Did you go sledding as a kid?
The kids I knew in Dumont shimmied under a gap in the fence at the White Beeches Golf & Country Club, which is technically in Haworth. We entered from Prospect Avenue in Dumont, and somehow slid our sleds through the hole, too.
Haworth was a wealthier town. In Dumont, we knew nothing about dress codes, blue blazers or country club memberships. [I should clarify--my oldest brother, OB, worked as a caddy at White Beeches. It was all a mystery to me, except I do remember golf shoes with fancy leather fringe and a set of golf clubs, and maybe even some talk about tips.] I had no clue I was riding my Flexible Flyer at an elite destination, at a place that required dues and membership. To me, those perfect rolling hills were the best ride in town, really the only ride on our side of the tracks, and we all just called it the White Beeches Golf Course.
I'll never forget the fear and the freedom, the briskness, the bravado, the cold. I was pretty bad at learning to steer [Dumont High School driver's ed class is another story] so I made sure the coast was clear, that I could cut a safe path. Then came the icy thrill--the sled swerving and gliding, swoosh, whoosh, yes! It felt like it would never stop. And we were all equal then--just kids in jeans with jackets, hats, gloves and boots. We all ended up freezing when the snow stuck to our pants. It didn't matter who had a boyfriend, whose parents were divorced, who got in trouble at school and who never did. The snow was a great leveler. It was free, frosty, indulgent and belonged to us all.
Sometimes I would lay down on my belly and other times I sat up, holding the rope that moved the steering bar. The second way was scarier. I was sometimes unprepared for the velocity. And while the walk back up was long, it was not nearly as long as it has felt when I've sledded with the two young girls in my life, Fig and Punch & Judy. I always end up wishing I had taken more iron pills or Geritol or something.
Today, when I walked Sugar on Upper Mountain Avenue in this far more privileged town, it was like a Currier & Ives painting over by the Iris Gardens. Tons of kids in brightly colored snow gear, on saucers, toboggans, sleds. Their parents pulling them, then helping to tug the sleds back up. One thing was noticeably different: We didn't have parents with us at White Beeches. These were the days of kids heading out to play on their own, and no mom or dad was going to shimmy under that fence with us on a frigid afternoon. [Plus, parents probably could not fit.]
But as Sug and I approached our house, W., M., E. and S., four adorable little kids on our block, were swooshing down the icy, packed hill in E.'s front yard. Wow, were they going. Wow, were they laughing. What a beautiful thing. I'm sure their parents were watching from inside, but I couldn't help stopping for a while and just cheering on these two kindergartners, one first grader and one second grader, exclaiming over their spills and pile-ups, applauding their coasting triumphs, admiring the pink pom-poms on their hats and their nice, toasty-looking snow pants.
"Bye," I said to the kids when I was heading in with Sug, whose little 10-pound-self was shivering by then [even though she too has a warm, fleece-lined green coat]. "Be careful, you're ending up in the street, and I'm afraid the cars won't see you."
"Thank you! Happy Valentine's Day!" they hollered back.
Oh, to slice through the snow once more--what a stunning free ride it would be.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
Pearls of Wisdom
It's almost Valentine's Day, and while I won't be getting anything shiny or sparkly this year from Jared, The Galleria of Jewelry or Kay Jewelers ("Every kiss begins with Kay"), I have been thinking about the pearls of my past. Here they are, along with random beauty/broken heart/big goal quotes from the people who brought them into my life:
The pearl among pearl onions. Before my parents got engaged, my father got my mother an elegant, simple gold ring with a single pearl nestled snugly on top. It was so lovely--and it wasn't until last year that I learned from my Dad that he bought it in a pawn shop. When I was a girl, the pearl popped out. My mother found the tiny sphere in the crisper. Sadly, after she died and my Sis had the ring, a cat burglar broke into her Upper East Side apartment and stole it. Mom quote: "Only wash your hair once a week, so the oils can build up. And put lemon juice on it and sit in the sun to bring out blonde streaks."
The pearl in the bottle of Prell shampoo. Remember it? If I close my eyes, I can still smell that fresh, clean fragrance and see the thick green shampoo in the hourglass bottle. (In fact, I'm going to see if I can buy some tomorrow, in store on online, as a beauty valentine to myself.) For a while, Prell put a pearl in each bottle. I think that if you collected a certain number, you could mail them in for a necklace. Since I associate sharing this shampoo experience with my Sis, here's a quote from her: "He's so stupid he barely knows how to breathe." [Said when I was in high school, and she came back from the Peace Corps after two years and I reported being heartbroken over a boy. These words were amazingly helpful because they really made me laugh. I remember exactly where we were when she said them--walking out of church on Sunday.]
My Aunt C's pearl choker. She left it for me in her will. I was incredibly touched when it came by FedEx from Connecticut last winter. It was a strange feeling, as though Aunt C were gifting me from the Beyond. And seeing something in me that maybe I can't see in myself--like that her heirloom pearls are safe with me, belong with me, or should be worn by me. I'm not sure, but I think they may be the pearls she wore in her 1960s wedding portrait. I have yet to get the choker extended to fit me, but I will. Quote: "Since when did you start wearing your hair like that?" [I guess she didn't like the clip-on-top-of-the-head style. My aunts could be very blunt sometimes.]
The "Tin Cup" pearl necklace from H. I really do love the fine gold chain interspersed with perfect pearls. He gave it to me one Christmas, I think. Quote: There are too many to remember. Most don't have to do with beauty. Many have to do with goals and dreams. The latest: "Find your zen in 2010."
Tonight he, Fig and I met some friends in the city. While I was waiting for them to get the car, I stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 27th Street and looked uptown, admiring the Empire State Building's ladylike wrap of pale and dark pink light. How lovely and how luminous. The perfect pearl on the city's skyscape.
The pearl among pearl onions. Before my parents got engaged, my father got my mother an elegant, simple gold ring with a single pearl nestled snugly on top. It was so lovely--and it wasn't until last year that I learned from my Dad that he bought it in a pawn shop. When I was a girl, the pearl popped out. My mother found the tiny sphere in the crisper. Sadly, after she died and my Sis had the ring, a cat burglar broke into her Upper East Side apartment and stole it. Mom quote: "Only wash your hair once a week, so the oils can build up. And put lemon juice on it and sit in the sun to bring out blonde streaks."
The pearl in the bottle of Prell shampoo. Remember it? If I close my eyes, I can still smell that fresh, clean fragrance and see the thick green shampoo in the hourglass bottle. (In fact, I'm going to see if I can buy some tomorrow, in store on online, as a beauty valentine to myself.) For a while, Prell put a pearl in each bottle. I think that if you collected a certain number, you could mail them in for a necklace. Since I associate sharing this shampoo experience with my Sis, here's a quote from her: "He's so stupid he barely knows how to breathe." [Said when I was in high school, and she came back from the Peace Corps after two years and I reported being heartbroken over a boy. These words were amazingly helpful because they really made me laugh. I remember exactly where we were when she said them--walking out of church on Sunday.]
My Aunt C's pearl choker. She left it for me in her will. I was incredibly touched when it came by FedEx from Connecticut last winter. It was a strange feeling, as though Aunt C were gifting me from the Beyond. And seeing something in me that maybe I can't see in myself--like that her heirloom pearls are safe with me, belong with me, or should be worn by me. I'm not sure, but I think they may be the pearls she wore in her 1960s wedding portrait. I have yet to get the choker extended to fit me, but I will. Quote: "Since when did you start wearing your hair like that?" [I guess she didn't like the clip-on-top-of-the-head style. My aunts could be very blunt sometimes.]
The "Tin Cup" pearl necklace from H. I really do love the fine gold chain interspersed with perfect pearls. He gave it to me one Christmas, I think. Quote: There are too many to remember. Most don't have to do with beauty. Many have to do with goals and dreams. The latest: "Find your zen in 2010."
Tonight he, Fig and I met some friends in the city. While I was waiting for them to get the car, I stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 27th Street and looked uptown, admiring the Empire State Building's ladylike wrap of pale and dark pink light. How lovely and how luminous. The perfect pearl on the city's skyscape.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
When Taking a Shower Is a Giant Step
Husband's first book was a collection of stories he typed on his manual typewriter for perfect strangers, starting on the streets of Chicago. He had [and still has] an amazing gift--people looked at his freckled face, his round glasses and his antique Remington and told him all about their personal lives. He then typed up each person's story and gave it to him or her, in a mock novel jacket.
One story always moved me deeply. He wrote it in NYC for two pretty young women who told him they were on day leave from the psychiatric floor of a hospital. One of them wrote back to him later. I don't know where that postcard is now, but before we got married--and while the book was being written--I read it again and again. It was so real. I kept trying to picture the women through the penned words on the card.
I didn't think at the time that I too would face depression--separate waves of it, in fact, at different times--and have to learn how to dig myself out of it [with some help]. I have not been in a hospital for it, but I have been in my own private room in my mind, where sleep so sweetly closes the blinds and provides an escape. Where deciding to get up and clean the stains on the living room carpet feels like a giant step--and then I realize sadly that I don't have any Resolve to do it [the red bottle is empty, not a drop]. Which in turn means I can't even accomplish that one simple task, leaving me feeling crumpled and small all over again.
Today when I took a shower at 3 PM, I remembered this story H. wrote, remembered the part about forgetting how it feels to push the bar of soap over your skin. Inch by inch, I got myself dressed. I meant to brush and floss my teeth, but didn't. I would have loved to put my makeup on--it only takes minutes and then my eyes look less tired and my lashes look longer--but the thought of it was too much. Same with accessorizing. Contemplating it tired me out. I found the 44-cent stamps. It was dark already, but I backed the Honda CR-V out of the long, icy driveway and headed to the big town post office to mail some valentines, and to share "have a good evening" greetings with the male clerk behind the barred window before they locked the doors at 7. I completed some tasks--shower, valentines, dishes, blog. And I will add brush and floss to the list again tonight.
Here is that story from 1984; I asked the author if I could put it on my blog while he was making pizza for dinner tonight. He said yes.
The Forgetting Sickness and The Remembering Recovery
Amy and Susan had this thing where they kept forgetting.
They would wake up in the morning and forget about the smell of a lake in the woods at dawn in the autumn. They would forget about being held by another human being. They would forget the feeling of getting really excited about something coming up, something big like Christmas, or something small like waiting for dinner to be served.
Or they would forget the sound of geese going north in the spring. They would forget the taste of coffee in the morning when you wake up, and how the shower feels when you get in and it starts waking you up, and you push the bar of soap over you and your skin starts to tingle.
They forgot all sorts of things, like love and friends and hope. They forgot hearing all the traffic, joking with other people on the street.
Then they went to a place where doctors helped them to remember. And slowly now are starting to remember.
But as they remember all these beautiful things, they also begin to remember the pain and the trauma and the difficulties, which is why they forgot the beautiful things in the first place.
But that is life. The pain AND the beauty, the good AND the bad.
And so we hang onto the beauty and the love and the happiness, we hang on strong, and remember it.
Remember these good things.
Remember to remember.
Two days before Christmas that year, H. got a postcard from Susan. This is what she neatly printed:
Dear Mr. H--,
I, and my friend Amy, were clients of yours one day in July/August--we were hospital patients @ the time. We're both out now--we're both trying to be "good." I'm writing you because I think you should know that all of Unit 5 loved and was inspired by "The Forgetting Sickness and the Remembering Recovery," and I wanted to thank you on everyone's behalf, and also just for me, because you gave me a very "bright" memory of that day, and some pleasure, and a lot of other subtle possessions of a beautiful memory. I hope your writing is a source of joy to you, and I hope whatever project you are working on is going along well.
Thank you. Susan
Susan and Amy, wherever you are, I hope you are remembering to remember. Your story has helped me, and also helped me to remember the goodness in the man I share my life with. Thank you.
One story always moved me deeply. He wrote it in NYC for two pretty young women who told him they were on day leave from the psychiatric floor of a hospital. One of them wrote back to him later. I don't know where that postcard is now, but before we got married--and while the book was being written--I read it again and again. It was so real. I kept trying to picture the women through the penned words on the card.
I didn't think at the time that I too would face depression--separate waves of it, in fact, at different times--and have to learn how to dig myself out of it [with some help]. I have not been in a hospital for it, but I have been in my own private room in my mind, where sleep so sweetly closes the blinds and provides an escape. Where deciding to get up and clean the stains on the living room carpet feels like a giant step--and then I realize sadly that I don't have any Resolve to do it [the red bottle is empty, not a drop]. Which in turn means I can't even accomplish that one simple task, leaving me feeling crumpled and small all over again.
Today when I took a shower at 3 PM, I remembered this story H. wrote, remembered the part about forgetting how it feels to push the bar of soap over your skin. Inch by inch, I got myself dressed. I meant to brush and floss my teeth, but didn't. I would have loved to put my makeup on--it only takes minutes and then my eyes look less tired and my lashes look longer--but the thought of it was too much. Same with accessorizing. Contemplating it tired me out. I found the 44-cent stamps. It was dark already, but I backed the Honda CR-V out of the long, icy driveway and headed to the big town post office to mail some valentines, and to share "have a good evening" greetings with the male clerk behind the barred window before they locked the doors at 7. I completed some tasks--shower, valentines, dishes, blog. And I will add brush and floss to the list again tonight.
Here is that story from 1984; I asked the author if I could put it on my blog while he was making pizza for dinner tonight. He said yes.
The Forgetting Sickness and The Remembering Recovery
Amy and Susan had this thing where they kept forgetting.
They would wake up in the morning and forget about the smell of a lake in the woods at dawn in the autumn. They would forget about being held by another human being. They would forget the feeling of getting really excited about something coming up, something big like Christmas, or something small like waiting for dinner to be served.
Or they would forget the sound of geese going north in the spring. They would forget the taste of coffee in the morning when you wake up, and how the shower feels when you get in and it starts waking you up, and you push the bar of soap over you and your skin starts to tingle.
They forgot all sorts of things, like love and friends and hope. They forgot hearing all the traffic, joking with other people on the street.
Then they went to a place where doctors helped them to remember. And slowly now are starting to remember.
But as they remember all these beautiful things, they also begin to remember the pain and the trauma and the difficulties, which is why they forgot the beautiful things in the first place.
But that is life. The pain AND the beauty, the good AND the bad.
And so we hang onto the beauty and the love and the happiness, we hang on strong, and remember it.
Remember these good things.
Remember to remember.
Two days before Christmas that year, H. got a postcard from Susan. This is what she neatly printed:
Dear Mr. H--,
I, and my friend Amy, were clients of yours one day in July/August--we were hospital patients @ the time. We're both out now--we're both trying to be "good." I'm writing you because I think you should know that all of Unit 5 loved and was inspired by "The Forgetting Sickness and the Remembering Recovery," and I wanted to thank you on everyone's behalf, and also just for me, because you gave me a very "bright" memory of that day, and some pleasure, and a lot of other subtle possessions of a beautiful memory. I hope your writing is a source of joy to you, and I hope whatever project you are working on is going along well.
Thank you. Susan
Susan and Amy, wherever you are, I hope you are remembering to remember. Your story has helped me, and also helped me to remember the goodness in the man I share my life with. Thank you.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Failure--Beauty's Ugly Alter-Ego
WARNING: THIS BLOG POST CONTAINS DEPRESSING THOUGHTS. READER DISCRETION ADVISED, ESPECIALLY ON A SNOWDAY THAT WAS PROBABLY PEACEFUL AND JOYOUS IN EVERY HOUSE EXCEPT OURS.
Oh, bring me some figgy pudding and a cup of good cheer.
Bring me back to the days when Fig and I shared a loving relationship that involved laughing at silly dogs in Dr. Seuss books and Fig pretending she was a dolphin, or a mermaid, when she took a bubble bath in our old yellow tub at night.
Today, I am a failure. A big fat failure with a capital F. Add Fig's Daddy to that too. I know I'm not the first or last mother of a teenager to feel that way, but I would not be writing honestly about "truth and beauty" if I buried this ugliness entirely and did not confront it on this little HP screen, and in this blog.
I am 49. I am battling my own issues. But that is no excuse for me to get overemotional when challenged by the Teenager in our home--Teenager with a capital T. No closetful of Tory Burch clothing, no treasure chest of MarieBelle chocolate, nothing could really take away the hollow, hateful feeling of being a bad monster. Mother, I mean.
I love the old Gidget movies and series, starring Sally Field. I own a couple of the DVDs. Maybe I want to live in TVland, and not just in real time, but back in the 1960s, back with squeaky-clean Gidget and her best friend Larue and the simple problems they had, like Gidg's older sister, Anne, reading her diary or Gidget telling the florist she had her driver's license when she didn't, so she could make deliveries. And the best thing about the series is that the problem arises, climbs to a crest and is all sewn up by the end of the episode, with a little help from wise Mr. Lawrence, Gidget's widowed professor dad. Plus, Gidget gets through it all in perfectly matched outfits, cute flippy hairdos and, when she's at her hometown California beach, colorful swimwear and beach hats.
Our Fig is so good, so full of promise and joy, all fair skin, auburn hair, contagious laugh, and an eye and a pen that tell intricate tales in her sketchbook and notebooks. Allow me to brag: She did an amazing drawing last month of Justin Pierre, the lead singer in Motion City Soundtrack, and presented it to him at a CD signing. He asked Fig to sign it, handing her his black Sharpie marker. She was beside herself. I was there, watching from behind the stretchy cord in the record store as she and her three friends met the band.
But she is trying to push us out of her life on some levels. Video-chatting privately and at great length, for example, until we have to insist we need to know the other (boy) chatee, and it becomes a big battle. Breaking the rules when she's grounded and heading to Starbucks to "do her homework" on her Dad's laptop--and miraculously, her friend shows up there too. I hope I am not betraying Fig by sharing these examples. [If you are reading this, Figgy, please don't be mad. I don't think I revealed any deeply personal details. But one day, when you are old and graying like me, you will wish you could read a capsule view of your teenage self written by your mother. And in confronting what is going on, I am truly trying to be a better, and calmer, mother.]
I hate myself more than she could ever hate me when I spin out of control and lose my cool. I end up feeling about 2 inches tall. Surely there are right and wrong ways to lose your cool, and I hereby vow to try and grow toward the light and find the right ones.
I tried to bury it all in the loud, illicit crunch of Fritos, but almost every store in town was closed due to the big snow. The one that was open, Kings, was out of small bags and big bags. Not a single Frito in sight. The cashier helped me look. I could not then CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH so noisily that I blocked out my painful thoughts. I got some pretzel-Sun Chip snack mix, a poor substitute. I was proud that I did not get donuts, ice cream, cake, cookies or candy--sweets to sink my sorrow into. In the past, I would have. I am trying hard to take steps toward a healthier life.
But why should I be protecting my heart, trying to eat more healthfully, if it is broken already?
I told you this would be depressing.
We want some figgy pudding
We want some figgy pudding
We want some figgy pudding
Please bring it right here!
Oh, bring me some figgy pudding and a cup of good cheer.
Bring me back to the days when Fig and I shared a loving relationship that involved laughing at silly dogs in Dr. Seuss books and Fig pretending she was a dolphin, or a mermaid, when she took a bubble bath in our old yellow tub at night.
Today, I am a failure. A big fat failure with a capital F. Add Fig's Daddy to that too. I know I'm not the first or last mother of a teenager to feel that way, but I would not be writing honestly about "truth and beauty" if I buried this ugliness entirely and did not confront it on this little HP screen, and in this blog.
I am 49. I am battling my own issues. But that is no excuse for me to get overemotional when challenged by the Teenager in our home--Teenager with a capital T. No closetful of Tory Burch clothing, no treasure chest of MarieBelle chocolate, nothing could really take away the hollow, hateful feeling of being a bad monster. Mother, I mean.
I love the old Gidget movies and series, starring Sally Field. I own a couple of the DVDs. Maybe I want to live in TVland, and not just in real time, but back in the 1960s, back with squeaky-clean Gidget and her best friend Larue and the simple problems they had, like Gidg's older sister, Anne, reading her diary or Gidget telling the florist she had her driver's license when she didn't, so she could make deliveries. And the best thing about the series is that the problem arises, climbs to a crest and is all sewn up by the end of the episode, with a little help from wise Mr. Lawrence, Gidget's widowed professor dad. Plus, Gidget gets through it all in perfectly matched outfits, cute flippy hairdos and, when she's at her hometown California beach, colorful swimwear and beach hats.
Our Fig is so good, so full of promise and joy, all fair skin, auburn hair, contagious laugh, and an eye and a pen that tell intricate tales in her sketchbook and notebooks. Allow me to brag: She did an amazing drawing last month of Justin Pierre, the lead singer in Motion City Soundtrack, and presented it to him at a CD signing. He asked Fig to sign it, handing her his black Sharpie marker. She was beside herself. I was there, watching from behind the stretchy cord in the record store as she and her three friends met the band.
But she is trying to push us out of her life on some levels. Video-chatting privately and at great length, for example, until we have to insist we need to know the other (boy) chatee, and it becomes a big battle. Breaking the rules when she's grounded and heading to Starbucks to "do her homework" on her Dad's laptop--and miraculously, her friend shows up there too. I hope I am not betraying Fig by sharing these examples. [If you are reading this, Figgy, please don't be mad. I don't think I revealed any deeply personal details. But one day, when you are old and graying like me, you will wish you could read a capsule view of your teenage self written by your mother. And in confronting what is going on, I am truly trying to be a better, and calmer, mother.]
I hate myself more than she could ever hate me when I spin out of control and lose my cool. I end up feeling about 2 inches tall. Surely there are right and wrong ways to lose your cool, and I hereby vow to try and grow toward the light and find the right ones.
I tried to bury it all in the loud, illicit crunch of Fritos, but almost every store in town was closed due to the big snow. The one that was open, Kings, was out of small bags and big bags. Not a single Frito in sight. The cashier helped me look. I could not then CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH so noisily that I blocked out my painful thoughts. I got some pretzel-Sun Chip snack mix, a poor substitute. I was proud that I did not get donuts, ice cream, cake, cookies or candy--sweets to sink my sorrow into. In the past, I would have. I am trying hard to take steps toward a healthier life.
But why should I be protecting my heart, trying to eat more healthfully, if it is broken already?
I told you this would be depressing.
We want some figgy pudding
We want some figgy pudding
We want some figgy pudding
Please bring it right here!
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Drive-through
Remember the car rides of your past?
My Uncle A. sometimes drove us kids around town--it was a joy ride, with laughs and money for 7-Eleven Slurpees [giant, freezing cold, garishly colored drinks that sounded much better than they were]. Later, after he married Aunt C., they both came often from the Bronx on Sundays--stopping in Bergenfield for a dozen assorted Dunkin' Donuts, a grace offering, packed in three fat rows in that signature pink box. After dinner, I'd watch my aunt and uncle pull away in their blue Nova. Uncle A. always had the seat reclined so far back, I don't know how he saw over the steering wheel.
Other times, I watched the city go by from the back seat of my family's white Ford Falcon, as my Dad drove us home from visiting our grandparents. The George Washington Bridge loomed so big, with its great gray cables. My brother W. and I dozed off in the back seat as the car bumped over potholes, the bridge lights twinkled and the billboards along the West Side Highway spoke to us.
My mother was a nervous driver. When my father drove the highways, she'd pump the imaginary brake on her side. "John! John!" she'd say. It made me nervous, too. Later, when she was behind the wheel of the four-door beige Chevy Nova, merging onto Route 17 to get to Alexander's [her favorite bargain emporium], she'd panic. We'd have to stop talking till she made the merge. It was scary, as trucks and cars raced aggressively by--surely headed somewhere more important than our destination, to pick through the racks of house dresses and piles of sandals.
On long drives to Cape Cod, she'd drape her bare arm over the back of the front seat. From my spot sandwiched in the center of the back seat, I liked to touch the soft skin on her hands or the dainty square diamond on her engagement ring. After making her jump a few times, she told me to cut that out.
Then there was Mr. D's car. He was a neighbor who lived over on Sycamore Road. He'd magically appear on rainy days, pulling over to offer me a ride when I walked to St. Mary's. Sitting next to him in my blue plaid uniform with blue vest, white short-sleeved shirt and navy knee socks, I puzzled over the tick tock tick tock while we waited to make the turn at the corner of Bedford and New Milford, by the high school. I stared at the small plastic Virgin Mary on the dashboard and wondered. Was this a special clock or gadget? Took me a while to figure out that it was the turn signal; the one in my parents' car, and in Uncle A.'s, was silent.
Later, we had a green Datsun, which was fun and cute. And when my sister inherited the Ford Falcon, she'd take me all around, and we'd listen to her Bob Dylan and Cat Stevens eight-track tapes.
Since the fathers carpooled to evening Girl Scout meetings, I also remember Mr. T's big roomy green car and Mr. C's wood-paneled station wagon.
Not one of my four grandparents ever owned or drove a car. How far have we come? And is it better or worse?
Today I spent 1 hour and 45 minutes driving home from my Dad's, which is 35 minutes away. I listened to NPR; I talked to the dog, who loves visiting my Dad too, starts jumping around when you use the words "go," "see" and "grandpa" in the same sentence. The traffic on Route 4 West was at a standstill due to an accident. I was bored. I picked up the phone. "That's illegal," said the man in a gray van next to me, his words floating out through his open window.
Embarrassed, I turned the phone off. And plodded doggedly home, over the river and through the woods [well, more like over the asphalt and through the town], to pick Fig up at her friend's house.
My Uncle A. sometimes drove us kids around town--it was a joy ride, with laughs and money for 7-Eleven Slurpees [giant, freezing cold, garishly colored drinks that sounded much better than they were]. Later, after he married Aunt C., they both came often from the Bronx on Sundays--stopping in Bergenfield for a dozen assorted Dunkin' Donuts, a grace offering, packed in three fat rows in that signature pink box. After dinner, I'd watch my aunt and uncle pull away in their blue Nova. Uncle A. always had the seat reclined so far back, I don't know how he saw over the steering wheel.
Other times, I watched the city go by from the back seat of my family's white Ford Falcon, as my Dad drove us home from visiting our grandparents. The George Washington Bridge loomed so big, with its great gray cables. My brother W. and I dozed off in the back seat as the car bumped over potholes, the bridge lights twinkled and the billboards along the West Side Highway spoke to us.
My mother was a nervous driver. When my father drove the highways, she'd pump the imaginary brake on her side. "John! John!" she'd say. It made me nervous, too. Later, when she was behind the wheel of the four-door beige Chevy Nova, merging onto Route 17 to get to Alexander's [her favorite bargain emporium], she'd panic. We'd have to stop talking till she made the merge. It was scary, as trucks and cars raced aggressively by--surely headed somewhere more important than our destination, to pick through the racks of house dresses and piles of sandals.
On long drives to Cape Cod, she'd drape her bare arm over the back of the front seat. From my spot sandwiched in the center of the back seat, I liked to touch the soft skin on her hands or the dainty square diamond on her engagement ring. After making her jump a few times, she told me to cut that out.
Then there was Mr. D's car. He was a neighbor who lived over on Sycamore Road. He'd magically appear on rainy days, pulling over to offer me a ride when I walked to St. Mary's. Sitting next to him in my blue plaid uniform with blue vest, white short-sleeved shirt and navy knee socks, I puzzled over the tick tock tick tock while we waited to make the turn at the corner of Bedford and New Milford, by the high school. I stared at the small plastic Virgin Mary on the dashboard and wondered. Was this a special clock or gadget? Took me a while to figure out that it was the turn signal; the one in my parents' car, and in Uncle A.'s, was silent.
Later, we had a green Datsun, which was fun and cute. And when my sister inherited the Ford Falcon, she'd take me all around, and we'd listen to her Bob Dylan and Cat Stevens eight-track tapes.
Since the fathers carpooled to evening Girl Scout meetings, I also remember Mr. T's big roomy green car and Mr. C's wood-paneled station wagon.
Not one of my four grandparents ever owned or drove a car. How far have we come? And is it better or worse?
Today I spent 1 hour and 45 minutes driving home from my Dad's, which is 35 minutes away. I listened to NPR; I talked to the dog, who loves visiting my Dad too, starts jumping around when you use the words "go," "see" and "grandpa" in the same sentence. The traffic on Route 4 West was at a standstill due to an accident. I was bored. I picked up the phone. "That's illegal," said the man in a gray van next to me, his words floating out through his open window.
Embarrassed, I turned the phone off. And plodded doggedly home, over the river and through the woods [well, more like over the asphalt and through the town], to pick Fig up at her friend's house.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Let Them Eat Cake
What makes you happy? Here's my list on this 23-degree February night:
Tory Burch. Stepping into the outlet store at Woodbury Commons today for the very first time in my life! Honey, I'm home. [I was there for a good reason, a quick visit to research a magazine article pitch. So there, Suze Orman!] I literally felt my joy meter jump--my spirit soared. This is fashion religion for true believers. The vibrant colors, the sequins and printed cottons, the beautiful bib necklace, the soft wools, the whisper of "Hey, don't you want a life like this? All color and fun and style--and beauty?" Also felt the love in the Kate Spade, Brooks Brothers [think elegant Love Story camel cashmere shell] and Burberry outlets. I vow to go back when the money comes in--and after I have put some away for Fig's college days.
Candles burning on the mantel.
Sugar--our Bichon Frise with hot pink bows and shiny black eyes--jumping up on Dan's or my belly to take a nap with us. She acts as though she owns us, not vice versa.
Sugar watching me through the glass storm door when I take the garbage cans out. Like a little mother, she won't rest easy until I'm back safe inside.
My father's laughs--fewer and farther between these days--and picking up the phone to hear him say "Hello, Al?"
Valentines in, like the one that came for Fig today from my sister.
Valentines out, like the chocolates I sent to Punch & Judy [blog name for the baby we loved and lost and love again, in a foster care arc] and her Mommy.
Cookies.
Chocolate.
Pink buttercream roses on a fancy bakery cake.
The memory of the pink layer cake my mother made me for Sweet Sixteen.
The flight of three perfect little cupcakes in chic pleated paper wrappers [honestly, they could be wrap skirts, they're so stylishly designed] that my friend Anne and I shared last week at a restaurant on Church Street.
Dan's aqua oxford shirt, the one I got him years ago that still looks so cute on him.
Peeks at Fig's awesome sketchbook.
Lots and lots of fashionable thick foam on my Starbucks cappuccino--I would be the crazy lady in the white fur hat who asks for a spoon and stands there [since the seats are all taken] spooning it off and savoring it as soon as it crosses the counter; drive home with it, and the cap collapses and disappears.
Paying overdue bills [direct conflict with buying of Tory Burch, chocolate, bakery cakes, cappuccinos and valentines--and with saving money for Fig's college days].
My amaryllis bulb, which is about to put forth a second stunning crimson flower, the beginning of which was cleverly cloaked in its dirty, papery husk.
The idea that we too are like the amaryllis--new beauty waiting to emerge, if we just peel back the crumply old layers protecting it and commit ourselves to growth.
Tory Burch. Stepping into the outlet store at Woodbury Commons today for the very first time in my life! Honey, I'm home. [I was there for a good reason, a quick visit to research a magazine article pitch. So there, Suze Orman!] I literally felt my joy meter jump--my spirit soared. This is fashion religion for true believers. The vibrant colors, the sequins and printed cottons, the beautiful bib necklace, the soft wools, the whisper of "Hey, don't you want a life like this? All color and fun and style--and beauty?" Also felt the love in the Kate Spade, Brooks Brothers [think elegant Love Story camel cashmere shell] and Burberry outlets. I vow to go back when the money comes in--and after I have put some away for Fig's college days.
Candles burning on the mantel.
Sugar--our Bichon Frise with hot pink bows and shiny black eyes--jumping up on Dan's or my belly to take a nap with us. She acts as though she owns us, not vice versa.
Sugar watching me through the glass storm door when I take the garbage cans out. Like a little mother, she won't rest easy until I'm back safe inside.
My father's laughs--fewer and farther between these days--and picking up the phone to hear him say "Hello, Al?"
Valentines in, like the one that came for Fig today from my sister.
Valentines out, like the chocolates I sent to Punch & Judy [blog name for the baby we loved and lost and love again, in a foster care arc] and her Mommy.
Cookies.
Chocolate.
Pink buttercream roses on a fancy bakery cake.
The memory of the pink layer cake my mother made me for Sweet Sixteen.
The flight of three perfect little cupcakes in chic pleated paper wrappers [honestly, they could be wrap skirts, they're so stylishly designed] that my friend Anne and I shared last week at a restaurant on Church Street.
Dan's aqua oxford shirt, the one I got him years ago that still looks so cute on him.
Peeks at Fig's awesome sketchbook.
Lots and lots of fashionable thick foam on my Starbucks cappuccino--I would be the crazy lady in the white fur hat who asks for a spoon and stands there [since the seats are all taken] spooning it off and savoring it as soon as it crosses the counter; drive home with it, and the cap collapses and disappears.
Paying overdue bills [direct conflict with buying of Tory Burch, chocolate, bakery cakes, cappuccinos and valentines--and with saving money for Fig's college days].
My amaryllis bulb, which is about to put forth a second stunning crimson flower, the beginning of which was cleverly cloaked in its dirty, papery husk.
The idea that we too are like the amaryllis--new beauty waiting to emerge, if we just peel back the crumply old layers protecting it and commit ourselves to growth.
Climbing Out of the Blue
I sit in my sunroom office at a nicked, chipped wooden desk with spindle legs* that was at Good Housekeeping Magazine in the Hearst building for years and years, in the old days. Its one drawer has decorative, tarnished metal pulls--almost like dangling Art Deco earrings--and sometimes refuses to open, as if it holds secrets it doesn't want to share. There's a little round lock on the front too, though the skeleton key has gone missing.
It came home with me in the 1990s, in our little blue Honda Civic, when they were ready to throw it out. But what did it hold in the 1940s, the 1950s, the 1960s? Back when women wore hats and gloves and typed at clunky manual Underwoods. Did it conceal extra white gloves? Teabags? Sanitary napkins? Lorna Doones for an afternoon nibble? Or just an editor's trove of red "nick and pull" china markers, a black-collared loupe and carbon paper?
Does it hold the dreams of a young woman who wanted to write, who was paid to write, but had bigger stories to tell than those woven from words like chopped beef and fine wool? Does it harbor memories of broken hearts, or of broken lunch dates? Of career girls, Seven Sisters graduates, friends dialing up friends to whisper about wanting, or not wanting, to be pregnant? Socialites who lived on Park Avenue with their parents and worked just until the ring from Tiffany came, along with the fine china?
Was there rampant depression back then? Was there a name for it? Was it closeted? Was there time for it? Studying this drawer and all it held, and holds, may lead me to the answer.
It came home with me in the 1990s, in our little blue Honda Civic, when they were ready to throw it out. But what did it hold in the 1940s, the 1950s, the 1960s? Back when women wore hats and gloves and typed at clunky manual Underwoods. Did it conceal extra white gloves? Teabags? Sanitary napkins? Lorna Doones for an afternoon nibble? Or just an editor's trove of red "nick and pull" china markers, a black-collared loupe and carbon paper?
Does it hold the dreams of a young woman who wanted to write, who was paid to write, but had bigger stories to tell than those woven from words like chopped beef and fine wool? Does it harbor memories of broken hearts, or of broken lunch dates? Of career girls, Seven Sisters graduates, friends dialing up friends to whisper about wanting, or not wanting, to be pregnant? Socialites who lived on Park Avenue with their parents and worked just until the ring from Tiffany came, along with the fine china?
Was there rampant depression back then? Was there a name for it? Was it closeted? Was there time for it? Studying this drawer and all it held, and holds, may lead me to the answer.
*Per Wikipedia, the spindle was common at least as early as the 17th century in Western Europe for chair and table legs and cabinetry. I like to think of the original Mr. Hearst (or his decorator) purchasing it.
Copyright ⓒ February 8, 2010 by Alice Garbarini Hurley, owner and sole producer of Truth and Beauty blog.
Updated slightly on January 3, 2025. No portion or representation of this may be reproduced without express permission from the author. AliceHurley@aol.com, Montclair, New Jersey. I hope to expand this post into a story, novella, novel or memoir.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Accessorizing Winter
June Cleaver vacuumed in her pearls for a very good reason. Accessories lift our spirits. Fashion perks up your day.
My love affair with the little things started in fourth grade, when our art teacher had us keep sketchbooks. I always drew the same pretty lady, never got beyond her. She had a stylin' updo, sideswept bangs, a skirt, a belt, fishnet stockings (fun and easy to draw, and this was Catholic school), dangling earrings and a pearl necklace.
Later I loved to accessorize Christmas trees. My favorite margin doodle was, and still is, a perfectly symmetrical evergreen, with the same number of ornaments on each side and a single star on top. Sometimes, candy canes, too, and wrapped gifts underneath. With bows.
Then there was Aunt Peggy, my beautiful aunt--married to my mother's youngest brother--whose accessories included a wealth of kind words, a pretty smile, a black dress and heels. And my sister, MaryAnne, who had real stockings and a genuine gold charm bracelet. And my mother, who once had a silver dress with a yoke of rhinestones....so 70s, so spectacular. She also had a gold charm bracelet, pearls and perfume. And my best friend's mom, Mrs. C., who had a lovely peach kitchen, and, even on weekdays, slingback heels and sparkly rings.
As a teen cruising the Paramus Park Mall with friends on a Friday night, I seemed never to have enough money for a sweater or pants but would spend my last dime on colorful socks, or earrings from Bedazzled.
I once met a girl down near Atlantic City when I was visiting my boyfriend. She was dating his friend. I forget her name--Marta, Marnie?--but will never forget her matching manicure and pedicure. This was 1983. I still remember with awe how that glossy coral polish looked against her tan, and against the sand. Eureka! Cosmetics as accessory! Now I was on the road to something even bigger.
Really, what are stars except accessories that make the dark sky look prettier? What are the tulip bulbs we bury underground every winter but promises of color and joy to flatter the barren lawn when spring rises from its slumber and takes a weary look in the mirror?
My love affair with the little things started in fourth grade, when our art teacher had us keep sketchbooks. I always drew the same pretty lady, never got beyond her. She had a stylin' updo, sideswept bangs, a skirt, a belt, fishnet stockings (fun and easy to draw, and this was Catholic school), dangling earrings and a pearl necklace.
Later I loved to accessorize Christmas trees. My favorite margin doodle was, and still is, a perfectly symmetrical evergreen, with the same number of ornaments on each side and a single star on top. Sometimes, candy canes, too, and wrapped gifts underneath. With bows.
Then there was Aunt Peggy, my beautiful aunt--married to my mother's youngest brother--whose accessories included a wealth of kind words, a pretty smile, a black dress and heels. And my sister, MaryAnne, who had real stockings and a genuine gold charm bracelet. And my mother, who once had a silver dress with a yoke of rhinestones....so 70s, so spectacular. She also had a gold charm bracelet, pearls and perfume. And my best friend's mom, Mrs. C., who had a lovely peach kitchen, and, even on weekdays, slingback heels and sparkly rings.
As a teen cruising the Paramus Park Mall with friends on a Friday night, I seemed never to have enough money for a sweater or pants but would spend my last dime on colorful socks, or earrings from Bedazzled.
I once met a girl down near Atlantic City when I was visiting my boyfriend. She was dating his friend. I forget her name--Marta, Marnie?--but will never forget her matching manicure and pedicure. This was 1983. I still remember with awe how that glossy coral polish looked against her tan, and against the sand. Eureka! Cosmetics as accessory! Now I was on the road to something even bigger.
Really, what are stars except accessories that make the dark sky look prettier? What are the tulip bulbs we bury underground every winter but promises of color and joy to flatter the barren lawn when spring rises from its slumber and takes a weary look in the mirror?
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