I dreamt I fell from a very long ladder. I fell and I watched my body falling and I saw a man painting at the very top of the yellow wall, next to the cream crown moldings. I fell and it was slow and I noticed the scuffed side of the wall as I fell and I heard and saw the people below me; those looking up seeing me and smiling and I thought it was going to hurt. I hit the floor, landing amidst a pile of broken wood and splinters and I was surprised because it did not hurt at all. I stood up.

I awoke with a start and I heard my husband ask, “What do we have for breakfast?” I said, “We have fresh raspberry loaf and strong coffee with sweet cream. I dreamt I fell off a terribly high ladder”. He said, “Okay”. I stood up and felt my entire body was achingly sore. “I feel as if I really fell off that ladder in my dream. I am sore everywhere”. He was silent and then said, “You live a strange life sometimes”. “Yes, I do”,  I responded and I hobbled off downstairs to brew bubbly coffee; strong, serious coffee set up against falling from tall ladders and Saturday grays.

Later in the week, I drive home from work and stratus clouds hang, heavy and yellow gray over the edges of the overpass and the steady stream of traffic on the expressway below me and I feel the bridge shake a little and then I stop at the red light at the corner of Clinton and Goodman. The city feels surrounded in gray air; rejecting spring with every sidewalk panel glistening wet and cold and thick with graupel.  The light is red forever. I see the theater across the street where I have never witnessed a film. I see the long, silver frame of the Highland Diner where plates of chili cheese fries and delectable Jazz burgers work their magic on winters. I glance up at the building to my right. I am parked next to the The Angry Goat; a down in the heels establishment sitting cattywompus at the corner of lilacs and blight.

I stretch and crane my neck near the top of the windshield and on the backside of the building, at the peak of the iron rickety fire escape, I note the open window; yanked up in defiance and facing the stream of traffic on the expressway below and the winds sweeping down through hidden side streets and homes on Goodman, up the climbing hill to Colgate Divinity and spilling over into the growing wealth spread of the suburbs and past Mount Hope Cemetery where Frederick Douglas shivers in his grave. The window is completely dark and there is nothing in this world which would bid me enter. Nothing looks safe at the top of this fire escape and the screen appears to be rusted and ripped and then suddenly the light turns green.

As I drive through the intersection, there is an elderly man wrapped up in a gray sweater and wearing what appears to be a long, plastic cape; the kind which one wears when getting hair done in a salon. He stands at the corner of The Angry Goat and I turn and look at him but he is staring off into space and I note a long, thin line of what must be hair dye running down the side of his face. It is too cold to be outside with wet hair and the drab wet of the plastic cape causes me an involuntary shiver. I drive on.

He is falling off his own tall ladder, it seems and I realize we share that. We share the open window facing North and in some odd way, we most likely share The Angry Goat, planted cattywompus in defiance. I glance quickly in the mirror to check my hair.

 

 

“Excuse me, Miss?” I hear a voice behind me and I turn around, greeting the wind sweeping across the parking lot and as it hits me squarely in the face, I see an African-American woman approaching me. “Miss, Miss, excuse me. Please don’t curse. Listen I know this is difficult, me approaching you in the parking lot this way. Look at me.  Look, I’m not going to come any closer. Look I’m standing right here”.  I think that is what I hear. I don’t think I’m making it up…the part about this being difficult. I know she is speaking to me and I see her moving toward me. She stops.

What makes a person acceptable? I breathe in and out quickly reviewing my upbringing, my life, the way experiences unfold. It is a choppy stream; all in surges and flashes. She is well dressed. Her hat and coat match. She wears gold rings in her ears. They appear to be good quality. Her speech is clear. She is standing by someone’s car. It’s not my car and she looks directly at me.

“Don’t curse, please don’t curse”, she says again. She begins talking very fast. “I’ve lost my bus pass and I need three dollars. I need to catch Bus number 54 to get back home and I’m wondering if you have any cash?” The wind whips the hair into my eyes and into my mouth as I open it and I am vulnerable. I’m standing in six inches of frozen slush and I can feel the damp beginning to seep into my shoes somewhere and I know there is a small hole on the right side of the shoe and it needs to be repaired.

“I don’t curse”, I offer. My mind runs wildly through the contents of my wallet. I had ten dollars in the fold of my wallet and I used nine of them to buy greeting cards at the store yesterday. I don’t want to lie. I will not lie. I know I have exactly one bill in the wallet and I know that I have change in the side pocket but I don’t know how much. To access that, I must turn around in the slush and risk falling and I am afraid. I must unzip my bag, pull out my wallet and start digging around. I do not know this woman.

“I know this is hard and I know this is a curse, my curse; me, a black woman approaching you in the parking lot”…I think I hear her say this. She is speaking more and more quickly and the wind is whipping and I don’t know who is more uncomfortable and my hair is in my mouth and I’m trying to remove it with gloved hands.

Is she fooling me? Am I being…and a whole litany of words run through my mind…unkind? uncharitable? racist? classist? Is there any other “ist” I missed? Which “ist” is required of me? Get that person in a box. Now I can look at him. Now I can figure her out. I need to make him stand still. I need to see her angles. Don’t move while I unpeel your layers. Stand away from me next to a car belonging to somebody else. Please.

We are engaged in this strange encounter a mere ten seconds. I look at her and say simply, “I don’t have enough cash on me and I don’t curse”. I need to emphasize that. I don’t curse people.  I am cursed when I do not place money in the hands of panhandlers in New York. I do not curse them.

I turn around and head toward the store. She says something up against the wind but I can’t hear her well. I pull the hair out of my mouth. I do not have enough information. I don’t know if a bus pass costs three dollars. I don’t know Bus number 54. I don’t know that I have ever ridden a bus in Rochester. I rode them in New York all the time, but a different set of rules exist in that metropolis. In Rochester, public transportation means something specific. The blast of the heaters sweeps me into the store and I know for sure that my right foot is completely soaked.

 

My little runner has taken to carrying a briefcase. She is six years old. She does not like to stay in the classroom. After breakfast is served and cleared and the real work starts and things like learning and rules begin, she’s had enough. She leaves the classroom and runs the building. Last week I met her briefly  on the wrong floor, in the wrong wing of the school and I said, “Good morning, lady! What’s the plan for the day?” “Stay in the classroom”, she answers and takes off down another hallway. I think she has missed the point. Or maybe I have.

Unwittingly, this little one gives me permission to look briefly through a looking glass into her life; a snapshot with openings and closings of classroom and hallway doors. I look at her life each time I see her and wonder what it is exactly that I have seen.

Today I see this briefcase. I wonder where she found it. Somewhere, in this vast corner of the city with crooked and neglected side streets winding down at many odd angles to the public market and the railway, this little one has found a long shoulder strapped vinyl bag, worn and brown, with some sort of a clasp on one side. It fits around her neck and sags down where it bangs around her mid section as she runs. It must be empty because it flaps and flops wildly as she darts and dashes.

Last week she joined us briefly at our table at the end of the hallway. I did not see her and then slowly and softly I felt her sneak up behind me; the lightest presence of a small girl. Her hand is on my back and then she is on my left side and then her head rests briefly on my left shoulder. She sucks her thumb. We continue on with the class as if she is the slightest breeze whispered down the hallway and around the corner. She is simply and suddenly there. In a few minutes I ask her if she would like to tell us what she did over the weekend. She shakes her head no. She is quieter today.

Last week, when she visited us, she could not keep things together, bouncing in and out of our circle, going in and out of the hallway door, climbing and swinging off the large rack which holds huge rolls of construction paper. Finally, for her own safety and so that I could continue teaching, I call the main office and let them know she is on the lam. There is a bit of a time lag until an administrator makes her way up to the second floor. She is tired of this and carries her hand radio with determination. The little runner has made use of the minutes before the administrator arrived and has swiftly run a couple of laps around the A section of the building on our floor and has darted in and out of the cafeteria looking furtively in every direction at once.

In the course of the next few minutes with some fanfare, the administrator in heels successfully wrestles the little girl with the briefcase to the ground where she remains, relatively docile until the security guard arrives to take her away to the ATS (Alternative to Suspension Room). After a bit of animated commentary from my little ones at the table, I calm everyone by singing a quiet song and we go back to work.

Today I give this child a paper snowflake I cut out. She returns the gift with a hug. She asks me, “How do you cry in Spanish”? I think about this and am astounded at the profound depth of her question but before I can answer, she is suddenly upright; alert like a deer by the side of the road, sensing movement, sensing the heat from the beam of a far away car. I look at the side of her head. Her face is energized, twitching with motion and I know she will run again.

As she leaps away from me, she turns and says, “You should write a story about me and my sisters”! She swings open the hallway door and darts off to the right, down the hall in the direction of the music room. I note the school counselor heading down the other hallway in our direction. The little runner is long gone.

The counselor is not going to run after her. This catch and release and catch again story with this child is an old one and it is exhausting for this overworked woman. She rolls her eyes, stopping in at the classroom closest to where we are working and picks up the receiver of the wall phone. One of the school security guards is called. She leaves and heads back upstairs.

At the end of my class, I move toward the cafeteria and pass another child in the hall. I do not know her. She looks at me and states, “I’m going to get my head checked”. I think about that outcome and wonder about our little runner some more. I admire her spunk. At the tender age of six, in her own way, she is proactive. Life is not happening to her anymore. She is happening to life and is adept at making an significant number of adults run giant circles around this great big school of ours.

As I cross the cafeteria I see her suddenly out of the corner of my eye. She is scooting, skipping along the edge of the far wall; briefcase swinging. She is the smallest of mice, moving with stealth along the perimeter. She is headed to the third grade wing and I leave her alone.

In the midst of a cold snap, a large storm with wind chills hovering between minus 15 and minus 30, increases the intensity of wind chill and frostbite. So much depends on Lake Ontario, the 104 corridor, the Southern Tier and where one happens to be standing in any given area. It feels familiar. I have been here before.

Relatively mild winters in recent years have left me out of practice. Brutal wind on my face reminds me. The temperatures dip dangerously low, something stirs within me and I quickly resume old patterns of winter dressing. This is salt and memory. I hear family voices; “dress in layers”, and “watch out for black ice”.

I instinctively layer up to face outdoors. I start with undergarments, followed by a thin cotton camisole fitting snugly over hips and stomach. I swaddle. I add another stretchy, long sleeved cotton shirt which fits over the camisole and then on top of this I slip on a thinly padded vest. On top of these three pieces, I wrap up in my outside coat. I fold a thick, large woolen scarf around my neck; thick and long enough to completely cover my neck and chest area but not too thick so that it can’t be tied in some semblance of a knot. Since I am not going to be outside for too long, I only wear a pair of jeans with thick woolen socks and my boots which barely zip themselves over the socks. Everything I’m wearing is black or navy blue, except for the coat which is silver.

I look down at my jeans. In the winter I wear boot cut jeans. I like the fit and they do exactly what they are named for. They fit cleanly over the edge of boots. At the end of the day there will be a thick white ring of salt around the bottom of the legs. On top of the thighs of the jeans, there will be patches of smudged salt and snow spray which come from leaning up against the car door when squeezing out of a tight parking space. Salt. Everywhere. I know that if it is cold enough, even copious amounts of salt will not do much to melt black ice. Slow down. Lift one’s foot off the pedal and steer into a spin. My inner voice checks off a lifetime of warnings. Watch for hungry deer.

I tested myself last night when the wind chill dipped to below minus 20 and the neighborhood appeared silent and iced and glittery in the dry air. I’d been in the house for almost 48 hours. I donned a thick pair of woolen socks and I wondered how good they really are. I wanted to experience that startling cold again, to awaken the feeling of the past.

In the dark, I walk the length of the driveway to the mailbox with no shoes; only these socks. I need to go off the grid; out and away from the sanctuary and warmth and light of the house. I gasp as the air hits my face. I am returned to winters in high school during the blizzard of 1977. Western New York was paralyzed with ice and snow and my parents hired local college boys to shovel the weighty white mounds off the roof of our house. That winter my brother and I stood on the picnic table in the backyard and fell with outstretched arms, backwards off of it into the deep snow with fearless abandon. We disappeared into iced white fluff.; caught safely by frozen marshmallow. We missed two weeks of school because the water pipes in the school burst. We dressed in front of the kitchen oven. Mom purchased electric blankets for each family member.

One Sunday morning, I did not wear a hat and strode confidently down the hill to the local church on a day with minus 20 degrees and a ridiculous wind chill. I left halfway through the service to head home. I was engulfed in nausea; swimming, swirling black dots; shimmering waves and completely dizzy. The snow blinded me. I do not know how I got back home, up the long curving hill. Later, wrapped up in my warm bed, I smelled succulent barbequed beef roast with potatoes and carrots and gravy. My family ate Sunday dinner without me. I lay sick from cold.

In the driveway I am stunned by the acidity of black cold. Yes. I’ve got this. But only briefly. I cannot shelter out here too long. I cannot sustain myself. I pad to the edge of the yard, pry open the mailbox door, grab the mail and scurry back into the garage where I shake off the socks and head into the kitchen. My feet are dry. These are good socks.

It is the last day of the old year. We awaken to the sound of the plow and the temperature is exactly zero. It is strangely satisfying to awaken to zero. Zero. A clean slate. A new day.

My husband rises and bundles up and leaves the house. In a few moments, I hear the roar of the snow blower and the whoosh of snow flying as he runs it over the length of the driveway. I look out the window and see all the snow blowing to the right of the driveway. It circles around in the wind and comes back to hit him in the face. I make a large pot of strong coffee and toast bagels. I spread the cream cheese. We are officially out of coffee and I write it down on a list.

He comes back in and stomps around, leaving snow on the kitchen floor. He picks up a broom to begin sweeping the white wetness off the tile and down the steps into the garage. As he opens the door, the shock of bitter wind encircles my bare ankles and makes me feel the hardness of the floor and my vulnerability. He slams it shut.

He wanted to plow the neighbors driveway and then decided against it. It was too cold and it felt too early on a Sunday morning and we aren’t that close yet; as friends, I mean. That will come. Good neighborly relationships develop slowly; a plate of cookies and a friendly wave at the mailbox and a conversation about football and in time, I suspect we will be plowing each other’s driveway in the heart of winter.

There are tracks winding and drifting throughout the yard on the north side of the house. We look out the upper story window. Who has been in the yard? They are most likely the tracks of deer; hungry creatures wandering carefully onto the property in the black of night, searching for something to eat. We look northward and watch the line of prints stretch into the yard of the house in front of ours and around the corner into the backyard of the dwelling behind us. At one point they look to be one track and at another point, they split and form two large graceful arcs which eventually merge back into a single track. Perhaps the deer meet in the middle of the snow to discuss their food options; to glance upward at frosted windows and to wonder who sleeps there. At several points, they split again, arc and reunify. I imagine their indecision.

I see the five huge frozen pumpkins lying on their sides in the garden box. One looks slightly gutted on one side as if perhaps something chewed desperately there for awhile. That orange orb is a sorry meal for any animal trying to glean nourishment.

I know that rich, orange smell. The pumpkins have been on the ground, in the garden box since the day after Thanksgiving and I still smell them. They have their own story and season. In October, my 4 year old nephew and I purchased, rolled and lugged them from the local farm stand to the car, to our front porch and up the steps. We arranged them and we talk about not carving them up for Jack-O-Lanterns. “Why?” he asks. He is sweating in his blue winter jacket. He wears the jacket because of heavy, cold October rain, but the weather is fickle. With the great exertion of dragging the pumpkins, the jacket is too much. But he must keep the jacket on. If the jacket comes off  too soon, he will catch cold. If the jacket stays on, he will sweat too much and with one stiff breeze, he will catch cold. Either way. We go indoors.

“Why aren’t we carving Jack-O-Lanterns?” The little one persists. I respond, “The pumpkins are appropriate for the month of October and for Halloween, and if they are not carved they can stay on the porch all the way through November and Thanksgiving because pumpkins represent harvest and this way I get two months use out of them”. “Oh”, he says. He is still at the point in his little life where a complicated answer makes sense.

He is focused on pumpkins. After Thanksgiving, he starts noting all the people in our development who keep Jack-O-Lanterns on their porches including those who have committed the ultimate crime of combining Halloween and Christmas lights. He is enthusiastic with condemnation.  “November 1st…goodbye Halloween” he states firmly. I train him well.

We hear the plow making a second round and another neighbor is snow blowing the driveway; the sound of forced driving snow whips vaguely in the near distance. On this last day of the old year, my husband bundles up again and leaves the house to purchase ingredients for pasteles and alcapurrias; Puerto Rican celebratory food. The house is silent as I sit and think. The furnace surges. There are a thousand things to do as we prepare to ring in the New Year with food from the island, and mysterious tracks in the snow and the memory of harvest and mud and orange.

It is a new moon. We stand out in the backyard, minutes before it darkens and there are a thousand geese flying over us. They are everywhere; honking, swooping, knitting together a series of large “V” formations. They soar and dip and the “V” dips and bends and shapes and re-shapes and closes and opens and then they are directly over us, dotting the slate gray sky. I hold a newspaper over my head just in case. In seconds, they are over the house and heading off in another direction. They are gone and it is silent. It is time to go back into the house.

I ride the wave, the tsunami of 1,300 souls into the school building and I am swept up in the energy. Children are everywhere. My little one spots me in that vast sea of people. “I drunk my pills. I drunk my pills”, he shrieks with his smile stretched tightly between his cheeks. He asks if he can come with me today. I assent and he gives me an aggressive hug and we part ways in the middle of the hallway. He heads off to the stairwell toward the first grade wing and I slowly climb the 44 stairs to my office; 16, 6, turn the corner, 11 and 11. I counted these stairs my first year of teaching because I wanted to know what I was up against. I hide away on the third floor where I sit quietly, drink a cup of hot tea and gather my thoughts. I recover from riding the wave of souls.

“Tomorrow my dad gets out of jail. He gonna be free”. I ask simply, “What will you do to celebrate?” “I’m gonna hug him”. The other child chimes in, “…my other daddy, he’s not getting out yet”. “How long?” I ask. “Oh…50 days, I’ll be 18.” The little one’s sense of time is convoluted at best. They sit together for awhile playing with some Legos they brought out when they came to see me. They are building guns. They are not my students but I  work them into my group in order to give them some stability, to give the classroom teachers some peace and since they don’t bother my other students, we have somewhat of a truce declared in this corner of the hallway.

“My teacher don’t like me”, the one offers. “How do you know your teacher doesn’t like you?” He moves some of the blocks around the table in a circle. “She yells all the time. People who yell don’t like each other”. I am silent for a moment. Then I offer this thought, “I don’t have yelling in my house”. They both look at me silently. “My dad yells”, he continues. I respond, “But I thought he was in jail”. “He is in jail, but he yells at me on the phone. They have phones in jail”. He looks at me as if I were slow.

I hear the sound of a classroom door opening. I look up. A little head pops out, looks furtively from side to side…and then she bolts. Skinny with bare legs and knee high boots, she races click clack, click clack down the hall toward the cafeteria. She disappears around the corner. She is our daily runner. The going gets tough after breakfast and she has learned to run. All appropriate phone calls are made. Security is alerted. The hall is quiet for awhile. My two go back to building guns and then I think I should intervene. “Let’s not build guns”, I suggest. “Let’s make pies! Look at all the colors we have”. I start to take the guns apart and I begin to pile my pies. The two watch. They are not yet convinced. “The green ones are apple. The purple are grape pies. We have pumpkin, blueberry, lemon, vanilla cream, cherry, chocolate, fudge, key lime and strawberry. Look at all the pies we have, boys!” I am determined to beat swords into pie at this point in the morning. The boys are convinced and begin to talk about what type of pie is their favorite. We agree that grape is too sweet.

I hear the click of the heavy door behind me and as I turn, our little runner re-surfaces. I smile at her and say, “Oh, there you are. You know everyone is looking for you”. She gives no answer and there is no facial expression as she pulls open the other door and begins the circuit again…heading click clack, click clack down the hall toward the cafeteria. She’s good at evading security; quite a skill at age 6. We go on building pies and my “real” students keep busy at their work. A door opens again and a teacher sticks her head out the door. She looks at me and asks, “Have you seen so and so?” I nod and point in the direction of the cafeteria. All systems are alerted again. Eventually the child is returned to the classroom and when the teacher questions an administrator what they would suggest she do now, she receives the answer that she should try “being firm”. That should do it.

On my ride home in the evening I watch the sky darkening from striated blues to copper and then to gray and I see geese. I listen to the local NPR station and hear that the Rochester City School District is holding a large teacher recruitment job fair on Saturday. There will be “on the spot hires” for those who qualify, which I find to be rather strange until I learn that the district is still trying to fill unfilled positions for THIS school year. The reporter drones on. Apparently the district is looking for “mission driven” individuals.

I thank God for the clear, open fields with the lone harvester pulling up the last of the dried copper field corn. I am focused on pie and on Thanksgiving and on the ordering of my private world.

 

I awaken excruciatingly early. In the first shades of pitch and early dawn, I listen. What is it? I lie cautiously; immobile and attending with all my might. The neighborhood sleeps silently under a full moon while October holds her cards tightly to her person. Unblinking.

There it is again; a lush and gentle whooshing sound; the bending and opening of long dormant vents and suddenly the furnace turns on. I stretch and address the presence in the room, “Hello, my old friend, my sound and fury”. She is returned and rested; content with creaking and cracking as chilled summer nails warm up in corners and along eaves. The bedroom carpet puffs and the edging of curtains billow gently.

In minutes, the house feels more intimate and she settles and rests in the company of an old ally. There are old conversations to start over and colder days ahead. The memory of mulled cider, pots of chili with hot buttered biscuits and the sound of grinding coffee beans lies deep in the walls. There is much to be discussed.

As I drive off into pure black and cold air, I look in my rear view mirror at the house; at the roof covered with frost. It is blanketed with the finest layer of honey and coriander seed; lacy manna from Heaven and the foolish birds will attempt to feast when the sun rises. The shingles underneath will disappoint sorely. There will be loud cries overhead as the roof bids farewell to those who would nest and feast.

It is a fine 37 degrees and in the end it will turn out to be a sunny day. But for now, at this hour, steam rises off the flat and swampy waters at the edge of the woods. The fields are caramelized and crispy. The trees explode with leaves, heavy with colors and lingering mere hours away from dropping everything to stretch out into naked and branchy cinnamon air. There is no one around as I cross Frost road and I nod to the quiet deer watching at the edge of the shorn field.

 

He came to school on September 29th. He came to school for the FIRST time, last Friday…September 29th. Where had he been? He shrugged his shoulders and said something about school supplies and day care. What was done was done and the plain truth was that he missed the entire first month of school and there was nothing to do but to start his education on September 29th..

He told me he disliked loud music. He sat at the edge of my desk and I watched him working on writing the numbers 1 to 10 on a worksheet and I asked him, “Do you like loud music?”  “No,” he answered immediately. I sat for a minute thinking. Then I asked him, “Do you like quiet music?” “Yes,” he responded and continued to work diligently. I opened up my laptop and told him I was going to play some quiet music while he wrote. He looked skeptical.

Mozart streamed gently over the room and we both sat comfortably at the desk. I drank apple caramel tea and was lost in my own thoughts. He got up to get a box of crayons and sat back down. The music was still playing and suddenly he looked up and asked, “Hey, do you know Melvin?” “No, I don’t know Melvin. Who’s Melvin?” He looked at me and said, “He’s the stinky one”. He waved his small hand in front of his nose. “Is Melvin in your class?” He shook his head vehemently and said, “No, he’s the one who asks for food and monies but we don’t give him a thing…only one sometimes…it’s a waste of money”. I asked, “Did your Mom say it was a waste of money?” He kept coloring and said, “My sister says he doesn’t stink but he does”. I thought about this for a bit.

“Do you see Melvin every day?” He shook his head yes and stated, “He says funny things. He don’t sleep…I don’t even know where he sleeps”. I tried again, “How does he talk? How does he speak to you?” The child held up two fingers. I said, “Melvin speaks two languages? He talks to you in English and Spanish?” He nodded. I sat envisioning an English speaking Melvin. I considered a Spanish speaking Melvin. I asked the boy what street he lived on but he did not know. The conversation ended.

I checked the calendar later in the day and noted it was a full  moon. A full moon loosens the tongues and behaviors of students. I can’t prove this but I know that it is true. It’s as certain as the opal orb hanging heavily over the city, stretching out toward the horse farms and pink copper colored maple trees and the suburban corner where I reside. I look out the window and it’s just me and Mozart and the boy with the bright box of crayons and this strange interloper…Melvin.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s been six years since I met my husband; six years since we agreed by phone to meet for the first time at a local restaurant. I drove out of the city that Friday evening and lumbered along the length of Jefferson Road in my Jeep, thinking about how dinner might go. My thoughts scattered.

We made first contact in the parking lot on a crisp, rapidly cooling evening with the sky layered in darkening pinks, cold grays and winter whites. It was the final day in September and I carried a black and white checked coat over my arm.

I was surprised. His voice from our phone conversations did not match this man in the parking lot; this flesh and blood person leaning casually with folded arms on the backside of his car. On the phone, he sounded older and more cautious; careful with words and given to long pauses in between thoughts. This man with salt and pepper hair and legs loosely crossed over each other was younger than I imagined,  leaner than expected and wore a grin on his face;  subtle traces of island heritages finely lining brow and skin tone. He wore a black shirt and charcoal jeans. He strode slowly toward me as I got out of the Jeep, reached out his hand and introduced himself. I noticed I was about one to two inches taller than he was. I adjusted the black leather bag over my left shoulder and moved the black and white checked coat to my left arm so I could shake his hand.

I don’t remember much of the opening conversation; the cooling air and the swift darkness covered my shoulders and throat and we both remarked on how chilly it was. We moved closer to his car and he said he had something for me. Lying on the cloth car seat were a dozen pink roses and a manila folder. The flowers were lovely and ever since then, September is no longer lathered in pumpkins and yellows, rather she is bathed in pinks and greens and air thin tissue paper; fragile to the touch, brilliant to the eyes.

The manila folder contained papers; his license, his birth certificate, a certificate of ministerial ordination, proof of undergraduate work at a local college, other papers indicating a clear and free path toward a serious relationship. I opened the folder and thumbed through things, shifting my coat from one arm to the other while thanking him for the roses. He said simply, “These are papers which let you know that I am who I have told you I am. I know how you white people are”.

I am forever surprised at how thin the edge of life’s dime can be; finer than tissue paper, more fragile than a single rose petal; a wispy turn to the left or right in which a lifetime changes.  In the split second of inhaled breath, words wound or heal, direct or scatter, irritate or calm and sometimes there are no words, only laughter. I heard him and I laughed and laughed and laughed. On the razor’s edge of that dime, I summed up more than four decades of my life and said to him, “You are right”.

He sat to the left of me in the restaurant instead of across the table. Eating was uncomfortable for me because I strained to turn left to look at him as we spoke. He did not seem to mind. After a heavy meal; pasta and sauces, salads and bread and wine, we moved to ice cream across the street at a different restaurant. Around midnight, I indicated it was time to go home and he asked whether or not I felt safe returning to the city by myself. I did and he bade me good evening.

That was on the 30th of September, 2011. I married him at the courthouse downtown on the 27th of October, 2011. My moment of hesitation came only when I looked at the name change option on the document we filled out. I felt tremulous and steady; clear and muddied; surprised and relaxed.

It’s been six years and a lifetime. We live well. We live clearly and we live on balanced ground. It was as simple as coming home at the end of a long day to a pair of well worn slippers, a warm fire, and the promise of the beginning of an excellent book. I have read the preface, some commentary and some endnotes. I am now turning the real pages.

 

My name is Jeanette. I am starting this journal at the end of August. I don’t know why I waited until the end of the summer. The heat we so longed for in June and July, has finally begun in earnest and we are all sweating it out. Everyone has a summer mindset and school starts in a week!

This journal is not my first one. I started journaling when I was twelve years old, so perhaps one can imagine how many burgeoning boxes and drawers of these things I collected over time. The first journal, given to me on my 12th birthday, was a burgundy hardcover with gold embossed print on the cover. I took that one to Europe in the summer of 1976. I used a pencil for quite a bit of my writing and now certain pages are difficult to read.

We missed the bicentennial celebration that summer and I have always thought that was just plain old bad planning. We spent July 4th in a hotel room in France and I wrote about missing that great national shindig as I sat on the bed in the room watching French television. I remember that by the end of our trip, we as a family made up our minds about the French. We did not like them.

I still laugh when I remember the joke I heard years later about going to war with the French. It went something like this. “Forgetting to take the French to war (as an ally) is similar to forgetting to take one’s accordion to war”. My father in particular was greatly amused by the joke. He experienced the brunt of French abuse during the trip because he paid the bills and spoke to cranky hotel managers when he could not understand them and they could not understand him.

But that was all so long ago and now I have a new journal and I think I may even feel slightly different about the French. Maybe. This journal is beige Spanish leather with a lovely raised pattern swirling all over it. It doesn’t close like a regular book. The two flaps tuck together and the one flap has a long attached leather string like a shoe lace. Once the flaps are folded over each other, the lace wraps all around the book and it can be tied shut. It looks like a neat and beautiful package all ready to be dropped in the post.

I love opening the first page of a journal. The empty pages beg to be filled and I always feel I get to start afresh. I start new journals on my birthday, New Year’s Day, Easter Sunday, at the beginning of a new month and often on a Monday; whichever date makes me feel the best.

School starts in a week and I suspect that the new year will once again fill up with all the things which make us crazy. Our school district is like a police officer running pell-mell past the bank robbery to catch somebody who is jay walking. After twenty years, I should know.

I would like this year to be different. I don’t think that the district will change. I want to change. So, I am writing in another journal because I want to become an agent. I want to be an agent of information; someone who writes about joy and pathos, change and consistency, truth and deception, distrust and hope. I want to find that brownie on the bookshelf; that unexpected pocket of joy. I would also like to point out that pedestrian walkways in the middle of a busy street are not a good idea. Depending on the mercy of others, a single plastic sign, painted lines on the road and ineffectual laws, while observing the general condition of humanity is just plain dumb. There. That’s all I have for today, dear Journal. Careful crossing Main Street!