The following is from my preservation journal
Little Toot

The weather for the last two days has been warm and robust with  the chorus
of songbirds.
A cool Canadian high mixes with warm fronts from the mid Atlantic South
giving us balmy spring days
in the 70's
After the last Solstice ,the arc of the sun lingers a little longer at the
noon hour, and the day heats
up.Squirrles and bees make busy in the trees and pollinate to hearts content.
The working man who has suffered a miserable Spring with cold wet weather
warms up to the idea
that life on the outside isn't so bad at all.The mid day sun dapples his
haggard face and he likes it.
As the sun goes higher he closes his eyes and lets it loiter on his furrowed
brow.
He recalls his youth..and days in the sun when he drank from lifes new kegs
and they were full
As the sun reaches its zenith he waits with eyes closed for the tolling of
the noon bell.
He knows its coming and for a few brief eternities he luxuriates  himself  in
the sun without want or
care.

 Harkness clock tower;  a Rodgers rendition of Oxfords; towers above the
gnarly slate roofs of Yale
with splendor.
 It is a 19th cent   New England masterpiece in gothic stonework and looks
out over the historic stone
chimneys and greens of Yale as Queen Victoria did look out upon  her empire.
Quite fittingly it tolls the noon hour in the full Victorian  chime  of Big
Ben
 .Woe as   is be you... if you are working atop the tower and have to pass
the massive Carillion bells in
full swing as they count the hours of the day.
As the Noon hour approaches you hear a mighty click of a gear engaging then
you have 45 second to
clear 3 landings by ladder and plank in between the bells as they warm to
their swing.
The first part of the chime is less dangerous than the tolling of the hours
themselves.
 Its when those giant  ton and one half forged masterpieces of Carillion kick
in with  toll of the
individual hours that cause mice to scurry as invalids and  numbs the brain
like babys rattle.
The vibration alone between chimes carrys you along the plank in a jitterbug..
Only wylie Coyette or Stan and Ollie are calpable of such dunning
encounters,
but yet it happens to my guys all the time. Especially the laborers who for
the most part have loose
marbles anyway and take getting caught in the bell ringing  as a form of
therapy..It has a curious effect
of .leaving them tranquil with timed spurts of the shakes as they leave the
tower for  lunch giving them
endless amusement for the rest of the day.

As the giant bells toll the noon hour the  streets and cobbled walks of Yale
are awash with college
students ;clerical workers, and every type of consruction worker and
craftsperson  there ever was are
seen spilling out to the steets . There is a grand promenade on Chapel street
as sidewalk tables are
thrown up and saloon doors open accomodating thirsty customers sometimes
three deep at the bar.
.Bristling with radio antennae on my utility belt and cammo kerchief tied to
my head;
I too join the tatooed swagger of men at large.
We troop across streets as co workers fire up Harleys and dominate the
avenues with frivolity and
intimidation.

Under the swirl of falling tree blossoms my young men  joke and caterwall
with vivacious passerby in
sexy sandles and midriffs. The men are elated its Friday and they loosen up
in the fine weather like
lucky sailors on the town.
.There are hardhats and Harleys everywhere as we jaywalk taking in
the fine air . I hadn't a care in the world when a curious thing happened.
Passing a small shop I turned to look and there staring at me from within the
window was an old friend
I hadn't seen since I was an infant.
I stoped in my tracks and refocused.....my friends called to me and I
 waved them on. Focusing I moved in slow-mo towards the stores window.
 It was a children's store with all sorts of colorfull things and a tiny
bookshelf.
Unconsciously I began to breath heavily..my men called for me.again
I waved them on this time more firmly
.My breathing now labors in gasps , and I find myself touching the glass as
if I was touching  hair.Her
hair.
There on the tiny bookshelf was a book on display that was my book when I was
a baby. I have never
seen it since
.In fact if you were to ask me about it before this I wouldn't have known
what you were talking about
.For some unexplained reason I begin to sob and place my fist to my mouth to
control it
,I cannot

.Its a little book that my long dead mother used to read to me over an over
again like some long lost
mantra.many years ago
 A colorfull  little book in blues and reds and yellow about "Little Toot and
the lighthouse" .
 Its a simple little tale about a little tugboat that could find its way.."Be
like little Toot and find your way"
mama would say as I nuzzled in her arm  and played at her blouse.
. I am pawing the window lightly now...this is too much...what cruel humor, I
was in jail when my Mama
died..afraid,alone,spit out on the road of life.Courage my son the minister
said. I have damm little of it
just now.
 I bow to no man...Yet here is this tiny babys book is  humbling the hell out
of me.right now.
An Old friend come back to haunt me or cure me.
I loose it as I peer at its brightly covered pages.Hello old friend why are
you here just now?You have
come for a reason..but Mother of God spare me this anguish as I
 begin to keen in grief.
Someone places a hand on me and I rip it off and pummel the adjacent  brick
until my hand bleeds
and i no longer feel it.
Choking on grief I hear her say
"if little Toot can find his way so can you...sweety."
I am lost; people on the street disapear. I am unable to hold myself up by
the legs and stagger to a
bus bench. I am openly weeping now and I am sure people are looking at me.
I don't care.. I am in this alone and have been for a very long time.
I sit for a  long time;the bus comes and goes ;people pass, tree blossoms
collect on my shoulder
I have no where to go, nothing to do
Sometimes the one thing you want in this world you cannot have. Sometimes
you want to show that one person that "Little Toot"has found his way and
there is no one home when
you get there. I am waiting for a bus that never comes.All there is is dust
in the wind.
After some time i begin to think of my wife and new baby ..Mary
and my heart fills with love.
She is my Little Toot.and perhaps I can share what my Momma shared with
me.Perhaps this is my
oppurtunity to give full circle.To make whole what was lost.I regain my focus
and
strengrth and enter the book store.Little Toot is mine once again.Happy
Mothers day

Best Michael
all/rts 5/9/00