Stressful day. Actually a bad, bad day; Nothing goes right, and I ache to drop this life flat and run to search out old hipster friends--just to hear someone sit quietly and pick a guitar. So driving home from work at 12 a.m., I'm looking forward to seeing deer in my yard. But, tonight, when I need them, the deer are across the river eating my neighbor's hay. Worthless deer. Tears move close to the surface, when I turn off the loud 4-wheel drive truck. But one thing I know--for dead certain--is I'm not going inside to sit in a pool of self-pity. I'll stay out in this ice land all night before I'll sit on my floor and fall face-forward into a "woe is me poor victim stance." Solutions?--none. First, I want the key to unlock my 22 to shoot at the moon, which I can't see behind the clouds. But I now it's there. The moon won't desert us like some famliy and friends do. It can't walk away. It's got to run the tides, the hecks sakes. But the key to my pistal is lost; Thank heaven. So I fall out of the truck, since I'm too short to step out gracefully, and stand to squint at the trees where the deer bed down. I'm emotionally stuck. But, slowly like small drops of water rolling off my roof, I hear the Quiet of my farmhouse laid out in the new snow, and walk in a circle.... I've never been able to find the exact words to describe snow falling past my big yard light.
It falls soft and light as if the flakes barely disturb or move the air. Quiet. The only sound tonight comes from ice breaking up in the river. The world begins to shift and change and fall back into reasonable places.
I can hear my dog, Patch, clawing at the door to get out. He loves me, can't wait to see me, needs contact with me, or he stops eating, drops into severe depression, which makes it hard to have my oldest son babysit him when I travel. I change into boots and my Minnesota coat, wondering if he got this disease from me. Patch jumps around my boots; I watch the sky for a break in the clouds. The snow falls straight down and makes the trees look like they float above ground. I study the sky again and remember making snowmen with the kids on nights like this: a familiar ache churns into it's fiamiliar pattern. I feel like spitting out a swearword. Surely, there's a way to live without constantly grieving the loss of people I have loved--some I'll see again; some are gone like they've been blown out of the universe by a hurricane--before I had time to wake up and say a proper, dignified good-bye....
Geez, I sound like a Carol King song. And who am I talking to anyway--the trees? the covered-up moon? or to God? I'm disgusted and throw a snowball at Patch. He runs around me, barking; he thinks we're playing. So . . . we do play. I roll the first snowball to make a snowman--Never mind. It'll be a snow woman (I hate all men tonight including my dad and my boss)-- mindlessly, roll it too big, I suppose forgetting that it was my boys who lifted the packed-down snow, forgetting that Patch is obviously too small to help me, and he's worthless anyway, since he's over by the river barking at ducks he can't even see but knows are there--somewhere. He trots back, tilts his head at the snow ball and heads for the trees to flush out the deer, who, for some reason, are usually there, but are not there tonight. This is life--animals, things, family, friends should be there, but, really, are not ever in a close enough landscape. The cat, who lives with us so distantly that I haven't even named her, is trying to get across the snow to where I'm standing. I wonder how she can see me through the flakes as she jumps daintily from one pile of snow to another with a faint, pitiful meow before every jump. She loves me also, but is a worthless cat who crawls up and sleeps by my neck as soon as she hears Patch snoring. If she makes it across the snow field, I realize I'll have to carry her back, and since she's not used to being carried, or even touched, she'll scratch the heck out of my neck. Wow. Geez, life is complicated for those in a bad mood, who like to complain. Turning back to start over on the snowman, I leave Patch to bark at phantom deer and by 3:00 am, I've made a very anorexic snow "woman" with small Christmas bulbs for her eyes, nose, and mouth--they shine--(I don't want her to have ears). She wears a cowboy hat and a tie-died red scarf, and though she tilts to the left side, she is one Picasso of a snow woman. "She's so fine," my artist friends are going to be jealous; Sculptress Friend Ann, move over and eat your heart out. I pat more snow underneath her left silver-ornament eye to keep the wind from sailing it into the river, since it's not real silver. It's not even plastic, but more like glittered egg shell. Nice. So nice. This Snow Woman is taking grand art prize of the year. I'm certain; they'll freeze her, wrap her in cellophane, and ship her back east to a famous museum, probably the one where Meg and I learned that J. Best is the only male we know who loves Wuthering Heights as much as we do. Even her stick arms still have dried leaves on them. A western Madonna. A Greek goddess. Just before I reach for the cat, who is now crouched against my boot, watching every shadow in tight fear, I'm proud--I'm feeling very proud--especially proud that--tonight--I beat back the Big Bad Blues, sans Ipod, sans late night TV, sans Alive PM.
Note to Em: Sorry I yelled at you during the whole phone call. I can't do that anymore. Just way too expensive for the minutes. Really. Sorry. You'll just have to come up here if you want criticized like that again.
Joe G. came to take me to lunch and left a note that was better than any mere lunch. Has anyone seen Grifter's hand writing? It looks like calligraphy. When I grow up, I want to write like that. But the cynical, music-lover that he is cannot write a straight-up note if it kills him. He turns everything into satirical drama, which makes life more fun. What a treat.
I, myself, would have written: "Hey. J. Came to take you to lunch." Not Joe. He starts with no salutation and turns the note into poetry: It's rings faint like "Forgive me; I ate the plums . . ."
Sharon
I stopped to take you to lunch.
You were gone.
Rain check. . . .
I also want you to know
That I would have bought
dessert.
Next time, dessert is
not an option.
PS
I was also tempted to
steal your checkbook.
Joseph Wyatt Griffin
