Looking Back

I'm here now, no longer there. I wonder what it is like for them now in our old house? Do they like it, still, as we did for seventeen years? Do they see things that are not right and say, "damn Charlie," and cuss? The winter's been so incredibly mild, they've hardly experienced winter like weather, yet. Can it be that this will be the winter of no snow? Who says there is no "global warming" with a straight face or grey matter behind it? Each weather system that marches through without the requisite combination of moisture and cold is an opportinity lost, and there are decidedly limited opportunities. We've had several close calls, but we've had rain in buckets instead of a blizzard, and a few doses of arctic cold, always in alternation. The way I see it, we have about seven weeks of winter left.

What else do I miss in the old place? The look of the woods in the back, the sight of snow on Sophie's playhouse and the barns. And the frequent trips to the Post Office, those random conversations there, with Charlie and Laurie and Joe, or outside, in the parking lot, every time I visited. We do not have this here. I miss skating on the lakes, especially on the black ice, long tracks cut into the surface by hour after hour of figure eights. This year, it cannot have even frozen at all. I miss Lake Oscaleta and hiking up to the "Lookout" in Mountain Lakes Camp, and my jogging routes. I miss seeing a handful of friends, my old officemates, lunches with Lou at the Blue Dolphin in Katonah or the old "Hay Day" in Ridgefield, where we would sit next to the New Yorker cartoonist Roz Chast while she drew, pretending not to know exactly who she was. I missed the annual workshop party for the first time since 1991. All in all, it is surprising how little else I am missing, after so many years in that place. It is more interesting here, where we are now, where things and people and places are mostly new and I hope this only gets better as time wears on.

Behind those Doors

I walk all over College Hill these days, past the doors of houses I once visited, past people I knew and know, but do not stop to see. I wonder, should I just knock and say hello? These people don't know I am here, they I am invisible, they have no easy way to find me, no way at all. right now, unannounced, I am invisible. When I pass them, looking in at an open window or past a drawn curtain, I hope they are not looking out and thinking, who is that man, staring in. I think I may quite probably be staring in, in a state of unawareness because I am walking the dogs, and distracted, alone with my thoughts, I exist in a world of my own. I don't think I talk aloud much, yet. I do talk to the dogs, encouraging their good behavior and discouraging the bad. All those houses. All those people to talk to, to drink a glass of wine or a beer with. Can they all be averse to spontaneity, should I knock? Would they enjoy the hello or the interuption? One of these days I am going to give it a whirl, just pound on the door and see what happens. Weird Charlie! What a surprise to see you; what are you doing in Providence, anyway? Or, "Charlie, we've been watching you for weeks, wondering if you'd ever stop and say hello." Wouldn't that be a kick in the arse? More likely, I am in the limbo of the living who have moved, somewhere, but far from anyone's daily consciousness at all.

Dog Days

Dog Days are here again, not that I mind them. Really. I had a little more than two weeks without them when I went to California over Christmas and New Year's, not to remind myself of the eight hundred dollar pick up charge at the kennel: ouch! Pooch Ouch! Two weeks without being awoken from a deep sleep by paws on the edge of the bed, the sound of toenails clacking over wood floors, the happy whapping of an excited-to-see-me tail on the wall or the comforter after they wheedled me, half asleep, into lifting them up. Two weeks without snapping on leashes, looking for plastic baggies, patting my pockets in the eternal quest for keys, cell phone, my wallet before marching out the door. The fact is, aside from the interuptions and the a.m. intrusion into my dreams, it is usually enjoyable to get outside in all sorts of weather and do a 15 to 30 minute loop around The Hill, once I am there. It is a thrice daily duty, to see that duty calls out of doors and not within.

I have to pay attention. Primarily because these dachshunds are so aggressive, I need to steer across a street or turn around, or just rein them in tight whenever I see other dogs. They just go ballistic, from excitement or fear, I'll probably never know. What I know from past mistakes is that they should never get too close. And sometimes they will lurch after garbage trucks. They think that trucks are great big dogs, or something. They go absolutely nuts over them, and it's the same for squirrels. I have to pay attention to glass on the sidewalks. It constantly amazes me about the quantity of smashed bottles we walk through. How can people do this to their own figurative, if not their literal backyard? And of course there are the dead animals my dogs will either eat or attempt to roll on, should I miss seeing them first. And their impulse to eat poop when they find it within reach, "coprophagy." Disgusting; they lick me all the time. It can be quite dangerous to be distracted or to think, at least until I have my bearings. And then there are the sudden stops, when one of them tries to wipe his halter off his head, or when he decides to defecate, almost on the fly. That's where the baggies come into play. Or if not him, then she does. Everything is times two. Three times every day.

I heard recently that twenty minutes of walking kept 40% of the seniors in a test group from getting Alzheimer's. Hey, I'm walking! I have also heard that an hour's walk is startlingly close to an hour's run in terms of calories burned, though it frankly does not make sense that this could be so. The walk also gets me out of the house, and you know the expression about kitchens and heat? A walk with the dogs can be like salvation. Either way, I am going to catch some shit, it seems pretty evident. So the party's over and dog days have returned. The mornings are not as dark early; evenings come slower and later. I am getting to know the 'hood of College Hill and pass pleasantries with neighbors I might not otherwise meet. Dog days have returned. I might as well enjoy them!

Wear & Tear

A new year, a new season, same old flatness on the earth around here. Only dullness in the sky and domestic antipathy here at home. I heard it analyzed on the radio this morning, summed up in the title of a song called "Too Much Wear and Tear." Amen to that! There is a dumpster full of accumulated wear and tear from the time for a change of the previous two years. I hope we can work it out and not be buried, thrown out in a cathartic purge. Therapy might be an option, single and couples, too. And what about a J.O.B.? That would help many things, many evils lurking without one. When there is no anger on the surface, it is always simmering beneath it, very poorly hidden, although in public, it is well disguised. At least I think it is, and that sets up an ironic dicotomy, an unfortunate phoniness, a skewed appearance and reality and a skewered truth. Is this repairable, or has there simply been too much wear and tear? Dare I hope that the year of change, the year of the house become one of harmony and stability? "Put a little love in your heart." This would be a great time and place to start!