easter sunday, april 15, 2001
For a while now I've been mizzling over the possibility of consolidating The Chickenloaf Papers and The Compost Heap into one on-line journal encompassing garden patterings, cat tales, and the usual run-ins with wildlife and lost suburbanites towing speedboats behind mole-nosed vans.
But what to call it?
Over the weekend I rumbled along country roads in my aging truck up to the family farm in northern Pennsylvania. It's blustery up there. It's so far to the north that you can toss a hay bale over into New York State. Years ago I commented to my Dad that there's always a nice breeze on the farm, even on the hottest days. "Yeah, there's a nice breeze here in the winter, too," he muttered.
The truck's all-weather treads whined along the blacktop. Ancient burnt-orange Datsun pickups and robin's-egg blue Ford F1s rattled past with lumber and fishing rods bristling out of the backs. A crow on the berm hopped sideways up to a roadkill that turned out to be the handle off a woodstove. Just below Lock Haven, flock of whitetail deer meandered down a hillside, three of them brindled like Guernseys and one of them with a snow-white rump.
I thought of Edsel back at the house, shoveling swill out of the basement with the big aluminum snow shovel.
You see, before having to leave for Easter, I made sure to flood the basement. It wasn't my fault. The frostless spigot wasn't. I turned on the garden hose, watered a few potted plants, turned off the hose but left the spigot on. Two hours later Edsel and I chatted as we walked in the front door; then our smiles froze on our faces. There was Medium Rabbit burbling for help and wading in mungy water up over his ankles.
Now it is 7 in the morning, Easter Sunday. I spent last evening with Dodge Dakota, who thinks of sleep as something she can take or leave, like a dietary fiber supplement. Dakota and I closed The Village Tavern in Wellsburg, New York at 1:30 a.m., packing up our steel shuffleboard quoits while the six ancient and toothless citizens at the bar wrapped up their rowdy, hooting game of High Low Jack. I have had exactly 3 hours' sleep. Everything seems faraway and complicated as though seeing life via a GIS tracking device.
Model-A talks at the breakfast table in a cackling tone that sets off alarms in my head she claimed she was an Episcopalian for 17 years and what was that all about and I keep seeing Medium Rabbit wading up to his knees. A lovely old R.E.M. song keeps running through my head.
And then it hits me. The title for my new on-line journal...Oh, life
is bigger,
bigger than you,
and you are not me.