I Cane Stand It

I was rude to the young woman in CVS.  Besides being in CVS, which always creeps me out because it used to be a the supermarket in the small hamlet when I first moved up here, where town folks met and chatted, and went late at night for ice cream and cookies when they got the “munchies” and would wear their dark glasses which I thought to be hilarious, but so cool and mysterious in a way, and some old folks used to hang out on the bench up near the checkout counters in the summertime to escape the heat and feel loved and not lonely and part of the community, while keeping a close eye on the cashiers, especially the one with the steel grey hair pulled painfully into a bun, who wore the thirteen or eighteen or twenty five slim silver bangles on her arm, and then it closed and the stalwart folks picketed the imminent arrival of CVS into their small franchise-free town but it wasn’t enough, and then tons of us vowed to never, ever enter through the CVS portal, and for quite a while the parking lot was conspicuously and satisfyingly sparse to empty, though of course we couldn’t stop the unknowing tourists from going there, but after a year or two, more cars, even familiar cars, ones we knew, and then seeing people we knew dashing across the street, a bit sheepish because they’d heard this or that was on sale, and oh well, we can’t boycott it forever, can we?
But I’d not succumbed and still feel traitorous when I’m there, except my pharmacy across the street had no canes and I had to get one, doctor’s orders, but the idea of it was so repugnant to me, so old and doddering and yes, demeaning, that I yanked the bronze leopard printed one from the rack and held it gingerly away from me, all the while thinking, pretending that I was buying it for a friend, and then I could deal with it somehow. 

And then at the checkout, the smiling young woman in the purple shirt said “Let me cut that tag off for you”, making the assumption that I needed to use it immediately, like how could I be standing up at the counter on  my own?  And I snarled at her “No! Leave it on.” I wanted to add something about having to make sure the person I was buying it for liked it, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell the lie.

So, she just pleasantly said “Ok, you can take it off when you get home.” I took my receipt, curling my lip as I walked out.

 

David Bowie Sat Here

Rosa is like a small bird, flitting with purpose from painting to poetry, gardening to Qi Gong. Though flitting might be misleading, implying an inherent non-stick-to-it-tiveness.  And Rosa is nothing if not tenacious.  Bird-like she is, but she may well be considered to be a hummingbird, the cheetah of the bird kingdom.

I was happy to visit her last weekend in her new cottage created for her by her granddaughter’s husband, and attached to their house. It has the same warm charm that her last place had, and in fact seems quite similar, having a lot to do with the wicker couch and chair, the small paintings leaning everywhere against the walls, the back of the couch, even on the stove, where the ever present kettle awaits, ready for tea.  The plan had been for me to pick her up and bring her back to  my house, but she seemed not to want to do that (had she forgotten the plan?) when I got there, saying she had tea ready and had made cookies for the occasion.  If you knew her, you would understand that I proceeded to settle in for tea. 

I met Rosa twenty three years ago.  She arrived in the doorway of my little shoppe not long after I’d moved to this little corner of the world.  She’d seen my small ad in the newspaper about the poetry group I was forming:  Women Only Poetry Group, 3^rd Thursday of each month.  8pm. $2.00 Tea served. “I never wrote poetry, but I have journals I keep.  Maybe I could read from them?  I like what you’re doing here.”  And so it began.  Rosa began to read from her journals; they were well received by our small group and we enjoyed hearing about her early life, her escapades, her organic farm, her goats that she was so fond of.  

Encouraged, she began to write poetry. We published a chapbook the following year as Evening Circle Poets.  Our circle usually numbered five women and all looked forward to that night of poetry, tea, crumpets and a growing friendship.  Over the years, the circle had indeed been broken, but we all continued to write.  Rosa, for her part, would publish three of her own books, poetry, then essays. We didn’t see each other as often, my job taking me out of the very town I had been drawn to by some strange but real force.  But whenever Rosa called me I knew it was to extend a personal invitation to a reading of her new book or an art show that she was in. “Hi Fern, I finished a new book and I’m having a reading, can you come?"  Inevitably, when the intimate audience was seated and she was introduced, she would begin her reading by acknowledging me saying “Fern is the reason I am here today.  If it hadn’t been for her poetry group, I never would have started writing.” How gracious. Of course, my providing the platform for her was inconsequential. Her tireless determination propelled her to continue on her own.  Along the way, Rosa participated in a weekly drumming class for ten years, worked in an art gallery, planted her own garden each year and took up Qi Gong, which she continues to do.  She told me on Sunday that if I took up Qi Gong, I’d be good for another twenty years.  “Look at me.  I only started when I was seventy.”   Rosa is ninety two. 

We had a typical girl chat, catching up on families, friends and what (or whom) aggravates us most.  She brought up politics and her concern for Obama “I’ve been watching his hair, it’s going all grey!”  “Who do you think will run?”  What do you think of Hillary?”  There is always a blend of the good memories as well; her raising her granddaughter when she was in her fifties, going to England, having a lover.  Further back, how she raised goats and chickens on her organic farm with her then husband.  Studying at the Arts Students League in her heyday, working as a nude model for extra money.  Dating whomever she wanted.  “I never thought about religion or race, I wasn’t raised that way.  I didn’t care if the  guy was black or red, if he was sweet, I went out with him.” Spunk, yes, she embodies spunk.  And I can get her to giggle like a girl.

She is so pleased with her new place (except for the free range chickens that strut around the yard and plop in her pansies), and so grateful for the hard work that her grandson in-law has done. “He recycles everything you know” she told me.  We walked in to see her bedroom, and then the bathroom. 

“Wow!” I said “that’s quite a sink!”  A modern white cabinet base, with drawers that open out and a fantastic, mermaid turquoise slab top, with a square sink perched on top of it.  Rosa started to laugh, saying “you know Bill’s been doing some work at David Bowie’s house, and they were throwing this sink out, so he brought it home. “Wow!”  I repeat “I have David Bowie’s sink” she says giggling, then turns to point at the commode and says “and the toilet is from David Bowie’s house too.  I keep thinking I need to put a sign up over it, like how could I say it?  David Bowie sat here!”