Peter's motorcycle

Today is sunny and clear, although not very warm, and I saw two motorcycles on my way to work. It would be a great day to ride a motorcycle. Now, when I say, “ride” a motorcycle, I mean exactly that. I do not mean, “drive” a motorcycle – I belong on the back with someone else driving. If I were to drive a motorcycle, I would be so scared that I would not go fast enough for traffic. But clinging to the back of a bike, with a handsome male operating the thing, the wind making my denim feel like its actually some sheer fabric barely covering me, that would be great.

Boo does not ride a motorcycle. He’s very conservative. A couple of boyfriends ago, I had one with a motorcycle. His name was Peter. I dates Peter for 6 years, which is longer than I’ve known my husband. It is hard to think of Peter now without thinking about his ego or his arrogance, but at the time I was living with him, I was very happy.

Peter had (and may well still have) a 1979 Honda CRX500. This is a big, cumbersome bike, a touring bike, but without the power of the larger 750CC engines. Peter and I worked in the same building, but for different legislators. On warm days when the legislators were not in session, we would ride the motorcycle to work. It made parking downtown much easier. Although, one time my boss did happen to be in town and the first comment he made was about parking. That was my boss’s sense of humor.

We would also take the bike for rides in the country. The best kind of motorcycle ride, like the best kind of bicycle ride, is on long, winding country roads with gentle hills. It was always a great way to loosen up and relax after a long hard day. Sometimes we would stop for ice cream. Peter knew the location of every ice cream stand in the rural area near our house, and often knew the owners as well, as his family had lived in the area for generations.

One time we took the motorcycle to the Adirondacks, hiked up and back down a mountain, and drove into a nearby town for food. I felt better when we got a seat outdoors, because I never felt so filthy in all my life: all that road dirt on us, and the sweat from climbing the mountain making the dirt stick. It was nasty and I said never again.

I do not really miss Peter all that much. But I do miss the motorcycle.

Daffodil Days

Recenctly it was Daffodil Days at both of my jobs. Daffodil Days is a fundraiser, I think for the American Cancer Society. You order a single daffodil, or many, and you can order something like eight or a dozen along with a vase, that although it is chintzy plastic, is the right size and shape for holding a bunch of daffodils. Unfortunately, due to the fact that I have two jobs, it is not practical for me to order the daffodils. I ordered them once at my morning job, got them on a Friday when they were buds, left for the weekend, and by Monday morning when I came back they were wilted. I can’t carry them back and forth to each job to enjoy them.

But nonetheless, I am very fond of Daffodil Days. When I was a kid, the daffodils were like a dime each, and we could get them at school. My mom gave me a dollar bill to get ten daffodils. But back then, most of the students only bought one or two daffodils. They also hadn’t yet hit on the marketing genius of offering vases for sale – each daffodil came with its cut end wrapped in a piece of damp paper towel.

When the time came to pick up the flowers, one by one we left the classroom to go to the nurse’s office to get them. I don’t know why they kept them at the nurse’s office, but that’s where we had to go, one at a time. I got down there, and the nurse picked out ten daffodil buds. She wrapped the whole bundle in several wet paper towels and I was on my way. I was so happy, and even as a little kid, I felt happy that we had given money to the Cancer Society.

I got a lot of attention in the classroom and on the bus home because nobody else had as many daffodils as me. On the way home, they were starting to bloom. They looked so pretty and yellow and perfect. It was a happy day.

Cooped up

When I was growing up, Saturdays were supposed to be the day that I cleaned my room. I would get up and watch cartoons though, and my parents didn’t really fight about that. My brother and I would watch cartoons all morning, but then Mom would lower the boom. We were each sent our rooms to clean them.

I almost never cleaned my room. I hated being cooped up in there alone with a seemingly insurmountable mess. I never knew where to start. Mostly I just listened to AM radio and fantasized about becoming a DJ someday. Eventually, it would be dinner time, and we were allowed to come out of our rooms. I think my parents thought if I was left alone in there long enough, I would eventually take responsibility and start cleaning.

Once in a while, this happened. I remember being really happy doing the last step of cleaining my room, that was dusting my furniture. That part was so easy: spray the cool pledge, and wipe it up and make the furniture shiny. I loved that part, but usually my room was such a mess that I couldn’t even conceive of getting to that part. In my youth, it never occurred to me that if I just dug in and started, soon I would be dusting.

I was realizing that this cooped up in my room with an insurmountable task is often how I feel at work. I don’t want to be alone in my office at work, I want to be socializing and talking to people. The difference is, I am learning to just start something. As a result I finished a big project in a month that I thought I was going to need an intern for. I am learning not to feel cooped up.

Liz's mom

Liz’s mom was pretty cool. A little bit flaky, but pretty cool. She was considerably younger than Liz’s dad, who had white hair even when we were eleven and twelve years old.

Liz’s mom was a social worker and very concerned about the world around her. She would prepare reports to present at the dinner table, complete with note cards so she wouldn’t forget the salient points. Liz’s dad kind of disregarded Liz’s mom. He was a prominent radiologist.

Liz was the youngest in the household, her brother and sister were well into their twenties when Liz and I were pre-teens. Liz’s mom called Liz her “Gift from God” because she entered menopause right after that last pregnancy. Liz’s mom wanted to make sure that Liz met diverse people. Liz’s godmother was black, I forget her name, but she was very nice. Liz’s mom also had a friend, Judy, who was blind. I always liked the way Liz’s mom cared so much about the larger issues of the world and society. My family, it seemed, was always focused on scraping by and meeting basic needs. There was no time for my parents to include diversity in their children’s milieus or social justice at the dinner table, complete with notecards.

Eventually, we learned that Liz’s mom married Liz’s dad basically to get away from her parents. Something to the effect that she wouldn’t have to move with them to another state or something if she married him. I am not sure of the details. But I do know that Liz’s mom did not love Liz’s dad. She told us in high school that she planned on divorcing him when Liz was done with school.

Liz’s mom finally divorced Liz’s dad when Liz and I were in college. She came to my college graduation party and looked fabulous. She wore a hand-painted t-shirt and pants set, and she was radiant and full of plans. Clearly, divorce had suited her well.

This energy level did not last long. Soon Liz’s mom got sick and had to cart around an oxygen tank with her. And her eyesight became poorer and poorer, and she could not drive at night. She got scared living alone. Liz and her fiancé moved in.

Eventually, Liz’s older sister had Liz’s mom moved to a nursing home in Florida. Liz’s sister could take better care of her that way. Liz’s mom seemed to be adjusting and making friends, but it did not last long. I don’t remember the circumstances surrounding her death, but I do remember that it was not long after she moved to Florida.

I didn’t go to the funeral; and I am terrible about sending cards. I did call Liz and talk to her a little about her mom. I felt very sad for this woman who waited her whole life to live her life, and only seemed to have a few moments when she was able to live it to the fullest.

The red cloth coat

When I was a kid, I was kind of sensitive. I felt bad for the kids who everybody made fun of. In middle school, I would become one of the kids that everybody made fun of, but in elementary school, really, before I moved from Syracuse to Buffalo, I was a run-of-the-mill kid.

There was one girl that everyone made vicious fun of when I was in about the 3rd grade, Allison. Allison, we knew, was “brain damaged”. She was a quite girl with dark brown short wavy hair, pale skin, and a red cloth coat. Alison was not in my class, but we shared a lunch time and the succeeding recess time together.

My friend Linda did not like Allison. She would be mean to her all the time. Sometimes, Linda would go off with other girls, and I would play with Allison by myself. “Let’s pretend we’re Martians from Venus,” she said one time when we were on the monkey bars. I was jealous of Allison, because she got to buy lunch every day. I asked her why she never brought her lunch. “My mom likes me to have a hot lunch,” she answered. My reaction to that as a child was that her mom was probably very overprotective.

One time Linda and Allison were on the paved part of the playground, and we were playing with balls or jumpropes or something. Allison had on her red cloth coat, it was late winter or early spring. Linda said something mean to Allison, and grabbed for Allison’s jump rope. Allison stuck her hand in her pocket, to keep Linda from getting the jump rope. Linda tugged harder. “You ripped my pocket!” Allison suddenly shouted, and started bawling very loudly. Linda ran away and I followed, feeling like a guilty party as an observer. I felt like I aided and abetted by failing to stop my friend Linda from ruining Allison’s coat. In running with Linda, I had chosen sides. I never played with Allison again.

My second cleaning job

When I was in high school, I desperately needed money for college. My schedule was already quite structured, so I was looking for something I could do in a flexible manner. I saw a sign on the bulletin board at school that a woman was looking for someone to come clean her house. $4.00 an hour. I contacted the administrative office of the high school and gave them my information, that was how it was done.

I got this weird call a couple of days later from a voice that sounded like a robot. I did not know what to make of it. It was Mrs. E, calling about me cleaning her house. She had a cleaning lady for many years who had needed surgery and would need to recover for a long time ,so Mrs. E. needed a temporary substitute on Saturdays. I was a bit frightened about the electronic voice. I pictured a very old, decrepit lady in a wheelchair who would be communicating with a computer like Stephen Hawking.

I went to see her a week or two later. She was not decrepit at all, but she did have a tracheotomy. The device she used looked like a microphone and she held it to the hole in her throat and it made the words as she talked. It was not nearly so disconcerting to see her doing it in person. Later, when I got to know her better, she would use a kind of forced-air type of technique that sounded like burp talking, but always when she wanted to be perfectly clear she used the microphone.

Now, I had a cleaning job before Mrs. E, at a company my uncle worked for. My boyfriend and I at the time were messing around in the office building late at night, and we photocopied our private parts. We weren’t very careful and one of the photocopies got left out where everyone could see it when they came in the next morning. I was never accused of it directly, but I was given a big check and told not to come back.

Mrs. E, ran a small insurance business out of her home. As a result, she had a job application for me to fill out. I had to put my cleaning job on it, but I didn’t know what to write for reason why I left. I put “I was terminated”. Later Mrs. E, told me never to write that you were terminated, but to write “staff reduction.”

Mrs. E had a lot to say when I would come over, about the right way to raise kids, about when she was a teacher, about her leadership in the local business community. I can’t remember most of what she talked about but I remember being captivated by her effervescence and her ability to command attention even with the debilitating tracheotomy and burp talk. Needless to say, she was an ardent anti-smoking advocate, she had had cancer of the larynx and had to have it removed after many years of puffing away.

Eventually, Mrs. E’s regular cleaning lady got better, and my services were no longer needed. Mrs. E said I was a “gem” and that if I ever needed a recommendation, she would be happy to give it. For some reason, even though this woman was a role model and someone whose opinion was valued in my community, I never needed to use her name.