Tuesday, August 30, 2005
Saturday, August 27, 2005
Poem
It's only my opinion, it's only my belief/ that a caterpillar giggles as he wriggles across a hairy leaf.
Don't ask me who wrote this. Nash? Perhaps. I like amusing poems. My taste in poetry is remarkably low. I know the good stuff when I read it. I just don't always respond to it. Limericks seem to me perfectly wonderful.
My mother preferred the melodramatic 19th century narrative poems, The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner, The Highwayman, Grandfather's Clock. She liked the sentimental and romantic poems, Irish Blessings and Bible verses, Drummond and Longfellow, seafaring yearning. It was, she said, the only part of school she had liked. Memorizing long poems, a real joy for her, what she was good at. She laboriously typed out the text for a children's story book of color poems; "Hailstones and Halibut Bones." She loved it. I remember the next line was "... and some people's telephones." (!?)
Taking poetry apart in school, struck me as a pointless and cruel exercise. Repeatedly analyzing The Road Not Taken - Frost, until I came upon "Satire, that Blasted Art", which took apart all the sentimentalism of the poem and made the convincing argument that it is satire. Aha! Poems as subversive art. That was cool. I learned that poem, and it is in my repertoire. Only due to my understanding, an intellectual satisfaction.
I only had to memorize a few in grade school, one about fairies;
Up the (something) mountain/down the rushy glen I dare not go a' hunting for fear of little men. (Ugh)
When asked to pick one to memorize, I learned High Flight (John Gillespie McGee Jr) by heart because it was the text of an oft run tv ad for the Air Force. Lewis Carroll's mockery of poetry, I can recite Jabberwocky. I do like the poems, I am just not transported as I am with a good prose. Poems seemed too pretty, too short to engage me. Sketch work instead of a complete world with real people. I liked more story, dialogue. Or much less, like the Tao Te Ching.
Obviously, I am also not enamored of squishy Hallmark versification. Birthday cards with sentimental lines, and pretty flowers, - nauseating. My Aunt Evelyn spent a great deal of time finding the one that said just the right thing, and I would pretend to read it and go soft in gratitude. 'Oh, that is just perfect', and a hug. Like soft pop music, I considered it uselessly sweet without substance or flavor, however well meant. I have to accept the phenomenon that such stuff touches hearts. Leaves me quite cold.
So what is with me, that the highest verbal expressions in such a rich language that I love, leaves me shrugging my shoulders? Did I just have the magic sucked out of it in English classes? Distancing myself from my mother? A total lack of sentimentality? Lack of taste or refinement? Or do I just need it set to music for it to come to life? Ah. Mystery partly illuminated, though not at all solved.
One of the poems I memorized was the Wreck of the Julie Plante -Drummond. A funny poem in French Canadian inflected English about a shipwreck. The CBC had an animation, set to music, of the verses, that I saw in my 30s. I cried. This strange, familiar, consciously humorous bit of doggerel, when given a song, and a voice, touched me. Who knew?
So, dear poets who are my friends, sing me thy verses, I seem not to be up to supplying my own melody. That or it's Vogon poetry, only good for sappy greeting cards, and I will never tell.
Please, enjoy this poetical interlude. I will be humming.
The Wreck of the "Julie Plante": A Legend of Lac St. Pierre
On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre,
De win' she blow, blow, blow,
An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante"
Got scar't an' run below—
For de win' she blow lak hurricane,
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre
Wan arpent from de shore.
De captinne walk on de fronte deck,
An' walk de hin' deck too—
He call de crew from up de hole,
He call de cook also.
De cook she 's name was Rosie, She come from Montreal,
Was chambre maid on lumber barge,
On de Grande Lachine Canal.
De win' she blow from nor' -eas' -wes',--
De sout' win' she blow too,
W'en Rosie cry, "Mon cher captinne,
Mon cher, w'at I shall do ?"
Den de captinne t'row de beeg ankerre,
But still de scow she dreef,
De crew he can't pass on de shore,
Becos' he los' hees skeef.
De night was dark lak wan black cat,
De wave run high an' fas',
W'en de captinne tak' de Rosie girl
An' tie her to de mas'.
Den he also tak' de life preserve,
An' jomp off on de lak',
An' say, "Good-bye, ma Rosie dear,
I go drown for your sak'."
Nex' morning very early
'Bout ha'f-pas' two—t'ree—four—
De captinne—scow—an' de poor Rosie
Was corpses on de shore,
For de win' she blow lak hurricane,
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre,
Wan arpent from de shore.
MORAL
Now all good wood scow sailor man
Tak' warning by dat storm
An' go an' marry some nice French girl
An' leev on wan beeg farm.
De win' can blow lak hurricane
An' s'pose she blow some more,
You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre
So long you stay on shore.
William Henry Drummond
Don't ask me who wrote this. Nash? Perhaps. I like amusing poems. My taste in poetry is remarkably low. I know the good stuff when I read it. I just don't always respond to it. Limericks seem to me perfectly wonderful.
My mother preferred the melodramatic 19th century narrative poems, The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner, The Highwayman, Grandfather's Clock. She liked the sentimental and romantic poems, Irish Blessings and Bible verses, Drummond and Longfellow, seafaring yearning. It was, she said, the only part of school she had liked. Memorizing long poems, a real joy for her, what she was good at. She laboriously typed out the text for a children's story book of color poems; "Hailstones and Halibut Bones." She loved it. I remember the next line was "... and some people's telephones." (!?)
Taking poetry apart in school, struck me as a pointless and cruel exercise. Repeatedly analyzing The Road Not Taken - Frost, until I came upon "Satire, that Blasted Art", which took apart all the sentimentalism of the poem and made the convincing argument that it is satire. Aha! Poems as subversive art. That was cool. I learned that poem, and it is in my repertoire. Only due to my understanding, an intellectual satisfaction.
I only had to memorize a few in grade school, one about fairies;
Up the (something) mountain/down the rushy glen I dare not go a' hunting for fear of little men. (Ugh)
When asked to pick one to memorize, I learned High Flight (John Gillespie McGee Jr) by heart because it was the text of an oft run tv ad for the Air Force. Lewis Carroll's mockery of poetry, I can recite Jabberwocky. I do like the poems, I am just not transported as I am with a good prose. Poems seemed too pretty, too short to engage me. Sketch work instead of a complete world with real people. I liked more story, dialogue. Or much less, like the Tao Te Ching.
Obviously, I am also not enamored of squishy Hallmark versification. Birthday cards with sentimental lines, and pretty flowers, - nauseating. My Aunt Evelyn spent a great deal of time finding the one that said just the right thing, and I would pretend to read it and go soft in gratitude. 'Oh, that is just perfect', and a hug. Like soft pop music, I considered it uselessly sweet without substance or flavor, however well meant. I have to accept the phenomenon that such stuff touches hearts. Leaves me quite cold.
So what is with me, that the highest verbal expressions in such a rich language that I love, leaves me shrugging my shoulders? Did I just have the magic sucked out of it in English classes? Distancing myself from my mother? A total lack of sentimentality? Lack of taste or refinement? Or do I just need it set to music for it to come to life? Ah. Mystery partly illuminated, though not at all solved.
One of the poems I memorized was the Wreck of the Julie Plante -Drummond. A funny poem in French Canadian inflected English about a shipwreck. The CBC had an animation, set to music, of the verses, that I saw in my 30s. I cried. This strange, familiar, consciously humorous bit of doggerel, when given a song, and a voice, touched me. Who knew?
So, dear poets who are my friends, sing me thy verses, I seem not to be up to supplying my own melody. That or it's Vogon poetry, only good for sappy greeting cards, and I will never tell.
Please, enjoy this poetical interlude. I will be humming.
The Wreck of the "Julie Plante": A Legend of Lac St. Pierre
On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre,
De win' she blow, blow, blow,
An' de crew of de wood scow "Julie Plante"
Got scar't an' run below—
For de win' she blow lak hurricane,
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre
Wan arpent from de shore.
De captinne walk on de fronte deck,
An' walk de hin' deck too—
He call de crew from up de hole,
He call de cook also.
De cook she 's name was Rosie, She come from Montreal,
Was chambre maid on lumber barge,
On de Grande Lachine Canal.
De win' she blow from nor' -eas' -wes',--
De sout' win' she blow too,
W'en Rosie cry, "Mon cher captinne,
Mon cher, w'at I shall do ?"
Den de captinne t'row de beeg ankerre,
But still de scow she dreef,
De crew he can't pass on de shore,
Becos' he los' hees skeef.
De night was dark lak wan black cat,
De wave run high an' fas',
W'en de captinne tak' de Rosie girl
An' tie her to de mas'.
Den he also tak' de life preserve,
An' jomp off on de lak',
An' say, "Good-bye, ma Rosie dear,
I go drown for your sak'."
Nex' morning very early
'Bout ha'f-pas' two—t'ree—four—
De captinne—scow—an' de poor Rosie
Was corpses on de shore,
For de win' she blow lak hurricane,
Bimeby she blow some more,
An' de scow bus' up on Lac St. Pierre,
Wan arpent from de shore.
MORAL
Now all good wood scow sailor man
Tak' warning by dat storm
An' go an' marry some nice French girl
An' leev on wan beeg farm.
De win' can blow lak hurricane
An' s'pose she blow some more,
You can't get drown on Lac St. Pierre
So long you stay on shore.
William Henry Drummond
Song
My mother sang to me, hummed and lullabyed. Brahm's, Rock-a-bye Baby. Together we sang "Downtown" (Yes, Petula Clark.) She would sing "Stay Awake" to me at bedtime, sarcasm learned in the cradle. I learned a lot of old songs, Swing Low Sweet Chariot, It's a Long Way to Tipperary, Clementine. We sang in the car, we sang together.
In church I loved the music most of all. Crown Him With Many Crowns, I joined the choir as soon as I was old enough, and stayed with it until I left the church entirely. It was such a solace to open my throat and sing out, and sit far away from my parents, often going to a different mass entirely. To be part of the procession with candles intoning 'Praise We Christ's Immortal Body" an old and wonderful chant, very moving. I would gradually become more and more uncomfortable with the imagery, the dogma of the songs. The masculinity of the words, the overwhelming paternal identity of God, my exclusion for being female. The music of it, wordless truth, remains.
Popular music filled my head, I sang along. I listened to the WNIC, soft hits all the time. I am the Eagle, Country Roads, Oh Very Young, John Denver, Cat Stevens. It's not that I didn't have taste, it is that I had little exposure to what I would like. On my few albums, I tended to find the one oddball song and memorize it. Polka-dots and Moonbeams, Forest Lawn. My brothers left behind records when they left home. Tommy- The Who I nearly memorized complete. I wound up a DJ at an automated country radio station in Kalkaska Michigan, trying to tolerate the country music. There were specks of gold amidst the dross- Emmylou Harris, Nancy Griffiths, Johnny Cash. Still hating Country in general, I learned a more expansive musical eclecticism. Mainstream radio stations were becoming more corporate, homogenized, I was for a brief moment part of the problem. I examined my conscience, my mindless swallowing of pop.
I'd always got drizzles of folk and international music. The folk dances in college played music from all over. I listened to more NPR. Jazz I tried and found it to be habañero pepper, good only in tiny amounts. The difference - knowing quality from crap, and my taste from just not-to-my- taste. I sought out the corners, and the old stuff, and began to loathe the pabulum.
Then, well, the pantheon became available. International Music, still not easy to find, but no longer impossible. Schicklele Mix, the web, All Songs Considered, BBC, a world of music leaked in around the edges. Paul Simon and his Rhythm of the Saints pushed, Buena Vista Social Club, Oh, Brother Where Art Thou? all ate away at the monolith. Not all good, but trying. More genuine, more unfucked with, hardy stuff, raw, real.
The crap, of course, is everywhere. Read Dave Barry's 'Bad Song Book.' At work when the Soft Rock station is on, I can't turn it off. Or a James Taylor CD is brought in- if I ever run into the man on the street, I will kick him in the shins. I fixate on the words to pop love, the dysfunctional sentiments, the anti-feminism. "She's gone/It'll be the devil to replace her/she's gone/what went wrong?"- well, duh. If I never hear another Jackson Browne song, it will be a good start. The soullessness of it, the commercial slickness, the endless repetition, how many times does anyone need to hear REO Speed-wagon, Hesuschristpullingaricksaw? I will leave stores playing Elton John on the Muzak. Mediocrity infuriates me, neither hot nor cold, I spit it out. With music it feels an obscenity, cheapening the sacred.
Although the mainstream will always be there, I am comforted by more side-streams flowing, oxbows forming, harmonies and dissonances overtones and undertones, more voices chiming in, and turning the music.
I am learning new songs. Harmonizing.
In church I loved the music most of all. Crown Him With Many Crowns, I joined the choir as soon as I was old enough, and stayed with it until I left the church entirely. It was such a solace to open my throat and sing out, and sit far away from my parents, often going to a different mass entirely. To be part of the procession with candles intoning 'Praise We Christ's Immortal Body" an old and wonderful chant, very moving. I would gradually become more and more uncomfortable with the imagery, the dogma of the songs. The masculinity of the words, the overwhelming paternal identity of God, my exclusion for being female. The music of it, wordless truth, remains.
Popular music filled my head, I sang along. I listened to the WNIC, soft hits all the time. I am the Eagle, Country Roads, Oh Very Young, John Denver, Cat Stevens. It's not that I didn't have taste, it is that I had little exposure to what I would like. On my few albums, I tended to find the one oddball song and memorize it. Polka-dots and Moonbeams, Forest Lawn. My brothers left behind records when they left home. Tommy- The Who I nearly memorized complete. I wound up a DJ at an automated country radio station in Kalkaska Michigan, trying to tolerate the country music. There were specks of gold amidst the dross- Emmylou Harris, Nancy Griffiths, Johnny Cash. Still hating Country in general, I learned a more expansive musical eclecticism. Mainstream radio stations were becoming more corporate, homogenized, I was for a brief moment part of the problem. I examined my conscience, my mindless swallowing of pop.
I'd always got drizzles of folk and international music. The folk dances in college played music from all over. I listened to more NPR. Jazz I tried and found it to be habañero pepper, good only in tiny amounts. The difference - knowing quality from crap, and my taste from just not-to-my- taste. I sought out the corners, and the old stuff, and began to loathe the pabulum.
Then, well, the pantheon became available. International Music, still not easy to find, but no longer impossible. Schicklele Mix, the web, All Songs Considered, BBC, a world of music leaked in around the edges. Paul Simon and his Rhythm of the Saints pushed, Buena Vista Social Club, Oh, Brother Where Art Thou? all ate away at the monolith. Not all good, but trying. More genuine, more unfucked with, hardy stuff, raw, real.
The crap, of course, is everywhere. Read Dave Barry's 'Bad Song Book.' At work when the Soft Rock station is on, I can't turn it off. Or a James Taylor CD is brought in- if I ever run into the man on the street, I will kick him in the shins. I fixate on the words to pop love, the dysfunctional sentiments, the anti-feminism. "She's gone/It'll be the devil to replace her/she's gone/what went wrong?"- well, duh. If I never hear another Jackson Browne song, it will be a good start. The soullessness of it, the commercial slickness, the endless repetition, how many times does anyone need to hear REO Speed-wagon, Hesuschristpullingaricksaw? I will leave stores playing Elton John on the Muzak. Mediocrity infuriates me, neither hot nor cold, I spit it out. With music it feels an obscenity, cheapening the sacred.
Although the mainstream will always be there, I am comforted by more side-streams flowing, oxbows forming, harmonies and dissonances overtones and undertones, more voices chiming in, and turning the music.
I am learning new songs. Harmonizing.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Work
When I grew up, I became a nurse in surgery. I never saw it coming. I had considered nursing in high school, but a nun -Sr. Judith Nameless, who taught chemistry, badly, said I couldn't be a nurse because I was bad at chemistry. Perhaps she did me a favor, since I did have a lot to learn of a non-chemical nature.
I spent school trying to figure out what I would be, my interests scattered all over the landscape. I wanted to be a pilot, because my uncle was a private pilot. A disastrous idea, since I have no sense of where I am in space outside of my own skin. I fantasized about being a dancer, but even then I knew I wasn't good enough, nor the right shape. Had fad aspirations based on tv shows, a comment in The Courtship Of Eddie's Father had me wanting to be a pediatrician- even though I didn't like children even as a child myself. Mostly I had no idea, outside of (even I would admit) the unrealistic 'actress', what I could really do. It was just answering adults. The societal demand that a career had to start in grade school. Well, it was only a generation away from apprenticeships when that was true.
I wanted to be one of the actors on a tv show, tell stories, live in a well scripted world, touch people all over the world. When I earned a full scholarship, I started in a dedicated theater curriculum, took every class to get the degree, studied hard, and never got cast in a play. Oh, I played an old lady in a grad student directed production, and I was in the croc costume for Peter Pan, not exactly portfolio material. Couldn't remember lines to save my life, I was stiff and tense, awkward and self conscious, cried at all the wrong moments. I looked all wrong for most parts. I took me 3 1/2 years to realize I would starve as an actor, and for good reason. I found that I hated being told exactly what to say and how to do my job. But also hated having to fight just to have a job to do, auditions were a nightmare. Especially when rare and critical jobs were based on my vanity. Of which I have some, but it is of a peculiar variety. I quit in my last semester, feeling a failure, unwilling to scrape through in despair.
In my intervening years of confusion, I was a radio DJ, podiatrist assistant, library aide, phone researcher (real research, and before it became such a nuisance, forgive, please) movie concessions, ballroom dance instructor, costumed "Litter Bug," waitress (2 weeks), auditor, art model, mall market researcher, as well as the Army National Guard and nurse. Each job taught me at least one lesson I use daily. Together, that mess of employment gave me empathy. I know about crappy, dead end jobs. After years of chronic underemployment, I value my living wage.
I know that no education is ever wasted, and today I can stand up and talk, in front of one person, or a group, speak clearly and calmly, and explain well. With humor. Useful for smarting off to surgeons or finessing anxious family members. I can empathize with any person, after writing many character studies. I can imagine a reason a difficult patient, or surgeon, is being an ass, and find a way to get through to them, or at least diffuse their hostility. Or else just duck--from stage fighting classes. When not to take moaning seriously- being able to spot a drama queen at a glance. I am wicked good at finding an analogy to describe a situation, having ushered so damn many plays, and BEING THE LIGHTBULB in actor games (ugh). Useful for answering patients questions about utterly alien experiences.
Surgery is my wonderfully, ridiculously structured work place, where I am an expert in my own sphere, and develop my own lines, and adapt creatively to changing situations. I have no homework. I will always have a job. I am happy not wearing make-up, I wear pyjamas every day that are magically cleaned by someone else. My appearance doesn't matter, aside from clean and concerned. Bleeds off (pun intended) my tendency to fuss and fix at people, and my paranoia at the vagaries of life. I am competent and cheerful, because the work fits.
I get the best stories first hand, the juicy not-for-the-dinner-table kind.
And I did just fine in college chem.
Now, I teach myself to be a writer. We shall see.
I spent school trying to figure out what I would be, my interests scattered all over the landscape. I wanted to be a pilot, because my uncle was a private pilot. A disastrous idea, since I have no sense of where I am in space outside of my own skin. I fantasized about being a dancer, but even then I knew I wasn't good enough, nor the right shape. Had fad aspirations based on tv shows, a comment in The Courtship Of Eddie's Father had me wanting to be a pediatrician- even though I didn't like children even as a child myself. Mostly I had no idea, outside of (even I would admit) the unrealistic 'actress', what I could really do. It was just answering adults. The societal demand that a career had to start in grade school. Well, it was only a generation away from apprenticeships when that was true.
I wanted to be one of the actors on a tv show, tell stories, live in a well scripted world, touch people all over the world. When I earned a full scholarship, I started in a dedicated theater curriculum, took every class to get the degree, studied hard, and never got cast in a play. Oh, I played an old lady in a grad student directed production, and I was in the croc costume for Peter Pan, not exactly portfolio material. Couldn't remember lines to save my life, I was stiff and tense, awkward and self conscious, cried at all the wrong moments. I looked all wrong for most parts. I took me 3 1/2 years to realize I would starve as an actor, and for good reason. I found that I hated being told exactly what to say and how to do my job. But also hated having to fight just to have a job to do, auditions were a nightmare. Especially when rare and critical jobs were based on my vanity. Of which I have some, but it is of a peculiar variety. I quit in my last semester, feeling a failure, unwilling to scrape through in despair.
In my intervening years of confusion, I was a radio DJ, podiatrist assistant, library aide, phone researcher (real research, and before it became such a nuisance, forgive, please) movie concessions, ballroom dance instructor, costumed "Litter Bug," waitress (2 weeks), auditor, art model, mall market researcher, as well as the Army National Guard and nurse. Each job taught me at least one lesson I use daily. Together, that mess of employment gave me empathy. I know about crappy, dead end jobs. After years of chronic underemployment, I value my living wage.
I know that no education is ever wasted, and today I can stand up and talk, in front of one person, or a group, speak clearly and calmly, and explain well. With humor. Useful for smarting off to surgeons or finessing anxious family members. I can empathize with any person, after writing many character studies. I can imagine a reason a difficult patient, or surgeon, is being an ass, and find a way to get through to them, or at least diffuse their hostility. Or else just duck--from stage fighting classes. When not to take moaning seriously- being able to spot a drama queen at a glance. I am wicked good at finding an analogy to describe a situation, having ushered so damn many plays, and BEING THE LIGHTBULB in actor games (ugh). Useful for answering patients questions about utterly alien experiences.
Surgery is my wonderfully, ridiculously structured work place, where I am an expert in my own sphere, and develop my own lines, and adapt creatively to changing situations. I have no homework. I will always have a job. I am happy not wearing make-up, I wear pyjamas every day that are magically cleaned by someone else. My appearance doesn't matter, aside from clean and concerned. Bleeds off (pun intended) my tendency to fuss and fix at people, and my paranoia at the vagaries of life. I am competent and cheerful, because the work fits.
I get the best stories first hand, the juicy not-for-the-dinner-table kind.
And I did just fine in college chem.
Now, I teach myself to be a writer. We shall see.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Limbo
I am in limbo. Never mind the particulars, I've told everyone and their dogs the whole chain of circumstances that bind me over and over and over and... well, it feels like that anyway. Nevermind. Chaos, The Hanged Man, the waiting is the hardest part thank you Tom Petty. So what do I do when I have little to do but wait? Well, I procrastinate, of course. Not creative, but stifling. I try to write, mentally pacing a small room, kicking at the wall at each rapid turn.
It's a common experience in the military, as assignments come in, but one doesn't go right away. Short Timers, playing at exaggeration. 'So short I walk under the door and don't stoop,' 'so short I'd sit on a dime and my feet'd dangle.' But I don't know how short I am. And I am not used to giving up my authority for the sake of three hots and a cot. I am used to being the one who makes sure everything gets ready, and as soon as it's time, I make it go. Surgery takes as long as it takes, but the time scale is in minutes, hours, never days, and certainly not weeks or months. Patients may come back over the course of months, but any individual procedure is a matter of less than a day, at most. And now, I am waiting weeks, perhaps months, and I am going loopy. I have been out of the military for ten years, and my life is very different now. My old methods of coping, assuming I had any (did I?) are long gone.
I can likewise wait for busses or trains, but that is also a matter of hours, or minutes if lucky. It is a manageable slice of limbo, even enjoyable if you get your head around it. As long as it is not sleeting, for instance. I am not in any pain, this is not Purgatory- a misery that might at least feel like progress. I am fine where I am, but it is stagnant. My attempts to solve the impasse have made it worse, like struggling in quicksand. I simply have to lay back and think of England. Or New England in my particular case.
I do have work to do, but in limbo, I dither and try to avoid work. I come home early to organize, then leave the cleaning for another day. I neglect to keep contact with friends. I don't exercise or read much. I get a job half done, and then leave it, sitting in the middle of the floor for later. When? Who cares. But I do, and it bugs me, and the half packed boxes sit there.
Maybe tomorrow.
(written before the move to Boston.)
It's a common experience in the military, as assignments come in, but one doesn't go right away. Short Timers, playing at exaggeration. 'So short I walk under the door and don't stoop,' 'so short I'd sit on a dime and my feet'd dangle.' But I don't know how short I am. And I am not used to giving up my authority for the sake of three hots and a cot. I am used to being the one who makes sure everything gets ready, and as soon as it's time, I make it go. Surgery takes as long as it takes, but the time scale is in minutes, hours, never days, and certainly not weeks or months. Patients may come back over the course of months, but any individual procedure is a matter of less than a day, at most. And now, I am waiting weeks, perhaps months, and I am going loopy. I have been out of the military for ten years, and my life is very different now. My old methods of coping, assuming I had any (did I?) are long gone.
I can likewise wait for busses or trains, but that is also a matter of hours, or minutes if lucky. It is a manageable slice of limbo, even enjoyable if you get your head around it. As long as it is not sleeting, for instance. I am not in any pain, this is not Purgatory- a misery that might at least feel like progress. I am fine where I am, but it is stagnant. My attempts to solve the impasse have made it worse, like struggling in quicksand. I simply have to lay back and think of England. Or New England in my particular case.
I do have work to do, but in limbo, I dither and try to avoid work. I come home early to organize, then leave the cleaning for another day. I neglect to keep contact with friends. I don't exercise or read much. I get a job half done, and then leave it, sitting in the middle of the floor for later. When? Who cares. But I do, and it bugs me, and the half packed boxes sit there.
Maybe tomorrow.
(written before the move to Boston.)
Friday, August 19, 2005
Fiction
I read Amy Tan's The Opposite of Fate, in particular her advice to writers, involving compassion and seeing another's point of view, her own issues with her difficult mother, and culture clashes. I have a difficult father, estranged completely for years, we never had any kind of peace or understanding. He is referred to in other essays, as I skirt him as a subject too painful. I try to starve my lifelong anger. I want it to settle and fade. But her words urged me to do more, to tell his story, inasmuch as I can. Let it be fiction, but let it help me understand a rather stupid and emotionally disturbed man who fathered me as well as he probably could. I cannot write his cadences, in his voice, although I hint at it, because I find it is too much like chewing on aspirin. Nor can I write it as a first person narrative, his sexuality is far too personally unsettling for me to handle. Ever. I can let go of my bitterness, but he remains galling. So here it is. Forgive the mess.
There was a farm and the vegetable stand family business, a large house that implied better days. A couple of French Canadian Catholics, of uncertain devotion, nameless now, who had sons. They expected the older boys to raise the younger ones. First Oscar, the eldest, the bully, the favored one, manipulative and powerful, ready with fists. Then loud but gentle Art, who did his best to make peace and protect the younger ones, when he felt like it, but he enjoyed tormenting them with words. Norman, slow and tall, he believed everything he heard and had a deep simple faith, and deep superstitions. Milton, challenged the authority of Oscar, and hated him. Smarter and faster than the rest, he took charge of the youngest brother, René. René was slow, but wanted to make himself better, wanted to be liked, wanted to play a musical instrument. But he was often injured because he was daydreaming, or tormented by his brothers for being dumb. One year younger, the only sister, Madeline. Red haired, doted on by their father, bossy and no brighter than the rest of the boys, she was paired with René for everything. He was held back starting school so she would go with him. The relationship between the two was forced close, unhealthy, twisted. (Take that as you will, I prefer not to speculate further, but I would not be surprized at your guesses.)
So in 1929, brother and younger sister were sent to an English-speaking public school in rural Ontario, where they would learn the language they would speak the rest of their lives outside the home. At home, only French, not educated French- River Canard French, illiterate French. They were sent because that was the law, lip service only. Working the produce stand was more important. None would get through high school, René would get to sixth grade then out. The year his father died.
He was a good looking young man, black hair and a ready smile, if you didn't notice the strain. He would talk with anyone, glib, if not bright, loud laugh and spoke with his hands a lot, had one song that he could sing, off-key. Dated a lot of girls, once. He had odd jobs, as well as working at his mother's business. He joined the Army in 1949, on the American side- his father was American by birth and he readily got his citizenship. He would have been 18 in 1941 (Was he afraid, or did his parents object? None of the brothers served during the war, they were able bodied, and Canada did have a draft, didn't they? Assume that they had no interest in going, and were not required due to farm deferment.) But perhaps guilt, perhaps not having another path, René joined, safely after the war. The American Army, not in itself all that unusual, his father had been born in the States, and immigrated to Canada. Border towns like Detroit and Windsor are like that, generations weaving back and forth. René obtained his American citizenship and joined the Army, and then, a mystery. He injured his left hand and they had to amputate his left index finger. The story is something he never tells. So what happened?
He hates the Army, hates the order, hates having to do what he is told, taunted for being stupid and inept- which he is. Hates the bullying and being the butt of every joke. He finally has plans for his life, having met a little redhead two months before. They met through his brothers' friends, he was in love with the quiet shy tiny girl. He'd just proposed, and she'd agreed, he is 27 and getting old, finally he is loved and worthwhile! So one night he goes out with a guy who will buy him drinks, maybe one of his brothers, maybe Milton, and he gets plastered. It would not take much, none of the brothers have a head for alcohol. He gets belligerent, and they get into a fight, he passes out. Or they get a bright idea of how to get out of the Army, and a knife or gun is produced. When he wakes up the next morning, his hand is a mess, and he drags himself to the hospital, where they amputate the index finger, and start him into rehab. He is ashamed of himself, but he never tells how it happened, perhaps he does not quite remember. His new fiance visits him in the hospital, flashing the little diamond ring around to keep the nurses from flirting with him. Shame and pride together. She had made him candies, too bad they were wintergreen flavored- she probably didn't know better than poisoning him. But he hadn't had too many, and he threw the rest of them over the bridge into the brook as they walked. She will depend on him, and her religion means she will stay with him.
Mary's family wasn't too thrilled, but she was 25, they could hardly say much about her choice. They married in April 1949. He talked her into having a birthday cake for his sister at the reception, since Madeline's birthday was the next day. He didn't want to make his sister jealous. Mary wouldn't refuse him, she didn't make him mad like everybody else did.
It was a hard first year, but at least he got to live next to his sister. Then he would find work in Detroit, at a copper tubing factory. Hot dirty work, but there were benefits and a union, the guys all called him Frenchy. He found them a small place, with a closet that would be room enough for a crib, his first child would be born in September 1950, a son. Dave would barely survive the first year, with constant infections, bronchitis and whooping cough, rheumatic fever and ear aches. Now if he can just figure out the trick so's he can make enough money, do good in life, keep his family alive. They find a small house and the family loans them money to get started. Three years later, a second son, smiling and happy and healthy, is born. His wife wanted a girl, but there will be more children. She is not as nice to him now, but that is just being pregnant, not getting enough sleep, right? He almost hit her, and she scared him bad, told him if he ever hit her she would not be there for him to hit again. He can't ever hit her, who would he be without her? So he yells until he feels better, and they go on. She's smarter than he is, he needs her to read, and keep his house clean, and make a life with, damn her for all that. He depends on her, and it is good to depend on people, right?
It is 1960, and Mary has had a late miscarriage, and she cries over the loss of her daughter. René is scared, because she makes him mad a lot now, his boys are in a good Catholic school, and they think they are smarter than him. He's got a good job, works eight hours every day, but it's getting harder. He is scared that if Mary has her baby girl, he won't matter to her anymore. But he wants her to be happy, and the next year she is pregnant again. This time it is a girl, born the day after his sons are confirmed. Her family were looking down their noses at him, aggravating him, making him mad, at the party. His sons are growing up and won't need him much longer, Mary sat with her sister Evelyn talking way too long, what were they talking about? They got quiet when he came near. Now he is waiting at the hospital, a blizzard raging outside, February 1962, and the doctor comes out to tell him he has a daughter. He dreams of a frilly sweet daddy's girl, tiny like Dave when he weighed no more than a cat, who would love him more than Mary, fuss over him and crawl on his lap, ask his advice and giggle. The next morning he sat with Mary when they brought in an 8 lb baby to them- how could this be a girl? She nestled into her mother's arms, Mary beaming that she had her girl "at last!" But when he reached out and held her, she screamed. When he shook her like his boys, and she screamed louder. He handed her back, his face flushing red with rage and shame. His wife was already defending the daughter, already excluding him, shutting him out. He swallowed it then, but could not forget. Could not understand.
(The rest of this is my story, and I need to tell it elsewhere. Where I will take responsibility for my own sins. He may be dying right now, and I await the news as a prisoner awaits reprieve. I cannot like the man, still do not want to talk to him, even if that were possible. But when he can no longer hurt me, I can give real forgiveness, freely, with all my heart. It is given, on probation, now. No more hurts. It is not my fault I could not be what he needed or wanted, his jealously and insecurity, his emotional damage are not my responsibility. His sins against me are no less sins for his intellectual and social deficits, but he can plead diminished capacity. I do not wish him in hell, or to whatever drags on his soul. For the sins against me, I will not hold against him past his death. What he holds against himself should he ever look into himself- is up to him. Poor man.)
There was a farm and the vegetable stand family business, a large house that implied better days. A couple of French Canadian Catholics, of uncertain devotion, nameless now, who had sons. They expected the older boys to raise the younger ones. First Oscar, the eldest, the bully, the favored one, manipulative and powerful, ready with fists. Then loud but gentle Art, who did his best to make peace and protect the younger ones, when he felt like it, but he enjoyed tormenting them with words. Norman, slow and tall, he believed everything he heard and had a deep simple faith, and deep superstitions. Milton, challenged the authority of Oscar, and hated him. Smarter and faster than the rest, he took charge of the youngest brother, René. René was slow, but wanted to make himself better, wanted to be liked, wanted to play a musical instrument. But he was often injured because he was daydreaming, or tormented by his brothers for being dumb. One year younger, the only sister, Madeline. Red haired, doted on by their father, bossy and no brighter than the rest of the boys, she was paired with René for everything. He was held back starting school so she would go with him. The relationship between the two was forced close, unhealthy, twisted. (Take that as you will, I prefer not to speculate further, but I would not be surprized at your guesses.)
So in 1929, brother and younger sister were sent to an English-speaking public school in rural Ontario, where they would learn the language they would speak the rest of their lives outside the home. At home, only French, not educated French- River Canard French, illiterate French. They were sent because that was the law, lip service only. Working the produce stand was more important. None would get through high school, René would get to sixth grade then out. The year his father died.
He was a good looking young man, black hair and a ready smile, if you didn't notice the strain. He would talk with anyone, glib, if not bright, loud laugh and spoke with his hands a lot, had one song that he could sing, off-key. Dated a lot of girls, once. He had odd jobs, as well as working at his mother's business. He joined the Army in 1949, on the American side- his father was American by birth and he readily got his citizenship. He would have been 18 in 1941 (Was he afraid, or did his parents object? None of the brothers served during the war, they were able bodied, and Canada did have a draft, didn't they? Assume that they had no interest in going, and were not required due to farm deferment.) But perhaps guilt, perhaps not having another path, René joined, safely after the war. The American Army, not in itself all that unusual, his father had been born in the States, and immigrated to Canada. Border towns like Detroit and Windsor are like that, generations weaving back and forth. René obtained his American citizenship and joined the Army, and then, a mystery. He injured his left hand and they had to amputate his left index finger. The story is something he never tells. So what happened?
He hates the Army, hates the order, hates having to do what he is told, taunted for being stupid and inept- which he is. Hates the bullying and being the butt of every joke. He finally has plans for his life, having met a little redhead two months before. They met through his brothers' friends, he was in love with the quiet shy tiny girl. He'd just proposed, and she'd agreed, he is 27 and getting old, finally he is loved and worthwhile! So one night he goes out with a guy who will buy him drinks, maybe one of his brothers, maybe Milton, and he gets plastered. It would not take much, none of the brothers have a head for alcohol. He gets belligerent, and they get into a fight, he passes out. Or they get a bright idea of how to get out of the Army, and a knife or gun is produced. When he wakes up the next morning, his hand is a mess, and he drags himself to the hospital, where they amputate the index finger, and start him into rehab. He is ashamed of himself, but he never tells how it happened, perhaps he does not quite remember. His new fiance visits him in the hospital, flashing the little diamond ring around to keep the nurses from flirting with him. Shame and pride together. She had made him candies, too bad they were wintergreen flavored- she probably didn't know better than poisoning him. But he hadn't had too many, and he threw the rest of them over the bridge into the brook as they walked. She will depend on him, and her religion means she will stay with him.
Mary's family wasn't too thrilled, but she was 25, they could hardly say much about her choice. They married in April 1949. He talked her into having a birthday cake for his sister at the reception, since Madeline's birthday was the next day. He didn't want to make his sister jealous. Mary wouldn't refuse him, she didn't make him mad like everybody else did.
It was a hard first year, but at least he got to live next to his sister. Then he would find work in Detroit, at a copper tubing factory. Hot dirty work, but there were benefits and a union, the guys all called him Frenchy. He found them a small place, with a closet that would be room enough for a crib, his first child would be born in September 1950, a son. Dave would barely survive the first year, with constant infections, bronchitis and whooping cough, rheumatic fever and ear aches. Now if he can just figure out the trick so's he can make enough money, do good in life, keep his family alive. They find a small house and the family loans them money to get started. Three years later, a second son, smiling and happy and healthy, is born. His wife wanted a girl, but there will be more children. She is not as nice to him now, but that is just being pregnant, not getting enough sleep, right? He almost hit her, and she scared him bad, told him if he ever hit her she would not be there for him to hit again. He can't ever hit her, who would he be without her? So he yells until he feels better, and they go on. She's smarter than he is, he needs her to read, and keep his house clean, and make a life with, damn her for all that. He depends on her, and it is good to depend on people, right?
It is 1960, and Mary has had a late miscarriage, and she cries over the loss of her daughter. René is scared, because she makes him mad a lot now, his boys are in a good Catholic school, and they think they are smarter than him. He's got a good job, works eight hours every day, but it's getting harder. He is scared that if Mary has her baby girl, he won't matter to her anymore. But he wants her to be happy, and the next year she is pregnant again. This time it is a girl, born the day after his sons are confirmed. Her family were looking down their noses at him, aggravating him, making him mad, at the party. His sons are growing up and won't need him much longer, Mary sat with her sister Evelyn talking way too long, what were they talking about? They got quiet when he came near. Now he is waiting at the hospital, a blizzard raging outside, February 1962, and the doctor comes out to tell him he has a daughter. He dreams of a frilly sweet daddy's girl, tiny like Dave when he weighed no more than a cat, who would love him more than Mary, fuss over him and crawl on his lap, ask his advice and giggle. The next morning he sat with Mary when they brought in an 8 lb baby to them- how could this be a girl? She nestled into her mother's arms, Mary beaming that she had her girl "at last!" But when he reached out and held her, she screamed. When he shook her like his boys, and she screamed louder. He handed her back, his face flushing red with rage and shame. His wife was already defending the daughter, already excluding him, shutting him out. He swallowed it then, but could not forget. Could not understand.
(The rest of this is my story, and I need to tell it elsewhere. Where I will take responsibility for my own sins. He may be dying right now, and I await the news as a prisoner awaits reprieve. I cannot like the man, still do not want to talk to him, even if that were possible. But when he can no longer hurt me, I can give real forgiveness, freely, with all my heart. It is given, on probation, now. No more hurts. It is not my fault I could not be what he needed or wanted, his jealously and insecurity, his emotional damage are not my responsibility. His sins against me are no less sins for his intellectual and social deficits, but he can plead diminished capacity. I do not wish him in hell, or to whatever drags on his soul. For the sins against me, I will not hold against him past his death. What he holds against himself should he ever look into himself- is up to him. Poor man.)
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Love
How do I know that it is the real thing, that I am in love, that this is the one? Such an awful, unanswerable, and misleading question. Everyone who wants to love and be loved has asked it. I have heard many glib answers. Like 'well... you'll just know.' The pervasiveness of bad relationships and failed marriages exposes this as a glib lie. Or it's an old theory of Finding The Right One, applied to the modern problem of making what was long a social/economic construct and jamming it into a Hollywood Ideal of Romance. Only by reframing the question can any sense come of it. Then, it is one of those answers that can only come out of experience. How do I know a particular individual seed will grow? By planting it and finding out.
It is far easier to be taught what love is not, and learning the red flags. Manipulation, jealousy, contempt, disregard, unfairness, hostility, all apparently obviously bad things, but how many folks in abusive relationships will say "S/he is wonderful, except (for one of these mean behaviours)!" And who of us, new at the idea of love, have not tried to control the one we hope to bed? Or lost our temper when they were not living up to our fantasy of them? Or indulged in selfish stupidity, or self-destructive envy? Why should we expect perfect love, when we are ourselves not perfect? Because we have to start somewhere, and I cannot climb a seed, I have to let it grow into a tree first.
I had lots of crushes in school, and by the time I graduated high school, having not yet had anything like a boyfriend, or indeed a date, I had formulated a Plan. I was only going to allow myself to indulge in a crush if the guy was interested in me. I am still convinced this was a good principle, but being unbalanced, led me into six years of misery. I succumbed to the "But he loves me," argument for staying in an unsatisfying and dysfunctional relationship.
I knew, in the deep of night, in the dark of my heart, that I was never in love with the ex. I loved him in the way I treated him, but I never had that spark. I simply did not think anyone else would love me. And he told me he was the only one who woud love me. He had the spark, but never treated me lovingly. There were always two different rules for polite behaviour, one for him, one for me. He would correct me for standing with my weight on one leg, or fingering my toes (a comforting habit indulged when home only.) He treated these as bad habits he was helping me stop. (Huh?) He always took the waiter's side against my ineptness ordering in restaurants, and hated losing any game to me. There were far worse things done that would drive me to escape, but these small acts of dismissal, competitiveness and petty complaint stay with me more. The signs I missed, the clues I can only see clearly now. What I could spot at a glance now, I did not even know to look for then.
When I got to know D, I was raw and damaged, angry and deeply distrustful. He was young and very inexperienced, with only his friends' misadventures with girlfriends throughout high school to inform him. We approached each other with great caution. We talked. We spent time together, quite a lot due to sitting in Colorado Springs waiting to be sent to Saudi Arabia. We joked and asked questions and offered confidences. We pulled back, and misunderstood, and tried again, apologized and spent more time together. We each proved ourselves trustworthy, and began to trust. We talked about everything, anything, and made each other laugh. He coaxed me out, never judging me or complaining about me, never forcing.
Early on, we discussed marriage, as if at the ends of proverbial long poles. I was terrified of the idea. He didn't want to be trapped in a restrictive conventional life with a house in the suburbs, kids in a mini-van, and a job that sucked out his soul for 20 years. But the spark was so strong, and all of the bored Army folk around us kept asking us when we were getting married. There was always such a sense of rightness between us. We made vows.
1. Don't lie to me.
2. Don't treat me like shit.
Which turned out to be a very good place to start. We would, over the years add:
3. Never take each other for granted.
4. Always get each other toys.
Again and again, he gives small acts of kindness and praise, without considering any of it extraordinary. He quotes me, his professors know who I am and what I think. He always greets me with enthusiasm. He takes care of my computer and makes phone calls when I get an anxious attack of call reluctance. When I stutter and cannot find words, he is attentive to the utmost. He attempts skills he knows are beyond him, because I need him, like driving on a long straight road when my exhaustion overcame me while we needed to keep moving toward home, like trying to tie my hair back when my shoulder hurts, like dancing with me at a company party. And he astounds me with his skill, playing guitar, writing dense cogent history, giving a serious, funny speech, writing music.
We try to love each other as best we can. We admire each other, and grow in order to live up to each other's vision of the other. We cultivate privacy, without fostering secrecy. We laugh. We hurt each other. We keep coming back, in humble awe for how well it seems to be working. We are perfect for each other, as imperfect as we are. Did I mention we laugh a lot?
And so two people, without malice, can find each other endlessly amusing and interesting. We grew a wonderful love. It's a very nice view from here. Utterly impossible, easy as breathing.
It is far easier to be taught what love is not, and learning the red flags. Manipulation, jealousy, contempt, disregard, unfairness, hostility, all apparently obviously bad things, but how many folks in abusive relationships will say "S/he is wonderful, except (for one of these mean behaviours)!" And who of us, new at the idea of love, have not tried to control the one we hope to bed? Or lost our temper when they were not living up to our fantasy of them? Or indulged in selfish stupidity, or self-destructive envy? Why should we expect perfect love, when we are ourselves not perfect? Because we have to start somewhere, and I cannot climb a seed, I have to let it grow into a tree first.
I had lots of crushes in school, and by the time I graduated high school, having not yet had anything like a boyfriend, or indeed a date, I had formulated a Plan. I was only going to allow myself to indulge in a crush if the guy was interested in me. I am still convinced this was a good principle, but being unbalanced, led me into six years of misery. I succumbed to the "But he loves me," argument for staying in an unsatisfying and dysfunctional relationship.
I knew, in the deep of night, in the dark of my heart, that I was never in love with the ex. I loved him in the way I treated him, but I never had that spark. I simply did not think anyone else would love me. And he told me he was the only one who woud love me. He had the spark, but never treated me lovingly. There were always two different rules for polite behaviour, one for him, one for me. He would correct me for standing with my weight on one leg, or fingering my toes (a comforting habit indulged when home only.) He treated these as bad habits he was helping me stop. (Huh?) He always took the waiter's side against my ineptness ordering in restaurants, and hated losing any game to me. There were far worse things done that would drive me to escape, but these small acts of dismissal, competitiveness and petty complaint stay with me more. The signs I missed, the clues I can only see clearly now. What I could spot at a glance now, I did not even know to look for then.
When I got to know D, I was raw and damaged, angry and deeply distrustful. He was young and very inexperienced, with only his friends' misadventures with girlfriends throughout high school to inform him. We approached each other with great caution. We talked. We spent time together, quite a lot due to sitting in Colorado Springs waiting to be sent to Saudi Arabia. We joked and asked questions and offered confidences. We pulled back, and misunderstood, and tried again, apologized and spent more time together. We each proved ourselves trustworthy, and began to trust. We talked about everything, anything, and made each other laugh. He coaxed me out, never judging me or complaining about me, never forcing.
Early on, we discussed marriage, as if at the ends of proverbial long poles. I was terrified of the idea. He didn't want to be trapped in a restrictive conventional life with a house in the suburbs, kids in a mini-van, and a job that sucked out his soul for 20 years. But the spark was so strong, and all of the bored Army folk around us kept asking us when we were getting married. There was always such a sense of rightness between us. We made vows.
1. Don't lie to me.
2. Don't treat me like shit.
Which turned out to be a very good place to start. We would, over the years add:
3. Never take each other for granted.
4. Always get each other toys.
Again and again, he gives small acts of kindness and praise, without considering any of it extraordinary. He quotes me, his professors know who I am and what I think. He always greets me with enthusiasm. He takes care of my computer and makes phone calls when I get an anxious attack of call reluctance. When I stutter and cannot find words, he is attentive to the utmost. He attempts skills he knows are beyond him, because I need him, like driving on a long straight road when my exhaustion overcame me while we needed to keep moving toward home, like trying to tie my hair back when my shoulder hurts, like dancing with me at a company party. And he astounds me with his skill, playing guitar, writing dense cogent history, giving a serious, funny speech, writing music.
We try to love each other as best we can. We admire each other, and grow in order to live up to each other's vision of the other. We cultivate privacy, without fostering secrecy. We laugh. We hurt each other. We keep coming back, in humble awe for how well it seems to be working. We are perfect for each other, as imperfect as we are. Did I mention we laugh a lot?
And so two people, without malice, can find each other endlessly amusing and interesting. We grew a wonderful love. It's a very nice view from here. Utterly impossible, easy as breathing.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Chocolate
February 15th is a wonderful holiday. It is Half-Price Chocolate Day. I stumbled up on it almost accidentally, a joke gone terribly right. We have never done Valentine's Day, or any of the other commercially mandated holidays. Ours has been a practical romanticism, a fun sense of romance. Toys and silliness more than hearts and roses. But I have a terrible sweet tooth, at least when it comes to chocolate. D knew I was happy with him when I told him I loved him as much as chocolate. That I considered him a solid chocolate bunny- the same to the core and all wonderful.
One year, after about a decade of ignoring it, Valentine's Day was coming up, and in a kind and conscientious manner, D asked if I wanted something for the holiday. I said no, it was silly and commercial. But the next day, I jokingly mentioned that well... he could get me chocolate Today, since it was not any kind of holiday, and chocolate would be half price. The only thing better than chocolate, is half price chocolate, because then you get twice as much! He knew I was joking, but he called me on it anyway and brought home a box of Godiva's. Very funny, and wonderful, and we nibbled lusciousness. The next year, he did it again, so instead of just a joke, it was a sweetly romantic, and economical gesture. The next year, a tradition. So, February 15th is Half-Price Chocolate Day. Godiva's isn't as good the past few years, so now he has to find another place to get chocolate in February. I await developments.
My love of chocolate goes deep. Mom tried to keep chocolate chips for baking, but I ate them. So did my father, and although he denied eating them, he also regularly lied all the time, and I was meticulously truthful with anything checkable. He was blamed, I was not suspected. I scarfed chocolate chips in a spoonful of peanut butter when mom went to pick up dad at work. I washed the spoon and put it away. Mom also made wonderful chocolate chip/walnut/chow mein noodle candies that I could never resist. Not that I ever actually tried. I loved my chocolate Easter bunny, and yes, bit off the ears first. I will lie, steal and commit violence for Chocolate.
While in Saudi, our chow halls were distant and far worse than usual Army fare. When the PX's opened, we ripped into the alternate food. Canned chicken spread, Pringles and Nutella. Nutella is chocolate hazelnut spread, paradise in a jar. I ate it by spoonful or fingerfull. I kept a jar under my bunk for those late night scud attacks. Or just in case I got hungry.
When I worked at a nursing home, transitional care, there was between Thanksgiving and Christmas a plethora of family gifts of chocolate. The boxes would appear as if by magic at the nurses' station. I tried to ration myself, as I had no self control when it came to good chocolate. This last Christmas in the recovery room was dangerously chocolatey. The last week I gorged, made myself sick on it, because it was omnipresent, all good, all different. I vowed every day to slow down, and wound up stuffing in fistfuls by the end of the day. I am rarely so utterly undisciplined. But those cherry and blueberry chocolates were calling to me with their smooth little voices....
Chocolate is my guilty not-terribly-secret secret. Not terribly guilty either. Tea, beer, chocolate. My impractical, frivolous joys. When I furtively whisper to D that I want (chocolate), I get to see his dimple. Joy.
One year, after about a decade of ignoring it, Valentine's Day was coming up, and in a kind and conscientious manner, D asked if I wanted something for the holiday. I said no, it was silly and commercial. But the next day, I jokingly mentioned that well... he could get me chocolate Today, since it was not any kind of holiday, and chocolate would be half price. The only thing better than chocolate, is half price chocolate, because then you get twice as much! He knew I was joking, but he called me on it anyway and brought home a box of Godiva's. Very funny, and wonderful, and we nibbled lusciousness. The next year, he did it again, so instead of just a joke, it was a sweetly romantic, and economical gesture. The next year, a tradition. So, February 15th is Half-Price Chocolate Day. Godiva's isn't as good the past few years, so now he has to find another place to get chocolate in February. I await developments.
My love of chocolate goes deep. Mom tried to keep chocolate chips for baking, but I ate them. So did my father, and although he denied eating them, he also regularly lied all the time, and I was meticulously truthful with anything checkable. He was blamed, I was not suspected. I scarfed chocolate chips in a spoonful of peanut butter when mom went to pick up dad at work. I washed the spoon and put it away. Mom also made wonderful chocolate chip/walnut/chow mein noodle candies that I could never resist. Not that I ever actually tried. I loved my chocolate Easter bunny, and yes, bit off the ears first. I will lie, steal and commit violence for Chocolate.
While in Saudi, our chow halls were distant and far worse than usual Army fare. When the PX's opened, we ripped into the alternate food. Canned chicken spread, Pringles and Nutella. Nutella is chocolate hazelnut spread, paradise in a jar. I ate it by spoonful or fingerfull. I kept a jar under my bunk for those late night scud attacks. Or just in case I got hungry.
When I worked at a nursing home, transitional care, there was between Thanksgiving and Christmas a plethora of family gifts of chocolate. The boxes would appear as if by magic at the nurses' station. I tried to ration myself, as I had no self control when it came to good chocolate. This last Christmas in the recovery room was dangerously chocolatey. The last week I gorged, made myself sick on it, because it was omnipresent, all good, all different. I vowed every day to slow down, and wound up stuffing in fistfuls by the end of the day. I am rarely so utterly undisciplined. But those cherry and blueberry chocolates were calling to me with their smooth little voices....
Chocolate is my guilty not-terribly-secret secret. Not terribly guilty either. Tea, beer, chocolate. My impractical, frivolous joys. When I furtively whisper to D that I want (chocolate), I get to see his dimple. Joy.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
Mom
I feel I have been rather unfair to my mother in these essays. She did pretty well in many areas. And with a very different set of priorities. She made sure I had a roof over my head, food on the table, clothes on my back. I was never physically hurt, and I had an intact family. She took me to the doctor when I was sick, I always had good shoes for my misshapen feet. I was sent to ballet lessons, ice skating, even flute and violin for a while, despite a lack of talent. I had a pottery class from my grade school. I went on all the class trips.
She never lost her temper at me, but that she explained and apologized for her anger after. She let me take my time, and did not berate me for my shyness, when I was small and fearful. She pampered me when I was ill, held my hand, bandaged my scrapes, fed me soothing food. With the flu, she would set me up on the couch with all the family pillows for a soft bed during the day. She bathed me through chicken pox and fevers. She fed me chicken dumpling soup when I came home from lunch in kindergarden. She read me Doctor Doolittle, and sang me lullabies at night. She took me to the library and opened a world of reading to me. She was warm and always had a hug or a kiss for me. She was generous with time and money with me, in as much as she had it to give. She sent me to Catholic school, and prayed for me to have her faith. She applauded my academic achievements, without making a fuss of it. She went ice skating with me, even though she cracked some ribs when she did it, at 54.
She taught me how to drive, despite my deep disinterest. Then got me into a driver's ed class. She taught me about sewing, and cooking- although I had talent for neither, and she had none for cooking. But I can feed myself and do minor repairs because she showed me how. I can spackle and paint, because I was included as a capable worker. We would play scrabble many days between when I came home from school and she went to pick up dad from work. A love of words and an impressive vocabulary stays with me because of her.
She sewed clothes for me, at a time when store clothes were difficult to fit and expensive. Some of it was unlikable, but there was a wonderful pale yellow jumper that felt so soft and flattered me. And an extraordinary blue wool uniform jumper - long- at my preference. I would love to have it's equal today. I wore it even when I was out of school, lovely deep pockets, pleats, very comfortable.
She was a great mom before I hit puberty. My sexuality unnerved her, and I knew it. She was not aware of how much I drew away from her in her bewilderment. She would not find out how much until ... well. She does not know. Except that something is terribly wrong, and she is alone. She did her job as well as she possibly could when I was small, and I am grateful for that. I expressed my gratitude for many years, directly to her and by pretending respect for her husband- largely at her request. Twenty years of family peace- I did my part to repay her. And would have continued to some extent, had she simply acknowledged I was doing it for her. Or if she'd changed her life from all that she complained about. Or if she appreciated her inability to protect me from my father. If, even now, she showed some interest in me as an independent adult. The silence weighs on us, but those are her rules. She forgets. She says 'the less said the better', so I will say no more. I do remember what she did well.
She never lost her temper at me, but that she explained and apologized for her anger after. She let me take my time, and did not berate me for my shyness, when I was small and fearful. She pampered me when I was ill, held my hand, bandaged my scrapes, fed me soothing food. With the flu, she would set me up on the couch with all the family pillows for a soft bed during the day. She bathed me through chicken pox and fevers. She fed me chicken dumpling soup when I came home from lunch in kindergarden. She read me Doctor Doolittle, and sang me lullabies at night. She took me to the library and opened a world of reading to me. She was warm and always had a hug or a kiss for me. She was generous with time and money with me, in as much as she had it to give. She sent me to Catholic school, and prayed for me to have her faith. She applauded my academic achievements, without making a fuss of it. She went ice skating with me, even though she cracked some ribs when she did it, at 54.
She taught me how to drive, despite my deep disinterest. Then got me into a driver's ed class. She taught me about sewing, and cooking- although I had talent for neither, and she had none for cooking. But I can feed myself and do minor repairs because she showed me how. I can spackle and paint, because I was included as a capable worker. We would play scrabble many days between when I came home from school and she went to pick up dad from work. A love of words and an impressive vocabulary stays with me because of her.
She sewed clothes for me, at a time when store clothes were difficult to fit and expensive. Some of it was unlikable, but there was a wonderful pale yellow jumper that felt so soft and flattered me. And an extraordinary blue wool uniform jumper - long- at my preference. I would love to have it's equal today. I wore it even when I was out of school, lovely deep pockets, pleats, very comfortable.
She was a great mom before I hit puberty. My sexuality unnerved her, and I knew it. She was not aware of how much I drew away from her in her bewilderment. She would not find out how much until ... well. She does not know. Except that something is terribly wrong, and she is alone. She did her job as well as she possibly could when I was small, and I am grateful for that. I expressed my gratitude for many years, directly to her and by pretending respect for her husband- largely at her request. Twenty years of family peace- I did my part to repay her. And would have continued to some extent, had she simply acknowledged I was doing it for her. Or if she'd changed her life from all that she complained about. Or if she appreciated her inability to protect me from my father. If, even now, she showed some interest in me as an independent adult. The silence weighs on us, but those are her rules. She forgets. She says 'the less said the better', so I will say no more. I do remember what she did well.
Tattoo
I do not remember the first tattoo I ever saw. An uncle, a neighbor? I always wanted my skin marked. I longed to at least wear a bubble-gum temporary tattoo, but I was not allowed. I drew on my hidden skin with pens. I do remember the first woman I saw with a tattoo. She worked in a downtown drugstore with a lunch counter. She was in her fifties, with a rose on her forearm. I shyly asked her about it, and she talked willingly. She loved it, she'd always wanted it and never for a moment regretted it. She said it made her feel beautiful in a way that would never go away. I dearly wanted to touch her eloquent skin.
The night I escaped, the ex broke all the mugs I'd collected one by one. Wine glasses from a long lost friend. He broke windows, furniture, everything breakable, save his computer. I wanted nothing around me that could be taken from me, nothing smashable. The idea of a tattoo emerged. Art that could not be removed from me.
Seven years waiting for the right image, the right time, laying it at the back of my mind to germinate. The spark came when I was in a nursing school clinical, when I met a woman with a Camel cigarette tattoo in the ICU with ARDS. I spoke to her on her first day, when she was ill, but talking. I heard her story, I saw her. As she worsened, she was filled with fluids to keep her leaky vascular system from collapsing, much of it leaking out between the cells, tripling her weight, making her unrecognizable. Intubated, she could not communicate. Except for the tattoo. That Camel logo kept her humanity, her story, in the front of my mind when she no longer looked human. She survived to leave the hospital. I expected to mourn her, instead I relish her story.
I pondered for over a year, I was 35, and I found an image of a leaping cat. Chose a spot on my belly, as I had been belly-dancing for about a year. I found a reputable place. I got a fairly young tattooist, the owner was impatient with my dithering, and questioning, said I had to trust them. I sat in the chair, and was told it would be a scratch. I took it all very badly. The pain was so intense, although it went away when the needle went away. Finally, I could not stand more. The outline was done, he convinced me to let him shade it a bit. I was sweating and shaking and trying to breathe and stay calm. As soon as I saw my outlined cat, I loved it. I did everything I needed to to heal it, watched the redness go away, occasionally filled it in with a surgical skin marker. I began to think of it as my ghost cat. And began planning another.
I have four now, all larger, longer sittings, more refulgent lines. Celtic knots, black and bold. I found a better, more experienced tattoo artist, Bones at Southern Thunder, a real artist- a good human being. I would find the pain more bearable after the first one. I took at least a year deciding on the design for each. The last the most readily visible, a cat sitting with his tail wrapped around my calf. Once in a huge standing crowd, a small finger touched the cat, the finger's owner, a toddler stared up at me alarmed. I asked him if he liked my cat, he nodded, withdrew and buried his face in his parents' legs. I wonder what kind of tattoo he will wear. Last week a woman on the street laughed and said it was the most perfect tattoo she had ever seen. Another woman also laughed and said "Mouse, mouse!" And then something in Spanish. We shared a moment of joy, if not understanding.
Nursing involves seeing bodies, and I have seen many, many tattoos. Ugly ones, amateur ones, funny and lovely. Military insignia on old Vets. A woman with a Winnie The Pooh tattoo on her lower abdomen was getting a kidney transplant. She was willing to sacrifice her tattoo for the kidney, but the surgeons took a few minutes at the end to re-attach Pooh's head. I have seen wings and roses, shy small ankle smudges and full sleeves of death's heads and naked cuties. Youthful folly or mature elaboration, simple and tiny to ornate swathes, all speaking profundities of their wearers. As for my stains, I like a kind comment, or an honest question. The only unanswerable is "What does that mean?" If I could have put it into words, I would not have gone through the pain of needling it onto my skin. I am marked, scarred, changed immutably, blessed. It means, but I cannot say how. I am not sure what mine say about me. But there they are.
I am awaiting the time for the next one.
Ask me, if you want to touch.
The night I escaped, the ex broke all the mugs I'd collected one by one. Wine glasses from a long lost friend. He broke windows, furniture, everything breakable, save his computer. I wanted nothing around me that could be taken from me, nothing smashable. The idea of a tattoo emerged. Art that could not be removed from me.
Seven years waiting for the right image, the right time, laying it at the back of my mind to germinate. The spark came when I was in a nursing school clinical, when I met a woman with a Camel cigarette tattoo in the ICU with ARDS. I spoke to her on her first day, when she was ill, but talking. I heard her story, I saw her. As she worsened, she was filled with fluids to keep her leaky vascular system from collapsing, much of it leaking out between the cells, tripling her weight, making her unrecognizable. Intubated, she could not communicate. Except for the tattoo. That Camel logo kept her humanity, her story, in the front of my mind when she no longer looked human. She survived to leave the hospital. I expected to mourn her, instead I relish her story.
I pondered for over a year, I was 35, and I found an image of a leaping cat. Chose a spot on my belly, as I had been belly-dancing for about a year. I found a reputable place. I got a fairly young tattooist, the owner was impatient with my dithering, and questioning, said I had to trust them. I sat in the chair, and was told it would be a scratch. I took it all very badly. The pain was so intense, although it went away when the needle went away. Finally, I could not stand more. The outline was done, he convinced me to let him shade it a bit. I was sweating and shaking and trying to breathe and stay calm. As soon as I saw my outlined cat, I loved it. I did everything I needed to to heal it, watched the redness go away, occasionally filled it in with a surgical skin marker. I began to think of it as my ghost cat. And began planning another.
I have four now, all larger, longer sittings, more refulgent lines. Celtic knots, black and bold. I found a better, more experienced tattoo artist, Bones at Southern Thunder, a real artist- a good human being. I would find the pain more bearable after the first one. I took at least a year deciding on the design for each. The last the most readily visible, a cat sitting with his tail wrapped around my calf. Once in a huge standing crowd, a small finger touched the cat, the finger's owner, a toddler stared up at me alarmed. I asked him if he liked my cat, he nodded, withdrew and buried his face in his parents' legs. I wonder what kind of tattoo he will wear. Last week a woman on the street laughed and said it was the most perfect tattoo she had ever seen. Another woman also laughed and said "Mouse, mouse!" And then something in Spanish. We shared a moment of joy, if not understanding.
Nursing involves seeing bodies, and I have seen many, many tattoos. Ugly ones, amateur ones, funny and lovely. Military insignia on old Vets. A woman with a Winnie The Pooh tattoo on her lower abdomen was getting a kidney transplant. She was willing to sacrifice her tattoo for the kidney, but the surgeons took a few minutes at the end to re-attach Pooh's head. I have seen wings and roses, shy small ankle smudges and full sleeves of death's heads and naked cuties. Youthful folly or mature elaboration, simple and tiny to ornate swathes, all speaking profundities of their wearers. As for my stains, I like a kind comment, or an honest question. The only unanswerable is "What does that mean?" If I could have put it into words, I would not have gone through the pain of needling it onto my skin. I am marked, scarred, changed immutably, blessed. It means, but I cannot say how. I am not sure what mine say about me. But there they are.
I am awaiting the time for the next one.
Ask me, if you want to touch.
Friday, August 05, 2005
Feet
My feet are messed up. Started out that way, turned in, squashed in. (Tiny suffering mom, big baby.) Wore special shoes to turn them out. Then wore shoes on the wrong feet, expensive leather hard encasements, told I kicked the foot of my crib through the night. Rhythmically I hope. My smallest toes didn't touch the ground, wrapped up on top of the next toes, an amusement when making childish footprints. Only had eight toes! I started very young to squeeze these toes down, reshaping them. At that age, it can work, and I did it all the time. Those smallest digits are now in a more or less normal position. I always had good fitting, solid shoes. Not pretty, but I cared very little about what shoes looked like. Obviously, my feet were not pretty. The concept was so alien to me when I first came across the idea that feet were anything other than functional. And my preference is still for the beaten, muscular feet of dancers.
I was sent to ballet class to turn my feet out when I was 7. The classes were at Patton Park, so I assume they were fairly inexpensive. The instructor provided the leotards, dyed black and rather baggy. I pointed my toes and proudly suffered cramps in my arches, stuffed my feet into ballet slippers, white to start with. Grey after use. I learned grace and discipline and got used to how I looked moving in a mirror, and the feel of my body in space. Longed to be on Pointe. Stopped long before I was old enough, too young for musculature developed enough to stand on my toes.
This led to my pronation, unfortunately. Fallen arches, I roll my feet forward, and need arch supports or my back hurts as well as my feet. In college the first time, I got soft cheap shoes, and my feet started really hurting for the first time. I was dancing and fencing and running, all in cheap shoes. Cotton Chinese shoes, canvas boots from Payless, sneakers. I started having back problems and my feet ached, but I just lived in the pain. I was young and stupid and on my own, making mistakes I pay for today. Such is life.
I worked for a while as a podiatrist assistant in a downtown Detroit clinic. Old, worn feet. Abused old lady feet, stuffed into too small, pointy toed shoes for decades. I got the whirlpool ready, did the x-rays, cleaned surfaces, shuffled patients, and tried to hurry the podiatrist (my real, and semi-official, job.) I never judged the feet as aesthetic issues. Just a source of pain for their owners. It would be years before I got better shoes for myself.
My "honeymoon" involved hiking through the Grand Tetons. I had never hiked before, and the one person who should have cared about me and hiked enough to know I needed decent hiking boots was too concerned about his own gear. My sneaker clad feet were wet throughout, I suffered altitude sickness and blisters. It was beautiful beyond belief, and today I remember it as something I did alone, so that I can remember the beauty. I cannot quite forget the cold feet.
My doctor told me to get some arch supports about four years ago, so I did. The pain over the first month was incredible, but gradually my foot pain eased, and my back pain did as well. Then I moved to Boston, and my feet became a source of daily awareness, again. I have good shoes now, good arch supports. I will walk, or die.
Well, eventually I will die anyway, but at least I will walk there.
I was sent to ballet class to turn my feet out when I was 7. The classes were at Patton Park, so I assume they were fairly inexpensive. The instructor provided the leotards, dyed black and rather baggy. I pointed my toes and proudly suffered cramps in my arches, stuffed my feet into ballet slippers, white to start with. Grey after use. I learned grace and discipline and got used to how I looked moving in a mirror, and the feel of my body in space. Longed to be on Pointe. Stopped long before I was old enough, too young for musculature developed enough to stand on my toes.
This led to my pronation, unfortunately. Fallen arches, I roll my feet forward, and need arch supports or my back hurts as well as my feet. In college the first time, I got soft cheap shoes, and my feet started really hurting for the first time. I was dancing and fencing and running, all in cheap shoes. Cotton Chinese shoes, canvas boots from Payless, sneakers. I started having back problems and my feet ached, but I just lived in the pain. I was young and stupid and on my own, making mistakes I pay for today. Such is life.
I worked for a while as a podiatrist assistant in a downtown Detroit clinic. Old, worn feet. Abused old lady feet, stuffed into too small, pointy toed shoes for decades. I got the whirlpool ready, did the x-rays, cleaned surfaces, shuffled patients, and tried to hurry the podiatrist (my real, and semi-official, job.) I never judged the feet as aesthetic issues. Just a source of pain for their owners. It would be years before I got better shoes for myself.
My "honeymoon" involved hiking through the Grand Tetons. I had never hiked before, and the one person who should have cared about me and hiked enough to know I needed decent hiking boots was too concerned about his own gear. My sneaker clad feet were wet throughout, I suffered altitude sickness and blisters. It was beautiful beyond belief, and today I remember it as something I did alone, so that I can remember the beauty. I cannot quite forget the cold feet.
My doctor told me to get some arch supports about four years ago, so I did. The pain over the first month was incredible, but gradually my foot pain eased, and my back pain did as well. Then I moved to Boston, and my feet became a source of daily awareness, again. I have good shoes now, good arch supports. I will walk, or die.
Well, eventually I will die anyway, but at least I will walk there.
Restaurant
I used to have awful restaurant karma.
Finicky eater, it was texture and odor more than flavor that put me off. Gristle killed my appetite. Coconut in cake was like finding a hair. Grease gave me the queasies. My mother's lack of cooking skill, or imagination, was not helpful. Her baking, though, was amazing, there was dessert after every meal. She had a way with sugar, I still have the sweet tooth to prove it. Nutrition was meat, milk and potatoes. Growing up so poor herself, she did not have milk, ate shortening and brown sugar on bread as a treat. Her idea of vegetables was mashed potatoes, with milk and margarine, salt and pepper. French fries, slightly browned, lots of salt. Fried potatoes, potato casserole- baked with milk and cheese. Canned green beans heated up. Lettuce with tomatoes and dressing- salad. Mandatory glass of milk with every meal. Meat was the core of every meal, but that meant fried or baked chicken- battered. Hamburger or meatloaf only edible with a thick layer of ketchup. Canned-salmon patties. Occasional perch over cooked. Much lemon juice to cover up that taste. Not that I blame her, she was not cooking for an appreciative group. I would have lived on cinnamon toast for breakfast and pb&j the rest of the time, with her desserts. With a small budget, she resisted restaurants because she 'could feed us for a week on what would be spent on one meal'. Her words. No doubt accurate.
Restaurants were for traveling only, and at that time, McDonalds was the best choice. Family vacations, 10 days of enforced togetherness, and chancy food, and emotions running high. I never knew what to order, it was the only time I was given a choice about food. So I went with cheap and safe, which is not a good strategy altogether. Not that I had any idea of needing a menu strategy. Kid menus were years in the future. My parents were not up on the idea of tipping. There was too much food, with the horrible expectation that I would "clean my plate."
I really started eating out in college. Had some wonderful Greek meals, and a whole lot of wrong orders, burnt, undercooked, or otherwise inedible food. Ditto Mexican, Chinese, Polish, and American Diner cuisine. Often to do with being poor and ordering the cheapest thing on the menu. I got frustrated and angry at waiters and cooks. The ex used to apologize to them in my hearing for my "bad manners" without ever trying to teach me how to order better.
I lowered my expectations with mess halls-it was after all free. There were Drill Sergeants whose job it was to be 'chow hall push', "If you're talking, you're not eating!", "IF you can taste it you are eating. too. slow." And other forms of harassment to keep the flow of soldiers going through the feeding process. I didn't need much urging- it was true, if I ate fast enough, the taste didn't matter. I would inhale whatever it was and have a few precious minutes alone to walk back to the barracks. Fair trade. Free food.
After that, I could eat anything. But I also decided that if I were eating out, I was going to order nothing that would show up in a chow hall. I slowly came to realize that it mattered what you ordered, and where. That I needed a strategy. It would take a while. D also tended to try to apologize for me, which I quashed as condescending, with the caveat that he work with me. He agreed, apologized, and did. I learned to be pleasant-no easy skill for me. I finally had enough income to eat out- a key element. We became regulars at the Rio Grande Cafe at the former train station in Salt Lake. Gradually I worked out a list of rules for avoiding bad service and bad food, and it had more to do with how I looked at eating than what I was given.
1. Never order hamburger at a place that does mostly Fish.
2. Don't order the only fish on the menu.
3. Don't order the cheapest thing on the menu, especially if it is grilled cheese.
4. If my waiter is slow or having trouble hearing me, do not order anything that needs adjustment, i.e. 'no onions'. Just order something that doesn't have onions.
5. Don't get mad or picky, just be firm and apologetic, and flexible. Trading plates will make my friends happier than me sitting there fuming with no food. Eggs are eggs, regardless of how they are cooked, just eat them.
6. Don't go into a restaurant very hungry with low blood sugar, the order will certainly never show up, or be grossly wrong. Get a candy bar first.
7. Order the same thing every time when I am with a large group, it's the friends not the food. And they can order for me if I am in the restroom. Or too tired to chose well. (Dave will probably still have a salad with honey mustard dressing, on the side. )
8. Add an extra $5-10 when I am sharing a group check, someone always forgets the tax or is cheap about tips, don't let it be me.
9. If I can't afford it, eat home first and get an appetizer, or dessert. I am not paying for the food, I am paying for the service and ambience, no matter what I might think.
10. Become a regular.
I made a lot of mistakes and was very irritable before I worked out these rules. I annoyed my friends, ruined many an evening, embarrassed D, and shamed myself. I finally stopped blaming, and expecting perfection because I was paying for this. I took what I was given, and looked for the good in it. Places have lost my business because they would not meet me halfway, but I have stopped making scenes. Even when it comes to restaurants, you can't buy happiness, you have to take it in with you.
I still miss the Rio Grande Cafe. But let me take you out to Wok 'n Roll.
Finicky eater, it was texture and odor more than flavor that put me off. Gristle killed my appetite. Coconut in cake was like finding a hair. Grease gave me the queasies. My mother's lack of cooking skill, or imagination, was not helpful. Her baking, though, was amazing, there was dessert after every meal. She had a way with sugar, I still have the sweet tooth to prove it. Nutrition was meat, milk and potatoes. Growing up so poor herself, she did not have milk, ate shortening and brown sugar on bread as a treat. Her idea of vegetables was mashed potatoes, with milk and margarine, salt and pepper. French fries, slightly browned, lots of salt. Fried potatoes, potato casserole- baked with milk and cheese. Canned green beans heated up. Lettuce with tomatoes and dressing- salad. Mandatory glass of milk with every meal. Meat was the core of every meal, but that meant fried or baked chicken- battered. Hamburger or meatloaf only edible with a thick layer of ketchup. Canned-salmon patties. Occasional perch over cooked. Much lemon juice to cover up that taste. Not that I blame her, she was not cooking for an appreciative group. I would have lived on cinnamon toast for breakfast and pb&j the rest of the time, with her desserts. With a small budget, she resisted restaurants because she 'could feed us for a week on what would be spent on one meal'. Her words. No doubt accurate.
Restaurants were for traveling only, and at that time, McDonalds was the best choice. Family vacations, 10 days of enforced togetherness, and chancy food, and emotions running high. I never knew what to order, it was the only time I was given a choice about food. So I went with cheap and safe, which is not a good strategy altogether. Not that I had any idea of needing a menu strategy. Kid menus were years in the future. My parents were not up on the idea of tipping. There was too much food, with the horrible expectation that I would "clean my plate."
I really started eating out in college. Had some wonderful Greek meals, and a whole lot of wrong orders, burnt, undercooked, or otherwise inedible food. Ditto Mexican, Chinese, Polish, and American Diner cuisine. Often to do with being poor and ordering the cheapest thing on the menu. I got frustrated and angry at waiters and cooks. The ex used to apologize to them in my hearing for my "bad manners" without ever trying to teach me how to order better.
I lowered my expectations with mess halls-it was after all free. There were Drill Sergeants whose job it was to be 'chow hall push', "If you're talking, you're not eating!", "IF you can taste it you are eating. too. slow." And other forms of harassment to keep the flow of soldiers going through the feeding process. I didn't need much urging- it was true, if I ate fast enough, the taste didn't matter. I would inhale whatever it was and have a few precious minutes alone to walk back to the barracks. Fair trade. Free food.
After that, I could eat anything. But I also decided that if I were eating out, I was going to order nothing that would show up in a chow hall. I slowly came to realize that it mattered what you ordered, and where. That I needed a strategy. It would take a while. D also tended to try to apologize for me, which I quashed as condescending, with the caveat that he work with me. He agreed, apologized, and did. I learned to be pleasant-no easy skill for me. I finally had enough income to eat out- a key element. We became regulars at the Rio Grande Cafe at the former train station in Salt Lake. Gradually I worked out a list of rules for avoiding bad service and bad food, and it had more to do with how I looked at eating than what I was given.
1. Never order hamburger at a place that does mostly Fish.
2. Don't order the only fish on the menu.
3. Don't order the cheapest thing on the menu, especially if it is grilled cheese.
4. If my waiter is slow or having trouble hearing me, do not order anything that needs adjustment, i.e. 'no onions'. Just order something that doesn't have onions.
5. Don't get mad or picky, just be firm and apologetic, and flexible. Trading plates will make my friends happier than me sitting there fuming with no food. Eggs are eggs, regardless of how they are cooked, just eat them.
6. Don't go into a restaurant very hungry with low blood sugar, the order will certainly never show up, or be grossly wrong. Get a candy bar first.
7. Order the same thing every time when I am with a large group, it's the friends not the food. And they can order for me if I am in the restroom. Or too tired to chose well. (Dave will probably still have a salad with honey mustard dressing, on the side. )
8. Add an extra $5-10 when I am sharing a group check, someone always forgets the tax or is cheap about tips, don't let it be me.
9. If I can't afford it, eat home first and get an appetizer, or dessert. I am not paying for the food, I am paying for the service and ambience, no matter what I might think.
10. Become a regular.
I made a lot of mistakes and was very irritable before I worked out these rules. I annoyed my friends, ruined many an evening, embarrassed D, and shamed myself. I finally stopped blaming, and expecting perfection because I was paying for this. I took what I was given, and looked for the good in it. Places have lost my business because they would not meet me halfway, but I have stopped making scenes. Even when it comes to restaurants, you can't buy happiness, you have to take it in with you.
I still miss the Rio Grande Cafe. But let me take you out to Wok 'n Roll.
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