Ferry? Out. Reason? Ice.
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And Now We're Just Basically Talking About Commuting
Ferry? Out. Reason? Ice.
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Ferry? Out. Reason? Ice.
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The Serpents of Paradise
Ahh, yes, the country, I thought when I saw the garter snake sunning itself against the foundation. The most regular snake in the world, Thamnophis sirtalis, both wild and captive examples familiar from my childhood. Regardless, I knew it had to go.
The otherwise very brave woman with whom I share my abode has a cowardice around snakes that is nearly unmatched in the annals of chickenhood. To be fair, she still bears the scar of a youthful encounter with Crotalus horridus, an eastern timber rattler. Not that the snake did anything, but in her panicked flight she tripped over a boulder and gashed her knee on another rock. Then got up and threw stones at the snake.
In addition, we were eating buyer’s remorse for breakfast, lunch and dinner during those summer weeks after moving in. On top of the Sump Pump Issue, the Baseboard Debacle, the Questionably Leaning Mudroom and the Dinky Proportions Conundrum, the last thing I thought the house needed was an Unwelcome Species Situation.
Thus, having a snake of any kind on the premises, even a beneficial garden-friendly and pest-reducing garter snake, was right out. Besides, I wanted to show it to the boy. I snuck up on the specimen, made a clumsy grab, missed, and watched as it slithered directly upward into the siding.
That was an interesting wrinkle.
Perhaps because of perversity, but also with some underlying idea of taking on the Snake Admiration Deficit that pervaded our household, I told my wife a few days later that I’d seen one. And where it went. She was predictably unhappy. My naïve hope for primate-reptile reconciliation was dashed when she ordered its removal. So the next time I saw it, I made a more strategic and faster move, and had the snake.
The capture and release program I’d devised was based on repeat viewings of Mutual of Omaha’s pet project, so after some dramatic posturing and a recreation of the event for the lad, I carried the snake a couple of yards over, to a stone wall next to a small pond, and let it go. It immediately took shelter among the rocks.
And that was that.
Until a couple days later, when I spotted another snake in the same spot. This one was clearly not the one I had captured previously. It was smaller, and proved easier to catch. I brought this one down to the snake release center and didn’t mention it.
Not long afterwards, I opened the Bilco doors to enter the cellar and surprised two garter snakes lolling in the superheated oven beneath the doors. I grabbed one – the other slipped between two foundation stones. There were shed skins lying around like the remains of a particularly debauched Snake Party.
C’mon, what was I supposed to do, NOT tell her? How do you not tell someone about all these snakes? And whom could I tell but my trusted mate, my helpmeet, my advisor and confidante, my best friend?
She took it well, if by well you mean that she started calling different hotels to see what kind of non-anapsid specials they were running that week. I got on the horn with a couple of herpetologists to see how many there were likely to be and if they had a homing instinct. The lizard people were about as sympathetic as the smokies had been about the bear. “They’re great!” they told me (which I knew). “Keep ’em!” (I knew, I knew, but they didn’t understand, this woman has a snake scar.)
I converted a bucket into a snake conveyor, adapted a long-handled paint roller and a pair of gloves into the Acquisition Apparatus (I was sick of getting pissed on by every nervous snake in the county) and haunted the backyard, flipping open the doors at random intervals, getting under any snakes with the roller, flipping them out into the yard (I had weeded out the slower ones and now those I found would almost make a whiplike crack as they vanished into their holes) and scooping them into the bucket.
Worst of all, I wasn’t sure whether I was catching the same ones repeatedly. I started venturing further afield in search of the right habitat for release – it had to be as good as my cellar. (We also had these tiny black crickets, order Orthoptera, that lived around the foundation. Inky black little guys. They never bothered anyone. Least of all the snakes, for whom they were doubtless like chicken wings to a fratboy.) If you’re a snake looking for someplace with sheltered stony crevices, a ready supply of insects and occasional running water, our cellar comes up as the first result on Snoogle. The last two I caught I released at a farm ten miles away.
Total snakes: nine (possibly including repeats).
That seemed to do it; we haven’t seen any since. But last fall, after the snakes were gone, we started to see these large black crickets. Big, inky black, startlingly spidery. At night a couple of times, a rogue bull would enter the house, set up someplace undetectable and start singing. So we’d creep around late at night trying to pinpoint its location, and when we’d get close it’d shush. The crickets’ own version of Marco Polo.
And who doesn’t like Marco Polo?
PS: Were you looking for Edward Abbey? Here.
•
The otherwise very brave woman with whom I share my abode has a cowardice around snakes that is nearly unmatched in the annals of chickenhood. To be fair, she still bears the scar of a youthful encounter with Crotalus horridus, an eastern timber rattler. Not that the snake did anything, but in her panicked flight she tripped over a boulder and gashed her knee on another rock. Then got up and threw stones at the snake.
In addition, we were eating buyer’s remorse for breakfast, lunch and dinner during those summer weeks after moving in. On top of the Sump Pump Issue, the Baseboard Debacle, the Questionably Leaning Mudroom and the Dinky Proportions Conundrum, the last thing I thought the house needed was an Unwelcome Species Situation.
Thus, having a snake of any kind on the premises, even a beneficial garden-friendly and pest-reducing garter snake, was right out. Besides, I wanted to show it to the boy. I snuck up on the specimen, made a clumsy grab, missed, and watched as it slithered directly upward into the siding.
That was an interesting wrinkle.
Perhaps because of perversity, but also with some underlying idea of taking on the Snake Admiration Deficit that pervaded our household, I told my wife a few days later that I’d seen one. And where it went. She was predictably unhappy. My naïve hope for primate-reptile reconciliation was dashed when she ordered its removal. So the next time I saw it, I made a more strategic and faster move, and had the snake.
The capture and release program I’d devised was based on repeat viewings of Mutual of Omaha’s pet project, so after some dramatic posturing and a recreation of the event for the lad, I carried the snake a couple of yards over, to a stone wall next to a small pond, and let it go. It immediately took shelter among the rocks.
And that was that.
Until a couple days later, when I spotted another snake in the same spot. This one was clearly not the one I had captured previously. It was smaller, and proved easier to catch. I brought this one down to the snake release center and didn’t mention it.
Not long afterwards, I opened the Bilco doors to enter the cellar and surprised two garter snakes lolling in the superheated oven beneath the doors. I grabbed one – the other slipped between two foundation stones. There were shed skins lying around like the remains of a particularly debauched Snake Party.
C’mon, what was I supposed to do, NOT tell her? How do you not tell someone about all these snakes? And whom could I tell but my trusted mate, my helpmeet, my advisor and confidante, my best friend?
She took it well, if by well you mean that she started calling different hotels to see what kind of non-anapsid specials they were running that week. I got on the horn with a couple of herpetologists to see how many there were likely to be and if they had a homing instinct. The lizard people were about as sympathetic as the smokies had been about the bear. “They’re great!” they told me (which I knew). “Keep ’em!” (I knew, I knew, but they didn’t understand, this woman has a snake scar.)
I converted a bucket into a snake conveyor, adapted a long-handled paint roller and a pair of gloves into the Acquisition Apparatus (I was sick of getting pissed on by every nervous snake in the county) and haunted the backyard, flipping open the doors at random intervals, getting under any snakes with the roller, flipping them out into the yard (I had weeded out the slower ones and now those I found would almost make a whiplike crack as they vanished into their holes) and scooping them into the bucket.
Worst of all, I wasn’t sure whether I was catching the same ones repeatedly. I started venturing further afield in search of the right habitat for release – it had to be as good as my cellar. (We also had these tiny black crickets, order Orthoptera, that lived around the foundation. Inky black little guys. They never bothered anyone. Least of all the snakes, for whom they were doubtless like chicken wings to a fratboy.) If you’re a snake looking for someplace with sheltered stony crevices, a ready supply of insects and occasional running water, our cellar comes up as the first result on Snoogle. The last two I caught I released at a farm ten miles away.
Total snakes: nine (possibly including repeats).
That seemed to do it; we haven’t seen any since. But last fall, after the snakes were gone, we started to see these large black crickets. Big, inky black, startlingly spidery. At night a couple of times, a rogue bull would enter the house, set up someplace undetectable and start singing. So we’d creep around late at night trying to pinpoint its location, and when we’d get close it’d shush. The crickets’ own version of Marco Polo.
And who doesn’t like Marco Polo?
PS: Were you looking for Edward Abbey? Here.
•
Season's Greetings
Bears
On the Friday before Labor Day, 2005, my wife and I sat out on the elevated deck at the old place, chatting. I had worked a half day from home, the boy was napping, and the lass was only a gleam in my eye. As we spoke, I noticed movement over my wife’s shoulder, out at the edge of the trees. Large movement.
A big black bear (Ursus americanus) moved placidly out from the wooded area and into our yard. I arched an eyebrow, took another sip of my g&t, then thought to myself Bear in the yard! Bear in the yard! Bear in the yard! Bear in the yard! I admired its glossy coat. Then I thought Bear in the yard! Bear in the yard!
I mentioned the bear to my wife. She found it interesting as well. SHE thought Bear in the yard! Bear in the YARD! BEAR in the yard! Bear IN the yard!
Oh and the shouting to our neighbors not to come out, and the banging of the pots and pans and the shouts of “gettee on, bear!” (I am fourth generation Queens by heritage, so I knows my bear-scaring tactics….they HATE “gettee on.”) I called animal control. Because let me tell you, this bear was completely uncontrolled. Like some kind of force of nature. You come into MY yard? I don’t THINK so, friend. You just got yourself a call to a special agency, pal.
They told me to call the State Police. The State Police told me the bear wasn’t breaking any laws. What was WRONG with these people? The bear cares nothing for our petty human laws! It’s as complete a scofflaw as was ever cubbed! This bear in particular! Why was there no one who would CONTROL this bear, which was by this time wandering along up the hill at the edge of the woods that backed the yards, doubtless daydreaming of giant garbage cans filled with mallomars and honey.
I was on my way in to get the camera when I heard the shotgun blast.
Turns out one of the neighbors (Recklus endangerus) had thought to come out to see the bear, had walked around the corner of a house and found himself closer than he’d expected. And oh yeah, he happened to walk out of his house with a loaded shotgun, just in case.
This time I thought Live ammo in the neighborhood! LIVE ammo in the neighborhood! Live AMMO in the neighborhood! Live ammo in the NEIGHBORHOOD!
Our resident marksman, a very young volunteer fireman, was apologetic but employed the “coming at us” defense. The bear had fled, apparently uninjured. I suggested – since you don’t command a deranged 24-year-old with a shotgun – that he never again ever fire a loaded shotgun anywhere near my house.
So far, so good — but we moved just in case. And on our first day in the new place, which is in the heart of a village and not far from the main street, our new neighbor came out and told us about the pictures he took of the bear eating the bird feeders in our new front yard.
I look forward to seeing those snaps.
•
A big black bear (Ursus americanus) moved placidly out from the wooded area and into our yard. I arched an eyebrow, took another sip of my g&t, then thought to myself Bear in the yard! Bear in the yard! Bear in the yard! Bear in the yard! I admired its glossy coat. Then I thought Bear in the yard! Bear in the yard!
I mentioned the bear to my wife. She found it interesting as well. SHE thought Bear in the yard! Bear in the YARD! BEAR in the yard! Bear IN the yard!
Oh and the shouting to our neighbors not to come out, and the banging of the pots and pans and the shouts of “gettee on, bear!” (I am fourth generation Queens by heritage, so I knows my bear-scaring tactics….they HATE “gettee on.”) I called animal control. Because let me tell you, this bear was completely uncontrolled. Like some kind of force of nature. You come into MY yard? I don’t THINK so, friend. You just got yourself a call to a special agency, pal.
They told me to call the State Police. The State Police told me the bear wasn’t breaking any laws. What was WRONG with these people? The bear cares nothing for our petty human laws! It’s as complete a scofflaw as was ever cubbed! This bear in particular! Why was there no one who would CONTROL this bear, which was by this time wandering along up the hill at the edge of the woods that backed the yards, doubtless daydreaming of giant garbage cans filled with mallomars and honey.
I was on my way in to get the camera when I heard the shotgun blast.
Turns out one of the neighbors (Recklus endangerus) had thought to come out to see the bear, had walked around the corner of a house and found himself closer than he’d expected. And oh yeah, he happened to walk out of his house with a loaded shotgun, just in case.
This time I thought Live ammo in the neighborhood! LIVE ammo in the neighborhood! Live AMMO in the neighborhood! Live ammo in the NEIGHBORHOOD!
Our resident marksman, a very young volunteer fireman, was apologetic but employed the “coming at us” defense. The bear had fled, apparently uninjured. I suggested – since you don’t command a deranged 24-year-old with a shotgun – that he never again ever fire a loaded shotgun anywhere near my house.
So far, so good — but we moved just in case. And on our first day in the new place, which is in the heart of a village and not far from the main street, our new neighbor came out and told us about the pictures he took of the bear eating the bird feeders in our new front yard.
I look forward to seeing those snaps.
•
Live! Music!
Y’all down in New York City (and France…bonjour France!) probably don’t get the opportunity to see well-known musicians in very intimate venues within perfectly-preserved 19th-century mansions — with potluck luncheon & dessert — at reasonable prices. Here in upstate New York, however, such things are possible. So it was that on Sunday afternoon we drove to Middletown to hear Marshall Crenshaw in just such a setting. He does complicated things with an old hollow-body Gibson while doing seemingly-simple things with lyrics and very complicated things with his phrasing. And then there are cookies.
And if y’all down in New York City spent Sunday afternoon recovering from seeing some really excellent cutting-edge band at Bowery Ballroom and staying out till four drinking whiskey and posing naked in Central Park for Spencer Tunick photos then dropping acid and going to L’Express for croissant, I can only say that you missed quite a show.
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And if y’all down in New York City spent Sunday afternoon recovering from seeing some really excellent cutting-edge band at Bowery Ballroom and staying out till four drinking whiskey and posing naked in Central Park for Spencer Tunick photos then dropping acid and going to L’Express for croissant, I can only say that you missed quite a show.
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Oompa Loompa (or, I Did Not Know That)
There but for the sense not to dash across the road at night go I
Sometimes you’re running along feeling fleet of foot and you look down on the shoulder and realize the branch you’ve just avoided is actually a neatly-severed deer foreleg, with hoof.
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7, 12, 9, 14, 19: On the Flimsiness of Winter
The thermometer was a cruel lottery official this week, pulling from the low end of the bucket and dropping the numbered ping pong balls into the slots each morning with a peculiar icy pop. A sound that told you to wear extra layers and get out early because the river was frozen and the bus departs sooner to cross the bridge in time for the train. And you didn’t win this time but stay tuned tomorrow because we’re drawing another number and we’re selling fifty-seven thousand tickets an hour today.
Even this comparatively mild winter takes it right out of you with week after week of the lows, and the ruts you carved in the fall turn solid. It’s cold enough to freeze your ruts. And it’s all you can do to look up from scraping the ice off the driveway to catch a glint of occasional sun off the hardpacked snow.
And it is at this time of the year that Tom Waits says:
Hell’s boilin' over
And heaven is full
We’re chained to the world
And we all gotta pull
And so we pull, and the wind off the river is cold and goes through your long johns like three hundred and fifty-five million needles, each claiming its own skin cell to freeze. Your feet take three hours to warm up and your will a little longer than that. The news, when you listen for it, is bleak – it sounds like it’s coming through a thin tube from a long way off, where the physics are different and the language is always one syllable removed from truth. You pause to wonder “is that about me?” and then you move on because the winter is telling you to pay the oil bill.
But. This week, your lottery number comes in. The payoff’s never what you hope — after the taxes levied by life and the five-way split with your colleagues, your share comes out to little more than the right to continue. But you’ll take it, and why not? Your jet stream is becoming more zonal – that is, more west to east – and your temperatures are going to rise. So here comes a thin sleet and a warming rain and yeah, there’ll be floods when the breaking ice jams in the narrow spots, but after the deluge the rivers will run.
The lion took a hard look at you and decided you were too scrawny to eat, and you can hear the lamb bleating in the distance. Go to him. Go to him and serve him.
With mint jelly, or with a mustard sauce if that’s your thing.
•
Even this comparatively mild winter takes it right out of you with week after week of the lows, and the ruts you carved in the fall turn solid. It’s cold enough to freeze your ruts. And it’s all you can do to look up from scraping the ice off the driveway to catch a glint of occasional sun off the hardpacked snow.
And it is at this time of the year that Tom Waits says:
Hell’s boilin' over
And heaven is full
We’re chained to the world
And we all gotta pull
And so we pull, and the wind off the river is cold and goes through your long johns like three hundred and fifty-five million needles, each claiming its own skin cell to freeze. Your feet take three hours to warm up and your will a little longer than that. The news, when you listen for it, is bleak – it sounds like it’s coming through a thin tube from a long way off, where the physics are different and the language is always one syllable removed from truth. You pause to wonder “is that about me?” and then you move on because the winter is telling you to pay the oil bill.
But. This week, your lottery number comes in. The payoff’s never what you hope — after the taxes levied by life and the five-way split with your colleagues, your share comes out to little more than the right to continue. But you’ll take it, and why not? Your jet stream is becoming more zonal – that is, more west to east – and your temperatures are going to rise. So here comes a thin sleet and a warming rain and yeah, there’ll be floods when the breaking ice jams in the narrow spots, but after the deluge the rivers will run.
The lion took a hard look at you and decided you were too scrawny to eat, and you can hear the lamb bleating in the distance. Go to him. Go to him and serve him.
With mint jelly, or with a mustard sauce if that’s your thing.
•
Frigidaire
1) The Newburgh-Beacon ferry's out again. Propellers dinged and bent from the ice. They're getting the boat fixed tomorrow, but will probably cancel the run until the ice clears.
2) The ground around our house -- all of it -- is coated by a thick layer of slick frozen snow. It's as hard as concrete and as slippery as a Calphalon lawyer.
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2) The ground around our house -- all of it -- is coated by a thick layer of slick frozen snow. It's as hard as concrete and as slippery as a Calphalon lawyer.
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Seeing the Shadow
Dennis the Skunk trundled purposefully along the bank of the Quassaick. The days of warm weather had lured him out of the den, that first scent of spring knocking at the doors and calling him forth. Winter’s not gone, he thought as the dusk descended, but it had rained, and the rain was working its way into the soil and loosening the grip of the cold. The water was high. Dennis left tracks in the sand near the creek mouth where it opened into the Hudson.
Upstream, unheard, a chunk of ice broke free from the bank, carrying with it a four-inch-thick tree limb with a cruelly hooked and broken fork. Dennis, nose-deep in a hollow carved out by the stream, looking for something tender to eat, didn’t see it coming. It caught him by the hind leg and swept him into the flood. He swam for a moment, but was lost. All that night a vicious wind blew, and the day dawned frigid.
Tonight, as our ferry crossed from Beacon to Newburgh, half a mile from either shore, the unmistakable aroma of skunk took over the cabin.
•
Upstream, unheard, a chunk of ice broke free from the bank, carrying with it a four-inch-thick tree limb with a cruelly hooked and broken fork. Dennis, nose-deep in a hollow carved out by the stream, looking for something tender to eat, didn’t see it coming. It caught him by the hind leg and swept him into the flood. He swam for a moment, but was lost. All that night a vicious wind blew, and the day dawned frigid.
Tonight, as our ferry crossed from Beacon to Newburgh, half a mile from either shore, the unmistakable aroma of skunk took over the cabin.
•
Life, Celebrated
This wasn't my fastest half-marathon (and even my fastest is slow), but any one I finish still feels like a victory. Every run, in fact, is unique. It feels like you've told yourself a story, carved something out of the world and out of yourself, and whether or not it's the same route, every day is different.
I once asked a sporty friend to tell me the likelihood that, in all the years baseball's been played, there have ever been two games with the same box score, in which every pitch was played the same way. The odds are incalculably astronomically against it, he said. (He's also pretty good at math and stats and whatnot.) That, to me, is the most interesting thing about baseball.
Running is like that. So today it was cold (but not as cold as last year) and I wasn't in training (and last year I was) and this year I ran with friends and talked (and last year I pushed pretty hard), and this year I had more to think about while running. And even though the same guy won the race (he wins all the races around here), his time was different, too.
And humans are like that. So when the Celebrate Life Half Marathon director called out the cancer survivors who had come out to volunteer, or to run, and talked about the mission of CROC, the group that benefits from the race, it was one of those times where events and people fuse in a way that they never have before and never will again -- an absolutely unique moment, and one worth celebrating. L'chaim.
•
I once asked a sporty friend to tell me the likelihood that, in all the years baseball's been played, there have ever been two games with the same box score, in which every pitch was played the same way. The odds are incalculably astronomically against it, he said. (He's also pretty good at math and stats and whatnot.) That, to me, is the most interesting thing about baseball.
Running is like that. So today it was cold (but not as cold as last year) and I wasn't in training (and last year I was) and this year I ran with friends and talked (and last year I pushed pretty hard), and this year I had more to think about while running. And even though the same guy won the race (he wins all the races around here), his time was different, too.
And humans are like that. So when the Celebrate Life Half Marathon director called out the cancer survivors who had come out to volunteer, or to run, and talked about the mission of CROC, the group that benefits from the race, it was one of those times where events and people fuse in a way that they never have before and never will again -- an absolutely unique moment, and one worth celebrating. L'chaim.
•
WoooooOOOOoooo
For a little while after we moved in, the Boy, then age three, had a disconcerting habit of referring to The Changeout People. One memorable time, as we ate dinner, he indicated that they were sitting among us in the empty chairs. We told friends, and they revealed that their daughter, when they moved to their old farmhouse, told them about The Haircatchers, who lived in the walls.
How's the hair on your neck? Mine too.
So at work now we try to come up with these things. The Dustbreathers are pretty scary. And the Fingerprint Thief may come to you in the night.
So, beware, is all I'm saying.
Beware.
•
How's the hair on your neck? Mine too.
So at work now we try to come up with these things. The Dustbreathers are pretty scary. And the Fingerprint Thief may come to you in the night.
So, beware, is all I'm saying.
Beware.
•
Mudroom II: the Jackening
I got one of them jack posts, and I done rigged ’er up under the mudroom there. Gave it a couple-three twists till the joists creaked.
While I was down there under the mudroom, with my legs out on the snow and my head in the last of the autumn leaves that had taken shelter behind the recycling bins, sort of cantilevered sideways into the space so I could get purchase on the wrench, I couldn’t help but remember the frites at L’Express, down there on Park Avenue. You know, you could go in there 24 hours a day and get some pretty tasty fries and a glass or two of wine, maybe even order up some onion soup. That was a good place to go after drinking downtown. Not as expensive as you’d think. And then you’d just hop a cab late in the Manhattan night, and if you weren’t too drunk, the night might smell promising and spring might be in the air.
I inhaled deeply, lost in the memory — and realized that one of the local stray cats had marked the recycling bins as his territory not long before.
Door’s still stuck, but I figure I’ll give the post a screw every weekend till we can open it again.
•
While I was down there under the mudroom, with my legs out on the snow and my head in the last of the autumn leaves that had taken shelter behind the recycling bins, sort of cantilevered sideways into the space so I could get purchase on the wrench, I couldn’t help but remember the frites at L’Express, down there on Park Avenue. You know, you could go in there 24 hours a day and get some pretty tasty fries and a glass or two of wine, maybe even order up some onion soup. That was a good place to go after drinking downtown. Not as expensive as you’d think. And then you’d just hop a cab late in the Manhattan night, and if you weren’t too drunk, the night might smell promising and spring might be in the air.
I inhaled deeply, lost in the memory — and realized that one of the local stray cats had marked the recycling bins as his territory not long before.
Door’s still stuck, but I figure I’ll give the post a screw every weekend till we can open it again.
•
Back in Business
The boat was back this morning despite the remaining ice, and tonight the announcement was made that we'd be back aboard for tomorrow's commute.
Good.
•
Good.
•
A Crank is Born
One summer in college I delivered mail. It was a great job: I had a four-minute commute, lost 22 pounds, got a (relative) tan, made friends with some, umm, edgy fellers, and could walk off a hangover by lunchtime every day.
The one dark spot I can remember came near the end of the summer, when I found, with a few legs of my route left, that I had a flat tire. Cut off from HQ, with time running out, I carried extra weight extra distance on foot, dropping behind schedule with every step, and came to the final block of my route dripping sweat, with my shoulder aching and the last offer of lemonade far in the past.
Three houses from the end of the last leg, standing at the foot of his driveway, was Bitterman McGurk, the oldest, curmudgeonliest, Social-Security-check-awaitinest WWII vet in town, whose gift for sarcasm was undiminished by the years and whose afternoon had been spent standing at the end of his driveway getting himself enraged. By the time I got there he was so worked up that his pulse was up to forty and his BP was practically detectable. And his rhetorical question was layered with so much contemptuous nuance, so polished and rehearsed, that you could tell he had been working on it all afternoon – nay, probably far longer, with early drafts unleashed on mailmen before me – and that he almost didn’t want to let it go, he had come to love it so much. But he had a job to do, and as I approached with a sympathy-seeking roll of the eyes and a theatrical wiping of the brow, he let me have it.
“What happened? Did your pony die?”
This morning, I was that man. It snowed about five inches last night. At 5:15 I was up shoveling the driveway and scraping the car, which went well. At 6:25 I headed out.
I reached the foot of my driveway to find that the main street had not been plowed in hours. Turning toward the ferry, I discovered that this secondary street had not been plowed at all. An outrage! A travesty! We never got such bad service in the last place we lived! I demanded satisfaction!
Even as I fishtailed my way along, I saw a plow heave into sight behind me, but with blade raised at a jaunty angle, well above the snow! On to more important plowing tasks, I suppose!
I have all day to hone my sarcastic comment, so I’ll probably get some work in on that. There are two problems, though: 1) the roads will be plowed when I get home, which will take a little of the sheen off my angry wit and 2) if I stand at the foot of the driveway to deliver my final polished gem, I’m gonna get blasted with a 30-mph face-full of snow and mud.
Guess I’ll leave the fist-shaking ire to the pros.
•
The one dark spot I can remember came near the end of the summer, when I found, with a few legs of my route left, that I had a flat tire. Cut off from HQ, with time running out, I carried extra weight extra distance on foot, dropping behind schedule with every step, and came to the final block of my route dripping sweat, with my shoulder aching and the last offer of lemonade far in the past.
Three houses from the end of the last leg, standing at the foot of his driveway, was Bitterman McGurk, the oldest, curmudgeonliest, Social-Security-check-awaitinest WWII vet in town, whose gift for sarcasm was undiminished by the years and whose afternoon had been spent standing at the end of his driveway getting himself enraged. By the time I got there he was so worked up that his pulse was up to forty and his BP was practically detectable. And his rhetorical question was layered with so much contemptuous nuance, so polished and rehearsed, that you could tell he had been working on it all afternoon – nay, probably far longer, with early drafts unleashed on mailmen before me – and that he almost didn’t want to let it go, he had come to love it so much. But he had a job to do, and as I approached with a sympathy-seeking roll of the eyes and a theatrical wiping of the brow, he let me have it.
“What happened? Did your pony die?”
This morning, I was that man. It snowed about five inches last night. At 5:15 I was up shoveling the driveway and scraping the car, which went well. At 6:25 I headed out.
I reached the foot of my driveway to find that the main street had not been plowed in hours. Turning toward the ferry, I discovered that this secondary street had not been plowed at all. An outrage! A travesty! We never got such bad service in the last place we lived! I demanded satisfaction!
Even as I fishtailed my way along, I saw a plow heave into sight behind me, but with blade raised at a jaunty angle, well above the snow! On to more important plowing tasks, I suppose!
I have all day to hone my sarcastic comment, so I’ll probably get some work in on that. There are two problems, though: 1) the roads will be plowed when I get home, which will take a little of the sheen off my angry wit and 2) if I stand at the foot of the driveway to deliver my final polished gem, I’m gonna get blasted with a 30-mph face-full of snow and mud.
Guess I’ll leave the fist-shaking ire to the pros.
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Tarzan Not Be Ignored
An extremely reliable source tells me that there’s going to be a total lunar eclipse in the northeast US and France (hello, French readers!) this coming Saturday. Or, for you superstitious types, this Saturday Numa the fearsome sky-lion will devour Goro, and only the mightiest of the mangani will be able to frighten him into spitting out his prey.
In either case, if your weather’s clear, you should get out and watch it.
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In either case, if your weather’s clear, you should get out and watch it.
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L’Heure Bleu at Spuytin Duyvil
The water of the river looks like the sky above the Palisades, only wrinkled. Venus hovers. The wires are doing their dips. The Henry Hudson Bridge passes over with an elegant arch and accessible architecture; its task of bridging the island to the mainland is so self-evident, unlike, say, the Throg’s Neck, which seems to sweep out over water and land indiscriminately, an aimless, wandering bridge. It lacked focus growing up and they always said it would never amount to much. Not the Henry Hudson. Stolid, steely, blue, a single arch with a flat, straight road above. “Where you goin’?” “Right over there.”
Under it, and we turn north.
In Of Human Bondage, the protagonist has a revelation near the end of the book, right before he becomes impossibly old and dull for his age, in which he realizes that to not be an artist is allowed. That his life will weave of itself an intricate tapestry, unique among all others — that the pursuit of art will not make a more beautiful life than will being a country doctor. It’s sort of a guidebook for entering middle age, but, from the vantage point of early middle age, it rings true. It was not long after reading it that I began to chronicle my daily subway commute. Often I described the train floor in some detail.
Despite the first paragraph of this post (and other recent content), Exurbitude is not intended to be a commuter’s diary. The motto is Observation and Exploration; it’s just that work is busy, time is short, and the commute is what’s left over. So this week I’m leaning more toward observation.
In the spirit of exploration, however, let me offer a couple of tidbits from beyond the rails. 1) This morning as we passed south of Peekskill, I saw a bald eagle squatting way out on the ice. I hope I never stop being amazed by them. 2) Chimpanzees have been observed using wooden spears to hunt. Oh. Good. 3) A beaver has taken up residence in the Bronx River — the first beaver seen in New York City sinceDisney took over Times Square the early 1800s.
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Under it, and we turn north.
In Of Human Bondage, the protagonist has a revelation near the end of the book, right before he becomes impossibly old and dull for his age, in which he realizes that to not be an artist is allowed. That his life will weave of itself an intricate tapestry, unique among all others — that the pursuit of art will not make a more beautiful life than will being a country doctor. It’s sort of a guidebook for entering middle age, but, from the vantage point of early middle age, it rings true. It was not long after reading it that I began to chronicle my daily subway commute. Often I described the train floor in some detail.
Despite the first paragraph of this post (and other recent content), Exurbitude is not intended to be a commuter’s diary. The motto is Observation and Exploration; it’s just that work is busy, time is short, and the commute is what’s left over. So this week I’m leaning more toward observation.
In the spirit of exploration, however, let me offer a couple of tidbits from beyond the rails. 1) This morning as we passed south of Peekskill, I saw a bald eagle squatting way out on the ice. I hope I never stop being amazed by them. 2) Chimpanzees have been observed using wooden spears to hunt. Oh. Good. 3) A beaver has taken up residence in the Bronx River — the first beaver seen in New York City since
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Casey Jones You’d Better
If you miss the 7:29 train out of 125th Street, you might get on the next one, which is the 7:33 bound for Croton-Harmon.
I was standing right there and didn’t see the train. Maybe it was the Invisible Express? Wonder Woman was the engineer? I don’t know. (Oh wait, yes, now I know. My train came in but it was identified on the board as the previous train. So I patiently waited for it to go. Byebye. Byebye, earlier train.)
So anyway, you get on this later train, the 7:33 bound for Croton-Harmon. And the steward waits for you to get settled and then hands you the little plastic tray with the lemon-scented hot towel on it while the conductor smiles beneficently and says “put that away, you don’t need to show me your ticket. Just relax!” And you do, you relax and recline your seat back a little and put your feet on the little footrest, and the headrest speakers are just perfectly angled, so much so that you opt against the mournful Tom Waits you usually like and you choose something peppy from the Fabulous 70s channel on the satellite radio. The reading material is pretty good; Architectural Digest and InStyle, or The Economist, Harper’s, Dwell – you name it – and when they bring the whole portfolio, you can ask them to just choose something for you because after all it’s just too too headache-making to decide. Any of it beats the reading material on your usual train, which primarily consists of the Old Familiar Suggestion scrawled over Homeland Security posters.
This train has brushed-nickel accents, high ceilings, contoured seats, electronic readouts for the station stops and an EZ-Listening automated voice offering kindly recommendations to enhance your personal safety. It runs on electricity. It stops in all the pleasant little East Bank river towns familiar from your J. Crew catalogue, where the doors open on live bluegrass music playing in the spacious heated platform shelters and the people who get off the train stop a moment to select today’s bouquet from the flower seller near the complimentary taxi stand.
You wish this were your train every day. But you’re careful because you don’t want to take having a train for granted, and you don’t want to miss a minute of the pleasant journey you’re having to the halfway point – but you can’t shake the irritation you feel at missing the last bus across the river and having to spring for a cab.
So you ride along suppressing your annoyance, because, hey, you had to go north, and you figure your next train is lumbering along behind you someplace in the night, sucking trash in its wake, its full-throated diesel engine issuing a rancid underworld smoke, each stained and torn seat displaying a deep depression from the weight of the hundred thousand hardy souls who came before you. It bowls along with its stale air and its aroma of inevitability and decay, and you know that it’s coming for you, but it’s still back there on the track somewhere, and you can keep ahead for a little while longer on this well-lit, comfortable ride.
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I was standing right there and didn’t see the train. Maybe it was the Invisible Express? Wonder Woman was the engineer? I don’t know. (Oh wait, yes, now I know. My train came in but it was identified on the board as the previous train. So I patiently waited for it to go. Byebye. Byebye, earlier train.)
So anyway, you get on this later train, the 7:33 bound for Croton-Harmon. And the steward waits for you to get settled and then hands you the little plastic tray with the lemon-scented hot towel on it while the conductor smiles beneficently and says “put that away, you don’t need to show me your ticket. Just relax!” And you do, you relax and recline your seat back a little and put your feet on the little footrest, and the headrest speakers are just perfectly angled, so much so that you opt against the mournful Tom Waits you usually like and you choose something peppy from the Fabulous 70s channel on the satellite radio. The reading material is pretty good; Architectural Digest and InStyle, or The Economist, Harper’s, Dwell – you name it – and when they bring the whole portfolio, you can ask them to just choose something for you because after all it’s just too too headache-making to decide. Any of it beats the reading material on your usual train, which primarily consists of the Old Familiar Suggestion scrawled over Homeland Security posters.
This train has brushed-nickel accents, high ceilings, contoured seats, electronic readouts for the station stops and an EZ-Listening automated voice offering kindly recommendations to enhance your personal safety. It runs on electricity. It stops in all the pleasant little East Bank river towns familiar from your J. Crew catalogue, where the doors open on live bluegrass music playing in the spacious heated platform shelters and the people who get off the train stop a moment to select today’s bouquet from the flower seller near the complimentary taxi stand.
You wish this were your train every day. But you’re careful because you don’t want to take having a train for granted, and you don’t want to miss a minute of the pleasant journey you’re having to the halfway point – but you can’t shake the irritation you feel at missing the last bus across the river and having to spring for a cab.
So you ride along suppressing your annoyance, because, hey, you had to go north, and you figure your next train is lumbering along behind you someplace in the night, sucking trash in its wake, its full-throated diesel engine issuing a rancid underworld smoke, each stained and torn seat displaying a deep depression from the weight of the hundred thousand hardy souls who came before you. It bowls along with its stale air and its aroma of inevitability and decay, and you know that it’s coming for you, but it’s still back there on the track somewhere, and you can keep ahead for a little while longer on this well-lit, comfortable ride.
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You Will Purchase My Painting, Thank You
The ultimate symbol of virility, potency and danger, the great white shark has evoked terror and envy in men for centuries. Sleek, powerful, deadly and strangely suave, this ancient predator speaks to all that is manly and elegant. The only thing that could possibly make the great white a more fitting emblem for you -- YOU, oh powerful advertising executive or hedge fund manager or mid-level state-employed labor lawyer -- is a testosterone-rich eight-point rack of wapiti antlers with a six-foot spread.
The meat-eating, red-blooded, hippie-dicing scourge of the deep has finally achieved a level of ornamentation commensurate with YOUR status and power. And it's time for you to take him home.
At a manageable 18x24 inches, but surrounded by aFABULOUS RESPLENDENT freaking AWESOME frame of the finest gold-painted resin cast in a breathtaking baroque undersea motif, your Antlered Shark will fit any room and any decor -- provided the room is made for dominating your inferiors, impressing your admirers, or frightening those who would foolishly oppose you.
$250. Comment if you're man* enough to be interested.
Your symbol awaits.
*Dear women: you too!
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The meat-eating, red-blooded, hippie-dicing scourge of the deep has finally achieved a level of ornamentation commensurate with YOUR status and power. And it's time for you to take him home.
At a manageable 18x24 inches, but surrounded by a
$250. Comment if you're man* enough to be interested.
Your symbol awaits.
*Dear women: you too!
•
Calculus for the Rest of Us
There’s nothing like sitting down in one of these narrow bus seats, clad in your four layers plus two-layer coat, hat and gloves, carrying your briefcase and coffee – next to someone else done up the same way – to remind you what it was like when you were fat.
Q1: Assuming two people with more or less decent posture, seated side by side and dressed for spring, would have roughly parallel spines, what is the degree of spinal declination during the height of winter on a bus crossing the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge at quarter to seven on a Friday if the temperature is eighteen and the bus is traveling 30 miles per hour to make the 7:07 train?
Q2: For what time should you set your alarm if you decided to go to bed on Thursday instead of changing the cat box and taking out the garbage, knowing that Friday was garbage day but figuring that you’d easily beat the garbage guys out there except they had the truck in stealth mode and came at 3am so that when you crept down in the dark and collected the garbage helpfully bagged by your wife the night before and cleaned the cat box and trudged through the snow to add your bags to the neighbors’ cans you found them empty?
Q3: If DDT was outlawed in 1972 and you catch the 7:07 out of Beacon heading south at 60 miles per hour on a winter Friday in 2007, how many bald eagles (Haliaeetus leucocephalus) will you see from the train window as you pass by salt marshes and fresh-water outlets at the mouths of small tributaries?
Q4: How freaking cool does Hook Mountain look from the east shore of the river when the sun hits the snow detailing its sheer stone face?
A1: Eleven degrees. A2: Usual time. A3: Four in the last couple weeks, or maybe the same pair in two different places. A4: Muy.
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Q1: Assuming two people with more or less decent posture, seated side by side and dressed for spring, would have roughly parallel spines, what is the degree of spinal declination during the height of winter on a bus crossing the Newburgh-Beacon Bridge at quarter to seven on a Friday if the temperature is eighteen and the bus is traveling 30 miles per hour to make the 7:07 train?
Q2: For what time should you set your alarm if you decided to go to bed on Thursday instead of changing the cat box and taking out the garbage, knowing that Friday was garbage day but figuring that you’d easily beat the garbage guys out there except they had the truck in stealth mode and came at 3am so that when you crept down in the dark and collected the garbage helpfully bagged by your wife the night before and cleaned the cat box and trudged through the snow to add your bags to the neighbors’ cans you found them empty?
Q3: If DDT was outlawed in 1972 and you catch the 7:07 out of Beacon heading south at 60 miles per hour on a winter Friday in 2007, how many bald eagles (Haliaeetus leucocephalus) will you see from the train window as you pass by salt marshes and fresh-water outlets at the mouths of small tributaries?
Q4: How freaking cool does Hook Mountain look from the east shore of the river when the sun hits the snow detailing its sheer stone face?
A1: Eleven degrees. A2: Usual time. A3: Four in the last couple weeks, or maybe the same pair in two different places. A4: Muy.
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