yesterday morning, i heard a lady poet on the radio read a poem about writing in the morning, she spoke of the prayers of a singing wren, of a sleeping cat, of standing in her door, holding her pen in the air - and when the poem was over, she told the interviewer that she fibbed, that she writes most mornings, but not all mornings and then she said the same thing i hear all the Writers say, “everything is fresh in the morning . . . ” and i suppose i know what that means, but when i write in the morning, my mind is blank, there is nothing and words are not easy to come by, and i am slow. so here i am, writing in the morning, about writing in the morning, to prove my point that i am not one of those morning writers.
i made my tea a little while ago and i thought, that’s my ritual, i begin the day with tea and you know what, i end the day with tea. i walked out on the deck with the dogs and looked at the pewter morning sky laced with pink smoke and damn if there wasn’t a pink rainbow in the western sky over the turnip greens that are coming up - it’s supposed to rain later today, and that is going to steer my whole day.
yesterday i took our old bedroom carpet to the dump - we should have gotten rid of that thing years ago - my old dog Jack died on that rug and i should have gotten rid of it the next day, but i didn’t, i guess i was too sad and then the rug stayed and stayed. We cut it up in four big pieces so i could handle it myself at the dump, which really meant i could leave my husband behind so my great hound Boogie could go to the dump, because that’s Boogie’s ritual, he never misses a trip to the dump - going to the dump is his job really, he oversees the recycling and the whole operation and he decides what music i am to play on the radio - if he doesn’t like the music he swipes the dashboard with his humongous paws and damn if he doesn’t turn the station or the whole thing off and then he sticks his head out the window and the wind blows through his mind.
there was a hipster boy, correction, a hippie organic hipster boy - that’s the kind of 20 something boys you see around here - they are educated and living on their own for the first time, out here, and they don’t bathe or shave alot, but they have a twinkle in their eye, a twinkle that says, yep, i’m going to be an organic farmer, and this one had a white ford ranger on it’s last legs and full of a bunch of horrible crap and he smiled when i backed up to the dumpster next to him and i’m pretty sure the smile was cause Boogie takes up an awful lot of space in the cab of my truck and he’s a hound, and nobody can resist a hound and they always break out in a smile when they see him, so the boy smiled and then flung all this crap up and over the sides of his dumpster. And I donned my gloves and started getting everything to it’s proper place - because that is the most important thing about The Dump - you don’t just dump stuff, you carefully distribute it all to the proper vestibules, now that’s a word! And the boy watched me, i suppose in some amazement, as i tore this enormous cardboard box up into pieces so it could fit in the narrow slot of the Corrugated Cardboard Bin cause i didn’t have my pocket knife, and i have to do this sometimes and there is always some man around who looks at me like, Where is your man? Why isn’t your man here with his buck knife to do that, and i wonder if they see that i have some age on me, but i have pretty strong arms . . . so the organic farmer to be boy got in his white truck and drove off and i was down to the carpet and i thought we cut it up in small enough pieces for me to handle, and i wrestle the first piece out of the bed of the truck and carry it over to the bin that is like 8 feet tall and i give the carpet a sort of swing down and heave up and that didn’t work at all and i hit the side of the bin and the damn carpet comes out of my hands and hits the the ground and my ego is completely deflated and the Norwegian man who has worked at the dump for a few years now, he’s darling, always in a nice mood, and pets every dog that rides into the dump, and makes you wonder, what the hell is some old Norwegian man doing working here? But he’s here and he comes over and says, “I help you wid dat” and I say okay, but insist that I help him, and he says, “Okay, i do it, and you do it, ” and i say, “ we do it . . ” and he laughs, and suddenly it’s a little funny, this uncomfortable moment of talking about Doing It with the Norwegian man at the dump and so i say, “That’s a song you know?” and he says, “I know!” And I have this picture of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers dancing in the dump.