Gloucester Fire

Link to Ernie's pics and words.

When I wake it is 16 degrees out. I put on a wool, stocking hat knit by Nena five Christmases ago and before Grumps died, mohair mittens knit by Amanda when Aidan was a baby and I wrap my neck in a soft scarf knit by Lee the Christmas before Cole learned to walk.

This is how I stay warm and keep time, wondering how I'd know what happened and when without these things. I negotiate the icy streets of Gloucester making my way to work via the part of Middle Street that is not closed. Though my father-in-law has already given news of the fire, I am shocked when I see the burning temple and burnt apartment building. It's devastating--a life lost, people without homes, this time of year, ice stuck to trees, billowing smoke, skeleton of a synagogue and charred wood that was once an apartment building. I see people weeping in the street and others excitedly spectating because they don't know what else to do. There is a sad, displaced energy on Main Street that makes me wonder out loud: "What can I do?"

I step over soot frozen to bits of thawing ice. I walk around thick hoses lying in the road, careful not to step on them. When I arrive, my coat and scarf and hat smell like smoke--the smoke of loss, of buildings burning in the cold night and early morning, of tears and fear and flame.

I do the best that I can at the store, but all day I am thinking about the people who have been hurt by this fire. Around three I walk home, the fire still going. There is more soot. There is smoke. And when I arrive at the house there is an e-mail. It tells of how she moved from the 90-year old building just two weeks ago after living on the fourth floor for four years. She had been unable to get used to the idea of a fire and no way out, understandably so.

I think about fires and ways out. I think about Dave holding baby Galen and Mac missing Amanda's father and Amanda missing them all.

Quietly out loud I say "I love you" to all of the people I love. I say it again. And then again. I want people to know.

snowing

Last night I had a dream that I met the children in the photos. They were nothing like their pictures.

I've been dreaming about snow. And snow swirls, the way the wind whips it around into a cloud. Then his voice in a message tells me to mind the snow.

It is a pile of snow, soft and light at first, but turning heavy and wet. It covers me. It covers me again.

By the end of the dream I can see my eyes. Not my mouth, but my eyes.

The snow is light. The snow is heavy. The snow is nothing.

The snow is not as I dreamt it.

Knitting Mormons' Christmas

The Mormons visit yesterday. It has been weeks, months even, our last meeting less than satisfactory for them. There is a new girl with the girl who talks, impressed that I know that Carson City is the capital of Nevada. The girl who talks talks and talks and I miss the other girl, quiet and pleasantly unassuming. I learn that the quiet girl has moved to Vermont and the girl who talks will be going home at the end of this month. This is what makes visiting my house again and again easy for them.

When they knock at the back door I am on my computer paying bills and listening to "The Rebel Jesus" (this is the truth), part of a Mostly Denominational Mix of Christmas tunes that I made at Cole's request. This seems appropriate backdrop to conversation about religious conversions. "Six baptisms," the answer to my question of how many since she's been out. "It's wonderful to be a part of," she gushes. "To see how people change when they discover the love of Christ."

After a few minutes, talk turns to knitting. "We had to return the knitting to Amanda," she says. "We feel bad, but we just don't have time to sit and knit." I think a lot of mean things about the ways they spend their time, but mostly I think, "If I'd had knitting, I might still be Mormon. I'd have had something to do during all that talking."

Knitting didn't save me then, but it's saving me now. And I'm not Mormon and that's a good thing, though it's complicated at this time of year. And difficult. I try to read things like "Burning the Christmas Greens," William Carlos Williams and other poems. I put together collections of Christmas music for my kids because they love this holiday and there's hardly a reason they shouldn't. I try to revel in their joy and their anticipation.

I try to do it all and in doing so I am reduced to a shell of a person. I'm a faker and I'm not fooling anyone, especially myself.

Modern Man

In the quiet afternoon of the coffee shop Cole starts singing loudly, "Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto. Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto. Domo Arigato Mr. Roboto."

We are finished with our coffee and I quickly head for the exit.

"Excuse me, was your son just singing Styx?" asks the man in the suit holding the door.

"Well, yes." "And if you're lucky he'll break into "Come Sail Away" next.

"Chuckle, chuckle," says the man.

"Man I love this kid," I think to myself. Another 4 o'clock gone by. Rainy afternoon sunshine. All because of a four-year-old kid in a coffee shop singing Styx. Utter horror. Utter embarrassment. Utter delight.

Addendum:

"Cole, where did you learn that song?"

"From the internets."

Of course. From the internets.

Daughter

Recently I watched Knocked Up a movie about a sassy, career motivated E! reporter getting knocked up by and with a goofy, loveable and broke website developer. I am a semi-fan of The 40-Year-Old Virgin and Knocked Up is done by the same people.

As can be guessed, at the end of this movie a baby is born. A baby is born and I cry. I almost always cry when babies are born and so I cried when this movie baby was born, its movie birth reminding me of the live and in stereo births of my three babies, the births of my friends' babies, the births of all babies.

I first heard Loudon Wainwright III's version of "Daughter" at the end of this movie. Naturally I cried. Probably because I have two daughters and probably because I'm a sap. Then I went and found the song. Then I read a bit about LWIII. Then I read a bit about his children with Kate McGarrigle, Rufus and Martha, also singer-songwriters. I found lyrics to Martha's song "Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole" which is supposedly about her father and begins "poetry is no place for a heart that's a whore."

After all of this reading and listening, I stopped reading and I stopped listening.

Until the other day while writing the daughter knitting post. I decided to find out more about the song "Daughter," my recent obsession with music history the direct result of a terrifically late discovery about 'Til Tuesday and Aimee Mann (Does my growing up Mormon in Salt Lake City in the 80s explain anything?)

I found this:

"Daughter" was written by Peter Blegvad, a singer-songwriter who used to play with the avant-rock combo Henry Cow in the '70s and the Golden Palominos in the '80s. "Daughter" comes from his 1995 album, Just Woke Up.

I have no idea what kind of a parent LWIII was/is. I will not pass judgment. Parenting is fucking hard. My children could very well write a song about me someday and it might not be pretty.

But I'd be lying if I didn't say that I'm happy that "Daughter" was penned by a man whose "lyrics frequently feature word games, literary references and complex and extended rhyme schemes. He can also claim credit for one of the world's longest grammatically-correct palindromes (from Kew. Rhone.):

Peel's foe not a set animal laminates a tone of sleep" (this about the lyrics and palindrome from the ever-semi-reliable source Wikipedia).

And because I am a freak and geek I am now going to listen to Blegvad's "Daughter" followed by Wainwright's "Daughter" followed by Martha Wainwright's "M.B.F.A."

I do not recommend that you do the same.

Geeks click here.

About Time

Ball of Mush or Bowl of Mush or Old Lady Whispering Hush

If I say something to you and you can't figure out what I'm saying or think to yourself "Now that's odd," I have an explanation. I've been listening to In Rainbows and it's bringing out all sorts of stuff. Good and bad. If I hadn't already been given and then rejected religion, I might consider, god, that is. Please don't tell any missionaries.

The Accidentally Stolen Car Story

First she tells us about the time she accidentally stole a car. "Accidentally stole a car" is the kind of statement capable of getting a laugh out of anyone. By the end of the story I am convinced that it was an accident--same car, same color, different steering wheel grip, different keys. If Volkswagen made a bunch of cars with keys that work in same-looking cars then that's an accident on their part.

I blame Volkswagen. What were they thinking? What am I thinking? What are any of us thinking?

One

This baby is one. One is one of those ages that is unbelievably cute and unbelievably menacing. Yes I called her a menace, mostly because she's been climbing onto the dining room table and computer keyboard all day, though I've almost forgotten about it, except for the bruise on her cheek reminding me that babies fall off of tables. And I did say cute along with menace.

This is also the age that is over in a second. She'll be stealing somebody's wallet and heart before we know it. Wait. Where's my wallet? And my heart? They're gone. Gone. Gone. My baby is growing up and I have no idea what to do about it.

B Y Who?

If you have been wondering to yourself or aloud what it might be like to attend Brigham Young University click here.

woolgathering \WOOL-gath-(uh)-ring\, noun:

Indulgence in idle daydreaming.

Play by Play

I start writing on the Lord's day. It is supposed to be quiet and restful. They are at church and she is playing "Love One Another" on the piano while her seven-year-old daughter tells knock knock jokes.

I have been in this city for almost 72 hours. It hasn't gotten me and I haven't gotten it, though we are both trying.

One of the first things I do is see a friend, my BFF since Mr. Olson and fifth grade and city bus rides to buy Snoopy and candy corn. I stand in her modern, edgy kitchen as she copies onto a note card a recipe for Candy Corn Sugar Cookies and later in her laundry room as she tells me about how cancer has invaded her life and the lives of others. We ease into and around the conversation like friends who have been friends a long time. We hug and kiss goodbye to talk of a 20-year reunion and children and when we will meet again.

An impromptu lunch with sisters and nieces and nephew and mother results in a ride to see the new condo that will replace the other new condo. The project supervisor runs when he sees my mother. She laughs it off as I swallow uncomfortably and sweat a little. It's four o'clock on a Friday and they want to go home, but she is determined to show me the emptiness. I am unimpressed and I can't hide it.

Later in the car with my almost youngest sister and her husband I recount this story of the unfinished condo which leads to talk of lice and bed bugs and parasitical behavior. We soon arrive in Provo, home to Brigham Young University and thousands of young married and procreating and wanting-to-be married and wanting-to-be procreating people. Provo feels as if a cultural vacuum has been taken to it, swallowed up dirt particles, crumbs and even carpet. As luck would have it, the vacuum has conveniently dumped its best contents into my aunt's house.

My aunt and grandmother and cousin gurgle surprise when they see me. I have not told anyone, but for a few, that I will be at the party. It is my grandmother's 86th birthday and she does not look a day over 60. "I am so glad to see you Jane," she says. "I'm 86 and I am going to die soon. I don't know if I will see you again." My grandmother has always been this matter-of-fact about death. She doesn't skirt the issue. At all. And as much as I want to be thrown by the prospect of losing this dear, feisty, high-heeled, little woman, I know that she is right. But I also know that she won't be passive about death's arrival. She will go pluckily and beautifully, especially if her hairdresser comes through. My grandmother, at the party while sipping punch and eating sugar cookies, asks this woman to take responsibility for her funeral hair.

I talk with anyone who will listen about the Red Sox and my cousin gives me a lead on a place to watch the game. It's called Fiddler's Elbow. "The fans are loud," my quiet cousin who favors the Yankees says. "But you'll find them there." Around midnight I feel like I am going to fall asleep in my Fresca and finally find someone to take me to Salt Lake. My parents live in a condominium complex where one needs magnetic cards and keys to get in. I borrow a card, but forget the key thus requiring a sit with my luggage outside their door. I read my plane book called How to Be Good by Nick Hornby and think about applying its contents. "How do I be good?" I wonder aloud to the stale artwork on the walls.

By 1 I am asleep on the blow up bed. Morning light and my mother on the computer wake me around 5. My parents want to go to Ruth's Diner, a favorite breakfast joint, and I am pleased. We take a drive up Emigration Canyon and wait for a table and chat. I embarrass my father when I talk about eggs, not the kind a person eats for breakfast. I do not embarrass my mother, yet. Eventually conversation turns to excessively large houses, first ladies, private jets and sexism, though they wouldn't call it this.

After breakfast we go separate ways. A few years ago out of guilty familial conscience I might have joined them for errands to buy scuba diving wetsuits and unnecessary furniture, but not this day. This day I try not to feel slighted and take myself to the Coffee Garden and to see Into the Wild. I sit in the dark Broadway theater and send messages to people I love. A woman asks how many seats I am saving and I chuckle and tell her that I am alone.

The game is in the top of the third when I arrive at the bar. Fiddler's is a "private club" which in Utah terms means that people have to pay for a membership in order to drink. The price is $4. A woman explains to me that before recently acquiring private club status for serving more alcohol than food, a person had to buy food if they wanted to drink. "So it's kind of the same thing," she says. "$4 for an appetizer or $4 for a club membership." I'm smiling big because I used to know about the private club rule and the food rule and the one shot rule. I don't tell her about Massachusetts and my local bar and the stiff drinks that the bartender pours with our without food for accompaniment.

I see comfortable leather sofas and a gigantic television. Red Sox fans occupy three of four seats. I ask if I can sit and we joke about the team for which I will cheer. They welcome me by offering up cold wings and Gorgonzola. I accept and by the end of the night we are hugging and high fiving and making plans to watch the next game.

Sunday seems the day to take a drive up Little Cottonwood. It is hazy and I am anxious with the idea that I might not see him. I decide to call and get him on the phone, which is a rarity. "I'm not going to make it to dinner. I'm watching football and drinking beer and I'm trashed," he says to me through the phone as my on-listening parents puzzle out the conversation. "Tell them I got called into work," he says. "O.k." I say. "I'll tell them that you got called into work."

Dinner passes pleasantly enough, but I can't stop thinking about my brother. Three weeks ago I wanted to fly out to see only him. I thought through this idea and waited. Now it's been over 48 hours in this city and nothing. At 7 I sheepishly excuse myself from dinner and go off to be with Sox fans and find him.

After the game is won I drive to where I can see the temple all lit up in the night. It is a beacon, a warning. He invites me in and introduces me to three women, friends, maybe lovers. The apartment is bare but for a shelf stacked with books, CDs and pictures. There is a sofa, an entertainment center and one painting hanging on the wall. We talk. We talk about Into the Wild and death wishes and family. We talk and talk.

At 1 I feel tired. I say that I'll be leaving. "I want to give you something," he says. "It's important that I give you something. What can I give you?" he asks. He goes to some boxes in the back of the apartment. "Here. I want you to have this." It is an old photo taken in the airport after his visit to New York City when he was 13, the defining visit, the one that "will fuck him up forever." The look on his face, then and now, tells me what I need to know. The sadness is heart stopping and thick and palpable. I want to rip it up, this photo and the sadness. I want to vomit.

Outside, the nearby temple throwing light, he looks me in the eyes like he is looking at me for the first time. "I don't know if I will see you again," he says. "I am sick. My heart is sick. My liver is sick. I am sick. I can feel it."

These words make me sick. "I don't want you to die," I say. You are 35," I say. 35 fucking years old. Not 86. Not my grandmother. This is my 35-year-old brother and I'm trying to talk him out of dying like a person would try to talk someone out of hang gliding or buying a motorcycle or walking alone into the Alaskan wilderness with a 10 pound bag of rice.

There is nowhere for this conversation to go. I am selfish and I tell him so. "This is about me, me, me. I would rather have you here in pain than not here at all," and as soon as the words leave my mouth I am floored. I think about the knife in the Nick Hornby book, the one that gets stuck in her gut. The question is one of severity: Do I remove it and bleed to death or do I leave it in and live with the pain?

I don't do either. I walk to my mother's car and drive to my mother and father's condominium at the top of the hill and enter the gate with the magnetic card and a key and quietly drop onto the aero bed and lie awake until the sun comes up and it is a new day.

The sun comes up and it is a new day. It is a new day and anything could happen.

Being Obsessive has its Good Points

The album title Eveningland comes from the title of a D.H. Lawrence poem. This I didn't know until I couldn't sleep. Nettles, birds, beasts, flowers, kingfishers. Lawrence is eveywhere in the lyrics.

I have been looking for comfort in familiarity, wrapping fingers around warm and swallowing melodies and harmonies and advertisement jingles. I have been smoking air and trying to understand the polite and not-so-polite ways people step over and around and between the subject of death.

I have been obsessively and compulsively listening to Hem, Eveningland.

As I waited in line at the wake for almost three hours to get in to give them everything I could while trying not to take too much this song played and replayed and played in the space of my head. It gave me comfort.

Carry Me Home

We were raised in the nettles
And they showed us how they grow--
Where a poison comes to settle
And what a poisoned man comes to know

So me and Jessie, we left Ohio--
Left him bleeding on the valley floor
I felt so dirty I could hardly stand it--
Carrying Jessie on my back

She said, hold on, I know you'll bury him for me
Hold on, I know you'll bury him for me
Hold on, I know you'll carry me and carry me and
Carry me home

Tell me nothing's wrong there
Tell me nothing's wrong there
Tell me nothing's wrong there

Nothing's wrong there
Nothing's wrong there
Nothing's wrong there

--Dan Messe

Prepping for Wednesday

Some of the best Sox photos I've come across. Slideshow will allow you to loop forever with photo popping black background.