Dear Neil and Joni

Dear Neil and Joni,

You will always be in my heart. Your music has been a mellifluous and comfortable constant in my life since I was knee high to a grasshopper.

Cranky, late-arriving, Neil...your voice, along with David's and Stephen's and Graham's provided the smoky, harmonious, free-spirited backdrop for many of my most treasured high school moments. Emotionally naked and globally conscious Joni...your albums were what buoyed and strengthened me as a woman, despite feeling like a hopeless science experiment driving to the doctor's office during a few years of medical procedures. 

I want you to know how important you are to me. I toss off my shoes and release my long hair and I paint imaginary rainbows with my wineglass while your unusual voices fill me from stem to stern. A vessel for your counterculture anthems and for your throaty precociousness for the four and a half decades, you'd be relieved to learn that I have grown into a critical thinker. Not surprisingly, music has helped me to do so. From you, I learned that artistic greatness cannot be pigeonholed or bought off, and I learned that falling, hook, line and sinker, for the propaganda of the day, whatever day you find yourself standing in, was a pitfall to be avoided. These ideas are as natural as breathing, to me. 

I also gleaned, from Sugar Mountain and The Circle Game, that we can't be kids forever, but that growing older isn't necessarily anything to rush if we can, perhaps, linger just a bit longer with the barkers and the carousels.

Pulling yourself off of Spotify doesn't affect my ability to listen to you, whatsoever, for I am old school and I own all of my music, including yours. But, I'd like you to know that I wholeheartedly disagree with your stance because you taught me censorship is worth fighting against and listening to a few of your songs today, including Neil and Stephen's (Buffalo Springfield's) For What It's Worth inspired by the Sunset Strip Curfew Riots and and Joni's cover of Both Sides Now, I am empowered in my beliefs.

 

Paranoia strikes deep 

Into your life it will creep 

It starts when you're always afraid

Step out of line, the men come and take you away

 

It's time we stop.
Hey, what's that sound?
Everybody look, what's going down?

 

 

 

Oh, but now old friends they're acting strange

 
And they shake their heads and they tell me that I've changed

 
Well something's lost, but something's gained

 
In living every day

 

I've looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all

 

 

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A Raven Funeral

Driving down a well-traveled road near my home, I saw two majestic birds.

They were ravens, much larger than I ever recall, though, honestly I don't really see a ton of ravens 'round these parts. 

Crows, yes. Crows hang out when I toss day old bread toward my favorite pine trees in the yard. They hop around suggestively crooning, clicking and calling, but these ravens were different, almost other-worldly. 

I haven't been sleeping well and the invisible line which cleaves reality from fantasy blurs at the edge when I am over tired, but I'm pretty certain these black birds stood a couple of feet tall. Saturnine with the slightest hint of royal midnight moonlight, their clever eyes met mine as I drove by their perch, the side of a trash-filled drainage ditch. 

Impressed by their herculean inkiness, I wanted to snap a photo but this stretch of road is notorious for impossibly fast drivers; the sort that thrust their hands out their sunroofs, cawing obscenities as I dare to take a safety-first ten mile per hour turn off the road, minding my own business, trying not to hit squirrels as they scamper recklessly in front of me. 

Although I usually abdicate and wave, underneath my benevolence I picture myself tying these Richard Petty wannabees to the bed Misery-style and, biting my lip in concentration, sledging their ankles together. Only once did I drive in an unsafe manner to catch the backwards-hat and cherry red vape moron who flipped me off and passed me on this road when I was singing along to the 70s station one warm summer evening; but when I pulled up and my words flew, spittle-tinged and nasty, my vehicular ballyhoo drew no reply. She just side-eyed me and my mint green plastic rosary swinging from the rearview and noiselessly pulled away.  

But...the ravens. When I arrived home, I lost the better part of an hour Googling raven symbolism, totems, spirit animals, and tattoos along with a totally fascinating yet mildly depressing article on crow funerals (also, it seems, dutifully arranged and attended by ravens).

Hoping these two were just siphoning a drink off the nearby water source, I drove by the 'raven ravine' the next day, slowed down, and peered in. To my profound dismay, I saw a dead bird. An askew assemblage of hematite feathers and talons, its face was plumb against the ground like one of those awful Halloween witches people hang on trees signifying a satisfying splat. 

Were the two ravens I saw the day before ministering to their dead comrade? Were they attempting to help? I wish I hadn't waited a day to return as I might have been able to intervene. How, I'm not sure, but when I jump in, as I routinely do, I usually don't have a plan other than to do something, anything, to relieve pain.

Yes, I know. Pain is unavoidable but I exhaust myself thwarting and reliving it. And then, when I have decanted and sucked and bled from those who needed amelioration, I, pregnant with heartache, deliver it onto the page. My most beloved writing hovers about the joyless and those carrying the biggest crosses, a bloated bird soaring endlessly over a dusty landscape of persistent woe. 

I have driven by twice more on my way to errands and matters most pressing. I now have a vision of myself with a shovel and thick, black, industrial sized garbage bag hoisting the carcass and placing it in my garden, both as a religious rite and for the fertilization of my most precious moonflowers. My husband, the practical to my mystical, will surely not comply and I really need a strong plus one for a raven burial. 

Invited to a friend's home last night, she served tea and we talked about our forty years of acquaintance. Our discussion, not unexpectedly, made its way to the recent and very sudden loss of her son, victim of both an overdose and suspected foul play. One of the themes which we recanted over and over was that he didn't need to die alone, face down on a cold floor. She was not permitted to see his body until the funeral home delivered him the day of his services and he was nearly unrecognizable, bruised from what was deemed a forward facing fall. The mortician didn't use the customary amount of putty and paint to pretty him up because it was going to be a closed casket so my friend, already so fragile, got the unvarnished view of his casualty, the polar opposite of her creation. This will haunt her for the remainder of her days. 

The raven from the ravine fluttered around and landed shadow-like on my shoulder during our chat and I let him perch, unbothered, though I had to continually adjust under his substantialness, changing chairs and gently cracking my neck, as to not disturb him. He reminded me that sunrise and sunset, birth and death, alpha and omega have to coexist. It just is. The more we accept that pain is part of us, the more we ourselves connect, mortal to divine.

I don't remember driving home. Depleted from a day of medical appointments and the sincere and solemn chat, I traversed the inky darkness alone, lost in my thoughts. Then, this morning, I received a heartfelt text from my friend with beautiful words about friendship and thanksgiving; God and a light in the darkness. 

Beauty out of sadness. 

Spring from winter. 

I might still go scoop that raven up. It's been cold enough where three days in the ditch probably hasn't led to decomposition. I would like to offer him a place in my flowerbed, among friends, so that he is not alone. 

#mushroomtumbler #ravenfuneral

5 Part Series: Real Estate Conclusion

Dear MaryAlice,

Thank you for being a super realtor. The support you offered during the sale of my late mother's home was so very appreciated.

I have lots of good news to share with regard to the bidders. I didn't think I was going to become so emotionally invested in their letters but you know me, I'm a sappy sort of person. In fact, I made it a point to seek them out after the house sold and thought you might like to know of their whereabouts.

First, Carrie Miller. She and her two boys are living in a lovely older duplex about a mile away. She actually made out quite well with her purchase. There is a long-time tenant named Carl in the other half who offered to assist her with interior and exterior maintenance and who has taken Milo and Quintin under his wing in a grandfatherly way. I drove by last week on my way to the library and pulled over when I saw Carrie in her driveway. She could only chat for a minute as she was bringing in two premade lasagnas from the grocery store, balancing them in her arms. One was for her family and the other, you guessed it, was for Carl. 

Next, Angelo and Rosalie Canizzaro. No doubt, since you are a regular Wood Theater patron, you've seen Rosalie in the box office selling tickets. Honestly, with those mile-long legs and her curly orange permanent; if you squint a little and use your imagination, she really is a dead ringer for Bernadette Peters. Angelo and she are renting a luxury apartment downtown within walking distance of everything they enjoy. I see them at the Farmer's Market on weekends where, while Rosalie passes out flyers for the theater, Angelo brings his reusable bag and fills it to overflowing with organic veggies and colorful bouquets of wildflowers for their home. 

Ahh, Ray. Well, you know what happened with Ray. Here is a photo of Faith, Hope and Charity that she texted me yesterday. Look at those smiling faces! She installed the doggy door just like she said, but she decided not to change the locks on the house. In fact, she let me keep a copy of the front door key and we agreed that when and if she needs someone to feed the dogs it'll either be me or Norman. She is enjoying the cozy feel of the place and other than painting the exterior, says she probably won't change a thing. Something about that soothes any feeling of loss I might have otherwise had. 

Did I tell you Norman and I were approached by a house flipper the day the moving van came? Your realtor sign was leaning against the porch railing, so he thought it was still for sale and offered me 30K over the asking price. Obviously, it was too late, but even if it hadn't been, Norman and I would have passed. I am content having sold to Ray. Money isn't everything!

Finally, we are thrilled with our little bungalow. The fact that Norman and I had our very first kiss in this house when we were thirteen at Betty O'Leary's birthday party makes it all the more special. We attempted to re-create the moment, spinning a glass bottle of Farmer's Market apple moonshine on the kitchen floor the night we moved in. We aren't kids anymore, but we are definitely young at heart!

I have to run because Norman said the cat rescue phoned and told us to pick up our kitten. The cat carrier is around here somewhere! She is the cutest thing, black and white, just like we wanted. 

She is three months old, born the week we sold the house. We named her Joy. 

All Best Wishes, 

Karen

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5 Part Series: Real Estate Letter #4

This is a fictional five-part series containing real estate letters written by bidders and presented to the sellers of a local family's estate. Enjoy.

Hi Karen,

It’s been a long time.

I saw Clare's obituary in the paper. Yes, I still subscribe to it even though I live in the next state over. I am very sorry to hear about your mom. She was always nice to me, and I have such wonderful memories of her.

Do you recall us speaking at our 25^th class reunion? I know that was 21 years ago but I still remember you were wearing a jean jacket and your name tag had Karen Nelson on it. You told those of us standing in your circle that you had never married and were not planning to. I didn’t want to pry about your adult life because it didn't feel like the right setting and you also didn’t seem quite as happy to see me as I was to see you, but I was intensely curious about that.

Did no one ever ask you to be theirs forever? Or were you repeatedly asked and said no to every offer?

I reached out to some mutual friends; they told me you are still unmarried and have been staying at Clare’s house.

I just have to jump in and ask, Karen. What happened with us? Going to two different colleges never felt right to me. I know your Dad told you to go and experience life without a serious boyfriend hanging around, but I didn’t expect you to cut me loose in a phone call after your first semester. Why, on school breaks, were you always looking for me to take you to movies and walk you home from parties and accompany you to your wretched Aunt Grace's house for lunch?  I only say wretched because that is what you used to say about her. I never objected to any of it because I was always glad to see you again. Plus, Aunt Grace made delicious food. Do you remember it? I do. 

Things turned out okay for me. My son is grown, serves in the military, and lives a satisfying life in Europe. He has no children but he's only 36 so there is still time. Helen, as I’m sure you know, divorced me after 20 years together and married our old friend Larry Lepeska. You used to call him Lizard Larry because he was always sticking his tongue out at pretty girls. Well, strangely enough, they seem happy. I harbor no ill will and have only one or two regrets. You might be able to guess what they are. 

But, it's time for me to take care of me. I am leaving my long tenured job as a Chemistry professor and returning to the last place I was happy in this crazy life of ours, our hometown. Five- and ten-year plans went by the wayside years ago because so little of what I foresaw has truly come to pass; however, when our friends told me Clare's house was for sale it hit me like a lightning bolt. It felt like a second chance at happiness, maybe even a second chance at love. I hope you’re not surprised that I used the word 'love', Karen. We were voted senior class couple for a reason. 

And, you're still single for some reason. 

Could this be real?

Sell the house to me. Join me in it. Can we begin a new life in this home like we talked about in 1977?  We could adopt a black and white kitten that looks like your old cat Mittens and sit in front of the fireplace on cold winter nights with our favorite books. We could eat coffee ice cream on the back porch on a creaky glider and watch the lightening bugs...just like we used to. 

Is it too late? Please say it's not too late. 

Norman

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5 Part Series: Real Estate Letter #3

This is a fictional five-part series containing real estate letters written by bidders and presented to the sellers of a local family's estate. Enjoy.

Hey there,

My name is Ray Taylor. I am twenty-two, single, and have never had to write a letter like this, because I have never bought a house before. 

Honestly, I’ve never bought much of anything before.

I never win anything either so whatever kind of contest this is, it makes me a little scared knowing that I have to tell you things about myself but probably won’t win the right to purchase your beautiful home, anyway.

Well, here goes.

My Nana died a few months ago and left me a lot of money, which is both sad and wonderful. It’s sad because my Nana was the biggest and best part of my life and now she's gone but it’s wonderful because, due to her generosity and what her lawyer called my "ability to benefit", I'm changing my life. In fact, I was just able to rescue a trio of old dogs from the pound. It felt great being able to hand over a couple hundred dollars and walk out with three lives saved. 

I’ve always wanted a dog of my own, ever since my Dad took Millie and dropped her off on a long country road when I was seven. My Mom wouldn’t let us kids go with him but we definitely knew what was happening. Millie did too, I could see it in her eyes when Dad's truck pulled away from our house. Those are the kinds of things a kid never forgets.

So, when Nana passed and left me everything in her will, the first thing I did (after giving her a proper burial) was go to the animal shelter and told them to give me all the dogs that were slated for the gas. The three they brought out were scared, worn out, and hang-dog depressed, and you could tell they thought they were walking their last walk but I bent down, put my arms around them and told them it was going to be all right. My goal is to make them a good home. We will prop each other up. I’ll let them know every day that they are loved and safe.

My apartment where I live now was where my Nana lived for the last sixty years so there is a lot of clearing out to be done. I recently started getting rid of junk and things that I won’t need. My Dad, who I hadn’t seen in over ten years, came and took a bedroom set, a few lamps, the record player and all the record albums, and, I suppose, anything else that he wanted. Oh, yeah, he took the refrigerator too, so I am living out of coolers, but that's ok for now. The good news is, even though he came by to claim pieces of Nana that he didn’t seem to care a whole lot about while she was alive, I still have furniture for every room of my home.

I mean your home.

Well, you know what I mean.

If you could see yourself helping a young person with literally no past worth mentioning, but, possibly, depending on a little luck and lots of hard work, a very bright future, then that young person is me, Ray Taylor. By the way, I am a female and Ray is a short for 'Fay Wray'. I know it's odd but you don't know my parents. The only thing they had in common was their love of old movies. 

Anyway, my job is within walking distance of Grant Avenue and maybe because no one else wants to work they are paying me a ton of money. My mortgage payment, which the realtor helped me figure out, would be less than Nana’s rent and I’d have more than enough for the taxes and maintenance, etc. All of this is very exciting. 

The first thing I will do is install a doggy door. The second thing I will do is call a locksmith. I don’t know why I’m telling you this, it’s just that the realtor seems to think it’s important to give you details. It's weird to share plans like these, really, because I have never had an opportunity to make something my own.

But, hey, as long as I'm dreaming, I can tell you I'd like to go to college someday. Buying this new home is the steppingstone on which everything else will depend. Thanks for maybe helping me in this way. 

Hope, Faith, Charity and I are looking forward to your reply. Yes, I changed their names, but they don't seem to mind. They're all in the backseat of my truck as I’m typing this on my laptop. I’ve never seen a dog smile, but I swear they all look really happy right now.

 

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5 Part Series: Real Estate Letter #2

This is a fictional five-part series containing real estate letters written by bidders and presented to the sellers of a local family's estate. Enjoy.

Dear Madam,

My real estate agent told me I had to write a letter to you explaining who I am and why I want your house, so here goes.

I am from Brooklyn, born and bred. My wife Rosalie, who grew up on the same block as the actor Vincent Schiavelli, recently sold our third-generation brownstone after tripping over a rat in the kitchen that outweighed our dog. So now, we live with my cousin Mickey. He and his wife Gina have been good to us but frankly, we can’t wait to get the hell out.

Congratulations to me. I survived 45 years in the sanitation industry and worked my last day two weeks ago. I started counting the days until retirement after falling off the garbage truck last year and breaking my collarbone in two places, clean through. Laying in front of St. Finbar’s Church waiting for the ambulance, I swore to God (and Deacon Hector Blanco, who put a scratchy wool blanket under my head and prayed over me) that as soon as I was out of the hospital I was (a). going to confession and (b). telling my boss I was quitting my job.  

My orthopedic doc suggested I get away while I was on worker’s comp recovering and Rosalie said let's go upstate for a bit. Both my wife’s family and mine used to vacation in Lake George when we were teenagers. Back then our fathers had to drive up route 9 because the Northway wasn’t even finished. Remember that? People had a lot more patience back then. People also had a lot less garbage, I gotta tell ya.

So, we vacationed a little and hired a realtor before returning to Brooklyn. He’s Italian, which Rosalie insisted on, and the one who sent me the listing for your house today.

I’ve become interested in what you might call ‘environmental matters’ over the years. I saw firsthand as a garbageman what too many people, too much crap, and nowhere to put it can do to a city. I’d like to ride out my glory years with free parking, a vegetable garden, and some mountains. I found a decent group to sit with at the cigar shop when we were there and my wife, a helluva performer, will probably end up spending all her time at that community theater downtown. The last thing she was part of in the Heights was the show ‘Gypsy’ and even though she’s 70, she’s still got legs like Bernadette Peters.

So, Rosalie and I ask for your consideration in this matter and hope you will give us Brooklynites a chance at your nice little house. We are driving up tomorrow to lay eyes on it and are prepared to make a full priced offer…with a little something on the side for your trouble.

A domani,

 

Angelo Canizzaro

 

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5 Part Series: Real Estate Letter #1

This is a fictional five-part series containing real estate letters written by bidders and presented to the sellers of a local family's estate. Enjoy. 

Dear Nelson Family, 

On Halloween, my brother and I walked to Grant Avenue.

We put on our Snow White and Woody Woodpecker masks and we ran from the Wrights to the Mountains, the Freeberns, the Endieveris, the Homkeys and the Shevlins.

Your house was always my favorite. Large and colonial (before I knew what a ‘classic’ city colonial was) and full of happy friendly faces. With a pretty little yard and side door off the driveway to what was probably the kitchen, just like the house I grew up in.

I was never scared of trick or treating there. Your mom gave out Milky Ways and it felt like home.

So, when the house came up for sale, I told my kids that we were going to try hard, so very hard, to get it. You see, we moved back here last year after too many years of trials and tribulations in a midwestern state where I’ve lived since college. I know Covid has hit everyone particularly hard but for me, it changed my life forever. I lost my husband and father of my two children. Looking for a fresh start, my kids and I returned to this town and we’ve been trying to secure a home ever since.

I wanted to get settled in time for the start of school, so we relocated in June, and Miles and Quintin have adapted well to the local schools even though we have been living in a small and dingy apartment where we thankfully only have two months left on our one-year lease. They know I am trying my best but sharing a room hasn’t been easy for them. One is sad, the other angry and since Covid took their Dad, they have become far savvier than kids should be in the ups and downs of life. Because they are little, they do not understand why we can’t just buy and move into whatever house pops up.

This one, though, is perfect for us. When I walked through your open house today, I pictured where I would put the Christmas tree and where Miles would store his football gear and where Quintin could work on his model airplanes and where our cat might lounge on a windowsill. I pictured where my husband’s urn of cold gray steel might be placed. I pictured blue delft china, a red strawberry cookie jar, coffee with neighbors and weekend walks to the farmer’s market.

I know it’s down to the wire and you are only accepting bids until 5:00 pm Sunday. I am desperately asking that you look at our bid as more than a number. Please see us. We are a family who you could save from potentially having to return to the Midwest. My mother, who gave the best years of her life and career to a local insurance office, lives a three minute drive away from this exact location and she is repeatedly ill and failing. I am sure you can understand my desire to be close to her as well.

Thank you for reading this. We are grateful for your time and consideration.

 

Carrie Miller

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