True Stories

Memories of Uncle Mark

2007-12-14T10:44:00.000-08:00

I remember one of the first times our family met "Almost" Uncle Mark on one of our pilgrimages east from Buffalo to the "Motherland" (Colonie-Charleton-and surroundings). I believe Ellen and Mark had just gotten an apartment together, and I was impressed by how "grown up" the apartment was and how…well, how badass Mark was, for lack of a better term. That was not the word I would have used as a pre-teen, (maybe cool?) But you get the idea. In my book, badass is a good thing. He was driving a truck for a living, had cowboy boots and a mustache and he looked like he was not to be messed with. My uptight parents (well, mom mostly) had some dubious things to say about Aunt Ellen and "Almost" Uncle Mark – ("living in sin" was a common phrase my mom used to describe the apartment they shared – I am sure it came from a place of sisterly love and concern…). I believe the "Almost" came about from us kids after it was apparent that Mark and Ellen had a good thing going and would be together for the long term.

I also remember on another occasion, stealing Bazooka gum from a dresser in a bedroom where Ellen and Mark slept. The massive quantities of Bazooka on that bureau were too tempting to resist. The problem with Bazooka is the fact that after about 5 chews, it loses its flavor. So even though I *promised* myself each piece was the last one, every few minutes I would go back for another, and another. I don't know if Mark noticed the large amount that was missing from his stash – if he did he never said anything.

There are many other snapshots of Mark I have in my head from growing up, mostly located at that great house in Schaghticoke. There are many visions of a grumpy-ass Mark getting up to speed with the first cigarette and coffee of the day, country music on the radio. There is the Polo Brindisi – that was Mark's favorite wine, I think in the late 1980s, and one time my parents made a special trip to the liquor store to get several bottles, because he couldn't find it in the Albany area any more. Mark was definitely in touch with his "inner child" although you might not have known it to look at him. In addition to the Bazooka gum he had various and asundered toys at his house – the one I remember in particular was the battery-operated Pac Man game.

Growing up, many things about Mark's life before he was with Ellen were alluded to – a troubled childhood, service in Vietnam as an EMT/Paramedic, crazy brothers, estranged children; but we knew Mark as he was at that moment. We knew him as the guy that worked on his house and trained Shutzhunden. The guy that grew increasingly fascinated with computers and technology as it began to catch on in the 1990s and 2000's. The guy that worked hard – plugging away at a variety of jobs over the years. Most of all, he was the guy that loved my Aunt and stayed with her for the long haul. I will never be quite sure if it was Ellen that brought stability to Mark's life, or vice-versa. Maybe a little of both?

There are a few memories as I got older…. One was when I went to a fencing competition in Poughkeepsie and my friend Kevin and I spent the night at Ellen and Mark's house in Colonie. Their friend Butch and his wife were over, and we had a great talk and it was the first time I had hung out with my Aunt and Uncle without my parents being there. Mark, with his trucking history, gave us terrific directions to Poughkeepsie – I can't remember which side of the river that city is on, but he knew whether it was taking the Taconic or the Northway that required you to drive over a bridge to get there.

Mark and Ellen "rescued" me from many lonely times in my late 20's and early 30's, especially when I was alone in Springfield Mass. Mark never had a problem with me crashing at their place for holidays like Independence Day and Thanksgiving. Mark always had stories, sometimes complaints, but he was always welcoming and always willing to take me in. Of course, how could I forget the coffee – ohh, the coffee. Probably the one thing Mark and I had most in common as adults was an abiding love of the delicious and satisfying roasted bean brew. For both of us, it was a beverage of choice throughout the day – not just for breakfast!

I am sure neither Ellen nor Mark had no idea how important those times spent with them as an adult were to me; nor do they know how much I have missed them since they moved to Arizona. It saddens me that if I am ever able to visit – Uncle Mark will not be a part of my trip. My heart is breaking that I am unable to be in Tuscon at this time of celebrating Mark's life and grieving his passing. Ellen, I wish you courage and strength in the coming months, and may your heart dwell on the happiest memories of your beloved husband, and my "totally badass" uncle.

Prayer for Robin

2005-09-29T10:46:00.000-07:00

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

Help me to remember the good things about Robin. Right now it is painful to think about her baggy jeans, her cool historic house, her new environmentally friendly car, her sweet old dog. I can’t help but picture her in her “David Lynch bathroom“ (a room partially painted a garish red, only to have been abandoned mid project due to the unintended effects of the color) feeling desperate and alone.

Help me to help the others who were touched by her, who knew of her depression and who could not help her in her time of need. Particularly watch over Marie, who spoke with Robin every day, and was aware of the chemicals Robin had obtained which could be mixed to lethal effect.

Help me to understand why I couldn’t adequately share my own experience and recovery from depression, and give her hope. Her words ring in our ears, God: “I’m doing everything right, I’m doing everything I am supposed to do… why don’t I feel better?” Let those of us who were touched by her life understand the lessons she had brought for us.

Wherever she may be now, please let Robin find the peace that she did not have in this life, the peace for which she fought so desperately.

Amen.

The Fencing Masters

2005-06-30T15:55:00.000-07:00

Fencing is one of those sports you can continue to do well into an advanced age. Often times a newer, inexperienced fencer who has advantages in terms of flexibility, reach, and speed, will lose to a slower, stiffer, more experienced fencer. In my high school fencing years, I had the honor of knowing some wise old Fencing Masters who passed on this experience.

Freddy Marshall was probably the Fencing Master under whom I studied the most. He was a diminutive little man with a Yiddish accent, and always had pearls of wisdom to give me, some of them totally unrelated to fencing. I remember him saying to me when I was 16: “I wish I could be your age again, Elaine, but only if I knew then what I know now.” He did not fence with us but helped us improve our technique. “Ya gotta make better lunges,” he would always tell me. I cannot convey in the written word his accent. After our lessons were over, he would swim four lengths of the pool in the Buffalo Jewish Community Center. He was pretty darn spry for an old guy.

Then there was Steve Hilbert. Steve ran a fencing club in the Buffalo Area called Les Amis. Steve considered himself a classical fencing instructor, and as such I did not take his instruction seriously – I was more interested in fencing in the newer, competitive style. I can’t remember getting all that much instruction from him, rather from the others in the group who were more interested in competitive fencing. But I did fence Steve in practice bouts many many times. Steve’s trademark was a power move that would force the weapon out of your hand, by kind of twisting his blade around yours with a downward thrust. I eventually learned to see this coming and to evade it, but I don’t think I beat him often, if ever. Steve had wavy blonde hair parted on the side, and I believe a blonde mustache. He looked like a blonde Musketeer, and the Les Amis fencers used a special salute, in the old style, when they began their bouts. I learned from a friend that Steve passed away a couple of years ago.

Don Cleaversley was a Fencing Master with Freddy at the Buffalo JCC. I loved to learn from this guy, he was a wealth of knowledge. Funny thing is, I can’t remember a thing he taught me. I just remember the feeling of learning from someone who really knew what he was talking about, and who could explain it in an effective manner. He was frail and had a metal hospital cane to assist him with walking. I remember perceiving him as very elderly, but when I read his obituary and counted backwards, I learned that he had only been in his 60s when I studied under him. He had to stop teaching us, because in is deteriorating city neighborhood, the thugs had discovered he was out of the house at a regular time, and began burglarizing it regularly. I looked up his obituary, and he had died in the middle 1990s. I discovered he had a science background in addition to his fencing expertise.

Art Plouffe was not a fencing instructor, he was a fencer in the Master’s division at many competitions I attended. He had a degenerative muscle disease in his legs, so his fencing game did not consist of many backward and forward movements or lunges. But the guy had amazing hand work. He would preface his attacks by yelling “Allez! Allez! Allez!” at the top of his lungs, the yells echoing through the entire gymnasium. He drank from a thermos of coffee between bouts, and we always suspected that it was spiked with hootch. He was actually a very difficult personality but we loved his moxie for competing despite his ever weakening legs.

I am out of competitive fencing for several decades at this point. But the indelible etching of the vivid personalities of each of these men remains with me to this day.

Star Wars

2005-05-21T16:29:00.000-07:00

The night before third grade started, I went to see Star Wars. The original Star Wars. It had been out for some time, and my Uncle had seen it once, maybe twice. He was captivated by the film. I believe he was in his late twenties at the time. The night before the first day of school, I had my pajamas on and was in bed. I was in my new bedroom – my parents had converted the dining room downstairs so that I could have some privacy from my little brother as I matured. The new bedroom was downstairs, my brother was upstairs with my baby sister in the other bedroom.

Because my bedroom was downstairs, and because I was way too excited about the first day of school to sleep, I could hear when my Uncle came up the basement stairs and knocked on the door. I heard him tell my dad and mom he would like to take me and my brother to Star Wars. I heard my parents resist. The kids were in bed, it was the night before the first day of school. We needed our rest. I heard my uncle give a long spiel, begging, urging, pleading, and I heard my parents break down and say okay. My heart went in my throat as my mom shouted for Andy and me to get dressed and come into the living room. We were going to see Star Wars! What a story to tell the kids at school!

I remember the strange sensation of having to get dressed after my pajamas were already on. Did I put on the clothes I wore that day or put on new clothes? I put on new clothes. My brother had no clue why mom was calling us, but he soon found out. It was probably only 8:30pm, I think it was still light out. My parents were always putting us to bed when it was still light out in the summer. We went to the movie and it was totally captivating and exciting and everything we hoped it would be. We only went to maybe one or two movies a year, so the darkened theater and the big screen were a relatively novel experience for us. I remember my uncle giving me Doublemint gum.

After the movie, he took us to McDonald’s. It was one of the old McDonald’s where the two giant arches went over the whole building, and we sat on stools at a white formica counter facing out the windows toward the parking lot. There were crappy toys at McDonald’s then, and no Happy Meals. We got hamburgers and fries, and a hand puppet of Ronald McDonald that was made out of plastic bag material. I remember we got home after midnight, and I was tired as hell and happy as a clam.

We saw the Empire Strikes Back at a drive-in theater several years later. I remember whispering to Luke that Darth couldn’t possibly be his father. I remember being so emotionally caught up in that one and drained at the end. Return of the Jedi, the dumb one with the Ewoks, I saw on a date, and missed most of it because I was making out with my boyfriend through the whole thing. But that first Star Wars movie was one of the first times I had an experience that lived up to, even surpassed my every expectation.

My brother's broken arm

2005-04-22T12:38:00.000-07:00

When my brother broke his arm, he was wearing my favorite t-shirt. He was in high school, and I was in college, and we were about the same t-shirt size. I had competed in some fencing events, and had a shirt from the Vassar College tournament where I fenced unremarkably. But damn, the t-shirt was nice. It was grey and it had a Maroon stripe outlining the image of a foil down the left side of the front, and the name and date of the tournament on the right. It fit me just perfect, and apparently it fit my brother pretty well too, because he had stolen it from my laundry and worn it that day while I was at my summer job.

My brother broke his arm by crashing his bike into a stop sign or some such maneuver. He crashed his bike one way or another, I do know that, and he landed on his elbow. He got cut up really bad, splattering blood all over my favorite shirt. He came home kind of dazed and messed up and I was about to go on a date with T. T and I left as my parents took Andy to the hospital.

The next day I had a date with P. We went to an outdoor park that focuses on the fine and performing arts. I had been told in the morning that my brother had to have surgery on his arm, and was still in the hospital. They were going to visit him later in the day. The magnitude of this was somehow lost on me. I knew my brother would be home in a day or two, and I didn't really see the importance of visiting him in the hospital. For various reasons I will not delve into in this post, I think I did not understand the concept of being supportive, although I will say that the main reason for my lack of understanding was the lack of support I myself received growing up.

When I came home from Artpark that night with P, my parents were furious. I missed my chance to visit Andy in the hospital. All I could think of at the time was how my parents always took a perfectly good day and ruined it for me by yelling and being all pissed off. I was never allowed to just have one nice day.

Looking back, I feel guilty and selfish about this, but after all my brother got even with me. He ruined my favorite t-shirt.

Peter's motorcycle

2005-03-26T11:34:00.000-08:00

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

2005-03-25T12:35:00.000-08:00

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

2005-03-19T11:30:00.000-08:00

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

2005-03-12T11:43:00.000-08:00

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

2005-03-11T11:37:00.000-08:00

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

2005-03-08T16:44:00.000-08:00

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.