checkin out for a while

Packin, movin, and settin up! I'll write when I am settled. Be well!

New Blog

Please visit my new blog:

http://hailsfromthebronx.blogspot.com/

This blog is reserved for my biographical stuff and my attempts at creative writing.

If you have been a follower you will recognize some old pieces-am trying to bunch things together.

Hope you stop by!

Thanks
Sugar

The last snow

I believe that it is safe to say that this will be the last blizzard I will see while living in this house. I have shoveled five times since 7 am this morning. It is now 5 pm. Yea, I know the blog time is ALWAYS wrong. I gave up on that years ago.

The trees are snow encrusted looking like floppy angles wings. But real heavy. I thought of putting up a picture but nothing could touch the beauty of this place for me now.

My arms are not too bad but my shoulders are killing me. My ribs are wrapped up due to sustaining several broken ribs a few weeks ago. That was supposed to be gone by now but I guess Mother Nature doesn’t know the six week rule. Not being the fragile type I just keep shoveling. It’s only three or four inches at a time and I have been doing this since 1987 generally on my own so I am used to it. Kind of makes me feel like a senior version of Super Woman whizzing through 125 feet of the front sidewalk.

I am actually kind of tearful. I have mowed this land, hand sawed branches, felled trees with an axe-no I am not a butch-I am the frilly type. But I was a daddy’s’ girl and when my dad died I inherited his ability to fix things, figure things out, paint, (I have painted this house several times on my own) mow, chop and……

I was going to buy a house but must move out so soon that there is just no time. Where will all of these wonderful talents go to if I am in a mere apartment? How will I honor my dad’s gifts?

Just needed to blow off some steam. The real blizzard is yet to come. We will not be clear until 6am on Thursday. I am drying my cloths on ladders, five feet of boxed books and lamps that are awaiting their new shades upon entering our new residence.

During the summer I bitched and moaned about mowing this gigantic piece of property and ordinarily I would be bitching and moaning about the snow but I now realize what I wonderful vehicle of physical strength this property has been for me all of these years.

I hope all of you fair well during this event. Try to enjoy it-be grateful that you have what it takes to do it. I am.

The house is SOLD!
Yup, can't believe it!

I am racing around looking for a new home. I also have plans for a new blog where I will publish the memories of a kid from the Bronx as well as my creative pieces.

I have not been very creative lately. I hope to get my juices going again when I settle in my new home.

It's all good!

Lots going on but I am Italian and quite superstitious.

Serenity

I walked along the ocean shore yesterday. Though only nine miles from the Atlantic I have not been there for too long a time. For years, I daily strolled along the magnificent shore with it's beige-white sand. The water was a crystal blue and the waves were uneven: Some were high, rough-white, ruffles of cream and lace.

In the past I arrived by six in the morning, even on the coldest days. I belonged to a club of diehards who never spoke and rarely nodded. The business at hand was different for each. Some whizzed by in their reserved bike lanes. Others sped by in their wheelchairs surpassing all others. If you want a definition of determination, look into the face of an athlete manually directing those wheels.

Though cold, the wind on my face was velvet and caressing. It was a coming home. There was pure peace, calm and serenity flowing through my being.

When blessed with such "peace that surpasseth understanding".
One is grateful!

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

William Ernest Henley

Closer to Fine

Read her map post-nuf said!

St. Joseph upside down

Though I mentioned my prayer for release from the house and the visit from the spiritualist in my ‘house as spouse’ blog (Jan 7) I neglected to mentioned my St. Joseph adventure. See ‘a leave taking’ (Dec. 22, 2008).

In that 2008 blog I spoke of my friend’s suggestion that I bury a statue of St. Joseph in the yard to ensure a quick and profitable sale of the house.

St. Joseph is considered the Patron Saint of housing as he taught Jesus the skills of carpentry and always provided his family with a roof over their heads.

He is revered by Sicilians who believe it was his spiritual intervention that saved the Sicilian nation from famine by allowing the Fava bean crop to flourish.

Wonder if Dr. Hannibal Lecter knows about that!

I was visiting Marie in her new condo. When desperation took over she buried a statue of Saint Joseph head down in her yard. The house sold within a week so of course she suggested that I do the same!

No way was I going to bury a statue, upside down no less. Who does such a thing? Tell me!

My initial argument in the 2008 blog was that I was not comfortable with subjecting good old St. Joe to such an indignity. Well, I no longer had any qualms!

Marie went into her bedroom returning with a tiny effigy of St. Joe. “I want it back.” she said with solemnity. “Certainly.” I responded, successfully containing the smirk that was about to emerge on my face.

I have known this woman for 30 years and have never seen such gravity on her face.

I took the plastic statue home. It was a mere four inches long with quite sharp edges. His robes flowed in the traditional earth colors of brown and green. He held a long stalk of lilies which is the symbol of virginity. The earthly father-albeit the biological father of Jesus-I will leave that argument to those who are steeped in the da Vince code, of course, also securely held the infant.

When I returned home I sat and watched TV for a while while I tossed the little figure from palm to palm. This is madness I thought-I have my share of crazy beliefs and practices but……..

Would I actually do this? Head down no less!

It was dark and pouring out. I certainly wouldn’t do it tonight. Yet, there was less likelihood that anyone would see me burying the body. I laughed out loud.

I peeked outside the front door, the soil was getting drenched. I could slide it into the ground by using a cork screw motion after soup spooning a tunnel-like hole. Looking around the kitchen I choose a large narrow spoon and headed for the door when I realized that I had to return the statue to Marie. It would certainly suffer some weather damage if buried au naturale. It was well defined and at least some dirt would settle into its minute crevices.

Food wrap! I would wrap it to prevent any harm. I knew I had a roll that had a tiny remaining bit. Peeling the edge of the food wrap was a pain in the neck. I placed the tiny figure in the middle of the wrap to provide for full coverage. As I rolled it I flapped the remaining wrap over the head and feet as I would wrap any package. Hysteria resulted when I realized that the tiny remaining wrap amounted to about four feet. Think about it four feet of wrap!

When I finished the statue was unrecognizable. It could have been just about anything one might find in the freezer.

I thought that I might as well take advantage of the rain and with spoon in hand I headed for the door.

I didn’t want to mess up my cloths so I changed into a pair three-quarter gardening pants, an ancient pair of boots, a sweat shirt which I use for painting, a Yankee cap and as is my evening ritual my face was slathered in cream to ward off the ravages of age that run in my family. Though I probably looked like a derelict the only thing that really bothered me was the fact that my lower legs were bare and I was in need of a shave.

When I got to the front door I realized that I had done such a great job of wrapping that it was impossible to discern St. Josephs head from his feet! He had to be buried head down! Another detour! Back to the kitchen. I unwrapped the little icon looking from side to side as though protecting myself from the ridicule of anyone observing my inanity. I wrapped him again and used a freezer pen to mark the saint’s head. I knew I was sabotaging this adventure because it was going against my gut.

Always follow your gut!

The rain was coming in spurts. I eschewed any rain gear because the intended burial plot was just a foot to the side of the front door under some massive oaks.

I closed the front light and began my dig. All I needed was a mere six inches. I hit roots at two and was already soaking wet. Venturing to another spot was not any more productive. As I began my third dig I was shocked to see a bright light shine on the outside wall as I was facing the house.

“Stop, wait, put your hands up.” I was so startled that I fell face first into the mud which antagonized the cops even more. “Hey, you, I said stop, put your hands up and turn around slowly.” So I did. The mixture of cream and dirt irritated my face and I instinctively went to wipe it off while holding the spoon. “ Drop it, drop it now!” he shouted as he approached me aiming the flashlight directly into my eyes.

So, finally something for my astronomical taxes!

house as spouse

This Tudor was built in 1929. The original eighty-year-old knotty mahogany door still guards the entrance and sometimes it's hard to even get it to open.

There is only one remaining intact area: my bedroom. It’s not the same: no longer feels like my home. Eighteen months and counting. Looks more like a warehouse of some kind. Boxes line the walls. They are not large boxes no forklifts are needed, just a few hefty guys. Chinese chairs, which were antiques 45 years ago, are wrapped in old sheets and tightly held by wide duck tape. They await the mover’s thick grey quilts. My beautiful oriental rugs are long gone. Rolled into totems resting in the corners of this exotic storehouse. Bare wood floors make the footsteps of my slight frame echo like a careless thief at night.

Only the largest paintings remain hanging-they will be packed at the last moment. Whenever that moment comes. There were so many near misses-near imminent sales, things sort of got packed, and then more things got packed in spurts. One of the two cash deals had me hurriedly packing my clothing in space bags. I felt like an executioner each time I sucked the air out of the plastic parcels rendering cloths, pillows, shawls, duvets, and jackets limp and melting their colors into Joseph’s Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. I like the feel of them –they are hard little mounds. If you step away and take a glimpse, they look like miniature replicas of foreign terrains. Pathetic that I have a sense of accomplishment because the space bags worked as promised.

My real estate agent and I sat on the patio on a warm day last April. I was faithfully polishing furniture then and the hand carved Tibetan musicians still hung on the wall: a celestial orchestra that only God’s special creatures could hear. “I don’t feel you here anymore.” She said. I looked at her and smiled sadly. I knew what she meant. I had hoped to serenely leave the house but with at least some pangs of sorrow. That was nine months ago.

I sat down and wrote a letter of appreciation to the house. I thanked it for its solace and strength against the wind, rain and snow. I asked it’s forgiveness for my mismanagement of repairs. I asked it to let me go in peace, release me so another could revive it, live in it and again fill it with happiness.

I am now a mere boarder waiting for somebody-anybody to give me the ticket to move on. It’s like standing on an abandoned train platform waiting for a phantom train to come. The trains come full of promise, stop, then leave me abandoned. This is the twilight zone.

I had packed my books: left just a bunch without which I knew would be inconsolable if not within reach. Besides my bedroom, they are the only semblance of normalcy in this house. Even the linen closet was packed. At present, the same two sets of sheets are repeatedly used.

Life is stagnant. At times I realize that I am not breathing. The master bedroom is now the main abode for the cats and me. Nothing has changed in here. It is a desperate effort to pretend that I am living a normal life. The cats have many spots throughout the house that they commandeered through the years. Apart from an occasional swipe at a plastic flower that I dangle in front of her, the girl cat and her brother are inert. Now they lay at the foot of the bed as though they had been subjected to premature taxidermy.

I once had a penchant for luggage. I’ve done a good deal of traveling but no one needs that many luggage sets. The large ones stand hither and thither throughout the living and dining rooms, short, bulging polyester replicas of Stonehenge. They speak of my own enchanted past: the rituals into altered states, candles and humming bowls, and whispers emanating from the shadows cast on the stark white walls. They are like time machines. Lugging them, I crawled into different times and far off places leaving this house –always returning, it’s faithful spouse.

A spiritualist came in to cleanse the house and release any blocks to its sale. “This house is clean.” he joked. “If this doesn’t work use dynamite!” I smiled and felt my head shake imperceptibly, even he doesn't understand, I thought.

The stone foundation of the fireplace holds pieces of coral plucked by my stepfather from the bottom of the Aegean Sea, carefully-albeit illegally brought here from his native Greece sixty years ago. One of the few remaining pieces that adorn the wall is an ornately framed gold- thread Buddhist altar cloth. The cloth was a gift from a loved one way back from my ardent Zen days.

The couches are just sitting there covered with clothe that is stapled to the bottom strapping’s. A bunch of other stuff is strewn over them: photo albums, hand laundered Belgian lace table clothes , silk flowers, bubble wrap, two large porcelain bowls sans any protection-their real protection being their visibility, throw pillows that escaped the last space bag, a silver evening bag that a friend returned to me a few weeks ago.

It is cold out-feels like a meat locker in here. No matter how high up I put the heat it seems to disappear. No carpets or drapery to keep in the heat. As soon as the coziness permeates my body, I feel an icy chill. Where has the warmth gone? From where comes the frosty draft? It happens in any room I enter.

Leaving this house will now be easy after all of this trauma. That is, if it ever lets me go.