Some Questions

Why would you rinse the beans? It never made any sense to me. I mean I suppose if I was making a bean salad I might want the beans 'clean', but I never make bean salad. Being a southern boy, juice is important to me. Pot liquor, as it was always called, was a critical component for the final bites of a given meal, which was wiping the plate clean. Wasting the juice was a cardinal sin. What's the relationship between the volume of water, and the size of the aperture in a cliff face that results in these amazing ice-sculptures? I had to pull off the road, yesterday, to study one that looked very much like an elephant. They buried Ernie Banks today. It was a joy to watch him play. All those years with a losing team and winning the MVP award two years in a row. How do you distinguish hubris from revelation? If the secular world anointed sainthood. Volume 3 of the 11th Britannica is AUS to BIS and I had pulled it out to read the entry on Bach, taken it over to the island, to read while I made the pot of chili. Great smells, caramelizing onions and red peppers, and the slanted winter light dancing through stick trees with a scattering of snow. I felt like I was in a Russian novel. The stove was hot and the oven was 450 degrees, so I made a small thin pone of cornbread, thinking it would be very good with the chili, which it would have been, if I hadn't eaten it all, long before the chili was done. I get distracted, so I bought a $10 timer I keep at the island, and set it to remind myself to stir something or look at whatever's in the oven. A lazy Saturday afternoon. Beethoven was in the same volume of the Britannica, and many other things, and I left the radio on, to further complicate my sensory overload. The chili will be better tomorrow, but it's already one of the best things I've ever eaten. I triple-check to make sure I've battened down all the hatches, got a drink, and retired to the end of the sofa, where I had good light and a lap blanket. Reading about salt, and Joy Morton (who would name a boy child 'Joy'?) leads me, by bend of bay, to packaging techniques and labeling. At some point iconic images become symbolic. I've read Faulkner rather closely. My rant is just Everyman. Read more...

Long Nights

I'm thinking I should have a very small mud hut I could retreat to when it got extremely cold. No windows, a tunnel door, something you could heat and light with a couple of utility candles. At the Wood's Hole Institute in Mass. they have a greenhouse they heat with rabbits These are things I think about when I wake up and it's cold in my house. My plans might have been foiled by another inch of snow, but I got up early, performed my ablutions ( washed my face, combed my matted hair, brushed my teeth) and only read for a scant hour, with coffee, then rummaged about for something to wear, thinking I might end up hiking back in. Put my crampons and mop-handle in the Jeep. I drive over to B's old parking space, when he was living at the cabin, and turn around, because it gives a better angle on the top of the driveway. Four-wheel low, first gear, and I get down just fine, collect my mail; by the time I get to town, everything is clear and dry. Library first, then the pub, where Scott has started making a clam chowder on Fridays, then the bank, then I take my list to Kroger and buy enough food to last for a couple of weeks, replenish the bar and my tobacco supply. It was only supposed to get to twenty-five, then get colder, but it warmed above freezing, and when I got back home the driveway looked questionable. I needed to get this load of supplies into the house. I was completely paranoid, suffering an anxiety attack, but it was fine, I got everything unloaded and stashed away, and felt that I had actually accomplished something. It seems a bit strange to view a trip to town as any sort of accomplishment, but three or four times a year, it is one. Compiling a list, figuring the logistics, checking the weather, picking the timeframe. This trip had been on my mind for several days, and I was getting a little desperate about running out of butter. When you eat hot bread you use a lot of butter. I was out of marmalade, which, in the world of biscuits, is a sin; so I bought a bag of sugar and one each of three different citrus and made a couple of jars. It's good, not great, and I spend the rest of the afternoon reading about marmalade. Exhausted, I offer no excuse, from the effort of planning and mounting a foray off the ridge; I think about Thoreau, going into town for dinner and picking up his laundry. (That sidetrack, I think, was caused by the use of the word 'foray', which made me think about Thoreau.) As soon as it was dark I took a nap, woke to either sleet or hail, fed a log to the fire, reheated the last of a stir-fry. I'd kill for a burger and fries. If I drove at night, which I don't do anymore, I would immediately go to town. Instead I bake an acorn squash, one half stuffed with sausage, and one half stuffed with marmalade, and I eat them with a wooden spoon Kim carved for me. The chili I'm going to make tomorrow will surely make you cry. I have access to peppers that you don't even want to think about. Read more...

Muck

It had warmed to freezing by the time I walked over to the head of the driveway and I knew before I got there that it was going to be impassable, because even the flat section on the ridge was a muddy mess. The snow had mostly melted or sublimated, and the top inch of ground was a slippery mess. Nearly fell just placing one foot on the slope, saved by my mop-handle walking stick. If it doesn't snow too much tonight, I might able to get out tomorrow because it's supposed get colder and then much colder and everything will refreeze. High tomorrow in the teens, then zero tomorrow night. The wind has come up, and that'll help dry things out. I could get down the driveway, 4-wheel low in first gear I've gone down in six inches of wet snow, but I couldn't get back in again. I'd have to stash everything at B's and hike in a few things at a time. The crows returned and they're like a bunch of maiden aunts: it's hard to even think unless you go to the basement and plug your ears, and I don't have a basement. The house is very dirty, I track in so much crap, and the wind is roaring outside; I'd best go reheat some left-overs, keep my headlamp close at hand. I made some egg noodles from scratch and had them with butter, salt and pepper. The wind was blowing hard, I knew I'd better go. I made toasted biscuits, with chipped beef and gravy, then wrapped up in my down bag and took a nap. If I lay on my right side, I put my left hand between my knees and tuck my right hand under my left arm-pit, if I lay on left side I tuck my left hand in against my neck, under my clothes, and tuck my right hand down between the cushions on the sofa. Just trying to get comfortable. Sleep a few hours and maybe it'll be light by then and one could get their bearings. The tell you the truth, when I wake up recently, and it's five-thirty, I don't know if it's morning or night. Read more...

Routine Maintenance

I let the stove go out so I could dump ashes, then quickly started a roaring fire as it never got much above twenty degrees. Split a little kindling, settled in for another day reading. Another quiet afternoon on the ridge. Some dappled sunlight and the snow is sublimating away. Several flocks of birds come in, to feed on the sumac; they leave it until last and don't seem to like it very much. Melted snow dripping off the roof, because of the intensity of the sunlight, which forms icicles, which are a great harvest for wash water. It's a one-to-one ratio, which is hell of a lot better than the ten-to-one ratio of snow into water. I broke into the backup coffee and whiskey today, so I need to get to town soon. I can see the larder needs to be much deeper next year, and I need more books, so I need to keep track of the library book sales. For the rest of this season, I can stash stuff down at B's, ferry it in whenever I can. Last year is the last time I want to carry heavy packs up the hill. Fuck, cut me some slack, my feet hurt and I'm stooped over, like Basho, heading for his hut. A little piece of fish, some rice. I clean the skillet with some salt and a paper towel. I use the paper towel, with a butter wrapper, to start a fire. Might be able to get to town tomorrow (it will have been a week) so I started a list and it got long fairly quickly. Decide to make a lamb and black bean chili, pick up sausage and another acorn squash, eggs, butter, five pounds of flour for biscuits, a couple of cans of evaporated milk for cornbread. I have a large steak and a pork tenderloin in the freezer. I'll need two bottles of whiskey, more tobacco and papers, and a backup Bic lighter; a couple of gallons of drinking water, and library books. I need to get all this on Thursday or Friday, and spend a day on firewood, before the next round of weather. I save money if I'm snowed-in because I can't spend anything. I guess the Vineyard got hammered with wind and snow from this last storm. When we were there we got 18 inches one day (1980?) but it was gone in a few days, all that somewhat warmer ocean. We only got out once a week there too. I add salt-pork to the list, so I can cook some mustard greens; and I can fry some, so I can chew the rind. Keep it simple. Read more...

Sideline

I'm hard-pressed to describe the difference between sleet and hail. Frozen rain that isn't flakes. Later, I have to take out the compost, and wash some dishes, I'm melting snow toward that end. I need to take a sponge bath and wash my hair. Meanwhile I just research things within my purview. At five in the morning I turn on the radio, to listen to the news, but quickly turn it off, because it's so invasive. I toast a couple biscuits, make a mushroom and cheese omelet, settle back with my lap-robe pulled tightly around my legs, reading about dust. I need some kindling and I have a piece of fat pine in the shed. Shards of fat pine approach fusion. I can deal with that later. A day or two reading, what fun. My best reading companion ever was Glenn. We lived together in a couple of places, an old church, and a house on the herring run in Brewster. We could both read for eight hours, any given day, and we'd run into each other, going for a cup of tea and have conversations, then go right back to our reading. Now, of course solo, I read all the time that I'm not doing something survival oriented. Holed up like this, I read two books a day, and additional stuff, reviews and poetry. I was looking for something today, and I didn't find it (some Paz essays), but I did find a book of McCord's, Maps, from 1971, and rereading it was a transport. I've always loved his work. Get up, stoke the stove, take a nap, eat some black beans on toast, it snows some more, I give the crows a toasted biscuit. They think they've died and gone to heaven. Later, it's a cold moon over stick trees. One thing you learn, winter camping, is to curl into a ball and cover your face. Snow is a good insulator and a couple of dogs don't hurt. It restricts movement, but you can live with that. The plus side is you don't freeze to death. I have to get outside tomorrow, I'm going a little stir-crazy, and splitting wood for an hour would be therapeutic and I could probably write it off on my taxes. If it's very late, I might hear an owl. Read more...

Winter Thaw

By morning six inches of snow had settled to three. The dripping on the roof had become incessant and the trees were dropping their loads in silent explosions. The forecast is for rain but the ridge is right on the edge, which, because of the thousand extra feet of elevation over town, probably means more snow here, which could mean another six inches. Oh well. I make a pot of black beans and bake a batch of biscuits. A final biscuit, after a meal, with sorghum molasses, is always a treat. Not a good day for being outside. It's clammy and awful. B's having the family Sunday dinner at his house, so that the grand kids can sled on a run he'd prepared. He called and I'm tempted, but I'd have to hike down with crampons, then hike back up just before dark, and I just don't want to do that. If I could drive, I would go; the social interaction, a good meal, watching kids sled. But there's three inches of slick sloppy snow on the ground. I'd rather reread Proust. Always a fall-back position. Or any of the other text I encounter, the pile I've been accumulating, on the plank I put across the aquarium that used to house poisonous frogs, or that other pile, which completely covers the dining table. I eat at the island, close to the stove, but usually I'm wrapped in a lap-robe, over at Black Dell, seriously considering commas. The humidity must be close to 100% because there's a haze at ground level. Saturated air. After ten years in western Colorado, it's such an alien concept. Extra water? Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. But this is serious moisture, you have to think about snow melting, becoming ice, seeping into that top layer of the driveway. Quickly becomes treacherous, snot on a door knob is nothing compared to that top layer of slush. Like goose shit at a lawn-bowling event. It's simply not allowed. Would someone please just shoot the offending geese? I need a reading project for February and I'm down to a short list: Gunther Grass, Barth, George V. Higgins. I have a book binding project I'd like to complete. A hard bound edition of a lettered and signed set that are almost completely done. The cases are made and printed, the signatures are collated and hand-sewn, the spines are reinforced with crashing. All that remains is tipping the books into the cases. I've done this hundreds of times, but it's still difficult to get it more or less perfectly correct. Black beans on toast with an egg on top, fried salt-pork on the side, mustard greens cooked with garlic in peanut oil, cornbread. A last toasted slice, with organic butter and shade-grown organic blueberry jam, it's not a bad life. Read more...

Snow Day

I always forget how beautiful virgin snowfall in deep woods can be. Six inches of powder on the ground, two inches on every branch. Talk about isolated. I'm feeling fairly remote. TR calls to verify that I'm alive, that I can't get out, and that, certainly, no one can get in. He wants to call back later and talk about the Passion. Even the crows have holed up somewhere. Just a slight breeze, enough to blow snow off high branches. I can't walk outside because snow keeps falling inside my collar. It's so lovely, the way everything is defined. I find a Slippery Elm that is bent in a perfect arc and mark it with crime-scene tape. It's a great stick to become a railing for a flared set of stairs. Slippery Elm is lovely wood. It takes a very hard glossy finish. The crows are gone, I suspect they've moved down to the Hemlock stand in the wilderness area, it's better protected; but my three old battered comrades are back and I microwave them a couple of mice. I just read, make notes, drink tea. I made some jasmine rice and ate the last of the pork strips, later I made an omelet with some onions I had cooked beyond caramelization, into the nether world of onion crisps. It was very good. Later, reclining in my tree-tip pit, strumming a slack guitar, with a blue tarp funneling away the moisture right at the edge of freezing. Icicles are a universal problem. Sometimes I can't go outside. It's constellated against any personal intervention. Reverse threads, why didn't I think of that. Eat toast and be happy. After 36 hours of extreme quiet, a dripping on the roof awakes me, then a loud thud as a mass of snow falls on the back porch. It's a physical event, the house shakes, and even though it happens two or three times a years, it always catches me off guard. Loki, or an ice-bear hammering at the door. The Dire Wolf, or some such. At first I used to set in the dark with a shotgun, now I just open the door and scoop compressed snow into a five gallon bucket to melt for wash water. A gift horse. By late afternoon snow is falling off the trees like a blizzard. It's like watching a quiet war. Drone strikes with no audio. Mangled bodies but no screams. I have a nice fire going and decide to bake both halves of an acorn squash stuffed with a red onion, raspberry jam. It's something I can actually do. In the future, I'd like to have a miniature log-splitter I could use for winter squash but in the nonce I use a cleaver. Splitting a squash is similar to splitting an oak round. There's always a certain amount of uncertainty. Read more...

Develop Mode

Social media is so out of hand it's getting difficult to have an actual conversation. I don't have a cell phone. A land line only, with a dial-up connection that doesn't allow me to open anything. Life is good at the rookery. Last trip to town I paid my land taxes and filed for my agricultural exemption. Snow, sleet and rain in the forecast, but I'm secure, with a dozen or so books, and I have a back-up battery for my headlamp. A lovely gentle snow-fall in the afternoon, large flakes, no wind. I'm not sure what boredom is, but I don't suffer it often. Now it's snowing hard, and this was not forecast, the ground is covered. I reread The Riddle Of The Sands, then eat excellent leftovers, the pork strips, cooked in miso, are heavenly, then take a nap. It's so quiet, when I wake up, that I know there's a blanket of snow. I sweep off the approach to the back door and the steps. It's beautiful, snow falling in the black night, and the only sound is the occasional constrained percussive thing that happens when a branch-load of snow falls into a snow bank. No bugs, no birds, no animals. I turn on my computer and consider a couple of commas that may have been extravagant. I often worry about tense, when I'm reconstructing a story. The present is difficult to manage. The past is, however, a playground. Everyone has a slant and none of them agree. If anyone were to stay with me now, they'd have to ask about the crows. Yes, they're sleeping over there, yes they are loud at times, but who ever lived in a rookery? It's quiet most of the time, but the crows set sentries, and they have very good eyesight. I hear that train coming. Read more...

Stone Tools

Uniformly gray. I hiked out to the graveyard, to do my annual count. The sunken graves fill with leaves that rot to a black sludge. I can usually identify between 16 and 22 and this year the number is 18. Rummaging around in the litter I found a lovely arrowhead, quartz and quite small, what's usually called a bird point, used for hunting small game. It makes my day. I was starved when I got home so I fixed the full potato, sausage, egg, and toast brunch, then reclined on the sofa with the latest Lee Child novel. Disturbed, as always, by mistakes in the text. Fact-checking and proof-reading have gone out the window. If it's a library book I make I small pencil line under the mistake and a small pencil dot in the margin, and note the page on the bookmark. That way it's easy for me to go back and collect the mistakes. This is completely an amusement, there is no meaning involved, except that meaning is always involved. Even when Spell Check provides an incorrect word. If I had the time I'd collect this detritus into a volume called That's Not What I Meant To Say. TR called, all excited about the opera project, and we talked for a long time about Bach and polyphony. I hadn't even thought about a chorus, as it was way beyond our budget (our budget is zero dollars) and suddenly we have a chorus that wants to work with us. Who is us? what are we doing? A chorus answers the question. Maybe there's a dance. TR told me to read about Passions, Bach and St. Mathew, so when I get off the phone I go to the 11th Britannica and read for several hours. One thing leads to another. Next thing you know I'm imagining Veronica with her panties around her ankles. I forget which Station Of The Cross that is. I cleaned the arrowhead with my fingernail brush and some dish soap, it's a handsome little piece. I have a box of these, but I don't collect them, they just accumulate. Small points are fairly common. Like fines in the drainage of a creek. Meaning (here we go again) stratifies in layers of rock waiting to happen. Slate, for instance, which is mud waiting to become sandstone but not buried deep enough under ground for the required pressure. I worry too much about extraneous shit, but it's a force of habit, to worry a point. Even the idea of "worrying" a point seems odd, why would you bother? Something in the water. I think of old Basho, retreating to his hut with a bowl of reheated rice and a feather he'd found on the path to the outhouse. My first thought, I have to say, was The Passion of Saint Thomas, but I pretty quickly understood that it needed to be Basho's Passion, which would allow greater liberty and insure I'd be shot sooner rather than later. Pagan, from pagus, out in the country. Drifting snow, it's beautiful, something B said, about covering a multitude of sins. Listen, all I see is a carpet of virgin snow, my own identity seems a closely held secret. This isn't a game. Read more...

Judgement Call

This freeze-thaw crap is the worst of it. I drove over to the head of the driveway, then got out and tested the surface. Decided I could get out, and following the dictum that at this time of year, one should go to town whenever the opportunity arose. I'd dipped into the back-up supplies of juice and coffee, so I needed a few things; and had decided to duplicate (which is hardly possible) a meal of beef strips, with one of pork strips because there were a ton of loin chops discounted. I brine these, then partially freeze them and slice very thin. A stir-fry, with onion and red peppers, on a bed of smashed baked potato. My sink drain is frozen, this happens every year, and I fall back on the dish pan system of washing dishes. It's actually more economical in terms of water use and I get to yell "Gardy Loo" when I fling the water off the back porch. The house is getting quite dirty, also a seasonal cycle. Tracking in mud and leaves, bark and firewood debris, ash. My outside outer layer of clothing, black Carhartt overalls usually, are a disgrace. I have another pair, insulated, tan, with the zip-up legs, and neither pair of these have ever been washed. I keep a whisk broom, inside the back door, and use that to knock off the larger pieces, but I track huge amounts of shit inside. It would be embarassing if anyone were to visit. Mid-winter, my standards of house-keeping are very low. Thank god I don't have a dog. Or a relationship. I'd have to admit I'd failed. Read more...

Slow Train

Conditions have to be just right. No wind, as that generally comes from the northwest. As the crow flies, the tracks, across the river, are probably five miles due south. I'd gotten up to pee and went outside to see if it had snowed, no snow but one of those early mornings that measured very close to zero on the Stillness Index. I could hear a coal train laboring through South Shore, Kentucky (the south shore of the Ohio river, the northernmost tip of the state) and it gave me pause. Overcast and very dark. I got a drink and rolled a smoke, put on my bathrobe and sat on the back step. What it comes down to is a woeful blues song. That train in the distance, my dog died, and my truck won't start. A couple of fuzzy guitar riffs. The soprano is singing a Greek lament, what she wanted to have happened. A beauty pageant gone bad. Back to almost compete silence, then the train, pulling out of town. The soprano, railing in the distance. Cut to black. Something like that.

Lonesome train is calling
somewhere down the track.
Read more...

Health Care

My sister called, with an update on my parents. I can't follow the ins and outs of the health care system. 16% of the people that go into hospice pull back out. Most of them, I imagine, to die at home, though there is no home, in many cases. Hospice, by definition, is a place you go to die. The iceberg on which you drift out to sea. They put you on a morphine drip and you remember the past. Dad got a little better, and they realized he'd been put on the drip a little too soon so they took him to the hospital (2 miles, $750) where there was some confusion because Medicaid doesn't like to cover both hospital and hospice nor the ambulance in between. Brenda, bless her, is handling this. I couldn't do it. It all makes me want to dig a hole where I could go to rest, freeze to death, be back-filled over and forgotten. Maybe once a year someone raises a pint to salute my stupidity; not that, rather my recalcitrance, everyone smashes their whiskey glass against the Blarney Stone, and somehow, everyone gets home. I'd finally gotten to sleep when I heard a couple of gunshots, a pistol, not that far away. I got up and noted the time, 12:50, which meant it was actually 12:36, because my clock is 14 minutes fast. It's just a game I play. Looking at the time. And almost exactly thirty minutes later there are headlights on the driveway. The deputy sheriff checking on the gunshots. I let him inside and tell him what little I know, two shots, close together, then a vehicle headed west on Upper Twin very fast. I tell him to look at the new sign for Mackletree Road because it didn't have any bullet holes yesterday. Signs don't last long in the country. TR called from the museum, wanting to know which company sold a certain type of light bulb. I couldn't remember, but called him back a few minutes later with the name of the company. I usually remember something I've forgotten just after I stop thinking about it. Most of us do. I've done surveys. I think it's a hard-wired thing. The Ur-Brain tells the Conscious Brain to just get on with whatever it was doing, and it would instruct the reference demons to search the data banks. Laugh, but it's true. Stopped at a traffic light, I look out the window at a plant that I know perfectly well, but I can't remember its name; light turns green, I look both ways, instruct my foot to come off the brake and give it some gas. Teasel was the plant, of course, how could I have forgotten that name. I can do a thirty minute lecture on this plant without notes. Spent the day with an interesting book about survival at the very limits, Life At The Extremes, and read book reviews; late in the afternoon I took a walk, and the freeze-thaw cycle was in full effect. Each of my feet weighed a hundred pounds by the time I got back home. Add mud to the mix. Pagan is from pagus, the countryside. What they do out in the sticks. Read more...

Reading Flaubert

Robert Stone died and he had spent some time on the bus with the Merry Pranksters, a litany of Beat and Post-Beat characters. Neil and Ken, everyone tripping out, everyone dancing on the edge. I had discovered, even then, that I wanted to keep a low profile. If you winter in summer resorts and have a decent job in season, you can get through the year. No reason to call attention to yourself. Better to just lay low and keep quiet. I read for 40-56 hours a week, I walk in the woods, where I'm very unlikely to meet another person, I go to town when I can, and talk to other people. It feels like a reasonably integrated life. Jana feels I should move down to the lowlands and get a girlfriend. Wouldn't work, I'd still be the same asshole. TR said that when I called him at the museum on Saturdays, I was usually the only call; which is only fair, that I should compete against nothing. Got sidetracked into chemistry today. I had been curious about the finish they put on the new generations of flooring materials. Some of these are beautiful, the cork and bamboo especially, and I'd installed some, for other people. The finish was amazing, the hardest surface I'd ever seen, so I'd sent off for some information. I'd heard it was aluminum oxide, it's actually aluminum oxynitride, it's crystal clear and used in making bullet-proof 'glass'. Which led to an endless series of questions about glass generally, and then questions about clarity, and refraction, then more questions about atmospheric phenomena. Thank god I had left-overs for several meals. I love Flaubert, and I often read him when I'm eating dinner. Where Faulkner got his attention for detail. Read more...

Conviction

Is it a good thing to actually believe something even it's wrong? Not an easy question. Belief is questionable terrain. Simply heating a place is difficult, believing is fraught with difficulty. The drift is towards less mediation: Calvin, Luther, right down through the pastor with snakes. A lovely day, slept late as I was up half of the night, it was cold and completely clear and I decided to go meet TR for lunch and talk. We had the pub to ourselves. Cory gave me a taste of the new Jameson Black Label. The conversation drifted all over the board. Three things I miss about not being at the museum, the kitchen sink, where I could use hot running water to wash my hair and take a sponge bath, a warm bathroom, and conversation. Now I'm not so clean, my hair is matted, and I mostly talk to myself. TR checked the long-range weather forecast, and it doesn't look bad. I'd done all of my business, and I just wanted to get home, stoke the fire, reheat some left-overs. Stopped down at B's, to touch base, he again offered me his sofa, and I can imagine taking him up on that offer, but I'm actually quite comfortable, right now, wrapped up in a blanket and weathering the winter. The temps did get into the forties today and the driveway was in a thaw cycle; for the first time, since the new tires and shocks, and I slipped a bit coming up the driveway. I hate losing traction, losing control. But I made it in, and I was hungry, stoked the fire, reheated a cup of soup while I caramelized an onion and a red pepper, stir fried with beef strips, served on mashed potatoes. I made just a small pone of cornbread (a cup of cornmeal) in a six-inch skillet. A last piece of cornbread, with butter and sorghum molasses, is a special treat. Being raised a poor country boy has its advantages: I've eaten ripe persimmons, walked barefoot in creek beds, tracked foxes to their bed, it's neither better nor worse. I could be watching football or playing a game. You just move along. A good book, something for dinner, later, just go to sleep. Read more...

The Wind

A low rumble coming up over the ridge. About four in the morning a ruckus in the kitchen area, I just stayed cocooned in my blanket in the dark, trying to figure out what it was. I'd let the fire go out and there was something inside the stove, a flying squirrel probably. And there's a mouse in the kindling bucket. I just tossed the mouse outside, but I had to get a wee dram and roll a smoke to consider how I was going to get the squirrel liberated without making a colossal mess. I ended up taping a garbage bag around the door to the firebox then opening the door. Worked fine and I'm glad I did it that way, because it was a flying squirrel and he was covered with ash. I knew I wouldn't get back to sleep after so much excitement, so I finished a couple of library books, and planned a trip to town. It's supposed to be nice tomorrow then rain for several days before changing back to snow. Go to town when you can. I get the makings for a couple of multi-meal dishes. Stopped at the pub and Scott had made a very good clam chowder; a pint and a bowl and crackers made a lovely treat. There was a big tray of cleaned and cut vegetables, in that new section of the produce area where they pre-do everything and you just add ranch dressing. Discounted, of course, I mostly buy discounted food, and it looked like a vegetable base for at least two pots of soup and it was $2.49. I dumped it in a pot with chicken broth, garlic and onions, later I pureed half of that and added some cream. With crotons fried in butter, this was very good. I froze half of it, to reconstitute later with some left-over chicken thighs I imagine in my future. A couple of people call, to make sure I'm still alive, and I assure them that I am, ruling my domain, in my fashion. Not that we could trade places, very few people could live the way I do, with good reason, it's somewhat to the left of credulous, and a lot of it is needlessly difficult. Melting and boiling snow water seems like a really stupid way to make a cup of coffee; on the other hand, paying attention is seldom not rewarded. Read more...

Delayed Reward

The oven was so hot, when I got up on stove detail, that I could have cooked Tandoori Chicken, which I love, but I didn't have any chicken or yogurt. When conditions are exactly right, dry heart-wood, a perfect bed of coals, the temperature in the firebox of the stove is very high, I've replaced the cast iron grate twice. It just disappears. Stress-failure analysis always indicates some minor imperfection in the casting. A dog hair or an air bubble. Fully engaged hardwood, with a good supply of air, can burn at 1600 degrees. I can barely imagine the number of fires I've nursed, many thousands, and I'm always aware that it will, one day, devour me. A minor mistake, an over-looked detail, the next thing you know, you're a pile of ashes. My DNA says we're all related, on our mother's side, but that our father is suspect. It's a shifting brand, the shadows that sleep with you. I never signed-on to be a fucking rookery. Crows murmuring in the night. It's interesting that I had wanted to ask Jenny where the rookeries were and now I am one. I think the murmuring at night is just a product of their sleeping so piled together. They're so unkempt. When they leave, in the morning, they group in twos or threes and fly off in all directions. The Crows Of Low-Gap Hollow has a nice ring to it. I took a long duration walk that covered very little ground; mostly I sat on stumps and thought about which soup I was going to cook next. Or maybe a risotto, which I could take through several layers of left-overs: whatever, it would have to supply at least three or four meals. Maybe a stew. In winter this dominates my thinking. Read more...

False Distinctions

There was nothing about snow in the forecast, but there's a solid dusting of those tiny crystalline flakes covering everything when I go out. Bitter cold. Clean out ashes, knock down the stovepipe and clean the throat in the smoke chase then start a roaring fire. I need a pair of those big heavy socks with the leather soles so I make a note to stop by Good Will. My feet have been cold for days, and my hair is very dirty, which happens if you wear a watch-cap 24/7. I've told several of my closest friends to tell me when my body odor gets offensive, they all said I smell fine, maybe a bit smokey but nothing bad. Thank god I got my laundry done before this latest round of cold weather. Mid-afternoon I take a break from reading (the codification of spoken, vernacular, language into typeface), add several layers and go for a walk. The year of the woodpeckers, they're all around and they're a perfect dash of color; and the yearling squirrels running around like mad hatters. When I got back home, I decided to cook the acorn squash, so I halved it and scooped out the seeds, set them aside, stuffed one half with a sausage mixture, the other with a red raspberry and apricot jam mix, wedged them upright with my cooking stones, and put them in to bake. I cleaned the seeds, in warm water for the sake of my fingers, then roasted them with a dusting of garlic powder and a drizzle of bacon fat. I recommend these. The meal was fantastic, the way the squash absorbed all the juices. The stove is cooling down, I wrap up in a blanket and put my hand between my knees. It's supposed to be warmer tomorrow. Read more...

Quiet Day

The weather is supposed to hold for a while, so I take off an entire day and read. Several issues of The London Review of Books, a New Yorker, a Thomas Perry novel. Cheese, crackers, gherkins, olives. I bake a potato and an onion in the firebox of the stove, then partially freeze the beef so I can slice it thin, then do a stir-fry with a red pepper and reduce a butter and wine sauce. Instead of rice, I serve it on a bed of baked potato and onion. It's excellent. Reminds me of a Mongolian dish I had in Atlanta once, cooked on an inverted cone of metal over a live fire. Big Roy's grilled ham sandwiches, with the bone in, and sauced, was one of the great meals ever, the last bite was always the marrow smeared on a smidgen of crust. The crows are back, as if they expected a catered event, baked mice with a remoulade. I get back up at two to stoke the stove, but I need to let it die so I can clean out the ashes and the smoke chase tomorrow. Might go to town and have lunch with TR as I haven't seen him since before xmas. The smoked tea, with cream and sugar and a tipple of whiskey makes a nice toddy. Talk about simple pleasures. I had reading matter spread everywhere, two toddies (because I'd misplaced one), a spread of snacks at the island, several dictionaries opened to different words. A ripple of pleasure, I thought, to be thus located. What I took to be tangerines in the food basket Michael left for me at B's were probably Clementines, so I make a small batch of marmalade. Citrus cross-breed in interesting ways. Hot marmalade on toasted biscuits is a wonderful thing. The next time I call rooster, you'll hook up the plow. Just a trace of condescension, but I have, after all, broken new ground with a turning-plow. Behind a recalcitrant mule, grants me a certain latitude. Not in the normal sense of things, what you would expect, but in that more covert part of your brain, where you hide things. Read more...

Steel Gray

In line with the winter protocol one goes to town whenever one can. Despite a night of rain and sleet, with the new tires and shocks, it was an easy trip down. I needed butter because of my biscuit consumption, picked up an acorn squash to bake stuffed with raspberries, and a discounted flat-iron steak that I intend to cut into strips and serve on a bed of rice. A pint and a bowl of potato soup at the pub, a cigaret with two staff members, sitting out in the sleet. Replaced my back-up bottle of whiskey and bought an additional packet of papers. Back into single digits tomorrow, with snow, but I hope to spend and hour or two hauling the last rounds of firewood off the driveway and splitting another rick for inside the house. The drive back in was fine, just a bit of slippage near the top, and I was thinking about the winter Glenn and I spent holed up in a church. I don't buy into organized religion. I like some of the music but the doctrine is a line of talk. I was trying to take a short-cut today, to get to the butter in Kroger, and I passed several racks of underwear and socks, thank god I had a shopping cart because it made me dizzy. It makes sense, one-stop shopping, but it's hard for me to wrap my head around it. Underwear and pasta. What they meant is the subject of endless discussion. Everything in every direction is gray. Outside, there is no difference, gray, gray; but when the Pileated Woodpecker flits into sight, suddenly there is this red crest. Everything is changed. There actually is color. It exists, vegetable dyes, refracted light, oil in the parking lot. I was talking with Scott, the new manager at the pub, who's married to Jenny, my naturalist friend, who is B's niece. He's a serious cook and we were talking about marrow bones, the rest of the staff were looking at us as if we were crazy. Wiping out shin bones with a crust of bread? I found it passing strange, though this is hill country and everyone is related, that he would be cooking the shanks of the very same animal whose tail is in my freezer. A lovingly fattened steer that had learned to drink Bud Light from the bottle. It gets very quiet later and I can hear the snowflakes dissolving. Just a whisper. I'm glad I got into town because I hate running out of butter, also that I got all of my laundry done and that my long-underwear is clean and that I have a down pallet on the floor, next to the stove. There's no pretense. I have to look at that word for a while, yes, I think, I have none. If I sleep on my right side I can tuck my hand between my knees and I'm very comfortable. Usually, when I get maudlin, I just pull a blanket up over my ears and hum a few bars of Birmingham Jail. Read more...

Good Timing

Because of the cold weather I'd fallen behind on stocking firewood and temps were up to thirty degrees. Frozen rain in the forecast so I went out first thing, split out some knots for nighttime logs, split out kindling and starter sticks, split out three ricks. Hauled everything inside. Just as I finished, the sky started spitting pellets of ice, brought in my tools, overturned the wheelbarrow, went inside. Rolled a smoke, and had a hot toddy. Not bad for an old guy. It felt great, to be outside, but it felt even better to be back inside, with the chores done and dinner within my sights. I made a batch of biscuits last night, and I'll eat soup again, for one more night, but tomorrow I want to cook something else. Lamb stew, maybe. I ate everything I could find on toasted biscuits with kimchee. Cant and recant. G Spenser Brown. The Laws Of Form. I spend an hour with the dictionaries, then take a nap. The silence wakes me, some time after midnight. It feels like snow. I stoke the stove with a couple of knots, but the house is comfortable; no sooner than I get a drink and settle in reading, the history of the fork, that frozen rain starts hitting the roof. It'll change over to something else, and there may, or may not, be an ice storm. I have candles and oil lamps in place. Batten down the sails, change into insulated overalls, add another layer of socks: the game begins. Game, of course, is suspect, and 'begins' is always suspicious. I read until almost dawn (the spoon and the knife are obvious, the fork less so) and the sleet had changed over to rain. Temps above freezing for the first time in a week, but zero again by Tuesday night. The crows are occupying the trees on the edge of where the dozer cleared the power easement. I don't know what they're up to (I tend to confuse Tippi with Veronica) but it's a little frightening, just when there's almost enough light to see, to have a cacophony of crows outside. Spell-check wanted to make 'kimchee' "incoherent', which side-tracked me into translations generally. Another book I'd like to write, Translations From The English. A haze, not fog exactly, water vapor hanging in suspension, and it's very interesting, the way it collects in the hollows. You could cut it with a knife. Obviously it's heavier, so it sinks, condenses. It's the pound cake of atmospheric conditions. The ice formations are exuding from road-cuts. So much water, it hits a layer of sandstone hard-pan and oozes out, freezes instantly, and you get these shapes, a VW Beetle, a butterfly, a two-story crane. You need to remember, meaning doesn't always apply. Read more...

Oleomargarine

Back when, you got a little packet of dye to mix in with the lard-like substance, to make it yellow. We had home made Jersey butter most of the year, in one pound rectangles, under a covered dish. This new stuff was in no way comparable, but it was cheap, a mildly flavored lubricant. It's zero again so I have the lap blanket over my knees and wrapped up in my feet, and I've been reading about eating and manners for several days. The butter-knife, for instance, or knives generally, the folding knife, which way the blade is held, how one was never to point a knife at a person, who does the carving, how much of what is dedicated to whom. I'm easily distracted by almost anything, and now that I'm retreated from regular hours I'm liable to be found anywhere, at any time. The middle of the night I'm making sausage, also, because the stove is going, I roast a few vegetables; sometime in the wee hours I eat an amazing omelet, with a side of turnips, a sausage patty, and I think, holy shit, this is it. The fact that I caramelized an onion and folded in goat cheese in a way that would lead you to believe I'd done this before doesn't actually mean anything. The best of times we assume some, what? some connection that ties us to external events? Woke up today to incredibly clear blue sky, decided to make a town run, because I could. Library, of course, and there's a New Yorker in the mailbox and a book from Joel by Paula Poundstone whom I idolize. I need to work on filling all the wood stations tomorrow because we're supposed to get another blast of cold and snow, but I have plenty of reading material. Picked up a few things, watched part of a soccer match at the pub and had a lovely bowl of beer soup. I have no idea what it was, but it was good, hot and filling. Stopped by B's on the way home and he had a stack of printed matter for me, mostly issues of The London Review Of Books, which will occupy me for hours, and a care package from Barnhart who always leaves me interesting food items. This time some miso, some tangerines, and a jar of kimchee. I do love kimchee (I follow whatever spelling is on the label) on scrambled eggs, so I make a plate of that, with toast and marmalade. Later I have some ramen noodles with miso. I had hot water so I washed some dishes. Then I just curled up and read. Read more...

Phone Calls

No, you shouldn't be something you don't want to be, even if the sex is good. You really can't hide. Bizarre occurrence late morning, it's snowing and suddenly there are lights on the driveway. It's the power company and they sent a powerful 4-wheel drive truck up the hill to tell me that they were going to be clearing their easement. A nice guy, he's amazed I live up here. He'd heard about me, asked about water and access, good questions; he recognized the difficulties right away. Warned me that they'd me very loud when they got up near the house. They were, I stood at the kitchen window and watched them. A nice little D6 dozer, and, as usual, out in the country, a great operator. Mostly he ripped out blackberry and sumac, but quite a few poplar saplings. I can probably get a year's firewood from right at the top of the hill, where their last pole is situated (I took my service underground from there). Later, the sun breaks out and I want to go outside for an hour, but I take my time getting ready, eat a huge brunch, consider my outer layer. Called my parents and Mom sounded vigorous, Dad less so, but I had phoned because it was his 95th birthday, and that deserved a call. Uncomfortably cold and I had to go back in and get a face-mask. I don't stay out long, with the temperatures dropping below zero again. The crows congregate at sunset in a tree on the logging road, raucous as they settle in for the night. No one knows why and how they chose a rookery, but I think, on a cold night like this, that word has spread about the micro-waved mice. I want something different for dinner, I make a simple flounder bisque and eat it with oyster crackers, some cheese and olives. I can hear the weather doing something, wind in the stick trees and frozen rain on the roof, but I'd don't care, I just want a little inner peace. Curl up in my down bag and go to sleep. Read more...

Distorted Reality

Snow dampens sound. Even that coal train, over in Kentucky, might not be what I think. I know very little, actually, my sister, on a golf-cart, flagged me down. She says she assumed I'd come in one way, but I came in another. We visit and talk about the past. She has photographs, but I tell her, no, that never happened, I certainly would remember that. Now, of course, everything is frozen, brittle, so I just curl up on the sofa and read. It is cold, ten degrees outside, five below tonight. Pot of soup on the stove, a batch of biscuits in the oven. The power was out for a while so I set out some candles and oil lamps. Moved over to a chair near the stove, reading another Thomas Perry, considering another bowl of soup and another biscuit. I need to wake up at two, to stoke the fire, so I remind myself about a thousand times; I'll sleep in an uncomfortable position, stick one foot outside the covers, leave an ear uncovered. It was lovely this morning, snow covering everything. I walked out in it until my feet were frozen, but tomorrow, well below zero, will be a trial. I should have settled somewhere you could grow citrus. Eight below when I got up at five to add a log. Power was out for several hours. A high of 12 degrees today but I got outside for an exhausting hour, split out some kindling and small sticks, brought wood into the house. The driveway is slick with snow but I don't need to go anywhere. Rereading Margaret Visser's The Rituals Of Dinner, she's a great researcher, and I put the pot of soup on to heat. I was back inside by three in the afternoon because it was just too damn cold. The added benefit of getting outside is that the house seems warmer. My feet got cold, so when I came in I dug out my Red Wing insulated work boots. These are twenty years old, but I only wear them for a week a year, they actually overheat if I'm working and it's not below ten degrees. D called, on his way to Athens to pick up a ceramic show. He was just checking that I was alive. An email from Jenny, B's niece, the naturalist for the state forest, and I'm supposed to read at The Lodge, March 1st, about life on the ridge. She's due with her second child February 28th, so she probably won't be there. I'll need to buy a pack of those singles, Maker's Mark or something, because I do like to have one in my pocket, when I do a reading like this. The public, actual people. I'm tired, I'm going to eat some soup and take a nap. Read more...

Realative Terms

I only wear that funny hat because my ears get cold. I don't care what I look like. Actually, the highlight of the day, two things, stripping out of and then stripping out again to redress in dryer-warm long-underwear. One of the great experiences of all time. Warm long-underwear might be better than sex, better, even, than split-pea soup. A skiff on the ground and flurries. I look like a bandit, with a facemask and muffler, when I go outside for a taste of fresh air. Not a walk, just a few minutes in the elements. Table manners, which have always been an interest of mine, are a code of conduct that allow us to eat with other people without cutting their throat with our steak knife. I can be an acceptable dinner guest, but when I'm alone, which is most of the time, I often eat right out of the pot or pan, wiping up the last of any given meal with a crust of bread. Dirty dishes require wash water. The average US person uses about 100 gallons of water a day, in the third world this goes down to maybe five gallons, I use about two gallons. I've kept track of it for years, because I have to handle every ounce of it, more than once. It's not a big deal, even if it means melting snow on the cookstove. Fill a pot with snow, two minutes with that specialty tool, a dust-pan, let it melt, and you have hot water. That Latin treatise, Aqua Fervens, Mare Est In Turba, which I made up, as a source for spurious quotes. I have to laugh, I had an argument with Patsy Sims, the brilliant and extremely literate director of the MFA program in Creative Nonfiction at Goucher College, about the nature of truth. We disagreed. She really held to the idea that a specific thing had actually happened. Which I find to be bullshit, on closer examination. How could you ever know? I get the argument, but I don't buy it. Every single fucking event is subject to interpretation. I might have thought one thing and you another. There's no control on this, a nurse on the ward that records time and temperature; at best there's a running commentary. ESPN and endless playbacks. The last time I was at the pub, eating a bowl of stew, watching my weekly highlights, there was a play, NFL playoffs, the Cowboys I think; the other team threw a pass and it hit the defender on the back. At first it was ruled "pass interference", which was over-ruled on replay. The actual event was caught on camera from three or four different views and yet three or four different commentators argued the call for half an hour. I think the corrected call was correct, but I don't actually know the rules. The only time I ever played a round of golf, Michael had to tell me what not to do. You can't ground the club in a sand-trap, you can't move a twig that moves the ball. Read more...

Preparations

Cold but clear morning, 20 degrees, supposed to be below zero by Wednesday night. I strip down, change clothes, throw everything in a basket and head off to the laundromat. I need clean long-underwear. Stop at the library, then at Kroger, to pick up some things for split-pea and ham soup. Mailed off my bills for the month ( there are only three of them), stop at the courthouse, to reapply my tree farm for its tax break, then head home. Build a good fire, then make the soup, bring it to a boil and pull it almost all the way off the heat. I'll leave it at the edge of the stove, on a trivet, all night, pease porridge hot. I have a few left-over roasted root vegetables and I'll mash them tomorrow, to thicken the broth. With cornbread, I think that covers all the food groups. Whenever I roast vegetables anymore, I always do a tray of kale chips, they never make the menu because I eat them all. Half the fun, living the way I do, is not knowing what happens next. I was sure it had something to do with prime numbers. Instead, it seems to have to do with the way we factor time. When I write, I'm no longer cold, I'm in the zone. I don't feel anything really; my feet may be cold, but you can live without a few toes. I read about cannibalism for a couple of hours, then napped on the sofa, got back up around two and stoked the stove, set the soup off the heat. Got just a taste of Irish whiskey, rolled a smoke, went out and sat on the back porch for a few minutes. Light snow, quite cold, but I'm in so many layers of clothes it doesn't matter. It's very peaceful, sitting in what could easily pass for absolute darkness, an utterly still world, and completely quiet, except for the slight cracking sound as things freeze more solid. Nice to know I have a hot cup of soup inside, that I can thaw my ass against the stove, that I can rant, out loud, swearing like a sailor, against anything that crossed my path. Seven-thirty in the morning and the sky finally changes to a purple-blue. There's a haze, where the ground gives up moisture, not unlike the steam from a simmering pot. After eight, finally, a slim salmon ribbon defines the horizon, then it disappears in gray. Yes, Molly said. Read more...

Getting Clean

Odd weather. 48 degrees at six this morning, the house was warm and I was dirty, so I started a fire and heated water. Sponge bath, washed my hair. Temperature dropping all day, supposed to be in the teens tonight, then colder. Glad I got clean when I did as I don't do much personal hygiene when it gets below zero outdoors. I'm pretty well set, as I had been expecting a bout of serious weather. It's blowing in now, on a stiff breeze, with sleet and snow in the forecast. I've already read my library books and the current New Yorker, but I have quite the pile of new books, I have plenty of food and whiskey and tobacco, and an extensive reference library where I can amuse myself for hours. And when it gets very cold, I move over to a rocking chair, right in front of the stove, and read Dorothy Sayers. It's a system that works for me. Below zero (below 10 degrees actually) it's survival mode.The wind is howling through the stick trees, your eyes tear-up instantly, and then the tears freeze, your feet stick to the ground; better to stay inside and reread all of Pynchon. When I wake up to pee and stoke the stove, I can hear tiny ice pellets striking the leaf-litter. I put some marrow bones on to simmer, marrow on bagels is a nice snack; and the liquid, reduced chicken stock and wine, makes a fine beverage. At some point, near midnight, the wind is a deep hollow drone, punctuated with branches snapping off and falling, and I curl up on the sofa, with a lap blanket and an array of snacks. My headlamp within reach, a back-up bottle of whiskey stashed over with the onions, I wasn't concerned about my well-being, I seem to live through things. Chipped beef and gravy, mac and cheese, wild greens and a vinaigrette. Biscuits could solve most of the world's problems. Read more...

Freight Train

Time-keeping and the railroads. The schedule is sacred. Things like this have to be coordinated. The train wakes me, going through South Portsmouth which is actually across the river, in Kentucky; and I'm completely in the dark when the rain starts. I'm surprised it's rain, but it quickly changes to sleet, then quiet descends which means a change-over to snow. Glad I got to town. The long range forecast is for another thaw in a few days and if I pick my time, I might be able to get out on Monday or Tuesday. Picking my time means going out and in when the driveway is frozen. I'm glad I brought all that wood inside and I think I'll split some more tomorrow. Ham and split-pea soup, of course, I should have seen it coming. I make a version of this that is very good, caramelize the onions and use chicken stock to cook the peas. Cornbread sticks are recommended, but you could do this with Parker House rolls. As I think about that, I realize I never eat rolls in my house, only ever at other places. I like them, but I never make them. I spent several hours reading about dinner rolls. Awakened by rain, again. A dismal day, cold, and wet; but I had some decent fiction, a bathrobe and slippers. A good fire going, just the ticking of the stove, light rain on the roof. I roast some vegetables and keep them on the warmer shelf above the stove. Excellent grazing. I keep a horseradish mustard sauce at the island and every time I wander over I eat a piece of parsnip and half a small blue potato. The rain is turning to sleet, it sounds different, I check my headlamp and candles. Some of the candles are really stupid, a bunny or Santa Claus, but I get them very cheaply at Big Lots. Most of the time I need very little illumination. When I get up to pee, get a drink, or stoke the stove, I need just enough light to not knock over a pile of books. Which is very little, actually, just a couple of watts. The difference between seeing and not seeing is a fine line. I tend toward the shadow. My target audience drives a Volvo station wagon and never answer their phone, soccer practice or something. Another train in Kentucky, right on schedule. Read more...

Winter Soups

An owl. It's dark and quiet. The stove needs attention. Two in the morning. Nestled under a blanket on the sofa, I don't want to get up, to wake completely, but I put on my robe, over long underwear, and attend my needs. Kneeling at the stove, with the firebox door open, the light of the coals illumes the room. I'm just a shadow. I go outside and sit on the back porch, a foam pad is good for this, with a drink and a smoke. Snow and sleet in the forecast, and I wouldn't mind a quick trip to town, I need to make a pot of something. I think about making a chili with lamb shanks and peppers, the marrow becoming part of the mix, beans on the side. I need some salt-pork, I need to cook a pot of beans whatever else I decide. Pinto beans are always a good choice. The longer they cook, the better they are, so I start a pot. I like to mash the beans and cook greens in that emulsion, fried salt-pork on the side. Cornbread. I could do a lamb stew, or a curry. I was in tune, today, splitting wood for tomorrow, but I was too tired to read or write. Slept well, woke sore; a skiff of snow, gone by the time I had hauled all the firewood indoors, so I made a list and went to town. Several days of questionable weather coming up and I wanted to be well stocked. The library first, and I couldn't find anything I wanted to read, so I picked up a couple of things that I'd already read and enjoyed. Escapist fiction as I have a small mountain of non-fiction to plow through. Stopped at the pub and I was the only person there, chatted with the staff, visited the kitchen, had a beer. Stopped at Kroger, where my list coincides with my transit of the store. The makings for a squash soup, a discounted flat-iron steak that will last a couple of meals, extra cream, macaroni (for mac and cheese), a couple of protein drinks on sale, a bar of decent chocolate (I buy about two of these a year), sausage and eggs, a backup bottle of whiskey at the in-house liquor store, then stopped on the way out of town and got extra tobacco and papers. Filled the gas tank on the way home, less than two bucks a gallon, then a slow drive (there was no traffic) home, and sure enough, my land tax bill in the mail. For the first time since I left the museum, I'll have to dip into my reserve fund. Land taxes, vehicle insurance, new tires and shocks; and I'm thinking about hiring B's friend, Rodney, for a day, to help me finish upgrading the floor insulation. Necessary expenses. And my friend Mac is correct, next year I'll let the state give me split dry firewood in their heating assistance program. Also I qualify for 100% health care coverage and food stamps. It seems I live on $9600 a year. Except for this month, when I had to dip into the reserve. This seems like a lot to me, enough at any rate that I can eat marrow bones and buy the occasional single malt. Poor is a relative term. Read more...

Year's End

Twenty-five degrees today, fifteen tonight. I carried a little wood, got ready for another day at the woodpile tomorrow. Red beans and rice cooking, I'll make cornbread. Keep it simple. The fox was lovely today, fluffed out full-winter coat, she hung around for two apples while I watched, perched on a stump. I buy small local apples quite cheaply and I always keep two in the pockets of my Carhartt work coat when I'm outside. I'll remember this past year as the one in which I left the museum, and any other gainful employment, to spend my time reading and writing; and as the year in which I discovered the crows liked for me to microwave their mice. Carrying apples in my pocket for the fox, and thawing a frozen mouse seems like the least I could do. I need a lot more wood next year. Staying home for long periods of time. And I need to consider the pantry differently, if I don't want to go to town. Actually, I do usually enjoy going to town, flirting, looking, listening; but I'm comfortable at home, and I always want to get back there, hopefully, before dark. Start a fire, heat or reheat something, notice a thread, see where it might lead, it's just the way I am. It's not an act. I encourage this behavior in others. Took an early evening nap so that I'd wake up after midnight in order to stoke the stove. Fifteen degrees and falling when I got up about 1:30, caught the fire and stayed up for an hour until I could damp things back down. The last wee dram of Glendronach to toast the new year. Lovely orange sunrise and a very peaceful holiday, no phone calls, no visits. The red beans and rice was excellent, the cornbread was hot. Worked outside for several hours, splitting and building a loose stack, the wind was blowing and I wanted to lose some of the surface moisture, I'll bring it in and rick inside tomorrow. I split out a bunch of starter sticks and I still have some of the old oak baseboard for kindling. A little sore, but it was wonderful being outdoors, mostly clear, 32 degrees. It was a good year for squirrels, a dozen yearlings in view at one time today, frenetic whipping tails everywhere. I'm taking it easy, stopping for a hot tea break every hour, and as this isn't a job, I'm free to just stop what I'm doing and listen. Also, when I go in for tea, I often read, sometimes I get sidetracked. Usually, truth be told. Still, after I came inside, stoked the fire and peeled off my outer layer, cleaned up a bit, got a drink and rolled a smoke, I just had to go back outside and look at what I had accomplished. Piles of wood that reflect exactly what's needed. B does this even better than me, he's the Zen Master of firewood. I'm more like Sabrina in Wilder's play, pass up the fucking chairs. But it was nice to look at those physical piles today, then read for a while, then eat some more red beans and rice, then, maybe write, if I could just find the next sentence. Read more...