Independence

No plans. Some early birdsong. I didn't listen to the news. As so often on the ridge, there isn't a sound that isn't natural; then the fridge cycles and I turn on Black Dell, to read what I couldn't send. Not hungry, but I fry some bacon and eat an egg on toast. I had just started listening to the Cello Suites, Rostropovich, when my sister called, Dad had made it until the Fourth, but he was flat lining. My brother was trying to get there from northern California, the grand-kids were on call. Brenda was much more calm, going into the endgame. Quite the opposite of the usual country way, when kin-folk would bring over a covered dish; she had been preparing for a holiday weekend with her kids and grand kids (a large bunch) and there was a surplus of food that she was actually giving away. I'm sorry, we have a death in the family, could you possibly eat this? I listen to the rest of the Bach, then sit on the back steps and stare off into space. I don't stray far from the phone, though what I'd like to do is hike in above the beaver ponds and have my way with some Cut-Throat trout. Even further off the grid. I'm barely connected, but still. A pyrotechnic display that signifies nothing, I see a few flashes, some disconnected thumps, and I can't make sense of any of it. Time plus distance. What I see, and especially what I hear, is not exactly what happens. Another phone call, my brother had made it, and Dad had calmed down, they were holding his hands when he passed. All the arrangements had been made and paid for decades ago. Dad had never bought into religion, so I don't know what kind of service Brenda has fabricated. Do you buy a pastor's time? Like for a wedding? What do you charge for officiating at a funeral? Flat fee or sliding scale? I'm sure the details are all codified; and the wake, of course, more food, a few beers. The kids will only have known him as an old man, but I knew him as a young man, sculling a pirogue up close to the bank, where he could roll in a fly-cast that was a work of art. Out of time, but not of memory. I still aim to lay a fly in, under the overhanging underbrush, in such a way that it seems perfectly natural. B called, and the family Sunday dinner was down at his place, but I knew I'd be terrible company, and I couldn't talk, without tearing up. I walked the logging roads for a couple of hours, then came home and started a fire in the grill. I had a rack of baby-back ribs that I needed to cook. I managed to spend the rest of the day involved in food preparation. Pulped a ripe mango, and roasted some chilies, a great sauce for ribs that had been rubbed then seared, then cooked in foil for a couple of hours, then unwrapped and dried in apple smoke. I made a coleslaw, where I leached out the cabbage and carrot moisture before I dressed it with a garlic mayo; some steamed Yukon Gold potatoes with a large pat of butter and much fresh ground black pepper. I have the actual skillet that was used to make corn bread, when we were camping. I still use it. Johnny cake, with molasses, is a great way to start the day. I don't think much, just do one thing after another as slowly as possible. I woke up sick at my stomach, I must have eaten something that had set out too long; and I had to do the hydration cure, where you drink a little bit of water, then throw it up, and do it until the liquid runs clear. Put a damp cloth on your forehead, and listen to Greg Brown. I'm thinking about milk-toast for dinner, sometimes, when I can't sleep, I soak my feet in Epson salts, or warm Glauber salts, heated to body temperature. Dry my feet, change my socks, hey, I'm an actual person, I love the way it feels. Clean, dry, warm feet, dry socks. Sometimes it's enough to keep me on the straight and narrow. Sometimes it's not.