My Hairy Toes

My daughter and I have a tradition. It’s not so different from other mothers and daughters. Pretty common, really. Whenever we get together we get a manicure or pedicure. Usually both. We choose the color from a vast variety of shades. It’s amazing to me the colors that people paint their tips. Why, in God’s name, would anyone want to paint their nails black, as though they’ve all been hammered on and will fall off any minute? Then again, I suppose blood red could be looked at as equally shocking, but I like to see rubicund hands clapping in happiness.

            My last stop during my two months of travel was to New York to visit with my daughter. On Saturday of the visit we walked down a Brooklyn street knowing there were several salons available and looking forward to a good soak and foot massage. It’s a simple luxury. My toes are the only nails I like painted and I chose a flashy orangey-red to celebrate them. As I rolled up my trousers the lovely Vietnamese woman took one look at my legs and said, “Want wax? Only twelve dolla for half!”

            Hair on my legs has never bothered me. I’m not one of those shave-every-day kinda gals (if you don’t mind a bit of personal information) and I’ve been known to put on a good coat during the winter. Traveling through Europe, where it was still chilly, and then on to Istanbul, where the dress was modest, I felt no need to even pack a razor. But here I was in one of the most fashionable cities in the world and it was 86° and humid out. Definitely leg-showin weather. So I followed this tiny woman into a cubical to be stripped of the winter season.

            Hot beeswax was quickly spread over my lower legs, like butter on toast, followed by ribbons of muslin pressed firmly into the melted honeycomb. With a blessedly quick tug waxy hair was removed. Voila! Lovely satiny smooth summer legs.

            To once again get personal, my toes also sprout a lovely fuzz. I’ve been told that bearded feet are a sign of wealth. That’s not the case with me, most definitely, but oddly enough I like the wee bit of growth. It reminds me that I too am animal. My dog and I share hairy toes (though he certainly wins the prize when it comes to density, thank goodness) and I have a fondness for chickens with feathered feet.

            Before I could say oh-my-that-last-tug-brought-tears-to-my-eyes I heard, “I wax toes too”. Hot wax. Strips of cloth. And there I was, with naked toes.

            I look forward to the new growth. I’m told it comes back finer and softer.

On Being Homesick

I was three weeks into two months of travel and absolutely convinced I was done. I was finished. I could go no further. I was so homesick my whole body ached. Here I was in one of the most beautiful regions of England, the Peaks District, and I could barely get out of my chair. My daughter, the wise one indeed, asked me, “What is it you miss? Write it down. What do you want to go home to?”

On the surface it was easy. I missed my dog, my bed, a larger choice of clothing. Hell, a choice, period. I missed the nighttime sounds that we all grow used to putting us to sleep. I missed cooking and good coffee. I missed driving on the right side of the road. I missed my own car.

But it goes deeper. My homesickness went to familiarity. Opening a cupboard and recognizing the contents; turning on the shower with my eyes closed; knowing which aisle the bread and yogurt could be found. I was tired to my bones of figuring out the puzzle of every day. Three weeks was enough.

More then the constant brainteaser of how to get from point A to point B, I was in need of a good friend by my side. Very few of us are solitary animals and though I have gone it alone a majority of my life, it is not my preferred way of navigating. I relish laughter and shared joy with a good friend. My most precious moments are those with someone else in my life. By the time I got to northern England, I had stayed in the home of six strangers, retelling my story and hearing theirs. At the point of my intense need to return to native ground I was not alone. I was staying at a retreat center for Unitarian Universalists and they were lovely and welcoming. So what was it?

Our call to be with our tribe is forceful. To see the faces of those who know us the best, who are empathic to our struggles, faults and foibles is to see ourselves. By the time I was three weeks into my journey I had lost a bit of who I was; I had lost my reflection in the mirror.

POSTLUDE: I did continued on my travels, not letting the intensity of homesickness to get the better of me. I joined my niece and together we discovered things about ourselves that were new and exciting. She became my mirror and I in turn hers.

I also returned to car.

Talk to Strangers IX: Witness

This could be a story, but it’s more an odyssey, a journey, a witness.

On my last night in Istanbul I was invited to attend the service at a local Sufi mosque. A sect of Islam, Sufism uses trance-like chant, music, breathing and movement to praise Allah. You may be familiar with whirling dervishes. Dressed in white, they twirl in beautiful smooth circles, wide “skirts” gently rotating outward like large morning glories opening to the sun. This particular mosque is well known for preserving the traditional music through audio recordings and notations since the 1920s. I know very little about this gentle religion. I am writing more about the boys who introduced me to a community they love.

While in Istanbul I stayed at a guesthouse run by a friend of a colleague, so I was not a stranger. I felt at home as soon as I arrived in this unusual (to me) city, with all it’s smells, sounds and sites. The son of the household is almost a man, coming to the end of his teen years, and is an accomplished musician. At a young age he picked up a traditional string instrument. I think it’s called a tanbur, but I may be mistaken. Whatever it’s called, it’s large, with a deep bowl and long neck. He is often called upon to play at his mosque, along with his two young friends, one who plays something that looks a bit like a banjo, but it’s bowed, like a violin. The other plays a kavel, or flute. They make quite a threesome, these young Turks, still in their teen years, and they are obviously good friends.

“Come with us, to the mosque.” I was invited. I could not refuse. I went into a world that is so different from my own and yet so familiar. In this world the men and women sit apart, the men in the main “sanctuary” and the women behind a low railing, more as observers. There were guests mixed among both, standing out in their curiosity. I was a bit nervous; I wanted to be a polite guest.

The boys needed to practice and get tuned up while I was left outside to wait until the hall was opened to all. There was a commonality wherever I looked: A beautiful pregnant women, close to term, who was greeted with warmth by the olders; an elderly man who was brought some leftover food from the dinner previously served; two good friends talking; folks going this way and that tending to the needs of the community. There was a spirit of generosity and love in the place. There was also ritual that seemed familiar and different all at the same time. Instead of a sign of the cross, there would be a pause, a head bowing, and a touch of palms to face. I needed to cover my hair; I used to pin a tissue to my head if I forgot my scarf when I was young. I need to remove my shoes, which is becoming more and more common in my world.

The description of the service I’ll leave for another time. It filled me the way singing with women does, or doing pranayama yoga with a group. The air was filled with rhythmic sounds and the chanting could be felt in my bones. The boys were in the midst of the men, accompanying the lilting voices with their talents.

We were there for over two hours. Afterwards, with a bit of back and forth between the boys, I was invited to join them to eat. Of course we would eat! It’s a way to continue the community experience. And I was honored. I could handily be these boys grandmother, had I had children at an early age. Only one spoke English, the son of my host, and he insisted, like the wonderful young man he was growing into.

We walked through the neighborhood, past old cemeteries lit in the light of the full moon, tea shops with groups of men sitting at low tables on short stools, open squares with children playing or couples doing their couple thing. It was after midnight and there was liveliness in the air. I was seeing a part of Istanbul that my tourist feet had not visited. One of boys interpreted carvings on a gravestone. Written in an Ottoman language that the others did not know, it was a precious sharing. They also acted like boys together, punching each other and goofing. I was enjoying my cloak of invisibility at times and at others brought into the conversation through the interpretations of my host. We ate kabop. We shared desserts. We laughed, even though we did not speak the same language. They spent the evening “processing” their experience, talking about the mistakes made, the exchanges between these youngsters and the older, more experienced, members. It was different and yet it was the same.

I am humbled by this experience, a non-believer drawn into a believing world by the communal spirit of love.

Talk to Strangers VIII: Istanbul

It’s an old notion that learning a person’s name gives you power over them. You’ll find it in many Nordic and Indian tales. I wonder if this is one of the reasons why I’m so nervous when I know I will be called to introduce someone. I really don’t want the responsibility that comes with that power.

            I hardly ever bulk when someone asks my name, unless it’s someone calling me on the phone. Shouldn’t they know it’s me they called? And, unless it’s a taxi driver in Istanbul.

            The other day it took me six tries to get a taxi to take me to the neighborhood where I’m staying. There wasn’t a queue and people (men) kept jumping in front of me just as I walked up to the car. When I finally got the attention of a driver I’d lean into the passenger window with my map and point to the intersection. They’d shake their head no. They didn’t want to deal with the traffic. Does this make sense to you? They’re taxi drivers, for god sake! And I knew there would be plenty of folks at the other end.

            When one finally agreed and I climbed into the back seat, he fell into conversation. (long pause) “What is your name?” (long pause) “Are you married?” Oh my. But it’s not what you think. This was not actually a flirtation of any kind. That would be out of the question. It was, well, just conversation; a chance to practice English, maybe, but even more, an opportunity just to be kind. “How are you today?” might become too involved. “What do you think of this weather?” doesn’t work either. My name is just one word, and it sounds different. So does theirs because I always ask the same. A simple yes or no is sufficient for the next question. For the record, I reply yes.

            Today took a tram to an area that I like since it’s my last day here. No purpose in mind other then to get a coffee or a tea and a bit of something to eat. It was pretty hot, so I just wanted to sit and people watch. There was a gentleman who commented on my picture taking; his English was pretty good. Later he asked if he could offer me a cup of tea and sit down with me.

            I was done with my snack and it was paid for. It would do no harm if he sat. He had a kind face and sure enough, he started a conversation that went beyond my name, though he did ask. We talked of Istanbul and why so few Americans are visiting it now. We talked a bit of politics and economics and his love of Turkey. He told me he spoke five languages so-so. I told him I speak only one, with much embarrassment. Then he told me he managed the carpet selling business next door. I was so let down. I was really hoping that our conversation was not about selling me something. It seemed where ever I went shopkeepers were trying to pull me in. But I had told this man my name and now he had power.

            “Are you interested in Kilmer carpet? May I show you?” Darn. But since we’d just had a nice conversation I said, with kindness in my voice, “No. I mean no disrespect but I’m really not interested in carpet and I hope you don’t try to convince me. I’ve enjoyed talking to you about other things.” Just like that.

            “Yes. A nice conversation. Thank you. I will say nothing more about carpets,” and he released the power and set me free. Thank you Omar.

           

Mysteries, Yes by Mary Oliver

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds
will never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the
scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say
"Look!" and laugh in astonishment,
and bow their heads.

Talk to Strangers VII: Paris

Let me just put it out there: Paris is a dirty city. Lots of dog shit, lots of litter, and yet it’s immensely appealing. Paris has everything you need and a lot that you don’t. If you want a taste of how the rest of world views Americans, visit Paris. The attitude is legendary and exists. Someone I met there told me he was seated at a restaurant to be asked what wine he would be drinking. A non-drinker he responded “Aucun,” not any.

            “Misère, if I had known you were refusing wine I would not have seated you.”

            “Madam, if I had known that wine was required I would not have asked for a table.” The waitress promptly took the menu and walked away.

            ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­And yet this same man adores Paris. It has been his city for over 30 years.

            I love flea markets and food bazaars. There you will find the soul of the city, with people from all around the region selling their wares, often just trying to get by. Le Marche aux Puces, a famous flea market in Saint-Ouen, is huge with over 2000 tiny shops and has “neighborhoods,” just like a little city. There’s an area with newer things. You know – shoes, scarves, jeweler, leather and sports jackets; a shop with just key rings, another with soaps and off brand perfumes. And there are young brown boys everywhere with Gucci bags over their arms or holding piles of polo shirts asking, “Buy a shirt; buy a bag?” All of these are sold from the back of vans, with huge tarps set up. Once the day is done and everything is packed away there will only be a huge empty lot.

            Another area is where the antiques are displayed. This is a more permanent, with low long buildings with rented stalls, each with it’s own flair, it’s own flavor. Some are so full of things that you can hardly walk in and for many you can’t, while others are elaborately displayed with room to browse. I took my time, enjoying every minute. It was, well, so French, with laces, buttons, silver, chandeliers, and white linen. Everywhere you turn you see delicate porcelain dishware and exquisite paintings. I was yelled at and mocked for taking a photo. From then on I asked permission, with a gesture. For over 3 hours I walked and breathed it all in.

I met Joseph at a café in the heart of Le Puce. I thought I was done. My feet ached and my eyes could not take in any more. I was enjoying the best pizza I had ever tasted, thin, oven baked with tomatoes and arugula.  We exchanged a few words, as strangers often do. He told me there was yet another area that I had not seen, with more refined small shops and treasures. He tried to explain but it’s all such a labyrinth. Would he show me instead please? Yes. The answer was yes.

We spent 3 hours more walking together. Joseph has been working in Le Puce for over 30 years and he knew many of the merchants. Speaking in French with a pronounced American accent, he would often get teased. They would laugh together, Joseph and the merchants; there is a lot of respect for him, it was clear. He is incredibly kind. “Do you see anything you like?” he asked.

“Would you like to know what interests me?” I responded, not really intending to buy but enjoying the look, and I pointed to a painting here, a bowl there, a stool, a lamp. And then, in a corner, I spotted it. 24 inches tall, it turned out to be a trophy for a boules – lawn bowling – championship. The date on the front said 1934 and it was every bit art deco, a young man with his arm stretch out in front holding the ball and his back arm and leg in almost a ballet pose. £600 she wanted. Joseph was in his element. £200. No, £300 was the counter. £250 then. No, £275 and Joseph said that was fair. Done. £275 but now how was I to get it home?

It was not to be possible, and in the end I had to give it up. But Joseph was just as much enthralled with “our boy,” as we called him. It is now his and I hope he makes a tidy profit.

Paris made beautiful through the eyes of a Parisian American and a find in a flea market.

Aurora Farm II

It was to be my last day in Indiana and by my calculations I was only an hour or so away from Aurora, the town where the Chance/Smith family gathered. Genealogy can get complicated very quickly, but here’s the gist: Chance is my paternal grandmother’s family name. She’s in the title photo, the little girl down front with big bows in her hair. Her mother, kneeling to the right, married Frank Chance, my grandmother’s father. Frank came from John Chance and Rebecca Smith. (In fact, Frank’s middle name was Smith, as is common in the Anglo tradition but this might too much information.) The farm that I call the Aurora Farm was in the Smith family for generations and at the time of this photo was owned and run by Ralph Smith, Rebecca’s brother, and his wife Catherine. Aunt Meg Smith (as my grandmother called her) is the plump woman in the back row with the coy smile. I love that smile. She’s the daughter of Ralph, so essentially she’s my first cousin three times removed, or going back three generations. See how complicated gets?

My assumption is that my great grandfather Frank is taking this family photo. He had a photo studio back home and loved working with cameras. This could have been taken with a huge one that required a plate, but my guess is that he would have this on a tripod to place himself in the photo as well. Instead, I’m thinking this may have been shot with a Kodak Brownie. These were being mass produced at the time and were quite inexpensive.  The photo was certainly composed and Aunt Meg is not the only one smiling. Grandpa Frank must have been talking to them, letting him know when he was going to expose the film.

This photo has intrigued me ever since I found it in my grandmother’s old photo album. In fact, it was so alluring that I had to make Aurora one of my destinations. Through the magic of intranet I was able to get in touch with a descendant from the farm, still living in this hilly area just north of the Kentucky line. She said yes, the farm still existed though it wasn’t in the family any more. She told me the road but didn’t know an address. I asked if she knew if the family had attended a church. She thought for a minute. Most likely the Methodist church at the end of the road. There’s a cemetery there.

I found the road, driving ever so slowly so I could enjoy the cold but sunny, beautiful day. I left the Ohio River following Hogan Creek through a stunning wooded area until I got to the top and Short Ridge Road. This is the site of the farm. I don’t know what I was expecting. There’s not much detail in the photo. You can only see the side of a barn and a field. So much has changed and I was acutely aware of passing time. New barns and farmhouses – built since 1908 when the photo was taken – were all along the winding roadway. These are probably not farms but homes with a bit of land overlooking the huge river to the south. I couldn’t figure out which property had been in the Smith family and I was too shy to walk up to just any house. Seemed a bit of a stretch to ask folks if they knew of people who lived on this land over 100 years ago.

But I did find graves. The Methodist church and the cemetery were indeed at the end of the road. Newish now but the graveyard included lots of older stones. I’ve discovered that cemeteries often include a larger family marker, and, since this burial ground was a bit large and the wind was wicked cold on that top of that hill, I drove through looking for familiar names. And there they were. Smith, Chance, Dennerline, Mendell and Newby. All associated with the farm and all gathered here on this hillside. I found an especially old grave and cleaned it as much as could with what I had.

My father (another Frank) visited this farm during his summers. I make the 6^th generation to touch the ground of the Aurora Farm. Not so complicated after all.

This is my father, on the left, with his old brother John and Clarence Mendell, Aunt Meg's son.