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Archive for May, 2012

In 1983, I was a sophomore living in the dorms at Kent State University.

Some time that year, we got the diagnosis that my father had colon cancer. Now that I come to write about it, I realize I don’t have many details. He had surgery to remove part of the colon and when they opened him up, they found that the cancer had metastasized to the liver.

My parents were living in Sylvania, Ohio at the time.

Some time in 1984 or ’85. Our good family friends in Southfield, Michigan, lent me a giant, dark-green Ford so that I could commute back and forth from Kent to Toledo while my father was dying. I spent the summer drunk, screwing a number of non-boyfriends, dancing to reggae bands upstairs at Mother’s Junction (above Ray’s), and going to see the Numbers Band at JB’s down.

I can’t remember what job I held. I do remember the heart-wrenching misery of driving to Toledo every Friday night and returning every Sunday. The long dark road, I-80, where deer/car collisions were a regular occurrence and the tail-end of the Appalachian range flattened completely by the time you’d reach Northwest Ohio. Some damn ugly land. I remember how everything in me screamed not to go. If I didn’t go home, would he not die?

Richfield, Ohio, Kita Lyons’ property. I had written in my book that this is July 13, 1985, 2 days shy of my 23rd birthday. One of the necklaces I’m wearing belonged to my Tante Nelli, but she died in May 1986. I wonder if she gave me some jewelry earlier than I remember.

My father died in August 1985.

I decided to make my pilgrimage the following year. My mother bought me a used, silver Toyota Corolla/Tercel, a model that they made for only a short time. I think it cost 4 thousand bucks. I have no memory of how many miles it had on it. I do remember going to someone’s house to check out the car, how their driveway looked, dark black asphalt. I would pay my mother back from my aunt’s estate when I received that money. My father’s only living sister, Nelli Landau. She died 9 months after him. I know it was a broken heart, for she loved my father and had no husband or children of her own.

I decided first to drive east. I would be staying mostly in youth hostels, but also had a few connections to stay with people I’d never met. Friends of friends. I miss that spirit. I miss it.

I am not sure any more all of the places I stopped. Portsmouth, New Hampshire, where I stayed in a governor’s mansion because my friend’s friends were the caretakers. The wife was a New England blue blood, going back several generations. She was a fiber artist, had a studio set up in the house.

They steamed mussels we picked up fresh from a little fish shack in town. I’d never eaten mussels before. I learned what a Widow’s Walk is. I toured the rose arbor in the back yard. The wife’s name was Sydney. This is how people name their children in New England.

One night, we drove past oceanfront mansions, stopped on the damp ocean beach, got high, and watched the sunset.

I next stopped in Cherryville, Maine, the famed place of an annual blueberry harvest which gathers hippies, loafers, stoners, and other back-to-nature types for seasonal farm work. Now I realize that there must be real migrant workers who go there, not just the educated white children of middle class families.

The hostel was really an old hippie commune. My first of so many things, again. I used an ATM machine in the quaint town. I got poison ivy (sumac?) on my legs. I stood in a circle with a couple dozen other people, stoned, holding hands, swaying, singing om om om. I learned what a Clivus is and determined that some day I would have one.

Maine, Bar Harbor, a little boat trip around some of the islands where I saw seals and puffins. The first time I heard the word shoal. Acadia where I walked on some barnacled rocks for a few hours, did nothing else, and left. I met a guy at the youth hostel. I remember eating a meal, walking around the town. Saying Bah Haba like the locals over and over, laughing, tschoke shops, lobster everything everywhere. I gave him a ride to the Greyhound station in Boston. A kiss in the rain. I didn’t even like him, but he was friendly. Dark hair, not too tall.

One very clear memory is of driving on the interstate in Massachusetts and the giant granite rocks on either side, with their trees and lichen, roots, gray and yellow stains. I think of it still when we go to Boston on I-90. I remember.

I started this post thinking about every car I’ve ever owned because my 2000 Toyota mini-van is up near 160K miles and creaky.

Let’s call this Installment One of Old Girl, the story of the first half of my cross-country trip after the death of my father.

♦ ♦ ♦

Hey, I’m not saying I like this, but I went to see them live a lot back in the day. The first video is kinda shaky to start, still good to see them looking good and playing after all these years.

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I was going to post something light and airy today, something fun and gratitude-filled. But I found this on Facebook this morning.

Every time one of you fuckers asks what’s under attack, read it. And don’t get all namby-pamby and innocent and ask incredulously are women really under attack? and say things like it’s not so bad and nothing’s being taken away and any more of your condescending, male-entitled bullshit. If you are walking around with a dick between your legs and think that you have any clue whatsoever, you don’t. Just shut up when needed and when it’s time to speak use it well to support your wives, daughters, mothers, sisters, and grandmothers. CAPICHE?

If you came here from somewhere else and you think I’m in the She-Woman Man Hater’s Club, you don’t know me well. But I can kinda see where you might get that idea. On the contrary, I love you guys, but like Erin O’Brien says: get out of our vaginas unless you are invited in.

Okay, so Madonna doesn’t have anything to do with this post and I don’t even care much for her. But she really knows how to give the finger and her name is Madonna and this post is about women. So there.

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First, maths: Your children’s need for new clothes, because they have NOTHING TO WEAR, MOM, is directly proportional to the week of school in which they have a Shakespeare play and [had] a dance recital.

And in which you, as the mom, most need to expend some excess and erratic chi, but you are busy, busy, busy doing prompt sheets and picking up bobby pins and mascara and labeling paper bags for backstage.*

And if you don’t get to your !@#$% yoga class tonight you JUST DON’T KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN!

(the author is keenly aware of her entitled and easy life and she wells with gratitude in spite of her rant)

*I am not actually very involved in helping out with my daughter’s class play this year. I have a very small helper role, perhaps the easiest and least work I’ve taken on in the last few years. Many other hands are doing much more work, just so you know.

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I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,

Where oxslips and the nodding violet grows,

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine

A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Act II, scene ii

Your Tatania sleeps, Oberon; why not wake her with your love-shaft*?

*okay, so it’s Cupid’s love-shaft and I’ve taken liberties with it; wouldn’t you?

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Forget about dropping acid, this is as trippy as it gets

props to pt dismal who put this on a tape for us many years ago. I spent many road trips rewinding so I could hear this again and again. Remember cassettes?

 

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Just bought tickets for Gogol Bordello in Boston, June 1, me, Hubby, and the big kid (the younger one will be sailing in Camden, Maine)

Here’s my GB post from last year.

They’ll also be in VT in August.

Call me. We’ll caravan.

*not exactly, but this will kick off the summer festival season for my family. Who else will we see? Wilco, likely. David Sedaris? Wait, that’s not a concert and he’s not here ’til fall. It all works. Trust me.

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Readership,

It may seem out of character, but I love this song. I’m not crazy about masturbatory indulgent guitar solos, which I tend to think guys like more than girls do, but oh well, it’s short enough…gotta take the good with the bad. I love that deep digging guitar. Oh yeah…

Now press the play button and close your eyes:

Betcha couldn’t tell he’s a nice Jewish boy from Michigan. Nice, hunh? Soul revival done to perfection except for that blatant curse (your shitty fuckin’ attitude), which I think sends it into its own orbit. I love this line: because you’re shaped like an hourglass, but I think your time’s up. I love a man who knows how to play with his words.

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