Patricia is a beautiful, vibrant and good-humored woman who was an elementary school nurse in the same district in New Jersey for thirty-two years. When I asked her if she’s seen it all, she replied, “Seen it all and heard it all.”
Patricia told me that not only did the kids come into her office for their issues, but that parents and teachers spent a good deal of time in her office, too. She knew all about the marital problems of most adults who came in to sit with her and usually knew about her students’ conflicts at home long before their teachers and even sometimes before their parents did. But most of all, she said, “People just needed to talk.” And Patricia was there to listen.
She said that she always kept quiet games and coloring books for the kids and music on the radio turned down low. And she always made herself available for chit-chat. I asked if she could tell the fakers right off the bat and she said, “After a while I got pretty good at telling. Headaches and stomachaches were the most popular because they couldn’t be seen. Sometimes they were bored but most times, they just needed a break. Or someone to talk to. If a kid trusts you enough, they’ll start to tell you things.”
If she saw something was amiss with a student, or was told something in confidence, she always waited for the child’s teacher to, “form his or her own opinion.” Then, if the teacher came to her with a similar finding or hunch, she could corroborate what she knew and they could work towards a solution together.
One little first grader she remembered “was a recent immigrant with a troubled mother.” Patricia was as compassionate as she could be and then the little girl moved away suddenly and always left her wondering. Fifteen years later the girl returned one day to tell Patricia that she was okay now, and so was her mom. She asked to pose for a picture with Patricia and stood close as they smiled.
Decades before there were aides and experts assigned to students with disabilities and special needs, teachers with spirited or disruptive students would send them out of the classroom to Patricia’s office for most of the school day. One little boy with ADHD, she said, “practically lived in my office” for his entire K-6th grade career. He came back every year after that to give her a big hug on the last day of school. Every year without fail, a big hug.
“As the years went on,” she said, “I saw too much of the parents. I just wanted to tell most of them to get out and go find something to do. But I had to be nice.” Patricia’s cousin chimed in, “She’s very even tempered and she’s wonderful with people who annoy her. I should know.”
“How did you avoid burn out?” I asked. “Well, it changes every year,” Patricia said, “but there is no greater bunch than the teachers. There was just so much camaraderie. It wasn’t all work; we had fun in between. Things can get stressful, but as long as you have friends to help you through… and I miss the kids. They were so much fun. But they had so much they had to do. And then after school activities—they just needed a break. I always gave them the benefit of the doubt.”
She said that she wishes she’d kept some of the excuse notes she got. I thought they might make an excellent coffee table book for doctor’s waiting rooms and lobbies. Then I asked her what I knew was a leading question, but I asked it just the same. “Would you say that most kids are basically good kids?” “Oh, yes, absolutely,” she said without missing a beat, “that’s why I always gave them the benefit of the doubt.” Always, I repeated to myself. That’s a precious commodity in these times. Thank goodness for school nurses like Patricia.
Thank goodness for the benefit of the doubt.
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Hurricane and Went
When I was 10 or 11, there was a big hurricane that hit the Jersey Shore in the summertime. The firemen came to our door and told us to evacuate to the local public school basement, which was inland by a few blocks, so Mom packed our pajamas, sleeping bags and some dolls and snacks and off we went. Each family staked out their little 7x7 foot plot on the gymnasium floor, and they opened up the equipment closet for us so that we could play with the scooters and kickballs while the men stood in raincoats at the door, watching the wind and the rain absorb the air sideways. It was exciting to be in a strange school at night playing with phys-ed equipment, staying up way past our usual bedtimes. In the morning we returned to our rental homes and resumed our summers, blissfully unaware of any flooding or hardship that others may have endured. I remember that night fondly as do many of my friends who are now parents themselves, staying at the beach for the summer with their children. So when we heard there was a hurricane coming, we became excited, even nostalgic. We’d stay down to watch the sideways rain and hear the wind rattle out shutters and then walk the beach in the morning looking for sea glass, trying to identify who’s porch ended up on whose front lawn along the way.
But that’s not how it played out.
I was slow to the evacuation party, happily looking forward to the excitement, unaware of the news corps’ omnipresent phalanx of fear mongerers doing their best to get under our skin. Then I started getting texts from friends and thought perhaps there was more to this storm than a pajama party in a school basement. After plenty of corroborating emails and mandatory evacuation pleas from local law enforcement, it was clear that leaving the beach was the best course of action, if for no other reason than to get our cars to higher ground. We were all sad to go; sorry to miss the drama and the heightened frenzy of Mother Natures’ operatic moment; sorry to miss the majesty of the ocean’s fervor and the wind’s dominance over everything not nailed down-- and many things that were.
The Friday before the storm was to hit was a bit of a mind game. How could such a serenely gorgeous day herald such mighty devastation only 36 hours later? Back home up north, I finally tuned into the news in short bursts when my son wasn’t in the room. Showboating newscasters one-upped each other all along the Eastern Seaboard as the storm’s graphics and logo smash-cut across the screen with import and flair. They were predictably redundant-- stating the obvious-- and I turned off the TV, choosing instead to talk to neighbors and text my friends for the salient bits. Mostly, my son and I listened to music and readied the house, pausing from storing the patio furniture in the garage every so often to dance, turning the music up loud and expending some nervous energy in one of the best ways I know how.
I pulled up the basement rugs and piled all the toys onto the ping-pong table-- even though we’ve never had flooding-- just in case. I brought in all the contents of the screened-in porch and piled all the furniture in the corner—just in case. Then I scrubbed the tub and filled it with water, and set out the batteries, candles, matches and gardening gloves—just in case. I’d filled up my car with gas and gone to the super market, even though, like most American’s, I probably have enough food in my cupboard to survive for three months. And I bought a case of water—just in case.
It was curious to be thrown from a casual summer schedule of certainties—one lined up after the other like dominoes on end—into a potluck of possible outcomes. It was good for me to have to think above and below the mundane hum of predictability and use my imagination to conjure scenarios; the way science fiction writers conjure unforeseeable futures. “What ifs” dominated my problem-solving mind and I was forced to get creative as the hurricane approached. Where should I put the car? In the garage for the first time ever. Where would we sleep on the night of the storm? At a friend’s house on a street with fewer large trees. What will we eat once back at our house if the power goes out? Lots of peanut butter and canned peaches, as it turns out. And what will we do once the sun goes down? Listen to our battery-operated radio and read by candlelight. Lovely. Necessity is the mother of invention, after all, and it was satisfying having planned for contingencies that came to fruition. I feel like Ma from “Little house and the Prairie.” It’s fun camping indoors, for a while.
I hope my son will remember Hurricane Irene as fun, exciting and do-able. I hope he’ll remember the candles and eating up all the ice pops before they melted. Because life just keeps coming at us and we can only control so much; it’s good to be reminded that it’s elusive and for kids to see ho we handle uncertainties. These lessons are not always pleasant, but they keep our creative problem-solving minds nimble and remind us of what we’re capable of, who are true friends are and what matters most. Then we clean up the mess and start setting up the dominoes again. Until the next breeze comes along, and then we’re off.
But that’s not how it played out.
I was slow to the evacuation party, happily looking forward to the excitement, unaware of the news corps’ omnipresent phalanx of fear mongerers doing their best to get under our skin. Then I started getting texts from friends and thought perhaps there was more to this storm than a pajama party in a school basement. After plenty of corroborating emails and mandatory evacuation pleas from local law enforcement, it was clear that leaving the beach was the best course of action, if for no other reason than to get our cars to higher ground. We were all sad to go; sorry to miss the drama and the heightened frenzy of Mother Natures’ operatic moment; sorry to miss the majesty of the ocean’s fervor and the wind’s dominance over everything not nailed down-- and many things that were.
The Friday before the storm was to hit was a bit of a mind game. How could such a serenely gorgeous day herald such mighty devastation only 36 hours later? Back home up north, I finally tuned into the news in short bursts when my son wasn’t in the room. Showboating newscasters one-upped each other all along the Eastern Seaboard as the storm’s graphics and logo smash-cut across the screen with import and flair. They were predictably redundant-- stating the obvious-- and I turned off the TV, choosing instead to talk to neighbors and text my friends for the salient bits. Mostly, my son and I listened to music and readied the house, pausing from storing the patio furniture in the garage every so often to dance, turning the music up loud and expending some nervous energy in one of the best ways I know how.
I pulled up the basement rugs and piled all the toys onto the ping-pong table-- even though we’ve never had flooding-- just in case. I brought in all the contents of the screened-in porch and piled all the furniture in the corner—just in case. Then I scrubbed the tub and filled it with water, and set out the batteries, candles, matches and gardening gloves—just in case. I’d filled up my car with gas and gone to the super market, even though, like most American’s, I probably have enough food in my cupboard to survive for three months. And I bought a case of water—just in case.
It was curious to be thrown from a casual summer schedule of certainties—one lined up after the other like dominoes on end—into a potluck of possible outcomes. It was good for me to have to think above and below the mundane hum of predictability and use my imagination to conjure scenarios; the way science fiction writers conjure unforeseeable futures. “What ifs” dominated my problem-solving mind and I was forced to get creative as the hurricane approached. Where should I put the car? In the garage for the first time ever. Where would we sleep on the night of the storm? At a friend’s house on a street with fewer large trees. What will we eat once back at our house if the power goes out? Lots of peanut butter and canned peaches, as it turns out. And what will we do once the sun goes down? Listen to our battery-operated radio and read by candlelight. Lovely. Necessity is the mother of invention, after all, and it was satisfying having planned for contingencies that came to fruition. I feel like Ma from “Little house and the Prairie.” It’s fun camping indoors, for a while.
I hope my son will remember Hurricane Irene as fun, exciting and do-able. I hope he’ll remember the candles and eating up all the ice pops before they melted. Because life just keeps coming at us and we can only control so much; it’s good to be reminded that it’s elusive and for kids to see ho we handle uncertainties. These lessons are not always pleasant, but they keep our creative problem-solving minds nimble and remind us of what we’re capable of, who are true friends are and what matters most. Then we clean up the mess and start setting up the dominoes again. Until the next breeze comes along, and then we’re off.
Sea Legs
When Chris Wojcik was three years old, his favorite toy was his scuba GI Joe, which came with a wet suit, mask and fins. After sufficient badgering, his mother outfitted him with paper plates, which she cut in half and rubber banded to his feet, and giant seventies aviator sunglasses, which he wore for a scuba mask. Suited up and ready for adventure, little Chris headed off to explore the great deep under his dining room table. Years later, the summer “Jaws” hit theaters, Chris badgered his parents again. It was R rated, as you may recall, so they went to see it first-- as any responsible parents would-- then decided to take him along. He was seven. That infamous summer, when most people ran away from the ocean, Chris ran towards it; secretly chummed for sharks with leftover tuna sandwiches, which he pocketed when his mom wasn’t looking.
Chris eventually graduated with degrees in biology and biological oceanography. But it was all those summers spent working with his dad-- a contractor— which gave him the additional experience and confidence needed to work with all manner of tools and building materials. So it was no surprise to anyone when Chris ended up as a leading environmental education specialist. In other words, he’s the guy who gets paid to travel all over the world, then design and construct exhibits and sculptures for zoos, aquariums and natural history museums.
As the CEO of Ionature, Inc., he’s a busy guy. Because of his intrinsic artistic ability, he can create most anything you need while keeping an eye on its natural oceanic compatibility and organic integrity. Whether building and installing reefs and shipwrecks for the San Diego Zoo and the National Aquarium in Baltimore, or researching peet swamps in Malaysia, Chris has been very successful using his unique combination of knowledge and skills to interpret nature for the public. He knows about water currents, waves and tides and the feeding cycles of all sea creatures known to man. He can spot ill-placed anemone and misappropriated barnacles on the wrong side of a piling sculpture in a museum exhibit a mile a way.
But he’s also drawn to more unusual challenges. Recently Chris was commissioned by the family of a career commercial fisherman who died to design a 12 foot flounder inside which the ashes of the fisherman would be placed, then submerged to become an underwater reef and art installation for eternity. He took on the project, crafting the flounder sculpture with great care and respect, then offered to submerge the tribute reef himself, as he’s also been an accredited scuba diver for twenty-four years.
Which brings me to his sideline career as an underwater cameraman. Chris is the also the guy you hire to shoot footage of historic sunken ships salvaged from the 1800s off of Pt. Pleasant, New Jersey, of which there are many. While doing so a year or so back, he met a guy from the Discovery Channel who needed a shark expert to field and answer the onslaught of live chat questions about sharks that rolled in during Shark Week programming. Being a shark expert, Chris said, sure. So he’s done that, too.
I asked him what he’s excited about lately and his even-keeled manner spiked ever so slightly. “Underwater reef sculpture,” he said, and his eyes lit up. Apparently there are underwater sculpture gardens out there for combo scuba/art enthusiasts. There’s a big one in Mexico, and there’s Touchdown Jesus in Florida, of course, but Chris has plans for us right here in New Jersey. Big plans.
Starting in a few weeks, Chris will begin building a fifty-five foot, thirty-five thousand pound horseshoe crab reef sculpture out of rebar and cement—the only two materials that are 100% sea-friendly. It will take him 4-6 weeks to construct and weld to the top of a steel barge, which will then be towed out to the reef location at which point a special team of guys who get paid to blow things up will detonated the floaties under the barge. That awesome fun will enable the barge to sink to the ocean’s floor off of Mantoloking, with the sculpture in tact, where it will become home to hundreds and possibly thousands of oceanic life forms for eternity—like the fisherman in the flounder-- and art to scuba divers, too.
Chris chose the horseshoe crab because it’s “one of the oldest unchanged animals left on earth,” and because “its natural design and shape allows it to withstand currents and waves.” He built a model in a diorama-- he builds models of every he does beforehand-- of the happy scene he envisions; two scuba divers placidly gliding down into the welcoming depths of the ocean to see a giant Gulliver-esque horseshoe crab, surrounded by its new reef family and friends.
I asked Chris if there was one thing he wanted people to know about the ocean what would it be, and he answered, “Don’t be afraid of the sea.” He said that even thought fish feed at dawn and dusk, that’s when he likes to swim. “It’s like a big undersea day/night shift change and life gets very interesting down there.” Good thinkin’ I thought and filed that away in my summer brain. Wasn’t it Steve Martin who said, “never at dusk”?
You’re welcome to visit www.artasreef.com for more information, or to just get lost in an ocean lover’s dream; one of many born out of a child’s inexplicable and innate passion for the sea, fostered and nurtured by parents who knew well enough to support their son’s intrepid spirit any way they could, then get the heck out of his way. And keep plenty of paper plates and rubber bands on hand.
Chris eventually graduated with degrees in biology and biological oceanography. But it was all those summers spent working with his dad-- a contractor— which gave him the additional experience and confidence needed to work with all manner of tools and building materials. So it was no surprise to anyone when Chris ended up as a leading environmental education specialist. In other words, he’s the guy who gets paid to travel all over the world, then design and construct exhibits and sculptures for zoos, aquariums and natural history museums.
As the CEO of Ionature, Inc., he’s a busy guy. Because of his intrinsic artistic ability, he can create most anything you need while keeping an eye on its natural oceanic compatibility and organic integrity. Whether building and installing reefs and shipwrecks for the San Diego Zoo and the National Aquarium in Baltimore, or researching peet swamps in Malaysia, Chris has been very successful using his unique combination of knowledge and skills to interpret nature for the public. He knows about water currents, waves and tides and the feeding cycles of all sea creatures known to man. He can spot ill-placed anemone and misappropriated barnacles on the wrong side of a piling sculpture in a museum exhibit a mile a way.
But he’s also drawn to more unusual challenges. Recently Chris was commissioned by the family of a career commercial fisherman who died to design a 12 foot flounder inside which the ashes of the fisherman would be placed, then submerged to become an underwater reef and art installation for eternity. He took on the project, crafting the flounder sculpture with great care and respect, then offered to submerge the tribute reef himself, as he’s also been an accredited scuba diver for twenty-four years.
Which brings me to his sideline career as an underwater cameraman. Chris is the also the guy you hire to shoot footage of historic sunken ships salvaged from the 1800s off of Pt. Pleasant, New Jersey, of which there are many. While doing so a year or so back, he met a guy from the Discovery Channel who needed a shark expert to field and answer the onslaught of live chat questions about sharks that rolled in during Shark Week programming. Being a shark expert, Chris said, sure. So he’s done that, too.
I asked him what he’s excited about lately and his even-keeled manner spiked ever so slightly. “Underwater reef sculpture,” he said, and his eyes lit up. Apparently there are underwater sculpture gardens out there for combo scuba/art enthusiasts. There’s a big one in Mexico, and there’s Touchdown Jesus in Florida, of course, but Chris has plans for us right here in New Jersey. Big plans.
Starting in a few weeks, Chris will begin building a fifty-five foot, thirty-five thousand pound horseshoe crab reef sculpture out of rebar and cement—the only two materials that are 100% sea-friendly. It will take him 4-6 weeks to construct and weld to the top of a steel barge, which will then be towed out to the reef location at which point a special team of guys who get paid to blow things up will detonated the floaties under the barge. That awesome fun will enable the barge to sink to the ocean’s floor off of Mantoloking, with the sculpture in tact, where it will become home to hundreds and possibly thousands of oceanic life forms for eternity—like the fisherman in the flounder-- and art to scuba divers, too.
Chris chose the horseshoe crab because it’s “one of the oldest unchanged animals left on earth,” and because “its natural design and shape allows it to withstand currents and waves.” He built a model in a diorama-- he builds models of every he does beforehand-- of the happy scene he envisions; two scuba divers placidly gliding down into the welcoming depths of the ocean to see a giant Gulliver-esque horseshoe crab, surrounded by its new reef family and friends.
I asked Chris if there was one thing he wanted people to know about the ocean what would it be, and he answered, “Don’t be afraid of the sea.” He said that even thought fish feed at dawn and dusk, that’s when he likes to swim. “It’s like a big undersea day/night shift change and life gets very interesting down there.” Good thinkin’ I thought and filed that away in my summer brain. Wasn’t it Steve Martin who said, “never at dusk”?
You’re welcome to visit www.artasreef.com for more information, or to just get lost in an ocean lover’s dream; one of many born out of a child’s inexplicable and innate passion for the sea, fostered and nurtured by parents who knew well enough to support their son’s intrepid spirit any way they could, then get the heck out of his way. And keep plenty of paper plates and rubber bands on hand.
Monday, August 1, 2011
A Novel Idea
Hebbo Frehbbends,
Just a quick note to say thank you for checking in and reading this from time to time. I appreciate your patronage more than you will ever know and I find you all very attractive-- on the whole-- as a readership.
I know most of you don't comment-- and you know who you are-- and that's just fine by me, because I probably wouldn't comment back. But when you do it warms my cockles and reminds me that my eyes aren't the only ones on this stuff, and that's nice, too. But I wanted to write to you on this steamy summer morning because I have some news.
I thought it might be fun to share with you that the reason there were no posts in July is because I wrote a novel. I signed on-- in a sort of honor system way-- to write 50,000 words of a novel in 31 days, which I just completed yesterday, on July 31st. I was shepherded through the process by this book called, "No Plot, No Problem," written by the funny, friendly guy who started the National Novel Writing Month or NaNoWriMo movement eight or ten years ago in San Francisco, I think. You can google it.
He posits that writers spend too much time talking about writing and not enough time doing it, so he challenges writers to write 1,700 words a day for 31 days and I did it. It was hard. No. It was grueling. But I did it, dammit and I hope you'll all cross your fingers for me and pray to the publishing sprites and fairies that my salacious sex-filled novel about sanctioned adultery amongst suburban friends sells a million copies and is in theaters by October.
It was fun and now I can join the pantheon of cocktail party bores who hoist a gin and tonic to their lips, take an important sip, then say, "Why, yes. I am a novelist." Then you can yawn and walk away.
At any rate, I'll keep you posted. And for the love of Pete, contact me if you know anyone in the publishing world. Thanks.
Lurv yous.
All a yous.
xo
Just a quick note to say thank you for checking in and reading this from time to time. I appreciate your patronage more than you will ever know and I find you all very attractive-- on the whole-- as a readership.
I know most of you don't comment-- and you know who you are-- and that's just fine by me, because I probably wouldn't comment back. But when you do it warms my cockles and reminds me that my eyes aren't the only ones on this stuff, and that's nice, too. But I wanted to write to you on this steamy summer morning because I have some news.
I thought it might be fun to share with you that the reason there were no posts in July is because I wrote a novel. I signed on-- in a sort of honor system way-- to write 50,000 words of a novel in 31 days, which I just completed yesterday, on July 31st. I was shepherded through the process by this book called, "No Plot, No Problem," written by the funny, friendly guy who started the National Novel Writing Month or NaNoWriMo movement eight or ten years ago in San Francisco, I think. You can google it.
He posits that writers spend too much time talking about writing and not enough time doing it, so he challenges writers to write 1,700 words a day for 31 days and I did it. It was hard. No. It was grueling. But I did it, dammit and I hope you'll all cross your fingers for me and pray to the publishing sprites and fairies that my salacious sex-filled novel about sanctioned adultery amongst suburban friends sells a million copies and is in theaters by October.
It was fun and now I can join the pantheon of cocktail party bores who hoist a gin and tonic to their lips, take an important sip, then say, "Why, yes. I am a novelist." Then you can yawn and walk away.
At any rate, I'll keep you posted. And for the love of Pete, contact me if you know anyone in the publishing world. Thanks.
Lurv yous.
All a yous.
xo
Send in the Clown
About once a month my son and I turn the corner in front of my mom’s beach house at the Jersey Shore to find a car parked out front with a bright red, plastic ball affixed to the front grill. The car tells us that Bernie is inside—short for Bernice—and that the house is being cleaned. You see, Bernie is my mother’s cleaning lady. She is also a clown.
For about seven or eight years now, Bernie has been under my mother’s employ and in that time I’ve learned a few things about clowning. For instance, I’ve learned that “clown” is a verb, as in, “I clowned on Saturday and some kid threw up on my shoes,” Bernie might say, “Thankfully they were longer than my feet and made of plastic so I didn’t get covered. I just wiped them off.” Or, “The air-conditioning was broken where I clowned on Sunday, so my make-up started to run and I looked a little like the scary Joker from that Batman movie.”
Bernie is a large woman in most ways with a very friendly face; a face that one could immediately imagine tracing with the large, happy red lips of a clown’s over-the-top smile. Her eyes are bright and her bosoms are huge which, I imagine, would serve to enhance the overall round-y clowness of any working clown in the biz. She speaks not quiet slowly but with the same steady rhythmic inflection on each syllable of every word, as if there were an invisible piano teacher sitting on her shoulder reminding her of the calm, predictable pace of a metronome nearby.
Thankfully, I don’t have to imagine her smile because there is a business card of Bernie in “full clown” tacked up our kitchen bulletin board. “Laffles” it says in a loopy italicized font and she’s available for pretty much any event you can conceive of. Bernie’s longtime husband is also a clown. Sometimes they work together but mostly they work apart. Whenever they’re hired to work at children’s hospitals or for veterans, they never, ever charge them. If she gets hired for a gig and can’t do it, she passes the job onto other clown friends. Apparently there’s a ring of local clowns and they all look out for each other. Sometimes Bernie forgets to collect her fee, and sometimes she collects it then misplaces it. But you won’t hear those stories recounted with bitterness or frustration. There is too much to be thankful for in Bernie’s life to get upset about something like money.
Bernie can’t clean and tell me stories at the same time, and so we stop to talk and catch up with what turns out to be great length. Occasionally she forgets where she left off and misses something she was supposed to clean. It’s no big deal and in fact, gives Mom and me a chance to sharpen our skill at clown puns. Once I came back to my bedroom to discover that the waste paper basket hadn’t been emptied. On my way down to the kitchen garbage to empty it myself, Mom stopped me and asked what I was doing. I explained and she said, “Oh, that Bernie; probably clowning around.”
Sometimes when my son and I round the corner there is a black pick-up truck out front with a hood ornament of a boxer dog welded to the car. That car belongs to Mom’s handyman, Stanley, who is the other person who rounds out my mother’s staff. Stan is a dead ringer for Hulk Hogan in every way except much, much friendlier. He’s got thick, blonde hair that he wears helmeted under a bandana and a blonde handlebar mustache that dips down around the corners of his mouth to meet up with his beard. He wears brightly colored T-shirts and parachute pants with neon yellow and pink triangles—not unlike something you might have seen in a Whitney Huston video back in her heyday—and a single, solid gold chain around his neck the size and thickness of your pointer finger.
His blue eyes twinkle as much as Bernie’s and he’s got that steady cadence speech pattern thing like she does, too. The only difference is that Stan speaks much louder than Bernie because he’s got tinnitus. That’s also the reason why he brings in a boom box to play 1970s biker hard rock at deafening levels when he’s repairing anything in the house. He tells me he listens to music just as loud to fall asleep to as well, but his wife’s used to it. He’s got a Dalmatian dog named, Trixie, and three daughters to whom he each gave a motorcycle when they turned sixteen.
I take great comfort in knowing that my mother is being looked after and taken care of by a clown and a biker with big smiles and twinkly eyes. It’s a little like living on the Island of Misfit Toys but my mom wouldn’t have it any other way. Sometime I’ll tell you about her plumber, Steve. He’s in a rock band with his brothers and sings top 40 tunes from the sixties while he works. Life’s a circus if you choose to see it that way. Sometimes more literally than figuratively.
For about seven or eight years now, Bernie has been under my mother’s employ and in that time I’ve learned a few things about clowning. For instance, I’ve learned that “clown” is a verb, as in, “I clowned on Saturday and some kid threw up on my shoes,” Bernie might say, “Thankfully they were longer than my feet and made of plastic so I didn’t get covered. I just wiped them off.” Or, “The air-conditioning was broken where I clowned on Sunday, so my make-up started to run and I looked a little like the scary Joker from that Batman movie.”
Bernie is a large woman in most ways with a very friendly face; a face that one could immediately imagine tracing with the large, happy red lips of a clown’s over-the-top smile. Her eyes are bright and her bosoms are huge which, I imagine, would serve to enhance the overall round-y clowness of any working clown in the biz. She speaks not quiet slowly but with the same steady rhythmic inflection on each syllable of every word, as if there were an invisible piano teacher sitting on her shoulder reminding her of the calm, predictable pace of a metronome nearby.
Thankfully, I don’t have to imagine her smile because there is a business card of Bernie in “full clown” tacked up our kitchen bulletin board. “Laffles” it says in a loopy italicized font and she’s available for pretty much any event you can conceive of. Bernie’s longtime husband is also a clown. Sometimes they work together but mostly they work apart. Whenever they’re hired to work at children’s hospitals or for veterans, they never, ever charge them. If she gets hired for a gig and can’t do it, she passes the job onto other clown friends. Apparently there’s a ring of local clowns and they all look out for each other. Sometimes Bernie forgets to collect her fee, and sometimes she collects it then misplaces it. But you won’t hear those stories recounted with bitterness or frustration. There is too much to be thankful for in Bernie’s life to get upset about something like money.
Bernie can’t clean and tell me stories at the same time, and so we stop to talk and catch up with what turns out to be great length. Occasionally she forgets where she left off and misses something she was supposed to clean. It’s no big deal and in fact, gives Mom and me a chance to sharpen our skill at clown puns. Once I came back to my bedroom to discover that the waste paper basket hadn’t been emptied. On my way down to the kitchen garbage to empty it myself, Mom stopped me and asked what I was doing. I explained and she said, “Oh, that Bernie; probably clowning around.”
Sometimes when my son and I round the corner there is a black pick-up truck out front with a hood ornament of a boxer dog welded to the car. That car belongs to Mom’s handyman, Stanley, who is the other person who rounds out my mother’s staff. Stan is a dead ringer for Hulk Hogan in every way except much, much friendlier. He’s got thick, blonde hair that he wears helmeted under a bandana and a blonde handlebar mustache that dips down around the corners of his mouth to meet up with his beard. He wears brightly colored T-shirts and parachute pants with neon yellow and pink triangles—not unlike something you might have seen in a Whitney Huston video back in her heyday—and a single, solid gold chain around his neck the size and thickness of your pointer finger.
His blue eyes twinkle as much as Bernie’s and he’s got that steady cadence speech pattern thing like she does, too. The only difference is that Stan speaks much louder than Bernie because he’s got tinnitus. That’s also the reason why he brings in a boom box to play 1970s biker hard rock at deafening levels when he’s repairing anything in the house. He tells me he listens to music just as loud to fall asleep to as well, but his wife’s used to it. He’s got a Dalmatian dog named, Trixie, and three daughters to whom he each gave a motorcycle when they turned sixteen.
I take great comfort in knowing that my mother is being looked after and taken care of by a clown and a biker with big smiles and twinkly eyes. It’s a little like living on the Island of Misfit Toys but my mom wouldn’t have it any other way. Sometime I’ll tell you about her plumber, Steve. He’s in a rock band with his brothers and sings top 40 tunes from the sixties while he works. Life’s a circus if you choose to see it that way. Sometimes more literally than figuratively.
Savage Beauty
I like risk takers and am generally drawn to people who are a bit nuts-o, so I was excited as I headed into the city to see the Alexander McQueen show at the Met. Mr. McQueen was a whack-a-doo couture-clothing designer and the Met has a retrospective of his most outlandish work entitled “Savage Beauty” up through August 7th of this year. I was not an ardent disciple of Mr. McQueen’s and cannot recall his clothes by name, but was just aware enough of his work that I would smile when I caught a photo of his runway show in the paper; of a model wearing resin antlers, or a headpiece swirling with dozens of bright red butterflies completely obscuring her face.
I say “was” because he recently took his own life at the age of 40 and so my girlfriend and I talked about suicide as we waited in line for 35 minutes on the second floor of the Met, ruminating over what drives a person to that daunting brink then tips them over the edge when so many step back. As we chatted we shuffled past pearly white busts of daydreaming Greek gods and the achingly tender embraces of Rodin’s naked lovers. It occurred to me that daydreaming and kissing are two of life’s greatest pleasures and excellent reasons to ride out the most hopeless seeming storm. I wished Mr. McQueen could have held on.
Entering the exhibit was like entering a spooky ride. The sounds of winter wind and labored breathing curled up our legs and hovered above us, reminding me of the old haunted house Halloween album that my dad used to play for trick-or-treaters. It was a fitting introduction to the two pieces of eye-candy that greeted us; one, a long, clingy red dress covered in cascades of rectangular, glass, medical slides painted red; and the other, a floor-length, regal, sleeveless number comprised entirely of layered rows of hanging polished and varnished razor clam shells which, when worn, would give the aural impression of Neptune’s wife sidling up next to you like Mae West. Clearly, we were in for a treat.
Turning a corner, we were introduced to a young Alexander’s graduation collection from fashion school in London. So impressive was his novice work that the collection was purchased on the spot in its entirety by renowned fashionista, Isabella Blow. I could see why: Mr. McQueen had turned the women’s suit jacket on its head. Lapels dipped and meandered along shoulders and chest giving the jackets an understated whimsy, downplayed by the seriousness of the somber black wool. Occasional placards with quotes from McQueen reminded us that he drew great strength from powerful women and was thrilled by the discomfort he imposed on the fashion voyeur every time he put forth a female model as steely and unforgiving as an evil empress.
Knocking and barking, scraping and creaking, the Edgar Allen Poe audio accompanied us into the next room where we were introduced to a more Nine Inch Nails McQueen as renegade recycler, spinning found objects into object d’arts. The skulls of vultures and small alligator heads perched upon molded black leather shoulders as epaulets. Horse hair and shiny black duck feathers made their way onto the silks of gothic gowns. Repeatedly we were reminded that McQueen saw himself as a romantic, but these were no teddy bear infested, heart-shaped confections. McQueen was hell bent on exploring the dark, forbidden corners of romanticism usually conjured by David Lynch or Tim Burton; panicked lovers chased by the gnashing teeth of rabid wolves in murky, moonlit forests—that sort of romance.
The next room was a cavernous visual carnival of his most bizarre and outlandish accessories interspersed with TV monitors showing loops of memorable moments from his infamously dramatic runway shows. Metal spines, alien-type serpents and tails made of brass and steel hugged mannequins next to images of models being soaked by wind and rain or dripping in red bugle beads ringed by actual flames of fire. I cracked up at the earrings made of real pheasant claws holding dripping lengths of pearls between their talons, and the leather high heels molded at the toe to look like bare feet. There were the breast-plates made of molded glass and balsa wood, and the majestic headdresses of drift wood, birds nests and bonsai carved cork. There were the impossible looking, metal-studded and jewel encrusted, high-heeled hoof shoes, worn by Lady Gaga as only she can. And there was the crowd: reverent and agape at the imagination and artistry; energized by the macabre audacity.
I was giddy to learn we still had eight rooms to go. There were a few eight-year-olds in the room and I predicted they’d have a nightmares before morning. There was the conservative looking older man in his seventies who had hired a private guide to explain the show to he, his wife and grandson. They looked very mid-west, with their khaki pants and pastel golf shirts, but I fully respected them for wanting to know about this madman. The grandfather leaned in to hear every word the guide said about passion and misunderstanding, genius ignoring boundaries, and I hoped that my intellectual curiosity would be as open-minded thirty years from now. Curiously, although it seemed in life Mr. McQueen sought to push and provoke, in death everyone was invited in. His clothes did not shirk or slink and neither did his ideas or the women he envisioned wearing them. He was a master craftsman of pomp and creepiness. I’m sorry for the fashion world’s loss and glad we had him for as long as we did.
I say “was” because he recently took his own life at the age of 40 and so my girlfriend and I talked about suicide as we waited in line for 35 minutes on the second floor of the Met, ruminating over what drives a person to that daunting brink then tips them over the edge when so many step back. As we chatted we shuffled past pearly white busts of daydreaming Greek gods and the achingly tender embraces of Rodin’s naked lovers. It occurred to me that daydreaming and kissing are two of life’s greatest pleasures and excellent reasons to ride out the most hopeless seeming storm. I wished Mr. McQueen could have held on.
Entering the exhibit was like entering a spooky ride. The sounds of winter wind and labored breathing curled up our legs and hovered above us, reminding me of the old haunted house Halloween album that my dad used to play for trick-or-treaters. It was a fitting introduction to the two pieces of eye-candy that greeted us; one, a long, clingy red dress covered in cascades of rectangular, glass, medical slides painted red; and the other, a floor-length, regal, sleeveless number comprised entirely of layered rows of hanging polished and varnished razor clam shells which, when worn, would give the aural impression of Neptune’s wife sidling up next to you like Mae West. Clearly, we were in for a treat.
Turning a corner, we were introduced to a young Alexander’s graduation collection from fashion school in London. So impressive was his novice work that the collection was purchased on the spot in its entirety by renowned fashionista, Isabella Blow. I could see why: Mr. McQueen had turned the women’s suit jacket on its head. Lapels dipped and meandered along shoulders and chest giving the jackets an understated whimsy, downplayed by the seriousness of the somber black wool. Occasional placards with quotes from McQueen reminded us that he drew great strength from powerful women and was thrilled by the discomfort he imposed on the fashion voyeur every time he put forth a female model as steely and unforgiving as an evil empress.
Knocking and barking, scraping and creaking, the Edgar Allen Poe audio accompanied us into the next room where we were introduced to a more Nine Inch Nails McQueen as renegade recycler, spinning found objects into object d’arts. The skulls of vultures and small alligator heads perched upon molded black leather shoulders as epaulets. Horse hair and shiny black duck feathers made their way onto the silks of gothic gowns. Repeatedly we were reminded that McQueen saw himself as a romantic, but these were no teddy bear infested, heart-shaped confections. McQueen was hell bent on exploring the dark, forbidden corners of romanticism usually conjured by David Lynch or Tim Burton; panicked lovers chased by the gnashing teeth of rabid wolves in murky, moonlit forests—that sort of romance.
The next room was a cavernous visual carnival of his most bizarre and outlandish accessories interspersed with TV monitors showing loops of memorable moments from his infamously dramatic runway shows. Metal spines, alien-type serpents and tails made of brass and steel hugged mannequins next to images of models being soaked by wind and rain or dripping in red bugle beads ringed by actual flames of fire. I cracked up at the earrings made of real pheasant claws holding dripping lengths of pearls between their talons, and the leather high heels molded at the toe to look like bare feet. There were the breast-plates made of molded glass and balsa wood, and the majestic headdresses of drift wood, birds nests and bonsai carved cork. There were the impossible looking, metal-studded and jewel encrusted, high-heeled hoof shoes, worn by Lady Gaga as only she can. And there was the crowd: reverent and agape at the imagination and artistry; energized by the macabre audacity.
I was giddy to learn we still had eight rooms to go. There were a few eight-year-olds in the room and I predicted they’d have a nightmares before morning. There was the conservative looking older man in his seventies who had hired a private guide to explain the show to he, his wife and grandson. They looked very mid-west, with their khaki pants and pastel golf shirts, but I fully respected them for wanting to know about this madman. The grandfather leaned in to hear every word the guide said about passion and misunderstanding, genius ignoring boundaries, and I hoped that my intellectual curiosity would be as open-minded thirty years from now. Curiously, although it seemed in life Mr. McQueen sought to push and provoke, in death everyone was invited in. His clothes did not shirk or slink and neither did his ideas or the women he envisioned wearing them. He was a master craftsman of pomp and creepiness. I’m sorry for the fashion world’s loss and glad we had him for as long as we did.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Love You More
(intro)
Here’s a song about my son
He’s seven and a half years old
He calls me pretty, still nestles in
When we snuggle these moments are gol-den
We put on K.C. and the Sunshine Band
And boogie around the room
We wrote this song together
When we sing it my heart goes zoom, zoom.
(chorus)
I love you more than you love me
I love you more than you love me
I love you, I love you
I love you more than you love me
Let’s agree to disagree
Let’s agree to disagree
Let’s agree, let’s agree
Because I love you more than you love me
You will grow older and smelly
Dark hairs are gonna grow on your belly
You’ll be sullen and morose
And when I try to hold your hand you’ll pull away saying, “Gross!”
“Mom, I don’t think so. Ugh. Don’t even touch me. Infact,
don’t look at me, okay. Just stop. Ugh, go away. Leave me alone.”
You’ll hold your head down and mumble
When I ask how was your day you’ll simply grumble
I know all you can think about is sex
But would you look me in the eye and just stop text-ting "for one minute? Would it kill you to look at your mother
and tell me one thing you did in school? Just one thing?”
“Okay, here’s one thing. I thought about how much I hate you.”
“Honey, that’s sweet. I love you, too.”
“Stop saying that!”
“Sweetie, we can agree to disagree. Hey, let’s sing that song we wrote together when you were little and wanted to marry me and held my face in your hands and told me I was pretty several times a day.”
“Go to hell!”
“Dinner’s in an hour!”
“Fuck you!”
I love you more than you love me
I love you more than you love me
I love you, I love you
I love you more than you love me
Let’s agree to disagree
Let’s agree to disagree
Let’s agree, let’s agree
Because I love you more than you love me.
Here’s a song about my son
He’s seven and a half years old
He calls me pretty, still nestles in
When we snuggle these moments are gol-den
We put on K.C. and the Sunshine Band
And boogie around the room
We wrote this song together
When we sing it my heart goes zoom, zoom.
(chorus)
I love you more than you love me
I love you more than you love me
I love you, I love you
I love you more than you love me
Let’s agree to disagree
Let’s agree to disagree
Let’s agree, let’s agree
Because I love you more than you love me
You will grow older and smelly
Dark hairs are gonna grow on your belly
You’ll be sullen and morose
And when I try to hold your hand you’ll pull away saying, “Gross!”
“Mom, I don’t think so. Ugh. Don’t even touch me. Infact,
don’t look at me, okay. Just stop. Ugh, go away. Leave me alone.”
You’ll hold your head down and mumble
When I ask how was your day you’ll simply grumble
I know all you can think about is sex
But would you look me in the eye and just stop text-ting "for one minute? Would it kill you to look at your mother
and tell me one thing you did in school? Just one thing?”
“Okay, here’s one thing. I thought about how much I hate you.”
“Honey, that’s sweet. I love you, too.”
“Stop saying that!”
“Sweetie, we can agree to disagree. Hey, let’s sing that song we wrote together when you were little and wanted to marry me and held my face in your hands and told me I was pretty several times a day.”
“Go to hell!”
“Dinner’s in an hour!”
“Fuck you!”
I love you more than you love me
I love you more than you love me
I love you, I love you
I love you more than you love me
Let’s agree to disagree
Let’s agree to disagree
Let’s agree, let’s agree
Because I love you more than you love me.
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