wideeyedfunk

Tag: Buffalo NY

  • Independence Day.

    Thanks to the bold minds and brave signers of the Declaration of Independence, and their willingness to see it through we are here now:  equal, free of abuses, repeated injuries,  and usurpations from Government, free of a Government which refuses to pass laws, free from the obstruction of justice, free of taxation without representation…er.

    Ok.

    Well.

    Thanks to the bold minds and etc. etc. were here now: basking in a glorious summer day of picnics and simply joys. The people of the WideEyedHousehold came of age in one of the New Jersey shore towns, working to serve the holidays of one hundred thousand city-folk. Now, we wallow in the quietude and privacy of a day of independence, without obligation.

    Sweet Tibbit the Useless-Little-Black dog waits patiently for more raspberries to ripen on the thicket in back yard. She already harvested all within reach using her front nibble teeth, stretching her neck, balancing her dainty toes on the edges of the raised beds to reach more. Hamish watches, pretty sure this is Not Allowed but not sure enough to administer chastisement.  I rescued enough for yard-raspberry French-toast for breakfast.

    SmokedThe WideEyedSpouse hovers over the bounty of his 16-hour overnight pork shoulder smoke. Ten pounds of darkly barked smoked pork await conversion into pulled pork sandwiches, tacos, omelets, pizzas, stews, Shepherd’s pies, burritos, lettuce wraps, grilled cheeses, soups, stir-frys – who knows what desperate lengths we’ll go to.

    The baby-toe cactus and the Venus-fly-trap feel it too, exploding with vegetation regeneration in mad blooms, and yes, picnicking in the case of the fly-trap. A desiccated gnat carcass is revealed as one trap slowly reopens in the morning sun.

    Plants

    I stand on the freshly scrubbed front porch, watching the flag undulate lazily over the bees tending their lavender in the garden. Main Street is quiet for once. Instead of driving here and there, bustling and hustling, the Good People of Buffalo seem to be taking the day. The park was full this morning of bikes and kids and dogs and golfers. We weaved and bobbed among them all on the park loop until my bike chain broke – creeee-clank – and then we walked with them.

    Flag

    Independence Day.

  • Matching up the eyes.

    The littlest WideEyedFunk was holding his head in his hands when I saw him in the living room. Spent, frustrated, and angry, he stared at his new bike helmet laying on the floor. It looked like a lumpy neon-green billiard ball.

    “What’s happening there?” I asked him. I felt like a giant standing over him. I was crunching on a snack and idling away an afternoon. I’m used to small beings around the WideEyedHouse, but usually they are dogs and cats of limited sentience. How interesting to be able to talk to a small one and expect a real, human-language response.

    He sighed.

    Ok, well, that was sort of Hamish-the-Corgi like in nature.

    “No really,” I persisted despite his terrible angst. “What’s wrong?”

    The small one looked up at me and ran his hands over his head. “I can’t get my bike helmet to fit.” He put it on his head. Backwards. He was correct. It did not fit. The straps dangled in the wrong place, his ears were being pushed awkwardly, and it came down over his eyes.

    I crunched my snack for moment, having a good look at the situation. He waggled his head around and the helmet plopped into his lap. I saw that there were two air vents in the front and four in the back.

    “How many eyes do you have on the front of your head?” I asked him. He was intrigued and put his hands over them. “Two,” he giggled about my obvious lackwittedness.

    “Uh huh. How many eyes do you have on the back of your head?” Now the small WideEyedFunk was totally focused. He put his hands on the back of his head and looked at me, all wide-eyed with his two front ones.

    “Four, right?” I said it like it was an obvious fact. He nodded, yep, he could feel them back there for the first time.

    “Match the holes in your helmet to the eyes in your head – two in the front, four in the back.”

    I watched the small one inspect his helmet and count the vent holes. He held it up over his head, double checked the eyes to vents match up and plonked it down. He smiled. Problem solved.

    Helmet 1

  • The interview ends with a worm.

    We’re here with Hamish the Corgi and Miss Tibbit-the-useless-little-black-dog. It’s painting season again here at the WideEyedDomicile. The Bosses are up on the scaffolding along the northwest side this season, scraping and painting yet another architectural complexity.

    We asked Miss Tibbit what she thinks of the house painting activity.

    “Well,” she looked either thoughtful or vacant, it isn’t easy to tell, “it is really pretty boring. We just sit around in the yard. There’s not much to do.”

    Hamish looked sideways at her. “That’s a negative attitude.” Tibbit snorted. “Look at them up there,” Hamish waved his nose upward, “they stay in one place for hours at a time and I can keep my eye on them.”

    “Whatever,” Miss Tibbit seemed doubtful. She sniffed the air and “Hey, there’s a worm over there!” She spun on her hind legs and took off.

    “What??” Hamish ran after her.

    Another day, more of the house painted. We’ll check back in with the WideEyedHousehold next week.

    Dogs

  • Epic morning walkies

    The WideEyedSpouse scored a vintage Royal Racer sled on walkies last evening. There it was, plonked in the trash with an old broom, crumbling wood, and a broken snow shovel. A little yellow sticker on it says “SALE. $1.00”. The sticker itself is old.

    I was going to write about that for a bit.

    Then Hamish ran through a giant pile of crumbly leaves with a big smile and bouncy ears. The universe might have been created so that Corgis would have the opportunity to run through leaf piles on a sunny fall day. The joy-power generated might fuel cosmological function.

    But the morning uni-blocker walkies this morning turned interesting on me. Characters and circumstances converged and the mundane transformed to epic.

    We crossed the street in the wrong place because a young man on our sidewalk looked nervous about passing Hamish and Miss Tibbit. This unexpected act suggested adventure to the Corgi and the Useless-Little-Black-Dog. “What are we doing over HERE?!” they exclaimed to one another. Peeing on the neighbors rose bushes it looked like to me.

    A young female dressed entirely in black with long blond hair nearly to her knees appeared ahead of us. She looked back at us every few seconds. Hamish stared at her. We crossed the street in another strange place – before the Cigar Man’s house and after the dying oak tree. “We NEVER cross here,” Hamish said, sniffing down the middle of the road, lingering to try to cause trouble with the bicycle coming.

    “PPPSSSSSHHHHH-ACK!” Miss Tibbit lunged at the tabby cat sitting next to a redbud tree. She jumped and barked in mad joy. She smiled at Hamish – “Almost,” she laughed, “almost.” My heart and head pounded with unnecessary adrenaline.

    We rounded the corner with the nine foot privet. Never can tell what’s behind it. Today a foot in teeteringly high leather strappy pumps appeared, followed by the rest of a mid 60s woman in tight jeans, leather jacket and full face make up with smoke easing from nose, mouth, and hand. “Oh, look at him!” she set her coffee down to pat Hamish, who stopped to receive his due. “Let me show you a picture of my dog,” she said. Tibbit jumped up and down next to me. We peered at a smart phone screen, smoke whirling around us in an alchemical haze. “Oh, that’s a big dog,” I said, looking at a massive border collie on a 2 inch screen. The person flip, flip, flipped through her images, stopping on a close up of two legs pressed together. “Now that’s someone’s thighs,” she said, “don’t know how that picture got in there. I thought it was a butt at first.” Flip flip flip…

    The giant yellow mastiff from down the street turned the corner. Silence. Stillness. A low whistle sounded in the air, marking the standoff. Hamish, Tibbit, and I dove behind the hedge, the mastiff owner dragged him behind a parked mini-van, the woman gazed at her cell phone screen – who’s thighs were they?

    Sweating, breathing hard, and soaked in perfumey cigarette smoke, we made it to the end of the block where a shaved-headed man endlessly, hopelessly raked leaves in a giant yard. He threw his rake down to greet Hamish. Tibbit jumped up and down. “I’ve had a lot of dogs,” he told me, “and you control them by making them sit every time they act out.” He looked at Miss Tibbit who sat quietly by my side, head atilt, curious. Miss Tibbit and I looked at each other, then at him. “Oh,” he said. Hamish peed on the leaf pile behind him.

    Then we ran. We ran and ran and ran. Through leaves, over cracked sidewalks, around a corner and across the street again. Parked in front of our house a car steamed, hood up, nearly done for. Hamish paused, interested. He glanced at Tibbit, “Shall we?” “Cookie,” I stated firmly, I could see our door, I could feel the end of journey, I longed for my desk. Dragging feet, head low, Hamish and Tibbit followed me in, listened to the slam of the door, and bid farewell to the very best part of their day. Until afternoon walkies.

  • Lucky, redefined.

    “No more estate sales,” the WideEyedSpouse decreed on the way home from the upholsterer. We had just paid the deposit for redoing an antique sofa we scored for 20 dollars. It wasn’t going to cost 20 dollars to make it usably un-stinky and gross.

    “No more upholstered furniture at estate sales,” I negotiated. He nodded. “For a while,” I amended, ignoring the sharp look he sent across the center console.

    That was seven months ago. I broke only once late last spring and came home with an iron koi, an iron dragon, and antique porcelain vase with a little bird on it. Indisputably all cool things – none needing upholstering. “Ok,” the Spouse said, patting the dragon on the head and smiling at it, “no more estate sales until the house is painted.”

    June. July. August. September.

    Last night we stashed the scaffolding in the basement. The fall rains started and the temperature dropped. We’ll finish next summer. This morning I saw the Spouse flipping through pictures on his computer tablet. “What’s that?” I asked. “Oh, just that estate sale down the street…we don’t need to buy anything but we could go to see the house.”

    New Lamps 2

    My new lamp has wee tiny koi fish as feet and the paint work is chipping a little bit. It might be a 1960s tv guide, limited edition kind of a lamp. It is sort of grotesque. The Spouse’s new lamp is a monstrous purple thing with hand painted flowers. It seems to be a Frankenstein, actually DESIGNED as a mash – maybe as some kind of post-war quickie production. Repurposed oil lamp parts, similarly designed cast metal pieces, sketchy wiring, giant glass globes, and decades of filth battle it out for most repugnant aspect. The red Christmas bulb in the base portion gave the thing a repulsive faux-Victorian, bordello glow. “Oh man, that’s something,” I said when the Spouse flicked it on – bravely flicked it on because the wiring was exposed through ancient electrical tape.

    But here’s the thing. My new lamp goes, perfectly, with the imitation William Morris rug in the living room. The Spouse’s looks like it was made to complement the unspeakably ugly antique cotton Craftsman-era rug in the dining room.   “How lucky,” I just said, “that no one bought these before the clearance prices started.”

    New Lamps

  • Should I be proud that I outsmarted dogs?

    We’re out of dog biscuits.

    No, I mean, we’re OUT of DOG biscuits. Cookies. Snackies. Num nums. Call them whatever you want, doesn’t change the fact that the jar is EMP-TY.

    The WideEyedHousehold economy runs on milkbones. I don’t want to hear a lot of noise about dogs should listen.  They listen just fine when they want to. And when they don’t want to, I rattle the cookie jar lid, sharpens their hearing right up.

    I carry a pocketful of cookies pretty much all the time. Dogs are less apt to be nervy when there’s a pocketful of cookies around.

    But we ran out. No Cheerios to replace them. No Cheez-its, chips, or peanut-butter-stuffed-pretzels. Nothing. The WideEyedSpouse and I are on our own. I opened the fridge, hardboil some eggs? Too messy. Cut some cheese chunks? No, I’ll end up eating it all linty from my pocket and everything. Arugula? That’s just panic talking.

    My eye fell on the bin of dog dinner kibble on the bottom shelf of the pantry. The dogs like it there so they can hang out near it. Sniff it. Stand near it. Lick the edges. I had a sneaky, underhanded, dishonest thought about that kibble and the empty dog cookie jar. No one was around – Miss Tibbit was upstairs policing Ancient Wiggins the Cat, Hamish was policing Miss Tibbit.

    Slowly, quietly, so so so so carefully I scooped a handful of kibble and threw it in the cookie jar. Sound travels faster than the speed of light in the WideEyedHousehold and after an ultradense clatter of dog feet on the steps, they stood, waiting, staring at the cookie jar. Glancing at me.

    “Who wants a cookie?” I asked. Hamish ooched his butt forward and Tibbit sat firmly. I lifted the cookie jar lid, selected two pieces of boring, everyday, nothing special dinner kibble and flipped them in the air. “Snap!” Snap!” They trotted off to harass the cat some more.

    I smiled the Grinch’s smile.

  • One Score and Two Hours Ago…

    …the Spouse and I married on a Tuesday afternoon and unbeknownst to us, the WideEyedHousehold formed. Coalesced. Here we are four apartments and four houses, five cities, and 16 cars later.

    We got married at 2:30pm and I planned to stop and think about it at 2:30 today – exactly 20 years later. When I looked at the clock it was 4pm and I was folding whites in the basement laundry room. I thought back. At 2:30, the Spouse was vacuuming the downstairs while I vacuumed the upstairs. Evidently marital harmony sounds like whining Orecks.

    Twenty years ago today I had on a purple dress with a little row of flowers along the back, Watteau train level. The Spouse had on a suit, the first of the three he’s owned as an adult. I remember our family sort of awkwardly assembling at the church, then there was some chanting, then we were married. No one bothered to turn on all of the lights in the church. It was after all a Tuesday afternoon, not a busy God day, and marrying folks doesn’t take all that long.

    Today I’m wearing a Chewbacca for President t-shirt and shorts. The Spouse, a red polo shirt and shorts. We rode bikes to the farmer’s market, hit the bank and post office, and stopped at the Lloyd’s Taco food truck in the park on the way home. The sounds of a city Saturday stood in for ceremonial chanting and the sun gleamed through breaks in the clouds. I thought about 20 years’ of marriage the whole time.

    What we have here is one of those linear moments, a point of connection with the past so clear and strong that the intervening years fold. Then and now seem the same. Overlapped. I am lucky that the connection is positive. The anchor secured in that day is tied to an ever-spindling line of love, connecting me and the Spouse through the times, the places. Connecting us so that the promises we made 20 years and two hours ago matter the same now as they did then.

    Later we’ll put on the fancy: the current version of The Suit for the Spouse, a dress with a purple pattern and bright red shoes for me. We’ll have a nice dinner in a place with valet parking. And we’ll smile at each other.

  • Abeyance

    Yep, this is the summer of abeyance.

    The house isn’t quite painted. Decisions about staying or going are waiting until the green is replaced by blue on ALL FOUR sides. “And on the garage,” the Spouse says.

    The grapes aren’t quite ripe. Miss Tibbit the Useless Little Black Dog hangs around the arbor, so they must be close. I caught her using her nibble teeth on the bird netting. “You’re going to have to wait,” I told her. Unbelieving she licked her chops and glanced at the fat clumps of red grapes.

    My grant proposal MIGHT be funded but we won’t know for sure until October, when the federal budget passes or fails.  “Just hold tight,” the grant program officer told me. My heart thumped HARD twice, then pattered away a little quicker than normal. “Have you ever had a heart attack or stroke?” the Doc asked at a recent check-up…

    Amazon hasn’t shipped our package of dog poop pick-up bags yet. One thousand small black bags for one thousand offenses against the neighborhood. I’m carefully hoarding our few remaining bags. “Oh no, you are DONE,” I tell Hamish the Corgi as he thinks about marking another lawn on evening walkies.

    I might need to go to Alaska on business. I might drive to Virginia for family. We might take the Mighty Mebe on a road trip to Boston. We might be out of half and half for tomorrow’s coffee. I might need a new outfit for dinner out on our 20th wedding anniversary – “Isn’t it funny,” the Spouse helpfully stated, “how I can just put on my same old suit but you need a new outfit every time.”

    Advice givers and poets might say to live in the now. Don’t tell ME to live in the now. I live plenty in the now. Right NOW I’m working to accomplish what is DUE NOW. Right NOW I can smell the aromas (stinks?) of hot lavender, French thyme, and asphalt floating in the front window with 92 degree heat pulses. I see the late summer sun battling with enormous cloud formations piling over the lake. I hear my neighbor blasting epic sneezes in his kitchen.

    Abeyance, urgency, tranquility, reminiscence. These are the life states I balance, or usually FAIL to balance. Too much tranquil thinking leads to greater urgency. Too much abeyance removes the ability to reminisce. Urgency supersedes all.

    I’ll take a little abeyance here and there. Abeyance means hope and change and renewal. Abeyance is an ever-bloating bubble of potential big and small, a grand swelling of options – sure when all fails the swelling is like a necrotic plague bubo but let’s not linger there – SOMETIMES the swelling is gloriously buoyant like a pre-Hindenburg Zepplin…and ok  I’m not sure that analogy is going in a good direction either…

    But. Abeyance. Hold tight. Hold fast. And smell the sun warmed herbs.

  • Save the grapes.

    In past times the marauders took all.

    Dragon

    This year we vowed to defend against their incursion.

    Castle Building 4

    The harbingers arrived yesterday evening, as we ate the evening meal. I gazed out the open windows and into the gardens as is my habit in weather fair and foul. The grape clusters are small this year, but numerous, and their purpling flesh glowed in the lowering sunlight. I admired their bounty and watched the leaves of the vines rustle in our summery breezes.

    Grape1

    But wait. My eyes sharpened and I peered intently. Not breezes rustling the leaves! Not breezes at all! The leaves shook and shimmied as two, no three, no! Many robins and starlings gripped the vines with tiny feet and ravaged the fruits with rapacious beaks. A fight broke out over a particularly lush patch. Wretched pillagers fighting! Over MY grapes!

    “They are here!” I announced to the WideEyedSpouse, “They are in the grapes!” He slewed about in his chair and gaining his feet stormed the arbor with determined strides. The winged looters fled his arrival, perching tauntingly out of reach on roof and tree.

    The Spouse returned to the kitchen. “Our loses are small yet,” he gravely reported. We thought on it. Do we cede all to the feathered freebooters? Do we protect the harvest, as we vowed? “The air rifle we saw in the market earlier today would make short work of the problem,” he decided with a dark eye. I could see him measuring distance, angle, wind – seeing in his mind’s eye the small pirates falling from the arbor. Neutralized.

    “Yes,” I agreed, uncertain of the wisdom of this choice, “but they are many, and you must sleep sometime.” We loaded into the Mighty Pathfinder and set about procuring defensive matériel. We fought even tinier marauders bent on attacking our very persons, buzzing in our ears as we draped the precious harvest with fine netting.  “How can this work?” we asked ourselves of the fine, light nylon.

    Today the vile garden thieves circle the arbor, cheeping tactical data to one another.  The netting wafts in the airy day, effective still. Wish us luck Friends, as we guard our precious grapes.

    Grape2

  • High places

    Miss Tibbit and I stood in the rain eating black raspberries off the canes in the backyard. I reached high, Miss Tibbit plucked the low ones with her front nibble teeth. Their pure, rain-washed fruitiness is soothing my stomach after a feast of lamb vindaloo and chicken xacuti, samosas and deep-fried paneer at the Taj Grill. I can hear the rain pinging on the steel frame of the scaffolding. We should be painting. Monsoon-like rains and passing lightening storms make it impossible.

    Lion Stout from Sri Lanka. The WideEyedSpouse said it was heavy on the mocha flavors.
    Lion Stout from Sri Lanka at the Taj Grill. The WideEyedSpouse said it was heavy on the mocha flavors.

    The scaffolding arrived a week ago on a big rig. It traveled across country for 22 days to get here. Twenty feet of bright yellow painted tubular steel and mini-girders. So cheery. So horrifyingly high. From July 2 to July 5 we spent the daylight hours perched on Level 1 (6 feet), Level 2 (12 feet), Level 3 (18 feet) scraping, washing, priming. The husband of each neighboring household came to see. From my aerie they all looked the same: wide legged stance, arms crossed over the chest, head tilted back, mouth a little open. I think the WideEyedHousehold looks a little otherworldly up there with gangling arms and legs working on the small 2 by 6 feet platform – reaching out, over, up, to deal with the house’s overhanding soffit and decorative exposed rafters. The high roof and architectural details looked so cool (“badass” the Spouse says) when we bought the place. I didn’t think about spending days and days with them.

    SCaffolding 2
    The aerie in position.

    One set of neighbors had a party over the weekend. From my post up high I could smell the bbq, drinks, and perfume. The women’s dresses were a swirl of color. Kids laughed and played. The men kept easing around the corner of their house to peek at the scaffolding. I painted on primer during their cocktails. I painted through their dinner. I painted as they sat, idling with wine into the summer evening.

    WEF, up high.
    WEF, up high – and the ground crew.

    The WideEyedSpouse and I spelled each other in the high places. I don’t know what he thought about up there, but I started jealously guarding my time on Level 3. The breeze was nice. Voices faded to murmurs and traffic on the nearby Scajaquada Expressway rumbled at a deeper tone. Squirrels and birds chirping and chittering in the trees were my companions. I became nothing but arms attached to a paint scraper, or arms with a paint brush instead of a hand.

    “I can’t believe you are painting your own house,” WideEyedNeighborP said. “What else are we going to do all summer?” I said, “Sit around on the patio and drink?” I think when we are done I’ll install the scaffolding among the back yard maple trees. My own industrial tree-house. It’s possible I’m becoming weird.