Book News

Perhaps this is old news to you all. But did you know that Technorati has a new product they are testing in Beta called "Book News?" Give the link a click and then choose the Book News tab from the choices available. It isn't perfect yet; I saw a couple of mangled entries. But it appears close to ready-for-prime-time as it exists today.

Feathers Foretell the Future

Diane's entry on Friday evening over at MT Headed Rambling helped to dredge up this memory for you.

I think Katie was in seventh or eight grade, so that would have been twenty years ago, give or take. It was a "Big Deal," this slumber party, and my wife and I had done our best to provide the support services requested then got the heck out of the way.

If memory hasn't failed me, I'd just finished chauffeuring the last of the participants when the Plectron went off, toning me out to a house fire on the other side of town. I was on call for the evening as the "white hat" so off I went in the old pickup, lights flashing and siren wailing. It was a tough fire, fully involved upon our arrival. The crew made a good stop, but damage was extensive. The only one home at the time was an elderly gentleman who'd been overcome with smoke and was rushed off to hospital. The crew was mopping up; I had already begun examining the scene for area of origin and cause of the fire. I pinned it down to an electric blanket feed wire that had been frayed by contact with a bedspring, allowing a bare section of wire contact with the wooden bed frame. Purely accidental.

It was late when I got home, well after midnight. I checked on the girls from the bottom of the stairs -- strangely, they were quiet and the light was out in their room. I took a quick shower and crawled up the stairs and into bed.

Saturday morning I came down the stairs groggily, in need of coffee and a cigarette. I was startled by a feather falling past my nose from the molding ledge around the stair well. Looking around, I noticed things I hadn't noted in my headlong rush to bed the night before. Feathers. Where feathers didn't belong. In the ceiling light. Drooping listlessly from the scanner antenna. Nestled between the apples in the fruit bowl on the kitchen table. In the trash bucket a new bag, nearly empty, where a nearly full one had awaited my return to take it out. Hmmmm...

Kindling split, stove fired up, tea pot whistling and the coffee ground and waiting in the drip basket for the water, I put the final touches on some waffle batter to go along with the oatmeal and fresh fruit I planned to feed the hungry hordes.

A trip out to the kennels to feed the pups with a detour to the trash barrels told the story. Inside, stuffed into a trash bag were the remains of a down pillow that came from my grandmother's home.

Deb came down the stairs, pulled up a stump and I gave her the first cuppa of the morning. Cleverly, I'd floated a small pin feather in her cup that I'd pulled out of the coffee grinder before dumping in the beans. She just glared at me. I went back to cooking waffles and let it fester awhile.

The girls trooped down the stairs and did whatever girls do in packs in the bathroom. I set out their breakfasts, gave a bellow to "Come and get it" and sat down to my second cuppa the morning.

Conversation was light, centered on things at school and Duran Duran. I let them finish, then as Katie started to rise, I let the hammer fall.

"Seems there must have been an accident last night," I started off. Quick darts of eyes, murmurs of "I told you."

"It was an accident" offered my wife, coming to the girls' rescue. "I tore a pillow while fluffing it."

Stung, it was my turn to glare. "You tore a pillow? Not bloody likely. Somebody had a pillow fight and ruined one of Grandma's pillows!"

Seven pairs of eyes started to well with tears. I'm not proud of what I did that morning. I lost it. Over a stupid pillow. I bellowed. I cursed. I made a fool of myself. I hurt the feelings of my stepdaughter and her chums. I angered my wife. Oh, I stepped in it but good. I raged, I ranted. I stomped off and had my third cup of coffee in the garage, cleaned up the bench, castigated myself for my stupidity. I hid out, waiting for the feathers to clear.

After a while, Katie came and got me, she had something to show me. I came along with her, reluctant to face them all, knowing I had a lot of apologizing to do.

I'd been a fool. I over reacted and I shouldn't have. I didn't intend to get so angry, it was just the culmination of a long week and too little sleep. I groveled and begged the forgiveness of these eight ladies occupying my home and my life, if only for a moment.

They were gracious to a fault. The house was spotless. Nary a feather to be seen. All was forgiven, "would you make some scones and could we have some marmalade, please?"

As I finished taking the last of the scones off the griddle top on the wood stove, Deb poured me a cup of coffee and added a shot of bourbon, with a feather on top.

Gales of giggles and laughter cascaded over all as they regaled me with the tales of their great pillow fight of the night before.

Life was good then.


~*~

Your comments & critique are welcomed.

What If? First Exercise

It was a dark and stormy night.

No, really it was. Dew point was somewhere around 76, so you know the fog was thick as thick can be. Earlier there had been thunderstorms, lightening shredding the sky, hail the size of golf balls, gully-washing torrents that had left it feeling more like the barrier islands of f Savannah than Saint John, New Brunswick. You could see the neighbor’s yard light next door, but similar lights across the street were obscured.

Fog does funny things to sound.

Things that you know are miles away, like the clock chime on town hall, sound like they are just down the road. Waves washing over ledges gurgle and snap as though they were in the back yard, not on the other side of the spit of land called “The Point” by the natives and “John Brown’s Landing” by the tourists. The wail of the siren sounded miles away and seemed to be fading now as the ambulance made it’s way over the causeway and on to the main road to the city.

Chief Constable Eric Sloan sighed and turned to go back in to the house. “Fucking drunks,” he said under his breath, as he climbed the rotting wooden stoop to the one story bungalow. Standing in his way at the door, gasping for a bit of fresh air, I coughed the stench of decay out of my lungs and asked Eric for his jar of Vicks™ Vapo-Rub.

“Left mine at home,” I said, my voice echoing hollowly in the fog. “I’d been asleep for hours when the call came in,” I added, trying desperately to cover my ass.

I’d been no where near home when the call came in. I’d warmed a barstool at Mulligan’s until closing, chatting up R.C.M.P.Constable Barnstable in a vain attempt at getting into her pants. Again. And Eric knew it and I knew that Eric knew and felt just as foolish as I appeared in the dark reflections in his eyes.