I Had A Psychotic Break And Picked Them Up

The burger joint was crowded and I hated standing while eating really good food. I asked if we could share the booth with them.

I thought they were co-workers and that the curly-haired one, chatting a mile a minute, was driving the mustached-quiet one crazy. I glared at them because obviously they weren't from New York.

Where did the voice "be nice be nice be nice JUST TRY TO BE NICE" come from, but in seconds we knew their names and they knew ours and before I knew it business cards were exchanged because one of them did exactly what I was looking for. And then we found out they weren't co-workers. They were, in fact, planning their wedding.

Years later I get to have dinner and adventures, arguments, and art, wine and whine. I am, however, still not willing to admit to being nice. Even if it gets me great friends.

It's a Small Small Small World After All

This is Fay.

We were assigned the same computer at a temp job. We could tell the other was the kind that grew up on IND and BMT and IRT, and knew the difference between PA and MA (no, they're not states). So we asked each other the two questions that matter when you come from New York.

"Where'd ya grow up?"

"What high school you go to?"

She and my sister went to high school together.

She took her first piano lessons with Florence.

And last, but not least... Florence was in a trio for years with a clarinetist. The clarinetist is the sister of a good friend of Fay's.

Sunday Memories - The Disciples of Soul

I really hated playing the violin and even more than playing, I really hated practicing the violin.

Regardless, everyday after school the music stand would be set-up, the etude books opened, the bow rosined, the violin tuned.

Florence would take her place in the big armchair and the torture would begin.

But at some point the room would grow dim with winter evening, and she'd begin to doze. Perhaps she was tired from her own six hours of daily piano practicing or perhaps it was from the daily cup of sherry she allowed herself, but only after those six hours had been completed. I didn't care. Her snores heralded my freedom.

I'd stop mid-note and if she didn't stir with her usual order of "Commence!" I'd jump into action.

Quickly scattering the music books to make it look like I had finished not only all the scales and exercises but even the piece I was studying, I'd prop the violin rakishly in its case as if it had run a long race and was catching its breath and dangle the bow from the music stand as if, too hot from ferocious playing, it needed cooling.

More often than not, this would be as far as I could get, the lack of my scratching out unloved music jarring her into awake. But every once in a while, I'd actually get to sneak out of the living room and happily do anything but practice.

Still, no matter what happened, the next day the music stand would be set up, the etude books open, the bow rosined, the violin tuned.

Years later, Florence asked me what I really wanted to do. At this point, burnt-out, drained and exhausted from decades of juggling early morning attempts and late night sessions writing stories, I was either in the middle of yet another mind-numbing job or one of my three forays into higher education.

"I just want to stay home and write full-time."

She paused, like she was listening to the sentence over and over and over again.

Then she said, "You have to train for that."

***
Six days a week, coffee is made, pill is popped, banana eaten, email glanced at, the table cleared, pens lined up, doors closed, documents opened, the writing book readied, phones put aside, tiredness banished, the world shut out, the soul called forth, the heart welcomed, the hands warmed... the writing commences.

Of Men and Mice... "*

Just like if you look only one way on University Street or both ways before crossing against the light, what you call this separates the men from the mice.

Because it may be called a slide other places in the world, but here, at the center of the Universe, we call it a sliding pond.

*and now for the joke
MAN ONE: Are you a man or a mouse?
MAN TWO: Put a piece of cheese down and find out!

Jutta's Kitchen Revisited

The elevator I rode since I was 13. Sometimes to her son...

...sometimes to dinner...

...sometimes to be painted....

...sometimes just to sit and talk...

...and sometimes to look and wonder and peer at light and shapes and paintings and sketches and wonder about the narrative that might interweave throughout our work.

Sunday Memories - One of the Happiest Days of My Life

What day will you think of as you lay dying? Many many happy moments, much to be grateful for, but a whole happy day? I only have a few. And meeting Baby Boy was definitely one of them.
He was delicious.

Then he got bigger.

I made sure he held my hand when we crossed the street and I called him my Baby Boy. In public.

And then he got even bigger. I could no longer insist on him holding my hand as we crossed the street and I was not allowed to call him anything except his name.

Now he's 18.

I call him B.B. and even if I can't hold his hand, I still make sure my hand is on his shoulder as we jay-walk our way back from a movie.

***
Related Posts:

Sunday Memories - Baby Boy Tadpole and Other Snapshots from Deep Waters

Chinese New Years in Flushing, Queens

In between dishes we had never had before, me and the Other Jew called for pork and for the first time in years someone else was told to use their "inside voice".

Styles of the Times

Joan Rivers used to call it "doing the long shave."

Wasn't it like brushing your teeth before going to the dentist? But running late I realized I had forgotten to do so.

So, gritting my teeth through my own errant hairs and the miserableness of a medical instrument that could never be warmed up enough, I asked.

Have you notice a change in pubic hair styles?

And Dr. G., tough and straight forward and no nonsense who spoke faster than any one I know, including my sister, rolled her eyes and said, "Since when did hair become unnatural? I got patients apologizing for not getting waxed before their appointment. I don't understand. You're supposed to have hair there."

Sunday Memories - Florence's Moon (Florence As A Memory)

Keeping my head above water meant attending a much-hated yoga class.  At the beginning of every class, Teacher always played something woo-woo to lull us into thinking we would be enjoying ourselves for the next hour.  Mostly it was a lot of acoustic guitars and young women’s lilting voices singing love problems that happen when you are 24.

But today, instead of young angst, a solo piano rendition of Clair de Lune by Debussy slammed me against the wall.

I was suddenly back in a minefield packed with the millions of years I spent as a child wandering around the house listening to Florence break the heart of her piano.  Until I fled at 15 to another home, I listened to her play this piece repeatedly.

I hated this piece more than I hated yoga.  It was the essence of reminiscing about the time you had hope that love might work out.  Those kinds of memories are like drowning in the worst of sorrow and disappointment at your life.

Teacher began the usual bla bla bla-guidance about spiritual this and intention that.  But, in this class of 40 or 50 people where I was the only student over the age of 24, all I could see, hear and feel was Florence the young girl and Florence the young mother and Florence the old woman playing all this hope for love she never got to have.

For Us It Wasn't a Wardrobe That Led To A New World

It was stairs in a better building.

My Trip to California in Seven Pictures

home. home sweet home.

Sunday Memories - When Did That Happen!?

It's not like I'd ever return to the hairstyles of my thirties. It just doesn't feel like that was twenty years ago.

With thanks to the dear friends and family who joined me in my disbelief of how time flies.

Happy New President! Shona Tova!

Josslyn wept and cheered...


...and I stood and sang the Star Spangle Banner for the first time in 35 years.

"Breathe. Look at your feet. That is where you are." - Vee at The Celebration of Martin Luther King Jr at Jossie's Home

Dusk fell and pie was eaten. Hearts, song, music and words wove into four-part revolutionary harmony and we celebrate the birthday of a man who gave his 39 years of life to ensure our country became what it claimed it was.



"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that." -- MLK

RAIN DELAY: A SPECIAL MLK AND HAPPY NEW PRESIDENT DAY BLOG WILL BE POSTED LATER THIS WEEK

Sunday Memories - Knock Wood! Hello? Come In?

He remembers not what he said five, ten, fifteen minutes ago. He remembers not what he has to do today or that he just checked his calendar which informs him of every minute task ahead. He remembers not that he has told me several times an hour the same joke, anecdote of someone once famous, or about how his neighbor and he are just friends. He remembers not that he has told me about the cookies and potato chips, the cans of vegetables the packets of coffee and tea. He remembers not the hours of my sister worked to put together a packet of comparison prices and services at two different cemeteries, the many conversations she had with him, the notes sent to him, the changing of his mind from one place to the other even though it was more expensive it was worth it because it was the same place his mom and sister were and he wanted to be near them. He remembers none of this.

So when I remembered for him that the man was coming today to make final his final place of residency and that he would have to write a big check he remembered none of it and stated he might refuse to have anything to do with it.

But when he finally signed the deed of his next home, he remembered the first home - the one he began in, the nice place in Brooklyn before abject poverty and his father's rage crushed the life out of his heart, the kindness out of his brother and the hope out of his sisters. Before that all happened, his family was rich enough to own a phone.

"Dad, what was your phone number in Brooklyn?"

And without missing a beat, he replied, "HAdenway-6781."

And now for the joke:

Three old bubbymeisters are sitting around.

Ethel bursts into tears. "Oy, oy, oy! The other night I got out of bed, put on my hat, my coat, my purse, I went into the kitchen and opened the icebox and I don't know what I was doing. Bessie, this ever happen to you?"

Bessie bursts into tears. "Oy, oy, oy! Me too! The other night I got out of bed, put on my hat, my coat, my purse, I went into the living room, stood on the piano chair, I don't know what I was doing. Gussie, this ever happen to you?"

Gussie drew herself up in her chair and said, "I'm 92 years old. I got my health, my wealth, and thank G-d, I got my mind. Knock wood. (knocks wood). Hello? Come in?"

It takes an athlete to dance, but an artist to be a dancer. ~Shanna LaFleur

*Stuyvesant vs. Bread&Roses: Tough game. Tight score. Great dance.

Will You Still Need Me Will You Still Feed Me When I'm Sixty-Four?

As single and childless women, we all laughed nervously over pizza and wondered who would take care of us when we could no longer storm out of the house and into our lives on our own steam. Then we stared at this picture hoping that even if we shrank to too-short-for-the-bank-teller's-window, we'd be strong enough to rise as high as she did.

Sunday Memories - How Old Were You Your First Time?

I was eight. Or maybe nine.

I had to go uptown to some violin lesson or to Schirmers or perhaps to someone's house to play quartets or study theory or meet Louise at her violin lesson or something to do with something that I probably didn't enjoy.

On a piece of scrap paper, Florence detailed exactly what I was to do and how I was to do it. Then she gave me a token.

*Walk to the East Broadway Street entrance.

*Take the uptown F train.

*Be in the back of the train.

*Get off at...

*Walk to the entrance that says...

A couple of trips later, I didn't even need the scrap of paper.

During the Cocktail Hour In Her New York She Recited The Poem In Both English And German

The Book of Hours
by Rainer Maria Rilke

After me, After I die
Thou has no house where in
words, near and warm, greet thee
From thy tired feet falls
the velvet sandal that I am