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You can't hurt a turkey. Ann Benson
Hemingway once said something like. "Life breaks us all, but some of us heal stronger in the broken places." I have a hard time with Hemingway, but that thought is wonderful....more later. ladymabelgrex
Friday, March 27, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
George W Bush and Terror
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Monday, September 8, 2008
Lunch Under the Willow
Mollie stood outside St Gregory's school looking as forlorn as she could manage in the bright afternoon sun. The sidewalk was full of happily free students running around in their blue jumpers and brown corduroy pants. Sister Evelyn stood talking to Terry Wright's mother. The nun and Terry's mother had been friends since childhood, and they stood there almost every day visiting. It was strange to watch them. Terry's mother said, "Fuck" or "Damn" or "Jesus" after almost every word, and sister Evelyn just stood there in the sunshine across the street from the little church, listening. Boys and girls both wore the same kind of white shirt with square collars and blue and white saddle shoes.. Jimmy was sitting in his huge, ancient car on the street, waiting for Grace to come out with Kathleen so he could drive them the three quarters of a mile home. Mollie hoped Grace or Jimmy would offer her a ride if she stood there looking sad enough. Grace and Kathleen emerged from the door with the statue of the Virgin Mary over it and into the street. As she and her daughter climbed into Jimmy's back seat, Grace said, "Hop in, Girlie," and Maggie gratefully hopped into the front seat. "Home, James," Grace said. Jimmie's right arm was gone from the elbow down, and he wore what Maggie thought looked like a sock over the stump sticking out of his short sleeved shirt. The Dodgers were on the radio, playing the World Series. Jimmie talked about how he lost his arm in the war while he listened to the game. When the Dodgers made a home run, there'd be lots of yelling on the radio, and Jimmie would poke her in the ribs with his stump in excitement. At first, Maggie had been horrifiied at being poked with a stump covered in a sock, but after a few rides, she got used to it. Jimmie was retired and volunteered at the church during the day. In the afternoon, he drove Grace and Kathleen home, and if Maggie was lucky, she got a ride the mile to her house, too. Mollie was in second grade, and Kathleen a grade behind her with Jo. Mollie and Jo walked to school together every morning past Kathleen's house. It was set back from Figueroa by a huge lawn with a weeping willow and a pepper tree shading Kathleen's little table with matching chairs. Grace and Kathleen met them every morning, and they all walked to school together. Kathleen did not have a father. Grace said he had been killed in the war. Grace lived with Kathleen in the house under the the pepper tree with her grandparents and her mother. All four of them were very quiet, unlike Maggie's family. Grace made all of Kathleen's dresses for Mass from pretty material with little flowers and two satin ribbons around the waist. Grace made dresses for herself exactly the same, but bigger.
Once, Grace invited Jo and Maggie to have lunch with Kathleen on Saturday, and for a miracle, Mother let them go. Usually, Mother called the mother of any child who invited Maggie for lunch and very politely refused the invitation. Maggie was always furious and depressed listening to her Mother say how she knew so and so's Mother was too busy to have Maggie for lunch. This time, though, maybe she didn't have the phone number or something, but she dressed Mollie and Jo in their best dresses, and the girls walked the same route to Kathleen's house they walked every morning. This time, though, they walked up the walk that went down the center of the lawn, which was in the front instead of the back like everybody else, to the front door and politely knocked. Kathleen's grandmother answered the door with Kathleen in her pretty dress with pink ribbons around the waist. She led the three girls to Kathleen's little table in the shade. Today, it had a little flowered tablecloth, small plates and cloth napkins. They sat in chairs that matched the table, and Grace served them tuna sandwiches on a pretty plate, cut in half with no crusts. She poured lemonade into small glasses with ice. Mollie was very impressed with the elegance of the lives of Kathleen, her mother, and her grandparents. They clearly lived a much nicer life than Mollie and her six brothers and sisters. There were always neighborhood children for lunch on Saturday after the library or the pool, depending on the time of year. They sat with the Sullivan children in the kitchen nook, lined up on benches with Maggie at the end so she could get up when more milk was necessary or it was time for Popsicles. They ate whatever horror Mother had stirred up with tomato sauce out of leftovers. The neighborhood kids seemed to like these lunches; Maggie hated them, but in Maggie's house, you came to meals and ate what you got if you valued you life. There were certainly no miniature, crustless sandwiches or lemonade in glasses that matched the dishes.
Once, Grace invited Jo and Maggie to have lunch with Kathleen on Saturday, and for a miracle, Mother let them go. Usually, Mother called the mother of any child who invited Maggie for lunch and very politely refused the invitation. Maggie was always furious and depressed listening to her Mother say how she knew so and so's Mother was too busy to have Maggie for lunch. This time, though, maybe she didn't have the phone number or something, but she dressed Mollie and Jo in their best dresses, and the girls walked the same route to Kathleen's house they walked every morning. This time, though, they walked up the walk that went down the center of the lawn, which was in the front instead of the back like everybody else, to the front door and politely knocked. Kathleen's grandmother answered the door with Kathleen in her pretty dress with pink ribbons around the waist. She led the three girls to Kathleen's little table in the shade. Today, it had a little flowered tablecloth, small plates and cloth napkins. They sat in chairs that matched the table, and Grace served them tuna sandwiches on a pretty plate, cut in half with no crusts. She poured lemonade into small glasses with ice. Mollie was very impressed with the elegance of the lives of Kathleen, her mother, and her grandparents. They clearly lived a much nicer life than Mollie and her six brothers and sisters. There were always neighborhood children for lunch on Saturday after the library or the pool, depending on the time of year. They sat with the Sullivan children in the kitchen nook, lined up on benches with Maggie at the end so she could get up when more milk was necessary or it was time for Popsicles. They ate whatever horror Mother had stirred up with tomato sauce out of leftovers. The neighborhood kids seemed to like these lunches; Maggie hated them, but in Maggie's house, you came to meals and ate what you got if you valued you life. There were certainly no miniature, crustless sandwiches or lemonade in glasses that matched the dishes.
Mollie loved the Gregorian Chant Requiem Mass. She had been learning to sing it since first grade, and when she was in sixth grade, she was allowed to join the choir and sing Mass when someone died in the parish. She stood in the choir box over the people next to the Mrs. Grady, the organist, dirctly in front of Sister Julie St Francis, at least once a month. She looked down at the flowers, the casket, the people in black and sang for God's mercy. She did not have to read the Latin or hear the nun give the tone on her lilttle wheel. She knew the responses by heart, Et cum spiritu tuo. And with your spirit. When she got back to her room in the school, she ate cereal from a box at her desk with the rest of the choir while the boys got to read their books or color. She would look for music like that for the rest of her life, but all the Gregorian chant on records was by monks from this or that monastery in Europe and was not the same. She never knew the people in the caskets or their black clothes trailing after the casket with the priest spreading incense as they left the church. She felt nothing but the glory of the music. The shout of the Kyrie. Have mercy.
Once, when she was in third grade, she had had to leave school for some reason, and Jimmy had taken her home in his ancient Chevy, but he had stopped at his house first for some small errand. Maggie had gone into his house with him, chattering. She sat in the little living room while he went into the back, and she met Vera. Jimmy was old. He had fought in WW l and l lost the lower part of his right arm. Vera was , of course, old too, a thin, fluttery old lady, and she clearly loved Jimmy. She flitted around him, telling him to take a sweater, it was cold. She had eyes only for Jimmy and hardly noticed Mollie.
Then, in eighth grade, Mollie sang Vera's Requiem Mass. It was the first time Mollie had known the person in the casket, and she watched the pall bearers carry the casket with Vera down the center aisle. She watched the priest follow with the censer. She watched Jimmy, quiet for the first time since she had known him. She wondered how Jimmy would do without his Vera skittering around, cooking for him, making sure he had his sweater when he went out in the rain to help in the parish, to drive forlorn little girls home, listning to the Dodgers. Mollie did not see Jimmy again for some months, and she didn't think about him or Vera. Then she sang his Requiem. She stood in the box, next to Mrs. Grady, in front of Sister Julie St Francis and sang the clean, plainsong for Jimmy and thought about love. Jimmy could not live without his Vera. That was what happened when you married for the usual reasons, went to war, lost your arm, came home and worked. You bought a house and lived in it for maybe sixty years. Mollie had never heard whether Jimmy had children, but he had worked until he retired. Mollie did not know at what. He had lived with Vera so long that he could not live without her. He had true love.
Once, when she was in third grade, she had had to leave school for some reason, and Jimmy had taken her home in his ancient Chevy, but he had stopped at his house first for some small errand. Maggie had gone into his house with him, chattering. She sat in the little living room while he went into the back, and she met Vera. Jimmy was old. He had fought in WW l and l lost the lower part of his right arm. Vera was , of course, old too, a thin, fluttery old lady, and she clearly loved Jimmy. She flitted around him, telling him to take a sweater, it was cold. She had eyes only for Jimmy and hardly noticed Mollie.
Then, in eighth grade, Mollie sang Vera's Requiem Mass. It was the first time Mollie had known the person in the casket, and she watched the pall bearers carry the casket with Vera down the center aisle. She watched the priest follow with the censer. She watched Jimmy, quiet for the first time since she had known him. She wondered how Jimmy would do without his Vera skittering around, cooking for him, making sure he had his sweater when he went out in the rain to help in the parish, to drive forlorn little girls home, listning to the Dodgers. Mollie did not see Jimmy again for some months, and she didn't think about him or Vera. Then she sang his Requiem. She stood in the box, next to Mrs. Grady, in front of Sister Julie St Francis and sang the clean, plainsong for Jimmy and thought about love. Jimmy could not live without his Vera. That was what happened when you married for the usual reasons, went to war, lost your arm, came home and worked. You bought a house and lived in it for maybe sixty years. Mollie had never heard whether Jimmy had children, but he had worked until he retired. Mollie did not know at what. He had lived with Vera so long that he could not live without her. He had true love.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Skating
Mollie eased herself out of the hole in the middle of the bed, around her small sisters and dressed herself without thinking about it. She was twelve years old and quietly happy. Mother had not yet lighted the heaters, and it was cold. She made her way around the litter of presents that covered the tiny living room floor. Striped candies and nuts were scattered among the bright packages, and a red bicycle leaned on its stand close to the tree in the corner. Mollie could tell it was for one of the boys. It had the bar across the middle that was such a drawback at Devil's Dips. Last summer, Bobbi had hit a dip too hard, landed on that bar and hurt her privates. When the other kids finally helped her limp home, and she privately showed Mollie, her genitals were swollen to twice their size and hurt horrendously. Mollie had done the unthinkable. She called Mother at work. Mother said drily that they were not supposed to go to Devils Dips and call Dr. Ziff. Mollie called shaking with fear, but he had just said to put ice on. Mollie thought Bobbi looked really hurt, and was a little annoyed that no one seem to think this was important, but she put on the ice, and Bobbi seemed all right later. This Christmas morning, Bobbi and all the kids were still asleep, Maggie and Lolie in Mollie's narrow bed. Little bowls of striped candies and chocolates rested on flat surfaces. An electric train ran on its track in a circle around the tree. Also for a boy, but the girls would take turns on their knees, twisting the dial on the transformer. So would Daddy, who loved toy trains, and if Dick came by, he'd be down on his knees, too, running the train. Daddy and Dick both loved machines, and they loved to run the toy trains together. The kids would have to wait until the men went to Mass to get their hands on the transformer of the train and turn the dial. The tree itself was lit, and glass trumpets, drums, little houses and balls with holes holding tiny winter scenes sparkled in the flicker. During Advent, Daddy brought a glass tree oranament almost every night from his evening walk. On Christmas eve they always left the lights on so Santa could find his way around.
Mollie opened the door and stepped out into the chilly dawn. She walked the silent mile past the ice cream shop, the auto repair shops, the storefront churches, the neighborhood stores , and the men on the corner who told her what they would do to her when she was older to Mother of Sorrows church while the sun turned the sky shades of pink. At the anteroom of the church, she climbed the stairs to the choir box and stood in her assigned place next to the organ, directly in front of Sister Julie St. Francis. The girls had come every afternoon of Christmas vacation to practice this Mass. Sister had stood with her back to the tabernacle in the dusky church and made them go over every section over and over again, "No, no. Faster, faster," waving her arms like a conductor. The girls had it down, soprano and alto, a shout of joy. "Adeste fideles! Come you faithful!" Mollie stood next to Angelina's hat made of bunny fur with pom poms and envied her while her soul rejoiced in the music. As he walked off the altar after Mass, Father Mc Govern gave them the "V" sign with his fingers, and the people looked up at them as they left the church. After, Mollie walked home in the fully born morning. She came through the kitchen door, past her mother, who did not look up from her eternal sink of dirty dish water and went to help her sisters get ready for 8:30 Mass. She took their red hair out of the little pink curlers and used her index finger and a brush to them give heads of perfect ringlets. The sitter had spent the afternoon of the day before washing hair and twisting it into the curlers. Mollie helped Maggie and Lolie to wash hands and faces and put on dresses, found socks and helped them tie saddle shoes. The children set off without breakfast since those old enough were all receiving Communion. Mollie attended that same Mass with her brothers and sisters every Sunday but Christmas and Easter. When the kids were gone, Mollie sat on her bed and read, "Jo's Boys." She'd checked the series of Louisa May Acott's books out of the school library every year since she had discovered them in sixth grade.
The house was quiet. Mother was still in the kitchen, still washing dishes with her hands in dirty, cold water. Nine children made a mountain of dishes and if Mother was not cooking, she was washing dishes. She always said she didn't want help. She liked it that no one would bother her while she was washing dishes because they were afraid she'd make them help. Daddy was asleep, curled up in blankets in the bedroom. The train went on running in circles around the tree and the lights sparkled on the tinsel and bounced off the the little trumpets, gingerbread houses and drums in the quiet.
Daddy was still curled in his blankets when the kids got home from Mass. The children went into the living room to look at the presents and wonder about them. They were not allowed to open anything until they had been to Mass, had breakfast, and Daddy was was up. Mollie set the table in the breakfast nook with nine plates, four on each side and one on the end with mismatched,chipped plates and forks on the left, knife and spoon on the right, the way Mother had taught her. She went into the kitchen, took out a frying pan and put it on the stove with its chrome top. She took a pound of bacon out of the refrigerator, peeled the slices off one at a time and lay them in a row in the frying pan. When the first row was crisp, she made another until the bacon was almost done. Then she found another pan and took a bowl of whole boiled potatoes out the refrigerator, peeled them with a knife, the peels so thin you could see through them the way Mother had taught her and sliced them into hot margarine in the pan. She opened the broiler and lay nine slices of thin white bread in rows, closed the door and turned on the broiler. Mollie was careful to watch the toast. When the broiler was cold, toast took a long time. Then it got hot and she got busy with the bacon, and it burned. Mother exploded in fury when that happenend. When the bacon was done, she broke an egg into the bacon fat, another without touching the first. "Breakfast is ready she called and put potatoes, slices of bacon, and an egg on each plate as the eggs cooked. She put the toast on the table for the kids to butter, poured milk for everybody and sat down at the head of the table. The kids ate without the usual amount of pushing and teasing. Jimmy buttered his toast so thick you could hardly see the bread. As the plates got cleaned, Mollie said, "Maggie, give me your plate. Jimmy give me yours. One at a time, she piled the plates, forks, spoons, and knives in front of herself. Then she picked up the pile and carried it to the kitchen and set it on the counter next to the dish water. She finished clearing the table and washed it with the dish cloth the way Mrs. Spruitt had taught her in even, parallel swipes so there wouldn't be any marks in the light. The kids stood around in the living room, looking at the presents, waiting for Daddy who was still curled in the blankets. They were suffering,but they did not dare go into the bedroom. Daddy had a terrible temper and believed firmly in physical punishment, and he did not like his sleep disturbed. Finally, Bobbi couldn't stand it any more. She went into the bedroom, touched Daddy and said, "Daddy, are you up yet?" She lived. Daddy got up cheerfully and came out into the living room. The children were quiet but nearly mad with excitement
Daddy got on his knees under the tree and handed out the presents one at a time. He read the labels, "To Jo from Santa. To Patrick from Santa." He ignored the train and bicycle as if he got up every morning to find a toy train running around his living room. The children tore the colorful paper and ribbons from the packages. All of them had written letters to Santa and given them to Mother for mailing. They had made requests for whatever was on TV that year, Toni Dolls, Tonka Trucks, Ballerina Dolls. Molllie had hoped against hope for a Betty Crocker baking set. Phillip got Tinker Toys, Patrick trucks and cars, John a battery run police car. Georgie an Erector Set.The bike was also for Georgie who did not yet have one. Daddy told them that the train was for all the boys. Mollie got a bride doll, Maggie a china tea set, Lolie got a Baby Tears doll who wet and cried real tears. Jo opened a toy kitchen set, and there was a doll house with furniture for all the girls. Lolie tore paper for fun. She hardly cared about the stuffed bear and letter blocks at first. There was a Little Golden book for each small child, and Mollie got a long playinging record of the James M Cohan songs and a little record player of her own. Mrs Spruitt had carefully wrapped god knows how many pairs of underwear, which made Mollie think how much she hated Mrs. Spruitt. There were roller skates for every child, incuding training skates for Lolie and Maggie. Mother got a purse embroidered with lovely flowers from Japan that Daddy had picked out especially and was very proud of and Evening in Paris perfume from Dick. Daddy got a 25 cent notebook with flowers on the cover that Mollie had picked out and paid for herself. Molllie had saved the money from the five cents a day she got for babysitting. All of the children helped dump out the Tinker Toys and letter blocks and build wonderful houses with windmills and fantasy buildings for the cars to run on. Daddy and Dick got down on the floor with the train. The boys stood patiently around in a circle and watched while the men made sounds of joy. Then Georgie took his bike outside. Dick put aside his macho to run down the street holding the back of the bike while Georgie pedaled. Then it was time for Mother and Daddy to get ready for Mass. Mollie noted how many years she had asked for a bride doll and not gotten it. But she was delighted with the record player and got Daddy's '78s out. Daddy said, "Be careful. Don't scratch them. They break." She knew.
As the sun went down, Mother put ice on the salad mix in the sink, and Daddy sat on the kitchen stool, talking, talking with "Life" or "Look" on his lap. A quart bottle of Budweiser and a pint of Seagrams 7 sat on the bread board. Mother and Daddy took shots of whiskey followed by glasses of beer as the day wound down quietly. All nine kids were outside, skating. They went down to the car repair shop on the corner and skated on the smooth concrete in front where the mechanics put cars up on ramps to work on them. They skated down the bumpy ramps. If you fell at the bottom of one of those ramps, it really hurt your tailbone. All the other kids laughed, and you bore your pain in stoic silence, holding your breath until it subsided. Whitey, the car lot dog, ran among the children, barking and waving his tail. Jo had gotten skates with rubber wheels, and everyone was jealous until the kids revved their skates very fast down the sidewalk in the evening cold. Sparks flew from the wheels of everybody's skates but Jo's. The rubber wheels would not go really fast, and they did not make sparks, and the other kids were glad they had not gotten them.
Mollie opened the door and stepped out into the chilly dawn. She walked the silent mile past the ice cream shop, the auto repair shops, the storefront churches, the neighborhood stores , and the men on the corner who told her what they would do to her when she was older to Mother of Sorrows church while the sun turned the sky shades of pink. At the anteroom of the church, she climbed the stairs to the choir box and stood in her assigned place next to the organ, directly in front of Sister Julie St. Francis. The girls had come every afternoon of Christmas vacation to practice this Mass. Sister had stood with her back to the tabernacle in the dusky church and made them go over every section over and over again, "No, no. Faster, faster," waving her arms like a conductor. The girls had it down, soprano and alto, a shout of joy. "Adeste fideles! Come you faithful!" Mollie stood next to Angelina's hat made of bunny fur with pom poms and envied her while her soul rejoiced in the music. As he walked off the altar after Mass, Father Mc Govern gave them the "V" sign with his fingers, and the people looked up at them as they left the church. After, Mollie walked home in the fully born morning. She came through the kitchen door, past her mother, who did not look up from her eternal sink of dirty dish water and went to help her sisters get ready for 8:30 Mass. She took their red hair out of the little pink curlers and used her index finger and a brush to them give heads of perfect ringlets. The sitter had spent the afternoon of the day before washing hair and twisting it into the curlers. Mollie helped Maggie and Lolie to wash hands and faces and put on dresses, found socks and helped them tie saddle shoes. The children set off without breakfast since those old enough were all receiving Communion. Mollie attended that same Mass with her brothers and sisters every Sunday but Christmas and Easter. When the kids were gone, Mollie sat on her bed and read, "Jo's Boys." She'd checked the series of Louisa May Acott's books out of the school library every year since she had discovered them in sixth grade.
The house was quiet. Mother was still in the kitchen, still washing dishes with her hands in dirty, cold water. Nine children made a mountain of dishes and if Mother was not cooking, she was washing dishes. She always said she didn't want help. She liked it that no one would bother her while she was washing dishes because they were afraid she'd make them help. Daddy was asleep, curled up in blankets in the bedroom. The train went on running in circles around the tree and the lights sparkled on the tinsel and bounced off the the little trumpets, gingerbread houses and drums in the quiet.
Daddy was still curled in his blankets when the kids got home from Mass. The children went into the living room to look at the presents and wonder about them. They were not allowed to open anything until they had been to Mass, had breakfast, and Daddy was was up. Mollie set the table in the breakfast nook with nine plates, four on each side and one on the end with mismatched,chipped plates and forks on the left, knife and spoon on the right, the way Mother had taught her. She went into the kitchen, took out a frying pan and put it on the stove with its chrome top. She took a pound of bacon out of the refrigerator, peeled the slices off one at a time and lay them in a row in the frying pan. When the first row was crisp, she made another until the bacon was almost done. Then she found another pan and took a bowl of whole boiled potatoes out the refrigerator, peeled them with a knife, the peels so thin you could see through them the way Mother had taught her and sliced them into hot margarine in the pan. She opened the broiler and lay nine slices of thin white bread in rows, closed the door and turned on the broiler. Mollie was careful to watch the toast. When the broiler was cold, toast took a long time. Then it got hot and she got busy with the bacon, and it burned. Mother exploded in fury when that happenend. When the bacon was done, she broke an egg into the bacon fat, another without touching the first. "Breakfast is ready she called and put potatoes, slices of bacon, and an egg on each plate as the eggs cooked. She put the toast on the table for the kids to butter, poured milk for everybody and sat down at the head of the table. The kids ate without the usual amount of pushing and teasing. Jimmy buttered his toast so thick you could hardly see the bread. As the plates got cleaned, Mollie said, "Maggie, give me your plate. Jimmy give me yours. One at a time, she piled the plates, forks, spoons, and knives in front of herself. Then she picked up the pile and carried it to the kitchen and set it on the counter next to the dish water. She finished clearing the table and washed it with the dish cloth the way Mrs. Spruitt had taught her in even, parallel swipes so there wouldn't be any marks in the light. The kids stood around in the living room, looking at the presents, waiting for Daddy who was still curled in the blankets. They were suffering,but they did not dare go into the bedroom. Daddy had a terrible temper and believed firmly in physical punishment, and he did not like his sleep disturbed. Finally, Bobbi couldn't stand it any more. She went into the bedroom, touched Daddy and said, "Daddy, are you up yet?" She lived. Daddy got up cheerfully and came out into the living room. The children were quiet but nearly mad with excitement
Daddy got on his knees under the tree and handed out the presents one at a time. He read the labels, "To Jo from Santa. To Patrick from Santa." He ignored the train and bicycle as if he got up every morning to find a toy train running around his living room. The children tore the colorful paper and ribbons from the packages. All of them had written letters to Santa and given them to Mother for mailing. They had made requests for whatever was on TV that year, Toni Dolls, Tonka Trucks, Ballerina Dolls. Molllie had hoped against hope for a Betty Crocker baking set. Phillip got Tinker Toys, Patrick trucks and cars, John a battery run police car. Georgie an Erector Set.The bike was also for Georgie who did not yet have one. Daddy told them that the train was for all the boys. Mollie got a bride doll, Maggie a china tea set, Lolie got a Baby Tears doll who wet and cried real tears. Jo opened a toy kitchen set, and there was a doll house with furniture for all the girls. Lolie tore paper for fun. She hardly cared about the stuffed bear and letter blocks at first. There was a Little Golden book for each small child, and Mollie got a long playinging record of the James M Cohan songs and a little record player of her own. Mrs Spruitt had carefully wrapped god knows how many pairs of underwear, which made Mollie think how much she hated Mrs. Spruitt. There were roller skates for every child, incuding training skates for Lolie and Maggie. Mother got a purse embroidered with lovely flowers from Japan that Daddy had picked out especially and was very proud of and Evening in Paris perfume from Dick. Daddy got a 25 cent notebook with flowers on the cover that Mollie had picked out and paid for herself. Molllie had saved the money from the five cents a day she got for babysitting. All of the children helped dump out the Tinker Toys and letter blocks and build wonderful houses with windmills and fantasy buildings for the cars to run on. Daddy and Dick got down on the floor with the train. The boys stood patiently around in a circle and watched while the men made sounds of joy. Then Georgie took his bike outside. Dick put aside his macho to run down the street holding the back of the bike while Georgie pedaled. Then it was time for Mother and Daddy to get ready for Mass. Mollie noted how many years she had asked for a bride doll and not gotten it. But she was delighted with the record player and got Daddy's '78s out. Daddy said, "Be careful. Don't scratch them. They break." She knew.
As the sun went down, Mother put ice on the salad mix in the sink, and Daddy sat on the kitchen stool, talking, talking with "Life" or "Look" on his lap. A quart bottle of Budweiser and a pint of Seagrams 7 sat on the bread board. Mother and Daddy took shots of whiskey followed by glasses of beer as the day wound down quietly. All nine kids were outside, skating. They went down to the car repair shop on the corner and skated on the smooth concrete in front where the mechanics put cars up on ramps to work on them. They skated down the bumpy ramps. If you fell at the bottom of one of those ramps, it really hurt your tailbone. All the other kids laughed, and you bore your pain in stoic silence, holding your breath until it subsided. Whitey, the car lot dog, ran among the children, barking and waving his tail. Jo had gotten skates with rubber wheels, and everyone was jealous until the kids revved their skates very fast down the sidewalk in the evening cold. Sparks flew from the wheels of everybody's skates but Jo's. The rubber wheels would not go really fast, and they did not make sparks, and the other kids were glad they had not gotten them.
Monday, August 18, 2008
Hi doll
Hi, doll, what are you doing? If it's all right with you, I'm going to the chess club tonight. I know it's my day off. I hope you don't mind. Good. I was up in the canyon yesterday after work. There was no one at the house but Marilyn. She asked me to give her a ride to some club where she likes the drummer. I took her up there, and when the set was over, she went into a back room with the guy. When she came out she was ready to go, so I took her home. She said she wanted to thank me by having sex. Of course, I would have gone for it, but then Tom got home. She said she was in love with Tom and couldn't fuck me with him in the house. She didn't want him to know to she screwed anyone but him. Too bad. Well, I love you. See you later. I put down the receiver in my little bungalow by the harbor in San Pedro, listened to the horns sounding in the dark, the whistles of the train on the track that passed down by the water and thought. Well, at least he's honest. I guess he'll never lie to me. I guess
Sitar
It was Topanga Canyon, 1966 I was sitting on a stool in the black enameled kitchen. The girls were making California enchiladas with hamburger.Frank Zappa's Suzy Creamcheese was blasting over the loudspeakers. One of the men lighted a joint, took a drag, and passed it along. I sat on my stool, and when the joint got to me, I just passed it to Marilyn, who was sitting on a kitchen chair in her negligee, chatting about her day in the city, working. That's not my bag, man. Tom opened a cabinet door, took out a large bottle of maraschino cherries, twisted the cap, and handed it to me with a flourish. Annoyed, I took one. I hate maraschino cherries. At the time, I didn't get the point, what with the black kitchen and Suzy Creamcheese blasting. The chatter was about "art." Tom was incredibly good looking and actually a very talented painter, but he talked shit almost all the time. He had an IQ of 140. He was a genius. Gary was designing suede pantsuits in wonderful colors. I really wanted one, but I had absolutely no money, and Jose never offered. Gary thought they might be taken by the Broadway, or Macy's, or Buffums. except he couldn't leave the canyon. It was not his bag to negotiate with the square world, man. Jack was training animals for the movies somewhere nearby. All the women looked like Michele Phillips, except Esther, who was heavy with long, wavy, dark hair and married to Jack. Time had just published a long piece on the hippie movement. Hippies were the new bohemians with long hair, very romantic clothes, long flowing skirts, embroidered jeans, and homemade jewelry. Haight Ashbury was still just a neighborhood in San Francisco. The action was in Topanga Canyon outside of Los Angeles. California dreamin'.
The house was supposed to be a commune; everybody would work together for the common good. No freeway lanes here, no square pegs, freedom for all. The problem was that all the men were artists, and the women all worked in Santa Monica down twisting Topanga Canyon Blvd. The men sat around during the day doing drugs and drawling slowly about art. The dishes and mess waited where they were until the girls got home from work. When the girls arrived,they were tired from their long days in the sqare world, wanted to put on their negligees, smoke dope, and relax. The house was expensive, andthe girls didn't make much, so there was never any food, and the men got grouchy and blamed each other for the mess and the empty kitchen, like six year olds. It was Jack's turn to clean up. Well I'm not doing the dishes from your turn yesterday, Tom would drawl through a haze of whatever pills he had taken. The lovely canyon trees would lean against the windows of the house, and a red tail hawk circled and circled in the sky unnoticed. Outside the house, it was very green and quiet. The sun shone gold on the streams with ferns leaning into the cool water, and the California sun glinted on the ocean ten miles away. You could see it from the canyon on a clear day. Topanga canyon has more clear days than most places in Los Angeles county.
Jose had brought a hundred pound bag of potatoes and the humburger. Thus we would have the California enchiladas made from a can of tomato sauce, god knows what spices and legal and illegal herbs. Tortillas are cheap. The women moved around the black kitchen in their sleepwear. The men leaned against the walls, smoking dope and drawling about art man.
After dinner we retired to the huge, windowed living room. It was lined with cots like a Roman salon, and and people reclined or sat against the cushioned walls while Gary played the sitar. The only light was from candles here and there and the moon through the windows. We were each solitary, listening to the sitar music and, I guess, meditating. The music was horrendously bad. Pliiiiiiiiiiiiing, Pliiiiiiiiing, Pliiiiiiiiiing. On and on. One wondered how the Indian people got through life with such music. Gary. of course, was so loaded he could not stand up, the lighted tip of a joint was going from hand to hand, the air scented with marijuana, grass and eucalyptus, incense. Sober though I knew him to be, Jose would take an occasional drag. He said it had no effect. I was stone, cold, straight, sober. The music may have sounded good if you were loaded. I didn't get a lot of movies, either. I heard a rustling behind me and looked around. Esther was on top, her naked flesh moving rhymically in the cool light of the moon and candles. I didn't see who the man was. I quickly turned back around. Pliiiiiiiiiiing, plong, pliiiiiiiing. Jose and I would make love in the little room he paid for here when the evening wound down, the people had passed out, and the sitar concert was over. Until last week,I could never hear the word sitar without a shudder. Pliiing, pliiiiiing, plong, pliiiing. Tom wrote poetry, too. They all did, but the girls. He wrote one about me in the nude. He never saw me nude, or even in a negligee, but he got it exactly right. He had a wonderful eye.
Two Thanksgivings ago, we brought Tom from South or North Carolina. He lives in his parents' house near Ashville, where Thomas Wolfe lived. He hates it. He had an accident, and he's nearly blind, but he draws obsessively with pastels, and he's still good. He's addicted to uppers, and his brain is gone, but he can stll do magic with pastels. We gave him a box of pastels and a cheap easel. He nearly wept.
We used to live near the Norton Simon museum in Pasadena, and it always amazes me how far we have to drive now from Hollywood. My daughter was invited by her cousin to see her perform with the cousin's husband in an Indian music concert there last weekend. We didn't know what kind of Indian it was, but we went. The freeway was miraculously fast. The museum was having an exhibit of Indian from India art, so it would be that kind of music. My daughter looked around and said maybe she was underdressed in her shorts and cute top. I am always underdressed, and I'm rarely alone, so I looked around and pointed out a couple of ladies in jeans and shorts. We went into the little auditoriun and looked at the programs, sitar music-the guy had taught at Cal Arts, studied in India under the great master who I thought must be dead by now. Just his name gave me shudders, and of course, I have blocked it out. Well. maybe I would learn something. The program described the two men in worshipful detail and hardly mentioned my daughter's cousin. She came out in a sari and sat cross legged holding the neck of a stringed instrument. The men came out, bowed, touched their forheads, bowed to each other, and sat cross legged. The man talked about how great the Indian man was and made no mention of his wife who sat silently behind, smiling occasionally. The man tuned his sitar for a long time. Then he played a meditative solo. Boring, but not bad. I need more exposure to appreciate it, I guess. The drummer played solo. Okay! Stunning. The earth moved. Then the monsoon rains came, tearing out of the sky, over the fields, poured down the streeets. It beat and beat and beat. The world would end with this rain, nothing like our gentle California storms. This was the voice of god beating against the world, bringing life and death at the same time.
The house was supposed to be a commune; everybody would work together for the common good. No freeway lanes here, no square pegs, freedom for all. The problem was that all the men were artists, and the women all worked in Santa Monica down twisting Topanga Canyon Blvd. The men sat around during the day doing drugs and drawling slowly about art. The dishes and mess waited where they were until the girls got home from work. When the girls arrived,they were tired from their long days in the sqare world, wanted to put on their negligees, smoke dope, and relax. The house was expensive, andthe girls didn't make much, so there was never any food, and the men got grouchy and blamed each other for the mess and the empty kitchen, like six year olds. It was Jack's turn to clean up. Well I'm not doing the dishes from your turn yesterday, Tom would drawl through a haze of whatever pills he had taken. The lovely canyon trees would lean against the windows of the house, and a red tail hawk circled and circled in the sky unnoticed. Outside the house, it was very green and quiet. The sun shone gold on the streams with ferns leaning into the cool water, and the California sun glinted on the ocean ten miles away. You could see it from the canyon on a clear day. Topanga canyon has more clear days than most places in Los Angeles county.
Jose had brought a hundred pound bag of potatoes and the humburger. Thus we would have the California enchiladas made from a can of tomato sauce, god knows what spices and legal and illegal herbs. Tortillas are cheap. The women moved around the black kitchen in their sleepwear. The men leaned against the walls, smoking dope and drawling about art man.
After dinner we retired to the huge, windowed living room. It was lined with cots like a Roman salon, and and people reclined or sat against the cushioned walls while Gary played the sitar. The only light was from candles here and there and the moon through the windows. We were each solitary, listening to the sitar music and, I guess, meditating. The music was horrendously bad. Pliiiiiiiiiiiiing, Pliiiiiiiiing, Pliiiiiiiiiing. On and on. One wondered how the Indian people got through life with such music. Gary. of course, was so loaded he could not stand up, the lighted tip of a joint was going from hand to hand, the air scented with marijuana, grass and eucalyptus, incense. Sober though I knew him to be, Jose would take an occasional drag. He said it had no effect. I was stone, cold, straight, sober. The music may have sounded good if you were loaded. I didn't get a lot of movies, either. I heard a rustling behind me and looked around. Esther was on top, her naked flesh moving rhymically in the cool light of the moon and candles. I didn't see who the man was. I quickly turned back around. Pliiiiiiiiiiing, plong, pliiiiiiiing. Jose and I would make love in the little room he paid for here when the evening wound down, the people had passed out, and the sitar concert was over. Until last week,I could never hear the word sitar without a shudder. Pliiing, pliiiiiing, plong, pliiiing. Tom wrote poetry, too. They all did, but the girls. He wrote one about me in the nude. He never saw me nude, or even in a negligee, but he got it exactly right. He had a wonderful eye.
Two Thanksgivings ago, we brought Tom from South or North Carolina. He lives in his parents' house near Ashville, where Thomas Wolfe lived. He hates it. He had an accident, and he's nearly blind, but he draws obsessively with pastels, and he's still good. He's addicted to uppers, and his brain is gone, but he can stll do magic with pastels. We gave him a box of pastels and a cheap easel. He nearly wept.
We used to live near the Norton Simon museum in Pasadena, and it always amazes me how far we have to drive now from Hollywood. My daughter was invited by her cousin to see her perform with the cousin's husband in an Indian music concert there last weekend. We didn't know what kind of Indian it was, but we went. The freeway was miraculously fast. The museum was having an exhibit of Indian from India art, so it would be that kind of music. My daughter looked around and said maybe she was underdressed in her shorts and cute top. I am always underdressed, and I'm rarely alone, so I looked around and pointed out a couple of ladies in jeans and shorts. We went into the little auditoriun and looked at the programs, sitar music-the guy had taught at Cal Arts, studied in India under the great master who I thought must be dead by now. Just his name gave me shudders, and of course, I have blocked it out. Well. maybe I would learn something. The program described the two men in worshipful detail and hardly mentioned my daughter's cousin. She came out in a sari and sat cross legged holding the neck of a stringed instrument. The men came out, bowed, touched their forheads, bowed to each other, and sat cross legged. The man talked about how great the Indian man was and made no mention of his wife who sat silently behind, smiling occasionally. The man tuned his sitar for a long time. Then he played a meditative solo. Boring, but not bad. I need more exposure to appreciate it, I guess. The drummer played solo. Okay! Stunning. The earth moved. Then the monsoon rains came, tearing out of the sky, over the fields, poured down the streeets. It beat and beat and beat. The world would end with this rain, nothing like our gentle California storms. This was the voice of god beating against the world, bringing life and death at the same time.
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