memoir

Radio

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Mexican radio. Wish I was in Tijuana; eating barbequed iguana. I grew up in the 80s, one of the best times for music. People may scoff, but it is the most imitated, most reunioned, most innovative music. Synth pop, new age, punk, alternative. The second British invasion. We were home to one of the best alternative stations, now defunct, WLIR 92.7. We used to stalk the DJs when stalking had a good natured connotation. We’d call and believe it or not, they remembered us.

Willobee, Larry the Duck, Malibu Sue, Donna Donna, Bob Waugh – just a few of the countless DJs who were themselves near iconic.

On the weekend, they used to have special themes like WLIR goes to the park or goes to college. This was before the prevalence of the internet and you could only listen if you were in the broadcast area. I was told when the weekend of ‘goes to college’ was when I was at college in Oneonta and I called them.

Collect.

And they accepted the charges.

Now, I listen to WEQX out of Manchester, Vermont. Some of you may have recognized the name I mentioned earlier: Willobee. The one and the same. He has since moved on to Scranton (with wife and baby), but I was able to call on his last day and thank him for a lifetime of good music and influence.

People might not believe me, but I like to say, and it is true that the music I listen to is either twenty years old or twenty minutes old.

I may have to change that to thirty and thirteen in another couple of years.

Inhouses

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I have had so much trouble with outhouses.

Not using them mind you, but writing about them until someone suggested I just write about unusual bathrooms or something like that, and that’s what I will try to do.

First, when we were kids, my parents used to say we should write a book about all the bathrooms we used on a car trip. It didn’t matter when the last time we used the toilet was, but if we saw a sign for a bathroom or stopped for gas, we absolutely, positively needed to use the bathroom.

My parents said we were taking inventory or reviewing all of them or something.

When I got older and had my first son, he, of course, used public bathrooms even though we also had a portable camping toilet in the car in case he needed to use it on a long trip without a rest area.

I remembered what my parents said about writing a book and so we took pictures of my son and the places where he used the bathroom – McDonald’s, thruway rest area, gas station, library, you name it. If he used the bathroom, we took a picture of it (the place, not the actual bathroom or the toileting) and we made a little picture book for my Dad.

He loved it!

The second thing that came to mind was my first trip to the UK in 1987. I knew enough not to call the bathrooms bathrooms, but other than that every time I used one, I was not only surprised, it was an exercise in how the fuck do I flush this thing?

Here’s a normal toilet with an American style lever. Okay, no problem. That was in the airport. They like to give you a false sense of security in the airport.

Next toilet. Pretty normal for me, but the tank had a large push button on the top of the tank.

There was a large push button on the wall above the tank.

There was a small push button on the top of the tank, on the side of the tank and on the wall above the tank (these were three separate toilets).

And then I used the men’s room in a pub. It was New Year’s Eve in Trafalgar Square, and there was much drinking and carousing and the toilets were needed. It’s New Year’s Eve as I mentioned, so the line for the ladies’ was ridiculously long, and my friend and I did not want to wait, so we went into the men’s room. Unfortunately for the men who came in not knowing that a woman was in the stall, the looks on their faces when we left were pretty priceless.

However, this toilet almost kept me. This was probably the most unusual and certainly the most unusual I had seen by far. The toilet itself was a regular public bathroom toilet, no tank, no lever.

I looked around for a floor button (yes, we’d seen those.)

Nope.

I checked the wall for a push button.

Nope.

I don’t know why I looked up, but I did. There’s the tank, way up practically attached to the ceiling, but not with a long chain hanging down. I pulled the chain, everything worked as it should and I left, calling out a warning before I left the stall and waving at four surprised (more than likely extraordinarily drunk) Londoners.

In Scotland, you had to pay 2p to pee, an irony (and a pun) that apparently took 26 years for me to get. You could also get a public shower in Scotland, but I think that was a pound, perhaps more.

Bathroom.

Toilet

Loo.

WC.

Johns.

Porta-pottys.

Los banos.

Ty bach.

The most important thing you need to be able to ask for in a foreign country, whether they are inside or outside.

Free Write: Prompt: A Footprint You Find in an Odd Spot

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My eight year old son has been a little crazy for Bigfoot lately. Every Sunday, he stays up until 11pm to watch the Animal Planet show, Finding Bigfoot. He has a notebook, and he takes notes on their expeditions, takes photos off of the TV with his camera, and has a team meeting in school with the other Bigfoot enthusiasts during lunch recess. They think there’s a Bigfoot hiding/living in the woods adjacent to their school.

The other day, well, let me say that I am a mythology fan-girl. My favorite animal is a griffin, and I’ve stopped apologizing for it. I do get strange looks, but I can’t help it. I love them. They’re strong and elegant and beautiful.

I also have a thing for Celts. Any and all, so when my son thought he was being very scientific when he stated what was obvious to him, he never expected Mom’s reaction which was pure disbelief that I’d raised such a heathen.

His statement?

He said (and keep in mind, he said this in an incredulous condescending, how could they be so stupid as to think way) that while Bigfoot was real – there were pictures and expeditions and look at the evidence – the Loch Ness Monster wasn’t real.

For one thing, it was a monster. For another thing, there were no pictures. For a third thing, as he turned up his nose, there’s no such thing. But Bigfoot….well, they were everywhere.

Sasquatch in Canada.

Yowie in Australia.

They didn’t eat cows, though. Do you know why? Cows belong to people and if they ate people’s cows, people would notice and hunt them. Makes sense.

There were no applicable legends or sightings related to the Loch Ness Monster.

I was appalled to say the least.

Every Sunday, he takes out his notebook; he adds the episode title to his list of episodes. I believe there are also numbers and dates, and he does this during the day with the onscreen cable guide so he doesn’t waste any time while the episode is on.

He is very organized.

I love to see his excitement. I was reminded this morning of my own ‘obsessions’ from my childhood. I loved detective stories and television shows. I used to watch Remington Steele, Moonlighting and when I was very young, The Rockford Files.

I wanted to be a detective. In the case of Jim Rockford, I wanted to drive a Camaro and live in a trailer, just not on the beach. I kept notebooks, and notes and quotations, and more than anything I think that is what influenced my longing to be a writer more than anything else. Those detective stories were the best and pushed my imagination further and further out and the notebooks gave me a place to store all of those dreams even if they weren’t called dreams.

And I see so much of that in my son. The enjoyment he gets from the show, from the mystery, from the note-taking and the investigation, the excitement of being part of something that is both on television, in real life and at school as he researches and discusses and extrapolates with his friends.

Unrequited Love

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The only unfulfilled love I’m willing to talk about openly is writing. And the realization that the love affair will never be reciprocated hurts just as much as that first time someone came out and said, “I like you. I just don’t like-like you.”

Writing will never like-like me. I’m too old, and it’s not that I’m too old as much as born at the wrong time – the non-generation. I’m not a baby boomer. I’m not a Me. I’m too old to be a Gen-Xer. Or Y and Z for that matter. I missed the computer age – I didn’t even have a computer until I got married and I was forty-one before I actually owned my own – a laptop, which took me a year to finally use with any kind of regularity. My kids know the VCR as the machine next to the TV that has never worked.

I read Julie Andrews autobiography recently. She grew up in the fifties, and I was sad to discover that her voice is my voice. That’s how I write. Very formally, describing how the leaves rest on the rooftop, narrative on top of narrative with very little emotion unless it’s purple prose. I write like someone who grew up in the fifties, only I have no story to tell. My parents weren’t alcoholics, I did not overcome drug abuse, I wasn’t abused or molested. My parents sent me to college. I lived at home until I got married.

This non-generation of girls was expected to grow up, be prim and proper, but still know everything, go to school, college and be anything you wanted, anything boys could be even President of the United States. At least until you got married and had kids and in that order. And when the kids were in high school you could go back to work because women were independent now.

You can’t be a writer. A writer is impractical. And they drink. They don’t have two nickels to rub together either.

Get a degree and then you can write.

Get married. You can write later.

You’re still young. You can’t wait to have kids. Writing will always be there.

Well, guess what?

Writing didn’t wait for me. Writing found someone else. Writing computerized. Modernized. Writing grew up, and changed with the times where it needed to. More do it yourself. More travel. More health care and fitness. New writers came along. Younger and prettier and having seen people like me get left behind knew just what to do to keep up.

Writing won’t ever come back for me, and I just can’t catch up. My writing is tired and old; timid. Like me.

My best friend, like any good friend, pushes me towards the love that got away, prods, challenges, shames, but he can only push so far. I keep my hand on the ledge. I don’t know what’s down there. I lean over, but I can’t see very far, and what I can see is dizzying.

What if I fall?

What if I catch up to writing and I’m just not good enough? Staying back and wondering is better than being rejected again, isn’t it?

Isn’t it?

Fire

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Fire is all powerful, building up and destroying at the same time. Fire rises, sweeps through. Unlike water which washes everything away in an instant, fire stays awhile. It spreads, sometimes slowly, sometimes fast, but out and up, higher and higher and even when it has no place to go it still reaches out and grows, larger, looming, consuming.

Staring at fire is much like clouds in a blue sky.

There’s a bunny. And a soccer ball. But fire is not fluffy. You can’t help but to jump at each spark, wondering why there are no bunnies in the charred remains.

Fire is powerful and… weak is the wrong word. Fire can be subdued. Water, salt, even certain chemicals. I think it’s why we feel so much for fire fighters. They are like magicians in the night, taking the fire away, bringing back the calm.

Eclipse

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Standing on the porch, it’s freezing. I mean really, really cold. I had to put on a jacket and everything. It’s not even snowing out. Last eclipse until blah, blah, blah. Everything is the last. It’s never the last. It’s probably not even my last. But I’m out there. The moon doesn’t look any different. After about five minutes of shivering I go back inside.

“Is it done yet?”

“Nope.”

I trot around the living room. Now, I am hot.

I go back outside.­

Is the moon darker? That tree is in the way, but yes, a tiny piece is missing from the moon.

Did I forget my gloves inside?

It’s not that cold.

Dot. Dot. Dot. Dot.

Yes it is.

Screen door slams.

“Is it over?”

“No.”

I pull on my gloves and zip up my jacket. I wait about ten minutes, but in the heat of the house I am practically sweating. I go back, out, holding the door, closing it carefully, quietly. I know that this is not the action of politeness; it’s procrastination.

It’s freezing out here.

I look at the fullness of the moo, bright white light reaching down, showing the world differently, though not as full as before.

I watch until it’s about half gone. I love the moonlight. I want to be part of it. Even now, when I sleep, if the moon gets in my window, I lie in it bathing in the forever of the moonlight.

The sun is nice enough, and it has its place in the world, but the moon is really the other world. No one wants to live on the sun. The sun doesn’t let you look into her face. Her brightness hurts. And eventually fades. Or will.

The moon is gentle, controls the waters, lights the night and will always be.

Snowbound

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The blizzard that wasn’t. December 2009. My friends were waiting for me in DC. It was a quick hop; get on the plane if my legs would carry me, although it’s not so much the legs that were the problem as the will. The want was there, but sometimes that’s not enough.

“I can’t take the train?”

“It’s only two days.”

“I don’t want the little plane.”

“It’s a jet.”

“It’s not. I googled it.”

Silence.

“Fine. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

Happy messages appear on my voicemail while I slept.

5 AM comes way too soon. It seems silly to pack the kids just to drop me off, but –

There is practically no one at the airport. It’s 5AM.

I kiss everyone goodbye and they pull away from the curb.

Can’t I change my mind? It’s dark and they say the weather will be bad. How will I even get home tomorrow?

Inside I hand the ticket clerk my papers and she smiles.

“That flight’s cancelled. Three feet of snow.”
I look out the window at the bare ground, the sun coming up and look back to her as if she’s crazy.

“DC. Three feet of snow. Airports are closed.”

“But it never snows in DC.”

She shrugs. “Do you want a refund? You were coming back tomorrow anyway.”

“Sure. A refund is good.”

I call my husband. He hasn’t gotten too far and he comes back. I guess we’ll have breakfast.

I leave messages. Sorry, can’t come. I don’t tell them that I am grateful not to get on a tiny airplane in December to land in the snow.

“Oh, poor Karen. What will you do snowbound with the little ones?”

“Snowbound? No. That’s just DC and Virginia. We have no snow. I’m going shopping.”

My shovel is dry.

I think Virginia got almost if not more than 100 inches of snow that year. Actually, I do know. Because I got every whiny phone call with each flake landing. I think he cried once. Record breaking snow.

I think we broke records here too – for least amount of snow.

Manchester

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Manchester. Last day. The only day it really rained. The hostel is nice enough, but it’s upstairs – third floor – no elevator.

No elevator equals no suitcase; at least as far as I’m concerned. It’s been misty all week, so I left my umbrella in the rental. Of course.

It’s still misting, so it’s not too bad. I have to walk about two blocks to find something for dinner. Piccadilly’s just down there I’m told. Not the circus – that’s in London, but right around the uni.

It’s getting dark and with it comes the rain. It is cold and wet. The kind of wet that soaks through your clothes, through your skin – I imagine my bones rusting. They’re already creaking. I am clearly a tourist. No umbrella.

Little do they know, I always have an umbrella. Just not here.

I wander down the street, the rain slapping me in the face – the hood on my shirt up covering my hair. That’s just for show, though. It’s a jersey knit and I think it’s wetter than the puddles I sidestep.

I slide into a Tesco grabbing a soda and a snack for later – once I’m “home” I can’t go back out. One more night. Had it still been Wales, I wouldn’t want to leave, but Manchester.

Fuck. I hate Manchester. The driving. The roundabouts. The Ring Road. The Ring. The fucking ring. It is a cunting nightmare. That’s no exaggeration. Round and round and round and NO! Dammit! I do not want to go to fucking Leeds! Manchester. MANCHESTER!

I stop a van for hire. Can you get me to Newton St?

Nah. I can get there, but I can’t tell you how.

I burst into tears and I suppress the urge to grab this stranger and cling to him. I half reach out my hand, but stop, wiping away a tear.

He inhales and points to his van. Follow me. I’ll show you where to turn. Thank G-d. Thank you, thank you. I breathe in relief and gratitude that can never be truly expressed. The feeling of holding onto the log or driftwood and then seeing the rescue boat.

It still took two hours because of all the one way streets.

I will never go back there. Never.

At least, I will never drive there again.

I hate Manchester.