Today began with sunshine, albeit kind of thin and cold, any warmth it may have offered stripped out by the steady breeze that rattled the artichoke stalks at the foot of the garden. The ground was frozen and hard underfoot when I took out the bird feeders, and a few flakes of snow danced and whirled in the air, not seeming to land, but just dancing.
By early afternoon, however, the few fitful snow flurries that had come and gone during the morning had turned into snow that seemed to have a more serious intent. The sky clouded over entirely and the day grew dark, dark enough to warrant having lights on inside the house. The snow grew heavier; distant hills and mountains grew pale and gray and finally disappeared, and snow landed and whitened the ground, catching in cups of dry leaves and in the crevices of tree bark.
It is a quiet day now, though the morning was less so. It is the Saturday after Thanksgiving, and a strange holiday it was for us this year. Mom is in the hospital, and has undergone two major surgeries in the last 11 days. The last two weeks have been a steady strain of worry, punctuated with spells of sickening fear, breathtaking relief, happiness, and (for me) periods when I am simply too tired to feel much of anything - just emotionless, blank exhaustion.
We had expected Mom to be either home or in a convalescent center by Thanksgiving, but an infection warranted emergency surgery on Monday evening, and this set her back at least a week, but she seems to be recovering quite well, all things considered. Sitting up this morning, eating some solid food, chatting with the nurses. She'll be in a convalescent center soon (knock on wood) and hopefully home before long.
We were rather thin of company over Thanksgiving, only seating five for the celebratory meal. Last year we had eight, but this year Lucy was away, Ber's husband had a relentless cold that kept him home, and Mom, of course, was in the hospital. We made a good meal; Mary and Ber cooked the turkey while Dad, Justin and I went up to Lebanon to see Mom, and when we got back the turkey was done and the potatoes were boiling, and though we ate later than we wanted, we had a delicious dinner, raising our glasses to the health of our absent kinfolk.
Ber went home yesterday, while I was at work (Black Friday, of course). Mary and Justin went home today, but Mary will be back in two days. Ken is scheduled for back surgery at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Med Center on Monday, the same hospital where Mom is, and Mary will be staying here while he is hospitalized, as it is a much easier drive from here than from her home.
I look out the window now, and the snow has nearly stopped, and the clouds are breaking, patches of pale yellow glowing through the blue-gray. Across the way, the pines and spruces on the opposite sidehill are dusted with a powdering of snow, and flakes still dance and whirl in the air. The house is quiet; the mantel-clock ticktocks to itself, and Dad's stirring around in the kitchen, making banana bread. I can smell the fragrance of the stock I have simmering, the last of the turkey carcass bubbling gently with vegetables, ready to be made into soup.
I am so tired.... maybe I will nap this afternoon.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Nor Any Drop to Drink
It began yesterday morning, when I was awakened in the dark, soggy dawn by a curious and unsettling sound. In my half-sleep, I thought maybe Mom was watching a movie featuring sporadic gunfire, but as I woke further I knew this was not the case. Still, I laid there and listened, hoping it wasn't the noise I already knew it was. I got out of bed and went into the hall, where I heard more clearly, and beyond any mistaking - it was the well-pump blowing blasts of air into the empty cistern.
The motor would hum, and then another sharp, awful cough of air would resonate in the concrete-block tank. I shut off the switches for both the well-pump and pressure tank pump, and looked out the window at the fog-draped hills and trees beaded with raindrops. How could the well be empty? Maybe it only needed a few minutes to recover. I waited, then turned on the pump, and heard only the coughing again.
I heard Dad running water as he went through his morning routine, so I told him what was going on, and to be prudent with the water. I then sat on my bed and wondered what to do next. Since swearing and grumbling were going to be no help, so I pulled on some clothes and a jacket, and went into the back yard, where water still drizzled off the roof into a row of buckets. I dipped some into an empty bucket and took into the house to use for flushing, and then, after feeding the birds that were evidently starving, if their histrionics were to be believed, I used some of the precious water in the pipes to wash my hands and make a cup of tea.
The well had run dry for a day, just at the end of September, after a hot and terribly dry summer. We'd had a rainy spell in early June, and a few occasional thundershowers here and there throughout the summer, but by this time the ground was parched, and rivers had more dry leaves than water in them. The well ran dry only hours before a storm was due to drop between 4 and 6 inches of water on us, and so our water deprivation was short lived. October has been quite wet, with several storms, and cool weather to keep everything from drying out again. So I seriously doubted that the well was in trouble. We'd had rain the night before - buckets of it, and the little brook was running in the hollow, so I knew the ground was saturated.
Later in the morning, after coffee and tea and breakfast, Dad opened the well and found, to our infinite relief, that it is completely full, almost to ground level. This well is over 150 years old, hand-dug on a spot determined by a dowser. It's about 4 feet across and 15 feet deep, walled with fieldstones. It produces the best water in the world - soft and sweet, not a trace of the mineral or metallic precipitates that make other local waters taste "off" and make crusty stains on pots and sinks. It's a little silty, perhaps, but is the best. What a good feeling it was to see that well brimming with our good water - even it it wasn't getting into the house.
The pump was the cause; it had lost its prime. Dad fiddled with it but decided he didn't have the tools to deal with it, so went in and called a plumber, who said he'd be here in about 90 minutes. Much cheered, we went about other chores, expecting to hear the splash of water in the cistern before long.
But the afternoon wore on...and no plumber. The appointed hour passed; the sun sank behind the trees to the southwest...no plumber. There was no water in the pipes; the only clean water we had was in a 3-quart jug I'd filled on Sunday to take to work (Manchester water being mineral-heavy and unpalatable). We eked it out; most went to boil a pot of potatoes for supper, and I used a splash to brush my teeth but didn't wash my face before bed. What I really wanted and needed was a bath, but unless I wanted to go down in the brook like a bird, or filter and boil a few gallons, I was stuck.
This morning there was just enough clean water left for Dad's coffee and 2 cups of tea. Dad called the plumber again, and reached an answering machine. Not knowing how long we might be without running water, I took two milk jugs to the brook and filled them. It had rained hard much of the night, and the brook was running high, so it was no problem to collect 2 gallons of the clear, cold water. I poured a gallon through a colander lined with a paper towel, filtering out bits of leaves and pine needles, before boiling it. This is the water that I used to make the cup of tea I am drinking now.
The plumber called a while ago, said he'd be here in an hour. It remains to be seen if his "hour" today will be as long as his "hour and a half" yesterday. It's nearly 10am now; I HAVE to bathe before I go to work, and I have to leave here no later than 11.30. I guess I'll have to go get another jug from the brook and boil it, and have a splash in the sink.
I cannot be too annoyed, though, or consider this a great inconvenience. At this moment in Haiti, thousands of people are suffering with cholera, that terrible and violent water-borne disease. Having a sip of water there is like Russian roulette, with most of the chambers loaded. But here, water probably clean enough to drink untreated is gushing down out of the woods. How lucky I am to live here!
The motor would hum, and then another sharp, awful cough of air would resonate in the concrete-block tank. I shut off the switches for both the well-pump and pressure tank pump, and looked out the window at the fog-draped hills and trees beaded with raindrops. How could the well be empty? Maybe it only needed a few minutes to recover. I waited, then turned on the pump, and heard only the coughing again.
I heard Dad running water as he went through his morning routine, so I told him what was going on, and to be prudent with the water. I then sat on my bed and wondered what to do next. Since swearing and grumbling were going to be no help, so I pulled on some clothes and a jacket, and went into the back yard, where water still drizzled off the roof into a row of buckets. I dipped some into an empty bucket and took into the house to use for flushing, and then, after feeding the birds that were evidently starving, if their histrionics were to be believed, I used some of the precious water in the pipes to wash my hands and make a cup of tea.
The well had run dry for a day, just at the end of September, after a hot and terribly dry summer. We'd had a rainy spell in early June, and a few occasional thundershowers here and there throughout the summer, but by this time the ground was parched, and rivers had more dry leaves than water in them. The well ran dry only hours before a storm was due to drop between 4 and 6 inches of water on us, and so our water deprivation was short lived. October has been quite wet, with several storms, and cool weather to keep everything from drying out again. So I seriously doubted that the well was in trouble. We'd had rain the night before - buckets of it, and the little brook was running in the hollow, so I knew the ground was saturated.
Later in the morning, after coffee and tea and breakfast, Dad opened the well and found, to our infinite relief, that it is completely full, almost to ground level. This well is over 150 years old, hand-dug on a spot determined by a dowser. It's about 4 feet across and 15 feet deep, walled with fieldstones. It produces the best water in the world - soft and sweet, not a trace of the mineral or metallic precipitates that make other local waters taste "off" and make crusty stains on pots and sinks. It's a little silty, perhaps, but is the best. What a good feeling it was to see that well brimming with our good water - even it it wasn't getting into the house.
The pump was the cause; it had lost its prime. Dad fiddled with it but decided he didn't have the tools to deal with it, so went in and called a plumber, who said he'd be here in about 90 minutes. Much cheered, we went about other chores, expecting to hear the splash of water in the cistern before long.
But the afternoon wore on...and no plumber. The appointed hour passed; the sun sank behind the trees to the southwest...no plumber. There was no water in the pipes; the only clean water we had was in a 3-quart jug I'd filled on Sunday to take to work (Manchester water being mineral-heavy and unpalatable). We eked it out; most went to boil a pot of potatoes for supper, and I used a splash to brush my teeth but didn't wash my face before bed. What I really wanted and needed was a bath, but unless I wanted to go down in the brook like a bird, or filter and boil a few gallons, I was stuck.
This morning there was just enough clean water left for Dad's coffee and 2 cups of tea. Dad called the plumber again, and reached an answering machine. Not knowing how long we might be without running water, I took two milk jugs to the brook and filled them. It had rained hard much of the night, and the brook was running high, so it was no problem to collect 2 gallons of the clear, cold water. I poured a gallon through a colander lined with a paper towel, filtering out bits of leaves and pine needles, before boiling it. This is the water that I used to make the cup of tea I am drinking now.
The plumber called a while ago, said he'd be here in an hour. It remains to be seen if his "hour" today will be as long as his "hour and a half" yesterday. It's nearly 10am now; I HAVE to bathe before I go to work, and I have to leave here no later than 11.30. I guess I'll have to go get another jug from the brook and boil it, and have a splash in the sink.
I cannot be too annoyed, though, or consider this a great inconvenience. At this moment in Haiti, thousands of people are suffering with cholera, that terrible and violent water-borne disease. Having a sip of water there is like Russian roulette, with most of the chambers loaded. But here, water probably clean enough to drink untreated is gushing down out of the woods. How lucky I am to live here!
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
A Meal to Fit Inside a King
Tonight Dad asked what we had to cook for supper. It's been a kind of a hot and tiring day, and a good meal is what we need - not a scrounge-supper of bread and cheese or a dish of cereal, or something insubstantial like that. Besides, that's what I had last night.
I had a lot of salad stuff that we'd accumulated over the past week - lettuce, cukes, some cherry tomatoes, string beans, dill and peas that Ber had brought last weekend; a couple of good fat summer squashes. I'd also bought a package of chicken thighs today, and so thought of having a salad with marinated chicken pieces.
While Dad de-boned 6 chicken thighs, I washed lettuce - two kinds, a salad bowl and a boston-type. I washed, trimmed and sliced 2 medium-sized pickling cukes, and rinsed the dill, and left it standing in a glass of water.
Then the marinade - nothing fancy, but enough flavor without masking the richness of the thigh meat. Extra-virgin olive oil (a mainstay), and a couple of tablespoons of good, nutty toasted sesame oil. I ground a good bunch of black pepper into the mix, and sprinkled in a half-teaspoon or so of granulated garlic, the same amount of dried marjoram and a little less than that of dried thyme. A couple of dashes of soy sauce went in, and I mixed it all well. Dad cut the chicken into small bits and mixed it well with the marinade, and we let it sit.
I took a fat summer squash and a smallish zucchini and cut them both into 1/2" thick slices, cutting the biggest slices of yellow squash in half. This would be boiled, floated in just enough water to cover them and boiled hard, until the flesh becomes translucent, and the seeds come out. This is a tasty, subtly sweet dish, delectable with pepper and butter. Mmmmm.
Dad snipped the beans, and they went into the steamer; he snipped and pulled the strings from the snap peas. I washed the pint of golden, red, orange and pinkish cherry tomatoes, and set them in a bowl beside the sliced cukes. Over the cukes I sprinkled a little of the dill, shredded to little bits.
I also made a cruet of my favorite dressing - cider vinegar, 2 cloves of garlic (minced fine), top up the cruet with EVOO, and sprinkle in crushed dried basil leaves and a few good grinds of black pepper. Of course it's still "raw" and won't have its best flavor for a couple of days, until the garlic and basil have infused into the liquids, but it's still pretty good when newly made.
The chicken was cooked in more olive oil, and drained on a paper towel, so as not to get too much oil in the salad. To complete the meal, we have some brown rice that was leftover from 2 days ago, to warm up and have on the side.
The steam from the pot of squash smells heavenly; the scent of dill and cucumbers is making my stomach growl. I have to go eat!
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Summertime
 |
| Meadows in Whiting, VT. |
In May, I was sick. All of May, except the first 4 days. On the 5th I had a tickle in the throat, and on the 6th when I woke, my first thought was, "My god, what have I come down with?" My throat hurt when I breathed; tonsils and throat scarlet with gray-white streaks and spots, and a blotchy red rash like a mantle around my neck, chest and shoulders. I was supposed to work 4 straight days of open-to-close by myself, and I was going to - did 2 days, with no voice and no energy, sitting with my head on the counter, trying not to fall asleep between customers, but on the 8th I was sure I had strep, and so went to the ER and found that I did not. I said that as long as I didn't have strep, I'd have to go to work, but the Dr was very concerned, and wrote me an excuse note on his prescription pad, saying I had to stay home. I missed 2 days of work, but that's all. The sore throat lingered for 2 weeks, the cough for 4. I ate cough drops and Sucrets until I felt sick to my stomach. I coughed myself awake at night, coughed until my throat cramped and my ribs felt bruised. I took NyQuil, which drugged me to sleep, and gave me a hangover. When I took Mom for a checkup on the 19th of May, I was still coughing, and Mom's Dr, worried, listened to MY lungs, thinking I might have pneumonia. By early June, the cough was gone, but I felt weary even then.
June ran past as if it were being pursued. Roses and poppies and phlox burst into bloom, and tiger swallowtail butterflies danced in profusion from flower to flower. Grass deepened, daisies and clover and fleabane sprinkled the meadows. I drove up to Burlington one weekend, through heavy rain all the way up Rt. 30 to Middlebury. It's a gorgeous drive, even in gray weather, up through the lake region, up Hubbardton Gulf, past the sad decaying remains of the once-grand hotel Hyde Manor in Sudbury. From Whiting on north, the road is a mess, pavement broken and cracked, crumbling off at the edges, full of holes and chasms that were masked in deep puddles of rain water. The last 30 miles of the drive took nearly as long as the first 60. Rt 30 ends in Middlebury, and after the miles of jarring and rattling, it felt like I was flying on the wide, smooth Rt. 7. I stopped for coffee at Maplefields, and reached Burlington only about 20 minutes after my original ETA.
That weekend was a delight. Doing a little shopping on Saturday, then being outdoors almost all day on Sunday, viewing the amazing Champlain Thrust Fault on Rock Point, seeing ducks, muskrats, bugs and birds among the lush ferns and cattails along some ponds in the Intervale, seeing pitcher plants in bloom in Colchester Bog. I got a vicious sunburn, scorched painfully red where I missed with the sunblock.
The best part was visiting the Thrust Fault, where a huge, thick layer of dolomite limestone is shoved over the top of crumbly shale, a 60'-thick slab of pinkish white over the dark blue-gray, threaded through with veins of white.
 |
| The Thrust Fault. Note the figure standing on the beach. |
 |
| Our Goldsworthy-inspired "sculpture" |
We've started the garden, such as it is; the soil is nearly all spent, is thin dust when dry, hard clods when wet, and doesn't even want to grow weeds. There is some dill growing, and radishes, and the tomato plants are starting to show signs of interest in life after standing still, without new growth, for more than a week after transplanting. Lucy was down for a week, and helped Dad plant some potatoes while I had to put on nylons and makeup and go to work. Maybe this weekend's rain will make them grow, but I don't know. The seed was pretty shabby, and the soil is poor.
We have birds in abundance. Rose-breasted grosbeaks, hairy and downy woodpeckers, goldfinches, purple finches, hummingbirds, red- and white-breasted nuthatches, chickadees, bluejays, 4 kinds of sparrows, juncos, vireos, mourning doves, robins (including a pair that nested over the door of the barn, and had conniption fits whenever Dad went in or out with the tractor), thrushes, warblers and finches, flycatchers, wrens, ravens, grackles and crows. We even have evening grosbeaks, and are glad to see them, as they seem to have thinned out in recent years. They look like clowns, with their yellow, black and white plumage, green beaks and orange feet, and they look around, saying "CHOIP!" an loud, hoarse voices. We love the choip-birds.
I love the summer birds, and miss them a lot in the winter. I love the winter birds, too, in their austere gray and black plumage, with cardinals and blue jays to add a splash of color in the colorless days. But In winter I miss the colors and voices of the summer birds, the varied songs, the chatters, whistles and cheeps, the plaintive song of a white-throated sparrow, the ethereal trickle of a hermit thrush's song, the chant of the oven-bird, the "witchety-witchety-witch!" of the yellowthroat. It's nice in the late fall, when everyone who is going south has gone, and on a still day you can hear the whisper of the river at the other end of the village, and hear twigs rasp against one another in the woods, but I would never be sorry to hear a thrush sing.
We have had our first hot spell of the year. Well, it did get hot in March and April a couple of times, but the heat was brief, the air dry, and cold air followed with a sobering reminder of the earliness of the season. During the last few days of April, up to 20" of snow fell on the northern half of the state, and enough down here to whiten the grass, and refresh the ski slopes for the last few runs of the season. There will be no cold weather after this July heat wave; it will be "cooler" next week - only in the mid-80s.
Luckily, the worst of the heat didn't hit here until after the July 4th festivities. Lucy and I went to the Wardsboro parade (somehow less boisterous than usual), burned some hot dogs over a wood fire in the yard, and saw fireworks in Londonderry and Manchester. In Derry, we were sitting directly under the explosions, which were none too high in the air, and had to watch out for hot streamers of sparks that landed and sizzled in the grass around us. We viewed the Manchester show from about 1/2 mile away, and though they were enjoyable, I liked the Derry show better, feeling the "FOOM!" of the mortars and the bone-shaking bang as the shells exploded only a couple of hundred feet over our heads. It's a delight to listen to the explosions rolling back and forth between the mountains. I do love fireworks.
Since Monday it has been too hot, bad hot, scary hot. It was over 100 in Brattleboro on the 6th on July, when Lucy and I went shopping. Haze thickened the air and hid even close mountains, turning their green slopes into a milky watercolor wash against the glaring yellow sky. A walk down the driveway to get the paper made one flood with sweat that couldn't evaporate. Laundry hung wet on the line for 2 days, despite the scorching sunlight. Anything cold - a jug of milk, a glass of water, bottle of beer, the toilet tank - would sweat streams of condensation; the bathtub remained beaded with water 14 hours after a morning shower.
There is nothing to do in this weather but endure. When cold, it's easy enough to get warm: put on woollies, build a fire, drink something hot, move around. But when the weather is disgustingly hot and the air soupy with humidity, there's nothing you can do but sit around and sweat. Air conditioners help with the temperature, but turn the air clammy.
The A/C at work doesn't work well; it hit 84 in the store on the 8th, and still felt arctic compared with the gross weather outside. People would come in, gasping, their faces shiny with sweat, and take long, appreciative gulps of the moldy-cellar-scented "cool" air, finding it refreshing.
I had to work on the 4th of July. An abomination. No one except essential service workers should have to work on that day. We get Christmas off, and Easter, and I don't give two hoots about Easter, but have to work on Independence Day. When people should be out watching or marching in parades or having a barbacue or boating or lying in the shade under a tree and celebrating Independence independently, they came pouring, flocking, flooding into the store, their brows wrinkled as they debated what size pillows to get, or what shade of taupe towels go with their imported limestone bathrooms. I didn't get to eat lunch that day, having to wait on so many helpless, clueless spendthrifts who wouldn't know the Preamble to the Declaration if Thomas Jefferson himself read it to them.
I HATE working on the 4th of July. It's just not right.
I have not been in the woods but once. Last summer the loggers were here for 4 months, and though to look at the mountain from afar, you would not know any trees were cut, but they took out loads and loads and loads. In early May I went up to the crest of the hill past the Pippin Tree, and did not recognize the woods, even though new growth was healing the wounded soil. It was heartbreaking for me; I felt as someone must upon seeing their home vandalized or flooded or otherwise altered all out of any familiar shape. Though I know the logging is beneficial, and the state forester who came to see about some disease afflicting the pines said that the loggers did a terrific job, it still made me cry. Ber reported that they took the cluster of soft maples that grew over the old spring on the side of the mountain - took them out for firewood, for which we got only $5 per cord. It had been a hard day, and I was tired, and seeing my lovely sacred woods all ripped up hurt me greatly, and I sat on a rock and cried. I have not been back in the woods since.
There's a ball game on, Boston at Toronto. Most on the Red Sox Roster is on the DL; there was a spell where they lost 4 key players within a week to broken bones and strained muscles. The new 3rd baseman, Adrian Beltre, has run over 2 left fielders, breaking a total of 9 ribs (5 on Ellsbury, 4 on Hermida). It's a miracle that the Sox are even ahead of the hopeless Orioles, let aone still within striking distance of the ^&%!@%$ Yankees.
So it is July, heading into the All-Star Break. Hollyhocks and primroses, black-eyed susans and wild chicory are in bloom, and everywhere are masses of wild orange daylilies, glowing like coals. The milkweed is in bloom (too early) and goldenrod is budded (WAY too early), and on hot dry afternoons the cicadas buzz and drone in the treetops. Farmers' markets overflow with vegetables and flowers, and every weekend is full of Events - fairs, workshops, concerts, plays, things to do.
Sometimes the best thing to do in the summertime is nothing, but sit by a cool riverside and watch the water-striders dimple the surface, casting strange shadows on the golden rocks beneath the water. Or wake early and watch the sky turn rosy with dawn, and watch fingers of sunlight come down through the woods to the northeast. Savor the richness of the days, and sweet, cool nights. Try not to think of things that are wrong with the world - the oil disaster, the unemployment rate, people acting like idiots over religions that no one really understands. Just smell the greenness of the air, and listen to the cicadas and thrushes, and savor these days, even if they are hot and sticky, because the days are already getting shorter.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
No Jury of Retail Workers Would Convict Me
Mrs. F. and her husband were in the store a couple of weeks ago to buy sheets. She wanted something neutral but brownish for a guest room. After rejecting the few neutral patterns we have on sale (and god forbid she buy something in the full-price line), she and her husband latched onto a pattern called "Zelda" - a loud, eye-bending, ugly-as-hell, brown and beige zebra stripe. They liked the sheets (because they were cheap), and then bickered at length over what coverlet to get - or get a duvet cover instead of a coverlet? Which pattern duvet cover - Zelda or "Bivouac", a very ugly brown/beige/black plaid? A solid beige? Cool beige or warm beige?
After an hour or so they nailed down which one they wanted (zebra sheets and plaid coverlet), and then decided that they needed a dust ruffle, and started in all over again with the bickering and indecision. By this time, I wanted a stiff drink (and I don't drink!), but the fun had only just begun. See, with a dust ruffle, there is not only the bed size, but the drop to consider - the distance from the box spring to the floor. There is no standard size; it varies depending on the thickness of the box spring and height of the bed frame. I had to explain this. I had to explain why a queen, California king or twin won't work on a double bed; I had to explain box pleat v. ruffled; I had to explain plateau v. panel skirt, and how to adjust the drop on a panel skirt. Mr. F. got this idea fairly quickly, but when I tried to explain it to Mrs. F., she stared at me, totally bewildered. I felt as if I was trying to explain it to a pigeon or a goat or a jar of mayonnaise or something which has a total lack of comprehension.
After a lot more explaining (on my part) and bickering (on theirs), and comparing and waffling, Mrs. F. decided on a plain sand-colored skirt, but did not know the drop she needed. So they bought the sheets and shams and coverlet, and said they'd go home, measure and call or come back to buy the skirt.
Later that afternoon, Mr. F. came back and bought the 18" full-size solid sand ruffled skirt. Good riddance, I thought as he left, to both the hideous sheets and the PIA customers.
Then - this past Sunday, Mrs. F. called. The skirt was the wrong size. Labeled full, it was a twin. She'd opened it, thrown out the packaging and had it ironed. Could she still return it?
Deep sigh. If something is mislabeled, and the customer bought it in good faith, then of course we have to take it back, so I said yes. She said she'd be in Thursday, when I'd be there all day, because she didn't want to deal with my manager Nancy. I have a feeling that she knows Nancy and has dealt with her before, and since Nancy does not give any quarter to fools, did not want to deal with her again.
So this morning I was running around, trying to fill special orders and do a big pile of shipping, when Mrs F. came in with the skirt draped over a cleaner's hanger. I apologized for the mislabeling (not my fault, of course, but y'know) and, assuming she did not have the receipt, set about trying to determine how much I was going to have to refund her. But before I'd done that, Mrs. F. started in.
"Do you have a birthday gift for my daughter?"
I paused, thinking, am I supposed to give your daughter a gift?
"She's kind of artsy," she continued in her faint, uncertain voice.
I said that we don't have much that's really "artsy" (it is a linen shop, after all), the only thing being a book of panoramic photos of Paris. But Mrs. F. had her eye on a small, thin terry bathrobe, recently marked down from an obscene $310 to a slightly less obscene $186. She flipped the tag over and read it. "Is that the price? Good god! Get out of here! Can't you do any better than that?"
Here I have to pause and say something. Bargaining at a flea market is fine. Bargaining at a farmers' market, if you are buying enough stuff, can be acceptable.
But you DO NOT go into a high-end (or low end, come to think of it) shop and haggle with the sales clerks. This is NOT the Souk in Marrakesh! The sales clerks are at the bottom of the retail authority totem pole, and do not have the authority to knock off a few bucks or a few percentage points from the price. It is akin to going into a school and haggling with the teacher's aide about tuition. You might wear down some of us through your single-minded persistence, but though you may save a negligible amount, you damage your karma, and leave the store with the sales staff hissing insults and making faces and rude gestures at your retreating form, and making crude and unkind remarks about your IQ.
Back to Mrs. F.: I told her that this pattern of robe was just marked down and is at 40% off, firm.
"I want something for under a hundred dollars," she said. Whether she realistically expected me to knock $87 off the $186 price, I do not know.
So away we went, around and around the store. "Any small robes other than this? How about any extra-smalls? How about this one? Can you give me a better price? Is there someone you can ask to find out if you can reduce the price? How about small PJs? No? can you go look in the back? Can you call the other stores and find one for me?"
I finally said, loudly, "I don't have the authority to lower the prices! I only work here part time!"
I think that finally got through to her, but she went back to the first robe and hemmed and hawed, and complained and whined (whining is SO unbecoming in adults), and finally, just to get rid of her, I said, "I can bring it down to $150, but I CAN NOT make it any less than that."
She sighed and grimaced and finally said she'd take it, though it was expensive and probably too big ("Are you sure you don't have this in extra-small?").
So... I went back to trying to find out how much she'd paid for the damn dust ruffle (remember the dust ruffle?) while she looked the robe over.
"Oh, it's damaged," she said. "Look at this - it's damaged."
I squinted, peering at where she was plucking with her manicured nails, exacerbating a place where a single loop of terry stuck up about half a millimeter above the rest. "I still can't bring it down to less than $150."
"Do you have another?"
I know that we don't; this is a onesie. But I went to the back room and tore robes off the shelf, seething, wanting to punch the wall (at the very least). Then I heard her coming, and figured she was on her way into the stock room, so I threw the robes back onto the shelf and returned to the front. "I'm sorry, that's the only one."
"God damn it," she said. I felt the same way. If I could have sold her a fresh robe and shoved her out the door, I would have, in a heartbeat. But I knew I was going to have to do a return on the dust ruffle with no sale to cancel the hit I'd take in dollars. Again I resumed trying to find the price of the refund.
A forlorn hope: "Would you happen to have your receipt, so I can refund the correct price?" But of course she didn't.
Deep sigh.... I finally just took a guess and said that I thought that $75 sounded right, and she agreed. It was probably too much, but I didn't care. It would be worth the extra money just to be rid of her.
So as I was ringing up the refund, the FedEx guy came in with some packages, and Mrs. F. accosted him. "Can you tell me where the ----- ---- is?"
He hesitated, looking a little alarmed. "The ----- ---- Spa?"
She said yes, the spa, and he gave her directions, which naturally she didn't understand, so he had to start over. He glanced at me, his eyes big; I looked back at him the same way.
I was ringing the refund - hands shaking - pushed the wrong button - had to start over. Scribbled an illegible signature for the FedEx guy and sent him on his way, and finally got the refund to go through. Mrs. F. was now impatient and in a hurry to get to her appointment at the spa she didn't know how to find. She told me to call other stores and find the robe she wanted, and send it to her - she TOLD me, did not ask. I jotted her number on a paper and said I'd call right away. (Not going to. To hell with it; it'd only encourage her.) She finally left, saying "Have a nice day."
"Too late," I said, hopefully loud enough so she heard.
Now, there are people I genuinely like to see come through the door: Mrs. E., a sweet, soft-spoken Frenchwoman, and her sister M., are my favorites, the nicest people you could hope to meet; Mr. and Mrs. L. from Massachusetts; the L's from New York; Ava S., who never spends less than $1000 and is funny and pleasant, if a tad frenetic; Mr. B., a flouncy, expressive, effusive gay man who is more feminine than I am. There are also Mary S. and Judy H., both fellow retail workers; Judy in particular is always sympathetic and ready for a good mutual gripe.
Then there are people like Mrs. F., who make me want to scream and swear, make me think that going out in the yard and dropping a sledgehammer on my foot would be more enjoyable than one single minute more spent in retail. Then there's Mrs. L.B.G., who flits around the store with the same amount of native intelligence in her eyes as a Snickers bar, who once kept us 45 minutes after closing on the Sunday of Black Friday weekend, asking "Is this powder-roomy or bathroomy?" and "What color is this?" and "Will my granddaughter like this?" and (swear to god) "Is this pretty?" and then had the effrontery to complain about the size of the bow I had tied in the ribbon on the package that I was in no way obligated to wrap for her. "Oh, I'm so disappointed," she said sadly, with light flashing off the almond-sized diamond on her finger. "The bow is too small."
Linda intervened, seeing that I was about to tie a very small bow indeed around Mrs. L.B.G's neck. I went to the back room and tried not to have an infarction, while I could hear Mrs. L.B.G. saying, "Some people have such a short fuse. All I want is a pretty gift to give. Is that too much to ask?"
Then there's Lucie G... but she's fodder for another post - maybe even a whole blog of her own.
I think I've blown off my head of steam... the cup of strong chamomile tea I just finished helped, too. Hungry now... time for lunch. 12:29pm
-----
After I scribbled this in my notebook, I went to warm up my lunch, and found that the soup I'd brought had "gone off", and mice had raided my box of crackers, leaving me with nothing but a Rice Krispies treat and a jar of peanut butter for lunch. I hung the "back in 15" sign in the door and headed for the car, when someone drove in. I was then badgered for 25 minutes by a woman with an appallingly nasal voice who wanted something sleek and elegant and black & white, but cheap and disposable because her husband is a slob. She kept standing too close to me, too.
When she left I made a dash for the supermarket and got soup and a salad at the deli, and for a blissful hour got to sit still, savor my food, thinking the day had to improve from here.
Then at about 2.30pm, Mrs. F came back!!! She was fresh and relaxed from the spa, and asked if I'd heard back from the other stores about her robe. I lied - said I'd called and left messages but hadn't heard back, and would let her know as soon as I found out what was up. She whined, and grimaced, and said she wanted me to call them NOW. Backed into a corner, I hadn't any choice, so called one outlet - no luck. Called another - got put on hold for nearly 10 minutes - pacing, with Mrs. F. following me as I paced.
The 2nd outlet had one, thank all the gods and goddesses in the firmament! Then Mrs. F. had detailed instructions - where to send it, how to send it, how to wrap it, enclose a card, take price off, make sure it gets to NY by the first of May, etc. etc. etc. I assured her it would all be taken care of, and she finally left, and at least she did thank me for my trouble.
Then about 10 minutes later she called and reminded me to be sure the price was removed before the robe was sent.
Incidentally, the robe is going to someone in an apartment overlooking Central Park, to wear at her beach house.
You know the show "Dirty Jobs"? I have a mind to tell Mike Rowe that he should spend a day in retail, being badgered, insulted, sneered at and ordered around by rich, whining, spoiled, clueless airheads with elephantine senses of entitlement. I'm sure he'd prefer scraping out garbage trucks, kennels and bilges. At least the filth he gets into washes off.
_____
When I got to work on April 28, I learned that Mrs. F's daughter didn't like the robe, and wanted to exchange it.
After an hour or so they nailed down which one they wanted (zebra sheets and plaid coverlet), and then decided that they needed a dust ruffle, and started in all over again with the bickering and indecision. By this time, I wanted a stiff drink (and I don't drink!), but the fun had only just begun. See, with a dust ruffle, there is not only the bed size, but the drop to consider - the distance from the box spring to the floor. There is no standard size; it varies depending on the thickness of the box spring and height of the bed frame. I had to explain this. I had to explain why a queen, California king or twin won't work on a double bed; I had to explain box pleat v. ruffled; I had to explain plateau v. panel skirt, and how to adjust the drop on a panel skirt. Mr. F. got this idea fairly quickly, but when I tried to explain it to Mrs. F., she stared at me, totally bewildered. I felt as if I was trying to explain it to a pigeon or a goat or a jar of mayonnaise or something which has a total lack of comprehension.
After a lot more explaining (on my part) and bickering (on theirs), and comparing and waffling, Mrs. F. decided on a plain sand-colored skirt, but did not know the drop she needed. So they bought the sheets and shams and coverlet, and said they'd go home, measure and call or come back to buy the skirt.
Later that afternoon, Mr. F. came back and bought the 18" full-size solid sand ruffled skirt. Good riddance, I thought as he left, to both the hideous sheets and the PIA customers.
Then - this past Sunday, Mrs. F. called. The skirt was the wrong size. Labeled full, it was a twin. She'd opened it, thrown out the packaging and had it ironed. Could she still return it?
Deep sigh. If something is mislabeled, and the customer bought it in good faith, then of course we have to take it back, so I said yes. She said she'd be in Thursday, when I'd be there all day, because she didn't want to deal with my manager Nancy. I have a feeling that she knows Nancy and has dealt with her before, and since Nancy does not give any quarter to fools, did not want to deal with her again.
So this morning I was running around, trying to fill special orders and do a big pile of shipping, when Mrs F. came in with the skirt draped over a cleaner's hanger. I apologized for the mislabeling (not my fault, of course, but y'know) and, assuming she did not have the receipt, set about trying to determine how much I was going to have to refund her. But before I'd done that, Mrs. F. started in.
"Do you have a birthday gift for my daughter?"
I paused, thinking, am I supposed to give your daughter a gift?
"She's kind of artsy," she continued in her faint, uncertain voice.
I said that we don't have much that's really "artsy" (it is a linen shop, after all), the only thing being a book of panoramic photos of Paris. But Mrs. F. had her eye on a small, thin terry bathrobe, recently marked down from an obscene $310 to a slightly less obscene $186. She flipped the tag over and read it. "Is that the price? Good god! Get out of here! Can't you do any better than that?"
Here I have to pause and say something. Bargaining at a flea market is fine. Bargaining at a farmers' market, if you are buying enough stuff, can be acceptable.
But you DO NOT go into a high-end (or low end, come to think of it) shop and haggle with the sales clerks. This is NOT the Souk in Marrakesh! The sales clerks are at the bottom of the retail authority totem pole, and do not have the authority to knock off a few bucks or a few percentage points from the price. It is akin to going into a school and haggling with the teacher's aide about tuition. You might wear down some of us through your single-minded persistence, but though you may save a negligible amount, you damage your karma, and leave the store with the sales staff hissing insults and making faces and rude gestures at your retreating form, and making crude and unkind remarks about your IQ.
Back to Mrs. F.: I told her that this pattern of robe was just marked down and is at 40% off, firm.
"I want something for under a hundred dollars," she said. Whether she realistically expected me to knock $87 off the $186 price, I do not know.
So away we went, around and around the store. "Any small robes other than this? How about any extra-smalls? How about this one? Can you give me a better price? Is there someone you can ask to find out if you can reduce the price? How about small PJs? No? can you go look in the back? Can you call the other stores and find one for me?"
I finally said, loudly, "I don't have the authority to lower the prices! I only work here part time!"
I think that finally got through to her, but she went back to the first robe and hemmed and hawed, and complained and whined (whining is SO unbecoming in adults), and finally, just to get rid of her, I said, "I can bring it down to $150, but I CAN NOT make it any less than that."
She sighed and grimaced and finally said she'd take it, though it was expensive and probably too big ("Are you sure you don't have this in extra-small?").
So... I went back to trying to find out how much she'd paid for the damn dust ruffle (remember the dust ruffle?) while she looked the robe over.
"Oh, it's damaged," she said. "Look at this - it's damaged."
I squinted, peering at where she was plucking with her manicured nails, exacerbating a place where a single loop of terry stuck up about half a millimeter above the rest. "I still can't bring it down to less than $150."
"Do you have another?"
I know that we don't; this is a onesie. But I went to the back room and tore robes off the shelf, seething, wanting to punch the wall (at the very least). Then I heard her coming, and figured she was on her way into the stock room, so I threw the robes back onto the shelf and returned to the front. "I'm sorry, that's the only one."
"God damn it," she said. I felt the same way. If I could have sold her a fresh robe and shoved her out the door, I would have, in a heartbeat. But I knew I was going to have to do a return on the dust ruffle with no sale to cancel the hit I'd take in dollars. Again I resumed trying to find the price of the refund.
A forlorn hope: "Would you happen to have your receipt, so I can refund the correct price?" But of course she didn't.
Deep sigh.... I finally just took a guess and said that I thought that $75 sounded right, and she agreed. It was probably too much, but I didn't care. It would be worth the extra money just to be rid of her.
So as I was ringing up the refund, the FedEx guy came in with some packages, and Mrs. F. accosted him. "Can you tell me where the ----- ---- is?"
He hesitated, looking a little alarmed. "The ----- ---- Spa?"
She said yes, the spa, and he gave her directions, which naturally she didn't understand, so he had to start over. He glanced at me, his eyes big; I looked back at him the same way.
I was ringing the refund - hands shaking - pushed the wrong button - had to start over. Scribbled an illegible signature for the FedEx guy and sent him on his way, and finally got the refund to go through. Mrs. F. was now impatient and in a hurry to get to her appointment at the spa she didn't know how to find. She told me to call other stores and find the robe she wanted, and send it to her - she TOLD me, did not ask. I jotted her number on a paper and said I'd call right away. (Not going to. To hell with it; it'd only encourage her.) She finally left, saying "Have a nice day."
"Too late," I said, hopefully loud enough so she heard.
Now, there are people I genuinely like to see come through the door: Mrs. E., a sweet, soft-spoken Frenchwoman, and her sister M., are my favorites, the nicest people you could hope to meet; Mr. and Mrs. L. from Massachusetts; the L's from New York; Ava S., who never spends less than $1000 and is funny and pleasant, if a tad frenetic; Mr. B., a flouncy, expressive, effusive gay man who is more feminine than I am. There are also Mary S. and Judy H., both fellow retail workers; Judy in particular is always sympathetic and ready for a good mutual gripe.
Then there are people like Mrs. F., who make me want to scream and swear, make me think that going out in the yard and dropping a sledgehammer on my foot would be more enjoyable than one single minute more spent in retail. Then there's Mrs. L.B.G., who flits around the store with the same amount of native intelligence in her eyes as a Snickers bar, who once kept us 45 minutes after closing on the Sunday of Black Friday weekend, asking "Is this powder-roomy or bathroomy?" and "What color is this?" and "Will my granddaughter like this?" and (swear to god) "Is this pretty?" and then had the effrontery to complain about the size of the bow I had tied in the ribbon on the package that I was in no way obligated to wrap for her. "Oh, I'm so disappointed," she said sadly, with light flashing off the almond-sized diamond on her finger. "The bow is too small."
Linda intervened, seeing that I was about to tie a very small bow indeed around Mrs. L.B.G's neck. I went to the back room and tried not to have an infarction, while I could hear Mrs. L.B.G. saying, "Some people have such a short fuse. All I want is a pretty gift to give. Is that too much to ask?"
Then there's Lucie G... but she's fodder for another post - maybe even a whole blog of her own.
I think I've blown off my head of steam... the cup of strong chamomile tea I just finished helped, too. Hungry now... time for lunch. 12:29pm
-----
After I scribbled this in my notebook, I went to warm up my lunch, and found that the soup I'd brought had "gone off", and mice had raided my box of crackers, leaving me with nothing but a Rice Krispies treat and a jar of peanut butter for lunch. I hung the "back in 15" sign in the door and headed for the car, when someone drove in. I was then badgered for 25 minutes by a woman with an appallingly nasal voice who wanted something sleek and elegant and black & white, but cheap and disposable because her husband is a slob. She kept standing too close to me, too.
When she left I made a dash for the supermarket and got soup and a salad at the deli, and for a blissful hour got to sit still, savor my food, thinking the day had to improve from here.
Then at about 2.30pm, Mrs. F came back!!! She was fresh and relaxed from the spa, and asked if I'd heard back from the other stores about her robe. I lied - said I'd called and left messages but hadn't heard back, and would let her know as soon as I found out what was up. She whined, and grimaced, and said she wanted me to call them NOW. Backed into a corner, I hadn't any choice, so called one outlet - no luck. Called another - got put on hold for nearly 10 minutes - pacing, with Mrs. F. following me as I paced.
The 2nd outlet had one, thank all the gods and goddesses in the firmament! Then Mrs. F. had detailed instructions - where to send it, how to send it, how to wrap it, enclose a card, take price off, make sure it gets to NY by the first of May, etc. etc. etc. I assured her it would all be taken care of, and she finally left, and at least she did thank me for my trouble.
Then about 10 minutes later she called and reminded me to be sure the price was removed before the robe was sent.
Incidentally, the robe is going to someone in an apartment overlooking Central Park, to wear at her beach house.
You know the show "Dirty Jobs"? I have a mind to tell Mike Rowe that he should spend a day in retail, being badgered, insulted, sneered at and ordered around by rich, whining, spoiled, clueless airheads with elephantine senses of entitlement. I'm sure he'd prefer scraping out garbage trucks, kennels and bilges. At least the filth he gets into washes off.
_____
When I got to work on April 28, I learned that Mrs. F's daughter didn't like the robe, and wanted to exchange it.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Snow on Daffodils
A few weeks ago, it was Spring. Officially, of course, on March 20th, when the sun crossed the Equator on its way north. About 2 weeks after that, it was summer here. Not calendrical summer, of course, but with the sun beating down on us and temperatures pushing 85 degrees - of course that's summer, isn't it?
At around the time of the equinox, there was a spell of quite pleasant, mild weather - sunny, a warm southwest breeze, temperatures climbing into the 60s and even the lower 70s in the odd warm spot. This lasted about 5 days before the weather turned off cold and rainy-snowy again. We had quite a lot of rain, though not as much as RI and coastal MA. No floods here to speak of - only what is common in springtime.
After the hard rains blew out to sea, we hit another warm spell. Not warm - HOT. Even the cool, sheltered hollows were in the low 70s, and the broad, sunny valleys climbed into the mid and upper 80s. It was glorious. People came outdoors the way ladybugs appear in the springtime, reveling in the return of warmth. Obscenely loud motorcycles filled the roads. Convertible tops were folded back.
Snow shrank and disappeared, and rivers rose. Buds popped on the lilacs and popples, and maples bloomed, putting an end to the sugaring season. Coltsfoot emerged through the crust of sand and dirt on the roadsides, dusting the ground with gold, and daffodils and forsythia burst into golden bloom. Birds came back - song sparrows, white-throated sparrows, chipping sparrows, phoebes, swallows, blackbirds.
Of course we all knew it would not last. April is nothing if not fickle, and about a week after the summer-like warmth had begun, it ended. Clouds rolled in and the wind turned from SW to NW, and it began to rain.
The weather since then has been unsettled - some cool, brisk days, with a thin, sharp wind that cuts away any warmth the sun might provide; dark, lowering days of rain and fog; a couple of winter-cold days, with ice on the bird bath and wet snowflakes plopping to the ground. Higher places are dusted with a fresh coating of snow; some places got as much as 4 inches.
This morning I took pity on a daffodil. It had sprouted up and budded just at the end of the warm spell, and had opened its flower to cold wind and cloudy skies. it looked cheerful despite the chill, a little, single splash of bright yellow against the soggy brown of last year's fallen leaves. Two nights ago, however, it snowed - not enough to stick, but enough to bend the poor daff until its golden head was lying on the leaves.
I passed it a couple of times, feeling sorry for it, but today I could stand it no longer. Something - wind, a scuttling mouse, a scratching bird - had kicked some leaves up and nearly buried the flower, so I picked it, and now it is standing up in a glass of water on the kitchen counter. Not in its natural home, but once again with its head up.
That's April. Sweet and fickle, blowing hot and cold, promising and then denying. Snow on daffodils.
At around the time of the equinox, there was a spell of quite pleasant, mild weather - sunny, a warm southwest breeze, temperatures climbing into the 60s and even the lower 70s in the odd warm spot. This lasted about 5 days before the weather turned off cold and rainy-snowy again. We had quite a lot of rain, though not as much as RI and coastal MA. No floods here to speak of - only what is common in springtime.
After the hard rains blew out to sea, we hit another warm spell. Not warm - HOT. Even the cool, sheltered hollows were in the low 70s, and the broad, sunny valleys climbed into the mid and upper 80s. It was glorious. People came outdoors the way ladybugs appear in the springtime, reveling in the return of warmth. Obscenely loud motorcycles filled the roads. Convertible tops were folded back.
Snow shrank and disappeared, and rivers rose. Buds popped on the lilacs and popples, and maples bloomed, putting an end to the sugaring season. Coltsfoot emerged through the crust of sand and dirt on the roadsides, dusting the ground with gold, and daffodils and forsythia burst into golden bloom. Birds came back - song sparrows, white-throated sparrows, chipping sparrows, phoebes, swallows, blackbirds.
Of course we all knew it would not last. April is nothing if not fickle, and about a week after the summer-like warmth had begun, it ended. Clouds rolled in and the wind turned from SW to NW, and it began to rain.
The weather since then has been unsettled - some cool, brisk days, with a thin, sharp wind that cuts away any warmth the sun might provide; dark, lowering days of rain and fog; a couple of winter-cold days, with ice on the bird bath and wet snowflakes plopping to the ground. Higher places are dusted with a fresh coating of snow; some places got as much as 4 inches.
This morning I took pity on a daffodil. It had sprouted up and budded just at the end of the warm spell, and had opened its flower to cold wind and cloudy skies. it looked cheerful despite the chill, a little, single splash of bright yellow against the soggy brown of last year's fallen leaves. Two nights ago, however, it snowed - not enough to stick, but enough to bend the poor daff until its golden head was lying on the leaves.
I passed it a couple of times, feeling sorry for it, but today I could stand it no longer. Something - wind, a scuttling mouse, a scratching bird - had kicked some leaves up and nearly buried the flower, so I picked it, and now it is standing up in a glass of water on the kitchen counter. Not in its natural home, but once again with its head up.
That's April. Sweet and fickle, blowing hot and cold, promising and then denying. Snow on daffodils.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Kippered
Early this afternoon I went up to my cottage to scrub the walls, now that the weather is decent.
Maybe I should start farther back, and explain why I have to scrub the walls. Okay, it began last summer - no, it began in 2006. That's the year I bought the cottage, when the Jamaica Cottage Shop was having a moving sale here in Rawsonville. They were moving to the old Smith's Mill location, a couple miles away, and had to get rid of every cottage and shed on their Rawsonville lot, and were offering the 16x20 Cottage for a hair under $7Gs, fully assembled, and delivered. So I got there and was 18th in line, but managed to get the cottage. Woohoo! Later that summer it was delivered, and I thought - my own studio! At last!
But years went by, as my plans for insulating, wiring and finishing it were back-burnered again and again. Finally, in 2008, I hired a carpenter to fix it up the roof - put down plywood and felt paper under the metal roof so I could insulate it. Late in October, he came and had a look, told me what he needed, and I ordered the stuff from a nearby lumberyard, and the carpenter said he'd come do the work the next time we had a couple sunny days, and could take the roof off.
The next couple of sunny days, as it turns out, were in May of 2009. He fixed up the roof very nicely, and in one day, and charged a fair price. Then I thought, why not just have him do the rest? I'll never get to it myself... so I called him in July and had him come take a look, and I explained what I wanted - finished interior, insulated, wired for electricity, and my woodstove installed. he said he could do that - it'd take him about a week and a half, and he could do it after the middle of August. I said, Cool! As long as it's done by winter, and we shook on it.
Late in August he came by, worked for one day but then said that I had to clear out all the stuff that was in there before he could work He could not work around it. So in one frantic afternoon, Mary, Ken, Dad and I emptied the cottage, putting some stuff in the chicken house, some in the garage, and most of it in the storage locker where my woodstove had been languishing, at $40/month, since 2005. I called the carpenter that evening and told him it was all set.
But he did not show up again for more than 3 weeks. Said he had some urgent work, and he'd be here as soon as he could be. I thought, Okay, I'm small potatoes, and my job isn't urgent. Still lots of time before winter.
He came in September and worked a couple of days, putting up nailers and stuffing in insulation. He called me at work one day and said he knew how to save me a bunch of money - use the boards in the lumber piles up on the hill for paneling. I said okay, that'd be all right. I envisioned the paneling in the living room here, and the wall that Dad and I assembled by the front door: smooth boards, planed and sanded, notched together with splines tucked into grooved rabbeted out in the edges. Not bad.
The carpenter did panel the walls, but he used lumber that had been in the open, exposed to elements and dirt and so on. He did not plane them, sand them, rabbet them, or even rip the edges for a neat fit. He didn't even brush off the dirt and pine needles - just slapped them up and banged them into place with his power nailer. The boards do not fit together, and in some cases there is a 1/2" gap, leaving the plastic and insulation behind clearly visible. I did not notice this aesthetic nightmare until it was too late.
When I pointed out to him that this wasn't great, he said, "I thought you wanted it rustic." Rustic is okay, I thought, but I didn't want crappy.
I sighed, and let it go, but insisted that the rest of the boards be placed as snug together as possible. This he did, but used some beautiful thick planks that Dad had been saving for a bookcase. But we had not mentioned this to the carpenter, and he didn't ask, so the good bookcase boards now line my walls. They do look nice, but I feel as if I stole them from Dad.
The carpenter did put up a nice-looking ceiling, plywood with splines over the joints, looking kind of like a coffered ceiling. It'll look pretty good once painted.
He disappeared again for almost all of October, and most of November. I was getting a little ticked at this point - what happened to that "week an a half" in late August? A week before Thanksgiving I called and told him I was getting upset, I'd expected that it would be done by now, and if he didn't want to do the work, let me know so I could find someone who would do the job.
He called, all apologetic, saying "I didn't know you wanted it so soon," and said he only had a few hours left to do and he'd get it done by T'giving. (This was the Friday before.) I reminded him that I wanted it done before winter, and here it was, late November. He looked surprised. "I thought you meant, before it snowed."
Anyway, he worked a couple of days, and of course did not get it done before T'giving. It wasn't done by Christmas, either. Finally, in the first week of January, he installed the stove and (very very expensive) chimney pipe, and said it was all set to move in. I paid him off and said Thanks, and went to have a look.
The walls and ceiling are insulated, and paneled. There are electrical outlets all over the place - probably too many for a tiny cabin, but that's okay. The stove was in on a tiled hearth, piped through the back wall.
But a few of the outlets lack cover plates; the paneling is uneven, even the stuff put up with a semblance of care. Wires stick through the ceiling, waiting for a fan, and through the outside wall, waiting for an exterior outlet. Scraps and trash were piled deep on the porch.
But it's my Cottage, my studio-to-be, my escape. I will have a bed in the loft, and a porch rail upon which to prop my feet and watch a June moonrise. I will have room to spread out my artwork, my writing, my ideas and work. A place to be away from the TVs, phone, noise, distraction.
Winter, however, had set in, and snow piled deep around the building. I have no firewood (major lack of foresight on my part), and so could not move in over the winter. It's been a long couple of months, biding my time, waiting out another snowy dark January and February.
So today, the first warm sunny day of spring, I went up to the cottage with a pan and some water, a new scrub brush, gloves and cleanser. I lit a fire in the stove, intending to burn some of the scrap lumber, and set about mixing the cleanser with which to scrub the dirty wood. Making lemonade from lemons, as it were.
But I noticed that the stove was smoking. At first I thought it was just a cold chimney, but the smoke got thicker and thicker, though I knew that the drafts were working. Smoke poured from every seam in the stove and stovepipe and filled the cottage with a gray cloud. I went outside to see if any smoke was coming from the chimney, and - horrors! The chimney had fallen off!
After a moment of panic, envisioning my cottage burning to the ground, I sprinted to the house for a pair of tongs - slipping and sliding in the slick layer of soupy mud in the driveway. I burst into the house, exclaiming, "My chimney fell off! I have a fire in there!" I grabbed tongs from the fireplace and ran back up on the hill (not fast; I sprained an ankle 10 days ago and am wearing a brace), and threw flaming chunks of wood out into the yard, then grabbed the water I had intended for scrubbing, and dumped a quart or so into the smoldering remains of the fire. A huge cloud of smoke billowed up, adding to the already choking cloud in the room that kept driving me out into the air, coughing, eyes streaming and burning. With the fire out, I went back to the house, more circumspectly this time, and called the carpenter, leaving a stern message about the chimney, and telling him to call me.
I returned to the cottage to dump the water out of the ash pan and take out the sodden dead coals. I took out 2 of the storm windows and let the air blow through, and propped the door open.
I looked at the chimney, and could see that the huge snowstorm we had on 2/24 had been the villain. The snow had piled up and then slid off the roof, knocking the chimney clean out of the thimble (the bit that runs through the wall), buckling a support strut and snapping one of the roof braces, causing the whole chimney stack to swing around sideways, dangling from the remaining roof brace.
The carpenter called and said he'll be by tomorrow to have a look. I know that the snow is what caused the chimney to come apart, but I think if the thing had been assembled properly, it would not have fallen off to begin with.Anyway - no damage was done, except to my nerves. My throat is still sore, now 4 hours after the incident, and though I showered, my hair still smells smoky. I was able to joke about it with my brother, saying that I could have hung hams to smoke pretty well in the cottage today... but I'm not really feeling very jovial. I am glad that I didn't light the stove and go back to the house for a few minutes. what if the chimney had heated up and set fire to the wall, and the roof? This cottage on which I have spent probably too much money, and for which I have waited so long, might have been destroyed within minutes.
I left it wide open all afternoon, letting the mild breeze clear out the smoke. There was nothing inside that could be damaged by smoke - no fabric or porous material, so that's one good thing. The mud and ash will wash off the floor, and the chimney can be reassembled.
There was one sad thing: While I was cleaning out the stove, I turned the tumblers in the bottom of the firebox - tho movable toothed rods that serve as the grate. They stuck, and I gave a hard push on the handle, and one of the tumblers broke clean in two, and fell out. So now I can't have a fire, even when the chimney gets put up again. I think the stove can be repaired - I hope it can.
March is often a cruel month - much crueler than April, despite what the poets may say. I hope that this is as bad as it gets. Knock on wood.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Support Local Artists!
Today Mary and I were talking about art, how we approach it (take your art, not yourself, seriously), how others seem to approach it , and the short shrift it gets most of the time.
Art, I think, is the first truly human impulse. Back 20, 25,000 years ago, when people had acquired shelter and food, the first thing they did was to paint on the cave walls, and shape bones, wood and stone into images, calendars, totems, musical instruments. Art is necessary.
So why is art so often shoved aside? I agree that basic needs come first, but art is important. Learning about art helps with perception and critical thinking. Art history is interwoven with the history of mankind. Yet arts education is the first to have its funding cut in schools, while athletics are boosted. Public funding for arts is often not only marginalized, but attacked as wasteful and wrong.
Perhaps it is because art is so subjective. One whose idea of art is a calendar by Thomas Kinkaid might bristle at the idea of his/her tax money going toward a modernistic steel sculpture. An Abstract Expressionist might disdain exposure and praise heaped upon someone who emulates Grandma Moses. There is a group that I know of adamantly opposed to all art from the Impressionists onward, and some of the opinions expressed on their website are downright scary. Stylistic schisms aside, I don't think there are many in the arts community in general who think that arts are adequately funded.
Art is everywhere, even though it may not be apparent at first. Art and design - graphic design and industrial design - surround us, fill our homes and workplaces. The lamp on the desk, the carpet underfoot, the toaster, the stapler, the thermostat on the wall, the dishes in the cupboard... teacups and cell phones and letter-racks and picture frames - all are designed by artists. It's not just paintings and sculpture - it's everything around us that is not of 100% strictly utilitarian design. An engineer designed the water pump, but an artist designed the faucet.
Anyway...
For people like Mary and me, though art is deeply important to us, there is no way we can support ourselves with it. I paint and draw; Mary makes exquisite stained glass from original designs, and creates delightful, whimsical paintings, which might fall under"surrealism", but are actually kind of hard to categorize. She also knits scarves and hats from salvaged yarn (unraveling old wool sweaters), and sews purses and bags from salvaged fabrics. They are imaginatively designed and attractive.
Last year I made a handful of hand-painted notecards - overlapping leaves of maples, birch, beech and sumac, painted in their bright fall colors. I made templates after real leaves, traced them on the cards and outlined each leaf in ink before applying glazes of watercolor. Each card took probably close to 2 hours to create. So far I have sold only 6 of them, for a total of $40. Go to any card shop, grocery store, drugstore, bookshop, and there are dozens of cards for $3 each, mass-produced, printed in their thousands. How can I hope to sell these little art-quality cards for anything approaching their real value?
A few years ago I did a pen-and-ink drawing, mostly pointillism, depicting a group of standing stones. It took probably between 25 and 30 hours of work, spread over 3 months, to complete. If I were to charge a living wage per hour for this work, I might have to put a price on it in the thousands of dollars - which, of course, no one would ever pay.
Mary took a painting of 2 pink lady's-slippers, translated it to a form she could cut in glass, and using a mix of new and vintage stained glass, crafted a striking window. She worked on it for many hours, with the most painstaking care in selecting, cutting, grinding, foiling and soldering the dozens of pieces. She is asking $1600 for it, and has not gotten even a sniff of interest. How can she compete with the made-in-China suncatchers and pre-cut stained-glass kits available at the local discount craft store?
A friend of Mary's makes hand-knit sweaters using wool from the sheep she raises. She has the sheep sheared, and the wool spun and dyed to order. She knits by hand sweaters of intricate design, and offers them for sale for between $200-$400. At craft fairs, people may admire her work, but bypass her for the people selling sweaters knit on machines, in yarn bought at Wal-Mart for $1.50 a skein. How can she hope to compete? (She can't, of course; she had to sell most of her flock of sheep, unable to afford to support her craft.)
There is something fundamentally wrong here. People flock to farmers' markets and food co-ops and buy locally-produced produce, eggs and meat. Yet would they choose the work of a local artist or craftsperson over some less-expensive product shipped in from afar? Has anyone really tried to find out?
"Buy Local" is a rallying cry heard often lately, as people become more conscious of their food. I am certainly on board with that, but why is there not as well-marketed a movement for local arts? Why not pay me $7.50 for one of my one-of-a-kind painted cards (cheap at 5 times the price, if you think about it) instead of going to the chain card shop and paying $3 for a mass-produced, printed-in-China card? Why not pay Mary $50 for one of her hand-made suncatchers, and forgo the cheap imported chintzy glass ornament, one of a run of 20,000, made in some soulless factory in a foreign country?
What we need is an arts promotion and marketing movement on a par with the local and organic farming movement. We need to be able to promote and support locally sourced, designed and produced original art and fine handcrafts (no crocheted toilet-paper covers, please!). No cheap materials, no kits, no designs copied from pattern books. Perhaps the local arts/handcraft movement can pair with the local food movement and have Food and Art festivals.
Is there any reason not to promote and support local arts as vigorously as a local berry farm, cheesemaker or bakery? Of course there isn't. So why doesn't someone do something about it? Why don't we do it ourselves?
Art, I think, is the first truly human impulse. Back 20, 25,000 years ago, when people had acquired shelter and food, the first thing they did was to paint on the cave walls, and shape bones, wood and stone into images, calendars, totems, musical instruments. Art is necessary.
So why is art so often shoved aside? I agree that basic needs come first, but art is important. Learning about art helps with perception and critical thinking. Art history is interwoven with the history of mankind. Yet arts education is the first to have its funding cut in schools, while athletics are boosted. Public funding for arts is often not only marginalized, but attacked as wasteful and wrong.
Perhaps it is because art is so subjective. One whose idea of art is a calendar by Thomas Kinkaid might bristle at the idea of his/her tax money going toward a modernistic steel sculpture. An Abstract Expressionist might disdain exposure and praise heaped upon someone who emulates Grandma Moses. There is a group that I know of adamantly opposed to all art from the Impressionists onward, and some of the opinions expressed on their website are downright scary. Stylistic schisms aside, I don't think there are many in the arts community in general who think that arts are adequately funded.
Art is everywhere, even though it may not be apparent at first. Art and design - graphic design and industrial design - surround us, fill our homes and workplaces. The lamp on the desk, the carpet underfoot, the toaster, the stapler, the thermostat on the wall, the dishes in the cupboard... teacups and cell phones and letter-racks and picture frames - all are designed by artists. It's not just paintings and sculpture - it's everything around us that is not of 100% strictly utilitarian design. An engineer designed the water pump, but an artist designed the faucet.
Anyway...
For people like Mary and me, though art is deeply important to us, there is no way we can support ourselves with it. I paint and draw; Mary makes exquisite stained glass from original designs, and creates delightful, whimsical paintings, which might fall under"surrealism", but are actually kind of hard to categorize. She also knits scarves and hats from salvaged yarn (unraveling old wool sweaters), and sews purses and bags from salvaged fabrics. They are imaginatively designed and attractive.
Last year I made a handful of hand-painted notecards - overlapping leaves of maples, birch, beech and sumac, painted in their bright fall colors. I made templates after real leaves, traced them on the cards and outlined each leaf in ink before applying glazes of watercolor. Each card took probably close to 2 hours to create. So far I have sold only 6 of them, for a total of $40. Go to any card shop, grocery store, drugstore, bookshop, and there are dozens of cards for $3 each, mass-produced, printed in their thousands. How can I hope to sell these little art-quality cards for anything approaching their real value?
A few years ago I did a pen-and-ink drawing, mostly pointillism, depicting a group of standing stones. It took probably between 25 and 30 hours of work, spread over 3 months, to complete. If I were to charge a living wage per hour for this work, I might have to put a price on it in the thousands of dollars - which, of course, no one would ever pay.
Mary took a painting of 2 pink lady's-slippers, translated it to a form she could cut in glass, and using a mix of new and vintage stained glass, crafted a striking window. She worked on it for many hours, with the most painstaking care in selecting, cutting, grinding, foiling and soldering the dozens of pieces. She is asking $1600 for it, and has not gotten even a sniff of interest. How can she compete with the made-in-China suncatchers and pre-cut stained-glass kits available at the local discount craft store?
A friend of Mary's makes hand-knit sweaters using wool from the sheep she raises. She has the sheep sheared, and the wool spun and dyed to order. She knits by hand sweaters of intricate design, and offers them for sale for between $200-$400. At craft fairs, people may admire her work, but bypass her for the people selling sweaters knit on machines, in yarn bought at Wal-Mart for $1.50 a skein. How can she hope to compete? (She can't, of course; she had to sell most of her flock of sheep, unable to afford to support her craft.)
There is something fundamentally wrong here. People flock to farmers' markets and food co-ops and buy locally-produced produce, eggs and meat. Yet would they choose the work of a local artist or craftsperson over some less-expensive product shipped in from afar? Has anyone really tried to find out?
"Buy Local" is a rallying cry heard often lately, as people become more conscious of their food. I am certainly on board with that, but why is there not as well-marketed a movement for local arts? Why not pay me $7.50 for one of my one-of-a-kind painted cards (cheap at 5 times the price, if you think about it) instead of going to the chain card shop and paying $3 for a mass-produced, printed-in-China card? Why not pay Mary $50 for one of her hand-made suncatchers, and forgo the cheap imported chintzy glass ornament, one of a run of 20,000, made in some soulless factory in a foreign country?
What we need is an arts promotion and marketing movement on a par with the local and organic farming movement. We need to be able to promote and support locally sourced, designed and produced original art and fine handcrafts (no crocheted toilet-paper covers, please!). No cheap materials, no kits, no designs copied from pattern books. Perhaps the local arts/handcraft movement can pair with the local food movement and have Food and Art festivals.
Is there any reason not to promote and support local arts as vigorously as a local berry farm, cheesemaker or bakery? Of course there isn't. So why doesn't someone do something about it? Why don't we do it ourselves?
Thursday, February 25, 2010
2010 Official Sick of Winter Day
It is February 25 (Happy birthday, Ber!) and I am officially sick of winter. Last year this day came on January 29, when we got 16 inches of snow, a bitter wind sprang up, and I got the car stuck in the driveway - twice. I had to get down on hands and knees and rake out the snow from under the car with a hoe, then stand and shovel it away. Kneel & hoe, stand & shovel. Kneel & hoe, stand & shovel. Finally I got the snow cleared away, and scattered sand around the wheels, got in the car, and stepped on the gas,, hoping to creep backwards. Instead - flump - sideways, and bogged down again. After another 25 minutes of hoeing and shoveling, I finally got the car out. I was soaked from the outside with melted snow, from the inside with sweat. The cold wind froze the wet edges of my cuffs and collar, my hat fell over my eyes, hands were freezing, glasses fogged and speckled. That was the day I'd had enough.
This year the breaking point has come a month later, because late January and most of February were pretty dry and boring. No extremes of cold, no major storms. While places like Baltimore, Philadelphia and DC smothered under 3-4-5 feet of snow, we had sunshine, light breezes, maybe a stray snow flurry. Sunny south-facing banks grew bare and brown; snowmobile trails were closed, dirt roads started to get soft and rutted. The landscape looked more like April than February.
On Tuesday the 23rd, however, this all began to change. It began to snow early in the morning, on and off in bursts. It snowed all day, but did not amount to much. The snow increased in intensity at about nightfall on Tuesday, and by dawn on Wednesday, there was about a foot of perfect snowball snow on the ground. Throughout the day on Wednesday the 24th (Happy birthday, Lucy!) , the snow came down more and more heavily, and the snow became wetter and stickier, Every twig and every branch was laden, and by the time Dad and I went out at 9.30 to get the tractor, I could hear branches breaking everywhere.
The tractor had a soft tire, so Dad plugged in his little air compressor to pump it up, but it would not run. we both thought that the power line - two linked extension cords running from the house to the barn - had come apart somewhere under the snow in the garden, but what had happened was, in the time it took us to wallow our way up to the barn, the power had gone out.
This was a pickle; now the garage door would not open. Dad had cut a small side door in the garage, but it was blocked from the inside by the wood-planer. Still... it was our only way into the garage to get the old bicycle tire pump, my cellphone charger, and the tools Dad needed to replace a broken shear pin on the snowblower. I shoveled a path to this door, through the snow that had slid off the roof, and Dad and I managed to get the door loose and angled so we could pull it outside. We edged the planer around a little, making room for me to squeeze past it, and I opened the garage door from the inside.
Dad pumped the tire, and I helped him replace the shear pin. He handed me one of the pins - a 5/16th x 2-1/2" bolt - and said, "This is the last one." Gulp. The snowblower eats shear pins like I eat peanuts.
So, Dad cranked up the tractor, and cleared the foot of the driveway, and plowed out around the newspaper box before heading back up the hill. He cleared until just past the garage, then started up toward the house. While I went in the house, in search of a Kleenex, I heard a crunch and a whump from outside, and went out on the step to see what was happening. Dad was hollering something to me, but I could not hear him over the tractor/ he pointed at my feet; I looked down and saw that the step on which I was standing had been yanked at an angle away from the house. It had been buried under the snow (falling at probably 2+ inches per hour) and Dad had not seen it, and had hooked it with the snowblower.
While Dad backed down the hill to make another pass toward the house, I somehow hauled the steps back into a semi-normal position, and then turned to see only half of the snowblower working. It has a 4' wide scoop, with twin spirals that both feed snow in toward the fan in the center, which feeds the snow up the chute. The spiral on the left was not turning, and was piling up with snow. I ran down and shouted to Dad that he had broken another shear pin - leaving just the one in my pocket.
Dad cussed, and drove the tractor over to the garage, to drive out the remnants of the broken pin and install the new one. I asked him what had caused it to break, and he said it had happened when he hit the step. He cussed some more, disgusted.
The snowblower is designed to have shear pins that break. The pins hold the spiral to the shaft that turns them, and should the spiral get jammed - get a stick or rock (or doorstep) caught tight, the pin will break and free the spiral, rather than cause undue stress to the motive mechanism. It's a logical system, but leads to a lot of frustration when the snow you need to plow lies atop a driveway paved with loose stones, and is under trees that tend to drop branches.
We took a break for lunch, and when I went back out to the garage, I found that the foot-plus of snow had slid off the roof and buried the side door to a depth of about 4 feet. I slogged back to the house, got the shovel, and cleared the path of the compacted cement-heavy snow, then climbed into the garage and shoveled out what had fallen inside. I opened the bay door, and then fetched the long roof-rake and went up on the hill (through the more than knee-deep snow that had slipped off the cottage roof) and shook the snow from the Northern Spy tree, which was bend dangerously under the weight.
Back to the house, and into the cellar with a flashlight to fetch Dad's yellow slicker suit from a dusty shelf. He'd gotten so wet during the morning's travails that he'd had to come in for a complete change of clothing, and didn't want to get drenched again. So I helped him dust off the suit and climb into it, put on his big boots, and then slog back through the still amazingly heavy snowfall to the garage. Once there, Dad decided that he didn't want to risk breaking the last shear pin, and so was going to pack it in for the day. I closed the garage and climbed out the side door, wedging the door in place behind me (The door has no hinges or latch yet). Dad drove the tractor up to the front door, and he and I dragged a tarp over it, and left it there.
It was quarter to four by this point, and the house was getting chilly without the heat from the furnace. We have half a woodbox of dust-dry wood - not enough for the night. The other wood is up on the hill behind the cottage, less than a face-cord of old mushroomy wood, heavy with dirt and wet. Not great, but all we had. I was debating whether to take a break, or go get some of this sorry excuse for firewood now, then come in and take off my boots, when - glory be! - the power came back on! Lights, furnace, stove! We all breathed a sigh of relief, and I immediatly shed my gaiters and boots and put on my slippers. Ahh.
Mom turned on the TV, but there was no signal, of course, the dish being full of snow. Oh well - there was no remedy for it at that point in the day. We all sat down to read for the evening - no news, no Olympics, no Ghost Hunters.
At about 5pm, I heard a muffled crack, and the plop of snow hitting the house, and saw, heard and felt a huge pine branch crash just outside the front window of the living room, clipping the roof on its way by. It scared me a bit; the huge pine tree, about 80 feet tall and probably three feet on the stump, leans over the house in a most ominous way, and any time we have heavy snow, wind, or lightning, I almost expect branches or even the entire tree to come smashing down on the house.
That was the last unfortunate event of the day around here; tired, and without the artificial stimulant of TV to keep us up, we all turned in early. By 9.30 I was sandy-eyed, so went to bed and was dead-asleep within minutes.
This morning I was glad to see that no more snow had fallen overnight, and the trees around the house had shed most of the snow from their branches. There was some kind of yuck falling from the sky - rain or slush - but that, at least would not pile up.
After breakfast I shoveled a path past the tractor, went over to the garage and cleared the path to the side door, as the garage door would not open with the remote. Then I trudged to the bottom of the driveway and shoveled out a wide enough path to get the car through the berm of ice and frozen slush pushed off the road by the big plow trucks. That done, I came in and caught my breath, and got ready to go to Derry for those infamous shear pins. Mom handed me a grocery list and stuff to mail, and I set off.
The road was not terrible, but while I was running errands, the snow began to fall, and the road was pretty well covered as I returned home. Getting into the driveway was interesting; I'd had to bull through some pretty deep snow to get out, and gunned the engine to make it up toward the garage.
Later I tried to swing the car around and get it into the garage, but instead got it stuck, much as I had on OSOW Day last year. So, after helping Dad work on the tractor (trying to help, I should say), and after we'd decided that we could not get the broken shear pin out of the snowblower, dad helped me shovel out around the car enough to get it freed from the snow. I backed down the driveway, making some funky tracks as I skewed back and forth in the slushy snow. I parked across the road at the engineers' office, making room for the driveway to be plowed. dad and I then fixed the garage door opener, and went inside, where he called and left a message for Dave, who helps Dad with many chores, and for years plowed the driveway for free.
Half an hour later, Dave pulled into the yard, his big pickup truck and double-winged plow a most welsome sight. he cleared the driveway, pushing huge curls of snow, mud and driveway stones back onto the lawn (it's a ratty lawn - no harm done), then helped Dad change that %^$#%#!#@ shear pin. With the snowblower back in action, Dad cleared the space before the door and then the area in front of the cottage, then plowed a path up to the barn. While he did that, I went to get the car.
The place where I had parked it was really pretty dangerous, in that I could see neither lane of passing traffic, and would have to drive into the road blind. I opted to drive a little way up the road and find a safe place to turn around - had to go about 1/2 a mile before finding a driveway plowed wide enough to offer a view up and down the road. While I was out, I got the mail (the mailbox is pretty well buried, too) then got the car into the garage without incident. Finally.
I then took the compressor back up to the barn, then came back and got walking sticks for Dad, as the driveway is a river of slippery slush. I helped him put the tractor to bed, and walked down with him, and indoors, at last.
The weather is not though with us yet, though. Though the sky only pelted us with rain, sleet, slush and a little spatter of wet snow today, we have another Winter Storm Warning hanging over us - maybe another significant amount of snow - plus a High Wind Warning for tonight (wind ESE 29-40, gusts to 65). The storm will linger through the weekend and into next week. Maybe another foot of snow between tonight and next Monday.
So, this morning while shoveling snow as heavy as sand, with rain and sleet pattering on my hood, my hat sliding over my eyes, glasses fogging up, and mittens beginning to soak through, I felt... how shall I describe it? I felt discontent. In addition to the general inconvenience and discomfort, I was not at work. I don't like my job, but I was not being paid to shovel snow. The paycheck is going to be a little thin next week.
Then a blob of sodden snow dropped out of a tree and hit me on the back. I straightened up with a sigh, wiped the fog from my glasses with a wet finger, and decided that this is the day when this year, I have had it up to here with winter.
I want sunshine, warm breeze, the scent of cut grass, the taste of green beans fresh from the gardens. I want to hear orioles and thrushes and phoebes. I'm sick of snow and slush and wet feet and wet mittens and driving on crappy roads broken-up with frost heaves and slick with snow and ice. I want to drive with the windows open and a baseball game on the radio.
I am officially sick of winter.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Mexican Scherzino
Sunset near Carmet, CA, 5/13/08This is a little song for guitar by Mexican composer Manuel Maria Ponce, a gentle little tune, and whenever I hear it I have to stop what I’m doing and just listen, savoring each note and chord. It has a touch of melancholy in it, too, like a soft, sad smile.
When I hear it, I see warm evening sunlight and lengthening shadows over the town ofThe image that I see is of the next-to last day I was in
I was not ready to come back home yet; there were still things I wanted to do and see, but reality and responsibility were not to be denied. So I stood in that dusty village next to Tomales Bay, with the green hills rising all around, a short drive from the city that had so captured my imagination, and knew that I was about to leave it all behind. I might never see it again.
That evening Ber and I sat on a bench at the top of the rose garden on the hill behind Helen’s house, and watched a glorious sunset over the
Next day we returned to the city, watched a ball game, got stuck in impossible traffic in the middle of the city, and found our way to our last stop, the hotel near the airport. In the morning we caught our plane and flew out of the sunlight to the cold and colorlessness of a rain-and-fog-bound
Two days later I was back at work – physically. My mind was still in
Thursday, January 28, 2010
The Cold Comes In
An arctic front blew through today, with gusty wind and blinding snow squalls. The snow came soft and slow at first, falling gently, drifting down like a Christmas snow, looking more picturesque than anything else. Then the wind came, and the squalls, the billowing, blinding snow that hid even the nearest buildings and made the store I work in creak in protest. It's an old building, in drastic need of some serious work; the roof leaks and the walls are cracked. I almost expect it to cave in after a heavy snow.
It was a slow day at work - one small sale, and hours and hours of nothing to do. I had to pace to keep from falling asleep, especially after it started to get dark. No one was out in the difficult weather. I wouldn't have been out, if I'd had a choice. This is hibernation weather, weather best spent inside, making and eating soup; reading, writing and making out seed orders.
By the time I scraped off the car and headed home, the snow had ended and the clouds were breaking into gothic, silver-edged tatters, with the near-full moon shining though the mist of windblown snow that tore across the ground. The road near open fields had drifted pretty full, and sheets of snow streamed across in front of me, diffusing my headlight beams.
The wind is still blowing, though it has dropped some. I can hear it roaring through the pines, and feel the occasional sharp, cold draft, like a passing ghost, as the wind sneaks in around the ill-fitting storm windows. It's supposed to be a little below zero tonight - it may be there already. I will have to pull the drapes and shut out the cold.
It was a slow day at work - one small sale, and hours and hours of nothing to do. I had to pace to keep from falling asleep, especially after it started to get dark. No one was out in the difficult weather. I wouldn't have been out, if I'd had a choice. This is hibernation weather, weather best spent inside, making and eating soup; reading, writing and making out seed orders.
By the time I scraped off the car and headed home, the snow had ended and the clouds were breaking into gothic, silver-edged tatters, with the near-full moon shining though the mist of windblown snow that tore across the ground. The road near open fields had drifted pretty full, and sheets of snow streamed across in front of me, diffusing my headlight beams.
The wind is still blowing, though it has dropped some. I can hear it roaring through the pines, and feel the occasional sharp, cold draft, like a passing ghost, as the wind sneaks in around the ill-fitting storm windows. It's supposed to be a little below zero tonight - it may be there already. I will have to pull the drapes and shut out the cold.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
This year I will...
This year I will... Ok, in reality, I will look at this post in a few months and laugh.
This year I will...
--Move into my studio. The woodstove is in the cottage, and I have only to move in my stuff, paint the skungy back wall, and start painting pictures. Spread out my braided rug, set up my drawing table, get my desk moved in, put up some bookshelves, get the phone line connected and buy another wireless router. Maybe get a studio easel, unlike the wobbly aluminum one I bought last year, which is really more for plein air work anyway. I've wanted the work space for years - now move in, and work!
--Learn to use my oil paints.
--Create stock in inexpensive artwork to sell at craft fairs and shows. Little watercolors of flowers, shells, rocks, fruit. I could even bring myself to paint pears, though I don't want to paint pears because EVERYBODY and his dog paints pears. Create a few designs for notecards, and have them printed up. Sell the prints for $3 each, the originals for $25 each. Maybe get an Etsy account.
--Enter a few juried shows. Why not? As long as the jury fee isn't outrageous, it can do no harm, and might open a few eyes to my stuff. I'll enter the South Burlington Art Hop again, and arrange months in advance to get that weekend off so I can actually attend the opening. I'm sick of my true avocation taking a back seat to waiting on people who insist on asking if there are two pillow shams in this pair.
--Experiment. Try abstracts. Finish the abstract "Walking With Nick." Go to galleries, learn about more art and artists.
--Get an agent. Not for the artwork; for some reason, writers ought to have agents, and artists ought not to have agents. Don't ask me why. Anyway, get an agent and start trying to publish some writing. Keep trying.
--Write more. Write more. Watch less TV, unplug the internet. Write. Write. and then write.
--Go places. Follow through on the plans to visit old graveyards in Massachusetts. Go to Shelburne Museum, Bennington Museum. Hike up Lye Brook.
--Allow myself to miss a few ball games. Why miss a sunset just to see another dull 4-2 win over the Orioles?
--Be patient. Count blessings. Be thankful. Be helpful. Be accommodating. Don't get mad when my plans are knocked awry by other responsibilities. Take a breath, let it go, move on.
--Beware of having expectations. Have something to look forward to, but don't be crushed in the event of a change of plans. Go day to day, which is really all any of us do, anyway.
This year I will...
--Move into my studio. The woodstove is in the cottage, and I have only to move in my stuff, paint the skungy back wall, and start painting pictures. Spread out my braided rug, set up my drawing table, get my desk moved in, put up some bookshelves, get the phone line connected and buy another wireless router. Maybe get a studio easel, unlike the wobbly aluminum one I bought last year, which is really more for plein air work anyway. I've wanted the work space for years - now move in, and work!
--Learn to use my oil paints.
--Create stock in inexpensive artwork to sell at craft fairs and shows. Little watercolors of flowers, shells, rocks, fruit. I could even bring myself to paint pears, though I don't want to paint pears because EVERYBODY and his dog paints pears. Create a few designs for notecards, and have them printed up. Sell the prints for $3 each, the originals for $25 each. Maybe get an Etsy account.
--Enter a few juried shows. Why not? As long as the jury fee isn't outrageous, it can do no harm, and might open a few eyes to my stuff. I'll enter the South Burlington Art Hop again, and arrange months in advance to get that weekend off so I can actually attend the opening. I'm sick of my true avocation taking a back seat to waiting on people who insist on asking if there are two pillow shams in this pair.
--Experiment. Try abstracts. Finish the abstract "Walking With Nick." Go to galleries, learn about more art and artists.
--Get an agent. Not for the artwork; for some reason, writers ought to have agents, and artists ought not to have agents. Don't ask me why. Anyway, get an agent and start trying to publish some writing. Keep trying.
--Write more. Write more. Watch less TV, unplug the internet. Write. Write. and then write.
--Go places. Follow through on the plans to visit old graveyards in Massachusetts. Go to Shelburne Museum, Bennington Museum. Hike up Lye Brook.
--Allow myself to miss a few ball games. Why miss a sunset just to see another dull 4-2 win over the Orioles?
--Be patient. Count blessings. Be thankful. Be helpful. Be accommodating. Don't get mad when my plans are knocked awry by other responsibilities. Take a breath, let it go, move on.
--Beware of having expectations. Have something to look forward to, but don't be crushed in the event of a change of plans. Go day to day, which is really all any of us do, anyway.
A Beginning
Lyman's Mountain - The mountain that has my back. Photographed 1/18/10I call this "Pen and Ink" because I am a writer and an artist, and pen & ink are things with which I work. Pen & ink drawings, using technical pens with tiny points; using a hefty fountain pen to putting words on paper.
"Pen and Ink" is also how much of the world around me looks for much of the year, with wooded hills and mountains etched against the sky like a meticulous drawing.
This is what I do: I draw, I write, I paint. I take care of my aged parents the best I can. I work at my humdrum job. In the summer, I garden. I always observe, and always ruminate.
This blog will be about these things, observations about my world - the natural world, the people around me, the things I do to keep my feet under me. I will write about food - growing, preparing, eating. I'll write about baseball, as the Red Sox seem to be part of my extended family. This is what I do, and this is who I am.
My friend Tony has a saying: "Be as a shark - never stop moving." If a shark stops moving, so I have heard, it will drown. If one stops moving forward - intellectually, artistically - one can just sink and drown from being in the same place for too long. Let me swim through the sea of ideas, and some of them will keep me alive.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)