Tuesday, December 15, 2015
Monday, October 26, 2015
Big Joe
I know because my sister, his wife, started referring to the
basement as the office supply store. When I visited she would ask if I needed
‘anything’, with a sideways motion of her head and her mouth stretched in that
direction, towards the basement door.
Never one to pass up some paper, I’d say sure and we’d go down after Big
Joe had gone to bed, and I’d “shop”. Her
grown kids did the same, always surreptitiously, occasionally calling ahead to
ask her to check the inventory. The goods were always removed when Big Joe wasn’t
around or they were hidden in other bags upon leaving. Diaper bags were roomy receptacles for office
supplies.
Big Joe never commented on the decreasing piles. In fact he never once concurred that he had
even put the bags down there. Prior to
the basement stash, he had been putting the bags in the small spare room that had
belonged to his older son. That was when
my sister, his wife, seeing that a buildup wash happening, began to give the stuff
away. He never asked where the bags of supplies
were going, but had changed course and started depositing them in the
basement. It was never discussed, never
pointed out. It was all very secret and
covert.
There were other bags that he left here and there – the plastic
type of grocery bags. They would have
receipts or some other odds and ends of paper – just stuff he never went through
to throw out, but would accumulate. My
sister, the opposite of an accumulator, has the reputation of throwing the
current day’s newspaper out before the end of the day if she knows she won’t
have time to read it. So she had taken
to throwing the plastic bags of paper scraps out when Big Joe wasn’t around to
see. Sometimes brown paper bags too.
It was that one time that she noticed him in and out of Young
Joe’s old bedroom, up and down the basement stairs; each several times. It was
not his personality to wander. Mostly,
he drifted from bed to table to car, completing his errands, then back to
couch, table, bed. My sister finally
asked him what he was looking for? “Oh,
just a bag” Big Joe said. Humph, she
thought, just a bag? Days passed and the
hunt continued. Big Joe seemed to be
getting pretty worked up. My sister
began to worry about the bags she’d been throwing out (which of course she
would never, could never, tell him, or admit to doing). Some days later Big Joe asked her if she’d thrown
out a certain brown bag in recent weeks.
Of course not was her answer. It
was then that he sheepishly admitted that he’d been saving some money in a
paper bag, just throwing bills in with the intention of counting it up and
banking it when he had the time. “How
much was in there?” my sister asked tentatively. About two thousand, Big Joe replied.
In later years, Big Joe began hoarding Vodka, in addition to
the office supplies. This was a true
mystery, as Big Joe was a Bourbon drinker all the way, though in fact he drank
less and less as the years went on. My
sister started showing up with a bottle of Vodka when she visited, or slipping
a bottle of Vodka in with the paper supplies when I was in the basement
choosing my papers. No one asked Big Joe why.
When he died, he
wasn’t remembered for his office supply hoarding; that remained his
secret. I remember him for his sudden outbursts of
laughter, which brightened and illuminated his face. He wasn’t known for being a talker, but he sure
loved a good laugh.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
Until Next Year
Mid October sees
windows snap their mouths shut
against the
chill airBird chatter is hushed in a churchlike whisper
Wind chimes, like an admonished child,
are seen but not heard
Socks urgently rush, duty bound, from drawers,
plates clatter with cold from the cabinets
the oatmeal box marches confidently to the forefront
the house adapts this quietude
then quickly switches to the clatter of logs
dropping to the basement floor
furnace rock and rumble
The dehumidifier nods to duty well done
Until next year
Thursday, August 27, 2015
Woodstock Relaxation
Ah – if even part of every day could be as peaceful and
relaxed as this morning. Who would believe
that a visit to the dentist could start out my mellow experience? But, yes, even the smileScan or whatever the three
dimensional rotating x-ray thingee is called that orbits around your head. One needs
to remove all metal; off go the studs, the small hoops, the thin chain, the
hair clippie. Then one steps forward and
is instructed to bite the stick, get positioned, swallow, put tongue to roof of
mouth and then the gizmo pans around your head, whilst one is lucky enough to
be staring out at a small pond at the edge of the wooded lot. Very Woody Allen in Sleeper; I feel a taste
of what it might be like to cavort through the woods in a space suit.
Dr Fred is the calmest man ever. He inspires meditation
or whatever it is that gets him to that place.
He is slow, methodical, so, so patient.
He advises, explains, shows, helps to make decisions. So, no crown work done today, but he elected
to do two, not four crowns, and there was talk of pin-drop of my gums and one
implant and drilling of the bone, (he says the bone structure looks pretty good, which is the only time in
recent years that those two words could possibly have been applied to me in the
dentist chair) and even the mention of drilling a titanium rod through my gum did
not un-do me.
Following that, I took a trip to the natural foods market
where one is surrounded by glorious smells, including natural candles, fresh
coffee, scones. I purchased a New York Times
to ground me, some yogurt and granola, bulk style, like the old days, a tiny
tin of perfume crème – gardenia vanilla.
I drove to a parking lot, sat in the sunny car with coffee and scone and
paper, then took my camera and walked, looking for photos.
My foot felt good, the right hip protested sharply a few
times then seemed to begrudgingly settle into the walk. As I turned at the end of the winding road to walk back, a man
with longish, thick white hair called over from a porch where he sat “where’s your
dog?” I knew him, but it took a few minutes
for me to realize he didn’t know or remember
me, or maybe he did remember my dog who died ten years ago. He did say short, and Jessie certainly was that.
Something was not right and though we chatted across the grass for a short while, he was not the same dashing flirt I knew him as ten or fifteen years ago. Something missing; our conversation had a slight electrical short or outage. We’d become two elders of our town, seeing each other rarely, one perhaps remembering more than the other. There is no catching up with what has transpired in those years. We used to cross paths every day in the retail world. He’d once introduced his mother to me when she was visiting. He’d always called me “Hey Beautiful”. None of this was part of his desultory conversation today. His movements are slower, as are we all. We said good-byes. He said “call me when you get rich” as he turned to walk into this house.
Something was not right and though we chatted across the grass for a short while, he was not the same dashing flirt I knew him as ten or fifteen years ago. Something missing; our conversation had a slight electrical short or outage. We’d become two elders of our town, seeing each other rarely, one perhaps remembering more than the other. There is no catching up with what has transpired in those years. We used to cross paths every day in the retail world. He’d once introduced his mother to me when she was visiting. He’d always called me “Hey Beautiful”. None of this was part of his desultory conversation today. His movements are slower, as are we all. We said good-byes. He said “call me when you get rich” as he turned to walk into this house.
I walked on, a bit sad but grateful that I can still walk down such a lane and
have that chat. As I crossed over to the main road, a car pulled up, seemed to
be in a hurry. The electric window
whizzed halfway down, the man asked “Hey, can you tell us where the music concert was?” “It was in Bethel, about an hour and a half
southeast of here”, I replied, proud that I did not give in to a nasty habit
that some of us locals, tired of the endless question in the summertime, were
prone to do – make something up and send them driving around town. “No, the woman next to him said – the rock
concert.” “The one forty years ago” the
man almost snarled, as though my brain were
malfunctioning. I didn’t correct him to say
it was almost fifty years ago, but said “Yes, it took place in Bethel, and hour and a
half from here.” “Then why did they
called it the Woodstock festival” he asked, completely cynical about my response. “Well, it got that name because that’s how
the promotion started...” I didn’t get
to finish. He yelled “yeah thanks”, zipped
up the window and sped off, apparently in search of more reliable information. I should have made something up –it would
have been much more rewarding.
Driving up over the mountain, Van Morrison came
on the radio to sing “Going down to ole Woodstock”.
Woodstock calms me. Not on a
weekend. And especially not on a summer
weekend. But yes, on a Thursday morning
in the afterglow of most August visitors.Tuesday, August 25, 2015
Slipping Away
August slips away
Not slowly like a gentle morning mist
But rapidly
Too rapidly
Like a flock of birds startled by a car door slamming
I grasp for it
A desperate clinging spider
in panic
To protect its web
Mourning is just scant weeks away
I recoil at the sight of
Errant orange and red leaves
Displayed brilliantly on lush summer green grass
I listen attentively to crickets in the blackening night
Is their song getting fainter
Are their numbers dwindling?
The bull frogs wane in number
As the strategizing heron grows plump
Their deep throated honking
No longer cacophonic
Sporadic instead
Soon the nights will be stilled again
Mourning is just scant weeks away
August slips from my grasp
Saturday, June 27, 2015
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.
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.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
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, 3rd 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!”Monday, April 27, 2015
I Discovered Myself in Mt. Tremper
Sad
to say I was already past the half century mark.
Why does it take so long?
It took me awhile, and yes, it continues.
It broadens, goes deeper, changes course,
erupts in moral zits from time to time
But it gets a little clearer.
Like the windex of age is starting to do its job
On the life experience windshield.
That hidden capacity that lies unbidden until the tiny fist, the fist that you brought into the world,
curls tightly around your finger
Till that first gummy smile indelibly assures that you will fight for them
Work to assure their place in life; struggle to implant the values necessary
for their growth and emotional safety.
And I caused pain along the way to those little souls
By wrong choices, naïveté, an ignorance about people and capabilities, or lack thereof
And, at times, an unrealized need for flattery
Unrealistic promises of unrealistic dreams.
with what you want, what you need, what you agreed upon.
and you won’t recognize them right away for what they are, who they are, what they’re after
where they’ve been in their mental meanderings.
And you’ll take detours, ride with the bumps, sometimes crash and burn
Sometimes hang on for your life and take the thrill of the ride
Sometimes hang on till the weather clears for take-off
But you’ll figure it out, read between the lines
Look inward
Get back on your path
Then you’ll rise up and carry on
Why does it take so long?
It took me awhile, and yes, it continues.
It broadens, goes deeper, changes course,
erupts in moral zits from time to time
But it gets a little clearer.
Like the windex of age is starting to do its job
On the life experience windshield.
Life,
kids, work, hard-scrapple times propelled me in unplanned and indeterminate
directions
Learning,
loving, always learning, learning from children, from the love for themThat hidden capacity that lies unbidden until the tiny fist, the fist that you brought into the world,
curls tightly around your finger
Till that first gummy smile indelibly assures that you will fight for them
Work to assure their place in life; struggle to implant the values necessary
for their growth and emotional safety.
And I caused pain along the way to those little souls
By wrong choices, naïveté, an ignorance about people and capabilities, or lack thereof
And, at times, an unrealized need for flattery
Unrealistic promises of unrealistic dreams.
I learned
that there are people who will walk through your life, your house, your body,
your soul,
with
intentions of their own that have nothing to do with what you want, what you need, what you agreed upon.
and you won’t recognize them right away for what they are, who they are, what they’re after
where they’ve been in their mental meanderings.
And you’ll take detours, ride with the bumps, sometimes crash and burn
Sometimes hang on for your life and take the thrill of the ride
Sometimes hang on till the weather clears for take-off
But you’ll figure it out, read between the lines
Look inward
Get back on your path
Then you’ll rise up and carry on
Monday, April 20, 2015
"Pasted Pages" Series
Monday, April 13, 2015
Mountain Man
This is Home #7 in the Neighbors Essays series. The series chronicles a memorable neighbor from each home that I've lived in)
I rented a small log cabin, and began life on my own. My children remained temporarily with their father until the courts and lawyers could figure out our snaggled mess. I missed them desperately and wrestled daily with the scary newness of living by myself. The cabin was small and dark, shaded by towering pine trees, and one of only three houses (one boarded up for the winter) on a dead end street that went downhill and ended at a pond. It was termed a “winter” rental, as the owners lived there in the summer, moved out on Labor Day. I would be there until Memorial Day when the owner would return and I’d need a place to live again. My life felt ruled by holidays. My belongings stayed in storage; I had my clothes.
I rented a small log cabin, and began life on my own. My children remained temporarily with their father until the courts and lawyers could figure out our snaggled mess. I missed them desperately and wrestled daily with the scary newness of living by myself. The cabin was small and dark, shaded by towering pine trees, and one of only three houses (one boarded up for the winter) on a dead end street that went downhill and ended at a pond. It was termed a “winter” rental, as the owners lived there in the summer, moved out on Labor Day. I would be there until Memorial Day when the owner would return and I’d need a place to live again. My life felt ruled by holidays. My belongings stayed in storage; I had my clothes.
It came fully furnished; I felt like I’d just dropped into a
stranger’s house and elected to live there, which is what I did. The two bedroom walls did not go all the way
to the ceilings, allowing for circulation of air in the summer. The living room was large, and carpeted in ugly
gold shag; the couch was brown plaid. There was a fireplace which I was not to
use, and a large deer head mounted high on the wall. I named him Walter and hung a wreath on him at
Christmas. The bathroom was delightful,
wood paneled and cozy with a big footed tub.
A tiny kitchen, and an even tinier added on room in the back both had
slanted floors so that it felt like you were falling into the rooms. It was
either enchantingly unique or the eeriest place ever. I had both reactions from
friends.
It was a long, lean winter.
I was awakened one night by a noise right outside my window.
The spotlight had gone on and shone brightly in the window as well. A raccoon, pure white in color, was sitting on a tree stump, enjoying the remains of my spaghetti dinner from the overturned garbage can. He was gracefully eating the strands with human like fingers, and completely ignored my frantic banging on the window. My neighbor’s lights were all on. He seemed to never go to sleep. I went back to bed, pulling the covers over my head.
The spotlight had gone on and shone brightly in the window as well. A raccoon, pure white in color, was sitting on a tree stump, enjoying the remains of my spaghetti dinner from the overturned garbage can. He was gracefully eating the strands with human like fingers, and completely ignored my frantic banging on the window. My neighbor’s lights were all on. He seemed to never go to sleep. I went back to bed, pulling the covers over my head.
In the cabin on my right lived a man named Greg. I called
him Mountain Man. He was a smallish
man, not as tall as I, with a trim build and longish brown curly hair. He told
me he was a Vietnam vet, and didn’t work anymore. He heated his log cabin with a
wood stove, which he often asked me in to see, but I never took him up on the
invitation. He said the temperature inside his house was seventy five to eighty
degrees in the wintertime. With no
curtains on his windows, and the sweltering temperatures he had to endure
(while I layered on more and more sweaters and sox) he habitually walked around
his house in his jockey shorts. In the brutal months of January and February,
he could be seen shirtless chopping wood in the backyard. I was unable to start
a measly fire and had to conserve oil, in order to pay the bill, so I could be
found wrapping myself in blankets to survive the winter. On several occasions,
in between laying out boxes of poison, and replacing them when they were empty,
I called to ask Greg to come over and empty my mouse traps, which he did, each
time resetting them, saying he didn’t mind at all. One time, as he was leaving, he handed me
something wrapped in a tissue. It was fragrant. “Do you smoke” he asked? (I’d
been smoking for years I thought to myself, but I’d never wrapped my Virginia Slims
in tissues)
One particularly frigid winter morning, a “friend” of mine
was attempting to make a quiet exit, but soon discovered his Camaro couldn’t
make it up the hill to the main road. It was a sheet of ice. Greg saw him struggling and came out to help,
then called to the garbage men to help, seeing them about to turn down from the
main road. My friend came in to get me; I was needed to sit in the trunk and
provide some weight to keep from skidding, while they pushed the car backwards
up the hill. Jumping out of the warm bed, I quickly threw on a long parka and
scarf and boots, but was wearing nothing underneath the coat. I sat in the trunk feeling naked and trashy with
three men pushing the car up the hill and my friend chuckling at my discomfort. After we got his car back on the main road
and he took off, I picked my way back down to the cabin, keeping to the snowy
sides, instead of the ice. I stopped to
thank Mountain Man as he stood in the
middle of the icy road, grateful for the woolen scarf that I had wrapped around
my face, so he couldn’t read my embarrassment.
The Two Dark Blue Plastic Shallow Bowls from Boonton
(Note:
BoontonWare/Melmac...plastic dishes, popular in the 60’s and 70’s)
Aunt Marion was the kind of woman who had a dressing table, with a mirror above, and an upholstered oval bench to sit upon, where an enraptured seven year old could lift the delicate bottles and sniff slowly, pick up powder puffs and make believe she was a stylish woman, who went “to business” and dressed up every day in fine dresses and gloves, stockings and heels. Aunt Marion wore a black Persian Lamb coat in the winter. It had a brown mink collar and a silken lining of turquoise and pink stripes. It appeared to weigh her down, it was so heavy; when she shrugged out of its warm cocoon, you caught a whiff of her expensive perfume seeping out, ever so lightly. My sister and I fought over who got to carry it into the bedroom to place on the bed when she visited. It was very heavy, but there would be the silk scarf, pushed gently into the sleeve, the striped silk lining smooth and scented with her perfume.
The bowls have been with me since
1973. I know the date because they belonged
to Aunt Marion, and that was the year she died. Now, plastic would never be indicative of the
fancy, and somewhat glamorous life she’d led.
Aunt Marion worked on Madison Avenue in the media department
of an advertising agency and that was plenty fancy to us.Aunt Marion was the kind of woman who had a dressing table, with a mirror above, and an upholstered oval bench to sit upon, where an enraptured seven year old could lift the delicate bottles and sniff slowly, pick up powder puffs and make believe she was a stylish woman, who went “to business” and dressed up every day in fine dresses and gloves, stockings and heels. Aunt Marion wore a black Persian Lamb coat in the winter. It had a brown mink collar and a silken lining of turquoise and pink stripes. It appeared to weigh her down, it was so heavy; when she shrugged out of its warm cocoon, you caught a whiff of her expensive perfume seeping out, ever so lightly. My sister and I fought over who got to carry it into the bedroom to place on the bed when she visited. It was very heavy, but there would be the silk scarf, pushed gently into the sleeve, the striped silk lining smooth and scented with her perfume.
Later on, she remained
glamourous but slightly bent. She would laugh and say that her Persian lamb
coat was too heavy. But her arthritis got
very bad. Dishes were harder to pick up,
and more likely to be dropped and broken.
Uncle Harry, fifteen years older than she, tried to help out in the
kitchen, but that never went well.
One Christmas, I gave her a
small set of Boonton Ware: two each of dinner plates, lunch plates, cereal
bowls and soup bowls. Maybe there were
cups as well. They were colorful and fun (red, school bus yellow, dark blue,
white); meant to amuse, rather than serve as a reminder of the difficulty they
were both adjusting to, in their lives.
Six months later my sisters and
I traveled to Queens, meeting at the small attached house of Marion and Harry.
They had lived in the upstairs apartment for many years, having converted the
living space downstairs for rental income. The house was sold. There wasn’t much to empty out. Harry had been moved to a nursing home, where
he seemed to thrive, unaware of where his sweet Marion was or had been, entertaining
the other residents with tap dances and old vaudeville routines.
We ended up in the kitchen, not
wanting to spend time in the small living room, where our glamorous Aunt had
succumbed to pneumonia while lying on her French provincial pink sofa. We divvied up assorted items, mostly boxing it
to give away. It was decided I should take the bright plastic ware. The plastic ware traveled back to New Jersey
with me; my kids used the bowls regularly.
When the “great divide”
happened in the mid 80’s, I left most everything behind. But some things had been packed, and two dark
blue shallow bowls were all that remained of the plastic ware.
Many times I moved, maybe six
times since then, and still those bowls rest in each cabinet in each kitchen. They match nothing, but I have ritual uses
for them. Like morning oatmeal when I
need to rush for work; the plastic cools it down fast, making it easier to eat;
yogurt with strawberries on the deck.
The Aunt Marion memories are
not always strongly present, but a hint of her lovely smile flits across my
thoughts when I reach for them. I don’t
need to look at the photo of her standing on the boardwalk dressed in a
clinging white dress and an outrageous hat.
Or see her tenderly holding one of us as babies, in her bold print dress
and large brimmed straw hat with a massive flower on one side, her eyes tender. She was beauty and grace and she softened our
lives.
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Spring Soak
The high-mounded, extraordinary froth of bubbles created by
the Jacuzzi pulsing into the bubble bath was just how she liked it. She sunk, hidden under the white froth. It
was quiet enough on an early Saturday afternoon to hear the tiny hiss and pop
as the bubbles subsided after the Jacuzzi turned off.
She stared at the painting that hung at the end of the large tub; her favorite, always. When she’d brought her old friend up here last summer, who’d been visiting from Florida and had never seen the house before, she’d commented, “that’s my favorite”. Open mouthed, her friend had turned to her saying “and that’s why you hang it up here behind a plant where no one can see it?” Defensively she’d said lightly – well, the plant wasn’t that big when I hung it in here. The plant in question, an over productive, root bound spider plant, heavy with fifty or more ‘babies’ hung far down into the tub and now, as she watched, was buried in bubbles as well.
She remembered well the inspiration for “Winter Walk”, and how it felt so deeply personal she never wanted anyone to critique it, or, god forbid, say nothing about it. People could be unwittingly cruel in their attempts to say something, anything, about art. If it wasn’t Monet’s water lilies, or Van Gogh’s sunflowers, or some ghastly seascape (god, she hated seascapes) or a pop art poster or any other recognizable art, they usually chose to go one of three ways: “you did that?’” It’s...interesting” or “wow” (her friends did that) or, the worst – look at it, then look away and talk about something else (her sister did that).
She stared at the painting that hung at the end of the large tub; her favorite, always. When she’d brought her old friend up here last summer, who’d been visiting from Florida and had never seen the house before, she’d commented, “that’s my favorite”. Open mouthed, her friend had turned to her saying “and that’s why you hang it up here behind a plant where no one can see it?” Defensively she’d said lightly – well, the plant wasn’t that big when I hung it in here. The plant in question, an over productive, root bound spider plant, heavy with fifty or more ‘babies’ hung far down into the tub and now, as she watched, was buried in bubbles as well.
She remembered well the inspiration for “Winter Walk”, and how it felt so deeply personal she never wanted anyone to critique it, or, god forbid, say nothing about it. People could be unwittingly cruel in their attempts to say something, anything, about art. If it wasn’t Monet’s water lilies, or Van Gogh’s sunflowers, or some ghastly seascape (god, she hated seascapes) or a pop art poster or any other recognizable art, they usually chose to go one of three ways: “you did that?’” It’s...interesting” or “wow” (her friends did that) or, the worst – look at it, then look away and talk about something else (her sister did that).
She painted Winter Walk in 1995. So very long ago. The brief snowfall in the morning of that late
winter was over by early afternoon, the sun breaking through in spectacular
glory, almost apologizing for the unexpected snow drop, just when everyone was
shedding their down coats and heavy boots. When the sun came out, it seemed
possible to believe that spring would arrive very soon and not disappoint them
again. She’d wandered down a familiar lane, free of cars, fresh, snowsoft and
still. She’d turned up a smaller, private road, drawn by the evergreens with
their snow coverings like lace shawls, the promise of spring in the faint
earthy smell of the woods, mantles of snow clumped in misshapen circles amongst
the brown leaf ground cover.
The sky was breaking blue, the yellow sun peeking out, the short
and curvy road glistened black amongst it all.
It made her smile now to think of it, though her afternoon bubble bath
was more therapeutic than lazy. She thought
of how pain changes lives and attitudes, how injuries and setbacks in your
forties and fifties accomplish little more than strengthen your resolve to
excel and succeed and accomplish as soon as the pain is gone. She thought about these other pains that come
about with age and the gene pool and lifestyle choices and old habits and bad
habits. And the surprise when the pains
stay with you and you long for a day to be painless, you wonder at the future,
the goals not yet achieved, the limitations that might lie ahead. Yet she was grateful for the Jacuzzi, the
painting, even the all –encompassing spider plant; grateful for the lazy
Saturday afternoon, grateful for the memories.
Carol
Editor's note: This is the 6th in the Neighbors Essays series, chronologizing essays about neighbors at each home I lived in, and how I remember them.
Home #6 Carol
Home #6 Carol
Ann and John continued to visit for awhile after we moved to
our new home, but gradually the relationship dissolved; no longer neighbors, and
their teens now young adults forming their own relationships, starting
their own families, we lost our common thread. The new house had woods in the
back and on each side. The front yard
was deep and wide and fronted on a fairly busy road. On the left side, separated by a lot of
woods, lived the Sanders. I never met
Mrs. Sanders in the fourteen years I lived there, but Ed appeared at my door a
few months after we moved in, with an offering of venison, in a carefully
wrapped paper package, blood smeared across one side. “This is the best part of the deer” he said
proudly “very tender, just fry it up lightly in oil and you’ll have yourself a
real treat”. His eyes were small and
completely disappeared when he smiled.
He had a weather beaten face, but a kind smile. I thanked him profusely and put the package
in the freezer. Some time later, I
cooked it up for the dogs, handling the frozen meat with wary, New York City
hands. Who eats deer meat, I wondered.
During most of hunting season, when you drove past their
house, you could spot a deer stretched out in the doorway of the Sanders’
garage, draining its blood into buckets on the floor below. Behind the garage,
in the deep back part of his property, Ed had chicken coops and a rooster that
crowed all day intermittently, sometimes every hour.
After seven years, the property that lay between us, sold to
a young couple who built a house there.
They had a small boy and lots of energy for the big, modern house. The first Christmas after they moved in, three
year old Michael showed up at our door at 8am, as we were unwrapping. He stood there in his footed pajamas, his
hooded jacked unzipped. “Can I come in? Mommy and Daddy are still sleeping”. How
had he gotten out? Did he know it was
Christmas? We fed him some cereal, gave
him the small gift we had for him and then walked him back home, knocking
loudly to wake his parents up.
Across the street lived a pleasant family with three
teenagers (if a family with three teenagers can ever qualify for pleasant). The
father was a musician who taught music at a local high school, and drove into
the city one night a week to play clarinet in a jazz group. Jay was short, dark,
bearded and broody. He was bearded and wore
black all the time. He wore a beret and a
purse crossed over his shoulder. He seemed
exotic and out of place in the rural town we lived in. His loud, battered Volvo
started up in the morning with loud bangs and sputtering and great clouds of billowing
smoke.
His wife Carol was fair and red headed and pleasingly plump
with a contained bustiness, the sort that shook when she laughed and you
imagined she would be relieved at night when she took off her bra. She had a warm, winning smile and a
neighborly cheeriness about her, though she and I talked rarely, living on
opposite sides of a busy road as we did. We nodded and waved a lot. Occasionally
we arrived at our mailboxes at the same time and exchanged hellos and how are
you doings?
One beautiful day, as I arrived at the edge of the road to
get my mail, Carol called over hello. We
chatted across the street about the daffodils and the weeping willow for a few
minutes, and then, as the cars whizzed by between us, she called out “Jay left
us. He said he was tired of being a father and having so much responsibility.
He wants to concentrate on his music career now.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Was I envious of him and his newfound freedom or
relieved for her ( he seemed so morose and dark)?
Much later, I wondered what she thought when our own household
split like a house of cards and family treasures could be found heaped
curbside, placed there by an angry man, free for the taking.
Friday, February 27, 2015
Saturday Nonsense Tribute
Saturday Saturday
Glorious sleep-in Saturday!
Saturdays the day of laundry and putter
Saturday’s my day of oatmeal with butter
Saturday mornings, nowhere to go
Quietly ponder the ebb and the flow
Up in the closet down on the floor
Saturdays a day you just can’t ignore
for me the beauty lies in having to not
To mosey, to amble, to shuffle, to poke
The day to be dreaming with stories unspoke
Awakening from slumber so long and extended
And the house need not be tidy but just as you please
then no bustling or hustling or running about
need mess up your Saturday, cast you in doubt
for me that has always been my misgiving
Yet now I do not on Saturdays toil
In the work place where manners and limits unfurl
I thank all the powers for giving this day
Each week I live on, for as long as I may,
Tis a blessing for me to be able to say
Saturday, Saturday, what a wonderful day!
Glorious sleep-in Saturday!
Saturdays the day of laundry and putter
Saturday’s my day of oatmeal with butter
Saturday mornings, nowhere to go
Up in the closet down on the floor
Saturdays a day you just can’t ignore
Oh hail to Saturdays!
when some ladies shop for me the beauty lies in having to not
To mosey, to amble, to shuffle, to poke
The day to be dreaming with stories unspoke
Saturday's a blessing on which I count dearly
To remove all the traces of a work week so wearyAwakening from slumber so long and extended
The cheeks may look pinky, the fears apprehended
If your Saturday portends no company to pleaseAnd the house need not be tidy but just as you please
then no bustling or hustling or running about
need mess up your Saturday, cast you in doubt
Oh hail to Saturday, the three syllabled day!
It’s said Saturday’s child has to work for a living for me that has always been my misgiving
Yet now I do not on Saturdays toil
In the work place where manners and limits unfurl
To flit without deadline from task to task
With no direct outline and no one to askI thank all the powers for giving this day
Each week I live on, for as long as I may,
Tis a blessing for me to be able to say
Saturday, Saturday, what a wonderful day!
The Simpsons
editor's note: This is #5 in the Neighbors essays series, begun in July 2014.
“You ever plant flowers before?” he asked.
“Not really” I replied.
“Well, make those holes half as deep and half as wide, and you’ll be okay” and back he went across the street.
Home #5 The
Simpsons
That autumn, pregnant and ostracized from my
family, I moved to the hills of North Jersey with the man, Leo, Leo’s mother
Misty, and six puppies. We settled into
a rental house, situated at the top of a steep hill on a cul de sac with three
other houses. It was the first house I’d ever lived in. A city girl, apartment dweller, I was used to
the familiar sounds of another family, over or under me. Used to the smells of other people’s dinners,
the sounds of families laughing, shouting, fighting, bumping around. I reveled in the largeness of this new space
and the quiet of it all. We rented the house partially furnished; there was a color TV, the first I’d ever seen. There was a heavy, antique dining room table, with six chairs and velvet seats that sat on an orange shag rug. There were heavy draperies across sliding doors and even across tow small square windows, that gave the appearance of opulence when they were closed. There were three bedrooms, a spacious living room, a kitchen with a washer and a dryer. I'd never lived like that before.
The man traveled to the city every day in
my car, leaving in the morning dark and returning in the evening. I had Leo,
Misty and the puppies for company. That
winter, growing larger and more clumsy, and with two large pups we hadn’t found
homes for, I spent long hours wandering around the house, taking naps, and ultimately
writing my first poem, something dark and dramatic about being trapped in a
stark, cold, canine world. I cried a lot and smoked cigarettes and ate too much. I gained forty five pounds.
Neighbors across the street befriended us. Ann and John had two teenaged children and became surrogate
grandparents to my baby, when she was born in the Spring. Ann, grey haired and well cushioned, had a
ready smile and a good nature. She had a charming laugh and very smooth white
hands. When she held the baby, the baby was quiet and content. John used to say, with a glance in my direction,
that she was happy with Ann because “she didn’t like lying on bony laps.”
John was fleshy faced and ruddy complexioned. He liked to eat a lot of nuts and make
juvenile asides to his wife about his gastric reactions later in the
evening. On the occasional night when we
had them over for dinner, John always brought a brown paper bag and slipped it
to the man when he thought I wasn’t looking. As it turned out, the bag contained some
eight millimeter nudie films that he thought the man might enjoy in
his spare time. Would he guess that they
were set up in our bedroom for us? Fascinating;
at last I understood the “black sox” reference.
One late spring morning, John ambled across to our yard, as
I set about to plant petunias next to the walk. We exchanged pleasantries and he then took
up leaning against the car in the driveway. He smoked a cigarette and watched
as I struggled to dig deep holes with my small spade, through rocks, rocks, and
more rocks. Finally he spoke.
“Are you gonna plant them or bury them?” He threw his head back and howled laughing.
“What?” I asked, annoyed.
“You ever plant flowers before?” he asked.
“Not really” I replied.
“Well, make those holes half as deep and half as wide, and you’ll be okay” and back he went across the street.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
The True Meaning of February in the Northeast (the Catskills)
I have a friend in Florida, we’ll call her Blondie, who replied recently, after reading my single digit woes in an
email, that “cold” is just a temperature. I'd written about the morning weather report that we could expect a high of 10^ at the end of the week. She had the Blondie nerve (as she always does) to whine that the temp is down in the 40’s in sunny Florida...”don’t
hate me" she always says.
Of course I hate her.
Well no, not really.
But the whole email exchange got me thinking about what is really true about
this frozen February here in the northeast. Because, it’s not really just
about the temperature, as some would say...and say...and say... like the
co-workers who spar each morning about the temperature reading in their cars
when they left for work.
It’s not just
about the temperature. The problem with the fucking cold is everything they’re not saying.
There’s the
cost of a frigid winter in the northeast.
Yeah, gas prices are down. So what?
How does that compare with the price of heating oil per gallon, when the
wheezing, groaning noise of the furnace works non-stop to keep the house barely
warm; drafts continuing to swirl in corners.
The floors hold enough cold to punish ones feet; sox are not sufficient,
not by a long shot. One needs slippers,
shoes, boots, to do the trick. Nighttime
sleeping: the cold hair, the tunneling, the turtle like behavior; some worrying
about the woolen scarf wrapped around your neck and killing you, like Isadora
Duncan, in your sleep. Dressing for
winter is an art form, and needs to be done well. You need enough pairs of long johns to make
it through the work week; yes, they are necessary. You have to have wool sweaters. Forget
cotton, forget acrylic, forget the fluffy blends. Wool, merino, cashmere. Wool sox only; hats, layers, layers,
layers. Do you know, do you remember
about layers Blondie?
Catching the
winter vacationing mice that have moved in, like Glenford is their Caribbean
paradise.
The supermarket:
there will be shortages. Cream of Wheat wiped off the shelf. Specials on chicken broth, soups. Marketers dress in black for the most part, mourning
the brutality outside, leaving their baskets to roll around the parking lot,
not willing to walk them into the basket corral. They breeze through the
aisles, rapidly shopping for hearty meal components: chickens, soups, potatoes,
mac and cheese. Fuck salads and ice cream - too cold!
Your fingers are cracking, splitting; forget citrus fruit, you
will drop dead immediately from the pain of a an orange dripping on your cut
fingers. Additional dollars must be
spent for dry skin crème. Pump it up baby! Slather! Schmear! Remember the foot crème, or you won’t recognize
your heels in the spring, when you go sock-less. You must take your clothes out of the closet
in the morning and bring them to room temperature; if not, that skirt you’re
sliding into will have the effect of ice cubes rubbing up and down your legs.
Static hair? Goop and
grease, hair clips, clamps to hold it down.
Hat hair? It doesn’t matter, your face is so tight
and dry, just do up your lips bright red, smash the wool hat on your head and
hope for a bohemian effect.
Your car is
an unrecognizable color. All cars look
frozen and talc powdered, and it ends up on your coat. Pot holes, sink
holes, parking lots chinked up and heaving; driving around 10 foot mountains of
piled snow.
Ok, yes, the
beauty! The silence, the pure white wrapping
the landscape. The sparkle of sun on new snow, the blinding light and glitter of
it. The soft pervasive stillness of
winter. The opportunity for introspection.
The smell of woodstoves in the air of
the small village. Following footfalls
of the deer prints up the driveway. The pink and orange kissed skies on the
drive home. Winter, it’s such a short
time really. Sorry you’re missing it Blondie!
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