Harold's Room

Well, it has been ages since I posted anything on here. Aside from life with all of its little incongruities, and the absolutely wonderful state of the world, which I should likely not get into, I’m never sure what I should say. I can tell you I dunked my ass in Loon Pit around midnight the first Saturday in July after Clark had gone home, and I decided to stay to try to entice the beavers to paddle alongside and listen to music with me. My last thought as I started back to my seat after lying on my belly over the forward thwart to turn on my headlight was, don’t tip the boat… I exited said boat under my own terms as usual. If going in is unavoidable, I’d rather dive in than fall in. I spent the next few minutes tugging my life jacket off of the back of my upside down seat and putting it on me. It was a bit askew and it took me a while. I tried to flip the boat and lift it over my head, then flip it back upright, clear of water. That is the prescribed method, but it is easier in a tandem boat with two buoyant people lifting and supporting it. I was unsuccessful. I towed it to shallow water to bail it out, and as I swam everything I had lying loose in the boat disappeared into the darkness. Did I mention I had my phone and iPod waterproof pouches open, because both had wires running out of them and were hooked up to my battery pack recharging?

Anyway, it took me at least fifteen minutes to tow the boat to a depth at which I could stand and bail, and the bailing takes a while. Even with a plastic Folger’s coffee can it takes quite a while. Once I was back in the boat, thankful that my spare paddle hadn’t abandoned ship with everything else, I spent the next couple of hours looking for my beavertail paddle, my dry bag, my speaker case, my tackle box and my 1.75 liter bottle of Jameson. Within minutes I saw something gleaming in the moonlight. It was the Jameson. Thank the lord for small favors. I needed a sip right about then, for medicinal purposes. Over the next two hours the Jameson was all that I had been able to find. I used it judiciously. I had not, of course, been able to call or text Lisa to tell her what was going on, what with my phone being somewhat waterlogged, and dead. She is accustomed to my being on the lake into the wee hours, but 3:00 AM is usually my cutoff point, so I figured I had best get my ass home to let her know I was still alive. I hauled ass to the ramp, loaded everything up and zipped home. I got there around 4:00. She was awake. I should have gone earlier. Nuff said?

I drank coffee until shortly after dawn, then filled my thermos, went back to Loon, re-launched the boat and re-commenced my search. While launching I had spotted something of a light color floating low in the water against a mass of water weed off the point near the ramp, and I headed for that. I lucked out. It was my beavertail. I switched to it and paddled about in that area for a bit, to no avail, and then I paddled over and spoke to a nice gentleman in a fishing boat working the west bank. He told me he had come down the whole length of that shore and had not seen anything floating. He assured me if he did he would give me a shout. I thanked him and headed back across the lake toward the east bank, scanning the water as I went. I spotted something glinting in the early morning sunlight in an inlet over by the entrance to the hidey hole and headed for that. It was my flybox. Two down, but the most important thing to find was my dry bag. My headlamp, my hat with the Groot pin and my fishing rod were all lost to the lake. No hope for those. My wallet, my spare keys and my pistol were in the dry bag, along with all of my emergency gear. (For some reason I had accidentally left my primary keys in my pocket, thank the lord again.) The dry bag was always the main focus.

Figuring from the location of the paddle, and then the tackle box, that everything would be somewhere along this stretch, and that those were the lightest items and would have traveled the furthest, I headed back past the entrance to the hidey hole toward the ramp along the east shore, once again scanning the water as I went. After fifty yards or so I saw an odd shape along the shoreline bobbing in the ripples. It was not the shape of a dry bag floating lengthwise in the water for which I was looking, but odd and out of place none-the-less, so I headed for that. It was the dry bag, but floating upright three quarters submerged. I had not gotten the top folded properly, and it was waterlogged. There were enough air tight containers inside to keep it afloat, but everything was immersed, and the items in zip lock bags were totally sodden. I got all of the water out of the bag and the zip locks, repacked the bag and folded it properly. While I had been working on that I had spotted something else odd along the shoreline about thirty feet ahead of me. It looked like my speaker case, and it was. I snatched it out of the water and headed for the ramp. I had found everything I believed was possible to recover. Mission accomplished, I loaded up, again, and headed for home.

Upon arrival at the house I poured another cup of coffee, then unpacked the dry bag and spread the contents of my wallet, the wallet itself, and several other sodden items on the kitchen counter to dry. I then disassembled my pistol, dried it, cleaned it, oiled it and reassembled it. It is predominantly stainless steel, so my major concern was the condition of the internal carbon steel components. Once I got that done I collapsed, slept for the next twelve hours or so, got up, drank some coffee, talked with Lisa for a while, piddled around for a while, then collapsed again and slept for another twelve hours or so. Other than Lisa and coffee I don’t remember anything about Sunday at all. It took me about three days to really get back to some semblance of normal. I must remember that you must keep your center of gravity low when you’re in the nose of a canoe, or else no matter how many times you have successfully performed the maneuver you are attempting you are going in the water. I really need to be more careful. I am getting too old for this shit.

January 31, 2019

There was a blank Word document staring me in the face this morning when I logged in. I opened it last evening, but I do not remember why. It seemed a shame to let it sit here totally bare, with naught to see but white space, so I am putting some words upon it, to decorate the place. (I could not help myself. I have been editing Lisa’s annual rhymed and metered book for Gus and Bug.) It is beginning to look a little less forlorn, and yet, in its purity, it held allure and a note of promise. I suppose it sort of relates to picking a house. You find the space, see its potential, and then you try to populate that space with items which please your eye and stimulate your mind. I am not going into a full exercise in descriptive detail here though. For that you can pull up chapter two of Harold’s Room. I got carried away. The version you see is highly edited, if you can imagine that.

I will say this; I am sitting in the space described in the subject chapter above, back right corner facing east out through the patio door into the feeding area. The monitor on the table at my right hand advises me it is currently 6.4 degrees Fahrenheit out there, where all things upon the landscape and in the woods are lightly blanketed with half an inch of sparkling snow cover. The monitor advises it is 54.5 degrees F here in Harold’s room. I have on my carpenter’s jeans and wide blue suspenders, my gray river driver’s shirt, gray socks, my Shy shredded moccasins (say that fast three times), my black wool sports car bonnet, and my red, white and black plaid insulated flannel shirt. The blue/gray Yeti coffee mug Lisa gave me is also by my right hand on the table next to my trackball. It is full of hot Gevalia Toraja. There is a 1.75 liter bottle of John Jameson on the floor against the wall, also by my right hand, in case the coffee is not sufficient to warm me. I came out here prepared.

The cats and I have been observing the denizens of the forest as they visit the various feeding stations. So far we have seen cardinals and house finches galore, dark-eyed juncos, titmice, nuthatches, robins, yellow-bellied woodpeckers, the damn-ed starlings who always appear in bad weather, and of course a few squirrels. We have not seen any blue jays, sparrows nor bluebirds yet today. I am surprised. Ah! There’s out first mourning dove. On days like this we all prefer to watch from inside, but Shy, Pretty Face, Bootsie and Tiny Terry could not bear it and have each run out there on one occasion “to get a closer look.” They all came right back in. I have not gone out there. There is enough black oil sunflower seed in the feeders for now, and my feet are already cold. Unfortunately I will need to go out there shortly, as the two squirrel feeders are approaching their critical levels, and the bird feeder levels are dropping rapidly.

My coffee cup has somehow gone empty, and I believe I need to turn on the ceiling fan to push some warm air down to floor level. I just turned on the small doorway fan betwixt and between the great room and Harold’s room. It is 72 in the main house. It’s always 72 in the main house. It’s about to go up to 74 for a short period of time. Bootsie just made her second reconnaissance run outside, so the one remaining squirrel left in a huff, chattering profanities at Bootsie as he departed. This is my opportunity to accomplish multiple tasks. I shall return!

I told you many things had happened. After fighting pneumonia off and on for most of last year  my canoeing buddy Clark’s mother passed in September. My granddaughter Alex caught pneumonia in late October which drug on. She could no longer fight it off either. Though she was only nineteen her body had degenerated as much as Katherine’s ninety-two year old body. She is now gone too. My aunt Connie passed the next day. So there you go. I didn’t feel like writing.

 On another note, I got injected with Hep B vaccine today. A precaution. I start on my eight week regimen of Hep C killer next Monday. >(Note to Baby-boomers, get tested. We are all high risk.)< No alcohol for Terry during the holidays! Oh my. I can’t take my atorvistatin while I’m on the Hep C meds either, but I’ll be damned if I won’t eat Wolf’s barbecue if Paul insists on catering.

I have mentioned in the chapters of Harold’s Room that this is just such a burden! We don’t have to screw with a turkey, prep giblets for gravy, smash taters, or eat green bean casserole and Jello molds… Barbecued ribs, pulled pork, barbecued chicken, American and German potato salad, Wolf’s barbecue baked beans, German rye bread and dill pickle spears… Did I leave anything out? Oh! PIES! They bake pies, too. If you don’t feel like that’s festive enough I can whip you up some Stove Top Stuffing if need be. When you bake it, it’s pretty darned good. I can even throw some oysters in there if you like. I have some football to watch now. It’s Thursday night: Jaguars and Titans.

It is early December as you can obviously see from the post date, but yes, this is the first time I have written anything other than Tweets, Face Book posts, and thousands of texts. Many of those I likely should have used as inspiration for Harold’s Room posts, and I often chastise myself for not having done so. A lot has gone on, which I won’t go into now, nor will I use any of it as an explanation or excuse. I did not write. Period.

The cats have been bugging me all day, but have for now all disappeared, so I am watching squirrels and listening to Golden Earring’s Greatest Hits.

Harold has been in and out of his Fortress of Solitude since Halloween. He is in at the moment. The temperature has dropped into the twenties at night since Thanksgiving, the house is very dry, and I was concerned he might be getting dehydrated. He has drinking water available, other than those occasions when the cats drink his instead of theirs, but ninety-nine percent of the time he has water. He quit eating weeks ago to prep for hibernation mode, and he has been very lethargic even when he is out of the Fortress.

He lies there in front of the Fortress door listening to music and snoozing, but the humidity wafting out of the doorway from his dampened shredded paper bedding is not sufficient to keep him moisturized, so when I feel I need to, I toss his bedding, mist it, and stick him back in there. I did that yesterday afternoon and he has chosen to stay.

I spent the last several days jabbering and posting music, clever quotes and placards on Twitter instead of adding to this. I am now listening to The Wall in its entirety for the first time in years.

One forgets how extremely thought provoking it is when the songs are presented in sequence, rather than enjoyed and analyzed as solitary gems.

I’ve been thinking about a small Twitter dialogue project. I thought I might snatch and grab my Tweets, posts, and some of my Tweeps’ responses from a short period of time; possibly one morning sequence. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. I am wishy-washy that way. I need to go put RuPaul the peacock back on top of the entertainment center and re-attach the left side of the garland. One of the cats had mishap around 1:30 AM, sending RuPaul head over heels taking half the garland with him, and jolting ma and myself out of our winter’s nap. Unfortunately for you, I shall return. The Wall should hold you while I’m gone.

(Of COURSE the pun was intended!)

Last two chapters of Harold’s Room I have “finished” going up. I call them first drafts. More like fifty-umpteenth since I constantly edit pre-existing when I add new. Enough dilly-dallying. These are going up as is. Damn the torpedoes. Further explanations in the intro to chapter thirteen.

You would think the fact that I turned sixty-seven several months ago would encourage me to write more often. As I am fond of saying, “God ain’t never promised me no tomorrow.” So why don’t I? One reason is I’m not sure what to write about. I’m not sure what would interest people other than myself. I truly need to remember two things I was told during my writing workshop days by two of my professors: “I find it is not a matter of what to write about, but a matter of what NOT to write about.” And, “All of the good stories have been told, over and over again. It is up to us, as writers, to find a fresh way to tell them.”  (Purportedly written by an ancient Egyptian writer.)

Good advice on both counts. I must endeavor to not forget those two things, and one other – Q: “What do writers do?” A: “They write.” If I am not actively writing on a regular basis, I have no basis upon which to call myself a writer. Yes, I have written, and some of what I have written is pretty good stuff I believe. Other writers told me it was good, and they were very good writers, so I should accept their judgment and forge onward, but I just can’t make myself believe that I am good enough to ever be at their level, so I don’t try. If you don’t try, you cannot achieve. If you don’t practice, you cannot improve. And if you do not hone your tools, you cannot cut to the quick.

Once upon a time, in other lives, I did write. During my “formative years” in my writing classes and workshops I wrote a lot, partly because I liked to, and partly because I had an audience of peers to critique me and tell me what they liked, and what they didn’t. I did the same for them, and it was going along famously. Then another life started. I won’t go into the details, but: no classes, no workshops, no peers, no support from my co-habitating fellow writer… No writing for twelve long years, or at least none I can remember or put my hands on. As time went by I found that particular life was “too much with me” to write. I then found I had lost the drive and the desire to write about that life, about me, about the world, about anything. There wasn’t much I cared to remember, nor upon which I cared, or now care, to expound. Then that life abruptly ended…

There was an interlude, a brief life lasting less than a year, in which I found my pen in my hand again. I became “a regular.” I would haul ass out of work at 5:00 PM sharp and head for The Jungle, to bolt through the antique, frosted glass double doors, with my “Junk Bag” and my satchel sized laptop case, my Sherlockian pipe in my mouth, past the tables and the diners, who would glance up as I went by, and the first floor bar patrons, who also glanced  into the full dining-room-length mirror behind the bar, and with nods to all customers and staff as I passed, I headed to, and down, the exquisitely ornate wrought iron staircase with brass handrails and inlaid mosaic tile treads. Down, down, down, into the darker confines of Fat Cats Cigar Bar, where the smoke curled, the music played, and the faces I had come to know well all turned to me with bright smiles. Sometimes it truly is good to be “where everybody knows your name…”

I made my way past the bar, on my left, and three of the four booths, on my right, chatting with each of my friends as I went by, maybe a dozen or so, to the secluded back corner fourth booth, deep in the shadowy bowels of the bar, from which I could see the staircase, the entire length of the room, and into the billiards lounge behind. There I sat my bag and laptop satchel on the table, turned and said to my nephew behind the bar, “The usual Gregger. What are we gonna listen to tonight?”

As he poured my double Jameson he replied with a grin, “Same as always: Whatever you want.”

“So be it!” I said, and unzipped the satchel. As I pulled out my laptop, satellite drive, power supplies and leather folio, he brought me my double whisky and a tall glass of ice water. I took a quick sip of the Jameson, rolled it over my palate, sucked it through my teeth, and let out a sigh (no chaser required for that first sip). “Are you in the mood for anything in particular?”

“Nope. Well… Yes. Something to help me hold my temper,” he said with a grin. “I’ve already had a couple of Friday night nut jobs in this evening. They must have started in around noon.”

“Well let’s just see what we have here for that,” I replied, and I started removing the twist ties from my coiled power cords. The fourth booth, my booth, mine and Joe Brown’s, was special: there was a power outlet located on the front of the bench seat that faced the room, smack in the middle by my shin. It was perfect. I plugged in and connected the laptop and satellite drive, booted up the computer, then opened my folio and started to write about the first thing that came to mind. I continued on that line for the few moments it took for the computer to load, and then I laid down my pen, accessed the satellite drive, and I started looking for songs.

Typically I had a “concept” for the discs I burned to play at the bar, sometimes based on a type of music, sometimes a theme, sometimes maybe just a color. My “Black Disc” is, I think, particularly good, as are, “Old Guitar,” and “Just More Old Guitar.” The “Red Disc” is not bad either, and I really like the “Pink Disc,” but some “explicit lyrics” made it onto that one, so I have to judge my audience carefully before putting that on. I also had discs themed on the day of the week, and some on particular artists or groups of artists.” I rolled up my sleeves,” figuratively speaking, and took another longer, deeper sip of Jameson. This one was followed by a tiny sip of ice water: a teensy, tiny sip of ice water. Then I started looking at folder names, sorted by artist… I had a pretty good idea of who Greg liked, so what had they done, and what had similar groups done, that could help him “hold his temper?” This, I had determined, would be best achieved by keeping him amused. Who do we need here, and which tracks off of what albums? I had been handed a challenge, and I intended to complete it successfully. I did. I handed him the completed disc, he inserted it, and he immediately started to smile.

I picked up my pen and started to write in my journal about whatever it was that had caught my attention that day. That’s what I did almost every night for six months. Later I would go back to read those daily entries, and frequently would find segments that lended themselves well to poems. Some were even structured enough that all it took was some editing and rephrasing. One afternoon while sitting on Sean’s couch I wrote the first drafts of five poems based on things from my journal in just under three hours. I was extremely pleased. I ended up reading all five of them at the monthly poetry readings upstairs on the second floor of The Jungle. Once again I had an audience so I got reactions. All were reasonably well accepted, as were most of the others I wrote during that six month period. Unfortunately the monthly poetry readings ended. The gentleman who had organized them for years got involved in other projects and no longer had the time to devote to the readings, so my audience feedback was no more. Since that time I have pretty much stuck to prose, and very little of that. Most of it is currently here, on Harold’s Room, though there are a few poems I started but never finished that I really should work on. As is obvious I have not gotten back into the habit of writing something daily. At least I have managed to finally get this bit of whining and crying “Poor me! Poor me!” to the point I feel it is ready to post, and hopefully I will sit my sorry butt down and write something again soon. Until then, think kind thoughts for me, send me feedback if you’ve a mind to, and adieu!

Evan got here around 10:30 last night, and we discussed some of the things he needs to know, and just generally shot the shit. As you may recall he stays up late and sleeps in a lot, at which he is extremely busy at this moment. I did have to wake him up at 7:17 this morning because he had parked on Lisa’s side of the garage last night and I needed his keys.

“What time is it?”

“7:17.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“You can go back to bed. You don’t have to stay up because I am.”

“Oh. Okay. I think I will for a while.”

“A while” would appear to be somewhere beyond 11:00, since it is almost that now. So, after taking care of the critters and doing a few chores, I sat down to write him a list of please dos, how tos, and whatevers. Maybe you will find it interesting. If not, I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t like making lists, so mine are a little different.

Hello Evan, sleepy little feller! Trying to think of things to tell you. Most important, aside from the cats, PLEASE take the trash bin and recycle bin out to the curb Wednesday evening. Recycle can is almost full. It’s hard for the trucks to pick them up on the curve, so I take them down in front of the utility boxes and set them on the grass three feet apart.

Anything in the fridge, freezer or pantry you want to tackle is yours. If it’s something you think we might want to replace write it down, but other than that, go for it. If it’s expired, throw it away. Lisa goes “YEW!” at green fuzzy stuff in the fridge and makes me take it out.

Regarding feeders, fill them whenever you get up. Put the metal pans under the front of the squirrel feeders to catch shit they knock out. Two scoops of seed in each feeder, it’s okay if it splashes out, I just toss it in there, and top off bird feeders as necessary. I only use sunflower seed. Hummingbird, nyjer and suet feeders are fine.

I soaked the bungee on top of the seed can with hot sauce and spread what was left in the bowl on top of the lid to keep the coons out. After you feed, wash your hands before you touch your eyes or stick your finger up your nose.

Turtle stuff is in the bottom drawer of fridge, if you want to mess with turtles other than Harold, half a banana, peeled, Harold only gets a 3/4″ long piece, whatever grapes are down there, four or five, and slice them in half, please, so the turtles can get a grip on them. Don’t waste them on Harold. They’ll just shrivel up in his plate.

Please cut the cantaloupe and eat what you want. Cut one section in apprx 1x1x1 chunky size pieces for Harold. He’ll only need 5 or 6 for the week. He only gets one per feeding, and he doesn’t get fed every day. Whenever he eats most of it, I put a little more stuff on there a bit later, but light. You can share with the other turtles if you like. Don’t put too much out there, 3 or 4 chunky pieces max, ’cause sometimes they come and sometimes they don’t. If you don’t like cantaloupe, give ’em more. If they don’t come the coons will eat it later.

Tomato, eat what you want, but please leave some flesh on the stem end for Harold and diagonally cut that into five or six pieces.

Chicken, only give him about a thumbnail size portion or he won’t eat anything else. Same with a pinch of wheat bread.

Cats, if the pan is empty, 2.5 cupfuls of kibble in the blue mixing bowl, one can good shit, stir until mixed. If you set it on the counter Pretty Face, Tiny Terry and Jackson will be trying to help you. I usually let each of them snatch one bite as I’m scooping the good stuff out of the can, and then I pick it up and mix thoroughly as I walk to the sunroom saying, “Stripey Cat, it’s time, come on.” Set the pan wherever you want it out where six cats can get around it.

Treats at your discretion. Very helpful for getting them somewhere you want them if you need to get them out of somewhere you don’t to close the door.
Shake the can gently and say, “Kitties! Do you want treats? Sometimes Tiny Terry and Pretty Face take a little longer to respond. They are laid back.

Please turn off the lights when you go to bed. Dipwad. You can leave the toilet seat up.

Plants should be fine. Gonna water the shit out of them today.

Two bigger, covered litter boxes will be here Monday afternoon, and a big poop sifter scoop. Metal! Tiny Terry and Pretty Face are too damned big (somebody couldn’t get his big ass all of the way in there last night and left me some Tootsie rolls on the floor and the tall end of the sifter), and Jackson is a finicky fuck and scrapes and scrapes and scrapes until he pulls it up over the edge. Pretty Face was taking a crap this morning while Jackson stood parallel with him 69 watching, and Jackson started covering it after the second turd dropped. Like I said, fininicky. Take open ones and one of new ones to garage, put other in the sunroom. We will discuss locations for garage. Will also discuss some ideas I’ve had regarding maybe symplifying maintenance of same.

Pull your car into the garage after we leave. Stays cooler, you won’t get wet if it rains, and “certain neighbors” can’t bitch, though theirs sat out for two or three days recently. Usually that’s not bad and nobody says anything, especially if you have guests. But now? Hell no. Not one more excuse to bitch.

What else. Time for a sip of coffee, which is probably cold now, and a couple off puffs of G.L. Pease Stonehenge. And music. I forget to keep my music going when I’m typing.

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL_E6ox5kt9dzlmsHHWb3h9Sj8i9B5zLYI

Ooooooo. That first song sounds as if the composer may have known someone like Betty! I did not intentionally choose this album with that particular song in mind (we’ll get to that one in a bit), but it seems fitting.

Thank you Ruby!

My latest message to the president of the HOA: