The annual ordeal

Well, I knew it was that time again. Time to put the air conditioners in. Last year I did it on June 8th and was very glad I did because the hot, sticky weather hit the following day. This year I was spared the necessity of performing this onerous task until this past weekend, due to the unusually cool weather (highs only in the 60s), with seemingly endless rain, that we've had for the past few weeks (this soggy weather is, by the way, really getting us Mainers down. Enough already.) But on Thursday, the 25th, the temperature soared into the 70s and very high humidity (the true killer) struck; it was even warmer on Friday. Since my little box of a house, with its poor insulation and no shade trees, quickly becomes a sweat box in hot, humid weather, I knew there could be no more procrastinating.

The first problem is getting the two units up from the basement. They are so heavy I'm doing good to wrestle them out of their boxes and up onto a counter (the one that goes in the kitchen window) or onto a trunk (the one that goes in the study window), where I will attach their little accordion side panels; forget carrying them out the basement door, around to and up the back stairs and through the back door to their appointed resting places. In case you are wonder-ing, it is not possible to bring them directly up the interior basement stair because that is too narrow for anything bigger than a bread box.

Last year my landlord's teenaged son carried the boxes up for me, but this year I decided to see if I could take advantage of the accumulation of young manhood living next door to me. The young man who answered the door, and offered his services, is the same one who regularly clears away all the snow on that side of the parking area that goes with that house – even though four to five cars park there, he seems to be the official shoveler – and who has occasionally cleared the snow from behind my car, as well.

After the affable Arlen lugs the a.c.s up for me – impressing upon me, yet again, the dramatic difference in physical strength between even the most whimpy-looking male, and your average female – and after the aforementioned wrestling on my part to get the units de-boxed and up on a surface where I could work on them, the real fun began. Screwing on the side panels. Which had me swearing mightily last year, but seemed to go much more easily this year, at least on the first panel. But then when I'm on screw number two of panel number two it suddenly strikes me that the panel is backwards. Oh, damn! I've put them on the wrong sides!

So I get to unscrew the two screws I'd just screwed, as well as the four screws on the first side panel, and start again. But now I'm struggling and swearing just as I did last year, because I'm fighting the interference of the panel itself, in trying to get the screws in the holes, and get them sufficiently screwed. I keep muttering, 'This makes no sense; it shouldn't be this hard; this makes no sense!'

In exasperation I go looking for the instruction booklet, which I haven't seen in years. Not in my Important Papers folder, or my Helpful Information folder (which includes such things as how to spell shih tzu, which I can never remember, instructions on how to tie a tie, and a sari, and yes, owner's manuals for various items, one of which I no longer even have...but not for the air conditioners). I look and look at the panels, trying to determine which way they really should be facing, bemoaning my utter lack of visualization skills (this is the hole where the screw that attaches to the window frame goes, but will it work better if this side of the hole is against the wood, or that side?)

I finally decide to go with my instincts – it really should not be that difficult to attach the side panels – and I undo the first side panel yet again; put the original one back on, attach the second panel, and throw the damn thing out the window. Well, you know what I mean.

Exercise

We are talking here about something I – and a heckuva lot of other people – really hate to do. We hear again and again that regular exercise is one of the most important keys to good health and long life. It can reduce depression, we are told. And it can make us look better – toned muscles, reduced weight, etc., etc.

Yes, but. Exercising is boring, makes one uncomfortable (all that huffing and puffing, those aching muscles, joints, bones, all that sweating); and it demands energy. Being (apparently) naturally lazy, I resist doing anything that demands energy, but especially activities that are boring and make me uncomfortable.

There are some physical activities that (naturally, being physical activities) demand energy, but which I do not find boring, e.g., dancing, riding a bicycle, horseback riding. But one really can't do these things on as frequent and regular a basis as, we are told, one should exercise. I know there are people who would dispute this, like my friend Joey, who regularly rode his bicycle to and from work through the streets of Toledo; but there's no way Nervous Nellie here could ride a bicycle along the busy corridor between where she lives and where she works. Besides which there's noplace to take a post-commute shower at the library.

My doctor urged me over a year ago to get hold of an exercise bicycle, and use it. A regular bicycle wasn't really a good solution, he said, because here in Maine I wouldn't be able to use it for a good part of the year. Good point. But exercise bicycles simply did not fit into the stringent budgetary limits of this Starving Librarian. So I just continued to erratically follow my basic exercise regimen, which has been the case for many years. Diligent for a week, maybe two, then miss a day, two, three, and right off the exercise wagon you fall. And have to start all over again in a week or so, trying to build your stamina back up. Hating every second of it.

Then, just the other day, the Legionnaire's post across the street from the library was holding a yard sale, and I saw that they had this very basic exercise bicycle for all of one dollar. I figured I could hardly go wrong: even if the thing didn't work at all, I would be out only a dollar. So two of the gentlemen wrestled it into my back seat; I wrestled it out when I got home and lugged it down the slope to my back yard and around to that basement door I just recently had a dead bolt put on, past the possibly poison sumac plants. And I've actually used it several times now. It's something I can do when I just can't make myself do those loathed exercises.

I envy those amazing individuals who like to exercise. How fortunate to actually enjoy something that is good for you.

More domestic dilemmas

Last week I had someone in to put dead bolts on the back door, and the door that leads from the basement to the outside. Ever since my scare of a couple of months back, when I thought someone had gotten into my basement, I've wanted to do this. I realized that although, in that particular instance, there had been no home invasion, there could be, without great difficulty, because the locks on both doors were the kind burglars are always using credit cards to unlock in the movies.

I now feel much more secure. But that isn't my domestic dilemma. While he was here, the locksmith told me he thought the rather floppy tree that stands beside the steps that lead down from my little deck is poison sumac. I found this hard to believe because I thought poison sumac grew in bushes, and it also seemed rather incredible that my landlord would have poison sumac plants growing around the house (besides that tree, there are a number of trees-in-the-making below the deck, crowding around that door to the basement).

Checking online, I find that poison sumac does grow into trees, as well as shrubs. And the leaves certainly do look like the fluttering leaves on the plants in question. But I also find that there are non-poisonous versions of sumac, and now I'm hoping that that is what I have. But how to be sure? Last year I cut away some of the branches that were making it difficult to get up and down the back stairs, but I wore my leather gloves to do that work, as I always do. So my hands did not come into contact with the leaves. Presumably, if they had, and there was no adverse reaction to the contact, I could rest assured that this plant – which does a nice job in the summer of helping to break up what would otherwise be a rather severe facade – was one of the innocuous forms of sumac. But I don't care to experiment with bare hands!

And then there are the slugs! Nasty creatures, that destroy the leaves on the plants in the flower beds to either side of my tiny front stoop. I found a book at the library that told me spreading sawdust or bran (surely a rather expensive alternative) would discourage the varmints. But, the book warns, these prophylactic measures must be reapplied after it rains. For the past two weeks it has done very little but rain – indeed, we Mainers are beginning to fear we are in for another soggy summer like the one we had last year – so these are obviously not very satisfactory solutions for my problem. The book also suggests just picking them off as you see them, and dropping them into a pail of salty water to end their miserable little lives. Ugg. Not even with leather gloves on.

All this gardening stuff is not in my bailiwick. Having to keep up the yard is the one real drawback to living in a house, as far as I am concerned. And Starving Librarians are hard-pressed to afford people to come and do it for them. Yes, this is another time it would be nice to Have a Man Around the House...

The keystone state

The mountains of northeastern Pennsylvania are gorgeous. I've driven through them, along route 81, in the autumn, when the fall foliage is truly awe-inspiring, with vistas that make you thank god you can see. In mid-spring the vistas are lushly green, the green-to-blue laps of hills broken up by big valleys dotted with farms and spread with cities (Scranton, Wilkes Barre), and they, the mountains, seem endless. Indeed, they are called the Endless Mountains.

And they are big. Lots of steep inclines, with lanes to the right for the laboring trucks. On my trip from Maine, I had counted myself very lucky not to have encountered any road construction at all, with concomitant delays, until shortly before Binghamton (New York, where I stayed with my friends overnight). But on the haul through the mountains, over the line in Pennsylvania, there were several such construction sites. Generally there were no real delays, at least not once I learned the importance of being in the far-left lane as we approached a threatened "split lanes." The construction mess would be in the middle, so you would either have to go up in the fast lane, the left lane, or be stuck in the truck lane, quite possibly behind a line of trucks.

I found the rock you could see as you drove along this highway that had been blasted through the mountains interesting. Very different from the gray granite that is everywhere visible in Maine and New Hampshire (the latter is called the Granite State, but both could be). In Pennsylvania I was looking at a dark, muddy brown rock that was sometimes even reddish. Looming above you, it can look very brooding. Consulting an EPA web site on the "physiography" of Pennsylvania I find that what I was probably looking at were black and red shale, predominate rocks of the state. I've sometimes said that in my next life I plan to be an archeologist (strapping and healthy enough to pursue such a rugged career). But what I might do with the other half of that other life is be a geologist, because I am fascinated by the workings of the earth, and the by-products of those workings, such as mountains. One of the most fascinating places I've ever visited in my life is the Grand Canyon, with its layers of rock millions of years old.

Another thing that interests me is how, despite all the mountains, Pennsylvania is full of farms. The web site I referred to a few Notes back (June 9), that shows the location of farms in an area, shows quite a few, even up around Scranton, famous (or infamous) for all its now-defunct coal mines. In that same Note I mentioned that Bucknell University, in the town of Lewisburg, is in the heart of farm country. The driving directions I had had me leaving major Highway 80 a bit sooner than necessary; but that meant that I took the scenic route the last 20 miles or so, driving right past all these attractive, healthy-looking farms.

But speaking of coal mines, you can actually visit one at Scranton, the Lackawanna Coal Mine Tour. If I had the opportunity to do this I probably would, simply because I rarely turn down a chance to do something I've never done before (one exception I can think of was water ski – I knew all I would do was keep falling in the water, and that didn't seem like my idea of fun), but I think such a tour would be grim. Descending into the depths of the earth is, to my mind, a grim business anyway – it's dark! all sorts of dangers lurk! (would this argue against a career as a geologist?) – but a coal mine represents one of the harshest industries in the world, that has taken such a toll on the men who have labored in it, as well as their families, as well as the earth itself. An evil necessity, not a positive good.

Now Scranton has spruced up its downtown, is home to the New York Yankees' training team, the Scranton-Wilkes Barre Yankees, and is trying to build up its tourist trade with things like coal mine tours. It's always amused me the way places endeavor to turn whatever they were known for, good or bad, into a draw for tourists. I think of Salem, Massachusetts, deciding to exploit its unsavory history as the home of the Salem witchcraft hysteria and trials. Or what about Alcatraz Prison, inviting folks in to see this place that was the scene of so much misery. Yes, well.

Someone told me Pennsylvania has the highest percentage of white supremacists of any state in the country. Could that be true? I thought it was Idaho. I've always thought of Pennsylvania, when I've thought of it at all, as a predominately working-class state -- coal miners in the mountains, steel-workers in the cities -- but I've never associated it particularly with skinheads, or farmers. What we don't know...

Pennsylvania might not be someplace where I would want to live, but it is certainly beautiful to drive through. And probably worth knowing more about.

The nose has it

About a week ago I began to notice an unpleasant smell in my house. Since the smell seemed to be concentrated in the kitchen, I initially thought it might be something that hadn't been quite thoroughly chewed up and disposed of in my garbage disposal. However, an investigation with my bare fingers – accompanied by a 'yuchhh' expression on my face – disproved that theory. I moved the micro-wave out of its spot in the corner of the kitchen counter, to make sure no old food had crawled back there to die.

It finally occurred to me that the smell might be emanating from a Rotting Rodent in my attic. Following the discovery that a hole in my outside wall was serving as the front entrance for animals unknown (some said squirrels, some said raccoons – see Note of April 25, 2009) my landlord sent out first, his handyman, to board up the hole, and when I was still hearing sounds above my head, an exterminator, to deal the final blow. And, happily, the sound of animals lurching around over my head in wingtips ceased.

But what if some (poor little) wild thing had either got trapped inside, when the hole was boarded over, or partaken of some tasty poisonous snacks, and ultimately succumbed to either hunger, or sated hunger?

Now, if I'd been thinking carefully I would have realized that a month to six weeks was a bit long for a decomposing body to wait before it started smelling. But this really was the only thing I could think of. So I broke out the rarely-used incense – which only helped while it was burning – and told myself the smell would pass, and it was certainly better than unwanted visitors.

Well, the other day I had the brilliant idea of placing the container of coffee – which was filling the cabinet with its own strong aroma, even though I'd placed the container inside a plastic bag – placing that container out on the counter, where the offensive smell seemed to be strongest. I would use Peter to kill Paul. In the process of doing this I had to move a few things out of the way: my various bottles of pills, my water glass, the bulb of garlic.

The Bulb of Garlic. Which had been sitting there for who knows how long. From which I had detached a couple of cloves for cooking purposes, and not used since. As I gingerly picked it up it felt somewhat squishy beneath my fingers, and the slightest whiff told me I'd found my Rotting Rodent. Into the plastic bag in my freezer where go food scraps that do not go down the garbage disposal (bones and the like) it went. Presto magico, no more unpleasant smell.

I had to laugh at myself. The girl who can't tell rotting garlic from rotting squirrel.

Caring

The keynote speaker at the graduation I attended at Bucknell University in May was none other than the writer, activist, Nobel Prize winner and Holocaust survivor Eli Wiesel. I was very impressed that this was who they got to speak. The emphasis in all the speeches that had come before was service and leadership, as in, 'this is what your education at Bucknell has been preparing you for, service and leadership.' Wiesel's talk touched lightly on these ideas also, but his big theme was one he has expounded on in many of his previous speeches: as you go through life it is important above all to avoid indifference. As he said, "The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. The opposite of beauty is not ugliness, it's indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, but indifference between life and death."

Heavily accented (which somewhat surprised me – after all these years?), his was not a fiery, or even a particularly dynamic speech, but it was moving and powerful, not least, I'm sure, because of the experiences of the man, that we in the audience were all aware of. They gave heft to what he had to say. An inner voice was whisper-ing, "This guy knows what he's talking about." He described how he and his fellow prisoners in the concentration camp took a tiny solace from the idea that of course the rest of the world must not know where they were and what was being done to them, or surely the world would have long since rushed to their rescue. It would have been unbearable to think that the world did know, and was doing nothing. That level of indifference from their fellow men would have made their suffering far worse.

Just tonight there was on PBS a show on the folk singer Pete Seeger. What the program demonstrated was that Seeger determinedly lived his life according to Wiesel's principal: he was never indifferent. He cared – about racial discrimination, about the plight of exploited workers, later about ending the Viet Nam war and bringing home the soldiers – and he used his music to try to bring about change in those areas. He also believed strongly that Americans had a right to their own political and religious beliefs, and to privacy in those beliefs. He therefore refused to answer questions about those things before the House Committee on UnAmerican Activities in 1955, and that stand ultimately got him a prison sentence (overturned on a technicality), as well as being blacklisted, which prevented him from appearing on commercial television until those subversives, the Smothers Brothers, had him on their show in 1967 (good ol' PBS had allowed him to have a shortlived program of folk music in the mid-60s). He and the group he had helped found, The Weavers, were also black-listed from the radio for several years. But he sang on, he never gave up, he never stopped caring.

I have great admiration for people like this. Elie Wiesel endured horrific suffering in his youth and has spent the rest of his life trying to see to it that others should not suffer in the same way. Seeger spent his life trying to use that which he loved most – making music – to help others, relieve the suffering of others, support justice and fair play.

I have noticed in myself over the past few years an increase in that sense of indifference that Weisel warns against. I see it as a kind of withdrawal from life. At times it dismays me; at other times, I fear I am...indifferent. It may be that my inability to manage my life in a (to me) satisfactory way has made me feel, oh what's the point. I have never been what you would call an optimist, and it may be that my natural pessimism has gotten the better of me. How do we make ourselves care, when we don't really care?

The case of the disappearing neighbors

You remember the neighbors who kept their three dogs locked up in one room of the house for 8-10 hours every day while they were both out driving trucks? (See Note of July 3, 2008.) The neighbors whose noisy diesel pickups would come and go at unfortunate hours (12:30 at night, 5:30 in the morning)? One of whose trucks used to be left idling for at least 15 minutes – once for as long as half an hour! – in the driveway right outside my bedroom window, at those unfortunate hours?

Well, they've disappeared. When I returned from my trip to Pennsylvania both trucks were gone, as were the three dogs. And they were gone for several days. What really got my attention – after all, Matt and Patty (not their real names) could have just been at "the in-laws" (an older couple who have put in an occasional appearance, either singly or together, and who have sometimes supplied Patty with a ride when, apparently, her truck wasn't working) – what really got me wondering was: they'd torn down their fence! There used to be a fence of pointed, flat, unpainted stakes separating their back yard from mine. It was in that fenced-in back yard that the dogs would tear around, barking their heads off, whenever they were let out for a few minutes. But now the fencing stood in the middle of the yard, piled up in the shape of a small A-frame house.

The dog situation had actually gotten a little better in the couple of months before The Disappearance, at least partly because Matt, or someone, had fenced in that part of the yard that opened onto the narrow side yard, which led to the driveway and thence to the street. The only entrance used by Matt and Patty was the door leading into the kitchen, which opens off this side yard. That was where they would let the dogs out, having to be careful to corral them off to the left, to the back yard, when where the dogs really wanted to be going was to the right – the driveway, the street, freedom! Then whoever let the dogs out would have to stand guard, to make sure the dogs did not leave the yard.

But then the new fencing went in, so it was no longer necessary for a human to be standing guard; and I suspected a doggy door had also been cut into the back wall of the extension off the kitchen, that juts out toward the back yard, because the dogs were now out in the yard much more often. It was also possible that they were just being let out more often through a regular door at the back of that extension. This was a possibility because Patty's truck very often remained in the driveway all day, so perhaps she was home. And that seemed more of a possibility because she seemed to have had a baby!

The woman never looked pregnant to me. But one day as I was about to depart for work the female half of "the in-laws" came to pick her up, and when Patty came out of the house she was carrying one of those baby baskets people use these days. Before climbing into the front seat, she swung the basket into the back seat with what seemed like great casualness to me, were it indeed a baby. So I wasn't prepared to swear it was a baby. Or maybe it was someone else's baby, that she was taking care of for a while...

But not too long afterwards, when I was again out at my car, returning from someplace or about to leave for someplace, the young couple returned home in one of the trucks (the other truck being nowhere in sight. As I've mentioned before, sometimes one or the other of the trucks would disappear for a while.) Patty was driving, got out and went directly into the house; Matt got out, opened the back door, and swung out the baby basket, saying, as he did so, "Let me get my new baby."

So first there was the Mystery of the New Baby. And now there's the Mystery of the Disappearing Neighbors because, except for one very brief reappearance a few days after my return from Pennsylvania (Matt and someone else – not Patty – who seemed to sweep into the house and out again in no time; all of this heard only, as I was busy inside my house at the time), they have been gone for one solid month. This is too long for a vacation trip, especially if they have a new baby, and especially as they are obviously a struggling young couple. I would have said they'd moved, especially given the evidence of the torn-down fence, but they left the kitchen light burning (still burning after a month!), and I can see through the large kitchen window that all the furniture is still there, the clock on the wall, a big iron skillet hanging on a hook. 'Tis a puzzlement.

It's been lovely not having to listen to barking dogs, or roaring trucks. But I have to admit to a faint feeling of...is it loneliness? Having neighbors on either side offers a kind of comfort: there's somebody there. For some time now there's been nothing but an empty house and a back yard rapidly returning to its wild state.