The Blues

Etta James. What a voice. She inhabits the songs she sings. I let it rain for an hour, to clean the roof, then quickly harvested 15 gallons of water. The cold front is here and the temperature plunged from 75 yesterday to 40 last night. I have a good fire going, a first grader's desk/chair from a construction dumpster at one of the schools, and the house is comfortable. After the Emily shows I'll collect the firewood I have strewn along the driveway into the woodshed. There's quite a bit of it, all of it found wood, pre-cuts, as Kim says, and I've made arrangements to buy a load of dry oak. I'm still going to buy one of those infrared heaters, to soften the heating curve. I can afford, now, to pay a back-up heating bill of $100 a month. D and I were talking about paper-making, and he said that the OU Papermaking Department planted a garden of fibrous vegetables from which to make paper; artichokes are good, as is okra, pumpkin, spaghetti squash, anything with a lot of fiber, but it does stink, rotting off the organic matter. New England is dotted with flax ponds, and it must have smelled to high heaven, but linen has always commanded a high price. Dusky dark, I walk out to the Jeep, to get a couple of gallons of drinking water and there's a batch of turkeys, ten or twelve, tearing up the mast near where I park. As soon as I hear them I stop, squat down to watch, the wind and falling leaves obscure any sound I make, and I'm able to duck-walk close enough to see them clearly. They're fat and beautiful, all females, and they must be roosting nearby, because it's getting late, and time for them to tree-up for the night. I have a perfect crossing shot, when two of them walk by each other, but I don't have a shotgun and don't want to kill anything. I want to get my water and get back to the house, so I finally just stand up and start walking. They panic, but like swans, they don't take to flight very easily, and just run off, into the underbrush. I get my water and head back home. Rain water for a bath heating on the cookstove, the sheep-watering trough pulled up close with another couple of gallons of water warmed to room temperature. I soak for awhile, listening to the rain and the leaves falling; then scrub down completely, until I'm pink and reborn, clean clothes, rock-climbing pants and a sweatshirt. Rock climbing pants are strange because the zipper runs the other way, down to up, and I don't know what that signifies. I had wanted an artichoke, and the papermaking talk reminded me, so I had bought one. While it steamed I made a nice garlicky mayonnaise. Anymore, when I have an artichoke, it's the whole meal, maybe a crust of bread. I like an Old Vines Zin with this, something huge, and I listen to The Cello Suites. It's an utter and complete transport. I know there's another world out there, television and movies, tweeting and texting, but a firm artichoke, steamed just right, with a home-made dipping sauce and The Cello Suites, is a tough act to follow.