Catching some porch time

“How was your weekend?” It’s a common pleasantry, designed to take the edge off the back-to-work grind of a Monday morning.

The question, of course, is not meant to probe. It’s more of a greeting. Grouchy on Mondays by nature, I usually respond that my weekend was lousy. That’s not usually the case, but it makes me feel better about being relegated to an office for the next eight hours. I’m not a confinement kind of guy. Must be my tendency towards claustrophobia.

Anyhow, I recently started giving more thought to the “How was your weekend?” inquiry. Not all weekends are great, naturally, but mostly they are pretty good.

Our weekends took on a different tone a few years back when we moved to greener pastures. Or, more accurately, rockier pastures. The Catskills are well-known as having a high rock content. When you relocate to the side of a mountain the “two stones for every dirt” theory is multiplied by about 100 on the stones end. And they are likely big ones.

I’m providing this information as background for how I spend my weekends. “Starting over” is work. A lot of work. I’m not complaining, just explaining.

Turning forest into lawn is not an easy task. Fortunately, most of this labor was performed with the assistance of huge pieces of equipment. Still, there was plenty of digging left for the “finish work.” And my heavy machinery ownership is limited to an “experienced” garden tractor that demands the word, “Whew!” every time I complete a mowing without a call to the repairman.

No shortage of work

As with any house not covered in vinyl or constructed of brick, there’s always a fair amount of painting on the “to do” list. Porches with bright southern exposure are great for sitting, but harsh on the paint. In fact, I dedicated a good chunk of time last weekend to scraping and reapplying a few fresh coats of paint to the front porch.

I’m pretty sure my inspiration for completing this project (which I successfully ignored last season) was jumpstarted by a visit from friends over the summer who commented, “Oh, the porch is looking well-used.” Ouch.

The never-ending pursuit of firewood also occupies much of my weekend “spare” time. No matter how much wood I have on hand, the arrival of autumn sparks a mini-panic in me and I feel an urgent need to add to the collection.

Or, maybe it’s the fact that this is the time of year that I try to get the oil tanks filled that creates this firewood urgency. It’s probably a combination, but firewood chores cut deeply into my weekends during each autumn.

I guess a ‘good” weekend is a productive one. It makes one appreciate “porch time” more. Of course, there’s not much room on the porch now with the bulging racks of firewood. Plus, I have to worry about marring the new paint job. When it comes to relaxing, I guess it’s the thought that counts.

— Brian Sweeney

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If the hat doesn’t fit…

OK, I’ll admit to not always being on the cutting edge of trendiness. So, when I do venture out of my self-imposed seclusion, I’m often a bit shocked at what I’ve been missing. Or not missing.
 For instance, last week I went to see one of my favorite musicians, Nicole Atkins. Because I prefer musicians who are “on the way up,” the venue was not large. But, the place was packed with beer/music lovers.

And guys with tiny hats.

Yes, that’s right — tiny hats. One can assume that these fellows also had tiny heads, but that’s not for me to judge. Still, the hats were pretty small.

There were so many of these tiny-hatted fellows that, after awhile, I began to think I missed a memo about proper attire for the event.

“Do you think there’s a late-night tiny hat shop around here?” I asked my wife. 
She didn’t think so, but assured me that as long as we paid the cover charge she was sure we’d be allowed to stick around.

In reality, as much as I wanted to hear Nicole in person, I doubt that I would have stayed if management had demanded that I don a tiny fedora. I think they are, well, dumb looking. And, when you get a room full of fellows all wearing undersized hats…it’s not good.

As we hung around in the bar for the music to start — my confidence given a lift by a full-bodied ale — I finally turned to one the mad hatters and asked, “Where do you get such a hat? And, more importantly, why?”

Uh, oh

You’re probably thinking that my next words were incoherently mumbled to 911 personnel as we raced to the hospital, me having suffered a pretty good beating.

Fortunately, the tiny hat fan whose taste I had questioned must have had his hearing squelched by the pressure of a tight-fitting hat.

“Huh?” he responded.

By now I had noticed that this fellow’s biceps were much larger than his headgear. Maybe, I thought, I should lower the risk of an old-fashioned thumping.

“I said, ‘Where did you get your hat — it makes your face look thin?’” I smoothly lied. He smiled and tipped his cap. I quickly melted into the crowd and tried to fit in — as much as I could without the aid of a miniscule fedora to assist my cause.

As mentioned earlier, the concert area was not large, but a lot of people could fit in there — if they were packed tight and no fire inspections were occurring. I realized that it might get pretty hard to see the show, with all those tiny hats sticking up in front of us.

Then, something wonderful happened. Maybe Nicole realized that, since neither my wife nor I were wearing tiny hats, that we were there for the music — not the scene. Right before the show started, she announced, “Let’s make room up front for everyone without tiny hats — so that they can see the show.”

The tiny-hatted folks were very polite and let us (and the other two hatless spectators) move close to the stage. High-energy, great Rock-n-Roll followed.

A few hours later, when the last note had been played, Nicole told the crowd. “Hat’s all folks.” Well, not all, but quite a few.

— Brian Sweeney

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