"Ch-ch-Ch-ch-Ch-ch," greets my ears on a sizzling hot New York evening. My book club host, Derek, clad in an Izod shirt, a pale shade of pink, stands, shaker in hand, shaking the evening's concoction. He expertly pours the cocktail into a martini glass and offers it to me. In this book club, we take our drinking, as well as our reading, seriously. The cocktail of the evening accompanies the featured book, The Chaperone by Laura Moriarty, set in the 1920's and '30's.
The laughter is so loud emanating from inside the Brooklyn apartment, I know the buzzer falls on deaf ears. I twist the door knob and step into a home I've never been to before. "I swiped right so many times, my finger got a cramp," declares Lindsay, my young 30-something book club host, describing her first (and only) venture onto Tender. Ahh, the joy of being with women 15 years younger, childless, and husbandless. Frivolity fades into the background as we reach for our copies of Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese.
"15C," I say, precisely, to the doorman in this Upper East Side white-glove apartment building. As the elevator whisks me higher, I smooth out my skirt and fiddle with my faux pearl necklace. "How did I, a flight attendant from Kansas, ever get mixed up in a book club with women who work at Christie's and discuss Monets and Donatellos?" I wonder. I glance around the room full of women. In honor of our book choice, Girl With a Pearl Earring by Tracy Chevalier, everyone was draped in pearls of some sort. I suspect mine are the only fakes in the bunch.
I've been blessed to have been in three book clubs over the last three decades. I've heard stories of book clubs that ban drinking. Others assess a fee if the book hasn't been read. Some clubs last a few months, others for years. The "Christie's auction house" club had been together for a dozen years when my husband's friend, Lois, invited me to join. I believe they are still together 18 years later. To my young sensibilities, each member's home was more beautiful than the previous month. Dinners focused on themes taken from the book. At the last meeting I attended, we discussed A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry.* The food was not take out from the local Indian restaurant. No, the tandoori chicken was homemade by the host in a Tandoor oven that she had brought back from Delhi. I decided my apartment, cooking, nor art knowledge was up to snuff, so I recused myself from this wonderful group. (And most of my spare time was taken up reading Mother Goose to my two babies under two.)
My second book club was started by a friend of mine, Janet, and an acquaintance of hers. The acquaintance chose the first book for discussion: The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger. She also suggested reading the follow-up, Revenge Wears Prada as our second book club discussion. Janet gave her the same look Meryl Streep gave Anne Hathaway in the movie (The Devil Wears Prada) that said, "you absolutely, positively cannot be serious with that suggestion." With one member less the following month, and literary books on the horizon, this club lasted several years, several babies, several marriages and one divorce.
My third, and current group was started by Margaret, a book editor, Jennifer, my friend of 14 years, and her sister Rachael. The written word is precious to all of us in the club. No one wants to be the one who chooses "that book." "That book" being the one that is so trivial, so shallow that it gets him/her thrown out of the group. I believe my choice In the Land of the Long White Cloud by Sarah Lark put me on the block. I attempted a marketing spin the evening we discussed it. "I chose this book because I thought it would be a fun, lite summer read (akin to elevator music). It took us away from the humid air and crowded streets of Manhattan and whisked us to the hills and dales of rural New Zealand, circa 1880. Right, everyone??" We might as well have watched the mini-series, "The Thorn Birds," (though set in Australia) instead of reading this 800 page phone book.
Reading and imbibing seem to go drink in hand with all my book clubs, I'm happy to say. Karyn, the host when Peyton Place by Grace Metalious was discussed, mixed up a whiskey sour punch (her mother's recipe) in her crystal punch bowl that Dean Martin would have guzzled. Rules of Civility by Amor Towles was "discussed" at Bathtub Gin, a speak easy in Chelsea. Myself and three other book club members (I suggested the place), wandered aimlessly in front of an ice cream shop where the gin joint was suppose to be. I got worried I was going to be "that person." However, like prohibition, which was the backdrop for the novel, a door man sidled up to us, with our perplexed faces, and whispered, "Gin, ladies?" Suddenly, a back wall in the ice cream shop was ajar and we slid into the clandestine 1920's for a few hours.
I don't know how long this current book club will last. Already one member is in the process of moving. I guess book clubs are like life. One never quite knows how it will play out, what relationships will develop from it, and certainly, how long it will exist. We can only have fun and enrich ourselves while we are here.
*A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry has been mentioned in two previous blogs: Memory Block (March 24, 2013) and Kindles, Nooks, and Old-Fashioned Books (April 28, 2011).
Monday, September 18, 2017
Thursday, July 27, 2017
Dance the Night Away
A girlfriend that resurfaces every few years called. It's one of those crazy, precious friendships that I pray lasts forever. It has survived 30 years and 3,000 miles. That's some mileage. We're both flight attendants, but with different carriers. We hadn't seen each other for a couple of years. She was flying to JFK from Milan.
"Can we see each other?" she asks. "If it doesn't work out, we can do it another time."
She had had cancer, for gawds sake! I thought of two other women with stage 4 cancer that I had known. "No, my friend. Now is the time. I'll rearrange. I'll cancel appointments. No excuses!"
Life's thrown her some curve balls: divorced from a man with an addiction, BRCA gene leading to breast cancer, injury at work, devastating hurricane in her hometown, but three wonderful and typical teen-agers and a zest for life.
My life: a little steadier. Same husband, decent health, and two wonderful and typical teen-agers and a zest for life.
I pick her up at JFK. She's now cancer-free and it shows. She looks healthier than when I saw her two years ago in LA, where she lives. We settle in for the two hour drive out to my week-end house on Long Island. How is it we talk and laugh as if we just saw each other last week? I guess that's why we'll always be friends.
On the drive, we talk about our past. We talk about our present--like what's for dinner! I prep her for my favorite restaurant where we are going in a couple of hours. "It's like gliding onto the set of The Great Gatsby, so we have to dress accordingly," I advise. I don't often care how I dress, but for evenings here, I do. I choose my Anne Fontaine crisp, white shirt with turned up cuffs and my $20 geometric tri-colored, Pucci-esque wide-legged, flowing pants. I bottom them off with my 3-inch strappy 80's style wedges. If I turn my ankle, I'm done for.
My friend has a flowing black and white long-sleeved dress that ends above the knees. It has a cut-out in the back. Her strappy sandals are slightly more practical than mine, by a quarter-inch, maybe.
We share the same lipstick she just bought in Milan. She pulls her wavy post-chemo hair into a band, wishing she had her sunglasses so she'd look more glamorous. We are both hoping to look a bit Italian, I think.
We drive 15 minutes in my convertible to the restaurant. The ocean-side homes on Dune Road are large enough to host parties for a couple hundred. On the bay-side, the homes are slightly more modest, but they make up for it by mooring their boats in their watery backyards. The drive is a lovely prelude to the evening.
We climb out and she asks should she lock the door. "I don't think locking it would be much of a deterrent." We laugh.
Dockers, the outdoor restaurant, has the same effect on everyone. Chill. Glamour. The Hamptons. We drink in the view--dark blue water, waving sea grass, and over-baked Hamptonites-- as we sip peach bellinis, our last cocktails of the summer.
Half-way through our lobsters, a band starts up---Mean Machine. Ugh! What a name. I just want to talk with my friend and stare off into the horizon.
She looks at me as the lead singer grabs the mic. "I'm dancing!" Off she goes, headed to the dance floor, bib still attached. I tear mine off and quickly follow. After all, it is the last unofficial hurrah of summer. Labor Day has come and gone, but the temperatures still register into the 80's. Summer does not want to leave.
My friend and I dance through Songs in the Key of Life ( Stevie Wonder). We Freeze Frame (RIP J. Geils) and revisit the Glory Days with Bruce. No beach dance night would be possible unless we put our toes in the water, ass in the sand with Zac Brown. When the band turns techno, I turn to sit. But I was alone. Apparently, techno is big in LA. I don't leave my friend. I know she wouldn't leave me.
She and I dance the night away, prolonging summer, loving life.
"Can we see each other?" she asks. "If it doesn't work out, we can do it another time."
She had had cancer, for gawds sake! I thought of two other women with stage 4 cancer that I had known. "No, my friend. Now is the time. I'll rearrange. I'll cancel appointments. No excuses!"
Life's thrown her some curve balls: divorced from a man with an addiction, BRCA gene leading to breast cancer, injury at work, devastating hurricane in her hometown, but three wonderful and typical teen-agers and a zest for life.
My life: a little steadier. Same husband, decent health, and two wonderful and typical teen-agers and a zest for life.
I pick her up at JFK. She's now cancer-free and it shows. She looks healthier than when I saw her two years ago in LA, where she lives. We settle in for the two hour drive out to my week-end house on Long Island. How is it we talk and laugh as if we just saw each other last week? I guess that's why we'll always be friends.
On the drive, we talk about our past. We talk about our present--like what's for dinner! I prep her for my favorite restaurant where we are going in a couple of hours. "It's like gliding onto the set of The Great Gatsby, so we have to dress accordingly," I advise. I don't often care how I dress, but for evenings here, I do. I choose my Anne Fontaine crisp, white shirt with turned up cuffs and my $20 geometric tri-colored, Pucci-esque wide-legged, flowing pants. I bottom them off with my 3-inch strappy 80's style wedges. If I turn my ankle, I'm done for.
My friend has a flowing black and white long-sleeved dress that ends above the knees. It has a cut-out in the back. Her strappy sandals are slightly more practical than mine, by a quarter-inch, maybe.
We share the same lipstick she just bought in Milan. She pulls her wavy post-chemo hair into a band, wishing she had her sunglasses so she'd look more glamorous. We are both hoping to look a bit Italian, I think.
We drive 15 minutes in my convertible to the restaurant. The ocean-side homes on Dune Road are large enough to host parties for a couple hundred. On the bay-side, the homes are slightly more modest, but they make up for it by mooring their boats in their watery backyards. The drive is a lovely prelude to the evening.
We climb out and she asks should she lock the door. "I don't think locking it would be much of a deterrent." We laugh.
Dockers, the outdoor restaurant, has the same effect on everyone. Chill. Glamour. The Hamptons. We drink in the view--dark blue water, waving sea grass, and over-baked Hamptonites-- as we sip peach bellinis, our last cocktails of the summer.
Half-way through our lobsters, a band starts up---Mean Machine. Ugh! What a name. I just want to talk with my friend and stare off into the horizon.
She looks at me as the lead singer grabs the mic. "I'm dancing!" Off she goes, headed to the dance floor, bib still attached. I tear mine off and quickly follow. After all, it is the last unofficial hurrah of summer. Labor Day has come and gone, but the temperatures still register into the 80's. Summer does not want to leave.
My friend and I dance through Songs in the Key of Life ( Stevie Wonder). We Freeze Frame (RIP J. Geils) and revisit the Glory Days with Bruce. No beach dance night would be possible unless we put our toes in the water, ass in the sand with Zac Brown. When the band turns techno, I turn to sit. But I was alone. Apparently, techno is big in LA. I don't leave my friend. I know she wouldn't leave me.
She and I dance the night away, prolonging summer, loving life.
Tuesday, April 25, 2017
Why am I reading dreaming in hindi while my son, Xander and are in Havana? Why not Hemingway? Why not Telex from Cuba? So every now and then, here in Cuba, I've felt like I am in India. Driving 2 1/2 hours west of Havana to Vinales* in the country-side, there are Brahman cattle in the pastures-the same humped-backed oatmeal-colored cattle that wander the streets of Mumbai. Across the street from our flat (thank you Airbnb), in La Habana Vieja (Old Havana) is a yellow house that could be transported from Kolkata. I remind myself I'm in Cuba, a Spanish-speaking country in the Caribbean only 228 miles and a half a century from the United States. Sin embargo, (nevertheless--my favorite Spanish word in the world) it is exotic and special. Along with India, it's a little of the Dominican Republic where I spent years of my life on layovers with American Airlines. Even a flair of New Orleans is present with the small, wrought-iron Juliette balconies dotting the second, third and fourth floors of the apartment buildings.
The buildings, in their past beauty, must have been breathtaking-sweeping staircases, echo-inducing, high, domed-ceilings. In their present decrepit state of crumbling stone, peeling paint, and occasional odor of propane gas, a different ethereal beauty emerges. It's a beauty where I long for a past that I never experienced. I yearn to be transported to the glitz and glamour days when the rich, creative, and powerful made Havana a stop on the circuit, the place to see and be seen. Would I be in awe if I walked into the El Floridita where Hemingway hung out or would I saddened at his state of drunkenness?
To add to that yearning of bygone days are the cars. You know what I mean. The 1948 Packards. The 1959 Chevys. The two-toned convertibles with fins. Our taxi to Vinales was a 1951 Ford. I sat in the back seat with my legs splayed out and my fingers interlaced behind my head. A spring occasionally kicked my butt when Josue, our driver, was unable to avoid pot holes. I felt like I was in my Grandpa's 1951 Ford pick-up that he'd pick me up in every day after kindergarten. I cranked down my windows to hasten the fresh air inside. For safety, I sat in the middle in case the 65-year-old locking mechanism keeping the doors shut, decided to call it a day. The freedom of no seatbelts, no dials to adjust the temperature perfectly, no radio to fumble with was intoxicating. Even if there were a radio, the loudly "purring" engine and whipping wind satisfied my need for audio stimulation.
I let my 6'2" son sit in front with Josue to practice the Spanish he'd been studying since kindergarten. The busy Havana streets were replaced with Brahman cattle and goats dotting the rolling, red-soiled hills. Peddlers were selling their goods of roasted chickens and fat, raw onions The modern highway colluded with horse and oxen drawn carts, motorcycles with side cars, the classic Buicks, Fords, Chevys and French Peugeots. One heart-stopping event happened when we turned to drive north for several miles on a small, more intimate road-one meant only for a horse and cart carrying hay from the field to the barn. Now our 1951 1.5 ton Ford is negotiating this lane as another similar vehicle is doing the same, coming in the opposite direction.
But first, let's get back to the quaint streets of Old Havana where pedestrians flatten themselves against the buildings to allow cars and trucks to squeeze past. Our quaint flat on Compostela street was very adequate, which is all one needs right? Xander did make the mistake of showering one morning. Alas, no hot water, regardless of what our host, Yurian, had said. I waited until evening to take mine. Yurian had not lied. The water dotting my skin was indeed, adequately warm.
The day of our arrival, Yurian met us outside the flat and quickly carried my one piece of luggage up two flights of stairs. Xander trudged behind us with his. Machismo (and age) take turns as to whom it benefits. To welcome us was his brother, his girlfriend, and his father. After some pleasant exchanges in Spanish, the men lit their cigarettes, after offering us one, and turned on the small tv to watch soccer. I wondered if we were going to reside with our host and his family in the 700 square foot flat with a full and twin bed and sofa in one room and a small sofa in the living room/dining room area. The magnet-decorated fridge was prominently angled in the corner. The men were enjoying their smoke and game when Yurian propped our door open to get a beautiful cross breeze flowing through the rooms.
Another neighbor opened her door. Oh, La Abuela, I thought. No, she wasn't Yurian's grandmother. However, they treated her as one. After introductions, she and I took a quick turn sashaying around her living room to the beat on her radio as Yurain told me she was 101! She could have taught me a few dance moves. Though she was spry, I wondered how often she negotiated the steep, winding stairs to the street. After a little more visiting and a display of fine cigars Papa had for sale, our host and his family did leave and went their way and we went ours.
Ours was to lunch on a rooftop café that Yurian recommended. I sipped my mojito and looked around our setting. Xander and I nodded and both smiled at our good fortune of being in Havana, eating our ropa vieja, (a delicious beef dish, though the literal translation is old cloth) and listening to a couple of local musicians. We learned that live music was as typical as an old man smoking a cigar on the street corner. If your home is across the street from these rooftop cafes, well, you get a free concert every night.
As we meandered around the cobble-stoned street, a way of life was revealed. People live openly, literally. The apartments on the ground often had their front door open to catch the seductive breeze from the ocean. Each door way was cine'ma ve'rite'---life in raw reality. Cats, dogs, birds, TV, laughter, young, old pregnant, shouts, music--all emanated from these open, yet private spaces. Nosy Nancy, Gloria Gogs-Too-Much, and Polly Peers-A-Lot were just a few nicknames Xander bestowed upon me because my headed swiveled uncontrollably, left to right and left once again.
I even found it difficult to relax on our tiny Juliette balcony. I constantly jumped up to see if a 1945 Packard was squeezing its way down our narrow street or decipher a pig's squeal from a child's screech. For those of a certain age, you could call me Mrs. Kravits.
Our first morning, Yurian (not just host, but tour guide and cook as well) came to prepare breakfast. I had requested 8 am. He told Xander that was too early. He arrived by 9. His coffee was exquisite so all was forgiven. I asked about his thoughts on Fidel who had recently died. The older set, like his father, remembers the better days. Where as the younger group, (he is 37) not so much. Obama had been there recently and wooed the crowds-along with Michelle and the girls. He doesn't like Trump, but didn't dwell on it. Unlike an Austrian woman we spoke with. Not only did she dis on Trump, but our Electoral College system as well. At least, she was informed.
With Yurian, we also meandered around the serpent-like streets, but this time with a purpose and explanations! One highlight was the Museo de la Revolucio'n. Prominently displayed were four nearly life-sized cutouts of four well-known politicians, President Batista and three US presidents. Two of them are related and I'll let you guess the remaining one. The display was entitled Rinco'n de los Cretinos (corner of the cretins).
What is Cuba without cigars? Josue, our driver to Vinales, drove to a UNESCO cigar farm--no chemicals or nicotine in the cigars! After a spirited explanation from an employee of the farm to Xander, a French woman, an Argentinian and myself about cigar growing, drying, aging and rolling, we then lit up. He rolled, cut, then dipped our cigars in honey--just as Che Guevara and Fidel used to, he assured us. Xander and I walked around on our own to the fields and drying barns.
Josue took us to a couple of sights that weren't on our radar. We visited Cueva del Indio (Cave of the Indians) and Mural de la Prehistoria conceived in 1959. A Cuban artist, a student of Diego Rivera, was commissioned for the job. One of the largest in the world, painted on a mountainside, displaying the story of evolution and reflecting bones that were found in the area.
Unlike the drive to Vinales that felt leisurely, Josue seemed to be putting pedal to the metal on the return. No more onion and roasted chicken peddlers on the roadside to distract us. Although, the horse-drawn carts seemed to be in abundance. With dusk descending on the rolling hills and highway, I thought the cart drivers were rushing to get home before dark. But it didn't feel like that when I watched their smiling faces and saw the spirited horses. In fact, it seemed like the darker it got, the more horses were on the highway. We came upon two horse-drawn carts riding next to each other trotting down the highway. Instead of one pulling behind the other, they split. One moved slightly to the left, the other, slightly to the right. As our Ford shot through the gap, I closed my eyes. But then, I thought, "If I'm going to buy the farm in Cuba, I want to see it happen." The twilight horse-cart riding felt like a dare-devilish activity for the locals to discuss over rum and cigars late into the night.
I also felt like a dare devil since Josue hadn't turned our headlights on yet. Finally though, we pulled over and he opened the hood of the car. My son turned and looked at me and said, "We've had a good run, haven't we Mom?" Or maybe that was his remark when the police pulled us over to the side of the road ten miles later to check Josue's paperwork.
Josue jumped back into the car, assuring us he twisted some wires and now the headlights were working.
I was a little thankful to see the lights of Havana getting closer, but it did mean our short time in Cuba was over. I told Xander I didn't plan on returning. Some places I want to preserve in my mind as I first embraced them. Cuba is on that list.
*Vinales should have a tilde over the "n". I clearly had challenges getting it there. Apologies!
The buildings, in their past beauty, must have been breathtaking-sweeping staircases, echo-inducing, high, domed-ceilings. In their present decrepit state of crumbling stone, peeling paint, and occasional odor of propane gas, a different ethereal beauty emerges. It's a beauty where I long for a past that I never experienced. I yearn to be transported to the glitz and glamour days when the rich, creative, and powerful made Havana a stop on the circuit, the place to see and be seen. Would I be in awe if I walked into the El Floridita where Hemingway hung out or would I saddened at his state of drunkenness?
To add to that yearning of bygone days are the cars. You know what I mean. The 1948 Packards. The 1959 Chevys. The two-toned convertibles with fins. Our taxi to Vinales was a 1951 Ford. I sat in the back seat with my legs splayed out and my fingers interlaced behind my head. A spring occasionally kicked my butt when Josue, our driver, was unable to avoid pot holes. I felt like I was in my Grandpa's 1951 Ford pick-up that he'd pick me up in every day after kindergarten. I cranked down my windows to hasten the fresh air inside. For safety, I sat in the middle in case the 65-year-old locking mechanism keeping the doors shut, decided to call it a day. The freedom of no seatbelts, no dials to adjust the temperature perfectly, no radio to fumble with was intoxicating. Even if there were a radio, the loudly "purring" engine and whipping wind satisfied my need for audio stimulation.
I let my 6'2" son sit in front with Josue to practice the Spanish he'd been studying since kindergarten. The busy Havana streets were replaced with Brahman cattle and goats dotting the rolling, red-soiled hills. Peddlers were selling their goods of roasted chickens and fat, raw onions The modern highway colluded with horse and oxen drawn carts, motorcycles with side cars, the classic Buicks, Fords, Chevys and French Peugeots. One heart-stopping event happened when we turned to drive north for several miles on a small, more intimate road-one meant only for a horse and cart carrying hay from the field to the barn. Now our 1951 1.5 ton Ford is negotiating this lane as another similar vehicle is doing the same, coming in the opposite direction.
But first, let's get back to the quaint streets of Old Havana where pedestrians flatten themselves against the buildings to allow cars and trucks to squeeze past. Our quaint flat on Compostela street was very adequate, which is all one needs right? Xander did make the mistake of showering one morning. Alas, no hot water, regardless of what our host, Yurian, had said. I waited until evening to take mine. Yurian had not lied. The water dotting my skin was indeed, adequately warm.
The day of our arrival, Yurian met us outside the flat and quickly carried my one piece of luggage up two flights of stairs. Xander trudged behind us with his. Machismo (and age) take turns as to whom it benefits. To welcome us was his brother, his girlfriend, and his father. After some pleasant exchanges in Spanish, the men lit their cigarettes, after offering us one, and turned on the small tv to watch soccer. I wondered if we were going to reside with our host and his family in the 700 square foot flat with a full and twin bed and sofa in one room and a small sofa in the living room/dining room area. The magnet-decorated fridge was prominently angled in the corner. The men were enjoying their smoke and game when Yurian propped our door open to get a beautiful cross breeze flowing through the rooms.
Another neighbor opened her door. Oh, La Abuela, I thought. No, she wasn't Yurian's grandmother. However, they treated her as one. After introductions, she and I took a quick turn sashaying around her living room to the beat on her radio as Yurain told me she was 101! She could have taught me a few dance moves. Though she was spry, I wondered how often she negotiated the steep, winding stairs to the street. After a little more visiting and a display of fine cigars Papa had for sale, our host and his family did leave and went their way and we went ours.
Ours was to lunch on a rooftop café that Yurian recommended. I sipped my mojito and looked around our setting. Xander and I nodded and both smiled at our good fortune of being in Havana, eating our ropa vieja, (a delicious beef dish, though the literal translation is old cloth) and listening to a couple of local musicians. We learned that live music was as typical as an old man smoking a cigar on the street corner. If your home is across the street from these rooftop cafes, well, you get a free concert every night.
As we meandered around the cobble-stoned street, a way of life was revealed. People live openly, literally. The apartments on the ground often had their front door open to catch the seductive breeze from the ocean. Each door way was cine'ma ve'rite'---life in raw reality. Cats, dogs, birds, TV, laughter, young, old pregnant, shouts, music--all emanated from these open, yet private spaces. Nosy Nancy, Gloria Gogs-Too-Much, and Polly Peers-A-Lot were just a few nicknames Xander bestowed upon me because my headed swiveled uncontrollably, left to right and left once again.
I even found it difficult to relax on our tiny Juliette balcony. I constantly jumped up to see if a 1945 Packard was squeezing its way down our narrow street or decipher a pig's squeal from a child's screech. For those of a certain age, you could call me Mrs. Kravits.
Our first morning, Yurian (not just host, but tour guide and cook as well) came to prepare breakfast. I had requested 8 am. He told Xander that was too early. He arrived by 9. His coffee was exquisite so all was forgiven. I asked about his thoughts on Fidel who had recently died. The older set, like his father, remembers the better days. Where as the younger group, (he is 37) not so much. Obama had been there recently and wooed the crowds-along with Michelle and the girls. He doesn't like Trump, but didn't dwell on it. Unlike an Austrian woman we spoke with. Not only did she dis on Trump, but our Electoral College system as well. At least, she was informed.
With Yurian, we also meandered around the serpent-like streets, but this time with a purpose and explanations! One highlight was the Museo de la Revolucio'n. Prominently displayed were four nearly life-sized cutouts of four well-known politicians, President Batista and three US presidents. Two of them are related and I'll let you guess the remaining one. The display was entitled Rinco'n de los Cretinos (corner of the cretins).
What is Cuba without cigars? Josue, our driver to Vinales, drove to a UNESCO cigar farm--no chemicals or nicotine in the cigars! After a spirited explanation from an employee of the farm to Xander, a French woman, an Argentinian and myself about cigar growing, drying, aging and rolling, we then lit up. He rolled, cut, then dipped our cigars in honey--just as Che Guevara and Fidel used to, he assured us. Xander and I walked around on our own to the fields and drying barns.
Josue took us to a couple of sights that weren't on our radar. We visited Cueva del Indio (Cave of the Indians) and Mural de la Prehistoria conceived in 1959. A Cuban artist, a student of Diego Rivera, was commissioned for the job. One of the largest in the world, painted on a mountainside, displaying the story of evolution and reflecting bones that were found in the area.
Unlike the drive to Vinales that felt leisurely, Josue seemed to be putting pedal to the metal on the return. No more onion and roasted chicken peddlers on the roadside to distract us. Although, the horse-drawn carts seemed to be in abundance. With dusk descending on the rolling hills and highway, I thought the cart drivers were rushing to get home before dark. But it didn't feel like that when I watched their smiling faces and saw the spirited horses. In fact, it seemed like the darker it got, the more horses were on the highway. We came upon two horse-drawn carts riding next to each other trotting down the highway. Instead of one pulling behind the other, they split. One moved slightly to the left, the other, slightly to the right. As our Ford shot through the gap, I closed my eyes. But then, I thought, "If I'm going to buy the farm in Cuba, I want to see it happen." The twilight horse-cart riding felt like a dare-devilish activity for the locals to discuss over rum and cigars late into the night.
I also felt like a dare devil since Josue hadn't turned our headlights on yet. Finally though, we pulled over and he opened the hood of the car. My son turned and looked at me and said, "We've had a good run, haven't we Mom?" Or maybe that was his remark when the police pulled us over to the side of the road ten miles later to check Josue's paperwork.
Josue jumped back into the car, assuring us he twisted some wires and now the headlights were working.
I was a little thankful to see the lights of Havana getting closer, but it did mean our short time in Cuba was over. I told Xander I didn't plan on returning. Some places I want to preserve in my mind as I first embraced them. Cuba is on that list.
*Vinales should have a tilde over the "n". I clearly had challenges getting it there. Apologies!
Wednesday, August 17, 2016
Rear Window
All I want is a little solace on my terrace before my day starts. Is that too much to ask for--enjoy a cup of coffee and peruse a two day old Times? A screeching blue jay interrupts my reverie. Suddenly, my terrace turns into Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom with Huey, the tabby, attempting to leap where no cat has leapt before.
Well, this sunny morning, another repetitive noise was interrupting my solitude, (besides the bird, my kids, and my inner voice saying "get up off your butt and work").
"Hello! Hello! Anyone? I need help. Can anyone hear me?" My terrace is on the fifth floor. I can see a few other terraces from my perch, but no people. If I peer over the bamboo fence, I can spy into neighbor's backyards to the south of me. The voice seems to be coming from down there somewhere. The woman may have been making this request a few times and I just tucked it into my subconscious. Eventually, her words drown out the Trump and Hillary debacle that is catching my attention in the paper. I jump up and peer down. I do not want a Kitty Genovese incident in my neighborhood. I spy a blond woman, walking around her nicely appointed garden. Maybe sometime she'll invite me down for a drink.
"Yes, up here." I feel the need to yell since she's five stories below me.
"I've locked myself out. Can you call my husband for me?"
"What's going on out here?" A woman in the building adjacent to mine opens her window and asks. "Someone has locked themselves out," I answer. Was she getting ready to respond, I wonder.
"Let me get my phone." Luckily, it isn't a sweltering 95 degrees, but a balmy 85 and cloudy.
As she shouts out the number, I'm amazed at how 9's sound like 5's and how my mild, self-diagnosed dyslexia could be a problem here. The sixty vertical feet between us doesn't help either.
After a couple wrong numbers and confusion with strangers on the phone, I get the correct husband, but only to leave a message. Who doesn't respond to an unknown phone number? Really!
I shout to my stranded neighbor that I'll continue calling. She's grateful and calm. After our challenging number exchange, she probably believes I'm partially deaf.
On my fourth try, the husband's curiosity wins out. I explain who I am and why I'm calling. He doesn't seemed overly alarmed. Maybe it has happened before and someone else had come to her rescue.
"Hello!" I shout downward a couple hours later. No response. Apparently, her husband made it home. I pat myself on the back. A good deed accomplished and I didn't even leave my apartment!
Later that night, I turn on the Alfred Hitchcock hour on TV. Grace Kelly and Jimmy Stewart grace the screen in Rear Window. I suddenly feel like a third character in Jimmmy's apartment as we three (Jimmy, Grace and me) wonder if the shifty husband across the way murdered his wife.
A tense hour later, I turn off the TV and close my curtains over the sliding glass door leading to the terrace. I think about my blond neighbor.
I think I'll take my morning coffee at Starbucks.
Well, this sunny morning, another repetitive noise was interrupting my solitude, (besides the bird, my kids, and my inner voice saying "get up off your butt and work").
"Hello! Hello! Anyone? I need help. Can anyone hear me?" My terrace is on the fifth floor. I can see a few other terraces from my perch, but no people. If I peer over the bamboo fence, I can spy into neighbor's backyards to the south of me. The voice seems to be coming from down there somewhere. The woman may have been making this request a few times and I just tucked it into my subconscious. Eventually, her words drown out the Trump and Hillary debacle that is catching my attention in the paper. I jump up and peer down. I do not want a Kitty Genovese incident in my neighborhood. I spy a blond woman, walking around her nicely appointed garden. Maybe sometime she'll invite me down for a drink.
"Yes, up here." I feel the need to yell since she's five stories below me.
"I've locked myself out. Can you call my husband for me?"
"What's going on out here?" A woman in the building adjacent to mine opens her window and asks. "Someone has locked themselves out," I answer. Was she getting ready to respond, I wonder.
"Let me get my phone." Luckily, it isn't a sweltering 95 degrees, but a balmy 85 and cloudy.
As she shouts out the number, I'm amazed at how 9's sound like 5's and how my mild, self-diagnosed dyslexia could be a problem here. The sixty vertical feet between us doesn't help either.
After a couple wrong numbers and confusion with strangers on the phone, I get the correct husband, but only to leave a message. Who doesn't respond to an unknown phone number? Really!
I shout to my stranded neighbor that I'll continue calling. She's grateful and calm. After our challenging number exchange, she probably believes I'm partially deaf.
On my fourth try, the husband's curiosity wins out. I explain who I am and why I'm calling. He doesn't seemed overly alarmed. Maybe it has happened before and someone else had come to her rescue.
"Hello!" I shout downward a couple hours later. No response. Apparently, her husband made it home. I pat myself on the back. A good deed accomplished and I didn't even leave my apartment!
Later that night, I turn on the Alfred Hitchcock hour on TV. Grace Kelly and Jimmy Stewart grace the screen in Rear Window. I suddenly feel like a third character in Jimmmy's apartment as we three (Jimmy, Grace and me) wonder if the shifty husband across the way murdered his wife.
A tense hour later, I turn off the TV and close my curtains over the sliding glass door leading to the terrace. I think about my blond neighbor.
I think I'll take my morning coffee at Starbucks.
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
A Child's View of Life on the Farm**
Winter begets spring, which spawns summer, that falls into autumn. And there it goes, round and round and round -- like a dog chasing its tail. That's what growing up on a farm is like -- the same thing over and over again. The cattle are hungry in the morning; they're hungry in the evening. The chickens lay eggs in the morning; the farmer's wife gathers them in the evening. Day in. Day out. The corn gets planted in the spring and harvested in the fall, year after year after year. I guess there are slight variations, like the summer of '68 when it hailed so violently we lost all the crops. They were battered to the wet ground as if gods had come down from the skies and performed a sadistic dance over the tasseling yellow corn and full heads of wheat. The crops were stomped into the ground a few short hours before they were to be harvested and shipped to starving children in China.
My father cried--not for the starving children--but for us. He didn't try to hide the tears like he did at Uncle Joe's funeral the year before. In his faded blue work shirt, his shoulders shook so much, I wondered if God hadn't reach down and given him a shaking. For what, I didn't know. Only after he had snot dripping from his big nose did I understand the impact of nature's wrath. A year's worth of work was battered away. The labor was done, but no paycheck was to come.
I have never seen my father cry like that before or since, not even when his father died. That proud German heritage doesn't allow us to mutter, "I love you," without a great deal of discomfort. Love came in other gestures--my beautiful Dancerina doll I got for Christmas in 1971 or getting my favorite dinner every May 28th, my birthday.
That German mentality carried over into our work life. Growing up on a farm, I learned things sooner than town kids. I made mud pies at two, helped butcher my pets at three, and was behind the steering wheel at four. People say kids adapt quickly. That's because they don't have a choice.
My first driving experience wasn't enjoyable. It could have been, but for a few problems. Firstly, I wasn't tall enough to see out the windshield. Secondly, I couldn't reach the gas, brake or clutch pedals. I didn't know what a clutch did. What plagued my thoughts more than anything was the potential I had for maiming and killing as I attempted to steer the unyielding steering wheel. It started out innocently.
"Tammy, come help me feed the cattle. I need to push hay to them from the back of the pick-up." Mom said over our noon-meal of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. "You just need to steer." Twenty minutes later, I'm in the driver's seat and she's in the bed of the pick-up truck, without a care in the world.
"Mommy, the cows aren't moving!" I screamed. "I'm going to run over them." I sobbed. Couldn't she see these cattle in my way?
"Keep driv'in," she yelled from the back of the old blue truck.
I gripped the steering wheel like it was my savior Jesus Christ. I was going to run over a dozen head of cattle; Jesus was nowhere to be seen. Floating cow heads were all I could see out the bug-smeared windshield. It hadn't rained all summer and the pasture I was driving in was ugly and brown. No prickly cactus apples to eat this year. They were all dead. Just like me and Mommy were going to be. After I hit the cows, the pick-up would roll over on its side and that would be the end. Never would I make it to kindergarten.
In between tears and snot, I tried to take control. "Move you stupid cows. Get BEHIND the pick-up. Mommy's feeding you," I yelled out the open, driver's side window. My voice went unheard as the hungry cattle stood in front of the pick-up and bawled for their hay.
I couldn't see Mommy in the back of the pick-up, but I could see her in my mind. Right before we left for the pasture, she put on a pair of muddy, black galoshes. It wasn't just old, caked-on winter mud, it was dried cow poop, too. They were my Daddy's so they were too big, but she didn't care. Her dusty blue jeans looked more white than blue. She had cooked fried chicken for dinner (noon meal) and wiped her flour-covered hands on her jeans, instead of washing them off, like I had to.
She had on an old olive-green, short-sleeved shirt. It used to be pretty when she wore it to town, but now it was covered with bunched up balls of fabric. There were so many little balls, it looked polka-dotted. On her shirt, just below her shoulder, she had about eight safety pins attached. She collected them, like some people collect pennies. Like pennies, safety pins are plentiful and useful. Earlier in the day, the zipper on her jeans went "pop." She took a pin off her shirt and used it to keep her pants closed. Mommy never wore gloves. It was kinda hard to tell the difference between her hands and Daddy's. Hers were a little smaller, but just as beaten up from farm work and butchering chickens.
After dinner, I watcher her put her hair up in those pink plastic curlers with the brushes inside them. Near the front, where her hair was shorter, the curlers were small black ones. I had taken the littlest pink curlers for my dolls and never told her. She wrapped a dark blue handkerchief around her head so the hay wouldn't get stuck between the curlers.
I knew she'd be getting mad because it was really hot outside and the sweat would be dripping onto her eyeglasses. She'd also be mad because of my crying. I wasn't hysterical if I could hear the pitchfork scrape against the bed of the truck every few seconds. That way I knew she was alive -- still dumping loose hay bales into the pasture for these awful cattle.
"1, 2, 3 . . .5," I counted the seconds out loud. " Mommy, are you still back there?" If I didn't hear the ringing of the pitchfork against the steel bed, I got scared. If something happened to her, I wouldn't know what to do. My feet were miles from the pedals on the floor, not that I knew which one to push anyway.
That thought didn't help my outlook. A bottomless fountain of tears welled up in my eyes, my snot dripped like thick, raw egg whites. I stuck my lower lip out and sucked my upper lip to keep from sobbing again. My sticky, sweet snot found its way to my mouth. As I tried to lick it away, I looked out the open truck window. A cow, staring at me, licked his snot too. His big head was so close I could have reached out and touched it. He was one of those black, white-faced cows. Black, with a white face. His nose was pink, like my kitten's, but his nostrils were so big, half his tongue disappeared as he searched for his snot to lick away.
"Mommy!!"
"What?!"
"How . . .how many more bales?" I counted the seconds again. "1, 2, 4, 5. No! Start over. 1, 2, 3 . . .If only Spencer were here." Oh, I was mad at my brother for going to school! I forced my eyes away from the top of the dashboard and the cows' heads. I looked to see how fast we were moving. The red stick was between 0 and 5. "Stay closer to 0, please," I begged. I loosened my white and purple fingers from the steering wheel and grabbed up higher on the wheel. Now I could sort of see the cows' necks, not just their floating heads. On no, something evil loomed in the background.
"Mommy!" I yelled out the window. "There's a hill in the pasture. What do I do?" If I couldn't press on the gas pedal, the truck would roll backwards, Mommy would fall out and I'd run over her.
I closed my eyes, but I kept my hands on the wheel. Mommy had said before we started, "Just drive straight." Okay, okay! I'll drive straight.
I had to take one hand off the wheel though. I was drowning in my own snot and tears. I loosened my grip and quick as a prairie dog, I wiped my face against my long-sleeved shirt. A line of snot connected my sleeve and face together.
I always dressed in long-sleeved shirts and pants. The shirt I had on was a hand-me-down from Spencer. Mommy said he grew so fast there was still lots of wear in his clothes. Susan, who was right in between Spencer and me, refused to wear them. The blue jeans were mine though. They had red and white plaid cuffs at the bottom.
All summer long my brother would wear only shorts. Mommy told me that once, when I was little, she put me, Spencer, and Susan out in the yard in a galvanized tub filled with cold water from the garden hose. We were naked. Spencer and Susan splashed around in the sun and got brown as a jar of iced tea. I sat there and turned as bright red as one of her tomatoes in the garden. Mommy said the next day I had enough liquid in all my blisters to water the flowers.
If Spencer were home today, he'd be driving this big pick-up truck. They said I'd go to school next year--if I lived that long.
Suddenly the pick-up shifted. I couldn't tell what happened, but it felt differently. I pulled myself to the very edge of the seat to get a better look out the windshield. That didn't work. Now I couldn't see anything, but the dials in front of me.
I scooted my butt back to where it had been. I listened to the cows mooing and the birds talking. I didn't hear the pitchfork. Mommy had fallen out. "MOMMY!!"
"I'm right here." She stuck her head in the driver's window. "Now get over. Or do you want to drive home?" She smiled as she said this.
"Mommy!" She opened the door while the pick-up still moved. I looked down at the red stick again. It was on 1. "Be careful," I warned her.
I was so happy. I laid my head down in her lap and cried some more. Her legs were busy shifting gears, pushing up and down on the pedals. I didn't care that my head bounced around like a basketball. We were both alive. Finally, her foot rested on the gas pedal. I could lay still. The smell of hay hung on her as if she'd tumbled around in it. It was a nice smell, even though it reminded me of cows. I rubbed my hand up and down her jeans, making designs from the flour that still clung to them. All at the same time, Mommy smelled like hay, fried chicken, and the Dippity-Doo gel that had sweated from her curled-up hair.
I sat up to make sure there were no more floating heads in front of the pick-up. "Mommy, I don't like cows."
"You'll get used to them," she told me, nodding her head. "You'll get used to a lot of things you don't like."
**"A Child's View of Life on the Farm" was previously published Winter 1997, in The Returning Woman Magazine, a publication of Hunter College, NYC. A friend suggested I post it here. I thought it would make a nice companion piece to "Slice of Life," posted January 2015. Thanks for the suggestion CA.
My father cried--not for the starving children--but for us. He didn't try to hide the tears like he did at Uncle Joe's funeral the year before. In his faded blue work shirt, his shoulders shook so much, I wondered if God hadn't reach down and given him a shaking. For what, I didn't know. Only after he had snot dripping from his big nose did I understand the impact of nature's wrath. A year's worth of work was battered away. The labor was done, but no paycheck was to come.
I have never seen my father cry like that before or since, not even when his father died. That proud German heritage doesn't allow us to mutter, "I love you," without a great deal of discomfort. Love came in other gestures--my beautiful Dancerina doll I got for Christmas in 1971 or getting my favorite dinner every May 28th, my birthday.
That German mentality carried over into our work life. Growing up on a farm, I learned things sooner than town kids. I made mud pies at two, helped butcher my pets at three, and was behind the steering wheel at four. People say kids adapt quickly. That's because they don't have a choice.
My first driving experience wasn't enjoyable. It could have been, but for a few problems. Firstly, I wasn't tall enough to see out the windshield. Secondly, I couldn't reach the gas, brake or clutch pedals. I didn't know what a clutch did. What plagued my thoughts more than anything was the potential I had for maiming and killing as I attempted to steer the unyielding steering wheel. It started out innocently.
"Tammy, come help me feed the cattle. I need to push hay to them from the back of the pick-up." Mom said over our noon-meal of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. "You just need to steer." Twenty minutes later, I'm in the driver's seat and she's in the bed of the pick-up truck, without a care in the world.
"Mommy, the cows aren't moving!" I screamed. "I'm going to run over them." I sobbed. Couldn't she see these cattle in my way?
"Keep driv'in," she yelled from the back of the old blue truck.
I gripped the steering wheel like it was my savior Jesus Christ. I was going to run over a dozen head of cattle; Jesus was nowhere to be seen. Floating cow heads were all I could see out the bug-smeared windshield. It hadn't rained all summer and the pasture I was driving in was ugly and brown. No prickly cactus apples to eat this year. They were all dead. Just like me and Mommy were going to be. After I hit the cows, the pick-up would roll over on its side and that would be the end. Never would I make it to kindergarten.
In between tears and snot, I tried to take control. "Move you stupid cows. Get BEHIND the pick-up. Mommy's feeding you," I yelled out the open, driver's side window. My voice went unheard as the hungry cattle stood in front of the pick-up and bawled for their hay.
I couldn't see Mommy in the back of the pick-up, but I could see her in my mind. Right before we left for the pasture, she put on a pair of muddy, black galoshes. It wasn't just old, caked-on winter mud, it was dried cow poop, too. They were my Daddy's so they were too big, but she didn't care. Her dusty blue jeans looked more white than blue. She had cooked fried chicken for dinner (noon meal) and wiped her flour-covered hands on her jeans, instead of washing them off, like I had to.
She had on an old olive-green, short-sleeved shirt. It used to be pretty when she wore it to town, but now it was covered with bunched up balls of fabric. There were so many little balls, it looked polka-dotted. On her shirt, just below her shoulder, she had about eight safety pins attached. She collected them, like some people collect pennies. Like pennies, safety pins are plentiful and useful. Earlier in the day, the zipper on her jeans went "pop." She took a pin off her shirt and used it to keep her pants closed. Mommy never wore gloves. It was kinda hard to tell the difference between her hands and Daddy's. Hers were a little smaller, but just as beaten up from farm work and butchering chickens.
After dinner, I watcher her put her hair up in those pink plastic curlers with the brushes inside them. Near the front, where her hair was shorter, the curlers were small black ones. I had taken the littlest pink curlers for my dolls and never told her. She wrapped a dark blue handkerchief around her head so the hay wouldn't get stuck between the curlers.
I knew she'd be getting mad because it was really hot outside and the sweat would be dripping onto her eyeglasses. She'd also be mad because of my crying. I wasn't hysterical if I could hear the pitchfork scrape against the bed of the truck every few seconds. That way I knew she was alive -- still dumping loose hay bales into the pasture for these awful cattle.
"1, 2, 3 . . .5," I counted the seconds out loud. " Mommy, are you still back there?" If I didn't hear the ringing of the pitchfork against the steel bed, I got scared. If something happened to her, I wouldn't know what to do. My feet were miles from the pedals on the floor, not that I knew which one to push anyway.
That thought didn't help my outlook. A bottomless fountain of tears welled up in my eyes, my snot dripped like thick, raw egg whites. I stuck my lower lip out and sucked my upper lip to keep from sobbing again. My sticky, sweet snot found its way to my mouth. As I tried to lick it away, I looked out the open truck window. A cow, staring at me, licked his snot too. His big head was so close I could have reached out and touched it. He was one of those black, white-faced cows. Black, with a white face. His nose was pink, like my kitten's, but his nostrils were so big, half his tongue disappeared as he searched for his snot to lick away.
"Mommy!!"
"What?!"
"How . . .how many more bales?" I counted the seconds again. "1, 2, 4, 5. No! Start over. 1, 2, 3 . . .If only Spencer were here." Oh, I was mad at my brother for going to school! I forced my eyes away from the top of the dashboard and the cows' heads. I looked to see how fast we were moving. The red stick was between 0 and 5. "Stay closer to 0, please," I begged. I loosened my white and purple fingers from the steering wheel and grabbed up higher on the wheel. Now I could sort of see the cows' necks, not just their floating heads. On no, something evil loomed in the background.
"Mommy!" I yelled out the window. "There's a hill in the pasture. What do I do?" If I couldn't press on the gas pedal, the truck would roll backwards, Mommy would fall out and I'd run over her.
I closed my eyes, but I kept my hands on the wheel. Mommy had said before we started, "Just drive straight." Okay, okay! I'll drive straight.
I had to take one hand off the wheel though. I was drowning in my own snot and tears. I loosened my grip and quick as a prairie dog, I wiped my face against my long-sleeved shirt. A line of snot connected my sleeve and face together.
I always dressed in long-sleeved shirts and pants. The shirt I had on was a hand-me-down from Spencer. Mommy said he grew so fast there was still lots of wear in his clothes. Susan, who was right in between Spencer and me, refused to wear them. The blue jeans were mine though. They had red and white plaid cuffs at the bottom.
All summer long my brother would wear only shorts. Mommy told me that once, when I was little, she put me, Spencer, and Susan out in the yard in a galvanized tub filled with cold water from the garden hose. We were naked. Spencer and Susan splashed around in the sun and got brown as a jar of iced tea. I sat there and turned as bright red as one of her tomatoes in the garden. Mommy said the next day I had enough liquid in all my blisters to water the flowers.
If Spencer were home today, he'd be driving this big pick-up truck. They said I'd go to school next year--if I lived that long.
Suddenly the pick-up shifted. I couldn't tell what happened, but it felt differently. I pulled myself to the very edge of the seat to get a better look out the windshield. That didn't work. Now I couldn't see anything, but the dials in front of me.
I scooted my butt back to where it had been. I listened to the cows mooing and the birds talking. I didn't hear the pitchfork. Mommy had fallen out. "MOMMY!!"
"I'm right here." She stuck her head in the driver's window. "Now get over. Or do you want to drive home?" She smiled as she said this.
"Mommy!" She opened the door while the pick-up still moved. I looked down at the red stick again. It was on 1. "Be careful," I warned her.
I was so happy. I laid my head down in her lap and cried some more. Her legs were busy shifting gears, pushing up and down on the pedals. I didn't care that my head bounced around like a basketball. We were both alive. Finally, her foot rested on the gas pedal. I could lay still. The smell of hay hung on her as if she'd tumbled around in it. It was a nice smell, even though it reminded me of cows. I rubbed my hand up and down her jeans, making designs from the flour that still clung to them. All at the same time, Mommy smelled like hay, fried chicken, and the Dippity-Doo gel that had sweated from her curled-up hair.
I sat up to make sure there were no more floating heads in front of the pick-up. "Mommy, I don't like cows."
"You'll get used to them," she told me, nodding her head. "You'll get used to a lot of things you don't like."
**"A Child's View of Life on the Farm" was previously published Winter 1997, in The Returning Woman Magazine, a publication of Hunter College, NYC. A friend suggested I post it here. I thought it would make a nice companion piece to "Slice of Life," posted January 2015. Thanks for the suggestion CA.
Thursday, January 22, 2015
Slice of Life
Forty years ago, I wrangled my way into my father's secret life for a day. Well, that is how my 8 year-old mind perceived this one special memory.
What are those memories we hold dear? Family vacation? Camp? Birthday party?
Mine involves my dad. Most times, he was an enigma to me. But every now and then, I glimpsed a different man. That was the man I wanted for my father. I wanted the one who talked loudly with his friends; the one who told the jokes and everyone laughed. Not the one who yelled, swore, and intimidated.With us-his two daughters, two sons, and wife-he shouted and didn't tell jokes.
As a parent now, I realize my siblings and I produced stress in his life and his buddies helped alleviate it. I get that. My kids can be a pain in the ass, but they are also an endless source of joy. I'm not sure I was a source of joy for my dad the way my children are for me. Then again, it was a previous generation. Love was revealed differently.
I spied bits and pieces of my dad's alter ego sprinkled throughout my childhood. The first time was after a church service. Mom got caught up talking to the pastor, while Dad slipped by and went outside. I restlessly stayed by my mom's side. I wanted to be outside too in the May sunshine and grass. As she and I left the foyer of the church, I saw Dad. He was with a cluster of other men, about six of them. All their ties had been loosened from around their necks to varying lengths. Dad's face and hands were animated as he talked. Suddenly, all the men burst out laughing. As wives and children appeared, each man left the shrinking circle to shoulder their responsibilities once again.
Occasionally, my family got together with our neighbors for pinochle parties. The grown-ups played cards, while the kids fought and played downstairs. Despite the childish shouts, "Red Rover, Red Rover, send Danny right over," I could hear a man's boisterous laughter reaching my ears through the air vents. It was Dad's. Why couldn't I make him laugh like that?
Every Wednesday in our small town was a livestock sale at the sale barn. My dad went once or twice a month, depending on the weather and work. How I snuck into this bastion of maleness, I can only guess. I suspect Mom dropped Dad off while she went grocery shopping and warned him not to eat any pie at the sale barn cafe. She had apple and peach pie at home.
"Pie? I'm starving. Let me go with Daddy!" would have been my desperate response.
To most people, the smell of cow manure, cherry pie, and coffee seems peculiar, even off-putting, but to me that mixture of odors represents my young hand nestled into my dad's over-sized, calloused farm hand. The only lipstick in this place, was on the woman behind the luncheon counter who my dad briefly flirted with in an attempt to get out of paying 35 cents for his cup of coffee.
Inside the sale barn, I sat next to Dad on the wooden benches that enclosed a large pen that could hold a dozen cattle. We sat next to my favorite neighbor, Leland, who lived down the road a couple miles. "Guten tag, liebchen," he said to me and winked. They two men continued on with their German. My dad spoke only German until he started first grade at the local rural school in Kansas around 1933. Apparently, he managed to retain enough of it to converse with someone else who spoke it infrequently. To this day, I love hearing German spoken.
Their conversation was drowned out by a motherless, baby calf that was pushed into the empty arena. He bawled so loudly for her, the auctioneer had to have him pushed out before bidding could start. Next, a few head of cattle got herded into the well-worn, dirt-covered area. The auctioneer was busy calling and scanning the crowd for potential bidders. His assistant prodded the lumbering animals with a stick to display their girth. I understood more German than whatever words were reeling off the auctioneer's tongue. I looked over at my dad. More men had sat down and joined him and Leland. English replaced the German. I was glad Dad had changed into a clean pair of overalls.
I realize now the cattle sale was just an excuse for him to get away and be amongst his own kind--other hard working farmers, worried about corn, wheat, and cattle prices and the next blizzard. I hope my tagging along didn't ruin his afternoon.
Everything mesmerized me that day. The auctioneer with his unintelligible language, men relaxing, paying for pie, instead of eating their wives' pie that was most assuredly sitting on clean counters at home.
But nothing was as mysterious and wonderful as my father's personality on display for me for an entire afternoon.
What are those memories we hold dear? Family vacation? Camp? Birthday party?
Mine involves my dad. Most times, he was an enigma to me. But every now and then, I glimpsed a different man. That was the man I wanted for my father. I wanted the one who talked loudly with his friends; the one who told the jokes and everyone laughed. Not the one who yelled, swore, and intimidated.With us-his two daughters, two sons, and wife-he shouted and didn't tell jokes.
As a parent now, I realize my siblings and I produced stress in his life and his buddies helped alleviate it. I get that. My kids can be a pain in the ass, but they are also an endless source of joy. I'm not sure I was a source of joy for my dad the way my children are for me. Then again, it was a previous generation. Love was revealed differently.
I spied bits and pieces of my dad's alter ego sprinkled throughout my childhood. The first time was after a church service. Mom got caught up talking to the pastor, while Dad slipped by and went outside. I restlessly stayed by my mom's side. I wanted to be outside too in the May sunshine and grass. As she and I left the foyer of the church, I saw Dad. He was with a cluster of other men, about six of them. All their ties had been loosened from around their necks to varying lengths. Dad's face and hands were animated as he talked. Suddenly, all the men burst out laughing. As wives and children appeared, each man left the shrinking circle to shoulder their responsibilities once again.
Occasionally, my family got together with our neighbors for pinochle parties. The grown-ups played cards, while the kids fought and played downstairs. Despite the childish shouts, "Red Rover, Red Rover, send Danny right over," I could hear a man's boisterous laughter reaching my ears through the air vents. It was Dad's. Why couldn't I make him laugh like that?
Every Wednesday in our small town was a livestock sale at the sale barn. My dad went once or twice a month, depending on the weather and work. How I snuck into this bastion of maleness, I can only guess. I suspect Mom dropped Dad off while she went grocery shopping and warned him not to eat any pie at the sale barn cafe. She had apple and peach pie at home.
"Pie? I'm starving. Let me go with Daddy!" would have been my desperate response.
To most people, the smell of cow manure, cherry pie, and coffee seems peculiar, even off-putting, but to me that mixture of odors represents my young hand nestled into my dad's over-sized, calloused farm hand. The only lipstick in this place, was on the woman behind the luncheon counter who my dad briefly flirted with in an attempt to get out of paying 35 cents for his cup of coffee.
Inside the sale barn, I sat next to Dad on the wooden benches that enclosed a large pen that could hold a dozen cattle. We sat next to my favorite neighbor, Leland, who lived down the road a couple miles. "Guten tag, liebchen," he said to me and winked. They two men continued on with their German. My dad spoke only German until he started first grade at the local rural school in Kansas around 1933. Apparently, he managed to retain enough of it to converse with someone else who spoke it infrequently. To this day, I love hearing German spoken.
Their conversation was drowned out by a motherless, baby calf that was pushed into the empty arena. He bawled so loudly for her, the auctioneer had to have him pushed out before bidding could start. Next, a few head of cattle got herded into the well-worn, dirt-covered area. The auctioneer was busy calling and scanning the crowd for potential bidders. His assistant prodded the lumbering animals with a stick to display their girth. I understood more German than whatever words were reeling off the auctioneer's tongue. I looked over at my dad. More men had sat down and joined him and Leland. English replaced the German. I was glad Dad had changed into a clean pair of overalls.
I realize now the cattle sale was just an excuse for him to get away and be amongst his own kind--other hard working farmers, worried about corn, wheat, and cattle prices and the next blizzard. I hope my tagging along didn't ruin his afternoon.
Everything mesmerized me that day. The auctioneer with his unintelligible language, men relaxing, paying for pie, instead of eating their wives' pie that was most assuredly sitting on clean counters at home.
But nothing was as mysterious and wonderful as my father's personality on display for me for an entire afternoon.
Friday, December 5, 2014
Power of Prayer
The Power of Prayer. It works! April 26, 2010, I wrote a blog, " Spanx or Not To Spanx." It refers to a mixed martial arts class that was kicking my butt. Instead of quitting, I prayed for the whole class to implode. (Hey, I never professed to be a nice person.) Guess what? Three months later, the studio lost their lease. It took them two years to find another space. Recently, I ran into a former student and teacher. I took these sightings as a sign. I've joined again.
". . . Oh sheeeiiiitttt," are the words that come to my lips after five minutes into the class. Literally. Three hundred seconds elapse when regrets start to erupt from my pounding heart. Another 10 minutes crawl by and I'm on my 50th boxing combination. "Jab, jab, cross, hook to the ribs, hook to the head, roundhouse left, roundhouse right." I look pleadingly at my 70 pound leather punching dummy. "Please, punch me out," I whisper. I swear I hear him say, "Who's the dummy now, Bitch?"
"I know you're a little winded," bellows the instructor. "So lay down with your head an arms-length away from the medicine ball I positioned behind you." All I comprehend is, "lay down." The next instructions sound like Charlie Brown's teacher. "Blah, blah . . blah. Blah, 15 crunches, blah." My fellow captors respond. They are lifting this ten pound ball into the air, as they simultaneously bring their feet up toward the ball to meet high above the belly. After I do three of these torturous maneuvers, I steal a look at the instructor. She has transformed into Medusa. Her beautiful hair extensions have become serpents. The precious "Michael Strahan" gap between her teeth now appear wide enough to suck me through, like a cobra ingesting its prey. She appears preoccupied arranging the boxing gloves on the hooks, so I attempt to lessen my load. I shove the ball away with my remaining strength. It travels four inches.
"Tam-A-Lam-A-Ding-Dong, what are you doing?" Oh yeah, that was her nick name for me back in 2010.
"I thought I saw a spider. So I was killing it."
"By rolling the medicine ball over it? You can stay afterwards to wipe down all the balls. Put your balls away and grab a jump rope."
I eye the jump rope and the metal pipes above. This escape route seems a little severe, but still . . .
"Jump til I say stop."
I tentatively raise my hand to forestall the activity by a few seconds. "What if my heart stops before you say stop?"
"No need for a class clown. Let's jump."
Last time I checked Webster's, that word means "let us,"as in "let us all jump." Funny, though, she just stands there with her ridged abs and concrete biceps determining if we are sweating enough. On second thought, I don't want to witness her jumping. I jump quickly. I jump slowly. I skip while singing playground songs. Occasionally, I smack the rope hard against my legs so I have to start again. I pause, rub my stinging shins, tangle myself in the rope, anything to stall and catch my breath.
"Ropes away. Do your push-ups, then stretch."
I splay out on the mat like the coyote after the road runner tricked him into falling down the deep ravine while being hit by TNT.
Despite the sweat in my eyes, I see the light. Not the fluorescent light above me, but the "other" light. Not the "go into the light" light, but the "I have an epiphany" light.
I no longer pray for the demise of my class. I pray for the stamina to survive one more.
Personal Growth 101: A+
". . . Oh sheeeiiiitttt," are the words that come to my lips after five minutes into the class. Literally. Three hundred seconds elapse when regrets start to erupt from my pounding heart. Another 10 minutes crawl by and I'm on my 50th boxing combination. "Jab, jab, cross, hook to the ribs, hook to the head, roundhouse left, roundhouse right." I look pleadingly at my 70 pound leather punching dummy. "Please, punch me out," I whisper. I swear I hear him say, "Who's the dummy now, Bitch?"
"I know you're a little winded," bellows the instructor. "So lay down with your head an arms-length away from the medicine ball I positioned behind you." All I comprehend is, "lay down." The next instructions sound like Charlie Brown's teacher. "Blah, blah . . blah. Blah, 15 crunches, blah." My fellow captors respond. They are lifting this ten pound ball into the air, as they simultaneously bring their feet up toward the ball to meet high above the belly. After I do three of these torturous maneuvers, I steal a look at the instructor. She has transformed into Medusa. Her beautiful hair extensions have become serpents. The precious "Michael Strahan" gap between her teeth now appear wide enough to suck me through, like a cobra ingesting its prey. She appears preoccupied arranging the boxing gloves on the hooks, so I attempt to lessen my load. I shove the ball away with my remaining strength. It travels four inches.
"Tam-A-Lam-A-Ding-Dong, what are you doing?" Oh yeah, that was her nick name for me back in 2010.
"I thought I saw a spider. So I was killing it."
"By rolling the medicine ball over it? You can stay afterwards to wipe down all the balls. Put your balls away and grab a jump rope."
I eye the jump rope and the metal pipes above. This escape route seems a little severe, but still . . .
"Jump til I say stop."
I tentatively raise my hand to forestall the activity by a few seconds. "What if my heart stops before you say stop?"
"No need for a class clown. Let's jump."
Last time I checked Webster's, that word means "let us,"as in "let us all jump." Funny, though, she just stands there with her ridged abs and concrete biceps determining if we are sweating enough. On second thought, I don't want to witness her jumping. I jump quickly. I jump slowly. I skip while singing playground songs. Occasionally, I smack the rope hard against my legs so I have to start again. I pause, rub my stinging shins, tangle myself in the rope, anything to stall and catch my breath.
"Ropes away. Do your push-ups, then stretch."
I splay out on the mat like the coyote after the road runner tricked him into falling down the deep ravine while being hit by TNT.
Despite the sweat in my eyes, I see the light. Not the fluorescent light above me, but the "other" light. Not the "go into the light" light, but the "I have an epiphany" light.
I no longer pray for the demise of my class. I pray for the stamina to survive one more.
Personal Growth 101: A+
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