There are days - sometimes weeks- when reverie seems to hover, like a shroud covering the ranch. It touches memories blown from shelves, book spines and kodachrome-heavy albums. Moving among these threads of the whole cloth of our lives, one can re-create the scenes from which they hail. It's a tidy idea to have a framework for working with life experiences. Time, place, age -they all serve to orient the memory organizer making the job one of re-lived accomplishment, even overall good times. (I've gone with 'hair color' and 'do' when dealing with the last with excellent results.)
Our "family" experience (soon to come "the Personal", "The Professional" et cetera until you regret ever learning how to read) best evolves geographically. Another child, new job, the Jones' - there's always an impetus for the filling-nesters to migrate. And there is no formula; each is a one-of-a-kind template to be colored in. I tend to recall walls (I painted), furniture (I re-covered ) addresses, neighbors, views - the physical trappings that peopled life; relationships that offered kindness, assistance, a beer - inanimate trappings,well they are a measure of progress - more or fewer things to dust and maturity - moving when progress calls.
Inanimate trappings coordinated with location by and large. But. You cannot use only location to measure value. To (and fro) wit, thirty years of living spent at our second zip code saw the birth of three, the death of seven, sending off of four and the incorporation of additional family units. Thirty years bore witness to a bounty of momentous occasions that were never reflected by a concomitant transfiguraon of the physical residence. Hardly. White house, black trim and shutters, large, redwood-fenced back lot, and purple - yes purple - metal-slatted blinds shouted the existence of a roaring crowd of diverse, busy folk 'rolling' on an otherwise run-of-the-wanna-be-upper middle class-not-so-sub urban-types street. Two moves, twenty years, barely pre-IRA-living later finds the nucleus of those folk in a custom built, new home. These digs can hardly tell a story of upward mobility when you drive immediately passed "Jeb the Butcher" as you approach the right turn onto "I live here" boulevard. Hardly.
Returning to sub sub urban involves returning to a brief, inoculatory phase endured before the high-powered whirlwind 30-year lap. This incubation spell was ne'er idle (lest the reader get confused). While incubating, the nest was a white/black trim Dutch Colonial that squatted on an immense, meandering corner lot and peacefully leaned back onto a very old, sprawling magnolia tree that rather controlled its wedge of end-of-the-neighborhood' land. For it hardly traversed at all before ending in a trickling stream the other side of which became a path that stretched into a dirt road which, once adopted, became the sidelines (bleachers to boot) of a crookedly-lined ball field by which the tracks of Norfolk and Southern carried punctually-routed trains 24/7. (Note to writer: Do give examples of the 'death-to-creativity' run-on sentence in your next 'improve your grammar' blurb. Oh, look. I have! Never mind.)
Fourteen-thirty-two Gates Avenue was the official location but technically/sociologically - you shall see- it was the very busy apex of the triangle formed by two sleepy, tree-lined streets which served to house - in a landscaped vision - attorneys and doctors and their families. (and their stories. If azaleas could talk! Don't ask. Well. Go ahead. Ask. I'm going to be right here.)
As noted, this incubation spell was ne'er dormant. Rather, the master amused himself with a riotous schedule - thirty-six hours on and twelve off - dedicated to his healing apprenticeship. Off hours found him bonding with their boy as well as engaging in gang buster efforts at family expansion. Boy needed and wanted sibs lest he be 'to the meagre' born. However boy's days were joyous, filled with the things of the child.
The mistress (poor word choice) having tip-toed by home decoration - the carpeted first floor was barren save the pillowed/stuffed pieces in the den, boy's room sported an elaborate scheme hatched at the previous home and the master bedroom, well it was a utility room, as you can imagine. ( knock yourself out!)
Time never hung comfortably on her hands. Not wanting to spend it circling the drain, (This 'issue' is worthy of its own post but suffice it to say, she'd noticed that wanna be docs' wives, trying to hone their 'solitary evenings' skill set, often resorted to handy pharmaceutical aids. The result was 'wives nite out' or in a clouded room, a smoky restaurant, a dim café, voices leaking out in disarray. So sad. The pills - prescribed as pain relievers and mood elevators - morphed into pain expanders and mood relievers. Everything hurt and nothing made sense. Some flirted with detox time or worse. I bring you no news when I tell you that prominent among these ladies, one could find Junior League presidents and heads of Mothers-Against-anything-verboten. Remaining an outsider to this fate, she followed her doctor's suggestion to "get involved in something you love ".) Time, then, was exuberantly squandered on her lifelong passion, theater.
As fortune would have it, the town's little theater was within walking distance. Time, in this case, gunned the engines of her extreme restlessness. And the dinner theater was an easy drive from the launch pad. Now, their schedules were aberrant - for this hood - but being caught up in rehearsals and performances would take the bite (usually felt by Mrs. Intern and Mrs. Resident) out of her 'home alone' evenings because she wasn't. Doctor's work sun to sun. Ingenue-with-child's work never done. As the season came to a close, she bounded over to calls at the dinner theater, landing a plum part that would define how she rolled hence. At 1432, that is.
She worshipped at the alter of structure in the pre-opening weeks. Boy walked to school; almost-doc was on duty at St. Everywhere; lines, line, lines were the task-master of her days. The vagaries of board-trotters trumped the vapidity of school board meetings. The Junior League Roll Call never sang her name. Dinner on the run or not at all was followed by our Boy basking in abundant care and feeding by fellow cast members.
As you may know, The Prisoner of Second Avenue is pretty much a two actor performance. The husband and wife carry the audience through a life/relationship-changing-burglary. In New York. In two rooms of their apartment. Mel is a lumbering, teddy-bear of a guy - pj's and ball cap -clad - depressed and in reverse on the trigger. ( If you get my drift. I'll wait while you think.)
Edith is a youthful, forty-two New York doer- type. She has no time left for small stuff while Mel's stuff is being big on the New York Times while he's out of work. The audience merrily gobbles two and a half hours of Neil Simon one-liners with a plethora of sight gags which were crafted in a style so subtle and nuanced as to feature Simon's comedic genius rather than comedic bufoonery. And, well, our leading lady darts around, now focused, now musing in a personal neurotic charade, but ever in her color-blocked, long, terry robe--fresh from the bath. (Hey, this robe could have been borrowed from her aunt, a cloistered nun, but, eyebrows will click their heels or whatever they do when the Southern Belle image has been bruised. And that would be by viewers or reviewers- a distinctly astigmatic crowd at the time.). Predictably, the majority of audiences pierced the sonic capacity of the room in greeting her when she padded to the stage apron, barefoot, robed and last for the curtain call. Except for one particular set of eyes and ears that would remain stolid and stunned. Moreover, their attendant mouths would gear up to 'talk'.
It was soon after the show opened to long run/rave reviews that they were invited to a 'welcome to the neighborhood ' party. (for them). The host and hostess were the attorney who represented the area's largest-profile children's hospital and Mrs. Attorney, Heika, homebody (body being the operative syllable of the word). The target couple, king-and-queen-for-a-Sunday-evening, were accompanied by their next door friends, the Hills. (He was also an attorney but Helen rode her own star as a docent at the city's pestigious museum. Now Braxton - Brac- did have his bronzed kicking shoe from the glory days at UVA prominently displayed in the living room, but overall and perhaps because of a mutual interest in sports, wanna-doc liked Brac. Helen-of-Gates would follow a bottle of Asti Spumanti anywhere but otherwise was inocuous. Smiled alot actually.)
So it was, on the big welcoming night, that the newbies joined the masters/mistresses of their contiguous, tree-lined streets (remember that triangle) to make merry, spear Gouda and sport "Hello, My name is ____" badges. Several hours into the soiree, the host approached our gal as she was balancing dipped crackers in one hand and hubby's and her wine in the other - clearly a replenish mission. Host Esquire (slander is such a messy scene, no?) proferred -sans any pleasant platitudes (which were pitifully abundant when this group gaggled)- : "I just want you to know that we (gesturing at the room, the world, the planet beyond) all know exactly what you are (pause, wink meaningfully) and what you're doing."
That she paused, gathering her thought, is once more bringing you no news , but punctuating the massiveness of the gestalt of emotions she had to suppress and what with both hands full, scotching any possibility of 'leaning attentively on the piano', we must color her paused. But, thus digitally constrained, she looked beyond Esquire Bill, her cold stare finding Mrs. A, Heika, transiting the room with seven or eight "Hello, My name is male guest" stuck onto the seat of her too tight slacks. Thusly rewarded, she returned her focus to her antagonist, her expression questioning, her voice locked, as Bill held forth, "Leaving at dinnertime, usually dragging the child. Get home rather late, eh?"
Wasn't it Oscar Wilde who said, "It is wiser to remain silent and be thought ignorant than to speak and remove all doubt."? Clearly, our guy has grossly overstepped and underestimated. And she. Well, she's a survivor who has 'bigger fish to fry' as it were, down the road. (Would that she'd had a free hand to toss some savignon blanc at his sneer.)
His elaboration sparked some (a soupcon?) tension. Her thoughts tumbled about in her head, barely concealed by wispy bangs, emotions threatening to jog amok. This was a really bad scene in which she was forced to play. What price, though, public confrontation, or her reputation, or asparagus for that matter. All of the energy, time and work she'd put out to ensure safe passage and privacy of their domestic ship now seemed wasted, the ship marooned. She knew, moreover, that if she stirred this pot, Bill would go on a fool's errand, and she to pieces.
Rather, she'd opt for 'Bill avoidance/non-event', the sorry but typical reaction he usually encountered. Indeed, her very own wanna doc never spoke of the Bills of the world, save as potential patients. (which this Bill was bucking for!) Were she to acknowledge his lunacy, he'd have ventured and gained. Her world had been rocked before, by far better than Bill and, wait a . . . But Bill waits for none but, in his pickled, puffed up pouter pigeon voice spouted, "My Heika. When I get home at six, she's waiting by the front door, with my children, happy and anxious to give me anything, and I mean anything, I want". (Assuredly, this last was delivered with a leering wink'n lip curve, but she doesn't recall.)
This last also fell on deaf ears and nerves. No longer in the conversation, she moved aside, poking her way passed partygoers, approaching husband, indicating the front door (For good measure, she glanced toward the foyer. No sign of Bill's kids. That's crazy!, her mind interrupted. Crazy. She wanted to look into "help" but knew there'd be no room at the 'bin'. She doesn't do crazy. She's a wife, a Mom, still a daughter and sib. She reads EKG'S. When not working, she acts. Loves the theater, you know. ('Course you do. You are still reading, no? There could be a test. . .). What else can you do when a tipsy Bill spouts BS? At his house. At your party. I ask you. What? (Take your time. I'll be right here.)
She waited a few weeks before sharing the episode with her mate. And when she did, it became an addendum to her happy plan of getting comp tickets to the show for the neighbors. An away-from-home, Cumbaya bonding event for the hood. (How could Bill not see the folly of his thinking after that? All of that audience interaction, warmth , fun, skipping. She was certain this would clear up all misunderstandings. Wipe her slate of nasty falsehoods. Dissolve any enmity. NOT.
Saturday nights were usually sold out. And it was indeed a full house to which her neighbors added ten wary people. They were happy to use their complementary tickets. They were happier to see their choice reserved seats. After a wonderful meal, there was satisfied chatter as they anticipated seeing their very own friend and neighbor on stage.
Lights. She enters in blackout. Stage lights up. Upstageright, she she's speaking frantically into the phone.
Edison. E-D-I-S-O-N. Edison. Yes. They robbed us. We've been robbed. What d'ya mean, "What do I mean?" Robbed. They come in. They take things out. Robbed us. And so she whisked through the Edisons' burglary and Neil Simon's work of art. All of this happiness was met with thunderous applause right up to and including the reassuring, bemused dénouement. The performance almost over, the gasp caught her attention. Then the low buzz. The inappropriate whisper.
It now was over. She waited a bit longer before starting from upstage center, alone, to greet the robust audience response. At the apron, she looked for her guy. He was exhausted and giddy with wine and clapping wildly. (She recalled hearing gales of laughter coming from this table.) She bowed deeply, head down, robe slightly open, feet very bare. And the Bill. Looking at his tablemates. He began whispering, then insisting on something. They ignored and non-evented him. They applauded.
He stood, making very sweeping extremity moves as he packed up his program, cigarettes and car keys. His Heika was already marching exitward. He followed after first stooping down to speak to a man at the next table - a total stranger. Stranger ignored him, focused on applauding. Bill deposited his commentary into stranger's wife's ear. (He was just thinking of others. Even then. He was just giving , giving, giving. Doctor's work sun to sun . Bill's work never done.)
Spring, welcome as always, found new life in the hood. People were out jogginq, kids playing ball. Moms strolling beside Santa-brought shiny trykes. And Bill thrilled with his new pine-paneled game room, invited ALL the boys for Wednesday night kickass poker. Even wannbe doc found time. She was glad.
It was after midnight when she heard Brac's voice. "Time for bed, doc". Wanna be had won big with two pairs. He'd defended her honor, and left his host with an impressive swollen lip and no instructions for caring for it. Heika would want to happily administer 'tender loving care' and do whatever the ER doc advised.
Stuff happens but you go on. Of course she knew nothing had happened but some goodness knows maturity. Father Barton - a friend and frequent dinner guest to many in the hood -was no stranger to her. He'd recently spoken of Bill and Heika and change and smiling and skipping.
On a Saturday, early, before the unforgiving mowers got going, Bill found doc hanging a tire swing for the boy. The magnolia tree had finally become more than a pretty face. At first he helped in silence. Then they were facing each other and the huge branch stole the show. But not before she saw hairy arms resting on broad shoulders. Then she smiled, listening to friendship. Halting at first. But quite real.
