I had just hooked up my new stereo and was listening to my first record album in about 15 years. Joni was singing “I am on a lonely road and I am traveling, traveling, traveling.” and I was singing along with her as I swept the floor. It was a warm, September Saturday. My front door was open to sunshine and breeze, when a knock came on the screen door. What's this? Nobody comes to my house spontaneously. And I hadn't heard a car in the driveway. Standing in the doorway was a shaggy middle-aged man in shabby shorts.
The scruffy stranger pointed to the old beat up blue pick up truck—parked illegally in the middle of the intersection. “Ma'am, we ran out of gas.” “Oh,” I thought, “the old 'I ran out of gas' trick.” A favorite of pan handlers. “Do you have some gas---like for a lawn mower that we could buy from you?” In his hand was a wad of cash and he was offering to pay for it. Well, maybe he really HAD run out of gas... “Sure”, I replied. It was a little weird, but all of those Sundays of listening to Mindy's sermon's about helping our neighbors, helping “the least of these” had influenced me. I wanted to be a Good Samaritan in my heart. Besides, he had offered to pay for the gas, so it must be all right.
“Do you want me to wait over here?” he asked politely, as I started to walk towards the shed, and he stood by the open door of my house—Joni still trilling through my splurgingly expensive new speakers. “You can come with me,” I told him, as I opened the door to the unlocked shed. I found myself apologetically explaining to him why I had three lawn mowers sitting in the dark, dusty shed. “That one doesn't work, and that one works but doesn't do too well when the grass is high. I really only use this one,” I gestured, as I picked up the red plastic gas can—filled with the most expensive gas I had ever purchased. I had bought it back in the day when gas was $4.99 a gallon. It had lasted for two years, and was still about 1/3 full. He took the gas can across the street to the old blue truck and dumped my precious hard-earned money into it. Well, never mind. I was helping a stranger.
His companion returned the empty gas can to me—an older black man with missing teeth and shoes with floppy soles. “Do you want anything for this?”, he asked. I shook my head. It was so obvious that they needed the money more than I did. He thanked me and left. I stashed the empty container back in the shed, closed the door, and went inside—feeling a little foolish, but virtuous at the same time. As Joni sings: “Some get the gravy. Some get the gristle. Some get the marrow bone. Some get nothing, though there's plenty to space.” I had helped a neighbor in need. I could pat myself on the back for that.
It was early one morning, about three weeks later—as I was standing over the kitchen sink, sleepily filling the coffee pot with water, that I glanced out the window and noticed that the shed door was open. “That's odd,” I thought to myself. I'm very careful about always closing that door because I have cats, and I don't want them getting into mischief in there. I walked outside to investigate, peered into the shed—and that's when I saw it—the shockingly empty space where my only working lawn mower had been. How could someone have just come into my yard and taken my lawn mower? Would the new stereo be next? I felt violated, upset and unsafe. I called the police. “My dog did bark last night,” I told them. “And I heard the sound of something being wheeled over gravel. I assumed it was my neighbor pushing his trash up to the street.” Never mind that it was midnight on a Saturday night. My half asleep brain hadn't thought of that. I felt really foolish.
“My lawn mower was stolen out of my shed last night *&^%$#@!” I posted on facebook. “Will your homeowner's insurance cover it?” asked one friend. I had assumed it would. But when I finally got in touch with an insurance agent I was told, “The value is not in excess of your deductible". $250 lawn mower and $1000 deductible do not compute. Right. Well, at least I could call Sears and get some credit by canceling my extended warranty.
“Do you keep some lights on outside at night?”, asked one of my facebook friends. “Thieves don't like the light.” “Was your shed locked?” was another helpful comment--and “Thank goodness they didn't break into your house!” Yes, my thoughts exactly. “Single women need to be smarter and more self protective than the rest of us, to survive well in this world,” advised another.
That night, I lay in bed—trying to sleep, with the porch light blazing outside my window, and a brand new lock on the door of the old shed. I must have just fallen asleep when I was awakened by the crunch of gravel and Bentley's wild barking. I peered out the window and saw car headlights in the driveway. Oh my God, the thieves had returned! Heart pounding, I picked up my phone and called 9-1-1. “Five oh one West King Street. I'm the one who called you this morning about a missing lawn mower.” I told the operator, my voice shaking, “A car just pulled into my driveway. I think people are getting out and walking around. You need to send someone out here right away-- PLEASE! ” I gave the operator my name and phone number—while anxiously peeking out from behind the blinds. There were flashlights in the yard, footsteps by the shed. A deep voice said “There's a lock on here.” Then, I heard the walkie talkies, and it dawned on me that they were not making any effort to be quiet. I suddenly understood what the operator meant when he told me “There should be someone there right now.”I opened the front door, and there, under the bright porch light was a uniformed officer. “Ma'am,” he said, “I think we may have found your lawn mower.”
They had returned to the scene of the crime to collect finger prints to take to their forensic expert. They were gathering evidence. Didn't I have the serial number? No, but I did finally manage to fish out my lawn mower manual from my bulging file marked “warranties and manuals” At least they had the model number and a picture of it now. They promised to return the next day.
The detective patted the handle of my red Sears lawnmower, which was looking none the worse for the wear. “Is this your lawn mower?” Why yes, it was! “It was an old beat up blue pick up truck”, explained the detective the next day, “that broke down last night.” Through what they called, “good police work”, they had brilliantly put two and two together. I had described the “out of gas” incident to the officers on the morning after the theft, just in case there was any connection. “These people have their scam down. They've done this many times”, he explained to me, They knock on doors and ask for gas, and they notice who has lawn mowers in unlocked sheds. “There were three lawn mowers in the back of the truck, and one of them was this one.” I was so surprised and delighted that it had come home to me. I had never expected this. “You are very lucky,” concurred the officer, as we both signed an official form, saying he had left the mower with its rightful owner. After fumbling a bit with the new lock, I wheeled it back to its rightful resting place, beside the now empty red plastic gas can.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Monday, April 19, 2010
Banshee's Story
If any cat has nine lives, it would be Banshee. Banshee's first life, before I met her, landed her at the pound, abandoned and skinny—yet still feisty and full of life. My 13-year-old son and I were totally charmed by this little black kitty with the white spot on her chest who rubbed against the bars of her cage, mewing vigorously in her high-pitched kitten voice, demanding to be noticed. We brought her home, along with her mama— a blue-eyed Siamese we called Koko.
The feisty black kitten and her mellow Siamese mama were a study in contrast from day one. While Koko hid under the bed in an upstairs room, Banshee explored every corner of our home—scampering around the house, pouncing at everything from my 13-year old son's pen, as he worked on his homework, to my husband Greg's bathrobe belt trailing on the floor, to her mama's tail. She especially loved the cat toy we got her—the mouse filled with cat nip that hung from the doorway by an elastic cord. She would pounce on that mouse and bite it, then let go. Released, it bungeed up into the air. Just as fast, she jumped several feet off the ground, grabbing it again in mid-air.
While Koko chose to be a mainly indoor cat, Banshee delighted in the great outdoors. Early one morning, Banshee stalked a deer-—many times her size—who was grazing in our wooded front yard. I saw through the window that little Banshee was lying in wait—flicking her tail, creeping up to the deer. He stared at her not knowing what to make of this spunky little creature. Then I saw her quiver and rush forward again, a little closer. The deer made a snorting sound and pawed the ground. But Banshee did not back down. I worried that she was in danger, —so I quickly ended her hunt by opening the door, clapping my hands and shouting that deer away.
One day, in an urgent effort to get back inside after being let in and out and in and out God- knows-how-many-times, Banshee got her paw stuck in the crack between the metal sheet covering the bottom of the screen door and the door frame. Her little body twisted as she howled in pain. Greg gently extracted her. Her poor front claw dangled uselessly. A piece of her toe was gone, and her leg stuck out at a scarily distorted angle. I rushed her to the vet immediately. After stitches, anti-biotics, pain medicine, a splint, and a big green bandage—Banshee was home again. She who could jump so high was hobbling around helplessly--evoking pity from us instead of amusement. But within days, Banshee was doing much better. Contrary to the vet's initial predictions, she recovered full use of her leg and her paw. Only one very observant guest has ever noticed that she is missing one toe on her left front paw.
Banshee and Koko have now lived with me in three houses—first, with Greg at our suburban family home—then, when our marriage ended—in two very different places. I knew when I moved out that I could never live in a condo with this wild thing—who was used to the woods, used to spending time outside. Banshee definitely influenced my choice of housing—and I was fortunate to find a little cabin in the woods by a pond—where she delighted in stalking birds through the sliding glass door—making strange strangling sounds in the back of her throat. Occasionally the neighbor's chickens would wander our way too—and Banshee sat and watched them from under a chair on the back patio, as they pecked up fallen birdseed. At night, the bullfrogs sang us to sleep with their deep throated “chugs” in combination with the rhythmic higher pitched “preeps” of the smaller frogs. It was an idyllic atmosphere for a newly single woman, her teenage son, and two cats. Yet when the opportunity to own my own house in Hillsborough basically fell into my lap—I knew I had to take it.
This house, where we still live—is on a fairly busy intersection with a stoplight—but there is enough of a yard for my cats to enjoy. Koko spends most of her time indoors, anyway. Banshee sometimes sits at the top of the driveway watching the cars—but she never crosses the busy street.
Not long after we moved here, Banshee took to napping on a high perch—in the roof rack of my SUV. The roof rack on a Nissan X-Terra is fairly sizable and enclosed on the front. It's a good hiding place for a cat, and a good place to watch birds hop on the branches above.
One day, I got in my car as usual and began the daily drive to the preschool, where I was teaching. A car honked at me—and I couldn't figure out who it was. I waved anyway. As I rounded a curve—I heard a thud, and thought a branch had fallen off the top of my car—not an unusual occurrence when you park under trees. I continued on my way---lost in thoughts for my lesson plan of the day—how to set up for the leaf rubbings and fall collages we were doing.
It wasn't until dinner time that evening that I realized Banshee was missing. Banshee has always been religious about showing up for meals and she was growing quite hefty. No matter where she hid out during the day, she was always around when I called her to come in and chow down on her Purina. All of a sudden, it dawned on me—my brain put two and two together: the honking horn, the falling “stick”. Oh my God, I had driven off to work with my cat on top of my car! The sky was beginning to darken, and I was in a panic.
Immediately, I jumped back in the car to retrace my route to work. Where was it exactly that I had heard that thud? I really couldn't remember... I drove down busy Nash street, around the bend and up Dimmocks Mill towards Orange Grove. I drove slowly with my window open, calling “Banshee... Banshee...” checking closely by the side of the road, where I wasn't sure if I'd find her dead or alive. I retraced my route a couple of times. I stopped and pulled over at some random places near my house, walking around and calling. No Banshee. The sun was setting, and I knew my teenage son Noah would be coming home. I called him on my cell phone and explained what had happened--that I'd driven off with Banshee on the roof of my car, and that I was afraid she was lost. “What?!” He exclaimed “How could you? I can't believe you did that!” I told him I was about to give up, come home—plaster the streets with sad “lost cat” posters. “No! That's not good enough!” he exclaimed, “You HAVE to find her!”
Hearing this from my son spurred me to give this one last try. I walked all around in the empty lot by the railroad tracks calling “Banshee! Banshee!” I got back in the car and drove some more. I prayed. I cried. It was really dark now. Reluctantly, I realized I would have to wait til morning to try again. I turned the car towards home.
As I rounded the final curve that goes under the railroad trestle, a dark shape darted in front of my car. Was it Banshee? I pulled over immediately and called where I had seen the speedy silhouette disappear behind a dumpster. Sure enough, there was my mewing black kitty. This seemed like an answer to prayer. I was so relieved and so grateful. I brought Banshee home and we put her on the living room floor and petted her. She had been a tough stray alley cat for a day, and this might have been the story of the rest of her life. Noah and I marveled at the miraculous story of Banshee surviving the fall from the roof rack in traffic, how she landed uninjured, how she darted out in front of my car, announcing her presence at just the right instant—to ME and not to anyone else.
I had a new appreciation for my cat's vigorous presence. I even loved her commanding meow, that made me a constant doorman. I even loved her rubbing against me demanding food and attention—interrupting my work at the computer. I loved watching her wrestle and play with Koko. I loved how she slept on my pillow with her paws draped over my head.
A big change came to our world, when after a couple of years of feeling settled in our Hillsborough home, I decided to invite a dog into our lives. Suddenly, Banshee was no longer the center of the universe. Bentley bounded through the house with his puppy energy, chasing the cats, licking my face, chewing my shoes, craving walks, needing my time and energy. Banshee did not seem afraid of him. Unlike Koko, she did not hide when Bentley nosed her, but stood her ground-- swatting and hissing at him until he backed away.
I noticed that Banshee was spending more and more time outside. I noticed she was becoming less demanding. I thought these changes were positive. I noticed she was losing weight, which I felt was a good thing. When I bought supplies for the new dog, I switched the cats to a higher protein, less processed brand of cat food. I thought her new sleekness was a consequence of this new healthier diet, and of her becoming more independent and spending more time outside. I occasionally found a dead vole or bird—so I assumed that Banshee was supplementing her occasional nibbling of dry food with prey. I was so focused on the new dog, that it took me awhile before I felt the prominence of her backbone; before it dawned on me that her once vigorous mew had weakened.
“We may be looking at a euthanasia cat here,” said the vet. I was totally shocked. He pointed out how the whites of her eyes had a jaundiced yellowish tinge, as did the inside of her ears. Dr. Mac told me that he'd learned in vet school that “a yellow cat is a dead cat. We have to treat this very seriously,” he said. I was in tears, not believing what I was heard. But then he gave me a sliver of hope.
Dr. Mac said that although she was very sick, there is a newer liver disease—not uncommon now, and not always fatal—called “hepatic lipidosis” or fatty liver syndrome (FLS). It can often be reversed if it's caught soon enough and treated aggressively.
Fatty liver syndrome occurs when an overweight cat stops eating—for whatever reason. The liver no longer has a normal diet to break down, and instead tries to process fat cells. Cats' livers are not designed to do this. Cats are meant to be lean hunters, living in the wild. Their livers are not built to break down the fat accumulated by modern domestic felines. So when the liver tries to process fatty cells, it becomes damaged. This can happen if a fat cat stops eating even for a couple of days.
The only way to know for sure if it is this, and not some other more serious ailment (tumor on the liver or shrunken liver) is to undergo first an ultrasound and then a biopsy. I told Dr. Mac, that for budgetary reasons, we would have to skip the expensive diagnostic tests. He supported my reasoning, saying that if these tests reveal a serious life-threatening liver ailment, there would be almost no hope anyway.
The whole progress of Banshee's illness very much fit his description of hepatic lipidosis. Some online research confirmed that there are many reasons for a cat to stop eating and become anorexic—chief among them are a new housemate and a change of food—both of which my previously fat cat Banshee had just been through. The cure for FLS is simple—feeding, feeding, feeding, trying to get the liver to function normally again, trying to get muscle to build up again, to return and cover her bony backbone. Dr. Mac said that if I could get Banshee to eat-- a LOT—if I can get her to gain some weight back, there may be hope. Food and love would be her treatment-- hope, her prognosis.
As soon as we got home from the vet, I opened a can of food out on the porch, and it was almost as if she had understood the doctor's words. Drawn by the scent of liver, she began to eat right away— and although her bites were small and delicate, it was more than I'd seen her eat in a long time. It was as if to tell me she still had life left, as if to tell me she was going to fight grim fate.
Liver is the one food I can't stand—but now for my darling, sick kitty, I found myself stirring up the wet meaty mass with my index finger, turning the food over, making little piles of it that she could more easily bite and pick up. Otherwise, she just licked at the food. Bentley, my dog, was so jealous. He was drawn by the scent of liver too. I fed Banshee out on the porch while the other animals were inside. But they both knew something was going on. Especially Bentley, with his beagle nose. If the window was open, he went right to it, pressing his nose up against the screen, barking demandingly. I learned to close the windows and the doors to keep his craving nose at bay.
I learned that once cat food has been refrigerated for awhile, the scent isn't as strong. I learned to microwave the food for a few seconds, to warm it up to room temperature so that the aroma is released, instead of contracted up inside the cold lumps that aren't nearly as appetizing to Banshee.
When she walked away from her dish, I picked her up and petted her for awhile, and stroked her bony back-- telling her she needed to eat more so she could grow strong again, telling her that every bite made a difference. I told her I knew she could do it. I set her back down in front of the plate—angled just so—so that the mounds I'd formed were right under her nose. I stroked her head as I talked to her. For some reason, this combination of talking, petting, mounding the food, turning the plate, and angling it just right seemed to be working. I was able to get Banshee to eat—slowly, a few bites here and a few bites there, many times a day. Not wolfing it down hungrily like a normal cat, but eating steadily nonetheless. I had my other cat to keep “normal” in perspective—and was struck by how quickly Koko ate in comparison.
It has been almost a week now since that traumatic visit to the vet, since I began Banshee's intensive feeding treatment. I'm happy to report that she is now eating more heartily on her own. Not requiring the mounding and turning of the plate as much, except occasionally, when she's about to walk away and I'm able to get her to stick with it a bit longer. Her meow is getting louder, and she is purring again as she enjoys her Fancy Feast. She's now eating more flavors—turkey and giblets, chicken in gravy. She's eating cold food pulled straight from the fridge. She squirms more when I hold her. The yellowish tinge which the vet pointed out to me seems to be fading.
As I happily watch her eat more heartily, I remember the little black kitten mewing in her cage at the pound. I remember her quick recovery from totally messing up her paw in the broken screen door. I remember her harrowing near death fall from the top of my car—her getting lost, and her miraculous rescue. I have every hope and every reason to believe that Banshee will pull through this too and come out fine. She is now five years old. She still has several more cat lives left to live.
The feisty black kitten and her mellow Siamese mama were a study in contrast from day one. While Koko hid under the bed in an upstairs room, Banshee explored every corner of our home—scampering around the house, pouncing at everything from my 13-year old son's pen, as he worked on his homework, to my husband Greg's bathrobe belt trailing on the floor, to her mama's tail. She especially loved the cat toy we got her—the mouse filled with cat nip that hung from the doorway by an elastic cord. She would pounce on that mouse and bite it, then let go. Released, it bungeed up into the air. Just as fast, she jumped several feet off the ground, grabbing it again in mid-air.
While Koko chose to be a mainly indoor cat, Banshee delighted in the great outdoors. Early one morning, Banshee stalked a deer-—many times her size—who was grazing in our wooded front yard. I saw through the window that little Banshee was lying in wait—flicking her tail, creeping up to the deer. He stared at her not knowing what to make of this spunky little creature. Then I saw her quiver and rush forward again, a little closer. The deer made a snorting sound and pawed the ground. But Banshee did not back down. I worried that she was in danger, —so I quickly ended her hunt by opening the door, clapping my hands and shouting that deer away.
One day, in an urgent effort to get back inside after being let in and out and in and out God- knows-how-many-times, Banshee got her paw stuck in the crack between the metal sheet covering the bottom of the screen door and the door frame. Her little body twisted as she howled in pain. Greg gently extracted her. Her poor front claw dangled uselessly. A piece of her toe was gone, and her leg stuck out at a scarily distorted angle. I rushed her to the vet immediately. After stitches, anti-biotics, pain medicine, a splint, and a big green bandage—Banshee was home again. She who could jump so high was hobbling around helplessly--evoking pity from us instead of amusement. But within days, Banshee was doing much better. Contrary to the vet's initial predictions, she recovered full use of her leg and her paw. Only one very observant guest has ever noticed that she is missing one toe on her left front paw.
Banshee and Koko have now lived with me in three houses—first, with Greg at our suburban family home—then, when our marriage ended—in two very different places. I knew when I moved out that I could never live in a condo with this wild thing—who was used to the woods, used to spending time outside. Banshee definitely influenced my choice of housing—and I was fortunate to find a little cabin in the woods by a pond—where she delighted in stalking birds through the sliding glass door—making strange strangling sounds in the back of her throat. Occasionally the neighbor's chickens would wander our way too—and Banshee sat and watched them from under a chair on the back patio, as they pecked up fallen birdseed. At night, the bullfrogs sang us to sleep with their deep throated “chugs” in combination with the rhythmic higher pitched “preeps” of the smaller frogs. It was an idyllic atmosphere for a newly single woman, her teenage son, and two cats. Yet when the opportunity to own my own house in Hillsborough basically fell into my lap—I knew I had to take it.
This house, where we still live—is on a fairly busy intersection with a stoplight—but there is enough of a yard for my cats to enjoy. Koko spends most of her time indoors, anyway. Banshee sometimes sits at the top of the driveway watching the cars—but she never crosses the busy street.
Not long after we moved here, Banshee took to napping on a high perch—in the roof rack of my SUV. The roof rack on a Nissan X-Terra is fairly sizable and enclosed on the front. It's a good hiding place for a cat, and a good place to watch birds hop on the branches above.
One day, I got in my car as usual and began the daily drive to the preschool, where I was teaching. A car honked at me—and I couldn't figure out who it was. I waved anyway. As I rounded a curve—I heard a thud, and thought a branch had fallen off the top of my car—not an unusual occurrence when you park under trees. I continued on my way---lost in thoughts for my lesson plan of the day—how to set up for the leaf rubbings and fall collages we were doing.
It wasn't until dinner time that evening that I realized Banshee was missing. Banshee has always been religious about showing up for meals and she was growing quite hefty. No matter where she hid out during the day, she was always around when I called her to come in and chow down on her Purina. All of a sudden, it dawned on me—my brain put two and two together: the honking horn, the falling “stick”. Oh my God, I had driven off to work with my cat on top of my car! The sky was beginning to darken, and I was in a panic.
Immediately, I jumped back in the car to retrace my route to work. Where was it exactly that I had heard that thud? I really couldn't remember... I drove down busy Nash street, around the bend and up Dimmocks Mill towards Orange Grove. I drove slowly with my window open, calling “Banshee... Banshee...” checking closely by the side of the road, where I wasn't sure if I'd find her dead or alive. I retraced my route a couple of times. I stopped and pulled over at some random places near my house, walking around and calling. No Banshee. The sun was setting, and I knew my teenage son Noah would be coming home. I called him on my cell phone and explained what had happened--that I'd driven off with Banshee on the roof of my car, and that I was afraid she was lost. “What?!” He exclaimed “How could you? I can't believe you did that!” I told him I was about to give up, come home—plaster the streets with sad “lost cat” posters. “No! That's not good enough!” he exclaimed, “You HAVE to find her!”
Hearing this from my son spurred me to give this one last try. I walked all around in the empty lot by the railroad tracks calling “Banshee! Banshee!” I got back in the car and drove some more. I prayed. I cried. It was really dark now. Reluctantly, I realized I would have to wait til morning to try again. I turned the car towards home.
As I rounded the final curve that goes under the railroad trestle, a dark shape darted in front of my car. Was it Banshee? I pulled over immediately and called where I had seen the speedy silhouette disappear behind a dumpster. Sure enough, there was my mewing black kitty. This seemed like an answer to prayer. I was so relieved and so grateful. I brought Banshee home and we put her on the living room floor and petted her. She had been a tough stray alley cat for a day, and this might have been the story of the rest of her life. Noah and I marveled at the miraculous story of Banshee surviving the fall from the roof rack in traffic, how she landed uninjured, how she darted out in front of my car, announcing her presence at just the right instant—to ME and not to anyone else.
I had a new appreciation for my cat's vigorous presence. I even loved her commanding meow, that made me a constant doorman. I even loved her rubbing against me demanding food and attention—interrupting my work at the computer. I loved watching her wrestle and play with Koko. I loved how she slept on my pillow with her paws draped over my head.
A big change came to our world, when after a couple of years of feeling settled in our Hillsborough home, I decided to invite a dog into our lives. Suddenly, Banshee was no longer the center of the universe. Bentley bounded through the house with his puppy energy, chasing the cats, licking my face, chewing my shoes, craving walks, needing my time and energy. Banshee did not seem afraid of him. Unlike Koko, she did not hide when Bentley nosed her, but stood her ground-- swatting and hissing at him until he backed away.
I noticed that Banshee was spending more and more time outside. I noticed she was becoming less demanding. I thought these changes were positive. I noticed she was losing weight, which I felt was a good thing. When I bought supplies for the new dog, I switched the cats to a higher protein, less processed brand of cat food. I thought her new sleekness was a consequence of this new healthier diet, and of her becoming more independent and spending more time outside. I occasionally found a dead vole or bird—so I assumed that Banshee was supplementing her occasional nibbling of dry food with prey. I was so focused on the new dog, that it took me awhile before I felt the prominence of her backbone; before it dawned on me that her once vigorous mew had weakened.
“We may be looking at a euthanasia cat here,” said the vet. I was totally shocked. He pointed out how the whites of her eyes had a jaundiced yellowish tinge, as did the inside of her ears. Dr. Mac told me that he'd learned in vet school that “a yellow cat is a dead cat. We have to treat this very seriously,” he said. I was in tears, not believing what I was heard. But then he gave me a sliver of hope.
Dr. Mac said that although she was very sick, there is a newer liver disease—not uncommon now, and not always fatal—called “hepatic lipidosis” or fatty liver syndrome (FLS). It can often be reversed if it's caught soon enough and treated aggressively.
Fatty liver syndrome occurs when an overweight cat stops eating—for whatever reason. The liver no longer has a normal diet to break down, and instead tries to process fat cells. Cats' livers are not designed to do this. Cats are meant to be lean hunters, living in the wild. Their livers are not built to break down the fat accumulated by modern domestic felines. So when the liver tries to process fatty cells, it becomes damaged. This can happen if a fat cat stops eating even for a couple of days.
The only way to know for sure if it is this, and not some other more serious ailment (tumor on the liver or shrunken liver) is to undergo first an ultrasound and then a biopsy. I told Dr. Mac, that for budgetary reasons, we would have to skip the expensive diagnostic tests. He supported my reasoning, saying that if these tests reveal a serious life-threatening liver ailment, there would be almost no hope anyway.
The whole progress of Banshee's illness very much fit his description of hepatic lipidosis. Some online research confirmed that there are many reasons for a cat to stop eating and become anorexic—chief among them are a new housemate and a change of food—both of which my previously fat cat Banshee had just been through. The cure for FLS is simple—feeding, feeding, feeding, trying to get the liver to function normally again, trying to get muscle to build up again, to return and cover her bony backbone. Dr. Mac said that if I could get Banshee to eat-- a LOT—if I can get her to gain some weight back, there may be hope. Food and love would be her treatment-- hope, her prognosis.
As soon as we got home from the vet, I opened a can of food out on the porch, and it was almost as if she had understood the doctor's words. Drawn by the scent of liver, she began to eat right away— and although her bites were small and delicate, it was more than I'd seen her eat in a long time. It was as if to tell me she still had life left, as if to tell me she was going to fight grim fate.
Liver is the one food I can't stand—but now for my darling, sick kitty, I found myself stirring up the wet meaty mass with my index finger, turning the food over, making little piles of it that she could more easily bite and pick up. Otherwise, she just licked at the food. Bentley, my dog, was so jealous. He was drawn by the scent of liver too. I fed Banshee out on the porch while the other animals were inside. But they both knew something was going on. Especially Bentley, with his beagle nose. If the window was open, he went right to it, pressing his nose up against the screen, barking demandingly. I learned to close the windows and the doors to keep his craving nose at bay.
I learned that once cat food has been refrigerated for awhile, the scent isn't as strong. I learned to microwave the food for a few seconds, to warm it up to room temperature so that the aroma is released, instead of contracted up inside the cold lumps that aren't nearly as appetizing to Banshee.
When she walked away from her dish, I picked her up and petted her for awhile, and stroked her bony back-- telling her she needed to eat more so she could grow strong again, telling her that every bite made a difference. I told her I knew she could do it. I set her back down in front of the plate—angled just so—so that the mounds I'd formed were right under her nose. I stroked her head as I talked to her. For some reason, this combination of talking, petting, mounding the food, turning the plate, and angling it just right seemed to be working. I was able to get Banshee to eat—slowly, a few bites here and a few bites there, many times a day. Not wolfing it down hungrily like a normal cat, but eating steadily nonetheless. I had my other cat to keep “normal” in perspective—and was struck by how quickly Koko ate in comparison.
It has been almost a week now since that traumatic visit to the vet, since I began Banshee's intensive feeding treatment. I'm happy to report that she is now eating more heartily on her own. Not requiring the mounding and turning of the plate as much, except occasionally, when she's about to walk away and I'm able to get her to stick with it a bit longer. Her meow is getting louder, and she is purring again as she enjoys her Fancy Feast. She's now eating more flavors—turkey and giblets, chicken in gravy. She's eating cold food pulled straight from the fridge. She squirms more when I hold her. The yellowish tinge which the vet pointed out to me seems to be fading.
As I happily watch her eat more heartily, I remember the little black kitten mewing in her cage at the pound. I remember her quick recovery from totally messing up her paw in the broken screen door. I remember her harrowing near death fall from the top of my car—her getting lost, and her miraculous rescue. I have every hope and every reason to believe that Banshee will pull through this too and come out fine. She is now five years old. She still has several more cat lives left to live.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Back to New Orleans
The French Quarter has changed since my last visit, twenty five years ago. But then again, so have I. On my first visit, I was in my twenties, a passionate public radio professional-- here with my boyfriend for a romantic getaway. Now, I am a middle-aged mom with bunions on my feet, here with my 18-year old son to tour Tulane University.
Hurricane Katrina has left her signature everywhere. I had thought that by now, four years after the hurricane, that the recovery would be complete-- at least in the main tourist areas— that everything would be fixed up, whitewashed, repainted. Well, the French Quarter is still the French Quarter, but you can tell it has been through something major. Mildewed stains tell the terrifying story of water rising to second story windows. The old buildings droop, their balconies propped up precariously. They look tired and seedy—yet simultaneously bright with color and life. They have lost their grandeur, yet retain their charm. Noah takes photographs of sagging wrought-iron balconies filled with colorful flower pots and Mardi Gras beads.
We walk down Decatur Street through the French Market by the riverside. The Jackson Brewery is not what it once was. When I was here in the 80's with Daniel, it was new and swank. Now, lots of the stores in this shopping center/eatery are closed. It has a broken, rejected and boarded up look. But we still go in and order fried oysters and sit on the balcony overlooking the broad, brown waters of the Mississippi River.
We stroll down Pirate Alley. The fake pirate culture is still alive and well—and the costumed pirates with their bandanas and gold earrings are still singing raucous sea chanties at the bar.
When I was here around 1985 with Daniel, we had our fortunes told and had our pictures taken in old wild west costumes toned in sepia. Now, as I walk into an antique store with Noah, I swear I feel Daniel looking over my shoulders at the Civil War era guns and the shipwreck coins.
We pass some young street musicians—a girl with the pink overalls, sunglasses, and green curly hair, playing the banjo singing “Arabian Fuck”--about a magic carpet ride of sorts. She's accompanied by a wild clarinet player, suggestively swinging the part of the charmed snake, and with the scrape of spoons on washboard. A few feet away, a long haired poet, with a ferret in his lap sits with his back against the low stone wall. He watches, jots down phrases.
I decide to follow my friend Kristen's advice and just “give in” to New Orleans. I stop worrying about how much money I'm putting on my charge card. Our dinner begins with oysters on the half shell and ends with “death by chocolate.” I have a couple of mixed drinks—a “Louisiana Lemonade” and a strawberry daiquiri. A guy on the street calls to Noah that he should fall down on his knees and thank Jesus that he has such a wonderful mother because his own mother has died.
We enter a souvenir shop called “Jazz Funeral”, where you are “dying to go in”. We handle dried alligator heads and voodoo dolls; finger purple and gold Mardis Gras beads; consider Cajun spices and New Orleans Saints T-shirts; touch soft feathered masks.
In a gallery on Royal Street, I am drawn to a photo of a saxophonist by the river. Lined up diagonally behind him are a bright full moon, and a ferry boat gliding over on the Mississippi towards the musician in the darkness. To me, this picture emanates audio. I can practically hear the deep call of the ferry horn, as well as the plaintive wail of the saxophone. The full moon calls forth it's own sounds-- a cry of longing from deep in the soul.
It's a sensory adventure just walking down Bourbon street,--catching snatches of blues from one club, Dixieland from another, and Trop Rock (as in Wasting away in Margarita-ville) from another-- spying people savoring their dinners in the windows of the oyster bar called Desire. I remember slurping up oysters on the half shell with Daniel, deciding they tasted better with our eyes closed. I remember dancing down this street with my lover, knowing we could be as crazy as we wanted to and no one cared-- enjoying the novelty of strutting openly outside while sloshing a big ass plastic cup full of beer.
Just as it did then, the street boasts numerous strip joints, with signs that say “no cover”-- proffering shows that are “barely legal” or feature “live girl on girl action”. Barely clad babes lounge in doorways luring leering passersby. It's a bit embarrassing to pass these places now with my teenage son. We both look away. When I was here with Daniel, we went to a drag show. The glamorous queens looked believably feminine-- until their male voices shocked us into reality. This is not the sort of place I would take Noah.
I WOULD take him into the jazz club, where Daniel and I sipped Irish coffee and enjoyed the trumpeter who could blow his cheeks out like Louis Armstrong. However this time, when we try to enter, they card Noah and won't let him in because he's under 21. I find this surprising, since the atmosphere inside is tame—with middle aged and older people listening to well-preserved, traditional jazz. You would think it would be an appropriate place for a mom to take her son-- unlike the bar where people get down to I'm a Soul Man. They wave us in without checking ID, and offer both of us drinks.“Don't ask, don't tell,” I smile to Noah , though I stop short of buying him a drink.
We are “blown away” by a couple of amazing brass bands playing for tips out on the street. The first one is all young guys—with a dented tuba, a couple of trombones and trumpets and a bass drum with a high hat on top. They are high energy and tight, yet ragged and dissonant. The sound is blown out raw—like oysters on the half shell with sharp edges. The beat is contagious. It makes you move your feet, makes you swing and sway. A black man of about forty approaches us and raves on and on about how cool these young guys are, this next generation of New Orleans musicians. We smile and nod agreement. He praises their talent to the skies—then tries to sell us the New Orleans Saints cap he's wearing as a souvenir. I tell him I'd rather support the band directly, and put a couple of bucks in their cardboard tip box.
A few blocks away, in front of the shoe store, on the corner of Bourbon and Canal streets is a bigger, fuller, inter-generational brass band. Their traditional repertoire is more familiar. “When the Saints Go Marching In” is pretty much the national anthem around here these days after the miraculous New Orleans Saints super bowl victory. It's preceded by the chant “Who dat? Who dat?”. This chant, which originated in minstrel and vaudeville shows and was taken up by jazz players, has become the slogan of Saints fans. T-shirts and posters boast “Who Dat Nation”.
Street dancers pull pretty young tourists into a dance. The dancers mime jumping rope—double dutch --the one in the middle jumping double time to the music with fancy footwork. A guy with dreadlocks does a clown version, miming getting whipped in the butt with the imaginary jump ropes. Another poses sitting on top of a milk crate holding his cellphone-- still as a statue, with one leg kicked out. A shoe shine rag is a prop, air shining shoes, flicking in jest. Multiple trombones slide to the beat. A legless trumpeter blasts out notes from his wheelchair. Cardboard boxes are passed around repeatedly—the tourist dollars tossed in with smiles. I add my own greenback to the mix, knowing that alone it will not go very far, but hoping all these multiples will at least add up to a water bill payment or a tank of gas for a couple of them.
Noah says thinks it's so cool the way jazz is the true music of the street here—alive and pulsing—being taken up and transformed by young people. I am so pleased with Noah, with his openness to the sights and sounds and smells and tastes: craw fish etouffe, alligator po' boys, bread pudding and pralines.
Yet, the next morning at the Cafe du Monde over beignets and cafe ole, Noah says he doesn't want to wear his hoodie on our college tour even though it's chilly outside, because when the temperature warms up later in the day, he'll have to carry it. “Just tie it around your waist”, I tell him. Noah explains that he could never do that, that it doesn't look cool, that the only people his age who tie their sweatshirts around their waists at his school are hopeless social rejects. I tell him I don't understand why. I always tie my purple Patagonia fleece around my waist when I don't need it, and then it's there when I do. I tell him I like being of the age where you don't have to worry about “cool” anymore, that I find it liberating. “When exactly does that happen?” he asks me. “I really don't know,” I answer. “ I suppose it happens gradually, over time.” Then I add, “ But for some people, it never happens, and they never let go of looking cool.” “That's a little sad,” my son remarks, his lips coated with powdered sugar. I'm guessing that's a bit of back handed approval from my son-- the closest thing to a compliment I can expect at the moment.
Daniel told me he loved me on the antique brass bed where we spent our New Orleans nights. “Come here often?” was a favorite joke. He and I were conducting a long distance relationship between Texas and Kansas. We met as often as we could— specializing in intensly romantic weekends--in Galveston, in Kansas City, in Hot Springs, Arkansas. Before the days of email, we wrote copious, heart-felt letters to each other several times a week, and talked long distance on the phone as often as we could afford to. Yet our different career paths eventually drove us further apart geographically, instead of closer together. Sadly, we parted ways, and both eventually wound up marrying other people.
In the years that followed, I survived some serious storms--including a work conflict that left me no choice but to let go of my beloved career in public radio. And four years ago, right around the time of Hurricane Katrina, I weathered the destruction of my fifteen-year marriage, which scattered its emotional debris everywhere. Every item had to be sorted through and sifted. I had to touch everything I owned, and decide whether to keep it or to throw away. But we are still here, New Orleans and I.
Like this glorious city, I rise from the wreckage of what once was. I'm no longer a young lover , but a middle aged mom, hair streaked with gray, whose feet hurt from all the walking we've done. I may be sagging a bit, yet I'm still dancing and singing, still wearing those Mardi Gras beads. When I look at the pictures of me and my son on our trip-- I don't notice my jowls or my glasses, or that decidedly uncool jacket tied around my waist. Instead, I see a mother whose face is glowing with love. I have full confidence that my son will fill the world with his own amazing music and I can't wait to hear it.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
As the Fur Flies.... Meditations on Dog Hair
“Anyone want some dog fur?” I asked my Facebook friends, “ I've got enough to stuff a pillow with! Bentley is shedding his winter coat all over my house.” Now, I intended this to be funny, but several of my friends took it seriously—not my offer, but the concept. Apparently this is something that people have actually done historically. “Our ancestors used everything they had -- and then some,” commented one of my music teacher colleagues. “My sister spun yarn that included dog hair from my nephew's dog in it,” my old college roommate posted. A quick Google search online showed me that indeed even today people are making sweaters from dog fur, as well as scarves, hats, mittens and purses. “Dog fur can be 80% warmer than wool”, one such website claimed. Who knew?
Not being a crafty person, the dog fur was not a benefit to me at all, but only a major housekeeping headache. I teach piano lessons in my home, and every day I need to tidy my house (at least in a cursory way) before my students arrive. I was sweeping up HUGE piles of dog fur. Probably enough to stuff a gallon baggie every day. Every day as I swept, Bentley stood over the pile of fur, right in my way. He seemed proprietary about his hair, not wanting me to push it into the dustpan and discard it in the trash. As I tossed it wastefully away I thought, “Surely at least it's biodegradable.”
I worried about Bentley's shedding. I have lived with dogs my whole life, but I've never had one shed this much. It started near his hind quarters. I could see the fur that was coming loose, grasp it and pull it out easily. What if Bentley had some weird disease?
I stopped in the natural pet supply store that is in my neighborhood, and checked with Lisa, the store owner, who is very knowledgeable about all things dog. “He's 'blowing his coat',” she told me. She explained that certain dogs shed their seasonal coats at spring time and in the fall in a major way. She said not to worry, unless I started to see bald spots.
I went home and perused the web. On one site, there was a picture of a large, black Newfoundland lying on the floor. Beside him, was a pile of thick, black fur that had been shaped into a dog almost as big as he was. On this entertaining web site, a family described their battle with the dog fur—how it burned in their candle wax, broke their vacuum cleaner, and how they even found a frozen artifact in an ice cube. According to the American Kennel club, it's a common misconception to think that long haired dogs shed more than short haired dogs. Poodles, who have quite a bit of hair, hardly shed at all. The determining factor is not the length of the hair, but the fact that the fur is “double coated” and has an undercoat meant to be discarded at the ends of winter and summer. Bentley is soft and furry, but certainly not as long-haired as a Collie or Golden Retriever. His face looks like a Beagle, his body is dotted and freckled with copper like a Blue Tick Hound, and I now know his fur is double coated like a Newfoundland.
Lisa had recommended a special dog brush called the “furminator.” She assured me that if I used it once a week, I would never obsessively sweep dog hair from my floor again. Only problem was the “furminator” cost around fifty dollars. “Fifty dollars for a dog brush??? You've got to be kidding!” I exclaimed. But the “furminator” is apparently no ordinary dog brush. She showed me that it has a special razor that gets under the outer layer, to the layer of fur underneath that is shedding. It made sense to me on a certain level, but being the self-employed/under-employed person that I am, a fifty dollar dog brush was not in my budget. Now, I know that for some folks dropping fifty bucks is like dropping quarters into a parking meter—but not for me.
I continued to just let Bentley lose his fur the old-fashioned way. I should probably have at least invested in a cheap dog brush at Wal-Mart, but I hate going there so much that I kept putting it off. In the meantime, I designated one of my old hair brushes as a dog brush. It did the trick. I tried to brush off as much fur as possible once or twice a day to save the trouble of sweeping it from all corners of the house and gathering it up. I also got in the habit of plucking off loose fur as we went on our daily walk through the park. I would look at his hindquarters and his tail, and regularly groom him by hand. As I gently pulled off the soft tufts, an image came to mind of chimps picking fleas off each other at the zoo. I've always thought it was very sweet how they do that.
As the weeks wore on, I was tempted to buy the “furminator”. Several of my friends who saw my problem gave me their opinions that I was being cheap. “I would do it,” they told me. Yet I stubbornly believed that eventually, if I let nature take its course, I could save myself fifty bucks.
After several weeks of continued hair loss, Bentley started to look like he had a Mohawk. His hair was thinning up the sides, but still had a thick ridge on the top of his back. Could this really be normal?
It was reassuring to me one day to see another woman brushing her dog at the park, presumably so she wouldn't have to deal with the fur in her house. She sat on a bench with her Golden Retriever and stroked and stroked. I could see the hair drifting and accumulating beside the bench. “Good, I'm not the only one,” I thought. But what happens to those balls and tufts of fur released at the park? Were we littering? Or would it just magically fly away somewhere? Or become invisible? I did feel slightly guilty. Sort of like when Bentley poops accidentally in someone's yard.
On the first morning of spring, Bentley and I walked hand in leash through the park. As we followed the trail past the bench, I saw what looked like a large number of cobwebs-- glistening with dew-- in the grass. But when I got closer, I saw it was actually dog fur. It was no longer fluffy and puffy. The wet dog hair looked like bejeweled gossamer threads clinging to the shiny, wet grass in the early morning sun.
Later that afternoon, I sat out on my back deck enjoying heavenly sunshine and warmest temperatures yet-- in the 70's. I was brushing Bentley with one hand, and talking to my mother on the phone in the other. As I gathered large fluffy balls of fur from the brush and let them fly in the warm spring breeze, my mother told me about the late season winter storm in Kansas-- five inches of snow and frigid temperatures. She spoke of snow still falling, as I watched the dog fur roll gently across my deck.
Every day, more and more fur has come off. It's been a fascinating process to watch the parts of the coat that are loosening work their way up from Bentley's hindquarters, to his back, and now up near his neck. The fluffier, softer hair has mostly been shed, and Bentley is now working on the more wiry hair that coats his upper back. There is less fur to sweep up now—probably more like a quart-sized baggie instead of a gallon size. When my teenage son, Noah, came home after staying at his dad's house for a few days, he remarked, “He looks like a dog again.” The weird Mohawk and most of the loosening tufts are gone, and Bentley's coat is now more uniform, albeit thinner. Could we be almost finished? Well, maybe for now...
I fully expect that he will “blow his coat” again in the fall, so I have that to look forward to. Maybe by then I'll be able to mentally prepare myself to invest in the “furminator.” In the meantime, I can make it my science project to visit the park every day and try to discover what happens to the drifting, discarded fur.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Piano Lessons
NOTE: Names and some details have been changed.
In the late afternoons, when yellow school buses roll down the road, I turn into a piano teacher. I bring to a close whatever else I've been doing—whether writing, doing yard work, walking the dog, getting stuff together for dinner later on, or wasting time on the computer. I tell my dog “Friends are going to come,” put the tea kettle on, and begin my ritual of sweeping the wooden floors. I find the mindless motions of the broom relaxing. I move out whatever else is on my mind, dump the dustpan, and begin to think about which of my young friends is coming today, and what we are working on together.
Today I have my two youngest students, Tyler and Ellie—ages five and six respectively. I only recently started taking students this young, and am using a new method with Tyler. The book teaches musical concepts at a slower pace than I usually go, and is filled with games and little songs. It's more about process than performance. It comes with a CD. I have to study it for a few minutes, to get ready for Tyler.
I need to give my dog a treat, hopefully something that will occupy him during the afternoon of teaching, so that he won't jump on the couch, and start tossing the pillows around distracting me and my students. I pull the Kong stuffed with peanut butter out of the freezer—the blue plastic toy that is hollow inside, and has a small hole. Trying to lick the peanut butter out should keep Bentley busy for quite some time.
I set up the little TV table next to the piano and pull up a chair. The kettle whistles insistently and I pour the boiling water over my Egyptian Licorice tea. Today's words of wisdom from the tag on the tea bag reads, “Travel light, live light, be the light.” I ask the spirit to guide me to be the best teacher I can possibly be today.
The floors are swept, my teaching area is ready, the dog taken care of, I've made a lesson plan, I've poured tea as well as a glass of cold water for myself. And just in time, here is the car pulling up in the driveway, and Tyler stepping out. “Hi, Ty!” I call out, “I'm happy to see you.” And I am.
“Do you know Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star?” I ask him as we are seated together at the piano. “No. That's why I'm here. To learn to play the piano,” he says proudly and earnestly. He knows the tune, of course, just not how to play it yet—a feat that he masters quickly—as I mark the C and G keys lightly in pencil, and showed him how to start. Tyler is a musician inside. I can tell already. He loves music, sings beautifully on key and is drawn to the piano. He has a strong desire to learn to play.
It's interesting to me that these younger students, who I resisted teaching for so long, are the ones who have been bringing so much spontaneous joy into my house lately. Ellie, age 6, has so much enthusiasm that she has difficulty sitting still on the piano bench for very long. She wants to get up and beat the drums, pet the dog, look at the cat on the back porch. But despite her wiggly restlessness, I can see the talented musician inside finding expression. Her beat on the drum is quick but steady. She shows me how she can play “Doe, a deer” by ear on my wooden xylophone. As she leaves my house at the end of her lesson, Ellie said “I'm so glad my mom signed me up for piano lessons. Not just because you're my teacher and I get to come here. I just really like the piano.” My heart sings to hear these words. “I really like teaching you,” I tell Ellie, as I walk her out to my driveway and her mother's waiting van.
Not all of my students are so enthusiastic. Yesterday, Sam spent half his lesson time arguing with me about how he didn't want to play a particular passage again. “No. I'll do it at home. Don't make me do it now. Please.” Sam is a master at “eating the clock”. He takes a long time in the bathroom, and spends several minutes petting the dog when he first comes in. Of all my students, Sam is the most distracted by the dog. Yet I think his adoration of Bentley has helped our relationship, and given him new motivation to come to my house. Teaching piano is about more than music making, after all. It is about developing a relationship with each individual child. Although we spend way too much time arguing, and I have to humor and persuade Sam and bribe him with gold star stickers or ending the lesson 2 minutes early, we do manage all right together. He IS making progress. His Malaguena is sounding confident, if a bit uneven rhythmically, and it is ready for performance at the upcoming “piano party.” Focusing after a long day of school is just sometimes torturous to him. And Sam has some sensitivities that my other students don't have. He can't stand to be interrupted with little suggestions while he's playing something, and he hates it when I sing along.
Fortunately, the challenging lesson with Sam is followed by a visit from Hannah. She is the student I have the longest relationship with . Hannah came to me when she was seven, and she is now seventeen. She is preparing an arrangement of WC Handy's St. Louis Blues to play at the piano party. She takes this piece of music and makes it her own—adding her own personal fortes and diminuendos, which she is clearly feeling, as I see her body swaying to the music, hear her soul pouring forth through the notes. Years ago, I never would have predicted that of all the students who started around the same time as Hannah, that she would be the one to stick it out. Others were faster learners with more agile fingers. Hannah's progress has been slow and steady. But she has a deep love of music. It is extremely gratifying to me to think that I have played a role in bringing out this part of her identity. She enjoys singing, and participates in high school chorus. She is just starting to learn to play a selection from Phantom of the Opera, and I want to encourage her to try to accompany her beautiful voice with the piano chords.
Erica doesn't practice at all, and is always losing and forgetting her piano music. We have go over the same concepts of note reading again and again. Yet when she finds a song that she likes, she immediately memorizes it and sits right down and plays it. She delights in playing simple duets with me like Home on the Range or Oh Susannah and asks to do it again and again.
The most satisfying thing about being a piano teacher, is hearing this joy in music emerge in my students. My hope is that this desire to express themselves musically will last for their whole lives, as it has for me. It's not so much that I'm giving them this gift, it's more like I'm helping them discover it inside themselves and draw it out.
There is a force greater than the musician, that sometimes speaks through the music itself. It is the music moving through the musician. On those rare occasions when it happens, the musician is merely the channel. I think about my own recent experience accompanying a “cosmic dance” class, in the beautifully designed Eurythmy room at Emerson Waldorf School.
Sunlight shone through the muslin curtains on the polished, wooden floors. The dancers lifted their arms and gestured, as they wove around the circle. I was playing a piano passage from one of Liszt's Consolations. I had practiced it many times and had always thought it lovely—but suddenly in that particular moment, it all made sense to me in a new way. The chromatic harmonies and modulations gave it a haunting quality—yet I had a clear sense of the arc of the music, of where it was going and its hushed resolve. When the music ended, the notes hung in the air, the dancers holding the stillness. The spell of the music still lingered, like the dust particles in the sunlight, although the sound had faded.
I feel this same magic, when my student Mollie, a shy high school student, plays The Moonlight Sonata. She adds her own touches—a special crescendo, an accelerando, revealing the passion that is in her soul. I hear it in Ben, a fifth grade boy, energetically pounding out the Theme from Star Wars, playing forte and confidently. I hear it when 11-year old Ryan, enters my studio, quickly drops his books on the floor and without even taking off his coat, immediately launches into the Beatle's We Can Work It Out , grooving to the beat.
The smell of chicken roasting in the oven permeates the house, and I am hungry. But I so enjoy teaching my one adult student, Laura. I notice how her scales have improved as her fingers move agilely and rhythmically up and down the keys. When I hear her soft and delicate pianissimos in Schumann's Of Strange Lands and People, contrasting with the warmth of the melodic line, I hear the music coming to life through her. Laura's lesson ends with a lively, accented Hungarian folk dance tune by Bartok—which she is now playing at a nice, fast tempo, the best she's ever played it. She thanks me as we walk to the door together.
Laura gets into her car and shuts the door, just as my teenage son pulls up next to her in the driveway and enters the house with his heavy backpack. I greet Noah and ask about his day. I fold up the TV tray and slide the chair I've been sitting on back under the table. I let Bentley out briefly, then feed him. The roast chicken is almost ready to come out of the oven. I toss the salad. I draw the curtains. I pour myself a glass of wine. With these gestures, I officially slip out of my piano teaching role.
In the late afternoons, when yellow school buses roll down the road, I turn into a piano teacher. I bring to a close whatever else I've been doing—whether writing, doing yard work, walking the dog, getting stuff together for dinner later on, or wasting time on the computer. I tell my dog “Friends are going to come,” put the tea kettle on, and begin my ritual of sweeping the wooden floors. I find the mindless motions of the broom relaxing. I move out whatever else is on my mind, dump the dustpan, and begin to think about which of my young friends is coming today, and what we are working on together.
Today I have my two youngest students, Tyler and Ellie—ages five and six respectively. I only recently started taking students this young, and am using a new method with Tyler. The book teaches musical concepts at a slower pace than I usually go, and is filled with games and little songs. It's more about process than performance. It comes with a CD. I have to study it for a few minutes, to get ready for Tyler.
I need to give my dog a treat, hopefully something that will occupy him during the afternoon of teaching, so that he won't jump on the couch, and start tossing the pillows around distracting me and my students. I pull the Kong stuffed with peanut butter out of the freezer—the blue plastic toy that is hollow inside, and has a small hole. Trying to lick the peanut butter out should keep Bentley busy for quite some time.
I set up the little TV table next to the piano and pull up a chair. The kettle whistles insistently and I pour the boiling water over my Egyptian Licorice tea. Today's words of wisdom from the tag on the tea bag reads, “Travel light, live light, be the light.” I ask the spirit to guide me to be the best teacher I can possibly be today.
The floors are swept, my teaching area is ready, the dog taken care of, I've made a lesson plan, I've poured tea as well as a glass of cold water for myself. And just in time, here is the car pulling up in the driveway, and Tyler stepping out. “Hi, Ty!” I call out, “I'm happy to see you.” And I am.
“Do you know Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star?” I ask him as we are seated together at the piano. “No. That's why I'm here. To learn to play the piano,” he says proudly and earnestly. He knows the tune, of course, just not how to play it yet—a feat that he masters quickly—as I mark the C and G keys lightly in pencil, and showed him how to start. Tyler is a musician inside. I can tell already. He loves music, sings beautifully on key and is drawn to the piano. He has a strong desire to learn to play.
It's interesting to me that these younger students, who I resisted teaching for so long, are the ones who have been bringing so much spontaneous joy into my house lately. Ellie, age 6, has so much enthusiasm that she has difficulty sitting still on the piano bench for very long. She wants to get up and beat the drums, pet the dog, look at the cat on the back porch. But despite her wiggly restlessness, I can see the talented musician inside finding expression. Her beat on the drum is quick but steady. She shows me how she can play “Doe, a deer” by ear on my wooden xylophone. As she leaves my house at the end of her lesson, Ellie said “I'm so glad my mom signed me up for piano lessons. Not just because you're my teacher and I get to come here. I just really like the piano.” My heart sings to hear these words. “I really like teaching you,” I tell Ellie, as I walk her out to my driveway and her mother's waiting van.
Not all of my students are so enthusiastic. Yesterday, Sam spent half his lesson time arguing with me about how he didn't want to play a particular passage again. “No. I'll do it at home. Don't make me do it now. Please.” Sam is a master at “eating the clock”. He takes a long time in the bathroom, and spends several minutes petting the dog when he first comes in. Of all my students, Sam is the most distracted by the dog. Yet I think his adoration of Bentley has helped our relationship, and given him new motivation to come to my house. Teaching piano is about more than music making, after all. It is about developing a relationship with each individual child. Although we spend way too much time arguing, and I have to humor and persuade Sam and bribe him with gold star stickers or ending the lesson 2 minutes early, we do manage all right together. He IS making progress. His Malaguena is sounding confident, if a bit uneven rhythmically, and it is ready for performance at the upcoming “piano party.” Focusing after a long day of school is just sometimes torturous to him. And Sam has some sensitivities that my other students don't have. He can't stand to be interrupted with little suggestions while he's playing something, and he hates it when I sing along.
Fortunately, the challenging lesson with Sam is followed by a visit from Hannah. She is the student I have the longest relationship with . Hannah came to me when she was seven, and she is now seventeen. She is preparing an arrangement of WC Handy's St. Louis Blues to play at the piano party. She takes this piece of music and makes it her own—adding her own personal fortes and diminuendos, which she is clearly feeling, as I see her body swaying to the music, hear her soul pouring forth through the notes. Years ago, I never would have predicted that of all the students who started around the same time as Hannah, that she would be the one to stick it out. Others were faster learners with more agile fingers. Hannah's progress has been slow and steady. But she has a deep love of music. It is extremely gratifying to me to think that I have played a role in bringing out this part of her identity. She enjoys singing, and participates in high school chorus. She is just starting to learn to play a selection from Phantom of the Opera, and I want to encourage her to try to accompany her beautiful voice with the piano chords.
Erica doesn't practice at all, and is always losing and forgetting her piano music. We have go over the same concepts of note reading again and again. Yet when she finds a song that she likes, she immediately memorizes it and sits right down and plays it. She delights in playing simple duets with me like Home on the Range or Oh Susannah and asks to do it again and again.
The most satisfying thing about being a piano teacher, is hearing this joy in music emerge in my students. My hope is that this desire to express themselves musically will last for their whole lives, as it has for me. It's not so much that I'm giving them this gift, it's more like I'm helping them discover it inside themselves and draw it out.
There is a force greater than the musician, that sometimes speaks through the music itself. It is the music moving through the musician. On those rare occasions when it happens, the musician is merely the channel. I think about my own recent experience accompanying a “cosmic dance” class, in the beautifully designed Eurythmy room at Emerson Waldorf School.
Sunlight shone through the muslin curtains on the polished, wooden floors. The dancers lifted their arms and gestured, as they wove around the circle. I was playing a piano passage from one of Liszt's Consolations. I had practiced it many times and had always thought it lovely—but suddenly in that particular moment, it all made sense to me in a new way. The chromatic harmonies and modulations gave it a haunting quality—yet I had a clear sense of the arc of the music, of where it was going and its hushed resolve. When the music ended, the notes hung in the air, the dancers holding the stillness. The spell of the music still lingered, like the dust particles in the sunlight, although the sound had faded.
I feel this same magic, when my student Mollie, a shy high school student, plays The Moonlight Sonata. She adds her own touches—a special crescendo, an accelerando, revealing the passion that is in her soul. I hear it in Ben, a fifth grade boy, energetically pounding out the Theme from Star Wars, playing forte and confidently. I hear it when 11-year old Ryan, enters my studio, quickly drops his books on the floor and without even taking off his coat, immediately launches into the Beatle's We Can Work It Out , grooving to the beat.
The smell of chicken roasting in the oven permeates the house, and I am hungry. But I so enjoy teaching my one adult student, Laura. I notice how her scales have improved as her fingers move agilely and rhythmically up and down the keys. When I hear her soft and delicate pianissimos in Schumann's Of Strange Lands and People, contrasting with the warmth of the melodic line, I hear the music coming to life through her. Laura's lesson ends with a lively, accented Hungarian folk dance tune by Bartok—which she is now playing at a nice, fast tempo, the best she's ever played it. She thanks me as we walk to the door together.
Laura gets into her car and shuts the door, just as my teenage son pulls up next to her in the driveway and enters the house with his heavy backpack. I greet Noah and ask about his day. I fold up the TV tray and slide the chair I've been sitting on back under the table. I let Bentley out briefly, then feed him. The roast chicken is almost ready to come out of the oven. I toss the salad. I draw the curtains. I pour myself a glass of wine. With these gestures, I officially slip out of my piano teaching role.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Valentine's Day
My dog and I were on our usual walk home from the dog park, quickly rounding the dangerous blind curve on Dimmocks Mill Road, where the road crosses under the railroad trestle and narrows. I don't believe a car and pedestrian could possibly co-exist here-- let alone one being pulled by an enthusiastic young Beagle-mix dog. I always hold my breath, and try to urge Bentley through as quickly as possible.
Just as we made it under the overpass safely and started to cross Eno St, we spotted another human and dog pair right in our path. An oversized Beagle-ish dog barked loudly at us and strained at his leash. Though he was larger and tri-colored, his face—with it's brown and white mask, cocked ears and quizzical sweetness, looked a lot like my Bentley's. His bark was a loud hound, howling call—and Bentley responded in kind. At the other end of the leash, holding on for dear life with one hand, while he clutched his cell phone with the other, was a short man with a shock of gray hair protruding from a navy stocking cap, who looked about my age.
I tried to keep my distance, pulling Bentley back, changing our course a little to go further to the right. But the dogs were both straining and pulling towards each other-- wagging tails, baying and answering each other. The man lowered his phone for a moment and called out, “He's actually friendly, if they want to say hello. He just has a loud bark.” So I brought Bentley over.
The two dogs began to joyfully try to snuffle under each others tails, which meant that they were walking in circles and getting their leashes tangled. “Mom, I gotta go now. I'll call you right back”, the man said into his phone.
He told me his dog was on a 7-day trial adoption from the shelter, to see if he would work out—before he officially adopts him. “That's exactly what I've just been through with Bentley”, I told him. “I got him at Paws 4Ever”, I added. “That's where Duncan came from too”, he replied. I realized that that name and even the dog himself were familiar to me. I now remembered seeing Duncan at the shelter on that fateful day when I'd only had eyes for Bentley.
Duncan and Bentley made a cute pair, with their Beagle faces and barks, their playful jumps and lunges. Most likely they recognized each other from the shelter. They seemed to be having a joyful reunion. We two humans stood together clinging to our leashes and conversing, trying not to get tangled up, watching to make sure that nothing turned aggressive or overly perverted in that doggie way.
He said so far Duncan was doing pretty well. The dog had proven trustworthy in the house during the day when he's at work. I told him Bentley gets into the trash and chews the table leg. “Other than that, he's pretty good when I'm gone.” I laughed. “But fortunately, I have a home business, so I'm around a lot.” I told him that it had been very important to me to find just the right dog—one who was gentle with children and wouldn't bark or scare the steady stream of kids and parents walking in and out of my house for piano lessons. Bentley had passed the test and I was certain that he was The One.
My new acquaintance seemed less certain about his dog, although he was strongly leaning towards making their connection official. “He has a really loud bark, and he pulls very hard,” he complained. “He's a little bigger than what I was looking for. But very sweet.”
He told me he's just discovered that Duncan can't be walked off leash. He tried it the other day. “Everything was fine at first, but then he got on a scent and ran off with his nose to the ground. I stood there and yelled 'Duncan! Duncan!', but it didn't do any good at all.” He told me he'd panicked because he thought he'd lost the dog—for good and it wasn't even technically his dog.
I told him I'd tried the same experiment with Bentley a couple of days ago with similar results, although Bentley didn't run off so far that I was truly worried. “At least I was prepared for that,” I told him, after years of living with my old purebred Beagle, Maggie. Maggie would “come”, “sit” and “stay” reliably at home, but if I took her for a walk and let her off leash, forget it. “A Beagle's nose takes priority over everything and it overrides the ears--- either that or they're just choosing not to listen”, I complained. “I wasted lots of hours and energy fruitlessly yelling at Maggie—demanding that she come when she was called. Finally, I just accepted her Beagle nature and quit trying to call her.” I had taken more risks back then, I told him, walking her loose in the woods, losing her to the scent of a deer or a rabbit and letting her run freely after it.
Sooner or later Maggie would wake from her nose trance and realize she was being left behind. Then she would follow MY scent trail to catch up with me.
“One day, I thought I'd lost her for good.” I told him. We were walking in Duke Forest and Maggie disappeared, as usual—this time for way longer than she'd ever done before. I kept retracing my steps, calling and calling her to no avail. Finally I walked back to my car—where I was extremely relieved to find her waiting for me. She was UNDER the vehicle—safe from swiftly passing traffic, and out of the way of other people who might think she was a stray. Maggie was very smart that way.
“ But anyway”, I told him, “I'm just not up for that kind of stress anymore. Bentley is going to be a leash dog.” He said he had come to the same conclusion with Duncan, after just one try—without going through all of the wild experiments that I'd tried with Maggie, back in the day. “Maybe age gives you automatic understanding about risk versus security,” I suggested, “You can reach the same conclusion without having to actually experience the risk, as you do when you are younger.” He nodded agreement.
So here I am-- having this conversation with this man that I have just met, as if we are old friends. It is Valentine's Day. He seems to be my age. We are both standing there in our wool hats and winter coats, our Beagly dogs tugging at their leashes. He hasn't spoken the words “we” or “wife” or “girlfriend” or “partner”. He has a friendly face and smiling eyes. He is wearing gloves, so I can't tell if he's wearing a ring or not.
We finally introduce ourselves instead of just our dogs. His name is John, and it turns out he lives only a few blocks away from me, and owns a little mill house—very similar to mine. There are so many little coincidences: Our dogs look alike, and we have both just adopted them from the same shelter. We both live in sturdy little mill houses built in the 1930's in the same neighborhood. We seem to be of similar age, and it's possible that we are both single, although I'm too shy to ask him that.
I give him enough hints about me that he'll be able to find me again if he wants to. I tell him where I live, and what time of day I usually walk Bentley. “Well, nice to meet you. We'll bump into each other again sometime, I'm sure,” he says. This seems to be a dismissal. He needs to continue his walk and call his mother back. I smile and say “I hope so.” I tell him I think Duncan's a sweet dog and that he should keep him. “You think so?” he asks. Then he calls out “Thank you. Yes, I think he's a keeper” as I walk away.
Will I see him again? I wonder as I walk away and head up the Nash St. hill towards home. Maybe I should have pressed for more information? Perhaps tried to arrange a doggie play date? Asked for his phone number? I hadn't wanted to seem overly eager. But hopefully, we will “bump into” each other again. Not only do we hang out at the same dog park, we both have four free obedience training classes coming up at Paws 4 Ever with our new adopted family members. And we both frequent the new neighborhood natural pet store and enjoy talking with its owner.
If I get really desperate, I could ask Lisa about him. She makes a point of really talking to her customers and their dogs and learning things about them. She surely has his name and address in her data base—and perhaps she would even give it to me, if I told her that I hoped Bentley and Duncan could have a doggie play date. Well, asking for the phone number is probably going a bit too far—but a little sleuthing couldn't hurt.
All I can do is believe that if it is Meant to Be, it will be. He crossed my path on Valentine's Day. That makes for a nice, romantic “how we met” story, anyway. My friend Laurece tells me that all couples who have good and lasting relationships, have an interesting “how we met” story that they enjoy telling. This certainly would qualify.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Several weeks have passed and the cold weather has given way to a warm and beautiful spring. Though I walk Bentley in the neighborhood often, and frequent the dog park regularly, we have yet to run into John and Duncan again. I don't think I'd even recognize John if I saw him without his dog, or his winter coat and hat for that matter. Yet, even if nothing else ever happens other than this one conversation on a street corner, it still leads me to believe that there is hope in the world. I can just be on my normal walk, when suddenly someone new crosses my path. Perhaps if I'm open to such moments there may be new and wonderful possibilities of all kinds.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
I Don't Feel the Chemistry's There
The bar and grill where we meet was once part of an old cigarette factory. American Tobacco “Campus” strikes me as a really odd name for a place once teeming with blue collar workers. Smoking is outlawed here-- although the sweet smell of fresh tobacco still lingers in the air molecules. The taproom, with its high ceilings and exposed brick, features craft and import beers. Sitting across the high wooden table from me is Phil Goldman, my date from Match.com.
He places his hand over his stein of Belgian beer, then lifts it, gesturing as he talks. I look at his small, slender thumbs and recall what my friend Joyce told me, that an average man's penis is twice the size of his thumb. Of course, size doesn't matter. No, not at all—I tell myself. But I guess I should pay attention to what he's saying, instead of speculating about the tininess of his organ.
Phil is talking about his recent trip to Germany, and how he wasn't brave enough to go anywhere by himself—without the friend that he was visiting. His friend worked a lot, so he didn't see very much of Germany other than the small business district within walking distance of his friend's apartment. He says he'd walk down the street and take pictures, but he didn't want to hop a bus or train by himself. Right away I know we're not on the same wavelength, since I love adventurous solo travel. I visited a friend in Germany myself a few years ago, and I delighted in riding trains and trolleys, climbing old castle walls and ambling along rivers while my friend was at work. But I shouldn't rule Phil out because of that. Come on, be open minded, I tell myself.
Phil may not be an adventurous traveler, and he may be only 5'4,” but he has a PHD and a decent job and he is local. He's a Nice Jewish Boy. These qualities make him “appropriate” for me---unlike “Honey I'm Home!”. That's the moniker of the man who emailed me last night saying he thought my profile was “very well written”. He is “stocky” and lives in Western Pennsylvania and listed his occupation as “Celtic Grail Quest”.
But I really should be paying attention. Phil is telling me that he went back to school in his early 40's to get his his PHD, and that that transformed his life. He still works for the Environmental Protection Agency, which is where he's always worked. He worked there for a dozen years before getting his PHD-- but then he was a lowly “technician”. Now he is a “controller”. This means he supervises a few people and earns more money. He says he's not exactly a “bigwig”, but is still quite pleased with his situation. He makes what he calls “a decent amount of money”. He talks about where he stands in relation to others—at work,financially, on his softball team. I get the feeling that he has classic short man's syndrome, that he is sizing up every situation to see if he passes muster.
Phil lives in North Raleigh in a house that he designed and built himself. It includes a large darkroom in the basement. He's into photography—real shutter photography—and he has his photos displayed in a local gallery, owned by a friend. He says he just does it for fun. He really doesn't care if he ever sells anything, and he doesn't understand why anyone would waste time promoting their art. “What if you are trying to make a living at it?” I ask. He snickers and tells me he feels sorry for anyone who does.
I guess he doesn't really get that I'm trying to make a living as an artist myself. A piano teacher, really—but very much needing to promote my work. But I don't discuss my financial situation with Phil. I don't want him to think I'm a gold digger. In all honesty, I'm not really looking for a sugar daddy, although I confess I would like to find someone to help me pay the bills. That's not so unreasonable, is it? I gather from his conversation that pretty much everyone Phil associates with drives a late model car, has a well paying job with health benefits, and enjoys fine dining on a regular basis.
I tell him a little about my life-- about my piano students and being a church musician, about learning Tai Chi, about my little mill house, about walking to Weaver Street Market. He responds that that all sounds “very Hillsborough”--by which he means Bohemian—which is unlike his North Raleigh lifestyle. He is interested in the old, abandoned cotton mill in Hillsborough and says he wants to photograph it before they turn it into condominiums.
The waitress arrives, bringing his gourmet burger, and my “pub salad”, asking if we'd like more beer. He says yes, but I decline, since I'm not sure who is paying. The beers are $4.50 each. I look across the table at him as he pecks at his burger, puts it down, and dabs his upper lip with his cloth napkin. He says he eats out almost every night. I say I rarely go out to eat.
He is impressed that I've worked in public radio, so we're able to fill some conversation time with that. Then we touch briefly on relationship history. Phil has never been married, but he did live with a woman once—a pharmacist who worked for Glaxo. I skim over my failed marriage—and talk at great length about my son, who graduates high school this year, about how cool he is—an athlete and a scholar.
I excuse myself and head to the ladies room—mainly just to take a break from the rather forced and awkward conversation. The check comes while I'm gone (as I'd kind of hoped it would), but it's just sitting there untouched. I spot it as I walk back to the table. He seems to be collecting himself, sitting up taller, as if he's ready to get up any minute. I politely offer to pay for my salad and my beer. Regrettably, he accepts my offer. Then he asks if I'd like to do something again sometime. It would be rude to say no, so I say, “Sure.” Why not? I mean I could see going to a concert with him or something. But I can't in my wildest dreams imagine anything romantic developing. I am earth and he is air. If I put my arms around him, I would smother him.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
I get home and there is an email waiting from “Honey, I'm Home”. Oh no! He has googled “Vivi801”, the “handle” I only use for internet dating sites. He has found a posting I made to an E-harmony advice site—which I went to in desperation about a year ago. The holidays last year were a real low point for me. That was right after Dave ended our six month relationship because he “wasn't feeling attracted anymore.” I had posed the question: “If lots of men click on 'I don't feel the chemistry's there' when they close a match with me, is that E-harmony speak for 'you're fat and ugly'?” My fellow lonely hearts had advised me to “Get a new photo. Fast.”
“Jeez”, I write to “Honey”, “I can't believe my insecurities are the first thing you've learned about me”. “Yeah”, he replies a couple of hours later, “I almost feel like I came over to meet you for the first time, you didn’t answer the door, so I invited myself in only to see you running out of the shower in your elegant birthday suit”. Now that's down right creepy, I tell myself. Yet I answer his email anyway.
As the week progresses, I don't think too much about Phil—but I continue my correspondence with “Honey, I'm Home!” He tells me his real name is John and he is currently collecting unemployment after being laid off from a dot.com warehouse. I wonder if the “Celtic Grail Quest” listed as his occupation in his profile refers to the job search. He is very absorbed in his hobby, which is going to yard sales and collecting old DVDs, CDs, jewelry and musical instruments.
I google John O'Leary. There are not a lot of references, and all is consistent with what he's told me about himself in his emails. He's participated in a discussion about taxi driver rate hikes, and I see that he worked as a cabbie in the DC area for about ten years. There's a forum where he's asking questions about the value of a particular model of Jaguar and the metal it was made out of. This would be consistent with what he told me about his interest in “precious metals”. Also, I find a reference to a dialogue about a prescription drug called Paxil—but I'm not able to access the actual conversation, just the website that sells the drugs. The website's ad for Paxil says it's for OCD—obsessive/compulsive disorder. Could it be that his habit of collecting yard sale “treasures” is not an innocent hobby, but a demented obsession?
We discuss contra dancing, which is one of the interests we have both listed in our “about me” column online. He says he needs to lose some weight so he can “get back into the swing of things”. I tell my friend Joyce that while I don't mind “stocky”, I don't think I can live with anyone with a weight problem so serious he can't dance. Just how bad is his weight problem? I wonder. His profile photos are only head shots. What if he's more than “stocky”? What if he's “obese”?
The weight issue coupled with the yard sale habit are making me feel queasy about John. Where does he store all those DVD's, CD's, musical instruments and toy pianos that he says he might sell on E-bay someday? I bet they take up a LOT of room. I am rather a minimalist myself. I don't buy anything I don't need or don't have room to store. It all sounds a bit overwhelming.
Politely, I write to him that I'm uncomfortable with a long-distance relationship because it puts too much pressure on a first meeting. I tell him I'm really looking for someone local (which is totally true, it's even in my profile) and that maybe I need to “take a break” from our correspondence for awhile. He writes back “Gee, I wasn't asking for your hand in marriage. Yet. (smiley face).” He says maybe he could travel down to meet me at LEAF (the Lake Eden Arts Festival) or a contra dance weekend in the spring. Something fun and lighthearted, low pressure. Then in closing he writes “Maybe I'll Be Home in the Spring”. Oh no, I cringe, This is moving too fast. I'm not ready for this. I am earth, he is water. If he comes down here in the spring, I will drown.
On a whim, I google Maybe I'll Be Home in the Spring because of how he wrote it out-- with first words capitalized, like a title. I find out it is the title of a made for TV movie. Then I discover that his online name--- Honey, I'm Home is the title of an old sitcom. Then I google a lot of the poetic turns of phrase in his profile that I have admired, and learn they were all lifted from song lyrics. “Quoting without attribution is cheating”, I always tell my teenage son when he is writing papers using online sources as references. That's it. That's the last straw. He's definitely not my soul mate. I'm not answering his emails anymore.
I play a game in my mind. I compare the men I've considered to different breeds of dogs. Choosing John O. would be like finding a large, old mutt at the pound-- that can't run anymore and is about to be put to sleep if you don't adopt it. This lonely, overweight man in Chambersburg Pennsylvania is truly all alone—even his parents are dead and he has no siblings—no children, no ex-wife, no career, no house. Choosing Phil, on the other hand—with his large house and his respectable job-- would be like getting a dog with a pedigree— a small one, possibly a Yorkshire Terrier. BTW, he still hasn't called me for that second date.
Maybe I'd feel more in my element, I think, if I let go of this man thing altogether and start searching for a good dog instead. I let my subscription to Match expire. I peruse pictures of pooches available for adoption. I browse breeds on line and consider their characteristics. I enter the animal shelter, regarding each furry face and wagging tail as I search for my new best friend.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Transatlantic Transit
This is an excerpt from a longer work, a travel memoir titled Wanderlust.
11/3/88 Amsterdam Airport
I just went through security, which included a surprise hand luggage check. It made me very uncomfortable and embarrassed to watch this impersonal official riffling through my dirty underwear, fingering my nightgown and thumbing through the pages of this journal—my most private, valued, and irreplaceable possession.
I held my breath, afraid he’d find the wooden pot pipe I bought for Barry—but he overlooked it. It would probably have been OK, since there was no residue in it anyway. Still, there were a few tense moments. The official looked at me searchingly, right in the eyes and said, “How are you feeling?” and almost sneeringly, “Did you have a good time in Amsterdam?”
Then I was pulled aside for a bodily pat down search. Of course, I would never be stupid enough to have anything on me. Still, it made me feel uneasy. The woman doing the search was very quick and her manner was professional. She rhetorically requested my permission, then had me stand with my arms up and my legs spread. She quickly and lightly patted me down in a very cursory way. Glad that’s over with. There’s nothing to do now but wait.
In an hour, I will board a plane from Amsterdam to London, then another from London to New York, and then the final flight from New York to North Carolina. At 8:30 PM Eastern Standard time (which is 1:30AM Amsterdam time), Jen and Tim will meet me at the Raleigh Durham Airport. They’ll drive me home along I-40, through the world of pine trees and Research Triangle Park, back to my little house with the cedar siding on Oak Avenue in Carrboro. I’ll sleep in my own bed tonight. My cat, my piano, my little black pickup truck and probably a letter from Barry will all be waiting for me.
There’s symmetry to this trip. Just as when I left North Carolina, I’m in an airport-- wearing the maroon and paisley jumper that Mindy gave me. Now, there is a small hole in the skirt where the burning ash from my joint fell in the Amsterdam hostel. Pinned to my breast is the little, round, orange and yellow dotted holograph pin that Barry bought me in Greenwich Village. On my legs is the added warmth of a pair of black tights I bought while shopping with Leah in Oxford. Atop my head is the vintage black, fedora hat, and dangling from my ears are the peacock feather earrings from the Amsterdam flea market. All of these special changes are now part of my travel costume.
I’ve taken on a new persona. I’ve led a scruffy, backpacking, temporary, transient lifestyle-- meeting others in passing, talking more about our journeys than our jobs and our everyday lives. I remember wondering before I left home, who I would be without my professional identity as a public radio person, and whether I would feel lost without it. I haven’t at all. I love this new role I’ve taken on.
This is something I’ve wanted ever since I visited Europe with my family as a teenager. I remember seeing these young, hippie backpackers. They were slightly older than me, and seemed to carry an air of adventure and mystery along with the packs on their backs. I envied the freedom of these longhaired ramblers who traveled by train, while I rode in the Saab with my parents—who repeatedly dragged me into cathedrals to look at naked cherub bottoms.
I feel very pleased and satisfied that I’ve finally had the chance to live this dream, regardless of the fact that at 31, I’m older than your average vagabond. In fact, most of my compadres were quite surprised whenever I revealed my advanced age.
I have a sense of pride in that I planned and executed this vacation entirely by myself. I completed my itinerary, which was actually quite respectable by any standards, despite my hippie travel style. I saw the National Gallery in London and the British Museum; the Louvre and the Musee d’Orsay in Paris; The Rijks and Van Gogh Museums in Amsterdam. I went to a London theater, a Paris jazz club, and an Amsterdam coffee house. I rode a train up the scenic coast of Wales, and got claustrophobically squished in the Paris Metro. I hiked up Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh, hung a dollar on the wall at the Bulldog in Amsterdam, and let us not forget holding hands with Barry on the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset in New York City. It’s boarding time….
I’m now sitting on the plane. Soon I’ll be airborne to London. In a few hours I will lose my latest identity, my role as a traveler—and I’ll jump into the madness of being a public radio “personality”. I’ll be programming music for the marathon (our public radio on air fundraiser)—working long hours and lecturing listeners about how they need to call 962-9862 and do their part to support the station they rely on. Such a different life! The plane is positioning for take off. It’s only an hour flight with lunch, and I have a Herald Tribune to read. More later.
11:30AM Eastern Standard Time. En route from London to New York
I feel like I’m back in America already because this is Pan Am, an American airline, and everyone around me speaks with American accents. The announcements by the pilot and flight crew are all in English with no translations, maybe because it’s London to New York—Heathrow to Kennedy. I’ve set my watch back to Eastern Standard Time. It’s 11:30AM in New York and 5:30PM in Amsterdam. I’ve been traveling for almost ten hours now, with seven more to go before I step off the plane at the Raleigh Durham Airport to be greeted by Jen and Tim.
It’s good to have this in-between time, this down time—not to feel obligated to do more walking, more sightseeing, not to worry about maximizing my limited time to tour. I’m perfectly happy to sit back with my eyes closed and doze off dreaming of Amsterdam canals or Barry’s touch…
There is nothing to do but sit and wait for time to pass. When they bring me salted peanuts, I eat. When they hand me a cup of tea, I drink it. Soon there will be a movie and I will half watch it, depending on how interesting it is. I am far from the zombies at the International Hostel, but just as much of a zombie myself—sitting in a chair passively, dreaming of far way places, looking at my watch and imagining what is happening in them.
In Oxford, Leah will soon be going home after a day at the lab. In Bruges, the bar music is playing loudly and young people are conversing, eating spaghetti and drinking beer in the smoky, friendly atmosphere. In Wales, the stores are closing as shopkeepers go home for the day. In Amsterdam, the red light district begins to pick up energy. In Connecticut, Barry is aptly handling noon rush hour at the deli. In Chapel Hill, whoever is doing my radio show is getting ready to deliver the news.
I don’t want my writing to be seen by the yammering New Yorker on my left who is driving me crazy. I have to angle my body away from him, and shield this notebook with my forearm. If I close my eyes he seems to leave me alone, but if I’m writing or reading he makes inane comments with a talent for the obvious: “We’re going through some turbulence. Is your seat belt fastened?” All he has to do is look to see that it is.
I’m trying to engage with him as little as possible. Seven hours is a long time to spend next to an irritating stranger. He says his last name is Kafka, and he claims to have some relation to that Russian writer. It turns out he writes music education books for string players and is returning from a trip to England spent promoting his books. I made the mistake of telling him about my job as a music producer and arts reporter in public radio. Spitting all over me, he held forth on the monotony of Philip Glass, John Cage’s lack of structure, the beauty of Tchaikovsky’s 6th symphony and Shostakovich’s 5th.
He is a short, dark, hairy man—with such bushy eyebrows that they actually smudge his glasses. He described how their dog sings along when he and his wife perform opera excerpts at the piano. He quoted composer Edgar Varese saying, “Art is from the waist up. Entertainment is from the waist down.” He lectured and spat, and mentioned famous people he knew, dropping names and connections whenever possible. He’s trying to impress me, maybe because of my impressive job, or maybe because I’m trying to read an impressive book, ”The Magic Mountain” by Thomas Mann, if he would only let me. He’s amusing and pathetic in a kind of endearing way—but sitting next to him and not being allowed to read because of his constant conversation and spit spraying is driving me crazy. Turbulence, clouds, bumps, the fasten seat belt signs. I close my eyes again for privacy.
My flea market black hat is stashed under the seat in front of me. I hope it doesn’t get squished. My nose is raw from having the sniffles and constant wiping and blowing. The plane is bumping. There are dense, smoky clouds all around us. I’m less of a traveler every minute.
I feel the acceptance of my own life and routine returning. I think about going in to work for a brief period tomorrow, so I can collect my paycheck among other things. I think about paying the rent and the bills. I wonder whether the house will smell like stale cat food. I wonder whose been doing my air shift at the radio station, and whether Craig and his wife are adoptive parents yet. I wonder if Barry will be able to travel from Connecticut to spend Thanksgiving with me….
As we get closer to New York, I think more about Barry. The idea of having a life partner—for emotional and physical intimacy, as well as financial sharing makes sense. The next time I go back to Europe, I may have a lover with me. It will be an adventure too, but in an entirely different way. Now I’ve done the youth hostel bit. Maybe next time, we’ll stay in bed and breakfasts. I have to fill out a landing form now.
* * * * * * * * * *
New York, JFK Airport
I must admit, it does feel good to be back on American soil. I’m not a foreigner anymore. I just bought coffee at an airport cafeteria, paying in dollars and cents for the first time in over a month. I’m sipping from the steaming mug and staring into space. I’m so tired I’m almost stoned—a pleasant sort of disorientation. It’s actually 11:00PM for my body—yet strangely, I find myself in a New York City airport at dinnertime.
I’m still an anonymous traveler, sitting here with my backpack beside my chair, not knowing anybody. The atmosphere is still quite international. The announcements over the loudspeaker are given in a variety of languages, even the English sometimes tinged with an accent. There’s a German couple at the table next to mine, bantering over burgers and fries. A nice, young, European-looking man with a backpack smiled and nodded as he passed my way. We recognized each other as fellow alternative travelers—not tourists. I still look the role, and I guess for the next few hours at least, I still fit it.
I’m still wearing my travel costume. I still have my pack beside me. Within its gray canvass are all the personal possessions in my world. It doesn’t matter that they are mostly dirty clothes. I don’t want to give it up. It’s been my home, my security—part of me, my turtle shell. Soon it will be over. Already, it is ending.
When I first stepped off the plane into this New York City airport, my first thought was to call Barry. Being back here reminds me of my time with him. But he’s probably busy handling dinner at the deli now. Anyway, I’m so tired that I really have nothing to say. I don’t know even know how I’ll respond when Jen and Tim greet me at the gate at RDU and ask, “How was your trip?” How can I tell them that I’ve journeyed way beyond the bounds of my normal everyday existence? How can I tell them I’ve taken on a new identity?
I’ll have to summarize and trivialize and say “fine”. I’ll have to label the highlights and condense it into a few appealing sentences and stories to repeat at parties and to the people at work.
I hope that when I get home, I’ll have a little time to just absorb it all—let it sink in, remember everything. I’m so glad I kept this journal because I want to be able to conjure up memories in detail and hang out in them— to go back to the bunkroom with the faded Indian bedspreads, to walk down the narrow hallway and descend the steep stairs. I want to savor late afternoon light in the Luxembourg gardens, to hear a steam train whistle and click over the mountains of Wales. These are the kinds of details that people who ask me politely about my vacation are probably not all that interested in.
Here at Kennedy Airport, a lady in a bright red blouse smokes a Marlboro. A baby squeals. Outside the picture windows, the sinking sun glows over the pavement and glints off of the airplanes that wait at the gate. In the distance, Manhattan skyscrapers poke through pink clouds. An American Airlines jumbo jet roars off the runway.
The sun is setting. My trip is ending. One more plane, one more airport, one more car ride and I’ll be home.
11/3/88 Amsterdam Airport
I just went through security, which included a surprise hand luggage check. It made me very uncomfortable and embarrassed to watch this impersonal official riffling through my dirty underwear, fingering my nightgown and thumbing through the pages of this journal—my most private, valued, and irreplaceable possession.
I held my breath, afraid he’d find the wooden pot pipe I bought for Barry—but he overlooked it. It would probably have been OK, since there was no residue in it anyway. Still, there were a few tense moments. The official looked at me searchingly, right in the eyes and said, “How are you feeling?” and almost sneeringly, “Did you have a good time in Amsterdam?”
Then I was pulled aside for a bodily pat down search. Of course, I would never be stupid enough to have anything on me. Still, it made me feel uneasy. The woman doing the search was very quick and her manner was professional. She rhetorically requested my permission, then had me stand with my arms up and my legs spread. She quickly and lightly patted me down in a very cursory way. Glad that’s over with. There’s nothing to do now but wait.
In an hour, I will board a plane from Amsterdam to London, then another from London to New York, and then the final flight from New York to North Carolina. At 8:30 PM Eastern Standard time (which is 1:30AM Amsterdam time), Jen and Tim will meet me at the Raleigh Durham Airport. They’ll drive me home along I-40, through the world of pine trees and Research Triangle Park, back to my little house with the cedar siding on Oak Avenue in Carrboro. I’ll sleep in my own bed tonight. My cat, my piano, my little black pickup truck and probably a letter from Barry will all be waiting for me.
There’s symmetry to this trip. Just as when I left North Carolina, I’m in an airport-- wearing the maroon and paisley jumper that Mindy gave me. Now, there is a small hole in the skirt where the burning ash from my joint fell in the Amsterdam hostel. Pinned to my breast is the little, round, orange and yellow dotted holograph pin that Barry bought me in Greenwich Village. On my legs is the added warmth of a pair of black tights I bought while shopping with Leah in Oxford. Atop my head is the vintage black, fedora hat, and dangling from my ears are the peacock feather earrings from the Amsterdam flea market. All of these special changes are now part of my travel costume.
I’ve taken on a new persona. I’ve led a scruffy, backpacking, temporary, transient lifestyle-- meeting others in passing, talking more about our journeys than our jobs and our everyday lives. I remember wondering before I left home, who I would be without my professional identity as a public radio person, and whether I would feel lost without it. I haven’t at all. I love this new role I’ve taken on.
This is something I’ve wanted ever since I visited Europe with my family as a teenager. I remember seeing these young, hippie backpackers. They were slightly older than me, and seemed to carry an air of adventure and mystery along with the packs on their backs. I envied the freedom of these longhaired ramblers who traveled by train, while I rode in the Saab with my parents—who repeatedly dragged me into cathedrals to look at naked cherub bottoms.
I feel very pleased and satisfied that I’ve finally had the chance to live this dream, regardless of the fact that at 31, I’m older than your average vagabond. In fact, most of my compadres were quite surprised whenever I revealed my advanced age.
I have a sense of pride in that I planned and executed this vacation entirely by myself. I completed my itinerary, which was actually quite respectable by any standards, despite my hippie travel style. I saw the National Gallery in London and the British Museum; the Louvre and the Musee d’Orsay in Paris; The Rijks and Van Gogh Museums in Amsterdam. I went to a London theater, a Paris jazz club, and an Amsterdam coffee house. I rode a train up the scenic coast of Wales, and got claustrophobically squished in the Paris Metro. I hiked up Arthur’s Seat in Edinburgh, hung a dollar on the wall at the Bulldog in Amsterdam, and let us not forget holding hands with Barry on the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset in New York City. It’s boarding time….
I’m now sitting on the plane. Soon I’ll be airborne to London. In a few hours I will lose my latest identity, my role as a traveler—and I’ll jump into the madness of being a public radio “personality”. I’ll be programming music for the marathon (our public radio on air fundraiser)—working long hours and lecturing listeners about how they need to call 962-9862 and do their part to support the station they rely on. Such a different life! The plane is positioning for take off. It’s only an hour flight with lunch, and I have a Herald Tribune to read. More later.
11:30AM Eastern Standard Time. En route from London to New York
I feel like I’m back in America already because this is Pan Am, an American airline, and everyone around me speaks with American accents. The announcements by the pilot and flight crew are all in English with no translations, maybe because it’s London to New York—Heathrow to Kennedy. I’ve set my watch back to Eastern Standard Time. It’s 11:30AM in New York and 5:30PM in Amsterdam. I’ve been traveling for almost ten hours now, with seven more to go before I step off the plane at the Raleigh Durham Airport to be greeted by Jen and Tim.
It’s good to have this in-between time, this down time—not to feel obligated to do more walking, more sightseeing, not to worry about maximizing my limited time to tour. I’m perfectly happy to sit back with my eyes closed and doze off dreaming of Amsterdam canals or Barry’s touch…
There is nothing to do but sit and wait for time to pass. When they bring me salted peanuts, I eat. When they hand me a cup of tea, I drink it. Soon there will be a movie and I will half watch it, depending on how interesting it is. I am far from the zombies at the International Hostel, but just as much of a zombie myself—sitting in a chair passively, dreaming of far way places, looking at my watch and imagining what is happening in them.
In Oxford, Leah will soon be going home after a day at the lab. In Bruges, the bar music is playing loudly and young people are conversing, eating spaghetti and drinking beer in the smoky, friendly atmosphere. In Wales, the stores are closing as shopkeepers go home for the day. In Amsterdam, the red light district begins to pick up energy. In Connecticut, Barry is aptly handling noon rush hour at the deli. In Chapel Hill, whoever is doing my radio show is getting ready to deliver the news.
I don’t want my writing to be seen by the yammering New Yorker on my left who is driving me crazy. I have to angle my body away from him, and shield this notebook with my forearm. If I close my eyes he seems to leave me alone, but if I’m writing or reading he makes inane comments with a talent for the obvious: “We’re going through some turbulence. Is your seat belt fastened?” All he has to do is look to see that it is.
I’m trying to engage with him as little as possible. Seven hours is a long time to spend next to an irritating stranger. He says his last name is Kafka, and he claims to have some relation to that Russian writer. It turns out he writes music education books for string players and is returning from a trip to England spent promoting his books. I made the mistake of telling him about my job as a music producer and arts reporter in public radio. Spitting all over me, he held forth on the monotony of Philip Glass, John Cage’s lack of structure, the beauty of Tchaikovsky’s 6th symphony and Shostakovich’s 5th.
He is a short, dark, hairy man—with such bushy eyebrows that they actually smudge his glasses. He described how their dog sings along when he and his wife perform opera excerpts at the piano. He quoted composer Edgar Varese saying, “Art is from the waist up. Entertainment is from the waist down.” He lectured and spat, and mentioned famous people he knew, dropping names and connections whenever possible. He’s trying to impress me, maybe because of my impressive job, or maybe because I’m trying to read an impressive book, ”The Magic Mountain” by Thomas Mann, if he would only let me. He’s amusing and pathetic in a kind of endearing way—but sitting next to him and not being allowed to read because of his constant conversation and spit spraying is driving me crazy. Turbulence, clouds, bumps, the fasten seat belt signs. I close my eyes again for privacy.
My flea market black hat is stashed under the seat in front of me. I hope it doesn’t get squished. My nose is raw from having the sniffles and constant wiping and blowing. The plane is bumping. There are dense, smoky clouds all around us. I’m less of a traveler every minute.
I feel the acceptance of my own life and routine returning. I think about going in to work for a brief period tomorrow, so I can collect my paycheck among other things. I think about paying the rent and the bills. I wonder whether the house will smell like stale cat food. I wonder whose been doing my air shift at the radio station, and whether Craig and his wife are adoptive parents yet. I wonder if Barry will be able to travel from Connecticut to spend Thanksgiving with me….
As we get closer to New York, I think more about Barry. The idea of having a life partner—for emotional and physical intimacy, as well as financial sharing makes sense. The next time I go back to Europe, I may have a lover with me. It will be an adventure too, but in an entirely different way. Now I’ve done the youth hostel bit. Maybe next time, we’ll stay in bed and breakfasts. I have to fill out a landing form now.
* * * * * * * * * *
New York, JFK Airport
I must admit, it does feel good to be back on American soil. I’m not a foreigner anymore. I just bought coffee at an airport cafeteria, paying in dollars and cents for the first time in over a month. I’m sipping from the steaming mug and staring into space. I’m so tired I’m almost stoned—a pleasant sort of disorientation. It’s actually 11:00PM for my body—yet strangely, I find myself in a New York City airport at dinnertime.
I’m still an anonymous traveler, sitting here with my backpack beside my chair, not knowing anybody. The atmosphere is still quite international. The announcements over the loudspeaker are given in a variety of languages, even the English sometimes tinged with an accent. There’s a German couple at the table next to mine, bantering over burgers and fries. A nice, young, European-looking man with a backpack smiled and nodded as he passed my way. We recognized each other as fellow alternative travelers—not tourists. I still look the role, and I guess for the next few hours at least, I still fit it.
I’m still wearing my travel costume. I still have my pack beside me. Within its gray canvass are all the personal possessions in my world. It doesn’t matter that they are mostly dirty clothes. I don’t want to give it up. It’s been my home, my security—part of me, my turtle shell. Soon it will be over. Already, it is ending.
When I first stepped off the plane into this New York City airport, my first thought was to call Barry. Being back here reminds me of my time with him. But he’s probably busy handling dinner at the deli now. Anyway, I’m so tired that I really have nothing to say. I don’t know even know how I’ll respond when Jen and Tim greet me at the gate at RDU and ask, “How was your trip?” How can I tell them that I’ve journeyed way beyond the bounds of my normal everyday existence? How can I tell them I’ve taken on a new identity?
I’ll have to summarize and trivialize and say “fine”. I’ll have to label the highlights and condense it into a few appealing sentences and stories to repeat at parties and to the people at work.
I hope that when I get home, I’ll have a little time to just absorb it all—let it sink in, remember everything. I’m so glad I kept this journal because I want to be able to conjure up memories in detail and hang out in them— to go back to the bunkroom with the faded Indian bedspreads, to walk down the narrow hallway and descend the steep stairs. I want to savor late afternoon light in the Luxembourg gardens, to hear a steam train whistle and click over the mountains of Wales. These are the kinds of details that people who ask me politely about my vacation are probably not all that interested in.
Here at Kennedy Airport, a lady in a bright red blouse smokes a Marlboro. A baby squeals. Outside the picture windows, the sinking sun glows over the pavement and glints off of the airplanes that wait at the gate. In the distance, Manhattan skyscrapers poke through pink clouds. An American Airlines jumbo jet roars off the runway.
The sun is setting. My trip is ending. One more plane, one more airport, one more car ride and I’ll be home.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Liquid Fire
I wanted to take a bath to soothe my aching back. It’s just so nice to have this time to relax over the holidays, not to have to stack little tables and chairs, pour paint into little jars, to bend down and pick up toys, wipe noses, rush to clean up spills or open yogurt containers. A celebratory and luxurious bath was definitely in order.
First, I would scrub out the tub, something I haven’t had time to do in awhile. I walked passed the Christmas tree, with its glowing colored lights and went into kitchen to get the Comet—which is what my mother always used for bathroom fixtures. She always said there was “nothing a little elbow grease couldn’t take care of”-- that if you put enough muscle and effort into it, the grime would soon be gone. I tilted the green shaker jar with its magic cleaning powder and began to scour away. As I worked rhythmically scratching the powder with the scrubby, a childhood jingle I used to enjoy singing with my friends kept going through my head. “Comet, makes you vomit. So get some Comet and vomit today!”
I finished scrubbing, and turned on the water, ready to rinse and admire my work. But what’s this? The water refused to go down. It just sat in the tub, the white powder floating on top. I remembered the drain had been slow lately, but it had always worked up until now. Bummer! There was no way I could take a bath under these circumstances. I took a quick shower instead, wading ankle deep, letting the hot-as-possible water stream down over my back, trying to release the aching knot inside it.
An aching back and a clogged bathtub are not a good combination, especially on Christmas Eve day when everything is supposed to be cheery and bright. Boy, I could sure use a handyman. I thought of the old Ethel Waters blues song about her handyman, with all its suggestive lyrics:
“He threads my needle, creams my wheat
Heats my heater, chops my meat.
My man is such a handy man.
He flaps my flapjacks, cleans off the table
feeds my horses in the stable.
My man is such a handy man.”
Now where could I find my own handyman, so I could sing
"He takes his snake out and unclogs my drain.
He rubs my back
to ease my pain
My man is such a handy man”
I called my friend Judy, and laughingly asked her if she knew a handyman with a big snake who could unclog my drain—but the innuendo was lost on her. She had no time to talk tubs. She was in the midst of an argument with her teenage daughter over the price of Ugh brand boots.
Christmas Eve day is NOT a good time to call a plumber. They would probably charge me time and a half to do it. This would be hard to justify, since a clogged bathtub is hardly an emergency. Yet, I so longed to soak in that healing hot tub. I had been so looking forward to using the aromatherapy lavender bubble bath that one of my co-teachers had given me as a holiday gift…
Gradually, the solution dawned on me: I would fix it myself! I would be like mild mannered Clark Kent stepping into his phone booth. Middle aged preschool teacher emerges as “Super ma’am” who can do anything, who can rid the world of bathtub clogs. Ta-da!
I searched on line, clicking on FixItAllYourself.Com. and found step by step instructions for clogging a bathtub drain. “A clogged drain in the bathtub causes water to collect while showering”, the article explained. Ah, yes, I understood. The first step, was to remove “any visible hair or scum”. I used to be quite adept at this process when I lived with my ex-husband in our modern house. There, unscrewing the top of the drain revealed a divider just below the surface. You could easily see the hair hanging over it. It was a simple procedure to take tweezers and grasp gross globs of it out periodically. I was used to doing this. My hair is thinning at an alarming rate, and there are always hairs clinging to the sides of the bathtub and washing down the drain at the end of my showers.
Now, in this old house, where I have been living for only 6 months as the sole proprietess, the drain opening is small and angled with no divider. I thought guiltily about all these months of showering, just letting my hair wash way, way down, as if it was disappearing by magic, as if there would never be any consequences to my irresponsible action-- as if because I couldn’t see the hair, it didn’t exist. I should have known better. I pinched the tweezers through the now lukewarm standing water and poked them blindly into the drain. After many tries, I did finally manage to extract a small amount of scummy hair near the surface. But the water still sat in the tub.
The next step, according to my article, was to find something long, like a coat hanger and attempt to clear the drain with that. I untwisted a metal hanger, turning it round and round. This action took me back to fond memories of preparing long wire hangers to roast hot dogs over the campfire when Noah, now a teenager, was little. I figured out how to remove the “overflow plate” under the bathtub faucet, and learned out that I could stick the wire down that way and it would pop up out of the drain opening. Wow! The two were connected. I was so proud of myself for making this significant discovery. I poked my wire in and slid it up and down repeatedly.
Like a douser, I was sensing the source of the clog. I thought I could perceive some scummy matter. I imagined I was breaking it up, with my repeated twisting and pulling, but after many tries, only a few gray flakes emerged. Below the bathtub was a deeper, hidden place where the pipe curves, a place my clumsy coat hanger was unable to probe. The water still sat in the tub.
The next step was to try a “plumber’s friend”. I pushed the plunger into the standing water—hearing the strong, satisfying suctioning sound of something being accomplished. Water splurted excitedly out of the overflow plate. The standing water seemed to go down by a fraction of an inch. But bottom line-- the water still sat in the tub.
I realized, that what I probably needed was a true plumber’s “snake”— like the one my ex-husband used to use periodically to unclog the sink. So, I made a Christmas Eve trip to Home Depot. Thankfully, it was open and filled with a surprising number of people doing last minute shopping. In the plumbing aisle, were heavy-duty snakes with metal coils that didn’t even look like they’d fit down my bathtub drain’s small opening. Then there were motorized contraptions made by “Rigid” that power the clog open. They deeply drive and retract, drive and retract the cable. I couldn’t seem to find one like that little rubber snake that Gary used to use—something like that seemed less intimidating and more familiar and manageable to me.
Finally, I settled on a long, white plastic strip with jagged edges. It cost just over $2.00 and was supposed to be disposable, although I didn’t see why you couldn’t just wash it and re-use it. It was low tech enough for me to understand its function, and skinny enough to push down into my drain. I could imagine its saw-like teeth hooking all kinds of hair and scum while I twisted it. I glanced at the shelf of chemicals too, but everything I’d read online said to avoid them. Professionals don’t pour toxic chemicals down the drain. They use their tools and their muscles to unclog them. I have to admit I was somewhat tempted by the environmentally friendly citrus potion, but I figured it probably wouldn’t work anyway. On my way out of Home Depot, I picked up some new filters for my furnace. Ms. Handy Ma’am does it all. Why not?
Back at home, I told myself I really should take a little break. It was Christmas Eve after all. I had presents to wrap. There were dishes in the sink to attack--anything, just to get away from the drain for a little while. But this was becoming an obsession, and I couldn’t wait to see if my new tool would do the trick.
I pulled the long skinny plastic rod out of its wrapping. I followed the instructions on the package. I pushed and twisted, pushed and twisted, until it had gone as far as it could go, and only the little white handle was sticking out of the top of the drain. I thought I could feel something at the end. Very exciting. I jerked it out strongly and quickly like a fishing line that has just hooked a great catch. Low and behold—there, dangling from the end was a clump of soggy hair. Hooray! I felt triumphant. But nothing else happened. I ran some hot water and the clog only seemed to be getting worse. The water still sat in the tub.
The last part of my FixItYourself.Com article, talked about ways to maintain the drain once it was clear. So, if I had actually pulled up some of the blockage, maybe I should try these? Boiling water from the teakettle, baking soda and vinegar, more plunging. Nothing.
Discouraged, I rubbed my aching lower back and looked around. Strewn about my bathroom were a long coat hanger, a dirty towel from wiping off gray gunk, a teakettle, a box of baking soda, a can of comet, and my white plastic drain opener. Ms. Handy Ma’am was failing at her mission. What do I do now? Where do I turn? Where, oh where was Santa Claus? I imagined he was the ultimate handy man— the one who could fix it all in a twinkling with a hearty “Ho, ho, ho!” But Santa was nowhere in sight. Perhaps I needed to call a plumber after all…
Finally, as a last resort, I called my ex-husband, Gary—the authority on all home maintenance operations. He went through a list of various things to try: coat hanger, plumber’s friend, boiling water. It gave me a sense of competence to reply that I had actually already tried all of these things. He told me that there used to be a plumbing snake, just the right size, hanging in the wall of the little old tool shed beside the house. He and I used to own this house together. For the past decade, it had been a rental house, and he had done much of the maintenance on it.
I took the phone into the shed, which was built in the 1930’s. It was dark, permeated by a musty smell, with very solid wooden shelves and huge antique nails sticking out at various points in the wall. There were various tools like rusty old saws and hedge clippers hanging from some of them. Gary swore that there used to be a plumbing snake in here. I looked above the workbench, as he told me—and there—I’m not kidding, was an actual snakeskin hanging there on the wall. I mean a real skin from a real live snake! Unbelievable. But there was no plumbing snake to be found.
He asked me if I’d tried Draino. I said I had been worried about damaging the pipes with this caustic stuff, and about the toxicity of it. But he said he thought it might be OK, and I should give it a try.
Then, Gary reminded me that our old tenants had had a serious problem with roots growing in the pipes and clogging them, and that we had once paid $2,000.00 for a man with a backhoe to unearth and clear out some the terra cotta pipes that were used for plumbing in the 1930’s. Terra cotta—that same material used for plant pots had apparently been used for plumbing during the Great Depression, when metal was too precious. Strong tree roots could push right down into them and block them. So that might be the real culprit—not my innocent hair, but sinister tree roots.
I was feeling pretty stressed at this point. Rather than get back in the car in search of Draino, and a better snake, I decided it might help me release some anxiety to walk the half mile down the road to Hillsborough’s locally owned old fashioned hardware store—Dual Supply—which must be one of the last of its kind in the whole country. It was now late afternoon, almost five o’clock on Christmas Eve. The shoppers who had thronged the streets of downtown Hillsborough earlier in the day, when I drove by on my way to Home Depot had thinned. People were heading home.
Dual Supply was dark inside and there was a “Closed for Christmas” sign on the door. Yet I was heartened, when I tried the door, to find that it was still actually open. Everything in Dual Supply is just jumbled on the shelves. There are no attractive consumer displays. They are crammed with all kinds of tools and drills and hoses, and fluids for cars in seemingly random order. Only the inhabitants know how to find things here. I did not see any Draino or plumbing snakes.
Way in the back, a woman was making the last minute purchase of a chainsaw, probably a gift for her handyman husband. As I waited for help, I wondered: why had I walked out on Gary, my own handyman, after 15 years of marriage? What would it be like if we got back together? Would I appreciate him more? But he has a girlfriend now, so there was no chance of us ever getting back together.
I waited by the cluttered desk in the back, “May I help you?” asked the kind gray-haired man with the round belly. This brought tears to my eyes because I was not only desperate to unclog my drain, I was lonely on Christmas Eve. This man reminded me, not just a little, of Santa Claus. Holding back the tears, I described my severe blockage to him and all of my efforts to clear it with the plumber’s friend, the jagged plastic strip, and the coat hanger. I told him I feared it was aggressive tree roots invading the terra cotta. “Do you have a special kind of snake for older plumbing?” I inquired, trying not to sound too desperate, “Or some Draino, perhaps?”
He disappeared into the back room, and emerged a few seconds later with a big, red bottle wrapped in plastic. It was labeled “Liquid Fire” and had all kinds of danger and caution signs on it— dire warnings of blindness and burning. I was afraid to even touch the bottle. It looked like it was probably illegal. But he assured me it would do the trick. “It ain’t the tree roots”, he explained reassuringly, “or NONE of your drains would be working”. Another middle-aged man who had appeared in line behind me concurred. He spoke of his daughter clogging the drain with her long hair. “Santa” instructed me to take the plumber’s friend and plunge the drain repeatedly until all the standing water went down. He assured me that if I kept trying, it would. Then, he said to pour just a very small amount of “liquid fire” down the drain, being very careful not to let it overflow over the top because it could “eat the ceramic”. I thanked him, and handed him $10 from the stash of Christmas cash that I had been saving to stuff in my son’s stocking. I began the trek home in the cool breeze, the December sun setting on Christmas Eve, clutching my red bottle of liquid fire.
I went back into the bathroom and read all the warnings on the label again in detail—the need for safety goggles, and the admonition not to use it in combination with other chemicals. Like baking soda and Comet, I wondered? Would there be an explosion? Still, I was determined to try it. I had spent the whole day on this. I was not about to give up now.
I set the bottle down, picked up the plumber’s friend and plunged hard and furiously, until the water level lowered a little. Santa had told me to wait and be patient. Rather than stand there and watch it drain, I went ahead and put the new filter in the air-exchanger. I plunged some more, waited some more, wrapped a few gifts. Plunged some more, waited some more, and did the dishes. Slowly, ever so slowly, the water was descending. Finally, there was no more standing water in the tub, just water inside the drain.
Now, the moment of truth had arrived. Slowly and cautiously I unscrewed the childproof cap on the top of the ominous red bottle, being careful to turn my head away and hold it at arm’s length. I don’t own any plastic gloves or safety goggles. I was going “naked”.
I poured slowly and carefully, being careful not to look down the drain, for fear of being blinded, just letting a little trickle down. A harsh chemical smell arose, like rotten eggs—followed a faint gurgling. Dare I add more? What’s this? Intense and active bubbling, followed by splashing and sloshing. I heard a sound, like the relief of a scary almost overflowing toilet that has finally flushed. Something had actually happened here! Yet I knew I must wait the requisite 15 minutes to follow the instructions and really give the stuff a chance to work. As I waited, I played some Christmas carols on the piano. Dusk was falling and it was actually beginning to feel like Christmas. And then---the miracle!
I turned on the faucet, and the water went down quickly and smoothly, better than it had ever worked before. No standing water at all in the tub. Yes, there is a Santa Claus! My handy man had come. The presents were wrapped, the air filter changed, the dishes done, and the tub unclogged, and I had enjoyed playing the piano. Even my back felt a little better. I stooped to pick up the teakettle, the Comet, the baking soda, the plunger, the towel, the coat hanger and the plastic drain opener, I took the bottle of Liquid Fire out to the old shed, reverently placing it on the shelf under the snakeskin.
Just then, my teenage son arrived home. “So what did you do all day?” he asked me. “Not much”, I replied, “just unclogged the bathtub drain”.
First, I would scrub out the tub, something I haven’t had time to do in awhile. I walked passed the Christmas tree, with its glowing colored lights and went into kitchen to get the Comet—which is what my mother always used for bathroom fixtures. She always said there was “nothing a little elbow grease couldn’t take care of”-- that if you put enough muscle and effort into it, the grime would soon be gone. I tilted the green shaker jar with its magic cleaning powder and began to scour away. As I worked rhythmically scratching the powder with the scrubby, a childhood jingle I used to enjoy singing with my friends kept going through my head. “Comet, makes you vomit. So get some Comet and vomit today!”
I finished scrubbing, and turned on the water, ready to rinse and admire my work. But what’s this? The water refused to go down. It just sat in the tub, the white powder floating on top. I remembered the drain had been slow lately, but it had always worked up until now. Bummer! There was no way I could take a bath under these circumstances. I took a quick shower instead, wading ankle deep, letting the hot-as-possible water stream down over my back, trying to release the aching knot inside it.
An aching back and a clogged bathtub are not a good combination, especially on Christmas Eve day when everything is supposed to be cheery and bright. Boy, I could sure use a handyman. I thought of the old Ethel Waters blues song about her handyman, with all its suggestive lyrics:
“He threads my needle, creams my wheat
Heats my heater, chops my meat.
My man is such a handy man.
He flaps my flapjacks, cleans off the table
feeds my horses in the stable.
My man is such a handy man.”
Now where could I find my own handyman, so I could sing
"He takes his snake out and unclogs my drain.
He rubs my back
to ease my pain
My man is such a handy man”
I called my friend Judy, and laughingly asked her if she knew a handyman with a big snake who could unclog my drain—but the innuendo was lost on her. She had no time to talk tubs. She was in the midst of an argument with her teenage daughter over the price of Ugh brand boots.
Christmas Eve day is NOT a good time to call a plumber. They would probably charge me time and a half to do it. This would be hard to justify, since a clogged bathtub is hardly an emergency. Yet, I so longed to soak in that healing hot tub. I had been so looking forward to using the aromatherapy lavender bubble bath that one of my co-teachers had given me as a holiday gift…
Gradually, the solution dawned on me: I would fix it myself! I would be like mild mannered Clark Kent stepping into his phone booth. Middle aged preschool teacher emerges as “Super ma’am” who can do anything, who can rid the world of bathtub clogs. Ta-da!
I searched on line, clicking on FixItAllYourself.Com. and found step by step instructions for clogging a bathtub drain. “A clogged drain in the bathtub causes water to collect while showering”, the article explained. Ah, yes, I understood. The first step, was to remove “any visible hair or scum”. I used to be quite adept at this process when I lived with my ex-husband in our modern house. There, unscrewing the top of the drain revealed a divider just below the surface. You could easily see the hair hanging over it. It was a simple procedure to take tweezers and grasp gross globs of it out periodically. I was used to doing this. My hair is thinning at an alarming rate, and there are always hairs clinging to the sides of the bathtub and washing down the drain at the end of my showers.
Now, in this old house, where I have been living for only 6 months as the sole proprietess, the drain opening is small and angled with no divider. I thought guiltily about all these months of showering, just letting my hair wash way, way down, as if it was disappearing by magic, as if there would never be any consequences to my irresponsible action-- as if because I couldn’t see the hair, it didn’t exist. I should have known better. I pinched the tweezers through the now lukewarm standing water and poked them blindly into the drain. After many tries, I did finally manage to extract a small amount of scummy hair near the surface. But the water still sat in the tub.
The next step, according to my article, was to find something long, like a coat hanger and attempt to clear the drain with that. I untwisted a metal hanger, turning it round and round. This action took me back to fond memories of preparing long wire hangers to roast hot dogs over the campfire when Noah, now a teenager, was little. I figured out how to remove the “overflow plate” under the bathtub faucet, and learned out that I could stick the wire down that way and it would pop up out of the drain opening. Wow! The two were connected. I was so proud of myself for making this significant discovery. I poked my wire in and slid it up and down repeatedly.
Like a douser, I was sensing the source of the clog. I thought I could perceive some scummy matter. I imagined I was breaking it up, with my repeated twisting and pulling, but after many tries, only a few gray flakes emerged. Below the bathtub was a deeper, hidden place where the pipe curves, a place my clumsy coat hanger was unable to probe. The water still sat in the tub.
The next step was to try a “plumber’s friend”. I pushed the plunger into the standing water—hearing the strong, satisfying suctioning sound of something being accomplished. Water splurted excitedly out of the overflow plate. The standing water seemed to go down by a fraction of an inch. But bottom line-- the water still sat in the tub.
I realized, that what I probably needed was a true plumber’s “snake”— like the one my ex-husband used to use periodically to unclog the sink. So, I made a Christmas Eve trip to Home Depot. Thankfully, it was open and filled with a surprising number of people doing last minute shopping. In the plumbing aisle, were heavy-duty snakes with metal coils that didn’t even look like they’d fit down my bathtub drain’s small opening. Then there were motorized contraptions made by “Rigid” that power the clog open. They deeply drive and retract, drive and retract the cable. I couldn’t seem to find one like that little rubber snake that Gary used to use—something like that seemed less intimidating and more familiar and manageable to me.
Finally, I settled on a long, white plastic strip with jagged edges. It cost just over $2.00 and was supposed to be disposable, although I didn’t see why you couldn’t just wash it and re-use it. It was low tech enough for me to understand its function, and skinny enough to push down into my drain. I could imagine its saw-like teeth hooking all kinds of hair and scum while I twisted it. I glanced at the shelf of chemicals too, but everything I’d read online said to avoid them. Professionals don’t pour toxic chemicals down the drain. They use their tools and their muscles to unclog them. I have to admit I was somewhat tempted by the environmentally friendly citrus potion, but I figured it probably wouldn’t work anyway. On my way out of Home Depot, I picked up some new filters for my furnace. Ms. Handy Ma’am does it all. Why not?
Back at home, I told myself I really should take a little break. It was Christmas Eve after all. I had presents to wrap. There were dishes in the sink to attack--anything, just to get away from the drain for a little while. But this was becoming an obsession, and I couldn’t wait to see if my new tool would do the trick.
I pulled the long skinny plastic rod out of its wrapping. I followed the instructions on the package. I pushed and twisted, pushed and twisted, until it had gone as far as it could go, and only the little white handle was sticking out of the top of the drain. I thought I could feel something at the end. Very exciting. I jerked it out strongly and quickly like a fishing line that has just hooked a great catch. Low and behold—there, dangling from the end was a clump of soggy hair. Hooray! I felt triumphant. But nothing else happened. I ran some hot water and the clog only seemed to be getting worse. The water still sat in the tub.
The last part of my FixItYourself.Com article, talked about ways to maintain the drain once it was clear. So, if I had actually pulled up some of the blockage, maybe I should try these? Boiling water from the teakettle, baking soda and vinegar, more plunging. Nothing.
Discouraged, I rubbed my aching lower back and looked around. Strewn about my bathroom were a long coat hanger, a dirty towel from wiping off gray gunk, a teakettle, a box of baking soda, a can of comet, and my white plastic drain opener. Ms. Handy Ma’am was failing at her mission. What do I do now? Where do I turn? Where, oh where was Santa Claus? I imagined he was the ultimate handy man— the one who could fix it all in a twinkling with a hearty “Ho, ho, ho!” But Santa was nowhere in sight. Perhaps I needed to call a plumber after all…
Finally, as a last resort, I called my ex-husband, Gary—the authority on all home maintenance operations. He went through a list of various things to try: coat hanger, plumber’s friend, boiling water. It gave me a sense of competence to reply that I had actually already tried all of these things. He told me that there used to be a plumbing snake, just the right size, hanging in the wall of the little old tool shed beside the house. He and I used to own this house together. For the past decade, it had been a rental house, and he had done much of the maintenance on it.
I took the phone into the shed, which was built in the 1930’s. It was dark, permeated by a musty smell, with very solid wooden shelves and huge antique nails sticking out at various points in the wall. There were various tools like rusty old saws and hedge clippers hanging from some of them. Gary swore that there used to be a plumbing snake in here. I looked above the workbench, as he told me—and there—I’m not kidding, was an actual snakeskin hanging there on the wall. I mean a real skin from a real live snake! Unbelievable. But there was no plumbing snake to be found.
He asked me if I’d tried Draino. I said I had been worried about damaging the pipes with this caustic stuff, and about the toxicity of it. But he said he thought it might be OK, and I should give it a try.
Then, Gary reminded me that our old tenants had had a serious problem with roots growing in the pipes and clogging them, and that we had once paid $2,000.00 for a man with a backhoe to unearth and clear out some the terra cotta pipes that were used for plumbing in the 1930’s. Terra cotta—that same material used for plant pots had apparently been used for plumbing during the Great Depression, when metal was too precious. Strong tree roots could push right down into them and block them. So that might be the real culprit—not my innocent hair, but sinister tree roots.
I was feeling pretty stressed at this point. Rather than get back in the car in search of Draino, and a better snake, I decided it might help me release some anxiety to walk the half mile down the road to Hillsborough’s locally owned old fashioned hardware store—Dual Supply—which must be one of the last of its kind in the whole country. It was now late afternoon, almost five o’clock on Christmas Eve. The shoppers who had thronged the streets of downtown Hillsborough earlier in the day, when I drove by on my way to Home Depot had thinned. People were heading home.
Dual Supply was dark inside and there was a “Closed for Christmas” sign on the door. Yet I was heartened, when I tried the door, to find that it was still actually open. Everything in Dual Supply is just jumbled on the shelves. There are no attractive consumer displays. They are crammed with all kinds of tools and drills and hoses, and fluids for cars in seemingly random order. Only the inhabitants know how to find things here. I did not see any Draino or plumbing snakes.
Way in the back, a woman was making the last minute purchase of a chainsaw, probably a gift for her handyman husband. As I waited for help, I wondered: why had I walked out on Gary, my own handyman, after 15 years of marriage? What would it be like if we got back together? Would I appreciate him more? But he has a girlfriend now, so there was no chance of us ever getting back together.
I waited by the cluttered desk in the back, “May I help you?” asked the kind gray-haired man with the round belly. This brought tears to my eyes because I was not only desperate to unclog my drain, I was lonely on Christmas Eve. This man reminded me, not just a little, of Santa Claus. Holding back the tears, I described my severe blockage to him and all of my efforts to clear it with the plumber’s friend, the jagged plastic strip, and the coat hanger. I told him I feared it was aggressive tree roots invading the terra cotta. “Do you have a special kind of snake for older plumbing?” I inquired, trying not to sound too desperate, “Or some Draino, perhaps?”
He disappeared into the back room, and emerged a few seconds later with a big, red bottle wrapped in plastic. It was labeled “Liquid Fire” and had all kinds of danger and caution signs on it— dire warnings of blindness and burning. I was afraid to even touch the bottle. It looked like it was probably illegal. But he assured me it would do the trick. “It ain’t the tree roots”, he explained reassuringly, “or NONE of your drains would be working”. Another middle-aged man who had appeared in line behind me concurred. He spoke of his daughter clogging the drain with her long hair. “Santa” instructed me to take the plumber’s friend and plunge the drain repeatedly until all the standing water went down. He assured me that if I kept trying, it would. Then, he said to pour just a very small amount of “liquid fire” down the drain, being very careful not to let it overflow over the top because it could “eat the ceramic”. I thanked him, and handed him $10 from the stash of Christmas cash that I had been saving to stuff in my son’s stocking. I began the trek home in the cool breeze, the December sun setting on Christmas Eve, clutching my red bottle of liquid fire.
I went back into the bathroom and read all the warnings on the label again in detail—the need for safety goggles, and the admonition not to use it in combination with other chemicals. Like baking soda and Comet, I wondered? Would there be an explosion? Still, I was determined to try it. I had spent the whole day on this. I was not about to give up now.
I set the bottle down, picked up the plumber’s friend and plunged hard and furiously, until the water level lowered a little. Santa had told me to wait and be patient. Rather than stand there and watch it drain, I went ahead and put the new filter in the air-exchanger. I plunged some more, waited some more, wrapped a few gifts. Plunged some more, waited some more, and did the dishes. Slowly, ever so slowly, the water was descending. Finally, there was no more standing water in the tub, just water inside the drain.
Now, the moment of truth had arrived. Slowly and cautiously I unscrewed the childproof cap on the top of the ominous red bottle, being careful to turn my head away and hold it at arm’s length. I don’t own any plastic gloves or safety goggles. I was going “naked”.
I poured slowly and carefully, being careful not to look down the drain, for fear of being blinded, just letting a little trickle down. A harsh chemical smell arose, like rotten eggs—followed a faint gurgling. Dare I add more? What’s this? Intense and active bubbling, followed by splashing and sloshing. I heard a sound, like the relief of a scary almost overflowing toilet that has finally flushed. Something had actually happened here! Yet I knew I must wait the requisite 15 minutes to follow the instructions and really give the stuff a chance to work. As I waited, I played some Christmas carols on the piano. Dusk was falling and it was actually beginning to feel like Christmas. And then---the miracle!
I turned on the faucet, and the water went down quickly and smoothly, better than it had ever worked before. No standing water at all in the tub. Yes, there is a Santa Claus! My handy man had come. The presents were wrapped, the air filter changed, the dishes done, and the tub unclogged, and I had enjoyed playing the piano. Even my back felt a little better. I stooped to pick up the teakettle, the Comet, the baking soda, the plunger, the towel, the coat hanger and the plastic drain opener, I took the bottle of Liquid Fire out to the old shed, reverently placing it on the shelf under the snakeskin.
Just then, my teenage son arrived home. “So what did you do all day?” he asked me. “Not much”, I replied, “just unclogged the bathtub drain”.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)