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I saw some of the 6th Ward neighborhood boys yesterday, some of whom I used to know and used to hang around with on Sundays, and they all looked good, even in just five months they were taller, fatter, more grown up.
Some have been in and out of jail over the last couple of years but it seems everybody--the kids, the mothers, and the fathers--is out this year for Christmas.
One or two from the old group are sitting on stoops now, assisting those people in the neighborhood that have herbal and chemical dependencies.
"We can make them disappear just by going out on the porch," my two adult friends assured me.
"I hope you will be careful with that, nobody respects you THAT much," I said, and the one friend nodded knowingly and then the two of them mentioned the name of the new scariest bad dude around.
"He's scary," they both agreed.
The football player was standing down by the group that some consider malingerers and he called out and I called back and he came across the street and said, "We won the Conference, Mr. Jim," and I said, "I know, that's so great, you must have had a really great year, graduating from college and playing on a winning team and you're big as a house now so that may come in handy…"
"We were 12-1."
"I know, that's amazing. Are you gonna try it?"
"Well, one of my roommates is an agent so he gonna shop me around…but if it don't…you know, I have the degree for backup."
"I wish I was you."
"Sure, Mr. Jim. Hey, J calling you."
I looked down the ill-lit block and a shadow on a stoop waved to me. "All right J," I yelled. He came down and we shook hands. Even after a life altering multiple wounding he still holds himself up proud and confident and he's always polite. Even years ago before the multiple wounding when he was threatening to burn us out he was polite. He is one you can judge harshly and he is one you can admire and somewhere between those two is the truth of who he is.
Somebody must have shot out all the street lights because it really was dark, just at dusk, and I didn't recognize the little dude at J's shoulder, but then I did. "There you are," I said, and we shook hands but he didn't really say anything; light years have passed since those few years ago when he was an honor student and I'm sure he felt, perhaps correctly, that I know nothing about him. I heard a while later that he had just been bailed out so he was probably a little grumpy from all that. I remember the first time I yelled at him for misbehaving, seems like a lifetime ago.
One of the other kids from that core group of long ago is also working the block, but the other end, the more dangerous end, and is affiliated with a different boss. "He's making real good money," I have been told.
Keeping in mind that there is some temporal limitation to all things good and all things bad I report this last bit. Shelton has a job.
(I tried to post this earlier at the library on Canal in Lakeview but all four computers are non-responsive so I have this to add after reading today's--Tuesday's--paper, and then answering the knock on the porch--she can't climb the stairs.)
"I hate to ask this but can I get ten dollars, I'm so hungry and he ain't been around…?" I always go inside to get the money even though it's always on my person. "Thanks babe, I'll get you after New Years," she said. I bet she really missed me when I was gone. I said to her, "Hey, I was just reading the paper and one of our neighbors, a nineteen-year-old from one block over on Dorgenois, he…"
"Oh, cut that little boy…"
"Yeah, over a Playstation…"
"Uh huh, the police were all up and down here, and running through the alley back there…right after you left, I guess about 2 or so…"
From the Times Picayune Metro section, 12/23/03, paragraph one--"A 19-year-old man was arrested Monday and booked with attempted first-degree murder for repeatedly stabbing a 10-year-old boy who was fighting to keep the man from stealing a Sony PlayStation from his Mid-City home, police said."
In New Orleans
Under an indigo sky Sunday at sunrise I followed glowing white jet trails out of the Shenandoah Valley with the eyelash of a crescent moon and a purple pink and orange cumulus finger pointing the way South. I did not need a map with that kind of help.
I left the big house in Little Washington about five-thirty a.m., drove a good bit, marveled at the deep snow near Bristol, Tennessee, and slept eight hours in a fancy businessman's motel between Birmingham and Tuscaloosa. I saw the first sign for New Orleans about 7:30 this morning, Monday.
I stopped near Meridian, Mississippi at a Waffle House and had eggs and bacon and grits with the decidedly southern, somewhat creole, morning crew, who were all in bad moods. My waitress was wearing a Santa's hat and she checked both dessert cases before breaking the disappointing news to me that I wouldn't be leaving with my to-go request for chocolate cream pie.
Nobody called me baby but that's ok because instead of that I had a real nice conversation with the woman at the gas station next door and she waited a respectful amount of time before explaining to me how to reset the gas pump if I wanted the gas to be pumped faster than it was, which was at a rate about equal to one cent per second. "But you could probably get out of here by noon if you just want to wait it out," she said. I went out and reset the pump and came back in and bought two real-life looking snakes, which she said were a real popular item.
I would not describe the general mood in New Orleans as happy, Christmas around here in the ghetto only brings out the reality of life's constraints on those with lesser amounts of disposable income. But poor kids see all the same shit on TV and want it just as badly as rich kids, and so by these last few days before the big day, parents have had it with demands they cannot meet and might be heard to bark, "No, you is not getting that goddamn bicycle so quit buggin Santa 'bout it cuz he can't hear you, and I'm sick of hearin you."
My neighbor's friend got killed recently on the I-10 and two neighbor men have had serious medical issues in my absence. One broke both his arms and "has to have his wife wipe his ass," and the other guy might have more cancer than a person would like.
The new streetcar line up Canal is not running but is more or less finished and they have also repaved the street itself, which is a very good thing because all the construction equipment had torn it up rather thoroughly.
There was a nice young man named Daniel cutting down the trees on the side of my house when I arrived. I knew it was going to happen eventually, the two big trees up near the front were great shade providers but were actually on the Pentecostal's property. The mulberry and the elderberry trees, which were inside my line were also cut down but I'm not feeling it. Not to say that I won't play the hey you cut down my fuckin tree card later on. Perhaps on a day I feel the need to direct my enmity towards a religious organization. The church is getting ready to put up a fence. Mr. Clarence bought that little square of land to my left and is putting up a fence on that side too. Better Mr. Clarence got it than somebody else, I think.
Tomorrow I might drive to Austin or I might drive to Dallas or I might just lay about here and drive to Dallas on the 24th and when laying about is one of the options I would bet on it.
Holy cow, four-thirty, did I oversleep, or what?
I've been getting up at four for a while now.
I must say after ten straight years in New Orleans this little five month sabbatical in Rappahannock suited me fine, and I do hope to come back in the spring.
Time to unplug, good morning.
Herman's coming off the discount litter today, moving out of Rappahannock, and probably eating table scraps as we squeak.
Thinking about the suggestion of Herman as girlfriend I would say he was not exactly what I was looking for but in the end was a pretty ok cat and I think there was a give and take of respect between us towards the end.
I'm packed, tools and all, except for all this machinery. I'm going to pack the machinery last.
I found a well-referenced hippie who met the owner's needs to guard the hill and he tonight brought over sushi and Japanese beer. We talked awhile and I gave him the keys and showed him what's up with XM radio.. Then he left me to chill for those few hours before I exit Rappahannock. New Orleans for Monday.
I had a dream last night and it wasn't about all of God's little children playing together in a field of daisies, more than that I cannot say. Of course I could say more, and have, but won't.
It doesn't look like the snow is ever going to melt.
I can't think of anything but a fried oyster po-boy, dressed, no pickles. I'm not talking about Pickles, the Santa Killer. I could talk about that but let's just leave it alone. But damn, poor Santa, eviscerated in the LES.
And some garlic mashed potatoes.
And a pickled string bean in a tasty Bloody Mary.
My mom's brownies.
Raining bullets on New Year's Eve.
And all this sweet exhilarating uncertainty has got me groovin.
Kill A Cat, Save An Artist
I fell asleep watching Henry V. Which reminds me of falling asleep at the wheel on the way to Brenham, waking up on the left shoulder of the undivided highway with that sound of gravel crunching under tires and the lack of any other traffic at 3 a.m. being our salvation. My oilfield buddies were asleep. Anybody else want to drive, hey I almost just killed all of us? but they were dead to the world, heh, not even snoring. I kept driving for awhile, hit a kitty with bad judgement while going 70 mph, which woke me up, but soon I became sleepy again so 20 miles out I pulled over, and slept until dawn when the owner of the maroon Monte Carlo awoke and said, where are we?
We were in Texas, but I could have said Montana, another place I fell asleep, but in my own car, and I was in a rest stop in broad daylight. I was in the front seat with my legs stretched out past the open driver's side door when a State Trooper tapped me a few times on the feet with his baton. It seems I had become the worry of other resting motorists, some of whom thought I was dead.
No sir, not dead at all, I said while quickly scanning the mess of my car's interior, searching for any top secret documents I may have left laying about. Luckily, it seems I had safely stored all my top secret documents, the trooper was polite, I soon regained my wits, and continued in an easterly direction, where awaiting me was the chance to save a NY artist from floating away down the Potomac River, and over the Great Falls.
Which reminds me, back in the oilfields (I was on a seismograph crew, a doodlebugger), I tried once to swim across the Colorado River with my boots on. That almost turned out very badly and I won't do that again.
I thought I saw bare footprints in the snow up on the White Oak Canyon trail yesterday and I wondered if maybe there is a local barefoot hiking club. And the idea of clubs always makes me think of the phrase--join, be a part. And then I wonder, right, exactly, which one?
I don't guess hiking several miles in wet boots with a cold has thrown me into a cold and flu season headspin, even though I do feel pretty stupid right now, I mean pretty stupid, and have some histamine I don't really need, or don't really want.
The night before I met a local at a bar who organizes full moon hikes in the park and he told me not to enter the trail from Skyline Drive but from the 231 side so that's what I did. It allows you to hike up to the falls and then down to the parking lot instead of the opposite, which is a hard way to end a hike, going up that is.
At the top I was sweating, exhausted, and unsure why I had made the effort. Many times going up I thought of K. heading for the Castle and felt the pointlessness of it while at the same time the compelling need to continue upward. Was it worth the effort to see the large falls, I don't know?
On the way down I slid and skipped and stepped carefully down rock ledges, but did not fall on my ass. I started laughing at one point, I'm not sure why.
Back in Sperryville I got some white bean and black olive soup (black olive, in soup? yeah, it's different, it's good, try it, the server said) at the deli and then back out in the parking lot I saw the proprietor and she said when you leaving, I said a few days, and she said, walking to her car, well, hmm, you sure kept to yourself.
So you wonder, should you start keeping to someone else?
Be There Now
Scantily clad like a Southerner in a snowstorm and with only my recently acquired Yankee/Canadian merit badge to justify me being in a truck, in the snow, going nowhere, on highway 211, I started fishtailing about forty degrees worth on a straightaway.
I'm cooler than cool though, that's right, ice cold, so I just relaxed and let the truck find its direction, which luckily was straight ahead on down the road. My heart though was palpitating at not so much an alarming rate but enough to make me dizzy with cautious glee. The words to the beat were--I'm not in a ditch, I'm not in a ditch, I'm not in a ditch.
I hated the idea of being stuck up here; I don't get stuck is a thing I lie to myself about all the time.
So I jumped in the truck and headed down the snowy hill which is the easy part. I drove the five or six miles to Sperryville but forget about it, I wasn't having any of that delicious coffee at Rae's this morning, everybody stayed in bed, the parking lot is not even plowed. I headed back to Litttle Washington thinking I'll eat at the diner across from the famous Inn. But dammit those people rest on the Lord's day. That's when I started fishtailing on a straightaway, and I didn't really need coffee after that.
My friend and master of the manor had come out the day before while I was high as a kite and freezing cold up on the new 28 foot aluminum extension ladder I had just bought for the farm. I was cleaning out the gutters, fingertips throbbing and numb, fingernails packed tight with frozen black sludge. I was chipping it out of the gutter with a putty knife, four or five inch sections at a time, trying not to shred my bare knuckles against the metal edges of the gutter, or the metal edges of the roof. It was like a cross between that Milton Bradley game, Operation, and that game we played in the elementary school yard, bloody knuckles.
"I came to take you to lunch," he told me, giving me the once over.
I settled on having him bring me something back, which he did, enough for a couple of days in case I got snowed in. I don't have to tell you he's a nice guy, he just is.
But the next day, yesterday, back from my unsuccessful feeding mission, I could not make it up the driveway again. Fresh snow I thought would not present a challenge, and I had put the weighted buckets in the back of my truck bed the night before. So I walked back up the hill for the cat litter. I fell down once, like Lee Marvin in the final scene of (Ernest Hemingway's) The Killers (which by the way did not have a single word of Hemingway in it, not that it suffered from that.)
Unlike Lee Marvin, I got up again, got in the truck and tried backing down and up the hill a few times to spare using the last of Herman's cat litter. I was successful at this.
In the end, truck back at the top of the hill, I had some kind of green vegetarian roll up for breakfast, instead of the lasagna.
This is my last week here, until Spring, or until after the opening of New Orleans crawfish season at least, and I have a fair amount of work to do, and I'm getting a cold, I think. I don't remember when I last had a cold and I'm unsure about what to do, although sleeping is good so I did some extra sleeping yesterday, in between reading, and watching the excellent, Red, from Kieslowski, and the less challenging but enjoyable, Lilo and Stitch.
Now, tomorrow is supposed to be beautiful, and, with or without a cold, I can't see how I'm going to resist going back up into the Shenandoah one more time, so, I had better get to work, now.
Doak Walker's Backup
Standing next to the tracks in San Antonio I watched my rail riding advisor disappear as the boxcar we shared traveled east. He said he had been backup to Doak Walker at SMU but when later I checked the roster his name was not there. Also I could not find any evidence that black men were attending Southern Methodist back in the late forties. Strangely, this did not make me doubt any of his stories, even the ones that could not be backed up with hard facts because most of what he had told me had served me well, like how to jump off a train without hurting yourself. Unfortunately he had told me this last bit after I had jumped once, and hurt myself.
I had to catch Interstate 10 to Interstate 35, the right side of my face was a black and red scab from temple to jawbone, and I was overall a dirty boy with rail riding grime coating most of my surface.
An amorous Native American picked me up and I told him I would be appreciating the lift but no nooky would be exchanged between us. The offers of man love had shocked me at first but I was coming to understand the game better and this guy was drunk, at eight in the morning, and I had a weapon, and I was tired, and that was that. He dropped me at a place that left me a short walk to I-35, which would take me into Austin.
I was a few days late for the start of the spring semester at the University of Texas. I wasn't a dropout yet, but in retrospect, I was very close. This train trip, it was already starting to wear the weight of a seminal moment in a boy's life.
I don't even think I was hitchhiking, I was just walking to the right spot, when a VW Beetle pulled onto the shoulder. It was Dave, this guy who had roomed next door to me at Kinsolving (a girls dorm) during summer school. He was a few days late for the start of the spring semester too. He asked me what happened to my face and I said I fell off a train and that became the refrain for the casual acquaintance regarding what happened to me. Most people thought I had just gotten my ass kicked and the train thing was me and my dry wit.
He took me to the apartment on West Lynn and Ninth that I was sharing with three other guys. Off campus, bigtime, grown up stuff. I got to see myself in a mirror for the first time in a week (we stayed in an El Paso mission that first night after the train accident and I saw myself there but it was one of those shiny metal mirrors and the detail was lacking.)
My roommates were all gone--presumably attending college--so I had a little time to collect my thoughts, wash up, shave around the scab, get dressed and...go to college?
It was too late for classes but I walked up West Lynn to Enfield, caught the Enfield shuttle bus, and walked the UT campus. I was tweaked, circuits sizzling. I wasn't who I was so who was I?
I entered the undergraduate library and took a seat by myself at a table for four. As soon as I sat down I knew I was done with the college thing.
I had taken another trip right after summer school, in August, with a friend named Billy, and we had hitchhiked together up into Telluride, for the Jazz Festival. That was a life-changing, life-affirming trip too, but more for Billy than for me and it was me telling him to hang in there, don't drop out, when he discussed his doubts about school to me in December, right before I hitchhiked to USC and came back on a train.
I went through the motions for awhile, attended a few classes, tried dropping acid before some of them to see if that would help, but it didn't.
At the end of January my father wrote to say he had opened for me what looked like official mail. As he was handling most of my "business" affairs I did not take issue with his felonious behaviour. He was sure this was a mistake but their was a ticket for me from Los Angeles, or Anaheim maybe, for hitchhiking. Oops, those damn CHiPs, I had forgotten all about that.
Home Away From Home
I went hiking yesterday up in the Shenandoah National Park. It felt like I was the only human up in there. I had to walk along Skyline drive for about half a mile to get back to my truck after the hike and not a single car passed by. I of course was travelling with an entourage of women--Missy Elliot, Gillian Welch, Francoiz Breut, (Miss) Catpower, (Miss) Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, Neko Case, (Miss) Belle or Sebastian, and (Miss) Mick Jagger.
I wondered at first who's footprints I was following, a heavy person for sure, their prints had broken all the way through the hard packed snow to the dirt and rock of the path. They were old prints, that you could tell because they had no definite shape, the edges of the snowprints were melted, leaving a design that did not compute inside my humancentric frame of reference. But of course we are not alone and the prints belonged to a bear, this I realized when I saw a print with full definition, so I became super self aware for a few minutes, which did not hurt me.
But was this one last romp and feed before hibernation and am I edible? I can't see serving me up at a dinner party of people, or bears, you were trying to impress.
I just poked myself in the eye so I'm crying a little.
The path turned into a stream once or twice, water flowing out of rock, maybe not THE source, but a source, so I had to sit on a flat boulder at one point and consider it all. Actually there were two streams, both of them just began out of the side of the hill and flowed down the slope into the canyon into which I was descending. One stream was to my left and the other was to my right. The left stream had white water, the right stream, the stream that was actually the path, was more of a flowing trickle.
Just saw a shooting star out the window.
I think it was the Hughes River I kept having to cross, and the water was up a little and some of the large boulders which would normally rise above the clear cold water and act as stepping stones, were submerged. Others were coated with ice. I belabored over the idea of crossing each time, once crabwalking awkwardly over an icy log. Missy Elliot said I look like a bitch doin that, which hurt my feelings, and I told her I would not bring her back out here if she was going to talk like that. Neko Case smirked, she's a hard one to read. Miss Yeah, Yeah, Yeah, she kept wailing that she loved me like no one else did but she would not hold my hand, so I had to question just what was the good of that love.
There was a locked up cabin at the bottom of the canyon, the Corbin cabin it is called, and before and after it remain the faintest signs of a life long ago. A piece of a wall here, a diverted spring there. The park ranger at the Thorton Gap entrance had sold me a map after I asked her to suggest a nice five mile circuit hike and I kept referring to it but as simple as the map was I could not lock into it. It did not seem to relate to anything I cared about but at the same time I did not want to take a wrong fork and end up halfway to Old Rag. Francoiz Breut would look over my shoulder but she doesn't speak much english and when she pointed at the soft, rip proof, water proof map, and said, "we here," I had to wonder if she meant, "yes, here."
Hookey In The Park
Well my 21st century east coast tenure number one is about up, I just emailed someone that I was finishing up here and getting ready to leave next week, which now that I say it, I guess I need to contemplate my movements a little. Okay, done. I'll just do what work I can do and then pack my tools and stuff the day before I leave, and then leave. Assuming nothing weird happens, I'll probably come out this way again in the Spring.
You know, I think it is precisely that place between assuming that nothing weird will happen and knowing that something weird is going to happen is what gets me out of bed in the morning.
In bed this morning I did briefly contemplate that nothing weird was going to happen, ever again, and that we were all (sorry to include you) cardboard cutouts haphazardly positioned and repositioned and sometimes pasted to the manilla paper background drawings of a sweet but slightly demented child. A child with generic talent keeping it all inside the lines.
Yesterday was the first day in a week without snow on the ground and now they are calling for more snow and/or freezing rain off and on over the next week. I guess I've had a fairly good taste of real winter (not Montana or N. Dakota severe but still...), even though I'm leaving two days before winter starts.
I haven't talked to any of my New Orleans bosses in five months. They will be angry. They may not let me work with them. I may not care.
Another fence board blew off in the night. I may fix that later, after I get done playing hookey in the park one last time. One last thing. I have seen that mountain to the north glow red in the morning but right this minute it is glowing purple. Purple mountain majesty, dig?
The Missing Ballerinas
Queen Noor was in Little Washington the other day. She signed her book and had tea with prominent locals at the Inn. I was not aware of it nor did I see about town members of the Washington (DC) Ballet, who were also here, at least partly to entertain Queen Noor. In retrospect I do remember the day though because a person (that would be me, I don't have a title, nor am I bitter about it, much) could not park to get his mail from the PO Box what with all the limosines and that tour bus lining the street on both sides of the only stop sign in town. The limos were parked tight like very expensive sardines.
The thing about sardines is, despite the fact that they may be associated with hobos and low end snacking, really, they are pretty damn expensive if you price them out by the pound. Of course a pound of sardines is more than a person needs, three or four ounces will usually suffice. I like the golden smoked variety from the Reese company.
Once, a more youthful me, staring at the warm glow of gas flares in the distance, shivered while eating sardines and oranges with a hobo in the El Paso train yard in January. We spent two and a half days together in the El Paso yard waiting for the right train but eventually succumbed to the idea of warmth and community and followed a psst in the dead of night to join some other hobos, who, cliched as it seems, were identifiable only when the sucked on ends of their cigarettes offered that most meager illumination.
Not that I had ridden on that many boxcars previous (or since), but that was the most fucked up boxcar ever constructed. We tried to bed down ("always leave your bag unzipped in case you have to move fast, " he instructed me) shortly after the train started moving but the suspension was all messed up and the car rocked and shook all night long, and into the next day, and however long it was before we arrived in San Antonio, where I saw the I-10 and bid my friend adieu, lowering myself properly and running before my feet hit the ground. I waved standing up and proud to his diminishing outline.
Before my success came my failure. Arriving in El Paso from Yuma he said we had to get off because if we got caught riding in those cars we would be in deep shit. We had boarded a slow moving flatcar in Yuma that was carrying a version of the Chevy Camaro, this would have been the '78 model, and we had broken into one, found the key in the glovebox, and started that bitch up. Cranked up the heat, played the radio. Not that comfortable to sleep in but warm.
So I just jumped, was on my feet for a split second, and then the right side of my face was scraping the gravel.
Which is to say, back on that other rocking boxcar with all those unidentifiable men, I was not so scared because I knew the glow of my cigarettes was offering up to the curious a pretty scary picture of a possibly very bad dude.
After my hobo friend consoled me a bit about my landing he said he thought I had done this before. I told him, no, I hadn't. That's when he told me about lowering yourself and hanging there with your feet just above the ground and then to start running like mad before you acually put your feet on the ground.
The day before the psst in the night we had found a half bottle of tequila lying on the ground next to a cold,dead, campfire. I was the only one of us who had money, I hadn't told him this until we found the tequila, but then I offered to walk to the nearest store, where I spent some of my six dollars on the sardines and oranges. The tequila buzz on top of the mild concussion, at midday eating oranges and sardines while shivering and staring at the distant gas flares, is a memory locked in good and tight.
I wish I had seen me some ballerinas the other day. I am capable of loving that look of practiced gracefulness.
Almost ninety years ago on this day, which is almost a hundred years from this day, not far from where I have 12 acres of totally unused, highly taxed land, in Bastrop County, outside of Austin, TX., my mom was born.
Some stories say grandpa was a womanizer--he did disappear and is non-existent in family stories--and grandma went sick (in the head). No one much speaks of the heart. Mom grew up with an aunt and uncle.
You have all heard of or known people with names that can be either boy or girl, like Tracy, Leslie, Alex, etc. but there is no rhyme or reason or story behind the reason my mom was named Clifford.
Despite the unusual name she has done pretty well for herself. She was a country girl who went to college when not alot of country girls were going to college, in the late thirties, and received a journalism degree from the University of Texas, in Austin. She was a glider pilot instructor during WWII even though she had never flown a glider herself.
She married, had six kids--not all of whom cause her hearthache--and raised us in a fashion that I can honestly find no fault with. And she would never criticize me for ending a sentence with a preposition. She cried a little when I dropped out of college and went hitch-hiking cross country but once she realized I could survive even my most ridiculous choices she grew into an honest appreciation of my lifestyle.
All my other siblings have produced progeny and so my mom has somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty grandchildren and I think four great-grandchildren. She lives alone though, ten years ago my father was in the best health of his life when cancer ravaged all of his internal organs, at the age of eighty. She doesn't want a stranger living in the house assisting her and she doesn't want to go to that assisted living facility just up the road, where many of her old friends from church are now living. They try to get her to join them but she doesn't want to and anyway suspects their intentions are partly based on the fact that they get perks for bringing in new clients.
She worries about me being alone and I worry about her being alone. She once hinted that she wouldn't mind it if I lived with her even though she has scoffed at invitations at living in another brother's converted garage. "I am not living in a damn garage."
Unfortunately, that's the way I would feel about living in Dallas, or maybe just living in Dallas with my mom.
With all of us boomers getting old these are the questions that will face us. What do we do about ourselves? What do we do about what we love?
Happy Birthday Mom.
The Moonlit Night
So finally it gets dark a few minutes before sunrise. I was up a couple of times in the night, every nimrod (there actually is a Nimrod in my family tree) except me knows to stop drinking beer in the winter, instead to drink hard stuff, less liquid to the buzz, less challenging to the bladder, but I'm up doing what you gotta do and I look out the window and holy cow would you look at that.
I can't see the full moon but the night is lit by it and with all the snow on the ground everything is white and light, except that leafless walnut tree and it's black, but not black as night because like I'm telling you, this dead of night is different, like right before dusk or after dawn, although not that either because those things I've seen and this thing I'm seeing I haven't seen before.
This thing I'm seeing is comprised in part by a moon shadow and the moon which I cannot see is positioned such that the tree on the ground, the shadow, is the proportioned equal to the upright tree. The tree on the ground is so black I think I might be dreaming because there is no such all encompassing black in the world I have known up to this moment. Then I went back to bed and thought about the same old shit, some of it not altogether unpleasant.
Halfway Up The Slope
Yeah, right, Okay, I get it, snow.
Didn't get anymore accumulation last night so the four inches on the ground which has melted to about three inches, and then been assaulted by much colder temperatures so that it is crackly crunchy, is all there is. They say we could get more fresh stuff today but I don't believe it.
I have four rooms to paint, ceilings, walls and woodwork, over the next few days so I need to get on with it. One of the rooms is this one, yeah, and this red easy chair in front, or is it behind? the flat panel, often calls to me--sit a spell, stare at the screen, look for something. Don't take this the wrong way please but I could probably benefit from a light whipping. Just a get off your ass sort of thing, Ok, I don't want to dress up or anything.
I have paused in the reading of a friend of a friend's novel to finally read a friend's mystery novel that I brought with me but could never pick up due to all the noise in my head and the powerful lulling of that noise by the mountains and sky and green grass. My friend is hilarious though and gots great tempo and it's nice spending the evenings with her words and ideas.
I got stuck coming up the driveway yesterday, just inside the gate, my tires for shit on snow. I wanted to not look like a total pussy to all the four-wheel truck driving locals so I later made the 200 yard walk down the hill and with some effort and minimal expertise got the truck halfway up the slope, into the guesthouse driveway.
New Snow, Old P...
Ok, first, and I'm sure most of you already know this, but--the penis is 425 million years old. There is a lot of seemingly more pertinent stuff on Google News this morning but that's the one I'm bringing home.
It's a good thing I didn't shave my head recently--sure, all freaks think about it from time to time--because I needed something to cover my ears just now on my morning walk in the freezing rain crunching through four inches of fresh snow. Scarfs are good too but Southern boys don't always have a scarf handy so I wrapped my neck in a dirty long sleeve t-shirt. As it turns out I don't have a whole lot to say about my forty acres of virgin snow. It is pretty. It is white. And I don't have a tobaggon. I guess I can always take consolation in the fact that my penis is 425 million years old, give or take.
Weather And Football
It is not indicative of a state of boredom that I refresh the National Weather Service website periodically throughout the day. My duties as caretaker require a certain "step ahead" approach to the possibilities of inclimate weather. Rap a few hose bibs here, run a little water there, make sure the house animal does not escape to the outside and become a frozen catcicle. The last bit was really a joke. The cat is probably snuggled up under somebody's covers in one of those upstairs beds. He doesn't have any motivation to escape.
Also, it has been fifteen years or so since I have seen snow, since that Cool Breeze tour of 87 (that's right, I used to name my road trips; you can take the boy from wherever he is but you can't make him give up his irony), which had me living for a few months in Great Falls, VA, just up the road from Oliver North and other superstars from the politcal/industrial/military complex. It snowed five or six inches once. It was neato. And what a long chapter that was between then and now, where I sit in Rappahannock waiting for snow or ice.
A bunch of ya'll aren't from the South and so probably don't consider snow and ice all that neato. It probably isn't that neat and will be very un-neat if frozen tree limbs crash the power lines and I lose heat, and get all cold to my close to the surface bone and my spine starts feeling like railroad spikes are being driven into it with a ten pound sledge hammer.
What I wanted to talk about yesterday but didn't was the success of Eddie Green, a New Orleans kid who used to live across from me on Dumaine, who I watched for a couple of years as his nationally ranked high school basketball team went to state championships (and won once). He went to Southern University in Baton Rouge on a football scholarship. He's a senior now, six feet and one inch tall and 250 pounds heavy. His number is 44. He worked for the NO Recreation Dept. over the summer mentoring young kids. He's a linebacker mostly. He's really good at hitting people on the field. He likes to talk trash on the field too. It's part of the game. Messing with your opponents head. He's having a really good last half of his senior year, recovering fumbles and getting five or six tackles a game and Southern is having their best season in several years. I think they are 10-1 or 11-1. Eddie has been spending his New Orleans time--holidays, game weekends (the big Bayou Classic game at the Superdome against Grambling every year) and summers at the Dumaine house with M (his mom loves him is why she pushed him out of her nest), so hopefully I'll see him soon, and he can tell me stories. There will be no snow.