Midnight

At some point I rolled up in a blanket and fell asleep. I hadn't realized I was exhausted. As soon as my head hit the pillow I was asleep, and would have stayed that way, but around midnight a pack of hounds found the compost heap. I'd buried some stuff, cleaning out the fridge, but the nose of a Blue-Tick Hound can find a ham-bone, whether it be on the other side of the world; a couple of feet of compost is hardly a deterrent. I can tell these are good dogs, expensive dogs, they're not feral, and they have tags. Polite procedure, no matter the time of night, and these are coon hounds, they only run at night, is to restrain one of the dogs and call the owner. A Red-Bone female wagged her tail at me, and I took her into the house, so I could read her tags. I gave her some water and the last of the bean soup, and called Albert, to tell him I had his dogs. He said he'd be over directly. He knew exactly who I was. I don't know whether this should be alarming or not. Thirty minutes later, he shows up at the house. We're dressed the same, in Carhartt bibs. His prize Red-Bone bitch is curled up in front of my cook stove, and when he calls her, she seems reluctant to leave my hearth. Yes. He offers me money, but I refuse, "having your dog, sir, is reason enough". and I think he thought I was crazy. Off to town, before the sun could hit the driveway, and it was just barely frozen. I literally just got up, made a travel mug of coffee, and left. The museum was closed today, no one there, and I was able to take a sponge bath, shave, and wash my hair. Got out of my long-underwear, so I could wash them with the rest of laundry; put them in my pack, and stashed the rest of my clean clothes at the museum, knowing there was no way I'd be driving in this afternoon. Stopped at Kroger for whiskey, cream, and the ingredients for a large chicken pot pie, about all I wanted to carry. I had expected the driveway to be muddy, and I wasn't disappointed; but the Jeep is at the bottom of the hill, and I have supplies to last for several days. Stopped at the library and B was there, he pointed out the new Michael Gruber novel, which I snatched right up. This guy is a great writer. A completely gray, overcast, day, but not cold, and I curl up on the sofa with a nice Old Vines Zinfandel, a plate of cheese, olives, gherkins, and saltine crackers. The cheese is especially good, a splurge, a Double Cheddar from England that I favor. They've named the Mac And Cheese at the pub for me, the side with hot peppers and bacon. I tend to order outside the menu, and they've always been good to me about it; but now that the pub is changing hands, I don't know how that will continue. Today, went I went in, Cory told Lindsey that there was a beer for me, where the cold kegs were stored; he had poured out an oatmeal stout, to make sure that tap was ok. He knew I'd appreciate the gesture. It's a great beer, $5.50 a pint, and he understood it should not go to waste. I'm flattered that he thought of me. I get humus and crackers, which is not on the menu, and watch half a soccer game, nursing a second beer. Barb comes out and sits with me. We talk about transitioning to the new owner, Francesca. Barb and John (himself) have a condo for two weeks, the beginning of February, in Vero Beach, Florida, and it's clear she's looking forward to that. February was always the month I liked to get south, when I lived in New England, spend a week or two cooking for Mom and Dad. A cold rain moves in. The ground is already saturated and the lowlands are flooded. Shallow lakes of great expanse, where the bottoms have been cleared and leveled to grow corn and soy beans in rotation. Herons, now, up to their knees, fishing for perch. The largest trout I ever caught, in Colorado, was in an irrigation ditch. I can file that among my dubious records. The patter of rain brings me back into a relative reality, if I'm to believe my senses, and think I know where I am. End of the year, best of the best: movies, none; books, non-fiction, "The Swerve"\; fiction, Pynchon; poetry, Stephen Ellis. Best meal was probably when I wrapped those pounded pork tenderloin medallions around a morel stuffing. I truly hit it on the gravy that night. The best thing I heard was Eric Clapton, late at night; the best thing I saw were these egg-tempera paintings by Koo.The wind is picking up, I'd better go.