Now and the Prequel

I'm sitting in the North Andover Starbucks parking lot. Slappy is next to me. I was fine in the house without heat, but it's a mexican dog with a thin coat, and she was starting to look dangerously cold this morning. I have a Starbucks card so I'm able to get an internet connection while sitting here, keeping the dog warm.

So I cancelled my reffing duties and drove out to Middleton. Jess is at the movies and they left the house open for me, but there is also an aggressive dog who lives there. I was almost killed by the same type of dog when I was younger, and although I've gotten over my fear of dogs, I still feel uncomfortable around them when they get aggressive. Around this dog, I actually feel sick to my stomach. So I backed out and now I'm hanging with Slappy. She looks like she has to take a shit, but I don't have a leash for her and it's too cold for her to be outside anyway.

I finished last night with a Founder's Old Curmudgeon Ale -- a piney, surprising drink. Not something I'd drink every day, but welcome last night in the weather.

And I went to bed with all three animals as well as a copy of Walter Percy's The Moviegoer, which I hardly remember reading although I do remember wondering why I haven't gotten to it sooner, since he can really write.

*

My mother called me this morning, telling me her house was at 47 degrees and that she had run out of food. I tried calling my brother for help, but his phone was shut off. I found out later that his power went out, too. He drove down to pick her up and now they're both in the w -- the only place they could find with heat. Billy called and told me about it. He told me my brother expected to stay there all day and maybe through the night if they had to.

*

I have a lot more to say, but limited battery power on the laptop. I'm going to cut and paste my entry from last night below. Along with the following longish entry, I got out another 2,000 words on the novel I'm writing. With the writing and the cooking and the animal rescue mission, it's been a productive time.

*

(Here's yesterday's entry -- I didn't have a connection so I'm posting it now).

A tree fell onto the power lines across from our house early this morning, some time before six. I was already awake and heard the crack.

I told Jess I had to get up early and make it into work for a delivery. Billy had already called and left a message on his phone, telling me that the power was out in the w, and that he needed help if I could make it early. I leave my phone in the car at night, because cellphone reception is frustratingly sporadic at the house. Plus, I like being cut off somewhat.

I tried to drive in. The tree had fallen all the way across the street, so I couldn’t go my normal route. When I called the police dispatcher and told her about the fallen tree she thanked me and was about to hang up, but then shouted just as I was about to hit the red to tell everyone to stay home.

A combination of the slightest fog on my windshield with the total power outage in town made visibility low, and once I began to find myself hoping I was on the road and not someone’s yard, I decided I would turn back.

I was tired anyone, and didn’t mind sleeping in. I kept getting calls: from my mom, from Billy, from the boss. At one point, the cats busted into the room. They’re not supposed to be on the bed, because Jess and I are both slightly allergic. They purred happily and Slappy started chasing them off. She knows they’re not supposed to be on the bed, and guards it with a little strain would-be sheep dog.

Jess decided she had to go to work, and took a long route in, being blocked off by police at various occasions. She called when she made it down.

I happily chose the route of lazy sensibility, and have used the day to make a rich chicken stock from some bones I was saving for the purpose. I’m also seasoning my skillets and making a steady supply of cowboy coffee.

Cowboy coffee is when you smash the whole beans with a hammer and boil them in water, and the result is surprisingly mild and pleasant. I didn’t want to go into the basement without lights, so I used a metal measuring cup which worked well.

I’ve also been able to take some pictures and read, making one of the few days in recent memory that has been productive on my own terms. More serene than any blueblood.

*

When I mentioned to Billy that I was still looking for work he said, “You’re going to get one of those jobs where you work eight hours. I don’t understand that. I’m a fucking blue collar. Ten hours minimum.”

“Yeah, but what if you could make more money working less hours?” I asked him.

“I just know that it won’t happen.”

*

And now I have to go outside and make sure the outside hose is disconnected. Jess and the Dufflebag will probably stay at her stepmom's. I’m going to stay here to watch the pipes and animals.

Having no power reminds me of the more pleasant aspects of living on the farm. The best moments there were generally when I was alone at the edge of the field, drinking coffee and reading a book. I suppose it returned me to a childlike sense of things I look for more easily than, say, a drug. Tricky we sometimes need difficult situations to force us into enjoying ourselves and our lives on any meaningful level. But you all knew that.

For dinner, I’m going to make a roast garlic soup from the stock. It gets dark early around here, so I’m going to have to amuse myself with whatever solace my electric lantern provides, up until the batteries die. That amounts to a book or two, and the three remaining winter lagers in the refrigerator. Plus the soup, plus the dog, and it’s a darkness to look forward to.

I’ll miss my girl. But I won’t miss the lights.

*

The roast garlic soup. I made it in the dark, so the spices burned slightly, and it came out less than perfect. Still, however, a soup that seemed to taste better by the spoonful.

I made it with the chicken stock. I set the stock out on the porch to congeal the fat, which I skimmed after driving the Dufflebag to Jess for pickup. They’re going to stay with her stepmother. Now that I’ve gotten it out of my system – the cooking, really – I wish I was there with them.

But I really needed to get it out of my system.

Alongside the soup, I drank the Dogfish Head Brewery’s Olde School ale, which proports to be a barley “wine-style” ale. I poured it in one of the pewter mugs I rescued from my mother’s house this week.

If you’ve never drank beer from a pewter mug, you are missing a great pleasure.

The roast garlic soup is poured over a piece of browned French bread. I made the mistake of using less oil than the recipe called for – stupid American – and the spices burnt. I’ll know next time. But still, my mouth is still active: all with the garlic soup. Think a French onion soup but with garlic, chilies, and romano cheese. The bread becomes soggy, except at the edges, where the browning made it crisp.

Even if the initial taste was slightly bitter, the aftertaste is one of the most well wintered tastes I know. The house, for example, is no longer cold.

The remainder of the chicken stock went back on the porch, along with the other ales I bought for the evening and beyond.

*

I’m told that the ice storm discriminated. Some parts of the state are wondering if they need an umbrella, others are thinking Mad Max. We are of the Mad Max.

A car drove repeatedly around the common, honking its horn.

I saw two near accidents as people drove through unpowered traffic lights, and this in a short drive.

My way out to meet Jess involved a long detour, past Blood Farm. I found an ATM and deposited the check I picked up yesterday. I bought the ale, the bread, and the cheese.

Right now, I’m missing Jess. I want both her, and the books, and the writing, and the animals, and all else.

Slappy is sitting on my chest, shivering. She’s cold, and wondering why.

Bubbs, the writing cat, is by my side. As the order normally goes, Big D will join us soon, climb up, and make it difficult for me to do anything but sit and provide comfort to the beasts.

*

I’m looking into my lantern. I can see a few insects inside. I’m surprised to see them there. The last time I used the lantern regularly, I was living in the trailer, on the farm, and I wonder if the bugs are preserved from that short, but transformative, time of my life. They might as well be preserved in amber from a prehistoric past.

I’m not sure if the lantern is duller than I remembered, or if the batteries need to be changed. I have a fresh batch of D’s, but I’m still hesitant to change them, not knowing how long I’ll be here, without power.

*

I’ve continued to write. And my cheeks continue to suggest roast garlic. I still feel warm.

I took a few pictures today. I’ll post them once I have internet access. They show the house, and the tree that fell across the street. It’s still out there. No one has gotten around to removing it yet. This makes me think we have time to wait.

*

I’ve cracked open the second craft ale, a Dogfish Head Brewery Midas Touch. It’s made with honey and saffron. I find the way the bottles are marketed a little annoying and overstated. This hardly matters: the beer tastes good. Although, still, no matter how good it is, it’s still hard to take when being drunk from bottles meant for children, not monks, not Sumerians. I would go so far as to say that the labeling is tasteless, but by saying that I put myself among the tasteless myself, so let’s just say I’ll focus on the taste, which I like very much, and leave the rest for the market.

*

The damn dog is sleeping under one of my writing arms. The good one, at that! Damn dog.