CHOPPING WOOD

Here are the Clamsenhosenbergenshin's chopping what's left of their wood...

They live on the um, "bad" side of the mountain. Where the bad people go.

They chop up all their wood and burn it immediately. They don't make furniture or wood stain either.

Well, they did make that picket fence in the background.

Mostly, their dogs eat up up the wood. And Mrs. Clamsenhosenbergenshin makes wood chowder.

That's little Amsel George Farenheit Clamsenhosenbergenshin on the steps. He's resting. But soon he will take his turn. Again there's not much to chop. The Clamsenhosenbergenshin's do not replant, "those" kind of people never do.

Sometimes Amanda and I hear that they sneak into twon at night and take wood from the great reserves. But that's just a rumor.

EATING SUPPER

The guy playing guitar at our last supper party is Rauel. He loves to play and sing. He really likes to sing to Amanda for some reason. He's always trying to get her to go to another room in the cottage also. I really like his moutashe. I think he is well groomed.

This time old Fredrick Van housenshinden brought his own wine. He's drinking it out of his home made flasken on the right. he makes it from lamb's bladders or something. Good, because last time Rauel dranl 4 bottles of wine all by himself!

For supper we served turkey and gravey and mashed potatoes and corn and squash and peas and beets and celery and pigeon and roost mutten and home made bread from the bakery and pies and candies and four types and dressing and a little bit of cognac later on. Raule kept putting the cognac in Amanda's goblet. I saw hime out of the corner of my eye. The little sneak!

CLANSY

This is Clansy. Sometimes we see him down by the rail tracks. The ones that wind through the mountains. He is usually by himself because it's so high up here, many of the travelers on the train don't make it this far.

He's really nice. He eats beans and cooks hot dogs over an open fire. Amanda and sit and join him.

He tells us about his travels down in the flat and around the country.

He lives out of his bag and own his own. Sometimes he relies on the kindness of strangers like Amanda. She bakes him bread at the bakery and takes it to him when he's in town. A big loaf, large enough to last him a week or two, if it doesn't get moldy.

Clansy has a friend named Jonesy. Clansy left Jonesy in a big city. I don't know it's name any longer. All big cities are the same.

Clansy and Jonesy have drinking problems but they are nice enough fellows.

The Carlesenhousen's Barn:

It's a little weather worn. We ride our sleigh by here on our way home from the bakery. We have to pass through Carlesenhousen's woods. On the edge of his woods is the barn. His great-great grandfather Jeb Valhaselenbergenhousen Carlesenhousen III built it with rusty nails and leftover wood from the previous barn built by ancient Ingidenous Scots from the region, the MacWholybullyoughs.

Amanda thinks we should help Carl Carlesenhousen shovel a path to the door as he is old and has trtouble getting from his home to the door to feed his stable of old plough horses: Nypsy, Spotty, and Old Yellervenhosuen.

AMANDA'S PENMENSHIP...

Sometimes as the evenings wear on, and I'm drowsy by the fire,

I'll stare at the blue flames dancing and licking the ashes, struggling to stay together. Rigid, charcoal squares, it almost looks as if a small animal is roasting on the spit. In the flames I lose myself in a thousand dancing yellows, oranges, and reds.

It invariably dies down, and I will go next to the hearth and add another log. I don't need to think. I don't need to plan. Just slowly watch the sticks burn. Hear them snap. Watch them become brittle and old like me, but so full of the sun's yellow power and heat. I'm fascinated because I'm so cold at the center of my being.

I can hear Amanda scratching away on her parchment. She's is working at her red/brown roll-top desk. She's practicing her penmenship. I don't know what's she's doing. I can't understand it. She has a book to help her along. She studies it most days.

But no besides watching the fire I like to listen to the soft bristle of her pen on the paper. My strokes would be so harsh and clumsy. I'd tear it. She glides as if she's weaving silk or gold with her beautiful writing.

She's worrking on a parchment that is bordered by flying angels, their wings and heads are all that that is visible. The letters dip and bend, struggle, and circle one another until I become dizzy looking at it. They almost do not seem to have a beginning or an end.

An eagle is perched on something that looks like the letter "D". A rose bursts from what appears to be an "S". A peacock struts his feathers towards the bottom.

She labors on her parchments for days and weeks. But nothing is hurried. No one is hurried in our household. We've no deadlines. She can make it as elaborate as she wishes.

She sometimes sells her parchments is the small mountain town near the bakery, when the weather and time permits. Not often as she must be up to the cabin to plan her next project.

AMANDA'S ARM/HAND

It's not winter in this photo, but it shows the contours of her arm.

I like her hands. Small, delicate, ivory.

Just like she is. Small, petite, 5' 3".

In the mountains she doesn't really tan any longer. When we lived in the city, she would get a summer tan and then freckle. Some parts of her body would turn red. The base of her scalp, her breast plate, upper shoulders.

AMANDA'S LIPS

I've kissed these lips many times. Not dirty kissing. But honest, nice kissing.

When she sleeps, they remain parted like this.

She doesn't wear lipstick, except on rare occasions: parties, church, funerals, etc.

Her skin is not this shiny. And she has a good deal of freckles.

CHRISTMAS LIGHTS

Amanda and I decorate a pine near our home each Christmas. It's a chore because the tree is about 100 feet from the cabin and it's around 30 feet tall.

And we wait until the pine, (we affectionately call it "Mr. Pine") is covered like so with snow. Crusted on the needles, the snow melts in her hands and I touch them and they are moist and red.

It normally takes the bulk of our day to accomplish the lights. Since we do not have electricity, we have to run several Honda generators for several days to generate current. One extravagance we allow ourselves after a successful year of spinning and toiling as lilies of the field.

Today Amanda wears a dark orange coat. It looks as if sticks or twigs have been sewn into the lining. It looks like a fossil, and orange fossil as she bends to plug lights. Snow up to her calves, small beads of water form on the coat in the sun. 1:00 sun snow glare. All I can see are long blue shadows and bright-bright white for miles.

As dusk approaches, invariably we run out of time. Because lighting the tree is not a hurried process, mind you... that's one of the reasons we left the city... to slow down. To SEE the process. Each needle intertwined with a light (red, yellow, blue, green)... stopping to watch, stopping to breathe... I hear someone's sled in the distance... that shishing over snow... the sleigh bells dieing away... every moment is important... every bat of her eye-lids important... crusty now with snow...

Again we usually fall behind and we sometimes have to ask the neighbors to help. They are a rugged bunch. Billy Scafoldhousenshin, Davey Applecartenshinsen, William Fortinnoosehousen, Amsel Firestokenshinhousen, Mike Coppercanyonshinladen... and others, many of whom I've forgotten. Ah, cheerful lads!!! Many a Christmas tune is hummed while Mike Coppercanyonshinladen dangles 50 feet in the air to hang one last cherub. And William Fortinnoosehousen's deep bass voice can be heard booming long into the night (as he sneaks a nip from his flask every so often). Muscles and flannel shirts, these men are lumberjacks. Keepers of the ancient woods. And they seem to enjoy our effort to provide a little Christmas-time camaraderie.

Towards late evening we finish. Amanda and I provide soup, bread, and grog for the lads. And we set down for a humble Christmas feast. Amanda's not intimidated being the only woman of the group. In fact, she assimilates very well. Somtimes, I have to pause and put my hand over my mouth and utter, "Oh, my Gosh!", because her language can be rather strong, harsh and guttural like a sailor's. But the boys laugh and brouh hah-hah into the meal, until it's off to assist the Startmeupshinhosuen's a mile away... (they usually have an annual Christmas cow milking and goat cheese churning party).

Finally Amanda and I light the tree. And the flood of light stabs multi-colored spears through the darkness. Dotted stars provide the backdrop. We stand and admire the dazzling display. My mind goes blank. I cannot focus on each ornament. So rather I take it in as one big color barrage. Fuzzy and even. I put my arm around Amanda's orange flannel and I notice her eyes are dilated as well.