When Man Makes Plans, God Laughs

A Russian carpenter that I worked with told me this. He had grown up within fifty miles of Chernobyl and was still in the area at the time of the meltdown. He knew better than I that things don’t always go as planned.

“If you don’t want it to rain, always pack an umbrella.” I said that.

 I am fully aware that I am being very self centered, complaining about vacation plans gone astray when people are struggling with basic essentials like putting food on the table or worrying if they have a job to go back to. I therefore apologize in advance for insulting anyone’s sensibilities and consider this an inconvenience not to be confused with a serious problem. I hope to find you in good health and staying as safe as possible under the circumstances. I also hope that you are better at planning vacations than I am.

There was the Caribbean cruise during a monsoon and the voyage where Norovirus broke out on the ship! The ocean spray and sumptuous meals were not the overriding aroma on board! I decided to try planning a land lover’s vacation, no ship required.

Currently I have a reservation at La Residenza  Paolo VI for May 15,2020,  an old Gregorian monastery in Vatican City, a stones throw from St Peters Basilica with a view that you would die for. Literally! I am currently in negotiations to try to get my money back. If I lived in the fourteenth century I probably would have booked a tour of Rome during the Plague. What are the odds of picking the worst possible time to travel to Italy in seven hundred years excepting world wars of course? Romulus and Remus would have stopped suckling at the shewolf just long enough to shake their heads at me in disbelief.

 From everything I have been told and seen, it is a beautiful city with wonderful food, piazzas, fountains, The Spanish Stairs, the Forum, Coliseum, and Vatican City with St. Peter’s Basilica and The Sistine Chapel.  The Vatican Museum’s endless collection of masterpieces crowns this bountiful resource.  This is a city with wonderful architecture and sculptures around every corner.

Oh well, there is always the Roman Art collection at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and afterwards a trip to Little Italy for dinner!  No, I forgot they’re closed also. If I manage to get my money back maybe I’ll take a cruise to Alaska. I always wanted to see it. I’ll pack a bathing suit just in case they have a heat wave and a falling glacier crushes my ship. But you don’t need to hear me moan, groan and grumble, you have your own problems.

Stay well,

JIM

March 2020

Think Think Think

THINK THINK THINK

PUMP PUMP PUMP
SPIN SPIN SPIN
LIFT LIFT LIFT
AT THE GYM GYM GYM.

RUN RUN RUN
BUY BUY BUY
SPEND SPEND SPEND
TILL YOU CRY CRY CRY.

TAP TAP TAP
CLICK CLICK CLICK
SNAPPY SNAP SNAP
LOOK AT ME ME ME.

NIPS NIPS NIPS
TUCKS TUCKS TUCKS
PEEL PEEL PEEL
OFF THE BUCKS BUCKS BUCKS.

FRAUGHT FRAUGHT FRAUGHT
CAUGHT CAUGHT CAUGHT
FRET FRET FRET
SO MUCH DEBT DEBT DEBT

Yvonne A.

2019

The Full Worm Moon of Early March

Some set designer must have commandeered a circular saw to cut a hole in the midnight sky and maneuver a klieg light through the star-studded blackness. I blink at the unexpected brightness. The stream of light focuses on my unprepared face. My unprepared lips form a rounded shape and a long “oh” escapes my unrehearsed mouth. My astigmatic eyes blur the edges of the light so that fine lines of a diamond-shaped corona transform the brilliant moon. It is a religious icon floating above. A gem more powerful than any I have beheld, it pulls the earth and my spirit to new elevations. For a long moment, I am transfixed and believe in miracles and celestial influences. I take in a long deep breath of the cool night air and charmed moonbeams. Then I turn my back to return through the service entrance of my apartment house. The magic vanishes. I become just another extra leaving the theater via the backstage door. As dawn approaches, the set will be taken down.

M.Hoffer

March 2020

The Lady, The Lion and the Unicorn

In my living room, over my burgundy couch, hangs a burgundy-edged needlepoint I embroidered. It’s based on a medieval Cluny Tapestry. Decorators tell you not to buy a picture to match the furniture. And I didn’t. I matched the furniture to the border of the needlepoint.

The needlepoint is based on a series of tapestries, each devoted to one of the five senses, and a sixth “to my one true desire,” a betrothed damsel in front of tent. The one I worked on is called “Sight.” Each stitch stands pert and accurately angled, at attention, doing its individual job to contribute to the artful effect of the royal tableau. A myriad of color embellishes the needlepoint mesh, worked ten stitches per inch. Given the size of the piece 45 x 35 inches, there are about 158,000 stitches that create the illusion of the original tapestry. In the center is a rather serious-looking maiden, flanked on one side by a grinning lion and on the other by a bemused unicorn, admiring himself in a mirror held by the young lady. There is a symbolic tree beside each animal, plus a pole and banner. It is all centered on a deep blue island, filled with mille-fleurs and miniature animals, that floats upon a field of red carnelian and more mille-fleurs work, framed in a border of deep burgundy.

I wasn’t an experienced needlepointer when I started the project. I had learned to needlepoint because a good friend of the family, Ceil Rush, tried to teach my mother. Mom was recuperating from a breast cancer operation—her second. Ceil thought it would help her pass the time, and given the mastectomy, a two inch embroidery needle would be easier to deploy than the long knitting needles my mother usually wielded. I was in and out of the room, serving them tea and cookies, just hanging about, and watching the lesson. A week later, my mother decided this endeavor was repetitive and boring. Since I had absorbed enough of the lesson, I offered to finish the piece. It was my mother’s taste—a French provincial scene, bewigged couple, with him bowing to her and her serving tea. I hated the picture. Ugh. But doing it was a gift to my mother. In addition, most handwork keeps me happy. Over the next few years I worked on a few small needlepoint canvases that matched my own taste.

In 1975, I quit a job I hated to focus on my master’s degree in medieval literature. Within two weeks, Mom was rushed to the hospital for emergency surgery.  It was cancer again, now metastasized.   As she recuperated, I told her about my wanting to buy this huge needlepoint I had seen, but thought was too big a project, both money-wise and size-wise. Maybe I should buy a small one. “Absolutely, not,” she said. “If you love this picture buy it and make something worthwhile. Don’t waste time on little projects that are a bunch of cute nothings.”  I consulted with Ceil, the needlepoint expert-in-chief. Per her instructions, I purchased boxes and boxes of DMC threads, to assure that I had consistent dye lots. Then I tested the number of strands I needed for coverage   – a full strand plus two threads separated from another strand. I worked up little color patches on the side to establish a color key. Prep work done, I took a deep breath and was ready to place the first stitches. Panic set in. There in front of me were one thousand five hundred square inches of mesh.

The needlepoint maven visited again, and she provided a battle plan for me. “Don’t think about the whole tapestry,” she advised. “Just think about each section as its own project.” I worked the tree on the right first. Then in the full light of summer I worked on the dark navy island, which was almost impossible to stitch under indoor light. Then I worked on the other tree. I worked on it in hospital waiting rooms during my mother’s doctors’ appointments, radiation, and chemo.  I worked on it talking to Mom as she lay weak and in pain in her bed at home. I worked on it to calm and distract myself.  The piece was starting to progress. . . My mother died in the middle of the light blue skirt of the young noblewoman’s dress.

After that I worked on it inconsistently.  Most of my energy went to completing my thesis: 101 pages on “The Use of Color in the Canterbury Tales.” I was in my personal medieval period, and it took me time to enter the Renaissance. Five years later, the piece was complete. I finished the petit-point image in the mirror while on the floor of my living room, moving to follow the beam of late afternoon sunlight in the room, so I could work the needle through the challengingly small holes of the mesh. My sister called during this last stitching, and was very offended when I told her I couldn’t talk and would call her back. She thought she was more important than a needlepoint. I did not understand the significance of the last stitches either. I just knew I was driven to finish. As I dated and initialed the piece, I placed a period on a pivotal paragraph in my life.

Now, 40 years later, as I enter my apartment, I feel more than personal pride and visual pleasure when I am greeted by the needlepoint. Within its stitches I also feel the threads of love and wisdom from two women who held me close and guided me with affection. Their stitches, placed carefully within me, continue to embellish my life, as I am also watched over by the medieval gaze of the lady, the lion, and the unicorn.

M.Hoffer

March 2020

The Full Worm Moon

The full worm moon came out in a brilliant show of light, like a Broadway opening night. The streets were illuminated in excess of streetlights alone. The brilliant disk combined with the smell of dew on the grass and foliage were very restorative and calming to the soul.

 “Hey watch where you’re walking you big klutz!” Someone said.

“Who said that?” I exclaimed not seeing anyone around.

“Down here you dumb ass, you’re stepping on my tail!”

Looking down at my feet I noticed something squirming there .Sure enough unbeknownst to me it was a big fat earthworm trying to free himself from under my heavy brown shoe.

“I’m sorry I didn’t realize that you were there. It wasn’t my fault,” I exclaimed carefully moving my foot away from the worm.

“Well then whose fault was it, mine for jumping under your foot?”

“Yes sure,” said the worm. ”You probably did it on purpose. You humans think you’re the only thing that matters,” said Benny as the worm called himself.

“That is not true!” I answered, getting mad flailing my arms around in frustration. As my arm came back it smacked straight into a crow who was dive bombing hellbent and hell bound aiming straight for Benny. The bird connected hard with my ascending fist, leaving a bleeding gash in my knuckle.Down he fell cold dead on the spot, his beak having been pushed into his brain, black feathers flew off the now lifeless body of the assassin.

“Wow!” said Benny “You saved my life. That was a close one. Thanks a lot!”

“You’re welcome,” I said. “Are we even now?”

“Yes I guess so. That was very memorable even though it happened by accident,” said Benny.

Unfortunately, for worms the other Indian name for this astronomical occurrence was The Full Crow Moon, an opportunistic chance for the huge black birds to more easily see their prey. Just then, the cry of other crows could be heard seeking their comrade to share the spoils of his evil deed. Revenge for their fallen brother would certainly become utmost in their minds. Quickly I took out my handkerchief and scooping up Benny folded him gently into the cloth, hiding him like a recovered Spanish Doubloon and rapidly exiting the area. I could see swarms of crows flying around here and there in constant communication with each other as I transversed the narrow streets of the town, hampering these feathered nightmares from exercising their retribution on me, vengeance burning in their eyes and black hearts.

CAW!CAW!CAW! I heard sometimes close at hand and sometimes far away.

Once or twice a large black shadow would overtake me approaching close by, eclipsing the bright Worm Moon momentarily, that illuminated my way like the evil Nazgul of Mordor. I clutched a broken baseball bat that was sticking out of a garbage can and retained it for protection.

Finally arriving at my house, I ducked in to the sanctuary from the aerial malcontents. Upon entering my apartment, I gently removed the handkerchief from my pocket and unfolded it carefully to see how Benny had faired in the nights exploits. Benny had to adjust to the light in the apartment but overall seemed to be in pretty good shape considering his brush with death, almost entering the eternal worm hole, a survivor of the feathered marauding nemesis. I closed over the curtains in case any of my pursuers had followed me and were perched nearby. At this point, I realized how hard my heart was pounding and slumped into a chair and slept.

The next morning I awoke early and created a terrarium, having set Benny up with an old goldfish bowl and some dirt from the backyard. Searching through the dewy grass and leaves, I found a large dead earthworm who had not survived the previous night’s atrocities having been left to rot presumably proving unpalatable to his executioner.

I folded him up in my handkerchief as my plan percolated. Returning to the scene of the previous nights calamity I found two crows perched above their expired friend lamenting his untimely passing in some Avian funerary ceremony surrounding the body with stolen black crepe paper.

“You have the audacity to come here?” They cawed. “We should peck your eyes out!”

Additional crows flew into the trees above me ready to attack.

“I mean no disrespect, and came here to bury the worm you frightened to death last night,” I said. Bending down and scooping out the earth with the handle of my bat, I placed the corpse of the worm and covered it up.

“I apologize for striking the crow but it was truly an accident and I am sorry for your loss.” I whispered reverently.

The old crow was not sure what to make of me. If he showed weakness, it might be deemed that his time for leadership was over. He stepped back and forth from one claw to the other eyeing my bat and deciding what to do.He was old and worn out with frayed grey feathers, and massive like a black eagle. Losing more members of the flock to my bat worried him and he let me complete the burial ceremony.

“We will let you pass, but do not return here again or we will see it as an insult,” squawked the old crow.

I left as calmly and solemnly as possible not wishing to push destiny. Benny lived a long and happy life, surviving a full eight years after our chance meeting, a testament to my innovative witness protection program and his staged death. We went on many adventures together, always careful to avoid the watchful eye of predatory birds. Going on a fishing trip one time, Benny lathered up in sunscreen and a tiny hat. Benny made me pay the ransom to repatriate the other fishermen’s worms if I could afford the ransom. We used clams as bait. Nobody likes them anyway, and it was a much more politically correct choice, at least in worm circles.

Jim

March 2020

CYBORG BRUNCH

A diner is a town hall, a meeting place for the exchange of ideas or to catch up with old friends. Incidentally, they also serve food.

Joe and Frank – two old compatriots – had come to the diner for a cup of coffee and brunch. They were ushered to their table following the aroma of fresh coffee and bacon. It was very noisy as a symphony of unintended percussion instruments performed in the open kitchen.

“What is the problem?”Inquire Joe, a tall skinny seventy-year-old man with a thick shock of grey hair and a creaseless face of a thirty year old.

“I can’t see the top of the creamer to peel off the cover. Everything has been opaque this week,” Frank answered.

Suddenly Frank slapped himself in the back of the head with the palm of his hand, dislodging his right eyeball, which flew into the hole of his newly arrived donut.

“Hey two points, what a great shot. I couldn’t do that again if I tried!” Frank exclaimed in jest.

Grabbing the orb and pressing a pressure point, the eyeball swung open revealing circuitry and light transmitters pulsing in communication with his brain.

“Now, let’s see what is wrong with this gizmo,” he considered. “Ok powdered sugar. I thought so. Must have been last week when I was cleaning it and eating a jelly donut at the same time. It looked like I was stranded with Admiral Byrd at the North Pole. Hey Joe how many penguins does the average polar bear eat for breakfast?”

“I don’t know Frank,” responded Joe, feeling that he was being set up.

“None they’re at the South Pole. Too long a schlep for a snack.

Frank laughed having amused himself. Joe was having trouble hearing Frank. He twisted off his left ear, dipped his napkin in the water glass and began to clean it. A few minutes later, Josephine, their waitress, a young woman with a curly black mane returned to bring Joe’s eggs finding Frank with the top of his head flipped open, having asked Joe to check under the hood. Joe was fanning his organ of benevolence with his Fedora to clear out any dust. His  own ear was sitting on top of the butter dish and Frank’s eyeball was back on the donut leering salaciously at Josephine.

“Hey boys this is a diner not a repair shop. I let you sit in the full human section, and this is how you repay me? You’re upsetting the other customers!”

Joe apologized and Frank told her, “You wear too much makeup.”

“Thanks I’ll make a note of that just in case I ever care what your opinion is,” Josephine admonished. “Now listen Inspector Gadget and R2D2 put yourselves back together and show some discretion! Search your memory banks for manners.”

Joe and Frank did as asked. They ate their breakfast in peace, paid the bill and then wobbled and shuffled out the door. Frank, flaying his arms around making some obnoxious point, the two old animatronics curmudgeons set off on the way to their next adventure.

Jim

March 2020