Look at That!; or Would You Believe Me if I Said I Had Some Infrared Footage of a Mermaid? How About a Coupla Big Foots?

There are shows on cable, shows poorly shot, shows with dramatic pauses and whispered hisses of “Did you see that?!” and “Shhhh!  I think I just heard something!”, shows where one “goes green” for night vision and androgynously unwrinkled people just this side of fetus-dom  -- and all, mysteriously, named “Devon” -- stare wide-eyed into the camera while whispering “Oh Em Gee, you guys, this is amazing!”

These shows are about “phenomenon”.

The first thing to know is that nothing that they “discover” rightfully evokes wide-eyed gazes.

None of it is amazing.

“No!  No no no no.  It’ll be fun.”  Kurt grabs a legal pad from the Administrative Alcove.  He is a planner by profession, and there, in reaching distance – near the Spice Alcove but not as far as the Emergency Candle Alcove – are the legal pads, pens, scissors, and binder clips necessary for everyday administration.

He writes furiously, slides the pad to me. “Every time someone says these things, you drink.”

Go Green/Went Green

Side by Side Comparison

Shh!

Look at that!

Nighttime Investigation

I narrow my eyes. “Whattaya, trying to kill me?”

This is a half-hour show with two “investigations”.  In the first one – a 15-minute segment dedicated to footage of a mist rising out of a swamp – there are six repetitions of “Look at that!” and four of “nighttime investigation”.

I was sipping water after the first four.  “Seriously, Kurt, let’s just walk out of the kitchen and into the night.  First one to lose a finger to frostbite wins.”

Kurt chooses to misunderstand.  “That’s my girl!”

The TV glows, and one of the Devons is almost dangerously excited.  “OMG!  OMG!  You guys ARE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THIS!  You gotta see this!  It’s just a common trick of the light!  See?  OMG you guys, it all lines up: the tree, the phone line, the weight of an unladen swallow – see? In a side by side comparison – after we went green? During the nighttime investigation? – it’s identical to the original footage!  You guys!  This is fantastic!”

The other three hosts bounce up and down in excitement, high-five each other in delight.

Kurt shakes his head, bemusedly.  “Right, Pearl?”  He grins at me.  “Look at that.”

Mid-Winter Reflection; or Is that Brownie Batter on your Lips?

It bores even me to say it, but dang.

It’s cold.

It’s always been cold. 

As is common for my people at this time of year, I’ve clean forgotten the sodden heat of a Minneapolis summer; the brisk, clear skies of fall; the loamy, promising fragrance of a spring day. 

All that is, and ever was, is the possibility of an icy death.

It was eight below zero at the bus stop this morning.  I mention this not by way of bragging or inspiring your pity but simply so that I can then say this:  It’s going to warm up over 40 degrees by Saturday, all the way to freezing.

And don’t think that we don’t get a perverse pleasure out of saying things like that, out of pointing out to lesser, softer beings, that we regularly experience 100-degree swings in and out of our comfort zones.

Because we do get a perverse pleasure out of saying things like that.  This is what keeps us warm:  the knowledge that we are special, if not in our ability to “keep on keeping on” then in our ability to meet the bright, hectic look in our fellow Minnesotans’ eyes as we clap each other on the back whilst declaring “Ha!  Only nine more Mondays until spring!”

It is here where we shut our eyes, ever so briefly, and envision going home, whipping up a batch of brownie batter, and giving up, just laying in the tub hoping our absence at work goes unnoticed until the thaw.

It’s warming up 40 degrees this weekend.   

Only nine more Mondays until spring.

Just Do What The Hand Tells You to Do

Because I spent yesterday with plumbing issues (the house's, not my own) and didn't save time for writing.  And because it was seven below zero Fahrenheit this morning at the bus stop.  

From November of 2014.  Enjoy!

My father drove the 600 mile round-trip every weekend.

“It was 1960,” he says, fiddling with the woodstove.  “Mumma and I had been married a couple of months, and 600 miles a weekend is small potatoes when you’re 21 and in love.”

He pokes at an unruly log, steps back to consider the flames.  The darkness presses against the windows of their garage/extended living room, a clean, comfy space with carpet-remnant flooring and hand-made, wood-scrap cabinets.  I pull the crocheted afghan closer.

“Chandler, Minnesota, was down in the southwestern corner of the state – over by Pipestone? – an area far too far from my bride, but what could I do?  Uncle Sam needed me.”

He sighs.  “Highway 23.  Every weekend, Highway 23.”

He chuckles.  “Of course, I had to be careful.  We’d go out on the weekends, sometimes I’d even play in that little three-piece I was a part of in them days.  I’d be lucky to get more than five, six hours of sleep the whole weekend.”

“Paul!” my mother shouts from inside the house.  “Are you telling stories again?”

He winks at me.  “No, mumma,” he calls.

My father wanders over to the fridge.  “So anyway,” he says, “come January, I think it was, I get caught in a blizzard.”  He looks over at me, visibly calculating my age.  “You want one?”

I nod, and he grabs two beers.

“This was a real blizzard,” he says, popping the can open and handing me one, “back when snow was snow and the roads weren’t always plowed.”  He takes a deep pull from the can and frowns.  “My 300 miles back to the Air Force base – a trip that should’ve taken maybe four hours in that Rambler I had – was pushing on to seven.”

He takes another drink from his beer.  “Eventually,” he says, “I was forced to stick my head out the window, just to keep myself awake.  Of course, then I was pulling icicles from my eye lashes, but it beat the alternative, if you know what I mean.”

I do know what he means.  I nod and take a drink. 

“Of course, you can only stick your head out the window so many times before even that doesn't do the trick; and I’m realizing that I haven’t seen another car in almost six hours when up ahead of me, way off on the horizon, I see a shape.”

He wanders over to the woodstove, opens its door.  "I see a shape," he says again.  A roaring fire lights the bottom part of the room.  A cat wanders in and flops on to its side, yawns lazily.

He pokes the fire, throws another piece of scrap wood in.

“This shape,” he says, shutting the door, “is getting larger, and I’m thinking ‘what is this’?  I mean, it doesn’t seem like a car or a truck to me.”

He sits down in his chair, a recliner, puts his feet up, retrieves the beer can he left sitting on the end table. 

“And it gets larger and larger, until suddenly I see what it is.”

There is silence.  The fire in the woodstove crackles energetically. 

“Well?”  I say.  “What was it?”

“It was a hand,” he says.  He looks at me, eyes narrowed, nodding.  “A hand.  A hand shot down the center of the road, palm out, and commanded that I stop.”

The cat leaps into my lap.  “A hand,” I say.

He nods.  “A hand.”

I smile.  “So what did you do?”

He slaps his thigh.  “What did I do?!  Well, I did what you do when a hand flies down the center of the road at your car and demands that you stop!  I stopped!”

It is silent again.

“I pulled over,” he says quietly.  “Turned the car off, pulled a blanket over me and slept.”

He takes a pull from his beer. 

“Slept almost an hour,” he says.  “Too cold, of course, with the car off, but you can’t sleep in a driving snow with your car running, it’ll kill you.”  He stops.  “You know that, right?  That you can’t sleep in a car while it’s snowing with the car running?”

I smile.  “Yes, Dad,” I say.

He nods.  It is his duty to remind his middle-aged daughter of the dangers of covered tailpipes, of un-refrigerated potato salad and of playing with matches. 

He stares toward the wood stove.  “That hand saved my life.”

I smile toward the wood stove.  “It wasn’t an actual hand, though, surely,” I say.

He turns and smiles at me, taps the side of his nose in acknowledgement of the softball I’d just tossed him.  “It was an actual hand,” he says.  “And don’t call me Shirley.”

Seasonal Amnesia

You’re gonna wanna hold on to your hats – and any other bits of clothing that tend to fly off when you’re excited – but I have something new to report.

Also – are you seated?

Because there are birds.

In the trees.

I know! It had me blinking, I can tell you that much, but there – up there – in the trees, are birds.

Singing, chirping, non-Crow birds.

Surely barefootedness is just around the corner?

It’s been a long season.

Oh, come on, Pearl! You live in Minnesota! It’s not like you didn’t see the winter coming.I hear you. I acknowledge your line of thinking.

But you are wrong. I didn’t see winter coming, not for what it really is, just like I don’t really see summer coming. You must know by now that the only way one can live in a part of the world like Minnesota is to develop seasonal amnesia.

Winter? Said during the heavy-wet-wool-blanket of heat known as August, the word has no power at all. Winter is but a brisk breeze, longed-for, recalled fondly as an excuse to wear adorably fuzzy sweaters and drink ourselves silly during toasty parties with others of our kind.

Summer? Summer, recalled during the I-think-my-eyeballs-are-frozen depths of blue-aired winter, is a skin-kissed dream of dappled sunlight and freshly mown lawns and not the stay-on-your-side-of-the-bed-there’s-not-enough-talcum-powder-in-the-world experience sure to come…

We forget the seasons, each and every time.

And are therefore continually surprised.

By birds. In trees.

The birds have returned. The last of the snow is gone. Not far behind that will be the buds on the trees and crocuses pushing up through the grateful earth.

We are eager. We are giddy. And we are ready to expose our limbs to the public.

I mean it, guys. I’m going to take off my coat eventually.

Wherein My Father Relates the Tale of the Hand

Because it is snowing (11 inches expected), and because I drove to Lutsen and back (500 miles) this weekend. 

Enjoy!

My father drove the 600 mile round-trip every weekend.

“It was 1960,” he says, fiddling with the woodstove.  “Mumma and I had been married a couple of months, and 600 miles a weekend is small potatoes when you’re 21 and in love.”

He pokes at an unruly log, steps back to consider the flames.  The darkness presses against the windows of their garage/extended living room, a clean, comfy space with carpet-remnant flooring and hand-made, wood-scrap cabinets.  I pull the crocheted afghan closer.

“Chandler, Minnesota, was down in the southwestern corner of the state – over by Pipestone? – an area far too far from my bride, but what could I do?  Uncle Sam needed me.”

He sighs.  “Highway 23.  Every weekend, Highway 23.”

He chuckles.  “Of course, I had to be careful.  We’d go out on the weekends, sometimes I’d even play in that little three-piece I was a part of in them days.  I’d be lucky to get more than five, six hours of sleep the whole weekend.”

“Paul!” my mother shouts from inside the house.  “Are you telling stories again?”

He winks at me.  “No, mumma,” he calls.

My father wanders over to the fridge.  “So anyway,” he says, “come January, I think it was, I get caught in a blizzard.”  He looks over at me, visibly calculating my age.  “You want one?”

I nod, and he grabs two beers.

“This was a real blizzard,” he says, popping the can open and handing me one, “back when snow was snow and the roads weren’t always plowed.”  He takes a deep pull from the can and frowns.  “My 300 miles back to the Air Force base – a trip that should’ve taken maybe four hours in that Rambler I had – was pushing on to seven.”

He takes another drink from his beer.  “Eventually,” he says, “I was forced to stick my head out the window, just to keep myself awake.  Of course, then I was pulling icicles from my eye lashes, but it beat the alternative, if you know what I mean.”

I do know what he means.  I nod and take a drink. 

“Of course, you can only stick your head out the window so many times before even that doesn't do the trick; and I’m realizing that I haven’t seen another car in almost six hours when up ahead of me, way off on the horizon, I see a shape.”

He wanders over to the woodstove, opens its door.  A roaring fire lights the bottom part of the room.  A cat wanders in and flops on to its side, yawns lazily.

He pokes the fire, throws another piece of scrap wood in.

“This shape,” he says, shutting the door, “is getting larger, and I’m thinking ‘what is this’?  I mean, it doesn’t seem like a car or a truck to me.”

He sits down in his chair, a recliner, puts his feet up, retrieves the beer can he left sitting on the end table. 

“And it gets larger and larger, until suddenly I see what it is.”

There is silence.  The fire in the woodstove crackles energetically. 

“Well?”  I say.  “What was it?”

“It was a hand,” he says.  He looks at me, eyes narrowed, nodding.  “A hand.  A hand shot down the center of the road, palm out, and commanded that I stop.”

The cat leaps into my lap.  “A hand,” I say.

He nods.  “A hand.”

I smile.  “So what did you do?”

He slaps his thigh.  “What did I do?!  Well, I did what you do when a hand flies down the center of the road at your car and demands that you stop!  I stopped!”

It is silent again.

“I pulled over,” he says quietly.  “Turned the car off, pulled a blanket over me and slept.”

He takes a pull from his beer. 

“Slept almost an hour,” he says.  “Too cold, of course, with the car off, but you can’t sleep in a driving snow with your car running, it’ll kill you.”  He stops.  “You know that, right?  That you can’t sleep in a car while it’s snowing with the car running?”

I smile.  “Yes, Dad,” I say.

He nods.  It is his duty to remind his middle-aged daughter of the dangers of covered tailpipes, of unrefrigerated potato salad and playing with matches. 

He stares toward the wood stove.  “That hand saved my life.”

I smile toward the wood stove.  “It wasn’t an actual hand, though, surely,” I say.

He turns and smiles at me, taps the side of his nose in acknowledgement of the softball I’d just tossed him.  “It was an actual hand,” he says.  “And don’t call me Shirley.”

Every Season is Special; or, I’m – Sob! – Cold!

I stood at the bus stop this morning, a chill in the air and a suspiciously autumnal look to the sky and thought to myself, ‘Now where’s my mittens?’

Wait.   Mittens?

It’s a full 30 degrees colder this morning than it was just two weeks ago.

Oh, September, you sly little thing you.

Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I stand before you, a woman covered fore to aft in layers upon layers of thick, weather-defiant clothing. 

In September.

The Farmer’s Almanac, always disturbingly accurate, predicts another dreadful winter, much like last year’s dreadful winter, only with more snow.

I have cousins online comparing SAD light boxes. 

“This is the first year,” my son says, “that I’m not looking forward to winter.”

“Me, too,” I say.

“There just wasn’t enough summer,” he says.  “I’m not sick of it yet.”

And ain’t that the truth.

Of course, it goes against the code, living in Minnesota, to face an upcoming season in this manner.  We’re a hardy people, dammit, and buck up, won’t you?  Why, our great-grandmothers hung wash that froze on the line!  They subsisted on animals they butchered themselves and root vegetables they kept in a root cellar!

They wrested a living out of the land – frozen and unfrozen – with nothing but steely determination; large, well-muscled sons; and the knowledge that there was nothing they could do about it!

It was 42 degrees at the bus stop this morning. 

If you need me, I shall be in a hot bath until spring. 

Inside My Head, It’s Warm and Dry

Having been forecast to begin raining at 5:00, the clouds oblige; and at 5:04, it comes down, raindrops the size of dinner plates.

The general downtown population responds as if martial law has been declared; and a couple in a vehicle the size of a team of Clydesdales, lured by the seduction of a yellow light, has wandered into a ped-xing zone, where they find themselves engulfed in pedestrians, all of whom are thinking of hitting their hood with an umbrella but don’t. 

We board our buses, slightly moistened.  The man who sits down next to me, a perpetually unsmiling, grizzled sort I’ve seen every work day for at least five years, promptly closes his eyes. 

It’s been raining for days.  The sky hangs low and heavy; and the Mississippi River rushes to meet it, throwing itself over the falls near the bridge and up into the air in a mist that mingles with the clouds.

On both sides of the bus, we turn to watch.  One day frozen over, one day free of ice, time is marked by the river. 

The river is wide, I think. 

Pleased with this thought, I turn to my seatmate, then quickly turn away.  He is sleeping, and I am struck by this intimacy.

I steal another look.  Eyes closed, face slack, he is vulnerable and touchingly human.    It’s just me and this guy on the bus, I think.  We’re going to make it work, whatever it takes.

I look back out the window.

It’s been raining for days. 

Mary’s Making Plans for the Weekend

Ring-ring.  Ring-ring.

“Good mor – good afternoon, Acme Grommets and Gravel, Pearl speaking.”

“Yes, I would like to order several grommets; and I’m wondering if I could get those without holes?”

Mary.

“Who gave you this number?”

She laughs.  “You keep changing it, but as I told you back in the 80s, I got yer number, Pearlie.”

We laugh.  She never said that, but it’s true.

Mary’s got my number.

“So what up, Big M?”

Mary chuckles preemptively.  “I got a story for you.”

I smile, set down my Fresca, open up Word and place both hands on the keyboard.  “Tell me something good.”

Miss Mary is the reason I have a headset at work.

“Remember that big storm we had the other night?”

I give her the ol’ pshaw.  “Girl, you’re talking to someone who takes a prescription sleep aid.  I hear nothing.”

“Good to know,” she says.  “So you’ll believe me when I tell you that there was a pretty good storm the other night, complete with thunder, lightning, and hail.”

“Hail,” I say.

“Yepper,” she says.

There is a moment’s silence as Mary sips a beverage of some kind.   “So you know how Jon sleeps, right?”

“Somewhere on the rock spectrum?”

                                                                                  

She laughs, and I know she is nodding.  We are, after all, professionals.

“Well it’s gotten even more ridiculous since he got the new job.  An hour’s drive there, nine-hour days, an hour home.  You know what it’s like when you have a new job.”

I do, indeed.

“He’s been going to bed at, like, 7:00. He wakes only for cigarettes.”

“I thought he quit.”

“I quit,” she says.

“Mmm.”

“So the other night, he’s been in bed for, seriously, five hours, when, right around midnight, the storm that had been until then just a pretty good storm turned into a truly excellent storm.  The hail starts up, and suddenly there’s Jon.  He bolts upright, leaps from the bed, snatches the comforter off it, and runs, naked into the backyard.”

I choke.  “What?”

“The Harley,” she says.  “He runs naked into the backyard with my good comforter to throw it over the bike!  Here’s a guy who wouldn’t notice me choking on a porkchop, but he hears hail start up and he’s throwing the winter bedspread over the bike!”

“Your good bedspread!”

“The good bedspread!”

I laugh.  “Maybe if you could arrange to choke on that porkchop while astride the bike –“

“—he’d push me off it to keep it from having to wash it later.”

We laugh.  “I’ll choke on a porkchop and have it come dislodged when I hit the ground.”

We laugh again.  Mary’s voice takes on a contemplative tone.  “I wonder if he’d run naked into the backyard to throw a blanket over me so I didn’t get hail damage.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” I say.

“And just like that,” Mary sighs, “I know what I’m doing Friday night.”