HALLOWEEN

It's Halloween.

I'm not certain I'm really up for Halloween this year.  

Some years I am; 

some years I'm not.  

Some Halloweens are spent handing out candy with friends and relatives; 

some Halloweens are spent with the lights out and the doors locked, 

just keeping myself company.

Sometimes I'm the witch; sometimes I'm the ghost.

I'm not certain that makes Halloween

any different than every other day.

Trick or treat, Life.

 

A POEM FOR COFFEE AND FRIENDS

Here's a poem to honor coffee
That I share with two great friends.
Once we start to chat together,
Seems the laughter never ends.

We sit in Starbucks for so long
As if we haven't got a care
(But, of course, that quickly changes
When someone tries to steal our chair.)

We argue with the teenage cashier:
"Thirty percent off the mugs!"
Soon thereafter time for parting
With more laughter and some hugs.

All at once we check our cell phones;
Four-plus hours have flown past.
Forty years have also gone by
Proving friendships will outlast.

IT'S A MIRACLE

What I am about to tell you is going to make many people hate my guts, but I'm going to tell you anyway in a case of full disclosure:

I have heat and hot water.

It could be that I'm in Zone 1, but it's more likely that Columbia Gas didn't want to make the news... again.  What started with a hissy fit by the contractors on Thursday, escalated into hours of phone calls up the political food chain that included calls to people in high positions within the law enforcement community.  Those calls coupled with hours-worth of phone calls to Columbia Gas and twenty-one photos attached to emails result in a multitude of workers descending on my townhouse on Friday and again Saturday morning (at 7:15 a.m. -- thank goodness I was up and dressed; no make-up, but whatever).

On Saturday we here in New England are experiencing our first seasonal Nor'Easter.  Luckily for this part of the state, that means lots of rain and some hefty wind gusts.  I leave the workers dragging mud and leaves through my den to get to the basement (in their defense, they try to keep it clean, but I have to put down more Murphy's Oil Soap at some point, anyway).  They're replacing pipes, they're installing a furnace, they're installing and re-venting the hot water heater.

It's freaking mayhem.

When I return from running errands hours later, the workers are trying to drill through the field stone basement, breaking and toasting drill bits every step of the way.  I am supposed to have a team of two guys in my house.  At several points, there are a dozen workers in my cellar.  I haven't had this much company in my entire life.

I know that the gas meters have been installed (by a different crew) way too close to the house ... about four feet too close.  I also don't have a stove yet.  Even though progress is being made downstairs, outside the meters remain precariously close to my windows.  It seems like it's going to be a long time before I see daylight and a hot shower again.

The plumbers and I are all old pals by now.  We laugh about FOX news trying to interview me while having a BBQ and several beers at my daughter's house (a half mile away -- also in the gas crisis area), and about how I was not willing to speak on camera with a buzz and be recognized by students and school staff.  We talk about their living conditions on a ship in Boston Harbor's Seaport district, a ship that is completely dry of alcohol and serving them horrid sandwiches (yes, they show me a picture).

Honestly, at this point ... I love these guys.

One of the plumbers brings in an inspector to check their work.  He is a white-haired gentleman wearing a service Army cap.  He is older but by no means ancient.

"Army?" I say.  "Where did you serve?"

"Cambodia."

Holy shit.  This guy is totally badass.

"Thank you for your service," I reply, and I make sure I say it at least three more times while we are chatting about Cambodia and his service.  He okays the work the plumbers have done, and then he leaves.

I know darn well that a crew still has to come in and clean out the mess in my basement.  Plus, they need to come get the brand new hot water heater down there that was the wrong one, so it's just sitting around.  I also know that the outside meters need to be moved by law.

My plumber pal comes back into the house and tells me his work is all done except for one last thing.  The relight.  The relight which, he informs me, he's going to do right now.

"Now?!"

"Yes," he says.  "You'll have heat immediately and hot water in an hour, maybe forty-five minutes."

I'm so bloody happy I could kiss him.  Within minutes the new furnace is humming and pumping out hot air.  I have to open the doors for a few minutes to blow off any smoky residue and to avoid setting off the new alarms they installed.  The crew and I chat with the heat blaring at 80 and with both my front and back doors wide open, letting the Nor'Easter into my home.

Life is grand.  I'm not going to lie, but I'm not going to gloat, either, because I am the first one of the people I know to be re-lit and re-gassed.  I also wait until I know the guys are done traipsing through my house, then I lock the door and shower.  A long shower.  A shower so fabulously warm that I want to cry.

No more multiple blankets.  No more footie pajamas in October.  No more electric fireplaces out of necessity.  Best of all --

No more trash-can showers.

I have heat and hot water.  It's a goddamn mother-freaking MIRACLE.

LIFE COULD BE WORSE

I pick a crappy day to run errands.

There's a nor'easter raging: wind, rain, gusts that knock out some power lines, chill in the air, and still no heat inside my home.  Small blessing that this storm is rain in my part of the state and not snow like just west of here.  I spend the morning inside working on school stuff that needs to be done, but, once the afternoon hits, I know I have to head out.

In the middle of my errands, I decide that I deserve something to warm my bones.  I could get tea or hot chocolate, but instead I steer toward Boston Chowder.  Usually I get the corn chowder when I'm here, which is probably several times a year.  Today, however, is not a chowder kind of day.  I mean, it is ... but it isn't. 

Today is a chicken soup kind of day.

While waiting for the chicken vegetable soup order to come out, I notice that I'm not the only one in a soup/chowder mood, and there isn't a booth to be had.  That's okay.  There's a small counter with three chairs right in the front window facing out to the patio and the street.  Obviously no one is eating on the patio since it's so crappy out.

Okay, so maybe I have an afternoon full of errands after spending a morning working on school stuff.  I enjoy a wonderful, hot cup of soup while staring out into a watercolor world.  Life certainly could be worse.

DON'T BE ALARMED!

Life outside of work is a crazy mix of occasional moments of normalcy overshadowed by major bouts of shit-show-ery. I cannot remember the last time I was warm in my house, and I'd really like to take an incredibly long, hot shower in the privacy of my own home.

So, my patience at work is nonexistent when it comes to having zero heat in my classroom, as well.  The maintenance staff comes in, one after the other, put their hands on the heater and exclaim, "Yup, it's cold."

No. Shit.

If that's not bad enough, every day around noon the air turns on, sending waves of cold air straight at me since my desk sits in front of a vent.  It's like the final insult.

Oh, but wait.  Just when I think it cannot be worse, an alarm starts screeching from the loudspeaker in the room's ceiling.  It is an alarm we've never heard before.  I doubt it's an alarm for a lock-down or for an active shooter because it is the end of the school day, and parents in cars are all lined up right outside of my window.  If there were an active shooter situation, surely people wouldn't be holding social hour mere yards away. It's definitely not the heat sensor alarm in my room as the heat sensor  must be frozen.

The noise is loud, disturbing, and maddening.

I poke my head into the hall and see a couple of other teachers taking students outside, as if this whole fiasco were a fire drill.  We look around and realize that no administration has said anything nor made their presence known.

Turns out it's the alarm that lets the police know when someone breaks into the building after hours.

Well, now that we've established what that is, maybe someone could shut the damn thing off so that we don't all go mad.  I suppose it's a blessing in disguise: The noise is so loud and so obnoxious that most of the staff packs up and leaves right on time instead of hanging around prepping for next week.      

(Video doesn't work ... trust me -- it's LOUD and annoying.  LOL)             

I'D SHUT THE EFF UP IF I WERE COLUMBIA GAS

Sunday = Columbia Gas workers show up with NO warning at 8:00 a.m.  They are in and out all day; claim they need sheet metal guy to cut furnace out of basement. They also claim everything is illegally vented and pipes are too small due to new building codes.

Monday = Columbia Gas workers leave my front door WIDE OPEN for hours.  Not only can anyone get in, but so can squirrels and COLD AIR.  Motherfuckers.

Tuesday - Thursday = Columbia Gas workers leave my house unlocked while coming in and out and doing very little... if anything ... except tracking shit through my house.  They also leave pipes in my driveway.  I run over pipes and almost damage undercarriage (pipes are at angles in dark) of my car coming home after a late meeting.

Thursday = Columbia Gas decides that my tiny front lawn is where they will put the meters (wait until they figure out that's where all the driveway snow gets dumped). They also claim that they are not going to put pipes back into the walls; they are just going to run new pipes outside of the walls.  Oh, and there will be pipes running outside along the house. And the two meters in my basement have been cut out and dumped on the floor along with a bunch of other junk.  In case anyone cares, they disconnect my fire alarm and break a light fixture.  And ... they get into a fight with my landlord, call the cops, then pack up their tools, leave their shit behind, and tell my landlord to go eff himself and good luck getting someone to finish the work.

Thursday night = I call Columbia Gas, send them 21 photos of this shit show of a mess, and start raving about how THIS ALL FUCKING SUCKS.  I submit more receipts that I wasn't going to submit because FUCK YOU, COLUMBIA GAS.  You can't just QUIT, you dumb fucks.  You HAVE to fix this mess. You CAUSED this mess.

It's okay.  I'm calmer now.  My landlady called anyone and everyone who will listen, including some very highly connected state officials.

Hey, Columbia Gas, guess what happens when you screw with a bunch of short-tempered, pissed off, extremely cold New Englanders?  Ever hear of Concord and the Shot Heard Round the World?

Dudes, I'd shut the eff up and get the job done right, if I were you.  I'm just saying.

RAIN, SNOW, AND THE DEFINITION OF IRONY

Autumn is a crazy time here in the Northeast section of America.  It has been cold ... pretty cold ... not ridiculously cold yet except for the few windy days that dropped wind chills into some low numbers.  But still -- cold enough to bring in more seasonable (slightly icy and chilly) fall temperatures.

This is why, sitting at the kitchen table, my mind cannot and will not accept that we are surrounded by thunder and lightning.  I check the radar on my phone.  This is no mere fall squall; this is a massive storm about a hundred miles long, and it is marching across Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Maine, and Rhode Island like a relentless and unmerciful onslaught of invaders.  The storm has some hook patterns to the south, and it is spawning tornado-like activity.

Within mere minutes, the storm has turned brutal.  The house shakes and rumbles and stutters on its stone foundation once ... twice ... three times ... four times.  Just when I think the walls might implode, the storm moves on.  It is, by far, the worst thunderstorm of the entire season from spring until now.

The following morning I drive to work through the state forest. The damage doesn't seem too bad considering a lightning strike in a nearby town destroyed an entire church.  The skyline is brightening slightly, but it is obvious more rain is due from the low hanging, gray-blue clouds.  I park my car and walk toward the back entrance by the janitorial staff's shed.

As I turn the corner I am greeted by two snowblowers.

I wonder if this is the definition of irony.  Nah.  It's New England.  Thunderstorm one minute; snow squall the next.  I guess it's time to put away my flip-flops after all and change over to my boots, regardless of what Mother Nature serves us the evening prior.