Part 3: The hands are there for friendship. The heart is there for love.

 

Thursday afternoon came and Ash and I did regular things. We changed the sheets and pillow cases on all three sleeping spaces. We made bottles out of powdered formula and refrigerated them. We took Teddy outdoors with his trike. We pranced around the deck chanting the alphabet over and over basking in the late afternoon sun; Evvie safely barricaded by a makeshift fort of soft toys and pillows at our feet.

When the sun set, the kids were fed, and I washed Teddy up bathroom sink style with Ivory soap and a sponge. Ash held Evvie on her lap and read aloud from a waterproof plastic book made for tub time. After carrying him to the white carpet, I raked a Garfield comb through Teddy's thick hair while he sat wrapped in a warm from the laundry towel, listening attentively to the story. Then, far earlier than normal, it was time for pajamas.

Quiet and settled in the living room, the kids drowsily listened to Ash read from another book, her voice layered atop the hum of the clothes dryer and the low purr of the tv in the kitchen. Not long after she finished the second reading, Teddy, in his red footsie sleeper, rubbed his eyes and walked Ash down the hall. She tucked him in and motioned for me to bring Evvie who was asleep on my shoulder. We went together to her room.

"What do you think of the color?" Ash inquired.
"What color?"
"Uhhh, Evvie's room." she said, arms aloft and pantomiming.
Cautiously, I expressed my feelings as I settled the baby on her back.
"It seems like a lot for a baby. It just...seems like a lot."
Ash lamented, "Ugh. Really? I picked the paint before she was born, when I found out she was a 'she'. All I could think about in the hardware store was my butt-ugly bedroom when I was a kid. The wallpaper had big orange and gold flowers on it. Can you imagine?"
I thought yes I could, and not in a bad way.

Ash never had a voice as an artsy small fry. No one cared about her likes or what she wanted, either in terms of room décor or future plans. She mentioned being flighty and forgetful; her parents expecting a lot from her, but what they held her to wasn't anything she herself cared about or desired. Then, she walked out of the hideously purple room and when she returned, she had a bottle, a glass and a corkscrew.
"We serve no wine before it's time." she chortled. "I think it's time."

We returned to the living room where she dropped gracelessly onto the couch and remembering that I had nothing to drink, motioned to the kitchen and suggested I go grab a soda.
"I'm good." I said. "I had milk with Teddy at dinnertime."
"Oh, ok." She opened her bottle with a no nonsense jab and twist into the cork and released it. Pouring a glass, she broached a subject I couldn't have prepared for.

"You know what bothers me about Vanessa Williams?" she asked.
"No, what?"
Ms. Williams had been the subject of a recent news piece on Entertainment Tonight because she was trying to break back into the entertainment business after a scandal involving her Miss America crown and some nude photographs.
"It bothers me that people buy into this puritanical bullshit. Who hasn't taken a few topless photographs?"
"I don't know." I stammered. "I honestly have no idea."
"Want to see mine?" Ash popped up, sloshing the wine in her glass, dangerously close to the rim.
It was more of a forecast than a question. I sat and waited uncomfortably as she felt with one hand through a library of fat white photo albums arranged neatly on a shelf next to the fireplace.
"Ah ha!" She plunked her glass down on the table, grabbed one, and came and giddily knelt next to me.
"Look here." She showed me two pages' worth of pictures clearly shot at some sort of outdoor gathering, perhaps a concert. She'd taken careful steps to put small squares of black electrical tape over the sensitive parts, but it was Ash, beyond a doubt in white overalls, one strap broken or maybe just carelessly unhooked, totally shirtless and free-spirited.

"Good thing you aren't running for Mrs. America." I giggled, my eyes wide.
She laughed, too, and then mumbled something, while gulping the last of her drink, about there being far too many skeletons in the closet for any public contests.

"What about Rob?" I said, meaning that I wondered what he thought about her righteous public bareness. I figured he probably was there with her.
"Yeah, he's got skeletons too. Don't we all? I can't see us lasting here. He isn't exactly making friends at work."

Not the answer I expected, I waited as she rose and poured a second glass.

"He understands pain, but only when it comes to patients, certainly not to me. He's good with their pain. But he's reckless. And he's playing with fire."
Feeling uncertain about the level of disclosure she was approaching, I said nothing but then after a few seconds there was jazz music; the theme song from the Cosby Show trumpeting breezily from the kitchen.
"Hey, do you want to watch Cosby?"
"Oh God, no." Ash uttered. "Do you know any families like that? I sure as hell don't."
Picturing Bill making goofy, pursed lipped faces as he danced around in his expensive but awful sweater, I didn't mind that the Cosbys' family dynamics weren't real. I sort of liked that they weren't.

The next twenty minutes were spent briskly discussing her state of unemployment, how she'd wished for her children but now found raising them tedious and tiring, how she and Rob had very different ideas about how the future would play out, and how disgruntled she was at this point in time. I listened. I nodded.

"Go to college. Get a career. Then, and only then, think about kids and a husband." she pronounced. "Otherwise you will be fighting for the next twenty years to get your life back."

Jut then, a car pulled up outside. Grateful for the distraction, I leapt up and jogged to the door, peering though thick glass.

"Is it a Cutlass Ciera?" she called.
"I think so, It's big and black."

Just then Rob appeared at the door, pushed it open enthusiastically, and gave me a million dollar smile.
"Hi! You're Ash's helper!"
"Yes, I'm Valerie." I held out my hand.
He shook it with a firm grip. A contrast in styles, wearing sage colored scrubs and clean sneakers, he held a black leather padfolio in his left hand; a Burberry trench coat draped over his elbow.

Giving Ash a kiss on the cheek, he said, "Am I driving her home?"
"Yeah, and you're paying her too."

Taking my queue, I said goodbye, gathered my stuff, and nodded to the open album on the table so Ash would put it away but she missed my signal.

"See you Monday?" she proposed.
We'd agreed during the afternoon that since I stayed late tonight I could have Friday to myself. She was going to get a haircut and Rob was due home early. I nodded, waved, and walked to the car.

Rob closed his door and said, "Hey, I'm really glad to have this time."
Pulling out of the driveway, he asked a few questions about my previous babysitting jobs, and my studies in high school. I provided short answers because I was also providing driving directions. Seemingly satisfied that his wife and kids weren't in the company of a imbecile, he launched into a sermon about how Ash was not herself; how Ash had hated moving here for his job but that there would be another move sometime soon; and how he needed to find the right community in which to raise kids. When I suggested that this was a great community, he shook his head indignantly and stared ahead.

"I'm not so sure it's for us."

When we got to my Mom's street, I had him drop me at a house three doors up. I couldn't put my finger on why, but I didn't want him to be familiar with where I was staying. Maybe it's because his speech vaguely suggested I not get too close to his family. Maybe it's because Ash had said he didn't adequately acknowledge her pain and that made me feel like I didn't want to know him. Maybe it's because my gut told me something was alarmingly absent behind his huge, forced smile which manifested more like a clenched jaw than an expression of happiness.

"See you next week." I said.

Forgetting to pay me, he scanned the neighborhood, locked the doors and drove off without making sure I was safe inside.

#1970s #1980s #mushroomtumbler

Part 2: The hands are there for friendship. The heart is there for love.

When I arrived at Ash's the next day she was sitting on the bricked front porch waiting for me with a bed-headed Terry by her side wearing a small blue velour track suit and bright orange and yellow slippers, one Ernie, one Bert. I waved and hurried up the walk when I saw them, shifting my bookbag.

"I'm glad you're here." she said.
"Me too. What's on tap today?"
"Ha!" she cackled. "I wish!"
"Oh and those are how those slippers came. It's a pair." She explained.
She stood up to go inside, held the door aloft, and Terry shuffled along as I followed. Evvie, Ash reported, was asleep in her crib.

I took off my jacket and hung it on their hall tree along with my bag while she unabashedly looked me up and down.
"I need to exercise." she said, grabbing both sweater and belly with both hands and jiggling them around.
"Well you live in the right place." I said. "The YMCA is wonderful here."
Excitedly, I prepped her on the pool, the classes, and most notably a ladies' afternoon aerobics group, hugely popular. I knew about it because I'd handed them their towels and keys and we bought our family home from the celebrated instructor who'd been teaching for 20 years.

"What kind of music?" she asked.
"Well, I think it's mostly synthesized pop, but it's ok. Mostly you'll hear Susan counting down from 10 to 1 over and over throughout the hour."

Ash raised an eyebrow at me as though this suggestion were less than ideal, but she groaned and reluctantly said she'd probably give it a try someday, assuming I was prepared to stay alone with the kids while she was there.

"Of course." I said. "I'm used to babysitting multiple kids at once" and went on to explain how when I was ten, I babysat five kids under the age of 7; they were children of family members who knew how responsible I was. Ash raised her eyebrow again and said, "I have no doubt."

Terry was in the living room looking for companionship, waving and vocalizing while he pushed a toy train engine through the dense white carpet. I bent down to help him, scanning the room for any remaining train cars so we could hook them up.

"Ash," I said, "do you have a finished basement?"
"Yes, why?"
"Well, we could take all of these toys and bring them down there so that your living room can be, ummm, tidied. Then, when people come to your door it'll look nice in here when you open it." I was taking a chance critiquing her cleaning skills, but she had walked me through this room the day before indicating she was living "in a shit hole mess" and wanting to clean it up.

"I have to keep an eye on Terry when he plays and I'm always upstairs" she explained.
"Well, now I'm here, and I can watch him downstairs, so should we try moving his toys?"
She shrugged in a half-decided fashion and bent down to pick up an Oscar the Grouch hand puppet. She put her fist in the trash can bottom and made him whine "But I loooove trash!"

Eventually, we got to work grabbing toys by the armload. Metal Tonka trucks, a floppy Dapper Dan doll, a xylophone, a soft gray rabbit missing an eye, and a wheeled dome with a long blue handle with which to push and pull. It held little brightly colored plastic balls which popped like they were being heated from beneath when I dragged it along.

Ash yelled, "Oh, God! I hate that fucking thing. Terry's jagoff Uncle gave it to him."
I lifted the wheels, "Does he live around here?"
"No, " Ash said. "Pittsburgh. And that's fine. We don't need any annoying toys or relatives right now."

We shuttled hard cover books, the rest of the train cars, a golden horsehead on a mop handle with a tangled yarn mane, and a Fisher Price farm which showcased a door bellowing "MOOOO" that Terry reluctantly passed to us after opening it over and over. He scouted Ash under his long eyelashes every time he did it, making sure it was okay to keep breaking the seal.

"It's ok buddy." I said. "Do you hear the cow?"
"Moooo." Terry giggled.

"That kid and his farm." Ash scoffed, waving her arm. "There's a hideous See and Say in the closet in Evvie's bedroom if you want to go grab it. Chickens, horses, pigs, and the whole damn barnyard makes a racket when you pull the string. The only sound it doesn't make is the farmer's wife running out the door screaming and losing her mind."

She stepped into the kitchen, opened the drawer next to the back door and swiped her cigarettes. Then she walked out onto the deck, closing the door abruptly behind her.

Terry shadowed me as I continued up and down, lugging toys until I had cleared the living room of all things childlike. In the sparsely furnished basement there was a lime colored rough and tumble beanbag chair, a small sized tv and lots of worn but clean carpeted surface upon which to play. Terry seemed eager to explore the newness of the space and I went to work lining up toys in rows on the floor since there were no shelves or toybox. As I organized, I flicked the television on and turned it to MTV. Teddy's eyes lit up and he gingerly touched the screen. Then, bending his knees over and over in a mini squat to the music, he peeked sideways at me with big wide eyes, looking for approval. I clapped and nodded enthusiastically. He, too, then clapped and grinned.

When Ash had finished her smoke, she appeared at the top of the stairs with Evvie and the See and Say precariously tucked under her arm. Terry saw it and squealed with joy flexing his knees and stretching his arms out. Coming down and presenting the toy to him, she then passed the baby to me, and pointed at Def Leppard's Joe Eliot in his white scarf and mullet, squinting and paying homage to Marilyn Monroe as she lay in a chalk outline.

"You like this?" she signaled.
"Um, yes, totally. I love it." I admitted.
"Mmmmmm." She wiped damp hands on her jeans and bent down to look closer. "I don't watch MTV anymore but I liked it BTK."
I bounced Evvie, wearing a pink shirt and matching pink and white plaid leggings, on my hip in time to the beat. Her little head bobbed up and down and swayed like she was riding a mule. She looked at me, trying to decipher who had a hold of her, trying to poke my eyelid with her thumb.
"Why can't you watch it with the kids?"
"I...I don't know." Ash stammered. "I feel like...actually I have no idea what I feel."

She stood upright, gesturing at the toys lined up in rows.
"Do you think a big cardboard box would be okay until we figure out how to contain this?" she asked.
"Yeah, maybe."
She went to the dark far left corner of the room and lugged over a sizable box. It looked like it held an appliance at one time. The only contents in it now were a few framed pictures, which she mistakenly upturned onto the floor. As I bent down to retrieve them, I saw that the largest was of her and someone who I assumed was her husband, presumably BTK.

"That's Rob," Ash tapped at the glass "when he had hair."

It was a great photo of two young, attractive, and freewheeling people. I'd not heard his name before that minute but he looked like a Rob or a Robbie, with an inviting smile, cocoa brown curls, and a cornflower blue vneck sweater low enough to showcase ample chest hair and a gold cross.

"Daddy" Teddy announced, nudging the image with the See and Say while he danced.

"Yes and Mommy" I said jutting my chin toward Ash in the frame. Teddy looked blankly at the photo and went back to pulling the string without making the connection. Ash was about 50 pounds thinner then with long straight hair and a tight black turtleneck. She smirked in the picture, suggesting mischief, and her hands were casually placed on Rob's shoulders as they posed for the photographer. Her head dipped toward his torso like they were in love.

Evvie's little legs started kicking as she spit and babbled, clearly digging the tempo of the Papa Don't Preach video. A newly buff and white blonde pixie'd Madonna argued with Danny Aiello on the tube. Ash said, "She looks like that because she's never really been pregnant." She then flopped down into the bean bag and told me about how having two babies in a span of two and a half years had levelled her body. She lifted one denim leg up and pointed her toe, complaining about flabby thighs, a fleshy derrière, and then, lightly cupping her breasts, declared they were like balloons with no air in them.

"No one tells you this" she simpered, "but let me be the one to tell you! Breast feeding ruins your rack."

Not knowing how to follow her pronouncement, I said, "Do you want me to vacuum? Feed the kids? Get things cleaned up upstairs?" She didn't answer me. Instead, she leaned forward, her eyes scrunched up, closely inspecting Madonna bopping around on the screen.

"Okay. How about if you let Terry play with stuff and I'll take Evvie up and vacuum? Where is it?"
"Yes. Please. Hall closet" she flapped her hand at the stairs, eyes fixated.

I went up with the baby and got out the Hoover. We made big sweeps up and down the white grain as it perked up a bit. I'd vacuumed my way out of the living room by the time they came back upstairs and was wrapping the cord. Ash made a noise which seemed like approval of the rug's condition. We all went into the kitchen where she poured Terry some milk and sat him in his chair. Flipping on another small countertop TV in the kitchen which I had not noticed the day before, she tuned in a show for Teddy, took a bottle out of the fridge for Evvie, and secured it in electric bottle warmer which looked ancient and had a picture of a doggy and a duck on it. I made a mental note of everything she did, hoping I'd be doing it someday while she was at exercise class.

As I checked the temperature of the bottle, and bumped Evvie up and down on my hip, Ash held the framed photograph up to a variety of spots on the living room wall.

"I think Rob would like me to hang this." she said.
"Do you have a hammer and nail?"
"Yeah, somewhere in the garage but we don't need to do this now."
"Why not?" I asked. "I've got them; go find it and we'll hang it."

She went and fetched the hardware. It was good to see her enthusiasm for things that led to accomplishment. After we hung the picture together, she shifted a corner, leveled it, and smiled.

For the rest of my time that day, Ash loaded laundry into the washer and dryer and I gave Evvie her bottle, chubby baby digits grasping mine as we sat at the kitchen table. Tracing her tiny fingernails I saw it was dark outside.

"Tomorrow's Thursday" Ash said, folding socks on the kitchen table. "Do you have any plans?"
"Not really," I said, "why do you need me to stay longer?"
"Yeah, Rob's working late and I would really like to have a glass of wine when the kids go to sleep."
She stopped talking, looked me in the eye, hedged for a moment, and then continued.
"And I'm afraid once I start, it'll be hard to stop at one glass."
"And you want me here in case the kids need something before Rob gets home?"
"Yes." she nodded.

So I conceded. I'd come back the next afternoon and stay into the evening as long as she needed me to. Unsure about getting back to my Mom's late at night, I pictured myself walking miles in the dark or maybe balding Rob could drive me.

Ash pushed a large wad of crumpled dollars into my hand and thanked me as I stood up to leave. I grabbed my jacket and hearing the noisiness of MTV still lingering, I looked back, stuffing them in my pocket. Ash stared in the direction of the basement door as she folded and I wondered if she would go back down and watch some more.

Walking, I considered her disclosure. I'd seen a sizable wrought iron wine rack in the adjacent dining area when we were cleaning up the toys and I wondered how our night would go.

I looked forward to finding out.

#1970s #1980s #defleppardphotograph #papadontpreach #mushroomtumbler

The hands are there for friendship. The heart is there for love.

I had a paper route. I think mine was the worst in the city. I had street after street of multi family houses filled with people who didn't answer the door on collection day and moved out under cover of the night leaving me (and probably their landlord) holding week after week of unpaid bills.

I also baby sat twice a week, over a three year period, for a child who didn't like me. The kid literally growled at me from his high chair while I tried spooning Kraft macaroni and cheese, the only food he'd eat, behind his little chiclet teeth clamped down with rage.

Those gigs were a whole lotta "have to" and not a lot of "want to".

Then I began working for our hometown YMCA. In the summer, I was a camp counselor (loved it). During the week, I worked at the front check in area, handing out keys and towels (liked it). On the weekends, I was a fitness instructor within our Nautilus room, all suited up in my Hind running tights, kick ass Nike Pegasus, and my Y-issued white popped collar polo shirt, smelling of bleach and Giorgio (loved the outfit). I did this for three years and made some money, which I spent as quickly as I earned it.

But then becoming a high school senior, I was one hundred percent burnt out on work and life. I wanted a less demanding schedule before embarking upon college. Also, my living situation was a little upended and I was looking for part time employment where I could make decent money without feeling harried. Two or three hours of calm per day was desperately needed. Nervously, I threw caution to the wind, quit the Y at the end of August and started looking for something different.

One morning, while reading the paper before school, I saw an ad in the help wanted section for a "Mother's Helper". Curious, I called. It was 7:30 am. I figured mothers were awake. Needing to hustle off to homeroom, it was the only time I had available to me.

"Aughhhh! Yell-OH?", a voice choked into the receiver.
"Uh...hi. I'm calling about the ad?"
A sizable clattering bang followed, though I couldn't place what it was. I didn't hear any children or other people in the background.
"Can you come by this aftuhnoon to intuhview?", she asked. Her voice seemed impeded by something in her mouth, impossible to say what.
"Sure", I said. We mutually agreed on a 3 pm arrival time as she lived a half hour walking distance from the high school. She asked me my name. She gave me the address. I was going to a really nice neighborhood and I was psyched.

Quickly, before leaving for school, I put on an outfit that shouted "Nanny". I pulled all of my crazy hair back into a smooth ponytail. I wore pegged jeans, rolled up above the ankle, my Sebago Docksides with no socks, and an ivory pullover which was heavy cotton, but knit to look like a chunky Irish fisherman's sweater. My pearl studs completed the outfit, along with my class ring and oxblood Aigner purse. I had no idea how perfect this getup was until I got to the house.

I knocked twice at the mammoth glossy black front door using the substantial and expensive looking gold Claddagh shaped doorknocker, and Aisling yanked it open with a flourish.

"Oh my GAWD are you Irish?" she yelled.
"Ummm...yes...a little on my grand..." I started explaining but hearing nothing more, she grabbed my wrist and pulled me, stumbling, up a single tall step into her beautiful brick home.

She started rambling a mile a minute, gesturing to the inside of the house. Her eyes darted back and forth and her breathing seemed awfully labored for someone just standing in her foyer. It quickly became clear that she needed help. Nowadays, I might have noticed her actions, her words and the information which she so readily disclosed as clues to post partum depression but back then, I just thought of her as mildly unhinged.

She led me further inside. Every curtain in her huge formal living room was floor to ceiling black velvet, drawn tightly shut, despite it being a gorgeous September afternoon. There was white carpet but it was in need of a good vacuuming and there were colorful toys strewn about. The floor scene reminded me of fruity pebbles floating in a big bowl of milk. The coffee table held at least a week's worth of mail and two leaning piles of magazines with celebrities on the cover.

Her eyeliner and mascara were noticeably smudged. I suspected that perhaps she'd had it on since yesterday and it'd become muted and stippled due to an overnight's worth of sleep and eye rubbing. I got that idea because mine looked like that too on a lot of recent mornings.

As she was talking a blue streak, and I was observing the surroundings and her appearance more than I was taking in her words, I caught a bit of information here and there. She said something about recently having relocated from a big city in Pennsylvania. She was tired. She needed someone to help her deal with her kids, her house, and her life. I nodded. Just then, a little boy came peeking around the corner from a hallway. He padded over to me in mismatching socks, one brown, one green, and touched me on the arm with a dirty index finger. I could tell that she was slightly annoyed and distracted by his presence and that they had somehow made an agreement for him to stay put for a few minutes, but the few minutes was up and he wanted to see who was in his house. She let him stay, conceivably to see how our interaction would play out. I hadn't said one word since my half-answer to her family heritage inquiry.

"Are you heppy?", the child canvassed me quietly, looking me in the eye.
It took me a second...heppy? But then I understood. Leaning down to his pensive little face I said, "Well, not all the time but today, yeah, I'm pretty heppy."
He looked up at Aisling and grinned.
She asked me when I could start.

I stayed with Aisling that afternoon because she was in the middle of a frenzied kitchen cabinet cleanup that clearly required two people. She wanted it done before her husband, an emergency room doctor, came home at 5:15 from the hospital.

She asked me to call her "Ash". Her son was Terence who they called "Terry" and her baby daughter, less than a year old, and sleeping in her crib, was Aibhlinn, better known as "Evvie". Terry was bright eyed and gorgeous with a mop of thick dark hair and ruddy cheeks. He scampered up into a tall ladderback chair with arms and proceeded to slurp his Ectocooler drink box while his mom pulled items from within the lower cabinets.

I remarked on Terry's good looks. "He looks just like his FATHAH." she said, throwing Tupperware around the kitchen floor. Not knowing what we were doing, exactly, I gathered up everything she tossed and stacked it on the kitchen table. She would occasionally stop yanking and sit on the tile with her back up against the cupboards, sweating and running her burgundy nails across her scalp, pulling strands of hair out of her eyes. It was dark brown, textured like mine, and looked like she might have tried to cut it herself, unsuccessfully.

We worked as she ranted and volleyed plastic containers to me. She told me she wasn't any good at organization. She also told me that she was lonely, had no friends, and hated living in our small town. She told me people were narrow minded around here. She told me she was restless as fuck. Ten minutes in, she abruptly stood up, swept two black garbage bags off of the countertop and said, "Let's throw this shit out".

Hundreds of dollars worth of perfectly good food storage went into the bags and then out the back door, flung upon a beautifully appointed large wooden deck. She squinted in the sunshine for a minute before leaning on the door, still ajar, and said, "Can you go rouse Evvie?" I looked over at Terry, still sitting in his chair. I'd been around lots of 2 year old children and had never seen one sit still for so long. I nodded to her and said to him, "Come with me." He hopped down leaving the drink box. He willingly took my hand.

Evvie's room was painted a violent shade of purple that seemed more Studio 54 than newborn baby. She was just waking up. I leaned over the white rail and talked to her in a singsong voice. At first, she wrinkled her brow confusedly with a look of solid concern and possibly tears to come, but then she saw Terry and smiled. She looked like a bald little Ash. Oddly, she was outfitted in a red party dress that squeezed her tiny biceps with too-tight elastic sleeves. There were piles of baby clothes all over the floor. Feeling wetness, I quickly scanned the room, found what I needed and changed her disposable diaper. Because there was no garbage pail in sight, I handed it to Terry and said, "Go ask, ummmm, Mama to throw this away outside." I didn't know what he called her, because he hadn't addressed her in front of me, but he understood, grabbed the white plastic bundle and trotted off toward the hallway. I picked up Evvie, smoothed her little eyebrows, touched her button nose, and carried her out into the kitchen.

The screen door banged like a shotgun and startled the two of us. Ash walked in, thanked me profusely for changing Evvie, guided Terry back to his chair, and washed her hands in the sink. I could tell she had just taken a few drags off of a cigarette and eventually came to learn that she kept her ashtray on the deck, choosing not to smoke in front of the kids. Her Marlboro Lights were in a drawer right near the backdoor. Her Bic lighter was housed in a silver sleeve festooned with turquoise and red coral pieces. I thought it might have had the words "Rock and Roll" engraved on it. Intrigued, I tried getting a look as she shoved it away under the phonebook.

"BTK" she said.
"What?"
"Before the kids."

It wouldn't be the last time she said the letters "BTK" to me. In fact, they came up every time I worked for and with Ash. That day she told me the story of a long-ago trip to the desert with her husband and buying the lighter cover from a Native American Trading Post. It was the only time during our two hours when she seemed relaxed.

After I buckled Evvie into her high chair and gave her a handful of stale Cheerios to push around, I told Ash I had to go. I hadn't anticipated staying that day and needed to get home. She said "Oh! Sure! Of course!" and apologized for having kept me. Walking me toward the door, she asked me if I could come again the next day and looking at Terry in his little Ghostbuster tshirt, I told her definitely, absolutely, yes.

On my way out of the heavy door front door, ornamented with thick glass windows on each side, a singular light source in the sundowning darkness, I wanted to ask her if she was paying me for my time...and how much. She didn't and I didn't either. Ash was only able to focus on one thing at a time and right then she was trying to figure out what to do for dinner for herself, Terry and his father who was expected home at any minute.

I walked outside and down the concrete steps, trimmed in brick. After she shut the door, I turned around and looked at the house. Its façade was so stately and moneyed. It spoke of success, genteelness...surely a happy Monopoly playing, cocoa drinking, perfect dental appointment every six months family lived here. But having spent two hours throwing kitchenware about, and looking at what needed to be addressed, it in no way belied what was going on within. I felt certain that my time there was not going to be any less stressful than the YMCA jobs but I also thought, perchance I could make a bigger, more satisfying difference with Ash and the kids. I also really liked her.

I put my Walkman on, turned up my Journey Evolution tape, and walked to my Mom's, eagerly anticipating our next afternoon.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Please Note: All names have been changed.

Aisling means "dream" or "vision". In Ireland it also means "a beautiful woman in peril".
Terence means "one who aids or assists".
Aibhlinn means "wished for or longed for".

If you want to hear more about my year with Ash, her husband and her two children, who became my two hour a day responsibility, let me know in the Google Blogspot comments; or by commenting in Facebook on my Mushroom Tumbler page or my personal page. I have many stories to share pertaining to this time in my life. Some are happy, some are sad, but overall, they speak quite loudly to me right now as a woman working in and through a transitory period herself.

Being 50 is where it's at, y'all.

Finally, thank you for reading what I write. I appreciate your support.

#1970s #1980s #postpartumdepression #mushroomtumbler

Fins to the Left, Fins to the Right

At about 10 years old, teachers, relatives and a few fast-tracking neurotic kids started asking me about what I wanted to be when I grew up.

In the fifth grade, we all were beyond the astronaut, President of the United States, superhero, and Radio City Rockette kind of answers. Following the mandatory presentations on puberty, and made hyper-aware of our impending adulthoods, our teachers and school nurse encouraged us to become more serious about future career choices based on what little we knew about the world and how it worked.

My best buddy Hailie had traveled to Nags Head, North Carolina over the summer and I had traveled to Homestead, Florida, over winter break. Returning home beautifully tanned and full of souvenirs and ramped up stories, we'd both become infatuated with and scared to death by the idea of man-eating sharks in the ocean. Jointly, based on our travels and subsequent anecdotes, we decided that we were going to be marine biologists.

As kids, we were confident enough to take the single thing that frightened us most, gave us the craziest nightmares, caused us to shriek in ponds and lakes when wading amongst plant material, and made us wear diving masks in chlorinated pools so we could see what was sneaking up on us, just in case...and make it the focus of our future career aspirations. I think back and I'm in awe. Really, do you miss those pre-teen attitudes and ideals where deliberate bravery, possible stupidity, and optimism ruled? I most certainly do.

When Hailie and I had library time at school, we raced to where the books on great whites, oceans, and Jacques Cousteau were held. We were Marine Biologists in training and everyone knew it. The cards in the back of those heavy, cerulean, glossy volumes had only two names, line after line, inscribed in loopy penciled script on the yellow date stamped rectangles of paper. Of course, they were mine and Hailie's. The grand plan between the two of us was to read and keep poring over and exchanging all the books. We figured we'd share information until we knew everything there was to know about the briny seas and all of their creatures. We also were anxious to learn how to deep sea dive and not get the dreaded "bends", which was a mammoth fear of ours. For our age and what we had available to us, we felt mildly successful. For example, we learned what colors not to wear in the ocean (red and silver, still useful to this day) and how to bop a shark on the nose if ever confronted unexpectedly (not sure how useful that would be).

To celebrate Easter 1980, I traveled to Connecticut with my parents, and several other family members, to the estate of my Great Aunt and Uncle. My Great Aunt did not work outside the home, though she worked long and hard inside the home, a large brick turn of the century colonial with 5 bedrooms and scads of bric a brac requiring endless dusting. My Great Uncle did not approve of his wife wearing pants; he grew and harvested all of his own pesticide free vegetables before organic gardening was trendy and proudly built airplanes as a vocation after having grown up poor during the depression. The two of them were childless and enjoyed entertaining a houseful of people. We were welcomed heartily upon arrival.

Dinner was served upon a beautifully appointed pastel linen and antique china bestowed table. The first question, after having said grace and being asked to pass the ham was "What are you thinking of doing when you grow up?" The gravelly voice boomed in my direction from my left where my Great Uncle held court, almost pulpit style. I gulped my milk down, wiped my mouth on my lace napkin, and said assuredly and declaredly "Marine Biologist." He chortled, took his fork and poking an air trajectory toward my face, declared that this was no career plan for a landlocked, upstate New York, silly little girl who was still taking Red Cross swimming lessons every summer. Our crowd giggled softly and passed the vegetables and potatoes. Embarrassed, I hung my head down, pushed my food around with immeasurable dejection, and barely ate anything that day. I'd had plenty of honest discussions about real life topics; my parents rarely sugarcoated things with me, but career goals were not routinely discussed and Hailie and I were just completing 3 solid months of successful shark study! I felt like he had tossed me off of a ledge into nothingness. Sitting on the floor next to a marble topped table for the rest of the afternoon, I listened to the adults argue about politics while I twirled Made in Occupied Japan dancing porcelain pixie figurines around under the watchful eye of my nervous Great Aunt who sat on the couch behind me, also seemingly sad and ignored. I might have left a hard boiled egg in the drawer of that cold hard table buried beneath some old TV Guides when she wasn't looking because my feelings were hurt and I had no other way to make that known.

The first time someone sharply and sternly tells you that you may NOT consider what you had hoped to achieve in life becomes a moment very hard to forget. Sadly, I also learned that day that people having an opinion about me that runs contrary to how I feel and calls into question my abilities and decisions does not make me love them measurably less, but it makes me love myself measurably less. It also makes me question everything I know that feels authentic and real. My Great Uncle's brash, abrupt statement about how I didn't deserve and had no right to my dreams would not, as you can imagine, be the last time someone brushed off my ideas and ambitions.

I wrote my first creative piece that year, assigned by my 5th grade teacher. The general gist of it was a treasure hunt myth of sorts plotted on a deserted island; but the real gold to be found in the groovy tropical tale was the inclusion of most of my classmates into the story. They absolutely and unexpectedly went wild for it. Being named in the tale was like being part of some fantastical fraternity of sorts. I was actually asked by some of my classmates, after it was read aloud, to please write a sequel, and write it fast. Kids gave me Pop Rocks, Turkish Taffy and stickers as bribes so that they might be main characters. I think I was bitten hard by the writing bug right then and there.

Three years later, I was invited to our local hospital as an eighth grader because I was testing exceptionally well in science, and the hospital wanted students my age to become oriented to hometown medical careers by visiting with doctors in a variety of disciplines. I recall being taken down to the morgue and seeing a horror show which led to the vivid realization that although medicine was intriguing, I absolutely did not want anything to do with the dead or dying. However, I also learned that I liked the hospital jobs which focused on the brain. Psychiatry, brain surgery, neurology, it all sounded exciting and I fancied the idea of being helpful to someone who had compromised gray matter. I dropped the writing as a career idea because I felt this made better sense. I knew doctors but I didn't know any writers.

Heading back to Connecticut for Easter in the Spring of 1983 I wore a pair of green pants with a matching striped Izod shirt knowing full well this might tweak my Great Uncle's sensibilities as he and my Great Aunt were probably expecting a smocked bodice dress and smart new shoes. Head held high, and ribbon barrettes blowing in the car window breeze, I was duly prepared for the career question. I felt so ready, and the anticipation of having a better answer to share made me giddy.

At the museum quality table, several minutes into dinner I had not been asked my burning question or acknowledged, so I enthusiastically piped up with my news about the hospital program which had, by then, met a half dozen times. My Great Uncle listened for about one minute, then noisily put his fork down, picked up his knife, and poked circles in the air across the table from my head and shoulders as he pronounced, silvery tip held aloft like a baton designed to perforate and masticate fantasies:

"Nurse. Teacher."

"That's what you'll choose from if you want to be a success" and then he moved along to other conversant topics like ways to save money and how the best strategy to keep blonde hair a youthful buttery yellow was to use the water from boiled green vegetables as a final rinse every day. People chewed and nodded. No one looked in my direction.

I'd been shut down again. This time, though, I spent the rest of the day wandering through the orchards and gardens in the back of the house. I had nothing left to say. No one seemed to mind. My parents, tired from the holiday and just wanting to get home with a long drive ahead, said nothing after my goals had been labeled as unachievable pipe dreams for the second time. Reading quietly on every car trip with my red dime store flashlight and never ending supply of books was normal behavior, so my silence wasn't a clue to them that what was said was bothering me.

The next day I wrote about my feelings in my diary. Nothing against nursing or teaching but they hadn't been on my radar since I was much younger and role playing at other kids' houses when we needed a game that everyone could relate to so we played "school" and "hospital". Ironically, I then gave up on and stopped attending the hospital program having lost confidence that neuroscience could possibly pan out.

We students took aptitude tests toward the very end of our tenure in middle school and mine showed promise for a few different things. Psychological sciences, communication arts, and...very specifically, deejaying! I remember focusing on the deejay possibility very closely when our grey and white bubble sheets were handed back to us. My 8th grade Guidance Counselor, a jolly bald guy with an affinity for pointy toed cowboy boots, big belt buckles, and gentle flirtation with all the single female teachers in the hallways, didn't seem to care what I focused on as long as I didn't bug him about it too often. Deejaying! Woo hoo! How had I not seen this? My favorite class was music appreciation! Every penny I had was spent on records and cassettes! I begged, borrowed and stole to get into every concert in town! I stayed up late at night behind my closed bedroom door in the dark waiting for the King Biscuit Flower Hour! I adored percussion but our band teacher wouldn't let girls play the drums and playing the triangle for the next few years didn't seem like a great use of my time so I had no musical talent to speak of but deejaying, hey! This was definitely a career I could excel at and learn to love.

That plan for my future lasted until my mother got wind of it and said, "No way." She encouraged me to read, learn and do my best but to leave the job title "on air personality at a radio station" in the dust. She was convinced I'd be bored and underpaid. Not knowing what to do or how to reconcile my chances for success along with what was on my bubble sheet, I continued loving music as a hobby but the microphone would stay silent, at least for me.

It took until my senior year of high school to even slightly figure things out. My mother suggested I  pursue becoming a lawyer. She said this because I argued with her and we agreed I was pretty adept at arguing. My father was as undecided as I was. All he knew was that I felt lost, which I think made him uneasy but also unwilling to suggest anything lest it be the wrong recommendation. We all knew a tremendous amount of money was going to be spent on college. No one wanted to be responsible for interjecting something that would eventually require rethinking, change, and additional stress. Then, like a flash of light, my senior year English teacher told me to write a book. (I think his exact words were "Write a damn book.") He encouraged me to continue with the pouring out of my guts;  lofty stuff I wrote for him despite it not ever seeing the light of day because it was far too controversial to be read in front of the class or sent home. Sharing life's tragedies and teenaged traumas in a public way were not what we did in the 80s, unless apportioned on paper, occasionally in rhyming pentameter, tucked away in the Trapper Keeper, fat red "A" in Sharpie marker within the margin.

I read and wrote non stop in college, receiving consistent praise from my poetry teacher and creative writing professor. My editing skills were honed by proofreading papers regularly for a few boys in my Psychology classes for eight semesters straight. In order to get my double major requirements fulfilled within those four years, I had to do two challenging independent study classes in Behavioral Psychology and Experimental Psychology where all I did was read textbooks and write papers proving what I'd learned from week to week. I was a scribing machine. However, as graduation loomed, I grappled my way toward a more lucrative career and put writing, at least as a profession, aside.

Do you write too? Do you fill notebook after notebook with drafts and scribbles and narratives and anecdotes and thoughts and quips and lists on napkins and ideas and scraps of paper? Do most of them end up in the garbage after years of being stored away in boxes in closets and under the bed? I feel you. Something happened though, this year, upon turning 50. Something broke hard and deep inside me and after all this time and all the waiting, I need to tell all the pieces of my stories. Desperate to let my characters breathe and determined to stop squelching my voice, I am working on finding and supporting that ten year old girl who took what she was most afraid of and made it into her career choice. I want to be her again.

Last week, I submitted a blog post to a magazine; a piece of recent and decent writing for them to consider. This is all new to me. I'm just trying to find my way. Hey, maybe they'll want to use me but I know it's a long shot. My Great Uncle, may he rest in peace, would probably tell me that a thousand other people submitted stories this week too. He'd tell me that quitting my job was careless in a way that he cold not possibly fathom. Plus, if he knew how much I spent on hair dye between 1989 and 2017 instead of pouring broccoli water over my head, he probably would have disavowed me on the spot, eating utensil in hand, gesturing and lecturing.

BUT...

Many people are conditioned to have lower expectations for what life has to offer.

Read that again.

Many people
are conditioned
to have lower expectations for what life
has to offer.

And I'm utterly done being one of those people.

And I might not be bopping sharks on the nose but I am looking fear in the face and telling it to bite me.

~ ~ ~

For your visual pleasure, below I have included some of my awesome drawings from 1980. Ha! See the shark? I am still in love with and scared shitless by them.

And I'll never lose my passion for the ocean and everything in it.

And I can't seem to stop starting sentences with the word AND. My apologies to the English professors, I sincerely extend.

Oh, good vibes about the magazine are appreciated, thank you so much...and thanks for reading what I write. I am grateful for the support, suggestions and kind words you have sent to me.

#1970s #1980s #sharks #marinebiology #fins #mushroomtumbler

The Hip Hooray and Bally Hoo...or..."Musical Compatibility"

Did you ever take one of those love quizzes?

I'm sure someone has asked you, at some point, to list what attributes you find most attractive in a potential mate.

What stymies me is that almost never does a quiz or questionnaire offer a check-box for musical compatibility, when really, this deserves some careful consideration.

Starting with sense of humor, followed by desire to put me on a pedestal (I mean, let's be honest, here), I'd give love of music the next most prominent spot on the list. I mean, if you're serious about someone you are basically stepping into the longest car ride of your life. Do you really want to fight over the channel?

It used to be easy to eliminate guys who weren't for me; all it took was a 10 minute look at their music collections. Those enterprising teenaged boys who joined Columbia House under the name of every family member, including the dog, for the sake of getting multiple stabs at those 13 records and tapes? Well, they were definite contenders for companionship.

My musical persnickity-ness started young. I remember one kid in particular who sort of invited me to the movies when we were 13. I was heading home from my summer job and saw him half waving as I pedaled by his big front porch. I stopped, he invited me to sit, and we talked about the movies for a minute, nervously planning an afternoon out at the mall. He then flipped over a cassette which had been silent, pressed play on his boom box and ran inside to grab a newspaper. Out came some whirly swirly tune which seemed mildly but irritatingly familiar. Surreptitiously taking a look at the plastic cases he had left stacked on the horizontal porch railing I saw a total of five; all Peter Gabriel era Genesis, which made me squint as though microphone feedback were imminent. More than a few minutes of extended length prog-rock jazzy jamming makes me want to tear my ears off. As the kid bounded back down the steps, enthusiastically spouting off movie times, I faked mononucleosis and saw Stroker Ace with a different dude the following week.

Different dude and I both heartily agreed after seeing the film that it was crap, which added a little tread to the ol' compatibility tire, but, as you can imagine, musical trouble was just around the corner. We were sticking uncomfortably in our nylon Dolphin running shorts to his Mom's Versailles-styled plastic covered ivory brocade couch, listening to the latest Police release, the almost perfect Synchronicity. I'd enjoyed the album at least a dozen times previous to that day and loved it all except for the song  "Wrapped Around Your Finger", which then began to play.  A self-professed 'huge' Police fan, he looked at me and blankly stated, "I will turn your face to alabaster." Raising an eyebrow, I said, "What?" unsure about this weird lyrical suggestion. Then he sighed and slowly and methodically professed, "best line ever" and...poof, like Sting knocking over a candlestick, the flame, for me, was extinguished. I knew this 'colossal fan' had barely given Andy, Sting and Stewart a listen based on that pronouncement. I mean THAT's the song? And the BEST lyric? Good God, I can think of four songs on Outlandos d'Amour alone that are better than this odd, mythically peppered tune about power dynamics. Oh well, I thought, peeling my thighs off the vinyl coverlet, too bad. He was cute, too.

Another boyfriend had played a lead role in all of the musicals offered at his high school. Not knowing him well because he was from a neighboring town, I simply assumed our constant and repeated listening to Carol Channing's "Hello Dolly" was because Horace Vandergelder needed to learn and memorize all his songs. Then, months after the play, and with Dolly successfully packed away, his family opened their Olympic sized swimming pool complete with perfectly piped surround sound. I was so excited because I couldn't wait to lay my towel down and stretch out under the hot sun, strumming my fingers on the wet concrete to all kinds of anticipated popular music. I pictured some Journey, maybe some Boston, and definitely U2's new album, The Joshua Tree. On the inaugural day of the family pool opening, I sprinted through the sun room and onto the pool deck first, leaving him behind so that he could deejay. He came out to join me, super happy in his striped Alexander Julian swimsuit, and next thing you know, 42nd Street comes playfully tap tap tapping out of the speakers. What is happening? Ok, I love musical theatre as much as, or in actuality, way more than, the average person, but really? Could we listen to something that doesn't involve a full orchestra and shuffling off to Buffalo as I gulp down my Clearly Canadian? After an entire day of him rhythmically tossing his moussed hair back and forth and snapping his oily Coppertone fingers to "We're in the Money" on a never ending loop, I risked getting kicked out of the theatrical poolside retreat by starting to complain about the lack of musical variety and rolling my eyes (although they were behind my darkest Wayfarers). I also inadvertently pissed him off by repeatedly singing the Milford Plaza commercial lyrics over top of the "Lullaby of Broadway".  Finally, when I threatened to drown myself if I had to listen to "I Only Have Eyes for You" one more time, he went inside and returned with his brother's 5150 disc, (which, to me, will always be a Van Hagar production) proclaiming that it was THE BEST Van Halen album ever. Ack! Blasphemer! That's pretty much the day I knew we were doomed.

Nowadays, I hope if you're single and mingling, that you get to date someone with a Sirius XM radio subscription, because even though you're probably not going to get your hands on that person's phone to look at his or her iTunes, and almost no one under the age of 30 has a physical music collection, you can at least see, when you enter their vehicle, what stations they have preset. This can tell you quite a lot about a person. For example, if you are a Hair Nation girl and his preset number 1 is Prom Radio, you'll want to have a little chitty chat about this.

My beloved spouse enjoys his music and when time allows, pens lyrics that resemble a Morrissey/Toby Keith hybrid of sorts...picture a brooding, emotionally isolated cowpoke. Anyway, I do love that we were musically compatible right from the start. When he got into my car the first time, he picked up two heavily scratched silvery circles off my console, both soundtracks to popular Quentin Tarantino movies. He squinted at them, shrugged and said, "These look good" . He didn't flinch when I cranked Link Wray as high as I could and when I got into his, he had Alanis Morrissette's Jagged Little Pill playing. A guy who tolerates my music and listens to alt rock songs wailed disparately by a jilted and angst-ridden girl? I predicted endless possibility for empathy there (good call - to this day that suspicion rings true). My cassette collection does not bother him, nor do my bags upon bags (upon bags) of CDs or the 15,000 songs I've downloaded on my iPods or my regular splurge of 10 additional songs per week. My propensity toward every genre no matter how obscure flies just fine with him as long as he gets his Brantley Gilbert and Zac Brown fixes. I always ask him what he wants to hear and about half the time he comes up with a suggestion. The other half, he tells me to play whatever I want, as long as it's not sensational songstress Streisand which we've agreed that I only play when he is out of the house because he can't do Babs. This, my friends, is love.

I have a physical therapist working with my shoulder right now who says she has no favorite song, no favorite band, no favorite album. She admits to not recognizing, ever, who sings what by hearing it on the radio positioned near her table in the medical practice. She says she just knows if she likes the song or not. She does not hum. She does not sing along. I can't help humming and singing along, even when she is yanking the snot out of me.

I wonder how she knows who to go out with and whether she will be compatible with the guys she dates. At first, I leave her feeling a bit of motherly worry, like, she is missing so much! But then I wonder if maybe I could have been a physical therapist if I had room for something in my head besides singers, song lyrics and band names. Eh, just kidding. I'll take the music.


~ ~ ~

Thank you for reading this blog.
My readership is actively growing.
I am currently looking for a publisher or a gig writing for The Goldbergs, my favorite show.
Chuck Klosterman are you out there?
Adam F. Goldberg, do you need a contributing writer?

#1970s #1980s #chuckklosterman #42ndstreet #hellodolly #siriusxm #adamfgoldberg #thegoldbergs #mushroomtumbler

Art for Nostalgia's Sake

My beloved junior high art teacher, Mrs. Eleanor Rowland, used to routinely ask, "WHAT IS ART?" 

I was doing online research for mushroom tumbler yesterday and came across this pair of prints. I admit, I squealed like a child in the midst of a sugar rush upon seeing them. I even did a happy dance, fist pumping and butt shimmying (while sitting on the couch in my rough and tumble bathrobe, not sure it was my finest moment). 

This exact set adorned the walls of my best chum's bedroom when we were kids and I was overjoyed when they appeared magically before me. It was like running across two old colonial friends! They are 1970s Sears and Roebuck primitive prints and I, at the time they hung on my friend's wall, thought they were the absolute highest pinnacle of home décor. 

Elated, I quickly sent my bosom buddy the link to the page on which they were being offered for sale along with a quip and my memory. She replied, "I vaguely remember something like this. Are you sure? Why would my mother put such weird art in our house?"

And then her mother chimed in by saying, "I think she is right, though they are creepy."

With my hand twitching aloft the mouse, wanting to click and remit my 35 dollars plus shipping because I was captivated, I felt awash with joy; these prim and proper faces transported me right back to 1978. So, I expressed this purchase plan to my friend, and she exclaimed, "DO NOT!" (along with an emoji which looked like it was in pain).

And therein lies the difference between me and others (read: normal people). 

I am one hundred percent lured, roped in, and suckered by nostalgia.

I really want those pictures. 

I still might buy those pictures...

despite the fact that my husband will freaking flip AND I have no place to put them. 

"But honey", (as I tear open the cardboard box and moths fly out) "it's ART!"

Is art, strictly for nostalgia's sake, art? What if just looking at it brings me throwback joy, Mrs. Rowland? 

As common as these prints are, as out of style as they may be, and as weird as I am for feeling entranced by and desiring them, I think my junior high teacher would back me up on this. 

As Mrs. Rowland used to preach, "ART reflects what is IMPORTANT to us!" 

Encouraging our ever-developing imaginations, she would peer over the top of her smoky lenses at what we were creating, murmuring "very goods" and "mmm hmmmms". With her mellow countenance, a classic ash blonde up-do held securely in place by a hipster tooled leather barrette, and an ever-present monstrously large copper bib style necklace, she neither grossly flattered nor harshly corrected anything we created. That's a recipe for conflict-free art with teenagers, for sure. 

She'd have us sit with our eyes closed at the start of class to imagine what we were about to put down on our blank canvases. I still routinely practice that visualization technique today. 

"Aaaaahhhhhrt." she stressed. "It's whatever is important." 

As I think of my family's domain, it occurs to me that my parents never changed what art had been initially arranged, once placed and straightened accordingly. Our interior décor was not fixed according to whim, modified seasonally or altered in keeping with what was popular. It just was.

I think again of Mrs. Rowland, who said ART reflects what is IMPORTANT to us. Therefore, is art which reflects what we love noticeable within today's homes? Is nostalgia, because it's not trendy, actually reflective of what we love but...going by the wayside in favor of HGTV style refurbishments?

Does what hangs on your walls, enhances your tables, and prettifies your nest say something about what is cherished in your life? I think it does. Whomever enters your dwelling undoubtedly sees objects which bring you joy. I just love a house full of stories and memories. 

With my eyes shut, in a room by room scan, I am now thoughtfully cataloging each wall of my childhood home. A host of artful images is coming to mind. I haven't thought about some of this stuff in over 30 years. Alternately joyful and sorrowful on this emotional tour, I'd like you to come along. 

Upon setting foot in our entryway, you'd see it decorated with several small pineapple prints and figurines; pineapples being the universal symbol for welcome. Our living room had a nautical theme, each piece of art handpicked by my mother in a very deliberate way. Paintings of boats sailing in rough waters, a ships wheel clock and a map of Cape Cod, Massachusetts stand out very clearly in my mind. Mom covets the Cape, so our living space reflected her desire to be surrounded by that which brought her delight. 

Our kitchen art consisted of glossily framed finger paint animals from my preschool years. My rooster was all red and angry next to our avocado colored refrigerator. The dining room walls held large canvases; mellow saffron sunflowers and bold white daisies in front of weathered old graying barns, juxtaposing both new and timeless beauty shoulder to shoulder. Our upstairs hall contained two antique pieces, a faded picture of the founding fathers signing the Declaration of Independence; and a black eagle spreading its colonial wings above its branch and arrow grasping talons, safely guarding our manor. 

My bedroom featured richly hued needlepoints lovingly crafted by my mother, along with a few Ziggy (the little bald white guy donning an orange sweater along with his dog, often pictured making the best of being rained upon for some reason) posters and, eventually, my favorite rock and rollers. I also had a primary colored rainbow that, when unfurled, measured 5 feet wide and took three tall teenagers to hang. My parent's bedroom boasted our family photos, my K through 6 school pictures, and a small reminder which spelled out house rules (if you drop it, pick it up...etc.). These were the things that were of value, collectively, to us. None of it, aside from my Ziggys and my rainbow, was trendy. None of it. 

We had a den which showcased vivid and beautiful wildlife photos from a local photographer who routinely sold prints at our town's annual summertime art festival. They flanked our satin black wood burning stove aside a gargantuan picture window facing our backyard. Our den was a room for contemplation, watching nature, and stillness. It was also a wonderful space for rainstorms, and snow days because the space had an out of doors feeling while offering cozy and restful protection. 

My home today is a reflection of all that I love. My "art" is eclectic, maybe a bit cluttered and I presume nothing I own would be featured in a spread about color scheme or proper ornamentation but I dig it. I hope your "art" brings you a waterfall of warmth, and fond remembrance for all that was and is good in your life. If not, maybe throw a little nostalgia here and there. 

P.S. After I finished writing this, I Googled Eleanor Rowland and found her obituary. She only died one year ago. May she forever rest in peace. 

Finally, please take a moment and shine a spotlight on local artist Eric D. Crisler who travels the outdoor Northeast on a daily basis capturing photographs of wildlife both in action and at peace. I have a print of his on my wall. It's only a few years old but because I have known Eric for 38 years it's certainly sentimental. I have included some of his photos, with permission, just in case you wish to contact him and buy something you love for your wall. (You can find his business on Facebook by searching his name.) 

#1970s #1980s #artclass #eleanorrowlandartist #ziggy #mushroomtumbler

Silver Sisters

"Your growth is showing. Did you make an appointment to go to the salon?"

"No. I refuse to dye my hair any longer. I am intentionally going gray." 

"But you're so young!"

Do those sentences give you any sort of reaction? 

Do you automatically assume those conversing are women?

I know I would have.

Men go gray and become distinguished. 

Women go gray and people's reactions are very mixed. 

Why is this?

In fact when aging men dye their hair, they are sometimes subjected to ridicule. 

Why?

When you think of gray haired women, do you have any overriding images?

Do you think of your grandmother, if you were lucky enough to have known her? 

Do you think of feminists protesting against the patriarchy?

Do you think of matronly cat ladies who are "letting themselves go"?

Do you think of celebrities starting new trends by dying their hair purply silver?

Or do you think Jane Fonda who recently sat in a colorist's chair for 7 hours to get her real color back for the Oscars so that she, presumably, can appeal to an even broader audience of women?

Whew! 

Maybe you just think, hey, she's embracing her authentic self. 

That's what I'm going with.

That's me holding the phone. I am 50 and I am gray. It's been a righteous journey.

I started seeing gray hairs, I think, when I was in my 30s; tough to tell because I had been adding color to my hair in one way, shape, or form, since I was thirteen and in the 9th grade. I had spray in colors, temporary dyes, glitters, metallic mousses, and more. Anything I could get my color starved hands on, I'd put in or on my hair. 

I had professional help in college when the cherry coke color craze hit my campus in the late 1980s, courtesy of all the hip and fashion forward Long Island girls. I, too, wanted a dark brown dye with pomegranate overtones. A birthday present from my father, he booked me a visit at a Paul Mitchell salon for that look where the tip alone was more than 50 dollars. I left the chair, sprayed on my Designer Imposter version of Dior's Poison perfume, yanked on my black studded Zodiac cowboy boots and boom! It was a Cher in Moonstruck look. 

When glam metal bands like Motley Crue and Guns n Roses became a monumental phenomenon I got my crazy curls frosted by a cap wielding wizard, named Sandy or Candy or Brandy, I can't remember which. I left the salon, cranked up my car stereo, pulled a single large gleaming cross earring out of the pocket of my white fringed leather jacket and hit the road, dizzy from the joy of a hot new look...and possibly hairspray fumes. My boyfriend had an internship at the coolest local radio station and got free tickets and backstage passes to everything that swung through the area. Between his long black hair and Drakkar Noir and my fresh frosty 'do and Exclamation, we were ebony and ivory, a deliciously olfactible pair. One night after a show, Jason Bonham offered to sign my clavicle, but I think the heir apparent to Bonzo, who was clearly working on growing his own rock and roll mane, just wanted to get a close up look at my wintry crowning glory. 

After a few years of choosing colors not found in nature, I started sensing that my hair was wearing me instead of me wearing my hair; plus a trusted advisor (well, I'm not sure how much I trusted her but she had a real career) told me if I was going to get a decent job after college I needed a more delicate look. A demure look. A hire me because I am not out until 2 am drinking Bacardi look. So I got a chin length bob, colored light brown.

Then, when the great paying highly coveted job didn't work out the way I'd hoped despite having that perky lil' Debbie Gibson look, I shaved it all off, or, rather, paid a beauty school student to shave it off. In addition to just about scalping me, the eighteen year old amateur colorist attempted to dye the remaining stubble pink (her idea...I was just along for the cheap and tawdry ride at that point). The dye didn't take on my hair but it did adhere beautifully to my scalp and gave me a jumbo Easter egg look.

Upon driving home, alternating between hysterical laughter and heinous wailing every time I caught a glimpse of myself, I also saw that the pink tint had dribbled and dripped down and stained the sides of my neck but good. There was no scrub in my bathroom (or possibly the universe) that could get it off. The next day at work my boss told me I looked as if I'd been bludgeoned (her exact words.) She also quietly but energetically moved me from the front counter where I'd been interacting with the public (I worked in an office) to the very back of the room. I didn't care. I was secretly pleased to have been able to listen to my Red Hot Chili Peppers CD without anyone bothering me, grooving at my desk chair like a headphone wearing Funky Monk (track four on Blood Sugar Sex Magik). 

Hair color was amusing to me because I could alternate my look on a whim. For me, it was like changing costumes backstage in a play...ahem...in the next scene I will be playing Marion the Librarian...please queue the cat eyed glasses and the blonde pageboy! But then when the gray became quite pronounced and I started coloring purely to conform to societal norms of what was young and pretty, I began buying boxed color and dying at home. If you've never had to do this, consider yourself lucky. It penetrates your nose like a nasal spray made of ammonia and daggers, the gloves in the box made to protect your skin are sized to fit Jiminy Cricket and you'd better be damn sure not splatter it on the walls or any porous surfaces, like towels or clothing. I hated every stinky, hand cramping, collar ruining minute of it and when all was said and done, my hair, but for all the effort, didn't look that snazzy either. 

Once I became able to afford it, I went to the salon and had it dyed - a two step process of root coloring and foil bleaching. I admit, it looked amazing but after 19 years of that I just decided to stop cold turkey. First, I had a horrifyingly bad color experience, then a growing lack of resources, increasing sensitivity to chemicals, and a chronic illness so I just quit it all and never looked back.

It's been two and a half years of silver growth and I am ecstatic about how it looks. I've honestly never felt more beautiful. As a bonus, I joined a new community of online silver sisters who are the most bad assed beauties. We are taking back our authenticity, our natural sparkly silver colors, our ideas of what it means to age beautifully and gracefully. These ladies have taught me that hair color is only one piece of reclaiming our true and beautiful selves. Some of them have lost their hair due to medical treatments and when it grew back silver they decided to just love what is. I am learning a lot from all of their examples; there are so many brave middle aged women in our group enjoying new adventures. They're quitting jobs that no longer serve them and going after more joyful means of making money. They are unearthing and embracing ideas that they have had but somehow put aside all their adult lives. They're stepping out of relationships that no longer serve or support them. They're being more creative through art and words and song. I am so grateful to be a part of it all. 

My newest silver sister girlfriend is Silvana Bishop. A chanteuse, she sings from the heart, records herself in harmony, and puts her side by side style videos on YouTube. English is not her mother tongue so not only is she taking a chance baring her soul for the world but she is performing in another language. I love her spirit. I love her intrepidness. I love her voice. I love that she started showcasing her talent once she went gray and genuineness just came pouring out of her. If you want to see what embracing your natural hair color can inspire you to do next, look no further than Silvana.

P.S. I'm not sure if my You're Such a Lovely Audience We'd Like to Take You Home blog post inspired her but I'd like to think so. This is her latest cover. 

Enjoy. 

#1970s #1980s #Bonham #goinggray #silversister #silverhairsupport #silverfoxy #rhcp #janefondagray #redhotchilipeppers #motleycrue #gunsnroses #mushroomtumbler