Margotlog: Two Cousins Take Their Landscape with Them
Sadie and Eleonora, younger and older, first to die at 86, second to die at 95, I've known since my earliest memories. My father's first cousins who grew up down a hilly Pittsburgh street from him, whose adorable little mother was tiny as his, Josephine and Rosalie, another Italian sister pair, the older dead first--the grandmother I hardly knew. The younger, Sadie and Eleonora's Josephine, who lived well into her 90s and was my grandmother substitute.
Sadie and Eleonora, who lived together and took care of tiny adorable Josephine, and teased their cousin, Leonard my father, for his terrible driving, confirming my terror since childhood. Sadie and Eleonora, whom I visited when they lived in Washington, D.C., and I went to college in Baltimore. Then when they moved first to Arlington, then Silver Spring, Maryland, I introduced them to my daughter and first husband.
Sadie and Eleonora, whom I visited most often in their last location, a senior-living complex in Dover, Delaware. Finally freer to come more often, and almost always alone, I drove south from Philly down Hghwy 95, then sequed to Hghwy 1 and over a soaring bridge of golden fluted wings, until I was almost there.
Sadie's dying in 2008 enriched her rather tart, emphatic personality with slow languor, with acceptance one would not have predicted. Her last few weeks were threaded with agony as her lungs needed to be drained, and she could no longer eat or swallow much. But earlier she gave in to death. She became simply more quiet, more langorous, sitting with us, nibbling saltines, sipping water, looking at us intently. I mourned losing her humor and insightful political mind. But she left me Eleonora, her older sister, who then blossomed even beyond her previous vibrant strength.
Her death was protracted, crazy, stubborn with pain. I saw her between bouts of wrestling with dementia, cancer pain, incontinence, depression. When I last saw her alive, she'd survived a face-out with death where, had there not been her good friend Jo beside her, the nurses would have had to tie her down.
At the end she moaned solid for nine days and finally was gone.
. Now I've discovered that the landscape and social ties which I treasured and enjoyed so much when they were alive--the walks around the Electric Company grounds, with its buffer of feathery white pines, the friends of theirs who sat with us for lunch and dinner, whose stories intrigued me, who gave other faces to age, and the kind, attentive nurses and aides, the activity director Linda and her little dog Molly--whom Eleonora smothered with hugs--I have lost them now.
My last visit for Eleonora's memorial service I tried to believe that if I visited again, I could enter that envelope of love in which these two sisters surrounded me. But I am reminded of Charleston, South Carolina, where my parents lived on after I moved away, of how this most charming of Southern cities also lost its power to comfort and delight me in a deep and life-giving way. How slowly the magic that touched every leaf and rooftop, every tree and singing bird when they still lived to set it ablaze, how that gradually diminished, because they were no longer there. Now though I occasionally return and recognize the beauty and kindness of the city, yet they no longer ease the ache of care and affection. They no longer belong to me or I to them as I once did.
This is because the center of affection is gone and no other has taken its place. Because I came to where they lived until they died, but never put down my roots myself. They watered the place for me, even though I thought I walked to escape from our intense togetherness. How odd, now, to find I simply spun the thread of their love out into streets and by-ways, how it wove me into the arms of every crossroad until they, dying, cut it.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Margotlog: Maggie's Advent
Margotlog: Maggie's Advent
We were at the North Shore in a favorite cabin high above Lake Superior. No phone, no cell phone but the friends up the hill did. They received a phone call from our landlady: Fran's mother had died in Tennessee.
Fran, my husband, who by then didn't love the North Shore as much as I did, had no trouble packing up to go. Maybe a little regret at ditching the warblers and night full of stars, but for him, there was no question about the proper route. The funeral was a week hence.
I, on the other hand, chafed. I didn't want to go home early, but I would. I would come home after four days, He would already be gone, and I would settle into gardening and cat care while he was in Tennessee. No one expected me to attend Lou's funeral. That's what sometimes happens in second marriages.
Fran had trouble getting a flight. For three days he was home with the two cats we already had: aged Bart the Brute who used to bite ankles, and leap three times his length after a piece of string. But now spent his days lying around, snarling if you came too close. Bart and newish Tilly-the-terrified, beautiful but lacking confidence.
The day before Fran was to leave, I called from a pay phone to see how he was doing. "There's a surprise for you here," he said. "Four legs and a tail. Named Magnolia." What!? Another cat? Just after he'd been teasing me on vacation about my wanting another critter "to keep Tilly company?"
"I couldn't resist," he said, sounding a sheepish. "She was sittiing in a cage at Peg Smart, putting out her paw, and she had the most beautiful cat face. I had to adopt her."
Right, I thought. Smitten first, but lonesome second. Lonesome for Lou, your nice mom, leaving your peculiar dad for you to tackle alone. Yup, I'm sure this Maggie the Cat is a beauty. Maggie a real cat named for Maggie the human cat in Tennessee Williams' Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Maggie the Cat as in Elizabeth Taylor. That kind of beautiful.
I was hot and sweaty. It was July and I'd just driven five hours, the last half on a freeway through sun-wavery fields. Opening the back door, my shoulders weighted down with backpack, I set a cooler on the table and called, "Here, Maggie." Almost as nervous, I bet, as she was, hearing an unfamiliar voice, being left in a strange place alone over night.
I brought in more gear. Hot, tired, dazed, disoriented. "Here, Maggie." Another trip, then another. Finally the kitchen was piled with clothes, bags of groceries, cooler, hiking boots, binoculars, bird books. Fran had watered nothing the days he'd been home. Our cat-care trio had gone as soon as he arrived. I went out to water, fill the bird feeders.
When I came back, I called again "Here, Maggie." There was a faint "meow." Calling and listening I tracked the faint response to the second floor, to our bedroom, and then under our bed. Kneeling down, I peered into the dark. Light came from a window near the other side. There staring at me was a wide cat face belonging to a calico cat with stout tail and white paws. But what a face! A square of orange sat unevenly over the eyes and nose. Through the left eye, ran the edge of the square. Acat put together by a kid using stubby scissors and construction paper.
This cat looked ridiculous. Not ugly, just goofy. I tried to reach in and tickle her under her chin, but she backed away as if she knew what I was thinking. I didn't apolotize but I did sympathize with her obvious fear. "Come on out, Girl. Come on. I won't hurt you," I crooned. But she only stared at me with glittering eyes. Not hissing, but not advancing either. I left a plate of food under the bed, and a bowl of water.
Later, when Fran called, I told him, "This is the strangest looking cat I've ever seen. How could you think she's beautiful." Ah, the eyes of the beholder. The yearning of a son for a lost mother, and finding her in the face of a lonesome cat.
He still teases me about yelping "How could you think she's beautiful." Originally, there was an edge of pain in the teasing. Now, that's muted. But still there. We both love Maggie. She knows her place--in the middle between Terrified Tilly and Adorable Julia, the Teenage Mother. Sometimes when she sits up very tall, her ears lifted and eyes very alert, Maggie looks regal. Other people have called her pretty, "What a pretty cat!" I love her, I feel guilty because she's the middle cat and defers to the other two. I try to make it up to her by playing with her in the dark after the other two have gone to bed. But I think she still knows. We've come to an understanding: I love her for her goofty, funny face, and she tolerates my misperception.
We were at the North Shore in a favorite cabin high above Lake Superior. No phone, no cell phone but the friends up the hill did. They received a phone call from our landlady: Fran's mother had died in Tennessee.
Fran, my husband, who by then didn't love the North Shore as much as I did, had no trouble packing up to go. Maybe a little regret at ditching the warblers and night full of stars, but for him, there was no question about the proper route. The funeral was a week hence.
I, on the other hand, chafed. I didn't want to go home early, but I would. I would come home after four days, He would already be gone, and I would settle into gardening and cat care while he was in Tennessee. No one expected me to attend Lou's funeral. That's what sometimes happens in second marriages.
Fran had trouble getting a flight. For three days he was home with the two cats we already had: aged Bart the Brute who used to bite ankles, and leap three times his length after a piece of string. But now spent his days lying around, snarling if you came too close. Bart and newish Tilly-the-terrified, beautiful but lacking confidence.
The day before Fran was to leave, I called from a pay phone to see how he was doing. "There's a surprise for you here," he said. "Four legs and a tail. Named Magnolia." What!? Another cat? Just after he'd been teasing me on vacation about my wanting another critter "to keep Tilly company?"
"I couldn't resist," he said, sounding a sheepish. "She was sittiing in a cage at Peg Smart, putting out her paw, and she had the most beautiful cat face. I had to adopt her."
Right, I thought. Smitten first, but lonesome second. Lonesome for Lou, your nice mom, leaving your peculiar dad for you to tackle alone. Yup, I'm sure this Maggie the Cat is a beauty. Maggie a real cat named for Maggie the human cat in Tennessee Williams' Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Maggie the Cat as in Elizabeth Taylor. That kind of beautiful.
I was hot and sweaty. It was July and I'd just driven five hours, the last half on a freeway through sun-wavery fields. Opening the back door, my shoulders weighted down with backpack, I set a cooler on the table and called, "Here, Maggie." Almost as nervous, I bet, as she was, hearing an unfamiliar voice, being left in a strange place alone over night.
I brought in more gear. Hot, tired, dazed, disoriented. "Here, Maggie." Another trip, then another. Finally the kitchen was piled with clothes, bags of groceries, cooler, hiking boots, binoculars, bird books. Fran had watered nothing the days he'd been home. Our cat-care trio had gone as soon as he arrived. I went out to water, fill the bird feeders.
When I came back, I called again "Here, Maggie." There was a faint "meow." Calling and listening I tracked the faint response to the second floor, to our bedroom, and then under our bed. Kneeling down, I peered into the dark. Light came from a window near the other side. There staring at me was a wide cat face belonging to a calico cat with stout tail and white paws. But what a face! A square of orange sat unevenly over the eyes and nose. Through the left eye, ran the edge of the square. Acat put together by a kid using stubby scissors and construction paper.
This cat looked ridiculous. Not ugly, just goofy. I tried to reach in and tickle her under her chin, but she backed away as if she knew what I was thinking. I didn't apolotize but I did sympathize with her obvious fear. "Come on out, Girl. Come on. I won't hurt you," I crooned. But she only stared at me with glittering eyes. Not hissing, but not advancing either. I left a plate of food under the bed, and a bowl of water.
Later, when Fran called, I told him, "This is the strangest looking cat I've ever seen. How could you think she's beautiful." Ah, the eyes of the beholder. The yearning of a son for a lost mother, and finding her in the face of a lonesome cat.
He still teases me about yelping "How could you think she's beautiful." Originally, there was an edge of pain in the teasing. Now, that's muted. But still there. We both love Maggie. She knows her place--in the middle between Terrified Tilly and Adorable Julia, the Teenage Mother. Sometimes when she sits up very tall, her ears lifted and eyes very alert, Maggie looks regal. Other people have called her pretty, "What a pretty cat!" I love her, I feel guilty because she's the middle cat and defers to the other two. I try to make it up to her by playing with her in the dark after the other two have gone to bed. But I think she still knows. We've come to an understanding: I love her for her goofty, funny face, and she tolerates my misperception.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Margotlog: Life Without a Car
Margotlog: Life Without a Car
Or I should say, Life in fly-over land without a car. It's quite possible to live a decent, middle-class existence in Chicago without a car. Buses and trains are excellent, the elevated trains get you to the airport far faster than you can drive. Life in New York and probably Boston, fine without a car. New York has a subway system par excellence except when it's flooded by Superstorm Sandy. Life without a car in Manhattan is almost imperative because car traffic is ridiculously slow--in my earlier life, my husband and I were stuck in Manhattan traffic three hours and went six blocks. It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. We sat and fumed. Eventually we turned around, parked the car, and took a train to Baltimore.
Maybe in Washington and Philadelphia, life can be fine without a car, as long as the suburbs are serviced by frequent buses or trains--as they are in Chicago and New York. On a flight recently into Philadelphia, I suggested to a smart young dame beside me that instead of taking a cab downtown to catch a train to Washington (our flight was late 90 minutes, and she'd already been bumped from the Washington flight of her dreams due to predicted heavy snow, which never materialized). "Take the train from the airport," I urged. "You'll save a lot of money."
"There's a train?" she asked. I couldn't believe she wasn't aware of it since as I've often walked from the airport to rental car pick-up, I pass over freeway and train tracks, where often a train is passing. But maybe my seatmate had never before flown into Philly.
Los Angeles without a car? IMPOSSIBLE. Maybe in San Fran. Maybe in Seattle because their ferry system brings in commuters in a timely fashion and buses ferry them throughout the city. But Minneapolis/Saint Paul without a car? RIDICULOUS. We have one of the most spread-out "Metro Areas" in the US.One hundred miles from western Minnetonka to eastern Stillwatr.
My Minneapolis-based friend Pat Blakely has just published a handy, cheery green book called Carfree Living (CAREFREE Living is how I rad it at first). Order it on Amazon and have it printed off and sent to you. It's more than handy--you don't have to leave your house.
Then enjoy her jaunty, personal style, but do not be surprised to learn that living without a car in Minneapolis (even near downtown) is NOT without care, not open to impulse or whim. PLANNING required. Memorization of bus schedules required. A box of "takeables" beside the door - necessary. Acceptance of missed possibilities CRUCIAL - making cookies rather than attending a tango dance class, reading a good book or even a bad book rather than braving sub-zero weather.
In fact, winter wind, cold, snow, ice are the context of her experiment. They make her attempt at a carless life much more difficult than it would be, say in Baltimore, Maryland, or Chattanooga, Tenn. We often have six months of real winter, or four with a month on either side of crud, slush, and freezing rain. YET, she settles into acceptance and comes to appreciate what she learns about herself when she rides the bus.
I like the bus-riding life she describes. Slower, more meditative, giving time to muse about other riders, about scenes at 20 mph. Beautiful glances at city and lakes. And now I'm remembering a bus tide in Honolulu from maybe four years ago, up, up curving ever upward from the harbor and tall buildings into little communities crouched on hillsides, families with chidlren getting on, school kids getting off. An old one helped up by the soft-bodied, pony-tailed driver, with his gentle Island speech, and expert turning around the curves.
Then he told me, it was my stop. The National Cemetery of the Pacific was maybe five blocks up a road edging a cliff, lined with pink and orange azaleas. The blue Pacific spread below disappearing into distant haze. I walked alone, breathing moist, redolent air. So happy to be alive, and paying homage to the men and women buried here who originated far away.
Pat Blakely is also engaged in a war, less damazing potenially, more internal, yet fighting against cultural norms and her own long habit of a car. She fights with herself and a transit system not particularly bad, nor particularly good. And she wins through to make a difference. Entertaining us along the way with her pluck and candor.
Or I should say, Life in fly-over land without a car. It's quite possible to live a decent, middle-class existence in Chicago without a car. Buses and trains are excellent, the elevated trains get you to the airport far faster than you can drive. Life in New York and probably Boston, fine without a car. New York has a subway system par excellence except when it's flooded by Superstorm Sandy. Life without a car in Manhattan is almost imperative because car traffic is ridiculously slow--in my earlier life, my husband and I were stuck in Manhattan traffic three hours and went six blocks. It was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. We sat and fumed. Eventually we turned around, parked the car, and took a train to Baltimore.
Maybe in Washington and Philadelphia, life can be fine without a car, as long as the suburbs are serviced by frequent buses or trains--as they are in Chicago and New York. On a flight recently into Philadelphia, I suggested to a smart young dame beside me that instead of taking a cab downtown to catch a train to Washington (our flight was late 90 minutes, and she'd already been bumped from the Washington flight of her dreams due to predicted heavy snow, which never materialized). "Take the train from the airport," I urged. "You'll save a lot of money."
"There's a train?" she asked. I couldn't believe she wasn't aware of it since as I've often walked from the airport to rental car pick-up, I pass over freeway and train tracks, where often a train is passing. But maybe my seatmate had never before flown into Philly.
Los Angeles without a car? IMPOSSIBLE. Maybe in San Fran. Maybe in Seattle because their ferry system brings in commuters in a timely fashion and buses ferry them throughout the city. But Minneapolis/Saint Paul without a car? RIDICULOUS. We have one of the most spread-out "Metro Areas" in the US.One hundred miles from western Minnetonka to eastern Stillwatr.
My Minneapolis-based friend Pat Blakely has just published a handy, cheery green book called Carfree Living (CAREFREE Living is how I rad it at first). Order it on Amazon and have it printed off and sent to you. It's more than handy--you don't have to leave your house.
Then enjoy her jaunty, personal style, but do not be surprised to learn that living without a car in Minneapolis (even near downtown) is NOT without care, not open to impulse or whim. PLANNING required. Memorization of bus schedules required. A box of "takeables" beside the door - necessary. Acceptance of missed possibilities CRUCIAL - making cookies rather than attending a tango dance class, reading a good book or even a bad book rather than braving sub-zero weather.
In fact, winter wind, cold, snow, ice are the context of her experiment. They make her attempt at a carless life much more difficult than it would be, say in Baltimore, Maryland, or Chattanooga, Tenn. We often have six months of real winter, or four with a month on either side of crud, slush, and freezing rain. YET, she settles into acceptance and comes to appreciate what she learns about herself when she rides the bus.
I like the bus-riding life she describes. Slower, more meditative, giving time to muse about other riders, about scenes at 20 mph. Beautiful glances at city and lakes. And now I'm remembering a bus tide in Honolulu from maybe four years ago, up, up curving ever upward from the harbor and tall buildings into little communities crouched on hillsides, families with chidlren getting on, school kids getting off. An old one helped up by the soft-bodied, pony-tailed driver, with his gentle Island speech, and expert turning around the curves.
Then he told me, it was my stop. The National Cemetery of the Pacific was maybe five blocks up a road edging a cliff, lined with pink and orange azaleas. The blue Pacific spread below disappearing into distant haze. I walked alone, breathing moist, redolent air. So happy to be alive, and paying homage to the men and women buried here who originated far away.
Pat Blakely is also engaged in a war, less damazing potenially, more internal, yet fighting against cultural norms and her own long habit of a car. She fights with herself and a transit system not particularly bad, nor particularly good. And she wins through to make a difference. Entertaining us along the way with her pluck and candor.
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