Monster Mash

I just realized a little something my mom and I have in common. I like to be entertained. However, it’s not exactly a common trait, more of a common interest. My mom likes to entertain.

It’s almost October. Pumpkins are already in stores, ready to make their debuts as everything from amateur Jack-o-lanterns to elaborate works of art.  And for some reason while thinking of the season, a childhood memory surfaced. The Monster Mash.

The Monster Mash. It was a graveyard smash. It was also a song my mother bought. A vinyl 45. 45’s had two songs. Side A was the song you wanted to buy. Side B was not.

I don’t know what other parents bought. Great Moments in Opera? Frank Sinatra? I’m pretty sure my mother also bought The Twist and Do The Hucklebuck, because I’m sure learning these dances along with The Monster Mash held some cultural significance.

It wasn’t that. She likes to entertain, to have fun and have others join in. Was she bringing them to a party? Much later in life, she became a disc jockey of sorts, bringing her boombox and cd’s to senior club dances. I’m sure this early training of knowing just the right music to dance to played a part.

In thinking of my mom, Halloween, and her penchant for amusement, I thought of something else.

She liked to create her own costumes.  And she liked to win if there was a contest. In the not-so-distant past, though, a rift in that particular continuum occurred.  The costume winner at the senior center was wearing a mask. That was his entire costume. Well, actually, it wasn’t a costume. He was related to the judge. The fix was in.

My mom doesn’t like to be overlooked. If she’s going to entertain, she likes some appreciation for her effort. She decided not to go to anymore senior center Halloween parties. If the fix is in, why bother?

She did come up with some gems over the years. One of my favorites because it boggled my mind, was her Siamese mummy costume. She and my brother’s wife were wrapped together in strips of white rags. I don’t know how they walked together without falling. “What kind of weird costume is that?” I asked. “Did neither of you have to use the restroom all night?”

“We unraveled ourselves right after we won” my mom replied. It’s a good thing they had the contest at the beginning of the party.

But yes, she won. She wouldn’t go to a Halloween party dressed in a costume without expecting to win. There’d be no sense in that.

Yin or Yang?

We found an authentic Chinese restaurant. It wasn’t the cleanest place. The walls were stained.  We sat at a booth where the table with its formidable carved wooden legs was a bit sticky. Although I hate to admit it, I think universally, greasy spoons have some of the best food.

The menu was extensive with some foods I’d never eat. There were dishes with feet, knuckles and stomachs but we opted for the noodles. The noodles are what the restaurant is known for. They are called Biang Biang, I think. Or is that the name of the symbol on the wall when you enter?

 The lunch was fabulously satisfying. The noodles are homemade and stretched to an unbelievable length. Legend has it that the longer the noodle, the better your luck.

We were both very lucky. I ordered the noodle with vegetables and Rob ordered the one with lamb. His came with plenty of vegetables too. Bok choy, bean sprouts, scallions, carrots, and potatoes. Potatoes?  I was surprised to find little squares of potato in a Chinese dish.

There was one noodle in each bowl. I spied a young woman stand up, stretching her noodle up over her head with her chopsticks, obviously delighted.  Good luck indeed.

We were the only non-Asian people in the restaurant. Our formidable sticky table wasn’t the only thing in the restaurant that was authentically Chinese. The overhead lamps with branches running up the shades illuminating each booth, the huge round understated, but beautiful chandelier in the center of the restaurant, the character embossed floor tiles, and the replica terra cotta soldiers that greeted us at the door were all shipped in from China to this unpretentious restaurant in a downtrodden strip mall.

Before we even went in, I spied a worn disposable lighter alongside a small bit of trash I didn’t recognize on the sidewalk. “Leftovers from someone doing crack or meth,” Rob said.

We (I) opted to sit near a hazy, seemingly neglected window.  We saw several sad people walk past. The first one was a zombie like figure with a wrinkled, yellow, emergency worker’s vest draped over his bony shoulders. He wasn’t wearing a shirt underneath. His pants were cinched at the waist, obviously too big for his skeletal frame.  Next, a woman with a knee brace pushing a shopping cart in place of a walker. Several other unsheltered, disheveled drug addicted men and women passed like specters.

Why was this fabulous restaurant in that area? They spent so much money importing every detail to a neighborhood I’d be hesitant to return to. Was it close to an Asian population I wasn’t aware of? Maybe, but I’m sure people would seek out the restaurant if it was in a different neighborhood. I saw a sign posted on the back wall that I’m not sure I’d ever seen before, except in movies and on t.v. shows. “We reserve the right to refuse service…”  I imagine some of the transients probably wandered in at one time or another, prompting the need for some sort of defensive warning.  I wondered if it is legal.

The waiter was fast, but nice, and checked on us several times. He asked the non-Asian questions which I very much appreciated. He asked about our spice preference. “Mine not too hot,” I replied, but Rob was okay with however it came.  When he brought the food out, he asked if we were okay with the chop sticks or would we prefer forks. I opted for a fork.  There was no judgmental look, as sometimes occurs when preferring a fork in an Asian restaurant. Before we got our food, I did see someone peek out at us from the kitchen. I wondered if he was gauging the degree of spiciness to apply based on my appearance. But still, I didn’t take that as being judgmental, just thoughtful. 

We plan on going back there to try something different. As I said, the menu is extensive. Besides the foods I wouldn’t eat, there were plenty of dishes I thought looked good.

Rob said he probably wouldn’t go there at night. There is that seedy, uncomfortable, perhaps dangerous vibe right outside the door. But on Friday and Saturday nights, there’s a woman who plays a Chinese harp.  We might have to chance it.

Floaters

The city had its characters. But then there were floaters, like the portraitist. He was slim with jet black hair and looked thirty something. He sketched people without their knowledge or consent. He sketched me. I saw him for a few weeks on the stoops throughout town; pad, pencils, and eraser at hand. But I only spoke to him once.  He showed me the charcoal pencil portrait. He was beaming and told me that everyone he showed it to said it captured me. “It looks just like you,” he said.  I didn’t think so but wondered if maybe that’s what I really look like.  

He told me he made copies because people asked for them. I didn’t know how to feel about that, but after a long minute, I thought, eh, I suppose it’s harmless. After all, it doesn’t even look like me. He asked if I wanted one. “No, thanks,” I said. “I know what I look like,” thinking, It’s not that.

It was a rude remark, but I was a bit disturbed that he hadn’t asked if he could sketch me and that there were copies? I would’ve said no, which was probably why he didn’t ask for anyone’s consent.

I didn’t get the impression that he thought it was a rude comment. He closed the folder with the picture inside and began telling me about his heroes, and about his love for art. He loved to sketch, but he particularly loved cartoons and animation. “I want to make people happy like Walt Disney.” he said. He admired him and shared that he read everything he could find that was written about him. “Did you know that Mickey Mouse was originally named Mortimer?” he asked. Only he pronounced it more-timer. I stifled my laugh. He seemed by then to be a kind soul. I wasn’t going to correct him. “No, I had no idea.” I replied.

I didn’t see him after our conversation. And I never saw any of the copies of my portrait. I don’t think there were any. He was a floater. I didn’t know his name. I didn’t know where he came from or where he travelled off to, but it would be nice if he ended up in a place where he could make people happy.  With a cartoon character named More-timer, maybe.

They said they weren’t a couple. But you couldn’t tell by looking at them. They seemed as close as any two people dating. They held hands and leaned on each other. “Just really good friends,” she said. He was the son of a preacher and had shoulder length auburn hair. She had the most beautiful flawless brown skin. Tall and slender, they could’ve been models. They both had green eyes that should’ve sparkled. Instead, it was their green eyes, with small pupils, that gave them away. They clung to each other for support, trying to keep each other from falling deeper into addiction. Like the portraitist, they were floaters. They appeared one day and disappeared a few weeks later. If they stayed, their fall was inevitable. Heroin was as easy to buy as a burger downtown. They must have come for that. Did they leave for the same reason? Did they have the strength to flee from temptation? It would be great if they did.

For a few weeks, a petite, chirpy girl with short blonde hair came around. She lit up the area with her joy and genuine warmth.  She lived a couple of towns away and took a bus to St. George Ave., then walked six blocks to downtown.

One day she showed up behind the wheel of a light blue Chevy Nova. The car was a few years old but in good shape. At first. The dings started showing up almost daily. That didn’t stop me from joining her on her rides to nowhere in particular. And, yes, parking wasn’t a skill she possessed.

Her parents bought the car for her birthday. Why didn’t she tell anyone it was her birthday? I had no idea she was turning seventeen. Did she know she was hanging around with a thirteen-year-old? I suppose, like me, she thought we were about the same age.

On each ride, like therapy, she unfolded her life; starting with why she didn’t tell anyone about her birthday. She wouldn’t know who to invite or where to have a party.

She graduated high school two years early. She had nothing in common with the older kids she shared classrooms with and couldn’t seem to connect to those her own age.  She had no brothers, sisters, or cousins. She didn’t have a job. Her parents paid for everything, including a studio apartment where she’d been living for the past six months. The lease was in their name.  Her parents were in their forties when they had her. They retired and bought a nice home on the beach but she didn’t want to move. “In the summer, it’s crowded. In the winter, it’s a ghost town,” she lamented. “And I’d have no friends there.”

Her chirpy personality seemed to be a defense against loneliness.  She may not have had friends if she moved down the shore, but she didn’t have friends in her hometown either. The trips to the diner where we met started when she impulsively got on a random bus and got off at a random stop, started walking, and ended up downtown. She stayed around longer than the other floaters, so maybe the word drifter would describe her better. A short time after she got her car, she drifted to another place; one with good friends, hopefully.

Temporary Housing

The little building, only four dwellings high, five wide, with iridescent numbers affixed to the locked doors are like many of the neighborhoods across the globe.

It’s a tiny community filled with gossip, local irrelevant interests, and occasionally celebratory greetings. Sometimes, there’s a note of encouragement that passes through one of the doors. Other times, discouraging and even sometimes devasting news. And every rare once in a while, an unexpected windfall. Laughter and tears, smiles and frowns, can share the cramped spaces at any given time.

Those of every color, every language, every opinion, friends and foes alike, have probably found themselves there temporarily at one time or another.  The future awaits more of the same for this unassuming, unpretentious, overlooked little village that welcomes all who enter without giving it a thought. It’s withstood storm and abuse alike, and it’s still standing strong.  I’m heading there now, key in hand.  My mailbox is the one on the top left.

Good Neighbors

Sitting up proudly under our glittering tree, he looked right at me with his poppy seed eyes. He had a little gray pot belly, round ears atop his head, and a slinky tail wrapped around his tiny pink feet. An adorable mouse in the house just like in a children’s book!

I wasn’t the only one who witnessed what seemed like a magical moment. Rob quickly swooped in on him with a broom. He smashed and shuffled our tiny uninvited guest down the hall and out through the back door.

A couple of other children’s books meshed in my head during the brief Christmas morning encounter. We were renting at the time. Our fellow renters had gone over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house, leaving behind a crumb that was even too small for a mouse.

Well, they must have. Why else would he have tried to make himself a gift under our tree? And he almost made it. But we didn’t know his backstory. Rob wisely pointed out that you can’t just adopt any mouse. Even if he came via Santa.

Besides, we found out he had a rather large family. They had a home. The neighbor’s home. We decided to keep the mouse family fed until they returned. Christmas cheese and crackers seemed appropriate. We set up the little feast on the neighbor’s side of the back porch after brushing away some of the snow. After their meal, they scurried to the basement dwelling where they lived, warm and contented, I imagined.

We had every intention of letting our fellow renters know about their basement guests. But I honestly couldn’t believe they were unaware of them. Further, no one in that family ever spoke to us. Before we moved in, our side of the duplex was occupied by three college girls. Obviously, they were preferred over us. So, we decided if they spoke to us, we’d tell them of our Christmas encounter. If not, the mice would keep their delightful home. We moved before the next Christmas rolled around. Our good neighbors, the mice, were still there.

Winter Wondering

Have you ever driven in white out conditions, where the falling snow swirling around in the wind resembled cotton candy? How about after your first eye exam, where no one told you that your eyes would be putting on a fireworks display for about an hour? And what if that eye exam happened after dental surgery, and the Novocain wore off, and your cheek throbbed like a painful balloon being inflated and deflated? Out, Ow! In, Ow! Out, Ow! In, Ow!

And you’re driving in the middle of a city populated by all nations? Sharing the street with people who’d never driven before because they couldn’t afford a car or weren’t allowed to drive in their home countries? And for many, road rules were optional, if not unknown? And dodging whole families from other countries darting in and out of traffic with their umbrellas, packages, and strollers, because where they grew up everyone did that?

Just wondering. I have.

Socks, Sheets and Other Luxuries

A few years ago, my sister wisely observed that when people grow up they tend to fill some gaps of their real or perceived unmet childhood desires and expectations.  It’s probably why middle-aged men buy sports cars. Mid-life crisis? Maybe. But maybe it’s not that they want to recapture their youth, as much as it’s finally enjoying something they desired in their youth.

Whatever the reason, I agree with her observation. But things people might have missed out on when they were younger don’t need to be extravagant. 

This morning I chose a pair of warm socks to wear around the house to take the chill off. Fifty degrees? Cloudy and rainy?  Arizona forgot it’s a desert apparently. I pulled my socks on, stepped on the tile floor, and felt a cold spot on my heel. Must be a hole, I thought.  Yes, there were two little holes worn through the bottom of my sock. When I’m done wearing them today, they’re destined for the trash instead of the laundry.  I’m not upset about their demise. They had a long life.

Unlike the socks I wore for several lean years growing up. Some weren’t even good for one wearing. And none were good after one washing. White became a color that doesn’t exist in nature, usually only occurring to one out of the pair. Socks of color also went through magical transformations. Matching became a kind of art – choosing the two closest shades to make a pair. Elastic was non-existent. I got a lot of exercise, reaching down to unscrunch the lumps under my feet where they gravitated to their lowest points. I very rarely got holes on the bottoms, though. A hole in the big toe was usually the first breach of the fabric. A hole in the toe requires another skill. Before you put on your shoes, you pull the front of the sock up past your toes and tuck that part under. Then you quickly slip your foot into your shoe being careful not to let the front of the sock slip back. If you’ve ever worn a sock with a hole in the toe, you know that part is crucial to preventing it from strangling your toe and cutting off your circulation.

Sheets had a few similarities to my socks back then. For example, fitted was a misnomer. After one magical mystery tour through the washer, not only did the color change, but due to shrinkage you could only tuck one or two of the pockets around the mattress. By your head? But there was a pillow (of sorts), you could lay your head on, so by your feet? Decisions, decisions. 

The first Christmas after I got married, my sister bought me two pairs of socks. She probably gave me other gifts. She’s always overly generous, but I only remember the socks. They were knee socks. One pair was burgundy and one pair was navy blue. They both had a gold design on them. It was years past the droopy, holey sock days. But until that Christmas I didn’t realize how luxurious socks could be. And until a few years into my marriage, I didn’t know sheets came in different thread counts. The higher the thread count, the softer the sheets. Who knew? Well, probably most people.

I’m glad I went through those years as a kid. I’m guessing most people I know don’t think of nice socks, sheets, and other small things as luxuries. But I do, and I’m looking forward to tossing the socks I’m wearing now and picking out a nice luxurious pair to replace them. And maybe I should look at sheets while I’m shopping.

Not Perfect

When I first became a believer, I was embarrassed by some of my new fellow Christians. Particularly the bumper sticker brothers and sisters.  I remember waiting in a parking lot for Rob when a real clunker of a car pulled in. The disheveled owner parked and tumbled out in a cloud of dust. The car was practically wall papered in bumper stickers. “Not perfect, just forgiven” was one that seemed particularly apt.

As I stared judgmentally at what could be described as a clown car, I thought “Why are Christians so crazy? This is my new family.”  But right away, God reminded me that the founders of Yale and Harvard had been Christians. Schools and hospitals, inner city missions, outreaches to the poor, the Salvation Army, Feed the Children, and so many other wonderful institutions and charities were started by Christians. I felt better but also convicted. God’s amazing grace. I wasn’t better than my disheveled sister and the founders of Yale were not better than me.

Over the years I’ve met many believers of diverse backgrounds and walks of life. Some of my favorites have been the eccentric, disheveled, clown car owner types. They are usually non-judgmental, and often have an intuitive sense of others’ needs. Maybe because they are needy themselves. 

I’m reading a book by Timothy Keller where he mentions the angels appearing to the shepherds to announce the good news that a savior has been born. The shepherds rush to the manger in Bethlehem and tell what they’ve seen and heard. The people who heard were amazed. But did they believe the report? The text doesn’t tell us. Some must have.

The shepherds certainly believed but they had miraculous messengers – angels. The messengers to the people in Bethlehem were shepherds.  He mentions that shepherds weren’t well respected. They were not educated. They had no social standing or power. And I’ve also read in other books that they weren’t trustworthy.

Pastor Keller’s point was that we all need to be better listeners. Do well respected people lie sometimes? Do less respected people have something important to share? We need to hear or focus on the message and not so much, the messenger.

I wouldn’t have been attracted to the Gospel by that bumper sticker laden clunker or the owner who tumbled out of it. I was already a believer, and I was put off by it. But I’ve come to realize that God works through and with all people. His message is delivered by many messengers who are not perfect, just forgiven.

Utterly Scentless

I bought a clay pot planted with a few dainty spring flowers. Some petite daffodils and a miniature hyacinth. My grandfather bought a single potted hyacinth every year for my grandmother at Easter time. It could’ve been pink, blue, or purple. They come in many eye-catching shades. She loved the scent.

One year when we visited, my grandmother was happy to show us the flower that stayed lovely for a couple of months. Easter had long passed. We were impressed. She had a knack with flowers. Beautiful vibrant colors came to life in season in the bed that lined the area in front of the porch. But how was this flower still so perfect when it should’ve passed on weeks ago? Or why hadn’t it been planted in her flower garden?

She let out the secret behind her knowing smirk. A few days before Easter, my grandfather brought it home as was his habit for many years. For some reason, the scent was not the same. In fact, the fragrance was strangely faint, if not entirely missing, from this violet blossom. She watered it. That usually perked up the aroma. But no. Maybe it was the greenhouse effect. Those greenhouse flowers have no scent.

After a few days of waving a hand over the flower toward her face, watering, poking the soil to cajole the distinctive smell, the lightbulb lit. She pinched the petals, bent the leaves. The perfect, scentless hyacinth was a fake. “Plastic!”, she laughed.

My grandfather looked for perfection. He found it. They were both shocked to realize it was plastic and the “soil” she’d poked and watered was also fake. How realistic it looked. It fooled them both.

My grandmother knew that every year at Easter my grandfather would buy her the flower she loved. But it was the plastic one they remembered endearingly. It’s the one I remember.

I bought my planter with the hyacinth because it reminds me of my grandparents love for each other. I knew they loved each other but it’s not something they were very demonstrative about. I might never have known of this annual small act of love if it were not for that utterly scentless bloom.

Cheap Hearts

When my stepfather married my mother, the youngest of us was eleven. They went by themselves to another state to tie the knot. None of us were there. To say he wasn’t much of a parent is a gross understatement. But I remember two things he did that I suppose he thought were man of the house things. Maybe it was something his father did.

One was a Sunday morning ritual. Every Sunday morning, he’d go to the bakery and then stop somewhere to buy a hefty Sunday paper. He bought hard rolls, crumb buns and black and whites at the bakery. If you grew up in New Jersey and you’re my age, you know exactly what those things are. The bakery items may still be familiar to some, but the hefty Sunday paper is a remnant of another time. It was thick with “news”, but the only sections I cared about were the magazine and the comics.

The best thing about this was he left the fat paper and the white box tied up with string on the kitchen table. Then hid out in his room. He was anti-social. He was anti-nice. None of us would’ve joined him at the table for breakfast but it was mutual. It would have been a strain for him to be there with us.

The other thing I recall was he bought my sister and I each a small, cheap, red, heart-shaped box of chocolates every Valentine’s Day. I don’t remember if he left those on the table but I’m sure he didn’t hand them to us. He bought my mother a big fancy heart-shaped box. I remember it because, even though I knew it was cheap, it seemed out of character for him. It was in a way, thoughtful.

My grandfather lost his wife when she was way too young. He was too, of course, and there came a time when he thought to re-marry. On Valentine’s Day, he presented his intended with a small cheap, heart-shaped box of chocolates. Tucked inside was an engagement ring.

He waited for the answer. And he waited. But she didn’t open the box. She threw the cheap, thoughtless token aside in disgust. A measure of his love that fell woefully short in her mind. The ring was eventually discovered and they married.

They still sell cheap, red, heart-shaped boxes of chocolates as Valentine gifts. I sometimes wonder who gives them. And who gets them.