Thanksgiving 2023

 There is always a little bit of pressure when it comes to Thanksgiving and cooking. The holiday really revolves around the iconic meal so, of course, people want to get that just right. This year, we traveled to Chevy Chase, Maryland, just outside of DC, to be with all three of my wife's brothers and their families. The final tally for Thanksgiving dinner was 18 of us (not including the 3 dogs). With my background as a chef (that is another story), I usually volunteer to do some of the sides and to help pull the whole thing together. I thought this year had an interesting twist, and that is the subject of this story.

 

 

Spatchcock versus….

“OK, who’s ready to spatchcock a turkey?” I didn’t actually say it that way, but I may as well have judging by the funny looks I received when I proposed this cooking method for the Thanksgiving turkey this year.  My relatives were probably wondering if I had lost my mind. Suddenly I'm in one of those movie scenes; a hum of conversation, glasses clinking, maybe some music playing in the background, and then suddenly you can hear a pin drop. The person speaking is in a spotlight and theirs is the only voice that can be heard. I was the one in the spotlight, in case that wasn’t obvious.  I faced the wall of blank stares, some mouths slightly agape.

I just read an article about spatchcocking and a quick search on YouTube yielded a short video demonstration. It purports to solve the age-old conundrum of cooking a whole turkey well enough without drying out the always desirable white meat. 

I’ve tried other things in the past. For a couple of years, I went with the ever-popluar brining of the turkey. Gallons of water are added to a container big enough to hold the bowling ball size bird. Select herbs, citrus and salt are added in inexact amounts. The bird is submerged overnight. The day of roasting comes and you plunge your hands into the icy water to extract the bird. It’s a messy process and, in my opinion, clearly not worth the effort. You still have the same problem of just right dark meat (reaching the recommended 165 degrees) and dried out white meat. Plus, you have all that brine to get rid of and a huge, unwieldy container to wash out.

Next attempt at turkey perfection was using roasting bags. These are amazing products of modern chemistry and manufacturing that look like regular clear plastic bags, but amazingly, don’t melt in the heat of the oven. They seal in all the moisture coming off the turkey, while still allowing it to come to a nice golden brown color. The bottom of the pan ends up with several cups of flavorful stock made from the roasting bird and the cut up carrots, celery and onion on which it was placed. This has been our go to method for several years.  The white meat is still a bit dry, however, so when I heard about the “perfect way to roast a turkey”, I was intrigued.

Spatchcock is such an odd term for what I did to that poor bird, although it was way past feeling a thing. A quick internet search indicates that is of Irish origin and has been around since the 18th century. It is a contraction of “dispatch the cock” and describes the method of flattening out a chicken, turkey or other fowl to cook it more quickly and evenly. After my announcement and some resigned silence, I explained what I would attempt. I was greeted with more skeptical silence and then the gathered family members left it in my hands. No pressure. Just 18 people who traveled from all over the country to be together for this meal. I didn’t want to think about what failure would look like. At least we had the side dishes if it ended as a complete disaster. We did have two turkeys, so that offered some reassurance. My brother-in-law Bill said that he would cook the smaller bird on the grill. We knew this could be done because last year, when Thanksgiving was held in Massachusetts, that was the chosen cooking method. The competition was on.  It was the great 2023 Battle of The Birds. Spatchcock versus Grill. Bill and Jon face off in an epic epicurean battle. Spatulas and meat thermometers are wielded like swords and shields. 

Luckily, everyone decided to go out for a walk while I prepared my bird. Spatchcocking isn’t for the faint of heart or for those with weak arms. Thank goodness I’d been keeping up on my gym routine, pumping up my biceps and shoulders. I didn’t realize I was training for culinary warfare. Ideally, I would have used kitchen shears, but lacking those, I went for the 8 inch chef’s knife. I flipped the bird over to access the backbone, which needed to be removed. The first few inches are easy enough, but then I’m into some bone and gristle that really tax my strength. I peel off my outer layer and use my sleeve to wipe the sweat from my face. Finally, I made it through the bone. The video made it look a lot easier. I turn the bird over for the final step, leaning over it with both hands, like I’m giving it chest compressions to revive it from a heart attack. I hear a satisfying and simultaneously nauseating crunch as the breast bone breaks and the bird flattens out. I check the video and feel like I’ve pretty much achieved what I was supposed to. I ready the bird on the pan and slide it into the oven, cleaning up the crime scene in the kitchen before everyone gets back from their walk. 

 As the afternoon wears on, the crowd mills around anxiously, not really caring who the victor is as long as there's food on the table at the end. Bill has a brief moment of panic when the grill isn’t reaching the target temperature. Speculation about uncooked meat slightly dampens spirits but then I open the oven and people catch sight of the golden brown skin of the splayed-out bird on the center rack. The odor of cooking turkey adds to the array of side dishes in progress and salivary glands go into overdrive. Cooking onions and the steam from two pots of boiling potatoes is edging the crowd towards a literal feeding frenzy. 

Trays of appetizers disappear almost as soon as they are set on the table. Mixed drinks are handed out in an attempt to calm the throng. Dull the senses a bit and avoid an unpleasant stampede. A fire is started outside and games are provided as further distractions to keep people from looking at the clock or crowding around the two turkey venues. The drone of overlapping voices in the kitchen reaches an excited crescendo. The timer for the spatchcock bird goes off and the crowd surges as the pan is pulled out of the oven and set down on the table. “Oohh, that looks really good,” says Anita. “Is it done?” asks someone else. I feel people pressing in as I pull the thermometer out of the drawer. A dog yelps as someone carelessly steps on a paw trying to see the result. Did it work? Was it cooked to perfection? The meat thermometer is inserted and recordings are taken. A hush falls over the room as the red dial slowly but steadily ticks its way upward - 130, 140, 150. 160. The room has changed to pin drop silence as the needle reaches the vaunted 165 and then a little beyond. Another part of the bird is tested successfully. The tension in the room rises, but it seems that the turkey is done. I breathe a sigh of relief and hope that nobody noticed the moment of panic on my face. Butter drops into a pan to mix with flour and is whisked into the base of what will be the gravy. The grilled bird has made an exciting comeback. The crowd is fickle. Going with whatever bird will be ready first. Team Spatchcock seems to have an advantage but Team Grill corrected their earlier mistake and are feeling confident. There's some question about whether spatchcock is actually done despite the thermometer readings. The noise is ratcheting back up. There's a brief tussle among the crowd. Voices are raised but then the dispute is settled amidst laughter. The side dishes are ready. The gravy steams satisfactorily. The tables are set, arranged cleverly in an attempt to avoid conflict among the participants. Bottles of wine are opened with the new electronic gizmo that promises no stuck or broken corks. The wine flows and toasts are made. People line up in the kitchen to load up their plates. The noise drops as plates are filled and the verdict is reached. Everyone is a winner. Maybe we'll try deep frying next year. 

Halloween

 

 

 

 

 

 

Our town really embraces Halloween. The decorating starts hot and heavy in late September and never lets up. When we moved into our house on Maple Street 28 years ago, no one warned us about the mobs of trick or treaters who would show up each year. The first year I found myself making a mad dash to the grocery store for more candy after half of what we bought disappeared in about 15 minutes. Now we know that we need to be ready for at least 300 visitors on a certain night in October. We have worked on our decorations, although many of them are now showing some signs of age (what happened to the skeleton’s other leg?). I hope you enjoy this little reflection on this spookiest of holidays.


After a gloomy wet day, my first glimpse out the window reveals blue sky and the first frost of the season. The early sun sparkles off the frost, yielding a sense of wonder, but then I remember the date. October 31st. Halloween has come again. The fall foliage peaked weeks ago. A few leaves do their best to hang on, providing final bits of color. These are now losing their tenuous grip on the gray branches to join the rest of the yellow, red and orange on the ground. The tree branches go from being colorful to sinister, now looking more like hands that could reach out with grasping claws to settle around my neck.


The excitement has been building ever since the big bags of candy appeared on the shelves at Shaw’s back in August.The jack-o-lanterns are all carved. The lights are strung to highlight the skeletons and tombstones carefully arranged in the yard to achieve a maximum level of creepiness. The downtown scarecrows with leering pumpkin heads have all been set up at local businesses. Did you see the 10 foot tall skeleton on Central Street? I almost fell off my bike the first time I rode by him. He’s holding smaller skeletons in his hands and looks ready to run into the road to grasp passers by. In the same yard, a skeleton dog appears to have chased a skeleton person up the nearby tree. Then there is the giant ghoulish creature with a jack-o-lantern head wielding an ax. Trust me, I’m not going too close to him. Don’t get me started on giant spiders. They are everywhere. Webs stretch down from porch roofs and the spiders are poised to attack anyone who walks by. I expect to see one of the neighborhood kids all wrapped up and stuck in one of these webs, waiting for its owner to come down for a little snack. Gravestones have popped up everywhere along with orange and purple lights. There is one house whose front has been transformed into a giant face, complete with two giant glowing eyes looking down on those who dare to get close.


I’m wondering if, like last year, the clown who looked like Pennywise (complete with floating red balloon) will once again walk the streets. Last year, I looked up from some last minute preparations just in time for him to slowly turn his head and stare. For a few seconds, our eyes met and I gazed into the expressionless deathly white with blood red lips. I shiver at the memory. I wonder if any high school students will dare to look at themselves in the mirror and say, “Candyman” five times? I wouldn’t be that brave and all I did was watch the preview! Will Jack Torrance appear at the door with that crazed look on his face as he raises the ax over his head and shouts, “Where’s Johnny!?”


It looks like the weather will actually be decent this year. Not warm. Far from it actually, but that is to be expected in northern New England at the end of October. Everyone’s lucky that we don’t have wet snow or cold rain. I think back to those Halloweens where the weather did what it wanted. The cheap costumes soaked and matted to the kids' skin. They didn’t care. The drive to get as much candy as possible overrides everything else, even personal comfort. They joined the hordes of other shivering kids staggering around the neighborhood, with lips turning blue.


Rumor has it that last year the house down the street was giving away full size candy bars, so now our neighborhood is on every kids hit list. They descend on it in packs, trailing along tired looking parents who would rather be home on the couch than traipsing around in the cold and dark. I try to embrace it. I do my best to put up some good decorations. I don’t want to be that one neighbor who doesn’t play along. The one who turns out the lights and closes the shades. I don’t go overboard and I refused to cave in and get one of the giant blow-up ghosts or ghouls. That would make our yard feel more like a cheesy car dealership.


I am partial to providing some scary sounds that come from everywhere and nowhere. That makes some kids weary about coming up onto the porch, especially the little ones. I do feel a twinge of guilt when I see the innocent 3 year old hesitate on the steps when a particularly unearthly scream rattles the night air. We reassure them that nothing will hurt them and offer to bring the candy bowl to them, sparing them from the worst of the sounds and that mysterious guy sitting on the porch.


I’ve been fantasizing about a particularly gruesome trick but I haven’t figured out how I might pull it off. I picture the kids coming up on the porch, nervous about the moans and rattling chains. They tentatively step past the figure with the disfigured face sitting in the chair. Then they reach for the door and as their hand almost makes contact, the blood starts pouring down. It streams towards their feet, spatters their costumes and faces. They can feel the warm stickiness of it. Can taste the coppery tang. And then, just like that, it disappears. Like nothing happened at all. They’ll be wondering for days how we did that.


For now, I’ll just have to settle for the creepy looking guy sitting on our porch. Is he real or isn’t he? You’ll have to decide for yourself. Do you dare to walk past those green hands? What if they suddenly reach out and grab you? Pull you into the mouth full of pointed teeth. His fetid breath reeks of something dead and rotten. Is the mini Three Musketeers worth it? It barely makes a single bite and then it’s down your throat, or stuck in your teeth with what’s left of the Jolly Rancher from the last house. But you want it, don’t you? You have to have it, no matter the cost. It just won’t do to leave any candy on the table on this one night of sugary debauchery. So you step gingerly towards the door, keeping one eye on the grotesque thing in the chair. If you catch even a hint of motion as it starts to drag itself up or reach out towards you, you’ll be gone. You’ll sprint down the stairs and if you knock over some other little kid, well that’s just the way it goes. You're all for saving your own ass at that point.


You knock on the door, heart hammering against your ribs. A slight breeze gets the skeletons moving and the ghost flaps behind you, but you know these can't hurt you. It’s just that guy. Why does he have to be there? Dead eyes staring. Chains clink and screams echo through the night air. You hear laughter and voices out on the street, but they might as well be a million miles away. They can’t save you. They wouldn’t even know that anything had happened. There would just be a jittery movement and you’d be gone. Why didn’t you agree to trick or treat with your friends? You had to go it alone this time. Didn't want to be slowed down by the group. Now you’re regretting that decision - safety in numbers you know.


How long has it been since you knocked? Shouldn’t someone have come with the bowl of candy by now? You’ll just count to 10 - no 5 - and then you’ll move on to the next house. 1, 2, 3 - what was that scraping sound? You don’t want to look. Can hardly move. Your head turns on a creaking neck. You don’t want to look, but you do. The green hand is strong on your wrist, pulling you towards the horror in the chair and your screams echo down the street.


Happy Halloween!!

Wooly Bears

 I knew when I started this blog that not everyone would be a fan of every post. I have made my peace with that. Isn't that the way with any kind of creative endeavor? I used to have this argument with my Dad, who was a classical oboe player for his whole career. If I happened to be playing some of my music out loud and he came back to the house, he would exclaim, "What is this noise?". Of course, to me, the Pink Floyd or Talking Heads music coming out of the speakers sounded great, if not sublime. My arguments with him about the subjectivity of art never went anywhere. Heck, I'm just happy that anyone is reading my work in the first place. I welcome your feedback and I know that my style is just that - mine. And sometimes I go dark. I get into that mode where I can envision things going terribly, horribly wrong. And sometimes those are really fun pieces to write and I can't explain why. Anyway, I hope this latest feels a little lighter and gives you a sense that you won't be able to pigeonhole me as one particular type of writer. I'm having fun. I'm still experimenting. Still finding my voice. And you are along on this journey with me.  Thanks for sitting shotgun.

Wooly Bears

 

  Caterpillar stage 

  

 Isabella Tiger Moth

 

Like most Vermonters, I can become obsessed with the weather. I like to do things outdoors, so this only makes sense.It’s natural for us, given the fact that we have all four seasons in each of their distinct patterns. Some would proudly add our fifth season (mud). Many a war story has been told of braving a particular dirt road in late March or early April. How the ruts were so deep and it took no small amount of skill to maneuver through them. But that’s probably for another story. Starting towards the end of September, one of our best, and maybe most controversial, weather predictors start showing up.


I’ll be riding my bike down a quiet stretch of dirt road with someone and we’ll glance down and exclaim, “A wooly bear!” And sure enough, there it is. A small brown and black caterpillar making its way across the road. They are quite “wooly” and if you pick one up, you’ll quickly learn that and will observe it curl reflexively into a tight little ball. Wouldn’t you do the same if some giant scooped you up into its hands while you were just making your merry way along, minding your own business?


The scientific name for these little guys is Pyrrharctia Isabella and they are destined to become the Isabella Tiger moth. There is a lot of interesting information about wooly bears (or what some call wooly worms, which doesn’t sound nearly as cuddly) to be had on their Wikipedia page. In general, they have a pretty short life span, so we should be kind to these fellow Earth citizens when we come across them making their trek across our quiet back roads. They generally live for only 2-3 weeks in their larval stage (the fuzzy brown and black that we are used to). Once they have fed enough, they will pupate and eventually turn into moths that live a very short 24 hours, during which time they lay their eggs to start the cycle all over again. There is a version of this caterpillar found in the Arctic and they live in slow motion, extending out their life span for up to 14 years!


It’s interesting that we want to ascribe weather predicting capabilities to these little denizens of the U.S. and southern Canada. Sometimes, the caterpillar stage will winter over, completely freezing solid and staving off death by the use of essentially what is a natural antifreeze that can protect them to 90 degrees below zero (Farenheit). Then, in the Spring, when things warm up, they thaw out and go about their business, which is basically to reproduce themselves. So, they miss the entire winter that they are supposedly able to predict. They are in a blissful state (I hope it’s blissful) where they lie there in the grass and weeds frozen solid, unaware of all our scurrying around, plowing snow, getting stuck on icy, rutted roads, shivering by the fire and inventing new sports to keep us occupied until the sun gets a little closer and we can warm up again.


The lore is that the relative amount of brown and black on the caterpillar predicts the harshness of our winter. More black equals a harsher winter. There is even finer detail about whether the black is bigger at their front or the rear (harsher early winter if it is towards the front) and also that the caterpillars' 13 segments correspond to the typical 13 weeks of winter (more about all that can be found here). I’m conveniently ignoring the actual science around the wooly bear’s weather prediction capability.


There is another aspect of their weather prediction I hadn’t heard of before and that is if they are seen crawling south, then it is going to be a colder winter. I don’t know, maybe they think they’re going to make it to South Carolina or Florida, but that will be a long journey. I didn’t find any data on how fast they can crawl. My engineering brain wants to calculate that so I’ll have to throw a tape measure into my bicycle saddle bag for future research. My own observations are that they go faster when it is warmer. Their maximum velocity seems to be on those lucky fall days where we hit 70 degrees in October. It’s like a last gasp for these little guys. Maybe they want to just get to the last of the leaves and eat enough to pupate so they don’t have to do the whole freezing solid thing.


Some parts of the country have various wooly bear festivals and I think that’s great. Any excuse to get the community together, enjoy some food and drink (likely pumpkin spiced something or other) and to have some fun. If we do it over a wooly bear, I’m OK with that.


It’s funny that with all of today’s modern technology: satellites that track our weather, complex computer models that predict storms,and phone apps that can forecast when it is going to rain or snow down to the minute (my daughter’s phone will give her a message like, “light rain starting in 10 minutes”), I still can’t help but get excited to check out any wooly bear when it crosses my path and wonder what kind of winter he is predicting. Hey, was that last one heading south?

Scenic Views

Sometimes I hear or read a headline and it sparks my imagination. Do you know the show, "Black Mirror"? It is speculative fiction where some current technology or issue is taken just a step further than its current state.During the pandemic, there was a podcast called "The Chronicles of Now" that aired briefly. It consisted of fiction inspired by today’s headlines. I liked the idea and this story is in that same vein.



AP News - 9/26/23 - “Leaf-peeping social media users are clogging a Vermont back road. The town is closing it”


NY Times - Fall 2023 - “How Crowded Are America’s National Parks? See for Yourself.”

Americans are flocking to national parks in record numbers, in many cases leading to long lines and overcrowded facilities.


Scenic Views


It's just too scenic. You aren't allowed to see it. No one is. These places used to be accessible to everyone. But they couldn't handle it. They went overboard and ruined it. You can't even go to major cities or National parks these days without a reservation. They are suffering from their own popularity, almost literally loved to death.


I remember the first hints that this was where we were headed. We visited Yellowstone back in 1990. We were traveling around the country in a two wheel drive Toyota pickup with no air conditioning in the pre-GPS days. You had to know how to read a map back then. We made it all the way from Vermont to the west coast with just our old road atlas. The cover was torn and the pages were dog eared and rumpled. In the mornings, while sipping instant coffee made palatable with plenty of sugar and milk, I looked over the route for the day.


Our camp site was quiet and off the beaten path. Over the weeks of traveling, we had learned what type of places to avoid. If we pulled into a parking lot and it was full of RVs, we would turn around and look for something else. We learned that you could camp for free on any national forest land and that was our favorite place to go. Most people wanted more than what was found on these remote roads. They wanted lights and toilets and gift shops. We didn't need any of that. We wanted nature and quiet and solitude.


We also wanted to see Yellowstone and some of the other big sights, so we gritted our teeth and joined the masses. Over time, we formed our own opinions about RVers after following slow ones up miles of narrow highways, wishing they would pull over to let us pass. We would take a big breath and try to stay calm. Even when people were wandering off the boardwalks right next to the sign prohibiting them from doing so. We watched them walk onto fragile land sporting bermuda shorts and goggling through video cameras. Sunscreen congealed in a thick layer on the back of their necks and cigarettes dangled from their mouths. Inevitably, they flicked the butts onto the ground with oblivion and we would just stand there helplessly, rolling our eyes and giving each other a look. You might think that it was foreign visitors who maybe couldn’t read the sign, but it wasn’t. They had more sense and didn’t have that as an excuse. There was no excuse.


Anyway, that was decades ago and it was already getting bad at the more popular national parks. That was before the Yosemite riots and the incident at the Grand Canyon. I blame the internet. It ruined everything. People became obsessed with having the best picture for their Facebook or Instagram account. I wondered if they actually enjoyed being in these great natural areas. Or was it just about getting the perfect selfie with Half Dome looming in the background at just the right angle with just the right rays of setting sun reflecting off its serene face.


This is what I heard about Yosemite. After waiting for hours in lines of traffic to get in, tempers were already hot. A big crowd jostled near the fence, cell phones waving in the air. The inadequate number of national park staff stood by helplessly. There was some kind of scuffle near the fence put up to keep people from trampling the rare plants beyond. A punch was thrown and people started shoving each other. It moved like a wave through the packed crowd and quickly was out of control.


Like so many other things, a few people - well quite a few - ruined it for the rest of us. Now, after going through a rigorous background check, you wait months to receive your digital access code. The entrances to the national parks resemble the gates to a maximum security prison. Red and white striped barricades block the road and tall metal fences strung across the top with razor wire flank either side. Armed guards stand with grim faces waiting for potential trouble. A set of guards with digital scanners patiently check the passengers in every vehicle, running the scanner over proffered bar codes.


It’s not just parks but certain locations in cities too. My son wanted us to go to the “Cloud Gate” in Chicago. We had seen it in pictures of course. He was there for a new job and we had come to visit. We made our way downtown and were disappointed when we saw the line of fencing. It stretched on all sides of the giant silver bean-shaped sculpture. You barely could see it. There was one gated entry and the new National Parks and Significant Sights Security force was there to scan people in. I didn’t like the look of the heavy black automatic rifles slung across their fronts and knew that without a reservation, we weren’t getting in. We got back on our rented Ebikes, hit the throttles and headed for the waterfront path. That was remote and spread out enough that all it took was a quick ID check for us to access it.


It was only a matter of time before all of this came to Vermont. After hordes of leaf-peepers descended on the state year after year, something snapped. There were certain well known iconic spots to get pictures. You know the ones. The rolling valley with the perfect red barn situated just so and a patch of green field to provide contrast to the flaming leaves. You probably put together a puzzle that looked just like it. Again, another case of the dark side of the internet. The location data for these spots was shared and instead of the occasional car from Massachusetts or Connecticut rolling along a dirt road, there were now long lines of cars and giant F150s and the even bigger hundred thousand dollar sprinter vans outfitted to the teeth all crawling along to that one spot in search of the perfect picture.


I was in Pomfret the day the woman was killed. It was awful. The road was part of a bicycle loop a friend had been telling me about for years. The stars finally aligned and we could ride together. We checked the route on our tablets for any security restrictions and it appeared to be clear. It was one of those lucky fall days where temperatures were in the 70s under clear blue skies. The smell of the leaves was intoxicating and the fallen ones crunched under our wheels. We started to pass a line of parked cars on the narrow dirt road and first we figured it was a wedding or maybe people stopped for an apple orchard.


We came around a corner and there was a knot of people crowded near a section of stone wall lined with maples, all waving phones and cameras. We stopped our bikes to try and understand what we were seeing. There was one woman to the side who had a painter's easel and was capturing the scene of the barn and rolling hills to the east. The people didn’t look happy. Shouts and curses could be heard. There was jostling as those on the outside of the crowd tried to wedge their way towards the front.


We looked at each other and shook our heads, realizing that this was leaf peeping gone mad. We heard an engine revving to our right and an impossibly large truck was backing towards the woman and her canvas. I knew what was going to happen, but couldn’t react fast enough. My stomach clenched and I felt frozen, unable to move. She didn’t hear it and then it was too late. The easel splintered and paint and maybe blood spattered the tailgate of the truck. The crowd panicked and people scattered back to their cars. The noise and confusion broke me out of my trance and I had to look away. We called 911 and waited for the ambulance and police to show up.


Now there are certain roads in Vermont that you can’t travel in the fall unless you live there. It’s best to check the Scenic Access app before you venture out. You might be going along and see something up ahead. Then you get closer and it is a line of barricades painted orange and white. “Road Closed Except for Residents” reads the sign. A bored looking security guard stands to the side, head cocked listening to the ear piece with one hand on the heavy pistol hanging off his hip.

A Day Like No Other

 I am a glass half full kind of person.  Most of the time anyway. I tend to look at the bright side of things, even when they seem pretty dark. I spent hours over the past two days trying to find something I wrote in one of my journals. I am pretty certain that I paged through every one of them in search of the elusive writing (it's a list of possible episodes for a podcast I aspire to make some day). I feel like the list was a really good start with at least a sentence or two about each episode, including people who I might possibly interview to add depth. But all my searching was fruitless. The list never showed up. Had I only imagined that I wrote it? No. I know for a fact that I wrote it and I'm pretty sure it was in one of the journals that are piling up on my writing bookshelf upstairs. I wonder if maybe I actually wrote it in some computer file, so I go through all of those as well. Here's where the glass becomes half full rather than the half empty it was seeming like most of the time. As I did through the computer files, I stumble on all these drafts that I created over the past few years. Some are fully completed short stories and others are the first few paragraphs of something that has some real potential. The story below is one of those that I particularly liked. I don't remember what made me write it, but do we ever really know the answer to that?  I hope you enjoy it. 

 

A day like no other

I had a feeling that this was going to be a rough day from the start.  After tossing and turning for what seemed like hours, I glance at the clock, dreading what I might see.  7 AM.  Too late to try to sleep more and my head was throbbing.  Great way to start the day.  I fumble the sheets off and on the way to the bathroom, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I stub my toe on the weight bench I meant to move yesterday. The pain in my toe (most likely broken) jumpstarts my sleepy brain, now with overloaded pain receptors. Why did I even have this stupid weight bench. It was purely aspirational at this point.  Its main purpose seemed to be to remind me how out of shape and unmotivated I was. I flick the light on in the bathroom, squinting at the brightness of the LED bulbs.  Why did energy efficiency have to be so painful?

I look at the face looking back at me from the mirror.  Did I always have those bags under my eyes and the permanent crease between them?  I look down at the bulge of my stomach pressing on my T-shirt.  I sigh and reach for the toothbrush.  My toe had faded to a dull ache.  It was so easy to go down the rabbit hole of negative thinking.  Do you ever do that?  Envision all the terrible things that might happen every single day.  It’s amazing how often we court death, narrowly escaping what could be the final day. Of course, one death would be bad enough. What if you had a whole day of them.

I lay out my clothes for the day. As I attempt to pull my pants on, my left hip goes into a painful spasm and it’s almost impossible to stand on that leg. I feel myself losing my balance, one foot tangled inside my pants, my hands not willing to let go of the waistband. I topple through the bathroom door and my skull cracks on the hard tile.  The last thing I see before my vision fades to black is the pile of hair and dead flies in the corner by the edge of the bathtub.

After the ordeal of getting dressed has been accomplished, I head downstairs.  I remember when the kids were little and I was carrying 2-year old Isaac.  I slipped on the stairs, somehow hanging onto him in a parentally protective grip, shielding him as my body took the brunt of the fall on the back of my legs and lower back.  He cried from fear but was unscathed.  While thinking of this, I miss a step and my stockinged feet careen out of control.  My arms pinwheel and I feel my bad shoulder dislocate as it smashes off the handrail. My head and neck connect solidly with the landing, turning at an inhuman angle.  This time I see the thick layer of dust that I had meant to clean last weekend, but never got to. 

After a number of minutes reflecting on how this day has gone so far and seriously considering heading back upstairs to crawl into bed, I ratchet my ailing body to a standing position. I make my way into the kitchen, wary of what awaits me there. The dog jumps off his nighttime perch on one of the recliners, stretches in a perfect downward dog pose (mocking me since I struggle to do this) and looks up expectantly, hoping for a scratch on the head. I oblige him and he trots towards the back door. This is our morning routine.  I’m a little leery of the back door and the steps leading down to the concrete floor of the breezeway but navigate it safely to let him into the back yard.

I start the coffee, going through the motions I have performed hundreds, if not thousands, of times. The smell of the dark roast revives me a bit.  I usually make oatmeal because it is easy and quick but opt to make an omelet as a treat.  There is a plastic bag with some onion and pepper on the shelf by the eggs and I decide to make it a deluxe breakfast.  Having worked as a cook for five years means that I can pull things together quickly.  I think back to my restaurant days and have a brief vision of flames leaping up onto the long sleeves of my white chef’s coat, then lapping up my torso and into my hair (I had hair back then).  I see my body fold forward onto the burners, hair and skin blackening and fouling the air before the fire suppression system goes off. I shake off this dark reverie and get back to the task at hand.

I pull out my favorite kitchen knife from the wooden block in the corner.  I start chopping the onion when I hear the dog barking to come in.  I yell, “just wait a minute” and get back to the task at hand. Unfortunately, I lose concentration and feel the knife slice through my wrist, catching the artery.  The bleeding is too heavy for me to staunch it with anything.  As the blood flows freely, my vision narrows to a pin prick. I crumple to the floor, bleeding out on the hard cold surface.  My last vision is of the forgotten carrot pieces, breadcrumbs and other dust stuck under the edge of the cupboards.

After breakfast, I decide to get out for a bike ride.  What could go wrong?  Most of the routes that I enjoy involve long climbs on dirt roads leading out of the village.  After climbing you are rewarded with a view of distant hills, then a nice fast descent back home.  I enjoy the challenge of the climb, feeling my heart and breathing increase as the miles are consumed by my own power.  After a brief traverse across a ridge, the downhill approaches.  This one is quite steep in parts and braking is essential to avoid total disaster.  I tuck down over the handlebars, enjoying the speed and the pull of gravity.  As I approach my comfort level, I pull back on the levers.  The disc brakes on my bake are incredibly powerful.  Too much on the brakes and you could be launched over the handlebars.  This time though, I feel first one and then the other of the brake cable snap.  Every so often I had contemplated what I would do if this happens.  My speed increases, the roughness and grade of the road conspiring to dump me.  I click my foot out of one pedal and try dragging it on the ground to rub off some speed.  All this does is angle me towards the ditch.  I’m probably going about 40 as I hit the ditch and am jettisoned off the bike and into the nearest tree.  I slump down to the base of the tree and the last thing I see is a pile of McDonald’s trash and several crumpled Bud Light cans.

Later that day I’m at home having some lunch.  I reach for my sandwich, which is on thick slices of wheat bread with a healthy pile of turkey in the middle.  It’s one of my favorites.  The lettuce and tomato add a nice bit of crunch to each bite.  I’m in a little bit of hurry because I have a long to-do list for the afternoon.  I take a big bite of the sandwich, hearing my wife’s voice in the back of my head admonishing me to chew.  I feel the soggy bread and turkey lodge into the back of my throat.  Nothing is coming out.  Not a scream, no cough, no air.  I scrabble around the table, knocking the plate and remaining sandwich to the floor with a crash.  The room is shrinking in and lights flash behind my eyelids.  I drop to my knees, hands on my throat as the last of the light is winking out.  I look over to see a pile of dog food, dust bunnies and other detritus under the edge of the cupboards as the last of my vision closes down to nothingness.

It’s been a busy day and the afternoon is no different.  I have several things to do downtown.  I cautiously ride my bike into town, with a backpack for various things that I need to pick up and drop off.  I lock my bike to a signpost in the middle of town, planning to walk to my errands. I’m feeling sanctimonious about the small carbon footprint I am leaving with this trip.  After a quick duck into the post office to get postage on an Amazon return and a book of stamps, I head back to Main Street.  I need to get to the bank before it closes with a question about one of my accounts.  Main Street is busier than usual.  I spy a gap in traffic and dash across the street.  I hear and smell brakes locking up and tires skidding as the car I misjudged tries to avoid me.  Those are my last senses before I am catapulted up over the hood, bounce off the windshield and onto the hard pavement.  My last sight is a pathetic pile of cigarette butts and old leaves in the gutter.

Well, it’s been quite a day and I’m ready for bed.  After watching a little TV, with the dog nestled under my arm, I feel my eyes growing heavy and realize I need to head upstairs.  I always sleep better with cooler air and even though the temperatures tonight are predicted to be quite cold, I crack open the bedroom windows.  A couple of years ago, I invested in an electric bed warmer, which has been heaven.  I turn on the warmer for a little pre-heat while I brush my teeth.  I bring a glass of water to the nightstand, so I don’t have to get up in the night if I am thirsty.  I snuggle into the now warm covers and reach over to confirm tomorrow’s alarm. My hand knocks into the glass of water and watch helplessly as it pours down onto the power strip behind the bed.  I’m glad that I don’t feel anything and can’t smell the burning flesh and blankets.

I wake up the next morning, wondering what the day will bring.  I remember Sargeant Esterhaus from the old TV show “Hill Street Blues”.  In each episode, as he was dismissing the officers to hit the streets, he would admonish them to “be careful out there.”

Pedaling from the pandemic

Just a little intro needed for this post. This essay was originally published in a collection published by my good friend Sara Tucker of Korongo Books. The collection was called "The Homebound Diaries/Homebound Still" I finished it in November 2020. We were a solid 6 months into the COVID pandemic and it seemed like new shoes were dropping every day. We had kind of gotten used to wearing masks and hunkering down at home, but it was all new territory, and honestly was pretty scary stuff. My bike offered me an escape to normalcy, and especially on the back roads that surround our little town in Vermont.  Looking back on it, I feel quite lucky to have had that. It kept me sane.  Here's what I had to say about it. 

I am what most people would refer to as an avid bicyclist.  It is my favorite activity.  Over the past thirty years or so, I have ridden tens of thousands of miles.  Forest trails, paved highways and my new favorite; unpaved back roads. As the days and weeks of the current pandemic grew to months, getting out on my bike became a taste of normal life in an otherwise crazy time. 

I discovered the joy of riding on the many miles of dirt roads surrounding Randolph village starting around five years ago. A local entrepreneur in outdoor recreation, Zac Freeman, started promoting this type of riding with a big fall event called the Braintree 5.  The name of the event reflects the route which has riders climb Braintree hill five different times. The first year that the event was held, I had no idea how challenging it would be, but set my sights on participating that October.  Prior to that year, I had pretty much split my bike riding between mountain biking on nearby trails and on traditional road riding on local and state highways. With the carrot of the Braintree 5 hanging out there, I started logging as many miles as I could on the dirt roads using my mountain bike, which is big and heavy.  I completed the event, which is a total of 35 miles with 5000 feet of elevation gain over the course of the ride.  It was a challenge, and the post-ride beer and food were welcome.

I had started to explore so-called “gravel grinder” bikes that summer, but we weren’t in a position to afford one, so it was mostly fantasizing about their sleek lines and light weight.  Gravel grinders look like a traditional road bike with the curving drop handlebars, but they have slightly wider tires, strong disc brakes and more forgiving gearing. Winter came and I let cross-country skiing take over my thoughts and energy.  But, as spring was approaching, the gravel grinder was back on my mind.  After a few visits to a bike shop in Northfield, I had test ridden a few bikes and had a particularly nice bike high on my wish list. An unexpected windfall sealed the deal.

I am lucky that I have been able to continue working full-time from home since the initial lockdown in March.  I’ve learned about the various pros and cons of this arrangement.  One of the cons is that you are in the same space all day every day.  The line between home life and work life has been erased.  That has made me value my bike rides even more than usual.  On the plus side, when the workday ends, there is no commute, so I have more time to get out and ride.

One of the benefits of the unpaved roads around Randolph is that you can piece together an infinite variety of routes, going as long or as short as you want. My son Jacob has been home with us since March, which was not his original plan.  He just graduated from college (virtually, on our couch) with a music performance degree playing jazz saxophone.  His plan had been to get a gig on a cruise ship, but the pandemic scuttled that.  Last fall he joined me for the Braintree 5, basically with almost no training.  We joke that it was “couch to Braintree 5”.  He completed the ride on a rented bike with a little bit of struggle, but he enjoyed it.

This year, with a fairly early spring that dried out the dirt roads in March, we got out on bikes earlier than normal. Jacob picked himself up a nice gravel bike at a new local bike shop. He really embraced getting out on his bike as much as possible.  He has explored many routes that I hadn’t and found some great riding to expand our network.

Among all the restrictive elements of dealing with the pandemic – not gathering with friends, wearing masks in public places, not going to the movies or other public events – going for a bike ride has been a taste of normal.  As I head out, I instantly feel the weight of the pandemic falling away.  The village streets quickly transition to an unpaved road with few cars and less noise.  Many of the roads follow along creeks that you can glimpse through the trees.  You hear the trickling of the water as it rolls over the rocks in the stream bottom. Because Randolph is in a valley, almost all the routes involve a fair amount of climbing.  I love being entirely under my own power as the miles roll away and I scale up to a ridge line.  After a short amount of level riding, I am then rewarded with an exhilarating downhill, sometimes for several miles.  It’s not unusual to hit 30 or even 40 miles per hour on the way down.

Bicycling became my salvation in 2020.  I put in my workday and then escape on my bike for an hour or more in the afternoons.  Sometimes I go by myself, enjoying the chance to be with my thoughts and to feel my body working and pay attention to that.  Other times, I go with friends and family, chatting about things and relishing some time together without our worries. My wife, Anne, bought a gravel grinder with my encouragement.  She and I rode a fair amount together, which was a real treat.  This summer was quite hot and many of our rides ended at the town recreation area, where the Third Branch of the White River flows by.  We would prop our bikes against a tree, strip down to bike shorts and go down the short trail to a convenient swimming hole.  The river water was always cool and refreshing, washing the dust and salty sweat off before the final easy half mile back to our house.  This was a rejuvenating routine.

Weekend rides were even more adventurous.  We developed one route that took us out to the Floating Bridge in Brookfield and then over to Silloway’s sugar house in Randolph Center.  The sugar house was an important stop because they started serving maple creemees this summer.  There is something really satisfying about a smooth, sweet treat after you have ridden twenty or more miles.  From Silloway’s, there was only one more short climb, then mostly downhill back home.

Because of the pandemic, there was no official Braintree 5 ride this fall.  However, five of us picked a pristine Saturday in October and rode the official route. It was an amazing day with surreal neon fall colors and postcard views of valleys and distant ridges.

Now, the cold weather has arrived along with some snow and shorter days.  So, the bikes are hung up in the garage until next spring.  I know I will enjoy my rides in the future but hopefully I will no longer be escaping the pandemic.