The Shark & I - Redux

Original Post 9/30/11

 

Z is a shark.

I don’t mean she’s mean or will bite off your head or anything for buying the wrong kind orange juice

I’m not saying that….

Although….

But I’m not saying that….

What I mean is, she’s a perpetual motion machine…like a shark.

Sharks have to keep moving or else they drown or something.

I think I read that somewhere…I think.

Or maybe I heard it during Shark week.

Or maybe I’m making it up….

Anyway, the point is that sharks have to keep moving or something bad happens.

Z needs to keep moving because she’s afraid something bad will happen like the refrigerator won’t get cleaned … or the basement, or the garage or the big maple tree out in front.

I do not….

I’m perfectly happy not to move for hours…even days…sometimes weeks, at a time.

I’m very patient that way.

The weekend is upon us so let’s take a look at a typical Saturday.

I’ll get up at 7 AM, go down stairs to read the paper and have some coffee, while Z will have already washed 7 loads of laundry, ironed, folded and put it all away…including the shorts I went to bed in, which is a little disconcerting.

I will read my horoscope.

Z has now removed the metal covers off the washer and dryer and is vacuuming the dust that’s accumulated over the past few days since the last time she disassembled them.

She’s also repainting the boiler room.

I’m having a second cup of coffee and worrying that a person in authority is talking poorly of me, which is what my horoscope said. 

Z is then off to Zumba, which gives me a bit of a break from all the clanking that was coming out of the basement while she was re-building the boiler.

While she’s off Zumba-ing, whatever that entails, I’ll often take a walk around the gardens and admire all of Z’s horticultural efforts. I’m nothing if not supportive that way. Sometimes I’ll even make a mental note to point out a few areas where I think there could be some improvement. But for the most part Z is usually right on top of it.

After Zumba, we go for a 4 mile walk, which I actually find relaxing, if not a bit taxing physically. This takes about an hour or so, depending on the condition of my knee that day—which has been feeling quite a bit better—thanks for asking—then, immediately upon our return, Z will run out into the back yard and start dead heading.

I’m not exactly sure what that entails either since I’ve never actually seen her do it since I usually have to lie down for a bit after all that walking.

I think it might have something to do with Jerry Garcia, or maybe squirrels.

Anyway, after I’m refreshed from my little nap, I’ll often find Z cleaning out and reorganizing the garage.  She usually does this after tuning up the lawn mower, but before actually mowing the lawn.

By this time, I’m usually enjoying the lunch that Z prepared while I was napping and while it’s not always the thing I was hoping for, I usually just let it go without a comment.  

Usually….

This goes on and on for most of the day. I tell her to relax but she won’t listen. She says the cracks between the sidewalks won’t clean themselves.

I guess she’s right. Nobody ever really thinks about that do they?

After a long hard day like this Z will finally, but reluctantly, conclude that there’s just not another chore to be tackled, at least until tomorrow.   So being the good sport that I am, I‘ll often offer to take her out for a nice dinner.  I mean what the heck; I’ve had 2 naps already and can probably grab a third before we go.  It’s not gonna kill me.

Besides, Z is always good dinner company; even that time she fell asleep in her Chicken Francaise.  I thought that was so endearing; just like a little puppy.


I still tell people about it.

The only downside to all of this is Z gets a little restless in her sleep. She has that thing where she's constantly kicking her legs…usually into me.

And sometimes she walks in her sleep a bit. One time I even found her holding the air conditioner over my head.  Poor kid… She was probably dreaming about putting it into the window, which I promised to do back in June but never got around to. I can’t let Z take on everything herself. Luckily we only had a few weeks of really hot hot weather.

Afterwards, we had a good laugh about that too.  Although it might have been more me than her doing the laughing, now that I think about it.

Oh well…all this writing has been a bit of a drain. Guess I’ll grab a quick nap before lunch.

I hope Z got it right today….

Now

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Rainy Day Blues - Redux

Another soggy, rainy day in Summer 2013. Seems like there's been a lot of them this year.  Some people say that's good, and some people say that's bad.  I say, come what may, if you don't like the weather find a different weather guy or gal.  No matter what they say, the weather does what it wants, when it wants...and apparently it doesn't vary much from year to year.  You'd think we'd be used to it by now.  But we're not so all we do is complain...or maybe that's just me.
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Original Post 8/17/11



As of Wednesday, tomorrow, as you're reading this, were finally supposed to be in for a nice day, all day...finally.

However, as I write this, in the gloomiest of gloomy gloamings, the rain still falls...and falls and falls.

I believe there may have been a toad or two as well, but that might have been the local politicians running for county office campaigning door to door. 

So.again, that age old question persists: what does a freelance worker person do when the great outdoors is neither fit for man nor beast except, like I said, the guy running for county donut maker?

Well if you live with Z you don’t have much choice.  You go to the Hallmark store and buy greeting cards for friends and relatives and even relative friends.

But you knew that.

Personally, if it were up to me, which it isn’t, I wouldn’t have any friends or relatives since buying birthday cards and such is about as compelling a task as cleaning out my gutters. And to be honest the gutters can be somewhat less demanding.

And of course we can’t just go to any Hallmark store; we have to go to the “good” hallmark store in Connecticut. You know. the place in the overcrowded shopping center, where you have to park a mile and a half away and trudge through puddles and slashing rain to get there.

Except this time we got a space pretty close to the store…but it could have been nasty.

I’m just saying.

For real….

Z will send cards to just about anybody who has a thing coming up. I personally think this is overly thoughtful of her since I am petty and subscribe to the school that you only even think of sending cards to reciprocate for those who have sent cards to you. Or in a few rare exceptions to those whom you want to send a special message of endearment, like—
                “Happy Birthday, don’t forget you still have my Abba Record”.

                               Or

 “Sorry to hear you had your gallbladder removed, but do you expect me to be surprised?”

Well, I made that one up and I’m not even sure what it means or what a gall bladder does, or whether having one out is a big deal.  But I do know, since I was actually hired to write about it once, that they can now suck it out through your belly button, which may or may not be a cool activity for a rainy day.

But I digress….

Sort of, not totally, because nowadays, they have cards for just about anything…I’m guessing even gall bladder removal. In fact I saw a whole section devoted to specific disease states, from cancer to schizophrenia. 

Now I know that none of these are in any way a laughing matter, especially if it’s your specific disease state…but I don’t know, I’m not sure a card is going to do it for me.  I’d rather get a cure…or at least a case of beer.

It’s kind of like if you’re hit by a bus and someone says, “Hang on, I'll get the priest!” 

No offense, but I’d rather they get a doctor. 

There’re cards for divorce….

“It’s about frigging time!
Now go get your shots.”


                           Or

“Guess you never saw it coming…need I say more?”

Cards for getting fired….

“Don’t worry; things will get better…maybe.”

             Or

“Apparently you suck at what you do, but we still think you’re great!”

Cards for Her…

Cards for Him…

Cards for It....

Cards for Them…

Cards from Us…Two of Us…All of Us…Some of Us…None of Us….

Cards for Grandma, Grandpa, Cool Uncles, Weird Uncles, Aunts of every description, Godmothers, Godfathers, Rabbis, Shamans, Gurus, Imams, priests…okay now I’m afraid I’m gonna leave someone out and offend this group or that, so I’m going to stop….

But you get the idea.

And if the card companies had their way there would be a national holiday for all of these categories as well.

You know, aside from all the standards there would be Slow Footed Mailman Day, Annoying Customer Service Rep Day, Smelly Smoker Day, Much Too Happy Fast Food Guy Day, Loud Music Playing at 5 AM Newspaper Delivery Guy Day…and needless to say Obnoxious Opinionated Blogger Guy Day. 

Needless to say….

Oh look!  The sun just actually popped out so I think I’m going to run out there and take a long look at it so I’ll have a mental picture of it to carry around with me for when it disappears again.

Lucky for you….







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Thoroughly Thoreau - Redux

Original Post 9/23/11





Last time, I was relating the tale of our visit to Concord and all the great authors that once lived there.  Now, they’re actually all buried there as well, high up on a ridge that requires a billy goat and a Sherpa to access.

It’s a nice little tourist attraction, featured on all the visitor maps, although on the day we we’re there we had the place all to ourselves.  Very bucolic as cemeteries go, populated with both the long dead and the newly dead, eternally resting, side by side. 

They even named the place, Author’s Ridge, in honor of the famous scribblers, but I understand that’s a point of contention with some of the non-literati among the reposed.

What strikes you as you view these antiquated graves of those who, in life, stood out in such a notable manner, is how simple and unadorned they are, surrounded by generations of family members.  In fact if you weren’t carrying a map, you would pass them by entirely. 

It’s interesting to note, in a melancholic sort of way, that except for Emerson, who lived to be nearly 79, they all died before 60; Thoreau the youngest at 44. I guess that was not uncommon for those times since pretty much anything from the flu to a cut finger could kill you, but it kind of puts things into perspective when, even at a few years short of 60, we feel as if we can expect another 60.

Aside from Emerson’s granite boulder of a tombstone, all the others markers are pretty non-descript. I like Thoreau’s the best, wherein keeping with his simplify, simplify, philosophy, it merely says “Henry”. 

It’s a tradition, for some folks, I guess, to carry up stones and twigs and place them on a loved one’s final resting place. But it’s pretty easy to pick out the Author’s markers by the odd assortment of pens, note paper and reading glasses that garnish them...even an assortment of M&M’s.

Well, the M&M’s were mine and fell out of my pocket when I leaned over to pick up a snazzy Montblanc someone had left for Louisa May.   

Z just gave me that look she’s perfected through the years and made me put it back; all without saying a word.

So I took back my M&M’s…just for spite.

Then it was on to a more lively setting by way of Walden Pond.

Walden of course is the place where Thoreau built his little house in the woods.

  

 Most people think of a little rustic shack when they think of Thoreau’s digs, but they were far from that. In fact, a place like that today would fetch at least $1,200 a week down at the shore.

I’ve always felt a connection to Henry David—formerly David Henry...no kidding—ever since I read Walden about 20 plus years ago.  There’s just something about the easy going way he breaks the whole of life down to basics.

Eat, sleep and…well, I‘ll let you fill in the rest.

Okay I’ll say it….

Observe….

Observe and make note of everything around you. Everything that defines you…cuz it’s all there in front of you...if you open your eyes. 

Plus he frowned on heavy labor, a concept with which most freelance writers would concur.

I’ve been to Walden a few times over the years, but first time visitors are always a little surprised to see that it’s actually a state park or reservation now, plus a popular beach destination, complete with snack bar, beach chairs and all the rest. The same as any beach.

As you take a walk around the pond's perimeter, you find quite a few more adventurous types, setting up in little nooks and crannies; diving into crystal, blue water; little glints of sun dancing back to the shore.

Soon you approach the farthest northeast corner, and up on a hill, overlooking the pond, now somewhat hidden by thickets of trees, is the old foundation of Thoreau’s little one room house.

When I first stepped into that little granite rectangle of standing stones that mark the site, some 15 years or so ago, I immediately felt something stir in me….and I knew it wasn’t the leftover tacos we had brought from home, but left in the car.   

The woods were overcast with clouds that day and I was alone, since Z had decided to take a little snooze after lunch on the small beach below.  

So I set up my camera on one of the stones across the way and put it on a timer.

As the clock ticked down, I hurried to position myself, and leaned against the standing stone that marked where the front door would have been. If you’ve ever taken one of these self-portraits, you know you hurry to get set, then don’t know what to do with yourself as you wait for the shutter to click; all the while wondering if you even set the timer correctly.

As I stood there, for some reason I folded my arms across my chest and was just about to abandon the effort when suddenly the sun broke through the clouds and streamed in through the trees, lighting on my face.  Just then, I heard the camera click and the shot was taken, leaving behind an ethereal photo that evoked the strange sensation I had been feeling inside.

Quite a few years later, we returned to Walden, and while browsing through the gift shop I came across a simple drawing of Thoreau standing at the doorway of his cabin, arms folded, another gentle light upon his face. 

Now, I know it’s just an artist’s drawing, but I found the coincidence to be very, very cool.

Today, both pictures hang on my office wall; the writing factory as it were.

Just a reminder, at least to me, that the things that resonate, resonate for a reason and should not be lightly dismissed.

Thoreau said it best…of course….

"If a man loses pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured, or far away."

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Literary Road Trip - Redux

I’m falling further behind, if that’s even possible for someone who’s just posting old material.  I wasn’t even sure what to put up this week until my friend Marotta from Exit Only, just down the hall here at Blog Central, posted a piece on Thoreau the other day.  This reminded me of my own trip to Concord, MA a couple of years ago and my own experiences with the now linear literati up there.  I thought it worth repeating for those who missed it the first time around and those who’ve forgotten it the second time around, which is more the norm.

Now, if I can only get Marotta to stop banging on my door on the way back from the coffee maker, telling me to turn the damn radio down and get back to work....

Bloggers….

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Original Post 9/21/11

Midweek of "Staycation 2011" found us, curiously enough, “not staying” but instead opting for a brief road trip up north to the land of revolution, enlightenment…and the bar where everyone knows your name.

That’s right, the great “Commonwealth” of Massachusetts, which I dare you to spell without using spell check. 

Notice that I said “Commonwealth” of Massachusetts, which is basically a hoity toity way of saying state. But what else would you expect from a place that burned women for entertainment, essentially because they were suffering severe symptoms of extreme PMS.  But in all fairness, that was a while ago, and when you think about it…..

Massachusetts is also the home of the once, long suffering Red Sox fan, who up until 2004, had not seen their team win the World Series since about 1776, when there was only one other team in the league, who happened to be British and found it difficult to run the bases without losing their powdered wigs.

We decided to take a quick trip to old Sturbridge Village to essentially go back in time to the early 19^th century, but with a stop over in Concord, home of the famous grape jelly. It’s also the town where the “shot heard round the world” occurred at the old north bridge marking the first official battle of the American Revolution, which you may have heard about.

Concord also boasts having been the onetime home to several of the most notable American authors of their time, or any time….all at one time.  

Ralph Waldo Emerson, of whom Thoreau was attributed to have said, "He's a pretty cool dude, for an old guy...," was noted for advancing the Transcendentalism movement, which I believe had something to do with molar replacement....

 

The aforementioned Henry David Thoreau the famed naturalist who also wrote:
"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived....in New Jersey." 

Nathaniel Hawthorne, who had a thing for big red letters and houses with funky roof lines. He was generally considered to be an old stick in the mud, and is said to have written the now famous axiom:

"I like brown...it suits me...."

And last but not least, Louisa May Alcott, noted abolitionist, best known for her novel “Little Women”.

Ms. Alcott cherished her role as an independent woman and wrote:

..."though not an easy life, it is a free one, and I enjoy it. I can't do much with my hands; so I will make a battering-ram of my head and make a way through this rough-and-tumble world...without coupons."

Unfortunately our GPS guide, Michelle, who to be honest, because of her pushiness, was not the most personable of travel companions, mixed up the coordinates and initially sent us to Concord’s lesser known sister town, Skippy, MA… home of the popular peanut butter, the old south bridge, famous for nothing, other than it hasn’t collapsed in the last several months and an assemblage of some of 19th Century America's dimmer intellectual lights.

Where's Waldo Emerson, Ralph's 2^nd cousin, best known for his garish, striped shirts, silly wool hat, and  his propensity for hiding in large crowds.  

Herman Thoreau, said to be, but never verified, Henry’s 3rd cousin, twice removed, once by the authorities and once by his wife, who, instead of going to the woods to live, went to the sea, where he subsequently drowned in the first few minutes and therefore never wrote anything of consequence.  

Daniel Hawthorne, no relation to Nathaniel, who was sent to prison for spray painting graffiti on women’s chests, and Louie Alcott, Louise’s deranged Uncle from Philadelphia who began a novel called “Little Thumbs and Toes” but never finished it once he heard that another author in New York had beat him to the punch by publishing a similarly themed book entitled” Little Pinkies and Knees”.

Eventually, we were able to convince Michelle that she had led us to the wrong “destination” as she likes to say, and after a series of snide “recalculating routes” we soon found ourselves at the Concord museum, although she stubbornly refused to admit making a mistake.

It was actually kind of cool walking through all the exhibits, seeing Thoreau’s old furniture....





 ...and Emerson’s study; imagining myself, hanging out in there with all of them, shooting the breeze...

…despite the scarcity of indoor plumbing. 

In a way, they were all just early day bloggers…with bad hair.

They wrote essays on unique topics, sharing distinctive insights such as man’s relationship with nature as a way of connecting to the whole; all the mysteries of the universe and beyond answered in a single drop of rain falling in a pond. 

Emerson declared "literary independence" in the United States and urged Americans to create a writing style all their own, free from European influences, paving the way for a revolution in writing that unveiled the true face and voice of America, a country endlessly in transition.

And Thoreau with his urge to simplify, perceiving the world through an army of ant’s battling it out on his window sill, on a lazy afternoon.

Or professing the futility of labor at the expense of the soul…and making you smile about it all, to boot.

Of Thoreau, Emerson wrote:

“My good Henry Thoreau made this else solitary afternoon sunny with his simplicity & clear perception. How comic is simplicity in this double-dealing quacking world. Everything that boy says makes merry with society though nothing can be graver than his meaning”.

Hmmmmm…kind of makes me look at this whole blogging thing in a whole new light.

I wonder where they’ll put the gift shop….?

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About August - Redux

From last year to this, not much changes...which is lucky for me.
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Original Post 8/1/12

The best thing about August is it’s not September…or October…or any of the other brrrrrrrrrrr months.

But they're getting close….and that makes a lot of us feel a little claustrophobic, as if the season of lilting leaves is starting to close in on us.

Yeah…I know…a little dramatic.

Some folks call it the dog days of summer....


Not sure how the dogs feel about that...let alone August.

August is actually one of the busiest vacation months there is; probably one of the nicest as well.

After a hot sweltering start, a gift passed on from its pal July, August often begins to cool a little, especially in the evenings.

The muggy haze of a sweltering mid-summer begins to give way to a succession of clear comfortable nights where the stars are just a fingertip away.

So enjoy it and stop your whining….

August is really kind of like the Wednesday of months.  Kind of stuck in a bad spot on the calendar, through no fault of its own.

I mean really, when you think about it, it’s not that much different than July…without the fireworks.


Besides...have any of us been all that thrilled with July's performance this year?


July....

The beaches are in peak form in August. The water is warm, when you need it to be warm and cool when you need it to be cool.

August is very accommodating in that way…in a lot of ways…it has to be.

Not like July who just has to phone it in sometimes….

Everyone loves July, the quintessential summer month.

And June…well, everyone waits for June…all year long.

It’s June…It’s June…It’s June!

Like we’ve all hit the lottery or something…

But that’s what happens after 4 or 5 months of long, cold nights and stark, frigid days.

In fact, in a lot of years—like this year—June can be just plain dank and dreary. But all it take is a couple of days, back to back, where it’s 80 degrees and sunny, and we’re all running around like we’d been living in a hovel all winter and had never seen the sun before.

Well, maybe just me…and that was mostly just the 90’s.

If I had to assign a color to June—which I don’t but I will, cuz I can basically do whatever I want here, unless Z gives me that look that makes certain parts of my body shrink and run away—it would be a bright golden band of sunlight creeping over the early morning horizon.

July…a blend of bright yellow and ocean blue.

August…the burnt orange of a sunset sky as the sun slips past the edge of an inlet bay at rest.

I know….

If I had to assign a feeling—which I don’t but I will, cuz…well, you know—June would be the heady lightness you feel when you’ve finally achieved a long sought after goal.

July… the lazy barefoot contnentment of a sea side afternoon, marking the the sun as it amble across the southern sky.

August…well, that pit you get in your stomach when you turn the calendar and see September hiding there in that little preview box below.  The unnerving recognition of the shadow on the kitchen floor slanting just a bit more severely than you recall from a week ago. The resignation of going to the store with your mom to buy new clothes for school. 

In June, the band is still tuning up for the party.

July, the band is in full swing.

August, the music is still playing…the folks are still dancing….but you know…the play list is dwindling towards the end.

That’s what poor August has to deal with…so you can see why it might feel a bit on the bittersweet side.

The truth is, we’d all take August over February…anytime.  And down under, on the other side of the globe, that’s the month that equates to their August, in this, their last hurrah of winter.

How do you feel in February…like the winter will never end?

Yeah….

So let’s give August a break and see it for what it is. Four more weeks of fun in the sun and drinks on the beach…or whatever your preference may be.

And if I’m not mistaken, summer is still officially on for at least seven more.

The calendar is just a state of mind.

The mind is whatever you want it to be.

The same is true for August… so don’t waste it.

There you go August…I just did you a solid….just like I promised.

Now don’t screw it up.

And don’t tell Wednesday.

That’s all I need….

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