18/ Aging Predictably

When I was 30 and a new mother, my closest friend was Emilie. I wrote about her in my 40 Words blog:

When cataracts forced Emilie to stop driving, she hitchhiked to and from work. She was 83. Around the same time she gave up everything unpleasant. Her daughters-in-law cleaned her house occasionally. Now she’s my role model for the next life.

Yes, housework was one of the unpleasant tasks Emilie gave up. She read books, listened to whale song records, and baked sponge cakes. I haven’t consciously given up cleaning, but I notice it’s not getting done. I have four cats and lots of road dust. Most of the time I don’t think about it. This is scary. I could use Emilie’s six daughters-in-law.

17/ A Scary Phone Call

“Vi” was a neighbor, much older than I, who lived up the road when we first moved here. She was a devoted member of the nearby Bible church, and her mission was to spread the word and save souls.

For several years we shared telephone service on a party line, but once we were able to get a private line she and I didn’t have much contact. However, when I was 37 she called me. I remember my age because my mom had just turned 38 when she died. Like most adults who lost a parent in childhood, I’d grown anxious as I approached my mother’s final age. The anxiety had begun in childhood, so it developed quite a head of steam over the years. Vi called on a particularly bad day.

You have to imagine her voice. It’s easy—just channel a loud Wicked Witch of the West. I picked up the phone and heard: “Susan! It’s time to prepare for your death!”

16/ Scary Stuff on the Subway

I admit the following is an edited excerpt from a blog post I wrote in 2014. It fits the topic of “scary stuff,” but the blog tells the rest of the story.

I was 19 years old, and commuting to work from Queens to Rockefeller Center. Rush hour on the NYC subways is not for the claustrophobic or overly sensitive. We had our choice of holding onto one of the handles above the seats or grabbing a pole. Envision multiple hands holding onto the same shiny white pole. I guess we chose our spot on the pole depending on our height. Like a lot of riders, I always had a book with me. One hand holding the book, the other clutching the pole.

You can't exactly minimize contact with the other riders, but you do what you can to not maximize it. Which was why it came as a shock that morning when a guy in back of me pushed me into the pole and yelled that I was leaning on him. Leaning on him? I turned around and he kept yelling, in Spanish now (I recognized puta). And then he ripped the pearls from my neck.

15/ Reading Gravestones

As a volunteer gravestone photographer, I spend more time in cemeteries than most. I find cemeteries—so quiet and serene most of the time—relaxing places to be. But one thing about them scares me.

I usually photograph a cemetery’s oldest sections. Lots of young women died in childbirth 100+ years ago, and you see this reflected in the gravestones. The stones also tell a story of what life was like before we had vaccines. When diphtheria devastated a community, for instance, a family could lose multiple children in the same week. Or the same day.

I get where anti-vaxxers are coming from; I have strongly mixed feelings myself about modern medicine. But I’m afraid they haven’t thought this through. I wish I could take them on a very personal and very scary cemetery tour.

Children of Angeline Buckland Hudson (1843 – 1926):

          Hattie M. (1863 – 1865

          Sylvenus (1864 – 1870)

          Nettie (1866 – 1866)

          Willard (1867 – 1870)

          Oscar (1869 – 1877)

          Ambrose (1871 – 1877)

          Hattie L. (1874 – 1877)

          Harry (1876 – 1877)

          Blanche (1881 – 1881)

Angeline also had three sons who lived to adulthood: Clarence, Charles, and Ellsworth.

14/ Bats in the Bedroom

When we moved into our old farmhouse we knew about the bats in the barn. We liked having them swoop around at night, eating their weight in mosquitos. It was fun to see them exit the corner of the barn roof, dipping slightly before taking flight. We soon found we also had bats in the attic. We weren’t so crazy about those.

The first time a bat got into the house my husband was away. I awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of wings in my bedroom. Try to imagine it. No, don’t. Once you’ve heard it, you never forget.

“City girl” hadn’t completely transitioned to “country girl” yet, and even the country girl would have had issues—big ones—with a bat in her bedroom. I leaped out of bed. Did I rush to my toddler daughter’s room to protect her? No, I ran downstairs, poured myself a scotch, and called my husband.

13/ If it ain't one thing, it's another . . .

Remember the horror movies where the house turns on the residents? Or maybe it was a short story by Shirley Jackson. Whatever, I can relate. It started with my camera—the one I grab first most of the time. It had seen a lot of use, and when it failed I replaced it immediately. A big chunk of money for me, but little did I know how many chunks I’d soon be chipping off my bank account.

Next, the chest freezer in the basement began to fail. I bought a new one. Then my laser printer decided 16,000+ pages over 15 years was enough, and it stopped printing. Around that time I discovered the upstairs toilet was leaking. I need to call a plumber, but I’ve been dealing with mildew that appeared all over the wood walls, beams, and ceiling of the guest room. Bought a dehumidifier. And a face mask.

Oh, and the roof has started leaking.  

12/ Disappeared

I can’t find my sister-in-law. She lives in another state, and while we’ve never been close, over the last decade or so we’ve kept in touch on birthdays, Christmas, and the occasional call or card in between. She lives alone with help. I’m not sure what the help consists of, but she can afford all the help she needs.

She turned 90 last month. I called to wish her a happy birthday, but there was no answer. And no answering machine. Over the next couple of weeks I tried again at different times of the day. Still no answer. I tried the number I had for her late husband’s son, but that phone had been disconnected. It was then I realized I have no way of contacting anyone else for information about her. Since her phone is still connected, I hope someone is opening her mail. With that in mind, I wrote her a letter. No response yet.

11/ Voices (not that kind)

I have fun doing voices, and around Halloween that means a witch, a vampire, and the spooky ghost sound that’s so spooky I don’t like to do it if I’m alone in the house. Especially at night.

To keep these voices special, I don’t do them all year round—just in October, when my grandsons, filled with gleeful terror, hide (often in plain sight under the piano) as these characters—complete with stomping feet—come looking for them. In other months the boys might encounter Big Ugly Nasty Man, All-Purpose Brooklynite, and Melania. (The names are for my reference only.)

So the other day one grandson (7) said he was looking forward to Halloween, his favorite holiday. Figuring he was deciding what costume to wear, I said, “What are you thinking about?” He replied, “I’m thinking about your vampire person.”

10/ A New York Thing to Say (Story, The Ending)

I detected something resembling a nod, so I went on.

“We’ve never even gone out to eat. You said you’d love to give me my first taste of kimchi and that Thai stuff you like, and remember the time you said it would be fun if we could do Ninth Avenue on a Saturday morning?  You told me we couldn’t even be seen together at that French movie theater I wanted to go to. And you said your wife has all this money…….”

He looked away, so I nudged him with my foot.

“So if I, you know, took care of it, we could really enjoy the city together. And you know as well as I do that it’s not such a big deal. People get killed in New York all the time.”

It seemed like a long time before he finally spoke.

9/ A New York Thing to Say (Story, Part IV)

“Solution?” He sounded a little breathless.

“Well, yeah.”  I was starting to get impatient with his lack of enthusiasm.

“Sandy.”  He said my name the same way again, but before I could say his, he went on.

“Tell me this.”  He paused and I waited. “Have you ever killed anyone before?”

“Well, not a person per se,” I replied, pleased with myself for knowing how to use per se properly. “But I’ve slaughtered a lot of chickens and pigs. Pigs are pretty smart, by the way. I had one as a pet when I was little. But I got over that pet stuff. Growing up on the farm, you see a lot of blood flowing. I don’t think I’d have a problem.”

He didn’t respond. Stockbrokers are used to giving things a lot of thought. I waited a moment.

“Eric, you know how we always say it would be nice if I could go hear you play at Sweet P’s?”

8/ A New York Thing to Say (Story, Part III)

Eric turned and stared at me.

“Sandy.”  He said it like it was a complete sentence, so I answered him the same way.

“Eric.”  I looked in his eyes and smiled. I loved to do that.

He blinked first. “Sandy, we haven’t even had sex.”

Well, if that wasn’t a New York thing to say!  I had to laugh.

“I know, silly. That makes it perfect. No one knows about our relationship because there’s no relationship to know about, at least not the kind anyone can see. So who would suspect me?”

He didn’t reply, but I could tell he was thinking it over. So I went on. “The regulars in the Square see us on our bench every Tuesday night after class, but all they know is that we talk for a while and then go our separate ways. Because that’s all we do. The cops would have no motive, Eric. So this is the perfect solution.”

7/ A New York Thing to Say (Story, Part II)

Thank God we had TV on the farm. I watched every show filmed in New York, especially the cop shows. I loved the cop shows. It made me mad when I found out some of them were really made in LA, with only certain scenes shot in my city.

I read every New York writer I could get my hands on. I dreamed of meeting Jimmy Breslin someday, making him laugh, and maybe sitting at a round table at the Algonquin, breathing the air that Dorothy Parker breathed. Going to New York, staying there, living there, becoming a New Yorker, meant everything to me.

Eric was the New York man. A Wall Street executive by day, he played bass at a jazz club on Wednesday nights. We met at a MIDI composition class at NYU. Eric was 40 to my 22, but that didn’t matter. It just meant he’d had more time to become as sophisticated as the beautiful city he called home. I called it home now too. 

6/ A New York Thing to Say (Story, Part I)

It was the usual sort of evening in Washington Square when I suggested to Eric that I kill his wife.

Taxis blew their horns on Fifth Avenue. Two Russians near our bench engaged in a loud chess match. Some old men played a card game in another language. Humming loudly, a woman sat on the ground, picking at her bare feet. A couple of aging hippies sat in silence, moving small stones around a board. A skinny guy strummed and sang on the grass, and another guitar could be heard not far away. The effect was a little discordant, but you wouldn’t think so if you understood Washington Square and New York City.

I understood both very well. The Square was everything I loved about New York, and New York was everything I’d wanted it to be back when I was wasting my talents on a dirt road in Wisconsin.

5/ The Young Man on the Bicycle

It happened so quickly, but I remember how clean-cut he looked, how collegiate. I was in my early 20’s, and he appeared to be too—maybe a little younger. I was uptown for some reason, standing in the street on Madison Avenue, trying to hail a cab to get home. It was late in the day, but still light, so it must have been one of the warmer months. And I know I wasn’t wearing a jacket. He was on a bicycle, appearing suddenly in my peripheral vision on the left. As he passed me, without slowing down he reached out and grabbed my breast.

A little thing, some might think, but I was tearful in the cab on the way home. How many other women did he do this to? Did he keep score? Did he hide his habit from his fellow students and/or co-workers? Or did he brag? Did he marry and have children? Did he become a teacher? A lawyer? A judge?

4/ Halloween Story, the Last Part

The baby. You’ll go check on the baby. You can’t remember if they told you if it’s a boy or a girl. Why is it getting hard to remember things? The hum is louder upstairs. Which room is the baby in? The first two doors open to empty darkness. You go on, clinging to the anticipation of baby warmth, little body curled in sleep, blanket-sleepered bottom in the air.

Finally, a room with a night light. A crib stands in the center, a little mound under the blanket. But the room is frigid, the crib rail like ice under your fingers. The hum is so loud you can feel it in your chest. You turn down the blanket to find a pillow underneath. And beneath the pillow . . . there is no baby. Just a few large bones.

You tear down the stairs, beginning to sob. A phone! You grab one of those red phones. You’ll call 911 and then run out the door as fast as you can. You put the receiver to your ear, but instead of a dial tone, a voice speaks, deeply pleased and chilling: “I’ve been waiting for you.”

3/ Halloween Story, Part III

An unwelcome thought takes root and grows. You didn’t pay attention to the route the couple took to get here, and you don’t even know what they look like. They picked you up wearing Halloween costumes. You thought it was odd they were both dressed as Death. You asked how they could see through those black hoods to drive, but they just chuckled. The man said his name was Dolph.

I can’t stand this place, you think. It’s so weird! You find yourself pacing the downstairs and searching the blank darkness outside the windows for a light, any kind of light. You left a note for your parents, letting them know you were babysitting, but you gave no names, no address. You can’t remember where your parents said they’d be. Your friends are probably all out trick-or-treating.

2/ Halloween Story, Part II

Thinking about a snack, you head for the kitchen. The refrigerator is stainless steel, huge, expensive, and empty. One small glass jar sits on a shelf, its contents black and forbidding. The rest of the fridge is bare. What do these people eat? you wonder. And how do they afford all this? What do they do?

You realize how little you know about the couple who hired you. When they called, you were grateful for something to do. Your parents were out at a Halloween party, and didn’t want you trick-or-treating because you were getting over a cold. Tonight’s temperature had dropped down to 22 degrees. The woman on the phone said her name was Eva somebody—Brown, maybe?—and her neighbor had given her your name. She didn’t say which neighbor. She didn’t mind that you had a cold.

1/ A Small Serial Story Called Halloween

The house had seemed so stunningly sophisticated when you first arrived, with its vast spaces, tall white walls and acres of black carpeting. But now, like everything else about this babysitting experience, the house is just so uncomfortably unfamiliar. And noisy! At first you blamed the scratching sounds on trees—it had to be branches scraping against the windows—but later you remember no trees surround this house on top of a bare hill.

And now the hum. A threatening hum, as if too much electricity coursed through the house. It’s beginning to drive you nuts. You need a TV on—any channel—or a stereo, but you don’t see either downstairs. They don’t watch TV, you think, but they must like to talk on the phone. In the living room sit four old-fashioned looking phones, red ones, with the dial on the base.

31/ One More Dream Visit

Fifteen years after my mother-in-law died, she knocked at my door in a dream. I cried as I hugged her. She wanted very much to thank me, so fervently, for all the letters I sent when she was far away in a nursing home. I wrote often, even after her daughter told me to stop because “you’re wasting your time.”

30/ Israeli Song With Frame Drum

Three weeks ago I'd never heard of a frame drum, but now I own one. Because of nerve damage in both hands (separate injuries) I'll never play really well. But I'm so drawn to it that I used Amazon points to order a daf (a larger drum with rings suspended on the inside) from Turkey. YouTube is my patient teacher.