The Good Arb

He had no articulate thought of anything; there was only this perfect sympathy of movement, of turning this earth of theirs over and over to the sun, this earth which formed their home and fed their bodies and made their gods.

-Pearl S. Buck, The Good Earth

Luckily for me, the arb is a great place to drink and take off your clothes. Both of these habits are against the rules, and because of their prevalence I have a home in the caretakers cottage, arguably one of the most ideal habitations in the city of Ann Arbor. I make sure that all of this nonsense takes place in the bushes, well out of view and out of earshot. But my gain from these miscreants does not end there.

Yesterday, after a disappointing rejection from a minimum wage job hauling trailers of canoes between Argo Pond and Gallup park, I was fairly upset. Why am I not fit to perform this simple task? I was polite enough during the interview, I smiled and gave a firm hand shake and did not stutter. Was I too honest about my ideological opposition to clearing the river of trees, a process that is the third leading cause fish biodiversity loss? So I am still without a job, and as I walked through the sunny main valley yesterday, I began to wonder what would come of me. The words of Warren Zevon crept into my head "how you gonna make your way in the world if you weren't cut out for working..." And so I called my ma.

She told me to be more creative. To go ahead and write and draw and make some dandelion wine in the meantime. She said to think outside of the 'box,' and I realized that I was in a box and had to break free. So rather than mope in front of my computer hoping for a response to my pleas for jobs ('yes, we would love for you to walk our two chihuahuas four hours a week'), I decided to do something creative.

One of my duties as caretaker is to take out the trash. This can be a pretty unpleasant task, because the main ingredient in the trash bins is usually dog poop. Luckily, the trash containers are separated into general trash and containers recycling. My target was the containers bin. Thanks to all of the beer drinkers, I now have about fifteen dollars worth of cans and bottles on my porch. Sure, they took me two and a half hours to collect. And sure, it will probably be another two hours lugging the huge, sticky black bag to Kroger on my bike to return them. My legs and feet were covered in brown trash juice, which made my toes stick to my flip flops when I walked. But it didn't matter. I did something. Creative. And I found a nice sweater in the trash while I was at it.

In addition to the clothing and money, the arb has got food growing everywhere. A high percentage of the 'edible' food is actually carcinogenic or poisonous if not boiled three times over, but there is some nourishment to be found nevertheless. I have been nibbling on dandelion leaves and bittercress greens and redbud flowers. My garden is growing slowly but steadily despite daily bombardment by squirrels and chipmunks. Soon, there will be berries and cherries to eat.

So I tend to the arb with care and gratitude. Because the good arb has formed my home and fed my stomach and clothed my body.

Fragile in the Flesh

I used to be invincible. My body was once immune to petty colds, infections, or any small discomforts of the flesh. I felt that if something did happen to me, I would be able to take care of it myself, just eat an orange or add a few extra cloves of garlic to whatever I was cooking. Trips to the doctor were rare and usually for routine procedures like tooth cleaning. But that was back when I had health insurance.

As the last day of health insurance approached, my systems began to fall apart. My left eye turned red, and I was given steroid antibiotic eye drops which healed the eye but caused a series of many other types of physical distress (thanks, UHS). Soon after my eye healed, a speck of carrot was caught in my branchiopharengial shelf, which somehow gave me tonsillitis, a lingering cough, and copious amounts of snot. Again, UHS came through with a bag full of pills, a steroid gargling solution and all kinds of chemicals that intimidated me. I spent all of my pocket money on these drugs, which I ended up not taking due to fear of the side effects.

And then graduation happened. The very ceremony that cuts me off of my parent’s health insurance has left me fumbling and itching and limping. It started in the Big House. For some reason, the sun is very strong in there. I wore no sunscreen that day, and despite my efforts to shade myself with my cap, I ended up with a burnt face. I have suffered many a burnt face in my lifetime, but this one was different. I had no insurance, which my immune system must have sensed. Because it flipped out and gave me sun poisoning. My face, stomach, arms, and scalp were soon covered in mosquito-bite-sized bumps. I slept off the bumps, only to wake up with in internal itch in my hands and feet. My hands are swollen so that it is hard to make a fist, and my feet are so itchy that I shuffle along on the ground in a feeble attempt to sate the insatiable itch.

Are all of my ailments psychological? Is my body angry at me for failing to keep it insure d? Or is this just what happens as you age? Whatever the reason, I no longer take my health for granted.

Toad Pancake

The toads are horny. It was all of that rain that did it. Or maybe the electricity in the air. Or it could be the thunder that got them so excited. Whatever it was, the toads were emerging from the woods in masses in search of water to make babies in. These masses of toads would stop at nothing to find that water. Not even Plymouth road. The road was just hopping with toads, well, some of them were hopping. Many of them were pancakes.

I can’t help but wonder, what do these toads tell us about life? About freedom and the reckless following of your gut?

You put yourself out there. You let your instincts take over. You set aside common sense for a brief period of truth. And what happens? You get smashed. You end up a toad pancake on the road. Hence society. Hence embarrassment and politeness and awkwardness and formality. All to protect us from truth, instinct, and the inevitable smashing that will occur if we ever do let it all go.

But the toads keep hopping, every year. And they persist. So can we, I suppose.