Seattle 80, or Whirligig

"Allemand left. Now ladies' chain. Left-hand star. Back to the right. Actives down and back. Cast off. Everybody swing!"

Couples turned in circles, skirts rippling. Brent stared. It was a human whirligig, set in motion by music instead of wind. He sank into a chair and watched dance after dance. Suddenly, a young woman rushed up to him.

"We need one more couple." She held out her hands.

To his great amazement, he agreed. A few people clapped when he got to his feet. As before, the caller walked them through the dance slowly, without any music. Brent now recognized some of the steps. Knowing hands turned him left instead of right and pointed him toward the proper partner. Then the music started up at full speed and the dancers, like clock parts, began to turn. Arms reached for his. Faces whizzed past. He was instantly enmeshed with the others. Wordlessly, they corrected him, adjusted his grip, smiled at him. He'd always been gawky. this hadn't changed. But the pattern of steps, repeated over and over, slowly began to sink in. the galloping tune had an Irish feel. It was exalting to be part of the twining and twirling, and strangely thrilling to touch other hands an to feel them grasping his. He felt like a bee returning to the hive, greeted and accepted by all."

~excerpt from Whirligig, a novel by Paul Fleischman

Tonight, I went dancing for the first time in a very long time. I was needing contact, needing to feel the familiar steps, the comfort of that hive of motion. And it just so happened that my favorite dance band was playing in town. My knee, completely healed, did not complain once.

Here's why I love contra: it's restrictive, prescribed movements leave so much room for variation. You can tell everything about a dancer by what they do in the moments between movements. Do they wait? Bounce their knees rhythmically? Fit in an extra twirl or two? (That's my standard.) Your personal variations in the dance become your mode of communication - does your hand sink a little lower than the standard spot on your partner's back? If so, you're probably flirting, or just really short. Do you twirl your partner when your partner is expected to twirl you? You're flirting, or showing off, or both. Mastering the dance to the point where you can play between the lines is like learning to write poetry in a foreign language - you make it your own, despite the fact that a guy with a microphone is calling out each next step.

It was a good dance, full of experienced contra folks who had come out to see the special traveling band. As I passed through dozens of bodies, skirt whirling, I grinned like an idiot, showing off and flirting for all I was worth - an extra beat of eye contact, grabbing another woman's hand to twirl her in a spare moment, taking an unexpected lead with a male partner, switching places - all of these things, to show belonging. Contra dances are the same everywhere - Greenfield, Massachusetts, Seattle, Washington. Hell, they're probably the same in Nebraska.

The last bus left before the dance was over, but I wasn't worried - I know dance folks, and they're kind and generous. I wasn't disappointed - two women offered me, the new girl with the nice skirt, a ride home. They didn't even know how far they'd have to drive me, and they offered. My dancing told them everything they needed to know - I might come from somewhere else, but I'm a dancer. I'm one of them.

Now, everybody, swing.

Seattle 79, or Jabberwocky

Last night, two houses hosted Shabbat - a sushi-making party for the young'uns at Aleph, and a more casual standard Shabbes at Gimel. I hopped between the two, snagging a salmon, albacore, avocado and tofu roll, leading Kiddush, meeting new people and snuggling on Aleph's couch, then heading for Gimel, with its small, quiet crowd of regulars. We immediately went for the couches and rocking chairs by the fire, and sat, as grownups do.

As I felt myself getting sleepy, I curled my feet next to Asya, rested my head on the end of the couch and asked, "Joel? I'm in the mood for a bedtime story. Can you recite Jabberwocky for me?"

Last month at the open mic, Debs read a story involving the famous nonsense poem, and Joel had let slip that he knew the whole thing by heart - it was his bedtime story for years. I knew he'd tell it well, probably just as it had been told to him.

" 'Twas brillig," he began, eyes alight and eyebrows bouncing,
"and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe."

Then, rocking his chair forward, and causing it to emit a loud creaking, he put his face close to mine, but looked out at Debs, who was mouthing the words along with him. As he recited the next section, she got up from her chair and began to mime,

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

We had to stop for a minute and laugh at Debs, who was making claws of her hands and angling them at Joel and me. But then Joel continued, and Asya made her appearance into the mime:

"He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! and through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back."

Debs fell on the floor with her legs in the air, and pulled her sweater over her face to mime her execution. Asya galloped around the coffee table triumphantly, sword raised over her head, imaginary head tucked under her arm. I cracked up, but kept my eyes on Joel for the triumphant stanza, which Debs and I recited with him:

"And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy."

And as the room quieted, Joel went back for the repetition of the first verse, just as quietly as it had come,

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe."

The assembled crowd broke into applause, and Asya and Deb bowed. Joel pensively scratched his chin and wondered aloud, "Do I still know the Walrus and the Carpenter?"

Immediately, Deb (not Debs) and I recited,

"The Time Has Come, the walrus said,
To Talk of Many Things -
Of Shoes, and Ships
And Sealing-Wax
and Cabbages and Kings
and Why The Sea is Boiling Hot
And Whether the Pigs Have Wings!"

Then Asya recited the Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock (Eliot), I followed up with one of Shakespeare's sonnets, and a slam poem (not my own). There was some kind of magic in the room, generated by a group of generally overeducated and underemployed intellectuals who really, sometimes, need to forego the intense politicking of Kibbutz life and just...tell bedtime stories.

Seattle 78, or Tomatillos

Ilana brings in the haul of tomatillos from the garden - two mixing bowls, filled over the top with tiny green balls in papery skins. She leaves them on the table with an invisible note. I imagine the note says something like this, "I grew these things from six seeds sprouting on the windowsill at our old house, and now they've taken over the garden and y'all had better do something with them."

I knock on her door. "Has someone claimed the tomatillos yet?"
She answers, "Sergey was planning to make salsa tonight."

I head out to the store, buy bunches of cilantro, a bag of limes. Garlic, we have. Sergey has a jar of habanero peppers. That's pretty much all you need.

Sergey and I start by ourselves in the kitchen, peeling, washing, chopping. We listen to music from all over the world, talk about life, kibbutz politics. Faced with far more tomatillos than I can imagine, I throw a panful in the oven to roast. I make the first batch - a rich, verdant green, thick with cilantro, and spicy.

Ilana comes in. She and Sergey light each other up - they get silly, comical, talking in thick Slavic accents and making jokes. I love hanging around them. The next batch goes in, similar to the first, but spicier. Ilana takes the roasted batch out of the oven, spears one juicy, pale green fruit with a fork and chews thoughtfully. They taste almost like apples, very sour, soft apples.

Deb comes home to find us all in the kitchen, and is delighted. She breaks out a bottle of cider, and we toast twice, three times, our togetherness, our jars of salsa lining up on the counter. She's got chips, too, so we pour some salsa in a bowl and dig in. For the next hour, we sing along with the blender, pure nonsense, laugh nonstop, and eat. At the end of the night, we have six jars - about seven pints, all around - lined up on the counter, in different shades of green. Some cooked, some raw, some with cilantro, some without. We've laughed enough to fill barrels.

(This isn't the best piece I've ever written here, but I just wanted to get this night down - when things are going to change dramatically in just two months, and then again, in another six - I want to have this in my back pocket.)

Seattle 77, or Parents' Weekend

Parents' Weekend

Before your arrival,
I stood on fault-legged kitchen chairs
and wobble-wiped the cobwebs
from the highest ceiling corners.

As I kneaded the dough,
I imagined crescent marks
in the crust:
a smile,
a bite.

I sat you at my simple table,
offered you tea, rosemary bread,
a tour of my life.

Like parents
faced with their child's offering,
you beamed at everything I showed you;
the California architecture,
the pebbled beaches
and small bursts of sun,
the stream of loudmouthed warmth
that came steady through
the open Shabbat doors.

Those smiles
were copies
of my earliest memories,
when I had nothing more to show you
than a tuft of hair,
a fist balled around your thumb.

Seattle 76, or Glee

Seattle 75, or Just an Ordinary Life

8am. The mist on 23rd Avenue is so thick I can only see the trees one at a time. Though it's not raining, I'm in my rubber boots. I carry a wicker basket under my left arm, which holds potatoes, eggs, my homemade salsa verde, my sharpest knife.

I'm heading up to make breakfast for Tamar and me. We've been trying to make study dates for weeks, but our schedules are wildly incompatible. This is the first one we've been able to come up with. The deal: I make breakfast, while she studies/teaches me whatever she's learning in nursing school. As I dice potatoes for hash browns, she tells me about the aftercare of tonsillectomies, and how strep throat can cause heart problems, if undiagnosed.

Joel comes in, sniffing hungrily. There's enough for three; we sit down together with bowls of eggs and potatoes. Tamar holds her bible-sized textbook in her lap and continues between bites. Joel opens his laptop and intersperses our conversation with news about the local elections, and what various kibbutzniks think of the latest programming idea. I chime in with medical anecdotes from my childhood, and plans for the week.

The kitchen smells like garlic and potatoes and olive oil. The big window is steamed up, and by the time Shaul thumps into the kitchen for yogurt, it feels like we've been sitting there a long time.

Seattle 74, or Fall Hits

The rains have come, as promised. They haven't stopped for two days. I wake and sleep to the sound of a torrential, endless drizzle. It's almost become background noise - almost. I am used to winter - snow, and ice and cold. I like the feeling of toughing it out, of feeling as though I've really *earned* spring, when it arrives. I like wrapping myself in layers, and fires and cider and cocoa. This seems too gentle, and yet too persistent.

I don't have a rain coat. The sixth-grader I tutor twice a week loaned me an umbrella to walk home with. I wear two wool sweaters. I carry sneakers to work, and walk in my rain boots. This makes me feel like a real Seattlelite. Only tourists wear raincoats, the natives say. Get used to being wet. It makes you clean. It makes you grateful.

Sergey and I drive to the farmer's market. The haul: kale, chard, cilantro, garlic, lemons, fresh eggs, a bag of carrots. I am dreaming of greens. The rain makes everything shine, look that much more tempting inside the fluttering tarp walls of the market. In my wool, I smell like a sheep. I love that smell. I buy a small bottle of spiced apple cider and drink it as I walk - it's like bottled apple pie, nutmeg, cinnamon, the apple flavor coming through like a trumpet.

Shabbat at house Aleph: lots of soup, salads, a collection of boots and dripping outerwear by the front door. Asya, the Yiddish culture professor with a sharp sense of humor, sings everything pronounced in Ashkenazi, and I can see the newcomers peeking down the table: who's this young woman singing like my grandfather? Joel reminds us to thank G-d and the unions for the weekend. He does that every week, before Kiddush. We go around the table and thank each other for being good housemates, for being each other's support. Shaul got a high score on his LSAT exam. There mazel tovs and kol hakavods across the table. It's not been the easiest few weeks for the kibbutz. There's hard, hard work coming. We take triumph where we can get it.

I've invited a friend over for a rich dinner of greens and potatoes, and I'm making salsa verde in the meantime. The tomatillos in the back yard are finally ripe. I've been waiting for them for a long time. In the Big Room, pop/dance music blasts as Steven and Zara get ready for the Moishe House Prom. They say they'll be happy if 10 people show up. People tend to stay in after such a big change in the weather.