With the forecast calling for another wintery blast, I was surprised to see a crowd of overcoats and hoods oohing and ahhing over the gas-grill display, pressing the orange ignite buttons and turning knobs. They’re like a bunch of little girls in their white plastic pretend-kitchens, I thought, playing in a world yet to come.
“Christmas trees?” I asked an orange-vested woman whose blond curls hid her name tag.
‘”Fake or real?”
“Artificial,” I said.
“Garden Center. Go all the way back to fencing, turn right.”
Seems even “non-real” Christmas trees would garner more respect this time of year, I thought, making my way past the garbage cans, extra-large leaf bags, potting soil, bug repellants and Japanese lanterns.
“Hello…Hal,” I said, nodding at a name tag and pulling a crumpled ad from my pocket. “I’m interested in this five-foot Douglas Fir. Is this the one?” I asked, pointing to the jolly almost-looks-like-the-real-thing-with-fade-in-and-fade-out-white-lights tree.
It wasn’t. It was a 6-foot fake Scotch Pine and $70 more. Three hours later, at the epicenter of an explosion of trinkets, and Calpurnia in full attack mode against the army of yellowing paper that seems to threaten her very cathood, I am ready to decorate what is really a three-foot-green-plastic tree set into a two-foot “Grecian” Styrofoam stand. Every year, my former husband and I delighted in peeling away the newsprint protecting our treasures – Teddy bears popping out of gift boxes, reindeers frozen forever in flight – finding a headline, a dateline on a story: material evidence of a long and successful marriage.
But only in the dictionary does “long marriage” come before “successful.” Christmastime eventually became the War of the Orbs. He began weighing the branches with tiny replicas of handlebars and helmets from Harley-Davidson. I dotted the tree with ornaments set in doilies, lace. He especially abhorred the pink Victorian shoe that sprouted tulle. All of them, he gladly handed over to me in the distribution of assets.
And now I find every one of them too big or heavy to hang on the only size tree I can fit into my new living room without having to crawl over the sofa to get to the kitchen. Except, perhaps, for this one: a small crystal with red and green splashes and itty-bitty snowflakes suspended in its core. I bought it the year we began counseling. It’s not a color I can feel, can scratch off with my fingernail. The color is buried: a jewel in its transparent vault, unreachable unless—and I consider this for a moment – I smash it against something, drop it on the floor, kick it to the wall.
My three-foot Fir is waiting to be dressed. To all a good night.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Blue World
In January, the Y’s pool is always more crowded because of "resolutionists." I’m a serious swimmer and even without the influx these few weeks bring, already frustrated with the large number of swimmers who don’t use the lanes (fast, medium, slow, recreational) their abilities warrant. According to a posting on deck, a 50-second lap puts you firmly in the fast lane, and a huge sprint clock helps you figure out where you should be. The Lap Lane Etiquette hanging on the wall also explains what to do when someone swimming faster in any of those lanes wants to pass. However, it appears lifeguards are reluctant to enforce the rules or move slow swimmers, perhaps because they don’t want to offend their fantasy of being the next Michael Phelps. You may notice I didn’t say Michael Phelps or Dara Torres. That’s because most offenders, I’ve noticed, are men. But that’s a topic for another day.
This is why being a serious lap swimmer often warrants declaring anarchy. Case in point:
I joined a lane in which three people (one man and three women) were already swimming. The women were moving at a pretty good clip; the man…was not. We three were able to pass him, as well as one another; but eventually, we had a four-swimmer pile-up at the wall because of him. The women waited, deferring to me, it seemed, so I asked him to please pull over when he could.
“Okay, Sweetie,” he said. “Don’t get your tank in a twist.” Excuse me? “Only my husband and father are allowed to call me ‘Sweetie.’ And on your way back to the locker room,” I said, pointing to the wall, “check numbers five to seven of how to be…polite in the pool.”
I’d been dreading running, or swimming, into Mr. Sweetie again, but there he was the other day, doing a sidestroke in a crowded slow lane even though the fast lane was empty. Mmmmm. He nodded to me as he made his turn, and I graciously waved. An hour later, we found ourselves together in the sauna. “Pool was perfect,” Mr. Sweetie said. “Yes, good temperature and very blue,” I said. “Well, I’m cooked,” he said, rising. “Nice seeing you. Enjoy your day.”
So this is what I’m positing: Because the pool is a finite structure with an inconstant environment - like the world - and its swimmers the varied and complex “citizens,” lap swimming illuminates who are the aggressive and powerful Alpha, who are the yielding Omega, and who are Beta - like the two gals who probably would have said something had I not been there.
Wow, who knew the lap pool is a microcosm of society? Oh, by the way, I swim not only for sport, but for relaxation….
This is why being a serious lap swimmer often warrants declaring anarchy. Case in point:
I joined a lane in which three people (one man and three women) were already swimming. The women were moving at a pretty good clip; the man…was not. We three were able to pass him, as well as one another; but eventually, we had a four-swimmer pile-up at the wall because of him. The women waited, deferring to me, it seemed, so I asked him to please pull over when he could.
“Okay, Sweetie,” he said. “Don’t get your tank in a twist.” Excuse me? “Only my husband and father are allowed to call me ‘Sweetie.’ And on your way back to the locker room,” I said, pointing to the wall, “check numbers five to seven of how to be…polite in the pool.”
I’d been dreading running, or swimming, into Mr. Sweetie again, but there he was the other day, doing a sidestroke in a crowded slow lane even though the fast lane was empty. Mmmmm. He nodded to me as he made his turn, and I graciously waved. An hour later, we found ourselves together in the sauna. “Pool was perfect,” Mr. Sweetie said. “Yes, good temperature and very blue,” I said. “Well, I’m cooked,” he said, rising. “Nice seeing you. Enjoy your day.”
So this is what I’m positing: Because the pool is a finite structure with an inconstant environment - like the world - and its swimmers the varied and complex “citizens,” lap swimming illuminates who are the aggressive and powerful Alpha, who are the yielding Omega, and who are Beta - like the two gals who probably would have said something had I not been there.
Wow, who knew the lap pool is a microcosm of society? Oh, by the way, I swim not only for sport, but for relaxation….
Saturday, November 6, 2010
A Butchya Gotta Have Friends
My very first girl friend was Cathy. She lived two doors down. We baked Creepy Crawlers and ate dirt on a dare. When she moved in the 2nd grade, I moved on to Leslie up the street and then Andrea around the corner. As I was allowed to cross streets on my own, my friend “territory” expanded. And when the two elementary schools emptied into the single middle school, I was in a girl group! But that November, over Thanksgiving weekend, we would be moving three hours away, a galaxy away from my friends. On my last day of school that half-day Wednesday, I emptied my locker into a shopping bag, which broke on the way home in the pouring rain. Through the blur of tears I watched the puddles turn my perfect cursive into an even blurrier mess. Sounds rather Dickensian, no?
My college pals, who’d all settled in the NYC area, and I kept in close touch with our “Soho Saturdays”; the women I swam with in the mornings at the Y created “Swim Girls Suppers,” a once-a-week girls night out so we could chat—something you cannot do with your head submerged in water. During my first marriage, my husband and I socialized with a large group of other marrieds. But in my early divorced days, I rediscovered the joy of having pals all to myself. On Fridays nights, Fran and I met over drinks and appetizers and shared match.com woes; Pat and I alternated Sunday night dinners of never-before-tried recipes; Elaine and I met at the mall every other Tuesday after work, where we each bought one thing under $20. Then, at the age of 50, I reconnected with an old beau, a Bucks County “boy,” and moved 73.7 miles away to be with him. But being with him meant leaving my friends. It snowed the day I packed up my car for the last transit and led the moving van along the interstate, then county roads, all the while my windshield wipers beating steadily.
Making friends as a younger woman was easy: “Hey, would you like to…” I’d say to a girl in one of my college classes, then, as time passed, to a woman I felt comfortable with at work. And living in small neighborhoods inside larger towns, somehow friendships just happened. However, making new friends here hasn’t. Part of this, I know, is because I work at home. Still, while my new husband has lots of friends, I was surprised that few of their significant others made an effort to get to know me, let alone invite me to join them anywhere, my theory being that women of a certain age have certain feelings about uncertain new associations. And while it took a few months of branching out and meeting loads of fabulous women, thanks to the Goddess Group I joined (that’s a story for another day), the Doylestown Y, where I swim, and people I’ve met through my writing – along with dusting off “Hey, would you like to….?” – I want to publicly acknowledge Cindy, Heather and now Kathi as my first friends west of the Delaware.
More are welcome….
My college pals, who’d all settled in the NYC area, and I kept in close touch with our “Soho Saturdays”; the women I swam with in the mornings at the Y created “Swim Girls Suppers,” a once-a-week girls night out so we could chat—something you cannot do with your head submerged in water. During my first marriage, my husband and I socialized with a large group of other marrieds. But in my early divorced days, I rediscovered the joy of having pals all to myself. On Fridays nights, Fran and I met over drinks and appetizers and shared match.com woes; Pat and I alternated Sunday night dinners of never-before-tried recipes; Elaine and I met at the mall every other Tuesday after work, where we each bought one thing under $20. Then, at the age of 50, I reconnected with an old beau, a Bucks County “boy,” and moved 73.7 miles away to be with him. But being with him meant leaving my friends. It snowed the day I packed up my car for the last transit and led the moving van along the interstate, then county roads, all the while my windshield wipers beating steadily.
Making friends as a younger woman was easy: “Hey, would you like to…” I’d say to a girl in one of my college classes, then, as time passed, to a woman I felt comfortable with at work. And living in small neighborhoods inside larger towns, somehow friendships just happened. However, making new friends here hasn’t. Part of this, I know, is because I work at home. Still, while my new husband has lots of friends, I was surprised that few of their significant others made an effort to get to know me, let alone invite me to join them anywhere, my theory being that women of a certain age have certain feelings about uncertain new associations. And while it took a few months of branching out and meeting loads of fabulous women, thanks to the Goddess Group I joined (that’s a story for another day), the Doylestown Y, where I swim, and people I’ve met through my writing – along with dusting off “Hey, would you like to….?” – I want to publicly acknowledge Cindy, Heather and now Kathi as my first friends west of the Delaware.
More are welcome….
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
A Little Dab'll Do Ya
I wasn’t a big fan of Rachael Ray’s Food Network show. My male friends really dug her, in that Mary Ann vs. Ginger way, and especially found her throaty vocals sexy - an effect I’m able to create every February, recovering from my yearly bout of laryngitis. However, I found that ebullient voice rather grating. I’m happy to say she seems to have kicked that down a notch on her daily talk show, which I happened to catch a couple weeks ago.
I was in my robe, passing some time, thumbing through Oprah magazine while celebrity guest RuPaul, out of drag, was hawking his book “Workin’ It: RuPaul’s Guide to Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Style.” A few select women in the audience were sharing their beauty woes, like too-short and -thin eyelashes, and I was only half-listening… Until audience member Allison, wearing a wide, plunging neckline, took a seat on stage and admitted to Ru (if I may call him Ru) that she was breast-challenged with not much to show up top. RuPaul knew how to fix that! First, he swirled some glittery powder on a brush, knocked off the excess, then dabbed a vertical “stem” between Allison’s breasts before drawing up the brush to create a martini-glass shape in the same spot as Superman’s “S.” And that’s how, RuPaul said, you can “make a bosom.”
I was riveted. And so was every other woman sitting in a robe, a pink robe, in the waiting room at a local women’s health center on “Diagnostic Day,” which is different from “Screening Day.” We’d all had our screening mammogram sometime during the previous week and had been called back for "additional imaging studies for complete evaluation." I’d already been marked and paddled and scanned —and was waiting to hear if I needed to schedule a biopsy. Might I need an oncologist, surgery? Reconstruction? A update of my will? Though I tend to catastophize (I made up that word), I’m sure most of the women there were at some stage of a similar state during Rachael Ray’s show, only days before the arrival of October, which this year marks 25 years of Breast Cancer Awareness Month. According to one government statistic, 12.7 percent of women will be diagnosed with breast cancer. On this given day, I remain in the 87.3 percent. “See you next year,” my technician said, with a smile, and I reached for the plastic bag containing my above-waist garments. But just before I disappeared behind the curtain to change, I heard her say to the woman who’d been sitting beside me: “The radiologist would like to speak with you.”
Meanwhile Allison was back in her seat, sporting her new sparkling cleavage, marveling at how easy it is to make a bosom.
I was in my robe, passing some time, thumbing through Oprah magazine while celebrity guest RuPaul, out of drag, was hawking his book “Workin’ It: RuPaul’s Guide to Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Style.” A few select women in the audience were sharing their beauty woes, like too-short and -thin eyelashes, and I was only half-listening… Until audience member Allison, wearing a wide, plunging neckline, took a seat on stage and admitted to Ru (if I may call him Ru) that she was breast-challenged with not much to show up top. RuPaul knew how to fix that! First, he swirled some glittery powder on a brush, knocked off the excess, then dabbed a vertical “stem” between Allison’s breasts before drawing up the brush to create a martini-glass shape in the same spot as Superman’s “S.” And that’s how, RuPaul said, you can “make a bosom.”
I was riveted. And so was every other woman sitting in a robe, a pink robe, in the waiting room at a local women’s health center on “Diagnostic Day,” which is different from “Screening Day.” We’d all had our screening mammogram sometime during the previous week and had been called back for "additional imaging studies for complete evaluation." I’d already been marked and paddled and scanned —and was waiting to hear if I needed to schedule a biopsy. Might I need an oncologist, surgery? Reconstruction? A update of my will? Though I tend to catastophize (I made up that word), I’m sure most of the women there were at some stage of a similar state during Rachael Ray’s show, only days before the arrival of October, which this year marks 25 years of Breast Cancer Awareness Month. According to one government statistic, 12.7 percent of women will be diagnosed with breast cancer. On this given day, I remain in the 87.3 percent. “See you next year,” my technician said, with a smile, and I reached for the plastic bag containing my above-waist garments. But just before I disappeared behind the curtain to change, I heard her say to the woman who’d been sitting beside me: “The radiologist would like to speak with you.”
Meanwhile Allison was back in her seat, sporting her new sparkling cleavage, marveling at how easy it is to make a bosom.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Professor Barry Gibb
After two years of high-school honors English with way too much Chaucer, Milton and Donne, taught by nuns old enough to have read the first printings, I begged my parents to let me drop into what was called “rapids.” The teacher was a lithe, bespectacled former hippie who taught the poetry of Annes Bradstreet and Sexton; and Lennon and McCartney. I decided I liked literature and, as a fallout, writing. So if someone had asked which teacher had left the greatest impact on me, I would have replied: “Mr. Checchio, junior English.”
That was, until last month when I was friended on Facebook by a former colleague’s cousin; at a paltry friend-count in the 160s, I’ll accept just about anybody. My first action is always to “see all” of my new friends’ friends. And near the top of this list was Barry Gibb. His name really isn’t Barry Gibb, but Bee Gee are his initials, so I’ll call him Barry Gibb here.
I received my bachelor’s degree in journalism, then embarked on a career in the magazine market. Getting a master’s in writing now would be a breeze, I thought. It was, until Professor Barry Gibb came into my fall schedule. Our first assignment was a 1200-word profile. I chose my cousin Bela, a Holocaust survivor who still possessed his baby brother’s shoe, kicked off during the Birkenau selection and which – in an extraordinary turn of events – helped him escape Auschwitz.
B+ Wha? “Your overuse of the pronoun ‘it’ is dismantling." Professor Barry Gibb had, in what I saw as venomous red, underlined five places I’d used “it” as my following references, go-to pronoun. “How many ways can I say ‘shoe’?” I queried my writing friends, who all chuckled.
I substituted words like “relic,” “tiny treasure.” The writing felt forced, until, in a lightbulb moment, I replaced every “it” for what “it” was. “Shoe” I typed in at all five locations. I got an A on the revision and didn’t use "it" again for the remainder of the term; but when the semester ended that December, I bailed on Barry and returned to my old wicked ways. “F--- IT,” I joked.
Most times, teachers fade away, like all those Sister Mary Margaret Catherine Whatevers. Sometimes they leave an imprint, like Mr. Checchio. However, my guess is that teachers would love to be in that small “club” of educators whose lessons come screaming back to us years later and when we least expect them – like "it" did for me four weeks ago. I had four unnecessary, replaceable “its” in this essay the first time around. Without them, this reads much better. I’m thinking I may friend Professor Barry Gibb – and send him this column.
That was, until last month when I was friended on Facebook by a former colleague’s cousin; at a paltry friend-count in the 160s, I’ll accept just about anybody. My first action is always to “see all” of my new friends’ friends. And near the top of this list was Barry Gibb. His name really isn’t Barry Gibb, but Bee Gee are his initials, so I’ll call him Barry Gibb here.
I received my bachelor’s degree in journalism, then embarked on a career in the magazine market. Getting a master’s in writing now would be a breeze, I thought. It was, until Professor Barry Gibb came into my fall schedule. Our first assignment was a 1200-word profile. I chose my cousin Bela, a Holocaust survivor who still possessed his baby brother’s shoe, kicked off during the Birkenau selection and which – in an extraordinary turn of events – helped him escape Auschwitz.
B+ Wha? “Your overuse of the pronoun ‘it’ is dismantling." Professor Barry Gibb had, in what I saw as venomous red, underlined five places I’d used “it” as my following references, go-to pronoun. “How many ways can I say ‘shoe’?” I queried my writing friends, who all chuckled.
I substituted words like “relic,” “tiny treasure.” The writing felt forced, until, in a lightbulb moment, I replaced every “it” for what “it” was. “Shoe” I typed in at all five locations. I got an A on the revision and didn’t use "it" again for the remainder of the term; but when the semester ended that December, I bailed on Barry and returned to my old wicked ways. “F--- IT,” I joked.
Most times, teachers fade away, like all those Sister Mary Margaret Catherine Whatevers. Sometimes they leave an imprint, like Mr. Checchio. However, my guess is that teachers would love to be in that small “club” of educators whose lessons come screaming back to us years later and when we least expect them – like "it" did for me four weeks ago. I had four unnecessary, replaceable “its” in this essay the first time around. Without them, this reads much better. I’m thinking I may friend Professor Barry Gibb – and send him this column.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Teddy Palley
All seven-and-a-half inches of him reclines against the punched-up pillow tucked neatly beneath the floral quilt on the daybed in the guestroom. He used to reside across the hall, in the more manly beige-and-mahogany room, a palette Claire acquiesced to when she and Kevin redecorated the house three years earlier in the effort to plaster and spackle their marriage as well. “Don’t you think it’s time,” Kevin said, “that Teddy Palley has a room of his own? I mean, he’s not a baby anymore.”
But for Claire, the ecru-furred, ebony-eared, chipped-button-eyed boy bear, cut and sewn and stuffed by some toy manufacturer, would be a baby stuck forever in his stitches.
First, he was “Teddy,” playfully bounced in front of her eyes by a babysitter who seemed very…tall. In her memory, Roberta was a giant. It wasn’t until over a dinner conversation years later, when Claire learned that Roberta had married a Denver Nugget (“They’ll have towering children,” her dad said with a mouthful of bowties) that Claire learned that Roberta had actually suffered from a rare genetic “whoops” that kept her growth spurts continually spurting until surgery stopped its advance.
So Teddy had been Giant Roberta’s. And if Teddy had been new to Roberta when she was a baby (but had she been, Claire wondered, a giant baby?) that would make him 16 years older than Claire. And if Teddy had been handed down to Giant Roberta, well, who knows? In dog years, Teddy Palley he might be as old as Abraham, she considered, scribbling math notations in her notebook in Hebrew school on the day they read the story of Abraham, who, according to the Bible, was 900 years or something like that when Isaac was born. And Abraham died 100 years after that. Having a baby with an age into the four digits was just too much for a 9-year-old to wrap her brain around, so she crumbled the piece of paper into her backpack. Teddy Palley was really born five years earlier in her brother's bedroom on a rainy day.
While most little girls stuff baby dolls under the blouses, and pulled them out by their feet announcing, “I have a baby!” (not realizing this was a dangerous breach birth), Claire walked around with Teddy stuffed under her shirt. “I have a … bear,” she’d say. And when she gave birth for approximately the 17th time on her brother's bed that smelled of Clearasil, with her kindergarten boyfriend, Randy Palley, at her side, Teddy, for the first time, had a daddy. And a full name: Teddy Palley.
Teddy Palley went to the “basement salon” for his Saturday shampoos in the laundry basin, and had his ears tied up in a bow for birthday parties. Teddy Palley went to summer camp; Teddy Palley lived in Steinbright then Lawrinson dorms; Teddy Palley was kicked to the floor in mad dashes to shed clothes and make skin contact, then kissed on his thin red felt tongue the next morning in apology before being returned to his perch.
And Teddy Palley went on a honeymoon to St. Maarten. “Really,” Kevin said to Claire as she unpacked him from her carry-on and laid him on the bed. “Please tell me he’s not coming to the beach with us.” Claire ran her fingertips over Teddy's bald belly (from age...and those countless Saturday morning shampoos). “No," she said. "He'll burn."
And now Teddy Palley sits on the daybed in the guestroom, where Claire has been sleeping for the past two months, since Kevin announced he thought he might be in love with a woman he knew from the gym. A woman he’d only talked to, but knew he wanted. Claire knew now what she wanted.
Soon, when the house is sold, after some new couple eyes the muted master bedroom and imagines themselves there, loving each other at least in the foreseeable future, Teddy Palley will make another trip to another new home, where Claire will paint the room pink and long for that first morning when she kisses his little red tongue in apology after having kicked him to the floor.
But for Claire, the ecru-furred, ebony-eared, chipped-button-eyed boy bear, cut and sewn and stuffed by some toy manufacturer, would be a baby stuck forever in his stitches.
First, he was “Teddy,” playfully bounced in front of her eyes by a babysitter who seemed very…tall. In her memory, Roberta was a giant. It wasn’t until over a dinner conversation years later, when Claire learned that Roberta had married a Denver Nugget (“They’ll have towering children,” her dad said with a mouthful of bowties) that Claire learned that Roberta had actually suffered from a rare genetic “whoops” that kept her growth spurts continually spurting until surgery stopped its advance.
So Teddy had been Giant Roberta’s. And if Teddy had been new to Roberta when she was a baby (but had she been, Claire wondered, a giant baby?) that would make him 16 years older than Claire. And if Teddy had been handed down to Giant Roberta, well, who knows? In dog years, Teddy Palley he might be as old as Abraham, she considered, scribbling math notations in her notebook in Hebrew school on the day they read the story of Abraham, who, according to the Bible, was 900 years or something like that when Isaac was born. And Abraham died 100 years after that. Having a baby with an age into the four digits was just too much for a 9-year-old to wrap her brain around, so she crumbled the piece of paper into her backpack. Teddy Palley was really born five years earlier in her brother's bedroom on a rainy day.
While most little girls stuff baby dolls under the blouses, and pulled them out by their feet announcing, “I have a baby!” (not realizing this was a dangerous breach birth), Claire walked around with Teddy stuffed under her shirt. “I have a … bear,” she’d say. And when she gave birth for approximately the 17th time on her brother's bed that smelled of Clearasil, with her kindergarten boyfriend, Randy Palley, at her side, Teddy, for the first time, had a daddy. And a full name: Teddy Palley.
Teddy Palley went to the “basement salon” for his Saturday shampoos in the laundry basin, and had his ears tied up in a bow for birthday parties. Teddy Palley went to summer camp; Teddy Palley lived in Steinbright then Lawrinson dorms; Teddy Palley was kicked to the floor in mad dashes to shed clothes and make skin contact, then kissed on his thin red felt tongue the next morning in apology before being returned to his perch.
And Teddy Palley went on a honeymoon to St. Maarten. “Really,” Kevin said to Claire as she unpacked him from her carry-on and laid him on the bed. “Please tell me he’s not coming to the beach with us.” Claire ran her fingertips over Teddy's bald belly (from age...and those countless Saturday morning shampoos). “No," she said. "He'll burn."
And now Teddy Palley sits on the daybed in the guestroom, where Claire has been sleeping for the past two months, since Kevin announced he thought he might be in love with a woman he knew from the gym. A woman he’d only talked to, but knew he wanted. Claire knew now what she wanted.
Soon, when the house is sold, after some new couple eyes the muted master bedroom and imagines themselves there, loving each other at least in the foreseeable future, Teddy Palley will make another trip to another new home, where Claire will paint the room pink and long for that first morning when she kisses his little red tongue in apology after having kicked him to the floor.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
A Marvelous Night for a Moondance
I am staring at the spinning light of the police car, the blue orb pulsing in the dark. Someone is in trouble. Someone needs help….
My eyes snapped open. In the half-moon light, I took sleepy inventory of my bedroom: the outlines of the sepia photos on the wall, the ghost-like cedar branch standing in the corner, the plant I kept moving around the house for better exposure. And then I saw a flash of green that bathed the dormer. On…then off. On…off.
I sat up with a start. My first thought: an outlet was sparking. An anvil of terror crashed into my chest as I envisioned the house bursting into flames. I leapt out of bed, dropped to my knees for inspection, my eyes now adjusted to the dark.
I have a memory of being six or seven at Mitchell Gassner’s house on summer evenings. The Gassners had a monument of an evergreen in their yard. During the nightly light shows, I’d imagine it was a most splendid Christmas tree with dancing luminaries and sparkling ornaments come to life, like something out of a Disney film. We challenged one another to collect as many fireflies in jars with holes “humanely” punched in the top, then see who could “go longest,” inhumanely imprisoning them until, one by one, their lights went out.
This is my first summer in Bucks, having made stops in Brooklyn, Manhattan and Hoboken, where I lived on top of, below, and squeezed among lots of other people, and where I always had a bug “problem.” For me, one bad bug did spoil the whole bunch. I was undiscriminating in my pursuit, capture and execution of anything that flew, crawled or scurried. Please know that before the swat, slap or whack of a newspaper that left its inky scar on a wall or counter, I always apologized. But something shifted when I moved here. In the splendor of this area, I have discovered a respect for all of nature, even the tiniest, peskiest, most unappealing creatures I share my new world with. I have cupped countless stinkbugs in my hands and coaxed shy spiders onto sheets of paper, depositing them outdoors then bursting into “Born Free.”
Tonight, I would make very meaningful restitution.
Still on my knees, I reached for the windowsill, dumped the tea candle from its crystal votive, and gingerly lowered it over my charge, jiggling the glass a bit so he (I don’t want to pursue that gender designation at this time) would float inside and I could close him off. Then padding down the steps, I carried the encased, magical treasure—my own ailing Tinker Bell-- through the house and flung wide the door. “Live!” I commanded, and he flitted then danced upward, his waning green glow brightening against the gaining light.
On behalf of Mitchell Gassner and the kids from Grant, Lincoln and Lawrence Avenues, I dedicate this to all those who died on those soft summer nights.
My eyes snapped open. In the half-moon light, I took sleepy inventory of my bedroom: the outlines of the sepia photos on the wall, the ghost-like cedar branch standing in the corner, the plant I kept moving around the house for better exposure. And then I saw a flash of green that bathed the dormer. On…then off. On…off.
I sat up with a start. My first thought: an outlet was sparking. An anvil of terror crashed into my chest as I envisioned the house bursting into flames. I leapt out of bed, dropped to my knees for inspection, my eyes now adjusted to the dark.
I have a memory of being six or seven at Mitchell Gassner’s house on summer evenings. The Gassners had a monument of an evergreen in their yard. During the nightly light shows, I’d imagine it was a most splendid Christmas tree with dancing luminaries and sparkling ornaments come to life, like something out of a Disney film. We challenged one another to collect as many fireflies in jars with holes “humanely” punched in the top, then see who could “go longest,” inhumanely imprisoning them until, one by one, their lights went out.
This is my first summer in Bucks, having made stops in Brooklyn, Manhattan and Hoboken, where I lived on top of, below, and squeezed among lots of other people, and where I always had a bug “problem.” For me, one bad bug did spoil the whole bunch. I was undiscriminating in my pursuit, capture and execution of anything that flew, crawled or scurried. Please know that before the swat, slap or whack of a newspaper that left its inky scar on a wall or counter, I always apologized. But something shifted when I moved here. In the splendor of this area, I have discovered a respect for all of nature, even the tiniest, peskiest, most unappealing creatures I share my new world with. I have cupped countless stinkbugs in my hands and coaxed shy spiders onto sheets of paper, depositing them outdoors then bursting into “Born Free.”
Tonight, I would make very meaningful restitution.
Still on my knees, I reached for the windowsill, dumped the tea candle from its crystal votive, and gingerly lowered it over my charge, jiggling the glass a bit so he (I don’t want to pursue that gender designation at this time) would float inside and I could close him off. Then padding down the steps, I carried the encased, magical treasure—my own ailing Tinker Bell-- through the house and flung wide the door. “Live!” I commanded, and he flitted then danced upward, his waning green glow brightening against the gaining light.
On behalf of Mitchell Gassner and the kids from Grant, Lincoln and Lawrence Avenues, I dedicate this to all those who died on those soft summer nights.
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