Wintry Mix

The forecast was bad, but the dog was good.

The snow on the lawn had melted to patches, gray and granular. Rain was expected later, possibly freezing with sleet. A wintry mix, the forecast said.

It was Saturday. Mark asked what I wanted to do.

I wanted to do the stuff we did before getting a dog. I wanted to drive to Albany and wander through a museum and then dinner at our favorite barbecue place. Or see a movie at the art-house cinema and later sit at the marble bar of the Italian bistro with pasta and red wine. But Polly had spent her first six years of life confined, and we now dedicate our Saturdays to showing her a good time. But what can you do with a dog when wintry mix is in the forecast?

Mark suggested we return an unopened box of flooring planks, a solid item off the to-do list. Out of the house, away from wifi. (Life hack: Get a limited data plan with punishing overage charges. The temptation to check your phone in public will vanish.) But the flooring store said they were special order and wouldn’t take them back. I suggested we donate them to a charity thrift store that takes building supplies. That way I could also see if they had any nice end tables to replace the shabby ones in our living room. I also had a coffee table to donate. I had purchased it for $3 at a garage sale last summer, inspired by a TV show called Flea Market Flip, where people compete to turn old junk into retro-chic treasures. That summer I spent way too much time and money chalk-painting the coffee table a shade of bright apple green I thought would look good in my office but did not.

Polly watched us organize knapsacks and fill water bottles, her excitement mounting. She raced around the front hallway, her eyes gleaming and her tongue hanging out the side of her mouth. When I got the leash out, she leapt into the air.

We pulled into the thrift store parking lot a little after 1. At the dropoff door, a small cardboard sign said, “Out to lunch. Back at 1:45. NO DROPOFFS.”

I went into the store to look for side tables while Mark walked Polly around the parking lot. A lot of castoffs from the 1980s, an era that will never be retro chic, and shockingly high prices. Our house is full of great stuff we bought for cheap there. Maybe it was a bad day; maybe the days of getting great stuff for cheap at thrift stores are over. Too many flea-market flippers.

I was out in 10 minutes. Too long to wait for the donation dropoff guys. Mark noticed a gravel road in back of the store that went through the woods.

Ulster County, New York, is a place of phenomenal natural beauty and hideous big-box sprawl. Want to see a truly stunning view of the Catskills? Go to the Walmart parking lot.

The gravel road went up a hill that’s probably pretty in late spring or early fall, but today was gray sky and muddy snow. The landscape below was the backside of a carwash and a self-storage place. Look straight ahead, though, and it’s a wooded trail. The air was cool and thick, and Polly had lots to smell.

Back at the donation dropoff, the guy said they’d only take flooring if you had at least 100 square feet. So no dice. I brought the coffee table over, worried it might be too ugly even for the charity thrift store. A woman getting a couch loaded into her van said, “Cute table.”

“Do you want it?”

“Not the right size, but thanks.”

The donation dropoff guy pointed to a spot to set the table. We got into the car and headed for a trail near the reservoir. We’d taken Polly there many times, but today there was a sign: “No dogs.” At first we said, oh screw that. The walk was beautiful and soul-affirming, as always. Then a woman told us to be careful that the guard didn’t see us, pointing out that the reservoir held drinking water. She was right. We turned around.

“Where to?” Mark said.

“Home, I guess,” I said. The wintry mix would be starting soon anyway.

On the drive back, I remembered a bar off a back country road that allowed dogs and let you bring food in. We took a few wrong turns, but finally found it.

I got us samosas and spring rolls, and Mark ordered two pilsners. We sat in the old wood-paneled bar and listened to the band, three guys in their 60s playing for seven customers and two bartenders. Maybe they never hit the big time, but they were good.

A family wearing skiing clothes said hello to Polly, and the bartender brought her a bowl of water. She greeted everyone like a long-lost friend, basking in their attention. She lay down on her stomach, melding with the floorboards like pancake batter on a hot skillet, and watched the band, her tail tick-tocking.

We finished our snacks, tipped the band and headed home before the wintry mix started.

Nothing was accomplished, save for unloading a failed flea-market flip.

It was a perfect day.

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END NOTE: I kept this piece in my drafts file for a while because publishing an ode to ordinary happiness right now felt wrong. But then, not publishing it felt like a weird capitulation. We all know the answer is some combination of “fight like hell”/“don’t let the bastards get you down,” but I haven’t really reconciled this in my life. How are you doing with that?

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