Spring! Friend! Neglect! Sloth!

John Prine and Steve Goodman wrote a song that contained everything that had ever been in any of the country and western songs they had ever heard. Dallas, dope, divorce, dead dogs, trains, prison Christmas, mothers, farms, and trucks - you know the stuff. The verse of it I remember is:

Ever since the dog died and mama went to prison
Ain't nothin' round this old farm that's been the same
You know when mom broke out last Christmas
She drove her pickup truck into a train

That’s what this post should be: an excuse for not blogging that includes all my excuses for not blogging. Spring came… gardening… a chum from Toronto was here on a genealogy hunt… the horses broke the pasture fence… the pile on my desk got so high it blocked my view of the computer screen… and each of those things sub-divides into a bunch of tasks.

So, friends, I must catch up on some responsibilities around here. I hope to be back real soon.

What's In a Word...

Have you noticed what animists young kids are?

When I was little, there were mice and ducks and dogs that talked. We took for granted that a certain yellow canary was verbally sassy: "I tawt I taw a puddy tat! I did! I did taw a puddy tat! Bad old puddy tat! " and that Sylvester would answer with a salivating, "Sufferin’ succotash!" These days, cars are anthropomorphic.

And so it is that my four-year-old grandson is terrified of ... THE BOILER... The boiler "lives" in our mudroom, making vague firing noises when water needs to be heated or if the woodstove goes out. Grandson is absolutely scared to death of the thing. Luckily, there is a door between the "play room" and that mudroom, apparently making the play space safe for four-year-olds (when the door is closed).

Saturday the little guy was here and headed for the play room when he saw that someone had left the protective boiler shield open. I was busy in the kitchen and didn't notice his distress as he asked - more than once - "Gramma, will you shut the door?"

Finally, in desperation he yelled, "Shut the damned door!!!" which launched me to explain to him that "shut the damned door" isn't a good way for little boys to talk. He listened, looked at me sweetly and said, "Gramma, please shut the damned door."
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Walking Iris
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joyful occasion
return of prodigal sun
surprised buds bursting

This houseplant flowers only in the spring, perhaps about eight flowers per year. Each blossom begins in the evening as a swollen green bud, appears as a large white "cone" in the early morning, opens by 10 AM, and has shriveled and died by evening.

This plant makes me think of the story about the sexuality seminar: The facilitator begins by asking the group how many have sex at least once a week. Several hands are raised somewhat proudly. Next he asks, “How many of you have sex at least once a month?” and a few shy hands are raised. He then asks, “Is there anyone here who only has sex say, only once a year?” and one guy excitedly jumps up, waving his hand and shouting, “Me! Me!” Everyone in the room is a bit shocked at this guy's enthusiasm, and the facilitator cautiously inquires, “You seem rather happy about your sex life. This is a bit surprising.” The once-a-year guy excitedly answers, “Tonight’s the night!!!”

Ta-da!!!

I know I shouldn't do this... the toilet is still in the hall...*...but I can't resist showing off the new floor.

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Tomorrow I'll get the "Sta-put" putty that I just realized I need, and (if the stars are in proper allignment), the throne will be returned to its proper place... (please pray, offer up sacrifices, do hocus-pocus or whatever else might assist).

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This wizard is pooped!

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* For anyone who's wondering how it got there, see my previous post

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A Good Flush Beats a Full House

The shut-off valve works like it's supposed to, and bailing and sponging out the leftover water in the tank and bowl is easy enough. So far, so good. Time to remove the toilet.

Okay, come on... goddamit, come on... (grunt, grunt)... Oh, son of a fucking bitch... How the hell can one bolt come loose but not both? Dammit, come on... stupid little...(grunt, grunt)...son of a...(grunt, grunt).

This isn't working. Poop and eggs... And this damned bathroom is so small that it feels like I'm twins.

Radio discussing mass murder at least keeps my own little hades in perspective, although at times I can't even hear it over my grunting and cussing... Come on God, this isn't funny... (grunt, grunt)... Okay, there must be some other way. My hands hurt and I'm getting tired. Stupid friggin' toilet. Here's the real pisser: this should have been the easy part.

I take a break and check my blog and email. Two more good poems from Shaman and a message from the Judge saying the Québécois have hi-jacked my blog and all he can get is a log-in in French. And then the solution comes to me: the hack-saw... And the Judge comes back with the message that it's gremlins at his end and it ain't the Québécois after all. So the final score at the end of the break is: Two poems from Shaman, and two problems solved. Thank heavens for the computer, I think, laughing sardonically.

A few minutes and some elbow grease later the damned toilet is sitting in the upstairs hallway, and I'm off to get some carpentry tools. With any luck, I'll have a nice maple floor down here by mid-afternoon.

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I return and notice how rusty the metal floor flange is. (That's the thing that holds the drain pipe in place and anchors the toilet to the floor). The screw heads are rotted to the point of looking like old nails, and I can't turn them with a screwdriver. Shit on a fucking shingle.

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To shorten this tale a bit, after a lot more cussing and grunting, I completely demolish the damned thing (except for the plastic part that seems to be glued to the pipe). What in hell will I ask for at the local plumbing supply?? Half of a floor flange? I take a photo of the situation.

Even though it's lunch-time and I wash my hands, I can't bear to touch anything that is headed for my mouth. I try to remember if I've ever seen a plumber bite his nails...

There's been a problem with my plan since the beginning, and I know it, and I've been trying to ignore it, but I can't: there is no blessed way I'm going to be able to lengthen that drain pipe the extra 3/4 inch that the thickness of the new floor will demand. The right way to do this job is to tear out the particle board floor under the old vinyl, and then lay the maple directly on the plywood sub-floor. The problem is that the particle board runs under the walls and the built-in sink... I'm staring at Saws-all Hell, a fact quite well proven an hour later.

Hours after the first grunt and curse, the bathroom is down to plywood sub-floor, the wrecking tools have been put away, and things are looking mighty fine. Tomorrow I will take my photos of the problem to town and see if a solution can be purchased - or if I'll have to do some major plumbing work.

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There's no royal flush in the cards tonight, but at least I don't have a full house, and luckily we do have another indoor bathroom. Life is good.

Lunch Bunch

I've been feeling haikuish lately. Maybe it's my keen sense of the unrest this awkward season change is generating. Maybe it's just that I'm lazy.

The goldfinches are morphing from winter brown to summer yellow. Each day you can see the progress, but clay-colored feathers still predominate. Daffodils spear their way up through the leaf cover at the edge of the woods, but, like the goldfinches, keep us in suspense. I fried eggs yesterday morning just to enjoy something warm and sun-colored.

Here are my feathered friends at the Niger Café (click on the photo for a better look), and below them, two poems.



black thistle diners
winter coats patched with yellow
birds of a feather

and

taupe duds now blasé
runway girls strut in yellow
finches not so sure

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The Wizard's view on April 16, 2007...
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A Cold, Cruel Joke...

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Spring ground snow-covered
Robins eat sumac flowers
Frozen worms laughing
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The Velveteen Rabbit

....."What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

....."Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

....."Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

....."Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful.

This morning in the woods, the Velveteen Rabbit crossed my path. I thought back to the little boy who had helped him to become real, and a lump came in my throat, for now the boy is grown and far away, and his toys are of a different kind.

I thought too of the parallel between the Velveteen Rabbit and the aging children who share this space: sometimes they, too, become real. The ones who do, do it gradually, first hiding behind carefully chosen identities, then slowly exposing themselves. I do not love them into reality like the little boy did, but they become real by the consistency of what they write and the messages they leave. They enrich and brighten my world.

You cannot truly love a fictional character, nor can you grieve the death of someone who is “pretend.” This week I learned that Lance, the blogger known to us as Baron Ectar, died very unexpectedly, and I am grieving that loss. He was a good person.
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He was someone who had become real in this pretend world of blogging.



Thank you, Baron, for your thoughtfulness and your willingness to help. Thank you for the music you shared with us. Your introspection and striving to "get life right" were an inspiration.
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May peace be with you and your family.
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You may click here for the full text (with pictures) of The Velveteen Rabbit by Marjorie Williams.

PSYCHO

As I look out at the falling snow, I know that it’s all my fault. Yes, I caused the return of winter.

A week ago, when all was sunny and spring-like, I cleaned out my dresser drawers. Daffodils were peeking up through last fall’s dead leaves and robins were singing as I packed my woolies away and hauled out some t-shirts and khakis. Then – as if I hadn’t been brazen enough in my disregard for PSYCHO – I gathered up all the wool mittens, hats, scarves and socks, washed them with Woolite and gleefully put them in storage… It’s been snowing and I’ve been freezing ever since.

You all know about PSYCHO: wash the car or hang the laundry on the clothesline and it will rain; sign up for an all-day indoor event and the sun will shine gloriously; buy a kite and April’s breezes will turn into doldrums; buy a sled and the snow will melt; plant tomatoes and watch a late frost settle on them; schedule a fall foliage tour and enjoy the two-foot-deep snow dump of a Nor’easter.

Yes, this weather is all my fault. I disregarded the theory of PSYCHO: Personal Stupidity Yielding Cosmically Hellacious Occurrences. I’m sorry.