Habit

We like to think of ourselves as being unique. We are less than pleased when it gets pointed out that there is a monotonous pattern in much of our individual lives. Like that friend who starts humming the tune to the song “Dusty Boots” every time she washes dishes. Or the person you hate to drive with because his speed increases as soon as the light turns yellow.
You may smile at these and say that the friends have a few personal quirks. It goes deeper. The wooden spoon you always grab for automatically, the greetings you use habitually without thinking. Reaching to the right to turn on the light switch when it’s on the left – the last place you lived had it on the right. At last, your idiotic delight in using the word “alfresco” every time we go on a hike and eat our lunch on the trail!
It goes deeper; planners, designers and anthropologists, and even politicians study the patterns.
Next time you insist that you are an independent thinker, proud contrarian, master of your fate, think about…oh, let’s say your shopping habits on Amazon. Their suggestions for you seem suspiciously on the mark?

Boil!

Hidden in every February is the coming spring. Right now, there are about twenty-two inches of snow outside. It’s slowly melting in the Fools Spring that we get around now. My path out to the maple trees is getting slick and icy as I trod the snow down. We begin the process of turning the maple sap into syrup, sap bucket by sap bucket.
Every day now starts with monitoring the expected highs and lows of temperature. The warmth of the day and the night’s chill tell me how we are progressing towards spring. The range of temperatures indicates the rise and fall of sap and allows me to guess more accurately about how much sap I can expect. To the newly initiated, it seems like serendipity. But it’s the annual progress of the tree towards leafing out and growth. Every year there are repeating shapes in the pattern of growth. For those of us who sugar, it all starts this way.
Mine is a cottage industry comfortable on my kitchen stove. We tap, lug buckets, and then it’s boil, boil, boil. Eventually, the sweet syrup is poured into mason jars for us to enjoy.

Pizza

When I reentered the marine marketplace in 1992, after about 15 years of absence, I thought my business would be eagles, quarterboards, and transom banners. To some extent, I was correct. I’ve done many transoms, quarter boards, some eagles, and a smattering of other carving projects. But fully one-third of all my sales came from small carved table items. At any boat show, there are many overwhelmed wanderers. They are following a partner, parent, or spouse who is nautically obsessed. They hope to find something that might spark their interest. Responding to this, I began offering spoons, spatulas, cutting boards, small carved boxes, and a wide range of small carved items. It was surprising how Sales improved.

As a result of the newfound sales, I sometimes had a fair bit of cash in my pocket at the shows. But having a family with you at a three or four-day event offers opportunities to get separated from the money; fast.


My oldest son earned the nickname “Bottomless Pit.” Yeah, I know, you had one too.
At one particular show in Maine, an entire group of us went to dinner together. My friend, Ralph, generously offered to pay for the Carreras clan – myself, my wife, the two girls, and the two boys. Wanting to maintain the friendship, I protested. He insisted. He assumed I think that the kids couldn’t do too much damage at the Rockport House of Pizza. He had not calculated the sheer ability of said Bottomless Pit to pack it away. My friends have never had children. They had only heard stories of how adolescents can consume vast amounts and then fill up with more. The Bottomless Pit saw the disbelief in their eyes as he devoured pizza and decided to play to a rapt audience. He reached for an entire fresh pizza, rolled it up, and proceeded to swallow it much as a sword swallower consumed a sword. OK, you ask, what was my wife doing – Trying to get her renegade son under control. What was I doing – watching the disbelief on my friend’s faces as the Bottomless Pit consumed the pizza in one go. He belched softly and asked for more. About that time, the check arrived, and I saw my friend blanch. I took the check and paid for the family; about $200.00, most of which had been consumed by the Pit. I saw lots of my pocket cash disappear in one meal.

Years passed, but at boat shows, the Legend of the Bottomless Pit lived on. Not wanting to let go of a good story, we staged the photo above just a few years ago to email my friend. An assurance that, yes, the legend continued.

The Good, The Bad, And The Kitty

If Clancy, the Gray Menace, could have selected his favorite actor, it would have been hands down Clint Eastwood. A Fist Full of Dollars, Dirty Harry that would have been the model, the Gray Menace would have emulated. He even had the moves down: idly sitting there licking the blood from the paw while waiting for you to make a counter move, cue the Enricci Morricone music in the background. Or him sitting in the doorway backlit seeming to say: “The heart, Ramon. Don’t forget the heart. Aim for the heart, or you’ll never stop me.”– A Fistful of Dollars

But of course, the very central part of the feline strategy is the stalk. It can be subtle in a master’s paws, ending in a stroke of raking claws. Or it can be the prelude to a broad swath of destruction that Kurasawa would have emulated in a Samurai movie ( have I mentioned that the Gray Menace sat still and intent through an entire showing of the Seven Samurai?). In either case, the technique requires endless practice. And targets to stalk. 

While living in Arlington, there were some particularly obnoxious neighbors. You know the sort. They put their garbage into your already full recycle containers. When they have company, the company drives up onto your lawn to park. The loud cookouts last till 3 AM on Sunday. Have you had neighbors like this? Calling the police solves nothing. You seem to have few alternatives. “Who you going to call?” – the Gray Menace. 

The neighbors had an obnoxious German Shephard named Schultz. It had terrorized every cat in the neighborhood and had set its sights on Clancy. 

Clancy had already taught Schultz one terrible lesson, but Schultz decided to come back for more, and more and more. One night while the neighbors had their usual noisy late Saturday evening cookout, the “master” decided to direct the dog to attack the Gray Menace. The guests seemed to think this was a great sport. The great Gray one was sitting on top of the chimney of an unused brick fireplace. At the convenient height of about seven feet, he could survey his domain. Once Schultz was within range, he dived onto the dog. The dog swerved at the last instant, and instead of a full-body crash, sustained raking claws to his legs. Schultz wanted no more, and the pursuit began. Schlutz tore through my yard and back into his own. Dog and cat nipped and scratched their way through the crowd of guests. A riot ensued as everyone scattered to evade the combatants. There was a “friendly fire” incident as Schultz nipped his master while the master tried to grab a collar. The grill fell over, and hot coals added to the chaos.

Deciding to declare victory, the Gray Menace returned home and triumphantly sat on the fireplace, licking his paws.

The police arrived responding to several calls of a disturbance at the neighbor’s house. As the officers stepped out of the cruiser, the Gray Menace eagerly ran to them. He was purring loudly, rubbing against their legs, and rolling over to show his belly.

The neighbors described the unbridled viciousness of the invasion of their peaceful abode. But, the cat was receiving scratches behind his ears, belly rubs, and pets. One police officer, now holding the Gray Menace in his arms, seemed dubious of the charges against such a sweet cat.

Putting the cat down, the officer mentioned to the neighbor that there’d be a citation for violating the noise ordnances if they received any more calls. While this happened, the Gray menace nonchalantly strolled back towards me; a little victory strut was evident. He always liked authority.

Stepping Stones

After my Government job disappeared in the early ’90s, I took an assistant to the director position at a small publishing company. The charismatic Owen Jones was the Director, and he was the darling of what we used to call a Letterhead Board of Directors. Board members were prominent, wealthy, and privileged. Their names and companies were on the company’s letterhead. Little room remained for text, but board members were impressed.

The company was a well-funded vanity press with plans to publish the memoirs of prominent Board members. The first effort was the autobiography of Arthur Siegfried, the Chairman of the Board.

Owen was the sort of boss who kissed up and kicked down. He fawned on the Board of directors but was abusive to his staff. His favorite ploy was to have a staffer in attendance at functions. Periodically he’d gesture for us to approach, ask a question, and then abruptly turn his back on us, resuming his conversation with a more critical individual. It showed how vital Mr. Jones was and how low we were in the order of things.

Staff was definitely to be seen and not heard. It should have come as no surprise that after two years, the company was no closer to publishing the autobiography Journey of a Titan than they had on the day the company opened. Owen was much too busy attending functions with the Board members, shmoozing at Chamber functions, and currying favor at the clubs he had joined. Owen gave little direction to staff.

The project had already gone through three editors and two copy editors. The Journey of a Titan had major rewrites regularly as Arthur buffed his written image. Actual production stalled, but the jacket art and prose were complete down to solicited and paid for blurbs from enthusiastic reviewers.

Owen’s strategy was to get discovered. The Chamber activity, clubs, and charity events were opportunities for him to get observed and offered the next stepping stone on the ascent to corporate heights. In short, he expected to be gone when the house of cards began to topple. Many before him had successfully used the strategy. You look sadly back at the wreck of your first effort, sigh and note that those who came after you were lesser individuals.

Dictators, tyrants, and tools depend upon others to maintain their position. Those who bear this in mind have long careers. Those who forget this soon get overturned. One night, sensing his next step ascending close by, Mr. Jones pulled his favorite ploy on Arthur Siegfried. On Monday, at an introductory meeting, we met Mr. Siefried’s son, our new Executive Director.

I understand that Owen eventually found work in the hospitality industry, but being a night manager at a Holiday Inn Express was a far cry from schmoozing with the elite. As Napoleon said: “Glory is fleeting. But obscurity is forever.” 

Round About Midnight

The worst hitching was those long dark passages on moonless nights. No cars or trucks, you walked for miles. If the weather put it’s two cents in, you’d be tired, wet, and cold. After a few hours of this, you’d be up for ventures you’d typically steer clear of and call crazy.
I had to stop and look at the burnt-out house several times before I took a closer look. Even desperate, it seemed too unsafe—the smell of fresh char mixed with strange odors from burnt plastics, and foam hung in the air; this was recent.
Around back was an abandoned car that might offer a windbreak till dawn. Opening the passenger side door, I eased onto the seat.
I settled in as well as I could and peeled back the wrapping on a candy bar.
I had a nervous feeling that I was not alone.
From the back came a low growl. I was heading out the door in a flash, dragging my pack behind me. A hand grabbed my shoulder. A voice croaked, “Ya gonna share some?” I heard the sound of claws scrabbling behind me and an odor that was hard to place, not pleasant.
I didn’t stop running until the lights of the police car came upon me. Two officers asked me why I was running along a deserted road at midnight like the devil was out to get me. “Cause he is.” I managed to pant out. After I caught my breath, I stood there, hands on my knees, panting while I described what had happened. I told them about the strange house, the car, the hand grabbing me, the voice, the sound of the hell hound, and the bad smell. They listened to my every word with serious intent before cracking up in loud laughter.
Now I was more than a bit upset, but I heard a shuffling sound, and down the road, I saw a thin erect form lurching towards us. At his feet was a red-eyed devil hound. I could do no more than point and scream: ” There!” The officers commenced howling in laughter. Turning to look behind themselves, they saw the figure and the hound and started to scream with mock terror. One of the Police turned and put a hand on my shoulder. Barely able to speak from the laughter that was shaking his form, he managed to squeak out, “That’s just Chester and Barney!” Worried that the locals were on familiar terms with Hell Spawn, I turned to start running again but found myself restrained. “Easy now, we’ll all just run down to the Nugget Diner and get ourselves an early breakfast. After that, we’ll get you back on the road and Chester and Barney to the station house for a shower. Boy, is he ripe tonight?
Chester turned out to be a local hermit, Barney, likes candy bars. The local Police couldn’t leave well enough alone and retold the tale to everyone sitting in the dinner. They probably retell it every Halloween.
So if you are passing through Ocala, off route 29, give the Police a wide berth. They have a twisted sense of what’s funny. But Chester and Barney are OK.

Spoils of War

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">George couldn't let it be. He and his wife were visiting, and he'd brought over a radio-controlled car. It was racing around after the cat. When the Grey Menace, Clancy, tired of being chased, I warned him there would be consequences. Creep, <a href="https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2020/10/23/creep/">creep</a&gt;, creep, the car slowly approached Clancy, then backed up teasing. I sensed that Clancy was nearing the end of his patience. An attack was <a href="https://ragtagcommunity.wordpress.com/2020/10/23/rdp-friday-impending/">impending</a&gt;. "George, give it up." I reached to slap the control from his hand. Clancy now was glaring directly at George. "George!" Too late, twenty-one pounds of cat lept towards George. George couldn’t let it be. He and his wife were visiting, and he’d brought over a radio-controlled car. It was racing around after the cat. When the Grey Menace, Clancy, tired of being chased, I warned him there would be consequences. Creep, creep, creep, the car slowly approached Clancy, then backed up teasing. I sensed that Clancy was nearing the end of his patience. An attack was impending. “George, give it up.” I reached to slap the control from his hand. Clancy now was glaring directly at George. “George!” Too late, twenty-one pounds of cat lept towards George.

<p value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">The little vehicle spun in circles. George ran through the kitchen and living room, the cat in hot pursuit. Clancy uttered a final battle cry and slammed into the screen door through which George has just exited.The little vehicle spun in circles. George ran through the kitchen and living room, the cat in hot pursuit. Clancy uttered a final battle cry and slammed into the screen door through which George has just exited.

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80"><br>Silence. "Wes? What's going on?' asked my wife. From outside, George whimpered, " Can I get my car?" " Now's not a great time, George, he's carrying it off. Spoils of war, and all that sort of stuff." Clancy picked up the car, carried over to his bed, sat there, and challenged the world to take his new toy away.
Silence. “Wes? What’s going on?’ asked my wife. From outside, George whimpered, ” Can I get my car?” ” Now’s not a great time, George, he’s carrying it off. Spoils of war, and all that sort of stuff.” Clancy picked up the car, carried over to his bed, sat there, and challenged the world to take his new toy away.

No Exit

<p class="has-drop-cap" value="<amp-fit-text layout="fixed-height" min-font-size="6" max-font-size="72" height="80">The poster wall said: " It's hard to remember that your original intent was to drain the swamp when you are ass deep in alligators." The poster hung on the bare wall in my supervisor's office. Again, I sat opposite her as she face-palmed frustration with me. Somehow I knew that this was wrong. she hadn't been my supervisor since before I went to grad school. But a pinch on my wrist told me that this hallucination was not only <a href="https://wordofthedaychallenge.wordpress.com/2020/10/22/vivid/">vivid </a>visually but fully tactile too. I decided to play along and see where it went. "OK. What did I do this time?" she glared at me and said nothing. She hadn't been a bad boss despite the real need to put a snotty twenty-five-year-old in place every week. So the glare was a dead give that this was…wait, <em>dead</em> giveaway? Hell! Well, yes, maybe. It couldn't be heaven, could it? Strange Heaven. Into this scene, pranced Joltin' Joe, another boss from later on. " Great, I've been waiting for you…" he then proceeded to rip me several new ones in the manner that he had perfected.The poster wall said: ” It’s hard to remember that your original intent was to drain the swamp when you are ass deep in alligators.” The poster hung on the bare wall in my supervisor’s office. Again, I sat opposite her as she face-palmed frustration with me. Somehow I knew that this was wrong. she hadn’t been my supervisor since before I went to grad school. But a pinch on my wrist told me that this hallucination was not only vivid visually but fully tactile too. I decided to play along and see where it went. “OK. What did I do this time?” she glared at me and said nothing. She hadn’t been a bad boss despite the real need to put a snotty twenty-five-year-old in place every week. So the glare was a dead give that this was…wait, dead giveaway? Hell! Well, yes, maybe. It couldn’t be heaven, could it? Strange Heaven. Into this scene, pranced Joltin’ Joe, another boss from later on. ” Great, I’ve been waiting for you…” he then proceeded to rip me several new ones in the manner that he had perfected.

The door opened. What was next? My former father in law the Cap’n, my ex-wife, the old landlord, or the dog that terrorized me at ten?

Instead, a gentleman in a three-piece suit walked in, glancing first at a clipboard and then at me: “Carreras, Louis – you’re not due to arrive for another ten years- OK, all of you back to your hells. The assignment here doesn’t start till then. In the background, I heard my old landlord screaming as a dog growled.

“OK, Carreras, you can go back to sleep now. Your demons will keep until the due date.” The scene faded, and gray turns to blue as I become aware of the sky outside of my window. A hell where your tormentors were all former nemesis? No Exit?

The Woodbox

As a Boy Scout, I eagerly chopped wood for the campfire and loved foraging for deadwood we could burn to cook our franks and beans over. Cutting and prepping wood became more of a regularized activity in Coastal Maine. The Cap’n had a five-acre woodlot, and among the duties, my first wife asked me to assume was to “help Daddy get in the wood.”
The Cap’n and his wife had begun “snowbirding” to Florida years before I came into the picture. So harvesting from the woodlot was not a monumental task. They left the coast around New Years and returned near the end of March. I was cutting their fall and spring heating wood, not wood for an entire heating season. Just as long as I harvested the woodlot in the manner preferred by the Cap’n, he was happy. It was a good experience and not demanding.

Years later, I remarried, and once we had started a family, we moved to the town where my wife’s grandmothers lived. One grandmother lived alone in a vast old Colonial-era house. Need I say the punchline on this? It was mostly uninsulated and mostly heated by an elderly wood stove. While we had been courting visits to grandmother during the winter had required heating soapstone bedwarmers on the stove and putting them in the bed before retiring.
My brother in law had, after a long debate, convinced grandmother to make some changes in the elderly heating systems, but the house still needed voluminous amounts of wood to heat. Grandma was a true Yankee; the change came hard.
When the in-laws moved to Virginia, I assumed many of the duties for assisting grandma with heating. I stacked purchased cordwood, did almost all the splitting, and made sure that her kitchen wood box was always full. When her “wood guy” proved unreliable, I began to cut in the woodlot until we found someone reliable. Since I was a New York city boy who relished the country life, I did not find these tasks distasteful.
Besides, there were the Hermits and tea.
On a snowy winters morning, after splitting, stacking, and wood box filling, there is nothing so enjoyable as sitting in front of an old wood stove with your favorite grandmother sipping tea and eating freshly baked hermits. Granma was the daughter of a minister and had grown up in lumber camps and other Northwoods locations in Vermont, wherever the ministry had taken the pastor and his family. She had some incredible stories to tell. It had been a life that required more than a bit of hardihood to be successful. It was well worth the admission cost to sit while my jacket and gloves dried by the stove, sip, eat hermits, and listen.
Grandma has been gone now for many years, but on winters days when I am splitting and filling my wood box, I have urges to return to those days.

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