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.

Passed the Daughter Test

I never know if the rare poem hat enters is my life will be a life long friend or an insufferable bore that should be shown the door asap with with my parting words of "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out" chasing the verse down the street. This one passed the critical daughter test. A Summer Afternoon The feel of mountain grass beneath our backs Our bodies curving with the orbit of the earth The sight of the timeless God Disguised in cloud rainments Billowing arms outstretched The aroma of the eternal sun fills our lungs As it slowly climbs over towering green cliffs We look at each other-trembling "How long can you hold your breath?" I ask "How long can you hold me?" she answers

Portsmouth Community Radio

Dear Friends, This coming week is pledge week on Portsmouth Community Radio 106.1fm. We believe our show, "Don't Dis My Ability" is unique and valuable because it gives a voice to individuals with a wide range of disabilities. It is not only a lone voice on the radio but often a lonely voice that aches for someone to hear and understand. Please call and make a pledge 603-430-9822. With the advent of the internet there is no such thing anymore as a local radio show. My agency has put our own page on their site--livinginnovations.com--scroll down to "Don't Dis My Ability" and you can listen to past shows with just a click.Much love to all my friends.