If You Can't Change a Light Bulb

I wrote this story years ago, and even posted it on my blog before, but I wanted to share it again today. Because a light bulb blew and I changed it all by myself! (You'll see why this is something to celebrate if you keep on reading.)


We always lived in apartments when I was growing up, but my father had big dreams.

“One day, kids, we’ll move to the suburbs. We’ll have a little garden. Maybe even some chickens.”

When my mother heard this she made that sound of hers. I can’t spell it. There aren’t the right letters in our alphabet to spell it. If I had to try, it would start with a ha sound. But it wasn’t ha. It was more disappointed than ha. It was ha with a sigh thrown in. And some exasperation, too.

My father didn’t like that sound.

“What?” he asked, ”what makes you say it won’t happen?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said plenty.”

Dad was right, that ha of hers did say plenty. It said we were never going to live in the suburbs. We’d never put our hands in the dirt of a garden. There would be no tomatoes or peas or lettuce to pick for dinner. There would definitely not be chickens to do whatever a person did with chickens.

And here’s why:

My father couldn’t change a light bulb.

If you can’t change a light bulb, you can’t live in a house in the suburbs with a garden and chickens.

If you can’t change a light bulb it means you have to live your whole life in an apartment building where there is a super and a super’s assistant — men you call up when the light bulb blows and they arrive within the hour, with a ladder and a flashlight and a new bulb. They carry toolboxes and they not only know the name of each tool but they know how to use them. They have wrenches and screwdrivers and they carry nails in their pockets and hammers hang from special loops on their belts.

My father didn’t know from hammers. He was entirely dependent on the super and his assistant. And not only for the light bulb situation but also for leaky faucets and running toilets and — God forbid — what if water comes in through the window when it rains? What if the thermostat breaks? What if a ceiling tile falls down? What if the refrigerator gets too cold, or too hot, or stops working completely?

Unexpected disasters lurk around every corner. Not everyone can handle them on their own. That is why my family was doomed to a life of apartment dwelling.

That’s what my mother meant by that ha of hers, that was so much more than a ha. Dad couldn’t change a light bulb. There would be no fresh-from-the-earth food for us; no eggs from a chicken; no milk from a cow.

Wait a minute, wait minute, who said anything about a cow?

Well, a girl can have dreams too, can’t she?

I learned that from my father.

Remembering Patty Play Pal

 I am re-posting a story from a long time ago, a bit of Family Fiction, because I was remembering the dolls yesterday.
 

The first rival for my parents’ affection was not my younger sister, Laura. It was Patty Play Pal, who arrived in our lives when I was eight and Laura nearly six.
   
At first we thought of Patty as our new sister. She stood halfway between us in height and we’d take turns combing and brushing and braiding her long, straight black hair. Both of us had short hair — Mom said it was easier to manage that way — but I still had a treasured stash of ribbons and bows, headbands and barrettes, from the days before the “practical haircut,” and took great pleasure in adorning Patty with every imaginable accessory.
   
We quickly re-named her Patty Rachel Shoshanna Play Pal, after our just-born baby cousin, and assigned her the role of teacher’s pet in the classroom we ruled over on Saturday mornings. Before my parents were even awake, Laura and I would convert our shared bedroom into a one-room schoolhouse, propping all our dolls up on our beds, stiff-backed against the wall. Posture was an important aspect of the curriculum.
   
There was Gladys and Mimi and Peggy One and Peggy Two and Squinty and Babette and Susie-Susie and Heidi. These were just your garden variety dolls. They weren’t especially pretty or bright. Sometimes, even, they were very, very bad and had to go sit in the corner as punishment. But Patty Rachel Shoshanna — at last, a pupil worthy of us.
   
Patty Rachel Shoshanna could spell, she could add and subtract, she had beautiful penmanship, a good memory for historic dates, and truly exceptional posture. She was without a doubt our star pupil, and if Mimi or Heidi hated her guts, well, they never said anything to us about it. If they had, they would have been punished. Envy was not a characteristic we encouraged in our school.
   
All went well for a number of weeks. Patty Rachel Shoshanna continued to get gold stars every Saturday morning; her hair was always neat and shiny; she looked adorable in her pleated plaid skirt and clean white blouse, and she never spoke without first raising her hand. Laura and I were in love with her.
   
Until we realized that our parents loved her as well. Maybe a little too much. Dad, a guy with a strong predisposition toward the literal, was impressed by how real she seemed. “Would you look at those eyelashes, how’d they manage to do that? And her fingernails! Kids, I’m telling you, it’s amazing what science can accomplish these days.” (You’d think NASA was about to send her to the moon.)
   
Mom, with her flair for all things fashion-related, was spending hours dressing Patty in clothes Laura and I refused to wear ourselves. We didn’t go in for the crinolines and stiff, lacy dresses Mom was always bringing home, and if we got within three feet of a woolen sweater we broke out in hives. But Patty didn’t mind any of this. She’d stand perfectly still while Mom pulled first one sweater and then another over her head. Sometimes we would just sit there on the floor, bug-eyed, at the appalling sight of our mother trying to decide which particular shade of green went best with Patty’s coloring.
   
At dinner, Dad would ask how Patty’s day had gone, and Mom wondered, more and more often, why we couldn’t give her some peace and quiet, like Patty did. Clearly, Patty was the good child; we were the little beasts.
   
We didn’t like it. Not at all. We no longer viewed Patty as a beloved sister. We saw her for what she really was: the devil’s child. We’d pass our Brussels sprouts to her and when she wouldn’t eat them we’d pinch her, hard, on her leg. We came up with really tricky math problems for her to solve, like: “What is 9 million, 2 thousand, 6 hundred and fifty-four times 15 billion, 4 quadrillions, a zilliontrillion and a half?” And when she sat there looking at us blankly, with her great big oh-so-realistically-constructed  brown eyes, we’d yell at her, “Stupid, stupid girl,” and make her go sit in the corner. Mimi was delighted. So were Gladys and Susie-Susie.
   
All this time my father was working two jobs. During the day he cooked at a neighborhood luncheonette, and at night he batched up bundles of the New York Times, preparing them for early morning delivery. He’d come home at dawn, bleary-eyed and exhausted.
   
One morning when he walked through the front door, there was Patty Rachel Shoshanna Play Pal, carelessly left in the hallway. Trust me, there was nothing premeditated about this. We were just kids, we left a doll standing in the hall, it was all a big mistake. Really.
   
Anyway, Dad bumped into her, knocked her over in fact, fell on her.  And in his over-worked, over-tired state of mind, he assumed it was one of his daughters. “Oh my God,” he yelled, imagining the very worst: a broken arm, fractured skull, etc. He scrambled to his feet, felt around in the dark — “I’m so sorry honey. What are you doing up this early?” — floundering, sputtering —  until he touched the long straight hair, the cold plastic hands.
   
“Shit!” he screamed. By this time we were all up and crowding into the hallway, Mom turning on the light, asking “Morty, are you alright?” and Dad saying “What the hell is the God-damned doll doing here?” Laura and I were completely silent for once. And if we were relieved, maybe even secretly ecstatic, who could blame us?

The next day Patty Rachel Shoshanna Play Pal was  given away to Dorie Kaminsky who lived in the apartment next door. Mom told Mrs. Kaminsky that we’d outgrown her. Patty went to her new home with only one outfit, and it was not her most flattering one. By this time Mom didn’t care if the green sweater matched her eyes or not, she just wanted this  doll, who had almost killed her husband, out of our lives forever.
   
By the weekend, Laura and I had our first Barbie doll. She never became one of our students in the Saturday morning class. Oh no. She was our teacher. Miss Barbie, we called her. She was strict, but fair. We did not chew gum in her class, we did not pass notes, and we certainly did not cheat when she gave us a math quiz. Miss Barbie helped Squinty and Babette improve their spelling and she uncovered Heidi’s hidden musical talents. Dad never asked about Miss Barbie’s day and Mom took no interest in her wardrobe whatsoever, adamantly refusing to sew any clothes for her.
   
We all liked it better this way.

YOU: 5-liners, based on memories and paintings

you brought the picnic basket

peach schnapps and chocolate biscuits

the ocean was thundery

soon after

i flew home to america

you wear your long hair draped

across your shoulders

like a bolt of crimson silk

strangers want to touch it

you brush their hands away

you bragged that your grandfather

invented the egg carton

i said

my grandpa sharpens pencils

with his teeth

you transform sonnets 

into lullabies

singing me to sleep

with shakespeare and

edna st. vincent millay

you never leave home without your 

red pocketbook

a clean hankie

and two stamped unaddressed postcards

prepared for any emergency

you are a dog person

i prefer goldfish

we spend a lifetime

noting our differences

and incompatibilities

3 short pieces in response to paintings

Three short pieces inspired by images found in the book Independent Spirits: Women Painters of the American West, 1890 - 1945, edited by Patricia Trenton

1. The Johnson Girl, 1930, by Belle Baranceano

My father and five brothers run Johnson's Dry Goods, which supplies all of Starr County with everything it needs. I am known as The Johnson Girl, people can't be bothered to remember my name. Which is Clarissa. A fancy name, my mother's idea. 

Mama was a dreamer. My father says that, when he talks about her, which is rarely. I don't remember much except one thing. Mama had big brown eyes, just like I do. I know that because she spent so many hours looking at me. Maybe sometimes she hummed a little song but that could just be my imagination. She died before my first birthday. 

We had a photograph of Mama in a tin frame. It sat on top of the mantle in the dining room. But now it is gone. This is the biggest mystery in my life, the whereabouts of that photograph. I have promised myself that I will figure out what happened to Mama's photograph. And I will.

2. Self Portrait, 1942, by Dorr Bothwell

Today is my cat's birthday. Mrs. Lilian Farmer Canterbury. She's named after my favorite librarian. "Mrs." is the most important part of her name, as it is for her namesake, who, as it turn out, is not a married woman at all. But she is concerned with appearances, propriety, and dignity. As is my cat. 

I met Mrs., the librarian, a week after my family moved to Willette and it is no exaggeration to say that she saved my life. I met Mrs., the cat, on a Wednesday afternoon in November. I remember because it was the day Mr. Houlihan's barn burned down and it's no exaggeration to say that I saved her life, because I did, poor wee whiskered ball of bones. If the fire wouldn't have killed her then starvation might have. There weren't enough mice in that old barn to feed all the strays that ended up there, and Houlihan isn't one to put out a saucer of milk, let alone a bucket. 

As to the fire, now this is something between you and me, all this time later I still wouldn't want it to get around, but my own brother, Liam, was not entirely innocent. Though that crowd he ran with, they were no angels, and I wouldn't be surprised if Tommy Lindstrom was involved as well. But anyway, Houlihan wasn't hurt none, and Liam and Tommy are both in the Navy now, and when they come back home they'll be men and no worse for wear, as my Pap says.

I don't think Mrs., the librarian, will be with us much longer. She's dying from bad lungs. And she knows it. Which is why she confided in me, about being unmarried, and other things as well, like what she used to do to earn her living when she lived back east. I'll just say this: she wasn't a school teacher and she wasn't a sales lady in a big department store. She was something else and you can imagine. But then she came to Willette and she started a new life and I say "Good for you, Mrs."

She taught me to love a good book. Which I do, and I swear I always will. Mrs., the cat, appreciates good books too. She likes to sit on them, and lick them, and paw the pages. But most of all she likes to nestle on my lap and let me read to her, which is a comfort on long nights. It's never so solitary when I'm reading out loud to Mrs., the cat.

I will never be a Mrs. myself, unless I do like my favorite librarian and claim the title as my own. But for that I would have to live someplace else, far away where I am not known by every Tom, Dick, Harry, and Myrtle. And I can't see that coming to pass. I will always be Miss Dorr Bothwell, 

D-o-r-r, if you please, not Door. What was wrong with my parents, naming me such a thing? I will ponder that question until my last hour on this earth.

But now I must go and bake a little cake for Mrs., the cat, in celebration of her birthday. And later on I'll bring a slice over to Mrs., the librarian, who likes sweet things even more than I do.

3. Self Portrait, 1928, by Margaret Lefranc

Well, he's gone. And I can't say I mind because I don't. No more bacon to fry up. No more socks to darn. No more stories to listen to while pretending to care. No more Joe. 

He just took off after a buck he was stalking and he never returned. The sheriff's men were here with a lot of questions. Then they spent a whole day combing every inch of the woods out back and down as far as Benner's homestead. They never found a thing. Not a hair out of place.

Joe's sister, Merlene, wanted Sheriff Wynn to dredge the creek where it's at its deepest but he said Nah, ain't got the money for that. Because Sheriff Wynn and Joe never saw eye to eye about a thing so, money or no money, he figured he'd done his duty. Chalk it up to one more man gone walk-away. And it's not like that doesn't happen. It happens more often than you might think.

This morning I climbed up into the attic and found my paint box in a corner under some mothy quilts. I dusted it off and — Hosanna — the little tubes of paint are as good as they were back before Joe and I were married. I looked, but there weren't any more canvases up there. I did find a smooth, wide plank of pine wood, though, that once belonged to something, but not anymore, so I dragged it downstairs with the paints and it will suit me fine.

I'm going to make a tomato sandwich for lunch and after I eat it I'll start in on a painting of myself. Because what else around here is worth spending time on? A wobbly old chair I never liked? The blue glass fruit bowl with the chip in the rim? No, I will paint myself, wearing my white muslin shirt that has grown softer over the years. And I'll be sure to look serious, sad even, since my husband is gone. It wouldn't be seemly to look happy. Not on the outside. But inside I will be smiling. Oh yes. I will be smiling the biggest smile.

Places in the World: a re-posting

Places in the World I Would Mark on a Map. If I Were Making Such a Map. Which I'm Not. I'm Making a List.

Places where I hesitated before entering. 

Places where I smelled smoke but there wasn't any.

Places where I bought a book just because I liked the cover.

Places where I've fallen down.

Places where I felt invisible.

Places where I forgot to breathe.

Places where I was almost run over.

Places where I wasn't honest with myself.

Places where I heard sounds I couldn't identify.

Places where I wanted to leave but had to stay.

Places where I learned something new and fabulous.

Places where I couldn't avoid speaking with someone I didn't want to speak with.

Places where I didn't know any language that was useful.

Places where I was afraid to be up so high.

Places where I collided with a bicycle.

Places where I didn't want to buy anything.

Places where I visited dead people.

Places where I had to endure too many rules made by too many other people.

Places where I didn't wear any items of black clothing.

Places where I felt comfortable in my own skin.

Places where I couldn't avoid big bugs.

Places where I embarrassed myself by laughing uncontrollably and inappropriately.

Places where I was still and quiet and alone and happy.

Places where I waited for someone who never showed up.

Places where I held her hand and she held mine.

Places where I couldn't stand the smells surrounding me.

Places where I danced with abandon, until my feet wouldn't move any longer.

Places where I could feel my heart beating faster.

Places where I was mistaken for somebody else.

Places where I was actually very brave.

Places where I operated large machinery and didn't lose any body parts in the process.

Places where I kept my mouth shut.

Places where I thought I was alone but it turned out that I wasn't.

Places where I pretended to be English.

Places where I lost control.

Places where I have gone in my dreams.

Places where I said the opposite of what I meant.

Places where I read the last chapter of a book before I read the first.

Places where I met someone I'd always wanted to meet and they turned out to be as wonderful as I thought they were. 

Places where I was talking out loud to myself and people noticed.

Places where I lost my temper (and/or was rude) and regretted it.

Places where I lost my temper (and/or was rude) and did not regret it.

Places where I stood still in the middle of the street and couldn't go on.

Places where I was happy and comfortable and safe in the middle of a huge noisy crowd of people.

Places where I swooned over dessert.

Places where I dropped a full bag of groceries and broken glass was involved.

Places where I was robbed.

Places where I had an epiphany.

Places where I succumbed to the irrational urge to buy at least one new pen that I didn't need.

Places where I wept in public.

Places where I expected to be welcomed with open arms and I wasn't.

Places where I stopped to re-tie my shoelaces.

Places where I didn't understand the instructions.

Places where I entered a room and walked right out again.

Places where I shook hands with someone whose grip was limp and damp.

Places where I waved to somebody, thinking they were somebody else.

Places where I waited for a bus that never arrived.

Places where I didn't stop to smell the roses.

Places where I bought a pair of beautiful shoes even though I knew they didn't fit. 

Places where I eavesdropped on strangers.

Places where I looked out a window but didn't see anything because my mind was elsewhere.

Places where I walked into a movie theatre after the movie had begun.

Places where I got a haircut that I hated.

Places where I stopped before I got to the top.

Places where I walked down the street playing an instrument.

Places where I refused to give up.

Places where I took something that didn't belong to me.

Places where I fell asleep in public, drooled a little, and maybe even snored.

Places where I squinted into the sun.

Places where I left a performance during the intermission.

Places where I didn't see her at first, and then I did see her, and I was so happy she was there.

Places where I stopped at the Scenic Overlook and thought "ho hum."

Places where I slept soundly but later she said there was a ghost in the room.

Places where I ate an excellent meal in a restaurant, on my own.

Places where I made a promise I knew I could not keep.

Places where I said "I'm sorry" and meant it.

Places where I had no business going in the first place and I shouldn't have  been surprised when things turned out badly.

Places where I picked wildflowers along the side of the road.

Places where I sat around a campfire singing those good old tunes with utmost sincerity.

Places where I didn't do a good job with a hammer and nail.

Places where I heard disturbing news.

Places where I ran out of time.

Places where I thought the line or queue I was on would never move.

Places where I saw something I wish I hadn't seen.

Places where I had to quickly take off my hat/scarf/gloves because suddenly it was much too hot.

Places where I got caught in the rain without an umbrella.

Places where I bumped into something or someone because I was walking and reading at the same time.

Places where I gave up too soon.

Places where I  spent a whole day in the public library.

Places where I ran out of coins in the phone booth before the conversation was over.

Places where I had to answer awkward, embarrassing questions.

Places where I refused to get on the elevator.

Places where I had to say "no" repeatedly before I was heard.

Places where I received good advice but ignored it.

Places where I thought "this must be a dream," but it wasn't.

Places where I didn't get the joke.

Places where I relished being in the limelight.

Places where I felt safe in my disguise.

Places where I wrote in the dark.

Places where I followed a stranger down the street because I was curious to see where we would both end up.

Places where I refused to consult a map or ask for directions.

Places where I regretted not being more competent in math.

Places where I thought I'd be bored and restless but instead I was peaceful and content.

Places where I had to pay money to use the toilet.

Places where I saw a friendly face in the crowd and it was the reassurance I most needed.

Places where I sneezed and couldn't find a tissue in any one of my many pockets.

Places where I accidentally stepped on a crack even though, under normal circumstances, I would not do that.

Places where I startled a wild animal as much as it startled me.

Places where I should have knocked before entering.

Places where I ate something that was too hot and it burned my tongue.

Places where I looked up just in time to see a bird begin its song.

Places where I read the "keep off the grass" sign but I didn't heed it.

Places where I was in water up over my head.

Places where I couldn't find an all-night pharmacy when I needed one.

Places where I resisted temptation.

Places where I was foolishly sentimental.

Places where I came eyeball to eyeball with someone else's insanity.

Places where I abruptly changed my seat.

Places where I was disappointed in myself.

Places where I was the least athletic person in the group.

Places where I cleaned someone else's house.

Places where I went for months at a time without cooking.

Places where I hitchhiked.

Places where I was intimately familiar with public transportation routes.

Places where I could have consulted a dictionary but I chose not to.

Places where I felt uncomfortably touristy.

Places where I walked into a museum just to use the bathroom.

Places where I didn't recognize myself.

Places where I knew all my neighbors.

Places where I should have trusted my intuition, but unfortunately I didn't.

Places where I stood up for myself.

Places where I asked for help and got it.

Places where I was thirsty.

Places where I was much too bossy.

Places where I couldn't remember the rules of the game.

Places where I ran out of ink.

The Hat … and some small poems

The Hat

one day long ago

in a place that is no longer 

on any map

she went out for a stroll

along a wooded path

she wore a hat 

she did not intend to attract attention

when the rains came she was far from home

she couldn't see the path in front of her

not even her own hand

held up close to her eyes

and what's more 

her hat 

was lost

just when she most wanted her hat

at the very moment when she really needed that hat

the reason why she got that hat in the first place

the purpose of the hat

the essence of the hat

the hatness of the hat

it was

lost

disappeared

vanished

she was swallowed up by the rain

hatless

the tip of her nose turned red

her earlobes

shriveled

she was overcome with sorrow

we are talking about her now

but also we are talking about the hat

have you ever known a hat to feel 

sorry for itself?

yes 

it happens that way sometimes

this is one of those times

small poems:

waiting waiting waiting being

in this moment only the lake no past no future

elephant clouds tail to trunk lazy afternoon

meditation teacher talks talks talks talks talks about silence

crossing the bridge stop breathe hello ducks

nose to nose with a bee i step back from the flower

lonely day spending hours among the heavy clouds

counting breaths starting over starting over yet again

morning walk two white butterflies look familiar

high summer letting go one word at a time

it cools me off reading winter poetry

a different hat each morning a new me

July pillow seeking a cool spot on either side

silly typo mother corrects me with an emoticon

tall grasses in old beer bottles 

(and one cigar butt) 

my neighbor's porch

small poems since March, 2015

4 a.m.    your footsteps overhead    reassure me

this old seashell

held to my ear —

only silence

aging —

my feet

show the first signs

you are a star

waiting for me —

a happy dream

sidewalk cafe 

imagining myself any place

and also right here

after walking a muddy mile — a cup of ginger tea

holding a summer star in its center — shallow puddle

strike the bell — end of a long dream

dark grey rain — sunrise — pale pink rain

leaky pen — I can't think — I can't write

a hard rain — peonies fall all over themselves

daddies and daughters

waiting for the school bus

whispers and giggles

almost morning

the moon still hazy with doubt —

stay or go?

tree rising up

to greet the mountain —

no gesture is too small

knee-deep in nameless purple petals

after winter, before spring

feet on a muddy road

this is everything

wondering

is that a sea shell or a skull

in my neighbor's yard

rainwalk

thinking about the loose tile

on my roof

across the ocean

my friend celebrates her birthday —

morning walk        the dogs wag their tails

morning walk

trying to keep up 

with my shadow

the sign says LOOK UP! —

a vase of sunflowers 

in my neighbor's window

friends again

how good it is

to live this long

rain falling on a tin roof

— ping! —

oh the loneliness