Observing, collecting details as “glimmers of a beginning.” A way of finding a story to tell. That was the challenge this week.
Somewhere outside my window a machine hums incessantly for the second day in a row. Its motor drones, the constant whirring sound punctuated by louder grinding noises. Like a monster being fed, its appetite is ravenous. It will not be sated. My husband would be at the window checking to see where the sound is coming from, which neighbor has wood to chip this time of year. But my husband is at work. And I am too lazy, too disinterested to check out where Smaug is being used. It doesn’t really matter in whose yard the machine/monster feeds. Noise is noise.
Our yard has lots of trees and an overabundance of bittersweet. The vine sidles up alongside the trees, curling a sinuous path out along limbs, growing thick and woody until it has strangled the life from the tree. In the green of spring and summer it’s harder to notice the bittersweet in its sneaky trail below a layer of dirt, pushing through shrubs and other plantings. We hack at it and pull it up, but it is incessant and wears us out. Now, in the bleak midwinter, it is easy to see. The vine coils around some of the trees, already thick as rope.
It’s the chill this time of year that I mistrust. The trees stand like stark centurions behind the house, the only time I can see a sliver of the lake that lay beyond them. The sky cracks like a sheet of glass. Fingers feel fat and numb in no time in weather like this. Why would anyone stand outside and feed wood to a machine? I imagine how easily a monster like that could steal a finger or two. There are no do-overs then.
A lawyer I know once defended a man who disposed of his wife with a wood chipper. The lawyer is a kind man, softly rumpled, with hair just long enough to show a tendency to wave. He wears sports coats and carries a leather brief case that looks like it was a gift when he graduated law school. He has a fondness for Mark Twain, and reminds me of Atticus Finch. I wonder what Atticus would make of a man who rid himself of his wife by such ugly means. There is no nobility in defending such a person. I expect the lawyer had his reasons. He enjoys reading Twain, after all.