The Ice Cometh

Woke in the darkness to the sound
of limbs crashing, their branches heavily laden
with ice. It was eerie to wake in the darkness
(it was about 5 am and the power was out),
to hear the crashing, and then to keep seeing
the sky to the southwest light up in brilliant
yelllows and oranges as transformers all
over town were blowing up. Fire engines
were screaming through the streets,
but other than that was just the quiet
until another limb came crashing to the ground.

One of the limbs from my dogwood tree next
to my bedroom is lying across the neighbor's power
line. Precariously hanging there. If things continue
to worsen, as they are predicted to, we'll get another
round of ice, drop into the 20s, and then maybe
some snow.

It's absolutely lovely to look at. I'd take pictures but
I'm half afraid to walk out for fear one of the power lines
will snap.

Work called and basically told us to come at our own
risk. The clinic will be open, but if we feel it's unsafe
to get there, then we reserve the right to not go.
I don't live far, and the roads don't appear to be that
bad, but in all likelihood, the clinic is without power.
My cable is out, so I viewed one of the Evansville news
stations to get the latest updates and they pretty
much confirmed what I thought--massive power outages.
We're fortunate that we still have power. So, I best
shower and do all those things before it goes out.

For any reader who's read The Road, the sound of
those trees crashing in the darkness reminded me
of that part of the book. It's so dark on the earth at night
that you can see no better with your eyes open than you
can with them closed. The characters literally
move about with an outstretched hand as they try to find
their way to a safe area. The only darkness I have ever
known, which sounds close to what McCarthy describes,
is the darkness inside a cave when the tour guide extinguishes
all the lights. Creepy. Creepy listening to those big, old
limbs falling with a thud onto the ground below.

I was on call Sunday, and then my coworker, who lives
in another county, called me last night and asked if I
could take her on call in this county. I had to go to our
hospital to do an assessment. I was in the middle of that
assessment, when I was paged to do another one at the
hospital. To make a long story short , I didn't get home
until 11. By that time, the roads were getting treacherous.
I just gripped the steering wheel and my teeth and prayed
all the way home. I HATE driving in winter weather--
particularly on ice. There's not a whole helluva lot you can
do to control anything on ice. But I made it home safely.

I think I'll go back to bed for a little while and then try to
get to the clinic around 11 or so. I need to enter data
on my assessments and do a few other things.

I think it's a good potato soup night. Soup and salad.
Sounds healthy and enticing. Uh-oh--there goes another
limb. That was a loud thud!

Cold

Though it's in the twenties this morning
(a heat wave for sure), I cannot get warm.
This cold has settled in my bones once again.
Me. The one who hates the heat and loves it
when the nights turn cooler and fall approaches.

But I have my limits. 3 degrees with a wind chill
of -10 is nearing my limit. We were in the deep
freeze for several days this past week. I don't think
my heat has shut off once since Wednesday when
the temps nosedived.

And the gray mornings make it so difficult to get
up and do anything. And the thought of taking
a walk outside or doing anything outside is not
very appealing.

So, I sit here in the cold computer room and type.
I need to go put on another pair of socks. Maybe
some long underwear. Of course, it would help
if I would get off my bum and start doing the things
that need to be done, but I just want to lie in bed
and read today.

Just finished The Road this morning. I don't think I
can handle the movie. I don't think I could see those
images on the big screen and ever be the same.
They've etched themselves rather clearly in my brain
from just the reading. But, I recommend the book.

Even when you, as reader, continue to ask What's
the point? you never believe there is no point. Or
you ask yourself What's the point in having a point?
Does everything have to have a point? How about
everything just is and that's that. How about that?
And then you find something again that makes you
ask Why? How? How long? And you can only nod
your head in understanding as you recognize
why the book moves you, takes you along, compels
you to keep reading. It's a no-brainer why it frightens
you. So, when it hits the big screen, it's doubtful I'll
be in the audience.

Ok...gotta type in this recipe. This was one of the best
soups I've ever eaten. Cooked it Tuesday night.

Tuscan Bean Soup

1 14 oz. can kidney beans
1 14 oz. can cannellini beans
1 14 oz. can garbanzo beans
1 14 oz can fire-roasted diced tomatoes
2 qts chicken stock
1/2 lb pancetta, chopped
2 stalks celery, chopped
2-3 carrots, chopped
1 large yellow onion, chopped
3-5 gloves garlic, minced
2 sprigs rosemary
3 sprigs of thyme
1 sprig oregano
1 fresh bay leaf (can use dry)
1 tsp red pepper flakes
2 heads kale, cut into bite size pieces
Olive oil
Kosher salt
Cracked black pepper

Heat the olive oil over med heat. Add pancetta
and cook until slightly crispy. Add onion, carrots,
celery, and garlic and saute for 5-8 minutes or
until onion gets translucent. Season with salt and
pepper. Add tomatoes, beans, & stock. Tie herbs
with kitchen twine and add to the pot. Cook for
15-20 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add kale
and cook another 15-20 minutes more. Serve
with freshly grated parmigiano-reggiano and crusty
bread (I had rosemary olive oil bread).

I also added some sweet italian sausage. I cooked
two pieces, and the sliced them up into small
pieces and added them when I added the beans
and stock. They added a nice touch with their
sweet basil flavor.

For dessert: Ghirardelli dark chocolates crumbled
over pound cake with an amaretto sauce poured
over and topped with sliced almonds.

I love my Ghirardelli dark chocolates. And people
know. I think I got about 10 boxes of them for Christmas!
Good thing about it is that you don't need much
to satisfy that craving. One little block with some
milk or port and I'm just fine.

My to do list today:

1. Take the tree apart, box it up, and haul it down
to the basement (yes, my tree is still in the livingroom!)

2. Put away all of the ornaments, lights, and decorations
(these are already boxed up and ready to put away,
thanks to the help of my dear friend, Barbara, who came
one night to help me undecorate the tree!)

3. Laundry

4. Bathrooms

5. Try to make some sense out of the chaos that is
my music collection. We got Lauren an iPod
for Christmas, and she's been burning many of
the CDs but she hasn't put them away. Her pile
was just added to the pile that's been growing
for over a year now. CDs without cases, cases
with CDs that haven't been seen or heard in some
time, etc.

6. The sun is out now, so take a walk with Molly
later this afternoon.

7. ?

Always so much to do, but I don't get too bothered
about things if they don't get done. Perhaps I should
get more bothered as I would probably get more done
and be healthy busy.

I bracketed certain passages in The Road as I read along.
Unlike some books, those passages may not make much
sense without the whole or some idea of the whole, but
this one spoke to me:

"Where you've nothing else construct ceremonies out of the air and breathe upon them."

The Pines

My brother visited Google Earth one
day last week, found a picture of the house
we lived in as children, and emailed it to
me.

I scrutinized it carefully for several minutes
and sent him an email back telling him how
nothing about the house looked familiar.

It is only when I revisited the shot a few days
later that I noticed them there, just as they
have always been in my memory. The row
of pines which border the back lot and serve
as a boundary between backyards.

The pines. I was so busy looking at every
aspect of the house--the curved walkway
(I don't recall the walkway curving to the
front door or even a walkway, though it
must have been there--my brother remembers
it), and the carport Mom and Dad turned into a
family room is so much a part of the house
that one cannot tell in the picture that there
was ever a carport there and I cannot tell
that it's the same room they created--the windows
aren't right--the distance from windows to ground
beneath seems much closer together than it does
in memory--the memory of climbing out of those
windows in the late night--pale moon over the pines
out front, the smell of the ocean filling my senses--
thinking I was so cool. My mother and father searching
for me later, my ass getting literally beaten over and over--

no the window wasn't where it is now. And then
there is the portico at the front door, which I know
cannot have been there then. And I realize could
have been constructed after leaving, though my
brother says he remembers that, too.

But the pines. They are there. That large one, which
sits directly in the middle of the row of pines bordering
the lot, that's the one I fell from at age 9 when I wanted
the boys to know there was nothing they could do that
I could not do better. I learned a lesson in humility
that day, but I did not abandon my belief that I could
one-up them any day.

I climbed so high I could see houses blocks and blocks
away. I could even see to the boulevard--a distance
I would guess to be somewhere in the vicinity of 1/2
mile or so. The boulevard which was our boundary.
We were not permitted to cross it, so there was always
an allure with the boulevard.

And I was up there scrutinizing the boulevard when
I heard a snap, and that was that.

I didn't so much fall as slide down through the myriad
branches and dappled light to the lowest branch on the
tree. At that point, I fell the 6-8 feet to the ground.

I was scratched and bleeding, but my pride was the only
real injury that day. Of course, once my mom cleaned
up the blood and ranted about how I could've killed
myself, and by god how she'd kill me if I ever pulled such
a stunt again, I walked outside proudly displaying my
"war" wounds.

Though they tried hard to hide their approval of my
daring stunt, I could see it in their eyes.

I was one of them, and would continue to be for several more
years.

Yes, brother, something about the house looks familiar,
and that makes me smile this day.

The Three Dancers
Pablo Picasso, 1925

Mournful

For at least 2 hours, I heard him, howling
every so often in my backyard, my side yard,
beneath the carport. Molly got a bit agitated
when she heard him. We were here, in the back
room. I was checking email and she was checking
me out. He had been howling for some time at that
point, and Molly was at her breaking point.

I left her inside and went out back to see what all the noise
was about. And there he was, nose to the ground,
moving at a slow speed--not a walk and not a run--
an in between. He was hoping his nose would tell
him how to find home. I called to him, but he never
lifted his head. He just kept about his business, nose
to the ground, every 15 seconds or so lifting his nose
and head enough to howl again.

And I felt so sad. I wanted to say: You're a very resourceful
sort. You don't let things like people calling you interrupt
your mission. You've got a nose for things and a mission.
You'll do it. You'll do it, by god, you'll do it. But he just
kept coming back. Gone for 10 minutes or so down
the street, his howls still reaching my ears. And then back
again, nose to the ground, intently and passionately and
disturbingly focused on home or something familiar.

I know, I know. I said those words out loud. To the clouds
above. To the sounds of his howls. To the bare branches
above. To the cold night air. I know. I know what it
is to want to make your sound. To feel lost but undeterred.
To make yourself be heard. To ignore the willing voices
and hands and offers. I know what it is to not know
where it is home is. I know. I know. Come to me.

Now, he is gone. Molly is quiet. The house is quiet.

There is no more howling here around this house.

And I want to believe it is because he found it--home.
Or them--people who love him. Or somewhere to bed
down for the night. Somewhere not so warm but
protected. Somewhere he can rest his tired body,
his aching throat. Somewhere he can call home
for the night, even if all of the amenities are missing
and there is no one there to love him. Just his own
love of self and his own need to survive and his own
moment of reckoning so clear and forgiving.

Eighteen

Ok...brings back thoughts.

But everyone has their own 18 thing.
I was married. And there is a story,
but I have grown weary of talking about it.

I got home about 6 this evening. My son's 18th
birthday. Cannot believe 18 years have come
and gone. I visited a friend over the weekend.
Left Friday after work and drove about 200
miles in the dark, but the moon was nearly
full (to the naked eye full) and the night was lovely,
so my heart was not troubled.

Bought my son The Road (Cormac McCarthy),
a collection of Hemingway short stories, and Pale
Fire(Nabokov). Found some decent wines,
ate some good food, watched some no-brainer
movies, and slept. Was a good way to spend
a weekend.

Now, I think I shall take a bathroom break, eat
some of the delicious cake my friend baked for
my son, and lie down and read.

"Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans"

Happy birthday to you, my beautiful son.

Of Time and the River

The title for this post is the name of one of my favorite Thomas

Wolfe books. I trired to reread him recently but didn't get far,

and I'm not sure why. Maybe Thomas will only remain in that

long ago place he resided in when first I discovered him.

Have been thinking a lot about my dad. Last night before bed.

In the middle of the night when I woke up and could not go back

to sleep. Does this great missing ever stop? There are days

in which I have to ask myself if I've thought about him that

day. If I had not up until that point, I certainly was at that point.

Even though I rarely went to see him, I knew what he felt and how

he felt. It was a tacit understanding. No need to explain or reason.

I just miss my dad and know I always will.

My daughter gave me some more Joan Didion for Christmas.

I am reading Slouching Toward Bethlehem. I want to reread

The Year of Magical Thinking. Sometimes I think I am still

in that year. The damage done from 2 deeply disturbing life-

changing events has taken its toll on me. I lost my dad and

6 months later, I lost my job. In between, I received a very

disturbing letter. And within a year of dad's death, two of my

good friends died. I wonder if I'll ever feel right again.

This quote from Joan Didion:

“A place belongs forever to whoever claims it hardest,

remembers it most obsessively, wrenches it from itself,

shapes it, renders it, loves it so radically that he remakes

it in his own image.”

I once picnicked on the banks of the Wabash. I brought

flowers with me, and after eating, threw the flowers

into the Wabash in memory of my father. I watched them

until they floated away out of sight, beneath the bridge

in the picture above. I took pictures that day, and one day,

when my scanner cooperates, I'll post one. Oddly enough,

as I tossed the flowers out, a little at a time, one bouquet

stood straight up in the mud. It landed perfectly, and the stems

found themselves right at home.

They are long gone now. Like so many people I have known.

But nothing will take the memory from me.

At least, I hope nothing will.