New Blog

I stopped posting here somewhat abruptly after I enrolled in creative nonfiction classes; I wanted to channel my writing energy into essays and a longer project.  Then I started to miss blogging, which fills a different kind of writing need.  I considered continuing this blog, but I found my earlier decision to title posts with words beginning with "I" too constraining.  So I created à la carte spirit.  Please join me there; there is always something new on the menu!

Impact

I suspect that many of us, as we go about our lives, are oblivious to the impacts we have on other people simply by being ourselves. A stray comment, a random compliment, a kind word of encouragement, all of these might alter the course of someone's day, week or even life. And yet if we try too hard to have an impact on others, by preaching, recommending, urging, insisting, we might actually push people away, unintentionally creating distance or damage. The examples we set can be more powerful than our desire to make waves and generate certain results.

I learned today that a woman who had inspired me by her example was recently murdered in New York City. I met S T Woolf when we lived in Somerville, MA and we were both active in our local arts community. She was in her mid-40s at the time and was just finding her wings as a sculptor and artist. Shortly thereafter she boldly decided to leave Massachusetts, her home for many years, and move to New York City to pursue her artwork full time in a place where she might gain more exposure. As I learned through her occasional e-mails, she quickly made friends and got involved in local arts groups; her work was getting seen and she seemed to be thriving in her new home. Observing her successful mid-life relocation gave me the courage to pack up and move to greener pastures which, for me, was the mountains.

Although I did not know her well, she still had a large influence on me. In addition to leaving behind her art, she left me with the awareness of how each of us, even if we are but tiny pebbles in this vast universe, can potentially create large ripples just by being who we are.

May S T Woolf rest in peace.

Inept

Early this afternoon I went for a pre-Thanksgiving walk in my neighborhood wearing red sneakers, black athletic pants, a black fleece pullover, sunglasses and a set of headphones that conspicuously covered my ears. The sun was out and it was in the upper 50's and I wandered over to Cheesman Park a few blocks away. Others were out enjoying the day - families with their dogs, couples and other solo park visitors. I walked up a slight incline to the pavilion, an area that has a cluster of tall columns covered by a roof, to get a view of the mountains. Spotting a bench, I sat down and watched my surroundings.

A man wearing a bright red outfit, including a red cap, drove back and forth in a pale yellow convertible along the road that bifurcates the park. It appeared that he was calling attention to himself but I was unsure what kind. A bit downslope from me, a 60-something man in a plaid flannel shirt, beige baseball cap, and tan chinos sat on the edge of the fountain and spoke on his cell phone. Two women, wearing bright pink shirts and carrying bundles of twigs, perhaps for a late afternoon fire, approached and sat on another bench. Up close they appeared to be mother and daughter. After a few minutes they, too, moved on.

Then the man in the flannel shirt came over and excused himself. I still had my headphones on yet he did not take that as a sign that I did not wish to be disturbed.

"Do you know if this is a gay park?" he asked.

I truly did not know the answer and I also did not know if he was a gay basher, simply a curious out of towner, or looking for action.

"I don't know," I said, looking at him more carefully. There was nothing slick about him. His eyeglasses looked as if they were from the previous decade, his clothing was clean but well-worn. His appearance was as bland and ordinary as they come, his rough and wrinkled skin offering little color contrast to his beige cap.

"Well, I asked two young women and they said they were bisexual and so I thought that maybe this is a gay park," he continued, as if by telling me this information I'd be willing to provide him some corroboration.

"I have no idea," I replied. Then I wondered if the red-clad man in the convertible had been, in fact, cruising for fun in broad daylight.

The man in the flannel then sat down on my bench, leaving about a person's width between us. I did not feel threatened by him so I stayed put, enjoying my view of the mountains. For several minutes we sat in silence and I wondered if was planning to leave or not. There were other benches around and if he had simply wanted to sit somewhere he could have chosen his own private spot. After an awkward interval he stood up.

"Sorry to bother you," he said, "I just thought that maybe this was a place where gay men came looking for sex."

"Why are you asking me?" I retorted, allowing my annoyance to show, adding, "Clearly I'm not a man."

He muttered something about bisexuals and wandered off.

Interruption

This afternoon an attractive 50-something year old man washed my feet and put my socks back on and laced up my shoes. Sadly, this was not a lover or even a pedicurist, but a technician at a podiatrist's office. Since I've been able to put on my socks and tie my shoes myself for at least a few decades, I felt rather foolish having him do the honors. There I was, my legs stretched out in front of me as I sat on the podiatry chair, jacked up to a height of about five feet off the ground. He said it was standard practice and, from what I observed in the waiting room, many patients are probably not capable of tying their shoes.

When I first arrived for my appointment, to check out some persistent pain in my left foot, I was one of the few fully ambulatory people around. Mostly older folk maneuvered in their wheelchairs and walkers, negotiating the path between the door and the reception desk. One man, his thinning hair slicked back with grease and his belly as round as that of the Buddha, was missing a foot. The receptionist handed me a stack of papers to fill out; on the top was written "Diabetic Foot Wound Center" and I asked her if, indeed, I was in the right place.

"Yes," she said. "Don't worry about that language. We take care of everything below the knee."

Below the knee. It was not an expression I'd heard before and, while it's true that my foot is below my knee, it can also affect areas above my knee, such as my hip and spine. But ours is specialized medical world and there was not much I could do about that. As I made my way through the forms, a woman in a motorized wheelchair returned to the waiting area from a consultation room; she wore specially made shoes, her head was held in place by a brace and her arms were covered with black fabric, obscuring her hands or where her hands might have been. Suddenly, my foot problem - and everything else on my mind - seemed quite trivial.

The podiatrist's analysis confirmed my suspicion of a pronated left foot; it has always tended to turn in but now the difference between my left and right feet had become quite stark and the imbalance was painful. My hiking habit will be interrupted for a few weeks while I wait for my orthotics to be made. In a saner system, my health insurance would cover the cost of these inserts, as they'll keep me active and probably prevent me from developing knee trouble later, which would be more costly to fix but would likely be covered. Such is the world we live in.

Inexplicable, Implausible II

Several months ago I wrote about the mysterious disappearance of some clothing, a t-shirt and a sports bra, that happened to be of the same brand. The sports bra turned up soon after that - I think it had gotten tangled in my sheets while I had sorted the laundry and revealed itself when I was going to sleep that night. But the t-shirt remained missing and I had given up hope of ever seeing it again. A few days ago I was working on an essay for a workshop I'm taking and one of the items that popped into my writing was the process of putting on pantyhose. Since I rarely engage in this activity, I wanted to refresh my memory as to how the nylon feels. I went into my closet, found my shoebox filled with pantyhose and opened it up. Inside, nestled alongside my stocking collection, was the missing t-shirt. I am completely baffled and clueless as to why I put it there in the first place, but I'm delighted to have it back.

Inhale, Invasion

After a long day, I returned home at 9:15 to be confronted by the acrid aroma of polyurethane in the hallway of my apartment building. Opening the door to my second floor unit, I inhaled and detected another offensive odor, that of exhaust. Exhaust? I could not identify the source but it was unmistakably different from the smell downstairs. I microwaved some dinner and quickly ate it, but I was beginning to feel lightheaded from whatever molecules were invading my airspace. I opened the windows, turned on the ceiling fans and then headed out for a walk, hoping that I'd be able to air the place out before bedtime.

As I was leaving, I met some of the other tenants who were complaining about the smell. Had they contacted the landlord? No.

I strolled to Whole Foods, purchased a poppyseed hamentashen to cheer me up, and when asked by the pony-tailed checkout clerk how my evening was going, I told him, "Not so well. My building has fumes in it and I'm here while I'm airing out my apartment. If it doesn't work, I might have to spend the night in a hotel. By the way, do you know of any hotels nearby?"

He suggested I look off of I-25, heading north, for a Hampden Inn.

When I returned to my apartment the situation had not abated and I left a message for the landlord, letting him know that I did not feel safe sleeping there and that I'd like him to pay the cost of a hotel. Within minutes he had called back and, after discussing the situation, said he'd reimburse me up to $60. Fine, I said, even though that would probably not cover a room at a hotel I'd feel safe staying at. I did not feel like haggling over the amount, I simply had to get out of there. Already, I had a headache. I grabbed my purse (containing the hamentashen), laptop and toothbrush - what else does a gal really need for an unexpected adventure? - and started driving north. While I was on the highway the landlord called again, asking me if I had found a hotel. Not yet, I said, but I told him that I was in my car, in search of lodging. He said he was on his way over to the building install some exhaust fans to help clear the air. He also seemed very apologetic and sympathetic - in his words, he said that I must have an allergy to polyurethane. No, I've been blessed with a sensitive nose that alerts me to anything that might harm me.

As I pulled off the highway I told him I had spotted a "La Quinta Inn" and would check for a room there. He said that was OK and agreed to pay whatever the rate was. It turns out to be more than $60.

Inimitable

Yesterday evening, as the temperatures plummeted to the 20s in advance of last night's snowfall, I dashed over to a movie theater to see Julie and Julia. I'm a big fan of cooking and eating and of Meryl Streep and I hoped I was in for a treat. Ms. Streep's acting was, as usual, la creme de la creme. Even though I had never seen Julia Child's cooking show on television and was unfamiliar with her trademark voice and gestures, Ms. Streep's artful interpretation and performance made up for that gap in my experience.

As I watched the film, I found myself savoring certain aspects more than others. Ironically, many of the cooking scenes held less of my interest than those where Julia Child confronts the male dominated French culinary establishment and finds herself in the process. After her first humiliating class in which she was the only woman and the slowest to chop an onion, she decides to improve her skills at home. We see a sack of onions and a colossal and growing pile of the chopped white vegetable on Mrs. Child's kitchen table as she single-mindedly practices this fundamental skill, over and over again, onion after onion, oblivious to the tears running down her face. That made more of an impression than many of the scenes of modern day Julie Powell, the blogger, as she's shown preparing the recipes in Mastering the Art of French Cooking and writing about it.

Some of the more satisfying scenes involved Julia Child corresponding with her sister and potential publishers, featuring the physical acts of writing, typing, folding, licking and sealing. What the film left me hungry for was an earlier and slower paced era when people still composed letters by hand, when the sending and receiving of mail was accompanied by anticipation and excitement, and when life was richer for these rituals.

And I wonder if the reason many of the cooking sequences failed to sizzle is that I recently decided to become a pescetarian, eliminating poultry and red meat from my diet. Chicken, beef and duck are also stars in this movie, forming an important but unacknowledged supporting cast, yet despite all the food styling that must have taken place I was not terribly tempted by the sight of a perfectly roasted bird emerging from the oven or by the much-touted boeuf bourguignon that made multiple appearances. Perhaps if I had seen the move before modifying my diet I would have been inspired both to drool over these dishes and to run out and purchase a copy of Mastering the Art of French Cooking. Instead, my plans are to slowly, probably not methodically and most likely not publicly, make my way through The Greens Cookbook and Vegetarian Cooking for Everyone, both by Deborah Madison. It's not that I plan to deprive myself of flavor or fat. For this morning's breakfast, in homage to Julia, I fried an egg in plenty of butter.