tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44177401787981462092024-03-07T04:55:27.808-05:00AlphabirdAn alphabet. A bunting. A blog.
And some utter randomness.Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-32928027586066864312008-02-20T09:14:00.000-05:002008-02-20T09:15:23.403-05:00A is also for And Now…I am suspending entries in Alphabird for now and moving over to an even-more-random blog, <a href="http://indigobunting.wordpress.com/">Route 153</a>. Come on over for a visit.Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-46877666168551606602008-02-12T17:30:00.000-05:002008-02-12T17:33:54.938-05:00A is for AnimalsSlowly but surely, I’ve been working my way through the BBC’s <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Planet_Earth_%28TV_series%29"><span style="font-style: italic;">Planet Earth</span></a> series. I tend to watch an episode while I’m on my NordicTrack elliptical cross trainer. Although it may be dreary winter outside, I can spend an hour getting my heart rate up in the jungle or on the great plains or in caves or shallow seas. Even the Arctic—though it doesn’t psychologically warm me—feels more scenic than the now–soot-ridden snow along our roadside.<br /> <br />One thing I love about this series is all the types of animals filmed—animals I will likely never see in my lifetime, and ones I <span style="font-style: italic;">should</span> never see if their habitat is to have any chance of survival. Most animals have bodies that are incredibly different from mine. The way bodies have evolved to succeed in their environments fascinates me.<br /> <br />At its heart, of course, this series is a brutal record of who-eats-whom.<br /> <br />Watching <span style="font-style: italic;">Planet Earth</span> reminds me of how alike all we animated beings are, as everything for all of us is based on three things: food, territory, and sex. When push comes to shove (and it will), this is all any of us cares about. If we claim to care about other things, it’s only because somehow these three have sorted themselves out—and likely any of those “other things” we care about has roots in one of these three.<br /> <br />In other words, I know that I’m an animal. And I know that you are, too.Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-18123946428788611472008-02-04T09:35:00.000-05:002008-02-04T09:50:40.358-05:00B is for Black-Crowned Night HeronI’m home in Vermont now, but being in Portland and thinking of <span style="font-style: italic;">B</span> put me in mind of the last time I saw a <a href="http://www.birds.cornell.edu/AllAboutBirds/BirdGuide/Black-crowned_Night-Heron_dtl.html">black-crowned night heron</a>, which was in September in that fair city.<br /> <br />A most beautiful, exotic bird.<br /> <br />The first time I saw black-crowned night herons was many years ago at the <a href="http://www.fws.gov/northeast/chinco/habitat.htm">Chincoteague Wildlife Refuge</a>. It’s a beautiful spot, but to a beginning birder, it’s heaven. You have the ocean and the brackish spots and the forest and the Wildlife Loop that is open only to pedestrians and bicyclists during the day—cars can circle at dusk.<br /> <br />I believe it was dusk when we saw them.<br /> <br />They were all <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black-crowned_Night_Heron">juveniles</a>, roosting in the trees for the night, just over a stream. There must have been at least a dozen of them. They looked like stocky little aliens sitting there, staring at us, just far enough away with the water between us that they seemed none too threatened. I felt like I was truly in another world.<br /> <br />Any time I’ve seen a black-crowned night heron, it feels like something magical has happened.<br /> <br />One night last September (it must have been September, as it was already cold), Tim and I finished up dinner, probably at the pizza place, and afterward he said, “You wanna walk out on the pier?” I usually do, but something of my old city self kicked in, as it was dark, and I wondered if we should be out there at this hour. There weren’t that many people around.<br /> <br />But, of course, we did walk out, and when we got to the end, there was a bird sitting atop a wood pile (or, as some may say, <span style="font-style: italic;">post</span>). It took a moment for it to register that it was a black-crowned night heron. I hadn’t seen one in so long, and it was just sitting there, seemingly undisturbed by the few people who were around. We stopped not far from it and watched it. It watched us.<br /> <br />There were a couple of guys behind us who asked us what kind of bird that was. We told them. This started a long chatty conversation of some sort. I’m trying to remember if they were fishermen, which would be the most likely thing—it seems they moved around a bit to work. But a lot of this conversation is lost to me because I kept sneaking glances back at the night heron, who eventually disappeared.<br /> <br />S/he was soon replaced by another distraction, though: a voice, a laugh. Three people had come down to the end of the pier and were sitting there chatting away. I thought I recognized one of them. It can’t be, I thought. Ilaria? Of course, it <span style="font-style: italic;">could</span> be. She lived in this town, although not nearby.<br /> <br />Ilaria was a stylist who had worked with Tim a long time ago. She’d worked with Roger more recently, before he joined Tim’s company. Roger had kept up with her, and when Tim and I and Roger and his family were all in Portland the previous spring, we’d met up with Ilaria and caught up a bit. She is a kind soul, and it was great to see her.<br /> <br />But was that Ilaria? Not enough light, and these guys—one of whom was from Pennsylvania, now that I think of it, as is Tim—were talkin’ up a storm. But Tim must have noticed too, because I think he nudged me and said, “Ilaria?”<br /> <br />We called over. Ilaria indeed.<br /> <br />Circumstances were sad. Her friends had lost a relative; they’d all just had dinner together after a memorial service. Again, these (possible) details are all swirly. Her friends had immediately walked off to let Ilaria have her reunion. It was great one. Such a strange moment in time, full of coincidences that so easily might not have happened.<br /> <br />It’s hard to know when to listen to those voices that tell you that maybe you should be afraid. Sometimes I have not listened to them and regretted it. If I had listened to them that night, I would not have had the magical evening of <span style="font-style: italic;">Ilaria and the Black-Crowned Night Heron.</span><span style="font-size:78%;"><sup>©</sup> </span>But I would never have <span style="font-style: italic;">known</span> that I missed it, just like <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span> the things I’ve missed and don’t know it. Of course, this kind of thinking can make you crazy if you let it. I guess you just go forward in life knowing you’ve missed some good things and you’ve dodged some bad things, and you haven’t missed some good things and you haven’t dodged some bad things. And that’s how it’s going to go.<br /> <br />But it’s all better with birds.Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-57872259775276104632008-01-31T09:18:00.000-05:002008-01-31T09:35:21.735-05:00C is for CavaSo, I’m in Portland again, and last night Tim and I go to one of his (and OK, my) favorite little restaurants. Seats just twenty, including four at the bar—the bar not being a real bar, per se, but a little <span style="font-weight: bold;">c</span>ounter up against a half-wall topped with wine bottles. One might feel restricted at the bar if the food (<span style="font-weight: bold;">c</span>reative northern Italian) weren’t so damn good. It’s where we sat last night.<br /> <br />We walk in and were greeted by Sara (I’m guessing on this spelling), who notes that we hadn’t been there in awhile, and it’s true—not since September. Somehow we missed a visit here in December. She sits us down and says that they are so happy to see us, and would we like some sparkling wine? Tim is already eyeing up the wine list, and I don’t think he gets what I <span style="font-style: italic;">think</span> she’s saying—“on us”—but I, being a lover of all things sparkly and <span style="font-weight: bold;">C</span>hampagne and Prosecco and dry, say that of <span style="font-weight: bold;">c</span>ourse I would <span style="font-style: italic;">love</span> that, because I would, and which one does she recommend? She likes the <span style="font-weight: bold;">C</span>ava. Bring it on.<br /> <br />It was lovely. It was perfect. It did not appear on our bill.<br /> <br />This is not the only place in Portland where staff remembers us. In December, for his birthday, we took Tim to his other favorite spot, very pricey, and again, it was all how-have-you-been, it’s-been-awhile, really-a-year?-it-doesn’t-feel-like-<span style="font-style: italic;">that</span>-long.<br /> <br />Yes, I know that this is part of what good service is. Yes, I know people are doing their jobs and need the high tips that will <span style="font-weight: bold;">c</span>ome their way. But in these <span style="font-weight: bold;">c</span>ouple of <span style="font-weight: bold;">c</span>ases, I know they are not pretending to remember us. They remember us. (And if they don’t, please don’t shatter my illusion.)<br /> <br />We live five hours away from here.<br /> <br />This morning at a breakfast place, I saw a hint of recognition <span style="font-weight: bold;">c</span>ross the waiter’s face. (He no doubt placed me when I ordered four pounds of their granola to take home to Vermont, although this time they <span style="font-weight: bold;">c</span>ouldn’t accommodate the request. <span style="font-style: italic;">Oh yeah. </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">C</span><span style="font-style: italic;">razy Vermont </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">c</span><span style="font-style: italic;">hick.</span>) He got my order wrong, but it was something I’d always been tempted to try anyway. It’s the kind of hippie place where you <span style="font-weight: bold;">c</span>an’t imagine that anyone working there <span style="font-weight: bold;">c</span>ould actually be a morning person.<br /> <br />It’s a short stay this time, and we’re scheduled to leave tomorrow, but a snowstorm is a-brewin’, and I think we’ll wait til Saturday morning. This suits me fine, as it means I <span style="font-weight: bold;">c</span>an go see <a href="http://www.sonypictures.com/classics/persepolis/"><span style="font-style: italic;">Persepolis</span></a>, which starts here tomorrow and will probably never play anywhere near me. I just spent the last two days <span style="font-weight: bold;">c</span>ompletely absorbed in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Persepolis_%28comic%29">the book</a> (after my work hours, of <span style="font-weight: bold;">c</span>ourse), trying to finish it before presenting it to a <a href="http://44for365.blogspot.com/2006/12/305365-fourth-wendy.html">birthday girl</a> at her party tonight.<br /> <br />And I just started <span style="font-style: italic;">The Invention of Hugo </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">C</span><span style="font-style: italic;">abret, </span>this year’s <a href="http://www.ala.org/ala/alsc/awardsscholarships/literaryawds/caldecottmedal/caldecottmedal.htm"><span style="font-weight: bold;">C</span>aldecott Medal</a> winner, which I bought for my mother’s birthday (<span style="font-style: italic;">shhh!</span>) because she <span style="font-weight: bold;">c</span>ollects <span style="font-weight: bold;">C</span>aldecotts, and I make sure that she owns every one. This is unlike any previous winner, at 530 pages of mixed illustration/text. It’s phenomenal. I’ve been loving the graphics in my reading this week. I’ve been loving that I’ve <span style="font-style: italic;">been</span> reading this week.<br /> <br />So how’s this for a stream-of-<span style="font-weight: bold;">c</span>onsciousness post? That’s what <span style="font-weight: bold;">C</span>ava will do to you. <span style="font-style: italic;">Who </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">c</span><span style="font-style: italic;">ares what you post? Just post something! Spread the sparkly!</span><br /> <br />One other thing: I went roller skating Tuesday night—hadn’t been in eight years. The first ten minutes were tough, but it <span style="font-weight: bold;">c</span>ame back to me. I’m not quite ready for <a href="http://alphabird.blogspot.com/2007/04/r-is-for-roller-derby.html">derby</a>. But the disco ball is utterly trippy when you’re taking the <span style="font-weight: bold;">c</span>orners.<br /> <br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">C</span>heers!Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-64719720417015532192008-01-24T06:52:00.000-05:002008-01-24T06:54:42.075-05:00D is for DeloneyA click of the mouse and suddenly I’m on <a href="http://deloney-daydreamsforthomashardy.blogspot.com/">the Danforth</a>, tumbling onto the street like Alice down the rabbit hole. Sometimes it’s hot and steamy there; sometimes cold and gray. Always there is the smell of good food and a many-accented murmur. It’s good to be on the street, but it’s also lovely to take in the view from the window of Deloney’s apartment, the smell of onion and garlic comforting even that which thought it could not be comforted—and Fanny rubbing up against me, purring a bit, pushing a bit, whispering, “Move. That’s my sill.”Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-51718238506656731242008-01-23T07:16:00.000-05:002008-01-23T07:18:11.903-05:00E is for Eric<a href="http://songsfromthefield.blogspot.com/2007/07/163365-dont-be-shy.html"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >22 August 1974–25 May 2007</span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.44for365.blogspot.com/">366/365</a> Apparently, you weren’t just my cousin. You’re someone I would have liked: reputedly hilarious. We were in the same room only a handful of times, that last at your father’s funeral. You were seventeen, and I was shy. Now I feel so cheated. This sucks.Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-49558675875502763752008-01-21T16:46:00.000-05:002008-01-21T16:58:40.517-05:00F is for Frustration and Fridge FreakoutsSometimes it’s the little things that feel like really big things. Stupid things, things we’ve gotten used to as relatively rich first worlders, and when these little things don’t work the way they should, we are just so <span style="font-style: italic;">put out.</span><br /> <br />Near the end of November, just about the time several other appliances/vehicles were deciding it was time to break down, my water heater stopped heating water. (It was the best of times.)<br /> <br />Pretty quickly, the guy from the gas service came out, replaced a small part, and voilà! Hot water again! All for only $110! ($10 part, $99 service call.)<br /> <br />On December 19, there was no hot water.<br /> <br />We got service that day. Bad part last time, apparently. No charge.<br /> <br />On January 3, we were again hot-water-free. This time the guy seemed to think they’d gotten a batch of bad parts.<br /> <br />When I made the next call on January 16, I was told that another part was on order for us—the part they suspected was making this tiny little part die every few weeks. No one had told me or Tim that this new part was being ordered. (I’m guessing that maybe it hadn’t been—they were covering, and they were going to order it <span style="font-style: italic;">now</span>.) No one came out on the 16th. No one came out on the 17th, because they still hadn’t gotten the part. “I’d really like some hot water for the weekend,” I said on the 17th. “Could you at least send someone out with the temporary part?”<br /> <br />That same part was replaced on the 18th. We had hot water all weekend long.<br /> <br />Today, after my workout, I filled up the tub for a bath. It was cold.<br /> <br />I called again. There is no word on the part. The woman said that W—’s, their distributor of parts, hadn’t shown up yet, and that she would check. I asked her to call me back today. As she has <span style="font-style: italic;">never</span> called me back, I expect to hear nothing.<br /> <br />That no one seems to be very aggressive about finding this part-on-order makes me feel they are lacking a bit in the customer service department. (The guys who show up to work on the water heater are always nice, though.) The fact that I am calling them all the time should be motivating them to find this part, fix the thing, and shut me up. They can’t be happy about these repeated free house calls. (They better be free.)<br /> <br />I drove a mile to my sister’s and took a bath. I am lucky that I have this option.<br /> <br />It could be much worse. I could have no water. I have water. That’s huge. But it’s winter. It’s too cold for cold showers. I am a spoiled American who has become used to hot water.<br /> <br />Grrrr. Argh.<br /> <br />And speaking of frustrating bourgeois problems and the letter F, I had one of my Fridge Freakouts this weekend (what with actually having hot water, my anxiety had to land somewhere). These occasional panic attacks tend to happen when the refrigerator is very full and when I realize how much of this fullness has to do with jars and jars of condiments.<br /> <br />This may sound strange, but a too-full refrigerator causes me way more anxiety than a near-empty one. (If I were living in poverty, this would not be true. I am aware of the craziness here.) A too-full refrigerator means I can’t see what’s in it. A too-full refrigerator means that in all likelihood, we two people who live here are going to end up throwing food out. I hate throwing food out. It feels wrong.<br /> <br />A too-full refrigerator reminds me of the cluttered home of my family of origin. Let the hyperventilation begin.<br /> <br />The other night, I wanted to cook up some broccoli in hoisin sauce. I searched the refrigerator for this condiment. High and low. Didn’t find it. Opened a new jar, then put that jar in the refrigerator. Hard to find a place for it, what with all those jars.<br /> <br />How much horseradish do we need? (I don’t eat it—we have three open jars of various styles.) How many jars of jam need to be open and kept cool at any one time? When do we <span style="font-style: italic;">eat</span> jam? Well, we better start, goddammit.<br /> <br />I began doing an inventory. The last time I fridgefreaked, I remember being upset by three open jars of capers and five jars of mustard. I am happy to say we are down to no capers and two jars of mustard, but one of them is honey mustard. I hate honey mustard. Tim likes honey mustard, but not enough to eat it, obviously, because it’s still here. I’m sure it’s one of those five from last time.<br /> <br />With some of these condiments, we are talking <span style="font-style: italic;">years</span>.<br /> <br />On the top shelf of the refrigerator: olives, mole sauce, my newly opened hoisin sauce, tropical mango mild salsa, tomato-basil jam, yeast, a tube of concentrated pesto, an open jar of tomato-basil sauce, and butterscotch syrup. In the door: jalapeno jelly, black bean sauce, pepper jelly, chocolate syrup, mayonnaise, lemon juice, lime juice, vegetable broth, Rose’s lime juice, apple butter, lemon-pear marmalata, an unmarked purple jam, tamarind concentrate, butter, Thai peanut sauce, hoisin sauce (hello! there <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span> an open jar after all!), raspberry teriyaki, Tabasco, three salad dressings, maple syrup, tamari, Szechuan spicy stir-fry sauce, prickly pear cactus syrup, those three jars of horseradish, maple chipotle grille sauce, green peppercorns, la tartufata, those two mustards (one grey poupon, one honey), minced garlic, and some unmarked glass jar that Tim opened, sniffed, and declared “some sort of ginger something.”<br /><br />He did make himself a piece of toast and finish off a cherry jam at the beginning of my freakout, god love him.<br /><br />Of course, some of these condiments are essential to have around at all times. I just wish that if we opened something, I could have some sort of confidence that it would be used up within a few months or we wouldn’t bother opening it to begin with.<br /><br />Now I feel I have to be on a mission to eat some of this stuff—to plan my meals around these f#%*ing condiments. I want some order. I want some breathing room.<br /><br />I want a drink. Those never seem to last long in the fridge.Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-41640758051826425692008-01-14T19:56:00.000-05:002008-12-11T23:59:34.012-05:00G is for Giraffe<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJSL8v3kToR6JqjKjzfutrsiD81liCgldlShdIpHHE08w_PRPG64_OzzvRR6X8gOKyZ1YaGsmwAayPYAqLqVoTNYJd4gqh-46KpX2SBikR7RxF_qrN_mV15C12U9-31CDghaGy3Htrk2M/s1600-h/IMG_2279CC90.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 196px; height: 323px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJSL8v3kToR6JqjKjzfutrsiD81liCgldlShdIpHHE08w_PRPG64_OzzvRR6X8gOKyZ1YaGsmwAayPYAqLqVoTNYJd4gqh-46KpX2SBikR7RxF_qrN_mV15C12U9-31CDghaGy3Htrk2M/s320/IMG_2279CC90.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5155506055718764722" border="0" /></a>At last, there is a giraffe in my bathroom.<br /><br />One wouldn’t think it would fit. I have, after all, a very small bathroom—one that barely fits me, let alone me and a giraffe.<br /><br />Me, a <a href="http://44for365.blogspot.com/2006/08/201365-phoebe.html">bunny</a>, and a giraffe.<br /><br />I met the giraffe at an art party last summer. <a href="http://44for365.blogspot.com/2006/04/66365-sioux.html">Sioux</a> and <a href="http://44for365.blogspot.com/2006/08/186365-aidan.html">Aidan</a> painted it together. I had to bring it home. It stands on one of those circus stands that elephants often stand on. I don’t think this is normal behavior for a giraffe.<br /><br />Normal or not, I wanted that giraffe in my bathroom, black tongue and all.<br /><br />You can’t see the black tongue.<br /><br />Sunday we finally got it in there. There was a hammer involved. Sometimes one has to be firm with a giraffe.<br /><br />There are other giraffes in my house, but not many. They are not usually obvious, but they will come out for a party. One lives on a coaster. Two are camouflaged in glassware: one on a beer mug, one on a shot glass. (Those two traveled all the way from Kenya with <a href="http://44for365.blogspot.com/2006/04/83365-alison_114590462249320286.html">Alison</a> just to be with me.) They do not like to come out when there is a hammer in sight. Even hammered people make them jittery.<br /><br />The giraffe in my bathroom is learning to nose the faucets on and off. I’m happy for this show of independence, as it’s all I can do to keep up with feeding it 140 pounds of leaves and twigs each day. I have to keep up, though, to keep it out of the cotton balls, Q-tips, and tampons. Replacing those items can get really expensive.Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-45557504949215072008-01-06T12:20:00.000-05:002008-01-06T12:22:21.340-05:00H is for Highland GamesOverheard at the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Highland_games">games</a> at <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Isle_of_Skye">Skye</a> in 1997, just as the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Weight_over_the_bar">weight-over-the-bar event</a> was getting under way:<br /><br />Little girl: Is he a <span style="font-style: italic;">strong</span> man, Mummy?<br />Mummy: We’ll see.Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-22478323145138885472008-01-03T08:55:00.000-05:002008-01-03T09:07:57.659-05:00I is for ItalyYesterday we placed a phone call to Italy.<br /> <br />A decade ago, Tim’s job was such that he would make biannual trips to Verona to check <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Color_separation">color separation</a> on the catalog. On four occasions, I was invited to come along. By <span style="font-style: italic;">invited</span>, I mean that the company in Italy invited me. They bought my plane ticket and treated me as their guest, complete with weekend trips to Venice or Florence.<br /> <br />I know it was business, but in the end, it was more than that. Proprietors <a href="http://44for365.blogspot.com/2006/12/314365-pier.html">Pier</a> and <a href="http://44for365.blogspot.com/2006/12/315365-sergio.html">Sergio</a> were good to us beyond business. Their kindness and generosity—their personal interest and time—exceeded anything they <span style="font-style: italic;">had</span> to do to make the client happy. And without them, it’s possible I may never have gotten to Italy.<br /> <br />After maybe a half-dozen years, things changed—the economy, the technology—and Tim’s company stopped using the Italian separators. Pier and Sergio were close to retirement age and would soon be moving on themselves; still, it was a sad ending.<br /> <br />They call us every Christmas.<br /> <br />This year, Pier called while Tim was away, so I was the only one to get to talk with him that evening. (Did he later call Tim at work? I think so.) Pier had a small stroke a couple of years ago and is doing well now, but he’s given up golf, a passion of his, because he can’t play at the level to which he’d grown accustomed. (Those frustrations await all who live long enough to enjoy them.) Pier lives near Milan, and now that he and Sergio are retired, they rarely see each other.<br /> <br />Sergio recently sent a Christmas card (the <a href="http://www.tourism.verona.it/_vti_g2_evDe.aspx?ide=4267f058-6663-458b-aa31-210efe980107&rpstry=31_">Piazza Bra and its holiday star</a>) and included photos from his 70th birthday party. There he is with his wife <a href="http://44for365.blogspot.com/2006/12/317365-anna.html">Anna</a> and his four grandchildren—Francesca, Alice, Alberto, Giovanni—and they are standing in front of his new house, the one he and Anna were planning ten years ago. It is a happy, beautiful picture.<br /> <br />We went away for the Christmas holidays, and I left a detailed message on the answering machine as to when we’d be back, knowing in my heart of hearts that Sergio would call while we were gone. And he did, within a couple of days of our departure. He said he’d call again January 2, the day I’d be back in my office. We beat him to the punch.<br /> <br />Tim always calls, and Anna always answers. Tim doesn’t speak Italian, and Anna doesn’t speak English, and it always works out fine. Sergio was home, and we had a wonderful conversation, catching up just a little, hearing each other’s voices. Sergio may visit the states this year. I so wish we could get to Italy.<br /> <br />I am ridiculously fond of Sergio. He is a lover of life and humanity. He is devoted to his loved ones. I used to think I would name something after him were I ever to have occasion: a child, a pet. We recently drank a bottle of Prosecco called Sergio, which I had bought because of its label. I kept the bottle.<br /> <br />I realize this post is beginning to sound like “I is for sergIo,” so perhaps I should reiterate that I is for Italy. Italy is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Verona">Verona</a>: the Piazza Bra, the Arena, and their beautiful shooting star and markets at Santa Lucia. Verona is the Porta Bosari, Piazza delle Erbe, Juliet’s balcony. It is Castelvecchio, the Basilica of San Zeno Maggiore, and Sant’Anastasia. It is all the hours I spent alone, walking and exploring while Tim worked. It is Pier and Sergio each time wondering if my unfortunate delicate traveling constitution was actually a pregnancy. (It never was.)<br /> <br />Italy is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Venice">Venice</a>, where I felt I must have lived a previous life: It felt so familiar and right to wander the streets and bridges. Italy is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Florence">Florence</a>, where the art overtook me and the marble Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore astounded me and where I climbed the campanile. Italy is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siena">Siena</a>, where Sergio and Anna took us one day to wander the beautiful streets and see the piazza and have a pastry in a famous café. Italy is northern Italian pizza, the most perfect in the world. Italy is my daily fix of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gelato">gelato</a> (more often than not of the <span style="font-style: italic;">nocciola</span> variety).<br /> <br />In fact, in all this time that I haven’t been posting, I’ve been planning to write “I is for Ice Cream,” a topic I expect I could go on and on about. One of the stories I would have told had to do with Sergio, although, sadly, I was not there to witness it. One hot July day, Tim was with Sergio and Anna, and I believe they were in Verona, near the Arena. They stopped for gelato, and Sergio ordered “three balls” of it. This proved to be too tall an order, and the balls toppled onto him. <span style="font-style: italic;">“Cioccolata disastro!”</span> he exclaimed. It is an expression Tim and I use to this day.Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-21729154778824691272007-12-21T09:21:00.000-05:002007-12-21T09:22:08.017-05:00I [is temporarily for I Just Can’t Seem to Blog]I hope it won’t be too long before I can get back to this. Lately, each day has contained its own seed of sabotage. <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> is also temporarily for <span style="font-style: italic;">intentions</span>. I do have them. Perhaps after the holidays, there will be some follow-through.Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-53980516221805387732007-11-30T09:10:00.000-05:002007-11-30T09:16:59.194-05:00J is for Just Another Guy<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">For <a href="http://www.asummerafternoon.blogspot.com/">Mali</a>, on the occasion of her 365 finale</span></span><br /><br />Years later, we met for dinner. Would we even recognize each other? Sfuzzi (the restaurant) was still new and still hot, tucked into <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Union_Station_%28Washington%2C_D.C.%29">Union Station</a>’s beautiful mezzanine. Maybe it was 1990.<br /> <br />Our chumminess quickly resurfaced as we caught up: work, marriages, this, that.<br /> <br />After, I suggested a walk—maybe to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vietnam_Veterans_Memorial">Vietnam memorial</a>, which I’d never seen at night. Had he been there? No. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. Let’s go, I said. We can leave anytime you want.<br /> <br />We walked the length of the wall and back. Black granite, black sky.<br /> <br />He pointed to a name.<br /><br />“That guy was a real asshole,” he said. “But no one deserves to die that way.”Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-14262285533785156102007-11-26T14:36:00.000-05:002007-11-26T14:41:37.029-05:00K is for KrisSaturday morning, after a night out to see an excellent production of <span style="font-style: italic;">The Elephant Man, </span>Tim and I got up and headed to the Holiday Food and Gift Festival, where I was determined to complete a made-in-Vermont gift basket for someone on my list and where, we hoped, Tim could fulfill his need for a-little-somethings for his hard-working coworkers, a-little-somethings that would perhaps balance the gifts of sugar that would be heading everyone’s way, some savory-little-somethings-in-jars. I, for one, wanted that part of holiday planning to be <span style="font-style: italic;">fini</span> so I didn’t have to think about it anymore.<br /> <br />But when we pulled up to the venue, we both had to pee.<br /> <br />“Is there a bathroom here?” Tim asked.<br /> <br />“There must be,” I said, and then I remembered having been to this particular one-holer before and I knew exactly where in the store it was. We headed there.<br /> <br />The door was closed, and we could hear someone was inside.<br /> <br />We waited. This little nook contained kitchen sale items, so we looked at them. We waited. We waited some more. We bounced around a little.<br /> <br />Should we knock? I hated to resort to that. But it did seem to be taking someone a terribly long time.<br /> <br />Then, we heard a strange noise. It sounded like…wind chimes. What the…? I had no recollection of there being wind chimes in that small bathroom, and really, when one thinks what wind chimes would <span style="font-style: italic;">mean</span> in a situation like this, well, one wants to stop thinking that one is going to be the next one in that room.<br /> <br />Was it a kid messing around? More chimes.<br /> <br />I was just about to knock, thinking <span style="font-style: italic;">maybe this person has no idea anyone is out here waiting,</span> when the door opened. And out stepped Santa Claus, donned in the requisite garb and sleigh bells.<br /> <br />“Ho ho ho,” he said. “Have you been good?”<br /> <br />Tim and I began to chuckle. “Well, we’ll be <span style="font-style: italic;">better</span> after we get into the bathroom,” I said.<br /> <br /> “Sorry. I forgot how long it takes to change into this thing. And I’m running late. My pipes froze this morning.” (I wonder how often Santa uses <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> believable excuse?)<br /> <br />After we’d relieved ourselves, we had a very nice conversation with him. For the record, Santa’s a great guy.<br /> <br />When you’re desperately waiting for a door to open, sometimes there’s no predicting who’s gonna do the opening.Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-37061725536081714372007-11-14T11:48:00.000-05:002007-11-14T11:52:44.806-05:00L is for ListSnow tires<br />Take begos<sup>1</sup> to <a href="http://44for365.blogspot.com/2006/07/171365-another-paul.html">Paul</a><sup>2</sup><br />Groceries<br />Post office<br />Work out<br />Read final page proofs<br />Send cx to SW<br />Prep final-page packages and FedEx<br />Update museum log<br />Send batch 2 of workbook and invoice<br />Query where rest of chapters are<br />Answer e-mail<br />Go through mail<br />Prep recycling and trash for dump<br />Try to read blogs<br />Try to post blog<br />Move 40 pounds of birdseed<br />Feed birds<br />Make Thanksgiving grocery list<br />(Fewer than 6 weeks til Xmas)<br />Make lists for tomorrow<br />Breathe<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><sup>1</sup>Polish stew with sauerkraut-potato-kielbasa base<br /><sup>2</sup>Who had a hip replacement 8 days ago</span>Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-22328655348568576772007-11-05T08:13:00.001-05:002007-11-05T08:13:42.497-05:00M is for MarmosetA marmoset perched on my shoulder<br />Within minutes became even bolder.<br />He slipped under my shirt,<br />Which was less of a flirt,<br />More of monkey-avoiding-the-colder.Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-90340645573000526402007-11-01T14:47:00.000-05:002007-11-01T14:49:56.717-05:00N is for No. 2 PencilOh No. 2 pencil, I have fallen in love with you in my middle age—you my truest friend of childhood left abandoned for the seductive ballpoint pen, then the typewriter, then the keyboard. The permanent dent in my right middle finger never forgot you, I swear, and sometimes craved the pain of you—I pushed so hard against you back in the days.<br /> <br />Oh hard black HB, you so full of graphite and clay, you who come to me most often hexagonal, but sometimes round (like the marbled ones I picked up in Florence, now nearly nubs I long to replace)—it is <span style="font-style: italic;">your</span> dark gray against my white sheet, <span style="font-style: italic;">your</span> smooth whisper tickling my ear, <span style="font-style: italic;">your</span> point gradually dulling that makes me sharpen you again and again.<br /> <br />Still, I write with keys, having been (at a tender age) lured by the quick of it, seduced by sound and volume and practicality, drawn deeply into the first thing I could do well with my hands. You, No. 2 pencil, I save for private works: the grocery list <span style="font-style: italic;">(bananas, soy milk, spinach),</span> to-do list <span style="font-style: italic;">(work out, get mail, feed birds),</span> my own private page proofs (no red for others’ eyes). You are short phrases and sighs, the lover in the dark stairwell. You are eagerness and immediacy, the scritch-scratch of <span style="font-style: italic;">now, now, now.</span>Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-92093791521955244022007-10-22T07:19:00.000-05:002007-10-22T07:21:10.429-05:00O is for OctoberIt’s that most wickedly wistful of months, the one you step into only to find yourself knee deep in some sort of nostalgia or yearning—maybe for something you used to have; maybe for something you’ve yet to have.<br /> <br />It’s the month in these parts when you’re reminded what orange and blue can be together, and something akin to belief tells you they were <span style="font-style: italic;">meant</span> to be.<br /> <br />It’s the month I had to drop my outdoor wedding into.<br /> <br />But the O of October—and so much of October here is <span style="font-style: italic;">oh, oh, oh</span>—the O of October is like the low branch of a tree begging you to climb into it. If your legs and arms can vault and steady you into position, you can swing one leg over, steady yourself. You can lean back into O’s curve for a seasonal spoon. Surely, once balanced, I will dangle one leg off the side and set it swinging. Maybe I’ll remember to wear a straw hat and bring a piece of wheat to chew on. Together O and I will become a 19th-century decorative initial, a delicious <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drop_cap">drop cap</a>.Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-54953832037377619852007-10-11T15:59:00.000-05:002007-10-11T16:00:42.703-05:00P is for PresbyopiaIt’s here.<br /><br />Admittedly, the last year or so I’ve had trouble reading the tiny type on shampoo bottles and CD liner notes.<br /><br />But yesterday, sitting on the couch, reading a hardback book in what must be 12-point type, I found I had to move the book <span style="font-style: italic;">farther</span> away.<br /><br />I couldn’t believe it. I played with it for awhile. Bring the book close to my face—type goes all blurry. Pull it away—it reappears, all clear.<br /><br />I know this happens to just about everyone on the planet who lives to their Middle Ages. But you’d think people who’ve had bad vision all their lives would be cut some sort of break.<br /><br />OK. Whine over.<br /><br />On the plus side, it’s my twenty-first wedding anniversary. (With any luck at all, I’ll be able to read the dinner menu.)Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-63732169795075980022007-10-08T14:27:00.000-05:002007-10-08T14:31:11.730-05:00Q is for Quaking Aspen (Populus tremuloides)It’s 2:30. You’re caught up, mostly. Come on, go outside. It’s wacky warm out, for October. How many more days like this do you think you’re going to get?<br /><br />There. Feel that breeze on your exposed skin? Won’t be long before you’re trying to remember what <span style="font-style: italic;">that’s</span> like. Just look how fiery red the sumac is. And there—there’s a warbling vireo. What’s he still doing here, and why is he warbling?<br /><br />Now, isn’t this better than sitting at your desk?<br /><br />Stop under a quaking aspen. All the leaves are busy catching the wind. That sound, that whisper—you recognize it. <span style="font-style: italic;">Feel that breeze on your exposed skin? Won’t be long before you’re trying to remember what</span> that’s <span style="font-style: italic;">like. Come on, come outside. Shimmer and shake.</span><br /><br />Join the quotidian quiver in the quiet rush to winter.Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-38145528384740888732007-10-02T15:31:00.000-05:002007-10-02T15:42:40.700-05:00R is for Roller Derby Name<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">For Helen and Deloney</span></span><br /><br /><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >I’ve given it a lot of thought, and still, in light of the brilliance that has already occurred in roller derby names (see <a href="http://alphabird.blogspot.com/2007/04/r-is-for-roller-derby.html">R is for Roller Derby</a>), I’ve managed to come up with only one. So, for the roller derby life that exists only in my mind, I will hereby be known as:<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;" >Bella Coast</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:georgia;">Warlike and fast. Breezy, even. Kick some ass and look good doing it</span>.</span>Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-2954442276686479022007-09-27T13:46:00.000-05:002007-09-27T13:50:17.068-05:00S is for Snake<span style="font-size:85%;">First, a brief explanation: I wrote this back in 1996 for a fly-fishing audience, introducing a journal issue that included one or two articles about the various ways, historically, that anglers got to water. This was the first part of the introduction, the part that came before the hey-look-what-you’ll-find-in-this-issue part.<br /> <br />There are things I decided <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> to share with that audience—like just exactly how hungry I was and how consequently cranky I was getting. (I wonder if Tim noticed?) Like how it became clear as we followed the truck that this guy went by the moniker <span style="font-style: italic;">Snake</span>. Like how even though I happen to love snakes, I wasn’t convinced that someone called that would automatically be the nicest guy in the world.<br /> <br />But it was the most memorable day of that vacation, which we had dubbed in advance Moosequest ’96. The title of this intro was “Access.” Here’s yours to it:</span><br /><br />On a dirt road in Maine one August noon, my husband and I were trying to find a particularly remote pond, and it was eluding us. The pond was clearly marked on the <span style="font-style: italic;">Gazetteer</span>, but we were discovering a lot of side roads that weren’t. This pond, we were told, was sure to harbor moose. Moose was the reason I was in Maine—moose and landlocked salmon.<br /> <br />About to give up, we saw a pick-up truck coming the other direction and flagged it down. It was a Mainer on vacation; he thought he knew where we wanted to go. He said he had all the time in the world and would be happy to show us the way. He turned the truck around, and we followed him.<br /> <br />It soon became clear that he couldn’t find the right road either. But he offered to take us to the pond where he’d just been fishing. He took a look at our VW Golf, made a quick assessment, and decided we could do it. We got back in the car and followed.<br /> <br />We followed a long way, for a long time. The roads got worse, more remote, and our clearance was becoming extremely questionable. My city survival instincts were beginning to kick in, and I wondered what we thought we were doing, following a complete stranger into the middle of nowhere. It could be weeks before our bodies were found. The fact that <span style="font-style: italic;">we’d</span> flagged <span style="font-style: italic;">him</span> down wasn’t alleviating my anxiety.<br /> <br />Finally, without warning, he stopped. He got out of the car and showed us his secret carry to the pond, invisible from the “road,” marked only by the smallest of cairns. By sharing this access with us, he’d saved us significant paddle time. We thanked him, Tim offered him some flies, and we carried our canoe down and ate lunch.<br /> <br />And there they were. Two calves, two cows, and a magnificent bull moose feeding in the pond. We paddled all around them. It had taken several frustrating hours to get there and to find them, but it had been worth it.<br /> <br />And I caught some salmon on the trip, too.Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-63975415490534394002007-09-24T07:47:00.000-05:002007-09-24T07:48:22.270-05:00T is for TrampolineIn elementary school, I was the kid whose jumping made the trampoline go down the farthest.<br /> <br />Trust me: You do not want to be that kid.Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-89333912509849763152007-09-18T08:36:00.000-05:002007-09-18T08:42:03.042-05:00U is for UdderIn 1998, life mimicked art when <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fred_Tuttle">Fred Tuttle</a>, star of the 1996 film <span style="font-style: italic;">Man with a Plan</span>—the story of a Vermont farmer who runs for Congress because he needs a high-paying job with health benefits and no experience required—ran for Senate. He won in the primary against a multimillionaire originally from Massachusetts. The most famous moment, of course, was when, in a televised debate, Tuttle asked his opponent the number of teats on a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Holstein_%28cattle%29">Holstein</a>. The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flatlander">flatlander</a> said six. There are, in fact, four.<br /> <br />Upon winning the Republican primary, Tuttle promptly endorsed Democrat <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Patrick_Leahy">Patrick Leahy</a>, admitting that he didn’t really want to win because then he’d have to move to DC. I’ve lived in both DC and Vermont. I loved DC, truly, but I have no plans to return.<br /> <br />This year I went to the Washington County (NY) Fair with my sister. Alison’s a speech-language pathologist, and one of her young clients was part of a family showing cows there. I learned from them that sometimes cows <span style="font-style: italic;">don’t </span>have four teats—occasionally they are born with extra, which are usually nonfunctional and removed. Sometimes an infection can cause a teat to become nonfunctional, and again, it would likely be removed—leaving the animal with fewer than four. (Of course, you won’t see a three-teated cow at the fair.)<br /> <br />Alison’s client is a great kid. At age three, she’s already got both love for the animals and a clear, objective understanding of where animals fit into their lives. When given an opportunity to name a steer the family was raising for later use, she promptly christened it Dinner (like <a href="http://44for365.blogspot.com/2006/08/197365-fifth-dave.html">David’</a>s rabbit, Stew; in that case, though, it was merely a threat). Dinner will be ready in another year or so.<br /> <br />So, here I am, rambling about Tuttle and teats and cows and steers and even rabbits, none of which is actually an udder. I know that. I seem to have to talk <span style="font-style: italic;">around</span> the udder, not directly <span style="font-style: italic;">about</span> the udder. I seem unable to look directly into the light of its milk-making glory.<br /> <br />But U is for udder, and today I must declare what U is for, and udder is an excellent U word, no matter how you get to it.Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-61938333000508728682007-09-09T14:25:00.000-05:002007-09-09T15:02:24.100-05:00V is for VeeLast Sunday we headed south to Dorset for the weekly farmer’s market. For us: Pascal’s gourmet sausages, Swiss chard, and purple-and-white-striped beans. For <a href="http://44for365.blogspot.com/2006/10/271365-chuck-and-third-david.html">Chuck and David</a>, to be called on after: sweet Sun Gold cherry tomatoes and a bouquet of zinnias mixed red, yellow, fuchsia, purple.<br /> <br />We bumped into neighbors and made plans for the sharing of food and drink. The sky was breezy bright blue.<br /> <br />And then, the loud honking, and right over our heads, low-flying Canada geese—a vee of twenty or so, the sun somehow bouncing off their bellies with the flap <span style="font-style: italic;">up</span> of wings—heading farther south than the Dorset Sunday farmer’s market. Probably much farther south.<br /> <br /><span style="font-style: italic;">No, not yet, </span>I whispered. Then, <span style="font-style: italic;">bon voyage.</span>Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4417740178798146209.post-12128948756469896782007-09-05T19:22:00.000-05:002007-09-05T19:26:59.261-05:00W is for Will and EricSomething good has happened in this village.<br /> <br />I live in a village. Not really a town, although <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> town is taxed with <span style="font-style: italic;">another</span> town under a single “Town of…” umbrella. There are allegedly several hundred people here in Parts West, but they certainly don’t all live in the village.<br /> <br />There is no traffic light. There is a post office and a firehall. And until late last year, there was what some would call a general store, but what I would call a convenience store, tucked into an old building that used to be by the railroad tracks back when there <span style="font-style: italic;">were</span> railroad tracks. Let’s call it <a href="http://www.barneys.com/b/">Barney’s</a> (for the sake of irony).<br /> <br />Perhaps in this way I’ve clearly been an outsider in this slate town: I almost never went to Barney’s. The place had none of the charm of the quintessential Vermont country store. It was dirty and dusty and smoky, and there was very little in there that I needed (the occasional fishing license, a propane tank refill). In fact, I almost never even thought of Barney’s for emergency purchases. Instead, we’d drive the 5 miles to the grocery store.<br /> <br />A couple of neighbors, when Barney’s closed, desperately missed its convenience for wine and beer. Likely it was a long dark winter for them.<br /> <br />One day, at yoga, a woman from a neighboring town asked me what I knew about the new owners. As I’m an editor chained to her computer in her home office fewer than a dozen buildings away from Barney’s, of course I knew nothing. I didn’t even know there <span style="font-style: italic;">were</span> new owners. What did <span style="font-style: italic;">she</span> know? Two guys, she said, and maybe one would be selling meats.<br /> <br />Work began at Barney’s: cleanup, construction, painting. And then something extraordinary: two twisty topiaries appeared, one on either side of the steps. The collective gasp of the ex-city chicks and village gays was very nearly deafening.<br /> <br />Will and Eric opened in August, right before I left for vacation. The place is transformed. (Of course, as several have noted, “clean” passes for “transformed.”) The boys are doing a good job of catering to the old customer base while batting their eyelashes at the new. That is, Barney’s is essentially still a convenience store with a deli counter—but check out the Vermonty perks: Fresh Rupert Rising bread. Consider Bardwell cheese. Pastries in the morning and Green Mountain Coffee in thermos pump pots. Wilcox black raspberry ice cream in the freezer. And someday, soon, beer and wine again.<br /> <br />I don’t often frequent convenience store–type places, so I keep looking for ways to patronize these guys (without gaining <span style="font-style: italic;">too</span> much weight). The other night Alison was over for dinner, and we sent Tim to pick up some <a href="http://www.rhinofoods.com/novelties/novelties.html">Chesster ice cream sandwiches</a> (they carry them!) for dessert. Tim made the trip à la <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Longboard_%28skateboard%29">longboard</a>, and apparently Will took it for a spin.<br /> <br />Barney’s: A phoenix has risen from the ashes.Indigo Buntinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11387698096732697805noreply@blogger.com10