Fictional Affections

On one of those Facebook challenges where you type something about yourself that no one knows, I revealed that I get crushes on fictional detectives. It was to my friends, old and new, an amusing thought. I was very serious. My first passion was Sherlock Holmes as portrayed by Jeremy Brett. Drawn to the brooding genius, I suppose, the same way I was drawn to male vocalists with scratchy, husky singing voices. Sherlock was soon usurped in my affections by Chief Inspector Morse, created by Colin Dexter. I read all the books, watched all the PBS episodes on Mystery! and wasn't really sure if it was Morse I had a crush on or John Thaw who created him "in the flesh." This romance went on for years. When
Dexter saw fit to kill Morse off, I was devastated. When PBS showed the final episode, with John Thaw's Morse being carried off at the end, I literally sobbed. It might seem inane, but I had lost a dear, old friend. Matters were made worse when John Thaw passed away not long after. Ah, Mickey, I thought, reaching for another tissue -- get a life!!

Incorrigible, I picked up a book by Daniel Silva called A DEATH IN VIENNA. The protagonist is, of course, a detective/secret agent called Gabriel Allon. Allon is an Israeli agent whose cover is a brilliant art restorer living in Venice. Maybe "Venice" was the magic word; maybe Israeli agent -- whatever. Allon is again a brooding, remarkable talent in all respects. So I became instantly smitten, and read all the books -- last to first - before realizing what I'd done. When the next book came out, I put it aside and re-read all the books starting with the first one. Working my way up to the most recent. Mr. Silva seems to have a new release annually, and I order early, The arrival of the book is an event -- the way HARRY POTTER used to be. Now, since no film or TV movie has been made, I have the luxury of casting whomever I choose in the role of Allon.

Now I have a conundrum! When I returned from Venice in March -- doesn't that sound amazing? -- a friend told me about the books of Donna Leon. I researched them (wanting to read the first one first this time) and read DEATH AT LA FENICE. Having just been there, this was so exciting. And the detective, Commissario Guido Brunetti, is different from my other fictional heroes, striking perhaps a clearer note. Sort of a plain guy. WelI, sort of. I have read the first four novels and, gratefully, there are many, many more.

Off the subject for a minute: when I bought the first book, I flipped through to find out something about the author. And there at the back was Donna Leon's picture. Okay, here's the weird thing: I saw this woman when I was in Venice. I stayed near Campo San Luca and saw this woman each morning and each afternoon. By day two of my trip, we nodded at each other. By day three, we smiled at each other. I didn't know of course who she was. She seemed very impressive, as though I should have known who she was. So strange.

So I have the next two Brunetti novels on my kitchen table, along with Daniel Silva's latest Gabriel Allon novel -- THE DEFECTOR. It is a betrayal of sorts I'm sure to have crushes on two guys; haven't had that luxury since I was a teenager. And of course, no films featuring Brunetti have been made (yet!) so I can once again cast whomever in the role. I think I must read the Allon book first before continuing with Guido's next adventure. Even if I have rubbed shoulders with the author.

Think what you will. This is a fine madness!

Just a Minute --

Last week, my daughter went to the emergency room because she was having breathing difficulties and had for years been told it was her high blood pressure. Tests and x-rays showed that she has a damaged Mitral Valve and requires surgery. In just a minute, her entire life changed. Without the ER visit she might never have known of this problem and died of heart failure. In just a minute, a rocky road appeared before her and she'll have to navigate carefully to make it across. In just a minute. When someone older than you tells you "it's all a blink," please believe it. When you're cursing a Monday and wishing for a speedy jump to Friday, please stop and remember that the Monday you want to erase is a one-of-a kind day, never to appear again. I know; you've heard this all before, I don't -- truly don't want to sound preachy. But this is what's on my mind today. (picture of Clea and her little girl)

My brother and sister-in-law are coming to Boston to visit next weekend. They came last August; went home; Evie went for a regular check-up, and in just a minute was fighting breast cancer for her future. My oldest son's best friend -- young, talented, special -- didn't feel quite right one evening. He laid down on his sofa to rest and never woke up. In just a minute there was a hole in the universe. There's a saying: "Man plans; God laughs." You have holidays mapped out; purchases; dreams. And suddenly, in just a minute, you have no job. Right. And then you reach my age -- please do -- and every minute is a lifetime. Not because it's interminable; because it isn't. There was always time it seemed. And then there wasn't. I remember a number of years ago hearing one of my favorite artists, Charles Aznovour, singing a song that brought me immediately to tears: "I didn't see the time go by." Wiped me out. This is the day. This is all of it. Rain, snow, hellish temperatures. This is the day. With loved ones, alone, happy, sad, whatever. This is the minute. If you want it to pass, don't fret. In just a minute. Use the time. Stay in the moment. Look up; your world is there. Whose voice do you need to hear? Call today.

Blessed be.

The First of Three Fables

This is peculiar: clearing out years of papers and scribbling, I found something I was challenged to write ages ago by my then husband. He dared me to write a fable. From the notations on the original, it had to be 1964-1966. A different life; a different me; a different writer. I'm going to put it here, and hope that a reader will tell me what this is about. And if I'd be wise to delete it! Here goes...

In a land of many shadows stood a town of many walls. The walls were built of violet colored stones and the foundations were of white marble. The roadways of the town were on top of the walls. The people lived in houses that stood between the walls, and one house did not face another. Doors and windows opened to the walls. The people strolled their roadways with pride. The high walls, the low walls of violet colored stones with white marble foundations crossed each other and crossed each other. The people were proud.

The wall of gray fieldstone was old. No one walked on that one except Ahni. Ahni was the little boy who everyone knew was mad because he spoke to the birds and said they spoke to him. Ahni would sit on the old gray wall and look out over the meadow of golden grass to the distant blue mountain. Beyond that mountain lay the distant places. Only Ahni looked out over the meadow. He was watching for the stranger who the birds said would come. Every day Ahni would watch. The people would look across the many walls and see him there and they would laugh, strolling the violet roadways with pride. Only Ahni looked out over the meadow of golden grass.

One day as the people strolled and Ahni watched, he saw a figure moving through the meadow. The stranger had come! Ahni called to the birds and they flew across the orange morning to greet the comer. Ahni recognized him, because it was himself-to-be who came. The stranger stood in the meadow and called to the old men. His voice reached them in tones of whispered words. The old men hurried along the old, gray wall to see the stranger in the field. They didn't see that it was Ahni-to-be. They only saw the stranger's walking stick with the white marble handle. They were filled with desire to posses one so lovely. Their old marred hands curved for such a handle on such a walking stick. The only marble in the town lay beneath the walls of violet stones. The old men ached for the marble; wept for the marble. But they didn't have the strength to tear down the walls.

Ahni was young and strong. He was mad because he spoke to the birds and said they spoke to him. So Ahni tore down the walls, stone by stone....stone by stone. This frightened the people and they hid in their houses. The old men wept and ached for the marble. The stranger waited in the meadow holding his walking stick with patient pride. Ahni tore down the walls. The old men beat at the marble and scraped at twigs. Each old, marred hand shaped a walking stick to match that of the stranger. When they finished their work, the stranger who was Ahni-to-be moved back through the field of golden grass, and the old men followed him. He led them up the distant blue mountain, and they climbed the blue beyond the mountain's height....

The people crept slowly from their houses. The doors of the houses now opened to a neighbor's house. The people walked among the violet stones which lay in great useless heaps upon the ground. The night was coming and the people were afraid. They piled stone upon stone, stone upon stone until new walls were built. Grotesque walls were built because there were no white marble foundations. Walls that could not be traveled upon. Stone upon stone...

The people did not see what Ahni saw: meadows of golden grass lay on all sides of the town, and blue mountains and distant places. The people built their grotesque walls of violet stones without white marble foundations and Ahni crossed the fields of golden grass. The old gray wall stood humbly in the shadows of the town of many walls. And Ahni-who-was sat and watched for the second coming.

THE CATALOG

Do you remember that classic Bette Davis postcard -- the one where she’s holding a needlepoint pillow that reads “old age ain’t for sissies?” Well, I’m no sissy! I have been gallant into my sixties. And I only occasionally check as I leave the ladies’ room to make sure I don’t have toilet paper stuck to my shoes. There are only three things that frighten me about growing older: 1) not being self sufficient; 2) not being self sufficient; 3) the arrival of The Catalog. The Catalog! Just when I’ll think I’ve mastered defiance (per Melanie Griffith); when I’ve found a style reminiscent of ‘40’s movie stars or at the very least -- Golden Girls; when strains of “koo-koo-achoo Mrs. Robinson” still occasionally hum in my inner ego; just when I’ll think I’ve created timelessness through elegance -- it will arrive. Wrapped in brown paper. Ominously nondescript. And the book enclosed will read The Catalog. And only that.

You know what’s inside, don’t you? Those fashions women wear so you’ll know they’re old farts: Polyester print dresses in awkward pastels. Cardigan sweaters that must be ordered a size too small. Dime store brooches you could no longer buy at Woolworth’s, (if there were a Woolworth’s). Coats with slightly natty fur collars. Directions for applying prophetic blue rinse. Eye glass frames with gems and pearl chains. Pink sweat suits with floral jewelry to match.

Well, you know what I mean. You see the ladies on the street. In Boston, Columbus, Chicago, New York -- these gals are not only visible in front of bingo halls. Be honest -- haven’t you wondered how that happens? Didn’t that “look” go out with pin curls and hair rollers in the supermarket? Or can one still see hair rollers in the supermarket? Uh huh -- and you’ve said to yourself, “Where do they get those clothes?” Ergo -- The Catalog.

The Catalog. It doesn’t matter if you avoid joining AARP. Or if you never ever play beano. Or sign-up for a Golden Agers’ bus tour of autumn leaves in Vermont. You can evade lunch specials at Grant’s or Denny's and always pay full price on the subway and never go to the shopping mall on Wednesdays. Someday that nondescript brown paper envelope will arrive. You can move without a forwarding address; get medical referrals from Phyllis Diller; make biannual trips to Eden Rock. It will arrive. You’ll put it in the toss-away pile and feel safe because you’ve committed Deepak Chopra to memory. But curiosity will be too much for you. You’ll open it. And no doubt, you’ll laugh. “No way I’m gonna be caught dead in this stuff.” But The Catalog defies trash collecting or recycling. One thing -- one small item will seem “not so bad” and you’ll hang onto The Catalog because maybe you’ll order that one small item -- and then before you realize it, you have a list and the next thing you know -- well..... It will arrive as surely as hot flashes and gray roots and yellow toe nails. What ever you do -- DON’T OPEN IT!!

Walk With Me

When we moved into the Corning Street house in Beverly Massachusetts 40 years ago, I believed that I had come home, that I would plant roots there and grow like an oak forever.  It didn't work out that way.  After 13 years there, I was between the proverbial rock and a hard place, and I moved to Boston neighborhoods -- spending 15 years in the city. Then I found myself back in Beverly -- for a four year event -- before moving to the New York City area for four and a half years.  Now, like a weed, I'm back in Beverly.  Unfinished business, no doubt.  The universe works that way.  

Beverly didn't impress me when I returned this time; I've felt that the community was avoiding its potential.  Lots of second hand shops; an inordinate number of Dunkin' Donut stores and pizza restaurants and bars.  Even with the presence of the Montserrat School of Art in the center of the city, Beverly doesn't boast an art center or even a small art museum or a palpable historic presence as do so many of the neighboring towns.  Some really good restaurants have opened here.  The in-town area no longer has a really good market.  There is, of course, glorious coastline and some fine parks.  And gorgeous big houses along the coast up through Beverly Farms.  But something missing for me.  I went to look for it.  

I walked to the pier which people don't seem to notice much.  And from there I explored the earliest Beverly streets.  Feeling immediately the quiet -- not that Beverly is hustle and bustle ; lots of traffic drives through its two main streets causing the din.  If, on the weekends -- you want to stroll among others -- you need to go to Salem or Newburyport or other towns where tourists walk the streets as well as residents and neighbors.  The area closest to the marina, known as Fish Flake Hill, was undoubtedly settled first.  And the charm of these streets, the feeling of neighborhood and neighbors -- well, walk with me for a moment.  Let me know what you think.     

The Beverly marina and pier. Front Street begins with a charming antique shop.             

History is evident everywhere in this town within the city.

             Looking down Cottage Lane.

I didn't recall the "Furniture Institute" on Water Street. Or the 

little beach at the end of the lane.

Out of the Blue

I did this rather peculiar thing recently: I joined Facebook. I did it for one reason: I had no other way to get messages to my almost 20 year old granddaughter. It didn't quite accomplish that. Nonetheless, it's been a rather interesting journey. At first there was a great welcoming clamour from my kids. Then mutual friends gathered around. Then, out of the blue, people I never thought I'd meet again. With a few folks, I walked around for a couple of days trying to place the name, the face, something -- without saying "who the hell are you?" Gratefully, I'd eventually remember them in my old mental movies so I could be genuine in my response.
I don't much like the yik-yak. Just posting something without really having anything to say. So a few days ago I did a search for people I attended high school with. (Not my favorite four years, but the search was amusing.) I contacted a few of the women whose names I
recognized. They didn't respond. Maybe they weren't who I thought they were. Maybe they were! I contacted a couple of guys who don't really remember me, but responded anyway and we've been typing to each other. There are three of us now who can share the delightful memory of being at the printer's with our high school newspaper when the Brooklyn Dodgers won the World Series in 1955. These folks have many of the same memories, but can't really see me in their look-back. I don't care. It's great to connect with people who came from the same world; who know the Brooklyn that's been lost in time. But it would be such fun, I think, to find someone from long ago who does remember me and is glad to have found me -- and perhaps will unwittingly remind me of who I was then. It's very possible I've been the invisible traveler for a very long time.
Most folks will send me a thumbnail sketch of their lives and I'll reciprocate or send them the url to this blog. Then, as though we were strolling at a cocktail party, they move on to the next discovery or to engage in the yik-yak. Facebook is sort of like an old fashioned cocktail party. People are there mostly to be seen. And once you notice them they scurry away to make another entrance or impression. I never liked cocktail parties for that reason; I was never very good at them. I suppose I've always wanted more notice than that. You know, drop by for a 30 year weekend. We search always for our real identities, believing we'll discover ourselves in someone else. While I was in Italy, traveling alone, I couldn't help being who I am. There was no one with me to require me to be in a particular role. That's what happens in the familiar -- we walk in and out of various roles, characters, personna. But being far away, being alone, encountering new places and faces, sounds, smells..... one relaxes into ones self. When we come back, it's not always the place we've visited that we miss. It's ourselves in that place. I liked who I was there.
I've heard folks on National Public Radio talk about net-working on Facebook; promoting their work or themselves. I don't really see how one would do that. I'm getting better at dealing with the simpler Facebook environment. I don't hang out there; I drop in to say hello. If there's too much yik-yak, I leave. If there's someone there who wants to talk, we take it into another room. I don't think I've introduced the Mickey I met in Italy. Maybe it's not possible in a room filled with people all talking at once. But it's fun to drop in at the party, see what's shaking, and -- maybe -- run into a buddy from a long time ago.

The Invisible Traveler: Venezia

I have been in love with Venice for so long. Long before I actually went there on Pete's Trip. Eleven years ago, when Jamie and I arrived in Venice I just sobbed. I vowed not to do that this time. I welled up but the rude officials at the Vaporetto (the ferries) helped me to hold back. My first impressions after so many years: huge crowds for March; graffitti, litter, artisan shops replaced by big names -- Guess, Timberlane, Disney, Gucci, Burger King, etc. etc. But I am here -- older; a bit worse for wear. And so is Venice. The power of place: places that we belong to, recognize; that touch something in us -- awake something in us. Well. My hotel was lovely; the room was charming (the TV is behind the mirror on the dressing table-- you turn on the TV and see it through the mirror); and dear Jamie had a bouquet of yellow roses waiting for me. I lost it. Had one helluva good cry.
I walked out looking for the familiar. I found the hotel where Jamie and I stayed on our 1998 trip. Not remembering the name
of the hotel or the street, I walked right there. I found that amazing, since I can't remember yesterday's breakfast. Also found my way to the "Crazy bar" which was our favorite lunch spot. I looked for the Trattoria alla Madonna, but though the signs for it were there in the Rialto, I couldn't find the restaurant. I walked and walked the rest of the day. Venice is a
great place for getting lost. I did quite a bit of that my first afternoon.
All the eateries looked like tourist traps to me, so I wound up with an espresso and pastry for supper. I hope I live long enough to visit Venice again in like November or late October. To see it when mostly residents are there and not visitors. On Thursday I walked to Teatro La Fenice -- La Fenice means the phoenix; and like the phoenix this theatre has risen from its ashes three times -- having burned to the ground three times. There wasn't a production while I was there, but one could tour the theatre with an audio tour. So I did. Spectacular theatre. I sat in the Royal Box and watched the stage hands working on the flies. Then I walked to the Ghetto Nuovo, through a part of Venice that had few tourists roaming about. People shopping in a mini- super- market (is that an oxy- moron?) Kids coming from schools; women shouting to each other across the courtyards. An intimacy. The Ghetto is stark and filled with ghosts. This hasn't changed. I crossed the Accademia Bridge to visit the Peggy Guggenheim Museum. I love the sculpture garden there. One passes lots of unwelcome art along the way, as you can see from the photo to your right.
For supper I found a Venetian style Bar (their word for cafe) where I had some lovely soup and red wine and a salad. Then I treated me to an espresso and strudel at a pasteriere in Campo San Luca. I strolled through San Marco. Orchestras were playing albeit the very chilly night.
It was Friday too quickly. The week went too quickly. I took the Vaporetta to the station where I had seen an "Italian Barbie;" well not really a Barbie but like that, dressed for an opera! I got it for Keira. Then I took the boat to the Rialto and did the rest of my shopping. Not too much buying going on from me -- didn't budget it in. Dropped off the loot and walked again across the Accademia Bridge to visit Campo San Barnabas, where all of this romance with Venice began for me back in the 1950's with Kate Hepburn and Rossano Brazzi in Summertime. Kate falls into the canal at Campo Barnabas attempting to photograph Brazzi's glass/antique shop. On our trip in 1998, Jamie and I would spend each evening strolling Venice with Gelato in hand searching for the Campo. We found it our last night. The shops boarded up; the old church holding only Sunday mass; a few elderly gents hanging out in the courtyard; the old coffee shop the only place open there. Deserted; quiet; clean. No more. Campo Barnabas has been turned into a destination by the Venice tourist office which toted out Kate and Rossano for additional revenue. The church has exhibits; gelato shops are there; tacky tourist shops; tables and chairs in the courtyard. Litter. Something lost. Change can't be stopped.
On my way back from San Barnabas I saw a toy shop with a little rag doll in the window. It's an Italian made favorite called "My Doll," and can be purchased with a full wardrobe. I have a small collection of rag dolls so went in to see it I bought myself a red-headed reminiscence of Raggedy Ann. As I walked away with my treasure, I remembered an early family trip when I was perhaps 8 or 9; I felt lonely on the trip and my dad bought me a little red headed rag doll at a souvenir shop. I called it Mopsy. I still have Mopsy. Had I just had a little-girl-moment? And another Mopsy? We don't ever really grow up. I walked through San Marco; went to the little bar for pasta and wine. And another turn around my favorite places. Then I went back to the hotel to pack up. In the morning, I took the boat to the airport where everything went very smoothly and easily. The flight to Paris was fine. I still had to walk the 3/4 mile trek to
I
the next terminal in Paris, but no flights were missed. And the seats were more comfortable and a young man of 13 from the Brookwood School charmed me all the way to Boston.
You know what was best about being away? Just being away. Seeing new things; relying on me. Not having to deal with the daily creaking of my daily world. Yes, it's hard to come back. But I was so glad to hold little Keira again and to see her face when she opened the box with the Italian Barbie and said -- "She's GORGEOUS!" I hope, I pray, I invite the universe to be good to me and allow me another trip next year, perhaps to Provence. I've never been to Provence. In the meantime, color me happy!