Monday, February 27, 2012
parents
my father was a prick - and my mother was an idiot...to further complicate matters they were both intelligent. they were married in 1933, totally unsuited for each other. my father was from an uptight, aristocratic british family who didn't want him marrying an american to start with, rose to run a big merchant bank in london, and hadn't much of a sense of humor. my mother was from philadelphia by way of baltimore and providence, rhode island, the youngest of three, a debutante and, as she later proved, an alcoholic. she had, not long before she met my father, been jilted by the son of the doctor to italy's king ferdinand. my parents each misjudged the others potential inheritance.
somehow, i came into this union in 1943.
by 1948 they were divorced - by 1950 my mother and i were in the states where to me, age eight, people spoke a foreign language and drove on the wrong side of the road.
the reason i maintain my father was a prick is because, after the divorce and for the rest of his life he disengaged himself from my existence. he wrote me the occasional letter - usually castigating me for some adolescent sin - forgot my birthdays, and didn't bother with christmas or things like graduation from various schools. i even discovered that he had frequently been in new york city on business as i grew up and had not called. in short, not there. as a consequence i was always looking for mentors and found a few - some good, some bad. the bad ones were usually sexual predators, easy enough to fend off but disquieting none the less. [we all knew about the roman church and its problems.] the others, even the good ones, often got sick and tired of an unwanted puppy panting at their heels all the time and brushed me off. when he died, i, my half brother and his third wife in attendance, i felt little sadness and no loss, which i have since learned is unusual. he did leave me a few nice bits of english furniture which, because it's veneered, is falling slowly to pieces in our hotter and drier climate than that of its origin.
my mother was an idiot because she squandered all sorts of opportunities to lead a happy life after she returned to the states. as a single, slightly exotic, forty year old woman with a wide circle of upscale, high society friends in her adopted hometown [to live in philadelphia was to be too close to her older, dominating sister] she had everything going for her - and the gentlemen callers were legion. they soon fell away - as did her influential friends - because she decided, almost at once, to kill herself with drink. eventually, even i fell away - absconding in the family car to a lake below dover where i fished for two days [until my money ran out] then returning home to a house full of stunned friends and relatives. "i want out of here..." or some such, were my homecoming words. i soon was. she died, alone, on a new year's eve, a very old 58.
these are some of the reasons i swore - after my divorce from their mother - i would never abandon my children as my parents had abandoned me.
somehow, i came into this union in 1943.
by 1948 they were divorced - by 1950 my mother and i were in the states where to me, age eight, people spoke a foreign language and drove on the wrong side of the road.
the reason i maintain my father was a prick is because, after the divorce and for the rest of his life he disengaged himself from my existence. he wrote me the occasional letter - usually castigating me for some adolescent sin - forgot my birthdays, and didn't bother with christmas or things like graduation from various schools. i even discovered that he had frequently been in new york city on business as i grew up and had not called. in short, not there. as a consequence i was always looking for mentors and found a few - some good, some bad. the bad ones were usually sexual predators, easy enough to fend off but disquieting none the less. [we all knew about the roman church and its problems.] the others, even the good ones, often got sick and tired of an unwanted puppy panting at their heels all the time and brushed me off. when he died, i, my half brother and his third wife in attendance, i felt little sadness and no loss, which i have since learned is unusual. he did leave me a few nice bits of english furniture which, because it's veneered, is falling slowly to pieces in our hotter and drier climate than that of its origin.
my mother was an idiot because she squandered all sorts of opportunities to lead a happy life after she returned to the states. as a single, slightly exotic, forty year old woman with a wide circle of upscale, high society friends in her adopted hometown [to live in philadelphia was to be too close to her older, dominating sister] she had everything going for her - and the gentlemen callers were legion. they soon fell away - as did her influential friends - because she decided, almost at once, to kill herself with drink. eventually, even i fell away - absconding in the family car to a lake below dover where i fished for two days [until my money ran out] then returning home to a house full of stunned friends and relatives. "i want out of here..." or some such, were my homecoming words. i soon was. she died, alone, on a new year's eve, a very old 58.
these are some of the reasons i swore - after my divorce from their mother - i would never abandon my children as my parents had abandoned me.
Friday, February 24, 2012
rain
it rained twice on us - more on jimbo than me because he was driving the open, old style jeep when the first storm hit just north of lewes, and i was safe and dry in the pontiac, setting the pace. i watched in the rear view mirror as he got deluged and laughed as he swiped at his glasses, futilely, to push away the water.
we were on our way to assateague to surf fish and planned to camp on the beach for a night or so.
we made the transition in rehoboth easily and were soon on our way to the island. no rainstorms plagued us on the trip and pie was waiting to ferry us across the bay.
once on assateague we turned south, heading for the virginia line where we were going to camp near the three house outpost that marked the southern end of maryland.
tent pitched, we fished, wonderfully alone - there were no visitors in the houses - well into the evening. a meal of some sort was eaten and we fished again. at some point one of us looked west - at the ominous approaching cloud cover. wind preceded the rain and we just had time to secure our rods and dive into the tent. lightning crashed around us as the rain fell in torrents. we were dry until i touched the canvas inadvertantly - disaster...water poured into the tent. we decided to make for one of the stilted houses and ran, carrying the only light source we had, a lantern, and arrived, sheltered from the rain for the moment, at the foot of the stairs that led to a small landing from which - locked - doors led to, we supposed, the living quarters. jimbo fumbled with the lantern while i tried the door handles.
the rain was still hammering down so we decided to stay where we were - on the little landing, lit by dim lantern light. after about a half hour jimbo suddenly said, "i feel sick." "i do too," i replied. "what do you suppose got us. something we ate." "no. it's carbon monoxide," he stammered. "we''ve got to get out of here. we'll die!"
by that time - just seconds - we were both too weak to stand. i remember rolling down the stairs, retching and coughing. jimbo followed and we lay together panting, headachy on the cold damp sand under the house, the deadly lantern still burning above us. it was some time before i could gather myself, hold my breath and retrieve it.
the rest of the night was a blur. dawn finally arrived, grey and murky. we looked at each other, at the fishing rods, grimly packed up the sopping tent and made our way north to the ferry landing. on the way back across the bay we agreed we were damn lucky to be alive.
jimbo left us some years ago - at the start of a fishing trip, but, thankfully, not in a driving rain storm.
we were on our way to assateague to surf fish and planned to camp on the beach for a night or so.
we made the transition in rehoboth easily and were soon on our way to the island. no rainstorms plagued us on the trip and pie was waiting to ferry us across the bay.
once on assateague we turned south, heading for the virginia line where we were going to camp near the three house outpost that marked the southern end of maryland.
tent pitched, we fished, wonderfully alone - there were no visitors in the houses - well into the evening. a meal of some sort was eaten and we fished again. at some point one of us looked west - at the ominous approaching cloud cover. wind preceded the rain and we just had time to secure our rods and dive into the tent. lightning crashed around us as the rain fell in torrents. we were dry until i touched the canvas inadvertantly - disaster...water poured into the tent. we decided to make for one of the stilted houses and ran, carrying the only light source we had, a lantern, and arrived, sheltered from the rain for the moment, at the foot of the stairs that led to a small landing from which - locked - doors led to, we supposed, the living quarters. jimbo fumbled with the lantern while i tried the door handles.
the rain was still hammering down so we decided to stay where we were - on the little landing, lit by dim lantern light. after about a half hour jimbo suddenly said, "i feel sick." "i do too," i replied. "what do you suppose got us. something we ate." "no. it's carbon monoxide," he stammered. "we''ve got to get out of here. we'll die!"
by that time - just seconds - we were both too weak to stand. i remember rolling down the stairs, retching and coughing. jimbo followed and we lay together panting, headachy on the cold damp sand under the house, the deadly lantern still burning above us. it was some time before i could gather myself, hold my breath and retrieve it.
the rest of the night was a blur. dawn finally arrived, grey and murky. we looked at each other, at the fishing rods, grimly packed up the sopping tent and made our way north to the ferry landing. on the way back across the bay we agreed we were damn lucky to be alive.
jimbo left us some years ago - at the start of a fishing trip, but, thankfully, not in a driving rain storm.
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Thursday, February 16, 2012
writing
as a professed writer - at least of short pieces - i have always ascribed, in the very face of somerset maugham's advice*, to the practice of beginning somewhere in the middle, proceeding to the beginning, and hying from thence to the end.
*always write pieces that have a beginning, a middle, and an end.
*always write pieces that have a beginning, a middle, and an end.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
valentine's day
good morning - this is going to be a rant...it's 4:00 a.m. and i can't sleep because of this damn twitching. i'm having a drink [which would make my doctors crazy] and bemoaning the fact that, because of my epilepsy [the other half of my afflictions] and my inability to drive i can't even get my wife a valentine's card. i made one yesterday - like some kindergartener - with a plain piece of paper and some different colored pens. i hope she likes it.
the most frustrating thing about these diseases is one's loss of independence. we live far enough in the country that i can't walk to get the papers - or coffee - or lunch, whatever. thank god for computers and tvs...without them, and the odd book or crossword puzzle, i'd go nuts. i don't know how in "the old days" people survived this kind of mess - but i suppose they didn't.
this business puts a hell of a strain on sally, too. she's got a complicated company to run - not to mention a "complicated" husband to run.
i know i sound as if i'm feeling sorry for myself and there are a hell of a lot of people in this world who are worse off than i, but i am feeling sorry for myself - and not a little pissed off. like arno, at sea drifting on a flipped zodiac, i haven't many attractive possibilities. unfortunately, there are no friendly seafarers in the area to come to my rescue so i can "return to camp and go on fishing."
nope. this is it - this is the way it will end. slowly, i'm sure, but inevitably. and it won't be graceful - and grace is what i suppose we all hope for.
i told you this would be a rant...i only wish i felt better for it and that i could come to better terms with my condition.
the most frustrating thing about these diseases is one's loss of independence. we live far enough in the country that i can't walk to get the papers - or coffee - or lunch, whatever. thank god for computers and tvs...without them, and the odd book or crossword puzzle, i'd go nuts. i don't know how in "the old days" people survived this kind of mess - but i suppose they didn't.
this business puts a hell of a strain on sally, too. she's got a complicated company to run - not to mention a "complicated" husband to run.
i know i sound as if i'm feeling sorry for myself and there are a hell of a lot of people in this world who are worse off than i, but i am feeling sorry for myself - and not a little pissed off. like arno, at sea drifting on a flipped zodiac, i haven't many attractive possibilities. unfortunately, there are no friendly seafarers in the area to come to my rescue so i can "return to camp and go on fishing."
nope. this is it - this is the way it will end. slowly, i'm sure, but inevitably. and it won't be graceful - and grace is what i suppose we all hope for.
i told you this would be a rant...i only wish i felt better for it and that i could come to better terms with my condition.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
losing my religion
"modest apostasy..."
is that a description of the pinking cheeks of the occasional - when convenient - believer?
or, does it describe the individual who no longer attends a house of worship but professes a belief in god...?
or, is it just a clever oxymoron?
[with thanks to ed wissing]
is that a description of the pinking cheeks of the occasional - when convenient - believer?
or, does it describe the individual who no longer attends a house of worship but professes a belief in god...?
or, is it just a clever oxymoron?
[with thanks to ed wissing]
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
key west - part five
i know ernest hemingway was an impossible pain in the ass...at least later in life...but he was a hell of a writer. when we had the house in key west there were two things we wanted to do - ride the conch train [because someone told us we had to...at least once] and go to the hemingway house [because i fancied myself a writer - though not in hemingway's league].
the conch train ride was a real trip...five cars dragged by a thinly disguised jeep through a driving rain storm. we sat in the middle car, the only two people on a tour which would normally accomodate thirty or so. tourists silly enough to be out on the street stared at we two idiots, soaked, and feigning interest in the equally stunned driver's mechanical iterations of shotgun houses and audubon birds. the absolute high point of the morning was the drive by the key west cemetery wherein resides a corpse whose headstone reads "i told you i was sick."
the hemingway house was a bore once one got by the little gable overlooking the pool where he did most of his writing. the garden was populated by six toed cats - supposedly descended from the ones ernest favored and the front room was filled with paperback copies of his novels. the absolute high point of our visit, however, was when i snuck into the roped off dining room and sat in the great man's chair at the head of the table - just imagine, my ass perched - only momentarily - where his ass had been throughout many a drunken evening.
the conch train ride was a real trip...five cars dragged by a thinly disguised jeep through a driving rain storm. we sat in the middle car, the only two people on a tour which would normally accomodate thirty or so. tourists silly enough to be out on the street stared at we two idiots, soaked, and feigning interest in the equally stunned driver's mechanical iterations of shotgun houses and audubon birds. the absolute high point of the morning was the drive by the key west cemetery wherein resides a corpse whose headstone reads "i told you i was sick."
the hemingway house was a bore once one got by the little gable overlooking the pool where he did most of his writing. the garden was populated by six toed cats - supposedly descended from the ones ernest favored and the front room was filled with paperback copies of his novels. the absolute high point of our visit, however, was when i snuck into the roped off dining room and sat in the great man's chair at the head of the table - just imagine, my ass perched - only momentarily - where his ass had been throughout many a drunken evening.
Monday, February 6, 2012
stanley
swan hired him...i didn't. stanley was from south andros...he said he was a bonefish guide and, in his spare time, a preacher. i know the latter was true because swan and the girls went to hear him sermonize - i wouldn't go. his children hollered "mama, mama, here come the white people..." as we approached his house near the church - that was enough to send me back to the hotel for a beer.
stanley preached "the woid of god."
according to god - stanley said - 85% of the people in hell were women - 10% men - and the other 5% men who were there because of women.
i should tell you he was also a horseshit guide, fat, had a lousy boat, and poled around with an old mangrove stake. swan didn't catch many fish.
stanley preached "the woid of god."
according to god - stanley said - 85% of the people in hell were women - 10% men - and the other 5% men who were there because of women.
i should tell you he was also a horseshit guide, fat, had a lousy boat, and poled around with an old mangrove stake. swan didn't catch many fish.
drink
"twas a woman who drove me to drink. i never had the decency to thank her."
w.c. fields
i did.
[with thanks to chuck gleason]
w.c. fields
i did.
[with thanks to chuck gleason]
Friday, February 3, 2012
death
i think i've seen death...stared it in the face, so to speak. i suffer from epilepsy and, so, seize every once in a while...not of the grand mal type but absence or petit mal sort. i go away but have no recollection of leaving [fortunately the medicine i take has stopped even these events] but, having gone there in the past i can tell you there is nothing to fear...nothing, no blinding white lights, no white robes, no long hallways leading to god knows what, no fire and brimstone, no angelic choir. in short... nothing. don't be afraid.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
ghost
i'll tell you a ghost story - which may seem a little out of character because i don't believe in the afterlife, but this one can be backed up by a witness - sally - and neither one of us is a fabulist. also, it will make the hair on the back of your neck stand up.
my mother died in 1968, was cremated and interred in a crypt below the altar in saint peters church - her home parish - in philadelphia. end of story you say...not quite.
some years later she was dug up - which i didn't think was legal but happened anyway. my cousin got a letter from the parish secretary saying she now resided on her desk and would we please come pick her up - which i did. from then on she sat, in an urn, on the bureau in my library. when sally and i moved to carpenters row i brought her along where she rested, quietly, for some years under a table in the front room.
at some point i, from my seat at the counter in the kitchen, started seeing a dark shadow, a murky cloud, rise from the area of the urn...not often but enough that i took note. i didn't say anything to sally.
one evening i saw it and sighed in exasperation. "what's wrong," asked sally. "nothing. i just saw my mother again," i replied, nodding towards the urn. "have you been seeing that too," she exclaimed. it turned out that she, from her position at the stove had seen the apparition as often as i had.
"what does she want do you suppose?" sally asked. "to rest in peace i guess. too much noise around here," i replied.
the next morning at 6 a.m., a lovely may day, we took her to the brandywine and poured her ashes into the fast moving water. she swirled away in a long train of grey.
neither of us has seen her since.
my mother died in 1968, was cremated and interred in a crypt below the altar in saint peters church - her home parish - in philadelphia. end of story you say...not quite.
some years later she was dug up - which i didn't think was legal but happened anyway. my cousin got a letter from the parish secretary saying she now resided on her desk and would we please come pick her up - which i did. from then on she sat, in an urn, on the bureau in my library. when sally and i moved to carpenters row i brought her along where she rested, quietly, for some years under a table in the front room.
at some point i, from my seat at the counter in the kitchen, started seeing a dark shadow, a murky cloud, rise from the area of the urn...not often but enough that i took note. i didn't say anything to sally.
one evening i saw it and sighed in exasperation. "what's wrong," asked sally. "nothing. i just saw my mother again," i replied, nodding towards the urn. "have you been seeing that too," she exclaimed. it turned out that she, from her position at the stove had seen the apparition as often as i had.
"what does she want do you suppose?" sally asked. "to rest in peace i guess. too much noise around here," i replied.
the next morning at 6 a.m., a lovely may day, we took her to the brandywine and poured her ashes into the fast moving water. she swirled away in a long train of grey.
neither of us has seen her since.
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