Packing and unpacking

As I rummaged through the half-dozen dust-covered boxes, I began to lose confidence in my memory.

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“I’m sure it was here,” I silently assured myself as I sorted through all manner of dissimilar things I had only a vague recollection of shoving into a pair of grocery store tote bags. Newspapers interleaving a spice rack that I didn’t recognize; a few cloth-covered books I wondered why I’d saved from the trash; and a footed, butcher block cutting board that brought me instantly into the first kitchen I had ever known - my parents’.

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Where was the skillet?

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All summer I had been talking about the cast-iron frying pan I had spirited away to save for posterity.

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I don’t know what made me think one of my children would be more interested in a pan their grandfather had seasoned and cared for … and probably inherited himself … than I had been when I dismissed the same piece of cookware and opted instead for a new forever-chemical pan from the hardware store. As I recall, the purchase set me back $20 (eight bucks more than the cast iron pan on the bottom shelf) and took me approximately three minutes to scar with a fork.

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I didn’t want to push it on my returning college students; it’s not like they have ample storage in their dorm rooms or the initiative to power through whatever coats the surfaces of a communal kitchen.

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I was surprised I had a taker.

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My son understood the sentimental value of the artifact as much as he understood the culinary benefits of a good skillet.

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At home, over the summer, long after dinner and his parents had retired for the evening (shortly after 9:30 p.m.), he had practiced until he perfected the late-night snack: a cheese-encrusted deep-dish pizza; steak tips au ju that would melt in your mouth; light and fluffy pancakes with a strawberry reduction.

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The aromas would waft upstairs and into my dreams. Each morning, the realization of my dreams would be rinsed and piled in the sink.

No leftovers.  

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Turns out, he has plans to feed his friends on days when the cafeteria fare is lackluster.

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I redouble my efforts to locate the cookware.  It has to be here. I carefully take out the contents of each box and bag, lining up each item neatly and smoothing out the 20-year-old newspaper wrappings that cradled them.  

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I was surprised how the last bag seemed heavier with each thing I removed, which is why I was relieved to find the 9-inch pan at the bottom.

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It is almost as clean and smooth as I remembered, just a tiny bit of rust on the hanger edge of the handle.

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“That’s nothing,” my son smiles as he inspects the skillet, turning it as easily as he turns a flapjack. A little steel wool and salt and that will be as good as gone.

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Honestly, it made me tear up a little. I tell him his grandfather would be delighted his old pan would be of good use.

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The boy smiles and says, “That’s good, because my dad will probably have some other kinds of thoughts when I tell him I’m also taking one of the hex-clad pans he bought at Costco.”

Home remedies

It’s raining again.

The air is thick and still.

Black dots float across the sky as I walk home from work.

They have been swarming and biting for days.

The stagnant air, coupled with the soaking rains of the past few weeks, has caused their numbers to explode.

I feel a subtle stab and automatically lift my hand to the part of my neck where the sensation emanated. My index finger senses an intruder; a tiny, soft tuft that wasn’t there before … at least not that morning, when I slathered the manufacturer-prescribed amount of SPF moisturizer over my shower-dampened skin. When I looked down, I found a smudge of blood.

It will itch for a moment, and I won’t think of it again.

The mosquitoes, I muse, probably think I am fierce.

Or many just a big dumb oaf who lost a necessary fear of the slender pest amid non-stop news coverage of its more hard-bodied, disease-vector compatriot, the tick.

I don’t even have time to laugh at my own joke when a swarm of the thread-legged flies hone in on me and have at it. I understand they might be attracted to my scent, or my blood type, or even the amount of carbon dioxide my lungs pump into each exhalation as I run towards shelter.

I know it’s the female of the species that torments me. Her mate feasts not on necks but on nectar and pollen. She needs my blood to sustain her offspring.

When I outrun the swarm, I feel a rush of bygone adrenaline.

A recollected story about a deadly case of encephalitis, and then a watery memory of our town’s municipal truck fogging the neighborhoods with insecticide. My mother kept us inside, explaining she would not repeat the errors of her generation when children were allowed to chase the trucks and play in their mist.

Back then, my mosquito bites would balloon to fist-sized welts on my arms, legs, and back that would itch for days. In the palm of her hand, my mother would mix a few shakes of an ancient bottle of meat tenderizing powder with a couple of drops of warm water, and grind the poultice she created into the welts.

Perhaps it was only wishful thinking, or the scratching of the tenderizer’s residue that satisfied the itch, but it always worked like magic.

She claimed the secret was “papaya,” and thrust the bottle at me, with her finger at the place on the label where it listed the ingredient, and explained to me that she had purposely saved this particular package for medical purposes because the tenderizer company had since changed its formula and the effect, according to my mother, had been seriously diminished.

I believe that she believed.

I wanted to believe it, too.

As I matured, I began to wonder if all mothers had labored over similar mythical balms. My husband’s mother swore by the juice of red berries, picked fresh from the weed bushes in her yard and squished liberally into any spots of bother.

This salve, she said, worked well for insect bites befalling visiting grandchildren, especially if the stain survived bathtime and lasted until morning through an otherwise restful sleep.

Of course, I played along, but didn’t truly believe it. Prevention aside, what other alternative was there? Scanning the packages of dry rubs at our modern grocery produced none with the “magic” ingredient.

Might as well sing a happy little song in the rain: Deet. De-deedee deet de-de-de Deet Deet Deet de-Deet, Duh. ... and take a scroll through through the department of health's news releases.

Mayflies and mayonnaise

According to the letter-sized sheet of paper taped to the wall of the seaside provisions market, “Justin” was a lost pet.

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Justin, the poster claimed, would answer by name and be attracted to ham and cheese sandwiches, but only those that weren’t slathered in mayo, owing to his vegetarianism.

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He’d been missing since May.

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I’m sure it was just a cheeky coincidence.

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What I was looking at in the super-detailed photograph that took up half the page’s real estate appeared to be that of an ordinary Musca domestica Linnaeus, though he was magnified about 300 times.

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That’s “housefly” in English.

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No relation to Ephemera vulgata … the “mayfly,” which, as a cousin to the dragonfly, should have stuck around through August.

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I snapped a picture as a souvenir and moseyed onward. It’s been a hot summer. The bustle on this crowded street is lacking its usual haste.

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Strange how a bit of whimsy poking through this straight-laced place, no matter the origin or authenticity, always brings me a fleeting amount of joy.

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I smiled most of the way down the block, towing our own found-hound behind.

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Despite the progress we’ve made to lengthen our walks from just a few steps to all along the beach and all the way into town, we can admit the puppy still likes to lollygag.

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He flits from person to thing, sniffs here and there, and sits with his head angled sideways. Eyes looking upward, past his wrinkled brow.

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We tell ourselves we need to socialize a dog of his demeanor. Open him up to a world of chaos and noise, and let him make sense of it; something our other dogs had been too anxious to work out.

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The shops here have been accommodating with their strategically placed water bowls, inviting us in to browse inside, not just the sidewalk sale.

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There’s always a line that promises a little taste of bliss, and with it a shady spot where the rest of the party can hunker down as we wait. You can talk to strangers. They will ask if they can say hi to your dog. There will be enough delight in that little interaction to go around even if the store sells out of whatever magic elixir it had been selling.

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Though it’s meant a pretty penny — what with the fancy accessories here and the adorable, handmade treats over there — the value of feeling welcome has few limits.

Being welcome is the thing that feels weightless.

His cute puppy face, I know, has an expiration date. Soon enough it will expand, turn rugged, his wrinkles will harden and become tightly defined. The curious expression he shows now will seem cooler and more calculating.

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The tones will translate their “oohs and ahhs” differently. Folks will stoically reclaim the space they’d given us.

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May would come again, and August would follow at a frightening speed, and everything would shift from small-world charm to large-world normal. The dog will be waiting for us at home while we stand in the queue for ham and cheese sandwiches. We’ll think nothing of the fly buzzing through the line.

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I wonder if he might be the long-lost Justin; I heard the aioli was vegan.

Police state

 It is reassuring to see so many county residents stand in opposition to the powers in Rensselaer County that are and will forever be on the wrong side of history.

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Dozens attending a public forum spoke in favor of the Governor’s law to end the so-called 287(g) agreements between federal immigration enforcement authorities and local police, which allowed some local officers to perform the functions of immigration officers, and also permits correctional facilities to house civil immigration detainees. Residents also took county leaders to task for their open defiance of the new law, which stipulates that agreements between the entities must end by August 25th.

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Both the Rensselaer County Executive, Steve McLaughlin, and the County Sheriff, Kyle Bourgault, have condemned the law, which stipulates that existing agreements between the entities must be terminated by August 25th. Both men have stated they will defy the law.

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They. Will. Defy. The. Law.

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What does that make them? Heroes? Or Outlaws?

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My belief is they are the latter.

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When they equate civil immigration actions with criminal behavior, they are more interested in politics than community.

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When they say they should be allowed to search for deportation-reachable prisoners in their system and turn them over to ICE, they are saying that justice for the local victims is of no importance to them.

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How exactly do police who will not be tethered to laws that regulate them make anyone safe?

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The answer is simple: We are not safer.

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This is what we truly need to be asking ourselves.

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Where is the oversight? Who are they accountable to?

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None of us seem to know, and no body (meaning legislative body) has the ability to tell police what to do.

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There seems to be no shared training, no true oversight; there aren’t even statutes describing what police work should entail. They make the rules they follow, and we agree to foot the bill.

ICE doesn’t even pay these deputized police to do their bidding. We do.

In deed, The Supreme Court has held on multiple occasions that police have no legal responsibility to protect anyone – even those with court-ordered protection except in very narrow instances. And that to give police any such a mandate would mean we would live in a police state.

But aren’t we in the same state when police are above laws?

I still reel from the sickening understanding — underscored by unwinnable lawsuits against departments that did not intervene in times of grave and mortal danger, qualified immunity, and the mostly toothless oversight by citizen boards — that accountability for police harm and corruption is almost unattainable.

How safe are we when police refuse to wear body cameras or turn them off, or when they provide contrary accounts than witnesses? What happens when they lie with immunity?

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Immigrant criminal defendants are entitled to all the rights that citizen defendants are entitled to; it’s the most effective way to ensure CITIZENS are treated fairly and have access to our rights. It’s also important that crime victims have access to justice, too.

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Democracy depends on the rule of law; it also depends on holding power to account.

Love in tatters

  I noticed the fraying bits and groaned.

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Ughhh.

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Another power cord turns into just another found-object art piece … made possible by the natural talents of the artist’s sharp puppy teeth working quickly against the momentary inattentiveness of whichever adult was in the room. Quite possibly me.

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Ughhh.

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I attached the wonky wire – now looking more like a gnarled, thorny vine – to my laptop, and it immediately started glowing with a satisfying orange light as electricity flowed.

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The repair list gets one, the replace list gets nil, though the two inventories are currently racing neck and neck.

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So far the tally includes two wicker baskets; three pairs of shoes, leaving all the right shoes unscathed; seventeen puppy pee pads, none of which had been soiled; four power cords, one for a vacuum cleaner; one for a cell phone, aforementioned lap top, and cord that came out of my favorite purple hoodie, which was still sad even though that cord only electrified me.

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Deep breath. Take a deep breath. Just breathe.

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Maybe it’s a gentle little reminder not to get attached to things.

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“Ah, I had almost forgotten those days,” laughed our neighbor as we greeted each other over the fence to swap news of the day … and various vegetables, as neighbors tend to do. Neither of us could remember when their dog was as small, or as destructive, as ours. The kids, however, could pull all the receipts, starting with a kitchen table that had so much of its foot whittled away that it seemed to be a fido-feat that it was still standing at all, let alone level and sturdy.

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One look … head cocked at a certain angle … a little whimper  … and all is forgiven.

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Though we know the blame is ours: we should retract the cords, or coil them up and put them away when not in use. We should confine the puppy to a crate or to a part of the room where he can be safe, and where things can be safe from him. It just takes a little more time, a little more effort, and a ton more resistance to his plaintive howls that such minor restrictions are causing him to suffer.

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Horror upon horror that he should sleep alone. In his bed. Without us cuddling with him under the cozy blanket. Without him pushing us with his paws to the farthest edges.

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He’s smarter than we are.

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I suspect this, not only because we have fallen prey to his sad eyes and the adorable puppy prance he performs when he hasn’t seen us ALL minute, but also because he has never once destroyed, damaged, or even performed a non-invasive squeaker-ectomy on a single one of his toys. He will drag them through the house, toss them up in the air, and nibble them as if he’s grooming them for fauxfleas, all the while cranking every decibel possible from each squeaker and every piece of crinkle fabric hidden inside. Yet not one tuft of fluff will be harmed. Not even the tag.

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But turn your head for long enough to listen to the sound of water boiling on the stove (watch pots), and somehow the toe loop on the left sandal you were still wearing is missing.

​I am not unmoved by this memory still in its making. They are like the noseprints on the window glass in the bedroom … the ones the puppy covers with sniffs and light kisses… The ones I couldn’t bear to wash away this time a year ago. The sandals won’t harbor space in my memory the way these translucent smudges have held space in my heart.

Animal instincts

“I’m going into the MATRIX,” my son announced. “Or more accurately, I’m getting the matrix out of me,” he laughed. “And I’m just telling you because I’m probably going to need a few days off of work next week.”

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It was a big moment for both of us.

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Since he officially became an adult a dozen months ago, he has managed most of his routine medical care without me. He’s dealt with dermatology, dentistry, and now the fascinating world of podiatry with a kind of determination I didn’t really expect.

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This procedure - a Matrixectomy - was a little difficult to wrap my head around… So I Googled what turned out to be a surprisingly generic description of the permanent removal of the toenail.

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It was the first medical decision he’s made on his own, having visited the podiatrist on numerous occasions hoping to fast-track the healing of a toenail that had become ingrown after an injury in high school.

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As I perused the pros and cons—conveniently highlighted by green checkmarks and red Xs, respectively—I had some concerns. For one, the word “PERMANENT” haunted me.

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Like the feeling of unease I felt when I had been the one in charge of signing off on his first-ever cavity filling and forgetting to specify that he would probably prefer a tooth-colored filling instead of one of those silvery ones that seem to make everyone look like movie villains, or at the very least like they’ve got a wad of licorice stuck to their teeth.

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Luckily, the dentist has phased out the mercury amalgam fillings now that modern technology has made the more popular composite resin version equally durable.

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Still, it didn’t seem right that he should go by himself … so I offered to drive him … you know … just in case the procedure hurt so much he didn’t feel comfortable behind the wheel.

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“Technically, this is a surgery.”

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He understood my reasoning, and obliged my concern. Also, he made no secret of his aversion to needles, nor did he disagree that maturity had not ameliorated the condition. It would be nice, after all, to have a hand to squeeze … for luck.

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Which is what I fully intended to be … a silent presence with an available appendage for moral support.

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And I was able to do it all through the preliminary moments … when the doctor – in one of the nicest offices I had ever seen – was dutifully preparing his big toe to have a portion of the nail excised and asking all the medical questions one would ask to be thorough.

My son answered with ease and accuracy as I sat mum and bounced my leg nervously.

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But when all was set and ready to start, the needle being the worst part, the doctor began asking other questions … ones I knew wouldn’t be able to distract him from the “pinch.”

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“Do you have any pets?”

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“We just got a puppy,” I exclaimed with the exaggerated excitement of a bad actor breaking out in their first role in community theater.

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“Mom, let’s just let your son tell me.”

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I took no offense. I understood what she was trying to do, and in a moment, with his face all scrunched in pain, she would understand what I had been trying to do.

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That’s about the time the office therapy dog moseyed in and began sniffing our shoes, then curled up in a corner and became a silent presence.

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“He does that when someone is anxious,” the doctor explained. “Somehow he knows.”

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“Honestly, I think he’s here for my mom.”

Suburban safari

Did you know a group of skunks is called a Surfeit? An overabundance of things. Other names, according to the Wild West Web, include an “Array” (referring to how families sleep in a den) and a “Stench,” which seems rather rude if not oafishly obvious.

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This is what went through my mind when I saw the low-slung mass of fur crossing the road ahead of me. I slowed, frantically checking my mirrors to determine whether the car following closely behind had noticed my caution. Then I stopped, completely, while continuing to monitor the rearview mirror for signs that the driver reflected in it would try to inch around me.

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My inner voice hammered loudly in my head: Where are the caution flashers? Switch on the flashers!

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I wasn’t sure what I was seeing at first: at a distance, it seemed to be some strange kind of fur snake, but up close, I could tell it was a mama skunk slowly bringing a train of six kits across the abnormally unbusy two-lane road.

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Which is why I felt mostly safe coming to a full stop so as to let the animals cross to the other side.

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I saw the other driver relax when the parade I was witnessing finally processed past the edge of my bumper and into his field of vision.

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I could tell from his expression he’d never seen anything like this either, and he was no longer perplexed by my maneuvering.

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I haven’t always been so lucky. Well, I have been lucky, but the Gaze of raccoons that wandered into the path of my car late one night in the summer of 1991 left their mark on my psyche forever.

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Truly, every bump I’ve felt under a tire after catching a glimpse of a hop-toad or a chipmunk, or a zig-zagging squirrel in the glare of my headlights has etched themselves indelibly on my soul.

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Which is probably why I’ve tried to think about all of the other wildlife encounters I’ve witnessed (joyfully) while on my “commuter safari.”

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The turtle I helped cross the road near school.

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The pair of rabbits that seemed to greet each other in the crosswalk in town.

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The fox twins playing near an alleyway in the city.

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The moose, moseying in the median somewhere on I-95.

Oh, and I nearly forgot the red-tailed hawk that dropped its dinner - a furry little package I assumed was a field rodent - on my windshield as I cruised home one evening on 787. … probably slipped my mind because I felt bad for the mouse.

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Finally, there was the solo white-tailed deer that leapt straight up, landing safely and soundly on a rock ledge six or seven feet above the sheer slate wall that bordered the roadway. At the time – the fall of 2018 – it seemed miraculous.

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Of course, it’s not a marvel … it’s just multiplication.

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As we meander around and carve new pathways into nature, nature has no choice to meet us on the road.