Swamp Song

An exuberant racket rises, croaks, and clatters from the swamp.  While doves nuzzle on overhanging limbs, offering a chorus of coos, their soft voices are bellowed to the background by the wood frogs’ song of seduction.  It is raucous and joyful, and in my relief and gratitude at the demise of this hard winter, I wish I, too, had an annual spring welcome to add to this swelling orchestra of Nature’s voices. 

Our fellow creatures have crept from hiding, out from under the porch floorboards, out from hollows in trees, out from clefts in the rocky ledge in the woods, and out from the sucking mud of the swamp.  To tide them over in this month still barren of food, many have turned to the bird feeder at the end of our yard.  Chipmunks, a portly raccoon, three deer, a coyote, a turkey, and a ground hog have sampled seeds shaken loose by greedy squirrels.

In my glee at these appearances, I remember snuggling with Casey and Tucker, reading Stephen Kellogg’s Tally Ho Pinkerton or Come Play with Me by Marie Hall Ets.  While over-brash hunters or impulsive little girls unsuccessfully sought elusive foxes or fawns, vigilant young readers could spot the animals hiding in the pictures.   “Where is the owl?” or “Can you see a cardinal?” I’d ask. While scanning the illustrations and hooting a triumphant “There it is!”  the kids learned to identify the creatures, and love them.

Dave, however, is muted in his enthusiasm at some of these wildlife sightings.  When lily and tulip shoots are sheared low by foraging animals at the hint of a bud, he growls, every year, his intention to get a BB gun.  This threat becomes a litany when we glimpse the groundhog’s annual litter of three soaking up sun on the large flat rock in the yard.  I beam and murmur, “they are too cute,” while Dave grumbles that it’s time for target practice.  No worries.  I know he’d never do it…although those seed-thieving squirrels might push him too far.

Rainy April nights present a particular challenge as the warm, wet roads compel swamp dwellers to creep forth onto asphalt with perilous results.  A drive home through roads cut through local bogs is a sad and frustrating obstacle course as one strives to swerve around tiny hopping bodies, some so small it’s hard to distinguish which are rain drops and which are frogs.

The other night, Dave drove and I acted as frog spotter as we neared home after dinner in Fairfield.  Dave did his best to dodge and weave as I winced at close calls and barked, “Watch it!  Careful!  There’s another one!”  In the path of the three-point back-up into our parking area, two frogs squatted, unmoving.  We waited a mite, hoping the bulge-eyed suitors would continue their pilgrimage to the sultry ladies in the pond across the street, but no.  So I climbed from the car, assuming a slight nudge would urge them along.  Again, no. 

When I was a child, I did plenty of friendly frog hunting.  In our neighborhood, there were woods and ponds to explore, and my sisters and I loved to tip toe through tickly reeds to pause, hands cupped and poised, ready to pounce on unsuspecting frogs.  Often, while swimming underwater in my aunt’s frigid spring-fed pool, we’d notice frogs swimming beside us, their bodies stretched long and sleek, thrust forward by those powerful hind legs and webbed toes. When we returned home from these forays with muddied hands and sloshing buckets, frogs, salamanders, or earthworms generally accompanied us, although their stay was brief, as Mom sent us out to free them as soon as she was aware of their presence.

But that was decades ago and I’ve not held a frog in years.  When these two travelers blocked the car and refused to budge, I slipped my hands gently under their soft bellies, one by one, and carried them to safety.  To a degree that surprised me, I was moved by the weight of those small lives, and the pulse of their heartbeats against my palms. 

How often, I wonder, do children gently hold frogs now?  Like so many other woods, those I roamed with my sisters as a child have since been bulldozed for homes and a ramp to the highway; many kids don’t have the easy exposure I did.   Phones and video games have replaced frogs in children’s hands, and I worry about the loss of connection and reverence for nature, without that sense of small bodies and the pulse of a heartbeat in one’s palm.

Sweet Ride

Dave clicked the button on the keys and the car’s lights flashed.  Suddenly, something bright materialized on the asphalt paving just beneath the two doors.    

“Whoa.  What’s that?  Was it there before?”

No. It was not.  This was a feature of our rental I have to think was greeted with hoots of appreciation as raucous as ours when some guy in a brainstorm session came up with the idea.   “Hey… What if? … Wait.  Let me think for a minute.  What if …a sprinting mustang is projected to light the way every time the driver unlocks the door?”

Totally cool.

Neither Dave nor I is particularly a car person; basically, we just want to get where we’re going. For twenty-five years of commuting, Dave has depended upon a rotating fleet of dependable, used Volvo “beach wagons,” as he calls them.  Those cars have been tanks, solid and safe.  Two years ago, I tearfully gave up my aging used Caravan after eleven years of faithful service.  Her replacement, my little Ford C-Max, has proved a worthy friend, chugging her way up snowy hills and easing me over icy roads during this long Connecticut winter.

For this spring’s Florida trip, however, the car-of-the-week sale model, cheaper than the Neons and Elantras which have transported us in the past, happened to be a bright yellow Mustang convertible.  “Like Bumblebee, the Transformer,” I noted.  An association that meant little to Dave, but for me, gave the car personality and the potential for unexpected powers. 

But a yellow car?  As a rule, I’m not a fan.  Convertibles?  Make me nervous.  “I’ll want a helmet,” I’d said to Dave when first he mentioned this possibility, my disappointing caution immediately dousing his boyish expression of glee.  But when the car glided to a stop in front of us at the Alamo tent in the parking lot outside Sarasota Airport, we turned to each other and grinned.  Oh yeah.

I did not mention to Dave that I have a history with Mustangs. 

In 1971, at 18, I was a late bloomer, and my first real boyfriend, Chip, invited me to go camping with him in Maine.  My mother was leery about the idea and I received several lectures on separate sleeping bags prior to my departure.  I was a little leery about the whole thing myself, to be honest, although I was not going to admit that to Mom.

I’d never gone camping.  Never spent an extended period of time with a boy.  Never climbed a mountain.  Never eaten freeze-dried food.  Chip had sent me a list of provisions to acquire, and as I stuffed my new backpack with thin foil containers of beef stroganoff and chicken a la king, my mind churned with misgivings.  

I remember only bits and snatches of that excursion: a lobster dinner by Lake Sebago, my exhaustion in climbing and hauling that pack, Chip’s humor and kind patience in encouraging the wilting flower his girlfriend turned out to be, the separate sleeping bags…and for a good part of the trip home, I drove his white Mustang.

Now, forty-four years later, I sit writing on a balcony above a palm tree–lined boulevard.  Across the street, an expansive white sand beach stretches along the shore of the Gulf’s blue waters.  My feet are propped on the wrought iron railing, my toenails freshly painted a tarty Goth eggplant/black shade.  It is so me.  Well, not really, but after a winter of snow, heavy clothes, and colorless toes, this brazen hue, the spring’s first polish, is as symbolic as shedding my wool coat.  Vacation-Lea has returned, and she’s so much more fun.

To my mind, a key element of a good get-away is car-avoidance.  A yellow Mustang convertible has not changed that.  An hour or so ago, when stomach rumbles prompted thoughts of lunch, I suggested a stroll to Tommy Bahamas, just around the corner.  But Dave had a hankering for tuna mixed with capers, celery, and mayo.

Seriously?  “But Honey, that would mean a trip to the grocery store,” I noted with a hint of a whine. 

He admonished me lightly for “yucking his yums,” a Casey-phrase which holds solid wisdom, I think, but why drive when one can walk?  Oh…

“You want to drive the Mustang,” I said. 

And there he is!  Just now!  Passing beneath the balcony!  The car’s top is down, and it’s brilliant yellow color is a gleaming statement of bold cheer.  With repeated, lasting, lusty honks; a smile I can see and feel from several floors up; and an arm upraised in a gesture that’s a salute as much as a wave, Vacation-Dave cruises by. 

Life is good.

  

A Tale of Two Sisters, One a Tad Tremulous

Dave muffled a dry hack of a cough in the crook of his arm when he and I met up with my sister, Rita, and her friend, Susie, at the Hilton Garden Hotel.  I doubt the girls noticed that he turned his face away as he gave them each a hug and, as for his pallor, well; he always looks gray in the winter.  Plus, Rita’s wound was far more dramatic than a cough.

Since we were kids, Rita’s been prone to accidents, and more importantly, famous for her bravery in their wake.  When she was two, she cut her little finger.  Sadly, I have to admit it was largely my fault.  Well, maybe all my fault.  We’d been making a pyramid out of empty Coke bottles on the kitchen floor, and she’d inched her finger into the neck of one of the green glass bottles where it stuck. 

“Break it,” I suggested.  At age three and a half, this made sense. 

She whacked the bottle on the floor, freed her finger, but bloodily, and spent the next few hours with Dr. Lamp.  Mom returned with tales of Rita’s courage, and how she peacefully hummed a tune while the doctor stitched her up.

That summer in Cape Cod, Rita and I joined a gang of kids in clambering up the remnants of an old wooden jetty and racing to its end to jump into the sand. Somehow, my sister slipped, and thirty-two splinters lodged in the bottoms of her feet.  A Coppertone-scented crowd gathered to watch as the lifeguard performed the extractions, announcing each, like a countdown, as Rita hummed a song. 

On another occasion, we were watching television.  Rita was in my way, so I gave her a push.  Just a little one.  But enough to send her tumbling into the TV, splitting her lip, and requiring another trip to the infamous Dr. Lamp.  Again, Mom came home, agog at my sister’s courage.

Two weeks ago, although weather forecasters cautioned us about black ice, my sister ran errands. As she stopped at a friend’s house to pick up a donation for the local hospital, she slipped on an ice patch…and broke her elbow.  I swear I had nothing to do with it.  I was in Connecticut, nowhere nearby.  She had surgery the next day, and had she not been under anesthesia, no doubt, she would have hummed. 

By the time Dave and I saw her in New York, only a thin sheath of fabric covered and protected her scar, so of course – we are sisters after all - we played show and tell, and eww: 30 staples, a metal track of cruel teeth, zipped the bruised and swollen skin together.  I witnessed no wincing, nor heard a single complaint; she was cheerful and jolly, excited to watch her boy play basketball.

For, on that Friday night, my nephew, Jared, was playing for the University of Rochester against NYU.   Jared is blond, handsome, athletic, and 6’7”, and despite dependable losses for his team whenever Dave and I attend his games, we were there to cheer him on.  Given our record – and our effect on his - he might not have been so excited about that.

The NYU gym was steamy, steamy enough to warrant a full peel of coats, gloves, scarves, and turtlenecks; I was down to jeans and the University of Rochester tee shirt Jared gave me for Christmas.  I wished I’d worn some snappy boots like every other woman in that gym, but no, in my aversion to cold, I’d chosen sensible footwear: my cozy, but ugly – one might say butt-ugly - brown hiking boots.  Plus, I noticed I was the only woman in that gym, except perhaps for a few aged grandmothers, who had not tucked her pants fashionably into knee-high boots.  Sigh.

I rarely feel envious of youth.  In a college setting, however, the contrast between the parade of sprightly hair-tossers with flawless skin and this wan 61–year old was brutally apparent.  There was so much energetic bouncing going on!  Balls on the court, and boobs under tight shirts as cheerleaders leapt to the top of a pyramid of friends, and pert young ones bounded lightly up the bleachers.  With my creaky knees and clunky shoes, every descent from my seat was an awkward, halting affair.

The game was terrifyingly close.  Rochester established a ten-point lead, but fell behind after half-time.  Our throats grew hoarse as we cheered for our boy and roared at the refs, who were intent on calling fouls on Jared while ignoring hideous abuses by NYU, or so it seemed to my nephew’s fan club.  Two points ahead, two behind.  Up again – Yay!  Down again, groan!  Jockeying, sprinting, all kinds of great passing, but why don’t they try for the basket more?  Argh!  And finally, whoo-HOO!  Rochester won!  62-60, with eight points by Jared.  Briefly, we met him in the field house foyer, and gave him triumphant hugs before he headed out to the bus with his teammates.

The next morning, after a hasty good-bye to Rita and Susie and a fitful night with a hacking cough, Dave was sick, his cold in full attack.  As he lay in bed, his face pale and sagging, his body heavy and limp, my mind flashed images of two empty seats at that night’s performance of “Jersey Boys” and the daunting prospect of our move – within hours – to a different hotel. 

Yes, this was a weekend of plentiful entertainments, or that had been the plan.  Last spring at a silent auction, we won tickets to Jersey Boys and a night at the Hotel Lucerne; for months, this date had been marked with capital letters and stars on my calendar.  I am a capable person, but of the Lea-and-Dave team, Dave is the navigator when we hit tricky waters, and New York City, even at its best, represents white water rapids to me.   As I listened to Dave’s snorflings and barks, I wondered, as I am wont to do in times of challenge, “What would a grown-up do?”

Obviously, the man needed medicine, and he said he might be able to nibble an orange and a plain bagel as well.  “Don’t worry, honey!” I said gamely, as I shrugged on my heavy coat, scarf, ear-warmers, and gloves, giving every appearance of a person comfortable with the idea of venturing out, alone, into the streets of the city. “I’ll be back shortly!”  I said as I blew him a kiss and closed the door of our room behind me.  

Okay.  Here I go.  Out on my own in New York. 

I took the elevator down to the lobby and the bright-eyed receptionist at the front desk.  We exchanged good-mornings, and I told her of Dave’s cold and asked if there was a CVS nearby.

“Let me check,” she said, tapping on her keyboard.  “Yes.  One mile away.  Will you walk or take the subway?” 

The subway!  As if.  “I’ll walk,” I said. 

“It’s frigid outside,” the girl said kindly.  “What do you need?  If it’s over-the-counter, there’s a pharmacy on the next block.”  And she told me about a convenient good bagel place too.  Easy!  What a revelation.  Ask for help…and people will help.

I can do this!

Buoyed by kindness happily given and the proximity of answers to Dave’s discomfort, I breezed through the automatic doors into …sunshine!  And brisk, fresh, air!  Into bustle, and life, and a sense of purpose! I turned to my right and spotted the huge green pharmacy sign, just as the receptionist had described.  Heart uplifted, I marched, humming - almost as brave as my little sister - toward that beacon.

                *                                  *                                  *

To reach the pharmacy, I had to cross a small park ringed with wrought iron railings and snow-dusted evergreen shrubs.  Oddly, some New Yorkers had thought this the ideal spot to dump their garbage, leaving a prominent pile of stuffed black plastic bags smack in the midst of a circle of benches. 

Just as I was forming nasty judgments, I realized the bags were bronze.  This was not garbage, but sculpture!  An intriguing contestant in the “What is art?” debate.

My friend Carey tells of attending an avant-garde art show, and her bemused wanderings from installation to installation, marveling at the…hm... shall we say obscure nature of some of the presentations.  Was she too shallow, she wondered, to properly appreciate the masterpiece that was a string stretched from floor to wall, affixed with a thumbtack?  Were others similarly dumbfounded or was it her failing alone?  Finally, a piece caught her eye.  Ah.  Perhaps in this – slatted metal emitting a rush of air – she could understand the message.  Intake and out-take.  Coming and going.  The very breath of life!  She was close to turning to another visitor to expound on her interpretation when she realized the piece was not art, but a heating vent.  A standard issue heating vent.  Not "an Installation," but installed, yes, to keep the building warm.  

I grinned in recalling Carey’s story, and as I neared the bronze, realized the piece before me was not what I’d thought either.  Often art is an unfolding tale, imparting different meanings to different people.  In this, I imagine, I’d reacted as the artist had intended, my perception shifting from garbage, to judgment, to sculpture, to… the unexpected.  I laughed aloud, for the “bags” were mounded, tied, and welded to form a giant teddy bear.  While the word “whimsical” annoys me, this bear was just that, in the best of ways.  And I beamed, for yet again, New York had surprised me, forcing that shift in perception, from daunting and distasteful to friendly and delightful. 

Susie, Lea, Jared, and Rita at NYU

  

A Beautiful Story

With one hand upraised, palm up, the woman burst into song.  Maybe she’d intended to give us a small sample of this traditional hymn from her native Puerto Rico, but the lyrics and its memories carried her from slow start to crescendo, and we all smiled as she continued to sing, wavering at the high notes, but finishing strong and proud.

Another woman, from Nicaragua, closed her eyes in bliss while reminiscing about the foods served at Christmas in her family home.  Then, a Nigerian woman, Taiwo, shimmied in her seat as she laughed with pleasure, emulating the dances she loved during the holidays in Africa.  Someone else, a lovely Mexican with cocoa skin and long black hair pulled back in a braid, spoke of the joys of family and friends celebrating together, then paused and said wistfully, “I miss my country.”

With my two students, Taiwo from Nigeria and Mary from Congo, I had joined the gathering for Mercy Learning Center’s (MLC) annual Holiday Tea.   Located in Bridgeport, MLC serves over 800 women with programs in life and computer skills, ESL, reading, math, writing, and GED training.  The center’s motto is: “Educate a woman…Educate a family.” 

As we sipped tea and nibbled Christmas cookies and sandwiches, Jane Ferreira, MLC’s director, encouraged the women to speak of the distinctive foods and traditions of their native lands…and then it was time to sing. 

With handouts to guide us, we launched into “Jingle Bells” with jaunty enthusiasm, winding up with a gratifying flourish.  Jane took a moment to review vocabulary -  “sleigh” and “bob-tail” - before indicating that the next song, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” was a very important song.  “Important?” I thought.  Hmm.  Not the word I’d use.  Annoying would be the word I’d use.  Across from me, Taiwo was nodding as she read the lyrics before her.  “This is a beautiful story,” she said. Beautiful?  Are we all talking about the same song?       

With Jane in the lead we sang in chorus, belting out the verses, and for once, I paid attention to the message.  Rudolph was different, and he was mocked for his shiny red nose.  The other reindeer resorted to the weapons of all bullies; they laughed at him and called him names.  But then came the moment when everything rested on that difference, and Rudolph’s shiny nose was the only way out of the fog.

Differences. They make us wonderfully unique, but separate us if we let them…and out there in the world, we have let them.   We need a way out of the fog.  Often, it is surface differences that cause discord, when at heart, there is far more that unites us: love of family and friends, music, dance, and a hope for peace and security.  At the MLC Holiday Tea, indeed, during the holidays themselves, the fog clears and those bonds shine through.   And that is a beautiful story.