September arrived here at our place on the high mesa,
not five miles west of the imposing Sandia Mountains,
barely three weeks ago.
And yesterday, almost right on schedule, an early
"blue norther" blew in big-time, with marvelous cold,
gusty winds--- that you could hear rattling the house
all over---like vicious, early young storms do---as if to
show off. Cold rain galore came in sideways and
splattered noisily against the upstairs attic window---
the one facing north.
It all reminded me of what I called "The Great State Fair
Norther of '74" (about which I have written), when my ten-
year-old-son and I were caught one afternoon at
the fair in an early freezing storm, which took us by
surprise about 6 p.m. late that day...and we went
searching all the venues for coffee.
The leaves were barely turning here, this year, except
for some poplars and cottonwoods, but this storm was
the Real Deal, a harbinger of winter.
Now there is something I've never told you, My Reader---
so sit down for this one.
Traditionally, when the first big cold front comes each
year in all its blustery fury, I "officially open" my cozy
attic for the season, throwing a 15 inch log or two into
the little wood stove. ..
And COOK BREAKFAST UP THERE FOR MY SWEET
WIFE---"B.E.!"
I quickly vacuumed the room with my trusty (NOISY) little
vacuum-broom thing which I bought at Walmart---and
snuck B.E,'s feathery duster up there and swathed around
with it, tho' they aren't worth-a-hoot (you guys).
Don' "try it at home!"
Now then, most of you know that there's a lot of heavy-duty
snacking and hunter/fisherman--like dining that goes on in
my attic, but in principle---no "big-time cooking of full meals."
Not that it's not a pretty-well-equipped place, in its own right.
There's a small Avanti fridge, microwave, and toaster oven,
salvaged from my office, when I retired...a decent two-burner
hot-plate...coffee pot...plus a conglomeration of camping
plates, pots and pans--and a medium-sized iron skillet!
Real men all have iron skillets, I reckon, and I've never met
one yet who liked paper plates...that sag...and spill your food.
(There are NO paper plates in MIL'S Attic!)
All that being said, that day I had to make several trips up and
down the stairs, toting eggs, bacon, biscuits, tomatoes from
the garden, and other stuff, not stocked upstairs. B.E.
graciously helped!
The aroma of scrambled eggs and bacon permeated the whole
house and probably the neighborhood! (I made "cheese-eggs"
with green chillies), and cooked six or seven frozen biscuits in the
toaster oven.
We ate and talked and drank hot coffee there at the beat-up garage-
sale table, as the almost-winter wind, swirling in gusts around the
barely open window, moaned a mournful song, accompanied by
the "WHAP-WHAPs" of the pesky mulberry branches, bopping
the side of the house, in rhythm...reminding one of the Swedish
detective Wallander, and the ever-present WHAPPING-tree outside
his window!
We were discussing some of the absolutely inane stuff going on
in the world...the USA, and also the equally-unbelievable people...
...when suddenly, and without warning I began to quote a favorite
poem, memorized in the ninth grade: from "The Lay of the Last
Minstrel" by Sir Walter Scott:
"Breathes there a man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said
'This is my own, my native land!'
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
As home his footsteps he has turn'd
From wandering on a foreign strand!
If such there breathe, go mark him well,
For him no minstrel raptures swell,
High though his titles, proud his name
Boundless his wealth, as wish can claim;
Despite these titles, power, and pelt
The wretch, centered all in self,
Living shall forfeit fair renown,
And doubly dying, shall go down
To the dust from which he sprung,
Unwept, unhonored, and unsung."
I had used my best dramatic Charlton Heston voice,
and with emotion...
"WOW!" she managed.
Then I asked:"Do those lines remind you of any
Americans you know?"
"Pass the biscuits, please."
******************
MIL
SEPTEMBER, 2016
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