A poem, by Gabe Clement:
Look! It’s the Invisible Man!
Can’t you see him?
With his dark brown coat
and long black hair.
Don’t look him in the eyes--
He has the creepiest stare.
If you give him a hug, he’ll give you a toy.
But you didn’t hear this from me,
‘Cause I’m the inaudible boy.
There is the slightest chance that med #2 may be having the most slight of positive effects. I feel rather glumly certain that med #1 has had no such benefit. (so do we keep buying it at ridiculous name-brand drug expense? Why?) But as for #2...could it be responsible for the reduction in backyard flotsam...the steady progress on door refinishing...the near-completion of a chapter book (ok...Robert B. Parker, but what the heck.)?
How does one even know? What if it is helping? Of course I am glad if it is. Of course I must be glad if it is. Of course I want to see the best things I can see. Of course. It is best to smile and ignore the second little voice screaming from the back of my brain “Why don’t you just kill me now and get it over with?? What? You think I want to go through this again?
Of course we will ignore that little voice. And of course, we know that any benefit derived from med #2 will be temporary, and will not change the timing or the direction of the eventual trajectory. But of course--if one more Spenser book can be read...if one more decent conversation can be had--who would turn that down? And we can ignore the little screaming voice. Or at least pat it, and say “there there,” as it shrieks “you’re teasing me! Don’t give me a warm fuzzy if you’re not going to let me keep it!”
Once, when I was 15, I had a ring. (I was not a cute and nubile sort of 15. I was more of the gangly and awkward type of 15. The picture of the aphorism: It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.) I don’t remember where I got the ring. It was sterling silver, and basically a continuous strand, the diameter of string, which looped into a pretzel shaped knot. That was its decoration. I liked it.
One day--a nice day I think--I was sitting in the front yard with Duane. Duane was our exchange student from South Africa. Duane did not worry about being thought a fool. She was not. She was 2.5 years older, and several decades more mature, than I. We were sitting in the front yard, and Jeff came over from across the street. He was 29. I knew him as one of Corky’s older brothers whom I didn’t know other than to know him as one of Corky’s older brothers. But he was in our front yard to meet Duane. They chatted. I remained silent, as was the wisest move in my view, and stayed at a safe 10 or so feet away in the grass. I was playing with my ring. Fiddling with it. Taking it on and off. Duane was sitting in the grass, and Jeff was standing, in a spread-leg posture so that he would be lower to the ground, talking with her. I kept playing with my ring. I dropped it.
Then, I couldn’t find my ring. I was looking for it, but most discreetly, because the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to the fact that I’d lost something. Because then I might have to talk. Well, Jeff was still standing there, spread-legs, and without a word he flung something at me. My ring. He was 10 feet away, and I’d merely dropped it.
For the past 2 years or so, when I’m in that weird state between awake and asleep, I am seized with the notion that someone/something is trying to take my rings. Not the silver knot ring. I don’t have that. It disappeared in the transitional college years. My current rings are my gold wedding ring which is too big, and my enagement ring which is not too big and holds the wedding band on. So, typically, I’m lying in bed not-quite-asleep and I feel a little panic. I can’t articulate who or what is trying to take my rings, but it’s something. Sometimes I take them off. Sometimes I put them on my bedside table, and occasionally I get up and carry them over to my earring box and put them in it. But I’m not quite awake. Just aware enough that, when I get up in the morning, I know what I did and can find the rings.
I don’t know why I do that. I don’t have any other freaky sleep, or almost-sleep, disorders. Maybe I just know something is taking something important away from me.
Our basement needs work. While I’ve attacked it in the past, even 5 years of clutter can seem impossible. Jeff has been working at getting some of his lumber flotsam up and out, but he tends to rummage in the non-lumber areas as well, and it is not uncommon for the basement to belch up several books, or another oddment which I’m just not ready to deal with yet.
Let’s leave that in the basement, I say. I’m just not ready to sort it yet. So back down it goes. Usually with me.
Today’s surprise basement burpage was a batch of semi-unrolled blueprint packets, strewn copiously across the kitchen counter. I recognized them. 228 Otterbein St--the first place we lived together.
Iiiiiigg I splutter, my clutter-aversion anxiety beginning to knot up my innards. What’s this doing here?
I did this, says Jeff, spreading out one of the rolls. I planned this, and drew it, and built it. Me and [cousin] Robin.
My knot unknots. My angst unangsts. I look at the drawing. A detailed rendering of a house--carefully measured, intricately marked, detailed features neatly sketched in. Look, Jeff says, I used to be able to do this stuff.
Yes, I say. You did do it. And it’s good. You pretty much designed and built the house we’re in right now too. Smile. Hug. The blueprints disappear later without my asking.
My right thumb is bundled up in a band-aid like a little peasant char-woman in winter. Constant wrappage seems the only way to convince the tiny crack--born of cold, dry air--that it is, in fact, appropriate to heal. It may be healing. But it resembles the fissure it was closely enough that I’m reluctant to unwrap it yet. 2 more days maybe.
Here is my goal and job for now. Preparing. One of the necessities being to create as manageable, unconfusing, and clutter free house as possible under the circumstances. I’m happy to get rid of stuff. Contact me if you want stuff. Personally, I don’t want stuff.
We’ve had an ongoing discussion about the lyrics to A Whole New World, from Aladdin. I was sure--really really sure--that Aladdin says “shining shimmering splendor.” It only makes sense, after all, to follow up two adjectives with a noun if you want a well-rounded phrase. But Olivia--who should know, as it is on her iPod--insisted that he says “shining, shimmering, splendid.” I had to look it up. It is “splendid.” As Gabe pointed out based on a lyrical analysis--”If it said ‘splendor’ instead of ‘splendid’ then you’d have to change the next line--’Tell me princess, now when did you last let your heart decide’ to ‘tell me princess now when/or did you let your heart decide.’ Makes no sense Mom, now does it?” The kid is correct. When you’re wrong, you’re wrong.
I wonder sometimes, if I allow myself to sink into this quiet world where overstimulation is to be avoided, and communication depends on a true ability to live in the moment...will I be there forever? Will that become my permanent world? But I trust that it is a groundless fear. I should be able to segue, like an amphibian living half in the water, half on land. Both worlds have their particular beauty and a healthy creature, designed for such, can interface with either.
At times I’ve thought about what I would do if I were in jail. Just a plain, dank, standard jail cell. Colorless. Not much, it would seem, to offer. What would I do? But most jails--at least around here--have a library, have ways to access learning, and have people to interact with. One can write, one can study. There is never nothing to do. Even if you’ve got no resource to draw on but the creativity of your own mind and a piece of chalk to scratch on the wall with, there are means to create in vivid color.
When you’re bummed, he’s bummed, and it soon becomes obvious that your entire support network is likewise bummed, it’s time to say, “Cool. We’re all bummed! Time to move on.”
People probably wonder how you can possibly live in hell. But to some people, bugs are hell. To others, shoveling snow is hell. To others, 95°F in the shade is hell. So you say, “It’s not hell. You just plan differently. And do things differently, at different times. And enjoy the heat. Ok?"
This is a most interesting chunk of weeks. When we are home I’m trying to locate myself just ahead of, or just behind, the work crew who may be doing anything from spackling the hall ceiling to applying window trim in a bedroom. While I’m completely accustomed to stepping over dropcloths or pneumatic nailers as a matter of daily routine, tripping over guys who barely know me hasn’t been a regular thing since a couple years ago.
It is also a time speckled liberally with unnerving visits to a stunning array of docs and diagnostic venues. Jeff’s default tendency to live in the moment is serving him well from the standpoint of his nerves, but mine are running a bit on edge as I can’t really turn off my mental map of the overall diagnostic schema and where it may be leading. The advantage to this coinciding with having contractors is that they usually park Jeff in, lessening the odds that he’ll duck out for a Wendy’s chicken sandwich and I’ll lose him at a critical moment.
Hazel has picked now to exhibit a flare-up of pink belly. Maybe it’s just the season, or maybe it’s that she got into the other cats’ food which is causing her immune system to complain about the onslaught of proteins other than duck and pea, but whatever the case--she’s just going to have to hang in there, or drive me to desperation before she gets hauled in for a steroid injection. Freddi meanwhile, is getting more walks than usual, but otherwise having to tolerate the one finished room with a closeable door--Gabe’s bedroom. Had she not attempted to eat the contractors’ dog (twice her size) a few days ago, she might have more liberty, but you just can’t turn that terrier tenacity off with a switch.
Jeff’s old college mate, French, is in town for an ecumenical ministry conference in D.C. We got him from the airport to his hotel with a brief diner lunch yesterday, and will retrieve him for a two-night stay chez nous on Thursday before redelivering him to the airport. And in a way, this might be the perfect time for such a visit. Who could possibly present the expert hostess façade under present conditions? I’m sure he’ll be quite happy, once he’s dodged several stepladders en route to the room I’ll put him in, to join us for two days of meals away from what my friend Katherine has dubbed “topsy-turvy land.”
Sadly, I am inescapably low on lunchbox whatnots, and must fit a trip to the grocery store in somewhere today. That will be after today’s doctor thing.
Gabe is showing Jeff a card trick. He shuffles, and says “tell me when to stop.” Jeff stares diligently at the flipping cards and says, “King of spades?” Gabe says “no, just tell me when to stop shuffling.”
There are some not-half-bad Whole Foods brand pizzas in the freezer. That’s what’s for dinner. I do not feel so ambitious as to cook something tonight. Even dessert. So the oven is preheating to 390° F. (What kind of a weird setting is 390°?)
Gabe says “watch closely and try to guess how I know which card to stop at.” Jeff stares intently. “You bent a corner back?” (Bravo, I think. That is in fact a trick I’ve known Gabe to use. But it’s not right this time.)
I will need to remember to go to the wine store tomorrow. Jeff keeps bringing home this stuff called “Black Box.” It is, in fact, housed within a box. But within the box is a plastic bag with an attached spigot with which you dispense the Chardonnay. It is not bad as wines for cheap people go, but it kind of somewhere between annoys and amuses me that the only way to dispense the last glass is to remove the plastic bag from the black box, unsquish it, snip a hole in it for good air flow, and dispense. Somehow I feel like I’m drinking wine from an IV bag. It is not sufficiently cheaper for me to tolerate that strange aesthetic. Tomorrow I’ll look for a nice cheap French bottle.
Tonight we got about .25 inches of snow. They’re calling for “wintry mix” later. (That should either be a form of Chex cereal based snack containing chestnuts, or a cd compilation featuring Christmas classics.) At any rate, the question remains: will the wintry mix delay school tomorrow morning? Will my intentions of getting Jeff to the new neurologist with plenty of time to spare be impeded by school shuttling concerns? Only Mr. Cold Miser knows.
Olivia calls to find out what’s for dinner, or more specifically, whether it’s something “good.” Whole Foods frozen pizzas do not qualify, so we negotiate as to whether I will subsidize her stopping at Ledo’s on the way home from work. I concede up to $5. Deal.
Jeff is standing next to my computer stool at the counter. In one hand he holds a glass of IV bag wine, and in the other, a slice of Whole Food pizza. I can’t help but note the vast departure in dining styles from my childhood of setting the table, and serving each plate with a well-balanced combination of salad, meat, vegetable, and starch. I think two things: One--It’s nice to re-experience that delicacy when we eat with my mom (except in that few of us eat the meat portion anymore,) and two--Don’t worry. I know better than to try this at home.
Wintry mix update: Liva calls. On the way home from work she hit an icy patch and does several total 360’s. Fortunately there were no cars around, and she pulled into a lot. I offer to hike 1/2 mile and drive her car home, but assure her that it should be ok if she does it slowly. I don’t know how slowly she went, but she’s home without incident in what seems like 3 minutes.
There just aren’t enough people here. The girls are gone, and Liva, though technically in residence, is trying to condition me to her eventual flight by having a 24 hour social life. I do actually appreciate Gabe’s occasional card trick.
I had a sneaking suspicion about the calendula ointment on Jeff’s bathroom sink. I was not aware of any burns or rashes he needed to treat, yet there it was, conveniently stashed behind the cold water handle. I asked. He allowed as how the toothpaste has had a funny taste this week. I couldn’t help but note that the tube design bears no resemblance to Tom’s of Maine, nor have we ever tried a flavor that comes in a clear yellow gel, but you know, I guess they could make one.
Agua Clara is on the touchy cd player. For now. Once I shut a drawer over there a little too hard it will stop, protesting that its cd insertion door is OPEN. Silly thing. Years ago, Gabe made what is meant to be some sort of ball shaped vase in school, shiny with brown glaze. It is a useful wad of ceramic to place on top of the cd player's lid to fool it into thinking it’s closed, but it’s still a touchy thing, and reacts to the slightest bumps. Agua Clara is a Peruvian group. They were playing in Penn Station a couple weeks ago, and so pleased me in a mere 5 minutes that I bought their cd. Lots of hooty bamboo flute type instruments, with guitar and percussion.
This has been Pride and Prejudice immersion week. In addition to watching the ‘06 movie for the 4th time, I read the book, and watched the film once again with the director’s commentary running. Now I am very much wishing we had house guests, staying for 10 days, or 6 weeks or so, who would be keeping company with me in the drawing room where we’d play cards or engage in clever conversation. A prerequisite, of course, is that this whole fantasy would come with a cook and housekeepers. I do not require the fully outfitted guys who, one per chair, would push each diner’s chair in as we sit.
Our quick NYC get-away was, as usual, all in all a good thing. There is a remarkably endless array of places to eat. I really like places to eat, so it grieves me slightly to pick one in the sense that I must forego numerous others in the same neighborhood. Other times, other times.
Among the more discordant notes, there is nothing like a trip to exacerbate the noticeable neuropsychiatric deficits of chronic Lyme. Sometimes it means you fiddle around with your continental breakfast uncertain whether you need to pick up a fork, move your coffee cup, or get the muffin out of the way before you can eat your fruit. Your partner will almost certainly have to stop frequently, when walking in crowds, to make sure you haven’t lost sight of her, which you will do. A lot. You will not understand, or be able to keep track of, the day’s agenda even if your partner has discussed it with you several times. It is highly likely that if there are several blocks to go before you get to the subway stop (from which you will take a 30 minute ride across Queens to Forest Hills,) that you will forget that you haven’t done the subway part yet and ask a random stranger, in Greenwich Village, if he knows how to get to Forest Hills. This will chagrin your partner more than it does the random stranger who will merely look confused. It is also highly probable that, once on the subway, you may forget to sit down or grab the pole, and you will fall into the lap of yet another random stranger. Most random strangers, in my experience, are fairly good-humored.
The Hotel Gansevoort is a great place to stay if it entertains you to watch (from eight floors above) an endless processional of yellow taxis circling the block as they drop off and retrieve the hip in-crowd. I found it entertaining at midnight, and still so at 2 a.m. when my bladder called. By 7 a.m there was only a cab or two on the street, but there was a NY Times on our room door in a gray cloth bag.
The girls are all out. Somebody got Clunkola the Jeffmobile. I suspect it was Becca. It must be one of the pitfalls of middle child-dom. You get the yucky car. I feel strongly that I would like to go to bed tonight. Last night I got to feeling yucky on the train, and still did when we retrieved our car which was sadly low on fuel. We found a non-functioning BP station where Jeff failed to notice that he was not filling the car with gas while I discreetly barfed in the empty stretch of grass next door. Fortunately it was after midnight and no one was about. Fortunately no cop stopped to question whether I was fit to drive. Fortunately I was, as it had nothing to do with alcohol. And the next gas station had gas. But I just don’t think I can do the wait-up-for-the-girls thing tonight.
Today we discussed how there was no way for me to help Jeff with his activities of daily living without being--at various times--annoyingly solicitous, annoyingly impatient, or just plain annoying. He assured me that it is not a focused irritation he displays, and I must not take it personally. He is mad, he is frustrated, he is irked. But then, who wouldn’t be?
I do not, just because it’s New Year’s Day, have any particularly meaningful comments to make. The word observations, in this context, would mean pretty much the same thing as comments and I don’t have any good ones of those either, so I’ll make some stupid ones.
I really ought to go turn off the coffee pot so its little red light will stop reminding me to drink more. Even though it’s half-caf. Enough is enough.
This is the first New Year’s Eve in three years that I haven’t been hit by a surprise wave of melancholy while deciding whether to go to bed early or watch dumb tv. A distant friend in Scunthorpe sent me cheering words each of those times, and greatly appreciated those words were, but somehow I dodged the wave this year.
One apple pie does not go far in a house with Jeff and Gabe. If I’m going to bother, I may as well make two.
A kind and clever neighbor has a niece who lives in Paris. He responded to my expressed twinge of envy the following way: “The way I see it, you’ve got sky, you’ve got ground, you’ve got shelter and a warm bed pretty much anywhere you go, if you’re lucky.” Very true. Dandelions could be quite charming if all you’ve got is bougainvillea.
It can get old to point somebody in the direction of a spoon several times every morning. And, by the way, we keep bowls over there. Just where they’ve been for 15 years. The flip side is the unavoidable pathos of the situation. What I often want to do is bundle the guy into the car and take a trip. A road trip, a boat trip, an airplane trip. Let’s just go places so we can see interesting things and forget about what we can’t do. Matlock and Magnum can stay here.
Gabe is drifting around the house like a Roomba without the added usefulness. He is “heightening his senses” by wearing a blindfold made from a scrap of leftover pink fleece from Rachel’s sock-making project. He is heightening the sensitivity of everyone else’s frayed nerves. If only he could suck up dust and dog hair, but, alas, the result is more likely to be further entropy.
I can’t take the road trip. As is so often the case in life there is no way to perfectly balance the needs of everyone within one’s main sphere of influence. So I might as well welcome Matlock and Magnum as my allies, just as I used to uncomfortably rely on videos to occasionally squeeze in a bit of respite when children were small.
Rachel’s sock project is everywhere. It keeps trying to take over the kitchen counter, but I beat it back every twelve hours or so. I would think covering every square inch of the kitchen table would be adequate. I would think.
There’s a big question mark hovering, almost visibly, over the doxycycline bottle. Does it help? Is this valuable? Are we needlessly stirring things up? Should we declare a truce with the borrelia--maybe invite them to tea--maybe cede just the portion of the brain that controls...I don’t know...how to use a tv remote? Are there even any borrelia in there? We don’t know.
Gabe is trying the free 10 day trial of World of Warcraft. One day into the trial period he says, with an analytical grimace, “On a scale of 1-5, I’d give it a 1.” After 2 days he says, “It’s fun as long as you’re a gnome or a zombie.”
Jeff wants to rent The Black Dahlia, but he’s suddenly dealing with a head full of spirochete exudate and wants a ride to Blockbuster. “Can I take a 30 minute nap first?” I say, trying to say it without waking up. I wake up soon anyway because my cell phone starts making barnyard noises. It’s 3:05. But it’s Saturday. So I don’t need to go pick Gabe up from his carpool. He’s downstairs, being a zombie. Or a gnome. Jeff meanwhile, has discovered that WETA is showing clips of old movies and he’s quite content without Black Dahlia.
I play Frost and Snow. It’s a hornpipe from a Christmas fiddle book, and I play it poorly. Fortunately, I play everything poorly so Frost and Snow won’t feel singled out.
Olivia is trying to balance her part time toy store job, school, and track. Today the the balance is tipping. I can gauge by how much noise she has to make to get ready for school. Today was noisy. I did, however, get Gabe out of the shower promptly enough that he could eat oatmeal. Well, something ate oatmeal. It looked like a large, animatronic green bedspread which would try to swallow the dog if I didn’t keep it in line.
We had a Dr. Aucott appointment today. Dr. Aucott thinks that maybe our results show enough glimmer of positivity that we push on in the same direction. The march of the pink pills continues...
Some whim overtook me tonight with great enough urgency that I made a pecan pie, crust and all. It’s in the oven. Sadly, it must cool or it will run all over the pan and plate. I may have gone to bed by then. Pie is a good breakfast.
Why would a little wandering peaceful feeling settle around you all of a sudden, unprovoked? I don’t know, but I wouldn’t give it a wedgie.
I’m sure it’s partly because of a plan--a plan that seems, maybe, workable. Sell School St., sell Oyster Catcher Ct., sell West St., keep Otterbein and East West. Ok, ok, I know that probably doesn’t quell any of your demons, but mine are somewhat placated, and I’m ok with that.
(Excuse me, I have to go put on the next Gregg Hansen cd. Kind of a Charlie Byrd vibe with a slight hippie edge. Did it.)
Jeff did something today. He got some vegetation clippers and cleared a whole bunch of overgrowth away from the driveway. Then he crashed, fully and utterly, in front of a History channel program on adhesives. He said, upon recovery, “I was feeling so normal this morning...and then I just crashed.” “You know,” sez I, “what a positive sign this morning burst of energy is? Crashing afterwards was ok.” (In other words, don’t give it a wedgie.) I think we’ve got the spirochetes on the run. They may leave some post-apocalyptic destruction in their wake, but they’re on the run.
Here’s what I’ve been trying to do--talk myself into the idea that I want to live in Severna Park forever and ever. The problem is, I really like Eastport. And Murray Hill in Annapolis, but maybe especially Eastport. And then there’s the disturbing new trend of my admiring Federal Hill in Baltimore. Particularly the Riverside Park area. If you don’t know why, then you’ve never been on a third floor deck looking out at the city lights and the Domino Sugar sign. Well, we’ve got a year and a half of Olivia in the S.P. public school system, and then...I don’t know, we’ll just have to wait and see.
Speaking of Olivia and a year and a half--she’s not exactly burning rubber in her pursuit of colleges she’d like to visit. This would be a good time for me to pay a call to PrincetonReview.com and generate a default list of schools on her behalf. Then I’ll study Spanish. I don’t know about you, but I think the verb querer has a few too many funky forms.
Fidelity must be dumb or something. Monday we trotted our little dubloon certificates for shares in Smelly Jack’s Treasure Chest and Loan into Washington so we could sign ‘em over to Fidelity who’d hold the shares in “street name.” You figure if a brokerage would have a pyramid tip radiating light beams as its logo, then it must know what it’s doing. So I was quite surprised when I logged on later and discovered that though we’d deposited 130 dubloons, they’d credited us with 230.
Well, I think, that’s so much more generous than a toaster that they probably didn’t intend that as a lovely welcome gift. Of course I give the briefest whiff of a notion to super-quickly putting in a sell-all-dubloons order online, but I imagine that their accounting apartment could be a little sharper than the data entry people. So I call them instead. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am, I’m back to 130 dubloons.
Fine then. Until today when I get a zippy yellow and red, extremely urgent, DHL Express envelope containing our original 30 dubloon certificate attached to a note requesting that Jeff sign away his rights to those 30 dubloons to me. But he already signed such a form. In D.C. On Monday. I was even wearing good shoes, so I remember. Several phone calls later, Fidelity’s sending me a special, certified, overnight envelope so I can return the certificate to them since they had the right paperwork after all. Good. I would hate to have to put my shoes back on to get this straightened out. But now I’m pretty sure they’re dumb.
I must be dumb or something too. I tried to sell 120 dubloons yesterday, but couldn’t quite squeak it in before closing bell, 4 pm EST. So I tried today, this time as a “limit order” which means I’d only sell my shares in Smelly Jack IF the per dubloon price matches yesterday’s closing price. That didn’t happen. Smelly Jack evidently sprung a bit of a leak today, and this naturally shows up on my Fidelity account page in technicolor, most unreassuring red. So what do I do tomorrow? Wait until Smelly Jack’s mast is listing a bit more, then unload it before my account page glows and even glarier shade of red? Chuckle, and say, nonchalantly what’re a few dubloons? I’m all about diversifying and sell at what tomorrow’s market will bear? I fear that I lack the cool, incisive demeanor I need for this business. But it’s the only business I’ve got at the moment, so a decision must be reached. And will be.
There’s a device living in my basement which has a habit of baffling me every Fall. I guess the technical term for it is “manifold.” It is a plumbing marvel--a contorted tangle of copper tubing and valves, punctuated by several pumps and even more outlets. Its intended function is to carry water to and from the water heater, to and from the multitude of hose loops that run under the floor upstairs, and now, part of downstairs too. It was installed by Yank the plumber, but an imaginative neophyte might suppose we’d commissioned Rube Goldberg, or maybe Captain Nemo.
Here is what I do every Fall. Just as I’ve reached the end of my ability to cheerfully get up in the morning while setting cold feet on the even colder floor, and fishing around for a bathrobe, I decide it won’t hurt to fire up the furnace...just a crack. But it doesn’t work. It takes a while to figure this out, because radiant heat is notoriously slow to take decisive and noticeable action, just as it is slow to ease off once you’ve turned your entire upstairs into a too-toasty sauna. So I pad around the floor for a couple days, feeling for the tell-tale warm patches. No dice. Then I enter the netherworld of the house, and stare at the manifold with its 18 feed valves and 18 return valves, and numerous who-knows-what valves spread haphazardly along the rest. Surely I’m bright enough to comprehend the thing, and surely, with enough staring, it will all begin to make sense. This morning I noticed one thing: the feed valves above the pumps were closed. More padding, more feeling, more staring at the copper hydra, hoping something else will occur to me. This afternoon I noticed something else: the return valves that let the water out of the loops and back to the heater were closed too. Yes. One needs open loops. I just checked--the thermometer which is supposed to tell you the temp of water entering the loops has crept from nothing to at least registering warmth. It must, for the system to be functioning correctly, eventually be exceeding the returned water thermometer’s reading by 15 degrees F. The water heater has begun to kick on and roar with greater frequency. I take this to mean it’s discovered that there is, in fact, water to heat as the system perhaps has finally begun to circulate. Yank the plumber is coming over Thursday. I will ask him every possible question I can think of and this time take notes. Probably even draw a detailed diagram. The basement beast really needs to learn who’s boss.
When I was in first grade I had a friend by the name of Eileen who liked, above all, to take the role of pedagog. I can’t recall all of the ways in which she attempted to instruct me though I do remember her awkward demonstration of ballet first and second position. Another standout moment involved her explicit instructions re how to fill out one of the schedule blanks found in the inside cover of a black&white marble composition book. I was to write (or draw,) in this order: star, check, yes, plus, ok. Seemed like a complicated sequence for a space meant to show a clock time, but Eileen seemed pretty sure of herself, so I didn’t argue.
This is what I thought of as I tried, again, to navigate the AppleWorks database program I’ve inherited from the elderly gentleman down the road. It contains membership data for the Anne Arundel Community Concert Association. I’m sure that every single data field in that program made perfect sense to him as he constructed it, but for me it’s like rummaging through someone else’s junk drawer of random objects to find a screwdriver. AppleWorks, sadly, is a lame duck. The data, in this format, cannot be transferred to the computer of anyone who uses a PC. I’ve a strong urge to retrofit the entire computer-geek records job using FileMaker. But I can’t. Because my iBook is too old to use a new version of FileMaker. I’m not doing any major overhaul on AppleWorks because it’s a dead language. It's entirely possible that I'm just too dumb to jump into someone else's game. But I could make it make sense to me with the right tools. Which I don't have. So for now, or until my G3 processor begins showing its age enough to really annoy me, I’ll be bumbling along, trying to sort through the buttons, old bolts, and other assorted flotsam, looking for a screwdriver.
A vignette from my paternal ancestry, based on what I’ve learned from participating in the National Geographic Genographic project:
Bjarni the Viking oarsman, becomes lost in the Scottish heather after a night of heavy pillaging and stumbles into a humble hamlet where he meets up with Duffy the farmer.
Bjarni: Hvar er the öl?*
Duffy: Dornt ken whit yoo're sayin' but we've got a brammer pot ay stew in th' hut.
Duffy’s comely daughter Aithbhreac bounces out to feed the flock.
Duffy: Guid day, dochter, yoo've bin pinin' since th' bear ate 'at laddie ay yoors. whit abit thes fellaw?
Aithbhreac: (giving Bjarni the once over) Och aye, yoo're bonnie enaw, but yoo'd better pit doon 'at battle axe ur yoo'll scaur th' sheep.
Bjarni: Hvar er the kjöt?**
Duffy: Lookee thaur, th' druid is reit behin' th' cabre. an' he brooght mistletoe.
Aithbhreac: Stain haur please.
Bjarni: Hvar ert the vídeó leikur?***
(Druid gestures meaningfully over Bjarni and Aithbhreac)
Duffy: Gallus! welcome tae th' fowk, laddie wi' a funay hat!
And 20 or so Y-chromosome hand-offs down the road, or roundabout 1770, Thomas Gillespie sets off for the New World.
(*where’s the ale? **where’s the meat? ***where are the video games?)
