ì ‘Sugar.’ You like that, donít you?í

ìYou mean Jeff and Karen?î

ìHey, Sugar.î

ìItís a southern thing, isnít it?î

ìI guess so.î

ìWe say, ‘hon.’ Maybe they think hon is quaint.î

ìWe do say that, donít we?î

ìOften. You use it all the time.î

ìExcept when I say it, Iím thinking h-u-n.î

Dinner at the Gersthaus.
Jeff Ruthenburg photo by Brian.

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Matthew brought Sarah and we had a most unusual MFA experience. The Ralph Lauren Collection of Cars. Cars? Not art? Audio players with Ralph describing at what age he fell in love with which car? ìDad, heís a jackass.î Donít misinterpret, weíre glad we went, but Iím convinced it set the mood for Dianeís comment later as we browsed paintings by Fantin-Latour, Gainsborough,Rembrandt and Nicholas de Largillierre

ìLook at the colors, the perfect brown eyes, the reflection on his armor, the separate strands of hair.î

ìBut who would want to look so goofy , year after year, century after century.î

Afterwards, we made our usual Village Smokehouse dinner stop. Matthew and Sarahís meals were proportioned for normal humans, Diane looked down at her baby back ribs and said, ìI have a pig on my plate.î
One more from the collection.

Happy Birthday, Diane.

My last day with Teresa.

ìHow is your coffee? Warm enough?î She asked.

ìItís perfect coming from a microwave.î

ìI heated it for forty-three seconds.î

ìDid you call Walter this morning at seven?î

ìI did. But yesterday, or was it Monday…I walked the dog again and he called at 7:03 wondering if I had fallen and needed help.î

“Suppose you have fallen and thatís why you havenít called him?î

“He’d call the police if too much time went by.”

ìI couldnít help overhearing your phone conversation with John. A bleeding ulcer?î

ìJohn was one of my Larryís best friends. They did everything together. John never married, but I always invited him to be with us.î

ìEven Thanksgiving…Christmas…with your children?î

ìHe wouldnít always come. Sometimes he would say he was too busy. He is eighty now and he was admitted to the hospital for four days. When they found out he was alone they sent a social worker to his house after he was dischargedî

ìIf they decide he shouldnít live alone, where would he go?î

ìI donít know. He is so independent. But he could afford a nice place like where your mother-in-law lives. He has the money, but he wonít spend it. He is always telling me how well his stocks are doing, but he wonít pay for a house cleaner. He says they are too expensive. He is so set in his ways.”

“Makes you understand why he never got married.”

“Once, right after the war ended, and this was before I met Larry… .î

ìBefore you knew both John and Larry?í

ìYes. They were going to meet at a bar with their dates for some drinks. Larry was already there when John pulled up outside the bar with his date. John got out of the car, but the girl didn’t move. She was waiting for him to open her car door. He walked right past her and into the bar. Larry asked him where his date was and John told him she was in the car waiting for her door to be opened.î

Sunset at thirty thousand feet.

Ever been to the Detroit Airport?

Denise Dill playing at Penny Lane in Evansville, Indiana.
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Bonnie Downing, Bill Connet, Beth and Ed (aka rakkity)
Diane, Dan Downing and me.
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We leave the house in twenty minutes at 4:20 AM with one stop to pick up my brother, Brian, in Cambridge, to catch a 6:30 flight to Evansville, Indiana. I hope to update the blog from afar, but who knows.

In the meantime, here is a photo that will surely raise questions such as: why (did you take it), how( did you get permission), and what (is it about your personality that weedles itís way into those you simply build things for)? For the squeamish, these are the new knees (under the staples) of a native Michigander, and longtime golf pro at our local country club. Heís only about sixty, but heís been walking backwards down strairs for years,and it is painful to even the casual observer to watch him get up from a sitting position. But no more.

I joke about the four blog readers, but this month has shown a record number of visitors. This graph shows growth in years with the tall purple columns representing 2005. Although the stats are for mainecourse.com, it is the blog that has pushed those columns up.

Flattered by rakkity’s flower comment, I snapped another . The blue is the sky through our kitchen window.

Open Wide

At 1 p.m. a woman called the police to report a disagreement she had had in the parking lot of Roche Bros. Supermarket. The caller reported that after she accidentally hit a parked car with the door of her car, the owner of the car yelled at her and accused her of being a poor mother.

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Last fall, Ginger and I were driving back to her house in Newton, when a large hawk – pale belly with brown markings – swooped down and landed on a branch above us. We passed under him, with mouths agape. I know raptors are coming back to the cities, but this was the first time I had seen one in such a populated neighborhood although they frequently dine in my backyard.

We talked about the meaning of such events. I reminded her that Carlos Castaneda ascribed portentous future happenings to crows, and then Ginger brought up the book Animal Speak which prompted one of my short rants about how the older friends get the more they attribute natural events to the supernatural. The wind blows your back door closed and itís your great grandfather upset with your choice of toothpaste , that sort of thing.

Two days later, Diane, after her walk with Karen, stared out the back window as a hawk landed in the dead maple that borders our yard with Dolly Smithís. She was transfixed by its size and demeanor. The raptor perched for an hour in profile, staring with a lone yellow eye into Dianeís cold-Atlantic blues. By the time I arrived home, the hawk was gone from the tree but not from Dianeís mind.

She became, in a word – obsessed: hours spent on line flipping through photos of raptors, calls to her Aubudon friend Karen, frequent trips to the window to gaze into the dying tree. Days after that eye contact, we wandered off to Willow Books, and while I got lost in the latest photographic chronology of W.W.II, Diane sat cross legged on the floor, flipping through bird books.

Maybe it was Dianeís attention to the hawk that helped focus mine. I looked up from the Sunday paper and witnessed a hawk explode on a single pigeon feeding in a group of a dozen. A shotgun blast might have kicked-up more feathers. Another day, I walked outside and heard bird screams. There was a hawk, wings spread, on top of a small black bird. And, I mean a bird that was black, which happened to be a poor choice for the hawk because five crows immediately descended on him.

I left my house today after having lunch and as I approached my truck, there in my driveway, ten feet away, perched a hawk atop and pulling the innards out of, a pigeon. I froze; he froze. I looked at him;he looked at me. I thought of Diane, then I thought – camera. The hawk thought – not today – and flew off with dripping, feathery remains in his talons.

First Dream

Iím lying in a white cast iron bathtub, the kind with legs, but not claw feet, and Iím riding around Acton. Or sliding. The tub stops in front of the bank on Main St. and I peer out. I donít see anyone, but the sun is up and it feels to be about noon. What to do? I mean, I am naked. I stand up anyway and Iím relieved (somewhat) to see my jockeys lying in a heap next to the tub. They look as they do in my bathroom – long past their replace date and in a heap. I grab them and run to the side of pharmacy for shelter and pull them on. Iím very conscious that Iím still in public and that there has to be people watching. I am no longer stark naked, I donít feel all that great about walking around only in my underwear. Dream ends.

Second Dream

I enter a single story concrete building. I walk in through the front door and follow a trail of rooms. Each room I enter has its own door that closes behind me. At some point I realize I donít know where I am, I donít know where I am going, and I donít know what to do but keep walking forward.

I look down and next to me is a young blonde girl, maybe eight. There is one room left and together we peer through the door and out the plate glass window in that room to an airport-like tarmac. It resembles the tarmac in Pittsburgh where we catch our connecting flights on the way to Evansville – when weíve switched from a real jet to a mini jet tucked away in little used area of the airport. It feels ominous and I suggest we not enter the room. The girl does anyway and I lose sight of her. I look back and the room Iím in has no door handle. The door is steel and canít be opened from my side. I know the next room where the girl disappeared is the same. I can only go forward. Then the girls mother appears, frantic. I point in the direction her daughter went, and she runs after her. Dream ends.

After braving thin ice this morning to capture the nests in the Heron Rookery in Littleton, I returned home to find this email from Adam: “I forgot to mention the observation that had actually prompted me to call as I passed your house yesterday — how cool the Heron Swamp on Rt. 2 looked, all snowbound and with a heavy overlying fog in the pink/purple setting sun. ”

The interesting/disappointing thing is, from Rt. 2, with the added elevation of ten or so feet, the nests are much more impressive than when seen from ground level. I always want to stop and shoot from the side of the road, but there is barely a shoulder and I have visions of getting arrested or erased.

Because I have done this myself.

Diane hiding from the rain in Switzerland.

I had an estimate this morning and I met, in addition to the woman interested in me doing the work, Jazz.

This is the 500th entry.