The Perfect Song Blog

September 11, 2006

Did the usual run yesterday. Gathered up all the trash and recyclible things, loaded them into the Explorer. The dogs leaped in as soon as I opened the back door. One of the highlights of their week is riding around the area. If no one is at the transfer station I let them out. A dump is olfactory heaven for a dog. Their noses are never more than two inches of the ground as they trot around the station area basking in a million rotten smells — old cat food, rotting tomatoes, mildewed paper, rancid fruit –stuff all in the process of breaking down, making their slow transformation into cells again.

I talk to the old guy in the trailer who takes three dollars and hands me an official Chemung County garbage bag. He has a long face, like a pleasant looking horse and chews gum with an energy that tells me he’s an ex-smoker. He’s always wearing a baseball cap and smiling.

We talk about our gardens.

“I plant some beans and tomatas, you know, and maybe a squash. Not much. My wife, she used to can the tomatas for winter, you know. But she died three years ago and, you know, hell, I don’t can.” I nod. Most men don’t can. It’s a lot of work.

He adjusts his glasses and seems to be at peace with himself, though it’s pretty clear he and his wife were very close. “Naw, I just pick the beans, cook a few for myself, ‘n give the rest to the neighbors.” He smiles and shakes his head once. “You know with tomatas, I just like to go out to the garden with a shaker of salt, pick a tomata, and rub it off.” He makes a rubbing motion with both hands as if he’s wiping any dirt off. “Then I put a little salt on it and pop it in my mouth.” He shakes his head in a very satisfied way. “That’s the way I like my tomatas–right there in the garden!”

I agree there’s nothing better. “Well, you have a good weekend,” he says, and he means it. It’s refreshing to have someone wish you a nice weekend in a sincere way. It comes from being old and losing someone close. You know the next moment is not guaranteed. And you know you don’t have to wish anyone well.

The dogs are waiting in the Explorer. I go to Blockbuster and pick up the next Deadwood disc. Swing around by the mall and drop my shoes off to have new heels put on them. I’ve been dealing with the same guy for more than 20 years. “When do you want them?”

“As soon as possible.”

“An hour?”

“Perfect.”

We go home. I take the dogs to the creek where Zeus loves to have us throw stones that he can chase through the creek, romping with such energy that he turns the water brown and the splashing water cover him.

To see a ton of photos and other writings, see my Perfect Song website. Click here.