I go back and watch shows with an obsession. I don’t know why. Lately I’ve been going back and watching Mulder and Scully. Sometimes I miss the skepticism and paranoia of my childhood. An odd turn of nostalgia at that, being a child raised in a world in which the infrastructure was crumbling and being repaired with Hubba Bubba and Brillo Cream caked prayers.
But you miss little things the first time through, watching for the plot. Like Lawn jockeys; just an odd transition shot that had nothing to do with the plot. The lawn jockey was about establishing tone, true; the Caucasian face paint was starting to chip off and was meant to make us think about zombies. But you could argue that it was almost a non-essential shot. A little extra little taste from the director. A little wink and a nod, darkly funny. Lawn jockeys could make any trailer a royal compound, right? Like adding Greek columns to an old row house and turning it into a bed and breakfast.
It reminds me of the first time I drove back by the house I grew up in and saw that the new owner buried wagon wheels at the end of the driveway/ Like they rolled up from after some long journey, wrapped in gingham and a dream, and dug the foundation themselves, when all they did was buy a 40 year old ranch style house and paint over all the memories in western kitsch. The unknowns and barely knowns have been painted over with a new, thick paint of certainty. The color is a colorless gray, and reflects nothing.
Underneath, all the old memories rest on the drywall and frame, preserved like fossils against elements and the passage of time.
[Day book 2026 / Spring 3.21.26
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Poet. Essayist. Fictioner. Steamboat fireman. Bit of a grackle.
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I realized that Porch Bee hadn’t really had any warning; how does one give a demolition notice to a carpenter bee? Should I have pinned a notice to the porch? Should I have tried to find an email address? Certified mail?
The old steps, unearthed. I’d forgotten they were painted blue.
Sometimes Porch Bee would be the first to greet me when I got home from work. Little bug would just hang by the front door, waiting. I knew a cat like that once; as a kitten it got caught up in a car engine and as a result lived with a permanent splint on one of her front paws. That cat lived with my first ex-wife and her parents when we were both in (separate) high schools. They lived in the country, in a small trailer, and my then girlfriend was highly allergic to cats. Country cats have hard lives, and that cat was no exception; but she would wait for me to come back (I was told) when I left and was always happy to see me when I showed up. While it’s difficult to tell precisely what the emotional state of a carpenter bee is, clearly it wasn’t disturbed by our comings and goings.
The front porch was added on in 2012; this was before I moved in. The hand rail on the cement steps had gotten increasingly theoretical and dangerous, and Amanda’s dad offered to have a new porch built. The idea was to let the wood season for a year and then treat it. After I moved in, I should have made sure we did that. I didn’t, and it got away from us. I’d replace a wood screw from time to time, keep them clear. Salt during winter snow didn’t help. Over the last eight or ten months, severe weather and time made the steps increasingly unsafe.
If it were just a matter of one board, I could probably manage that. I say probably because while I’ve gotten pretty decent at plumbing and I’m more comfortable with electrical work than I used to be. Wood work is… complicated. Or maybe not.
My grandpa, my mom’s dad, was a carpenter. His name was Clay Dunn. When he and my grandma moved from the house on S. Charity Street to Bantam, outside of Bethel, Ohio, he built his wood shop off the back of the garage. The other grandchildren — my brother and my three cousins — were allowed in the wood shop. I wasn’t. Sickly with weak lungs, the prevailing wisdom dictated that wood dust would kill me, as would the second hand smoke from the menthol cigarettes he smoked. Sometimes I would sneak into the wood shop when he wasn’t working. It was an organized space that smelled of wood shavings, cigarettes, with a hint of oil from the equipment. He had a wood burning stove that he would light to keep warm in the winter. But the prohibition to participate in projects, to learn anything about his world except to see the end result of his labors, was a hard line that no one crossed.
Porch Bee stopped by while I was taking down one side of the banister. He landed on a baluster I was removing a wood screw from. I realized that Porch Bee hadn’t really had any warning; how does one give a demolition notice to a carpenter bee? Should I have pinned a notice to the porch? Should I have tried to find an email address? Certified mail? Porch Bee lingered several seconds, then flew off. I thought I detected some sadness in the flight pattern.
I’d decided to try and salvage some of the wood, which meant this wasn’t just a crowbar and hammer job. I also decided to try and save the wood screws that could be saved. I started out making two piles of wood… one with pieces too far gone to keep, the other wood that could potentially be salvaged. This added to the amount of time I’d allowed to tear down the porch, but the price of lumber isn’t much improved and you never know when you will need a wood screw, right?
Getting down to the wood stair frame made me think about Grandpa. He’d once built a staircase in the home of a girl I went to school with, Nancy Hauserman. This was my 7th grade year, and once she found out the guy working on her house was my grandpa, we had something to talk about. It did and didn’t help that she was the prettiest girl in our grade, and basically a nice person. Of course, I couldn’t count on Grandpa NOT to share embarrassing stories about me, in particular the one about my not being allowed in the wood shop. I was about as mortified as a 7th grader can get, which for me meant I was unable to look her in the eye or maintain even a passable conversation. Ah, teenage hormones. What a motherfucker.
The last part of the deck frame ended up being cut with a reciprocating saw. The builder had screwed the back board into the posts before setting them, and it was almost 5 o’clock. I’d been working on deconstructing the deck since around 10 in the morning. I found myself enjoying the process. The decision to salvage the some of the wood and screws meant having to take it apart in a particular way — trying to work what I imagine was almost backwards. Amanda and I decided to leave the box around the cement stairs and use them as planters — for a season or two, anyway. And I left part of one of the rails up to work as a temporary banister until I sink a more permanent one or until we build, or have built, another porch. I also need to either trim down or dig up the unnecessary posts.
I’m probably going to go ahead and paint the steps before winter, just to brighten them up and to help protect the cement. Interestingly enough, the cement steps you see in the pictures were built on top of another set of older cements steps. I showed this to Amanda and she shrugged. “And someday, there’ll be a ziggurat here.”
Porch Bee stopped by one more time, clearly displeased with this turn of events. I was working on getting that last bit of deck framing loose. Porch Bee buzzed in a far less friendly manner. But I simply apologized, said it couldn’t be helped. One bee’s condo is another city code enforcement stooge’s code violation. Gentrifying assholes.
Now, to get rid of the wood. Sorry again, Porch Bee. I really am.
This means that the rest of the time, we’re passing one another in our home on different schedules, grabbing for whatever time we can get. (from ” The Faded Sepia of River Mud“)
On these days I feel like I’m operating in a different time zone.
No matter how much I try to let myself sleep in or try and make myself stay awake when I come in from standing 2nd shift watch, I wake up around 10 AM. Today is Flip Day in my schedule… I’m on night watch, midnight to 0800 tomorrow. I try and get a few things done around the house, write, drink tea instead of coffee. I know Earl Grey has caffeine in it, but there’s a little less caffeine in tea than in coffee and I find it easier to lay down and relax after tea. These days are me, the dogs, and an ungrateful, sweater humping cat. I’ve been watching this Netflix show, The Diplomat. Other than fish bowl murder mysteries, classic British sit coms, and oddly unending loops of The Mentalist, I like well written political intrigue.
What can I say? Television fiction is the only place I can find palatable politics at this point in the timeline.
It’s raining and snowing today. I’m putting off what is probably a novella knocking around in my head. I’m not often plagued by longer fiction nagging me to write it, but this one’s been going on for months, since taking the Mayor Andrew Broaddus to South Point. I’ve been writing that story in fits and snatches between rounds and reading Driftwood: A Biography of Harlan Hubbard. I want to get some sleep, but I also don’t like to waste one of my two full days off in the week.
I’d like to say I’m being amazingly domestic while Amanda is out doing the Good Work of the World. But I’m slouching in my very tired wing back chair, feet up on a foot stool, Chromebook perched on my right leg, writing. Season 2 of The Diplomat is on the television. This set up is sort of ideal for most of the writing I do; floating in the middle of things.
