Good and bad things

Another blessing for the quarantined:

“90 Classic Looney Tunes Cartoons You Can Watch Right Now.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Alas, the economy is wrecked. Tuition-dependent higher education is wrecked, or will be. Job prospects in my field are wrecked.

I’m sad that, on Monday, Karin will return to her job. It’s been wonderful to have her at home. But I’m grateful that she’s employed for the foreseeable future.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

I’m glad I didn’t land any of those nine-month “visiting instructor” jobs I applied for last year. Not only would I’ve had to endure a disruptive spring term, but Karin and Samuel and I would’ve been forced to self-quarantine in a strange college town, in some dinky, overpriced apartment. I’m glad we live rent-free in an unmortgaged house owned by my parents. We pay property taxes and utility costs, but they’re quite bearable.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

We do have some onerous maintenance to do (in addition to what was predictable). Our front yard seems to be at the end of a wind tunnel. It captures a lot of trash, which we spent much of this warm day picking up.

We left Samuel bundled up on the porch so he could watch us. The wind still got to him, though, and he was displeased.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

On Thursday, I enjoyed a video conference with Josh, a dear school friend with whom I hadn’t talked in many years.

Last night, Martin’s parents contributed some home-cooked meals.

Today, our friend Sarah stopped by to give us some children’s books, as well as protective masks that her husband, Brandon, had bought for us at the Farmer’s Market.

Harvest moon

Thanks, Martin & Mary, for paying for the clothes dresser I said I needed.

Thanks, Martin’s parents, for finding and bringing it.

There’s been good weather this Friday the 13th, and a good moon.

Anniversary, pt. 4: House on the Rock, Wisconsin

How long will these anniversary postings continue, you ask? I promise this will be the last one of the year.

Many thanks to my grandparents for the card they sent us, and for the cash, which this month was sorely needed.

Speaking of anniversaries: Martin’s parents recently had their fortieth. At their banquet, they inquired about me (Martin said). They told Martin they wished to take me out to dine again some day. (When I lived with Martin & Mary, I used to tag along whenever Martin’s parents would dine with M&M.)

It warms my heart to know how gratifying it is for people to take me out to dine.

I should say something about the House on the Rock, our last stop in Wisconsin. Touring it is like walking for three hours through the strangest passages of Hayao Miyazaki’s Spirited Away.

It has Japanese gardens.

It has musical instruments that play themselves.

It has gigantic machines: steamship engines, train engines, music machines, Rube Goldberg machines, machines that do who really knows what.

It has thousands of carrousel beasts: hybrids of all forms, originating in mythology and in nightmare.

It has a room in which a gigantic whale – part sperm whale, part killer whale, part various other whales – battles a gigantic squid.

It has at least two gift shops. The postcards sold in these gift shops convey the merest hint of the weirdness, the overwhelmingness, of the whole complex. On the tour, strange artifacts are piled up all around you, and there is nothing to do but to follow the path, follow the path, until at the end you come out into the light. Then, in one last garden, there are kittens: extra-friendly ones begging to be scratched.

Some gluttony

Mary was given a new used car. Our Uncle Stan brought it as near to us as Indianapolis, and so I went there to pick it up with Martin and his parents.

Close to the Grissom Air Reserve Base, we stopped at a roadside café. Martin’s parents bought us breakfast.

It’d be ungrateful of me not to describe this meal. I’m no food writer – but here goes.

It was the Babette’s Feast of breakfasts. It was an all-you-can-eat buffet. The biscuits. The bacon. The casserole. The sausage. All were made from old Amish recipes. I knew, from the first bites, that this would be one of the greatest breakfasts of my life.

Caveman dieters, Martin’s parents ate just a few fried eggs. But they enjoyed the other food vicariously, keenly watching Martin and me. Their eyes took in every detail. They listened closely as we described what we were eating.

It was the first day of our Christmas break.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Yesterday, for most of the high school students, I photocopied crossword puzzles about Christmas (also, a few “Winter Wonderland” word-searches, for the heathen). Teacher after teacher came into my office and gave me money, cards, and sweets. Then, after school was over, Martin and I went to the staff members’ Christmas party. I ate hors d’oeuvres and watched the teachers drink a lot of beer.