No haiku today

Nothing much to say, worn out

Well, I guess that’s one

You remember the rules?  5-7-5 syllables of silly bull.  What's yours? 

A lot of people criticize Martha Stewart relentlessly.  These people who set themselves up as judge and jury are completely unqualified to give an opinion on the weather, let alone claim to fathom the depths of such a profound woman.  I, on the other hand, can speak with authority about Martha, because we once had a meaningful relationship that lasted several years.  I will now share my story. 

I remember how it all started.  I had seen glimpses of Martha, this perky, WASPy woman here and there - the local grocery, K-mart, tiling her swimming pool – always with a certain air of dignity and confidence.  There was an instant attraction.  A spark.  Then, as if orchestrated by some divine matchmaker, we finally met.  It was on a Saturday.  The air was crisp and Martha was gathering autumn leaves in order to fashion a wreath.  I watched as she carefully chose ‘only the most perfect ones’ and fussed and pinned until she had created a beautiful centerpiece for her Thanksgiving table.  All of this, out of nothing but a handful of dried up leaves and a Styrofoam doughnut.  I was enchanted.  I knew this was the girl for me. 

Like a locomotive, our relationship moved fast.  So fast that my head spun and I was catapulted into a perpetual state of dizziness.  We met every weekend for an hour between 9 o’clock and 10 EST.  She tried to teach me how to cook, how to clean, how to decorate, but did everything as if it were something fun – something meaningful.  With her careful instruction, I learned how to make a better life for myself and was inspired to live life the Martha Stewart way.  Yes, there were those that made fun, but these were the people who ate macaroni and cheese from a box.  Martha and I made it from scratch! 

Our weekly visits soon escalated to daily ones.  She was now on another network from 10:00 to 11:00.  And, of course, the monthly magazine, special edition books, and morning news segments only added to the glee.  We were an item.  I had an autographed picture of Martha hanging in my living room.  “To Curtis best wishes, Martha.”  My friends soon became quite envious of our relationship – they had the nerve to say that I was obsessed and asked me to change the subject (as if there were any other subject!).  It was pure bliss. 

But then, it all changed.  Little by little, I began to realize that the new projects weren’t really new at all, but the same sort of thing we did before.  Instead of using the gallon of clarified butter that we made a week ago for a recipe, she demanded that we use crème freche (where was I going to find that?)  She demanded more from me, and I tried.  I really tried but just couldn’t live up to her high standards.  I was sleeping less and less and she was wanting more and more. 

I started to notice, too, that perhaps her standards were not quite as lofty as they seemed.  The recipe for lemon squares didn’t hold muster.  The double dutch chocolate cake was a disaster.  Her ‘everyday ware’ although stated that it was dishwasher safe – came out with little chips and cracks.  And when I complained to one of her staff that the canvas shower curtain with the nickel-plated grommets shrank when I washed it – they stated that if I had bothered to read the Martha Stewart Living label, I would have realized that it was to be dry-cleaned only.  Really, who dry-cleans a shower curtain?  I knew I had to sever the relationship – for the good of both of us.  I knew I wanted out! 

Then the madness started.  I began to receive little notes with my monthly magazine stating that this could be the last time.  Then it moved to postcards warning that my “subscription” was about to run out.  I received a few rather lengthy letters begging me to come back, promising that things would be different, promising that she had something new for me, promising.  I knew that it was only a desperate ploy to get me back into her clutches.  Then, the phone calls began – usually during the dinner hour.  She would have one of her associates call me – just to see if everything was all right.  The phone calls became belligerent, threatening.  This was indeed my last chance – but the calls kept coming.  Then, as quickly as it had started – it all ended.  Martha didn’t contact me again. 

I think back to those times and must admit that I get a bit bleary eyed.  We had a dysfunctional relationship, yes – but what a wonderful, wild ride it was!  Although we do not keep in contact anymore, Martha has left an indelible mark on my soul.  I choose to remember only the good that came out of our relationship and forget the bad.  I keep all of her magazines, books, letters – but it will never be the same.  For I have moved on with my life and I think, have become a better person because of the whole experience.  Now, if you will excuse me – ‘gotta go guild some pinecones.  Christmas is only nine months away!

My girl, Sadie, was a miniature schnauzer that was abandoned at a grooming shop where a friend of mine once worked. Her ears were not cropped in the usual fashion and her fur was black rather than grey. She was brought to me and although I said that I couldn’t possibly have another dog in my life, when she excitedly came over to where I was sitting and jumped on my lap to give doggie kisses, well, how could I say no?

I thought about all sorts of things to name her but couldn’t come up with something appropriate until, while singing along with Barbara, Sadie’s eyes lit up and she cocked her head just a little whenever we sang, “Sadie, Sadie, married lady . . .” In a way, she chose her own name. She also liked it when John Lennon and I would sing, “Sexy Sadie” because she knew that she was.

Sadie was definitely NOT a swimmer. I suppose it’s that terrier thing. We learned this quite acutely one long weekend at the lake staying with some friends in their cabin. Sadie’s step sister, Lizzie – a boarder collie mix – would take a running jump off of the dock to retrieve a stick thrown into the water. Tirelessly, she yipped and yipped until I threw it in again and again. Sadie thought it looked like fun and decided to jump in after her. I watched as she paddled and started to sink. I followed in suit and jumped in to get her. There was a look of terror on her face and her front paws practically choked the air out of me as she held on tightly around my neck as we swam to the shore. Sadie decided from that point on that it was preferable to sit in the sun on the dock and watch Lizzie swim her legs off.

I could never understand if it was a frustration at not being able to read, or if in fact she could read and just didn’t appreciate the articles – but Sadie would often shred any newspaper, magazine, or book that just happened to be lying around. Her favorites were usually my college textbooks and although it would have been trite to use the excuse, I could have honestly told my professors that my dog ate my homework more times then I care to remember.

Sadie was a snoozer. And to be quite honest, I am too. After years of being forced against my will to take a nap as a kid, they’ve kinda grown on me and I’m a big advocate of them now. Sadie’s favorite place to nap was to curl up in the crook of my bent leg resting her head on my calf. She liked to snuggle deep under the covers. She snored. She drooled too and my calves were usually wet and sticky by the time we awoke.

Contrary to what she told everybody, I did not starve her. We discussed it many times and although she didn’t want to admit it, she had a bit of a weight problem. At one time, we had three dogs (Lizzie, Sadie, and Emmett) and we had to have two feeding stations; one for Sadie, the other for Lizzie and Emmett. If not, Sadie would bully the other two for what was in the bowl. She was afraid of the water bubbler too and would scoot back in alarm every time it gurgled as she tried to lap the thing dry.

Like all well bred fine ladies, Sadie liked to have her hair done. She didn’t quite appreciate the grooming process, but she was very patient; unlike Emmett who yelped and hollered when he was brushed. She knew that she was a pretty girl when it was all done and she would strut her stuff and prance around afterwards. Oddly, she didn’t quite appreciate wearing the little doggie sombrero Christmas gift, but she did like her sparkly collar. I think she knew it best to accessorize without going over the top.

Emmett was a Pomeranian that came to my doorstep in a snowstorm. He was a pretty boy and he knew it. He was a bit of a lap whore too. We never found his owners and he didn’t seem too concerned about leaving. The more the merrier, I guess.

Sadie’s most prized possessions were her tennis balls. She was a master at running and catching them in mid air even though she could barely get the things in her mouth. She would bring one over to where I was sitting, place it by my foot, daintily place her paw on my leg, and stare at me until I gave in. She didn’t much care for the sport of Frisbee, and really didn’t care for chew toys – but tennis balls, that was where it was at.

I was informed at the annual veterinarian visit one time that Sadie had congestive heart failure and although it wasn’t anything to worry about now, that I should be prepared in the future. Years went by and she was just fine. It was only in the last year of her life (year 14) that she started to decline. At first I thought it was just the weight problem again, but soon it was clear that the fluids were collecting in her gut. Towards the end, she had trouble balancing and walking was a chore for her. I had taken to carrying her outside to do the business, but she insisted on hobbling back in under her own volition to lie down on her cushion next to Emmett.

It was chilly but not cold on the night she died. She had a little water but not much food and I carried her outside. In returning, her legs buckled and she collapsed on the dinning room floor. I carried her to her cushion, but rather than lying her down, I sat on the floor Indian style and held her in my arms. Her breathing was labored, so we turned the lights a bit dim and I stroked her head, told her that she had been a good girl, told her that I loved her, and told her it was okay to go now if she wanted to. With a final deep breath, I felt the life leave her body. I sat there for a while and held her while I wept. Emmett looked on quietly. He was never quite the same after that. I didn’t know that a year later, he would die in his sleep. I think of a broken heart.

In a little clearing a couple hundred feet from our house in the woods on a hill side underneath a pine tree there are three markers; each one representing an animal that was loved very much. Sadie’s has a little cross. I buried her with a tennis ball.

Yellow, purple, pink

Brown and grey give way to green

Spring rain.  Tarpaulin.

It sure is getting pretty around these parts.  It never ceases to amaze me at the diverse beauty that is our planet.  Go and enjoy your part of the world a little.  

So, you know the rules.  5-7-5 syllables of silly bull.  What's your haiku for this Friday? 

So.  We’re in the midst of getting our roof replaced.  Shouldn’t be a big deal, right?  My gran used to always say, “When it rains, it pours” when anything negative would happen.  Well, it’s raining alright. 

See, our roof has very little pitch to it.  It’s practically flat.  We live in one of those “California Dream” houses plunked right down in the middle of Missouri.  We opted to go a bit more expensive and have it replaced with rubber rather than that silly tar paper.  It’s had little leaks here and there ever since we moved in and some of the plywood is rotted and needs to be replaced.  We finally got a guy to come and work on it and they started last week. 

Since then, we had one last blast of snow.  Wet snow.  When it started to melt, LOTS of water started streaming into the house as if someone had thrown a faucet on.  So much, in fact that Sunday night, right before bedtime, we heard a very loud ‘thwack’ as a bit of ceiling (approximately 5 x 4) came crashing down in the living room.  Nice.  Right before bedtime.  Pleasant dreams! 

Okay, so I stayed home on Monday to clear up the mess and reiterated to the roofer that he REALLY needs to make sure that tarpaulin is securely in place before he leaves for the day. 

Tuesday was an absolutely beautiful, sunny day with nary a cloud in the sky, so of course the roofer didn’t show. 

Wednesday, we had rain and more leaking.  So, Mark and I climbed up on the roof (which is something I absolutely HATE with every fiber in my being) and nailed down errant tarpaulin. 

Onto this morning.  Everything was just brilliant when I woke up at 4:00.  It was warmish and very quiet.  My favorite time of day.  I sat on the back porch and drank coffee while my thoughts swirled around what I needed to do that day and a certain problem with a friend of mine that’s been bugging me for weeks.  I’m not really sure what I can do about that problem except to pray about it and hope that he comes ‘round eventually.  Never mind – I’m off topic. 

So, just when I’m thinking about hitting the shower it starts.  THE granddaddy of all thunderstorms kicks up announced with one of those blood curdling cracks of thunder.  Usually, I quite like thunderstorms.  I like the raw power that Mother Nature displays.  But not so much when your roof is in disrepair and covered in flimsy tarpaulin.  Naturally, there was a space where the water could get under and, water being lazy and taking the path of least resistance, started flowing in under the tarp and made its way into the ceiling all over the place.  In my bathrobe, I immediately sprung into action and started the bucket brigade.   About twenty minutes later, Mark stumbled out of the bedroom and with bleary eyes announced that the bed was all wet.  So, we had no trouble getting him up and going this morning.  I called into work and said that I wouldn’t make it in today and Mark started to get ready for the morning. 

Thirty minutes later, it was quite obvious that something had to give, especially since thunderstorms are forecasted in this area until next Tuesday.  Rather than going to work himself, Mark drove to the neighboring city of Washington (one hour, one way) to buy fresh tarpaulin, nails, and a fifth of whiskey while I manned the buckets.  (I'm kidding about the whiskey, but I wish I wasn't!) 

We spent the late morning and early afternoon on the roof, in the rain, laying fresh tarpaulin – enough to cover the whole damned roof.  Water is everywhere and the carpet makes a very irritating squishy noise when tread upon.  Most of the closets were leaked in as well, so I have about a gazillion loads of laundry to do, not to mention a lot of dry cleaning to drop off. 

I’m taking it all in stride.  You have to.  They’re only “things” and things can be washed or replaced.  Besides, I’ve been meaning to clean out our closets for quite some time now.  Looks like the Universe is saying, “Hey Sport, why not this weekend”? 

It’s all good. 

I will tell you one last thing that I thought was kind of funny.  After we had finished and ate a very late lunch, Mark and I were exhausted both physically and mentally, so we decided to lie down and take a brief nap.  Mark on the sofa and me on the dry side of the bed.  About 45 minutes later, I got up and decided to make a cup of tea so I headed out to the kitchen.  Mark was still asleep.  OCD that I am, I started by washing my hands at the sink.  Within seconds, Mark shot up off the sofa, dazed and confused like a shell shocked Viet Nam vet, came running into the kitchen asked where the leaking was now. 

We had to laugh. 

It’s odd.  I’m one of the few people I know who can happily eat his lunch sitting at his desk listening to an audio conference and looking at pictures about the lesions caused by genital herpes and yet feel squeamish and quite ill at the idea of stepping on a cockroach. 

You all should invite me for dinner sometime if you are on a diet.  Oh, the stories I can tell you about working in the autopsy suite.

At night, across the hillside when darkness falls and the winds sweep out across the hallows, the wild things, with their shinning eyes come out of the woods to the clearing.  At such an hour, the house seems safe, and warm. An island of light and love in a sea of darkness.  At such an hour, the word “home” must have come into being dreamed up by someone who never knew the meaning of the word.  In his yearning, there must have come to mind a vision of a mothers face.  The calming, deep voice of a father.  The aroma of bread freshly baked.  Sunset in a window.  The muted sounds of raindrops on a roof.  The sigh of death.  The cry of a newborn baby.  And voices calling out in the darkness, “good night, sweet one”. 

Home.  An island.  A refuge.  A haven of love. 

Home. 

~E. Hammer

Addendum:  Sorry for the confusion.  In writing down this quote, I first failed to site the source.  Apologies.  It was late when I posted it.  No, I did not write this, but I thought it was too good not to share with you all.  I'll try to be more careful in future. 

Okay, so I'm watching the DVD series of the Waltons.  Christmas gift and all.  What realy pisses me off is that I find that I'm crying at the end of each and every episode.  Lordy, am I a sap or what?!?

I'm crying over the Waltons?!? 

Just send the men in the white coats now.   

Although I take the occasional pot shot at our little town of Hermann, MO – I love it.  We are fortunate to live in one of the most eccentric towns you’d ever care to see.  No really.  I’m not joking.  For a population of just over 2000, we have diversity like you wouldn’t believe.  Still though, it’s a small town. 

It suits me, small town life.  We moved from a small town called Richwood in Ohio a few years ago.  I pretty much liked it there too.  I had bought a “fixer upper” and moved from the city of Columbus.  Now, a lot of people think Columbus is just some cow town, and the joke is embraced by the Columbians [?], Columbusites [?], the people who live in Columbus.  Truth of the matter is Columbus is a proper city.  They have culture, they have congestion, they have crime.  I moved to the city of Columbus in my early 20s to be part of the city scene, and it was great.  I moved out of Columbus in my mid 30s to escape the city scene, and it was even better. 

In my job, I meet with quite a few people for one reason or another.  Many of them come from the big city of St. Louis, or the capitol city of Jefferson, or the city of Columbia.  Sometimes, they ask me why someone with my education and experience would waste their time in a small town hospital.  I’m certain that they are trying to pay me a compliment and I take it as such, but I just smile and say that this will do for now at least.  They don’t seem to understand that although the career is important and all, so is the peace of mind that living in a small town affords me. 

Truth is, I’m small town, and I know it.  I like the fact that I can drive across town during “rush hour” and still make my destination in 10 minutes.  I like the fact that the streets are rolled up at 9:40 every night except Friday.  On Friday nights we go a little wild and stay up till 11:00!  I like the fact that my neighbors know my name.  I like the fact that people call or stop by just to see that we’re all right. 

Something else that I like about our small town is that we wave.  We wave when we pass others on the road.  We wave when we see someone walking down the street.  We wave to each other at Church, and in the grocery, and in the hardware store.  Nothing too much, just an acknowledgement with the hand or a nod of the head.  Nothing too much.  It’s just a little thing, but it often makes my day.  I think it makes other people’s as well.  I’ve visited lots of cities and although I love the excitement and movement of the city, you all don’t wave.  I think because there’s just so many people that if you did you’d never get anything finished.  Still, perhaps if we all kept up with the little niceties and politeness that we know we should be doing, like a little wave or a smile, then perhaps things wouldn’t be so bad all the time. 

That sounded really small town, didn’t it?    

Budding bare branches

Bird symphony, sublime

Promise of springtime

This is turning out to be a wonderful day.  You remember the rules?  5-7-5 syllables of silly bull.  How's your Friday so far?