Acts Of Sabotage
If faith allows for suspicion I have the greatest faith in my mechanic. Do I really suspect that with one hand he is fixing a part of my Jeep while with the other he is hammering away at a part that will need fixing next week? Certainly not. It is preposterous to blame the failings of a piece of aging machinery on the capable hands of a mechanic. And yet for about a month now, on three separate occasions, something breaks on the Jeep the day after I get it back from the mechanic. This mechanic is a good guy and well respected in the community but once planted the seeds of doubt and suspicion what can grow but weedy thoughts? For example, am I a good guy and well respected in the community? I am not at all sure what is fully included in being a good guy but considering my hermetic lifestyle I would say the well respected part is in question. Outside of a baby's handful of exceptions, I am not that well known here, and so what could a general respect be based on? Perhaps I am seen by the few people with enough idle time to give a damn about me as a person to be trifled with. Or Easy Money or Mr. Moneybags or a nimrod, as in a dolt, (rather than a hunter or first ruler of the earth after the flood.)? Do I seriously entertain these doubts? Well I guess that would depend on what you mean by seriously. How do you weigh one thought against another? If I'm writing it am I serious? I suppose not necessarily but it certainly must be given more weight than the passing thought of seeing someone who resembles a mutant freak from a horror movie, and then wondering if that person could possibly be mutant offspring. I mean I think there is more a chance that I am not respected than there is that a certain person resembling a B. Kliban cartoon character is actually the offspring of at least one mutant parent. I think I'm just going to go with that. I am not a good person and I am not well respected. In which case, isn't it entirely possible that I wake from deep sleep each night and in a semi-conscious state sleep-walk out to my Jeep in the freezing cold and then perform acts of sabotage? That certainly is the type of thing an ill-respected bad person would do. I think I should keep an eye on me, see what other deviant acts might be going on. It is entirely possible that with a due diligence I could find myself back on the track of wholesome goodness, which is where I foolishly thought I was all along. I think if we nip this thing in the bud I should have no more problems with that Jeep.
...more recent posts
Mutant Review
The Hills Have Eyes 2 is a movie about mutants. If you have ever seen a mutant this would be a good movie to see, for comparison's sake. I personally found the mutants to be legitimately frightening and grotesque, hell bent as they were on chopping up people and storing their parts haphazardly, from hooks or on tables, around an underground storage room. In this episode the people were soldiers on a training mission who found their automatic weapons to be only moderately useful in combating mutants. And answered in this sequel is a question which has long nagged mutant aficionados--do they have a sense of humor? Apparently yes, for in one scene a soldier is rescued from a difficult cliff climb by a fellow soldier, who from above grabs his wrist just as he is about to fall and pulls him up effortlessly. Unfortunately, the helping soldier above is just a mutant in soldiers clothing. Letting the soldier-in-training dangle in mid air the mutant soldier chops off the arm he is holding and lets the man fall, some 80 feet or so and we are witness to the sound and vision of his head hitting a rock. Before he falls though the soldier is holding on the best he can with one hand but you know that's no good and when he begins to fall the mutant waves goodbye, with the soldiers cut off hand. And while at the time this was more horrifying than funny to me, in retrospect I have to judge it as proof of mutant humor. I could go on and on about this movie but for the few of you--and I'm guessing the number is very few--who enjoy, for whatever sick reason, the portrayal of mutants on film, I will spare you more details that in the end would only ruin the movie for you, and make you angry at me. I think it should be obvious that your anger is best saved for that day when you find yourself battling mutants. And good luck to you on that.
The Hills Have Eyes 2 is a movie about mutants. If you have ever seen a mutant this would be a good movie to see, for comparison's sake. I personally found the mutants to be legitimately frightening and grotesque, hell bent as they were on chopping up people and storing their parts haphazardly, from hooks or on tables, around an underground storage room. In this episode the people were soldiers on a training mission who found their automatic weapons to be only moderately useful in combating mutants. And answered in this sequel is a question which has long nagged mutant aficionados--do they have a sense of humor? Apparently yes, for in one scene a soldier is rescued from a difficult cliff climb by a fellow soldier, who from above grabs his wrist just as he is about to fall and pulls him up effortlessly. Unfortunately, the helping soldier above is just a mutant in soldiers clothing. Letting the soldier-in-training dangle in mid air the mutant soldier chops off the arm he is holding and lets the man fall, some 80 feet or so and we are witness to the sound and vision of his head hitting a rock. Before he falls though the soldier is holding on the best he can with one hand but you know that's no good and when he begins to fall the mutant waves goodbye, with the soldiers cut off hand. And while at the time this was more horrifying than funny to me, in retrospect I have to judge it as proof of mutant humor. I could go on and on about this movie but for the few of you--and I'm guessing the number is very few--who enjoy, for whatever sick reason, the portrayal of mutants on film, I will spare you more details that in the end would only ruin the movie for you, and make you angry at me. I think it should be obvious that your anger is best saved for that day when you find yourself battling mutants. And good luck to you on that.
Happy Holiday
I was up to the convenience store on the highway before sun up buying milk. So impatient was I for milk that I could not wait for the windshield to thaw and I squinted at the road on the other side of the frosted windshield, hoping not to find conflict with some small or large animal more impatient or careless than I.
The parking lot was full of the trucks of working men who were inside buying coffee and cigarettes and ding dongs for breakfast. There were three available spaces closest to the store and they were marked--Handicapped, No-Parking, and Reserved. I chose a spot that does not exist
A man about my height but twice as wide was blocking the open door with his comedy routine directed at a co-worker. The co-worker was a black man working on Martin Luther King Day. The big man said, Hold on now, what are you doing, don't you know what today is? If the circumstances allowed, the big man played this same joke every year. It was not mean spirited, the big man loved his black friend, and while comfortable with the word, nigger, was just as comfortable telling people he knew a black man who was all right. The big man took pride in this inside knowledge--the ability to discern between good and bad.
As a working class man of mostly the southern states, I have witnessed this exchange many times, in various forms, and one year, as my crews resident lover of black people, took off the day myself, although for me it was not out of reverence or protest that I took off, but rather that in regard to taking off from work, I feel one day is as good as another.
I had it in my mind to relate to you horrendous racial injustice on this day honoring the man who fought against it, but instead choose to leave you with the image of the two men at the store, who were gleamy-eyed and seemed happy to be in each other's company. As for what is in their hearts, I more and more wish to accept that I do not know.
I was up to the convenience store on the highway before sun up buying milk. So impatient was I for milk that I could not wait for the windshield to thaw and I squinted at the road on the other side of the frosted windshield, hoping not to find conflict with some small or large animal more impatient or careless than I.
The parking lot was full of the trucks of working men who were inside buying coffee and cigarettes and ding dongs for breakfast. There were three available spaces closest to the store and they were marked--Handicapped, No-Parking, and Reserved. I chose a spot that does not exist
A man about my height but twice as wide was blocking the open door with his comedy routine directed at a co-worker. The co-worker was a black man working on Martin Luther King Day. The big man said, Hold on now, what are you doing, don't you know what today is? If the circumstances allowed, the big man played this same joke every year. It was not mean spirited, the big man loved his black friend, and while comfortable with the word, nigger, was just as comfortable telling people he knew a black man who was all right. The big man took pride in this inside knowledge--the ability to discern between good and bad.
As a working class man of mostly the southern states, I have witnessed this exchange many times, in various forms, and one year, as my crews resident lover of black people, took off the day myself, although for me it was not out of reverence or protest that I took off, but rather that in regard to taking off from work, I feel one day is as good as another.
I had it in my mind to relate to you horrendous racial injustice on this day honoring the man who fought against it, but instead choose to leave you with the image of the two men at the store, who were gleamy-eyed and seemed happy to be in each other's company. As for what is in their hearts, I more and more wish to accept that I do not know.
Possibilities With Mice
The mice don't enjoy her company so they stay hidden and only occasionally venture out from the hiding places of mice--in the walls, the attic, or the insulation underneath the house--to see what goes on in the places of civilized man. There is however not too much going on behind the water heater or under the refrigerator or in the silverware drawer. She suffers a reasonable loneliness from their absence but remains ever hopeful, and at the ready, with a keen-eyed vigilance and a twitching nose, and in the event they should ever want to play she is willing and able, practicing daily with a cork or a wadded up piece of paper which she carries gently in her jaw around the house before dropping it carefully and batting it wildly across the wood floors.
The mice don't enjoy her company so they stay hidden and only occasionally venture out from the hiding places of mice--in the walls, the attic, or the insulation underneath the house--to see what goes on in the places of civilized man. There is however not too much going on behind the water heater or under the refrigerator or in the silverware drawer. She suffers a reasonable loneliness from their absence but remains ever hopeful, and at the ready, with a keen-eyed vigilance and a twitching nose, and in the event they should ever want to play she is willing and able, practicing daily with a cork or a wadded up piece of paper which she carries gently in her jaw around the house before dropping it carefully and batting it wildly across the wood floors.
Immolation Faker
It took him most of the evening to work up the courage to tell us he had set his cat on fire. People who set cats on fire are often not cherished but we few stragglers at the party did not feel judgmental, and that is probably a testament to the numbing effects of alcohol. If the man had gone out on the street wearing a sandwich board that said I set my cat on fire it is likely he would have been treated harshly by at least some of the passersby. I actually laughed but felt immediately ashamed, until a few others laughed with me and then I felt all right about it. You may be trying to figure out now which is the sicker bastard, the one who sets the cat on fire or the one who laughs about it. It could be a tie. There doesn't always have to be a winner.
Cat's are not firewood and should not be set on fire. I think we can all agree on that.
Now I would like to distance myself from this man and say that my laughing was obviously of the nervous type. The type that occurs when what you are really feeling is something more akin to horror. I had for the most part felt safe at the party, until the ending where one of us turned out to be a man who casually admits to setting his cat on fire.
Cats are cuddly and gentle creatures, except for the one that I am raising and she is a cold-blooded mauler, who on this most recent trip tattooed a nice scratch onto one girl's arm, swatted at a 7 year-old who up until that time had been worshiping her and subsequently was seen to mope, and later that evening the little tiger apparently punctured a vein or two on the back of my hand so that I dripped blood on the eve of Christmas eve and then the next day, actually just before the man admitted to setting his cat on fire, my cat shredded the face of a woman who afterwards came into the room where the few of us sat passively drunk (and not yet aware of the cat immolator in our midst) to alert us with blood dripping down her chin that my cat had some behavioral problems.
Men who set their cats on fire must be exposed but I have taken this Christmas tale as far as I can. I could have told you the truth but I didn't. I could have said I talked to a man at a party who told me his cat had brushed up against a candle in his home and singed a good bit of her hair on one side but instead I decided to make something up, to allude to the evil that may lurk in men. No cats were seriously injured in this story, but all the human suffering was real.
It took him most of the evening to work up the courage to tell us he had set his cat on fire. People who set cats on fire are often not cherished but we few stragglers at the party did not feel judgmental, and that is probably a testament to the numbing effects of alcohol. If the man had gone out on the street wearing a sandwich board that said I set my cat on fire it is likely he would have been treated harshly by at least some of the passersby. I actually laughed but felt immediately ashamed, until a few others laughed with me and then I felt all right about it. You may be trying to figure out now which is the sicker bastard, the one who sets the cat on fire or the one who laughs about it. It could be a tie. There doesn't always have to be a winner.
Cat's are not firewood and should not be set on fire. I think we can all agree on that.
Now I would like to distance myself from this man and say that my laughing was obviously of the nervous type. The type that occurs when what you are really feeling is something more akin to horror. I had for the most part felt safe at the party, until the ending where one of us turned out to be a man who casually admits to setting his cat on fire.
Cats are cuddly and gentle creatures, except for the one that I am raising and she is a cold-blooded mauler, who on this most recent trip tattooed a nice scratch onto one girl's arm, swatted at a 7 year-old who up until that time had been worshiping her and subsequently was seen to mope, and later that evening the little tiger apparently punctured a vein or two on the back of my hand so that I dripped blood on the eve of Christmas eve and then the next day, actually just before the man admitted to setting his cat on fire, my cat shredded the face of a woman who afterwards came into the room where the few of us sat passively drunk (and not yet aware of the cat immolator in our midst) to alert us with blood dripping down her chin that my cat had some behavioral problems.
Men who set their cats on fire must be exposed but I have taken this Christmas tale as far as I can. I could have told you the truth but I didn't. I could have said I talked to a man at a party who told me his cat had brushed up against a candle in his home and singed a good bit of her hair on one side but instead I decided to make something up, to allude to the evil that may lurk in men. No cats were seriously injured in this story, but all the human suffering was real.
Two Slices And A Pepsi
I had just spent seven dollars for a small bag of cat food on Stanton St. after having been turned away from a place on Clinton that was setting 4p.m. as the latest they would serve a late breakfast. So I parked the turnip truck and crossed Houston for a couple of slices at Ray's. The man at the counter put the slices in the oven for me and I just stood there, once peering over at the drink cooler with what might pass as a professorial interest, a man who has studied drink coolers across the globe. A Jamaican woman behind the counter surprised me with a loud, lilting and enthusiastic--Look At What I Got, holding up what may have been a candle holder or a piece of African art paying tribute to the twin towers. Oh, that's very nice, I said, suppressing what any man less self-conscious of driving a turnip truck would say--What the hell is it? Suppressing those words was harder than you would think and I found myself nodding and tilting my head back and forth in a rhythm that I think resembled deep understanding. The woman then asked could she get me something and I told her the man had already taken care of me. She asked did I want a beverage and I said yes, I would have a can of Pepsi, glad that I had earlier studied the contents of the cooler. Decision making is not my forte. She rang me up and said, six dollars and twenty-five cents. I had not studied the expansive menu board up on the wall behind the counter and besides, did not want to put a damper on the woman's spirits by haggling over the cost of two slices of cheese pizza and a 12 ounce can of Pepsi. The man served up the slices, placing them on two overlapping paper plates. I sat down at a table which had a few crumbs littering its surface and a few more on the chair. I chose it because it had the most condiments handy, the pepper flakes, the powdered Parmesan, the garlic salt, and even a bottle of hot sauce, or I think it was hot sauce. It is possible that it was something more mysterious than that. A simple slice of freshly warmed cheese pizza is a wonderful thing and I felt after the first two bites a growing sense of well-being. I was one of three customers, but the only one stuffing my face. At the table by the front door a couple waiting on a fresh pie-to-go were sitting and talking to the Jamaican woman, who was now leaning forward with her elbows on top of the grey plastic trash can cover just to the right of the glass doors. She had much to say but I had little interest in any of it. At one point the woman she was talking to, who sat across from her mostly silent man (with his shaking leg in contrast to his complacent demeanor), lowered her voice and turned around slightly to judge how quiet she needed to be to keep me from hearing, and said something that sounded like--He drinks his urine. I took a sip of Pepsi to wash away the effects of my imagination. Looking up at the menu board I did the math, 1.25 for each of my three items, and then cast a knowing glance into the void of non-confrontation. After leaving out of there I could not find my turnip truck so I just walked home.
I had just spent seven dollars for a small bag of cat food on Stanton St. after having been turned away from a place on Clinton that was setting 4p.m. as the latest they would serve a late breakfast. So I parked the turnip truck and crossed Houston for a couple of slices at Ray's. The man at the counter put the slices in the oven for me and I just stood there, once peering over at the drink cooler with what might pass as a professorial interest, a man who has studied drink coolers across the globe. A Jamaican woman behind the counter surprised me with a loud, lilting and enthusiastic--Look At What I Got, holding up what may have been a candle holder or a piece of African art paying tribute to the twin towers. Oh, that's very nice, I said, suppressing what any man less self-conscious of driving a turnip truck would say--What the hell is it? Suppressing those words was harder than you would think and I found myself nodding and tilting my head back and forth in a rhythm that I think resembled deep understanding. The woman then asked could she get me something and I told her the man had already taken care of me. She asked did I want a beverage and I said yes, I would have a can of Pepsi, glad that I had earlier studied the contents of the cooler. Decision making is not my forte. She rang me up and said, six dollars and twenty-five cents. I had not studied the expansive menu board up on the wall behind the counter and besides, did not want to put a damper on the woman's spirits by haggling over the cost of two slices of cheese pizza and a 12 ounce can of Pepsi. The man served up the slices, placing them on two overlapping paper plates. I sat down at a table which had a few crumbs littering its surface and a few more on the chair. I chose it because it had the most condiments handy, the pepper flakes, the powdered Parmesan, the garlic salt, and even a bottle of hot sauce, or I think it was hot sauce. It is possible that it was something more mysterious than that. A simple slice of freshly warmed cheese pizza is a wonderful thing and I felt after the first two bites a growing sense of well-being. I was one of three customers, but the only one stuffing my face. At the table by the front door a couple waiting on a fresh pie-to-go were sitting and talking to the Jamaican woman, who was now leaning forward with her elbows on top of the grey plastic trash can cover just to the right of the glass doors. She had much to say but I had little interest in any of it. At one point the woman she was talking to, who sat across from her mostly silent man (with his shaking leg in contrast to his complacent demeanor), lowered her voice and turned around slightly to judge how quiet she needed to be to keep me from hearing, and said something that sounded like--He drinks his urine. I took a sip of Pepsi to wash away the effects of my imagination. Looking up at the menu board I did the math, 1.25 for each of my three items, and then cast a knowing glance into the void of non-confrontation. After leaving out of there I could not find my turnip truck so I just walked home.
The Vodka Story
Poor, poor Mr. BC. In moments of astounding bad judgment he will on occasion give to me the overflow of liquid gifts that come his way during the holiday season. Once it was a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. I did not know of the Blue at the time, only that it was not Red or Black, but remember thinking how uniquely delicious and smooth it was, everyday, until it was gone. It was, in retrospect, almost touching how sincere BC was when months later he asked me did I save him any. I looked at him like he was crazy, which, I don't know, I think he may be. Not daunted by such bad judgment he then handed over to me numerous bottles of a fine Hetman's vodka, hand delivered from the Ukraine. All I can tell you is that I saved each and every one for as long as is humanly possible. There was later another group of vodkas entrusted to me, and, exercising my own terrible judgment, I gave the best of these, a Beluga brand, to a local man who was having a spot of trouble, and needed some cheering up. I had one, or two, sips of it though; if only BC could say the same.
Then, last year, really, I don't know, he must go into a deep cave of denial about this decision making ineptitude from which he suffers, this trusting of me with cherished liquids, for he gave to me another batch of liquor, left over from a Christmas party. It was mostly of the higher quality but generic grade, but there was again, an interesting vodka or two. Honestly though, I can't even remember what they were. There was however a quirky-shaped bottle that for whatever reason I stashed in a cupboard up at the bighouse, thinking anything this stupid looking must be stupid vodka. I have at this point, as you can imagine, developed such a sensitive palate for vodka that I won't drink it except on those occasions where I find it acceptable, or more likely, necessary, to dilute it with a dash of vermouth and an olive or two. The exception I would make to this rule of dilution is to of course at least consider drinking straight any vodka received from Mr. BC.
Well, I can only tell you this--I get sometimes lonely and bored out here. And thirsty. Bernadette is only able to visit every so often, which is good, until she leaves, and then it is bad, bad like being held down by a syringe-weilding god in a dark alley littered with lost souls and then getting injected with pure loneliness. But I only mention that as a distraction because I was neither bored nor lonely when I decided the other day to grab that funny shaped bottle and give it a new home in my freezer. It's flat on one side so it does lie nicely in the cold storage. It is a brand called Kauffman's and is distilled 14 times, whatever that means. Anyway, it's not very good. For one thing, unless you inhale with the snorting force of a Hoover, there is no smell to it whatsoever. I mean nothing, unless you count that faint hint of a single flower growing on a far away hill as something. And the taste, jeez, what can I tell you--it has none, except maybe a touch of the petal of that aforementioned flower, one strand of its root, and a single fine speck of the loamy soil from which it grows. It is almost like it doesn't even exist because frankly drinking ice cold spring water burns the throat and stomach more than this Kauffman's does.
I don't know why you would bother with this one. But, if you feel it is in your best interest to taste this vodka, I will with every fiber of my pretty much non-existent self-control, restrain myself for one month, Mr. BC, from drinking every last drop of this latest clear liquid. After that though, I will only be able to tell you a story about it.
Poor, poor Mr. BC. In moments of astounding bad judgment he will on occasion give to me the overflow of liquid gifts that come his way during the holiday season. Once it was a bottle of Johnny Walker Blue. I did not know of the Blue at the time, only that it was not Red or Black, but remember thinking how uniquely delicious and smooth it was, everyday, until it was gone. It was, in retrospect, almost touching how sincere BC was when months later he asked me did I save him any. I looked at him like he was crazy, which, I don't know, I think he may be. Not daunted by such bad judgment he then handed over to me numerous bottles of a fine Hetman's vodka, hand delivered from the Ukraine. All I can tell you is that I saved each and every one for as long as is humanly possible. There was later another group of vodkas entrusted to me, and, exercising my own terrible judgment, I gave the best of these, a Beluga brand, to a local man who was having a spot of trouble, and needed some cheering up. I had one, or two, sips of it though; if only BC could say the same.
Then, last year, really, I don't know, he must go into a deep cave of denial about this decision making ineptitude from which he suffers, this trusting of me with cherished liquids, for he gave to me another batch of liquor, left over from a Christmas party. It was mostly of the higher quality but generic grade, but there was again, an interesting vodka or two. Honestly though, I can't even remember what they were. There was however a quirky-shaped bottle that for whatever reason I stashed in a cupboard up at the bighouse, thinking anything this stupid looking must be stupid vodka. I have at this point, as you can imagine, developed such a sensitive palate for vodka that I won't drink it except on those occasions where I find it acceptable, or more likely, necessary, to dilute it with a dash of vermouth and an olive or two. The exception I would make to this rule of dilution is to of course at least consider drinking straight any vodka received from Mr. BC.
Well, I can only tell you this--I get sometimes lonely and bored out here. And thirsty. Bernadette is only able to visit every so often, which is good, until she leaves, and then it is bad, bad like being held down by a syringe-weilding god in a dark alley littered with lost souls and then getting injected with pure loneliness. But I only mention that as a distraction because I was neither bored nor lonely when I decided the other day to grab that funny shaped bottle and give it a new home in my freezer. It's flat on one side so it does lie nicely in the cold storage. It is a brand called Kauffman's and is distilled 14 times, whatever that means. Anyway, it's not very good. For one thing, unless you inhale with the snorting force of a Hoover, there is no smell to it whatsoever. I mean nothing, unless you count that faint hint of a single flower growing on a far away hill as something. And the taste, jeez, what can I tell you--it has none, except maybe a touch of the petal of that aforementioned flower, one strand of its root, and a single fine speck of the loamy soil from which it grows. It is almost like it doesn't even exist because frankly drinking ice cold spring water burns the throat and stomach more than this Kauffman's does.
I don't know why you would bother with this one. But, if you feel it is in your best interest to taste this vodka, I will with every fiber of my pretty much non-existent self-control, restrain myself for one month, Mr. BC, from drinking every last drop of this latest clear liquid. After that though, I will only be able to tell you a story about it.
Conrad On Foot
It was frightfully windy last night. The wind bent the trees and rattled the windows. It blew clouds so quick across the moon that the on and off lighting of it was like a signal, but one I could not understand a word of.
The electricity flickered on and off a number of times, which is not an unusual thing in these parts. It finally went off for good right when Bernadette was putting a slice of salmon filet in the oven. Bernadette did not say--do you think it will come back on? We just started lighting candles and turning on battery operated devices. I made a fire in the cast iron fireplace but it didn't take right off so Bernadette blew on it. It got going pretty good after awhile.
We sat down and played cards. Bernadette is a card player from way back but she hasn't had much experience with Gin so I eased her into it. I am not all that adept at card games but do know most of the rules of Gin. She would say things like--uh oh, I'm screwed, and then the very next draw would lay down her cards and say, Gin. And she would have Gin. I would, not very calmly, perhaps even ranting, explain to her that you cannot one minute say, uh oh, I'm screwed, and then immediately after that win the game. That not only was it incorrect to do so but exasperating. And that she might have to forfeit the game if she did it again. I don't mind losing though, much in the same way I don't mind getting wet when taking a shower. Or squinting when the sun is in my eyes. Or coughing when a bug flies down my throat.
The electricity never did come back on so we had cold steak sandwiches.
Earlier in the day we had eaten at an area restaurant about six miles from here. It was moderately satisfying. It was okay. A few blocks away is an antique barn and before eating we had stopped there for a few minutes and looked at antiques. On the road leading to the parking lot we had passed a man wearing a light jacket and carrying a plastic bag, walking in the grass alongside the road. After eating we drove the six miles back to the house and passed the same man about four blocks from our driveway, and when he turned, in this context of seeing him so close to his own driveway, I realized it was the 79 year old Conrad Jones, who has had his truck taken away from him by his concerned children because of the rapidly progressing dementia. Yet he still figures out ways to sneak off and get around, even if it requires 12 miles of hiking on a nearly freezing day.
Conrad's people go back about three hundred years in these parts so it is understatement to say that he is well known and I can only guess that I am not the only one who passed him by unaware that he was Conrad Jones on foot walking twelve miles to get something that would fit into a small plastic bag.
It was frightfully windy last night. The wind bent the trees and rattled the windows. It blew clouds so quick across the moon that the on and off lighting of it was like a signal, but one I could not understand a word of.
The electricity flickered on and off a number of times, which is not an unusual thing in these parts. It finally went off for good right when Bernadette was putting a slice of salmon filet in the oven. Bernadette did not say--do you think it will come back on? We just started lighting candles and turning on battery operated devices. I made a fire in the cast iron fireplace but it didn't take right off so Bernadette blew on it. It got going pretty good after awhile.
We sat down and played cards. Bernadette is a card player from way back but she hasn't had much experience with Gin so I eased her into it. I am not all that adept at card games but do know most of the rules of Gin. She would say things like--uh oh, I'm screwed, and then the very next draw would lay down her cards and say, Gin. And she would have Gin. I would, not very calmly, perhaps even ranting, explain to her that you cannot one minute say, uh oh, I'm screwed, and then immediately after that win the game. That not only was it incorrect to do so but exasperating. And that she might have to forfeit the game if she did it again. I don't mind losing though, much in the same way I don't mind getting wet when taking a shower. Or squinting when the sun is in my eyes. Or coughing when a bug flies down my throat.
The electricity never did come back on so we had cold steak sandwiches.
Earlier in the day we had eaten at an area restaurant about six miles from here. It was moderately satisfying. It was okay. A few blocks away is an antique barn and before eating we had stopped there for a few minutes and looked at antiques. On the road leading to the parking lot we had passed a man wearing a light jacket and carrying a plastic bag, walking in the grass alongside the road. After eating we drove the six miles back to the house and passed the same man about four blocks from our driveway, and when he turned, in this context of seeing him so close to his own driveway, I realized it was the 79 year old Conrad Jones, who has had his truck taken away from him by his concerned children because of the rapidly progressing dementia. Yet he still figures out ways to sneak off and get around, even if it requires 12 miles of hiking on a nearly freezing day.
Conrad's people go back about three hundred years in these parts so it is understatement to say that he is well known and I can only guess that I am not the only one who passed him by unaware that he was Conrad Jones on foot walking twelve miles to get something that would fit into a small plastic bag.
