Marigolds

(I wrote this many years ago, while I was still dating. My housekeeping, sadly, has not improved much since then.)

Funny how I never noticed before -- the filth I mean. Weeks of laundry marked out a footpath on the floor -- the clean, the dirty, the indifferent -- and that pile by the bed seemed, from time to time, to move on its own. The magazines and papers heaped artfully against one wall and the precarious stack of album covers, long ago orphaned from their records, teetered a foot-high on the tattered coffee table, my most treasured bargain from Goodwill. The stereo groaned under the weight of records, thick with dust and stacked ten high -- the topmost, Magical Mystery Tour, covered in paw prints and kitty litter from the cat's most recent experimental, if brief, dance maneuver on the spinning turntable. Books and books and more books littered every flat surface and milk crate in the place. There was dirt everywhere. And this was only the living room.

As I made my way through the half-empty boxes of fried chicken, doughnuts, and pizza, I felt a growing dread. I could smell the kitchen even before I got there. My God, had the cat murdered something and squirreled it away under the stove for a future feast? Was some putrid rodent carcass rotting under the floorboards? I paused at the door, overcome. Did other single guys live like this? And if so, how did the species survive? Did I really live like this? Every plate, every fork, every knife, every spoon piled in the sink. Spent Pepsi cans and milk cartons, crowded together, marched shoulder to shoulder across the counter like anxious soldiers heading to war. It was a war zone. I remembered emptying the garbage once -- didn't I? Walking across the floor, my sneakers sucked at the linoleum, sticking to -- what was that on the floor?

I stopped and gathered courage at the refrigerator door. “Be brave, boy,” I told myself. After all, what could be in there? I was poverty-stricken. I didn't have money for real food -- nothing that would need refrigeration at least. I yanked at the door as it struggled against me. Was there something living in there? Had that been the reason the light had gone out – the little refrigerator man finally got fed up and sabotaged the bulb for a little privacy? I reached for the flashlight I kept in the freezer and cautiously peered in. One bottle of cheap champagne. Check. A tomato. A tomato? A tomato. Check. Some cheese -- I think. Raisin bread. Where did that come from? And something leathery and shriveled that might have been Jell-O. Or maybe gravy from last Thanksgiving. Well, not exactly a feast. Maybe the cat would share. I carefully closed the door and headed for the bathroom.

As I headed down the hall, I considered my options carefully. I had exactly an hour to pull it all together. Yet -- there was no doubt about it -- I needed a week. I didn't even know where the vacuum cleaner was. Right now, I couldn't even remember if I owned a vacuum cleaner -- or if I knew anyone who did. I knew I had some Pledge, but wasn't sure it would work on dirty dishes. And where would I stuff all my stuff? The closets were a hopeless, bulging mass of rubble and junk. And if the bathroom was half as bad as I remembered...

And then there it was. The bathroom. Maybe, I thought as I staggered back, maybe she won't have to pee. All night? How realistic was that? Women pee. Or they do something in bathrooms. Usually with other women. In packs. Thankfully, I didn't have to worry about a pack of women peeing in my bathroom tonight. Just one. And I couldn't very well send her out into the bushes if she needed to relieve herself. Well, I could, but it was certain I'd never date her again. Maybe I could lie and tell her the pipes were broken. She might feel sorry for me, having to suffer so. Sympathy can be romantic, can't it? No, that wouldn't work. And what if I had to pee? "Excuse me, Dear, I have to go outside to water the marigolds. Sit tight. I'll be right back. Can I get you a petunia while I'm out?" No. I needed a plan.

No. I needed a new apartment.

I had just finished dressing (I sniffed around and by a small miracle followed the clean pile of clothes) when the doorbell rang. And there she stood -- stunning -- beautiful -- civilized -- clean. I couldn't bring this innocent into my den of dirt.

Quickly, I killed the lights behind me as I stepped out onto the landing to meet her.

"I thought we were going to spend the evening at your place?" she said, radiantly.

"How much do you love me? I whispered in her ear.

"I love you terribly!" she sighed, looking at me peculiarly.

"Let's keep it that way, then,” I laughed as I bolted the door. "At least for a little longer. How about we do dinner and a movie instead?"

"Well, okay. Sure. That sounds like fun too. But what happened? I thought you had the night all planned? I was looking forward to seeing your place."

Yeah, I thought. You and my place -- Goldilocks meets Chernobyl. "I did. I really did." I hesitated. "But the pipes in my bathroom burst and, well..."

"Oh, you poor guy!" she soothed as she grabbed my hand and gave it a knowing squeeze. She looked around and giggled. "These bushes don't look very inviting anyway. And I'd hate to ruin the marigolds."

What a girl!

Orbs

Recently the kids (well, they're grown but will always be "The Kids") visited during the Thanksgiving weekend. We had occasion to enjoy an unusually balmy day sitting on the deck, enjoying conversation surrounded by my dogs. Several photos of Boris (my eldest dog) were taken, along with the rest of the family. Interestingly, a number of the photos of Boris had a blue orb which showed up only in his photos. No one else had blue orbs -- or any orbs for that matter. There was no dust on the camera lens, and no light leak or reflection. And just Boris had an orb. The rest of us were orb-less.

I have looked up "blue orbs" on the Internet (yes, of course, the apotheosis and repository of absolute Truth) and have discovered blue orbs to mean: " ... an indication of angels being around you, especially Archangel Michael as he resonates with the color blue." I also discovered different colors of blue mean different things: light blue means tranquility and pilot light blue means shielding. (Who in heck knows what 'pilot light blue' is. And who knows who decided what colors mean what?)

Of course, there is no science to this. But it's interesting.

In reading about the Archangel Michael, I discovered he's mentioned in Jewish, Christian, and Islamic texts. (Who knew?) And considered, among other things, to be the "field commander of the Army of God." (Thank you Wikipedia.) (OK, is it just me or does the idea of God having an Army sound just way too bizarre, nasty, and hateful? Must be the God of the Old Testament, that vengeful, spiteful, very human-like God, since we 'know' the God of the New Testament is a loving God. Not sure how Archangel Michael ranks in the Islamic text.)

Later (again in Wikipedia) I learn the name Mike (if he's visiting my dog, we're on a first name basis) "in Hebrew ... means 'who is like God' [by the way, that's a question, Christian friends, not a statement], which in Talmudic tradition is interpreted as a rhetorical question: "Who is like God?" (which expects an answer in the negative) to imply that no one is like God. In this way, Michael is seen as a symbol of humility before God." I like this explanation much better. My dogs would certainly be humble before God, if there is one. After all, dogs are named after God, only backwards.

I'm not sure how to interpret the presence of an orb that means both tranquility and shielding, but I like to think my dog will have both as he moves through his later years. Nor am I sure what the presence of these orbs means to my aging dog. Are they the spirit one of my other dogs? Tasha, perhaps, my beautiful German Shepherd who was Queen of the house, or maybe Linga, whom Boris loved without measure.

I just think it's interesting that my dog had blue orbs when no one else did. Are they dust motes? Let's not spoil it and say they are. Let's just enjoy the fact that my boy Boris is unique and the Universe recognizes this uniqueness and sent him some angelic blue orbs to bring him tranquility in his old age.

I wouldn't mind a blue orb myself, thank you.

The Palmer Method

I am personally partial to chocolate Easter Bunnies -- especially the bunnies manufactured by the Palmer candy company. Those named Popper and Sunny, Lil' Hopper and Baby Binks I count among my favorites. These Easter treats are hollow and somewhat fragile and must be eaten with extreme care, especially when wolfing down one or two while driving out of the parking lot of Eckerd’s. It is here where I buy my Palmer bunnies by the dozens -- ostensibly for grand children, nieces, nephews and favored neighborhood children. One learns early that counter staff in drug stores are prone to judgmental expressions of disdain if they suspect adults of buying Easter candy for themselves. So, to avoid such negative profiling, I have learned to fabricate elaborate stories about treating neighborhood urchins to Easter goodies or giving young relatives generous Easter gifts. Of course, I have no nieces or nephews, I care naught for the neighborhood children and my grand children live 700 miles away. Nor would I ever consider sharing my chocolate bunnies with any of them, even if they lived next door. Let them get their own bunnies. After all, they're children. Someone is bound to buy them chocolate bunnies for Easter. Adults have to forage for these treats on their own.

Despite the fact that the quality of Palmer chocolate is anything but gourmet, the company nevertheless goes to remarkable lengths with the packaging and preserving of their hollow bunny treats. Not only have they found it necessary to wrap these confections of little or no know nutritional value in gaily colored foil, the visage of the characteristically demented holiday hare, complete with toothy smile and gaudy bow tie or ribbon, (depending on its sex), emblazoned on the shiny surface. But, (in all likelihood because these bunnies are hollow), Palmer has also decided, in order that the chocolate not get crushed beyond recognition before being eaten and therefore rendered unsellable, (as pulverized chocolate bunny parts do not seem that attractive to the average consumer), each bunny must also be carefully cradled by its ears and feet between several fiercely inviolable layers of festively colored cardboard, and then shrink-wrapped in remarkably impenetrable plastic. While this certainly makes wresting the confection from its prison nearly impossible while driving, one has to admire the construction of each little package. Not only is each wrapper within a wrapper within yet another wrapper an unequivocal burden on the long-suffering ecology of burgeoning landfills nationwide, but this process of multiple packaging yields a product that doubtlessly has a shelf life akin to that of plutonium, making the products that don't sell one Easter available the next, and the next, and the next, until the treats are either purchased or disintegrate completely in their foil and cardboard armor. Not surprisingly, one never finds an expiration date on holiday candy of any kind. Easter bunnies are no exception.

Because of the nature of the Palmer bunny wrapping method, accessing the confection while operating a moving vehicle is not advisable. This maneuver is analogous to dialing a mobile phone while driving one's vehicle on a California Interstate during rush hour. Trying to unwrap a Palmer bunny while driving should no doubt be a criminal offense, but I have found that it is virtually impossible to resist eating at least one bunny long before ever arriving home. Temptation is too great. Of course, the inevitable epic sugar rush is also a dangerous side-effect of flagrant bunny consumption, so caution is advised here as well. Amateur chocolate consumers are advised against mixing copious amounts of Easter confections with driving. I suggest finding a diabetic as designated driver.

Yet, to satisfy my felonious lust for a Palmer bunny or two while still remaining relatively safe in my moving vehicle I have devised what I have come to call the Palmer Method. (This is not to be confused with the original Palmer Method of penmanship, now sadly long abandoned, by which young children were taught to write legibly.) My Palmer method, by the way, also works while sitting in a revolving desk chair in front of a computer screen, or sneaking bits of bunny while on the run between classes, or surreptitiously consuming copious bunny parts before others discover chocolate is nearby. But the focus of this discussion remains on safely consuming while driving.

The most difficult part of the process, as I have previously suggested, is accessing the confection in the first place. Palmer does not make this easy for consumers, whether they are moving or remaining stationary. Extricating the foil-wrapped rabbit from its hermetic captivity is much like successfully negotiating a breech birth. It takes a gentle and patient hand to release the bunny from the confines of its cardboard bondage without damaging an ear or caving in a rib. While maintaining the integrity of the bunny is not necessarily requisite to its enjoyment, if one is to avoid losing any fragment or shard of chocolate while driving distractedly, one should endeavor to keep the bunny's body intact as long as physically possible. One should especially strive for this while driving as it is difficult to fish for lost crumbs of chocolate from beneath one's bucket seat or from between one's legs while still maintaining reasonable control of the car and avoiding being gawked at by fellow drivers, as others on the road are wont to draw unusual and often lewd conclusions if they see a driver's hand frequently disappearing into his lap, regardless the reason.

The first thing one must do to release the foil-clad bunny is to puncture the plastic shrink wrap. This can be accomplished without much difficulty with a pen, pencil, hairpin or other sharp object one may find in one's car. Unhappily, old drinking straws found in the neighboring seat are of little value. Tire pressure gauges are also seldom effective and are often rendered useless in the process. Sporks, those tine-spined plastic spoons one gets at fast food drive-throughs, are also relatively ineffective, as they tend to break before the wrapping does. Nor is stabbing the plastic repeatedly with the blunt end of one's finger efficacious. However, it is here where women generally have the advantage over men, as they often sport long fingernails and these domestic weapons are perfect for tearing the tenacious wrap into shreds. Even so, ladies be warned. Lee Press-On Nails have often been lost forever, ricocheting off the unforgiving plastic like so many tiddly winks, only to be buried evermore in back seat upholstery. Then again, some of these nails, when applied at just the wrong angle, have been known to move so swiftly through the plastic that they become deeply imbedded in the bunny's chocolate and foil flesh, there to protruded like the spines of a hedgehog until they can be pulled from the carcass at the next red light. So caution is advised, whatever manner is used to render the plastic gone.

With the plastic punctured, it is relatively easy to remove and can be done so if one is even remotely good at driving with one hand. The other hand can thus be employed to wrestle off the plastic wrap. If a particular wrapping proves peculiarly contrary and unyielding, one can also, as a last resort, engage one's teeth in the process, being mindful both of one's dental work and of obscuring one's view of the road by inadvertently placing the box in front of one's eyes. Caution and good judgment are advised.

With the plastic wrap now gone, it is time to extract the bunny from its cardboard host. This can also be done with one hand. Slight pressure against the cardboard, right where it grips the bunny's ears, will generally free the candy coney from bondage. Care, however, should be taken to apply pressure to the cardboard rather than the ears of the bunny itself. While the ears are the most substantial part of the entire chocolate body, they can still nevertheless be broken. And while the foil cover keeps the ears from disappearing onto the floorboards should this happen, one must consider that, immediately upon unwrapping the foil, the broken ears are at large and must be consumed altogether immediately or lost. Too, one must understand that the ears, being the most sizeable part of the confection's design, are difficult to stuff in one's mouth whole. Again, one's driving neighbors should be considered when attempting this, as it is unseemly to view another driver engaged in any sort of mouth stuffing. Good taste should always prevail when one finds oneself engaged in eating while driving. Causing neighboring drivers to gag in sympathetic reaction is not sporting.

With the bunny now safely removed intact from the cardboard, the final process of removing the foil begins. There are two schools of approach to this. One encourages careful removal of the foil design for later entertainment. These foil dressings can be saved and later made into all sorts of artistic oddments: Origami animals, garish aluminum ornaments and cheap cat toys are but a few examples. However, most consumers simply tear off the foil, throw it into the back seat and attack the chocolate bunny with rabid fervor. I generally employ the latter approach as I have found it even more difficult to create Origami swans while driving than accessing Palmer packages.

Finally, while there are any number of individual approaches to finally enjoying one's chocolate bunny, there are two generally accepted techniques used to consume the coveted prized confection: the anterior method and the posterior method. The anterior method was alluded to earlier. In this method, one eats the ears first. One can consume the entire ear mass in one bite or one can carefully nip small, delicious bits of ear at one's leisure. Either technique is acceptable. Many people employ this ear-eating method claiming that, since the rabbit can no longer hear, this method is more humane as the bunny never hears the next bite. The other, posterior method involves eating the feet, fanny and tail of the confection first. By consuming the feet first, gastronomes claim the bunny cannot escape and a leisurely repast can be enjoyed. Of course, there are those kinky mavericks who insist on crushing the bunny into small bite sized fragments or eating from the middle outwards, but, while these techniques might be fine at home, they are inadvisable while driving. For example, small bits of chocolate can be seemingly lost, only to turn up later melted to a compromising region of the seat of one's pants. So too, eating a chocolate bunny from the middle out can leave melted chocolate on one's chin and nose. While many in our culture are recognized with these distinct markings, they are not generally from chocolate nor largely considered socially appropriate. The term brown nose is seldom if ever associated with chocolate bunny eaters. So, this approach to confection consumption, with its attendant countenance, is to be avoided lest people get the wrong impression.

Chocolate Easter bunnies are a joy to eat and certainly, to me, the most festive part of the whole Easter season. While others enjoy jelly beans and creme eggs as they ponder the season of death and rebirth, I prefer resurrecting hollow Palmer bunnies from their cardboard warrens. The struggle of the hunt and the sensuous unwrapping of each little body makes the holiday a cheerful time for me; a time to reflect on just what the holiday has come to mean ... chocolate.

Snow

A little bit of snow goes a long way here in Middle Tennessee. My friends back home in Western New York laugh when I tell them the whole state comes to a grinding halt when we have 3 inches of snow, but then, I think the whole of Tennessee has only has one snow plow, and it never shows up here.

The problem here (besides the no-show snowplow) is that the terrain in much of the eastern part of the state, and even here in Middle Tennessee, is steep and treacherous, so even when the main highways are marginally passable, the outlying roads are impossible. And forget driveways. Merely getting our cars to move a few inches was a monumental feat until I remembered an old trick and emptied half a bag of kitty litter under the wheels. Sorry Kitty, you’ll have to crap under the tires for a while.

We have an unusual kind of snow here. Not the nice powdery stuff skiers like; not even the normal snow typical of most snowy states. We have soggy snow, unusually big blobbing globs of it that plop gracelessly from the heavens, often followed by pellets of frozen rain that freeze to everything and take down huge tree limbs that snap and crack in the dead of night — the kind of splintering limbs that echo in the dark while you strain to hear if they’ve landed on anything important — like the car or the barn. And the mix of snow and frozen rain traps even the most innocent. Dog toys, forgotten on the lawn and left to fend for themselves, remain trapped in agonized contortions, alone until they thaw in the weak winter sun.

Now snow in Western New York is generally a lot different and we’re used to it. Most of the time it falls in huge, powdery flakes or delicate crystals. We don’t even stop when a foot of snow falls over night. We have all kinds of snow shovels and snow blowers, and we don our winter gear (very similar to the clothes our mothers stuffed us in as kids), pull on our buckled boots, and trudge out looking like Michelin Men. And we pride ourselves on our ability to build snow forts that last well into April.

I remember when I was in my late 20s and living in the small cottage my family owns right on Lake Erie. That was back when everyone had a cottage and no one had yet gone ego-maniacal, thinking bigger was better, building up and out so thoroughly and thoughtlessly that quaint homes grew into monolithic eyesores only someone with more money than brains could appreciate – or want.

Back then, in the 70s, all the cottages were single story. And because there were very few people who lived on the lake during the winter, most of the houses remained totally engulfed in snow – the only things peaking out were chimneys. When the winds would blow the snow off the lake, which they did with amazing ferocity, the drifts would be so high one could literally walk from rooftop to rooftop. And I often did. Like I said, I was in my 20s. Foolish. And a lightweight.

I was there in that cold little cottage during the blizzard of 1977 and remember listening to the weather reports all morning, warning of the impending storm. I took off for the grocery store in my little hatch-backed Mustang with the studded tires to stock up on supplies. By the time I got back from my short trip downtown, the blizzard had followed on my heels and I vividly remember pulling into the driveway, itself fastly filling with snow, and looking out my car window as the mail box, less than 15 feet away, disappeared. I had witnessed whiteouts before, but never had I seen snow fall at such an alarming rate.

I slid my way into the house, groceries in tow, and turned on the TV. Buffalo was getting pounded , the thruway had been shut down from Erie, PA to past Syracuse, NY, and people were trapped in their cars. I had made it home just in time before they closed Routes 5 and 20, the main highway from town to the Bay. Realizing the severity of the situation, I grabbed the shovel and brought it inside. I would be glad I did.

This was bloody exciting! I watched out the window as the snow continued for hours, unabated. When I finally turned on the CB radio, I heard truckers trapped on the highways. Now it was getting serious. By the end of the day, the highway patrol had rescued dozens of stranded motorists. And still the snow kept falling. By the end of the storm 9 bodies were found frozen to death, having been trapped in and suffocated as the snow engulfed their cars.

In the coming days I was glad for that shovel because I had to dig my way out of the cottage on several occasions. The CB was my one link to the outside world for many days after that. I talked to truckers, motorists, townspeople, and cops. The one neighbor down my road who lived full time with his family on the Lake was the only person making it in and out of the Bay. I think the only reason the snowplow came down our road was because he was a physician and the town needed him. He too had a CB, and we’d talk as he made his way through the weather. Even with a range of only a few miles, it was still an effective way to communicate and made everyone feel a little less isolated.

It was a thrilling and deadly storm, but New Yorkers took it in stride.

Now we have The Weather Channel, and they hype up the damnedest things. Buffalo gets 10 inches and you’d think the world was ending. Columbia, Tennessee has three flakes circling the town and the whole place comes to a screeching halt. Because they believe the hype from the weather gurus, they salt the roads before the snow comes, and when it rains instead, all the salt is washed away, leaving people spinning their wheels on black ice when the freeze finally hits.

Black ice. I’d never heard of black ice until I moved to Texas and experienced it firsthand. In New York, even after the snow plows scrape past, there’s usually a thin coat of snow on the roads and you can get a pretty good purchase and traction. In Texas, when the rain and snow does freeze, it creates the illusion of a clear road until you try and stop. Then all hell breaks loose and you can tell the Yanks from the Southerners. The Yanks are the ones not in the snow banks. It was always fun, as a Yankee turned naturalized Southerner, to marvel at the fools in Dallas who’d slap on the chains and go spinning down Central Avenue. Hey, Stupid – metal on ice – that’s how ice skating works!

For the most part, I don’t miss Western New York winters. They were fun when I was a kid but if I tried to shovel my driveway now I’d end up dead from a heart attack. I don’t like being cold for more than a few minutes at a time, and I’m not crazy about losing trees to ice storms. I hate not knowing whether the car will start, and detest getting snow in my shoes and down my pants.

What I do miss are the clear winter nights when the snow is so cold and fresh it sparkles in the moon light and squeaks under foot. I miss hearing the snow fall in the still wintry night. I miss filling my lungs with cold air and breathing out rings of frosty breath. I miss ice skating outside until my toes are numb, and the fun of flying down a hill on an aluminum saucer at breakneck speed. I miss waking to a hoar frost on the wheat fields, and the absolute silence a blanket of snow brings.

But honestly, this past snowfall here in Middle Tennessee wasn’t so bad. Aside from losing part of the fence and some pine tree boughs, it was beautiful. The dogs loved digging for voles in the ice-frozen soil and shaking off snow in the living room. I enjoyed the extra day off my wife got when the car wouldn’t budge. And when the sun finally broke through the clouds, the ice on the trees made everything magically sparkle and twinkle, creating rainbows glinting off the branches. The fields of snow, covered in a thick sheet of ice, glistened like polished glass. And it was beautiful even as it started to melt, when the wind sent icicles falling from branches to land on the glass-like snow and ring with a musical, tinkling sound.

Waiting

“Take it. No, really. You can have it. I won’t need it anymore.”

He handed me the worn leather leash I’d been admiring as we stood at the counter — me checking in, he claiming a small wooden box. I knew what it meant and I felt bad for the old man.

My new puppy squirmed in my arms. I hadn’t had time to get him a leash. I accepted it with some hesitation and clipped it to my pup’s collar. “Thanks.”

The old man smiled and petted him.

“What’s his name?”

“Reuben.”

“Well, Reuben, you’re quite a handsome fellow. And that leash will keep you safe,” he assured him.

“I got him from the shelter in town. They still have a few puppies left.”

“Thanks,” he said softly, “but I’m too old for another puppy.”

Gently holding my pup’s head in his hands, he looked at him. “Enjoy each other. Time goes by so fast.”

We shook hands. Then, clutching the box tightly, he turned and quietly walked out the door.

For the next few months, everything was a chew toy. Furniture legs were gnawed to splinters, bed posts were leveled. Electrical cords were strung overhead. Every left shoe I owned had been sampled. But Reuben never bothered the leash. And I wondered what had become of the old man.

Sometime later we were walking in town and I recognized him.

“Hi Reuben!” He reached down and petted him.

“Hey, thanks again for the leash. You sure you don’t want it back?” I asked, hoping he didn’t. “It must have sentimental value.

“Yes, it did. But it’s yours now. Yours and Reuben’s. Besides,” he said with a wink, “I have a new leash.”

He led me to his car. There, with her head thrust out the open window, was a big, gray-muzzled German Shepherd, probably about eight or nine. I immediately recognized her from the shelter. I’d been drawn to her instantly, but for some reason I’d walked out with a puppy. Now I understood why.

She was as beautiful as I remembered and she smiled as we neared the car.

He reached in and stroked her massive head. He’d gone to the shelter some weeks after he’d given us the leash. He didn’t even know why he was there — he’d already decided he was too old for another dog. After all, he had to think about what would happen to a dog should he die.

But then he saw her. Smiling like she was now.

In an instant I knew why I’d left her behind. She wasn’t waiting for me.

He caressed her velvet ears. “She’s gray in the muzzle and so am I. I figure we both have a few more good years left in us. We make a good pair.”

The bond between them was unmistakable.

We stood talking for a few more minutes and I thanked him again for the leash. He got into the car and they drove away, and Reuben and I walked on, the worn leather leash now a comfortable part of our own story.