“Lord, it’s the same old tune, fiddle and guitar.
Where do we take it from here?”

Waylon, lyrics: Are you sure Hank done it this way?
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I can’t help it. I don’t plan this stuff. It just happens. The adventures continue. I look on in disbelief, and absorb them the best I can.

As my regular readers know, two new tenants, single girls, moved into my upstairs apartment last summer, after the previous tenant ripped me off and vacated only after a court order was taped to the door. After the major unfortunate incident with the new tenants, things calmed down. Got quiet. Life went on. I got used to it. Became a bit complacent.

The girl who created the uproar left the week following the police incident. With her Manchu-bearded tattooed boyfriend. Good riddance, both of them. Now only one, Mary (not her real name), remained upstairs. Which was fine.

Mary was quiet, relatively. Paid the rent on time, mostly. And the heating bills. Didn’t complain incessantly about the apartment. This might work, I figured. She’d signed a year long lease. After that, we’ll see.

Alas, it could not last. The good vibes. Mary, bless her soft heart, had one major flaw. From the dregs of her murky social circles, she dragged home numerous misfits and allowed them to stay in the apartment because she felt sorry for them.

I was first alerted to her alarming little habit late one afternoon as I was fetching the mail. A strange looking young tough approached me on my own back porch. Smiling, he extended his hand. His name was Jorge, he said merrily. He and his fiancé were staying upstairs with Mary for awhile.

I gaped at Jorge, but chatted briefly with him. Seemed friendly enough. Looked a little rough, though. Tattoos and all. I decided if Mary kept them under control, I wouldn’t make a fuss about them being there, even though it violated the terms of the lease.

A few days later, official looking envelopes began mysteriously appearing in my mailbox. From the state of PA. Addressed to Jorge. Summons to court. And letters from the local Parole Office. Apparently Jorge was a thug. A real one, not a wannabe. I stuck the envelopes in Mary’s door. After that, I always made sure my own doors were securely locked.

Jorge and his girlfriend lasted about a month. Soon moved on. Had some sort of fallout with Mary. Not surprising. After they left, I approached Mary and firmly told her “no more tenants, without my OK.” She cast me wounded looks, but agreed.

But she never kept her word. Now and again, someone else would show up, stay for a few days or weeks, then move on. I ignored such activities, as long as the “guests” were quiet. And the rent was paid.

And so it went, up until this month. Mary had family visiting from out of state over Christmas. They stayed upstairs in the apartment and were a bit noisy, but I didn’t fuss. Family and Christmas make for some celebration. And noise.

Things began to unravel one night about three weeks ago. Or I should say, one morning about 3 AM. I was sound asleep, in deep sleep mode. In my dreams, I kept hearing an incessant wailing chopping sound. Roused from slumber, I awoke befuddled and eventually grasped the incredible fact that a baby was bawling its head off in the bedroom directly above me.

Mary has no children. As far as I knew, she hadn’t adopted any baby recently. That could mean only one thing. Some mother with baby had moved in upstairs and the baby, like babies do, was screaming in the middle of the night. I tossed about. Seething. Covered my head with a pillow. It was no use. The baby bawled on. And on and on. At about five o’clock, two hours later, I dozed off for a few minutes before the alarm clamored at 5:45.

I was furious. Later that day I called Mary. Why was a baby bawling loudly above my room at 3 AM?

Mary was evasive. “She had nowhere else to go,” she said. “The mother. So I let her move in, just for a few days.”

“Get that baby out of my house,” I retorted. “In the next few days. In the meantime, have them sleep in the other bedroom, so I won’t hear them.” Mary kept insisting they have nowhere else to go. I remained firm. “I can’t save the world. I’ve got to have my sleep. I pay taxes for shelters. Take her to one.” She finally agreed.

I heard nothing for a few nights, and figured the mother and baby had moved on. Of course, they hadn’t. Three nights later, at 10:15, I went to bed. Settled in, ready for sleep. And just then someone in the apartment above began screaming. An adult. Screaming in loud piercing bursts. The mother had freaked out. Snapped. Unhinged. Totally out of control.

I waited about five minutes. The screaming and stomping escalated. Loud shouts. Murmuring voices, trying to calm her down. Vastly irritated now, I got up, dressed and stomped out to the porch and pounded on Mary’s door. She clumped down the stairs and opened it.

“Get these people the bleep out of my house,” I yelled. Only I didn’t say “bleep.” Used the real word. A bad one. “Now. Or I’m calling the cops.” Which was not exactly true. But I was mad. Furious. I wouldn’t call the cops unless my home was being invaded. Which, in a sense, it was.

Mary assured me they would leave the next day. “Then shut her up,” I raged. ‘What does she think this is? A flop hotel?”

I steamed, frustrated. This was simply maddening. Another night ruined. The voices subsided upstairs, but continued. Half an hour later, I knocked again. Calmer now. Mary answered.

She told me the mother had taken her baby and left in a huff, walking down Rt. 23 toward Leola. It was frigid, about fifteen degrees, with a cutting northwest wind. Her boyfriend, also upstairs (unbeknownst to me), ran after her and took away the baby and brought her back to the apartment. The mother kept walking on into the cold night. Down the highway.

I was horrified. Such senseless drama. How can people exist like that? Mary assured me they would be out tomorrow. Again.

“For every night they stay upstairs after tonight, I will deduct $100 from your security deposit,” I told her sternly. “I’m sick of this. Get these people out of my house.”

I thought she’d followed through this time. I heard nothing for a few days. Until one night after returning from the gym, I heard that cry again. The baby. They were still up there.

I knocked and went up. They stood there. The boyfriend, a wizened little man. The pock-faced mother. Probably a druggy. Holding an infant baby girl, who will never have a chance at a decent life. The place was blue with smoke. Everyone sucked on cigarettes. Except the baby, who will soon enough, I suppose. Just give her a few years.

I confronted them. “Who are you and why are you in my house?” I asked, not unkindly.

The wizened little man opened the bedroom door. Showed me their bed, baby bed, dresser, loads of clothing. All their earthly belongings. “Mary rented us this room. We paid her for it,” he said simply. He wasn’t lying.

And suddenly I felt sorry for them. Trying to survive. Out there. With nothing. Except a baby. And no place to go.

“Look, it’s not your fault,” I said. “Mary had no business renting this room to you, without checking with me first. I had no idea you’re living up here.” Mary, standing by, looked grieved. I glared at her. Don’t even start with your excuses.

I continued. Firmly. “You will NOT sleep in this house one more night. Not one more. If you need a motel room, I’ll get you one. And pay for it. Tomorrow this stuff gets moved out. Period.”

He allowed they had friends who could help him move it out. I told them to pack what they needed and let me know when they were ready. Half an hour later, they knocked. He had a car. They were ready.

They followed me to the Hollander Motel in downtown New Holland and I purchased them a room for two nights. Sixty bucks a night. The wizened little man was grateful. Thanked me and shook my hand. The mother sat huddled in the car and clutched the baby and wouldn’t look at me or speak to me. Can’t blame her, I guess.

And so I left them.

He was true to his word, at least. The next day, they moved all their stuff out. I haven’t seen them since.

But that wasn’t the end. Mary suddenly decided she wanted to return to her family in a large Midwestern city. Asked me if she could move out before the lease was up. I told her she could, as long as the apartment was cleaned out. No return of security until it was.

Her close friend, a guy I’ve known for years, agreed to pay the rent through February and get the place cleaned. So out she went. One night last week. She’s gone. The locks have been changed, in case any of Mary’s thugs still hold a key.

So on March 1st, I will once again have an apartment for rent. In biblical times, Elijah the prophet despaired that there was not one true prophet left in all of Israel. Today, I despair that there is not one sane normal tenant in all of Lancaster County. Not one.

If you know of any, send them my way. Maybe I’m wrong, as Elijah was. Perhaps they’re out there. I just haven’t run into them.

Two bedroom upstairs apartment. Private drive and entrance. No kids. No pets. No loud music after 10 PM. And no thugs, or vagrants with babies. Otherwise, whatever you do is your business.
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Last week I headed out for the Horse World Expo in Baltimore, in a little rented mini van. To set up shop and rub shoulders with horse people for four days. It’s fun to get out of the office for a few days and do something different, although as usual, by the time the show was over, I was sick to death of anything that remotely smacked of horses.

It was different this year. Not as busy as usual. People were wary, skittish. I fielded about a dozen quotes for buildings, instead of the usual three dozen. So I talked components a lot, new roofing, siding, stalls, anything we sell. Gotta’ go where the market is. I spent time loafing and hanging out with my vendor neighbors, most of whom I see once a year, at this show. Someone even went out and got one of those nerf basketballs, and we spent many pleasurable moments shooting hoops during slow times.

By late Sunday afternoon, the place was dead. Everyone was heading home to watch the upcoming Ravens/Steelers game. I broke down my display and snuck out an hour early, at five instead of the scheduled six o’clock. I got in my van and headed for the gate, listening to the early game. And right about then, the Eagles scored the first of their three third-quarter touchdowns.

They showed a lot of heart and almost pulled off one of the greatest comebacks in League Championship history. That much is true. More than once, I almost suffered a stroke and/or drove off the road. But thankfully, the Cards showed some heart of their own, and plowed methodically down the field for the winning touchdown. By the time I approached my home, the game was securely in the bag. I breathed a huge sigh of relief, mostly at not having to listen to gloating Eagles fans at work (and on this site). I unpacked and vegged and watched the second game, which was utterly boring compared to the first.

A few thoughts on the upcoming Super Bowl. The Steelers and Arizona. I’m going with Arizona, simply because they’ve been underestimated by everyone so far, including me. I think they’ve got a real shot at winning this. With one caveat. The officiating. The Steelers always seem to reap the benefit of some truly awful calls. It happened against Baltimore last Sunday. A terrible roughing the kicker call. The guy wasn’t touched. The Steelers-Seattle Super Bowl game a few years back was won for the Steelers by the officials. I know you Steelers fans will howl, but that was the worst-officiated game I’ve ever seen anywhere. At any level. And I had no dog in that fight. Was actually rooting for the blue collar Steelers against the yuppie Left Coast Seahawks. Not this time. Go Cardinals. Go Warner.

We now have a new President. I watched none of it, but listened to his speech on the internet. Lots of soaring platitudes, not much substance. So far the country seems about like it was before he took office. Stock market’s plunging, it’s still cold, and the seas haven’t parted. We hear a lot of inane simpering about how we should all back Obama and pull for him. Funny, I can’t remember anyone making such statements back when Bush was first inaugurated. I do recall a lot of seething hatred for Bush that has only increased in intensity to sheer lunacy. If Obama introduces sound free market policies, I will support him in a heartbeat. But if he pursues a big-government agenda and the gorging of Leviathan at the inevitable cost of personal freedoms, I will oppose him implacably from day one. So far he’s managed to appoint a cabinet of pretty scary retreads from the Clinton years.

Finally, the muse has struck once again. Lord willing, and the creeks don’t rise, the final Elmo Stoll blog should be ready by next week. Or maybe the following one. Providing I don’t get interrupted or the muse forsakes me.

Of their faces I have no memory, or names,
….. I only know
they poled ice floes and huge cakes
with an indifferent touch, that they argued
long hours against the cold, the wind,
and the incessant and desperate need
for sleep, that at -zero degrees they mopped
brows with red kerchiefs large as sails.

Tom Sheehan, “Cutting Ice”
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With each January the deep freeze came. Weeks and weeks and weeks of relentless bitter cold. The Lake Erie winds swept in and snow covered the ground. Great drifts lined the hard snow-packed gravel roads, creating a tunneling effect for our daily trudges back and forth to school. The pond froze solidly to a depth of a foot or more. And it was time to cut and store ice for the summer months.

Aylmer in those days didn’t allow kerosene refrigerators. Still don’t, as far as I know. The people fashioned rough ice boxes from old used electric refrigerators and placed a chunk of ice in the top compartment to keep it cool. Pretty primitive. But it works. Somewhat. And it’s a lot better than nothing.

The communal ice house was on our farm, converted from an old pig barn Dad had built after moving to Aylmer. Built into a hill, the north side of the bottom floor half buried in the earth. Dad had some new fangled idea that the barn would heat easier if the bottom story was below ground level. Which was a fine idea, probably ahead of its time, except the barn was always damp, because he didn’t get the foundation sealed properly. Raising pigs was a sporadic activity for him anyway, so in time the barn was used for other things. Its cool, damp interior provided the perfect conditions for storing ice long term.

They spoke of it a week or two before. Wondered if the ice on the pond was thick enough. Dad or one of my older brothers tramped out with an axe and chopped a couple of holes at various spots. Measured for thickness. And then one day it was proclaimed. Anyone who wanted ice the next summer should come to our place on the designated date and help cut and haul the ice blocks.

The men gathered that morning from across the community, driving teams of draft horses hitched to bob sleds. Someone dragged out the mothballed ice cutter, an ingenious contraption on two wood-spoked buggy wheels, with a platform in the middle. On it was mounted a gasoline engine and off to one side a large round wicked saw-tooth blade. Brown and rusted from nonuse. The thing was probably concocted by Levi Slaubaugh, the blacksmith. I don’t know who owned it. It always just showed up on that day.

The teams and sleds were parked off shore, while the men shoveled and cleared snow from large square areas on the ice. Maybe thirty feet by thirty feet. After the first area was cleared, the men started clearing another one close by, while the operator approached with the cutter saw and fired up the engine. The saw blade buzzed viciously, the operator slowly pressured it down through the ice. It made a high clean whine as it sliced through to the cold water below. And slowly the operator pushed the cutter saw back and forth. Cutting through the ice in a large grid, about a foot apart. After cutting all the lines one way, he then started cutting across. And slowly the large blocks were cleanly sawed. Ready now to be heaved out and loaded on the sleds.

The teams and bob sleds pulled up then, and the men approached the large cut area armed with poles and tongs. Gingerly they pushed a few blocks of ice down into the water below the others. So they could grasp the others with their tongs. And then the blocks were pulled out in quick rhythm. As the square cleared of ice, they pushed the distant blocks within reach with their poles. And soon that square was devoid of ice blocks, an empty maw of frigid black water.

It was hard cold brutal work. Bend over, hook the tongs on a block and heave it out. The icy water sloshed on the snow and onto their denim pants, which soon froze stiff. Then lift the block and heave it onto the sled. The blocks were heavy, weighing probably fifty to eighty pounds each. After several layers of blocks were loaded on the sled, the driver slapped the reins and clucked to the team. They jangled off, the bob sled slicing smoothly through the snow. Down the lane on the east side of the pond, toward the road. Then west the few hundred feet to our drive, the sled now and again hitting a patch of gravel or exposed dirt, the horses straining momentarily to pull the abruptly resistant load.

Up to the north side of the old pig barn, there the sled halted. Down below, two men waited in the gloomy interior. A Coleman lantern glowed dimly in the flickering shadows. The blocks were then lifted from the sled and placed on a wooden chute and slid into the darkness below. There the two men stacked them, tamping each layer with several inches of wet brown fine-cut sawdust that we had hauled over months before from Eli C. Miller’s sawmill. The last block slid down the chute and the bob sled driver headed out for another load.

And so it went all day long, cutting, loading, hauling, unloading. A great pile of ice blocks accumulated in the ice house.

They usually harvested the ice from the southern, shallower half of the pond. Just in case. The northern end was deep, deeper than a man. If someone slipped and fell in, he might never come up again.

We children were usually in school on ice cutting day. Probably just as well, so we wouldn’t get underfoot, or fall into the water. One day, we came home from school to a great buzz of excitement. No one was unloading ice, and all the sleds were parked on the east bank of the pond, empty. Men were running about, lugging large wooden planks and ropes and talking in loud excited voices. We were soon told why, and ran out to see for ourselves.

One of the drivers had allowed his team to get too close to the cutout hole. One horse slipped and slid in, dragging his partner with him. Somehow the sled was unhitched. Now the two horses stood there in chest deep freezing water, shivering and panicked.

I don’t know how they got the team out of that frigid black watery grave, but they did. With planks and a contraption of ropes and pulleys, the men somehow got the horses’ front hooves out over the ice again. And pulled them out with another team. The shivering horses were quickly led into our warm barn and wiped down. They both survived, amazingly.

After a day or two of cutting and hauling and storing, the ice house was full enough. For everyone’s needs in the summer months. The final pile was covered with a foot or more of sawdust. So the ice would actually be there next summer when we needed it.

And it always was. Amazingly well preserved. We dug into the sawdust pile with shovels and pried the blocks loose with sticks, exposing the great frozen chunks from another world. Lugged them outside and washed them with the water hose. For use in the ice box. And for our frequent summer treat, home made ice cream.

Ice harvesting as we knew it exists only in a few locales today. Probably still in Aylmer and a handful of other Amish communities that hold the line. People who obstinately refuse to modernize to kerosene or gas refrigerators. But that’s their choice. And it’s fine. The Amish lifestyle in general preserves a lot of old methods that would otherwise be lost. I hold no strong opinion as to whether that’s a good thing or an indifferent thing. It’s just the way it is.
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I feel like a stranger in a strange land. Surrounded by uncouth ruffians, otherwise known as Eagles fans. It ain’t right. Probably not entirely safe, either.

For those out of the loop, the thug Philadelphia Eagles defeated the Giants (as I feared) and now need only one more win to reach the Super Bowl. After the Giants game, I received many inane texts from Eagles fans, mostly repeating the same idiotic phrase, “Fly, Eagles, fly.” You’d think they could come up with something a bit more original. But apparently that’s about the extent of their literary aspirations.

Eagles fans are known worldwide as more akin to English soccer fans than anything else. The roughest, most uncouth fans in the NFL. Some years ago, Santa himself was famously booed at an Eagles game. How childish is that? And once, back in the 1990s, as a Cowboys player lay temporarily paralyzed on the field, seriously injured, the lowlife Eagles fans cheered. Kind of gives you an idea of what I’ve got to deal with every week. And it only gets more intense with each Eagles win.

But they are where they are. The team, I mean. Playing Arizona this Sunday afternoon. I fear for the Arizona players, but remain hopeful they will continue their amazing run and beat the thugs.

I’ve never liked McNabb. Most Eagles fans, in their more honest moments, would agree with me. But even so, I’ve come to grudgingly respect him. He’s an old warrior, a grizzled veteran, on a last desperate quest to win it all. And he may just get it done.

But I hope not. And hope is a precious thing.

My predictions: Arizona and Baltimore in the Super Bowl. Come on, Cardinals. Don’t let me down now.

Before I post again, The One will be crowned King for Life, in the most lavish inauguration ceremony this country has ever seen. The whole world will look on in awe and wonder, as the sycophantic press swoons with breathless accolades. It’s sickening. Not the actual event. He won and deserves some attention as he enters office. And it is a historic thing, our first non-white President. But the orgasmic proclamations of the coming of the Messiah are a bit much. I’m already fed up. Tuned out. Can’t imagine that I’ll watch any of it. Unless it’s grimly, as a solemn witness to the breaking dawn of imminent disaster. Maybe even the end of the world. (Just kidding on that last one).