Hereunder

Tread

Oh, for a little more tread!
I slide with such deciduous dread --
The grooves have grown wan,
And the grip is long gone,
And the hooves are as slick as a sled.

Smooth shod on the side of a hill--
A slippery slope, if you will:
There's lawn to be shorn,
But, my sole is done worn,
And, the dew will deal a great spill.

Ode to an Easy Chair (prose)

I have not written in a while. Not much of anything. Haven’t been writing out the bills. Haven’t been writing vitriolic rants to the Washington Post. Haven’t written to my mother. It was too hard to write in the throes of construction. Bad lighting and stacks of boxes, dust and disgust.

But all of that is going to change. I got a new easy chair. It’s a Laz-y Boy. $550 of rockin’ and reclinin’. And now I am determined that it will be the impetus for me to pick up the pen, or the laptop in this case, and put ideas into words and then into print.
So here I sit in my new living room in my new easy chair, poppin out prose that is probably a waste of electrons.

So here I sit, on the only piece of furniture in the largest room in the house. Big enough for a pool table everyone tells me. Light streaming through the windows. Room enough for thoughts to unfold and spread their vines.

Phew… that was refreshing. I better take a break

Talking the Dog

Gentle visitors, the dog is yawning, which would indicate either

1. She is relieving stress and communicating calmness to canine-minded beings, or
2. She's heard this story many times before.

No. 2 is the likely explanation. 

It's not as if we don't talk.  Your humble Contributor talks, and she attempts to determine whether the noise coming from the master's mouth involves a) getting food, b) going for a walk, or 3) getting more food.  Once she determines that the noise has nothing to do with these possibilities, then she assumes a slightly quizzical countenance for a moment, in case there's something just as tantalizing in store, then she walks away and lays down, resting her chin upon her paw.  In this manner, she communicates, via her body language, that she has entered a mode of passive endurance.

We have attempted to explain to her the true calculation of dog years.  But, this has gotten old.  One can almost here her say, "Listen, Bub, how ever you figure it, life is short.  Particularly for me.  So, get to the point.  Are you gonna give me some food or take me outside or what.  Otherwise, shut your yap."

Some gratitude, when you consider that your humble Contributor saved her from the name "Ginger".  Instead, she was christened "Kyna" -- from the Gaelic for wise, intelligent, exalted.  Well..., that didn't really pan out did it, pup.

Even so, we are reminded that next month begins the Year of the Dog.  Therefore, to honor our best friend within the same animal order, we will tell a shaggy dog story -- not one with a point, but perhaps one that would confer some wisdom upon the whole canine thing -- thereby, earning Kyna her name -- inspired, of course, by a 4th Century thinker.

It will begin anon.

Poor Relations: The Hanging

Girl, we haven't talked in ages.

Sure, I haven't been out of the cottage since the whole incident with the hangin'.  Every time I tink of it, I shutter at the taught of it.  Musha, how I begged and pleated -- but, sure, all for nought.

Saints in heaven, I've heard of it, but not from ye're own mouth.

Well,  there was the poor, old, blind Venetian layin' there on the side -- spent, y'know, sad lookin', waitin' on a final disposition, like.  And that bronze-like Roman -- shades an' all -- bound up and being led up the steps.  An' I'm tinkin', sure, 'tis curtains for this fella!

Faith!

So, I'm wantin' nothin' more than to holdback the whole affair.  I says, ''Tis all wrong.  'Tis crooked as a blackthorn stick."  Well, at that, the hangman himself casts a black eye back on meself.  Then, he turns an' takes a length of rope, ties it down, 'trows th'other end of it over the traverse, and makes a knot of it. 

An', there's the awful panel on either side - all high and mighty, with their ascots and their scarves and their 'blousons' and their fancy trim , y'know -- full o' swag and jalousie, they were, the lot of 'em.    Sure, I had mind to a take hard finial to their jabots and scallop their headings.

Save us!  But, sure, what was the poor Roman up for?

Nothin' but a bit of pinched cloth.  'Twas nothin' but a railroadin'.

God spare us!

An' here am I lookin' on -- the sheer terror of it, the hooks an' all -- an' so I says again, "Sure, 'tis all wrong.  'Tis crooked and all wrong.  Stop it now, or ye'll feel the cuff of the Bishop's sleeve!"

Faith!  What then?

Well, then, Himself marches down the steps and hands the whole thing to meself an' says, "Here, you hang the damned 'ting!" 

An' I says, "Sure, that's the last time I'll ask you to put up any bit of drapery around here.'

Well, you were right with that.  Still, he's a fine figure of  man.

Well...  he is, at that.

Out Of The Gutter

Gentle visitors, what with the recent rains, your humble Contributor looked up this weekend and, noting the cataract from the roof, inserted into his mental to-do list another item:  clean out gutters. 

It is likely that the household's storm-water management system has been clogged by the arrival of copious maple seeds -- said maples hoping to father (or mother, we're not really sure) many saplings.   Wonderful designs of nature they are, especially for scientists and whatnot.  But, it is strange how what once gave delight now gives trouble:  handfuls of these whirligigs tossed in the air -- or, better yet, dropped from a high place, -- once became a squadron of helicopters.  And, for that matter, consider the honeysuckle -- upon a time, gently breaking the tender white petal at the base and drawing out the pistil until the drop of sweet-smelling nectar appeared --  and, these days, the gardener offers to rip out the creeping vine.  Or, the buttercup -- a quick lie detector for those claiming to hate butter; or dandelions -- an economical and spontaneous bouquet for mom -- now banes of the cultured landscape.   

Nevertheless, we must ascend to the roof and perch there like an erstwhile gargoyle, scooping from the aluminum channels what will soon be a primordial muck of arboreal detritus.   It must be done.

Many visitors believe others would do this work.  Indeed, they picture your humble Contributor strolling on to the broad veranda of his manor house, clad in a silk smoking jacket, lighting his meerschaum with a bowl carved in the likeness of Ruskin, and looking out with satisfaction on his expansive estate, the cheerful, industrious servants clipping all manor of shrub and snipping all manner of grass.  Here comes into the picture one of such servants, all smiles:  "Morning, Guv'na.  Blimey, if it don't be a beautiful day!"  "Right you are, good man!  Capital work you're doing.  Carry on."

No.  The truth is he must do this work himself, and -- mind you -- he's not complaining a bit.  No sir.  Why, a tuppence in his pocket and a Tupper's Hop Pocket at days end -- that suits him fine. 

And, in truth, he will likely be doing this work 30 years hence:  see him -- slowly and carefully mounting the crown of the roof with his walker, then easing down the far side to the back gutters, hoping the sawed-off tennis balls will slow his decline.  But, if not, there's worse ways to go than headlong into the arms of Mother Earth, followed by a delightful trail of swirling maple seed whirligigs.

The Lawn God

Pray to the god of verdure,
To the Ancient Greener of Seed;
Lay down your lime, spread your peat, and
Spray your weed and feed.

Sow in the arms of summer,
To the humunous womb of the Earth;
Grow your rye, your fescue, blue, and
Mow when the blades give birth.

Cry to the West for moisture,
To the East for heat and light;
Dry your eyes, bide your time, and
Ply 'til the foil is bright.

Say to the god of winter,
To the winds of the North unsound,
"May the soil stay rich, the roots stay firm," then
Lay down on the hoary ground.

Car Spree: Part II

Check out the ending in last comment . . .

Originally posted by Blue Clinkers.

Car Buying Spree?

Admittedly, this will be a self-serving sort of post that is counting on the goodwill and the expertise of Hereunder fans (you know who your are!). I'm venturing into the shadowy underworld of buying a car--a minivan. The Dodge Caravan we've had, alas, has been tempermental from the outset--time to trade her in! No regrets.

I'm thinking about going to carmax.com, one of those no-haggle places. (Admit it, the last place any of us wants to be is across the desk from a car salesman in a Hawaiian print shirt, who will go check with his "hard-nosed boss," just one more time for Joe Consumer, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah . . . ) --yeah, right. Is anybody really there behind the door. And if so, what do they talk about in those tete-a-tetes?)

So, if anybody out there has any sage advice or cautionary tales for this intrepid would-be car buyer (yes, even at carmax.com--I trust no car salesman) please post comment soonest!

Originally posted by Blue Clinkers.

Dog Daze

Full disclosure: With some guilt, I admit that I am not a dog lover. So the following has left me both musing and wary:

The president of our local civic association recently pointed out that the 2000 census had revealed that our neighborhood had the highest population of dogs in the county. This bit of information has emboldened dog owners to organize doggie gatherings via e-mail in the local park. (This in a community that has become known for its rabid fights over dog parks vs. people parks--green space is scarce here.) For example, the past Halloween, dog owners announced a doggie party in the park. Imagining hundreds of barking dogs tricked out in plastic masks and nylon costumes--is it a pit bull or is that just a mask?-- I declined the magnanimous invitation, recognizing it as a throw away gesture extended to local humans for the illusion of being “inclusive.”

The whole shaggy business brought to mind the time that I ran into a school acquaintance who had married her childhood sweetheart and was now pursuing a law degree. We met up unexpectedly at a diy copy machine in bookstore near the campus. “Yes, no children yet. But we have a dog,” she volunteered. Apparently a stratagem to staunch all further talk on the subject of progeny. I, being unmarried, only felt it a bit of a non sequitur, and we prattled on about mutually known family members.

Predictably, (she always was a smart gal) now she is a high-powered lawyer living in a mansion in a tiny hunt-country-like suburb 20 miles from her big city offices, and I hear they have at least one child. But what about the dog, I wonder?

I wasn’t sure, but smarter minds than mine have done a little extrapolation. P.D. James’ novel, The Children of Men tells the tale of how in the not-too-distant-future, the contraceptive mentality of the good people of England has reduced the dog-loving Brits to oohing and ahhing over Fido in a pram, all dolled (or dogged?) up in infant’s clothes. There are no more children being born in England! A Jamesian fantasy, you say? Read on about what’s happening over here.

In a certain office in a certain city, 20-something and 30-something marrieds and unmarrieds have recently succumbed to kind of dog buying frenzy. One newlywed couple, who had talked briefly about children in the early months, bought a little dog instead. A year later, they are divorced. He got the dog. Another young couple, bought a collie, and had to yank out the carpet of their brand new townhome when the dog developed a variety of allergies--all of them rather hard to pin down. Allergic to what was uncertain, but the vet at least is benefiting. Final outcome: time to buy an additional dog as a companion--one for him, one for her. Co-workers left and right, were becoming new dog owners and trading stories about the sleepless night with puppy, worried calls to the vet, and cooing over doggie pictures on screen saver and cubicle, as if the dogs were, well, human children.

What can a non-dog owner do, but smile and say “How cute!”? In an effort to get to the bottom of my dogged indifference, I made a quick list of nearly every dog that I have ever known, in the hope of arriving at some grand insight.

Charlie: A skinny, white short-haired dog with brown spots, that raced around the front yard. “Charlie! Charlie! Get back here!” yelled the Reilly children as the dog tore across their front yard. Mischievous Charlie never listened.

The Yapping Terrier: The ferocious guard dog one tricycled past very quickly. Unless you were Irene, who would walk up to the gate and give it a good shake to fully activate the dog.

The Dalmatian: A cool, taut dog with odd eyes. Even as a 7-year-old, I noted how the owner held on to its leash.

Max: A golden retriever of Aunt Helen--the first dog I liked.

Polar: The dog-next-door, later childhood. A Great Pyranees needing much combing and pooper scooping. Dogs demand responsibility.

Sergeant: A toy poodle. Very affectionate, but a little tongue goes a long way.

Sasha: An Akita. One smart dog, and big!

Bones: My sister’s dog, loving and sloppy.

Colby: Her next dog, a much beloved black lab.

Shadow: Her current dog, also black. Scared the dickens out of my four-year-old son--a dog lover in potentia.

Happy: No idea of the breed. Small and furry--and appropriately named. I learned that dogs must be walked--even at night.

The Chocolate Lab: A housemate was dog-sitting. This lab was a dog I could love!

In Peking: No dogs noted, except as ancient statuary. Apparently, Communism has no room for dogs.

On Hampstead Heath: Rather too many sleek whippets and other racing dogs. It’s
happening, P.D.!

My own neighborhood: A dog in every house--except ours, it seems.

It’s a limited list, I admit--perhaps an indication of my rather circumscribed life. So I can only offer my limited insights.

To those who have persevered to the end of this account, I ask whether you can offer some stories of canine heroism or humor that might endear me to the animal race that I fear is on the ascendancy in my town.

When the re-education camps get set up, Dear Reader, I want to be ready!

Originally posted by Blue Clinkers.

That Sinking Feeling

Bertrand stood slighty hunched, his sleeves half-rolled, his mind half-there -- a man obsessed.

I can't take it, he thought. Everything's going down the drain -- sinking -- and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I'm ready to throw in the towel.

Each night, the same dread exchange:

Him, pushing back the chair and standing up: "Tonight?" Her, looking cruelly amused: "I think you know the answer to that...."

Was he surprised? Each night, the same bleak routine: Gather himself. Scrape the leftovers from the day -- he might better be lapping them up like a mongrel. Toss another poor fellow on the rack. Add another to the stack.

Is it me? he thought. Am I a fool? Or, a hypocrite? Cleaning the outside, leaving the inside unclean? He considered the mundane and soiled wares of his life.

No, he thought. No more of this stupid second-guessing. No more "is the glass half-full, is the glass half-empty" claptrap. THE GLASS IS EMPTY! I HAVE POURED OUT EVERY DROP.

He cast about, almost desparately, looking for something, anything that might reverse the terrible conclusion: but, everything reinforced what he already knew: he was ground down; he was beaten; he was toast. He could see the black coils reddening and feel their heat pressing in upon him.

Then, he saw the knife. He took it in his hand. Ah, the warmth and weight of it; its steely sheen; its dull, semi-serated edge. Could this be it?

Suddenly, he felt a presence nearby. Slowly, standing in place, his hands unshifted, he turned his head to the right. There she was. Their eyes met, and, for a moment, it seemed like a lifetime of feelings would rush out like an open faucet. Then, she spoke.

"Bert?" she said, in disbelief. "What 're you doing? Stop playing around, and get the dishes done."

He looked at the diminishing suds.

I was just finishing up, dear.