Bereft

 He came into my life 14 years ago, as a chunky little fuzzball. 

Very early on, he showed his strong sense of “right” and “wrong” when -after having been house trained when all was covered in snow - he continued to do his business on an ever-shrinking patch of snow, somehow convinced that to go on “the green stuff” somehow just wasn’t right.

He filled the role of “goofy, clumsy, younger brother” to Zöe. (Somehow, I can relate...) He was like the big, clumsy kid you went to school with, who always meant well, even if things didn’t often go as planned. When he ate the arms on every single piece of brand new living room furniture, I yelled and ranted and raved when I came home, while he stood there shaking and drooling, not knowing what he’d done wrong or why I was raging like a maniac. It was the first lesson in my education as to just how sensitive he was. Sadly, it took me a while to figure out.

For six years, he lived in Zöe’s shadow- a role he was content to play, since it meant he had someone to look to for guidance. There was structure, there was a hierarchy, but I always wondered if he should have been an “only dog”. When she was gone, he got all the treats and all the attention and was “allowed” to have toys, but he still seemed lost without her. I understood - I was too. I guess we looked to and leaned on each other. It’s only now I realize just how much.

It took a while for the understudy to move into the starring role, but he soon became my close companion, my confidant, my accomplice and yes, sometimes, my “nemesis”. He went everywhere with me - rides, errands and walks in the woods. The last was probably my favorite - the solitude of being alone without the loneliness of being alone. (Even when the stupid shit found a bear den)! I am definitely not a “people person”, but I suppose he largely filled the need for socialization that others turn to other people for.  I like to think it was mutual  - one day, while I was at work, he pulled my sweatshirt off the bench in the entryway and laid down with it, apparently for comfort. 

He was just a big, goofy lug, always eager to please. He was at his best when he knew what you expected of him. People often commented on his size, but I explained that you couldn’t fit that much heart in a smaller package. He was also the only dog I’ve ever had that could look genuinely bewildered. I once offered him some sriracha on my finger...and he backed away and gave me the “why do you hate me?” face...then stood there in complete amazement when Zoë not only licked the hot sauce off my finger, but came back for seconds. “NO WAY! You eat that stuff”? “People On Water” was complete sorcery to him:

He looked intimidating, but he was afraid of the tape measure. He loved pretty much everybody. I used to caution people he met that he was “a leaner” because if you weren’t ready for “the lean” into your legs, he could knock you over - unintentionally. In fourteen years, I only ever saw maybe a half dozen people he didn’t like. With a record like that, I trusted his judgement about the ones he didn’t like. (If he didn’t like someone, he wasn’t aggressive, he just wouldn’t get near them). I couldn’t even get him to “roughhouse” with me because in his mind, it was just “wrong”. One of the only times I ever saw him stand up to Zoë was when she was roughhousing with me. She completely ruled him and he was ok with it, but her “attacking” me was going too far.

As age began to catch up with him, it was hard to watch this once powerful, swift dog slow down. It was kind of humbling watching him accepting the things he couldn’t do anymore, with grace. The walks got shorter and I now sometimes had to wait for him, instead of the other way around, but that was ok. If anything, we bonded more over our shared “old man-ness”. Whenever it was time to go on an errand or for a walk, I’d say “You ready, old man?”

As he neared the end, and he got harder to care for, in moments of frustration, I thought “he’s certainly doing his best to make me not miss him once he’s gone”.

How wrong I was.

I suppose I could go through and “sanitize” the house of his presence, get rid of the toys -like the ball he “stole” from the dog hotel - and delete all the pictures...but there’s no getting around the fact that he was part of the very fabric of my life. What do I do when I turn around and there’s no one to give the empty yogurt cup to? Butter wrappers and steak scraps go in the trash now - but not without a hitch or hesitation. When shredding cheese, I keep half expecting a big head to show up next to me, staring at the floor waiting for stray cheese molecules that might fall.

When cooking, I used to (good-naturedly) complain to him that “If I ever could work in the kitchen and there wasn’t a damned dog in my way, I’d think I was in someone else’s house”! - he elevated “Obstacle” to an art form. Now the kitchen just feels empty.

But I suppose the worst is that moment when I pull in the driveway and feel a momentary pang of guilt for leaving him home alone...and then realize he’s not there:

“The house is dark as it can be

I go inside and all is silent

It seems as empty as the inside of me*”

I suppose if I believed in something beyond this plane of existence, I’d be happy, knowing he was free from his pain and his broken down body...but I don’t. There’s part of me that thinks there’s another dog out there who needs me as much as I need them, but I just can’t even consider it right now.

*“Long Ride Home” - Patty Griffin, (by way of Dave Hause). Not only is the last verse on point, but it’s a song about the ride home from  a funeral...and I had it stuck in my head when driving home from the vets, for the last time. How appropriate.

Why Is It....

...that people talk endless shit about trailer parks, but if you shrink the trailers to half size, cram twice as many in, and call it “a campground”, people line up and pay good money to get in?

Thought For The Day

“Maybe you're your brothers keeper not by code or creed or canon, but the simple hope that someone will be yours”

“West Allis” - Matthew Grimm

Pranks A Lot!

I have had the fortune/misfortune to work with some of the most outstanding pranksters and jokesters ever.

I have even been accused of being one of them, but what meager skills I have, I learned at the feet of the masters. Al, George and Stanley were the Obi-wans. I was just an aspiring Jedi.

At the steel mill, when I found the day shift guys had left their coffee cupboard unlocked, I found a sleeve of styrofoam cups and suggested poking holes in some of them. Al immediately pointed out the error of my ways and admonished me to “...go get a piece of welding wire and run it through all of them”. Silly me and my small time, chickenshit thinking.

He also was the one who taught me the art of subtle, long cons and gaslighting.
One of the day shift guys used to leave his hard hat on top of his tool box, when he went home. Al would tighten it up one notch, every night.

I walked in the office one night to find him sitting at the foreman’s desk and linking all his paper clips together. He explained he hoped that one day, when the foreman was having a bad day, he’d go to reach for a paperclip....and finding the whole damned box in one long chain would just send him over the edge.

That was all well and good, but at my next place of employment, I learned to take it to another level, from George and Stanley. The pranks were extremely clever, highly original...and pretty relentless. To give you an idea of what life was like in the toolroom, one of the kids on the shop floor, working with Garry, gestured toward the toolroom and said “What do they do in there?” He replied “oh, don’t go in there....they’ll make you cry”. BUT...there were unwritten ground rules. You weren’t allowed to do anything where someone would get hurt, you weren’t allowed to do anything that would screw up what they were working on and doing something that would ruin something -like stain someone’s clothes- was verboten. But that was ok - it just made it that much more challenging.

From George, I learned the art of social engineering - creating a prank based on the predictability of the victim’s response.

He was known for putting things in your lunch bag, if you left it unprotected on your bench, when getting ready to go home at quitting time - particularly something he knew you’d have to remember to bring back, like one of your tools. You’d get home, empty the bag, find your calipers or something and go “....aw shit....”

My favorite of his gags involved Stanley’s penchant for eating sardines. When he was finished, he’d throw the can in the trash. George would then go and retrieve the can and hide it in the boss’s office. Eventually, the boss would trace the smell and find the offending tin. Of course, the only guy who ate sardines caught hell for it. Now this would have been a small potatoes kind of a prank, but for the change of tactic that followed. Astute student of human nature that he was, George did this two or three times, but figured if he pulled the same gag again, it would start to look suspicious. He switched up the game - the next time Stanley threw out his empty can, George took it out and put it on the floor, in front of the trash can, which was just outside the office door. Exactly as he predicted, the boss happened to walk out the door, saw the sardine can on the floor and bitched at...Stanley: “Stanley! What’s the matter with you? Can’t you even put this thing in the trash???” I was in awe. 

We got a die in from a vendor that needed work done. We did the work and put the die back in the wooden box that it came in, for return shipment. I watched George put the lid back on with about 175 drywall screws. Then he went and got two or three three inch ones that damned near killed the screw gun putting them in. Eager to participate and show what I had learned, I went and got one screw with a straight slot. Some poor bastard, somewhere must have cursed us for days, after trying to get that box open.

George was the one who told me that if you want someone to believe something, let them think it was their idea. From him I learned that nosy people were almost too easy as targets - just give them something to be nosy about. For months on end, I would clean every chip up around my area before going home. I put hash marks on my machine so that I could put the table back in the exact same place and zeroed the readout, at the end of the day. Hopefully that fed the night shift guy’s suspicions that I didn’t do anything all day. Sadly, I never found out if this paid off. My making a fake invoice for a ten thousand dollar TT bike and hiding it in some papers on the desk did, though. My intended target snooped through the papers (I left the top, with official looking letterhead sticking out), exactly as I predicted he would and immediately went and started gossiping about how I’d bought a “ten thousand dollar bicycle!” (Everyone else was in on the gag).

But Stanley....Stanley was the master. Nothing escaped his notice and everything was a potential target. If you saw him walking around and giggling to himself, it was a pretty good indication that you should check your shit, because it was guaranteed he’d fucked with something.

Who but Stanley would realize that a pneumatic cylinder could also be used like a syringe? He submerged a cylinder in water and pulled the piston back, filling the cylinder with water. He then made a bracket to hook it to the cabinet door. His only miscalculation was that the victim -me, in this case- was shorter than him. When I opened the cabinet, the blast of water shot harmlessly over my shoulder. Instantly realizing who was responsible, I turned to him and said “....nice try...”

Gene got a new oilstone. He took it, with the transparent plastic sleeve it came in, thumbtacked it to the window frame and filled the sleeve full of oil, for the stone to soak up. Every night, after he went home, Stanley would empty the oil. The next morning, Gene would refill the sleeve and marvel at how much oil the stone had absorbed... This went on for weeks.

It was Stanley who came up with the idea of putting a bolt and washer in the end of one of the collets in George’s collet rack. When George tried to pull the collet out of it’s hole in the rack, to use it...it only came out as far as the washer and stopped dead.

Stanley was the author - but not the perpetrator- of the “sooting-up Jay’s earmuffs” gag. (This involved using the torch with acetylene only, no oxygen, which makes a nice, sooty flame). The unsuspecting victim walked around for a couple of hours with big, black rings around his ears, on both sides of his head.

...and it went on and on....

With mentors like these, is it any wonder I turned out the way I did?

Touchstones and Nostalgia

Writing my post about my “abnormal” lack of need for social interaction made me wonder how many other things I lack in common with “normal” folks.

In no particular order,

Holidays. Everyone seems to have pleasant memories of Christmases or birthdays that they draw upon and perhaps try to recreate. Not me. I half-ass remember putting up a Christmas tree, up until I was about eight or so. I remember a Christmas at my grandparents’ when I was five, when I got the car carrier toy truck I really wanted, but that’s about it. At some point, we just stopped celebrating holidays. No explanation given. I’m sure there wasn’t a lot of extra money in the budget for such things, but we did ...nothing. No special meal, no decorations, no dessert, not even a “Happy Birthday”. Thus, I have nothing upon which to base any feelings of nostalgia. It’s just a blank page. I remember going outside to play one Christmas Day and no one was around - it was like the Zombie Apocalypse. I realized that for me, it was just another day.

Television and movies. Not having a television made for some painfully awkward social moments. Other kids were watching (and talking about) Dark Shadows and Championship Wrestling. I was reading a book. For the sake of social self-preservation, I got good at faking familiarity - even today I remember Barnabas Collins and Crusher Verdu, but I have no context in which to put them. They’re just names.

Movies were never really much of a thing - but then I don’t think they were, even for my friends. It was much later in life that this became much more pronounced. (I think the advent of movie rentals really pushed this to the forefront). I’ve realized people can talk endlessly about whatever movies they’ve watched...and as far as I’m concerned, they may as well be speaking Martian. I have no patience for sitting and passively staring at a screen and I think it’s gotten worse as I’ve gotten older.

Celebrities. I’ve never understood this one. I dimly remember music, movie and sports idols, but they never meant anything to me. The current trend for people to be famous just for being famous makes even less sense. “Who are these people and why do I care?”

Comfort food. As an unrepentant foodie, this should be a thing with me, but it’s not. “Comfort food” has been described as “...like the tomato soup your mom gave you when you got sick, to help you feel better”. Hell, my mother never even gave me an aspirin when I was sick, just banished me to the back bedroom so my coughing wouldn’t keep her awake. So no, I have no particular dish that I wax nostalgic over. I miss my dad’s breakfasts and his homemade applesauce - but that’s a manifestation of missing him. Maybe that’s close enough?

Family vacations. Another big “nope”. Everyone seems to have fond memories of vacations, picnics or camping trips. I got nothin’. Other kids went to Disney or weekended at Old Forge. Those places might as well have been on Venus for all I knew. We weren’t exactly wealthy, but it seems we did nothing as a family, regardless of cost. About the only thing I remember is having a picnic/cookout in a park once (prior to age seven, when we moved here). It started raining, so we took shelter in the car. To our great amusement, the blackbirds were in no way deterred by the rain and helped themselves to the hamburger and hot dog buns - right through the plastic bags. That was it...up until I was fourteen or fifteen. My mom went somewhere on a weekend retreat and my dad grabbed some picnic supplies and a couple of office mates and we had a picnic at Lake Delta. I was floored. It was completely out of character for him and unprecedented. It was only afterward that I wondered how many other things he didn’t do, because she had no interest. A sobering realization, to be sure.

Now I know you’re thinking “Aw Jesus, he’s whining about his childhood again....” but that’s not the case.....really! It’s more the case of me seeing these things as an outsider and not really comprehending them. The saying “You can’t miss what you never had” applies perfectly here. I don’t feel depraved - er- deprived. It’s a weird state of dispassionate observation. I think maybe I see things more clearly, for not owning rose colored glasses. I don’t wax nostalgic about Happy Days and the Fifties, for example because I realize that it was a great time...if you were a white male -  women were still supposed to be subservient and black people were supposed to be seen and not heard. While I understand the postwar euphoria and the astounding growth of America, it was also the days of Fallout Shelters and “duck and cover”. So I see the balance.

In some ways, I find it liberating.  I’m not bound by tradition, not burdened by nostalgia. I can celebrate - or not - in a way that has meaning for me, not Hallmark. If I want to celebrate Dio de los Muertos I can. (And have!)

I Come From...?

I have long been a fan of Ordinary Elephant. (For the uninitiated, follow the link. Listen to all the music. Watch all the videos. Buy all the things... I'll wait). Their music is simple, solid, unpretentious, genuine and, well, honest. (Any of those former adjectives would have been almost as good an album title as the latter).

I watched their webcast concert the other day and for some reason "I Come From"stuck with me for a while afterward and made me think. It's a wonderful song about being proud of (not arrogant) and grateful for who and where you came from. It made me reflect on my own influences - who and where I come from.

...and I came up empty.  It was kind of a startling revelation. 

I realized I see my roots more in terms of Marillion's "Accidental Man":

"An accident of gender, 

an accident of birth. 

that holds me to point of view

this time and place on earth".

I have lived here virtually all my life and while I intimately know every nook and cranny of this area, any attachment I feel is born of familiarity and comfort. (No small thing to a creature of habit like me, but still...)This area is no better or worse than anywhere else. Sure, I could bore the ears off a visitor about local history and the Erie Canal, but that would simply be a case of trying to share something they don't know or hear about all the time. I'd probably serve them Spedies and Salt Potatoes or Utica Greens and Chicken Riggies, but that would be more from a desire to share something unique, something different, as opposed to any real pride in those dishes.

As much as I love the woods, I suppose I could just as well feel the same about the mountains, the ocean or the desert. (But not the city. No way.)

The only place I feel any affinity for is up north, the area where my camp is and my grandparents' house was. Something about that area just speaks to me - from the coarse, glacial, sandy soil to the plaintive call of the White-Throated Sparrow. I kind of suspect this is owing to spending two week vacations up there, during my childhood. It was the only time and place I was out from under my mother's oppressive thumb. (And she often commented that it took two weeks to "straighten us out" when we came home). I often joke that my house is "where I live", but my camp is "home".

Ok, but surely there must be people who have helped make me what I am, right? Well, I came up pretty fuzzy there, too.

The whole "family" thing wasn't really part of my formative years. Outside of my mother, father and sister, everyone either lived downstate or was on my mother's personal Shit List (or both) so we never saw much of them - no real influences there. Most anyone I could think of as an influence was somewhat of a mixed bag.

My paternal grandfather helped form my love of the outdoors, but I also realize he was a product of his times - ie a bit hyper-conservative and a bit of a bigot. Thankfully I didn't get that part.

I don't really remember either of my grandmothers having much influence - but I'm willing to credit my maternal grandmother with my love of food. "Mangia!"

I'm pretty much empty as far as teachers go - though I had a few good ones - so I guess that leaves my parents.

My dad wasn't with us quite long enough to complete his tutelage, but I think my sense of honor, my belief that my word means something and feeling that you should always strive do do the right thing - especially when no one's looking- came from him. He was the quiet type. He didn't say much, but he didn't have to. He was calm, quiet and logical. I can channel that sometimes, but it's offset by my inheritance of my mother's short fuse. The older I get, the more I see him as an iceberg - a lot going on below the waterline that no one really saw. His early passing certainly left me constantly mindful of the passage of time and a knowledge that regret is a terrible thing to carry around.

But he didn't know shit about tools.

Last, but by far not least, my mother. She was a mixed bag of influences if ever there was one. From her I got my fierce sense of independence. Whether this is a good thing or not depends on the circumstances. It's been an asset sometimes but gotten me in a lot of hot water, too. (No regrets!)
She was independent in thought as well, and it's to her that I attribute my willingness to question everything and not just mindlessly accept the status quo. I think it's served me well, and it's the one thing I tried to pass on to my son.  I'm not sure if i inherited my love of learning from her, but she did teach me to read, very early, which has paid a lot of dividends.

On the other hand, she  also taught me that hitting your kids doesn't work; it just made me a better liar and good at keeping my feelings hidden - not exactly desirable traits. On the surface I suppose her constant admonition that I was lazy and selfish having made me aways strive to prove the opposite looks like a good thing, but there's a flip side. I have a very, very hard time relaxing - I always feel like I should be doing something productive. While my lifelong desire to prove her wrong has helped me be kind and considerate, it's left me unable to ask anyone for anything - no matter how badly I may need it -far, far in excess of the normal Y chromosome related reluctance to ask for assistance. No matter how badly I'm drowning, I won't ask for help. I will -usually- take it if it's offered, but to ask someone to do something they wouldn't do of their own volition is an anathema.

So I see myself as byproduct of a whole slew of varying influences...but that doesn't make for a very good song, does it? (Accidental Man notwithstanding).

Edward G Norley's Reign of Terror

I've been doing a fair amount of research about the seedier side of local history. In the course of so doing, I ran across this January 1895 article, which I have quoted verbatim. (It was perfect as written. To paraphrase or edit would be a crime.)

You can call Mr. Norley a lot of things -"a slow learner" among them - but you can not call him "a quitter". He saw it through to the bitter end.

Made A Reign Of Terror

Drunken Man Had Two Revolvers

His Wife Disarmed Him and Gave him a Horsewhipping - Assaulted Several Store-Keepers and Resisted Arrest But Was Clubbed Into Submission

Lyons, January 27. Water Street was the scene of a batch of sensations all day Saturday In which Edward G Norley figured largely. Early in the morning, he had a quarrel with his amiable spouse and left home in high dudgeon. Purchasing a pair of revolvers and with a skin full of cheap whiskey he returned. As soon as he began abusing his wife, he exhibited the revolvers, which Mrs. Norley took away from him and chased him out of the house, shooting off the guns in the air.

Norley sought refuge in the barn, but the wife followed and with a horsewhip administered awful punishment, driving him out. He hastily went down town and commenced drinking heavily. At last, he went into Boeheim & Sons furniture store and tried to kick up a row with Alderman Boeheim. The latter declined, at which espying an old enemy William Harris, he called him and his deceased father a lot of dirty names, which Harris resented by knocking Norley flat three times, at which the latter begged and Harris, at Boeheim’s request, withdrew.

Alderman Boeheim’s Strong Arm

Norley turned his mud batteries thereupon Boeheim who, after standing the abuse for a time, grabbed the drunken loafer , dragged him five rods out of the store, across the sidewalk into the gutter and chucked him in after which he punched him in the nose as hard as he knew how to. This performance required some effort as Norley stands six feet four in his stockings and weighs 280 while Alderman Boeheim is five feet six and weighs 160.

Norley crawled out of the ditch and espying D.J. Mahoney who runs the Oriental House, rushed at him with vile names and attempted to “slog” him. Mahoney warded off several blows at which Norley drew his knife and alleging that he would dispatch Mahoney started in, but Mahoney fled to his place, procured a revolver and returned.

Norley had been taken into Noble & Tromer’s hardware store, where he would be safe from Mahoney, at which he picked on Ward Compson, a clerk, and again drew a knife. At this, George A Tromer, one of the proprietors, quieted Norley down and took him home in his cutter.

Norley began smashing furniture as soon as he reached the house, to which his wife objected. He retired to the woodhouse, he seized a crowbar and returned to the scene of battle at which Mrs. Norely grabbed the bar and poked her husband in the stomach and he fell again, smashing the stove with the crowbar. Mrs. Norely came down to police headquarters and made a complaint, charging her husband with assault in the second degree, drunkenness and disorderly conduct.

Attacked a Policeman

Officer Sharpe accompanied the wife home and on the corner of Layton and North Water Streets meeting Karl Martin’s delivery sleigh, ordered it to wait.Mrs. Norley was unable to restrain herself and stood crying, wringing her hands. Officer Sharpe went up to the door and knocked.

“Who’s there?” asked Norley

Officer Sharpe answered at which Norley called him a vile name, swung open the door, reached for his hip pocket with one hand, grappling the officer with the other and came out on the stoop ready for business. Realizing his peril, the officer used his club several times, reducing Norley to insensibility, splitting the club.

The handcuffs were adjusted and Norley’s legs tied with the hitching strap after which, minus coat and vest, he was carted down to the Station House and a charge of resisting an officer was docketed. Jail physician Dr. John S. Bend was summoned and found Norley in terrible shape, with his nose knocked out of shape by William Harris and alderman Boeheim, while his eyes were badly bunged and his head all cut open. He was patched up and eft in the station for the night.

Numerous friends called on him and bail was applied for. Yesterday morning Norley was in his right mind and blamed the whole thing to whisky. He was arraigned before Police Justice Mason and released on bail secured by Charles P Williamson his attorney.

(Probably the worst part of all this was having to do the Walk Of Shame around town, ever after: "Hey! Hey Norley! C'mere! Joe here's new in town...he hasn't heard about your reign of terror. Go on - tell him about the night you got your ass beat by everyone in town...including your wife!")