Week 6 Prompts: Place

26. You haven't been there since you were little. Now you go back....

Green almonds and black scorpions/retake

 Seven apartment buildings, lined lengthways, in an almost perfect line, my childhood world. Small apartments stuck one on top of the other with narrow stairs and stone handrails perfect for sliding. A narrow asphalt road connected all of them, in the front, and a dirt path with hovering dusty pines was the border in the back, between the buildings and the open fields.

It felt like a small world all to itself, like a safe isolated bubble. There were no cars at all inside the neighborhood, maybe because of the narrow road and the proximity of the buildings, but more likely because almost no one had private cars then, or TVs, or phones for that matter. My friends and I spent most of our free time outside and completely without adult supervision, we were free to come and go as we pleased. 

The world around the neighborhood was huge and exciting, full of delicious surprises it kept us busy. There was a sea of wild flowers in the winter; deep pink Cyclamens, blood red Anemones, shy pink Saffrons and wild Narcisus. There were pine cones to shake for pine nuts all the rest of the year, necklaces to be made from pine needles, big purple Passiflora flowers to reshape and create little stick people, fossils to bring home from our journeys on the many trails we were exploring. Later my younger brother upped the game, as he always did, when he discovered an untapped supply of black, deadly scorpions, under those same rocks and triumphantly brought them home in glass jars to every body’s dismay, but that’s his story not mine.  I was content with running up and down the staircases and in order to visit my friends who lived just one entrance away all I had to do was walk across the flat open roof.

Our apartment was on the fourth floor, just below the roof that housed the water tanks, one for each apartment, they hosted endless wonders.  I loved peeking into them marveling at the colors of the rust and the different forms of life growing in them. From the roof I could see big part of the town and on the end of Memorial Day I used to run up to watch the blue projected lights that were part of the closing ceremony in the nearby military cemetery. Two long blue lines moved slowly scanning the night skies from side to side, just a minute before the fireworks, marking the beginning of the Independence Day celebrations, exploded.

In front of our building there was a raw of almond trees, cut later to make room for another building.  In the spring after their spectacular white bloom we spent hours climbing on them picking green almonds and eating till we got sick. The outside shell was soft and slightly bitter and the inside not yet solidified was pure clear liquid that tasted heavenly. One year my father brought home a small tree and we planted it in the back of the building. I couldn’t contain the joy of having my own private almond tree.

With the years the small circle of buildings that contained my world, grew and opened to include new adventures further away. There were frequent visits to the nearby military cemetery where we collected tadpoles from small pools, voyages to find mulberry trees to supply leaves for my silk warms and weekend’s walks across the fields to visit friends in other neighborhoods .We felt courageous and daring as any world traveler on his way to discover new worlds. We also discovered how small the neighborhood really was and how venturing out into the world can be at the same time an enriching experience as well as a decreasing one.

Week 6 Theme: Place

My back yard

Unused laundry lines, open grass, wood pile and an old stone fence and beyond that the tree line; this is what I see from my kitchen window. I stand there every morning, with the first cup of coffee of the day in my hand, watching the familiar scenery.

It’s quiet and everything out there seems completely motionless yet there is a feeling of anticipation or maybe it is just me waiting for something to move and shatter the idle scene. I am so utterly engrossed I forget everything behind me; the boiling water and the coffee waiting to be made for breakfast.

And then a movement, I catch it in the corner of my eye and it awakens me, I am on the alert. My eyes are scanning the scenery, nothing. The white snow looks uninterrupted and deserted as before. I remember reading somewhere that in order to really see you need to let your eyes wonder and not focus on any specific point. Often the best place to hide is in plain sight and the eye movement without directly focusing will do the trick. I discovered this brainy bead in a science fiction book. It is a great tool to locate aliens but who knows it might work in my back yard too. So I try this technique and move my eyes ever so slowly from side to side. Its’ a good practice I notice. I pinpoint details I never noticed before. The huge branches of the old pine tree in the back are sagging, almost touching the ground; they will need to be trimmed.  The red roof over the small shade looks broken in some spots and will have to be fixed in the spring. The wood pile is dwindling and the winter is still long…

A movement again, it is so fast I don’t really see it is just an impression of a motion in the quiet morning air. I feel a bud of stubbornness growing inside me, I sense there is something there and I want to see it. I turn back to the coffee pretending I don’t care but throw quick glances over my shoulder. I realize as I am doing it that this elaborate psychological approach is geared mostly towards me. Its’ based on another outside wisdom I acquired somewhere. It stated that like the pendulum move if you push too hard you lose the needed equilibrium. If, on the other hand, you stop pushing the other side will be forced to make a move; and anyways it’s time to pour the coffee before it’ll become ice cold.

A movement behind the wood pile, I freeze with the coffee pitcher in my hand. Without moving my body I turn my head slowly and immediately stop breathing. There is big buck standing there looking straight at me. Even though I am almost a hundred feet away and inside the kitchen the feeling that he can see me is overwhelming.  And then the animal does what I least expect, almost as if finishing a thorough assessment and finding me harmless it shrugs its shoulders and steppes into the open.

I can’t believe it; this huge animal who managed to blend so well into the snow and the trees chooses to reveal itself. I walk slowly towards the window afraid it will evaporate into the air like a mirage but no, it’s as real as the snow and the trees and the wood pile. This beautiful animal is just standing there and completely unfazed by me, behind the window; chews on some yellow blades of last years’ grass.

Every once in awhile for no apparent reason its skin ripples and his ears perk up and turn as if to hear far away sounds. It picks his head and scans the forest behind him and then obviously satisfied with the results turns back to chewing.

I watch him for awhile and then unwillingly return to my boiling coffee. When I look back few minutes later I catch its back walking into the forest slowly and unhurried. Two seconds later as if merging into the trees it is gone.

Week 6 Prompts: Place

27. The safest place in the world....

I used to think memory, is a safe place, a place to crawl back to and retrieve warm and fuzzy pictures of people and things. I believed it will always be there, loyal and waiting and no one will be able take it away. Not even time.

How wrong.

It turned out that my imagined safe place is more like a gathering of soap bubbles floating in the air. And while not always as colorful it is just as fragile and likely to dissolve leaving me with empty hands and a slight taste of soap in my mouth.

I used to think it is mine and being weightless I can carry it with me everywhere I go. Like a magic memory box or a cherished album.

Wrong again,

I learned that not only it is not really mine, it’s an arbitrary collection of stories sloppily glued together that keep changing depending on who I talk to.

So memory, I now know, cannot be trusted. Like a chameleon it keeps changing colors and like the bits of glass pieces in a kaleidoscope it is forever shifting to create new illusions.

Time, hypothetically my ally, turned out to be the biggest deserter of them all. Like a flawless quivering desert mirage it seemed always within reach, until alas, I sent my hand to hold on to it and brought it back empty.

Week 6 Prompts: Place

26. You haven't been there since you were little. Now you go back....

Green almonds and black scorpions

Most of my childhood memories are about our old neighborhood; an unassuming and rather unaesthetic cluster of apartment buildings, lined lengthways, in a perfect straight line they looked almost identical. Small apartments stuck one on top of the other with narrow stairs and stone handrails perfect for sliding. A narrow asphalt road connected all of them in the front and a dirt path with hovering dusty pines was the border in the back, between the buildings and the open fields.

It felt like a a small world all to itself, like a safe isolated bubble, but that of course is my own take from a child point of view. There were no cars at all inside the neighborhood, maybe because of the narrow road and the proximity of the buildings, but more likely because almost no one had private cars then, or TVs, or phones for that matter. So we spent most of our free time outside and completely without adult supervision, we were free to come and go as we pleased. 

The world around the neighborhood was huge and exciting, full of delicious surprises it kept us busy. There was a sea of wild flowers in the winter; deep pink Cyclamens, blood red Anemones, shy pink Saffrons and wild Narcisus. There were pine cones to shake for pine nuts all the rest of the year, necklaces to be made from pine needles, big purple Passiflora flowers to reshape and create little stick people, fossils to bring home from our journeys on the many trails we were exploring. Later my younger brother upped the game, as he always did, when he discovered an untapped supply of black, deadly scorpions, under those same rocks and triumphantly brought them home in glass jars to every body’s dismay, but that’s his story not mine.  I was content with running up and down the staircases and in order to visit my friends who lived just one entrance away all I had to do was walk across the flat open roof.

Our apartment was on the fourth floor, just below the roof that housed the water tanks, one for each apartment, they hosted endless wonders.  I loved peeking into them marveling at the colors of the rust and the different forms of life growing in them. From the roof I could see big part of the town and on the end of Memorial Day I used to run up to watch the blue projected lights that were part of the closing ceremony in the nearby military cemetery. Two long blue lines that moved slowly from side to side a minute before the fireworks, marking the beginning of the Independence Day celebration, exploded and lighted the sky up.

In front of our building I remember a raw of almond trees, cut later to make room for another building.  In the spring after their spectacular white bloom we spent hours climbing on them picking green almonds and eating till we got sick. The outside shell was soft and slightly bitter and the inside not yet solidified was pure clear liquid that tasted heavenly. One year my father brought home a small tree and we planted it in the back of the building. I couldn’t contain the joy of having my own private almond tree.

With the years the small circle of buildings that contained our world, my world, grew and opened to include new adventures further away. There were frequent visits to the nearby military cemetery where we collected tadpoles from small pools, voyages to find mulberry trees to supply leaves for my silk warms and weekend’s walks across the fields to visit friends in other neighborhoods.

When I turned twelve my parents decided it was time for me to learn how to swim and for the first time I was allowed to take the bus, from the small bus station down the road, and ride it all by myself to the other side of town. I felt courageous and daring as any world traveler on his way to discover new worlds. I also discovered how small my neighborhood really was and how venturing out into the world can be at the same time an enriching experience as well as a decreasing one. Shortly after that we moved to another part of the town, and I became too busy with school and other activities, too old to just roam the fields aimlessly looking for arbitrary surprises and unplanned adventures.  

Week 6 Prompts: Place

29. When you finally arrived, it was nothing like you imagined....

Maine 2003

We landed in Portland’s’ airport late at night. It was the middle of March and the end, so we were told, to an unusually hard winter. I have since learned that every winter in Maine is long and hard, but then I took the words at face value.

 Chuck drove the rented car through the dimmed lighted streets of the sleepy town. Portland, he told me months before, as we were getting ready to move, is a vibrant lovely town, known for its abundance of restaurants and busy port. There were no signs of that.  We drove through dark streets covered with snow, once white, but now as the winter was ending muddy Looking. The houses looked old and were barely lit. The very few people we could spot were all bundled in layers of cloths walking with their heads bowed down to avoid the cold air.

We stopped briefly at a 7 eleven to pick some munchies before heading towards our rented apartment, where we were to spend the coming month. There were few people hanging around. One look at them convinced us that we should really return to the car and go. There was an uneasy quiet in the car. No one spoke, we were tired. By now we were closing twenty four hours on the road and all we wanted was a bed and a good night sleep.

Was that just one big mistake? Should we have stayed in Idaho? I was already feeling the first tug of longing, already missing the mountains, always within reach, waking up in the mornings to the shining sun on the lake across the street.

 We went to sleep that night without giving the apartment a second look, dove into bed and into heavy sleep. Waking up in the morning I walked half asleep to the living room trying not to crash into walls and unfamiliar furniture. I slumped into the first chair I found and raised my eyes to look outside the window.  My heart skipped a beat, the ocean. Outside the window I could see the huge, blue surface of the ocean. Blue as it only looks in the winter against the white snow.  The majestic Atlantic Ocean right there outside my window.

Nine years have gone since that day. Maine was not easy to get used to; we had many days and even months that we doubted our decision to come. But I never forgot that first view of the ocean, on that first morning on Munjoy Hill in Portland.

Week 5: Narrative aka story

Digging

• This is an adaptation from a piece I wrote for 262-95

Meir returned home in a shoe box, late into the winter, when everything was covered with a thick layer of frozen snow. I was sad and upset and angry, mostly with myself, for listening to our old Vet, who told us to take care of him at home. Until the last moment we were hoping for his recovery from a liver decease that attacked him few weeks earlier. For short periods of time he seemed to be getting better but inevitably sank back into apathy, spending his days lying in some corner completely unaware of our presence.  I kept thinking that had I sleeked more professional help, sooner, he would still be alive.

So when I was offered at Animal hospitals help, deposing of his body, I was adamant in my refusal. “No way, he is coming home with us,” I almost spit the words in the Vets’ face for even considering this option. Being used to people in grief, he just shrugged, and walked away, but not before he handed me a $1000 bill.

Many hours later, utterly frustrated, looking at the barely noticeable dent I managed to create in the frozen ground, I realized how naïve and completely clueless I was when I was so fast to deny the offer to help. In my defense, I had no prior experience in digging graves in a northern country, in the winter. All I had was a vague recollection of an episode from one of my favorite TV series “Northern Exposures” in it the town mayor, of a small Alaskan town, is taking a count of perspective dying citizens so he can make sure to dig enough graves ahead of winter. “Very peculiar,” I remembered, thinking at the time, amusing in a morbid way and probably highly exaggerated.

But standing on the small hill behind our house, next to a lovely spot I chose, under the old pine, I was not amused at all. I tried everything from clearing a small patch of earth and than trying to create a ditch with a pick axe, to lighting a fire on the now exposed soil. I read somewhere that the hardest part is the surface, about 4"; the ground is warmer underneath so the picking will be easier. When this didn’t work I tried using an assortment of digging instruments I found in my husbands’ tool box, resorting from time to time to stamping on the unyielding ground and screaming. At one moment I even considered storing Meir in the freezer until spring thaw, but the thought of having to face him every day, gave me renewed strength to continue.  

”He had a good life,” I kept telling myself every time I stopped to take a quick breathe or wipe the sweat off my face.   From the day Keren “collected” him wandering in the street, in our home town, just a tiny bundle of white fur with one green and one blue eye. She declared him abandoned and even though it turned out that he belonged to that little boy down the street, she refused to give him back basing her decision on obvious neglect.

He got his name from a famous children poem book, we all loved. “A whole book on one cat” was exactly that, a whole book of poems dedicated to a white cat named Meir that looked exactly like him. He roamed our yard for many years before he was shipped, in his crate, to the U.S (Continental, cargo) when it became obvious we were not returning back any time soon.  Yes, he had a good, fulfilling life, as any cat can expect to have, but still I was sad that he had to be buried in a foreign, frozen, ground so far from “home”.

I kept looking at his shrinking cold body, now stuffed in the small box, and felt that I am betraying him yet again. He did not resemble in any way the big furry cat he used to be and the least I could to would be to find a way to bring him to rest in an honorable way.

So back to digging, even if I’ll have to move the dirt with my hands one handful in a time, I was not ready to give up and declare defeat. Finally, late in the afternoon, in the fading light, I managed to make a shallow ditch, barely deep enough to fit his body. Keren and I laid a big flat rock on top and wrote his name, in Hebrew and English.

We are selling the house, now that we are not living in it, and finally found a buyer. As we’re going through the necessary paper work I keep thinking of that afternoon. I am pretty sure that I will not miss the house, but that picture of the hill and the stone over the small grave will probably keep haunting me.

We called him Meir –Yonatan Geffen

The minute we laid our eyes on him

We decided that his name will be Meir.

Grandma said that it will not do to call a cat in a person name

Mom said that she couldn’t care less and a cat name makes no difference to no one

And dad said that he likes this name Meir

And that grandma should stop interfering

Week 5 Prompts

21. You go on a journey.

Trip

When our plane landed in Budapest, in the early morning hours, my mother turned to me and said:

“There is something I need to do, so why don’t you follow the group and I will catch up with you later.”

We were standing in the middle of the airport and I was still slightly overwhelmed with the Hungarian language, all around me, trying to keep a straight face at these familiar tuneful sounds that I could not understand, but always seemed so recognizable. As if all I need to do is to try harder and the language will open up and reveal itself to me.

When this did not happen I returned my attention to my mother and wondered for the hundredth time why was I temped to join her on this trip.

 I have to admit; I was not exactly thrilled when she asked me to join her on an organized tour to Eastern Europe, but couldn’t find any good reason to refuse. The plan was to visit three major cities, Budapest, Vienna and Prague and some known tourists’ attractions along the way. There were few reasons for my less than enthusiastic approach towards the trip. Not being too fond of organized tours was just one of them. Having a rather shaky relationship with my mother was another. Ever since my marriage, but probably even before, we had our differences and she never seemed to really accept who I became as an adult. But she insisted she wanted me to come with her. She offered to pay for the whole trip, it was summer vacation and my husband urged me to accept the invitation that looking back, I am happy I did.

“What do you mean you have something to do?” I looked at her trying to understand.

“I want to find my fathers’ grave and see if it is still in good condition,” she said.

 “This is really not interesting for you; I’m sure,” she added “you should continue with the tour and see the town.”

I wish I could see my own expression at that moment. Not only was it the first time I heard that my grandfather was buried there. I couldn’t believe she thought that I’d rather see some tourist attraction and not go with her. I insisted, and few minutes later she signaled a passing taxi, and in her fluent Hungarian asked the driver to take us to the Jewish cemetery. On the way she told me about the seven long years she, and her parents, spent in hiding in the Hungarian capitol, till the war ended.

The mission to find my grandfather grave proved simpler than I anticipated. We managed to locate the grave with the help of the cemetery keeper and were relieved to see that after more than fifty years, it was still in fine condition and the inscriptions only slightly faded.

Later, when our bus crossed the flat planes bordered by a mountain range called the“Little Carpathians”. On the road between Vienna and Prague, she told me about her mothers’ family who came from a small town, merely twenty minutes outside of Bratislava, now the Capitol of Slovakia. 

My mother was only 14 on March 12^th 1938 when the German Anschluss with Austria officially took place. This seemingly clean term, “link up” really meant the annexation of Austria by Germany. Hours before the German troops entered Vienna, where she and her parents resided, they managed to take the last train to the border to then, Czechoslovakia. They continued by foot to the small town where my grandmothers’ two sisters lived. They stayed there only for few days before opting to continue to Budapest, an act that clearly saved their life, as none of the other relatives survived. 

My mother died two years after the trip we took together. Every once in awhile when I am reminded of this trip, I think of the ten days we sat together on the bus and watched the green, lush, countryside alongside the road. The kind of deep green she told me as a child can never be seen in Israel, and was right. And at times I am trying to imagine the dark street from the border, and an old stone house, hovering over the dirt road with two very old aunts and the last time the family was together.

These are not my memories I used to think. I did not grow up hearing stories about the war or my lost relatives. Only handful of which made it to safety and of those who didn’t, not even pictures remained.  It is the only explanation I can offer for not asking more questions, or writing the information down.

 Once we got back we never spoke of her family again.

Week 5 Prompts

25. Everything you thought you knew is wrong, nothing is what it seems.

"When nothing else subsists from the past, after the people are dead, after the things are broken and scattered· the smell and taste of things remain poised a long time, like souls· bearing resiliently, on tiny and almost impalpable drops of their essence, the immense edifice of memory" -Marcel Proust "The Remembrance of Things Past"

Until the day I met my husband I was convinced that my mother was an excellent cook. Our culinary menu at home was a mixture of Austrian and Hungarian dishes, she brought from her parent’s home, combined with new inventions she introduced continuously. If there’s anything, I learned from her about cooking is not to be intimidated by new tastes, colors and unique food combinations.

That was also the common view in my extended family. Whenever my aunts, uncles and cousins came to visit they all marveled at her cooking, and baking, but mostly her sense of innovation and boldness at trying new things.

I have some fond memories of helping her creating her dishes, rolling out and cutting the dough for a special dish she made of boiled dumplings, dipped in bread crumbs and sugar. Filling Hanukkah donuts with sweet red jelly, sweet cheese balls, and my all time favorite, a spicy cheese dip I could never reconstruct in later years, even though I have the exact recipe in my hands.

My husband came from the US and his favorite all time story is how he always thought, until he came to Israel, that vegetables came from a can. Yet he had the audacity to vocally and outwardly dislike my mothers’ cooking and declare it not appetizing and odd.

When we got married, I had to make a choice. And following the words of the bible (Genesis 2:24)” Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall join to his wife…” I believed that as a devoted wife, I too had the duty to stick with him and accept his taste in food. But being my mother daughter I still felt some loyalty, and deep fondness, to her cooking and the home flavors.

 Over the years I gradually reintroduced  back my childhood favorite dishes, some with my own minor modifications, to make them more palatable, to my own family. It turned out to be a success, not only did my husband learn to like many of them, they become a constant part of our menu to the point that my own daughters, now living independently, call me for instructions on how to prepare certain dishes, or ask me to make them on their visits home.

And so even though my husband keeps repeating the old script, in family gathering, how my mother couldn’t cook, the cold facts are that he eats my dishes, which are really her dishes. I wonder what my mother will say if she would still be with us and it makes me smile. So often things are not what they seem, and our food connection is just one small proof.  

Some of my favorite dishes in their Hungarian names:

Rakott Krumpli - potato casserole

Rakott palacsinta - layered pancakes with sweet cottage cheese, raisins, jam and walnuts

Dobos torta - sponge cake layered with chocolate paste and glazed with caramel and nuts

Gesztenyepüré - cooked and mashed sweet chestnuts with sugar and rum, topped with whipped cream.

Madártej - Floating island, a dessert made of milk custard with egg white dumplings floating on top.

Sweet pasta dishes include túrógombóc (cottage cheese dumplings), szilvásgombóc (plum dumplings) and palacsinta (pancakes).

Strudels (Rétes), a flaky pastry with various fillings (cottage cheese, apple, poppy-seed and cherries etc.) are all-time favourites among Hungarians.



Week 5 Prompts

17. You’ve lost It! Where is It?

Wedding dress.

My mother made my wedding dress. I wouldn’t have mentioned it except for the fact that she did it without my knowledge and without my presence.

At the time we announced our intent to get married my father and her were on their first of four years in Santa-Fe, a small town on the banks of Parana River in the northern part of Argentina. My father was there on an assignment to run the local Jewish school.  We invited them, and my only brother, to join in what was going to be a very small affair in the town were my future husband was from in the U.S.

Unlike many brides to be I had no real interest in the affair itself and even less so in the necessary attire. We both thought that the smaller the event, the better, and wanted it to be as informal as possible. I met Chucks’ parents just briefly on one of their visits to Israel and the idea of a wedding full of strangers was somewhat captivating by being bizarre and in a way humorous, yet I wanted to keep it small. The thought of a wedding dress did not even cross my mind. Few days before leaving Israel, for the planned wedding, I got a long colorful dress that seemed to me more than appropriate.

When we got to his home town in mid December we discovered that his parents were not going to go along with the original plan and were in the midst of compiling guest lists and planning food tasting, flower arraignments, and so on. Realizing how important it was to them we consented to go half way and “granted” our permission to a medium size, rather modest event in the towns’ synagogue.

Soon it became clear that a different dress was needed and my lovely dress bought in one of the stylish boutiques in Jerusalem will not do. By then it was less than two weeks before the wedding date. When I told my mother over the phone about the new development she laughed knowingly and said “I knew you will come to your senses, so don’t worry, I already made you a dress.”

My mother was a seamstress who did not work in her profession but insisted of sawing all my cloths. I hated this. I disliked everything about the process, from choosing the material to the endless process of being fitted while needles are stuck to the material all around me, barely missing me. All I ever wanted, as a child was to walk into a store and emerge few minutes later with a ready dress, or a blouse or pants.

Even though I was not consulted, I felt a great sense of relief for not having to be present for the material choosing, measuring, re measuring and so on. So I just shrugged my shoulders and smiled to myself at this wedding that felt more and more like staging, with me being just one of the performers.

A week before the wedding we greeted my parents at the airport and that night my mother pulled from her suitcase a carefully packed package. When she opened it and hanged it on a cloth hanger, she said as a matter of fact “Oh, it is almost done we just have to do the last measuring…”

My last recollection of the dress is my wedding night, when it definitely was a success, and unlike any dress one can buy ready in the store. I can’t recall seeing it ever again though, after that day. Every now and then I’ll try to remember what happen to it. Did I pack it? Did it travel back with us to Israel?  Was it accidently left in one of the many boxes we left behind us as a trail, on our frequent moves? I guess I’ll never know and if not for the wedding pictures I might even doubted it ever existed.

Week 4 Theme. Truth...or Consequences. Playing with truth,

Premonition I

Two years after our move to Maine, living as renters, we decided it was time to buy a house. We looked at a variety of houses and ruled them all out. Six month after we started the process we saw this house that did not meet any of our criteria. It was in an older neighborhood, while we were hoping for a rural area. It had less than an acre of land and we wanted more. It was a big old house, way too big for us. But less than five minutes into the showing I knew that this was it. I looked at the yard, sat on the deck, walked swiftly through the rooms and signed on the offer right then and there. The purchase process went smoothly and within few more months, the time needed for the closing, I (and my husband) became the proud owners of a circa 1920, craftsman style house.

Premonition II

When we realized, two years into our move to Maine that we are not leaving anytime soon, we started to look for a house. Purchasing a permanent dwelling was sort of a statement, that “we are here to stay,” and we had to overcome the feeling of betrayal associated with it. I was wondering, at the time, if that was the reason we found fault in every house we were shown. On the face of it we had firm criteria; the house should be in a rural area, surrounded by a nice piece of land, at least one bedroom and a bathroom on the main floor, big kitchen, and so on. And yet every house, and we saw many, wasn’t the right one.

Almost six month into the search, our real- estate agent, a very dedicated and pleasant men who stuck with us through the tedious process, suggested a change of strategy. He took us to a neighborhood in one of the nearby towns. The older neighborhood, with turn of the century houses, was not at all what I pictured. The houses perched along small quiet streets were big and many of them had intriguing architectural features. None of them looked even slightly similar to the neighborhood I grew up at in Israel.

When he finally stopped his car, at the bottom of a small hill, and pointed at the white house on top I felt the excitement welling up inside me. We walked up the short driveway and onto a big deck overlooking a small but very private backyard, shaded by huge, old as time, pines. I sat next to the patio table, breathed the air in, looked around, and knew that this house was mine. If it wasn’t for my husband insisting that we will actually walk through the house; including the necessary visit to the dreaded musty basement, I would sign on the dotted line right then and there.

A circa 1920 craftsman style house, with one-and-a-half story, a wide porch, low-pitch roof line with eaves, the house had the broad appearance, that is the trademark of this style, simple yet elegant. It is my house now. Every time I walk in I am amazed by the size, the huge kitchen, the high ceilings and the big windows. I learned to listen to the special noises old houses tend to make, enjoy the crackling of the old hot water heating system and the fire in the stove. True, I still close my eyes, and take a deep breath, every time I have to go down to the basement but the mysterious extra set of stairs down there, leading to nowhere, more than makes up for it.

I love the feeling that the house has history and other people lived in it before me. They left their mark in the changes made to the original structure and in many, much smaller, and subtle ways. A line scratched on the stairs’ banister, a hidden hole in the kitchen floor, or even just a whiff of a scent I sometimes imagine I can smell, as I walk from one room to another.

Premonition III

Until I came to Maine I was sure that attics and basements are just a part of horror movies. So, I was amazed to find out when I purchased my first house, a circa 1920 craftsman, that this is all true. Attics do exist and even better yet basements.

 Attics and basements, I believe, have a lot in common, their vastness, darkness, cow webs hanging in the corners and the eerie feeling of unknown horrors.  Basements I soon discovered have an added feature, a musty smell as if the air is coming from far away dungeons. And the stairs leading to them are always squeaky or falling apart.

 I was not ready for it, and don’t know how to get over the fear of living above, or under, a space that is out of sight but always open to the possibilities of hosting unfriendly entities. How to get over the chill that gets me every time I hear the dreaded scuff of  footsteps on the  stairs, the floor boards whispering and sighing as the house shifts at night. The shudder every time a branch is scraping the window on the second floor, the flutter of a bird trying to hold on to the gambrel roof, the wind moaning as it is brushing against the edge of the chimney. As I sit by myself at night, in my living room, my ears are always wide open to catch the faintest sound and scenes from the latest horror movie, I’ve just seen, are playing in front of my eyes.

 I can see the heroine, sitting by herself in her cluttered living room. It is late at night and deadly quiet when suddenly a strange noise is heard from somewhere in the house. I see the fright full realization on her face when she, oh, so subtly raises her head and gaze in the direction of the ceiling (or basement) “It is coming from the attic," I can read her thoughts as if I were a real presence in her mind. “Oh! Not the attic again, “I sigh to myself, knowing with great detail what is coming next.

After a short pause when she seems to be weighing her options, she gets up and walks toward the kitchen. “The kitchen?”  I wonder, but immediately understand the clever move. The knife, she cannot proceed without a weapon. And sure enough with the knife in her hand she is now walking up the stairs in the direction of the attic. I watch her with a mixture of anxiety and amazement.

 “I cannot believe she is doing it again,” I whisper to myself.

 “She knows there is something,” emphasis being on “something,” the great unknown is always so scary. “She knows there is something up there so why is she going by herself with that stupid knife?”

Thousand different thoughts are rushing through my mind at the same time:

 “Doesn’t she know? She will open the door just a crack and it will be yanked out of her hands, with an inhuman strength, and she will be dragged into the horrible darkness within a fraction of a second.”

“Can’t she see she stands no chance fighting against the forces of evil all be herself?”

“This is not going to end well.”

 I know the odds are against her, she knows that as well and yet every time, in an almost slow motion, she walks to the kitchen, takes the knife and walks up the stairs to the damned attic.

“Girl!”I want to scream at her “didn’t you hear about 911 or maybe the front door instead?”

“How about calling a friend, like I do when I encounter a scary critter on the kitchen floor?”

“There must be a help line for scary attic/basement noises in the middle of the night when you are by yourself, call them and they will walk you through. But whatever you do don’t go up there by yourself.”

 But sure enough, she does it every time. Noise, look up, kitchen, knife, stairs, creaking door, the great unknown followed by a long shrilling scream.

So soon after I was tempted into buying this old house, I realized I will have to be well prepared. I will have to know exactly how much time it will take me to make it to the kitchen, and where each knife is. This is reality now, not a laughing matter. One day it is going to happen, I know it with complete certainty. The mysterious sound, the kitchen, the knife, going so slowly, up or down the stairs, the squeaky old door and the loud scream, mine.

Week 4: Truth or Consequences /prompts

13. 'If these could talk.

I have 15 different keys on my key chain (I counted). The house key, silver with a blue head, the key to the mail box, big and yellow and 12 other keys, I have no clue what they are for. An exciting assortment of sizes and colors, dangling from my key chain, they take considerable space in my purse not to mention the additional weight.

I could throw them away, I know, but that will be a highly irresponsible act considering I don’t know what they can open. At least twice a day when I open the entrance door, or go to the post office, I pull the heavy bundle of lifeless, useless, metal, and examine it closely.

It makes no sense to me. I know I was the one who put them on the key chain, so at some point in time I thought they were important enough to keep.

How I wish they could talk, tell me their stories, lead me on exciting adventures, back to forgotten places and long gone memories. I shake them in moments of frustration; listen to the hollow sound, hoping for an answer. But all they do is stare back at me, dead as the door knobs they were designed to open.

14. Wishing? Lying? Dreaming? Dancing? Boxing? Cooking? What is writing like for you?

“Words have set whole nations in motion…Give me the right word and the right accent and I will move the world.” Joseph Conrad

In the beginning

In the beginning, when god created the world, it was formless. The dark and the light were all intermingled, swirling in the open space.  The moon and stars were in two opposite sides and the sun was tucked in a far shady corner. And so he patiently constructed an order and set everything in the right place.  He created people and dressed them up, gave them names and rolls to fill. He did it all in six days and produced the biggest, most told story of them all.

When I sit across my loyal computer for a split second I feel the same kind of power. I am a creator; I create worlds with the movement of my fingers. I take words and tame them. I pull them out of the void or send them back. I place them one next to the other and then on a moment’s whim I rearrange them again and again. I create meaning, I create chaos, I create life.

“Bla...bla...bla…” I scold myself, in a moment of sincerity, nice, perhaps even creative literary piece, but essentially meaningless rhetoric. The less appeasing answer is that I write to maintain my sanity, to push away the boredom and the heavy feeling of passing through the world, unnoticed. I write because over the years writing became my drug of choice. I am an addict; there is no other way to look at it. Perhaps I should join a “writers anonymous,” support group (WA in short). Oh, wait a minute, isn't this group it?

16. What would you like to be paid to talk about?

When I was young, many years ago, I was what can be called, without sounding too pretentious, an educator. I had a lot to say then.

If I was stopped in the middle of the street, or woken up at night, I could without a minute of hesitation deliver a lengthy lecture on the faults of the education system. I would season it with anecdotes from my daily life, swimming against the undercurrent of rules, regulations, unsubstantiated theories, and sheer stupidity. It wasn't mere criticism; I had suggestions and well developed theories on how to fix those maladies which in my expert opinion, ailed a well meaning, perhaps one of the most enlightened, social systems.

 The great equalizer that meant to open the doors for humanity everywhere, and need I mention, for no cost. I am overwhelmed every time I stop to think of the magnitude of this social endeavor. At the same time I realize that like so many other social actions, the results fell short of the expectations.

I could go on and on, discussing the pro and cones, the rights and the wrongs, the villains and the saints. Could pull out well- versed articles, statistics and testimonies, but that was then, when I was young, naïve, and thought I could change the world. Now that I am not young anymore (some will even say, kind of old) I have nothing new to contribute to this issue, nor that I would care to say it if I did.