the Seventy First Story

The first winter I was in Boston, My father had just moved to Miami. There was one really brutal week up north where the highs (not including windchill) didn't make it up to 0 degrees. At one point during the week we were talking on the phone, and the weather came up. He started in about how it was cold down south, too, and all the fancy ladies had broken out their fur coats. I asked him how cold it was. He said it had gotten down to nearly 40 one night. That remains the only time I've sworn at my Dad.

the Fifty First Story

When I was first riding a bicycle in Boston, it was a little old upright English three speed. She was a great, easy little bicycle. Her name was Daphne. Riding to work one day, I was hit by a car. There was no serious damage, either to me or my bike (those things are tanks) and the driver was not confident in her legal status, so I sent her on her way. The biggest issue with the bike was that the seat post had bent, so I pulled up onto the sidewalk to try to straighten it enough to continue on my way. In about 3 minutes, the BU cops showed up. I said I was fine, and sent them on their way. Then a Boston city police car pulled up. I explained that I was fine, and they left. About 30 seconds later a firetruck pulled up. I explained that my bicycle was unlikely to explode, but while we were still talking, another firetruck and an EMT guy showed up. Yet again, I explained that I was fine. Then another policeman showed up- the EMT guy took over the job of pointing out my lack of injuries. Finally, about 10 minutes after the crash (longer than I would have been held up there if not for all the interruptions) an ambulance showed up. The EMT guy told them I was ok, and just fixing my bike. They wanted to take me in just to check things out. I was already late for work, knew I was uninjured, and was not going anywhere. They tried to insist. I said no. Then one of them piped up with "well, at least let us clean your road rash". I was going to work and didn't have a  full first aid kit with me, so that actually sounded ok, until he followed it with "just step into the back of the van, and we'll get it cleaned up right away. I looked at the EMT guy. He shook his head and mouthed "no". I said I'd be happy to sit on the curb while they did it. They looked really quite pissed. I am utterly convinced they would have kidnapped me to the hospital.

the twenty first story

I haven't been writing up stories- I have been too busy making them in copper. So here's the pie story:

First, context. A few years back, I signed up for the Downtown Crossing Holiday Market. It was insane- seven days a week, outside in Boston in December, and the thing was open for something absurd like 11 hours a day. I was set up across from a farm stand staffed by a delightful young fellow who made the whole thing bearable. Also, I had good boots, and it was close enough to home that I could ride my bike back and forth. I rather ended up enjoying myself.

The day in question, the lad over at the farm stand unpacked fresh baked pies in the morning. As he was unpacking them, he announced to us what they were. Pumpkin, Pecan, Apple, and one blackberry. I think I squealed. It's possible. I love blackberry pie. He asked if I wanted it, and I said I'd have to see how the day went. I talked to eighty bazillion people that day, and he talked to a least three times as many as I did, and i forgot that conversation. Towards the end of the day, he came back over and asked how my day had gone. I made a sour face, but someone walked into my booth before I answered. Appleman went back to his booth, picked up the pie, carried it back over, lifted a corner of my tablecloth, and slid it underneath, with his finger over his lips in the universal symbol for "we shall never mention this". I smiled very big.

Now, the pie had to come home with me.I was on my fixie- no rack, no basket, mustache bars are terrible to balance anything on, and my riding position is leaned so far forward that putting the pie in my bag was not even an option. So I tucked it under my left arm and road home. We lived in Somerville, and it was not a long commute- perhaps four miles? Certainly less than six. The bridge was an adventure, what with the wind, and the large flat box, but I made it all the way to my street with no real problem. I turned into my street, and hit an enormous pothole that had been there all winter and which i knew all about. I flipped over, landed with one leg through the frame, my bag tangled on the seat, my arm, still holding the pie box, stretched out in front of me. I was entangled in the bike, and unable to get up, but I was just able to reach the box and open the corner.

The pie was right side up, and uninjured. Life is awesome.

the seventeenth story

and a story:
When we were getting ready to sell the house in Somerville, we redid the kitchen. The old one was awful, and while I'm perfectly capable of living with an ugly kitchen, apparently other folks have difficulty seeing past it. When we pulled out the old cabinet, the kickplate had text on the back. We were able to assemble it and discovered that it was an informational sign from a very old show at the Fogg Museum; the show had been focused on Chinese Calligraphy, and the sign was about one particular period (I don't remember which). I'm still carrying it around, and sometimes I cut pieces off and make things of them.

the sixteenth story

So much for trying to write up a story a day, which makes it ridiculous to open with "today's story"

On that note, another story: When Hamlet first showed up, he would run away all the time. Despite this, I would let him hang in the backyard while I was working in the basement, even with all the holes in the fence. He never seemed inclined to go through them. One day, I heard him barking, from what seemed too far away, so ran upstairs to check- he was in the front yard, barking like mad, but well on our side of the fence. no problem.
A few days later, I ran into Joe, mailman, on his rounds, and he asked if I'd gotten my dog back ok. I asked what he meant, and he said he'd found Hamlet a few blocks away, brought him back in his mailbag, and put him in the yard. I quickly realized that had to have been when I found him in the front yard. I thanked Joe profusely and asked if Ham had given him any problem. His response? "He only bit me a little"

the eleventh story

Today's Short Story:
My old roommate Tom used to make us all chili, on a semi-regular basis. This was awesome. One day, he came home with some unmarked peppers and went to sautee them to put in the chili. I was back in my bedroom, with the door closed, but even so, I started coughing. And then it go worse. Finally, I opened the door to ask what the hell was going on, and was hit by what can accurately be described as a cloud of pepper spray. Tom must have heard me open the door, since at that moment he shouted "Go out the window! Save yourself!".
We all survived, but it was several hours till we could go back in the house.