PIGS AND FISHES

         Pigs and Fishes! When the dog did not reek of skunk as I brought her inside on Sunday morning, I knew it would be a day of ‘pigs and fishes’, Morgan's favorite reading in the I Ching. I have no idea which hexagram it is, or how many nines and sevens are in what places, but I do remember her face lighting up when the tossed pennies would give her that reading.

         The cat had insisted 5:45 was the proper time to get up. Twenty minutes later the dog heard something outside and demanded to go out. It was still dark; a thin ribbon of light showed behind the farmhouse at the top of the hill to the southeast, but I had to turn on the porch light to find the chain for the beast. Snapping the catch, I caught a whiff of what attracted her. Either a skunk was operating in the vicinity, or one had met its fate on the road. As I sat back down on my couch, I tried to remember the cure for stinky canine. For some reason I recalled tomato juice to be the detergent of choice, and I had none in the house.

         Later, as she lay beside me on the floor while I checked my email, I could catch only a whiff of wet dog. She’d been rolling in the dew-covered grass. All her days come up pigs and fishes, and this would be no exception. For me it was off to a good start. There weren’t any business emails and only one telephone call about a real estate purchase, but that was for me, not a client. I love most Sundays! They are the one day of the week when my natural proclivity to put things off coincides with the way of the world.

         This was not the way Reverend Alfred G. Karnes saw it. His voice, recorded 75 years ago, rumbled from my boom box.

“To the work, to the work, we are servants of God.”

Alfred, you are such a wet blanket. To make him happy, I made a list in my mind of the things that needed to be accomplished, but didn’t tell him that I couldn’t because it was the day of rest.

a.) The oil in my car needed changing, but the shop was not open.
b.) I needed to get a haircut, but Bernie would not be back until Tuesday.
c.) I needed to buy paper goods at Walmart, but only a fool goes there on Sunday.
d.) I needed to sew the embroidered covers that I had washed back on the pillows, but did not think I needed a sieve for a thumb.

“Toiling on, toiling on.”

         Karnes’ refrain implored me to do something, so I decided September 29th was the perfect day to finish MY taxes for 2001. This decision made me feel as upstanding as the Reverend. I even considered joining Ernest Phipps and his Holiness Quartet. They were fervently singing, “I Want To Go Where Jesus Is,” their intensity swelling verse by verse. But, “To the Work!” If I were to purchase real estate, some lender would undoubtedly want a copy of my tax return.

         Trying to use my money management program to track down the year’s medical costs caused me to engage in swearing not apt for a Sunday morning. I rued the day I replaced my 1993 version of the same software with one that told me everything but what I needed to know. In the end, I think I was within a couple of thousand dollars of the correct answer, so I signed and copied the return and readied it for the mail the next day.

         In doing my return, I made the pleasant discovery that the Great Bush Bear Market had not wiped out my entire portfolio and that I would have enough money to finance my plans. I wrote “Liquidate my holdings” on my list. When Alfred raised an eyebrow, I told him that the stock market was not open on Sunday. I think he was going to say more, but he got caught up in the rhythms of the Tenneva Ramblers.

         By now it was afternoon. I felt like calling Pam to tell her that I had actually filed my taxes, but remembered that there is many a slip between this house and the post office. I turned on the television. There were many good football games going on, but not on my set. The powers-that-be decided to make us watch every intrepid moment of the Jets' latest rout. I had better things to do, like rolling on the filthy floor of the garage, trying to get the mower blades to cut.

         By the time I was finished and came upstairs, potting soil, grass clippings and other assorted dirt was dropping off me onto the floor. Cleaning it up would be one more job for the coming week; but now I settled back and began to think about dinner. What can a talented chef do with bacon, pepperoni, onions, two potatoes, two zucchini, a large can of crushed tomatoes and a package of frozen green beans? Make a stir fry, of course!

         The good Reverend agreed. As I took the bacon from the WOK and started to fry the onions, garlic and pepperoni, he intoned “When They Ring Those Golden Bells” to bless the dinner. I should have realized that he knew nothing about cooking. The potatoes, peeled, cut and diced, were to cook in the simmering tomato sauce, along with the other ingredients, except for the bacon, for forty minutes. I ladled the result onto my plate, sprinkled it with the crumbled bacon, and sat down to dinner as the sun sank low on this perfect Sunday.

         I considered lighting a candle, and pretending that Pam was sitting next to me, but the boom box, which was still pumping out music, forewarned me:

“Bury me under the weeping willow.”

Pam was lucky to miss this disaster! The sauce, the vegetables and the pepperoni were fine, but were these white marbles supposed to be potatoes? How long should I have cooked them? What could I do? The Carter Family finished and Alfred G. Karnes brought his harp-guitar back to the stage to tell me that “I Am Bound For The Promised Land.” That was a fair enough warning.

         For a second I thought the Promised Land might my paper shredder in the cellar, but I did not think that wonder of German engineering could handle these spuds. I ate the rest of my meal and carried the plate to the kitchen, the potatoes rolling about ominously. The dog followed. I put the plate on the floor. She sniffed it and ran to the front door, barking. I grabbed a few potatoes and followed.

         Later, propped up in bed, I stopped reading my mystery and thought back with satisfaction on my Pigs and Fishes Sunday. I'd pushed the real estate deal along, completed my tax return, and saved hearth and home, warding off an attack by a vicious pack of groundhogs. When the sun rose, the potatoes hurled at the invaders still sat on the lawn. I called Directory Assistance for the number of the nearest HAZMAT team.

Valatie September 30, 2002