Layers

The weekend before last, I went to a memorial service for a former student, a woman more than 30 years older than me who was in one of the first classes I taught 15 years ago and who took my class probably at least half a dozen times over the years. She was full of life, with a slightly kooky manner at times, well educated, long divorced, the mother of a much-loved daughter with cerebral palsy -- and one of the best writers I ever taught, though she rarely published her work. Her career before I met her was at the Library of Congress, where she headed the poetry program and, among other things, assisted the various poets laureate. Whenever I saw her name on a class list, it was like someone had surprised me with a plate of cupcakes.

You hear a lot of talk about how students need respect and encouragement, but not much about how teachers need it too. Nancy always gave me both, particularly in the beginning of my teaching career. She was a great booster -- by her enthusiastic presence, in notes and e-mails she wrote, voicemail messages she left, and gifts she gave me.

For some reason I can't find any of the notes I remember her writing me, but today I received an e-mail from another former student, who wrote:

". . . I did think very fondly of your class when I saw the memorial notice for Nancy -- someone I might not have appreciated as much (older woman, a little nuts) if you hadn't helped the class see how wonderful she was."

I found the word "nuts" harsh, though I suspect she didn't mean it that way. There was nothing nuts about Nancy. I don't remember specifically doing or saying anything to make anyone see how wonderful Nancy was (I thought it was evident), but it was nice to hear that someone got that.

At the memorial service, a friend of Nancy's read the following poem by Stanley Kunitz:

The Layers
I have walked through many lives,
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
"Live in the layers,
not on the litter."
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.

Whew

I have to admit it was comforting to read this quote from National Endowment for the Arts chairman Dana Gioia, an American Book Award-winning poet who announced he's stepping down from his NEA post early next year:

"I have done most of the things I set out to do. I really want to go back to writing. I haven't had time for my own writing. I write all the time for the NEA, official writing. Since I have become chairman, I have not published a poem."

It's hard to write when you have a demanding -- and, let's face it, often stimulating -- job. Sometimes it feels like I'm the only one who can't seem to manage it. Though I'm hardly an an American Book Award-winning writer and I don't exactly head a government agency with a multimillion-dollar budget.

Today I came off one of the most intense work deadlines in recent memory. I worked two 13-hour days in a row followed by a 12-hour day; on one of them the work was so relentless that I (1) forgot to vote and (2) missed a therapy appointment. On more than one occasion this week, I heard myself saying to a colleague, in the interest of calming the sea, "If I sound agitated right now, it has nothing to do with you." (On at least one occasion, it kind of did.)

But now that it's over, I have a satisfied feeling. I did some good work, and I'll have some good work to show for it.

Who Knows?

On Saturday, D and I drove up to the Philadelphia Folk Festival, where we enjoyed a wonderful evening of music by, among others, folk legends Tom Paxton, Janis Ian, and Judy Collins. At nearly 70, Judy still sounds fabulous. I've seen her at least three times before and have never been disappointed. Those like D who have followed her in real time for her whole career (he saw her in 1970), say that her voice has changed -- as I'm sure it has (I didn't start seeing her live till the mid-'90s). But it's still amazing. What could be a better lullaby than to be serenaded on a summer evening (albeit a surprisingly cold one) with "Who Knows Where the Time Goes" as sung by the voice with whom it's most associated?

Another highlight was not only enjoying a set by country singer Kathy Mattea, singing from her spare and haunting new album, Coal -- a collection of songs about coal mining (she's from West Virginia, and both of her grandfathers were miners) -- but also meeting her. She was very down to earth and genuine, as I think the picture here indicates.

Where to next?

Basta!

Here's a New York Times article by one of my favorite cookbook authors, Mark Bittman. It's about a vegetarian restaurant -- known for rich, luscious meatless food -- in Nice, France, called Zucca Magica. Of the two Italian owners, Bittman writes:

Ms. Bolmida is from Turin, and her husband, Mr. Folicaldi, is from Rome, where they met. Their vegetarianism evolved slowly. “When I was growing up,” Mr. Folicaldi said to me, in a combination of French, English and Italian, “we ate meat, meat and more meat.” To hear him tell it, he first became tired of eating it. Then he met Ms. Bolmida, and the two became self-described animal lovers. Finally, he says, “We said ‘basta!’ to trying to pretend the slices did not come from a nice little pig.”

With the article is a fun video of Bittman making a dish he learned at the restaurant, chard stuffed with risotto.

I haven't made that one yet, but I've already made this recipe (twice) that I heard on the radio show The Splendid Table on Saturday. I used haricots verts instead of asparagus. On the show the author, Sally Schneider, said you could make it with just about any base for the egg -- from vegetable to starch. Simple and delicious!

Wonderful Town

I wasn't sure I liked Provincetown on the first day I was here. I hadn't expected the crowds in the center of town or the jams of pedestrians, bicyclists, and cars on the narrow streets. But now I can't wait to come back. There actually is some mystical power to this place. There is plenty of quiet and beauty, and even the crowds are fun, though I think if I lived here (a fantasy that has already crossed my mind), I would probably get as sick of them as I do of the crowds in the center of the neighborhood where I live.

I've seen three celebrities on the street so far: him and him (who I see all the time on the street at home because he lives around the corner) and Lea Delaria. I shook her hand, and D. and I saw her perform that night. She has an engaging personality and an incredible singing voice (I saw her in Wonderful Town on Broadway five years ago), but her comedy is kind of a poor woman's Margaret Cho, in my opinion. It's an easy kind of humor -- counting on laughs by saying the word "fudge" in a gay resort town -- not especially sharp or wise. D., who has seen her show before, says she seemed to be concentrating more on her music than her comedy writing this time around (about half the show is music). And she's one of those people who are a pet peeve of mine, whether in performance or in daily life: those who laugh at their own jokes.

Me.

D. in my "beach cowboy" hat. It was meant to be his.

Good Things

We had a fun bike ride across Nantucket yesterday; we'd taken the ferry there for the day. It's a beautiful island, full of Martha Stewart houses and Martha Stewart people.

But we wondered what there is to do there if you don't have a bike. Play golf, I guess. Have cocktails. Buy a new tennis dress.

I much prefer Provincetown, with its eclectica of people, places, and things.

A view on the way down from the top of the Pilgrim Monument in Provincetown.

To My Parents

Seven years ago, I wrote an essay about my parents. I sought publication to no avail. Then my boss expressed interest in publishing it, and it sat languishing for years until it started to become outdated. Now that they're no longer living in their home of 50 years, it's completely outdated, so I withdrew it. I'm posting it here (without its title -- not the title of this post, by the way -- because I might also put it on my writing site under my own name).

*** *** ***

Almost every Saturday or Sunday afternoon I have tea with my parents. I come by to see how they’re doing and to help out around the house -- mow the lawn, bag leaves, solve a problem on my father’s computer. We might go for a walk around the neighborhood; often I do a crossword with my mother. But at some point, early in the afternoon or late, one of them will say, “Who’d like a cup of tea?”

The invitation is always theirs, though I sometimes do the actual brewing. Dad likes straightforward black tea, not even of especially high quality -- a store brand will do. If I’m making it, though, I’ll root around in the cupboard for some loose tea or Twinings bags -- usually left over from a Father’s Day or Christmas present. My siblings and I are always giving him what we consider good teas, but as a Cancer who came of age during the Depression, he’s both set in his ways and thrifty till the end.

I’m technically off caffeine, but a polite hello to my system now and then isn’t unwelcome, so I’ll usually have whatever Mom and Dad are drinking, even if it’s a steaming cup of U-Save brand. (I’ve been a vegetarian for several years, too, and it feels like a lot to ask of two people in their eighties to swear off meat and caffeine just because I’ve come calling.) If, say, I haven’t slept well for some reason and I’m worried about another wakeful night, I might make a separate pot of herbal for me and my mother. As long as there’s a wedge of lemon and a generous teaspoonful of honey, then chamomile or peppermint suits her just as well as Earl Grey.

I’m strictly a lemon man myself -- I like the tart balance to the usually sweet accompaniments -- but I’ve gotten in the lemon-and-honey habit when I’m over there. The way I look at it is: Mom offers me honey every time -- why not accept? Dad takes his tea with a spoonful of sugar. This surprised me; he used to drink it black, as he did his coffee for all the years he drank that. Come to think of it, Mom always had her coffee without sugar as well, just half-and-half. Does your craving for sweetness become greater the older you get?

I end up eating most of whatever Mom and Dad serve with the tea -- an inevitability they take into account when baking or shopping for this unspoken ritual. I don’t have an official standing date with them, and I occasionally miss a weekend visit entirely. At some point during those times -- whether I’m out of town, at the office, or busy with errands -- it’ll hit me with a flash that there’s a box of cookies on the counter or a tray of scones cooling by the stove in the house I grew up in.

These days Dad has taken on the role of provider of baked goods, and Mom is happy to let him: one week, donuts from Safeway or Danish from a nearby bakery; the next, homemade brownies or soda bread. Nothing fancy from his own hand -- no pies, tarts, or anything with multiple layers. The recipes he chooses are almost monastic in their simplicity. But they’re made with love, a convert’s curiosity, and the hope that someone else will be there to share them.

Dad started to help with the cooking when I was a teenager, but he never baked then. Mom did, and it’s from her that I inherit my own love of baking. Before I was even in school, I’d stand by her side measuring ingredients for spice cake, the page in the cookbook marked for easy reference with a sheet of wax paper; cornflake cookies, the dough so thick with cereal and oatmeal that it slowed the mixer to a whine; or banana bread, to be cut into moist slices and spread with cream cheese.

Today, if I’m bored or stressed out at the end of the day, I’ll more likely than not find my way into the kitchen to bake. It’s my first real skill -- learned before riding a bike, before swimming. As with most such skills, my first teacher is with me each time I practice it.

***
The bird feeder outside their kitchen window is crowded with sparrows, grackles, and the occasional mourning dove. When the birds land, seeds spray from the saucer like ice from a skater’s blade.

My parents and I talk about the birds -- conversations that, thanks to a change of seed, now actually are about the birds rather than the squirrels. We talk about the new people across the street, who sit out on their front lawn instead of their back, a habit that my parents are as appalled by as if the neighbors had strung a clothes line across the front porch. We talk about the crumbling playhouse from my siblings’ and my childhood; Mom would like to replace it even though it serves little purpose other than to store an old bike, random lumber, and broken furniture. We talk about phone calls from or visits by my two sisters and my brother -- about their kids, jobs, vacations -- and about the news of my own life: a wedding I attended, a high-school friend I ran into, what I made for dinner the night before last.

Sometimes we talk in circles -- Mom’s memory is fading -- and often I feel I have little of interest to say (“I gave away three bags of clothes to Goodwill last week!”), but I have to believe they’re glad for the company. I’m not as entertaining as I wish I were -- while there are smiles enough, it’s hard to remember the last time any of the three of us laughed outright. But when words fail -- at least interesting, fresh, unexpected words -- there’s always the tea.

Who’d like a second cup? Is this Red Zinger or Lemon Zinger? Help yourself to another slice of cake. The fear of spoiling one’s appetite for dinner, a concept I was raised on, vanishes for all three of us during the handful of hours I’m at their house. Is this what it’s like to be English?

I refill Mom’s cup and add more hot water to the pot while Dad replenishes the sweets. I’m welcome to perform some of the hosting duties, just as I’m allowed to let myself in with my own key without ringing the doorbell. My parents would never do either at my house, nor would I want them to. I suppose part of being a grown child on good terms with your parents is having full access to your home of origin, no questions asked. And part of being parents who respect their adult children must be to willingly wear the mantle of guest when visiting them. The reward, when the children come to their house, is to put on the more comfortable costume -- if only briefly -- of parents whose children never left.

***
I sit with them awhile longer, till the clock starts inching up on dinnertime. I’ve found no way to make my departure not seem abrupt. Even if I plant the seed before the fact -- “Well . . . I should think about going pretty soon” -- at some point I have to stand up and say goodbye. That moment always seems to come in the middle of something -- Mom and me struggling with the last, frustrating corner of the New York Times crossword or Dad pulling a book from the shelf to find a poem whose first (or fifth) line one of us saw quoted somewhere.

“You can take it with you,” he says, handing me the book.

Sometimes I politely turn him down, pleading too much reading I haven’t gotten to at home. More often I let myself see how badly he wants to give it to me -- confirm that I share one of his intellectual passions -- and I take it.

I walk to the front door, thanking them for the tea and the hospitality. Mom tells me to drive safely. If it’s dark by now, she might ask me to give a quick call when I get home, just to let them know all’s well. Neither of them drives at night anymore.

“Doesn’t driving in the dark bother you?” Mom often asks.

“Only if it’s an unfamiliar route,” I say. “But I could find my way home without any light at all.”