far too much writing, far too many photos Thursday, November 06, 2003 The last several days: gray, wet, cold. Overcast, temperatures in the low to mid-30s. Rain falling through much of it, fog coming and going. All of which has its own beauty in this rural, mountainous country -- fall colors long vanished, the landscape now a blend of browns, grays, greens. Vermont, late autumn, winter not far off. On Tuesday, the lying bastards in the local weather service (and I mean that in the nicest possible way) predicted that yesterday would bring sunlight and higher temperatures. Yesterday, when that didn't pan out, they predicted the same thing in stronger terms for today. When I woke up in this morning's pre-dawn hours, a glance out a window showed a few lonely stars shining through thinning cloud cover. Thin enough that the daylight hours brought some actual sunshine. Wan, diffuse, thin, but still sunshine. For a short, fleeting while anyway. Then the cold gray reasserted itself. No rain, though, for which I'm grateful. Tuesday morning I hung out with my downhill neighbor, Mo, for a while. His wife, Kay -- in the hospital with cancer a couple of weeks back [see entry of October 27] -- passed on last Thursday night. Since then, Mo's had plenty of folks around, family and friends, keeping him company through this major life passage. I stopped by during a lull in the activity, no one there but Mo and his two small dogs, Sally and Corky. Sally: a fat beagle who has Mo wrapped around one of her little, er, toes; Corky: a smaller pooch, maybe a Chow -- thick reddish-brown fur; small, bright black eyes; pointy ears, a pointy snout. Kind of cute, not terribly bright. Mo dotes on them both, they dote on him and take advantage when they can -- especially Sally, running off whenever she can manage it to cavort around the hill here for an hour before returning home, pantingly happy, free of shame/guilt. It's an odd phenomenon: Mo is a hunter, has been for most of his 80+ years. Loves to hunt, will go after just about anything that runs, flies or swims. Except his two designated companion critters: a half-bright carouser and a half-dim lap dog. Considering the turns his recent existence has taken -- getting a knee replaced four or five weeks back; Kay coasting suddenly downhill healthwise, getting diagnosed with cancer, spending a week in health care facilities before making a graceful exit from this mortal coil scant days after their 60th wedding anniversary -- Mo seems to be doing all right. (He is as close to being indestructible as any human being I've ever met, and I sometimes think that after everyone else here on the hill lives out their days and topples over, he'll still be tooling around on his ATV, shooting squirrels off our headstones.) He wasn't ebullient, he wasn't prancing about in joy, but he was all right. Able to talk about the impact of Kay's passing on his life, able to talk about other things, able to laugh when the conversation turned to subjects that warranted laughter. It turns out that Mo and Kay had agreed they would both be cremated, their remains mixed together in a double urn which would then be buried. Which means that Kay's ashes will reside in that urn in Mo's living room until he punches out. It turns out, he said, that not everyone in his family is crazy about that arrangement, and he doesn't care. He's got the urn, her ashes are in it, and that's how things will remain until he drops off the twig and they toss his body into the fire. At which point the rest of the plan will go into effect and their names will grace a joint headstone poking up out of a bit of Vermont countryside. I'll say this: Mo, at 82 or so years of age, is healthier, clearer, more mobile than either of my parents were when their respective odometers showed that kind of mileage. He's a crusty, capable old guy, and as far as I'm concerned he should enjoy the rest of his 3-D tenure however he sees fit. Not that my opinion matters. I'm just saying. Tonight there's going to be a wake-ish type of event at a funeral home twenty minutes north of here. I'll make an appearance, pay my respects, enjoy the people-watching to be had, remember conversations with Kay around their kitchen table. Tomorrow's the funeral service -- I'll skip that. Funerals don't do it for me. To each their own. You know? rws 3:05 PM [+] BLATHERINGS August 2001 September 2001 October 2001 November 2001 December 2001 January 2002 February 2002 March 2002 April 2002 May 2002 June 2002 July 2002 August 2002 September 2002 October 2002 November 2002 December 2002 January 2003 February 2003 March 2003 April 2003 May 2003 June 2003 July 2003 August 2003 September 2003 October 2003 November 2003 December 2003 January 2004 February 2004 March 2004 April 2004 May 2004 June 2004 July 2004 August 2004 September 2004 October 2004 November 2004 December 2004 January 2005 February 2005 March 2005 April 2005 May 2005 June 2005 July 2005 August 2005 September 2005 October 2005 November 2005 December 2005 January 2006 February 2006 March 2006 April 2006 May 2006 June 2006 July 2006 August 2006 September 2006 October 2006 November 2006 December 2006 January 2007 February 2007 March 2007 April 2007 May 2007 June 2007 July 2007 August 2007 September 2007 October 2007 November 2007 December 2007 January 2008 February 2008 March 2008 April 2008 May 2008 June 2008 July 2008 August 2008 September 2008 October 2008 November 2008 December 2008 January 2009 February 2009 March 2009 April 2009 June 2009 July 2009 .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS Travels: London '01 Pamplona Italy '03 U.K. '03 Sevilla Casablanca Stoke-on-Trent Barcelona Québec/Ottawa Boston/Lisbon/Madrid Italy '04 Montréal La Sierra Events: Madrid -- arrival 9/11 Emergency Room I Holidays 2001 Holidays 2002 Holidays 2003 Holidays 2004 Holidays 2005 A neighbor's passing Madrid -- March 11 bombings   and aftermath Emergency Room II Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon Madrid -- Royal Wedding The DELE exam GONE, a novel: Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF JOE ROCCO, a novella: -- Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 BURBANK SHRUGGED, a screenplay: -- Part 1 -- Part 2 -- Part 3 -- Part 4 Short stories: Murphy's Wife Another Autumn La Queja de Una   Hermanastra Muy Conocida Autobiography -- Personal History -- Hormones On Parade -- Accidents, Random Mishaps,     Personal Problems .  .  .  .  .  .  .  . 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