Around Halloween especially, I fondly remember my Grandma Pauline, who always took such great joy in preparing us for this particular holiday, with its pagan roots. She was certainly a colorful character in my life, in stark contrast to my other grandparents who will have a dedicated entry with a photo which should be titled "American Gothic." When I shared this poem with my mother several years ago, she commented, "well, you know, it's all true!"
Last night, as I traveled home on the subway after working late, the car filled with an amazing assortment of creatively costumed New Yorkers of varying ages, I recalled my poem of remembrance and the photo of her shown above, inherited on a recent trip to the Midwest.
Pauline
my father’s mother loved to dress us up as gypsies
traveled with the carnival, hair always permed and red, toenails too
first husband alcoholic, second husband flew hot air balloons
but was killed in a car accident
wore Tabu and costume jewelry with rhinestones and plastic feathers
sewed her own clothes -- I remember that chartreuse polyester blouse
a zipper up the front, a gold metallic fish dangling from the tab
watched religiously The Edge of Night and As the World Turns
barmaid by profession, smoked and drank beer
had a series of Pekinese dogs, each one bad with children
and always named “Ty-Gee”
lived in a trailer surrounded by her garden
philodendrons in donkey-with-cart planters
were trained to grow around the entire inside
of that place
gold plaster elephants up on hind legs trunks curled
matte finish with tiny shiny drops all over them
lived on either side of her couch
a framed print torn from a calendar:
dogs around a table playing poker
she often wore a two-piece bathing suit
once a year we put on the red tiered skirts
with pink and turquoise rickrack trim
draped in scarves, hair flowing free
we became her gypsy band
husky voice, laughed a lot
she lived her gypsy life
and she told me I had rosebud lips
as she painted them bright and deep
The platform and the cars of the subway were eerily empty this morning – quite a contrast to yesterday’s crushing commute when New Yorkers exhibited not-their-best behavior, pushing into the packed train and tossing rude comments back and forth. This morning, before I left the house, we exchanged a few words: “you know it’s 9/11, yes, I’m running late, the subway has been a nightmare, not looking forward to that, call you later" etc. My preoccupations kept me from kissing him goodbye.
As soon as I hit the street I felt it. The past few years I’ve tried to pretend that this day could be just like any other day again. But it never is and the tears welled up, as they invariably do, and I headed down into the subway, wondering what I would find. Wouldn’t you know that I found I missed them, all of those New Yorkers. Where was everyone today? Were they afraid to ride the train, right at this time, the time the first plane hit? Were they home watching the ceremonies at Ground Zero on TV? Were they grieving loved ones lost?
As I took stock of the other riders I wondered if we should be nervous. Was I imagining the mood to be somber? Remember, after 9/11, when you could sit on the train and cry, and know you wouldn’t be alone in that -- not have to feel awkward or know why you were crying. We were all crying in our own way. And during that time we actually looked at each other. You felt you could speak to people and you knew you could ask for help if you needed it. You knew you would give help, if asked. The world had changed and New Yorkers started looking into each others eyes.
“Shouldn’t we be doing something special today?” my co-worker asked this morning, her eyes reddening as she turned to her calculations and spreadsheets. I said I might meet a friend for coffee – someone I had watched the TV with at work as the second plane hit that day. We had left the office together and bought flip-flops for the long walk home. She talked about her best friend from high school whose brother died in the Towers, seven years ago. He would have children by now she mused -- he had been engaged to be married. We all know someone. Each year we hear the stories, old and new.
Tonight at home when I stand quietly at a south-facing window and look downtown, I’ll see the gap in the skyline, filled this week with the beautiful and symbolic tower of light. I’ll remember the heavy smoke and the long-lingering odor of that dark time. And I suspect, like many New Yorkers, the day will have been marked yet again by a very personal mourning and reflection and possibly a remembrance of the softening and opening of our hearts, and our eyes.
The photo above was taken to promote a recital my daughter sang in June, 2002. We were not trying to capture the flag which appears on the subway car, but somehow it seemed appropriate – a full year had not yet passed since 9/11 and a certain special patriotism was still very much apparent here in New York.
Hear her album "Maya's Idyll" here.
We convened in the Heartland last weekend to celebrate the birthday of one of the most energetically spry 80-year-olds you are apt to come across – my mother, Shirley. Her image above is blurred, due to the speed at which she tends to move. She swears she can still turn cartwheels, although we have discouraged her from proving it. She also types at warp speed and regrets that we insist she wear shoes during one of her very favorite pastimes: mowing the lawn.
Her signature “lounging” position is known in aikido as “seiza” – legs folded neatly under the body, feet curved, forming a configuration for the seat, almost like sitting in a saddle. It is a position of readiness – from there, the Samurai would spring into action. Many aikidoists practice for years, hoping that their joints will soften and release enough for them to sit this way comfortably. My mother has always found it a perfectly natural way to be -- in her easy chair, watching the news or working a crossword puzzle, even spending the good part of an afternoon, on a hard wooden dock at the lake, engrossed in a good book.
Growing up on a farm during the Depression, we know that she was considered a “tomboy”, preferring to work outside or in the barn rather than staying in the house baking or learning embroidery. Her own mother did it all – from crocheting gossamer tablecloths to husking field corn and driving a team of horses pulling the threshing machine (each of my grandmothers will receive a dedicated entry, soon to follow).
My mom was a career woman from the age of 18. She always worked fulltime, effectively employed with the same law firm for over 60 years, raised three daughters, and served for 25 years on the Town Board – among various other activities! It seems she is finally adjusting somewhat, after a year of “retirement” (albeit with a part-time job), starting to mention that she would like to volunteer with the area homeless shelter and tutor children in reading.
So I thought I would share this photo snapped at the birthday dinner – how appropriate that I caught her with that other famous ingénue, Audrey. Her youthful spirit inspires me and, hopefully, her genetic gifts will serve me well, as I seem to pursue avocations traditionally considered domains of the young. Let’s see . . . youth is wasted on the young, you are only as old as you feel, it’s just a number, life begins at (fill in the blank), as fine as wine, long in the tooth (this last one comes from horses and denotes wisdom as well as age). All clichés aside, let’s just say that Shirley is irrepressibly young at heart.
Around Halloween especially, I fondly remember my Grandma Pauline, who always took such great joy in preparing us for this particular holiday, with its pagan roots. She was certainly a colorful character in my life, in stark contrast to my other grandparents who will have a dedicated entry with a photo which should be titled "American Gothic." When I shared this poem with my mother several years ago, she commented, "well, you know, it's all true!"
