Friday, Feburary 28

Another perfectly good month has slipped on by.  A short one to be sure but a very, very rough one.  Sick.  Snow.  I feel ok now and the snow is something I have finally just resigned myself to, but with a forecast of another 12” this weekend I am sinking into the valley of ‘shite’ once again. 

The Gurler and I have just crossed the frozen lake.  The sun was bright but did little to warm us as we slid across the surface of the Westchester Lake in the late afternoon.  The dog didn’t like the ice much and kept veering off towards the closest shore.  I had to keep calling her back-and she came, but reluctantly.  Off on the easternmost side, just shy of the dam I stopped short.  It looked like the water was fluid at the weir and I decided not to test the strength of the ice in that area.  Good chance it was plenty thick enough to support us as the rest of the lake seemed to be frozen a good foot thick.  Instead the dog and I climbed out and up the bank to walk home via the road.  Gurler looked relieved to be off the slippery ice.  I was overheated in my long johns, vest, and heavy coat.  Dressed way too warm.  

We stopped and visited our friend Jan and her dog Christie and played for twenty minutes until both dogs were exhausted and Gurler wanted to get home to dinner.  We finished the walk stamping our feet on the porch and leaning my walking staff in the corner near the front door.  Inside the house the air was thick and steamy with the smell of homemade soup.  Elisabeth put a ladle on Gurler’s dry food and the dog jumped like a circus performer in expectation of the treat.  She gulped her meal and came over to me to get ‘burped’, tail wagging.  I swear she smiles.  Yes I do!  I thought to myself (though I believe she can read my mind) I am lucky to have you.  You make a cold day on an icy lake seem like a vacation.  Thanks, Gurler.

DVDs From the Library-The Van

In the library there is a bin full of DVDs. One may take up to five and keep them for a week. Don’t forget to return them on time or you will pay a hefty over-due penalty, or worse, they will develop a terminal mold and eat your furniture, flooring and, eventually, your brain. Join me now as I take a look at one…

I like the librarians at the local public library (The Field Library-Peekskill, NY).  Sometimes we talk about books and the weather and, well, that's pretty much it!  Fact is there is not a whole lot to talk about in Peekskill.  It's a funky little city that doesn't have too much going on and if it wasn't for the library, the coffee shop and the Social Security office I don't suppose anyone would ever need to go there.

I was reading a series of books by Roddy Doyle and the librarian mentioned another book that I might like by Mr. Doyle.  Not that I liked the other two all that much.  Both had been made into movies. "The Commitments", was a really good movie, about a Dublin soul band.  The second, "The Snapper"-about an expectant, unwed mother and her Irish family- was not much to my liking, either the book or the novel.  She put her recommendation on reserve for me.  When I went to pick it up I found instead the DVD pictured above.  What this DVD has to do with the works of Mr. Doyle is beyond me.  I checked it out anyway.  Oh well!  I got it, so I will review it.

In a sentence: an early 1970's porn film with no real good stuff (meaning sex) to speak of.  There are a few quick shots of natural bosoms (no implants at the time even in So. California!) but it has all the other fine qualities one would expect of a period correct porn piece from ca. 1977.  The hairstyles are perfect.  Forgetabout the clothes!  Short short cut-offs and tee shirts, etc.  And who doesn't love a Dodge B-100 "Tradesman" van with a waterbed, an 8track and furry stuff all over every interior surface except the roof (which is mirrored for optimal sexual enjoyment!).  The exterior paint job is bright yellow with a blazingly phallic arrow motif going on all over it.

It would be impossible to describe the plot besides to say it is boy-meets-girl, girl-hates-boy, girl-learns-to-love-boy, happily ever after.  Okay, now you know all you have to know about the movie except for some comments about the cast.  The DVD package notes that Danny Devito appears in the movie.  In fact his is the only name on the cover of the package but the truth is he plays a crappy little part of little consequence (that is, of even less consequence than all the other parts in the movie which have no consequence at all!)  I postulate that Mr. Divito was the only one on the crew who ever made another film so they used his name as a "grabber" to suck you into watching this movie.  The only thing worse than watching this movie might be paying to watch this movie.  God bless Andrew Carnegie and the free library system.

 I sadly have no more odoriferous award in my arsenal than "six smelly socks" but if I did I would gladly bestow it upon "The Van".  Instead I award "The Van"  "six smelly socks twice"!

 

Coffee

I love to make the coffee in the morning.  To do it I must be up and out of bed before Elisabeth, which is usually not possible.  She likes to get up very early and lately I have stayed in bed later and later…

Making the coffee is a religious ritual of a sort.  Its origins go back a long ways.  Its whys and wherefores are clouded in history.  I can try to give you the precise order and progression of the making of the coffee but I can not be 100% sure that I am correct in the telling, but I will try.

Only turn on the lights you need in the kitchen.  One over the sink is plenty.  If you need more than that perhaps the one over the stove. (Not for working-God no!  There is plenty of light for working with just the one over the sink or the one over the stove, but for warmth and comfort of the soul.  I need that.)  I come in sometimes and the kitchen is gray and cold even with four pots bubbling on the stove and a chicken in the oven.  Elisabeth can work in the dark and it doesn’t seem to bother her a bit. I am the one who needs light.  I turn on the strong, overheads and the kitchen brightens like a movie set and Elisabeth will look at me with a look that says “what a waste!”  When I leave she might shut them off and just turn on the one over the sink. 

Next I take out the ingredients and the coffee pot and the filter.  For the past thirty-five years we have made coffee with a glass pot and a filter and a funnel.  We have had Mr. Coffee, percolators, presses, and those new, tiny single-serve containers that make individual cups but none of the alternatives has lasted.  The funnel and filter survives (I think) because of the ritual.  Oh, the coffee is better too, but it is the ritual that has made us funnel/filter people.  

These are the essential elements of the morning making of the coffee:

The glass coffee pot and plastic filter funnel

The coffee

The spoon(s)

The glass pot filled with the correct amount of water

The stove

The coffee comes in a can.  It is already ground and is of the very fine, dark, drip variety.  We have a coffee bean grinder and it sits on the counter.  We have not used it in a while but it is left there, on the counter, to remind us that we may use it again sometime.  It is loud and disturbing and never became fully part of the ritual.  We are not purists when it comes to grinding our own beans.  Out-of-the-can and already ground is fine.  Elisabeth buys coffee like there will come a day when no more will ever be available.  When it is on sale she will come home with five or ten cans or whatever the limit is that she can buy.  We will never run out of coffee for the ritual. 

There is a specific amount of water that is put into the glass kettle and set on the back-left burner.  The gas for the back-left burner is turned on.  The knob for the front-right burner is turned to the “light” position and the stove ticks loudly and ignites the back-left burner.  After it is lit, quickly shut the front-right knob.  The igniter on the back-left burner is defective and this method allows one to light the burner without the use of matches.  There is a box of wooden kitchen matches on the top of the microwave but we never use it for the coffee ritual.

When the back-left igniter went defective I began for a short time using the front-left burner to heat the water but Elisabeth explained to me that is the wrong burner (there is a practical reason for this, but it is lost to the ages and the back-left burner is fully accepted as the correct burner now.  See note below for possible explanation.)

While the pot of water heats, take the filter and put it in the funnel.  We have used the white, bleached filters.  In a pinch, many, many years ago we even went through a phase of using folded paper towels.  The ritual now is firmly entrenched and we use brown paper, unbleached filters that come in a green and red box.  Again purchased en mass and stored in the pantry in the garage, but the ones we need each day are loose in the bottom drawer of the kitchen cabinets where the Pyrex pie pans and casserole dishes are stored.

The finished carafe, funnel and filter are placed on the front-left hand burner-burner Off!

This is the point where the ritual turns contemplative.  There is time to think.  Time when the water is not boiled yet everything is prepared.  Incorporated into the ritual at this point the seemingly unrelated ritual of emptying the dishwasher may come into play.  If there are dishes that are clean they may be put into the cabinet. Quietly!  Very Quietly! 

Remember Elisabeth is still sleeping.  Banging dishes can wake her.  Clanging silverware may wake her.  (I don’t mind putting the dishes away, but I hate putting the silverware into the silverware drawer.  It is like an early morning test that a psychologist might have devised to see if one is capable/awake sufficiently to put the forks-into the fork place and the teaspoons- into the teaspoon place…etc.  It is a maddening test).  And finally the pot on the left-rear burner begins to whistle!

I have already measured out four, fully rounded tablespoons of coffee and put it into the filter.  That means I have a dirty tablespoon but no teaspoon with which to serve the sugar.  It used to be that the coffee was just dumped into the filter straight out of the can in a healthy dollop, but that part of the ritual has developed to a carefully measured four tablespoons.  But!  Where we once used a long handled ice-tea spoon for the sugar the tablespoon (which we just used for the coffee measure) has evolved into the ice-tea spoon’s place.  I don’t know…I find that uncomforting.  One can not use a tablespoon for sugar.  It must be unhealthy.  I grapple with the complexity as I grasp the kettle with the boiling water and begin the pouring.

(Note: one possible explanation as to why the left-rear burner must be used for the kettle.  If the front burner was used one would have to reach over the flame to pour the water over into the filter cone vessel sitting on the left-rear burner.  It is a longer reach not to mention the possibility of burns as ones arm lingers above an open flame/front burner.  As I said, the actual reason for this is lost so I only conjecture here.)

The pouring of the water.  I prefer to drizzle the water in a thin stream and just soak the coffee, not pour the water in and fill the cone up to the top with boiling water.  After the coffee is soaked I drip more and more on until all the water is used.  During this process I usually put my face over the cone once or twice and breathe deeply the aroma and steam of the brewing coffee water.  I swear I get high from the smell.  I also never let Elisabeth see me doing this.  I am not sure what she would think or do if she did. 

When all the water has dripped through I put the coffee pot with the filter, funnel and all onto the left-rear burner and turn the flame down to the lowest setting.  There is sits gently warming while I get my cup and sugar (using the long handled ice tea spoon) and dollop of whole milk ready.  I put that into the microwave for forty-four seconds so the milk is hot and then (and only then!) I pour in the coffee. 

I pretty much only use one of two cups (this is not strictly part of the ritual but I thought I would mention it here in case any of you ever sleeps over and inadvertently begins to use one of these cups-Don’t!).  One is the white mug with the blue letters underlined in red that says “Dad”, and the other is the Homer Simpson cup with the portrait of Homer and the words “Atomic Dad”!  These cups are the exact right size and weight and thickness for my coffee though I try to be flexible on this.  There are other cups that are very nice and if you visit you are free to use any of them.  One is a very thick mug with the saying on it- “Coffee should be black as night, hot as hell and strong as Love!”  and I find it very attractive but it is just too heavy for my coffee.  Besides, it would be incongruous for me to drink my coffee with milk in a mug that comes right out and says coffee should be black!  Am I wrong?

Snow Blows!

The past couple of days have seen snowfall that is measured in feet not inches.  According to the TV we have had double the average snowfall for the year and the winter has a long way to go until spring.  Remembering back to a twenty inch snow fall in April several years ago, I know that the coming of spring is not necessarily the end of the snow season. 

I long ago grew tired of the TV/news fodder that snow storms bring.  The endless reports of chain-reaction auto accidents on the turnpike, people stuck in their cars for the night or the day, jack-knifed tractor trailers.  Also there are the collapsed roofs in Wal-Mart stores, apartment houses without heat due to grimy landlords and shortages of salt and pot holes on all the roads.  I am no longer comforted by the sound of the snow plow at 3:00a.m.  In fact it is downright bothersome.  The salt pollutes the streams and ponds while the plows represent my taxes squandered (on overtime, no less) clearing or tearing up (depending on ones point of view) the black top, helping to create the potholes and distributing tons of the poisonous salt as they scrape noisily through the night.  Lastly, the bright orange, salt spreading behemoths invariably plow the half-melted, heavily packed snow into the mouth of my driveway.  This icy, salty, compacted mass blocks me from either driving out or from easily clearing the driveway as the mass is plowed high and is as dense as concrete and twice as heavy.  As my neighborhood is on the ass-end of the town the plow drivers take a perverted pleasure in hiding here, on the loop of road surrounding our little lake, on gray, snowy days and nights.  I have (no exaggeration here) seen them make six or seven passes of the neighborhood with their trucks over the course of an hour.  No doubt to kill some time and have a smoke or listen to the radio while they ride in their heated cabs and collect double time.  These are the same dudes who normally hold on for dear life to the pipe grips on the rear end of the garbage truck, jumping off and on in the rain and sleet collecting the garbage, recyclables, and trash.  The heated cab is like a vacation in Florida compared to a normal day of garbage pick up.  So, on each pass of the diesel sucking, smoke belching, salt spreading monster my driveway gets more constipated and the town’s coffers become more depleted.  And winter wears on. 

As the winter grinds on the layers of snow and ice building up on the sides of the road -the virgin white tippy-top fresh stuff down to the bottommost deep gray/brown-slowly narrowing the path and making it increasingly difficult to drive or walk.  Pickup trucks with plows spread wide like the wings of steel birds add to the danger on the road.  Taking the dog for a walk becomes more of a task.  When the school bus rumbles down the slick street my dog and I look nervously at the canyon walls of ice, slush and snow rising up three or four or more feet on either side of the road and contemplate emergency escape…just in case.  Defecating becomes a canine challenge as well.  Over the course of weeks the walls lining the sides of the road are not only discolored by soot and soil but by dog urine and turds.  A flat patch of exposed dirt or leaves is like an oasis for the poor mutts who find no pleasure in squatting over a slick of ice or a steep sided pile of snow four feet high.  I normally pick up my dog’s waste when she goes on someone’s lawn or by their mailbox and deposit it in the woods or high grass to compost naturally.  But when it is cold, the wind is blowing, or it is deposited in a pile of snow and salt I just walk on by and let it dissolve.  Apparently that is the practice of all the dog walkers in this neighborhood as one may not walk fifty yards without seeing monster piles of shit on either side of the street.  I judge not lest I be judged.

What would happen, one might wonder, if the snow plows never plowed?  If the salting never began?  If the roads were left all winter to the natural covering of snow, and the natural thawing/freezing cycles of the sun and temperatures?  Would we be trapped inside our homes for the duration because our automobiles would not be able to navigate on the virgin snow, the ice or the thawing puddles?  Would we find that the compacted snow would be fine if you had a four-wheel drive or perhaps sleighs would make a comeback?  Would we pull out our trusty cross-country skis and bear-paw snow shoes and melt away the layers of lard on our arteries getting to the store, to come home tired but healthier?  I wonder. 

Wanderlust

Sitting on the sofa (where I have been spending a lot of time lately, trying to lose this aggravating cold) I thought back to my last trip down to Florida.  Strangely it occurred to me that I had driven all the way down there and back to New York by myself.  That is a long trip.  I would estimate that it must have been a total of approximately 3000 miles.  It is not strange that I did it, but rather strange that I never gave it a thought.  In fact I have done the trip many, many times.  Alone.  Just me and the radio or the tape deck and a book for the evenings in a campground or motel or a relatives couch or spare bedroom.  One of my nephews told me I was “couch surfing”.  Hit the nail on the head.  I am a couch surfer. 

While I am on the road like that I do a lot of thinking.  Long stretches of highway lend themselves to contemplation.  I think about my marriage and my family.  I think about myself.  I keep mental lists of the money I spend and the places I see along the way.  I list the things I would like to do in the future and think back on the things I have done in the past.  It is organizing.  Not productive but orderly.  I process mental snapshots of the lives of my friends and relatives as I visit.  Without fail I find myself thinking about what it would be like to live in each of the places I stop to eat or sleep.  There is almost always something attractive about each of the places but when I reach the Palisades Parkway in New York, like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, I am overwhelmed with my appreciation of “home”.  Glad to be back.  Never more to roam, until the next time. 

So, until my cold it gone.  Until the Fall when Lizzy promises we will be moving on to a new chapter in our lives.  Until the wanderlust and the road draw me out of my cocoon on the sofa in my own house.  I will try to enjoy "Home".  

Out in the flatlands of the Florida Prairee a little bit of Oz-The Heartbreak Hotel

Good Bye Pete

Sometimes I hadda work late into the a.m. baby sitting a demo or a special operation.  I usually had to run to catch the last train out of Grand Central, which was about 1:00am.  If I’d miss it I would have to spend the night on the cold stone floor of the terminal until the first train in the morning around 5:00 o’clock.  This one night I was especially tired and just set foot on the train as the doors were closing.  I found a three-seater and curled up to try to get a little bit of sleep while the local hit every stop from GCT to Beacon.  The fluorescent lights and the announcements made it nearly impossible to rest but I was so tired I fell asleep before we’d hit 125^th street. 

I was awakened by a racket coming from a group of three guys in the four-seater up by the door at the end of the car.  They were hooping and partying to beat the band.  I tried to ignore it but I just couldn’t get back to sleep so I sat up, ready to kill, and, to my surprise, I saw that it was “the band”.  There sat Pete Seeger and a couple of his buddies louder then hell and having a great ol’ time. 

You see famous people all the time in New York City.  I am not the type to go after autographs or intrude in a famous person’s personal space.  I just wanted to go back to sleep.  I laid back down to try one more time.  The party rolled on and I found sleep impossible.  I suppose that laying on the seat they might not have even known I was there-the car was almost empty and blowing off a little steam must have seemed a natural thing for Pete and his buddies probably after a show. 

Finally I stood up and pointed straight at Pete.  He saw me and looked me in the eye.  I said, “Guy works all day and can’t even catch a little nap on Metro North at 1:00am!  Shame on you Pete!”  I was half mad and half joking.  He was a perceptive man.  The car was silent.  He said, “Sorry about that!  Come on over here.”  I shimmied down the narrow aisle.  When I got there he stood up and offered me his hand.  Same for his friends.  Smiles all around.  He asked me my name then he offered me a seat.  I wished I coulda been better company and taken part in the hullabaloo but after 18 hours of work I was beat.   I declined, not wanting to crash the party. 

He reached into a bag and pulled out a book.  “I got this book,” he says, “haven’t read it yet but a fellow banjo player said it was a pretty good one.”  It was “Country-the Twisted Roots of Rock and Roll” and he opened it up to the title page and wrote, “For Randy! Pete Seeger” and drew a little picture of a banjo.  I thanked him and I went back to my seat and curled back up into a ball.  The party proceeded at a quieter level and I even got a few minutes of sleep! At Peekskill I said good by to the three of them by the door as I left. 

I still have the book.  And the memory.  And his music.  Rest in peace, Pete.

My Baby Bought Me the Good Stuff

My Baby Bought Me the Good Stuff

You went out this morning

To care for your dear ol’ Mom.

You must have made a pit stop

On your way home.

Unloading the SUV

You handed me a brown paper sack

Said “I got you a little present

If you don’t like it I can take it back”.

I been drinking such mediocre hootch

And it taste just like shit

I been craving the good stuff

And darling, this is it.

What can I bring you back

From the orient?

What can I get you from the farm?

What little favor can I do for you?

I’d give you my blood

Or my left arm!

You take me back

To a time when life was sweet

Swimming naked

In the Middle Earth pool

A time when I was happy

Being a big ol’ fool.

You’ve got no problem

With my foul mouth

You put up with my moods

And my forays to the south

You’re the real goods

You’re the sweet smell

Of dry clothes on the line

And cut grass

In the summer time.

You’re the real deal

I never bargained for.

You’re the happy ending

The big surprise.

The smile.

The fortune cookie

That comes true.

You’re the good stuff.

That’s you.

Enter The Maze of American Health Care-bring a shovel!

Health care in America is a maze of poor information and inefficiency.

AARP United Health Care- Medicare Solutions Adds to the Confusion

When you want medical help you don’t want to spend hours looking for a doctor.  If you are enrolled in a Medicare “Advantage Plan" underwritten by a major health care management corporation you might assume that a doctor is easy to find.  You just pick up the provider directory (the telephone book sized reference sent you in the mail) and call one of the physicians close to your home and make an appointment.  Even if it isn’t an emergency, no one wants to spend hours on the phone trying to locate a doctor who will see them.  I am here to say that finding a doctor in the provider network of the AARP United Health Care- Medicare Solutions Plan is a torturous process that will have you sitting on the phone, pecking away at the computer, and having painful and repetitive conversations with strangers for hours on end. 

Let me say that I do not go to doctors frequently. In my experience in the labyrinth of the American medical system I have always been lucky to have had a decent health plan attached to my employment package.   I saw the same doctors for decades.  I knew them and they knew me.  I thought Medicare would be a continuation of that sort of care.  Not so!  Medicare is a maze unto itself.  Layered upon the maze of Medicare regulations, price structures, donut holes and a thousand and one frustrating dates and deadlines is the “Advantage Plan”, a sort of Medicare privatization that is supposed to reduce costs for participants and provide good care within a network of providers.  I do not pretend to be an expert in the workings of either Medicare or the “Advantage Plan” but I relate one experience for the reader to consider.

I have a pain.  I live with it until I see it is not going away by itself.  I take out my United Health Care plastic wallet card and call the primary care physician given me by the “plan”.  When I signed up for the “plan” and saw that my own doctor was not a participant I should have known that the “plan” was not for me.  But I signed up anyway.  I assumed I could easily get used to another doctor and the plan seemed to have dozens in my area.  There was no answer at the office/doctor listed on my card so I took out the provider directory and began, what turned out to be, a two and a half hour juggernaut of phone calls and dead-ended conversations.  I found many of the listed providers put me through a vetting process, extracting mass quantities of personal and contact info only to find out afterward that they didn’t accept the UHC insurance.   After the first few calls I began each conversation telling the receptionist exactly what my insurance was so there would not be a lot of wasted time.  It did not matter.  Though I’d warned them upfront and even scheduled appointments a final reminder at the end of the process turned up that the insurance was unacceptable and my time was wasted.  Once I was sent on a “goose chase” calling the accounting department of a large doctor’s group only to find that they did not accept AARP United Health Care- Medicare Solutions Plan! 

Remember-all of these doctors are listed in the 2014 list of providers given me by the plan when I signed up!

Out of the twenty providers I called, half refused to accept the insurance at all.  Of the balance, many were not answering the phone and there was no message machine or any way to know if they were even in business.  I left messages on a half dozen machines but have received no return call in twenty-four hours.  The only place that would give me an appointment was a community clinic and the appointment was for a week in the future.  I was informed that they do accept the “benefits” but the doctor who participates in the plan only comes to the clinic for four hours, one day a week.

I was frustrated and shocked with this experience.  So I called the provider.  I spoke to a woman who gave me the phone listings a half dozen more providers in my area and I kept her waiting while I cross checked them.  Half of them I’d already called and didn’t accept the plan, and the rest of them were either too far away to be of any use to me or were in the same clinic where I’d gotten my appointment.  I asked to talk to a supervisor.

This is where I entered the “Twilight Zone”.  I told her about my experiences in the pages of the provider directory.  She apologized and, according to the supervisor, the plan had recently been “cleaning up” and they were “updating” the directory.  In fact, she said, United Health Care turned away many, many providers who wanted to participate in the plan.  Why, I asked, would you want to limit the number of providers, and if so many wanted to participate why couldn’t I find any in a metropolitan area like Westchester county, New York?  Her answer was not intelligible.  I asked her if I used the on-line directory would I find more doctors who actually accepted the plan.  She said “Yes!”

Today I went to the provider directory (PDF on-line) and it was for 2013!  Even more out of date than the 2014 directory I’d been using.  It was 2393 pages of useless information! To wit- I quote from page 3:  

This directory is current as of

September 1, 2012. Some plan providers may have been added or removed from

our network after this directory was printed. We do not guarantee that each provider is still accepting new

members.

To get the most up-to-date information about the Plan’s network providers in your area, please call the phone

number listed below or visit our website at

www.UHCRetiree.com

.

Call Customer Service toll-free at

1-800-457-8506

Now I know what it takes to be a supervisor at United Health Care-You need to know how to get people like me off the phone. 

Health care in America is a maze of poor information and inefficiency. 

Philip Glass/Metamorphosis

Philip Glass

“The Metamorphosis”

Philip Glass makes me feel like an ant.  Like a giant ant in a movie.  A movie shot in black and white and gray.  Like an ant in “The City” where every street is filled with ants and they are rushing into buildings where the entrances are barely large enough to let us in.  Where the streets are all paved with cobblestones and they are just wide enough for two ants to pass between the gray walls of the buildings-when the streets get clogged the ants climb over one another and just keep moving. 

There are ants seated on red vinyl spinning stools at Formica counter tops eating eggs and hash browns and drinking coffee from thick cups on thick saucers.  The sugar poured from fluted canisters with chrome, spin-on tops with little trap doors built in.  All the table ware is white with single green concentric stripes on the plates and on the rims of the round, bowl shaped cups.  There are tooth picks in a thimble shaped dispenser near the cash register.  Ants pick their teeth while an ant in a white paper cap shaped like a boat counts the money and drops it into the till.  All the ants pay with silver and copper and it tinkles in the change drawer.  The little ant who shuts the cash drawer touches his white paper hat as the ant full of bacon and eggs pushes open the aluminum and glass door which is slightly fogged from the steam of the cooking.  Now he is back on the cobblestone street in a river of ants again.  The sound of the tinkling cups and spoons is replaced by the sound of Philip Glass.

How to Watch TV/ In the Twenty-First Century

 How to Watch TV/ In the Twenty-First Century

So what did you think of Archie Bunker last night?  He took a swallow of water and crumbled his cone-shaped paper cup, hesitating and looking up, just before he cast it into the used, cone-shaped paper cup bin.  She gave the TV show a moment’s thought and said, I laughed so hard I thought I’d pee.  They shared their favorite lines from the night before that was when the boss came through the pantry doorway.  They both turned chuckling and walked back to their desks. 

The desks were both gray metal with rubbery tops full of pencils and files.  She had a phone on hers but he did not.  His had a bag lunch in the bottom drawer.  She went out at noon to Chock Full of Nuts.  They met at five-thirty for a drink in the bar around the corner from the Woolworth building then she took the subway to Riverdale and he drove his car.   Over the GWB to Fort Lee. 

He kissed his wife hello and, it being Thursday, commented on her hair.  He ate the meatloaf listening to WABC and looking out at the view from the eleventh floor.  She had a Swanson’s chicken pot pie and watched the New Jersey sun drop out of the sky.  At nine o’clock they both tuned-in to a re-run of the Twilight Zone.  The one where the little man in the future is left all alone with broken glasses and now he can’t read.  At the water cooler tomorrow they will dissect the show and conclude it was not quite as good as the tiny people in the tiny town or the one with the ape on the wing of the plane. 

He left his wife twenty years ago.  They just had differences they couldn’t resolve.  She never married.  Her career came first.  Now she lives in Long Island in a house on the shore and she hardly watches TV anymore.  He tells her about Netflix and his digital recorder at lunch over drinks in a midtown restaurant and she can’t help it but her mind just wanders.  She walks her dog and takes a dip in the ocean and her TV just stays on the cooking channel.  She turns it on while she eats her dinner and does the dishes and reads a fat novel. 

Entry Construction

Here I post progress pictures of the entry project just to show the work as it moved along.  It was a hard project for me.   Luckily I had some help.  Thank you Benny and thanks to Don and Barry too. 

This was the demolition.  You can see the underlying structure is gone.  I guess "pressure treated lumber" has it's life span and twenty years is it!

This is the starting course of the first (lower) rock wall.

Note the concrete used between the inner and outer stone wall to give the wall its strength.  Some of these stones weighed about 200+ pounds.  It was a challenge to get them into place. 

After the demo came the construction of the stone retaining walls.  Some help from my neighbor with a backhoe- instrumental in preparing the areas for these structural walls.   Benny and I pulled all the stone from the woods and he helped me with the wall construction as well.

Floating forms over the rockwalls.  6x6 10ga. wire and 1/2" reinforcing bars throughout.


I took a little lesson from the "stitch and glue" technique of boatbuilding to form out the curved face of the slab.  Tie-wire on 12" centers stitches the form together.  It worked well.

I formed out the 18 inch "border" concrete pour directly over the stone walls.  Steel reinforced and "keyed" into the future slab with rebar.  This actually was more labor intensive than building the rock walls.

This was the first band of concrete I poured.  I am NOT a concrete finisher so the resulting job was not as 'professional' as I would have liked.  Still, it was in character with the stone and the concept that I had in mind.

These photos show Benny mixing and placing the lower border concrete.You can see the upper landing border has already been placed and stripped.

The second (lower band) and my boy Benny was a life saver on the mixing.



Above you can see some of the bogus concrete (already hardened in the bag) that I bought.  I hauled the sixty pound bags, ten at a time in my VW.  We mixed and placed about 20+ bags for lower border pour.  I mixed about the same for the upper.  I had to do it myself as Benny wasn't available that day.  I think it took me a week to recover.

After placing the borders we filled in the slabs (top, middle and bottom landings) with 4 yards of redimix concrete off a truck. 
This photo will give you an idea about how the concrete turned out.  My skills at concrete finishing leave a bit to be desired.  I hope the overall project is pleasing. 

Carpentry With Miyer Nelson

The work on the front entry is moving slowly, but moving.  I cobbled together the two sets of stairs last week.  I reused complete the old set of steps up to the porch and reattached the accompanying old railing with minor modifications.  But the steps up to the new concrete landings needed to be done from scratch.  I tried my best to use the old lumber from the demo of the stairs and landings but I ended up cutting new stringers and mostly new treads.  Now the railings are in progress but I need to go to the lumber yard to pick up a few more 2x4s to finish.  I think I can use most of the other scrap wood to make planters and a bench.  When they, and the steps, are completed I will need to scrape off some concrete droppings and some flakey old finish before I can coat everything with sealer.  Probably the additional work of cleaning will negate the savings in lumber but there will be less trash to throw away or to pile up and let rot. 

It is important to me to work like this.  I believe it is not just in my training but my genetic make up to be frugal with material.  It is the result of both nature (the continuity of the genetic material passed down to me from my mother’s side) and nurture (my early experiences working with people who were sensitive to waste in general-and planning projects so that there would be no waste specifically). 

My earliest experiences with tools and wood and materials came at the foot of my grandfather Miyer Nelson.  He seemed like a giant to me when I was five years old but I know now that he was a slight person, probably not much taller than I am now.  He had the same hollow cheeks and bony face as I.  Mostly my memories are vague but there are a few that stand out clearly and they all have to do with tools and working.  I remember his tool box.  It was a small suitcase perhaps 18” x 10” x 10” with a thick leather handle on top of the hinged lid.  Surely the concept of purchasing a purpose-built storage container for tools never occurred to him.  The suitcase was sufficient to carry his small array of tools.  The only tool I can absolutely remember was an ancient hatchet that doubled as a hammer and had a notch in the base of the blade with which to pull nails.  The handle was wood (probably hickory darkened with age) that at its base was as thick as my wrist.  I took it out of the “tool box” and marveled at its heft.  Miyer rewarded my curiosity with a light smack on the hand as he took it away from me, admonishing me for ‘playing with the tools’ and telling me to ‘be careful unless I wanted to get hurt’.   Knowing that this tool was off limits made it very special in my eyes.  I longed to use it.  I had to use it.

Mier took me to the lumber yard.  Lindsley Lumber was the name of the place.  After stopping for a few minutes in the office he and I went out into the yard to pick out the material he needed for the repairs he was doing.  The yard seemed impossibly large and smelled of pine and oak tannin.  There were wooden barrels with rusted metal bands full of nails and screws.  There was a ‘butchers scale’ hanging from a rafter to weigh the nails.  There were units of lumber stacked to the rafters and moldings standing in bins.  I was overwhelmed.  It was a place that I wanted to explore but my grandfather held my hand tightly and pulled me along until he found the material he needed and then he cautioned me not to move while he picked through the pile for just the right boards.  When he was satisfied that he had what he needed he hoisted the boards up on his shoulder and reattached his big hand on mine and we went back to the office to pay.  When the clerk returned my grandfather’s change he included a cherry red lollypop for me. The lollypop was not on a stick.  It was on a white loop of string so that you could put your finger into the loop and suck away.  When that sweet cherry lollypop hit my tongue I knew that lumber yard was my favorite place on earth.

But to return to my training and genetic bent in construction, at home I was ready to build!  I watched, mostly, and handed Miyer the tools as he required.  He never let me actually do any of the work but I watched him carefully and this is what I noted.  He pulled old nails and made piles of them which he took great care to straighten and reuse later.  He put the extras in a coffee can and I saw where he stored them.  He reused small bits of wood and screws.  I know now that his repairs were inexpert and crude but back then they seemed epic.  When he was done for the day I put the tools into the ‘tool box’ and he put it into a closet and I saw where they were kept. 

The first time I took Miyer’s tools to use I lugged the heavy box out into the yard and I took the hatchet out.  I took a nail from his stash in the coffee can, intent on feeling what it was like to hammer a nail into a board.  I hoisted the hatchet up and, on the first swing, hit myself in the forehead with the ax side of the tool.  Bleeding I could not hide the wound and paid for my experimentation with a spanking.  Mom put a band-aid on head and Miyer applied the punishment to my ass.  But even a spanking could not stop me from stealing into the closet and taking that ‘tool box’ out again and again.  Miyer finally gave up and we shared the dull, worn out box of tools from then on.  I learned to hit the nail on the head (instead of hitting myself in the head!) and I became an expert with the hatchet.  I used it to de-husk a coconut in minutes.  I learned to pop the ‘eyes’ of the coconut with the hammer side of the hatchet and a screwdriver, and drain the sweet milk into a glass.  Then I would crack the coconut shell and use a knife to extract the ‘meat’.   I worked with Miyer whenever he had a job.  I became his helper.  I learned to straighten nails.

When we moved from my grandparent’s home into our own house I became my mother’s helper.  She did projects too.  She covered shelves with liners.  She built a triangular table and covered it in cloth.  It sat in the corner behind the curved couch in the living room.  She put peg-board up in the utility room and shelves for the laundry soap and bleach.  We branched out to do some wallpaper.  She let me help.  The same ‘tool box’ that my grandfather had used found it’s way to that house.   The contents were augmented by tools that she must have purchased-trowels and paint brushes and even some new nails and screws. 

Hal-0-ween-io!!

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Hal-0-ween-io!!

Working on the front entrance steps today.  Stopped after a couple of hours to get the porch lights working and strung around the perimeter of the deck.  Swept the driveway and erected a sign that says “Happy Halloween! Honk for Treats”.  I hung a bicycle horn from a rope just above the sign and have a rawhide work glove tacked to the sign pointing at the horn. 

That horn is a loud MotherF*#ker.  If anyone has the guts to walk up the shadowy driveway and squeeze that sucker he/she deserves a fistful of candy.  I will probably throw it down on them from the porch.  I am sure the dog will wanna be barking too.  Can’t wait. 

But, probably no kids will come up the drive to get any candy here.  This house looks too forbidding perched on the hillside, the driveway steep and up hill, and long and dark, and there are no blow-up sculptures from Party City or Walmart on the lawn to soften the blackness of the silhouettes of the bare trees or the stark pinpoints of the stars and the cycle moon.  When it gets dark in our community it is really dark.  No street lights or nearby cities to light the sky.  The glow from Peekskill two and a half miles away is orange and dim and offers no comfort to the foot traveler on our roads.  The roads are padded with deep leaves, slightly soggy from the misting rain.  The breeze is damp.  The overall effect is chilling.  I would not walk around here and knock on doors (or honk on horns) for candy on a night like this.  A scary night with a sweet tooth.  This is a good night to remember the dead too.

I lit a memorial (Yerseit) candle for Mom.  Put it on the railing so I can see it from the bay window in the living room.  Folks can see it from the driveway as they walk up too.  Probably won’t know that the candle is far spookier than the sign or the glove or the old F*#ker up on the deck throwing candy down on them.  It is a token of my love for a woman who died in a car accident over thirty years ago.  It is a token of the power of a person to make an indelible and lasting impression on another person for ever and always.  I don’t know if it is actually her Yerseit tonight, I just know that she died on Halloween.  I use the milestone of a pagan holiday to keep track of the years since she died.  I don’t think she would mind.