The Beekeeper in Park Slope
The Beekeeper is a kind of Placekeeper
Self-sacrificing sterile worker bees are foraging in public places
In rusty dumpsters
In proximity to rats
The Beekeeper is bereft--will they return?
Or will they do the robbing dance
It is completely natural
The buzzing in my ears is the message
that they are returning to the Beekeeper
His colors are drawing them
The magnetic fields are drawing them
They circle back, with news of sweet sources
They are home
Family
To raise a child
from complete dependence to human self-reliance
provokes regret for the marching of time
from girlhood to womanhood from boyhood to manhood
we are still debating
whose child is this
Aging
I am aging
I sat in the bright light today and aimed the mirror into the sun
revealing a wrinkled throat that I knew might be there
I just hadn't looked in a long time
In the same way, I hadn't examined age and its imperatives
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Monday, September 13, 2010
Restoration : The Loop
I deleted this contribution a week ago,when I thought it was too (in)sensitive. Based on gathered intelligence, D and I have apparently weighed in with their neutral approval, so I am re-posting. Since I know now that I don't want to be ostracized, I am going to work on a complete fiction next. Friends are too important. Plotting and designing 'real' interaction is much harder than simple memoir, this was always the easiest exercise.
The plane was half-empty. A baby got on with us and we eyed it warily, but it took a seat up front and must have slept, which was only natural on a 6:40 am Saturday flight.
With the hour we gained going west to Chicago, we were almost lively getting into the cab at O'Hare and heading for the Harmony rehab center. Our cabbie was from Mogadishu, and his unsentimental attachment to his newly minted US citizenship was refreshing (although unlike taking a ride in Phoenix, we did not ask to see his ID). He was dreaming about a new career in real estate. So at least in Chicago there isn't any regret about leaving the old country-- probably because back home is a place teeming with corruption and murder.
The accident occurred three weeks ago. At the Harmony, our friend D has a private room and is lying in bed, but preparing to go to physical therapy, where they will help him walk again after both his femurs were crushed.. He skillfully transferred himself from bed to wheelchair by means of a board, and we rolled /shuffled out to the hallway. Every other patient is in a wheelchair too-- except that D is 30 years younger than them and a lot more animated. I find myself looking around for more motorcycle accident victims, because I think he must be lonely.
The therapist is a no-nonsense Indian American woman, and D is enthusiastic up until the point of grimacing, doing everything to rebuild his strength. Darling joins the therapist in her duties, sort of like a Teachers Assistant, which she seems to enjoy. There are no props, but a series of exercises done in supine position appear to be the most grueling. There is a nerf-target board that looks like fun, but I restrain from freeloading on D's rehab.
D's wife I and son F arrive, and they prepare for what has become the culinary rescue operation, for lunch and dinner is not edible at Harmony. Darling and I are ready to start helping in any way we can-- that is, idiosyncratically, in our way. We are not family, but D and Darling go way way back to some cheap but sociable apartment in this Uptown neighborhood, where they celebrated nothing with potlucks and D stayed up late even until dawn, reading tomes of philosophy and impressing the hell out of Darling. After a run to Wholefoods and bringing back lunch, we pile into I's Corolla and drive back to their home.
After the accident it was pretty clear that their home for the last 10 years, Condo-up-the-Stairs, would not be an appropriate home for D upon his release next week. I and F are in the process of planning a temporary move to Rental-by-the-Lake. Preparation must include securing the condo premises which may lie empty for 8 months. Darling is handy and the front door is falling off its hinges. He will fix door and unplug a sink. He will also put oil in the tank of the Corolla which has been running around town on empty with scary warnings appearing on the dashboard. I have an urge to give financial advice, which I mostly suppress since it's probably a rude thing to do, and I abhor chaos which is also my general impression of the place. I and son F are in their routine. This routine involves a great amount of compensating behavior and adjustment due to F's diagnosed Autism Spectrum Disorder.
Even without this diagnosis, I would probably regard the average 8-year-old with confusion. My adequacies do not include childcare, but no one ever asked me about it and I've been able to reach the age of 48 without this skill. It's almost as if I attended a Kibbutz school from the early days of the Movement, that assumed the kids would live in the Children's House and they would never be under foot or heard from unless expressly requested to participate, so that we can all get on with the work of building the New Society. I also enjoy all things Victorian.
I tried to speak with F -- but he was inculcated by the rule book. An example is our discussion of the charming, purring football-shaped piebald cat, Tooze (Twos? never saw it in print). I thought the cat would be a good opener for my relationship with F, and remembering their previous cat from 10 years ago, I offered "I remember Pickles". But F replies, "We don't talk about Pickles, Pickles is dead". This is a real conversation stopper and I say that's silly, of course you talk about people and loved ones who are dead. But F has read the rule book and we can't proceed. After some desultory talk about Harry Potter -- they are on the bookshelf, he says he has read 4 of them-- I repair to the back room that smells like a kitty litter tray that hasn't been cleaned in a month.
Sunday is moving day, and savior friend P comes by with his wine van. P is a robust former singer (tenor?) who used to wait on tables with Darling in their days of menial servitude. This is a kind of reunion, they didn't know eachother well back then, maybe 15 years ago, but they recognize eachother now. It is a good thing too, because they must schlep futon frames and cabinets and futons and boxes down the outdoor back stairs, during a 90+ degree afternoon. P is not the complaining type, however, unlike me. I refuse to do this kind of thing, since I am a Princess. I spend the time stuffing some bags, and asking I what sort of little tasks I might take on, which turn out to be the afore-mentioned kitty litter tray and some mopping up in the kitchen. I am also able to stand around with the van at Rental-by-the-Lake while everyone else goes up and down in the superduper wheelchair-accessible elevator, bringing stuff up to the 9th floor apartment. I never see any cops, I never have to move the van: Chicago is easier than NYC in this respect.
On Sunday night Darling and I have amazing Vietnamese dinner in Uptown and visit the Green Mill, where we hear a swell Hammond B3 played by the prototypical blind man, accompanied by a young guitarist. I swallow a couple of white russians which went along with the venue.
I caught the bus on Monday afternoon and headed south to East Wacker, where we had a $127/night room at the Hyatt. Darling stayed behind to finish multiple trips to plumbing suppliers and finalize the sink repair. The hotel was cavernous, one of these soulless high-rising conference centers cum convenience spot, a stone's throw from Millenium Park which was really Grant Park or I don't really know because I wasn't there long enough. On the 31st floor there was a view of the adjacent gym roof pool. Some spiders were idly spinning their webs, up there in the ether, summarizing the entire experience of anomie and simple dizziness. I had no idea how to escape in an emergency.
With a few hours to spend on my own, I rushed to ... the nearest cafe for a 3 pm lunch. This turned out to be the luxurious Tavern on the Park, on Randolf, where the waiter quickly identifies me as a hungry middle-aged female tourist with money. This is immensely satisfying in a 21st century way, it is more Henry James than Saul Bellow.
After this outdoor meal of roasted veg /mozarella sandwich, marinated in my stomach with fancy Chardonnay, I went to the Henri Cartier-Bresson exhibit at the Art Institute. This had traveled from MOMA but typically I missed it in NYC. Mr. Cartier-Bresson really lived the life away from home! Brilliant. Get the catalog when it goes on sale.
The rest of our trip was unexceptional, except that our good friend C solved Darling's greatest computer problem by turning it off and on. C knows his Apples, he has networked them and can find the power button.
The plane was half-empty. A baby got on with us and we eyed it warily, but it took a seat up front and must have slept, which was only natural on a 6:40 am Saturday flight.
With the hour we gained going west to Chicago, we were almost lively getting into the cab at O'Hare and heading for the Harmony rehab center. Our cabbie was from Mogadishu, and his unsentimental attachment to his newly minted US citizenship was refreshing (although unlike taking a ride in Phoenix, we did not ask to see his ID). He was dreaming about a new career in real estate. So at least in Chicago there isn't any regret about leaving the old country-- probably because back home is a place teeming with corruption and murder.
The accident occurred three weeks ago. At the Harmony, our friend D has a private room and is lying in bed, but preparing to go to physical therapy, where they will help him walk again after both his femurs were crushed.. He skillfully transferred himself from bed to wheelchair by means of a board, and we rolled /shuffled out to the hallway. Every other patient is in a wheelchair too-- except that D is 30 years younger than them and a lot more animated. I find myself looking around for more motorcycle accident victims, because I think he must be lonely.
The therapist is a no-nonsense Indian American woman, and D is enthusiastic up until the point of grimacing, doing everything to rebuild his strength. Darling joins the therapist in her duties, sort of like a Teachers Assistant, which she seems to enjoy. There are no props, but a series of exercises done in supine position appear to be the most grueling. There is a nerf-target board that looks like fun, but I restrain from freeloading on D's rehab.
D's wife I and son F arrive, and they prepare for what has become the culinary rescue operation, for lunch and dinner is not edible at Harmony. Darling and I are ready to start helping in any way we can-- that is, idiosyncratically, in our way. We are not family, but D and Darling go way way back to some cheap but sociable apartment in this Uptown neighborhood, where they celebrated nothing with potlucks and D stayed up late even until dawn, reading tomes of philosophy and impressing the hell out of Darling. After a run to Wholefoods and bringing back lunch, we pile into I's Corolla and drive back to their home.
After the accident it was pretty clear that their home for the last 10 years, Condo-up-the-Stairs, would not be an appropriate home for D upon his release next week. I and F are in the process of planning a temporary move to Rental-by-the-Lake. Preparation must include securing the condo premises which may lie empty for 8 months. Darling is handy and the front door is falling off its hinges. He will fix door and unplug a sink. He will also put oil in the tank of the Corolla which has been running around town on empty with scary warnings appearing on the dashboard. I have an urge to give financial advice, which I mostly suppress since it's probably a rude thing to do, and I abhor chaos which is also my general impression of the place. I and son F are in their routine. This routine involves a great amount of compensating behavior and adjustment due to F's diagnosed Autism Spectrum Disorder.
Even without this diagnosis, I would probably regard the average 8-year-old with confusion. My adequacies do not include childcare, but no one ever asked me about it and I've been able to reach the age of 48 without this skill. It's almost as if I attended a Kibbutz school from the early days of the Movement, that assumed the kids would live in the Children's House and they would never be under foot or heard from unless expressly requested to participate, so that we can all get on with the work of building the New Society. I also enjoy all things Victorian.
I tried to speak with F -- but he was inculcated by the rule book. An example is our discussion of the charming, purring football-shaped piebald cat, Tooze (Twos? never saw it in print). I thought the cat would be a good opener for my relationship with F, and remembering their previous cat from 10 years ago, I offered "I remember Pickles". But F replies, "We don't talk about Pickles, Pickles is dead". This is a real conversation stopper and I say that's silly, of course you talk about people and loved ones who are dead. But F has read the rule book and we can't proceed. After some desultory talk about Harry Potter -- they are on the bookshelf, he says he has read 4 of them-- I repair to the back room that smells like a kitty litter tray that hasn't been cleaned in a month.
Sunday is moving day, and savior friend P comes by with his wine van. P is a robust former singer (tenor?) who used to wait on tables with Darling in their days of menial servitude. This is a kind of reunion, they didn't know eachother well back then, maybe 15 years ago, but they recognize eachother now. It is a good thing too, because they must schlep futon frames and cabinets and futons and boxes down the outdoor back stairs, during a 90+ degree afternoon. P is not the complaining type, however, unlike me. I refuse to do this kind of thing, since I am a Princess. I spend the time stuffing some bags, and asking I what sort of little tasks I might take on, which turn out to be the afore-mentioned kitty litter tray and some mopping up in the kitchen. I am also able to stand around with the van at Rental-by-the-Lake while everyone else goes up and down in the superduper wheelchair-accessible elevator, bringing stuff up to the 9th floor apartment. I never see any cops, I never have to move the van: Chicago is easier than NYC in this respect.
On Sunday night Darling and I have amazing Vietnamese dinner in Uptown and visit the Green Mill, where we hear a swell Hammond B3 played by the prototypical blind man, accompanied by a young guitarist. I swallow a couple of white russians which went along with the venue.
I caught the bus on Monday afternoon and headed south to East Wacker, where we had a $127/night room at the Hyatt. Darling stayed behind to finish multiple trips to plumbing suppliers and finalize the sink repair. The hotel was cavernous, one of these soulless high-rising conference centers cum convenience spot, a stone's throw from Millenium Park which was really Grant Park or I don't really know because I wasn't there long enough. On the 31st floor there was a view of the adjacent gym roof pool. Some spiders were idly spinning their webs, up there in the ether, summarizing the entire experience of anomie and simple dizziness. I had no idea how to escape in an emergency.
With a few hours to spend on my own, I rushed to ... the nearest cafe for a 3 pm lunch. This turned out to be the luxurious Tavern on the Park, on Randolf, where the waiter quickly identifies me as a hungry middle-aged female tourist with money. This is immensely satisfying in a 21st century way, it is more Henry James than Saul Bellow.
After this outdoor meal of roasted veg /mozarella sandwich, marinated in my stomach with fancy Chardonnay, I went to the Henri Cartier-Bresson exhibit at the Art Institute. This had traveled from MOMA but typically I missed it in NYC. Mr. Cartier-Bresson really lived the life away from home! Brilliant. Get the catalog when it goes on sale.
The rest of our trip was unexceptional, except that our good friend C solved Darling's greatest computer problem by turning it off and on. C knows his Apples, he has networked them and can find the power button.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Reunion in Stony Brook
Our dresses were sparkling, chosen for the bling-image we wanted to project, while we secretly celebrated the fact that we were still alive 30 years after graduating from High School. We wore silver high-heels and carried gold bags. Some of us, out of habit, wore an excessive amount of makeup.
We pumped the arms of boys who were now a bit paunchy and had wallets full of children (and a few grandchildren, too). We misapplied "boy" in this case.
We approached perfect strangers with the opener, "do I know you?" which was frequently wrong, and we thought we actually hadn't changed all that much ourselves. For the week leading up to the event we imagined a re-enactment similar to the ones conducted by Civil War enthusiasts, a re-creation of battlefield surges and losses with other people in similar uniforms. These field exercises had dogged us even into our late forties: we were not popular enough, we did not have the coolest friends, we didn't have the nerve to approach whoever was necessary for a happy existence. We died a social death.
It was silly but it was part of memory. A telescoping memory narrows our view, as if we are a general surveying the field during the re-enactment from a great temporal distance.
We pumped the arms of boys who were now a bit paunchy and had wallets full of children (and a few grandchildren, too). We misapplied "boy" in this case.
We approached perfect strangers with the opener, "do I know you?" which was frequently wrong, and we thought we actually hadn't changed all that much ourselves. For the week leading up to the event we imagined a re-enactment similar to the ones conducted by Civil War enthusiasts, a re-creation of battlefield surges and losses with other people in similar uniforms. These field exercises had dogged us even into our late forties: we were not popular enough, we did not have the coolest friends, we didn't have the nerve to approach whoever was necessary for a happy existence. We died a social death.
It was silly but it was part of memory. A telescoping memory narrows our view, as if we are a general surveying the field during the re-enactment from a great temporal distance.
Monday, July 5, 2010
A Day in the Country, July 4 2010
Everyone I know can leave everything behind and spend some money to go somewhere. This is a story about how hard it is for us to actually do this.
We really do have the resources to spend our weekends doing something besides sweating at the dining room table typing on a laptop (expect 97 degree heat today). But the requirements of the business do not allow for abandoning our responsibilities for more than a day. We were granted this day, yesterday on July 4th, to visit the country. Since I also have some work to do on 07/05, this seemed a good idea and manageable time if we left very early in the morning.
So we rose around 6:30 am and got our water-containers together, maps and printings so that we could go to, variously (1) Storm King sculpture park, south of the Catskills (2) Dia Beacon, a big-format contemporary art warehouse, just across from Newburgh, and (3) Olana, Frederic Church's house that he designed, just South of the town of Hudson. Church's house was my original goal, and I am a fan of Cole, Durand, Church and the whole Hudson River School thing, which goes back to 1860's or so, preceding American Impressionism and true plein-air painting. But Darling wanted us to hit other spots as well, and given a whole day ( ! ) well, why not? Darling agreed that we should aim first for Olana because we needed a formal tour to see the house and maybe we could beat the crowd.
A breakfast at a roadside diner is absolutely necessary for any road trip, and so about an hour into the trip we stopped outside of Newburgh for pancakes and omelette. Before I could tell what was happening, we read a good portion of the Sunday Times and drank 3 cups of coffee. Time to go! No.... after merging back onto the NYS thruway I was chided for forgetting to suggest we fill up on gas here in the cheaper boonies. We exited again at Saugerties. This was the time for gas and cleaning the windshield and checking the oil and checking tire pressure. Not sure why this couldn't be done the day before, but sobeit.
Small problem, no gas station in Saugerties had a working air pump. This entailed more touring of the beautiful Catskills, on and off the thruway. Note that we were on the West bank of the Hudson, Highway 87, not the scenic 9G on the East bank. When we find an air pump, we receive a call from our friend, the wife of a man who is dying at home in Brooklyn. The hospice workers have left and it is time to go say goodbye to him. We are in the Catskills, instead. We will come tomorrow, we tell her. I don't hear this conversation, Darling is on the phone with her.
We didn't get to Olana until 11:30. Normally this is perhaps a 3 hour trip nonstop so given our feast at the diner we were maybe an hour behind my internalized schedule. There was no tour for us until 1 pm, so we hiked on their little trails which now terminate on route 9G. I'm thinking, 1 pm, 1/2 day in the country over, man!
Olana was quaint and filled with all the Church's objet d'art, gathered from a lifetime of travel ( ! just rubbing that in for me) to the Syria, Persia, Mexico, Jamaica etc. He actually went to Petra on the back of a camel, but Mrs. Church declined. I was reminded of the Feminist costume exhibit I saw the Met, where they had a series of Victorian "sports" outfits for the wealthiest women. They had Tennis suits, Golfing suits, Riding suits. Where was that Camel ensemble? Would she have gone if she had something to wear??!
OK, good show. Great View. took some pics. Time for lunch! Let's go into Hudson, just 3 miles up 9G.
At American Glory BBQ, I order a shandy (super, lemonade and beer to ease my sun-stroke), and a Crab burger. Darling watches his diet assiduously, and orders the "smokehouse salad", but please, without the Ranch dressing. $12 salad arrived with wilted greens and a few cucumbers. Discussion ensues with Nicole, who must have just graduated 11th grade yesterday and was shrinking from Darling's explanation of the absurdity that his salad had nary a piece of chicken, or any other attraction, for $12. Although menu asserted that chicken was part of the deal, Nicole said that would be another $4. More discussion with Manager. Chef also came to visit. Nicole has made a mistake, possibly because the request to omit dressing. OK, Darling thinks my crab burger is great, he'll have one of those instead. Many minutes go by... they are preparing a catering delivery and loading a car out front... Darling goes up to Manager and asks about burger, we get it right away.
OK, time to go! Our day in the country is wasting. Oh, it's 3:15. When does Dia Beacon close? "Let Nicole earn her tip", but poor Nicole is still shrinking from us and brave manager instead gets us the telephone number. Great! 6 pm closing time, we can make it. I pay the bill with cash. I note approvingly, Manager comp'd us our drinks.
The 94 Saturn no longer breathes cool air for us on these unimagineably hot days. The bridge on 9G is out, just below Olana, so with the complications of detours in Germantown, we decide it is fastest to go back onto 87 for the 1.5 hour trip down to Beacon. It is HOT... windows must be open, so we cannot hear the radio. Sun is beating down on me in the passenger seat, I am clothed in bug and sun-resistant hiking pants, elastic at the ankles. Now I put on the long-sleeved white shirt and my boating hat (with chin strap so the wind doesn't pull it out the window). I think of my outfit at the end of the line of those elegant women, in the Metropolitan Costume exhibit. The sport in this case is "Riding in the Saturn".
I am falling asleep... I begin to fear that Darling will also fall asleep and we will crash on the NYS thruway. So I start singing. Our friend who is going to leave this earth comes to mind and the only songs I can think of are ineffably sad ones from Carole King. Darling asks for Sandy Denny's song, the same one my cousin wanted played at his funeral, I just can't remember and so now instead of sleeping I am crying.
We finally get to Beacon, around 5 pm, I have been baking in the Saturn and brain is like toast. Can't wait! fabulous large-scale work by Richard Serra, a whole room of Agnes Martin, crazy big works by those 'Earth" sculptors etc. Oh my, why is my bag so light, here's my camera, here's my sunglasses case, here's my.... where is my wallet. Oh. My wallet is not here. It is on the table back at the American Glory BBQ in Hudson.
Darling disappears because he doesn't want to deal with my fit. It is a very controlled fit, I go into the museum and distractedly realize I have no money for admission. But I still had the cell phone. Darling had bought us the tickets and was in the other building. After meeting him I go to the counter and say, in my most ingratiating way, please look up the phone number for this BBQ joint in Hudson, I left my wallet there. Charming people at Dia, armed with number I am able to get Candace at the restaurant and tell her we'll be by in perhaps 3 hours. Meanwhile, we have 1 hour to tour Dia. Bruce Nauman, etc... very calming for someone without ID.
At 6 pm, discussion with Darling about what to do, cannot face route 87 again and it is 100 degrees in the car without a/c. Must take route 9G, scenic route recommended by AAA. I will drive, Darling! It's my fault! Yes, adjust the driver's seat, and locate the clutch which I haven't put my foot on in many many months. Right. Car starts when clutch is depressed. But wait, no license, it's in Hudson. Can't drive after all. But we need ice coffee.
Darling stops at a bar. No (of course) they don't have ice coffee. Try the Stewarts, up the street. Stewarts has two youths working behind the counter. They will not start filling an order until at least 4 customers have given theirs. They are very confused by the request to pour ice coffee with ice and milk, No Sugar, No Whipped Cream. Small child is screaming in the background, fat lady next to us gives identical ice-cofee order and so, 15 minutes later, I get mine and tell Darling there is sugar in it. Oh, the girl at the counter says to us, it's in the formula. Well, Darling says, I want my money back. Down the road a bit, the town of Wappinger Falls is really shut down-- it's July 4th! The McDonalds ice coffee is terrible. I feel responsible, I left my wallet on the table at American Glory. Some kind of poetic fate here on July 4th.
Darling drives us back to Hudson, but this time along one of the most scenic routes in America! there's FDR's place, in Hyde Park ! (next time) There's a Vanderbilt mansion! (next time) and the Rhinebeck Fair in Dutchess county, it is fabulous. Why did we ever suffer on route 87, I cannot think. After the detour in Germantown, through some lovely farmland, I remember the Sandy Denny song, Who Knows Where the Time Goes, and I croak this out while we pass Olana again.
Back in Hudson, I retrieve wallet (conceivably an embarrassing moment, given our salad-hour and Nicole's possibly getting fired for it) and walk around so-called business district. Very sad, many formerly beautiful buildings about to fall down and several tatoo'd types prowling the sidewalks and living in these ramshackle buildings. Dinner? no, let's get on 87 and go home, it's 8:15 pm
Miraculous ride, Darling has the energy after our marathon day in the country to drive straight thru. We survive the traffic in the Bronx and Queens. Happy July 4th !
We really do have the resources to spend our weekends doing something besides sweating at the dining room table typing on a laptop (expect 97 degree heat today). But the requirements of the business do not allow for abandoning our responsibilities for more than a day. We were granted this day, yesterday on July 4th, to visit the country. Since I also have some work to do on 07/05, this seemed a good idea and manageable time if we left very early in the morning.
So we rose around 6:30 am and got our water-containers together, maps and printings so that we could go to, variously (1) Storm King sculpture park, south of the Catskills (2) Dia Beacon, a big-format contemporary art warehouse, just across from Newburgh, and (3) Olana, Frederic Church's house that he designed, just South of the town of Hudson. Church's house was my original goal, and I am a fan of Cole, Durand, Church and the whole Hudson River School thing, which goes back to 1860's or so, preceding American Impressionism and true plein-air painting. But Darling wanted us to hit other spots as well, and given a whole day ( ! ) well, why not? Darling agreed that we should aim first for Olana because we needed a formal tour to see the house and maybe we could beat the crowd.
A breakfast at a roadside diner is absolutely necessary for any road trip, and so about an hour into the trip we stopped outside of Newburgh for pancakes and omelette. Before I could tell what was happening, we read a good portion of the Sunday Times and drank 3 cups of coffee. Time to go! No.... after merging back onto the NYS thruway I was chided for forgetting to suggest we fill up on gas here in the cheaper boonies. We exited again at Saugerties. This was the time for gas and cleaning the windshield and checking the oil and checking tire pressure. Not sure why this couldn't be done the day before, but sobeit.
Small problem, no gas station in Saugerties had a working air pump. This entailed more touring of the beautiful Catskills, on and off the thruway. Note that we were on the West bank of the Hudson, Highway 87, not the scenic 9G on the East bank. When we find an air pump, we receive a call from our friend, the wife of a man who is dying at home in Brooklyn. The hospice workers have left and it is time to go say goodbye to him. We are in the Catskills, instead. We will come tomorrow, we tell her. I don't hear this conversation, Darling is on the phone with her.
We didn't get to Olana until 11:30. Normally this is perhaps a 3 hour trip nonstop so given our feast at the diner we were maybe an hour behind my internalized schedule. There was no tour for us until 1 pm, so we hiked on their little trails which now terminate on route 9G. I'm thinking, 1 pm, 1/2 day in the country over, man!
Olana was quaint and filled with all the Church's objet d'art, gathered from a lifetime of travel ( ! just rubbing that in for me) to the Syria, Persia, Mexico, Jamaica etc. He actually went to Petra on the back of a camel, but Mrs. Church declined. I was reminded of the Feminist costume exhibit I saw the Met, where they had a series of Victorian "sports" outfits for the wealthiest women. They had Tennis suits, Golfing suits, Riding suits. Where was that Camel ensemble? Would she have gone if she had something to wear??!
OK, good show. Great View. took some pics. Time for lunch! Let's go into Hudson, just 3 miles up 9G.
At American Glory BBQ, I order a shandy (super, lemonade and beer to ease my sun-stroke), and a Crab burger. Darling watches his diet assiduously, and orders the "smokehouse salad", but please, without the Ranch dressing. $12 salad arrived with wilted greens and a few cucumbers. Discussion ensues with Nicole, who must have just graduated 11th grade yesterday and was shrinking from Darling's explanation of the absurdity that his salad had nary a piece of chicken, or any other attraction, for $12. Although menu asserted that chicken was part of the deal, Nicole said that would be another $4. More discussion with Manager. Chef also came to visit. Nicole has made a mistake, possibly because the request to omit dressing. OK, Darling thinks my crab burger is great, he'll have one of those instead. Many minutes go by... they are preparing a catering delivery and loading a car out front... Darling goes up to Manager and asks about burger, we get it right away.
OK, time to go! Our day in the country is wasting. Oh, it's 3:15. When does Dia Beacon close? "Let Nicole earn her tip", but poor Nicole is still shrinking from us and brave manager instead gets us the telephone number. Great! 6 pm closing time, we can make it. I pay the bill with cash. I note approvingly, Manager comp'd us our drinks.
The 94 Saturn no longer breathes cool air for us on these unimagineably hot days. The bridge on 9G is out, just below Olana, so with the complications of detours in Germantown, we decide it is fastest to go back onto 87 for the 1.5 hour trip down to Beacon. It is HOT... windows must be open, so we cannot hear the radio. Sun is beating down on me in the passenger seat, I am clothed in bug and sun-resistant hiking pants, elastic at the ankles. Now I put on the long-sleeved white shirt and my boating hat (with chin strap so the wind doesn't pull it out the window). I think of my outfit at the end of the line of those elegant women, in the Metropolitan Costume exhibit. The sport in this case is "Riding in the Saturn".
I am falling asleep... I begin to fear that Darling will also fall asleep and we will crash on the NYS thruway. So I start singing. Our friend who is going to leave this earth comes to mind and the only songs I can think of are ineffably sad ones from Carole King. Darling asks for Sandy Denny's song, the same one my cousin wanted played at his funeral, I just can't remember and so now instead of sleeping I am crying.
We finally get to Beacon, around 5 pm, I have been baking in the Saturn and brain is like toast. Can't wait! fabulous large-scale work by Richard Serra, a whole room of Agnes Martin, crazy big works by those 'Earth" sculptors etc. Oh my, why is my bag so light, here's my camera, here's my sunglasses case, here's my.... where is my wallet. Oh. My wallet is not here. It is on the table back at the American Glory BBQ in Hudson.
Darling disappears because he doesn't want to deal with my fit. It is a very controlled fit, I go into the museum and distractedly realize I have no money for admission. But I still had the cell phone. Darling had bought us the tickets and was in the other building. After meeting him I go to the counter and say, in my most ingratiating way, please look up the phone number for this BBQ joint in Hudson, I left my wallet there. Charming people at Dia, armed with number I am able to get Candace at the restaurant and tell her we'll be by in perhaps 3 hours. Meanwhile, we have 1 hour to tour Dia. Bruce Nauman, etc... very calming for someone without ID.
At 6 pm, discussion with Darling about what to do, cannot face route 87 again and it is 100 degrees in the car without a/c. Must take route 9G, scenic route recommended by AAA. I will drive, Darling! It's my fault! Yes, adjust the driver's seat, and locate the clutch which I haven't put my foot on in many many months. Right. Car starts when clutch is depressed. But wait, no license, it's in Hudson. Can't drive after all. But we need ice coffee.
Darling stops at a bar. No (of course) they don't have ice coffee. Try the Stewarts, up the street. Stewarts has two youths working behind the counter. They will not start filling an order until at least 4 customers have given theirs. They are very confused by the request to pour ice coffee with ice and milk, No Sugar, No Whipped Cream. Small child is screaming in the background, fat lady next to us gives identical ice-cofee order and so, 15 minutes later, I get mine and tell Darling there is sugar in it. Oh, the girl at the counter says to us, it's in the formula. Well, Darling says, I want my money back. Down the road a bit, the town of Wappinger Falls is really shut down-- it's July 4th! The McDonalds ice coffee is terrible. I feel responsible, I left my wallet on the table at American Glory. Some kind of poetic fate here on July 4th.
Darling drives us back to Hudson, but this time along one of the most scenic routes in America! there's FDR's place, in Hyde Park ! (next time) There's a Vanderbilt mansion! (next time) and the Rhinebeck Fair in Dutchess county, it is fabulous. Why did we ever suffer on route 87, I cannot think. After the detour in Germantown, through some lovely farmland, I remember the Sandy Denny song, Who Knows Where the Time Goes, and I croak this out while we pass Olana again.
Back in Hudson, I retrieve wallet (conceivably an embarrassing moment, given our salad-hour and Nicole's possibly getting fired for it) and walk around so-called business district. Very sad, many formerly beautiful buildings about to fall down and several tatoo'd types prowling the sidewalks and living in these ramshackle buildings. Dinner? no, let's get on 87 and go home, it's 8:15 pm
Miraculous ride, Darling has the energy after our marathon day in the country to drive straight thru. We survive the traffic in the Bronx and Queens. Happy July 4th !
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