One
of my old neighbors interviewed for a cleared job with the government,
and warned me that the FBI might want to talk to someone in the
neighborhood and asked if i was ok with this (I gather it was a high
clearance). Weeks passed. I forgot. I got a knock on the door, and went
up to answer it, dustmask and hearing protection in place, hammer in my
right hand, glove on my left. I opened the door, and stood there
dumbfounded, thinking "Not the UPS man, Shoes to shiny to be selling
bibles" while he stood on his side, presumably thinking "THIS is the
person he's got vouching for him?".
Once we got past this, I invited him in and offered him tea. He asked me questions about my neighbor. I admitted a large amount of ignorance, but said i liked the fellow well enough. He asked me, several times, in several different ways, if I would recommend him for the job. I responded, several times, in several different ways, that without knowing the job, I couldn't well know the answer. "I'd trust him to feed my dog, but I wouldn't trust that he knows the proper way to feed, say, an elephant. It's not a referendum on his character. I think he's great. But I have NO IDEA whether he'd be good for the vague task you are describing"
Showing posts with label somerville. Show all posts
Showing posts with label somerville. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Monday, September 19, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
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.
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"
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 seventh story
Walking through Prospect park today, my brother reminded me of this story: The Time that Damned Baby Skunk Stole me Beer.
Our house in Somerville had a fantastic back porch, with a grape arbour. There was a skunk who lived underneath, and whom I would see regularly, and address politely as Mr Skunk. I'd wish him a good evening, and kept an eye out for him, but certainly didn't feed him. One summer, Mr. Skunk had her little mini skunklets under the porch. I changed my method of address to Ms. Skunk. Say what you will, but skunklets are possibly the cutest things in the world- cuter than ducklings, maybe even cuter than kittens. So I sat down on the porch, and had a talk with Ms. Skunk. I told her that she and her kits were welcome to stay, but mustn't spray me, my dog, or my tenants, and, in fact, should avoid spraying on the premises at all. they kept up there side of the bargain, so we had a skunk family as semi-tenants.
One weekend the gals upstairs had a barbeque- LOTS of folks on the back porch. This apparently woke up the sleeping, rebellious teenage kits. One of them peeked out from under the porch, on the side. He came out part way, grabbed a beer, and took off. Now, I'm sure that's not what actually happened, that he simply came out part way, got scared, turned around and ran back under, knocking over a beer bottle in the process. But from my perspective, that skunk totally stole my beer
Our house in Somerville had a fantastic back porch, with a grape arbour. There was a skunk who lived underneath, and whom I would see regularly, and address politely as Mr Skunk. I'd wish him a good evening, and kept an eye out for him, but certainly didn't feed him. One summer, Mr. Skunk had her little mini skunklets under the porch. I changed my method of address to Ms. Skunk. Say what you will, but skunklets are possibly the cutest things in the world- cuter than ducklings, maybe even cuter than kittens. So I sat down on the porch, and had a talk with Ms. Skunk. I told her that she and her kits were welcome to stay, but mustn't spray me, my dog, or my tenants, and, in fact, should avoid spraying on the premises at all. they kept up there side of the bargain, so we had a skunk family as semi-tenants.
One weekend the gals upstairs had a barbeque- LOTS of folks on the back porch. This apparently woke up the sleeping, rebellious teenage kits. One of them peeked out from under the porch, on the side. He came out part way, grabbed a beer, and took off. Now, I'm sure that's not what actually happened, that he simply came out part way, got scared, turned around and ran back under, knocking over a beer bottle in the process. But from my perspective, that skunk totally stole my beer
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