This morning I built a good fire in the basement and settled in to read. And read I did – for most of the day. Then I came upstairs and watched some of the ice dancing with Summer. She thought it was pairs skating and, finally, after a couple of confusing verbal exchanges with her grandpa, exclaimed, “This is ice dancing!?!” That was about as exciting as my day got.

I did have one bit of daydreaming when I envisioned a conveyor belt going up to the chimney and dropping wood right onto the fire whenever I pushed a button on my remote. Other than that, it was a slow idea day.

And, now, I am sleepy. Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.

I thought that, good heavens, it must be morning – early in the morning, but morning nevertheless. No, it was 10:30 pm, still Friday night when I looked at the clock. I had been reading, stretched out and covered up and I do remember my eyes feeling heavy as I finished my book. So, I just put it down and closed my eyes and ACK!  I shall call it my powerful nap, because I think a power nap is supposed to be measured in minutes. Let’s just say my endurance at this endeavor is inspiring.

Dayton was having heavy, wet snow right at rush hour and so Der Bingle is coming in the morning. When I talked with him around five, he said the radio reported 30 accidents in 30 minutes. Maybe he decided to read a bit and then powerfully napped as well. Just a thought.

The entry to our driveway has become one big icy hump, I think caused by the downward slope of the driveway and the constant pressure of cars passing and pushing snow upward. This afternoon, after having banged in once again, I went out with my shovel and literally walloped the hump, then scraped some loosened parts off. At one point I felt like a little blue furry Grover standing out there, remarking, “Do you know that ice is very heavy?” in my little Grover voice.

I would get a some oddly-shaped frozen chunks of slush on the shovel blade and then carry the blade part like a serving tray to the mounds at the side of the drive. This was not a pristine moment: the snow was blackened with exhaust and there was no stillness of really cold winter air . . . because it was 20 degrees. 20!

Too bad I’m in the city limits, I think it might be fun to load a shot gun with rock salt and repeatedly blast the whole area. Now, officers, that was just a thought. Just a thought. An intriguing one, perhaps . . .

Two new toilets have been installed and a new faucet has been ordered, the former by a professional and the latter by moi. I can get it much, much cheaper than he can from his supplier. This is so embarrassing, but I really can’t give a critique of the toilets because I, uh, well, haven’t had any reason to use one of them yet.

So I would just talk about the faucet, but what can you say about a faucet, other than that to me, it has nice lines, is sturdy and looks a lot better than the ones I have with the little round plastic handles that get all blurry looking with soap scum. Maybe I could learn how to install faucets, or at least figure out some way to modify the handles. And maybe I could just shut up?

Yes, that’s not a bad idea, but it’s not advice I’m going to take. Typing on these keys is, in a way, liberating, and no one has to read the words. It is not as if I am standing in the middle of the mall making noise.

If I type big,

there is still

silence in the woods.

I realize that my grasp on conventional sanity is shaky, but I like it that way.

So, you trash collection company, first of all I want to tell you that when I write “you trash collection company” I am leaving out an adjective my father would not approve of my using. That is understandable; I am 65 and his generation, and perhaps rightly so, saw no reason for anyone, especially women to use really foul language.

So, you trash collection company, you must have read my post that I was predisposed to bitch (Sorry, Daddy) today and maybe you felt I might not have enough fuel. I, at age 65, had called and arranged for a third trashcan to be allotted for my pickup – at extra expense to me. The lady had verified that this would be my new account information and a third bin was delivered.

There’s been a lot of snow and I valiantly drug out three trash cans last night; I had to move them a bit this morning to get out to take Alison to work. When I returned, two trash cans had been emptied, but not the third. So, you trash collection company, I called but heard from a recording that  you, you trash collection company, were not open until 8 a.m.

Right at that time I called you, you trash collection company, and explained the situation. I told the person that the route right around the corner had not been picked up and could someone get the third can I had  officially arranged to have.

Oh, my, the very well spoken lady said my area was allotted only two bins and six bags. I explained my agreement; I told her a third bin had been delivered. I’m sorry, but . . .she said.

Now had I turned the third bin upside down and left the bags on the ground, they would have been taken. Note: these trash bins are engineered so that the truck can lift them and empty them way up high for emptying.

I’m not going to fight it; I’m going to change trash companies. I don’t care if it costs a little more or if it cost a little less. I contracted for a service and you trash collection company did not honor it.

I may be treading on thin ice here, because who knows what retribution may come – oh, trash accidentally falling off of a Serv-all truck on my drive and parkway? Well, it’s February; the ice should be thick and if not, the cold will negate the smell.

Now I must go start working on my super secret Anti-Serv-all Ray Gun . . . because I’m 65 and I’m really pissed off. (Yeah, Daddy, I know; that wasn’t necessary.)

The plumber did not come yesterday; this is understandable – emergencies happen. But as I finally got word in the afternoon, I growled at people and slunk off to be by myself. So today we are doing Plumber Day again. Yesterday, I wore a stained shirt so if I had to step in for anything to help with anything unsavory, I would be prepared. I have to get another one for today – not that that is a difficult task given my wardrobe.

Let’s see – something in the crockpot so people can be fed; that portends the question that will be presented more than once today: crockpot stuff or peanut butter?

The driveway being a one lane snow ravine with a spur, I am going to park the car elsewhere and with all this snow the only possibility is  the old IGA lot about a block away. Yesterday, I was able to take advantage of a doctor’s office that was closed on Wednesday.

I see the truth of this post is simple: SOME DAYS YOU JUST REALLY WANT TO BITCH. This seems to be one of my days. You know, I may just skip the crockpot food and choose the question: Peanut butter or nothing?

I’d say I’m on quite a roll today.

Louise turned away when she read “Harold” on the cop’s lips. She wasn’t curious enough about anything to do with Chablis the Dog to chance being made aware of anything more of Harold. Already the night of his accident was renewing itself in her conscious mind.

She turned and leaned against the door and her eyes fell on her nightmare, only lately she had begun to realize it was no nightmare. It was real; it was not going to change. The past was not going to change. Chablis the Dog pitied her; others blamed her and that was all there was to it. And she thought, “How did this happen?” She had thought that a lot in her life. And she knew the answer. She had made a mistake. And the mistake was her being her.

For some reason she herself did not understand, she had felt for so long deep inside that it could not be real. If she railed against this nightmare long enough, it would end. She would gulp in the fresh air of the time before. That would not assure anything would be different, however, but, oh, how she wanted that moment.

The one in front of her was not the beginning of it; she knew this, just as she knew the one before was not the beginning. Neither one could be assigned blame. She figured that if that were the case, she herself, the one before the one before wasn’t really to blame. It had just happened – those things that came together to make her her.

It was fascinating in truth, but the cards are only dealt once. There is no throwing in of a hand, no light-hearted laughter at her momentary bad luck, no luxury of being fascinated.

Harold had realized it a long, long time ago.

She remembered when had bought the boots; she had never thought about them being a danger, of getting caught on something. They had just looked uncomfortable. He made a habit of wearing them; he kept them polished. Once when she was just staring ahead at nothing in a waiting room, she realized she had focused on the heel on one boot; it had distinct markings on it, as if it had been wedged in something, then pulled loose. And then she was seeing the lamp on the table and the rack of magazines and who knows what she thought of next.

But she thought of those boots – of that particular boot, with its particular marking – within an instant of learning of his accident on the tracks. The heel caught; the train was coming. And, then, for Harold it was over.

It was quite a to-do and all the time she really knew. And she never once blamed him. She understood.

How could anyone stand to open the door each day and see a rug woven to look like cockroaches crawling at you? Before that it has been mambas hanging from vines. It was that damn fake guru in college who had started it – told her the was to overcome her fears was to face them. To create them in her mind and embrace them and overcome them.

Only it had all gone wrong; she couldn’t visualize and keep it in her mind, so she hired rug makers to sit at their looms and bring her fears to her. But she couldn’t overcome them, nor could she overcome the need to try.

Then suddenly she noticed something on the cockroaches: it was another broken heel, only this one was from a woman’s shoe. But how? She had no shoes with spike heels this high. It was odd – the only woman she knew who wore bright green very high heels was Chablis. The dog whined in front of her, begging for its newly found plaything back.

Today I am to have two new toilets installed, I realized it’s Lincoln’s birthday and then remembered it is also take out the trash night. I suppose that sentence says something about my life, but I don’t want to know.

I am bummed, waking up to find Tom Brokaw has cancer; not only have I always liked him, but this news points out this is a slippery slope we, the children of  The Greatest Generation, are standing on.

I have often remarked that no one really bothers you when you are mowing grass; I think the same holds true of shoveling snow. And sometimes that’s good – the silence, the stillness, looking at crystal air through wisps of hair held in front of your face by a blue, fur-trimmed trapper hat that has slipped a bit.

I just started typing this stream of consciousness non-story because I  felt it was time to clear out my brain. Just open all the doors and let the clutter fall out. Oops, there went 2+2; well, darn. I suppose I will have to sift through some of this debris on my keyboard before I totally empty the trash.

Yesterday, East Noble had no delay and there is not one today; it seems a little odd. Not bad . . . for me; just unusual.

****

What a difference and hour or so can make. Possible cabin fever and the urge to hibernate just awhile ago and now my blood is boiling. I heard through the grapevine that a teacher is saying that when schools close, kids don’t eat BECAUSE THE PARENTS DEPEND ON THE SCHOOL TO FEED THEM. I should not be surprised; for a couple of years in the summertime I have been driving my the local elementary school and seeing a free lunch sign for the summer months.

I am not advocating that these children do without food; I am saying that many of the people who are remarking on it are the continuing generations of those who encouraged government policies that have resulted in people expecting the government to take care of them.

The police cruiser pulled into Chablis’ driveway  the morning after she had missed two days of work; two officers, both in uniform and both not unknown to Chablis, who had tended bar off and on at the local cop hangout for quite a few years. These guys were not a mis-matched pair, but a temporary one – an older mentoring officer and a rookie, though not so much a rookie that he hadn’t traded quips with Chablis over coffee and doughnuts on his before shift snack and beers when he had come off a patrol, stake-out, domestic abuse call or your basic police whatever. They probably give miscellaneous stuff a number, but I’m not in the know. I’m lucky to be fairly certain of my 10-20.

But there they were, on the front stoop, waiting for someone to open the door. Someone did, only it was not Chablis, who had been known to take unauthorized vacations from work from time to time. The truck driver came to the door and spoke through the crack.

“Yeah?’

“Sir, we’re here to inquire about your wife, she’s . . . ” Although Officer Hughes had started out comfidently, his voice faded as  Chablis’ husband opened the door fully, revealing he was stark naked.

Brian Holman took a pull on his Mountain Dew, “She’s not here, hasn’t been for the past two days. Can’t you see her car’s gone. I figured she was out on a job.”

Trying to look in Brian’s eyes, and only in his eyes, Officer Hughes managed, “A job?” before his partner, grinning at the rookie’s red face, asked, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“You’re not going away, are you?” Brian stated more than asked and motioned them inside while he reached for a pair of pants hanging over a chair. Louise, who had been watching from across the street, could clearly see that he was putting the pants on without underwear. That’s all she saw because right then Officer Hughes (Hughie to his friends) closed the door.

Louise did not know what had been said because, unlike the officers, she had not been staring at the truck driver’s eyes or lips. Then the door opened and the officers left. They were still dressed and so she concentrated on reading their lips, as skill learned from watching countless Drive-In movies from the roof of her parents trailer out on Butter Bluff.

“Now, what would a nice looking fellow like this guy be marrying Chablis the Dog?” Hughie asked.

“Hell, I don’t know,” Tom White, Hughie’s partner muttered,” Old Chablis ain’t so bad when you’ve have about six beers and you keep remembering how sweet she was when you puked all over the counter . . .”

“You hurled on Chablis?!!” Hughie was incredulous. Tom had a reputation of being able to hold his liquor far better than his gun.

“It was a long time ago,” Tom started, “back right after we’d found Harold out on the railroad tracks.”

I’m not good at telling made up stories; Der Bingle can do it, but mine have no cleverness to them. So this is not a story; this is just me typing non-true fact-like things into sentences and seeing where they go. At this point, I am about ready to begin with See Spot run, but I believe that has been done before and, besides, Spot’s name never was Spot. Unless you count what we called him before we gave him a name, and then, that’s shaky, because Jane had a problem saying the letter “s” and called him Pot.

For awhile we all called him Pot. Then we called him Harry and Harry doesn’t run a lot. Harry tears around like a dervish and he barks. Harry is not the most popular dog in the neighborhood; he is also not the most unpopular dog. That would be Chablis who is ugly and human. One older man saw her sitting on her porch steps one day and growled, “What a dog!” to a much young man – a teenager in fact.  He thought the expression was coolly retro and, thus, Chablis the Dog appeared in whispered comments – some less whispered than others.

Then the whispering stopped because Chablis got married to a truck driver. No one expected it; for 15 years, Chablis had been living alone in the corner house on Horace Street and then all of a sudden there was this 40-year-old woman and her 35 year old truck driver husband living there. It was unsettling, although lots of people who hadn’t done more than nod when necessary, were suddenly bringing her little token wedding gifts.

Chablis may have been ugly, but she wasn’t stupid and she knew darn well everyone who had looked down on her before were now sniffing around to find out the who what where when and, of course, why. She lied to everyone, altering details as they do in spy stories to ferret out who is the mole, or in this case, the biggest gossip. The mole had always been on Chablis’ right cheek – the facial one. But that is neither here nor there; well, it is there, but it’s not important to the story, which this is not.

This is simply a long, drawn out way to get around to mentioning that the police came to the corner house on Horace Street the Wednesday after Chablis had not shown up for work for two days.