With Cat Towards Appomattox
One can argue, oh it's not that bad, the smell of your cat defecating in her carrier, first time about 10 minutes into your 4 hour trip and the second time, kind of a freshen up, at about the 3 hour mark.
I talk to myself, mostly just inside my head, and especially during extended periods of solitude.
You going to clean that up? Naw, I'll just breath through my mouth. Aren't you worried about the stink, that palpable stink--sticking to your tongue, coating the insides of your mouth, lining your lungs? Naw, not really man, I haven't kissed anyone in days, and haven't really spoken to anyone in days either, other than to grunt at cashiers in stores when sliding my card or handing over cash, so I'm not all that worried about the potential waft of cat dooky escaping through my mouth. What about your cat, don't you care about your cat? Yeah, I care about her, in proper proportion I think, but she hates traveling. She's not going to be happy inside or outside that cage, and she has the good sense not to roll around in her own shit. Me cleaning up that crap is not going to make her that much happier. What's going to make her immediately happy is when I pull into the driveway, open her cage, wipe the two inches of hanging viscous drool from her chin, and fill her food bowl. She'll be purring up next to me ten minutes later. If I ask her then, hey do you remember the last four hours being nauseous and stuck in a small cage with just your own extracted poop for company, she will only respond with a blank stare and maybe a lick to my hand. I will cup the entirety of her small head in my palm and with my fingers knead the back of her neck, and say, that's a good kitty.
I'm not sure what I'm daydreaming about while driving but I'm on my way to Appomattox, 20 miles off course, before I know it. There are no mountains in site and that is wrong. I'm traveling on an easterly road when I should be traveling on a...I have to pause and picture in my head N. Carolina and Virginia on a map and where they are in proportion to each other. I can't see it. I should be going north, or south, I am certain of that. But which one? I really am at this moment the definition of stupid. The next time someone calls me a stupid ass I will in all fairness have to nod, or shake my head, it doesn't really matter which, and just take it. I'll see a sign soon and it will have on it both a direction and a nearby town. Before veering off I had been outside of Lynchburg so I don't need to go back there. I am heading towards Charlottesville. It will be easy. I will get back on track. I really don't remember what I was thinking about for those twenty miles. It was as if I just woke up and I was 20 miles in the future. I follow the mountains back home, through Charlottesville to Madison county and follow 231 into Rappahannock. Stretches of 231 are fairly breathtaking. I can breath through my mouth for a little while longer.
...more recent posts
Take Back That Flange, Sir
Jeeesus Chriiist am I still in that bathroom? Oh, no, please, don't go on. But I have to tell you about the toilet flange. Please no, please no don't. Well, I ripped out half the floor down to the joists but there weren't enough joists present so I scabbed some treated 2X6s onto the existing hard as a rock pine 2X10s and did some boxing around the waste pipe (which in some future will piss off a plumber) so I could put in the "for rent" ad--toilet will support a hippopotamus-- and one support here and another there and one diagonal because I had to and then cut some treated three quarter inch plywood and drilled holes for the supply pipes and roto-zipped one around the flange and then added another layer of three quarter inch plywood, same drilling and roto-zipping and when that was done I took a breath and attended to the closet and got it up to level, I mean not really level because that would require tearing the house down and starting over, but level to the rest of it anyway. This whole bathroom is only 6X8, including the closet and I am only working, as far as this floor reconstruction part is concerned, in half of that space. And I've been at it for almost 6 days. What? No, I'm not smoking pot. I'm just flummoxed some of the time. So today I was thinking about laying down the final layer, some quarter inch oak plywood for the linoleum to go on top of, when I noticed the toilet flange was sticking up too high. Like way too high but I don't trust my eyes (yes I do) so I brought the toilet in from the kitchen and set it on top of the flange and no fucking way will this work. I had been online some days ago reading about flanges so I took a cold chisel to the oakum and beat the flange with a hammer and got it to break off. Then I went to the home improvement store and found a new cast iron flange that purportedly will go on without an oakum process (which I think is a joint packing material over which you pour molten lead) and it damn well better work because it cost 42 dollars. The next most expensive flange I saw was 18 dollars but it would not suit my needs. Oh I love a good flange story. Don't you?. I bought a cheap pedestal sink for 36 dollars because the sink I took out was crap and the two back up sinks out here in the junk pile that I considered using were, upon closer inspection, broken. And a faucet and some closet bolts. And another sheet of plywood because now, without the flange, I would be able to snug up to the waste pipe itself and have the flange rest over the floor, which is proper. And I got a sheet of green sheetrock because I need to do some of that too, after this floor. And some baseboard and some shoe molding.
In answer to your question what am I doing tonight?...pretty much this. I've never been one for Friday nights. Assuming it is in fact, Friday night.
And then I took a pair of channel locks and broke off in pieces the lip of the cast iron waste pipe until it was level with the floor. Hell, I should probably take that flange back and get a proper one and some oakum, and a torch, you know what I'm saying?
Jeeesus Chriiist am I still in that bathroom? Oh, no, please, don't go on. But I have to tell you about the toilet flange. Please no, please no don't. Well, I ripped out half the floor down to the joists but there weren't enough joists present so I scabbed some treated 2X6s onto the existing hard as a rock pine 2X10s and did some boxing around the waste pipe (which in some future will piss off a plumber) so I could put in the "for rent" ad--toilet will support a hippopotamus-- and one support here and another there and one diagonal because I had to and then cut some treated three quarter inch plywood and drilled holes for the supply pipes and roto-zipped one around the flange and then added another layer of three quarter inch plywood, same drilling and roto-zipping and when that was done I took a breath and attended to the closet and got it up to level, I mean not really level because that would require tearing the house down and starting over, but level to the rest of it anyway. This whole bathroom is only 6X8, including the closet and I am only working, as far as this floor reconstruction part is concerned, in half of that space. And I've been at it for almost 6 days. What? No, I'm not smoking pot. I'm just flummoxed some of the time. So today I was thinking about laying down the final layer, some quarter inch oak plywood for the linoleum to go on top of, when I noticed the toilet flange was sticking up too high. Like way too high but I don't trust my eyes (yes I do) so I brought the toilet in from the kitchen and set it on top of the flange and no fucking way will this work. I had been online some days ago reading about flanges so I took a cold chisel to the oakum and beat the flange with a hammer and got it to break off. Then I went to the home improvement store and found a new cast iron flange that purportedly will go on without an oakum process (which I think is a joint packing material over which you pour molten lead) and it damn well better work because it cost 42 dollars. The next most expensive flange I saw was 18 dollars but it would not suit my needs. Oh I love a good flange story. Don't you?. I bought a cheap pedestal sink for 36 dollars because the sink I took out was crap and the two back up sinks out here in the junk pile that I considered using were, upon closer inspection, broken. And a faucet and some closet bolts. And another sheet of plywood because now, without the flange, I would be able to snug up to the waste pipe itself and have the flange rest over the floor, which is proper. And I got a sheet of green sheetrock because I need to do some of that too, after this floor. And some baseboard and some shoe molding.
In answer to your question what am I doing tonight?...pretty much this. I've never been one for Friday nights. Assuming it is in fact, Friday night.
And then I took a pair of channel locks and broke off in pieces the lip of the cast iron waste pipe until it was level with the floor. Hell, I should probably take that flange back and get a proper one and some oakum, and a torch, you know what I'm saying?
Go For Silver
If I know I'm going to be engaging in high risk blue collar behavior I will sometimes pop a few non-steroidal anti-inflammatory devices before I start. Or other times I will pop them right after, before the pain starts. It's called beating the pain cycle. It works pretty well and I highly recommend it. I haven't been doing anything too challenging though and as it turns out I don't have any pills here anyway. Thought I did, but don't. Which is fine because I'm not in pain.
Funny thing happened on the drive down. Just driving along and out of nowhere--ping, crack, there goes my windshield again. Was not driving behind a gravel truck or on an especially beat up stretch of road, nothing really obvious that might have come up off the road, and I was for awhile thinking space debris or random bb gun firing or something, who knows? I honestly can't remember going a full year without getting a cracked windshield. If I can I will go through an inspection with a cracked windshield but at that point the crack grows big enough to not pass inspection I will get the windshield fixed. I had this one fixed, oh, about a year ago, maybe less. If I don't get a windshield fixed I won't get another ding. This trend has been going on for, it seems about the last five or six years. It was happening when I drove the Mazda truck and it has been happening with the Jeep. On the Jeep I have also had the back window repaired recently. Grass cutting accident at Mt. Pleasant, mower picked up a chunk of gravel from the driveway and knocked out the back glass real good.
I'm drinking a Red Stripe beer. Actually I am feeling a little pain. Or trying to beat a pain cycle. Guess ole Claypool figured if I said he didn't have to run his mowing tractor over my lawn, then he just wouldn't. And the yard was looking a little ragged. If my lawn were a head of hair and the dirt was the scalp, it would have a bad case of scabies or some similar skin disease which made hair/grass fall out in clumps. I was out with the weed eater just now trimming up the tufts and it picked up a piece of gravel and knocked the holy shit out of my back window on the Jeep. If bad luck with windshield glass was an Olympic sport I would be a gold medalist. There would be no one as good as me, not even close. I don't see any point in being modest about it. I am the best. If you want to compete with me in this arena you should shoot for no higher than silver.
If I know I'm going to be engaging in high risk blue collar behavior I will sometimes pop a few non-steroidal anti-inflammatory devices before I start. Or other times I will pop them right after, before the pain starts. It's called beating the pain cycle. It works pretty well and I highly recommend it. I haven't been doing anything too challenging though and as it turns out I don't have any pills here anyway. Thought I did, but don't. Which is fine because I'm not in pain.
Funny thing happened on the drive down. Just driving along and out of nowhere--ping, crack, there goes my windshield again. Was not driving behind a gravel truck or on an especially beat up stretch of road, nothing really obvious that might have come up off the road, and I was for awhile thinking space debris or random bb gun firing or something, who knows? I honestly can't remember going a full year without getting a cracked windshield. If I can I will go through an inspection with a cracked windshield but at that point the crack grows big enough to not pass inspection I will get the windshield fixed. I had this one fixed, oh, about a year ago, maybe less. If I don't get a windshield fixed I won't get another ding. This trend has been going on for, it seems about the last five or six years. It was happening when I drove the Mazda truck and it has been happening with the Jeep. On the Jeep I have also had the back window repaired recently. Grass cutting accident at Mt. Pleasant, mower picked up a chunk of gravel from the driveway and knocked out the back glass real good.
I'm drinking a Red Stripe beer. Actually I am feeling a little pain. Or trying to beat a pain cycle. Guess ole Claypool figured if I said he didn't have to run his mowing tractor over my lawn, then he just wouldn't. And the yard was looking a little ragged. If my lawn were a head of hair and the dirt was the scalp, it would have a bad case of scabies or some similar skin disease which made hair/grass fall out in clumps. I was out with the weed eater just now trimming up the tufts and it picked up a piece of gravel and knocked the holy shit out of my back window on the Jeep. If bad luck with windshield glass was an Olympic sport I would be a gold medalist. There would be no one as good as me, not even close. I don't see any point in being modest about it. I am the best. If you want to compete with me in this arena you should shoot for no higher than silver.
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.
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.
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.