Frog Level

I kept a promise this week.
Some time back I had promised myself that the next time I was traveling and wasn’t in a hurry, I would get off the Interstate system and see the country up close. I can’t tell you how many times I have considered doing this, only to end up choosing speed over scenery again and again. On Friday, finally, I chose scenery.
I was heading home from a week’s work in Poquoson, Virginia, where folks are still recovering from the storm surge of Hurricane Isabel. More than fifty families continue to live in trailers, waiting for repairs on their homes to be completed. I’d joined other volunteers for five days of installing insulation and hanging dry wall, a significant departure from my usual routine. I was reminded just how much of a departure it was first thing every morning when my sore muscles resisted rolling out of bed.
With the week at an end, it was time to head up the peninsula toward Richmond, and from there north toward Washington, D.C. Anyone in a hurry would hop on Interstate 64 to Richmond and there find Interstate 95, which stretches north and south all along the eastern seaboard. I knew that on a Friday afternoon these roads would be heavily traveled. Add to that concern the fact that it was in the mid 90’s and the air conditioning in my old car wasn’t working, and I had plenty of extra incentive to give up the Interstate in favor of some slower, less crowded, more shaded highways.
Going up the peninsula, I traveled for a time on Route 249. This thin, twisting ribbon of asphalt carried me through small towns and long stretches of heavily scented forest, past humble country churches, several schools and a state penitentiary. Much of the time I had the road all to myself. When I did pass another car or truck, they were nearly always from Virginia – most likely local folk coming from or going to work, picking up the kids or running to the store or the doctor’s office. As such, they drove differently than people do on the Interstate; slower, naturally, but also more courteously. You might even say more gently.
My alternative to Interstate 95 was Route 2, a lovely road that runs roughly parallel to 95 from Richmond to Fredericksburg. Again I enjoyed a slower pace, more shade and the chance to see sights that charmed me – venerable old homes, quaint main streets and roadside vegetable stands announced by hand-lettered signs. I enjoyed the drive so much, I felt a little guilty for not stopping to buy some corn or a cantaloupe.
Caroline County, through which I passed as I followed Route 2, is home to the Boy Scout Jamboree. I know this because it was declared with pride on the sign welcoming travelers to the county. I discovered no further evidence of the jamboree as I drove on, but I did discover the tiny village of Frog Level. Yes, that’s right: Frog Level. It consisted of a gas station, a house or two and a diner, and I sincerely doubt I would have remembered it at all, except for its name. Who can forget that they have been to Frog Level?
Once home, I looked for it on the map but did not find it. I searched the Internet and found some evidence that it exists, but no clear indication of exactly where it is located. All I know for sure is that it is in Caroline County, somewhere along Route 2, and there is a volunteer fire company by the same name.
In the course of hunting for evidence of Frog Level, I discovered that Virginia is full of various Levels, Flats and Hollows, not to mention Gaps, Mills, Beaches, Bluffs and Ports. (My favorite, after Frog Level, would have to be Hogwallow Flats.) But you will find very few of these places if you stick to the Interstate, or even if you look on a map. You have to leave the well-worn path and explore a bit, as I promised myself I would, and did.
I’m glad I kept my promise. Otherwise, I never would have found Frog Level.

Peanut Butter Sandwich Disposal

June 11, 2004


Chickens will eat a peanut butter sandwich. I learned this yesterday when I made one too many for my kids’ school lunches. It turns out the youngest had her 8th grade, end-of-the-year picnic with food provided by the PTA.
So I had an extra sandwich that I didn’t feel like eating, and I had a small flock of chickens in the backyard who were grateful to get it. I figured they would be, as they are big fans of the stale bread I feed them occasionally. (Nobody in the family eats the crust ends.)
What I’ve learned about chickens in the 14 months we’ve had them is that chickens will eat just about anything. They are pigs with feathers, more or less. Actually, pigs may be more discriminating.
In addition to helping us get rid of a lot of food scraps (no meat), the hens provide a couple dozen eggs a week and Lester, the rooster, creates a nice country ambience by crowing his heart out every morning. We wisely located the chicken house a good distance from the house, so the noise is not too jarring. In fact, we have gotten so used to it that many days can go by without any of us really noticing Lester’s oratorios.
The original purpose for getting the chickens was three-fold. First, it was a compromise with my youngest daughter who loves farms and originally asked for a heifer. Second, it was a chance for me to revisit my own youth, during which I spent many happy hours at my grandfather’s side in the hen house or the barn or out in the fields. Third, I reasoned it would be a great opportunity to teach my daughter the virtue of responsibility and the practical aspects of caring for another living creature.
As it turns out, I do most of the chicken care and what my daughter has learned is how money-laundering works. You see, because she has a brother and a sister, I could never simply give her extra money without being accused of favoritism. But if I buy chicken feed, feed the chickens, water the chickens and gather eggs, she can sell the eggs and get the money anyway.
Up to this point, her siblings have not caught on. If they do, it will only cost me a few extra bucks a week, which is worth it for the virtuous feeling I get when I feed a peanut butter sandwich to the chickens instead of sending it to the landfill.

Pay Attention to Beauty

October 10, 2002

The cool weather has come, and rain. All that is left of the garden are three struggling pepper plants and about a half bushel of tomatoes that will never ripen. On a quick noon walk, I noticed one tomato plant had actually exploded with blossoms again in a frantic but futile protest of the coming frost.
The rain is welcome, but awfully slow – barely more than a drizzle. Supper is now past, and the rain hasn’t amounted to more than a half inch since breakfast. The wet and the chill would be a good excuse for a foul mood, but I am relaxed and reasonably cheerful.
Driving today was tedious, with the constant need to readjust the speed of the windshield wipers. Yesterday, though, driving was pleasant even with an overcast sky. Trees are trying to turn, harvested fields reveal new views and pumpkins are popping up on plenty of porches.
On the way into town yesterday, I was forced by detour to take the road that runs through the college campus. It was mid-afternoon and the campus was quiet. Parked cars were evidence that school was in session, but I saw no students until I crested the hill and happened to spot a pretty coed with an armload of books. I glanced her way and our eyes met, briefly. Her reaction was resentment, and I immediately felt guilty for my glance. I drove on.
Yet, as I drove, I reconsidered. I realize I know next to nothing about this young woman and nothing at all about how other men may have treated her. But I only glanced – I meant no harm and no insult. If anything, I intended a compliment. I did not leer. I did not lust. I did not stop and stare. I merely admired momentarily, without a desire to conquer or possess. Her face and form were a welcome relief from all that was gray and gloomy.
No one ever glances at me, at least not for the reason I glanced at the young woman with an armload of books. I have been spared all firsthand knowledge of what it is like to be beautiful. I suppose it can often be a burden. And I realize that in certain circles, even a brief glance may be considered an insult. Even so, I think I can be absolved, for morals always trump manners and I am convinced that we sin when we do not pay attention to beauty, wherever we find it.

Recuperation

September 11, 2002

My recuperation is on schedule. I’ve had no relapse of the searing pain and I feel more rested, almost back to normal. Everyone tells me to relax, not to push too hard, and not to rush back to work. I consider it a positive sign that I am getting tired of hearing such advice. Actually, instructions to rest are counterproductive; I need someone to forbid it. In my defiant frame of mind, I am more inclined to indulge in a guilty pleasure than to perform a solemn duty.
It is a solemn day -- the first anniversary of the terrorist attacks. I am doing my best to avoid the television. Most stations are running retrospectives and coverage of memorial ceremonies. I’ve heard that one network plans a full fifteen hours devoted to the disaster and its aftermath. It strikes me as about fourteen hours too many. Ten minutes in genuine, silent reflection would be better than watching ten hours of television coverage complete with overly sentimental theme music and annoying special graphics.
It is a warm, bright day with gusting winds. I spent an hour or so on the deck off the kitchen, watching the trees writhe and bend. Leaves are still green, except for a few from the giant weeping cherry in the neighbor’s yard. When a healthy gust comes along, some of these early yellows fly up and swirl around before falling, confetti-like, in my backyard. The first leaves to fly always appear to be foolhardy zealots. In the end, they are always proved to be prescient pioneers.
The sound of the wind when gusting is that of waves. When the wind is steady, the sound is white noise. It calms me either way. I close my eyes to feel it, inhale to smell it. I am soothed.

One Half of a Splendid Spleen

September 5, 2002

A week ago I had a splendid spleen. Now I don’t. The healthy whole has been reduced by half, thanks to an event the doctors called a “splenic infarct.” As is the tendency with medical jargon, the term is entirely too impersonal, too mechanical, too bland. My guess is that “splenic infarct” is a term coined by someone who never had the unfortunate experience. It is an experience I would not wish on anyone, with the possible exception of the phlebotomist who woke me three time the first night I spent in the hospital.
Pressed for details, the doctors explained that an artery feeding my spleen became blocked, cutting off the vital flow of blood. They interrogated me regarding blows to the abdomen (none), heart problems (none) and recent trips to the tropics (none). The medicine men were mystified. Not quitters, however, they proceeded to unleash their daunting arsenal of diagnostic artillery. After three CT scans, dozens of blood tests, miles of EKG tracings, frequent groping and an internal echocardiogram, the medicine men were still mystified. Evidently, six days of searching wore them out. On the seventh day, they rested and sent me home.
I was glad to get home, tired and weak as I am. My dog greeted me at the door with extraordinary enthusiasm, barking and bouncing and running about. A friend once told me that to a dog, every return is a resurrection. I know this is not true. My dog responds to a routine return with a minimum of interest. But today fit the description. Today, to the dog, I was Lazarus stumbling forth.
While the doctors discovered no cause for my trouble, I discovered I am an abominable patient – demanding, curt, restless and occasionally rude. Fortunately, my wife was often at my side to mute my bad behavior. I complained about nearly everything – the insipid food, the lumpy beds, the poor television reception, the endless interruptions at all hours, the inconsistent air conditioning, and the irritating drone of the IV pump. The nurses and nurse’s aides took it all with good humor and did not retaliate. When I am well again, I must go make apologies.
Being home is the best medicine. I hurt less, my appetite is returning and my attitude is improving enormously. I expect that eventually I will see a silver lining to the experience, appreciate the doctors’ diligence and be grateful for all the effort expended. I may even forgive the phlebotomist.

Letting The Silence Out

August 26, 2002

Autumn has arrived, regardless of what the calendar may say. A welcome silence has entered the house. My three children and thousands of others in this and neighboring counties have headed back to their studies. My wife also is away, busy on the other side of the desk, student-teaching fifth grade in Thurmont.
My children were ready to go, even though they each had a pleasant, busy summer. They needed no second notice to rise and ready themselves. In fact, they set their own alarms. My son even made his own lunch. All three headed out the door with a light step and a smile. My wife left likewise, though her smile hid more nerves than the others.
Thus far, I have used the day to run errands, including a stop at Emmitsburg. Winding my way back on Route 77 (aka Middleburg Road), I was surprised to see a substantial flock of blackbirds assembled on the telephone wire. There must have been at least a couple hundred, sitting in a long single-file row, neatly spaced, each bird erect – like the battle line of some nineteenth century army. Maybe a hundred more were flying about, arcing, swooping and turning in a perfect unity of movement that is feebly imitated in air shows featuring human pilots. Though I enjoyed the acrobatics, I thought it was a little early for blackbirds to be flocking together. I suppose they are following instinct. Or perhaps they were inspired to congregate when they saw the buses out this morning.
Annie, our rat terrier, is resting quietly somewhere in the house – probably in her favorite place, our youngest daughter’s pillow. When my wife is the one home alone, the dog follows her everywhere and, if possible, establishes direct bodily contact. Evidently, Annie and I have a more secure relationship. She counts on me for certain things, like her noon and 5 p.m. walks, but is otherwise neither clingy nor demanding.
On our noon walk today, Annie and I circled the garden as we always do. It shows clear signs of rejuvenation since the two inches of rain last Friday night. I picked three tomatoes and noticed the pepper plants were positively Pentecostal, lifting leaves heavenward again after a long droop.
My chief source of pride in the garden this year, other than the row and a half of Yukon Gold potatoes that have been dug and are nearly all consumed, is the one hill of bush pumpkins. Since they were planted late, I have my fingers crossed against an early frost. If we get to the 1st of October without zeroing out on the Celsius scale, I should be able to harvest the crop I hope for. I am hopeful; it is a prerequisite for gardening. I’ve managed to nurse the plants through the drought, and have three shiny, green pumpkins to show for my efforts. The largest is impressive for the variety and beginning to lighten, though I’ve detected no hint of orange. The two smaller ones are darker, and swelling rapidly like the belly of a pregnant woman in the eighth month.
Just a moment ago, my son opened the door and let the silence out. Annie did not rouse. I guess I’ll go upstairs and see how his day went.

August Vacation 2002

Our August vacation ends tomorrow. One week in August at my in-laws has become an annual tradition, eagerly anticipated by the whole family. My wife looks forward to playing tennis with her father, the children look forward to catching up with their cousins, and I look forward to seven days of anonymity and sloth.
August seems tailor-made for sloth. The few feeble blades of ambition that manage to sprout soon wither in the ungodly heat and humidity. This year we were surprised by two or three cooler days in the middle of the week, but I refused to budge from my master plan, which was to do nothing, or as nearly nothing as I was able to manage. The mercury, which retreated on Wednesday, was advancing again today. According to the Philadelphia meteorologists' guild, it will reclaim the rest of its lost territory tomorrow.
Sleeping, which I came here to do, has been going tolerably well. I confess that I am not the sleeper that I once was. When I was young and vigorous, with few cares and plenty of time to overcome the consequences of my mistakes, sleep was effortless, as it ought to be. Now that I am older, I worry more and rest less.
I have acquired the bad habit of using the last few moments of the day for mulling over insoluble problems --- personal, ecclesiastical, even geopolitical. Any good doctor will tell you this is a bad strategy if you want a good night's sleep. Sometimes I remember this when I am there under the covers, lights out. I try to heed the advice, but the next thing I know I am thinking about all the people in this country who lack ready access to a good doctor.
I have shared my bedroom this week with my beautiful wife who sleeps well and with an impressive stack of twenty dollar bills. The bills sit between the north wall and the end of the dresser on a small pedestal made out of a few volumes of Reader's Digest Condensed Books. The stack of bills measures perhaps four inches in height, and if counted might total $10,000 or so. I haven't bothered to count. There is no point; they are poor counterfeits, oversized, printed on cardstock, with a coupon on the back which is ten years out of date.
The phony bills are the remnants of a practical joke never pulled off. A few years back my mother-in-law asked me what I wanted for Christmas and I allegedly told her, "A pound of twenty dollar bills." She subsequently found these fakes at one of her places of employment but never got around to wrapping them. I will take them home and hoard them away until I can find a fitting use -- some future prank as yet unimagined.
While I have refused to count the counterfeit, my wife has been out spending the real stuff. The local department store has had some truly extraordinary sales, up to 80% off the original price. My daughters found several nice items for their back-to-school wardrobes. My fifteen-year-old even found a top that she likes for a mere 75 cents!
This bargain will undoubtedly become the stuff of family legend. I do hope that it does not ruin the girl, as a similar event nearly did me. When I was in college, I found a nice pair of black dress shoes with a two inch heel for only $5 at Sears. They appealed to both my vanity and my frugality, and they lasted for half a decade. But for several years afterward I was convinced that this was the right price to pay for a good pair of shoes and fiercely resented the extortionists who demanded more.
This week, however, it was I who felt slightly criminal, purchasing such fine goods at suspiciously low prices. A final tally of receipts revealed savings of nearly $600. This is a marvelous figure, equal to half of what we spend on clothes in a year. But then it is also a phantom figure. It is money we would never have spent in the first place. At the original price, all (or nearly all) merchandise would have been refused.
As I see it, the only appropriate way to account for this $600 is to enter it as a credit on the mental ledger I keep of phantom cash. Other credits include the cash value of the vegetables that grow in my garden, what I save by not washing my cars and the waiver of parking fees I receive at hospitals when I remember my clergy ID. On the debit side of the ledger are sums I never earned, such as the honorarium I didn't get for the wedding I turned down last spring.
Tonight, while I am waiting to fall asleep, I plan to check the arithmetic in the ledger and see where I stand. And while I'm at it, I guess I'll credit accounts receivable for the pound of twenties.