Red Nose

Rerun: True Love

Note: This entry was originally written on February 14, 2004 and posted in my late, great (well...) Diary-X diary. It still applies, so here it is.

With the approach of Valentine's Day, I've been thinking a bit about love.

In writing Girl Clown, I got immersed in remembering one of the Grand Passions of my youth. He was tall, well-built (impressive shoulders!), blonde, not traditionally good looking, but hot as all get out. He was also great in bed. Helluva combination, eh? I was totally hooked on him, madly in love with him. He could have asked me to walk behind him on my knees and I would have happily done it.

I knew very little about his past. He was born and raised in Paterson, New Jersey. The name he went by was not his given name; I found out his real name when I saw his driver's license. (I wasn't snooping; he asked to hold it for him after we had been in a bit of a car wreck. I simply took advantage of the opportunity to find out some details.) He was four years older than I chronologically; probably 20 years older than I emotionally and experientially.

He had a sister, with whom he was close. He lived in San Francisco when he wasn't putting up tents. He worked in a waterbed store (how cool was that?). I actually spoke to his parents once on the phone; they seemed like very nice folks and gave me his sister's number.

He got busted for possession of hashish while still in college and served some time in prison. It only added to his mystique and made him even more attractive.

I never asked questions. I just took in information as he gave it. Maybe I was afraid to ask questions that I didn't want to know the answers to. Questions like:

Are you married?
Do you have a girlfriend?
Am I your girlfriend or just the girl you fuck?
Do you love me?

I was so young, only 24. Twenty-four is so terribly young, from where I sit.

We did have a lot of fun together. He taught me how to drive a standard shift, three-on-the-tree, in Jackson, Mississippi. We survived a shakedown by the Mississippi State Police, near Natchez. We drank a lot and smoked a lot of pot; listened to loud rock and roll and walked through the French Quarter. He liked Willie Nelson's "Red-Headed Stranger"; I think he identified with it. He smoked unfiltered Camel cigarettes and was a little too fond of cocaine.

He once told me that he thought "Jessica" by the Allman Brothers Band was full of pain. (I always thought it was kind of joyful.)

Once, in the night, I whispered that I loved him, just loud enough for him to hear, not even looking at him. It was the biggest chance I ever took with him. He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me tighter than I'd ever been hugged, but he said nothing.

I took that as "I love you, too."

I was an optimist.

We managed to get jobs on the same show. He hated the bosses; they hated him. He got fired after a week and left. I wanted desperately to go with him; he wouldn't let me. I got a long letter from him shortly afterward; it made me absurdly happy and hopeful that we'd be together eventually.

A couple weeks later, when I was feeling depressed, I wrote a needy, tearful, horrible letter and had the bad judgment to mail it.

I never heard from him again. I don't know whether he even got that letter, but it doesn't matter.

I choose to remember the fun things about him; I fictionalized him as loving me back (though in reality I was never sure). He remains a Grand Passion; a fond memory of that time of my life.

But you know what? Looking back, I'm glad I never heard from him again. Because while he may have been a Grand Passion, he was not my True Love.

It's an important difference. Grand Passion is a part of True Love, but only a part. True Love is so much more. Grand Passion enslaves your heart. True Love frees your heart and lets it soar.

Happy Valentine's Day to my Joe, my one True Love.

The Old Church

Isn't this a beautiful old church? Go take a look, and read the caption. I'll wait.

Even though I don't attend Mass anymore and don't even consider myself Catholic, I still think of this little church as my church.

Down the hill from the church is a little street, and across the street are two old houses. My mom grew up in one of them; my dad grew up in the other. Yes, Mom and Pop first met when she was 8 and he was 11. Mom says she knew right then that she was going to marry him.

All of us were baptized in that church. Inside, it's lovely: two banks of pews with a center aisle, a simple altar set in an alcove (it worked out nicely when Vatican II changed the orientation of the altar to facing the congregation), two statues on either side of the alcove. The stained glass windows are immensely beautiful.

When I was in fourth grade, the parish built a new church, a much larger, modern structure adjacent to the elementary school to accommodate the increase in parishoners. A new convent for the school's nuns and a new rectory for the parish priests were also built. The old rectory remained; I can't remember what it was used for after the priests moved to the new one. (Note to self: Ask Mom.) The Masses at the old church were reduced to two: 7 a.m. and 10 a.m. We continued to go to the old church -- why drive two miles when you could walk up the hill?

I went to Mass there almost every single Sunday of my childhood, 10 o'clock in the morning, where we sat in one of front pews on the left side. Pop was one of the ushers. When he collected the offering, he'd always bonk us kids on the head with the long-handled basket. And we weren't the only kids he'd bonk -- any little kid was fair game. No one seemed to mind; everyone pretty much knew everyone else, so a little gentle kidhead bonking was more of a joke than anything else. Not only did he play jokes on the kids, he'd shake the basket in front of his pals, as if to ask for more dough. At the end of Mass, when the priest intoned "The Mass is ended; go in peace", my Pop always said, "Thank God!" instead of the prescribed "Thanks be to God" -- another of his jokes.

When I was a teenager, I got to play the organ for the 7 a.m. Sunday Mass, mostly because Father Kennedy was a friend of my folks. Father Kennedy always said that early Mass, and he was famous for getting it done in 20 minutes flat: one brisk collection, no sermon (just announcements), and the fastest Communion in Christendom. Of course, it helped that only 15 or 20 people ever attended that Mass. I'd slip up the hill about ten of, climb into the creaky choir loft, and play simple hymns before Mass started, at Communion (using lots of tremolo and reed stops), and the recessional, where I'd literally pull out all the stops and play at full volume. It's a wonder those beautiful windows didn't shatter. By the time I finished playing the hymn, the church had been empty for five minutes and Father Kennedy was itching to lock the door.

When I got engaged, I knew I wanted to be married in that old church. My mom had to get a little forceful with the pastor, reminding him that she had been a member of the parish for over 50 years and contributed much money to the coffers. The pastor, knowing when to cut his losses, simply said, "Would 10 o'clock in the morning be acceptable?"

Ten o'clock. Oh yes. At least it wasn't seven.

Land Sakes!

Back in August, I wrote about my paternal grandparents and how I found some records from the Maryland archives. Those archives listed all these interesting foreclosure actions taken against various people, mostly over parcels of land.

What I absolutely loved about these records were the names that the owners gave their land! I wrote down a few of my favorites, with my own commentary. I swear to you; these are actual, real names. Honest.

Gay's Enlargement: I think this one speaks for itself.
Gist's Inspection: The gist of the matter is this: did it pass inspection?
Bear Wallowing: In what?
Gay's Favor: Help a brother out!
Short Legged Tom: I hope it wasn't too swampy.
Maiden's Choice: I'm glad she had one.
What's Left: Not much, apparently.
Worthington's Neglect: No wonder they foreclosed!
Batchelor's Refuge: Getting away from Maiden's Choice, perhaps?
That or None: Take it or leave it, I guess.
Elizabeth's Diligence: You think she worked hard?
Polly's Habitation: Polly, on the other hand, just hung out.
Ely's Neglect: And Ely! What a slacker!
Dorsey's Industry: Dorsey would get along great with Elizabeth.
Jacob's Beginning: Beginning to what?
Brown's Struggle: Life was not easy for Brown.
Richard's Entire Conclusion: The End.
Elizabeth's Fancy: Geez, I thought she was kind of plain. But diligent.
Johnson's Adventure: See Gay's Enlargement.
Soldier's Delight: See Johnson's Adventure.
Shaw's Fanny: See Soldier's Delight.
Buchanan's Palace: See Maiden's Choice.
Vaughn's Disappointment: See Maiden's Choice.

So, when you acquire your acreage, what will you name your estate?

The Stupidest Prize

My pal Stephanie wants to know how my brother set the woods on the fire and how I managed to choose the stupidest prize on the local kiddie show.

I live to serve.

I really don't remember all that much about my brother and the woods -- but I do know that he and his buddy Michael Feeney were playing with matches in the woods, with predictable results. It wasn't a huge fire, but the fire department got called to the fire and my brother got called on the carpet.

I can, however, tell you all about the time I picked the stupidest prize.

DC had a pretty rich selection of kiddie shows back in the 50s and 60s, from the network offerings of Howdy Doody and Captain Kangaroo to shows produced and broadcast from the local stations. I loved Ranger Hal. Ranger Hal played a park ranger, so the show was oriented to nature. His main sidekick was a big floppy rabbit named Oswald Rabbit, but the puppet menagerie also included Eager Beaver, Dr. Fox, and Marvin Monkey. The show featured cartoons, skits, and educational lessons on nature.

And a contest.

Which, when I was nine, I entered. I don't remember the contest; I only remember having to send in a postcard with the answer to a question on it. Winners were chosen at random from the correct entries.

I was getting ready for school one morning when my brother came running out of the living room to say that my entry had won! I would get to appear on the Ranger Hal show and pick out my prize!

I almost wet my pants, I was so excited. I could hardly wait for the show.

See, on Saturdays, Ranger Hal hosted a lot of kids live on TV -- a birthday party group or two and that week's contest winners. Each prize winner got to sit right beside Ranger Hal and select a prize from the amazing treasure trove of toys surrounding the kindly Ranger.

The event is kind of a blur. I only remember sitting at a table as Ranger Hal spun the magic wheel to see which winner got to go up and pick out a toy. I watched as every prize I craved got selected: the beautiful Madame Alexander doll, the collection of sparkly rocks and minerals, the dinosaur model kit. Of course, there were amazing prices that went unpicked, like a full-size swing set (complete with teeter-totter!) and a polished wooden tobaggan.

Anyway, Ranger Hal almost forgot about me. I even had to remind his assistant. When I realized that Hal was about to stop the prize giving, I very shyly said, "I'm supposed to get a prize."

So up I went, sitting beside Ranger Hal, so nervous I could barely see straight. All the best prizes were gone! What could I choose? The swing set would be great, but I couldn't figure out how we would get it in the car to take it home. Of course, it didn't occur to me that it would come unassembled. And the toboggan -- I couldn't think how that worked, and it was awfully big, and I already had a good sled.

Ranger Hal gently hurried me along. I panicked and quickly pointed to the toy he was holding -- a big, metal child's adding machine. It was a weird contraption -- I don't remember exactly how it worked -- but it wasn't at all cool.

In fact, it broke in about a week.

I tried to make the best of it. I told my brother and sister that it was what I wanted. I didn't want the swing set or the toboggan or the Monopoly game or the set of picture books. My brother, as older brothers are required to do, teased me unmercifully about it.

He still does.

At least I get to tease him about setting the woods on fire.

Santa's Little Helper

Once upon a time, in a journal entry far, far away, I wrote about the various jobs I've had in my life. I identified one -- Santa's Helper -- as the worst job in the whole entire world.

Stephanie asked why.

Oh, let me count the ways!

First off, I had to wear actual work clothes, rather than my usual jeans and tee shirt. I got the job so that I'd have a little cash in between circus gigs. I had one relatively decent looking pantsuit (Yes, pantsuit! It was even -- dare I say it -- double knit.) and a couple pairs of non-jean pants.

I wore the pantsuit to the cattle call interview. When the hiring managers saw that I could actually speak in complete sentences and could add numbers with a reasonable degree of accuracy, I was hired.

And then the horror began.

After getting trained in the photo-taking, money-taking, and receipts-reconciling procedures, I was ready for the big time.

Oh, the screaming! From the parents, not the kids!

I realized very quickly that a lot of kids hate Santa Claus far more than they hate clowns. And yet, Mom and Dad have an irrational need to preserve an image of their little tyke screaming in fear on Santa's lap, especially after waiting in line for an hour with the little darling. They'd cajole, they'd bribe, they'd threaten, they'd scream, they'd even spank their precious darling child in an effort to get little Susie or Johnny (wait, I mean little Heather and little Jason -- this was 1976, after all) to smile and laugh and tell Santa what they wanted for Christmas.

These were the same parents who didn't want to buy the picture. This was before the era of the instant photo. When we took the picture, we had to give a numbered receipt to the parent, who had to sign up to get the photos. The finished product usually arrived in the mail a couple of weeks later, after which the parent would come to Santa's Kingdom at the absolute most busy time and demand their money back because the picture was awful.

I always gave them their money back. In cash. Because I didn't care.

There were some cute kids, and a couple of the Santas seemed okay, but the girls I worked with were way too perky, as was my boss. She tried to befriend me, but I was in no mood. I just wanted to get the damn hours in so I could go home and get stoned. (Or rather, get more stoned than I already was. It was that bad.)

As the mall got more and more crowded and noisy and the endless piped-in Christmas began to wear down the little bit of sanity I had left, I began to harbor terrible thoughts. It would easy to pinch a kid on the way up to Santa's lap, but I figured that the kid would quickly rat me out. Besides, was it really the kid and the poor kid's frazzled parents who were at fault? Or was it the corporation? The soulless picture-pimping company foisting artificial memories on these families?

Ah, the answer was clear.

On Christmas Eve morning, I called my ultra-perky boss and quit.