The Road Trip that Was and Wasn't

Photo taken by Hedgehog somewhere in Louisiana

It's nearly a year from the day that my sister and I and then-8-year-old Hedgehog set out on our epic road trip through the Deep South, and I've been reminiscing lately.

The most remarkable thing, in hindsight, is the fact that Hedgehog missed the trip in its entirety. When I say she missed it, I don't mean she wasn't physically there, a fixture in my rearview mirror, stoically passing the thousands of miles strapped to her booster seat. I mean that she wasn't there with us, looking out the window, marveling over the eternities of strange sights: the strangling forests of kudzu, the eerie dusklit swamps and marshes, the signs enticing us toward Stuckeys and boudin, fireworks, peaches, pecans, above-ground cemeteries, the old mansions and slave quarters, alligators, dancehalls, and boiled peanuts.

A committed and compulsive reader, Hedgehog saw the trip as nothing more than an opportunity to read all day every day, across the hours and through the states, all the way across the country, four thousand miles total: a great tipping, sliding pile of books at her side. For her, Mississippi and Alabama will be remembered as a land of dragons and battles, Louisiana and Georgia full of magical swords and brave girl warriors--all punctuated by momentary flights of reality in the form of waffle houses and bright truck stops, necessary leg-stretchings, and portable lunches of tuna salad crackers.

Just once I insisted she catch a glimpse, when we passed through the French Quarter, and she obliged, looking up from her book with glazed eyes. I'm not sure to this day what she actually saw--the ornate little houses and rambling streets, or something else entirely, her mind still in the printed word?

Often as parents we have expectations of just how we want our children to experience some event, outing, or even a sculpture, painting, or story we tell; the truth is that, often, it just won't go as we hope. It can be hard to let go of our expectations, hard not to badger ("put down your book and look at that amazing view!!!"), hard not to pressure, hard not to feel disappointed when things don't go as planned or the enthusiasm just isn't there.

The biggest lesson I've learned as a parent is to try as hard as I can simply to let Hedgehog be. Not to force experiences on her. Not to feel let down when she doesn't react as expected, not to be overly invested in her reactions. That road trip was a real turning point for me in this regard. I very quickly came to a decision to let her read as much as she wanted, and not to insist she look at, or even pretend to care about, the marvels of the road.

I like to think that she will look back with fondness and satisfaction on our odyssey. The voices laughing chatting and arguing from the front seat, the country music on and off as we passed through local bandwidth, all a background murmur. Free from parental vigilance and pressure, in a cozy car full of books she could lose herself in the intensity of her stories. We had our adventures...and I am very certain she had hers.

Scarlet's Meme: a Family Effort

Funny, sweet, and acerbic Miss Scarlet has memed me with a ten-question virus that I very much enjoy. There is a little award involved, but I will leave it in her care for now.

It goes like this: she made up ten questions for six people, and I in turn will answer those and ask ten of my own to six people. I decided to share the questions with the whole family:


1. Do you prefer asking questions or answering them?

Me: I like answering questions because I'm a huge egomaniac and I like to talk about myself, and I like asking questions because most people are fascinating if you know the right questions to ask.

Sarge: that depends on the question, doesn't it.

Hedgehog: asking. Cause then you learn stuff.


2. What is your favourite joke? [Or favourite one liner?]

Me: "How many feminists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?" "that's not funny!"
alternately, Dorothy Parker's New Yorker review of "The House at Pooh Corner": "Tonstant Weader Fwowed Up"
also Dorothy, "if all the girls who attended the Yale prom were laid end to end, I wouldn't be a bit surprised."
Boy, she was a nasty, funny piece of work, wasn't she? I'm sure I wouldn't want to have known her personally, but I love and adore her famous quips.

Sarge: That's my joke, by the way, thanks a lot! My favorite one-liner? From Mago in the comments section: "There sticks a mole-foot out of the side of your dog's mouth?"


3. Have you ever fantasized about being on Big Brother [the well known TV show... I'm not alluding to incest]?

Me: Despite my egomania, I'm a very private person, and at the end of the day I like to take refuge in my home, close and lock the door, and not be bothered. Thus, Big Brother is not for me. Also, I worry that I would be quickly known as the house kokhleffl (funny Yiddish word for "pot-stirrer" in the non-literal sense).

Sarge: No.

Hedgehog: What's that?

4. Have you ever wanted to enter a talent show?

Me: Flat out no. My talents lie in very odd areas that wouldn't be usefully displayed on a stage.

Sarge: Actually, yes! Totally.

Hedgehog: No...no.

5. Is Simon Cowell really necessary?

Me: Oddly, I would say yes. I've only seen the show a couple of times, but I love the idea that he doesn't mince words, spare feelings, deliver empty flattery or promises, or hem and haw--all his bald statements support the truth as he sees it, no phoney-baloney. People can learn from him--especially politicians.

Sarge: Nothing on that show is really necessary. Nothing on tv is necessary.

Hedgehog: Well, no because the show itself isn't necessary.

(oh my god, she's her dad's daughter all right, isn't she? She came up with the same answer totally independently)

6. Tea or coffee?

Me: Coffee. Tea usually just makes me shudder, unless brewed properly. Not for me the casually dunked teabag. Iced tea, on the other hand, is delightful.

Sarge: Dr. Pepper

Hedgehog: tea

7. What is your favourite perfume? Or smell?

Me: Anick Goutal's "Mandragore." "Memoirs of a Geisha" by Fresh (sadly discontinued, though I have a few bottles stashed in the fridge). Dog paws. Those little pink sweet and peppery roses that come in the spring. Sarge.

Hedgehog: baking cookies.

Sarge: vanilla

8. What is the quickest route to Wales from where you live?

Me: My daydreams.

Sarge: transatlantic flight to Cardiff? Is there an airport in Cardiff?

9. What does the word 'Wales' conjure to your mind?

Me: The Welsh Separatist Movement.

Hedgehog: The ancient Welsh sea-god Llyr

Sarge: hills

10. Are you dreading dreaming up ten questions to ask six bloggers?

YES.

Here are my ten questions:

1. What is your least favorite piece of clothing that you own? (from Hedgehog)

2. Gravity or magnetism? (Sarge)

3. Would you rather fantasize, or act it out in real life?

4. What is a name, other than your own, that you think suits you?

5. Tell us about a nice thing a stranger did for you.

6. What was your favorite childhood toy?

7. Do you hold a grudge, or let things go easily?

8. Favorite children's book?

9. Something you're proud of?

10. Which of the following four artworks do you relate to most, on first glance, and why?

A.


B.


C.


D.



Okay, now I tag the following to answer these ten questions, come up with your own ten, and so on...

feel free not to! Although I would enjoy reading your answers:

1. Mapstew

2. The Unbearable Banishment

3. Hunter (a break from your manuscript?)

Oh crap, that's only three. Oh well, I've petered out. This was much more elaborate then I'd expected, and I'm exhausted. If you've made it this far, you are truly a blog reader to be reckoned with.

Bedside

My bedside table reveals a lot about who I am, I think--especially the books--it's crammed with books: the ones I'm in the middle of, the ones I fully intend to read but possibly won't, a few favorites for bedtime comfort. There are occasionally other things on that little table (my glasses, earrings, a cup of coffee, a glass of icewater), but mostly it's books.

Here's the current lineup:



You can see that it runs the gamut from "Twilight" to Snoopy. Hey, I'm not embarrassed! Or maybe a little bit. About the Twilight, not Snoopy...





Closeup #1: we won't even discuss the Stephenie Meyer. Or will we? My dear friend (you shall remain nameless) kindly sent me all four of these. In the final analysis, these are extremely peculiar and disturbing books. I keep them on the bedside because I'm as yet unwilling to pass them along to the next curious reader, and I like the glossy black covers and the heft and bulk of them. Oh Edward. Find someone your own age, won't you?

Also here is "History of Sexuality," which I've yet to get through. Foucault's "Discipline and Punish" is one of my favorite books, and if you're not familiar with it, don't be disappointed but it's not a sexy s&m manual, but rather a thoughtful historical/sociological treatise on schools, prisons, and sanitoriums, and the ways in which they are, disturbingly, similar.

"The Pity of it All," a beautifully written history of German Jews, on loan from my extremely well-read sister in an attempt to better me. Sissy, I promise I'm reading it...but slowly.

My favorite in this pile: Le Fanu's ghost stories, recommended by Megan, scrumptiously well-written and atmospheric. On a rainy night, it's pure magic.





Closeup #2: my red-leather-bound journal (no review necessary, anyone who reads the blog can guess at its maundering contents); "A Reliable Wife" (just finished its gothic overwroughtness), "The Difference Engine" (finished a year ago, but I treasure its little presence); the collected Robert Burns that I retrieved after hearing the beautiful rendition of "Ae fond kiss" over at Mapstew's (go have a listen; it is to weep); "So Innocent...," a self-published true crime masterwork found in a roadside Stuckey's on the Grand Tour road trip last summer. The Mencken belongs to Sarge, but there was no room on his bedside table.



Closeup #3: "World War Z" (you'll like it if you like zombies, which odds are you do); de Sade (I read every word of this, and can attest to the fact that he was mad sick; a hero of free speech; disgusting; re-readable); "Wisconsin Death Trip," my sine qua non, cause of more than a few nightmares when indulged in before sleep, as it is quite hard to digest and often results in psychic dyspepsia.

Tucked in there, hard to see, is my score to The Goldberg Variations, a gift from my mom. I must here stop to give some advice: if you read music, and you are obsessed with a complex piece of classical music, do yourself a favor and purchase or download the score so that you can follow along. It is great fun, highly illuminating, very satisfying. I'm serious!

Lastly, but hardly leastly, is my large Peanuts anthology, abandoned there by Hedgehog. But who among us can deny the lure and appeal of that strange little gang? So I keep it, for its gift of cheer amid the Gothic, the dead, the zombies, the sadism, and all that biting.

Puppy Wrinkles

I can't get enough of Remus' flappy wrinkly dewlap and flews. I am thinking of buying those soft soft delectable wrinkles some flowers, and taking them out for a nice Italian meal, that's how much I love them.

A Letter Home

In August 1945, my dear aunt Abby Rachel was five years old, living in Brooklyn on Clinton Street with my infant mother and her parents, Eva and Max. In France, Uncle Harold waited for those official orders that would bring him home again. I believe that the waiting was, for him, not without its ambivalence, for the War had been something of an adventure for that Brooklyn boy, showing him the wider world, a new language, another culture.

But wait he did, for what other choice was there, really? The war had ended, the terrible monster vanquished, and his family wanted him home, so homeward he would eventually travel, not war-weary like many, but rather enlivened, and alive in all the true meaning of that word.

With nothing much to do in the army camp (save, apparently, nap, chat, and eat ice cream), he wrote a letter, now a family treasure, to his niece Abby:

(Abby Rachel Pollack, 1940-2001; Harold Pollack, 1916-2004. May their memory forever be a blessing...)

...and please do take a look at the other wonderful entries for Sepia Saturday...

Cousin Sam, Head Cashier

Sam Kisberg, the stuff of small family legend, was a cousin of my great-grandmother Katie Littwin (nee Kisberg).

In his middle age, he lived with Great-grandma Katie in her big boarding house on Ocean Parkway. My mom describes his room as so tiny, overlooking the railroad tracks, furnished with nothing but a bed, a dresser, and a little bookshelf. It smelled of soap; she says he was the cleanest person she ever met. Sometimes she would peek in his drawers just to marvel at how perfectly folded and glowing white his undershirts were.

Sam was the the head cashier at the famous NYC institution, Keen's Steakhouse:

Every Thursday, he came for dinner at my Grandma Eva's, bringing treats from the Steakhouse as a hospitality offering. The Steakhouse staff was allowed to leave work each evening with the best leftovers from that night's dinner seating. Sam would arrive at grandma's house with single portions of cherry cheesecake and brownies. Mom tells me the cake slices would often have a single bite off their pointy ends. Grandpa Max found this shocking, disgusting, and would rail against Sam for his gauche beggarly habits. But Grandma Eva would always whisk the cheesecake into the kitchen and cut off the offending bitten end, whispering to mom "shhh...don't tell daddy..."

Sam brought the dessert on Keen's china, blue and white sturdy Willow-ware plates. The family took to calling this china "Samware," and as a child I would often venture into the little attic room that housed the dishes no longer in frequent rotation, and stare at the hundreds of little Samware dessert plates, neatly stacked in the glassed cupboards...for nothing was ever thrown away in Grandma's house...

He brought, too, from time to time, the white ceramic smoking pipes for which Keen's was famous. Symbols of manly opulence just out of reach, for Sam himself, that soapy-clean Russian immigrant in the tiny room overlooking the train tracks, was a servant, an onlooker, possibly envious, possibly wistful. I'm certain he would have liked to join the ruddy crowds of men in their loud, laughing, drunken steak dinners.

Instead, he made his quiet livelihood behind the cash register, consoling himself with the ill-gotten souvenirs of half-eaten cake and plates and pipes...

The famous Keen's pipes

Servers and staff at Keen's Steakhouse

The Falling Man

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.


Lately my mind is sunless and dim; my memories, like muted outlines of people lost wandering in a dense fog, appearing every now and again to remind me of some small or great event, are now more indistinct than ever. That is, I can barely remember what we ate for dinner last night...yet every so often a memory walks toward me, at random, gaining a bright lucidity as it draws near.

This morning such an image emerged from the hazy landscape, in complete detail, come to visit my shroudy mind.

In January 1988, just a few months before my grandma Eva's death, my grandparents attended a performance of Verdi's "Macbeth" at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York City. They had for many decades owned a near-priceless opera subscription, some of the very best seats in the house, mid-row just a few in from the stage for the very best sights and sound.

It was to be a regular Saturday afternoon, spent in music (and perhaps catching a cat nap when the recitative between arias dragged on a bit too long) and a light lunch in the city, at an understated restaurant where an old couple could pass an hour or two over lemon sole and dissection of the merits and flaws of the opera production...

The quiet enjoyment was broken apart in a sudden moment. I heard the disturbing news that evening, when my grandma, still in shock, called me at college to recount the tale: how she and Grandpa Max remained in their seats for the intermission, rattling their programs and chatting, taking a breather, forgoing the crowds searching out sustenance at the little bar...Grandpa said "Eva!", his lone cry lost in the collective gasp and cry of the audience remaining. Grandma looked sharply, grabbed Grandpa's hand and together they watched, as if in slow motion though it must have taken place in seconds: a man, falling straight from the very uppermost balcony, through endless air, the ruffling breeze from his descent and from the waving hands of the people unable to halt the terrible fall.

"It was so graceful," she told me.

I was not to know it yet then, but the falling man was a portent--his swift descent a suicide, a hard choice made in the final moments of despair--an awful sign (if I had known to look) of my grandma's death that warm May day a few months after, but hers an unwilling death, for she had more operas and luncheons to enjoy if she had only been able.

Though when I think of him, and her, now, the symmetry of their deaths, I'm comforted by an idea that takes shape: while he left his darkened world by fall, she left hers in flight.

To read in more detail of this strange and sad tale, visit the New York Times account.

Lines from "Musee des Beaux Arts" by Auden.

Inspiration

If you're not familiar with one of my very favorite blogs, the extremely cool "The Unbearable Banishment," I must now ask you, no implore you, to visit his most recent post:

Happy Birthday Atticus Finch

If you love books, if you understand just how they can change your life, this post will move you as it moved me, and maybe just maybe you'll be a little choked up when you finish reading it...I know I was...

Tsaddik

This is Andrew. The husband of my mother-in-law's cousin, he is no real relation to me, except in spirit.

There is no way to adequately convey the loveliness of old Andrew, except to repeat what Sarge has often said: that Andrew may very well be a tsaddik, one of the true righteous, living secretly among us, "for whose sake alone the world is not destroyed."

A good, righteous man. Funny, kind, quiet. Once a long time ago, he was an Army Air Corps boy, then a young man who worked hard for his family and played minor league baseball in his spare time ("I loved the way he smelled when he came from a game," his 87-year-old wife confided in me recently. "All sweat and sunshine--he was so sexy, I would lean in and sniff him...")

Devoutly Catholic, now eighty-nine, Andrew is one of the more open-minded and curious people I've met, with great tolerance for differences. He attended a Passover Seder I hosted and followed along in the Haggadah with great interest, asking questions and joining in the Hebrew and Aramaic songs. When it was over, he took my hands and thanked me for the service and the matzoh ball soup.



He is the only real grandfather Hedgehog has ever known. When we visit Texas, Andrew goes out early, trundling patiently along to help my daughter fill the birdfeeders and spread corn for the deer who come to graze on my mother-in-law's land. I love to watch them every morning from the picture window, industrious in their task, often returning to the house hand in hand.

Yes. Tsaddik.

Notes on the photo: Andrew, a Technical Sergeant in the U.S. Army Air Corps (later became the Air Force), circa 1944. Ratlesden RAF Base, England. The plane with the wonderful nose art, a B-17 G, was later shot down over Belgium, although the pilot survived.

Leah and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

It really was an awful day.

You know the deep crunch when your car makes that impact?

That's what I heard two hours ago. When the puppy threw up all over the seat on the way back from the vet's and I turned my head for a second and plowed into two parked cars.

Yes, that sound. Time slows and then speeds up and you're just sitting there, your car is wrecked, and you're hyperventilating along to the pounding of your heart.

In NYC, the least little bit of bad news draws an enormous crowd. It doesn't matter if it's a shooting victim lying on the ground in his slowly pooling blood, or a woman sitting shocked and weeping in a wrecked car full of puppy barf. I will estimate conservatively that my malfeasance drew a crowd of fifty or so onlookers.

I will tell you that a lone good samaritan helped me crawl out of the car and patted my back as we waited for the police, for whom it must be said my devastation was a tiny mishap in the scheme of their long tour of duty; this being NYC after all.

And oh, did I mention that my puppy is revoltingly ill?