12/16/24
Duluth, MN
Greetings.
We are fine and fit and happy to be
able to report that.
No big journeys, triumphs or accolades
to crow about. I (age 69) guess it helps one to feel more satisfied if he
doesn’t set the sights too high.
Our dog Gracie (age 3x7, or so)
finally seems to be accepting her fate and is becoming more comfortable with
the pack. She is a gentle and affectionate creature and much devoted to the
grandkids. Tolerant and content. Still, she does have stubborn psychological
problems. Attributable to her early years of having to be in Texas before
rescue. Existing there at a vulnerable age can leave scars, no doubt.
The kids, too, seem to be content with
the hands they are playing and not too many psychological problems to report.
Bill (43yrs) has an apartment just
down the hill here. He splits his time between that and his home on the lake up
north. He works hours that are beyond describing here on the printed page. He
never complains. Has a loving dog named Fernie (4x7). She, too, an immigrant
from Texas. Makes me wonder how many truckloads of unloved dogs Minnesota sends
to the good old Lone Star.
Mesa (39) and Joe (?) are living in
Eden Prairie and are comfortable.
The grandkids, Des (3), and Siena
(1.5) continue to, as you might expect, be ever more enthralling. Des digs the
guitar and drums, Si Si is still taking it all in. Her vocabulary is now
expanding effervescently, she navigates with aplomb.
They are fascinating. Young children
can, repeatedly, astonish one with their knowledge and behaviors.
As an example, when I visit them in
Eden Prairie they can guide me through the complexities of the remote controls
down there and I can watch TV. Sometimes
I wish they were at the controls up here.
They have even introduced me, too, to
some new shows. Take for instance Cocomelon. The dad is kinda of a dud but the
mom is so kind and so pretty. But that baby with that knob of hair plastered to
its head? Every one makes such a fuss over that brat like it is special or
something. I don’t like it.
Speaking of remotes and so forth, the
other day I was walking Gracie and a neighbor from down the hill whispered by
in his new Tesla pickup.
I looked at it and I got to thinking
that that vehicle looks exactly like what cars of the future were going to look
like in the comic books of 1963 or so. It got me thinking of the future and how
it is not what it was cracked up to be.
I’m not talking flying cars. That
would be terrible. Imagine those behemoth 4X4 trucks that bellow and belch and
bluster by on the freeway apparently under the illusion that they are fast and nimble.
Who wants a sky full of them?
No, the future I was expecting was
more simple than that. Not fobs or stacks of remotes. Not scrolling, not menus,
not modes. Kristi (age 34), I am sure, has maybe heard me, on, perhaps, more
than one occasion exclaim, “What’s so bad about two blanking knobs? Huh? Just
give me two blanking knobs!!!”
The future I had envisioned was not me
serving gizmos. No, far from it. I had envisioned: robots.
I
was hoping to be able to one day sit in my chair and say, for instance, “Tron
1-A, turn up the volume on the TV.” “Tron 1-A, switch the channel.” And, maybe,
“Tron 1-A, make me a brandy Manhattan straight up with a cherry.” Or, “Tron 1-A
mow the lawn.” “Tron 1-A shovel the walk.” “Tron 1-A, fast forward through this
song on the 8-track!” (I wonder if they ever had remotes for 8 Tracks? That would’ve
been cool.)
It’s
not like I am a stick in the mud. I’m down with all the new stuff. I’m hip to
the You tube and the google, and the AOL and stuff like that. But all I wanted
was just 2 knobs. And a robot.
But back to those uncanny grandkids
and the things that can surprise a grandpa. Like, they can be brought to Costco
and never voice a peep of resistance. Even when proceeding through, glacially I
might add, Costco Customs on entry and, especially, exit. Remarkable.
At Costco? This calm and complacent attitude?
When the entire Costco experience is fraught with peril?
Just driving into the lot and one
encounters all manner of darting vehicles, harboring distracted pilots with visions
of stuff dancing in their heads. Not to mention those racing home to unload it
all.
Even walking into the place is
perilous as one is confronted with shopping carts so full that the operators must
lean over to the side to see forward, just like the engineers of old-time steam
locomotives.
And, once inside…. there is no peace! It’s
a bouncy house for adults. There is no place where a dude can just abide.
Costco is the singular site on this world where a victim of it is always in
someone’s desperate path. I would never venture into the men’s room.
Say a fellow wants to just stand still.
I challenge you to try it. Go find a place where nobody in their right mind
would be lured, say a far off, out of the way, box freezer boasting 999 wieners
for $9.99. Just try to go there and stand, rest and wait. Within 30 seconds
someone will, not too gently, roust you in their desperate search for wieners.
At Costco I am a lonely pinball in The
Land of a Thousand Flippers.
Speaking of wieners, I must allow that
they have delicious hot dogs there. And reasonable. 99 cents I think.
Unfortunately, the consumption of
same, on the premises, is strained. Eating a hot dog at Costco is to dining
what standing on a gently swaying I-beam 96 floors above Manhattan would be to
sightseeing.
Obviously I am a little bit wary in
Kirkland. You see, Kristi has all the bona fides. I am just an immigrant. A
guest. If I step out of line I fear I might get collared by management and brought
in back and, maybe, might end up in a wiener.
Enough about Costco. More about the
grandkids.
Serene, complacent behavior at Costco
and, just as inconceivably, the opposite upon leaving The Mall of America where
the most boisterous and frenzied resistance is offered. Astonishing because
leaving that place is among the happiest moments one can relish.
And speaking of resistance, a young
child, I have found, has an amazing arsenal of moves which can be devasting to
the responsible party. No, I am not speaking of throwing oneself down prostrate
on the floor and slamming forehead, fists and feet on the ground. That never
works. I know that. I’ve tried it when I have been compelled to go to Costco.
No, small children have very lethal
submission moves they deploy to devasting effect when all patience with their
dimwitted and hopelessly clueless oppressors has been exhausted.
The first tactic I would like to
comment on here is Arch Back Baby where the oppressed suddenly, and without
warning, stiffens out entirely; slamming the head backwards in a devastating
arch against whatever is behind: high chair, car seat, transgressor’s brow,
lip, chin, clavicle, sternum, glasses, eyebrow. A ruthlessly effective ploy and
one must be on the ever alert for it since a relatively minor shortcoming on
the part of the adult might beg for the launch of this attack.
The other weapon, even more sinister,
is Jelly Baby. When this is enacted the author of it becomes, suddenly and
without warning, completely limp, and the tighter one clutches to the purveyor
the more they just slip through the fingers. (Thank you Princess Leah). It is
devious and effective.
In fact I have, on one occasion, only
managed to arrest the decent of the wronged party at the level of my knee.
Jelly Baby is especially effective
against me.
This is because, you see, I have no
hips. When I hold an infant I have no hip to jut out and use as a perch. I must
entirely grasp them at all times.
I have not made a study of other men’s
hips but I do notice a woman, say Kristi or Mesa for instance, can comfortably
hold a baby against themselves, relaxed, while talking on the phone, brushing
their hair, or sipping coffee. While I, on the other hand, must clutch them
securely. With both hands.
Having no hips, I think, explains why;
to keep my pants up, I must yank my belt to such an extent that my eyeballs
nearly bulge out of my skull.
I have a special affinity for those
cats you see on the street with the crotch of their trousers down by their
knees and their underwear etc. showing in back. They have my sincere sympathy.
I suspect they do not have the correct bit, let alone, the drill, to make the
proper penetrations up the length of the belt to secure it properly.
(This requires a word of caution
because when one is drilling though this leather, the bit and belt can develop
a mad and intense affection for each other and so great is their lust that,
suddenly, and without warning, the belt’s affection can extend to the drill as
well, strangulating it and leaving the operator’s trigger hand knuckles
smarting acutely as a result of impact from the belt buckle’s frenzied
diminishing orbit’s impact.)
Back to those kids. They were here
over Thanksgiving. We, all of us, had the terrific foods Kristi (Age 37) and
Joe prepared for all of us. The children a constant source of entertainment and
affection.
Even the adult children.
We are lucky.
We hope you are lucky as well.
And keeping your pants up when you
want to.
Happy Holidays!
-Sincerely
Jeff and Kristi Smith.
11/29/23
Duluth, MN
Greetings.
We are fine and fit and happy to be
able to report that.
No big journeys, triumphs or accolades
to crow about. I (age 69) guess it helps one to feel more satisfied if he
doesn’t set the sights too high.
Our dog Gracie (age 3x7, or so)
finally seems to be accepting her fate and is becoming more comfortable with
the pack. She is a gentle and affectionate creature and much devoted to the
grandkids. Tolerant and content. Still, she does have stubborn psychological
problems. Attributable to her early years of having to be in Texas before
rescue. Existing there at a vulnerable age can leave scars, no doubt.
The kids, too, seem to be content with
the hands they are playing and not too many psychological problems to report.
Bill (43yrs) has an apartment just
down the hill here. He splits his time between that and his home on the lake up
north. He works hours that are beyond describing here on the printed page. He
never complains. Has a loving dog named Fernie (4x7). She, too, an immigrant
from Texas. Makes me wonder how many truckloads of unloved dogs Minnesota sends
to the good old Lone Star.
Mesa (39) and Joe (?) are living in
Eden Prairie and are comfortable.
The grandkids, Des (3), and Siena
(1.5) continue to, as you might expect, be ever more enthralling. Des digs the
guitar and drums, Si Si is still taking it all in. Her vocabulary is now
expanding effervescently, she navigates with aplomb.
They are fascinating. Young children
can, repeatedly, astonish one with their knowledge and behaviors.
As an example, when I visit them in
Eden Prairie they can guide me through the complexities of the remote controls
down there and I can watch TV. Sometimes
I wish they were at the controls up here.
They have even introduced me, too, to
some new shows. Take for instance Cocomelon. The dad is kinda of a dud but the
mom is so kind and so pretty. But that baby with that knob of hair plastered to
its head? Every one makes such a fuss over that brat like it is special or
something. I don’t like it.
Speaking of remotes and so forth, the
other day I was walking Gracie and a neighbor from down the hill whispered by
in his new Tesla pickup.
I looked at it and I got to thinking
that that vehicle looks exactly like what cars of the future were going to look
like in the comic books of 1963 or so. It got me thinking of the future and how
it is not what it was cracked up to be.
I’m not talking flying cars. That
would be terrible. Imagine those behemoth 4X4 trucks that bellow and belch and
bluster by on the freeway apparently under the illusion that they are fast and nimble.
Who wants a sky full of them?
No, the future I was expecting was
more simple than that. Not fobs or stacks of remotes. Not scrolling, not menus,
not modes. Kristi (age 34), I am sure, has maybe heard me, on, perhaps, more
than one occasion exclaim, “What’s so bad about two blanking knobs? Huh? Just
give me two blanking knobs!!!”
The future I had envisioned was not me
serving gizmos. No, far from it. I had envisioned: robots.
I
was hoping to be able to one day sit in my chair and say, for instance, “Tron
1-A, turn up the volume on the TV.” “Tron 1-A, switch the channel.” And, maybe,
“Tron 1-A, make me a brandy Manhattan straight up with a cherry.” Or, “Tron 1-A
mow the lawn.” “Tron 1-A shovel the walk.” “Tron 1-A, fast forward through this
song on the 8-track!” (I wonder if they ever had remotes for 8 Tracks? That would’ve
been cool.)
It’s
not like I am a stick in the mud. I’m down with all the new stuff. I’m hip to
the You tube and the google, and the AOL and stuff like that. But all I wanted
was just 2 knobs. And a robot.
But back to those uncanny grandkids
and the things that can surprise a grandpa. Like, they can be brought to Costco
and never voice a peep of resistance. Even when proceeding through, glacially I
might add, Costco Customs on entry and, especially, exit. Remarkable.
At Costco? This calm and complacent attitude?
When the entire Costco experience is fraught with peril?
Just driving into the lot and one
encounters all manner of darting vehicles, harboring distracted pilots with visions
of stuff dancing in their heads. Not to mention those racing home to unload it
all.
Even walking into the place is
perilous as one is confronted with shopping carts so full that the operators must
lean over to the side to see forward, just like the engineers of old-time steam
locomotives.
And, once inside…. there is no peace! It’s
a bouncy house for adults. There is no place where a dude can just abide.
Costco is the singular site on this world where a victim of it is always in
someone’s desperate path. I would never venture into the men’s room.
Say a fellow wants to just stand still.
I challenge you to try it. Go find a place where nobody in their right mind
would be lured, say a far off, out of the way, box freezer boasting 999 wieners
for $9.99. Just try to go there and stand, rest and wait. Within 30 seconds
someone will, not too gently, roust you in their desperate search for wieners.
At Costco I am a lonely pinball in The
Land of a Thousand Flippers.
Speaking of wieners, I must allow that
they have delicious hot dogs there. And reasonable. 99 cents I think.
Unfortunately, the consumption of
same, on the premises, is strained. Eating a hot dog at Costco is to dining
what standing on a gently swaying I-beam 96 floors above Manhattan would be to
sightseeing.
Obviously I am a little bit wary in
Kirkland. You see, Kristi has all the bona fides. I am just an immigrant. A
guest. If I step out of line I fear I might get collared by management and brought
in back and, maybe, might end up in a wiener.
Enough about Costco. More about the
grandkids.
Serene, complacent behavior at Costco
and, just as inconceivably, the opposite upon leaving The Mall of America where
the most boisterous and frenzied resistance is offered. Astonishing because
leaving that place is among the happiest moments one can relish.
And speaking of resistance, a young
child, I have found, has an amazing arsenal of moves which can be devasting to
the responsible party. No, I am not speaking of throwing oneself down prostrate
on the floor and slamming forehead, fists and feet on the ground. That never
works. I know that. I’ve tried it when I have been compelled to go to Costco.
No, small children have very lethal
submission moves they deploy to devasting effect when all patience with their
dimwitted and hopelessly clueless oppressors has been exhausted.
The first tactic I would like to
comment on here is Arch Back Baby where the oppressed suddenly, and without
warning, stiffens out entirely; slamming the head backwards in a devastating
arch against whatever is behind: high chair, car seat, transgressor’s brow,
lip, chin, clavicle, sternum, glasses, eyebrow. A ruthlessly effective ploy and
one must be on the ever alert for it since a relatively minor shortcoming on
the part of the adult might beg for the launch of this attack.
The other weapon, even more sinister,
is Jelly Baby. When this is enacted the author of it becomes, suddenly and
without warning, completely limp, and the tighter one clutches to the purveyor
the more they just slip through the fingers. (Thank you Princess Leah). It is
devious and effective.
In fact I have, on one occasion, only
managed to arrest the decent of the wronged party at the level of my knee.
Jelly Baby is especially effective
against me.
This is because, you see, I have no
hips. When I hold an infant I have no hip to jut out and use as a perch. I must
entirely grasp them at all times.
I have not made a study of other men’s
hips but I do notice a woman, say Kristi or Mesa for instance, can comfortably
hold a baby against themselves, relaxed, while talking on the phone, brushing
their hair, or sipping coffee. While I, on the other hand, must clutch them
securely. With both hands.
Having no hips, I think, explains why;
to keep my pants up, I must yank my belt to such an extent that my eyeballs
nearly bulge out of my skull.
I have a special affinity for those
cats you see on the street with the crotch of their trousers down by their
knees and their underwear etc. showing in back. They have my sincere sympathy.
I suspect they do not have the correct bit, let alone, the drill, to make the
proper penetrations up the length of the belt to secure it properly.
(This requires a word of caution
because when one is drilling though this leather, the bit and belt can develop
a mad and intense affection for each other and so great is their lust that,
suddenly, and without warning, the belt’s affection can extend to the drill as
well, strangulating it and leaving the operator’s trigger hand knuckles
smarting acutely as a result of impact from the belt buckle’s frenzied
diminishing orbit’s impact.)
Back to those kids. They were here
over Thanksgiving. We, all of us, had the terrific foods Kristi (Age 37) and
Joe prepared for all of us. The children a constant source of entertainment and
affection.
Even the adult children.
We are lucky.
We hope you are lucky as well.
And keeping your pants up when you
want to.
Happy Holidays!
-Sincerely
Jeff and Kristi Smith.
We continue to live in Duluth, MNDuluth year ‘round. Pressure makes diamonds I always say.
Our dog, Gracie, has now been with us for over a year. She is kind and gentle but still has some peculiarities. But don’t we all?
Billy and his pal, Fernie the dog, live up at his lake place, except when he’s working. And his working arrangements are too complex to reduce into mere words here. He has made adjustments that suit him just fine. He is healthy and I’m sure he would say he is enjoying his share.
Mesa and Joe are healthy and both working. Their boy Des is 2 years old and he is having a blast. He is taking it all in. He displays, sometimes within minutes, and with gusto, the full range of human emotions. He is learning, is fluent, and can fully operate any remote within range.
Last June he welcomed in, well sort of, most of the time, a baby sister. Siena Lee was received into the pack and is lovely and contented, also most of the time. She is a very agreeable little girl. Laid back, observant and undemanding.
Listen, these grandkids are truly exceptional, in a good way. I know you get a lot of Xmas cards from other grandparents claiming that but, in this case, it is true.
Personally, for the two of us, every day, as you might suspect, is still filled with a myriad of wonders.
For instance, last summer we purchased a used camper trailer of modest proportions. It is placed at a resort on Pelican Lake north of here. The resort is Cabin O’ Pines, a place of many attributes. It boasts a fine sandy beach, ample docking, lovely cabins tucked into the pines, a formidable playground and temporary camping sites as well. I’d recommend it without reservation to anyone seeking a summer respite.
The idea was to have a family place for fun. We are fortunate to have Billy’s place there within an easy walk and have accommodations at each place to house the entire family, which we utilized last summer. We had fun.
Curiously, though, there is one event, unique and remarkable, that occurs in the bedroom every night we are there. (No, not that, Cousin Evie.)
Remarkably all the coverings migrate imperceptibly, but resolutely, from my side of the bed to that of Kristi and Gracie. Invariably I am left only with a portion of sheet about the size of a home delivered pizza box cut in half diagonally. (And not ONLY do the covers transport to the other side of the bed. They, also, as if by magic, ROTATE! They revolve upon some kind of transparent axis for often my minute triangular portion of sheet contains the tag that was, when the bed was made, tucked into the foot at the opposite end from me!)
Eventually I hesitantly will turn on the light and timidly point out this dilemma to my bedmates. They will then look at me from their virtual tsunami of covers as if I am a daft nuisance. I see them exchange a baleful look of exasperation. (Yes, a dog can roll her eyes,)
It is then Kristi will, in an act of unselfish benevolence, reach down to the floor and drag out a pillow sham and whip it into my face, saying, “There!” before she rolls on her side away from me and disappears under an Everest of bedding.
This sham, I have found, if I place it just so, with one corner at each of my shoulders, and my arms crossed over my chest, like a Pharoah’s mummy in the tomb, can keep me reasonably warm. Well, at least my thorax.
What accounts for this unusual phenomenon I cannot fathom. Is it something singular about the trailer? Or is it a result of where the trailer is located precisely on the globe? i.e. A planetary tidal cause or, perhaps, some kind of polar effect like a compass works, or, maybe, a version of plate tectonics, or a combination of all these things?
[OVER]
I considered setting up some sophisticated movie equipment that might capture the events in a stop action manner as a way for diagnosis. However, when visitors come over and see all the movie cameras set up in the bedroom, well, they look at you funny. I know that.
One of the remedies I have tried that does work for a little while is to grasp the covers with my fingers and toes and hold tightly. However, that practice was rendered obsolete in the autumn as the nights became colder and I took to wearing to bed Sorrels. And choppers.
No, the problem calls for a more creative response.
Among remedies I have conceived of, I most favor Plan A and Plan B.
Plan B would involve beseeching Patty, who is the Soprano of the Singer, to sew together blanketsSheet combinations. Think of a blanket stretched over a sheet and both sewed fast to each other. Then I would ask that she sew these sandwiches, so to speak, say six of them for instance, to each other along their edges creating a continuous chorus line of covers.
Then, further, I would ask Mr. Waterman of Massachusetts to construct a roller to wind them up on so they could play out, imperceptivity as usual, until bout 3AM when the line roll would be depleted. Then a klaxon incorporated into the design would peal out and a strobe would flash alerting Kristi to get up and insert the crank and wind the bedding back up onto the roller again.
This solution, which appears foolproof I might add, does have a few possible drawbacks.
For one, Mr. W, I have been made to know, builds things of considerable heft and stamina. Thus, I would need to hire a boom truck of some sort to fetch it to the trailer from the siding at Orr.
Also, because of the suspected size and complexity – no doubt his design would incorporate the driving wheels from a prewar steam locomotive, and, not to mention, various parts would be included, gears, ring gears, pulleys, and pinions for instance, from a vintage Autocar Semi truck, or a Diamond Reo perhaps, and thus the apparatus would be of such a size that a lean-to would need be constructed to house it and an incision on the side of the trailer made to feed the roll through.
Also, another hesitation I had in that event, was my concern that when that klaxon rang out and K would have to insert the handle/winder, she would be uncomfortable going outside, especially in the cold and wet. But that was remedied when I realized she could employ my Sorrels as I would no longer be needing them if all worked well. And my choppers too.
Still, I think, initially, I will invoke Plan A. It is a simpler plan, and thus, unfortunately, less elegant.
I have a neighbor, Jeremy, who is a wizard in the wood shop. Occasionally he helps me with projects, the most recent was my protype for my latest concept: The Subterranean Dirigible.
While in his shop I noticed, hanging on the wall, large clamps presumably employed to hold substantial boards together while glue set and so forth. I will ask him if I can borrow the clamps, on an experimental basis only.
What I intend to do is, once I am ready for bed and all snuggled in, is then have Kristi screw down these clamps with all her might, which I have previuosly affixed to the blankets and the mattress, pinching them severely between.
However, there are some risks involved.
One would be that the power imbued within this mysterious inexorable vortex would cause the mattress to then rollup and ensnare me inside like a burrito.
Or, if I affix the clamp to the covers, mattress, AND the bedframe together, the power might be so unrelenting that the torque deposited upon the clamps would cause them to surrender their clasp and then, most certainly, they would thunderously crash down upon me. (This, by the way, is the outcome Kristi, by this time, most enthusiastically favors.)
So having a trailer can be complicated. Where is the rose without the thorn?
Well, there is one. Namely Kristi. (I hope that helps.)
And speaking of hope, we wish you all the best that life can offer. Be well, have fun.
Sincerely,
-The Smiths
11/30/22
Greetings.
We are fine and fit and sincerely hope the same for you and yours. We wish you
all the happiness you can have.
We
continue at home in Duluth and are enjoying retirement. We still have no
inspiring accomplishments, covetable journeys and so forth, to crow about. Finding
less joy in acquisitions, save for maybe a Hamilton Beach or a Harley Davidson.
We get around, in Minnesota, we have experiences. We abide.
We did
have some grieving when our dearest little friend Rosie had to be euthanized
last summer. Something dreadful, and quick, was happening inside of her.
However
this fall we acquired a new friend, Gracie. She came from Texas where a deputy
found her in a ditch near Lubbock with her 9 puppies. He brought them to a
local vet to be euthanized. All of them. The vet made arrangements to have the
lot sent to Superior Wisco for adoption instead. What a long strange trip it’s
been for this one. She is gentle and reserved, learns quick. Is a good,
unassuming companion. As far as I know one pup of hers remains to be adopted.
Kellie
and Bill are doing fine. Still working for Essentia as nurses, still sharing time
between her place in Duluth and his Up North at Pelican Lake. Their little dog
Fernie, also an orphan from Texas, is a beautiful rendering of indiscriminate
enthusiasm
Joe and
Mesa live in Eden Prairie with their 1-year-old son Des. They are comfortable
and happy.
In August they returned to the scene of their marriage 10
years ago in Florence. (No, Cousin Gary, not the one in MN.) While they were
gone K and I provided care for little Des.
On the
verge of walking then, he was crawling and standing, mobile and independent.
He is
such a good boy. Subjectively we feel he is cute and gifted. Objectively he is
calm, does not plead for attention, amuses himself and is largely content. As
far as babies go, not a thing to complain about,
Still, a
little baby goes a long ways.
While
the kids were in Europe we were reminded of how much devotion it takes to care
for a one year old. And a laid back one at that.
In fact,
entropy comes to mind a bit and I suspect Mr. Sauer could’ve employed a Classroom
Baby to good effect in the demonstration of this feature of thermodynamics. In
the presence of a child, order descends into chaos so effortlessly and undramatically
that one is left wondering “What happened? How did this precipitate?”
And
speaking of order, modern day toys demand a return to it: Most of them now frenetically speak or flash lamps
or both. For instance, at bedtime one must put all the pieces back into the
puzzle. For they are photoelectric and as the morning light penetrates the room
next door, and the pieces have not been returned snugly, one can easily hear Mr.
Sun being greeted by ducks quacking, cows mooing and the wheels on the bus go
round and round. This cacophony is thus a seductive invitation for any sweetly
slumbering child to get up pronto.
Therefore, an invention of mine would be a Toy Safe. After
all there are grown men out there who keep their toys in a safe, The
Playskool Toy Safe would be impenetrable to light incursion and to noise
escape. Think of it: at the end of the day one could just make rounds of the
house and scoop up all the toys and, simply, dump them in the safe. (Another
invention there: Playskool Toy Skoop.)
And as long as I am sharing a modicum of my ideas here, I
must applaud one of the baby toys. A contrivance which I admire greatly. The
rolling Jumparoo.
If they
could be manufactured for adults, I predict they would be a hit. Plastered with
Harley stickers, they could even put ape hangers on them, maybe. Just imagine
going to the tavern at Happy Hour and piloting Jumparoos around with your
buddies. It would be a blast! It would make those lame, spastic, bucking bull
things obsolete overnight.
Yes, I
know there would be drawbacks. For instance, your beer would have to be
delivered in one of those little boxes with the miniature hole in the top
through which a tiny straw must penetrate. And a cocktail would necessarily
arrive in a Tommy Tippee Kup.
Also in
need of addressing would be the problem of mounting the Jumparoo. For if your establishment
did not have a friendly giant to lift you into it, you would have to clamber up
somehow and this would be a challenge. Certainly one would find himself head
down in the contraption with his legs kicking the air. Hardly dashing or
ladylike. Maybe overhead hoists or rope ladders? I don’t know, I am more of an
idea man and, generously, leave all the little details to others.
I have
come to know that a baby is singularly incapable of fear. One day K was gone
and I watched as, after I took away the scissors he had in his mouth, (Babies
love to put stuff in their mouth when teething.) he traversed the kitchen. He
pulled out a drawer and let it crash to his feet spilling out the contents, (sharp
knives, forks etc.) and then pivoted, made his way to the range and turned on
all the burners red hot. While I doused the range, he made a lap through under
the sink and came out with a can of Drano. By the time I caught up to him to
relieve him of the lye, he slapped, with one of those fallen knives, a light
socket and pulled up, tottering dangerously, at the top of the basement steps.
Hand with knife outstretched.
In a
matter of seconds a baby can blithely traverse a course most perilous. One that
would certainly have left James Bond trembling. At least Roger Moore, maybe.
This
gave me the idea that babies would make perfect secret agents. Impervious to
fear, their capacity for destruction inestimable, facility at escape daunting,
and all the while exhibiting an innocent, devil may care attitude whilst
manifesting a charming, if not irresistibly fetching, appearance. Just think of
what a team of babies could’ve done to any one of Blofeld’s Lairs. Or Dr.
Evil’s for that matter. An infant would unceremoniously find that red destruct
button. Dispatch that Doomsday Device with aplomb.
(Be
advised that Mesa and Joe have, since that time, employed an arsenal of baby
thwarting gizmos about the house. Plugs in the light sockets for instance. And
caps on the range controls, stubborn gates across the steps, and clamps on the
cupboards, drawers etc. All very effective. Much more elaborate than the bungee
cords of yore. Of my yore at least. In fact, some of them are so inscrutable
and impervious to passage that I must ask Des to help me free them.)
At any
rate last summer was a reunion for us with how much is demanded of the parents
of infants. Recently I have heard this life era described as one where “The
days are long and years are short.” Clearly accurate.
Those
evenings after the tubby and the reading and the settling into bed we had oft
planned to have a nice quiet candlelit dinner together.
Instead,
we’d find ourselves at the table across from each other, the wine bottle in between.
Each of us lost in their own, private, 50-mile stare. Occasionally emitting a distant
sigh. Every once in a while I would find Kristi spooning cottage cheese into my
mouth or I would look over at her and she would be absently poking a Cheerio
around her plate with an index finger. Or pinching a blueberry. (Even now, here
back at home, Kristi will sometimes walk by and, whether it needs it or not, and
without warning, vigorously wipe my mouth off with a rag.)
Were we,
at that time, on some level, wondering secretly to ourselves if we had waited
too long to become grandparents?
Lately I
recall once when my brother Dale and I were watching our own pairs of kids
toddling around. He sighed and with rare, and uncharacteristic, wisdom, noted,
“You know, you’d think 2 kids would be twice as much work. But they’re not.
They are 3 times as much work.”
Will
that be confirmed again? If all goes well, we will find out next June.
A girl
is predicted.
Thank
you for your endurance. May The Season bring you lots of fun.
Happy
Holidays!
Sincerely,
Kristi and Jeff Smit
Duluth, MN
11/27/21
Greetings.
We are fine and fit. We sincerely hope the same for you.
We
continue at home in Duluth and are enjoying retirement although we have no
great accomplishments, trips, etc. to crow about. We get around, we have
experiences, we abide.
Billy
does too. He spends his time between here in Duluth with Kellie at her place
and, up at his lake place. He voices no complaints.
In July
Mesa and Joe bought a house in Eden Prairie MN and are happy there. Besides
that, they had a baby in late August. A boy, Des Jeffrey, and he brings much
joy to all of us. He is perfect and we are all filled with gratitude. My lovely
wife Kristine (age 37) and I (age 66) are grandparents. I never thought I would
ever say that.
What a
special little guy he is too. You know how it is with some Other People’s Kid
and they tell you all about it and want you to look at it and you say to
yourself when you see it, or maybe a little later, that kid does not look like
it’s all that it’s cracked up to be?
Well
that’s not the way it is with little Des. I am sure that within months he will
be giving people The Claw just like his mother (And uncle) did very early in
their infanthood. They still know how to do it. You can just ask them.
Baron
Von Raschke’s Claw is a gift that keeps on giving. So much more sophisticated
than that dopey “So Big!” antic. Just go and ask any of these kids nowadays;
say in their late 30’s, 40’s, maybe even early 50’s, How Big they are. They
just look at you funny. And some of the ladies even seem hostile when you ask
them. The only adult I know who can reliably be depended upon to respond in the
So Big! display - you know, excitedly throwing up the arms with a big goofy
grin – is Cousin Gary. When you make the mistake of asking him about the catch
on his last fishing trip. Like to Lake of the Woods for instance.
But
those same kids will still give you The Claw if you ask them to, providing
that, at a young age, their parents taught them how to do it.
I
wouldn’t be surprised if he learns talking extra quick too. Our kids started in
talking early. Why just the other day here, all gathered around the
Thanksgiving table, we were talking about what Mesa and Billy’s first swear
words were. Billy’s we established immediately because his was one of his
grandma Carrie’s favorites. But with Mesa it was unclear. That is likely
because she employed so many of them at a remarkably early age. Or, we thought,
maybe because her mother has always drawn from a creative and nearly
inexhaustible supply of them.
I suspect, though, that just as likely, it is because she
was The Second Kid. Nobody ever remembers stuff about subsequent kids. I know
that.
And that
is because I am The Middle Kid (worse yet). For example there is scant
photographic evidence that I ever existed. At least before I procured a camera
for myself. And this even though I was apparently photogenic. Confirmed by the
rare, grainy photographs of myself when studied through a magnifying glass,
because I am usually found in the background at some Other Kid’s birthday
party.
I
suppose it will be different now, giving the widespread infestation in our
culture of cell phones and so forth. My phone is already bulging with photos,
videos and so forth of Des. Can’t dispose of a single one. But that might be
because I am a Middle Kid. And you can believe I will record his first swear
word. Or maybe words – He is Mesa’s kid after all.
And I
will do the same with the Second Kid if that happens. I swear.
Happy Holidays!
Love,
Kristi
& Jeff Smith
[OVER]
Duluth, MN
11/17/20
“You’re just as likely to get in a fistfight at a boat landing as
you are at a beer joint.”
I was a little kid when Uncle Maynard made that casual
observation. We were in his boat on Mille Lacs, patiently circling the busy
landing on Cove Bay. Waiting our turn.
A busy boat landing is a fraught parcel. There in garish display
is the entire spectrum of the male ego: from merely incompetent to brazenly
despicable. We watched as bargers, on land and sea, sought to cut in,
fussbudgets dithered, slobs littered and trailers jackknifed on backing. In
short, the usual. It is a stage that richly rewards absurdity. One of those
places on earth where a man can look at his fellow man and say to himself
without reservation, “You are doing that all wrong. You stupid idiot.”
This past summer we once again found ourselves at a boat ramp. We
decided to moor our diminutive runabout, Goldie, at a slip in
the Lakehead Basin here in the bay. In fact we could’ve seen her from our
house- had it not been for all the charter fishing boats, cabin cruisers, huge
sailboats, and occasional yachts. We secured the last slip in the marina in
early June.
On finalizing the arrangements in the office, the young lady at
the counter idly asked where we were launching our boat. I answered, “Well,
here, there’s a ramp here…right?”
She fidgeted and allowed that, indeed, there was, but, some past
seismic event occurred which had sheared the lower parts of the ramp clean off.
She murmured something about previous calamities, tow trucks summoned, broken
axles and the like…in short, I had been warned. Undeterred I sauntered out of
there and rolled to the ramp at the far end. On scrutiny I determined the ramp
was in fact very steep, covered with some kind of growth that was immune to
friction and, maybe a bit narrow. (Most boats there are launched, I think, by
means of an overhead crane-like contraption.) I could see no sinister drop off
as mentioned because the ice-cold water in the bay, and the river for that
matter, is coffee colored. I’ve been told, this is due to upstream “tannins”.
Whatever those are. Where is Mr. Sauer when you need him?
So, I concluded, it was perfect. Goldie does not
need much water to launch. Should be a snap. I backed her down with aplomb and
floated her. Unhooked the winch line as Kristi stood on the dock holding the
bowline. I skipped back to the Toyota when I heard her plaintive cry:
“SMITTY!!?!?!”
Although a lucky man hears that intonation only rarely in his
life, still, he instantly knows that something has gone very awry. I dashed
back there. She was standing looking at Goldie. Kristi had the
bowline in her hand as planned but…the bowline was untethered! The boat was
serenely drifting away. AND, in that instant, I could read her thought. She was
going to jump.
Now if any of you are my age or thereabouts, (65 years) I ask you,
have you tried to jump recently? I have. Summer before last. At the ocean,
visiting my brother, on an early morning walk I came to one of those temporary
rivulets where the water was following the tide out. I was going to jump it
but…I couldn’t. It was like I didn’t know how to do it. I had forgotten how to
jump. I was stunned. I would kind of bound up to it and slide to a halt and
stand there fixed. Or, I would swing my arms, windmilling for lift off but
could not launch. It was confounding. I wondered then if it would help me to
get some Kedds. Or Red Ball Jets?
Later I mentioned this observation to Kristi. It was the
summertime and we were walking at Bayfront Park and we decided to have a little
contest. Jump over something, the sidewalk, a bush, I don’t remember. I do
remember she won, well, actually I made it too but went sprawling on my
landing. How long has it been since you’ve had grass stains on your pants? I
decided maybe it wasn’t a jump thing but, rather, a landing problem. I thought
maybe I needed to practice, get it back, you know? But then our home is too
small for meaningful jumping and to do that in the yard, or while walking
Rosie, right here in town, well, people look at you funny.
Back at the marina Kristi was about to make the jump for Goldie.
True she had won the contest and is considerable younger, (Age 37 years) still
I had the horrible realization that I would shortly be faced with a terrible
decision. Precisely the kind a man dreads: Go after the boat or the bride? (And
what about our phones?)
I envisioned Goldie clattering about in the
harbor, caroming off huge boats with names like “Shegavein”, “Mamma’s
Mink”, “She’ll Get Over It”, etc. while I would leap, or rather, clamber
from one to the next warding off the impacts with outstretched foot.
Just then, honest, at that very instant, a favorable breeze ensued
and wafted Goldie elegantly towards the sea wall, an imposing
spine of menacing boulders. I undulated and crabbed my way, crawling on my
belly like a reptile, over those ragged stones and got to her just before she
shoaled. I got a line on her. No damage done! All’s well that ends well, I
always say.
She fired up and we made our way to the slip. There I had
perceived a complex system of lines and fender bumpers that we would rig to
keep her clear of damage while moored. Several hours later while still perfecting
this novel plan I noticed an old fella, who had passed by several times, each
time more slowly, stop. He said, “Mind if I give you some advice?” Naturally I
was about to dismissively decline when Kristi immediately shouted “Yes!”
He said, “It’s not going to work.” Ten minutes later I had wisely taken his
advice and we were finished. Without having to use a single fender! He asked if
he could offer one more bit of advice: “Have fun.” So, there was a nice welcome
to the basin subculture. I wonder how it would’ve been if it would’ve started
with our unoccupied boat banging into all the others.
It was a fun summer. Lots of boat rides. Cousin Gary and Evie came
for a stay at the marina, like they do, in September. This year it was in their
new 5th wheel. It is a generous and luxurious affair. So big
you could put our boat and trailer inside it and still have room for their
fireplace. Really plush.
We went for a boat ride one day. We were rumbling along heading up
the St. Louis and I had just finished a compelling and engaging dissertation on
marine navigation, for instance, Red/Right/Returning: Keeping the red buoys to
the right when returning to port or going upstream. Shortly after - suddenly,
and without warning - we ran aground on a sand bar! I looked around,
incredulous, and there was the red buoy about 50 yards to our
left! I secretly fumed at whoever it was that moved that stupid thing,
even though it is about 3 stories tall and probably weighs tons. But then, on
second thought, I had to admit it was most likely Gary’s fault for distracting
me with our heated discussion of the two bears we saw making out up at Orr a
few summers back. *
By redistributing the cargo, i.e. moving the girls to the bow and
the judicious Neanderthalian use of the paddle we were on our way again. No
harm done. Later, after directing their attention to many wonders, we made our
way out onto the big lake via the Superior Ship Canal. It was beautiful out
there. Singular. Calm as glass. Serene. Distant sails looked as if they were
floating in the sky. As we zipped along I pointed out all the debris revealed
in the calm. Lots of tributaries contribute to Superior. Branches, lumber, a
rare rusty barrel with TOXIC stenciled on it, the odd, empty, mystery
kayak and so forth. We saw the silent ancient logs, big as power poles, barely
buoyant, hardly cresting, not quite fully waterlogged. Maybe escapees from some
ancient boom, some gigantic raft being tugged from Grand Marias across to the
mills of Ashland in the late 50’s? The kind of thing Sylvester Stallone favored
in his new house, back in the 80’s, before the salvaging of them from the
bottom was prohibited.
Later we returned to port on the troubled waters below The Lift
Bridge. Perilous always. I swear those confines hold, and magnify, every wave,
riffle and wake of each craft that has ever traversed its manic length since
1871. Compressed, the waves reverberate, they rebound. Waves might have a right
angle in their middles and each successive one is of a different frequency and amplitude.
There exists cantankerous and combative currents too. And it is one of those
places where “No Wake Zone” is taken to mean floor it. Because people are
watching.
We got back to the marina and Gary and Evie did this cute little
display where they got down on their knees and kissed the piers. They claimed
this was a hallowed Lake Koronis boating tradition. Curiously, we can still see
the impressions of their fingernails in the lifesaver seat cushions that they
were clutching while we had been larking about.
So it was a lot of fun last summer but soon we were back at the
landing in late September. And, naturally, some clueless landlubber had left
his giant truck and huge trailer right by the ramp! That trailer had 6 wheels
on it and it was large enough to carry Gary’s 5th wheel. No
kidding. The guy had just parked it there. Stupid idiot.
I was about to unhook my trailer so I could thread it alongside
the other one and then slip the Toyota in and rejoin. I had a sinking vision of
our liberated trailer magically rolling down the ramp, over the precipice and,
into the abyss, never to be seen again. But just then 2 older fellows emerged
from a huge Mercedes RV and helped me physically lift the trailer over into
position. I was grateful. Sometimes good things do happen at a ramp.
Got Goldie on the trailer and up and out. No
problem. Oh, except for I had forgotten to raise the lower unit. The skeg
dragged. A little bit. No one saw it though, so no harm done. All’s well that
ends well, I always say.
We sincerely hope your 2020 was good, or at least, endurable. We
are fine. Kristi retired in early March just as the Covid was about to pounce.
Sure, it spoiled some travel plans but we have no reason to complain. Stay at
home is better than go to work.
The kids are all still employed. Mesa and Joe remain in downtown
Mpls with their two cats, Leo and that other one.
Bill and Kellie work in the same office and divide their time
between Kellie’s place here in town and Bill’s up on Pelican Lake. They have a
new puppy, name of Fern. Really cute.
In short, for every moment gratitude is in order.
And so, finally, here’s wishing all the best for you and yours in
2021: May your breezes be soft and favorable… and may you never drag your lower
unit. At least while someone is watching.
Happy Holidays,
Kristi and Jeff Smith
*On October 15, while crossing the High Bridge to Superior, I happened to look
down and saw a Corps of Engineers dredge down below working over “Gary’s Reef.”
Duluth, MN 12/3/19
Greetings.
Hope this finds you fine and fit.
We
are grateful, all, for good health.
Mesa
and Joe now have an apartment of their own in downtown Mpls. They compiled a
list of how many times they have moved in the last 13 years, and it was 18
times for Mesa and 20 for Joe. (Totals: M = 21 moves/31yrs, Joe=31/35.) Joe
boasts expansively about his unique gift for finding flat- footed landlords.
Don’t know if they are putting down roots but they are at least scratching the
surface. They endure our visits.
Bill
is up at the lake. He still works here in town, when on the job he stays with
Kellie and when off he heads north. He has a schedule that allows for long
stretches off. (Paid for by grueling hours on, of course.) He endures our
visits too.
It
has been a generous year for us. Had vacations, took trips, saw music often and
in a variety of venues, spent time with friends, and had adventures. Some on
the motorcycle.
Speaking
of that, last summer I decided to take the motorcycle out to the west coast to
meet my brother. Which I did, in Newport Oregon. We rode together down the
coast, up to Crater Lake and the locales about his home of Ashland, OR. A
fantastic town, visit it if you are nearby. I mooched off them grandly, as I
did when I visited their place in Baja last year.
At
any rate, on my ride out there, this one day - and every day was a singular
experience - but this one day, well, it comes to mind.
I
was exiting Glacier National Park, late morning, following a pick-up when a big
black bear crossed the road. The pick-up, naturally, stopped, and the windows,
on the bear side, were opened a few cautious inches to make way for timid hands
holding ubiquitous phones. The bear just stood there on the right shoulder,
motionless.
Now
I have seen bears from the saddle of a bike before.
One
morning I was rolling along the County Road from Cornucopia WI approaching
Washburn when a big black Labrador launched out of the ditch on the left. By
the time I locked up my brakes I realized it was a black bear. He bolted across
the road and bounded onto the golf course to my right, swiveling his head to
and fro as if he were lost and late for an appointment. I thought if that bear
does not like striped polo shirts over plaid shorts some golfers were going to
have a very bad day.
Another time, heading west on US 2, just
inside the city limits of Brule, I approached a line of cars stopped. I pulled
up and noticed a black bear lolling about in the center of the highway, as if
he were chasing a monarch or something. Finally he gamboled up the hillside and
sat, in that goofy way bears do, and lazily looked at us as if he were in the
bleachers and we were a puppet show. I had the feeling he was about to pick a
daisy. He was stoned.
But
this bear in Glacier was not behaving like a normal National Park Bear, i.e. he
was not hamming it up as expected for the photo op but, rather, he was looking
directly at me.
So acute was his focus on me that I was becoming
alarmed. I had heard that bears do not have good eyesight. After all I ride a
Harley and thus, naturally, was clad that day in black leather boots, black
leather chaps, black leather jacket, black leather gloves and a black full-face
helmet (Not leather) with a smoked visor. Could he be thinking I was some sort
of, albeit scrawny, interloper new to his territory?
Also,
I have been told that they have a powerful sense of smell. I remembered once
seeing a bear, in the Orr Dump, frolicking in a dumpster. He poked his head up
to look dreamily about. He had a soiled baby Pamper draped across his nose. He
was in paradise.
And
certainly I must’ve been aromatic having spent the last 3 days in blow torch
heat across N Dakota and eastern MT, which extends to about 80 miles of its
Western border by the way. I was steeped in insects and moist, after having
just that morning, as lightening danced about me and wind driven rains raked at
me, weathered, on roads flowing with water, Logan’s Pass on the Going to the
Downpour Road. Might be why they call it a bucket list.
Now
as I sat there steaming in the sun, I suspected I was presenting to him an
irresistible olfactory palette.
He
licked his lips and I was beginning just then to think he was about to be
rewarded with the full-bodied notes of soiled pamper too.
Then,
strangely, he coyly cocked his head in a fetching sort of way.
Now
men know these kinds of things and she was, it was beginning to dawn on me,
maybe more interested in not having me for dinner but, rather, over for dinner.
Think candles and Stan Getz blowing low on the stereo. Or at least the tinkling
of Beegie Adair.
Suddenly
I recalled the spring before last and a visit to the Vince Shute Bear Center
when Cousin Gary and I watched 2 bears, in action, in the grass below the observation
platform.
Now
we all know that bears engage in this sort of activity but we never spend much
time actually picturing it in our heads. At least I don’t, too much.
But
I had seen chickens at Como Zoo once and rabbits, just this past summer in the
backyard, and it is a very quick engaging. Not much romance. More like
teenagers, you know?
But
that evening at the bear center it must’ve lasted for hours, or at least as
long as Evie and K spent in the gift shop. We stood there stupefied. We
considered flipping a coin so the loser could race to the store to get the
girls so they could sprint back to see it.
Gary and I left the place that evening with the
smug satisfaction of having secured the boast of having really seen something
most others only rarely dream about.
Well
on that day I decided I would not allow this chain of cars to see something to
boast about involving me.
I
narrowed my eyes, fixed my steely gaze on the gap between the
never-having-seen-a -bear- before pickup ahead and the rapidly embolizing line
of RV’s in the oncoming lane elbowing for a photo of the least photogenic bear
in the world. I eased in the clutch. I snicked the gearbox into first. Well,
it’s a Harley: It clunked.
If that bear took one step towards me I was
going to do a drag race hole shot out of there that would make Big Daddy Don
Garlits proud. Or at least T.V. Tommy Ivo.
Just
then the catatonic pickup started to roll. I was on its tailgate as I gave the
bear a wide berth.
And
you know what? She pretended to completely ignore me, playing hard to get, I
know. Acted as if I wasn’t even there. The hussy.
But I did not feel rejected, too much.
About an hour later I was following a pickup
towing a boat at highway speed. Suddenly the Rt tire exploded. In an instant
the rim was a blazing grinder’s wheel of sparks and I was blasted with tiny
acrid smoking pellets and stinking strands of wispy wool-like clinging fibers.
I couldn’t get the stink out of my nose for miles.
Later
yet, in the middle of the afternoon, I was following another trailer on a
freeway. Being pulled by a van, it was loaded with building supplies. Recalling
the previous trailer, I debated wailing by it. But he was holding a nice steady
speed and I would rather follow him then to have him behind me.
Not
10 seconds after that internal debate was concluded a death wish deer leapt out
in front of the van. The late deer’s carcass was still sliding along the
opposite shoulder as I dodged my way through the debris field.
Later,
still, I was in downtown Missoula, at my destination. I pulled to the curb and
removed my helmet. I heard a familiar sound and, looking over my shoulder saw,
a silver DC-3 flying real low and serene right over downtown. And wow did it
sound good.
It
banked to the NE and disappeared over the city. For a moment I thought I caught
a glimpse of Jimmy Stewart at the stick, smiling, chinstrap hanging from brown
leather helmet.
It
was an unassuming emblem of an era nearly disappeared now, dependable,
deliberate, well-wrought.
I
sat right down on the curb then, right there in front of that Irish Pub.
It
had been a day rife with the kind of things you just don’t see every day.
My
knees were still shaking.
We hope you have a happy holiday season and in
2020 may all your bears remain aloof.
Sincerely,
-Smitty
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
11/29/18
Duluth, MN
Greetings.
Hope you are all fine and fit.
Mesa and Joe live in Mpls and Bill
divides his time between this city and his lake place up north.
Everyone is employed and contributing.
Except for me.
I retired 3/1/18. Had a fine party.
Have no wisdom to share regarding retirement yet. Except it is much better than
going to work. I will intone, however, that having a swell retirement party
doesn’t hurt. I want to thank everyone who materialized at the Pickwick that
night. And some from considerable distance I should add. I am grateful for your
friendship and your generosity.
I did take K on a fine vacation to
celebrate later that month. To Decorah. Iowa.
I know…not too shabby.
And then, after all of that splendor,
we spent several days in a big rambling farmhouse outside of Lanesboro MN.
Mesa and Joe came down there too. We
had fun.
The owner of the place had invited us to
church on Easter Sunday. A country church that could almost be seen a few miles
off, from one of the bluffs on the farm.
K and M did go there that morning. Joe
and I decided to take Rosie on a walk and the instant the door slammed behind
us we looked at each other and knew we had locked the only key to the place
inside. And our car keys were in there too.
A stark realization that was. Our
situation was desperate. For everyone knows how long church lasts. And probably
more so on Easter.
We sprinted up to the aforementioned
bluff, where cell service could be had, and desperately sent out fevered messages
to K and M stressing our peril. And suggesting they try to find the VRBO lady
there and have her let us in.
Joe, however, noted that church is
probably the only remaining place where they still frown upon using smart
phones during the conducting of it. Our
despair mounted.
We pawed through everyplace a key
might be hidden on that farm, crawled under the decks, looked under the LP
cover etc., but to no avail. We found a place in the sun and out of the wind
and waited. It was actually warmer than being in the barn and looking out of
the window.
At one point Joe sighed and looked at
me and said, “If you woulda told me a year ago today that I was going to be
locked out of a farmhouse near Lanesboro, I’d of…” He turned his palms up, he
shrugged.
There was nothing more that needed
saying.
Eventually our phones notified us all
was well. The woman was there, she
sang in the choir in fact, and all were on the way. The lady and her husband
were nice and interesting folks.
We
took another trip in the autumn. We all went to Ireland. Joe drove us over 1000
miles of that place. It is green and rugged and lovely. The people are
welcoming and good natured. The food is terrific. And we were fortunate to see
Van Morrison in concert in Dublin. He’s still got it, like the rest of us older
folks. Bill and I took the train to Belfast one day to see a bit of Northern
Ireland and to be in the U.K. Beautiful city. Had lots of fun.
One thing about Ireland is that it is
old. You can’t swing a dead leprechaun without hitting something ancient: ruins
of castles, churches, and constructs built by cultures that predate Stonehenge.
We
were in a pub that is the oldest in Ireland, from the 900’s, which might make
it into the running for the oldest in the world. Imagine that 500 years before
Columbus accidentally stumbled on this place, folks were gathering in that
place.
And there were other adventures this year.
Take for instance shopping for
Thanksgiving dinner. Mesa and I finished at the market while K and Joe went
down the block wine shopping.
We
were loading the stuff into the trunk and M was telling me a funny story about
watching two construction guys, across the alley behind where she lives, who
were engaged in peeing.
At
that moment, while I was lifting the turkey out of the cart, the bag ripped and
the turkey fell at tremendous velocity, and with great violence, unto my right
great toe.
And
when that turkey hit my toe, I did the funky chicken. Right there in the
parking lot.
Having
one great toe destroyed is bad enough but my other toe was suffering as well.
For I had a blister on my other great toe suffered on the first day of my visit
the week before to my gracious and long-suffering sister in law and brother
down on the Baja, Sea of Cortez side. Incurred while walking the beach in my
new flip flops. A nasty blister, all on account of some lousy thief who broke
into our rental car last summer outside of our rancid motel in the crappy town
of Port Angeles WA. he stole my good old sandals.
As I flailed about there in that bitter,
cold, dark parking lot, I pictured that no good thief sporting about, or laying
blissfully in some gutter, or along some path, in my comfy old sandals, or in
my tennis shoes, or in my dirty laundry for that matter.
Also,
I briefly wondered, while there dancing, as my vision gradually returned from
pinpoint tunnels and the ringing in my ears faded, how come a turkey falls so
hard and fast when frozen? For if I had thrown it at my toe when it was just
recently made dead – and still, even, had on his head and claws and that sack
thing hanging down under his chin etc., it would not have hurt nearly as bad.
And
its not because of the feathers. If you put a bowling ball in a pillow including
a turkey’s quota of feathers about it and dropped it on your toe, it would hurt
just as bad I bet, no matter if it was frozen or not.
So
there must be something about freezing a bird that makes them fall faster and
hit harder. Try throwing a frozen canary against your head for instance. It surely
is a problem for Newtonian Physics to decide, not to mention for someone with a
superior intelligence. Are you out there Tom S.?
At
any rate, through my tears I realized the turkey had sought refuge under the
car. And though it made its entry under there with graceful aplomb, it was
proving cantankerous and ornery upon extraction.
Then
with one toe a pulsing frenzied claxon and the other with meat hanging down
from it like something under a turkey’s throat, and hating that bum in Port
Angeles, I got down there to hook that bird out from under the car. Naturally
it was in deep and almost beyond my reach, and no way was I going to kick at it
either, seeing how my toes were in no mood for that.
I
thought about driving around the lot with Mesa running behind to pounce on it
should it come shooting out the back end. But then thought, no, what if, like a
huge match head, it would catch fire and flame up and explode the gas tank? I could
just see the headlines: “TURKEY TORCHES
HIS TOYOTA.”
Finally I snagged the thing out from under there. After it had
hung up on everything along the way: tie rods, tranny, oil pan, drain plug,
converter, muffler, frame, etc. But. At least we didn’t have to use the jack!
Or call AAA.
Sure, it was torn and smudged and scuffed up
some but we buffed it out pretty good with a lot of old rags we found in the
trunk.
Turns
out Joe and K were not upset with us for being late. Apparently there was a mile-long
marathon wine-tasting event at THEIR store. They were founts of expertise on
vintages and vineyards. For a little while.
The
turkey was delicious, and did not spray all over when K opened it up. My toes
are nearly all better, I no longer need to walk on my heels, anti-tip-toe, like
a put-out penguin. And M’s story, about the two guys peeing, was funny.
So,
all’s well that ends well… as I always say.
May
you, like us, have ample reasons for gratitude, and may all your stories end
well in the New Year.
Happy Holidays!
-The
Smiths.
2017
Greetings. Hope all is well with you.
We are fortunate here and
grateful. My lovely wife Kristine (age 34) is on the job in oncology. I (age
63) am entertaining thoughts of retiring. Soon. There will be a party.
Bill bought our lake home
last summer and now it his home. Twenty-five years of happy memories will be
extended. He is a generous host.
Mesa and Joe are back in
Minnesota and live in North Minneapolis They have their pursuits. Somehow we
have ended up with their cat. Again. He’s a good guy.
If you want to know more
about them you can follow them on Facebook. Except I don’t know if Bill belongs
to it. To tell the truth I have never looked at it myself.
I suppose you could wait for
a Christmas letter from them but that might be a long wait.
To spare you my usual thousand words I have
added some pictures which I snapped along the way this year.
You would think one would not need a
sign:
“That should fix the little rascals!”
Would it have been that bad to really stretch and name it, say, “New
Beginnings” or maybe “Happy Promise” or something a little more, well, happy?
I pictured a couple of guys at the water cooler.
“Hey Jim, where’d you go to daycare?”
“Crucifixion. And you?”
“Gas Chamber.”
They look at a guy fussing with the fax machine.
“Len went to The Gallows.”
When I stopped laughing I looked around.
Trim town, tidy houses, lawns manicured to within a millimeter.
At the house across the street I saw the blind snap back.
I began to feel creeped out.
I started the bike and rolled, careful to keep the revs on the low down.
I stopped at each stop sign. Twice.
I didn’t want to find out the name of their jail.
Thumping down the nearly deserted main street I saw a man. He was in a
suit, with a briefcase, black rimmed glasses and one of those hats like they
used to wear when Eisenhower was in the White House. He was unlocking his
business for the day, he turned and watched me balefully.
I got out of there and opened her up.
Later had searing decalf on a sizzling deck of a charming place in
Houston. A lively town.
Groups passed by on bicycles. Some older than me. Even.
Also rode through Reno and Brownsville. Nice burgs. Saw Little Miami but
it was closed.
Paused in Yucatan and wailed through Black Hammer.
A good September day in Southeastern Minnesota.
We hope all your signs are happy ones in 2018.
Happy Holidays!
-The Smiths.
2016
Hope this finds you healthy and happy.
We are grateful, doing well. Still live in Duluth, still employed.
Bill and Hannah live here in town, employed and productive. Bill,
about a year ago, started in the same office where I work. Strange to
look across and see him over there on the job. It all happened so quick.
Mesa is in Savannah, Georgia working on her Masters at the
Savannah College of Art and Design. Joe has been doing an Internship in San
Francisco, I think that is over with soon and he will be finished with all of
that stuff.
Looking back over the last year I tried to find something
worthwhile to crow about but was kind of coming up empty. Try it yourself. But
finally I thought of something that
happened.
For instance, in the fall I like to take several days and ride my
motorcycle down the Hiawatha Valley. I arrange for lodging somewhere and then
take day rides through the coulee country of The Driftless Region, mostly on
the Wisconsin side. Great roads to explore, quite scenic.
Well, last September I was on my way down there. I was rolling
along doing about 60, minding my own business, southbound on WI 35, just
approaching Pepin WI, when all of a sudden, and out of nowhere, I had
incredible blinding pain in my right thumb. Right along the base of the thumb,
where it would squeeze against the index finger. I looked at my hand in
disbelief.
I recalled then a time, many years ago, about 1972, when I was
riding a Yamaha Enduro, rolling along doing about 60, minding my own business,
southbound on Highway 169, just approaching Milaca, when I met a car
pulling a boat. The guy with the boat was really moving. Probably from
Richfield or Robbinsdale, some exotic place like that and in a sweat to get out
on Mille Lacs, walleye visions dancing in his head. Well he lost it just a
little, his trailer waggled out into the gravel and he corrected it
reflexively. This gave the boat at the rear a smart little snap which whipped a
stone, oh, say the size of a Halloween Almond Joy into the air. I noticed with
more than a little alarm, all calculated in a synaptic flash somewhere in my
reptilian depths, that this object was a direct threat to my well-being. In
that instant advanced calculations were wrought regarding opposing speeds,
trajectory and position. Remarkable really. I realized that this rock was going
to strike me directly on my…
In Pepin, though, my enemy was invisible to me. I tore my hand off
the throttle and looked down into my glove.
Naturally, I wear those gloves, weather permitting, that have the
finger parts all cut off. I don these with the firm conviction that they not
only look dandy but also because the padding allows my hands to not go
completely numb, from my particular bike’s vibrations, for an extra 20 miles or
so.
What I saw down there in my glove was a hornet! I am certain I
surged and swerved through Pepin, all the way flailing my hand wildly against
my thigh, looking like the Scarecrow from the Wizard Of Oz when he was on fire
that time.
But back in Milaca I had seen my enemy. I knew its target.
Men know these things, like a sixth sense. My left thigh, in defense, ratcheted
upwards, as if it were a psycho mechanism in a spastic Bavarian glockenspiel.
We both knew it would be too late. The stone found its target.
Just outside of Pepin I pulled over. Tore off the glove and shook
it frantically dumping out the hornet remnants. I looked at my hand,
there was hornet powder all over the site. I tried to find a stinger to remove.
There was nothing but hornet dust/hornet stain. The pain was fierce.
It was fierce back in 1972 as well. I don’t remember if I
screamed. I do know that I did not say, “Oh dear, that sure does smart like the
dickens.”
I did not lose control but probably wish I had. After all, with
combined speeds, that rock could’ve been going 120mph! I weaved into Milaca, to
the North Park, right across the street from the hospital where I worked, where
there was a little public restroom. I waddled in, hoping nobody across the
street saw me clutching at myself like that. I made my exam.
South of Pepin privacy was not an issue. Although I wasn’t
screaming my hand was. Carefully I looked at it. It looked like a stain, or a
peppering of small black dots. Do some bees have a multitude of stingers? Maybe
it was one of those super bees from Mexico who had followed the Mississippi up?
It was as if that stinkin’ hornet atomized itself under my skin.
Inoculated me with his very hornet essence.
For some reason I licked it. Immediately I admonished myself.
“Why did you do that?” I said, flabbergasted.
“Because there is nothing else to do! And, besides, a dog
would’ve.” I replied.
Of course I immediately knew that was a weak excuse because for a
dog it is: “When the only tool you have is your tongue, then, every problem
looks like something to lick.”
Besides it didn’t help, although it did taste terrible even that
did not much take my mind off the pain.
Of course, back in Milaca licking it would’ve been out of the
question. And everything was fine anyway! Guess that’s what being 17 affords
one. I had thought I would’ve found bloody ribbons on exam. I skipped out
of that washroom, after some deep breathing, whistling a happy tune. The
memory of pain fading and building gratitude that the stone hadn’t burst my
headlight or put a ding in my gas tank.
Back on WI 35. I was in misery. And then suddenly I thought, what
if someone saw a biker on his Harley along the road licking his thumb? I craned
my head about and saw nobody taking account of me. That was a relief. I fired
up my bike, thankfully I was close to my destination. I whimpered and wobbled
into Wabasha.
I secured my lodgings and raced to the kitchen sink. I hung over
it and let the water run. This would be a position I would assume frequently
over the next several days. Thankfully I found a book in my place there about a
woman who had a detective agency in Botswana. It was good.
Later I emerged for some necessities. The cold water had helped
but the stain remained. A hornet tattoo. By the time I got to the off sale my
whole arm was throbbing like a third grader with a jack hammer. I showed the
old guy there my sting.
He tilted his head back under the fluorescents and neon to get the
best angle through his ‘focals.
“Yup,” he said, “That’s a bad one.”
So. See?
Time afforded little relief. I tried a few dispirited forays
into the hill country but is was a sorry undertaking.
How can one go dashing through the hill country and villages when
he has to hold the throttle between his thumb and forefinger like he is holding
a delicate china teacup in some kind of Lewis Carol party scene? Looks way too
sissy.
And also control was diminished because of that dainty clasp. I like to blast
through there at speeds just above those of the giant lumbering farm harvesting
machines that spring up over every crest or around each blind corner. And just
slower than the huge farm trucks that breathe down your neck and pass, on the
most improbable stretches, only to immediately thereafter hit the binders and
dive into some cornfield.
So it was mostly Wabasha for me.
Not a bad town. It has a bounty of fine restaurants for a place of
its size. But they do close too early. The taverns are kind of sleepy affairs
and the locals kind of keep to themselves. Especially after the second or third
evening.
But during the day there are fine benches to sit on and consider
the big river, Jim and Huck. I watched semis, colorful against the blue
September skies, thunder across the huge bridge that towers over the town.
At night they looked like rolling carnivals, fanned by the trusses, booming
psychedelic lightshows in the sky.
It is a strange bridge. You wail over the river into town and
suddenly it just peters out. Like they built the bridge from Wisconsin
side and Minnesota built the highway towards it but they did not line up.
Crazy. Maybe one of them was on the metric system? You cross over and are
dumped out unceremoniously in a neighborhood and have to just kind of shuffle
around finding your way back to the highway.
Like Duluth, Wabasha has an abundance of trails. One morning on
the riverside trail, I met the Mayor. Jolly outgoing sort, energetic. Proud of
his town. When he, somehow, found out I was from Duluth he told me that he and
his wife, The First Lady, come up to stay here in the hotels every so often.
They enjoy it.
Then a slightly troubled cloud crept over his face, he looked
around to make sure the coast was clear, he leaned in and confided in a quiet
conspiratorial fashion.
“You know,” he said, “A very high class hotel has made us an offer
for the sale of this playground here.”
I looked over my shoulder at the park. A fine piece of downtown
property, directly on the waterfront. Prime. I understood his dilemma.
He went on, “And it is no chain deal either. A real fine hotel…
not some Comfort Suites or Best Western. Nothing like that.” He nodded gravely.
He studied me. He raised a brow.
I cleared my throat.
“Well,” I offered, “My wife and I would certainly come back to
Wabasha to stay in a fine destination hotel, but the park….” I shrugged and
didn’t need to add the “Not so much.”
His gaze became misty and shifted to far off down the river. His
lips repeated “Destination hotel” kind of dreamily. He beamed, nodded smartly
and was off, Hizzoner and Hizzdog, bounding along down the walk all jaunty.
I considered the playground. A generous and choice piece of
downtown real estate. Someone was gonna get their noses bent on this one.
The park had been frenetically festooned with all manner of
autumnal bric a brac. It was a riot of straw bales, corn stocks, pumpkins,
friendly witch cut-outs…the usual. Someone with very good and lofty intentions
had went through a lot of effort. Still I suspected the kids would have more
fun if they would’ve dumped a huge pile of cardboard boxes in the middle of the
park, the kind of big boxes that, say, a loveseat or dishwasher would’ve been
delivered in. And also a heaping supply of old, empty, paint cans with handles
to swing them on. And the lids. The lids make better Frisbees than Frisbees do.
They fly faster, farther, higher and truer. And are way more lethal to
playmates.
Fun and playgrounds often fall victim to lofty intentions. There is nothing
truly good that can’t be ruined by trying to improve upon it.
Still in this case it was even bigger threats that would do this one in. Money
talks, playground walks. Alas “Money doesn’t talk, it swears,” so says bob
Dylan. Maybe another plot can be found for a park. One behind a furniture
store, or appliance store, or paint store for instance. In my childhood it was
a paint store. Fransen’s.
I saw the mayor again later that day, on the riverside. Had another nice chat.
And I think I saw him on Main Street again one day but he quickly ducked into
an insurance agency like he had forgotten something of vital importance.
I had pretty much exhausted all possible opportunities there, a storm system
was threatening so I gingerly hit the road. I could grasp the throttle with my
palm and other fingers wrapped about it and could get by reasonably, although
it looked kind of like I was pushing the chair around the ice rink like when I
tried skating once.
True to form I ran under the ever approaching cloud front just on
this side of Solon Springs. From there soon into the grasp of a heavy chilled
east wind chuffing across the lake. Got home, shivering uncontrollably.
It was a great trip.
The next week we went to Savannah to visit Mesa. Had a wonderful
time. They have lots of destination hotels on the river.
My thumb was still burning away but far be it from me to ever
complain. Besides, one day we went to the beach. Mesa got bit, or stung, no…
nailed, on her knee by a jelly fish. So that is why there was nobody in the
whole wide sea on such a beautiful day.
At any rate, it was nasty. Kind of stole the thunder away from my
thumb. But I did not resent it too much.
I didn’t even think of licking it.
My thumb gradually faded away. Then, in late October, I was
fixating on it still when I noticed an edge of the discolored area had turned
up a little. A little edge. I thought: I wonder. So I took hold of it and
pulled. The entire area gave way and was dangling in my fingers! It pulled up
like a postage stamp or an applique. Amazing. I don’t remember what I did with
it though. But the skin underneath was all pink and newbornish.
Here is what I think: That stupid bee was going in EXACTLY the
same direction as I was. That way his pointy end was pointing directly at me.
If he was then flying along at, say, 3mph, minding his own business, when
I hit him, that means he hit ME at 57. That would be a 57 mph hornet sting!
Plus he was mad for being killed too, so he probably pulled out the stops.
At any rate, all’s well that ends well, I always say.
Hope your holidays are great and may you meet all your bees head
on in 2017.
Sincerely,
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXx
12/7/15
Duluth,
MN
Greetings.
Hope this finds that all is
well with you and yours.
We are fine and fit.
Kristi and I are still in
Duluth and are gainfully employed.
Hannah and Bill live here in
town too, both are doing well.
Mesa and Joe now live in
Evanston, Illinois. Joe is pursuing Journalism at Northwestern University.
Recently he wrote proudly, “They’re learnin’ me to get to be a scribbler real
good!” So you can see it is already taking.
Thinking back over the last
year, there is a lot to be grateful for here. And we are. There’s been an
adventure or two as well.
For instance my colonoscopy
of late last month. An interesting event, a colonoscopy, each is in itself a
unique journey.
Kristi was out of town for
what seemed to me to be a hastily arranged trip of dubious merit, so I had to
carry on with nobody to complain to. I endured, with unheralded mute stoicism,
the days of preparations before the test, the hours of privations and diabolical
discomforts.
The day of the test dawned -
and I was there to witness that dawning - clear and cold. A beauty. I walked
down the hill to the Medical Center as I was not supposed to drive. It was a
bright and shiny sort of morning. A lot
like the insides of my colon I was thinking.
I looked over at the folks
passing by in cars and buses. I felt sad for them, having to go to work or
school while here I was walking down the hill, on a day off, planning to have a
thrilling procedure.
Gradually though, after I
thought about it further, I began to feel a bit of scorn for my fellow man. I
considered them, eventually, with more of a feeling of contempt: Look at them,
scurrying about with their filthy little colons. Mine was as clean as a newly
minted penny after all.
It was one of those rare
times in life when you can look at your neighbors and say to yourself
unequivocally and without reservation: “I am better than you are.”
I got down there and
successfully completed the countdown. Since the other times when I engaged in
this sort of thing raced by so quickly, I made a concerted effort to observe
the day’s proceedings and make notes of them for future reflection and
reference.
So, in the procedure room,
as a masked lady began to inject my I.V., with clarity I recall looking up at
the big clock on the wall. The second hand read 10 seconds to the hour. I
continued to hold all present in thrall with some sort of interesting
dissertation and was about to make another key point when I felt my hand and
arm get kind of cold. The clock was showing twenty seconds after and I was
about to comment, “Hey, you’re shoving that stuff in kinda fast aren’t ya?”
Then, abruptly, someone was unceremoniously
ripping tape off my hand. The sunlight was streaming in and I could see the
ship canal again. My doctor materialized out of thin air and rather summarily, in
a perfunctory fashion, discoursed upon my colon. I dimly gathered that the gist
of his homily was that my colon was good. I nodded sagely. Hallelujah.
The doctor vaporized and,
just as suddenly, Billy was sitting there as if his elements had been instantaneously
assembled on that chair.
I recall saying, “Get me out
of here.”
Then with an almost slapstick/comic Keystone Cop rapidity
we got my pants on.
As we weaved though the
overly bright lobby I beamed at him, “Take me to a barroom diver!”
He did. A good son.
Suddenly I woke up face down
across my bed. That was a surprise because I never sleep on my stomach like
that. I looked around. It was either getting dark or just getting light. It was
the former.
I cruised down to the
kitchen, made a huge bowl of popcorn, snagged a couple of beers and retired to
the easy chair to watch a movie.
In this case I chose the
1951 classic, “The Thing From Another World.” The third best movie ever made.
It has everything: Desperate
men isolated in a remote and hostile locale. A storm brooding and
unleashed. A gorgeous woman torn between
the military man she kinda likes and the professor she respects. Safety,
testosterone, and survival versus science, understanding, and discovery. (Is it
still 1951?) Snappy dialogue. A little bondage thrown in. Cool DC-3’s flying
around and landing on the ice. A flying saucer which our side, by accident,
promptly incinerates.
And a big monster with a bad
attitude. Maybe angry over his burnt up flying saucer? It could’ve been like
his Harley to him, I think.
Speaking of that monster, I
find it interesting that James Arness (Gunsmoke) was cast in the title role. He
brings depth and feelng to the part and dispatches it with verve, if not panache.
He imbues The Thing with, dare I say, a pathos which may have been lost in the
hands of other leading men of that era. For instance Cary Grant. Or Jimmy
Stewart even.
Especially the scene where he careens around the mess
hall with his arms on fire like that.
Did you know that Arness was
born in Minneapolis? And so was his
brother, Peter Graves? AND Richard Widmark was born in Sunrise but nobody that
I tell about it seems to care? But that fact alone must ensure that Sunrise can
claim more celebrities per capita than any other city in the state. Maybe even
in the nation. Certainly more than Minneapolis, even throwing in Prince,
Roundhouse Rodney, and Tiny Tim.
Well, I recall having a
fitful night thereafter. My sleep was wracked by bad dreams; perplexing, acute,
and troubling in an incomprehensible way.
Must’ve been that popcorn.
Happy
Holidays,
Kristi
and Jeff Smith.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
MONDAY
12/8/14
Duluth,
MN
Greetings,
Hope all is well for you and
yours.
As for us we are all fine
and grateful.
Joe and Mesa are back in the
states and they are living up north in the cabin. Have found employment and are
planning their next adventures.
Billy and Hannah live in
town here on London Road.
Kristi and I are employed
and healthy. Our dog Rose is okay too.
We had a few events this
year but nothing of a real ripping nature. Not like the usual.
But an incident in October
does come to mind. Remember that real nice day late in the month when the sun
had an eclipse? Well we were speeding along home form Up North, near Angora
actually, when I looked right into the setting sun and studied it intently.
Kristi was at the wheel so we were zooming along and I discovered that the
eclipse, when viewed through the bare limbs of the trees at speed, could be
seen quite clearly through some sort of magical stroboscopic effect.
Naturally I urged Kristi to
take a look. She too, found it quite engaging but when she returned her
attention to the driving is when we hit the deer.
You can’t really blame her
though as her vision was most like handicapped by the fact that I had been
imploring her to look directly into the sun. You know how you get those black
spots when you look directly into the sun?
It was lucky too that the
deer had been prekilled by maybe some other motorist enjoying the strobe
effect.
Kristi deftly jerked the
wheel in a lightening move that would’ve humbled Parnelli Jones. AND we found
that the deer fit perfectly between our wheels!
Unfortunately though the up
and down dimension was not to our advantage. There was a lot of sudden noises,
thumbs and crunches etc and the car seemed to be lofted up into the air
momentarily.
She kept her foot on the gas
and all seemed well. No warning lights, gauges all looked good, car was
tracking straight. We almost broke into hive fives all around.
Joe was in back and he said
maybe we should look under the car to see if anything happened. I allowed that
might be interesting so Kristi pulled up a little side road.
Joe went around back and me
the front and I was boasting that the fascia and the bumper and the license
plate all showed not a scratch!
Joe said he smelled gas.
I got down and looked and,
sure enough, a stream of gasoline was jetting onto the earth. I said to Joe,
“Get in get in!” and said to Kristi, “Floor it!”
We sailed along, all eyes on
the guage hoping to make Viriginia. Sure enough that needle started sweeping
downwards but Kristi was resolute. We made the Holiday station. High fives all
around. I thought, we made it to Viriginia, we not try for Duluth?
The car was still running
and no gas was leaking so…why not. I began to fill the car up and sure enough,
shortly there was a pool gas creeping out from under the car. Got in and
floored it, mentally taking account of all the gas stations between Virginia
and Duluth.
Well, we had to stop at
Cotton. Farthest pump for the station, filled it until I had to move my feet to
keep from getting them all gassy. We rolled on for the next station. By
Independence I was quite sure that it would leak only to about 1/8 of a tank.
Turned out that was correct. We breezed home as happy as can be. I was
concerned that someone might drop their cigarette, say, oh, maybe at Britt or
somewhere up there and then, a few hearbeats later, our car would blow sky high
here at the curb, leaving only a mushroom cloud. But that trail probably ran
cold in Hermantown.
All’s well that ends well I
always say. Of course State Farm was involved against their will but we were
back on the road, without leaking, in a fw days.
The guy at the shop, when I
came to pick it up, said, “It looked like an antler, “ he made a quite gutting-
like movement with his hand, “Gashed right a long it!”
Then he paused for a moment,
looked far into the distance, his lips moved a trifle as if there was an
internal debate occurring and he added, “No maybe it was a rib.”
Yeah, Kristi sure has a lot
of adventures.
Take for instance, too late
this fall, as a blizzard approached we decided we should put her Vespa
away. She announced that she wanted to
take one final blast up and down Skyline and I agreed having added Sea Foam to
the tank and thought it was a god idea to kind of run it through so to speak.
It was dark and raw and I thought she knew about that patch of ice at the end
of the driveway.
She went wailing out onto
the street and she hit that ice and did a tank slapper that would’ve made Evel
Knievel stand up straight in his grave and salute her smartly. If he knew about
it.
She blated down the street
without skipping a beat. I thought, she is getting more Smith-like every week.
I was just getting up from
my knees when she returned from her fling and she didn’t mention a thing about
it. She acted like it was something she
does every day. If it would’ve been my I would’ve come back lording all over
about it, you know, “Did you see me do that?” and so on.
Anyhow, it proves to me it is time for her to
get a bigger bike. Yeah baby!
May your holidays rewarding,
Sincerely,
Kristi
and Jeff Smith
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GREETINGS.
12/09/13
Hope you and yours are fine and
fit.
It is a sad thing to
report that Margit, Kristi's mother, passed late last summer. She fought the
good fight; it was a tough, slow descent. She made it without complaint.
The last of that fine generation for our family here. It's worthwhile to
consider that generation, the kind of hands they were dealt and
the grace with which they played those hands. If there is a cause
for gratitude it is in the consideration of what their work and sacrifice has wrought
for
my generation and those that follow. Here's to them, we'll never
see their like again.
As for my lovely wife Kristine, (age 23), and myself, age (age 58), we are
sound. Kristi bought a scooter this summer. We go riding. She looks way
cute
on it. We
have a gang now, Hell’s Nurses, and are planning on terrorizing a small
town; Palmdale, or maybe Ronneby, Brimson for sure.
Our old buddy Jack cashed in his
chips, though, last summer. He did it his way; he just laid down and died. Didn’t need
to go to no stinkin’ vet. He always did things his way. He was
up N where he loved it and Billy was there at his side. He sure was a
good dog. So Rosie is my new partner in crime now and she's
a pal.
Mesa and Joe are at the moment in New Zealand,
spent the last year there, and had lots of adventures and sweet times. Their
visas are about expired, as I sit here it sounds like Australia is their
next port of call. They live.
Kristi and Billy went
to N.Z. for a visit this fall. Unfortunately neither could answer
definitively for me which way the water swirls in the bowl of the
toilet when you flush it. If I get down there that will be the FIRST THING
I’ll check. And here I begged them to make note and settle it in my mind
once and for all. It sounds like Mesa nd Joe had created a
terrific internary and they all had a fine time touring those
beautiful islands in spite of not paying attention to the
toilets.
Billy lives here in Duluth,
an R.N., he works at a Nursing Home in Superior. He’s still
inscrutable as ever. One day at work an old fellow who had been enjoying some
fresh air came to the Nurses Station and asked to use the phone. I can just see
it…the nurses sitting there paging through magazines, doughnuts piled
high on a plate in front of them. Without looking up, one of the nurses
irritably jerks a thumb at the phone. The old guy dials and says, “911? Yeah,
I’d like to report an airplane crash.”
Maybe you read in the paper
about the 2 planes full of skydivers that collided over Superior WI?
That’s it. It seems unfathomable that 2 planes can seek out each
other and couple like that. Planes are little and the sky is
about the biggest thing there is on earth after all.
Thankfully no one was hurt. Both
planes were carrying skydivers so they could jump out. The planes got a little
dinged up though. Especially so the one that banged into the earth without
a pilot in it. All’s well that ends well is what they always say in
Superior. I just think it was mighty lucky the
planes weren’t carrying bowling teams
instead.
Which brings this around to me,
finally. Well not me so much me as my next door neighbor Johnny.
Well, ex next door neighbor Johnny. He moved to Thunder Bay last fall, probably
saving my life, or at least my liberty.
We spent a lot of time on our decks
facing the harbor, watching the ships. He was quite an authority on the ships,
had his smart phone keeping close track of them etc. Once I pointed out a
cluster of buildings and a water tower, away off behind and to the right of
Superior WI. I mentioned that at night there is a concentration of lights there
too. I told him try as I might I could not find that place, it was off the road
grid as far as I could tell, having many times crisscrossed that
area, the neck of the woods between Superior and Oliver WI. I tried pointing
this out to Johnny, I tried to jazz it up with my growing suspicion it was a
secret government installation or something. He looked over at it, just
shrugged unimaginatively and returned to the boats.
One day I was sitting
in McKenzie's having a leisurely lunch when I made the acquaintance
of a retired couple from Billings Park, which is a fine neighborhood of
Superior towards the secret base. I expressed my frustration with 8 years of
trying to find that water tower. The guy, a life long resident, ticked off
every tower he knew of and I had them all covered, having cataloged everyone I
could see from my house, including antennas, and there are many. Finally he
said,” BNSF has a locomotive yard back there, maybe it’s that?”
I jumped on Google Maps,
followed the railroad and there it was, I could even see the shadow of the
tower falling across the tracks. Then, one of my last rides, fall of
2012, I found the little road to it and explored around, rode right through
that shadow myself.
Later I told Johnny about it. His
eyes lit up. “Locomotive facility?” He said the words as if it were some kind
of indescribably delicious pleasure dome. Dreamily he said, looking into the
far distance, “We gotta go there.”
So one day early last spring, there
we were. We snooped around. I was driving my old Ford Crown V, Police
Interceptor, “Cop motor, cop shocks, and cop brakes.” Low slung but has a big
heart. Johnny coaxed me down access roads and we watched the R.R. guys
switching trains and doing other tasks about the big yard. Finally we banged
out to a nice vantage and stopped for a rest. Johnny was expounding on the
virtues of diesel electric locomotives and their particular horsepowers and
purposes, one locomotive versus another. Suddenly I see a big 4 wheel drive
truck approaching, crew cut at the wheel. He pulled up. I beamed at him and hit
the window down.
Stealthily, coolly, I
passed my beer to Johnny who slyly secreted it alongside his leg, with his own.
Crew Cut said, “What
are you guys doin’?”
I gestured expansively
to the rail yard and said, “Watching the trains!” Something told me to leave
out the “You fool.” which was begging to be stitched on the end.
He said, “Get outta
here.”
Oh Johnny, he was delighted, bouncing up and down on the seat, slugging me in
the shoulder, enthusing, “You got busted! You got busted!”
We looked back over our shoulders
at the gate and noticed a sign that said, “No admittance.” Huh, they
should’ve made it bigger or something. The fools.
So we went to Allouez and
had lunch at the Choo Choo, of course, and decided to snoop around
the Superior waterfront. We poked about; found The Ryerson, “The most
beautiful ship on the great lakes.”
Soon I found us bouncing along a
trail to a 1000 footer that was moored for winter lay up. Many
workers were bustling in and out of her. It is an amazing
contraption, a 1000 foot laker. Huge, it is like a 100 story
building lying on its side. And the bridge is an office building
itself towering above. Johnny was becoming animated; his curiosity
about what was going on inside of her was becoming ever more stoked. I
slewed us out of there before the inevitable, “Let’s go in for a look.”
One humiliation a day is usually my limit.
Johnny is an aerospace engineer or
airplane technician or something. I know one thing; he is not a rocket
scientist. He worked here in Duluth for Cirrus Aircraft and he
knew everything about the planes.
For being an engineer though, I
never saw him once pick up a tool, except for a snow shovel that
had, where the handle inserted, a crack in the scoop
which rendered it quite flaccid. With it he could cuddle together
only a meager moraine of slush. If there is a more useless tool than a floppy
shovel, I have not yet been introduced to it.
After seeing that, I had some
misgivings about Cirrus airplanes. Every time I’d hear a small plane
overhead, I’d crane my neck
(Over)
upwards to see if it was a Cirrus, so I
could plan an escape route should it come at me tumbling from the sky.
Then I remembered: the
planes have a parachute to save them if that happens. This fact
would give a guy time enough to make a dodge. But then again, what if Johnny
was involved with designing that chute? And just what did he do in the industry
when he lived all those years back in Seattle? The Boeing 787 comes to mind.
One day we decided to ride our
motorcycles to Osceola for the car/air show. The town was like
Woodstock, but without anything really fun going on, gridlock. We finally got
to the show, our motorcycles shimmering in their own heat.
They ruined the thing when they
moved the cars from Classic Motorbooks to
the airshow. Airshow? More like air disaster waiting to happen
is what I think of them. My uncle Maynard captured it once
nicely when asked if he was going to an airshow, “I went to one once. Now
I know an airplane can fly upside down.”
The car show was lame; does anyone really
need to see another ’57 Chevy? Not me. With the
planes incessantly whistling overhead, we decided to make a break for
some place dark and inviting. We crept out of Osceola, hauled down the
valley, hung a right up
from Copas targeting Scandia and Meisters. About a
mile or two from town we ran into some O.V.’s. (Orange Vests). I looked at them,
they looked at me, I shrugged a little and so did they, so we just
rumbled by. Soon we came upon floats and tractors and convertibles with
queens. It was a parade forming. Taco Days of Scandia! Been there
once, many years ago. No one was stopping us so we chugged alongside of the
bands and clowns and dignitaries, fire trucks, cops, ambulances and then the
honor guard. The lead band was firing up and we
swung around them about the time they stepped off. We burbled
into town, the parade at our heels. The children looked up hopefully to
us and dismissed us just as quickly, no candy from these
bums. We plunged into a throng in front of Meisters, there’d be no
lunch for us there. Multitudes jammed the street and I wondered how there could
be this many people here when everyone was back at Osceola. We cut through
them all at a pedestrian pace, the ladies giving me an appreciative eye while
adolescent males and Aerostitch square's hearts were sent
aflutter by Johnny. He rides a Ducati.
Finally we bust through the other
side and got out of town. We flew like whiskered angels on the back roads,
stopping at Sunrise, (Birthplace of Richard Widmark), Pine City
and Sandstone. Later, when we walked onto the street at Sandstone,
there was the sun just going down. We looked at each other.
Sundown: deer come cruising. Riding Scenic 23 at that time of day, in
the fall, is like playing Russian Roulette with 4 chambers loaded.
Johnny volunteered: “I think that
you should go first. Look, you’ve already hit a deer with your motorcycle.
The odds of it happening again are infinitesimally small. In fact,
I’ve never heard of anyone hitting a deer a second time.”
Maybe that’s because
they weren’t as lucky as I was the first time? I thought of telling
him that but he would’ve said something like, “See, you’re lucky, you
should go first.” We blasted off and we made it home.
Riding second is no insurance when your adversary is a creature as ignorant as
a deer.
The next day we decided to go
to the drag races on Garfield Ave. Soon we grew bored at the starting line. We
decided to see what it looked like at the end where they were going fast. We
dodged some O.V.’s and went around the back of some warehouses and came
out and watched the other end of the strip. Boring too. The O.V.’s were so
rapt they didn’t turn around to see us flagrantly breaking the rules.
I told Johnny we should carry clipboards the next time we try something like
that. There’s no more certain way to guarantee invisibility than
to approach someone with a clipboard in your hand.
We left; a car show was in progress
there as well. Again '57 Chevy’s. Johnny fired up his righteous, monster
Mustang. He has massaged that thing to a micron of cataclysm. High strung, it
gorges on rarified atmospheres.
Remember when you’d go to a big
time pro wrestling match and if the bouts where gratifyingly violent and
inspiring you’d see, on the way to your car, all kinds of poor
man’s wrestling moves and various holds reenacted by the departing fans?
You know, like arm bars, side head locks, and, drunken
staggering airplane spins? Where the hapless aviator in this scenario was
invariably the smallest guy in the group? And likewise, on a cold December
afternoon, in the gridlock leaving the Met Stadium
after Rashad caught that one in the end zone at .0 seconds
to win, I saw a young man sprint between the cars, leap, and
make a spectacular catch. The elation on his face was soon replaced by
stupefied horror as his 35mm camera, which heretofore was
around his neck and now liberated by his heroics,
smashed on the frozen asphalt. I recall seeing the liberated film
fluttering like viscera in the wind-chill.
That’s the way it was
when we left the drags. On every point of the compass, in every intersection
and side street: smoking burnouts. Johnny caught the fever. Soon we were
doing fabulous fishtailing burnouts as well. He can make that
Mustang walk and talk, I tell you what. He flounced that beast and
she just begged for more, more, more. A maestro in a Mustang he performed
bellowing powerslide arcs through neighborhoods, we blasted over blind
crests.
Real, good, old fashioned
fun, in other words.
But, like I said, he moved away. The first phone call we had after
he moved cost me 80 bucks. “International rates.” Duh. Thank you
Verizon, must've cost you at least a nickel more to service
that call.
But he’s still got a crammed storage
locker here in Duluth. We get together. We even went riding late this fall.
About 3 miles. Locker to gas station, station to McKenzie’s, back to
locker.
We got plans on the book too, if all goes
well. Still, it is safer for me with him in Thunder Bay. But not as much fun.
Hope your holidays are
happy!
-Kristi,Bill, Joe, Mesa, Smitty.
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DECEMBER
11, 2012
Greetings.
Hope you and yours are fine
and fit this holiday season.
As for myself (age 57) and
my lovely wife Kristine, (age 20 and a half) we are well, still up here on
Skyline. The ships still come and go but the ice is edging its way across the
harbor. Soon the final Saltie will slip away and, in about a month, the last
laker ships will slog in wreathed in ice for winter lay up.
Bill (dang, I can’t remember
how old these kids are anymore) is now an R.N. He works at a Nursing Home in
Superior and sometimes in Marshfield, WI if needed. He lives on London Road,
nice place. Congratulations to him, he worked, and still does work, very hard.
Mesa and Joe have now cast
their wandering eyes to the Southern Hemisphere for early 2013. They continue
on their quest for loftier educations but take their own sweet time. It,
believe it or not, is beyond me and I try to seem involved. Actually it was
that way when she was in grammar school too, so time does not make all
irritants a pearl I guess. But I should boast that in a fit of uncharacteristic
and spontaneous generosity I offered to keep their cats while they travel. I
heard myself saying the words and couldn’t believe it myself. The cats are nice
but warily shy away from me, a more perceptive creature I cannot fathom. Except
for a woman, maybe.
Speaking of Joe and Mesa,
they got married last summer so that was a big deal. When they informed us of
their intent to get married on some bridge in Florence, I was immediately
interested. I hadn’t been through that place in several years and I had lots of
questions. Where would the reception take place? Holland? Pipestone? Tyler?
Maybe even Lake Benton? And what bridge is there in Florence anyway? That’s one
sorry place to look for a river, I thought. I know the Flandreau Creek starts
somewhere thereabouts but any bridge over it at that point would be sorely over
capacity with even just a bride and groom on it.
Mesa patiently explained to
me, again, that, no, it was the Florence that’s in Italy. So there we went last
summer as planned. The wedding, in the evening, on the Ponte Vecchio Bridge was
spectacular, romantic, special. It was a great time. They did it well.
You know if you ever take a
notion to go to Europe, you’ll find there is a lot to see there. The people
speak different languages. It’s kind of like going to the Iron Range but, the
food is much better, the people are nicer, better looking, and way more
intelligent.
So later they had another
marriage here in Duluth, just to make certain I suppose, on the beach of
Minnesota Point. The weather was fine; it was a lot of fun, a lovely second
wedding. It all made for a busy summer. I sure am glad they scheduled it so I
wouldn’t have to miss their wedding on account of Bluesfest.
The last year went fast.
Sure had a lot of close calls again. And that’s not counting the ones you never
even know about. Like how stopping to pick up the morning paper and reading the
headlines makes you a little late for that dump truck that came careening down
Mesaba Avenue with its brakes aflame. Or you miss, by just that much, the
flying wheel vaulting towards you, launched from some clueless dude’s Kia.
As for me a couple of close
ones stand out. I’ll save one for next year’s letter in case I don’t have any
close calls in 2013.
The one I am thinking about
right now, and have thought about astonishingly often since – such a curious
thing it was – happened to me on my way to work one fine Sunday morning. About
7:30 or so. Like usual I fired up my bike and roared down the sleepy Skyline.
Just shy of Enger Tower, approaching the S-curve before Twin Ponds, I noticed
with considerable alarm a deer racing towards me. Employing formulas beyond my
grasp before and ever since, and with a velocity of thought totally beyond my
most strenuous school day’s efforts, I astutely calculated, showcasing an
aplomb that would’ve left stupefied those scores of my beleaguered instructors
of yore, that the deer and I were on intersecting trajectories. Also I made
note, having donned my usual riding to work safety attire, (Roma tennies,
jeans, maybe a long sleeved shirt and a leather rag wrapped around my head, -
here’s to you Frank Zappa.) that this was going to hurt bad. Oh and I was
wearing glasses too.
Apparently the deer was intent
on ignoring the fact that I was wearing those glasses. He kept running, from an
impressive hole shot there in the ditch he was accelerating majestically. A
motorcycle seeking missile.
Needless to say I locked
them up. (Antilock brakes? Don’t need no stinkin’ ABS. It’s a
Harley-Davidson…Dude.) Kristi and I would pace the length of my skid marks
later, 75 toe to heel paces. (Hey, I wasn’t going THAT fast, yet.) Crisscrossing themselves, their delicate arcs
of varying amplitudes would’ve defied the most dogged Spirograph. It was a real
tank slapper, I tell you what.
This was the strange part:
It kind of went slow, as if my brain wanted me to take notice. It was quiet. I
can recall the screeching of my tires. (My engine killed because, naturally, I
didn’t fool with the clutch; having been consumed with lower level objectives
in that instant.) It had rained the night before, the road was damp, but still,
I marveled, “Those tires sure are squealing!”
And the deer, his hoofs were
clacking away as he fought for traction too. Clippity clippity, clippity. I
reflected upon the beautifully sculpted muscles pulling under his skin,
rippling, stretching, contracting, willing himself stubbornly forward to our
appointed mutual destiny.
I think I said, “No!”
That didn’t help much, I
don’t think. Then, just where I try to remember it the most, my brain let me
down, or maybe it is saving me from the details but, it was like when the
turtle collided with the snail, “It all happened so fast.”
About then there was a seismic
shock sent through my body. I felt the animal’s mass against me, its straining,
its vibrating. I felt its body heat.
And then it was all over.
Just like that. The deer which had made its entrance stage left was now on my
right side, thrashing inches from my heel. Hooves clattering, he was pin
wheeling like Curly in The Stooges but not going “Woo! Woo! Woooo!” In fact I
don’t think he said anything.
I heaved my bike forward to
clear those frenzied hooves and suddenly he must’ve realized he was okay because
he looked around, bounded to his feet and bolted into the woods. I heard him
crashing off through the brush, not stopping for any serious reflection. Maybe
he did that when he was spooling away on the road. As far as I know we never
did meet again - but he could be browsing in my backyard right now.
I noticed in his excitement
that he had thoughtfully voided his bowels there on the road. I was so busy, I
allowed, that I did not have the luxury of joining him in this release. And one
would think it would be compulsory under the circumstances.
I hung over the handle bars,
panting. I was soaked with sweat even though it had not been that much work. I
noticed I was in the wrong lane, somehow. Like every amateur biker that I have
scorned over the years, I had steered directly into the animal. One reverts to
driving a car, automatically, reflexively. On a bike, honestly, you don’t steer
away like in a car; you actually push on the handle bar of your intended
path. Counterintuitive, but so natural
when up on two wheels. If you don’t believe me, next time you ride a bicycle,
ride one handed and try to steer it like a car. See you in the E.R., “That’s a
nasty lac on your chin there buddy.”
I, no lie, before and since,
practice the technique every time I ride. Still, this fall, I ran smack dab over, after
trying to avoid it, a dead skunk in the middle of Michigan Street one dark
night. Thank goodness he was fairly tattooed to the tarmac by the time of my
arrival on the scene. Do you know that his grease spot is still there? Skunks
are tenacious in more ways than one.
Anyhow I took inventory. My
knuckles on the left were split a little bit. My left shoulder, elbow, and hip
were sore but fully mobile. My left ankle was smarting; I think his hoof kicked
me there. It still hurts inside of it but that’s a small price to pay. I put
down the stand and walked around. Everything worked. And everything was in the right
place.
Then I fell upon my bike,
scrutinizing it minutely. Not a scratch. Mirror not even out of place. Clutch
lever: fine, handle bars: straight, (Afterwards, on my way to work I rolled
down the long 24th Ave W grade no-handed and there was no shimmy or
wander. She tracked like a laser.) nothing bent, not even a smudge. There was
lots of fur all over it though.
I sat there a while.
Listened to the birds. Called work to tell them I’d be a little late. (They
understood.)Runners would gallop by and absorb the tableau I presented to them.
They would see the skid marks, the deer’s contributions to the stage, (His
hooves actually made a spiral of scratches on the asphalt.) and see me there,
pallid and panting. Maybe they would cock their heads in wonder but they kept
moving. Fine with me, I was not feeling conversational, for once. One good
thing about runners, they will never stop to chat.
Bicyclists, too, spun by.
They never even raised a brow I was not surprised to notice, motorcyclists
occupying a rung on their hierarchy a tier, or two, below that of couch
potatoes.
I coasted the bike to the
proper side of the road, paused for a few more moments of gratitude. I fired
her up.
When I got to work I noticed
the left side of my body was liberally favored with deer fur. My clothing
looked like one of those wand things you drag across the sofa after a cat has
commandeered it. (Or cats.) I brushed myself off as best as possible, sure
could’ve used one of those wands. Hours later I was still plucking fur out of
my mouth with trembling fingers. What is it with a deer? Do they detonate on
impact?
That sure was a remarkable
thing to happen. What are the odds? It would be like slipping off the tip of
the Foshay Tower and having, at just that instant, a rag top Karmann Ghia glide
by below to cushion the sudden stop. Incredible.
I am a lot more apt to wear
a helmet since then, especially when I don’t care about messing up my hair.
Leathers too. I continue to harp incessantly about all the deer. I still ride,
but now, most of the time, I ride in a kind of cringing, clenched-in almost
sideways kind of cramped posture.
Still I have to hand it to
that deer. I think he held me up or something. The last few feet of my skid
marks had a hook in them. How that happened, I don’t know. He saved me I think.
I hope he’s okay.
I hope, too, that your luck
will always be as good as mine was on that summer morning.
Happy
Holidays.
Kristi,
Bill, Mesa, Joe, Jeff.
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12/9/11 FRIDAY 1109
Greetings. We are fine and fit; we hope the same
for you and yours.
Not much has changed for me (age 56) and my
lovely wife Kristine, (age 26). We are still both employed; Essentia Health
still will have us. We get around. Kristi’s pregnancy has been uneventful.
She’s in her 5th trimester now.
Never a complaint, she’s a trooper.
The kids are good. Billy graduates next Wednesday
and then State Board Exams will follow, if all goes well he’ll be an R.N. also,
proving that the old tomato doesn’t fall too far from the trees.
Mesa and Joe are expected to arrive here in
Duluth this P.M. They spent last night in NYC after missing a connection. They
have been this week in Istanbul. They looked into a graduate school there and,
have seen many wonders. “Amazing” is a word I captured in one of her messages.
Speaking with Mesa one night, she said of the city, “Istanbul is like Rome and
Athens and NYC on crack and multiplied by a 1000!”
Proving again that the raisin doesn’t fall far
from the tree, just this autumn, when Kristi and I took a rip-roaring trip to
Winnipeg, I clearly recall exclaiming to her, “Thief River Falls, it’s like
Granite Falls, Hanley Falls and Hallock on Blatz Lite multiplied by 100!” (Like
I said, we get around.)
I cannot forget to thank Orhan and Asli, and
their families and friends in Turkey, who have been gracious hosts to Mesa and
Joe and have been invaluable resources to them. Life has wonderful twists of
fate.
You know, for me, 2011’s been a good year. Life’s been interesting - some exceptional things
have happened.
For instance, one day I was driving along one of Duluth’s major arteries, Miller Trunk
Highway (Hwy 53), just minding my own business, speeding up to about 50mph so I
could make an upcoming green light, when suddenly my attention was rudely drawn
to a terrific WHAM! that struck the rear of the car. (I was driving Kristi’s
car.) The car reeled sideways and slurred about. I kept it in control through
lightening quick reflexes and aimed the crippled vehicle towards the median. I
angrily looked back in the rearview to see who hit me and….there was nobody
there, except for other cars that were making marked adjustments to their own
trajectories, giving me a wide berth. “What the?” I remembered asking myself.
About this time I noticed a wheel go bounding alongside me on the driver’s
side. As it sailed past I was thinking, “That looks a lot like one of Kristi’s
wheels.”
As I scraped along, shooting, I am sure, a robust
rooster tail of sparks out of my tail; I watched the wheel bounce over the
median and bob into the lane of oncoming traffic. It wove and feinted its way
through the busy lanes, miraculously most of the cars had to take little in the
way of evasive action.
When I
finally ground to a halt, and I determined all was well I said to myself, “That
was exciting! Now I can say I’ve done THAT!”
Realizing I needed it, and with much less aplomb
than it had displayed, I sported across the two busy lanes of traffic in
pursuit of the wheel. It was a cold and bitter blustery day, 2 days before my
birthday, late February. Ahead on a cross street - they all cross 53 on
diagonals, this was Haines Road - I saw a guy standing by a car looking at the
ground. I ran over to him and there was Kristi’s wheel. It had made it
remarkably far in its foiled escape attempt.
The man was gazing at it in mute wonder. He looked up and said to me,
“Where’d that come from?”
I pointed back up the highway and Kristi’s little
car leaned awkwardly in the far distance. He said, “I was just waiting for the
light (The one I was trying to race through.) when WHAM! I felt something hit
the car.”
We looked at his rear passenger side door. There
was a smudge and ding there. (Not too bad, probably could be buffed right out.)
I pulled out a card someone had given me and started to scrawl my insurance
information and so forth on it. He took it and seemed very indifferent. He
pointed to the front door. It had a big decal boasting that this was a courtesy
car from one of the local dealerships, and the thing was kind of a beater at
that. He seemed a bit pleased that it had suffered an insult. I suspect the
dealership had lost his allegiance somewhere along the line. I bid adieu to him
and again wound my way through all the traffic, this time with the dirty wheel
in my freezing hands.
Already I had to admit it was a day of
outstanding luck. While I waited for the inexorable tow truck I looked across
the road and there was a car rental agency, a kind of minor league affair. So
again I dashed across through the traffic and whipped open the door upon a guy
at the desk who seemed very startled to have an actual customer. He leapt from
his desk, looked out the window and said, “Where’d you come from?” I pointed up
the highway and he said, “Oh.”
I told him I wanted a car for the weekend. He
‘Put me into” a milky silver Toyota of relatively recent vintage. A more
nondescript conveyance cannot be conceived. Just standing alongside of it
drained color from one’s own soul. And driving it was like being in some sort
of fevered contraption from a late Victorian Era Science Fiction novel: One
suddenly became invisible.
As it was I needed it only overnight. The problem
was not major; it actually was fixed that evening. I’d had a brake job done by
a back yard kind of guy. On that wheel he must’ve trusted his fingers rather
than a torque wrench. Some kind of weird internal failure inside the wheel. I
examined it in detail while I shivered along the road. The lugs were all tight,
but internal lugs of some kind were all unthreaded. A strange system it seemed
to me. I would think the engineers at Kia could’ve lavished the thing with a
better design. I hadn’t felt it coming.
All’s well that end’s well I always say. The
repairs were simple, the towing was by AAA and I was within sight of Firestone.
I had ready access to a rental to pass my time. I didn’t get hurt and Kristi’s
wheel didn’t hurt anybody. I’ve yet to hear anything from the loaner car folks
and I gave some people something to talk about over dinner that evening. A day
of remarkable luck.
Although I cannot draw even a gratuitous line
between the event above and the next story I am about to tell, I am going to
tell it anyway.
Last August Kristi, my brother Dale, and myself
returned late from Bluesfest. Before we left I had unearthed the old Christmas
light timers and Kristi had 2 crockpots plugged in, one with a beef roast and
one containing a pork roast. (I suppose we each would’ve had our own roast if
she’d had another crockpot.) We returned home to a house of delicious scents.
I let Jack out on the back deck where he likes to
glower down on the neighborhood and the menagerie that is Duluth: raccoons,
coyote, foxes, a bobcat this fall, and deer, deer, deer. For example, the other
night coming home from work, under a nearby streetlight I saw the biggest deer
ever, huge antlers, posing in a neighbor’s yard. I thought, for a moment it was
one of those fake deer you see in some yards. (The very definition of redundant
in Duluth.) Then one of its ears twitched, quite a sight.
There are
more deer in this city than squirrels and am I glad they don’t walk on the
power lines like squirrels do. By the end of winter, the wretched snow
remaining in my yard looks as if a malted milk ball bomb exploded on it. Some
day I will hook an empty Whopper box out of the trash at the movies, make a
collection from in the back yard and bring them to work in a bowl and set the
box alongside. Some there have a real tooth for chocolate I’ve noticed; it
would be a fascinating experiment.
Anyhow, I closed the door and behind me Jack
immediately detonated. I went out there to see what was exciting him. He was
beginning to tear at the flimsy toddler gate that keeps him, improbably,
imprisoned on the deck. He never has tried that before. (Think of all those
horses in all those cowboy movies, standing obediently outside all those
saloons with just a wimpy little rein whipped lackadaisically around a post.)
I followed Jack’s glare down the steps and there,
apparently drawn by the odors of the roasts wafting through the window, was a
BIG BEAR. I almost did a double back flip. It is not every night you encounter,
on your very own porch, something that can eat you.
I should not have been so surprised. I’d been
seeing bear evidence in the back yard all summer and I want to caution you
against striking same with your weed whacker, at least while looking down. I’ve
mused over that evidence. We live right downtown. If you were in a city view
room at the cylindrical Radisson and looked up the hill, we’d be up 6 blocks
and slightly to the left. This evidence proves that bears do not only do that
in the woods but also in the city. Makes you wonder if the pope is always
Catholic.
Well that evidence was of a putative bear and I
was now faced with the real thing.
Immediately I reviewed all the sage advice
regarding bears I’d given the children back in the day.
For instance, always show affection to bear cubs,
pet them, fuss over them, dress them in little goofy outfits and so forth, and,
when the mother returns, she will find heartwarming the fact that you cherish
her cubs as much as she does.
Then there was the deployment of “The Churchill
Manoeuvre.” (Fig. A below – also known as “The Moe”)). But what if the bear
knew The Block? (Fig. B) Besides, I could not spread my fingers that wide
anyway. I noticed in that instant that a bear's eyes are too widely set. I’d
need to use both index fingers, which would by clumsy but, on the on the other
hand, would void The Block. No, I decided then,” The Moe” would best be used
only upon small to medium sized dogs, like those small Collies and Pomeranians,
perhaps.
The third thing is the deal about figuring out
which legs are longest on the bear. Supposedly one pair is always longer. If
the rear legs are longer, you run downhill and when he chases you, the short
front legs will cause him to bowl over and roll down the hill. Likewise, if the
front legs are longer, you run uphill. For him it would be like trying to chase
you up a stairwell while he was driving a fork lift
I could
not tell which legs were longest on this particular bear. (Often I’ve wondered
what you would do if you met a bear where it was flat. Say like in Rugby, North
Dakota. Did you know that Rugby is “The Center of the North American
Continent?” I’ve been there but I don’t know how they figured that out. It is
flat. (Fig.C) I suppose, though, you could see any bear that was coming after
you from a long ways away and then you could just jump in your car and drive
off.
Well, I gathered up Jack and bravely ran into the
house. I charged through the kitchen
shouting BBBIG BBBBEAR!!! Kristi and Dale looked at me, looked at each other,
either picked up or put down their bottles, and followed me through the house.
We shut Jack behind the inside door where he
continued his apoplexy unabated. Sure enough, here came the bear around the
corner and he paused just outside the screen.
I was struck by the surreal quality of this
tableau. It was like having something weird and malevolent appearing, unbidden,
to one’s front door. Like a strange space alien for instance. Or Michele
Bachmann maybe.
The bear eventually turned away and gamboled up
the walk and took a left down the center of The Boulevard. He hung a right up
my neighbor’s drive and headed, presumably, to the woods where the towers
pierce the sky. I wrote you about those woods last year. (Must’ve been a poor
season this year. I only found 2 deer remains along Orange Street. There is a
long grisly red spinal column though. Looks like something a paleontologist
painstakingly puzzled over in a museum cellar for decades, assembling shards
tenderly extracted from cartons lovingly shipped from Montana. Jack always
manages to take a sneaky nip from the sacrum of it as we stroll by. And there
is another dismembered deer at Enger Park too. In this case the guy who
disposed of it must’ve had an interest in history because the greasy trail that
slides down to the totally disarticulated carcass begins at the plaque
explaining the history of the seaport, 2300 miles from the Atlantic, 602 feet
above sea level, etc.)
Dale decided just then to growl at the bear. At
this the bear paused, turned and considered us. Kristi admonished him smartly;
maybe she’d heard enough of the growl that day?
In retrospect, repeating the scene in my mind, Dale’s
growl was more Roy Orbison than MGM. He’d had so much practice brandishing it
upon the pretty women at Bluesfest that day.
At any rate, not unlike most of the women at
Bluesfest, the bear almost visibly shrugged and went on his way. Whether the
bear felt threatened by that growl, or deemed us too insignificant a target for
violent reaction, or, maybe, found it an insufficient invitation to consider
mounting an amorous response, I cannot fathom.
Meanwhile I mentally measured how many steps it
was to the door and which way to turn the knob. I pictured myself calling 911.
Would they use a Taser on a bear? That would be a thrill in the house. There’d
be quite a mess. Rather, maybe I’d call my neighbor Phil. He could be depended
on to bring the right kind of ordinance. I exalted in the fact that I was
closest to the door.
Luckily none of those scenarios materialized. We
returned to the house for a nice candlelit dinner. All’s well that end’s well I
always say.
Still, for the remainder of the summer, every
time I went outside at night I cleared my throat loudly, banged the door
explosively, and approached every blind corner and furtive shadow with stealthy
trepidation.
Now it’s time for me to craft Fig A, B and C. I
hope your year was a good one as well and that the next will afford peace,
comfort and some excitement.
Happy
Holidays.
Kristi,
Jeff, Bill, Mesa, Joe.
P.S. The enclosed picture
is of us at Rugby N.D. last spring.
#2
12/13/10 MONDAY 1033
Today I woke from a dream thinking about our old
Jeep. A ’78, rusty but trusty, it had a heart of gold. I thought about the
odyssey it took us on when we sold it. I figured it was time to write it all
down for posterity.
So this is an Xmas letter supplement. I was going
to stick with the deer head one; I told myself to hell with it, I’ll go with it
in spite of Kristi offering me a subtle nonverbal review. She had rolled her eyes,
pinched her nose and jabbed a finger down her throat.
As I said I intended to proceed anyway but, well,
when I get a not quite exuberant response from someone I depend on to praise me,
I do take notice. So suffer through another one, If you so choose.
I decided to sell that Jeep one fall day, “When you
could ask more for it,” according to the nearly limitless sage advice offered
by Cousin Mike.
I ran an ad in the Pioneer Press for maybe a week
including the Sunday paper. Didn’t get one call. So I shrugged and decided to
keep it, even though it had become superfluous.
It was a remarkable vehicle. A Cherokee Chief. (
A strange name when you think about it, did Saab ever build a car called the
Swede Parson?) Had a big V-8, you couldn’t pour Premium down a sewer faster
than it could guzzle it. And it could walk and talk. Or at least make enough
noise to make you think you were going fast. Like the time its throttle stuck
wide open for Kristi and the kids. The throttle was getting sticky so I had
showed Kristi how to stomp it and release it and that usually worked. One day
she tired this simple cure but it didn’t release this time. They shot down the
road like a rocket sled. I can picture that bellowing yellow projectile and the
look on their faces. She had enough presence off mind to switch off the
ignition. Good thinking but this also locked the steering. They flew over an
embankment, cut a swathe through some saplings and came to land on a huge pile
of beer cans. A veritable Cheops of empties. I suspected Big Joe but he always
drank from a bottle, more handy because he could always keep one in his back
pocket.
You can imagine my concern when I got home from
work that night but, I was happy to see nary a blemish on the Jeep. It was
tough. Kristi called Paul Pream who helped her out of the ditch, freed the
throttle and got them home. Here’s to you Paul. A true knight in rusty armor,
that Pream.
A little Liquid Wrench to the throttle and we
were back in business. All’s well that ends well I always say.
Towards the end it was getting tired, though.
Once, when the kids were just recovering from chicken pox, we decided to joy
ride up to Checkerboard Park by N. Branch because I hadn’t been there yet. We
were going to shove off when Mesa called forward to me in alarm. She had pulled
the seat belt out of its anchor and was holding it in her hands. There was a
gaping hole in the wheel well. I don’t remember what I stuffed in that hole to
keep out the dust and to keep stones from rocketing about the cabin. Maybe steel
wool. From then on the middle position over the huge hump had to be used.
Whenever we went somewhere after that I would make sure the kids were buckled
in and then give the belts a gentle tug to make sure they were safe. (I still
have that seat belt hanging in the garage, the recoil with its scab of rust
swinging from a nail. I also have the lighter knob. One morning I came out and
found all of the knobs bent over to the side…but that’s another story.)
Well, one Sunday afternoon, several weeks after
the ad ran, the phone rang. A low, monotone growl of a voice asked if the Jeep
was still for sale.
I said, “Sure.” After asking some perfunctory
questions the rumble said he would buy it for the asking price under the
condition that I would keep it until springtime. He would pay me for the
storage. Then he asked if I would deliver it to Yankton S.D. He would pay for
the gas. He refused to give me a call back number.
Here was a dandy deal. Paying me for something I
intended to do anyhow. And as far as Yankton was concerned, I knew about it, it
was a long distance away and I had never been there. Here was an adventure
offered on a yellow platter. So I said, “Sure.”
So all went well. Got his check, tucked the Jeep
away. Then, another Sunday the phone rang again and there was the Darth Vader
breathing. He asked if, in the spring, I could bring it to Cedar Rapids, Iowa.
Now Cedar Rapids was closer, so that was a drawback, but I’d been there before
and it is a nice town and we could make something of it. “Sure.”
Then another Sunday afternoon - it got to be so I
was shying away from the phone on Sundays - and the flat sinister voice. “Could
you deliver it to Mason City?” Now that was better, I’d never been there and
could do some Buddy Holly snooping at Spirit Lake. “Sure.”
I never heard that disturbing voice again. I
remember wondering about all this, standing at the window looking at that Jeep
in the snow bank. Finally I decided he was some kind of Jeep headhunter,
finding just the right vehicle for epicure Jeep collectors in those unlikely
places.
Then several weeks later and one dark morning, at
about 0630 the phone rang. This time an elderly lady, frank sounding, not very
enthused, asked if I had sold the Jeep to so and so. “Sure.”
She explained to me she was Deep Throat’s mother.
She asked if I would deliver it to Aberdeen S.D. “Sure.” Now we’re talking, I
thought, never been there and new roads to boot. (I’d been within miles of
Mason City anyway so the allure was not as fetching.) She informed me that I
would be communicating with her only and I finally got a number. Further she
said her son was in a, I think federal, penitentiary in Sioux Falls. (He only
got to make one call a week, hence our Sunday afternoon visits.) She said he
was there on some sort of weapons charge and that was a no-no for him since he
was a previous felon. Gads.
So on one fine April late afternoon we lit out
for Aberdeen. A lovely drive into the setting sun and the dark, we finally
stopped at a hilltop motel in Ortonville. A button glowed in the darkened,
stuffy little lobby. I buzzed it. A casual glance about revealed lots of gun-nut
paraphernalia, placards and slogans, wood carved mottos and so forth.
A beady eyed short guy emerged from a too bright
room beyond where talk radio was blaring. Clad in cammo from tip to toe, he
appraised me with a thinly disguised disgust. Funny thing about that cammo, in
most cases it is self defeating because these guys sport it with the intent of
being noticed.
Over my lifetime, believe it or not, I’ve had
many opportunities to be made aware of someone not liking me. He took my cash
with distaste. Apparently, since I wasn’t EXACTLY like him, I represented
everything he loathed.
Nothing open for food there in town, I recall
Kristi emerging from a convenience store. I think we had a little picnic in the
room. Think Planes Trains and Automobiles.
[OVER]
The next day bright, the view of Big Stone Lake
was marvelous. We stopped at a little pull out where an old wooden boat was
under an awning. The boat was not unlike the old launches I saw on Mille Lacs
when I was a kid. There was a copper tablet there with a legend about lake
excursions, a tragic thunderstorm and a rescue back in the 30’s.
The road from Big Stone City to Aberdeen is not
too curvy but it sure is flat. We thundered along between roadside marshes
absolutely alive with birds of every sort of make and model. I had never been
across the Great Plains in springtime. I recommend it.
Aberdeen seemed a fine town, a healthy hustle to
it, at least in those days. There was an airport with a nice WPA era terminal.
We met Jeep Guy’s Mother at a predetermined place, a sunny atrium style coffee
shop.
We had bonded a little over the course of several
calls. She grieved over her son who was a paranoid schizophrenic and
noncompliant with his medications. She and her husband were retired college
professors from the local college. Her husband
was suffering from
Alzheimer’s, homebound, and needed constant care. He was deteriorating.
She
was smartly dressed, bright of eye and of conversation. We learned she had
authored a book on the prairie plants in a nature preserve, if I remember
right, near Enemy Swim Lake. (I recall chastising myself when it sprang to my
mind: “Exorbitant and so feebly updated every 3 years that you could
practically smell the reek of White Out. And the newest edition: Required for
this class.) She was a leading expert on the natural flora of the Coteau des
Prairies.
It was a nice conversation, I could’ve lingered
but soon it was time to follow her through town to a rental unit where I was to
park the Jeep. She asked if I would help her load something into it. “Sure.”
I unloaded a new gas generator from her minivan
and put it in the Jeep. I rolled up the garage door and peered into the depths.
Back in the dark, was a blacked out monster Yammy dirt bike, stripped and
menacing. It dwarfed my own and I immediately coveted the thing. So Jeep Guy was going to go off the grid by
the looks of things. I gave silent thanks that I never had to meet him.
I paused at the door, gave the Jeep a last
longing look and rolled the door shut.
We said farewell and I watched her in the
rearview as she got into that minivan: A
sharp lady, stooping under heavy burdens through her Golden Years.
We retraced our miles, now both of us in the
little red Festiva. We stopped for sun at a lovely Wayside Rest along the Pomme
de Terre River, boisterous with spring contributions. We parked away from the
road. It is surprising what the consenting can accomplish in a little Festiva.
We left one door open, I think. No knobs bent over either, if you know what I
mean.
Onward. We explored up to Swift Falls where there
is a park Scott Wordelman told me about one time. We picnicked on the banks of
the stream that yields its name to that place.
Later we dined in an old fashioned supper club in
Cold Spring, it was good, it’s till there. We saw it this fall. Arrived back home late, having crossed the
entire state at its slimmest waistline that day. I don’t recall what happened
to the kids. Maybe Grandma Margit was with them. That’s the way it goes with kids,
it’s hard to remember what they were doing while you’re out having a sweet good
time.
Afterwards I began to worry about Jeep Guy. What
if his mental image - and he maybe had more of them than you or I do - did not
match the real Jeep article? What if some unexpected Kablammo rendered the old
ride immobile? Would he seek me out for retribution? I thought about hearing a
big Yammy thumping into the drive and him hulking over it bristling with
Kalashnikovs. (Then again, maybe he was a short guy in cammo.) I shuddered.
So I asked my old friend Dr. Orhan for an
opinion. He reviewed the details of the case and with the same astute
deliberate consideration he must attend to all his neurology consults, i.e. one
or maybe two seconds, he replied, “If he’s not taking his meds he’ll be lucky
to find his way back home….let alone finding you in Chisago.”
Well it was a comfort to hear that. Still Jeep
Guy would cross my mind every now and then for many years, but not anymore. My
trail has grown so cold over the years that my high school couldn’t find me for
my last reunion warning.
So, like I always say, all’s well that ends well.
Happy
Holidays,
The
Smiths
#1
12/1/10
Greetings. We are fine and fit; hope the same for
you and yours.
Not much has changed for me (age 55) and my
lovely wife Kristine, (age 19). We are still both employed, we enjoy Minnesota
road trips and Kristi’s pregnancy has been uneventful. She’s a trooper.
Mesa, her fiancé Joe, and Billy all live together
here in town. I don’t remember how old they are anymore. They shiver together in a
beach house they rent across the lift bridge on Park Point. It’s quite a house,
a birdcage is better insulated. The floors are so uneven that a pail of water
dashed into a corner would evaporate long before ever concluding the frenzied
quest for its own level. Each room seems to have been added in a different
epoch, by conflicted carpenters employing random disagreeable units of measure.
If some of these landlords here in town
ever had a convention their combined laughter would be thunderous.
The stairway is cramped and canted in cockeyed
cambers and traversing it sometimes confuses me as to whether I am actually
going up or down. It’s like being in one of those “Wonder Spots,” those “Cosmic
Vortex” tourist traps where if your buddy stands in one corner he looks runty
but then, when he crosses over to the opposite corner, he looks like Abe
Lincoln. You know…those places where a ball bearing has been trained to
painstakingly ascend a minute incline? Well, I bet these kids could open a rip
roaring roadside attraction right there, if they wanted to.
(But I don’t know about that transforming from
puny to enormous deal when going from corner to corner. I haven’t tried that in
their house, yet. I think that the next time we’re down there I’ll ask Kristi
to stand in the corners while I carefully watch her.)
Still, it must be a great place to live. Out
front one can sit on the porch and enjoy the colorful summertime parade of
Minnesota Avenue: runners, skaters, boarders, bicyclists, picnickers, day
trippers, tourists, sports cars, hot rods and choppers. Some people even walk.
And many of those are game to strike up a conversation.
But out
the back door is a sand dune, and just over that is the glorious beach, the
longest fresh water sandbar in the world, and they patronize it daily. The
breeze over the lake is their air conditioner and the breakers a lullaby.
As for me I plug along. I still walk Jack (age 13
yrs) daily around this town, most often right here in the neighborhood, and
above it by a block or two where the city streets become country roads in the
space of an intersection.
As I said last year, we walk Orange Street. I
still find things and rarely come home empty handed: bolts, nuts, knobs, stuff
like that. Early last month a white object in the woods caught my eye. I
wrestled my way through the brush and found a beautiful deer skull just sitting
on top of the leaves, glowing like alabaster. I wondered how it came to be
there, alone like a statue with no other bones around. I picked it up and took
it home. I felt a trifle conspicuous as I walked down the sidewalk with this
skull in my hands. I tried to act nonchalant. I hung it on Kristi’s garden
trellis to surprise her, she has not seen it yet, but I guess she knows about
it now. It looks cool, kind of Old West-like.
Speaking of skulls, Orange Street is one of the
favored locations for hunters to dump their deer when they get back to town and
can’t figure out what to do with it now that they have one. Last year I counted 4, maybe 5, such deer
deposited along my route. It’s not just Duluth either. I have located while
walking Jack, a similar place in Superior, across from the Fraser Shipyards,
where the Wisconsin hunters do likewise. These fellows prefer to pile them up
in one place, rather than scatter them about like their Minnesota counterparts.
Tidier that way, I suppose.
My uncommon good luck at finding these remains is
due to Jack who is in possession of a particularly acute nose for their
discovery. Otherwise I would most likely walk right by and miss them.
(Curiously he showed not a whit of interest in that skull I found - because it
was so dried out I think.)
This year, early in deer season, the first of
these ditchings appeared by a service road to one of those huge antennas. This
was an unusually grizzly scene as the deer had been crudely dismembered.
Disarticulated actually, it looked as if it had been vivisected with a dull
Garden Weasel. Not one piece of it remained attached to where it should’ve
been. Its rump was in the air, and a leg jutted out here and the other over
there, and its arms too were disjointedly poking out of the mess. I could just
see the nose sticking out at the bottom. I don’t know what caused the author of
this carnage to do such jagged violence to the carcass but if he or she took
any meat for consumption, I didn’t see the evidence. It was as if the
perpetrator was in a frenzied search for a pearl inside that creature.
Why I mention this is because a week or so later,
after the cold had come in and it had snowed, as we were walking up Orange we
could see something up ahead on the road. When we got there we saw it was a
deer head. This one had been severed with more aplomb than with what the
previously mentioned deer’s head had been cleaved. This one was neatly
rendered, just like if you’d draw your finger across your own throat.
I could not explain how this deer head got there.
Like Kristi’s deer head there were no other bones around it. That first chopped
up deer was almost across the road from this head so I went down there in the
ditch to examine it. I pushed at the remaining pile with my boot and kicked off
some of the snow and so forth and I could still see that deer’s head down at
the bottom like before.
My mystery was soon solved though because, as we
walked on, just around the corner, we found where another deer, presumably the
source of the mystery head, had been dumped and clouted by the snowplow.
Judging by the stain, this deer had been chucked on the road, apparently this
dumper was disdainful of using the ditch. There was a long trail of deer parts
along the road in the plow’s wake and the crows were having at it. So my deer
head had been booted along by the plow to where we found it. [OVER]
On our way back I stopped to consider the deer
head at my leisure. Jack seemed particularly fond of the deer’s lips and I had
to swat him away several times while I made my examination. This was strange in
itself because I thought he would be more prone to the stump of a spinal cord
sticking out the back end of it. And speaking of that, I could not locate a
trachea, which makes me think that this was kind of a strange deer.
I say that because this deer had a stupefying
arrangement of teeth. It’s true I never looked in a deer’s mouth before but,
this deer had two rows of teeth – on the roof of its mouth! Teeth just like you
and me have. Reach with your tongue and feel those big flat ones in the back.
These are what this deer had from fore to aft in two rows. They were almost
like long unitooths, so tightly where they arranged.
I wanted to see if it had teeth like Kristi’s
deer head has in the expected place (flat ones in back like ours) but I
couldn’t get that deer’s mouth open any farther. I think its mouth was frozen
shut. Or it could’ve been the rigor mortis, maybe. But can you get that with
only just a head, or does it have to be attached to the rest of the body first?
I don’t know, maybe I’ll ask a doctor someday. Or an undertaker.
Besides, I don’t think deer can open their mouths
very wide anyway. We have plenty of deer in the yard all the time and I never
have seen one with his mouth hanging open. Even in the hot summer time.
So how can a deer chew with teeth on the top of
its mouth? And how can it avoid grinding its tongue to ribbons while in the
act? I looked carefully at this deer’s tongue; it was poking out as if the deer
had been sharply clapped on the back unexpectedly. The tongue was big and I can
report it showed no sign of unitooth inflicted damage.
I returned with these things on my mind and I
examined Kristi’s deer head closely. There is no evidence for uniteeth on the
top of its mouth which makes me think maybe this isn’t a deer skull after
all. True it is kind of pointy in shape
like a deer’s head but maybe it is from some other kind of creature. Like maybe
a mammoth skunk or something.
Anyhow, the next day I returned to the deer head
with the idea of having another look but it had been punted down the road by
passing vehicles and was quite scuffed up by then and there was now slush
frozen to it and the thing just wasn’t of much account anymore. I wished I had
set it aside. Funny though, the next day
after that it was gone entirely. Maybe some other guy brought it home for his
wife.
Since then, still in pursuit of answers to some
of these questions I have about them, I have paid acute attention to deer heads
mounted on the wall. This has yielded precious little in results because all
these deer heads are about the same. All
tightlipped and somber like, maybe one with his head twisted this way or that
for variety but, overall, every single one has the same sober expression. I
know, I know, I’d have a pretty somber look on my face too if it happened to me
but what’s with these taxidermists anyway? Do they just learn how to put that
one doleful face on every deer?
Just look what a crackerjack painter can do with
dogs for instance. I’ve seen many, ever so lifelike, depictions of dogs
shooting pool, sporting jaunty little hats, wearing little plaid vests, playing
cards, puffing on stogies and/or slugging whiskey - in short, doing everything
that would come natural to a dog if he
could do it.
These mounted deer heads are going to be up there
for a long time, so why not have some fun with them? Why can’t these
taxidermists put a little effort in to tell a story? Say have a big buck look
real angry and menacing, or have a frightened look on one with its eyes kind of
bugged out, or having one with a goofy grin or something? Maybe you could have
a rakish buck leering lasciviously across the room at a saucy doe who could be
favoring him with a randy wink in return. Or, maybe, have the buck with his head
arched way back with lips puckered, caught in mid wolf whistle while a
coquettish demure doe shyly peers up at him through long thick lashes. (The
deer head I saw didn’t really have much for lashes, or it could’ve just been
that the plow had knocked them off, but regardless, women stick lashes on
themselves all the time and I’m sure a good taxidermist could do the same for a
deer.)
I can’t accuse all taxidermists of negligence
though. Up the road, out in the country, there is a supper club that does have
a two headed pike on the wall. One head on each end and it looks astonishingly
lifelike. I have looked at it closely and it sure is something. It kind of has a smirk on its faces too. Now
there’s a real artist for you. But, then again, it should be noted that all
pike smirk.
I allow that a deer does present a limited
palette. Being the stupidest animal ever to grace this green earth, it would be
a challenge to wring much expression out of one, I admit. But add a pipe and he
might look like genius. See what I mean?
Speaking of that, now where’d I leave my pipe?
Kristi???
Happy
Holidays,
The
Smiths
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12-19-09 SATURDAY
Greetings. We are fine and fit; hope the same for
you and yours.
As for myself (age 54 years) and my lovely wife
Kristine (age 28), not much has changed since last year.
Billy (age over 25) lives here in Duluth and will
resume school soon, taking after his folks this time around. He is wily and
elusive but we do make sightings of him every now and then.
Mesa (about 25 I guess) and Jo (I have no idea)
returned on the 16th from South Korea where they have been living
for over a year. Though Kristi did make a visit to Pusan last winter, and we’ve
kept in touch on the Skype, it was a long time and it is so sweet to have them
back. They brought their cats back (age uncertain, cats being so inscrutable
and touchy). They didn’t give those cats any dope before the trip this time so
I didn’t miss seeing them get stoned again. Now THAT was funny.
Our dog Jack (age 12x7) keeps on rolling. We take
a walk every day and we see things. He reads his peemail and I conduct complex
and convoluted internal dialogs. We walk Orange Street. It starts just over the
hill in back here, about 2 blocks up. And although it is about 10 blocks from
right downtown Duluth, it is a wooded country road as wild as any in Granite
Ledge or those near Almelund. Except when you crane your neck back. Then you
see the huge antennas that pierce the wilderness. Maybe if you’ve been to
Duluth you’ve seen all those towers. They are massive and they hum. Sometimes
they howl when the winds shriek off the big lake.
On the
corner at the lower end of Orange St there was a Pomeranian. She, without fail,
would bark excitedly at Jack every time we’d walk by. She’d stamp her feet and
read him the riot act while I exchanged pleasantries with her master, an old
man who often sat in the shade at a patio table having a smoke.
One day,
in a magnanimous gesture of benevolence, I divined that it might be a good thing
to have the 2 dogs meet, get close and personal. Maybe that would relieve some
of her tensions. I announced my theory as I dragged Jack towards her.
The old man started to protest. I waved off his objections. “Jack’s good with
other dogs,” I assured him. Still, he
became ever more agitated and began struggling to his feet.
“Just
watch,” I declared.
Jack duly wagged his tail and was about to sniff
the nose of the now apoplectic Pomeranian, when, suddenly and without warning,
she stiffened out, her eyes rolled back and she keeled over on her side like a
tenpin. She began to vibrate and a thin gruel of foam issued from her lips, now
drawn into a gruesome rictus.
“Wow!” I
said. Jack looked at me and I looked at him and we looked at her. We
leapt back as if that Pomeranian was about to explode
The old man shuffled over painfully, “You see,”
he stammered, “You see, she’s got a real bad heart,” he tapped his own chest
and shook his head sadly, “She can’t take much excitement anymore.” He nodded down
towards the dog who was now starting to flag a bit, “She’ll do that.”
The Pomeranian slowly began to throttle back. She
stopped her undulations. “She’ll come around again,” he said hopefully, “I’m
pretty sure.” She snored coarsely.
Then unexpectedly she awoke. She regained her
composure, shook herself, saw Jack, and
started to stamp and yap again. That was a relief.
They are both gone now. I miss them.
Anyway, I find stuff up there on Orange St. I
have found a fax machine, cans full of beer, a seashell, a lap top computer, a
bag of pot, tools, a console T.V., lots of bouquets, and enough bolts, nuts,
screws, springs and fasteners to stock the drawers in my mancave downstairs. I
find money: dollar bills, dimes and quarters, pennies, but never a nickel. The
nickel is on its way out, I think. Going the way of the shekel.
I find keys. Recently an entire cluster of them,
with a fractured tie still attached. (Probably was bound under a car.) I even found OUR house key up on Orange St. A
lady who was housesitting for us once lost it, while walking Jack. It was
ravaged but recognizable because it had a red plastic ring on it. The business
end of the key was gone, the avulsed point probably lodged in some poor guy’s
tire.
The housesitter had apologized effusively upon
our return. She was a nurse Kristi worked with and later, when I found that
key, I had Kristi secret it into the woman’s purse. I thought it would be a
good trick for her to find that mangled stub in there. Maybe see the look on
her face. But she left for greener
pastures; we never did hear how that came out. Maybe she lost that purse.
Speaking
of a lost purse, on the Sunday before Thanksgiving I found one in the ditch. I
struggled it out of the weeds. It was bulging. Oh boy, I thought, maybe full of
dough? It was full, but no money. There was candy, a lighter, cigarettes, BCP’s
(A robust combo) and a pilfered pocket book. The lousy thieves left her
license. She looked to be an attractive young lady form a nearby small town in
Wisconsin.
I walked along with this big pink purse and began
to feel self-conscious. It didn’t go with my outfit. Even back here, what if
someone drove by? I thought about the day I walked up Orange St and on the way
back was surprised by my neighbor Andy who emerged form the woods in full
cammo, looking like a commando. He had a bow with enough pulleys on it to raise
the Titanic. (The city permits some bow hunters to combat the Duluth deer
infestations.) I remember thinking that day, I hope I wasn’t scratching my butt
the first time I walked by.
Anyway, what if Andy was in the woods now and saw
me mincing along with this pink purse? I could sense his eyes narrowing; I
would prove an irresistible target. I swiveled my neck too and fro,
scrutinizing the woods, would I even hear the zing or just feel the arrow smite
me? The skin between my scapulas began to pucker. I decided to leave the purse
on a lonely stretch of sidewalk with the plan of fetching it upon my
return. [OVER]
While I walked I imagined myself swooping up to
her door, gallantly bestowing the beloved pink purse into her grateful hands. I
would then turn on my heel, waving off all offers of a rich, well deserved,
reward. All it would take for me is some simple sleuthing.
But then I began to think that, what if, on that
day, with her lovely vulnerable shape in the doorway and the tears on her
cheeks, suddenly a large young beast of man in a Packers jersey loomed up
behind her and began to ask questions and then started in to sock me a lot? I was beginning to develop some reservations
about that pink purse.
No matter. When I crested the hill on my way back
I could see ahead a pickup parked alongside the purse, which now looked oddly
alien sitting there on that abandoned stretch of walk. As I approached a window
whirred down.
A man said, “Did you see any girls around here?”
He nodded at the purse.
I told him about finding it. He said, “I called the cops. They’re on the
way.”
Well then, here was a turn of events. I felt
uneasy about the cops. I fought back a nearly irresistible urge to free Jack
and shout, “Scram! We’ll meet up back at home!” I’ve seen lots of movies where
fugitives are handcuffed and on the lamb. Being bound together is almost always
a detriment, unless the other fugitive is a beautiful woman.
But the
guy was interesting, turns out he lives right across from the erstwhile
Pomeranian. We chatted and soon a cop came. Then there I was giving my name and
so forth to a cop, again, in broad daylight, in my own neighborhood.
It is curious that only the women who I have told
about that purse, not counting the cop who was a guy, have asked me if I saw
anything else around the place where I found it. Like a body. The thought never crossed my
mind, to tell the truth. So much for my simple sleuthing, I guess.
As long as I am writing about my neighborhood,
dogs, and finding things, I’ll conclude with a story about my neighbor who I’ll
call Ray.
One day he saw a rope - with a German Shepherd
attached - out in his yard. He recognized it immediately as another neighbor’s
dog. Let’s call this neighbor Joe.
So he grabbed the rope and headed down to Joe’s
with the big dog in tow. Joe was up on a ladder doing something. Ray
approached, beamed up at Joe and announced, “I got something of yours.”
Joe descended the ladder and said, “Stay right
there.” He disappeared around the back of the garage and returned shortly with
a rope attached to his own German Shepherd. “I don’t think so,” he said.
This was now Ray’s problem. Luckily the dog had a
collar with an address on it. So Ray loaded the dog into his car and drove the
20 or so blocks to dog’s place. He pounded on the door. No one was home. So he tied the dog to a tree and drove away.
I am sure he was content in the fact that a random act of kindness is still
good. But a young lady, shapely silhouetted in the doorway, gratefully
extending reward for her beloved pet’s safe return would’ve been a lot better.
Some days later Ray was walking through our
neighborhood, as he so often rarely does, and spotted the rope again. It was
tied to a tree and to the German Shepherd. There was guy in the yard and Ray
said, “Is that your dog?”
The guy looked at the dog and said, “Yeah?”
Ray told him his story about the dog and the guy
said, “You know, we were wondering about that. The guy who bought our house
last year called and said, your dog came back
and tied himself to a tree.”
Happy
Holiday’s
The
Smith’s and the above.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
2-10-08
Greetings.
Here's hoping that you and yours are healthy and happy. We are, mostly - so we
are lucky.
But
there is now another permanently empty chair at the table as we said goodbye to
Carrie in July. Sure is hard to believe. The holidays just seem to magnify the
vacancy in our hearts and homes. As for me (Age 53 years) and my
lovely wife Kristine (Age 29) we are fine, haven't changed jobs this year, and we
haven't moved in 16 months, so we’re getting mighty restless. Our son Bill (age 27) lives here
in Duluth and is going to school and working, both full time. He’s still in the "Grocery
business" as he tells it. Mesa (age 23) and Joseph (age
unknown) are in South Korea, the southern seaport city of Pusan where they are
teaching English for a year's hitch. They seem to like it. We can talk with
them through the computer, see them and they can see us, the first real good
use for this contraption that I've yet discovered.
The big news is that they took their
cats with them - on the plane. The original plan was that the cats would stay
with us but they seemed to have a change of hearts. Perhaps it was because I
confided to Macie that maybe by the time they got back I would have 2 new
shovels, gently reminding her that when she left her old cat with us when she
was in Europe, I got to buy a new spade at the Stacy Hardware store. Anyhow, because those cats were
to be spending their 20 hours of flying in a soft- sided carrier, and they had
historically been none too fond of life in a carrier, we suspected it might not
go smoothly. For us, historically too,
we concluded a pill, naturally, might hold the answer The veterinarian, clearly dodging
the gravity of the situation, said to give them some Benadryl. I remembered back
to when I was a kid and I took it and it made me sluggish, stupid and really
thirsty. That would be a good thing for these cats but then, I thought, what if
they'd get like our kids did when we gave them Benadryl? It pegged their
little tachs at redline, revving their little engines mightily. I pictured in
my mind Cousin Mike and his Racing Cats. Mike’s cats could be encouraged to
race by simply rubbing they're faces together vigorously.. Then they'd rip all
around his house like a miniatures of Mario Andretti and a Parnelli Jones. Mesa
and Joe couldn't have anything like that happen on the plane. So I decided we needed to make an
experiment first. I said, "Hey Mesa lets give your cats some of that
Benadryl and see what happens."
I got out 2 saucers and a can of
tuna. We opened a 25mg capsule and divided the powder into roughly halves, what
the vet said they should have. Knowing vets, I considered doubling the amount
but thought we’ll just go with half. I poured a little tuna into each saucer
and we whipped the powder through it. By this time the cats were there, you
know cats and curiosity…and tuna. We put a dish in front of each of them.
Having
diets that are strictly cat food, they dove into that precious tuna with abandon.
Suddenly and simultaneously, they both backed up about 10 inches and looked deeply
at each other. It was as f they were asking, "Are you thinking what I'm
thinking?"
The
gray cat shot out of the kitchen, spastically flicking his head to and fro. But
the other one, the big furry one, she just sat there with her mouth
unflatteringly open - kind of panting. Suddenly she began to foam at the mouth.
It was as if a can of Burma Shave had been detonated inside of her. I never saw
anything like that before. She was a fulminating feline Vesuvius. She'd toss
her head about and ropes of white slime would go winging. Looking at her there,
with her Buddha belly and the white lather embroidering her face, the image of
Burl Ives came to my mind. But unlike that cat, old Burl usually sported a more
holly jolly look.
When we had composed ourselves and tried to
offer some comfort, she’d only just shy away. Both of them did, actually. We
couldn’t get them to eat anymore of that stuff, no matter how we tried. Later
Mesa and I dipped a fingertip into a dusting of the left-over powder and tasted
it a little bit. It was awful, acridly bitter. That’s why scientists put it in
a capsule in the first place, so the victim doesn’t have to taste it. I know
that.
I
watched those cats and they didn’t look too sleepy after that, and they didn’t
get racy and they didn’t even get thirsty so I concluded the experiment had
been a failure. They didn’t get a big enough dose.
So
they got some bubble glum flavored Benadryl which should be more appealing,
you’d think. Joe and Mesa went down in
the basement and tried to give it to the cats with a little syringe. Similar
results this time too. The cats coughed and spit and did not like the bubblegum
flavor either. The big one foamed again, worse then before but I was busy so I
missed out, although Joe did try to call me down to see it.
Our
experiments proved that those cats would not take Benadryl. So they went to the
Vet and got tiny little white pills.
The
day they were to leave, they stuck a pill down each cat’s throat. The effect
was nearly instantaneous. They begun to meow like they had never meowed before
and it was a funny kind of sounding meowing too- kind of a howl and a meow
mixture. The big one, Foamer, she just kind of sat there and bellowed, but the
little young one became highly agitato - for a while. It would march around
meowing, weaving and leaning against the walls and doorways etc, for balance,
you know. Then it decided it must go up and down the steps.
I made a study of it and a cat under the
influence of that little white pill can negotiate steps better going up than it
can going down. I was surprised because I thought going down would be easiest.
I think part of it is that cats seem to want to maintain their composure so
dearly and are thus self conscious and can’t roll with it. They have to be cool
and in control
Going
up it would kind of ratchet itself along. He affected a kind of a swivel in his
middle to allow him to twist up the stairway laterally, kind of a ragged
crabbing locomotion.
But going down the stairs was the real show.
He would hold his head way back, like a
53 year old guy in the pharmacy peering through his bifocals, reading the
liniment labels on the top shelf. He would kind of zero in on the next step.
Then, tentatively, he would lift a leg way up and be startled, it seemed, at
how far down he’d have to put it to glacially, inexorably, finally reach that
step. It was a painstakingly slow process given the fact that cats have 4 legs.
Further, no sooner would he reach the bottom then he’d feel compelled to ascend
once more. Frankly, I soon tired of it.
Later
our little Scottie, Jack, (age 11, 77 in dog years), captured my attention. He
then deliberately turned his head indignantly. I followed his withering stare.
There was that gray cat devouring his dog food. For obvious reasons Joe and
Mesa had held the cat’s food and water for the night before. Well, that gray
cat, who never deigned to show a lick of interest in that dog food before, was
now gobbling like a hick at a buffet.
I
said, “Hey, your cat’s eating the dog food!” They came down and shooed him away
and, his wires being crossed, he stepped his back right foot in the dog’s water
bowl. He just left it in there and began to shake off his right front foot!
That took the cake; you just don’t have entertainment like that anymore.
[OVER]
That’s
when I had my brainstorm. A guy could have a TV show about this. If there are
millions of people out there who’ll sit still for shows like Dancing with the Stars, Survivor, or Baseball on T.V., they’d
surely line up to see something like this. Sponsors would love it too, people
are suckers for cat toys, cat snacks, cat weight loss programs and so forth.
I thought of different scenarios, give the cat
a pill and drop a mouse in front of him. Or try to get him to climb up a tree,
say have a dog chase him, things like that. You could even try other animals,
like maybe a horse for example. (But I don’t know if horses can climb steps.)
Why should laboratory scientists have all the fun?
Anyhow,
when it came time to leave those cats went into their bags as supple as rags.
None of that stick out a rigor mortised limb with claws extended to every point
on the compass, tail prehensively grasping at every possible purchase. They
remained, however, in spite of their physical lassitude, curiously vocal.
When
they went through the security stupid-human-tricks here at the Duluth airport
they made them take the cats out of their bags so they could X-ray the bags and
not the cats. I guess you can’t hide a bomb in a cat, unless it was as big as
that little white pill. That got me thinking though. What if you had, say, 75
terrorists with cats? And the cats were like Cousin Mike’s, and then, at some
kind of secret signal, they all let them go at the same time on the plane? That
could do as much damage as a bomb, maybe. I hope the government is worried
about this.
They
said those cats continued to meow all the way to Korea. Amazingly nobody even
noticed on the plane. I suppose modern air travel is so generously unpleasant
that a continuously caterwauling cat for hours on end adds very little to the
general discomforts. Those cats would’ve probably needed microphones to be
overheard over the cacophony of the roaring engines.
The
trip was remarkably uneventful except for in the Tokyo airport when a woman
asked Mesa if she had cats in the bags. Mesa told her “Yes.”
The
lady confided to Mesa, “I eat them.” That disturbed Mesa.
All’s
well that ends well, is what I always say. Don’t think my T.V. show idea would
go far, I suppose some animal rights group would get inflamed - but that kind
of controversy is good publicity. I know that.
Besides
it’s really hard to get those little white pills from the Vet. The Vet is
inexplicably stingy with them, acts like they’re made out of platinum or
something. Vets can be kind of funny.
Time
to wrap this up. I hope you prosper in 2009.
Happy
Holidays
P.S. You know, one of those cats had the
audacity and ingratitude to micturate upon my vest. It smelled awful, acridly
bitter. I had to take it off and wash it. This unprovoked attack seemed
especially malicious since it singled me out for this treatment. Nobody else’s
clothing around here was similarly targeted. Cats, they are so mysterious, so
inscrutable.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Smith
610 West Skyline Pkwy
Duluth, MN 55806
MONDAY 12/10/07
Greetings,
hope this finds you fine and fit.
We
are healthy and most of the time happy. Our kids still live here in town, doing
about the same as last year although this summer Bill confided in us that he
graduated from the University, so that was good.
Mesa
is real soon going to get her B.A. too, I guess. They are looking at going on
to more school, sometimes I forget what for.
We
moved, see our new address above. We still get mail at the old place up north
so that is okay to use too.
We
are much familiar with moving, having done it numerous times since 2003. It
holds no terror anymore. You just put your head down and pull like a dull and
desensitized draft animal.
For a while I wanted to keep our old apartment
- it was a nice one - and just use this house for having take out dinners and
looking at, but a new place grows on a man. We have a home again.
I
can report that I finally feel fully moved in. Meaning I no longer bash my head
so often. In fact I yanked the last scab off this week.
I
make Bret Favre look like a piker when it comes to head bumps. I don’t know if
it’s because it is bald, or the sheer enormity of it, but my head seems to be a
smack sensing missile as it tirelessly hunts out, as if driven by some
clandestine gyro, to explore every possible head banging hazard in my new
environment.
I’ve
bumped my head washing dishes, feeding the dog, on cupboards and their open
doors, descending steps, ascending steps and, my last aforementioned scab,
shoveling snow.
Sometimes
I spend an entire day with head retracted, telescoping my neck between my
shoulders for its own protection, like a turtle.
Besides opportunities for physical injury,
occupying a new neighborhood implies other new unimagined experiences. One morning, in the early dawn, Kristi was
out on the back porch having her coffee when she noticed something black moving
about in the back yard. Being ever the hopeful optimist in matters of small
animals, she began to call out, “Here Kitty. Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty.”
The
black thing took notice, paused briefly, and started to move.
Kristi
naturally clenched encouragement from this and redoubled her entreaties, “Here
Kitty! Come! Kitty! Kitty! Kitty!”
Curiously
the thing moved lateral to her and not towards her, as it should’ve according
to her plan. As it emerged from behind a
berm back there this object of her earnest new affection was more fully
revealed. It quickened its step as it approached the downhill neighbor’s house.
She was shocked to discover it WAS the neighbor…with a black hat on. An elderly
gent, we now know he sometimes strolls about back there to have a smoke. That
day he beat it into his home. Kristi did the same, only more studiously nonchalant
in her retreat.
I,
too, have had my discoveries.
Our
dog is named Jack. He’s an imperious little black Scottie. Some mornings, when
I finally get up, Kristi will have posted him out back on the deck where he
glares out over the neighborhood. Having lived with Kristi all these years, I
naturally converse with him as I stretch and scratch, offering the kind of
discourse calculated to heighten a dog’s daily experience.
I
don’t really know if dogs understand English, but my wife is certain of the
fact. And just in case, sometimes she
will even answer back for them, in English.
And not just dogs. Any animal. Cats, even
minnows. She will talk to them in the bucket, and to the worms in the can. In
fact, occasionally they even seem grateful to be impaled upon her hook.
(Although someone else has to do that part for her.) In some circles she is
known as the “Worm Whisperer.”
Like
I was saying, usually I greet Jack back there and favor him with a rousing.
“Howdy Jack! How ya doing Big Guy? Come here! Who’s your buddy?”
Or,
say, when he sniffs out a rabbit nest in the backyard and is happily
dispatching the doomed newborns with
that swift, patented, quick shake method he boasts, I’ll holler, “Jack! Stop
that! Git here NOW!”
Usually,
at times like this, he appears to not understand a word of English. However, my
next door neighbor does. His name happens to be Jack too. He’s out back often
tending to his handsome gardens. I wonder how long it was before he realized I
was talking to the dog? I am glad he didn’t sock me.
But
that’s nearly enough about us. I looked at last year’s card and realized again
that it is not too self flattering to whine to others, especially at
Christmastime. Remember I was
complaining about my stupid cell phone? Well I am proud to say I have grown
resigned to it in the way someone might, for instance, get used to a nasty
blemish or going bald.
Anyway a Christmas Letter is more a place for
boasting and not for whining. Even though listening to someone’s worthy whining
is more entertaining than listening to them brag - which isn’t saying much –
still, this year I’ve decided to keep it short.
Listen, people, I ask each of you to tell at
least 15 friends that Charter Communications is a lousy company.
In this season, it might be the greatest gift you
could give them.
If you have enemies, don’t tell them at all or,
do like I do and sign them up surreptitiously. I intend, later today, to enroll
some more of my enemies like, for example, President Ahmadinejad, Rush Windbag
(again) and Barry Manilow, maybe.
All you have to do is call 800-GET CHARTER. Sign
them up for the entire “Bundle,” (Pile would’ve been more apt) and you’ll
increase their displeasure immensely.
Incidentally, by calling that same number and
requesting “Service,” I have found I could take a trip and never leave my
armchair, the back of my T.V., or my
tortured squat there by the computer modem. Within agonizing minutes I would be
whisked to Lahore, Islamabad, Montgomery, Mobile and maybe, Mumbai. And once
there I was treated to English that even a human can’t understand.
So, returning to a Holiday theme, this is the
time of year to be Thankful, especially if you don’t have Charter, or have
recently fired them.
Also, may your heart be filled with Joy if you
don’t have Charter, or recently fired them.
And the New Year will be bright and promising if
Charter is not a part of your life.
My hope is that the above dreams will, at the
very least, come true for you and yours.
HAPPY
HOLIDAYS,
The
Smiths
12-10-06
Greetings, Christmastime again. Hope you are doing
well. A lot has happened in the last year. We lost Ted. I sure missed him on
Thanksgiving. Not so much because he was really big with holidays. He didn’t go
in wildly for them, at least outwardly. He treated them mostly, so it seemed,
like every other day. Or, maybe he treated each day like a holiday. With him
being gone, it was a lonely feeling.
I’ll really miss him this Christmas, I know. I’ll sure
miss the way he seemed to enjoy the little mechanical gadgets my siblings and
I, and later the grandkids, would give him. A miniature steam engine, a wind-up
clown pedaling a tricycle or, a radio controlled rat with flashing red eyes, (I
gave him that one.) he got a kick out of stuff like that.
My lovely wife Kristine (age 26 yrs.) thought that he
liked these toys so much because he was a kid during some real lean times, when
toys and gifts were in pitifully short supply. Maybe she’s right, or maybe it
just amused him to watch me play with his toys.
Here’s to my dad.
We remain sound. Both kids, Mesa, (age 21 yrs.) and
Bill (age 25yrs.) live here in Duluth, are going to school at UMD and working;
full time at each. I guess that just about proves that the apples can fall far
from the tree s
ometimes - or at least from one branch of the tree.
In other news:
Far be it from me to ever boast, but, we got a NEW
SEPTIC SYSTEM and it is even more gaudy then the one I bragged to you about in
2000. It is astonishing what technological evolution can yield in even one generation.
Take for instance: no sensually sculpted mound system
anymore. Instead there is in the woods now a deforested area upon which a Huey could land. Beneath the tortured earth
is planted a plaid array of pressurized pipes in a pattern that would make a
Tartan giddy.
And in front of the house, under the disfigured lawn,
are the tanks. Over which sprout 3 covers which resemble the saucers kids ride
down snowy hills on, only inverted. And nearby protrudes a clunky stalk with a
red light, and a mounted klaxon. I think the light and the alarm are for
different septic emergencies, but I can’t recall which ones. But I have a very
comprehensive owner’s manual I can consult if need be.
The alarm installer did not play Inna Gadda Da Vida on
it like the guy did for me, in 2000, to his own delight. So I don’t know what
it sounds like. I do know that if and when it does blast, even if it plays
Brahm’s Lullaby, it will be the sound of trouble.
The tanks themselves, in 2000, were immense concrete
sarcophaguses and had to be delivered with a mammoth boom truck. But in 2006
the tanks are made of plastic. One, smaller, the shape of a grenade, is black
and brooding. The other, oblong and an airy powder blue, suggests a
subterranean dirigible.
And no boom truck needed. Why, the 2 big guys that
installed everything fairly skipped down the hill with it between them as if it
was no more than a picnic basket. (I should add that it is far easier for me to
picture these guys with a septic tank between them than it is to imagine them
skipping down the hill with an actual picnic basket.)
And there is a filter that needs to be cleaned out.
Yearly. Have I mentioned that to Kristi yet?
And to think that all this complexity replaces an old
root bound system that had only a solitary lid the size of a coffee can,
demurely veiled just below the loving earth’s surface. Really, it WAS a coffee
can until it rusted out, then I used a plastic ice cream bucket.
That system performed without problems for 40 years.
If this new one is still operational in 40 years they
can dig me up and I’ll salute it.
Recently I lost my cell phone. These things have a way
of insinuating themselves into your life like a malignancy. So I went to the
store to replace it.
The sales girl, remote and indifferent, lead me to a
shimmering display of cell phones. I didn’t see any that looked like mine. I
mentioned that to her.
She gave me the kind of condescending look that is
permanently reserved for the irretrievably and unrepentantly simple-minded.
Shrewdly sizing me up with the acute sort of rapier
perception that 2 or 3 weeks on the sales floor had favored her with, she
adroitly handed me the cheapest phone on the rack. I noticed it was attached to
the display case with some type of recoiling cord, probably to discourage theft
by the simple-minded.
“I wanted one without a cord.” I said.
She just tilted her head a little bit and looked at me
blandly. Then she launched into a pitch extolling the virtues and wonders
imbued within such a diminutive contrivance. It glistened like quicksilver.
She didn’t seem to hear me when I said I didn’t want a
camera in it. Maybe that notion was just inconceivable to her. She skippered
her way to the counter towing me in her turbulent wake . I felt powerless
against the unassailable tides of progress.
I would’ve never imagined, or even less, desired, a
camera in my phone. After all, I’ve had a fine camera for nearly 30 years and
never once had I wished it had a telephone in it. There was not one thing in
that entire store that was built as fine as that camera. In another 30 years, I
trust, my camera will still be fully capable when every single one of those
cell phones will have been reduced to dust, or goo, or whatever they turn into.
She backed away a little, stiffening, just after she
mentioned “Free Anytime Minutes,” the alarm on her face betraying the fact that
she was apparently shocked to discover she still had one emotion left.
I suspect she saw something in my eyes. Or, maybe, she
detected on some subliminal reptilian frequency the
silent
scream, my tortured inner growl, “Free Anytime Minutes? Huh? I’ve just wasted
nearly 75 of my preciously few and finite free anytime minutes in your lousy
store, an institution which possesses an air of permanence that would rival a
sneeze, and sports about as much tenure.”
Free Anytime Minutes? The guy who thought up that one
must’ve been some wit. Imagine the concept of selling something like that?
History is chock full of charlatans peddling the biggest whoppers imaginable,
and devoted suckers queuing up to shell
out for them. Free Anytime Minutes, something just about everyone craves and no
one can afford. Legend has it J.P. Morgan offered a million to any doctor who
could warranty him for five more years. He should’ve been with Verizon. He
would’ve got two.
We concluded our business, after she had to start over
twice and reboot that marvelous computer she pecked on fervently. I was sent on
my way with a coiled receipt which, when unfurled, was honestly, as long as my
inseam.
I sulked to my car, feeling like a rube after a
Fairground’s fleecing; mourning a mad night on the Midway.
Let me tell you about my new phone.
It has a hinge. Now if there is one thing that I’ve
learned in life, wedding plastic to a hinge is a recipe for a surefire, prompt,
component divorce. Does it really need a moving part?
And it really
does have a camera, and sometimes when I grab it wrong I look down on it and
there is a picture of my thumb on that subatomic sized screen. Once, in the
dark, when I was driving and trying to handle the thing, it blindingly flashed,
unbidden. Maybe I should consult the owner’s manuals, yes, with an “s”. I haven’t even opened them. I don’t have
spare Anytime Free to brave the kind of terminology which surely lurks there. A
lexicon boasting terms as hackneyed as “Bluetooth” is one I am comfortable
avoiding.
My phone is fabricated out of some curiously heretofore
unknown element that nearly completely defies friction while flaunting an
all-consuming affection for gravity. And when it, inevitably, hotly embraces
the object of its lust, the earth, most often in the privacy of the dark, it
seems to shy away, disdainfully rebuffing the blind, clumsy, gropings of my
hand. Only then does it brazenly reveal its infidelity to the earth by pursuing
an unbridled, adulterous ardor for the toe of my boot
And a more dynamic shape Michelangelo could not have
sculpted in a hot shower with a bar of soap and a scalpel.
All this results in an instrument that unfailingly
rejects your hand whether you grasp it tenderly or with violence. And it is so
thin that you cannot crane your neck enough to crook it between an ear and a
hunched shoulder. I’ve tried it and it will shoot out like a silvery projectile
and, if I did mange the contortion, I believe I’d have wry neck for a month.
It is my conviction that telephones have been going
downhill since about 1978. Only a fool would’ve craved an owner’s manual back
then. The unveiling of touch-tone was the high water mark. Since that zenith,
what phones were actually intended for:
plain, intelligible conversation, has been suffering under the weight of
innovation.
I have a radio in a car that selects the stations for
me. I can’t tune it anymore, apparently I can’t be trusted with that either,
like with those cell phones on a cord. No more can I lazily scroll the AM dial
on some long midnight drive, hoping to light upon a brief blast of an AM
channel bouncing in on the skip from some distant exotic place, like Cleveland,
Little Rock or Memphis. My receiver only allows me to enjoy the clearest
signals, usually a choice between Rap or some bellicose preacher and nothing in
between. What was so bad about 2 knobs? They were so intuitive. I suppose the
answer’s in the manual.
Whatever happened to that lungfish, so happily flopping
on the sands of Park Point under a clear blue sky?
No, he just couldn’t stop there, he had to have a big
human brain. And a prehensile tail. And when swinging through the treetops
wasn’t good enough, he shucked the tail for a fully opposable thumb. And now he
finds the thumb is obsolete when he wants to dial his phone. If that thumb had
one more joint in it, he could hold the phone in his palm and punch the keys
with his thumb, like on the old phone. Where is a prehensile tail when you need
it?
One minute, in terms of geological time, you’re
flagellating blissfully through the primordial soup and the next you’ve nearly
vaporized a deer in the night with your Subaru and don’t have any “towers.” At
least you could take a picture of it.
I suppose all was not rosy for that erstwhile carefree
lungfish. For somewhere in the dark depths of Superior there once flashed, like
quicksilver, something that wanted to eat it.
I wonder if, nowadays, we somehow find a need to
manufacture the stuff that eats us.
I know. Some have said I am getting old and cranky. I
just tell her I’m not getting that
old. (age 51yrs.)
Happy
holidays.
The
Smiths.
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11-29-05
Greetings, Christmastime again. Hope you are fine and
fit.
Some news:
We were quite surprised when our daughter, Mesa, (Age
20) announced that she was going to go to college this year in Florence.
I didn’t think they had a college in Florence. I
decided they must’ve got one. I knew Marshall has a college, and Pipestone has kind
of a college, but not Florence. They had a beer joint there I am pretty sure. I
know for sure that Lake Benton has a beer joint.
Well anyhow, after I asked her about, you know, if she
was sure she didn’t mean Russell, Tyler, or Ruthton, she said, no, she was
going to study art in Florence, Italy. So
they have art in Italy too? Those
Europeans sure do like to emulate us here in Minnesota. I looked on the map and
they even have a Milan, just like ours.
So we went over there to Italy to visit her and had a
great time. There are some things I’d like to
report, stuff that maybe people here don’t know about, I suppose:
Mainly, the sirens on the cop cars really do go “Heee!
Haaw!” and not “Woo! Woo!” like they do around here. Just like on Pink Panther
and the James Bond. Actually it really is more of a “Haaw! Heee!, Haaw Heee!” -
to be more accurate. (thanks Bill)
Another thing, I was disappointed that the toilets all
swirl the same way as they do in the U.S.A. I watched every time. I thought it
would be different in a far away place like Italy.
Then I began to study it and, I think I can explain why
this is.
Is it because of the metric system? No, Cousin Gary.
The metric system explains why when you nervously peer
over the cabbie’s shoulder as he hurtles through, say, downtown Naples in the
night, and you notice the speedometer’s registering 100. Then, when you finally
open your eyes again and look out the window you can clearly see you’re only
doing about 60. That is the metric system.
Actually the reason is easier to understand than the
metric system. In order to see the swirl go the wrong way around you have to go
to the bottom of the earth. Every school kid knows that according to Minnesota,
the bottom of the world is China. So imagine boring a hole all the way through
the earth down to China. Then, in that dream, put a toilet on top of that hole,
up here in Minnesota, and flush it. Now picture a Chinaman looking up the hole
at the swirl. To him it would appear
to be going the wrong way.
I came up with an experiment that you can try to prove
this fact.
Go out and look at your lawnmower. Pull the starter
rope a little and watch which way that big iron wheel on top of the motor, the
flywheel, spins. Start the mower and see the flywheel go really fast. Because the
flywheel is connected by a shaft directly to the blade, they both spin the same
way. Now, carefully, with just your fingertips, lift the mower over your head
and look up at the blade. It looks like
it is going the wrong way! Same as a Minnesota flush would look from down in
China.
Also, interestingly,
if you stare up at the blade long enough you’ll behold that deal where it looks
like the blade is going kind of backwards
slowly too…like the stagecoach spokes on Gunsmoke used to do, when they drove
them really fast. I can’t explain why that is.
Our other big news
would be the passing of our Cat Callie. (Age 0, again, I guess.) She was very
old, really just a kind of jerky fur covered cat skeleton with a scratchy meow.
We never did see eye
to eye, me and that cat. And it wasn’t because of her crosseyes either.
We had started out on
the wrong foot, or paw, way back in 1986 when she materialized one day at our
back door. Unfortunately the kids, and my lovely wife Kristine (Age 23), got to
the door before I did.
I think there was
enmity between me and that animal because she somehow resented my repeated and
enthusiastic invitations for her to leave back then. But, over the years we had
settled into an uneasy coexistence and it worked.
It was a long gradual
decline that brought her to the veterinarian’s door on that last day.
It slowly dawned on me
that cats never just keel over. I have never come upon one that had succumbed
to natural causes. I’ve seen cats along the road, struck down by cars. (I can’t
say I’ve seen one lately, so much have the deer stolen that spotlight.) I’ve
also known a good cat who was a victim of drinking antifreeze, but not ever one
that just had a heart attack or a bad apoplexy or something like that.
In the summertime we
sometimes eat dinner on the front porch. Since there are few mosquitoes in
Duluth we leave the door open. The cat once came snooping out. I got up quickly
to fetch her back in, but Kristi said, “Leave her be….sometimes they go out
like that, they just wander off when they are ready to die.”
I looked at her,
astonished. She is a farm girl after all, and knows many secrets. So great was
my hope and joy that I am sure I embraced her with grateful abandon.
So, I remember
thinking, this explains it. Cats must have a kind of secret graveyard they
congregate to, kind of like the elephants do in Africa.
But how would a cat
get all the way over there? I could see from Duluth a cat could stowaway on one
of these big ships and get to Africa that way, but how about a cat in Lindstrom,
or Milaca for that matter?
I didn’t have to worry
over it for long because, unfortunately, Kristi’s Kat Hospice Koncept did not
work. Every time we tried it we’d find ourselves on our bellies, back in the
alley, in the dark, alongside the landladies’ RV, trying to coax Callie out
from under it.
You know, a cat will
never do anything to help you out.
If Lassie had been a
cat, Timmy would still be down in the old well and, whenever Timmy’ s dad would
get trapped under the tipped over tractor, Lassie the Cat would just have sat
there licking her paw, tantalizingly just out of Pa’s reach.
In the end I must say
Callie met her fate with dignity and grace. She rests now beneath the sands of
Carlos Avery, her old hunting grounds. (I got to buy a new shovel at Stacy
Hardware, too, and it’s a dandy!) And she was a mouser of legendary prowess.
Nearly every day, in that era when we resided in the picturesque Chisago Lakes
countryside, we’d see her returning with a new “mousestache.”
Did I ever tell you
about the time I went out the front door barefoot one night and stepped on a
dead mouse in my underwear? (I was in my underwear, the mouse was barenaked. At
least it felt like the mouse was naked as it extruded between my toes.) That
mouse was one of Callie’s. I bet she was out there in the dark, tantalizingly
just out of reach, licking her paw, smugly satisfied.
I (age 50) know I
haven’t mentioned our son Bill (age 24). He continues his studies at UMD. He’s
the sort of guy, well, the world just kind of comes to him. The Dude abides.
Happy
Holidays!
The Smiths.
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12-22-04
Greetings, Christmas time again. Hope you are fine and
fit.
As for us, we have settled
in Duluth without too much drama. Our children, both exceptional still, have
found lodgings here in town too and Mesa, age 19 years, is attending UMD and
William, age 23 years, will soon be joining his sister at UMD. I am sure both
will soon be stupefying the professors there.
My lovely wife Kristine, age
22, has quickly become the cornerstone of St Luke’s Clinics here in Duluth and
although she is due in October, she never complains.
If I were one to boast, I’d tell you more about my work
at St Mary’s. I am working full time again and it, somehow, seems unfair.
Speaking of St. Mary’s, I
had an amusing incident near there this spring. Leaving the office one fine
day, I had to stop for the lights at the bottom of 6th Ave E. Now,
from my vantage near the bottom, I could gaze up the street which is a long
hill that finally, blocks above, curves to the left. Usually quite busy, that
morning there were few, if any cars making the climb or riding their brakes
down.
Lazily a wheel rolled out
into the street several blacks above me. Certainly it had spun down one of the
side streets and, upon gaining the center of 6th, it wobbled
indecisively for a moment whereupon, suddenly, and with conviction, it chose to
descend the center of 6th.
Having decided upon its
route, it commenced an astonishing acceleration. It would bound through
intersections with centrifugal intensity, barely missing cross traffic by the
slightest of margins.
I began to get alarmed. What
if it would hit a car? At this speed serious damage and/or injury would result.
Or picture one of these little old ladies, what if one would step off the curb?
Worse yet, it was coming straight down towards ME.
Coolly I apprised myself of
my surroundings. Still no cars about, I grabbed the shifter with a steady hand.
However, 6th St
has a slight crown and eventually the wheel, greedy for any advantage, followed
the slant towards the curb where I figured it would be thwarted
But the wheel, now
arrogantly flaunting its axis with a mere glancing blow to the curb, was
deflected back into the street
I calculated the angle of
that carom. By using physics, trigonometry and the seasoned application of box
hockey vectors, I surmised that the wheel would proceed over the crown once
again. From there it would strike the curb opposite, where its next parry would
result in the wheel cutting through my Kia like a sickle.
But, I was spared, the wheel
hit that curb and, rather than being diverted, it bounced into the air, perhaps
8 to 10 feet. This leap knocked it off its orientation to the earth. Thus it
landed on its side with a thunderous clap and after spun along horizontally
across a parking lot. Two women having just exited their car, walked over to it
tentatively and looked down upon it as if something from outerspace had just
impacted. They craned their heads this way and that, obviously wondering where
did that come from?
Who knows, it just might’ve
come from outerspace. Nobody materialized to claim it as I cautiously drove up
the hill. I imagined some dumbfounded erstwhile mechanic turning to find the
wheel gone, quickly closing the garage door, then sauntering nonchalantly into
the house, pouring a hasty cup of coffee, and sitting there with fingers in
both ears
Around
this town it could’ve rolled from miles away, a whole different neighborhood
perhaps. On more than one occasion I’ve seen a child’s ball whipping along
towards the big lake, never to be reclaimed.
Afterwards I laughed about
it as I headed over the top of the hill, out of town on 53, heading to
Floodwood.
I have noticed that, since we moved here, there is a
lot of wind in this town. That day was no exception. As I motored on, minding
my own business, I casually noticed a large hunk of cardboard pinwheeling along
the ditch to my right. It was a remnant of a box, perhaps it once held a
dishwasher or small refrigerator and, as if it had some sort of naughty plan,
it leapt onto my car.
It was a big piece and it sprawled over the front of my
vehicle, completely draping my windshield. Save for a furiously flapping
little, well, flap, I could not see where I was headed. I was going about 60
mph and with the resistance against its backside, that cardboard embraced the
front of my car with the fevered clinging intensity of a desperate homely
lover.
Coolly I considered swerving to and fro, furiously,
like a Scottish Terrier (Jack age 7yrs x7=49) with a rat in his jaws. Maybe I
could shake it off. However my peripheral vision informed me that there were
cars in the lane alongside me, although they were beginning to shy away. .
I tried hard to recall the road ahead, was there
anything, say a garbage truck, parked on the shoulder? Glancing in the rear
view I saw those following me where beginning to shrink back too. Delicately I
pulled off onto the shoulder and gently applied my brakes enough so that every
untethered item in the car was hurled against the windshield, dash and
footwells. When I was nearing a stop the wind wrested my unwelcomed partner
free and she was off, cartwheeling in search of another tryst.
Well naturally I took these things as a sign that it
was time to get a new car. So we did and later this summer we were off to a
race weekend near Sheboygan. Approaching the garden spot of Tomah, motoring
along at about 70 in dual columns of Interstate traffic, a chunk of steel
suddenly liberated itself from a semi just ahead of us. It soared through the
air spinning and flipping.
It is a strange thing how one’s perceptions are
sharpened when one’s brain realizes a REAL BAD THING HAPPENING. Like when your
are about to get your head cut off. I recall the thing had 4 holes drilled in
it. And I think I even saw threads in there! Suddenly, through some vortex, or
aerodynamic whimsy, it dove downwards, wanged off our hood and vaulted over our
car. I recall seeing it gouge into the earth of the median, sending an
explosion of clods skyward. That sword had been beaten into a plowshare by our
hood.
Needless to say it put a damper on the weekend. Not so
big a damper as if it had cut off our heads. Still, I had intended to be
leaning with a cool indifference against my new car all that weekend. Instead,
I found myself skulking around, grimly certain that all the other race fans
knew I was the dork with the disfigured Subaru.
Got a new hood.
This November returning from Gordy’s Retirement Party
in Winona, not more than 3 miles from our old comfortable home nestled in the
picturesque Chisago Lakes countryside, I was about to remark to Kristi, “Wow,
look at those Northern Lights!”
At that instant a deer decided to dash into our left
front quarter. The car, grievously injured, was still able to motivate. The
deer, however, was not.
The DNR has issued me a special stamp. It is a little
deer head with antlers, tongue protruding grotesquely and little X’s instead of
eyes. It is similar to the symbols air
combat aces use on the sides of their planes. My door has 4 stamps on it, 2
scored within the last year.
Actually I can’t count the first one. It was years ago
on a late night lonely stretch of highway 8, back when highway 8 still had
lonely stretches. I was droning along in my Festiva when, suddenly in my
headlights, about 150 yards ahead, I noticed the suggestion of a fawn standing
in the road.
I stomped on the binders and from 60 mph an aged
Festiva must take about 151 yards to stop. I struck the thing in its rear end.
He stumbled along, gathering momentum until he could no longer sustain his new
gait. He went sprawling.
I watched it there in my dim headlights. Spryly it got
up, lifted its chin and gave me a sidelong look that was a combination of
haughty disdain, as if to say, “Is that all you got?” mixed with a dawning pity
when he realized that, indeed, it was.
I remember thinking, what kind of cheap doe would let
her fawn run around on highway 8 at 2 AM?
Well, as I was saying, our car was driveable so we
limped it into Stacy. (I should make a note to avoid garden spots.) There in
the light of a street lamp, I assessed my next $500 dollar deductible. Knowing
the routine well, I fished out all the shards of broken headlight. I peered
underneath for dripping fluids, listened for buzzing from the engine bay and
pulled on the hood, finding it well latched. Then I began yanking on the fender
liner to contort it away from the wheel where it was making a noise reminiscent
of clothespinned baseball cards on bike spokes.
That is when I noticed what would become my next big
invention. I had hit that deer so smartly that somehow, through a miracle of
physics, the deer’s fur had lodged around my tire bead, in between the tire and
the rim, yielding a perfect halo encircling the wheel. It was oddly fetching.
That’s when I had my brainstorm.
Cousin Mike thinks I should call them “Furwalls”
proving that genius nearly struck twice in the Smith family. However, I intend
to stick with my original name, “Ring of Fir.” So I like Johnny Cash? (R.I.P.)
And I know it is the wrong “fir” but I figure the kind of nitwit who would
actually buy a product like this, the same guy who’d buy those idiotic spinner
wheel covers, would never notice the difference. You know the type, pro
basketball players, televangelsits, orthodontists, Richard Gere, maybe.
I could make a fortune on this. I’ll attach them with a
little string of elastic like the ones that hold those green hats on the heads
of lunchladies in every school cafeteria. They’d be available in rayon:
imitation leopard, mink, tiger, holstein, (for cop cars) zebra, albino….oh, and
green and yellow for Cheeseheads….that’s a sure million dollar market right
there.
I am looking for investors, a real ground floor
oppurtunity here. Sleep on it.
Happy
New Year.
The
Smith’s
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12-10-03
Greetings,
Hope this finds you healthy
and happy. As for us, we still lead interesting, fulfilling lives while no
longer residing in our comfortable home nestled in the picturesque Chisago
Lakes Area countryside. Someone else is residing there.
Please note our new address:
Smiths
11368
Zaymar Road
Orr MN
55771
PH#
218-757-3357
As some of you already know, we sold our comfortable
home. (See above.) That was last summer, just before I took a severance package
and quit my job, which was just prior to our huge garage sale. After that I
moved up here to the lake and my lovely wife Kristine (age 24) and the kids
moved into an apartment in Forest Lake. Otherwise not much is new.
All this has happened not because, as many of you have often suspected in the past, our
marriage was on the rocks. I can assure
you that our marriage is solid. Yet.
No, the reasons are more complex than a simple
floundering marriage. Rather, all these things have happened because we kinda
felt like it. Surely no objective reasoning or critical analysis of our
situations intruded upon our whimsy.
Well, truthfully, a couple of things
did intrude upon our impulses. One is the fact that Kristi kept her job and the
other is that our dog, Jack, is not welcomed at that apartment. He is a trooper
about it though, on my frequent visitations there he agrees to be stuffed into
a duffel bag and he keeps his yap
shut. The old cat, however, sadly endures back up at the lake, alone. (She was
so much tougher to stuff in that bag, especially with the dog in there. Even an
old cat, like this one, is a real challenge to poke into a bag. It must be done
quickly, I know that. When I did, finally, cram them both in the bag it looked
odd: me struggling with that package… it seemed to writhe in my hands. It sort
of pulsated and throbbed and got all bulgey. And the sounds that emanated from
inside it were otherworldly. When I finally unzipped it inside the apartment,
after another successful subterfuge, they were sure lively. They really shot
out of there!)
This week Kristi was able to tender her notice at work. She
has found a new job in Duluth. So another move is in store for us soon. I
suppose I will have to start looking for a job too. But that is okay, being a
trophy husband can have its ups and downs, although Kristi seems to like having
a kept man.
Seriously, we feel fortunate to be able to make changes like
this. We are safe and healthy and happy.
Last year at the holidays we would’ve never guessed all this would
occur, at least not voluntarily. Now we wonder where next year’s holidays will
find us. We even wonder where next month
will find us.
Hopefully wherever it is, everyone will be safe and healthy
and happy. We wish the same for you.
Happy Holidays!
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2002:
My lovely wife Kristine (Age 25) welcomes ever more
challenging professional pursuits. Yet she still maintains her expansively
heralded devotion to home and children. She continues to manifest a singular attention to even the most miniscule
detail which might further ensure a more perfect domestic theater.
As for myself (Age 47) I am constantly accomplishing so
much that I do not have the time nor space to capture it all here. And I trust
that, even though you would find the narrative fascinating and beneficial, you
probably are busy with your own puny Holiday concerns.
Our children,
Mesa (Age 17) and William (Age 21) remain exceptional, devoting themselves to
various universal high-minded academic, metaphysical and social endeavors. They
are a glittering testimony to the old saying that the apples don’t fall too far
from the trees. It is so clearly evident that they inherit their rapier
intellect and delightful personalities from their father and, from their mother
they have been blessed with impeccable taste, stunning good looks, and their
youth.
Well the big news around here is OUR NEW ROOF! Really
sharp. A black beauty. I can assure you it is the marvel of the neighborhood.
We even went so far as to pop for the extra lavish
“Architectural Style” shingles. They insure our home still commands that
distinguished edge. It practically
screams: “We’re better than you are!” and I send Macie up there to sweep the
snow off so all who pass by can easily see that we spare no effort when it comes
to the pursuit of opulence.
It’s not like she’d HAVE to go up there and shovel
anymore, either. Our new Ice Guard underlayment and the 30-year guarantee
implies that I can ignore the roof once more. Why I’ll be 77 years old
(Kristine will be nearly 29) before I have to even give it a second thought.
And if I stretch it like I did with the old roof, I’ll be 107 before I need to
again worry about covering the computer with tarps every time it rains. Strange
that a roof can never leak over a tub or sink.
It was a fascinating experience having the roofing crew
about. I befriended one of the ex-cons that our contractor, Big Smurf, had
hired for the job. This fellow’s name was Shank and he taught me a method of
removing nails in a grand style while “Doin’ demo.”
He had a tool he called his “jimmy,” (Even though it
had “WONDER BAR” emblazoned upon it.), and when employed properly it could pop
the old nails out and majestically loft them high into the air. I admired this
gaudiness. He handed me the jimmy and told me to give it a try. Frankly, I had
a difficult time mastering the technique.
Maybe I should describe this process a bit for those of
you who may be unenlightened. Although there are numerous subtleties and
nuances involved, I will only attempt, in this limited format, to describe the
basics.
First one must address the nail. This is accomplished
by inserting the end of the jimmy under the nail’s head. Then one has to keep
the “uphill” (Or, towards the roof peak) leg slightly bent while keeping the
other leg straight, bending slightly at the waist while keeping the downhill
arm extended and grasping the jimmy in the lower 2/3 of its length. The other
hand grips the tool towards its upper end in a grasp resembling a handshake and
then snaps back smartly upon the tool, sending the nail arcing heavenward.
Oh, and you have to keep your elbows tight against your
sides and tilt your head just so, keeping your eyes turned and fixed upon the
nail.
I was astonished that what seemed to be an easy task
was very daunting to flawlessly perform. I told this to Shank.
Rising up on one elbow he said, “Just look at poor Paco
over there.” He nodded towards the opposite slope of the roof to where Paco was
working.
“He’s got no capacity for style.” He shook his head
sadly and then turned towards me.
“But you, I could tell right off, are the kind of guy
who has an appreciation for swanking things up.”
Laying his head back down upon the bundle of shingles
he was using as a pillow, he winked at me, “You could be an artist, I think, maybe.”
He covered his face once more with the damp towel I had
brought him. He sighed, “Poor Paco, no style.”
I looked over at poor Paco. He was methodically
marching along the roof like some kind of sweaty robot in the sun. With a
machine-like repetition he dispatched each nail without any flair whatsoever,
sending it dribbling down onto the tarp below rather than winging it out into
the distance in the manner Shank advocated.
I redoubled my efforts and by the end of the afternoon
Shank allowed that I was definitely making progress. He said I would soon
conquer the foundational techniques and then I would be free to “Gild it up.”
Unfortunately my apprenticeship was abbreviated. Paco
finished his side of the roof, came over, and in a dull haste completed my side
too.
Paco then spoke harshly in his native tongue to Shank.
I was surprised when Shank answered back in that same lingo and pointed at me.
Paco turned towards me and said something over his shoulder to Shank and walked
away, laughing.
Shank told me that Paco said he had never seen such a
display as mine. I found I had misjudged poor Paco. I thought he was jealous
when actually he was generously praising my achievements in the very field
where he had demonstrated woefully little aptitude.
That afternoon was a revelation to me in a way. I
discovered that those feats that make you look goofy when you do them, say like
golf, or tennis, or dribbling a basketball for instance, can actually be
rewarding. Here I had always poked fun of people engaged in those pursuits. Now
I kind of understand and better yet, unlike those activities I mentioned,
pulling nails is actually useful.
[OVER]
Later Shank showed me how to open all my car doors and
trunks with the jimmy, should I ever need to get in when I didn’t have my keys.
That jimmy is a versatile instrument.
I closely shadowed Shank most of the time. He seemed to
patiently entertain my frequent observations until I asked him one day, “I
wonder how do I keep the car doors and the trunk closed now? They sail open
when I make turns and hit bumps and stuff."
Imagine my surprise when he whirled on me. His eyes got
really narrow and his shoulders got all bunched up. He started puffing and then
he bellowed at me: “What do you think bungees are for, you stupid idiot?!!! You
Fool!!?”
Then he took his jimmy and started wanging it against
the dumpster with both hands, furiously, feverishly. Finally he whirled it
around and around over his head, kind of like the caveman at the start of that
2001 movie, and then roaring, he let it fly.
These artists can be a temperamental lot. I know that.
After that episode things became a trifle more tense.
It seemed that every time I entered or left my house something, oh, like a
hammer or one of those big bundles of shingles or, once even, Shank’s boot,
would come tumbling down in my vicinity. It got so I had to scurry in and out
of my own home, with my arm covering my head, for fear of being clunked.
Then one day the sheriffs came and took Shank, in
handcuffs, with them. After they left and the roofers began emerging from the
dumpster again, I looked up Big Smurf.
He was always the last to reappear and I helped him clamber out. I said
I wondered why the sheriffs took Shank away like that.
“Paco told us,” and he hooked a thumb back towards the
dumpster, “Shank got at Tootsie’s last night too much mad, I think.” He looked
down at me, shrugged, and moseyed off.
Shank once confided that great artists rarely get the
kind of respect and recognition they deserve. I wonder if Shank would get his.
Our paths sort of crossed again this fall. I was trying
to tame a bunch of weeds out back by stabbing into them with the lawn mower and
then quickly jerking it back before the brush strangled its racing motor. With
an alarming suddenness I accidentally struck that abandoned jimmy with the
stupid lawnmower. It shrieked, a startling clatter that made my ears ring.
After circulating frantically about, folding up my blade and rending the deck
in several places, it shot out of there like a supersonic missile. Such was its
velocity that I could scarcely follow its trajectory.
There was an explosive crash next door. Thank goodness
my neighbor was not home because that fool Wonder Bar had shattered the huge
back hatch window on one of his “parts cars,” an old AMC Pacer. I reached in
through the broken glass and got it.
I practiced a bit with it here in the garage but it
wasn’t the same. The used nails I pick off the yard must have weak necks
because when I pound them in they lay over and are difficult to extract with
the proper amount of show.
Then I got a brainstorm. Wouldn’t it be a nice gesture,
this holiday season, to give Shank his jimmy back? I could drop it off at the
St Cloud Prison when we went up to visit Kristine’s Aunt (age about 31) and
Uncle (age 97) there.
That brooding gray stone prison is sure an imposing
structure. And they sure don’t go out of their way to make it very welcoming
either, even during the holidays. Anyhow, I rambled in there to the “VISITOR’S
AREA” and I told the man at the gate
that I had something for one of the guests at his facility.
He cocked his head back and looked at me. “Which one of
our guests would that be?” he said, rather unkindly.
At that moment I realized I didn’t know Shank’s name!
Clearing my throat, I muttered “Shank” and I quickly added, “I really don’t
need to see him, I just got something for him here.” I held out the Dayton’s
bag.
He was an officious appearing, surly young chap, much buoyed
by his comic opera uniform, I thought.
He scowled at me and said, “We have 17 ‘Shivs’ that I know of here, at
least a dozen “Snakes,” we have 9 ‘Shims’, 7 ‘Shags’ and a ‘Shep’ a ‘Shemp’ a
‘Skin” and even a ‘Scud’. We have 3 ‘Shags,’ now which one of them are you
interested in?”
I began to describe him and when I mentioned his
artistic leanings he waved me off disgustedly. “I know who you mean,” he said
unpleasantly. He peered over the counter at the bag and said, “What you got
there?”
I pulled out the Wonder Bar and began to reply, “His
jimmy...” But that’s as far as I got. Before I knew what was happening his eyes
bugged out, he yanked it out of my hands, and 2 other dragoons had me by the
elbows, waltzing me towards the door. One had grabbed the back of my belt,
applying a traction that foreshortened my inseam uncomfortably as I tried to
maintain my dignity during our headlong rush. Who would’ve thought they’d be so
excited about a guy having a jimmy in his cell?
I hollered over my shoulder at that first guard,
“Anyway, can you see that he gets it?”
“Oh sure!” he said, “We’ll be happy to give it to him,
lemmie see here, “ and he looked down at his screen and smiled kind of
patronizingly, “When he’s eligible for parole in 60 years.”
As I got up from the sidewalk and brushed myself off I
thought, sixty years! That’s just when I’ll need a new roof. Things have a funny
way of working out. I know that.
Happy
Holidays,
P.S. Kristine wanted me to clarify: Her aunt and Uncle
live in the TOWN of St Cloud, they have never been inmates in that particular
penitentiary, though.
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‘01
Although my exciting
life yields daily wonders, even I had an exceptionally harrowing incident the
other day. As you are probably aware, last week’s snow was very heavy. We were
hit particularly hard up here in the charming Chisago Lakes Area. The snow was
extraordinarily contrary to shovel and blower.
Well, last Tuesday
morning I was about finished snowblowing, just tidying up the back walk when I
noticed a curious eruption in the snow alongside of me. It appeared as if a
crevice was tearing through the snow’s surface at a spectacular rate of speed.
At about this time I also noted that the steel ring on the clothesline, the one
that is attached to the dog lead, had begun to accelerate in my direction,
zipping along the clothesline. (This ring is attached to a long length of cord
that has a snaphook on the other end. We simply snap it through the dog’s
collar and he can run back and forth over a wide expanse of barren earth, pulling
the ring to and fro along the clothesline. Although often as not we return at
the end of the day finding him wound tightly around the clothesline pole.)
It was about then that
I realized I must’ve trod over that dog line with the snowblower and that the
ripping effect on the snow was the slack of that line being taken up by the
blower’s furiously rotating devices. My assumption was correct for at that
instant the line became vibratingly taut as the ring rather violently achieved
the end of its travel. It shuddered there for a trifle until the traction being
applied it became too great. The protesting clothesline surrendered and was
rent, thus liberating the ring, which then proceeded to hurtle through the air
and to strike me smartly upon my left eye.
Startled, I staggered
backwards as I simultaneously realized something had drawn a very tight
constriction about my left lower leg. I inadvertently had somehow stepped into
an errant loop of that line. Crazily fast I was snatched from my footing,
landing heavily upon my back. At once, the machine began to tow me through the
slush towards it.
Forthwith I grasped the
clothesline pole, arresting my inexorable progress towards that ravenous maw.
However this did my situation little good as the snowblower then began to
dumbly rotate slowly in my direction, commencing then to spool itself along the
line towards me.
I was furious with the
stupid contraption. Here it was turning on ME, the same one who just that
morning had baler wired that bothersome safety lever to the “Always On”
position, thus sparing all the inefficient wear and tear of repeated stoppings
and startings upon it’s own ungrateful mechanism. This also kept my fingers
warmer in the bargain.
Luckily I had wisely
chosen not to tie my boots that morning and, at about this time, my boot came
flying off, freeing me from the cruel bondage of that stubborn line. But
unfortunately, this also relieved me of an encircling band of skin from just
above my ankle down nearly to my toes…denuding it as cleanly as if a belt
sander had been applied to the region. Exquisitely sensitive.
As I watched my Sorrel
dance towards the machine, I became aware of another peculiar phenomena under
the snow on the opposite side of the snowblower. A bulge was approaching the
machine at approximately the same rate of speed as my boot, both bearing down
upon the witless juggernaut.
It was then that I
realized a bad thing. The night before, at the height of the storm, I came home
from work and decided it would be interesting to see what Mesa’s new little
cat, Loudog, thought about the snow. After all, he was just a kitten in the
summer when Mesa found him and, in a scientific manner, I was curious to see
how he responded to something so new and foreign. So I threw him out back under
the lights and delighted in his silly antics for awhile. His comical
discomforts were entertaining to say the least. He would try to lift all his
paws at once and shake them spastically. He genuinely looked miserable under
all that pelting wet snow. He staggered about, kind of like he did after that
time I favored him with a ride in the dryer with the towels.
I must’ve got
distracted because I had obviously forgotten the little chap outside,
overnight, on the snaphook, on that lead. So this explained that mound speeding
towards the indifferent blades of the amok machinery. It was a race between
boot and kitty.
The cat won by the
merest fraction. A small cat can be ejected from a snow blower at an
astonishing velocity. Almost as quickly as a boot can choke that same machine.
Panting, I slogged up
to the snowblower and with considerable effort wrested my boot free from the
auger. Then I commenced to worry at all that line which had managed to entangle
itself into a nearly impenetrable configuration. After a gargantuan effort I
finally reached into the chute to free the last piece of stubborn debris from
the impeller. It was shiny. I then realized it was the remnants of that cheap
little collar Macie had bought for Lou. The buckle had snagged on the grease
zirk and busted, most likely sparing the cat the prospect of wildly rotating
about in the mechanisms and further, being bonked by a boot….to boot.
Just then I
remembered: THE CAT! After insuring my machine was unscathed, I gingerly
advanced to the spot where the cat had come to earth. Along the way I had
quietly rehearsed the sad news I would have to deliver to Mesa: “Your dumb cat
really did it this time!”
I discovered him lying
there. Thinking it was pretty handy to have the garbage can so close by and
all, I stooped over and gently picked him up with my choppers. I swiveled my
head slightly to peer down at him, as my left eye was nearly swollen shut from
the impact of that fool ring.
Suddenly, and without
warning, the cat sprang up onto my face, roaring with a ferocity totally out of
proportion for such a small creature. He latched onto my ears with his claws
and bit mightily into my nose, twisting his head this way and that rapidly and
repeatedly as he ground his jaws together for better purchase. I howled and
sprang about, desperately trying to remove him from my face. These actions just
seemed to intensify his resolve as he only dug his claws in deeper and readjust
his bite to encompass my upper lip as well. The intense pain of this
surreptitious and unprovoked attack was indescribable.
With my lightning
quick reflexes I drew my forearm back and swung powerfully. But that diabolical
creature seemed alive with malice. He darted over my jaw and dashed down the
front of my vest and under my shirt, just a fraction of a second before my
robust blow came crashing down upon my already beleaguered face. I was nearly
blinded with the pain and the blood shot from my nose.
My ordeal was not yet
over though. The cat rapidly snaked his way under my clothing and along my
torso. He then bit my belly fiercely. His teeth, like 2 dozen hypodermics,
impaled my tender and unprotected flesh while his back legs pistoned at a
feverish rate, his talons like animated razors slicing my skin to ribbons. My
layered clothing was not generous enough to allow me a firm grip on my writhing
tormentor. Bellowing, I surged forward and executed an Olympian belly flop onto
the snow bank. This greatly subdued him and I was then able tear open my shirts
and begin the extraction of his varied weapons from my tortured trunk.
There is a bit of a
happy ending though. Earlier I had deemed shoveling the roof too dangerous so I
sent Billy up there to do it. Hearing my clamor, he came over to investigate
and found the cat ravaging my face as I stumbled blindly about. By the time I
got around to withdrawing the cat from my perforated abdomen he was nearly
hysterical with laughter. However he did NOT get the last laugh, as you will
see.
Amid his uproarious
hilarity he lost his footing. He fell flat on his back and began to slide
towards the eaves. He flailed but there was no grip on the frozen shingles. He
plummeted over the edge dragging a gutter with him. However, I had insisted
upon a safety feature of my own contemplation: A rope tied to his lower leg
with the other end of this lifeline looped stoutly around the chimney. Thus his
progress towards the ground was instantaneously arrested, in a blur his feet
first trajectory was rotated 180 degrees to that of a headfirst position. There
he swung, halfway between earth and sky.
Now was my time to
laugh. Even the gravity of my own injuries could not spare me from savoring
that sight. There was Bill, a strange, upended, flightless bird, flapping
uselessly, an undulating pendulum…the face so recently animated with laughter now
turning blue. Suddenly his own boot released him and he fell heavily,
sustaining an ankle abrasion nearly identical to mine. The same leg too!
All’s well that ends
well is what I say. Oh, he continues to complain bitterly of his neck hurting
and his head does loll wryly to the side a bit. But young people get over these
things. I know that.
This reminds me, his
boot still hangs there. It is so tightly constricted on one end that it looks
kind of like a gigantic Hershey’s Kiss swinging there. I will have to retrieve
it one of these days.
After several days and
many cans of tuna, Mesa has coaxed old Loudog back from the woods to the safety
of our home. His hair is even, already, starting to come back in a crazy quilt,
patchwork kind of way.
But his old devil may
care esprit has not returned yet. He will whimper mournfully and sprint under
the sofa if even a few snowflakes fall outside the window. I am curious as to
what he will do the next time I fire up the snowblower. I can’t wait.
In the end though, I
must admit that young Lou is quite a trooper. You have to respect his
durability, not to mention his tenacity. Especially when you consider that long
hot muggy spell last August and him being accidentally locked up in the trunk
of Mesa’s Ford Fairmont or, even that incident with the fireworks. And to think
some cruel, heartless, depraved miscreant just dumped him off. Mesa found him
covered in mud by the end of the driveway and, despite my resentful
protestations and persistent reservations, he has managed to nose his way into
our happy family.
And yet you would
think he would display more gratitude to us for rescuing him. The other day I
awoke from a little snooze here and found him, teeth bared in a silent snarl,
ears back, remaining tufts of fur on end and his pupils dilated, poised, as if
to spring, just inches from my throat. But I understand that on a psychological
level this display of misplaced aggression was really meant for his original
master who rejected him. Cats get over these things. I know that.
Sincere Happy Holidays to you.
-Jeff, Kristi, Bill, Mesa Smith
Jeff,
Kristi, Billy, Macie Smith.
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12-11-00
Far be it from me (Age 45) to ever be boastful but when
there is a true fact that needs attention I feel it is my responsibility to
bring it to the fore. Such a fact would clearly be that we have a new, state of
the art, septic system! Really sharp. Yup, it is the talk of the neighborhood,
I am sure. As was our old system.
My installer assured me it was the most up to date and
modern set up available. In fact it is, he confided to me, exactly the same as
the one the astronauts use on that new space station. Think of that the next
time you look up into the skies.
One can easily see it is super duper. Our backyard has
been replaced with a new weird, fantastic, futuristic moonscape. And through
the craters and Martian gashes penetrate all manner of hyper-technical looking
tubes and pipes and so forth. It does not take much imagination to believe Luke
Skywalker or even Spock could be dashing around back there.
As I pen these words my gaze is drawn to that
impressive mound. My eyes linger on her softly rounded shoulders and follow the
gauzy outline of her sensuous flanks, intimately covered now by a satin drapery
of snow. Even though slumbering I know she is still there championing our
household effluent. And I have an alarm that tells me so. In fact the
electrician that wired it played for his assistant and me “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida”
on the buzzer…so I surely know it works. What a comfort and consolation as the
holidays approach.
Of course the downside
of these amazing achievements would be the probable inevitable displacement of
the sad creatures which in the past have long sought refuge upon our old
drainfield. Those strange, flightless, winged frogs (You can’t even get them to
jump!), the forlorn blind two-headed kittens, and even those crazy centimanders,
will now have to find another place to congregate.
Here’s hoping the best for you and yours this holiday
season and in the New Year.
Sincerely,
Jeff,
Kristine, William and Mesa Smith
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December
1999
Greetings,
We hope this finds you
happy.
As for us it has been a
typically busy year. There is no shortage of activity here in our comfortable
home nestled in the picturesque countryside of the charming Chisago Lakes area.
Our exceptional children,
Mesa (age 14) and William (age 18) continue to amaze and inspire all who are
intelligent enough to grasp even a portion of the potential they so
effortlessly display constantly. We are, of course, considering their future
options and naturally college is the expectation. We were debating between
Princeton and Cambridge but were dismayed to find that Princeton doesn’t even
have a college. And here I had been seeing it on sweatshirts and stuff for
years. Maybe they are going to get one.
We have been investigating
the Armed Forces for William too. We expect that he should enter the service of
his country at least as an admiral or general. Unfortunately most of the
branches seem too muleheaded to appreciate the concept. With his natural gifts and his strict
attention to personal discipline, he could offer much to the military, the
nation, and the world. Filled with patriotic fervor, I even offered to let them
induct him at the one or two star level so he could quickly work his way up
from there. Still they feigned indifference. Finally I found an Army recruiter
who was bright enough to see the merits. I told him that as soon as William
became a general he would then see to it that the recruiter himself would get a
fat promotion. Maybe even to just a one star general, providing he could secure
some other special treatments for our son that I will not go into here. You
have to know how to handle these recruiter types. Shortly I could see the
dawning of a sly awareness light up his otherwise dim and wary features. He
winked, jabbed me in the ribs and said, “Yeah, sure!” Like with all these guys
they know what side their bread is buttered on, sometimes it just takes extra
effort to point it out to them. I guess he dropped by to have William sign some
papers and such last evening, probably a bunch of formalities.
As for my lovely wife
Kristine (age 22) you probably have already heard of her rift with Martha
Stewart. Kristine grew weary of her always hanging about the house, desperately
clutching at the ideas which so readily issue from Kristine’s boundless
internal dynamo of homemaker notions. I think what broke that camel’s back was
when Martha asked Kristine, “How much REALLY is in one pinch of nutmeg?”
Understandably that was the final vexation, it would be like imploring Picasso
to define line quality. Unthinkable.
Mesa has had a bit of an
incident here which really proves that old Smith mettle. She is a trooper. It
seems she was practicing her flute the evening after I put up the Christmas
tree. The dogs Fran (7X7 yr) and Jack (2X7 yr) were chasing the cat (7th
life) and it sought refuge under the tree. Mesa turned slightly to see what was
happening and her flute must’ve contacted one of the splices I had made in the
Christmas light wires. Kristi and I were watching the Vikes on tape when suddenly
the picture got about as big as a postcard and we heard a piercing shrill
screech emanating from her flute. The note was sustained longer than any I have
ever heard and was underlain with a heavy staccato thumping. By the time we got
upstairs the dogs were howling and the cat was scaling the blinds. Mesa’s right
foot had inadvertently strayed into some water I had slopped on the carpet when
I had filled the stand earlier. This provided a very appealing route for the
electricity to follow to ground. The thumping was her left foot, the dry one,
as it was beating on the floor crazy fast.
After the flute
had cooled enough we were able to prise her hands free of it but no amount of
coaxing could extract the flute from her braces. We discovered that the electricity
had actually fused the metal of the flute to her orthodontia. We rushed her to
the orthodontist the next day and he said that the entire appliance must be
replaced (At considerable expense), or we could leave it as is until her bands
come off in March. This seemed like the obvious choice under the
circumstances.
It hasn’t all been easy for
her though. She can’t lay on the flute side or sit on that side of the car
without opening the window. She can’t wear turtlenecks either.
But this little incident has
provided some dividends as well. For instance she has been able to practice
much more and she can really rip into a lot of tunes now on that charred flute.
The lights on the tree now twinkle and they originally weren’t blinkers! Also, another benefit is that she will be
easier to spot on TV when her band is marching in the Orange Bowl Parade.
She’ll be the one with her hair all standing on end.
Myself, I have been busy
making sure everything here is Y2K compliant. I was happy to find that most of
the important things will survive the millenium change. For instance our
plates, silverware, beds, and clothing will be indifferent to the 21st century.
I was relieved to find my 8 track cartridges will work just fine next month and
the guitars will still play, providing there is still electricity and someone
around here who can actually play one.
Our Ford Fairmont is safe, too, since the engineers back then apparently never
expected it to last even this long. As for the VCR’s, nobody will know the
difference because it is so frustrating to program them anyway. Secretly my wish is that some things like the
answering machine and cell phone will be reduced to a fine powder at the stroke
of midnight.
The lesson for all of us is,
obviously, be careful in what you purchase. As for me I will make certain that
from this point forward I will never bring something home again that may be
vulnerable to a millenium threat. I’d hate to go through all this anxiety when
Y3K rolls around because I’ll probably be older then and less informed.
HAPPY
HOLIDAYS! -The
Smith’s
* Please note our new street address is: 30957 Lofton
Av
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DECEMBER
1997
Greetings, hope this finds you
and your loved ones happy.
For us it has been another hectic
year. Our gifted children: Bill (Age 16) and Mesa (Age 12) continue in their
devotion to many lofty and egalitarian pursuits. My lovely wife Kristine (Age
26) excels
professionally
while continuing to amaze on the domestic front here in our comfortable home
nestled in the picturesque countryside of the Chisago Lakes Area.
As you know, the limelight never sets on our
expansive horizons. Thus the paparazzi remain a continuing irritant. Even more
so since Elton has enthusiastically volunteered to write a song immortalizing
the memory of our dear departed Guinea Pig: Jasper. Incidentally, we have
contracted with a firm to professionally maintain Jasper’s cryogenic state. The
system had been compromised on occasion here at home, causing temperature fluctuations which resulted in
Jasper’s remains becoming sort of pulpy and less recognizable. Anyhow, CryoMart
now is charged with monitoring the deep freeze system 24 hours a day. They had
even agreed to return Jasper’s fur to
his canister but, unfortunately, it was dumped into Walt Disney’s cask instead.
They assure us that they will be able to detach it from Walt’s head in
A.D.2167, when Walt’s thermos is next
scheduled for a cleaning. I guess they can melt it off with a hair dryer…if
they work quickly.
My scalp has almost totally
healed. Most of the abscesses have now shriveled up and my dermatologist has
been grinding off the scabs every other week. Of course he was very
disappointed by the failure of the experiment and was convinced the grafting of
Jasper’s fir to my head was going to be a winner. Perhaps I delayed treatment
for too long. Anyhow, my dermatologist has developed quite an interest in Guinea
Pigs. Especially their furs. He has had a
fetching set of boots constructed from the hides of trophy Guinea Pigs
he brought back from one of his bow hunting expeditions to Brazil.
I have been consumed with
preparing our El Nino shelter. Actually we are converting the comet shelter we
used last spring. I am having to enlarge it because, as you might have heard,
my lovely wife Kristine (Age 23) is expecting to deliver 8 babies next spring.
We feel very fortunate. Donations
are rolling in and sponsorship deals for everything from cribs to Clearasil are
in the works. The media is swarming and interviews are being negotiated.
So it appears 1998 will be a
hectic year as well.
Merry Christmas,
