My Friend, the Hammer

Years ago, before I was married, I bought my first house and spent less than you might spend on a BMW today. I had just moved from Arkansas to Arizona in a U-Haul filled, sad as it was, with a meager collection of possessions that most thrift stores would reject, including some hand tools, some of which belonged to my grandfather.

My new house had a miserable back porch, a place that most chickens would find unacceptable to visit, much less roost, with moldy peeling wallboard, spattered in black in those places where more than a few rats, so depressed by their surroundings, took their own lives in desperation, apparently by banging their heads against the wall.

It occurred to me that I, a new home owner, should improve my situation. I still remember my first visit to the hardware store, trying out the mini sledgehammers until I found just the right one, then taking it home and smashing the back porch to pieces.

Since then my hammer never has let me down--my Luca Brazzi. Last year I noticed a crack in the handle just below the head. Did I go buy another one? No. I filled the crack with heated glue, wrapped the handle tight with nylon cord (the little patch of white) and then finished it with a layer of stretched tape. And like my newly repaired hernia, my hammer is now better than before.

Soon he and I will be visiting the guest bathroom. It will be glorious.

Garlic Breath

This shot from the back yard includes our mango tree on the left, the scarlet buds of our Turk's cap in the center, and our palm tree on the right, all bathed in the calm, cloudy light that precedes the storm predicted for this afternoon. I'm still sniffling and coughing, so nothing is getting done, and all projects are on hold.

The insipid and gluttonous Sri Lankan biobot weevils are still munching on the Turk's cap, but in much reduced numbers this year. Maybe they are beginning to fear me. Instead of threatening and yelling at these little bugs, now I just pick them up and blow on them with my usual garlic-thick breath. The word must be getting around--they run and hide when they see me coming. Sometimes a new strategy like this comes to you from outside the box, and you need to be ready for it.

I've been listening to C-Span today, watching the senators spin out some predictable arguments about health care. Yelling and threatening from inside the box, all of which is orchestrated posturing. A new strategy, and some garlic breath, may be the only hope.

From my perspective, universal healthcare is the best solution. People with money could buy supplimental insurance, the more money the better. What could be more American than that?

Wooden Ships

Cheryl and I remain under the influence of a nasty, deceptive cold. Just when I think I'm feeling better, it kicks my butt again.

This morning I found an old snapshot of memory. Crosby, Stills and Nash will be on HBO tonight, on the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame show, and I was reminded of a night back in early 1970s. Fast Eddie and I were renting an old house out in the country. I had gone to bed and the stereo was still playing--Wooden Ships. This was back when a turntable needle pulled music from the grooves of a plastic disk.

I remember that the room was dark but I could still see the window frame and, at the lower left corner of the frame, there was a place on the wall, directly in front of my eyes, where the wallpaper was peeled back to reveal the netting underneath. At that moment a train approached, blowing its whistle from just across the street and temporarily drowning out Crosby, Stills and Nash. Something burned this moment--the sight and sound--so deeply into my memory that it could have happened last night.

My memory is not so good. Probably these snapshots will become faded and then eventually disappear from my mind. Maybe if I write down a few of them, it will help (if I can remember that I wrote them down).

I'll be watching the show tonight, hoping to hear Wooden Ships again.

A Stupid Cold

I came down with a cold this week. So while Cheryl, who gave me this cold and who has now recovered, is out shopping today with the rest of the country, I'm at home struggling to write this. (It's either this or go back to bed.) Meanwhile Willow just wants to go to the park. She's got no patience with a whiner and complainer like me.

Now seems a good opportunity to describe, to actually write down, what I feel like when I have a cold. People really can't remember pain or sickness very well--I would do some research on this now but I feel like crap, and I don't really care if it's true.

At this moment I feel like a carpenter's vise is attached to my head just behind my eye sockets. The tension would be just right to join two pieces of clear pine but not quite enough for oak. It seems that in my sleep someone stuffed a sock up my nose and into my sinus cavity, a rough wool sock that scratches against my eyeballs when I blink. My ears are ringing. My fingers, hands and arms feel heavy with weights. And I am profoundly stupid, more so than usual, a sleepy, slow stupid.

We did have a nice Thanksgiving yesterday, so I'm not complaining.

Dogs: The Solution

It's 6:00 am, still dark, and the dogs and I have already had breakfast and coffee. Bingo is sleeping on the floor next to me in the office--unlike most of the dogs I've had, he likes to sleep on the bare floor instead of a rug, possibly to help keep his new embedded hardware cool.

Apparently his CIA modifications have gone well. Now that he has a direct, always-on link to the home office, I am completely out of the loop and can only guess at what new features he might be downloading. Such is the nature of things.

Probably my favorite dog of all time was Matt, a German Shepherd/Lab mix who lived about 15 years and was never neutered. I lived in rural Arkansas much of this time (back before I met Cheryl) and Matt could run free night and day. He had a long-term girlfriend--a wild dog (literally wild, she lived in the woods and hunted for food). She had Matt had a tempestuous relationship, as you might expect, on-again off-again, and sometimes Matt would disappear for days, only to return tired and hungry, then go off again. But then we moved to Arizona and settled down. I got married, but poor Matt never found his soul mate.

Until recently, I always felt a little sorry for city dogs, that they lived the proverbial dog's life. But now I realize, and am beginning to fear, that dogs may soon become the government's solution to the economy, health care and many other issues. Dogs work for food, never complain and never think they are sick. OK, then, but what about all these people?

Valve Stem, Part 3

Yesterday I screwed the newly refurbished valve stem into the shower wall. Works like a charm, thanks to my local neighborhood plumber (who was reluctant to even accept payment). No leaks. Who knew that an 80-year-old stem could still perform like a young faucet. Here's best wishes to me for when I'm that old.

Our puppy is in the CIA laboratories today for an experimental procedure. Sure, this means he will never have puppies of his own, but he will now be able to run faster than my Honda. What can you do?

Also, I just saw this picture in my hometown newspaper (Arkansas). Sometimes I get so isolated in my own world of lentil soup, yoga and NPR that I forget what a big and diverse country this is. I didn't realize, though, that young girls were going hunting--anywhere. But maybe this is nothing new?

It would be easy to criticize, but I'm sure this little girl has a loving dad who believes he is doing the right thing, and we all the right to live as we choose.

My stepfather grew up during the Depression in rural Arkansas, when hunting was an essential part of life. He was really a great guy, someone who accepted me for the nancy-boy that I am. So I try to be tolerant as well.

I just hope this little girl never gets mad at me.