Eleanor

I met a man and his wife today. The man, a former guidance counselor at the local state university was rolling himself back and forth in his wife's wheel chair as he spoke. She begrudgingly woke up so I could see how she was eating. After nine days in the hospital he had clearly been deprived of stimulating conversation. In thirty minutes we ran the gamut from basic medical information, the election and the where are you from get to know you information. He went to grad school at Columbia, while he was there he had a job as a chauffeur for the university. His most well known guest was non-other than Eleanor Roosevelt. As they chatted she told him to visit her at Hyde Park. His wife was in the city visiting him and he was able to introduce her to Mrs. Roosevelt too. He went to Hyde Park the next weekend and "do you know" he told me with fresh excitement in his voice, "she remembered me". She gave him a tour of the museum and everything. A kid in his early twenties and a lady in her fifties or sixties, she cared so deeply about the next generation. It was so much more than autobiographical musings. I'm sure he's told this story hundreds of times but I felt it was a gift just for me. The coincidence of reading Eleanor Roosevelt's final book and then meeting a man who could have been in it, felt more like destiny. He had brought his wife deviled eggs, I watched her eat just one, gumming the white for what felt like five minutes then muttering "so now what" with her mouth still full of yolk. When she finally swallowed she accepted a few cleansing sips of honey thick sierra mist, a soda Mrs. Roosevelt missed out on. I asked her if she could tell me who she met while visiting Columbia (she was living upstate raising three young boys while her husband finished his education). Being hard of hearing she hadn't been paying much attention to the conversation besides she was focused on the egg. "How'd you know about Mrs. Roosevelt" she answered. I tried to explain but she was not listening, she was falling into a memory. "It was so quick", she murmured, "I didn't get to say everything I wanted but she asked me two questions right off the bat". How I wish the thread of memory hadn't snapped, I wish she could have followed it to the end so she could have told me about the questions. We just couldn't get her back around them. A night school teacher, mother of three growing up in the fifties. I hope her sons or grandchildren have heard this story, I hope they have written it down, I hope they know the two questions even if Grandma's answers weren't as profound as she would have like them to be. I can only imagine the nights awake replaying the moments, the things she wishes she would have said or the questions she would have asked if given more time to prepare, perhaps a second chance. Her husband got the same distant look in his eyes when I mentioned the familial nature of Mr. Roosevelt's fireside chats I have heard my grandparents describe. I think the nostalgia is part of the kindling fueling the older generations burning distaste for our current administration. We both agreed a man so brilliant would never run for president to day, he would be far to smart to subject every detail of his life to such intense scrutiny. How things have changed! Hyde Park had no metal detectors, the FBI didn't do a back ground check on the chauffeur, the secret service didn't ride along and Mrs. Roosevelt remembered all she heard. The husband described how in the moment he was with her it seemed nothing else was on her mind, she was completely focused on the moment, in the present giving and receiving, perfect reciprocity. No cell phones or buzzers, no radio or TV ; just two people from two different worlds exchanging opinions and sharing ideas; an interaction so powerful it has lasted almost seventy years. An old man, his wife in bed; and then there's me, barely older than they were back then, full of adventure and hope. He failed to relate anything specific she said gave no sound bites, no quotes, the gift she gave him was her conversation, her time and she listened. I needed to leave I had other patients to see, I asked if there were any questions and he was beaming as he said "I'm glad to have met you. You are just exuberant! Thank you!"I left them smiling, knowing in a small way Mrs. Roosevelt's gift is one we are all occasionally capable of giving.

Small Thrills

Last night
with all the expectation a first impression can muster
the what ifs bordering on am I crazy and why bother.
My eternal optimist wages a war of internal monologues with her cynic foe.

I painted my nails
a merely symbolic pale pink just enough color to hide the dings.
They will be revealed soon enough one nail at a time chipping, torn, picked away.

The joys of a new language the culture of me meets the world of who?
Possibility is the label I shall pin on this small thrill;
of conversation, connection and pasta.
I paint my nails in anticipation of really good pasta
... and maybe a glass of wine

In Ohio I started drinking my coffee black, up until then it had been light and sweet regular coffee in New York City. Hospitals have the best coffee, that my not be such a universal truth anymore as espresso carts are taking over the lobby and Starbucks has caught wind a great marketing opportunity. So many people empolyed in the effort to prevent early checkout or makeing the most of life altering situations. Everyone from business to surgery works long hours sustained by caffeine predominately in the form of coffee. Then there are the visitors, the other portion of the cafeterias clientele, they pay full price but can usually get a free refill. You need the caffeine to help when keeping vigil, just in case a doctor graces the room with his presence, you must be ready as the opportunity to ask the gnawing questions may not present itself again. The coffee they brew on the floors for the patients is not the same, in fact at meals that would be the number one complaint, "the coffee is awful". Especially the thickened instant coffee; or patients who already are having trouble swallowing this is guaranteed to make one gag. "It is better than nothing", I try to console, no one seems to be buying this. I hope Mrs. S has finally had her coffee she left for an extended care facility. All she wanted was one strong cup of hot black coffee. She said milk masks the taste, by the time ones late eighties foll around the pretence of milk is unnecessary. Open and honest, without pretension, living life like a cup of hospital coffee...black.

First Snow in Mansfield

Okay I'll be the first to admit it. I was compelled to got outside to day, I was due for a little exercise and yes I stuck out my tongue to catch the falling snowflakes. It has been about five years since I have been anywhere near the snow and that was for a weekend ski trip where the temperatures topped sixty degrees. It has been more like eight years since I have been outside when it is actively snowing.
Okay so nothing is sticking to the ground yet. I put on my green hat and leopard print gloves, my scarf and my jacket and a pair of closed toed shoes and made my way down the hill. I followed the rivulets of runoff, the iridescent streams composed of oil and other toxic fluids from the parking lots. As I pass the mailboxes I am keenly aware my shoes are not waterproof. My toes were just cold but now they are indeed wet. Time to turn around.
Okay so the lady pulling into the otherwise deserted complex looked at me like I was crazy to be out in the cold. As I passed her getting out of her car she asked me where I had bought my hat. I replied, I've had it forever, I really can't remember (not entirely true because it must have come from California where hats such as this one are more for fashion and less about function). “It's a nice one”, she said. “You know”, I remembered suddenly, “My sister gave it to me for my birthday a while back”. This is entirely true, she had bought me the perfect green knit hat for Christmas one year, it is not easy to find the perfect hat, I promptly lost it on a bus leaving New York City. The next year for my birthday she found me this one, only a close imitation of the first but it was sweet of her to remember.
Okay so I walk back up to my building wondering if the rivulets will be frozen in the morning and noticing my jacket is wet. It is snowing harder and I am glad I decided not to take a long walk. The warmth of reentering my apartment makes the cold worth it. Snow I am remembering, is best enjoyed from the inside looking out, but then of course it is much harder to catch with your tongue.

Rescuing the Princess

There are fairy tales left to be written we haven't unearthed them all yet.
Tales of conquest, tales of the heart, of dragons yet unmet.
They are waiting so pick up your pen, open your laptop, roll up your sleaves.
The princesses swoon, the werewoolves are waiting for another full moon.
A world of magic histories of giants, the glory and the gore.
You know their world you have studied their time.
Reveal us they scream for there isn't much time.
Through us your years of research can speak
closing a chapeter of life on the brink

Nameless

Give me a hand to take in my own
fingers soft and long.
Give me the stars on a cloudless night
and I'll wonder if I belong.
Give me a squeeze that doesn't let go
Give me the headlights the freeway at night and I've never been so alone.
Give me the age spots spackled across veins arching bluish green.
What words will never adequately convey palm to palm can do.
Let me take your hand in mine and look into your eyes
bypassing the confusion.
A squeeze speaks to the soul
No need to remember names.

A Californian in Knoxville

Human whispers fill the theater, the sound of exotic crickets in a deserted meadow interrupted only by throat clearing and coughing. I f not for these sounds, eyes closed, one would never know the difference. The orchestra tunes up for the second movement the grand piano emerges from the floor, the maestro appears, shakes hands with the concert master and the pianist makes his way to the bench. The way he moves it is apparent he knows how to optimally position every inch of his body. He has the look of a high diver about to take the plunge. Bouncing the board to test the springs, taking a few steps backward; the pianist leans forward, touches the knob on the bench, leans back, addresses the keyboard with his hands, then adjusts again. With a nod to the maestro the movement is off and running. At first I do not notice the sound behind me as it is consistent with the rhythm of the music. The constant puffing of an elderly patron's portable oxygen tank, 3/4 time, even I could tell she is no longer on the beat. Hiss, two, three, hiss two three, hiss two three. "Adjust it", I think, the dichotomy of forced air against the music is driving me mad. Selfish! I chastise myself for prizing my experience over her ability to breathe, but others are beginning to notice too (not that shared selfishness makes it anymore acceptable). At last my mind relaxes, mezzo forte saves me, drowns it out. Pianissimo brings it right back. It is all I can hear. She of course does not, hard of hearing for sure, I imagine she has her hearing aids turned off for the concert. I fight to pull my compassionate self forth, happy she can get out, proud of her for it, empathetic to her plight. It's not working, with every hiss my shoulders tighten. The movement ends, I hardly notice, until the repressed coughs start to fly freely. She would go into respiratory distress the ambulance would be called, then it would really disrupt the experience. I reason with myself, this little annoyance is much better. I am here, a live performance, still the gentle tinkle of the piano is punctuated every third beat by the release of air. I am wedged between two smokers, I breathe through my mouth to avoid the smell of stale choking smell. The music swirls like a tornado then abruptly stops. Hiss two three, hiss two three. The featured pianist' body subtly groves as the syncopation increases, quickly giving way to a somber cello solo. Melodic chords flow simply now like water from a garden fountain: STOP make it STOP! ahhh forte covers the breathing. The 2nd movement concludes on tip toe. The third movement opens like a race, a marching band a circus fortissimo my body melts feeling the rapid fire marimba in my fingers.
Gershwin is after intermission. The pianist does not return nor does the couple sitting next to me. I notice even the exit signs of the restored theater are period style with curls on the ends of each letter. The orchestra tunes again the crickets subside, everyone waits for the next piece as for the appearance of an old friend at the airport. Gershwin's American in Paris, the Audrey Hepburn personified anthem for anyone who has ever wanted to reinvent herself. The notes prance across the stage, the anticipated bells and whistles rolling over the audience like a warm blanket one might curl up with while watching TV, not so much for warmth but for it's familiarity and comfort. The music begs you to engage, "tap your feet", "nod your head", "hum along under your breathe" "don't just sit there". I hear it calling. I feel like a little girl in a spinny skirt you know the kind that flows in a perfect circle when you twirl. Spinny skirt, open field, cloudless sky, warm breeze, round and round I twirl. Ding, Clang (hiss). "HEY world its me!" Fully alive in every positive characteristic molded to my individual personality and blissfully unaware of all the others. "Its me", I shout to the birds, trees, the breeze, God, the grass and to me; an introduction of my diluted adult self to me. "LETS PLAY" Cue slinky clarinets and plodding percussion. Round and round and round I twirl, the flutes run so fast I fall down my head swimming, laughing for the mere joy of being. Trumpets roll me down a hill, breathless I arrive, pianissimo at the bottom. I catch my breathe stand up and start to swing, no partner needed, inhibitions extinguished, no one here to see. I wore polka dots tonight to commemorate this frivolity, speckled pink on black. When the last applause had faded and I was sure there was to be no encore, I waded into the happy audience flowing towards the doors. An elderly man was half listening to his wife relive a Parisian vacation, responding in his stereotypic southern drawl, "only Paris I been to is Paris TN". Not justifying the comment with a response, she turned to me, "you come by yourself?" she asked, "yes I did" I respond. "Good for you"she smiles, looking back at her husband. At home in my living room I move the coffee table to see how it spins. \n",1]
);
//-->
Gershwin follows the intermission. The pianist does not return nor does the couple sitting next to me. I notice even the exit signs of the restored theater are period style with curls on the ends of each letter. The orchestra tunes again the crickets subside, everyone waits for the next piece as for the appearance of an old friend at the airport after a substantial seperation. Gershwin's American in Paris, the Audrey Hepburn personified anthem for anyone who has ever wanted to reinvent herself. The notes prance across the stage, the anticipated bells and whistles rolling over the audience like a warm blanket one might curl up with while watching TV, not so much for warmth but for it's familiarity and comfort. The music begs you to engage, "tap your feet", "nod your head", "hum along under your breathe" "don't just sit there". I hear it calling. I feel like a little girl in a spinny skirt you know the kind that flows in a perfect circle when you twirl. Spinny skirt, open field, cloudless sky, warm breeze, round and round I twirl. Ding, Clang (hiss). "HEY world its me!" Fully alive in every positive characteristic molded to my individual personality and blissfully unaware of all the others. "Its me", I shout to the birds, trees, the breeze, God, the grass and to me; an introduction of my diluted adult self to me. "LETS PLAY" Cue slinky clarinets and plodding percussion. Round and round and round I twirl, the flutes run so fast I fall down, my head swimming, laughing for the mere joy of being. Trumpets roll me down a hill, breathless I arrive, pianissimo at the bottom. I catch my breath stand up and start to swing, no partner needed, inhibitions extinguished, no one here to see. I wore polka dots tonight to commemorate this frivolity, speckled pink on black. When the last applause had faded and I was sure there an encore was not forthcoming, I waded into the happy audience flowing towards the doors. An elderly man was half listening to his wife relive a Parisian vacation, responding in his stereotypic southern drawl, "only Paris I been to is Paris TN". Not justifying the comment with a response, she turned to me, "you come by yourself?" she asked, "yes I did" I respond. "Good for you", she smiles, looking back at her husband. At home in my living room I move the coffee table to see how the polka dots spin.