Netflix thievery

I got a Netflix slip in my PO box, with an apology reading: Dear Postal Customer: We sincerely regret the damage to your mail during handling by the Postal service… etc, etc.

My Netflix account registered that my delivered movie had been watched and returned. Not by me. By them. They, whomever they are, always open our Netflix. Usually they give them back, open but undamaged, a few days after the anticipated delivery. This isn’t a big deal: I’m a non-TV-owner on a 2-per-month plan and I don’t care if the movie is late. But the principle of it is intriguing.

Who are they? How many movies can they possibly watch? Also a little secret: they are not fond of foreign films, and they don’t take those; they simply open the envelope and slip it back in your box. Box office hits,  though, they love — and those will disappear for awhile.  Now that we’ve figured out what they like, I just have to decide whether I’m in the mood to share before I order…

waking up from a nap, in my yard

do not be fooled by the size of them apples

In the wintertime, fresh fruit becomes scarce in this little town of ours. You will always find browning bananas and limp-looking lettuce, but this is not so yummy. You might be tempted by the strawberries but they are throwing mad mold parties under the surface, they’d love for your tongue to join, but your tongue will find that it’s in bad taste. Don’t even think about plums or peaches or even a good orange.

In Gunny, though, there are blueberries and papayas and other heavenly fruits from far off places. Thus, when I end up over there for a doctor’s appointment or some such, I fill my cart with these jewels, loading it up with freshness and antioxidants. Unfortunately, I saw some enormous Honey Crisp apples this week, and I opted for them instead of my Pink Lady favorites. They were so huge and shiny and delicious looking that I thought surely… Have you ever eaten an apple that tastes like a potato? Yick.

let it snow, let it snow…

My car is quivering. Apparently, it has snow in it. This morning, I spent 45-minutes shoveling it out from under the heaps of white, but the piles underneath did some damage. I imagine sleeping in lumpy snow would do me some damage as well.

My car is not the only thing quivering under several feet of new snow. In the house, washing dishes, suddenly there’s a rumble from above and piles of snow come crashing down from the roof. It’s a frequent happening, these days: avalanches under the eaves of houses. Excuse the low-quality phone photo, but here’s a look out Tim’s window:

Despite the quivering, the town is beautiful and defiant, besieged by snow. Under the layers of weight that slide on her surface, she remains the same underneath, she stays strong through the turbulence. The snow folds beautifully across her, like dress that fits, like a kiss from nature.

the general history project

Today, an email arrived from an old friend, Miss Laura Lee Huttenbach. She was announcing her new endeavor: The General History Project. She is setting out to record the stories of an ‘unsung world hero.’

My most vivid memories of Laura Lee: on the beach in Argentina, clapping her arms like a seal. Eating ice cream, before and after riding four wheelers in the sand (she can eat more ice cream than anyone I know). Another late night at the law library in Virginia. The classic butt shake on the dance floor. She’s quite adept at the butt shake. I am so glad that LL is still shaking her butt. Oh, the places she’ll go….

in Bennington, Vermont

Apart from Susan Cheever’s discovery that I have Freudian drives, life is relatively mild in this snowy scholarly land. Looks perilous ahead, as there’s some serious work to be done at the other end: to write, and re-write, and write again, to re-write again, to write, again and again. (Yes, that sentence should be murdered).

On the brighter side, my new teacher,  Wyatt Mason, (writer of Harper’s Sentences, among other batches of brilliance) is a kind genius. I feel rather unworthy of his gracious, insightful editing, but it will certainly make it less daunting to go, word by word, into the dark.

driving home through the pink

Somewhere between New Mexico and Colorado.

lovely luminarias

Christmas Eve in Santa Fe. Children amid the luminarias, instruments of light.

did you ski in the clouds?

This is the question my neighbor asks me, as I shuffle in through the snow storm, buried in gear. It is foggy and thick, the snow permeates the air with white.

It has been snowing for several days, and there are several feet of light, white, fluff. No one talks about anything but skiing. No one seems to be doing anything but skiing, and grumbling about working, and skiing. Nordic, Alpine, Telemarking, Snowboarding — anything that glides on your feet, on the snow. The whole town seems to have an addiction.

It is not uncommon to see people biking to the bus stop with a snowboard tucked under their arm, or a pair of skis across their handle bars. The bikes — those which are not in hybernation this winter — have fat, studded tires that allow them to plow through the snow without sliding.

Today on the mountain, the snow was a bit chunky. Also thick and cold. When I reported this, Tim said, “A little chunky, too thick and cold? Are you complaining about soup or snow?”

this one’s for Margaret