I'll See You on the Dark Side of the Falls

Recently, a very cool writing opportunity was pointed out to me by a number of laudatory friends. It was an advertised position for making contributions to a local lifestyle blog showcasing area cafes, golf courses, big red barns, yellow Labrador Retrievers, and bouquets of seasonal flowers, all captured carefully in accompanying images by a talented photographer. I was super excited because I love my town and all of its bounty...however, there is a gritty underbelly which lies beneath all of our farm-to-table restaurants and vintage automobiles and expensive antiques and my tendency, especially over the last five years, has been to seek out more and more of what quietly and humbly drives this place. I call that beautiful bedrock "the dark side of the Falls." 

So while I do want to write about which house on the north side of town has most festively decorated its holiday door, I am also eager to seek out Jamie, the once-homeless man, who sits in front of one of our most expensive and popular cyber-ready coffee houses with his paper cup primed for your offerings on the ground between his boots with the duct-taped soles. He will tell you anything you want to know if you engage him. My advice is, make sure you have at least 10 or 15 minutes to spend because he is a chatterbox of unequaled proportion. A few big-hearted friends supported an old fashioned come-together to bring him warm winter clothing and household items for an apartment he was able to move into after having been on the street for a long while. His red, raw chapped hands and iron-grey fingernails always touched my heart, so we made sure he got a brand new nail kit and some skin-friendly Dove soap in there, too. 

One of my cat-rescue friends pulled over and presented Jamie with an exceptionally generous cash gift at Christmastime when she saw him walking alone downtown on a below-zero afternoon. She told no-one but me.

These are the stories I want to share.  

I get excited when I see a new lash bar in town or a homemade cookie bakery which I am dying to try but I am equally excited to see Jeff. Jeff is one of those people with a smile for everyone, filled with joy and the holy spirit. Before Sandy's Clam Bar closed, we'd run into him there on the dance floor, holding one arm folded in an L shape against his chest, perspiring and laughing and singing aloud. Because of having had a traumatic brain injury, Jeff cannot drive and he therefore pulls one leg behind him in staccato step as he makes his way to his favorite haunts every day. Wearing a huge cross around his neck, both literally and figuratively, he laments to me that his favorite restaurant is still closed due to Covid and he is desperate for a cup of their thick, syrupy, on-the-burner-all-damn-day coffee and a slice of their Fruits of the Forest pie. I think he's more desperate for the company which he keeps there every night but I nod and concur. Jeff's nickname is 'Poppy Poptart' and if it's breakfast time, you'll see one of those sweet confections in his able hand, crumbs on his face and silvery foil flapping in the breeze as he ambles down the block. Upon learning that this was his go-to morning confection, a wonderfully softhearted friend of mine bought a case of them for me to present to him at that favorite restaurant while he ate his dessert and drank his ebony java one evening pre-pandemic. All the regulars at the counter clapped because Jeff is rarely quiet and in one magic moment that night we rendered him speechless. 

These are my favorites. The people who truly don't know how special they are. Do people write about them? May I have the privilege of being that writer?

I'd be honored to tell you about who had the coolest Adirondack-style wedding I've ever seen and which city street has the best block parties with chalk-on-macadam rainbow portraits and silver troughs of Nantucket Nectar, but I also want to tell you about Chris and how he parks himself inside the front lobby of our Hannaford on the cold days so that he doesn't have to spend more hours than necessary out of doors in the frigid air. I stand behind him at the Post Office every so often where he pays for single, pre-stamped envelopes with nickels and pennies, his right eye so close to the counter that it looks like he is preparing to rest his head. We saw Chris last night when we were out at our favorite pizza place. He wandered in, looking chipper in his neon yellow construction vest routinely worn at dusk so that he doesn't get inadvertently mowed down while walking in the street. The waitress knows his order without offering him a menu. She brings him water. He sits alone. As our table orders beer, wings, and pizza, we laugh with my Dad exchanging loud stories about what he is watching on Netflix these days. Chris gets a simple solitary sandwich on the opposite side of the room. My husband, always seeing what I see at each and every turn, nods to me and pays Chris's bill on the way out.

These are our town's people, too. I want to know about them just as much as I want to know about the millionaire obstetrician who travels abroad in search of unusual collectibles and the lumber baron who sits in Bill Parcell's box seats at the track every August. 

So, yes, invite me to your cocktail party and I will show up in the most darling outfit you ever saw. I will drink all the Prosecco and politely pass on the carbs, and fling my hair over my shoulder and discuss which Tesla is the biggest bang for the buck right now, because, if you know me, you know I love all of that. I will write about your foie gras and your charcuterie board and your Hacker Runabout and your advertising business. I will take notes on your Maltipoo and your award winning hybridized lilies and your gutted to the studs Victorian home that has been refurbished with reclaimed wood floors because I want to hear about what intrigues people and who doesn't love a good purse puppy, herbaceous botanicals and sad old house made good as new? But when I drive by that big red barn on the way home, I will see the struggle more than I see the structure. I sure as shit want to stop in front of it and feed the stray kitties and fantasize about spray painting the name of an old friend on it in big loopy letters before snapping a non catalog-worthy photo, because my friend happened to drive his Mustang off the road and was killed on that hallowed spot after working too long of a shift in one of those very restaurants that gets written about; and although that particular story might not be pretty it is a square in the quilt of this town, a block in the foundation of my life. And it all matters to me. 

Photo credit: Gene Krebs/Getty

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The Nonni List

I woke up this morning with my Great Aunt on my mind. 

She was bold and opinionated with us kids and although she could be gracious, helpful and kind, she was oftentimes picky, difficult, loud, intractable, and argumentative around the adults. She had her own exceptionally well defined ideas about things, including the fact that she would never, under any circumstances, eat with a three-pronged fork.

Yes, you read that correctly. 

Someone gave Nonni a three pronged fork.

WHAT?

Holy shit. Get Nonni another fork before she launches that one!

It was made clear to me as a child that Nonni and her preferences were a two sided coin: first, you always knew where she stood, and that was good. It was then up to you whether or not you wanted to challenge her and invoke the wrath of God. Second, her elder standing within our family and the sheer size of her brood made her appear Queen-like, so despite her eccentricities, very few within her 'court' messed with her.  

I mostly watched Nonni from behind couches and curtains. It wasn't until high school that I began having long talks with her and wishing that I might also boldly declare whatever and whenever I wanted to; that I might be more of a staunch and prickly stickler about things.  

Whereas my Moo Moo used to tell me that her sister Flo had no right to be so discriminating and high-handed, I nonetheless regarded her quizzically from my vantage point. I wondered how it was that a woman from a tiny town, with nine children, living one tiny hiccup above the poverty line (and let's be real, by today's standards, pitifully far below it) could possibly have so many fist-upon-table pounding requests and requirements of this life. 

I have only recently begun to understand her.  

She was first-born in a family with two working parents and five active children. Her siblings, birthed one after another in rapid succession, all had something particularly special about them whether it was the unique position of being the only boy, or the chatterbox or the beauty or the one who would follow in her mother's footsteps and become another nurse in the family. Grateful to move away from home and start her adult life, Nonni married a handsome but domineering Italian. Al vigorously exercised all the clout in their home and although he loved her dearly, he maintained order by striking furniture and other unfortunate objects in plain sight, suggesting she might be next. Working directly across the street from her home in a woolen mill was convenient as she lacked a car but it also narrowed most of her meanderings to a two or three street radius, within which other family members also worked and lived.

When your world is that small and your young body is constantly growing babies and nurturing children and you don't have the luxury of a partner who provides an audience for your dreams and admiringly solicits your opinion and you don't travel anyplace outside the dwellings of family and friends, you learn to be fastidious and fanatical about the things you can control...like your notion that light colored fur coats are the most sophisticated, or that blue frosted cakes are prettiest. Or, what singular brand of tomatoes you use in your sauce, what fabric you prefer for your undergarments, what side of the street is best to walk on, or the only type of fork you will bring to your lips. 

Today I started a "Nonni List"; a small but significant tabulation of beliefs I won't compromise on, ideals that I have a solid scrupulousness for, physical things that I prefer and will travel elsewhere to procure. The exercise kind of excites me. The idea of "no compromise" makes me feel a bit tipsy. I will commence with one or two easy items and then maintain it as an organic, ever evolving page in a notebook which I can return to as needed. 

Have you really taken inventory of who you currently are, you know, besides those inane Facebook questionnaires? Maybe it's a midlife puzzle I'm looking at, and a burning need to start putting it together now that I have all the corners and edges in place. Maybe my more recent musings about Nonni have made me realize that we have limited time in which to make obstinate declarations and cocksure pronouncements before someone starts ordering us cases of Ensure and takes our driver's licenses away. Anyway, I'm looking forward to free flowing ideas and seeing what emerges. 

Thanks, Nonni.

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