Another Story

I don't know how large the floodplain is, where the Scioto comes into the Ohio, hundreds of acres, maybe thousands and it is all flooded, though, technically, the Ohio is supposed to crest eight feet below true flood. Splitting hairs at that point where the water starts invading houses. Most of this bottom is farmed in soybeans, some feed corn, and as in the deltas of long ago, when we allowed the rivers to flood and spread another layer of silt, this farmland floods yearly, several times. Seems like a good thing, natural, green, but this is Scioto and Ohio (two drainage ditches) silt and I wonder how anything can grow. What is the first thing they plant in those newly impounded areas they where they reclaim land from the North Sea? There are big red maple trees that grow with their feet in the river, but we're not supposed to swim in it, and only eat the fish once a month. Yet there are bottom feeding catfish, monsters, that live there, 50, 60 pounds, and they've got to be old. This is all a mystery to me. I'm a little involved learning the chemistry necessary to fathom why some things live, it's all about understanding how an organism deals with poison. Also true in the workplace. A crew is an organism. The one house-building job, a house I had designed, that I quit, was because the owner's fourth husband was trying to second-guess me. Don't think I haven't thought it through. I used some boards in the entry, they had sneaker marks on them, I knew I could get shed to them, I intended to finish the entry bright, a clear finish on the boards. So I knew I'd be sanding, superficial marks meant nothing to me. I can sand and listen to the Cello Suites forever. Revealing grain. Relying on faith, is really all you have to go on, and this bastard, the fourth husband, has hired a crew to take down my work. I nod, and don't say a word, you can only imagine how hard this was for me, what I could have said, the scaffolding was rented and I made him sign over responsibility. As I remember, I went home, cooked an ox-tail, and drank a bottle of scotch.

Tom

Worse than that, I ate a few slices of stinky cheese, ate a can of baked beans, and I'm farting like a sailor. Nothing prepares you for this. Theatrical preparation is best, I think, because you never know what's going to happen. The bottom of the food-chain, where you find yourself, consider why you are there. My real world is fleeting, did she enjoy that dish? I could fart on key, but it's not electronic.