Riding the Rails: Part Five

(Railroad Bridge, Argenteuil; Claude Monet; 1874; Philadelphia Museum of Art)

I bask in my neurotic fantasies for quite some time. 

Eventually, I realize that facts must be faced.

Bob gently opens the door to our cell.

We see that Matt and Tara are reading on their trays.

Bob and I return to our perches and grab our books.

An abrupt knock on the door soon interrupts our reading marathon.

Matt swings the door open and stares at the warden who quickly enters the room.

The warden and Matt begin talking in Spanish.

Matt translates for us as they converse.

Mysteries unfold as Matt explains that an electric cable on top of the train snapped last night.

Train personnel attempted to repair it but they did not have the proper parts.

The current holdup is this: We are waiting for new parts to arrive from Paris.

The warden adds that the parts are due to arrive at any time.

He says that it will take minutes to install the parts and then we will be moving again.

The warden saves the best news for last:

The train company will reimburse each passenger 100% of their ticket fee due to this delay disaster.

That information spares the warden's life.

We smile weakly and thank him for his kindness.

We have now been stuck on the tracks for eight blissful hours.

I dig into my truffles to appease myself.

Gallantly, I share the very last chocolates with my companions.

Suddenly, the train jerks to life.

I am grateful for every forward spin those pretty little wheels make!

I promise myself that I will not whine about this train or anything related to it ever again.

We roll through the countryside for over an hour.

Then the unthinkable happens.

The train comes to a dead stop at 2:30 p.m.

We sit still on the tracks (inside the train, of course) wondering, worrying and waiting.

The warden is wisely making himself scarce.

Very scarce.

Just like the rest of us, he wants to live to see Paris.

That promise I made to myself about not whining?

Out the window faster than the fastest Formula One race car at the Indy 500.

We hear rumors that the train is picking up supplies at Bordeaux where we are stopped.

As if by magic, box lunches are delivered to our cell thirty minutes later.

The meals are nearly inedible.

The curried chicken and rice looks like it was cooked 30 years ago.

Cautiously, I place a fork full in my mouth.

Nope.

They must have put this stuff together when the pharaohs were ruling Egypt.

With quiet resignation, my cellmates and I accept this latest turn of events.

Have I finally accepted the fact that no amount of whining, complaining or use of sarcasm will change a thing about this rail ride to Paris?

I would not bet my last dime on it.

But as long as there is life there is hope.

So we busy ourselves as best we can.

Matt plays games on his iphone.

Tara and I watch old sit-coms on her ipod.

Bob reads and takes a snooze.

I take out my French language guide and brush up on some basics.

I teach everyone how to say: "je voudrais" ( zhuh voo-dray) which means "I would like."

I personally feel that this is the most important phrase in any language.

Example: Je voudrais A CHOCOLATE CROISSANT.

Or perhaps: Je voudrais A CHOCOLATE CREPE.

Possibly: Je voudrais THAT DIAMOND BRACELET.

Well, you get my drift.

An hour passes and mercifully we are moving again.

We are still three and a half hours away from Paris.

But who's counting?

Riding the Rails: Part Four

(Snowscape with Cows, Montfoucault;  Camille Pissarro; 1874, High Museum of Art, Atlanta)

I hear people talking out in the corridor.

It seems to be a mixture of Spanish and French.

With just enough English thrown in to make things comprehensible.

The voices are not happy.

The warden is fielding questions and doing his best to keep the troops from revolting.

Sun is pouring into our cell from the tiny window over the sink.

My watch says 12:30.

Hallelujah, I have actually been sleeping!

For probably a good six hours - maybe more.

The fog begins to clear from my brain.

I realize that the train is not moving.

One glance out the window tells me that we are not in Paris.

I gaze over at Tara who is reading.

Matt is not in our cell.

Neither is Bob.

I ask Tara, "What is going on?"

She answers, "Something happened to the train last night. That's why we're stopped on the tracks."

I waste no time giving her a detailed rundown of my harrowing night.

Tara replies, "That must have been scary. I didn't hear a thing."

"I know - all three of you were sleeping like possums in a hollar."

Our cell door opens.

Bob and Matt are back with the latest news from the front lines.

Matt says, "They've locked everybody in on the train."

I stare at him incredulously.

"WHAT did you say?" I ask.

"They've locked us all in. Nobody is allowed to get off the train. The warden says it's for passenger safety."

"Is that right? How very thoughtful of them!" I say sarcastically.

My patience is growing thin.

In fact, it's downright threadbare.

I realize that I've got to get out of this cell right now.

I open the door and push myself into the corridor.

People are wandering through the car sharing bits of gossip.

Then I spy the warden.

Someone stops him and says, "I just heard that the dining car has run out of food. Is that true?"

"Yes, sir, it is true. But we are doing all we can to solve the problem. We will let you know when we have further information."

No food?

Nice!

Let's see now........

I learned a few minutes ago that I am a prisoner on this train.

Now I discover that I've been upgraded to starving prisoner status.

Instantly, my mind goes to work: "You've still got the chocolate truffles in your carry-on."

I snicker to myself, "This is exactly why I never go anywhere without my stash of chocolate. Maybe I'm going to die on this train. The odds are mounting in that direction. If that happens, may my last breath on earth reek of chocolate!!!"

I turn and stare out the window of the corridor.

I'm looking at a snow covered farm bathed in French sunlight.

It is a picture perfect scene.

There's just one little problem.

I SHOULD NOT BE VIEWING IT!!!

I should be in Paris eating chocolate croissants under the Eiffel Tower.

Or.......

I should be in the Louvre staring at Guido Reni's rapturous painting: "Christ Giving the Keys to Peter."

Or.......

I should be eating a to-die-for veggie pizza at my favorite neighborhood restaurant in Paris - Pizza Pino - complete with a maitre d' dressed to the nines in a tux and black tie.

Later, I should be walking along the sunny Seine River, gazing at the noble Notre Dame in the far distance.

But I am not doing any of those things.

Reality sets in as Bob joins me at the window.

"It's a beautiful morning, isn't it?," he asks.

"I guess so," I answer grumpily.

He adds, "There's not much we can do to fix this situation so we might as well enjoy what we can of it."

"Oh, give me a bloomin' break!" I think to myself.

I hate people who are always looking for the silver lining in the middle of a tornado-type cloud.

I'm not a positive person and I'm proud of it!

I love to dwell in negativity.

I always prepare for the worst.

Then when the worst happens, it's never as bad as I thought it would be.

That's what I call positive thinking!

I look at Bob and whine, "The only thing I want to enjoy is the beautiful city of Paris!"

He smiles at me and says, "And you will. It's just a matter of time."

My mouth falls open in disgust, "Time??? Hey, we're burnin' daylight here! And I'm old. I don't have that much daylight left to burn!"

I decide to continue bathing myself in a boatload of self-pity for several minutes.

There's one thing I'll say about the Bobster.

He knows when to back off.

EXACTLY when to back off.

And why shouldn't he?

He's had plenty of practice.

In fact, he's made a science out of the art of backing off.

Living with me will do that to you.

Besides, he happens to enjoy living.

Which is more than I can say for myself at this particular moment.

I stare out the window and think to myself, "As soon as we get home, I'm going to start a new organization called 'POSITIVELY NEGATIVE THINKERS.'

And guess who will be in charge?

That's right!

Little ole me.

There will be a new world order.

Only negativity will be allowed to exist and flourish.

Oh, and all of you unwashed masses?

You will please refer to me as your QUEEN.

Let the nightmares begin!

Riding the Rails: Part Three

(Wreck of the Old '97, Thomas Hart Benton, 1943, Hunter Museum of Art, Chattanooga, TN)

I tiptoe delicately into the cell.

Everyone is sleeping soundly.

This does not make me happy.

I want to sleep soundly too.

But do I get to?

Noooooooo......

I don't!

Instead, I get to read.

Until 4:30 a.m. when I realize that my back is killing me.

I try desperately to find a comfortable position on the tray.

But nothing works.

I decide that I better get vertical for awhile.

Maybe standing will relieve some of the pain.

For the next several seconds, I become a frustrated contortionist.

Finally, I am on my feet.

I am facing the cell door.

My back is facing the sink.

I am not armed.

I am not particularly dangerous.

But I am in position.

If the warden decides to pop in unexpectedly with new plans for our train riding "comfort," I'll be ready to take him down in a nanosecond.

The train is shaking so violently that I lose my balance.

I attempt to recover my equilibrium by grabbing the edges of Bob's and Matt's trays.

But that's not gonna do it.

So I stand with my feet apart and brace my legs against the bottom beds to achieve more stability.

I am hanging on to those top trays with everything I've got.

Bob and Matt sleep and sleep and sleep.

I hate them.

Tara rustles her sheet for a few seconds.

Is she going to wake up and talk to me?

My hopes evaporate as she turns over and relaxes into a deep slumber.

Please someone - anyone - tell me when I am going to get some SLEEP???

I NEED TO SLEEP!!!

I am now within minutes of loosing what is left of my crumbling mind.

I decide that I hate everyone who has ever lived.

I hate everyone who is currently living.

And I hate everyone who is yet to live.

I hate people because they are stinky, dirty, and just plain nasty.

I hate them because they reproduce too fast.

I decide that I hate every form of transportation known to humankind - including feet.

I hate life because it's not fair.

I especially hate EUROPE!

This is all Europe's fault.

If Europe did not exist, I would not be standing on this creepy train suffering like a caged animal.

Whoaaaaaaaa!

Hate Europe?

Me???

I may have mildly disliked it for a few seconds here or there.

But I have never, ever hated Europe.

I can't even imagine under what circumstances I WOULD hate Europe.

I think silently, "I am seriously scaring myself."

Then a new thought flies into my head:

I could......

I could just suck it up and deal.

But before I can dismiss that ridiculous idea, I hear these frightening sounds:

SCREEEEEEEEEEECH!!!!!!!!

'What in the world?" I ask myself, "that terrible screeching noise sounds like 10 million fingernails clawing across 10 million chalkboards all at once."

CRUNCCCCCCCH!

THUMP!

The train comes to a complete halt.

I look at my watch.

The time is 4:50 a.m.

Silence settles over the train.

A deadly, quiet silence.

"Did we just run over a cow?" I ask myself.

"Or worse yet, an actual......... HUMAN BEING???"

"And even if we did run over something soft and crushable like a body, would we even realize it at the speed this train is going?"

My mind races back and forth as I desperately search for answers.

I glance at my companions.

Bob is snoring as usual.

Matt is sprawled out on his tray, sleeping like a bear in hibernation.

Tara is curled up into a comfy ball, oblivious to the world around her.

Me?

I am within two seconds of letting out the biggest scream of my life.

Riding the Rails: Part Two

(The Sisters Bed, Wilhelm Marstrand, 1840, Hirschsprungske Samling Museum, Copenhagen)

The warden smiles as he winds up his conversation with Matt.

He declares authoritatively, "It is 9 p.m. I am here to turn down your beds for the night."

Or he would be if he could get into the room.

He holds up the gigantic key.

We instantly realize that he means business.

Each of us steps out of the cell into the corridor.

I watch through the open door as he inserts his key into a lock in the wall.

The lock is positioned directly over the two seats that Bob and I had been sitting in just moments before.

Suddenly, a metal platform drops down into place.

I see a pillow, two sheets and a blanket lying on the platform.

The mattress is - maybe - 3 inches thick.

Then the warden inserts his key into a second lock.

The same scenario unfolds again only this time the platform is higher up the wall.

Quickly, the warden spins and faces in the opposite direction.

Turn.

Click.

Drop.

Turn.

Click

Drop.

All four platforms are now in place.

A sick feeling flows through me as I realize that these "beds" look eerily like those roll out trays that hold dead bodies in the morgue.

Only the morgue residents have more room to spread out and relax than we're going to have.

It is at this point that I begin to think that Bob has lived long enough.

"HOW COULD HE DO THIS TO US???," I shriek to myself.

I want to get even with him for signing us up for this absurd sort of misery.

My mind begins to filter through the possibilities.

Smothering might work.

I could fold him up into the wall after he falls asleep and send him off to a permanent dreamland.

Enough with the fantasizing.

The fact is, I'm going to have to get a grip on myself.

And the sooner the better.

The warden exits our cell and says brightly, "Have a good evening!"

I want to take his big key and shove it in his ear.

But I don't.

The four of us traipse slowly back into our compartment.

There is only one place to stand.

That's right down the middle of the cell.

And that's only if we stand single file.

The warden graciously created a new aisle for us when he lowered our "beds" into the center of the room.

Bob surveys the scene and says, "It's not like we have a choice. We have got to get on our beds for the rest of the evening and stay there."

I snarl to myself, "Do you think so, Sherlock?"

Bob and Matt decide to be "chivalrous" and take the top beds.

I am no physicist but even I can see that the top platforms have a ton more breathing and turning space than the lower beds have.

I'd love to pick a fight with Bob over which one of us is going to get the upper 'bunk" but I have no more fight left in me.

I look pitifully at Tara, shrug my shoulders and slink down on my lower level platform in complete defeat.

Several minutes later, all three of my traveling comrades are sound asleep.

Please allow me to explain.

Matt and Tara are the parents of two gorgeous, highly intelligent and very rambunctious children.

This automatically means that Matt and Tara can fall asleep at anytime and at anyplace.

Surrounding circumstances - whether they be conducive to sleep or not - don't really matter to them.

Sleep - if and when they can get it - is their top priority.

Morgue trays for beds?

A jerky, noisy train to send them off to the sandman?

Matt and Tara joyfully exclaim,

"BRING IT ON!!!"

Bob is either sound asleep or he is faking it so he won't have to deal with me.

I am wide awake.

And I am doing some more mental measuring.

I finally conclude that there might be a grand total of 10 inches between the top of my body and the bottom of Bob's tray.

I stare at those 10 inches for several seconds.

I know that's not a good thing.

But I can't seem to help myself.

My heart starts pounding.

My breathing gets jumpy.

I'm feeling really wired.

OK.

That's it.

If I don't get off this platform - RIGHT NOW - I absolutely know that I am going to explode and die right here in this cell!

My mind wanders for a few seconds and thinks, "At least I'll be lying on the appropriate surface when the warden comes to collect my cold, dead body."

I plead with myself, "Girl, you have got to get it together!!!"

So I talk myself down from panic mode, pick up my book and begin to read.

But the words aren't sticking in my brain.

That's because I am so mad I can hardly see straight.

"WHY DO MY CELLMATES GET TO SLEEP THROUGH THIS FRESH HELL AND I DON'T???," I inquire hotly to myself.

Then I answer my own question:

"Who knows? You should have signed on at some other planet, honey, if what you really wanted was a fair shake."

I pick up my novel and force myself to pay attention.

Eventually, I look at my watch.

It is now midnight and they are all sleeping like milk-filled newborns.

Uh-oh.

Nature is calling me - loud and clear.

I avoid voiding for as long as I possibly can.

Who knows what demons are lurking at the end of the corridor in the lavatory?

I decide to delay uncovering that bit of knowledge as long as possible.

But......

I HAVE REALLY, REALLY GOT TO GO!

I roll off my tray, slip on my shoes and slowly pull myself up into standing position.

The train is jerking wildly and running at what feels like lightening speed.

I wonder if I am going to make it down the corridor without falling all over myself.

Seconds later, I arrive at the lavatory and open the Lilliputian door.

Basically, it comes down to this:

In order to use the facilities, I am going to need major surgery.

Someone - undoubtedly the warden because he seems to do everything on this train - - is going to have to lop some serious fat off each side of my body before I will be able to seat myself and "water the lilies."

Somehow, I manage to squeeze into the lavatory, close the door and take care of business.

Then I wobble up the aisle, banging my hips on the walls of the corridor as I go.

Cautiously, I open the door to cell 3.

Riding the Rails: Part One

(Still Life, Josef Seboth, 19th Century, Birmingham Museum of Art)

Someone - and I'm not naming names - thought it might be a good idea to book tickets on the overnight train hotel out of Madrid.


Destination?

Paris.

I hesitantly agreed.

"Sleeping serenely on a gently rolling train would certainly while away the hours," I thought to myself.

And so it was that we set off on our second European adventure across the big "pond."

When I say "we" I am referring to our beloved son Matt, our adorable daughter-in-law Tara, Bob and myself.

******

The four of us board the train hotel at 7 p.m.

I am already tired out of my mind from a full day of "touristing" in sunny Madrid.

I squeeze my ample self down the tiny aisle of the train car.

I begin taking measurements in my head.

The aisle can't be wider than 18 inches - tops.

I want to vacate this corridor as soon as I possibly can.

It would be nice to be able to inflate my lungs just one more time before I die in this place.

The "warden" on duty quickly assigns us to "cell 3."

Oops.

I mean "compartment 3."

"You will be comfortable in here," the warden/steward assures us in perfect English.

I seriously doubt that but I am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

I push the door open while the warden breathes down the back of my neck.

A Tunisian couple is already seated in cell 3 with their gorgeous baby.

The warden speaks to the couple in fluent French.

They reply in fluent French.

The warden decides to act.

He asks the young family to leave the compartment.

They have mistakenly squatted on our real estate.

The real estate that we will personally own for the next 14 hours.

As a result of this mishap, the Great Shift begins.

We scatter up and down the aisle while the Tunisian family cops some real estate of their own in the ridiculously narrow corridor.

Suddenly, I am thrown against neighboring cell 2.

The unlatched door swings open and I fall gracelessly into the compartment - head first.

I find myself staring down at a man who is staring up at me.

Both of us are horrified.

I stammer, "I'm sorry, sir," as I quickly close his door.

I soon realize that things are loosening up out in the corridor.

The warden has departed with the Tunisian family in tow.

Bob, Matt, Tara and I step into our cell.

We study the scene like a team of FBI special agents.

There are four seats in the compartment.

Two on each side of the cell.

The seat backs are as vertical as you can get without being exactly 100% vertical.

(And they are going to stay that way because the folks who design them hate train travelers.)

The cushions on these seats are approximately the height of an extra fluffy Belgian waffle.

We shuffle into our assigned places.

Matt's knees are gettin' cozy with Bob's.

Tara and I bend our legs ever so delicately in the opposite directions so our knees won't touch.

The four of us stare at each other for a few guarded seconds.

Then we shriek with laughter like a pack of drug-crazed hyenas.

Eventually, sobriety takes over and we realize we are hungry.

We pool our edible goods and concoct a hasty repast.

Taking polite turns, we break chunks of cheese off a brick-sized bar.

I exclaim delightedly, "I can't even believe how delicious this cheddar is!"

Tara adds, "I'm really glad we bought it at the cheese shop in Madrid. That was a smart move."

We all nod in agreement.

We continue to throw the cheese down our throats until - sadly - it is gone.

Then Bob retrieves a plastic bag filled with big, fat purple grapes from his travel gear.

He stands up at the tiny sink and tries to steady himself while the train jerks back and forth on its tracks.

He turns the faucet on and a tiny stream of water trickles down the less-than-white basin.

I scream, "You aren't going to wash those grapes with that nasty faucet water, are you? Who knows where that stuff came from!"

Bob thinks to himself, "I know this drill like I know the back of my hand and it's not going to be worth the fight."

He quickly turns the trickle off and reaches for a bottle of water from my carry-on bag.

We all watch as he pours the bottled water over the mounds of purple fruit.

I begin to breathe easily again.

We dig into the sanitized grapes like a flock of ravenous vultures.

Minutes later, Tara unwraps a mouth watering package of fluffy pastries that are simply begging to be eaten.

Their sweet, buttery goodness lingers on our palates for mere seconds.

We devour them in a flash.

It was definitely time for me to bring out the big guns.

I'm talking about Spain's Delaviuda chocolate truffles.

And I am packin' both milk and dark.

We decide to conduct our very own taste test right then and there.

First, we ooh and aah over the silky creaminess of the milk chocolate spheres.

Honestly?

I did not expect to be wowed by these wimpy milk chocolates.

But the cocoa bean lovelies are a huge hit with each of us - including me.

I pull out the box of dark truffles.

The delectable balls are covered with a light dusting of powdered cocoa and milk chocolate nibs.

(Note to the tragically uniformed: Think of a chocolate nib as an extra long candy sprinkle.)

"Hey," Matt says, "these dark truffles aren't too bad."

That's high praise coming from a guy who's been a devoted milk chocolate fan all of his days.

Bob takes one bite of his dark truffle, silently drops it into the trash bag and plops another milk chocolate ball into his mouth.

His vote is in.

Tara dives into the mix and adds, "This is great tasting chocolate! I'm going to miss it when we get home."

I'm too busy stuffing truffles over the terrain of my tongue to talk.

Milk chocolate?

Dark chocolate?

I'm way past caring.

I've already ascended into Merry's Wonderful World of Chocolate - my happy place.

On Merry's World, the sun is always shining, the inhabitants are always happy and there's always an abundant supply of my favorite chocolate just waiting to slide past my delicate tonsils.

Oh.

I forgot to mention that just one tiny taste of chocolate on MWWOC guarantees every taster a forever slim body - no exceptions.

Suddenly, I'm drawn back towards earth by a knock on our cell door.

Matt jumps up, opens the door and says, "Ola!"

He continues to talk to the warden in fluent Spanish.

Obviously impressed with Matt's abilities, the warden greets him with a hearty, "Ola!"

He converses with Matt in Spanish for a few seconds.

I think to myself, "Just how many languages is this person required to speak?"

Then I glance at his right hand.

He is holding the biggest key I have ever seen.



Note to my readers: Catch us next week when this story continues!

WYOMING WOMAN: A CLOSE CALL

(Pigs in a Farmyard, Carl Henrich Bogh, 1864, Art Renewal.com)

Against my better judgment, I glance into the exterior mirror of the purple El Camino.

I can not believe what my eyes are seeing.

I'm looking straight at somebody's hoof.

I turn away as quickly as possible.

But then sheer curiosity gets the better of me.

I return for a second gawk.

I am horrified to see that the hoof is attached to a.........a.......... leg.

A wave of nausea spills over me as I turn my head away from the grizzly scene.

Thankfully, the leg is mostly covered in white butcher paper.

Gathering courage I never knew I had, I set my sights on the hoof which is attached to the partially covered leg and ask myself these questions:

1. "Why is a dead pig lying in the bed of my new husband's purple El Camino?"

Answer:  Family members in Star Valley, Wyoming are eagerly awaiting the arrival of the dead pig. They want to cut the dead pig into smaller pieces, freeze the meat, retrieve the packages at a later date, cook them and eat them.

PLEASE DON'T ASK ME WHY.

2. "Why must newly wedded city girls be subjected to sights such as this?"

Answer:  It comes with the territory. Most studly Wyoming Wranglers deal regularly with freshly dead animals. One hundred and seventy- six percent of them eat the meat from these animals. Let this be a warning to all you citified females out there who are thinking about falling in love with cowboys of any sort:

PREPARE TO INTERACT WITH FRESHLY DEAD ANIMALS IF YOU ROPE A COWBOY AND DECIDE TO TIE THE KNOT!

Hint:  Desensitize yourselves - NOW! - by taking frequent field trips to meat-packing plants during the period of your premarital engagement. Forget the romantic walks leading you to the no-gore-allowed meat section in your local market. As far as you're concerned, beautiful displays of "filet mignon" do not now nor have they ever existed in any supermarket. By following this crucial plan, you will gradually buck up to the realities of your future life with Mr. Studly Wrangler.

3. Why is the dead pig sawed in half?

Answer:  Civilized people would never find the need to ask such a ridiculous question. They understand that dead pigs are not really dead pigs at all. They are pieces of pork - also known as the other white meat.

Never refer to the meat master as a "butcher." A "butcher" carries out his duties in a crude, rude, violent manner. The meat master artfully slices - never brazenly "cuts"- his delicate meat.

The meat master always plies his craft inside a spiffy supermarket. THERE ARE NO EXCEPTIONS.

The pristine pork is then carefully placed on sanitized white Styrofoam trays. (Blue Styrofoam trays are permissible in a pinch but they are a poor second choice.)

Finally, the meat is hygienically shrink wrapped and labeled with lyrical words such as: "Butterflied pork chops."

Further clarification:

ALL NORMAL PEOPLE ENCOUNTER THEIR MEAT IN THE ABOVE DESCRIBED MANNER.

******

Five hours later, we pull into the driveway at my mother-in-law's farm in Star Valley.

My Wyoming Wrangler has wisely prepared me for the inevitable on the drive up.

That's because he wants to live to see another day.

He tells me that the dead pig is about to undergo further bodily transformations.

A saw will be involved.

I tell him, "OK, cowboy, that's waaaaay too much information."

Twenty minutes after we arrive, I actually get out of the El Camino.

I stare at the shed from my personal vantage point.

Which is 657 miles from the shed itself.

Believe me when I tell you this, I am not moving one inch closer to that shed.

Not in this lifetime or the next.

The electric saw buzzes menacingly from inside the building.

As does the laughter of the people who are busily "transforming" the dead pig into smaller pieces.

A minuscule portion of my new marital family is present and accounted for out there.

My brother-in-law, Ted, shouts across the yard and asks me if I would like to help wrap the piggy pieces in paper.

I tell him with lightening speed: "Gee, no thanks, Ted. I am learning so much about how to cut up a dead pig by studying the entire procedure from right here."

Kindly, Ted replies, "Suit yourself."

Minutes pass as the whirring of the saw and the good-natured laughter continues unabated.

I squint into the darkened opening of the shed for what seems like hours.

Janeene, my saintly sister-in-law, takes pity on me.

She asks, "Merry, would you like to write the labels for us?"

I cautiously inquire, "Labels?"

"Yes," she says, "You can label the pieces of meat for us. That would be a great help."

I nearly blurt out, "Does this mean I won't have to stand within 657 miles of the sawed up deader than dead pig?"

Instead, I drag my feet across the yard as if each of my ankles is wearing 100 pound weights.

I stop cold on the slab of cement just outside the shed.

I peek inside the building and study the scene of the crime.

Then I carefully determine that the parts of the dead pig - which have significantly multiplied, by the way - have been safely enrobed in brown butcher paper.

It all looks innocent enough.

I step ever so slowly inside the shed as Janeene gives me a pencil and small slips of white paper.

She smiles brightly at me and says, "You can write "pork shoulder" on this one."

I immediately decide I love this woman more than life itself.

Never in the history of the world have the letters p-o-r-k  s-h-o-u-l-d-e-r been written with such flourish!

Yes - I can write!

I adore pencils.

The sharper the better.

I can even spell a few simple words.

But dead pigs?

I don't do dead pigs.

Not now.

Not ever.

And my studly Wyoming Wrangler?

He loves his family.

He adores beautiful Star Valley.

He is grateful for the lessons he learned growing up on the farm.

Most of them involved that nasty four letter word w-o-r-k.

But here's the news that always takes me to my happy place:

While I was strategically roping my cowboy many moons earlier, I learned that dead pigs aren't his thing either.

So four months later we packed up the purple El Camino and headed east for Vanderbilt University.

There wasn't a pig - dead or alive - anywhere in sight.

Workin' It: The Floor Scrapers

(The Floor Scrapers, Gustave Caillebotte, 1875, Musee D'Orsay, Paris)

I stand before Gustave Caillebotte's "The Floor Scrapers" and I am mesmerized.

It takes but a quick, six second study and I'm seriously hooked.

Admittedly, there is little about this painting that would normally intrigue me.

The Renaissance madonnas are obviously missing.

Monet's riverscapes of the Seine in Paris are nowhere to be found.

And my beloved gemstone hues?

The crimson rubies, the verdant emeralds and the moonlit sapphires must surely be hiding inside their jewel box.

Here's the clincher:

It's subject matter - work - is my least favorite activity on the planet.

And yet.......

I am transfixed every time I am privileged to gaze upon this painting.

To me, these men possess a type of holiness within their mightily stretched torsos.

Caught in the act of accomplishing a demanding task, they push forward with a diligence that many others will never know.

I'm one of those people who lives in my head.

I can spend more time reading, studying, writing, analyzing and daydreaming than nearly anyone I know.

For the past two weeks, I have spent time painting the walls in a home that will soon be inhabited by my son-in-law's parents.

Please forgive my immodesty, but no one can roll paint on walls like I can.

After all, I learned from the best........

Lisa La Porta on HGTV'S "Designed to Sell."

Lisa instructs: "Always form the letter "W" when you begin to roll the paint on the wall. That technique will help you eliminate vertical lines. Then blend things from that point."

I bow to my master.

I also bend, crouch, and flex my arm muscles in a whirlwind of physical activity each time I paint.

When at last I am through for the day, my roller hand is throbbing and my roller thumb is cramping.

It's so worth it.

I have earned a "high" that no mind bending drug could hope to match.

Need I mention that the freshly painted walls look sparkling clean and colorfully alive?

There is an immediate satisfaction in all of this for me.

Hence, my wall work causes me to relate well to these floor scraping men.

When I see their taut muscles at work I get it.

I almost feel the rhythm of their movements as their toned arms push the scrapers across the floor.

There is a special sort of beauty at work here.

Oh, and perhaps I am wrong about the "missing" gemstone colors.

To be sure, there is a quiet economy of color in this masterpiece.

But I clearly see splashes of smoky topaz (or Hershey dark chocolate!) complemented by ethereal shades of aquamarine on this canvas.

Two welcome escapees from the jewel box no doubt.

We know nothing about the religious codes of the laborers.

But may I please submit this thought to you?

For these floor scraping moments, the workers are certainly creators of the first degree.

And in that sense they are, indeed, godly gentlemen.


A NOTE TO ALL YOU MIDDLE TENNESSEE READERS:

Please know that you have the rare opportunity to view "The Floor Scrapers" up close and personal at the Frist Center for the Visual Arts right now!

You won't regret making the effort to see this wonderful work of art.

And as a special bonus, the Musee d'Orsay in Paris has kindly thrown in 99 additional masterpieces for your viewing pleasure.

This particular collection of paintings will likely never be seen in this assemblage again.

It all travels home to Paris on January 23rd.

So lace up your Nike's and get down there A.S.A.P.