It’s been a while

It’s been a while

I promise I didn’t intend to just walk away the way that I did—a number of things suddenly came up and got in the way.

To be fair, though, I did intend to take a break. The last story I published wasn’t a story at all, it was bits and pieces cobbled together from a novel I’ll never write. I was a bit bummed when I hit “Publish” on it because it wasn’t any good, but then I had my schedule to keep so I did. It was time for a break.

I hadn’t meant to stop right away, but then my chickens died. I learned later that an outbreak of highly-contagious avian influenza (“really bad bird flu”) in this region. My poor free-range chickens must have been infected by some random bird that stopped in my garden on the way to or from Lake Victoria. One of them was sick on Sunday, and by Tuesday all were dead. A veterinarian advised me to euthanize them once it became clear that they had all been exposed, but I wasn’t sure I had the strength, physically or emotionally, to do it quickly and cleanly. Instead, when their seizures hit, I scooped them up and stroked their backs and whispered to them to keep them calm while their little hearts gave out.

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The Girl With the Flaxen Hair

The Girl With the Flaxen Hair

My father grew up in a two-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of a six-story building on Jane Street in Greenwich Village. The apartment had been purchased by his father in 1944, and nobody was ever able to explain how a Steinway Vertegrand ended up in the living room. It had come with the apartment, and the sole attempt to remove it, sometime in the early 1950s, led to the discovery that while it could fit just fine through the front door, there wasn’t enough room in the hallway to turn it around so it could go down the stairs. Some giant could probably lift it over the railing and onto the stairs, but between our landing and the exit to Jane Street there were seven hairpin turns, and the piano would have to go up and over the railings each time.

The potential buyer had his money returned and the piano was shoved back into its space, where it was covered with muslin and used to display pictures and houseplants in front of the window that didn’t lead to the fire escape.

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Milestones

Milestones

Assuming I stick to my schedule, this Sunday I’ll publish my 100th post. (Actually it’s my 101st, but there was a post that I deleted before anybody could read it because it was stupid, so it doesn’t count.)

I think now is as good a time as any to take a look back, and think ahead about the future.

I started this blog almost a year ago, basically out of spite. I was mad at my boss and decided to show my displeasure by no longer coming in an hour early to catch up on email before the morning meetings. (I also stopped attending the morning meetings, because I was catching up on emails. So take that, Boss! Even better, I still won an award for my good work, and the one time someone asked me about my attendance at morning meetings I threw such a fit that they never asked again, so really it was a win-win for me all around.)

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Kaitlin’s Chinese Courtyard

Kaitlin’s Chinese Courtyard

On their second day in the new house a couple of things happened that, while noteworthy at the time, took on a special significance in hindsight. The first was the trio of apple cores placed in the mailbox to ooze apple juice onto the circulars.

“Maybe a squirrel put them there,” Kaitlin said. Yvonne raised an eyebrow. “Maybe it was an accident,” she tried again. One apple core might–might–get swooped up in the mail and deposited accidentally, but three? “Maybe some kids put it there. Maybe they’ve been using that mailbox as a convenient trash can for a long time. They might not know anyone lives here now.”

Yvonne didn’t say anything but kept her skeptical eyebrow arched as she carried the apples and mail to the kitchen. The mail was all junk anyway. The apples had more juice in them than any apples she’d ever seen before, though to be fair she was never really fond of apples. She was about to toss the cores into the trash when Kaitlin chirped, “Compost!” Yvonne carried out them back to the compost tumbler. Along the way she wondered if she could compost the mail, too. It was just paper, after all, though probably mixed in with some deadly-toxic chemical that saved the printers a few pennies per pound.

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