The Dry Spell by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
Download the book in PDF, ePub, Kindle for a complete version.
Chapter 8
August 15, 2007; 98 degrees, 12% humidity, wind out of the south at 5-10 mph, cerulean skies, alabaster clouds covering 12.7% of skies, clear water running at a rate of 5.8 miles per hour, thermometers, liquimometers, tape measures, precision, definition, scientism and scientists.
We get a late start for our morning walk and are suffering the heat, especially the one with the black and white winter coat, so she jumped into the ditches every 200 feet of the trip.
I wonder if she really doesn’t enjoy the trip even more in the severe heat, having constant access to a cooling agent. She shows no signs of complaining, but it’s possible that she’s making the Corrales best of things because she thinks I want to do it. I wish I could clear things up and tell her that I’d really rather be sitting under the swamp cooler.
The fried ants motionless on the rocky part of Romero Road are testimony to what Daisy’s paws must feel. I see the fifty-ish Chinese couple, who seem to have a knack for finding the path whenever we do, coming at us from the other direction. We have not conversed past the “’Moaning” level, his pronunciation of the USA’s “’Morning” standard. Maybe they don’t speak English or maybe I’m someone they’d rather not know, at least not in so open a spot. I consider telling them of the
Page 89
availability of the fried ants, but decide not to, because I’m really not sure that the squishy little black beauties really are a Chinese delicacy. One does not endeavor to be offensive in Corrales, unless you are talking to me, as some people manage to find outrage in things I don’t care to understand. It’s a shame, as most of the ants available are those big black smooth ones, with sizable hair-like legs. Too bad, this is America.
You missed out. In the east I worked with many people for whom English was a second or third language and I’d amuse myself by saying things like; “Have you been in this country a long distance?” Invariably, they either wouldn’t be able to detect the error of the last word or weren’t sure enough to make an issue of it. A typical response was “Dew munth.”
Sometimes I think that I actually have more friends here than the typical overtly friend-full resident. It just doesn’t appear that way, as my “friends” dismiss themselves quickly in public, preferring the clandestine. One of my most unsettling days was when I met a friend at an Albuquerque restaurant, our booth affording a panoramic view of the parking lot and a Comcast truck ten feet away. They were doing something on the roof and my friend proceeded to quickly become nervous and fidgety, constantly switching her head from her window view to me.
Page 90
In an agitated voice, she said; “What do you think they’re doing?”
I was surprised at the question as to me the answer on one level is “Who cares?” and on another is “I don't know.” Well, I found out “Who cares?” when my fumbling hand over mouth non-answer led to another cry of dis-ease; “What have they got on top of the truck?”
“Another ladder?”
“No, not that; those small plastic boxes.”
I was tempted to say “Small plastic boxes”, but didn’t want to risk her getting mad at me, in her already agitated state. I considered; “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera” but dismissed it for the same reason. So I said; “I don't know anything about that kind of stuff.”
One of the workers descended the ladder to ground level, about three feet away from our picture window and she said; “Did you see what he was carrying?”
The defeatist in me took over and I concluded that this was not going to be one of our fun days.
A quick lunch continued in this fashion, probably because she knows quite a bit about surveillance equipment herself and freaked out when she saw other people capable of doing the same thing to her, a topic well covered in “The Conversation,” a not very well known movie starring Gene Hackman. I think it came
Page 91
out in the early ‘70s. Tired of watching the workman put his dirty hands into his greasy back pockets, I attempted to redirect the conversation somewhat, but staying on the apparent main topic. Since we had always regularly spoken about movies, I said; “Did you ever see “The Conversation?”
Her eyes widened with an accompanying non-response. I think that what she thought was; “Of course I’ve seen it, idiot.
However, I’m surprised that YOU have.” I wished that she would have spoken and given me the opportunity to make her more comfortable by saying that I really didn’t understand it.
We left the Comcast people at the restaurant in what must have felt like five hours to her. As she drove I noticed that she used the rearview mirror much more than usual, trying to pick up a tail. I turned and looked back a few times and at least, didn’t see a Comcast truck.
When we got to the Bosque, we sat in the shade of a ten by ten Cliff rose bush. Its deep blue green leaves and musky white flower didn’t give us shelter today, as we thought that we were alone and then heard a loud male voice. When he passed, he didn’t look our way, but kept shouting. I tried to make a joke of it by saying; “Wow. People think I’m bad. At least I’ve got a dog to talk to.”
The intended humor escaped her entirely as the restaurant fidget returned. She watched the guy continue walking with
Page 92
annoyance and said; “He’s got a cell phone.” This proved to be our last “public” appearance.
Back at the hot Bosque with my furry companion, she hears noises south along the shoreline and chooses to investigate. As we approach the king cottonwood we see he already has company, that he probably didn’t invite, two men of approximately forty and a similarly aged female apparently interested in determining something as they picked around his trunk and leaves, squinting their spectacled eyes. When I saw their expressions I hoped that they had not seen some problem. I would later learn two huge things. They could find no semblance, even of a minor variety, of any imperfection; and that this was essential, as if the experts could have found anything to deride, they would have killed him long before the rest of us had the opportunity to bask in his brilliance and scope. They could only find fearless, flawless and daring incandescent invention. I would have loved to ask him why, in “Yet Another Example of the Porousness of Certain Borders XXIV,” he didn’t open the “kitchen window gone opaque.” It seems a better option than the mirror.
The two men were perspiring in the shade under their identical mixed maroon, green, brown and yellow sports coats.
She was slightly more comfortable in blue jeans and a light blue
“work” shirt that didn’t appear to have experienced any. I saw green leaves on the ground accompanying small pieces of gray
Page 93
bark. The three were busy with various things when I approached and pretended not to notice Daisy and me, only possible if one is deaf, dumb and blind. Maybe those were their names, but my attitude changed to one of concern that their attempt at dismissing me was due to not wanting to advertise a secret objectionable activity.
When we got close my usual problem with Daisy’s attempts to meet everyone she sees was nonexistent. Rather I had to stop her from trying to scoot through and away from the group.
I said; “Excuse me,” and one of the guys, with long neat brown hair parted at the side, looked up from his notepad and wrinkled his brow at me. I continued; “Are you aware that destruction of public property is a crime here?”
He made a small friendly laugh and said; “We’re not DESTROYING anything. Our interests are purely scientific.”
I said; “What type of science are you performing today?”
He pointed to his male associate and said; “Bruce and I have PhD’s in biology.” He pointed to the female, who was now looking in our direction and said; “And Prudence is currently working on her dissertation.”
I looked at her and said; “Best wishes,” then turned back to Bruce and continued; “I think you’ll understand my concern as one who regularly walks the area. It looks to the uninitiated
Page 94
as though you’re trying to stab my big friend to death.” I pointed at the metal devices attached to his trunk.
The balding man half kept his eyes looking at some instrument he was trying to calibrate, half looked at me over his wire glasses and said; “And you are?”
I said “Ed,” pointed at her and continued; “And this is Daisy. And you are?”
He glanced at his companions, who politely smiled at my ignorance, not aware that he was “Roger Cain, head of Biology at UNM.”
I said; “Then I can assume that you are in charge of this operation?”
Roger effacingly nodded and his eyes gestured briefly to his two friends.
I added; “Then I’ll direct my questions to you. First, why are you stabbing the tree?”
Roger laughed; “We’re not stabbing it. What you see is measuring devices.”
I said; “They are inserted into the trunk, correct?”
Roger said; “Well, yes.”
I said; “It could merely be a matter of parlance, but I’d call that a stab.”
Roger just glared at me, so I said; “Never mind the terminology. What are you trying to do?”
Page 95
Prudence answered for him saying; “We’re trying to determine why this tree is a giant.”
I said; “I’d imagine it has something to do with being right on a continual source of water,” waving my left hand at the river.
Roger condescendingly said; “Of course that’s one factor.
There are others. I’ve seen many trees right on the river, but not this size.”
I said; “Cottonwoods?”
Roger was again a bit disgruntled and said; “Yes, cottonwoods.”
I said; “Here?”
I got no response from anyone, so I followed with; “I’d really like to know where. I’d like to see it, assuming it has not yet been stabbed to death.”
Roger effectively dismissed me saying; “I can’t recall offhand. You can get a full copy of this report, when completed, from the University of New Mexico.”
I asked; “Do you have a target date for completion?”
Roger tersely said; “Six months.”
As we walked away, I saw my old friend, Nicky, stumbling down the path and I heard him call out; “What the hell are you trying to do to that tree?”
Page 96
We walk on, our job done. If anyone can get them out of here, it’s Nicky. I look back and can’t refrain from laughing out loud as I see him picking up and inspecting the instruments laying on the ground and attached to the tree as the UNM people nervously follow him around, in an effort to keep him from breaking anything. As soon as they get one away from him he finds another. He’s not trying to be destructive. He’s probably telling them about his academic background, while turning all the knobs to see what the instrument is capable of doing. I hear cries of “No!” and “Wait!”
Daisy keeps near the river and turns left at the intersec-tion, going through fifteen feet of Johnson grass and weeds and enters a beach where few people go, as most don’t know it exits.
The last time it was running high the river pushed sand to the spot and now that it’s back to a “normal” level, it left a beach.
It’s sandy and rocky with little growth, but is completely hidden from the mainland because of the turn of the Rio Grande and the indentation of the land. I usually meet Rosalita here as it’s an excellent spot for bird watching, one of her passions and today is no exception. She and her two dogs enter the enclave from the other side, passing through a small opening in densely wooded land where there are no paths. She acts as if she doesn’t see me, her binoculars to her eyes, looking at the
Page 97
island across twenty feet of water, where birds fly around undisturbed by human contamination. When Daisy sees who it is, she attempts to run over at full speed, as Rosalita is her favorite person, hopefully excluding me and one of her small dogs was her first love. I really do have the worst voice ever created, but as I make my breathless approach, I try to sing a few bars of “Rosalita,” begging her to come out tonight. She hears me and kindly laughs, looking in my direction for a second and then turns back to her binoculars.
I usually try not to disturb her by saying anything negative. I usually “entertain” her by playing games, like giving her a line or two from an old song, requiring her to supply the group and title, or naming a book and she supplies the author. Though she’d get a passing grade on the first, she is impeccable at the second game, only missing a few obscure European titles. But today I am disturbed by the morning’s preceding events, so I say; “Did you see what they’re doing to the gigantic cottonwood?”
She keeps her eyes glued to the binoculars, but derisively says; “Yeah.”
She’s never been a voluminous orator, so I have to prompt her and continue with a question that I hope cannot be answered yes or no. “What do you think they’re doing?”
Page 98
“They’re being scientists. I don’t know why people can’t just enjoy things without having to measure, clock and analyze them.”
Well, I got a few words, but as usual they got right to the point and I agree with them, so I’m again experiencing difficulty in keeping the conversation moving and I say, hoping to be humorous; “Have you been doing any talking with God recently?”
Instead she’s annoyed and says; “I’ve already told you that I’m spiritually challenged.”
It’s not a good idea to ask Rosie the same question twice, even if you phrase it differently. I get quiet and she forgets her momentary annoyance, hands me her binoculars, points toward the island and says; “Here, take a closer look at all the swallows.”
I’m happy to do as told and particularly enjoy holding one of her things to my face. Now, she can’t leave until I make a lengthy investigation of the plentiful swallows. She’s my prisoner. Unable to speak, I think, “Rosie, you’re the one.”
The morning was only modestly overcast and I was glad to see Rick and his friendly Irish Setter, Rusty, at the river when Daisy and I were leaving.
“Hi, ‘morning,” I said.
“’Morning. Great day, isn’t it?”
Page 99
“It’s an improvement, only known to the swallows.”
Rick laughed; “You know, that’s the thing I like about you.
I can say the same sentence to a hundred different people around here and I’ll get precisely the same response from every one of them and you’ll say something different.”
My face must have revealed that I was too proudly basking in my imagined glory, as Rick was compelled to add; “I didn’t say ‘right,’ I said ‘different.’”
I stuck out my tongue, then said; “At least it keeps people awake.”
Thinking that I was mildly insulted, Rick then added; “No, no. I’m not being critical. There’s something else, too. Like when you used to make the guys in the game laugh. They’d laugh because you’d say what everyone was thinking and somehow believe that they’re not supposed to say.”
I used to really get a kick out of that, because normally I can’t make anyone laugh, despite trying. When I tell a joke, people stare and when they see that no more words are coming say something like; “You can’t be serious.” But, I always had a good effect with athletes. One time I played on a basketball team with a guy who absolutely blew the championship game. The only sound you could hear in the locker room was metal doors opening and closing and the creaking of the old wooden benches.
Mr. Blewit was dressing, not making eye contact with anyone and
Page 100
others were doing likewise. I really didn’t care that we lost; bigger games were yet to come; so I said; “Really ****** that one up, didn’t ‘ya?” thinking that there was a possibility that he might decide to hit me. Instead, everyone started laughing, including Mr. Blewit, who said; “I don't know what the **** I was doing.” Air cleared, every one pals again.
“Rick, it has indeed already been a great day today and I’m looking forward to many more.”
As he got into his SUV, I said; “Hey, Rick,” and he looked my way and cocked his head to the side as if to say; “You’re not going to say it again, are you?”
I said; “You should have played baseball.”
He knew what I meant, smiled and drove away.
We got to the backyard and Daisy saw it jump; a luscious grasshopper was complacent and chose to proudly demonstrate its talents for its new audience and as a result was soon under a front paw, being nibbled on. It got away for a second, but now missing a few legs was unable to put much distance between itself and my perennially hungry canine companion. Daisy again trapped it, sticking her nose into its body, but it was unable to spring again, ending the prelude to a snack game. Daisy looked at me, questioningly and I said; “You may as well put it out of its misery now.” I’m not certain that she understood, as
Page 101
her next ploy was to push it with her nose a few times, before chomping the crackling, juice spraying morsel in one of her favorite positions; head to the ground on bent front paws, back legs erect and spread, her tail doing its best imitation of a helicopter.
Six months later on 2/15/2008, I take a drive to the University of New Mexico campus in Albuquerque. As I drive out of winter “rural” Corrales, it’s a good day to be in the car, as it’s the warmest place I’ve been all day. The flat dead land does not impress, especially under the PM gray clouds, doing their usual best to provide drear without the benefit of precipitation. The radio endeavors to convert the gloom to a dream; a bad one. As I listen to the “oldies” station, I’m reminded of how late in the game it is, when everything sounds like I first heard it yesterday. “San Francisco”, “Incense and Peppermints”,
“I Feel Free”, “Somebody to Love” and “Brown Eyed Girl” are such revelations, that I feel I have to tell somebody something. I can’t listen to it any more, preferring to suffer the gloom unenhanced and in silence. The garish commercial establishments prove to be the highlight, showing weak signs of life, totally absent from the private dwellings. Leaving town I spend a small time on a typical highway temporarily forgetting whether I’m in New Mexico or New Jersey and turn onto South Rio Grande Blvd.,
Page 102
home to some of the area’s most prominent citizens. The single lane two-way road has a twenty-five mile per hour speed limit, warning electric signs, stop signs and speed bumps, in an effort to protect the section’s bicycle riders from speed demons. None want to sample today’s thirty-three degree temperature and I wonder what substitute they have found for their warm weather activities and get no clues. Maybe they’re looking out the windows of their large houses, set well back from the road, watching the cars go by.
Retail stores poke their heads out of the ground, as I approach my Central Avenue destination. When I make my left I'm in “Olde Towne”, appropriately named and perhaps the oldest part of Albuquerque and home to brown, Southwestern, adobe houses huddled together, in their decrepitude, apparently still suitable for commerce. I only see a few “shoppers” moving quickly in their hoods and heavy balloon coats, either late for an appointment or frozen. The thought occurs to me that maybe the “real” shoppers are inside the stores, doing precisely what they came here for, simultaneously noting that the parking lots are not overwhelmed.
When I arrive at the University of New Mexico, I look for a place to park, traversing the irregularly hilly land, now only decorated by well-spaced ornamental trees, currently devoid of any ornamentation. I park in the densely packed student lot and
Page 103
walk to the 15,000 sq. ft., two story, brick Georgian building nearest me. I don’t know the right place to go, so my non-plan is to ask the first person I see and make the appropriate adjustments afterwards, with the second person I see. I am greeted by a series of closed brown doors. As I slowly walk the corridor I look into the windows of each and see animated teachers unable to remain still behind their podiums and classes of thirty seated students staring at the ceiling, tapping their feet, staring at the nearest crotch and sucking their pens.
It’s strange. I’d like to join them now, but at the same time I recall how I once couldn’t wait to leave the confines of academia and experience the “real” world, perhaps a testimony to my malcontented nature. At the end of the hall a sign saying
“Office” protruded from the white wallboard above the open brown door. There are three forty-ish women sitting behind glass partitions. I wondered if they were bulletproof. Two were assisting young men, who were stooped over to lean their arms on the six inch counter and talk through the oblong hole.
“May I help you?” I heard the unoccupied woman say. I slowly walked to her hole, as she looked at me as if I should be moving faster. When I belatedly got here, I didn’t remember what I wanted, having gotten a bit lost in the memories of university life, dead for forty years. I realized what I had to do, collected my thoughts, put my face in the hole of the black
Page 104
haired woman who sat on a wheeled chair, her skirt above mid-thigh and tried to see her face. She again must have thought me too slow and repeated her opening line, this time sounding caring rather than efficient. I brightly said “Hi” and paused.
My name is Edward Drobinski and I’m trying to get a report.”
“What kind of report?”
I didn’t know what to say as I didn’t know what type of report it was. I said; “Maybe I should have used the word
‘study’.”
She grimaced as she scrutinized my face and affected a bored posture, saying; “A study report?”
The situation was deteriorating quickly, so in an attempt to salvage something I started to babble out the whole story.
“Six months ago three professors....... Three people, at least two of which were professors....... Three people, at least one surely a professor....... Three people, one a department head and probably a professor.......”
She cut me off just when I think I got it right saying; “I really don’t need to hear all that. Just tell me what you want?” She crossed her legs, putting a damper on one possible answer, so I blurted out; “Last summer three people from UNM did a study at the ‘Corrales Bosque’ and they told me I could get a copy now.”
Page 105
She uncrossed her legs, gave me a stern look and said; “I’m proud of you, boy. Now we can get somewhere. If they were at the ‘Corrales Bosque’ they were probably with the Biology department. What were their names?”
“I don’t remember. Wait a minute. Let me think. Two only said their first names which I can’t recall. I think the other one gave his full name.......”
“Roger Cain?”
I got excited; “That sounds good.”
She got up from her chair; “Head of biology. Let’s see what we have in Biology’s drawers from last summer.”
She rolled out a sliding eggshell colored one and said; “I think I’ve got it.”
She slowly walked back to me, skimming through the papers in her hands. She said; “Study of Corrales Bosque Cottonwoods Conducted August, 2007.”
I was elated and raised my voice saying; “That’s it! Oh, thank you so much.”
She looked at me cruelly and said; “It’s twenty-five cents a page, one hundred twenty pages. That’ll be thirty bucks.”
“I hope you take credit cards.” She gave me her first smile of our brief encounter.
When I got the report home, I found a lot of it absolutely useless to me. Detailed descriptions of the perpetrators’
Page 106
credentials with footnotes, instruments used, specifying the brand, date, model and year, purpose of the report and its relationship to other reports on similar subjects produced at UNM and elsewhere with footnotes and locations and credentials of the laboratories used took 116 of the 120 pages. I wished that the black haired lady in the short dress had told me that.
She could have saved me $29. But maybe that wasn’t her primary interest, as alluded to, by her distracting uniform. Still, I was elated to have the report, even at thirty times the appropriate price.
I perused the four relevant pages and below, submit certain extractions.
Page 107
Empirical Evidence - 3
Category
1A
2B
3C
4D
5E
Approximate Age
45
70
85
65
38
Height
150’
112’
105’
122’
110’
Spread
100’
73’
68’
80’
77’
Mass
1,067 575
540
615
560
Water Supply
510
500
490
505
495
Nutrients
Ample Ample Ample Good
Best
Sap Production
58
47
40
48
41
Human Traffic
High
Low
Low
Low
Low
Distance from Nearest 50’ 210’
22’
350’
50’
8’
Tree
Precipitation per annum 8
6’
22’
17’
12’
Irrigation System
No
No
No
No
No
Avg. Sun Intensity
98
100
86
92
97
Bird Nests
6
1
4
3
0
Avg. Summer Temp
85º
90º
74º
79º
88º
Avg. Winter Temp
40º
55º
44º
49º
52º
Bark Coverage, %
100
97
95
96
99
Insects
14
8
6
7
4
Destructive Insects
7
1
4
2
3
Key to Trees:
1A - Corrales, New Mexico
2B - Phoenix, Arizona
3C - Chino, California
4D - Edgewater, Utah
5E - Springs, Nevada
Notes:
1)
Trees within five feet of a river, lake, reservoir, stream, bay, inlet or any other body of water providing a constant supply is stated at the maximum absorption capability of the root system rather than the volume available.
2)
As reported by the National Weather Service in the nearest town covered by them.
Page 108
3)
Though winter temperatures are stated using the traditional winter dates, it could be argued that winter in Corrales, New Mexico (#1A) in actuality runs from November 1 to April 30. If those dates are used, Tree #1A’s average would drop 3 degrees.
4)
Does not correspond to insects harmful to trees in general, which may be gleaned in “Your Southwestern Garden”, third edition, by Ambrose Huxley, 2006, Bantam Press, but only to insects harmful to cottonwoods, as defined in “Desert Trees”, fourth edition, by Samuel Fowlkes, 2005, Gotham Publications.
%)
Percentage, as calculated using the square feet of bark existent as the numerator and the square feet of the tree in its entirety as the denominator.
Page 109