone, signs meant Negros. I always wanted to crawl under the table. But do you remember Steven Brown whistling at the black woman in Westwood? We were sitting on his porch and the woman, I dont know who she was, walked past us. Steven gave her a loud wolf whistle and then yelled, Wow, shes black. Someone heard him, I dont think it was you or Stevens mother, but I remember you both reamed us out for it.
I dont remember that.
The sort of things Ill never forget.
I got a call from a priest this week. He returned my call. I told him I objected to his column in the Catholic newspaper, The Message. He asked why, and I told him he was risking the churchs tax exempt status with his remarks about abortion.
If only.
What?
I said, if only.
Right. She laughed, because she knew there was no chance. Anyway, I told him he was electioneering for Bush. He said he wrote about war and social justice too, but I said abortion was a hot button issue for me. I said the old male clergy have no clue about raising children. They dont know what its like to have kids, to get up at night with a sick child. I kept talking because I didnt really want to hear his rebuttal. I told him the Catholic Church didnt get involved in this until the fourth century. He didnt know that, but its true, they thought women were unclean.
But the fourth century...were they concerned about abortion then?
Of course. Women have always found abortifacients. My mothers sister-in-law tried ergot.
Thats where LSD comes from. (You can see the high level of responses this conversation is eliciting from me. But you have to understand that I sensed where this was going, and I wasnt ready for it. I was tossing tack strips trying to flatten her tires, slow her down.)
It didnt work. It made her sick. Her father was a doctor and she asked him. He said, Pat, I never thought Id have to do something like this for you.
Whoa, wait a minute. Here we go again, were having this innocent conversation, its almost time to hang-up and out comes another one of your show stoppers. (My mother laughed again. The kind of laugh that sounded to me like : You haven't listened to me for fifty-seven years, and now that I have your attention, I'm not backing off.) You tell these stories so casually, but do you listen to yourself? Youre telling me a father gave his daughter an abortion. This isnt doctor patient. This is family.
She had nowhere else to turn to. Her husband was this hotshot lawyer, and they didnt want more children. You know, my mother had an abortion too. My mother told me this right after I had a miscarriage and was feeling sorry for myself. The town doctor did it for her, and I asked her, You didnt tell Leroy (her husband, my mothers father, you get the drift)? She said 'No', she didnt see the point. She did it and that was that. Besides, Leroy was a Catholic. And he'd feel awful knowing his wife thought he couldn't provide for another child. Plus they have her paralyzed grandfather living with them.
"Okay, stop. You have to write this down. Ive got the thread, but I wont remember all these details. Tomorrow you have to sit down and write this out and then send it to me."
And she did. Today she sent this:
Mike, here is the effort. Some of this may be in the family history but this is close to yesterday's.
Of course no woman wants to undergo an abortion but some feel they must--greatest good for the greatest number might apply to some circumstances.
I don't think what follows really applies to that logic. We knew a couple in the C.Z., Johnny and Zoe. He was about 7 years older than she, had been to sea for years, second marriage for him. She was fairly immature, and at the time, I am not sure I could really judge, considering my own state of immaturity at twenty-five. The relationship was pretty rocky but they had a little year-old-boy. We were very fond of Johnny but didn't find her too interesting. She had a lot of material wants and needs; created a much more pleasant environment in their apartment than I was able to do for us.
One morning she telephoned me and said she had had an abortion and was hemorrhaging.
"Zoe, where was this done?"
"Back alley in Panama City"
I knew I couldn't get to her soon enough to help in any way so I told her to go on up to Gorgas Hospital which would take her about five minutes. She insisted that they would have her arrested because she had committed an illegal act.
I then said, "Look, Zoe, go on up there to the admittance desk and don't say anything. Just stand there and bleed on the floor. What ever they ask you, just hold your hands out and look helpless. They will then take care of you and I think you will be fine. Remember, don't answer any questions.
My very brash and impromptu advice worked. The couple filed for divorce about a year later.
Now as to my mother and her sister-in-law. Mother told me about this some years after Mack and I were married when we were discussing the issue. She said she had had to do that and that it should be legal and safe. I asked her who did it for her, and she said, "Well, Doc, of course."
Doc was our family doctor and social friend of theirs. She said she didn't want to do that but that her father-in-law (my grandfather O'Connell) had had a disabling stroke and they were trying to help my grandmother look after him at home, Dad had just started his auto parts business after going out on the railroad strike. It was all too much to handle. I asked her what Dad had thought about that,"Oh, I never bothered him with it." she said.
She looked thoughtful and then said, "I sometimes think we might have been able to handle it but I'm
sure it would have been very difficult and there's no telling what kind of complications we would have run into. Even then, we had to put Father O'Connell in a hospital in Kansas City some three years later where he died after about two years.
She then said, "Bea, had to have that done, too. Elmer (her brother) was just starting a new law practice in Parsons, and they had the two children. He has never been overburdened with patience so
Bea didn't want to deal with his reaction. She took ergot but it didn't quite work so she had to go to her father who was a doctor in another town in Kansas for a D and C. She told me that he said, "Oh, Bea, I never thought I would have to do this for you."
I just thought of one more which probably took place in the mid fifties. My friend, Mary Helen was divorcing her alcoholic, Army Major, husband, and having an affair with a fellow I never knew.
She said she didn't know how she could handle all the stress. When I asked her where, she told me
Nevada Hospital and a doctor friend.
It needs to be part of history that well-connected women had a great advantage over poor women and will again if Roe V Wade is overturned.