You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
Or is it Our Lady of the Puck?
New England is hockey country, and Boston Bruins fans are legion. Rest assured, Bobby Orr would no doubt lead their pantheon of saints.
While statues of Mary are common across the country, I know of no others like this. Behind the mask, the face looks feminine. This repurposed icon icon overlooks Chauncey Creek Road in Kittery, Maine.
Relying on survey results alone can be dangerous. One paper I worked for launched a very successful Sunday edition after a survey had told them, Don’t do it, it will be a disaster. Instead, the publisher trusted her gut – and won.
Around the same time, when Doonesbury was the hottest comic strip across the country, another paper’s survey told them it was the most hated item in the paper. Fortunately, another survey found that it was also the most popular.
I’ve learned to regard an intensity factor – not just whether something is popular, but how high in ranks on a scale. Yes, in those days, everybody read Peanuts, when you were looking at your top ten comics, but when you weighted for top-three intensity, it was easily topped by Garfield, Far Side, and Cathy.
So when it comes down to most hated or most loved, if you listen to the complaints, you turn boring and bland. There’s nothing to excite anyone.
I can look to symphonic programming with the same message. Yes, works by living composers upset a lot of listeners. But when you rely on the chestnut classics, you quickly turn stale.
Reporters and editors live in dread of accidentally publishing a lewd expression. It’s not just the list of four-letter words themselves or the inevitable typographical errors. (You know, the embarrassing “pubic” for “public.”) The innocent double-meaning can be the worst. The famous “Colonel Screws guest at banquet” headline that went through five or six editions before getting caught. Or the caption for the Supreme Court justice about to climb the staircase to a second-floor dinner: “Justice Douglas prepares to mount women” instead of “mount stairs with women.”
As one of our colleagues would remind us, quoting one of his mentors, “It takes a dirty mind to put out a clean newspaper.”
(Oh, the stories we could tell.)
Admittedly, we live in an area that gives meteorologists headaches. It’s one of those where several major weather systems collide. Not quite as bad as where I once lived in Upstate New York and we sometimes wound up with four completely different forecasts for the day’s four editions of the paper as the day wore on. But here, one winter, when one of the local websites had its own retired Air Force meteorologist providing early morning reports, he did note an ongoing line running from Concord, New Hampshire, to Portland, Maine, and remarked that if it shifted slightly north or south, so would the weather, depending which side you were on. That line held on most of the winter.
In the past week, we’ve just come through two “weather events” that provide some amusement in the iffiness of science department, even if it has meant more than 20 inches of snowfall to dig out. In the last one, the projected amounts of snowfall kept changing, sometimes with hourly revisions, or so it seemed, going from one to two inches and settling on two to four, at one service, to three to six at NOAA. We wound up with over eight. So they missed, one of them (the one that’s usually somewhat hysterical in its warnings) off 75 to 88 percent.
In the storm before that, I’m glad I decided to back out of plans to head to Boston for a working session with Friends. The heavier-than-expected snowfall was a mess, and I never would have made it there in time.
Now we’re looking at another weekend, one with a gathering halfway across the state tomorrow night, and the other Sunday morning, the one we rescheduled in Boston. And I have no way of knowing what to expect, other than it might be messy.
Without getting into the percent chances of precipitation but sticking only to the forecast, here are the options:
So Sunday’s the only day they agree on, and even that could be simple rain or really messy?
I guess if I had to choose one, it would be the third option, especially since Sunday has only the warmer rain. Or maybe, if I look around more, I might even find a fourth choice I like better.
Or should I just check my horoscope for a clearer idea, instead?
Golly, it really is too early in the season for this much snow. I spent much of yesterday digging out from a foot or so of the stuff, our first real round as we plunge into another winter, even though it’s officially still autumn and we’ve had a blanket of white on the ground for a week now.
It’s also too early to be this cold, considering the minus-2 Fahrenheit forecast for tonight. That should seal in the snow cover, for sure.
My wife is no doubt anticipating sending me outside with a guest or two to harvest Brussels sprouts in a little over a week, when it comes time to prepare for our traditional Yule feast. Looks like once again we’ll be using an ax to break the icy covering and a shovel to locate the greens. I’ve previously posted about the way frost gives the sprouts and kale a wonderful sweetness, but the snowpack always thickens the plot. She finds it highly amusing, watching from the kitchen window.
Meanwhile, as I shoveled yesterday, I kept remembering that since this is just the start, it would be wise to make an extra effort to leave room for the next storm … or three or four or … Thus, don’t leave the pile at the end of the driveway so tall you can’t see oncoming traffic, be sure to push the icy wall along the driveway back so you won’t have to throw the next round higher than your shoulders, keep as much on the side away from the foundation so it won’t drain into the cellar, … Yes, there’s a long list, based on long experience living here.
Then I remembered something else. Last month, I finally got the bindings on my cross-country skis fixed – and new boots to go with them. Sure looks like a good day to go outside and try them out in a loop around the yard. Hope I keep my balance. Here we go, even before the latest forecast: With Christmas really just around the corner, we’re expecting another inch or two tomorrow.
Whee!
After I moved from the ashram, I spent a year-and-a-half in a small city that very much resembles one I call Prairie Depot in several of my novels. And then I returned to my university as a research associate.
While our institute was set in a town very much like Daffodil, there was one difference I omitted. By this time, the town had a large urban ashram and, for several reasons, I chose not to attend classes or other activity there but instead began sitting with the Quakers in their mostly silent worship in a country meetinghouse.
Still, as the joke went, the ashram owned a third of the town. It had a vegetarian restaurant or two, maybe a bakery by this point, a house painting company, art gallery, significant real estate, and maybe much more.
The university, of course, owned the rest.
Or so the joke went, back in the mid-’70s.
My own experience is much more along the lines of what I describe in my novel, Ashram. We barely owned anything.
After officially retiring full-time early this year, I found myself saying I’d changed careers, taking up something that wasn’t yet paying the bills.
Actually, it’s been several things, from a rash of poetry appearances to publication of the novels, especially, on top of intensified Quaker practice.
Lately, though, as my wife returned to the workplace full-time, I’m beginning to sense I’ve retired from retirement to become … a househusband!
I really do need to learn to cook again, especially since the standards in my life have risen so sharply since we’ve been together. And then there’s the vacuuming and sweeping and washing … well, it really is endless, isn’t it!
As for meeting her in my apron, I’ll leave the details to your imagination. I hope she enjoys the cocktail and just kicking back. As if there’s time for that when you’re working.
The sign by the side of the highway said it all:
B LESS SIRLOIN $3.99
I’m sitting in the car on a sunny afternoon, waiting for my wife or a daughter to emerge from the supermarket.
I watch a young woman pace nervously (am I being redundant), then climb on the trunk to look around or perhaps be seen by someone. She repeats this several times.
Finally, I break the ice, offer to make a phone call or help in some other way. She laughs and declines the offer.
“I’m waiting for some guy,” she says.
Oh, yes, I should have known. I think of all the other times I was waiting for some girl or woman. We know it’s a common scene.
And then he pulls up, much older than I’d expected. He goes to the driver-side window, waves a coat-hanger, and goes to work.
So it wasn’t just some guy, after all. So much for the romance that usually accompanies the story. Unless that happened somewhere down the road once she got going.
