New Jersey 2, or Almost Gone

Last night, I had the very last show of the Wandering Jew Tour. It was at the Tenafly public library, amid a crowd that included: an aunt, two family friends, three of my middle and high school teachers, some folks from the senior center where my grandparents play bridge, and a few library patrons. It was as perfect an end as I could've asked for. They beamed at me, this patchwork community that represented many parts of my life. About halfway through, I realized my aunt was right: I do need to write a poem to my teachers. I realized I was performing almost solely to them, these three women, all of whom believed in me so much - even when I was a sixth grader who hated biology, or a cocky senior spouting European history. It felt right to come back to them, to say "Hey, remember me? Look what I can do now!"

The bag is nearly packed. I can't find one of my socks. Tonight, I won't be going home. There is no home. I'll spend the next month couch-surfing in Seattle and trying to find just the right spot to begin the next chapter.

But there will be Secret Agent Lover Man, and his smile, and his one good arm, and for tonight, that's more than enough.

New Jersey 1, or The Important Things

Skiing. I say it now, and I know so many of my friends think: wealth. Richies. New Yorkers who come up to Vermont and New Hampshire and Quebec in their flashy outfits and latest gadgets and pay exorbitant prices to be shuttled up and down the mountains. Mountains which have been bulldozed and carved into a giant group of trails; the perfect playground for the class that doesn't care.

This is not what skiing means to my grandfather, and by proxy, to anyone in my family. When I was five, six, seven years old, I whined my way through the process of buckling and strapping myself into kiddie-sized ski boots while the adults around me said Remember when Paps had to lace us all into our boots because nobody was strong enough to pull those things tight?

When Paps learned to ski, his mother taught him how to strap his skis to his back before starting the hike up the mountain they'd later ski down. Wooden things, now museum pieces, or ski lodge decorations, they boggle the mind. How in the world did one manage - no real bindings, no technical advances, no trails?

Somehow they did - they spent half the day hiking up the mountain, and the other half skiing down it, stopping for lunch and snacks, and what would later be known in my family as CITP - Chocolate In The Pocket. It imbued my grandfather with a love and respect for mountains that would lead him to teach his wife, children, children's husbands, and grandchildren how to ski, how to carve their own paths.

He stopped skiing about a decade ago, shortly after his senior citizen's entitlement to free skiing took effect, but my memories of him on the mountain are clear: tanned, windblown, and whistling. Often, as he passed me on our way down the slope, I could catch snippets of songs from other countries. My mother says it's a good way to keep your breathing regular, and she too, whistles her way down. I've picked up the habit myself, though I'm more inclined to sing.

So it's no surprise to me when, at dinner, having just announced that my book will not, in fact, be published by Six Gallery Press, because I am voluntarily ending the process before any more unprofessional behavior, stalling and heartache can occur, I am thinking of the most important things in my life. My grandfather is using this opportunity to grill me about the rest of my life plans, and I am starting to wash the dishes in an attempt to distract myself from the embarrassment.

He wants to know if writing is really something I can make a career of. He doesn't ask it like that, but I sense that's the heart of things. What can be learned from this experience with my awful publisher? How can I begin to see things for what they are instead of what I want them to be? Do I just want to believe I can make a living being a writer, or am I only seeing what I want to be instead of what I can be?

And I hear you asking: what the hell does any of this have to do with skiing?

I ask him a question that I ask myself occasionally. If the rest of the world disappeared, and no one was left watching, what would you still do?

When I ask myself this question, I always get two firm answers: writing, and a little bit of singing. I wouldn't cook the way I do for other people. I wouldn't make interesting clothes for myself, or do push-ups or go hiking.

For Paps, I have to make some allowances. Okay, so let's assume you're forty years younger and you can still do everything you've ever loved to do - hike, travel, ski, listen to music, make music, whatever.

He thinks about it and says he thinks - if really nothing were left but the snowy mountains, Dandoo, I'd probably go skiing.

I nod as I keep doing the dishes. I'm so distracted that I start scrubbing the cast iron pan with a soapy sponge.

Mammy announces: I already lost everything once. And all I did was keep trying to live.

It's a fair point; neither Paps nor I has ever had to actually contend with my scenario of "nobody watching." Mammy's come closer than either of us.

And? I ask her. What kept you going? What made you want to stay alive?

I was too young to die, she shrugs. And I loved my husband.

I think about that for a minute, and then turn again towards Paps. Here's the thing: writing isn't a hobby. It can't be a hobby, it'd take up too much time. It's just what I do. And if I have to spend the rest of my life cobbling together jobs and figuring out how to make it work, then that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.

He considers this, then offers.

But, Dandoo? If everyone disappeared, I'd probably go skiing. But I don't think I would whistle.

Vermont 1, or Notes from the Crappy Updater Monkey

Coming home – yes, home, to a place I don’t and have never lived, except here is Dad, in the car, and isn’t that home? Here is Mom, showing me her sourdough starter and asking my advice, though I haven’t made a loaf in months. Here are all the pictures of me, and us, when we were young enough to ignore a camera.

And here is the small coffee shop gig full of family, people who’ve watched me grow from the sidelines of family reunions and college breakfasts and visits to the neighbors. Here is the copy of my new chapbook I left for my parents, the poem with too much sex shyly torn out.

Here are the friends from college, together and joyous, going to see our very favorite band in a small underground venue and singing our way back to my parents’ house. Here we are, up till four when everyone’s got places to be in the morning. Here we are, singing down our bones. Here is my delighted mother, my friends’ joy reflected in her morning face; how sweet these young women, come to fill her house with giggling.

Here is Northampton, my homeland, the place I could feel right even if everyone I loved left. Here is the picnic we had, four hours on the one sunny day all week, just warm enough to sit outside and eat Hungry Ghost rosemary bread with salami and cheese and cookies. Here are my loves, from (literally!) birth through last year, stopping by to say hello and exchange hugs, the headlines of the last few years.

Here is the college, the building I hadn’t stepped foot in since my last final exam. Here are my professors in the lecture hall, and around the dinner table, talking science fiction and Shakespeare and poetry.

I’m showing it all to you, because this is how my Secret Agent Lover Man saw, or might’ve seen it, when he landed in Boston and joined me for a week of touring.

Here is the train slowly leaving Brattleboro, and the man holding the pink-coated baby, who is waving to the train like she’s sad to see us go. Here is my whining heart, a homesick calfling who smells her meadow. Here are promises, whispered to Amherst’s brick and clapboard houses, kisses blown down the road to a future where this is really home again.