Chimney’s plume of steam,
Dragged south by powerful wind,
Disappears in clouds.
Red jacket, black gloves,
Brown tea, multicolored scarf.
Snowflakes dot them all.
Puddles on pathway
From last night’s rain. Between them,
Snow melts on dry slate.
This is from last year, but I couldn’t resist re-posting it. There were arrows on signs nearby — you can see one on the left, taped to a buttress — that said, “Ashes this way.” Coffee and doughnuts, too.
Bless you (and your little dog, too!)
At least three squirrels in the yard this morning, meaning I saw three simultaneously. Saw a couple singly after that; could’ve been the same, could’ve been other ones. One of the original three was Spot, useful for me he has that tail. Down at the river, lots of sun and a scent of spring in the air, though we’re supposed to get more snow tonight. The mergansers are still around. I don’t know why they’re called “red-breasted” when their breasts are among their least distinguishing features.
not my photo — photo credit tombo pixels
Also, a pair of mallards, the male with a gorgeous green head, and two pairs of gadwalls, one eating, one sleeping. Chow down, guys, get ready for another stormy night.
Squirrely his own self in the backyard right now, along with Spook. Spook seen yesterday, also, but no one else. I am not pleased to report there’s large-bird poop on the backyard fence. The local redtails must have gotten as hungry as anyone else during the storm. I went so far as to grab the binoculars and search for remains, but found none, so maybe whoever it was went to try his/her luck somewhere else. (It could also have been a particularly low-flying seagull; I’m sticking with that thought.)
Mergansers back on the river this morning, and two days ago I forgot to mention a lone loon, diving for fish right under the nose of one of the resident cormorants. Five Canada geese flying north (not yet, guys) and sparrows, titmice, robins, and cardinals all charging around the backyard. In Washington Square Park the other day I actually saw one of the aforementioned redtails sitting in a tree only eight feet off the ground and right near a park path. She’d attracted quite a crowd, including one guy who said she was this year’s chick, the offspring of Bobby and Rose who nest at NYU. She was very beautiful, and will remian so in my eyes as long as she confines herself to pigeons.
Since you’re all snowed in, or wish you were, you must be in need something to read. To aid this cause I’m making one of my Bill Smith/Lydia Chin novels free for the next five days. Free free free, so go grab yours! Which one? Please. <a href=”http://www.amazon.com/COLDER-PLACE-Smith-novels-ebook/dp/B007WNC0R4/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1360427474&sr=8-2&keywords=no+colder+place” target=”new_”>NO COLDER PLACE</a>, of course. <br> <br>
Highway deserted.
Ice-encrusted black bollards
Rise out of snow drift.
Choppy green river,
Wet brown piling tops, white snow,
Thin streak of blue sky.
Strong wind down from north
Keeps seagull stationary
Over swift water.
Which you can read many more of in 211 HAIKU.
And why not? Screws up my weekend — I was supposed to be on a panel after a screening of THE MALTESE FALCON tonight, and was going to a college hoops game tomorrow — but who asked me? We live in the northeast, it snows here. Few birds flying down by the river this morning. They can feel the pressure shift, were all hunkering down. Two exceptions: a young black-back gull and a young cormorant. Inexperienced? Hope someone clued them in. More runners than usual in bad weather, though, probably because everyone was figuring you don’t do it now, you don’t get to run until maybe Sunday. Unless, like me, you go to the gym. I went in the rain, left in the hail, did some errands, came home in the snow. Watching it pile up now in the backyard. Making stew, listening to opera, reading Pete Hamill’s FOREVER. I’m loving this book and it’s having a really interesting effect on me, one I can’t remember encountering before. It’s making me want to read all the books mentioned in it, the ones the characters are reading.
Enough of this. Tragedy tomorrow, comedy tonight! (Two points if you get the reference.) Squirrely and Squeeze have produced a fall litter, three now-adolescent ridiculous squirrels who have been sent out into the world — by which I mean, the backyard — to earn a living. Their first couple of days, last week, they timidly and tentatively followed Mom and Pop down trees and along fences, sometimes refusing to try a jump until the adult either came back a few times and showed it to them, or finally just started to leave. Then they’d leap desperately after. Now the place is theirs. Mom and Pop come out individually, but the triplets still hang together, chasing whoever has a berry or nut. Like all adolescents, they seem to find it more fun to take your brother’s stuff than to dig up — in this case literally — your own. <br> <br>What I call “the backyard” is actually five yards, a very thin one behind my apartment building and four deeper ones behind the townhouses (or, as we NYers say, brownstones, no matter what they’re made of) on the next block. Plus, for squirrel purposes, the roofs, garages, decks, backyard furniture… It’s a jungle gym out there. I live in the back (in NY, btw, this is a state of mind as much as a statement of fact: Q: “They’ve been divorced for six months! You didn’t know that?” A, said with a shrug: “I live in the back.”) and overlook all the activity. Between two of the yards there’s a fence about six inches wide, with horizontal slats on both sides. Up near the top there’s a place where the slats are missing. These young squirrels use that as their entry to the space inside the fence, and are always popping up like jack-in-the-boxes to spook their sibs coming down the big tree. Then everybody has a caucus race inside-outside-inside the fence, until someone finally jumps back onto the tree and they start the tree-spiral. <br> <br>One of the new ones has a white tip on his tail, so I’m calling him Spot. Another has a much smaller white tip. Can’t help it, I named her Spit. The other has no distinguishing features, which, when he gets as big as his mother, will be a problem. Because I soon won’t be able to pick him out, I call him Spook. Of course, their gender is pure projection on my part, what can I say? Together, these three are hilarious. (If you don’t believe me, ask Bella, who can’t take her eyes off them.) I hope they all feed their faces fully and then keep warm and dry in Squirrely’s new nest, wherever it is, until tomorrow’s storm blows over. <br>
Three days ago I wrote about the death of a very old friend. I want to thank all of you for your kind words, both the ones here and the ones sent privately. I really appreciate it, especially since this was such a complicated situation for me. Those of you who’ve been close with addicts know how complex the emotions are that are involved.
Yesterday, I learned of the death of another old friend. This is such a different thing. He and I go back 20 years, and he was in his late 80’s. He was in my writing group — he was supposed to come over here tonight for a meeting. My alcoholic friend had given up on life long before she died; this guy always had three or four projects going, friends to meet for lunch and dinner — and a new romantic crush every couple of months. He was studying screenwriting lately, had an idea for a movie he thought would be hilarious. Don’t get me wrong; this was no saint, nor an adorable old fellow. He was exasperating, a drama queen, vain and opinionated. But he LIVED, up until the moment he died.
Me, I’m a little stunned right now. At least I have adolescent squirrels in the backyard. I’ll tell you about them soon.
A good friend of mine died the other day. I’ve been working on how to write about this, which is the same as working on how to think about it, because here’s the thing: I say ‘good friend,’ but I only wish that had been still true. What I mean is ‘old friend.’ One of my oldest, going back to college. Then, and for some years after, we were very close. Post-college a few years, grad school, first jobs, a few road trips together. Eventually we both ended up in NYC, and stayed close, through my career change, the bad breakup of her first marriage. We used to have a weekly dinner date, for years. No matter what else was going on, we’d get together, talk over our lives, our friends’ lives, politics, movies, whatever needed to be talked over. She was one of the smartest people I ever knew. <br> <br>But she drank. In college, who didn’t? Most of us manage to swim in that sea; the tides don’t pull us under, and every now and then we paddle around and then climb back onto shore. Some people realize the current’s too strong for them, and with great effort they fight their way out and don’t dive back. This friend couldn’t do either. She drank, she stopped half-heartedly, she drank harder. Stopped again, went back harder again. About ten years ago we stopped meeting for coffee, only for a drink; only met for dinner at places that served liquor. I didn’t quite get it for awhile — who wants to see that? — but these last couple of years we didn’t meet regularly at all. We only saw each other if I was in her neighborhood, called — she was always available, she never went out — and went up there. And this past year, I did that infrequently, because when I did, I felt like she was talking to me and I was talking to a bottle of booze. <br> <br>So I’ve been angry for years now. Furious, helpless, watching her destroy herself, seeing her take my friend away from me, her humor and smarts away from the world. I know, from the outside, how hard it is to quit; I have friends, I have family, who’ve gotten sober. I know I can never really know what it’s like, but I know it’s possible, you’ve got to really want to, and she never really wanted to. <br> <br>My friend’s death, to me, is a cause of great sadness, but also anger and disgust. It didn’t have to be. But it was inevitable. This is why I’m having trouble knowing how to think about it. It just keeps coming to me: what a waste. What a waste. <br>
