“Notebook: November”

 

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(11-20)

Memo to Self: I am not ready for holiday cheer.

The eleventh month of a tumultuous year. A sight to behold and ponder.

Throughout the first day of November, it was incessantly windy. With leaves and yard debris flying around outside. Clattering against the vinyl siding of my mobile home. Now and then, causing it to shake and shudder as if it might come loose from its concrete slab. Sometimes with the din of hail or storm-driven rain joining in for greater effect. Then, with a sloppy splattering of fat snowflakes, on the deck and driveway. Dropping and dripping everywhere. Melting quickly on the warm surfaces. While offering a taste of the season to come.

Our forecast had been for a storm to blow through as temperatures fell throughout the day. But this process lasted from morning until night. Bending tree branches, scattering trash cans, ripping flags and political banners. My dog was lucky to weigh around 100 pounds. His heft offered some protection during our walks outside. We did not see any stray cats. I reckoned they were hiding under the trailers. My own bulk bent low over both canes, struggling to stay balanced while trudging through the flooded yard. I felt glad when my canine friend was satisfied, at last.

I finished October with a visit to relatives in Hambden. My niece and some of her brood had just arrived from Columbus. It provided a welcome change from the COVID suppression of regular Halloween activities. Then, upon returning home, I decided on a viewing of the oddball film ‘Psychomania’ as part of my traditional routine. A habit started in New York State, around 40 years ago. Ghosts of old friends were nearby as I uncorked a bottle of ‘Rebel Yell’ bourbon and sank into my chair. Watching the wheeled parade of British motorcycles from my childhood. Triumph and BSA steeds, stylish scramblers, high-pipes and all. Ridden by characters clad in traditional leather. Determined to die and come back, to cheat death, to tease and taunt the living with no fear of repercussions.

Memo to Self: I need to buy a Triumph Bonneville.

Every Halloween I watched the movie. First, run late on a station from New York City. Then, on a VHS videocassette. Later still, on a DVD disc. And finally, on YouTube. For that brief interlude, my soul connected with fond spirits from yesterday.

Then, morning brought the shift of seasons. A reset to the reality of 2020 as an age of the Coronavirus pandemic, and an election season of historic proportions.

I had to reset the household clocks, while using my cell phone as a guide for accuracy. Thankfully, these timepieces were only three in number. Friends on Facebook were already posting photos of their Christmas trees. Glistening with the trappings of manufactured merriment. Something that made me flinch. I considered the long journey ahead. Months of snow, frost, ice, short days, and isolation. The sort of thing normally embraced by a loner like myself. Offering extra time at the desk. Time for research and writing projects. Time for experiments in prose. Time for revisiting ideas lost during summer days spent drinking with my neighbors. But I wanted to stay connected.

Memo to Self: I should not drink half a bottle of bourbon in one sitting.

The first day of November began with a full pot of coffee. Surprisingly, I did not feel terrible. Just thirsty. And creaky, as the atmospheric conditions were changing. My weary joints provided a barometer for such things. I could tell even without consulting the Weather Channel app on my iPhone.

I made it through most of Sunday without the gloom of introspection taking hold. Watching football, baking up a tray of Pizza Rolls, walking my dog and straightening the yard. By evening, the ennui had returned. A disabling sense of purposelessness. Nagging, gnawing, angst over my recent bout of writer’s block. Something was amiss. Out-of-whack. Off kilter. Then, I realized the flaw in my day. Two entire sports events had elapsed, without a single beer. I had sat in my chair without ever once reaching for a chilled beverage.

It was a mistake quite easy to rectify.

A cool can of Miller Lite felt good in my hand. Better still, as it poured into my mouth. A refreshing tide of water, hops, and grains. The pop of its metal seal being broken made my dog twitch. He rolled over once, then fell back to sleep. I let the television play, with a match-up of the New Orleans Saints and Chicago Bears. My destination was the home-office desk. A platform for creative adventures.

Writer’s block be damned!

I opened my Libre Office program, and began to type. The blank page filled quickly with words. I was glad to feel the keys under my fingers.

Memo to Self: Remember the advice of Aunt Juanita - ‘Keep your pen moving!’

My Black Lab was snoring. Outside, wind continued to whip my trailer’s skirting like a beach blanket shedding sand. I knew that our trash barrel needed to be rolled out to the driveway. But for the moment, I was busy with a happier pursuit. Hammering away at my keyboard while drinking beer. The seasonal time change made it feel late. But the Sunday night NFL game was only just beginning.

I needed to stay in motion.

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