Buried Treasure

 

I do wonder sometimes what motivates people, in the way they drive. Here's two examples from opposite ends of the spectrum that I experienced the other day. It was just after five in the morning and I was bob-tailing, driving my tractor without a trailer attached. Out on the highway a car came up from behind going considerably faster than me, until he came alongside me. He then slowed down and traveled with me. Traffic was light, the rest of the road wide open. Why would this person choose to put himself at risk by staying close to a big truck? I had to slow down to get rid of him.

That same morning, in a construction zone on 465 another truck, pulling doubles (with two trailers attached) merged onto the highway. He got into the middle lane and came up behind me. It was obvious that he wanted to pass me so I moved over into the granny lane to let him. Sure enough he came barreling past just as we were entering a lane shift; the narrowest, most dangerous part of the construction. I let off the gas to get it over quickly and thought, “Couldn't you have waited just a minute?” Then, back out on the straight away it turned out that he didn't actually want to go any faster than I was originally traveling. We continued down the highway at the same speed. He just wanted to be first, to be out in front. It was that important to him that he would risk both a wreck and a ticket, I was going 10 mph over the posted speed limit to begin with.

My contention, my theory, is that much of what people do when they drive is unconscious, and that it is largely ego driven. The first guy was a pack animal, afraid to be alone. He felt safer being with another vehicle, even though in reality he was at a much greater risk. Had I not slowed down he probably would have stayed right with me even if faster traffic came up from behind and wanted to pass. What I call an “Indiana roadblock,” although the behavior is not limited to this state. The second guy was just an asshole, with a childish need to be first. Unfortunately the second behavior is by far the more common one, and it often happens that the aggressor not only doesn't want to go the same speed in the end, but slower. It happens all the time.

Ha, ha; when we got onto I-65 and the speed limit went up it turned out that my truck was governed faster than that other guy with the doubles and I passed him back. I admit, there was some satisfaction there. I can be a childish asshole too, sometimes.

Let's see...Oh, that cloud ceiling that I found so lovely the other day continued to be a delight long after the pyrotechnics of dawn. Though not violent the air was turbulent, and varied so that the overcast was made up of many different kinds of cloud. There were archipelagos of cloudlets off the coast of continents, there were ripples, like sand beneath the waves, and sometimes great sweeps seeming to rush across the sky, though stationary. From behind it all the sun sent his beams radiating through the rifts. At one point there was the shadow of a light rain on the horizon. The angle of its descent was perpendicular to the shafts of sunlight making an X in the sky. On the other side another rain was falling precisely with the angle of the beams. The windshield of a truck is wide-screen.

X marks the spot. Treasure be buried here. I found myself reflecting upon treasure, and how the best things in life are free. Now Tutankhamen had some treasure; such beautiful things. The civilizations of the Americas too, the jewelry and those tiny golden figurines. And to think that the Spanish melted it all down to make what; coins? They deserve to lie at the bottom of the sea.

 

high morning light

 

The sky was so beautiful this morning I wanted to cut it like a cake and eat it. A mid-high ceiling, pretty solid, but broken enough that when dawn came there were multiple layers of phenomena, both vertically and horizontally. Vertically through the rifts and the mini-cumulus tops of the cloud, horizontally along the long flat bottom to the horizon.

The sun rose. I was heading east but the cloud shielded me. I have spoken before about how light suffuses mist, a cloud on the ground. The same is true aloft. There is no “edge” to a cloud. What we see is generally not a reflection off of its surface, but the accumulation of its density as the light passes through it. The rarified is incandescent, each particle spectral; the drudge an infinite variety of grays.

It was so beautiful. "Watch the road Fool! Check your mirrors!"

 

Morning Light

 

It never rains but it pours, or not at all it seems. Earlier I wrote about the deluge we experienced here in Indiana; I haven't told you about the subsequent drought. I think Monroe County got the worst of it. While I was out and about in the region getting rained on occasionally my friends here at home were watching the satellite images track the storms as they split and left us high and dry. I heard that from at least three different people independently. I believe it's true. While the entire region is parched Bloomington and environs are desiccated. I was just up in Michigan, above Lansing and we have more early color here than they, only ours is because the leaves are drying up and falling from the trees, not because of the turn of the season. The eastern end of Griffy Lake, where the boat launch sits, is dry. My neighbor was out on his riding mower to chop up the fallen leaves and I could barely see him through the cloud of dust he was kicking up. I thought it was Pig Pen (Charlie Brown). One can reasonably ignore those warning signs in the bottoms that say “do not cross when flooded.”

That's not to say that it's not still Beautiful around here, it is, always. Green is still the dominant color though the corn is amber and the soybean plants are turning their end of season yellow. It's been a good summer for me, despite the drought. Usually it seems that summer is over before I've had a chance to really experience it, but this year I don't feel like I've missed anything. Perhaps that's because I was out in it on my bicycle, in contrast to all those years I only saw it from the cab of my truck. Still I hate to see it go, and I'm apprehensive about how the fall will turn out, it being so dry, though it will undoubtedly be beautiful, regardless.

I sit writing this in the gray half light of dawn. I see dawn almost every day, but from the cab of my truck. She always comes in beauty, revealing incrementally the landscape I'm passing through and renewing my vigor as she paints the sky with delicate colors. Until He rises as a challenge, demanding action, if I happen to be heading east. How novel then, how wonderful to experience this enchanted interlude here in my own home. On my days off I usually stay up late then sleep in. I might waken shortly after dawn, but the light is generally broad by then.

So what am I doing up at this hour at home? Grrr, we're touching on a can of worms there. I'm just off of a three day weekend, for Labor Day. True to form they couldn't let that happen without making life difficult in some way. They scheduled my first trip back as a load to Owasso, Michigan, which meant that I either had to drive on the holiday or leave out hours earlier than usual. I set the alarm for 1:00 AM.

The route is over 600 miles round trip, just what can be fit into a trucker's eleven hours of driving for a day. So if there was any delay, in a traffic backup, say, or for a mechanical breakdown then I might run over the fourteen hours of my “tour of duty” and thus be unable to make it back to Electrolux at 5:00 AM to get a normal load the next day. In the past on this run I've been given follow up loads that could be picked up late, or with open delivery times. I'm not sure if there wasn't such a load this time, of if it's just a function of my new fleet manager's incompetence, but I wasn't given any load for today. I was just told to be ready by the phone this morning, an hour ago.

Oh yes, I stayed up late last night, which was nice, and I'm enjoying my time here with you in the still soft but strengthening light, but I can't really afford another short day. What's the use of getting a longer than usual trip (I get paid by the mile, plus stop pay) when I get a shorter than usual trip the next day? And the paid day off was nice, but the rate isn't generous. Oh well, I'd better stop myself before I start boring you with my complaints, and I do have more things to complain about.

As the sun rises, shining through the foliage, a soft pattern is thrown onto the western wall of the living room gently moving behind the still, sharp outlines of the houseplants in the window. The light is orange. Birdsong replaces the insect cacophony of the night.

 

Natural Light

 

Sweltering; our heat wave has come back, with a vengeance!

So whatever happened with my feral friends, you may well ask? Well, I captured four of the five kittens and took them to the animal shelter. It's unlikely that they survived; found homes. They were both too old and possibly too young. Too old because they were unsocialized, and I really don't know how many weeks they were, but there's a minimum, and the shelter was already over capacity. Like I said, I didn't ask, just hoped. But what was I to do? I was lucky I had that time to deal with the problem as it was.

I knew that I'd never capture Momma again, but I tried. I took the owner of the trap's advice and put a tarp over it to disguise it and make it look like a secret tunnel. I checked once and saw that the trap was sprung but when I removed the tarp it was empty. She's a smart one, a survivor. Still I tried, putting out no food except that which was bait in the trap, and left it out overnight. In the morning the trap was sprung and I heard rustling inside as I approached. “I've either caught Momma or the last kitten,” I thought, but pulled off the tarp to reveal a opossum. Ugh, the thing stank.

I saw Momma again, just before I was to leave for Chicago. She sat just beyond the deck and looked at me through the railing. I could read no thought or emotion in her gaze but I had to wonder what she thought of me. She'd once trusted me, but then I'd tried to trap her and stole four of her babies. I relented and set food out, away from the trap. She wouldn't even eat that. It was as if she'd raised her middle claw and shook it at me.

My problem is solved though, in any case. Momma took her last kitten and split. Neither hide nor hair of them has been seen since I got back from my trip, lo these several weeks ago. They're someone else's problem now, I guess.

I had a perfectly marvelous time in Chicago with the kids, though whenever I was alone I found myself grieving for the kittens. I'll miss them, and Momma too. They were sooooo cute bouncing around the back yard, climbing trees and tumbling over one another. There's no doubt that they had to go. I'm not home enough to care for kittens, but they were a joy to observe through the back door window.

It's kind of like the Rainbow family that squatted here when I was over the road. I told them they could “crash” at my place for a month while I was out on the road, before my brother in law was to move in. Instead they moved in, furniture and all. With three young children and winter coming on they figured rightly that I wouldn't kick them out and Bart agreed, finding other arrangements. There was no question but that they had to go, come spring. I have to admit, though, that it was awfully nice having children and pets around the place again, especially when I first got home for my monthly shore leave, when they would greet me so sweetly.

As for my trip to Chicago to see my own, grown daughter and son in law, I had a great time. If I'd written a couple of weeks ago I would have told you many stories. Now, however, I'm out of time and the stories grow stale, don't seem so much worth the telling. What, we played scrabble with Shoshana's boss, went to movies, cooked out? We were supposed to go canoeing but Shosh had a cold. She works at the Shed Aquarium where thousands of school children rub their grimy hands on the glass and railings weekly and so is susceptible.

But I will tell you about one morning when I took a walk by myself to the big lake, while the kids were still abed. Just as I was cresting the little rise atop which the endless water came into view a swallow arced down and away in front of me so close that I could feel the wind of its passage. Looking around I saw the air crowded with hundreds of dancing dragonflies, and scores of swooping swallows, all in constant motion.

OK, I'm bragging now, but in a few months the Shedd is sending Shoshana to the Bahamas as part of a team to collect coral spawn. She's SCUBA certified now and will be part of a global effort to help save the coral reefs. They grow coral there at the Shedd. Indeed, the roof is lined with skylights letting them use natural light, which helps.

 

Heat Wave

 

“Always choose beauty over money.” That was my motto, my maxim. I coined it when I'd had a chance to cross I-80 at night, to get my load off early and thus set myself up for another load, and more money. It was peak autumn and with plenty of time on the load I chose to sleep through the night and run the highway in the daytime. I'm glad that I did, it was sooooooooo beautiful; across the “endless mountains” in their autumn glory.

So I was torn when, after single stop load to South Bend that got me back to Plainfield early, at noon, I was given the choice to take a North Vernon load, or not. There was an angel and a devil sitting on either shoulder whispering in my ear. Then I remembered my motto and chose the angel. Hell sank in disappointment, defeated.

I'd been wanting to take a bike ride. I'd meant to over vacation but was so busy with those cats that I never did, other than just up and down the road. I didn't want to leave the trap for too long, in the midst of our heat wave, which has thankfully broken. I got home and set out on two wheels. But damn, it seemed like I was working awfully hard. It was an effort to pedal the bike on the flat let alone the hills. “I'm really out of shape!” I thought. “I didn't ride far last week, but I did ride, what's up?”

I was disappointed but figured I'd better not get off the ridge top or I might have to walk the bike back up, so I went every which way except out on the highway, turning around each time at the brink of the hill. It was a nice ride, and I explored the side roads that I usually pass. At some point a light went off in my brain and when I got back home I checked my tire pressure. Both tires were 20 lbs low. Duh. I told you I was a novice rider.

It was too late then to go back out for an extended ride so I mowed the lawn. Both heaven and hell feel a little better for having gotten that done. Whew, with the heat and humidity I nearly overdid it though. I might have had to walk the bike up the hill anyway.

But like I say, the heat wave has broken. The palpable humidity, that a chainsaw wouldn't cut, has relented, and I just got back from a nice little ride. Funny; the trash truck is in my neighbor's drive. It passed me way back on North Shore Drive. It took this long for him to work his way around to here. But my point is that it's sooooooooo beautiful! The corn is high and the wildflowers in riot abandon. With all the rain we've had GREEN is still the color of the day, and the neighbors have a right to be proud of their gardens. For those of you that don't know the area let me assure you there is a lot of mature hardwood 'round these parts.

My vacation was very nice, just what the doctor ordered, but I'll come back to tell you about that, perhaps...

 

Enhanced Topography

 

I remember another random observation I made: The corn is high, but not in the low lying areas that were flooded. The deeper the depression the smaller the corn until the plants are just little anemic stalks, and finally bare earth in the lowest areas, so the natural topography is accentuated into rolling hills of corn.

That's all. I captured two more kittens so I've got to run...

 

Feral Friends

 

I wonder; would Monet, were he alive today, have done a series of canvasses studying wind generators? All white they are the perfect foil for changing light, and with their curved form, particularly the aerodynamic twist of their blades, they are a study in gradations of shade too, especially while in motion. Of course the motion part would have been a challenge even for Monet's brush, so we'll leave that up to the once and Futurists.

Verdant grass, chicory blue and the intense amber of a mown wheat field, all under an indistinct sky; The light was just there, like it came from nowhere, the colors muted. A high fog, I guess.

Those are a couple of the random thoughts that I remember having. There were more, and a story I wanted to tell, I went back to Shipshewana, but that was way back last week. I'm on vacation now. I have the whole week off. I either had to take the time, just the money, or lose it all. I'll take the time, and the money, thank you. I need it. Friday my boss called and asked if I'd work Monday. I considered it but I was afraid my car was on its last legs. I couldn't commit. I'd already given up going to a pig roast in Indy on Saturday. It turned out that it only needed a tune up; duh. I could have called my boss and volunteered, but chose not to. He called today, Tuesday. I didn't answer the phone.

The pig roast was a year unspecific reunion of the art school I went to, back in the seventies. I'm sorry I missed that but it way worked out. Sarah, a Northern Jersey girl that spent four years here in college and who worked at the Pub back then, was back for a visit, eight months pregnant and happily married. Betsy's band played at the Player's Pub; oh they of the horn section. We claimed half the bar. Sometimes the stars align and beautiful memories are made. I feel like I already know that baby, she had to have been dancing in the amniotic fluid.

Then, Sunday, a real musical treat. My friend Chris Little has had a Sunday Jam, where who knows who will show up with their instruments and play, for about as long as I can remember. Me, I'm not a musician. I bang on bottles with a stick or slap my thighs, and occasionally sing, but it's all good. The only trouble is that with my job I can't stay up that late Sunday night; but hey, I'm on vacation! With a recent rain everybody was indoors (we're talking the deep woods here, the end of Hash Road, on the border of Brown County, with a pond and everything), in the middle of a song. The damn door stuck, swollen with the humidity and I felt like a fool charging in. “Steve Levine!” They stopped the music. It felt so nice to be welcome.

I'd seen Chris since Allison died, at some show at Jake's. I'd hugged him, told him I loved him and that I was looking forward to the songs he was going to write, the seeds that grow from this ground. As things were breaking up Sunday he told me to hang on and disappeared for a minute. He came back with a copy of the Randys' last cd, with Allison on the fiddle and vocals, and a home burned disk titled Songs to Allison in magic marker. I am both honored and humbled.

So...I've got a problem. I am home so little through the week, and so hassled playing catch up on the weekends (which I never do, we just play tag) that my neighbor had to tell me that I have a feral cat with kittens living under my deck. So that was the strange bird I'd heard in the early morning: kittens. I'd seen the momma before, so rail thin I thought she was a male, certainly not nursing. What choice did I have but to feed her; them. Well, my other neighbor tried target practice with his pistol, but that's not my choice.

That was a couple of weeks ago. I borrowed a trap from Vanessa. This is my project for the vacation. I caught two of the kittens without even baiting the trap; took them to the shelter. They're probably too old to ever find homes, but I'm not going to ask, just wish. I didn't set the trap again until this morning. I kept them hungry over night and baited the trap. Snap, I caught momma. Problem solved; only when I picked the trap up it tilted forward, the door swung open and the cat was gone in a flash. I didn't know that was something to watch out for!

Now what am I going to do? Is she ever going back into that cage? They have a program here in Monroe County where they'll spay a feral cat, called “Feral Friends.” That was my plan. How do I explain to her that her life depends on going into that cage? My next best option is to borrow the true neighbor's rifle. I just can't have feral cats multiplying like rabbits in the neighborhood.

I couldn't get so lucky as to have the coyotes come by and clear them out. In fact it's interesting how in charge she is of her space. I've been putting food out for two weeks and haven't seen a trace of raccoon or opossum. Nikity, my ex-wife's fat, declawed, eighteen year old cat that's come here to retire mostly stays in the front yard, feral momma in the back. Every now and then there's a skirmish though, and I rush outside to protect Nikity. The other day I heard a confrontation and rushed out just in time to see Nikity giving chase to the young survivor. I'm sure that my backup plays a significant role in this social order, but see, we've got that settled: Queen Nikity. Now how do I convince momma to go back in the cage?

And I'm going to Chicago to see Shoshana and Amir on Thursday.