The Last Word On Nothing

January is such a bitch. I have personal reasons to feel this and so do most of the people I talk to: bad things are happening or anniversaries of bad things have come around again. People are losing their jobs; they’re having non-trivial surgical procedures; kids are having urgent psychiatric problems; relatives are seriously sick; people’s mental abilities are slowly sliding away; people are dying before they should or even when they should. These are terrible things. They are no one’s fault and under no one’s control, and I can’t do a thing about them.

January actually has a range and includes less-bad things. These lesser things are also unwilled and uncontrollable. January does this because it can, it doesn’t care. This situation is not fair, it shall not stand, and I vowed a mighty vow to fight January, at least the lesser bads, even though my weapons are feeble.

I saw a Facebook post from a chocolatier and because the chocolatier is, or was, local and because the chocolates had a Frenchy name and are quite good, I re-posted it and then our Helen commented: was I offering to send her some Frenchy chocolate, she said. Why yes, I said, and so I did. She said thank you, chocolate helps with the January blues. You too? I said. So we discussed antidotes to January.

Aside from chocolate, Helen’s antidotes included weekly exercise classes and altogether, she said, she felt she was doing everything she could but thought she’d be happier if she took more walks. I couldn’t get myself to exercise class for any reason but I do walk every day. Well, she said, her exercise class had other real live people in it but a walk for the sake of a walk? she couldn’t get herself out the door. She needs a destination, she said. I see the charm of real live people, sweet baby Jesus, I really do; but I don’t need a destination because the way I get myself out the front door is: get dressed, walk downstairs and outside to see what’s going on the in the world, and here’s the thing, it’s a dense neighborhood and a LOT is going on. That is, a person wouldn’t need a destination when there’s all this to keep track of.

The local chocolatier, for instance: he was German or Swiss or something and years ago he lived in a house up the street with a blonde who had notions so they eventually moved to a fancier neighborhood. But I kept buying his chocolates, especially the thin dark wafers, and this went on for decades until the pandemic hit and he retired and went out of business — like, done, over with, no more chocolates, and I went into mourning but everybody was in mourning then and for so much more than chocolate, so I toughed it out. BUT THEN after a couple of years, some Asian people, maybe Japanese, bought the chocolatier’s name, set up a new store, and I could get those wafers again. The new possibly-Japanese chocolatiers advertised some new Frenchy chocolates, still under the old German or Swiss name, and I knew Helen would appreciate the international aspects of this situation.

So anyway, keeping track = taking an interest = an anti-January weapon. Also for instance during morning walks: the chocolatier sold his house to some friendly people who, every spring, put out on their sidewalk in the sun, flats of flower seedlings that they later plant in their garden and though these people work in the visual arts, their garden is unstructured and the colors are yelling like a political press conference. Which is unlike their neighbor’s garden — granted, done by a professional — which is structured like a Persian city rug with a pattern of delights, some spiky, some fluffy, some flowing, and in soft colors like a quiet song. I am critical and analytical about other peoples’ gardens but I try not to be judgmental.

I note whose cars are gone and whether they’re now at work or out running 10 miles (really, jeez) or probably getting coffee and a bagel; and whose cars are there so they’re working from home or retired or just getting up late. I say good morning to the high school senior waiting for her ride to school who used to run like gravity was no bother and now wears non-subtle but artful makeup. I say good morning to any number of other people.

So I think I’m well on the way to surviving, maybe even vanquishing, January. BUT THEN January saw what I was up to and attacked the local infrastructure. In the last week, on two separate nights, firetrucks showed up at two separate houses in the middle of the night, all red flashing lights and feelings of doom. No fires, as it turns out, but an ongoing sense of “what next?”

Well next, same week, streetlights on the whole block went out and because it gets dark early and because this is Baltimore, nobody likes dark streets at 5:00 p.m. The neighbors rallied and reported the outages to the city who referred the reports to Baltimore Gas & Electric which put the reports on a nice little interactive map, some reports verified, some awaiting verification, and nearly a week later, that’s that: the maps haven’t changed and in spite of porch lights, the street is dark.

Same week, while the neighbors’ attention was on street lights, January took the opportunity to blow up the water main at the top of the street, turning it into a river: “The water is running!” the little kids yell, waving their arms around, “the water is running!” The city took 24 hours to get serious but they’re out there with diggers and trucks and guys in bright vests, working in the rain. My side of the street has a trickle of water from the faucets; the other side has no water at all. No idea how long this lasts. Unofficial, uninformed communication is rampant. “What’s next” has gone from a vague forboding to plans for urban survival.

For the time being, January wins. I did learn from the Vietnam War that one possibility when you’re losing is to stop fighting and claim that you’ve won. So my current mighty vow is to wait until February and then declare victory. Meanwhile, everybody out there, keep your heads down, take care, good luck. It’s still January.

Update as of the date of this post: the broken water main is fixed, as is the associated broken fire hydrant (and in spite of closely-reasoned arguments by highly educated intelligent neighbors, I am skeptical that fire trucks attaching their hoses to the hydrant caused the water main break; I mean, the cause is clearly January). The street lights are not fixed; the street remains dark.

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picture is an eyewitness description of January from the astounding collections at Public Domain Review, which also supplies our header images.