On a drive today I saw an old phone booth and I took out my phone to write “nothing is as shitty as you feel in a phone booth in the winter getting bad news,” because, even though I can’t remember the news, I remember the metal shelf where I spread out my quarters, dimes, nickels, and the wet scraps of paper and small muddy piles of ice on the metal floor and the sound of the door when I pulled it shut, one fold in an accordian, and how I wished there was a bench to sit on because standing and hearing the news, whatever it was, because I’ve forgotten, hearing the news was too hard to do standing up, but there was no sitting down, no comfort, there was just pulling the door open and leaving.
“This isn’t a place a person ought to work if they don’t have options.” A colleague said that to me during a particularly fractious and professionally precarious time at the anti-poverty agency where we both worked. I quit when my ethics ran up against reality. But then I had options. Apparently, Republican Senators never got this tip.
The competence of the House impeachment managers makes me proud to be a Democrat. And not just Adam Schiff, but mostly Adam Schiff. Where are the Republicans who used to be smart like that, who were irritating because they were smart and could mount good arguments? They all died and lie now in unmarked graves.
Howard had Swedish meatballs for dinner. When I saw them on the menu, I envisioned those little tiny meatballs that you eat with toothpicks. When his order came, it was a bowl of gravy with six giant meatballs and a mount of cheesy potatoes in the middle served with a spoon. Our first night in Duluth, eating gravy with a spoon, what could be better?
What is the deal with roadside giants? What is so fascinating about large improbable things that an otherwise sensible person would feel compelled to take a picture of a large mouse in a cowboy outfit? No sign, no business, but there was a bench at the giant cowboy mouse’s feet.
Our dogs are not with us. We spent the whole day driving ‘feeling’ them in the backseat, but, alas, sled dogs can’t come to a sled dog race. First, it might make them wistful for the old days, make them think they coulda been contenders. But second, the John Beargrease Sled Dog Race people don’t allow it. So they’re staying at the kennel, a first for their little wild selves.
Last night’s post made me remember this.
I still have those earrings. And the son. But not the t-shirt or white skirt, sad because the white skirt was part of my fancy wedding ensemble when my husband and I were married in the local courthouse a few years before. In Nicaragua in the 80’s, women never wore pants or short, only skirts. So I was instructed and I complied.
This picture was taken at the doctor’s office where we were waiting for my new son to be examined so he could get the okay to leave the country and enter the United States. We were to take the results of the exam to the U.S. Embassy to finish the paperwork to allow me to bring him home to Milwaukee. That day when I picked him up from the orphanage, helped by my good friend Christina and with a couple from New Hampshire who adopted a brother and…
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Flor de Cana is Nicaraguan rum.
I’m not a connoisseur of rum. I only drink this rum. Because it is Nicaraguan.
I remember being in Managua, sitting in the courtyard of Casa Bolonia, a squat, sprawling hotel where plywood had been used to make two rooms out of one. In the room where I was staying, half the air conditioner was in my room and the other half, with the controls, was in the room next door.
It was 1988.
I had traveled to Managua with my 15-year old daughter to fetch a little boy who would become my son and her brother. We traveled with a small group who had come to Nicaragua for other reasons but we were together like relatives there because it was foreign and risky. At night, the city was dark and walking was dangerous, not because of people but because of massive holes in the pavement. You never knew where they were, the holes.
It was very hot, thick hot, dripping all the time, and it rained hard every afternoon. By the time night came, we only wanted to drink so we would sit in the courtyard with our friends and the new boy on our laps, and we would talk and laugh about the day and gaze at the new bottle of Flor de Cana on the wrought iron table.
We had tried to find Coke all day but there seemed to be none in the city. In days prior, we’d bought Coke from vendors who gave it to us in plastic bags tied at the top with a twist tie. This is how the Coke came, I don’t remember why.
The trick was to bite a small hole in the corner of the bag and drink the Coke that way. It was chancy, the Coke being likely to run down one’s arm, but the heat made trying worth the effort. So we yearned for a bag of Coke to have with our rum since drinking rum straight seemed extreme or at least something one wouldn’t do in front of one’s daughter, especially with a new son. It appeared all was lost for our rum drinking.
While we puzzled over this, the Nicaraguan boyfriend of a woman in our group, a man who had been a soldier in the Sandinista Army, fought in the jungles up in the mountains, and often carried his knife in his teeth to keep his hands free, stood up and announced we would have limes for our rum! And he pointed to the lime tree in the middle of the courtyard, smiling with glee at the dozens of limes hanging ripe. He picked dozens of limes, slashing each one open on the ceramic tile of the table top.
So we squeezed lime after lime in our plastic cups and poured in the Flor de Cana and the drink was tart, so tart it made our eyes water, but better than anything I had ever drunk. So I think of that every time I unscrew the lid of my bottle of Flor de Cana – that night thirty years ago with the heat and the rum and the limes. All the limes.
The woman who sits next to me at my writing workshop wrote eight lines of poetry about taking down Christmas lights that were so exquisite and gleaming that I wanted to steal her poem, put it in my pocket and pretend I’d written it, but I had to hand it back to her with my comments.
It is rare for me to covet someone else’s words.
There was another instance today. In what was otherwise a very hard to follow chapter from a fellow writer’s many-charactered story involving talking creatures and mysterious wars, there was an enchanting scene of a water nymph calming an hysterical fish by carrying him in her arms encased in a bubble.
I didn’t want to steal that one but it was probably worthy of theft. But where would I use an hysterical fish?
I get transfixed by what is called a turn of phrase, an elegant phrase, a perfect image. So I become bored by long, gray narratives that move stories along like traffic on the Illinois Tollway, this toll booth, that toll booth, now and then a stop at an oasis for coffee. A blur, the whole trip becomes a blur.
The fewer words the better for me, three beads on a necklace instead of fifty. When there are only three beads, they have to be perfect on their own and with each other.
It is my aim to be a great beader.
End my life, I say
Copper pennies on my eyes
When sweet dogs are gone
So what would you do for love? Walk across the country? Swim the English Channel? Sit on a metal bench at Lambeau Field with 80,000 football zealots in -30 wind chill? For four hours while the sun went down and the wind kicked up and then, afterward, walk the 10 blocks back to your car and sit huddled and mute under blankets for the two hour drive home listening to Sports Talk Radio and looking forward to a stop at a gas station with bright lights and heat blasted from a huge blower mounted on the wall?
Not a question you usually need to answer? Good for you. You see, I’m married to this person. He regards Lambeau Field as a holy place. He doesn’t joke about this.
I’ve gone to a zero degree game at Lambeau Field. To keep warm, I carried in what we call the German Army sleeping bag which we bought years ago at an army surplus store in Wyoming. Anyway, the sleeping bag looks sort of normal except that it has two sleeves and a hood. Basically, once in the sleeping bag, you’re not going anywhere without hopping although you can still hold a beer or your head if sobbing about your fate.
The delight of seeing the Packers get into the play-offs after a long season of star quarterback Aaron Rodgers watching from the sidelines nursing his broken collarbone was swiftly replaced by my growing dread that we would end up going to the game. Each day, the weather predictions about Sunday’s game became more dire and the lure of cheap Packer tickets more electric.
“If it’s something you really want to do, I’ll do it.” I stood in the kitchen, Topper’s stylish ghosts, George and Marion, sitting on the counter next to me.
“Seriously?” Marion said, her arms folded, swinging her leg back and forth. “You are going to sit outside in insanely freezing weather in a German Army sleeping bag? Why would you do that?”
“Her husband loves football, Marion. It’s obvious. She loves him so she’s offering to go.” George tapped a cigarette on his lighter. “It’s a nice thing. Any man would appreciate it.”
“It’s absurd. Utterly and totally absurd and outrageous. My dear, you have to have been brainwashed. What has become of you?” Her disdain dripped on the counter and formed an awful puddle. This really stung coming from a female ghost from the fifties.
I slapped them both away. There’s no place for harsh judgments in my kitchen.
But really, what was I thinking? Going to Lambeau Field on Sunday to watch the Packers and 49’ers in the 2nd Ice Bowl was like the first episode of a new reality show – Extreme Good Sports – where I guarantee the stars would all be women doing crazy stuff to make somebody else happy. And usually when they weren’t even asked or begged. Just thinking that’s what a good sport would do.
Then this afternoon, the local school system announced they were closing on Monday because of the severe cold that was starting Sunday (Game Day as we call it here), life threatening they called it, and then this text arrived:
“I can get 2 tickets at the 50 yd. line”
“Face value. $125”
“Is this something you really want to do?”
No? Well, I would’ve done it. Already had the German Army sleeping bag out of the attic, fumigated it, made sure no mice homesteaded, wouldn’t want them running amok at Lambeau and now, you say, it’s all for naught? We’ll just sit in the living room with pizza and beer and you’ll smoke a cigar? Which is fine with me, cigar smoke, love it, reminds me of Dad.
Besides, you know me. I’m a really good sport.
Republished for Howard on the last night of the 2019-2020 football season for fans of the Green Bay Packers. Next year!