The Turmoil
“The
house is huge. You know that.”
; “Yes
but...”
“The
ROOMS are huge. And too many of
them. What do you do with all of
them?
The
ceilings are HIGH; really high.
Someone could live up there; in that space. You ever go up there?
On a ladder or something?
What’s that about: You made
them that way? What are you
thinking?”
“Well...
when the architects actually showed me their drawings I admit I didn’t
understand their scale.”
“Scale?”
“Size. It is all bigger than I thought.”
“Watch
your head.”
“I
always do”.
“Your
suppose to hit your head you know; it warns you your going inside. Or coming out. That’s why they made them (New England
Colonial ‘cape’ doorways, especially the ‘back’ [north] doors) that way, low
and small; to wake you up. Make
you tend to business.”
“Tend
to business?”
“Yeah
like remembering to close the door once your through. No one ever leaves our doors open.”
“Those
are sliding glass doors. They
always leave them open.”
“When
you’re here. Right now they are
closed. ‘CLOSED UP’ you call
it. Sliding glass closed up.”
“Well
we could open them.”
“But
your not going in there now.”
“No,
no... not this trip. I just want
to get the mast figures. Take them
down to the shop. They wanted as
much of the original paper drafts as I can find. There’s a big bag of it.”
“It’s
heated in there isn’t?”
“That
shop’s always heated. HOT in there
actually.”
“No. Not the shop. Your house.
It’s heated. Right now. The heats on. Right?”
“Of
course it’s on. But not much.”
“What’s
much?”
“They
keep it a fifty.”
“Who’s they?”
“Who’s they?”
“The
men who check the house.”
“In
this weather I figure I’m doing well if my house is fifty. Touches forty overnight.”
“Yeah but your house is a
whole different thing. You live in
a log cabin compared to me.
“Maybe
you should get her an apple ladder to put in the ceiling space.”
“Apple
ladder?”
“A
ladder for picking apples. An ‘old
Maine tool’ in the classic sense.
All farms had one. Maybe
even three. To put in an apple
tree to pick the apples. They’re
an old Maine orchard tool. I find
‘em in barns. Or used to. Most have been scalped off these
days. Already on display in
someone’s high ceiling. You
know: LOFT.”
“They’re
just a ladder? What makes ‘em an
apple ladder?”
“Taper
at the top. Wishbone. START normal ladder at the bottom then
tapers down to nothing at the top.
To fit around the branches.
Really very nice.”
“Nice?”
“To
look at. With the taper. Old wood. Old surface.
Some can be really handsome.
An old set of three. Good
old ones. That’s what you
need. Everyone will say
something. Cost you a little. Actually... cost a nothing to you. Wife like’s em.”
“My
wife likes them?”
“She
will. My wife likes ‘em. Can’t fit ‘em in our house. Put ‘em out in the barn a few days and
then sell ‘em. Good ones sell
good. No problem.”
“No
problem?”
“Yeah
there’s always someone like you around with space for ‘em; the high ceiling
set.”
“High
ceiling set?”
“Same
as the sliding glass door set.”
“Same
set?”
“Keep
the house at fifty set.”
“I
don’t understand you”
“I
don’t expect you would.”
If
the people ‘like that’; ‘from away’, buy an old Maine house on an old Maine lot
that was once part of an old Maine property... and... tear it down in total or
just ‘fully renovate it’... do I need them?
Yes. I do. As an antiques dealer.
There is always a chance they will ‘get serious’ about furnishing their
home-of-their-doing (“summer place”) with antiques
They
buy from me.
After
that and otherwise... most things do not draw us together.
I
cut my own firewood, haul my own firewood, store my own firewood and burn my
own firewood. I never ‘get enough’
and ‘always run out’. That is the
way it is. The big house folk buy
their firewood; hardwoods in split professional uniformity, and ‘have it
stacked’
In
the garage.
Never
stack firewood in a garage... and who has a garage anyway.
I
burn all my firewood up all the time.
That’s what it’s for. The
big house has the same stack of firewood in their garage
For
years. Sometime they use some
sometimes for a fire sometime... on, like, a cool day of July rain. “The fire feels nice”. They say.
I
have one snow shovel... and a backup in case the wife suddenly wishes to ‘join
in’. That never happens. Big house folk have their house
‘plowed’, ‘shoveled’ and ‘sanded’.
They are ‘not there’ and the house is ‘heated to fifty’. I have a plow on a truck that I hope
will start when I need it ‘to plow’ ...us out. I hope, each winter, I don’t have to do that... much. I also don’t like it to get really
cold. The truck won’t start and I
have to turn the furnace on; burn some oil to ‘keep the pipes from
freezing. If I don’t do that I run
the risk of the faraway cold spots in our little house... ‘freezing up’. I don’t like plumbing problems in the
winter. “No one does”. In my little world.
I
park the truck at a certain angle in front of the barn doors where, there, the
winter sun blasts its radiance... right on the hood of the truck so that...
maybe... it will start... “around one-thirty in the afternoon”.
“WHY
DO YOU PARK THE TRUCK UP THERE?” the big house man asked me
Before
the storm
When
he came to “SEE” an apple ladder:
“THAT’S WHAT THAT IS.” He,
looking it over, said he “WILL TELL HER ABOUT IT”. No sale.
I’m
used to that.
He
kept his dog in his car. One of
his (their) dogs. We don’t have
any dogs. They are expensive. A luxury. A vanity. Big
House would like to let his dog ‘run’ here at my place but he knows it will go
directly to the compost and eat its fill.
That’s why I have compost piles?
Yeah. Sure. That’s why. His dog loves bacon grease. Big House looked around in our (farm) yard. I saw him look at the compost. I could see his wheels turn. Or maybe I saw his dog’s bowels churn. Right? Anyway; he’s got that figured out.
Before
he came over I ate a bowl of chicken soup for lunch. We save the bones we generate; put ‘em in a bag in the
freezer. Every two weeks or so she
make a broth (“soup”) of them and then I use that as a base for my lunch. She puts in onions, celery and
carrots. I add some pulled
chicken, a chicken leg if I’m lucky and some broccoli. Piping hot... lunch. Just before Big House cell calls to say
He’s
on his way.
I
need something in me to stand my ground.
Big House COULD actually buy something... but he has no idea WHAT that
could be and neither do I. So I
have to ‘get ready’. To ‘deal with
that’. You know what I’m talking
about.
We
don’t have chickens. Did once...
for sixteen years. Too expensive
now: A luxury. A vanity. Now. There are
so many ‘egg men’ around now I can get as many farm fresh eggs as I want all
the time every time AND they still got “MORE”. How many eggs do I eat anyway? Not that many.
Anyway:
They
say it’s farm fresh eggs. They
ain’t. What that damn food they
feed ‘em; that “layer mash” in the big feed store bags. Yeah; that stuff. They all feed ‘em that. Got the feeder boxes. Yeah: What is that stuff.
Just think about it. Use
that and egg cost goes UP and ...what is that stuff... from the local feed
store? Really. The whole little guy egg thing needs to
be ‘looked into’ (think about it with a pencil and paper; you ARE loosing
money): And... if they eat ‘that’
do I want to eat ‘that’ too?
“I
don’t think so”.
Big
House is always talking about “EGGS” he “BOUGHT”. You know; ‘bought local’. Farmer’s market.
He gets himself a couple of “DANISH” too. He likes those with the goo-gob of “raspberry jam”. Awful lot of raspberries go to
‘jam’. I like my raspberries fresh
picked and mashed up in a bowl with just a... goo-gob of vanilla ice
cream. Not too much ice
cream. Pick the berries your
self. YOU AIN’T GONNA GET A TICK
on you JESUS”.
Okay
tick: Stay inside the big
house. Leave the Maine wilderness
to Professional Mainers.
At
the boat yard, down by the shop, Big House’s boat is under the cover at the
left; beside the shop. “It’s being
worked on”. What’s being worked
on? Nothing. What’s it need worked on? Nothing. Been ‘sailed’ in the water almost seven hours since he
bought it six years ago. So it
always needs to be ‘worked on’.
Get it. Too bad I can’t
sell him some antiques to put on that boat. His wife DOES entertain on it. The boat HAS been used to ‘entertain’ they call it. At the start of summer (Memorial Day)
they ‘put it in’. Then nothing
happens. THEN...: All get in the dingy and go out and
‘entertain’ “ON IT” ‘in the harbor’ until it ‘gets dark’. Then they go back to the big
house. It all makes sense. Right? I just want to get some money out of it.
Big
House always has to come in our house when he is the ‘come over’. He agitates until he gets ‘taken in’. Yep: Agitates. You
know it when you see it with these folk:
NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE IT (us living like that). “YOU REALLY DO LIVE LIKE THAT.” he told
us. Told all the from away folk
too. Back there; from away. He’s in Connecticut. The part of Connecticut that is part of
Manhattan. You know; everyday...
back and forth. “FARM FRESH EGGS”
to that I say. Anyway. He ducks his head pretty good now and
noses around. Sniff’en the
air. Bread baking. Two loaves. Don’t go given HIM one. Still to hot anyway.
“OH YEAH WE EAT THAT HOMEMADE BREAD all winter long TOO JESUS”. He’s a courteous gent. Knows good behavior when he’s in the
enemy’s camp. I told him: “Living here. FOR YOU: This
is just one long camping trip we’ve been on. Over sixty years we’ve be ...just camping out.” He sort of got it. Brushing my teeth outside in the yard
is a stretch. He’s used to hovering
over the sink with the hot water going ‘full’. That’s the real truth here: It’s a real lot of very small things that
Creates
the turmoil.
Of
course he could still buy something.
