Notes from Maine - 2022/12/25
Merry Christmas & Happy Holidays!
I hope you’re well. The horses had carrots and apples and they’re outside eating hay. The dogs are quiet after a hearty breakfast. I think it’s going to be a quiet and chilly day here. After last week, it should be a nice break. I hurt my shoulder last Tuesday. It was one of those injuries where the pain was greatly overshadowed by a sense of doom for the future. Injuries linger, and some muscles and limbs are difficult to avoid using. I was just talking about having to adjust my shoveling technique. Now, I’m pretty much forced to do that. The doctor said I should be past the pain in a few weeks, which is great news. Could have been much worse.
Last summer, Mom started a campaign to get a tree removed from next to the road. It’s an old maple tree that has claimed at least one life that I know of. A young driver slid on ice years ago and crashed into the tree. This summer, a limb fell and smashed Mom’s garden. She called around because the tree is in the right-of-way of the road, so technically the state should care about removing it. It’s a few feet from the pavement, but apparently the right-of-way extends beyond the pavement. They never called back.
I suspect that because she made that call, the tree fell on Friday when the wind storm came through. It blocked the road. It really had no other choice—Murphy’s law demanded it. I called the non-emergency number and they sent the fire department to place cones around the tree. For fifteen minutes or so, people saw the cones and then turned around to find an alternate route. It’s interesting how societal frustration with an impediment builds up with no communication between members of the group.
I watched through the window, seeing people get increasingly angry at the road block. A guy got out of a truck and threw up his hands before he turned around and burned rubber to backtrack. A few minutes later, a bigger truck slowly rolled through my neighbor’s yard and pushed over a cone to go around. Because of the rain, the tires chewed up a bunch of grass. I was pulling on a jacket and running to pick up the cone when a Jeep tore around the downed tree, tipping up on two wheels as it left enormous ruts in the mud.
The collective frustration with the tree had reached a boiling point and people just didn’t care anymore. I put the cone upright and stood out there, staring at a truck as it revved its engine. I think the driver was trying to decide whether to run me down. I took out my phone and they backed away.
My neighbor has a front loader. Everyone calmed down when heavy equipment arrived on the scene. I suggested we not mess with it—there were limbs against the power lines. But someone else pulled out a chainsaw and things just moved forward. A few minutes later, vigilantes had cleared the impediment.
Today, the mud is a frozen monument to impatience.
Part of the tree is still standing. It will have to be taken down this coming year, one way or another. If I can’t get the state to care, I guess I’ll hire someone to do it. It’s a shame. That corner of the yard will look naked without it.
The power was out for a few hours. I was dragging the generator around the house when I saw the Christmas lights come on across the street. If I had been lazy for twenty more minutes, I wouldn’t have tried to get the generator out.
The doctor gave me a bunch of stretches to do for my shoulder. It takes a decent amount of time to get through the pages of instructions. I like stretches though. It makes me feel like I’m doing something to speed my recovery. I’m not thrilled by the pictures that accompany the instructions. All the people pictured appear to be about 125 years old. My injury puts me in elite company, I guess. Wilford Brimley was 49 when he made Cocoon. But, I guess that people often play older characters. I think Estelle Getty was younger than Bea Arthur when she played her mother in The Golden Girls. My mind wandered and I’ve gone off on a tangent—I guess this kind of thing happens to the elderly.
