grief

A Thousand Ways to Ruin a Wreath

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

My eldest and I were joking today about wreath-making. It was the annual Nature’s Wreath fund-raiser at the Pittsburgh Zoo. We go every year and — every year — we agonize over our wreath decorating. I was (secretly) absolutely delighted … Okay. Okay. Flattered beyond the power of speech is more accurate … when our long-time wreath mentor told me that (after 25 years of making wreaths), I’m starting to show real growth. I can’t even tell you how much that made me laugh.

Anyway, I was encouraging my son not to over-think his wreath design, told him there’s no wrong way to design it. And that’s when he looked up from his work, his green eyes bright with laughter, and said, “Maybe not, Mom, but there are a thousand ways to ruin a wreath.”

It’s the single best thing, you know. The time you spend with people. Let me amend that — the time that you are physically, mentally, and emotionally present with people. For years, I was required to vacation with my phone at the ready, with my laptop in my tent. I had to check email. I was chided for not responding quickly enough. I attended meetings while my children road rides at Universal Studios. I sat at a table in Dave & Busters on a call with a project manager while my son ate nachos and waited for me to play with him. I was not present.

Today, there were no conference calls separating me from family and friends. We laughed and teased and shared suggestions. We pranked each other by sneaking unexpected items onto wreaths and sang along to silly holiday tunes. We praised other participants’ wreaths and made terrible hot cocoa with boiling water and packets of Swiss Miss. We started the day with cheap diner food at a sticky table and stayed an extra hour talking. It was one of those spectacular small moments in our lives that are so easily missed, that cannot be recaptured.

When one of my kids asked what I want for Christmas, I said, “More of this. More time together. The gift of your presence.” I think, perhaps, nothing else matters.

Much love.

A Thousand Ways to Ruin a Wreath

The Last Red Leaf

Deb Zuroski, , , , 4 Comments

Okay, who shortened October and November? The last time I checked in, the leaves were beginning to flame and temperatures were dropping. Bad news: I was just outside. There’s one tree on the street yelling “I’m still gorgeous” with its bright red leaves while all of the surrounding plants have covered themselves in a shroud of gray silence to wait for spring.  

My pneumonia was confirmed – ground glass opacities in the lungs, in case you’re interested in the details. I’m better, still coughing but no longer struggling to inhale. When I go out, I make the occasional announcement – asthma, not covid – or wave my inhaler around if I happen to have a coughing spate. 

In fact, I’m feeling so healthy I had the opportunity to take my neighbor shopping. She wanted to go to Marshall’s but doesn’t like to drive on the highway. Since I’m soundly somewhere between her kids and grandkids age-wise, I have the pleasure of being her chauffeur. After shopping, she treated me to an iced tea and a bagel (and a little bag of biscotti to share). We sat for an hour and talked. I think she likes to go with me because I’m a new audience for her stories. She has led an amazing life and is an excellent storyteller so, honestly, I don’t mind.

Also, FINALLY, after eight weeks of coughing, I felt well enough to drive to Erie to see my not-my-aunt Ginny. She said that she thought I was mad at her since I haven’t been to see her in so long. She has cognitive decline, as I mentioned before, and thought my last visit had been before Christmas. I showed her our most recent selfie together. She didn’t remember, of course, but it made her feel better to know that I do usually visit regularly and that I wasn’t mad. (I don’t talk about illness because it just makes her fuss and worry.) 

The sad thing about her decline is that I can’t give her anything physical to comfort her because she loses the memory almost immediately after I leave. I visit her because I know it makes her happy in the moment and because someday it will be all I have left of her. And while that might sound melancholy, I really just mean it as a truth. All of us will one day exist only as a memory for someone else. 

Perhaps we should all work to make that memory a good one.

Much love.

The Last Red Leaf

Pink Tea and Aunt G

Deb Zuroski, , , 3 Comments

Hey. Hi. Hello. How have you been? Busy? Me too. Me too. My daughter and her roommate are currently living with me. I might have mentioned that they had a month to month lease and their landlord decided to boot them at the end of June. He may have been trying to force them into signing another lease but this here mom stepped in to offer them temporary housing since they’re both leaving the city at the end of summer. 

The house is, as a result, something of a mess. It’s actually catastrophically untidy because their home is inside my home. But my youngest son and I are enjoying the company (and the cooking). Even in my bedroom, I can hear my girls, as I’ve been thinking of them, laughing and chattering with their friends on facetime. We’re going to miss them when they leave. The dogs are going to go into a decline because they have never been so loved as they are right now, with so many available hands to pet them. 

Since all of the bedrooms are occupied, my three dogs are with people instead of kenneled in the guest room. Yes, there’s a mini-doxy sleeping with me. We both object to this, quite strongly. I have a king mattress so, because she is NOT a cuddler, she is sleeping on the cat’s side. Which the cat does not appreciate. The cat is protesting by sleeping at the foot of the bed. I’ve accidentally kicked her off twice when I stretch out in my sleep. In other words, things are going great. Right? On the other hand, the cat is absolutely thrilled by my daughter’s return to the house so I’ll likely eventually be forgiven for allowing the dog on the bed. 

To recap: Chaos is generally the order of the day but the house is also currently overflowing with joy. I’d exchange a calm, tidy house for a joyful one every single time without a moment’s hesitation. 

Working at the coffee shop – a frequent, but usually not constant, event – is now a daily necessity. My desk, a rescued antique roll-top, is not even reachable due to the current state of things. But writing in this big, open building is an absolute hoot. I like the energy level. The constant hum of conversation. The people-watching options. The outfit inspiration. 

A young person just walked by wearing a (very) colorful Hawaiian shirt with matching shorts. I’ve never seen an entire Hawaiian-shirt-themed outfit. It is fantastic and I mean that entirely unironically. I would love to wear that outfit. Many years ago, I attended a mandatory team-building overnight for work and the admin assistant tried to get us all to wear grass skirts and leis. (Her success was limited.) Perhaps things would have turned out differently if we’d all gotten to wear Hawaiian shirts and shorts? 

The main street in front of the coffee shop has been closed a lot recently – Jam on Walnut, Shadyside Sundays, Vintage Grand Prix, ShadySidewalk Sale. There were barricades set up to prevent driving and the lack of cars had the very unexpected effect of reducing the community stress. The space is obviously quieter without traffic. Pedestrians meandered. The coffee shop line was consistently out the door. And the weather cooperated, if you don’t mind heat that will cook your brains as you walk from sun to shade to sun. 

When I last drove to Erie, the weather up there was a little gloomy and cool. Not-my-Aunt G was having a less than stellar day. In a mental place that had no memories and no structure, she was sad and a little grumpy, as you’d expect of a person who isn’t entirely sure where they are. Because the weather in Pittsburgh was fantastic, I was wearing a linen dress – very casual, loose, summery – that she objected to strongly. Because, as usual, she thought I was a guy. She was worried for my safety since, as she told me, men wearing women’s clothing aren’t safe. 

Sometimes, people ask me why I visit since she doesn’t remember who I am. Here’s the thing, really two things – I don’t just visit for her. She’s been family to me for the literal entirety of my life. Just because she doesn’t remember me doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten her. Sure, it’s not always easy talking since we no longer have shared memories but I can FIND things to say. I ask her about a specific memory or talk to her about things that I know she used to value. She loves flowers so I’ve been keeping her updated on my pollinator garden. (She thinks I should plant more pink roses – her personal favorites. She tells me that every time I tell her about my garden.) Last week, I asked her what she wanted me to make for her dinner. We talked for an hour about what I should buy at the grocery store. We made a list. She found it very soothing because, she said, she never has any food in the refrigerator anymore. 

Also, even though she doesn’t remember me, she is always happy to see me. I usually arrive before lunch so I can escort her (aka push her wheelchair) to the dining room. We sit with three other women and talk. I often comment on the music – they have a rotating playlist of songs from each decade. The music is a great topic. All the residents have thoughts – and so do the staff. Luke, one of the staff, came over to talk about the music. He swore that Frank Sinatra would be playing soon and sure enough, when one of his songs finally came on, there was a resounding cry of “ole blue eyes.” 

Not-my-Aunt G introduced Luke as her boyfriend. I joked with him about that – scolded him for cheating on me – and he told me not to tell Elaine who eats in the other dining room because she also thinks he’s her boyfriend. Poor guy. 

Usually I bring my latest crochet project so I have something to do with my hands. Last week, in addition to the usual box of cookies from the bakery, I brought homemade strawberry pie that not-my-Aunt G had requested. She didn’t want it, though, wasn’t in the mood. And that’s okay. My mom’s recipe for strawberry pie – made with strawberry compote – is straight from angels. Believe me; it did not go to waste.

Have you seen the Barbie movie? If you haven’t, get your butt there! If you have, what did you think? I mean, beyond loving it with all the breath in your body, what did you think? My daughter and her roomie didn’t even notice a couple references that decimated me in the most accurate metaphorical sense. I can’t wait to see it again.

There is something wrong with the novel I finished writing last month. I can’t figure out what it is so I’ve put it aside. I’m going to have to read it again in a couple months, at which point I will hopefully have an epiphany about why it isn’t working. While that novel percolates, I’m writing my next story, a contemporary rom-com. My male protagonist is bisexual which means that I need to find a bisexual beta reader. Unfortunately, none of the bisexual men in my community are willing to read a romance – not even for ME. I know. I know. That’s crazy. But there it is. 

Like the letters I write to friends, this blog post has gotten too long. I’m going to cut it off mid-update. Picture me, sitting at the entrance to the coffee shop, sun shining on my sweating glass of pink hibiscus tea. My computer screen is shaded as I type and watch and type some more.

Stay safe in this increasingly foolish world.

Much love.

Pink Tea and Aunt G

To My Mother

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 1 Comment
Mom’s high school grad picture

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. 

You left us 26 years ago on a cold day in January. The 9th day to be specific. At the time, there were three grandbabies. You met all three though, I’m sorry if this hurts you, they never really knew you. 

Now there are six grandchildren – three boys and three girls. I talk and write about you but it’s not the same. Of course it isn’t. How could anything but your presence paint more than a rough portrait of you? 

I’ve told my daughter – almost 25 years old now – all about your sewing skills, your drawing ability, your fashion sense. She asks sometimes what you would think of something she made. Like the blankets she crocheted. I told her that my sister and I taught you to crochet when we learned in our Home Econ class in high school. 

Mom on her wedding day, 08/25/1956

You were always a quick study, learning new skills at will, though never giving yourself credit for the effort that takes. Instead, you beat yourself up your entire life for not going to college. I’m not even convinced that you wanted a college education, though you totally could have done it. I know that your mom wanted you to go to college, perhaps because that wasn’t an option for Grandma. 

My kids all know about your green thumb, Mom, about how you could get anything – except violets – to grow. Do you remember how I used to tease you because I could grow violets? I was so proud of being able to do something you couldn’t do. Having a special touch with violets made me feel 10 feet tall. Somehow, after leaving home, I completely lost my skill. I haven’t been able to keep a violet alive since I was 20 years old. Rather suspicious, don’t you think? 

You also taught me about secrets, though it may have been an unintended lesson. I’ve never met a better secret keeper than you. In truth, it’s unlikely I ever will. My children learned, instead, the danger of secrets. We are open books, thinking, perhaps, that talking is a better way of living. I don’t blame you. I doubt that there was any generation more emotionally unavailable than the children of two world wars (my grandparents). How could you possibly be open when your own parents were so stoic, so remarkably inaccessible?

I miss you every day, you know. When I pull out your cookbook or the recipes written in your elegant script, I think about what it was like to work in the kitchen with you. Your pies were the stuff of legend. No one who bought them from the many, many bake sales for school events and Girl Scouts ever knew how often you cried while you made the crust. No matter how much you fussed that you’d lost your touch, each crust was perfect, flaky and delicious. I’ve never – even using your recipe and your rolling pin – made a crust as good as yours. 

My eldest son has stood beside me – 5 inches taller with a full beard – to make pies just like you and I did. Strawberry, apple, rhubarb, key lime, lemon meringue – we’ve made them all. Do you remember how much you hated the graham cracker crust that we made for strawberry pie? You’d say, every time, that the graham cracker flavor was overbearing. And I say, every time I make one, that you never liked that graham cracker crust. What do you suppose my kids will say when they make strawberry pie in their own homes?

Sometimes, when I make a meal using a recipe that isn’t yours, I’ll look at your version just to remember, again, what it was like to sit in the kitchen doing homework while you and I talked. My kids don’t do homework on the kitchen table with the tablecloth rolled back. They work on laptop computers in their rooms. But they know, because I’ve told them, what it was like to sit there talking to you until Dad got home. How, if I was fast enough, I’d run to my room before he saw me and took a swing.

It’s not your fault, though. I get that you couldn’t figure out how to stop him, that you were protecting yourself too. I’m only a little mad at you for putting your own safety ahead of mine. I’d have put your safety first too, you know. If only you’d asked. You didn’t intend it but you taught me about my own strength. His hands hurt me so much less than they would have hurt you. I’m mostly at peace with it – well, with some of it anyway – and I hope you are too. 

You were never able to forgive yourself for any of your humanity – your flaws, your choices, your life. I hope you have found peace, wherever you are. One time, shortly before you died, my son held your finger and you said to him, “Remember me.” 

It was a lot to ask of him – barely 1 year old when you died. It was a lot to ask of me, too, really. Sometimes I feel like I was just an adult-in-training when you died; but I have kept you alive, in my own way, through my own memories. Perhaps that is enough.

Love you forever, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day.

Back row: My grandparents-C. Park and Marion Graves
Front row: Charles Park Graves, Jr, Mary Ann Graves Ainsworth (my mom), Patricia Graves Thorr, William Graves
To My Mother

A Scoop of Birthday Cake Ice Cream To Go

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , 2 Comments

I’ve been working on a blog post for days. DAYS, I tell you. Something hasn’t clicked though and all of those words, thousands of them, have gone to the digital trash heap in the cloud. (IYGIYGI)

Recently, I got into a … verbal altercation … with someone. This is unusual for me. I am not the kind of person who invests in that sort of drama. It shook me, if you want to know the truth. The woman, unfortunately for me, works at a store that I go to relatively frequently and now I’m debating whether I can return. I may be leaving the country and changing my name.

Technically, I was not at fault, as she started it. Nonetheless, I have gone over my own behavior (a post-mortem, you know) and I think I could have handled the situation more effectively. Blergh. There’s nothing to be done other than to determine whether I can bring myself to go back to that place again. Conflict sucks.

I’m at the coffee shop, working on a book. Up until today, it’s been going well, making me laugh, though this afternoon I spend most of my time reflecting back the light of a blank screen or pressing delete to erase badly constructed sentences. I sigh and look up to see a couple in line to get drinks. They’re turned toward each other, laughing, bits of their bodies touching in that way that couples sometimes have. It’s as though their whole beings are slightly magnetized so that if they’re close enough, their bodies automatically make contact – two fingers, their shoulders, even their hair. It’s so lovely to watch the dance of their connectedness.

The day itself is sharply melancholy in that way a day can be. It’s beautiful – warm with the crisp scent of spring and the bright light of a cloudless sky – but all of the things that make it beautiful are things that, in the coin flip of daily life, also create the perfect conditions for melancholia.

Groups of people gather, their chatter incessant, almost boisterous. A couple sits at the window, their hands clasped on the table. As they get up to leave, she takes his arm and snuggles into his shoulder before he slips his arm from her grasp and, instead, takes her hand, twining their fingers together. They walk out of the shop smiling at each other. 

Someone asks to take the extra chair from my table. I’m alone, of course, so it’s empty and available to them. I nod and they slip the chair into place at another table, one that already has six chairs stuffed around it. Now those people sit around the tiny table. It’s so small that their ring of chairs creates a moat of knees encircling the table. They too are loud with the found joy of their togetherness, sipping lattes, hot teas, espressos, and a loan Americano.

Enough of this mood. I head home and make my youngest a meatball sub for dinner. He’s delighted by my attempt to alter the energy of my day but I still haven’t accomplished that. Fine. I can do better. I text my daughter and offer her and her roomie free ice cream. I defy anyone to feel gloomy with handmade ice cream. 

They meet me at the ice cream shop. It’s called Treat, apropos for an ice cream shop. I get a scoop of salted caramel, though the lavender raspberry was a very close second. My guests get mint chocolate chip and a combo of creamy peach and lemon drop custard. It’s all great, honestly. Unfortunately, it is also unsuccessful at releasing me from this funk. Ridiculous. If even a scoop of ice cream enjoyed on a shady bench can’t brush the dour mist from my gaze then it might be smarter to just start again tomorrow. 

There’s no point in continuing to write comedy when the words flowing from my fingers lack even the wit of the grave.

Hoping that tomorrow brings me counsel and you delight.

Much love.

A Scoop of Birthday Cake Ice Cream To Go

Magnolia Petals

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There’s a weird muddle of things in my head. I may have expected the month change to clear that muddle. Alas, it remains in place. Happily, though, the rain that washed away the last of March brought April in a glorious fluster, pranking us with a day of wind storms. I fully expected that my beautiful magnolia, which blooms for less than a week every year, would be bloom-less by Saturday’s end. Surprisingly, those soft white blossoms have held on. 

I know my neighbor is watching out his window (there’s no curtain so I actually do know this) to see if he can get out his petal-removal tools. Every year, magnolia petals cover my yard (and part of my neighbor’s) in a whitish brown blanket which he then inevitably leaf-blows onto my yard before the day reaches noon. (He brought out the leaf-blower yesterday though there were not yet any petals for him to blow. It matters not to him; he finds many reasons to wield that leaf blower. How he loves that thing.)

Leaf-blower’s wife is also quite elderly and terribly lovely, both in her heart and in her face. Today, she told me that her son’s been coming over every weekend lately to help out around the house. Isn’t that lovely? Okay, now to Paul Harvey this story. Her son is nearly 70. I forget, sometimes, just how old she is – 93 next month, she proudly tells me. What a gift that is. I would offer up significant tribute to have my mom alive and as healthy as my next door neighbor. I would, in fact, be delighted to visit Mom every weekend and help out around the house.

Of course, about 15 minutes after her chat with me, Mrs. and Mr. Leaf-blower got into a robust bickering argument that caused me to slink gracelessly into the house to avoid making eye contact with either of them. (Close proximity is one of the many delights of city neighborhoods.) Usually, their arguments are funny but today’s involved some questions that are not safe (i.e., do you think I’m stupid?). I did not want to stick around in case he actually answered her.

I’m a week into car-lessness, resulting in some delightful snafus, for example, when I ordered Chinese food for pick-up from a restaurant two miles away. A roundtrip walk of four miles is not the problem. A backpack filled with chicken lo mein is. I borrowed a car for food pick-up. 

As I walked this morning, I met another neighbor whose dog is Max. I am sorry to report that I have no knowledge of the neighbor’s name. He claimed, during our Max adulation session, that he spotted a kestrel sitting on our street sign. I cannot confirm the sighting, sadly. I can report, however, that Max licked my palm. Achievement unlocked.

Many, many students have come into the coffee shop today, some of them debating the merits of wearing orange. I’m assuming that they’re talking about protesting but I can’t tell if there is a walk-out underway or not. Last week’s swattings here were devastating. There’s been a lot of chatter since about what it’s like to sit in lock down for five or more hours. Trauma does not require gunfire so much as the fear or anticipation that it is coming. 

The kids are leaving now. I’m seated at my favorite spot, inside the coffee shop but right by the door. The big garage door is open to today’s promise of later warmth. The sky is the color of my mom’s eyes, though it holds less sorrow and fewer clouds.

One of the fun things about my current seat is the bouquet of scents that I get to experience. Let’s start with the knowledge that the coffee shop shares this street with a Sephora, a L’Occitane, a hot yoga studio, AND a gym. In addition, lots of people “sneak” their pizzas, burgers, and cinnamon rolls in here … lol. As if we don’t all smell the food, the musky sweat, the overindulgent flowery perfume. It’s a delight for the … scentses (sorry, sorry. I tried to stop my fingers from typing that but they insisted).

I’m procrastinating right now because I’ve written myself into a doorless and windowless room. I am completely stuck. While my subconscious is working on unsticking myself, I’ve been paying attention to the stories around me. 

Across the street, a new business is going in where the Piatt/Sotheby’s used to be. Contractors painted over the street art on the side of the building. I couldn’t even tell you how long the art was there. It was lovely, a single scrollwork word painted in a multitude of colors that wept like tears. I know street artists accept that their work is temporary but I felt a little like weeping, too, when I saw what the contractors had done.

A young woman comes to the coffee shop pretty regularly, as I would know, of course. She reads whenever she’s here and sometimes makes careful margin notes in tidy, blue-inked writing. What does she think of the books she’s reading? Her expression, particularly her eyebrows, is very fluid. She has a fun face to watch, though I’ll bet she doesn’t know it.

It’s Tuesday, so the pizza shop across the street is closed. I wonder if the shop owner knows how many disappointed customers pull firmly at the door and then try again, as if the door will magically open on the second tug. It never does, you know? It’s a little like pushing the elevator button a second time, as though a second push will cause the elevator to arrive faster.

Many artists work at the tables here. One in particular likes to sketch in pencil. We’ll call him Andrew (because that’s his name). He usually comes into the shop in the evening so I only see him occasionally. If I’m lucky, he’s seated where I can watch him and try to guess which customer(s) he’s sketching. (Sorry, Andrew; I swear I’ll never tell your latest muse that you’re drawing them.)

There’s an older man at the coffee shop today who comes in frequently to talk to young women. I think you know what I mean but if you don’t, I will make it clearer. This older man likes to have the attention of younger women directly focused on him. He’s not harmless, though I know it is tempting to use that language. Men who make women uncomfortable have ALREADY done harm. Such men make women think carefully about where they will go, what they will wear, whether they should leave. Nothing about that suggests harmless. 

I talked today to the mechanic who is repairing my car. He called me ‘honey.’ He doesn’t mean anything by it, does he? Except that he never calls his male customers ‘honey.’ I’d be completely fine with the mechanic, if he can’t simply call me by name, using the same pet name for me that he uses for his male customers. And vice versa. Of course, I didn’t correct him. The power dynamic isn’t equal because he’s got my car in his garage. That ‘harmless’ pet name is nothing and yet it’s also everything.

As I write these muddled thoughts, my big old pup is dreaming on her sofa (it’s really my sofa but … never mind). Sometimes, at night, she dreams so loudly in her kennel that I can hear her snuffling noises in my room on the next floor. She runs in her sleep, too, which, when she’s in her kennel, can be quite noisy, though it never seems to wake HER. This afternoon, she snored on my sunny deck, her belly pressed firmly against the warm wood. I believe there may have been rabbits or squirrels in her dream but who’s to say it wasn’t just a romp across the yard that got those feet moving.

Much love.

Magnolia Petals

A Small Amount of Minutiae

Deb Zuroski, , , 2 Comments
Small red leaf with yellow ribs down the center.
Fall leaves 2022

Recently, my son and I had breakfast at a neighborhood diner. We’re well-known there. When we walk in, one of the servers (all of whom we know by name) greets us and gestures us to a section. They call out “the usual?” The whole experience is a little like that old television show “Cheers” but without the laugh tracks and obnoxious jokes. 

One of the owners usually comes over to chat with us between cashing out customers. During one such transaction, we closed an embarrassing gap in our knowledge. The owner introduced himself to the people at the register. FINALLY, we know his name. Eavesdropping to the rescue!

Generally, I have no problem asking people their names but there is a point after which it is just weird to ask. For me, that point seems to be somewhere around the time we’ve begun conversing with people about their holiday traditions and the family they’re welcoming to the dinner table. 

BLOOLB street art spray-painted on a white wall
BLOOLB

I walk to the coffee shop as often as possible, as long as walking doesn’t subject my person to freezing cold. There is nothing – temperature-wise – worse than being cold and this is a hill I will die on, as long as the hill is approximately 74F and sunny. I’m not standing on any freezing cold damn hill to argue about whether being cold or hot is worse. 

Anyway, one of the many delights of the walk is the opportunity to discover wonderful minutiae. It’s my personal opinion that the world is full of tiny treasures. It’s also a hellscape of brutality, of misused power, of cruelty for cruelty’s sake, of money taking priority over humanity. For today, I’m going to focus entirely on tiny treasures, on the things we miss because we’re caught up in the minutiae inside our own heads. 

One of my favorite walking activities is spotting the overlooked: things that are out of place, sometimes because they’ve been dropped (the phone I found last week, for example, though that was more of a rescue than anything else). It’s far more fun to find things that someone else placed. By the way, we’re not talking geo-caching here. That’s too structured to appeal to the chaotic neutral such as myself. The objects to which I refer were put in places deliberately by people who hoped that like-minded individuals would happen upon them. And I’m ALL IN for that. 

A row of buckeyes on top of a traffic light control tower
Buckeyes before the fall

Last fall, I was walking to the coffee shop when I noticed a buckeye on top of a traffic light control unit. The next day, there was a second buckeye. The day after, there was a third. And so forth. Someone – in my internal story, it’s one person but it would be equally delightful if multiple people participated – was placing those buckeyes deliberately. Every morning, I checked to see if there was another – there was! – until the day they’d all been knocked onto the ground. Probably by a person who doesn’t like fun things.

While I treadmill (ugh), I listen to audiobooks – stay with me, here, it’s related. I particularly love the books “included in your membership” on Audible. I downloaded a new-to-me book recently whose author, I discovered in the course of my walk, clearly modeled their protagonist – Caspian Tiddleswitch – on Benedict Cumberbatch. It’s delightful. 

A coffee shop in my community – not “my” coffee shop – is completely invested in the very definition of minutiae. Against one wall is a toaster on top of a long metal pole. Pamphlets are inserted in the bread slots (this is one of those things you have to see because the description doesn’t really capture the artistic insanity of it). 

If you look up in this coffee shop (you should always look up, wherever you go), you’ll see, in addition to the paintings on the ceiling, a single black swim flipper – yes, on the ceiling. On the wall by the door hangs a crucifix with a doll’s head in place of the usual Jesus. The wood of the cross is decorated (rather gaudily in my opinion) with babbles and flowers and twining vines. 

Green eyeball sticker on a pole. The eyeball is rolled up in the socket. Panic is the mood.
Eye see you

Behind my seat – the day I was there – was a wooden shelf that lines up perfectly with the back of my head. I know this because I have, in fact, hit my head on it multiple times. The shelf holds books, a chess board, and several large wooden heads. Just heads. Nothing more to say about that.

It’s supposed to be quirky – it used to be more so but the architect of the experience is no longer associated with the coffee shop (he’s moved on to other projects) – but I find it frustrating. The objects aren’t interesting to me, though perhaps they are to others. My found minutiae preferences run more toward the unplanned than the intentional.

Wooden chair on a porch. Chair is painted in the blue, yellow, and orange colors and patterns of Van Gogh's Starry Night.
The Van Gogh Chair

The mechanic I use is, perhaps, a mile and a half from my home. Again, go with me, here; this is still thematically relevant. Usually, if I have to drop the car off, I’ll take it over early and walk to the coffee shop from there. This isn’t the suburbs, you know? It’s a city and each little community has a personality all its own. The mechanic is located in an older neighborhood, with big houses, some converted to apartments, some rather down on their luck. There are many delightful sights to see when walking by the old houses. The Van Gogh chair. The painted American flag that is fading on the brick porch. The doll heads stuck on posts in the front yard (though that one makes me think there might be something darker going on in that house). 

Water access pipe in a stairwell. There's a wrapped piece of candy on top of the shut off valve.
Candy for the stair fairies

For reasons irrelevant to my story, I was recently walking up stairs in an older parking garage when I noticed that someone had placed a tiny gift to the stair-fairy. I hope it was accepted in the spirit intended. If the stair-fairy is feeling unappreciated, stair stumbles result. I speak from experience here: No one enjoys a stair stumble.

There’s an older man who walks the streets of our community after dark. He calls himself “The Watchman.” I’m not joking. He’s part of the joyful minutiae, an important part. He checks in on people who are alone late in the evening – filling a gas tank, walking home from class, waiting for a bus. I’ve met him. My eldest son has met him. The Watchman doesn’t want anything. He’s just there, making sure that people are safe.

Minutiae is really defined by the finder. People are included in my personal definition but I don’t share pictures because that’s such a violation of the human contract, isn’t it? Items, in all their various forms are fair game for picture-taking. So are animals.

Much love.

Sparrow on the back of a chair on a restaurant patio
What’s for lunch?
A Small Amount of Minutiae

Who Is Your Home?

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It’s windy today. Leaf sparrows skim along the ground, more quickly than their bird selves, and then take to the skies with less elegance, directionless, in fact. They rustle without risk, drawing the attention of my neighbor’s cat. He has killer instincts without the mental acuity to recognize bird from leaf. It’s a pleasure, truthfully, to watch him expend his boundless energy on something that is already dead.

My next door neighbor – the 90-something man – is a little mad at me but he can’t yell at me because I’m helping him with something. As such, when I was talking with him yesterday morning, he told me (very loudly) how angry he is with … ahem, SOMEONE ELSE (me, he means me) because they don’t rake their leaves.

I was so delighted by this interaction that I have been telling people about it since yesterday. I’m not going to start raking my leaves either. This spring, my BIL will be helping me transform my yard into a pollinator garden. Perhaps that will please my neighbor (it absolutely will not). 

There will be a walking path in the new garden so he can bring his wheelbarrow through my yard – which is almost exactly the size of a postage stamp. He is, in fact, pleased about the path, which might also encourage the mail carrier to stop stepping on my flowers (it absolutely will not). 

It’s Friday evening and I am dumfungled. Every word I write is the most words I’ve ever written for a single story. Every additional minute I live is the longest I’ve ever lived. Each of my heartbeats adds to the longest stretch of heartbeats …. You know where this is taking us, right?. Some weeks feel like a combination of achievements and hurdles. I suppose it’s yin and yang but right now it feels more like being shot and poisoned.

There’s a poem – I Saw Emmett Till This Week at the Grocery Store – that I think about often. I won’t interpret it for you here. Like all poems, it is best that you read it for yourself, take from it what speaks most clearly to you. I’ll say only that it shouts to me in a melancholic whisper that hurts every time I read it. As it should.

Poems are strange that way. Every day I read poems that speak to the particular moment I’m experiencing. Is it just the right poem finding me at the moment it’s most needed or is it me taking what I need from those words? Who knows? If you don’t like poetry, may I suggest that you aren’t reading the right poetry? There are so many types. Don’t be fooled into thinking that the only good poetry is dead poetry. Please. Shakespeare was great and all but have you ever read In Praise of My Bed?

As the snow falls here in Pittsburgh today (don’t get me started. I’m very bitter), novel revisions are underway – yes, I removed my agency from that sentence but I am, in fact, the one doing the revising. At this stage of the writing process, though, I feel as though my characters are in charge of telling their story. The novel – written from the butler’s perspective – is called The Butler Loves the Governess. It’s set in the very early 1800s and includes some rather delightful love letters. 

Anyway, I’m only the conduit. The butler is always trying to take charge of the story telling. Our arguments have been … interesting. For example:

The butler: I need to prove my love for the governess.

Me: Hmm. And what do you have in mind? 

The butler: I’m going to hold up the mail coach that she’s riding in.

Me: ….

The butler: I’ll need a pistol

Me: What?

The butler:  And a mask.

Me: Eamon, this is not a rewrite of The Three Musketeers

The butler: What kind of story is that? Do they get pistols?

Me: Well, actually, I think they use swords

The butler: SWORDS! Yes, swords. That’s a great suggestion. Much better than pistols.

Me: [drops head to desk, sobs]

Mostly, it’s been a delight, even if none of you ever get to read it. Of course, I fully intend to keep asking agents to consider it. I’m water on a stone, you know. Eventually, I will wear them down. 

I’ve been listening to a lot of new-to-me music this week: Oh Wonder, Josie Man, Madison Olds, 5SOS. I think my current favorite song is “Tattoos Together” by Lauv. I’ve only listened to this song like a million times this week. I think it encapsulates that teenage feeling of temporary but eternal love, how frantic and deep that emotion seems at 17 or 18.

Eamon’s calling to me again. I think he wants to “discuss” how he’s going to pine for the governess in this latest scene – it’s a new chapter that I’m adding near the end of the book at someone’s request. He doesn’t know this yet but he’s going to write a bunch of letters that he won’t be able to mail because REASONS. These new letters are going to be full of piney, angsty grief. It’s going to be delicious. Got to go do that right now!

Much love.

Who Is Your Home?

Mosaic

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 5 Comments

Today, I was talking to one of the baristas at the coffee shop and we agreed that we were not in … er, top form, let’s say … in our 20s. He can’t understand why anyone was even friends with him. I’m not sure why I’m still alive. We did stupid things in our youth. Some of us are still doing stupid things in our middle age. Ahem. 

Anyway, I’ve been thinking a lot about viridianmasquerade’s thoughts: 

What are the experiences, who are the people that make up my mosaic? I still sometimes sing a version of The Christmas Song that a friend and I wrote to celebrate McDonalds, particularly their chicken nuggets. We were 17 and I had a terrible, no-good, very bad job there (that often provided free food at the end of the night). Every Christmas, when Bing Crosby starts singing The Christmas Song on my playlist, I think about sitting at the lunch table with her and another friend as we wrote our new lyrics. ”Happy Christmas to all and please stop back again.”

Did you know that tuna – in water, of course – is my preferred bulk-up protein? When I was a bodybuilder many years ago, Joe, from a dirty little place called Joe’s Gym (still operating in my hometown), taught me the calf exercises I still use and encouraged me to eat tuna after every workout. 

When I was 21, two friends and I traveled to Cancun and nearly got ransomed or sex-trafficked or possibly murdered by two young men we met there. There is a certain (popular) song that I can’t hear without thinking of that trip and the drive deep into the heart of the jungle on a single-lane dirt road while the radio blared top 40 songs. 

My favorite banana bread recipe came from a woman I met after grad school. It was her grandmother’s recipe. My friend, and colleague at the design firm, wrote it out for me late one weekend afternoon while we sat in a local restaurant and ate grilled cheese and bacon sandwiches followed by a shared slice of caramel apple pie a la mode. I haven’t seen that woman in 30 years but the recipe is still great. 

I turn on lights – or use the flashlight on my phone – as I walk through my house because my father made me afraid of the dark when I was a single-digit child. He’d hide in dark places throughout the house and jump out at me. He’s been gone for 14 years (and I moved out 35 years ago) but I still turn on lights wherever I am.

All the wooden spoons my mom used to punish us are long gone. She even broke one of them on my back when I was still shorter than she was but as mouthy as someone twice her size. I remember her advice every time I use one: don’t let wooden spoons soak in water. Wash them by hand with a damp cloth. Even now, that’s the way I wash my wooden spoons, though I’ve never hit a child with one. 

Much of the music I listen is from someone’s recommendation: Affordable Floors, Steely Dan, Sufjan Stevens, Orville Peck, Creepy Nuts. Those songs and those people all included in my story because of a casual suggestion that they probably don’t even remember.

So many people make up that mosaic … it’s mostly dark colors, deep blues and chocolate browns, colors of sorrow and grief; but there are a few bits of lightness to add some beauty to the whole miraculous mess. Also, it’s important to note that it isn’t finished yet, not for a good while. At least, so I hope.

Much love.

Mosaic

Clean Plates And Other Crimes

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 1 Comment

My not-my-Aunt Ginny was doing pretty well this week, on my first visit of 2023 (I started the year with Covid but finally am safe to visit with her). She didn’t know me during my visit but also (a little bit) she did, which made for some of our more unusual conversations. I showed her a recent picture of me with my eldest son. She was surprised by how adult he is and asked if the woman in the picture is his wife. Friends, this is the picture I shared:

Later, she asked me what my mom thought of another picture. My mom would have loved it, so of course I answered that way, pretending for a bittersweet moment that Mom lived to know my children and my sister’s children, that she was alive to share a meal with me and to be recalcitrant about something I wanted her to do. 

Sharing a meal … that’s what I miss most. Not even her cooking, really. I miss the act of sitting together, talking about everything and nothing, eating food that someone else cooked for us. She used to love to go to a little tea shop in Erie. We didn’t even get tea. We’d get sandwiches and she’d have coffee. And we’d just spend a little time in each other’s company. 

For her, it was a major indulgence, an act of defiance against something though I never knew what. Possibly, probably, my father.  He was very controlling. She was afraid of him and most everything, really. Once I was old enough to see a future that wasn’t under my father’s control, I would tell her that I would treat her to lunch when I visited but she became ill while I was still in graduate school. We ended up having very little time for tea shop sandwiches.

Not-my-Aunt Ginny prefers companionship while she eats. When I arrived a little after noon, I found that she had not yet received her lunch tray. It was delivered about 10 minutes after I got there and something in not-my-Aunt G’s world converted that tray to a meal I had ordered for myself. From her perspective, we were in a restaurant and that meal became dinner out. It took some convincing but I finally got her to believe that the tray was for her. 

While she’s eating, I always make up an excuse for why I can’t share her food but she can be pretty persistent. Sometimes I tell her that I don’t like the type of food she’s having. Sometimes I tell her that I just ate and am not hungry. Not-my-Aunt G doesn’t care to hear those excuses. She hates food waste, not surprising since she lived through WWII. 

It would drive her crazy that we aren’t members of the clean plate club. Sure, the origins are understandable and waste is a horrible thing. However, I think it’s important to recognize, to acknowledge, that eating the crust of my bread did not, in fact, make my hair curly. If I could, I would tell my Grandma Myrtle (who died when I was 17), that I finally figured out it was a lie, bold-faced, in fact.

It is also accurate to note that starving children do not want my leftovers. They would, in reality, benefit from compassionate food policies that value human life over profit but I’m pretty confident, having eaten it myself, that they would not enjoy that last half-scoop of tuna casserole with peas and carrots.

Be kind to someone today, possibly even yourself.

Much love.

Clean Plates And Other Crimes