I know, I'm repeating myself, but I thought the stripes added a neat effect this morning. I also like the fact that the only colors are those of the water, white, and the trees. The absence of color in winter is amazing. I have a good friend who spent 3 years in Afghanistan with the Peace Corps and when he returned we came here together in March. Still plenty of snow, but his comment was how wonderful it was to see all the green of the conifers. I thought it odd at the time, but now I can see what a difference it makes to the landscape to have that greenery.
Now I move on to a big pile of CDs. Done with yesterday's Icelandic folk songs and Princess Margaret's favorite bagpiper. Today it's Lorne Greene singing "We wish you a Merry Christmas." At least today's stuff is in only 2 languages: English and Italian (Vivaldi). People may think catalogers have dull jobs, but boy oh boy who could consider this stuff dull, I ask you.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
wood I!
This is what came to my house last night. The pile is as wide as this and is a full 4 cords. YES! I'm thrilled. I've already burned some of it and it's dry (for the most part) but is frozen solid so needs to be thawed (stick by stick) before it's burned. It'll burned frozen but it burns better after thawing. The guy and I have been trying to connect for a about a week and finally were able to arrange delivery last night. He had a huge dump truck ("I've got a 10-wheeler"), which he was able to back up my crooked driveway, right to my house to dump pretty much where I wanted the wood. He's a trucker by trade and I was really impressed. So was he. The wood was expensive--$65 a cord, plus I tipped him $20, causing him to give me a very firm handshake.
I think I'll do business with him again, he was very nice and his wood is honest and good. I'll wait for Ken to evaluate the size of the load, though--he always lets me know if I got my money's worth because I can't tell if it's 4 cords or 3 1/2 or whatever. I'm just really happy to have this much wood, which will get me through the rest of the season and beyond. Ken is going to take one cord and pay me $65 for it. He always worries about having enough wood. I think it's just something we do here.
I think I'll do business with him again, he was very nice and his wood is honest and good. I'll wait for Ken to evaluate the size of the load, though--he always lets me know if I got my money's worth because I can't tell if it's 4 cords or 3 1/2 or whatever. I'm just really happy to have this much wood, which will get me through the rest of the season and beyond. Ken is going to take one cord and pay me $65 for it. He always worries about having enough wood. I think it's just something we do here.
Half empy, half full?
Pretty much I'm down to this much, plus half again, which equals about a cord & a half, of dry wood, plus 4 cords of wet wood. Wet (or green) wood burns poorly, doesn't generate much heat and really clogs your chimney with creosote. That's why I'm so happy to have my newfound treasure.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Very, very sad
Kentucky Derby winner Barbaro, whose long struggle to overcome injuries he suffered in the opening moments of the Preakness Stakes captured the sympathy of millions, was put to death today after his owners and veterinarian decided the latest complications had put the horse in too much pain and he had little hope of recovery.
This makes me very sad. I think horse racing is a horrible thing. It's true the horses love to run, they're bred for it and it gives them joy, just as Tess can't come to me without first finding something to carry in her mouth. She wiggles all over when she's carrying something: it's what she's been bred to do. The way they treat race horses, however is barbaric. They race them when they are babies, so young that their bones have not yet fully formed and they should not be bearing the weight of a jockey. They pump them full of drugs to enhance their performances, to thin their blood, to increase the amount of oxygen that flows through their veins. I thought Barbaro was a magnificent animal and he didn't deserve to have his bones broken because humans were greedy and wanted more from him than he should have been asked to give.
So why is it wrong to race horses but not to show dogs in a ring? Tough call. They don't pump dogs full of drugs. It's true they shave off their whiskers, and in some cases give them ridiculous haircuts. Again, the dogs mostly love to perform, they're trained to and it's obvious some of them love the applause and attention they get. They have to fly and travel in crates all over the place, but many of them sleep with their owners or trainers. Most don't, though (I think). Most probably sleep in crates and are not given much affection. The champions get lots of love and good attention. I like to focus on them--those are the ones you get to see, anyway.
I won't get into racing greyhounds. That's unspeakably cruel and I can't confront it even in my kindest, calmest moments.
Basically I just don't like the way humans treat animals. I eat very little meat, but not because I don't believe in factory farms or cruel stockyards, just because it's too complicated and not that tasty. Fish farming is cruel, too, and the seas are quickly being emptied. I can feel sorry for plants, too. Soybeans? No, I don't feel sorry for them, they seem willing to donate their lives for a good cause. Chickpeas? Again, willing to jump in the bowl for me. Lentils? no one likes them anyway so it's ok to eat them. Onions, garlic, they live underground so we're showing them daylight and therefore improving their lots in life.
I could go on. Mostly I just feel very sad about that poor horse.
Kentucky Derby winner Barbaro, whose long struggle to overcome injuries he suffered in the opening moments of the Preakness Stakes captured the sympathy of millions, was put to death today after his owners and veterinarian decided the latest complications had put the horse in too much pain and he had little hope of recovery.
This makes me very sad. I think horse racing is a horrible thing. It's true the horses love to run, they're bred for it and it gives them joy, just as Tess can't come to me without first finding something to carry in her mouth. She wiggles all over when she's carrying something: it's what she's been bred to do. The way they treat race horses, however is barbaric. They race them when they are babies, so young that their bones have not yet fully formed and they should not be bearing the weight of a jockey. They pump them full of drugs to enhance their performances, to thin their blood, to increase the amount of oxygen that flows through their veins. I thought Barbaro was a magnificent animal and he didn't deserve to have his bones broken because humans were greedy and wanted more from him than he should have been asked to give.
So why is it wrong to race horses but not to show dogs in a ring? Tough call. They don't pump dogs full of drugs. It's true they shave off their whiskers, and in some cases give them ridiculous haircuts. Again, the dogs mostly love to perform, they're trained to and it's obvious some of them love the applause and attention they get. They have to fly and travel in crates all over the place, but many of them sleep with their owners or trainers. Most don't, though (I think). Most probably sleep in crates and are not given much affection. The champions get lots of love and good attention. I like to focus on them--those are the ones you get to see, anyway.
I won't get into racing greyhounds. That's unspeakably cruel and I can't confront it even in my kindest, calmest moments.
Basically I just don't like the way humans treat animals. I eat very little meat, but not because I don't believe in factory farms or cruel stockyards, just because it's too complicated and not that tasty. Fish farming is cruel, too, and the seas are quickly being emptied. I can feel sorry for plants, too. Soybeans? No, I don't feel sorry for them, they seem willing to donate their lives for a good cause. Chickpeas? Again, willing to jump in the bowl for me. Lentils? no one likes them anyway so it's ok to eat them. Onions, garlic, they live underground so we're showing them daylight and therefore improving their lots in life.
I could go on. Mostly I just feel very sad about that poor horse.
Confluence
This is the conflulence of the east and west branches of the Saranac River. I drive on the bridge over this spot every morning. The river is starting to freeze--it only freezes in certain spots. All of the rivers around here freeze in certain spots. Sometimes the ice gets more than a foot thick, and when the ice goes out it's an amazing sight. In Ausable Forks there's a big betting pool for the day the ice goes out, worth lots of money involved. Date and time. It's usually some time around St. Patrick's Day.
Lots of times there's really bad flooding because of ice jams, when the ice causes the river to back up. Jamie and I always thought people were sort of foolish to keep building houses in the same spots that got hit by ice jam flooding, year after year.
Sometimes they blast the ice jams with dynamite, which I think is pretty stupid too. It's never very effective, and the ice jams generally form again. One year there was a big jam in AuSable Forks and they decided to blast it with lots of dynamite. We were part of the big crowd that gathered in the parking lot to watch. First a bunch of government officials stood in the bucket of a front end loader and were driven out to the edge of the ice. Boy do I wish I had a picture of that. It was a hysterical sight. Then they blasted the ice and huge chunks of foot-thick ice went flying up into the air, maybe 40 feet high, and came crashing down to the ground. No one was hurt, but why were we all standing there, waiting to be hit by 100-lb pieces of ice? Because we livein the North Country, that's why!
Lots of times there's really bad flooding because of ice jams, when the ice causes the river to back up. Jamie and I always thought people were sort of foolish to keep building houses in the same spots that got hit by ice jam flooding, year after year.
Sometimes they blast the ice jams with dynamite, which I think is pretty stupid too. It's never very effective, and the ice jams generally form again. One year there was a big jam in AuSable Forks and they decided to blast it with lots of dynamite. We were part of the big crowd that gathered in the parking lot to watch. First a bunch of government officials stood in the bucket of a front end loader and were driven out to the edge of the ice. Boy do I wish I had a picture of that. It was a hysterical sight. Then they blasted the ice and huge chunks of foot-thick ice went flying up into the air, maybe 40 feet high, and came crashing down to the ground. No one was hurt, but why were we all standing there, waiting to be hit by 100-lb pieces of ice? Because we livein the North Country, that's why!
Over the river
Another view of the Saranac, further down. Same sort of view as last week, but the rime ice is thicker. Maybe that's because it's warmer, only about -6 or so. I'm used to the cold now, it really doesn't bother me. It was -14 Saturday morning and I didn't realize it.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Sea smoke
The meteorologists call this fog/mist/whatever "sea smoke." I think that's a bit pretentious and dramatic. This is what the Saranac River looks like at -20, at 7:00 in the morning. It's what I saw on my way to work this morning. I feel really lucky that I get to see things like this on random days. Yes, I got out of the car to take the picture. Yes, I walked around my yard at -20 to feed the birds and admire the morning. I much prefer the cold to snow. I think it's amazing when it's this cold, the world is a different place. Last night, at -9 it was dead quiet, not a single sound. I'm hoping tonight, when it's supposed to be even colder, the ice will talk to me.
Monochrome
I think this is really pretty, but I'm sure some people might find it sort of bland and depressing--too much like cold and winter. All of the trees and bushes along the river are coated with what's called rime ice (as opposed to hoar frost, which is what's found when it's cold and things away from the water are coated with frost). It's beautiful beyond description.
Ready, set, go
I'm ready for the weather. This is the wood I brought in last night. It's enough to keep me warm for almost 24 hours. Right now there's slightly less than half of this pile left, after what I burned last night and what I stuffed into the stove this morning to keep the house warm today. The thing about burning wood is that it's a never-ending proposition. You buy it, it gets dumped, you stack it, you carry it into the house and you get down on the floor to jam it into the stove. Before you go to bed and before you leave for work you look for the big booger pieces that will burn for hours, and work the stove like a jigsaw puzzle to get them to fit in the firebox. The heat you get is really worth it, though.
Not quite close enough
Tess, looking JUST like her sister, sees just how close she can get to the wood stove without actually scorching her fur. She's also listening to the flames and crackles of the wood burning, no doubt. All is right with the world when she's lying here,
Remotely interested
And Chances assumes the position, complete with remote control close at hand. The living room is toasty warm, thanks to the new storm door and good use of black plastic.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Spiders on drugs
I'm a pretty tentative YouTube user, but something led me there the other day and I discovered the video entitled Spiders on drugs. It is really, really great and everyone (especially those of us who lived through the 60's and 70's) should see it. Just search Spiders on drugs and you'll get to it. I thought it was fantastic. This morning I watched a very fat and very young kitten climb out of a boot and try to stand up. But I didn't watch it for long. I can't give myself much YouTube each day, maybe just one or two. Fred just came by and asked if what I was doing was work related. Not in the least, I had to confess.
Good weekend, not as productive domestically as I would hope, but I spent some time outside and that was nice. The trip home Friday night was amazing. Barely snowing in Plattsburgh, then whiteout conditions as I got closer to home, until I could barely see the sides of the road (and there were no tail lights ahead of me to follow). Snow let up a little at home so I stopped at Ken's. He stayed awake during my whole visit! I went home, drove to the house & unloaded birdseed & dog food then left the car at the end of the driveway. Tucked myself in for the night.
We got maybe 8" of powder by Sat. mid-day so I did what I never, ever do and shoveled myself some paths: one to the woodpile, one to the wood shed, and--even more amazing, one down the driveway to my car. Will wonders never cease. It was -11 when the day began but got up to 7 during the day and if felt great to be outside. The sun actually came out. Went out to dinner with Lin Sat. night (Ralph is off for his annual winter fishing trip). For some reason it's always a subzero night when we do this. She's building a boat in the middle of her living room. "You can still see the TV though, right?" "Not at all! I had to bring the little one down from upstairs." She didn't know it would take so long to build.
Sunday was a pretty typical Sunday--morning coffee followed by Sunday dinner. Hadn't seen Bill in weeks so we had a good visit. Home to hang out and watch DVD's when someone with a plow backed up my hill. I figured it was maybe the guy who plowed once and never returned last year, or maybe my regular plowman who sold his other truck last year, and whoever it was would come to the door when he finished. But noooo--whoever it was didn't plow quite all the way to the house and was in reverse the whole time so I never saw who it was. Didn't recognize the truck at all, have no idea who it is that's taking such good care of me. May never know, or not for weeks anyway. I had thought of shoveling a little at a time until maybe the whole thing was done, but had abandoned that idea after shoveling my single-shovel wide path. So anyway now my driveway is plowed--very well, too, by someone who is a good plow master.
And today I have lots of assignments to do. Work on the webpage. Come up with a bibliography of a history collection for a small public library. Catalog the DVD of Judgement: the court martial of William Calley (so who out there remembers who he is?).
Off I go!
I'm a pretty tentative YouTube user, but something led me there the other day and I discovered the video entitled Spiders on drugs. It is really, really great and everyone (especially those of us who lived through the 60's and 70's) should see it. Just search Spiders on drugs and you'll get to it. I thought it was fantastic. This morning I watched a very fat and very young kitten climb out of a boot and try to stand up. But I didn't watch it for long. I can't give myself much YouTube each day, maybe just one or two. Fred just came by and asked if what I was doing was work related. Not in the least, I had to confess.
Good weekend, not as productive domestically as I would hope, but I spent some time outside and that was nice. The trip home Friday night was amazing. Barely snowing in Plattsburgh, then whiteout conditions as I got closer to home, until I could barely see the sides of the road (and there were no tail lights ahead of me to follow). Snow let up a little at home so I stopped at Ken's. He stayed awake during my whole visit! I went home, drove to the house & unloaded birdseed & dog food then left the car at the end of the driveway. Tucked myself in for the night.
We got maybe 8" of powder by Sat. mid-day so I did what I never, ever do and shoveled myself some paths: one to the woodpile, one to the wood shed, and--even more amazing, one down the driveway to my car. Will wonders never cease. It was -11 when the day began but got up to 7 during the day and if felt great to be outside. The sun actually came out. Went out to dinner with Lin Sat. night (Ralph is off for his annual winter fishing trip). For some reason it's always a subzero night when we do this. She's building a boat in the middle of her living room. "You can still see the TV though, right?" "Not at all! I had to bring the little one down from upstairs." She didn't know it would take so long to build.
Sunday was a pretty typical Sunday--morning coffee followed by Sunday dinner. Hadn't seen Bill in weeks so we had a good visit. Home to hang out and watch DVD's when someone with a plow backed up my hill. I figured it was maybe the guy who plowed once and never returned last year, or maybe my regular plowman who sold his other truck last year, and whoever it was would come to the door when he finished. But noooo--whoever it was didn't plow quite all the way to the house and was in reverse the whole time so I never saw who it was. Didn't recognize the truck at all, have no idea who it is that's taking such good care of me. May never know, or not for weeks anyway. I had thought of shoveling a little at a time until maybe the whole thing was done, but had abandoned that idea after shoveling my single-shovel wide path. So anyway now my driveway is plowed--very well, too, by someone who is a good plow master.
And today I have lots of assignments to do. Work on the webpage. Come up with a bibliography of a history collection for a small public library. Catalog the DVD of Judgement: the court martial of William Calley (so who out there remembers who he is?).
Off I go!
Friday, January 19, 2007
Box of hair
Although the real expression is "dumb as a box of dirt," Julie and I have altered it a bit to "dumb as a box of hair." No explanation, we just felt like making it our own.
Julie often says to me "I'll trade my staff for your staff--want to?" I always decline the invitation.
Yesterday her staff drove the bookmobile to a new stop in Lyon Mountain. There is no village or town of Lyon Mountain. There used to be a mine there where they mined iron ore. It closed eons ago. Now there's a state route that goes through the middle of town. A row of company houses. A slag pile at least 200' high. A Mobil station. A rectangular, 2-story building that's a minimum security prison (a must for every non-existent North Country town). An abandoned train station down the road. A closed bar in a mine shaft called "The Mine Shaft." And, apparently a senior center. We went to a whole lot of trouble to print and mail 900 copies of the new bookmobile schedule. The schedule listed the time and duration of each stop, as well as where the bookmobile would be parked.
When the bookmobile people got to Lyon Mountain and parked in the assigned senior center, they didn't see much activity--only 2 cars parked there and no patrons. They couldn't think of any patrons they were expecting, so they left and decided to drive around Lyon Mountain, looking for maybe a better place to park. Can't put the bus at the side of the road, now, can you.
They finally left.
For the past 18 years we've had a patron who lives in Lyon Mountain. Her name is Helena and she's been the bane of Julie's and my existence. She's been saying for 18 years that we should have a stop in Lyon Mountain. She went to the senior center and looked for the bookmobile. She said she looked around town and couldn't find it. She called here three times because she said she was worried about Bob and Debbie--where could they be? This made Julie and me laugh out loud: first of all, how could you lose a bookmobile in Lyon Mountain? Second of all: how could you not see a bookmobile in Lyon Mountain? This is what it looks like:
Although the real expression is "dumb as a box of dirt," Julie and I have altered it a bit to "dumb as a box of hair." No explanation, we just felt like making it our own.
Julie often says to me "I'll trade my staff for your staff--want to?" I always decline the invitation.
Yesterday her staff drove the bookmobile to a new stop in Lyon Mountain. There is no village or town of Lyon Mountain. There used to be a mine there where they mined iron ore. It closed eons ago. Now there's a state route that goes through the middle of town. A row of company houses. A slag pile at least 200' high. A Mobil station. A rectangular, 2-story building that's a minimum security prison (a must for every non-existent North Country town). An abandoned train station down the road. A closed bar in a mine shaft called "The Mine Shaft." And, apparently a senior center. We went to a whole lot of trouble to print and mail 900 copies of the new bookmobile schedule. The schedule listed the time and duration of each stop, as well as where the bookmobile would be parked.
When the bookmobile people got to Lyon Mountain and parked in the assigned senior center, they didn't see much activity--only 2 cars parked there and no patrons. They couldn't think of any patrons they were expecting, so they left and decided to drive around Lyon Mountain, looking for maybe a better place to park. Can't put the bus at the side of the road, now, can you.
They finally left.
For the past 18 years we've had a patron who lives in Lyon Mountain. Her name is Helena and she's been the bane of Julie's and my existence. She's been saying for 18 years that we should have a stop in Lyon Mountain. She went to the senior center and looked for the bookmobile. She said she looked around town and couldn't find it. She called here three times because she said she was worried about Bob and Debbie--where could they be? This made Julie and me laugh out loud: first of all, how could you lose a bookmobile in Lyon Mountain? Second of all: how could you not see a bookmobile in Lyon Mountain? This is what it looks like:
Thursday, January 18, 2007
The 700 club
This is post 701, but each photo gets its own number so I don't really think that's valid.
I'm using my atomic clock now (gift from engineer uncle, my only surviving uncle, it occurs to me). If you press the bar on top of it, the time is projected onto the ceiling. But last night the lamp was blocking the time so there was just a red glow. This meant I had to wake up even more to move the lamp because let's face it, I wanted to be entertained at 2:45 by seeing red numbers on my ceiling. I could have looked at the digital numbers next to the bed, but looking up is way more fun. I admit that my round Walmart clock is much more effective at getting me up and ready for work in the morning (it's 6:45 at a glance, get up get up get up) but for now I'm being entertained atomically. And this time of year I'll take any form of entertainment I can get.
Dogs are learning, in a funny way to sit before dashing out the door. Chances is incredibly stubborn and tries to get out the door without first sitting and waiting for me to OK the dash. She tries this about every 5th time. Tess is the perfect lady and sits like a 4th grader in class. Last night she wiggled with every fiber in her body, but her butt was on the floor. Chances looks to the side, totally bored and not amused. She clearly does not sanction this new routine. So far the storm door is still in pristine condition so my ploy seems to be working.
Am burning the final rank of wood that was stacked outside. It's last year's wood so is supreme, burns hot and doesn't sizzle. But it's small pieces, not the big boogers I need to last all day or all night. Plus, it's the LAST rank of that batch. I have another rank in the wood shed, then what? Lots of green wood that was purchased in the fall which may or may not burn but in any case will not throw heat and will clog my chimney with creosote. That should happen in March. Learn from experience, girl.
And now, I know everyone is waiting with baited breath: 1893 edition of Midsummer night's dream, Eclectic English classics ed. for the Wadhams Library. As part of their regular circulating collection, not a special collection. No kidding. Why do these libraries think they need individual copies of some (not all) of Shakespeare's plays (dillusionally, you NEVER discard those, that would be worse than discarding the Bible). Have they never heard of The complete works of Shakespeare? Or, say interlibrary loan?
This is post 701, but each photo gets its own number so I don't really think that's valid.
I'm using my atomic clock now (gift from engineer uncle, my only surviving uncle, it occurs to me). If you press the bar on top of it, the time is projected onto the ceiling. But last night the lamp was blocking the time so there was just a red glow. This meant I had to wake up even more to move the lamp because let's face it, I wanted to be entertained at 2:45 by seeing red numbers on my ceiling. I could have looked at the digital numbers next to the bed, but looking up is way more fun. I admit that my round Walmart clock is much more effective at getting me up and ready for work in the morning (it's 6:45 at a glance, get up get up get up) but for now I'm being entertained atomically. And this time of year I'll take any form of entertainment I can get.
Dogs are learning, in a funny way to sit before dashing out the door. Chances is incredibly stubborn and tries to get out the door without first sitting and waiting for me to OK the dash. She tries this about every 5th time. Tess is the perfect lady and sits like a 4th grader in class. Last night she wiggled with every fiber in her body, but her butt was on the floor. Chances looks to the side, totally bored and not amused. She clearly does not sanction this new routine. So far the storm door is still in pristine condition so my ploy seems to be working.
Am burning the final rank of wood that was stacked outside. It's last year's wood so is supreme, burns hot and doesn't sizzle. But it's small pieces, not the big boogers I need to last all day or all night. Plus, it's the LAST rank of that batch. I have another rank in the wood shed, then what? Lots of green wood that was purchased in the fall which may or may not burn but in any case will not throw heat and will clog my chimney with creosote. That should happen in March. Learn from experience, girl.
And now, I know everyone is waiting with baited breath: 1893 edition of Midsummer night's dream, Eclectic English classics ed. for the Wadhams Library. As part of their regular circulating collection, not a special collection. No kidding. Why do these libraries think they need individual copies of some (not all) of Shakespeare's plays (dillusionally, you NEVER discard those, that would be worse than discarding the Bible). Have they never heard of The complete works of Shakespeare? Or, say interlibrary loan?
This is an amaryllis. Liza sent me home with it after Christmas. She had a pot with 4 bulbs in it and someone gave her this one as well, so she shared her bounty with me. I love these and have a whole bunch of them. After they bloom, you can cut them back, keep them under the right conditions and they will bloom again in a year. Sometimes I have succeeded in doing this,other times all I get is foliage. Right now I have three pots with bulbs in them and I can't remember in which month they should be brought out to bloom. Next to the amaryllis is a pot of paper white narcissuses which my friend Julie gave me. They are just starting to open and smell wonderful. Clusters of little white blossoms. My geraniums are still blooming but their blossoms aren't really very pretty, I have them for the foliage. It won't be long until I start pretending to organize my garden. I'll order more seeds than I'll plant and maybe start seeds again this year. I had some success last year but didn't plant all of them early enough. This year will be different. Yeah, that's right. Different.
I know, I've taken this picture plenty of times before. It just always makes me laugh. I was taking the amaryllis picture and she scrambled under her couch right away. That's Frog on the left and Pony on the right. Pony came to us last summer, and, as it was pointed out to me later, is really a cow. Pony has no more batting in her head and is filthy, but is a particular favorite. Tess seems to like things that have legs, so she can carry them around by the leg. Frog is perfect for this, with long legs and 4 of them, plus a nice round middle.
Oh, all right
I didn't really have to work that hard to convince her to appear. She usually gives in, once she gives it a little thought. Or maybe there's a pause in the flashing light and she has a false sense of security, who knows. Anyway she was checking to see if the coast was clear.
Boiling your brain
And finally, the right spot, next to the wood stove. This is a favored spot by both dogs, but Tess lies so close to the stove that sometimes I think her brain actually bubbles. My yellow Lab Emma used to get so hot behind the stove that her fur was hot to the touch. Tess isn't quite that bad, but she gets really, really warm.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
A little nip in the air
(nip has special meaning in my family: my ex-husband's brother (my second-cousin once-removed) is named Nip, and my father named his last dachshund Nip).
It was -15 this morning. I worry about the dogs when it's this cold, sometimes they seem to have no sense. At -5 last night Tess was staying out way too long. I guess she was just eating sunflower seeds at the feeder, but sometimes she gets far from the house and decides her pawpads are too cold to make it home. I shouldn't worry, a dog is a dog and can figure out how to get home. She won't let herself freeze to death.
Anyway, I was pleased with my house's survival skills this morning. No ill effects from the cold, although this is not really extreme. -20 counts as extreme, that's when you worry about pipes freezing. After 15 years of living in this house I have figured out how to keep the cellar warm enough to keep pump and pipes from freezing, and at last I've smartened up enough to have a storm door, so the living room temp was 58 instead of 48 this morning. Boy, the rewards of growing old can be great.
Bare skin gets cold quickly at -15, though. I had to refill the suet feeder, and I grabbed some firewood on my way in the house (another lesson learned: never go in the house without taking in a load of firewood). Hard on the hands. Also, remember the stupid lesson of childhood about wet hands sticking to metal? Still true. Snow on the firewood, wet hand, metal doorknob. Ouch!
After 22 years here I have finally learned the actual value of snow tires. My car is like a different vehicle now. I zoomed right up my driveway last night, through 6" of snow, including a thick crust. Never would have made it without Hakapalita snows. Worth $500? It sure was to me last night. In the long run? Anybody's guess.
On the book/tape I'm listening to now (Memory keeper's daughter) the author describes a character as having sadness and compassion in his eyes. Jackson Browne sings of "a trace of sorrow in your eyes." I've always wondered about these things. I don't think I can see these, or joy, or cruelty in the eyes of another. Do I try to read people through their eyes? No, I don't really think I do. Eyebrows, yes. Mouth, yes. But eyes? No, not really. I can read things in nature easily. Bird behavior, squirrel behavior, porcupine behavior, deer behavior and certainly dog behavior (in many, many ways). Humans? Not so much. What does this mean about me? Sometimes I think I was meant to live by myself and limit my interactions with other people because maybe, really, I'm just not that good at it.
But cataloging Beethoven's late string quartets by the Takas Quartet, now there's something I'm quite good at.
(nip has special meaning in my family: my ex-husband's brother (my second-cousin once-removed) is named Nip, and my father named his last dachshund Nip).
It was -15 this morning. I worry about the dogs when it's this cold, sometimes they seem to have no sense. At -5 last night Tess was staying out way too long. I guess she was just eating sunflower seeds at the feeder, but sometimes she gets far from the house and decides her pawpads are too cold to make it home. I shouldn't worry, a dog is a dog and can figure out how to get home. She won't let herself freeze to death.
Anyway, I was pleased with my house's survival skills this morning. No ill effects from the cold, although this is not really extreme. -20 counts as extreme, that's when you worry about pipes freezing. After 15 years of living in this house I have figured out how to keep the cellar warm enough to keep pump and pipes from freezing, and at last I've smartened up enough to have a storm door, so the living room temp was 58 instead of 48 this morning. Boy, the rewards of growing old can be great.
Bare skin gets cold quickly at -15, though. I had to refill the suet feeder, and I grabbed some firewood on my way in the house (another lesson learned: never go in the house without taking in a load of firewood). Hard on the hands. Also, remember the stupid lesson of childhood about wet hands sticking to metal? Still true. Snow on the firewood, wet hand, metal doorknob. Ouch!
After 22 years here I have finally learned the actual value of snow tires. My car is like a different vehicle now. I zoomed right up my driveway last night, through 6" of snow, including a thick crust. Never would have made it without Hakapalita snows. Worth $500? It sure was to me last night. In the long run? Anybody's guess.
On the book/tape I'm listening to now (Memory keeper's daughter) the author describes a character as having sadness and compassion in his eyes. Jackson Browne sings of "a trace of sorrow in your eyes." I've always wondered about these things. I don't think I can see these, or joy, or cruelty in the eyes of another. Do I try to read people through their eyes? No, I don't really think I do. Eyebrows, yes. Mouth, yes. But eyes? No, not really. I can read things in nature easily. Bird behavior, squirrel behavior, porcupine behavior, deer behavior and certainly dog behavior (in many, many ways). Humans? Not so much. What does this mean about me? Sometimes I think I was meant to live by myself and limit my interactions with other people because maybe, really, I'm just not that good at it.
But cataloging Beethoven's late string quartets by the Takas Quartet, now there's something I'm quite good at.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Oh the cleverness of it
Important lesson in data entry for the afternoon:
If you have to type all 22 titles of The mystery of Santo Domingo de Silos: Gregorian chant from Spain, sung in Latin, and most of the words are not ones you're familiar with (except for sanctum, dei, deus, et, pater, noster and a few others), be really sure your fingers are on the right keys because you'll never ever be able to tell if you've made a mistake.
Important lesson in data entry for the afternoon:
If you have to type all 22 titles of The mystery of Santo Domingo de Silos: Gregorian chant from Spain, sung in Latin, and most of the words are not ones you're familiar with (except for sanctum, dei, deus, et, pater, noster and a few others), be really sure your fingers are on the right keys because you'll never ever be able to tell if you've made a mistake.
The real spaghetti western
Although I think he is no longer among the living, my favorite author of westerns, by far, is Orlando Rigoni.
Having a storm door really rocks. So does burning dry wood. A bottle of wine will pop its cork in a car at zero degrees and the consequences are not pleasant. A state trooper will sniff said car suspiciously as he explains to the driver that cars are to be inspected annually in the state of New York and the inspection stickers change color each month, making it easy to spot scofflaws from great distances.
Three day weekends are among my favorite things in the whole wide world. Not that I'm saying Thank you Martin Luther King Jr. for being a martyr, but I'm glad I don't live in Arizona, the only state refusing to recognize a great man. I hope to spend the weekend writing sympathy letters (my friend's husband died of ALS, my friend died of a heart attack and I must write her sister, my neighbor's sister died mysteriously, my extra-good friend's father died suddenly) and Christmas thank-yous. In what order do I write these? I'm sorry first, or thank you first?
I also have many DVDs to watch. First Kiss (Zach Branf), Firewall (Harrison Ford), The O.C. (ridiculous beautiful Orange County people soap opera). I have 2 dogs in need of attention. Or so they say.
Today I do authority work. I love being an authority on what goes into our data base. Since no one else cares, I feel very dedicated when I do this. Yes, I think it's important that all the entries for Beethoven are alike so they'll be combined in one search. I'm such a doofus.
Although I think he is no longer among the living, my favorite author of westerns, by far, is Orlando Rigoni.
Having a storm door really rocks. So does burning dry wood. A bottle of wine will pop its cork in a car at zero degrees and the consequences are not pleasant. A state trooper will sniff said car suspiciously as he explains to the driver that cars are to be inspected annually in the state of New York and the inspection stickers change color each month, making it easy to spot scofflaws from great distances.
Three day weekends are among my favorite things in the whole wide world. Not that I'm saying Thank you Martin Luther King Jr. for being a martyr, but I'm glad I don't live in Arizona, the only state refusing to recognize a great man. I hope to spend the weekend writing sympathy letters (my friend's husband died of ALS, my friend died of a heart attack and I must write her sister, my neighbor's sister died mysteriously, my extra-good friend's father died suddenly) and Christmas thank-yous. In what order do I write these? I'm sorry first, or thank you first?
I also have many DVDs to watch. First Kiss (Zach Branf), Firewall (Harrison Ford), The O.C. (ridiculous beautiful Orange County people soap opera). I have 2 dogs in need of attention. Or so they say.
Today I do authority work. I love being an authority on what goes into our data base. Since no one else cares, I feel very dedicated when I do this. Yes, I think it's important that all the entries for Beethoven are alike so they'll be combined in one search. I'm such a doofus.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Slowhand
One of my favorite of all time musicians is Eric Clapton. His guitar playing is beyond description, and even his vocals are grand. I love the sound of his voice. I just listened to one of, to me, the most moving pieces of music: the fiddle solo in the middle of Blind Faith's Sea of Joy. No one but me (and Molly) could possibly know about this, but Blind Faith was a supergroup in 1969. They released only one album but it was one of the best pieces of music of all time and always will be. Anyway, I can listen to that piece of music endlessly and as loudly as possible. After that came, randomly, Eric Clapton singing Tears in Heaven. Well, I remember when his son fell out of that window, prompting him to write that song. I was in a small grocery store buying fish with Jamie and my friends Kevin and Julie in North Carolina. I was shocked that such a thing could happen to my hero (remember "Clapton is God?").
So that's what's going on with me right now. That and Jake Logan's Longarm series. You know, Hot lead, The Tonto Basin War, The sabotaged railroad, The Tascosa two-step.
One of my favorite of all time musicians is Eric Clapton. His guitar playing is beyond description, and even his vocals are grand. I love the sound of his voice. I just listened to one of, to me, the most moving pieces of music: the fiddle solo in the middle of Blind Faith's Sea of Joy. No one but me (and Molly) could possibly know about this, but Blind Faith was a supergroup in 1969. They released only one album but it was one of the best pieces of music of all time and always will be. Anyway, I can listen to that piece of music endlessly and as loudly as possible. After that came, randomly, Eric Clapton singing Tears in Heaven. Well, I remember when his son fell out of that window, prompting him to write that song. I was in a small grocery store buying fish with Jamie and my friends Kevin and Julie in North Carolina. I was shocked that such a thing could happen to my hero (remember "Clapton is God?").
So that's what's going on with me right now. That and Jake Logan's Longarm series. You know, Hot lead, The Tonto Basin War, The sabotaged railroad, The Tascosa two-step.
Sometimes it's just too complicated
Reading other people's blogs brings out a lot of different feelings. Like, is my life more complicated, less complicated, do I think deep thoughts or am I a shallow person who only focuses on herself and isn't even very good at that? I've always thought I wasn't very capable of deep analysis of myself or situations: remember, I had my brother and my sister as role models (not to mention my father, who subscribed to Punch, the British humor magazine, and I didn't even understand the cartoons, let alone the articles). My mother once wrote of me that she would never worry about me because, although Henry and Molly were very bright, I would always be ok because I was cute. Later I discovered (not until college, though) that I too was bright. I never understood philosophy, though, which seemed to come easily to my brother and sister. I STILL don't understand philosophy, except for some basics of the easier and most obvious stuff, but I gave up defining my intelligence by that a long time ago.
Anyway, today I feel semi-smart. I understand MARC format, which apparently is elusive to many people. I chalk that up to a lack of interest more than anything else--people don't want to know MARC format, or they'd understand it. I don't think it's complicated, but lots of people do. Chalk one up for me.
I understand the reason behind a poodle's show cut (my psychiatrist and I discussed this during my appointment this morning--he has a poodle, much to his disappointment). I know plenty of things about why things are the way they are in nature, but I don't attribute that to intelligence, except when it comes to really understanding the ways of the earth. Like, I can recognize some constellations but I don't really understand the stuff about earth's rotation or axis stuff, and I can't remember during which solstice we're closest to the sun (I think it's the winter) or why we are. And I sure don't understand much about physics. I used to cry about chemistry in high school. My mother thought my brother could tutor me in algebra but he got so frustrated he gave up because he couldn't get down to my level to help me.
I know a lot about dogs and even about dog psychology. The other day I got to watch The Dog Whisperer (whose methods I don't totally agree with) when he went to work with John Grogan, who wrote Marley and me, the bestseller about a bad, bad Labrador retriever. The Grogans have a new Lab and are just as clueless as they were with the first one. At least I know how to train a dog, even if I don't train my own.
I know a lot about cars and how they run. That comes from putting together plastic model cars with my brother when I was a kid. We had lots and lots of fun with that. I loved doing it. We'd put the engine parts together, glue the cool seats in the cars, the gear shifts on the steering columns, the bumpers on, lots of parts. Then we'd decide what color we wanted to paint the car--a tough decision, then we'd buy the paint, which came in little square bottles. My favorite ever, the one I was proudest of was a Dodge Polaris, maroon with white bench seats. A real beauty. Real rubber tires, whitewalls with chrome hubcaps and metal axles. I also learned a lot about cars when I lived with two men who were obsessed with their Austin Healeys. One of them was a race car driver, Formula 4 (Indianapolis is Formula 1).
Here's what I do know: I know that it's Dale Earnhart, the NASCAR driver, and Amelia Earhart, the aviatrix. They don't know that in Tupper Lake--they think Amelia is related to Dale and her name is Earnhart. In Upper Jay they don't think anything has changed in Leathercraft since 1962.
I also know that, although I profess to have a deep respect for automobiles, that does not apply (apparently) to my own. The contents of the passenger compartment of the front of my car include: 2 partially consumed bottles of Diet Mtn Dew, 2 audio books I really, really will listen to, a gizmo my mother gave me for Christmas which is guaranteed to jump start your battery from another car using the power outlet in the dashboard, napkins from Dunkin' Donuts for when I cry, gloves for when I need to carry firewood, a bottle of Angostura Bitters to take to Ken's tonight for the finishing touch on my drink and a package of hot dogs the Ken and I will eat for dinner tonight. There is also a lot of dirt on the floor. The back seat has no seatbelts (thank you, Tess), a pile of old newspapers I dropped in the mud on Saturday, a half-empty box of Diet Coke, a chewed-in-half leash (thank you, Tess), an ice scraper, an empty paper bag (neatly folded), some empty bottles of Diet Mtn Dew and cans of Diet Coke (supposed to go in the bag), lots of rubber bands (the mailman gives me one every day around my mail and I toss it in the back seat when I pick up my mail on the hardtop) and a lot, lot, lot of dog hair (I will vacuum the seats and floors one of these days). My car is disgusting, and it's only 2 years old. A big old dent in the right rear panel because I backed into a grove of trees without even looking. A broken front bumper because I hit a piece of firewood at -10 and plastic shatters at that temperature. At least everyone knows it's my car because there's a big hole in my bumper--everyone waves at me when I drive around.
So let's see, I'm working on Akwesasne's stuff today. They're on the reservation so it's Blackhawk's bond and The man from Montana. I'm always surprised when they buy westerns.
Reading other people's blogs brings out a lot of different feelings. Like, is my life more complicated, less complicated, do I think deep thoughts or am I a shallow person who only focuses on herself and isn't even very good at that? I've always thought I wasn't very capable of deep analysis of myself or situations: remember, I had my brother and my sister as role models (not to mention my father, who subscribed to Punch, the British humor magazine, and I didn't even understand the cartoons, let alone the articles). My mother once wrote of me that she would never worry about me because, although Henry and Molly were very bright, I would always be ok because I was cute. Later I discovered (not until college, though) that I too was bright. I never understood philosophy, though, which seemed to come easily to my brother and sister. I STILL don't understand philosophy, except for some basics of the easier and most obvious stuff, but I gave up defining my intelligence by that a long time ago.
Anyway, today I feel semi-smart. I understand MARC format, which apparently is elusive to many people. I chalk that up to a lack of interest more than anything else--people don't want to know MARC format, or they'd understand it. I don't think it's complicated, but lots of people do. Chalk one up for me.
I understand the reason behind a poodle's show cut (my psychiatrist and I discussed this during my appointment this morning--he has a poodle, much to his disappointment). I know plenty of things about why things are the way they are in nature, but I don't attribute that to intelligence, except when it comes to really understanding the ways of the earth. Like, I can recognize some constellations but I don't really understand the stuff about earth's rotation or axis stuff, and I can't remember during which solstice we're closest to the sun (I think it's the winter) or why we are. And I sure don't understand much about physics. I used to cry about chemistry in high school. My mother thought my brother could tutor me in algebra but he got so frustrated he gave up because he couldn't get down to my level to help me.
I know a lot about dogs and even about dog psychology. The other day I got to watch The Dog Whisperer (whose methods I don't totally agree with) when he went to work with John Grogan, who wrote Marley and me, the bestseller about a bad, bad Labrador retriever. The Grogans have a new Lab and are just as clueless as they were with the first one. At least I know how to train a dog, even if I don't train my own.
I know a lot about cars and how they run. That comes from putting together plastic model cars with my brother when I was a kid. We had lots and lots of fun with that. I loved doing it. We'd put the engine parts together, glue the cool seats in the cars, the gear shifts on the steering columns, the bumpers on, lots of parts. Then we'd decide what color we wanted to paint the car--a tough decision, then we'd buy the paint, which came in little square bottles. My favorite ever, the one I was proudest of was a Dodge Polaris, maroon with white bench seats. A real beauty. Real rubber tires, whitewalls with chrome hubcaps and metal axles. I also learned a lot about cars when I lived with two men who were obsessed with their Austin Healeys. One of them was a race car driver, Formula 4 (Indianapolis is Formula 1).
Here's what I do know: I know that it's Dale Earnhart, the NASCAR driver, and Amelia Earhart, the aviatrix. They don't know that in Tupper Lake--they think Amelia is related to Dale and her name is Earnhart. In Upper Jay they don't think anything has changed in Leathercraft since 1962.
I also know that, although I profess to have a deep respect for automobiles, that does not apply (apparently) to my own. The contents of the passenger compartment of the front of my car include: 2 partially consumed bottles of Diet Mtn Dew, 2 audio books I really, really will listen to, a gizmo my mother gave me for Christmas which is guaranteed to jump start your battery from another car using the power outlet in the dashboard, napkins from Dunkin' Donuts for when I cry, gloves for when I need to carry firewood, a bottle of Angostura Bitters to take to Ken's tonight for the finishing touch on my drink and a package of hot dogs the Ken and I will eat for dinner tonight. There is also a lot of dirt on the floor. The back seat has no seatbelts (thank you, Tess), a pile of old newspapers I dropped in the mud on Saturday, a half-empty box of Diet Coke, a chewed-in-half leash (thank you, Tess), an ice scraper, an empty paper bag (neatly folded), some empty bottles of Diet Mtn Dew and cans of Diet Coke (supposed to go in the bag), lots of rubber bands (the mailman gives me one every day around my mail and I toss it in the back seat when I pick up my mail on the hardtop) and a lot, lot, lot of dog hair (I will vacuum the seats and floors one of these days). My car is disgusting, and it's only 2 years old. A big old dent in the right rear panel because I backed into a grove of trees without even looking. A broken front bumper because I hit a piece of firewood at -10 and plastic shatters at that temperature. At least everyone knows it's my car because there's a big hole in my bumper--everyone waves at me when I drive around.
So let's see, I'm working on Akwesasne's stuff today. They're on the reservation so it's Blackhawk's bond and The man from Montana. I'm always surprised when they buy westerns.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Center of the universe
How am I doing on that "don't always talk about myself" thing? Well, sometimes I stuff a sock in my mouth, and sometimes an anecdote about myself just needs to be told, so my poor clerk gets interrupted and I tell her about how a school bus cut me off one morning, a fascinating and pointless story she patiently listens to. OK, not such a high score that day. Other days I do better and listen patiently without interjecting something that happened to me, or what I think about it, or how it all relates to me. If I do feel compelled to say something, I say "Of course, it's all about me," at least acknowledging that I'm an ass. I sat through endless discussion of paint choices for each room of the Holts' house without saying a single thing about what I thought of the colors (you would really paint so many rooms different shades of yellow?) or what I chose for my house (no, I don't thing gray is too cold, and I painted two rooms gray and think they still look good after 15 years). Man was I proud when I took that sock out of my mouth. And my blood pressure was no different at the end of the discussion. See? It's possible to be normal and let other people be the center of attention. Difficult, but possible. I've decided that this, you lucky people, is where I can be the center of attention all the time. Isn't that what a blog is all about?
I spent Sunday cleaning (I even dusted, and when I told Ken this he said "You did like hell"), alternating between cleaning and sitting to watch TV for a spell. Not a bad way to spend a day off. I didn't have to go to Sunday dinner, got a break from that because Ken's son Karl (as Ken always refers to him, as if he doesn't have a son Bill who spends one day a week with him and calls twice every single week without fail and balances his checkbook and goes through his mail to tell him the credit card offers are junk and can be thrown out and no, he didn't really win a million dollars) was visiting (for less than 24 hours) from Penn. Anyway, I got a break from Sunday's command performance, and didn't know what to watch on TV at noon, or what to do from 12-3 but had a great time. Got the house looking not too bad except of course for the back room which looks like a storage facility. I should charge myself $100 a month to rent it. Plan A is to move the stuff upstairs to what is now my giant closet/would be a basement if I had one, and used to be the master bedroom. I'm on a roll about it and have a light bulb moment every now & then when I realize I can put stuff there. Of course I forget that I put things there and search for days when I forget that's where I put something. Soon it will be so full I won't ever be able to find anything and I'll have to spend a week organizing the room & throwing things out. I'm not very good at having a house, when it comes right down to it. I was much better when I lived in a smaller space in Rhode Island.
The book group came and we had a great time. Only Mary Lou and I had read the book but we had a nice discussion about it. It was Peace like a river by Leif something-Scandinavian. An interesting novel, sort of strange, set in 1960 though time seemed irrelevant. Next up is an Ann Tyler book, Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant, which we haven't read, one of her older ones that slipped past me. The only copy we have here at CEF is a large print copy, so I'll read it as if someone is shouting at me in my head.
Ah yes, my head. I'm having some problems in my head. Am I better? Yes, I suppose, but I get up each morning with a song in my head and it doesn't go away until I get to work and put my earphones on to replace it. I obsessed about some petty things at Christmas, but have let up on some things at home lately. So yes, I'm doing better but no, I'm not at peace. Have an appointment with psychiatrist tomorrow.
My storm door has finally been installed. A stroke of genius was that. No more prevailing winds in my living room. What a difference it makes! It's incredible, however, what a difference changing your front door routine makes, especially when you have dogs. I can no longer see them sitting outside waiting to come in because the window on the storm door doesn't go down that far. I don't want them to bash against it so I'm training them to sit before I open it to let them out. Tess already knows this but Chances is old and wants me to believe the adage about teaching her new tricks. I can't leave the door ajar when I'm bringing in wood so that I can just kick it when my arms are full of heavy firewood--I have to have a free hand to use the latch. I think life is amazing when such small changes have such a big effect on us.
And now I'll see how big the effect of a 1956 edition of The mayor of Castorbridge at the Tupper Lake library really is.
How am I doing on that "don't always talk about myself" thing? Well, sometimes I stuff a sock in my mouth, and sometimes an anecdote about myself just needs to be told, so my poor clerk gets interrupted and I tell her about how a school bus cut me off one morning, a fascinating and pointless story she patiently listens to. OK, not such a high score that day. Other days I do better and listen patiently without interjecting something that happened to me, or what I think about it, or how it all relates to me. If I do feel compelled to say something, I say "Of course, it's all about me," at least acknowledging that I'm an ass. I sat through endless discussion of paint choices for each room of the Holts' house without saying a single thing about what I thought of the colors (you would really paint so many rooms different shades of yellow?) or what I chose for my house (no, I don't thing gray is too cold, and I painted two rooms gray and think they still look good after 15 years). Man was I proud when I took that sock out of my mouth. And my blood pressure was no different at the end of the discussion. See? It's possible to be normal and let other people be the center of attention. Difficult, but possible. I've decided that this, you lucky people, is where I can be the center of attention all the time. Isn't that what a blog is all about?
I spent Sunday cleaning (I even dusted, and when I told Ken this he said "You did like hell"), alternating between cleaning and sitting to watch TV for a spell. Not a bad way to spend a day off. I didn't have to go to Sunday dinner, got a break from that because Ken's son Karl (as Ken always refers to him, as if he doesn't have a son Bill who spends one day a week with him and calls twice every single week without fail and balances his checkbook and goes through his mail to tell him the credit card offers are junk and can be thrown out and no, he didn't really win a million dollars) was visiting (for less than 24 hours) from Penn. Anyway, I got a break from Sunday's command performance, and didn't know what to watch on TV at noon, or what to do from 12-3 but had a great time. Got the house looking not too bad except of course for the back room which looks like a storage facility. I should charge myself $100 a month to rent it. Plan A is to move the stuff upstairs to what is now my giant closet/would be a basement if I had one, and used to be the master bedroom. I'm on a roll about it and have a light bulb moment every now & then when I realize I can put stuff there. Of course I forget that I put things there and search for days when I forget that's where I put something. Soon it will be so full I won't ever be able to find anything and I'll have to spend a week organizing the room & throwing things out. I'm not very good at having a house, when it comes right down to it. I was much better when I lived in a smaller space in Rhode Island.
The book group came and we had a great time. Only Mary Lou and I had read the book but we had a nice discussion about it. It was Peace like a river by Leif something-Scandinavian. An interesting novel, sort of strange, set in 1960 though time seemed irrelevant. Next up is an Ann Tyler book, Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant, which we haven't read, one of her older ones that slipped past me. The only copy we have here at CEF is a large print copy, so I'll read it as if someone is shouting at me in my head.
Ah yes, my head. I'm having some problems in my head. Am I better? Yes, I suppose, but I get up each morning with a song in my head and it doesn't go away until I get to work and put my earphones on to replace it. I obsessed about some petty things at Christmas, but have let up on some things at home lately. So yes, I'm doing better but no, I'm not at peace. Have an appointment with psychiatrist tomorrow.
My storm door has finally been installed. A stroke of genius was that. No more prevailing winds in my living room. What a difference it makes! It's incredible, however, what a difference changing your front door routine makes, especially when you have dogs. I can no longer see them sitting outside waiting to come in because the window on the storm door doesn't go down that far. I don't want them to bash against it so I'm training them to sit before I open it to let them out. Tess already knows this but Chances is old and wants me to believe the adage about teaching her new tricks. I can't leave the door ajar when I'm bringing in wood so that I can just kick it when my arms are full of heavy firewood--I have to have a free hand to use the latch. I think life is amazing when such small changes have such a big effect on us.
And now I'll see how big the effect of a 1956 edition of The mayor of Castorbridge at the Tupper Lake library really is.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
One stop, not two
I just tried to run two errands during lunch and couldn't complete the first (picking up my cholesterol-curer) so couldn't do the second (dropping it off at the pharmacy). I'm out of this drug, have been for a couple of days, which makes me feel bad for letting this happen. Of all the drugs I take I consider this to be one of the more important: it keeps me physically healthy, so it's important to be conscientious about taking it. I suppose it won't hurt if I don't take it for 5 days or so, and I've been really, really good about taking it. The prescription wasn't ready yet. They have signs plastered all over the doctor's office to WAIT 48 HOURS before even THINKING about picking up prescriptions you've phoned in for. NO, WAIT, WE REALLY MEAN IT. I think they wait until the 47th hour just to prove their point. Anyway, I screwed up so there you go.
I've been typing my chubby little fingers to the bone. Lots of CD's. Cardio disco/funk music to exercise to ("beats per minute for each track included!"). A bunch of unknowns singing modern Christian music. Of course, they may be the most famous modern Christian music singers and I'd never know, would I. The whole international series of Modern Classical Music, The Most Beautiful Music in the World, 8 volumes (yeah, right). Is this worse than children's books? hmmm, that's a tough one to answer. Now it's on to the 1877 report to the NYState Legislature from the Land Survey Committee. And the 1997 edition of Frommer's Maine coast. When will these libraries learn that travel books are USELESS when they get old? And when will they even begin to comprehend that, if there's a record for Writer's Digest in the data base with no dates in it, that means it can be used for ANY EDITION they own? Huh, when? Huh? Oh, but I love 'em all. Tomorrow I go to Rouses Point to weed some more of her non-fiction. Can't wait, can't wait. I'm so charming to these people that if I were them I'd be suspicious of myself.
I don't believe in resolutions for the new year, but I have some suggestions for myself. I want to find peace in my life, and I want to see life in a more positive light. I don't want to be critical of things I see and things I'm aware of--I don't want to be like my father. I want to think of things in a good way. And I don't want to talk about myself all the time--I don't want to feel the need to relate everything to myself (out loud, anyway) when people tell me about things that happen to them or feelings they have. My plate is very full, is it not? But I think I will enjoy life a whole lot more if I can do these things. I'm not sure what chemical changes I will need to work on to achieve any of this, or if chemicals will help me, but I'm working on that. A pinch of this and a dash of that. Appointment with psychiatrist next week to go over our latest cocktail.
And now it's 40 and sunny and feels much more like April, but like Cat, if I hear one more person say something about the weather I'll have to make myself into a tiny little ball like Chances does. Last night my dogs were soooo cute. They went outside, parked under the bird feeders and ate quarts of sunflower seed and sunflower seed husks, then came inside and puked them up. Quarts, I tell you. And these dogs aren't polite about it, they give no warning. Chances just got a queer look on her face and puked next to my foot. Then did it again on the rug by the door when I tried to get her outside. Tess pretended she was trying to go outside and unloaded her burden in front of the door. Buckets full this was. I called them both assholes and cleaned it up. Suffered a lot then got over it and watched the rest of Friday Night Lights. Man oh man is that coach handsome. Really handsome.
Now on to Reminiscences of the 123rd Regiment, N.Y.S.V. , pub. 1879. What is N.Y.S.V.?
I just tried to run two errands during lunch and couldn't complete the first (picking up my cholesterol-curer) so couldn't do the second (dropping it off at the pharmacy). I'm out of this drug, have been for a couple of days, which makes me feel bad for letting this happen. Of all the drugs I take I consider this to be one of the more important: it keeps me physically healthy, so it's important to be conscientious about taking it. I suppose it won't hurt if I don't take it for 5 days or so, and I've been really, really good about taking it. The prescription wasn't ready yet. They have signs plastered all over the doctor's office to WAIT 48 HOURS before even THINKING about picking up prescriptions you've phoned in for. NO, WAIT, WE REALLY MEAN IT. I think they wait until the 47th hour just to prove their point. Anyway, I screwed up so there you go.
I've been typing my chubby little fingers to the bone. Lots of CD's. Cardio disco/funk music to exercise to ("beats per minute for each track included!"). A bunch of unknowns singing modern Christian music. Of course, they may be the most famous modern Christian music singers and I'd never know, would I. The whole international series of Modern Classical Music, The Most Beautiful Music in the World, 8 volumes (yeah, right). Is this worse than children's books? hmmm, that's a tough one to answer. Now it's on to the 1877 report to the NYState Legislature from the Land Survey Committee. And the 1997 edition of Frommer's Maine coast. When will these libraries learn that travel books are USELESS when they get old? And when will they even begin to comprehend that, if there's a record for Writer's Digest in the data base with no dates in it, that means it can be used for ANY EDITION they own? Huh, when? Huh? Oh, but I love 'em all. Tomorrow I go to Rouses Point to weed some more of her non-fiction. Can't wait, can't wait. I'm so charming to these people that if I were them I'd be suspicious of myself.
I don't believe in resolutions for the new year, but I have some suggestions for myself. I want to find peace in my life, and I want to see life in a more positive light. I don't want to be critical of things I see and things I'm aware of--I don't want to be like my father. I want to think of things in a good way. And I don't want to talk about myself all the time--I don't want to feel the need to relate everything to myself (out loud, anyway) when people tell me about things that happen to them or feelings they have. My plate is very full, is it not? But I think I will enjoy life a whole lot more if I can do these things. I'm not sure what chemical changes I will need to work on to achieve any of this, or if chemicals will help me, but I'm working on that. A pinch of this and a dash of that. Appointment with psychiatrist next week to go over our latest cocktail.
And now it's 40 and sunny and feels much more like April, but like Cat, if I hear one more person say something about the weather I'll have to make myself into a tiny little ball like Chances does. Last night my dogs were soooo cute. They went outside, parked under the bird feeders and ate quarts of sunflower seed and sunflower seed husks, then came inside and puked them up. Quarts, I tell you. And these dogs aren't polite about it, they give no warning. Chances just got a queer look on her face and puked next to my foot. Then did it again on the rug by the door when I tried to get her outside. Tess pretended she was trying to go outside and unloaded her burden in front of the door. Buckets full this was. I called them both assholes and cleaned it up. Suffered a lot then got over it and watched the rest of Friday Night Lights. Man oh man is that coach handsome. Really handsome.
Now on to Reminiscences of the 123rd Regiment, N.Y.S.V. , pub. 1879. What is N.Y.S.V.?
Amazing, Grace
This was last night's sunset from the foot of the lake. There's just the thinnest layer of ice on the lake, and it may melt this week when temps rise and we have rain. Anyway, the colors were spectacular, and it was great that there was still light when I got home. Days are getting longer and it was kind of nature to put on a show in the morning and in the evening for me.
Frog
These pictures were taken indoors and so are blurry. This is Frog--the best Christmas present ever. It was given to Tess by Jenica. The tiny tennis ball that is Frog's innards looks like either a baby coming out or a huge navel--take your pick. Tess really likes Frog and gets very excited when I say "Where's Frog?"
Chocolate truffle
Sometimes Chances just likes to see how small she can make herself. This is about the tiniest ball she can tuck herself into.
True peace
We should all reach such a peaceful state: resting on the shoulder of our best friend, completely at peace with ourselves and the world, surrounded by love.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Trunkate
All packed and ready to head to RI. The most important items are on top: the 2 metall dog bowls and the plastic container that contains the dog food. Heaven forbid I should get there and not have those.
Crustaceans
The Biggest Lobsters Ever. Mark went to Champlin's, our favorite fish market. He ran into a friend, who had done some oceanographic work for another lobsteria. She took him there, where she got these three 2+ pound beauties for us. He said, "It's a Christmas miracle!" We have lobsters on Christmas Eve. These were delicious and we laughed a lot at our good fortune. I couldn't even finish mine, which has NEVER EVER happened to me before. Even now I can't believe that happened.
Merry Christmas
Conspicuous consumption. This was the tree on Christmas morning, presents from the 3 of us for the 3 of us. This year Liza's tree looked as if someone had taken a big bite out of it on the left side. It was pretty anyway. Usually Mark puts 1,000 white lights on it (he & Jenica counted one year). This year he cut way back, much to everyone's relief.
An entire city
This is the scene my mother sets up each year. On the brass tray to the left is the creche we bought when we lived in Turkey in the 1950's. I can't believe that makes it 50 years old (like me), but there you have it. On the right are the Village People. At the far right is a Magic Tree that Mark gave me this year. It started out as a tree made of cardboard, to which you add "magic water" at its base and LIKE MAGIC it grows greenery (which looks just like broccoli). A thing of wonder, at which we marveled at every day ("How's the broccoli tree today?").
The Village People
Every year my sister sends us wonderful clay figurines from Italy. They are villagers, ostensibly taking gifts to the baby Jesus (at least that's what we pretend they're doing). We have a wonderful time guessing what they're taking. Mark says the one with a lamb next to it has a dog humping its leg. We have Broccoli Girl, Yarn Man, Cauliflower Lady, Scoliosis Girl (a girl dancing with water jugs), and oh, so many others.
People of the Corn
These are my Village People. I've got quite a crowd. They stay out all year. Yes, they are dancing around a candle shaped like an ear of corn. I had to give them something to admire.
This is what I saw this morning from my road. It's the moon setting over Duncan Mountain. It was really, really beautiful. Monday night I had dinner with my friends the Holts. We laughted a WHOLE lot, and we put together a small wooden jigsaw puzzle Rush got for Christmas. It was a lot of fun. On my way home (walking) I noticed truck tracks going toward our camp so I followed them. It was one of those priceless, wonderful nighttime walks when the snow is lit by moonlight. I walked to the gate of our camp, where someone in the truck whose tracks I was following got out of the truck and walked to the gate (presumably to see if the gate was locked). That sort of thing used to really bother me but the night was so wonderful that all I felt was relief that the gate was locked, since I was probably the last one out. The whole experience was magical.
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