Sunday, November 8, 1981
My House Was Always Wet
Faucets dripped.
Gutters overflowed.
The old roof, Vermont slate, leaked.
The two toilets, mysterious machines,
ran, whistled, gurgled, clunked in the night.
Drains backed up with smelly gray suds.
Cellar walls weeped.
Pipes shrieked.
If I took a shower upstairs,
downstairs a water stain
grew on Granma's ceiling.
Once after an extra long shower
("What were you doing in that shower, boy?")
Granma's ceiling
collapsed.
My father was no plumber.
Once he broke a china sink.
Ripped a hole in a bedroom wall,
then didn't come home at all, at all.
Doors grew mildew, ceilings grew mold.
Floor joists quietly rotted.
My own sprouting body grew fungus
in places I didn't dare mention.
Sister moved across the sea;
Brother, to the coast;
Granma, to the hospital
and gave up the ghost.
I, too, traveled far
though moisture haunted
my every move:
sweating palms,
saliva of lips,
teardrops and their salty tracks,
juice of genitals, flood of birth,
milk of breast… The house
was leaking love, my friend,
and no pipe ever
brought it back.
Now Grown
Now grown,
in a dripping house of my own,
being plumber and father combined,
why don’t we have love
most all of the time?
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Friday, May 10, 2013
An Embarrassing Moment
October 4, 1984
An Embarrassing Moment
Mild stomach flu but a full day’s labor:
pipes soldered, drywall patched. Done.
Motoring home in my pickup
among the mansions of Atherton
after dark, without warning I
suddenly need to — immediately —
must absolutely at this moment
take an extreme
crap.
Stop the truck. Out.
In front of a vast estate I squat behind a
RONALD REAGAN FOR PRESIDENT
lawn sign and let fly
among some pumpkins.
As I rebuckle beside
the steaming puddle,
lights come on flooding
the garden while an alarm
starts blatting and a dark dog is
running. A man is shouting
through the glare but I’m gone
and accelerating while the dog chases
my left rear wheel so I never hear
the words but maybe the man is thanking me
for the fertilizer or exhorting me to vote for Ron.
I regret missing his
statement having already
made mine.
An Embarrassing Moment
Mild stomach flu but a full day’s labor:
pipes soldered, drywall patched. Done.
Motoring home in my pickup
among the mansions of Atherton
after dark, without warning I
suddenly need to — immediately —
must absolutely at this moment
take an extreme
crap.
Stop the truck. Out.
In front of a vast estate I squat behind a
RONALD REAGAN FOR PRESIDENT
lawn sign and let fly
among some pumpkins.
As I rebuckle beside
the steaming puddle,
lights come on flooding
the garden while an alarm
starts blatting and a dark dog is
running. A man is shouting
through the glare but I’m gone
and accelerating while the dog chases
my left rear wheel so I never hear
the words but maybe the man is thanking me
for the fertilizer or exhorting me to vote for Ron.
I regret missing his
statement having already
made mine.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Playing With Dolls
August 1986
Playing With Dolls
Lisa is a realtor. She's dark, intense. When I meet Lisa at the house, the new owners have changed the locks. Wearing a tight skirt, Lisa wiggles through the dog door and lets me in. "It's a job skill," she says, sucking deeply on a Marlboro, filling her pretty little chest with carcinogens.
I don't usually think of women as dolls, but Lisa is petite. With makeup her flesh is flawless, like plastic. There's a distance in her eyes, an untouchable quality about her, off-limits. Grown men shouldn't play with dolls.
Lisa's clients — two women named Judy and Janice buying their first home — want me to convert a wine cellar to a walk-in closet before they take possession. In addition, Judy and Janice want me to move a wall to accommodate a humongous bed. The floorspace will come at the expense of the other bedroom, which I will convert to another walk-in closet. Judy and Janice must have killer wardrobes. And an active, um, bed-life.
I've never met this couple, but I picture them in my mind as very young. Only the most active people with the most youthful knees would buy a house that should never have been built, a house on a steep hillside where you enter at street level and then descend two long flights of stairs to the living space. Nice view, though.
Some stoned painters arrive and start to spread drop cloths. I hear them talking about Lisa after she leaves. They, too, have noted her dolly quality. One says, "You think she's anatomically correct?"
The other painter chuckles. "She's cute," he says, "though she acts like she wouldn’t ever even kiss a guy. But I have to believe she’s lost, uh, you know, lost control of herself some time."
"She'd have to be on top," the first painter says, "or she'd suffocate."
"I'd never fuck a client," the second says. "It's unethical. At least, not until after she pays the bill."
Don the window washer arrives in the afternoon. I know Don from a previous job. He has a fresh scar on his forehead, a criminal record in his past, and when Lisa is gone he speculates in graphic and colorful detail about Lisa's body parts with particular attention to the scent and substance of body hair. "Short women taste different — like sauerkraut," he says. "And they have thicker hair." He claims to be an expert.
Then Don starts explaining his new scar, which involves a drunken bar fight: "He cut me, but I cut him worse. I needed fifteen stitches. Fifteen. I don't know how many he needed."
Don isn't the sort of person you'd want to leave alone in your house. Actually, come to think of it, maybe none of us are. And as it turns out, none of us pick up the clues about Lisa. We all made up our own little stories.
I install an aluminum threshold and stupidly bring my unguarded face close to the scroll saw so I can see the lines. A metal chip flies into my eye. Fucking shit. It hurts. I get it out but cry all evening, not sad, just making tears.
Lisa brings three telephone installers who do the work of one man. The senior of the three supervises while talking about the house he's building in Emerald Hills: "I'm making the kitchen twenty-five feet by twenty-five feet because I'm Italian, and Italians always gather in the kitchen." Then one of the installers staples his own finger to a baseboard, and the other installer pulls with needle-nose pliers while the supervisor swears in Italian. After they leave, Don the window washer in an uncharacteristic act of kindness wipes up the blood.
The wine cellar is of course at the bottom of the structure, down three flights of stairs. I calculate I've climbed those 60 steps at least 100 times, which is like climbing a 3000 foot mountain, and I've carried 500 pounds of drywall and dripped enough perspiration — plus a few tears, still flowing — to fill a 5-gallon bucket. I'm sure of that because in 3 days I drank over 5 gallons of water. I feel victorious — and dehydrated.
Lisa tells me that Janice wants me to repair a leaking shower and that one of the closet rods fell down. Suddenly it's just Janice. I'm embarrassed about the closet rod and curious about Judy.
"Don't worry," Lisa says, "Janice is the one with the money. It's her house. You'll still get paid."
"I wasn't thinking about money. I was wondering —"
"About lesbian love affairs? None of your business, Buster."
But it's not that. Not exactly. I'm simply curious. There's been drama, unknown: fights, a broken heart. I want the story.
On my final day of work, the moving company — Schmoover Movers — brings in a gigantic bed for which I've moved the wall. The bed frame they move in sections; the mattress they fold like a burrito to fit through the double doors.
I send a bill to Lisa. A few days later I receive a check in the mail signed by Janice, whom I've never met, who will be sleeping alone on a half-acre mattress in a house prepared by men — yes, in this case they're all male — who have bled their blood and dripped their sweat and echoed their voices within the bare walls — each with his own little comedies and tragedies — whom she's never met. It seems sad. Or maybe it's just the tears in my eyes.
A month later, I get a call from Lisa: "Remember that wine cellar you converted?"
"Oh no. Did another closet rod fall down?"
"Not that. More work. Janice wants to be sure I hire the same people because you left the house feeling so clean and pure. I didn't disillusion her. I know how you guys talk. I know what you probably said about her."
"Actually, honestly, I don't think anybody said anything about Janice. What does she need now?"
"We want you to convert half of that closet back into a wine cellar."
"We?"
"Can you hear me blushing? I know it's sort of unethical to poach a client."
"Poaching? Is that what you call it?"
So now I know what happened to Judy.
"I'm a small person with a small wardrobe," Lisa says, "and I'm sort of a wine snob."
Playing With Dolls
Lisa is a realtor. She's dark, intense. When I meet Lisa at the house, the new owners have changed the locks. Wearing a tight skirt, Lisa wiggles through the dog door and lets me in. "It's a job skill," she says, sucking deeply on a Marlboro, filling her pretty little chest with carcinogens.
I don't usually think of women as dolls, but Lisa is petite. With makeup her flesh is flawless, like plastic. There's a distance in her eyes, an untouchable quality about her, off-limits. Grown men shouldn't play with dolls.
Lisa's clients — two women named Judy and Janice buying their first home — want me to convert a wine cellar to a walk-in closet before they take possession. In addition, Judy and Janice want me to move a wall to accommodate a humongous bed. The floorspace will come at the expense of the other bedroom, which I will convert to another walk-in closet. Judy and Janice must have killer wardrobes. And an active, um, bed-life.
I've never met this couple, but I picture them in my mind as very young. Only the most active people with the most youthful knees would buy a house that should never have been built, a house on a steep hillside where you enter at street level and then descend two long flights of stairs to the living space. Nice view, though.
Some stoned painters arrive and start to spread drop cloths. I hear them talking about Lisa after she leaves. They, too, have noted her dolly quality. One says, "You think she's anatomically correct?"
The other painter chuckles. "She's cute," he says, "though she acts like she wouldn’t ever even kiss a guy. But I have to believe she’s lost, uh, you know, lost control of herself some time."
"She'd have to be on top," the first painter says, "or she'd suffocate."
"I'd never fuck a client," the second says. "It's unethical. At least, not until after she pays the bill."
Don the window washer arrives in the afternoon. I know Don from a previous job. He has a fresh scar on his forehead, a criminal record in his past, and when Lisa is gone he speculates in graphic and colorful detail about Lisa's body parts with particular attention to the scent and substance of body hair. "Short women taste different — like sauerkraut," he says. "And they have thicker hair." He claims to be an expert.
Then Don starts explaining his new scar, which involves a drunken bar fight: "He cut me, but I cut him worse. I needed fifteen stitches. Fifteen. I don't know how many he needed."
Don isn't the sort of person you'd want to leave alone in your house. Actually, come to think of it, maybe none of us are. And as it turns out, none of us pick up the clues about Lisa. We all made up our own little stories.
I install an aluminum threshold and stupidly bring my unguarded face close to the scroll saw so I can see the lines. A metal chip flies into my eye. Fucking shit. It hurts. I get it out but cry all evening, not sad, just making tears.
Lisa brings three telephone installers who do the work of one man. The senior of the three supervises while talking about the house he's building in Emerald Hills: "I'm making the kitchen twenty-five feet by twenty-five feet because I'm Italian, and Italians always gather in the kitchen." Then one of the installers staples his own finger to a baseboard, and the other installer pulls with needle-nose pliers while the supervisor swears in Italian. After they leave, Don the window washer in an uncharacteristic act of kindness wipes up the blood.
The wine cellar is of course at the bottom of the structure, down three flights of stairs. I calculate I've climbed those 60 steps at least 100 times, which is like climbing a 3000 foot mountain, and I've carried 500 pounds of drywall and dripped enough perspiration — plus a few tears, still flowing — to fill a 5-gallon bucket. I'm sure of that because in 3 days I drank over 5 gallons of water. I feel victorious — and dehydrated.
Lisa tells me that Janice wants me to repair a leaking shower and that one of the closet rods fell down. Suddenly it's just Janice. I'm embarrassed about the closet rod and curious about Judy.
"Don't worry," Lisa says, "Janice is the one with the money. It's her house. You'll still get paid."
"I wasn't thinking about money. I was wondering —"
"About lesbian love affairs? None of your business, Buster."
But it's not that. Not exactly. I'm simply curious. There's been drama, unknown: fights, a broken heart. I want the story.
On my final day of work, the moving company — Schmoover Movers — brings in a gigantic bed for which I've moved the wall. The bed frame they move in sections; the mattress they fold like a burrito to fit through the double doors.
I send a bill to Lisa. A few days later I receive a check in the mail signed by Janice, whom I've never met, who will be sleeping alone on a half-acre mattress in a house prepared by men — yes, in this case they're all male — who have bled their blood and dripped their sweat and echoed their voices within the bare walls — each with his own little comedies and tragedies — whom she's never met. It seems sad. Or maybe it's just the tears in my eyes.
A month later, I get a call from Lisa: "Remember that wine cellar you converted?"
"Oh no. Did another closet rod fall down?"
"Not that. More work. Janice wants to be sure I hire the same people because you left the house feeling so clean and pure. I didn't disillusion her. I know how you guys talk. I know what you probably said about her."
"Actually, honestly, I don't think anybody said anything about Janice. What does she need now?"
"We want you to convert half of that closet back into a wine cellar."
"We?"
"Can you hear me blushing? I know it's sort of unethical to poach a client."
"Poaching? Is that what you call it?"
So now I know what happened to Judy.
"I'm a small person with a small wardrobe," Lisa says, "and I'm sort of a wine snob."
Sunday, April 21, 2013
First Birthday
Monday, October 10, 1977
First Birthday
Today is October 10, 1977. Exactly one year ago at 9 a.m., my son was born. Today at 9 a.m. I meet a bosomy woman named Nina at a fixer-upper in Palo Alto. She wants me to relocate a sink and replace a toilet. First thing I do, exploring, is wiggle a hot water pipe, which breaks off in my hand, flooding the kitchen and bathroom before I find the shutoff. Luke, the old carpenter working there, says, "An inauspicious beginning." He has a Canadian accent: in-ow-spicious.
Luke is a chatty old nut who looks like a professor wearing a tool belt. As it turns out, I'm not far off.
Luke tells dirty jokes and has a poor boys' view of authority. He got married in Tahoe just last Saturday — to Nina. He grew up poor in Saskatoon. He worked in the Royal Canadian Mounted motor pool but decided he could better himself, so he took an RCMP test whose results indicated that he should stay in the motor pool. Instead, he went to college, and nine years later he had a Ph.D. in genetics. "Tests are crap," he says.
Luke worked under Dr. Norman Shumway, the pioneering heart transplant surgeon at Stanford. "I'm a handy scientist," Luke says, "which is a useful and rare commodity." He takes off from time to time to fix up houses, which is how he met the top-heavy Nina. "It's a match made in heaven," Luke says. "My brains, her obvious and abundant fertility — we'll conquer the world." Luke does not lack in self-esteem. Nor in breast-worship.
With the profits they'll make from this fixer-upper, they'll move to British Columbia where Luke will work in the Immunology Department at UBC — in the Lung Unit, he says, coughing (he chain-smokes) — while Nina starts having his babies. "I don't want my DNA to disappear," Luke says. "I want to replicate."
I wish his genetic material the best of luck. I go home to my first son's first birthday. At one year old, he walks, climbs, barks, and babbles. He likes scrambled eggs, PB&J, beer (it was an accident, one-time), and Cheerios. He likes dogs, sticks, tennis balls, his red fire engine, telephones (he eats them), and wastebaskets (he ransacks them). It's a lot like having a puppy in the house. He’s healthy and strong and cute as a button with big brown eyes and soft brown hair. He likes to sit in his easy chair and kick his feet up just like the old man. Replication.
Miranda, our midwife, is supposed to join us for dinner. At last she shows up after we call to remind her. My son by this time is asleep. "Sorry," Miranda says, and she explains why she's distracted. It's complicated: She has a boyfriend named Theo. Theo is married to a woman named Sunflower. Theo and Sunflower have a child with Down syndrome.
Sunflower flipped out after the birth. She went in and out of hospitals while Theo cared for the baby. Sunflower started seeing a shrink who gave her "the acid treatment" (LSD), which changed her from mildly freaked to totally psychotic — hiding in corners, babbling. So this same shrink sent Sunflower back east for months of electroshock treatments. You have to wonder if he slept with her, too, since he did everything else wrong. Then Sunflower disappeared. For months.
At last Sunflower showed up at her parents' house in Florida. Sunflower's parents have a good deal of money. With a court order they removed their granddaughter from Theo's care in California and took her to Florida. Theo without funds was powerless to fight them.
One thing revealed in Sunflower’s flipping out was that her father had sexually molested her as a child. Now this man was caring for Ami, the sweet-natured girl with Down syndrome. Theo tried to visit Ami in Florida. The parents wouldn’t let him see the child.
A year passed. Miranda met Theo, and they fell in love. Sunflower became a fundamentalist Christian and converted her parents. Theo and Miranda went to Florida together and tried to get the fundamentalist minister to arrange a meeting with the grandparents. They got nowhere. So they spied on Sunflower’s folks and learned their routines. By this time Sunflower had split for months, no one knew where.
They decided to kidnap Ami. The first plan was for a Sunday when the folks went to church. It didn’t work — they never had an opening. Kidnapping isn't so easy. The next plan was for a school day. Theo walked to the elementary school. Miranda waited two blocks away with a rental car at a phone booth. She waited. And waited. Then she panicked. She went to the school and said she was from Missouri and wanted to observe how they did it here. She walked around blabbering nonsense but couldn’t find Theo or Ami. Finally Miranda saw them walking along the sidewalk outside. Miranda made excuses and ran. She followed Theo until they got to the car where they changed clothes and drove to Palm Beach and caught a plane, Miranda keeping Ami while Theo flew separately on the theory they’d look for Theo. They changed planes in Saint Louis, calling the folks to tell them they've got Ami. The grandmother says, "It’s God’s will." The grandmother then apologized — she never wanted Ami but Sunflower talked her into it.
As far as Miranda can tell, there's no evidence that the grandfather molested Ami, but now the girl cries whenever she has to go to bathroom, which she never did before.
"I'm sorry," Miranda says, "you didn't need to hear all this."
"It's okay," I say. "I think you needed to say all this. I'm kind of amazed you showed up at all. When did all this happen?"
"We just got back yesterday." She looks in on my son, who is curled up in the crib with his froggy blanket. There is adoration in Miranda's eyes. She helped bring my son into the world. It's her vocation. Her passion. "We just keep creating these amazing children," she says. "What else can we do?"
First Birthday
Today is October 10, 1977. Exactly one year ago at 9 a.m., my son was born. Today at 9 a.m. I meet a bosomy woman named Nina at a fixer-upper in Palo Alto. She wants me to relocate a sink and replace a toilet. First thing I do, exploring, is wiggle a hot water pipe, which breaks off in my hand, flooding the kitchen and bathroom before I find the shutoff. Luke, the old carpenter working there, says, "An inauspicious beginning." He has a Canadian accent: in-ow-spicious.
Luke is a chatty old nut who looks like a professor wearing a tool belt. As it turns out, I'm not far off.
Luke tells dirty jokes and has a poor boys' view of authority. He got married in Tahoe just last Saturday — to Nina. He grew up poor in Saskatoon. He worked in the Royal Canadian Mounted motor pool but decided he could better himself, so he took an RCMP test whose results indicated that he should stay in the motor pool. Instead, he went to college, and nine years later he had a Ph.D. in genetics. "Tests are crap," he says.
Luke worked under Dr. Norman Shumway, the pioneering heart transplant surgeon at Stanford. "I'm a handy scientist," Luke says, "which is a useful and rare commodity." He takes off from time to time to fix up houses, which is how he met the top-heavy Nina. "It's a match made in heaven," Luke says. "My brains, her obvious and abundant fertility — we'll conquer the world." Luke does not lack in self-esteem. Nor in breast-worship.
With the profits they'll make from this fixer-upper, they'll move to British Columbia where Luke will work in the Immunology Department at UBC — in the Lung Unit, he says, coughing (he chain-smokes) — while Nina starts having his babies. "I don't want my DNA to disappear," Luke says. "I want to replicate."
I wish his genetic material the best of luck. I go home to my first son's first birthday. At one year old, he walks, climbs, barks, and babbles. He likes scrambled eggs, PB&J, beer (it was an accident, one-time), and Cheerios. He likes dogs, sticks, tennis balls, his red fire engine, telephones (he eats them), and wastebaskets (he ransacks them). It's a lot like having a puppy in the house. He’s healthy and strong and cute as a button with big brown eyes and soft brown hair. He likes to sit in his easy chair and kick his feet up just like the old man. Replication.
Miranda, our midwife, is supposed to join us for dinner. At last she shows up after we call to remind her. My son by this time is asleep. "Sorry," Miranda says, and she explains why she's distracted. It's complicated: She has a boyfriend named Theo. Theo is married to a woman named Sunflower. Theo and Sunflower have a child with Down syndrome.
Sunflower flipped out after the birth. She went in and out of hospitals while Theo cared for the baby. Sunflower started seeing a shrink who gave her "the acid treatment" (LSD), which changed her from mildly freaked to totally psychotic — hiding in corners, babbling. So this same shrink sent Sunflower back east for months of electroshock treatments. You have to wonder if he slept with her, too, since he did everything else wrong. Then Sunflower disappeared. For months.
At last Sunflower showed up at her parents' house in Florida. Sunflower's parents have a good deal of money. With a court order they removed their granddaughter from Theo's care in California and took her to Florida. Theo without funds was powerless to fight them.
One thing revealed in Sunflower’s flipping out was that her father had sexually molested her as a child. Now this man was caring for Ami, the sweet-natured girl with Down syndrome. Theo tried to visit Ami in Florida. The parents wouldn’t let him see the child.
A year passed. Miranda met Theo, and they fell in love. Sunflower became a fundamentalist Christian and converted her parents. Theo and Miranda went to Florida together and tried to get the fundamentalist minister to arrange a meeting with the grandparents. They got nowhere. So they spied on Sunflower’s folks and learned their routines. By this time Sunflower had split for months, no one knew where.
They decided to kidnap Ami. The first plan was for a Sunday when the folks went to church. It didn’t work — they never had an opening. Kidnapping isn't so easy. The next plan was for a school day. Theo walked to the elementary school. Miranda waited two blocks away with a rental car at a phone booth. She waited. And waited. Then she panicked. She went to the school and said she was from Missouri and wanted to observe how they did it here. She walked around blabbering nonsense but couldn’t find Theo or Ami. Finally Miranda saw them walking along the sidewalk outside. Miranda made excuses and ran. She followed Theo until they got to the car where they changed clothes and drove to Palm Beach and caught a plane, Miranda keeping Ami while Theo flew separately on the theory they’d look for Theo. They changed planes in Saint Louis, calling the folks to tell them they've got Ami. The grandmother says, "It’s God’s will." The grandmother then apologized — she never wanted Ami but Sunflower talked her into it.
As far as Miranda can tell, there's no evidence that the grandfather molested Ami, but now the girl cries whenever she has to go to bathroom, which she never did before.
"I'm sorry," Miranda says, "you didn't need to hear all this."
"It's okay," I say. "I think you needed to say all this. I'm kind of amazed you showed up at all. When did all this happen?"
"We just got back yesterday." She looks in on my son, who is curled up in the crib with his froggy blanket. There is adoration in Miranda's eyes. She helped bring my son into the world. It's her vocation. Her passion. "We just keep creating these amazing children," she says. "What else can we do?"
Friday, April 19, 2013
Back Yard, Seven Months
Friday, April, 2013
Back Yard, Seven Months
You clutch grass.
Dandelion seeds stick in the slick of your face.
A ladybug, so bright, crosses a leaf, so busy.
From apple blossoms, the buzz of bees.
Little fingers rake tiny green
leaves: baby’s tears, inaptly named.
A geranium enters, somehow, a nostril.
Drool mixes with crumbs of dirt.
A breeze blows your hair,
sun blushes your skin.
To all the world
you smile.
Note:
Sometimes a poem is a way of taking a snapshot. I snapped this one when I had the job of taking care of my newest grandson for a day.
He's one happy fellow.
And why does this poem appear in a blog about jobs? Because I work with my hands. These are my trades: plumber, carpenter, electrician, grandfather. My tools: wrench, hammer, pliers, blanket.
Back Yard, Seven Months
You clutch grass.
Dandelion seeds stick in the slick of your face.
A ladybug, so bright, crosses a leaf, so busy.
From apple blossoms, the buzz of bees.
Little fingers rake tiny green
leaves: baby’s tears, inaptly named.
A geranium enters, somehow, a nostril.
Drool mixes with crumbs of dirt.
A breeze blows your hair,
sun blushes your skin.
To all the world
you smile.
Note:
Sometimes a poem is a way of taking a snapshot. I snapped this one when I had the job of taking care of my newest grandson for a day.
He's one happy fellow.
And why does this poem appear in a blog about jobs? Because I work with my hands. These are my trades: plumber, carpenter, electrician, grandfather. My tools: wrench, hammer, pliers, blanket.
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
A Milestone: 365 Posts!
My greetings and blessings to everybody who is reading this blog. With the previous entry, I now have 365 posts!
Tonight I'll celebrate under the redwoods with a soak in the hot tub and a couple of beers: Fat Tire, if you please. Should be a lovely night. My two dogs will join me — and maybe another companion.
When I started the blog 836 days ago, it was intended as a one-year project. I had no idea it would be so much work. Or so much fun. Or that I'd make so many friends.
It's time to begin gathering, culling, creating a book that consolidates the best of what I've written here. I'm going to start work on that.
Also, I've just created a Facebook page where I'll post updates on the progress of the book (as well as posting them here). Come on over and "like" me if you want to receive updates, or if you're just a likable person. The Facebook page is here.
Meanwhile, tomorrow I'll go on posting — maybe we should rename it: "More Than 365 Jobs." I'm not done yet.
Pretty Polly
Pretty Polly
Polly is a sweet lady who seems to prefer the companionship of birds. Deeply beautiful in that freckly earth-mother way, she always wears colorful beads. Dozens of cages contain hundreds of bright busy birds: budgies, cockatiels, a macaw. Some of them will perch on her finger, singing. She's tamed them. Others, though, will never accept her. "It's a survival instinct," she says.
The house smells like a chicken coop.
Other than avians, Polly lives alone. She has a number of deeply-held beliefs, such as that daylight savings time is a conspiracy against poor people. And she believes that all the problems with George W. Bush can be explained by a botched circumcision.
Polly is not unpleasant, but she can be strident.
For her fortieth birthday Polly bought a computer and a fancy surge protector which, when plugged into the outlet, flashes a red error light indicating a broken ground.
It's a three-prong outlet, but when I open it, there's no ground wire. Just some old two-wire ungrounded Romex. I explain to Polly that somebody replaced the original two-prong outlet with a three-prong, though they never added an actual ground wire.
"You mean, they made it look like a grounded outlet even though they knew it wasn't grounded?"
"Exactly."
Polly frowns. "Now that is an evil act."
She's right. Sort of. It's petty evil. It was also, probably, simply an act of convenience.
On Polly's terms, there's a lot of evil in construction. There's evil everywhere, constant menace. Polly is ever on guard. You get the sense that she'll never be your friend. Or anybody's friend.
Some birds will never perch on fingers.
Note: photo by Jerry Tillery (from Wikipedia).
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