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Thursday, October 10, 2002 You know, I'm not online much these days apart from posting the entries for this boring bugger of a journal, but when I am I usually check out details of this page's traffic at Sitemeter. Now and then I follow a link that referred some poor lost fool here and discover interesting reading. Like Fussy, for instance -- a prime example of a smart, sharply-written blog. Or McSweeney's, the homepage to McSweeney's Journal (to which I am a lifetime subscriber, he confessed, not sure whether that indicates excellent taste or intellectual pretensions run desperately astray) -- funny, ironic, w/ loads of good writing. The proprieter of Fussy, by the way, is an example of a writer who has actually built their own webpage (their own, as opposed to lurking sadly around pages provided by outfits like Blogger and Salon, my two current haunts) in all the ways I aspire to. I actually have some domains and have signed up with a webhosting outfit -- one of these days I'll get myself organized and make the leap. ************** [Continuation of yesterday's entry.] Sunday morning. I woke up around 4 or 5 a.m. Got up to dump the ballast, returned to bed. Couldn't get back to sleep, got up and did some writing work. By 7:30, I'd showered and shaved, my bags were back in the car, I'd turned in the key at the motel office and was on the way to the College Diner for eggs, home fries, toast, O.J. Pulled up in front of my brother's house just shy of the time we'd agreed we would get things rolling, 8:30. Went inside. My nephew and his sweetie were also in town for the weekend, I found them asleep on a mattress in the living room, both curled up under the covers, wearing eyeshades. Terry put a finger to his lips, we passed quietly into the kitchen where we spoke in whispers for a bit. Then I went outside to wait, hoping Terry wouldn't be long. And I waited. And I waited. And I waited some more. It was a beautiful October morning -- abundant sunlight, chilly temperatures moving upward rapidly. Trees showing some color, insects in the grass singing away. I wanted to get going with what needed to be done, but didn't mind soaking up the morning for a bit. At ten or fifteen after nine, Terry stepped outside, we got underway, each in our own car. At the storage compartment we hauled everything out, discovering things we'd forgotten had been tossed in there, meaning I found more dreck to bring back to Vermont with me. A few small tables, things re: me my mother had saved (i.e., booklets with my SAT and achievement test scores) a box of Waterford crystal water glasses, blahblahblah. Just what I need: more STUFF. Most everything went into or on top of the cars, we headed back to Terry's place, set it all up by the sidewalk. Terry had put together signs advertising the sale – he went off to post them at nearby intersections, I worked on the furniture with Pledge and a rag. Most everything for sale was furniture, and it moved. A neighbor immediately bought two bookshelves and a magazine rack. A chiropractor stopped by with his mother. At her urging, he picked up a small sofa, an armchair, a coffee table, her trying to (a) talk us down in price and (b) convince us we needed her son to work on our backs. Three hours later only a few items remained. Terry and I sat out in the October weather, talking, dealing with folks who stopped by when we had to. A nice visit. By 2:30, we'd thrown in the towel, bringing the remaining items up by the porch. Terry made me some food, he and Sue sat and talked with me as I sucked it down, by 3:30 I was in my fully-packed car, joining the flood of traffic on the Thruway. I bailed from the Thruway one exit south, picking up Route 84 east. That's where the trouble began. Everyone else in eastern New York State and western Connecticut seemed to be on the road, heading home after a weekend of madcap autumn fun. The hour and a half ride to Hartford became three hours of stop and go traffic. Even on I-91, heading north from Hartford, cars filled the highway, though those went too fast instead of too slow. By the time Springfield approached, I'd had enough and took an exit ramp that presented itself, finding myself on State Street, heading east. My first and only time in Springfield. A half mile or so along State, I pulled into the parking lot of a fast food joint – McDonald's, Burger King; don't remember for sure – and locked up the car. Decided I wanted something better than fast food and walked further along State Street, Sunday evening traffic passing by. I found another fast food place – McDonald's, Burger King; don't remember for sure – didn't go inside there either. Turned around, went back toward the lot with my car. As I walked, I heard a car alarm, gradually realizing it sounded like mine. By the time I trotted into the lot, it had stopped. As I neared the car, though, I saw broken glass scattered around the rear end. Then I saw the massive hole in the rear-hatch window. Someone – there, in the fairly busy parking lot of the fast-food place – had bashed in the glass, probably lusting larcenously after the stuff inside. None of which was gone, as it turned out -- the alarm must have spooked the perp. I stared at the broken window and the abundant bits of glass inside, cars passing, people staring as they went by. A question I couldn't figure out: why attempt a break-in in such a well-traveled place? And with people coming and going, how come no one seemed to have witnessed anything that might help? (I asked a few rubberneckers if they'd seen the break-in, all said no.) One guy returning to his car with a bag of chow eyed the damage, saying, "Gee, that sucks," which pretty much summed up the event. My appetite had disappeared, I found all I wanted to do was finish the drive home. I cleaned up as much of the glass as I could and found my way back to the highway, where traffic had finally lightened up, me thanking the Universe as I drove that nothing more than a broken window had come my way. No missing possessions, no scratched or dented auto body, no problems rendering the car undriveable, no injuries to my adorable little bod. No rain, snow, sleet or hail coming in the back window. Lots to be thankful for, including a generally fine weekend. Three hours later, I pulled in my driveway, the heater going full blast to counteract the cold air and car exhaust streaming in the new rear access port. Monday morning I got on the horn first thing, connected with a glass replacement shop that offered to do the work that afternoon. Called my insurance company, got a busy signal. Called some more. Then some more. Then some more. Line still busy. Dialed that number many, many times during the course of the day, well into the evening, with the same result. Between bouts of dialing, I brought the car in to the shop, they gave me a loaner. A maroon PT Cruiser with the legend "Windshield World" painted on both sides and the rear. My first time in a PT Cruiser. I wouldn't buy one, but it was fun to find myself behind the wheel, tooling north on Route 14. Got back to the house, tried my insurance agency on and off. Went back into town to pick up my car four hours later. And it was so nice to have a window in the rear hatch instead of a gaping hole that let in traffic noise and exhaust fumes. Tuesday a.m., I tried calling my insurance agency. Same deal, busy signal. I finally smartened up, found my insurance company's number, called them directly. They answered their phone. They made sympathetic noises at my story of what happened to my car. They told me I had full coverage on glass replacement so that they'd reimburse me for the entire repair bill. They were kind, friendly, efficient – all the things you look for in an insurance company after someone has broken the rear window in your car. An interesting weekend. Since then I've settled back into life here. Monday and Tuesday night brought the first hard frosts of the season, wiping out most of the flowers outside. The colors around here seem to have peaked this past week, passing wind and rain resulting in increasingly bare trees, fringed with the remaining ragged, faded leaves. The online leaf-peeper reports are talking up the viewing possibilities, but there don't seem to be many left in these parts. Further south, maybe. The season of the colors as a whole was a muted one up here. I saw some displays on the way south on Friday, in New Hampshire between the Vermont line and Concord – stands of trees done up in sharp, brilliant reds, oranges, yellows. Just the way it should be. Duck season commenced recently, so that now and then I hear a gunshot or two off in the distance. Turkey season and deer season will follow. I think I'll avoid walking in the woods for a while. Life spins on, you know? Right. Later. rws 6:28 AM [+]
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