bear tracked

Old Carl passed the word that I was looking for him, so Bear came by. He's been living at his sister's since Christmas doing odd jobs. (Read: Has no money.) Says he might need to find work. He quit drinking.
He went out to his old red truck and brought in his arrowheads to show me. He finds them along the river. Once he was cleaning up beer cans some kids left down there and "damn near poured beer on one."
He holds his favorite—some kind of club or hammer that gives him deja vu. "When I see this rock it's almost like I've seen it before," he says. "Like I've picked it up before. Maybe in a dream."

reopening

The Back Home Cafe is really open now.
Better captions, oh my readers?

a year later

I spent New Year's Eve, 1999, and the dawn of the new millenium about 15 miles from here with a guy who calls himself a Christian patriot. By that he means a white supremacist who believes that the U.N. is in league with the devil and U.S. presidents to put us all in concentration camps and take our land away and return it to the wild. He thought that this movement would begin on Y2k. I told him I didn't believe anything would happen, and I would spend the moment with him to prove it.
He sat with an AK-47 leaning up against his chair as we watched TV. We saw the ball drop in Times Square when it was still 11:00 in Missouri. My friends covering the event for Time called me from Times Square. Nothing was happening.
In disbelief, he got on the phone, calling people around the U.S. Any roads closing? power grids shut down? troop movements? police actions? black helicopters? Nothing.
To his credit, he claimed to be happy.
To my credit, I didn't say I told you so.
He didn't like the story I wrote about him at all, and the last time I called him he said he wasn't ready to see me.
If he knew I had bought a place in the next town a decade later, he would faint. Assuming he hasn't had his land taken away by the U.N.

good young boys

The cowboys show up at the cafe across the street for lunch every weekday it's open—Wednesday, Thursday, Friday. They have spurs and everything. They probably miss Hannah's morning jogs through the big cattle ranch where they work nearby. These guys are not cowboys—just kids who showed up for dinner on Saturday night with their parents. But they look like they might make cowboys some day.

why missouri?

Bath day is one reason. Yeah, yeah, Dr Bronner's, I know.

progress

Four Years Ago

Today

People have their dreams, and some dream of opening a gas station. The only gas station in town was closed last time I was here, but now it's showing signs of life. Note ice machine, which has ice in it. Note, sadly, the absence of bench and the old guys who used to play pinochle there. There are a few bottles of soda inside arrayed so as to make the shelves appear full. There are flowers which got a much-needed watering last night (as did my bedroom floor, which did not need it, thanks to this damn roof). There is not yet, however, any gas. Gas costs a fair amount to buy in quantity or else good credit, which this outfit apparently does not have. And won't, if they can't sell any gas.

pretty picture

. . .and no posting til Monday.

the butterfly effect

This butterfly wouldn't let Bill alone, sitting on his hat, his hand. Bill and Carla came over to the Goose last night, as did Frank and his cousin Ralph and Dianne, and Dianne took us all out to dinner at the River's Edge cafe across the street ("they come from miles around"). Dinner can set you back a whopping $4, including hush puppies.
The butterfly didn't attend.

where is bear?

When the restaurant to the left of Bear's house bought the house to the right of Bear's house and tore it down for a parking lot, my bet is that he felt pretty exposed. The outhouse and pump are in the back, but they had to move his mailbox, his laundry line and I guess his driveway. They got finished burning (see scorched tree) and bulldozing last week. Where is he hiding out?

PS The before pic was taken in happier days when the mallard of the duck/basset pair was alive. I have not seen the old basset hound, who mourned his waddling friend quite vocally, either this year. Yoyo, the stray bitch, is, however, alive and well. She grinned and wiggled all over she was so happy to see me. Hoping I had her friend Ruca in tow.

thomasville

Pulled into the Goose yesterday afternoon. No cell reception. No Internet. No Bear. No house next door to Bear's. And the beer store has shut down. The universe is trying to tell me something.

what's in the truck?

And why is it feeding at the enemy pump?
Hint: yes we have no bananas

loading up

Heading out to Missouri today with a load of substandard chairs, hoping for ripe tomatoes.

fireworks

Independence Day arrives with a vengeance.

new york

The Subway Singer likes the new scene at the 79th Street station. There is now a sign that tells you how long it will be until the next train comes in, so she can plan a mini performance. 11 minutes--2 songs. 2 minutes--1 verse. etc. end with a flourish.
The subway riders like it too. They can stop agonizing about how late they will be to work and just relax and enjoy.
It has been difficult writing this post because the Subway Singer will not hush up.

kitty can has baff?

You should see the dog sulking in the way back of the car now that the baby seat has pride of place.

ants

"Hi, Claudia."
It was the Real Estate lady. I never like getting calls from her the first week the houses are rented. Especially when I'm far away and soon to be a whole lot farther. And, as you know, already my septic alarm has become a whole-family affair.
"The tenants at Claudia's say they have ants."
"There weren't any when I left. Did they leave dog food down?"
"They say all the food is in Ziplok bags. Can I tell them you'll call the exterminator?"
"Well, sure. I'll call the bug lady."
"But they just love the house, and they're having the best time."

the neighbors

This is the house next door in Block Island. I have taken some wonderful pix of it with the full moon, but I really like this one.
This house may not stand much longer; the neighbors told me they plan to take it down in the fall and build a historic-district correct house similar to mine.
But I like this house, falling apart as it is. Even falling apart on a tiny slice of land it went for something like $1.2 million. If it was mine I would keep the retro roofline and make it into a glass box. You should see the view.

changing places

Truck to ferry to compact car.
To Massachusetts.
To Woonsocket.

Into the rental truck, and now playing in New York.

ready for prime time

And also very ready to get off this island!

row row row

Appearances are deceptive. This is no tranquil scene. Dangerous waters swirl. . .

clay heads

Sorry, fans, it's just been very crazy around here and will continue to be until Friday, when I'm outta here. Keep on surfin'—but don't expect any big waves.

micro-nesia

Happy summer solstice! In keeping with the kitchen appliance motif, Woo styled the micro- wave at Claudia's Surf City. Keep in mind that we already did the refrigerator a couple weeks ago. What should we do next?

cooking with gas

It seems like ages ago—well, it was ages ago—that I went out to Staten Island to pick up a much adored Chambers stove that had outlived its owner. Yes, this stove is the same type also adored by Julia Child. And me in Block Island. And now, finally, by my sister, who designed her LEED Silver-rated house's kitchen around it but was unable to install earlier thanks to certain buildings officials. Let's hear it for the girl: She found the manual on line, took the stove apart and cleaned it, refitted it for propane (from natural gas), calibrated it and now is cooking with it.

guess what

Do you know what this is?

art through the ages

They givith and they taketh away. The Artist who goes by Neruda wanted the silverfish -eaten Madonna on the left at her Block Island digs, and she also wanted her still-drying paintings (right) fetched back from Block Island to the Berkshire studio. This mother-daughter act obliges.

six yards

The driveway was in need of some remediation, so I caved and had a dump truckload of road mix delivered.
There ought to be a better headline for this picture, but I have to go out and rake the rest of it now.

our beach

This beach is right in front of the Block Island house. Look how clear the water is, how perfect the sand.
I feel threatened. You can't walk Kathleen's home beach in Alabama any more. The white sugar sand is covered with brown gelatinous gunk, and the emerald gulf waters are a thing of the past. It happened so quickly—from perfect to a setting for one of those postapocalyptic industrial wasteland sci-fi stories. We might as well start our conversion to cyborgs right now so that all we'll need is motor oil.
Here is a picture of the Alabama coast two years ago.
I think I will walk on my beach today.

stylin'

Certain people have been scornful of my efforts to do an ad for Craigslist, so I have been trying to make a picture of the Claudia's Surf City living room that critics will approve. It's hard for me (not being a professional) to balance the indoor and outdoor light so you can see the view. I styled the scene yesterday (ie, moved all the paint buckets to the other side of the room) and waited for the light to be right and the ferry to be visible coming into the harbor.
And CBA pulled into the driveway. You can see her truck through the French doors. But not the ferry.
It happened three times! A picture not meant to be. . .

spiffing up

Two weeks from today my rental season starts. It's down to painting the sills, washing the curtains, caulking the shower, cleaning out the closets and counting the sheets and screens. And panicking.
Am still looking for two weeks in August. This is posted on craigslist.

ready for race week

Block Island businesses are ready and waiting for the sailboat crowd to come into port. I launched my most recent story and hope it doesn't return to port for overhaul.

belatedly

Not only was there exciting weather that required covering and uncovering the giveaway books by the side of the road, but I was trying to write a story and the truck brakes went out. The fact that half of the blog readers are not reading on account of either they are staying with me or dropping by several times a day plus having no interweb here on island to comment probably adds to the poor quality of my postings. That and the parties. However, the party will be over soon, so expect all to resume. I got this punch list that keeps getting longer. . .

the next door

it's a girl!

people will take anything

Thank the goddess. I took many many old books off the hands of the librarian on Block Island years ago because I can't bear to throw books out. I still can't bear to throw them out, but I also don't want them any more. The solution: Put them on the road.
So far this year I have unloaded many flyblown books as well as half a container of Jack Daniels Maple Syrup, an aging sailfish rig, marginal duvet covers, a chipped plate, a half can of wood stain, a jar, assorted road maps of London and Nevada and other stuff that was bothering my life. Now it can bother someone else's.
Chris G and I have a bet on whether the puzzle with seven pieces missing will go.
And I have my doubts about the several ancient sets of encyclopedias.

so proudly

I don't know what country this flag this is from. Do you?

what a spangled web we weave

Everybody's got a home to take care of. Some do better in the rain than others. Flat roofed places like the Goose—or like Hannah and Chris's—are not the easiest. The expectant couple had to hustle off-Island yesterday to deal with a mainland downpour that went down the waterspout. No, wait, that was the itsybitsy spider.

idylls of the queen

Now known as the Queen Mother. Or Grandmater Familius.