Last night we had two journalists and Anne Tyler's nephew eat the most incredible chicken enchiladas & chile rellenos S made at our house, & in no time they all discovered Chicago and New York in common. These are places I haven't been, but my Mom is from Chicago and still has that big city sharpness about her I can't quite touch. It was interesting to hear the city creep back into their voices, a rawness, an edge, something hard like pavement as they talked of rats and sewer steam and subways and muggings and bars and brawls and made much use of the word "fucking" as an adjective.
Rana & LT live in the steep hills south of town, & when we had the ice storm two weeks ago they were stuck. LT said he found it amusing to toss an ice cube out the front window, hear it skitter down the steep embankment they call a front yard, down their driveway, and then down the steep street, everything coated in two inches of ice. B said it was the worst storm he'd been in, simply because the town was unprepared for such weather. Nobody even owns a snow shovel.
The tall and lovely Rana, with her butterscotch voice, who collects macabre stories often envolving legal issues, told of an event she covered that cold icy day, when a man on the next street south of theirs fell and impaled himself through the thigh and abdomen on 2 feet of unguarded rebar in a building site. In shock, he stood up. She said she arrived about the same time as the monstrous reticulated firetruck, huge tires chained and grinding for traction into the ice on the narrow steep street. The firemen had to improvise with a pulley and a basket to get the man up the hillside. Rana said nobody knew his name other than that he was "Bob the Digger," which I guess is how we all got those family names in the first place. She said the worst thing about what she does is letting the story go; sometimes it remains unwritten, and often unfinished.
The conversation rolled around, and through constant vigilance S made sure nobody's wine glass was empty. We talked about the ladybug swarms in late summer; the first time I experienced it I was happy about it, the small red good-omen bugs were all over the outside walls of the house, and flying around in a great cloud of benevolent charm. I had gone outside because I'd never seen such a thing before (other than a swarm of bees five years ago, and they had gone bustling over my head as I ducked beneath a bush in the garden). Soon I had about a hundred little beetles on my arms and legs, in my hair, on my back. It was summertime, and hot and sunny, and I was perspiring slightly so when they started biting me I didn't notice, but within a matter of minutes I realized my mistake in cavorting with the little carnivorous beetles with jaws and claws. Or, as Rana growled with indignation last night, "Ooh I hate them! Ladybugs are fuckin fucks!"
We had a good time last night and I even managed to get to bed at a reasonable time, which pleases me greatly.
Tomorrow after teaching my dance class S & I are headed to the beach to celebrate our anniversary. There's a winter storm warning for the weekend & the hotel overlooks a small inlet where the waves churn and crash white against the black rocks. It promises to be delightful.
Rana & LT live in the steep hills south of town, & when we had the ice storm two weeks ago they were stuck. LT said he found it amusing to toss an ice cube out the front window, hear it skitter down the steep embankment they call a front yard, down their driveway, and then down the steep street, everything coated in two inches of ice. B said it was the worst storm he'd been in, simply because the town was unprepared for such weather. Nobody even owns a snow shovel.
The tall and lovely Rana, with her butterscotch voice, who collects macabre stories often envolving legal issues, told of an event she covered that cold icy day, when a man on the next street south of theirs fell and impaled himself through the thigh and abdomen on 2 feet of unguarded rebar in a building site. In shock, he stood up. She said she arrived about the same time as the monstrous reticulated firetruck, huge tires chained and grinding for traction into the ice on the narrow steep street. The firemen had to improvise with a pulley and a basket to get the man up the hillside. Rana said nobody knew his name other than that he was "Bob the Digger," which I guess is how we all got those family names in the first place. She said the worst thing about what she does is letting the story go; sometimes it remains unwritten, and often unfinished.
The conversation rolled around, and through constant vigilance S made sure nobody's wine glass was empty. We talked about the ladybug swarms in late summer; the first time I experienced it I was happy about it, the small red good-omen bugs were all over the outside walls of the house, and flying around in a great cloud of benevolent charm. I had gone outside because I'd never seen such a thing before (other than a swarm of bees five years ago, and they had gone bustling over my head as I ducked beneath a bush in the garden). Soon I had about a hundred little beetles on my arms and legs, in my hair, on my back. It was summertime, and hot and sunny, and I was perspiring slightly so when they started biting me I didn't notice, but within a matter of minutes I realized my mistake in cavorting with the little carnivorous beetles with jaws and claws. Or, as Rana growled with indignation last night, "Ooh I hate them! Ladybugs are fuckin fucks!"
We had a good time last night and I even managed to get to bed at a reasonable time, which pleases me greatly.
Tomorrow after teaching my dance class S & I are headed to the beach to celebrate our anniversary. There's a winter storm warning for the weekend & the hotel overlooks a small inlet where the waves churn and crash white against the black rocks. It promises to be delightful.
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