Story time with Miss Nicole

Going to story time at the library made me ask myself did my brother and I ever have the experience of going to a library with a family member to hear someone tell a story? I don't think I ever knew there was such a place as a public library. We did have a story time experience, but it was at home in Iowa on a Saturday morning. We would bring my mother a comic book and try to wake her up which was almost impossible. She went to college and worked and studied constantly. Saturday morning was her one day to get some sleep. What worked was making her a strong cup of instant coffee. I'm sure we made it triple strength because her hair would stand straight up and her eyes would pop open. We would sit on her bed trying not to gag as she read Superman or Batman and we would be glued to every word. We would then watch the Saturday morning shows that ended at noontime. Saturday morning was a trip to far off lands, to another time long ago when men wore big hats and rode horses and the hero would only get shot in the shoulder which we knew would only take a week to heal because the following Saturday he would be good as new.We had spaceships that looked like ice cream cones wrapped in tin foil that sped to the moon and beyond. Again the hero would only get wounded in the shoulder which we knew only took a week to heal. So is this 2013 world a better place with Miss Nicole and her high sweet voice reading a story about astronauts flying to the moon than my 1950's world? I looked at Samaya's face feeling the loss of gravity along with the other kids making the journey to another world on a space ship. I leaned against the back wall with Violet on my lap who was surprisingly well behaved outside of the earth's atmosphere. I breathed in particles of disintegrating words coated in wonder that floated down from rows of wooden shelves.Is the world a better place?--such cosmic questions giants ask each other on Mount Olympus. I am a small man who lives in Eliot--no mountains or giants in sight. Here on this little corner of earth,I can try to make their world a better place. My first official act will be teaching them how to make a decent cup of coffee.

The Lone Ranger I saw a commercial for the new Lone Ranger movie starring Johnny Depp in the Tonto role. Johnny Depp is a great actor but maybe he lost a bet and has to wear buffalo underwear on screen. That being said he will probably win the Oscar. The clip I saw has Depp saying "Kimosabe" and the Lone Ranger says, "What is wrong with you? I keep telling you my name is the Lone Ranger."(not true, sorry Johnny). And then he says, "You need to go out shoot another buffalo because you definitely need some fresh underwear. I am not camping out another night with you!"(that is not true either). In fact,this whole blog has been a tissue of lies. I was the one that lost the bet and was made to write this blog. Who knows? Truth is relative which reminds me of my grandmother(one of my favorite relatives). When I was very young I remember sitting in a dark living room with my brother and grandmother listening to the Lone Ranger on radio. He had such a rich deep voice and was such a good actor. I could imagine riding along side of him and Tonto chasing the bank robbers. I could see the canyons and smell the dry wind as it flew by. Take me with you,I would whisper. I would look over at my grandmother who was knitting--always knitting in the dark with her ear turned toward the radio and I thought it was all normal and that maybe I would grow up listening to radio shows and my imagination would build up and tear down worlds with the end of one show and the beginning of another feeling safe because my grandmother was right there--she would always be right there. I would wake up in the morning and my grandmother would be gone and I knew my mother was sleeping having coming home very late from the brick factory by the river that is now an improbable art museum. Now it's late at night and there is one lamp on and instead of the sound of clashing knitting needles, there is the sound of keys being poked.Karen is sleeping and upstairs my little Indians are dreaming of Mr. Rogers not knowing he is with my grandmother and she is teaching him how to knit his own sweaters.

A Small Visitor

I came home from working on Sunday day and night feeling glad to be in my new home with my old wife who is new every day. I was getting settled when a small visitor came in the door of our downstairs apartment. She had a wide smile and said "Hi Grandpa". I was pleasantly surprised, but then rational thought--pesky fun robbing rational thought intruded. "Does mommy know you came down the cellar stairs and through the garage to visit me? A guilt free I'm a big girl "No" was her answer. I called Laurel who was shocked. I brought her back upstairs for a lecture. I'm so glad my lecture giving days are over. I did nod gravely in support, but I was thinking of childhood friend Dickie Antalek. My grandfather had built four early houses and everyone else had to make a city around my grandfathers not always sober whims to build another house. Growing up my mother and grandmother lived in houses separated by a common driveway. A common lawn gently sloped down to the beginning of a dead end street--Miller street by name. It was like the city planner was a five year old adventuresome kid. No busy intersections to worry about. For some reason 4 year old Dickie Antalek was drawn to wander down Miller Street to the worn path to our back yard. There were apple trees to climb, grape vines to pillage and best of all 2 brothers to play with. We soon learned that we had a limited amount of time to play before Hazel Antalek came looking frantically for her son. Try as she may Dickie would always escape and make his way down to play with Ronnie and Richie. There came a time when she just gave up. I would like to write that the friendship endured, but the Vietnam war came along and Dickie was drafted. We stood on his porch and said goodbye impressed at his uniform and his still wandering heart not afraid to go down a much longer dead end. A dead end it was because although most of Dickie came home, the part above the neck didn't. He left with so much and he came back with so little. He had all these plans for the future. I don't know what happened over there. He tended bar on lower Main street down by the old factories forever. We would see him at the corner store every now and then but there would only be brief nods exchanged. I have a friend that I see at my 12 step food meetings. A few weeks ago she said "I saw something at nine years old no nine year old should see". She then recounted forty lost years struggling against demons. Maybe Dickie saw something. Maybe the four year old went looking for the soldier and saw something no four year old should ever see and it hollowed him out and turned him into a glass.I only shared with my daughter the fun part of the story about a frantic mother looking for her adventure loving child. Samaya and Violet came down later that morning and we read a book about bears. Friendly bears who love ice fishing while a red fox plays the violin and their cubs dance.Now I'm reading this story and the only part that makes a bit of sense are the ice fishing bears, the violin playing red fox, and the dancing cubs who, I'm sure, will always stay close to their family.

Reason #18

I have quite a few reasons for enjoying Eliot, the town in Maine where we live, and where we recently bought a house with my daughter and son-in-law. More about the new house later in a future blog. Thursday, I went to story time with Laurel and the kids at the Fogg Library. I joked with Susan the librarian that the library ought to have a sign, "Free coffee for broken down old men". She said, "Ronnie, I'll make you some coffee. Come into the kitchen." We drank coffee and talked about life and books and broken down old men. We walked around looking at my talented artist friend Cori Caputo's amazing colorful paintings of humid neighborhoods with fish gliding along a warm air currents. "Back in my day fish had the good sense to swim in creeks!". They didn't say it, but I'm sure those old library trustees thought it with nothing better to do then keep guard in stern silence. I was talking with Susan and I heard a sneeze--looked around and for an instant was sure an old painting had sneezed, but then I saw a lady on the floor behind a stately wing chair browsing the lower shelves--psychic event narrowly averted--a close call. "What if a recording device was hidden behind an old portrait that the librarian activates by pushing a button at her desk?" I asked Susan. I could see myself being a librarian if I could do stuff like that, but I would not enjoy putting books away or using the computer. We talked about the poetry reading my daughter and I did a few weeks ago, sipped coffee. She went back to work, reluctantly, I'm sure. I sat down on a wing chair and read the morning paper. Mothers and children began to say their goodbyes until next week. I went to warm up the car with two books under my arm. I thought I heard a stern warning in a hundred year old voice, "Be sure to bring back those books on time young man!" Young man? well I suppose age is relative. Maybe reason #19 is learning great truths in the home of great truths.

Making Toast I ask myself what stories I should try to preserve for my family--like jars of fruit in my grandmother's cellar stored on a forgotten wooden rack that might one day be opened--or maybe not. Years ago I was part of a week long large summer session at Green Acre that was fast gaining a reputation for being too sciency. It really was well deserved criticism. I was one of the organizers and I know a lot of it was over my head. My mind begins to get a little wacky when I get hyper or frustrated so when talent show night came around toward the end of the week I had this strange inspiration to just embrace my frustration with all the science talks. About an hour before the show I hurried back to the house and gathered our toaster, bread, peanut butter, jam, butter, little paper plates--in short every thing needed to make toast. When it was my turn, I went to the front of the crowded hall with my most serious face and proceeded in my best Mr.Wizard voice to demonstrate how to make toast. The audience was divided into four groups. The children sitting in the front were totally fascinated and thought they were back in a first grade home ec. class and they better pay attention. There were the older people (some might say too old) who were shocked and astonished. They had been to many a Green Acre program and talent show but had never seen anyone make toast before. The third group were laughing with tears in their eyes especially when I demonstrated the unwisdom of using a fork to spread jam on toast--one should always use a knife (the kids nodded) The older crowd shook their heads sadly looking for someone of authority who could get me the help I so desperately needed. The kids eagerly volunteered to take samples of toast around on little paper plates and I'm proud to say I never cracked a smile even when an elderly lady held a little square of toast and wasn't quite sure what to do with it. The fourth group was my shocked and appalled family--especially my daughters who were totally embarrassed that their strange father could think this was funny. It's Thursday morning--shopping day with Laurel, Samaya, and Violet. Maybe I'll pick up some bread, jam and peanut butter give the kids a science lesson.

Thursday

Thursday is my favorite day. I have nothing against the other 6 days, but Thursday I go shopping with my daughter, Laurel,Samaya and Violet. The most mundane of activities,but the day fills me with joy.Laurel and I can hold a conversation and for a moment I am her father and she is my daughter again. We go the new Trader Joes in Newington which is the oddest of stores--everything is exotic. They don't sell just chicken. Their chickens have all gone to High School or at least have their GED. They have a sticker lady who gives the kids stickers. The take the groceries out of your cart and double bag them all the while smiling like they work in paradise. Violet is very affectionate and the life of the party, but Samaya is more reserved. She rides in my cart because she loves the little coffee cups I give her (Laurel sighs but lets me do it). We share the cup--I sip and she dips her finger in constantly. I tell her if you are under four, Trader Joes gives you a free cup of coffee. We stroll around the store talking with everyone--well I talk and make up tall tales. I feel like Jimmy Stewart in "Harvey"when he walks around town in a state of euphoric delusion making friends with every step. We went home and I took the kids down to the Green Acre park where they love to swing.Later on they came for dinner with Sisay. Karen played piano, I sat in my recliner and continued planning the puppet show with Laurel for the children's school this Sunday. It was a stunning late fall day with the beauty of the leaves and the sky falling down on our wandering heads. I brushed a cloud off my shoulder--a light, airy Thursday cloud.

Miss Danbury

The third floor of our house in Beacon, N.Y. was the attic. Like the rest of the house and three other nearby houses it was primarily built by my grandfather. This was before the advent of building codes. My memory(not always trustworthy)says that he built the house from the remnants of an old train station which would explain why the lamp in my bedroom flashed intermittent red lights and made a ringing bell sound every now and then. The attic was a mysterious and dangerous place because who knew what was stored up there?. It was dangerous because they must have run out of lumber because their were gaps in the floor boards. One time during one of our exploring adventures my brother's leg went through the kitchen ceiling. We got blamed by my mother--misplaced blame we thought. How about the grandpa we never knew? But "Pa" was without flaw in my mother's eyes. She had a look in her eye when she talked about him that every father would would hope for. After all he and my grandmother brought up eight children during the great depression. So what if he had to build houses out of old lumber and my grandmother made bath tub whiskey(that pa drank a little too much of) during prohibition and sold it to the neighborhood bars. There wasn't much time for much of anything except surviving which made our discovery of an old beat up trophy with the inscription "Miss Danbury" engraved on the front all the more surprising. We dusted it off and brought it down to show our mother. We were puzzled to say the least. There had to be a good story behind it. My mother, in a matter of fact voice said, "Oh that. I was Miss Danbury,Ct. when I was seventeen." With all the tact of young boys we laughed until she got annoyed. She brought out a picture of a gorgeous young lady with rosy cheeks in a blue dress holding a trophy-this trophy that we now held. You would think that she would have mentioned this. We only saw a rather large woman who wore either a white uniform or one of a couple of voluminous house dresses. We didn't know this beautiful young lady. Now I think how wonderful that she did have a moment that wasn't all about survival--about having enough to eat and a place to sleep. May we all have such a moment--in fact many moments of profound beauty. Imagine answering a knock on your door and someone hands you a silver trophy testifying that you have brought beauty into the world. A beauty that will never become covered in dust or tarnished by time-imagine.