poetry

With Great Power….

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

We all hold such power–to make someone smile, to destroy someone’s confidence, to heal, to injure. During my training at Disney World about a million years ago, we were reminded over and over again that we had an incredible secret power; we could make or ruin a person’s day. I have so many wonderful memories of working there, of making people laugh, of helping parents find their lost children, of recommending activities, places to eat, overlooked treasures. I’m in hundreds of thousands of pictures that I’ll never see. I promise you, though, that I’m smiling, laughing, talking to strangers in every one of them. Sometimes, I am sure, I was caught mid-silly dance or goofy face at a child. 

Disney taught me how to recognize that secret power and how to wield it for good. The corporate world beat me up, encouraged–NO, expected–me to lean into the negative. When I walked away from corporate work, I shed all that with relief. Being mean is a heavy burden (and so aging). It’s so much easier, and so much more fun, to be kind. 

Kindness lifts people up. It also has the weirdly reciprocal effect of making the giver feel good, too. Last summer, a young woman sitting near me at the coffee shop was wearing a charming skirt. I told her that. She thanked me and said, “It’s vintage!” She was so proud. It still makes me smile to think of that three- or four-second interaction. I have many of those. 

I read something recently about the uptick of ChatGPT use by, primarily, men. The article suggested that men are more susceptible to the manipulation that can exist behind flattery because women, from an early age, learn to recognize it, whereas men are compliment-starved. I tested that theory, very unscientifically, on my children and discovered that they concur. My eldest even said that he can remember the last time he received a compliment from someone (other than me, of course), six weeks ago, and it was about a shirt he wore. 

When I give compliments, which I do readily, I’m always interested to see the different ways people respond. Last week, I complimented a woman’s outfit. She laughed, grabbed my arm, and thanked me with a big smile. The last time I complimented something about a man, he blushed, absolutely astonished by my comment. Here’s the most important thing, I NEVER, NEVER, NEVER tell someone that they’re beautiful or handsome. I pick out something I like and I tell the person. It’s easy. Your hair looks great. I love your shirt. I would die for those shoes. Your outfit is chef’s kiss. You should do an insta shoot with KeepPittsburghDope. I love your laugh. Your joy is making me smile (I said that to a group standing together, laughing).

Sometimes–well, usually–I’m incredibly awkward but that doesn’t stop me. Better an awkward compliment than a missed opportunity to be kind. 

Yesterday was a terrible, horrible, no-good day. Looking back, I can recognize that, in fact, 19 of 20 things went really well. Like many humans, though, I find myself focusing on the one thing that did not go well and that it is 100% my fault that it didn’t. The worst part of it going wrong, though, is that it went wrong in front of a man who smugly told me that it wouldn’t go right, as it was going wrong. He was so…mean. It’s rarely necessary to be mean (except to billionaires, whose money-hoarding is destroying the lives of millions who are barely surviving–but we’re not talking about that right now). That man was so pleased to announce, over and over, that I was wrong. And I was, which just makes his unkindness more bitter. He could have been not-a-dick. He could have been but he chose to lean into being mean. We both knew he was right. I acknowledged his rightness with a smile, my jaw clenched so tight it could have held back the Colorado River. I was gracious, even apologetic. He was so mean. So mean. It ruined my day. Yes, I am well aware that I gave a stranger power over me. See the first paragraph. Total strangers have that secret power. You have it. I have it. 

So, here’s my advice, which you didn’t ask for but I promise is actually easy to follow: be nice. There’s a great poem “Watching My Friend Pretend Her Heart Is Not Breaking,” by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer. ‘There are a great many reasons to treat each other with great tenderness.’ All of us…I’ll say it again for those who are skimming…ALL OF US are going through things.

Use your secret power well.

Much love.

With Great Power….

Eels On Toast And Other Curiosities

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , Leave a comment

The news is so dark these days that today I’m scrapping my usual rants to tell some funny stories about my day here in the Steel City. Let’s go!

This morning, I was walking toward the bank when I passed an older man carrying a pastry to an outdoor seat. The event itself was unremarkable except that the man said “Good morning,” to which I replied with a somewhat surprised “Hi.” Usually, I’m one of those annoyingly friendly people who bounces down the street greeting people with smiles and petting dogs (until I notice that the owners are desperately trying to continue their walks) but I was kind of daydreaming, not really paying attention. On my way back from the ATM, I spotted him sitting at a sidewalk table and commented on how delicious his pastry looked. I think I surprised him because he said, “What?” And I repeated myself. He nodded, considered for a moment, and said, “Yeah, it is.” We both kind of laughed and I came here, to the coffee shop. Some time passes, I’m sitting at the front window, in my favorite seat, when I spot him walking by. He spots me at the same time, we both grin, he gives me a finger wave, and the day moves on. Another hour passes, he’s walking back the way he came, looks for me, we grin at each other, share a finger wave, and our connection comes to an end. Sweet, though, right? 

Today is dental work day, not for me but for my dachshunds. Mina, the runt of the litter, has a not-fully-formed jaw which means more teeth than jawbone. She’s lost quite a few teeth over the years though it has never bothered her. When the pups had their annual checkup in June, the vet said that Mina needed to have several more teeth pulled because they are an impediment to her jaw and health. Not her food consumption, apparently, because she weighs an astonishing 15 pounds. She needs to lose a fifth of her body weight, which I could probably do as well. No treats for either of us for a while. Hehe

Mina’s sister, Freya, also needs dental work but mostly because she hates, with a fiery passion, having her teeth cleaned. We do it, of course, but she’s excellent at manipulating our emotions with her sad little cries of puppy distress. It’s ridiculous. She’s not in any pain, plus the toothpaste tastes like peanut butter (gross peanut butter but appealing to the dogs). Don’t feel sorry for her. She got herself into this dental mess by rejecting the back of the mouth tooth cleaning. The worst part – according to both pups – they weren’t allowed to have their daily bedtime dehydrated liver treats last night. They were heartbroken and cried like the spoiled babies they are. And yes, the dehydrated liver treats smell even worse than liver cooking on the stove, though the dehydrated salmon treats beat both of those on the stench meter. They must be tasty, though, because even the cats will beg for them.

On the way to the vet this morning, I spotted a friend cleaning a drainage grate for Allegheny CleanWays, a nonprofit that supports keeping garbage out of the waterways. It supports lots of other environmental waste reduction efforts to prevent dumping of difficult-to-dispose-of garbage like tires, microwaves, small refrigerators, and so much more that otherwise ends up on our hillsides and in our rivers. Rather than honk, I texted her later, one of those “did I just see you…” and we made plans to meet up next month. About an hour after that, I’m sitting here, at the window of the coffee shop, and I see her walk by. Yes, of course I ran outside to bellow hello because, damn, she’s a fast walker. 

We were still on the sidewalk chatting when Maestro, the Great Pyrenees, stopped to say hello with his owner. I’ve talked about them before. She has dementia and a great support group of neighbors and family that enables her to stay safely in this community, walking her beautiful baby. She was in a rage today because we’re losing the RiteAid, a surprisingly lucid complaint given her cognitive decline. My friend and I managed to convince her that there will be another similar store moving in here to fill the gap. There’s already a local pharmacy further down the street but it is not a convenience store. If something doesn’t move in to supply her small needs, she swore that she’d move back to Hershey (where she hasn’t lived in nearly 60 years). Somehow, I doubt that her son will allow that to happen.

A man just rode his bike down the street, which would not be remarkable except that he had a dog riding along in a pack, on his back, her fur blowing in the breeze. At the same time, a man walked by with his puli, a dog whose fur I would hate to have to care for. My long-haired doxie is difficult enough, particularly when slugs get caught in her fur. She doesn’t eat them. In fact, she makes the dog version of a yuck face when she pulls them gently out of her fur and spits them onto the floor. This is a near-daily event, requiring me to rescue and rehome slugs before they get trampled underfoot. That might sound gross but all of the creatures around us serve a purpose, even mosquitoes, which are a delightful meal for our local bats. And after several years of significant growth, our recently overwhelming lantern fly population has become a satisfying snack for several bird species here. It took a year, maybe two, for birds to recognize them as food but it’s helping tremendously to keep the number of lantern flies more manageable. 

I’ve set an unusual – definitely, I have no defense –  reading goal for myself. I am going to consume the entirety of Betty Neels’ book catalogue. You’ve probably never heard of her: she wrote Mills&Boon romances for approximately 30 years, beginning in the 1960s. Her books were also published by Harlequin. Almost all of the originals have fantastic hand-drawn covers of a pretty girl and a brooding man. Occasionally, they are embracing but usually she’s looking into the distance while he glares in a foreboding manner. Content-wise, I would describe them as adult Nancy Drew books, though obviously a different genre. 

You might ask yourself – as I have already asked myself – WHY have I set this goal? I have a huge TBR pile already. The only answer I can give you is that I read one of these as a 12 year old and recognized the title when I was doing some research on old romance novels for my current novel. The plot of the book, A Ring in a Teacup, came back to me in a flood of memory. I could picture the old library at my grandmother’s senior apartment building – for those of you who regularly read the blog, this is the apartment she moved to after the graphic sex scene. Lol The library was filled with romance novels that my grandmother encouraged me to read. They were all very low on intimacy, with sentences like “he kissed her firmly” and “she admired his tall, well-built frame.” 

Of course, they are deeply misogynistic. One of them even quotes that Tennyson poem – you know the one: “Man with the head, woman with the heart; man to command and woman to obey.” I think it’s from Tennyson’s Princess saga and in my humble opinion, well worth skipping entirely. But something about her books: her detailed descriptions of medical treatments (Neels was a nurse before she began her writing career), life in the 60s and 70s, and luxury cars like the Panther, Daimler, and Rolls Royce makes them remarkably readable. She also, having lived in Holland for 13 years, used that country as one of her primary story locations. I’ve looked up the pronunciation and meaning of many Dutch words since beginning my quest. 

If Neels is to be trusted, the English at the time never stopped eating. They had coffee and toast, then breakfast, then tea, then dinner, then tea, then supper, and finally coffee before bed. Crazy. Who had time to do anything else? The portions must have been tiny. Her food descriptions are fantastic and have also required much research, though I would suggest that she had too much fondness for eel on toast, which has made a regular appearance in her books. Also, I had never before heard of Gentleman’s Relish or Charlotte Russe as a dessert. You’ll have to discover these delights for yourself. You can also eat my share of Gentleman’s Relish and you don’t have to thank me for it. 

I just noticed the wording on the sign prohibiting “dogs or animals” at our coffee shop, not “dogs or other animals.” Does this mean that dogs are not what we traditionally think of as animals? I’m inclined to agree but it does leave open the explanation as to what, exactly, dogs are. Mystical beings, perhaps? Angels sent to succor us? The reincarnation of people who have passed on? 

Lunch is in the refrigerator at home so I bought a sandwich from the coffee store, an unusual, and surprisingly inexpensive, event. Now, as more proof that I should never eat while working, I have a keyboard absolutely covered with crumbs and greasy fingerprints. (The sandwich was a delicious pepperoni croissant for $5.) I regret nothing. 

With my parking meter about to expire, I will wrap up today’s meandering notes with a suggestion: be as kind to yourself today as you would be to someone you saw struggling. It’s really hard to give yourself the grace you might give another but you deserve it. 

Much love. 

Eels On Toast And Other Curiosities

UPDATED: Anyone Here Order a Slice of Alzheimer’s?

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , , 5 Comments

Pamela’s Diner, on the weekends, can often be a place to avoid. One of the great things about it, though, is the joyful noise of people finally together who often cannot be. The restaurant was full today but I mostly travel in a pack of one which makes it pretty easy to get a table. Melissa, one of the servers, sat a group of six women next to me at my tiny table (it’s supposed to seat two but one side of the table is broken like an accidental drop-leaf table). Those women looked so young to me, a familiar proclamation of the middle aged (she says in an unsuccessful attempt to make herself feel younger), and delighted to be together. There were three children with them, a charmingly self-aware 6 year old, a toddler discovering that they appeal to their neighbors, and a baby who was all id, hungry and, once sated, sleepy. 

Sometimes, as I look around the diner, I catch the eye of another people-watcher. There are two types: 1) looks away immediately, 2) smiles and continues people-watching. When I was younger, I would have been in the first group, shy and perhaps flushing with embarrassment, but now, older and a devout member of the we-do-not-care club, I smile and sometimes, depending on who it is, I’ll even wink. Very daring, perhaps, but it makes me laugh. 

I know most of the employees at Pamela’s. Sometimes, when I walk in, several of them will call out, “Hi, Deb,” which makes me feel like I live in that old television series, Cheers. Hehe I like to think that strangers whisper about the famous person and try to figure out who I am. That makes me laugh, too. If only you knew, my friends. If only you knew….

There’s a barista at the coffee shop who has the greatest hair color – it’s really a blend of several colors, a little purple, a little red, a little blue. Every time I see them, I say something about their hair and we talk about how complex it is to keep a color fresh. They always say, “Oh, I was thinking how bad it looks.” And I always say, “You can’t see what I can see.” This is not a statement about hair color. 

Also, as just an aside, why in the ever-loving, noisy-ass, shrieking, are we listening to Squid as background music? Even with my headphones in and my music UP, I cannot escape the screaming. It isn’t in my head, I swear. It’s coming from the speakers and I’m really getting an understanding of the psychological warfare we once engaged in against North Korea. 

Things in the US are about to get worse, when the House and Senate finish reconciling their “big, beautiful bill.” Whatever your party, your community will be devastated by the Medicaid and Medicare cuts that are planned. It is clear to me that the average person is so busy demonizing Medicaid “waste” – just as our “leaders” intended – that they do not realize how many people rely on it and just who, exactly, those people are. I’ll bet, if you queried people at YOUR local diner, at least a third of them couldn’t even explain the purpose of either Medicaid or Medicare. 

Do YOU know which states in the US rely most on federal funding of Medicaid? Six of the seven states receiving the most federal Medicaid funding voted for our current president. The most vulnerable in those communities will lose their coverage and they’ll think it’s a mistake that our president didn’t know about, not a strategy to fill the coffers of the ultra-rich. Hospitals in high risk communities will fail for lack of funding, not for lack of demand. 

Your first thought might be that at least all these former MAGA voters will definitely vote against Republicans next time but guess what? The bill includes a section that allows the president to cancel elections at any time, for any reason. When this bill passes and gets signed, there may not be an opportunity to vote him or our current representatives and senators out of office. Since he wants to be president-for-life (aka king), you should, in fact, assume that he will cancel future votes. Because he will. Of course he will.  Fact-checked into oblivion. Thanks, Crescent, for the keen eye.

I don’t know the answer to the dilemma we’re in. But I do know that generating fear and hopelessness are two effective strategies of the fascists currently in power. We the People cannot submit. 

Next soapbox:  This might seem to be about Mamdani. And it is, sort of. It is possible to care about multiple things at the same time. For example, people can abhor the human rights catastrophes in the United States, Ukraine and Gaza AND, at the same time, not be antisemitic. This is not a skill unique to me. You can all do it, too. Just because I don’t want Palestinians murdered does not mean I want the Jewish state destroyed. It’s weird how successful the oligarchs have been at framing this issue in a way that makes people afraid to speak up. I’m not antisemitic. I am, however, anti-murder. There are always solutions that do not require the extermination of any ethnic community. If you think the only answer is killing, you’re probably reading the wrong blog. 

Even though I don’t talk about it much, I spend a not inconsiderable amount of time supporting someone who is declining cognitively. It’s a world of contradictions – a verbal obsession with cleanliness and dirty dishes in the cupboard; paying bills incorrectly while also refusing support to make the process easier. And fear. So much fear and yet the keys are often left in the deadbolt. I struggle sometimes to figure out how to provide the necessary support. I have no trouble living in their timeline, whatever it is, but then they do something dangerous like leave the house without their phone. Sometimes, they know exactly where they are and sometimes they get lost going to the restaurant they’ve been to a million times. This makes phonelessness terrifying to those of us who are trying to provide support. 

Googling “is it ethical to sew wearable trackers into someone’s clothes?” provides all kinds of terrifying results. I know exactly what you’re going to say: tell this person that you’re putting wearable trackers in their clothes. My friends, I can text this person 16 times that I’m picking them up at 9AM for their doctor appointment tomorrow and I’ll still either get a dozen frantic calls before I arrive (at 9AM or earlier) OR they’ll have forgotten that they have an appointment, even though it’s written in their handwriting in their calendar which is RIGHT THIS MINUTE open on their dining room table. 

It’s easy, so easy, to tell someone in cognitive decline to ALWAYS TAKE YOUR PHONE but sometimes this person is living in the 1970s, when phones weren’t mobile. Sometimes, even though their phone is in their hand, this person runs out to the car as I’m about to pull away – instead of calling me – because they pressed the wrong button on the TV remote and screwed up the TV. (Don’t try to solve this rabbit-hole problem: there are already notes with arrows on the remote control.) I even have spare copies of their house keys because they have lost their keys in their own pocket. That’s not a joke, like ‘I’d lose my head if it weren’t attached’.

As an example, here’s a brief story of the terrifying world of cognitive decline: my friend, we’ll call them Sally because it’s as removed from their name as anything could be – you know I’m all about privacy! – lends their car to someone. That someone takes just the car keys and hands the house keys to Sally. When I arrive to pick Sally up later, they are in an actual panic because they cannot find the house keys in order to lock up. I remind them that the keys are loose because Sally lent the car. “Are they in your pocket?” I ask. Sally’s answer: “Now, I remember.” The keys were, indeed, in Sally’s pocket. 

My friends, they could put their hand in their pocket a dozen times and not realize those keys are the item they’re looking for. It’s not their fault. Half the time, when we’re in the house looking for something, they forget what we’re doing while we’re still looking. Sometimes, they’ll remember that we’re searching but forget that we’re looking for the bill that was due yesterday. One time, we were trying to figure out whether they’d remembered to register the car (which we have to do annually in our state). I was looking through their files, which are organized by the month in which bills are paid (don’t even ask, it’s a complete filing nightmare that we’ll fix LATER). They were wandering around the living room, picking up random pieces of paper and showing them to me. “Is this what we’re looking for?” None of the pieces of paper were what we were looking for. They had, in fact, forgotten to renew their car registration, which I was able to determine by checking the state website. We took care of that immediately but it might be time again. I’d better make a note to check with them. Anyway…IT’S NOT THEIR FAULT.

The first statement in the Bill of Rights of the Cognitively Declining should be “It’s not their fault.” It’s never their fault. Trust me: none of the cognitively declining people I’ve met intentionally lost their keys, forgot my name, burned their dinner. Their world doesn’t look like ours. And they are so AFRAID. 

I know that I’ve told the story before about pretending to make deli sandwiches with not-my-Aunt Ginny who worked at a delicatessen in the 1940s. Just a couple years ago, we made pretend turkey sandwiches, filled pretend jars with pickles, sorted pretend utensils. It might seem funny. Sometimes, you have to laugh or else you’ll cry. But the point is, she was worried, so worried, the entire time that we wouldn’t be ready for the lunch rush. Her fear was real, even though the pickles weren’t. 

Thirty-ish years ago, I met a woman living on the Alzheimer’s ward of a long-term care facility. Alzheimer’s wards, in case you’ve never visited one, are locked to prevent the patients from wandering off. If they walk or wheel themselves too close to the doors, an alarm goes off to give the care team a heads up that there’s someone potentially trying to make a break for it. 

I know I’ve mentioned this before so forgive me if you remember my story: I was at the facility with a team doing signage and space planning. We had to measure everything and I do mean everything: square footage of rooms, height of lights and doorknobs, depth of equipment. You name it, we documented it. This was in the days before technological support. We had measuring tapes and sketched room outlines to fill in with measurements. It was tedious and took days to complete. Yes, I’m a writer which makes this assignment a little unusual but it was a big job. All hands on deck, so to speak. 

We’re walking through the ward when a woman rolls up to me in her wheelchair. Just as you have probably seen depicted on television, patients use their feet to push themselves around the wards when they’re too unstable to be allowed to walk alone or with an assistive device. She’s holding a baby doll and tries to hand it to me. I attempt to refuse. Fred, who is working with me, is teasing me about becoming a new mom. I’m a little embarrassed because I’m young, so young, and at work, trying to be a useful member of the team. Also, the doll is clearly a treasured possession and I don’t want to be in charge of that. She insists, which might seem a strange thing for a wheelchair-bound, non-verbal Alzheimer’s patient to do successfully, but she did it. I have no other explanation than to say that she persisted more effectively than I resisted. I carried her baby for the rest of the day. She smiled every time she saw me as she rolled from long hallway to long hallway. And at the end of the day, I gave her baby doll to the staff at the central desk to return. 

So, what’s the point? Obviously, meeting someone with declining cognition sure does present opportunities to learn but also: it’s not their fault. Cognitive decline isn’t a failure of imagination or a personality flaw or a crime. Your patience and imagination and personal integrity are essential to work effectively with them but they can be frightened and angry and mean and confused and grateful and loving and FEARFUL. 

Sometimes, my not-my-Aunt Ginny is combative, particularly in the late afternoon because she has sundowners, which means that she gets more confused and frightened as the day closes. I don’t visit after noon anymore. It’s too hard on her. She used to cry when I left and verbally abuse me for refusing to take her with me, which upset us both, her because it was, in her mind, a betrayal of our relationship, me because it was awful to see her so afraid. “I thought I knew you better,” she’d say, deeply wounded because I wouldn’t take her home to a house that was sold over a year ago to pay for her long-term care. 

All this brings us back to the person close to me who has cognitive decline. Have you ever seen that old Will Ferrrell comedy skit, ‘The Landlord’? (“God, you’re mean.”) People with cognitive decline can be so damn mean. Even though IT IS NOT THEIR FAULT, it can still be very hurtful. Called out, they 1) didn’t say that, 2) didn’t mean that, 3) can’t remember what they said, 4) are already having a different conversation, 5) and so on. There isn’t a good answer. They simply no longer have the awareness or understanding to be accountable for their unkindnesses. Unfair, isn’t it? Because who doesn’t want to call out the instrument of their pain?! But there’s no point. It’s like shaking a child who’s crying. The child isn’t the asshole. 

Hurt feelings aren’t the worst part, though. When my mother-in-law began to decline cognitively, I was reminded of the most painful aspect of illness. “Grief has arrived…. Hello, old friend,” which I have borrowed from the poem, “We grieve but we do not drown,” by scar_poetry. We grieve those we take care of. They are becoming something different, something that doesn’t meet our notion, our understanding of who they are. We MISS the person they were and sometimes we don’t really like the person they’ve become. My mother-in-law frequently forgot my name, sometimes didn’t recognize me at all. She’d refuse to do the things I’d ask of her, like take a shower, change her clothes, eat the food I cooked. 

When we first got to know each other, many years ago, we had to work hard to find common ground. She didn’t like that I’m Irish. I didn’t appreciate that she saved every single, tiny sliver of soap, a holdover from her childhood during the depression. It drove her crazy that I didn’t eat much. It drove me crazy that she didn’t respect my food boundaries. But we figured it out. We discovered all the great things about each other. It took time and patience but it was worth the effort. We formed a friendship that lasted nearly 15 years.

Everything changed when she started declining. She sometimes hated me, not Deb, but me, whoever I was to her in the moment. Of course, she never meant anything she said and didn’t even remember it afterwards. I knew this then and I understand it now. Knowing that, though, doesn’t lessen the grief, the bereavement of missing a person who is still with you but also not. We are forced to care for them in their existing form while mourning the person that they are no longer. It’s a cruel torture. And it’s still NOT THEIR FAULT.  

Having closed the 35 open browser windows on a certain someone’s phone in order to figure out why there was an ad playing (at the loudest possible volume), I find myself thinking about this today and hoping for peace tomorrow. I know I won’t get it in my personal life or in Gaza or in Ukraine but I can and will persist. Hopefully, I’ll be a little more Elizabeth Warren tomorrow and a little less young me in that Alzheimer’s ward. 

Much love. 

Hey, also, if you have an interest in supporting comics by Black women creators, there’s this cool Midnight Mystics kickstarter. I’m not in any way affiliated, though I did back the project. Maybe you’ll want to as well. Check it out. 

UPDATED: Anyone Here Order a Slice of Alzheimer’s?

Aisle 10: Between Cackles and Loud Sex

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

Why is “Blue Raspberry” the name of a flavor? Blue has no flavor at all. It’s literally a color. Another, possibly more important question: why do we add the color blue to raspberry flavoring, which, in its natural form, is decidedly not blue?

Find you a friend who makes you cackle like the lady sitting two tables over is cackling right now at something her tablemate said. Everyone should feel that level of unholy joy at least once a day, though I think, for most of us, it’s a pretty rare feeling.

I saw an old friend recently. He was sitting on a bench with another of his friends, someone I know by sight but have never met. I introduced myself and we got to talking about life and everything that goes with it. My friend asked about my kids and I did the usual age and activity update. At this point – and it’s necessary here to say that I’ve been laughing ever since – my new acquaintance says, “You must have been a child bride.” Friends, it is no exaggeration to say that I snort-laughed at that. Man’s got game. He’s 80 to my almost 59. I told him that I’m pretty proud to be an old bitch. 

My soapbox is in the shop so instead of talking about how society makes it a crime for women to age, I’ll just say that I looked down at my hands the other day and realized that they look like my mom’s hands: a little wrinkled, marked by age and life with spots and scars. It felt like a little gift to see her in me and I wouldn’t give it back for all the anti-aging creams in the world. 

Last time I was here, at the coffee shop, two hopeful sparrows hopped past my table, pausing as if to ask, “Got any crumbs for me?” I cooed at their charm and a young woman next to me expressed her worry that they might get trapped here. I reassured her that they are regular visitors, savvy city dwellers who know how to navigate the confines of this store. That young woman, my immediate table neighbor, was wearing an absolutely popping white peasant-style skirt, long and flowing. It looked cool on what was a hot, sunny day. I complimented her and she confessed that it was vintage. She just got it over the weekend. She was pink with happiness over her purchase and the compliment. In her turn, she complimented my bright red reading glasses and confessed that she’d love a pair of red glasses. I said, “Do it. Buy the red glasses. Make them a component of the art of your appearance.” 

It’s okay, you know, to go on living while we worry about our futures. It’s okay – in fact, essential – to cackle at a friend’s joke, to think about your outfit, to buy red glasses. It isn’t ignoring what’s going on to sip an iced tea at the coffee store – which tea, by the way, has increased $.50 due to tariffs. During WWII, people danced. It was an act of defiance against the people who would have us fearful, cowering at their pretend strength. 

This morning, I talked to a friend whose partner just started his second job. He works afternoons/evenings in the South Hills and then drives to the West End to work nights. She’s delighted that he’s off on Sundays and Mondays. Tell me again how lazy people are. Tell me again that Medicaid, SNAP, and CHP are full of waste. Explain to me why ICE has to go to stores and schools to steal immigrants from our soil. If they’re lazy and not contributing, why are they at work? Why are they graduating from high school and college? And why isn’t the so-culpable media calling out this obvious conflict with ICE’s story? 

Some days, when I’m supposed to be working on my story revisions, I’m so frustrated with the ill-behavior of my words that I find other things to do. I can be very disciplined but I can also be very UNdisciplined. These past few weeks, it has been far easier for me to write 10,000 words for a CNF piece than to work on the novel. I think it’s because I can be angry when I’m working on the CNF but I have to be funny in the novel. I can do funny, usually. Right now, though, I’m feeling angry and aghast and…well, ANGRY. It’s easy to be snarky when I’m angry but snarky isn’t necessarily funny, especially when it’s directed at another person.

I woke up thinking about my grandmother. She’s been gone for more than 40 years, though I think about her often and often. I don’t know what, in particular, I was thinking about her – she was simply on my mind when I returned to consciousness. So, indulge me for a moment, while I share a story that started with her and ended with an … experience. 

When I was maybe 10 or 12, my parents, sister, grandmother, and I went to my dad’s favorite fancy restaurant. We rarely – and I mean rarely – ate out. He always said that because he ate lunch out every day, he wanted to eat dinner at home. This was a disappointment for my mother, who, as a result, never ate out but always had to cook because … that’s what women did. My dad didn’t learn to cook until he had to live alone. And then, he became one of those people who thought they discovered cooking. LOL 

Anyway, for some very special reason that I no longer recall, we went to The University Club for dinner. It was one of those places – lobster on the menu, drinks before dinner, candles on the table … blah, blah, blah. NOT my scene, and I remember with a child’s clarity that, every single visit there, my sister and I hoovered up the crackers on the table because we were starving by the time the before-dinner drinks had been consumed. 

By the end of our meal, the adults at the table were a little tipsy, some more than others – yes, including the driver. We were all draped on the fancy sofas in the entry room – maybe it was a bar area, I don’t remember – waiting for bathroom trips to be over when my mother told me to follow Grandma into the restroom because Grandma was pretty tipsy from all the Manhattan’s she’d downed. (Grandma was MAYBE 5’ on tall days, in heels and standing on tiptoe.) 

Of course – because my mom had some weird sixth sense about things – about 10 seconds after I entered the restroom in my fancy childhood sandals, my grandmother fell and I had to run for my mother. Grandma’s necklace had caught on the toilet paper device – a weird accident that caused her to hit the wall, hard, and cut open her face. She went by ambulance to the hospital with my mother while my (inebriated – don’t tell anyone that I initially spelled that inebrie-ated, yes, like the cheese and then giggled aloud SMH) father dropped us off at Grandma’s apartment. This is where things get crazy. 

Let’s paint the scene – my grandmother lived in a fancy old, old, old building. She’d been there for, maybe, 5-ish years. I loved it, with its antique-y furnishings and funny smells. She wasn’t, probably, so happy there and even less so when Gannon University started using it for student housing. Do you already know where this is going? Believe me; it took me a LONG time to figure it out. 

For those of you who haven’t quite got it yet: I’m sitting in Grandma’s living room. I think my sister is trying to nap in Grandma’s bedroom. We’re there for what seems like days but is probably just a couple hours. There’s nothing to do. It’s too late for television because, of course, in those days, television went off the air. I don’t have a book so, basically, I’m just staring out the small, basement-apartment window when I hear a woman scream. I sit BOLT UP, wondering if I’d dozed off. It happens again. But this time it’s more like a cry or moan. Oh my gosh. Someone is dying. I run into the bedroom to ask my sister if she can hear it. Maybe she’s less naive than me because she doesn’t seem to care. I go back into the living room and – not realizing it – listen to two people having very loud sex, while thinking that a woman is in agony. I was several years older before I figured that memory out. Haha

Grandma was fine, by the way. She got stitches but didn’t even have a concussion. Unrelated to the injury but not to the loud sex, she moved out of that building into a new senior high-rise that she absolutely loved and ruled like a benevolent dictator, if that is actually a thing. She was quite a powerhouse who made everyone love her, at least from my very not-objective childhood opinion. I am pretty sure, in hindsight, that, like my father, one either adored her or absolutely despised her. Of course, I adored her. 

Perhaps it will not surprise you that this post is a meditation on the companionship of grief. Occasionally, someone new to it will ask me if “it” gets better. There’s a lovely poem, “We grieve But We Do Not Drown,” by scar_poetry that answers that question particularly well. I don’t know scar_poetry’s given name but you can find her on social media, particularly Instagram. I recommend that you listen to her read the poem, as her inflection is, itself, a gift.

Much love.

Aisle 10: Between Cackles and Loud Sex

Mary Oliver Knows What’s What

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

The neighborhood is quiet again. For six weeks during the summer, there’s a camp across the street. The kids are quite … audible from about 9AM to 4PM. It’s delightful, really, the sounds they make, their shrieks of laughter and chatter. Now, it’s easier, again, to hear birds but the noises of childhood are all gone. Probably that’s not true in most neighborhoods but ours is an older population. There are few children here and their giggles are muted. 

In her poem “Don’t Hesitate,” Mary Oliver writes, “Joy is not made to be a crumb.” She tells us to embrace the joyful moments we come upon because they are few and unexpected. Isn’t that a child’s laugh? The smell of the bread my daughter is baking? When my son teases me and we chuckle because I called Deadpool Spiderman? I can’t wait for an end to cancer to experience joy because there might not be an end to cancer but if we don’t seek it out and celebrate those found moments, there will definitely be an end to joy. 

It’s cycle 8, the last cycle of chemo for now. And it’s been full of delights – vomiting, attacks of unproductive nausea (if you know, you know), cold sweats, dizziness, and lots of unspecified gastrointestinal delights. At least I know I’ll have a break soon. 

My nails have started peeling but thankfully, my hands and feet are not. Yes, that’s a pretty common chemo thing – peeling appendages. Ken struggled with it. His feet especially looked like dried alligator skin. Nothing seemed to help him. I’ve been more fortunate and more responsive to my daughter’s entreaties to please use the body lotion people have so kindly sent me. It’s working; so, thanks, everyone. 

It gets tiresome, you know, to constantly think about your own wellbeing. We’re all mostly oblivious to the functions of our bodies until those parts are not quite working. Back aches, stomach upsets, sore feet are all experiences we’ve had and moved on from, not giving them a thought. But in the midst of an extended health event, everything is about what’s working and not. And after a bit, it’s annoying to be constantly spotting problems. 

One morning, I woke up thinking “I feel sick.” Then, I sat up and had terrible vertigo that did not end when I lay back down. Closing your eyes works (in case you ever experience vertigo). After a few moments, the dizziness was gone but the nausea stayed. I have to eat to take my chemo pills so I had a glass of milk for breakfast and an egg for dinner and nothing in between. Tiresome, you see what I mean? Who wants to constantly be thinking about whether they feel okay? 

Recently, I was shopping at Costco with my daughter – we had run out of milk which is a catastrophe in our house. We were discussing the merits of a clearance storage item when I suddenly felt very wonky and started to cold-sweat. My worst nightmare is to have a health event at Costco and there we were, health-event underway. I sat on one of their display sofas for a bit, visited the bathroom for reasons you can imagine without further explanation, sat on the sofa again, and then decided to wait in the car where I could direct air conditioning on my very sweaty brow. 

Alas, that was not to be as the car had a very dead battery. Yes, that’s right. A 90 degree day and a dead battery – so, back I went into Costco to sit on that convenient sofa. 

My daughter made sure I was okay on the sofa, did all the food selecting, checked out, and loaded the car. I took on the easier task of jumping the battery with our lovely battery charger (having one in the car is so unnecessary until your battery is dead!), with her providing the essential moral support because I was really going through something as we like to call it. On the way home, she even put up with the frigid car temperature so I could cool my very sweaty self. And then she put all the groceries away while I lay on the sofa. One of the silver linings, I guess, is having the opportunity to see my loved ones shine in my rather dark place. 

Next week starts my long chemo break. I’ll have scans in September and visits with my surgeon and oncologist in October. I wonder what our next steps will be.

Much love.

Mary Oliver Knows What’s What

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

Are They Empty, Those Promises?

Deb Zuroski, , , Leave a comment

It’s such a day here. Full of that unfulfilled promise of better days to come. We all know that promise won’t be kept but it doesn’t stop us from believing, just for today.

One of the Apple Store guards is across the street right now. He’s standing in the doorway of the salon, eating an apple fritter from the bakery. Don’t ask me how I know it is an apple fritter. I just know. OKAY?

I’m not sure why he chose to stand in the salon doorway, other than it’s out of the way of the pedestrian traffic but still allows him to watch all the people passing by. He should have brought one of those collapsible seats because there is a lot of traffic today, a lot to see.

My favorite of the sights is people meeting unexpectedly. That just happened a few minutes ago. A young man was seated at the tables outside, in front of the big garage door, when another man called out and ran across the street to him. Such a smile he was wearing. I couldn’t see the seated man’s face but he must have smiled too because, if anything, the man crossing the street smiled wider. This is why I say there’s a promise in the day – unexpected joy.

A woman just walked into the coffee shop. She did not get a drink. Instead, she sat at one of the small circle tables and opened her bag. It’s full of books from the store next door. She peeked inside, like she hadn’t just bought those books, like she couldn’t wait to unwrap the present in front of her. (Isn’t that what books are?)

I’ve been joking with one of the new baristas – there are always new baristas because it’s a difficult, thankless job – about gathering a group of women to discuss the weather with Mother Nature. I figure we outnumber her so we can probably take her, right? (Yes, I’m aware that I sound like those men who totally think they could fight a wolf and win.)

Anyway, so today, when I saw her, she said that our threats must have been successful because TODAY. See. She thought about our discussion. We are indeed each a part of another’s mosaic. 

A big group just came out of Pamela’s Diner. One of the women is wearing a winter coat, hood up. Meanwhile, a young woman passing that group is in a half shirt, you know, the underboob kind. (I would totally have worn those shirts 35 years ago.) If I had to decide the temperature by looking out the window, I’m not sure what I’d do … layers?

A young man just walked by me to take a prime seat by the window as it was vacated. This is important so just hear me out … there is a lot of scent description in books – cooking smells, nature, you name it. I write those descriptions too but I don’t usually pay attention to the smells around me when I’m sitting in the coffee shop. (Okay, except for yesterday, when my son joined me after his shift at the diner. He totally smelled like pancakes, a thing he didn’t particularly appreciate when I told him.)

Just now, however, as that young man took that perfect seat, the strongest scent of Axe wafted behind him. And then a girl sat down with him. She’s cute. She makes him smile. He has dimples when he smiles. I hope she notices those dimples, notices that he likes her. I hope she doesn’t mind the Axe cologne. (She doesn’t seem to.) He’s wearing a bright white shirt with delightful multi-colored dots across it, like the very beginnings of a pointillism painting (or perhaps the shirt one wore while creating the actual artwork).

At another perfect seat by the garage door, a woman sits with someone who seems to be her son. She’s listening intently as he talks. He’s a surprisingly still talker, his arms mostly in his lap or resting on the table. There’s an iced coffee in front of him that he’s barely sipped. As I watch, I realize that tableau could be me with one of my kids. What a gift it is to watch a child reach adulthood, to learn a person – perhaps myself – through their many phases. 

Much love.

Are They Empty, Those Promises?

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?

Neujahrsbrezel

Deb Zuroski, , , , Leave a comment

If you work on the street near a coffee shop, what are you going to do? Get a coffee from there, of course. When my daughter worked at the competing coffee shop nearby, she said that they had frequent visits from the area workers.. 

Sometimes, they’d even swap products: burgers for coffee, baked goods for coffee. She claims though that the Apple store employees did not give her charge cords for coffee. That’s the deal I would want  especially since the coffee is equal in value to the drinks.

There’s a big jewelry store down the street from the coffee shop. Yes, I know where your mind just went. Wouldn’t that be the deal of the century: jewels for coffee. Sadly, that’s not where my story is headed. It’s raining today but the security guard who works at the jewelry store needs his coffee before the store opens. 

As he leaves here, I see him pause for a moment, possibly a mental debate, before he crosses the street to the bakery. A few moments later, he’s leaving the bakery with a bag and his drink. It’s raining, though, so now he has a conundrum. He wants to eat his treat but he hasn’t enough hands to hold his umbrella, the coffee and the treat, especially not while he’s eating said treat. 

What’s a person to do? I’ll tell you. He leans the umbrella on his shoulder, propped against the telephone pole, while he unwraps the treat but holds the bag around it, possibly to keep his fingers from getting sticky. Now, he can stand at the corner, eat the treat and drink his iced coffee without getting wet. Genius.

The bakery has been busy since they opened early this morning. Some people are buying neujahrsbrezel, which, in case you aren’t familiar, is a sweet pastry shaped like a pretzel. It’s quite popular in Pittsburgh and supposedly brings good luck in the new year. I could use some good luck though I don’t think it will come by way of a pretzel.

How, in particular, do I know who is buying neujahrsbrezel? The box is a dead giveaway. Most people who leave the bakery carry either a small waxed bag or a square box. The pretzel is large, decidedly so.

A young woman in bright yellow rain boots is leaving the bakery right now. She has a stack of three pretzel boxes and then a smaller bakery box. The woman has to look around the side of the top box to see where she’s going but her smile is bright. She’s looking forward to whatever event those pretzel boxes are going to.

The diner next to the bakery is packed to the doors with customers. Some are waiting under the overhang, trying not to get wet. When the door opens, clown-car-esque, a hoard of people spill out and the external group squeezes inside.

As I’m watching the diner, Chocolate Moose, the dog, not the candy store, walks up to the coffee shop with a tall, older man. After the man ties the dog to the bike rack outside, he enters the coffee shop. Since I’m sitting by the door, I ask if I can pet his dog, of course. The man is quick to tell me he’s just watching the dog for a friend. He’s flustered so I ask again if I can pet the dog. He says yes and calls to me as I go outside … “Chocolate Moose,” he says. “The dog’s name is Chocolate Moose.” 

And that’s how I find myself squatting in the rain beside Moose, scratching behind his ears. He’s a sweet young chocolate lab (of course), enjoying the rain and puzzled about why the walk has paused in front of this store. 

Technically, dogs are allowed to enter the coffee shop to get their puppuccinos but Moose is not very well-behaved. I’d call him overly loving. That’s why he’s sentenced to sit outside. He doesn’t understand why he can’t go up to every single individual in the coffee shop to ask for pets. That confuses me too because … DOG. Anyway, my day can continue joyfully now that I’ve spent a solid five minutes in the drizzle with Moose.

I hope your 2022 included a Chocolate Moose equivalent and that your 2023 introduces many of the same.

Happy New Year!

Much love.

Neujahrsbrezel

Outgrown

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , Leave a comment

It was Christmas eve and slightly below zero. Add in the wind chill and it was about -25F. I was on my way to my son’s house to pick him up. I’d offered to drive him to and from work because of the temperature. He usually walks; but as any northerner knows, temps this low can injure or kill a person easily. 

There were people waiting at the traffic light beside the Aldi grocery store as I pulled up to the intersection. I watched, thinking how cold they must be. The wind gusts were so strong that the people swayed a bit as they waited for the light to change. 

One of the women took off her scarf. As I watched, she wrapped it around another woman, tucking, then unwrapping and re-wrapping until she was satisfied that the other woman would be warm as they waited. 

I couldn’t see much of them, bundled as they were against the cold. Were they friends, siblings, lovers, mother and daughter? It doesn’t matter. The love was clear in that woman’s behavior. It wasn’t her sacrifice. It was the careful way she wrapped, then re-wrapped the other woman in the scarf. 

Her actions reminded me in that deja vu way of a winter night many years ago. I was at a stupid party off-campus at the rugby player’s fraternity. The party was continuing but I had an early shift at the country club. As I got ready to leave, he took my scarf from my hands and wrapped it around me just like that woman on the sidewalk. 

He was, for sure, more than a little tipsy and I was as sober as ever. That’s the thing about non-drinkers – we’re always sober and thus often remember things that reside in a fog for others. How would 20-year-old me feel if she knew that thirty years later a woman on a street corner on a cold winter day would bring back that wisp of memory of a pretty boy from so long ago? 

The leaf-birds were all blown from the trees by last week’s heavy winds. Now the branches are empty of those last brown leaves that clustered like sparrows in small groupings on our neighborhood trees. It’s a stark, rather lonely reminder that we are still in the early days of winter. The dark of January and bitterness of February await. 

The coffee shop is warm, though, and bright. Pedestrians are back, striped Sephora bags swing from their forearms, coffee cups are clasped in their hands. Fred the dachshund hasn’t passed by yet. He usually walks his owner every day but the cold temps or perhaps a trip for the holidays have absented him from the sidewalk outside the shop. 

A man walks by holding three cups in his hands. He’s with three young women – his daughters? – who are weighed down with bags from Cheeks and Lululemon and Apricot Lane. He looks tired but I hope he’s also delighted to be included in this shopping trip. This snapshot of his life – as I’ve crafted it, of course – reminds me of this quote: 

We can drink hot tea and talk about
the future, how hard it is to be outgrown.

From Mother Talks Back to the Monster by Carrie Shipers

As I wait in line for my iced black tea (medium in a for-here cup), a woman rushes up to the lady in front of me and they hug. I don’t know what they say to each other. It’s mostly in Italian but the sentiment is clear through their smiles, if not their constant touches. They are glad to see each other. I wonder why we wait until the holidays to come together?

Along with all the holiday visitors in the coffee shop, there are many familiar faces. One that is missing today, we’ll call him Andrew (because that’s his name), comes in most days to draw. He sits in near stillness, often leaning back in his chair, his drawing hand holding a pencil, moving over a pad. Who has he sketched in his time here? Does he make up stories for his subjects like I do? 

Last time I saw him, I was here late and he had fallen asleep, his head tipped back against the brick wall. It was closing time and the manager asked me, as I was leaving, if Andrew had awakened yet. “No,” I said and we exchanged a smile. Sometimes the third place is better than home, even when your eyes are drooping. 

The coffee shop traffic has not stopped today. Right now, there’s a family ordering drinks and laughing with the barista. The man has an arm around the woman. Their child, a teenager, is smiling too as they search through the coffee cup beside the register. It’s always full of free stickers that vary by the season. My computer is currently festooned with small Dancer, Rudolph and Ho-Ho-Ho stickers, courtesy of that coffee cup. 

The floor is cold where I’m sitting. My table is near the person-door, where the floor is brick and there’s the barest hint of a breeze from under the big garage door that will remain closed until next spring. It’s always warmer in the back but also more isolating. I like the activity by the register. Usually, I pop my earbuds in and listen to music (right now it’s an oldie, Tears for Fears, “Everybody Wants to Rule the World”) while I write. If I get stuck I can look up and be entertained by the activity around me. 

Today, that activity includes a child squealing two tables away. He’s thrilled with something, though I can’t see what it is. There’s another group blocking my view of the table, though I can see the little boy’s blond head and a bit of his smile. 

A woman stands beside him. She’s thrown her arms out in a theatrical jazz hands gesture, making everyone at the table laugh. That’s what she intended so she smiles, delighted with her success. It’s a heady thing, making people laugh. 

As I walk back to my seat from the bathrooms, I notice a man playing chess on his computer. The man at the next table has a background picture of a stunningly beautiful woman. He has a window open. It’s positioned on the screen so it doesn’t block her face. I hope, and in the story I tell myself, it isn’t a coincidence. 

Don McLean’s “Vincent” is playing now. That seems a suitable song for ending the day, don’t you think? 

Much love.

Outgrown