Dead Wood

Yesterday was all about getting ready for Tami's talk about her drawings; cleaning, straightening the installation, getting the finger food ready. And the rain held off until 4:45 when there was a righteous downpour, which meant a small audience. But an attentive one, and she was lucid about her technique, answered all of my questions about how she accomplished the finished product. She actually glues down her watercolor paper, with a glue she can release, so that it stays flat during the watercolor phase (ripples are the bane of paper artists), then she does the graphite drawing on top of that, then, in the encaustic series, fixes the drawing, then paints on a thick layer of a white bee's wax, then scrapes away the areas she wants to high-light. An elaborate process, as I knew it had to be, because I've looked at these drawings for eight weeks. Because of the rain, and closing up the museum, I elected to stay in town; I didn't want to challenge a wet driveway after dark, but instead of going over to the pub, I walked over to Kroger and got some sushi and a bottle of whiskey. I interact fine, in social situations, but I was craving time alone. Got a drink, and set-up at the table in the common room, where I spread out several books on the Renaissance, and splayed the sushi in an arc that I could eat without getting soy sauce on the pages. Navigating the simple workings of life. Nothing prepares you for the real world, where everything clashes and nothing changes. I'm such a realist. Coming home today, cresting the ridge, I'd never been more aware of that sense of inner joy that simple pleasures can provide. I'd walked over to the farmer's market, this morning, sat for a while with Ronnie, and rolled a smoke. He needed some plastic Kroger bags and I knew there were several bags of bags in the back room off the kitchen at the museum, right next door, so I walked back over and got him one. He was so grateful that I got my sack of vine-ripened tomatoes for free, and I had visions of how good they were going to be, with baked beans and a fried egg on toast. I just sat in the Jeep, listening to NPR for a few minutes, with the AC running, thinking that, yes, I had made it back home again. Noticed there was a fair amount of dead wood on the ground, branches that had fallen in the storm last night, great kindling, and in several cases excellent firewood. So I gathered up my bags, carried supplies home, sorted them out, put stuff in the fridge, and lined tomatoes up on the cutting board at the island. Then I got my leather gloves and went back out to haul branches to the wood-shed. I break or saw these branches to a length I can stand up in the wood-shed, lean them against the outside rafters, until they are completely dry, then cut them to stove length with a bow-saw. Any given year, I can heat with branches. First trip, I get to the wood-shed, and that god-damn yellow rattlesnake is coiled in the middle of the open space. Mostly it's a bother. I drop my arm-load of wood, walk back over to the house and get a single fire-cracker (a Black Cat), light it with my Bic, and throw it at the snake. Nature management. I feel bad, in a way, but I really wanted those several branches against next winter's chill. Snake be dammed. If called to court, I could defend my position.