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Raw Honey

Raw Honey 

©Jo Hewitt The Teal Mango 2017
                                    

It has been a year.                                 

Shall we again meet?

Shall we gather

In your city

Or would you rather

Mine?

Choose.

Either is fine.

Shall I bring chocolate

And pastry sweet?

Truffles perhaps,

Rosemary, Cayenne, or Lime?

Name the date.

Name the time.

Shall we talk of then or now?

Shall we talk, compare each different path?

Shall we give voice

To the aftermath

Of the why and how

Of each one’s choice,

Of our each different path?

Do you want coffee, tea, espresso?

“Oh, the tea” you might say.

“I guess so.”

For me,

I might choose the coffee.

It is long since my life,

My surroundings,

Afforded me the civility

Of the fragrance of tea.

 

Please, say again

Where shall we meet,

We three

To savor old times

With coffee or tea.

Shall it be your condo?

Or shall it be your

Backyard and pond

Beyond

Your screened porch?

Shall you, or shall I pour?

How much sugar does it take

To sweeten your tea?

One lump,

Two, three,

Four?

How many more?

You stop at three?

Lumps in life come differently.

I will decline the sweetener,

Real or artificial

As may be your habit

or your ritual.

I now drink mine

Bitter, a bit.

As we sip,

As we sit,

Shall my thoughts lead my mind

To the calm of the pond

Or beyond

And leave my ears behind

With your shallow prate?

I have no patience of late.

Nor time.

I do not understand

The reason or rhyme

Of your need

for shallow discourse.

Of course,

If I offer topics deep,

Me, again, will you berate

And claim I condescend?

Why?

Will I again

Need to defend

To you

My view,

My stance

On the current social brew

And circumstance of

Injustice,

Ignorance,

Bigotry and hate?

Perhaps you cannot fathom it

From your city,

Or this pond.

Yet,

Shall I regret,

Shall I reflect

My lack of circumspect

In what words I proffer?

Perchance,

If I were to offer

You honey raw,

A chance for healing,

(In sugar coating

There is none,

None at all)

Perchance,

In my defense,

If I were to coat your cup

And stir with your delusion,

And seclusion,

A picket from your

White middle class fence,

Would you drink it up?

Would you drink it all?

Could you stomach it raw?

Or would you choke

In the coat

Of feeling?

Swallowing the rawness

Is the healing.

 

It has been a year.

Shall we again meet,

We three?

I think not.

I have not time to savor tea.

Time is short.

Barely time for coffee.

We stand at the shore,

The brim,

Of the rim

Of a blackened sea.

The waves of the old ways,

Cresting, crashing

Have come,

To swallow us,

Bitterly.

 

 

Portrait of Miss Sinclair by William Orpen

Portrait of Miss Sinclair by William Orpen

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tales From the Teal Mango-Drops From a Bitter Brew

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2013
Laurette S Head With A Coffee Cup by Henri Matisse

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 on 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.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

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.

Tales From The Teal Mango-The Christmas Ball

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2012

tear drop ornamentsThere 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.”

christmas ornaments

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.

christmas ornaments

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.

christmas ornaments

Tales from The Teal Mango-Christmas Saturdays.

Christmas Saturdays

© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2012

The SSB Drever and I had plans for the Saturday after Thanksgiving Day. I had decided I would officially declare it a non-work day, I had no intention of lugging around my notebook, and we would just enjoy the fun and sense of community at the square for Small Business Saturday.

So many people turn out, not just for the shopping, but for the lighting of the square. The weather had been unseasonably warm and it was a great day for it. Lamp posts, benches, doorways, street signs, everything is adorned with lights and seasonal greenery and other offerings from the world of nature. We have a diverse community around Jewel Square, in Golden Heights, and on Artisan’s Hill, diversity in many forms-economic, religious, ethnic, cultural, and the generations. Too many people in too many places become a little snippy about is it “Merry Christmas,” or “Happy Holidays,” or “Season’s Greetings,” or something else.  Some unspoken consensus took hold of the people around here. They just decided that the important thing was happiness and harmony, light and beauty, and just being nice, good people who are grateful every day that they are lucky enough to be here around the Jewel Box.

Somewhere along the way, the lights went up! They went up the Saturday after Thanksgiving Day one year and they stayed. They stayed through the longest night. They stayed through Christmas. They stayed through the New Year-both the western one and the Chinese one. They stayed all through the darkness of winter because that is when we need the light the most. And then they stayed some more, throughout the whole year, or at least part of the lights did. The ones that came down were replaced with others in celebration of whatever was the current season.

This is a great time to be at the “Jewel Box”; it really sparkles. There is so much going on.  The restaurants, bistros, all the little foodie places have some special offering for the day. I have always enjoyed the roasted chestnuts, like the first ones I ever had in Vienna. I love the kale chips with different flavors and spices from Snickety -Snacks. And the best pakora I have had is along the Square. There are different drink stations also-coffee, hot chocolate, spiced cider, and more . They are there for shoppers and for the good-hearted citizenry who have volunteered their time and energy for the adorning of the square. There are little boxes for donations to cover the costs of the drinks. Any extra is given to a charity selected for that season and year.

So many neat and unique little shops! There is Mike’s Hardware and Fix It Shop, The Dawg Haus-SSB’s favorite, Lauren’s place where she makes and sells her own children’s wear designs and will do custom designs on request. There is Fiona’s shop which carries organic skin and body care. Fiona also custom blends oils and extracts for the body, for candles, soaps, incense, etc. There is Vagabond’s End. That is Jacqueline’s place. She refinishes furniture, turning them into refreshed and trendy pieces. Vagabond’s End is also an outlet for many of the artists and craftsmen on the Hill.

We parked near Vagabond’s End. It is near the east end of the Square, shortly before the road that meanders along the river toward the Artisan’s Hill area. As SSB and I came upon the buttery brick building, Frank was up on a ladder placing lights and garlands over the front entrance. Sandra was feeding them up to him and people were trying to maneuver around them. So we went around to the side entrance. It was much better that way, besides, it was closer to Jacqueline’s work area.

As soon as we entered, SSB started going crazy. She had spotted her buddy KaTy, Jacqueline’s rescued canine friend. KaTy came running. Jacqueline heard the commotion and was on KaTy’s heels but not before KaTy and The SSB had begun the infamous Canine Tangle where they dance around me and wrap me up with their leashes. Jacqueline was laughing as she lured the two with treats to sit on the side.

“Thank you!”, I laughed. “I’m glad they are such good friends.”  At this point they had settled down and were busily gnawing on the “bones” she had given them.

“Did you come to see it?” she asked.

“I did.” I answered.

“It is over here. I am almost finished.”, she said. “Just a few details left.”

I walked over to the direction she had pointed. I don’t have a dishwasher. Most of my dishes I wash by hand. I had wanted some sort of cabinetry such that I could use the top as functional counter space for my kitchen, have a storage drawer, and have pull out rack type drawers with a draining rack for dishes to drain after I washed them. Somehow, she had found a small old table and turned it into what I had imagined.

“It’s beautiful, Jacqueline. I love the color. Usually, I don’t like a lot of blue, but this blue, and the antique over lay with a touch of that green, is just so nice!”

I’m glad you like. I’ll let you know when it’s finished and you can pick it up.” she said.

We chatted a little more and then The SSB and I left. We made our way to the western part of the square, chatting, laughing, and of course SSB getting her share of ear scratches and head rubs. We eventually turned to cut through the Jewel Box to cross Golden Place North and to go to The Teal Mango. Maddie had little white lights entwined through the railings along the steps and around the veranda. The sun was just right to beam off the lights and dance on the bevels of the entry door glass. I have always been pleased that she never changed the original door.

* * *

I opened the door to the sounds of the buzz of coffee talk and the little chimes Maddie has on the door. They are tuned to a soprano voice with a Mongolian tonal scale. There is happiness but tinged with a whisper of sadness of a loneliness the wind might feel on its journey across a vast plain in its song. It was quickly usurped with the hissing of steam, the clatter of cups, the clunk of a side table turning, falling to the floor as a five-year old climbed up on it to get a better view of a man chasing a golden retriever which had grabbed one of the garlands which had slipped from the man’s hand while he was up on a ladder fastening it in place on one of the street lights.

“Hi, Jo!” Maddie called out in passing as I made my way to the counter. “Be with you in a moment.” With that, a call and response sort of chorus of “Hi, Jo!” with me “Hi” -ing back to everyone there-Paul, Katie, Sarah, Brad,Ty, everyone. I love it!  I feel like Norm at Cheers.

“So what will it be today?” Maddie asked as she slid behind the counter.

“Could you make that concoction with coffee in almond and coconut milk with cinnamon and ginger that I had the other day?”

“Sure!”

I picked up my coffee and Drevie and I walked over toward the room at the east end of the shop, through the open  French doors. I don’t know how this room was originally used, if it was a dining room, a parlor, a drawing-room. Maddie uses it as a space for her piano and for those of who have pets and want to come in for coffee. It keeps us far enough away from the food and prep area to keep her legal with the board of health. I found a cozy chair and settled in.

Some people left. Some more people came. People got up, refilled their coffee and moved around. Some of the others-Paul, Sarah, Laura and others-came to gather in the piano room. We talked about whatever was new-politics, the latest jokes-sometimes the latest jokes are the politicians, family, today’s events, the holidays. Maddie joined us when things slowed a bit.

“How about this?” she said. “Tell me a childhood memory from Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanza, whatever holiday you celebrated, that you loved. I don’t know, something that made you happy.”

Everyone was quiet for a while, their heads in different poses, looking at the ceiling, outside, or down toward their coffee and tea cups as they thought.

Paul spoke up. “I remember the Christmas that I got a Montgomery Ward bicycle and spent the day riding.” Paul is originally from Charleston and still carries a little of it in his voice.

“I don’t think I even came home for dinner. I had seen the long thin box with my bicycle stashed in the garage. My dad explained that the box contained an ironing board for my mother. I bought the story!”

“The other memory would be my first train set. Lionel steam engine with two red passenger cars. I still have the cars and track some 76 year later.”

“Yah. A train,” Adam chimed in. “I saw my dad building this track thing on a big piece of plywood in the basement for weeks before Christmas. He told me it was for his boss. Yah, I fell for that one!” Adam and Paul both laughed.

Adam continued. “One Christmas, my dad put these notes on the tree. They were clues and we had to go through the house with the clues and try to find the gifts.”

We all laughed at that one.

“Okay, for me” Katie said, “it was lying down under the tree and looking up at the lights. We had a mixture of fat ones and bubble lights. I would stay there for the longest time.”

“For me,” Brad said, “it was sneaking to unwrap all the Hanukkah presents to see what I was getting and then to wrap them back up again so no one would know.”

Sarah began, “I’ve been thinking and my childhood memory is…I remember coming out the big heavy dark wooden doors of our little Methodist church after the Christmas eve midnight service… my grandmother, my mother, brother and me. My mom and I sang in the choir, and on Christmas eve, we always did ‘Jesu Bambino’, with good-lookin’ Eddie Balco singing the solo, “When blossoms flowered ‘mid the snow, upon a winter’s night, He gave the world it’s Christmas Rose, it’s King of love and light…” (he, Eddie, had slicked back black hair… reminds me now of John Travolta from ‘Grease’)… but I digress… We all lit candles and they turned the lights out, so we could sing Silent Night together.  My friend Diedre and I were acolytes, so we had to be dressed in robes to light candles all over the church, and then sneak out of the front, to race through the back of the alter area, down the back steps, through the basement to the back of the church, up the stairs into the balcony, to sing alto, tenor, or whatever low part was needed to ‘fill out’ the particular song we sang. Ok, so at the end of one of these memorable Christmas Eve midnight services, we opened the heavy doors to go home, and…from the darkness and drab we left, when entering church…a freshly fallen blanket of snow was transforming the world into this magical place, sparkling and new… it was truly heartening, miraculous… and even for a kid, the metaphor was not lost on me.

“We didn’t celebrate Christmas in Iran.” Mitra spoke quietly from her seat. But I have memories of Shab-e-Yalda. It is the longest night. We would sit around the korsi and eat fruits and nuts…”

“What is a korsi?” someone asked.

“Well, it is like a very low table,” she began to explain, “that is covered with quilts or thick wool blankets. There is charcoal or something to warm the space under the table. The room is cold, but we sit with the blankets over us with our feet under the blankets and the table to keep warm. We laugh and eat and stay up all night. And believe me it get very warm with the blankets and after eating all those dried fruits and nuts, well sometimes things happen and it is very, very warm.

We laughed again.

Ty talked about how his mother would talk about different virtues as she lit the candles for Kwanza. Then he said that through the year, candles weren’t the only thing that was lit when his mother wanted to instill virtues.

Laura’s memory was the time the family drove out of the city to a Christmas tree farm to pick their own tree.

“Just like the Griswolds?” a bunch of us said at once.

“Yes, just like the Griswolds.”  she replied. Laura is from Chicago.

Little by little everyone shared a little piece of their childhood holidays.

“What about you, Jo? What is your memory?”

I had been thinking. There are two memories that have stayed with me all this time.

“Christmas Saturdays,” I said.

“I grew up much farther north from here. By the time we were past Thanksgiving it was just plain dark and cold. By then I was tired from school and I really wanted Christmas vacation. So, on the Saturdays before Christmas, when I was waking up, I would do it as slowly as possible, take my time. I would lie there awhile and pretend it was Christmas and I had a break ahead.”

“The other memory,” I continued, “was the year we had all blue lights on the tree. My older brother, my favorite one, had wanted blue lights. He bought them and put up the tree that year.”

“We couldn’t have the lights on too long. It was expensive. I loved the lights, though. I still do. I would sneak down the stairs very quietly, maybe an hour or so before dawn. It was a drafty, cold, old farmhouse. I would go over to the tree and turn on the lights. Then I would go to the sofa, grab whatever scraggly blanket or afghan was on it, cover myself the best I could, try to keep warm and lie there, looking at the tree, squinting my eyes to make the lights glowing with halos. I would stay awake as long as I could and then fall asleep. The noise of the others getting up would wake me and I would scramble to turn off the lights before Mom or Dad came into the room.”

“Uhm,” someone said nodding.

Everyone remained quiet, once again looking down into their cups or out the window at the lights and the Square.

I checked my time. It was getting late. I needed to head back home. SSB and I said our thank you’s  and good-by’s. Others were leaving, too. The beveled glass door reflected and spattered the light in rhythm with the openings and closings of the door.

* * *

Sunday came and went. The week started as it always does-working, errands, keeping up with life. But Thursday was a little different. It was extremely warm. More so than it had been. It wasn’t just warm, but the air smelled and felt like spring. I was inspired to work in the beds around the house, mulch, rake leaves, odds and ends of outdoor work that was very intimate with April, but very much a stranger to December here.

The SSB had been trying to help me during the day.If I was digging, she had her paws right where my shovel was going, with her paws digging away. If I was carrying things to the garage, she would grab something else and run with it to a location she thought was more suitable. Other times she must have thought I wasn’t moving fast enough; she would come running at me full speed to show me how fast I should be going and swerve at the last minute. She isn’t called the Clydesdale Bullet for nothing!

I took a break in the afternoon to get a bite to eat and have a cup of tea. Before going in, I decided to check my mail. The mailbox was stuffed, mostly flyers and those pesky credit card offers from Chase.  I shuffled through it, quickly deciding most of it wasn’t urgent. As I turned from the box to head to the door, The Bullet came running at me. She swerved but did not totally miss me, and the wad of mail slid from my hands, landing in dry leaves the wind had blown up next to the fence where my mailbox sat. I scooped up the mail and took tit into the house, setting the pile on the table.

The weather was changing again; rain was on the way. I gathered my tools, took them to the garage, generally picked up, and SSB and I headed into the house. When the rain hit, it hit hard. Dark swirly gray skies hurled big hard drops that pounded the window-just to show us who was the boss.  Persistent, the rain continued long after the sun had given up on the day, but softened its exacting of payment during the night.

Whatever beast that storm had been, by dawn it had moved on, its heart stilled, and we were presented with another delightful day. With breakfast in the works, I took the French press out to dump yesterday’s coffee grounds around the roses near my front gate and fence. Just as I tossed the grounds, I noticed it-a piece of yesterday’s mail. Now, not only was it drenched from the rain, it was covered in old coffee and grounds. I reached to retrieve it. I turned it over as I picked it up. Darn, it was something from Maddie and it was a mess. It was so wet I couldn’t open it without it tearing to pieces. I took it in and found a place for it to dry hoping to be able to retrieve its contents later.

Friday became a busy day, as did Saturday, and Sunday, and before I knew it, it was well into the following week. I took some time to pay some bills and sort through that pile of junk mail. There, next to the flyers was that poor rain-sodden envelope. I had forgotten all about it. But there it was, dried and wavy, stained with coffee. I retrieved a sharp knife from the kitchen to begin the delicate surgical operation it would take to try to open it without totally mutilating its contents.

It was an invitation to be at The Teal Mango on Saturday, this Saturday, two days from now. The time was strange-5:30 in the morning, well over two hours before sunrise. There was a strange list of things to bring and I was not to tell any one. Very odd. I really like more notice, especially as odd as this all was. But, Maddie had given me more notice. It was my fault I let the mail slip. I’m the one who threw the coffee. And I was the one who forgot it in the first place. I guess I would be there!

* * *

This week was a replay of the previous week-warm again. Roses, alyssum, and Calendula do not bloom, I repeat, do not bloom here in December. Some of them are not supposed to even be alive. But they were. Friday started as beautiful as the day before with a starting temperature near the previous day’s high. This is part of the country that has four seasons, sometimes in one day, and sometimes in less than one day. By late afternoon, early evening it was going to prove that adage. The wind picked up, from one direction and then another. The temperature dropped and it dropped hard and fast.

This weather-the low fronts and sudden changes-wreaks havoc on my body. I had already gathered the items that Maddie had said to bring for tomorrow morning. I placed them near the back door ready for tomorrow morning. And I headed to bed. I needed to be up pretty darn early and I just wasn’t feeling well.

4:30 in the morning came way too early. It is so hard to leave a warm bed on a cold dark morning when all your body wants to do is sleep. It’s definitely a clue that it is way too early when even the dog doesn’t want to get up. I had to get The SSB Drever up and outside to potty before I could leave. I pushed her out of the bed, grabbed some slippers and a sweater and we headed down the stairs, to the kitchen and to the back door. I opened the inner door. I opened the screen door ready to give her a nudge out and I stopped.

I had gone to sleep in one world and awakened to another. The violent raging wind had given way to a soft, snow world of white. It appeared an Alberta Clipper had come through. My backyard had turned into a fondant covered landscape dusted with a thick layer of sugar that had fallen from an almost misty sky glowing with an apricot haze of city lights. Big flakes of wet spun sugar the size of quarters were still raining down, hushing the city saying, “Shhh, go back to sleep. It is not yet time to awake.” But the snow did not know that this weather awakens a spirit in me that embraces it.

I took care of the SSB Drever; got her her breakfast. I dressed, put on my coat and other gear and prepared to explain to Drevie that I had to go and she had to stay, ready to bribe her with a treat. But in the middle of my words, she looked at me, turned her back on me, and headed back to bed.

I went out the back door. My eyes peeking out through lashes veiled in snowflakes, I softly walked through 6 inches of snow to the garage, backed out my car and drove off into the dark silence. Driving in a snow like this, at this time of day is meditative. The rest of the city is still asleep and this peaceful snow world is all mine. I scrunched my shoulders into the warm air blowing from the vents, I listened to the sound of the wipers, their rhythm driving with me to the Heights and The Teal Mango.

I had never been there at this time of morning. The bigger light displays were turned off but the smaller lights, especially the small white twinkly ones were still on. They quietly blinked between the snowflakes. I found a place to park two block over and one block up from the “Mango”.  The houses were still mostly dark; people were still sleeping. I gathered my things from the car and was careful to close the door very quietly. I padded my way through inches of snow. Along the way, coming out of cars, coming down side streets, coming out of shadows, I saw others, walking along the same direction, carrying the same items-blankets, pillow, and slippers and thick socks.

We smiled, acknowledged each other in silence and continued.  And then, we smiled loudly, and The Teal Mango smiled back. Along the sidewalk, from each direction and on each side of the walk, up the steps on each side, and all around the porch were luminaries, rows and rows of luminaries to welcome us.

* * *

The beveled glass magically opened as we stepped onto the porch to a flickering with the soft light of candles and tiny string lights. Maddie was there to welcome us. She whispered for us to set our things on a chair and come get something to eat. I went to the east room and laid my pillow, blanket and thick wool sock boot slippers on my favorite chair there. I took off my hat and coat, put the hat into one of the sleeves and draped my coat over the back of the chair. I returned to the food counter.

Maddie knows what we each like. (We are here on a fairly regular basis.)  She had set out hot tea, hot coffee and hot chocolate. Truly it was melted Kallari chocolate. She had warmed different milks-regular, almond, hazelnut, cashew, and coconut. She had set out spices. With one arm reaching out to us, her other hand raised to her face, her finger near her mouth, she had come to each of us, and again whispered the invitation to mix our drink to our liking and also have some of the pastries and savory snacks set on platters just past the hot drinks.We moved without speaking. Everyone sensed that this was a moment for reflection and breathing in the lights in the stillness.

I set my hot chocolate-Kallari chocolate in a mixture of nut milks, coconut milk with cinnamon and a little cayenne -along with a little bit to eat on the side table next to my chair. I replaced my boots with my llama wool boot socks. I scrunched my pillow behind my neck and head, pulled my blanket around me, adjusted my pillow again. Maddie had lit a fire in the fire place. By now the fire, with only occasional whispers of darting flames of copper, gold, or blue, had settled quietly into the charcoaling logs whose glowing underbellies were as warm as mine, as I picked up my hot chocolate and melted, like my marshmallows, into the moment.

My eyes tip-toed around the room. Everyone had nestled into a chosen spot and was engaged in the silence. It wasn’t totally silent. The was a barely audible background of meditative music. Parts of it reminded me of the lulling rhythm of a distant train and its whisper. Or was it the sound of a tea kettle, the musical strains when it first begins it ascent to a boil? Or was it the ebb and flow ocean waves? Or, was it my heart and my breathing?

The lighting was minimal but strategically placed, a few strings here, a garland there, around the windows, doorways and French doors. Across from me, near the window, was a little Norfolk pine. Maddie had dressed it with light. Some of the lights were tiny cool white blinking lights. Some were a cool dark blue of twilight. And some were little textured globes, a crackled glass effect in a color between blue, aqua and teal. I snuggle a little deeper under my blanket. I watched the lights. I squinted my eyes to make halos around them, to make them multiply and dance. I felt warm and drowsy. I scrunched my pillow to the side and slowly… my eyes… closed. …

I opened my eyes to the sounds of soft foot steps and paper moving. Maddie was moving through the room with a basket, now nearly emptied of little paper and fabric crafted boxes while those who had one already was opening it, and those who hadn’t were picking one. By the time Maddie stood in front of me, there was one left, a tiny one that was a bit crumpled with a small dent on the side. It had been made with bits of grass and leaf stems in the papier mache. There was a small envelope next to it.

I didn’t open either one yet. I watched the others. As they lifted the lids, the strangest looks came over their faces-a quizzical confusion with perhaps a faint trace of disappointment. Upon reading the contents of the envelope, their expressions soften and gentle smiles rose from the corners of their lips.

I carefully opened the box. Then I opened the envelope and removed and read the note inside.

This box may appear empty, 
But it is a space filled with infinite love. 
It is filled it with love and wrapped in my love. 
Take this space and fill it with love and wrap it in your love. 
And as you go through life, 
Share it with those you meet upon your path 
Who are in need of love.

M.A.Devereau

whitegray flower pmb

Maddie had gathered bits and pieces of our memories, wrapped them in warmth and love, and given them back to us. I looked back up. I looked at the faces around me. I turned and again looked at the lights. I squinted my eyes to look for halos. I thought of the blues lights from a Christmas so long ago. I thought of my brother, long since passed away. The light was changing from night to twilight, that time when night meets day, when the past and present become one. I now have another Christmas Saturday, a new one to join the old.

I leaned back and turned my head to look out the window. The dawn was beginning, it’s fingers tracing the rivulets of melting snow on the window. The rivulets from the snowflakes that had danced on my lashes and cheeks had long since dried, but my eyes were wet.

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