I have never been to summer camp, but I have seen so many movies about summer camp experiences. One reoccurring is theme-bonding. Something, someone, some event pulls a group of strangers into a pack who then experience a set of misadventures-something like life.
Today’s weather this morning felt like a summer camp sort of day and these words were swimming around my head, wanting to play.
Summer Camp
Sid spit into the fire pit.
Matt split, backtracked,
passed Pat as he
packed the pack’s past pact,
pocketed under his
backpack’s
zipper tract,
traipsing the trail’s trace.
The SSB Drever and I chanced a walk today between sprinkles and threats of storms. We traveled along familiar paths. We saw people planting flowers and attending gardens, people sharing luncheons and coffee, a mother patiently on the sidelines while her daughter practiced, learning to ride her bicycle. People were out and about enjoying the life that the refreshing air of spring brings. New beginnings, hope, a fresh outlook.
But at one point on the walk, I just stopped; tears welled up in me. Before me on the pavers was the body of a baby bird, its eyes closed, its body still naked, bereft of the feathers that would allow it to soar. It had landed in a somewhat contorted position with one wing twisted, pointing up toward the sky, the wind morbidly causing a slight flutter, belying a false sense of the hope of the resurgence of life . I looked up into the little crab apple tree to see the mother robin just sitting there, in the nest, not moving, barely blinking, keeping vigilance over the body of her baby child. How utterly horrible to have your baby taken from you to the realm of death. I stood for awhile to mourn with her, I cried the tears she could not.
I thought of my own children. I thought of the love that mothers give and the torment that mothers could endure in the day to day vigilance in the caring and rearing of their children in normal life let alone the horror up having them destroyed before you from war or starvation or from so many other atrocities.
I thought of my mother and her death only two months ago, of her last week of life, her body pale, her bareness, bareness of animation of her soul, an occasional movement of a finger or wrist, not unlike the death flutter of the dead baby bird. But her eyes were open and in them I could see the excruciating pain of dying. I thought of all the sacrifices she had made for all of us, of all the times a little part of her died.
I feel in someways we are all fledglings at any stage of life-or death. I am still a fledgling, not quite able to soar. Every stage of life requires the fearlessness of spirit to take flight. There are days I just don’t have it. I can no longer look to a nest for support, my mother hovering by. How many times in these two months have I thought, “Oh, I’ll call Mom.” But I can’t. My children will always be my fledging babies. I stand back and watch them heading into the winds of the different stages of life. I am happy that they seem to be stronger and can fly higher than I could ever dream.
Mother child mother child mother child-the generations become one-one continuous cycle of life and love, of giving love and yearning for love. A mother’s love, no matter what form, bird or human, is an incarnation of the life force-LOVE.
I would think every and any mother would want to be with her daughter and her first baby during birth and those special first moments after. In this space, this place in time, is an affirmation of an eternal bond of mothers and daughters and the eternal magic of bringing forth life. This treasure was denied me by circumstances that were not absolutely inevitable, but came about by the doings of another person. I had envisioned the moment, cherished its materialization and was crushed when it was stolen from me.
Tuesday morning I opened my email. I was taking a few moments to relax before getting ready for work. I had been having significant levels of pain again, partly from the strong front that was coming through. I didn’t have to be there until mid-day; I wanted to take time, have some hot coffee and read my mail. I started down the list of new emails and there was an email from my son-in-law announcing the birth of their second child a few days before her due date. It had come in shortly after I had gone to bed the night before and so I didn’t see it until morning. Along with the cold front, there had been a full moon – an effective formula for triggering labor. As I was reading the email, I received a text from my daughter asking if I could come to the hospital to be with her and the baby. There was no one there, it would just be us.
I called work to see if it was okay for me to come in a little later. I dressed, grabbed my purse and a little hat I had knitted for the baby and stepped out to brave the icy wind and rain. It was the tail end of rush hour. It is amazing how many cars are on the road and what bad drivers are in them when one is making a 40 minute drive to see a new grandchild. The rain and wind did not let up. It blew me a foot to the side as I took a step on my walk up to the hospital entrance.
The walk to the elevator was long. too many codes and locked doors and passages. Finally there it was-the room-warm, quiet, calm, behind the curtain my daughter with a tiny bundle of blankets at her breast.
“Would you like to hold her?”
She handed me a treasure as light as air and just as precious. Under the blanket, little arms with tiny covered hands held close, this world still too strange and invasive, dark knowing eyes in a softly expressive face. Quiet. Still. A heart beat meditative with the protective spirit of the now forsaken womb. I held her, rocking softly to my heart’s beat.
Parisa. I peruse the details of your physical being. The pink of your skin. The bow of your lips. The smallness of your ears. The grace of your hands and the length of your fingers. The untold secret you hold in your eyes, your deep knowing eyes.
Who are you, Parisa? Angelic spirit, spiritual beauty- inner and outer. I hold you, close to me. I hold you, the key, to my past and to all future. I hold you, the world in my hands, redemption in my hands. Every baby born – a chance for redemption-for the individual, the family, the world. Every baby born – a portal, a reminder, a glimpse of from where we came and to where we return.
I hold you in my arms. I hold you in my heart.
Parisa
Winged flutter from womb,Lighten my heart, ancient soul,Eyes speak deep intent.
Laurette S Head With A Coffee Cup by Henri Matisse
Officer Ruiz had called for backup. Elliott sat cuffed in the squad car while the police did some preliminary questioning and the CSI team started collecting evidence. There wasn’t much but a bullet wedged so deep in the plaster and lathe wall that they couldn’t budge it. Margo had convinced them to let her and Clark stay to clean up when they had asked her to also leave. She promised them that they would leave the seating area untouched.
A couple hours later, Margo told Clark, “Why don’t you head on home. I’ll finish up.”
“Sure,thanks,” Clark replied.
Margo let him out and locked the door behind him. It didn’t take her long to finish. Margo went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Not many things get to her anymore, but today did. Elliott could have killed Paul. He could have killed anyone today. She looked around the kitchen and in resignation forewent the making of tea. She just wanted to get as far away from today as possible. Instead of taking the front staircase, she went up via the narrow backstairs behind the kitchen.
She had made some changes when she had acquired the house. There were so many rooms. She created a suite with a kitchenette for herself on the second floor. There were still plenty of bedrooms left, including the third floor. She went to the kitchenette, deciding to make her tea there. She opened the cabinet door with the crystal knob and removed the old copper kettle that had belonged to her great Aunt Edna, the tea, and a green and blue porcelain cup with an insert to hold the tea leaves and a cap to keep the tea hot while it steeped. She filled the kettle and put it one the stove to boil. While the water was heating, she took a quick shower to scrub off the trauma of the afternoon. The water was ready when Margo finished. She poured the water over the leaves, gathered the tea with a few crackers on a tray, and headed off to her bedroom.
It was barely dark but seemed much later. The house, everything, seemed colder than usual. She set the tray with the tea and crackers on her night stand and crawled under the covers, draped a shawl around her, and leaned back into the pillows behind her back and head, holding the tea in the hands of shivering arms, sipping and then hugging it tight, to warm as quickly as possible.
She was frazzled and tired but couldn’t sleep. She set the cup down, picked up the book on her nightstand and randomly opened it.
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero, Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
“If I thought my reply were to one who could ever return to the world, this flame would shake no more; but since, if what I hear is true, none ever did return alive from this depth, I answer you without fear of infamy.” — Dante, Inferno
(Never return was right. He would never return.)
Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table;
(The last time-when they pulled the sheet back-so she could see his face-what remained of it.)
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument
(The never ending arguments…)
Of insidious intent
(The dirty dealing, the cocaine, the financial scandal…)
To lead you to an overwhelming question … Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit.In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
(The first shot was meant for her. It missed and shattered the pane on one of the French doors that opened up to their balcony.)
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
(He was at the edge of the balcony, backed into and leaning over the railing. She was close. Not close enough to stop him from turning the gun on himself, pointing it toward his head and pulling the trigger. Close enough to be covered in the spatter of his blood, drops and drops that drowned out her screams.)
And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.
(His body almost seemed to float in slow motion as it headed toward the ground, lightened from the load of mental torment. Then-thud. The sidewalk crumpled it in a heap and left it there as it moved down the block.)
And indeed there will be time
(What time?)
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
(Seeing his face over and over in nightmares-the dark face of the night.)
There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me,
( There is no more “you and me”.)
And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions,
(Revisions? Another version of the ongoing torment of “what if?”, of ”if I had only done something differently”, if I had only seen it coming, if, if ,if, if,if…)
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
(Damn you, Peter! Damn you, Elliott for shooting that damn gun!)
In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.
She could feel the dampness of the pages of the book. It slid to the floor as her chest heaved to a stop, her tears on her cheeks the only warmth she felt. Her body crumpled under the cold blanket of blood drenched memories; she slumped into a cold sleep.
Well this is pretty self explanatory. There is a part of me that wants to go and a part of me that wants to stay a little longer. I would miss my kids, grandchild and the new one on the way, family and friends. But every day there are moments when I am in pain. And there are moments I feel as though I could be heading to the ground.
My job is to make the customers happy. I do that by showing them products that will make them look a few years younger. Some of them are nice people, some not so much. I have had a 40+ year old woman whine, stomp her foot and throw a tantrum because the product she wanted wasn’t on the shelf. I come upon others opening box after box and if they do decide they want the product, they will take the one box they did not open. (I would hate to shop where they buy their groceries.) Sometimes, I wonder, if I were to fall to the floor in a heap in front of some of them, would they kick me to the side? Would they step over me or would they just step on me while throwing a tantrum or to get closer to more unopened boxes. How sad to have more money than substance.
It was a tiring day today. So I lie here-too much pain and too tired to do much of anything, too much pain to sleep. I wonder…
Blow Out the Candle
Chest pains, like labor Occur more frequently. SoWhen is my birthday?
New Year’s Eve has come and gone. Many people made many resolutions to better themselves for the coming year. Why wait for the end of one year and the beginning of the next, especially since the western year is so arbitrarily positioned. Why not use the Asian New Year, or the beginning of a new season-a solstice or an equinox, or the dawn of each new day or each and every beat of your heart and breath you take?
I used to tell people my days were numbered. And as the aghast look of sorrow and pity would appear on their faces, I would say: “There is the first day of the month, the second day of the month, the third day of the month and so on. Just check any calendar!” But none of us knows which is the circled red-letter day of which month of which year that on which will come the call to move on, call it quits in this realm.
“…Bring thyself to account each day…” Each day?-Maybe with each heart beat, with each breath. With each breath live a new day. Decide who and what you want to be. Make the resolution for and at that moment, the one you are holding in your hand. Make it now, for that is all we have. Don’t wait for the next New Year’s Eve.
It Is Always the Stroke of Midnight
New year, a new dayNew heartbeat, each, a chance, Resolution, change.
We were crawling out from under a blizzard-winds 35-55 mph and anywhere from 8-14 inches of snow depending exactly where you were. A difference of two miles could give you a difference of two inches of snow. It had started one evening after Christmas with wind, lots of it, and falling temperatures. The snow stealthily came into town during the night. By mid morning we were its prisoners, captive to its whims until evening when it left town, moving on to torment its next victims. It wasn’t the worst blizzard some of us had seen-one that had winds of 70 mph and left banks of snow up 2 feet, 4-5 after the wind whipped it around a bit, and 7-10 feet after the snow plows piled it on the sides of road and parking lots. But that was okay. We really didn’t want to see one as bad as that again.
The SSB and I had been snowbound. I knew she was anxious to get out, but I had some errands to do and I couldn’t take her with me. I told her she had to stay home, I had to go but I would be back. She gave me that look of mortal pain and betrayal. I tried to bribe her with one of her favorite peanut butter treats. She would have nothing to do with it, letting it fall to the floor. She continued “that look” that screamed what an awful, neglectful, abusive owner I was to her. I left the house loaded down with my bag, the items for some of my errands, and more guilt than a Jewish mother could dish out in a lifetime of matzo balls and chicken soup.
Most of the small, independent businesses had been closed during the blizzard unlike the corporate owned malls and retail chains. Even though they were closed and had no profit for the day, a number of them offered their employees an hour of pay for the day. The owners realize that these people are not just their employees, but their friends and neighbors and therefore the heart of their business. I do as much of my business with the local independent businesses and avoid corporate retail as much as possible. So today was my day for errands. The third one on the list was at Vagabond’s End. I wanted to make arrangements for the delivery of the kitchen cabinetry that Jacqueline had worked on for me and of course to see her. We set a delivery time. She had other clients in the shop. She told me she would be free in about 1 1/2 hours. We decided to meet then for coffee at The Teal Mango.
Jacqueline who beat me to the coffee shop, had already ordered and was sitting at a table for two near one of the south facing windows in the main area. I don’t usually sit in the main area because I have The SSB Drever with me so we sit in the piano room. It was a nice change. Maddie was offering specials on Mexican hot chocolate, a Tanzanian-Indonesian peaberry mix with natural occurring spicy earthy undertones combined with cinnamon and cardamon, or a chai tea with piquant notes of ginger and black pepper. She also had a selection of sweet or spicy options of little appetizers and munchies from Snickety Snax. I ordered the peaberry with a little chocolate and a mixed platter of munchies and sat down with Jacqueline.
A few other people were there including: Paul, the owner of “The Charleston Silver Screen”, a shop with about anything to do with movies, especially the old and the classics (Paul is quite the movie buff), Dr. Dohna Park, officially retired acupuncturist (but still carries her bag with her) and beekeeper, Jennifer Dyson, a teacher in one of the schools east of the city, some other shop owners, some other customers that pop in on an irregular regular basis, and some new folks taking in the sights around the city while off from work for the holidays.
There were different topics of conversation in full swing by the time I sat down.
“Hey, Paul, I heard it was you that sold the blinking lights to the protestors!” Mike from the Fix It Shop called across the room to Paul. People were still talking about the brouhaha with George, Stephan, and Natalya. “Where’dya find those things?”
Paul chuckled. “Why, hello to you, Mike. Well, you see, I had been searching for some old posters, the originals ones, of course, and some other original paraphernalia from some of the classic Christmas movies, well like, It’s a Wonderful Life, for example. Now, you take It’s a Wonderful Life. It was based off a book called The Greatest Gift by Philip Van Doren. You know he published the book privately by himself in 1945. It was nominated for five Oscars, the movie of course, not the book, even though it pretty much failed at the box office. Well, any way…”
“Paul, just tell me how you found those crazy lights”, Mike interjected.
“The lights, right. Well actually I don’t know. I was looking at this and looking at that online and there I was and there they were. I just thought they were pretty cool so I ordered a lot of them.”
Beside movie trivia, Paul sells other odd things in his shop.
“I was watching the protestors when they first started. They just didn’t seem to be making much impact. I went out to talk with them, showed them the lights. The tough part was getting them to agree on which side got which color. Ya know, I’m probably about the only business near the Bernardi building that made any money that day.”
“How did you do with all the snow?” someone started to ask. As if on cue, Josh Morgan came through the door. “I’m done, Miss Margo,” he said, placing his snow shovel outside the door as he stepped in after stomping the snow from his boots.
Would you like some coffee, Josh?” Maddie asked.
“Thank you, Miss Margo. But I am a little sore and achy after all of that shoveling. I’m probably going to need some rest. I’ll probably just go home and sleep,” Josh responded.
“How about some herbal tea? I have some Rishi’s Serene Dream. It’s pretty soothing.”
“That would be nice. Thank you.”, Josh replied. Maddie set him up with the tea and after that, Dr. Dohna Park set him up with an acupuncture treatment to help with all the aches, pains, and stressed muscles and tendons. Josh had done a lot of shoveling for a lot of people, including Dr. Park.
They set him up in the piano room. It was currently full of bouquets and bouquets of flowers. It was part of the apology from the VanNeely and the Bernardi LaRue’s to atone for their lurid behaviour in the Mango. Maddie lowered the top of grand piano. She brought in some blankets, sheets and pillows. She and the Doctor folded some blankets to cushion the piano surface for Josh. He was medium to small, but wiry and strong. Dr. Park set to work with the needles. Maddie lowered the lights and found a Deuter and Anugama mix of meditative music. When Dr. Park was finished, she place a light sheet over Josh and closed the French pocket doors on a room that now, with all the flowers and body covered with a sheet, vaguely resembled a funeral parlor .
Elliott Christensen muddled in. He is a security guard in a warehouse who had just come off a double shift because of the snow. He still had to make his drive home. When Maddie asked what he would like, he told her to make it a triple shot of espresso. Meanwhile the blizzard discussion had continued with everyone chiming in.
“I just don’t think it is right. If the National Weather service says people should stay off the roads, they should stay off the roads. If the schools are closed…”
“The schools were already closed. It’s Christmas break.”
“Weren’t the government offices closed? If they’re closed, shouldn’t nonessential businesses be closed? You know, like malls and things.”
“This is a right to work state. If people don’t show up, even in natural disaster situations, they could lose their jobs.”
“Right to work my foot. Right to lose your job is what it should be called”
“I think if someone was hurt or injured going to or from work in these conditions, if the business threatened them with losing their job, then that business should be held liable maybe even criminally so!”
“Maybe someone should start a petition on one of those petition sites or the White House petition site. Make it a federal law so the state governments have no right to deny anyone the right to their job. And make it a criminal offense if they do.”
“Did you hear about the guy on the snowmobile?” Jennifer asked. “He was going through the city and holding up stranded motorist at gun point. One woman was shot and killed” This coming less than three weeks after the Newtown massacre.
“If she had had a gun, that wouldn’t have happened,” added Elliott. “Everyone needs a gun or two to carry with them and a few assault weapons at home, and one with you to protect ourselves .” Anyone who knew Elliott, knew he had several guns of several types, including assault weapons. They also knew he was buying as many more as he could before there was any change in the gun laws.
“Why?” I asked. “From what?”
“Everyone knows the U.S. is becoming a police state. It allowed that shooting in Newtown to happen to give it an excuse to take all our guns aways. Then the army will come into every town and ship us off to detention centers. This all a conspiracy.” Elliott spoke again.
“Elliott, do you really think your Bushmaster is going to stop an army? ” Maddie asked. “If you really want to put a halt to the military threat, urge your elected officials to stop supporting military and especially military weapons build up. Create stronger gun controls and use our tax dollars resources to build strong communities instead”
“You are living in some idealistic La La Land. I tell you the only sane thing to do is get a gun; get several while you can!” Elliott continued. “The only way to stop gun violence is to counter it with your own gun.”
Jennifer laughed aloud. “That is just pure craziness, Elliott. That is like saying to stop death from drunk driving is that everyone should drive drunk. Or, or,” she laughed again, ” to stop people from dying from the effects of obesity, is that everyone should shove the food in until everyone is obese. Then we’ll all be saved!”
“Elliott, you might need a little more rest and maybe little more people interaction,” I offered.
“Jo, do people keep asking you if you have a gun.” Jacqueline asked. “I mean, I don’t have gun. I went one time to try shooting a gun. I didn’t like it. I feel as though I am being bullied to get one and I don’t want to get one. I don’t get how being a part of and contributing to violence will reduce violence.”
Meanwhile, while all of this was occurring, Margaret Teagartin had been walking her two dogs, two corgis-Teaberry and Newton, as in Fig Newton. Margaret is a little old fashioned and loves fig newtons with her tea. She loves tea also-so much that she opened a tea house on the lower tier of shops closer to the canal where she serves high tea and low tea, and probably every tea in between. This is the go to place for tea pots, tea towels, linens, and anything “tea”. She calls it Margaret’s Tea Garden.
Margaret had come down Opal Way to Golden Place North with “Tea” the brindled Cardigan and “Newt”, the caramel Pembroke. As she was passing the trees and shrubbery on her right, at the edge of Maddie’s property, she heard what sounded like gunshots to her but were in reality firecrackers illegally being set off. (It was getting close to New Years). She made the turn to her right, continue along the walkway toward The Teal Mango to find shelter. The first thing she saw as she looked toward the building was a body covered with a sheet on top of the piano. Immediately, Margaret fumbled to get her phone out of her pocket to call 911 to report a shooting and a dead body at The Teal Mango. The dogs picked up on her excitement, ran circles around her and knocked her down. fortunately she had a soft landing in a snow drift that had made its frozen home outside the Mango.
Officer Alano Ruiz was due for a break and had been heading to Golden Heights for a bite to eat and a cup of coffee when the call came in. He had heard the “shots” on his way to The Heights, had already parked the squad car and was quickly but stealthily making his way to The Teal Mango. As he approached he saw Margaret on the ground in the snow drift.
Officer Ruiz had a keen appreciation for historical residential architecture. He was currently enrolled in an Historic Survey and Appreciation of Art and Architecture of the Edwardian Period class at the local community college. He didn’t want to ruin the beveled glass on the Mango’s entry door or damage any of the windows. Assuming the shooter was in the coffee shop based on the 911 call, he fired a warning shot into the air and ordered the shooter come out.
Josh who had fallen asleep, between the tea, the music, and the reduction of pain from the needle placement, was roused from his sleep by the gunshot, the yelling and the general commotion. At this same time, Margaret had managed to crawl out of the snow drift to stand on her own two legs again. She was facing The Teal Mango and happened to look again in the window just as Josh was rising from the waist up off the piano. All she saw was a corpse rising from the dead. She swooned and was back down in the snow drift, once again oblivious to the drama around her. As soon as he had raised up his body enough, he turned to roll off the piano, hit the edge of the keys and then hit the floor.
Right before Margaret’s swoon and Josh’s fall to the floor, Elliott had positioned himself in a now slightly open entry door ready to return gun fire with the assumed attacker outside, poised ready to fire. The gunshot, and then the thud of Josh’s landing had startled Paul. His hand inadvertently knocked his teaspoon to the floor. Elliott caught the flash of light reflecting off the spoon as it fell at the same time he too heard Josh’s thud. He instinctively turned to the direction of the light as though it had been the glint of a gun and fired. Paul had just bent down to retrieve the spoon as the bullet whizzed by, just grazing his head.
Officer Ruiz could see Elliott in the door way. He knew Elliott, knew he had been working some long shifts, knew he was an avid espresso fan. He fired another shot to get Elliott’s attention and shouted to him.
“Drop the gun, Elliott! Drop the Gun! Put your hands up and drop to the ground!”
Elliott looked around and realized the horror of what he had just done and what he could have done. He tossed the gun and dropped. Maddie was already calling 911 and Dr Park had rushed over to Paul to attend to his wound. Officer Ruiz was next to Elliott cuffing him and helping him to his feet. The ambulance had arrived. A paramedic was helping Margaret to her feet and checking her over.
Dr. Park was walking with Paul, a little light headed and woozy, toward the ambulance. As they passed Elliott, Paul said,
“Hell, Elliot. What do you think you were doing.? I survived Nam just to get shot by my friend in a coffee shop on The Square. Damn. Thank God you didn’t have your assault weapon with you!”
It was a few days before I returned to The Teal Mango. I noticed some new signage as I came upon the entry door. It was a “no guns allowed” sign.
While Maddie was making my order, I said, “I noticed your new sign.”
She laughed. “The only shots I want around here are the ones coming from my espresso machines.”
I picked up my coffee and The SSB Drever and I headed to our usual spot in the piano room, where hopefully I would get some work done. I looked up. I could never look at that piano in the same old way again.
There are a number of art galleries around Jewel Square and a few on the way to Artisan Hill. There is a tradition of art appreciation around the Heights, the Hill, and the Square, displaying works representing a wide variety of styles, genres, and artists. Opal Bauer was the first patroness d’artes of the Square. She sponsored an annual paint-about in late spring -early summer. It was a day of easels, water colors, of picnic baskets with cheeses, fruits, and little tea sandwiches, of smocks and wide brim hats, and chit chat and of displays of light, shadow, and splashes of color. The festivities continued into the evening with a ball with brightly colored gowns ballooning out as the dancers twirled under and around the flickering candles and gas lanterns and judging of the days’s masterpieces, with the best works auctioned off for charitable causes.
The paint-about continued during Opal’s lifetime. The final strokes of Opal’s life came at a time of economic downward spiral. Business around the square and in the city had changed, some totally swept away with the economic upheaval. Economic change and social change go hand in hand. The paint-about hung around for another year. But it was the end of an era. After one last tribute to the grand patroness, the paint-about followed in Opal’s wake; it was no more. In the 1940′s after the war, the soldiers returned and the economy began a great boom. Art sneaked in quietly behind them, returning to the square, peeking out from a few obscure galleries hidden from the general city.
A few decades ago, the art and art gallery appreciation was kicked up a notch. It all started with Letti Jacobsen. Letti was hired as art teacher at school number 95, Pasquale Vintner High School. She had some new ideas, which wasn’t surprising. She had a history of ideas. One of them occurred her senior year at college, a strangely conservative liberal arts institution. She had instigated wrapping up a protest, literally, against the cuts in funding for the art department at her college. She and some fellow students had wrapped the entire Administration building in sheets and sheets of wide yellow ribbon (yellow just happened to be one of the school colors) a la Christo. They also managed to wrap the Chancellor to a tree with the same yellow ribbon. When he was found, the yellow ribbon was pretty much all he was wearing. His dignity along with his usual and customary garments had disappeared during that long night he was tied to the tree and never totally came back .
No one knew who did it. No one knew how they did it. Maybe the Chancellor knew, but was too embarrassed to let it be known who his captors had been. There had been rumors. Letti had let her art professor, Prof. Deloro, for her interactive and public art class know. She needed the grade. They made some sort of deal such that he was sworn to secrecy. The only thing people knew was that the funding for the arts was not cut, that the Chancellor, who had been fond of wining, dining, and loud public appearances and extensive travel in general at the college’s expense, now went to and from his work at times and along routes such that he would encounter the fewest people as possible, and that Professor Deloro always walked around with a smile on his face and received a yearly package of some of his favorite wines and cheeses around the anniversary of the event.
One of the ideas Letti had for the budding artists and art aficionados at Pasquale High was a gallery crawl around the Square. At first it only took a little over half the school day. Letti set it for around the winter holidays to make it more festive, more fun, more memorable. Little by little there were more and more galleries and it took longer and longer. But, still, it was a special treat reserved for the students around the Square and the Hill. But word got out in this competitive city. Other high schools were not to be out done. Another high school started sending its art students on a gallery crawl around the square. And then another, and another and, you get the picture. Letti is no longer teaching, but the gallery crawl is alive and quite robust. (Sometimes she makes a guest appearance to a rousing round of cheers from Pasquale art students, current and former.) And this, one of the last weekends before Christmas, it was in full swing!
There were a record number of schools represented at the Jewel Square Gallery Crawl this year. The buses, besides taking up multiple parking spaces around the Square had spilled into the residential areas. The SSB Drever and I drove through the Heights for awhile before we found parking a few blocks up on Opal Way. The sun was shining, the sky was blue, and the wind was quiet, keeping all opinions to himself. The snow from last week had hung around, hugging everything with seasonal cheer. There had been a couple snows in between to give it support when it began to appear a little bedraggled, losing its festive magic.
We parked in front of the Sarkeesian house. There were brick pillars with globe-shaded lights on each side of the drive, starting at the entrance going all the way up to the carriage house. Vines had climbed up the brick pillar, from the bottom, all the way to the globes, weaving a cloak of green and brown on each pillar. The Sarkeesians had wrapped rows and rows of tiny white string lights onto each pillar to make them look like Christmas trees with big balls of white light atop each one.
Farther down the Way, we passed Dr. Park’s house. She is a retired acupuncturist and doctor of naturopathy who is also a beekeeper of some renown. Her home is a tiny fairy tale type stucco cottage with a swaybacked roof, rough hewn timber and arched doors and gates, that sits a bit off the road, nestled between two much larger homes. There are alternating rows of arborvitae, Emerald Greens and Green Giants, along with Weeping Serbian Spruce trees and Canadian Hemlocks. She has a clump of birches in the front from which she had hung huge, over sized ornaments. The scale of the ornaments juxtaposed with the size of her house, now flocked with snow, made the whole setting looked like a section of a miniature Christmas town.
The sunlight, displaying a tenacity here and there, with focused intent, had melted the snow on spots. Crunch. Crunch. Splish-Splash. Our feet played a winter tune as we walked through the puddled snow.
As we approached Golden Place North, I could see the activity around the Square Most of it was along the middle area and the eastern end, a swirling movement of people. It was as though the buildings were great bellows that sucked people in and then pushed them back out like steam into the cold air creating eddies in the currents of pedestrians moving from one gallery or shop to another. I looked from the east to the west. Buses blocked the shops in the west end buildings from view. As visitors made their way from toward the west, I could see adults abruptly leave the side walk, right where the line of school buses began, quickly herding the group of children in under their wing, each like a mother goose and her gaggle of goslings, across the street to the Jewel box, either to detour around the buses to reach the west side of the Square or to do an about face and head back east. I thought is was strange that everyone was missing the west end galleries.
We turned right for half a block to the walk way up to The Teal Mango. There were a few people holding their coffee or tea, standing on the veranda, sipping occasionally, but mostly staring across the Jewel Box to the area where the buses were parked, shaking their heads and muttering undiscernible words while they stood on the veranda. I thought I heard something about a ball and the word whip. I said hello, but what ever they were watching made them impervious to my greeting, their focus and thoughts drowned out my words.
I opened the door to go inside. I love the rainbows from the beveled glass. This morning they danced on the ceramic tiles in the entry way. They were darting spotlights highlighting the Ottoman-esque design, a nice touch to the blues, greens, and turquoise. The Mango was warmed with sunshine and what I call coffee jazz-instrumental jazz that is mellow and that is just, well, happy.
It was more crowded than usual for this time of morning. I dug a treat out of my coat pocket, handed it to the SSB, pointed to our usual spot in the piano room, and told her to go sit. There were about five women dressed in black right near the front of the line one by one placing their orders. They were talking about make-up, hair, and something about clients. Behind them was a rather slender woman of medium height. She had a slightly poufed pixie cut on her slightly browned red hair with almost violet undertones, with a wisp of hair coming down to a point in front of each ear which showcased gold with diamond studs that refused to go unnoticed. She hugged a belted, flared white suede mid calf coat gushing with white fur trim. It was a wonder that she could lift her hand as long as she did to clench her coat together at the chest because of the extra-ordinary size of the diamond on that hand. The pressure seemed to strain her delicate wrist.
The line was long enough, I consigned myself to waiting. I half listened to the chatter and half read the notice board on the wall by the entry door.
“The Ball is back.”
“The Ball?”
It’s going to be a Christmas Ball. In the Bernardi building. The gallery in the Bernardi building.”
I had just started reading the notice/invitation about the “Christmas Ball” at the Van Neely exhibit. At this point, more people dressed in black from the spa, three more women and Dustin, the owner of a spa on the Square, came through the door and I moved to the side to let them pass.The women with him and the one at the front of the line were his employees. They stepped ahead of Natalya Bernardi LaRue, the woman in the white coat. They placed their orders and didn’t miss a beat in their chatter. That’s when Natalya took a step toward them.
“You cuts ze line! I waz hyere!” She snapped as she grabbed one of them and yanked her back. “How der you step in fronts of me?!” as she yanked at the next one. She didn’t care where she grabbed and what she grabbed. She yanked someone’s hair and ripped another’s sleeve.
“Excuse, me, lady, um, we’re all together. This is all on one tab,” Dustin had turned to face her to explain.
“I waz hyere first! I don’t ca-er ifs you ahr paying for all of zis. You must stands behinds me and go after me!” By this time, Natalya was very animated, Her face was so close to Dustin’s they were almost connected. “Do you know whos I am? I am Natalya Bernardi LaRue!” Her screams had gone way beyond the top of her lungs and were shattering the whole room.
Dustin was not to be beaten down.
“Back down, lady. For God’s sake, it’s Christmas! I told you we are all together and all their coffees are on one tab. And I don’t give a hoot who you are.”
Natalya had her hand with her white crocodile Gadino handbag raised, ready to swing and mow them all down with one sweeping slug. Maddie had come out from behind the counter and was calmly speaking to Natalya Bernardi LaRue.
“You’re right, Natalya. No one should cut the line. It seems there has just been a little misunderstanding. Tell you what-your coffee is on the house. And I’ll bring you a little pastry to go with it. We’ll just let it go. How about it?” she said as she guided Natalya to a seat away from the group from the spa.
“You know I don’t eat pasteries. But I vill take two.” With that Natalya sat down tapping her freshly manicured nails on the table and fumed a little more quietly, mostly to herself.
I stepped up to the counter to place my order. I felt like someone who has survived and had just walked away from some horrible hard hitting natural disaster who was still stunned and not really sure what had just happened. Maddie must have recognized the look on my face. As she handed me my coffee, she whispered to me, “I’ll come to your table and tell you about it in a minute.”
I headed to the piano room. The SSB must have given up on me. She was curled up on a window seat in a sunshine nap. I passed a couple women at a table as I headed toward SSB and my seat.
“They say he’s Scottish.”
“Who?”
“His partner.”
“His partner?”
“Yes, his partner.”
“Ahhh. … Well, how do they know?”
“Know what?”
“That he’s Scottish.”
“Oh. Yes. He wears a kilt.”
“A kilt. He wears a kilt? Really?”
“Yeah, he wears a kilt. I mean, I haven’t seen it. But that’s what I heard.”
“Umm.”
They had finished their drinks and had put on their coats and walked out.
A man younger than Natalya came into the “Mango”.
“Oh, Shtephahn, Darling. Come sits vith me. Let me get your coffee. Maddie is such a darling. All our coffees and pasteries are on ze house today.” With that she was flailing her arms around until Clark, the barista, came over to get her order.
I had been looking outside when Maddie walked over and sat down with a coffee for herself and a fresh one for me. I leaned my head in toward her and quietly asked, “What is going on here?”
“In here or out there?” she said.
“Okay, in here first. I know Natalya’s name. I have seen it with her picture in the paper. But who is she that she thinks she can act like that?”
“She’s married to George Bernardi one of the city councilors. And she has money-lots of it!”
“So she married Bernardi for the money?”
“No. He has a little political sway and power, but she has the money.”
“How did she get it?”
“She was a mail order bride from some East European country,” Maddie continued. “She was very, very young and poor. And he was very, very old and rich.”
“So not Bernardi?”
“Right, the first husband.Vinnie LaRue”
“What happened to him?”
“They say she killed him.”
“No!” I almost chuckled as I whispered almost too loudly in disbelief.
“She used a weapon that has been around for centuries. But the coroner wrote ‘heart attack’ as the official cause of death. He left everything to her.”
I raised my hand over my mouth to muffle a throaty laugh. “Oh my!”
“Don’t vorry, my darling Shtephahn. Don’t vorry about your uncle Zheorge. He von’t take your gallery space avay. I know how to handles him. Besides, ve haf some dirt on ze mayor.” With that we heard the door open and close as Natalya and Stephan left, heading down the steps and across the square toward the area where the buses were parked in front of the Stephan’s gallery space in George’s building.
“So who is Shtephahn?” I asked.
“Stephan? He used to be Steven. Steven Van Neely. Bernardi’s sister’s son.”
“I’ve seen that name before. Oh yeah, I saw it on a street sign-Van Neely Avenue.” I had been driving around the city one day and came across a neighborhood, north and slightly east of downtown, that was new to me. There were two story stucco houses in the style of California in the early to mid 1900′s painted in soft pastel colors, dilapidated from time. They barely had the luxury of the of sidewalks as a protective barrier from the street. What the city hadn’t provided, nature did on the form of large droopy trees that served as a canopy to protect them from voyeuristic stares. They were further shamed when Van Neely Avenue, which ran on the south edge of this once architecturally refined neighborhood, made a sharp right into an area of run down one story warehouses and cottage businesses.
“Van Neely is another old money name. George’s sister Maria married a Van Neely. That is a whole other story. Anyway, Steven-Stephan and Natalya became very close. It was just odd. Everyone thought so. So, Georges had him sent away. He just came back a couple months ago with Dugan Penrod, Stephan’s partner. Scottish I heard.”
“Penrod’s not a Scottish name. It’s English, isn’t it?”
“Maybe a Penrod went into Scotland and left his name.”
“I know some Scots would agree with that. Nothing new for the English. They have been leaving their ‘name’ in Scotland for centuries. Doesn’t he get cold running around in that kilt in this weather?”
” Don’t know. Sometimes the wind whips that kilt around but not enough that any of us can answer that question.”
“What’s the Christmas Ball I heard people talking about? I saw a notice on the board.”
It not really a ball. It’s just the opening for Stephan and Dugan’s gallery show. It’s title something like, “You take the bi road and I’ll take the down low road-an exposé on taboo sexual behaviours and societal consequences of denial’ or something like that.”
I peered out the window again. Some of the buses had pulled away and I could now see what was going on across the Square. Protestors flooded the walkway in front of the Bernardi building and spilled over into the street. There was a smaller circle of people within a larger circle. They moved like a whirlpool while carrying their protest signs. Some signs said “go”, some said “no”. But that is not what made me stare and mouth drop open. It was what they were wearing. They all had, slung around around their waists or hips, hung low over the groin where a Scottish sporran would hang, huge blinking Christmas ornament lights the size of bocce balls in either red or green. They were connected with wires to braceleted solar devices worn like yokes and attached to the shoulders. The protesters carrying the go signs were wearing the red lights for go away and the protesters with the no signs were wearing the greens lights for no, don’t go, but go on with the exhibit. There was one more group carrying “freedom” signs and they wore blinking yellow balls. It looked like one big traffic jam of people. I’m not sure if anyone really knew what was going on and where it was going.
Well, someone was going, rather coming.”Look, Maddie. It’s Stephan and Natalya.” They had run out of the Bernardi building, first Stephan with Natalya after him, pushed through the protesters, and were high tailing it across the Square toward The Teal Mango!
Stephan ran in, slamming the door after him, then Natalya, slamming the door after her.
“Aunt Tally, How could uncle George do this to me?” Stephan whimpered. he stood with his body facing toward Natalya, both of them standing next to the third table in from the door. Stephan had turned his head to the side, looking out the window, his left hand resting on his hip, his right hand flat against his mouth as one might place one’s hand when saying “whoops”. His eye darted around, emitting crocodile tears. It seems some sort of extreme confrontation had occurred between Stephan and George at the gallery.
“Shtephahn, Zheorge didn’t mean any sing he said about the exhibit. He’s not going to close you down over the condom vhip and ze health department. And ve vill have your Chrrismas Ball opening as you and Dugan have planned.Please don’t…”
But before she could finish a third person had run across the Square and into the “Mango”. It was George. It took him a little longer. George, a man who really enjoyed his material bounty in life-evidenced by the way the bottom of his wescot refused to meet up with the tops of his trousers-huffed and puffed his way in.
“Natalya! Steven!” George had to bend over to catch his breath, holding his chest. Maddie and I thought he was on the verge of a heart attack. He slowly rose, opened his mouth and the words gushed forth.
“How could you? I put my neck on the line to get a variance for that display. But really, really -dead babies and dead black roses on the walls! A whip braided from used condoms! A…”
At this point all three of them were yelling. I only caught bits of the words in this familial brouhaha. “Used”…”Béchamel sauce”…”S&M”…”Mayor Ballentine”…”down low”…”blackmail” …
In the meantime, some of the shop owners had followed and now joined the fray.
…”Lost business”…”money”…”distasteful”…”divorce”…”telling mother”…”get out of town”…
The protesters were now outside protesting in front of the coffee shop.
…”We’re going to settle this here and now!”…
I had never seen Maddie angry. Her real name is Margo, her initials M.A.D. and her fiery spirit when riled are the source of her nickname-Maddie. She pushed through the mob, pulling and then pushing Stephan and George to and then through the door, yelling, “TAKE IT OUTSIDE!”
George and Stephan marched out side by side on the way to settling this, all the while adjusting their hats, scarves, gloves, and pushing their sleeves up readied to fight it out. Two by two the the other shop owners and the protesters fell into step. Across the veranda, down the steps, the walk way, and then a sharp right on the side walk along Golden Place North, a cross over Red Bud Row to the park.
Natalya straggle behind in her Fendi boots yelling “Vait, Vait!”
As The SSB came out to see where this was all going, I spied lanky legged Dugan Penrod striding, long strides like an antelope’s lope, across the Jewel square. He had a Dr.Who scarf streaming out behind him and an unbuttoned coat down to his lower calves. He clutched it at the neck and chest with one hand while he held his hat with the other. His coat was flapping and so was his kilt, but still not enough to see whether and how he kept warm or not. He joined the crowd at the park.
Everyone seemed to have positioned themselves in the style of European armies of the 1700′s, facing off , staring down the enemy. Then, as if on cue, everyone bent down, scooped up white powder into snow balls and began it began-pelleting, tripping, and stuffing snow down the coat of any of the opposition within reach. George and Stephan took turn doing a victory whoop each time one smeared the other’s face with snow. George had the mass to knock Stephan down if he caught up with him. Stephan was quicker on his feet and out maneuvered George. The protesters pretty much knew who the enemy was. Red lights chasing green and green lights chasing red. Even when the snow was flying thick, you could hone in on the enemies light and slam them with snow. The people with the yellow lights were attacked by both sides. Everyone was pretty intent and focused on destroying the enemy and reloading. But when Dugan bent down to make snowballs, when he bent a little too low and grazed the top of the icy snow, or took a tumble, almost everyone put the pelting on pause to say a breathed-in “Ahuhh”. Once it was verified he was okay, nothing was frozen, the fighting commenced.
The fighting had pretty much taken place at the foot of a hill. Most of the snow had been spent and trampled. A crowd of people had gathered on the perimeter of the fight. One of the snow ballers came up to one of the kids and brokered a deal for some undisclosed amount for acquisition of his saucer sled. He then took it to the top of the hill where the snow was still fresh to make a fresh round of ammunition and loaded it on the sled. Someone on the opposing side played a game of one up-manship and hired one of the kids to take his sled to the top of the hill and make snowballs for him. Pretty soon every child with a saucer sled had accepted membership as a mercenary ammunition producer for a mutually agreed upon price. This escalated the battle to a whole new level.
This went on for another hour on top of the one that had just passed. The sun was peeping a little lower to get a good view of the insanity in the park. At that moment, as quickly as it started, it stopped. everyone stopped. Everyone just took a step back, looked around and laughed. Some people headed back to their cars, some back to their shops. Stephan and Dugan helped George up out of the snow. Natalya joined them and they with a number of others walked back to The Teal Mango. The machines were steaming, coffee and tea brewing, milk pouring, whipped cream squirting, and the fire places blazing. Hands were warming and bruised egos mending. Tips were good.
After one last cup of hot chocolate, The SSB Drever and I packed it up to walk to the car before dark and head home.
George and Stephan had agreed to a four day show. Needless to say, there was no Christmas Ball, the Gallery had a soft opening. A few days after the gallery closed there was an article in the Star about Mayor Ballentine and some rumors about him and some extracurricular sexual activities. Bernardi was doing some quick political back pedaling. Natalya was having a hard time finding a replacement for the boots she destroyed in the fight at the park. Everyone else seemed to have had a happy holiday.
My Aunt Ruth did not just walk in sunshine, she was sunshine. And she shared the sunshine, whether with her perennial family reunion favorite-macaroni and cheese-or with love and hugs for every child and every new baby in the family.
Beyond the twinkle in her eyes, Ruth will now twinkle with the stars and walk in eternal sunshine. The celestial realm shines a little brighter. Just short of 96 years of love, Aunt Ruth passed on today.
Ruth Anna Russell Storms
February 23, 1917 – December 20, 2012
The Sunshine Child
Blue sky sunshine eyes,
Heart of love, arms of love hugAwhile, laugh, smile love.
I thought I was human. But I am nobody, I am nothing. I am the one you saw sitting alone in the lunch room, alone on the bus, curled alone on the bench, alone. I watch through the restaurant window, I watch the light of home through the windows as I pass at night. I watch from the dark corners of the concrete streets and overpasses. I watch from the odd jobs and midnight shifts, from the mud and ditch, from no job. I see you eat your trendy food, I don’t have your trendy food, I don’t have food, I don’t have your latest fashion, any fashion, your shoes, I don’t have shoes. I die on your streets, I die in heaps, I die across the way, across the ocean, I die buried in the news that never was, I die unburied. I don’t have your straight teeth and perfect skin, and make up and botox and your obsession lip gloss, and ombre hair.
You don’t see me even when you pass by as I clean your filth, and grow your food fed by my bones and my life, stitch your clothing made with my burning flesh. You don’t see me as you tap your text to pound the nails in my coffin if I am so lucky to have one instead of the heap of garbage I pick through to find the remains of me in the remains from you.
But I see you. I see you as you ogle your mirror, ogle your obsession-you, trying to drink in what waning light remains in your reflection of non-reflection. You never see me. I am the dark undercoating of your mirror, of your life that makes your illusion of you possible.
I thought I was human; I am merely shadow, negative space.
Light’s Negative Space
I am nobody, nothing, I move as shadowlight’s negative space
There are a number of art galleries around Jewel Square and a few on the way to Artisan Hill. There is a tradition of art appreciation around the Heights, the Hill, and the Square, displaying works representing a wide variety of styles, genres, and artists. Opal Bauer was the first patroness d’artes of the Square. She sponsored an annual paint-about in late spring -early summer. It was a day of easels, water colors, of picnic baskets with cheeses, fruits, and little tea sandwiches, of smocks and wide brim hats, and chit chat and of displays of light, shadow, and splashes of color. The festivities continued into the evening with a ball with brightly colored gowns ballooning out as the dancers twirled under and around the flickering candles and gas lanterns and judging of the days’s masterpieces, with the best works auctioned off for charitable causes.
