My dad was a John Wayne Republican. He served in World War II. The only thing he loved more than his dogs and football was time spent as a boxer in the Navy, and it made him proud to say his nose was broken three times because of that fact. He watched golf whenever it was on and supported the military, firemen, and especially the police.
He mocked my liberal arts education with an Archie Bunkeresque routine that was not a routine at all. He was more Archie Bunker than Archie. He made stupid, insensitive, imprudent comments I’ve been dumb enough to repeat, because to write that he was politically incorrect does not begin to cover it. All The Lily Whites In This Country Are Going To Drive Us To The Poorhouse – his Mantra hurled at me and the television whenever I drove home to visit.
He read Newsday and watched News 12, complained about taxes and crime, especially crime, was from Sheepshead Bay, and got kicked out of his Catholic prep school for fighting. He would graduate from Saint John’s University thanks to financial assistance afforded in part by the GI Bill. Did you read that last part? He played football for Saint John’s University in Queens, New York. He owned a gun cabinet with lots of rifles in it. He loved everything about Texas. This was not the person you’d have asked to speak at your sensitivity training workshop or invited to the ballet.
And if he had witnessed the mob descending on our Capitol, dragging police officers into the crowd and desecrating the halls, it would have repulsed him. Destroyed him. Had he seen that blond threatening Representative Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez through a locked door, it would have enraged him beyond all things, not that he would have aligned himself with her politics; that’s not the point. My die-hard American veteran father would have distanced himself from the rhetoric of Republicans long before the insurrection.
Keeping fossil fuel monies out of politics, bodily autonomy, abortion rights, healthcare, social security, safe and reasonable gun laws, background checks, assuring LGBTQ rights and quality of life, voting rights, immigration reform, improving our standing in the world- it’s all on the table right now. And all we have to do is vote. Please, please vote.
Because this is the most fantastic time of year, I’d like to offer my two cents on a few fabulous children’s books.
The first is a well-worn favorite of ours. Bone Soup, written and illustrated by Cambria Evans, is a lovingly re-interpreted tale of the original Stone Soup. Evans’ atmospheric renderings of narrow, poorly lit streets invite us to join Finnigan, a starving skeleton who is eternally in search of a delicious, home-spun meal. Finnigan manages to disarm the villagers with a warm smile and invites them out of the shadows to join him for a hearty soup conjured with the help of his suggestion and their disgusting ingredients. Toenail clippings, anyone? By not letting their fear of a stranger have the last word, the villagers enjoy a wonderful meal and time spent together. That’s a good story.
The next is a newbie, What’s Inside A Flower? And Other Questions About Nature, beautifully written and illustrated by Rachel Ignotofsky. Ignotofsky depicts the interdependency of flora and fauna happening all around us deftly with engaging illustrations that are easy on a child’s visual palate and perfect for learning. Although written for children, this charming book is a sound investment for any bookshelf, particularly for gardeners, aspiring gardeners, and nature enthusiasts. It is also an excellent way to catch-up on all the ditties in bio class you may have forgotten, and great for people who learn visually. The lovely illustrations, weaved around pertinent info, make this the perfect addition for the classroom, library or home.
Mahsa Amini was twenty-two years old. She died in Tehran after being detained by police representing an extremist faction of Islam. She died on September sixteenth, 2022.
Someone said they always go after the women first. The extremists always go after the women.
The world is smaller than we thought; now we can see, in real-time, how an event on one side of the planet can find its way home. She was someone’s daughter, meaning she could have been yours. We take care of our own.
Please contact your local representatives, members of Congress, and state senators. Respectfully insist they demand the United Nations hold Iran accountable for the atrocious and violent acts against Iranian women. Insist further that the Biden Administration holds Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei and President Raisi responsible for the heinous acts of violence against the citizens of Iran.
The holidays are upon us! Remember- you can send gifts late. As long as you send it, people are happy. It’s like a little surprise. The best holiday we have to offer, in my modest opinion, HALLOWEEN, is just around the corner.
Halloween is an American-made mashup from the old country. It absorbs traditions and folklore from everyone who lives here. If you can trace your ancestry back thousands of generations, if you’ve been here awhile or recently gained citizenry, your story will be gleaned and mixed into the fold; as long as it’s scary and sexy. You know what else is incredibly sexy? The United States All-American Postal Service.
This popular holiday, galvanized into something beautiful by Charles Schultz, has some great perks. It’s all-inclusive; anyone can celebrate, and there is NO GUILT associated with this holiday and no particular way to celebrate. It’s a free-for-all. The dinner menu is completely made up, off the cuff, no traditional staples. You don’t have to fly home for two days or call anyone before sitting down to eat or open presents.
Not that it’s mandatory, but sending care packages on Halloween is strongly encouraged. Whatever you send, make sure you either make it yourself or shop local. That’s important; SHOP LOCAL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Pack plenty of glitter in the box and spray the entire thing down with different kinds of essential oils, because people love that.
***One last thing; don’t forget to vote on November 8th for your pro-choice, pro-bodily autonomy, environmentally conscious candidates.
While vacationing in Kerhonkson, New York, we took a short hike on the Ashokan Rail Trail and drove Reservoir Rd, the causeway separating the Ashokan reservoir into two basins. According to the NYC Department of Environmental Protection, New York State has ‘nineteen reservoirs and controlled lakes in seven counties east and west of the Hudson river.’ The Ashokan Reservoir is one of the largest reservoirs owned by New York City. The dam was constructed by Italian immigrants and African Americans between 1907 and 1915, commissioned by the New York City Board of Water Supply.
Earlier this summer, I posted about Tela Troge and the women of the Shinnecock Nation. Tela and six others are the founders of the Shinnecock Kelp Farmers’ Coop. In collaboration with the Sisters of Saint Joseph, who have offered their land in Suffolk County, Long Island, to be used for farming kelp, a concerted effort has been made to develop new approaches toward land and water use. Hopefully, it will ensure clean waterways for future generations.
I would be remiss not to write about the New York State Department of Environmental Conservation Police Officers. According to their website, this division of law enforcement is responsible for, but not limited to, these environmental protections;
* illegal water pollution
* improper use or application of pesticides
* freshwater and saltwater wetland degradation
* almost any area that effects air, land or water quality law violations
Much heartfelt thanks to all who serve to protect our water, land and air.
Being a shut-in can be a blessing. No one expects anything of you, and people are genuinely surprised if you show up. Borrowing from my experience as a contemporary hermit, I can assure you that people like me have found their collective voice on social media.
I broke up with three guys on Facebook immediately after November 8th, 2016. When I complained to my husband about how my ex-boyfriend from college had written something rude about something on his most recent post, I asked if he (my husband) would please read my second to last post from the day before regarding misogyny so that he could figure out if he thought that it was, from the ex-boyfriend, a secret slam against me. What was my ex-boyfriend implying? Wasn’t that rude? Didn’t he agree?
In the way only a life partner of thirty years can draw attention to the obvious, my husband shed light on some possibly unhealthy attachments I’d been harboring toward men I’d known thirty-plus years prior. He would say in passing, ‘How did Dave respond when you commented on his comment on your thread about global warming? Or was it the article on human cloning? Maybe it was Devin I’m thinking of?’ He’d scratch his chin. ‘Which one is the fly fisherman? I can’t keep up.’
The hate feels boundless and primal on the worldwide web, so, like any responsible adult, I send it right back. I should add here that it has been suggested by some who are ‘concerned’ about my emotional health that I’m not actually engaged in ‘debates’, and have recommended I refer to practitioners of Eastern Religion, as they are an insightful group with long life spans. They think I should consider joining in on all the sacred calmness they’re having. I’d like to highlight here that getting my point across and winning an argument is also something sacred- to me.
Continuing on the topic of religion, that brings me to a funny little thing. I’d gotten into an online tussle by someone who went by the handle, TooTightInJersey. I’m no Bible thumper by any means, but I decided to comment on an image someone had posted depicting Jesus in the manger with glowing red eyes and horns. The little scamp was even sporting fangs. I wrote, ‘I don’t think this is right. Baby Jesus means something to a lot of people and you should respect that.’ TooTight disagreed. TooTight replied, ‘Why don’t you pull that pole out of your ass and eat shit.’ I certainly didn’t take it personally. Listen, we all have bad days, and in the spirit of intellectual debate, TooTight is allowed to share a few thought-provoking perspectives. In turn, I’d like to believe that TooTight, while exercising such profound wisdom, would recognize my stance on the subject. Even as I type this, TooTight is probably writing his dissertation after volunteering at a soup kitchen. Wherever TooTight hangs his hat, I’m sure he’s penning another auspicious diatribe he’ll soon post for the ages.
Thank goodness I’m applying the two college degrees I’ve earned toward the greater good. Throwing down with Reddit users in a Battle of the Wits is just how I figured my life would turn out. It’s hard not to brag.
My mom died in her sleep. Her heart could not pump as it once did, and fluid collected around her lungs. When she could speak, she assured me there was no pain, so we spent as much time with her as we could. I can remember thinking that watching her disappear was actually beautiful, although I can’t remember why I thought that, anymore.
I would make best friends and lose them. I would leave for school, come home again, get married, change jobs, and have babies. Through all of it, I always had a mother. I hid on the couch with the sheet over me like a tent for a few weeks. My kids walked around the makeshift rabbit hole and prodded me, but in the end, climbed in and hunkered down. My husband padded around in socked feet, numb and in a fog because he had loved her, too, and time was watermarked by ramen noodles meals and tv shows.
Two best friends, the most organized people I know, traveled up the coast to be with us, twice. They brought casseroles, helped dress my kids for the service and pinned photos of my mother to the board we would take to the funeral home. There are no words explaining how critical they were to my family’s health at that time, but more than likely they already know. The kind of people who don’t judge when you forget to bring your mother’s ashes into the house and the urn stays in the backseat of the car overnight because you drank a bottle and a half of chardonnay after the service. Another friend, someone I hadn’t seen in a lifetime, sent condolence via email and shared how he had coped with the early and unexpected death of his brother. It was such a sincere gesture I decided to send him something. It took all the energy I had to send it, but once I finally got that parcel to the post, my ascent began from nothing. Later that day, I sat in front of my computer.
There was an opportunity on the New York Foundation for the Arts website. It read, a week-long summer workshop in printmaking, offered at the Women’s Studio Workshop, WSW, located in Kingston, New York. In the fine print, there was a blurb describing ‘a crash course’ in bookbinding and letterpress. The title of the course included the words, Boot Camp, and in retrospect that would have implied some level of difficulty, but the idea of sitting around in a circle with other women (in shawls) making picture books had already been planted in my brain. I made the call and charged the course to the card.
By mid-July, I found myself driving over a covered bridge in upstate New York. Asphalt graduated to a winding bend toward WSW. It is an institution that was established in a farmhouse decades ago, and there’s a warm, Catskills feeling I associate with this place. A frayed, Wabi-Sabi style that looks like Patchouli smells. Despite some of the exchanges I experienced while visiting, let me point out that this is a great studio with great people, and I have every intention of taking another workshop there as soon as I have a chance.
I hustled in, slightly breathless with my new canvas bag stuffed with Moleskine notebooks and felt tip markers, ready to bind books and shake off the emptiness that had lodged itself between my throat and abdomen. It still had not occurred to me that when I’d registered for the workshop I had no experience with bookbinding or letterpress. When it comes to making art, or anything, really, my attention is rather feral. But the one thing that did bring some comfort was the smell of the place. Art studios, no matter where they are, have a distinct smell- slightly metallic, oily, and maybe a little chalky. In that way, it’s like coming home.
Some of the ladies had already bonded. I have never understood the undercurrent of female bonding. At best, if I can stay within the safety zones and off the radar with women in a group, I’m happy. This is a scandalous admission coming from a self-proclaimed feminist, but the thing is, some women, and in this setting, trust me, feminists included, have yet to read the memo on inclusion. I scuttled to the back of the room and pulled my bag up to an aluminum work table, taking in the space and noting all the good chairs had been taken. An intense blond woman who had absolutely no time for pleasantries, just had to get down to the business of whatever it was we had signed up for, was already writing something down and as far as I could tell, no one had started teaching, yet.
Someone did start speaking, eventually. A brunette, about mid-thirty, with a buzz cut started describing her work in detail. Her voice oscillated from monotone to burnt as she advanced upon a display of texts set before us. These were her books, hand-printed and bound, stunning in girth and cleanliness. Although the content of each is now lost to me, there were illustrations that looked like blueprints on the opposite pages of text. Really good-looking, put-together stuff. Intimidatingly, so. In a short expanse of time, maybe twenty seconds in, the lightbulb went off and alerted me that I absolutely should have scrutinized the workshop description. Some experience with elaborate measuring and extensive folding would be necessary, if not a prerequisite, moving forward. Immediately after thinking this, another woman who had traveled all the way from Australia to take the workshop, something that she would later share over lunch, turned, curled her hand dramatically around her mouth and announced, “She’s AWFUL!”
We obediently fell in line and followed the instructor into a narrow space. The walls were lined with antiquated, pencil thin drawers, each with the name of a font mounted in pressed tin on the facade. Within each were miniscule lead stamps, each one with a raised letter of the alphabet, all nestled tightly as puzzle pieces into teeny, tiny compartments. We were expected to pull these drawers out after picking a font of our choice by oh so carefully arching around one another, gently removing it and balancing this loaded drawer back to our work stations. The blond had managed to carry back three. She reigned from New Hope, PA, had commandeered two more tables, three in total, and set all the tables up in front of the bathroom. If I had any complaint, and it would only be the one; there was no clear path. This would be considered, by some, problematic in an emergency. Three tables lined up in front of a bathroom could be deemed a potential hazard and it’s inviting trouble by most standards. Everyone had their heads down, frantically working, so for a split second, I thought we were being timed and maybe that was another part of the description I had failed to read. It would have explained all the competitive energy.
I crammed myself into a corner, just a diagonal stone’s throw of the bathroom. A young woman who turned out to be an intern was super sweet and friendly. She had only been there a few weeks, but answered my questions and didn’t seem to be critical of my obliviousness. For the rest of the day I sketched drawings on a thin film that would later be superimposed onto a linoleum block by way of a darkroom. There were chemicals, a heat lamp and a see-through machine that I’d convinced the super sweet intern to turn on for me.
We were expected to spend most of our time in a room that housed an expensive and complicated piece of equipment- a printing press. It seemed exceedingly delicate for such a large thing. I found myself feeling as though I really did not want to mess with it, so I wrote it off and zoned out, possibly missing some pertinent information. One reason I may have been distracted is that my husband and the kids had driven up with me. We had rented a beautiful cabin about a half hour’s drive away, a charming place set off of a remote dirt road that was hidden by a copse of trees. Upstate New York is absolutely beautiful. So, at four o clock, as soon as the workshop was over, not that there was any kind of time limit, I would high tail it out of there and meet up with the family. In my absence during the day, they were catching salamanders and whittling. One evening, I enjoyed the bucolic landscape by drinking a bottle of white wine under a gazebo, and threw up a lovely risotto dinner out the second story window. I cut the workshop the next day and travelled with Marc and the kids, green gilled, around Phoenicia.
When Marc and the kids walked into the studio one day, the instructor asked me, ‘Which was planned first, the workshop or the family vacation?’ I thought she was annoyed because I always left earlier than everyone else, translation- I wouldn’t stay all night long. I was just starting up a conversation with the resident artist over coffee the next morning when the instructor walked by and quipped, ‘It’s a good thing I’m not grading this class, because you’d probably end up with a C-.’ My 46 year old self recoiled as if I’d just been stabbed with a plastic utensil in the junior high school cafeteria. I mentioned this comment to the Australian. She rolled her eyes toward the instructor and then turned back to me. ‘She is unfit to teach.’ I fiercely nodded. ‘I’ll say!’ The relief the Australian’s eye roll afforded me was as close as I would get to suspending the grief I’d walked in with. Australians are so totally my favorite, now.
By the end of the week, I had been pigeon-holed into a helpless, goofy character, a simple woman from Long Island who knew nothing of the nuanced intricacies of printmaking, bookbinding, letterpress or that other thing I’d been doing all week with the chemicals and the light. I had, in my defense, signed up and paid for the class based on all the enjoyment and merriment I would be having and that plan took off just about the second I pulled the car in the driveway. Because of my low ranking as had been defined within the confines of our advanced workshop, I found the interns were speaking to me a little slower than they had earlier in the week and they made sure, I thought, to make eye contact with me while they spoke.
On the last day, we were instructed to walk out of the main house, into the sweltering heat and cross the road, and visit a wilder part of the property. Through stalks of grass and dappled light, wildflowers peeked out along the edges of a path. Someone in front called out for everyone to check for ticks and then, inserted against a wall of old growth, a barn appeared that was barely standing. The instructor walked in first, and we followed, stepping over a threshold and into an older part of the barn. There in the way back, sat a towering piece of machinery.
This was a gargantuan relic of a paper cutter that had been previously owned by a publishing house. It could cut a ream of paper twenty inches thick by way of a sheer, blinding Samurai blade. Of course, there were about fifteen steps just to turn it on and like everything else, a litany of rules that needed to be memorized before touching it. In that respect, it was similar to the other machines we had been expected to use, but the difference here was that if someone maybe screwed up because she hadn’t been paying attention, instead of hurting the expensive equipment, this thing was quite capable of shredding everyone to pieces. Another plus was that it made a deafening, whiny howl that shook the barn to it’s rafters. After the instructor turned it on, she turned it off and asked who wanted the honors of turning it back on. Several hands went up.
While it sliced and diced sheets of hand-made paper into smithereens, I shimmied through the crowd in order to tell the instructor I was leaving. ‘I’m not cutting the line! I’m not cutting you! I just have to tell her something!’ You’d have thought I was stealing their babies. Considering the complete ordeal involved just to turn it on-I think I had to sign something-and the racket that ensued, it should have been able to do a lot more than just cut paper. It should have been able to cut out gigantic snowflakes, or a humongous line of paper dolls, like in cartoons. That would have been well worth it. I spent some time thinking about all the fun things it should have been able to do while waiting patiently for the instructor to turn to me. I didn’t want to distract her from what she was doing, or I would have been liable. The others were transfixed and in the trenches, proving to themselves and to each other that they were definitely a cut above, hence, the ‘Boot Camp’ in the title. Now I got it. I made my move and yelled over the roar while tapping her on the shoulder, ‘Hey! I’m not messing with that thing! I’ll lose an arm!’ and under my breath I said something like, ‘Holy sweet Christ’ just as the machine turned off. My standing fell a few more rungs with the faculty and staff after that- super nice interns included.
Long before we were married, I would stay over the house my husband and his friends had rented. I can remember watching re-runs in the warmth and safety of their living room while a blizzard was happening all around us. There was an unexpected knock at the door. The landlord was this young, extreme sports guy and he convinced all of us to go outside in the frigid cold and build an igloo. We did. It took hours. I never understood why we did that, how we were roused on a Sunday night, convinced to leave the comfort of the living room and follow this lunatic’s vision, but we did. I don’t even remember enjoying it.
I’m here to write that the same kind of phenomenon was unfolding in that barn over at WSW. The old story comes in many forms, but the characters were defined that day by the caffeine-fueled, hyper diligent, slightly lost, over-tired worker bees who were ready and willing to sacrifice themselves for their instructor Queen under the threat of a sharp-edged, ten-foot-long, six -foot-high, impending disaster. I bolted.
They found me in the main house, packing up and minding my own business. I nonchalantly fiddled with my papers before heaving it all into a manilla folder. I had started making handmade paper earlier in the day and when I ran away from the group, decided to keep playing with the pulp. I hadn’t washed my hands and had all kinds of troubled getting the paper into the folder, but it was the last day and in truth, I was anxious to get out of there. I was hoping to leave before anyone got back from the barn.
‘How was the paper cutting?’ I asked. Silence. My cowardice must have been discussed on the way back. And then,
Fantastic. I’m so glad I gave myself the gift of trying something new.
I so agree! I’m inspired to go home and build one on the deck.
Really, really wild. I’ve got some great pieces of paper now, some with ragged edges and some with straight edges.
Me too! Can we trade?
I discreetly tip-toed past the group with hands encrusted in a gritty wheat paste, effectively dripping chunks of it in my wake. As my hand was slipping off the doorknob, I turned to see if anyone would notice my exit. The interns smiled and waved, the Australian nodded my way, said, ‘Come visit Sydney!’ and winked. It was good in the end. I finally made peace with the door, opened it wide and walked through.
The year before my mother fell into steep decline, I would try to get out to see her with the kids at least one night a week. I’d have a lasagna or ratatouille ready to put in the oven, or some kind of casserole. While I was busy in the kitchen, my mother would sit on the couch and watch tv with her grandchildren snuggled up next to her.
During one visit, mom held up a well-worn toy, a pony with glass eyes and asked my daughter what his name was. My daughter answered, and I quote, ‘His name is guilty, and I don’t want him.’ Amen, sweetheart. Me, neither.
My daughter wants to go to a store and then grocery shopping with me on her Senior Cut Day. When I was a senior, Senior Cut Day was spent half lit on wine coolers and vodka at the beach with drunken peers. My mother taught so she wasn’t around, but here I am, taking prescription anti-depressants first and then taking the seventeen year old to the grocery store. On this day, I’ve also taken one anti-psychotic.
She’s at once gorgeous and terrible and herds me through produce. I trail her, steering our cart while she pulls it, and we mostly drop in healthy stuff at the start. If I’m not worried about money, and I’m not as long as it’s Friday, then I’ll pick out cut flowers adorning the space between the two sets of sliding doors that usher us from the outside to the inside, the in-between part that is lined with buckets of compartmentalized plastic-wrapped arrangements.
We’ve got kerbies which are great in salads and probably great as pickles, I think. If you pick out the fruit that’s in season, like the Georgia white peaches or those fleshy ones from Jersey or the nectarines shipped up from the South as sweet as candy, the juice that pools down your arm is Manna from Heaven. I’m biased as far as Long Island corn is concerned. You can buy it conveniently husked, or there’s a self-husking station, too, and it is delectable as the kernels are small and easy and pop in your mouth when you bite down, not the leathery kind from elsewhere which are bright yellow nuggets, not as pale like ours and not as good, but probably better when grilled, actually. These are the thoughts I think at the store with my daughter, and while I’m thinking these things, she plots to hide the goods I’d say no to if I were all there. Which I’m not.
The one pill I’ve taken I don’t care for because, as I have explained to my husband in the car and to the psychiatrist who has met me just the once, it makes my eyes roll and blink like glass marbles installed into a heavy-lidded doll; first one shutters closed and then the other. The second reason is that it doesn’t stop my thoughts from reeling. The pill slows me down so I’m not as entertaining, at least not to me, and on some days chasing down this brain is my greatest form of entertainment.
By the time we’ve zigzagged the entirety of the store, our cart is stuffed. Boxes of cookies line the crevices and bags of snacks litter the top. Paper products and pre-made entrees now grace the pyre that is, at least, green and leafy toward the bottom. *Important tip- do not shop for food on an empty stomach if you can help it. It adds so much to the bill. I am right about this.
At the end of our exchange where product and packing meet, all sorted into recycled tote and box, I withdraw my debit and delicately jam the paper receipt into my bag. We walk to the car and unload our bounty with no real regard of what bag goes where. That must drive some people crazy, but not us. My daughter, satiated after eating something that could easily muck up the car, has commandeered our soundtrack for the ride home. She’s yucking it up and cradling the flowers I’ve splurged on like a pet. Stalks of irises, cornflowers, thistle and daisies are tucked into a slim bouquet, none of which would have bloomed in synch had they not been meddled with.
There is a wild orchid the size of a spoon that flanks the hiking trails of Olympic National Park in Washington State. It’s bloom is unassuming and reminiscent of a slipper, and it’s name, Calypso, is meant to infer romantic ideation, like the Greek nymph who seizes Ulysses’ purpose and vision for seven years. Seven years, I think to myself, that’s a long time to get off track. And then my brain snaps back at me, oh, sweetheart. We can do better than that.
I have lived on an island my entire life. I grew up on the water and on boats in the bay, but thanks to Steven Spielberg’s brilliant classic, Jaws, swimming in the ocean has never truly appealed to me. Most of my oceanic experience has been gained as an observer. One morning, off the coast of a boreal and seasonal port, I experienced firsthand how little of a sea-farer I actually was.
We were vacationing in Maine and I decided to buy tickets for the whale watching tour. So, after purchasing the Family of Four Whale Watching Tour Package, we enjoyed a decadent meal of deep-fried fish, scallops, too much white wine and ice cream. Driving back to our rental was a white-knuckled trip in slick rain and dark, only to turn on our heels and catch the boat out to the whales at daybreak. And momma was in no way at her best. Never pair undercooked scallops, deep fried anything and too much white wine with the impulsive purchase of an early morning Family of Four Whale Watching Tour Package. I wouldn’t have done well on a walk from the kitchen to the couch to the bathroom and back again holding a bucket, so a boat that was really just a dinghy of a ship at the mercy of wind and weather was pure, unadulterated hell. I was as sick as I ever want to be. Typing these words sets my face in a contorted grimace while I recall the ebb and flow of those great, sublimely churning, translucent sea-foam waves and how those waves perfectly mimicked my bowels.
The gentleman at the whale watching kiosk who had signed us up mentioned something about seeing Gray whales and Minkes, but once we were all aboard I couldn’t do much more than grip the rail and stand halfway straight. I prayed for God and Neptune to quell the horrible, horrible swaying, the wretched back and forth, back and forth- they did not. My husband had one kid and I was responsible for the other, but the one I was with kept wedging herself between hordes of fellow sightseers. Brandishing cutting-edge binoculars and cameras, they craned their necks over the side in search for the sea mammals I wanted to see, too, if I could have pried my eyes open a smidge more. Some of these tourists had children and I flatly observed they were all smiling and pointing toward the horizon, not acting like they had hangovers.
When you imagine whales in their natural habitat, do you see magnificent giants gracefully breaching, barely breaking the surface, only to nose-dive back into the water, but not before their massive haunches, twisting like barnacle-encrusted behemoths, remain suspended in space for one hot millisecond behind your family so that you can snap that perfect picture? Is it just me? Well I promise you, It would have been more rousing to see two sofas out there then what the animal kingdom was showboating starboard. Our whales were a little off. They looked like two tree stumps that floated away every time the captain tried to steer close. Gritting my teeth through relentless nausea, I mused it would have been more of what I was expecting if the whales swam up to the boat and interacted with us. By the end of the trip I wasn’t at all convinced they could even swim.
After five or six hours we headed back to shore, but did not return safely before some family drama involving a big wave, my daughter defying gravity, her chocolate milk and several trips to the bathroom. What was most memorable? How frightening my children were on a ship that simply could not stop going up and down. Ocean waves can be ridiculously gigantic. I may be exaggerating in hindsight but Christ on the Cross I had no idea waves could be that big. No one seemed to care except for me, my lower intestine and my husband who I would see in passing, double fisted with a coffee, corn muffin, maybe a turkey sandwich, a power bar, a bottled water, some wafers, orange juice and gum, acting like we were going on a ten mile hike and sleepover instead of holding on to the side of the wall in the ship innards (or cabin) for dear life, screaming for the firstborn to get back here because that is not a toy, damnit! We caught one another’s gaze, my husband and I, and it was as though he was seeing me for the first time. He was afraid.
Speaking of magical moments, there are no magical moments of our whale watching tour saved to video or digital or anything at all because if memory serves, the disposable, (waterproof) camera managed to find it’s way off the bow and into the crystal depths of those chilly Maine waters.
Bitter Skin was published in Volume 13, Issue 4 of Meat For Tea; The Valley Review, 2020.
“Golly, is that your cologne? It makes quite a statement.” The lawyer inhaled deeply. “I can’t place it, Sal, maybe like pine fragrance or an astringent. Either or, my eyes are watering.” He sifted through a file cabinet and hauled out two thick manila folders. “Some of these complaints go back nearly fifteen years. How long have you been with the company?”
“Fifteen years.” Sal could only tolerate being in the presence of anyone for a short time. This was no exception.
The lawyer glanced up at the nondescript man fuming on the other side of his massive desk. “Well, let’s get down to it, shall we?” and then flashed a perfectly enameled smile to no one in particular. “We certainly have a lot to work with! You’ve been a busy boy.” He leafed through the papers. “Unless I’m missing something, you’re lucky to have never been incarcerated. This list of accusations is bottomless. And this,” He removed a page sandwiched between the stack that was covered in post-it notes. “You were observed in the employee bathroom doing something to a woman’s shoe? What were you doing? Don’t answer that, by the way. It says here you mauled a dog on this note. How is that even possible? There are complaints here ranging from the confusing to the annoying to the blatantly psychotic. Yikes.”
Sal bared his teeth in a grimace. “May I ask YOU a question?” His voice inched toward hysterical. “What’s the big deal? Since when is smelling a shoe in the bathroom a crime?” The lawyer squinted at the fine print. “I don’t think there’s anything inherently illegal about smelling a shoe on your own time, however, you snatched it off of someone while she was still wearing it.”
“Big deal. Tell me the bad news.”
“The bad news is that your behavior, on average, is so sickeningly repugnant they just want you out. Severance pay included. They are practically paying you to leave. Consider yourself lucky and go find yourself another job, and good luck with that. You have the moral standing of a wet noodle.”
Sal’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. “Who the hell are you to judge?”
Sal stalked out of the lawyer’s office mumbling and cursing. He trudged over concrete pylons, shimmed between cars and finally emerged on the north side of the road where his own car was parked. It was dark and the pavement was slick, and just as Sal fell into the driver’s seat, his cell phone vibrated under the lapel of his corduroy jacket.
“I understand they’re trying to push you out of the company.”
“Who is this? Is this so and so’s friend from Kentucky?”
The woman cleared her throat. “I’m hunting down disgruntled employees in order to get a lawsuit going.”
Sal paused. “What do you need from me?”
“Not much, really. Just an interview with my team. Are you at all interested?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Thank you for meeting with me.” They were sitting at a snug booth in a service road diner. Sal couldn’t remember the last time a woman willingly sat with him for any reason at all. He couldn’t guess her age, but noticed that she smelled good.
“Where’s your ‘team’?”
The woman acted as though she didn’t hear the question. She leaned in and said, “Tell me something. If you had a chance, wouldn’t you like to do something different with your life?” she put her hand on his arm. “If you could have anything in this world, what would it be?”
Sal rubbed his chin. “Who knows? Money, I guess.” Suddenly, he had an epiphany. Sal yelled out, “I want people to notice me!” Then he blushed and got a warped look on his face. “I want people to revere me. Worship me!”
“For doing what?”
“Ah. I see.” The woman tapped a lacquered nail on the tabletop. “I think maybe I can help you. How do you feel about the great outdoors? Are you at all partial to gardening?”
“What the hell kind of question is that? Are you making a list?” He scanned the back of the diner and tried to make eye contact with the waitstaff, but no one obliged. “I thought you wanted to know about the ingrates at work and my back stabbing co-workers.” In that split second, Sal began to think thoughts he hadn’t entertained in a long time. He wondered what her shoe size was. The woman turned to him with an expression consumed with disgust and he looked offended. “What? Now you’re a mind reader?” Sal chuckled to himself.
The first thing he noticed was feeling warm everywhere. He felt illuminated. Glowing. Somehow it all made perfect sense. Time was irrelevant. He understood that he was connected to a vast network of roots entwined like synapses and that everything was infinite; much larger than he could have imagined. He was no longer alone and cold, but safe and content.
“Get the crate and grab the basket off the truck. These are ready.” The man shielded his eyes from the sun. “Look at that! It’s like a gift from God when the sun shines through, just like jewels on a crown.” He walked over to the vine. “Come here and taste this.” There was more shuffling on gravel. Another man walked over.
In his former life, Sal would have recognized the pattern of vibrations as footsteps approaching, but he was no longer himself. He was, well, happy, until he felt a quick tug. The man exclaimed, “This is divine!” and popped Sal, the formally nondescript man into his mouth. After a moment of grinding the bounty between his dentures, the man reconsidered. He spit out Sal’s remains. “This one’s not so good. I’ll have to try another.”