Stepping Over NYC: Colors of Fall

East side, west side, all around. . . there are so many colorful and curious images to step over on the storied sidewalks of New York! It’s especially resplendent in October.

First you have the many squarish metal covers that provide entrance down, down into the steep hearts of darkness that live below street level leading to the myriad storage cellars beneath the trendy and not so trendy shops; these sidewalk “doors” range in hue from shiny, corrugated, recently replaced light silver to dismal, overly stepped on bent, dirty charcoal of a heavier, bygone material;  but they all make the same hideous, ominous, clanging sound when one dares step on them directly, rather than scooting around in order to save a precious second or two. I can never decide whether to take the dare and chance being sucked into one of those doorways to Hades in mid air, or simply slip around and be safe, though this maneuver may risk my bumping rudely into strangers. Seconds do seem to count while racing along the sidewalks of a New York minute. Seeing how fast you can get on foot from one light to the next, while squinting in the clear October sun as you dodge cars, trucks and careening delivery bicycles, actually becomes a kind of quest, not just a matter of expediency. You start to enjoy it, a kind of guilty pleasure under a perfect blue sky.

As a kid I was especially fascinated by the subway grates and the thrill of standing on one of these as a train roared by underneath. This innocent joy was seconded only by the sparkling diamonds in the schist, or engaging in the concentrated act of cautiously stepping over the cracks while the leaves crunched underfoot.

But back to the present, and the more insidious, smaller stuff you scrupulously must avoid, utilizing fight or flight responses that most natives actually have encoded in their DNA by the time they reach toddler-hood: gum, once pink, now black (speaks for itself- forget about ever using those shoes again); dog doo (a time honored city tradition that maintains it will bring you luck- yeah, right. . . ); liquids of all sorts from even more dubious sources (the spilled orange smoothies being truly among the grossest). In short, it’s a mess out there.

Finally, there are the sidewalk sleepers and their piles of Dickensian rags straight from a mid-Victorian set, a motley riot of faded color jumbled together in a heap on a late autumn afternoon, under which a body lies crouched and which you can partially discern, still breathing; or in nicer weather, the sprawl of sunny sidewalk sunbathers in various stages of disheveled dress or undress on the littered beaches of Broadway.

A metaphor here, for sure, though I wish not explore. Just keep walking.

For Helene

If Helene and Leo did not arrive at our doorstep for one of our lunches at least fifteen minutes before the appointed hour, Gil and I would admonish her for being “late.” This became our communal shared joke because she was so punctual, so exact, and she did not disappoint. Moreover, nothing got by her.  I cannot imagine a world without Helene taking off her coat in my living room while handing me a book and inquiring if the new doorman actually learned our names yet as he seemed to have waved them on without ringing up. . . .

We met almost forty years ago as new English teachers at Bronx Science, two perfect alter egos awash in a sea of intellectual arrogance; for that first semester we both hid out in the teacher’s lounge talking books, philosophy, relationships, people, our own kids, life, books. As punctual as she was, so unfashionably late I remained; her Delaney book held orderly pages that lay flat and clear and calm, unimpeded with notices and loose cards- she could find things if she needed to; mine displayed the remnants of a tornado, wisps if not  entire sheaves of paper sticking out from every end of a battered, red plastic cover; her grading book was concise, neat, readable, mine a series of smudges and crossings out. She favored Burberry raincoats in solid, primary colors and had a propensity for logic while I occasionally experimented with things fuchsia if not speckled altogether, only to regret it later. And in fact it is due to these very differences I cannot state the exact year or date we met, though I know it was around 1978 but will not swear to it, lest she hear me.

Helene’s union with Leo was a long and happy one; he was my beloved teacher as a child; now I had the marvelous Helene as newfound sister. These two were in sync in so many ways, and they lasted, through time; together the two of them fielded me through two marriages and the occasional disaster in between. You might say Helene appeared somewhat traditional in lifestyle and demeanor, and yet she knew more about real life than many self-styled worldly friends; she had a most unconventional mind and unique sensibility,  a sharp sense of humor and a wicked wit. I once asked her how she managed to get to the heart of things so perceptively and still lead such a time-honored, seemingly conventional and decorous existence (you see, she had this amazing ability to cut through the crap); without skipping a beat; she quickly replied, I read a lot.

And so she did. She was the archetypal avid reader and book swallower, a published critic and fast thinker. A true aficionado of all things literary. She also was the most ardent fan, astute analyst, and devoted grammar checker of my own weekly fiction blog, and if I did not have that installment posted each Friday by 9:00 a.m. there was sure to be an email in my inbox; if this laxity dared stretch into the 10:00 a.m. realm, a phone call was in order, asking if all was OK.

And no, all is not OK, because I cannot picture a world without her. She adored her family. She especially abhorred academic pedantry and phoniness of every stripe and loved the metaphysical beauty and truthful simplicity of Emily Dickinson’s poetry. And so some years ago when grappling with a particularly annoying grad course in textual criticism- led by a particularly annoying, pedantic prof- as a means of surviving it I composed the following sonnet, with Helene very much in mind and her voice in my ear; because to a great extent, she lived what she believed, not what she was supposed to believe, and that is inspiring. So I will post this on time Helene, and we will miss you.

Final Edition

For Helene Benardo

By M. Reinhardt

I took a course in textual critique-

the prof? He put me in a state of pique.

A Harvard lad with pencil very thin,

He tossed my hopes into the rubbish bin.

My topic was the Venerable Emily,

just 16 lines of simple poetry.

The task? As sublime as a flock of birds,

a mere 38,000 succinct words.

Was she a metaphysic or a loon?

A seer or a feministic goon?

But why was her behavior so damn odd?

And what about ol’ Mabel Loomis Todd?

On so many levels did I perceive her,

It finally seemed much easi’r just to be her.

Fall Poetry Fest: On Reading Barbara Pym

When reading Barbara Pym,

the sets are like a scrim;

you see right through the characters,

be it a her or him.

To all the English preachers,

(of whom she cannot say enough),

and all the English teachers,

those learned folk who read her stuff-

I wish that I could write like Pym

of life’s peculiar lots,

I think like Twain but so far sound

like Stephen Dowling Bots.

Twain is to be studied,

Shakespeare is revered,

but when I want to just relax,

to Barbary Pym I’m geared.

The Adventures. . . Cont'd., Chapter Eight: The Sigh

Nootchie has learned to sit up- by herself! She’s so ecstatic about this feat, yet another wonderful and newfound vicissitude of her tiny existence, that all she can do is shake, rattle and roll, mainly her rattle that is, but with marked brio. Alas, she still does not have the complete know how yet as to how to form discernible and real words like Wow! Wowee! This is so cool!!! But she has figured out how to emit this long, soulful sigh.

The sigh is somewhat deceptive and at first seems to carry the weight of the world on her diminutive shoulders. It emanates from way down in her essence and is low and plaintive, a kind of soft growl. It trills. If she were in glee club she definitely would be singing harmony, if in jazz she’d be scatting. But there’s also a distinct “nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen” aspect to this quietly forceful though subtly spirited ribbon of sound. It is quite moving.

Upon first hearing the sigh I imagined she had channeled all the philosophers of the world and settled finally on the existentialists, or maybe  the nihilists. I began to see Nootchie as a weary octogenarian who had just hobbled to the supermarket and was in the arduous process of shlepping her bags home, or perhaps a young public school teacher at the end of a long day and more than a few unruly students. A surgeon following a difficult transplant, or an exercise nut who had finally overdone it. A member of the clergy saddened and disillusioned by the flock. Shades of a favorite poem, Gerard Manley Hopkins poignantly immortal “Spring and Fall to a Young Child,” suddenly came into mind: Margaret are you grieving over goldengrove unleaving.. . .  All the cares of the universe seemed ineluctably captured and encased in that one weary exhalation of tension freeing yoga breath.

But then I realized that somehow I had gotten it all wrong, and as usual it was just a matter of perception. This clearly was a sigh of pure exhilaration. I can sit and almost turn over, twice she thinks, and soon I will be able to get across that room on hands and knees without being carried like a warm, smiley, happy lump- exceedingly cute and cared for, but still a curious bundle of dependent adorableness with limited free will. Si-i-i-gggghhh! This is so completely Wowee- on steroids baby- and frankly, I can’t wait. But first, a nap.

Everything Was Huge, Part One

There comes a time, usually at the end of August, when I become obsessed with the idea- at least for a short while- that a nice home in the country is exactly what I need. This fantastical domestic scenario offers instant if somewhat subdued nirvana with a working fireplace and no mosquitoes. In such a fairy place troubles dissipate like delicate soap bubbles that have popped into quiet oblivion with a silent, peaceful ping, and suddenly all becomes well. Serenely I gaze out onto lush fields of clover and hollyhock and thank my lucky stars.

  

Needless to say, this fantasy leads to all sorts of improbable excursions, long road trips into the land of late summer farm stands and spurious For Sale signs. It is here that one encounters picturesque, old red barns, antique dinner plates hanging raffishly askew on uneven walls, smallish rooms with checkered curtains, cozily flooded basements, toilets that don’t always flush and lots of dubious new construction that beckons as the alternative to all that charm.

As a result of such meanderings I once looked at a condo where everything was huge, really, really, really huge, totally out of scale for ordinary, mortal home dwellers. And I do mean everything, walls, ceilings, fixtures, even people and voices. It was the weirdest thing.

It started out several years ago on one of those exceptionally promising weekend mornings in early fall when the sun hints at all things wonderful and the notion of mortality temporarily recedes; only great enterprises seem possible on those days, even in real estate, or especially in real estate, given what was going on in the market at the time. It was quite early in the morning, and I had just gotten out of bed, not really awake yet, still deciding what to do with the day and perhaps the rest of my life when the realtor called.

Good morning! Did I wake you? What are you doing today? Are you free? C,mon up! This is too good to pass on, he said- you’ve been looking for a while now and we both know these kinds of places are few and far between- it won’t last long (he let his voice trail off here in that special realtor way).  Can you make it up here by noon?

This incident took place in the early days of the boom, when there was widespread, palpable panic about “finding a place,” that magical spot somewhere, anywhere, other than where you presently lived and breathed- your smartest investment in lifestyle and the road to eternal security.  I immediately knew what I had to do, and do it fast; there was little time to waste; anyone could beat you out on a sweet deal like this and I didn’t want to spend the rest of my days regretting losing something I already was in love with, despite never having seen it.

So I jumped into the shower, did a much abbreviated shampoo and skipped the conditioner, even though the forecast predicted an excessively hot and humid day and I was desperately in need of a trim- why had I let it go so long? Dressing as fast as I could, I barely had time to grab a pair of tiny earrings before starting up the car, but in my haste I dropped one of the little backs from the earring post under the dresser and had to spend another two or three frantic minutes scavenging for it. Clearly this was a sign of some sort, an augury to be sure, but I paid no heed. In the end I was feeling a bit sticky, dusty and overheated but ready to face whatever might ensue, my locks still quite damp, not really sure how it all was going to turn out- the hair or the property- yet feeling lucky. . . .

The Adventures. . . A Page From NooNoo's Summer Diary

She loves the grit and humidity, the insufferable heat and street theater, and of course the energy, no matter how sticky and sweaty or unbearable it gets. And then there’s the ebullient, complicated hand moves she’s noticed here and there while doing what she does best in the world- looking all around. People seem to swat the air in New York as they converse, which is always, or at least often, and frequently quite loudly. And even though she’s not on solids yet, she’s managed to glean something about the food. The sight of all those big round bagels, the smell of the sidewalk trucks, the jingle of Mr. Softee!!! Pizza, pizza, more pizza!!!! Talk overheard about something called “pastrami” which sounds intensely exotic. These and more await, somewhere up the line, teeth or no teeth. She will not be denied.

And now she’s goin’ back- she cannot believe her incredible luck!

At the moment NooNoo is busy packing for the return trip to the Apple and practicing the word Nootchie, her New York name, giggling at the sound of it now that she is old enough to laugh properly. What should I bring? She’s decided to leave her winter snuggly at home but definitely will be including bloomers and sleeveless tops, perhaps some sneakers for later on- okay, much later on- that perhaps she can leave there for eventually toddling around those mean city streets, when she learns to toddle that is.

Let’s skip the socks for now, especially since I’m not even crawling yet, much less walking, and it can get damned hot over there- bare feet will give me lots of opportunity to exercise some of my new yells, yelps and howls, which go so well with exposed toes anyway. I definitely should take the tutu for one of those inevitable formal Gotham evenings. Maybe I’ll even pick up a small headband there and an “I love NY” a t-shirt. I wonder if they’ll take me to the theater, or come up with some flimsy excuse instead about how I am “not old enough.” Balderdash!  If they don’t take me to the high line this time I will keep them up all night for sure- who can bear to hear a baby cry so pitifully without scooping her up and promising to move mountains??? Is this really too much to ask? Such thoughts continue to fill NooNoo’s head as she ponders what else she can throw into the baby bag. In the end though all she can manage to say to her parents (and anyone else who will listen) about the upcoming adventure is ooh, uh, eeee, ga! Da! Eowww!!!!

Gosh, I wish I had some more real out loud words already, because I just know this trip will be so awesome, swag, cool. . . .    

The Adventures. . .Gosh, We Need a Change. . . .

Nootchie is fed up with all the media attention to the next big election! Fed, fed, fed, fed, up! Upsky!

She hears it on the street, catches the drift from the older sibs of baby friends, senses it in the air, left, right, up, down, whoopsy daisy round and round, politics shmalotics!!! She definitely needs a change- fast- and not just “diaper.” What she’d really like is some screen time of her very own without having to wait out the rest of the two years in the screen-less desert that began with her birth as a “precaution” of some sort; for now she is relegated solely to cutsie board books and other such boringly innocuous parental choices purportedly designed to protect her tiny though burgeoning intellect. Hmmmph! She’s really not all that into “smart” at present- any idiot could see that as she drools and grabs for your eyeglasses, or maybe an earring- though she’s not above manipulation when she needs to get out of the stroller. But that’s another story. A girl has to live. You make choices, you stick by them. It’s time to party.

Through the Gaga Grapevine she’s gathered that there’s this really cool show called something like “Sissy May Treat” with a furry, funny blue monster that loves cookies and she’s dying to catch it. There are no doubt other cool shows too, super cool! But for now, all the screen time in the world seems to be devoted to adults watching other adults blabbering about shmalotics and something called the “bee dates” or maybe “dee bates” or perhaps “dee dates” which she thinks has to do with dried fruit arguing with each other about who should “run” or be the “candy date.” She can’t wait to run! But first of course she has to learn how to crawl. Why would any kind of candy “argue” when it’s just there to be eaten and enjoyed? Okay, she actually hasn’t tasted this goody yet, but through her contacts she’s heard. . . .

Anyhow, for now she’s just plain sick, sick and tired of the whole thing, which is why after practically no thought whatsoever she has decided to run for Baby President.  After she gets them to change the age limit through extensive lobbying and the unswerving backing of other babies- and just check out any playground these days if you want to get an idea of her support numbers - the mainstay of her platform will be simple, direct, a cake walk, literally, occasionally with whipped cream on top. Her platform? A walk in the park: “Fun! Fun! As much fun as we can get!!!” The logo will be a set of plastic keys of course. Babies love keys- it’s a no brainer. She’ll get some onezees made up with her picture. Photo ops will take place mainly in the bouncer since this definitely is much more fun than being strapped into the car seat contraption that feels like two consecutive life sentences in Alcatraz.

It ain’t easy being one of the little people, but with determination she is sure she can effect change. We concluded the interview with her nap.