Small Town Notes (from Bea Yonder)

Privatopia sits bucolically nestled between farms, farms and more farms. There is the nearby 3,000+ acre hog farm, due east, a family-farm, whose website states "each year we raise 65,000 hogs." I'm hoping that numerical figure is a misprint, but to date it has not been corrected.

Then there is the 800-head dairy farm, due north, which features a cutting-edge anaerobic digester that enables this family to sell back energy to the power grid and produce a solid byproduct which they reuse for cow bedding.

I'm not certain how I feel about all of this occurring so close to the aquifer that supplies our well water, and I'm fairly sure the farmers are skeptical about the runoff of chemicals from Privatopia's "championship" golf course upkeep, but so you have it.

Between and beyond are more family-owned farms that raise sheep, goats, chickens, alpaca, llamas, horses, and even more cows and hogs. And there are the ag-farms, mostly growing corn, corn as far as the eye can see, but it's not for human consumption, it's mostly for the government subsidized production of ethanol. All of these farms, a fledgling winery and small private airstrip, abut our private enclave. If you go out a few miles beyond Privatopia, the farms, winery and airstrip, you'll find a handful of small towns, all with populations less than 1,400. Basically, I live in an area where the livestock outnumber the humans.

One day my urban-reared grandson visits, and the prevailing winds happen to reverse and blow in our direction, he turns to me and asks, "Is there a zoo around here?"

Yet in three short years, I've come to love the colorful flavor of the region. (And, well, I'm working on the odoriferous part...)

Here are some incidents and quotes that I've gleaned in the last 3 years from the local humans- I'll write some other time about what the animals have to say :) 

***

She and I stand side-by-side as I help her sort and pack her belongings. “I’m moving out west, over 1,600 miles. For good, I hope… When? Well, just as soon as I can.” She leans in a bit closer and says, in a conspiratorial-type whisper, “Well, I'm going to try it out for a month, anyway.” She draws a breath and adds, "You know, I've never driven more than 100 miles by myself before."

***

"This fall, I'll start school at UW (out-of-state), majoring in music. Oh, and I can't wait," he stated. There was a pause as he looked wistfully out  the window and continued even more emphatically, "Anywhere but Carroll County. Anywhere!"

***

"People here drink a lot."

When I don't respond, she arches one eyebrow, looks me in the eye and adds, "Even way more than other places, I mean."

***

"Rye-cheer (right here) we got some excellent deer and turkey huntin'."

***

"You never see much in the way of mobility scooters out here. You know, maybe the golf actually helps."

**

"I always swore that I wasn’t going to ever marry a farmer. But guess what? I met a farmer that I loved. I married that farmer, and as he followed his heart, well I followed right behind. You know, you either are born into the farm or you marry into it- well, I'm a double-down."

***

"Are you kidding me?! The farmers out here ought to be f*^%-ing grateful that we're here," he belches, cracks open another beer retrieved from his refrigerated golf cart cooler, takes a long draught, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, nestles the can in it's holder and carefully selects one of his custom crafted golf clubs.

***

"I don’t think I could handle living in a big city or nothing like that," and as I wondered if that was a slight shudder I'd detected, she continued, "Nah, just give me my little old house in my little old town at the end of my little old gravel road."

***

"I've got a story for you," says a friend who resides in a beautiful waterfront home. "We found these deep hoof impressions in the yard and surmised that whitetail deer had passed through, and that the depth of the tracks was due to the excess of rain lately. But, it didn't seem right. So we replayed the nightcam and guess what it was? Three cows straying through our property. Where could they have come from?"

***

She's attractive, affable, efficient and intelligent, all evident to me from the first time that she rang up my purchases. I hear the customer in front of me ask her why she's now working at Casey's General Store and no longer teaching at the local school. She tilts her head, shrugs her shoulders and replies, "Ehh?"

***

"Back in the 60s I applied for my first loan for a new combine, $15,000. My dad said, 'Agh, they'll never give you that much money!' But, I got the loan. Ten years after that a new combine was $30,000. Now it costs me $30,000 just to replace a head on my combine. Today a new Deere will cost you upwards of near a half million dollars."

***

"Hey, M, what're you digging the hole for? Planting in a tree?"

"I'm burying-," he begins, hesitates, sighs, then blubbers, "I'm burying my dog." His grief is obvious, his pain at the loss of a beloved pet, palpable.

"Oh, I'm, I'm so sorry, so sorry," I stammer. "How, how long did you have him?"

"Sixteen years," he sniffs. "I'm burying him here because he always loved the golf course."

"My heartfelt condolences, M. Take care."

"Aww, poor M," I think as I walk away, "that's rough," followed quickly by the thought, "I wonder if he had to get a permit from the Privatopia Board to bury his dog on his own property?"

***

As I exit the building, she is entering. She carefully snuffs out the tip of her half-smoked cigarette on the brick entrance and tucks it into her purse as I hold the door for her. I smile and tell her a story of a high school friend, eons back, who used to do the same, until her straw purse caught fire, from a lingering ember during history class. "Really!?" She pauses a moment, shakes her head and adds, "Well, they're so darn expensive these days, I can't afford to lose even one drag."

***

"Do all of you know how lucky we are to live here??"

("Yes," I think to myself. "Yes, I certainly do.")

***

Happy Independence Day!

sincerely,

Bea Yonder

Ditto

I had the best of intentions to write a blog about Father's Day..., but I kept thinking about Beau...,
so I'm just going to repeat last year...

http://topeacenquiet.blogspot.com/2014/06/beauregard.html

(I hope that link works)

Wish There Was No More War

HEAR: “TEN HUT!”

SEE: aged, war-injured and arthritis-ridden military veterans immediately snap their stooped bodies to a seemingly unattainable erect posture

HEAR: the local scout troops lead the townspeople in the singing of "God Bless America,”

SEE: a young, freshly scrubbed boy with a crooked, self-combed part in his still-wet head of hair, holding just-picked flowers to place on a loved one’s grave

HEAR: junior high school kids’ drum & bugle corp, all seven of them, strike up their instruments

SEE: the beginning of the cadenced march to the cemetery, with elderly veterans riding in an open trailer, with younger vets marching beside, and with townsfolk walking behind

HEAR: 21 gun salute,

SEE: just tossed flowers floating down a river, dropped in honor of those buried at sea

HEAR: “Taps,” at the town cemetery

SEE: me, weeping with national pride as a tiny heartland town remembers those who gave their lives... 

Memorial Day, Mt. Carroll, IL

Among the Embers

I have this story I'm able to put forth on the occasion when I'm asked how I met my husband. It begins like this: "He found me drunk in a gutter…" It's true, you know. But, I'll get to that later.

***

A couple of times I've watched the musical "Meet Me in St. Louis" a movie set in the year leading up to the 1904 World's Fair, centering around the wealthy Smith family. They live in a mansion which has running water and indoor plumbing, but also along side the standard faucet is an old-fashioned hand pump for water supply in the kitchen, where the older sisters have to heat water to shampoo their hair. The house has electricity, but uses mostly gas for lighting. The  Smiths also have one of the early telephones in the dining room. I assume this arrangement in homes of the well-to-do is historically accurate. However, I've never researched it.

There is one part of the movie, when first viewed, quite surprised me. It's the evening October 31, when the two younger Smith sisters, aged 5 and 10-ish, costumed as "drunken ghosts," go out to join the area children for a bonfire and the pranking of neighbors. They carry bags of wheat flour, that their mother cautions them to use care not to throw in the victims' eyes, while their grandfather urges them to "wet" the flour, so it will stick better to the prey. Apparently they partake only in the "trick," not the 'treat" part of Halloween.

The neighborhood children, between the ages of five and thirteen, have somehow gotten a huge bonfire going into which they throw discarded wooden furniture, some of which is left out by adult in the area specifically for the purpose of having the children burn the trash. There is not a single adult around to supervise this blaze. Five-year-old Tootie begs for her own piece of debris to toss into the flames that tower over her head. She shortly earns that privilege, along with the coveted title, "The Most Horrible," by rapping on the door of the feared Mr. Braukoff, whom the children claim beats "his wife with a red hot poker... and has empty whiskey bottles in his cellar." When he answers the door she throws flour at him, shouting "I hate you!" The children call this act "killing" someone. These children had very good imaginations. It was't necessary to actually carry out a "dirty deed." They'd only needed to  imagine that it occurred for them to be satisfied. 

Later that same evening Tootie stuffs a dress and throws it on the tracks in front of a moving trolley. Her neighbor, John, sees her and drags her out of the way so she will not be injured or caught by the police. Somehow she sustains a cut to the inside of her lip, requiring stitches. When asked about her injury the imaginative Tootie claims dramatically that John, "...tried to kill me."

These kids were unsupervised imps. And they were the ones who came from "good" families and lived in the "nicest" of neighborhoods. I can't imagine what the kids from the bad side of town were doing. Was this type of activity among young children historically accurate? Of that I am certain.

***

It's 1957 or '58 and I am, like Tootie, five years old, though I live in Chicago, not St. Louis. A couple of blocks from our modest middle-class home, over on the east side of Broadway and just south of Argyle, there is a bowling alley. Last night it burned to the ground. We could hear the fire engines wailing in the dark. My older sister and I quickly eat breakfast and rush over to see the ruins. There we join a group of neighborhood kids who comb through the ashes. There are no wooden horses or caution tape to cordons off this dangerous area of charred beams and a partially missing roof, nothing in the way of signs to warn us to stay out. There are no adults to supervise our exploit. We are careful where we walk, as some embers are still hot to the touch and emitting curls of smoke. Like scavenger raccoons we, opportunistic children, scour through the remains. We are here and, as such, we earn the right to claim any number of the remaining bowling balls and pins as our arms can carry.  We open machines designed to vend candy, gum, soda and cigarettes, machines from which the locks have melted from the searing heat, machines from which we rightfully claim the contents including loose change. There is a machine that is still locked and younger kids at the urging of bigger kids, shove their arms up inside. "Come on! Look how thin your arms are. You can reach up in there." Never mind the razor thin sheet metal slots inside those machines. We walk home with our treasures, eating now cooled but misshapen blobs that were once rectangular chocolate bars. We set up our claimed pins behind our home and laugh at the fact that we now have a "real" bowling alley.

***

We enjoyed the sheer pleasure of freedom, afforded to urban kids in the 1960s, '50s and earlier. Once your filial and scholastic chores and duties were complete you were allowed to roam as you wished, take normal childlike risks, provided you showed up for evening dinner.

"Where are you going?" "To the beach" or "To the park" or, "Out with my friends" was an appropriate answer; to which a parent would reply, "Be home for dinner!"

Sometimes there were planned parish, library or park district activities, but more often it was left to our imaginations to find an activity, like empty lot pickup games, or jumping from one garage roof to another, or diving/jumping "off the rocks" and into chilly Lake Michigan, an activity which though strongly discouraged by city officials, was a common pastime of children and adults.

Visits to my cousins in rural Wisconsin proved that they were also imaginatively blessed. When they were not doing farm chores, picking wild berries or fishing, they were manufacturing their own wooden rubber band guns, a bit less harmful than a slingshot, which were used on bulls-eye targets, the occasional bird or squirrel, or turned on each other in an all-out war. They were crude, handmade and to be hit by the rubber band "bullet" stung like heck. The older kids would shimmy up a huge tree to hang a heavy rope from a strong limb over the Wolf River, which we youngsters would then run, grab hold of the rope as best we could and swing across, in hopes we wouldn't lose our grip and fall into the (now rated a class 2 or 3 rapids) shallow but swift-flowing river.

How did we survive? I wonder.

***

I read my blog to Faithful Husband and he comments, "You know, now that I think about it, my parents, nor any of my friends' parents ever asked us where we got those bowling balls and pins." Yes, Faithful Husband was there among the embers that very day as my sister and I scoured through the remains. We discovered this fact through an exchange of childhood experiences, sometime after we'd met (me, "drunk and in the gutter") as young adults. We'd grown up no more than a half mile from each other. 

***

Last month we celebrated our 43rd wedding anniversary. Oh, and I was supposed to tell you about how we met, now wasn't I? You know, how he found me "drunk in the gutter." Sorry, but I've already exceeded my self-imposed 1,000 word limit, so some other time.

My Dream Diary

January 27, 2011

A friend, Nelda, asks me to make Sangria at a party she’s hosting, but she’s missing a key ingredient (I’m almost sure my subconscious did not mean this as a metaphor for Nelda, but Reliable Husband might tell you otherwise.) Off I go, with Reliable Husband in tow, to buy the ingredient, which I determine to be the lemon-lime beverage, 7-Up. As we make our way through a jammed-together maze of assorted urban buildings, some of which we must scale to pass, I glance up and notice a couple of fighter jets scrambling  in the sky. "Is there an air show scheduled?" I ask Reliable Husband. He makes a cursory glance skyward but, whatever he sees does not deter him from the task at hand. Keeping us on track, he points to a shop off in the distance, one that he is certain will carry 7-Up. After much walking, climbing and maneuvering through this jungle-like urban setting we reach the store. The store is something I would envision finding in a communist-controlled state, long lines of customers waiting to purchase relatively few items. While they don't have 7-Up, they do have Cherry 7-Up. For some reason I feel it necessary that I act as if I am disappointed that it is the Cherry version of the 7-Up that I must purchase, when all along I am secretly ecstatic, being convinced that the cherry flavor and coloring will greatly improve the sangria I'm to prepare for Nelda. After the lengthy checkout process we step back outside to see that there is now an enigmatic “Star Wars” now going on in the sky. Reliable Husband suggests we look for shelter, but I counter that Nelda is waiting. So, we make our way back to Nelda's. The terrain has gotten even more unnavigable and more swollen with crowds of people, a few of whom are now weeping. As we walk, we stare blankly ahead, knowing that we all hear the same frightening metal-in-distress sounds. "Quick, follow me," someone beside us urges. We look over to see our younger son, Matt. We follow him as he confidently leads, bypassing the areas we formerly had to climb over. He seems aware of shortcuts, via which he quickly and safely returns us to my friend, Nelda's, home on the lakefront of Chicago's Rogers Park. We walk through the gate and into the yard of Nelda's condo building, to a party that has morphed to a grand Gatsby-like scale, (if you give a quarter turn to that "N" Nelda becomes Zelda) that now includes a swimming pool full of adults, mostly young men I notice. Matt, as if having been on some covert mission, which is now accomplished, has disappeared. Clutching my Cherry 7-Up, exhausted and exasperated at the venture we've experienced and anxious to share the telling of it with someone, I find Nelda busily overseeing the preparation of party food in the kitchen. She glances up at me and asks, in a voice in which I can swear I detect a slight tone of annoyance, “So, is that Sangria almost ready, or what?”...

February 11, 2012

It’s the year 2016 and I am Chief of Staff to President Obama. The U.S. has suspended the term limits for the office of the president, mostly because neither the GOP nor the Democrats can come up with suitable candidates. So Obama is to run for office again, unchallenged this time. And to top it off, it’s also the celebration of the engagement of Malia. As in dreams, it doesn’t add up, as Malia’s now 22, I am a 30+ year old career woman with no children, however I am married to Reliable Husband. But, it's a dream and so I dismiss any illogicality. Anyway, the Obamas love my work ethic and they adore Reliable Husband and the two of us revel in the moment, as we work, plan, hobnob and celebrate with the elite...

August 26, 2012

It is some future date, but I am my current age. I’m gliding solo through space in some sort of intergalactic vehicle, with only a unbelievably thin piece of futuristic temperature/shatter/scratch-proof (let's just call it cosmos-proof) glass protecting the upper portion of the craft and its contents. The view is awesome, better than any of the stuff I've seen on those Neil deGrasse Tyson-hosted PBS shows. The ride in my vehicle is ultra-soft, not the rough ride I'd somehow expected. It's like gliding in a hovercraft with marshmallow-like shock absorption, over the calmest of seas and with the loftiest of breezes to propel me. Asteroids? Meteors? Space Trash? Yes, I see it but, it's all zooming off in the distance and not one bit of it poses a threat to me. I have a sense of joy and serenity as I peacefully glide along to my destination, enjoying the gorgeous vista of cosmos at my command. Suddenly, I notice that my craft is headed straight for a seemingly impenetrable wall of various undulating strings. "Avert!", screams my panicked brain, but when I look at the controls before me, I realize I haven't the slightest clue about how to operate this vehicle...

April 8, 2015

In this dream I am about 40-ish in years, an unmarried woman -without a partner.

You must first rear a half child, and

then you may rear a whole child.

I don't even know how I know this dictum, only that I know it to be true. Oh, and I so want a child of my own to raise. Well, actually what I'm wishing for is a whole child and thus, if the only way to obtain one is to first successfully prove that I can responsibly rear a half child, well, then gosh darn it, I'll do it!

And I do a pretty bang-up job of beginning the upbringing my half child (BTW, it's the top half, from the waist up.) I quickly find myself eligible to receive another child, a whole child. As they grow, both of my children seem genderless, or rather they seem to frequently change from male to female and back. And they have a chameleon-like ability to change their racial background, from curly red-headed Irish-looking kids to Asiatic kids with stick-straight black locks, to blondes with blue and green eyes, to kids with African features and such. And gosh, they are all cute, and each super-smart and funny! 

In retrospect, I find the half-child to be half the work, the child weighs less and is easier to transport, the child also eats less and is therefore cheaper to clothe and feed, yet the child seems to bring every bit as much joy to my life as the whole child. I have the sense that I am doing a pretty good job rearing my one and one half children all by myself, but as I analyze the situation I come to understand that it's because they are both still so young, being only of preschool age. I start to picture my life with them as teenagers and I find myself so terrified that I must force myself to wake up...

Perhaps I should stop watching PBS specials and Werner Herzog films and start watching Dancing with the Stars.

Ma

The Chicago Bears won the NFL's Super Bowl XX by a whopping 36 points. I lived in Chicago at the time with Bears' Fan Husband and our three children.

The average Super Bowl game is about 3 1/2 hours long, start to finish. An NFL game clock runs for 60 minutes. And in that one hour the actual play time is much less. Teams have some "control” of the clock. For example a team ahead near the end of a game may use ‘run’ plays as opposed to ‘pass’ plays in order to ‘eat up the clock.’ Or a losing team can figuratively ‘slow the clock,’ in hopes of having sufficient time for scoring opportunities by always keeping the receiver in a position to easily step out-of-bounds, thus stopping the clock.

The Bears were a fun team to watch that season, especially that final game. Our older son, who was then 12 years old, was friends with a couple of brothers who were 11 and 13. The brothers' father, a high school teacher, recorded the Super Bowl game that day, as did many fans wishing to replay and enjoy the highlights of the event. The boys’ father then edited the recording, removing every moment of the game that was not actual playing time. And I don’t mean just editing out commercial breaks, but he also deleted timeouts, huddles, penalty calls, replay review time, official’s explanation of penalties, breaks between quarters, halftime/final two-minute warnings, clock running time between plays and any analytic banter by broadcasters. What he was left with was a crystal clean 15 minutes of actual play time, from the snap or kick of the ball on each play, to the end of the play as the player caught the ball, dropped the ball, was tackled, intercepted, stepped out of bounds or the play was whistled dead by an official.

It sounded good in theory, but what remained was something that was undecipherable. There was no lull or space to allow your brain to make sense of what you were viewing. The brothers brought it over to share with our son, Bears’ Fan Husband and me. We enjoyed a hearty laugh at the inanity of it.

***

My youngest grandchild is 13 months old. During the academic year, I am by his side for 7-9 hours, two days per week, while his parents are at work. Excluding his twice daily naps, I eat meals with him. I play with him. I tend to his every need. He has my full attention.

He’s smart, fast, and always on the move. I try to take advantage of the rarer times when he’s less physically active, like when he just wakes up or, when he begins to tire after two or more hours of constant movement. During these precious moments, I read to him, sing or do quiet activities. A recent favorite is when the two of us sit near his living room window and listen to city sounds. I whisper near his ear, “Listen. Do you hear the birds?” as I make an imitation of the bird I hear. He sometimes tilts his head, but otherwise is still. He is absolutely silent. When he hears the sound I’m describing, he beams and clenches his fists excitedly, but utters not a peep as he waits for me to describe the next sound.

He can distinguish the sound of a jet plane, a favorite of his. He hears the planes before I do, what with my 62 year old ears. He watches my eyes, waits for me to hear it and when he sees my eyes light up, I whisper, “Yes! I hear the airplane.” Then he lets loose with a long, “Oooooohhhhh,” as together we watch the aircraft pass overhead. I comment on its size, any visible lights and noticeable colors, but most airplanes are white or gray on the bottom, which is usually the only part we can see. His house is in one of the flight paths to Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. Sometimes between the sounds of planes, cars, birds, dogs, strong winds, the patter of rain, distant trains or emergency vehicles, I’ll talk of the towns from where the airplanes might be traveling, Richmond Virginia, New York City, Tokyo Japan, Frankfort Germany, Sydney Australia, and Timbuktu, Mali, are some names I mention. I tell him what the current weather is probably like and the time of day in the town. When he’s older I’ll point it out on a globe.

Last week he was darting about in his playroom as I was sitting on the floor near him, when he suddenly toddled over and put his head to my chest. It’s an unusual thing for him to do. I put my arms around him and gently held him as I leaned back against a cushion. He kept his head still on my chest. Concerned that he was ill, I felt his forehead to see if he was warm. His temperature seemed normal. “Are you okay?” He hadn’t stirred from his static position, when I noticed the concentrated faraway look in his eyes. Then it occurred to me that he was listening to my heart beating. I said quietly, “LUB dub, LUB dub, LUB dub.” He looked up at me and smiled. “Do you listen to Mama and Daddy’s hearts?” I asked. He said, “Dada.”

He understands only some of what I blather all day long. And while he loves to babble, he can only speak a handful of words. Mama, Dada, Bub-bub (bubbles), ball (ball), ball-ball (balloon), bye-bye and nahm-nahm (food). He and I depend on eye contact, facial expressions and hand signs for much of our communication. His joke is to put a piece of fuzz or scrap of paper in my mouth and say, “Nahm-nahm.” I reply with feigned shock, “No! That is not nahm-nahm. P-tooey!” He laughs and repeats the action, “Nahm-nahm.” I laugh and repeat, “No! That’s not nahm-nahm! Yuck!” We both laugh.

***

This past Christmas, we visited our older two grandchildren who live out-of-state. It was their school holiday break and our 7 year-old granddaughter, had a reading assignment. It consisted of thirty different ways or means of reading, of which she was to choose one each day. Each assignment required a minimum of twenty minutes time spent in the carrying out of it, for example, “read to your dog,” or “read to yourself, then describe what you read to someone,” or “read to a grandparent.” I helped her with her task during our visit. One day I urged her to select the “ ‘read’ a picture book” assignment. We looked at the drawings in the book, “Journey” by Aaron Becker and discussed the story the drawings imparted. We went through the book a second time, pausing on each page, saying nothing, just looking at the drawings. When we closed the book, she was silent, thinking, I guess. Then she told me that her teacher had told her that books with few or no words could still be challenging books, and also that anyone had the right to read a book and decide later that they knew a better way that the story could be told. 

***

I saw a great foreign film the other day on Netflix, a Japanese film titled “Departures” (beware if you look for it, for there is also a completely different series with the same title. My film features a cello player.) The film uses what the Japanese call ‘ma’ which mean emptiness or nothingness. For instance if I were to clap my hands the time between the claps would be the ‘ma,’ a pause, a breather, ‘nothingness’ time. There were scenes in the movie when, for seemingly no particular reason, it would break and show the main character, an adult man, playing his child-sized cello in some beautiful outdoor open space. The wind might be blowing tall grass around him, or a river might be winding its way nearby. Those breaks in the film’s story symbolized his ‘ma’ time, ‘ma’ necessary for him to properly absorb the job transition he was enduring (at least that’s my interpretation, but then I’m not a film critic.) Even though it wasn’t what you’d call an action-packed film, these breathers were a pleasant break for me, allowing time to think, to absorb, to digest.

Maybe the appreciation of ‘ma’ only comes with age? I don’t think so. I think even rambunctious, energized babies and chatty, imaginative children enjoy lulls, time for quiet, time to absorb, time to inhale, time to replay, time to discern, time to refine, time to think... nothingness time.

ooooohhh

ooooohhhh

ooooohhhh

ma

She'd Breathed Her Last

As soon as I pass the cattle feed lot, I slow to a cruise, well within the speed limit. There is nothing the town cops like better than handing out a speeding ticket to someone with a Privatopia sticker on their windshield.

I pass the Shell gas station and then the train crossing. There aren't many cars parked on the one-block main strip of this tiny town that includes a biker bar, take-out-pizza shop, a collectibles/antique store (open only on weekends), a small grocery mart, and an eye care store open only on Mondays and Wednesdays, because the doctor and assistants work in other tiny town locations on the other business days.

It is 2 p.m. and the storefront has just reopened. Even though they are only open the two days, they close and lock the door for one hour beginning at 1 p.m., so the three occupants may enjoy their lunch hour uninterrupted.

One of the occupants looks up from opposite side of the room, as I enter. She greets me by name and motions to her desk area.

-Ranell, have a seat. I'll be right with you.

She notices as I glance at the portable electric heater next to her chair.

-I get cold sitting next to the windows.

-The reason it caught my eye is that our furnace died yesterday and we have four portable electric heaters keeping the house warm until Wednesday when they'll install a new one.

-What? Two more days without heat? Oh my gosh! Can't they do it sooner? It's record breaking cold outside. Do you have a fireplace? That's awful. I mean, we keep our thermostat at 70. What's the temperature in your house now?

-We have a fireplace and luckily it's been sunny outside, and I've been baking a lot, so with the electric heaters we're able to keep the house around 66 degrees, but it's a little cooler at night.

-My furnace went out once, when my husband was hunting in Minnesota. I woke up in the middle of the night because I was so cold. I thought I must have left a window or door open. But when I got up I realized the furnace wasn't on. It was 3 o'clock in the morning and I didn't want to call my husband because what could he do anyway? So, I phoned the repair guy and he asked a few questions and talked me through restarting it. He had me take an emery board and flick the flint-thing- I mean, are you sure it can't be fixed?

-About a week ago she began to make noise, like a rattle. So, my husband took a look and decided it was a bad bearing. He called our furnace guy who came out and confirmed it was a bearing in the impeller motor or something. The guy tightened some clamp hoping it would minimize any vibration. The plan was to cross our fingers and hope she could make it until spring when we'd have both the furnace and air-conditioner replaced. We didn't want to put any money into fixing a twenty-year-old furnace. Meanwhile we got a couple of estimates and we waited. But each day she groaned a bit louder. Her rattle became constant, like she was fighting for air-

-Really? Was that what it was like?

-Yup. Then on Saturday evening and all through the night she struggled, waking us a couple of times with loud gasps. Then Sunday, mid-morning, she let out with a death rattle that shook the floorboards. My husband was standing beside the thermostat. I asked, "Is that it? Is she gone?" He nodded. She'd breathed her last.

-Whoa.

-So, anyway we feel fortunate that they'll be out in two days with our brand new, state-of-the-art furnace, featuring a high-efficiency two-stage burner and variable speed blower and with 14,000 more BTUs. And we are now eligible for rebates from ComEd and NiCor for our electric and natural gas use. AND we have a name for her already, Babs, short for "Bad-Ass-Bitch."

The door chime rings and in comes her next customer.

As I leave she looks up from her desk area where she sits with the new customer, "Um, Ranell, I was wondering, did Babs predecessor have a name?"

Artist's Rendition of Babs