Things Happen

You live this deep in the woods, there are sounds in the night. The fight or flight reflex is always at play. Something wakes me almost every night, usually I just roll over and go back to sleep. A pack of dogs, a rabid coon, two opossums fighting over a treat from the compost pile; I listen, assess the threat, either get up or not. If I'm in the middle of a dream, I just incorporate the sound into the background, but sometimes I get up, roll a smoke, have a wee dram, and go outside with a flashlight. Tonight it was a bobcat scolding a ragged black lab about who was king of the hill. I threw a couple of rocks, to impose my sense of order, sat on the back porch, in the dark, and thought about how strange any given life could be. I've lived here, now, longer than I've ever lived anywhere. The ridge, it's seasonal cycles, is pretty much my life, and my attachment is rooted in natural phenomena. I could be anywhere, but I'm here, right now. That sound? Bugs, rubbing their legs together; a Nightjar looking for a roost, the haunting voice of an owl, voles scratching through the leaf litter. Meaning accrues. After a time, things make sense. But making sense is extremely relative. What I accept as completely natural you might find weird, and certainly the other way around. The cloud of uncertainty, tubular fog on the Ohio River, nothing is ever clear. Even when it seems to be. No morning receptionist today and I filled in at the front desk. Not an odious task for me because the library is right there, and I started reading a tome on the Renaissance. Excellent essays interleaved with color plates. Betty T came in, down from Columbus, to see M and C; she's the director of the ODC museum and originator of the current show, a wonderful and informed person; they all went for an early lunch, which meant I went for a late lunch, over which I lingered, watching the British Open, at the bar, with no sound. Very busy there, today, and the staff was exhausted, they'd even brought Billy out of the kitchen, to clear tables, and I offered to wash dishes, but Barb said they had it under control. She knew that I was serious. I can wash dishes with the best of them. They still wash dishes by hand at the pub, which I think is noble. I didn't get much done in the afternoon, M and C left early, for Springfield (M's birthday celebration) and Pegi was out all day with Art Camp. I was the only staff there. I did a gratuitous tour of the Carters for a family down from Cleveland, mostly because there was a beautiful young daughter, an Art History major at Binghamton, with straight black hair and ankles to die for, that kept making eye contact with me. As it happened, her MFA was on Curry, Hopper, and Grant Wood, and we ended up talking about regionalism. We agreed to meet for lunch, tomorrow, at the pub, if I can get off the ridge, 50-50 chance, more rain coming in waves. Of course her name is Emily. She was amazed I knew so much about Carter, she knew who he was, had looked at some reproductions, but here they were, and I was pointing out subtle things. When I'm offhand, my Carter lectures can be very good. And I'm usually offhand. Ask me a question, and I'll tell you what I really think. I don't dwell in the area of expectation. I sense a sea change.