Archive: Sunday Scribblings

JG and I went to the climbing gym yesterday. The twenty-minute drive is very curvy, but best of all, scenic. Rolling over hills, I can see through the windshield wide expanses of cut grass, dotted with grazing cattle and fluffy sheep. There is an equestrian school at one point and it’s common to see young girls in jodhpurs putting their animals through their paces. Stony farmhouses and red barns mark land ownership and wooden rocking chairs tilt gently on open-air porches. The smells of hay, honeysuckle, and humus flow in through the open windows and I breathe deeply.

Most of the time, I love living in our small-town-almost-countryside community. People walk their dogs in the neighborhood, we know that our mechanic’s name is Chip, and we have quiet nights with starry skies. I make a daily commute to a small city, so coming home is like a breath of fresh air. My ears are clear of car alarms and I look forward to seeing the sun set.

But another part of me loves metropolis and everything it includes. I love to wander museums, listen to the orchestra, marvel at the ballet, and eat exotic food. I love not having to drive and, instead, relying on public transit maps that might be really confusing or hearing my shoes slap against the concrete sidewalk. I love knowing that I can do almost anything at any hour. I don’t think I could live in a city, but visiting is exhilarating.

Much to my chagrin, JG does not so much enjoy cities. He finds them loud and dirty. There’s too much going on and there aren’t enough trees. People are brusque and always in a rush. He doesn’t relish the theater or the ballet and his palate is not quite as expansive as mine. Rather than go out for dinner when they charge way too much money for not much food, JG would prefer to stay home and fire up the grill so that he can have a steak the way he likes it.

Sigh.

In a way, I understand. Our life and our home are comfortable and I am grateful for them. Lately, though, I’ve been clicking enviously through the pictures that college friends are taking on their two-week jaunt through Europe and it makes me feel oh-so sedentary. Despite undersized portions of foreign food, it’s nice to have a chance to be an adventurous city mouse.

Sunday Scribblings #61: Town & Country

When I was a little girl, I hated to dry the dishes from the dishwasher. My parents refused to use the heated drying cycle of the dishwasher, so it was my job to wipe off each dish before putting it back. To make the task go faster, I’d put on “dish music” and sashay on the ceramic tile with my dish towel waving. Each season had its dish music: fall was Aaron Copland, winter was The Nutcracker, spring was Canadian Brass, and summer was the Boston Pops. In response to my parents’ puzzled glances, I’d say matter-of-factly, “Kitchens were made for dancing,” and spin more pirouettes in my socks.

—

When I moved into my first apartment, JG came over occasionally to have dinner and hang out away from his dorm. Sharing the scant countertop space, we tossed salads and cooked pasta as we slid over the worn linoleum. Because I was just out of school, I couldn’t afford cable or internet access, so my only form of entertainment was the radio. (When a friend visited me, she exclaimed, “What is this, 1925?”) Dinnertime was about the same time that Delilah came on, so “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” “Butterfly Kisses,” and “My Heart Will Go On” were usual audio fare during the meal preparations. If I heard the opening measures of a standard like, “The Way You Look Tonight,” I’d take up JG’s left hand in my right and sway to the beat of the music. At first, he was taken aback by the whole thing, but I’d just power through, saying firmly, “Kitchens are made for dancing!” The way I saw it, the other square footage of my apartment was a sea of tan carpet, but the kitchen gave us just enough room for a private dance floor. I’m sure Delilah would have approved.

—

When JG and I settled on our first house, where we live now, we decided to have dinner at the house that night. I packed a crate with the microwave, a plastic container of chili, a bag of baby carrots, two bowls, and two spoons, and we were off. We ceremoniously used our new key to get into the house, which turned out to be inhospitably cold because the heat had been off for the whole day. I plugged in the microwave and set up bowls of chili to warm up when JG swept me up and started spinning me around on the kitchen’s hardwood floor. Thrown off, I asked what he was doing. JG dipped me and said, “Kitchens were made for dancing, of course.” And we savored our first dance as homeowners until the microwave beep signaled that dinner was ready.

Sunday Scribblings #52: In the Kitchen

I’m curled up in bed, wearing sweats and bundled in layers of blankets. My book light casts a moonbeam onto the pages before me. The before-bed reading that usually slows my brain and rests my thoughts is not doing its work tonight. Reading is not the answer right now. A memory reserved for a birthday and an anniversary swims up to the surface.

- - -

I was on a train headed up to my parents’ house. I usually took the Amtrak train up the Northeast Extension, through Philadelphia and New York City, for almost all of my holidays back home. Normally, I looked forward to the train ride because it was relaxing. After the conductor tossed my luggage on the overhead rack, I’d sleep until we crossed the border into Connecticut. Involuntarily, I would snap awake to watch the marinas, the craggy beaches, and the small skylines of Hartford and New Haven through my window. I knew I should sit on the right-hand side for the best view. But this time was different.

A few days earlier, I had received a phone call from a friend from high school. Sit down, she told me.

I sat.

“I had to call you. Kip is dead. He committed suicide last night.”

No. Oh, no.

I called JG instinctively, my voice tight inside my throat. He biked over to find me speechless, stiff in his arms. There was no processing or talking it out. I curled into myself, physically and otherwise. Knowing that one of my best friends, a polar opposite and complementary figure, was no longer alive was too much. I could barely breathe without crying.

That is how I ended up on a train up to Connecticut with no major holiday to speak of. I was relieved to find a seat by myself, but at the Philadelphia stop, a young man boarded the car and asked if the seat was taken. I shook my head. I didn’t feel like talking, but the man struck up conversation, asking me where I was headed.

“New London,” I said, swallowing hard. “I have to go to a funeral.”

His face fell. “Oh. I’m so sorry. I hope everything goes well.”

“Thank you.”

My train friend paused, then struck up conversation on a different note. He told me about how he was headed back to Boston, after an interview in Philadelphia. He told me about graduate school and waved a book in his hand for emphasis. He told me about how he was looking forward to seeing his girlfriend and that, for Valentine’s Day, he gave her a bouquet of balloon-animal roses because he couldn’t afford real ones. I nodded along, quietly.

Our train rolled into Penn Station in New York and the man jumped up. “I hear there’s a Krispy Kreme stand here, so I’m going to grab one. Save my seat?”

“Okay.”

Five minutes later, he returned, bag of donuts in hand. “Do you like glazed?”

I was dumbfounded. He bought me a donut?

He waved away my dropped jaw. “They were having a special. Do you like glazed?”

“Yeah,” I said, “they’re my favorite. Thanks for this.”

He hunkered back down. “Don’t mention it. It’s the least I can do for a saved seat.”

I ate slowly and wondered - are donuts therapeutic? Do they ease tension and lighten burdens? Or was it simply because this donut was a gift from a stranger from Boston?

As the train rolled out of Penn Station, my train friend reached into his brief case and asked, “Did I mention that I wrote a book?” He pulled out a slim children’s book with a picture of a locomotive on the cover. It was a re-telling of The Little Engine That Could and I leafed through it with pleasure. He had brought the book along as a sample for his interview and it was very charming, indeed. After I returned the book to him, I fell into a deep sleep, lulled by the steady beat of the train on the tracks. In my exhaustion, I missed out on my ritual of watching the boat docks and rocky seashores flow by the window.

When we arrived at my stop, my train friend helped me with my luggage and said, “I really do hope everything goes well for you. It was nice talking with you today.”

I was so grateful to him that I could only whisper my thanks.

At the service that night, I cried quietly. Hundreds of people had come to show their support, so I was one of many standing in a room that was not nearly large enough to hold the love we had for Kip. Afterward, I waited in a long line to greet his family: parents who had seen Kip and me singing in chorus concerts since the sixth grade, giving presentations, and graduating; and a younger brother who had long ago measured his growing progress next to me. As I hugged them, new tears sprang into my eyes. What can a person say? I am so, so sorry. I miss him, too. I know that I can’t miss him more than you do and it hurts me so much to know that you are hurting more than I am. I am so, so sorry.

When I got to him, Kip’s dad put me at arm’s length. Eyes sparkling, he said, “You were one of Kip’s best friends. We’re so glad to see you.” He hugged me closely and I could feel him crying into his beard.

- - -

Oh, my train friend. If not for you, I would have been concentrating on containing my grief with the fragile strands of control I had left, too afraid to speak from the threat of crying. But you drew me out, distracted me with tales of locomotives and balloon flowers, offered me well wishes in the end, and somehow made me strong enough to handle was ahead. Could you tell that I was broken? Was it apparent that every inhale pained me? Whatever the case, I was thankful for your kindness. I still am.

Tomorrow is a dark anniversary for me and I have already stained the cuffs of my hoodie with tears. JG is sleeping beside me, but I’ll wake him up for a bit. I need a hug.

Sunday Scribblings #94: Fellow Travelers

“How do you feel about pancakes this morning?”

JG wanted pancakes, partially because we had a carton of buttermilk in the fridge. I agreed enthusiastically and he got to work, mixing up batter and heating up a griddle. We usually cheat our way past buying buttermilk (mixing a tablespoon of vinegar for every cup of milk) and it usually works, but lately, we’ve had a rash of runny, floppy, pancakes of disappointment. Having the buttermilk around gave us the first opportunity to actually follow the recipe.

“Your pancakes are almost ready,” JG called from the kitchen. “I think these are the best ones I’ve ever made.”

Well! This should be good.

I sat down at the table with a glass of orange juice and JG set down a plate stacked with four fluffy, steaming pancakes. “Ooh,” I breathed. The aroma alone indicated superior pancakes and I inhaled deeply. Following my usual procedure, I buttered between each layer and then spangled maple syrup over the whole stack. I’m a minimalist when it comes to syrup. I cut a wedge out of the quivering tower and steam wafted up. I admired the distinct strata of golden-brown-deliciousness, glistening butter, and gooey syrup. I speared the top two layers for my first bite. Each piece had absorbed a touch of butter and sweet syrup, but not too much so that the cake itself was overwhelmed. Puffy enough for a good bite but tender so as to melt in one’s mouth, the pancake was exactly the right answer on a Sunday morning.

“So, how is it?” he asked.

Oh, my.

“I think we should buy buttermilk from now on.”

Sunday Scribblings #46: Yummy