Yesterday the roof was finally bare of snow.  There was a cluster of inch high daffodil spikes in a muddy brown spot in the shelter of a South-facing corner of the house.  Today I just finished shoveling a foot or so of snow and the weather wizards say that more is coming.  Sigh.

For some time I’ve been feeling jaded about the percentage of my human interaction that occurs via the computer.  I didn’t want to write on the internet wall wondering who might come across it.  It felt impersonal and I missed face to face contact.  Yes, I KNOW it’s a choice but so many meetings and gatherings have been canceled/postponed this winter and we lose power a LOT and I’m TIRED of shoveling and it’s HARD and before that it was ICY and really COLD and whine, whine and more whine.  And then . . . .

I’m taking a beginner genealogy course (daunting as I realize the extent of what I DON’T know about my family and the fact that I’m moving further and further up the ancestor list as we speak). The latest lesson was on using a census computer database.  I noodled around looking for my maternal grandfather without much luck.  I then tried my paternal great-grandfather and found him in the 1920 census.   Salem Township: Charlie Filson, age 55 as head of  household with wife Rachel S., age 53, my great-aunt Anna M. (who would become my grandmother) age 25, my Aunt Marjorie, age 13, and my dad, Henry W. age 2 and 9/12, grandson.  My dad’s mother, Edna, was the oldest daughter in the family and she died from influenza when my dad was 16 months old.  He was sent to live with his grandparents.  And there he was. . .  listed in clear copperplate writing as a member of the family on North Cottage Avenue in 1920, an official snapshot of  the story I have heard all my life of the motherless baby who became my father.  It is a very personal connection across time.  It was posted on an internet wall for all to see.  I found it.  I am grateful.

Does working at the US Post Office make you mean, or are you hired mean?  The uber requisite on the ideal Post Office employee profile is “Aggrieved Personality.”  The actual mail carriers don’t count.  This characteristic is for the “Customer Service” employee.  The one who acts surprised that people actually come to the desk and have questions or want to mail something.  Cheez.  You think we’d learn.

That fun experience in New York last winter was an anomaly.  In the old days it was fine here in Small Village, New Hampshire.  The PO adjoined Nick’s little store in the center of town and Mrs. Nick was the Postmistress.  He was a retired Massachusetts restauranteur and cooked their dinner in the store to be brought home across the street later.  It smelled really good in the Post Office which closed its window for a couple of hours at noon for them to take a nap.  That was ok because clerk Marion kept stamps in a cigar box at the store counter and was a kind of deputy so that if you really needed a registered letter or something during naptime, she could deliver.

The store is gone and is now a small village equivalent of fancy apartments.  We have a new Post Office (ok it’s been 25 years, but that’s new in New England) with a genuine parking lot even.  I avoid it, but every now and then, like going to the dentist, it is just something you have to do.

So, I was waiting in line with my package and saw a new neighbor who reported that she had received her neighbors’ mail and didn’t get any herself.  The PO “mistress” (term used aptly and not advisedly) snapped,  “Well, they probably got ‘one off’.  It happens and I can’t do anything about it.”  All the time looking at the customer like it was HER fault.  New neighbor mumbled,  “Well, last time you told me to tell you when it happened, not later, so. . . “

I realized that I had only gotten junk mail that day and that’s not usual, so when I got home, I checked and sure enough, the gun catalog I had put in the recycling actually had an address on it~not mine.  I took them their mail and found mine.  I live a couple of miles from the reporting neighbor, so miles of people (at least) were ‘one off’.  You’d think that every once in a while just for the heck of it they’d just kind of check to make sure the mailbox number matched the mail.  That’s a long time of not paying attention.

“Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these courageous couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”  Accuracy?  Not so much.

A thick mist hangs in the trees this morning.  If you didn’t know better, you’d think the ocean was just on the other side of the woods.  The early morning sounds of birds and the paper delivery car turning in the driveway are reflected back by the fog and the sounds are somehow closer and more intimate than on a sunny morning.  All that is missing is the sound of a bell buoy or a distant foghorn.  Is it possible that I brought this home with me with the hay?

At about this time each year, the tomatoes need to be mulched to prevent the wonderfully named “Blossom End Rot” which is purportedly caused by uneven soil moisture.  Mulching the plants is supposed to even this out and prevent the loss of any of the precious green orbs that are soon to become precious crimson (or yellow or whatever) orbs.  If you use horse hay, you end up planting multitudes of weeds for now and forever, amen.  This is part of the cycle of gardening that needs no augmentation from the likes of me.

I went to a meeting on the seacoast this week and decided to look for salt marsh hay, having always read that this was the optimum in mulch.  I turned at the hand lettered sign and followed the long driveway to the side yard of a white two-story farm house.  I might have been on the prairie of the Midwest.  There were pots of petunias around the back door, one of them a concrete swan.  The farmer drove in just then on his tractor.  He took off his cap to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand revealing a classic white forehead above ruddy cheeks.  I bought a bale and drove home breathing the sweet smell of hay, the ocean mists following along behind to appear this morning to surprise us.

It was a perfect New Hampshire almost-officially summer day with a very blue sky, fluffy cumulus clouds, a slight breeze wafting the scent of peonies and wild roses and the temperature perfect. Funny how I think of NH summer as this way and not as the solid week we’ve had of humidity so thick that doors are sticking and every, absolutely every thing is clammy, even the cat. The lovely strawberries are molding in the fields, but the lawns and hayfields are happy.

I was cleaning house, contentedly scrubbing and vacuuming and removing the layers of yellow pine pollen which is the dark side of late spring in this beautiful state. My sheets were waving on the clothesline so that I would be surrounded by the delicious clean smell of sun dried cotton as I crawled between them that evening tired from my labors. Oh happy day. . . when suddenly, as if by magic. . . it was dark . . . the wind came up . . . it began to sprinkle. I ran out to the clothesline barefoot to the rescue. As I ran I felt something soft moving under my right foot and looked down to realize that I’d stepped on a snake. Barefoot. Aahhhhhh! and Aahhhhh! and Aahhhhh! I screamed reflexively and compulsively as I danced and jumped like a dervish till the fit was over. Meanwhile the little snake was having its own little fit. It was quite a tiny little thing, the size of a large earthworm, but it slithered a few inches away and was reared back with its little mouth open, showing red and imitating a cobra. I doubt that it has vocal chords but if it did, it would have been screaming, too.

I was telling my tale at a cocktail party that evening and was admonished by the after-the-fact advice one generally gets after an accident. Don’t go out without shoes. You should look where you’re going since you live in paradise and everyone knows that Eden has snakes. Why don’t you use a dryer anyway?

But think of the advice the snake got at his cocktail party that night. Don’t you know to stay out of the path of giants? In the event of a giant sighting, either slither quietly away or stay still. Don’t incite them or they will bash you with sticks. Haven’t you ever heard the expression “snake in the grass?”

Let us remember that after-the-incident advice is useless and often misses the point. We both had an adventure and lived to tell the tale. And that is what life is all about.

About this time of year on warm sunny days in Boston, the bucket players appear on street corners and on the plazas. Hats on backwards, oversized clothes hanging on their bones as they squat in front of a variety of overturned plastic buckets, they fill the air with strong, earthy, frenetic rhythms. The air pulses. Often there are dancers and the streets are crowded with souls released from the winter confines of offices. The smell of food vendors wafts in the air. The circus has come to town.

It’s quiet here on the dirt roads. My walks are “hot fudge sundae” walks: cold snow-ice still in huge piles breathing cold drafts, contrasting with bright golden sunshine warming my face and shoulders. There’s a skim of mud on the still frozen road and the footing is soupy. The birds are coming back, staking out territories and the ones that have been here all along are singing about setting up house. The full bird orchestra has not yet arrived. An occasional flute is tuning up in readiness.

Plink. . . plunk. . . plink, plunk. What is that sound? Ah, yes, it’s the tune of maple sap dripping into empty tin buckets. I discover that I’m not far behind the syrup maker’s truck as they collect the watery sap into the large clear containers filling the truck bed. With an air of fulfillment about them in their buffalo plaid jackets and caps with ear flaps, they tell me that this has been a very good year. And being New Hampshire yankees, they add, “So far.” The see-saw of above-freezing days and below freezing nights keeps the sap running up and down. “That’s a good thing for collecting, ” they say. “Get those pancakes ready!”

As I continue on, the wind picks up and sap bucket lids become cymbals clanging to the beat of the dripping someday syrup. It’s the bucket music of spring.

This is a cautionary tale about allergies. First, the end: it was never life threatening and everything is fine now.

Once upon a time there was a woman who believed that a good response to usual and customary physical maladies was to “buck up and work through it.” Her long- suffering daughter could, and probably will, attest to this. For the last couple of years, said woman had periodic outbursts of facial skin rashes. They appeared to be unpredictable but most definitely an allergic reaction to something.

She thought she discovered recently that the culprit was SPF protection which is now added to lots and lots of cremes and other face goop. The dermatologist thought it was one of the ingredients in said goop and gave the woman a sample of an over the counter product that had “ultra-calming” as part of its name. The medical professional probably thought the woman had sense enough to do a test patch since the woman had obviously been on the planet a few years. She was wrong.

“So I get a little rash, so what?” thought the woman. On Wednesday, the woman applied the moisturizer and looked for signs of tingling or redness because she believed that the reaction would be swift. Nothing. . . until Wednesday evening. Thursday had a few more signs. Friday morning was scary. Ever see those hardened alcoholics on the street in Boston? Their poor faces are bloated and red with eyes swollen almost shut. That face stared back in her mirror.

It had already started to snow and several inches were forecast. It was also, of course, the beginning of the weekend. She decided maybe she could use some help in “bucking up and working through it” and called the doctor’s office. The Triage nurse (unfortunate term) arranged for a doctor visit and ended by saying, “If your breathing is effected, go straight to the ER.” Yikes.

Moral of the Tale or What She Learned

1. An allergic reaction often “blooms” in 48 to 72 hours. This makes it hard to determine the cause. A contact allergy is an auto-immune reaction (poison ivy, for instance.)

2. Benedryl is still the best relief from symptoms, but it makes you sleepy~use at night.

3. It took 3 days from the peak for the symptoms to recede substantially without the Prednisone which helps with the auto-immune reaction. She filled the prescription “in case” but didn’t take it because of the possible “psychotic” episode on the warning label. She needed to shovel the snow.

4. She will be wearing a hat in the sun. Experiments are over.

I came up dry today for the weekly post. Usually a banner floats by on the brain screen with something I want to chew on. Today the brain blank page remained blank. “Ah,” I thought, “I’ll just see what happens when I pull up the virtual blank page. . .” and the cable connection was down. Spooky. Very spooky.

I, too, have had the delicious experience of being on hold for hours, swearing at the recording loop, pressing “O” with bloody fingers and performing the usual assortment of dervish behaviors common to trying to reconnect to what has become a lifeline. A few years ago, after a particularly pernicious and prolonged problem, the technician said, “Ma’am, trust me. We want this fixed as much as you do.”

I wonder if they have my phone number selected out on some cable version of Homeland Security because when I called this morning, I actually got a real live person straight away. (Straight away was technically speaking after number-choosing the language of my choice and the type of problem I was having~all quite reasonable requests.) Jason reported that there were maintenance problems in Massachusetts and New Hampshire and that they were working on it. He took my name and said I could call back the billing department and request credit for the time I was off line and that he was so sorry I was inconvenienced.

Uh, who are you and what have you done with the cable company?

Remember looking up words in a Dictionary? I have always loved the ancillary words and pictures that catch the eye while flipping through to look up . . . say. . . “digress.” Hmm, ” Adzuki bean”. . . I saw that last week when I was looking up shelf lives. . . think it was 15 years. . . what IS an adzuki bean anyway?. . . “Bridalveil” as one word. . . YES!. . . it IS the falls at Yosemite. . . so ethereal and beautiful. . . and the unforgettable sound it makes. . . oops. . . “dill pickle”. . . too far. . . . of course I know what a dill pickle is, but I wonder what the dictionary says . . . keep going. . . ah yes. . . “to stray from the main subject in writing or speaking.”

Using a dictionary is like taking a car ride on an unknown scenic road. The colorful scenes flashing by add texture and dimension to the journey. There is something to look at on the way, making the trip more interesting.

If you’re reading this, you are probably using Encarta or one of the other wonderful online dictionaries that also pronounce the words for you. Looking up all of the phonetic symbols to determine pronunciation has never been one of my favorite digressions. I like being able to press the button over and over hoping that this time it will firmly implant. (I am not going to digress on multiple acceptable pronunciations. Getting it in the ballpark is my goal. Someone else can deal with the subtle nuances of the rules of that game.)

Using an online dictionary is a car trip using a GPS. There is a voice to keep us focused on the destination. There are no serendipitous diversions on this journey and even the side trips are decisions. If we misspell “digres”, we are asked, “did you mean digress?” It’s underlined and in one click we are there. If it’s a monumental misspelling, we might even get several possible “did you mean?” destinations. This is all very well and good if in a hurry, but I would hate to have missed dill pickle and Bridalveil. It is so nice to have (and to take) the time to do both.

When you are working every day and driving and are busy or BUSY or the BUSIEST of busy, it doesn’t pay to beat yourself into a guilt frenzy over the state of cabinets, closets or drawers. You tell yourself that someday you’ll get to it. Someday was this Tuesday.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

I’ve always been fascinated by archeological tells: “A term that originates from the Near East, a tell is a synonym for the archaeological term mound site. Mound sites are mounds that formed through successive occupation of the same spot over a very extended period of time. Tells can provide a unique key to answering questions of occupation and evolution.” Individuals often create personal tells. Garage, basement, closet, drawers (especially junk) and kitchen cabinets come to mind.

Not wanting to risk burn out, I tackled only one set of revolving kitchen cabinets containing an assortment of baking goods, mixing bowls, measuring things and coffee stuff. The mixes with “use by” dates were a piece of cake. (Sorry.) But an unopened box of Corn Starch dated 2005? Curiosity sent me to a Corn Starch shelf life page highlighting Argo, “A recipe for Togetherness” Corn Starch. (Can’t you just imagine that ad campaign meeting?) The answer is “over one year.” Yeah, so. . . how much over? Puhleeze. I decided that I didn’t care even though it’s probably inert like Twinkies and that this was the kind of distraction that kept me at the superficial level of the kitchen tell.

I did it. In addition to the easy clearance items, I threw away-threw AWAY-a perfectly good pyrex quart measuring cup that I have continued to use in spite of the fact that it no longer has a single legible mark on it. I have had other measuring cups forever and I have no idea why I continued to use it. I did get an inkling to my “occupation and evolution” when laughingly talking to Mom about it later. Her response was, “But I’m sure it was still perfectly good and you knew where the lines were.”

Oops. As they say, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” The counter to that is, “But sometimes it rolls downhill.” Ayuh. I’m counting on some momentum.

Perhaps I should say fib or prevaricate or string along. A lie, after all, is in the eye of the beholder.

It’s quiet in New Hampshire. The political bird flocks have flown south and west. We are in a weather deep freeze now that the hot air supply has diminished. The phones don’t ring incessantly. Our discussions are like those after a wedding or a big party. We sit around and kibitz about it all and compare and contrast to other primaries. We take it seriously and have all the years that I’ve lived here. We are fortunate to have many opportunities to meet and listen to the candidates in person. It’s a huge difference from the slick media moments that necessarily ensue when campaigning in many states. It is impressive how many voters thoughtfully compare and contrast.

So what was up with the polls and the missed predictions? We are, indeed, independent here in the Granite State. We are technically “undeclared” on the voting roster and that fits us psychologically, too. Many are fiercely and vocally partisan, but independents tend to be fiercely private. Being curious, I’ve been asking many times in many venues how people responded to the pollsters.

One friend confessed to replying “yes” to everyone who called when asked if she were voting for their candidate. Ditto for her husband. Another gave the opposite response. Whoever called, he was voting for the other guy (or gal). Most preferred the Q&A gatherings to debates or speeches and felt they knew more about the real candidate that way. Many hadn’t decided on the party until election day and reported changing their minds many times before entering the voting booth. Anyone without wishful thinking would have realized how fluid the situation was. If statisticians had any idea about the NH psyche, they would have thrown in or invented a perversity factor.

My responders also indicated that there was a fair amount of hanging up going on. As for me and my house, caller ID changed everything.