The Perfect Song Blog

I had to go grocery shopping Saturday  because we scheduled Christmas shopping for Sunday, two events that have all the potential of purgatory.

In Sam’s Club I needed bird seed.  I roamed the aisles, remembering only when it was a special display in the middle of the outdoor section.  I finally broke down and asked an associate.  She thought a minute.  “It’s in the dog food aisle.”

Dog food. The bird seed’s with dog food.  I wanted to say, “Okay, I need new skivvies.  I suppose they’re in hardware?”  But I didn’t, figuring she’d scan my body and banish me to the software section.

Found the bird seed, pretty much buried between mountains of dog and cat food.

Over to Tops. I found what I needed without much incident except for the food sticker shock of $140 for a few bags of food.  Outside, an old man threw slices of bread to the seagulls who swooped and fluttered and fought for each slice, totally ungrateful to their benefactor.  I’ve seen him before and need to get some pictures.

It could make some neat shots:  A dumpy but caring little guy and a white cloud of birds snatching supplies offered for a limited time only.

Over to Dollar General, which takes me through the empty parking lot of a deserted WalMart.  The traffic on Rt. 64 which has grown from a pot-holed two-lane over the years to a  five lane, is packed with traffic which inches forward at the mechanical whim of the traffic lights.

Someone runs a stop sign.  Another is pulled over by the Sheriff.  Drivers honk angrily if someone doesn’t start up fast enough.  Why is it that the season of peace and love brings out all the angry, impatient people?

I leave dollar bills at every Salvation Army post even though I hate the idea of people standing around ringing a bell at  store entrances and exits, dinging up your guilt whether you fight it or not.  Today I had to take our plastic bags into the Tops recycling center.

The Salval point was an entire outpost with what appeared to be a large family supporting each other and making the silly small talk that groups of people do when they’re doing something new and having more fun than the situation calls for.  They mixed “excuse me’s” with “Merry Christmas” as they parted to let me through.

Coming back out I made my way through them to push a buck into the pot and they all yelled “Merry Christmas,” a phrase which has become a seasonal replacement for “Have A Nice Day.”

Back home a friend posted on his Facebook that as he paid  for some gift items at a box store, the cashier got her belly button ring caught in the cash register.

Where, I asked him, was his cell phone?  That could have been a picture worth a thousand hits.

I wear a turquoise ring on the third finger of my right hand. I’ve had it for a couple decades. I discovered it in a kiosk in our local mall.

I have long, thin fingers and most men’s rings are too large, but I tried it on and it fit as if it were made just for me.

I thought it was too expensive, though,  and put it back.
I stopped by two weeks later. The price on it had dropped 25%. I decided if it was made for me, it would wait for me.
Sure enough, in another two weeks the ring was still there with an even greater discount.
I took a calculated risk, waited until it dropped another 15%. . . and bought it.
Over the years, many people have commented on it and asked me if I bought it out west. I’m always  honest and tell them the real story, which, in a mystical way, I think is much more interesting.

This ring waited for me!

In every single case I watch their expressions of anticipation melt into disappointment. They want to hear about a New Mexico Indian reservation and how I bought it from a native American artisan in the quiet glow of the sun setting over the golden plains.

That’s the image attached to turquoise.  It’s embedded so deeply into our minds and culture that any other story is a disappointment.

I recently became a trustee at our regional public broadcasting station.  Before a meeting I was talking with another newly named board member, a man obviously very cultured and well-traveled.  Making conversation he pointed to my ring: “I see you’ve been to Santa Fe.”

I thought it over quickly.  “Yes, I have.”  It wasn’t a lie.    We began exchanging stories of our travels there, the jewelry, how Santa Fe has grown, the beauty of New Mexico.

Some brands are so strong  that the myth is reality.

And the truth is just not worth the disappointment.

Sunday Branden hauled out his box of graphic novels and proceeded to give me a quick overview and rating of each one or each series.  He brought in a second box that I didn’t even know about, reviewed and rated those.  I stood there divided: his reviews were so enticing I wanted to read all of them while the other part of me realized I’ll never live long enough to read all of them.

He had brought back CDs that he had borrowed and I told him to go up to my library and find more.  He came back a half hour later with a box full.  “I’m borrowing all your Emmylou Harris CDs if that’s okay.”  Mildly stunned, I said sure. He had about three dozen others.

“Man, you have a lot of Cds, like thousands!”  I nodded.  “You have enough to like apply for a grant for a project!”

He left around noon.  I moved into action, feeling like a student who’s put off his homework until the last day.  I repotted plants, mowed the lawn, weed whacked, cleaned out the kennel and scattered fresh straw.  I ran over to ProMart and bought siding for the shed.

Leigh and I both made supper.  Cleaned up, played with the dogs and began reading one of the graphic novels, The Preacher, and Monday Morning Mentor, an assignment for work.

So I accomplished about half of what I wanted.  It was an ambitious list so I’m fairly happy.  The one thing I didn’t mention in previous posts that I found myself, slowing down, sometimes just watching the clouds or appreciating the beauty of our wooded property with the flower and vegetable gardens, and sometimes just feeling the natural, quiet buzz of a slower pace, outside.

I took my brother Terry’s advice and had a couple night caps and sat on the deck feeling the peaceful power of the night, trying, as Blake advised, to “hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour.”

It was good.

Thursday, after breakfast, I ran over to Lowe’s again.  I should know every employee there by their first name by now.

Back at noon.  Called my mother to see if she’d be home.  She said she was busy planning a new kitchen but Anthony was there.  Anthony was a skinny little Latino kid who stayed at my parent’s home every summer as a Fresh Air kid.  He was sweet and smart and our family became as important as his broken-home inner city family.

He had already been at my mother’s three days and was getting ready to leave.  “Stay, and I’ll be there in a half hour,” I said.  I packed in a cabbage and lettuce from our garden for Mom and took off for Pine City.

Anthony, now 40, is no longer skinny.  He works out everyday and has a body tone like Rambo.  But it came after years of drinking, smoking and a long, painful divorce.  Now he’s upbeat, positive and determined to live fully.  Our conversation was brief but intense.

Mom was into picking out cabinets for her kitchen with the kitchen planner so I dropped off the produce and left, happy that my 80-year-old mom is planning a new kitchen.

Drove up to Turks produce and bought vegetables and a bale of straw for the dog kennel.

Found out Branden Wood is planning to come down from New Hampshire for the weekend and stay with us.  At first I panicked, thinking all my plans for my two final days would be altered, but the more I thought about it the more I looked forward to it.  Of all the guys in my son Nathan’s high school circle, Branden was the brightest and most offbeat.

Nathan’s circle was a pack of guys who were (and are) musicians, writers, artists, kids who reveled in the creative process and drove each other to create.  It was an intense, joyous group.

All of them today are working musicians, artists, media folks, except Branden, who became a teacher in middle school, a brilliant teacher whose teaching methods drove a left hook into the establishment  (more on him some other time).

At the same time, Branden can talk and talk, not about himself, but his profession and our shared interest in music, movies, politics and literature.  There is 30 years difference in our ages, but when we talk on these things, we’re both on the same level of enthusiasm.

Made supper of sausage (local meat from organically fed stock) onions and peppers and tossed salad.

Since the day was already shot, I loaded the dogs into the Jeep and drove to Tops to do the weekly grocery shopping.

By the time I returned, it was dark. Read, wrote and crashed.

Not sure, but I don’t think I accomplished anything on my to-do list.

Ended last night watching an American Masters documentary on Neil Young.  Never followed him that much but I admire his artistic integrity and social efforts.

Up at 9 a.m. Fixed breakfast and played with the dogs.  Because heavy thunderstorms were forecast, Leigh and I went out and measured the walk to see what more materials we needed.  I drove to Lowe’s and picked up bricks, leveling sand and a few plants for my bonsai collection.

On the way back I stopped at a local farm market and bought local corn, tomatoes and onions.  The thick-set woman behind the counter was complaining of the heat and humidity.  I did the standard “Well, it will be January before you know it.”

Usually people say, “Yeah, and we’ll be complaining about the cold.”

The woman nodded.  “I like January.  At least in winter you can put more clothes on.  In in the summer you can only take so much off.”  She pulled on her baggy dress to press her point.  What I saw in my mind was not pretty and I quickly agreed that we should leave some clothes on.

Followed signs to a local farmers market in Big Flats and bought a hot pepper bush.

Worked on the walkway thought it was 95 degrees and humid.  It was so muggy the rocks were sweating.

I took a break from the walkway and mowed the lawn with my brand new lawn mower which broke.  This is the second new mower in a month.  I’ll do a separate post because Sears is selling junk.  Kids’ toys are built better than this brand of mower.  A toothpick lasts longer than this $350 machine.

Helped Leigh on the walkway and finished it at 3:30.  Here’s a photo

Tossed a chicken I had grilled Sunday into the oven and went out and weed whacked for 45 minutes.  Came in a watched and listened to one of the loudest thunderstorms I’ve heard in years.  The dogs quietly skulked off to safe hiding spots.

Supper.  Down to local grocery to buy eggs for breakfast.

Up to studio to record three radio commercials, edit and mix them.

At the end of the day: two things on my list accomplished.

I may watch Family Guy tonight.

This is nothing new except for writing it down.  I’m on vacation this week.  So I’m going to write a list of all the things I want to accomplish.  At the end,   I’ll do a post on what I actually did do and what I did that I didn’t plan on.  Here it is:

-Seal the north deck

-Finish the walkway in the meditation garden

-dry mint, basil, peppers and catnip

-mow the lawn and weedwhack around the property (a couple acres; sometimes I feel like a groundskeeper)

-read PC World, Wired, New Yorker, one work-related book and one novel

-cook supper for us every night to give Linda a week off

-write two reports for work (not a legit vacation activity but necessary; this is America)

-Watch at least two episodes of Mad Men

-Clean my office

-haul out the chainsaw and knock down some trees in the woods

-replace some siding on the storage shed

-clean the cellar to make room for 8 tons of wood pellets

-clean the dog kennel and put in fresh straw which gives the three dogs (our boys) no end of joy

Clean and wash the Nissan and Jeep

Take Linda out to lunch or dinner

All of this is in between making breakfast, sitting on the deck and appreciating our gardens, the wonders of God and nature, playing with the dogs and making short runs to get groceries and other supplies.

Life has a wonderful and frustrating habit of getting the way of planned lists, but I’m going to see how it works out.

Finally, a weekend in which nothing expensive broke, the weather was good and life for the most part made sense.

Up at 9:30 (how did I sleep so long again?  Ah, we watched The Express until after midnight.  I loved the biopic about Ernie Davis and the brief appearance of the actor portraying Al Mallette, a colleague of mine at the Star Gazette in the 1960s who discovered Davis).

Coffee.  A Pipe.  Play with the dogs on a brisk but beautiful Sunday morning.  Breakfast, then over to Sam’s Club.  I bought six ink cartridges for Leigh’s printers, toilet paper, paper towels, two cans of Folgers, a 40-pound bag Purina dog food, and two frying chickens.

My knees felt wobbly when the register rang up $277!

What the hell are we coming to here, folks?  My cart was not quite full–eight items!– nearly 300 bucks!

Came home, made a couple concrete plaques for Leigh’s garden areas, checked my garden, my spot of peace, serenity and ongoing battles with weeds and mint.

Spent the afternoon sealing the deck while listening to various podcasts on my iPod.  Put the chicken on the spit and fired up the grill, took my shirt off and basked in the sun while sealing a hundred deck spindles.

We’re slaves to our deck, lawn, gardens, patios and house, but then, we created them.  We have a responsibility to maintain them and keep them healthy.

I hope God feels the same way about us. I’m pretty sure he does.  I hope he has a chance to relax and enjoy the beautiful days, too.

*  *  *

Over the past few months a lot of folks from Russia have subscribed to my blog.  So I send a big hello to all of you.  Thanks for your interest!

After the rush of Friday, Leigh and I planned a quiet day of getting a lot of things around the house.  Up at 9 a.m., have a coffee and pipe out on the deck.  It’s chilly, not hot like July 4 should be.

Play with the three dogs who live to chase balls as I throw them through the yard and up the driveway.

Come in, fix breakfast of bacon, eggs and juice.  I ate my eggs scrambled with hot sauce for years.  Now, I don’t know why, I fix them sunny side up lightly so the white is firm and the yolk is creamy.

Off to Lowe’s to pick up a special-order door for the storage shed, along with deck sealer and a garden hose to use as an extension to water all the perennials we planted yesterday.

I take the cover off the garden tractor to mow the lawn.  The battery’s dead.  I have a spare and put that in.  It’s also dead.

Back over to Lowe’s to buy a battery and hinges and knob for the new door.  Two trips totaling nearly $200.

On the way back home on County Rt. 64 I see a llama taking a dump.  This is not something you normally see in upper New York State.  The timing has to be just right.

Leigh is working in the garden so I work on the shed door to see what all I’ll need to do to make it fit.  I measure and drill holes and screw the hinges in the door, then begin the laborious process of putting it into the doorway and shoving it around to see what kind of shims it will need.

I take a break, put the battery in the tractor and fire it up.  I make three passes around the lawn when I hear a metallic snap and the tractor stops moving forward.  The clutch is broken.  I’m dead in my tracks.  I have no other mower so I hang up that project.

I pull out my battery powered circular saw to work on the door again.  The saw is dead.  I plug in the charger.  It, too, is dead.

I’m beginning to feel jinxed.

Independence Day is crumbling to a dependence on tools that are breaking all around me.

I’m beginning to have a new respect for founding father Ben Franklin.  If something didn’t work for him, he modified it.  If he needed something that didn’t exist, he invented it.

And when tyranny didn’t work, he and his buddies wrote a document to create democracy.

Armed with the wider perspective,  I had a drink and went to bed.

Note:  This is part one of a two-part post.

Friday, July 3.

Up at 8 a.m. after about three hours sleep.  Zeus, the shepherd began howling with a fire siren at midnight.

Ran to Arnot Ogden Hospital in Elmira 20 minutes south for blood work.

I drive around Elmira until I find a Wilson Farms store and get a coffee. Have had nothing but water since last night.  The coffee is strong enough to turn my toenails purple.

At home Leigh fixes me an English muffin.  I eat that on the way to Simmons Rockwell in Big Flats to drop the car off and have the brake master cylinder replaced.  Leigh picks me up.  I take the Jeep and dogs to Horseheads to pick up her vacuum cleaner from the repair shop then across the street to fill my propane tank.

Rush back home.  Put dogs in kennel and rush to Corning to listen to Nathan and his friend Mel do a one hour outdoor concert which was easy-paced, entertaining and enough to make parents very proud.  Talked to folks afterward, then return home to find message that the car was done.

We drove back to Simmons Rockwell, pick up the car.  I take the two cattle dogs with me.  Leigh takes Zeus to the veterinarian in Corning.  Home.  Play with the dogs.

Make supper of leftover Chinese.  Toss a couple aspirin to douse a headache, sleep for half hour, go outside and dig 16 x 16 in holes in the clay and rock bank so Leigh can plant perennials.  We work till dark.

Go up to my office to check Facebook, emails, Twitter while listening to No Agenda podcast.  Love those guys.

Take a shower, fix a drink and discover at 10 p.m. that the refrigerator is broken.  Everything in the freezer is thawing.  Run down cellar and empty our big freezer.  Leigh separates old frozen food from really old frozen food.

Nathan and Danielle come home and drive to Tops for ice.  We throw ice and food into ice chests, and put the rest in the cellar freezer.  The floor is a little lake with thawing ice from the freezer.  Leigh puts down towels.

We throw in the towel and go to bed.

It all happened gradually and with enough subtlety that I didn’t really notice it.

What did happen was that I suddenly one night realized that it was 9:30 and I again hadn’t written a new blog.  I checked my last post.  It was more than a month old.

I started doing some checking into my habits.  I used to come upstairs to my office, check a couple bloggers I like, then begin writing.

Then I added a couple news sites to my nightly checklist, along with my emails.  Then Facebook came along.  Enough was enough, I thought.

But of course it wasn’t enough.  I joined Twitter.

I added the Huffington Post to my news feeds.  That was the killer.  Tonight was an excellent example.  I checked out the Bernie Madoff sentecing, then went to a link that contained a slide show of what 150 years means (and I really, honestly don’t care what 150 years means since only turtles live that long and they don’t care what 150 years means).

Onto another article asking if the media honeymoon is over for Obama, and then to a link to a mashup of a supposedly contentious Obama news conference.  (The conference confirmed my feeling that no reporter will ever trip up Obama who mashes up his own combination of a degree in law, pretty fair mastery of the language and excellent delivery.)

I succumbed for maybe the third time in three days to the Michael Jackson death circus, reading a reporter’s accounting of Michael Jackson’s bad health and how he’d predicted half a year ago that MJ would be dead in six months.  Everyone’s cashing in on Michael in a frenzy of real and fake emotion.

I can’t help myself, I go to a story on Steve Jobs’ liver transplant but force myself to ignore more links on Jobs and what he means to Apple and shareholders.

I do give in to a story on how Facebook is incorporating Twitter features.   It never ends. . . .

Am I a better person for all of this?  I have no idea.  I do know it used to be so simple to have one newspaper and a couple magazines and read them, maybe taking a nap in the middle of a story.

Now I look at the time on the lower right of my laptop screen.  It’s 9:19.

Well, at least I wrote a post.