Summertime and the livin' ain't easy

I hoped beyond hope that we would slip through summer without having to suffer, but it wasn’t meant to be. There were a few spits and spurts of hot weather in May, but they didn’t last long and were followed by strangely cool days, with evenings in the low 50s—perfect for working on the pond in the day and sleeping with the windows open at night. After six months of being shut in the house during sub-zero temperatures, open windows always seems such a treat in Spring time: we can listen to the squabbling sparrows, the energetic hammering of the woodpeckers in our biggest oak tree, the squeals and protests of children as they trot past our house on their way to the nearby “party store” and, of course, the hostile outbursts of our Angry Fat Man Neighbor. During his most recent performance, he thumped with heavy sausagey feet down his driveway and then along the sidewalk in front of his house toward a branch that a recent storm had dislodged from a tree in his yard. As he neared it he sputtered, “I’m gonna rip off your FUCKIN’ FACE!!” I was upstairs staring at him through our bedroom window (as one does) and couldn’t see anyone nearby to whom he could be speaking. I also checked for on of those headset things people wear in grocery stores that allow them to argue with their loved ones while they pick out canned soup [“I don’t know! What do YOU want? (pause) Hell, no! I’m not buying that shit!”]. But no. So, unless he was talking to the branch, I can only surmise that he was prepping for an upcoming pre-dawn fight with a future houseguest. A recent fight featured him running after a fleeing guest at 3 a.m., hurling beer cans at the guest’s car while the poor man madly backed up down the driveway and into the road, thumping on the car with his fists while the driver shifted into drive, and screaming “Ass fucker! You fuckin’ ASS FUCKER!” while he drove off, tires squealing. But I digress. May’s hot/cold weather is gone and now we just have hot/warm weather—the days are steamy and the nights are sultry. A few days ago, Simon finally caved to the demands, pleadings and orders of Thomas and I and pulled the inflatable swimming pool down from the garage attic. After wrestling with this giant vinyl monstrosity, I had it inflated and the hose all set to fill it up. Thomas immediately got a floating ring, climbed into the pool and waited for the hose to do its job. Just 19 hours later, we had a full pool. And only 96 hours later, the water was warm enough to swim in without risk of pneumonia. Unfortunately, the inflatable tube that keeps the whole contraption in its proper shape has at least one slow leak—I blame Simon—and yesterday morning we woke to find the tube deflated, the pool half-empty and the backyard 3 inches under water. 9 hours later we had a full pool again but it is still not warm enough to be usable.

Frederick amused by Thomas's shenanigans

And what would warm weather be without hairballs—lots of them! You would think that anyone with four cats would be used to stepping in cold, clammy vomit first thing in the morning—indeed would look forward to stepping in it! And why not? After all, it’s just a loving reminder of the dear little darlings one took in off the streets to fatten up and let shed all over one’s clothes and furniture. And yet the only emotion I feel when I go down into the basement to start up a load of laundry and see six lumpy piles of barely digested cat food (mixed with strings of cat hair and coated with cat mucus) is murderous rage. If only Thomas was three again and unclear on exactly how many cats we had, one (or two, perhaps?) could disappear and at least half of our vomit troubles would be gone—forever!

Simon and I were both teaching a course during the Spring semester that ended last week. Last October, when we set up the Winter/Spring/Summer course schedule, teaching the extra courses and earning the extra money seemed like a very good idea. And until about four weeks into the semester, I still thought it was. But then one Sunday night as I sat down to prepare another week’s worth of lessons and grade another pile of absurdly mediocre essays, I suddenly realized that there was nothing I wanted more in the world than to not have to go to work and teach one more minute of that class. And yet I did it. I screwed on my happy face, smiled into each and every one of their placid, Michigander-bovine eyes, and gave an utterly convincing portrayal of someone who actually thinks that talking about ethical theory for 2100 minutes (75 minutes, 4 times a week for 7 weeks) is worthwhile thing to do. About 10 years ago the term “Philosopher Whore” popped into my head as I sat in my office, waiting for those few last agonizing minutes to slip by before I had to begin another dreaded class. I was struck hard by the fact that I make my living by pretending to care about their lives, faking interest in and enthusiasm for their utterly predictable comments and providing seemingly sincere reassurances in response to their anxieties and self-doubts…Oh well, it’s a living. And we have made it through another slog and are now free to spend our pocketfuls of loot. The plan now is to (1) get out of debt (Guffaw! I just wrote that for formality’s sake.) and (2) make a mad-dash north, cross the U.S.-Canadian border (assuming we’ll be let in) and drive north until we can’t drive no more! Rumor has it that there are walrus-watching boat trips one can make if you are willing to brave the endless sunlight and Arctic temperatures. And who wouldn’t want to go camping with two kids who can’t fall asleep unless they have blackout curtains on their bedroom windows? Yes, it’s The Great White North for us! But all that excitement must wait for at least several weeks as we need to get prepared. At the very least we need to buy a map of Canada that is bigger than 6” x 3” in size.

Anyway we can’t leave the U.S. quite yet as Simon has signed up for an intensive 4-day course that will train him to teach high school students who will not be in the classroom with him but will be viewing him (and he them) on TV. Sounds really bizarre, doesn’t it? He’ll be teaching to three separate groups of 17 year olds, all of whom will be visible only on three different monitors and Simon will be alone in a room (apart from the camera operator who I am confident will snort with laughter at all his jokes). What won’t we do for money!? But I already said that above, didn’t I?

Meanwhile Thomas has begun his bassoon lessons in earnest. This is on top of the weekly piano and percussion lessons. (Today’s percussion lesson featured The Drum Set [previous lessons featured The Tom Toms, The Marimba and The Snare]—which isn’t as easy as it looks, apparently.) Today’s bassoon lesson focused on breathing (always important), posture (not Thomas’ strong point), and Proper Reed Maintenance (I had no idea there was so much to taking care of a damn bit of bamboo and, it seems, when Thomas can be relied upon to use a really sharp blade without risking his fingers, he will be expected to craft his own! Must we farm the bamboo, too?). I will confess that Thomas’s playing sounds like just so much squawking to me, but his teacher seems genuinely impressed with Thomas’s abilities. Apparently students do not usually start playing the bassoon until they are 12 or so, but when I explained that Thomas has been begging to play the bassoon since he was 3 (he really has!), he agreed to take him on. Poor Thomas can barely keep hold of the thing, it’s so heavy and awkward, let alone keep it still long enough to get his lips and teeth puckered just right (roll the lips over the teeth, but not too much, show a little lip, but not too much, now bite down, but not too much…) it’s amazing he can get it to make any noise at all.