Sweet December

November is over, but it managed one final malfeasant act. It was a prankish and quite frankly mean-spirited attack on the better-liked month of December.

The house I rent is not yet finished. The off-island carpenter employed, who we privately call "Father William" for his habit of lecturing to his captive audience, is mildly AD/HD in his work. Well, not so much the HD part. Having labored on one bit long enough to call it "progress" but not "finished," he moves his attention elsewhere (often to a cup of tea and his next bit of advice or lore). For example, only the outlets on the west side of my bedroom have been installed. On the four-plug box next to my bed he installed a single outlet and plate- there is electrical tape covering the space where the other outlet should be. When we requested an outdoor outlet to plug Christmas lights into so we could see our way into the house, he threaded an extension cord out the basement window, and rigged it to our basement lightswitch, so if we want outside lights on and the basement light off, we have to unscrew the bulb.

Speaking of electrical work-

On the last night of November, I was standing in my entry way, about to go out, when I noticed a plateless switch that sat a foot and a half higher than the other switches. I flicked it back and forth, but it didn't affect any of the lights in the immediate area. Alison, my housemate, and I shook our heads at the generally unfathomable designs and intent of our carpenter. Generally a cautious gal, I turned it to the "off" position. We headed down our three-board entry ramp, and off into the starry island night.

The next day broke cold, with a vicious wind. It screams over the thoroughfare, up the hill, battling little resistance until it grapples furiously with our windows. It was trash day. Bending into the wind, Alison and I brought out the household trash (anything plastic, or otherwise not bio-degradable/burnable) and the recycling. I got back inside in time to watch in comparative warmth while my neighbor, clad in only a nightshirt, chased after his errant garbage. It was warm indoors- but only compared to the ten degrees the wind chill offered outside. Alison and I keep the house a sixty-five, and sometimes it feels nippy in the morning. We didn't think much of it. I worked on baguettes (looking ahead to au jus sandwiches), and Alison made breakfast. We opened the first window on the advent calendar.

While we had a to-do list for the day, much of it couldn't be done until later. Settling down on the couch under a polar fleece blanket, we watched Thirteen Going on Thirty. By the time the movie was over, our noses had started to drip. While the thermostat was set to 65, the temp in the house read 55. We set out to investigate, a pair of intrepid women who had previously lived in apartments and dorms. Perhaps we had run out of gas? It would be a wonderful start to December. The tank was suspiciously hollow sounding. Merrily raiding the tools that have settled into the house like Brits in 19th century India, we grabbed a "wrenchy-thing (!)" and set about hooking up the full replacement tank. Alison, from her limited past experience, did remember that in this case it's "righty-loosey." Soon we had everything changed out, secure in the knowledge that it was right and tight- having performed the soap bubble test Father William had advised.

Having resolved the issue, we burned our paper trash, then decided to go out for a Christmas tree. It could only be more fun to do this in ridiculously cold and windy weather. We dressed for it (see photo). We went into the woods, tromped about, failed to find a fir, and brought back a likely-enough spruce, as it was only destined for the porch. Alison tossed the tree onto the decking from the front, and we started around to the side of the house to climb up ourselves. As we almost rounded the corner, the tree went flying, fully up-right, off the deck and into Alison, who let out a startled scream. Never one to miss a scream-along, I joined in. It seemed the tree was not best pleased by the recent cuts made.

After discussing how we would rig the tree to the porch, we put it in a sheltered place, and went inside. Which was still warmer than outside, but was not as warm as we had left it. Now it was hovering at 53 degrees. Phone calls were made: Father William was out of the house, but my mother had her cell phone and led me on a voice-guided exploration of the basement, where I discovered that our heat was hooked to the oil tank, not the gas tank. It seemed to be half-full, according to the gauge, but what if the gauge were inaccurate? The oil-man was out and about- I had just seen him down the street at the school. We called his wife, and just as we were explaining our situation to her we saw him pull his regular truck into his driveway (they are our other next-door-neighbors, the ones I have not seen nightshirt-clad). He was home for lunch and would check in later- the house was on his delivery list for the day.

Assured that he'd look into it, we headed out to take care of a fellow islander's dog. We hopped into the '42 army jeep that we have the use of, only to find it wasn't going to start if the weather was going to act so bitchly cold. We paused to consider our options. We could bike to the other side of the island where Lil was waiting to be let out. Or we could bike to the dock, which was much closer and downhill, and had the advantage of a lot full of vehicles with keys in the ignition. But which vehicle would we borrow? Father William had a Mazda mini-van, and auto theft would serve him right for not putting any outlets into Alison's room until two months after she moved in. But our friends Kate and Steve had a Cherokee that we were accustomed to stealing, and we are creatures of habit. It was a gorgeous day for a drive, and we enjoyed the trip to the east side of the island, played with Lil, and checked to see if the chickens had laid (which would be our bonus for letting Lil out). Much like the army jeep, the hens were not moved to productivity by the cold.

When we got back, Danny the Oil-Man/Neighbor was exiting our house. "Whelpyou'vegawtahavtankandItriedtoresetbawtitdidntdonawthinsoasI
doanknowwotsthamattahbuttheahsnoleaksoIllbebylatahtotopahoff."

We thanked him, and went inside. Our answering machine blinked with a hopeful red light. One message was from Danny, and I will abridge to "Illbeovuh." The other message was from Father William, who noted "it's not a good day to lose your heat." I called him back.

"Well, the first thing, you should check- go out to the front door, and high up to the right you'll see a switch..." I went out to the front door, stuck my head out and looked for a switch- "You'll see it, up on the right, above all the other switches." I had been cold all day, my thinking was muddled... I pulled my head back inside and looked on the walls for a switch. You can guess which switch my eyes settled on. "Is it set to on?"

"No." Alison, who had followed me and the progress of the call doubled over laughing.

"Oh, well somebody must have accidentally turned it off... I'd been meaning to put a red plate on it..."

I flipped it back on. The furnace sang out in its gentle throaty voice. The house temp was at fifty. By the time I went to bed at ten, it was creeping up toward sixty- radiant heat takes its time, especially when it's installed against the joist and isn't backed by insulation under the first floor. Happily I spent a good portion of the evening making turkey stock, which is warm work, if you stand by the stove the entire time. Today, this December the second, the house is warm, the weather is calm and clear, and I should be all set for the storm tomorrow. Of course, while I am safely out of November's reach, I am sadly still within the grasp of quirky carpentry and my own blend of bad luck and ineptitude.

Early Morning Gray

It must be almost a holiday if I am up this early. Up, showered and about to be breakfasted. Not to mention coffeed. You love verbing just as much as the next person, admit it.

I got up at five, having finally decided that my early-morning insomnia was in the right: there's nothing quite like being the first person up in the house, the coffee would brew in a mere hour, and I would have time to get showered and do some internet puttering before I had to face anyone. If you were wondering: Amazon.com is still there, so all must be right with the world.

The world, which, by the way, is wonderfully silver this morning- from the water in the sea and air to the frost on the roofs. It is just beginning to get light. Continuing on the gray theme, my Janey-cat is lounging behind me, close enough to bask in my delightful presence but not so close that she risks receiving unwanted affection. While she didn't directly cause my pre-dawn wakefulness, she certainly appreciated the hour advance on her feeding time. Now she too is taking advantage of the quiet to putter, or in her case, skulk.

Yesterday was the island's big community Thanksgiving, which is thrown at the school by the kids (and, incidentally, the staff). While we set places for about fifty people, the turn-out was closer to 30, as people were out fishing, or loading up on off-island groceries for Thanksgiving proper. Everything went as smoothly as one might hope, except during clean-up, when there were two casualties: the first-grader's salt and flour map of the island and an apple pie. The former fell, crashing into the latter before falling to the floor and breaking into an island puzzle. The pie was only half damaged and so was served as a dessert option last night when my housemate and I hosted a dinner party. The owner of the house we rent is in town for the holiday, so we gave him some of our special smashed-apple pie. There was a little bit of grit from the sand that was on the map (depicting the shore line), but as he is a geology prof, he let that pass only remarking on which beach it must have been from. He's got a refined palate for rocks. We followed up the gritty pie with a short-sheeted bed. While it is nice to have company, it does not do to have landlords feel that they own the place.

His arrival has been something of a god-send however, as it sent our languorous carpenters into a frenzy of productivity, and as a result we now have amenities like outlets in our bedrooms- or in my case, on one side of my bedroom. Even better, we have multiple toilets! The icing on the cake was that they took my demand for an outdoor outlet seriously, so now our entrance ramp (two boards stapled with asphalt shingles) is illuminated with white x-mas lights. We believe in safety first! Or at some point.

Buck! There are deer on the lawn, which means I have about an hour until the mailboat arrives. Nice rack, guy- biggest one I have seen yet. Should probably bring the compost out. Also, I would point out that I had baguette, butter and marmalade for breakfast. The baguettes came out even better this time, which might speak to an old bromide about practice. And because I am so proud, I would point out that I have recently made my first biscotti, and my first (cinnamon streusel) coffee cake.

Time to take on the day.

November

November is an elegaic month: lost leaves, more often than not, lost lives. Today my mother phoned while I was cooking dinner, and I immediately heard the "bad news breaking" implication of her calm tone. My uncle has been in the hospital, and though he's not in any intense or immediate danger, I have been dreading the bad news voice. Haven't really wanted to hear the phone ring at all. While there was some news about the scheduling and specifics of his upcoming surgery, the call was made primarily to inform me that my step-grandmother had passed away.

She had the best of conceivable ends, her daughter by her side, members of her church's chorus in attendance and singing. It's reported that she went with a smile.

I always try to imagine the encroaching darkness of winter as a blanket, see this time of year in a positive light. There's a comfort in some endings, be it the end of the day, a year, or a life. Still, November, with its chill and damp... so hard to trust, so difficult to relax. For all that I love the ride, it's not great, being a mailboat away from the family. At least it's not Iowa.

Pretentious, or portentious?

So when I misguidedly (see comments) told my mother that I had started a blog, "A View of the Thoroughfare," she immediately castigated me for the twee title. I knew when I came up with it, that it would more or less make me the laughingstock of my family, so I took her criticism with a certain degree of stoicism. As a rebel, I am prepared to face the consequences of my iconoclastic choices. I felt justified. I write this blog on the occasions I am at my desk, where the view is, in fact, of the thoroughfare. "Thoroughfare" also deserves more use: it's lovely to say and breaks down into three distinct words, "tho" "rough" and "fare," which could be part of some poetic and inspirational saying about surviving in spite of a diet of raw food. Possibly coined while enduring a visit to the Nearings.

Of course, immediately after mocking me for the title, she jumped to the assumption that this type of blog would be perfect fodder for certain New England publications. She is now planning her retirement on the assumption that I will be snatched up as a columnist for at least one glossy magazine that celebrates the photogenic and prose-worthy bits of Maine.

Also, Mom- since you read this, just know that I reserve the right to fictionalize you. Artistic license comes free of charge when you pick a pretentious title for your work. Seriously, I looked it up on wiki.

Baguettes

Unqualified success. Good with steak, good with marmalade. Though not both at the same time...

Actually... you're wondering too, aren't you?

On Blogging:

I have been neglecting my friendster blog. I chronically neglect my myspace profile.

Shit- I need to go put the baguettes in the oven.... and obviously I lied about the G rating of this blog, having already said "shit." Give me a moment... the last time I attempted to make baguettes they came out as truncheons that smelled deliciously of bread. This time I am hoping they will be slightly less weapon-like.

Back to blogging.

I live on an island. Again. This time it's an island without a bridge and a substantially smaller population. Think 45 people in the winter. Everybody on the mainland has insisted that I write about it- "you are going to keep a diary right?" or "You have to write a novel!" Anyone who knows me knows that I will squander the experience writing occasional letters, journal entries, and tiny pieces of novels and stories that will languish in piles until I bury them in storage boxes.

As always, I do have good intentions: just as I hope to consolidate my massive student loans, so too do I hope to consolidate my scribblings. Maybe. I should still write letters. Because with a general delivery address people will want to write to me, and really I should take the time to enjoy using "general delivery" as my return address. So I will still try to do my part to support the USPS. And not be a non-responsive snail mail jerk.

Oven is heated!

Blogs are odd, and starting one requires a certain degree of narcissism. Keeping one requires a certain degree of dedication.

Pause to clean up my cat's sick-up: is it an editorial comment, I wonder?

Obviously I've got what it takes to start a blog, but will I keep it up? Feel free to start a betting pool. Also, I will try not to let this become entirely about my attempts to become a passable baker.