Can't and Won't: Stories - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Lydia Davis (V) #5

V

My Childhood Friend

Who is this old man walking along looking a little grim with a wool cap on his head?

But when I call out to him and he turns around, he doesn’t know me at first, either — this old woman smiling foolishly at him in her winter coat.

Their Poor Dog

That irritating dog:

They didn’t want it and gave it to us.

We pushed it away and smacked it on the head and tied it up.

It barked, it panted, it lunged.

We gave it back to them. They kept it for a while.

Then they sent it to an animal shelter. It was put in a concrete pen.

Visitors came and looked at it. It stood on the concrete on its four black-and-white paws.

No one wanted it.

It had no good qualities. It did not know that.

New dogs kept coming in to the shelter. After a while, they had no more space for it.

They took it into the euthanizing room to be euthanized.

It had to walk around the other dogs that were on the floor.

It leaped and pulled. It was frightened by the other dogs, and the smell.

They gave it a shot. They let it stay where it fell, and went off to get another dog.

They always took all the dead dogs out at once, at the end, to save time.

Hello Dear

Hello dear,

do you remember

how we communicated with you?

Long ago you could not see,

but I am Marina — with Russia.

Do you remember me?

I am writing this mail to you

with heavy tears in my eyes

and great sorrow in my heart.

Come to my page.

I want you please to consider me

with so much full heartily.

Please — let us talk.

I’m waiting!

Not Interested

I’m simply not interested in reading this book. I was not interested in reading the last one I tried, either. I’m less and less interested in reading any of the books I have, though they are reasonably good, I suppose.

Just as, the other day, when I went out to the backyard, planning to gather up some sticks and branches and carry them to the pile in the far corner of the meadow, I suddenly became so deeply bored by the thought of picking up those sticks and carrying them, yet again, to that pile, and then coming back through the high meadow grass for more, that I did not even begin, and simply went inside.

Now I can do it again. It was only on that one day that I was bored. Then the feeling went away, and now I can go out again, pick up the sticks and branches, and take them to the pile. Actually, I pick up the sticks and carry them in my arms, and I drag the larger branches. I don’t do both at once. I can make about three trips back and forth before I get tired and quit.

The books I’m talking about are supposed to be reasonably good, but they simply don’t interest me. In fact, they may be a lot better than certain other books I have, but sometimes the books that aren’t so good interest me more.

The day before that one particular day, and the day after it, I was willing to pick up sticks and take them back to the pile. Actually, for many days before, and many days after. Could I even say: all the days before that day, and all the days after? Don’t ask me why I wasn’t bored on other days. I’ve often wondered why, myself.

If I think about it, it may be that there is some satisfaction in seeing the haphazard pile of sticks and branches near the house get smaller each day, as I carry or drag them back. There is some interest, though not much, so little, in fact, that it is right on the edge of boredom, in looking at the meadow passing under my feet: the grasses, the wildflowers, and the occasional wild animal scat. Then, when I reach the brush pile in the back, there is the best moment: I weigh the bundle of sticks in my arms, or balance the branch in my two hands, and then heave them, or it, as far up to the top of the brush pile as I can. The walk back through the meadow is easy, with my arms and hands free and loose, compared to the walk out to the pile; I look around at the treetops and the sky, as well as at the house, though it never changes and is not interesting.

But on that particular day I did not even begin to feel interested in this chore, and was suddenly more deeply bored than I ever have been before, and just turned around and went back inside. Which made me wonder why I wanted to do this chore at all, on other days, and also which was real: my slight interest on other days or my profound boredom now. And it made me wonder if I really should be profoundly bored by this chore all the time and never do it again, and if there was something wrong with my mind that I was not bored by it all the time.

I’m not tired of all good books, I’m just tired of novels and stories, even good ones, or ones that are supposed to be good. These days, I prefer books that contain something real, or something the author at least believed to be real. I don’t want to be bored by someone else’s imagination. Most people’s imagination just isn’t very interesting — you can guess where the author got this idea and that idea. You can predict what will come next before you finish reading one sentence. It all seems so arbitrary.

But it’s true that I’m also bored, sometimes, by my own dreams, and by the act of dreaming: here I go again, this scene does not make sense, I must be falling asleep, this is a dream, I’m about to start dreaming again. And I am sometimes bored even by the act of thinking: Here’s another thought, I’m about to find it interesting or not interesting — not this again! In fact, I am sometimes bored by my friendships: Oh, we will spend the evening together, we will talk, then I will go home — this again!

Actually, I don’t mean I’m bored by old novels and books of stories if they’re good. Just new ones — good or bad. I feel like saying: Please spare me your imagination, I’m so tired of your vivid imagination, let someone else enjoy it. That’s how I’m feeling these days, anyway, maybe it will pass.

Old Woman, Old Fish

The fish that has been sitting in my stomach all afternoon was so old by the time I cooked and ate it, no wonder I am uncomfortable — an old woman digesting an old fish.

Staying at the Pharmacist’s

story from Flaubert

Where am I staying? In the home of a pharmacist! Yes, but whose student is he? Dupré’s! Isn’t that fantastic?

Like Dupré, he makes a lot of seltzer water.

“I’m the only one in Trouville who makes seltzer water,” he says.

And it’s true that often, as early as eight o’clock in the morning, I am woken by the noise of corks flying away: pif, paf, and cccrrrout!

The kitchen is also the laboratory. Among the saucepans, there rises, in an arc, from a monstrous still, a

fearful tube of steaming copper

and often they can’t put the pot on the fire because of the pharmaceutical preparations.

To go to the shithouse in the courtyard, you have to step over baskets filled with bottles. They have a pump out there that spits water and sprays your legs. The two boys rinse jars. A parrot squawks over and over all day long: “Have you had lunch, Jako?” or “Coco, my little Coco!” And a kid of about ten, the son of the house, the great hope of the pharmacy, practices feats of strength by lifting weights with his teeth.

A piece of foresight which I find touching is that there’s always paper in the WC—gummed paper or, rather, waxed paper. It’s the wrapping from packages — they don’t know what else to do with it.

The pharmacist’s latrine is so small and dark that you have to leave the door open when you crap, and you can hardly move your elbows to wipe your ass.

The family dining room is right there, close by.

You hear the sound of the turds falling into the can, mingled with the sound of pieces of meat being turned over on the plates. Belches alternating with farts, etc. — charming.

And that eternal parrot! Right now it’s whistling: “I’ve got good tobacco, yes I do!”

The Song

Something has happened, in a house, and then something else has happened, but no one is bothered. The light, pleasant voice of a man begins to sing in an upstairs hallway, aimlessly, steadily. We hardly notice. Then, from the bottom of the stairwell, abruptly, comes the savage shout of another man: “Who sing!?!” The singing voice falls silent.

dream

Two Former Students

One former student told the other former student to go away, out there, in the snow, at night.

Go away, he said to the other. If she sees us both, she will label us both former students, forgetting that I am I and you are you.

He was the older former student. He had fought in a war. He had not reenlisted because he wanted to do something else with his life. He was deaf in one ear.

The other former student was young, but he had been to Europe.

It was true that as she looked out the window at them walking back and forth under the streetlight, they were, in her mind, two former students, more so than if each of them had been alone, fully himself, though also, unavoidably, a former student.

dream

A Small Story About a Small Box of Chocolates

A very kind man had made a little gift to her, on her visit to Vienna that fall, of a box of chocolates. The box was so small it could sit in the palm of her hand, and yet, as though by a miracle, it contained 32 tiny, perfect chocolates, all different, in two layers of 16 each.

She had carried it home from Vienna without eating any, as she always carried home food that she acquired on a trip. She wanted to show it to her husband, and she intended to share it with him. But after she opened the box and they both admired the chocolates, she shut the box again without taking a chocolate and without offering him one, and put the box away in her private workplace. There she kept it and looked at it from time to time.

She thought of sharing it with her students the next time she went to class, but she did not take it.

She did not open the box and her husband did not ask about the chocolates either. She could not believe he had forgotten them, since she herself thought of them and looked at the box so often. But after a couple of weeks, she had to believe he had forgotten about them.

She thought of having one chocolate each day, but she did not want to begin eating the chocolates without some special occasion.

She thought of sharing the box with 31 friends, but she could not decide when to begin that.

Finally, when the end of the semester and the last night of her class came, she decided to take the chocolates with her and share them. She was afraid she had waited too long, since four weeks had passed since the kind man had given her the chocolates in Vienna, and the chocolates might be stale, but she put rubber bands around the box and took it anyway.

She told her students how it amazed her to think that a box of chocolates so small could be shared with 31 friends. She thought they would laugh, but they did not. Perhaps they were not sure if it would be polite to laugh, or perhaps they did not think that what she had said was funny. She could not always predict their reactions. She herself thought it was funny, or at least interesting.

She took the lid off the box and handed it to the nearest student. She invited them all to admire the chocolates.

“Can we also eat one?” asked the student who was holding the box, “or should we just look at them?” He was perhaps joking, but perhaps she had not been clear that she was sharing the chocolates with them.

“Of course you should eat them,” she said.

“May I see the lid of the box?” asked another student.

The lid was almost as beautiful as the chocolates. It was green and closely decorated with little medieval figures and buildings in orange, yellow, black, white, and gold. On little white banners, black letters in German Gothic script spelled out what seemed to be proverbs — short sayings that rhymed. She could understand only a few words of each proverb. One recommended acting like a sundial.

The hungry students each took one tiny chocolate — or perhaps, since she was not watching them closely, some took none and some took more than one. She had planned to share the chocolates with 31 different friends, but now she felt sorry for the tired, hungry students and sent the box around the room again. One student, a young man from Canada, took responsibility for gathering up the tiny empty paper holders from inside the box and carrying them to the wastebasket by the classroom door.

After the class, she put the rubber bands around the box again and carried it back home.

She herself had not yet eaten a chocolate, and she was a little worried that she had waited too long. How long could one keep chocolates sitting in a box? She had been afraid the chocolates would taste stale to the students. But only one student was an expert in chocolates, she was sure. That student would not say anything, out of politeness, or perhaps had not even taken a chocolate, knowing how long ago she had been in Vienna.

Then, two days later, she could not find the box in her bag or her briefcase and was afraid she had lost it. She even thought for a moment that perhaps a student had stolen it.

Then she looked more carefully and found it. She opened the box and counted: 7 chocolates out of 32 remained in the box—25 had been eaten. Yet there were only 11 students in the class.

She put it once again in her workplace, on the old Mexican bench that she liked so much.

She wondered whether it was right to eat a chocolate by herself, and, if it was right, then whether one had to be in a certain mood or frame of mind to eat a chocolate by oneself. It did not seem right to eat a chocolate out of anger, or resentment, or greed, but only out of a lust for pleasure, or in a mood of happiness or celebration. But if one did eat a chocolate by oneself out of greed, was it less wrong if the chocolate was very small?

She knew that she did not want to share the remaining chocolates.

When at last she ate a chocolate, by herself, it was very good, rich and bitter, sweet and strange at the same time. The taste of it remained in her mouth minute after minute, so that she wanted to eat another one, to begin the pleasure all over again. She had planned to eat one each day until they were gone. But now she ate another right away. She wanted to eat a third, but did not. The next day, she ate two, one after the other, out of a lust for pleasure, in defiance of what she thought was right. And the next day, she ate one more out of a vague, indefinite hunger, not necessarily for food.

She found the chocolates so good that she decided she had not waited too long, after all. Unless she was not qualified to judge, and there was a difference, imperceptible to her but perceptible to an expert, such as the one student she believed was an expert, between the taste of a chocolate eaten right away and one eaten after four weeks.

Then she asked her student, the expert in good chocolates, where in the city she could buy the best chocolates. Her student gave her the name of the best store for chocolates, and she went to that store hoping to find tiny chocolates like those given to her by the kind man in Vienna. But the store offered only larger chocolates, chocolates of a more typical size, good in their own way but not what she wanted.

She did not like to eat larger chocolates, she decided. Now that she had, for the first time, experienced the tiniest of chocolates, that was what she preferred.

She had, some months before, been offered a chocolate in Connecticut, in the home of a rather severe Belgian woman whom she had known for many years. It had been a good chocolate, as far as she could tell, but she had found it a little too large, too large to eat quickly, in any case. She had taken many small bites of it, and enjoyed those bites, but had not wanted another chocolate when urged. The other people present had found that strange, and the Belgian woman had laughed at her.

The Woman Next to Me on the Airplane

The woman next to me has many fast and easy crossword puzzles to do during the flight, from a book called Fast and Easy Crosswords. I have only slow and difficult crosswords, or impossible crosswords. She finishes each puzzle and turns the page, as we fly at top speed through the air. I stare at one page and don’t finish any.

Writing

Life is too serious for me to go on writing. Life used to be easier, and often pleasant, and then writing was pleasant, though it also seemed serious. Now life is not easy, it has gotten very serious, and by comparison, writing seems a little silly. Writing is often not about real things, and then, when it is about real things, it is often at the same time taking the place of some real things. Writing is too often about people who can’t manage. Now I have become one of those people. I am one of those people. What I should do, instead of writing about people who can’t manage, is just quit writing and learn to manage. And pay more attention to life itself. The only way I will get smarter is by not writing anymore. There are other things I should be doing instead.

Wrong Thank-You in Theater

At the back of the auditorium, as the theater fills for the event, I stand up from my seat to let a woman get past me to her seat in the row.

“Thanks,” she says.

“Mmm-hmm!” I say in acknowledgment.

But I have misunderstood. She was not thanking me, she was thanking the usher, who is standing a few feet behind me.

“No, I meant her,” she says, without looking at me.

She just wanted to make that clear.

The Rooster

Today I paid a condolence call on Safwan, the owner of the Farm and Country Deli. His rooster was killed last week on the road. I had first stopped at the house across from the deli, where there are many chickens and three roosters — but it was not one of those that had been killed. I talked to Safwan for a little while. He said he would not be getting another rooster — the road was too dangerous. His rooster had often wandered into the road pecking at crumbs, Safwan said, instead of staying in the backyard, because of the dog in the yard next door, which frightened him.

After I had paid my condolence call, I picked up two of the rooster’s oily green feathers from the side of the road for a keepsake, and returned home. I sent my friend Rachel a message telling her that I was sad about Safwan’s rooster, whose regular cry all day long had made me happy. Each time I heard it, I felt I was really living out in the country — at least farther out in the country than I had been in my last place.

Rachel, who always has many lines of poetry in her head, sent me in return some lines from a poem by Elizabeth Bishop: “Oh, why should a hen/have been run over/on West 4th Street…?” I liked the lines, though I had trouble imagining a hen alive on West 4th Street, let alone a hen that had been run over. I then found another line by Elizabeth Bishop about a hen, in a poem about a hermit and some train tracks: “The pet hen went chook-chook.” To me, “chook-chook” sounded more like a train than the hen.

Later I met some neighbors of mine who had witnessed the accident. They said they had been driving south in their van towards the deli when they saw the rooster in the road in front of them. At the same time, there was a tractor-trailer coming from the opposite direction, north towards the deli. The rooster had hastened to get out of the way of the van, and in his haste had run straight into the path of the tractor-trailer. The neighbors smiled as they told the story. I suppose they were amused by the violence of the impact and the sight of the bird exploding up into the air off the front of the truck, feathers everywhere.

A few days later I realized that there might have been another reason why the rooster had wandered over to the far side of the road. He was the only bird that Safwan owned. He might have gone across the road to visit the neighbors’ chicken coop with its little crowd of hens and roosters. He was probably interested in them and liked to watch them through their fence, maybe even try to challenge the other roosters. I realized this when I was studying a book about raising poultry: hens and roosters are sociable creatures and prefer to be part of a flock, it said. When you are ready to buy your chicks, be sure to buy at least five.

Sitting with My Little Friend

Sitting with my little friend in the sunshine on the front step:

I am reading a book by Blanchot

and she is licking her leg.

The Old Soldier

story from Flaubert

I saw something the other day that moved me, though I had nothing to do with it. We were three miles from here, at the ruins of the Château de Lassay (built in six weeks for Madame Du Barry, who had the idea of coming to take sea baths in the area). There’s nothing left but a staircase, a large Louis XV staircase, a few windows without panes, a wall, and wind … wind! It’s on a plateau within sight of the sea. Next to it is a peasant hut. We went in to get a drink of milk for Liline, who was thirsty. The little garden had lovely hollyhocks as high as the eaves, a few rows of beans, a cauldron full of dirty water. Nearby a pig was grunting, and farther off, beyond the enclosure, unfenced foals grazed and whinnied, their full, flowing manes moving in the wind from the sea.

Inside the hut, on the wall, was a picture of the Emperor and another of Badinguet! I was probably about to make some joke, when I saw, sitting in a corner by the fireplace, half paralyzed, a thin old man with a two-week-old beard. Above his armchair, hanging on the wall, were two gold epaulettes! The poor old man was so infirm that he had trouble holding his spoon. No one was paying any attention to him. He sat there ruminating, groaning, eating from a platter of beans. The sun shone in the window onto the iron bands around the buckets, making him squint. The cat lapped milk from a pan on the floor. And that was all. In the distance, the vague sound of the sea.

I thought about how, in this perpetual half-sleep of old age (which precedes the other sleep, and is a sort of transition from life to nothingness), the fellow no doubt was seeing once again the snows of Russia or the sands of Egypt. What visions were floating before those cloudy eyes? And what clothes he wore! What a jacket — patched and clean! The woman who served us (his daughter, I imagine) was a fifty-year-old gossip in a short skirt, with calves like the balusters in the Place Louis XV and a cotton cap on her head. She came and went in her blue stockings and coarse skirt, and splendid Badinguet was there in the midst of it all, mounted on a yellow horse, three-cornered hat in hand, saluting a cohort of war wounded, their wooden legs all precisely aligned.

The last time I visited the Château de Lassay was with Alfred. I can still remember the conversation we had, the verses we recited, the plans we made …

Two Sligo Lads

Two Sligo lads are on their way to work at an immense factory that looms up ahead of them on the horizon. Abruptly, then, they are whirled up into a fairground ride consisting of spinning cars moving in elliptical arcs, so far above me that they are mere specks in the sky. As they revolve, crossing over and over, they cry out to me “Hello, hello,” again and again, at irregular intervals. Then the ride is gone, but they are still there, circling. They might now be seagulls.

dream

The Woman in Red

Standing near me is a tall woman in a dark red dress. She has a dazed, rather blank expression on her face. She might be drugged, or this is simply her habitual expression. I am a little afraid of her. A red snake in front of me rears up and threatens me, at the same time changing form once or twice, acquiring tentacles like a squid, etc. Behind it is a large puddle of water in the middle of a broad path. To protect me from the snake, the woman in the red dress lays three broad-brimmed red hats down on the surface of the puddle of water.

dream

If at the Wedding (at the Zoo)

If we hadn’t stopped on our way to the ceremony to look at the pen of black pigs, we wouldn’t have seen the very large pig lunge at the smaller one, to force him away from the feeding trough.

If we hadn’t come early and seated ourselves on a bench in the sunlight under the pavilion roof to await the start of the ceremony, we wouldn’t have seen the runaway pony trot past trailing its rope.

If we hadn’t heard the sudden murmur of our neighbors on the benches in the cold sunlight under the pavilion before the start of the ceremony, we wouldn’t have looked up to see the bride coming in her bright green dress from a distance walking briskly with long strides hand in hand with her mother.

If we hadn’t craned our necks to look around the people standing in front of us prepared to officiate and take part in the ceremony, we wouldn’t have seen how the bride came, her head bowed, her mother’s head bowed, her mother talking seriously to her, the two of them never looking up, as though there were no one else present, towards the pavilion, the guests, the poised cameras, the ceremony, and her future husband, who stood waiting for her.

If we hadn’t looked away from the ceremony in which the couple getting married stood before their officiating Buddhist friend while their other assembled friends and family chanted Indian and other chants, we wouldn’t have seen the Hasidic and Asian families walk past the pavilion gazing curiously at us on their way to and from the Corn Maze.

If we hadn’t walked across the room in which the reception was beginning, past the two accordionists, man and woman, to look out the back windows at the wedding party being photographed in the cold October sunlight late in the day to the sound of klezmer music, we wouldn’t have seen the two families of pheasants run along the crest of the pumpkin field towards the shelter of the woods.

If we hadn’t walked across the reception room to stand next to strangers at the back windows, we wouldn’t have seen the wedding party being photographed with their faces towards the setting sun, holding one another in the cold, laughing and stumbling as they changed positions and poses between shots, with accordion music behind us in our background so that the scene we were watching was suddenly like the end of a happy Italian movie.

If we hadn’t returned to look out the back windows later during the reception, after the speeches in the far corner of the room and after the dinner sitting close to people we knew but across from strangers, we wouldn’t have seen the brown cow raise her nose and toss her head, standing under a tree, and chew her cud looking up at the sky.

If we hadn’t left the reception hall for a moment after dark, before coming back in to the light and music and dancing, we wouldn’t have seen the black round shapes in the branches of the trees, which were the chickens roosting.

The Gold Digger of Goldfields

It was called Goldfields, it was a ghost town — boarded-up saloons, population 100. The wells were poisoned with arsenic, still are. We found that out later. Jim’s stepmother had cancer, maybe from the arsenic in the wells. Jim’s father was selling off his coin collection a little at a time to pay for her treatment. She got worse and he flew her back to the cancer hospital, but it was too late. She died.

Two weeks later, they sent Jim a message about his father — there’s a medical emergency, come out right away. We drove thirty-six hours straight. But he was dead, too, by the time we got there.

We didn’t know about whatever it’s called — compassionate airfare. We’d already driven through five states by the time someone told us about that. Jim said, We’ve already driven this far — we’re driving.

Jim got sleepy after twenty-four hours and let me drive. But he can’t sleep in the car, so after three hours he took over again. Alyce kept texting us to come home. I told her to do her homework and stop worrying. She had no idea how far away we were.

Where are you? she kept saying. She thought we were in New Jersey. Where? Nevada? she kept asking.

Go get a map, I said.

We didn’t know what we’d find when we got there.

Jim’s sister Lisa, the one I call the gold digger, had looked all over for what was left of the coins, she wanted more money for caring for him. She said she had no money to bury him. She said they had to take their tax money to have him cremated.

When we got there, we kept finding coins all over the house. Piles of coins. Lisa, the gold digger, didn’t find them. She didn’t know where to look. She took all the guns out, though, before we got there.

Jim’s other sister, the executor, told us (from New Jersey) to get all his papers together. Jim couldn’t do it, he wasn’t up to it. He would go into his father’s bedroom and just sit there. That’s all he could do. I did it. I knew him, but I wasn’t that close to him. I went through all the papers, sorted them, put them in files by year.

I said to Lisa, You should see a psychiatrist — after being so close to him, all you want is his coin collection? Why didn’t you take it before he died?

She thought she should have gotten more because she took care of him. That’s not what was in the will.

We drove thirty-six hours straight going back, too. Hitting the deer on the way home was the last straw for Jim. He used some language about that.

The other sister, the executor, wanted us to come to New Jersey. Jim kept saying no, we want to get home. She kept asking us to come. Finally he said we would. It was when we were in Pennsylvania forking off towards New Jersey that we hit the deer. It was a rental car, so we had to wait there for the police so we could file a report. One headlight was broken. It cost $1,000 to repair. The insurance didn’t pay for it because there was a $1,000 deductible.

All Jim wanted was something like a belt buckle to remember him by. A silver belt buckle. I said to his sister the gold digger, You should see a psychiatrist.

Jim’s father had a water cooler in his house. I always wondered why he had a water cooler. Now I know.

The Old Vacuum Cleaner Keeps Dying on Her

The old vacuum cleaner keeps dying on her

over and over

until at last the cleaning woman

scares it by yelling:

“Motherfucker!”

Flaubert and Point of View

At the Blessing of the Hounds, on the opening day of fox-hunting season, a Saturday (large horses sleekly groomed, men and women in red riding costumes seated on them or holding them by the bridle, a little girl less interested in the horses than in her friend across the road, as small as she is, almost small enough to walk right under the bellies of these tall horses, the duck or goose that can be heard in the occasional silence squawking in the brook down below the country store, the car that now and then approaches this congested small country square and then turns around as best it can, the two pug dogs held on a leash by an elderly woman who says that she has brought them to see the Blessing of the Hounds, the onlookers holding their coffee cups steaming in the cool early-morning air, the pack of hunting dogs milling about loose in the road, tightly controlled by the handler with her long whip, the speech of the Master of the Hounds and the silences as he pauses with bowed head between remarks, when the duck or goose can be heard squawking), I am reminded, at last, of Flaubert’s lesson concerning the singular point of view, not by the little girl interested mainly in her friend, the other little girl, or by the duck or goose interested only in whatever it is that is making it squawk down below in the brook, but by the two pug dogs, as they strain at their leashes to reach one particular spot on the ground, intent not on the horses, the riders, the speech of the Master of the Hounds, the hunting dogs, or the squawking duck or goose, but only on the yellowish-white dollops of foam that have dropped from the mouth of a high-spirited horse nearby onto the dark pavement and that are so strange to them and so fragrant.

Family Shopping

The plump, pretty younger sister is running out of the store. The thin, older sister is running after her. The pretty younger sister is carrying a bag of cheese twists. She had left the thin older sister behind in the store to pay for them.

“Give that to me!” says the older sister. “I’ll wring your neck!”

Local Obits

Helen loved long walks, gardening, and her grandchildren.

Richard founded his own business.

Anna later helped on the family farm.

Robert enjoyed his home.

Alfred enjoyed his best friends, which were his two cats.

Henry enjoyed woodworking.

Ed loved life and lived it to the fullest.

John enjoyed fishing and woodworking.

“Tootles” enjoyed puzzles of all kinds, painting items her husband built, and keeping in touch with family and friends via the computer.

Tammy enjoyed reading and bowling. She bowled in the Mixed League at the Barbecue Recreation Lanes.

Margaret enjoyed watching NASCAR, doing crossword puzzles, and spending time with her grandchildren.

Eva was an avid gardener, bird watcher, and also enjoyed reading and writing poetry. She loved entertaining.

Madeleine traveled extensively. She enjoyed painting, ceramics, bridge, golf, any card game, word search puzzles, gardening, coin and stamp collecting, and flower arranging. She loved visiting with friends both at camp and at the family home on Main Street.

Albert was an animal lover.

Jean, a special-ed aide, liked to crochet and knit.

Harold enjoyed hunting, fishing, camping, and time spent with family.

Charlotte was an avid quilter, and also loved picking blueberries on her farm in Taborton.

Alvin was a skilled craftsman and gardener. He was also an avid sportsman, enjoying trout fishing, ice fishing, grouse and deer hunting. He was a member of the Ruffed Grouse Society.

Richard enjoyed his favorite hobbies of fishing and boating, and was a thirty-year member of the Hook Boat Club.

Sven, 80, a builder, was a member of the Free and Accepted Masons, the Nordic Glee Club, and the American Union of Swedish Singers. He liked to travel, hunt, golf, and throw parties. He was most often found in his workshop building something.

Spencer poured his remaining years into milking cows and tilling the land. He always liked the smell of fresh-cut hay on a hot summer day. He loved the animals and seemed like he could live in the barn. He always spoke of the old days when the neighborhood was all farmers and how they would always lend a helping hand. Sons and nephews who worked with him found it hard to keep pace even though they were twenty to thirty years younger. He lived a full life, continuing to do tractor work on the farm even after it was sold.

He also enjoyed watching football in the fall, and always said Joe Montana was the best QB to play the game.

In later years, he liked to visit Stewart’s regularly with his brother Harold and watch the people. He had the gift of gab; with anyone who knew him or even didn’t know him, he would strike up an hour-long conversation.

Helena, 70, liked long walks.

Mrs. Brown was a registered nurse for thirty-two years. She was very fond of the nursing field.

Roxanna was an avid golfer and bowler, and loved crocheting and oil and watercolor painting.

Frederick was the owner of Half Moon Saloon for ten years and was a member of the Elks Lodge, where he served as past exalted ruler for a year.

Benjamin, 91, was a WWII vet and a brick mason.

Jessie, 93, worked at area factories in her younger years. She enjoyed gardening and bowling.

Anne, 51, enjoyed fishing and gardening.

Eleanor worked for Dandy Laundry and Cleaners for twenty-seven years and for local families in a domestic capacity.

Dick was meticulous in the care he gave to his home, yard, and automobiles.

Earlier in her career, Elizabeth, known as “Betty,” spent her free time with soldiers returning from the war — dancing, playing Ping-Pong, and talking. She sang in the church choir and served briefly as church treasurer.

Laura enjoyed playing cards, doing puzzles, and traveling.

Jeffrey enjoyed golfing and working on the family farm.

Stella was known for her love of cats.

Marion, 100, was a homemaker her entire life. She enjoyed playing cards at the Senior Center and going on her many trips to Colorado. She always looked for the good in people.

Nellie, 79, was employed at the former Snow White Laundry. She enjoyed playing bingo, doing jigsaw puzzles, and spending time with family. She is predeceased by a brother, eight sisters, and one boy she helped to raise.

John, 73, died suddenly after being stricken while driving in Grafton. He was an avid hunter who enjoyed farming.

Clyde, 90, served in the Navy during WWII and was a meat cutter by trade. He was a member of the American Legion, the Stephentown Fire Company, the Tamarac Twirlers, the Quadrille Square Dance Club, and the Albany Camera Club.

With regrets, Mary Ellen leaves behind her son James, her sister Theresa, her companion Rich, and her brother Harold. Anyone who knew her, knew her love for Tigger.

Elva, 81, attended the two-room schoolhouse in North Petersburgh.

Evelyn, 87, worked at Montgomery Ward in Menands and was also a waitress at the Crooked Lake Hotel. She enjoyed the horses at Saratoga and loved to sing and dance. Throughout the early part of her life, she often partnered with Billy Nassau at the Cat in the Fiddle Restaurant.

Linda Ann is also survived by her cat, Sable, and her dog, Socks. She will be remembered for her book collection, especially those written by her favorite author, Nora Roberts, and for her gifts to family and friends of pillowcases she embroidered. She will also be remembered for her extensive collection of elephant figurines.

Bernie, 86, was a member of the Derby Club, the Hoosick Falls Fire Department, the Hoosick Falls Rescue Squad, the Kiwanis, the Veterans of Foreign Wars, the Knights of Columbus, the Pioneer Fish and Game Club, and the Hoot ’n Holler Club. He was interested in fishing, hunting, gardening, and beekeeping.

Robert, 83, was predeceased by his wife, Anne, known as “Nancy.” He served in the U.S. Navy as a petty officer, third class, and was honored with a Victory Medal.

Alvin, 88, liked to fish, paint, garden, cook, and watch the Yankees.

Paul, 78, worked on county highways, was a member of the famed Keyser’s Softball Team, and loved to bowl and jitterbug with his sister Babe.

Virginia, 99, was a grandmother and church member.

Robert, 81, was an evening manager at the Grand Union.

Isabel, 95, was a mother and grandmother.

Donald was an inspiration to all.

Jerold, 72, cook and counselor, worked as a mover for many years and loved attending fairs, wandering country roads, “anything Vermont,” and playing Father Christmas.

Francis, 79, Korean War vet and soils expert, retired as drill supervisor. He was an avid sportsman and trivia whiz. He was a member of the American Legion, the Kinderhook Elks Lodge, the Veterans of Foreign Wars, the Tin Can Sailors-National Association of Destroyer Vets, the Men’s Club of Five Towns, the Saints Social Club, and the ROMEOs. His quick wit, easy smile, and legendary handlebar mustache will be sorely missed.

Margaret, 88, church member and Yankees fan, loved traveling with her late husband to engine and tractor shows all over the nation.

Betty, 81, secretary, enjoyed spending time with her grandchildren.

William, 81, had a passion for history and genealogy.

Gordon, 68, an avid hunter, died peacefully at the Firemen’s Home on Monday.

Ronald, 72, former fire chief and retired truck driver, was an avid duck hunter.

Ellen, 87, volunteered at the Amtrak Station Snack Bar.

Joseph, 76, peacefully fell asleep in death in the cool early morning of August 26. He was best known in the community as a master plumber, and until his death was an active member of the Federation of Polish Sportsmen. He loved his wife and family. He loved his thirty-five race horses, but loved one especially, his stallion Bright Cat, who died earlier this year.

Ida, 95, put friends and family first.

John, 74, a veteran, worked for the Thruway Authority.

Ruth, 85, was a passionate animal lover and wildlife observer.

Anne, 62, found joy in felines, especially her friends Daisy, Rigel, Grace, Luci, Celeste, and Smokey.

Ernest, 85, was a merchant marine during WWII, often sailing in enemy waters. He later worked as a welder and repairman, and enjoyed woodworking after his retirement.

Edwin, 94, left one daughter.

Diane, 60, was a beauty school grad and upholsterer.

James, 87, worked for many years as a laurel picker for Engwer Florist Supply of Troy. He loved gardening, canning, wine-making, and putting down a crock of green tomatoes or sauerkraut.

Dolores, 83, a seamstress, had a sense of humor. In her earlier days, she worked at the Kadin Brothers Pocketbook Factory.

Letter to the President of the American Biographical Institute, Inc

Dear President,

I was pleased to receive your letter informing me that I had been nominated by the Governing Board of Editors as WOMAN OF THE YEAR—2006. But at the same time I was puzzled. You say that this award is given to women who have set a “noble” example for their peers, and that your desire is, as you put it, to “uplift” their accomplishments. You then say that in researching my qualifications, you were assisted by a Board of Advisors consisting of 10,000 “influential” people living in seventy-five countries. Yet even after this extensive research, you have made a basic factual mistake and addressed your letter, not to Lydia Davis, which is my name, but to Lydia Danj.

Of course, it may be that you do not have my name wrong but that you are awarding your honor to an actual Lydia Danj. But either mistake would suggest a lack of care on your part. Should I take this to mean that there was no great care taken over the research upon which the award is based, despite the involvement of 10,000 people? This would suggest that I should not place great importance on the honor itself. Furthermore, you invite me to send for tangible proof of this nomination in the form of what you call a “decree,” presented by the American Biographical Institute Board of International Research, measuring 11 × 14 inches, limited and signed. For a plain decree you ask me to pay $195, while a laminated decree will cost me $295.

Again, I am puzzled. I have received awards before, but I was not asked to pay anything for them. The fact that you have mistaken my name and that you are also asking me to pay for my award suggests to me that you are not truly honoring me but rather want me to believe I am being honored so that I will send you either $195 or $295. But now I am further puzzled.

I would assume that any woman who is truly accomplished in the world, whose accomplishments “to date,” as you say, are outstanding and deserve what you call top honors, would be intelligent enough not to be misled by this letter from you. And yet your list must consist of women who have accomplished something, because a woman who had accomplished nothing at all would surely not believe that her accomplishments deserved a “Woman of the Year” award.

Could it be, then, that what your research produces is a list of women who have accomplished enough so that they may believe they do indeed deserve a “Woman of the Year” award and yet are not intelligent or worldly enough to see that for you this is a business and there is no real honor involved? Or are they women who have accomplished something they believe is deserving of honor and are intelligent enough to know, deep down, that you are in this only for profit, yet, at the same time, are willing to part with $195 or $295 to receive this decree, either plain or laminated, perhaps not admitting to themselves that it means nothing?

If your research has identified me as a member of one of these two groups of women — either easily deceived concerning communications from organizations like yours or willing to deceive themselves, which I suppose is worse — then I am sorry and I must wonder what it suggests about me. But on the other hand, since I feel I really do not belong to either of these two groups, perhaps this is simply more evidence that your research has not been good and you were mistaken to include me, whether as Lydia Davis or as Lydia Danj, on your list. I look forward to hearing your thoughts on this.

Yours sincerely.