bday eve before

bday eve before

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

DOWN BY THE WATER --- the price you pay for loving

Preview



I did this photo one spring day, obviously in 2000 or 2001, as the Towers are yet there.  I love to go down to the water in DUMBO at all times of the year but in spring and summer it’s astounding. 

On January 21, 2006, I went down to the water to do a service for the second anniversary of my cat Star’s dying.  It was actually a surprisingly warm Saturday for that time of year.

I sought out a bench off to the side, alone --- in case I cried.  It would be sunset soon.  Star had died at 4:40 in the afternoon.  I remember the rosy-orange light bouncing off a window over on Court Street as we sat on the floor of our apartment.  Now, here by the water, I would honor the anniversary of her death.  I wasn’t sure how but I would be quiet and remember her.

But, just at that time, a loud joyous wedding party arrived with two photographers jumping around and snapping away.  The best man carried a bottle of champagne and everyone was laughing.  The bride was exquisitely beautiful --- petite with tiny fluttery hands; soft white lace circled the tops of them.  She had dark dark black hair and green eyes and perfect skin that actually glowed.  She was a more beautiful version of the young Elizabeth Taylor.  So, when a raucous laugh came out of her, it made me smile.  I thought it a nice combination of traits.  The wedding party spoke quickly in Russian; they were buoyant and garrulous.

I apologized silently to my cat Star for the interruption of her memorial service though I knew she would have liked the scene, she who so enjoyed humans and, well, all cats love movement and action.  She would have been all eyes.  I told her I was sorry for getting diverted by watching the wedding party.  But, right then, several families came streaming by where I sat, families with the cutest children and wonderful dogs.  A giant schnauzer let loose by a five year old thrust his head helplessly into my lap as I sat on the bench trying to conduct a memorial service!  I laughed out loud looking into his begging brown eyes. 

There was a lot going on.  I worried for the children by the water when the parents were engaged in conversation, so I watched over them.  Dogs kept getting tangled up with various kids.  It was like a wonderful little noisy circus there in late January by the water.

“Oh, Star, I’m so sorry.  We’ll have your ceremony tonight, at home, just us, I promise.”

The winds started to whip up, the temperature quickly descended.  I now started worrying about the wedding party catching cold as I got up to leave the water to walk back up through the streets of DUMBO and catch a bus home.

In the growing darkness, a man was walking two large dogs on the cobble-stoned streets. One dog, a chow was dragging far behind the other, slowly padding on wide furry feet.  She was a dark auburn color, deeper than the usual orange I see in these dogs, the color of my Aunt Gena’s hair.  The chow looked up at me with deep-set knowing eyes and I had the feeling of being in the presence of a wise being.

I asked the man walking the dogs if I could pet the chow and he said “Sure.”  I asked if she were old and he murmured, “”they both are.”  The dog’s fur felt like a great thick rug and was incredibly soft.

The DUMBO area has a lot of private places, little alleyways and crevices where you can be alone.  I hope that does not get ruined with the planned building changes, the “progress.” 

I knew that large dogs didn’t live as long as small dogs, so that the man walking the dogs would probably lose his two in the not far off future.

I had lost my cats, Star and Iris, within two years. 

I slipped into a quiet alleyway and sobbed for the man who would lose his dogs, for the loss of my two beautiful cats and for the price you pay for the privilege of loving.

MPKane, revised January 24, 2012








IF I WERE AN ICE DANCER ---- remembering the good


If I were an ice dancer, I would not remember the falls, nor recall the time I only did the double salchow instead of the triple --- no I would not remember those things

I would only remember how beautiful I looked in my skirts that flipped up and down around my perfectly carved legs or the beautiful color of the costume --- perhaps there would be sparkles on it

I would remember all the cheers of fans, their good wishes, the flowers thrown on the ice, the exhilarating pounding them- music of my piece

I would recall all the speed I had, the many twirls and how my partner held me up above his head and when I came back down we moved in perfect unison --- as if I had never left his side

Oh, if I were an ice dancer, even in a large competition, I’d remember the thrill and beauty of it, how my movements made people gasp in awe; I would remember the smoothness of the ice under me and the glorious swishing sound my skates made

For when it would be over, it could be like the other parts of my life --- and, the age-old question:

Why don't people remember the things I did well, why don't they talk to me about all the motions that clicked into place after years of practice?
Why can't they recall the fine joyous moments --- my skirts flying, my smile? --- how I made so many people happy, how I did almost all the exercises to perfection?
Why do they choose to talk about that one time I fell or the other competition when I did not land perfectly?

WHY DON'T PEOPLE REMEMBER THE GOOD?

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

STRINGS


I never liked New Year’s much or understood the desire for craziness at midnight but after coming to live in Philadelphia, I slowly got involved in the traditions of the Mummers and their amazing New Year’s parade.

I began watching way down on Broad Street when I lived deep in South Philly and graduated to Broad and Christian with my neighbors and their children when I moved to ‘northern South Philly’.  I swore I would never watch a parade uptown.

But, in time, I began going to the popular bars around 13th and Pine Streets and I knew and enjoyed lot of people so one year I slowly gave in and watched from the corner of Broad and Pine.  It was tremendous fun.  Our friend Billy would yearly climb the light pole and just as annually be hauled away by the police.

I had a very old blue duffle coat that looked like a blanket that I saved just for that day.  I carried a large plumber’s bag that Rose Fantasia had sewn my initials into.  It was filled with extra socks, scarves and mittens to use and share with anybody who needed them.

My goal every year was to escape the street barriers and the police and dance in the middle of the street with a String Band Captain.  I was usually successful in this endeavor.

We ‘liberated’ men’s rooms at the local pizza parlor.  The men’s room lines were always so short compared to the women’s room ones.  My sweetest, shyest friend Mary Ann helped me the first year. I was terrified, especially when I heard Mary Ann outside the men’s room door that I was behind, staving off, sweetly, a man wanting to come in. 

After I moved to New York, I heard that the parade had fallen on hard times for a few years.  The last time I saw it, it was a straggly little group, marching along Market Street, not Broad, and it made me sad.

I hadn’t thought much about the Mummers in a long while but on the way down to Philadelphia for New Year’s Eve with friends, they came to mind.  The Parade was revived and back on Broad Street again.  I wondered if any of my friends from ‘before’ would still come out?  Would anyone I knew come by Dirty Frank’s Bar or would I just feel sorry that I had ventured to the area again?  I was scared; sometimes these ‘going-back’ things really don’t work.

I walked slowly past 13th and Pine seeing only lots of young mummer clowns with bright green faces hanging out the door of the old bar.  How many times I’d had paint on my face from mummer kisses!

I carried on slowly towards Broad Street.  The pizza shop with the bathrooms was right across the street.  I wondered if our tradition had been carried on?  In front of me walked a tall man with a gray ponytail under a wonderful hat set at a rakish angle.  Joe?  --- Could it be Joe?  Yes.  The artist, Joe Tiberino welcomed me royally, as did the people with him including Gail and his beautiful daughter, Ellen.  And, the parade itself was delightful.  The audience, new and old, was as thrilled as I had always been.  Joe encouraged me to go back and enter the bar and push past the clowns.  He said I might see some old friends.  Sweet familiar faces welcomed me, some looking very much the same.  It was like a painting, a beautiful painting with different people popping in.

I didn’t stay long, just long enough to hug and remember; to collect some addresses and say that today I didn’t want to hear the long litany of who had died.  Over the years I had heard but not today.

Today was a New Year and a day for memories, a time to make plans for moving forward and a day for honoring a past time of great fun.  My whole few days back in Philadelphia had felt soft.  I walked the streets of my old neighborhood and sat on the stoop of my former building; I had good conversations.  It was a time of wisps, soft clouds, touches; vows to be in touch more, a time of gratefulness for the past and hope for the future.

Happy New Year everybody.  Mary Pat Kane