Once Every Couple of Decades, Whether It Needs It or Not

Last Friday, I finished my third pass through the Fiesta of Smoke manuscript. Each pass takes a couple of weeks of seven to ten hour days. Every space between words, every fact, the nuance of every word is subject to scrutiny. Obviously, this work takes a very intense focus. When I finished this time, the book was going to the copy editor, so it was getting more and more imperative to get it right.

So imagine my dismay, when I reached the end, at page 768 (to which the 1000-plus pages have been reduced through the magic of 12-point font), and looked around and discovered that my surroundings hadn’t had a really deep cleaning for almost two decades. Dear me! How could this have happened?

I used to be a really fine housekeeper but then I decided to have a life, instead. I mean, do you write a novel or do you clean the carpet? I’m not Superwoman nor am I bionic. It definitely had to be one or the other.

The consequences of setting out on the path toward a larger life were not immediately obvious. I mean, you can get away with not sweeping down the cobwebs for a year or two, before the house starts looking like a set for “Saw XII.” The thing is, while I was carefully training myself not to see the encroaching grunge, it was breeding. Multiplying geometrically. And doing it in an entirely furtive manner--lurking in dark corners, taking over the undersides of things, creeping to the back of cupboards.

Meanwhile, I set myself a nice little programme: 2 years for the masters degree; 5 years for the doctorate, during which time both parents fell ill and eventually died; then teaching, which as anyone who’s ever done it knows, consumes your life maximally, 24/7; then 3 years for Commune of Women; then the truly mad decision to complete Fiesta of Smoke within the following year; and then . . . well, here we are in the present, two decades later.

 The cobwebs in the light well above the shower can be measured in either yards or pounds, take you pick. I have this very day evicted no less than 3 black widow spiders from my kitchen, with a fourth awaiting David’s bolder, more huntsman-like approach. You’ve already been apprised of the metal confetti to which a rat has reduced my tubes of oil paints in the studio cupboard.

If you’ve ever lived in the country, you know that it’s a lifestyle best described as Entropy in Action. Even under the most fastidious management, things tend toward dissolution, falling apart, getting dirty or invasion by alien forces. One could easily expend an entire incarnation in pursuit of mere cleanliness.

For example, I vacuum the rug;. Sophia the cat, AKA The Vector, simply walks through and the carpet is seeded with foxtails and burrs, in a single pass. I dust my desk and a single car passing on the road sends dust boiling in to coat it, again, before I can even sit down to write. I put a clean plate or bowl in the pie cupboard while tidying up the kitchen at night. In the morning I reach for the same  plate or bowl and find it cabled in spider web.

This is not even to mention the depredations of weather: a 60-mph wind blasts a pane from the studio window and explodes it, all over everything. Snow sits down hard on a carefully tended bush in the garden and splits its branches off from the trunk. Rain blown horizontally across the ridge seeps under doors and windows, leaving stains.

This tendency of nature to invade and erode, coupled with benign neglect on my part, is the unholy marriage to which I am now awakening, like someone shaking off a decades-long spell. Where to start setting aright the devastation? I have plans to go about with a quart jar, removing daddy longlegs spiders from the rafters and transporting them to the shed. I am busily wiping down webs, washing windows, delving into hidey-holes and niduses of entrenched dirt. This will go on for weeks, possibly months.

However, running counter to that is another stream, which longs to spend time at  my easel, or at my sculpture stand out under the oaks, or gardening, or starting the next book . . . The river of benign neglect for housewifery is already gaining force. One day, it will simply sweep me away and in another 20 years, should I live so long, I’ll awaken one morning, take up my broom, and begin again the endless battle against the forces of entropy.

Homeland Security, Big Hill Style

The nefarious Mr. Sniffles has been raiding our home, again. This pure black, long-haired cat was a ratty, scrawny mess when he first strayed in to my neighbor, John’s, house. John named him Mr. Sniffles because of his chronic watery eyes, sneezing and general poor health. Now, several months later, Mr. Sniffles slinks through our open doors looking glossy and well-fed. As why shouldn’t he, since he’s eating all my fur children’s food?

Last night, he came through the dog door, pulled a box of dog treats from the counter and commenced gnawing on the box to get to the goodies. It wasn’t until he achieved his goal and began crunching on a dog biscuit that I awoke. I leapt for the light switch, to catch him in the act, but he was too fast. The light came on just as the dog door flap closed with a silky hiss.

We have tried all forms of discouragement short of gunfire. Even the fur children are involved. Maclovio runs at him, barking, but since Mr. Sniffles and he are peers in the size category, it’s generally a stand-off. Sometimes Panda and Mac team up, which is more effective in the short run but does nothing to discourage return visits. Sophia is more blunt: she tangles with Mr. Sniffles in unabashed hostility and the yowling is horrific. Nevertheless, sooner or later Mr. Sniffles will lurk furtively through the door, once again.

Yesterday morning I was taking a break from writing, lying down in the loft to rest my eyes. Suddenly I was awakened from a light doze by that distinctive crunching sound. I crept off the bed and looked over the railing. There, directly below me, was the silky black nemesis, scarfing Maclovio’s kibble.

An evil gleam passed through me, as a plot instantly formed. Ever so quietly I bent to retrieve my shoes. I held them out over the railing, taking aim. I released them and let gravity have its way with them. They rocketed downward and smacked straight into Mr. Sniffles. He did a maneuver impossible under any but the most straitened circumstances: he came about three feet off the parquet, with all four legs heading in a different direction. Then he ran away so fast that I really didn’t see him do it. It was as if he had simply vanished. I chortled in my glee as I descended to sweep up the kibble he had splattered in his flight.

Now, fast forward an hour and David and I are sitting on the porch over lunch. I spot a gray squirrel making the very same furtive moves, out in the vegetable garden. I watch him as he slinks along, then stops to sit on his haunches and survey the surroundings for danger, then advances some more.

I whisper to David, “Watch this!” We observe as the squirrel jumps into one of the raised beds and immediately begins munching on tender young beet greens. David, who has worked very hard to nurture these babies along, is incensed. He sets down the spoon with which he is eating half a cantaloupe. He takes careful aim. David was a star baseball player in his day and his aim is more accurate than most. He heaves the melon rind and it falls exactly where the squirrel no longer is. 

Quicker than light, it has dematerialized and is now on the back side of a pine tree, galloping upward. It works its way around until it is about 30 feet directly above the beets. It goes out on a limb and lies, its four legs hanging in space, on its belly along the branch and gazes into the veggie bed, obviously contemplating its next move.

 David goes into the house for more ammunition. “The .22’s right there, by my chair,” I offer companionably. “No,” he responds, coming out of the house with a handful of cherries, “I’d probably miss and hit Martha.” Martha being our closest neighbor to the east.

The squirrel, obviously highly motivated, makes its move. Down the tree it comes, this time to raid the bird feeder for seeds. David lobs cherries to no avail. I go for my camera and get the shot of the squirrel eating a cherry.

Then it goes for the lettuce in the cold frame. Now I’m the one incensed. This is my turf and the source of my daily salads. I focus the camera on this scoundrel as if it were a gun sight. The squirrel sits on his haunches, stuffing his little cheeks with Mesclun and arugula as fast as his little jaws can move. In one final, heroic effort to defend our boundaries, David hurls the other half of his cantaloupe, which explodes right at the feet of our foe, who levitates and dematerializes.

Minutes late, our roof is under bombardment. Green pinecones are being flung from high in the branches of the pine that overhangs the house. They resonate through the house, disturbing the wah and alarming the fur children. The squirrel has an evil gleam of its own, apparently.

For the moment, our demesne is secure. We have a watch dog and two watch cats and an arsenal of lob-able produce and footwear. We are united in fiercely protective vigilance against critters red in tooth and claw. Things look safe for the foreseeable future. Like, maybe the next hour. But we can never relax our guard. There are barbarians at the gates. It’s a jungle out there.

Morning Garden

 It may have been Independence Day but David and I worked like Trojan slaves in the gardens, yesterday. His focus is practical: he mounded potatoes, made teepees for the beans and watered his extensive vegetable crops. My focus is aesthetic: I planted a new bed of flowers and pots of geraniums and nasturtiums, washed the pillows and coverings for the outdoor furniture and generally fussed about.

This morning dawned cool and breezy and my first impulse was to go back to the garden, to survey our handiwork. The dawning light was so beautiful that I ran for my camera. The resulting photos are my gift to you, so that you can dip in and sip a bit of this tranquility, the way the bees are just rousing to do.

The geraniums I transplanted haven’t wilted down a bit. That freshly plumped chair was so inviting that I sat there to have my breakfast.

The iron bunny looks well pleased with his surroundings, this morning.

I couldn’t bear to cart the seed heads of the angelica and kale off to the compost heap. So I stuck them in the ash bucket that works so hard during the winter months, giving it a more glorified function for the summer.

The Lilies of the Nile are just on the verge of blooming.

 The nicotiana is bursting like belated 4^th of July fireworks.

The new babies look perfectly content.

The honeysuckle is luring several kinds of bees, including big black carpenter bees as big as the end of my thumb. They look exotic, in their shiny black armor, against the foofy petals.

The scabiosa and Echinacea are happily commingling.

And the fur children are sweetly at peace, as witness Sophia’s first cat nap of the day.

 It was harder to get a picture of Mac, since he was sitting on my lap in a little doggy meditation.

Blessings of the day to all! I hope it’s a bloomin’ beautiful one!

I Wish I Had a V-8

So put me on a highway and show me a sign, and take it to the limit, one more time.

--The Eagles

 

 It’s Independence Day! Bring forth the hotdogs, corn on the cob and sparklers! Except that the dogs are filled with pink slime. The corn is genetically modified and is causing rare cancers. And sparklers and all other fireworks are banned in this and five surrounding counties due to fire danger. The only thing going spectacularly up in smoke appears to be the American dream.

There are some things, however, that America has just done well, and that’s all there is to it! I know it’s popular these days to put American industry down, often with good reason. But on this 4^th of July, I want to remember the good times and the good things. And one of the first things that comes to mind is the V-8 engine.

I love to drive fast. Put me behind the wheel of a good automobile and I will turn any country road into the Indy 500. When I was a junior in high school, my folks owned a 1960 powder blue ragtop Thunderbird. I can still remember the day I focused on the speedometer and realized it topped out at 120 mph. Nothing could stop me: I went straight down to Keystone, where Highway 108 has one of its few long, straight stretches, and put that car to the test. That big old V-8 didn’t even strain, as I pegged it. Give it wings and it could fly!

My senior year, I talked my folks into buying the new 1965 Ford Mustang, and into upgrading to the biggest engine it was possible to drop into it, with a four on the floor. It was metal fleck khaki green with a black vinyl top and it was hot! My favorite pastime was to take in down to the Red Hills, where the road, instead of having bridges over a stream, made U-shaped dips into the streambed. I would floor the Mustang and jump it across these drainages, which were four in number. Then turn around, and do it again. No fear of flying, in that buggy! (I can tell this, now that my folks, God bless them, have gone to their well-deserved and car maintenance-free rest.)

Alas, the V-8 engine seems to be going the way of the dodo bird. Gas prices and green-thinking have doomed it. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever get behind the wheel of a truly powerful car, again.

Other good products that have served me well are the typewriter and typewriter ribbon. I’ve demolished four complete typewriters in my writing life, before switching to the computer. I kind of miss the clickity-clack rhythm of typing, punctuated by the return throw of the carriage. I don’t, however, miss trying to do footnotes on the typewriter. Remember the cheat sheets that we had to roll in behind the top sheet, with a line drawn near the bottom to remind us to insert footnotes? Remember carbon paper? How about changing typewriter ribbons and the carbon that got on your fingers and everything you touched? Dem wuz da days!

David and I are going to make a hot soaking tub out of an old cast iron and enamel claw-foot tub with a propane heater underneath. We’ll have it out in the garden, where we can relax in full, scandalous view of the birds and flowers. But this plan may go awry for one reason: we were wondering, last night over dinner, if they still manufacture rubber drain plugs to fit our tub?  Or have they gone the way of the typewriter ribbon and the two-party telephone line?

Tomorrow we’ll drive down to some big box store to find out, lamenting the loss of Mundorf’s Hardware, where you could find every single hardware need supplied. We’ll be in my Toyota Camry, which, in spite of its 4-cylinder engine, is still a pretty snappy little car. I’ll lead-foot it down and back up the mountain, hoping that someone tries to tailgate me, so I’ll have a good reason to mount a road race. It will be fun but . . . gee, I wish I had a V-8!

Happy 4^th of July! May freedom and independence be yours, your whole life long, and may the red, white and blue (hopefully made in the USA, not China) wave over a land of excellence in all things, forever.

Paris: Ready or Not, Here I come!

 

Writing about my friend Joan’s trip to France (France, Drop by Drop, 06.27.12) has me thinking about my own travels there and, in particular, my attraction to Paris. I have lost count of how many times I’ve visited the City of Light. Each visit is a voyage of discovery, from my first, when I spent six weeks there, walking, walking, walking to take in its delights, to one of the more recent ones, that I’ll tell you about, today.

The Iraq war started on March 19, 2003 with the bombing of Baghdad, dubbed Shock and Awe. It also happened to be my birthday. My friend Reggie threw me a birthday party in which we sat forlornly in front of her TV eating cake, watching bomb flashes over the rooftops of Baghdad and, with party noise-makers, giving the Bronx cheer to every member of the presidential administration who appeared on the screen.

I had a special reason to be interested in the opening salvos of Operation Iraqi Freedom: my old friend, Greg, was in the advance forces, attached to an intelligence unit. Before too many days had passed, he was able to make email contact, although many messages were scrambled, due to sand in his computer’s keyboard.

Things went along well enough for a couple of months. His communiqués were fascinating, as he was part of the team that, among other things, was investigating Saddam Hussein’s several palaces, the architectural marvels of which he described in detail. But then, one day, I received an email saying he was being medivaced out of Iraq, heading to Ramstein AFB, in Germany. Would I come?

A day and a half later, I was on a milk run train, chugging up the mountains to Landstuhl, in the German state of Rheinland-Pfalz and three miles from the west gate of Ramstein AFB. Greg had already been there, in the care of Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, for a couple of days. He was released looking much altered: he had lost 50 pounds and the skin around his eyes was blackened like the rubber of a burned tire. Nevertheless, he was in great spirits (as who wouldn’t be, making the switch between Iraq and Germany!), hungry and thirsty. We went to a restaurant, where we sat outside because his clothing reeked of war, and he proceeded to drink no less than two dozen bottles of water, much to the dismay of the host.

A couple of days later, he was again medivaced, this time to Walter Reed Hospital in the US, leaving me loose on my own recognizance, within striking distance of France and with a day to burn before I had to return to Frankfurt for my return flight. I consulted a map in my room at the Greune Laterne and decided I just had enough time to take the train across the border to Nancy, a city I had never before visited but the marvelous 18^th-century buildings of which had long captured my fancy. In the north-eastern French department of Meurthe-et-Moselle, it was formerly the capital of Lorraine and had a fascinating history.

I grabbed my purse and hustled down to the train station, bought my ticket and was soon crossing the border into France, where we made stops at a number of charming rural villages. I was in bliss, just gazing out the window. So it came as quite a surprise to me when, after a stop at a sizeable station, the train suddenly gained speed and began to fairly fly across the French countryside.

I checked my ticket with a frown, where there was no mention of a transfer. Yet it seemed to me that, after two hours, I should have been approaching Nancy, while this train was clearly heading more west than south. The mystery was soon cleared up by the conductor who took one look at my ticket and launched into a diatribe worthy of a scene from “The Pink Panther.” He rolled his eyes under his brimmed conductor’s cap. He gesticulated wildly in his conductor’s uniform. His voice rose to a wail that encompassed his entire frustration with Americans, women and the post-War world. Somehow, my ticket notwithstanding, I was supposed to have made a transfer at the last stop and was now on an express train, headed for Paris!

I bought a ticket from the aggrieved conductor and settled back to enjoy the spectacular country passing me at warp speed. But in my stomach there was a huge knot. Now, precious hours were being expended, with my flight time looming in faraway Frankfurt. And rather than deal with the Demon Conductor, again, I would have to leave the train, once it arrived in Paris, dive into the station, buy a return ticket, and reboard the train, all in less than an hour’s time.

Despite these worries, I was mesmerized by the countryside we were rolling through. Green fields of grain were punctuated by blood red poppies. Wide and lazy green rivers flowed beneath drooping willows. A magnificent chateau suddenly flashed into view among hilltop trees. Villages with square church towers topped by rooster weather vanes drowsed under the late spring sun. I was enchanted.

After about three hours, the outskirts of Paris began to manifest: grimed brick buildings, narrow streets empty of foot traffic, giant tanks on towers, industrial areas devoid of trees. At last the train slowed and entered the station. I leapt out and hurried down the quay and into the station, only to find it bulging with weary vacationers. Young people with backpacks sat about its vast floor, reading. Long lines queued before grilled ticket windows. The smell of sweat predominated and, by this time, my own contributed to it.

I had 30 minutes to buy my ticket and return to the train. I found what I thought was the right window and plugged myself into the end of a long and very slow-moving line. I watched the clock as we shuffled forward and have never witnessed more relentless movement of the hands of time. Finally, I was next in line! I had my money in hand. The customer at the window turned and departed, as I eagerly stepped forward and . . . and the ticket agent reached up and pulled down his shade!

I let out a shriek of anguish. I approached the window, where I could still make out the rippled visage of the agent, through the opaque glass. God alone knows where it came from, but to my amazement I heard myself shout, “I have to have a ticket! My husband is dying at Ramstein!” The agent sat unmoved, a smile on his lips of satisfaction such as only sadistic public servants who hate their jobs and their public can muster.

Suddenly, however, a hand grabbed my arm from behind, and I was virtually flung into the head of the line to my left. Stunned, I bent my face to the grill and ordered a ticket to Landstuhl. No one in the line protested. Ticket in hand, with two minutes until departure, I turned and fled, vaguely aware of my benefactor reaming out the first agent through the glass. I never even saw his face. And I’m sure he had angel’s wings, as well, which escaped my notice as I ran, leaping over piled baggage and dodging the plodding, galloping from the station and down the quay. Just as the train doors were closing, I wedged myself through. The train jerked under my feet and I staggered down the aisle to a seat as the grimy bricks of the Parisian outskirts began once again to pass.

I had five hours to contemplate my own strange lie. To this day it amazes me. It erupted out of some part of me that still remains even more opaque than the ticket agent’s barrier. And who was my mysterious benefactor? He, too, may be amazed by his actions that day. All I can say is that I was meant to be on that train and events conspired to get me there.

It was Sunday late afternoon. As we sped northeastward, I gazed into backyards where families were gathered at long tables for Sunday supper. Or were picnicking on narrow beaches, under big umbrellas, beside the river. Or dining outdoors in front of cafés in little stone villages. All of France seemed to be at table, making me realize that I hadn’t eaten in many hours. I was exhausted, hungry, still with alarm and haste sizzling along my nerve tracts like express trains to Hell.

I calculated the hours. I would make it back to Landstuhl by 10 PM. I had to be on the train to Frankfurt by 5 AM the following morning. I still had to pack. I would arrive too late to find an open restaurant and leave the hotel too early for any breakfast. None of that mattered. I would make my flight. I was seeing a part of France I’d never seen before and it was ravishing. And, through its eternal magnetism on my psyche, I had once again, albeit briefly, been to Paris.

Another Billy Whiskers Morning

Like Mark Twain, rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated. Although I have not posted a blog in the last four days, I am, indeed, very much alive. The weather here has truly deserved the description heavenly, and nothing short of encapsulation in a full body cast could keep me from the garden. There, the bees are busy drinking from the fountain or washing their tiny feet in its water; hummingbirds hang with wings outstretched on champagne-like air; and David and I have been laboring like beasts. But happy beasts.

This felicitous time reached its apogee Sunday morning, at the Billy Whiskers Café, where we arrived almost as the doors opened, already having worked up an appetite in the morning garden. Soon tables were filling up with the regulars and Attitude was flying, or hanging unspoken and suspended, on hummingbird wings.

Our first clue that it was going to be a feisty morning came when Rick sent the first order out of the kitchen along with the bill, on which he had scrawled, Prices vary according to attitude. “Whose attitude?” the customer asked. “His,” Karen responded. “Or mine. As need be.”

A tuneless, perfectly unmelodic whistle arose from the kitchen. Karen, coffee pot in hand, rolled her eyes. “I taught him to whistle, so he wouldn’t sing.” A customer ordered his toast “cremated,” and it came out appropriately scorched, as did my bacon and several other dishes. “We do cremation well,” Karen confided. “Besides, today we’re just playing like we own a restaurant.” The little pitcher that accompanied someone’s oatmeal was empty of milk. The same customer had to remind Karen to pour him some coffee, interrupting our discussion of Charles Surendorf’s paintings that decorate the café’s walls. To say that things were a little uneven is not overstating.

One regular couple is well advanced in age (by which I mean older than us, which means really old!) and the gentleman particularly enjoys the banter. He was once a very tall man, now bent nearly double at the waist but he hasn’t let that slow him down. His wife went off the restroom and another couple entered and asked where she was. “Fifty-five years of marriage and she’s finally left me,” he responded. “I suppose it was inevitable. It was bound to happen, sooner or later.” They were on their way to the hospital in Modesto, where he is to be treated for an infection. Less humorous thoughts of separation must have crossed both their minds and their levity is really a kind of courage.

We were on our way out when Rick emerged from the kitchen announcing, “I’m taking a customer survey . . .”. We were eager to get back to our gardens, so we’ll never know just what was being queried, but I think I heard something like, “Which is worse, this morning, the service or the food?” as the door closed behind me.

Nevertheless, all this transpired with great good cheer. As one customer remarked happily, “I come here for the abuse.”

France, Drop By Drop

My friend, Joan, just returned from a nice long stay in France and she’s been sending me  photographs, one at a time, that are torturing me. It’s like Chinese water torture--first one drop. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another. And just when I think these delectable images will cease, another. Then another. Then another.

It’s like sending a dieting chocolate lover pictures of bonbons. Then big chunks of fudge. Then crusty-creamy brownies. Then a bowl of Rocky Road ice cream. Then a cup of steamy hot chocolate. Then more bonbons. Then . . . well, you get the picture. Chocolate, chocolate, everywhere, but not a morsel to eat.

Now, Joan has the most refined aesthetic sensibility of any living human being, as far as I can tell. So when she does France, SHE DOES FRANCE! She hasn’t even shared the photos of her time in Paris, the City-Most-Loved, yet. This is merciful. I know she hit the high spots, the Death By Chocolate spots. I can only take so much in any one day without expiring from delight.

So, I’m passing on some of her images so you, too, can spend part of your morning in exquisite torture. These images are of the B & B where she stayed, outside of Montpellier, in the South of France. Can’t you smell the early morning sweetness rising from the garden? Hear the cicadas clicking in the noontime trees? Savor those fresh croissants? Oh my! Where’s my passport . . . ?

Bonne matin!