Fooled Ya!

The skunks are out, playing out their stinky amorous dalliances everywhere romantic meal opportunities present themselves: i.e., my compost bin and the trash dumpster on the side of the parking lot outside my office in the Upper Valley – ah, sniff that fresh almost-spring air! – but I haven’t heard the woodcock buzzing yet, so nearly-Spring bussing is still barely underway.  I expect March might prove yet another interesting month, so I’m not putting the boots away soon even though the snow has been steadily melting.

It’s been a strange winter, and the vagaries of bare ground vs. packed-on snow have changed monthly, sometimes weekly, and Catmandude and I have been making ourselves crazy trying to get comfortable with what’s going on out there. He mostly judges his comfort zone by how much bare ground is available to take a dirt bath in between the south wall of the house and the nearest raised-bed wall, and whether he can find some early catnip to nibble along the edges; I, on the other hand, go by how long it’ll be ‘til the parsnips left in the garden to over-winter are visible. I planted last summer’s piddling germination of parsnips in the depths of the garden, for a change, so have no real expectations of true signs of spring before April – though I’m willing to be pleasantly surprised if the weather gods decide to co-operate.  I’ve been fooled before, though – one February in Maine I was seduced by a two-week thaw into planting lettuce seed and radishes in the small plot next to the kitchen door, only to find it all covered by 2 feet of fresh snowfall several days later.

But to thrill the Catman and stave off cabin-fever cat-grumpiness, I brought the folding chairs out of winter storage onto the wart during our recent warm week, and he and his sister spent most of the daylight hours very contentedly curled up in the chairs’ squishy bottoms. Beastreau, who is black as night, takes regular breaks indoors; the lengthening sun heats her up too much and she finds an hourly prowl of the catfood bowls to be advantageous to health and good humor. Catman, however, being camouflage-colored, is quite content for hours and hours, keeping one lazy eye on the bird-lure that I so strategically spread across the wart railings, which makes for cat-entertainment but isn’t enticing enough to roust him out of his happy, sunny chair. Sometimes when I step out onto the wart, there’s a buzzing in the air and I think – Wait! Early bees? – and then I realize, no, just very contented furries.

The barkie boys are finding the compacting snow to be opening up realms of interesting things to smell, and the mud puddles in the driveway have proven equally alluring. No one’s rolled in anything disgusting yet, but there are muddy paw prints everywhere, inside and outside, and I’m never sure what I’m going to put my hand on when I reach down to give a pat. 

Even the Husband has taken advantage of the sun-drenched chairs, and fell asleep in one, briefly, this past warm spell. We didn’t light up the woodstove except to take the chill off at night for a week, and he’s enjoying that the wood he hauled in more than a week earlier is still sufficient unto the need.  “It’s 60 degrees out by the woodstacks!” he’ll announce dizzyingly. “That’s 10 degrees higher than on the wart!” Yup, and the storm gauge is currently quite settled. Nice, but I don’t trust it; those wily weather gods have notoriously warped senses of humor, and they’re just waiting for someone to put their winter coats away, I tell ya.

They aren’t going to fool me; the leg-warmers and boot socks and fuzzy scarf and extra pair of mittens are stashed right here, by my chair. I put them on every so many days, just to stay in shape. The cellar’s cold enough that I enjoy wearing them down there to root around in the freezer for supper possibilities. And when I come back up, arms full of frozen delights, I step out onto the wart for a moment, still wearing them, just so the weather gods can see that I’m serious.

The Husband and his friends may be full of spring sillies, wandering around outside in t-shirts and sneakers, planning to wrest their bikes out of winter storage any day now. That’s fine – it’s all part of the enchantress Spring’s prelude to her love song. And we may be setting our clocks to daylight savings time momentarily; but this is also a test to lure us into unwariness. Personally, I’m sticking with the woodcock and the Parsnip Sighting before I believe Spring’s really on her way.

In the meantime, I’m going back to my book and hot cocoa.

 


(Deb’s hunkered down for the duration.)

Photos by Deb Marshall, 2017

Originally published in the Concord Monitor, March 9, 2017, as “Springing the Trap.”

When They Make Me God...

My Turn Now

When they make me god – and it seems like it’s about time it’s my turn – a few things around here are going to change. 

The first thing I’ll change will be this death thing, and most importantly, that thing about never being able to again talk to the person who died if you’re still living. Who thought that up? Whoever it was - really bad idea. I’m going to change it so that after someone dies, everyone who knew the dead person, or at least all family and friends, get two or three calls or emails with that person, to be used as soon after death as wanted, or saved for however long you care to. Think how much easier on all of us it would be if you could call your deceased loved one a few days after the event and say, hey, how is it over there? Having a good time? Did you hear what Uncle Tom said at your funeral? Did you like the music? Have you been able to find out who your mother really was, and what was that all about, anyway? And exactly how many insurance policies are there, and where’s the key to that locked box I found under your bed?

So much time and grief will be saved once that’s fixed. And it’ll save time and effort on the other side, too – all those folks who went before us trying to get our attention, afterwards, but being limited to trying to affect the physical objects that are now in a different plane, or insinuating themselves into dreams or becoming a haunt – how much energy does that take that could be better used some other way? Dad swore that once you were gone, you were gone ---but then, a couple of weeks after his demise, someone kept putting bars of his bay rum soap in odd places I’d find them – like my garden basket – and someone caused Mom’s cereal bowl to leap out of her hand and fly straight up in the air before spilling all over her. A phone call to say, “Oops, I was wrong,” would have been so much simpler.

Another thing I’m going to change is that politician’s noses are actually going to grow noticeably longer every time they purposely – or casually - tell a lie. It’ll grow twice as fast if they purposely tell a lie about someone else. And all politicians who do the naughty thing they’ve built a reputation on by condemning it in other people are going to turn a permanent shade of glowing, shocking orange.

People who have painful or debilitating, but invisible, health conditions are going to also have an attractive,  glowing mark somewhere on their bodies, so they can easily flash it at all those relatives and friends and doctors who say, “Oh, come on, just buck up and ignore it, you don’t look like you feel that bad!” And once those doubters have seen the mark, they’ll have to shut up about it – no options – and do what they can to make life easier.

All women or other caregivers will be given, on their 45^th birthday, their own personal chef, who knows exactly what her person likes to eat and can prepare it perfectly, and their own personal excellent house-cleaner, for free, for the rest of their lives. Just imagine how that will change menopause…

 

Photo c Charley Freiber

All those debilitating, chronic diseases people get when they’re in their older years and don’t have enough energy to deal with them? No longer. If disease turns out to be something god’s not able to get rid of, I’ll at least change it so you get them when you’re young and have plenty of energy to handle it; the disease will disappear as you age. 

Teleporting will become something you can actually do. You won’t be able to use it willy-nilly, but on those nights when you’re too tired to safely drive home from the office, or when you need to get somewhere fast because someone you love needs your help, the teleporting gene – as yet undiscovered – will kick on.

All people will be like cats, in that we’ll all consider ourselves, and every other human, sleek and beautiful. Imagine how many nasty situations that will change.

People who deserve it will get three wishes to use over the course of their lifetime – no tricks attached. Wishes will be fulfilled in the way most beneficial to the wisher, and won’t include any messy backlashes. All wishes will be rendered perfectly benign, so no inadvertent ill-fortune will accrue to any other individual in the granting of the wish. Wishes to harm another person won’t be filled – but any person who’s deserving would never wish such a thing, so those who might won’t be granted any wishes. Politicians take note.

When I’m god, anyone who presumes to know what I want and tries to enforce my wishes on any other being will be summarily dispatched – no arguments, no bargaining, no second chances. Anything I want you all to know will be conveyed publicly, not secretly. You won’t need to argue about what I meant.

I have a few other plans for when they make me god – but We’ll let those remain surprises.

This article for the blog alone. Deb’s busy planning her Ascension.

Send Help

Artwork: Mud Season Driveway, by Deb Marshall

February 22: it’s been unusually warm the last few days, and the snow has been melting apace. The top of the compost bin is visible again, and there’s a bare space between the south wall of the house and the nearest vegetable bed. The cats are lounging in that space in the sun; I went out to check, and it’s a little damp but I can see how they’re comfortable in their heavy fur coats. The sun feels nice when I stand outside.

February 24: Wow, in spite of a couple of cold nights, the back yard’s turning into a muddy mess. Fortunately the ground below is still frozen, but there are lots of muddy pawprints on the deck and in the kitchen. I expect it will get cold again soon.

February 26: The nearest raised bed is completely bare, and the smaller compost bin is starting to peep out from under what had been a very high snow pile. Even the bottoms of the windows out front are now above snow line – we can see out again and the dog’s stopped playing “King of the Hill” because he sinks into the giant snow bank hip-deep. Sap’s running. No water in the cellar yet.

February 29: The cellar’s looking a little wet around the edges, but nothing to worry about. The cats have stopped going off the back wart, though – they get to the bottom of the steps, put one paw off, then hustle back up, shaking their feet.  The driveway’s got a buncha puddles in it now, but if you start down the left edge, then switch mid-way to the right, you won’t flood out. Expecting snow any day now.

March 2: I threw some corn out onto the driveway for the mourning doves this morning, then watched one land and sink out of sight below the mud. Time to get some boards out, I guess, and put them down in the worst places. The cats are fishin’ off the bottom step in the cellar, but it’s not too bad. With boots on, I can still get to the freezer and washing machine.

March 5: Granma went out to the compost bin this morning and sunk down up to her knees. Fortunately, one of the dogs was nearby digging for treasure in the rotten snow, and she was able to grab him ‘round the collar and get hauled out. She lost one of her best rubber boots, though; maybe we can recover it come Spring.

March 6: One a the trucks got stuck in the middle of the driveway today. I told Bubba not to go fast through the puddles – which are really more like ponds – but did he listen? Navigating our small pond-way this time of year is tricky. The Husband got the kayak out, just in case someone needs rescuing. And the UPS driver left a note hooked onto the paper tube at the end of the driveway that said, “See you in the summer, bwah-ha-ha-ha!” Damn. I was expecting a delivery of new rubber boots for Grandma and some floaty-devices.

March 9: One a the dogs went missing this morning, and the other came back coated in mud from snoot to tail. Not sure where the other is; I hope he made it across the swamp to out-back naybah Eddie’s house. We saw a couple of ducks swimming by in the low spot in the field last night. Got a car parked at the across-the-street naybah’s house on high ground; can’t do any more shopping than we can haul in, in packs, but even that’s getting dicey: the Husband had to kind of wade through waist-deep icy snow and water yesterday.  Hope it freezes again soon.

March 12: We almost lost Granpa last night, he went out after dark for a load a firewood, and apparently stepped off the board walk. He was in up to his waist and was sinking rapidly when the dog barking finally got our attention. We got him out, but it took all a us, some climbing gear, and the come-along to do it. We tossed him into the cellar to get the mud off, and after swimming about a bit, he was good as new. Phew! That was close!

March 15: We think we saw a dolphin in the driveway pool this morning, but it musta been something else. We have caught some nice fish out there, though, which is helping with the dwindling food supply; the freezer’s flooded out and we can’t get at the canned goods down cellar, either. Oh, well – happens every year, and we’ve got a good supply of beer and maple syrup, so we’ll manage. Besides, it’s sure to freeze soon and then we can get out for supplies.

March 17: OK, the Husband doesn’t know I’m writing this but --- Send Help!

Deb Marshall is barely keeping her head above water. This story for the blog, alone.

Town Meetin' Day

Art: Deb Marshall

Come the day, the town the Husband and I lived in back in the dark ages was eager for Town Meetin’. The Men and Women Who Get Things Done had worked magic: in the big schoolroom was a table for the Town Worthies to sit behind, a podium, folding chairs in rows behind the desks, and long lunch tables lined the hall.  On one side the Historical Society ladies sold loaves of bread, pies, cookies, jam, relishes. Opposite, the Church Ladies, who needed gear and table space, sold hot dogs, coffee, and never quite enough frosted brownies to citizens who didn’t want to travel home during lunch break and hadn’t come prepared. In the last empty space ladies from the Snowmobile Club were selling raffle tickets – win a pair of snowmobile boots!

The Minister paces, nervously thumbing a copy of Robert’s Rules of Order. This is not his usual rule book, and like his flock, the townspeople are not always willing rule followers. The Town Worthies – three selectmen, town clerk, tax collector, road agent, cemetery overseer, and overseer of the poor – several of whom are the same person – huddle, speaking in urgent, just audible voices. We wonder - what important matter requires a private conference? On Town Meetin’ day?

Older women arrive carrying comfortable lawn chairs. Their husbands take their old seats in the classroom, voting blocks of ancient friends, content with each others’ ideas on the issues; these are the seats of power and privilege. Late-comers are dismayed to discover their seats usurped by over-eager youngstahs, or worse, by newcomahs who don’t know any better.

The women each hold something – knitting, crocheting, a quilt section – to work on. The young mothers hover near the doors so they can make a quick exit with crying babies and shout at the children playing outside. Folks From Away all arrive early, nattily dressed in khakis and sport shirts with brightly-colored sweaters. They perch nervously on the first row of folding chairs, feeling like they don’t belong in this family gathering, but determined to prove themselves good sports by showing up and sharing their knowledge of zoning laws and taxes. Jan, long ago From Away, soon is nodding, asleep sitting up. 

The largest voting block stands four deep against the back wall: the Bubbas take the day off to defend personal freedom. These - the volunteer firemen, road crewmen, carpenters, and old cranks - are guaranteed to vote FOR new fire and road equipment, and with noisy arguments AGAINST all items increasing expenditures for the school, library, regional ambulance service, and any social programs the town might support. These men – warriors all – are the self-appointed conscience and arbiters of the town:  each objection they raise begins with a reminder that, in the past, we did just fine without all this pansy-assed new, expensive stuff. These defenders of a way of life have dressed for battle - lest anyone mistake them for someone with money in the bank - wearing their oldest, most tattered coveralls, greasiest billed caps, banged-up work boots. Their wives come only to sell raffle tickets; they already know what their warriors are going to say, and don’t care to hear it again.

The Poet sits near the door so she can slip out easily. The madwoman, seated largely in the very center of the room, whispers loudly to everyone nearby about some slight she’s suffered at the hands of the Poet. The Poet takes no notice. Leaning against the side wall, the farmers, a group of older men dressed in neat green work clothes, talk about barns and machinery and weather and seed potato. 

Finally the Worthies sit and the nervous Minister rises behind the podium and calls the meeting to order. As soon as he begins to speak, pointedly affronted shufflings and throat-clearings erupt. The church has undergone a rift, and some of the congregation have taken their souls elsewhere to be saved. These changelings want to make sure the Minister understands that though they’re at town meeting where he’s presiding, he shouldn’t expect to see them Sunday.

Joe snagged one of the geezer’s desks, and refuses to notice the stir this has caused. He gains the floor over and over to expound on matters he lards with Facts & Figures, arguing for progress and zoning and against town financial support of the Snowmobile Club. No one interrupts, waiting silently until Joe stops talking.They pointedly return to arguing whether the State has the legal or moral right to regulate septic system installation, and disallow a homeowner to dig a privy; and whether sports and music and art waste school time and town money. Joe, seeing that no one heeds his Facts & Figures, wonders if everyone in town is as stupid as they seem; everyone else in town, seeing that Joe can’t follow the discussion, wonders if he’s as stupid as he seems, or just determined to impose flatlander values. No one remembers Joe grew up two towns over, brother of lobstermen.

The meeting warms up; the Bubbas object strenuously to paving gravel roads, buying library books, and painting the school house – though they divide on this one, as two would expect to be hired to do the job. They campaign vigorously for a new fire truck and overtime for snowplowing. One allows as how he thinks anyone receiving welfare should man the volunteer fire department and grave-digging crews; another old crank moves we secede from the State and Nation over the privy issue.

The Poet makes an impassioned plea for support for the library; the mad woman counters with her own impassioned plea for library support, somehow contradicting everything the Poet just said.

The oldest warrior breaks in to demand to know where in hell the town had gotten the photo of the old church that’s on the cover of the town warrant, and he hopes to hell the town hadn’t paid one a them fancy photographers for it, because he knows for a fact he has some old photos lyin’ around the house if anyone woulda just asked, and the photo isn’t very good, besides. Sally offers to describe the old photos stored in her house since 1910; another old fart wants to know why the town spent money to print the warrant when the school has an expensive copy machine the town paid for two years ago and should be using for free. The president of the Snowmobile Club wants to know if the selectmen are aware that the school principal charges residents ten cents a page to make copies on that machine; and someone down front announces that his copy of the warrant hadn’t arrived in the mail until tomorrow. Within seconds half the town has volunteered that theirs, too, hasn’t arrived or just arrived, torn.

The Minister restores order. The town debates whether to zone the main road to eliminate junkyards. The owner of five junk vehicles and a rusty pile of spare parts parked on a lot across from the grocery store says he thinks it’s downright sneaky for Joe to try this route to get him to move his antique cars when Joe himself has a half-derelict building on his property. Joe stands and protests, interrupted by the junkpiler’s wife who opines it was Jan who offered this article, and she demands that the selectmen name their enemy. The head selectman stammers and hems, explaining that the article came from the zoning board. “That’s what I said!” shouts the junkpiler. “Joe and Jan and all the other flatlanders are on the zoning board!” He receives a chorus of righteous support from the Bubbas, defending the right of anyone to pile junk as high as they like on their own property, and they aren’t going to take their engines down outta their trees or move their spare tires outta the yard, neither. Jan sleeps through the battle and vote (overwhelmingly in favor of junkpiles), but wakes long enough to beg eloquently for money to plant flower bulbs and crabapple trees on town property – which convinces everyone that it was she, indeed, trying to abridge the God-given rights of junkpile owners. While everyone silently contemplates this, someone pipes up: she wants to know where the schoolkids got the money to buy a buncha evergreens she’d seen them planting, and why were they plantin’ trees during school hours, anyhow?

Soon the Minister calls a halt for lunch, several of the farmers sneak out, and the selectmen invite us to buy lunch from the ladies during our break. When lunch is over, very little remains on either sale table. The Snowmobile Club ladies pack up and go home. The Church and Historical Society ladies spend the rest of the meeting making a clatter and hushing each other as they clean up.

The day wears on, and we grow weary from sitting too long on hard chairs. We have to finish the business we started, however, so we shift and shift and shift in our seats, saying less and voting faster. We reject secession, zoning, paving and social reform; we agree to spend our mites on a few new books, some fancy equipment for the firehouse, snowplowing overtime, and even set aside enough for a few jonquil bulbs and a crabapple. We have examined and defended personal freedom and individual grievances; our impressions of each other have been reinforced; and in spite of that, we’ve enjoyed each other’s company and broken bread together.

Dusk has slid over our heads and lights come on up and down the streets. We vote the meeting ended. We welcome silence, and woodsmoke in the chilly air; we drift out of the schoolhouse, curiously light on our feet. The year turns on its hinge, the town will spin on for another twelve months, and in it we will dance our own dances, with each other and alone.

(Originally published in the Concord Monitor, February 26, 2017, as “Meeting Season.”