1. Cleaning my room
2. Writing
3. Filing my fingernails into perfect squares
Hinged to Forgetfulness Like a Door
Richard Brautigan
Hinged to forgetfulness
like a door,
she slowly closed out of
sight,
and she was the woman I loved,
but too many times she slept like
a mechanical deer in my caresses,
and I ached in the metal silence
of her dreams.
In early August, I was at the beach for a week when I started reading my grandfather's letters to my grandmother.
Late one night early in the week, my aunt and I went out to the shed with flashlights to find the small cedar chest full of letters. I took the chest into my bedroom at the beach, which, for the past six summers, has always felt empty without my grandmother, Nan, sleeping in the twin bed next to mine. I started reading.
"Dear Diz," began the first letter to Nan, whose full first name was Isobel. It was signed "Wayne." My grandfather's name was William -- Bill, or Wild Bill, depending on who's telling what story. My mom told me, "Oh, that's just what they called your grandfather!" As though that explains everything.
The letters are, on the whole, boring compared to the romanticized expectations that my entire family had. My grandfather wrote to Nan at least two or three times a week during five years, beginning when they first started dating, through his time in the army and in battle during World War II, and through their first year of marriage. I've only read up through the first year of their courtship; right now, he's frozen in time at an Army training camp on Cape Cod.
My grandfather grew up on a farm in Haverhill, MA with a big, poor Irish family (my mother tells me his mother's brogue was so thick you could barely understand her) while my grandmother lived with her Lithuanian parents in Lawrence, MA, where they worked in the mills. The early letters focus mostly on scheduling: my grandfather writes the time and the place where Nan can plan to meet him on the following Saturday. It's about 10 miles between Haverhill and Lawrence, two towns that are now connected by I-495, and it's hard to really understand how they could have felt worlds apart.
But they were. My grandfather, then 20 years old, lived on the farm with his parents, worked for a coal delivery service, and did not own or have access to a car. Nan was 21, still unmarried, and back from nearly a year spent at a sanatorium recovering from the tuberculosis that left her with only one lung. She owned her own car: a gift from her father for her 21st birthday. That car took her as far as the 1939 New York World's Fair and as close as the dances at the Polish National Hall that she and her friends went to every weekend. In one of my grandfather's early letters, he writes that things are "getting too serious." He can no longer accept rides from her in her car. It's not right, he says, for a girl to be driving a boy all over kingdom come; people would think he's a "punk," a "heel."
_____
As I read, I started to feel a connection with the grandfather who died when I was barely six. In 1939, my lovestruck grandfather saw Nan exactly as I always saw her: brassy, hilarious, adventure-seeking, kind and welcoming, the best cook, the best host, and the easiest person to talk to. In each of his early letters -- before the start of the war -- he writes about how much fun he has with her and seems constantly and pleasantly surprised by how easy it is to be with her. Knowing how my grandfather saw her adds a dimension to my grandmother that I never could have experience: Diz as a young woman, starting down the path to marriage and family, against the odds and advice from doctors.
That week in August, I gave mini reports on the letters to my family. None of them want to read the letters, so I briefed them on all the good parts: juicy, funny, sad, and unbelievable. My aunt, one night, said that she just feels good knowing that her parents were in love -- a very different kind of love that comes before war, children, illness, and all the other stuff that's part of the second half of "for better or for worse."
As for me? The letters, at first, made me feel frustrated...like I was born in the wrong time (as many things have been known to do). Imagine if finding someone was as easy as going to the same Saturday night dance, week after week, until someone new just shows up. And then, he'll write you letters just telling you simply how you make him feel ("You're the best sweetheart") and when he'll meet you Saturday night -- 8:30 p.m. at the bus stop on Essex Street.
But then I remembered that things like war and hunger and 10 miles of distance before the interstate system probably made my grandparents wish they were born in a simpler time.
_____
So, I guess the bottom line, for me, is this: I've always had this assumption that the marriages of our grandparents' era weren't the equal partnerships that we're all seeking. I'm sure my grandmother changed more diapers than my grandfather and my grandfather had more financial control over the household than my grandmother. But in those letters, they were the best of friends, partners in crime and adventure. And if that was possible in 1939, then maybe I'm not so crazy for holding out for the same thing.
Remember when I wrote this post nearly two years ago? Turns out I never revealed the story.
I'm finally moved into my new place, and in honor of the old one, here's quite possibly the best story from the 249 years:
Amanda's friend Andrea brought Sally to come stay with us right before Thanksgiving. Andrea was on her way to spend time with family for the holidays in Southern California, and we were to fish-sit, as it were, for Sally, a 5-year-old goldfish. Yes. She was five. Or so.
Thanksgiving turned into Christmas, Christmas turned into spring, and then it was July and Sally was dead.
She died on our watch. Well, technically, I think it was Caitlin's sister Colleen's watch. Colleen was crashing with us for a week, Amanda and Caitlin were out, and I was up at Salisbury for 4th of July weekend and Ben's wedding. Sally died -- most likely alone -- while we were all out and Colleen was at a dance rehearsal.
In Massachusetts, I got a text message from Caitlin with the news, responded with an appropriately somber message, and answered a few questions from confused relatives and friends:
"Wait, you have a fish?"
"No, it's Amanda's friend Andrea's fish. We were fish-sitting for the holidays."
"What holidays? Over the winter? Why do you still have the fish?"
"Yes, over the winter, and good question."
_____
Why were we still fish-sitting more than six months later? Yes, good question. The practical answer is that Andrea lived all the way over in like, Crown Heights or someplace at the time, and just getting the fish over to our apartment was probably enough of a hassle in the first place, nevermind getting her back in the dead of winter.
The more dramatic and effective answer -- at least as far as this story goes -- is that Sally symbolized Andrea's failed relationship. See, Andrea's ex-girlfriend, Mary, bought Andrea two fish, Sally and Joe, as a gift one day five or so years before. Joe died pretty swiftly and was given a proper burial in the pond at Prospect Park. Sally forged on and saw Andrea and Mary get together and break up many, many more times over the next few years. Andrea and Mary were experiencing a reunion period when Sally came to stay with us that Thanksgiving, but experienced their saddest, most permanent breakup only a few weeks later. I don't blame Andrea for needing some space from that fish.
So, it was July, and Sally was dead and stored in our freezer, and Amanda decided that she had to wait for The Perfect Time to tell Andrea. Amanda wasn't worried that Andrea would be pissed at us for letting Sally die -- the fish was geriatric, in fish years, after all. Amanda was worried that Andrea's relationship would die a second death: a symbolic one, which is, of course, the worst kind.
Amanda waited. And waited. And waited. For The Perfect Time to arrive. To no one's surprise but Amanda's it never came. Amanda couldn't tell Andrea on a number of occasions because:
- Andrea was always drunk
- Andrea worked nights and Amanda worked days
- Amanda was drunk the last time she saw Andrea
- Andrea had just experienced another bout of Mary-induced sadness
But, Amanda did not wait for The Perfect Time to Tell anyone BUT Andrea about the dead fish in our freezer. I'm pretty sure everyone in South Brooklyn knew the story of that girl who let her friend's fish die and then couldn't bring herself to tell her. I was just waiting for one of those absolutely insane New York moments, where Andrea would be waiting on a table of two people, one telling the other this crazy story about the secret death of a fish.
_____
That didn't happen, though. What did happen was in late August, nearly two months since Sally died, Amanda, Andrea, and a few of their friends were out for happy hour in the neighborhood. They were going to another party, and they wanted to come back to our place to store their bikes for the night. Amanda spaced on the sad, Sally-less fish tank sitting empty on our side table, and she and Andrea burst into the apartment. I was hanging out in my room with Matt, and Caitlin was in her room.
As soon as Amanda walked in, we knew she realized that The Perfect Time to Tell had just been forced upon her. She stammered, "Uh, Andrea, I have to tell you something..."
"Sally's dead, isn't she?" Andrea said calmly.
Amanda continued:
"Yeah, and I'm so sorry, because, see, she died last week and it was terrible because like, three weeks ago when she died, I just didn't know how to tell you, and you've just been so busy over the last two months that she's been dead that..."
"It's okay, Amanda," Andrea said, "You know? I kind of knew it in my bones. I saw Mary a couple of days ago, and things just felt so over to me."
Everyone laughed, and no one was too sad, or angry, or anything, really. Except Sally -- she was dead, and in our freezer, awaiting her burial near Joe in the pond in Prospect Park.
Almost two years later, Sally's still there. Well, not in our old freezer, but in our new one. She made the move with us, because now everyone's waiting for The Perfect Time to send her off and really let go.
Yeah, I knew I couldn't come up with 249 stories. Oh, well. Here are some weird things I found while cleaning out my "closet" (it's really just slanted shelves with a door attached):
- Three posters from when Matt ran the New York marathon in 2005. They said: MFB Holla!; Run, MFB, run!; and just MFB with little hearts all over it. That one was bright pink and mine. Ah, young love.
- Old papers, syllabuses, tests, and quizzes from every Spanish literature class I took in college. Once upon a time, I could write a 10-page paper in Spanish. Based on a 200-page novel that I read. In Spanish.
- About a dozen unfinished crossword puzzles from the Boston Globe, circa 2004. This seems to be a trend.
In a few weeks, I'll be moving to a new apartment. I've only lived in this apartment -- 249 -- since I moved to Brooklyn four and a half years ago, and I'm a bit sentimental about it. I thought maybe over the next few weeks, I'd try to come up with 249 stories about 249. We'll see how it goes. Might as well start now, right?
1. My dad and old neighbor, Bob, move me down to New York. My roommate is at work, but she's told me that a girl named Amanda is working at a video store a few blocks east of my new place, and I can go pick up the keys from her. Amanda moves into our apartment six months later.
2. In 2004, Thursday nights are reserved for watching The OC with Caitlin and Allison. Caitlin stops by our apartment on her way home from her job in Brooklyn to the place way out in Yorkville she shares with her sister. One night, Allison teases me for still owning the large, plastic cups I bought in college. "We're adults now!" she says. It doesn't stop us from eating brownies straight from the baking pan.
3. My college roommates are all in town during the summer of 2006. Kate has also brought her mom. We all manage to fit in beds, couches, and air mattresses, for an entire weekend during 85 degree heat with only our one air conditioner attempting to cool us all off.
4. Kate, Sarah, and Ben visit for a joint November birthday celebration in 2004. I make them walk over the Brooklyn Bridge in 30 degree weather, get them lost in Tribeca, and we finally resort to whisky and English beers at a fratty bar in the East Village in the middle of the afternoon.
5. Caitlin and I make Sunday brunch for Erin, Mark, and Siri when Meghan is still just a few months old. We drink mimosas til 3, and Meghan falls asleep on my chest as we're all talking and laughing the afternoon away.
More signs you're getting old:
More signs you're still on the youngish side of things:- There's this mix CD your old college boyfriend made you during the summer of 2002. First of all, 2002 was seven years ago, holy crap. Second of all, there's this lyric of one song on the mix that goes, "When July is gone/I'll be 24." The song comes on your iPod's "Shuffle Songs" playlist during a long bus ride home from Boston and you remember when 24 seemed really freaking old.
- You just emailed your friend to remind him to send you those recommendations for cordless drills. You're really excited about buying a cordless drill.
- You're about to sign a new lease and, since signing your last lease, the following things have changed:
- You no longer need your parents to be guarantors.
- Your BFF is now an attorney who is qualified to look over your lease for you and give you like, real, live, legal advice.
- You wore sort-of fishnets to work today because you knew they'd put you in a silly mood even though you knew you probably should've stuck with basic black tights instead.
- That BFF who's now an attorney? Yeah, you guys have matching tattoos.
Signs you're getting old:
Signs you're still on the youngish side of things:- You go to bed when you're tired.
- You stop drinking when you start to feel drunk
- You thought Bella's dad in the "Twilight" movie was way hotter than Edward Cullen
At a birthday party, you and your friends spend the night inventing a game where the goal is to clip as many clothespins on people's clothing and hair without them knowing. Everyone loves it and it's the best part of the night.
You know that song? The one that goes do do do do doo...do do do do doo...? No, you know it. Have you ever seen Say Anything? John Cusack is all excited because he's falling in love with Ione Skye (who wouldn't have in 1989?) and he's giddily telling his friend, played by the amazing Lili Taylor, all about it in this guitar store. He picks up a guitar, and plays the opening lines to that song. Yeah, that one. You know, do do do do doo...do do do do doo...
During the first few weeks or so of freshman year of college, Kate and I ventured out late one night to the old Tower Records on the corner of Newbury Street and Mass Ave. to buy a copy of Say Anything. We were 18 and craving some Lloyd Dobler, or John Cusack circa 1989, or both. Sadly, we must have known that we would eventually part ways as roommates, because we both bought a copy on VHS.
We watched the movie in our cramped dorm room, 820C of Warren Towers, and became obsessed with that scene in the guitar store. For the next three years we could often be found half-muttering, half-humming do do do do doo...do do do do doo... or accosting random friends and strangers with do do do do doo...do do do do doo... The lyrics, or at least the chorus, always seemed to be on the tips our our tongues. We were certain someone must know what song it was. But in the movie, he doesn't sing a word -- he only plays the opening bars.
More than three years later, I was waitressing when the song came on the oldies station that someone had set on the satellite radio. I took out my notepad and frantically scribbled down whatever lyrics I could catch, so I could Google them when I got home.
Later that night -- at probably 3 a.m. after many beers at Solas on Boylston Street followed by a slice of greasy pepperoni pizza from Natalie's in my neighborhood in Allston, as was my lifestyle in early 2004 -- I Googled some lyrics and found the everloving goddamn song.
It came up on my iTunes playlist tonight:
"She marches to the beat of an instrument that might not even be a drum."
