No Class

Drooling just a bit, but it doesn't matter, I just roll over or turn the pillow. I can get a drink, fill my pouch with tobacco, or roll a cigaret in the dark. I can usually tell which edge of the paper is gummed. When the power goes out, I reach for my headlamp, but I don't use it for mundane chores that don't involve seeing, that have become matters of feeling. Pouring a drink, I feel the edge of the glass, I can pour a scant ounce as well as anyone. Rolling a cigaret, listen, you roll a few thousand and there isn't much mystery. The gold standard is one-handed, on horseback. McCord swore he'd rolled one during a cyclone, and I have no doubt he did, under caribou hides, in an igloo, and I'm not sure it was tobacco. I was thinking about fishing the edge of the Lilly-pads, where they come out from the shore, bugs and minnows; Jesus, I could catch huge blue-gills, a pound or more, fillets that surprised you. Once, in the Rockies, I was camped above the tree line, maybe 12,000 feet, I'd had a quick hot fire to make tea, and I caught some early small trout. I got to where I could fry one in butter or bacon fat, flip it open, take out the bones, and eat it in just a few bites, swirled in brown butter. The reading went very well. Mary Martha and Bill met me at the pub and bought me dinner. The Nature Club is a fine group, many of whom I knew. Knowledgeable, good listeners. I told a few stories, to explain the circumstance, then read a dozen pages. They actually asked me to read some more, so I gave them one more page (a nice fox tale), then told them I had to go, to get home before dark. I knew the sun would be right in my face, so stopped at the pub for another beer. Drove home in the glooming, feeling good about life in general. Kevin is running the Nature Club this year, and I know him fairly well. A great guitar player, makes music with Ronnie and B, and he expressed some worry about B's health. I'll get down there tomorrow and see if I can get him anything in town. Kevin said he had heard that there were to be no visitors, but I can yell from the driveway. We were both worried about ticks. B is in the woods all the time, and the woods, Kevin said, were now alive with new species of ticks. The White-Spot Tick, the Scarlet Runner. It's all about vectors. Elk reintroduced in West Virginia, wolves everywhere, coyotes going through the garbage in Telluride; very small bugs, embedded in buffalo robes. Kevin and his wife Margaret walked in this morning, to give me a check, and to see where the recluse lives. They greatly admired the stairs. Very smart people, and I enjoyed talking with them. Read a interesting book last night and this morning, The Foul And The Fragrant, about the French sense of smell. It references a book I have somewhere, A Natural History Of The Senses, Diane Ackerman, which I recommend highly. On quite a role with the senses, and in my search for the Ackerman I find not only it, but another Good-Will find, Death, Dissection, And The Destitute. A backlog of non-fiction, all in-house, the library can supply fiction and fill the other gaps. I've collected some interesting books recently, without any intention, just that they were all very cheap, and I enjoy books about specific things or events. An excellent history of the washing machine in France by Quynh Delaunay, La Lavatrice; a history of cosmetics; an entire section of bookcase given over to the history of salt. I called B's land line, we're deep in country here, and he'd just gotten home from the hospital the second time. A nasty virus. He wanted me to call Jana, to tell her he was home, which involved talking with Jana and communicating that he wanted her to call, and getting off the phone totally wasted. I'm am empathetic listener. It's actually apparent in the way I cross my legs that I'm a good therapist. It all started when Glenn and I got a sofa, in the house on the herring run in Brewster, and all of those strange people started showing up, hermits and gymnasts, and they'd flop down, and we'd listen to them. A very strange assortment of human beings, but we didn't know that. Seemed like the normal flow, any given day. A couple of idiots, maybe a young girl singing, slops being thrown out the window. Gardy Loo.