The cellar. A cellar. The basement. A basement. Both words require an article.

It occurred to me this weekend that I grew up saying, ‘I’m going down cellar’ but never ‘I’m going down basement’. Why?

Weird language mysteries…

Dodging drops on a long-legged stretch up rain glazed East Avenue, skipping over cracked horse chestnuts and acorn tops scattered among pink and gold leaves and striped mud puddles.

Skipping watered circles and around brightly yellowed gas line caps, the work day scaled off my neck, drowned in a puddle somewhere down on University Avenue.

Appled cascade of ripened fruit and a rainy evening with Latin jazz and tender toes. An evening’s perfection…

I sit down on the creaky hundred year old couch with careful calculation, clutching a white cotton handkerchief in hand and with great care, I lie down. This heat enervates me. Sometime in the late afternoon, I fall asleep on the old wicker couch; asleep despite the muggy blanket of heat and wet air which covers this area of New York State.

It is a lazy Sunday afternoon and I am full; having dined with family on seafood stuffed cod and cherries jubilee at the Glen Iris; observing from the cool inside of the restaurant, a wedding reception which is in full swing out on the side lawn. Despite soaring temperatures, the participants in the wedding party seem to hold up fairly well.

As I doze, I hear my father shuffle from room to room. He is not swayed by the heat and is dressed in long sleeves and long pants and dress shoes; the way I remember his father used to dress even on the hottest days of summer out in Aberdeen, South Dakota. I have never seen my father wear sandals or flip flops. I never saw my grandfather wear sandals or short pants.

Earlier at the restaurant, I watched my father walking carefully amongst the tables as he made his way past customers and wait staff; his left hand swinging at an odd angle and held behind his back; his steps slightly hitched on the right side as he leans over and moves with quiet purpose across the room. I have seen this before. It is precisely the way my grandmother walked, fifty years ago; down to the very last hitch and shuffle and leg swing. It may be my father has one leg shorter than the other but I do not know for certain.

I remember the heat from my grandparents’ home. Today’s same sun baked fifty years ago deeply through gray, wooden floor boards from the enclosed porch and up, right into the bottoms of my feet; the very same air I feel today, enveloped me then as we sat on white wicker chairs stuffed with pink, floral cushions mixed in with the smell of cigar and prairie wheat and old wood and grandma’s butter cinnamon sun buckles baking in the kitchen. My grandma lined the beautiful stained glass windows in the living room with tin foil so the intense sun reflected away from the inner house.

The clock chimes loudly and suddenly and it’s been quite some time since I lay down; I climb gingerly out of the arms of that old wicker couch and head to the kitchen for something cold to drink. My father is seated in the rocking chair in the other room, focused fiercely on something which has his attention from the news; remote control in his left hand, trigger finger always on the mute button, ready to strike. He remains oblivious to the heat.

After dinner, he dons flannel pajamas and totters off to bed, shuffling down the hall with his step slightly hitched on the right side as he leans over and moves with quiet purpose toward another room.

‘Mrs. Algarin! Mrs. Algarin! You’re weird!’ I turn around in the hallway. I nod and say, ‘Yes. Yes, I am. Deal with it. It’s part of my charm!’

She laughs and I laugh and we head out of the door.

How it rolls…

By far, my favorite part of the day occurs when I discover the car parked to the left of mine is too close and I have to crawl, grasp, flail, squash and stretch my way over from the passenger seat to the driver’s seat.

My favorite by far…

My favorite quote from a recent conversation with a five year old…’I don’t want no cockroaches in no houses…’

We agreed that this was a good goal for a new year.

Recently, I engaged in a lengthy conversation with a young tike, a lad of four and one half years. We sat waiting together on the voluminously awkward leather couch in the lounge at the Hochstein music school. He told me all about himself and his family and that he ate a lot of ‘stinky’ cheese and he didn’t like it. I said I wouldn’t like it either, most assuredly.

He inquired as to whether or not I needed a picture drawn of myself and it turns out that I did. This happened four times during our interaction. It was a lengthy time together and we sat happily side by side on the squishing sinking couch, listening to the old creaking wooden floor sounds and the whining and cracking of the stairs upon stairs leading up to the upper rooms at the top of the old red brick building.

He gave me four crayon drawings of me seated on the couch. They were wonderful and I told him so. I told him they were good because they looked exactly how I felt; squashed and a little tired and smashed down by life.

I don’t think that he completely understood but we both laughed quite a bit.

I do not think that retirement or old age will require much if any adjustment on my part…

As I look down and see my husband’s white sock covered with spilled coffee grounds…and as I look up and see him standing there rather sheepishly, holding the coffee filter somewhat heavily and mostly askew…and as I witness more wet grounds on the kitchen floor and wall by the garbage bin, I say the only thing I can say…’Step away from the kitchen, sir…step AWAY from the kitchen’…

Without a doubt…Wednesday mornings during Covid in the school year became the most depressing; the weekly check in on missing students…’truancy case…CPS case…no, they supposedly moved to Florida, Grandma lost contact’. ‘No, that’s a truancy case…long term CPS case’.

‘What do we do about…? Who is actually accountable?’ ‘Um…actually, no one. There is no one…I think’.

‘Okay…they left materials on the porch and snapped a photo to prove they did it…the house was dark, no one answered the door’. ‘Ok…next class…long term truancy…nope, CPS…nope, no follow up’…’that phone number doesn’t work’…

We are losing these kids…

Raining all day long and the temperature was a shaky 45 degrees…spring in the city by the lake…and the reason we craved hot onion rings, jalapeno burgers and spicy chili in the evening…any notion of planting washed away in the deluge…