A Foot In the Door

Tine ended her afternoon with a rare look behind one of the village doors -- not one of the doors that figured prominently in her walk today, but a village door all the same.



She and Rubob, who tend to shy away from the world at large, were nevertheless present at the annual gathering of the Hysterical Society, the very society referred to in their walk earlier today. The festive event took place in the hatter's cottages where the society, with its love of history, has taken up residence. Rubob, introducing himself to the guests, confessed that he and Tine were, in effect, shadow members of the society because they're rarely seen at its events. In Dickens' "A Christmas Carol," Tine thought, this would make them shadows of the things that have been, which would be all very appropriate for the society.

Tine, who had eaten nothing but two cookies since her long walk this afternoon, busied herself not with historical matters at the gathering, but with an extra-large helping of the here and now. The photo is somewhat foreshortened because a hand wielding a scrumptious cookie insinuated itself into the camera's view, and generous cropping was required.



Tine wishes she could show you all the other goodies on the table, along with the diminutive Christmas tree that was the centerpiece, but you would see little but a dark, blurry cookie overshadowing all.

After tasting the things that most definitely are, Tine nipped outside for a late-afternoon view of the hatter's shop, now the home of the society, and the hatter's dwelling, presently the residence of a non-hatter.



Speculating on the things that may be, Tine thought the hatter might have moved to a home with more headroom for his hats (though one guest at the party noted that the cottage had high ceilings for such a small house).

The photo of the hatter's cottages is reduced in size because the cottages are, in fact, reduced in size, and, because, once again, certain out-of-focus delicacies, clutched in a careless hand, marred an otherwise exquisite shot.

The little cottage on the right was brimming over with good cheer, and Tine and Rubob had a very pleasant time.

"Rubob, you're a work of art."

Tine and Rubob made tracks in the snow as they ventured out of their house this afternoon. Tine stopped to point out to Rubob some deer tracks on the lawn by the front walkway.

“Those aren’t deer tracks, Tine; those are rabbit tracks,” Rubob said, availing himself of a semicolon. (Semicolons leave their own distinctive tracks on fresh white pages, don’t you think?) “The rabbits slept under the vehicle last night,” Rubob said, and sure enough, there were rabbit tracks leading under the vehicle. The engine must still have been warm from when Tine and Rubob returned from their walk yesterday. This topic -- warm engines -- would be broached again at the end of the walk, when Rubob was engaged in certain scientific inquiries, but you’ll have to follow Tine and Rubob’s long walk to the end to revisit the subject.

For the time being, Tine and Rubob’s internal engines were still on the cold side, as they often are at the start of winter walks. Rubob remembered his cap this time, though, and didn’t seem overly bothered when Tine stopped to examine things of interest. One thing of interest was Rubob’s boot. Tine seemed to think the sole was showing signs of separating from the boot, but Rubob said his boot was fine. Here’s a snapshot of Rubob’s boot:



Rubob’s boot -- and the track it leaves in freshly fallen snow -- certainly belie the notion that Rubob might be nothing more than a fictional character. Rubob’s boots are every bit as real as the shoes Van Gogh painted, in fact:



Martin Heidegger, who made quite a name for himself speculating on just what exactly was real, assumed in an essay that they were peasant's boots, but others have said they were peddlar's boots. I suppose some people might find it surprising how absorbing a boot can be, but not Tine (and not even Martin Heidegger, for that matter). Tine examined Rubob's boot, wondering, "Peasant or peddlar?" but an answer was not forthcoming.

Rubob and Tine proceeded on their way, and stopped to admire a door they passed.



It wasn't long before Tine stopped to look at another door:



And another:



"This walk is turning out to be all about doors, isn't it, Tine?"

"Well, I don't know about that," Tine said. "We won't know until the walk is over, will we?"

She might have added that she wouldn't bank on it, but they soon passed the village bank, and it was, sure enough, basically another door -- an imposing door, with a lot built around it to help keep it tightly shut on holidays such as New Year's, but a door all the same. It reminded Tine of the bank in "Mary Poppins."



"If I had tuppence to deposit...," Tine thought, and the lyrics of Mr. Dawes -- or was it Mr. Banks? -- came to mind:

"...If you invest your tuppence
Wisely in the bank
Safe and sound
Soon that tuppence safely invested in the bank
Will compound."

Rubob would have been pleased to hear that Tine's mind had finally turned to financial matters, but Tine didn't let on.

She busied herself with another door (the last of the doors, I assure you, if you'll just be patient with Tine):



That door had to be included, because Rubob pronounced it "pug-nosed," and that stuck with Tine. Later in the walk she asked Rubob, "Did you call that door pug-nosed?" and Rubob allowed that yes, he did. "I thought so," Tine said. It was a curious description for a door.

It wasn't until they reached the village center and dashed through the torrent of traffic along the main thoroughfare that an entirely new door opened on their walk. In actual fact, Rubob didn't dash; he dawdled, by the window of a wine & spirits shop. But Tine urged him across the rushing stream of vehicles, and they found themselves on Norton Lane, admiring some curious ironwork creations that stood out in the snow.



A pleasant man who hailed from Brighton, England, but who happened to be shoveling snow on Norton Lane in the United States at the moment, said Tine and Rubob were free to look at the sculptures, which had been created and deposited there by one Fred Jones (who has since departed this world).

"Look at this one, Rubob," Tine said:



But Rubob likes to follow his own muse when looking at sculptures and other artwork, and Tiny doesn't happen to be Rubob's own muse on such matters. And that's just how it should be when it comes to looking at works of art. So Rubob wandered down the lane and admired a sculpture he found all on his own, in an open garage:



"That's a Jaguar XKE, Tine," Rubob said, and sure enough, it was.

"And one with eyes and a mouth, no less," Tine thought. It almost seemed for a moment, what with those eyes and the sculptures and all, that old Fred hadn't entirely departed this world.

Tiny had to admit that Rubob had found an intriguing sculpture, and as she looked at him admiring it, and turned to look at all the sculptures around her, she thought, "You're a work of art yourself, Rubob."

But other artworks were clamoring for her attention. Here's a picture of a couple more of them clamoring:



Tine stopped to reflect on this one, too:



"I'd say he's captured me pretty nicely," she said to herself, feeling just like Mr. Jones' creation.

Rubob then led Tine to the end of Norton Lane, because he said he heard something gurgling back there. "Sure enough, there's a stream here," he said. "I thought I heard something."



"But we've been here," Tine said. "Don't you remember? We visited the woman who lived here when we came down this lane once before: Carolyn, the head of the Hysterical Society."

But Rubob didn't remember because that was a long time ago. His mind has occasional garage sales to get rid of things and make room for new things. Mr. Jones' property wasn't like that, and that's why it still had Carolyn's house on it, while Rubob's mind had unfortunately dispensed with it, and a lot more besides. (Later in the day, however, Rubob showed that he's capable of recovering some distant memories, because he said, "It's Carol, not Carolyn. Her name is Carol, Tine.")

Rubob and Tine then walked back up Norton Lane and waited for a break in the traffic, a lull in the tide of mankind, as it were.

Rubob said, "We're back on the beaten path, aren't we?" He was referring to yesterday's walk in part, but Rubob has a way of expanding on things, and Tine waited for him to expand -- or even to expound, which he is wont to do. "This beaten path is the beaten path of commerce, Tine -- not like yesterday's beaten path. The beaten path of commerce is not nearly so pleasant," he said, after dodging a few vehicles.

"Look, Tine, there's something," he said, after they continued a ways on High Street, and he pointed to what also might be considered a sculpture -- another of Rubob's particular kind of sculpture:



At this point, the two hastened their steps, endeavoring to make it to Mrs. Riddle's estate quickly. Rubob thought he might find a nice secluded spot there where he could tend to some unexpectedly urgent business. This was more proof that Rubob wasn't a fictional character, because the reality of the situation was that Rubob, as he put it, needed to "micturate." This is one of the exigencies of walks, even pleasant walks. As for Tine, she suffered in silence, but with fond thoughts of the conveniences of home.

"Your strides aren't as long as mine, are they?" Rubob said to Tine as they walked up the hill toward Mrs. Riddle's house. It looked quite transformed in the snow, and Tine slowed Rubob down even more when she stopped to take it all in.



Rubob busied himself behind a suitably large tree not long after they crested the hill. Relieved, feeling once again in full command of the situation, he turned toward the path home.

Tine followed the unplowed footpath path at the side of the road, where she mused on the stone wall, which is itself a sculpture of sorts:



Tine was weary at this point, and you probably are, too, because it's been a long walk with lots to see. Tine's legs were heavy and her head was full of stuff to reflect on later.

But she listened as Rubob talked with renewed vigor about this and that, including about the old Ford he'd seen on High Street.

"Why doesn't oil freeze, Honeybun?" he asked Tine.

"I don't know, Rubob."

"When we had a Ford growing up, it had a heater for the engine at night," Rubob said. "You'd plug it in and it would keep the oil warm."

Tine said it might keep the rabbits warm, too. Her mind gave itself up to thoughts of warm rabbits under the warm engine of their (Rubob and Tine's, not the rabbits', unless the rabbits thought it was theirs after spending a night under it) vehicle. Warmth: that was the general gist of Tine's thoughts.

"And Dad got the Ford Times every month or so," Rubob said.

"What was that, Rubob?"

"Oh, just pieces of ephemera -- you know," Rubob replied.

Ephemera, the old Ford, Fred's Jaguar -- they all got Tine thinking about the passage of time. Tiny is certainly small, and she can be somewhat carefree, but she's not immune to intimations of mortality. After all, she's just as real as Rubob, and what's real doesn't last forever, just like Rubob's boots, or for that matter Carolyn's house in Rubob's mind. (Tine's mind was wandering, and was perhaps overly chilled.) She recalled a headline she'd seen in the newspaper that morning, and she asked Rubob if he'd seen it: "Death Brings Changes But No Guarantees."

"That's a ridiculous headline," Rubob said. "It seems to me that death is the one thing that is guaranteed."

But in the meantime, there was this, which Tiny noticed a few days ago and again today:



"Tuppence patiently, cautiously trustingly invested ... blooms into credit of a generous amount semi-annually," a chilly, weary Tine thought.

"I wonder why oil doesn't freeze, Tine," Rubob said, perhaps feeling the effects of the cold himself. "Maybe it doesn't," he said as they walked back down their street toward home.

Tine's one last thought was: "All in all, a very pleasant walk."