This One’s For The Girls

I found myself at the Majestic 10 theater Sunday afternoon for the matinee showing of Ramona and Beezus, a movie adaptation of the ever popular children’s book series by Beverly Cleary. The cinema was packed with moms and their young daughters, mostly. And there were 20- and 30-somethings, like us, who had read the books when we were the same age as the giggling little ones around us. Before the movie there were previews of upcoming films for kids, including a Pixaresque revival of the most beloved little creatures of my childhood (you could argue for the Fraggles, but I personally found them boring), the Smurfs! The sweet “la, la, la, la, la, la” theme music had been jazzed up with a hip-hop beat in the background, but you get the picture. The Hollywood producers have the right idea, coming out with movies that are nostalgic for the parents, who really determine ticket sales, and will be just as enjoyable for the kids. The other thing I noticed is that I didn’t see one previewed movie that wasn’t going to be presented in 3D. And you’ll probably see me at many a one, wearing big, goofy glasses and waving my hands out in front of me to touch the little blue men who aren’t really there. But back to Ramona Quimby.

I was actually excited to see this film, and it really lived up to my expectations. I will say that, despite the name, the movie didn’t have much to do with the dynamic between Ramona and her big sister, nicknamed Beezus, at all. There were a few nice, sisterly love-hate scenes, but it was mostly about Ramona herself. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that I liked the movie. If someone asked me, I would say, “Yeah, it was cute.” But it occurred to me that I was sitting between two women (Matea and Georgia) who had grown up in a house full of sisters (two each), and who probably made much more of a connection to the characters than I.

I grew up with good ole Charlie boy. We played and fought and loved each other as much as any two siblings possibly could, I think. He was 5 years younger than me, and I admit to taking advantage and knocking him around a lot. (He should admit that he took advantage of his age and cried unnecessarily at times just to get me in trouble!!) I helped him learn to play baseball on countless nights in the yard. I would make him remove his glove and do “frog hops” as punishment if he let a ground ball go through his legs. You can’t believe how angry he would get. He’d throw his glove down as hard as he could, his little cheeks as red as fire. But he would do those frog hops, and I would throw him ground balls and pop flies again and again, always giving him scenarios a la “if a man’s on first, where are you throwing the ball?” Even today we still laugh at the same things and react similarly when presented with situations that…need reacting to. But Matea has told me for years that, when it comes to the bond between sisters, I “just don’t get it.”

When I first started spending an inordinate amount of time at the Morris household, Matea’s sisters were, I believe, about 10 (Becca) and 12 (Brielle). Brielle, being the loving extrovert she was, took to me pretty quickly. She was inquisitive—good grief, the questions she would ask me—and hilarious and easily became one of my best friends over the years. Becca was not so easy. My first memory of Becca is of her angrily slamming a door in my face. I can’t begin to remember why. I was probably doing all I could to annoy her, which was all I knew about being a sibling. What I didn’t “get,” as Matea would say, is that she might have just been reacting like a jealous sister, not just an annoyed sibling. She was sulking like Ramona did when Beezus called her a pest. But now that Becca has grown up…literally, now that she’s an adult and living here in VT, she is one of my favorite people to spend an afternoon with. Through the years, I laughed and cried with both of “the girls,” as everyone called them. I put them through what could be called frog hops, and they probably did what they could to get me in trouble from time to time. It became sort of a rent-to-buy situation, where they were sort of on loan to me on the weekends, and then they just naturally moved beyond being merely my sometimes sisters.

I never had a Beezus (although I did persuade Charlie to dress up like a girl on more than one occasion), but I did have a Berle and Bekia. Brielle is always in my heart and almost as often on my mind. None of us is as good as we could have been with her guidance and example. And I savor my silent car rides and inside jokes with Becca. We’ll always be there for each other during unpleasant chores, violent movies, and guilty pleasure video games. Becca has taught me graciousness, magnanimity, and patience.

Matea (well, I should really say Marmee), thank you for giving me a taste of sisterhood.

Somewhere Between Acorn and Oak

Today we dined at New World Tortilla on Pine Street. I love their fresh, hand-made corn tortillas, and Matea enjoys the curry tortilla. Towards the end of the meal, Matea noticed a strange guy who seemed to be staring at her. Though she didn’t recognize him, it turned out to be our old neighbor Greg, who lived above us on Decatur Street in the first house we rented in Burlington. He lived with two roommates, Jay and Megan, who we still see occasionally. We truthfully didn’t interact with them much, though we did watch their cat for a week while they were away (which, in turn, introduced us to our favorite pizza, Junior’s, via a thank-you gift certificate). Anyway, it turns out that Greg seems much nicer and more talkative than he did back then. He’s married, and so are Jay and Megan (to each other). The crazy part was that Greg had lived above us for a year or so, then we moved out and he lived in Boston for five years before moving back to Vermont recently. I can’t believe we’ve lived here long enough to run into someone we knew before they moved away for five years! But the truth is that we’ve spent most of our adult lives here. We moved here at age 23, and May marked our 7th year in the Green Mountain State.

Tonight we’re going with friends to belatedly celebrate my 30th birthday, so maybe that’s why this being-an-adult epiphany has finally hit me. Though I could come up with a much lengthier list of reasons I am still child-like, here are some recent warnings that I am slowly reaching adult maturity:

1. Last night I edged along the driveway, and I was as proud of that as a 3 year old is a finger painting. I wanted to take a picture of my edging and display it on the refrigerator. A similar warning sign was the fact that I also swept the entire driveway. After swearing as a teenager that I would never even clean my room as an adult, I surely never thought I would be sweeping the driveway!

2. I ordered soup for lunch today. And I eat kale, even when no one’s watching.

3. I am usually out of bed in the seven o’clock hour on weekends.

4. There is no greater happiness every day than the moment my head hits my pillow.

5. Last month I voted at my first neighborhood association meeting and had a serious conversation about waste water compliance.

6. I’m planting my first vegetable garden on Wed evening.

7. I was jealous yesterday of a retired coworker who is taking some UVM mini-courses meant only for those 50 and older.

Anyway, I’m proud to have already established a “history” here. I love Vermont. I love weeding the flower beds. I love vacuuming the baseboards. I love doing favors for my mother-in-law (and do not take having a mother-in-law for granted). I love walking the dogs, even when it rains. I LOVE trash night. I love emptying the dishwasher. I love tinkering in the garage. I excitedly bought myself a wheelbarrow with my Nana’s birthday check. I suggested to Matea that we attend the opera next month.

Oh, youthful Chrissy. I’ve left you behind somewhere along the way and didn’t even know it. I will think kindly of you from time to time. And I promise to write.

Embarrassing Admission #14: The Tesh Offensive

I just may have listened to the John Tesh Radio Show once or twice...on purpose. His “Intelligence For Your Life” segments on easy listening radio here in the Champlain Valley have oft caught my attention. I’ve even stayed in the car listening to extra Lionel Richey songs just to avail myself of his sage advice. He just reels me in with his Teshy teasers. “What’s the one thing researchers say you should never do in the workplace?” he asks. “Stay tuned to make sure this common medical mistake doesn’t happen to you.” “We have some tips on minimizing your pet’s end-of-life suffering, coming right up,” he promises. Too often, though, he leaves me wanting. He never really seems to get around to actually doing these segments. Just teaser after teaser. I try to wait, but you can only sit in the Shaw’s parking lot for so long listening to Billy Joel. Why must you torture me so, John Tesh!! Don’t let the piercing blue eyes fool you, folks. This man is nothing but a playa.

P.S.
Upon Googleing his name today, I find a story hot off the presses that he and Oprah Winfrey lived together in Nashville in 1974 and were romantically involved. According to Kitty Kelly, author of a new Oprah biography, Tesh broke it off with her because he could no longer take the pressures of being in an interracial relationship. Not too intelligent, if you ask me!

Performing for Change can be a Real Dragnet

Every day at 4pm I wait outside the Bruegger’s corporate office for Matea to get off work. As I crossed over Church Street yesterday, I saw a young girl (well, maybe late teens) with an acoustic guitar and thick-rimmed glasses busking for change in front of the pink Bank Street wall of Monelle. The day before I had watched a local homeless man pace back and forth talking to himself, puffing incessantly on a cigar. So, to see this nice, Loeb-esque young woman on the corner next to an open 15-minute parking spot was, to me, a stroke of good luck.

So I pulled in and rolled down both passenger side windows in anticipation of her singing “Kiss Me,” which I just knew would be next on her playlist. But no sooner had I switched off the ignition than the music abruptly stopped. I looked back to see a uniformed officer standing very close to her and flipping through some sort of ticket or note book. She was clutching the guitar close to her body in an almost defensive stance. I mostly could not hear what was being said between them, but I saw Sergeant Joe Friday gesture towards Church Street (she was, technically, firmly positioned on Bank Street, not Church) and then say more loudly, “You put that away and follow me to my squad car.” He said it just like that.

I saw the girl return her instrument to a soft case and...was suddenly scared to death by Barry, the hearing-impaired maintenance man from Matea’s office. He will occasionally come to my open window as I wait (he’s waiting to lock the doors at 5), and we will try to have a conversation in charades. Not knowing he was behind me, I jumped high in my seat and missed the rest of the interaction between Molly (or so said the sticker on her guitar) and Sergeant Friday. As Barry walked away, the two of them disappeared around the corner. But before they did, I called out a “boooo,” which was rather loud, but not loud enough, I knew, for any of them to hear. I supposed the cop took Molly back to his car, ran a background check, humiliated her, and then either gave her a fine or a warning for singing too close to Church Street, where one must first obtain an official Church Street Marketplace Street Entertainer License.

Performing for money on Church Street, with the blessing of the city, involves applying for a license, auditioning on a predetermined Tuesday at noon, being selected based upon several deciding factors, and then paying a permit fee between $5 and $25 dollars. If selected, there are also 4 pages of strict rules and regulations one must follow at all times. So much for spreading spontaneous joy to the window shoppers of Burlington. I know that some acts in the past have been a nuisance to both the public and the business owners of the Marketplace. But it seems like an easier system of natural selection could keep the bad acts weeded out. If you’re no good, the meager profits won’t be worth your while. If you’re great, folks will be chucking quarters at your case all day long. I absolutely love street performers. I can’t get enough of them, actually, and I love to attend the annual Festival of Fools that takes place in Burlington. I think the red tape and subjective, politicking bureaucracy of an audition process for ordinary Joes or college kids who need to earn an extra buck is a little much. Especially tersely reprimanding and marching an innocent chanteuse off to your squad car just doesn’t jibe with the atmosphere of this laid-back city. I say, Let ‘em Work, Let ‘em Live. Viva la Busker!

Being Bubbly Takes a Toll

Every time we get together with Georgia, we just can’t seem to get enough of her kind smile and easy-going demeanor (and self-proclaimed intellect and wit, as she just mentioned on the phone), and there must be something about us that she also enjoys. So, while I was on my trip to the concession stand to get popcorn for the White (-haired) sisters, she and Matea were busy contriving plans for a quick weekend trip to Portland, Maine. We took said trip last weekend, taking a half-day off work to get a jump on the four-hour drive across Vermont and New Hampshire, and up the Maine seacoast. We stopped almost immediately, in Waterbury, to have lunch at the Cider House barbecue restaurant, which began what I would call a weekend of beverages for my two travel companions (just a few hours later I would be making an emergency pit-stop at a service plaza off of Maine’s I-95 to procure $10-worth (i.e., two!) of Starbucks coffee drinks before both girls expired in road-worn exhaustion.) The food was delicious—it’s the only place in Vermont to get a fried okra po’ boy—and Georgia savored the opportunity to drink beer in the middle of a workday. Later that night, after checking into the Portland Harbor Hotel (finding our beds already turned down, complete with chocolate lobsters) we walked down to the Portland Pie Co. for some pizza…and more beer. Matea, of course, ordered a blueberry beer in honor of Maine’s staple fruit.

The next morning we used the gps locator on Georgia’s iPhone to lead us, eventually, to The Standard Baking Company for yet another round of coffee. Then it was non-stop shopping and window browsing around the Old Port and downtown areas. I have never browsed so many boutique shops in my life. We zigzagged the city at least three times, down Fore Street, up Exchange, across Middle, down Silver, back up Union, across Fore, Free, Congress, and Middle (again). We trekked back down to the wharf area to have an experience in bubble tea. This pearl of a drink was invented in Taiwan in the ‘80s and is largely a west-coast phenomenon in the U.S. But, lucky for Matea and Georgia, there is a little shop in the east-coast Portland that devotes itself wholly to this milky, murky concoction. I, as with most of the other beverage runs, did not partake. But I did take a tiny sip of Matea’s almond bubble tea, making sure to suck one of the black tapioca balls through the oversized straw to give it a try. It was virtually tasteless, with a seemingly indestructible, indigestible Dot-like consistency. It was more fun having Matea shoot one at me than having one slip down my throat like a cold, tiny luggie (OMG! that’s gross). After the tea it was the inescapable trip to Three Dollar Dewey’s, more and more shopping and, amazingly, another trip to Starbucks before the day was over. We wearily returned to the hotel with bags filled with stationery, Provence soap, and gourmet popcorn. (Georgia, I was going to write about the cuticle cream you purchased, but I felt it best left omitted.)

The final day of the trip, Sunday, was a test of my abilities as a not-for-profit chauffeur. By Saturday night the wind had begun to pick up due to a low-pressure trough (prob. not the correct term, but I like the way it sounds) that was moving up the eastern seaboard. On Sunday we were met with blowing rain and intermittent flakes of snow. We made our way to the requisite Sunday brunch, this time at Hot Suppa! on Congress Street. It required several U-turns and an aggressive parallel park. Outside the car, it seemed like somewhat of a flash-flood in the streets of Portland, and my socks were quickly soaked through thanks to the many access points in my dark-green Crocs. After brunch we hit the interstate in search of the Mecca for bargain hunters in the Downeast area: the Kittery, Maine outlet malls. By the time we hit Kittery, the wind was wild and unyielding, so I followed in my father’s footsteps and let Georgia and Matea out at the doors of their favorite shops. The back seat and trunk were filled with purchases in no time, and it was on to my second chauffersorial* duty: communing with the I-95 toll-takers. Matea told me once, though I have not been able to confirm, that toll-takers are among the professions with higher rates of suicide, due to the brevity of their interactions with other people over the course of their undoubtedly monotonous workday. The article stated, in a nutshell, that the rate could potentially be decreased by engaging your friendly toll-taker in a mere five-word exchange as you hand over your fistful of quarters. So it has become my mission, my life-saving responsibility, to work in, at minimum, a “Hi, how are you? Thanks very much,” at every booth. I count myself a savior of state toll plaza workers, a “cash only” vehicle amid a current of cold, non-communicative EZ-Pass whizzers-by. At the final booth, near the Hookset exit, I was greeted by surly-looking man in his eighties. As the gale-force winds and rain whirred around the plaza structure, I smiled at the man and said, “You enjoying this weather?” The man’s face turned as pleasant as if I had presented him with a gold bar rather than my measly 75 cents. “Not at all!” he replied emphatically. He chuckled and maintained eye contact for a few seconds before giving me the green light to continue on my way. It was only four words, but they had been effective.

Then, blah, blah, blah, New Hampshire was flooded, yada, yada, yada, we made it home safely, etc. But thinking about this toll-taker flash confabulation in which I have come to find great value, on both sides, reminded me of another solitary figure I encounter along the road.

Every morning on our drive in to work, we pass an open field where a gorgeous red-tailed hawk has made his home; the extensive teal, metal roofs of Paya’s auto dealership; a little dribble of a creek where I have seen several doe stealing a drink of water; the grand lawn of the Trinity Baptist Church compound; and a faithful friend we have come to call Merle Johnson. Around 6:48 am, just as our amazing view of the Adirondacks, cloaked in morning fog, descends below the tree line, Merle emerges in his gray, Carhart-like jacket, jeans, and flannel button-up, taking his morning solo walk down the eastbound lane of Mountainview Road. He is often carrying a plastic grocery bag, probably containing his lunch for the day, and on chilly mornings has his hands tucked deep into his jacket pockets. We have never interacted with Merle, save the occasional eye contact and acknowledging smile, but spotting him is something we have come to count on. On rare mornings when he does not appear, we wonder Where’s Merle Johnson? His presence each day brings the comfort of familiarity and constancy, especially since we have named him and created a sort of mythology of his life and journey. On mornings when we made it out the door a little earlier, we have seen him as he turned right onto Mountainview from Route 2A, and once, when we were running late, Matea believed she saw him reach his destination, Paya’s. Walking every morning with his head down, bathed in the diffused morning light like an apparition, he, too, looks like the kind of guy that could use five words. Perhaps we will drop in to Paya’s one afternoon and ask for the gentleman in the flannel shirt. And we will say, “Nice to meet you, Merle.”


*Again, not a real word, but I like it. :)

P.S.
Thanks to Portland for recharging our batteries, and for reminding us that everyone occasionally requires the gentle caress of kindness to brush away their own perception of invisibility.

Dust to Dust

Matea, Georgia and I took an impromptu trip to the Palace 9 on Oscar Sunday to see one more nominated film prior to the awards show later on that night. Not long after we had settled into our seats, I heard a mildly comical conversation going on behind me. Two elderly women had come in after us and had sat down in the seats directly behind. “You can eat popcorn?” one of them said with alacrity. “Yes,” the other said. “I thought you couldn’t.” “I thought I couldn’t, but I can. It’s fine,” replied her friend. After a few moments’ pause: “Well, we should get some,” the friend said. The woman let out a wistful sigh. “Too much work.” At this, my body must have tensed, or I must have tilted my head towards them, because Matea leaned over slightly and said, “Offer.” After deliberating for a few seconds in my head, and honestly allowing the moment to pass, I finally turned around in my seat and said to the woman over my right shoulder, “Would you ladies like for me to go get you some popcorn?” Her eyes widened. “Well aren’t you kind,” she said. Her age or her poise made her sound nearly British. (I’ve found many older, educated New Englanders tend to have an English quality to their speech.) I could tell their first instinct was to say thanks but no thanks, but as I remained turned around in my seat, I smiled brightly and said, “You should take me up on it,” in a friendly, sing-song kind of way. “Well, ok,” she said with cheerful reluctance, as if deciding something of importance on a whim. I nodded my head and lurched forward in my seat.
“We just want a child’s size,” they said before I stood to face them. I grasped Matea’s small popcorn in my fingers and said, “Would you like this size? This is a small.” I turned to find two white-haired women in their 70s or 80s sunken into two oversized, rocker-back movie theater seats. Their Brett Somers-esque spectacles shone brightly in the dim light, illuminated by the reflection of a pre-movie quiz on the screen behind me. It posed an inane question about Zach Effron to the half-capacity (no pun intended re the average age of viewer for this particular film) theater audience. “They also have the kiddie pack,” I said to the women, “which comes with a drink and candy.” I instantly felt I had thrown a wrench into the works. Georgia held her kiddie pack above her head where the women could see it. Though they both seemed to hold their breath in a moment of hurried deliberation, the diversity of colors and products in the kiddie pack seemed to delight the woman on the right, and she happily said, “We’ll take that one.” “Ok!” I said, leaning my elbow against my seatback. “Now, what kind of candy would you like?” Her accomplishment in making the first decision vanquished by the next, the woman seemed to try visualizing the candy counter in her head. Another smile gradually worked its way across her face. “M&Ms,” she said assuredly. I smiled back. “Plain or peanut?” Her eyes shot upward as if literally looking to her brain for the answer. “Let’s just do plain,” she said with a chuckle. “This is too much work,” I quipped. She and her friend laughed feebly before grabbing their purses and wildly shuffling through the behemoth bags to find exact change. When they had decided on the kiddie pack, the one on the left had asked, “How much is that?” “$6.02,” Georgia had answered. The woman on the right said, “For that?” My first thought was that she was happy with the price of this box of treats: a scoopful of popcorn, a sippy-cup-sized drink, and a compartment filled with a regular-sized bag of candy. But as they exchanged ones and fives with one another, carefully counting out the bills, I realized that these two children of the Depression had rather been shocked at the exorbitance of the price, but were too far into “taking me up on my offer” to back out now. The folding money sorted out and handed over to me, the hunt was on for the last two cents. I drove my hand into my pocket, but, of course, I never have cash or change on hand. Georgia and Matea simultaneously reached for their wallets, too, but the woman on the left, the not-quite-British one, rather gallantly interjected, “No, I have it right here.” She carefully placed the two pennies in my palm. Her skin was soft and thin like buttered filo dough. “And finally,” I said, “what sort of drink would you like?” Audible pondering sounds came from both of their mouths. “Something clear,” one of them mustered. “Is Sprite ok?” I asked. “Yes!” in unison. It had been a roller coaster of confusion and conviction for the two of them. Last decision made, they both receded back into their seats.
“Oh, hurry dear, before it begins,” said the cheerful woman on the right. I skipped off to the concession stand to meet the same teenager who had filled my personal snack order. A little embarrassed, I placed the ladies’ order. As the well-pocked youth filled the box with their selections, I hoped in the back of my mind that Georgia had correctly remembered the price, including tax, as the penny-wise elders had left her no margin for error and, as I knew, I had no other form of payment. Having put the women through what appeared to be an ultimately exhausting barrage of questions, I could not bear to return to them for an extra few cents, should the need arise. As the kid let the fizz rest and topped off their Sprite, a couple of scenarios ran through my head. I could not sneak in and get the change from Matea, as they were sitting directly behind us. I could not call her, as she is ever diligent about turning off her cell phone during any film or performance. I had decided on haggling with the now-idle gang of high schoolers behind the counter (I was the only person still filling a concession order), pleading my case on behalf of my enfeebled geriatric acquaintances back in theater number two. I’ll slip you the change on my way out after the movie, I would tell them. They’ll have no problem with this, I thought, as he punched in the PLU for “Kiddie Pack.” But no need for a convincing plea; Georgia had remembered correctly. I slid the $6.02 across the counter and pulled the box of warm, yellow kernels towards me. I unwrapped a straw and punctured the hard-plastic cup top, and made sure to get extra napkins. Back in the theater in a flash, the house lights still up, I handed over the box of goodies. The woman on the right handed the parcel over to her companion, and I placed the four napkins in her lap. They both offered a gracious “thank you,” still with a hint of pleasant surprise in their voices.
The film, The Last Station, began without delay. It told the story of famed Russian writer Lev Tolstoy in the golden years of his life, as he struggled to decide on the rightful inheritors of his legacy. By the time of his death at Astapovo Station at age 82, he had endured immense pressure from both his wife, Countess Sofya Andreevna Tolstoy, and his protégé, Vladimir Chertkov, who both had a personal stake in securing the copyrights to the author’s written works. In the end, he and the Countess seemed a typical elderly couple preyed upon by more youthful family members (in this case, a Tolstoyan Movement that had taken on a life and mind of its own). Watching the Countess being locked out of doors like a child while her husband lay dying, I felt a slight bit of pride that my own inquest into the business of two elderly folks had been for selfless and benevolent ends. I thought to myself, when I am old and nominally incapacitated, and I find out one day, to my surprise, that I can still eat popcorn, I hope some youngster is willing to fetch me a box of treats covered in teddy bears and trains, too. I will surely be appreciative then. But this day, in the dark flickering of the theater light, like the waxing shadow of the next decade of my life, nothing could be more satisfying than hearing my two new geriatric friends quietly rip open a bag of M&Ms to share.