The Dry Spell by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 1
The select few who have read excerpts from my previous six books have made varying comments about them; but the one common refrain from all has been; “Did you ever consider taking a course in writing?” My initial response was a simple “No”, convinced that the question was merely displaying a lack of understanding of the exquisitely unique mixes of ideas contained in the works, but as time passed I did, indeed, endeavor to consider, resulting in the thought that just maybe, I had overlooked something fundamental and integral to the literary art or non-art.
So, I signed up for an elective given right here in Corrales, New Mexico taught by Leopold Pubnonski, Ph.D. and the project that follows is the result of my 24 hours and five hundred bucks. Leo was effervescent enough, no doubt finding inspiration in counting the filthy lucre accumulated from the sixteen would-be writers in attendance. I heard and re-heard variations of “Write what you know,” interspersed with “amusing”
tangents to areas of Leo’s vast personal experience and regular reference to some guy who wrote a cook book and made a fortune.
My culinary skills limited to heating up TV dinners, made me focus on what I know. I suppose what we all know best is the truth of our own lives, but if I stuck with that my only
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potential market would be in competition with the firmly established presence of Nyquil.
Anyway, I enjoyed sitting on the white metal folding chairs in the un-air conditioned gymnasium, with thirty foot ceilings and no windows to shed any light on the matter. The four netted basketball rims provided pleasant daydreams in the lulls, so, Nyquil, prepare your best defense, as I’m coming right at you.
Black and white cold stillness.
Credentials and Subject:
The writer is a 61 year old man, a white of Polish descent, who was born and grew up in a crowded working class section of a small city seven miles from Manhattan. That bordering a poor black section, he often utilizes phrases not adequately defined; e.g., “What it is.” Academically he has obtained a B.S. in accounting and an M.B.A. in finance, the basic tenets of each suggesting that any intended participation in the literary world would likely be more lucrative if he had chosen criticism, editing, or typing. Anyone successfully completing the first grade can write and a certain naïve simplicity may be essential, as recent best sellers have included the daily travails of a woman wandering the Everglades and her fascination with alligators; the story of six young women disgusted with life in the everyday world escaping to another place inhabited by nonhuman forms, being supplied with Gatling guns and shooting
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them, while popping out of bikinis; and, Leo was right; a number of cook books. Any unintentional biases detected may be attributed to the reader’s imported point of view. The point is debatable, but the writer will leave it to another expositor interested in the subject matter. His concerns are merely: 1) the definition of “Bosque” and 2) the regional meaning commonly held in the Village of Corrales, New Mexico.
Hypothesis:
The purpose of this thesis is to point out inadequacies in the “Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary Eleventh Edition’s”
definition of “Bosque” as a “small wooded area” and postulate a new one, taking into account “what it is” and regional considerations. Consider the first word -- “small”. We are not enlightened by Merriam’s posted meaning of “having comparatively little size or slight dimension.” So we have small, little and slight nuanced by “comparatively.” The writer would contend that the complete disregard for precision is more than a tad troubling. A small national forest dwarfs a large park.
Meaningless words? Comparatively? Compared to what? Itself?
Other national parks? Perhaps. But, even in this case regional considerations are ignored. A small national park in the west humbles a large one in the east. The obvious conclusion is to dismiss “small” as having inadequate descriptive value, as
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currently defined. The writer should note that he is making reference only to the first of seven meanings, the one which seems the most relevant to “Bosque”.
Merriam-Webster says “wooded” is “covered with growing trees.” Complete nonsense. No piece of land is fully covered with anything, unless the ground crew rolls out the tarp.
Further, if an area contains mature trees that have already reached their maximum height, or is a host to dead trees, must it be disqualified? Apparently Merriam believes so, however this is patently absurd. The conclusion is that “wooded” is too discriminating to be of any use. I will stand corrected if anyone can document a “wooded” area, in which all trees are
“growing.”
“Area” has six meanings supplied by Merriam, the first relevant to the subject of this thesis being “a level piece of ground.” Though the writer was tempted to dismiss this definition out of hand, as it systematically omits hills, slopes and mountains, he pursued further. Merriam has nine possibilities, the most relevant here, 4b, says “a practically horizontal surface or area (as of land).” This is dismissed as being simply wrong. The Bosque I know and love has contour as the norm and Merriam should not use the word to be defined in the definition.
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So, to marginally paraphrase, Merriam believes that the Bosque is a non-existent, flat piece of land of indeterminate size. The Bosque is about nothing on this planet, but may apply to nirvana, small “n”, not bearing any relationship to Kurt Cobain.
Therefore this paper will endeavor to find a new, correct definition of the word, with special regard given to regional considerations, as they exist in the Village of Corrales, New Mexico.
Anecdotal Evidence - 1
July 31, 2011. Tan, sandy dirt, sparse green plants up to four feet, dark brown water, a light blue cloudless sky, a gentle, warm, southern breeze, a yellow-white angry sun, oppressive heat in waves, bringing the scent of death.
I park my car and walk Daisy down Romero Road to the Corrales Bosque. My eight year old willful Dalmatian probable cross is now eighty pounds, has leg problems, but still has her puppy energy level for short spells, completely disregarding the wishes of that which is on the opposite end of the chain leash.
The trainer gave up and I guess I didn’t care to try another, as Daisy is appropriately named. She’s a flower child. I first met her when she was six months old and 29 pounds. At the time everyone, including vets, thought she was pure Dalmatian, but it
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was obvious that she had the temperament of an easygoing Lab, but the energy level of a crazy Dally. As she filled out her body became more Lab-like, but retained the beautiful Dally black and white markings. She unknowingly had the benefit of being unencumbered by the restraints of being only one thing.
She got the best of both worlds and never knew of her parent’s failings.
We are greeted by seven warning signs; one informs us that the fire danger is “extreme”, the second says “Road Closed”, the third thinks that the Bosque, itself, is “closed”, the fourth, fifth and sixth say some derivation of “No Parking” and the seventh exhibits a long message in English and Spanish and faces the wrong way, so I haven’t had the pleasure. There has been no form of precipitation since October 2010.
She leads me around the locked green metal gate indented fifty feet from the road, with customary ease and I have to hold her back as I attempt to traverse the log maze at the left side of the gate post. She’ll have none of that. There is only one thing on her mind; get in the water quickly. She pulls me a few hundred feet, despite my protestations of “Slow, slow” until she gets to her favorite spot for entry to the ditch, currently at high tide. The slightly graduated slope affords easy entry to the dark brown water. The exit attempt fails, as she is unable to come straight up, falling back in a few times. Then she
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recalls something she has known for years, but seems to have to re-invent each time needed. She rejects trying the “shortest distance between two points is a straight line” approach and zigzags her way up the ten feet, paws muddy and looking at me as if to say, “I didn’t think I was going to make it.” As she shakes off some of the brown water which has temporarily dyed her white fur, I pat her head and tell her for the millionth time; “You can do anything you want. You just don’t know it.”
My soaked sweetheart and I continue a few hundred more feet of Romero Road, private property with a broken chain link fence to our left guarding the fifteen foot elm trees. Across the ditch to our right are a number of small unique houses, probably built and rented by the owner who lives on the same property in his preferred trailer. His fencing has been well maintained and restrains two medium sized barking dogs Daisy can live without.
We come to another locked green metal gate with three signs; one incorrectly tells us how to behave around coyotes, one says “No Parking”, not specifying whose butt that refers to, as cars are stopped by the prior gate; and the third says that the Bosque is closed. There are also pink ribbons tied in key spots to further hinder entrance. I formerly associated this gate with the official start of the Bosque, but now I’m not sure, as the ribbon people have also decorated Romero’s metal bridge, now 50
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feet behind us, which at a 90º angle leads only to another ditch path.
I have nothing to fear from the authorities. I have obtained a badge identifying me, F-116, an official of the
“Corrales Bosque Preserve BOSQUE Watch” club. For those unable to see this credential, I have also been provided with a unique orange fishnet jacket. Daisy is stark naked and seemingly comfortable displaying her curvy body to the world. I have refused to inform her that there is a dress code.
We duck under the ribbons to the left of the gate un-molested, climb the levee and stand on the path a moment surveying the area. We don’t see any smoke or fire today, so we proceed down the other side of the levee and are now surrounded by cottonwoods, 40-100 feet tall and wide, allowing us to escape the angry sun. People universally say that they love the crazy branching monsters, but no one has a specimen on their own property and local law prohibits their planting. They need lots of water and have one nasty habit. Three times a year they disburse their cottony seeds, gumming up any nearby machinery, in apparent revenge. “For what?” you correctly ask. I haven’t the slightest idea. Maybe it’s for the graffiti painted on their trunks, a youthful artistic statement; or maybe it’s a more practical matter; an objection to the local custom of stringing swings from their lowest branches until brittle arms
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give way; or, perhaps they’re angry that something they loved was not able to love them back in the manner desired.
We continue down the path to the water, where Daisy always requires another dousing, this time in the Rio Grande. It got that name a long time ago. She looks back to see if I’m going to follow her in, which the case was the last few years. I’m concerned because I have only a Bosque pass, not one for the river. My thinking is that if Daisy gets arrested I’ll be there to bail her out, but if I do, she doesn’t have any money. Over the last few years I’ve been getting the inkling that I’m not the most popular person in Corrales. I really don't know why, but I have a weak guess; I talk to the people I find interesting and ignore the others. You correctly say; “We all do that.”
Not in Corrales, where a statute somewhere requires one to treat all the same. I’ve wondered if that was due to a local penchant for communism, a preponderance of poor eyesight, or attempted coerced egalitarianism. No matter; I have not yet been arrested. I came close once, but that is another story, not quite as interesting as this one.
She registers disappointment and gives me a second refused chance before exiting and shaking off her excess on me. She decides to go south and leads me down the path bordering what remains of the river, stopping here and there to try to figure out what particularly smelly animal was recently there. Soon
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we’re in an open area, with no sizable trees a few hundred feet in each direction.
We see the few remains of our old friend, King Cottonwood, lying on the sand next to the river. I miss his absurd, amusing and insightful commentaries. He used to be 150 feet tall and 100 feet wide, no doubt getting plenty of water in his chosen place. When he fell the bulk of his body went in the water, leaving only a few recalcitrant branches on the ground. In life he had the grandest unobstructed view of the valley in all directions, no doubt blocking many others, but also opening new ground for those who heard his creaks and moans in the wind.
I’d like to have known him when he was about 120 feet and just started to realize that his view would exceed all the rest.
Daisy pulls me along as she has picked up the death aroma that fascinates her. There’s little dead that she wouldn’t like to eat, including the things the coyotes won’t touch. She drags me through some tall reeds that make footing difficult and slap my face. We find a sandy area with some small rocks that didn’t exist three years ago, where I used to meet Nora. Today we find twenty-two dead fish, all recent corpses and Daisy has to sample every one. Fortunately, fish is probably the only thing Daisy doesn’t crave. As usual she nibbles on them, sometimes ingesting a head, but no more. I was to later be told that the fish demise was the result of a huge fire 50 miles north.
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Either the soot or fire retardant clogged their gills. But why did they choose this burial ground? I dismissed the red tide seen a few years back with Nora, as a chance event, but now the probability has increased.
As Daisy slowly checked and rechecked every carcass, the mountain across the river became my visual interest and I remembered a recent dream.
I was alone, walking down a city street. As I approached an old four story brick apartment building, she exited the front door. I think she saw me coming and tried to quickly walk away.
I never expected to see her long graying hair and that bouncing gait again. In a normal tone of voice I said; “Nora.” For a fraction of a second I think she intended to keep going, but for some reason chose to stop, turn around and look at me, saying;
“Why are you following me around?”
I said; “I’m not. I didn’t even know that you lived here.”
I walked over to her and instinctively tried to put my arms around her. I expected to be pushed away, but was allowed a short cuddle.
Breaking away, she surprised me again, saying; “Let’s go get a drink.”
I said; “I don’t have any money.”
She said; “I’ll pay.”
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She led me to the saloon two doors away. Its darkness and large crowd contrasted the sunny, empty sidewalk. We walked to the packed bar and stood there. I wasn’t sure what she ordered and not being much of a drinker, I said; “I’ll have the same.”
It looked like a heavy beer. I sipped mine, as everyone there said “Hi” to her. I didn’t know any of them and she didn’t introduce me.
After the salutations, she wolfed down the glass without ever taking it away from her lips and then walked to the door.
I took a sip or two, but had to leave the bulk of it on the bar to keep up with her.
When we got back outside she wordlessly stopped and I again briefly held her. She moved away and briskly walked down the street, as if she were late for an appointment. I stood still and watched. Patti Smith sang “Wing.”
“Oh, Daisy. No, no, no, no, no.” She was back in the river, to get a drink and a soaking and seemed insistent that I follow her to a spot where the water was deeper. I was a stubborn landlubber and she strolled in the cool wetness. She’s probably wondering why I’m not following her to a spot where we used to go.
I guess she thinks that I’d rather go somewhere else, because she prances to the opening in the bordering woods, climbs it and stops in the shade, looking at me. I don’t have a
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preference. If we go left we’ll have a long walk and if we go right it will be a short one. She goes right on an inland path and we head back toward the gate. When the path cuts toward the levee, I see Margie with her little dog, Murphy Brown, walking back on the highest ground. We’ve chatted before, about the usual stuff like the sanctity of marriage and the effects of different hallucinogenics.
I knew that she was in here somewhere as when we parked I saw her car. I don’t know one car from another and could care less about the subject. However, I know hers because of its parking regimen. It’s the only one that always has the left front and left rear wheels on the firm flat ground and the other two right ones elevated on a two foot berm at the side of the road. It manages to be both high and low at the same time.
When I again gaze at it from the front the left-right situation reverses. I recall that at other times she parks on the other side of the road, causing the right wheels to be grounded and the left ones to be in the air from a rear view and the opposite from the front. I wonder what would be the result of a side view. Which side? What angle? Oh, I’d better forget trying to describe. I’m confused and starting to feel dizzy. The possibilities are probably infinite. I wonder if her unique positioning gets anyone else’s attention and admiration. I suspect so.
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When we’re within earshot, I call out; “Margie, did you see all the dead fish?”
“No, where?”
I point back south and say; “You know that spot near what used to be an island that is quickly becoming a peninsula?”
“Oh, yeah, I didn’t go that way today.”
Daisy and I climb the levee at a steep spot. I probably couldn’t make it myself, but Daisy pulls me up, wanting to say
“Hi” to her tiny canine friend. Murphy tolerates Daisy’s nose and goes into somewhat of a trance, standing still, apparently oblivious to the rude imposition of the world. Now fourteen years old and under Margie’s gentle care for ten years, he still remembers the abuse of the first four, both from the hands of people and from other dogs. As we walk Murphy secretly eyes Daisy and chooses to keep Margie between his tiny, long haired body and her.
I told her what I knew about the fire and consequent soot and retardant, specifying that I wasn’t referring to anyone local. She kind of shrugged. “How terrible,” but really could care less. I’m surprised, as the vast majority of the time Margie seems to care about everyone’s problems and tries to help.
I say; “Albuquerque is now drinking that crap.”
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Same response. I guess it’s one of those days when at 9AM, three people have already laid all their “crap” on her. And here I come with mine.
I guess, today, I don’t really care, either. I was always under the impression that it looked compassionate and made you be seen as a nice person, when you register concern. I feel comfortable with Margie as we can skip this façade, when we’re in a “Hate thy neighbor” state of mind. I don’t trust the people who never act that way, because I know that they’re merely competent actors, not the real thing. She likes Daisy and stoops slightly to pet her. In a somewhat childish voice, she says; “Have you been in the water?” presumably speaking to Daisy.
I answer for her; “Whenever it’s over forty degrees.”
“She always goes in over there,” she says, pointing back toward Romero Road.
“That’s the first stop. She’s been in the river, too.”
Margie again sounds a bit child-like, looks at Daisy and says; “She goes in the river?”
I don't know if this is cutesy conversation directed at Daisy, or if she thinks it a dangerous stunt, softly chastising me for allowing it. I give Daisy a few seconds to come up with some response. I think; “Come on girl. Come to my defense.”
She fails to. I don’t want to appear overly defensive, so I
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make no reply. Instead, I get on my knees to try to say hello to her dog. He again rebuffs me. Margie has told me that now she is the only person he trusts.
I get back up and ask; “Have you been doing any writing lately?”
Her body movements indicate yes and no. She says; “I’m still keeping my journal.”
“Could you expand it and make them into essays?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. I usually just write what happens, but if I added color and scenery.....”
“What would be the story line?”
“Nothing, tell a story without telling a story. Be humorous when writing about seriousness and be serious with humor. Neither here nor there.”
I’m impressed as it seems to me that you can’t do better than that. She has read a lot of David Foster Wallace, Jonathan Franzen and D.H. Lawrence. Her dog is now about fifty feet ahead of us and moving quickly, so we have to do likewise. As we walk I say a few innocuous things about my trifling annoyances since I saw her last and she laughs at each.
She says; “Oh, yeah, have you seen the dead raccoon over there?” pointing back south on the levee path, probably remembering that I told her Daisy eats everything she can get to, often resulting in worms or diarrhea.
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“No, where is it?”
She says nothing, but again points.
As she walks away, I want the conversation to continue, so I say; “Can you tell if there’s some kind of higher message behind all this stuff?”
“No,” she says without breaking stride. She’s a lawyer.
Black, white and varying shades of gray. A cool, mild, northern wind.
Empirical Evidence – 1
For the purposes of this paper, I have broken down the five mile long Corrales Bosque into eight roughly equal sectors.
Number 1 starts at the northern portion bordered by Rio Rancho and number 8 is south, meeting Albuquerque. Vegetation is that which dominates the area, not all. Contour is subjective.
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Sector
(1)
(2)
(3)
(4)
(5)
(6)
(7)
(8)
Mean height of trees
40’
33’
27’
50’
42’
55’
70’
45’
Median height of trees
42’
34’
25’
53’
39’
58’
72’
44’
Largest tree
85’
90’
97’
100’
102’
90’
96’
100’
Mean distance between
20’
15’
35’
41’
50’
21’
15’
14’
trees
Median distance between
20’
15’
35’
41’
50’
21’
15’
14’
trees
Longest distance between
52’
23’
78’
210’
210’
64’
32’
28’
trees
Percentage of dead trees
10%
12%
28%
22%
20%
23%
27%
21%
Other vegetation
2, 6,
2, 15,
1, 3,
1, 3, 7, 9, 10,
4, 5, 6,
7, 8,
3, 5,
10, 12,
16, 17, 11, 14,
9, 10,
16, 17,
13, 14,
10, 15,
11, 12,
16, 17,
18
16, 18,
15, 16,
19, 20
15, 16,
16, 20
16, 17,
20
19
19
17, 18,
19, 20
20
Contour of land
2
4
3
1
2
1
2
1
Human Traffic
High /
Low
Moderate
High
Moderate
Low
High /
High
Moderate
Moderate
Key to “Other Vegetation”
Groundcovers:
Shrubs:
Trees:
Key to “Contour of Land”:
1 Blue grama grass
10 Apache plume
16 Cottonwood
1 Irregular
2 Buffalo grass
11 Chamisa
17 Russian
2 Sloping with gullys
olive
3 Sand and small rocks
12 Creosote bush
18 Mesquite
3 Sloping and irregular
4 Cherry sage
13 Golden currant
19 Locust
4 Steeply sloping
5 Mexican hat
14 Mariola
20 Salt cedar
6 Indian ricegrass
15 Reeds
7 Paperflower
8 Purple aster
9 Western virgins-
bower
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The preceding chart indicates the variability contained in the five mile strip of land called the “Corrales Bosque.” Tree heights and placements vary widely and evince no relationship to the types present, the contour of the land, other vegetation, or the amount of destructive human traffic.
Two items of consistency are; 1) the similarity in size of the tallest trees, which in each case is a cottonwood and 2) the frequency of dead trees in each sector. Coupled with the distances between the trees, this testifies negatively to any notion of “growing” or covered.”
The subjectively defined contour indicates another random variability, but more importantly, even if one takes exception with the classification assigned, one cannot actually survey the Bosque and call it “flat.” The writer contends that more than enough information to dismiss the Merriam definition of Bosque as a “small wooded area” has been provided and the remainder of this paper will be devoted to attempting to suggest a correct, meaningful one.
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