Yesterday my husband said that he would like to take me and our dog Walter, get in the car and just hit the road for parts unknown. It was something along the lines of Lobo’s old song “Me and You and a Dog named Boo.” I confess: All I could think when he said that was how we’d have to stop and walk Walter, find motels that accepted dogs, and somehow I would just be taking responsibility on the road with me. What I didn’t say was that these days there’s a part of me that would like to hitch an Airstream to the back of the car and hit the road solo. Of course, the latter is pure fantasy, and a weak one at that given that I would not leave my husband, the dog and, of course, my three kids. Although vanishing is rather tempting lately. I seem to have gone from the throes of motherhood to being my father’s chief cook and bottle washer, accountant, and care giver without a respite in between. This is where a deliberate effort to compartmentalize enters the equation: Don’t confuse what are the typical trials and tribulations of life with the life that’s throwing me unanticipated curve balls with no training as a batter. I find myself swatting at the ball, spinning, stumbling – and wishing I wasn’t the hitter.
And so, this week, rather than hitching up an Airstream, I went out each night. Twice with my husband and twice by myself – didn’t cook once, and didn’t worry as I typically would have as to what my husband would have for dinner. There was a time when I would have cooked for him and left dinner wrapped in foil and sealed in Tupperware, and this past week, I figured the man won’t starve and can fend for himself. A stab at independence…my figurative escape in the Airstream.
On Tuesday night, I met my husband at a place on MacDougal Street called The Groove, a Greenwich Village bar with a small stage, redolent of the 1960’s and 1970’s – the kind of haunt I went to when I was an NYU student, and Greenwich Village was our campus. When I got off the subway at West 4th Street, it occurred to me that once the neighborhood was familiar and simple to navigate. I had to stop and get my bearings as I stood on the corner of 6th Avenue, figuring out which way was East. Once I walked those streets wearing my trademark black leotard top beneath a peasant blouse, jeans and Frye boots, hair nearly to my waist. On Tuesday it rained so I had an umbrella, wore a black rain jacket, wiped down my hands with Purell as I walked from the subway, hoped the man coughing behind me on the train wasn’t carrying the flu along with his briefcase.
At first, I was hesitant to enter The Groove where “The Guitar Club for Men” and two of the four “Young Rascals” were playing. As it turned out, only one (Gene Cornish) was there that night – Dino Danelli was absent. Session players of the same vintage made up the rest of the band. As I said, I was hesitant, thinking that some things are better left behind with the memory wrapped in gossamer. As the band “tuned up” and I heard strains of “Groovin’ “ it took me back to 1967 with a swiftness that felt almost jarring. I watched the musicians, huddled together as they tuned up and glanced at sheet music, noticed they all wore hats, presumably to cover a lack of hair (and even saw some balding spots peaking through their baseball caps and on the sides of their berets).
So, back to 1967 when I was with my first love, Tom, and my best friend Leslie – both of whom I never wanted to be without. Oddly enough, we’re still in touch. When Groovin’ hit the charts back then, I was certain it was written for the three of us as I misheard the line, “That would be ecstasy…you and me endlessly” as “That would be ecstasy…you and me and Leslie” – just the three of us “groovin.” Strangely, the female singer omitted that line in the song, making me wonder if it wasn’t best (for me) left in 1967. Truth is, Cornish and the band were great – and yet it was bittersweet: The juxtaposition of 1967 and 2009 – so much happening in those 42 years. The “lifetime ago” syndrome.
On Wednesday night, I met my friend Leni at an upscale restaurant in Tribeca. I waited for her in the bar where middle-aged men in business suits huddled (men do tend to “huddle,” pack animals that they are) in front of silent flat screens, drinking Martini’s. I noticed that too many of their suits tugged at the shoulders and too many belt buckles faced down beneath protruding “guts,” and in the background, the bar was playing Dylan. Positively 4th Street (how odd that I had been there the night before) and then Blowin’ in the Wind. I wondered if the men heard the music, if it brought them back to another time. I decided they weren’t listening…focused more on the Yankee game, and trying to let go of their day as they fished out the olives from their drinks. What, I wondered, were they once doing in, say, 1967? I tried picturing a few of them with long hair, wearing blue jeans and sandals, sinewy physiques…And then I sighed, so audibly that the man standing next to me asked if I was OK.
Great, I thought. It’s gotten to the point in my life where a sigh isn’t just a sigh but perhaps time to haul down that defibrillator from the shelf over the bar.
Tomorrow morning, Mark and I will take Walter and head upstate for an overnight. I have asked Mark to pretend he has a tee time so we get out of the apartment early. Not exactly a road trip with total abandon, but a night and two days away from the city, computers and cell phones.
Last night I dreamed I was running in a field with a cold wind in my face, and ended up in my parents’ kitchen where my mother was standing at the stove. My friend Rose (who is 14 years younger than I) and whose mother has been dead for three years, says she, too, still dreams of her mother nearly every night. In my dream, my mother put her warm hand on my cold cheek and said that my skin looked wonderful.
“The air is so good for you,” she said in my dream.
It was perhaps just what I needed – a dose of fresh air and my mother’s warm hand on my cheek. Freedom. Nurturing. Ecstasy. Endlessly – if only in my dreams.
Archive for October, 2009
Time colors and shades in many ways so although I think that I remember clearly the day that my family moved into our “new” apartment in November 1957, I probably don’t.
I recall the room I shared with my younger brother: The glaring circular florescent light on the ceiling (a sign of affluence at the time), a “modern” television encased in sea foam green (replete with a rudimentary remote control the size of a shoe box), the tweedy brown and green somewhat industrial wall-to-wall carpet, and the white twin beds on either side of the room – with half bed rails lest we tumble out in the middle of the night.
My older sister’s room was across the hall: a turquoise blue pile carpet, floral draperies and matching bedspread of the same hue, twin beds ( for a sleep over), and a cherry wood two-toned dresser with attached vanity mirror. My parents room had twin beds pushed together with one long headboard covered with a beige spread, a gold-toned chandelier in the room’s center, a sleek lounge chair with an ottoman in the corner, and my mother’s dressing table with upholstered bench. The rest of the apartment was simply gleaming and new: a crystal chandelier in the dining room, cornices and draperies, faux marble tile accented with black in the entrance foyer. It was nearly dreamy – and all this grandeur considering that the previous tenants had, according to my mother, used the “servants quarters” in the rear of the apartment as a dog kennel.
It is now 52 years later that my siblings and I are moving our widowed father to a “down-sized” apartment – not because we want to, but rather because the landlord is a shrewd and notoriously ruthless businessman, and as a renter, my 90-year-old father has to go.
What is left in that apartment are what could all too easily be termed “vestiges” of a lifetime. If only my parents had moved (as my mother had wanted) before the ravages of time set in, before this move became an overwhelming task as we, the three “children” must undo, relocate, redistribute, donate and toss the collection of a half century in 30 days.
The other day my 25-year-old daughter Ellie (among others) asked if I am “sad” to dismantle this home where I grew up. No, I said. I am not sad. The apartment (an odd word as I consider that we are, indeed, taking it “apart”) was no longer the same for me since the day my mother became ill and the room that was originally my sister’s and then mine became a hospital. The apartment was no longer the same when the aromas from the kitchen and my mother’s bedroom were more like those in a nursing home despite great efforts by the care givers to mask what was the unmistakable scent of old age coupled with illness. And more, for me, the apartment lost whatever touchstones remained once my mother died in that room. Memories of a childhood remain if I search the recesses of my mind, but the sense of “home” died with my mother.
So, no, I am not sad, but a part (there’s that word again – a part – apart – apartment) is angry: Not only did my parents stay too long, but my father is resistant not only to moving but to dismantling – to giving his children whatever legacies remain. He is, I try to joke, like an Egyptian wanting to take his belongings to an afterlife. Yes, I understand that he is 90, but the adage about old dogs not learning new tricks resonates deeply: his sentiments are not because he is 90, but rather a lifelong inability to let go. My mother was realistic, wanted to downsize and simplify, often gave us gifts on birthdays and holidays that came from her home or her jewelry box rather than buying something at a store. It was my father’s clinging to that apartment, to his possessions that kept them there.
Being realistic about one’s parents, by the way, has little to do with devotion.
In short, the apartment should have been a place where my parents lived and raised their children – not a place that turned into a veritable Grey Gardens. My siblings and I, in our middle years, should not have to be sifting through memories that are more like ghosts.
Three weeks ago, my husband and I loaded up our daughter’s car with her “memory boxes” saved by me over the years. My obsessive placing of my children’s memories in airtight plastic bins labeled boldly in black magic marker was clearly a reaction to my mother’s saving of nothing from my childhood (which, in that 20/20 hindsight, was probably her reaction to my father never wanting to let go). In part, it was a legacy that I handed to my daughter. For me, it was also an admission that as I grow older, these are things to be passed on and cherished – at a time when I can see the delight on my child’s face as she revels in the memories. Ellie is the one who has a home with a basement now. For my sons, the day will come when I will give them their plastic bins and boxes as well.
The quintessential middle child in me is stirring as I anticipate the month ahead. My brother, sister and I, despite the differences in our personalities and approaches, and perhaps more profoundly the differences in our histories despite the familial bond, must cooperate as we plow through. Figuratively, I envision us wearing hip boots and mud flaps – and for me, some armor. I am trying to step back and view this as a “project,” remove the emotion for the time being, be organized and “get the job done.”
When my mother was ill, I thought there could be nothing worse than that. I thought that once she died it might not feel that different since I felt that I had already lost her. I was wrong. And so, I think that once this task is done, and our father is settled, moved and adjusts with what I know will be difficulty, then I’ll probably feel the sadness set in. For now, a little bit of anger feels healthier, pumps my adrenaline as I head into the trenches, trying to stay present as I am whipped into the past.
When my husband left the apartment this morning, he was wearing fresh cologne, a dark suit and crisp white shirt without a tie (the tie was rolled up in his pocket for “later”). Every time he wears that suit I ask if it’s new. Then he opens the jacket, glances down at the label, tells me the maker and reminds me that I was with him when he bought it last summer. Then he trots out the door. Typically, I am standing in the kitchen when this encounter takes place, feeling a poor sartorial counterpart to the elegant man in the suit. This morning he paused before leaving.
“I wish we had more time together,” my husband said.
Amazing, I think, especially given that my husband is a man of few words when it comes to emotion. And this said to his wife of 28 years in a white cotton nightgown covered by a long black sweater, hair messy from sleep, wearing yellow rubber gloves as she scrubs pots and pans left soaking from last night’s dinner.
“Me, too,” I say, and feel the quizzical look on my face. I think that Real Life is hardly like The Donna Reed Show when she bids everyone farewell in the morning – each hair lacquered place, all smiles in full-face make-up and a pressed shirtwaist dress – not to mention a catchy musical theme song playing in the background.
By the time he gets home at night, our roles have reversed: His cologne has worn off, the shirt is wrinkled, the suit has creases, and I am fresh as a daisy. He changes into his oldest jeans and T-shirt. The playing field evens.
Last weekend I bought a silky robe. I think in the “old days” women called it a “dressing gown.” Maybe they still do. It was hanging on the 25% off rack at Lord & Taylor plus I had a 20% off coupon. How could I not buy it? It is filmy and white with a sort of peasant sleeve, brushes the ankle, has an empire waist, and it’s, well, alluring – something one wears without the yellow rubber gloves and perhaps more on a honeymoon or if one is a “temptress.”
When I pulled it from the bag to show my husband he asked, “What’s that for?” And then there was that quizzical look again – this time on both of our faces.
“I dunno,” I said.
I still haven’t worn it. It still has the tags on, and hangs unceremoniously on the back of my bathroom door. So, yes, what’s it for?
I recall my mother as she sat at the breakfast table in a matched peignoir set, a thin coat of lipstick already in place, drinking her coffee from a delicate china cup (a faint lipstick stain apparent on the rim), breaking off pieces of toast that she dappled with marmalade. She even wore peignoir sets as she stood at the stove stirring a pot of Cream of Wheat or emptying the dishwasher. How did she manage that elegance in the morning? Was it her essence or those Donna Reed-ish times? Is it possible I never noticed whether or not the peignoir was splattered with something that flew from the stove or stained with a drop of orange jam? Perhaps a combination of “all of the above.” Memories of her seep into my consciousness as I strive to embrace all about her – the good, the bad, the ugly – to make her real, feel her alive – with no illusions. I do this deliberately for both her and myself. Try as I might, I simply don’t have the panache my mother had when it came to couture – both sleep wear and day wear. Is the robe an homage to her? Clearly, I am more at ease in cotton gowns and baggy pants, although her penchant for high heels has rubbed off on me.
About 15 years ago, my husband bought me a pure silk, lace-trimmed robe for my birthday. I was in the throes of motherhood back then what with children ages 7, 9, and 11. I looked at the lingerie as it lay across the bed, touched the fabric, and jumped back as though bitten, crying out in both frustration and fear, “When will I ever wear this?” Wearing the garment would have felt like a masquerade. He was sullen and disappointed, but returned the robe the following day, and bought me a beige cashmere-blend blanket instead. The blanket still lies on the foot of our bed. I continue to wrap it around myself in winters, in summers when the air conditioning is too cold for me but not my overheated husband, and more than often just for comfort. It’s riddled with holes from when our dog was a puppy and flung it around in his teeth and it was the object of a moth attack one summer. Last weekend, when our daughter visited and wasn’t feeling well, she rolled the blanket around herself like a cocoon.
We’d been over-toasted one night of our honeymoon at a restaurant in Carmel, California by several couples who discovered we were newly-wed. There is a picture taken the next morning where I am sitting on the edge of the bed looking a lot like a woman with a bad hangover, wearing a sexy nightgown that my mother had bought me for the trip with my husband’s ratty green sweater slung over my shoulders. It’s our favorite honeymoon picture. Perhaps it was also foreshadowing.
Is it my husband’s comment of “what’s that for” coupled with my old belief of “when will I ever wear this?” that’s the impasse between the new robe and me? Somehow the robe defies the touchstones of our relationship, placing pressure on a marriage based more upon a reliable woman who dons Playtex Living Gloves at dawn and a man who has to check his suit label before he can describe what he’s wearing.
We have several weekend trips coming up in the next two months. I’m thinking that the robe is easy to pack and won’t crush in my suitcase. I’m also wondering if the hotel room might be cold what with air conditioning and how the robe is not absorbent after a shower. And then I’m thinking, wait a minute, that’s not what the robe’s for and when am I ever going to wear it. It’s becoming an effigy.
My husband and I spent the weekend in New Hope, Pennsylvania. A strange place for me to re-visit – I spent several weekends there back in the early 1970s with a boyfriend whose grandparents owned an inn on the Delaware River in a bordering town. I remember how we borrowed my parents’ Volvo to make the first trip, and the feeling of freedom I had as he and I drove off. Typically, I was not “allowed” to drive with anyone who wasn’t an adult, and especially with someone who was young and male. Prior to this journey, my mother dropped me off for “dates” and picked me up at the end of the evening if a car was involved. One would think I would have been humiliated – to some extent I was, to another extent, her concern was so heartfelt I trusted the validity. Somehow, my mother trusted this boy – and I suppose, trusted the commercialized safety of the Volvo.
My memories are spotty from those weekends: I can picture the angular face of the boy’s grandmother and her steely-gray hair clearly, but I don’t recall his grandfather. I do recall (although less vividly as the years go on) going to an Ingmar Bergman Film Festival in New Hope (or perhaps it was merely a festival or just a showing) and watching The Seventh Seal in an outdoor arena. The movie haunted me for years: Death and Antonius Block playing chess against a dank, gray, cloudy backdrop. As I think about it now, I don’t know that I would want to watch it at this point in my life.
As with everything else that’s changed in the last 39 years, the town of New Hope has been usurped by progress and discovered by an upscale urban crowd, weekend tourists trying to grab a taste of “quaint,” and a departure from the proverbial rat race. The shops and restaurants are over-priced, and traffic is snarled what with everyone in an SUV trying to make their way through the narrow streets. Driving through the countryside in the Bucks County towns is nearly frightening as the oversized vehicles make hairpin turns on roads built to accommodate horses and buggies. I couldn’t recall whether or not the wide paved road leading from the highway existed 39 years ago. If it did, and obviously there was some sort of thoroughfare, then surely it wasn’t littered with fast food restaurants and mega stores as it is now.
My husband drove me back to the inn where the old boyfriend and I had visited 39 years ago. I suppose it looked the same, although there was only one portion of it that truly looked familiar to me. The swimming pool was certainly a new addition. There was a door on one of the “out” buildings that I recalled well – perhaps the one that led to the private family quarters. I’m uncertain. The interior of the inn was only vaguely familiar since my memories apparently are relegated to concepts rather than specifics. I recalled the feelings I had when I was there: Being out of the city, the flow of the river, a sense of independence, thinking that the relationship with the boy was destined to be “forever.”
I was seventeen, an age of innocence when love is lasting, and the future barely exists beyond the next morning.
Lately, when Mark and I travel, whether distances or merely a 90-minute drive away, I am reluctant to come home. It takes us both at least 24 hours to decompress as we start a weekend, feeling what we know is only temporarily untethered: a weekend away is simply not enough. This past weekend, there was something about the old stone houses overlooking fields and the river that was particularly compelling in terms of considering what could be a different lifestyle.
As we drove out of town back to the highway, we bought green peppers, white corn, amazingly sweet eggplant, and tomatoes that although faded on the outside were red and sweet on the inside – all at a roadside farm stand at a ridiculously low price. The latter is such a city-girl kind of observation, isn’t it? – and yet the purchase was somehow symbolic of a simplicity that my husband and I seem to have lost (did we ever have it?) as we immerse ourselves in the urban culture we chose years ago.
So, as the fall descends rapidly after a summer that feels like it never was, I think of the vistas merely 90 minutes away in all directions where life might be simpler. But then again, is the longing for literally greener grass only whimsy?
There at the inn from long ago, I stood with my husband. We are attached not only by love and friendship, but as parents to our children. We are connected as well through the mundane – bank accounts, mortgages, insurance policies, one another’s families, the collision of our professional worlds (the physicians in his are typically buttoned up; the artists in mine are typically pierced), each other’s “next of kin” – although not “blood,” he and I are family. I think back to being 17, and having no idea that 39 years later I would re-visit that idyllic spot with a handsome silver-haired man in sensible water-proof shoes who held an umbrella over my head as the rain poured down and I laugh: Who knew back then that one day I would be in love with someone older than my father?
