To get up to the second level parking lot, where the majority of shoppers park, you turn off a city street and drive up a steep ramp buttressed by cement blocks. Compare it to going up the climb of a roller coaster; you drive slowly and feel gravity pulling you back against the car seat, with optimistic hope that the clutch holds out. Arriving at the flat of the second story is an achievement, and you breathe again but not too much for the landscape is dismal, dank, and dark. It is hardly what one would expect for a parking garage, these folks are obviously saving electricity.
Mounds of tire dust clotted with engine oil rim medians, pigeons roost on the edges of the level, even in daytime it seems that the sun has other things to do. But don't worry, blazing colors draw you to the entryway where the escalators will take you to the ground floor. Bright red and yellow paint, thick from years of application border huge windows, a Tupperware kiosk, a temporary New Age table, a lady selling Tia's Puerto Rican bread. Checking to see which escalator is up or down, the first floor reveals even more color floating above people's heads, hung from the ceiling, strung on wires over the vendor's booths.
It is very much like Dorothy first entering from her sepia farmhouse into the brilliant gardens of Oz; it's Easter, swingtime for the market, its busiest season. Oh. And Polish. Super Polski. Witaj w domu. I toodled about, first taking a stroll around the circuit, seeing what there was to see; I was in search of pussy willow branches and pysanky eggs, this was the place to get them at prices you can't beat with a kielbasa.
Butchers yelled out numbers as crowds shoved towards the cases loaded with meat and sausages, ropes and ropes of sausages. Kielbasa is pretty much ground pork and garlic, salt and pepper stuffed into casings, nothing fancy but a prerequisite feature of the Easter table. Pierogi stands hawked their offerings, produce bins held cabbages, potatoes, carrots; there were caramel corn, sugared nuts, and bakeries, the most famous that remain steadfast against the swelling force of supermarket management. White Eagle, Mazurek's, and Chrusciki's have eclairs that your babcia would load into your hands because you were looking wan. No moderate portions here, you are in Giant Pastry Land, soldiered by huge loaves of rye bread. Cream puffs, pastry hearts, pączki, things stuffed with sweet cheese, and cakes piped with inch thick frostings filled the windows with predictable diabetic fate.
Polish gift shops held shelves of dishes, salt lamps, aprons, t-shirts, figurines, and Jesus. Jesus was everywhere. As a kid, I was taught that Jesus was always near me; here, there was no argument. Yes, He was. None of that Middle Eastern Jesus portrayal, this was a nice Polish boy Jesus with blue eyes, near blond hair, and that faint violet cast under His eyes that indicated He might benefit from an eclair. Delicate white skin was held in regard by the Poles, and so their Jesus reflected this. The Infant of Prague was layered like a wedding cake with rows of lace decorating His cape, with a small gold crown sitting on His young head, a globus cruciger in one hand. I grew up with this, and frankly it removed Jesus from anything real that I could imagine. You could purchase Jesus in several stages of His life, all sizes, all envisioned appearances.
Next to the gift shop was one of many egg booths, this one offered true pysanky; the others sold wooden eggs which do last longer if you have cats. There were Ukrainian, Lemko pin drop, decals, etched, and hand painted. Trypillian symbols and traditional animals, waves that meant a journey, wheat for fertility, horses for strength, three rings around the circumference of the egg representing the Trinity. Legend states that evil is kept chained to the side of a mountain; the years when an abundance of pysanky are made strengthens those chains; when not so many are produced, the monster can pull loose. People make eggs for health, to have children, to find an answer, for thanks; sort of like a prayer that you can hold in your hand.
But wait, here is the part that I held strong against, that of the chocolate candy shop. Oh my heavens. Sugar waffles, chocolate covered Oreos, Twinkies, and pretzel sticks punctuated with rainbow sprinkles were on display. Pecan turtles, sponge candy in an elongated rectangular shape, and my Mom's favorite, Charlie Chaplin, which according to the story, originated in Buffalo. Apparently Chaplin was to visit the city for the opening of his film, "The Adventurer"; the local candymakers asked him what his favorite sweets were, and he replied marshmallow, coconut, and chocolate, with cashews as his favorite nut. The confection was put together and given to the audience at the opening, creating immediate demand that can still be satisfied by visiting the Market or a local shop such as Condrell's.
I almost caved and purchased chocolate, the rows of bars and patties were satiny smooth, unctuous, and whispered how melty-creamy and substantial biting into a dollop of enchantment could be.
The smell was overwhelming, and permeated my pores, my senses, and if it weren't for the four bottles of wine from Buffalo's finest wine merchant at Chateau Buffalo banging against my leg, I would be rolling in coconut and marshmallow, coated with milk chocolate. My brain made my feet leave, but the smell of the warm sugar, cacao, vanilla, and caramel lingered maddeningly in the car till William Street. Pussy willow branches had sold out, but there will be more.
The bustle was fun, people were glad to be out, everyone was hypnotized by the entire presentation, the colors, the eggs, the fresh horseradish being bottled, the pierogi frying, the sugar waffles, the crumb cakes. A carnival of food and red Polish flags to alleviate the grey walls of late winter, it was just what was needed to raise up our chins. Go and see, but go now when the booths are filled with
Easter merchants; later on it can be a ghost town during an off-season week.
Good night this cold night, the sky is clear with no clouds to hold the residual heat of the day, but that's no nevermind. It is time to sleep and let go of the hours, to float between nothingness and dreams, to sweep cobwebs from the stars, as you ride the tides of Nod in the coracle of your deepest wishes. Sleep well, dog; sleep well cat, sleep child, man, woman.
Sunday, March 11, 2018
Saturday, March 10, 2018
It's Been a While
Still dark at the winter hour of 6:30 a.m. in January, yet early schoolbuses were busy shuttling children to school. The metro bus shelter was good to see, as the bitter wind stung my face, numbing my cheeks in spite of being bundled. Surgery was at 9:30, to get to the hospital I had to grab the 6:50 run. Why take a $35 cab ride, when public transportation could get me there for $2?
Got to the plexiglass bus shelter at 6:40; shadowy few adults roamed through the ice, all gloved, hooded, and wrapped into unrecognizable, upright phantoms, ghosts of the Michelin man. The street lights held their illumination back, as if the leaden cold slowed down the electromagnetic waves, and dulled the energy of the sodium vapor ignited by the electrical arc, reluctantly creating the familiar orange glow.
Too cold for light of day or street lamp; the shuffling humans had to revert to earlier senses, to an intuition of direction since lifting one's face to see where you were going invited the icy particles to blast skin and steal what heat had formed in huddled chests. They were ambling monoliths, unsure of footing, reluctant, waddling penguins of dawn. Seeing them still gave me a sense of humanity, that I was not alone in a desolate landscape, for I was as bundled as they, breathing into my scarf and collar to make a small, warm room for my nose.
And then from the oblivion, the lights of a bus appeared as if at the end of a far tunnel, a spaceship emerging impossibly from a black hole. Where they were hiding, I don't know, but suddenly four more monoliths appeared, with backpacks. College or high school students, perhaps. The bus bounced to a raucous stop, brakes shuddering, chassis still in forward motion as a bus in excess of 24,000 pounds will. We boarded into a dimly lit cavern, all that much more mystical by the contents of folks who had put on whatever layers they could find, sitting like Buddhas or people from biblical times, wound in yards of cotton jersey, nylon, lumpy jackets. Knit hats were pulled down, illumined by two pinpricks of light below the rims; glistening corneas not yet frozen white and useless, grateful for the rambunctious, noisome heater.
No one looked at each other, nor acknowledged the stumbling arrivals lurching to available seats. This was my first run on this route, No. 8, and I only hoped that it did indeed eventually land at the stop by the hospital. I fussed if I had to cross Humboldt at Main, for it is a mess of a small god's teeth, arse, and damnation regarding traffic, and with people on their way to work, who knows if I would decorate someone's bonnet as a shapeless down jacketed ornament? All this excessive worrying came from apprehension regarding the forthcoming operation, could it be done laparoscopically or would it require an extensive excavation? The bus darkly bounced on, crushing ice and overnight drifts.
We pulled up close to another bus at an intersection, except that it wasn't moving; their driver got out and told ours that it had broken down and that he would have to back up and dodge around the beast. Our driver howled no no no no no, not today, it's past 6:50, I'm late already as he carefully nudged the bus back and through the opposite lane, cutting off oncoming traffic. We flew to the next stop, a shelter with many people, two of which had no money but needed rides. Okay, you come on, said our hero. The two men were grateful, polite, and hustled to the back to begin a loud conversation as to how and why the last job didn't work out.
Hero driver nearly ran over a tall man with a cane in the middle of the street, who was waving him down. Not today, not today, begged he, but the bus was pulled over, doors open, and the fellow wanted to know if the route stopped at which and which. Come on, come on, but you gotta hurry, I'm late; the cane holder said that was okay, he would catch the next one.
Through city streets we slid, a small earthquake on tires; there were no curbs, there were few stop signs given a full halt; I wondered what on earth is the penalty for being late on a bus route? But hooray! Here is my stop and it is better than wished for, right at the edge of the hospital parking lot! Still dark, my feet negotiated the rippled ice to the hospital door as the bus wheezed and catapulted onwards to the University station.
Hello, hello, and the forms and questions began; what's your name, when is your birthday? I was labeled and taken to an intake room to put on the ubiquitous gown and swab myself with pink solution. Nurses came and went, and at one point a young man introduced himself as the Chaplin and did I have any religious requests? There is daily communion at the chapel, someone available if I needed consoling, and did I wish to say a prayer? No thank you. I expected to hear further invitation, but he smiled, chatted a bit more about innocuous stuff, and we wished each other well as he disappeared through the surrounding curtain.
It went smoothly, I was told not to bother counting backwards as this brand of anesthesia knocks you out That Fast. I awoke before being wheeled to my room, was asked my name and birthday, did I know where I was, and lunch would be available, soup would be good. Jello. Tubes and a drain that ended in a grenade-shaped balloon were sticking out of various ports, and there I was, minus a gallbladder. I was thrilled that it was done through smaller openings, and that it was fairly easy to maneuver my new attachment, the I.V. pole, into the bathroom.
A glossy of the offending gallbladder plus some interior landscape shots were handed to me and boy howdy. THAT was in me? I was told a big, syllabic word that began with an 'a' indicating that it was on it's way to becoming cancerous. The interior stitches will dissolve in two months, they may work their way out through the ports. Whee.
The next day, going home was scheduled as soon as the doctor took out the shunt. Now this was something else. He took the one drain out, a bit of a sting but no problem. Then he got pliers, braced his hand against me, and pulled. I yelp-screamed involuntarily, as it felt like being stabbed in reverse, (not that I know what it feels like to be stabbed), and immediately hoped the noise didn't wake up the 97-year-old lady who was in the next bed. She was so sweet. Sorry, sorry, sorry, said the doctor. I'm good, I gasped. It subsided quickly and I was given permission to go home. My friend picked me up and home is where I stayed for a month, mostly sleeping.
This time, about three weeks ago, it would have been closer to dusk; today white clouds slip along upper currents with the earliest of pink tinge, indicating sunset. A slight storm, more wind than anything, dispensed snow along edges of curbs following a freezing rain, but the force of the sky carried everything away as quick as it came. The winds are still at work, pushing cloud behemoths to the southeast, away from the city; as the sky darkens, for pink has become rose has become grey, the cloud shapes of cathedrals, animals, of ponderous atmosphere will change, dissipate, and dissolve over the farther mountains.
The wind remains in a mostly now cloudless sky, meaning for a cold night; it runs along the edges of the brick and mortared grooves, pulling at the windows while telling in murmurs and roars about the power of the sun, the rotation of the earth, the movement of tides, of thermal heat rising. Makes one wish to wrap tighter in a blanket with a book, a cat, a cup. But not yet, for I am moving a sofa to another wall so that I can see the sky and lighted city out the window, rearrange easels (two), drafting board (done) and other nonsense. I can hear the five o'clock church bells, cutting through the sound of the tearing wind. Tonight we spring forward; I wonder, who still pushes clock hands, and who resets by pushing buttons?
Sleep well, sleep quickly, tomorrow will come tiptoeing sooner, a minor deviation of nature as percolated by busy people many years ago. The season is slowly changing anyways, in spite of what the clocks declare, and many birds have returned north; perhaps you have heard their song on your walk-abouts. There is a phoebe near where I work who sings in the mornings; there have been robins, blackbirds, and a variety of odd-headed ducks down by the water. It is cold, we still have snow, but the willow branches have become yellow, and the slender osiers have become burgundy red. What have you seen? Spring approaches like the footsteps of a glad love, it will rush against your face, not with the sting of ice, but with green and budding apple trees, with rushes of flowers and feathered things, with emergent salamanders and spring peepers, a warm wind that seeks buttons and open collars.
Sleep then, and dream; let the night pour in and know that you are safe. Good night.
Got to the plexiglass bus shelter at 6:40; shadowy few adults roamed through the ice, all gloved, hooded, and wrapped into unrecognizable, upright phantoms, ghosts of the Michelin man. The street lights held their illumination back, as if the leaden cold slowed down the electromagnetic waves, and dulled the energy of the sodium vapor ignited by the electrical arc, reluctantly creating the familiar orange glow.
Too cold for light of day or street lamp; the shuffling humans had to revert to earlier senses, to an intuition of direction since lifting one's face to see where you were going invited the icy particles to blast skin and steal what heat had formed in huddled chests. They were ambling monoliths, unsure of footing, reluctant, waddling penguins of dawn. Seeing them still gave me a sense of humanity, that I was not alone in a desolate landscape, for I was as bundled as they, breathing into my scarf and collar to make a small, warm room for my nose.
And then from the oblivion, the lights of a bus appeared as if at the end of a far tunnel, a spaceship emerging impossibly from a black hole. Where they were hiding, I don't know, but suddenly four more monoliths appeared, with backpacks. College or high school students, perhaps. The bus bounced to a raucous stop, brakes shuddering, chassis still in forward motion as a bus in excess of 24,000 pounds will. We boarded into a dimly lit cavern, all that much more mystical by the contents of folks who had put on whatever layers they could find, sitting like Buddhas or people from biblical times, wound in yards of cotton jersey, nylon, lumpy jackets. Knit hats were pulled down, illumined by two pinpricks of light below the rims; glistening corneas not yet frozen white and useless, grateful for the rambunctious, noisome heater.
No one looked at each other, nor acknowledged the stumbling arrivals lurching to available seats. This was my first run on this route, No. 8, and I only hoped that it did indeed eventually land at the stop by the hospital. I fussed if I had to cross Humboldt at Main, for it is a mess of a small god's teeth, arse, and damnation regarding traffic, and with people on their way to work, who knows if I would decorate someone's bonnet as a shapeless down jacketed ornament? All this excessive worrying came from apprehension regarding the forthcoming operation, could it be done laparoscopically or would it require an extensive excavation? The bus darkly bounced on, crushing ice and overnight drifts.
We pulled up close to another bus at an intersection, except that it wasn't moving; their driver got out and told ours that it had broken down and that he would have to back up and dodge around the beast. Our driver howled no no no no no, not today, it's past 6:50, I'm late already as he carefully nudged the bus back and through the opposite lane, cutting off oncoming traffic. We flew to the next stop, a shelter with many people, two of which had no money but needed rides. Okay, you come on, said our hero. The two men were grateful, polite, and hustled to the back to begin a loud conversation as to how and why the last job didn't work out.
Hero driver nearly ran over a tall man with a cane in the middle of the street, who was waving him down. Not today, not today, begged he, but the bus was pulled over, doors open, and the fellow wanted to know if the route stopped at which and which. Come on, come on, but you gotta hurry, I'm late; the cane holder said that was okay, he would catch the next one.
Through city streets we slid, a small earthquake on tires; there were no curbs, there were few stop signs given a full halt; I wondered what on earth is the penalty for being late on a bus route? But hooray! Here is my stop and it is better than wished for, right at the edge of the hospital parking lot! Still dark, my feet negotiated the rippled ice to the hospital door as the bus wheezed and catapulted onwards to the University station.
Hello, hello, and the forms and questions began; what's your name, when is your birthday? I was labeled and taken to an intake room to put on the ubiquitous gown and swab myself with pink solution. Nurses came and went, and at one point a young man introduced himself as the Chaplin and did I have any religious requests? There is daily communion at the chapel, someone available if I needed consoling, and did I wish to say a prayer? No thank you. I expected to hear further invitation, but he smiled, chatted a bit more about innocuous stuff, and we wished each other well as he disappeared through the surrounding curtain.
It went smoothly, I was told not to bother counting backwards as this brand of anesthesia knocks you out That Fast. I awoke before being wheeled to my room, was asked my name and birthday, did I know where I was, and lunch would be available, soup would be good. Jello. Tubes and a drain that ended in a grenade-shaped balloon were sticking out of various ports, and there I was, minus a gallbladder. I was thrilled that it was done through smaller openings, and that it was fairly easy to maneuver my new attachment, the I.V. pole, into the bathroom.
A glossy of the offending gallbladder plus some interior landscape shots were handed to me and boy howdy. THAT was in me? I was told a big, syllabic word that began with an 'a' indicating that it was on it's way to becoming cancerous. The interior stitches will dissolve in two months, they may work their way out through the ports. Whee.
The next day, going home was scheduled as soon as the doctor took out the shunt. Now this was something else. He took the one drain out, a bit of a sting but no problem. Then he got pliers, braced his hand against me, and pulled. I yelp-screamed involuntarily, as it felt like being stabbed in reverse, (not that I know what it feels like to be stabbed), and immediately hoped the noise didn't wake up the 97-year-old lady who was in the next bed. She was so sweet. Sorry, sorry, sorry, said the doctor. I'm good, I gasped. It subsided quickly and I was given permission to go home. My friend picked me up and home is where I stayed for a month, mostly sleeping.
This time, about three weeks ago, it would have been closer to dusk; today white clouds slip along upper currents with the earliest of pink tinge, indicating sunset. A slight storm, more wind than anything, dispensed snow along edges of curbs following a freezing rain, but the force of the sky carried everything away as quick as it came. The winds are still at work, pushing cloud behemoths to the southeast, away from the city; as the sky darkens, for pink has become rose has become grey, the cloud shapes of cathedrals, animals, of ponderous atmosphere will change, dissipate, and dissolve over the farther mountains.
The wind remains in a mostly now cloudless sky, meaning for a cold night; it runs along the edges of the brick and mortared grooves, pulling at the windows while telling in murmurs and roars about the power of the sun, the rotation of the earth, the movement of tides, of thermal heat rising. Makes one wish to wrap tighter in a blanket with a book, a cat, a cup. But not yet, for I am moving a sofa to another wall so that I can see the sky and lighted city out the window, rearrange easels (two), drafting board (done) and other nonsense. I can hear the five o'clock church bells, cutting through the sound of the tearing wind. Tonight we spring forward; I wonder, who still pushes clock hands, and who resets by pushing buttons?
Sleep well, sleep quickly, tomorrow will come tiptoeing sooner, a minor deviation of nature as percolated by busy people many years ago. The season is slowly changing anyways, in spite of what the clocks declare, and many birds have returned north; perhaps you have heard their song on your walk-abouts. There is a phoebe near where I work who sings in the mornings; there have been robins, blackbirds, and a variety of odd-headed ducks down by the water. It is cold, we still have snow, but the willow branches have become yellow, and the slender osiers have become burgundy red. What have you seen? Spring approaches like the footsteps of a glad love, it will rush against your face, not with the sting of ice, but with green and budding apple trees, with rushes of flowers and feathered things, with emergent salamanders and spring peepers, a warm wind that seeks buttons and open collars.
Sleep then, and dream; let the night pour in and know that you are safe. Good night.
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