far too much writing, far too many photos Thursday, December 25, 2008 Wishing you all a most excellent holiday, however you spend it, wherever you are. Feliz navidad a todos -- felices fiestas. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Along la Calle Preciados in Madrid, a year ago: España, te echo de menos rws 1:20 PM [+] Saturday, December 20, 2008 December in Vermont. Cold, snow, blahblahblah. Lots of snow, actually. Three times during the last 7 or 8 days, I've woken up to find serious snowfall happening outside. 8-10 inches the first time, 6 or so the second, another 6 this morning. Pretty. And messy. But pretty. (And messy.) Since I find myself still in northern Vermont -- not exactly where I'd expected to be so many months after arriving to begin winding up things here -– and may be here for a while longer, I decided to make the best of it. Rented an office room on a short-term basis, on the third floor of the building owned by the café that is my default hang when I'm in Montpelier. Have found myself getting up freakishly early to drive into town and get a few hours of work done. Every morning this week (including this morning). Which means, on mornings of big snow, pulling out of garage between 6 and 6:30 a.m., driving slowly through side roads deeply buried in thick, virginal white fluff. (Heavy fluff, but still fluff.) Coasting slowly down the one-lane road that descends the hill the house is on, everything quiet, no lights visible anywhere around in the early-morning dark, the experience feeling like a north-country theme park version of a slo-mo toboggan ride. So very quiet, the only noise a muted sshhh as car glides slowly down gradual incline. An unexpected upside: on mornings when I might be dragging my sad, groggy carcass to the gym for a round of healthy suffering, I now head directly to that little office, on the quiet third floor of that old building, and sit working or having fun with a true high-speed internet connection instead of the faux high-speed connection at the house. (Those ads for satellite internet? The ones that use the words 'high-speed' over and over and over? It's not true high-speed -- do not expect the real thing or you'll be vewy, vewy sowwy.) The café opens at 8, I take a break, go down, get a double espresso, return to my little hidey-hole and continue working/coming to. When I take another break later, I skip over to the gym and do what must be done, looking and acting like an entirely different individual from the poor, suffering bastard the morning staff knew from the wee hours. The big downside: this getting up long before the crack of dawn (where does that expression come from? would it be from an old Greek myth where Dawn appeared as a divine plumber or refrigerator repair person, wearing clothing that provided unwelcome views of hind quarters?) is not my idea of a good time. I'd rather be in bed under warm covers, snuggling with someone wonderful. But this is all about accepting my life as it is right this nanosecond and making the best of it. So for now I get up early and get all productive. And the days roll on. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Dusk, a few days before Christmas -- Vermont: España, te echo de menos rws 3:59 PM [+] Monday, December 15, 2008 The weather here this last week or so has been hilarious. Beginning one morning seven, eight days back when the thermometer outside the dining room window greeted me with a reading of -10F/-23C. Cold enough that I felt chilly no matter what, with layers of clothes pulled on, with the stove cranking out fairly intense heat. All of which motivated me to finally get serious about finishing the insulation in the attic. (In this case, attic means crawlspace, a nightmarishly accurate word. There is no getting upright in that space, even directly beneath the roof's peak. There is no standing, there is no kneeling. There is only lurching clumsily about, planting feet where they can find purchase, working real damn hard to keep them there so they don't smash through ceiling drywall into living space. Whoever builds crawlspaces where proper attics should be oughtta be forced to live in them, so that they spend their days hunched over and miserable, like the denizens of the 13th floor in 'Being John Malkovich,' only worse.) An upside of this work: it provides the opportunity to rant and swear like a rabid, drunken sailor -- an hour-long primal, essentially. (I can't do more than an hour at a shot -- it is simply more fun than my system can bear.) Which has its twisted charm if one is looking for that kind of release. And I will confess that I get into it when I'm up there suffering in the name of making the house warmer. A second upside of the work: the gratifying difference in household heat retention. In a normal, user-friendly weather zone, the house's insulation would have been totally bitchen, in no need of improvement. Here in the frozen wastes of northern Vermont, where Jack Frost nips your nose, bites your bum, and then attempts to violate you every time you work up the courage to step out the door, there is no 'complete.' More insulation is always a most excellent idea. As anyone who has waded through entries of this journal from last year's warm season knows, I put in a lot of time up in the crawlspace clearing out trash and debris left by previous residents, replacing old, sad, skimpy insulation with new, happy, thick, efficient insulation, doubling and tripling the overhead R rating, depending on which part of overhead we're talking about. The difference was gorgeously apparently during the transitional seasons. But on winter mornings when the mercury slides down to the thermometer's nether regions and wildlife is wondering why in hell it didn't head south when it had a fighting chance, the cold seeps through walls, crawlspace and windows, intent on breaking one's spirit. So. Me in the crawlspace, swearing. Good clean fun. Have used up two packs of insulation that were hanging about waiting to be ripped open and emptied out. Will have to buy one more pack, haul my sad, suffering keister up through the teeny ceiling port (aperture size: 29" x 11", clearly designed to maximize discomfort for anyone weighing over 65 pounds) into the crawlspace one more time, and finish the work. It is worth it. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ An afternoon in mid-December, Vermont: España, te echo de menos rws 5:54 PM [+] Sunday, December 07, 2008 [continued from previous entry] I didn't experience a strange Thanksgiving until living off-campus during college, one year that I chose to stay put for the weekend instead of going back to visit the 'rents. Stayed in my squat, slept in, partied with the few students I knew who'd also decided to hang around. Found myself at a kind of impromptu holiday dinner in a friend's flat, a nondescript unit in an apartment complex, the place completely white, featureless, a cookie-cutter kind of living space, furnishings cheap and basic. Four of us in attendance, the dinner served at a small table in the small kitchen. Everyone drinking. Vodka, gin -- no wine, no pretense of gentility. The meal: basic, no-frills, in no way memorable apart from being a first attempt at a holiday feast thrown by young, impoverished whackos. The booze flowed freely, too freely -- became or had been from the start, I realized at some point, the real focus of the occasion for my companions. Until I found myself standing in the living room, looking at the others sprawled out on chairs and small sofa, shitfaced and passed out, the event feeling seedy and sad, me resolving to never again spend a similar Thanksgiving. And I never did -- have, in fact, chosen to spend some Thanksgivings solo instead of in a situation that felt like it had the potential to be uncomfortable, sad, not so wonderful. And some of those solo Thanksgivings have been perfect -- quiet, relaxed, punctuated by phone calls with friends spread out across the map. On the other hand, there was one Thanksgiving dinner at my brother's home that I will always be grateful I experienced. Me and my brother's family (brother, sister-in-law, niece, nephew) around the table in the small dining room of their comfortable home. With two more diners showing up late -- my sister-in-law's aunt and uncle. One of the more unforgettable couples I've ever known. The aunt a local realtor, a well-known individual in that town, tall, skinny, with a strong, almost ferocious personality -- opinionated, smart, very conservative and right up front about it. They materialized after the meal had begun, two chairs were found for them, they slipped into spots around the small circular table, began working on plates of Thanksgiving chow, taking part in conversation. And at some point, someone at the table let go with a fart. Clear, distinct, impossible not to note. No one owned up. I looked around, saw that everyone else was opting to pretend that no one had cut the cheese. I resumed eating, a second fart ripped out -- again, loud, impossible to ignore. The kind that would bring a smile to any schoolboy's face. I looked around again, saw that everyone in attendance was adhering to the nothing happened pretense. I glanced at my sister-in-law, then my nephew -- they both met my gaze briefly, neither acknowledged in any way the outbreak of dinner music. And from there the farts just kept rolling out: fraps and poots, complicated melodies, straight-out window-rattlers. All, it turned out, coming from my sister-in-law's aunt, who continued eating, smiling and chatting, giving no indication that she was the source of the gathering poison gasses. I said nothing, managed not to spew food/drink from my nose while stifling giggles, silently gave thanks for having witnessed the event. Sometime later, I brought the dinner up to my sister-in-law, mentioned her aunt's spectacular performance, confessed the joy the occasion had given me, and found myself alone in that joy. She and the rest of them apparently just didn't want to go there in any way. Ah, well. Wish I had some of it on tape. What a scene. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Cherry-colored evening -- northern Vermont, 12/4/08: España, te echo de menos rws 12:48 PM [+] Wednesday, December 03, 2008 [continued from previous entry] It was a strange group, our family. Tense, a bit pinched. With far too much going on beneath the surface, things I had no clue about until many years later. (Probably a good thing in some ways, that ignorance.) But it had its strong points, one being the sweet ritual of holiday-season meals. I never saw displays of abundance of that calibre during the rest of the year -- my father worked as a teacher in New York City. Big stress, low wages. Leaving a thin pool of money to be tossed around. And though frugality was the watchword during most of the year, the 'rents let go when the holidays arrived. Not running up debts as far I know, but spending what they had right up to the limit. The first round of that letting-go being the Thanksgiving spread. The kitchen was a teeny claustrophobia-inducing space, a nearly microscopic enclosure. The holiday meals my mother wrestled into existence –- plate after plate, bowl after bowl, platters brimming over with mounds of turkey -- was the lower-middle class culinary equivalent of an endless stream of clowns getting out of a Volkswagen bug. It was herculean, spectacular -- an annual feat that may not have received the lavish gratitude and appreciation it deserved. My memories of food during the rest of the year: a blur of canned veggies, ground beef/hot dogs, and sugar, sugar, sugar. And the 'rents subscribed to the school of thought that insists a kid must eat what's put on their plate, no matter how unappealing and/or toxic that 'what' may be. Leading to me passing long, unhappy evenings siting at the kitchen table long after everyone else had finished up and bolted, staring at the mound of lima beans (cold, congealed, straight out of a can) that I refused to choke down, until the world outside had gone dark, the tv had been cranked in the living room and the old lady wearied of the battle of wills and threw me out of kitchen. Not a kind of difficulty that arose during holiday dinners. Another family strength on display during holiday meals: the sense of humor that enabled clan members to survive the rest of the year. Normal meals happened in the household's tiny kitchen, everyone crammed in around a compact, rectangular table, laughter and hilarity not figuring in my memories of that. Change the venue to the small dining room -- site of mealtime gatherings on Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, maybe one or two more occasions during a given 12-month span -- and it was as if a switch got tripped, enjoyment and good-humor bubbling over, radiating out. Normal mealtimes were mostly not a time of big fun for me in that house -- normal life was mostly not a time of big fun for me in that house. But I have no dark memories when it comes to squeezing into my chair at the dining room table, no troubling memories of family dramas or acting out -- not one. No drunken goofiness, no skeevy interpersonal dynamics. Could be they were there -- they just didn't get the kind of play they received the rest of the time. These moments were too good to corrupt. Or that, anyway, is how I remember them. [continued in following entry] España, te echo de menos rws 5:29 PM [+] Friday, November 28, 2008 The day after Thanksgiving, wan sunlight slanting in windows, light snow falling despite the sunshine. (Thin cloud cover explains both the thinness of the light and the snowflakes drifting down.) A realtor had arranged to bring some people this morning around ten, that had me up real damn early to do the daily clean-out-stove-and-get-it-cranking-all-over-again routine so the space would be warm and cozy when people came through before pulling myself together and heading into town. (Was up real damn early the day before Thanksgiving as well, a ton of errands and other work waiting to be done, forcing stove routine and gym visit to happen at obnoxiously early hours. Found myself in athletic gear doing exercisey hooha at 6:30 a.m., my bod complaining, me uncaffeinated, wearing a stunned expression of genuine suffering.) Have reflected quite a bit about the holiday -- my favorite holiday of all the ones that spring themselves upon us during the year's parade of months. No religious overtones, no gift-giving -- just appreciation, spending time with friends/loved ones/family. I don't always find myself at a dinner, and it doesn't matter -- I love the feel of the day, how quiet it gets. A day of calm before the goofy commercial storm of the weeks that follow. Some of my most vivid memories are related to Thanksgivings past, the clearest and most potent with family. Images of the childhood me seated at the jury-rigged table in the small dining room of our small house. The table (actually two small tables shoved together) covered with plates, bowls, platters. My mother -- not even close to being what I would call a fine cook during the rest of the year -- outdid herself on occasions like this. Got up early, labored in the kitchen for many hours, produced a spread that I took for granted in those years, it being what I always saw on Thanksgiving and Christmas. And the fact is, it was a stupendous meal, so wonderful that the fleeting thought of it gets my salivary glands cranking. The closest thing to a banquet that our small tract-house ever saw. The only time of the year that I remember seeing faces from outside the nuclear family at the table -- the two older brothers' sweeties; my father's ancient, crotchety mother; my godparents (whom I barely knew and who barely knew me -- why they were my godparents I can't explain); guys the oldest brother knew from the Coast Guard, far enough away from home to make the trip to join their families undoable, materializing in our dining room instead and disappearing immediately after (understandably -- there was nowhere for anyone to stay in the cramped house). [continued in following entry] ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sunrise, late November, northern Vermont: España, te echo de menos rws 6:42 PM [+] Saturday, November 22, 2008 Yesterday morning, northern Vermont: España, te echo de menos rws 12:52 PM [+] Tuesday, November 18, 2008 Recently: -- Stumbled across a broadcast of the final episode of Twin Peaks. Still one of the creepiest hours of television ever made (IMHO, that is -- and since it was not intended to be the final episode when it was made, a depressing last look at a great main character, dumped into dire shit and left there). A few nights later, stumbled across the very first episode of same show. Reminded me all over again why it caused such commotion in its very first run. Killer television. -- Stumbled across a documentary I'd long heard about, Born In Brothels. Found myself immediately sucked in. Found tears sliding down my silly face. -- A friend, just back from a month in Ohio working to prevent the kind of massive election fraud that torpedoed the 2004 presidential election, just took off to work with the recount in Minnesota. I warned her that if she chose to go ahead with this, she'd be leaving herself open to being called Dr. Frankenrecount by insensitive friends. She ignored my gentle counsel, I look forward to using her new nickname as often as possible. -- Winter has settled into this part of the world, flurries and snow showers already normal, temperatures skidding way south of the freezing mark. Has me thinking wistfully of days spent in t-shirts, with no need for thermals or heavy coats -- just two short months ago. (Sniffle.) -- Two nights in a row, had vivid, interesting dreams. Dream No. 1: not sure what in hell was going on to start with. Me maybe belonging to some sort of big social collective or a strange, semi-genteel fight club or something. Have vague recollections of one or two matches with other... group particpants. Me apparently coming out on top. (Pause for self-satisfied smirk.) Bringing me to the part I do remember: me in a long rectangular indoor space, kind of a blend of a diner/company cafeteria/club kinda thing, broken down into smaller areas with booths and waist-high dividing walls. Me standing in one of those sub-spaces, a booth on one side with a couple of guys sitting in it, vending machines on the other side. An older, taller male with a clipboard appears putting me on immediate notice for my next match. My opponent: a guy a foot taller than me, big, bald, muscular. Me not concerned about any of that, adopting the stance of someone ready to get into it. Which is when I woke up. Dream No. 2: once more, not sure what in hell was going on to start with. What I remember: being with a sweet, attractive, slightly plump woman who wore a top that featured a low, low neckline, exhibiting... a lovely, impressive expanse. Lovely and impressive enough that I told her she had some of the most beautiful cleavage I'd ever seen. (A sincere compliment, filthy minds -- not a comment with smutty intent.) Provoking a blush that spread across her cheeks, down her throat and across her chest. Which is when I woke up. Both nights, turned on the light, got up, made the hike to the loo. When I slipped back between the sheets, the dreams had faded. I drifted back off to sleep, slipped into other, less vivid, less memorable adventures. España, te echo de menos rws 8:17 PM [+] Sunday, November 16, 2008 Woke up this morning in the early hours, before darkness began giving way to the day's first gray light. Turned on the radio to the local college/community station, found two or three 20-somethings marveling at how mild it was outside. Near 60, they said, an unheard of nighttime temperature for this part of the world at this time of the year. I drifted off at some point, when I dragged myself out from under the covers around eight, the temperature outside had taken a slide down into the '40's and felt like it intended to continue falling. The sky hovered low and gray, a strip of lighter sky visible off toward the horizon, miles away. Looking like early winter, feeling more and more like it with each degree of falling mercury. Shortly before nine, me moving slowly around the kitchen, I saw a red Ford Explorer come slowly down the road, saw it pull off across from my driveway, watched what looked like a father and son get out, wearing bright red stocking caps. They pulled rifles out from the rear of the vehicle, headed off into the woods, following a path that stretches uphill from the road. If someone parks at the end of a driveway on a country road and intends to be there a while, the courteous thing to do is go up to the house, let the people living there know what's up, what you're going to be doing. Didn't happen. On impulse, I picked up the phone, called the owners of the land across the road, told them the situation, asked what the protocol was. They let people hunt on their land -- they own the top of the hill, somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 acres -- but ask that they come speak to them first, park not far from their house, walk into the woods from there. I mulled all this over as I slowly pulled together caffeine and morning nosh, decided to write a note, leave it on the Ford's windshield. A simple note, not harsh, not unpleasant, but suggesting that the courtesy of taking a moment to say hello would be appreciated in a case like this. Went back inside, stood at the living room window, watched wild turkeys appear from up the hill, disappearing one by one into the brush below the house. Then returned to the kitchen, got the day underway. An hour or so later, I noticed the vehicle moving slowly along the road, heading back the way it had come. I walked outside, strolled down the driveway, saw the Explorer turn around up the road and head slowly back toward me. Slowly, coming to a gradual halt in the middle of the road by the end of my drive. A boy sitting in the passenger seat stared out at me, the driver's door opened and closed, someone got out. "You the person who messed with my truck?" I heard, saw a late-30's male come around the rear of the vehicle, his manner vaguely threatening. And this is where growing up in a family with violent tendencies has served me pretty decently -- I don't cringe or fade before an aggressive attitude. I'm not looking for physical confrontation, but I'm also not inclined to give way if I've done nothing to provoke ugliness. "Yeah," I said, "I left the note on your windshield." Not unfriendly, but also not backing off. He asked if I owned the land he'd been on, I replied it belonged to so and so, he said he'd spoken to them, I said I had as well. He said something else about not liking his vehicle being messed with, I didn't respond, he said he'd hunted around here for years but had never parked at this spot before, that led to some talk about protocol when parking an unfamiliar vehicle at the end of a country driveway. He reacted by saying it looked like no one lived here -- I looked around, saw a house and land clearly lived in and taken care of, decided to let his comment go, didn't point out that he hadn't bothered to investigate by coming to the door. He asked how long I'd lived here, responded to my answer -- me stating a span of ownership apparently longer than he'd expected -- with a surprised, "Holy crap!" Maybe having assumed I'd be a newcomer, that if I'd had the place for a while he would have known me. Through it all I simply stood my ground in friendly fashion, giving him every opportunity to loosen up, drop the defensiveness. Which he slowly began to do, finally saying his name, me saying mine, offering my hand. He responded, looking as if the idea of not responding had flitted through his head before he extended his arm, and we shook. When he finally got back in the truck, he hadn't loosened up to the point of actual friendliness, but he'd come some way. I debated inviting him to stop in for coffee any time he passed through, concluded he didn't look like an individual who'd have any interest in espresso, wished him a great day instead. I waved to the boy in the passenger's seat, the kid stared back, expression not exactly warm. The vehicle slowly moved off down the hill. We're interesting critters, we humans. A Sunday morning in the country. During hunting season. España, te echo de menos rws 1:34 PM [+] Monday, November 10, 2008 Northern Vermont, right now: España, te echo de menos rws 4:00 PM [+] Sunday, November 09, 2008 A week and a half ago, the season's first snow arrived. A shock to the system, but not unexpected, winter often arriving early in this green, lovely corner of the world. This week, the weather gods decided to play nice, dealing out several days of mild, user-friendly conditions. Nights above freezing, afternoons up in the '60's. Fine weather for working outside, which I did, though not as much as I might have, because along with the stretch of kinder weather came an unexpected spell of laziness, leading me to act vaguely like I was doing productive things while accomplishing next to nothing. I blame it on company that arrived the Friday evening of last weekend, leading to far too much conversation around the dining table for the next 36 hours, chat accompanied by excessive food production and consumption. (Which, I swear, had no effect on my svelte, adorable bod.) Kind of set a tone. (It's good to have someone to blame things on.) But laziness, now that I think about it, is not the appropriate word. Because if I can muster up focus and interest, I can get as productive and industrious as... a human who is... all righteously productive. And industrious. So no, it's not the lazy thing. It's more along the lines of... not being exactly what might be called ecstatic every minute of every day. But I'm not digging into that. Because apart from the moments when I'm not exactly what might be termed blissful, I am often strangely serene. Part of the reason for that serenity: ignoring to a very successful degree everything related to the recent political hooha. Yes, the result -- of the presidential race, anyway -- produced a wave of joy from just about every single living being on this planet of ours (except maybe Sarah Palin. and the more bigoted and emotionally pinched of those in the political spectrum's rightward reaches). But prior to that magical wave of happiness? Many months of ugly behavior and obnoxious television ads. All of which I'm happy to say I mostly missed. So. Promoting serenity. Yee-ha! Meanwhile, that mild, sweet weather has given way to cold, gray, damp. The clocks changed two weekends ago, suddenly darkness is falling early in this northern locale. The spectrum of colors in the local countryside continues narrowing down, on gray days lights have to be turned on around 3:30, 4 o'clock. But there is something I do like about the turning inward of this time of year, the quieting down -- life takes on a more meditative quality, existence becomes simpler (holiday wackiness aside*). And sometimes on these gray, cold days, gaps open up in the clouds, sunlight slips through. A quiet kind of light with a special luminosity, stretching into the living space, bringing surfaces it touches to glowing life. For a short while anyway -- fading with time, giving way to shadows, darkness, the long night. Just one more moment in the seasons' constant flow. Here briefly before melting away, becoming something else. *Halloween evening -- me passing quickly through a local supermarket, picking up a few items. I pass one employee busy replacing a spooky holiday display with boxes of big candy canes. The body, so to speak, was not only still warm, it was still alive, several hours away from expiring. And they were already dragging it out the door, propping up another body in its place, the new one all red, white and stripey. The commercial sector: fickle, mercenary, and making no bones about it. España, te echo de menos rws 10:27 PM [+] Saturday, November 01, 2008 From a visit to Hope Cemetary, outside of Barre, Vermont, on this first day of November, el Día de los Muertos: España, te echo de menos rws 4:57 PM [+] Thursday, October 30, 2008 Tuesday: all day long, beginning well before dawn, the local wet-blankets in the weather-forecasting biz warned of coming snow, of possibly impressive accumulations. Arriving during the night, assuring we'd have some kind of surprise waiting for us the following morning. And when I stepped out into the quiet darkness the next a.m. -- up far, far too early, getting the day blearily underway -- I found about half an inch on the ground and more coming down, blown by a frigid winter wind. Half an inch: normal for this time of the year here. Most years, anywhere from one-half to two inches arrives at some point in October, melts away within a day or two, paves the way emotionally for the opening volleys of winter's bona fide assault weeks later. That long, long winter. Driving into Montpelier, a car ahead of me that had spent the night out in the elements -- somewhere north of here where a bunch more snow apparently came down -- shed chunks of crusty whiteness, pieces flying up into the air, splitting apart, disappearing into early morning darkness. At the gym, coat racks lightly used for months were suddenly stuffed with winter gear. It tapered off for a while during the morning, reasserted itself around midday, quickly bringing white-out conditions. Temperatures in the mid-30's guaranteed that accumulations remained minimal. Still, when I woke up this morning, two inches of snow covered everything. By mid-afternoon, spare sunlight had cleared big swaths of grass and roads lay clear. Snow. Two days before Halloween. Had me thinking about leaving a brief, despairing poem about it on my answering machine instead of the usual efficient outgoing message. (I restrained myself.) Twice during the afternoon, a sizeable pack of wild turkeys moved through the yard and around the house, foraging. Good-sized birds, not skinny or haggard looking. Could be that the arrival of this weather might mean the beginning of harder times for them, which might explain why critters as shy as they started hanging around the house. And tomorrow: Halloween. I haven't paid a whole lot of attention to this slow-building holiday hooha this time around, but it'll be fun to go into town and watch all the activity -- families out, kids in costumes, little hands carrying bags of booty. (As opposed to boo-tay, which would be difficult to stuff into most bags.) So that's where I'll be, meeting a friend who'll be visiting for the weekend. Anyway. Later. España, te echo de menos rws 7:13 PM [+] Monday, October 27, 2008 Late October, Vermont: España, te echo de menos rws 1:10 PM [+] Thursday, October 23, 2008 Yesterday morning, 8 a.m. Walked out of the house into a cold, gray a.m., the first post-warm-season flurries falling. Quiet, a frigid breeze blowing, small flakes angling down. The season that reigns here through half the year giving northern vermont the first shot off its metaphoric bow. (Yeah, that's right -- metaphoric, not metaphorical. [I'm speaking to the add-'al'-to-all-adjectives fascists here.] Metaphoric. As in romantic. Historic. Democratic.) Harrumph. Got in the car, cranked the heat, started the drive into town, bleary as all get-out, doing the best imitation I could muster of a high-functioning adult human. A couple of miles along, rounding a curve where the two-lane passes a farmstand, a hunter stood by the side of the road -- skinny, done up in hunting duds, holding a fancy, lethal-looking hunting bow. Expressionless, standing stock still, breath misting. Staring at the small market across the road, ignoring cars that whizzed by. Nine days earlier, Columbus Day morning. Me making that same drive, a few miles down the road, outside Montpelier, where the Winooski River slows and pools at a dam. Some beautiful color still in evidence, eye-catching enough to get me to pull over, get out of the car, grab camera, take pics. At some point as I stood there, either a hunting season began or hunters scattered around the surrounding hills felt the collective urge to begin taking potshots at whatever caught their eye -- gunshots erupted everywhere, continuing for several minutes, echoing off the hills. Continuing until I got back in the car (trying to walk calmly, like an adult who didn't believe he was in imminent danger from a growing firearm frenzy) and took off. Sometimes Vermont is a strange place. I completely forgot about Columbus Day, wondered idly during the drive why traffic was blessedly lighter than normal for a Monday a.m. Remained clueless until inside the gym, where a sign reminded everyone that parking was free that day (too late to keep me from making a small donation to the city). Ah, well. Recent nights here have been well down into the '20's, leaving no doubt about the time of year that's taking hold. Chickadees have begun hanging frantically about at the big window feeder, going through nearly half of it in a single day. And as the calendar entries have blown by, the background noise of state and national political hooha has become harder and harder to avoid, growing truly ugly as the days crept along. To the point that I've made a real effort to disengage from it all, choosing mental and emotional health over the growing noise. The house goes on the market this week, I continue working away at things to be done indoors and outside. Gradually putting garden, rosebushes, etc. to rest for the winter. Slipping into the changes of daily rhythm that working with a heating stove means. Adjusting to ever-shorter hours of daylight. Like that. What will happen from here, we'll see. The days slip by, others take their place. Life rolls on. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Mid-October, northern Vermont -- the middle of nowhere: España, te echo de menos rws 1:57 PM [+] Saturday, October 18, 2008 Today -- temperature outside the house at 8:15 a.m.: 24F/-3C. A thick layer of frost covered everything in view, looking like newly-fallen snow. Cold enough that the farmers market in Montpelier, usually bustling with people and energy, was practically empty at the opening hour, the handful of humans who braved the brisk weather all bundled up in winter duds, looking the teeniest bit stunned at the weather's sudden bite. No one seemed to have thought to wear gloves, complaints about aching hands were widespread. I could relate. Virtually all autumn color is long past out away from town, the countryside looking more and more winterlike, making the ride into Montpelier increasingly gray/brown. Until the small bridge that demarcates the city line is crossed, when trees on both sides of the two-lane suddenly become bright with orange leaves. A huge, old tree looming behind stalls at the farmers market, still largely covered with leaves, had its spirit broken by the night's intense cold and began letting go as the market got underway. A cascade of leaves came down, the few people around stopped to watch. An upside to the plunge in temperature: the café I hang at got busy much earlier than usual for a Saturday a.m. –- people heading indoors instead of wandering cold local streets -- the activity and sound of conversations a cheery backdrop for my slow swim toward consciousness. Two weekends ago, friends made the trip up for the weekend, only the second or third visit by anyone in the 5+ months I've been here -- I have to confess I'm a bit amazed at the lack of interest in coming up for what might be a final opportunity to stay in this beautiful place. Not to mention the lack of interest in volunteering for slave labor re: the ongoing work I've been wading through. (Grumble, grumble.) The visit featured abundant time spent preparing and sharing meals, me doing loads o' clean-up and dishwashing amid the hooha, something my friends apparently saw as a slightly stressed (and possibly slightly anal) response on my part, making the occasional smiling comment about how relieved I'd be when they were gone. The opposite was the case. It was great to have activity, life, conversation in the living space, and that kind of getting domestic makes me happy -- creating space, imposing temporary order, watching counters fill up again with food, plates, glasses, etc. España, te echo de menos rws 2:18 PM [+] Thursday, October 16, 2008 After a dreary day of low, gray skies and driving October rain, it is so nice when it lets up before darkness descends, when late afternoon clouds give way to patches of blue sky. But it's even better -- much better, far kinder -- when overcast arrives during the night then thins out as the day starts, becoming mist that slowly melts away, leaving nothing but sunlight and beautiful autumn countryside. (Photo from two weeks ago.) España, te echo de menos rws 7:04 PM [+] Wednesday, October 15, 2008 Last week, pulling onto a backroad, I encountered a number of bicyclists, all done up in colorful biker gear, helmets in place, shades on. Tooling along in leisurely fashion, a group spread out along a lengthy stretch of road, chatting, waving. I continued on, passed the last of their number, rounded a curve and passed a slow-moving van -- their van. Trailing after, monitoring, keeping watch -- rounding them up at some point and carting them off. A nice way to pass a sunny autumn day. Today, driving back from Montpelier, passing a tourist shop along the two-lane, spotted a similar van, saw bicyclists scattered around, chatting, pulling on gear -- preparing to pedal off. Another group enjoying a sunny mid-October day. The last day, the local wet-blankets in the weather biz say, in this extended Indian summer that settled in here sometime last week. The longest stretch of Indian summer conditions that I remember, long enough that a couple of days ago mosquitoes and blackflies began hatching (after being killed off by cold nights in September). Weather so user-friendly it's had me outside every afternoon scraping, sanding, painting, beginning pre-cold-weather garden clean-up. Slaving away like the... slavishly industrious... er... slave that I am. To me. There are times when the quiet is broken by the songs of robins, migrating bunches stopping to hunt through the grass out in the yard -- resting up, chowing down, then continuing south. Most of the big color display is long gone around here now. Trees that had been holding onto leaves of eye-catching hues gave up during these last breezy, warm afternoons, showers of color flying out into the air, dispersing, some eventually settling to the grass, others making it to the road to cartwheel and tumble along, accumulating along either side of the lane. Two weeks ago yesterday, a realtor came out to look through the house. An older guy, in his late 60's, maybe 70. A good person, being very kind to the blathering individual who showed him around the place (the blathering individual would be me), the blatherer at times clearly suffering from deeply mixed emotions during the process. Since then, nothing. I have not been in particular rush about all this, so mostly let it be, continued working away at the mountain of things to be done. Called once last week to make sure he was still interested. He was but was buried by work and life events, I let him alone. Yesterday, the phone rang, I found him on the other end, telling me he was all set and wanted to bring me paperwork. That will happen tomorrow. And speaking of the phone, I also found a long, strange message on my answer machine yesterday. A long, rambling political recording in the form of some nameless candidate -- no name was provided, far as I could tell -- doing a nearly ten-minute long Q&A with nameless questioners. The little bit I listened to frothed over with political buzzwords, but I found the politician's ideology impossible to nail down. Could have been just about anything, at least to this uninterested listener. I did not delve into it too deeply. Pulled the cassette out of the machine, tossed it into a cassette player to find out where it ended and see if messages from anyone I actually wanted to listen to came after. None did. Hit rewind, dumped it back into answering machine, forgot about it. 'Cause if I thought about it too much, it might piss me off. And it's not worth the expenditure of calories. Seriously. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This morning, northern Vermont: España, te echo de menos rws 9:10 PM [+] Friday, October 10, 2008 Deep into October, the first two nights of hard frost arriving Monday and Tuesday. Temperatures well down in the 20's, the world outside thickly frosted with white when daylight broke. Autumn color peaked two weeks ago in this northern corner of the Vermont -- since then the landscape has been slowly shifting to the mix of gray/brown/evergreen/touches of silver that reigns during the cold months. The morning after the first cold frost, trees that had been stubbornly holding on to their leaves let go, slow cascades of color coming down, carpeting backroads in swaths of bright yellow, bright orange, dark red. Next day, they'd become more of the brown accumulation of dead leaves that piles up along roadsides here, some rising up to cartwheel in one direction or another with the wind. Since then, daytime temperatures have coasted up to more user-friendly levels, the afternoons awash in sunlight -- perfect days to get work done outdoors. Which has had me outside the house scraping, sanding, painting, occasionally dragging the mower out of the garage to get the final grass cutting of the year underway. I am nothing if not industrious when I finally get myself off my adorable keister and hop to it. The remaining leaves have been coming down in fits -- October breezes shake many loose, leaving branches progressively more naked, creating patches of open sky. And that is a funny aspect of this time of the year -- the sense of the world opening up, more space for increasingly slanted sunlight to spill through, suddenly revealed views of countryside that had been hidden during the warm season. Today, mid-afternoon: autumn insects make music in the grass, a light wind moves through bushes and the remaining leaves on trees. Apart from that, complete silence. Bits of milkweed fluff drift lazily through the air, their filaments shining in the sunlight, looking like feathery clusters of fibreoptics. Long clouds drift slowly above the mountains off to the north, hugging the horizon -- above, the sky spreads out, a clear, cloudless blue. A breeze comes and goes, sheets hanging on the clothesline billow and wave slowly. The air has warmed enough to make jeans and a t-shirt possible for work outside, though the breeze is cool enough to raise goosebumps. As soon as the sun slides down behind the tops of the trees across the road, the temperature will drop. Autumn may back off during these sweet afternoons, but it reasserts itself as evening comes on. Indian summer -- mid-October, northern Vermont. España, te echo de menos rws 10:58 AM [+] Thursday, October 02, 2008 This evening, northern Vermont: España, te echo de menos rws 8:05 PM [+] Friday, September 26, 2008 A week of increasingly beautiful September weather -- cold nights changing to progressively warmer days, awash in sunlight -- has given way to gray, the days cool and rainy. Not much fun, and bringing work outside to a halt (while also bringing down leaves). Which gives me the opportunity to work inside, a good thing. Except that I have real trouble drumming up enthusiasm and joy for the indoors work. I'm growing real tired of it all, especially when I look around, note how much stuff I've gotten rid of and yet how much stuff remains. Images of hamsters running in little wire wheels come to mind. Or gerbils. Rodents. You know. I am in serious need of a platoon of willing slaves. Montpelier is having household toxic waste drop-off thingy this morning. That's good. Will give me the chance to dump lots of ancient paint cans left by the house's previous owners (the paint inside long dry), along with a box of other more obviously toxic stuff. Am far enough along with the process here that I'm finally beginning to think in future terms. Will meet with someone this morning to discuss the idea of giving them custody of a bunch of my stuff -- tools, cd's, living room furniture, like that -- when the house sells and I'm finally out of here. Custody -- could be temporary, could be permanent. Don't know which. Time will tell. We'll see if this friend goes for the idea. Meanwhile, I saw a headline a few days back on one of my ISP's news summaries posing the question 'Is climate change making New England autumns less colorful?' The kind of space-filling item put together by ‘news' people with far too much time on their hands. Don't know about anywhere else, but around here the colors are lovely and have really been coming on during the last few days, after a long, slow build. To anyone pondering the question of whether a trip north might be a bust -- please stop pondering. Autumn is here and it's looking beautiful. España, te echo de menos rws 9:31 PM [+] Wednesday, September 24, 2008 On more than one occasion in recent weeks, I have wandered into the bodily function part of the gym locker room only to be immediately forced out because of clouds of noxious vapors billowing out of toilet stalls, the product of unknown individuals who should really look into making drastic changes in their diet. All of which crystallized a truth for me: if I ever harbored latent tendencies toward homosexuality, they were destroyed early on by contact with odors and noises emitted by other males. Seriously, just a small sampling of the wide variety of unfortunate aromas/sounds males produce would be enough to put most anyone off the idea of excessive physical intimacy with one of their representatives. In my humble, ignorant opinion, anyway. For what little that may be worth. At the very least, a 'HAZARDOUS FUMES' sign should be prominently displayed when certain individuals take up residence in certain toilet stalls. Harrumph. A week ago, my brother passed through, spending one night, loading some family-related things in his car next day and taking off. First time I'd seen him in three or four years. He's now the mayor of a small town and talked about it some -- war stories, essentially, about the mess the previous mayor left, local politics, dealing with an antagonistic council member and local press (consisting of one reporter, a die-hard ally of the deposed ex-mayor). All of that combining to confirm my basic aversion to politics and an overall sense of better him than me. (He mentioned something about the process of gathering signatures to get on the ballot, that a common response was an outflowing of joy from the person adding their name because they were so happy someone -- meaning some poor fool other than them -- was taking on this kind of thing.) He looked tired, that brother of mine. One strange bit, unrelated to politics, fatigue and joyful signature-givers: during the course of my brother's visit, I mentioned the fact that the household ghost had been quiet for more than a year, wondered aloud if that meant the gently-haunted-house thing had run its course. Two days later, I heard a door close off in another part of the living area (me home alone at the time, checking around showed no doors had closed), then again a short time later. Since then, a flurry of that kind of happening -- thumps coming from other rooms, the quiet sound of someone moving out of view around a corner (again, no one around). Low-key, nothing too intrusive. But clearly there, clearly back in business, announcing it in unmistakable fashion. What's it all mean? Got me. But I am not making it up. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Evening, late September -- northern Vermont: España, te echo de menos rws 8:04 PM [+] BLATHERINGS August 2001 September 2001 October 2001 November 2001 December 2001 January 2002 February 2002 March 2002 April 2002 May 2002 June 2002 July 2002 August 2002 September 2002 October 2002 November 2002 December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 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