Days Of Independence
The eminent professor doctor came down from the city and tried to spot some interesting birds out here during the week of July 4th but excepting the Indigo Bunting pair did not see as many interesting birds as he may have had we taken him off property into the Shenandoah wilderness. Bernadette on at least three occasions suggested to the group, hey let's take a hike, but the group evidently thought that she had said let's stick blunt rusty nails in our feet and walk to the Department of Motor Vehicles to have our license photos redone. After a few days he'd drank all he could drink, I mean done all he could do out here and hopped into the first BMW heading north. A day or two later wandering aimlessly around the estuaries near Coney Island he spotted a Heron from Africa that may have been spotted by others in the few days preceding but he was the first to get a photo. This bird has perhaps been seen on the east coast in the last few years but never before officially reported in the state of New York. So this is a pretty damn big deal and so to speak a fine feather in the cap of the eminent professor doctor.
As much as I need my license photo redone I did not feel like hiking the first time Bernadette suggested it after the exodus of the entire group. And she did not feel like it when I suggested it later. Finally on her last day here we went for a hike out near Old Rag. We followed the Hughes River. It was very low. But it still made noise and when we could not see it we could hear it. Along the trail it was buggy. We did not bring repellant. The gnats, oh the damn gnats. I took one in the eyeball right off. The gnats were like gnats hovering near a hiker's face. Those gnats, what a nuisance. We saw no other humans. Which is to say we could have worn pith helmets with netting and not been laughed at. But we don't have those. The tiny gnat floats on the air near your eyeballs and darts to and fro but no one is sure why except gnatologists and other people who study gnats as a hobby. We tried unsuccessfully to be like an Alaskan nature guide/pilot we had seen ignoring gnats hovering by the hundreds around his face in a movie about a man who loved bears too much and was finally eaten by one. The pilot liked the bear lover but other people did not and said as much in the movie about the bear lover's life done by a premier foreign filmmaker.
Bernadette stopped on the trail and with her index finger pulled her lower lid way down and asked me, is there a gnat in my eye? There was not. But, as I told her, there was one trying to get in there while she ask me was there one already in there. Later she paused and shook her head and said, I just got one up the nose. I felt sorry for her but did not let on. She is not one to be daunted by nose gnats and does not need me feeling sorry for her. You may be saying, with that nose of yours how did you not get one up the nose? Just lucky I guess. I got bossy with her on the drive in and said spit out that gum and drink this Gatorade. She didn't really want to but she did it anyway. I was driving and silently gloating a little, saying to myself, ha, made you drink that Gatorade.
Later, after we shattered our record for that trail and had endured 7 or 8 miles of gnats we drove for food and had an organic beef burrito and a grilled salmon wrap at a local organic grocers. Bernadette tried to make me buy vegetables for myself for after she was gone but I fought her on it. Just before I relented she threw a bag of something green on the counter and rattled off simple directions that included salt and olive oil, a complete moron could manage it her tone was telling me and I fell for it.
The train out of Culpeper was 4 hours late but we had checked ahead and shaved off three of those hours lollygagging around Mt. Pleasant. We sat in the Jeep and listened to music and some comedians who were not extremely funny. I was pretending to be bored because I did not know what else to do. Bernadette said I could leave her there but I in not so many words told her that was the dumbest idea she had come up with since her idea to stick blunt rusty nails in our feet and walk to the DMV. There were two freight train false alarms and then the real deal and she got on the 50 out of here. I came back to Mt. Pleasant and took some photos of the sky.
...more recent posts
The Requesting BC
Mr. BC read a news article about the Sprint company denying continued service to one thousand of its 50 million customers because those one thousand were calling for customer service too often. He was in some inexplicable way moved by this--what I can only guess he considered--unfair treatment and has requested that I comment on it.
I am a Sprint Customer. I have no complaints. The service works better than I need it to. I think people who call customer service more than once should be not just deprived of service but shot (in the kneecaps). If I could use my phone any less I would. I only have a 300 minute plan but I wish I had rollover minutes because then I would have 27,000 minutes in the bank, which I could then perhaps trade in for S&H green stamps which I could then trade in for products. Household products like a lamp. Or toys like a genuine floating boat. Or sporting goods like a badminton set or lawn darts, be careful you don't pierce the skull of your little brother.
I was having dinner the other night with friends, at that restaurant up the road a piece. It is the one that has outdoor seating within view of a cemetery and offers, depending on the climate and circumstance, the wafting odor of a septic system gone wrong. We discussed over dinner and drinks the usual subjects, a little news, a little he's the worst president in the history of people giving a damn about presidents, and perverse--or if you are into it, absolutely normal--sexual practices like men having intercourse with horses, people who dress up like bunnies and other furry animals in the course of sexual fun, and people who dress up like babies. You mean dressing up like Catholic school girls in those short skirts and white knee highs sort of thing? No, like dressing up in diapers sort of thing. Oh, I said. How I longed for simpler times when dinner conversation did not stray too far from septic systems.
If I were needing to blame someone for this straying of conversation away from the prosaic I would blame Sprint. But please do not disconnect me Sprint. I need to have a response when people ask me for a phone number. I prefer that people phrase the question--what is your phone number?, instead of where can you be reached because I am confused by the latter.
Mr. BC read a news article about the Sprint company denying continued service to one thousand of its 50 million customers because those one thousand were calling for customer service too often. He was in some inexplicable way moved by this--what I can only guess he considered--unfair treatment and has requested that I comment on it.
I am a Sprint Customer. I have no complaints. The service works better than I need it to. I think people who call customer service more than once should be not just deprived of service but shot (in the kneecaps). If I could use my phone any less I would. I only have a 300 minute plan but I wish I had rollover minutes because then I would have 27,000 minutes in the bank, which I could then perhaps trade in for S&H green stamps which I could then trade in for products. Household products like a lamp. Or toys like a genuine floating boat. Or sporting goods like a badminton set or lawn darts, be careful you don't pierce the skull of your little brother.
I was having dinner the other night with friends, at that restaurant up the road a piece. It is the one that has outdoor seating within view of a cemetery and offers, depending on the climate and circumstance, the wafting odor of a septic system gone wrong. We discussed over dinner and drinks the usual subjects, a little news, a little he's the worst president in the history of people giving a damn about presidents, and perverse--or if you are into it, absolutely normal--sexual practices like men having intercourse with horses, people who dress up like bunnies and other furry animals in the course of sexual fun, and people who dress up like babies. You mean dressing up like Catholic school girls in those short skirts and white knee highs sort of thing? No, like dressing up in diapers sort of thing. Oh, I said. How I longed for simpler times when dinner conversation did not stray too far from septic systems.
If I were needing to blame someone for this straying of conversation away from the prosaic I would blame Sprint. But please do not disconnect me Sprint. I need to have a response when people ask me for a phone number. I prefer that people phrase the question--what is your phone number?, instead of where can you be reached because I am confused by the latter.
The Hermetically Challenged Moon Afflicted Mute
What?
I-uhn-know.
Huh?
Nothing.
What?
I-uhn-know.
Huh?
Nothing.
How Many Sir?
I felt emboldened by the location of the national chain restaurant, a joint advertised for all my life as a hip and friendly and fun place to eat. And not just for the those who mistakenly saw themselves as terminally hip, but for the whole family. Situated as it was across from the new Target in a small but growing Virginia town, I was able to convince myself that it would not be as all out a frightening experience as I remembered from 30 years previous, in Dallas, where the branding of hipness, while not a new thing, was still in its nascent stages as applied to chain restaurants. There was back then the incentive for employees to be individuals, within a strictly defined framework. This forced individuality was as often as not demonstrated badly, and left you nodding and smiling at people you neither agreed with nor felt friendly towards. These Virginia country employees would be from a simpler--and therefore in my mind, better--stock. They wouldn't be so perky and eager and annoying and robotically friendly. There might be bits of hay lodged in the cuffs of their pants. And the training manual would have gone through its necessary maturation process in 30 years. Time had made some fun of the original model. I was arriving early to beat the lunch rush. There was no hostess at the hostess station. The air felt sticky. There was a bar to the left and the room was gi-normous, made for a crowd. It was by itself bigger than many restaurants. I caught the bartender's eye. He was no fresh faced youngster. His skin was etched with the creases of a life lived outside the box, a life that did not proceed along the lines laid out in manuals. His eyes told tales. We acknowledged each other, two old gunslingers, one who would pour drinks for the next several hours, the other a bit lost, lacking definition, not even sure where he had left his gun, who came only to eat, before shopping next door for a washer/dryer combo.
How many sir? I'd been flanked. There is only me, I said. It struck me that those were the first words I had spoken out loud in four days. I should have practiced. You can't get through life just nodding, or, when forced to speak, blurting out oddly phrased bits. I could have said, I am alone, but frankly, the melodramatic is rarely appropriate. I will be dining by myself young lady. No, absolutely not, that would not work, I am an aging gunslinger, not a proper English gentleman. I think, "just me" would work (should there ever be a next time), delivered with sincerity and a dash of understated optimism. I was seated at a table for two, where I could only hope the extra seat would not be temporarily used by the wait-person, my long lost best friend just stopping by to rest a spell and take my order. He would in my nightmare spin the chair around backwards and fold his arms across the seat back. Is it any wonder I cry out with regularity in my dreams--"shit!"
Actually two waiters showed up and politely battled for the right to serve me, each in their own inimitable fashion.
I was handed a menu by the winning waiter and then he disappeared. The menu was responding to the sticky air by being sticky. I don't think it was unclean but I wasn't ruling that out. There were so many choices and the choices had catchy names that made me pause and wonder, and then cringe. I would choose to not join, to be apart from this hip and fun national chain, by ignoring all these choices and ordering a cheeseburger and fries and ice-tea. My waiter came and I wanted to get down to business. I wanted to skip a step. I only wanted to eat and skedaddle, I did not come for the "experience." He wanted me to have one of their signature margaritas, but failing to convince me that a margarita before noon was a good idea, still wanted me to wait before ordering. He would bring my tea first and some silverware. I said thank you. He came back a few minutes later and asked me if I had decided, knowing damn well that I had decided three minutes ago. I was not angry. He was a nice kid. I placed my order and then stared at the ceiling, and the fixtures, and inspected some nearby caulking. Have you been waited on sir? I have, yes I have, thank you, I said. I continued to inspect my immediate surroundings with what I think appeared to be inexhaustible fascination. Until I exhausted myself and was forced to stare down into the depths of my being. Everything all right sir? (Uh, I don't know, isn't it? I don't really feel qualified to answer that question, I mean everything? Are you kidding? Is everything all right? I should say not, but...), Oh yes, fine, thank you, I said.
Finally I glanced over at the only other guy sitting in the section. I did not make eye contact, but nodded, internally, it's just you and me fella.
My food came, thank you, I said. Yes, you will be the first person I let know if I need anything else, yes, I will, thank you.
It was all edible.
What? Oh Lord, huh? Yes, I'm good, thank you.
A drill sergeant came up the isle and while passing barked, how was it, sir? I squeaked back at her, the best, thank you.
When the waiter brought the check I gave him a twenty before he could put it down on the table. I will be right back with your change, sir. He brought the change and informed me that he had rounded off the bill in my favor. What could I say? I said, thank you.
I stood in front of the washers and dryers, paralyzed. I opened up each washer and looked inside and felt nothing. Was I supposed to feel something? I did not know. After awhile I began to worry that a salesman was going to approach me. I had used up every iota of my self just having lunch. I would not be able to engage with anyone else today. A pity really. The machines were all so shiny. This was in a big home improvement store so I just wandered off and looked at a wide variety of items. After roaming the same aisles repeatedly I realized that it was unlikely that I would buy anything that day so I just came home.
I felt emboldened by the location of the national chain restaurant, a joint advertised for all my life as a hip and friendly and fun place to eat. And not just for the those who mistakenly saw themselves as terminally hip, but for the whole family. Situated as it was across from the new Target in a small but growing Virginia town, I was able to convince myself that it would not be as all out a frightening experience as I remembered from 30 years previous, in Dallas, where the branding of hipness, while not a new thing, was still in its nascent stages as applied to chain restaurants. There was back then the incentive for employees to be individuals, within a strictly defined framework. This forced individuality was as often as not demonstrated badly, and left you nodding and smiling at people you neither agreed with nor felt friendly towards. These Virginia country employees would be from a simpler--and therefore in my mind, better--stock. They wouldn't be so perky and eager and annoying and robotically friendly. There might be bits of hay lodged in the cuffs of their pants. And the training manual would have gone through its necessary maturation process in 30 years. Time had made some fun of the original model. I was arriving early to beat the lunch rush. There was no hostess at the hostess station. The air felt sticky. There was a bar to the left and the room was gi-normous, made for a crowd. It was by itself bigger than many restaurants. I caught the bartender's eye. He was no fresh faced youngster. His skin was etched with the creases of a life lived outside the box, a life that did not proceed along the lines laid out in manuals. His eyes told tales. We acknowledged each other, two old gunslingers, one who would pour drinks for the next several hours, the other a bit lost, lacking definition, not even sure where he had left his gun, who came only to eat, before shopping next door for a washer/dryer combo.
How many sir? I'd been flanked. There is only me, I said. It struck me that those were the first words I had spoken out loud in four days. I should have practiced. You can't get through life just nodding, or, when forced to speak, blurting out oddly phrased bits. I could have said, I am alone, but frankly, the melodramatic is rarely appropriate. I will be dining by myself young lady. No, absolutely not, that would not work, I am an aging gunslinger, not a proper English gentleman. I think, "just me" would work (should there ever be a next time), delivered with sincerity and a dash of understated optimism. I was seated at a table for two, where I could only hope the extra seat would not be temporarily used by the wait-person, my long lost best friend just stopping by to rest a spell and take my order. He would in my nightmare spin the chair around backwards and fold his arms across the seat back. Is it any wonder I cry out with regularity in my dreams--"shit!"
Actually two waiters showed up and politely battled for the right to serve me, each in their own inimitable fashion.
I was handed a menu by the winning waiter and then he disappeared. The menu was responding to the sticky air by being sticky. I don't think it was unclean but I wasn't ruling that out. There were so many choices and the choices had catchy names that made me pause and wonder, and then cringe. I would choose to not join, to be apart from this hip and fun national chain, by ignoring all these choices and ordering a cheeseburger and fries and ice-tea. My waiter came and I wanted to get down to business. I wanted to skip a step. I only wanted to eat and skedaddle, I did not come for the "experience." He wanted me to have one of their signature margaritas, but failing to convince me that a margarita before noon was a good idea, still wanted me to wait before ordering. He would bring my tea first and some silverware. I said thank you. He came back a few minutes later and asked me if I had decided, knowing damn well that I had decided three minutes ago. I was not angry. He was a nice kid. I placed my order and then stared at the ceiling, and the fixtures, and inspected some nearby caulking. Have you been waited on sir? I have, yes I have, thank you, I said. I continued to inspect my immediate surroundings with what I think appeared to be inexhaustible fascination. Until I exhausted myself and was forced to stare down into the depths of my being. Everything all right sir? (Uh, I don't know, isn't it? I don't really feel qualified to answer that question, I mean everything? Are you kidding? Is everything all right? I should say not, but...), Oh yes, fine, thank you, I said.
Finally I glanced over at the only other guy sitting in the section. I did not make eye contact, but nodded, internally, it's just you and me fella.
My food came, thank you, I said. Yes, you will be the first person I let know if I need anything else, yes, I will, thank you.
It was all edible.
What? Oh Lord, huh? Yes, I'm good, thank you.
A drill sergeant came up the isle and while passing barked, how was it, sir? I squeaked back at her, the best, thank you.
When the waiter brought the check I gave him a twenty before he could put it down on the table. I will be right back with your change, sir. He brought the change and informed me that he had rounded off the bill in my favor. What could I say? I said, thank you.
I stood in front of the washers and dryers, paralyzed. I opened up each washer and looked inside and felt nothing. Was I supposed to feel something? I did not know. After awhile I began to worry that a salesman was going to approach me. I had used up every iota of my self just having lunch. I would not be able to engage with anyone else today. A pity really. The machines were all so shiny. This was in a big home improvement store so I just wandered off and looked at a wide variety of items. After roaming the same aisles repeatedly I realized that it was unlikely that I would buy anything that day so I just came home.
Scientific Fact
Eh-uh-yeah-r I have partially filled a quart ziplock bag with water and nailed it over the main doorway coming into the cottage, to deter flies from entering the house. It is a proven scientific fact that the shear absurdity of such a tactic will scare away not only flies but timid human beings as well. There are many theories on why doing this will keep flies and timid human beings from entering your home. Or I assume there are. I don't really know of a single theory that explains it convincingly, nor am I even remotely curious enough to search for a so-called answer on the World Wide Web. I can though say this: every time I pause and think about that bag of water over my door I want to flee this house and distance myself from the foolishness it represents. And but for my loyalty to the law of inertia I would. As backup I possess both a fly-swatter and an attitude which on occasion can be tolerant of flies and other pests.
Eh-uh-yeah-r I have partially filled a quart ziplock bag with water and nailed it over the main doorway coming into the cottage, to deter flies from entering the house. It is a proven scientific fact that the shear absurdity of such a tactic will scare away not only flies but timid human beings as well. There are many theories on why doing this will keep flies and timid human beings from entering your home. Or I assume there are. I don't really know of a single theory that explains it convincingly, nor am I even remotely curious enough to search for a so-called answer on the World Wide Web. I can though say this: every time I pause and think about that bag of water over my door I want to flee this house and distance myself from the foolishness it represents. And but for my loyalty to the law of inertia I would. As backup I possess both a fly-swatter and an attitude which on occasion can be tolerant of flies and other pests.
Fox In The Hayfield
Similar to a guerrilla farmer watering weed off the grid, this last week before the rain I was hauling trash cans full of water in the back of the Polaris (which is like a 4-wheeler on steroids) out to the hay field behind the bocce court to water 5 newly planted 15 foot tall willow oaks. I was siphoning out the water using 10 foot sections cut from an old garden hose. There is a Zen-like quality to time spent in a hayfield under the late afternoon sun waiting for water to drain from a fifty-gallon trash can into a heavy mulch ring around the base of a willow oak tree. Bernadette joined me on one of these trips and I went pssst but she could not hear me. Hey, psssst, I said again, making barely any noise at all. Clearly she was ignoring me in favor of staring off under the late afternoon sun into the near distance at a small cemetery on the property's edge. As it was fairly important news I risked all by raising my voice, and said, hey Bernadette, there is a fox, and when she said where I said right in front of you. It wasn't really right in front of her. It was about 10 feet away and to the left. We were both very still. The hay in the immediate area surrounding the five trees was pretty well beat down. We weren't hiding from the fox and the fox wasn't hiding from us. It was hot, sunny and still. Bernadette had brought us mint juleps and the ice in them melted while we watched the fox, first come closer--close enough at five feet away to scare me a little--and then move away to the mulch ring of another tree, a safe distance of twenty-five feet or so, where it commenced to lollygag, nibble on shredded bark bits, and do playful swivel-hip maneuvers in the new soft and smelly bedding.
Similar to a guerrilla farmer watering weed off the grid, this last week before the rain I was hauling trash cans full of water in the back of the Polaris (which is like a 4-wheeler on steroids) out to the hay field behind the bocce court to water 5 newly planted 15 foot tall willow oaks. I was siphoning out the water using 10 foot sections cut from an old garden hose. There is a Zen-like quality to time spent in a hayfield under the late afternoon sun waiting for water to drain from a fifty-gallon trash can into a heavy mulch ring around the base of a willow oak tree. Bernadette joined me on one of these trips and I went pssst but she could not hear me. Hey, psssst, I said again, making barely any noise at all. Clearly she was ignoring me in favor of staring off under the late afternoon sun into the near distance at a small cemetery on the property's edge. As it was fairly important news I risked all by raising my voice, and said, hey Bernadette, there is a fox, and when she said where I said right in front of you. It wasn't really right in front of her. It was about 10 feet away and to the left. We were both very still. The hay in the immediate area surrounding the five trees was pretty well beat down. We weren't hiding from the fox and the fox wasn't hiding from us. It was hot, sunny and still. Bernadette had brought us mint juleps and the ice in them melted while we watched the fox, first come closer--close enough at five feet away to scare me a little--and then move away to the mulch ring of another tree, a safe distance of twenty-five feet or so, where it commenced to lollygag, nibble on shredded bark bits, and do playful swivel-hip maneuvers in the new soft and smelly bedding.
In A Whiz Bang Blur
In North Carolina at an antique store I bought a branding iron with the two initials that are most often associated with Bernadette when she exists outside the role of my fictive travel partner through hellfire and damnation. The Jeep aged three thousand miles in these last ten days. Bernadette joined me for the last 1700 and now we are leaving each other alone for a brief period of time here at this imaginary world known as Mt. Pleasant. To Texas and back and beyond in a whiz bang blur, only stopping briefly for a wedding and then after, still suited up, the U-Haul in Garland for a 5X8 enclosed trailer which we drove through a Dallas rush hour into the heart of Lake Highlands, where we loaded up the last of the personal belongings attached to my Texas upbringing. A good friend was storing these things for the last year, in his house. I don't truly love stuff and have mixed feelings about stuff. As words go, stuff is a great word for stuff. Stuff almost exactly describes how I feel about my stuff. In a moment of pique at the wedding reception I had told a brother that I might not even rent a trailer and would just set my stuff on fire, after of course first removing it from my friend's house. There is no reason my friend should suffer the incineration of all his lovely possessions just because I suffer from stuff ambiguity anxiety.
We stayed the final night at a somewhat worn out Hampton Inn in Addison, Tx. and headed out in the morning. Two nights before, Bernadette had gotten to see a trio of quintessential Texas Barbie's working the hostess station at a nearby trendy Mexican joint a block up the road from the motel. Different people say different things about what triggers memory. Some say it is smell, some say taste, but for me there is nothing like the visage of a Texas Barbie to trigger those emotions that remind me of being uneasy in Texas.
We stopped in Hope and started to look for Bill Clinton's house. I had not looked for it three days previous but then at the same time we came to the same conclusion and just said "I think we get the idea," and went to the barbecue place for lunch. And drove. On the road I loaded up a plastic spoon full of pecan cobbler and handed it to Bernadette, the driver of record for this stretch. Hmm (not mmm), that is sweet, said Bernadette.
Took a quick look at Little Rock but nobody was home.
Zipped through Memphis and sometime later stopped in Jackson, Tennessee and stayed at a place that had a pool and wifi but only a partial bottom sheet on the bed, and a certifiably suspect bathroom with a tub faucet that dripped heavily into a stained tub and had only two small towels, haphazardly stacked on a metal wall rack.
We went to a sports bar near the motel for ice cold beers and a burger on Texas Toast. We could not say for sure but there was just the faintest hint that the establishment was a gay bar. A sign out front said biker's welcome which for all I know is a well known euphemism for gay is okay. I was wearing a Paul Smith fitted shirt and was perhaps the gayest looking person in the place (if you kicked out the "biker," the "musician," and the country gentleman sitting to my right) and therefore possibly the inspiration for some other tourist's "I think we walked into a gay bar" speculation. The man to my right was a cotton gin repairman from Seymour, Texas and I had a teenage memory from Seymour which involved cases of beer the night before a high school junior varsity basketball tournament and this memory I shared with the man. Bernadette quizzed him about cotton gins. All the while the Yankees prepared to beat the Red Sox in extra innings, on three large screens. Bernadette thinks the male bartender called me ''hon" but I am not sure that that is what he said. Still, to play it safe and maintain that essential balance of correctness I deem essential to my concept of correctness, I contributed to an upper end tip pool just like I would if it had been a female waitress or bartender calling me "hon.," which I am on record as saying is a thing I like.
Arrived at Arnold's in Nashville around 10 the next morning and walked around the mostly industrial neighborhood while waiting for it to open at 10:30. That was some good food. We had liver and onions and fried chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy and collard greens and corn off the cob and chocolate cream pie and lemon cream pie and sweet and unsweet iced tea. You could probably get by with splitting one of those desserts though.
We stopped and bought 230 dollars worth of fireworks before leaving Tennessee and just before that I bought a brittle 1872 collection of Robert Browning poems with an upside down fly page at an antique store in Kingston, for nine dollars. Bernadette bought two more rug beaters. Much later that night and almost close enough to make it home to Mt. Pleasant I got grumpy enough to want to strangle Bernadette, for no reason really, so we got a room and food and a martini in southern Virginia and she did not suffocate me with pillows in my sleep, which I think would have been justifiable.
Arriving back to Mt. Pleasant on Tuesday afternoon and maintenence work to last year's ambitious landscaping project was occurring. It became quickly obvious that this current project was becoming a bit more ambitious than just maintenence, my Latino brothers from last year were all back, and staying in the cottage, so Bernadette and I bunked up in the Tower Room at the bighouse. Guests were reportedly coming the next day or the day after and I was feeling a little cramped so after doing a few chores we jumped back into the Jeep and headed to North Carolina.
On the way we tooled around Charlottesville for awhile.
Right after parking on the street a man walked up to me and said we should go to the Sally Mann exhibit, which happened to be a block away. But we did not do that. I could not remember who she was but Bernadette reminded me (that she is--the provocative photographer), and as I am barely able to handle the provocation of everyday life I chose to be disinterested and Bernadette, pretty well smothered by art in NYC, also chose, at this specific point in time, to be disinterested. We mingled with the hordes on the historic old town pedestrian mall and then made a couple more required stops before heading off to a farmhouse outside of Lynchburg, where we had dinner with two cats, several beagles, and a couple of New York ex-pats, one of whom had beaten the major league baseball pitcher, Roger Clemens, three times, at pool, in a bar. I had to admit that that was a pretty cool accomplishment but could not resist telling the young woman, I bet you could not hit his fastball.
We were on our way to visit a former NBA basketball player and his wife and two kids residing outside of Burlington, NC.
I own, with a friend, a small house off a gravel road on two acres about forty-five minutes northeast of there, which I have not visited, or maybe have visited once, since leaving it in 1994. We rent it to a former house painting buddy of mine. We have settled on it being okay that they make only about nine of the twelve monthly rent payments each year. By doing this we are buying them the majority of their Christmas presents every year, a thing we do despite never receiving a thank you card.
So that's where Bernadette and I stopped first, the old forgotten rental property, on our way to visit the former NBA basketball player, after of course stopping at the tank museum in Danville, VA. If you only go to one tank museum in your life, go to the one in Danville.
My rental house is in a rural area in northern North Carolina not exactly in the middle of nowhere but close to exactly in the middle of nowhere. The house is off of highway 49 and I wasn't sure I would be able to find it but after zigging down back roads from Danville and finally intersecting 49, I immediately recognized the area and as it turned out we were, thanks to the navigation of Bernadette, only about 400 yards from the gravel road leading to the house at its end.
The house on the left looked the same and the vacant wooded lot on the right was just as I remembered it. All of the several properties on each side of the road were neat and tidy and well cared for, with the neat and tidy of the year award going to the house across from mine, at the end of the road on the right, formerly owned by the neighborhood busy body and possibly now owned by her heirs. It looked like it had been completely done over and was a shining jewel in this modest rural one street neighborhood, a neighborhood by itself butting up to thousands of undeveloped acres of hardwood forest and farmland and the occasional tobacco field.
Behind the large pontoon boat in my front yard and across the beaten down dead lawn, came running four barking boxer dogs and an albino boxer puppy. There was stretched low to the ground what appeared to be a hot-wire and the dogs would not cross it. I could not tell for sure if they were angry dogs. They appeared to be uncertain about me as well. There were no cars in the driveway but there was one or two rusty ones on the edge of the woods. A vintage swing set occupied the space in the front lawn not occupied by the pontoon boat. An extra boat was over by the woods by the abandoned cars. It did not look like it had seen anything but rainwater in a long time. I cannot describe everything else that was in the front yard and side yard because I am now a few days later moving slowly towards denial. I did not take pictures because I knew instinctively that I would soon be needing to move toward denial and the pictures would be a hindrance to that trip.
The slumlord merit badge was mine. And every neglectful act of my entire life was now compressed and formed into a totally hokey, not altogether believable white trash movie set. I could not though take my eyes off of the scenery, if for no other reason than that there was so much of it, so much detail. Then, like a low budget commercial break to an even lower budget made for TV movie, up the road came a slightly overweight teenage boy driving a golf cart. And he pulled into the driveway.
It was my old painting buddy's son. He was still in his mamma's belly when I had left, 13 years previous. He was a reticent boy, polite, but of few words. And scared of me it seemed. I tried to comfort him by saying I was an old friend of his father's but that, if anything, only seemed to make him feel worse. Then I dropped the bombshell--actually, I own this property, I said, and that seemed to also bring no level of comfort to the boy. I asked him if I could look around a little and he mumbled something which I took to be assent even if it wasn't. As it turned out the barking dogs were bootlickers and they followed us around as I headed to the backyard, and beyond that to the ten thousand square foot garden, which was nicely maintained. Bernadette was waiting in the car and the boy had that attitude like he was in the principals office so I made this first time in thirteen year visit a short one. I left him a piece a paper with my name and phone number on it and said goodbye.
On the way to visit the former Olympian and NBA player I worked out in my head the required first steps towards kicking my old friend and his family out on their asses. So I have that to look forward to.
In North Carolina at an antique store I bought a branding iron with the two initials that are most often associated with Bernadette when she exists outside the role of my fictive travel partner through hellfire and damnation. The Jeep aged three thousand miles in these last ten days. Bernadette joined me for the last 1700 and now we are leaving each other alone for a brief period of time here at this imaginary world known as Mt. Pleasant. To Texas and back and beyond in a whiz bang blur, only stopping briefly for a wedding and then after, still suited up, the U-Haul in Garland for a 5X8 enclosed trailer which we drove through a Dallas rush hour into the heart of Lake Highlands, where we loaded up the last of the personal belongings attached to my Texas upbringing. A good friend was storing these things for the last year, in his house. I don't truly love stuff and have mixed feelings about stuff. As words go, stuff is a great word for stuff. Stuff almost exactly describes how I feel about my stuff. In a moment of pique at the wedding reception I had told a brother that I might not even rent a trailer and would just set my stuff on fire, after of course first removing it from my friend's house. There is no reason my friend should suffer the incineration of all his lovely possessions just because I suffer from stuff ambiguity anxiety.
We stayed the final night at a somewhat worn out Hampton Inn in Addison, Tx. and headed out in the morning. Two nights before, Bernadette had gotten to see a trio of quintessential Texas Barbie's working the hostess station at a nearby trendy Mexican joint a block up the road from the motel. Different people say different things about what triggers memory. Some say it is smell, some say taste, but for me there is nothing like the visage of a Texas Barbie to trigger those emotions that remind me of being uneasy in Texas.
We stopped in Hope and started to look for Bill Clinton's house. I had not looked for it three days previous but then at the same time we came to the same conclusion and just said "I think we get the idea," and went to the barbecue place for lunch. And drove. On the road I loaded up a plastic spoon full of pecan cobbler and handed it to Bernadette, the driver of record for this stretch. Hmm (not mmm), that is sweet, said Bernadette.
Took a quick look at Little Rock but nobody was home.
Zipped through Memphis and sometime later stopped in Jackson, Tennessee and stayed at a place that had a pool and wifi but only a partial bottom sheet on the bed, and a certifiably suspect bathroom with a tub faucet that dripped heavily into a stained tub and had only two small towels, haphazardly stacked on a metal wall rack.
We went to a sports bar near the motel for ice cold beers and a burger on Texas Toast. We could not say for sure but there was just the faintest hint that the establishment was a gay bar. A sign out front said biker's welcome which for all I know is a well known euphemism for gay is okay. I was wearing a Paul Smith fitted shirt and was perhaps the gayest looking person in the place (if you kicked out the "biker," the "musician," and the country gentleman sitting to my right) and therefore possibly the inspiration for some other tourist's "I think we walked into a gay bar" speculation. The man to my right was a cotton gin repairman from Seymour, Texas and I had a teenage memory from Seymour which involved cases of beer the night before a high school junior varsity basketball tournament and this memory I shared with the man. Bernadette quizzed him about cotton gins. All the while the Yankees prepared to beat the Red Sox in extra innings, on three large screens. Bernadette thinks the male bartender called me ''hon" but I am not sure that that is what he said. Still, to play it safe and maintain that essential balance of correctness I deem essential to my concept of correctness, I contributed to an upper end tip pool just like I would if it had been a female waitress or bartender calling me "hon.," which I am on record as saying is a thing I like.
Arrived at Arnold's in Nashville around 10 the next morning and walked around the mostly industrial neighborhood while waiting for it to open at 10:30. That was some good food. We had liver and onions and fried chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy and collard greens and corn off the cob and chocolate cream pie and lemon cream pie and sweet and unsweet iced tea. You could probably get by with splitting one of those desserts though.
We stopped and bought 230 dollars worth of fireworks before leaving Tennessee and just before that I bought a brittle 1872 collection of Robert Browning poems with an upside down fly page at an antique store in Kingston, for nine dollars. Bernadette bought two more rug beaters. Much later that night and almost close enough to make it home to Mt. Pleasant I got grumpy enough to want to strangle Bernadette, for no reason really, so we got a room and food and a martini in southern Virginia and she did not suffocate me with pillows in my sleep, which I think would have been justifiable.
Arriving back to Mt. Pleasant on Tuesday afternoon and maintenence work to last year's ambitious landscaping project was occurring. It became quickly obvious that this current project was becoming a bit more ambitious than just maintenence, my Latino brothers from last year were all back, and staying in the cottage, so Bernadette and I bunked up in the Tower Room at the bighouse. Guests were reportedly coming the next day or the day after and I was feeling a little cramped so after doing a few chores we jumped back into the Jeep and headed to North Carolina.
On the way we tooled around Charlottesville for awhile.
Right after parking on the street a man walked up to me and said we should go to the Sally Mann exhibit, which happened to be a block away. But we did not do that. I could not remember who she was but Bernadette reminded me (that she is--the provocative photographer), and as I am barely able to handle the provocation of everyday life I chose to be disinterested and Bernadette, pretty well smothered by art in NYC, also chose, at this specific point in time, to be disinterested. We mingled with the hordes on the historic old town pedestrian mall and then made a couple more required stops before heading off to a farmhouse outside of Lynchburg, where we had dinner with two cats, several beagles, and a couple of New York ex-pats, one of whom had beaten the major league baseball pitcher, Roger Clemens, three times, at pool, in a bar. I had to admit that that was a pretty cool accomplishment but could not resist telling the young woman, I bet you could not hit his fastball.
We were on our way to visit a former NBA basketball player and his wife and two kids residing outside of Burlington, NC.
I own, with a friend, a small house off a gravel road on two acres about forty-five minutes northeast of there, which I have not visited, or maybe have visited once, since leaving it in 1994. We rent it to a former house painting buddy of mine. We have settled on it being okay that they make only about nine of the twelve monthly rent payments each year. By doing this we are buying them the majority of their Christmas presents every year, a thing we do despite never receiving a thank you card.
So that's where Bernadette and I stopped first, the old forgotten rental property, on our way to visit the former NBA basketball player, after of course stopping at the tank museum in Danville, VA. If you only go to one tank museum in your life, go to the one in Danville.
My rental house is in a rural area in northern North Carolina not exactly in the middle of nowhere but close to exactly in the middle of nowhere. The house is off of highway 49 and I wasn't sure I would be able to find it but after zigging down back roads from Danville and finally intersecting 49, I immediately recognized the area and as it turned out we were, thanks to the navigation of Bernadette, only about 400 yards from the gravel road leading to the house at its end.
The house on the left looked the same and the vacant wooded lot on the right was just as I remembered it. All of the several properties on each side of the road were neat and tidy and well cared for, with the neat and tidy of the year award going to the house across from mine, at the end of the road on the right, formerly owned by the neighborhood busy body and possibly now owned by her heirs. It looked like it had been completely done over and was a shining jewel in this modest rural one street neighborhood, a neighborhood by itself butting up to thousands of undeveloped acres of hardwood forest and farmland and the occasional tobacco field.
Behind the large pontoon boat in my front yard and across the beaten down dead lawn, came running four barking boxer dogs and an albino boxer puppy. There was stretched low to the ground what appeared to be a hot-wire and the dogs would not cross it. I could not tell for sure if they were angry dogs. They appeared to be uncertain about me as well. There were no cars in the driveway but there was one or two rusty ones on the edge of the woods. A vintage swing set occupied the space in the front lawn not occupied by the pontoon boat. An extra boat was over by the woods by the abandoned cars. It did not look like it had seen anything but rainwater in a long time. I cannot describe everything else that was in the front yard and side yard because I am now a few days later moving slowly towards denial. I did not take pictures because I knew instinctively that I would soon be needing to move toward denial and the pictures would be a hindrance to that trip.
The slumlord merit badge was mine. And every neglectful act of my entire life was now compressed and formed into a totally hokey, not altogether believable white trash movie set. I could not though take my eyes off of the scenery, if for no other reason than that there was so much of it, so much detail. Then, like a low budget commercial break to an even lower budget made for TV movie, up the road came a slightly overweight teenage boy driving a golf cart. And he pulled into the driveway.
It was my old painting buddy's son. He was still in his mamma's belly when I had left, 13 years previous. He was a reticent boy, polite, but of few words. And scared of me it seemed. I tried to comfort him by saying I was an old friend of his father's but that, if anything, only seemed to make him feel worse. Then I dropped the bombshell--actually, I own this property, I said, and that seemed to also bring no level of comfort to the boy. I asked him if I could look around a little and he mumbled something which I took to be assent even if it wasn't. As it turned out the barking dogs were bootlickers and they followed us around as I headed to the backyard, and beyond that to the ten thousand square foot garden, which was nicely maintained. Bernadette was waiting in the car and the boy had that attitude like he was in the principals office so I made this first time in thirteen year visit a short one. I left him a piece a paper with my name and phone number on it and said goodbye.
On the way to visit the former Olympian and NBA player I worked out in my head the required first steps towards kicking my old friend and his family out on their asses. So I have that to look forward to.