It’s Apple time again
Oh baby it’s chilly outside! Autumn is here. The nights are cold and the days clear, warming to evening and thoughts of changing come and go as colorful leaves drop, branches become bare and the last fruit of the harvest appears sweet and ready. Andie loves apples. The old tree on the other side of the back fence still drops the occasional treasure and Andie applies her now considerable gleaning skills to the collection of them. It very autumnal en plein air around here these days.
Apples are good for Andie as I discovered last season and I prefer them to commercial chews to clean her teeth. Rawhide chews can be dangerous for dogs, some of them downright toxic and that includes Greenies, I’m sorry to say. So Andie and I in keeping with the foodie mystic of our increasingly very effete wine country esthetic creep out into the back garden in the full moon light and dancing the Gian movements of abundance chant in a resemblance of Steiner’s biodynamic agriculture: ‘Apple, apple growing bright, making sweetness in the night, let me sigh eating apple pie and Andie’s pearly teeth shine bright.’ Really, the origin of all this was finding a Tupperware containing a crab carcass planted three feet down in the Southern axis of what was once our barren yard and nascent garden to be.
We don’t wear costumes or anything or chant on the nights when the Truck-Mart neighbors are playing with their night-vision mini drone, which on first sight several weeks ago, looked like a flying saucer. It hovered above us in wee hours of their weekend party over our driveway, a mechanical voyeur stalker, peeper as Andie committed a deposit.
I do not claim beyond the play of humor any disrespect for Steiner, whom imbued one of my dearest friends with the expressive grace of eurythmy. She did the honor of taking one of my poems as a context for eurythmic play, but became ill before I could see her art. Nothing could honor a poet more than a poem given life by movement and dance—–something very ancient in sensibility and a deeply moving gift from a much loved one.
Meanwhile, life goes forward at Truck Mart. They are good decent folks and otherwise self contained neighbors given to massive machines, sports costumes, and remote controlled toy trucks that look like the mini spawn of their own vehicles. The sound of them…..eeeeeeeeeeee aaahhhhh eeeeee zooooom zooooom. It sounds like a high revved power saw cutting down brush. Up the street it goes and back down the street it goes. Andie does not like it, I do not like it and so we go inside until Detroit is put back in its box for the day.
The T-Marter’s have two very large lovable labs that roam free so they are largely immune from the cat pox that finds our street silently united by the fact that the cat lady’s felines have spread out and poop in everybody’s driveway, disturb the gardens and kill fish in the ponds. Everybody pretends it’s coons that are to blame, but I ‘ve caught her cats out there In flagrante delicto. One of them sleeps under my car at night and drives Andie to animated levels of curiosity. Nobody tells the cat lady though, she’s had a hard life and we just put up with it. I noticed the other day, she bought and placed three new black plastic 20 gallon buckets of roses along side her sidewalk and tended that scruffy patch of crabgrass with an old hand mower. Maybe she’s in love again.
One thing is most admirable about the T-Marter’s, they park like pros. At any give time six trucks and a sedan are all carefully choreographed like movable pieces of a Rubik’s Cube to position a maximum efficiency in entering and exiting. On weekends, when friends and guests arrive, including a cousin’s RV, the assemblage of chrome and color is truly impressive. The youthful energy is engaging, except that time five years ago when their Halloween party included egging our house. That never happened again. At least they didn’t paint ‘YOU SUCK’ on the front door, which teleologically and theoretically speaking might have been a truism of sorts.
Most impressive lately is the arrival of a huge RAM truck so tall it has a small ladder with which to hoist one’s self up into the cab. It has six cleg-like lights fixed to a shiny chrome roll bar. They are concealed with smiley face covers.
simulacra of said truck
I expected a burly, shaved head, tattooed dude to jump out of said truck, but the other day was shocked to see a young, lithe, 5’2″ pretty blond Barbie woman park and alight from what is arguably the most macho machine in the hood. The little girl, we once noticed when we first moved in eight years ago had grown up.
Finally, we must note that our garbage man has become passive aggressive. When I pack the large green bins with pruning scraps it is with the precision of packing a carry-on for a two month trip across country. So, he has to shake it at least three times, rather than just the one, until all comes out in a flora compact resembling a green refrigerator. I think it pisses him off because he drives the extra thirty feet to set the can down behind my parked car.
Worse he often loses ‘stuff’ that ends up in the street trailing behind his boisterous behemoth iron armed truck. That’s a problem. Most recently some complex toy from next door with multiple gears, tubes and brightly colored scraps was run over and left behind. Our G men don’t get out of their trucks for anything. Thus, Andie has been sniffing out these small parts like treasures to chew and shallow. It’s been a busy week trying to spot them before she chokes on one.
At the moment Andie is sleeping in the sun on the patio chaise, a practice she has recently taken up. Just when I think she is growing up….it’s play time and she runs around with turquoise squeak-bug or Leo the Lion, whom we have discovered has mini squeakers in his paws and that fascinates Andie.
Meanwhile, From Andie and Me: Happy Laborious Day!