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I really like trains, I always have.

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Maybe I like trains because I grew up knowing that PopPop used to drive trains (I also knew he carried an ice pick during peanut deliveries to bars in Harrisburg but that didn’t have the same intrinsic appeal at first and I didn’t appreciate his genius for years). Grandma once told me he came home tired and awed because he had piloted a new kind of engine across Pennsylvania from Ohio. “Oh Myerly” he told her as he flopped across the bed, “that engine was something.”

Maybe it was the awesome train set we had in the basement.  I had my own SOO engine before I was 7. White with red trim. It gleamed as it soared, shicka shicka shicka, past our model station and waiting matchbox cars. It stopped for no one.

Maybe the liking struck c. 1977 when I rode the commuter train into Philadelphia with my dad. It was near Christmas so it was chilly and smoky exhaust and bits of flotsam blew around the train when it heaved into the station. It stank. It was loud. And once we got on, it clattered and swayed in the best way.

I just really like trains.

TrainBridgeI like to look at trains. We lived rural during my teenage years and the route to anywhere was crossed by train tracks leading to the coal-driven power plant. They interrupted the road, more or less as they pleased, and sometimes a busy person had to relax, not worry about being late, and count the train cars. I like the engine yard at Strasburg, PA. I like rusting, abandoned train cars. I like to see random bits of trains scattered about our world. Diners. Weird homesteads.

I like to ride trains. Underground or above ground, trolly car or closed car, small gauage, monorail, or full size, plastic molded commuter seats or plush spacious travel seats that sometimes change into bunks: As far as I remember I’ve tried trains in or around Paris, St Louis, D.C., Buffalo, Memphis, London, New Orleans, Minneapolis, Charlottesville, Philadelphia, NYC, Skagway, Seattle, Lisboa, the Franklin Institute, and Strasburg. I look for reasons to need a train. When I fly into a new airport I check – can I take rail into the city? Can I ride a train to the museum or conference? Does a train pass by the home of any reasonably nearby family? I know there are thousands more trains for me to try, but I have time and there’s no real rush except that some trains are being mothballed. Called obsolete by powers beyond my control.

I rode a train from Lisbon to the Algarve in my first adult jet-lag fog. I stepped from plane to ferry to train to beach in one long bleary journey. I slept on the train. For two weeks I carried 2,000 year old animal bones in my bag on the Washington DC Metro Blue Line. I had to cradle my body around the bag to keep the polite press of white collar humanity from fracturing these bits of someone else’s past. I took a train to visit a friend in Connecticut when I was 19 years old. I sat in independent comfort across from two Yale students specializing in Ancient Languages,which of course seemed completely appropriate to train travel. But even as I kid I worried that this gracious method of travel was not going to last. A friend recently told me her mom has ridden the Orient Express. I was instantly, viscerally jealous.

EngineThe WideEyedSpouse and I sat patiently waiting for our turn at the order box of the Delaware Ave Timmy Horton’s last Saturday afternoon (large triple triple, medium double double, and a 10 box of TimBits to sustain us after grocery errands). I heard deep thrumming thumps and rolled down my window to sniff – yep, diesel. Train nectar. A train hove into sight, glorious and large, beautiful red engines powering down next to an inglorious strip mall. Its beauty separated from us by a chain link fence topped with barbed wire as if it were something dangerous or shameful. I could see the engineer fussing with clipboards and levers inside the tiny windows. I waved. Because I really like trains.

Hamish Believes He’s Been Cheated.

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Hamish the Corgi is guest writing this week. I, WideEyedFunk, bear no responsibility for the opinions expressed below.

I am disgusted by recent household events and I am done with sulking. Miss Tibbit was forced to attend dog training classes a couple of weeks ago because she is mildly disobedient, and in my opinion, really obnoxious. She is a toy-stealing, leash pulling punk. I believed Dog Training was a punishment. I have recently become aware of some facts that have made me rethink that notion. I now believe that I have been cheated.

Here are the top 10 reasons I believe I have been cheated.

1. Miss Tibbit gets fed treats one after another for an hour during training class.

2. Miss Tibbit gets fed treats one after another for an hour during training class.

3. Miss Tibbit gets fed treats one after another for an hour during training class.

4. Miss Tibbit gets fed treats one after another for an hour during training class.

Sit? Stay? Come when called? Ridiculous to treat for these. I sit WITHOUT treats. I don’t need to be called because I am attentive to my people. Who knew a dog could GET treats for simple assignments.

Oh, she’s sitting. How charming. Let’s give her a treat.

Which brings us to point 5.

5. Miss Tibbit gets treats for normal, decent behavior.

6. Miss Tibbit is bad, regularly, and gets treats during the short moments of being good.

7. Miss Tibbit is upstairs barking right now. She is going to get a treat when she makes the decision to stop barking.

I bark and then stop barking all the time. Do I get fed treats? You know I don’t.

8. Miss Tibbit gets treats for walking nicely in the park. Guess who has been walking nicely in the park without a leash, for years? Treats? Don’t be absurd.

9. Miss Tibbit gets a treat for sitting nicely when the WideEyedSpouse comes home. That is simply no way to display love and absolutely does not deserve a treat.

10. Finally, the worst offense: Miss Tibbit gets fed treats one after another for an hour during training class.

It’s on.

I now realize I have been going about this all wrong. I have made poor lifestyle decisions. Sniff the winds of change WideEyedHousehold. Say hello to Bad Hamish. Say hello to well-treated Hamish. You have been warned.Good bye and good day.

It simply isn’t possible to give thanks without cranberry sauce. And stuffing.

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WideEyedSpouse and I sat in the Mini in the only remaining spot at the far, littered end of the suburban Wegman’s supergrocery last evening. The teeming swarm at the city Weg’s where we usually shopped had been too scary to brave. I figured suburban families would already have their feasting supplies and we’d be ok out here in the hinterlands. I watched a grannie yank the last grocery cart away from a hapless young man a few car lengths away. I had a bad feeling I had miscalculated terribly.

The Spouse held up the list. I held up the grocery sack and the tire iron. We bumped fists and rolled out of the Mini in good formation. Evaporated milk, stuffing mix, jellied cranberry sauce -in-the-can, Reddi-whip, condensed mushroom soup; the critical essentials of a classic Thanksgiving. The rest of the ingredients were already at home, but without these final pieces it would just be a nice dinner, not THANKSGIVING dinner. Problem was, the ten thousand pushing into Weg’s up ahead were after the exact same items.

We squeezed into the store and passed the fresh vegetable section, thank god we didn’t need celery. Two men were down over there, their wives standing on their bodies to reach the celery remaining on the highest shelf. I saw a roiling mass of women at an endcap about 5 meters away. I could see cans behind grabbing hands and pushing bodies so it was soup, cranberry sauce, or evaporated milk.

I’ve got your back, the Spouse said in my ear as I handed him the grocery sack and tested my grip on the tire iron. I plunged in, yelling excuse me’s and ducking under arms. I saw stars when I took an elbow to the eye, and blacked out for a moment when a spikey boot heel drilled my left foot. I had no time to think, but I realized this situation was too serious for manners. I shoved the tire iron through a gap in the bodies and propped it on a shelf edge making a wall for me to squeeze in against. Something battered my shins, and I looked down. A toddler was down there sent in low, his mom pushing his diapered bottom to get him closer to the goods. I planted my foot in front of him, leaned on my tire iron prop, and grabbed a can of soup. I lofted it high and in my peripheral vision watched the Spouse’s long arms snag it. While he fought off scavengers in the back I snared a can of evaporated milk from a lower shelf and tucked out. I handed the can to the Spouse for safekeeping in the grocery sack.

We trotted quicktime past the dairy cases along the back of the store. The Spouse used his height to reach into the open door above a dithering shopper. He grabbed the first can of whipped cream he could get. I checked it as we jogged up the baking aisle. Fat free. Huh. Too bad. I looked along our back trail and considered revisiting dairy to try again. Reading my mind, the Spouse took the whipped cream and shoved it in the sack.

My foot skidded in something on the floor near the end of the aisle. It was red – cranberry sauce, we’re close I told the Spouse, pointing to the smear. He looked past me and paled. Blood, he said. I turned my head in time to see a fit woman in a Barbour jacket toss a hank of hair and scalp to the floor next to an unconscious woman in a suit. She grabbed one of the final bags of stuffing mix and a can of cranberry sauce. I wanted to send the Spouse into the hole she made in the crowd before it closed and we lost the chance at the supplies but he wouldn’t go. It’s all women, he argued, I can’t go in there hurting women, I’ll be arrested. He looked at the crowd. Besides, they’re scary.

Fine. I bounced on my toes and limbered my tire iron arm. Best to be quick, I thought, in and out. I grabbed the back of the True Religion jeans in front of me and yanked upward, hard. The woman in them shrieked and fell back, pulling at her wedgie. I rapped a khaki-clad knee lightly with the tire iron and that suburban mom went down whimpering. I stepped over her and the shelving was almost in reach. I pushed off the ground and jumped high, coming down with my arms on the shoulders of two wiry yoginis. They should have collapsed. They didn’t. They were clearly far stronger than me and I didn’t want to get into a wrestling match with these rubber bands disguised as affluent and good-looking suburban moms. I backed off and applied the tire iron: ribs on the right, ribs on the left. Hah! Both went down! – yoga doesn’t make ribs stronger. I reached for the last bag of stuffing mix with my right hand and with my left cracked the tire iron down on the wrist of a husband who had been brave enough or stupid enough to battle women for a can of cranberry sauce on Thanksgiving Eve. He screamed like a little girl and dropped the can. I caught it on its way to the linoleum floor.

I crouched low and backed out of the fray, feeling the Spouse pulling me along by my belt. I shoved the tire iron into my pants and we stepped out into the main front aisle, smiling and walking slow – acting normal so that the howling crowd didn’t sense the value of the swag in our grocery sack. We weaved through a jam of laden carts and I worried about folks buying 25 pound frozen turkeys only hours before they needed to be cooked to safe temperatures. Spouse grabbed a sack of frozen French cut green beans from one of the carts and held it to my eye. It was starting to swell shut and that along with my injured foot made us vulnerable in the crowd.

We cleared check out in only 17 minutes because Weg’s had an armed officer enforcing the 10 items or less rule in the last two checkout lanes. The Spouse zipped the grocery sack inside his coat and we headed for the Mini, frowning with deep concern. These expressions were camouflage. Thousands of hostesses still flocked the entrance to the store and we had the last of two of the essential Thanksgiving ingredients. We never would have made it to the car if we had appeared triumphant and relaxed.

The Spouse put the Mini in Sport Mode and we fled home. Now, on Thanksgiving, my eye is less swollen, the pie is in the oven, and dinner is scheduled for 5 o’clock this evening. I am smiling across the room at the WideEyedSpouse and thinking grateful thoughts about my world. Happy Thanksgiving friends. May you have much for which to be thankful.

Why does Miss Tibbit smell like meat?

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Something isn’t fair.

I crouched down so I could see under the table. Hamish was worried and had squeezed himself under the low shelf of the stainless steel prep table in the kitchen. He looked across the floor at me and asked again, “Why does Miss Tibbit smell like meat today?”

I sat back. “Well, you know Tibbit is a Bad Dog most of the time on walks, right?” Hamish just looked at me. In his opinion, being a Bad Dog was no reason to smell like meat, unless the Bad Activity had been stealing a packet of meat from the counter. No dog has ever perpetrated this act in the WideEyedHousehold. Hamish would have known.

He kept staring at me, waiting patiently for an explanation.

“Hamish, remember when we all left the house last night and left you upstairs in your room?” He blinked. “We went to dog training school.” He stared at me some more, still not clear on the meat connection.

“Apparently Miss Tibbit is so bad, that the Dog Teacher said to give her a treat if she was good for even a second. The treats are bacon beef snacks and she was really bad and then really good a lot during training.” Hamish perked up. “I’m good all the time,” he suggested, “if I am bad first do I get meat?”.

I sighed. Of course Hamish is good all the time and I didn’t want him to be bad. He also tends to portliness. But, peace in the household was important. “Want to have some dog school here in the kitchen?”

Hamish popped out from under the table.

Hamish walked like a man. He sat. He stayed. He went into a down. I tossed Hamish meatie snacks, cheerios, kibble.

Walking like a man.

Snack down the hatch.

Miss Tibbit watched all this training with increasing concern. She couldn’t stand it anymore.

Miss Tibbit tried to walk like a man, but instead she jumped 5 feet in the air and snatched a treat out of my hand. She sat. She stayed. She went into a down. “This is it,” I told her and tossed the last snack.

Snack really down the hatch.

Hamish smiled at me and snuffled the floor next to Miss Tibbit just in case someone missed a treat.

Peace in the WideEyedHousehold. Until someone rings the doorbell.

Dare I wear surgical gloves on the plane?

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Would I look like a freak, or would people be jealous?

I don’t want to touch any more crusty, sticky, or slippery patches. I’ve had enough. To prove I’ve had my fair portion of gross, I’ll share a few of my highlight ick moments from the past week.

I was heading to the farmer’s market on Saturday and I needed cash. Evidently farmers prefer that I pay for my $1 butternut squash in cash-dollars. I hit the ATM on the Canisius College campus. It is also near the Metro entrance. My fingers slipped from the greasy ATM buttons so badly it was actively difficult to punch in my digits. And oh, the ATM foyer stank of pee and vomit. So nice.

WideEyedSpouse and I hit the Central Library on Sunday afternoon.  I felt something chunky under the entrance door handle. The skin of my fingers tried to crawl off. I am so thankful that whatever it was had dried to chunks.

I scooted into work on Monday. The stair railing on my way to my office floor left a sticky residue on my palm. Normally I don’t touch stair railings, but my foot slipped on something gelatinous. A goober I think.  That’s 1970s kid speak for a mass of phlegm.

Tuesday at Target, my hand slipped off the grocery cart handle. I blame spittle. Baby spittle I hope. Although I’m not sure why baby spittle is less gross.

Today, Wednesday, I have to fly.

Have you read the studies? I have. Flu, cold, TB, MRSA, E. coli, lysteria, pneumonia bacteria. All normal. Skin crust, boogies, hair, chewed off finger nails? Expected. Greasy unexplained smootses on all seats? Of course! Wet spots? Annoying but unsurprising.

Even if the booger is not infectious, even if the hairs floating around do not carry lice or too much skin crust, I don’t want them touching me.

I just figured out my solution.

I am hitting the Home Depot on the way to the airport. I’m getting a full Tyvek suit. Oh yeah. With gloves and a mask too. Maybe eye PPE. I know when my fellow (disgusting) passengers stare it will be out of jealousy. And I figure there’s a pretty good chance I’ll get an empty seat next to me.

Miss Tibbit does not care for pixies.

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Nor does she like princesses. Finds Captain America alarming. Is disturbed by tiny Spidermans.

Chefs, nurses, steampunkers, post apocalypse victims, bees, cats, and ninjas – also Not OK.

Miss Tibbit alerted us to her concern for three continuous hours last evening. A tiny pixie quivered and shook in fear as she selected a tootsie roll from our bowl of treats. Miss Tibbit’s gaping, toothy maw was visible and audible in the large window behind me.

I get that it is a little weird for Miss Tibbit, having strangers tromp up onto her porch. Ringing doorbells. Yelling in high voices “Trick or Treat”.  But I had to ask her, Miss Tibbit, where were you when someone stole our middle sized pumpkin yesterday afternoon? Why wasn’t an actual perp more disturbing than 30 inch high vampires?

Miss Tibbit had no answer for me. She sniffed my face while I asked and tried to look intelligent.

I know I would paint better if I had a pair of Dickies painters pants.

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I own a nice brush. I bought quality paint. I sanded and primed properly. I’ve painted ceilings, walls, trim, floors in 5 different states, 6 different domiciles. Satin, flat, matte, semi-gloss, stain, paint stain, epoxy, and varnish. Interior, exterior, basement, attic, kitchen.You name it. I’ve painted it. And while I’m no pro, I can lay some paint.

But you know what? I was standing in Sherwin Williams the other day waiting for my paint to shake and I saw that their Dickies painters pants were on sale. It was a really good sale, only $18. That’s a great price for any kind of pants, an exceptional price for magic skill infused painters pants. I didn’t buy them.

Here we are, a little more than 24 hours later and I am commencing with painting the bathroom. I am all geared up in my ladies Carhartts and I am feeling ill-prepared. Queasy that I could do better.

Don’t mistake the situation. The ladies Carhartts are good, solid pants. They lived in 3 states with me. They traveled to 3 continents with me. They knelt with me inside them in the mud of a 4,000 year old whale hunting household in Chukotka. They crouched with me in 27,000 year old cave deposits in Portugal – where they also worked with me on a 100,000 year old Neanderthal beach camp. These pants and I have spent weeks on survey in the Western Aleutian Islands.

Now, here in Buffalo, they are paint pants. But the trouble is, the thing that keeps bugging at my mind, they are FIELD pants really. Not paint pants at all.

I just have this terrible feeling that I do injustice to the pants by painting in them, and injustice to the bathroom paint jobs by not having the proper pants on for the job.

The magic pants!

UPDATE, REMARKABLE UPDATE: From 1,500 miles away, WideEyedCousin D had my local Sherwin Williams store put aside a set of painters pants just for me. WideEyedCousinD, I thank you, the paint thanks you, and the house is ever-so-grateful. The Carhartts just want to hug you.

Are you heading to the basement?

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Cruising on the Kulana Huli.

Are you heading to the basement? The Spouse asked me. I glared at him, turned a page in the LL Bean winter coats catalog. I didn’t want to head to the basement. The basement is where the fitness gear is kept. The stationary bike. The weights. The Bowflex that came with the house. The basement is a place of boredom and discomfort. I dislike it. On the other hand, I do like reasonable blood pressure and the ability to be agile as my person betrays me with age. So, as a household the Spouse , the dogs, and I frequent the basement. The people use the wretched gear. The dogs sniff the cat box and chew things.

Joe’s Deli has new specials up today, the Spouse continued on in an apparent non sequitur. It was a sneaky tactic. In the secret language of our long association he was suggesting two things: 1) Get take-out – and house rules state that if you SAY take-out, we GET take-out. Period. He didn’t quite say it though. 2) Avoid the basement – take-out and basement rarely occur on the same day.

I flipped more pages in the catalog.  It was a crummy choice. The basement and good health but no delicious take-out OR take-out and an escalation of the impending waistband emergency.

What if – and here I looked up to make direct eye contact with the Spouse – what if we rode our bikes over to the deli to get the take out?

The bright light of my genius flared the room and the Spouse stood straight and tall. He looked at me with love and awe. And so it was.

Buffalo Zoo bison at dinner. Dining in tonight.

And it was great. I saw wondrous things on the ride to the take-out. A small red rubber ball, the kind that come from gum machines and dentist office chests, sadly lost and alone on the street. A jogger, a thousand joggers in the park, sweating and puffing. I smiled at them from my dignified, scarfed position aboard the mighty Kulana Huli. I bet they weren’t getting take-out.

I stopped at the zoo to look at the bison munching  their hay. We saw a butt made of pumpkins – with a stuffed straw person built around it to look like someone’s pants were drooping as they bent over. An angry or mean young person was flinging cds into traffic from atop an apartment building. A dog ran into the street and was saved. A cop car went by in massive fury, sailing over bumps at high speed. I smiled at a guy mowing his lawn and he smiled back.

Blurry Pumpkin Butt. Me and the Kulana Huli cruised by too fast for a clear shot.

Within 30 minutes of the decision, the Spouse and I sat the stools at the kitchen table with a cheesesteak for me and a turkey reuben for him. His beer bottle fitzed when he opened it, and my wine gurgled into a glass. We smiled pretty smugly at each other and I think at the same time sneaked soggy take-out chips to dogs.

Hamish Rides Console

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He’d ride shotgun but he is too small to see out the window. So he rides Console.

Riding Console in the trucks we’ve had over the years is easy. The space between the driver and passenger seats is huge. The console is a big padded platform that looks like it was designed to provide mattressy respite for beefy man arms. There’s enough space that a passenger beefy man arm would not accidently touch a driver beefy man arm already using the console. Hamish the Corgi fits on truck consoles with room to spare. His panoramic view of traffic, countryside, and snacks being eaten by the passenger is unparalleled from the console.

However.

When Hamish cruises the urban scene with me and the Mini Cooper S, he struggles to maintain the attitude of superior contentment. You can see that he is smiling, but maybe his back teeth are clenched. Smile and clench your teeth – then say “this is great”. That’s exactly how Hamish looks riding the Mini console.The Mini console is low and he mainly has a view of the giant Mini speedometer. The console is narrow. He wedges his barrel chest between the seats and perches one front paw on the console in front of him. The other he rests on a human or waves in the air to counter balance g-forces on spirited turns. The console is short. About two thirds of Hamish hangs off the back, dangling in space over the rear seat floor boards.

None of this deters Hamish. He will shove Sweet Miss Tibbit out of the way to ride console. He calls Console before we’ve even left the house. Before my shoes are on, or keys are in my hand. As I lift the dogs into the back of the Mini, Sweet Tibbit watches Hamish hustle his fuzzy person into the console position and sighs. She sits behind the passenger seat and leans against it to watch the world pass. Sometimes she peers over Hamish’s ears, asking what’s going on up there?

Nothing much Sweet Tibbit. Nothing much.

Miss Tibbit wants a turn on the Console. Never going to happen.

A goldfish escaped in the car.

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It isn’t what it sounds like. I didn’t actually lose a Carassius auratus auratus in the car. It isn’t like the time the lobsters got free and headed for liberty under the seats. We could hear them shuffling around under there while we sped for the house. I held my feet up, sure one was going to get me. The Spouse had to keep his foot on the gas, his Achilles tendon vulnerable to lobster attack.

Today I lost a tasty, cheddar cheese flavored multigrain Goldfish™. I like to buy them in the 30 ounce milk carton. Probably there are about a million in there. 75,000 servings of crunchy saltliness. And as we were driving along in the new all-black nearly perfect Pathfinder, one of them flopped its way out of the carton and disappeared in the crack between the seat and the console.

The Spouse didn’t turn his head but I could feel his awareness of the escape.

I casually reached two fingers down into the crevice where I could see the fish stranded on a small ledge. Nothing. I peered down into the crevice. Gone. Disappeared into the underseat ether.

Uh oh, I said. The spouse laughed. Not like a hah-hah laugh, but an oh-great kind of laugh. He claims not to care too much but I sort of doubt him.

I doubt him so much that I debated whether or not to tell him about the other two escapees who hid under my leg for a few hours. Maybe he won’t notice the Goldfish shaped oil smootzes on my seat.