Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

shock at 6:30 AM

Shock and a dim sense of foreboding is when you wake up in the morning, use the toilet and then go to wash your hands…and no water comes out of the faucet. It was 6:30 and so I crawled back into bed, contemplating what to tell Jeff. One part of my head just wanted to doze till 6:45, another part was Freaked Out. Somehow Jeff was partly awake and turned to look at me.
“What is it?” he mumbled.
“The faucet isn't working,” was my sleepy numbed reply.

No and the faucet isn't going to work anytime soon. We stumbled down two flight of steps and landed in a watery basement. Oh, it wasn't so bad. The sub-pump was doing its part and chugging it all out. But there was a hole in the wall, about the size of two quarters and water was just gushing out. It was quite fascinating and the more I watched it, the more fascinating it got. There was a very serene sort of sound to it. Quite like those fountains or waterfalls people rig up in their yards. The soothing sound of water, you know. It was very soothing down there- in between times when the sub-pump switched on and off.
We hustled around and got our boxes off of the ground- we don't think anything was hurt, really. One box that we got down to the bottom, hadn't even got wet through the cardboard. Good old moving boxes. So everything is perched on high, or in the section that must be a bit higher than the rest- a sort of peaceable land, where wet and damp does not prevail.

The story is, our water is turned off. The City of Batavia obligingly arrived at about 7 (they don't fuck around) and used their strength and sinew to turn the water valve off. Apparently, when someone laid the concrete sidewalk, they knocked over the box underneath that controls the valve that turns our water on and off. So…the City did not look pleased (the city took the form of two brawny men. The young one looked pissed as hell and the older had great manners and a rather sad look). The pipe has two breaks in, they told Jeff later as I had already left for work. One is for the City to repair and involves ripping out the sidewalk and the other is for the owner to repair. It will require a backhoe and cooperation between the City and the plumber.

Hmmmmm…so to make a huge long story shorter, the owner was Finally reached through a very sick relator and got the plumber. The plumber arrived and turned sick as well because he realized the pipe Had busted in the ground and that required calling JULIE. For those who don't know, JULIE is an Illinois mandate. And a real bitch. It's required by our state that we call JULIE whenever we intend to make any sort of hole in the ground. Garden, backhoe, putting in shrubs, trees, whatever. And JULIE calls everyone- the electricity company, the cable guy, the gas guy, the water guy and la-di-da. These people from various companies come out, use their little machines and figure out where electric lines are underground, cable, water mains, etc. This is, of course, for everyone's protection from hitting dangerous things in the ground. However, JULIE is notoriously slow and rather slack. And they give you a date when you can start digging your holes. For us, this time, it's Wednesday. Wednesday without water. And who knows? Given JULIE's ineptness (and the companies we pay bills to), it might take longer than that.
The owner's wife was very sweet and they offered to pay to put us up at a hotel. That's tempting but grim. I hate hotels (they're so bland and so utterly depressing and boring!) and while running water and toilets ROCK, we just thought we'd wing it. Gallons of water, refilling the gallons at neighbors (to make the toilet flush) and running over the Library to use their facilities, will the be the name of the game these next few days. Wish us luck (and sanity).

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A Tale of Two Worlds

I walk past a window on my way to get a glass of water and note the snow falling outside.  As I fill my glass at the sink, my thoughts have already turned back to my work on the computer. I’m wrestling with the household budget, when I’ll fit some reading in, how to get on with my writing work, when I’ll exercise, when I’ll catch up with email correspondence and the list goes on and on.

Anytime I stop my work and look up, past the chatter in my mind, the snow catches me off guard as if it’s the first time I’m seeing it. I debate whether I can put off the grocery store to avoid driving in the snow.

This is the world of the everyday. It’s full of a thousand petty cares, some essential to living, others not as much but all in a lump group, tugging us along.

But there are times my mind needs something more refreshing, and it’s time to take a break. And that’s where music comes in—as powerful as Circe creating a circle of magic with her staff. I pick out music without words (or words I don’t understand). Today is Rimsky-Korsakov, tomorrow might be the film Phantom Thread’s soundtrack, or a piece of jazz played by Lucky Thompson.

As Rimsky-Korsakov’s The Snow Maiden starts, the circle opens. I come out of the everyday world and enter somewhere extraordinary, where beauty converges with life and cares and worries exit for a time. And all it takes is a little music, a little snow, and entering the moment that is now.

I watch the snow falling, noting the wind direction as the snow blows southeast and then drops and then exhales again southwards. I note the density of the snow, how it’s light and sparkling and then downy, heavy, and wet.  My thoughts finally still and I turn off the music. A heavy relief passes over my body and mind and I am still, watching the beauty of the world.

The Fog Rises Up and We Come Down to Meet It

This winter has frozen and thawed. And then frozen and thawed once again. With the most recent exhale of cold, fog rises up from the melting ground and wraps my town in a trance.

It softens the ragged tops of trees and transforms the dead yellowed grass into a carpet spreading out into unseen lands.  With foggy foreshortened vision, the world becomes finite and in the smallness, my wonder grows.  Trees become gloomy gods, bushes hunch over like mysterious beings with secrets hidden in twiggy souls. The sky blurs out and the land rises up to meet it and everything is reformed or brought down to its most basic form. It is easy to become lost and confused.

I walk the perimeter of my neighborhood park. We become redone together.  The playground becomes enchanted, strangely unknowable as the slides and swings soften and distort.

The ballpark’s high chain link fence however, becomes more sure.  The metal darkens and braces and holds against the diffused white light.  I stare at it through my camera lens, delighted by its ferocity while everything else around it wavers and melts.

A train passes over the hill and I can see nothing, it has been whitened out, but I can hear the busy clack of the iron wheels running on steel rails.

Geese fly overhead for a minute and then vanish.

I press on and the mist parts as I walk and so we walk together, softened, softening with the night closing in behind our steps.  The night takes everything behind us, rebuilds it like it wishes and then I step into my home and close the door.

Rain falls a few hours later and the fog mounts up, gently pressing at the windows but by morning, it is all gone and only little bits of ice remain on the walkway.