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Sunday, August 7, 2016

Willie Ragland and the Benefits of Temperance

I awoke today thinking about Willie Ragland. Maybe it was because I watched a little of the Olympics ping-pong matches yesterday. It may be called table tennis for the Olympics, but it was ping-pong when I knew and hated Willie more than six decades ago.
     Corporal Willie Ragland was a tall, husky, young black man who spent the great majority of his free time at Sampigny Chemical Depot in the rec-tent playing ping-pong. Willie owned a special paddle with soft foam surfaces that provided him great control of the little white ball. He also owned a devastating smash and a perfect record of wins amongst all challengers.
     Willie was from Chicago, a fellow mid-westerner. The thing he did best, after ping-pong, was to talk, unless you took seriously his yarns about encounters and escapades with various members of the opposite sex—his favorite subject, far and away. As he was young, black and from Chicago, I discounted most of what he said, but no one could discount his ping-pong abilities.
     The 337th Chemical Depot at Sampigny was a part of the Army’s Com-Z located in the Muese Valley in the northeast corner of France. The munitions supply and storage base for US troops occupying Germany after WWII ceased to exist more than a quarter century ago. The small, centuries-old town of Sampigny is still home for about 750 residents, but their number is declining at a rate of about one percent per year. It is set in the quiet and idyllic French countryside with no apparent reason for existence before or after the presence of the US military.
     During my tenure there, I considered it the un-deodorized armpit of France. Its only recreational outlets for the 100 or so GIs on base were two tiny bars. One, operated by two, once-pretty, middle-aged women, was aptly named The Three-Eyed Sisters. I cannot remember the name of the other, located just a few paces north of the Depot’s main gate, but I vividly recall the two sorry, locally-brewed alcoholic beverages it served. The unsavory beer often contained unidentifiable particulates and required careful decantation into a glass while attempting to leave the majority of solids in the bottle—a task less and less skillfully accomplished with each imbibed bottle, no matter how concentrated the bleary-eyed effort.
     The local champagne, know to me only phonetically as “moose-er-er,” was palatable and cheap. However, often it was necessary for the proprietor to open two or three bottles before finding one that could pop and fizz. All this within the close dingy walls of the bar with no entertainment beyond idle conversation, no fast foods, no desirable damsels.
     Thus, with little to attract me off base on free evenings and new movies at the mess hall only once a month, there was ample time, if little desire, to drift into the rec-tent where Willie was enthroned and taking on all challengers. Whoever won a game owned the one and only table until defeated. When Willie was playing, no one else got to play more than one game at a time.
     So, I took up ping-pong. Casually at first but with more purpose after being ignominiously dispatched repeatedly by Willie with my paddle between my legs. Evenings off base at the local bistros became more infrequent. Within weeks, my defensive game improved, and by the end of the second month, I had a serve. It cleared the net by a fraction of a millimeter and then bounced off the table at high speed and a reckless angle. Time for another Willie challenge.
     My newfound ping-pong proficiency took Willie off guard. I took an early lead, returning his smashes, stunning him with my serve, but eventually he prevailed. Close, but no cigar until that fateful day when I returned all of his best serves and volleys, and my devilish serve completely frustrated him. I won.
     Willie lost interest in ping-pong, and even his yarns and lies lost their luster. Not long thereafter, he shipped out to return home and leave my memory forever.

     Until today.

Sunday, December 20, 2015

Christmas Past and Present

Christmas Past: Milwaukee, Wisconsin in the 1930s and 40s

   There was always snow for Christmas. We had seen Santa Clause arrive with his live reindeer, riding atop one of the trolley cars that crossed the city. We had listened to Billie the Brownie on WTMJ radio. We had made our wish lists and done our shopping at Schuster’s or Sears or some other shop. We had wondered at the animated winter scenes in Gimbel’s big window on Wisconsin Avenue. Now the long anticipated time had arrived. Finally, it was Christmas Eve.
   We walked in the chilled darkness from our flat on 24th Place a few blocks to Resurrection Evangelical Lutheran Church to attend the children’s pageant, a one or two act play written and directed by Pastor Birch. One of the Anderson kids was always in the pageant, maybe as a lamb or a shepherd in the manger tableau or with a lead role in a modern dress allegory.
   A tall fir tree, lighted and decorated with angels and crosses and other symbols of the faith stood near the sanctuary, and bright red poinsettias guarded the altar. The old, familiar hymns were sung—Away in a Manger, Oh Come All Ye Faithful, and, of course, Silent Night at the close of service. A thousand Merry Christmases were exchanged as the parishioners greeted each other outside before hurrying to return to their warm homes for their own holiday rituals.
   Arriving back at our home, by some miracle of the season, a brightly lighted, decorated tree welcomed the excited and delighted children as our eyes searched beneath the branches to see which of the presents from our wish list might be waiting. Most of the gifts from Santa were of the practical variety—new socks or even a fancy sweater that we could hardly wait to try on, but always some small toy too.
   And the food.  Mom’s delicious stollen and fruit cake and all varieties of cookies covered the dining room table; perhaps some cider or milk, cold cuts or deviled eggs. A favorite aunt and uncle or some dear friend of the family might drop in later to share the warmth of Christmas Eve. Joy to the world. For that night, at least, there was peace and goodwill amongst men.
Christmas Recent: Traditions Continue

   Dolly’s family Christmas tradition was similar to mine, and while our children were growing up, we continued much the same. Get the kids to bed early on Christmas Eve after mass while Santa worked on the tree and unloaded presents. They would wait patiently on Christmas morning until finally allowed to burst into the living room and start ripping the careful wrappings to shreds. In later years, Dolly still decorated our empty nest with dozens of elves on shelves and miniature winter scenes on the mantle. Of course, a ceiling-high, live Frazier Fir crowded our downsized living room when adult kids, grandkids and great grands visited to share the holiday and partake of our traditional family Christmas feast.
Christmas Present: The times, they are a-changing

   A week or so before December 25th, I will set up the pre-lit, plastic evergreen I bought last year on sale. Kris and Matt and their kids may stop in to help decorate it one day or while they visit us on the day of Christmas Eve. There will be no gaily-wrapped boxes to litter the floor around it. Dolly can no longer participate in her favorite contact sport—shopping—so we will give the expedient gift of cash this year. I will do my best to decorate the mantle with whatever I find in the box labeled Xmas Décor stored in the basement. Maybe, I can get some of Home Depot’s 99-cent poinsettias to brighten it up too.
   Starting this spring, Dolly has become less and less able to care for herself. She has lost both sensory and motor-control nerves in her legs. She needs help with all “activities of daily living” as the long-term-care agencies call those routines that most of us take for granted every day.  This keeps me and a part-time caregiver, a fine woman from the Comfort Keepers agency, occupied quite full time. Hence, my blogs have become infrequent and publication of the two or three new books I planned this year will be delayed to an uncertain future.
   Except for Kris and family visiting on the morning before Christmas and the possible visits of grandchildren with or without great-grands (we have three now), Dolly and I will share a quiet Christmas alone together. Dan and Dana will be tying the wedding knot in Las Vegas. Jennifer will represent the Anderson family at the ceremony and celebration. Marty will be convalescing for four to six weeks after back surgery in mid-December and will not be travelling.
   Meanwhile, we will be watching for those annual greetings from friends and family, old and new, that appear in our mail box at times between the swarms of mail-order catalogs. Hope to hear from you all.
   We hope that 2016 brings many blessings your way.
   Merry Christmas 2015 from Richard and Dolly Anderson



                                                                       

Monday, November 9, 2015

To Walk Between Raindrops

ProetryPlace Blog 77:  To Walk Between Raindrops

storm clouds roil and rage
stepping out into the rain
Mother’s voice descends

     Five-year-old Richard wonders, “But what if it rains?”
     Mom replies, “Just walk between the raindrops.”
     As a young child, I took my mother’s advice quite literally and, on occasion, did try to dodge the raindrops while wondering about the impossibility of it all. Why would she tell me that?
     As a young man, I loved to walk in a gentle summer rain, especially in the dark.  The night rain afforded quiet solitude and pleasure and never failed to bring Mom’s sage words to mind. I can hear her still, but now know that her meaning was to make the most of any situation and not let adversity overcome you.
     Others have put it this way, “Don’t wait for the storm to pass, learn to dance in the rain>”

     Dolly and I spent the past week at a rustic resort in the North Georgia mountains. The Chattahoochee River churns its way past the resort and winds its rocky way through the adjacent, quaint  “Bavarian” town of Helen. We have spent the same week here for the past 18 years, a week that often comprises Halloween and the last few days of Oktoberfest celebrations. We know which shops and restaurants we like to visit and which to avoid, but we try something new every year—perhaps visiting one of the scenic waterfalls in the area or sampling the vintage at a new winery.
     The Fest Halle is always a must. We sit at one of the long tables with strangers who crowd into the hall to enjoy the continental music, the special German dishes, the imported German beer (by the mug or by the pitcher) and the simple Gemutlichkeit. For years we danced the polkas and the chicken dance and participated in the long, patriotic conga lines that snaked around the hall as a highlight of the evening. These days, we are observers of such musical festivities. We reminisce. We leave a little early.
     The crisp, cool autumn weather during these weeks often demands a sweater or jacket at night. The days are comfortable under brilliant blue skies that backdrop the gorgeous fall foliage displayed on the hills and ridges surrounding the town. Daytime hours, when not shopping or eating out, are filled with reading some new volume of fiction or poetry unless the quiet, peaceful environment inspires me to add my own contributions to the literary world.
     This year, it rained.  It rained during the day. It rained at night. The Chattahoochee and Chestatee Rivers ran fast and high. The beautiful colors where masked by rain and fog and rendered dismal and dull. It rained on Saturday. It rained on Sunday. On Monday it rained, and again on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. It rained as we packed the car on Friday to return home in the rain.
     Last fall, Dolly could walk but could not climb the stairs into our upper condo unit. This year, with Dolly confined to a wheelchair, we occupied a lower unit for easier accessibility. Our annual pilgrimage has become much more difficult. Possibly this past week is the last visit we can make to our autumn sanctuary. Hence I felt a special poignancy that might have turned to depression in the constant rain.
     But there were sources of brightness that shined through the rain. Our daughter, Jennie, who we seldom see because she lives in Colorado, spent the entire week with us, plus a few days at home. Besides the simple pleasure of having her with us, she provided constant care-giving assistance for her mom. It is doubtful that I could have managed more than a day or two on my own without her help.
     Additionally, our son, Dan, and his family stayed at the resort for a part of the week to provide more help and hours of family togetherness away from home.
     So, somehow, we managed to stay our allotted time. Our week in the mountains, while soggy and dark was once again fulfilling, refreshing and enjoyable, enabled by the love of family. We had dodged the raindrops.

                                                  


     Now we are home again, alone together, missing our kids and grandkids. And it is still raining.

Richard Allen Anderson     ProetryPlace Blog 77     9 November 2015


Friday, July 3, 2015

Minor Differences - - the Conclusion

ProetryPlace Blog 76                                          Minor Differences
Conclusion (Part 2 of 2)

    Mik stirred the ice and liquor slowly, chilling the Absolute and Martini & Rossi Extra Dry until the flask developed a haze of condensation, the signal to decant.
    “Sure you won’t have one with me?” he asked. “I need to talk with you about something. It may take a while.”
    “No thanks, babe. I’m pretty mellow already.” Nettie opened the oven door, checking the chicken casserole she had prepared for their dinner. It was one of her specialties, and already it smelled delicious.
    “Then just come sit with me.” Mik strained the cold, clear liquid into a wide-mouthed, long-stemmed martini glass, the kind he reserved for special occasions. “Maybe you’d better turn that oven down to low for a while.”
    He proceeded between long sips to reveal Brad’s news, the wedding plans first and then, fumbling the words, the fact that it would be a homosexual union.
    Nettie sat across from Mik, leaning in with her arms on the kitchen table. She seemed to absorb all the information as easily as if he had told her Brad had a dentist appointment or was planning a trip around the world.
    “I’m not that surprised,” she said, “I’ve always wondered about Brad.”
    “But he’s such a hunk, as you women say.”
    Nettie patted the back of Mik’s hand. “What planet do you live on? They always are!” She rose to check the casserole. “Maybe you should fix me one of your silver bullets, after all.”
    He made a double batch with fresh ice and a little extra vermouth, the way she liked it, and returned to the table with the two full glasses. “But that’s not all. Here’s the kicker . . . where it becomes a dilemma for you and me. He wants us to witness the ceremony at city hall. Then he wants us to have dinner with the two of them holding hands and making dove eyes, and see them off on the honeymoon!”
    “That is so nice of him to want us there. What’s your dilemma? Brad has always had a lot of respect for you. It’s wonderful he has enough confidence to ask for your support now.”
    “That’s it? You’re not even mildly disturbed, much less appalled or horrified? We are talking about being official guests at and party to a gay wedding . . . with Brad as the beautiful bride!”
    “I’ve never heard you talk like this before. Since when are you Mr. Homophobe?”
    “Well, this is someone we know!” Mik’s guts battled with his brain. “Those people can do what they want behind closed doors, no matter how repulsive that may be. At least we were not involved in it—until now. And, I do not like the public displays or acceptance of it . . . it’s not natural.”
    “My God, would you listen to yourself? You’ve read enough to know it is inborn. It’s in his genes, in his blood. It’s not a matter of choice. It is natural. Maybe not for us, but for them it is.”
    “I never bought that. Not 100 percent. Anyway, why do they have to get married? It shouldn’t even be allowed. Marriage has always meant a man and a woman.”
    “Listen, dear,” she said, “I am happy and proud to live in one of the five or six places in this country where homosexual marriage is sanctioned and legal.”  The glass shook in her hand, spilling out a few drops. “Where is your cherished notion of equality without that?”
    “The constitution doesn’t say anything about gay marriage.” He sipped slowly, feeling the booze ease his taut nerves. He knew his statement was hollow and incoherent and felt relieved when Nettie chose not to challenge it.
    “Brad is practically your best friend ever. How can you condemn him for this? You should be happy he is out of the closet and free to be himself.”
    “I’m not condemning him. I just do not understand how he can choose that kind of relationship. God, I cannot stand to think about it.”
    “I don’t really understand either, but sex is such a powerful, pervading drive. Is it any wonder that differences in preference or orientation exist? At any rate, it’s not for us to approve or not.”
    Mik shook his head but offered no response. Nettie continued.
    “Think of how many have lived in a hell of heterosexual relationships when their natural inclination was homosexual. Think of Brad and Julie. They were miserable together. Why should gays and lesbians have to choose that kind of life to satisfy us? Why should they have to live in clandestine affairs or in solitude?”
    “Well, I’d rather they just shut up about it then.” Mik had read all the opinions on homosexual tendencies and the rights of all Americans, all humans, to enjoy the benefits of a marriage relationship. He had no formal religious beliefs on which to base his objections as many others did, citing obscure biblical passages. He just did not like the idea. “I don’t want them flaunting their lifestyle at me. I don’t need to see any more Gay Pride parades! God, I suppose Brad and his new husband could be the frigging king and queen in the next one.”
    The oven beeped and Nettie rose to extract their dinner. “Set the table for me, honey, while I fix a salad and get this casserole ready to serve. And relax, for heaven’s sake. You’re all flushed.”
    Their dinner conversation turned to the recent hurricanes in Florida and snippets of local news that Nettie had caught on television earlier in the day when she wasn’t working on her poetry collection. Then it was quiet, so quiet that Mik could hear Nettie’s breathing and the tic-toc of the pendulum clock in the hall, each of them reluctant to continue with the subject that remained fixed in both of their minds.
    Nettie smiled and broke the silence. “What should we get them for a wedding gift?”
    “Jeez. I have no clue what to give a couple of gays.”
    “Don’t think of it in that context.”
    “How can you not?”
    Mik knew he could never see Brad with the same eyes again. Would they ever again be able to shake hands or bear hug as they were accustomed to do? He watched Nettie’s delicate hand holding her dinner fork, absently playing with the food on her plate. He loved her fine hands, her rounded arms, shoulders and neck. He loved the touch of her velvet skin He loved her delicate face, framed in short-cropped hair that accentuated her femininity and appeal. He loved her shining eyes and her soft lips. The soft curves and the round fullness in her knit cotton blouse urged him to reach out, to feel her close to him. How could Brad disdain such feminine charms for the arms of a man?
    Shadows flickered briefly across Nettie’s serious, thoughtful face—shadows of candlelight from the four tapers she had lighted to enhance their dinner and shadows of doubt and concern. “What did you say to him?” she asked. Her voice was controlled and quiet. “Did you congratulate him, tell him you couldn’t wait to meet his fiancé?”
    Mik grunted and thought, Are you kidding?
    He said, “I told him we had travel plans for that week. We’d have to see if they could be changed.”
    “So you lied, and you are actually thinking of abandoning him.”
    “What else could I do? God, he knocked me over with this whole idea.”
    “Isn’t he the same Brad you have loved dearly for the past three years?”
    “The same Brad?” Mik exploded. “Hell no! He’s about to become someone’s blushing bride for God’s sake. A wrestler’s bride! Mrs., uh  . . . Mrs. Norman Kramer.” His last words trailed off. “He will never be Brad Stoner again to me . . . .”
    Nettie stared at her husband. “How sad,” she whispered and pushed back her chair. She rose and moved deliberately around the table to Mik’s side. “Get up,” she said, and he obeyed. She looked up into his confused face and ran her smooth fingers up his arms. She grasped him tightly like an unruly child.
    “Tomorrow you will tell him that we will be honored and delighted to stand by him at his wedding. Tomorrow you will ask if he can bring Norman to our house for dinner next week so we can meet him and get to know him a little before the wedding. Tomorrow you will tell him that we will continue to stand by them while other friends and acquaintances abandon them and shun them, for surely that will happen. Brad knows that. Our state recognizes the legality and value of their relationship, but most of the people he knows won’t accept them any more. They will be talked about and treated like some kind of dirty joke.”
    She released her grip. “And you’d better hope he still accepts you.”
    She paused. “I wonder if they plan on having a family.”
    Nettie’s touch and clear instructions had calmed him, but Mik’s longstanding and deeply rooted sentiments persisted. “They’re two men, Nettie. They can’t have kids. If they could, how would that child feel, having a couple of gays for parents?”
    “I know two lesbian couples from the tennis club,” she said and stood back with folded arms. “One has kids.”
    “Two more couples! Christ, it’s getting epidemic. You never mentioned them before.”
     “It never came up. Anyway, they are both loving couples and seem quite normal—if there is such a thing—in every other way. One couple—Cindy and Mary—have adopted two kids. One boy and one girl. They are so proud of them. They talk about them all the time, just like other parents. They dress the kids well. They love them. They have the same concerns and worries and aspirations as any other parent . . . and then some.”
    “But the kids can’t feel good about it,” he said over his shoulder as he carried the dishes to the dishwasher.
    Nettie followed and turned him to face her. “You’re transferring your own feelings to them. I’ve met them. The kids are like any others I know except they know they have two moms. Makes them feel special. They accept it without question.”
    “But they’ll be influenced to think a homosexual relationship is normal.”
    “All I know is that those kids are some of the best adjusted and best behaved I’ve ever met, the most knowledgeable for their age, the most aware. The moms have told me that they do not want to predispose the children to homosexuality or heterosexuality. Quite the opposite. They know how precious a thing that freedom of choice is.”
    Now she was flushed. “Damn it, don’t you know that after their own struggles with sexual preference, they don’t want the kids to face that trauma.  Or the social stigma that homosexuality carries. That will be with us for years to come. Maybe forever. Don’t you see, they just want the kids to be very aware . . . to help them make their own choices . . . and to understand the consequences.”
    Nettie held Mik’s face in her two hands. “This country needs to do something to remove that stigma and recognize the value of these people and their relationships like any others. They should not be second class citizens any longer.” Her voice rose as emotions flooded her words. Then, looking at Mik’s pinched lips, she laughed. Her grip on his face had tightened, making him look like the grill of an Edsel. “Didn’t mean to get on a rant,” she said and dropped her hands.
    Mik looked at her with raised brows.
    She kissed his bewildered face on the cheek and said, “Sorry.”
    Mik pulled her close and folded her in his arms. Thus they stood for several moments in quiet, domestic embrace, holding on to themselves, holding on to each other.
    “I love you.”
    “I love you too.”

Richard Allen Anderson     http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com     

Sunday, June 28, 2015

ProetryPlace Blog 75                             Minor Differences
Part 1 of 2



    “Ohhh. Are you leaving me now?” Her husky whisper was still heavy with sleep. His hands felt cold on her warm bare shoulders. They carried the subtle scent of musk, earthy and animal.
    “It’s almost eight. I don’t want to be late.” He had already showered, shaved and dressed for work and caught five minutes of the Weather Channel and a glimpse of Matt Lauer in some secret spot on the globe before returning to the bedroom to waken her.
    Her hand caught his, pulling him to her. “I’m all dressed and ready to go,” he said, and bent to plant a platonic peck on her cheek. He felt her indolent warmth rise to meet him. She turned toward him to receive his lips on hers and reached up to pull his shampooed head down to her searching mouth.
    “Baby, I’ve got to go . . . !”
    Later, he had considered calling in sick and spending the entire morning in bed. But, he was not practiced at deceit, and he deferred to duties beyond his connubial obligations. Quickly redressing in the semi-darkness of the shaded room, he prepared to leave without further contact or goodbyes. She did not lift her face from the pillowed comfort of puffy down to acknowledge or resist his departure except to utter a satisfied, throaty, “Bye now, Mik.”
    “Bye Nettie.” He grabbed the car keys from the dresser and willed himself to leave the room.

    He had missed the heaviest of the morning traffic. He parked in a far corner of the office lot, glanced at his watch and quickly walked toward the double glass entry doors of Universal Engineering, reluctantly shifting his thoughts from his wife to the tasks and problems that would confront him during the next eight to ten hours.
    Inside, the receptionist absently handed him two pink message slips. Her bottle-black hair hung loosely, covering half of her face as she spoke quietly and confidentially into the telephone. She did not look up or bother to address him by name. He hadn’t learned her name either. He called her Gina—of the species Lollobrigida. She welcomed visiting strangers warmly but except for the top brass and a few young studs like Brad, she could not waste any of her limited attention span on most of the common staff. Mik’s own preference was for brains over boobs, but he doubted that any man could help but appreciate her up-front assets.
    He glanced at the pink sheets. Good, the one o’clock meeting is cancelled. No reason given. And Brad is back and wants to talk. He will be waiting in my office.
    He’d hired Brad Stoner three years ago to help catch up with some of the minor engineering drawings that kept piling up. Stoner lacked full academic credentials, but he was a quick study. Where he lacked pure intellect, his determination, study and hard work more than compensated. Mik had given Brad personal attention and mentoring to develop his raw potential and had alerted top management to Brad’s achievements. And he had come to rely on Brad, gradually delegating more complex and difficult problems to him.
    “Hey old man,” Brad greeted him, “you’re smiling, and you’re late. Catch an early nooner?”
    Sometimes Brad is a little too perceptive, he thought. He dropped his attaché case on his desk and reached out to shake Brad’s hand and throw an arm around his shoulders. “Let’s get some coffee, my friend.”
    Mik had eventually come to regard Brad like the younger brother he never had, and Brad reciprocated with warm respect. Yet something remote and undefined limited their friendly intimacy. Maybe it was the working relationship. Maybe it was the age difference or generation gap. Whatever, it was always there, like a haunting fragrance, perceptible but unidentified.
    The office crew had finished with coffee and break-room gossip an hour ago. The dark dregs from the Pyrex pot were strong and bitter. “No time to make fresh, this will have to do,” Mik said. “Do you want some of the swill? You seem busting with news. How was your trip?”
    “It’ll wait till we get back to your office,” Brad said. Then, unable to resist his constant exuberance, he whispered, “I’m getting married again, Mik.”
    Stoner had been married two years ago for exactly eight months. Julie, his bride, a beautiful, slim blond, was a perfect complement to her tall, broad-shouldered, raven-haired husband. They cohabited for a year, but Brad had been reluctant to set the wedding date. Finally they eloped for a solitary but elaborately staged wedding and honeymoon in Hawaii.
    Mik and Nettie were invited to the newlyweds’ apartment only once, a few months after the wedding. They sat together on a stiffly upholstered settee to view photos of the happy couple in tux and short white wedding dress holding hands and embracing under a canopy of orchids, or tanned and athletic in shorts and tees with a grotto waterfall splashing behind them, or in a mock pose with Brad rescuing Julie from the rim of a steaming volcano.
    They had leafed through the expensive, professional album and given up the appropriate responses, a duet of “ohs” and “ahs” and “beautifuls,” but each had felt ill-at-ease with the newly-weds, sensing something oddly amiss in the elaborate picture show and something lacking or fictitious in their current behavior.
    On their drive home, Nettie was the first to remark, “God, I felt like I was at a bad Neil Simon play. Like they were pretending . . . posing all the time. They acted so un-newly-married, didn’t you think? Maybe it was just the feeling I got from those cold furnishings—they looked like samples from that ultra-modern furniture showroom at the mall.”
    “That furniture expresses them perfectly. Smart, stylish and expensive. But yeah, they were so, uh, so perfunctory . . . not at all intimate.” Mik dropped his hand on Nettie’s thigh. “Not even a pat on the ass. If you treated me like that, I’d think you were hinting at divorce.”
    Mik and Nettie’s furnishings comprised an informal and varied collection of mostly early-American pieces, overstuffed contemporary and inherited or purchased antiques of any era or origination. The eclectic collection had grown sporadically over the years, and somehow, it all fit together, a comfortable mélange they both approved.
    When Mik proposed marriage, Nettie had said, “We’re just too different.”
    Mik replied, “It’ll keep’s life interesting, you’ll see.”
    Over the years, he had repeated this assertion, always in response to her “We are so different,” or “We don’t agree on anything.” There was some truth in both of their statements. Differences abounded in their tastes in food, music and literature that years of marriage did not alter. Nettie was strictly meat and potatoes. Mik went for extensive smorgasbords or exotic international cuisine. He detested the hip-hop and rap that turned her on, as much as she disliked the classics or the Coltrane that he loved. They disagreed on points of religion, although neither of them practiced one formally or attended any church. They rarely disagreed on politics, but neither was a strong member of any party. Minor differences.
    Once, in their fifth year of marriage, while their furnishings were more meager but less worn than now, she had said to him one evening, out of the blue, “Maybe we should get a separation.”
    The notion was so remote to Mik, it was as if she had spoken a foreign language. The words just did not register. “What?” was all he could manage to respond.
    “Nothing. Go back to your reading.” And she let the statement recede from their consciousness, like a stone skipping away over quiet water.
    In fact, their bond was strong and genuine. Their basic perceptions and values were rarely dissimilar. Motherhood and Apple Pie. Honesty and Integrity, Home and Family and God bless the USA. Both were predisposed to kindness and consideration, not only for each other but for those less fortunate. Both were imbued with a need to care and to share, yet either could tear out your throat or your heart with spiteful slams if aroused in the heat of argument.
    Nettie’s killer instinct was more highly developed—she had majored in psychology with a minor in American Lit. She was more likely to hurl the hurtful phrase, then rush back like Florence Nightingale to repair the wounds with skilled understanding and gentle compassion. Careful and deliberate, Mik eschewed pernicious utterances until he flew over the edge, out of control. Only then did he select the most viscous and cutting articulations of attack. With that release, he withdrew for hours or days of brooding, resentment, and remorse.
    Each knew the others soft spots well. They both had learned to avoid them unless willing to suffer the anguish of the retribution that was almost sure to follow. Each anticipated the other’s thoughts or reactions, whether agreeable or not. Though as comfortable together now as their dissimilar and well-used furniture, each still thought the other to be the most interesting person on the planet. And they were good in bed together.
    Neither of them had been surprised when Brad announced that Julie had moved in with another man and was suing for divorce based on irreconcilable differences. Nor did it seem odd that Brad seemed hardly perplexed. He continued his private life as he had before and during the marriage—heavily involved in spectator and participation sports, body training four times a week at Singleton’s Spa and pick-up basketball games at the Y. It seemed quite in character—as if Brad had selected a mate much as he might have impulsively purchased a stylish new suit or a sporty new car, then quickly tired of it to the point of neglect and eventual abandonment. But they continued to wonder about the true nature of those irreconcilable differences.
    Walking back to Mik’s office, Brad attracted the usual flirtations from the female staff, single and married, young and old. They appreciated his considerate and deferential good manners but especially his smashing good looks. Need a favor from one of them? Have Brad Stoner ask her for it. He plied them with a wink and a smile, a quick personal inquiry or a bad, bad joke. Stoner was not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but he did have a unique shine
    Mik shut the office door. His surprise at Brad’s whispered announcement in the break room had abated somewhat, like the cooling of the hot, bitter coffee. Still, he was eager to know more. “Okay, let’s hear about it,” he said.
    “Well, the wedding date is two weeks from today—a civil ceremony. We want you and Nettie to be our witnesses. No one else is coming.”
    “Wow, that was fast!” He refrained from asking, “Is she pregnant?” or “Are you sure this time?” He said, “I’m not sure what’s on our calendar two weeks from now, but it’s probably not anything we can’t change. Nettie will be very happy for you. So am I.”
    Mik sat on the edge of his desk, eying the telephone. He itched to call home, to tell Nettie. He thought how he might phrase the surprise announcement and hoped she would not still be in the shower. He realized he still lacked some essential information to pass on.
    “So, Brad, who is this lucky girl that will claim you as her prize? You haven’t mentioned seeing anyone regularly . . . much less a new love life . . . or that you’ve been thinking of a new wife.”
    Brad blinked studiously and cleared his throat. Mik had never known his friend to lack confidence in any situation. Now he watched Brad Stoner shift his gaze nervously from the office window to meet his own eyes and back again.
    “We’ve kept it very quiet,” Brad said, “and it won’t be a new wife for me, it will be a new husband.”
    Mik’s mouth twisted as if he’d just ingested something of doubtful origin. He thought, what the hell are you talking about, man?
    He said, “A new husband? I don’t get it, Brad.”
    Brad smiled but offered little in the way of explanation. “You may have seen him sometime. He’s the wrestler—The Unholy Terror. Also known as Norman Kramer.”
    “But, he’s a man!” Mik blinked stupidly.
    “You got it, my friend.”


Richard Allen Anderson     2015     http://richardandersonblogs.blogspot.com

Sunday, June 7, 2015

The Painted Table - a memoir

ProetryPlace Blog 74

(A friend wrote recently of the trauma associated with leaving her home of many years, a lovely home where she and her husband reared her children and established deep community roots and fast friendships. Her article reminded me of the following piece that I wrote more than ten years ago as we prepared to move from our home of 22+ years in Roswell, Georgia to our current abode in Carrollton. The painted table is in reality a metaphor for all that one must leave behind during transitions such as this.)

THE PAINTED TABLE

    I hand over the bills to the driver; it’s a good deal.  Seventy-five bucks to haul off the assorted refuse and discards—a three-wheeled lawnmower, the 70’s Evinrude 2-horse, three black and white TVs, one white side-walled tire, old furniture—all the stuff we will not have room for in our new, down-sized home.
    I watch the loaded truck move down the driveway.  A face peers out from beneath the holey tarp.  The face is green with yellow eyes.  Then it is gone.
~
    In 1957, the third year of our marriage, I moved with my reluctant bride from metropolitan Milwaukee, Wisconsin to the rolling country roads of Centre County, Pennsylvania.  I had accepted a graduate fellowship at the Pennsylvania State University, and I was eager to begin my advanced education and this new adventure with my young wife at my side.  Dolly shared less of my enthusiasm as she moved away from her childhood home and family for the first time.  The adventure she faced was less defined and less appealing than mine.
    We arrived a week before the truck that would bring our small load of household belongings, and we rented a small apartment near the town of Lemont on the outskirts of State College and University Park.  Our back yard looked out over farm fences and fields and onto Mount Nittany, home of the mountain cougar mascot of Penn State sports, the Nittany Lion.  In another direction we could observe small children playing at recess on the grassy slopes that surrounded William McKinley Grade School where Dolly would later teach.  
    We met our new neighbors who lived in the three other apartments of the plain cinderblock building, and we drove out on small explorations of our surroundings to discover we were in the heart of Amish country, home to the “Pennsylvania Dutch.”  We slept on the floor on blankets borrowed from our new landlord; Dolly prepared meals in two small pots purchased at the five and dime store, and we waited and watched for our belongings to appear.  
    “Come home, the truck is here!”  Relief displaced frustration in Dolly’s voice on the telephone.  I quickly drove the short five miles from my university laboratory and helped unload a double bed, a dresser, a sleeper-couch, two armchairs, assorted lamps, and boxes of dishes and items we hoped had remained whole. Before the tall doors of the moving- van slammed shut, five more items emerged from its dark recesses—a dingy kitchen table with scratched and chipped paint of uncertain color and four matching chairs.
    Knowing we lacked kitchen furniture, Dolly’s parents had rescued the old set from a corner of their basement and shipped it along with our belongings as a gift.  The wooden
bow-back chairs appeared sturdy—and ugly.  The grayish table matched the ugly chairs but wobbled precariously on the floor.  What a great opportunity to test my skills as Mr. Home Handyman!
    A day later the table stood proud and strong, reinforced with spare bed slats, carpenter’s glue, and an assortment of screws and bolts, but still ugly.  Paint can perform miracles, and it did so now.  The chairs were reborn with green seats and gold rungs, and brush stroke by brush stroke, the drab and dingy table was transformed into a gleaming-green new centerpiece for our kitchen.  But still something was lacking—something to signify a new beginning for the table and for us.
    We both said at once, “how about an Amish family?”
    We had seen the quaint and picturesque, one-horse carriages moving at a steady trot as we whizzed by on country roads in our Ford convertible.  Mama in her full-length skirt, long-sleeved blouse and white bonnet sat next to Papa, all bearded, black and buttoned-up, with junior versions of them just visible through the small back carriage window.  They must have been used to gawkers like us and always stared straight down the road as if to assure we would not intrude on their secluded way of life.
    I started the tabletop portraits with a few hesitant waves of my yellow-tipped brush on the bright green tabletop.  First the Amish man with a stern beard, flat-topped hat and straight eyes appeared; then, looking across the table at him, his stout, young wife with
wide, bright eyes and pulled-back hair.  The face of the boy came next—serious like his father, but smaller and with uncombed bangs hanging over his forehead.  The last face was that of a small girl, resembling the mother with hair pulled back and hanging in pigtails.  A family of four in less than an hour.  Was this an unconscious prophecy?
    We were typical graduate students—broke but confident.  We had few entertainment options aside from the companionship of fellow student friends—all low-budget stuff.  We visited the Saturday morning pig fairs to buy the rich Amish bakery.  We attended student picnics.  We spent occasional summer Sundays at Black Moshannan Lake where the tannin-dyed water shimmered like a giant onyx.  We sat across from one another at the painted table, like the Amish woman and her husband, for many simple meals before either of the vacant sides was filled.  
     Dolly took a variety of part time jobs for needed income and diversions from days and nights alone while I completed Masters studies and continued my research for a PhD.  She had taught first grade in Milwaukee.  Now she was able to substitute teach at McKinley School.  She filed books on the stacks at the Penn State library.  She clerked at the Green Stamp Store in State College.  She did not become pregnant.
    We moved from our apartment home into a small house closer to the university.  For Dolly’s security and companionship we acquired a Border-collie pup from a nearby farmer.  We named her Wiscy, for Wisconsin, and laughed when she would shepherd us around the yard and house, her nose close to the ground, her gentle nips at our heels urging us where she wanted us to go.  
    A year before we left Penn State we applied to adopt a child, and after agonizing months of waiting and wondering the day finally came when we drove through the mountains to the remote orphanage to claim and bring home our first adopted child, a beautiful infant girl with solemn, dark brown eyes.  We named her Martha for her maternal grandmother and nicknamed her Marty for my best army buddy.  Wiscy practiced her shepherding and guardianship with her new charge while Marty played safely outside.
    The painted table continued to serve in our kitchen after we returned to Wisconsin to work and live, but within a few years we had outgrown it and the first house we owned there.  After adopting two more children, Jennifer and Danny, both blond and blue-eyed beauties, Dolly became pregnant.  After Kristine was born, dark hair and eyes like her sister, Marty, we moved into a larger home with plenty of bedroom space.  We bought a large, modern, hardwood kitchen set.  The old green and yellow set took second place status, but we kept it in the breezeway playroom for games and overflow duty with large crowds of company.
    The kids sometimes speculated on who the painted people were:  “Is that me?  Is that Mom?  Do you have a hat like that man?”, and they learned a little of our family history in the process.
    By the time we moved to Georgia, Marty was married with a baby of her own, and Jenny was attending the University of Wisconsin.  Dan and Kris left their childhood friends and schools and moved with Dolly and me to complete their secondary educations
in new schools, with new friends.  The old table and chairs, which by now had been chewed by a succession of puppies’ teeth and stained and marred by sundry substances in the performance of duty, moved with us too.  That was twenty years ago.
    Dan and Kris both found spouses in our adopted state, and each of them has two children.  I retired ten years ago after more than 31 years with the same company.  Our house, with its woods and creek and backyard pool is a lovely place to live, but it’s a little too much for us, now that Dolly and I live alone again.
    For almost fifty years the small Amish family has looked up from the table at a series of new, live faces.   It has stood on our back porch in Georgia, and seven grandchildren have continued to play there and eat there for family feasts when the dining room and kitchen were filled with their parents and grandparents.  
    But there is no room for it in the new house, even though only two chairs remain, repaired and repainted, but still scarred from years of use.  Where will they eat and play in our new house, we wonder, what of the memories the table can bring?

    “Wait!” I call to the driver, “Wait . . . wait . . . “


Richard Allen Anderson     http://richardandersonblogs.blotspot.com     7 June 2015