Embarrassing Admission #165

As soon as I learned to count money in school, I went into my little brother’s room and offered to trade him a larger amount of my “orange monies” for a smaller pile of his silver. Ha ha, sucker!

Aunt Helen and Uncle Scrooge

For Matea and me, December has become a season of theatrics, both personal and professional. First, the personal, when we “produce” a mountain of gifts, “direct” them (via FedEx) southward to various households, and finally commence some major “set design.” In the midst of all the buying, wrapping, and tinseling: Intermission. Early in the month, we attend Winter Tales. It seems surely more than twice that we have cozied into the Flynn Space with fellow Vermonters, tall hot-cider and homemade ginger cookie in hand, to be warmed by poems, songs and creative storytelling surrounding Vermont’s harshest time of year. We hear perennial favorites, like the tale of the appreciative loner Favor Johnson, who bakes delicious fruitcakes in tomato cans and distributes them to his entire town during the holidays. We hear songs and children’s poems that remind us of the warmth inside—inside ourselves, our families and our homes—that endures the biting cold outside. Each year, we have left with renewed appreciation for the hope and possibility that Old Man Winter’s visits convey.

This past weekend, we took in a double dose of holiday cheer, attending Vermont Symphony Orchestra’s Holiday Pops as well as the Nebraska Theater’s visually stunning A Christmas Carol. The VSO was impressive, and conductor Robert De Cormier stood on two thin spindles and brought forth the music with a gusto that transcended his feeble frame. The orchestra members were decidedly “Vermont,” in that they were dressed in a hodgepodge dressy-casual that residents of the state have perfected for formal events. I will say, and this may be a tip for all of you, that my great luck in getting front-row seats turned out to be more of a curse. We could see the string section and conductor fairly well, but French horn, oboe, bassoon and timpani alike were all well-hidden behind a black wall of music stands. Next year, we’ll spring for balcony seats!

Finally, Nebraska Theater’s adaptation of Dickens’ most cherished holiday tale. The company has been coming to the Flynn for 25 years (again, this was merely our second year), and the show is one of the more professional and eye-catching I’ve seen there. I highly recommend it to all next season. This heart-warming tale inspires me each year to buy the fattest goose in the shop for a deserving family...or, you know, something like that. Likewise, as I head into the second act of the Davenport holiday production, Christmas day here with the Morris clan then late Christmas festivities with South Carolina kin, I will remember to stuff the Bah, humbugs (perhaps with a ginger cookie!) and declare a few more God bless us, every ones. Or, you know, something like that.

Hello, Home Fries!

Once again, Matea and I are flying south for the winter. After a quick trip to a mountain cabin with my immediate family, we will head to Greenwood to engage in non-stop Thanksgiving feasting with the rest. As a 5-year vegetarian, these days I don’t partake in the ubiquitous turkey, ham, fatback-seasoned green beans, and giblet gravy (although Matea has developed excellent substitutes). My family has been gracious in preparing the dressing with veggie broth and the beans with fake pork seasoning, and I think they find it somewhat novel to be eating a delicious vegetarianized dish.

Despite the accommodation my diet necessitates, I won’t miss out on the entire southern dining experience while there. Grits, biscuits and peppermill gravy, fried squash, fried okra, hush puppies, cole slaw, boiled peanuts, macaroni pie, pecan pie, and, of course, sweet tea, will be in abundance. There will be an extra-large helping of grannies, cousins, aunts and uncles on the side, also, strangely, covered in gravy. Yes, I will be lucky to have an esophagus upon my return to Vermont, due to all the inevitable acid reflux I anticipate having. But that’s what the holidays are all about, an intense burning in your chest signifying both good and bad.

Just Deserts

Last weekend we raked and bagged the yellow maple leaves blanketing my mother-in-law’s front yard. With temperatures in the low 50s, it seemed that all the neighbors were out in their yards mowing, blowing, raking, clipping, and weeding. It’s the necessary preparation for the long winter season that’s upon us, but being out in the crisp air doing hard, dirty work was a reward in itself.

Once when I was about 8 years old, I took it upon myself to rake up all the dead grass that had accumulated along the chain-link fence in our backyard. I made neat piles of the clippings at each corner of the fence and went inside proudly to tell my Dad about the work I had done for him. He was mildly appreciative (it was a big job for an 8-year-old but relatively insignificant in the grand scheme of our back yard). “I did all of that,” I said, then after a few more seconds of thinking, “and I’m just going to charge you...ten cents.” Dad chuckled a little and explained to me that you don’t request payment for a favor you’ve done out of kindness. I have to admit, I was a little bummed at his offering of a mere “thank you” in return for my hard work. I guess that explains why it took me 20 years to pick up another rake.

Embarrassing Admission #11

Matea and I always refer to our car by its proper name, Belle. As in, “Did you take Belle in for an oil change today?” or “Does Belle need to go see Joey (the detailer)?” Matea’s last car, a green 1999 Ford Taurus, had the inventive name “Turtle.” Similarly, we used to call my Nana’s old Dodge Diplomat “Big Red,” both because of its color and because Nana was never in short supply of either Big Red or Juicy Fruit gum. And finally, the most odd: at the time Matea and I met, way back in the 7th grade, both of our families had huge, ugly beater cars, and both families separately called these cars “The Gray Ghost.” Ahh, I guess it was meant to be. :)

The Prufrock is in the Pudding

My dear friend Sarah Lenes refuses to read my blog (or any other) because, she says, it’s like reading a person’s diary; it’s too personal. Anything she needs to know about me, I can tell her, she says. But as she knows, I would never invoke images of fairy dust or liken myself to Cinderella in my day-life, and I probably wouldn’t even discuss with zeal the swelling pride I have in my country (overall). She’s right, though, that my scribbling here may verge on the personal or confessional. In fact, hitting that “Publish” button for the first time a week ago, to dispatch my first blog into cyberspace for all the world to see, was crushingly nerve-racking for me. Until now, the fear of rejection or critique has left me in a state of expressive paralysis, like an incarnation of T.S. Eliot’s indecisive, self-deprecating character J. Alfred Prufrock. I am not an aging, sexually frustrated man, of course, but like Prufrock, I have been afraid to let loose the things I want to say, to become vulnerable.

In an internal monologue, Prufrock weighs his decision to “force the moment to its crisis” and suggest an intimate encounter with his female companion:


And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse


As a writer of short fiction, the fear of charges like, “How her adjectives and verbs are growing thin!” keep me up at night. So when considering writing a blog (a much less formal style), I wondered, as he did, “Do I dare?” Prufrock admits to himself in the end that he is no Prince Hamlet, nor is he meant to be, and here I likewise proclaim that I am no William Faulkner, no Flannery O’Connor. This will be a compilation of nothings and somethings, of meandering and non-polished writings. So judge away. This will not be an attempt at perfection but an unabashed celebration of my bald spots. After all, this is places i’ve gone barefoot, not places i’ve gone in prada.

America on the Bubble

I feel like I can’t write much on the election here that wouldn’t sound trite, recycled, or obtuse. But the fact is, as I bubbled in my vote today on the (very accurate) Vermont paper Scantron ballot, I felt a dizzying sense of patriotism (which doesn’t often strike me, to tell the truth). I felt not only that I was executing my civic duty but that I was undoubtedly making history there in the cafeteria of Frederick H. Tuttle Middle School. We are approaching an encouraging new era in this country when, no matter the outcome tonight, we have a multi-racial Democratic nominee with the ardent support of millions of Americans from diverse backgrounds. The paradigm of the old white man (and there have, admittedly, been some good ones) is crumbling at the roots. Not that I voted for Mr. Obama because of his race—I voted for him because we need a president with vision, humility, equanimity, and intelligence—but I cannot deny that having the opportunity to vote for someone of African-American descent made me a little giddy. Because I never thought I would see it in my lifetime. (As my co-worker Dan Jacobs noted earlier today, neither did Tupac.)

Some weeks ago, my uber-conservative-southern-Republican father told me over the phone in a very genuine way that, for the first time in his life, he feels like he could someday vote for a black man for president. Even though I’m certain he voted for McCain today, along with many others in my family, this was a huge step forward for him. I can only hope that the same seed growing young roots within my father is taking to the wind and propagating all across Palin’s “real America.”

On the wall in my office I have a clipped photo of Rosa Parks, just after her arrest in Montgomery on December 1, 1955 for civil disobedience. I often look up at her and wonder if it’s indignity, insolence, pride, or fear in her expression, but I swear today she looks on the verge of smiling. Just 8 years after Mrs. Parks’ arrest, Sam Cooke had it right when he prophetically sang that “a change gone come, oh yes it will.” In the year of his death, The Civil Rights Act of 1964, legislation largely precipitated by Parks’ brave actions, was signed into law. Two generations since that time, we still haven’t come full circle, I know. Racism is still entrenched in every corner of the country. And there are other civil rights issues still challenging our legislators, judiciary, and electorate. I myself live in Vermont (again, now not the sole reason) because, when I moved here in 2003, it was the only state to allow civil unions. Every morning when I come in to work, I see this mug shot of prisoner 7053 and condemn myself just a little for seeking refuge in another state. I wish for a time that I could have exhibited the same sort of bravery, although I do take solace in the fact that even Rosa Parks and her husband eventually fled the hostile environment in Alabama and moved to Detroit. But I am doing my best to find my own brand of courage, and filling in that bubble today was just a small part of it. I know, whether it’s this day or another day, whether from me or for me…a change gone come.

Life in a Pumpkin Chariot

Last weekend we rendezvoused with my family in Hunting Island, SC. It was a last-minute decision—we purchased plane tickets and a rental car just the day before leaving—that ultimately countermanded our stringent belief that only months of planning and spreadsheet-creating can result in a fulfilling, relaxing vacation. (A recent trip to the Cape tested the limits of my favorite Office application, producing a hefty nine-spreadsheet workbook with the following categories: “activity,” “location,” “description,” “hours of operation,” “entrance fee,” and “contact #.”) This trip would allow for no such preparation. Okay, I did take a tincey-wincey spreadsheet for the last day when we had a couple of hours to drive around Savannah, GA, but who enjoys wandering around a city with no idea where you’re going or what you’re seeing?

But Hunting Island. “Enchanting” is not an apt descriptor, but it comes close to capturing the place and the experience. We arrived on the fairly-remote, uninhabited barrier island around 1:30am Saturday morning and were greeted by a virtual junglescape of misting rain and wild palm forest. There had been torrential rain and flooding hours earlier, and some of the roads were still inundated with rain water. There was nary a light on the island, and even the brights on my spiffy Saturn Aura rental could scarcely penetrate the caliginous realm beyond the narrow pavement. When we reached the cabin, we found various members of my family strewn across every piece of furniture in the place. Three beds, nine people. Luckily, three of them were kids (who could sleep on an ironing board if necessary), so Matea and I had an actual bed reserved for us. And boy, was it ever appreciated.

At first light the next morning, a soft pink resplendence crept across the shoreline and into our humble quarters. Mom left her post at the stove making grits and eggs to snap a few pics of the kids as they piled into our bed and cut short our much-needed slumber. Our being there was a surprise to Jade and David, and they were undoubtedly excited to see us. Everyone woke up in a good mood, even me and Dad, who tend to be grumpy risers. As the family assembled in the dining area, I felt an ease and familiarity that is transient in SC but…comforting…while it lasts.

From the screened porch, we could hear the waves breaking about 100 yards away. By mid-morning the imposing shadow of the island’s lighthouse had stretched across the cabin—turned out it was only a few dozen feet away from us—and we decided to take the kids down to the beach. For a while, it was as if we had the island to ourselves, and several of us went down in our pajamas. On the way down, we found evidence (both tracks and droppings) of the island’s non-human residents and discovered that we were not alone after all. The picnic tables still sat in several inches of standing water, and the waves were still crashing angrily on the beach. Hunting Island is subject to severe erosion—they lose about 20 feet of land a year—so the trees continuously fall over onto the beach as the sand is washed away from their root systems. It creates beautiful natural sculpture and adds to the wild, untouched feeling of the place. I hiked my pj pants and let the surf wash through the holes in my Crocs; the water was surprisingly cold, but nothing compared to that of New England beaches. Still, I wasn’t diving in any time soon. But that didn’t stop the kids, and Mom and Matea braved the cold (at least above the ankles) to make sure they didn’t get swept into the current. Jade, as usual, shivered and turned nearly purple, but she and the rest of them persevered and eventually submerged their entire bodies in the shallow waves. I was double fisting my cameras to get shots of everyone, and Dad sat and watched from a distance on a fallen palm tree. Everyone was content, no one crowded or rushed us, and we gorged on the morning’s perfection until we were full.


Time that weekend seemed to meander along, sit and rest a while, then resume with no purpose or destination. It’s a wonder how connected and observant you can be when you’re not over-stimulated. Not that there wasn’t enough to see and do. The island was teeming with wildlife. Deer and raccoons scurried across the roadways in broad daylight, with little regard for us or our vehicles. There was a full spectrum of butterflies everywhere we went, and two monarchs lighted on Elsa’s colorful shoes. My brother Charlie came down from Columbia Saturday evening. The next day we went out in search of photo ops. Dad and Barry went fishing off the pier at the state park, and we saw dolphins in the waterway between Hunting and Fripp islands. They caught 2 blue crabs and two small fish, all of which (to Matea’s and my chagrin) made it to the dinner table later that night. We took pictures of the Spartina grass, snowy egrets, blue herons, and fiddler crabs along the marsh walk. Around sunset, we photographed a red-tailed hawk, the shrimp boats at the Gay Fish Company, rows of live oaks dripping with Spanish moss, and grand Antebellum houses in downtown Beaufort. On the final two nights, some of us walked down on the beach near midnight. We had no lights (in case of loggerhead turtles), and the display of stars was fantastic. On the second night, we must have collectively spotted 10-15 shooting stars in the span of an hour. But the piece de resistance of this mystical place was hidden just beneath the surface of the sand. I trailed behind the group a bit on our walk back up the beach, and in the darkness I kept seeing tiny glints of light, which I thought at first were bits of mica reflecting the moonlight. But quickly I could tell that this was not glints but luminescence, like tiny lightning bugs betraying their hiding places in the sand. I stopped the group to show them the discovery. Each time we pressed on certain areas of the sand, it would light up again, sometimes for an instant and sometimes for a few seconds. We cut the wet sand around the light with Charlie’s knife and brought it into our hands. The sand responded to touch and lit up like playful embers as we ran our fingers through. As we suspected that night, it was microscopic phosphorescent plankton that had washed ashore and become trapped on the beach.


It was quite a beautiful and rare phenomenon, the plankton, and an elegant finish to a terrific weekend, as if we literally had fairy dust trailing in our footsteps. For a cynic and healthy skeptic like me, it was an experience near to exhilaration and religion. Vermont has a beauty all its own, and I feel sparks of this sensation every day here—this is the place for me. But Hunting Island provided just the magic I needed last weekend: time with loved ones, time spent with children and being child-like, time with nature, time with Matea outside the stress of work and the daily grind. We were almost like Disney characters at times, with the butterflies and shooting stars overhead and the wildlife and ocean all around us. I know I will return to this island soon, when I’m again in need of a jaunt in glass slippers.