Amanda Amplified

I am grateful the man on the subway who had kind of a deformed hand was wearing a wedding ring on his regular ring finger.  It was his right hand, the one that the ring was on.  His left hand was abbreviated.  It didn’t quite extend as an appendage away from his wrist, but rather, stopped.  And there where tiny fingers with nails, like a rhinoceros foot. At first I thought I should maybe give him my seat.  I am not sure why.  He was able to hold the bar with his right hand.  And when he reached for it, I was relieved he was wearing a wedding ring.  Like then maybe I didn’t have to feel as sorry for him.  Why does my pity meter go into the red zone on the subway?  Do I have some sort of secret subway shame?  Did I perhaps feel better about myself when I worked within walking distance of my apartment? 

Another time recently, I took a seat on the subway and it wasn’t until we got to the next stop (on an express train) that I realized the woman standing in front of my had a camouflaged baby strapped to her chest.  She sat down next to me and I was horrified that I hadn’t given her my seat.  I apologized, but then I felt like a babbling oaf. 

Today nothing of note happened on the Subway.  I listened to the last bit of All Songs Considered.  (On the subway to work I uncovered, via this brilliant podcast, the stylings of on Kid Cudi on a new album produced by Kanye West.  I maybe venture to say West is a genius for all his misplaced anger and aggression.) I noticed a raised mole on the back of some guy’s neck, which grossed me out.  And then, from the subway, on the walk to the gym, some guy tried to stop me in Union Square by offering his hand to shake.  I did not extend mine.  He walked beside me for at least ten steps, with some sort of ID card dangling from his neck.  He probably wanted me to buy a ticket to a comedy show.  I tried to focus on the second half of This American Life, which I switch to after All Songs was over.  Eventually, he fell back and I continued on my way. 

Our apartment is an incubator.  That’s what we’ve been calling it, at least.  It’s the place where ideas are born, and come to fruition (lest you think it was growing bacterial cultures, hatching eggs artificially, or providing suitable conditions for a chemical or biological reaction.) And it’s small.  And really kind of hot, at least in the summer. 

I wrote a book here.  Wow, I can’t believe that.  I wrote a book here.  And since BF has moved in, he’s gotten a new job and has been approached to design a disc golf course, the first of it’s kind, on Long Island. 

Right now I am waiting for my dream to pass into the next phase of life.  It’s like a parent sending a child off to college maybe.  You send something off into the world and see what other people think of it.  See what it can do.  Actually, the phase of life that my book is in is probably more like boarding school: it’s with people who will hopefully take care of it until it’s ready to be sent out into the world.  It just needs to be accepted to a school that’s the right fit. 

Luckily, I have a second novel incubating right now.  And I turn the eggs everyday, meticulously replacing and gently rearranging them. (Ew, that egg metaphor is kind of off-putting.)

Joni Mitchell is helping me.  It’s so easy to listen to Joni when I am writing.  I think it’s because the album I am addicted to now doesn’t really have any particularly catchy choruses or bridges.  It’s easy background music.  And, gosh, she helped me write nearly five thousand words on Saturday and Sunday. 

I just finished writing a section where my main character goes from her friend’s house, to a party, to the diner, to a golf course…it’s such a random New Jersey high school evening.  I’m digging it.

When he was a kid, Michael Chabon wanted to start a comic book club.  His mother secured an all purpose-room.  He put an ad in the local paper.  He typed, on a typewriter, a newsletter.  With two columns. Which he said was crazy, doing page layout on a typewriter.  His mother and he hauled in a folding table.  And Michael Chabon sat down, with stacks of newsletter in front of him, waiting for his club to assemble. His mother left to go to the grocery store. And then nobody showed up. 

He called it was such a painful moment for him when he realized no one was coming.  Then one kid showed up.  Took one look at him, as he said, with his glasses and his flyers, and fled. 

“I am always sitting at a big table in a room full of chairs watching an empty doorway.” 

He’s not alone anymore but he says that boy is still strongly present in him.  And that boy is the source of so much of what he writes. 

When I heard this, I felt like I should try to find whatever form that little boy takes inside me.   

Ira Glass said that our lives are shaped by tragedy, coincidence, luck. And books. I like this. The books that shaped my life the most were probably the ones read to me by my father. He liked reading The Magic Fish, because the man in the illustration looked like his best friend. And the lady looked like Best Friend’s ex-wife. It always gave Dad a good laugh. I can still remember the line we sung together: “Oh Fish in the Sea, come listen to me, my wife begs a wish from the MAAAAGIC fish!” It was a thin tattered paperback book with a blue cover and ragged edges. There were black and white drawings inside. I don't remember the end, but the moral was something about being too greedy. 

We also really liked to read There Was Nobody There. A little girl has a bad dream and wakes to find she’s home alone. She walks all around the dark quiet house. But, there was nobody there. The conclusion of this book was what my dad loved best. See, there was nobody there, until she finds her papa asleep in his chair. He loved that book. I am sure if I mentioned it now he’d say, in the way only he can, “I love that book,” short, enthusiastic emphasis on the LOVE.

Once again, the story of my conception was recounted.  I know I am a special child, and I can confirm that because this story was told at my brother’s birthday dinner.  I tried to steer the conversation back to M.  “Talk about when M. was conceived!” I plead.  It’s not as interesting a story.  His birthday is September 30^th.  He was conceived on New Years Eve.  You don’t need to be a numbers (or Sudoku) master to figure that out.  I am surprised I don’t know more people born this week!

The story start with the vision of my father emerging from a late 1970’s country drugstore.  I always imagined him wearing a jeans jacket, but now I know it was a black and white flannel.  His hair is black and wavy.  His grin is triumphant and giddy.  He pats his pocket.  Inside is a condom. So basically I was conceived on a camping trip.  Or sometime there-abouts.  My mother talked, over her sushi, looking alternately at boyfriend S. and at me, about going off the pill.  Then, came the condom purchase at the country store.  Then came “if the tent is a rockin’ don’t come a’knockin’.” Then came Mandy in the baby carriage. 

For my brother’s birthday I got him a shirt with his initials embroidered on the breast pocket, underneath a skull and crossbones.  I thought it was cool.  He liked it.  My sister sent him a Snuggie.  She’s definitely the funnier one. 

Kristen Chenoweth was on GLEE this week.  I liked any scene that showed how tiny she is.  For some reason, I marvel at her petite-ness. (Petite-ity? Just like Courtney did over and over last night, I am making up words. Betterness?)  I loved how Kurt was crying when she finished the big number.  And I loved how she was a wine-swigging, squatter-prostitute, with feathered hair and a denim jumpsuit. 

I did part of a Sudoku puzzle while the cable man was here disconnecting us from the evil giant and hooking us up to the malevolent monster.  I couldn’t do the whole thing.  Mostly because I am not smart enough.  It was labeled “Very Easy” and I couldn’t even finish it in the half-hour he was here.  The half-hour I couldn’t use the internet.  My brother can do a Jumble with his eyes closed.  Literally.  You can call out the letters and he can descramble them.  It’s like he’s a savant.  But speaking of the malevolent monster, we now have caller-ID.  Yeah, can you all please stand at the entrance and welcome me to the 1990’s.  Thanks.  I have to say, though.  It’s exciting! 

Sarah made Courtney and me baked ziti.  Baked ziti is warm and gushy.  It’s actually the sort of food that might be nice to lie down in.  It feels so comfortable.  You might be able to see where I am going here.  Sarah and Courtney are baked ziti.  It’s exactly what our evening was like.  These girls are a fraction of my book club, which, due to children mostly, small ones, new ones, has been meeting less regularly with fewer members.  Though all in intend to come at the onset.  The excuses, while valid sometimes, start to trickle in.  This is why, though, I had the honor of dining in intimate company.  I love them.  Getting together with these girlfriends in particular is such a treat.  And it’s not because Sarah kept complimenting the advice I was offering.  And it’s not because Courtney said I am glamorous.  Okay, maybe it is…a little.    

My uncle kept his iPod in a fanny pack.  He didn’t wear the fanny pack; it was just for storage.  He was very organized.  The fanny pack is in a dresser drawer now, in my parents’ guest room.  It’s the room I slept in Sunday night.  My mother pulled open the drawer and unzipped the fanny pack without taking it out.  She removed the iPod, asking me if I wanted it. 

“It’s the same one I have,” I answered.

She slipped it back into the pack, zipped it back up, and closed the drawer.  I remember wondering whether I’d think of his things in that drawer near my head in that room as I was trying to go fall asleep later. 

“Still have so many things to go through,” my mother said softly.  “To get rid of.” 

The first time I saw the fanny pack it was neatly tucked into my uncle’s suitcase, next to the lamp and the recliner in his apartment.  He’d padded over, barefooted, in sweatpants and a t-shirt from a local pizza place that hung off his diminishing frame.  He reached into the bag and pulled out the iPod.  He handed it to me and I loaded it up with new music.  It took a while.  There was a lot of new music.  I sat at his desk, in what would have been a small dining room or a tiny bedroom if he’d ever gotten around to unpacking all his boxes.  He had a never-been-touched crock-pot and an espresso machine.  He also had a lot of books, mostly from the bargain bin at Barnes and Noble.  He saw Bruce one time outside Barnes and Noble.  Caught a picture of The Boss with his cell phone. I replaced the iPod into the fanny pack.  And it made me want to cry.  The fanny pack.

I made him a collage of things he loved to take with him to the hospital.  I imagined he’d listen to music, look at the collage – pictures of the beach, the Yankees, Bruce Springsteen – and feel just the tiniest bit transported. I am not sure what came of the collage but I am pretty sure he didn’t take it with him.  Just like he couldn’t open the card I wrote to him when he saw one whole side was covered in my handwriting. 

I don’t think he listened to the music that I loaded onto his iPod.  I am not sure but I don’t think he listened too much to his music at all in the hospital.  He listened to the Yankees.  He’s leave one ear-bud in and listen to the conversation my brother and I were having with the other.  Sometimes he’d chime in. 

Hospice.  I hate that place.  I shouldn’t say that though.  They took good care of him.  They took good care of us, my mother, my aunt, my father, I guess.  But I think back at sitting in that courtyard with him.  It was a waiting room. 

The fanny pack makes me feel the worst.  I can’t put my finger on it.  It’s the same feeling I get when I see a man on the subway, pot belly and shoulder bag, suit lapels rumbled as he reaches for the grab bar overhead.  Ruddy face and graying hair.  He’s just doing the best he can.  If he has a ring that’s grown into a chubby finger, so that he wouldn’t be able to remove it if he tried, like if he got divorced he’d have to get it cut off, then I feel better because there is someone who loves this man.  It’s a form of pity, I guess.  Even though I know I don’t have the right to feel it.  That man probably thinks the same thing about me, with the sweat beading up on the sides of my nose and my shoes, in which I can hardly balance.  But there we are. 

1)      Best thing I ate this week:

So, I had my friends from Circle of Tapawingo over for a Pot Luck last night.  One of us is a chef, and she made this amazing Israeli couscous.  She was going to make a dessert as well but she had to participate in the taping of a Food Network show (awesome…)  While we were eating, she got a call from her parent’s house in New Hampshire.  She listened to the message.  It was the police.  Someone had told them that there was a break-in at a house that match the vague description of theirs so the police went over to take a look.  They reported that the drawers throughout the house we all slightly open, there was a missing safe, and a missing change jar.  None of us were really sure how they would know these things were missing.  It was all very fishy.  But it reminded not just me, but the one of the other girls who was over, who incidentally grew up in the same town as me, how much we feared break-ins as kids. 

We did not live in a dangerous town.  We both had burglar alarms.  We never had any realistic reason to fear someone coming into our houses, but we did. 

I stopped being afraid when I moved into the city. 

2)      Best thing I listened to this week:

This week at IntenSati, Erika used the song that Mercedes sang in GLEE when she found out the Kurt didn’t love her.  I have to admit, that episode, last week’s GLEE, was not my favorite.  I love this week’s with all the integration of Beyonce’s Single Ladies.  But, still, almost five days later, “Bust the Windows Out Your Car” is still stuck in my head.  And I like the idea that a full-figured teen can be front and center.  I also love Drop Dead Diva for many of the same reasons.  

3)      Best thing I learned this week:

I actually learned that I like my job, and it feels great to help out.  There was a new business prospect that required some work done on spec.  Two people put up a fight, saying we don’t do work without getting paid.  I worked with the salesperson to do a little bit of writing so that we could realistically compete for the job.  I actually was exhilarated by the challenge that was (basically dumped) handed to me.  What’s more, for some reason, I was compelled to buy munchkins for my office. People asked me what the occasion was, and I told them I had a coupon so I used it.  Truth.  But it, like, set in motion a chain reaction of doing nice things for others.  I met a friend for lunch then passed on the sales materials she was carrying to the human resource person in my office, even though she made that snarfing scoffing noise when I handed it to her.  And at Trader Joe’s, I told the cashier, with whom I once had a brief conversation about the US Mint’s State Quarters Program, that there was going to be a new quarters program.  We do work for the US Mint.  And whenever I see this woman in the store, I always want to ask her if she collected all 50 quarters (actually, I think there was also one for Puerto Rico.)

4)      Best thing I touched/found/saw:

I started reading SWEETHEARTS by Sara Zarr and I love it.  Love it! 

I got some new clothes this week.  I think I had been paralyzed by fear when it came to shopping.  Watching too much What Not to Wear had officially given me a complex.  I realized that I had a lot of crap in my closet.  So, I decided I was really not going to buy anything unless I got that, I love this and I want to wear it tomorrow, sort of feeling.  I bought an emerald-colored blazer.  The buttons were kind of loose so I thought I could get them to give me a discount.  Instead, the sales-guy, a quiet West African immigrant, fixed the buttons for me on the spot. 

5)    Best place I walked or thing I saw when walking the NY streets:

I was walking to the gym at 6:10am and I saw club kids walking home, in the opposite direction on 14^th Street.  It was oddly comforting, like maybe in some way the city is being reborn into that 24-hour never-resting writhing living thing it once was.  Also, the last couple times I’ve been to the dentist, I’ve dozed off in the chair, while there was work being done on me.  I meant to tell them I like the music they’ve started playing (it’s the new classical channel that will soon switch over to public radio, preserving classical for New York City) so there’s that.  But I wouldn’t exactly call dental work relaxing.  Maybe it’s the horizontal position and the white noise hiss of the suction.  But, yeah, weird.  It felt like I was in a time warp.  I really hate it when they clean the front bottom teeth.  The scrape, scrape, scrape.  Those teeth are sensitive. 

Today is Bruce Springsteen’s 60^th birthday.  There was a story on the front page of Slate, which I read at 8 o’clock this morning, about the making of Born to Run.  I was thinking I would send it to my uncle if he were still alive.  But, I am not sure, actually, if I would have sent it to him if he was still alive.  I think because he died, I now realize ways that I could have connected with him. 

He died on June 18^th, a few weeks shy of his 64^th birthday.  Everyone in our family dies on the 18^th, which is weird.  Not only because it’s such a confounding coincidence, (both my grandmother’s died on the same day, ten years apart, on November 18, 1953, and 1963.  Aunt Lee died on September 18^th.  My grandfather died on October 18^th) but also because in Judaism 18 supposedly signifies “life.”  You give 18-dollars or some multiple of it, as a Bar Mitzvah gift.  You wear the “chi” around your neck; the character that represents 18.  I still think it’s a good number.  I prefer to think of it as life.  And, I hope that we’ve had our fill this year and we can breath easily during the 18^ths this fall.  

I called Uncle when he was first diagnosed and we talked on the phone, something we never did before, never, for at least a half-hour.  He could still talk then.  He sounded like himself, not garbled, not weak.  That night he went to a concert with our aunt, his sister.  She told me how blissful he seemed.  There was a hope that he’d be able to enjoy the summer concert season.  And the beach.  He loved the beach.  But he didn’t get to. 

I never talked to my uncle on the phone.  I could barely talk to him in person, at least when I was little.  I remember I made a comment, this happened more than once, about his smoking.  He got mad.  My aunt was babysitting and she made me go into the living room where he was sitting and apologize.  I didn’t want to apologize.  I didn’t think I should have to.  So I devised a plan wherein I would pretend to step on his foot, so I could apologize for that.  I wedged myself between his feet and the coffee table.  I couldn’t fully commit to stepping on his foot, so I just kind of brushed against it.  Then I apologized.  I am sure I slurred it under my breath.  

I like to think I got better at talking to him.  Though he was not the easiest man to get along with.  I like to think I got better at listening, and not remarking or rolling my eyes, when he talked about getting mad at people who were bad drivers or getting into altercations at the supermarket.  (He did not have a lot of patience for other people’s idiosyncrasies.)  I even was able to laugh when he and his then girlfriend were near ecstatic by the sheer variety of plastic-wrapped jellies on the table at the diner down the street.  “They just give these away for free?” they marveled.  My sister had it right when she said that he always enjoyed the simple pleasures of life, a good meal and a day at the beach.  She’s more magnanimous than me.  I am more like him. 

Courtney’s book party was on Sunday. It was such a wonderful celebration. I told my mother about it and, for the second time, she said, “I wish her much success!” The pure enthusiasm in her voice was similar to the wonder I heard when I told her about a friend’s twins. She said, “One baby is a…miracle. But two babies…MIRACLE!” Such a nice word “miracle.” Now I’ve said it too many times and it’s all deconstructed with the “K” sounds and the “ear.”

This is Courtney’s second book (POSITIVELY) and I was reminded, listening to her read and answer questions, how personal the story is to her. A point brought home by the author’s note at the end. I bet she’s really proud to have her story out there. Especially one that came from her heart the way this one did. Written the way she heard it in her head.

In other news, I have been recently rediscovering Shel Silverstein. I have been thinking about which were my favorite books when I was a kid. These are mostly the books that were read to me. I don’t remember a lot of things from my early childhood, when we lived on Nottingham Way. Even though we lived there until I was seven.  I can remember the layout of the house – perfectly. I remember living next door to my best friend.  I remember the first time I called her on the phone. I remember when we got in our first fight and she wrote “I hate you” in the dust on the back window of my dad’s car. I remember making up dances in the backyard. My other next door neighbor told me that I had to do more than walk back and forth. Well, I’m sorry – that’s the movement that Raffi inspired in me. Anyway, the point is, I remember more about which were my favorite books to hear, than my favorites to read myself.

We had a thing for Dr. Suess, and not just Green Eggs and Ham or One Fish, Two Fish. I don’t even think we had the former. We loved Yertle the Turtle and especially To Think That I Saw It On Mulberry Street. We also loved this book that was about a fisherman and his nagging wife. I am tempted to call it The Old Man and the Sea, but I know that’s something else. My dad loved reading to us, so I can hear him, and probably me and my little sister and brother echoing him, reciting the book. “Oh fish in the sea, come listen to me, my wife begs a wish from the maaaaaaagic fish.” (The book was probably called The Magic Fish now that I am thinking about it.)

I also loved Shel Silverstein. I loved reading Shel Silverstein. It’s what I remember reading to my little sister and brother. You can find a lot of his poems online now and of course, he wrote the Johnny Cash song Boy Named Sue. His poems are so simple and whimsical and quietly strange. Ickle Me, Pickle Me, Tickle Me, too, all went for a ride in a flying shoe. I used to giggle, rolled up in comforters on my big bed. Now when I read them, I feel them in my heart. Like someone is holding it in his big hands with the other one gently on my back.

INVITATION

By Shel Silverstein

If you are a dreamer, come in
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer...
If you're a pretender, come sit by the fire
For we have some flax-golden tales to spin.

Come in!
Come in!

MUSTN’TS

By Shel Silverstein

Listen to the MUSTN'TS, child,
Listen to the DON'TS
Listen to the SHOULDN'TS
The IMPOSSIBLES, the WON'TS
Listen to the NEVER HAVES.
Then listen close to me -
Anything can happen, child,
ANYTHING can be.

1)     The best thing I ate this week came from the 400 Years of Hudson festival they set up near Battery Park and the Bowling Green subway station. I might have mentioned that I witnessed the construction of a massive windmill in the middle of the city. Well, this festival, Holland on the Hudson, commemorating the 400^th anniversary of Henry Hudson’s voyage down the river that came to near his name, was the reason. They were giving away some free samples of these waffle cookies. But they weren’t just any waffle cookie. The ones they had splayed and chopped up on the plate for the taking were warm from the over and they oozed some syrupy goodness. I honestly hoped they weren’t paying too much attention because I took two free samples before I walked by and then a third on my way back. 

2)  I was a week behind so I just listened to the 8/29 episode of Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me. It featured listeners’ choices. The number one most requested clip supposed the assassination of “Clippy,” the “helpful” animated paperclip in Microsoft Word. “One day the engineers at Microsoft said, people using our products, they’re frustrated, they’re angry, but they are not insane with rage. How can we focus their rage? How about, at just the moment they’re in the middle of doing something, an animated paperclip pops up on the screen and says, ‘Can I help you? What are you doin’?’”

What’s so incredibly amazing about this audio clip (get it? clip?) is the fact that the panelist are in fits of hysterical laughter.

“Jeez, there are a lot of trees out here. I don’t think we’re anywhere near Redmond anymore. What is that, a cannoli? Whattya diggin’ Whattya digging’? Can I help you dig? Oh, you got a baseball bat, do you want to learn to play baseball? Maybe I can help you with that. It looks like you’re diggin’ a grave, is that a business grave or a personal grave?”

3)     I learned this week that a whole honeydew has 461 calories.  I have also learned I need to take notes on things that I have learned…rather than pilfering instant messages from one of my smartest friends in the hopes that she told me something, this week, that I didn’t know. 

4)      I was overwhelmed by the television premieres on Wednesday night. It was So You Think You Can Dance followed by Glee at the same time of America’s Next Top Model which then led into the third episode of Top Chef. I was paralyzed by the onslaught of new TV and ended up watching Jason Bateman on Inside the Actor’s Studio on the DVR. I was like the kid who cries in the corner when confronted with too many choices at the candy story. I did end up watching everything, eventually. I still have to get to Project Runway. (Note: I only watch America’s Next Top Model for the photography. I really dislike Tyra and her wise mama-vibe.) Glee was definitely the most exciting and, help me, I love Quinn and Sue Sylvester (Jane Lynch is so creepily hilarious, in EVERYTHING. Is there not a weird sex-vibe in every character she’s ever played? Best in Show, A Mighty Wind, 40-Year-Old Virgin, Glee). I also love that Broadway stars are on TV (Lea Michele and Matthew Morrison.) I saw Lea Michele in Spring Awakening. (Talk about weird sex-vibe. There was every manner of simulated sexual deviance in that show – live on stage.)  She looks just like Idina Menzel. I know, I am a Gleek. 

5) Today is September 11^th, again. It’s been eight years since I watched the towers come down about three miles north, on the same island, the same side of town, as me. Every year, I say that it’s hard to believe that this happened. That thousands of people died, nearly all at once, just down the block from where I sit right now. I never write the date. On every September 11^th since that September 11^th, I always date things September 10^th. It’s silly. I know. It’s not like the day doesn’t exist anymore. It does. And I honor it. But something always prevents me from writing that date. It surprised me this year, to see movie posters in bus shelters listing opening day as September 11^th. It always surprises me and makes me look at the letters and numbers in search of something. It’s the same way I am always surprised when I see, from my living room window, the twin beams of light extending through the clouds. This morning I heard bagpipes and went to the window. I stood vigil nine floors above the engine company across the street as they stood at attention in front of their truck and listened to Amazing Grace, honoring the two brothers they lost. 

I wasn’t always sure where my happy place was. I didn’t have a favorite spot in a favorite room. My parents moved out of the house we grew up in and I was dry-eyed. I guess the house that they live in now comes close to a happy place. I love the way it smells – those stick oil air fresheners my mother put sparingly throughout the house, in the bathrooms mostly – and the way the carpet feels under my feet.

I don’t wistfully recall a patch of grass under a tree near the lake at sleep-away camp. Those were places for Truth or Dare and for kissing. And I didn’t get kissed until it was too embarrassing to admit that it was my first kiss. So I certainly had nothing worthwhile to contribute to Truth or Dare.

I remember a tree next to the house we lived in until I was seven. It stood a few feet from the side of the house, next to the patio, and curved and spread at the top so that it was like a little den. I believe my parents put a table, a little kid’s tea table, in there. It might have been a happy place, but I am afraid I only remember it because there’s a picture of me and a school friend Mike sitting there eating lunch. He had the sort of hair you’d want to mess up with your fingertips. But we moved. And I forgot a lot.

In high school, I wasn’t at home in the photo lab, on dance team or newspaper, in theater club, I would cry in frustration on the tennis court and I was a member of the worst softball team in the league. (It was fun for a time, but when rumors started circulating that our coach was spending a little too much alone time with a sophomore on the team, it kind of lost something.) All this is to say, I was kind of a ship without a mooring. A girl without a happy place.

I have many happy places throughout the city. But, due to the frenetic pace, I fear I don’t take the time necessary to aptly enjoy them. I love the spot at the end of the pier on the Hudson River where I can see New Jersey and Lady Liberty. I love the Highline.

Certain movies can take me away: The Parent Trap, Kissing Jessica Stein, Annie, Prime…

Well, I found a new happy place. My boyfriend and I went to Storm King on Saturday. It’s a 500-acre sculpture park in Upstate New York. You walk the path and take in the art. It was a gorgeous day. At one point on the trail we could hear a little bit of moving water. We looked down the embankment and saw a stream. We decided without much deliberation at all, to walk down, off the trail, out of bounds, down to the shallow stream. Sitting there, no one else around, the rush of traffic somewhere off in the distance, not close enough to matter, was bliss. I sat on a rock. I put my feet in the water. I told S., “You have to bring me back here…sometime soon.”

I just got back from sleep-away camp. I spent the week sleeping in a bunk on an army cot and plastic mattress, showering in a shower house (every other day, at best), brushing my teeth in a bathroom with only cold water and walls that didn’t reach to the ceiling, swimming in a lake, sitting on a bench at a picnic table making stained glass by gluing layers of tissue paper, raising the flag, playing soccer and ultimate Frisbee, singing folk songs, eating in a mess hall, and making a friendship web by passing a ball of string from girl to girl.

I volunteered, with my mother, as a counselor for the week at a camp program for girls – ages 8 through 12 – who have lost a parent. It treats them to a week away, with more laughter than tears, alongside other girls who have experienced the same thing.

Once throughout the week we sit in a circle. Each girl pulls out the photo of her parent. And, one by one, they tell their stories of loss. So many of them find comfort in being able to talk about it at all. And they are relieved to be around the other girls. They aren’t the “only one without a mother...or father.”

In my bunk, I had nine-year-olds. Eight little girls going into fifth grade. I asked Courtney for middle-grade book recommendations. There was only one requirement: there could be no death of any sort. Among her suggestions was 11 Birthdays, and that’s the book I picked and carefully screened. Each night we read a few chapters to the girls as they got ready and got into bed. They usually fell asleep while my co-counselor – a retired second-grade teacher who thankfully did most of the out-loud reading, she was really good at the voices – read.

Though we didn’t get to the end, I like to think it was comforting for them to be read to, sleeping in weird excessively airy bunks in the middle of nowhere Maine. And [SPOILER ALERT] one little girl put together part of – if not the whole – mystery of the 11 repeating birthdays by suggesting that maybe the bus driver was that same creepy lady who was skulking about at Amanda and Leo’s earlier birthdays. Thank you Wendy Mass. The girls were into it. And I enjoyed it too!

The director of the camp says that the activities at camp are based on the talents of the volunteers. My mother, who runs a “dance fitness franchise,” teaches Jazzercise classes. My friend who has a passion for dance teaches hip-hop. The lady with the awesome voice teaches the girls new-old folk songs and how to sing in rounds. I offered to lead a writing workshop.

I’ll admit, I felt a little nervous and wonder if what I had prepared would capture their imaginations. The first two “classes” I had were abbreviated and only lasted about a half an hour because of post-breakfast announcements and meetings. We were able to accomplish about a third of what I had prepared – a “game” based on the old parlor game “Exquisite Corpse” adapted in the book “Don’t Forget to Write,” from 826 Valencia. Thankfully, I didn’t have to share the name of the inspiration with these girls. Each girl writes her name on the back of her paper then she writes a sentence on the other side. She passes the paper to the person next to her and that girl writes the opposite of the sentence given to her.

The last session I had was with the girls who were the most precocious…12 going on 21. Shocking really. I spotted the two most notorious on their trek up the hill, sans the rest of their bunk. They were “visiting their friends,” they said, instead of going to the previous activity. I asked them if they were coming to “Scribes,” and the girls asked where it was. We walked there together.

I presented the first exercise and they were all into it. The second thing I had planned had to do with finding inspiration in your environment. So I was going to send them out to overhear a conversation or see a poster or sign, something with words that would inspire them. But, I was really reluctant to let these girls loose once I had their captive attention. I improvised. I asked one of the counselors to gather a couple books off the shelf outside the room. I handed out the books and assigned each girl a page number and a line number. They wrote down the words from their assigned passage and I told them to write for seven minutes.

And they did it.

They got into it! One of the troublemakers even asked to sit under the window to the write. It was great. They came up with some great stuff. With every question, the answer was pretty much, “get creative.” When the sentence was “…and I said ‘500, and be careful…’” the answer was… “500 what? Start there…”

It was great. I heard from a few counselors that some of the girls said “Scribes” was one of their favorite things – next to tubing! And one counselor even reported that there was a near-scuffle over the Scribes folders I put together for the girls.

Eventually my week in the middle-grade trenches came to an end. It wasn’t until after the eight-hour ride home that I realized how amazing it was.

Here’s an example of the “Exquisite Corpse” I did with my friends – to test it out:

Nina was playing happily with Courtney, until Amanda came over with her fancy necklace.

The baby was miserable with Courtney as Amanda left wearing no jewelry.

The old lady was so happy with Courtney and Amanda was bedazzled.

The old lady didn’t like Courtney and Amanda was pissed off.

The male model stripped for Emily and Tara was jealous.

I turned 30 on Monday and I wasn’t sure I would make it.  During the week leading up to my birthday, July 14^th, Bastille Day in France, the day marking the storming of the fortress-prison symbolizing the rise of modern French civilization, I became increasing paranoid that I might die before I reached the day. 

More often than usual, I imagined myself getting hit by cars.  Limbs splayed in unnatural angles when I land after flipping in the air as my legs get knocked out from under me. 

I thought about what it would be like if Fella’s jeep overturned on the highway going east.  I pictured us flopping over and over until we came to rest in the brush.

I wondered what would happen if, by accident, we didn’t lock the sliding glass door of our hotel room in Montauk and someone came in and did something bad to us. 

I looked at a backpack abandoned outside the backdoor of our office with elevated concern. 

But, I made it, despite the paranoia. 

Last year, Fella’s uncle passed away on my birthday.  He was a close uncle.  I never met him.  This year, Fella’s great-uncle passed away on my birthday.  It’s a coincidence that makes me squint.