Babi Yar in Denver

When I first came to Denver in the winter of 1979, I noticed a field with a small sign that read "Babi Yar".  Situated at the angled intersection of Havana and Parker Rds., I often passed by on my way to Caldonia's or The Emerald Isle.  Intuitively I know this had something to do with Jewry and the Holocaust.  But I was in my early twenties and history seemed too serious to study when I could be partying in the southeast suburbs of the Mile High City.  It was the early eighties, after all.

I never wandered into this park, but I came to learn that Babi Yar was a not as well-known site of Nazi atrocities.  As I became more in touch with my Jewishness, beyond matzo ball soup and menorahs, the interest in visiting this park heightened.  You know how life hands us excuses?  Maybe I needed a very strong push to see what this now beautifully developed memorial is all about.

The Russian invasion of Ukraine supplied all the reason I needed to venture a mere twelve miles from my home in the Centennial state.  I was further enticed because my son had invited me to join him for lunch at a restaurant practically walking distance from the site.  On a beautiful Colorado morning I made my pilgrimage.  

Let me back up.  My sister had been visiting the week prior and I fell behind in reading the newspaper.  So, on that Tuesday morning when I was set to meet my son, I was just getting around to perusing Monday's Denver Post.  On page four there was this photo of two young boys standing at one of the monuments in Babi Yar Park.  It was taken at a Holocaust remembrance that had been held on Sunday.  I took this as a sign from my Higher Power that I was meant to carry through with my plan and pay a visit.

                                                Denver Post Photo

I arrived at the park in plenty of time to take in all that it would offer.  I also wore a skirt because I was taught to be respectfully dressed in certain places, like museums and memorials.  Plus, I wanted to look nice for my eldest at lunch.  I pulled my gas efficient car into the dirt car park and had my first look.  This is it, I thought?  I could only see the two stone slabs that the photo in the paper had depicted.  I was also taught not to judge a book by its cover, so I started on the path to see what Babi Yar had to offer.

The first architectural homage to Babi Yar was a narrow passageway with painted black walls.  This symbolizes the train cars the Nazis used to transport Jews to concentration camps. In Kyiv Jews were ordered to report to an intersection near the train station.  Instead of being loaded into 'cattle cars' they were marched to a ravine where they were stripped and summarily shot.  I continued on the path and when I came to a second sharp point on the walkway, I realized I was meandering in the shape of a Jewish Star.  I had goosebumps!  The park also has a grove of 100 carefully planted Linden trees to simulate Ukraine and also commemorate those estimated 200,000 people who perished at Babi Yar, Ukraine during WWII.

I sat on a low wall in the grove and wrote notes about my experience.  Not just what I was seeing, more importantly, what I was feeling.  I know that antisemitism in on the rise, and there was an article in the next day's Denver Post that quantified the numbers; a 53% increase in hate crimes in Colorado in 2021.  We say never again, and yet it is happening here in the Queen City of the Plains and all over Colorado.  Antisemitic leaflets were strewn across driveways in Parker claiming COVID was caused by Jews.  From KRDO.com:

The flyers were reported to the Parker Police Department. A spokesperson for the department told 9News they determined the flyers are not criminal and will not be investigating any further, saying it's a matter of free speech.

Free Speech.  Let that sink in.  I lived in Colorado Springs in the 1990's and had a swastika drawn on the windows of my minivan.  Waking up to this was a gut-punch.   I felt violated - my driveway, my car, my kids as witnesses.  This is not free speech - this is hate speech.  There was so much to ponder on this visit, in this carefully curated landscape.

I walked through the two pillars that I had seen in the newspaper as my last stop in Babi Yar Park.  I read the beautifully inscribed slabs of granite.  This park has wonderful poetry that speaks to me.  I walked back through the black monoliths and there, on the ground, was a small flag of Ukraine.  I thanked my Higher Power for bringing me here and gifting me with a reminder of my contemplative morning.

I left Babi Park conflicted.  I felt heavy and sad knowing that history can and will repeat itself.  I also left with a feeling of hope.  The city I moved to and fell in love with in the late seventies was open-minded enough to have a memorial to one of the darkest moments in Jewish History.  Additionally I was grateful because I could freely leave this facsimile ravine of atrocities, in a few moments I would be filling my belly with a hot, nutritious meal, and I would be in the loving presence of a family member.  Hundreds of thousands of Jews, Roma, Ukrainians and others never again got that opportunity.

I wrote two poems in the days after my visit.  The first is "Grandmother's Ravine".  The title is a literal translation of Babi Yar.  As a grandmother this was meaningful to me.  The poem is a sestina.  Don't concern yourself with the 'rules' of poetry.  Just appreciate that the repeating end words are purposeful.  I chose this form for the repetition; I think it adds to the emotion.

Grandmother’s Ravine  by Jane Hillson Aiello  4/2022

“No monument stands over Babi Yar”

Yevgeny Yevtushenko

There is a ravine nearby that recounts history

The summer of 1941 - time of the Holocaust

In the gully you may feel the heartache

Of those marched and stripped and shot in Ukraine

While gazing at the mountains over Denver

Simmering with antisemitism.  Oh, to be Jewish

Reports of hate crimes aimed at those Jewish

A momentum of repeating history

Of course, this could not happen in Denver

We say never again, yet a modern holocaust

Emerges on the news of Kyiv, Ukraine

Turn the volume low, to avoid heartache

Never again we cried - no more heartache

This is the mantra of all peoples, Jewish

Be it in Colorado or Ukraine

We must remember our brutal history

Of those marched and stripped and shot in the Holocaust

Grandmother’s Ravine recreated in Denver

Babi Yar beckons to all those in Denver

To recollect ancestral heartache

Of Roma.  Of Poets. Of Holocaust

A message to all, not just the Jewish

Never to repeat senseless history

Antisemitism here - war in Ukraine

Walk the paths reminiscent of Ukraine

A Mogen David carved in the landscape of Denver

In the shadows of mountains is history

Granite walls harden our heartache

What survives in the blood of the Jewish

A lifeline stretched thin by the Holocaust

Marched and stripped and shot in the Holocaust

In a ravine in Kyiv, Ukraine

The victims murdered?  Mostly Jewish

Antisemitism resurging in Denver

Our people forced to relive the heartache

Forced to live a recurring history

People of Ukraine, we feel your heartache.  In Denver we commemorate Jewish history. 

Never again - the Holocaust

        The second poem is about the Ukrainian flag that I found on the ground at the end of my visit.

Unwavering by Jane Hillson Aiello 4/2022

There was a flag on the ground

Not posted or stuck in hard, sad dirt

Just laying on its side

Bottom to the earth

Top to the sun

This was not a flag for a small child

To wave at a parade

Though it was right sized, just for that

An overhead beacon to welcome firefighters

Or cheer majorettes

A treasure to bring home

A souvenir of revelers and marchers

Over time it would tatter from wind

From backyard antics of being furled

And thrust like a weapon at a sibling or the cat

The straw like stick would break one day

And upon returning from kindergarten

It would be forever gone and soon forgotten

Relegated to the trash during a parental cleaning spree

No.  This flag was a testament of foreign weapons

An homage of war and atrocities

Of ancestors being stripped and marched and shot

It would be held tightly to hold off tears

Waved in the wind to simulate movement

Quiver to remind us of fear

Goosebumps from goosesteps

A Holocaust remembrance in the shadow of mountains

In the thin air of elevation

Breath shallow.  Heart heavy

Two bright colors left in the grass

Blue for the everlasting sky

Yellow for the light a sunflower may bring

            For more information about Babi Yar Park in Denver:

The Cultural Landscape Foundation - Babi Yar

Mizel Museum - Babi Yar

Maybe it's Me!

Maybe it is me.  The last ten days have proven to be challenging in the humaning department.  Interacting with others.  Playing well in the sandbox.  When I have one or two odd encounters, I chalk it up to an anomaly.  But when I have a steady stream of odd encounters, I have to wonder:  Is it me?

The first was with my daughter.  As a mom, the words "I want to talk to you" can strike fear.  They sound innocuous enough, but history has taught me to take a breath and wait for the onslaught.  I won't get into details here out of privacy and respect.  But here is a word to the wise.  Never start a conversation with me using the word 'expectation".  Just sayin'.

Last Monday I was meeting a friend in LiDo.  That is a moniker that has never caught on. Here in the Denver Metro, we all know RiNo and LoDo, HiLo and whatever other fancy pants name a hipster coined.  LiDo is Littleton, downtown.  I guess DoLi sounded even worse.  I arranged my swimming to be timely and geographically close to our rendezvous.  I like Buck Recreation Center, they have a three-lane lap pool, a warm water therapy pool and a year-round outdoor hot tub.  They also have a leisure pool with a lazy river that is quite swift.  The last time I went in there I was facing backwards and guiding my granddaughter and whacked my head against the tiles with no warning.  So, for this blog and in the interest of my physical safety, let's not mention the not so lazy river.

I have the same routine; laps first, then into the warm water for stretching and a general feel good for my body, then the outdoor hot tub.  I was in there minding my own business (note to self:  should have continued that behavior).  Out comes a woman with a cadre of kids.  A couple of whom jump into the hot tub, messing with my Zen.  Two little boys were running around the concrete patio and letting all of Littleton be aware of their presence.  A/K/A they were loud.  I was happy to be almost done and hoping that I would not meet them again in the locker room.

One of the boys came up to this lady, I am not sure she was mom as no one called her by any name and asked if he could pick the dandelions.  Newly yellow and straining for the sun.  Coincidentally I had just heard an NPR story on these misnamed weeds and how important they are to bees as the season's first pollinators.  And as life would have it I couldn't help myself and felt the need to inform this woman that the dandelions are first pollinators and bees need them and perhaps picking them isn't such a good idea.  Like I said, I could not resist, and I think I also mentioned I should have minded my own beeswax.

She quickly informed me that she knows what pollination is and that - and I quote - "I am not digging your hyper-agro vibe right now".  Lucky for her I forgot for a moment I am from The Bronx and decided a hearty guffaw would be a sufficient reply.  BTW - I exited the area and did not see her and those climate affecting children again.

Two days later I was on Hanukkah Hill (take that millennials) partaking in an art project.  It doesn't matter where I was (JCC), or who was the sponsor (KAVOD) or who ideated the Art Box (DAM).  What matters is that I was sitting at a table with two other women following instructions and trying to open this box of Monet inspired supplies that could easily have withstood a nuclear explosion.  I was wielding my scissors and cutting through the flowered packing tape when a woman burst through the doors in the back and declared "I'm Late!".  I resisted the urge to inform her that this is not an airport and there is no need to announce her arrival.

The facilitator waved her over to my table and she took her place between me and an older lady who couldn't manage to open her box.  I asked her if she needed help and when she said yes, I started to make my way over to her.  As I went to grab my scissors the tardy tart grabbed them out from under me and announced that her shears were dull and did not open widely enough.  I ignored her, and helped this other lady, while surreptitiously reclaiming my scissors.  As I sat back down and placed the snippers on the table they were reclaimed with an announcement that she was not done with them yet.  It is very important for you to know I kept my mouth shut.  I didn't tell her the rules of the airport are different than the rules of craft class.  I didn't tell her she was loud and in my space and could have cut me while grabbing the scissors.  I kept my mouth shut.

I have a Yeti cup that keeps my drink cold all day.  It is not the kind with a screw-off cap, but just a press on lid with a little hole for sipping.  This woman grabbed my yeti - bear paw style - and moved it across the table.  I was a decent germophobe before COVID, and a border line OCD'er now.  Again, I did not say one word.  I just quietly cursed her grubby hands all over where my pursed lips would go.  I took a breath because I know I have a backup water in the car.  I reasoned with myself that there is no point in saying anything because the deed is done, cannot be undone and what would the point be?  This woman could be mentally challenged (there's my compassion!), or socially awkward (ya think?) or just in complete oblivion.  I did however move my cup closer to me because at thirty dollars a pop, one must keep an eye on such possessions.  As I did so she said, “You know, that was in my way".  OK, higher power.  If this was a test of my patience this was where I failed.  I retorted that I did not need her hands on my cup, where I drink from.  I was as nice as I could be.  I didn't curse or raise my voice or let loose the string of expletives that were swirling in my brain.

She became huffy and once again announced her departure.  This time from our formerly cozy table for three to an empty one behind us.  She said things like she knows where she is not welcome and don't worry about her.  She picked up her marbles and went home.  Again, I refrained from comment.  You know how old people are sometimes hard of hearing?  This abrupt departure was a surprise to my companions, and I thought it best to just shrug my shoulders in lieu of an explanation.  After all - the speaker was speaking this whole time.

I bet you thought that was the end of it.  I hoped so as well.  Our capable facilitator noticed a lone table sitter, asked the ladies name, and invited her to move up and join the others.  Just like Mrs. Hoffman, my kindergarten teacher would have done almost six decades ago.  I can be obedient when I need to be.  This was one of those times.  I sat rigidly in my chair and looked nowhere except straight ahead of me.  And then came the tirade "Considering the present circumstances, I think it is best I sit alone.  Back here.  At my own table".  and I could not have agreed more!

Next up was an oil change, tire rotation and alignment at my local service shop.  I liked that I could wait and get some writing done in their lobby area.  Also, they have good snacks.  The oil change was uneventful,  The tire things?  Not so much.  Apparently there is a wheel lock key that is unique to each car and a necessity to get the tires taken care of.  I had my tires rotated about a year ago at the dealer and they forgot to put the blasted thing back in my car.  So, I thanked the local place, cursed the dealership, and went on my merry way.  Once home, I called the service department of Hyundai expecting a confrontation of sorts - like not their fault - must be my problem kind of thing.  But Joe was really nice and said it happens all the time and come in and they will give me a new one.  What?  Something free from the dealership?  Since they were doing me a solid, I scheduled to just have the whole tire thing done there.

Here's an aside.  They take their time at the dealership, but do provide complimentary Lyft rides to and from,  I dropped off my car and waited for a stranger to invite me in their car.  I hoped they would have candy.  When the Lyft arrived, I asked the driver to please wear a mask, whereupon I was informed that masks don't work and COVID is a hoax.  I took that deep breath that I am getting really good at and responded that I was not there for medical advice or political opinions.  I just needed a ride by a masked motorist.  He complied and I took the ride.

Back to the car...  I picked up said vehicle that afternoon and it drove like crap.  Pulling to the right and grinding.  But I needed the car first thing the next morning for a doctor's appointment - who would want to miss an endoscopy? So, I made an appointment to bring it in later the next afternoon.  My daughter drove me in my car and the word she used to describe the way it felt was dragging.  Pulling, grinding and dragging.  Not the three words I would choose to describe how a car should drive after a simple tire rotation and alignment. 

After a bit the dealership called to tell me that the alignment checked out fine on two machines and they were stymied.  OK.  They would need my car for a few days to investigate.  Not OK.  I asked about a loaner, and did you know they are in short supply?  I said - hey - how is this my fault that an alignment goes awry and now I will be without a car for days with company coming?  Oh - and I had another doctor's appointment the next day and needed a vehicle.  We decided I would pick up my misbehaved car and return it the next afternoon. On the ride over to get my car, I thought  "What next?"  I arrived at the dealership and my advisor was notified of my presence.  I waited and waited to see my car come around the front.  I stepped outside and spied Joe and another man in the far parking lot looking at the back driver's side of my car.  Joe started walking back and the mystery man hopped in to drive.  I am intuitive, but it doesn't take a psychic to know something was going on.

Joe got to me first and told me that when he went to pull my car out of the narrow spot it had been wedged in to, he scraped the abutting vehicle.  "Oh!"  I said aloud.  "That is what happens next."  No yelling, no name calling.  Just another one of those very deep breaths I was perfecting.

My car pulled up and I learned the valet was the  service manager. I grabbed him and said something like I never would have even come to the dealership for a tire rotation and alignment but had to because they jacked my wheel key, and now my car drives like crap, and what if I'd had a flat in the last year and had been unable to change my tire off and why do they need my car for days? And now I need four tires and bodywork!  And dammit! Where is my loaner?

Whew.  To be clear, I never raised my voice or accused them of purposely messing up my Elantra.  I'd been poorly peopling all week and wanted to have a change of attitude.  I had been asking my higher power for patience - not to test my patience.  All in all, I was better behaved than my car. Keith said they'd fix the body damage on their dime (duh), and miraculously a loaner appeared and off I went!  Good thing because I had a stress test first thing the next morning.  You cannot make this kind of stuff it.

Keith, the service manager called me after my time on the treadmill and told me it was two bad tires.  That I never would have noticed this because when they were on the rear of the car they remained in a fixed position,  On the front they moved and that is what caused the pulling and growling.  Great - another word to describe the problem.  He said I would need four new tires, and another alignment.  After an amateur interrogation by me, Keith acknowledged that 26,000 miles on tires that were guaranteed for fifty was a fluke.  Lo and behold, he admitted that both of these tires had a broken 'cord' and were thereby defective.  He also mentioned that these were a brand people bought when they wanted a cheap(er) brand.

Well, Keith I said...  I bought those tires at your dealership on your service advisors recommendation.  Why did they tell me to buy inferior tires?  And do you know what else?  I want you to go to bat for me with the distributor and advocate for me, because obviously I can't call them myself.  And really, Keith, why did the service technician rotate obviously damaged tires back onto my car - you yourself said there was a noticeable bulge - and maybe you need to have a staff meeting on safety and integrity and all like that.  I have a loaner so take your time, Keith.  Call the distributor, educate your staff, advocate for me, the woman who HAD to come in for a key and leave with four new tires and a big fat bill.

It took two days, but Keith came through.  I got four new tires, gratis.  A different brand.  I was relieved when Keith called and told me my car was ready and it was no charge.  I gleefully drove up Broadway thinking my spate of dealing with people was over for a good long time.  After all, what could possibly happen next?

I don't want to jinx myself but stay tuned!

 

A Check Up from the Neck up

I was reclined in the narrow examination chair at the dentist this morning having my biannual prophy.  Teeth cleaning for those of you who didn't work in the dental field, as I briefly did in the 1980's.  I was a bit miffed that they were running behind schedule at eight am - not a good sign for them for the ensuing hours.  For me?  Just a minor inconvenience.  I had grabbed a magazine from home and was reading all about fig farming in California.  Waiting time is not wasted time!

When the time came for the polishing, I had a memory of my childhood dentist, Dr. Seminara.  His office was walking distance away on Lester Dr., but we always drove there.  His practice was in his house which allowed us to trick or treat there on Halloween.  You would think he'd have handed out mini-toothbrushes or sugar-free gum.  Nope!  He always bestowed us with the sticky stuff - Charleston Chews, Turkish Taffy, Sugar Daddy's.  My mother said it guaranteed him repeat business.  What came to me over the whir of the handpiece (dental lingo is hard to shake) is that he always used Mynol Prophy Paste with a chocolate-mint flavor.  It ruined that flavor combo for me forever.  I can't stand chocolate chip mint ice cream, and always push my Olive Garden after dinner mints across the table to my dining companion.  

That led me to thinking about how our pediatrician also officed in his house.  Dr. Winikoff lived on the corner of Edgewood Dr. and Orangeburg Rd.  We could not only walk to his house, but my cigarette smoking mother actually ran there once with me in her arms.  I faintly remember a few occasions where he came to our house and examined me in my pajamas, while I was lying in bed.  In retrospect I think that is creepy and invasive.

He had a solo practice in those days - before Dr. Boris joined him in a new office building down the road.  If he were unavailable the doctor in the next town over was our go-to guy.  Dr. Stern had an office a few doors down from our dog, Queenie's, veterinarian on Middletown Rd. in Pearl River.  As circumstance would have it, I did have to go to this big colonial house when I was four or five years old.

My brother, Harry, and I were horsing around in the back room of our house.  Some people called this the den, or family room, but we liked to reference geography and blueprints to explain this small room where the TV was, along with some bookshelves and a small closet that held my mother's fancy coats.  It also had two couches of the Danish Design variety.  This was way before IKEA built behemoth stores filled to the brim with DIY furniture and other items that make married couples quarrel.  The uncomfortable couches we had in the back room were cushions placed atop a hard wooden frame with mitered edges.  I was on my brother's back, and he bucked me off.  I thought we were playing, and he thought he gave me fair warning that I was going to be sent flying.  Either way the result is the same.  I somehow managed to land right on the sharp edge of the couch with the back of my right ear enduring the impact.  My ear was a bit a dangle, there was a good amount of blood, and I was ready to howl.  But when your big brother tells you to just lay down and be quiet, that is what this little kid did.

This only lasted until my squeamish sister came into the room to witness the bloody aftermath of our roughhousing.  There were screams of horror, and rushing in of parents, and I don't know exactly what happened to my brother at the moment, but I will guess not much.  Tatala* never had many consequences.  What happened to me is this.  My parents called the doctor and the doctor said - no more little Janie landing on her head.  No.  What really happened is that my dad drove me to Pearl River to Dr. Stern's office.  I remember the fish tank in the waiting room vividly.  Then it was into the exam room where the fill-in physician and my dad chatted while I laid on the table scared, in pain and uncomforted.  

I am going to say my dad was smoking a cigarette while Dr. Stern cleaned his pipe.  The doc had a long-handled knife with a big blade and was turning the point into the bowl of the tobacco pipe while my dad puffed away on a Parliament or a True.  I was laying on my good side eyeing the aquarium through the open door and most likely was whimpering.  I wasn't paying much attention to the smoky, manly conversation, but I do remember my dad asking Dr. Stern if that was the knife he was going to use to cut off my ear.  Now I was paying attention but who could hear me sniveling over their good old boy chuckling?

I received several stitches at the back of my ear.  No outward evidence of this minor misfortune.  When I started to wear corrective lenses a few years later, I needed to have the arms of my eyeglasses adjusted to sit lightly along this scar.  For many years they were the only sewing of skin my body endured.  That changed when I cut myself with a hot out of the autoclave instrument in Evergreen, where I worked as a dental assistant.  A doctor sewed it up, but the dentist I worked for removed the stitches.  Two C-Sections and the removal of a precancerous mole from my face provided a few more battle scars over the years.  And just to bring the dentist back into this - I had oral stitches when my wisdom teeth were removed.

When COVID came around and I had to wear a mask with ear loops as to not inhale or exhale another human being's breath, that little ear scar became raised and irritated.  I had it removed last year, sans anesthetic, and it seems flatter and more manageable now.  My brother was recovering from his own bout with the perils of a worldwide pandemic, and I chose not to tell him that his antics of almost six decades ago still affected me today.  

All this rambling in the course of a prophy that took less time than the half hour I sat in the waiting room.  All these memories of a semi-bucolic childhood that included a dentist who pushed candy and a pediatrician who visited little girls in their bedrooms. I put my mask on right after the fluoride was applied.  No tell-tale sign of past injury.  No one smoking in the operatory.  No jokes about removing body parts against my will.  My teeth and my ear are doing well.  Now if only my therapist hadn't cancelled this morning I'd be all set from my neck up!

* tatala - a term of endearment mostly used for boys - meaning Little Father or Little Man

 

Does This Bathing Suit Make Me Look Trashy?

I swim once or twice per week at the local rec center.  The pool is clean and not too crowded.  I also swim when I visit my son up north.  The town pool there is new with wide lanes and a diving board. As a kid I used to love diving into the unknown waters at Idlewild Swim Club.  Unknown because that 'pool' was actually a large man-made lake with a sand bottom.  The diving pool had four boards.  Two low to the water, one at about three feet, and my favorite, the ten-foot board.  The waters would churn  from all the belly flops and back flips, and I had to trust that I would have a clear entry into the water. 

The rec center pool is shallow from end to end with a slightly deeper depth in the middle.  It is not a diving pool; it is a strict lap pool.  The diving board up north is only open to the swim team, and the blocks are folded up during lap swimming.  Occasionally, I will go headfirst into the pool at my condo complex, but it is more an outward reach than a deep plunge.  I don't want to become a statistic of poor judgement.

Nowadays my swimming is a full-on apparatus experience.  I wear a unitard type suit, nose and ear plugs, goggles and a bathing cap.  I don't bother with fins, pull buoys or hand paddles. I just go in, go slow and keep going until my body says enough.  I practice some water yoga after laps, treat myself to the hot tub and call it a day.  All of this gear, plus two towels, toiletries and a change of clothes requires me to bring two bags to the gym on swim days.  One for all my dry stuff and another for the soon to be wet stuff.

I don't know if it stems from being a mother, bygone girl scout leader, ex soccer mom, former event planner or maybe just neurosis, but I like to prepare.  For me that means lining up all the bags for the pool, letters to drop at the post office, papers to be notarized, by my front door.  Not enough to trip over in an emergency, just enough to not forgot anything in the morning.  Yesterday I took the reusable bag I use for recyclables and put that by the door as well.  Add two water bottles, my purse, a pair of sunglasses - I am good to go.

Everything got piled on the front seat, save for the bag to shake out into the large bin of recyclables.  Usually, I walk to the bins to do this, but oh no!  Not yesterday.  I put the bag of bottles and newspapers on the floor of the passenger seat and drove over to the little hut that holds all the secrets of the complex where I live.  You know, trash and recycling.  There was a car parked at an odd angle, kind of not too far forward, and not too far back and he messed up my mojo of jumping out, dumping out and getting going.  I was so concerned about where I was going to pull up, that when I exited my car, I wasn't paying close attention.  As usual, the two recycling bins were nearing capacity, what with people not breaking down boxes and such.  Oft times that bothers me, but on this day it proved to be a Godsend.

I grabbed a bag from my car, hopped out, walked around the bin blocking vehicle, hoisted the bag in the air by the handles and holding on tightly, started to shake the contents into the mini roll-off.  Imagine my horror when I saw my bathing suit, flip-flops, towels, and zipper bags full of soap and lotion sail freely into the dumpster.  I was so shocked I couldn't even stop myself until the pool bag was empty.  This might have also be due to age and slowing reflexes, but I am not quite ready to admit that.

I was happy that the dumpster was almost full because it allowed me to quickly regain my composure and recover almost all of the contents of my tote, now resting atop empty cans and beer bottles.  Remember my anxiety about being hyper vigilant and prepared for the coming day?  The night before I had taken two travel sized bottles and replenished them with the expensive shampoo my daughter buys me to help hair regrowth.  This may be another sign of aging, or the negative effects of medication, but again no confessions.  These two little bottles with my handwritten SHAM and COND in black Sharpie were just out of reach.  I had carelessly tossed them in the top of the bag after refilling them, instead of taking the thirty seconds it would have required to unzip a little bag and secure them.  My bad. 

I am resourceful.  And cheap.  I drove back to my place, snugged a step ladder in the back seat of my car, and headed back to the dumpsters.  I opened the ladder, placed it close the to rusty edge of the metal bin, and carefully reached in and successfully retrieved my hair care products.  Voila!  Eureka!  Atta Girl!  I had just proven to myself that I can be stupid and smart within the span of six minutes.

Contents back in place, recyclables properly disposed of, and finally ready to go swim.  Or was I?  Could I put on a bathing suit I knew had just cozied up to cardboard cartons?  Use a towel that had touched discards?  I sat in my car and pondered the possibilities.  I also chuckled that the only diving I would do that day was of the dumpster variety.

In the end, I decided that the five second rule, mostly used for food dropped on the floor, applied here.  That the chlorine of the pool would instantly kill any germs lingering on my suit.  That I could pay attention to the inside folds of my towels and only place those sides against my body.  Everything could get a proper wash when I got home.  I knew that once I hit the water my faux pas would be a just a blip on the radar of my day.

But it didn't stop me from asking the lifeguard "Does this bathing suit make me look trashy?"

o

Nails and Magnets

I have a 'date' tonight and I'm ambiguous.  Not about the guy, about the process.  My last relationship ended four years ago, and it has been a drought ever since.  No asks, no on-line perusing.  I've long ago stopped looking at left hands for tell-tale signs of singlehood or the dreadful alternative.  Oh, that sounds bitter.  Maybe that is because I enjoy being a table for one.  A single gal in a seemingly double world.

But there is a guy who came into my magnetic field a couple of years ago.  He was in my memoir class.  This class meets for eight-week segments, albeit sporadically.  We are a casual crowd of writers.  We write and share details of our lives and recent adventures with relatively perfect strangers.  I am very used to that.  I sit in church basements and meeting rooms three times a week and do practically the same thing.  It's called Al-Anon.

From his looks and his words, I could infer he is a real western gentleman.  Rugged. Outdoorsy.  Handsome.  Flannel or western shirts and boots.  Yep.  Boots.  That footwear I can no longer tolerate due to rheumatoid arthritis.  But damn, they look good at the end of his Wranglers.  He recited a piece on rafting some river and that confirmed it.  He is a west of the Mississippi kind of guy.  A Coloradoan.  Maybe a rare breed.

One day in yoga at my local rec center he showed up.  Now I was intrigued.  A writer and a yogi?  Someone who wouldn't pooh-pooh my literary efforts as frivolous or depressing.  (My poetry is a tad dark) A man who I could perhaps share that part of my life with?  This was an awful lot to think about just moments before downward dog and savasana, so I turned back to the teacher and paid attention.  After all, yoga is about me and my mat.  Not about me and my overactive imagination and fantasies and the guy in the back of the room.

That was a while ago, but I remember a hug and expressions of surprise that we both lived in proximity to the rec center.  I allowed a bit of heart softening and then he stopped going to memoir class.  I stopped seeing him at yoga.  I let it go.  Not meant to be, and all those other cliché sayings hanging on therapist's walls everywhere.

He did however share a nice poem he had written with me via e-mail.  I am the self-proclaimed poetess of our memoir class.  It was a great ditty about horses and riding, and bandanas and petrichor. Remember that word: Petrichor. I looked it up and it means the sweet smell of the earth after a rain. A great word, perhaps even a romantic use of language by the poet.  I gave a bit of feedback and off to the ranch he went for several summery weeks.  I am not kidding.  Did I say he was a dude?

A year and half goes by and nada.  Nothing.  I don't see him much and communique via e-mail has ceased.  No exchanging of poems.  Nil.  It's OK.  He is handsome but if I had a hat I wouldn't hang it on a guy anyway.  Then he reappears at memoir and I must admit, I felt a bit of pitter-patter.  At this age, it could have been A-Fib, but I'm going with the emotional heart symptom.  He comes up to me after class and tells me he liked my reading.  Yep, its a pitter-patter.  He also tells me I seem stressed, which is an accurate assessment of my life at that moment.  I am further impressed at his intuition and sensitivity. Nonetheless we part ways.

A few weeks later the word petrichor appears in my Merriam-Webster word of the day email.  That was a word I didn't know existed before this cowboy sent me his poem.  I take it as a sign to reach out to the wrangler.  I forward the email and tell him seeing the word petrichor in my email had me thinking of him.  I struck a lode.  He replies and I reply and we are actually having an electronic conversation.  A few emails later and we have agreed to see an improv show at the Mercury on an upcoming Friday evening. Tonight.

I share a couple of my newer poems with this man and he responds with thoughtful comments.  Here's an excerpt of one of the e-mailed poems:

My poetry.  Nothing more than a vessel

Holding my heart full of nails

Jagged words

His reply hints that I should be careful getting to close to a magnet.  Hmm.  Maybe a little pull on my heart would be good for my soul.  I am definitely interested.  He's nice looking and nice.  I am beginning to think he is either introverted or shy.  I wonder if the first move will be in my court for anything to progress.  I am a pretty forward person in many arenas, but to put myself out there to pursue a guy?  I'm not too sure about that.  Don't men chase women?  What year is it?  Do I have the energy to do anything about this?  Am I being open, honest and willing?

Meeting 'organically' as such is a delight that has drawbacks.  Without filling out an on-line profile the excavation of information could be a long archeological dig.  Coffee or tea?  Age, religion. political affiliation, job history...  I know he has a daughter and two grandbabies. He has a woodshop in his garage (I divorced my husband to reclaim an indoor parking spot), and drives a truck. He lives pretty close-by.  That's about it.

Will our 'date' to an improv show be a series of small talk snippets?  Will we connect in a way that the conversation and the silences are equally comfortable?  Will he drink and then want to drive - compelling me to call an UBER and never see him again?

Here is what I would want a man to know about me before diving into my pool.  I have RA and it can be limiting, but I do my best to lead a full life.  I am a cynic, a skeptic and sarcastic.  I am quick witted and can be sharp tongued, but also know when to hold back.  I love my kids and grandkids more than anything - I do much for them - and that isn't likely to change.

I love to exercise and take long walks, but I amble slowly.  I don't mind if my hiking companion goes ahead of me and circles back every once in a while.  I stop to look at bugs and hug trees and talk to little kids.  I am a dog person, but am happy to not have the responsibility of having one in my home.  I can pass on cats and birds confined to cages.

I am a vegetarian and a great cook.  If a way to a man's heart is through his stomach, I should have arrived long ago.  I don't comment on other's food choices, and won't tolerate judgement about mine.  I like coffee and tea.  I am politically left, but not so far as to fall off a cliff.  I'm retired and want to stay that way, so I am not paying for a guy's way to anything.  Let's 'Go Dutch' is fine by me.  Spontaneously treating me is a bonus point for manners and old-fashioned traditions.

I don't celebrate gift-giving by a calendar.  I may forget it is Christmas but buy you something I see at a random time.  I like small, thoughtful gifts.  Never buy me jewelry.  Books are great.  So are funky socks.  My next birthday is a milestone.  I'll let you know if my thoughts on gift giving change this coming year.

I think Starbucks is ridiculous. So is avocado toast.  I volunteer sporadically and am generous to causes I think do good works.  I am a compassionate friend, but at the same time find myself liking people in general a bit less as the years go by.

My parents are dead, my siblings do not live close, my kids don't mind my business.  I stay on my side of the street, try to keep my front porch clean and like to live and let live.  I go to Al-Anon two or three times per week.  It is my religion, my spirituality, my therapy, my fellowship.  Just don't ask me anybody's last name.

I like to be on my schedule, but am willing to flex.  I respect alone time.  Mine and others.  I try not to gossip.  I write a lot of poetry.  I spend much of my day typing, tapping, texting, and transmitting.  Anything someone says or does may appear in a blog.  Maybe this guy deserves a heads-up in that department.  I'm already doing it and we haven't even gone out yet!

Back to magnets and nails in my heart and attraction and softening...  Let's see how tonight goes.


Time to Write,

Jane

Memories Are More Important Than Hair!

Almost every Wednesday, since the beginning of the pandemic, three friends and I have met via Zoom to discuss Al-Anon books.  This connection is heartfelt and genuine.  The accountability to do the work and show up has deepened our friendships. I have also gotten to know myself better, and that is always a plus.  Recently we decided to venture outside of our program and have been working from a book called "1000 Things You Don't Know About Me".  This book was a gift to our group from one of our participants this past holiday season.  As soon as I saw it, I thought it would be great to base our next go-round of meetings on the questions posed in this colorful tome.

We have answered queries like:  One day I hope to meet...  The one thing I really want to change about myself is...Some people say I am weird because...  Five questions per page, five pages discussed per week.  At this rate it is going to take almost four years to complete these mini essays.  Talk about commitment!

"The best advice I ever received was..." popped up last week.  I wrote about a few ditties my parents had often said, and others shared about wise parental words as well.  Another lady shared this sage speech from her dad "Memories are more important than your hair".  Without context it elicited a few chuckles.  Dads! Sheesh! Then the backstory was shared - and I paraphrase here - this gal wanted to be on drill team in high school and that would require styling her hair to conform to a uniform standard.  She did not want to cut her curls and her dad imparted the memory / hair statement to encourage her to go ahead and join the team.  What I initially thought comical was actually sensible.  Memories are more important than hair.

Later that afternoon I found myself in Boulder visiting my daughter and granddaughter.  The original plan was for me to occupy Penelope while my daughter finished up schoolwork and then I would have a haircut sometime in the early evening.  It was a warm day and sitting on the back porch would provide a perfect setting to shape my locks.  But as the evening went on and dinner was made, and dishes were done, and toddler bath time was upon us - my haircut fell to the wayside.  Bedtime came and I enjoyed three-year-old cuddles and a few kicks in the back all night long.

Mornings with little ones are quick!  Get up, get dressed, get going.  For my daughter that meant getting to campus.  For Penny and me it meant a good tooth brushing before going to her dental appointment.  Which by the way was a good check up!  Next up was taking Penny to school and me continuing my own day which included a visit to my son in Longmont.

There is a road that connects Boulder and Longmont called The Diagonal.  It is a mini-highway with little traffic mid-morning.  On that drive one may see remnants of the last Boulder County farms yet to succumb to development, a few cows and even low flying planes reading to disperse sky divers into Vance Johnson Airport.  It is a nice ride that requires reflection as the scenery goes by.

I was disappointed but not upset about not having my coiffure.  (In the week after this occurrence, my hair has begun to exit that awkward in-between stage. I like it again, though it does need a good shaping) On that short ride between seeing my daughter and her daughter and enjoying lunch with my son the words from my book club meeting came back to me.  I'd had a wonderful visit with my girls - picking Penny up from school, treating her to an overpriced ice cream on Pearl St, cooking dinner for all of us, orchestrating bath time, reading bedtime books and all-night snuggling with a delightful little girl.  Spending relaxing time with my youngest child in a home she has made her own - good food and even better conversation...  What was it my that was said in book club just over 24 hours before?

Memories are more important than hair.  I couldn't agree more.

A Gem of a Plan?

This is a story about friends and how two people who have never met each other impacted my day.  I was sitting quietly on my front balcony this morning eating yummy breakfast quinoa when Cindy sent a text.  Would I like to meet her in Littleton at 'that place' I told her about?  I assumed she meant Playa Bowls and with just a bit of hesitation I responded yes.  Why the wavering?  I've been in a writing slump and was thinking today might be the day to kick-start my pen back on to my paper.  I was also almost done with my breakfast and simply relaxing at the house seemed appealing.  But I chose yes because I haven't seen Cindy in a while and a hug before the impending lockdown is certainly worth a change of plans in my book.

I did have another reason or two to venture to downtown Littleton, a/k/a LiDo - which is a moniker that never quite caught on.  First, Playa Bowls had sent a 15% off text yesterday and I cannot resist a deal.  Turmeric and cinnamon were my other motivator.  Savory Spice is a short walk down Littleton Blvd.,  and a stroll to window shop in the cooler morning air would be nice.  Passing King Soopers Gas on the way home would be an added bonus since I had a nice reward coming to me.  All good!  I drove with anticipation.

When I parked in the first spot I saw, a lucky occurrence in LiDo, I was giddy.  I was ready to cash in on a smoothie, see Cindy and get spiced up.  Alas, another text informing me that she had a headache, had grabbed her bowl and was already on her way home.  Disappointed?  Yes.  Mad?  Of course not.  As a Rheumatoid Arthritis Warrior, I understand the body giving messages that must be heeded.  Good on Cindy for taking care of herself.  I know I will see her another day for a bowl (not that kind, Colorado!), and a hug.

I chose to walk past Playa and hit Savory first.  My friend Deanna, who is struggling with health issues as well, and I had done this path about a month ago.  We went to both spice stores, hit a few local merchants, bought some new and funky used items.  It was a fun, girls day out that ended at the smoothie place.  A great way to stop the shop and go home as the heat was building.  We pledged to do it again soon...

I spent a twenty on my oatmeal spices and some rose petals.  I got a green concoction at Playa.  I was in good spirits and only slightly sad that Cindy wasn't here.  I crossed the street and headed back to my car when it hit me.  I was being unfaithful to Deanna!  Had I not promised her we'd go bopping around again and soon?  I had met Deanna just blocks from where these thoughts invaded my head.  We were in a poetry class at Arapahoe Community College together.  Is this energetic?  Meant to be 'our place'? I was feeling conflicted about making plans to see Cindy and her not feeling well, and then doing this circuit solo.  

And there it was.  I almost missed it.  What Deanna would call a 'love gem'.  This misshapen rock was in the road, at my driver's side door.  Usually I would have snapped a pic where it was, but traffic was coming and I needed to get in my car safely.  I picked up this love gem and knew.  Deanna was with me.  She was letting me know that she too understood about friendship and hardship and headaches and cancelled plans and disappointments.  We three have all been there.  I love my friends.  I am grateful to my Higher Power for gently reminding me there is always room at my table.

PS - My writing mojo returned!  I wrote this little blog and two memoir vignettes as soon as I got home!

Time to Write,

Jane