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.
Thursday, November 23, 2017
Thanksgiving Jello
Mom would get up extra early, say five a.m., in order to get the turkey in the oven to be ready by one in the afternoon. This was to allay whatever assbackwards nonsense my father decided to come up with, and get him full of food so that he would pass out, I now wonder if he looked forward to holidays as particularly spectacular opportunities to display to God and the hapless family his pantheon of righteous, vicious explosions. A warrior against the wrongs of the world, of which he was king.
Today, here, it is now the beginning of the afternoon; by this time everyone would have been put through hell, the kids crying, Mom with tears while mashing potatoes. Plates flying. Food thrown against the wall. "You people," he would call us, as if we just emerged from the fields and rang the bell.
My brother was three and wanted to help, the "special dessert" Mom would make was so simple but we kids would ask for it. Orange Jello with chopped walnuts. That's all. Mom was no baker and had trouble juggling turkey, potatoes, the frozen square of Bird's Eye squash, biscuits from a cardboard tube, and stuffing as it was. She was the kind of person who would be assembling aircraft engines during WWII, and later tell me she had no idea what the hell she was doing. Planes by Dorothy, you can only hope things held together.
She had gotten the water boiling, found the yellow Tupperware bowl, measured it out and added the orange powder, the smell layering on top of the turkey and steam from the potatoes. It meant we were coming into home stretch and dinner would be ready soon, for me to eat on the living room floor, while my little brother ate at the table, he was too small to be relegated to spread newspapers. Mom gave him the job of stirring the Jello, he stood on a stool to reach the counter, and in walked the Voice of the Lord.
"YOU'RE MAKING HIM A WOMAN! THAT'S WOMAN'S WORK, NO SON OF MINE...etc., etc., etc.
"He's only stirring Jello," which was as much as my Mom ever answered him. My brother became scared, the spoon clattered to the floor, the mix in the bowl still spun in circles, and my Mom was holding the pot of potatoes that needed mashing. Yelling, yelling, frantic crisis yelling, he was enjoying the rush of adrenalin, the cowering, the uproar. He grabbed my brother, who had tears but was too scared to cry, to take him into the living room; even then both us kids knew that placating Dad would get us through another day, playing along with the game.
I think Dad sat him in front of the television, a manly thing, apparently. Football.
Continued yelling ensued, "THAT'S HER JOB, SHE'S THE ONE THAT HELPS YOU, SHE'S A WOMAN." Yup, an eight-year-old woman. Mom and I tiptoed around the kitchen, trying to be silent.
"WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU, MAKE SOME NOISE, YOU'RE ACTING SCARED TO MAKE ME MAD." Please, please, please pass out. Please get in a car accident. Please leave and not come back. Leave my mother alone, leave John alone, leave me alone alone alone. Don't kiss me at night. Don't tell me it's how fathers love their daughters or that it's in the Bible. Please let this day be over.
When ready, he angry-ate, gulping masses of food and yelling about us kids watching him. How could we not? It was as if a starving dog was presented with a plate of chicken, I was happy to get out to the living room floor and hunch over my dinner. Mom still had to play-act, my brother did his three year old best to appease and soothe, and I, well, I kept to myself. If I could have hired Hopalong Cassidy to come shoot him, I would have, and then figured out a way to keep us out of the poor house. I would work as hard as I had to, in my child brain, to save her.
Storybooks had Aladdin, Cinderella, Swiss Family Robinson, Huck Finn, all heroes who landed in good circumstances despite adversity. Hansel and Gretel came home with jewels to a father who had abandoned them at the urging of a horrid stepmother, at which I wondered, but hey. Was the woodcutter a good man? Was he just another victim of a leeching parasitical woman, the motive of all women? Live off a man's sweat for a life of soap operas and living out in the sticks where there were no sewers, garbage pick ups, deliveries, and you could hear farm dogs howl at night? I had hope that I was strong enough to pull us through, after finding at a ridiculously young age that I was pretty much on my own.
But that didn't happen. I was told I wasn't smart enough to go to college, (You're a woman), in spite of a scholarship, or that I tested out of the 8th grade to attend college courses for the sum of $60 for books. Marriage and having babies was foretold for me, and the lack of gumption or belief in myself kept that mindset. College money was saved for my brother who contracted serious mono, had a nervous breakdown after high school, and was given an allowance to keep him home till he was in his 30s. I got out, but had no clue as to who, what, or where.
But I guess I'm all right, and am thankful for most of the events in this life; that my son has always found good people to be with and has a loving marriage; that I stayed on the Dean's List my years in college, that I recently have found I want to be loved and be loving, never wanted to bother with that for years; that I have discovered one of my places to be as a teacher, and that friends are there.
I think that art is freeing, and I need to get back to mine. Visit foreign countries. Go to a new restaurant. Sit in a cemetery and get chased by wild turkeys. Be involved with the city. You know, fun stuff that broadens one's outlook.
Today is the coldest day of this fall season this year, and folks are bundled as I see them from my window. The cats are curled into various shapes of side dishes, mashed, squashed, and creamed. I look forward to this Thanksgiving at my son Brian's in-laws, the wonderful family he married into. After, perhaps the crescent moon will hang, as it did the other evening.
Razor-thin illumination, floating in the sky, a Hunter's Horn bright against pallid night. Be warm, take care of yourself first, it's what leads to your being there for others, for protecting those you love. Sleep well, drift with the moon as it sets by nine tonight, a waxing crescent in the western sky, visible just after sunset. Oh heart, oh mind, be with my soul. Good night.
Today, here, it is now the beginning of the afternoon; by this time everyone would have been put through hell, the kids crying, Mom with tears while mashing potatoes. Plates flying. Food thrown against the wall. "You people," he would call us, as if we just emerged from the fields and rang the bell.
My brother was three and wanted to help, the "special dessert" Mom would make was so simple but we kids would ask for it. Orange Jello with chopped walnuts. That's all. Mom was no baker and had trouble juggling turkey, potatoes, the frozen square of Bird's Eye squash, biscuits from a cardboard tube, and stuffing as it was. She was the kind of person who would be assembling aircraft engines during WWII, and later tell me she had no idea what the hell she was doing. Planes by Dorothy, you can only hope things held together.
She had gotten the water boiling, found the yellow Tupperware bowl, measured it out and added the orange powder, the smell layering on top of the turkey and steam from the potatoes. It meant we were coming into home stretch and dinner would be ready soon, for me to eat on the living room floor, while my little brother ate at the table, he was too small to be relegated to spread newspapers. Mom gave him the job of stirring the Jello, he stood on a stool to reach the counter, and in walked the Voice of the Lord.
"YOU'RE MAKING HIM A WOMAN! THAT'S WOMAN'S WORK, NO SON OF MINE...etc., etc., etc.
"He's only stirring Jello," which was as much as my Mom ever answered him. My brother became scared, the spoon clattered to the floor, the mix in the bowl still spun in circles, and my Mom was holding the pot of potatoes that needed mashing. Yelling, yelling, frantic crisis yelling, he was enjoying the rush of adrenalin, the cowering, the uproar. He grabbed my brother, who had tears but was too scared to cry, to take him into the living room; even then both us kids knew that placating Dad would get us through another day, playing along with the game.
I think Dad sat him in front of the television, a manly thing, apparently. Football.
Continued yelling ensued, "THAT'S HER JOB, SHE'S THE ONE THAT HELPS YOU, SHE'S A WOMAN." Yup, an eight-year-old woman. Mom and I tiptoed around the kitchen, trying to be silent.
"WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU, MAKE SOME NOISE, YOU'RE ACTING SCARED TO MAKE ME MAD." Please, please, please pass out. Please get in a car accident. Please leave and not come back. Leave my mother alone, leave John alone, leave me alone alone alone. Don't kiss me at night. Don't tell me it's how fathers love their daughters or that it's in the Bible. Please let this day be over.
When ready, he angry-ate, gulping masses of food and yelling about us kids watching him. How could we not? It was as if a starving dog was presented with a plate of chicken, I was happy to get out to the living room floor and hunch over my dinner. Mom still had to play-act, my brother did his three year old best to appease and soothe, and I, well, I kept to myself. If I could have hired Hopalong Cassidy to come shoot him, I would have, and then figured out a way to keep us out of the poor house. I would work as hard as I had to, in my child brain, to save her.
Storybooks had Aladdin, Cinderella, Swiss Family Robinson, Huck Finn, all heroes who landed in good circumstances despite adversity. Hansel and Gretel came home with jewels to a father who had abandoned them at the urging of a horrid stepmother, at which I wondered, but hey. Was the woodcutter a good man? Was he just another victim of a leeching parasitical woman, the motive of all women? Live off a man's sweat for a life of soap operas and living out in the sticks where there were no sewers, garbage pick ups, deliveries, and you could hear farm dogs howl at night? I had hope that I was strong enough to pull us through, after finding at a ridiculously young age that I was pretty much on my own.
But that didn't happen. I was told I wasn't smart enough to go to college, (You're a woman), in spite of a scholarship, or that I tested out of the 8th grade to attend college courses for the sum of $60 for books. Marriage and having babies was foretold for me, and the lack of gumption or belief in myself kept that mindset. College money was saved for my brother who contracted serious mono, had a nervous breakdown after high school, and was given an allowance to keep him home till he was in his 30s. I got out, but had no clue as to who, what, or where.
But I guess I'm all right, and am thankful for most of the events in this life; that my son has always found good people to be with and has a loving marriage; that I stayed on the Dean's List my years in college, that I recently have found I want to be loved and be loving, never wanted to bother with that for years; that I have discovered one of my places to be as a teacher, and that friends are there.
I think that art is freeing, and I need to get back to mine. Visit foreign countries. Go to a new restaurant. Sit in a cemetery and get chased by wild turkeys. Be involved with the city. You know, fun stuff that broadens one's outlook.
Today is the coldest day of this fall season this year, and folks are bundled as I see them from my window. The cats are curled into various shapes of side dishes, mashed, squashed, and creamed. I look forward to this Thanksgiving at my son Brian's in-laws, the wonderful family he married into. After, perhaps the crescent moon will hang, as it did the other evening.
Razor-thin illumination, floating in the sky, a Hunter's Horn bright against pallid night. Be warm, take care of yourself first, it's what leads to your being there for others, for protecting those you love. Sleep well, drift with the moon as it sets by nine tonight, a waxing crescent in the western sky, visible just after sunset. Oh heart, oh mind, be with my soul. Good night.
Saturday, October 28, 2017
Keep Going
Friday morning I was able to sleep in an extra hour and get up at six instead of five; because of jury duty, zipping over to the school to make sure classwork was in place before reporting to court was necessary. When you have a long term sub, may God bless them. My class had a series of different teachers over the week, and from the notes on my desk, several students partied to the video games in their heads consisting of no work and falling out of your chair, ...whee!
And I know what my kids were up to, especially since the large basket of pencils that was on my desk dwindled down to a few broken sticks in two days. What was left in it were pencils with snapped off points, which any teacher can tell because the break is even, as if done by jamming the pencil between the edges of two desks and levering a quick, painless annihilation. Oh ye six-year-olds, where have all the pencils gone? Monday, Viola Swamp will be back, that sort of whee is over.
But this Friday morning there was time, and the banana I had purchased was getting browner and smooshier every five minutes, soon to be useless for its purpose. You see, there was a video about hair treatments, and the Best of All was said to be concocted of a mashed banana, coconut oil, and honey. Well, when I was young, all sorts of fruits and vegetables would be pureed and layered on cheeks, feet, cuticles, and teeth. A beaten egg white would be painted on my face and allowed to dry, cucumbers sliced and placed over the eyes; honey, oatmeal, avocados and more slathered on for a quick complexion fix. Grocery cosmetics are familiar in my lexicon, so what could go wrong with a banana?
Time. The banana would be growing blue hair in another day or two if not used
immediately, so I got a bowl and mashed it to bits, which was mistake number one. I should have pureed it through a sieve. But heigh ho, I gotta get to court in three hours, shiny hair, here I come. Coconut oil is somewhere, but I did find the avocado oil, a stalwart stand-in for the requested ingredient. A good squeeze of honey, minutes of beating, and this stuff is still sort of lumpy, but the train is leaving the station. I applied the glop through chunks of hair, and wondered if I would smell like a banana in court. Top everything with a plastic bag to contain the enthusiastic mess, do up the dishes, feed the cats, throw stuff in the pile for AmVets, and fold some laundry. Bango! It's shower time, when the hair will be turned into glistening island magic, where you can shake your head like a pony and everything falls back into place.
First, a good long rinsing, more rinsing, and then lathering, scrubbing, rinsing, lathering, scrubbing, rinsing, conditioner, super lay-the-heck-down conditioner, and rinsing, rinsing, rinsing. The water traveling to the drain looked clear. Gotta go. Wrapped head in a towel, brushed teeth and then began to comb out the strands with a wide toothed comb. Except the comb wasn't exactly going through easily, but met with a few serious snarls that ended with me losing more hair than usual. Ow, hey, but keep going, now I gotta kick into gear so that I get there in time.
I lean over the sink, and still using the wide toothed comb, begin to blow dry, noticing that the hair is indeed shinier and smoother as the halfway dry point is reached. Warming the hair as it dries is creating an aroma which smells like Mom has banana bread in the oven. Maybe that will dissipate when completely done, there are products like that, aren't there? I stand up from leaning over the sink, and what the heck, it looks like a giant Hershey bar has sneezed into the basin. What on earth is this brown stuff?
Bits of banana were being flung by the comb as I dried, brown from oxidation and lord knows what. I looked in the mirror and saw bits of fruit salad in my hair, then looked at the clock; no time. I am pretty good in staying calm during stupid situations, and live in such fashion that people aren't surprised by what happens. It's decided to plow onward and get this crap out of my hair, which is definitely showing a healthy sheen most likely because of the avocado oil. A sacrificial brush is used to remove small bits, which to me as a teacher, look like lice eggs running through the strands.
I get 99% of it out, still smell like a fruit stand, and pull everything back into a knot with a clip, as the illusion of floaty pony hair goes the way of the dodo. Agh. A quick spritz with eau de foof will hopefully distract from the circus peanut fragrance, a hopeful slap of makeup to make it seem deliberate, and before getting dressed, a run towards the kitchen to make sure a bottle of water is by the door to take.
However, Roger has dug into the Supreme Supper enough to move the paper plate of cat food directly to the spot where my left foot lands. The black sock is now sporting a healthy dollop of something that could wake the catatonic, and I hop on one foot so as not to spread the godawful fish paste onto the rug. Bananas! Cat food! Swearing does not fix anything. Peel off the sock, wipe foot with a paper towel, and hop-run back to the bathroom to wash, and hey, look at the time.
I book out the door with everything necessary, and make it through check in before any one else on the jury arrives. As Alternate #2, me and #1 are sequestered away from those who can deliberate, and my newspaper in which I had planned on doing the puzzles is taken away. No reading materials. Except the book of stencils seems to be allowable, and I am able to trace the entire book onto plastic film for later cutting. I try not to smell like a banana for the sake of everyone around me, but how do you do that? Scrunching into a tiny ball doesn't change any aromas, all I can do is wait it out; happily, within a couple hours, I no longer waft fruity.
We are given lunch, and cannot leave the room without an escort; we two are called into the courtroom whenever the twelve jurors are, in order to have a written question answered, or to be given instructions as to breaks in the process. But then, back to the room. At the end, there was a hung jury and a mistrial declared, with 10 not guilty votes, and 2 guilty. I would have been a not guilty, for the first witness had an axe to grind with the defendant, and lied under oath, for her stories were not consistent with the record or the actual events. She was the complaining party, and sort of omitted that her boyfriend on probation was at the scene where marijuana and crack were being passed around.
Late in October, my favorite month, yet the trees in the city are just beginning to change colors. A patch of Coprinus comatus mushrooms are growing by the bus stop next to the parking lot, and it is funny to see a wild bit of nature springing up from the controlled, manicured grass. They are edible, but no alcohol within 24 hours of ingestion or a severe nausea can set in; these Shaggy Manes were once used as a cure for alcoholism in the late 1800s. Colonists also would pick them and leave in a bowl as they are a mushroom that desquamates, or melts, into a dark liquid to be used as ink. It's a pretty thing, and one of the last before winter.
Come, then, dressed for colder nights, longer nights when the constellation Orion come into the skies of the northern hemisphere. At his feet is the brightest star in the night sky, Sirius, the dog star; it absolutely shimmers with intensity, flashing blue and red at a distance of 2.6 parsecs. It appears as one, yet is actually a binary system of Sirius A, the main star, and Sirius B, a collapsed star that is now a white dwarf. From our vantage point, it appears as the largest star in the nighttime because of it's closeness; if you watch, the twinkling seems to be furious, almost like flames.
Let the stars flicker above while you drop into your pillow, ready to give in to sleep and what dreams and thoughts arrive. Sirius the Dog Star hangs in the southwest sky, as part of the collar for Canis Major, an illumination of stories, mysteries, of age, and change. Trilobites came from 400 million years ago; it has been theorized that Sirius B was once a red giant that shrank to a dwarf, 150 million years back. What was that night sky like? How have the stars moved, the grand arms of the galaxy spun?
Here we are, you and I; stone sleeps, the house quiets, the air spills. Sleep well. Good night.
And I know what my kids were up to, especially since the large basket of pencils that was on my desk dwindled down to a few broken sticks in two days. What was left in it were pencils with snapped off points, which any teacher can tell because the break is even, as if done by jamming the pencil between the edges of two desks and levering a quick, painless annihilation. Oh ye six-year-olds, where have all the pencils gone? Monday, Viola Swamp will be back, that sort of whee is over.
But this Friday morning there was time, and the banana I had purchased was getting browner and smooshier every five minutes, soon to be useless for its purpose. You see, there was a video about hair treatments, and the Best of All was said to be concocted of a mashed banana, coconut oil, and honey. Well, when I was young, all sorts of fruits and vegetables would be pureed and layered on cheeks, feet, cuticles, and teeth. A beaten egg white would be painted on my face and allowed to dry, cucumbers sliced and placed over the eyes; honey, oatmeal, avocados and more slathered on for a quick complexion fix. Grocery cosmetics are familiar in my lexicon, so what could go wrong with a banana?
Time. The banana would be growing blue hair in another day or two if not used
immediately, so I got a bowl and mashed it to bits, which was mistake number one. I should have pureed it through a sieve. But heigh ho, I gotta get to court in three hours, shiny hair, here I come. Coconut oil is somewhere, but I did find the avocado oil, a stalwart stand-in for the requested ingredient. A good squeeze of honey, minutes of beating, and this stuff is still sort of lumpy, but the train is leaving the station. I applied the glop through chunks of hair, and wondered if I would smell like a banana in court. Top everything with a plastic bag to contain the enthusiastic mess, do up the dishes, feed the cats, throw stuff in the pile for AmVets, and fold some laundry. Bango! It's shower time, when the hair will be turned into glistening island magic, where you can shake your head like a pony and everything falls back into place.
First, a good long rinsing, more rinsing, and then lathering, scrubbing, rinsing, lathering, scrubbing, rinsing, conditioner, super lay-the-heck-down conditioner, and rinsing, rinsing, rinsing. The water traveling to the drain looked clear. Gotta go. Wrapped head in a towel, brushed teeth and then began to comb out the strands with a wide toothed comb. Except the comb wasn't exactly going through easily, but met with a few serious snarls that ended with me losing more hair than usual. Ow, hey, but keep going, now I gotta kick into gear so that I get there in time.
I lean over the sink, and still using the wide toothed comb, begin to blow dry, noticing that the hair is indeed shinier and smoother as the halfway dry point is reached. Warming the hair as it dries is creating an aroma which smells like Mom has banana bread in the oven. Maybe that will dissipate when completely done, there are products like that, aren't there? I stand up from leaning over the sink, and what the heck, it looks like a giant Hershey bar has sneezed into the basin. What on earth is this brown stuff?
Bits of banana were being flung by the comb as I dried, brown from oxidation and lord knows what. I looked in the mirror and saw bits of fruit salad in my hair, then looked at the clock; no time. I am pretty good in staying calm during stupid situations, and live in such fashion that people aren't surprised by what happens. It's decided to plow onward and get this crap out of my hair, which is definitely showing a healthy sheen most likely because of the avocado oil. A sacrificial brush is used to remove small bits, which to me as a teacher, look like lice eggs running through the strands.
I get 99% of it out, still smell like a fruit stand, and pull everything back into a knot with a clip, as the illusion of floaty pony hair goes the way of the dodo. Agh. A quick spritz with eau de foof will hopefully distract from the circus peanut fragrance, a hopeful slap of makeup to make it seem deliberate, and before getting dressed, a run towards the kitchen to make sure a bottle of water is by the door to take.
However, Roger has dug into the Supreme Supper enough to move the paper plate of cat food directly to the spot where my left foot lands. The black sock is now sporting a healthy dollop of something that could wake the catatonic, and I hop on one foot so as not to spread the godawful fish paste onto the rug. Bananas! Cat food! Swearing does not fix anything. Peel off the sock, wipe foot with a paper towel, and hop-run back to the bathroom to wash, and hey, look at the time.
I book out the door with everything necessary, and make it through check in before any one else on the jury arrives. As Alternate #2, me and #1 are sequestered away from those who can deliberate, and my newspaper in which I had planned on doing the puzzles is taken away. No reading materials. Except the book of stencils seems to be allowable, and I am able to trace the entire book onto plastic film for later cutting. I try not to smell like a banana for the sake of everyone around me, but how do you do that? Scrunching into a tiny ball doesn't change any aromas, all I can do is wait it out; happily, within a couple hours, I no longer waft fruity.
We are given lunch, and cannot leave the room without an escort; we two are called into the courtroom whenever the twelve jurors are, in order to have a written question answered, or to be given instructions as to breaks in the process. But then, back to the room. At the end, there was a hung jury and a mistrial declared, with 10 not guilty votes, and 2 guilty. I would have been a not guilty, for the first witness had an axe to grind with the defendant, and lied under oath, for her stories were not consistent with the record or the actual events. She was the complaining party, and sort of omitted that her boyfriend on probation was at the scene where marijuana and crack were being passed around.
Late in October, my favorite month, yet the trees in the city are just beginning to change colors. A patch of Coprinus comatus mushrooms are growing by the bus stop next to the parking lot, and it is funny to see a wild bit of nature springing up from the controlled, manicured grass. They are edible, but no alcohol within 24 hours of ingestion or a severe nausea can set in; these Shaggy Manes were once used as a cure for alcoholism in the late 1800s. Colonists also would pick them and leave in a bowl as they are a mushroom that desquamates, or melts, into a dark liquid to be used as ink. It's a pretty thing, and one of the last before winter.
Come, then, dressed for colder nights, longer nights when the constellation Orion come into the skies of the northern hemisphere. At his feet is the brightest star in the night sky, Sirius, the dog star; it absolutely shimmers with intensity, flashing blue and red at a distance of 2.6 parsecs. It appears as one, yet is actually a binary system of Sirius A, the main star, and Sirius B, a collapsed star that is now a white dwarf. From our vantage point, it appears as the largest star in the nighttime because of it's closeness; if you watch, the twinkling seems to be furious, almost like flames.
Let the stars flicker above while you drop into your pillow, ready to give in to sleep and what dreams and thoughts arrive. Sirius the Dog Star hangs in the southwest sky, as part of the collar for Canis Major, an illumination of stories, mysteries, of age, and change. Trilobites came from 400 million years ago; it has been theorized that Sirius B was once a red giant that shrank to a dwarf, 150 million years back. What was that night sky like? How have the stars moved, the grand arms of the galaxy spun?
Here we are, you and I; stone sleeps, the house quiets, the air spills. Sleep well. Good night.
Wednesday, October 25, 2017
Guess What I Found
People go to Farmer's Markets, or out to orchards to pick apples where someone else did the tending and shaping of abundance. Providing a sense of what life was at one time, dependent upon the produce brought to the city by wheezy trucks and wagons, this sort of gathering fills a nesting instinct underscored by shortened daylight. We want to get ready for what we know is coming, at least here in the north.
Coming out of the stalls of the Market, you will see bushels of apples, squash, cabbages, and the last remnants of corn being carried to cars to be stored or processed into winter goods. People groan with the heft of 8-quart baskets, filled from trees found at local farms; take the kids, they will love it and maybe pet a horse, which is a good thing. Expose them to what sort of animal a horse is, and I don't mean one of those ponies outfitted in a harness attached to a rotating frame at the fair. Find them a horse to see run, touch, learn from. That is the earth, just as much as apples and more.
But if you weren't near a farm, or were strapped, or just wanted a peculiar, unique flavor, you went looking for it yourself. When I was young, my Mom taught me how to gather the tiny wild strawberries and thread them on a stem of grass if there was no pail to put them in. Wild strawberries spread by vining, and so fill prolific patches with the smallest of fruit; yet it takes a lot of searching to get anywhere near a pint. But crush them with sugar and spoon onto a slice of spongecake that Mom made, and it beguiled you to think of the redwing blackbirds that dived at you as you bent in the fields, gathering. Of the funny rock which turned out to be a fossil coral. Of the swish of a disappearing snake. Of the pheasant feather caught in the tall grass.
We kids would also be loaded into the car with baskets to gather maszlaki, Suillus luteus, a sponge-gilled mushroom with a slippery cap. This bolete has a symbiotic relationship with larch trees, one of the few conifers whose needles turn yellow in the fall and drop, like deciduous leaves. My father would peel the mushroom caps, string them, and hang the loops near the furnace in the basement to dry. It was one of the few things which made him happy. Ish. The aroma of a fresh Suillus is filled with pine, of woods, of humus, of tannin, of finding the sticky caps pushing through larch needles, of having olive loaf sandwiches that Mom had packed, hot cocoa in a thermos.
I guess memory motivated me, plus finding books by Euell Gibbons, a fellow who explored nature in terms most city people thought eccentric. His book, "Stalking the Wild Asparagus" became a credo for me; walk around and see what you can find. Recently, I've realized that I like finding things, thus the sea shells, the fossils, the fungi, and a number of etceteras. Japanese toothpick holders. Stuff I don't want to tell, and you don't wanna know.
And so, I began to include wild forays into woods, fields, and by the sidewalk; in Tonawanda at the corner of the street over, there grew a hickory nut tree that no one bothered with except yours truly. I'd get a brown bag and fill it with mostly unhulled nuts, then let them set outside until the green shells peeled away. Hickory nuts are miniature mazes of inner walls and cubbies, very difficult to shell, but I developed a technique requiring a croquet mallet which did less destruction than a hammer. Bits of autumn, taste from an older world. The tree was unfairly cut down for sidewalk repair, but what can you do?
I found another hickory way out in Wyoming County, a shagbark; I wonder what will become of the world without nut trees. Fortunately, there are ample black walnut trees through the city, if you don't mind the mess of the black hulls or stubborn shells. Chinese chestnuts grow in a local small grove on the side of a hill, the nuts are tucked in spiny husks, so wear gloves. The prize inside is worth it, and is sweet as cake.
Near the chestnut trees is a stand of wild apples, purple grapes that have gone wild, and a patch that yields Agaricus arvensis, the horse mushroom that has an anise-like aroma. Never take all of anything, you must leave most for the animals and for the living thing to proliferate. I have dug the crowns of dandelion buds before they sprouted, steamed violet leaves, chopped wood lily leaves into salad, and every year with a friend go out to a woods that offers buckets of wild leeks.
None of this tastes like anything you can get in the supermarket, but what if you don't have a car to get to the lands where these grow? Look around. The urban forager can come up with results found on scraps of land along streets and bike paths. It's a bit of fun, a side hobby of finding as long as you don't mind some folks staring (I don't), or getting permission if the yard belongs to a business (I do). Foraging does not include helping yourself to what's growing on private property, that's stealing, even if you don't think the inhabitants would want it.
I've been on jury duty, and live a 12 minute walk away from Family Court, some of which goes alongside on and off ramps, a one-way street, and under a bridge. On the walk home, I found catnip, a weedy plant that likes poor soil and is so much nicer than that from the shops, which is usually ground up stems. Free, compared with $4 a packet is lovely, but then, as said, the metro bus driver waiting at the stand watched what I was doing in the middle of a median running along an entrance ramp. Well, my cats will be pleased.
Further along, growing packed into the hard ground as they are wont to do, were several Agaricus bitorquis, also known as the Sidewalk Mushroom for they prefer the compacted soil found between curb and cement. Bus stops. Related to the supermarket mushroom, Agaricus bisporus, it tastes pretty much the same. With mushrooms, though, I look around for observers, as they like to rescue you from eating toadstools and will grab and throw what you have gotten far away from your body before hoisting you off to the asylum.
I knew about gathering the Slippery Jacks from childhood, but then took courses at the science museum from their mycologist, and a formal study of fleshy fungi in college. Identification of sixteen edible species keeps me happy, but believe, I very seriously check everything before tossing it into the fry pan. The most poisonous will grow alongside the innocuous, and tastes just as good. Amanita phalloides, A. virosa; both will kill you in the most sneaky manner.
First, only half a cap of A. phalloides can kill an adult human; it begins with violent stomach cramps, diarrhea, nausea, dehydration. After three days, you feel better, however, this is where the other poisons kick in and you end up with kidney failure, cardiac arrest, intercranial bleeding, and pancreatic inflammation. Death occurs in approximately 21% of those who have eaten this monster; others will need a liver transplant.
Have I seen Amanitas growing locally? Last one I saw was on my school grounds, and got it out of the way after donning latex gloves. The mycelium is still underground, the mushroom itself is the fruiting body of the business end of fungi. Just don't mess with anything, unless you are with a trained collector. I think I'm the only first grade teacher that yammers at the kids about Never Touching a Wild Mushroom No Matter How Pretty. And if you come over for dinner, I would never serve you anything gathered.
I picked the Agarics, trying to look nonchalant, got home and sauteed them in olive oil for lunch. They were good, and I'm still alive although it's only been seven hours. I'm happiest about the catnip, as the complex has taken to mowing down the patch that was on the other side of the fence. Catnip grows just about everywhere in a city, and once you recognize it's skunky smell, you can't mistake it for anything else. Come over, I'll show you, at least until the first frost.
Did you ever eat blackberries from the wild growing bushes? Wasn't it worth the few scratches from the thorns? Did you sleep better that night from being out in the fresh air, running around with the other kids? The warm days of autumn become chilly nights as temperatures fluctuate, living leaves curl back and crumple, Mom gets out the water bath canner and puts up applesauce for later days.
Finding where you belong, what you can do for the world, that's even richer than learning the ways our ancestors survived on what they found. Yet there is something to be said in awareness of seasons, of being congruent with time as we define it, of remembering when fruit trees open their blossoms. We look forward to markers of the passing of the year, when the first crocus appears, when the first red leaf drops.
What would you plant, if you have a yard? Lots where houses once were still have gardens run wild, overgrown but still there. An apple tree can last a hundred years, raspberry bushes will stretch out and spread; birds, deer, and children can still visit them long after you have left, and gather fruit by the handful.
Dip your dream oars into the ocean of mind, let go of the day and ponder the night when you are alone, inside yourself. I promise you there are gardens between the waves, built from your living kindly; a tree with a nest wherein resides your heart. Sleep, dog. Sleep, cat. Sleep, child once mine.
Coming out of the stalls of the Market, you will see bushels of apples, squash, cabbages, and the last remnants of corn being carried to cars to be stored or processed into winter goods. People groan with the heft of 8-quart baskets, filled from trees found at local farms; take the kids, they will love it and maybe pet a horse, which is a good thing. Expose them to what sort of animal a horse is, and I don't mean one of those ponies outfitted in a harness attached to a rotating frame at the fair. Find them a horse to see run, touch, learn from. That is the earth, just as much as apples and more.
But if you weren't near a farm, or were strapped, or just wanted a peculiar, unique flavor, you went looking for it yourself. When I was young, my Mom taught me how to gather the tiny wild strawberries and thread them on a stem of grass if there was no pail to put them in. Wild strawberries spread by vining, and so fill prolific patches with the smallest of fruit; yet it takes a lot of searching to get anywhere near a pint. But crush them with sugar and spoon onto a slice of spongecake that Mom made, and it beguiled you to think of the redwing blackbirds that dived at you as you bent in the fields, gathering. Of the funny rock which turned out to be a fossil coral. Of the swish of a disappearing snake. Of the pheasant feather caught in the tall grass.
We kids would also be loaded into the car with baskets to gather maszlaki, Suillus luteus, a sponge-gilled mushroom with a slippery cap. This bolete has a symbiotic relationship with larch trees, one of the few conifers whose needles turn yellow in the fall and drop, like deciduous leaves. My father would peel the mushroom caps, string them, and hang the loops near the furnace in the basement to dry. It was one of the few things which made him happy. Ish. The aroma of a fresh Suillus is filled with pine, of woods, of humus, of tannin, of finding the sticky caps pushing through larch needles, of having olive loaf sandwiches that Mom had packed, hot cocoa in a thermos.
I guess memory motivated me, plus finding books by Euell Gibbons, a fellow who explored nature in terms most city people thought eccentric. His book, "Stalking the Wild Asparagus" became a credo for me; walk around and see what you can find. Recently, I've realized that I like finding things, thus the sea shells, the fossils, the fungi, and a number of etceteras. Japanese toothpick holders. Stuff I don't want to tell, and you don't wanna know.
And so, I began to include wild forays into woods, fields, and by the sidewalk; in Tonawanda at the corner of the street over, there grew a hickory nut tree that no one bothered with except yours truly. I'd get a brown bag and fill it with mostly unhulled nuts, then let them set outside until the green shells peeled away. Hickory nuts are miniature mazes of inner walls and cubbies, very difficult to shell, but I developed a technique requiring a croquet mallet which did less destruction than a hammer. Bits of autumn, taste from an older world. The tree was unfairly cut down for sidewalk repair, but what can you do?
I found another hickory way out in Wyoming County, a shagbark; I wonder what will become of the world without nut trees. Fortunately, there are ample black walnut trees through the city, if you don't mind the mess of the black hulls or stubborn shells. Chinese chestnuts grow in a local small grove on the side of a hill, the nuts are tucked in spiny husks, so wear gloves. The prize inside is worth it, and is sweet as cake.
Near the chestnut trees is a stand of wild apples, purple grapes that have gone wild, and a patch that yields Agaricus arvensis, the horse mushroom that has an anise-like aroma. Never take all of anything, you must leave most for the animals and for the living thing to proliferate. I have dug the crowns of dandelion buds before they sprouted, steamed violet leaves, chopped wood lily leaves into salad, and every year with a friend go out to a woods that offers buckets of wild leeks.
None of this tastes like anything you can get in the supermarket, but what if you don't have a car to get to the lands where these grow? Look around. The urban forager can come up with results found on scraps of land along streets and bike paths. It's a bit of fun, a side hobby of finding as long as you don't mind some folks staring (I don't), or getting permission if the yard belongs to a business (I do). Foraging does not include helping yourself to what's growing on private property, that's stealing, even if you don't think the inhabitants would want it.
I've been on jury duty, and live a 12 minute walk away from Family Court, some of which goes alongside on and off ramps, a one-way street, and under a bridge. On the walk home, I found catnip, a weedy plant that likes poor soil and is so much nicer than that from the shops, which is usually ground up stems. Free, compared with $4 a packet is lovely, but then, as said, the metro bus driver waiting at the stand watched what I was doing in the middle of a median running along an entrance ramp. Well, my cats will be pleased.
Further along, growing packed into the hard ground as they are wont to do, were several Agaricus bitorquis, also known as the Sidewalk Mushroom for they prefer the compacted soil found between curb and cement. Bus stops. Related to the supermarket mushroom, Agaricus bisporus, it tastes pretty much the same. With mushrooms, though, I look around for observers, as they like to rescue you from eating toadstools and will grab and throw what you have gotten far away from your body before hoisting you off to the asylum.
I knew about gathering the Slippery Jacks from childhood, but then took courses at the science museum from their mycologist, and a formal study of fleshy fungi in college. Identification of sixteen edible species keeps me happy, but believe, I very seriously check everything before tossing it into the fry pan. The most poisonous will grow alongside the innocuous, and tastes just as good. Amanita phalloides, A. virosa; both will kill you in the most sneaky manner.
First, only half a cap of A. phalloides can kill an adult human; it begins with violent stomach cramps, diarrhea, nausea, dehydration. After three days, you feel better, however, this is where the other poisons kick in and you end up with kidney failure, cardiac arrest, intercranial bleeding, and pancreatic inflammation. Death occurs in approximately 21% of those who have eaten this monster; others will need a liver transplant.
Have I seen Amanitas growing locally? Last one I saw was on my school grounds, and got it out of the way after donning latex gloves. The mycelium is still underground, the mushroom itself is the fruiting body of the business end of fungi. Just don't mess with anything, unless you are with a trained collector. I think I'm the only first grade teacher that yammers at the kids about Never Touching a Wild Mushroom No Matter How Pretty. And if you come over for dinner, I would never serve you anything gathered.
I picked the Agarics, trying to look nonchalant, got home and sauteed them in olive oil for lunch. They were good, and I'm still alive although it's only been seven hours. I'm happiest about the catnip, as the complex has taken to mowing down the patch that was on the other side of the fence. Catnip grows just about everywhere in a city, and once you recognize it's skunky smell, you can't mistake it for anything else. Come over, I'll show you, at least until the first frost.
Did you ever eat blackberries from the wild growing bushes? Wasn't it worth the few scratches from the thorns? Did you sleep better that night from being out in the fresh air, running around with the other kids? The warm days of autumn become chilly nights as temperatures fluctuate, living leaves curl back and crumple, Mom gets out the water bath canner and puts up applesauce for later days.
Finding where you belong, what you can do for the world, that's even richer than learning the ways our ancestors survived on what they found. Yet there is something to be said in awareness of seasons, of being congruent with time as we define it, of remembering when fruit trees open their blossoms. We look forward to markers of the passing of the year, when the first crocus appears, when the first red leaf drops.
What would you plant, if you have a yard? Lots where houses once were still have gardens run wild, overgrown but still there. An apple tree can last a hundred years, raspberry bushes will stretch out and spread; birds, deer, and children can still visit them long after you have left, and gather fruit by the handful.
Dip your dream oars into the ocean of mind, let go of the day and ponder the night when you are alone, inside yourself. I promise you there are gardens between the waves, built from your living kindly; a tree with a nest wherein resides your heart. Sleep, dog. Sleep, cat. Sleep, child once mine.
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