Proust Questionnaire
Your most marked characteristic? duality, as in graceful and clumsy
The quality you most like in a man? gentleness
The quality you most like in a woman? strength
What do you most value in your friends? love, compassion, loyalty, discretion
What is your principle defect? being judgmental
What is your favorite occupation? puttering, reading, napping
What is your idea of earthly happiness? having endless creative and physical energy in an environment of peace and contentment
What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery? losing freedoms
What would you like to be? someone who leaves many legacies of good work
In what country would you like to live? USA
What is your favorite color? red
What is your favorite flower? lily of the valley
What is your favorite bird? bluebird
Who are your favorite prose writers? Edith Wharton, Annie Proulx, Margaret Atwood, Willa Cather, Eudora Welty, Frances Hodgson Burnett, Gene Stratton Porter
Who are your favorite poets? Ogden Nash, Emily Dickinson, various sonneteers
Who is your favorite hero of fiction? Aslan
Who is your favorite heroine of fiction? Girl of the Limberlost
Who are your favorite composers? Aaron Copland, Meshell Ndegeocello and many in between
Who are your favorite painters? My mother and father, Mary Cassatt, Alice Neel, Botero
Who are your heroes in real life? Rosa Parks, Kevin Jennings, Ruth Lilly, all reasonably competent waitresses, my husband
Who are your favorite heroines of history? Harriet Tubman, suffragettes, women in the Bible
What are your favorite names? Elizabeth, Thomas, John, Meagan, Maggie, Samantha, Cameron, David, Grace
What is it you most dislike? fear and pain
What historical figures do you most despise? Idi Amin, Chinese Cultural Revolution functionaries and others like them
What event in military history do you most admire? the 1978 Camp David Peace Accords brokered by US President Jimmy Carter between Israeli Prime Minister Menachem Begin and Egyptian President Anwar Sadat
What reform do you most admire? repeal of prohibition
What natural gift would you most like to possess? athleticism
How would you like to die? with all my affairs in order, peacefully, if not on my own terms then instantaneously via gunshot, beheading or other means
Who would you have liked to be? a pioneer in the American West in the 1700s, partnered lesbian woman passing as a man
Your favorite virtue?* generosity
What is your present state of mind? calm and focused
To what faults do you feel most indulgent? sweet tooth, sloth, gossip
What is your motto? bless yer heart
*Virtue, Faith, Honesty, Gratitude, Perseverance, Forgiveness, Patience, Courage, Respect, Generosity, Discipline, Compassion, Humility
Monday, August 09, 2004
Chilly August morning. That's an impossibility in Baltimore, where I come from. Winter is right around the corner. I feel like Persephone, above ground and in the light now but thinking ahead to my nuptial duties in Hades.
Saturday, August 07, 2004
Ah, the end of two weeks of vacation. I did a whole lot of nothing. Actually, that's not quite true. Main accomplishments: weeding garden, putting up pounds and pounds of zucchini (shredded, breaded, cubed,) harvesting herbs and hanging them up to dry in kitchen and dining room windows, weeding and mulching the perennial bed. I wrote cards and letters to a bunch of people, read books and novels.
The most interesting and evocative book I read during this vacation was Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi. This book brought me right back to the late 70s when my father was a missionary and he was helping folks, notably an Iranian family of four, to achieve political asylum or otherwise immigrate to the U.S. under the auspices of the Christian church. I remember some of my girlfriend Mahnaz's stories of the revolution and her escape--stories which by now are certainly edited through my own political filter and the length of time it has been since I heard those stories--but what stays with me is Mahnaz, then 15 (and I twelve), saying she had been in class at school, masked gunmen came in and machine-gunned the classroom. Mahnaz's teacher was killed and her classmates fell all around her. She fell too, underneath the body of her girl cousin. The cousin was killed but Mahnaz lived, without physical injury.
Mahnaz and her brother R and their mother P came to the U.S. a year or so after their father Mahmoud, who was blind. Mahmoud's blindness was the result of a motorcycle accident in Tehran in the early 70s. He had become an outcast and for whatever reasons he came to the U.S. and lived with us. Who knows what twisty paths led a wounded Iranian to a Christian household in Baltimore. When Mahmoud's wife and children arrived, a year or so later, I remember hearing that P, his wife would have divorced him if they had stayed in Iran.
They had a loud, bickering relationship, which couldn't have been made an easier by culture shock. Neither Mahnaz nor her mother wore the chador, but when we went to their mosque in Washington, DC we all put it on. That day--I was 13--a Moroccan sheik, a member of a Moroccan Air Force group that my father was escorting somewhere, asked me to be his first wife. Mahnaz was sitting next to me on the schoolbus which my father was driving. She ducked her head. I was too young to feel embarrassed, and felt I should be polite. I told the man I would have to ask my father. The man said he would let me have stereos, TV's, and help him pick his other wives. Later Mahnaz said this offer was a great honor. Now I don't know. We were young girls and these men were knowledgeable about war and terrorism. Soon the Ayatollah Khomeini took U.S. people hostage and all that stuff happened, and Jimmy Carter, the President we could feel comfortable with, was trashed in his re-election bid by Ronald Reagan.
I turned 15 just after that election, and the 30-ish man I adored came to my high school production of "The Unsinkable Molly Brown" with my parents, and asked them if, when I turned 16, he could date me. And that's another story which I may never tell.
The Washington I see on the news is now vastly different from the airy, green and marble place I knew when I was a child. It is much different from the place I lived as an adult in the 90s. Bollards, Jersey barriers, Constitution Avenue blocked off, the White House surrounded by armaments... I wish my father were alive today to give me his opinion on all this. He would have understood the Muslim fundamentalist movement in a way I never will.
Once, riding in the front seat of my parents' car (1965 Dodge Dart Swinger, reddish-orange body and black vinyl top,) I sat between Mehdi and my father. Mehdi was 16 and wearing shorts. His legs were very hairy and his knees were square. We were friendly, or at least, Mehdi was friendly for an angry Iranian boy who was stranded in the U.S. I don't know his circumstances. We were talking about what was happening in Iran. "Would you fight?" I asked. Certainly. Would you kill? Yes. Would you kill me? Yes. He was controlled, calm and serious. I don't remember if my father said anything.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now it is almost four p.m. and raining. Beef stew is simmering in the oven. I am sipping red wine, John is downstairs in the living room listening to the soundtrack of O Brother Where Art Thou. Soon I must prepare several coolers full of lemonade, ice tea, water for the Saturday evening JEMS concert, and defrost the collection of homemade cookies that has accrued from previous weeks' concerts. Because of the rain it will be inside the Au Sable Forks community center, which is a drag. The Jay green is much more fun.
The most interesting and evocative book I read during this vacation was Reading Lolita in Tehran by Azar Nafisi. This book brought me right back to the late 70s when my father was a missionary and he was helping folks, notably an Iranian family of four, to achieve political asylum or otherwise immigrate to the U.S. under the auspices of the Christian church. I remember some of my girlfriend Mahnaz's stories of the revolution and her escape--stories which by now are certainly edited through my own political filter and the length of time it has been since I heard those stories--but what stays with me is Mahnaz, then 15 (and I twelve), saying she had been in class at school, masked gunmen came in and machine-gunned the classroom. Mahnaz's teacher was killed and her classmates fell all around her. She fell too, underneath the body of her girl cousin. The cousin was killed but Mahnaz lived, without physical injury.
Mahnaz and her brother R and their mother P came to the U.S. a year or so after their father Mahmoud, who was blind. Mahmoud's blindness was the result of a motorcycle accident in Tehran in the early 70s. He had become an outcast and for whatever reasons he came to the U.S. and lived with us. Who knows what twisty paths led a wounded Iranian to a Christian household in Baltimore. When Mahmoud's wife and children arrived, a year or so later, I remember hearing that P, his wife would have divorced him if they had stayed in Iran.
They had a loud, bickering relationship, which couldn't have been made an easier by culture shock. Neither Mahnaz nor her mother wore the chador, but when we went to their mosque in Washington, DC we all put it on. That day--I was 13--a Moroccan sheik, a member of a Moroccan Air Force group that my father was escorting somewhere, asked me to be his first wife. Mahnaz was sitting next to me on the schoolbus which my father was driving. She ducked her head. I was too young to feel embarrassed, and felt I should be polite. I told the man I would have to ask my father. The man said he would let me have stereos, TV's, and help him pick his other wives. Later Mahnaz said this offer was a great honor. Now I don't know. We were young girls and these men were knowledgeable about war and terrorism. Soon the Ayatollah Khomeini took U.S. people hostage and all that stuff happened, and Jimmy Carter, the President we could feel comfortable with, was trashed in his re-election bid by Ronald Reagan.
I turned 15 just after that election, and the 30-ish man I adored came to my high school production of "The Unsinkable Molly Brown" with my parents, and asked them if, when I turned 16, he could date me. And that's another story which I may never tell.
The Washington I see on the news is now vastly different from the airy, green and marble place I knew when I was a child. It is much different from the place I lived as an adult in the 90s. Bollards, Jersey barriers, Constitution Avenue blocked off, the White House surrounded by armaments... I wish my father were alive today to give me his opinion on all this. He would have understood the Muslim fundamentalist movement in a way I never will.
Once, riding in the front seat of my parents' car (1965 Dodge Dart Swinger, reddish-orange body and black vinyl top,) I sat between Mehdi and my father. Mehdi was 16 and wearing shorts. His legs were very hairy and his knees were square. We were friendly, or at least, Mehdi was friendly for an angry Iranian boy who was stranded in the U.S. I don't know his circumstances. We were talking about what was happening in Iran. "Would you fight?" I asked. Certainly. Would you kill? Yes. Would you kill me? Yes. He was controlled, calm and serious. I don't remember if my father said anything.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Now it is almost four p.m. and raining. Beef stew is simmering in the oven. I am sipping red wine, John is downstairs in the living room listening to the soundtrack of O Brother Where Art Thou. Soon I must prepare several coolers full of lemonade, ice tea, water for the Saturday evening JEMS concert, and defrost the collection of homemade cookies that has accrued from previous weeks' concerts. Because of the rain it will be inside the Au Sable Forks community center, which is a drag. The Jay green is much more fun.
Hours-old alpaca with her wobbly legs. Her herdmates are looking on with as much curiosity as an alpaca can muster. Courtesy of Jay Ward, Au Sable Valley Alpacas.
Monday, July 26, 2004
We watched the bicycle portion of the Ironman race on Sunday, July 27th, 2004. The riders passed our front yard. There's Cruiser watching john take the picture. We yelled, "Good job! Looking strong! You're a rock star! Bravo!"
I notice looking at this photo that I grew quite noticeably fat when we first moved here.
There's my old rocking chair, a gift from xtine Demaio & Don Rice upon their moving West from Brooklyn, and the busted Adirondack chair that John patched back together and painted in purple, pink and rose.
Dear All,
The 2004 Ironman Lake Placid was yesterday, and we participated all day long (with a long nap in the middle.) You can find official race coverage at http://vnews.ironmanlive.com/. Click "post race coverage" and then the most interesting options are "photos" and "video and audio."
The bike portion of the race goes in front of our house, so we were out there are 8:30 a.m. to cheer on the first rider, and went inside at about 2:30 for a nap. Cheering is tiring! We shook a gallon maple syrup bottle with pennies in it for the greatest noise effect, shouted, clapped and called out to them. Lots of the riders smiled, waved, gave the thumbs up, said things we couldn't understand because they were going so fast (the Doppler effect?) Cruiser snoozed the whole time. On the riders' second lap around many were really delighted that we were still there. "See you next year!" some of them shouted. In the minutes where there were no riders we were quiet and realized what a soft, pretty day it was, the only noise being the gently rushing river. When riders came by we heard our neighbors making noise all up and down the valley: drum beats and shouts carried for miles, and I'm sure folks heard us, too.
John had gone into Lake Placid at 6 a.m. to see the swimming start of the race, and we returned there at about 8:00 p.m. to see the end of the running marathon. What endurance these folks have. I was most moved by the families who waited near the finish line for their loved one, who slowed to grab a baby, or the hands of their children, or their dog's leash, or their partner and ran as a joyful group through the cheering stands and across the line, where they were met by volunteers, medical staff and often more of their families and friends. The official pics show that one Ironman dropped to his knees and proposed to his girlfriend, who accepted. Wow, he carried the ring all those miles?
The 2004 Ironman Lake Placid was yesterday, and we participated all day long (with a long nap in the middle.) You can find official race coverage at http://vnews.ironmanlive.com/. Click "post race coverage" and then the most interesting options are "photos" and "video and audio."
The bike portion of the race goes in front of our house, so we were out there are 8:30 a.m. to cheer on the first rider, and went inside at about 2:30 for a nap. Cheering is tiring! We shook a gallon maple syrup bottle with pennies in it for the greatest noise effect, shouted, clapped and called out to them. Lots of the riders smiled, waved, gave the thumbs up, said things we couldn't understand because they were going so fast (the Doppler effect?) Cruiser snoozed the whole time. On the riders' second lap around many were really delighted that we were still there. "See you next year!" some of them shouted. In the minutes where there were no riders we were quiet and realized what a soft, pretty day it was, the only noise being the gently rushing river. When riders came by we heard our neighbors making noise all up and down the valley: drum beats and shouts carried for miles, and I'm sure folks heard us, too.
John had gone into Lake Placid at 6 a.m. to see the swimming start of the race, and we returned there at about 8:00 p.m. to see the end of the running marathon. What endurance these folks have. I was most moved by the families who waited near the finish line for their loved one, who slowed to grab a baby, or the hands of their children, or their dog's leash, or their partner and ran as a joyful group through the cheering stands and across the line, where they were met by volunteers, medical staff and often more of their families and friends. The official pics show that one Ironman dropped to his knees and proposed to his girlfriend, who accepted. Wow, he carried the ring all those miles?
Saturday, July 24, 2004
Starlight Births A Cria
At noon today John and I arrived at Jay Ward's alpaca barn to get our instructions for care and feeding of the animals while he and his family are on vacation next week. We have been part of the alpaca-sitting team before, but this time there are new animals and new routines. Jay wasn't there yet, so we browsed around his airy, new, pleasant barn, greeting the skittish alpacas and talking to the chickens. I picked up one golden hen and petted her.Home
Jay's two little daughters, Mollie and Lucy, are responsible for the alpacas' care, which is a good advertisement for how gentle and easy the alpacas are. Jay keeps them in pairs or trios, and the little groups share a stall which lets out into the meadow that rolls down to a wide bend of the Au Sable River. In the right-hand corner stall were two lady alpacas. One of them, a brown-and-white named Starlight who Jay had described as one of the most desirable because of the color of her fur, was lying in the straw and dust in front of a fan, accompanied by a standing alpaca, her friend, and a handful of clucking murmuring hens. I flickeringly remembered Jay mentioning a pregnant female in his "help care for alpacas while we're on vacation" email. Sure enough, her sides were swollen in that rounded diamond shape I have gotten to know through a year of peripheral contact with pregnant goats and sheep. She was breathing hard, and quickly I realized it probably wasn't from the heat of the day.
The animals had recently been shorn, and their bodies were willowy, especially their long, giraffe-like necks. The pregnant female's neck was creamy and her head and face were a mixture of brown and cream--Jay later referred to this coloration as "pinto." Her topknot was as fluffy and soft as all the others' were, and her eyes large and calm and cool. I watched her waist contracting and glanced at her butt, where her unshaven brown mop of a tail was raised, rather than relaxed as the others' were. Then I saw her vulva, pink-rose-red vertical lips opening like petals from her distended bum.
"I think she's getting ready to give birth," I remarked to John. He seemed skeptical until I picked up her tail and showed him her vulva. He quickly left the barn to find Julie, Jay's wife, and let her know. Things happened very quickly then. In a blink the baby's snout had emerged an inch from the alpaca's bum, and its nostrils were quivering and snorting. Instant life! Clear liquid dripped steadily from the alpaca's bottom--her water had broken.
In two minutes Jay arrived with their two girls (Lucy the youngest in a white bike helmet, flowered top and yellow rubber muck boots, brown-haired Mollie in a purple jumper and blue rubber muck boots.) I can only imagine how Jay felt, knowing how valuable these animals are and two virtual strangers in his barn watching Starlight go into labor. He was animated and the girls were full of questions.
"What's happening? Is she alright? What should we do? What's that?" They were not grossed out but curious and caring. I suggested saying Thank you God for this miracle, and immediately felt sanctimonious, but that's how moved I was.
Soon Jay shooed us out and we talked in the sun. He knew a lot about how this was supposed to happen--two front feet should emerge very soon, he said. But when we adults returned to the barn there was still the snout, and Starlight had plainly stopped having contractions. Jay put on short blue latex gloves and I asked if he needed lube.
"I shouldn't need it," he said, "but I don't know. This is actually the first time I've been here for a birth. It's always happened in the middle of the night."
Right then I felt that it was ok for us to stay and observe, because I knew we could help. John joined Jay in the stall and hugged Starlight while Jay gently felt around the baby's emerging head. The mother squeaked and whined, and the two men stood back from her. Jay said she should be lying down. The baby's head was fully out now, and it began hooting. The mother bent her graceful neck to peer at this noisy thing projecting from her butt, and turned in circles like a cat slowly chasing its tail. Jay began to become concerned and pulled out his cell phone to call the vet who gave him phone advice, then called one of his fellow alpaca breeders, Cal Coolidge, who quickly arrived to lend a hand. Lucy and Mollie slipped in and out, not sure if they wanted to watch. The baby, called a "cria," shook its head and one long ear flopped free, and one leg emerged. Jay changed into shoulder gloves and knelt in the dust to help the mother. Her contractions were weak and infrequent, but she did not seem too distressed. Jay realized that the cria's other front leg was folded back, and he spent ten or fifteen minutes trying to ease this leg forward. Other kids joined the quiet observers--two tow-headed brothers. All four children were as much interested in Cruiser, who I had tied to a tree outside, as they were in the birth. One of the hens was making a racket and Mollie said, "She knows something's happening."
Just as Jay's concern was edging toward fear, he asked Cal to speak again with the vet. And as Cal greeted the vet, Jay got the cria's second front leg out. In a couple of minutes he had pulled while the mother pushed and the baby was out on the stall floor, and we were all glowing with relief and pride.
The cria was whole and healthy, strong enough to begin flopping around trying to stand immediately. Its wet body quickly became matted with straw and dust, and as quickly the filth dried and fell off. Cal Coolidge pulled off some of the membrane. The mother watched and nosed her baby. Neighbors began to arrive, and Jay's wife and mother-in-law. We were quietly celebratory.
From our arrival to everyone's joyful congratulations was 45 minutes. We will go back later today to get our instructions for alpaca-sitting.
At noon today John and I arrived at Jay Ward's alpaca barn to get our instructions for care and feeding of the animals while he and his family are on vacation next week. We have been part of the alpaca-sitting team before, but this time there are new animals and new routines. Jay wasn't there yet, so we browsed around his airy, new, pleasant barn, greeting the skittish alpacas and talking to the chickens. I picked up one golden hen and petted her.Home
Jay's two little daughters, Mollie and Lucy, are responsible for the alpacas' care, which is a good advertisement for how gentle and easy the alpacas are. Jay keeps them in pairs or trios, and the little groups share a stall which lets out into the meadow that rolls down to a wide bend of the Au Sable River. In the right-hand corner stall were two lady alpacas. One of them, a brown-and-white named Starlight who Jay had described as one of the most desirable because of the color of her fur, was lying in the straw and dust in front of a fan, accompanied by a standing alpaca, her friend, and a handful of clucking murmuring hens. I flickeringly remembered Jay mentioning a pregnant female in his "help care for alpacas while we're on vacation" email. Sure enough, her sides were swollen in that rounded diamond shape I have gotten to know through a year of peripheral contact with pregnant goats and sheep. She was breathing hard, and quickly I realized it probably wasn't from the heat of the day.
The animals had recently been shorn, and their bodies were willowy, especially their long, giraffe-like necks. The pregnant female's neck was creamy and her head and face were a mixture of brown and cream--Jay later referred to this coloration as "pinto." Her topknot was as fluffy and soft as all the others' were, and her eyes large and calm and cool. I watched her waist contracting and glanced at her butt, where her unshaven brown mop of a tail was raised, rather than relaxed as the others' were. Then I saw her vulva, pink-rose-red vertical lips opening like petals from her distended bum.
"I think she's getting ready to give birth," I remarked to John. He seemed skeptical until I picked up her tail and showed him her vulva. He quickly left the barn to find Julie, Jay's wife, and let her know. Things happened very quickly then. In a blink the baby's snout had emerged an inch from the alpaca's bum, and its nostrils were quivering and snorting. Instant life! Clear liquid dripped steadily from the alpaca's bottom--her water had broken.
In two minutes Jay arrived with their two girls (Lucy the youngest in a white bike helmet, flowered top and yellow rubber muck boots, brown-haired Mollie in a purple jumper and blue rubber muck boots.) I can only imagine how Jay felt, knowing how valuable these animals are and two virtual strangers in his barn watching Starlight go into labor. He was animated and the girls were full of questions.
"What's happening? Is she alright? What should we do? What's that?" They were not grossed out but curious and caring. I suggested saying Thank you God for this miracle, and immediately felt sanctimonious, but that's how moved I was.
Soon Jay shooed us out and we talked in the sun. He knew a lot about how this was supposed to happen--two front feet should emerge very soon, he said. But when we adults returned to the barn there was still the snout, and Starlight had plainly stopped having contractions. Jay put on short blue latex gloves and I asked if he needed lube.
"I shouldn't need it," he said, "but I don't know. This is actually the first time I've been here for a birth. It's always happened in the middle of the night."
Right then I felt that it was ok for us to stay and observe, because I knew we could help. John joined Jay in the stall and hugged Starlight while Jay gently felt around the baby's emerging head. The mother squeaked and whined, and the two men stood back from her. Jay said she should be lying down. The baby's head was fully out now, and it began hooting. The mother bent her graceful neck to peer at this noisy thing projecting from her butt, and turned in circles like a cat slowly chasing its tail. Jay began to become concerned and pulled out his cell phone to call the vet who gave him phone advice, then called one of his fellow alpaca breeders, Cal Coolidge, who quickly arrived to lend a hand. Lucy and Mollie slipped in and out, not sure if they wanted to watch. The baby, called a "cria," shook its head and one long ear flopped free, and one leg emerged. Jay changed into shoulder gloves and knelt in the dust to help the mother. Her contractions were weak and infrequent, but she did not seem too distressed. Jay realized that the cria's other front leg was folded back, and he spent ten or fifteen minutes trying to ease this leg forward. Other kids joined the quiet observers--two tow-headed brothers. All four children were as much interested in Cruiser, who I had tied to a tree outside, as they were in the birth. One of the hens was making a racket and Mollie said, "She knows something's happening."
Just as Jay's concern was edging toward fear, he asked Cal to speak again with the vet. And as Cal greeted the vet, Jay got the cria's second front leg out. In a couple of minutes he had pulled while the mother pushed and the baby was out on the stall floor, and we were all glowing with relief and pride.
The cria was whole and healthy, strong enough to begin flopping around trying to stand immediately. Its wet body quickly became matted with straw and dust, and as quickly the filth dried and fell off. Cal Coolidge pulled off some of the membrane. The mother watched and nosed her baby. Neighbors began to arrive, and Jay's wife and mother-in-law. We were quietly celebratory.
From our arrival to everyone's joyful congratulations was 45 minutes. We will go back later today to get our instructions for alpaca-sitting.
Thursday, July 22, 2004
The day before yesterday I saw a red salamander on a rock behind my office building. I was walking the dog, Cruiser, in a shady spot that is verdant with vinca vine and other pleasant ground covers, and glanced at the boulders that mark the corner of our building. There was an orangey-red smear, which I thought might be bubble gum dropped from the balcony above, or a broken balloon, or a toy. I peered closer, and saw the salamander shape, so my mind zoomed in on toy. I like toys. I peered closer, and saw layers of fine detail that continued to emerge as I got closer. Delicate spots, points of yellow outlined in green. Tiny transparent toes, wrinkles of an armpit where the arm was set forward and the toes on the rearward-facing arm curled under. Such detail--it couldn't be a toy. It was completely motionless, its tail curved gently, a beautifully rendered salamander in a caricature of a salamander pose. I gently touched its nearly transparent tail and the salamander jerked. Alive, definitely. As quickly the creature froze again, hoping to fool me. But I have opposable thumbs and cannot be so easily fooled. Ever so lightly I stroked its little tail, no thicker than a piece of cooked spaghetti. It edged away from me, but didn't flee. I didn't want to disturb it more so I moved back away from it and went on with the dog.
This made me want to spend time writing like Annie Dillard in "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek."
This made me want to spend time writing like Annie Dillard in "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek."
Wednesday, July 14, 2004
One year ago today we woke up in a cabin at Cobble Mountain Lodge in Lake PLacid, bundled ourselves, three cats and one small Nuyorican dog into the Pathfinder and drove to our lawyer's office to sign papers and hand over one big check to buy this house. Then we drove back here and in an hour the hired guys from Brooklyn turned into the driveway with their huge rented truck and unloaded all our belongings into this big beautiful house. Most of what we owned was in cardboard boxes that they placed in the garage, several rows of stacks of boxes higher than my head. How did we arrive here with all that stuff when we had lived in a cramped apartment? My mother and Sally loaded us up with mathems, and in the coming weeks it was like opening presents to unpack some of the boxes and see what we had been given.
A week later Liza, Dave and the kids visited for a week, helping us settle in.
A week later Liza, Dave and the kids visited for a week, helping us settle in.
Sunday, July 11, 2004
Email to friends and family...
Hi, Ladies,
We had a great weekend and I know you each would have enjoyed sharing it with us. The weather has been gorgeous, even when it rains.
Yesterday morning we arrived at the Whiteface United Methodist Church annual auction and bbq. It was so much fun we stayed til the bitter end--we were there about five hours. Things were going for such reasonable prices--it was a deal for the bidders and not so much of a fund-raiser for the church, but we all had fun and that's what matters most, I guess. Plus they probably earned a couple new members (us.) I was the chief bidder in our family and also a proud driver-up of bids that I subsequently lost--as a professional fund-raiser and dedicated community volunteer I felt it was my duty to raise the prices. I won several bottles of wine, eight passes for a raft ride at Au Sable Chasm (which we'll save for when you all visit,) dinner for two at a new restaurant, a cat mirror that looks exactly like something my mother would give me, a free night at a nice b&b, a one-person tent that a local character took with him on the Appalachian Trail, a delicate old cut glass sugar & creamer and some assorted junk. John sat there, unmoved by any of the goods, until a set of three simple wooden chairs that had been reupholstered by our neighbor came up for auction, plus two pillows to match. Then John sprang into action, and the chairs were his. We don't know where they'll go but they sure look nice. He also won a $25 certificate from our oil company, for which he paid $20. Hey, it's $5 off. We bid on but lost a rustic curio cabinet, an heirloom cedar chest, and a few other things. All in all it was a great bargain and the church thinks they made $2,000 or $3,000, most of which was NOT from us.
Then we came home, unwound and went off to the Jay Town Green for the Saturday night concert series for which we are the refreshments volunteers. As soon as we pulled up it started to pour rain, but as the band was set up inside the gazebo they decided to stick it out. So we and a dozen other die-hards stood around in the pouring rain chatting for 45 minutes until, as forecast by one farmer-artist fellow, the sky cleared from the north. The concert began and people came out of the trees, it seemed. There were probably 50 folks, including a bunch of children. Speaking of children, I am enduring fierce desires to have a child. John says if I go through one more cycle without changing my mind then he'll know it's for real and not just hormonal. (It's been months now.) And then, as he says, "We'll get one."
Last night it rained again, and we were awakened by the Essex County fire-ambulance pager that John now carries glued to his person. It goes off in the middle of the night when it rains. I suppose I will get used to it quickly, but for now it is a disturbing, surreal interruption: first a series of tones which have meaning--last night's tones included a tune in a minor key--and then the calm deep voice of the dispatcher. "Essex County Emergency system activated for Wilmington, two car incident reported on Route 86 in the Notch, one rollover, one entrapment. All Wilmington units respond." John didn't wake up. I petted his hair and listened for the second call, which usually follows the first. Sure enough, in a minute or two the tones rang again, and the dispatcher repeated his announcement and added, "One person reported unconscious, but breathing. Repeat: one person reported unconscious, but breathing." So stark, so professional. John doesn't have to respond to anything that is not a fire in Upper Jay unless they call for backup. The backup system is why we hear all fire and ambulance calls for the county. If there's a huge wreck on the Northway, for example, then John might have to back up the VFD in a town 50 miles away across six mountains. I am fast gaining respect for our local community that does all this stuff as volunteers.
This morning we woke up lazily but soon John was out on the road running. He ran for two hours, arriving home just as I came back from the farmer's market with blueberries, maple sugar and a bunch of cool stuff from a garage sale including the most fetching pair of gold sparkly pointy harem slippers with a yellow pompom on the tips (25 cents.) It's good to be a grown woman with odd sartorial taste and absurdly small feet. I noticed a Jeep Grand Cherokee for sale at a neighbor's house, which we later test drove, and a second yard sale at which I got a treadmill for John when the winter sets in and he can't run up mountains any more. The treadmill is now in our basement. I tried it. If I wear three bras I might be able to use it comfortably.
Now John's on the front porch drinking a Bud and reading the paper. I am not typing up a fund-raising plan for the SPCA, nor entering town library archives acquisitions into a database, but writing to you. In a half hour I will freshen up and take off for Lake Placid where I am meeting a friend for supper. She's a member of a group into which I've been scooped up, called Adirondack Women For a Good Time (AWFGT.) There are six of us, all (except me) lesbians in their 40s-60s who like to eat meat, drink cocktails, talk loudly about all sorts of things and get preferential treatment at restaurants because we are characters. I guess I fit in somehow.
Our kitchen garden is a luxurious profusion of edibles plus an equal amount of sturdy weeds. Flowers are everywhere, from the acres of daisies and purple/pink wildflowers in our field to the bright bursts of pink and white cleomes around the garden border. Our river cairns have withstood several rainstorms and get added to every time one or the other of us goes wading. The Nissan is parked by the road with a FOR SALE sign in it, and the Taurus is doing just fine as an only car. The cats are stoned on catnip, Cruiser the dog is gently covering the entire house with golden hairs, and blackfly season is over. I am sublimely content.
I think of you often with love, and hope to see you soon.
Hi, Ladies,
We had a great weekend and I know you each would have enjoyed sharing it with us. The weather has been gorgeous, even when it rains.
Yesterday morning we arrived at the Whiteface United Methodist Church annual auction and bbq. It was so much fun we stayed til the bitter end--we were there about five hours. Things were going for such reasonable prices--it was a deal for the bidders and not so much of a fund-raiser for the church, but we all had fun and that's what matters most, I guess. Plus they probably earned a couple new members (us.) I was the chief bidder in our family and also a proud driver-up of bids that I subsequently lost--as a professional fund-raiser and dedicated community volunteer I felt it was my duty to raise the prices. I won several bottles of wine, eight passes for a raft ride at Au Sable Chasm (which we'll save for when you all visit,) dinner for two at a new restaurant, a cat mirror that looks exactly like something my mother would give me, a free night at a nice b&b, a one-person tent that a local character took with him on the Appalachian Trail, a delicate old cut glass sugar & creamer and some assorted junk. John sat there, unmoved by any of the goods, until a set of three simple wooden chairs that had been reupholstered by our neighbor came up for auction, plus two pillows to match. Then John sprang into action, and the chairs were his. We don't know where they'll go but they sure look nice. He also won a $25 certificate from our oil company, for which he paid $20. Hey, it's $5 off. We bid on but lost a rustic curio cabinet, an heirloom cedar chest, and a few other things. All in all it was a great bargain and the church thinks they made $2,000 or $3,000, most of which was NOT from us.
Then we came home, unwound and went off to the Jay Town Green for the Saturday night concert series for which we are the refreshments volunteers. As soon as we pulled up it started to pour rain, but as the band was set up inside the gazebo they decided to stick it out. So we and a dozen other die-hards stood around in the pouring rain chatting for 45 minutes until, as forecast by one farmer-artist fellow, the sky cleared from the north. The concert began and people came out of the trees, it seemed. There were probably 50 folks, including a bunch of children. Speaking of children, I am enduring fierce desires to have a child. John says if I go through one more cycle without changing my mind then he'll know it's for real and not just hormonal. (It's been months now.) And then, as he says, "We'll get one."
Last night it rained again, and we were awakened by the Essex County fire-ambulance pager that John now carries glued to his person. It goes off in the middle of the night when it rains. I suppose I will get used to it quickly, but for now it is a disturbing, surreal interruption: first a series of tones which have meaning--last night's tones included a tune in a minor key--and then the calm deep voice of the dispatcher. "Essex County Emergency system activated for Wilmington, two car incident reported on Route 86 in the Notch, one rollover, one entrapment. All Wilmington units respond." John didn't wake up. I petted his hair and listened for the second call, which usually follows the first. Sure enough, in a minute or two the tones rang again, and the dispatcher repeated his announcement and added, "One person reported unconscious, but breathing. Repeat: one person reported unconscious, but breathing." So stark, so professional. John doesn't have to respond to anything that is not a fire in Upper Jay unless they call for backup. The backup system is why we hear all fire and ambulance calls for the county. If there's a huge wreck on the Northway, for example, then John might have to back up the VFD in a town 50 miles away across six mountains. I am fast gaining respect for our local community that does all this stuff as volunteers.
This morning we woke up lazily but soon John was out on the road running. He ran for two hours, arriving home just as I came back from the farmer's market with blueberries, maple sugar and a bunch of cool stuff from a garage sale including the most fetching pair of gold sparkly pointy harem slippers with a yellow pompom on the tips (25 cents.) It's good to be a grown woman with odd sartorial taste and absurdly small feet. I noticed a Jeep Grand Cherokee for sale at a neighbor's house, which we later test drove, and a second yard sale at which I got a treadmill for John when the winter sets in and he can't run up mountains any more. The treadmill is now in our basement. I tried it. If I wear three bras I might be able to use it comfortably.
Now John's on the front porch drinking a Bud and reading the paper. I am not typing up a fund-raising plan for the SPCA, nor entering town library archives acquisitions into a database, but writing to you. In a half hour I will freshen up and take off for Lake Placid where I am meeting a friend for supper. She's a member of a group into which I've been scooped up, called Adirondack Women For a Good Time (AWFGT.) There are six of us, all (except me) lesbians in their 40s-60s who like to eat meat, drink cocktails, talk loudly about all sorts of things and get preferential treatment at restaurants because we are characters. I guess I fit in somehow.
Our kitchen garden is a luxurious profusion of edibles plus an equal amount of sturdy weeds. Flowers are everywhere, from the acres of daisies and purple/pink wildflowers in our field to the bright bursts of pink and white cleomes around the garden border. Our river cairns have withstood several rainstorms and get added to every time one or the other of us goes wading. The Nissan is parked by the road with a FOR SALE sign in it, and the Taurus is doing just fine as an only car. The cats are stoned on catnip, Cruiser the dog is gently covering the entire house with golden hairs, and blackfly season is over. I am sublimely content.
I think of you often with love, and hope to see you soon.
Friday, July 09, 2004
John has just been inducted into the Upper Jay volunteer Fire Department and is undergoing several months of training. He's received his beeper. Last night it rained, and the first call came through at suppertime. He didn't have to go, as he is fire department, not ambulance, and it wasn't in Upper Jay. In the middle of the night, two o'clock-ish, three calls came through in quick succession. First the almost pleasant alert tones, then a slight crackle before the dispatcher's deep, calm voice. "We have received word of a car and motorcycle collision on Route 73 between Keene and Keene Valley." "...a rollover on Route 73..." and a third call saying they needed a driver and attendant. The first two calls were repeated. It was very intense and disturbing and exciting. We'll get used to this soon, I hope, and it won't blast us out of sleep. Perhaps there is a certain tone for the Upper Jay fire department and John and I will learn to recognize that.
Friday, June 25, 2004
Monday, June 14, 2004
Yesterday afternoon I arrived at a yard sale, and a woman who was leaving called out to me, "Get ready to Jew!"
I was startled--wasn't sure if I'd heard her correctly. "Sorry?" I said over the roof of my car.
"Get ready to Jew her down!" said the woman with no lessening of friendliness or volume, gesturing toward the barn where the sale was being held.
I know what that phrase means but have never actually heard it used except when I was being educated about how some terms are offensive and why not to say them. While smiling at my fellow shopper and thinking ahead to the cheap bounties awaiting, I also wanted to respond appropriately to this stunner of language. I could be strident, I could distinguish myself as an outsider, I could lie and say, "I'm a Jew!" or I could be respectful and gentle. I chose the latter.
"Huh. What does that mean?" I asked, shutting the car door and coming around to the driveway. It was a perfect day--sunny, clear, breezy, warm.
The woman replied, "Oh, you know, she's--the prices are high and she won't..." She was carrying two full plastic bags.
"Ah," I said, as if the lightbulb of comprehension had just lit up over my head. "Bargaining, haggling, negotiating!"
By this time the woman was either in a hurry to depart or annoyed by my probing, or taken aback my human thesaurus behavior, or all three. We parted with bright good wishes and I went on to the sale, which was, in fact, full of great stuff at high prices, and I did, in fact, have to bargain hard to get what I wanted for the price I was willing to pay.
I have been thinking about this exchange ever since. Often my new ADK friends tell me I'm 'urban,' whatever that means. Does this urban-ness include an awareness of ethnic and other slurs based on stereotypes? Maybe it's because I have lived in some of the USA's greatest cities and thus have lived with such wide varieties of people. Maybe it's just because I love words and have developed a heightened sensitivity to language. Maybe it's because I am passionate about social justice and equality for all.
But I thought no less of my fellow shopper because she used the term "Jew her down" when she meant "need to bargain to get a reasonable price." What I thought was that she has had a more limited experience in life than other people I know; perhaps she does not know any Jews, perhaps she has never connected the term with the religion and culture. It is so easy to miss that kind of thing when you're just talking, enjoying the day. For me, it takes practice and discipline to not say offensive things, just because they're woven into my language. It's even worse when I don't know that something is offensive.
What I really wanted out of that afternoon was to have a fun time at yard sales, so I went on and did just that. However, I've been thinking a lot about this exchange and I wonder if I can help be a catalyst to get people thinking and talking about the power (both good and bad) of language.
My dog and I browsed the sale, which was very large, for an hour. I came to the seller with my collection of stuff and she quoted me a figure. I wanted to pay half that and after hemming and hawing, putting a few things back, pointing out a few flaws in merchandise, I came away with what I really wanted and she happily pocketed the dollars I was willing to spend.
I was startled--wasn't sure if I'd heard her correctly. "Sorry?" I said over the roof of my car.
"Get ready to Jew her down!" said the woman with no lessening of friendliness or volume, gesturing toward the barn where the sale was being held.
I know what that phrase means but have never actually heard it used except when I was being educated about how some terms are offensive and why not to say them. While smiling at my fellow shopper and thinking ahead to the cheap bounties awaiting, I also wanted to respond appropriately to this stunner of language. I could be strident, I could distinguish myself as an outsider, I could lie and say, "I'm a Jew!" or I could be respectful and gentle. I chose the latter.
"Huh. What does that mean?" I asked, shutting the car door and coming around to the driveway. It was a perfect day--sunny, clear, breezy, warm.
The woman replied, "Oh, you know, she's--the prices are high and she won't..." She was carrying two full plastic bags.
"Ah," I said, as if the lightbulb of comprehension had just lit up over my head. "Bargaining, haggling, negotiating!"
By this time the woman was either in a hurry to depart or annoyed by my probing, or taken aback my human thesaurus behavior, or all three. We parted with bright good wishes and I went on to the sale, which was, in fact, full of great stuff at high prices, and I did, in fact, have to bargain hard to get what I wanted for the price I was willing to pay.
I have been thinking about this exchange ever since. Often my new ADK friends tell me I'm 'urban,' whatever that means. Does this urban-ness include an awareness of ethnic and other slurs based on stereotypes? Maybe it's because I have lived in some of the USA's greatest cities and thus have lived with such wide varieties of people. Maybe it's just because I love words and have developed a heightened sensitivity to language. Maybe it's because I am passionate about social justice and equality for all.
But I thought no less of my fellow shopper because she used the term "Jew her down" when she meant "need to bargain to get a reasonable price." What I thought was that she has had a more limited experience in life than other people I know; perhaps she does not know any Jews, perhaps she has never connected the term with the religion and culture. It is so easy to miss that kind of thing when you're just talking, enjoying the day. For me, it takes practice and discipline to not say offensive things, just because they're woven into my language. It's even worse when I don't know that something is offensive.
What I really wanted out of that afternoon was to have a fun time at yard sales, so I went on and did just that. However, I've been thinking a lot about this exchange and I wonder if I can help be a catalyst to get people thinking and talking about the power (both good and bad) of language.
My dog and I browsed the sale, which was very large, for an hour. I came to the seller with my collection of stuff and she quoted me a figure. I wanted to pay half that and after hemming and hawing, putting a few things back, pointing out a few flaws in merchandise, I came away with what I really wanted and she happily pocketed the dollars I was willing to spend.
Thursday, May 20, 2004
I am a co-dependent finch killer. This morning as I was preparing to leave for work, Smidgen announced that she had caught a bird. This may be her first avian kill. I love Smidge so much and was truly proud of her. She has short legs and a big head, bug eyes and a marvelously personable nature, due in part to her sickness as a kitten, and the fact that she was hand-fed and reared by caring volunteers. She spends hours sitting in the window well nearest the bird feeder outside our kitchen window, watching the action, occasionally kneading her paws in the dirt out of pleasure.
So I followed my usual routine--backed the car out of the garage, put it in park so I could shut the garage door, and was about to call for Smidgen to put her in for the day, when I saw her crouched at the corner of the building. I went over to greet her and she let out a long, sustained MEOW, a wild proud sound. There between her front paws was a tiny female finch--grey with yellow feathers--heart still beating. I praised Smidgen, and she began to toss the bird and bat it around. When the bird landed on the grass it tried to move its wings. In these moments I felt some anxiety and conflict (my beloved Smidge having fun and being a cat versus kindness to all creatures.) I settled that and overcame a lifetime of squeamishness by grasping the big stick we use to stir the fire in the burn barrel, and bonking the bird once, breaking its back. Its head immediately began to twitch in a death way, and within seconds it was utterly still. This did not diminish Smidgen's pleasure in playing with it.
I left her outside to enjoy her kill. John will be home early today. He says, "I think the correct way to put it is Smidge caught a bird and you killed it." Aaggghhh...
So I followed my usual routine--backed the car out of the garage, put it in park so I could shut the garage door, and was about to call for Smidgen to put her in for the day, when I saw her crouched at the corner of the building. I went over to greet her and she let out a long, sustained MEOW, a wild proud sound. There between her front paws was a tiny female finch--grey with yellow feathers--heart still beating. I praised Smidgen, and she began to toss the bird and bat it around. When the bird landed on the grass it tried to move its wings. In these moments I felt some anxiety and conflict (my beloved Smidge having fun and being a cat versus kindness to all creatures.) I settled that and overcame a lifetime of squeamishness by grasping the big stick we use to stir the fire in the burn barrel, and bonking the bird once, breaking its back. Its head immediately began to twitch in a death way, and within seconds it was utterly still. This did not diminish Smidgen's pleasure in playing with it.
I left her outside to enjoy her kill. John will be home early today. He says, "I think the correct way to put it is Smidge caught a bird and you killed it." Aaggghhh...
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
Monday, May 17th, 2004
I stopped by the barn on my way in this morning, looking for Cruiser. I didn't find him, but found instead SIX baby goats! They are enchanting. Several are bouncing around on springs, and two are weak and shaky. One of the weak ones was curled up in a shady spot, shivering, so I went in, picked it up and laid it on some shavings in the sun next to the other weak one. Very quickly it stopped shaking and in several minutes had stood up and was bleating. It also peed on its sibling, because although it could stand it didn't walk anywhere.
I went out into the yard and petted the ladies, who still look enormous. They were reclining in the sun, munching hay, looking worn out.
The babies are about the size of Papi, some more muscular than others. Their fur is silky soft--all shades of brown, tan and cream. Their ears are floppy like their mothers'. They sound like the lambs but different--more high-pitched and funnier.
Tuesday, May 18th, 2004
Regular barn chores morning. Three of the kids are not nursing from their mama's teats and have to be bottle-fed. One of our senior students volunteered to milk the mama goat. We opened up the gate and the goat pranced out, leapt right up into the milking stall. Rachel slid the bars around the goat's neck, someone else poured some grain in the trough, and the senior settled into milking the contended, munching goat.
He let me help. "It's like toothpaste," he said, meaning that I was supposed to squeeze from the top down in a rolling motion. This came not at all naturally. I think my hands would cramp before I got used to doing this for more than a few squeezes. The goats teats were warm, firm, resilient, and the thin milk came out easily. She ignored me.
I stopped by the barn on my way in this morning, looking for Cruiser. I didn't find him, but found instead SIX baby goats! They are enchanting. Several are bouncing around on springs, and two are weak and shaky. One of the weak ones was curled up in a shady spot, shivering, so I went in, picked it up and laid it on some shavings in the sun next to the other weak one. Very quickly it stopped shaking and in several minutes had stood up and was bleating. It also peed on its sibling, because although it could stand it didn't walk anywhere.
I went out into the yard and petted the ladies, who still look enormous. They were reclining in the sun, munching hay, looking worn out.
The babies are about the size of Papi, some more muscular than others. Their fur is silky soft--all shades of brown, tan and cream. Their ears are floppy like their mothers'. They sound like the lambs but different--more high-pitched and funnier.
Tuesday, May 18th, 2004
Regular barn chores morning. Three of the kids are not nursing from their mama's teats and have to be bottle-fed. One of our senior students volunteered to milk the mama goat. We opened up the gate and the goat pranced out, leapt right up into the milking stall. Rachel slid the bars around the goat's neck, someone else poured some grain in the trough, and the senior settled into milking the contended, munching goat.
He let me help. "It's like toothpaste," he said, meaning that I was supposed to squeeze from the top down in a rolling motion. This came not at all naturally. I think my hands would cramp before I got used to doing this for more than a few squeezes. The goats teats were warm, firm, resilient, and the thin milk came out easily. She ignored me.
Friday, May 07, 2004
Friday of a long week, the end of two long weeks following the board meeting and two events in NYC. I have been tired but am coming back. Today my boss took me out for lunch, very nice. As we were driving back to school we passed a work-site on the side of the road with one of those large mobile electric alert signs. The message on the sign was "GAY MECHANIC WORKING." I burst out laughing and wasn't sure I had really seen what I thought I saw, but my boss had seen it too. Funniest thing! I wonder if that will make it into the paper.
Came back to work and walked Cruiser, who is now staying with us indefinitely. On my walk I found a fallen birds nest made of mostly horsehair. Charlotte the obese 600-pound heritage breed sow is in a paddock by herself lately. She was lying in the sun--I wasn't sure she was breathing. I cooed and clucked and called her name, and she sighed and grunted, so I went in and scratched and petted her for a file. Poor, depressed Charlotte. She has a particular strong odor that I find quite pleasant outdoors, a musk. It doesn't translate well into my office, though.
This evening we are going for a boat ride with Mark and having supper together at his house. I am planning to build a bottle tree and Mark is excited to help me find the perfect driftwood log under the serene waters of Lake Saranac.
Came back to work and walked Cruiser, who is now staying with us indefinitely. On my walk I found a fallen birds nest made of mostly horsehair. Charlotte the obese 600-pound heritage breed sow is in a paddock by herself lately. She was lying in the sun--I wasn't sure she was breathing. I cooed and clucked and called her name, and she sighed and grunted, so I went in and scratched and petted her for a file. Poor, depressed Charlotte. She has a particular strong odor that I find quite pleasant outdoors, a musk. It doesn't translate well into my office, though.
This evening we are going for a boat ride with Mark and having supper together at his house. I am planning to build a bottle tree and Mark is excited to help me find the perfect driftwood log under the serene waters of Lake Saranac.
Wednesday, April 28, 2004
Tonight there is a ring around the moon, an aura or halo. It is huge. Raise your hands above your shoulders like you are giving praise to God. Then spread your arms a little. That's how wide the aura looks from where we are. I can't tell if it is in space, "millions of miles away," as John said, or just in our atmosphere, a parting of clouds. In either case, the luminous perfect circle seems immediately above our heads, just as the aurora borealis did last fall.
It snowed and sleeted today. The planties in the cold frame are still growing nonetheless. In the afternoon the weather was gorgeous, windy and clear and fresh.
I've put my father's photograph in our living room. It's the first time since he died (that I remember) that I've had his photo on display. It is very nice to see him smiling at me as I walk by. I never thought of a photo as having such power, nor did I think the sight of my long-dead father's face could give me comfort and joy. John says he is glad to see my Dad's face up there.
Today at my first visit to a chiropractor in Lake Placid he went through the regular series of medical questions: he asked if I had children. No. Had I ever been pregnant? Yes. "Oh," he said quite kindly and sympathetically, "you lost it." It was not a question. I now know the language to use up here about that particular personal/political thing.
It snowed and sleeted today. The planties in the cold frame are still growing nonetheless. In the afternoon the weather was gorgeous, windy and clear and fresh.
I've put my father's photograph in our living room. It's the first time since he died (that I remember) that I've had his photo on display. It is very nice to see him smiling at me as I walk by. I never thought of a photo as having such power, nor did I think the sight of my long-dead father's face could give me comfort and joy. John says he is glad to see my Dad's face up there.
Today at my first visit to a chiropractor in Lake Placid he went through the regular series of medical questions: he asked if I had children. No. Had I ever been pregnant? Yes. "Oh," he said quite kindly and sympathetically, "you lost it." It was not a question. I now know the language to use up here about that particular personal/political thing.
Monday, April 26, 2004
Monday, April 19, 2004
Things that happened in the last 24 hours:
I hung laundry out to dry, then there was a thunderstorm; the temperature got up to the 70s: all these things for the first time since last fall.
John got the Pathfinder stuck in the mud. He drove out back to the field to get some large tree stumps for around our fire pit. He felt the Nissan fall into a sink hole and tried to power out of it but couldn't. A neighbor with a Jeep and a winch got the truck out.
I started a cold frame of vegetables, flowers and herbs.
We learned that our orange cat Bean has more than once been caught in our neighbor's skunk trap, which would explain Bean's occasional overnights.
I made an 81st birthday card for Nana, John's grandmother, and a thank you card for Mark, our postmaster who took us on a boating trip on Saranac Lake last week.
We watched "Winged Migration," which is tremendous.
I hung laundry out to dry, then there was a thunderstorm; the temperature got up to the 70s: all these things for the first time since last fall.
John got the Pathfinder stuck in the mud. He drove out back to the field to get some large tree stumps for around our fire pit. He felt the Nissan fall into a sink hole and tried to power out of it but couldn't. A neighbor with a Jeep and a winch got the truck out.
I started a cold frame of vegetables, flowers and herbs.
We learned that our orange cat Bean has more than once been caught in our neighbor's skunk trap, which would explain Bean's occasional overnights.
I made an 81st birthday card for Nana, John's grandmother, and a thank you card for Mark, our postmaster who took us on a boating trip on Saranac Lake last week.
We watched "Winged Migration," which is tremendous.
Thursday, April 08, 2004
Note to the creator of Shitbegone toilet paper (www.shitbegone.com)
Dear Jed,
I lived in Williamsburg, Bklyn when Shitbegone first snuck onto the shelves of local minimarts (1999? 2000?) I got my first rolls at the bodega across the street from Iona bar, corner of Grand and Bedford. The Spanish-speaking proprietors were confused by my laughter when I saw the product. I sent my mother, who has a colostomy, a roll and she adored it. Having a colostomy, she had no need to consume the toilet paper, and she still proudly displays it as her own personal poo joke. Back in Williamsburg I, and presumably others, kept buying the rolls until the bodegas no longer stocked them. "No, we don't carry that any more," they said, as if they had discovered a cruel joke had been played upon them. In a way, I guess it had.
Now I live on a farm in the Adirondacks where people don't have senses of humor like they do in NYC. Here there is a lot of shit from animals that weigh as much as taxis, and peoples' septic tanks--including mine--back up, producing more shit. From my point of view this means even more need for Shitbegone toilet paper.
I display my last roll of Shitbegone in my country kitchen, along with an empty carton of Homo Milk from Quebec. No one of our new local friends yet has reacted. Perhaps they are blind, or they think my taste is beneath comment.
Would love to know when your website upgrade and new merchandise are ready. Thanks for creating a classic.
Martha
Dear Jed,
I lived in Williamsburg, Bklyn when Shitbegone first snuck onto the shelves of local minimarts (1999? 2000?) I got my first rolls at the bodega across the street from Iona bar, corner of Grand and Bedford. The Spanish-speaking proprietors were confused by my laughter when I saw the product. I sent my mother, who has a colostomy, a roll and she adored it. Having a colostomy, she had no need to consume the toilet paper, and she still proudly displays it as her own personal poo joke. Back in Williamsburg I, and presumably others, kept buying the rolls until the bodegas no longer stocked them. "No, we don't carry that any more," they said, as if they had discovered a cruel joke had been played upon them. In a way, I guess it had.
Now I live on a farm in the Adirondacks where people don't have senses of humor like they do in NYC. Here there is a lot of shit from animals that weigh as much as taxis, and peoples' septic tanks--including mine--back up, producing more shit. From my point of view this means even more need for Shitbegone toilet paper.
I display my last roll of Shitbegone in my country kitchen, along with an empty carton of Homo Milk from Quebec. No one of our new local friends yet has reacted. Perhaps they are blind, or they think my taste is beneath comment.
Would love to know when your website upgrade and new merchandise are ready. Thanks for creating a classic.
Martha
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
At lunch today Rachel and Rebekah were saying how Selden birthed two lambs this morning. At that moment John Doan came to the table with a plate heaped with a large, dark hunk of meat and bone. “There’s lamb up there if you want it,” he said. I thought that the lamb on his plate was one of the ones Selden birthed this morning. I thought she caught the lamb, gave it to the kitchen, and here it was on John's plate. I nearly threw up. Folks teased me for a second but then said the lamb was from another source. Even so, I had to leave the table. This is akin to when my neighbor said he was selling his sled, and I saw a flexible flyer in my mind’s eye. I went to his basement to see the sled and there was a behemoth snow machine that holds two people, has a cooler and a stereo…
Saturday, March 13, 2004
A gorgeously sunny but frigid day. Spent much time planning our garden and thinking about eating our own produce throughout the winter. Also have in mind plenty of flowers and herbs, both perennial and annual. The gardens' success will depend on a few things: our ability to till the soil, the qualities of the soil (former pasture, so we assume it's good,) the hardiness of the plants in this silly climate and against the prevailing southeast wind that comes up our valley, and the black flies. I am afraid of the black flies. Is it possible that they are the scourge everyone says they are? I dread them. I plan to drape a sunhat with gauze and be out there gardening despite the little munchers. I will go through the novice gardener's trial of weeding - am I killing a treasure and saving a piece of trash?
What else is planted on our land? We saw it in early spring and again in mid-summer. There are vast stands of lilacs, hundred-year-old lilacs. There are a few clumps of plants that were clearly placed intentionally but I have no idea what they are now. There was a huge swath of yellow flowers planted inside one of the barn foundations, and some tiger lilies. Trees -- ancient maples, a handful of fruit trees, a fir and a bunch of shade trees I can't name.
Read a comparison the other day that is much better than "apples and oranges": "cheese and chalk." Unless one wants to compare like things. Then it would be "Gouda and Gruyere."
This evening we're going to see "The Sound of Music" at the local high school. Paul J has some leadership role in producing it.
What else is planted on our land? We saw it in early spring and again in mid-summer. There are vast stands of lilacs, hundred-year-old lilacs. There are a few clumps of plants that were clearly placed intentionally but I have no idea what they are now. There was a huge swath of yellow flowers planted inside one of the barn foundations, and some tiger lilies. Trees -- ancient maples, a handful of fruit trees, a fir and a bunch of shade trees I can't name.
Read a comparison the other day that is much better than "apples and oranges": "cheese and chalk." Unless one wants to compare like things. Then it would be "Gouda and Gruyere."
This evening we're going to see "The Sound of Music" at the local high school. Paul J has some leadership role in producing it.
Note to friends in response to today's New York Times article that Ruth Simmons, President of Brown University is leading the institution through a process to examine its history of involvement with slavery:
This is so beautiful! Years ago I met a distant relative whose great-great-grandparents were owned by my great-great-grandparents. I was already deeply involved in social justice work, but that chance meeting brought it home like a frying pan to my forehead. I wonder how many of us would have the bravery and humility to do personally what Brown's trustees and Ruth Simmons (former Smith president, I might add) have the courage to lead Brown through.
These days I might grumble and groan at my tight financial situation, but I also know that every advantage I've had throughout my life is STILL, despite my father's early disinheritance, due in part to a legacy of the resources built up by slaves.
This is so beautiful! Years ago I met a distant relative whose great-great-grandparents were owned by my great-great-grandparents. I was already deeply involved in social justice work, but that chance meeting brought it home like a frying pan to my forehead. I wonder how many of us would have the bravery and humility to do personally what Brown's trustees and Ruth Simmons (former Smith president, I might add) have the courage to lead Brown through.
These days I might grumble and groan at my tight financial situation, but I also know that every advantage I've had throughout my life is STILL, despite my father's early disinheritance, due in part to a legacy of the resources built up by slaves.
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
Emails to a friend who is in the hospital:
Dear T,
As S may have told you, John and I have Cruiser for the weekend. Last night I picked him (Cruiser) up and he hopped confidently into the backseat of my car. At first he kind of slouched his butt against the door, and then soon lay down for a snooze. I stopped at the Stewart's to get some Budweiser because Roger is coming over today to work on reunion things with me, and as I left the car Cruiser gazed through the windshield at me with his great droopy dark eyes. My heart feels warm just thinking about it. I love that he knows who I am and trusts me.
Anyway, I brought him home and he was cautious at first, not sure of John, who it turns out was not sure of Cruiser. Somehow John had gotten the impression that Cruiser is a mean scary dog. I talk about C often so I don't know where John got that idea. Cruiser walked around the first floor sniffing things. I'd like to think his nose is sensitive enough to recognize your smell even though you've only been here a few times. Thank goodness for my poor housekeeping! I told him I was so glad he was here but wished it was his mom instead.
I made supper and Cruiser observed. John was on the couch watching TV. Two of our three cats made cautious forays into Cruiser's space, and he was absolutely charming to them. He dropped his head, was as still as he could be, his big nose quivering, his tail wagging ever so gently. One cat--Smidgen--actually touched noses with Cruiser the first hour he was here. Then they assumed détente. Cats upstairs, Cruiser downstairs, with cats making hourly rounds to sniff the air, display their fur and look wide-eyed, hurt, at John and me.
After supper John and I settled together on the couch for TV, and I invited Cruiser to join us. He leapt up quite gracefully for such a big beast, and at first was not interested in sitting on John, only me. He was as delicate as he could be but it is hard when you have big floppy paws and the humans are entangled together under an afghan. Soon, though, with John's caresses, Cruiser settled down onto both of us and was a big happy moosh.
Later I was cleaning up and getting ready for bed, and when I went in to the living room John and Cruiser were reclining together like two odalisques, totally absorbed in a hockey game. Or maybe John was absorbed and Cruiser was sleeping.
You are correct, of course--C hasn't braved the stairs. I have informed him that if he does come upstairs he may sleep in the bed with us, and I think the cats are hatching a secret nuclear weapon to prevent that from happening.
This morning John saw what he thinks is a wolf on the frozen river out front. Do you think we could have a wolf here? Maybe it was just a big fluffy coyote. Either way, I still haven't seen any coyotes myself and want to.
I'm off to the NCSPCA board meeting where I might see S. John is going to go for a long walk with Cruiser.
Big hug.
Dear T,
Well, it didn't take long for Cruiser to brave the stairs. This afternoon after our walk (which followed his and John's walk) I came up for a nap and with a little coaxing and sweet-talking Cruiser followed me up the stairs. He was perfectly coordinated about it. He required little encouragement to jump into bed and lie in my arms. He was only still for a moment before scootching around to say, "SCRATCH MY BELLY." Lick lick, snuffle snuffle, SCRATCH MY BELLY. Pretend to doze. SCRATCH ME! Moan, groan. PET ME! So much for the human nap. I told John things will never be the same between Cruiser and me again. We've lain together.
Our yard is now filling up with large poopies and messy spots where Cruiser has treated his face like a snow plow or rolled around in the fresh snow. He is a delight to have around.
He is also fine about going down the stairs. Maybe that is my contribution to your and Cruiser's quality of life. When you come home, he can do stairs.
Big hug,
Dear T,
There is so much life outside our house, all sorts of yawps and gurgles and hoots and honks. Some things I recognize--turkeys gobbling. Other things are mysterious--an intense babyish yipping in the hill behind our field. The river sound is getting louder. Earth smells like it might be coming back to life. Tonight there is a high-pitched rapid barking that echoes off the various hills and cliffs so the entire sky is filled with this sound. It's kind of ominous.
Yesterday evening John and I were relaxing at sunset and Cruiser was nosing around in the yard. John on the porch came into Cruiser's vision and Cruiser charged at him, all four paws off the ground. He must have flown six feet--Cruiser, that is. John was unfazed. Cruiser landed and came up to John all waggling and pushing his head against John's thigh.
This morning I dropped Cruiser and his water dish off at H and S's house. Ned, their black lab that is part helicopter, was overjoyed to see his buddy Cruiser, who seemed very happy, too, but did not bounce so high. I don't think S will let Cruiser visit us again--I think she thinks we spoiled him during our 48 hour lovefest. Perhaps you can put in a good word for us.
All sorts of dogs have taken to coming to the east end offices now that Cruiser is not there. Your giant box of biscuits is nearing its end--we'll have to get some more. Witherbee, Amy's gleaming grey puppy made his first appearance today in the company of Gannett, who is a daily mooch. Both boys sat politely and accepted a treat from me while I was on the phone with someone important. It's always fun when a serious conversation is interrupted by a WOOF! If the person is an alum they always sigh and say how they miss the place, and if it is someone else they say how they wished they worked in a place like this.
Here is my favorite poem:
Tell me, O Octopus, I begs,
Is those things arms or is they legs?
I marvel at thee, Octopus;
If I were thou, I'd call me Us.
By Ogden Nash.
Tomorrow morning I've got barn chores at NCS and John begins his alpaca-sitting duty at a local farm. Did you know that alpacas spit, and each beastie costs about $10,000? I probably told you that already. They only eat as much as a dog, they poop no more than a goat and always in the same neat little pile. Still, $10,000 for a large spitting mammal with only bottom teeth. I have yet to determine how you make a profit off them, but in the spirit of neighborliness we'll scrape their dainty poos into the wheelbarrow while the farmer is on vacation, feed their companion auracana chickens and take a few warm blue eggs, and bide our time. Who knows, maybe we'll become the next alpaca millionaires.
Thanks again for calling today. Sorry I was not in the spirit of chatting. Talk to you again soon, I hope. I'll be in Montréal at the NAIS conference from Weds. through Sat. but will try to email and will be thinking of you.
Dear T,
As S may have told you, John and I have Cruiser for the weekend. Last night I picked him (Cruiser) up and he hopped confidently into the backseat of my car. At first he kind of slouched his butt against the door, and then soon lay down for a snooze. I stopped at the Stewart's to get some Budweiser because Roger is coming over today to work on reunion things with me, and as I left the car Cruiser gazed through the windshield at me with his great droopy dark eyes. My heart feels warm just thinking about it. I love that he knows who I am and trusts me.
Anyway, I brought him home and he was cautious at first, not sure of John, who it turns out was not sure of Cruiser. Somehow John had gotten the impression that Cruiser is a mean scary dog. I talk about C often so I don't know where John got that idea. Cruiser walked around the first floor sniffing things. I'd like to think his nose is sensitive enough to recognize your smell even though you've only been here a few times. Thank goodness for my poor housekeeping! I told him I was so glad he was here but wished it was his mom instead.
I made supper and Cruiser observed. John was on the couch watching TV. Two of our three cats made cautious forays into Cruiser's space, and he was absolutely charming to them. He dropped his head, was as still as he could be, his big nose quivering, his tail wagging ever so gently. One cat--Smidgen--actually touched noses with Cruiser the first hour he was here. Then they assumed détente. Cats upstairs, Cruiser downstairs, with cats making hourly rounds to sniff the air, display their fur and look wide-eyed, hurt, at John and me.
After supper John and I settled together on the couch for TV, and I invited Cruiser to join us. He leapt up quite gracefully for such a big beast, and at first was not interested in sitting on John, only me. He was as delicate as he could be but it is hard when you have big floppy paws and the humans are entangled together under an afghan. Soon, though, with John's caresses, Cruiser settled down onto both of us and was a big happy moosh.
Later I was cleaning up and getting ready for bed, and when I went in to the living room John and Cruiser were reclining together like two odalisques, totally absorbed in a hockey game. Or maybe John was absorbed and Cruiser was sleeping.
You are correct, of course--C hasn't braved the stairs. I have informed him that if he does come upstairs he may sleep in the bed with us, and I think the cats are hatching a secret nuclear weapon to prevent that from happening.
This morning John saw what he thinks is a wolf on the frozen river out front. Do you think we could have a wolf here? Maybe it was just a big fluffy coyote. Either way, I still haven't seen any coyotes myself and want to.
I'm off to the NCSPCA board meeting where I might see S. John is going to go for a long walk with Cruiser.
Big hug.
Dear T,
Well, it didn't take long for Cruiser to brave the stairs. This afternoon after our walk (which followed his and John's walk) I came up for a nap and with a little coaxing and sweet-talking Cruiser followed me up the stairs. He was perfectly coordinated about it. He required little encouragement to jump into bed and lie in my arms. He was only still for a moment before scootching around to say, "SCRATCH MY BELLY." Lick lick, snuffle snuffle, SCRATCH MY BELLY. Pretend to doze. SCRATCH ME! Moan, groan. PET ME! So much for the human nap. I told John things will never be the same between Cruiser and me again. We've lain together.
Our yard is now filling up with large poopies and messy spots where Cruiser has treated his face like a snow plow or rolled around in the fresh snow. He is a delight to have around.
He is also fine about going down the stairs. Maybe that is my contribution to your and Cruiser's quality of life. When you come home, he can do stairs.
Big hug,
Dear T,
There is so much life outside our house, all sorts of yawps and gurgles and hoots and honks. Some things I recognize--turkeys gobbling. Other things are mysterious--an intense babyish yipping in the hill behind our field. The river sound is getting louder. Earth smells like it might be coming back to life. Tonight there is a high-pitched rapid barking that echoes off the various hills and cliffs so the entire sky is filled with this sound. It's kind of ominous.
Yesterday evening John and I were relaxing at sunset and Cruiser was nosing around in the yard. John on the porch came into Cruiser's vision and Cruiser charged at him, all four paws off the ground. He must have flown six feet--Cruiser, that is. John was unfazed. Cruiser landed and came up to John all waggling and pushing his head against John's thigh.
This morning I dropped Cruiser and his water dish off at H and S's house. Ned, their black lab that is part helicopter, was overjoyed to see his buddy Cruiser, who seemed very happy, too, but did not bounce so high. I don't think S will let Cruiser visit us again--I think she thinks we spoiled him during our 48 hour lovefest. Perhaps you can put in a good word for us.
All sorts of dogs have taken to coming to the east end offices now that Cruiser is not there. Your giant box of biscuits is nearing its end--we'll have to get some more. Witherbee, Amy's gleaming grey puppy made his first appearance today in the company of Gannett, who is a daily mooch. Both boys sat politely and accepted a treat from me while I was on the phone with someone important. It's always fun when a serious conversation is interrupted by a WOOF! If the person is an alum they always sigh and say how they miss the place, and if it is someone else they say how they wished they worked in a place like this.
Here is my favorite poem:
Tell me, O Octopus, I begs,
Is those things arms or is they legs?
I marvel at thee, Octopus;
If I were thou, I'd call me Us.
By Ogden Nash.
Tomorrow morning I've got barn chores at NCS and John begins his alpaca-sitting duty at a local farm. Did you know that alpacas spit, and each beastie costs about $10,000? I probably told you that already. They only eat as much as a dog, they poop no more than a goat and always in the same neat little pile. Still, $10,000 for a large spitting mammal with only bottom teeth. I have yet to determine how you make a profit off them, but in the spirit of neighborliness we'll scrape their dainty poos into the wheelbarrow while the farmer is on vacation, feed their companion auracana chickens and take a few warm blue eggs, and bide our time. Who knows, maybe we'll become the next alpaca millionaires.
Thanks again for calling today. Sorry I was not in the spirit of chatting. Talk to you again soon, I hope. I'll be in Montréal at the NAIS conference from Weds. through Sat. but will try to email and will be thinking of you.
Saturday, February 28, 2004
Oh, bliss -- warmth! I don't know the temperature, but it feels like summer. Went walking out in the field, across the ice of frozen stream and wetland, Cruiser at my side, Tsu's dog. Tsu is in the hospital sick with a suddenly revealed cancer. And Roger has just turned into our driveway. Is that Roger or someone else? Country life, new friends, warm sunny day. Ha!
Sunday, February 08, 2004
Posted originally at www.toddp.com with photos.
Last night Todd, Ashley, a bunch of NCS students, my husband John and I all convened at the Saranac Lake Ice Palace. What a magical place! Magical is a trite word to describe a three-storey glimmering translucent witty frozen artistic sculptural architectural community marvel. I can speak only for myself, and I was suffused with joy. John gloried over discovering a tiny fish frozen in a block of ice the size of a Coleman cooler, and we all guffawed when someone pointed out the large words and arrow, writ in ice: FISH ---->
The ice could have been resin, it was so perfectly clear in spots, but the humid cold was proof of ice. Ah, how lovely.
You can check it out at http://www.saranaclake.com/carny.shtml Scroll down mid-page to see a slide show of construction.
Our solid H20 experience was preceded by a cozy hour in front of Mark's fireplace drinking hot cocoa and telling tall tales, and earlier in the afternoon a feast of kitchen-sink lasagna at John and my house, and the afternoon kicked off with Todd performing exploratory surgery on John and my computer network. As it turns out, shoelaces are not such effective UBS connectors.
I should probably post the above story in my own weblog but Todd has more readers and he hasn't told his own ice palace story yet, so let this be his introduction.
And today is a glorious, sunny Sunday!
Last night Todd, Ashley, a bunch of NCS students, my husband John and I all convened at the Saranac Lake Ice Palace. What a magical place! Magical is a trite word to describe a three-storey glimmering translucent witty frozen artistic sculptural architectural community marvel. I can speak only for myself, and I was suffused with joy. John gloried over discovering a tiny fish frozen in a block of ice the size of a Coleman cooler, and we all guffawed when someone pointed out the large words and arrow, writ in ice: FISH ---->
The ice could have been resin, it was so perfectly clear in spots, but the humid cold was proof of ice. Ah, how lovely.
You can check it out at http://www.saranaclake.com/carny.shtml Scroll down mid-page to see a slide show of construction.
Our solid H20 experience was preceded by a cozy hour in front of Mark's fireplace drinking hot cocoa and telling tall tales, and earlier in the afternoon a feast of kitchen-sink lasagna at John and my house, and the afternoon kicked off with Todd performing exploratory surgery on John and my computer network. As it turns out, shoelaces are not such effective UBS connectors.
I should probably post the above story in my own weblog but Todd has more readers and he hasn't told his own ice palace story yet, so let this be his introduction.
And today is a glorious, sunny Sunday!
Thursday, February 05, 2004
Last night I fell down the basement stairs. John was down there fixing a window and from his point of view it happened in slow motion. I slipped, went "whoop!" then bump bump bump, he cried out, I said I'm ok! I'm ok! bump bump bump I'm ok! bump bump I'm ok! The whole way down I was crying out, "I'm ok!" He said he had three urges to go to my aid--but each time I said I was ok he paused. It happened in a flurry from my point of view. At the bottom I glimpsed a sturdy post and grabbed for it, thus ending my tumble and possibly saving me from serious injury. All the same, I sat there stunned, my butt, wrist and calf throbbing. John came to me and hugged me. I rested my head on his shoulder for a long moment.
This morning I am so sore.
The other night he woke me from a shrieking nightmare--I was dreaming that he decided he had never loved me, and I was enraged as well as grief-stricken. John woke me, pulled me into his arms, and said, "I have always loved you, I love you now and I will always love you."
What could be better than this relationship?
This morning I am so sore.
The other night he woke me from a shrieking nightmare--I was dreaming that he decided he had never loved me, and I was enraged as well as grief-stricken. John woke me, pulled me into his arms, and said, "I have always loved you, I love you now and I will always love you."
What could be better than this relationship?
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
Transitioning into my office job this morning
By Martha Spear
Hay bales are heavy
Heavy bales hoisting
Makes me sweat, which is good, but—
Hay bales fall hard, I fall hard when tripping
Over hay bales
And cows are large, too large for tipping
But they sense weakness,
Trip me when they want the hay
So the bale and I flail in the stall
Amongst straw and frozen balls of poop
And the cows are happy munchers
Meaning no harm, even supplying
Sloppy kisses—they’d never hurt me.
Chores done, sweat drying, itches multiplying
There is hay in my bra.
By Martha Spear
Hay bales are heavy
Heavy bales hoisting
Makes me sweat, which is good, but—
Hay bales fall hard, I fall hard when tripping
Over hay bales
And cows are large, too large for tipping
But they sense weakness,
Trip me when they want the hay
So the bale and I flail in the stall
Amongst straw and frozen balls of poop
And the cows are happy munchers
Meaning no harm, even supplying
Sloppy kisses—they’d never hurt me.
Chores done, sweat drying, itches multiplying
There is hay in my bra.
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
Kerry v. Dean now. I remember the first Clinton campaign, the only campaign I was close enough to to think back on with personal fondness. I suppose people who cared for Kerrey or Tsongas, their staff and volunteers were upset as Clinton pulled out ahead. That didn't faze me at all--I was focused on two issues: keep abortion safe and legal, and make queer people visible. Clinton helped do both. Kerrey and Tsongas and the others who I forget now would have. It wasn't the individual candidate that mattered to me then, it was the issues. And I was so much younger then, so much less knowledgeable. I can't imagine now being a single-issue voter.
So Dean against Kerry. It doesn't matter to me except that I want to feel some affinity with the White House. I tried to write President Bush a letter the other day, but my email got lost in an Internet error and even though I pressed the "back" button it was gone. Oh well. What I was trying to say was that I considered voting for him because no one but he could clean up the mess he's made in Iraq and elsewhere. Everything else is done by committee, Senate, House, local, whatever. But this foreign policy, this world-ending Bible-prophecy-fulfilling stuff is at the hands of the deeply religious people like Bush. He and his father and Saddam Hussein.
Years ago, during that heady, wild 1991 year in fact, I remember a woman telling me that she had worked for a man high up in government. She had a highly classified job, she said, that gave her views she wished she'd never had. It made her a mess for the rest of her life, she said. She learned that the entire planet was run by twelve or so men. In the U.S. it didn't matter who held what office, really, she said. It was certain personalities and groups. I don't remember the details but do remember how believable she was.
Whoever wins this election, so be it. I will cast my vote because even though right now I feel totally disenfranchised from Federal government I know deep in my heart that every vote counts.
So Dean against Kerry. It doesn't matter to me except that I want to feel some affinity with the White House. I tried to write President Bush a letter the other day, but my email got lost in an Internet error and even though I pressed the "back" button it was gone. Oh well. What I was trying to say was that I considered voting for him because no one but he could clean up the mess he's made in Iraq and elsewhere. Everything else is done by committee, Senate, House, local, whatever. But this foreign policy, this world-ending Bible-prophecy-fulfilling stuff is at the hands of the deeply religious people like Bush. He and his father and Saddam Hussein.
Years ago, during that heady, wild 1991 year in fact, I remember a woman telling me that she had worked for a man high up in government. She had a highly classified job, she said, that gave her views she wished she'd never had. It made her a mess for the rest of her life, she said. She learned that the entire planet was run by twelve or so men. In the U.S. it didn't matter who held what office, really, she said. It was certain personalities and groups. I don't remember the details but do remember how believable she was.
Whoever wins this election, so be it. I will cast my vote because even though right now I feel totally disenfranchised from Federal government I know deep in my heart that every vote counts.
Sunday, January 25, 2004
Am just back from a brisk hike into the woods behind our land. Is it mountain, is it hill? I am not sure. It is steep and I have not yet reached the top. When I first began exploring the land it was thick with trees, deeply rutted with what had clearly once been a single wagon road. There were also a few newer ATV trails. John and I liked the old footpath best. Now, since the loggers have been through it, there are twenty foot wide gouges from the gigantic, ungentle skidder. The vistas are huge--I saw Whiteface and other mountains I had not seen from that vantage point before. On the earth are crumbled, shredded tree bits. The earth itself is pale brown in places, gray in others--crumbly, frozen, glossed with thick ice from dammed rivulets. I strive not to be judgmental and to take this in with an open mind. This change in landscape is the result of local economy and generations-old skills. As a neighbor, Paul J., said, the cleared forest will become home to many birds as the shrubs and bracken can grow with more light and rain. The deciduous trees will dominate the scene and in fall will be even more spectacular.
It was a hard walk up because so steep and rutted. I took my time, pausing often to look around at animal tracks, wood shapes, snow light, ice rills. I composed poetry in my head, thinking that loggers and forest animals care not for views. But maybe those loggers pause, too, and gaze out at the awesome mountains with appreciation and humility.
The frozen streams were most beautiful. They looked in places so smooth that I could have sat and slid down the mountainside on my butt, but one quick slip on the trail and I remember that ice is HARD.
Came home, let Papi in--he had waited in the garage rather than come with me on a minus two degree walk--and then went across the road to stand on the Au Sable River. Heard pops and bubbles of water under ice. Am in love with my surroundings.
It was a hard walk up because so steep and rutted. I took my time, pausing often to look around at animal tracks, wood shapes, snow light, ice rills. I composed poetry in my head, thinking that loggers and forest animals care not for views. But maybe those loggers pause, too, and gaze out at the awesome mountains with appreciation and humility.
The frozen streams were most beautiful. They looked in places so smooth that I could have sat and slid down the mountainside on my butt, but one quick slip on the trail and I remember that ice is HARD.
Came home, let Papi in--he had waited in the garage rather than come with me on a minus two degree walk--and then went across the road to stand on the Au Sable River. Heard pops and bubbles of water under ice. Am in love with my surroundings.
Friday, January 23, 2004
Today I went to the memorial service for Anne Trachtenberg Hughes, a neighbor and would-have-been friend and colleague. I only met her two weekends ago, which because of my recent business trip to DC feels like last weekend. She was a fund-raiser and board member, was incoming chair of the local SPCA, the board of which I am joining, partly because I met her and she gave me confidence in her leadership.
I'd been impressed by her happy home, filled with books and art and dogs. Her husband, Tom Hughes, is publisher of Adirondack Life magazine. Today at the service his grief and exhaustion were painful to observe but also somehow freeing--I had been mourning her as if I knew her, and seeing him relieved me of the burden of grief. Her lover and the church packed full of people grieve her. I would grieve John, or he me, if it had been either of us.
She slid off the road on black ice and died of massive head injuries. Because they had plans to marry in May on their twentieth anniversary, they were married in the hospital while she lay in the coma. Now he can say, "my wife died."
At the wake / reception I met a handful of strong women. That was a boon. The death of one strong woman opens my life to others.
The last time I was shocked and saddened so by the death of a person I did not know was when Ron Brown, Democratic Party bigwig who died in the 1990s, died in a plane wreck.
I'd been impressed by her happy home, filled with books and art and dogs. Her husband, Tom Hughes, is publisher of Adirondack Life magazine. Today at the service his grief and exhaustion were painful to observe but also somehow freeing--I had been mourning her as if I knew her, and seeing him relieved me of the burden of grief. Her lover and the church packed full of people grieve her. I would grieve John, or he me, if it had been either of us.
She slid off the road on black ice and died of massive head injuries. Because they had plans to marry in May on their twentieth anniversary, they were married in the hospital while she lay in the coma. Now he can say, "my wife died."
At the wake / reception I met a handful of strong women. That was a boon. The death of one strong woman opens my life to others.
The last time I was shocked and saddened so by the death of a person I did not know was when Ron Brown, Democratic Party bigwig who died in the 1990s, died in a plane wreck.
Friday, January 02, 2004
Sunday, December 28, 2003
So much has happened and we've been so busy that every time I've thought of writing in here I've been discouraged. Therefore, there is no live newscast of this year's Spear Christmas. A few highlights:
John played Santa Claus at my school. Some of the littler children still believe in Santa, others have outgrown him, and still others don't know about him or are culturally distanced so there is no magic. After a rollicking meal filled with jokes, teasing, carols and games, the students were led into the song, "Here Comes Santa Claus," which is the cue to whoever is playing Santa that it's time to enter the dining room. John ho-ho-ho'd his way in and was a genial and warm Santa. The littlest kids sat on his lap and he charmed them. The older kids teased him, ("Santa, you're looking thin!" "Atkins diet," responded John.) I couldn't help myself, I was beaming like a bonfire. Someone later said she identified who Santa was by looking around the room and seeing my face.
Another holiday highlight--our septic tank backed up the day before Christmas Eve. It could have been much worse--what backed up was shower water, not poo. John handled it all with grace and cool. He got the local septic guys to come, three brothers whose family was formerly in logging. They located the tank with a minimum of digging and determined a couple of potentially troublesome things: our septic tank is very close to the house and is homemade--well-made but homemade, and one or two of the various pipes leading from it may empty directly into the river, or may not. Those things can be left for now. Our yard is now deeply rutted with backhoe tracks, one clump of shrubs has been torn up, but the septic tank is empty and ready for another twenty years of use. As John told the hamlet's postmaster, we didn't need that bill just now. The postmaster in turn was glad that the mischievous god Feceus had left his home and come to ours.
We visited a friend in Saranac Lake for drinks. This was very pleasant as he seems to be gay, and I at least have been starving for gayness up here in the mountains. I do understand that I will never again have the community that I did when I was with women, but even so, whatever I can get makes me feel good. We met second gay man from the area, also recently moved up from NYC, but older (retired) and well-to-do.
Carolers came to our house, led by Paul J., our neighbor and town social diva. They sang lustily and I gave them cookies, and they invited us to Wellscroft, a nearby mansion that is now a bed-and-breakfast the owner of which was one of the carolers. I finished a batch of green white chocolate mint cookies and we drove up the road to Wellscroft, where we danced and admired the spectacular woodwork, furnishings, architectural and art. Our hostess was as big a character as the mansion and probably as expensive to maintain.
We did barn chores for several days, and John did them Christmas morning while I slept in. The septic fiasco stole the money for my Christmas presents, thereby proving my theory that John always waits to the last minute to buy my presents. Sleeping in was part of the "princess-ing" he gave me instead, which also included a hot oil and salt bath with candles, a foot massage, and a promised full-body massage. I gave John a certificate entitling him to five sessions as apprentice to a master woodworker at my school. John will build an Adirondack chair for us and help Larry G. build his porch. I also gave John some warm comfy clothes from EMS. After he returned from barn chores I drove around to various neighbors delivering cookies and fudge and peeking at their Christmas mornings. That was VERY nice and resulted in an invitation from our next-door neighbors to come over in the evening, drink and play games. We accepted the invitation and had a great time. They have invited us for New Year's Eve. Wellscroft is also having a New Year's Eve party, which while not so close and easy will undoubtedly be more visually memorable. We'll see what other invitations come our way and maybe will do nothing at all, which is what we usually do on New Year's Eve.
John has been puttering around the house ticking off one item after another on his handyman list. I have been reading, resting, fooling around on the computer, cooking. We watched the movie "Orlando" last night, which gave me a joyful sense of homey queerness and lovely genderfuck.
I feel safe and content and easy. It is good to be home with my husband and best friend.
John played Santa Claus at my school. Some of the littler children still believe in Santa, others have outgrown him, and still others don't know about him or are culturally distanced so there is no magic. After a rollicking meal filled with jokes, teasing, carols and games, the students were led into the song, "Here Comes Santa Claus," which is the cue to whoever is playing Santa that it's time to enter the dining room. John ho-ho-ho'd his way in and was a genial and warm Santa. The littlest kids sat on his lap and he charmed them. The older kids teased him, ("Santa, you're looking thin!" "Atkins diet," responded John.) I couldn't help myself, I was beaming like a bonfire. Someone later said she identified who Santa was by looking around the room and seeing my face.
Another holiday highlight--our septic tank backed up the day before Christmas Eve. It could have been much worse--what backed up was shower water, not poo. John handled it all with grace and cool. He got the local septic guys to come, three brothers whose family was formerly in logging. They located the tank with a minimum of digging and determined a couple of potentially troublesome things: our septic tank is very close to the house and is homemade--well-made but homemade, and one or two of the various pipes leading from it may empty directly into the river, or may not. Those things can be left for now. Our yard is now deeply rutted with backhoe tracks, one clump of shrubs has been torn up, but the septic tank is empty and ready for another twenty years of use. As John told the hamlet's postmaster, we didn't need that bill just now. The postmaster in turn was glad that the mischievous god Feceus had left his home and come to ours.
We visited a friend in Saranac Lake for drinks. This was very pleasant as he seems to be gay, and I at least have been starving for gayness up here in the mountains. I do understand that I will never again have the community that I did when I was with women, but even so, whatever I can get makes me feel good. We met second gay man from the area, also recently moved up from NYC, but older (retired) and well-to-do.
Carolers came to our house, led by Paul J., our neighbor and town social diva. They sang lustily and I gave them cookies, and they invited us to Wellscroft, a nearby mansion that is now a bed-and-breakfast the owner of which was one of the carolers. I finished a batch of green white chocolate mint cookies and we drove up the road to Wellscroft, where we danced and admired the spectacular woodwork, furnishings, architectural and art. Our hostess was as big a character as the mansion and probably as expensive to maintain.
We did barn chores for several days, and John did them Christmas morning while I slept in. The septic fiasco stole the money for my Christmas presents, thereby proving my theory that John always waits to the last minute to buy my presents. Sleeping in was part of the "princess-ing" he gave me instead, which also included a hot oil and salt bath with candles, a foot massage, and a promised full-body massage. I gave John a certificate entitling him to five sessions as apprentice to a master woodworker at my school. John will build an Adirondack chair for us and help Larry G. build his porch. I also gave John some warm comfy clothes from EMS. After he returned from barn chores I drove around to various neighbors delivering cookies and fudge and peeking at their Christmas mornings. That was VERY nice and resulted in an invitation from our next-door neighbors to come over in the evening, drink and play games. We accepted the invitation and had a great time. They have invited us for New Year's Eve. Wellscroft is also having a New Year's Eve party, which while not so close and easy will undoubtedly be more visually memorable. We'll see what other invitations come our way and maybe will do nothing at all, which is what we usually do on New Year's Eve.
John has been puttering around the house ticking off one item after another on his handyman list. I have been reading, resting, fooling around on the computer, cooking. We watched the movie "Orlando" last night, which gave me a joyful sense of homey queerness and lovely genderfuck.
I feel safe and content and easy. It is good to be home with my husband and best friend.
Monday, December 15, 2003
We've gotten whomped and it's still coming down. John and I spent about two hours shoveling this morning, just the front end of the driveway. He's talking about coming down to Boston this Friday to see Nana and get Uncle Frank's old snow blower. I can't come with him that quickly so will have a quiet weekend at home, which I always like.
The mammoth snow plow machines knocked off our mailbox. I climbed the snow to try to retrieve the mailbox and ended up falling flat on my face into about three feet of snow. I flailed around blindly. It was a little scary at first but then I started laughing. I had been sweating from shoveling so the snow that clung to my pants seemed to steam off and then freeze into ice.
I'm now indoors in my jammies. I have my second hacking cold in two weeks--did I complain about that already?--so I'm not going to work today, I don't think. John has just left for Lake Placid in his macho Nissan Pathfinder. He's happy. I'm feeling a little discouraged but also energized by this new adventure and grateful that, at least this early on in my north country career, my boss doesn't mind if I don't brave the roads on a day like today.
Our 80-year-old landowner neighbor, Mr. B. is out there plowing the mud logging road. He's a tough old bugger.
Last night we spent a quiet hour gazing at our decorated tree. It is beautiful, of course, the most beautiful tree either of us has ever had. My mom sent up the bulk of her ornaments, some from my childhood, and I had bought a bunch from the library here, and we had the few dozen we've collected. It's a lopsided, awkward tree but so beautiful.
The mammoth snow plow machines knocked off our mailbox. I climbed the snow to try to retrieve the mailbox and ended up falling flat on my face into about three feet of snow. I flailed around blindly. It was a little scary at first but then I started laughing. I had been sweating from shoveling so the snow that clung to my pants seemed to steam off and then freeze into ice.
I'm now indoors in my jammies. I have my second hacking cold in two weeks--did I complain about that already?--so I'm not going to work today, I don't think. John has just left for Lake Placid in his macho Nissan Pathfinder. He's happy. I'm feeling a little discouraged but also energized by this new adventure and grateful that, at least this early on in my north country career, my boss doesn't mind if I don't brave the roads on a day like today.
Our 80-year-old landowner neighbor, Mr. B. is out there plowing the mud logging road. He's a tough old bugger.
Last night we spent a quiet hour gazing at our decorated tree. It is beautiful, of course, the most beautiful tree either of us has ever had. My mom sent up the bulk of her ornaments, some from my childhood, and I had bought a bunch from the library here, and we had the few dozen we've collected. It's a lopsided, awkward tree but so beautiful.
Sunday, December 07, 2003
Rhonda the feline plow truck LIVES! This morning John cleared our driveway with her. I did shovel work and dug a little racetrack for Papi, who after his initial horror of the whole experience decided snow wasn't so bad. He even plunged into a two-foot drift in order to get to John, who was inviting him into the truck. The cats, however, won't even come near a door. "Heck, no," they say. "See you next spring."
Snow is still coming down, as if it will never end. Confectioner's sugar is being shaken out of the sky. "Fresh powder," John says, "Whoever gets to be the first down Whiteface will be a lucky person." Yes, but they won't be able to see where they're skiing.
Snow, snow snow. When will I fall out of love with living here? I can't imagine not being excited about this.
Snow is still coming down, as if it will never end. Confectioner's sugar is being shaken out of the sky. "Fresh powder," John says, "Whoever gets to be the first down Whiteface will be a lucky person." Yes, but they won't be able to see where they're skiing.
Snow, snow snow. When will I fall out of love with living here? I can't imagine not being excited about this.
Saturday, December 06, 2003
Snow. Martha's sense of snow. Snow that bedazzles, glitters, winks. Sometimes it's hard to believe that it's snow because it is so perfect, each flake opalescent, diamondine. It's been snowing all day and will snow all night. Rhonda, the plow truck with nine lives, is getting a nice thick white blanket, which tomorrow morning John will sweep off so he can start her up and clear the driveway.
This afternoon I started Christmas decorating and put a single white candle light in each window, including the two triangular windows in the attic. Now that it's night, from outside the house looks prettier than a painting, and I must confess that I suddenly understand the appeal of Thomas Kincaid's artwork. Moonlight and snow combine to make the outdoors glow. The electric candles reflect off snow and snow-covered trees. The scene is gold, blue, and a million shades of grey blue gold.
Today I roamed Jay running errands and socializing. The postmaster shared his lunch with me--homemade baba ganoush, flat bread and spanakopita. Paul Johnson entertained me and a half dozen other customers with stories and gossip. I bought our Christmas tree from him and intended to get a loaf of homemade bread but forgot. The Aubuchon hardware man in Au Sable Forks helped me find a timer for the Christmas tree lights. When John got home from proctoring the SATs we took a drive back to the hardware store--I needed more candle lights--and I drove us home in the snow-pouring twilight. At John's suggestion I took a back road and nearly crashed us into a stone wall because I didn't see the turn where the Jay covered bridge is. Better the stone wall than the river, which is not yet frozen solid. Me, quiet panic voice while we slide quite out of my control in the whiteness: "John? John?" ...and John, "Get off the brake! Get off the brake!" The Nissan did stop, and we shook it off and kept on going.
Just now a brightly-lit industrial-sized snow plow vehicle drove by the house spewing a plume of snow higher than itself.
Today I practiced Christmas carols on the piano. John's family will be here in less than a week and today I came to the conclusion that my dream of playing carols while everyone stands around and sings is not going to happen, at least this year. No one could be expected to try to sing along while I crash around trying to find the notes and chords. I am disappointed but have been enjoying myself anyway and won't stop playing just because I'm bad at it.
Bedtime soon. Smidgen is wandering around making her strange howling sound, dragging her coyote foot between her front legs. Bean is a sphinx on the chair next to me. He has been following me around like he's tied to my shoelaces. He wants me to change the weather back to warm so he can hunt and not be cold. Nickie is probably asleep on a radiator somewhere. John is finishing up his bathroom renovation for the night--brushstrokes of pungent shellac. Papi is curled in a donut on a pillow on the couch. I am a happy person tonight.
This afternoon I started Christmas decorating and put a single white candle light in each window, including the two triangular windows in the attic. Now that it's night, from outside the house looks prettier than a painting, and I must confess that I suddenly understand the appeal of Thomas Kincaid's artwork. Moonlight and snow combine to make the outdoors glow. The electric candles reflect off snow and snow-covered trees. The scene is gold, blue, and a million shades of grey blue gold.
Today I roamed Jay running errands and socializing. The postmaster shared his lunch with me--homemade baba ganoush, flat bread and spanakopita. Paul Johnson entertained me and a half dozen other customers with stories and gossip. I bought our Christmas tree from him and intended to get a loaf of homemade bread but forgot. The Aubuchon hardware man in Au Sable Forks helped me find a timer for the Christmas tree lights. When John got home from proctoring the SATs we took a drive back to the hardware store--I needed more candle lights--and I drove us home in the snow-pouring twilight. At John's suggestion I took a back road and nearly crashed us into a stone wall because I didn't see the turn where the Jay covered bridge is. Better the stone wall than the river, which is not yet frozen solid. Me, quiet panic voice while we slide quite out of my control in the whiteness: "John? John?" ...and John, "Get off the brake! Get off the brake!" The Nissan did stop, and we shook it off and kept on going.
Just now a brightly-lit industrial-sized snow plow vehicle drove by the house spewing a plume of snow higher than itself.
Today I practiced Christmas carols on the piano. John's family will be here in less than a week and today I came to the conclusion that my dream of playing carols while everyone stands around and sings is not going to happen, at least this year. No one could be expected to try to sing along while I crash around trying to find the notes and chords. I am disappointed but have been enjoying myself anyway and won't stop playing just because I'm bad at it.
Bedtime soon. Smidgen is wandering around making her strange howling sound, dragging her coyote foot between her front legs. Bean is a sphinx on the chair next to me. He has been following me around like he's tied to my shoelaces. He wants me to change the weather back to warm so he can hunt and not be cold. Nickie is probably asleep on a radiator somewhere. John is finishing up his bathroom renovation for the night--brushstrokes of pungent shellac. Papi is curled in a donut on a pillow on the couch. I am a happy person tonight.
Friday, December 05, 2003
Winter is here like... John wrestling with me, us laughing, me thinking I might possibly win with wily tactics like hair-pulling and armpit tickling, and then WHAM he's got me pinned down on the mattress. It is 10 degress outside, so cold that the inside of my nose freezes. Not only do drafts come into our house through the usual cracks and crevices, but also through the exterior walls themselves like ghosts. God bless the previous owner who had a nice new furnace installed. God bless the inventors of fleece.
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
Been living the small town life today. Vacation at home is so nice.
I went to the library down the road to return an overdue book and buy some second-hand ornaments, and ended up browsing the archives in the company of a middle aged lady volunteer. I was looking for old pictures of our house or information about the former owner, Mrs. T. Our homesteading predecessors, (I'll call them the T family,) are related to everybody else in the area. It seems that from ten founding families in the early 1800s, there was only intermarriage or marrying "away" and very few new folks moving here until the middle of the 20th century. The names interweave: maiden names, middle names, last names are all those same ten.
My history guide showed me photos of the house's previous owner at various library functions during the past 25 years--she was a big library volunteer--but there are no pictures of our house at the library. I hope that they exist elsewhere in the town archives or county history society. A home like this built in 1832 must be recorded somehow. By "like this" I mean it has four bedrooms and is set up for entertaining. Many people must have been here for gatherings. Fortunately Mrs. T. was a school teacher and paper packrat, and I am sure that in time I will learn lots about the area thanks to her dedicated note-taking and story-preserving.
As I was departing the library I revealed that I have worked in an archive before and offered to volunteer. The library ladies were quite pleased. I left with a selection of gently used Christmas ornaments and old holiday cards, including two hand-made Currier & Ives prints for 5 cents each. One is already addressed to my very urbane friend Electra and her partner.
This evening I joined some local folks for a rehearsal of the town's upcoming performance of "A Christmas Carol," in which I play The Niece's Sister and John plays Topper and Marley. He would have been there but has study hall tonight. Scrooge is played by another Brooklyn import, a garrulous and tough-skinned man who ran unsuccessfully for town office in November. He was an emcee at the Jay Town Green Saturday evening entertainment this summer, and during the "Oklahoma!" show (I was in the chorus) he teased John and me for having brought a wicker couch to sit on. That's how we remember each other now. "Oh, yes, you're the folks who brought that wicker sofa..."
I am starting to get the impression that people here are deeply self-sufficient. I don't know if it's by choice or necessity; in a way it doesn't matter. It's hard to describe or prove by anecdote, it's just a feeling I am getting. There are not many options for anything here, from home decor to cooking to clothes. Few people ever look polished here, no tailored clothes and certainly no suits. The weather doesn't permit it. I fit right in this way, except for my short short hair. Catalogs and internet have their influence, but as far as I've seen, generally people seem simple in their tastes and energetic in their creativity. The room in which we met this evening, at the home of the proprietor of a bed and breakfast in Jay, was filled with crafts-in-progress and her seven-ish-year-old son's artwork on the walls. The walls themselves were sponge-painted and not with any great sophistication--could have been done by said child. Maybe this impression I have is due in part to MY choices to participate in local things and make friends through certain venues, like the library. The folks to whom I am drawn and vice versa are going to be similar to me. Now there's a solipsistic tautology for you.
I went to the library down the road to return an overdue book and buy some second-hand ornaments, and ended up browsing the archives in the company of a middle aged lady volunteer. I was looking for old pictures of our house or information about the former owner, Mrs. T. Our homesteading predecessors, (I'll call them the T family,) are related to everybody else in the area. It seems that from ten founding families in the early 1800s, there was only intermarriage or marrying "away" and very few new folks moving here until the middle of the 20th century. The names interweave: maiden names, middle names, last names are all those same ten.
My history guide showed me photos of the house's previous owner at various library functions during the past 25 years--she was a big library volunteer--but there are no pictures of our house at the library. I hope that they exist elsewhere in the town archives or county history society. A home like this built in 1832 must be recorded somehow. By "like this" I mean it has four bedrooms and is set up for entertaining. Many people must have been here for gatherings. Fortunately Mrs. T. was a school teacher and paper packrat, and I am sure that in time I will learn lots about the area thanks to her dedicated note-taking and story-preserving.
As I was departing the library I revealed that I have worked in an archive before and offered to volunteer. The library ladies were quite pleased. I left with a selection of gently used Christmas ornaments and old holiday cards, including two hand-made Currier & Ives prints for 5 cents each. One is already addressed to my very urbane friend Electra and her partner.
This evening I joined some local folks for a rehearsal of the town's upcoming performance of "A Christmas Carol," in which I play The Niece's Sister and John plays Topper and Marley. He would have been there but has study hall tonight. Scrooge is played by another Brooklyn import, a garrulous and tough-skinned man who ran unsuccessfully for town office in November. He was an emcee at the Jay Town Green Saturday evening entertainment this summer, and during the "Oklahoma!" show (I was in the chorus) he teased John and me for having brought a wicker couch to sit on. That's how we remember each other now. "Oh, yes, you're the folks who brought that wicker sofa..."
I am starting to get the impression that people here are deeply self-sufficient. I don't know if it's by choice or necessity; in a way it doesn't matter. It's hard to describe or prove by anecdote, it's just a feeling I am getting. There are not many options for anything here, from home decor to cooking to clothes. Few people ever look polished here, no tailored clothes and certainly no suits. The weather doesn't permit it. I fit right in this way, except for my short short hair. Catalogs and internet have their influence, but as far as I've seen, generally people seem simple in their tastes and energetic in their creativity. The room in which we met this evening, at the home of the proprietor of a bed and breakfast in Jay, was filled with crafts-in-progress and her seven-ish-year-old son's artwork on the walls. The walls themselves were sponge-painted and not with any great sophistication--could have been done by said child. Maybe this impression I have is due in part to MY choices to participate in local things and make friends through certain venues, like the library. The folks to whom I am drawn and vice versa are going to be similar to me. Now there's a solipsistic tautology for you.
Monday, December 01, 2003
Our first snow storm. I drove home after dinner and wine with folks at work, drove at twenty mph with flashers on, feeling happy but cautious. Never seen anything like that snow, horizontally across the road and in swirls like boiling air. Could barely see ahead of me—thank God for reflectors. What did people do before such technology? Much more snow up in the mountains where I work than in the valley where we live. The snow here is merely pretty. Up there it was awe-inspiring.
Saw the Northern lights tonight! It was pink, like a huge chrysanthemum or zinnia or aster filling the sky, transparent so the stars shone through it, moving like smoke, greenish at the edges. The entire sky was lit and the center of the aurora seemed to be right over our house. It was like sunset, sunrise, fireworks all at once. Joyful feeling! John and I arrived home at about the same time, excited to the point of hysteria, each eager to be with the other and see it together. We danced and hugged and kissed and went out to the field to stare. I have a crick in my neck.
Yesterday when we were walking around our land—and our neighbors’—we met one of the folks who live diagonally up behind us. I invited the man to our housewarming party which is next weekend, and he didn’t seem to know about it. So my plan when John left was to ride my bike around and introduce myself to various neighbors and give them invitations to our party. But by the time I got myself going—had to eat some leftover chicken pot pie and watch a few music videos—the rain had started so instead I went for a drive with Papi.
I intended to look for the home of Mr. B who just bought the forest acres behind us and will be logging there. John chatted with him this morning while I was making breakfast but forgot to mention our housewarming, so I planned to find his house, which he had described to John and he to me, but in my driving I realized that my self-confidence was kind of low, and I wasn’t really in the neighbor-meeting mood. So I looked only half-heartedly for the house, Papi in the car as my reason for not staying if I met anyone and was invited to come in. Didn’t find Mr. B's place, kept driving, and ended up exploring some back roads and trails.
It was raining a little bit, quite warm compared to what it has been, and I stopped twice for walks with Papi. The first time I was headed to Wilmington (“home of Whiteface Mountain”) to get some ice cream and detoured into Au Sable Acres, where our second choice house had been. From there we wandered at 35-40 mph through a winding forest road until I saw some vistas off to the right, a gorge of the Au Sable River, I guessed. There was a sandy pull-off so I did just that and Papi and I walked a bit through piney woods, on coppery pine needles. The path was well-worn and I found a campfire with a folded-up lounge chair. There were quite a few empty bottles and some dumped cinder blocks. Off to our left was the river, roaring louder than it does in my experience, and as I explored I saw that there was an old dam. The water rushing over it was causing the roar. Papi and I went down a steep rocky path—I was nervous but am trying every day to be more physically active so I can really LIVE in this wild place—to the remains of what was clearly once a big industrial dam of some sort. There were spillways and tanks, rock and log walls, and plenty to gaze at and admire. There was no one else around, no houses visible. I kept saying to Papi, “careful,” to which he responds very well by stopping his rambles and edging away from whatever he has been nearing, in this case scary, mossy concrete edges.
Getting up the trail was easier than getting down, and we continued our drive into Au Sable Forks. I had just today been reading an old tourist brochure about the area that I found on the town website, and it mentioned both this kind of abandoned dam and various industries—coal, iron—that no longer exist here.
After driving a bit more I came across another interesting byway which led to a dead end. I parked and we walked and found a very large factory complex which was abandoned. It was full of interesting scenes of wreckage and past industrial aesthetic—dentil-type brickwork at the top of the walls, great iron pipes, crumbling wooden beams. There were a few doorways that I would probably have explored had I been with John and it wasn’t raining. There were no “keep out” signs. Papi was very good. As I walked I passed through bits of cold air and scents of old wood, very pleasant and intriguing.
I intended to look for the home of Mr. B who just bought the forest acres behind us and will be logging there. John chatted with him this morning while I was making breakfast but forgot to mention our housewarming, so I planned to find his house, which he had described to John and he to me, but in my driving I realized that my self-confidence was kind of low, and I wasn’t really in the neighbor-meeting mood. So I looked only half-heartedly for the house, Papi in the car as my reason for not staying if I met anyone and was invited to come in. Didn’t find Mr. B's place, kept driving, and ended up exploring some back roads and trails.
It was raining a little bit, quite warm compared to what it has been, and I stopped twice for walks with Papi. The first time I was headed to Wilmington (“home of Whiteface Mountain”) to get some ice cream and detoured into Au Sable Acres, where our second choice house had been. From there we wandered at 35-40 mph through a winding forest road until I saw some vistas off to the right, a gorge of the Au Sable River, I guessed. There was a sandy pull-off so I did just that and Papi and I walked a bit through piney woods, on coppery pine needles. The path was well-worn and I found a campfire with a folded-up lounge chair. There were quite a few empty bottles and some dumped cinder blocks. Off to our left was the river, roaring louder than it does in my experience, and as I explored I saw that there was an old dam. The water rushing over it was causing the roar. Papi and I went down a steep rocky path—I was nervous but am trying every day to be more physically active so I can really LIVE in this wild place—to the remains of what was clearly once a big industrial dam of some sort. There were spillways and tanks, rock and log walls, and plenty to gaze at and admire. There was no one else around, no houses visible. I kept saying to Papi, “careful,” to which he responds very well by stopping his rambles and edging away from whatever he has been nearing, in this case scary, mossy concrete edges.
Getting up the trail was easier than getting down, and we continued our drive into Au Sable Forks. I had just today been reading an old tourist brochure about the area that I found on the town website, and it mentioned both this kind of abandoned dam and various industries—coal, iron—that no longer exist here.
After driving a bit more I came across another interesting byway which led to a dead end. I parked and we walked and found a very large factory complex which was abandoned. It was full of interesting scenes of wreckage and past industrial aesthetic—dentil-type brickwork at the top of the walls, great iron pipes, crumbling wooden beams. There were a few doorways that I would probably have explored had I been with John and it wasn’t raining. There were no “keep out” signs. Papi was very good. As I walked I passed through bits of cold air and scents of old wood, very pleasant and intriguing.
We have this big house that I am just starting to get used to. I loved it from the moment I saw it, and yet loving it doesn’t make me fit into it yet. Rooms and spaces and staircases, bookshelves, stone basement, acres of trees and meadow, the river across the road, vistas of mountains and woods. It is paradise and I don’t know how I earned it, and then I realize that of course I deserve this. Partly because I’ve had a rough life up until this mid-way point? Partly because fate is capricious? I had a dream this afternoon where John and were to part and meet again in Addis Abba (sp?). I wasn’t sure, or he wasn’t, that we could meet up again, that the logistics would work, but I knew that I would get there with my angel’s wings and strength and we would be together again, doing good in the world. I woke up feeling very happy and peaceful.
Today is Saturday and it has been a relaxing day. This is the first weekend I feel absolutely fine not thinking about work, although I do think about it every once in a while. I like my job a lot. I wake up looking forward to it. I don’t necessarily like to get out of bed, especially now that the mornings are dark and cold and John is there next to me so warm and firm. Often he gets up first, and then even more I don’t want to get up. However, once I’m up, I love to go to work. I especially like Tuesday mornings when I arrive there at seven to help with barn chores. I like this part so much that I could easily commit to doing it every morning, but the real cold and dark of winter haven’t started yet, so I must be careful. I'm getting so much guidance from people who’ve lived here for a while about how to drive, how bad the weather can get. It is scaring me.
I am seated in our office which is on the second floor, north-by-northeast corner. The only movement I see is on a curve of rain-grey road, foreshortened through the window glass. A great maple is in the foreground, closing off the road view. Our and our neighbor’s contiguous field stretches to the right, still green but going gold. A mountain I’ve been told is named Winch rises purple-grey-green in the distance, deceitful because you don’t know how big it is unless you get a certain closer view. The clouds are pale and glowing with late-day sun. Clouds roll here, tossed between mountains and bounced off valleys and look like the undersides of ocean waves.
What else about me right this moment? I have dry hands from doing chores, from the hard water and the chill. I am unwashed – a drawback of this house is our sluggish bathtub drain that makes me not love taking a shower, not that I was ever a clean freak. My right elbow and lower arm are nearly limp from a dull pain, recently diagnosed as tennis elbow and due probably to being a frantic NYC consultant typing away all day and on the phone without any proper ergonomic support.
Life up here is calm and peaceful and good. I can see how cabin fever may set in – that is another scary thing I’ve been warned about. I tend toward physical sloth but like spending time with people, so the trick will be to find friends. Everyone here is kind but they’re also reserved, and I am an unknown quantity. Everyone here is related to or knows the intimate life details of everyone else’s lives.
I am seated in our office which is on the second floor, north-by-northeast corner. The only movement I see is on a curve of rain-grey road, foreshortened through the window glass. A great maple is in the foreground, closing off the road view. Our and our neighbor’s contiguous field stretches to the right, still green but going gold. A mountain I’ve been told is named Winch rises purple-grey-green in the distance, deceitful because you don’t know how big it is unless you get a certain closer view. The clouds are pale and glowing with late-day sun. Clouds roll here, tossed between mountains and bounced off valleys and look like the undersides of ocean waves.
What else about me right this moment? I have dry hands from doing chores, from the hard water and the chill. I am unwashed – a drawback of this house is our sluggish bathtub drain that makes me not love taking a shower, not that I was ever a clean freak. My right elbow and lower arm are nearly limp from a dull pain, recently diagnosed as tennis elbow and due probably to being a frantic NYC consultant typing away all day and on the phone without any proper ergonomic support.
Life up here is calm and peaceful and good. I can see how cabin fever may set in – that is another scary thing I’ve been warned about. I tend toward physical sloth but like spending time with people, so the trick will be to find friends. Everyone here is kind but they’re also reserved, and I am an unknown quantity. Everyone here is related to or knows the intimate life details of everyone else’s lives.
Yesterday evening a little before six while I was helping Libby to arrange the trustees’ cocktail party at Selden and Hock’s house, it became clear that a colicky horse was going to die. Selden, who had been in her office trying to write her speech for later that night, was quite nervous and edgy, understandably. She planned not to go up to the barn, trusting Bonnie and Rachel could handle it with the vet’s assistance. But she checked in with them and they said they thought the horse was going to die. They were concerned its insides would explode, which apparently can happen, and thought it would be best to put the horse down. So Selden changed clothes and departed the cocktail party. I went with her, charged with finding one of the men to dig a hole. I found Jeremy, a maintenance man who also works with our kids, who was at dinner supervising a table. I beckoned to him and he came and I explained the situation tersely. I was just as nervous and edgy as Selden. He knew what was needed, got a replacement table head and moved quickly toward the garage and the tractor, which is a large John Deere thing with a backhoe bucket on one end and a big rectangular scooping thing on the other. We met John C. walking toward the garage, on the same errand. So John took over, as was best, and I went to my car and drove up to the barn.
I parked where I always do and saw that the upper barn light was on. The cows bawled. I was expecting to hear the horse’s screaming and was glad to recognize simply cows, not agonized horse. Inside were the vet, others and Selden. The horse was lying down in the center stall, and the goats and cows on either side were watching curiously. The goats were standing up against the fence, gazing at the action. I wondered if they knew this horse was terribly sick, if they were upset. They didn’t seem to be but I petted them anyway while I watched. Katika the black cow sniffed me suspiciously but then seemed to recognize me and went back to watching the horse and people. Bonnie has the greatest experience and was leading the activity, but the male vet was clearly knowledgeable and in control. They were trying to get the horse, Sparky, to rise. He just lay there in the fresh straw, covered in a dark blanket. They pushed his rump, rocked him back and forth, pulled on his bridle, but he wouldn’t budget. I learned later that he had just been given a powerful pain killer. Someone suggested removing his blanket and that took a while. The vet did it very gently, and then with rocking and pulling and pushing they finally got Sparky to scramble upright. He seemed totally fine to me, but what do I know. Bonnie led him out of the stall into the cement-floored hallway and then the barnyard. His hooves made that wonderful clopping sound and all seemed normal except for the white faces and somber, urgent energy.
Selden needed to be there because she is the barn manager, but there was no good reason for me to be there. I should have been back at their house helping my boss, Hock host the trustees. But I really wanted to experience this. I am getting to know the animals and barn routines—barn chores are my chosen beyond-the-job duty. I love horses, I care about all the animals, I want to learn, and this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me to experience the death of a horse. Grim, gruesome, ghoulish; I did not feel any of those things. I felt sincere and earnest and good-hearted. I knew it would be ok that I chose to be with them and the horse rather than at the cocktail party.
John C. was by this time arriving on the tractor. They led Sparky into the upper field, a rocky slope to the right and behind the upper barn. John followed slowly and kept a good distance. I had never been in that field before. The horses often graze there but are usually closer to the barns when I am around. This is glacial terrain so the boulders are large and everywhere. The horse was curious—I saw his ears going around—and he whinnied a few times. I later learned that he was saying, “Hey, this is odd, why am I out here? Where is my herd? Why am I with these people and what is that noisy machine?” Selden and Bonnie petted and cooed to him, and he seemed so fine that I wondered if the colic had passed or they were going to let him live. But no—it was the painkiller making him seem ok. They led him to a particular place where it was flat and there was a bare patch. Selden and John conferred about where John would dig, and implicitly, where the horse would fall. He was so lovely, a smallish, well-behaved horse with a graceful arched neck and two perfect white socks on his back feet, freshly groomed except for his long chestnut tail, which was covered in wood shavings from where he had lain.
They spent a long while loving him and the vet waited patiently. Rachel, Bonnie’s daughter, stood several yards distant on a flat boulder, watching intently, resignedly. John stood a ways off as well, the tractor left behind, his hands clasped in front of him. I stood adjacent to everyone, a sort of triangle of support around the horse and its three caregivers. It was not too cold, and the sun was leaving—clouds over the mountains were gray with an inner glaze of fading colors. The wind blew firmly but not hard. The ground was cold and rocky and I was quickly becoming uncomfortable in my Birkenstocks. I tried to take everything in without thought, to record the weather and view and emotions, the singular experience of being on this rocky hill with these people, this dying horse, all of it after my first board meeting as the place's new development director, which now seemed so trivial when it had consumed me for weeks before.
Then through some word I couldn’t hear or signal I didn’t see, they knew it was time and the vet took out his syringes. He talked Selden and Bonnie through it, but I could hear. He said the needle was large and the horse might jump. He said he would use two syringes, and they should step back if the horse started to go down. Selden and Bonnie held the horse’s halter and talked to him as the vet bent to locate a spot in the horse’s neck, his jugular, I guess. The horse did not jump as the syringe went in, and then the second one. The vet stepped back, and in a moment the horse sort of grunted and its forelegs buckled. It landed on its knees and then fell over sideways, his round brown belly like a boulder, Selden and Bonnie and the vet at his head. His back legs stretched out straight and his front right leg was curled under his extended front left leg. He was motionless. There was much soothing and petting and soft talking to him, good boy, there there, good boy, that’s right, everything’s going to be fine now. Rachel and John and I shifted slightly, both of them as uncomfortable as I was, I would guess, but just as sincere in their desire to stay and honor the death of this large, loved creature and support Selden and Bonnie, who loved him.
As I write this my cat Smidgen is chirping and canoodling across the desk and around the office. She is very sensitive to my moods and responds when I have intense feelings. Also it is cold outside and she might be bored because she can’t be out as much as she likes.
Sparky groaned three times with long moments in between. His legs and body were completely still. Each time he groaned their voices rose and then dropped. And then some signal again, and I knew he was dead. Selden was crying gently. Bonnie looked simply grim. The vet rose and the others followed, and he helped them decide how to tell the children. Tell them at breakfast so they don’t go to sleep with sad thoughts. It was a bad case of colic. Sometimes horses get over it and sometimes they do not. The vet said we are such good caregivers. Selden thanked him, and he left. We all regrouped a few feet from Sparky’s body. Each of us knelt to pet and caress him. His coat was so soft and clean, quickly losing warmth. I tried to close his eyelid but it sprang back. His eye was opaque. His mouth was open and his lips and tongue slack, his large ugly teeth there against the earth.
Emotion left very quickly and they talked about where to begin digging and how to move Sparky’s body into the hole—chains pulling him. John began to open up the hole, the bucket biting easily into the dark soil and scraping out a growing trench. I stayed as he dug, listening to Bonnie and Selden and Rachel talking, asking questions. Selden said it was her first colic. Rachel reminisced about other horses she had lost, her own childhood pony, her mother’s two favorites. Selden said there were “a zillion” horses buried out in this field, along the fence. Twenty, to be exact. Years of horses. She said she used to sell their carcasses to meat vendors but did not any more. Someone said that Larry G. was thinking about digging up one of the work horses and putting its bones together to form a skeleton that we could display and use to teach the children. It got too dark for John to see well and Selden and Bonnie walked away down the slope to get the “gator,” a tractor-ish golf cart thing with headlights that they use to get around the farm. Rachel came to stand near me and cried into my shoulder for a few moments. I was trying to take it all in and manage all my feelings and keep myself together so I could return to my trustee duties. Selden was still going to give her speech about the farm, with the added intensity of having just put a horse down. I couldn’t comfort Rachel as I wished I could have. I didn’t need to cry myself.
They returned with the gator and positioned its lights as John continued to dig. The hole was probably five feet deep and three feet across. Sparky lay there next to it. We each knelt by him again in the new light. I petted his barrel belly, now like a rock with fur, slid my fingers along the skin over his ribs. As I rose, stiff from cold and standing so long, I leaned against him with all my weight and thought of his strength even in death. I guessed that they would put the horse in backbone first, legs in the air. Selden said, “They’ll be rigor.” Then a taxi entered the campus and we watched its lights proceed slowly up the dirt road toward the main buildings. I thought it was coming to pick up a trustee, and Selden said that it must be her son, returned from Lake Placid to take over babysitting so Hock could go to the board dinner. That is how I knew that it was seven p.m. Selden said she hoped Hock was doing the right thing and ushering people from their house to the dining room, and I knew then it was time for me to go back to my real life.
I parked where I always do and saw that the upper barn light was on. The cows bawled. I was expecting to hear the horse’s screaming and was glad to recognize simply cows, not agonized horse. Inside were the vet, others and Selden. The horse was lying down in the center stall, and the goats and cows on either side were watching curiously. The goats were standing up against the fence, gazing at the action. I wondered if they knew this horse was terribly sick, if they were upset. They didn’t seem to be but I petted them anyway while I watched. Katika the black cow sniffed me suspiciously but then seemed to recognize me and went back to watching the horse and people. Bonnie has the greatest experience and was leading the activity, but the male vet was clearly knowledgeable and in control. They were trying to get the horse, Sparky, to rise. He just lay there in the fresh straw, covered in a dark blanket. They pushed his rump, rocked him back and forth, pulled on his bridle, but he wouldn’t budget. I learned later that he had just been given a powerful pain killer. Someone suggested removing his blanket and that took a while. The vet did it very gently, and then with rocking and pulling and pushing they finally got Sparky to scramble upright. He seemed totally fine to me, but what do I know. Bonnie led him out of the stall into the cement-floored hallway and then the barnyard. His hooves made that wonderful clopping sound and all seemed normal except for the white faces and somber, urgent energy.
Selden needed to be there because she is the barn manager, but there was no good reason for me to be there. I should have been back at their house helping my boss, Hock host the trustees. But I really wanted to experience this. I am getting to know the animals and barn routines—barn chores are my chosen beyond-the-job duty. I love horses, I care about all the animals, I want to learn, and this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me to experience the death of a horse. Grim, gruesome, ghoulish; I did not feel any of those things. I felt sincere and earnest and good-hearted. I knew it would be ok that I chose to be with them and the horse rather than at the cocktail party.
John C. was by this time arriving on the tractor. They led Sparky into the upper field, a rocky slope to the right and behind the upper barn. John followed slowly and kept a good distance. I had never been in that field before. The horses often graze there but are usually closer to the barns when I am around. This is glacial terrain so the boulders are large and everywhere. The horse was curious—I saw his ears going around—and he whinnied a few times. I later learned that he was saying, “Hey, this is odd, why am I out here? Where is my herd? Why am I with these people and what is that noisy machine?” Selden and Bonnie petted and cooed to him, and he seemed so fine that I wondered if the colic had passed or they were going to let him live. But no—it was the painkiller making him seem ok. They led him to a particular place where it was flat and there was a bare patch. Selden and John conferred about where John would dig, and implicitly, where the horse would fall. He was so lovely, a smallish, well-behaved horse with a graceful arched neck and two perfect white socks on his back feet, freshly groomed except for his long chestnut tail, which was covered in wood shavings from where he had lain.
They spent a long while loving him and the vet waited patiently. Rachel, Bonnie’s daughter, stood several yards distant on a flat boulder, watching intently, resignedly. John stood a ways off as well, the tractor left behind, his hands clasped in front of him. I stood adjacent to everyone, a sort of triangle of support around the horse and its three caregivers. It was not too cold, and the sun was leaving—clouds over the mountains were gray with an inner glaze of fading colors. The wind blew firmly but not hard. The ground was cold and rocky and I was quickly becoming uncomfortable in my Birkenstocks. I tried to take everything in without thought, to record the weather and view and emotions, the singular experience of being on this rocky hill with these people, this dying horse, all of it after my first board meeting as the place's new development director, which now seemed so trivial when it had consumed me for weeks before.
Then through some word I couldn’t hear or signal I didn’t see, they knew it was time and the vet took out his syringes. He talked Selden and Bonnie through it, but I could hear. He said the needle was large and the horse might jump. He said he would use two syringes, and they should step back if the horse started to go down. Selden and Bonnie held the horse’s halter and talked to him as the vet bent to locate a spot in the horse’s neck, his jugular, I guess. The horse did not jump as the syringe went in, and then the second one. The vet stepped back, and in a moment the horse sort of grunted and its forelegs buckled. It landed on its knees and then fell over sideways, his round brown belly like a boulder, Selden and Bonnie and the vet at his head. His back legs stretched out straight and his front right leg was curled under his extended front left leg. He was motionless. There was much soothing and petting and soft talking to him, good boy, there there, good boy, that’s right, everything’s going to be fine now. Rachel and John and I shifted slightly, both of them as uncomfortable as I was, I would guess, but just as sincere in their desire to stay and honor the death of this large, loved creature and support Selden and Bonnie, who loved him.
As I write this my cat Smidgen is chirping and canoodling across the desk and around the office. She is very sensitive to my moods and responds when I have intense feelings. Also it is cold outside and she might be bored because she can’t be out as much as she likes.
Sparky groaned three times with long moments in between. His legs and body were completely still. Each time he groaned their voices rose and then dropped. And then some signal again, and I knew he was dead. Selden was crying gently. Bonnie looked simply grim. The vet rose and the others followed, and he helped them decide how to tell the children. Tell them at breakfast so they don’t go to sleep with sad thoughts. It was a bad case of colic. Sometimes horses get over it and sometimes they do not. The vet said we are such good caregivers. Selden thanked him, and he left. We all regrouped a few feet from Sparky’s body. Each of us knelt to pet and caress him. His coat was so soft and clean, quickly losing warmth. I tried to close his eyelid but it sprang back. His eye was opaque. His mouth was open and his lips and tongue slack, his large ugly teeth there against the earth.
Emotion left very quickly and they talked about where to begin digging and how to move Sparky’s body into the hole—chains pulling him. John began to open up the hole, the bucket biting easily into the dark soil and scraping out a growing trench. I stayed as he dug, listening to Bonnie and Selden and Rachel talking, asking questions. Selden said it was her first colic. Rachel reminisced about other horses she had lost, her own childhood pony, her mother’s two favorites. Selden said there were “a zillion” horses buried out in this field, along the fence. Twenty, to be exact. Years of horses. She said she used to sell their carcasses to meat vendors but did not any more. Someone said that Larry G. was thinking about digging up one of the work horses and putting its bones together to form a skeleton that we could display and use to teach the children. It got too dark for John to see well and Selden and Bonnie walked away down the slope to get the “gator,” a tractor-ish golf cart thing with headlights that they use to get around the farm. Rachel came to stand near me and cried into my shoulder for a few moments. I was trying to take it all in and manage all my feelings and keep myself together so I could return to my trustee duties. Selden was still going to give her speech about the farm, with the added intensity of having just put a horse down. I couldn’t comfort Rachel as I wished I could have. I didn’t need to cry myself.
They returned with the gator and positioned its lights as John continued to dig. The hole was probably five feet deep and three feet across. Sparky lay there next to it. We each knelt by him again in the new light. I petted his barrel belly, now like a rock with fur, slid my fingers along the skin over his ribs. As I rose, stiff from cold and standing so long, I leaned against him with all my weight and thought of his strength even in death. I guessed that they would put the horse in backbone first, legs in the air. Selden said, “They’ll be rigor.” Then a taxi entered the campus and we watched its lights proceed slowly up the dirt road toward the main buildings. I thought it was coming to pick up a trustee, and Selden said that it must be her son, returned from Lake Placid to take over babysitting so Hock could go to the board dinner. That is how I knew that it was seven p.m. Selden said she hoped Hock was doing the right thing and ushering people from their house to the dining room, and I knew then it was time for me to go back to my real life.
After a week's hiatus, the logging crew is back at work in the field and mountain behind our house. There is that low hum of machinery that at first saddened me, and when I first woke up this morning I saw the machines' lights far off in the field. A week or so ago John and I walked through the woods behind our house and looked at what the logging operation had accomplished. The back of the field itself is rutted and muddy, layered with stripped-off balsam branches with their fragrant needles still attached. There are several towering stacks of neatly trimmed logs, some of them with a diameter wider than from the tip of my finger to the center of my chest. The logs seem to be oozing out their life, and their ends are sticky with sap. There is a vast pool of sucking mud spread out from the little creek that runs back there, now dammed up by a corduroy road of logs so the enormous skidder can move back and forth from field to hill. The mud is smooth and deceptive--I tried to walk on it and sank quickly, would have gone up to my knees, I think, and definitely lost my boots if John hadn't hauled me out. I hope that they break the dam when they're done harvesting trees.
We walked through this scene and I decided to view it dispassionately, not as wreckage or carnage but as small-time industry, local economy. The skidder has cut a mud road straight up the steep slope, bordered and bolstered by logs too small to be of value but big enough to cut and place. Skidder roads branch off to the side every once in a while, off to what were thick stands of timber, I guess. Now the forest is simply lighter, more sky and wider expanses of earth, more saplings visible. It's hard to know how much of this is due to winter leaflessness and how much to the absence of culled trees.
They left the old--ancient--logging road that John and I have walked, that we think our homeowning predecessors walked on their way to their dairy farm a mile up the ridge. This road is not wide enough for a car or truck and so deeply worn that it has a sort of shelter. It meanders up and up the ridges, crossing little streams. In the logging and grazing past maybe it had good views on some of those rocky curves--now it is all woods. I have imagine generations of old Mr. Torrances as a bow-legged, bearded, good-natured but not deep-thinking fellows who lived for labor: tapped trees, milked cows, tinkered around the house. Ate the meals their wives cooked, slept in cold beds.
John and I worry that in some of the flat places where they have logged heavily they are in fact clearing home sites. We hope not. We like our isolation, the darkness behind us, the naked starry sky. We like the unbroken expanse of that eight-acre field, less than half of which we own. But now that the other half has sold, the logger placed markers--trees he cut and stripped by hand--along our boundary line. He knows that eventually John and I will fence ourselves in so we can have some animals. All this old man needs is markers to signal his territory and ours.
--
John goes back to work today after a week off for Thanksgiving. Today commences my week of vacation. I will miss him while he's gone, but I have lots of projects going on. I have been working on family history, which is fascinating, labor-intensive and very exciting.
In two weeks John's entire maternal family will be here to celebrate an early Christmas. We will trim the tree on December 13th. I will play "Amazing Grace" and Christmas carols on the piano for Nana and the others to sing along.
We walked through this scene and I decided to view it dispassionately, not as wreckage or carnage but as small-time industry, local economy. The skidder has cut a mud road straight up the steep slope, bordered and bolstered by logs too small to be of value but big enough to cut and place. Skidder roads branch off to the side every once in a while, off to what were thick stands of timber, I guess. Now the forest is simply lighter, more sky and wider expanses of earth, more saplings visible. It's hard to know how much of this is due to winter leaflessness and how much to the absence of culled trees.
They left the old--ancient--logging road that John and I have walked, that we think our homeowning predecessors walked on their way to their dairy farm a mile up the ridge. This road is not wide enough for a car or truck and so deeply worn that it has a sort of shelter. It meanders up and up the ridges, crossing little streams. In the logging and grazing past maybe it had good views on some of those rocky curves--now it is all woods. I have imagine generations of old Mr. Torrances as a bow-legged, bearded, good-natured but not deep-thinking fellows who lived for labor: tapped trees, milked cows, tinkered around the house. Ate the meals their wives cooked, slept in cold beds.
John and I worry that in some of the flat places where they have logged heavily they are in fact clearing home sites. We hope not. We like our isolation, the darkness behind us, the naked starry sky. We like the unbroken expanse of that eight-acre field, less than half of which we own. But now that the other half has sold, the logger placed markers--trees he cut and stripped by hand--along our boundary line. He knows that eventually John and I will fence ourselves in so we can have some animals. All this old man needs is markers to signal his territory and ours.
--
John goes back to work today after a week off for Thanksgiving. Today commences my week of vacation. I will miss him while he's gone, but I have lots of projects going on. I have been working on family history, which is fascinating, labor-intensive and very exciting.
In two weeks John's entire maternal family will be here to celebrate an early Christmas. We will trim the tree on December 13th. I will play "Amazing Grace" and Christmas carols on the piano for Nana and the others to sing along.
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