So, this deer walks into a bank...

I am from a small town. We pride ourselves as being rural. The deer population prides itself on being rather urban.

I'm on the phone with my dad, and in the background I hear this: "Tell her about the deer running through the bank!"

"Dad, I don't understand what that means."

As a buck wandered down Auglaize St. in Historic Downtown Wapakoneta, Ohio, he gazed into the windows of various antique malls and second-hand stores. The blown glass and musty books didn't do much for him. Nor did the E-bay store's leg lamp collection. When he reached the black glass of Fifth Third Bank, things changed.

The bank teller sat at her stool, counting out quarters and changing them into 5's and 10's for customer after customer. They were hard of hearing. Her voice was raspy from the repetition. She was bored. When the deer crashed through the glass, things changed.

My father told me this like it was commonplace. (Of course, he was the same when the ostrich, donkey and ligers were known to be in the area as well--all on separate occasions.) No one is sure if the deer was charging at a peer interfering with his window shopping, or if he was lunging at an unsuspecting doe. I am unsure how the deer got out of the bank. Dad didn't think this part was important enough to tell. He switched began telling me about the 6'x6' carpet a neighbor gave him for our living room. It should be flat after a few days hanging up in the attic.

Rust

This image is the goal of my avocado-tree-in-Jesus-planter experiment. I do not have a glass jar, wooden dowels or a sprout. I have a crack in the top of my avocado pit that occasionally leaks a mysterious red, highly viscous substance.

I believe that this is rust. I came to the conclusion when a thin film began forming over the water below the pit. I thought of the ducks that are saved with dish soap when there is an oil spill. I am fairly certain that if I wash the pit in dish soap, it will not be saved.

In less than a day, the film covering the water's surface settled around the mug in an orange ring, an Avocado Saturn in the universe of my kitchen. So far, the cosmos have not treated creatures well in this kitchen, as the dead spiders on the sill and four dead fish so far this year could tell you.

As I stared at the orange ring, I couldn't help but notice that this film had spread to the aluminum foil as well. The coil I had made was speckled with orange sunbursts that were spreading their rays to the water's surface.

Aluminum foil rusts. I have killed the avocado tree before it began. How toxic does aluminum foil make water? How did it begin to rust in less than a day? Luckily, I have three more pits to dig out with my spoon and begin again.

At Meijer, the 11th is free.

At approximately 10 p.m. each Sunday, I am greeted by a thick glasses and a mustached grin. I am directed to the carts, from which I choose the two-leveled mini. I stop at the restroom. While I wash my hands, I listen to children losing their gumballs and couples fighting over the self-check screen’s buttons. The self-check screen fights back, screaming for assistance.

I push my cart to the produce, searching for the yellow signs. I will buy then times for one dollar. The eleventh one will be free. Avocados and blueberries. If I’m lucky, hothouse cucumbers and spinach; an entire loaf of bread; purple cauliflower. This week, I will buy an artichoke. I put it in the cart and consider what the two dollars it costs would mean in terms of peanut butter sandwiches. It is a lot of peanut butter. An entire jar of Krema all-natural. If bread is my eleventh item, then I'm getting a solid week of lunches for one artichoke.

I weave through the aisles of produce, touching and poking everything that I have never seen. I keep my lips closed, slightly pursed, as I place each back and try to look displeased. Maybe next week. They just don't seem ripe enough yet. Exiting through the mushroom section, I land in front of Morning Star and Boca: this is not a new dilemma. My French lit. class has been studying the rock-and-hard-place battles of Racine: I already know this decision is out of my control due to fatalism. Why am I thinking about French in the freezer section? Why does the prof tuck his shirt into his underwear? Why can't I have six dollars instead of three? I want the "bacon" aaand the spicy "chicken." Again, when weighed against my jar of Krema...

This logic drops when I reach the dairy section. I am a yogurt snob. Here, I am going to take a moment to step out of any literary-anything that was happening to plug Stonyfields' Chocolate Underground yogurt. I've read Skinny Bitch's argument for being vegan. I've done the research. I've talked to organic dairy farmers. I empathize with dairy allergies. But I can never give this up.

The organic yogurt keeps its sharp tang, but the dark chocolate layer at the bottom turns the cup an espresso brown after a few turns. The yogurt doesn't quite make it to the fridge. I set the cup on the counter only long enough to grab a handful of frozen berries. While I skate my spoon around the cup's rim, the berries freeze bits of yogurt, transforming the plastic cup into a ramikin of mousse.

And then it is Monday.

This could very easily happen, you know.

I am a baker. In a more relaxed sense of the word. Each Saturday and Sunday, I bake the muffins and bagels for an independent coffee shop. I am allowed to play feminine music without being judged. It is dart; the town is still asleep; I am allowed to talk to birds without being committed. Each morning, I bake: 78 white bagels (decorated with various seeds), 8 wheat, 8 nine-grain, 4 cheddar & herb, 4 cinnamon-raisin and 4 blueberry. Before I can bake them, the bagels must be carried from the storage building to the coffee shop. The cold, dead weight of the bagels is is a very solid 20 lbs. I make it a point to stay in good shape, so this part has never been the problem. They are carried in a metal basket with a rim at the top that digs into my forearms as a bear-hug it. Again, this part has not been a problem.

On Sunday, my car slid through a stop sign. The tires could not grip any of the neglected town roads. Neither could my shoes: when I got out my car, they gave way. I caught myself on the car door. I let my feet drag across the glass and ease me to the café's door. This sets the scene.

I have counted my bagels and placed them in their bin, which I have then placed in a snowy spot outside the bakery door. I lock the door and turn to face the alley. The sun is peaking over a fence, illuminating the alley. And I foresee my death.

I walk to toward the café, bagels blocking my feet and the ground they walk on from my view. I am hurrying, with heel-toe steps. My feet move such short distances that they seem to leave the ground at the same time. The feet catch, sliding into each other. I begin to fall back. The weight of the bagels pulls me forward. The bagels leave my arms. Several scatter, but their doughiness has glued them together in the tub. The come down as a solid mass. When the crush my nose, there is a cartoon sound, much like a hammer hitting an anvil. And then there is nothing. My eyes leave my body and I see Tarantino-esque blood. The birds would peck at the bagels, but leave me be because I talked to them.

un petit rêve

Several accomplishments over the past few hours:

1. Slicing my last avocado and rigging it in a little basket made of aluminum foil. It is suspended over a mug of tap water. I hope it does not:
a. drown
b. get poisoned by Muncie's water
c. develop a seasonal affective disorder due to its lack of sunlight
I hope it does:
a. grow in a shorted time than the estimated 4-6 weeks.

2. Not reading Communication Law:
a. Ch. 5, pgs. 176-232
b. Ch. 6, pgs. 233-280

3. Sending e-mails to graduate schools, which is a big step for me. I am terrified, as is everyone that goes through this process. Universities do an outstanding job at making candidates feel insignificant and ill-prepared.

4. Staring at my copy of Candide, getting excited to read it, opening it and reminding myself that I have other things more urgent.

5. Staring at my bed. Not longingly or anxiously or lustily. Just staring. I'm not all that sure I remembered to breath. This part of the night was exhausting.

Here's hoping this blog becomes a part of little avocado tree's growth. I will include dashes to mark it's height.

An Avocado Tree

On my last shopping trip to Meijer, I caught myself taking more than five minutes to pick out five avocados for five dollars, a deal I was too excited about. I picked them up, one by one, starting with the top crate. I know this system: the freshest produce is always in the top crate, but there's the rub. With avocados, it takes touching every black blog--beginning midway down the top crate) to find the mix right mix of firm, thin tip and full bottom that gives between your palm and fingers as they try to wrap around it. A woman was watching me. She was short, with a tiny waist that seemed crushed by her coat's belt. She was quiet, watching and waiting. I was being studied. I nestled my rejected avocados back into their bins, like a nurse putting a newborn into... ok, that image doesn't really work. The nurse wouldn't put a baby into a tub of other sleeping babies. You get the idea. The silent woman stepped closer; I slunk away, feeling her watch me. Then I watched her--first poking lightly, then picking up and squeezing the fruit from tip to toe with a glance in my direction. I like to think that I helped the woman make a good selection for her guacomole. It is equally likely that she assumed I was a mystic, pulling meaning from the rough skin.

For the past two weeks, I have eaten at least half of an avocado a day. The process is therapeutic. Depending on my most recent emotion, I can tear it in two and rip the pit away, gnawing away the fruit that still clings to it, or I can slip in the blade, slide it around the pit and remove the bulb gently. In this case, I leave the green bits clinging to the brown core. I save its dignity, let it rest on top of the garbage. If my fiancé were here, he would brave the weather to drop the organic waste into our "compost heap," a tire full of trash that rabbits eat from. If I am patient enough, I scoop the flesh from the dark exterior with one quick move of the spoon.

I have heard that green is a soothing color. I believe this when I cut the avocado into cubes. The cutting board is green, and I consider the double dose a bit like Prozac, without the habit-forming side effects. Maybe this is the reason I can't wait to put the avocado into a bowl or on a salad or into an omelet. I stand at the counter and stab the pieces with my knife and drop them into my mouth.

After a few rounds of 5 for $5, I began to feel guilty about all of the wasted pits. What happens to them, or could happen to them? Where will the lil' guys tossed into the neighborhood rabbits' feeding pit be in 30 years? As it turns out, they would be a tree, dropping vitamin B6, C and A on the (by now millions of) bunnies.

I am redoing my third grade potato experiment. I am jabbing toothpicks into the next avocado pit I suck and scrape the fruit from. I am letting it rest above a small cup of water until it sprouts. I am rejoicing at the life I have created, because it will be good, good, very very good like the Bible-school song says creation is. And the new tree will rejoice, and we will both be made holy--the little tree more so than myself. [S]he will be replanted. In our Jesus planter/toothbrush holder.