Olympic Bedwetting
Well I didn't come down here to NC to sit around and watch the Japanese women take on the Vietnamese in field hockey or the Bulgarians to beat up on the Sri Lankans in badminton or to lose Internet connection while trying to see a round of men's water polo. The Iran v. Russian men's basketball was part of my reason for coming here though, scouting is a sideline, and while in the background the US men's soccer team goes up 2-1 on the Netherlands I write this certainly not waiting for the 10 a.m. start of China v. US, or Kobe and Co. v. that big Chinese guy that plays American basketball but whose name I cannot look up for spelling because often while streaming these Olympics I lose all other Internet connection beyond the sport I can hear playing in the background. I accept this trade off. There is no announcing for these streaming Olympics, just the crowd and player noise and the stadium announcer, which is an interesting model. So while I know just from watching for a few minutes that there is some fancy footwork going on, I don't know who's doing it while I watch nor certainly while I write with it playing in the background, uh oh, crowd is cheering (can't tell if they are cheering in Dutch or English), let me check that...looks like the Netherlands just tied it up 2-2. And now, a minute later, the game is over. Personally, I am against games that end in ties.
There is a wet spot on my bed. Which gets to my real reason for being here. To work on my adult bed wetting problem? To consider the pros and cons of nocturnal emission? Good guesses but no, I am here--to borrow the words of Bill Macy--for a Fence Post resurrection, and towards that goal I have located another roof leak. During the heavy rain of this morning there came a dripping from above and I now feel, just by the effort of that diagnosis (a diagnosis because it did require that I rule out bedwetting and nocturnal emission as culprits) vindicated against any guilt I might have experienced for not ripping apart the bathroom right away, which at some point eons ago, was my primary reason for being here. I'm going to go out on a limb and spell it Xaio Ming.
...more recent posts
Is He Kidding, Or What?
I would like to thank everyone who took me literally regarding the post, The Preacher and the Piano Player. I have been almost exclusively about the verite on my blogs, except for those highly unlikely things like me having dates with boxes of chicken (The Pill, email from NOLA) and other posts of that nature. For the record, I have never dated a box of chicken. Also, Bernadette and I did not actually attend that church. The preacher and the church are real, however, and excluding that post, and allowing for the changes of place and people's names, everything from Fence Post up to this date has been actual. I have for awhile been wanting to blur truth and fiction so there could be more of that in the future. When in doubt, believe what you read. Or at the very least, read more about those things you would doubt. Again, thanks to everyone for taking me at my word, and believing that Bernadette would not put me out on the road after she got made to wear a dress by the preacher's wife. I am not getting in as much time as I would like out in Fence Post, but the Jeep is packed and I wait on arriving guests so I can say high and bye before hitting the road for that very real place to the south of here. And don't think Bernadette wouldn't look good in a flower print dress, because she would, or does, although I have not yet seen it, unless I did once, briefly, before she changed out of it. If anyone is thinking that I too would look good in a flower print dress, well thank you for that as well. I will however probably just stick to the paisley shirts. And shorts with suspenders and a wide belt and cowboy boots with white knee highs and a bolo tie and a bowler hat and a fake bushy mustache.
I would like to thank everyone who took me literally regarding the post, The Preacher and the Piano Player. I have been almost exclusively about the verite on my blogs, except for those highly unlikely things like me having dates with boxes of chicken (The Pill, email from NOLA) and other posts of that nature. For the record, I have never dated a box of chicken. Also, Bernadette and I did not actually attend that church. The preacher and the church are real, however, and excluding that post, and allowing for the changes of place and people's names, everything from Fence Post up to this date has been actual. I have for awhile been wanting to blur truth and fiction so there could be more of that in the future. When in doubt, believe what you read. Or at the very least, read more about those things you would doubt. Again, thanks to everyone for taking me at my word, and believing that Bernadette would not put me out on the road after she got made to wear a dress by the preacher's wife. I am not getting in as much time as I would like out in Fence Post, but the Jeep is packed and I wait on arriving guests so I can say high and bye before hitting the road for that very real place to the south of here. And don't think Bernadette wouldn't look good in a flower print dress, because she would, or does, although I have not yet seen it, unless I did once, briefly, before she changed out of it. If anyone is thinking that I too would look good in a flower print dress, well thank you for that as well. I will however probably just stick to the paisley shirts. And shorts with suspenders and a wide belt and cowboy boots with white knee highs and a bolo tie and a bowler hat and a fake bushy mustache.
Roadside America
We left Mt. Pleasant yesterday to have dinner four and a half hours north, in Bucks County, Pa., at the farm of Hector Bilby's brother, Adman. Hector is driving back into Jersey this afternoon and will drop Bernadette at Journal Square so she can catch the PATH into Manhattan. I will drive back to Mt. Pleasant, see how the landscape supercrew is getting along, then tomorrow head south to Fence Post, NC, to continue with the job there. There won't be much to look forward to on the way back south because yesterday on the way up we stopped at Roadside America, and, what else is there?
We left Mt. Pleasant yesterday to have dinner four and a half hours north, in Bucks County, Pa., at the farm of Hector Bilby's brother, Adman. Hector is driving back into Jersey this afternoon and will drop Bernadette at Journal Square so she can catch the PATH into Manhattan. I will drive back to Mt. Pleasant, see how the landscape supercrew is getting along, then tomorrow head south to Fence Post, NC, to continue with the job there. There won't be much to look forward to on the way back south because yesterday on the way up we stopped at Roadside America, and, what else is there?
Small Headed Donkey
The hay has been cut so the deer are moving closer to the garden area. There is a large apple tree out here and the deer wait under it for the apples to fall 25 feet to the ground. When the apples are done the deer will move over to the peaches. None of the fruit trees out here seem to produce fruit in sync with the trees of area growers, and in any case the fruit is not all that edible. The apples are too hard and the peaches get decimated by bugs. But the deer don't seem to mind this. When the fruit is done they will start in earnest to destroy as much of the landscaping as possible. The hostas are delicious, the laurel bushes are tasty, the roses sharp but not without merit. Deer repellent made from putrescent egg, garlic, and other ingredients may have some effect on their appetites but I am not yet ready to swear by it. I was photographing the deer, waiting for them to do something memorable. They were looking back at me, likewise waiting for me to do something memorable.
Bernadette came up looking for me so she could again 40 Love my ass on the tennis court. What? Oh yes, it is true, there is no end to my heroic feats, playing with a stubbed toe and all. She saw the deer under the apple tree but not me on the other side of the azaleas, photographing out into the field. She yelled at the deer because she is still joined with me in the limited hope that we can somehow convince nature to behave in a way counter to its inclination. She then saw me and said, oh sorry, you were taking pictures? I said yes, but not to worry because I needed some action shots.
Ready to play? I said, and she said, when you are. I am ready, I said, and snapped one last shot of a deer pretending to be a small headed donkey.
The hay has been cut so the deer are moving closer to the garden area. There is a large apple tree out here and the deer wait under it for the apples to fall 25 feet to the ground. When the apples are done the deer will move over to the peaches. None of the fruit trees out here seem to produce fruit in sync with the trees of area growers, and in any case the fruit is not all that edible. The apples are too hard and the peaches get decimated by bugs. But the deer don't seem to mind this. When the fruit is done they will start in earnest to destroy as much of the landscaping as possible. The hostas are delicious, the laurel bushes are tasty, the roses sharp but not without merit. Deer repellent made from putrescent egg, garlic, and other ingredients may have some effect on their appetites but I am not yet ready to swear by it. I was photographing the deer, waiting for them to do something memorable. They were looking back at me, likewise waiting for me to do something memorable.
Bernadette came up looking for me so she could again 40 Love my ass on the tennis court. What? Oh yes, it is true, there is no end to my heroic feats, playing with a stubbed toe and all. She saw the deer under the apple tree but not me on the other side of the azaleas, photographing out into the field. She yelled at the deer because she is still joined with me in the limited hope that we can somehow convince nature to behave in a way counter to its inclination. She then saw me and said, oh sorry, you were taking pictures? I said yes, but not to worry because I needed some action shots.
Ready to play? I said, and she said, when you are. I am ready, I said, and snapped one last shot of a deer pretending to be a small headed donkey.
Is There Liquor In Purgatory
I was getting rid of the evidence of irresponsible behavior over by the bocce court when I stubbed the second little piggy of my right foot on the sharp edge of the rock border. I looked down to see it bleeding right away and whereas my first instinct was to cry like a little girl I chose instead to spew obscenities like the ill-bred, frustrated, benighted blowhard that I am. Almost spewed out, and ending with a whimpering "oh golly that hurt," I began limping towards the pool, which caused the pain to increase so much that I briefly considered the possibility that I might be dying.
In Purgatory I am sitting on a bench next to a black kid with bullet hole between his eyebrows. When he turns away from me I notice that the back of his skull is missing. Hey kid, I say, I just have to know, did that hurt at all?
Naw mane, nuh uh. I got a little scared before it, think I shit myself...yeah you did, I interrupted...but no, he continued, I don't think I really felt nothing at all. Then I'm just sittin' here, guess I gotta go represent.
Is that right? I say
I don't know mane, he says turning away, I look like I got any brain in there? I don't know what all go on up in here. What about you, pops?
I glance down at my toe, embarrassed.
He says, oh you that man that crying like a little girl cuz he hurt his footie. Oh man, everybody be talking about you, how that so sad how you acting 'bout your toe. Something else you should know, pops. He turns to face me and I notice what a good looking kid he is. He has high cheekbones and his clear black eyes have me hypnotized and I'm thinking he may be descended from royalty when he interrupts my thoughts with a zinger. You ain't even dead, he tells me. You just trippin' or something.
I'm driving the Polaris over to the burn pile to off load some twigs from a big apple tree branch that broke off in the last storm. My toe isn't really hurting that badly anymore but I'm going to drive down to the house anyway to pop some Tylenol when I see an electric company bucket truck coming up the driveway. I head on over and pull up beside it and turn off my ignition. The man is looking for someplace this is not. I try to help him. He looks at his directions and tells me where he's supposed to be is near a liquor store. I suffer a momentary burst of elation like in those dreams where you open a door in your house and find a whole other wing that you didn't know about and is always way better than the house you actually live in. But I'm not tripping so I ask him if he is sure he is in the right town and he verifies by naming the town, that he is. When I tell him there is no liquor store here he says that the sheriff told him the same thing. Oh, he did? I say and he says, she. Oh right, she, I say.
He seems upset remembering his meeting with the sheriff and says, how did that happen, weren't there any men running? I tell him that yes, there were three rather impressive male candidates. He takes a call and I wait. Across from the newspaper office? he says into the phone and I nod even though he isn't looking at me.
While he's talking I'm doing some math in my head figuring how much of my gas money could be going towards liquor. Before he leaves I say, hey, just in case you do find a liquor store here will you come back and tell me where it is?
I was getting rid of the evidence of irresponsible behavior over by the bocce court when I stubbed the second little piggy of my right foot on the sharp edge of the rock border. I looked down to see it bleeding right away and whereas my first instinct was to cry like a little girl I chose instead to spew obscenities like the ill-bred, frustrated, benighted blowhard that I am. Almost spewed out, and ending with a whimpering "oh golly that hurt," I began limping towards the pool, which caused the pain to increase so much that I briefly considered the possibility that I might be dying.
In Purgatory I am sitting on a bench next to a black kid with bullet hole between his eyebrows. When he turns away from me I notice that the back of his skull is missing. Hey kid, I say, I just have to know, did that hurt at all?
Naw mane, nuh uh. I got a little scared before it, think I shit myself...yeah you did, I interrupted...but no, he continued, I don't think I really felt nothing at all. Then I'm just sittin' here, guess I gotta go represent.
Is that right? I say
I don't know mane, he says turning away, I look like I got any brain in there? I don't know what all go on up in here. What about you, pops?
I glance down at my toe, embarrassed.
He says, oh you that man that crying like a little girl cuz he hurt his footie. Oh man, everybody be talking about you, how that so sad how you acting 'bout your toe. Something else you should know, pops. He turns to face me and I notice what a good looking kid he is. He has high cheekbones and his clear black eyes have me hypnotized and I'm thinking he may be descended from royalty when he interrupts my thoughts with a zinger. You ain't even dead, he tells me. You just trippin' or something.
I'm driving the Polaris over to the burn pile to off load some twigs from a big apple tree branch that broke off in the last storm. My toe isn't really hurting that badly anymore but I'm going to drive down to the house anyway to pop some Tylenol when I see an electric company bucket truck coming up the driveway. I head on over and pull up beside it and turn off my ignition. The man is looking for someplace this is not. I try to help him. He looks at his directions and tells me where he's supposed to be is near a liquor store. I suffer a momentary burst of elation like in those dreams where you open a door in your house and find a whole other wing that you didn't know about and is always way better than the house you actually live in. But I'm not tripping so I ask him if he is sure he is in the right town and he verifies by naming the town, that he is. When I tell him there is no liquor store here he says that the sheriff told him the same thing. Oh, he did? I say and he says, she. Oh right, she, I say.
He seems upset remembering his meeting with the sheriff and says, how did that happen, weren't there any men running? I tell him that yes, there were three rather impressive male candidates. He takes a call and I wait. Across from the newspaper office? he says into the phone and I nod even though he isn't looking at me.
While he's talking I'm doing some math in my head figuring how much of my gas money could be going towards liquor. Before he leaves I say, hey, just in case you do find a liquor store here will you come back and tell me where it is?
The Preacher And The Piano Player
It might have been a little early yet for church and in any case we did not plan on attending. In Fence Post the preacher lives two houses down and had said if I should ever need anything that is where I should go, and that if he wasn't there his wife probably would be. It is a neat, well cared for, modest property and his offer seemed sincere. His last name is not Waite nor is his wife's name Helen. He had two days previous invited me to his church which is just about a quarter mile away, up on the two-lane state highway. The printout he had given me--with the hand-written query on the back, ''Does Sweet Jesus Live Here?"--had given 11a.m. as the time for the first, and only, service. The church is a relatively new structure, built in the last ten years or so and though I have only seen it from the outside and it appears small, I would guess it might seat 50 parishioners.
There have been times in my life when it was suggested that I possess a certain type of courage but any courage I possess is as far as I can tell just a mask to hide my fear. Which is to say I probably would not have the requisite courage to attend services at the little church up on the highway. I can however, imagine.
I just think it's a little early.
Are you sure this is the right church?
I'm pretty sure.
But look at the doorknob, it looks rusty.
Oh I bet that's just because these people are very clean and have no oil on their hands, which would help prevent that unsightly rust.
Cleanliness is next to godliness?
Or certainly very nearby.
What time is it now? Is it still early? Why don't we go in and get a good seat?
But we're the only car in the parking lot.
Maybe the locals come in by tunnel. I'm going in, it's too hot out here.
But Bernadette...wait...I think you're right, this is probably the wrong church. It's my mistake. I should have written down the directions...what if this is a meeting hall for those local gangsters Johnny Woodman's wife was talking about? They've seen graffiti in the area, Bernadette, this is no joke. All of this I was saying to the door as it swung shut. I stood outside, defiantly, waiting for Bernadette's return and eventual acquiescence to the realization that my game plan of hesitation was better than hers. As that didn't happen right away I became impatient and entered the church.
I was greeted by a screeching electronic feedback which preceded the warm syrupy tones of my neighbor preacher. Welcome, I am so glad you all could make it. Bernadette was nowhere in sight. I waved meekly and sat down. Immediately there began a jaunty hymn hammered out on a stand up piano to the left of the pulpit. From old habit I looked for documentation and in the seatback in front of me extracted a sheaf of paper, which listed the opening hymn as--In My Heart There Rings a Melody. The piano player was a boy child appearing to be maybe ten-years-old. In the two beat following the last note the preacher said, please be seated, and as I was already seated, I momentarily stood up, before awkwardly sitting down again. I was the only one in the church, besides the preacher and the piano player. I warned Bernadette about those gangbangers, but she doesn't listen, she has her own way.
The preacher began--it's good to see some new faces here today and I felt my face flush. Luckily there happened a distraction coming from the door to the right of the pulpit and what came through that door was a procession of two women and three children, the children being teenagers, one boy and two girls. Of the two women, one was Bernadette in a flower print dress, perhaps a little large for her, and the other I ventured to guess was the preacher's wife. They all came and sat in the seats on either side of me. Bernadette by expression gave no clue. The preacher's wife, to my left, leaned over and said, I thought your wife might be more comfortable in one of my dresses. I nodded and said, hmm hmm. Bernadette, to my right, clasped my right hand with her left, and dug her nails into the back of my knuckles.
The sermon began and was a homily of some sort based on the idea that there were three ways to get what you wanted. One was to work for it, the other was to lie, cheat, and steal for it, and the third way was to accept the thing as a gift. Shortly after the sermon began I bowed my head in apparent prayer and napped my way through the most of it, waking every so often when I felt a pain emanating from my right hand.
I felt myself being lifted (perhaps spirited away) at some point and when I regained what we all might agree is a reasonable semblance of consciousness, I was back in the Jeep, driving down the highway. Bernadette, in the seat beside me, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, was very quiet, and I contemplated engagement, but opted instead for silent contemplation.
It might have been a little early yet for church and in any case we did not plan on attending. In Fence Post the preacher lives two houses down and had said if I should ever need anything that is where I should go, and that if he wasn't there his wife probably would be. It is a neat, well cared for, modest property and his offer seemed sincere. His last name is not Waite nor is his wife's name Helen. He had two days previous invited me to his church which is just about a quarter mile away, up on the two-lane state highway. The printout he had given me--with the hand-written query on the back, ''Does Sweet Jesus Live Here?"--had given 11a.m. as the time for the first, and only, service. The church is a relatively new structure, built in the last ten years or so and though I have only seen it from the outside and it appears small, I would guess it might seat 50 parishioners.
There have been times in my life when it was suggested that I possess a certain type of courage but any courage I possess is as far as I can tell just a mask to hide my fear. Which is to say I probably would not have the requisite courage to attend services at the little church up on the highway. I can however, imagine.
I just think it's a little early.
Are you sure this is the right church?
I'm pretty sure.
But look at the doorknob, it looks rusty.
Oh I bet that's just because these people are very clean and have no oil on their hands, which would help prevent that unsightly rust.
Cleanliness is next to godliness?
Or certainly very nearby.
What time is it now? Is it still early? Why don't we go in and get a good seat?
But we're the only car in the parking lot.
Maybe the locals come in by tunnel. I'm going in, it's too hot out here.
But Bernadette...wait...I think you're right, this is probably the wrong church. It's my mistake. I should have written down the directions...what if this is a meeting hall for those local gangsters Johnny Woodman's wife was talking about? They've seen graffiti in the area, Bernadette, this is no joke. All of this I was saying to the door as it swung shut. I stood outside, defiantly, waiting for Bernadette's return and eventual acquiescence to the realization that my game plan of hesitation was better than hers. As that didn't happen right away I became impatient and entered the church.
I was greeted by a screeching electronic feedback which preceded the warm syrupy tones of my neighbor preacher. Welcome, I am so glad you all could make it. Bernadette was nowhere in sight. I waved meekly and sat down. Immediately there began a jaunty hymn hammered out on a stand up piano to the left of the pulpit. From old habit I looked for documentation and in the seatback in front of me extracted a sheaf of paper, which listed the opening hymn as--In My Heart There Rings a Melody. The piano player was a boy child appearing to be maybe ten-years-old. In the two beat following the last note the preacher said, please be seated, and as I was already seated, I momentarily stood up, before awkwardly sitting down again. I was the only one in the church, besides the preacher and the piano player. I warned Bernadette about those gangbangers, but she doesn't listen, she has her own way.
The preacher began--it's good to see some new faces here today and I felt my face flush. Luckily there happened a distraction coming from the door to the right of the pulpit and what came through that door was a procession of two women and three children, the children being teenagers, one boy and two girls. Of the two women, one was Bernadette in a flower print dress, perhaps a little large for her, and the other I ventured to guess was the preacher's wife. They all came and sat in the seats on either side of me. Bernadette by expression gave no clue. The preacher's wife, to my left, leaned over and said, I thought your wife might be more comfortable in one of my dresses. I nodded and said, hmm hmm. Bernadette, to my right, clasped my right hand with her left, and dug her nails into the back of my knuckles.
The sermon began and was a homily of some sort based on the idea that there were three ways to get what you wanted. One was to work for it, the other was to lie, cheat, and steal for it, and the third way was to accept the thing as a gift. Shortly after the sermon began I bowed my head in apparent prayer and napped my way through the most of it, waking every so often when I felt a pain emanating from my right hand.
I felt myself being lifted (perhaps spirited away) at some point and when I regained what we all might agree is a reasonable semblance of consciousness, I was back in the Jeep, driving down the highway. Bernadette, in the seat beside me, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, was very quiet, and I contemplated engagement, but opted instead for silent contemplation.
Redneck Dog Pen
I'd been loading the last of the dog pen wood pallets onto the trailer for transport to burn pile number ten and swinging the sledge and prying off with crowbar the 2X4s and 1X4s and 4X4s and scraps of plywood that comprised the framework onto which chicken and hog wire were attached and I should mention the maple and oak and poplar trees, forty feet higher than they needed to be as vertical support posts, living crucified with nails and staples and also having accepted over time the grafting of hog wire into the history of their trunks. Fucking redneck dog pen. Oops, my bad, there I was just giving description and a little bit of my anger came through. I've already expressed a lack of enmity for this man who rented from me but his landscape maintenance I have to tell you has just about got me fit to be tied, oh hell, not just about. I extracted as many nails as I could from the trunks of these trees but don't have a pry bar big enough to yank out the one or two, foot long spikes; what was he thinking?
I'm a tree lover, I admit it, shoot me.
I looked into the bucket into which I threw the nails and thought about a future where I drove them into the renter's forehead. I guess that doesn't really describe a lack of enmity. Except for that bit of remaining tic-tac-toeing of metal grown into the trees there's about 50 feet of hog wire unattached or snipped away from all support that still needs to be yanked from where it is buried in the ground, probably attached to rotting 1X6s. I about felt my groin ripping trying to pull it out by hand so I'll one of these days hook a tow rope to the Jeep and pull it out with that.
I tried to calm myself the next day by raking about a quarter acres worth of leaves and twigs into piles. Around 1:30 in the afternoon Danny Claypool comes driving up on his red four seater golf cart with a half empty Coors Light in the cup holder. I'm writing this now back at the manicured grounds of Mt. Pleasant, in Virginia. There's a local mystery drunk who tosses his empty Coors Light bottles onto the strip of ground bordering the front of the property here. That's what I'm thinking about in N. Carolina raking twigs looking at the Coors bottle in Claypool's cup holder. Claypool's corn growing in my garden has benefitted by rain in my absence and is now about waist high, back dropping the two of us. He wants to know how I'm doing and you know, I'm just doing, I don't know what to tell him. We had about twenty minutes of bonding that first time out, some 6 weeks ago and he is wanting to rework a few of those topics, what is was like in New Orleans, how much it costs to live in New York, how much junk the renter left laying around. After about 90 seconds of that there is a silence during which I feel a little uncomfortable as Claypool stares vacantly at the leaf dust and bits of twig stuck to my sweating naked rib bones.
I want to apologize for planting that corn without asking you. I should have ask you first.
You should have ask me first, that is true.
I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that.
Well I got to tell you, planting the corn didn't bother me anywhere near as much as you watering it hooked up to my well.
That was dumb, I shouldn't have done that.
Well Danny, I don't really have the energy to be pissed off about these things forever and I've got a lot of work to do here so let's just forget about all that. You can finish out the corn this year but as for the future I don't want you doing anything in this garden without my permission.
That's fair enough Jim, I won't. I hope you're not holding this against me. I tell him I'm not. He's looking all sad and dopey like an old hound dog into who's face you are waving a chewed up leather shoe. I try to mean what I say but just in case I am not able to live up to my magnanimous pretensions, I have plenty enough nails to pluck from the lovely wounded trees for insertion into another thick skulled forehead.
I'd been loading the last of the dog pen wood pallets onto the trailer for transport to burn pile number ten and swinging the sledge and prying off with crowbar the 2X4s and 1X4s and 4X4s and scraps of plywood that comprised the framework onto which chicken and hog wire were attached and I should mention the maple and oak and poplar trees, forty feet higher than they needed to be as vertical support posts, living crucified with nails and staples and also having accepted over time the grafting of hog wire into the history of their trunks. Fucking redneck dog pen. Oops, my bad, there I was just giving description and a little bit of my anger came through. I've already expressed a lack of enmity for this man who rented from me but his landscape maintenance I have to tell you has just about got me fit to be tied, oh hell, not just about. I extracted as many nails as I could from the trunks of these trees but don't have a pry bar big enough to yank out the one or two, foot long spikes; what was he thinking?
I'm a tree lover, I admit it, shoot me.
I looked into the bucket into which I threw the nails and thought about a future where I drove them into the renter's forehead. I guess that doesn't really describe a lack of enmity. Except for that bit of remaining tic-tac-toeing of metal grown into the trees there's about 50 feet of hog wire unattached or snipped away from all support that still needs to be yanked from where it is buried in the ground, probably attached to rotting 1X6s. I about felt my groin ripping trying to pull it out by hand so I'll one of these days hook a tow rope to the Jeep and pull it out with that.
I tried to calm myself the next day by raking about a quarter acres worth of leaves and twigs into piles. Around 1:30 in the afternoon Danny Claypool comes driving up on his red four seater golf cart with a half empty Coors Light in the cup holder. I'm writing this now back at the manicured grounds of Mt. Pleasant, in Virginia. There's a local mystery drunk who tosses his empty Coors Light bottles onto the strip of ground bordering the front of the property here. That's what I'm thinking about in N. Carolina raking twigs looking at the Coors bottle in Claypool's cup holder. Claypool's corn growing in my garden has benefitted by rain in my absence and is now about waist high, back dropping the two of us. He wants to know how I'm doing and you know, I'm just doing, I don't know what to tell him. We had about twenty minutes of bonding that first time out, some 6 weeks ago and he is wanting to rework a few of those topics, what is was like in New Orleans, how much it costs to live in New York, how much junk the renter left laying around. After about 90 seconds of that there is a silence during which I feel a little uncomfortable as Claypool stares vacantly at the leaf dust and bits of twig stuck to my sweating naked rib bones.
I want to apologize for planting that corn without asking you. I should have ask you first.
You should have ask me first, that is true.
I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that.
Well I got to tell you, planting the corn didn't bother me anywhere near as much as you watering it hooked up to my well.
That was dumb, I shouldn't have done that.
Well Danny, I don't really have the energy to be pissed off about these things forever and I've got a lot of work to do here so let's just forget about all that. You can finish out the corn this year but as for the future I don't want you doing anything in this garden without my permission.
That's fair enough Jim, I won't. I hope you're not holding this against me. I tell him I'm not. He's looking all sad and dopey like an old hound dog into who's face you are waving a chewed up leather shoe. I try to mean what I say but just in case I am not able to live up to my magnanimous pretensions, I have plenty enough nails to pluck from the lovely wounded trees for insertion into another thick skulled forehead.
Sweet Jesus
I don't know what I ever did to Bernadette to deserve that. We're heading out to Saxapaw a little later on, and I was taking a little nap, I don't know, just feeling a little wore out from the grunting and sweating or maybe that tick bite is infected and I gots the Fence Post fever, I really don't know, but I was tired enough for a nap and she comes in and says there's a green truck out there, oh hell maybe I wasn't completely asleep because why would she talk to me if I were, damn I wish I had a been though and the door knocks and I know one thing, I'm too sleepy to think straight, just ignore the knocking I might have said more clear headed, but she's out there answering it, I hear my name drawled out like a warm bit of tobacco juice dripping down a man's chin, and she comes back all sheepish like she just turned me into the law, oh I wish she had, you remember that Bernadette, you turn me into the law but don't answer that knocking in Fence Post. Jim he says, you remember me? I really don't so I just say it, I mean I must of just blocked it out because this guy is married to one of the Claypool women I guess, lives two houses down he says, they almost all Claypools in some fashion out here, it's coming back to me now, he tells me I told him last time--I just woke up from a nap remember--that I said he was trying to tell me what was wrong with my life and I said I'm not sure I would have said that, and then I go, oh you mean 14 years ago? He says has it been that long and I say yep, he gives me a piece of paper and says read the back and hand written are the words "does Sweet Jesus live here?" and I have to be completely honest, I really don't know, well this is all an invite to join his church just around the corner there, ain't gonna be no passing of the plate he assures me, does this guy have 14 year old notes on me? because I might have accused him of being a plate passer, I can see myself saying that but he just goes on and on all syrupy like and I'm trying to maintain eye contact, just trying to be polite...his shirt is too crisp and that after-shave is too strong and I got to get to Saxapaw. We're heading out now.
I don't know what I ever did to Bernadette to deserve that. We're heading out to Saxapaw a little later on, and I was taking a little nap, I don't know, just feeling a little wore out from the grunting and sweating or maybe that tick bite is infected and I gots the Fence Post fever, I really don't know, but I was tired enough for a nap and she comes in and says there's a green truck out there, oh hell maybe I wasn't completely asleep because why would she talk to me if I were, damn I wish I had a been though and the door knocks and I know one thing, I'm too sleepy to think straight, just ignore the knocking I might have said more clear headed, but she's out there answering it, I hear my name drawled out like a warm bit of tobacco juice dripping down a man's chin, and she comes back all sheepish like she just turned me into the law, oh I wish she had, you remember that Bernadette, you turn me into the law but don't answer that knocking in Fence Post. Jim he says, you remember me? I really don't so I just say it, I mean I must of just blocked it out because this guy is married to one of the Claypool women I guess, lives two houses down he says, they almost all Claypools in some fashion out here, it's coming back to me now, he tells me I told him last time--I just woke up from a nap remember--that I said he was trying to tell me what was wrong with my life and I said I'm not sure I would have said that, and then I go, oh you mean 14 years ago? He says has it been that long and I say yep, he gives me a piece of paper and says read the back and hand written are the words "does Sweet Jesus live here?" and I have to be completely honest, I really don't know, well this is all an invite to join his church just around the corner there, ain't gonna be no passing of the plate he assures me, does this guy have 14 year old notes on me? because I might have accused him of being a plate passer, I can see myself saying that but he just goes on and on all syrupy like and I'm trying to maintain eye contact, just trying to be polite...his shirt is too crisp and that after-shave is too strong and I got to get to Saxapaw. We're heading out now.
Mowing Day
The moon waxes fatter and fatter in Fence Post as burning days pass and the debris of Randy Renter continues to float up to the surface after every rain.
Johnny Woodman brought his Bobcat and blow torch over while I was gone and has started taking apart the last three vehicles--two truck beds and a front half of a small truck--and loading the metal onto his trailer for redemption at the nearby scrap metal place. I ask him if he was making out well enough to make it worth his effort and he said he is getting about 200 dollars for every load. He's been for the last couple of weeks trying to pass a small rough edged pebble through the soft tender insides of his urinary tract so his side work project of helping me clean this place up has suffered some from that.
The over the counter pain killers aren't doing much and my left caliper and lower ball joint are causing me some discomfort but I only mention that in passing so that I can say I would never mention it to a man with a kidney stone.
I did not desire to travel with a box of shit this time so the cat is coming and going through the hole in the floor and is so far apparently taking care of her business outdoors.
It rained here while I was gone so the neighbors' grass, which was brown when I left, has turned green and now while I sit here the sound of their mowing and weed-eating reminds me of the guilty pleasure I would feel sitting inside here while they mowed and weed-eated 14 years ago.
Bernadette is here, has set up a North Carolina office, and is using the bathroom door set atop two saw horses as her desk. Danny Claypool has appeared for the first time this visit and is this minute stirring up dust running his tractor with mower attachment over the few blades of grass in my mostly dirt yard. Pebbles ping the glass of Bernadette's corner office. He has only shorts covering his sun burned body and is wearing wrap around mirror shades. His bearded face is so sun burned it would be hard to tell if he had an alcohol flush. He did this mowing the first time I was here as what I thought was a one time favor and him doing it now is part of a play that if accurately written would be mostly pitiful and half the audience would leave at the intermission. Danny, a three time losing drunk driver with revoked license goes to jail just before the intermission for driving his golf cart on the highway.
I don't like going out on the property during mowing day, I don't know why, I just never have.
The moon waxes fatter and fatter in Fence Post as burning days pass and the debris of Randy Renter continues to float up to the surface after every rain.
Johnny Woodman brought his Bobcat and blow torch over while I was gone and has started taking apart the last three vehicles--two truck beds and a front half of a small truck--and loading the metal onto his trailer for redemption at the nearby scrap metal place. I ask him if he was making out well enough to make it worth his effort and he said he is getting about 200 dollars for every load. He's been for the last couple of weeks trying to pass a small rough edged pebble through the soft tender insides of his urinary tract so his side work project of helping me clean this place up has suffered some from that.
The over the counter pain killers aren't doing much and my left caliper and lower ball joint are causing me some discomfort but I only mention that in passing so that I can say I would never mention it to a man with a kidney stone.
I did not desire to travel with a box of shit this time so the cat is coming and going through the hole in the floor and is so far apparently taking care of her business outdoors.
It rained here while I was gone so the neighbors' grass, which was brown when I left, has turned green and now while I sit here the sound of their mowing and weed-eating reminds me of the guilty pleasure I would feel sitting inside here while they mowed and weed-eated 14 years ago.
Bernadette is here, has set up a North Carolina office, and is using the bathroom door set atop two saw horses as her desk. Danny Claypool has appeared for the first time this visit and is this minute stirring up dust running his tractor with mower attachment over the few blades of grass in my mostly dirt yard. Pebbles ping the glass of Bernadette's corner office. He has only shorts covering his sun burned body and is wearing wrap around mirror shades. His bearded face is so sun burned it would be hard to tell if he had an alcohol flush. He did this mowing the first time I was here as what I thought was a one time favor and him doing it now is part of a play that if accurately written would be mostly pitiful and half the audience would leave at the intermission. Danny, a three time losing drunk driver with revoked license goes to jail just before the intermission for driving his golf cart on the highway.
I don't like going out on the property during mowing day, I don't know why, I just never have.