Journal of a Sabbatical

February 19, 2000

transformer go pop
and the dog only speaks russian

Today's Reading: Winter: from the Journals of Henry David Thoreau edited by H.G.O Blake

According to the Russian lady's grandson, we got 25 centimeters of snow last night. I fired up the power shovel I bought last year when the plow blocked my walkway and dug myself out fast. I had the car cleaned off and moved to the street before it even stopped snowing.

I should take Wilbur's paranoia regarding little white dogs more seriously. They're taking over. It's a little white dog invasion. I'm walking across the parking lot after having moved my car, and what do my wondering eyes behold but a string of little white dogs arrayed along a leash. Ohmigod! They're multiplying! Eeek! I exclaim - apparently aloud because the dog walker answered me - "That's a lot of little white dogs!" "They're not all mine" says the dog walker "I'm dog sitting two of them. They are all Bichon Frise like Carthage, I mean Chantel, next door. Has this breed suddenly increased in popularity while I've been gone? Snowy parking lot with little white dogs. What a hallucinatory vision!

For contrast in the dog invasion, the Russians who block my parking space, have let their spaniel out to play. It's a kind of russet brown. I'm not sure exactly what kind of spaniel it is. It looks gigantic compared to the Bichon Frises. It burrows into the snow making tunnels and caves and then shaking itself off to redistribute the snow. It bounds around with such joy! It comes over to sniff me and I start talking to it and asking its name. The Russian guy who blocks my parking space says "His name is Jerry but other than that he only speaks Russian". The dog speaks Russian? It hasn't said a word to me yet in any language. The only Russian words I can think of to say to it are Da and Nyet.

So what's 25 centimeters in inches? About 8?

It's still snowing. BusyBody is not out sweeping her walk as each flake falls this time. She comes out onto her front steps in her bathrobe to tell me to leave it for the condo association to shovel. What accounts for this complete reversal in her snow attitude? I have no idea. And I am walking down the street from where I've parked my car until the plow comes when she appears in her bathrobe again having inexplicably mistaken me for her son. Even after she realizes I am not he, she gives me instructions regarding where to park or something. I nod and keep walking.

Back in my unit awaiting the snow plow, I fire up the computer and start in on catching up with the trip journa, which is taking me nearly as long as the trip. I fiddle with that for awhile then get up with intent to go downstairs to check the mail. As I am leaving the room I hear a loud "POP!" I turn and look out the window just in time to see blue smoke coming from the transformer on the electric pole in the parking lot. Quick like a bunny I power everything off lest the power do that evil flicker thing. It doesn't. It stays off for an hour or so. The transformer gets fixed. I turn everything back on again to make sure it's OK and then shut it down so I can head to Providence to meet Nancy for dinner at Asian Paradise and the 7:30 show of Topsy Turvy at the Avon.