The Remake

On Christmas Eve we attempted a remake of one of our favorite shots of the kids.

Christmas Eve, 2009:

original, 2009

Christmas Eve (not really, but the night we opened gifts a few days before Christmas), 2014:

remake, 2014

A good first effort. I think we can do better.

Please note: the sock in her mouth was clean this time.

Mr. Nobody

I’ve printed this and I’m hanging it up in our home this week. Perhaps you’d like to do the same. Do you have Mr. Nobody at your house?

Mr. Nobody

BY ANONYMOUS

I know a funny little man,
    As quiet as a mouse,
Who does the mischief that is done
    In everybody’s house!
There’s no one ever sees his face,
    And yet we all agree
That every plate we break was cracked
    By Mr. Nobody.
’Tis he who always tears out books,
    Who leaves the door ajar,
He pulls the buttons from our shirts,
    And scatters pins afar;
That squeaking door will always squeak,
    For prithee, don’t you see,
We leave the oiling to be done
    By Mr. Nobody.
He puts damp wood upon the fire
   That kettles cannot boil;
His are the feet that bring in mud,
   And all the carpets soil.
The papers always are mislaid;
   Who had them last, but he?
There’s no one tosses them about
   But Mr. Nobody.
The finger marks upon the door
    By none of us are made;
We never leave the blinds unclosed,
    To let the curtains fade.
The ink we never spill;   the boots
    That lying round you see
Are not our boots,—they all belong
    To Mr. Nobody.

Places We’ve Loved:  72 Salisbury St.

Next month marks fifteen years of marriage for my husband and me, and I’ve been working on a special series in honor of all the Places We’ve Loved along this road together.

 

We found the ad in the classified section of the Sunday paper. As we planned the wedding and made a hundred frivolous decisions about it, this decision seemed to cement our life as husband and wife more than most. We found a place to live together, under one roof.

It was an old school building with hardwood floors and tall windows in every room. We had an intercom and buzzer to let people in the front door.  We used to imitate Jerry and Elaine with the intercom. The kitchen was new, with corian countertops; the bathroom was old, with retro yellow tile and fixtures. The hard water dried out your skin and drove you crazy.

You moved in on my birthday, the same day my mother and sister threw me a bridal shower. I came home sweaty from helping you move to find tens of women dressed for tea on the front lawn.

The landlord was old school — so private and mysterious that we speculated about connections to the mob. We mailed our rent to him and hardly ever saw him. If we needed a repair done, it happened while we were gone.

We were often awakened in the early morning hours by the territorial cats around the trash shed outside. Their attachment to the address was explained when we learned that Connie, the elderly lady down the hall, fed them every few days. The carport was littered with cat food cans.

We affectionately called her “Crazy Connie.” She loved to listen to Jordan Levy, the local political talk show, and tell us who should get the boot in the city. The day they announced the rent increase, she called Jordan to tell off the landlord publicly. She used to talk about her husband, who we never saw. We thought maybe she was delusional — hanging on to a memory — until the day I opened the front door and there he was:  a slight elderly man with steel-gray hair and a walker clutched before him. He walked the halls while we were at work to keep his muscles from deteriorating. We wondered how many cats they had inside their apartment.

Sometimes in the middle of the night when the cats were quiet, the window shades would let go of their lowered position and shoot up the length of the window with the sound of a gunshot. Adrenaline pumped through our veins and we prayed for rest to come after the jarring fright.

I burned up our first Christmas tree in the working fireplace in the living room. Looking back now, I see how that was a foolish decision.  But the only time I set off the fire alarms was when I used the oven to season our “new” cast-iron skillet, the vintage one I bought at the Brimfield Flea Market.

The hallways were poorly lit with beautiful brass lanterns. The basement was terrifying. The two washers and dryers were in the best-lit room in the place, but they adjoined the storage rooms — a series of stalls with padlocks where the twelve tenants each stored their worldly goods. One had a painting of a black figure with a glowing red heart. It was life-sized and it seemed to peer at me while I folded. I knew the exterior doors didn’t close properly and I wondered who was hiding in the stalls. Eventually my fears caught up with me and I started using the laundromat.

On nice days, like my first Mother’s Day, we walked to Institute Park across the street or across the campus to Tortilla Sam’s or the Bean Counter. You took me to the Boynton and gave thanks that we were together, since you used to go there as a single grad student and wonder why you’d moved to this social wasteland.

On snowy days, you diligently moved and shoveled out our cars at various hours. You prayed the plow wouldn’t hem you in too badly. The ice became so bad in the deeply-rutted driveway that one tenant scraped off the bottom of his oil pan on his Mercedes. Serves him right, said Connie. He didn’t pay for that car anyway; his daddy did.

The neighbors had fierce fights — sometimes physical ones. One night it was so bad, I had my finger on the phone to dial 911. We heard the door slam and out he went. After that it didn’t happen again.

On December 3, 1999, we drove home on the highway and saw some firetrucks on the street below. The next morning, we awoke to the smell of chemical smoke and learned that six firemen had died the previous night. The city was quiet and grieving. The President and Vice-President came to town for the funeral.

The millenium came and went with much fanfare. We didn’t prepare (sorry, Dad). We fell asleep before midnight, figuring that we’d wake up with no power….maybe.

The next January, we drove the five minutes to the hospital in the middle of the afternoon on a Wednesday and welcomed our first child as the snow approached. He came home with us that Saturday at noon, as the new President took the Oath of Office.

When the spring came, heralded by the blooms on the trees in the churchyard next door, we had a deal on our first house. You had shrewdly talked our way into it, buying it from a friend with no realtors involved. We signed the papers on a Friday afternoon at a round table in a noisy corner of the courthouse. We walked home.