I'm looking through an old double sash window onto Church St. Some of the glass is so old it's wobbly. There are two old pin oak trees, a little snow, a not so busy street, and two former funeral parlors that are now large, private homes.
One is Caroline Ritchie's, where she lives with her son, Arthur. I think he's adrift, a little lost. Her husband, Arthur's father, Frank, was a nice guy that got a trapped by greed or ambition and ended up in jail for fraud. He was supplying overly rosy, but false financial information to the stock holders of the company he ran while it was not doing well. He managed to escape with a chunk of change before it all went bust, but it eventually caught up with him. It started with a little funny book keeping to bridge a rough patch, but they never got back ahead of the shortfalls and he was caught. He died in prison. The few times I've talked with Caroline about it she was clearly bitter. Now I avoid the subject. Arthur showed up back at home after college and then a couple of years of law school and I have no idea what he does in there. Occasionally I see him shoveling the front walk or mowing the lawn. He's got to be close to 30 now. I could just march over when I see him at work in the yard and get some answers, or I could just sit here and make something up.
The other funeral home is owned by people from away - Texans. They still live in Texas during the winter, but come here for the summer. Steve was a lawyer, who got into real estate development, and now can afford a renovated funeral home for a summer cottage and several vintage automobiles. Luckily the the home had a six hearse garage for his antique cars. A different kind of story. Perhaps together? Dueling funeral parlors? First I hear the guitar and now the banjo.
But between me and the houses across the street with the mysterious lives inside, I see the people walking up and down. Daytime, nighttime. Some with a dog or two, some without. All of them, or most, are complete mysteries and are ripe for any invention I can supply. What is the fellow with the round goggly glasses and the hoodie parka about? The one with the big black almost poodle? I know that the guy with the terrier owns race horses that run in Florida and NY. The lady with the two miniature poodles, ones without fancy hair cuts, used to be married to an accordion player who collects folk music and now farms oysters. Phoebe and Mollie, the two Jack Russel terriers, that march by without leashes are owned by Bob, who lives around the corner right next door to Heidi, his mother, who has a German accent. Phoebe and Molly are very obedient, but still seem dignified. Susie and I, we love those dogs. They ran away once and ended up at our house. Perfect little guests. One of them is blind now.
There used to be school kids going by daily to the grammar school down the block and across the street. After consolidation, the city sold the brick schoolhouse building and now it's a grow house. Imagine that? Right where Johnny, our son, and his buddies, the M&Ms, went to school, K – 3rd grade. There is a maple tree in my front yard that still has a knotted rope hanging from a branch that the kids would stop and swing from on their way home from school. All those kids have grown up by now, like Johnny and Arthur. Consolidation must have happened twenty years ago. Before it became a pot farm, it was briefly a private music school, but that wasn't a money maker. I wonder how the business is going to stand up to the legalization of recreational marijuana? Now, as of less than a week ago, we can all grow our own dope in the back yard. Everyone I know is planning to grow a plant or two just because they can, whether they smoke pot or not. Well, maybe not everyone.
A jogger just went by. Lots of joggers go by. I was briefly a jogger. It was about 28 years ago in the winter. I was working on the Isleboro ferry. The roads on the island were not heavily used, so there wasn't much risk of getting hit by a car or even watched by someone sitting quietly inside their house and writing about the people passing by. If I ran like some runners do, I'd be proud to be seen, I'd be out there, but I don't. Until about the 4th grade I could run okay. I was faster than any kid in my class. First, Pete Buzzell caught up to me. Eventually just about everyone could run faster than I could. I've never seen myself run and I probably wouldn't enjoy watching. I suspect that I'm an ugly runner. So, I was only a jogger for one winter on a dark quiet island. I could make it about a mile, with a little sprint at the end. I couldn't run a mile now to save my life. I can walk that far and farther.
Max just went by with his new yellow mutt. It's got huge ears. Really it's a cartoon dog, one of the best dogs that walk by. Max used to walk by every day alone. Out and back on a regular exercise routine and then about six months ago, one day there was a dog with him. Obviously a rescue because he wasn't a puppy. Young, but he wouldn't ever grow into those huge stand up ears. Bill moved here from around DC, where he taught art, maybe at the Corcoran Gallery School. He is a friend of Felix and Sal who own the oak trees and the house next door. They sailed into town one day while cruising on Penobscot Bay and liked it better here than in the suburbs of DC. They bought the house next door when Dick and Cynthia, decided to sell and move out of town to their farm. Dick was a lawyer and married us right in this room. Cynthia got Alzheimers and they're both gone now. Felix and Sal play music. Fiddle, banjo, guitar, piano. Maybe it was them playing when I was hearing the dueling banjo music while I was thinking about the two funeral homes. Felix sometimes sits on the side porch and plays. You can hear Sal on the piano when the windows are open summer nights.
A girl in a huge red parka, tights, and a knit hat just marched by, no dog. It looked like exercise. No other purpose. A jogger in a day-glow yellow top next. More exercise.
I have trouble walking somewhere without a good reason and exercise isn't a good enough reason. I think it should be, but it just isn't. I'll walk a long way to fish, but if I'm going to the store to buy fish, I drive. Another jogger just went by with a large coffee in one hand.
Somehow people passing who are exercising don't seem to have any mystery to them. They don't invite you to wonder about their back story.
Two kids just went by, one holding a skate board under his arm. The ratio of kids to adults is about 1 to 10 this morning which is typical, now that the school is a dope farm.
One of the rules about growing dope in your back yard is that it can't be seen. A screen with red runner beans growing on it works fine. I guess it would be too tempting for the few kids that do pass by. If everybody's got dope in their back yard some of those kids, if they're so inclined, are going to be doing a little late night harvesting. Just saying.
Oh, there go Molly and Phoebe followed by Bob. It takes them about nine steps to cover the same ground as Bob travels in one so they sort of skitter along ahead of him, like bait fish being chased by a predator. They aren't the kind of dog that needs to be pulled from smell to smell. They're on their way, like little runners.
Cars flash by quickly enough that they barely break into my consciousness. There goes a jogger with a funky gait. Squirrels can get my attention if they're chasing other squirrels. Mad frolic of the chase. I know most of the cats. I'll notice a strange cat. Bob just went back the other way. He's in the lead now with Molly about ten yards behind and Phoebe's still out of sight. I don't know which one is blind. Oh, here she comes, trying to catch up. Or is that Molly catching up to Phoebe? I can't tell them apart. Bob says he can.
Lucille is a regular long time, long distance walker and just went by. She always has on a long dress, a hand bag over her shoulder, and wears dark glasses. She wears a warm knit hat and fur trimmed boots in the winter. She's one of the crazy walkers. There are a quite a few who walk off their craziness. When they're not walking they draw just as compulsively. Invention isn't a problem. They fill up sketch book after sketch book, walk mile after mile. I haven't seen Elvis, another crazy walker's sketchbooks, but Emily says they're really good. I saw some of Lucille's cartooning years ago and it was accomplished. The graphic stories were lurid, fantastic, and drawn well.
Can you go crazy staring out the window?
When a dog wanders by without a leash and without a human companion, a solo dog, they're immediately a more interesting. A dog on his own is a dog of mystery, one that you can build a story around. They only leave off smelling a tree when they're good and ready. And if they stop to take a dump, no one is going to hurry and clean up behind them. They leave a trail, a story for the next dog to read and envy. I think dogs on a leash can smell the freedom.
Right Outside My Window, looking for a story.