This Saturday morning, we load up our cars and head back to Maryland, exhilarated to reunite with our children and grandchildren. Many of them are residents of Baltimore. Of course, they are unsettled but they are not residents of Sandtown, Freddie Gray’s neighborhood.
When I moved from Connecticut to Maryland, I worked as a real estate agent in the suburbs of Baltimore for a couple of years. I don’t remember the circumstances, but somehow a young black couple from Baltimore wanted me to find them a home. They were from Sandtown, determined to realize the American dream, even on their meager incomes. And, so, began my education into Baltimore neighborhoods.
I wasn’t unfamiliar with urban neighborhoods. I got schooled in that in Hartford. My first house was a small single family in the North End for the whopping sum of $10,000. This was the 70s, the era of urban renewal where middle class young folks came into decaying areas with the hopes of turning things around. Long story short…that didn’t happen. And, eventually, people like me with altruistic ideals got a taste of what it’s like to live where there’s no hope.
Drug dealing in the parks where your kids play. Drunks urinating on your front lawn. Some guy putting a weapon in your back because he thinks you have money. Relying on your dog to keep you safe because there’s not much of a police presence. Having bars installed on the first floor windows so you can sleep at night.
My first teaching assignment was in an urban high school, primarily black students along with a Puerto Rican minority and a handful of white students, whose parents were middle class urban pioneers. Class size averaged around 40 students, but because so many students were truant, I never actually needed 40 desks. No one was assigned a book….not enough to go around. Way too many kids couldn’t read.
So, I read to them. Their favorite? Ethel Waters’ autobiography, His Eyes Are On the Sparrow, one of the greatest books ever written on the African American female’s experience. They were mesmerized, most of them had never read books by black authors. I’d write key words and sentences on the chalkboard to enhance their skills.
Once I took my social studies class on the bus to the courthouse for sentencing day. Reality slapping us all in the face. I hope in some way it helped.
I went to the most impoverished housing projects to talk with parents to try to get their kids back in school. I was absolutely devastated when one of my favorite students was shot in the head in his own living room. When I showed up at his funeral, his hysterical mother insisted I sit with the family. His father was in jail.
Some of my students came to school reeking of alcohol. And, even with security guards in the hallway, one student entered my room after school and slapped me across the face, knocking me back into a desk where I blacked out. He didn’t like the grade I gave him on his report card. So, I got police protection and he got expelled.
But, I will also tell you this. So many of those kids loved doing debates and mock trials. They wanted to be smart. They wanted to overcome their circumstances. I absolutely loved them and hated to think of their futures, so few of whom would not be sucked into a drug culture with the lure of quick, big, and easy money.
Eventually, I had to leave. I couldn’t raise my children there and I didn’t have the money for private schools. And, yes, I had the choice.
Maybe Freddie Gray was one of those kids. A bright kid with a hopeless future. There are thousands of young men and women just like him, living in a neighborhood even the police don’t want any part of.
I get that the police have a lot of fear in those circumstances and have just seconds to react. But, really, six policemen jumping on a 5 feet, 8 inch man who weighed 145 pounds. And, now, no one knows what happened?!!?
Come on now. It appears to be pretty obvious. Baltimore, just come clean. Be honest. Don’t prolong this nightmare for his family and the people of Baltimore. Take a page out of South Carolina’s book. Yes, SOUTH CAROLINA! Of course, a video capturing the entire beatdown would’ve helped.
This is an American tragedy. The divided America. A justice system unjust for our people who live in the most dire areas of our cities. An education system that refuses to adequately fund the overwhelming needs of city schools.
I used to get so frustrated when I would hear teachers in the ‘burbs complain about their students or their teaching conditions. I would think to myself, ‘you really need to go spend a week in the city.’
And, now, what would I give to have our politicians, who feel no pain when they cut back on recreational programs and schools that serve our neediest kids, swap their homes with the Sandtown residents for a year. It’s so easy to dismiss people who are not like you.
It’s time to make it right.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
A Little Insight
BH and i were having this discussion the other day about change. Is it possible at our age? Me, being the eternal optimist, argued on the positive side, while he believes we’re pretty much formed and not much will change that.
I think I’ve been a little short in my higher side lately, so I’ve been reading Sandra Anne Taylor, one of my metaphysical authors who assists me in getting back on track. What are the behaviors that impede your progress? Get a notebook and start by writing them down. it’s supposed to help me recode my reactions….kind of like hypnosis, I’m hoping.
One of my worst traits is being oversensitive. One simple expressed observation morphs into an attack on my character. Objectively, I know this is my mother who is about the most critical , divisive and judgmental person I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. So, get over it, I say to myself!
This week, I called her and she starts accusing me of selling her house as soon as she’s gone as in passed away. I don’t want the house, Mom. We all know she’s written a clause into her will that requires that her house be turned into a “Christian” retreat. Not a retreat for anyone who needs help. Oh, no. You have to be a fundamental, evangelistic Christian. How she’s going to control that from the grave is anyone’s guess but this is something I want absolutely nothing to do with. But, then, I wouldn’t be allowed to go there anyway.
It’s fascinating what happens to people as they age. It seems there’s no happy medium—they either get really sweet or really cranky. My grandfather, my mom’s father, was a product of his generation aka racist. He once asked me when I was teaching in an urban high school in Connecticut, “Can’t you find some pick-a-ninnies to teach down here?” Cringe. The man had no filter. Then I married out of my race and had biracial children. Obviously, I was persona non grata until he lost his mind. The last time I saw him was when he was 90 and he lit up when he saw me. “Where have you been, Brenda?” Cranky into sweet. Saved it for his final year.
And, now, we’re dealing with his daughter who’s getting angrier and more judgmental by the day. Should I be hoping she loses her mind and gets a little nicer and finds some humility and gratitude? Of course not. My brother is convinced she'll change. Me? Not so much. Even me, the eternal optimist, doesn’t hold out much hope for that.
Here’s what I’m waiting for. I’m waiting for the conversation we’re going to have when she passes to the other side. Of course, she’ll probably outlive me. But, my fantasy is that she’ll finally see that judging others is not productive and that unconditional love is possible on this side. Heaven knows, I’m trying here…lol. I know she’s a child of God, too.
Karma is a strange thing. What if I don’t resolve this relationship and have to come back with her again? I always wanted that warm, fuzzy mom, but NOOOOO. Not in this lifetime.
Okay, I’m being a little woo woo here but that’s me. Almost never do I remember my dreams. But, last night, I dreamt I was with my cousin, Jeff, in Orlando and I wanted him to come back to Venice with me. My gregarious cousin died in 1992 at age 32, leaving us all bereft. In 23 years, this is the first time I remember dreaming about him. It was as real as I am sitting here writing this post.
Maybe he came to me because tomorrow I’m going to Cassadaga, the renowned spiritualist community, to get a reading. Maybe he’ll come to me. Maybe my grandmother. Maybe my father. You just never know who’s going to show up. Whoever comes, could they give me some insight here, PUH-LEEZE??!
I think I’ve been a little short in my higher side lately, so I’ve been reading Sandra Anne Taylor, one of my metaphysical authors who assists me in getting back on track. What are the behaviors that impede your progress? Get a notebook and start by writing them down. it’s supposed to help me recode my reactions….kind of like hypnosis, I’m hoping.
One of my worst traits is being oversensitive. One simple expressed observation morphs into an attack on my character. Objectively, I know this is my mother who is about the most critical , divisive and judgmental person I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. So, get over it, I say to myself!
This week, I called her and she starts accusing me of selling her house as soon as she’s gone as in passed away. I don’t want the house, Mom. We all know she’s written a clause into her will that requires that her house be turned into a “Christian” retreat. Not a retreat for anyone who needs help. Oh, no. You have to be a fundamental, evangelistic Christian. How she’s going to control that from the grave is anyone’s guess but this is something I want absolutely nothing to do with. But, then, I wouldn’t be allowed to go there anyway.
It’s fascinating what happens to people as they age. It seems there’s no happy medium—they either get really sweet or really cranky. My grandfather, my mom’s father, was a product of his generation aka racist. He once asked me when I was teaching in an urban high school in Connecticut, “Can’t you find some pick-a-ninnies to teach down here?” Cringe. The man had no filter. Then I married out of my race and had biracial children. Obviously, I was persona non grata until he lost his mind. The last time I saw him was when he was 90 and he lit up when he saw me. “Where have you been, Brenda?” Cranky into sweet. Saved it for his final year.
And, now, we’re dealing with his daughter who’s getting angrier and more judgmental by the day. Should I be hoping she loses her mind and gets a little nicer and finds some humility and gratitude? Of course not. My brother is convinced she'll change. Me? Not so much. Even me, the eternal optimist, doesn’t hold out much hope for that.
Here’s what I’m waiting for. I’m waiting for the conversation we’re going to have when she passes to the other side. Of course, she’ll probably outlive me. But, my fantasy is that she’ll finally see that judging others is not productive and that unconditional love is possible on this side. Heaven knows, I’m trying here…lol. I know she’s a child of God, too.
Karma is a strange thing. What if I don’t resolve this relationship and have to come back with her again? I always wanted that warm, fuzzy mom, but NOOOOO. Not in this lifetime.
Okay, I’m being a little woo woo here but that’s me. Almost never do I remember my dreams. But, last night, I dreamt I was with my cousin, Jeff, in Orlando and I wanted him to come back to Venice with me. My gregarious cousin died in 1992 at age 32, leaving us all bereft. In 23 years, this is the first time I remember dreaming about him. It was as real as I am sitting here writing this post.
Maybe he came to me because tomorrow I’m going to Cassadaga, the renowned spiritualist community, to get a reading. Maybe he’ll come to me. Maybe my grandmother. Maybe my father. You just never know who’s going to show up. Whoever comes, could they give me some insight here, PUH-LEEZE??!
Thursday, April 9, 2015
Old Habits Die Hard
I will be the first to admit, I am a creature of habit. Every day same old, same old. I’m usually up by 8, not my working life ungodly hour of 6, and head straight to the coffee pot. That first cup of coffee makes the day worth getting up for. I’m not a black coffee drinker….ugh! I add my teaspoon of raw sugar and almond milk, which is slightly healthier than my former two teaspoons of sugar and calorie-laden half and half.
Yes, I’ve cut it out before cold turkey and, surprisingly, didn’t get those awful hangover headaches people complain about. I felt fine. I tried tea in the morning but it just didn’t do it for me. Then, I read a study that coffee was good for you, but I didn’t need that to resume. I love my coffee.
There are a couple of intervening steps before I hit the kitchen, however. Upon rising, I head for the scales. Crazy. Everyday I weigh myself….I’m watching the tenths of pounds I’m putting on or taking off. That’s probably borderline OCD.
What to wear? What to wear? I never bother to think about that. I pull that periwinkle blue Fresh Produce beach dress over my head and I am set. For years, my go-to was a black beach dress with a white starfish on the front but, it was becoming riddled with little holes. Did that bother me? Not a bit. And, then, it was gone. I searched everywhere for it to no avail. I couldn’t even accuse Buff Honey of hiding it or throwing it away because he’s worse than me. All of his undershirts are pretty shredded.
So, I broke down and ordered a new, blue one. The hemline’s just a little below my knees…an issue for someone as short as me. Those longer dresses make me look dumpy….not a look I’m going for. But, the short dresses show off my wrinkled knees. Such a dilemma.
I love this part of my day….coffee and the newspaper. In Florida, it’s the Herald Tribune and in Maryland, its’ the Washington Post. Cover to cover. Everyday. I confess to missing the Post when we’re in Florida, especially, the Style section. I cannot remember a day in my adult life when I did not read the paper. For years when I lived in Hartford and Baltimore, I read the morning paper and the evening paper. Sadly, that doesn’t even exist anymore. There’s one paper, no competition. Electronic editions? Not the same.
I mean, how would I do the Sudoku puzzle? Yes, I know there’s an electronic version but I have to use a pencil, especially after Wednesday, when the week day puzzles get increasingly more difficult. It’s a habit. I can’t help it.
After the puzzle comes my daily exercise. A few decades ago, I was doing the Jane Fonda videos and, yes, I was feeling the burn. With two small children and working full-time, going to a gym on any kind of regular basis was not in the picture. Intermittently, I’d go but nothing stuck. I had no gym partner and I was exhausted. I relied on videos I could do at home and that’s when I discovered Leslie Sansone’s Walk Away the Pounds.
I’ve been walking away the pounds for years. There are one, two, three, four and five mile options with strength training thrown in there. But, I was never faithful until I retired and until BH was in the picture. Last week, I read that if your partner or spouse is an exerciser, you will be, too. And, too often, if they stop or slow down, you will, too. Well, BH is never going to stop and that is great for me!
I hate exercising, though. I find it boring, so to keep me engaged, I put Leslie on the computer, muted, and turn on HGTV and watch the reruns. You know, the Property Brothers, Love It or List It, House Hunters, Flip or Flop, the Rehab Addict. I love them all.
Now, I can eat. It’s late morning by mow. Brunch time. I just can’t eat first thing in the morning. I know I’m supposed to, but the Health section in the paper quoted a study that it’s fine not to. Good because I’ve been doing that for decades.
Everyday, I usually eat no fat plain yogurt, with granola and blueberries and strawberries. I’ve never like eggs but I love grits, bacon and sausage. Hey, I’m a southern girl, after all.
That’s my whole morning.
Those are my good habits. I’ve had plenty of not so good habits. Like smoking, which took me years to give up. I was never one of those who had to have one the minute I got out of bed. I was more an evening with wine smoker. I’d give it up for years and then, I would start again at stressful times in my life.
Eventually, I had to go to a hypnotist, because I was so disgusted with myself and knew I needed help. She taught me EFT, Emotional Freedom Technique, which involves tapping meridians in your body to change your emotional attachments to negative things. I know it sounds like a bunch of bunk but it worked for me!
But, now I have this syndrome that I have to shake. I cannot watch television without doing something else. I used to do needlepoint or crossword puzzles. But, now, I play solitaire Mahjongg either on the computer or on my phone. I also play it anytime I have down time. I think if I added all the hours I spent doing this, I could’ve read an entire encyclopedia (remember those?).
I hate that I’m wasting so much time! My God! These are the years I promised myself I would not waste! Maybe I should try acupuncture or meditating more or tapping again.
And, then again, maybe I should just relax.
Yes, I’ve cut it out before cold turkey and, surprisingly, didn’t get those awful hangover headaches people complain about. I felt fine. I tried tea in the morning but it just didn’t do it for me. Then, I read a study that coffee was good for you, but I didn’t need that to resume. I love my coffee.
There are a couple of intervening steps before I hit the kitchen, however. Upon rising, I head for the scales. Crazy. Everyday I weigh myself….I’m watching the tenths of pounds I’m putting on or taking off. That’s probably borderline OCD.
What to wear? What to wear? I never bother to think about that. I pull that periwinkle blue Fresh Produce beach dress over my head and I am set. For years, my go-to was a black beach dress with a white starfish on the front but, it was becoming riddled with little holes. Did that bother me? Not a bit. And, then, it was gone. I searched everywhere for it to no avail. I couldn’t even accuse Buff Honey of hiding it or throwing it away because he’s worse than me. All of his undershirts are pretty shredded.
So, I broke down and ordered a new, blue one. The hemline’s just a little below my knees…an issue for someone as short as me. Those longer dresses make me look dumpy….not a look I’m going for. But, the short dresses show off my wrinkled knees. Such a dilemma.
I love this part of my day….coffee and the newspaper. In Florida, it’s the Herald Tribune and in Maryland, its’ the Washington Post. Cover to cover. Everyday. I confess to missing the Post when we’re in Florida, especially, the Style section. I cannot remember a day in my adult life when I did not read the paper. For years when I lived in Hartford and Baltimore, I read the morning paper and the evening paper. Sadly, that doesn’t even exist anymore. There’s one paper, no competition. Electronic editions? Not the same.
I mean, how would I do the Sudoku puzzle? Yes, I know there’s an electronic version but I have to use a pencil, especially after Wednesday, when the week day puzzles get increasingly more difficult. It’s a habit. I can’t help it.
After the puzzle comes my daily exercise. A few decades ago, I was doing the Jane Fonda videos and, yes, I was feeling the burn. With two small children and working full-time, going to a gym on any kind of regular basis was not in the picture. Intermittently, I’d go but nothing stuck. I had no gym partner and I was exhausted. I relied on videos I could do at home and that’s when I discovered Leslie Sansone’s Walk Away the Pounds.
I’ve been walking away the pounds for years. There are one, two, three, four and five mile options with strength training thrown in there. But, I was never faithful until I retired and until BH was in the picture. Last week, I read that if your partner or spouse is an exerciser, you will be, too. And, too often, if they stop or slow down, you will, too. Well, BH is never going to stop and that is great for me!
I hate exercising, though. I find it boring, so to keep me engaged, I put Leslie on the computer, muted, and turn on HGTV and watch the reruns. You know, the Property Brothers, Love It or List It, House Hunters, Flip or Flop, the Rehab Addict. I love them all.
Now, I can eat. It’s late morning by mow. Brunch time. I just can’t eat first thing in the morning. I know I’m supposed to, but the Health section in the paper quoted a study that it’s fine not to. Good because I’ve been doing that for decades.
Everyday, I usually eat no fat plain yogurt, with granola and blueberries and strawberries. I’ve never like eggs but I love grits, bacon and sausage. Hey, I’m a southern girl, after all.
That’s my whole morning.
Those are my good habits. I’ve had plenty of not so good habits. Like smoking, which took me years to give up. I was never one of those who had to have one the minute I got out of bed. I was more an evening with wine smoker. I’d give it up for years and then, I would start again at stressful times in my life.
Eventually, I had to go to a hypnotist, because I was so disgusted with myself and knew I needed help. She taught me EFT, Emotional Freedom Technique, which involves tapping meridians in your body to change your emotional attachments to negative things. I know it sounds like a bunch of bunk but it worked for me!
But, now I have this syndrome that I have to shake. I cannot watch television without doing something else. I used to do needlepoint or crossword puzzles. But, now, I play solitaire Mahjongg either on the computer or on my phone. I also play it anytime I have down time. I think if I added all the hours I spent doing this, I could’ve read an entire encyclopedia (remember those?).
I hate that I’m wasting so much time! My God! These are the years I promised myself I would not waste! Maybe I should try acupuncture or meditating more or tapping again.
And, then again, maybe I should just relax.
Saturday, April 4, 2015
I Always Thought I'd See You Again
So I told you last week that Buff Honey has this dream that we would live in a different city every summer for a month for as long as we possibly could. This summer is Baltimore to coincide with the birth of my fourth grandchild only a block away from our row house. What about next summer and the one after that?
We’re thinking Manhattan in 2016 and Toronto in 2017. I’m the planner. BH thinks we’re going to drive into the Big Apple on June 1st and find an apartment on the upper east or west side for $1000 a month. Well, that’s not going to happen. I start thinking of the people I know in New York. Voila! Larry! He’s an old friend from Queens and I know he’s living in his aunt’s apartment in Manhattan now. Maybe, he would go on vacation and we could sublet or he may know someone in the building we could sublet from.
I haven’t heard from him in awhile and, unfortunately, his phone number and address are back in Maryland. Time to do a Google Search. Can you imagine how many Lawrence Steinbergs there are in New York City??!! I try to narrow the search and find an article from The New York Times, an obituary. I start reading, never thinking for a minute that it could be my Larry Steinberg.
“STEINBERG—Lawrence R, 67, died March 16, 2010, of a heart attack. A member of IATSE Local 52, Larry was a grip for 30 years. (Oh, no. This is what he did. I looked at the credits at the end of every movie). Beloved husband, father, grandfather, brother and uncle, he was a fine musician, a great cook and gardener. Larry graduated HS of Music and Art (1960) and Queens College (1964). He is survived by his wife, Miriam, his sons and stepsons, his grandchildren, his brothers, and his father. His sudden death saddens us all.”
Definitely him. Devastated. My God! It happened five years ago and I’m just finding out?! Incredulous. I’ll never see him again….at least, not in this lifetime. I’m reminded of “Fire and Rain,” the James Taylor song.
“I’ve seen sunny days I thought would never end, I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find
a friend, but I always thought I’d see you again.”
He was much better at staying in touch than I was. He and Miriam visited when they were in the Baltimore area. He called and asked me where to go in the panhandle of Florida as they were planning a trip in the spring. I sent him articles. That was late 2009. And then he died.
I never even considered the possibility. He was about 5’10” and never overweight a day in his life. My God, his father lived well into his 90s. Larry loved manual labor. He left a cushy job as an Anthropology professor to be a carpenter.
As you know, my philosophy degree wasn’t opening any career doors for me so I went back to school to get certified as a history and social sciences teacher. That’s where I met Larry. While I was taking courses, I was working as a graduate assistant in the Sociology and Anthropology Department at a small college in Connecticut.
His brilliant blue eyes, crazy curly hair and genuine smile captured me fairly quickly. It was mutual. We were both trying to recover from marriages that had failed. There was no shortage of guilt since both of us had small children.
He hated being an academic, which I think he did to please his very successful parents. But, it wasn’t who he was. After he left the college, he bought his carpentry tools and traded out jobs. He built a porch for a mechanic who put a new engine into our VW bus. He joined carpentry crews in New Hampshire, Connecticut and New York. I usually worked on the crews, too.
Once, we worked on a crew in the Theatre District, totally renovating a brownstone for Joe Allen, the proprietor of the famed Joe Allen’s Restaurant. At the time, he was engaged to the Broadway star, Chita Rivera. This was to be her palace….the sky was the limit. He trusted me to pick out all the paint colors, which, at the time, I thought was very flattering. The final product was exquisite and then she broke up with him. Ugly, very ugly. But, i will tell you this. Joe Allen makes a to die for vichyssoise, which I had never tasted before and I’m sure will never taste again.
Larry found a little house in the North End of Hartford and bought it for $10,000. Not the best neighborhood and not the best house. Definitely the best price. The seller was a single man who had lived there for over 30 years and had never cleaned it a day in his life. It was covered in layers of grease. But, we turned it into a happy little home with a coal burning stove and butcher block island.
Larry cooked all the meals. Not kidding. He made the best sauces. One of his favorites was spaghetti with clam sauce. I’m not a huge fan of clams so after eating it about 30 times, i was done. How truly ungrateful I was.
Having graduated from the High School of Music and Arts, he was a fine pianist. Very relaxing blues and jazz music wafted through the house. He imbued me with his love of baseball, having grown up as a Mets fan. We’d take our small black and white television out on the back porch and watch games on warm summer nights. Occasionally, we’d splurge for tickets to see the minor league team in New Britain.
I taught him how to play bridge and we found another pair to play with and, actually, played day and night for 45 days straight. Very little cooking, a lot of imbibing and minimal sleep. But, we were young and stupid.
Truth is, we were crazy for each other. He was a true love for me, and I for him. Too often, with loves that heat up fast and furiously, they can’t handle the long distance.
His days of being ambitious were over. He wanted a more relaxing lifestyle….one that included smoking weed multiple times daily. I hadn’t even started a career yet. I needed my independence, my own place, my own money. Remarriage was not on my radar for a very long time.
He did remarry a few years after we separated….a totally laid back woman who adored him. They came to my wedding a few years later when Kevin and I married in 1982. They had two children who were the same ages as my two, biracial as well. We moved to Maryland and they moved to New York so he could pursue working in the movie industry.
For a few years, he and i shared a very loving, sweet life together. He was a gentle, loving soul. In a few weeks, I’m having a reading at the spiritualist colony, Cassadaga. Maybe I’ll meet him there.
We’re thinking Manhattan in 2016 and Toronto in 2017. I’m the planner. BH thinks we’re going to drive into the Big Apple on June 1st and find an apartment on the upper east or west side for $1000 a month. Well, that’s not going to happen. I start thinking of the people I know in New York. Voila! Larry! He’s an old friend from Queens and I know he’s living in his aunt’s apartment in Manhattan now. Maybe, he would go on vacation and we could sublet or he may know someone in the building we could sublet from.
I haven’t heard from him in awhile and, unfortunately, his phone number and address are back in Maryland. Time to do a Google Search. Can you imagine how many Lawrence Steinbergs there are in New York City??!! I try to narrow the search and find an article from The New York Times, an obituary. I start reading, never thinking for a minute that it could be my Larry Steinberg.
“STEINBERG—Lawrence R, 67, died March 16, 2010, of a heart attack. A member of IATSE Local 52, Larry was a grip for 30 years. (Oh, no. This is what he did. I looked at the credits at the end of every movie). Beloved husband, father, grandfather, brother and uncle, he was a fine musician, a great cook and gardener. Larry graduated HS of Music and Art (1960) and Queens College (1964). He is survived by his wife, Miriam, his sons and stepsons, his grandchildren, his brothers, and his father. His sudden death saddens us all.”
Definitely him. Devastated. My God! It happened five years ago and I’m just finding out?! Incredulous. I’ll never see him again….at least, not in this lifetime. I’m reminded of “Fire and Rain,” the James Taylor song.
“I’ve seen sunny days I thought would never end, I’ve seen lonely times when I could not find
a friend, but I always thought I’d see you again.”
He was much better at staying in touch than I was. He and Miriam visited when they were in the Baltimore area. He called and asked me where to go in the panhandle of Florida as they were planning a trip in the spring. I sent him articles. That was late 2009. And then he died.
I never even considered the possibility. He was about 5’10” and never overweight a day in his life. My God, his father lived well into his 90s. Larry loved manual labor. He left a cushy job as an Anthropology professor to be a carpenter.
As you know, my philosophy degree wasn’t opening any career doors for me so I went back to school to get certified as a history and social sciences teacher. That’s where I met Larry. While I was taking courses, I was working as a graduate assistant in the Sociology and Anthropology Department at a small college in Connecticut.
His brilliant blue eyes, crazy curly hair and genuine smile captured me fairly quickly. It was mutual. We were both trying to recover from marriages that had failed. There was no shortage of guilt since both of us had small children.
He hated being an academic, which I think he did to please his very successful parents. But, it wasn’t who he was. After he left the college, he bought his carpentry tools and traded out jobs. He built a porch for a mechanic who put a new engine into our VW bus. He joined carpentry crews in New Hampshire, Connecticut and New York. I usually worked on the crews, too.
Once, we worked on a crew in the Theatre District, totally renovating a brownstone for Joe Allen, the proprietor of the famed Joe Allen’s Restaurant. At the time, he was engaged to the Broadway star, Chita Rivera. This was to be her palace….the sky was the limit. He trusted me to pick out all the paint colors, which, at the time, I thought was very flattering. The final product was exquisite and then she broke up with him. Ugly, very ugly. But, i will tell you this. Joe Allen makes a to die for vichyssoise, which I had never tasted before and I’m sure will never taste again.
Larry found a little house in the North End of Hartford and bought it for $10,000. Not the best neighborhood and not the best house. Definitely the best price. The seller was a single man who had lived there for over 30 years and had never cleaned it a day in his life. It was covered in layers of grease. But, we turned it into a happy little home with a coal burning stove and butcher block island.
Larry cooked all the meals. Not kidding. He made the best sauces. One of his favorites was spaghetti with clam sauce. I’m not a huge fan of clams so after eating it about 30 times, i was done. How truly ungrateful I was.
Having graduated from the High School of Music and Arts, he was a fine pianist. Very relaxing blues and jazz music wafted through the house. He imbued me with his love of baseball, having grown up as a Mets fan. We’d take our small black and white television out on the back porch and watch games on warm summer nights. Occasionally, we’d splurge for tickets to see the minor league team in New Britain.
I taught him how to play bridge and we found another pair to play with and, actually, played day and night for 45 days straight. Very little cooking, a lot of imbibing and minimal sleep. But, we were young and stupid.
Truth is, we were crazy for each other. He was a true love for me, and I for him. Too often, with loves that heat up fast and furiously, they can’t handle the long distance.
His days of being ambitious were over. He wanted a more relaxing lifestyle….one that included smoking weed multiple times daily. I hadn’t even started a career yet. I needed my independence, my own place, my own money. Remarriage was not on my radar for a very long time.
He did remarry a few years after we separated….a totally laid back woman who adored him. They came to my wedding a few years later when Kevin and I married in 1982. They had two children who were the same ages as my two, biracial as well. We moved to Maryland and they moved to New York so he could pursue working in the movie industry.
For a few years, he and i shared a very loving, sweet life together. He was a gentle, loving soul. In a few weeks, I’m having a reading at the spiritualist colony, Cassadaga. Maybe I’ll meet him there.
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