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A London Return

12 Feb

 

“We do not see nature with our eyes, but with our understandings and our hearts.”
― William Hazlitt

Soho is quiet this morning.  Subdued, people on their way to work, starting their day.  William Hazlitt’s house stands here on Frith Street as it has for over 300 years.  A hotel now, and as gently welcoming as ever, I drop off my bag and head out to breakfast.

I turn 60 in a few days, which I find, for the first time, a bit baffling. Other such landmarks have passed easily. But having only recently begun to feel more man than boy, it seems unfair to suddenly be at an age which, if not old, is getting pretty damn close.   

I take a breath and let the morning streets blow it all away. 

So what to do on a jet-lagged morning in London?  A haircut of course.  At The Feel.  It’s better than it sounds. All tattooed, gender-fluid friendliness.  Amy and I have a lovely talk as she trims my little bit of hair back to something approaching whatever level of attractive I’m able to muster these days.  She assures me I do not look like a mechanical engineer with a libertarian bent and we part friends.  

Because I’m sharp about these things, after 38 years I have just sorted out that The Tate Britain is known for it’s collection of paintings by JMW Turner, whose work I love .  And so, freshly shorn, I head off in the direction of Pimlico, only to find that the Turners are being rehung and will be unavailable until March. There are three minor works which I dutifully track down, taking in as I go the vast panoply of British Art from Tudor portraits (Which are hilarious!  All haughty matrons, with bosoms about to   tumble over their bodices, and pale, weaselly men with unfortunate moustaches and a martial stance, staring down history in their vivid silk pant suits) all the way through to the present day.  Enlightened and amused, I head for the St. George Tavern, the nearby local of one Mr. Ian Nairn, the most erudite and opinionated of London guidebook authors. 

Pimlico, which I remember as the grim bit behind Victoria, is, in fact, delightful.  The St. George is not.  Braced for disappointment going in, Ian Nairn being long dead and more than a bit of an alcoholic, I am still surprised.  I doubt Mr. Nairn would have recognized the place.  Bland and listless, it now has all the charm of a highway rest stop.  So with a nod to the man, I catch the first train back to Soho and make a beeline for The Blue Posts in Berwick Street.

Formerly run by the mother of Suggs, the lead singer for Madness, this pub had intimidated me.  I feared I might not be cool enough.  But not a bit of it.  The Jam blasting as I walk through the door, it is a lovely, unpretentious little place.  No TV.  No games, no food. Just a room full of happy people mooching off early on a Friday to talk, drink and laugh.  Eurythmics, Abba, the hum of conversation as people come, go, and return again.  It’s a bit of a dance, and I stay for the length of my beer, letting the bonhomie both warm and settle me.  And then, giving in to the fatigue, I wend my way back to Hazlitt’s for a much needed nap.

***

Vasco & Piero’s is all but empty this early evening.  Tucked away on quiet street, I have it almost to myself.

Stephanie, a kindred spirit from New York, is my waiter;  but tonight she is also my friend, with generous pours of her favorite wine, delicious recommendations and an introduction to the family at the next table, whose son, Jack, is a musical theatre nerd par excellence.  They have just returned from New York, six shows in seven days, and Jack wants to tell me everything.   And, as the food arrives, I want to hear it.  So, as I work my way through the tagliatelle, the lamb chops and both the panettone (which I ordered) and the Tiramisu (a surprise from Stephanie), he unleashes his pent up knowledge of all things theatrical and I have, for a time, a family.  

Saying our goodnights, they head off to a show.  I should go back to the hotel, but it’s early, the pubs are still open, and I’m curious.

***

The Red Lion is only a short walk away. Having read that butlers were known to drink there, I had, on my last trip, left behind the raucous streets of Soho and Picadilly for the soothing environs of St. James, where, of an evening, the tourists fall away and the world grows quiet. Turning into Crown Passage, a narrow alley across from the Palace, I had found the small but pleasantly busy pub where I met Dave, a dapper gentlemen of a certain age who was more than eager to regale an American with stories of his life and country.  Pleased to have been so quickly welcomed, it took me a few minutes to realize that Dave was very drunk.  But, he was indeed in service to the royal family, having worked as a gameskeeper.  And while his stories initially focused on his military career, knowledge of hunting and numerous grandchildren, this soon lead to his concerns about Muslims.  As the room grew quiet he proceeded to rant about Sharia law, get snappish when asked to pay for the beer he’d bought me, and then disappear into the night at a speed surprising for someone about to fall down. 

The next day I saw him on TV, helping Prince Phillip into his car. 

I had met, if not a butler, then a body man to the husband of the Queen.  And as disturbing as the evening had been, it was also fascinating, for although  he engendered little love, everyone seemed to know Dave.  And amongst those who quietly nay-sayed his assertions, I realized I was likely sitting in a group of people who all worked in some capacity for the royal family, but who, mindful of their jobs, and far less drunk, were more discreet.   

These folks are not about tonight.  There is no gossip to be had about Harry and Meghan or the death of the Queen.  Instead I share the room with a posh trio; an attractive young woman and two young men, one of whom is working very hard to appear both brilliant and disinterested.  Astonished by his friend’s continued attraction to Hugh Grant and Colin Firth, he hovers over her, his receding blond hair flopping about as he dismisses both actors with a little mime involving a bent back and a cane.

“But you know who is attractive,” he parries, “Salma Hayek!”

“Salmon eye-hook?”  queries the young lady.

“Salma Hayek!” he corrects her. “I would kill a child to sleep with her.”

And the conversation grinds to a halt.

“Oh, come on!” he brays,  “Not my child!”

And it is time to go.

***

There’s a freshness to the night air, and turning into St. James Square, I am stopped by the beauty.  The proportions of the buildings are strikingly grand; the tall arched windows gently aglow, highlighting the people within.  Evening gowns and tuxedos blur the edges of time to create a painting in motion. 

Continuing up St. James Street it happens again.  Another row of majestic windows framing a champagne toast beneath a portrait of Churchill.  I step over to read the plaque.  The Carlton Club.  Members only for Tory peers, MPs and gentlemen.  Original home to the Conservative Party.  

I step back for another look and a man with a sleeping bag over his shoulder asks if I can spare some change.  He’s trying to get a place to sleep for the night.  I give him some money and we part ways.

I walk these streets a few minutes more, drawn by the beauty.  But there is an emptiness to it.  An ostentation that rankles. 

I head back through Piccadilly and into Soho, up Broadwick Street, past the Blue Posts and through the crowded lanes and alleys to Hazlitt’s, where I pick up my key, climb the four flights of off-kilter steps and make my way to bed, cracking the window just enough to feel the breeze and hear the comforting hum of the people below.

 

 

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Beloved

22 Mar

 

be·lov·ed
adjective
1.  dearly loved.
synonyms: darling, dear, dearest, precious, adored, much loved, cherished, treasured, prized, highly regarded, admired, esteemed, worshiped, revered, venerated, idolized

 

Morning light

Quiet

A Long run

Cold water on a hot day

Swimming

Laughter

Riding my bike

Wind

Rain

Sun

Back roads

Grasshoppers skimming from weed to weed

The smell of cut grass

My Dad

Small towns

Bakeries

Diners

(With a hard preference for the old rail car variety over the giant, novel-length menu, Jersey variety.)

Trees

Rivers

Being lost

But not that lost

Michigan

And it’s music (Bob Seger)

Grand Haven

Khardomah

Shaving in the sun, window open with a view through the trees.

London

And all it’s boltholes

History.  Near, and brushed against.

And the trains

Withnail and I

The Orkney sky

Radio

Late at night and early in the morning

The BBC

Robert Elms

Open Country

His Finest Hour

Road trips

Motels

And their pools in the afternoon light

Kids

Wild Flowers

Okie Donuts

And kindness

My neighborhood

My friends

The little patch of dirt I call a garden

A slow afternoon in the kitchen

Cooking

With wine

Especially the reds of Italy

(I could go on)

Waking up after a snowstorm with nowhere to go

Soft warm socks

And a good book

Jim Harrison

Michael Palin’s diaries

The music of Gavin Clark.

Time alone

Skating the smooth ice of a frozen lake

The evening sky ablaze

Hope

And People

Family

Mom

Sister

Brothers

Hallie, nearby, as I’m falling asleep

Heath, with his arm across my shoulders

And Amy, who illuminates it all and makes my life shine.

 

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Rivers and Streams

6 Jun

 Waitresses

Britta Seaton, née Slaughterback, was born in 1888.  She lived in a little house in Lawrenceville, Illinois with a Mynah bird that could talk.  A small man with an outsize temper, her husband was both an alcoholic and a member of the Ku Klux Klan.  Her life could not have been easy.

Rebecca Bell came from Wales at the turn of the last century, building a life in a new country and raising a pack of boys in the process, one of whom married Merle Ball of Brazil, Indiana, turning her, as she always liked to say, from a Ball to a Bell.

Merle’s father was a section boss on the Indiana railroad.  He had beautiful handwriting, and he drank too much.  She left home at fifteen, taking with her a strain of bitterness that would run through the rest of her life.  The anger in her voice was undiminished as she described, eighty years on, standing in the cold outside the local tavern, waiting for her father, as man after man stepped outside to relieve himself in the snow.  She outlived her husband, she outlived her children, and as things unraveled she lost much of herself.  But she never lost that memory.

Gladys Seaton, daughter of Britta, also fled a drunken father, only to flee again from the abusive uncle who had taken her in.  The eventual mother to six daughters, she ran a string of diners and coffee shops.  She smoked like a chimney and drank coffee in much the same manner.  Born in 1909, she wrote a letter to her children and grandchildren on the night of the first moon landing in which she marveled at all she had seen.  Outgoing and vivacious, she never let the truth get in the way of a good story.  And in the end, even death couldn’t stop her.  A great believer in the afterlife, for a year or so after her passing she would occasionally appear as a shadow, a scent, or a bit of mischief-making, whether checking on her grand-babies, or teasing and terrifying the daughters she had left behind.

One of whom was Barbara “Bobby” Stressman.  A beautiful, playful woman, she started dating my father when she was fifteen, lost him when she was thirty-eight, and was left to raise four children alone.  She remarried, taking in her mother-in-law, Merle Bell, as well as her second husband’s grandson.  Her children grown, she continues to care for others.  It seems to be her mission.  She told me once that as a very young girl she was taken by friends to a revival meeting downtown, where, with a certainty belying her age, she walked down the aisle and accepted Jesus as her savior.  I’d never heard  that story before, but when I see her now, volunteering at the hospital, or caring for a dying friend, I can’t help but see that same little girl, all by herself, taking the first steps on a journey that would last a lifetime.

From these women came my daughter, who tomorrow turns six.

They are, of course, but one tributary, for flowing north out of Oklahoma and Texas comes another just as beautiful, and certainly just as strong.  But this is the stream I know, for it also flows through me.  And on this day it is good to remember that despite all the obstacles that have stood in its way, it continues to rise anew, cold and clean, bubbling forth in the early morning light.

 

hallie attitude

 

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Tumbling through Brooklyn

30 Jan

Digital StillCamera

People say time flies when you’re having fun, but that’s bullshit.  Time just flies.                                                                     — Heath Bell

The plan had been to walk Brooklyn, Coney Island to Greenpoint.  An early start with a stop for breakfast in Red Hook, and then a beer in Greenpoint, at that little place on the corner.  In this way I would mark the day.  So come the morning, despite a sore head, a late start, and little desire for a beer at any point during the day, I head out the door.  Coffee in hand, I take my seat on the train, and as the wheels begin to turn the world blurs past.

 I don’t know how to reach him. 

The train takes forever.  The initial pleasure in skipping work fades as the commuters disappear,  leaving only the Brooklyn bound: tired mothers, complacent children, and one very large, angry leprechaun, whose headphones are not taking him to a calmer place.

Even though I see myself in him all the time.

Coney Island is a sad place on a winter’s day.  Bereft of people, the remaining attractions hug the boardwalk like so many dinosaurs, asleep at water’s edge.  Dreamland, Luna, and Steeplechase are long gone, replaced by housing projects, empty lots, and sky.  The few old buildings left along Surf Avenue continue to fade, making room for  an Applebee’s and other improvements reminiscent of a highway rest stop.  A runner passes me on the boardwalk, shirtless in the cold Atlantic wind.  Older guy.  Tough or just crazy?  I vote both, and head inland.

The difficulties in maintaining a friendship, and the inevitable sense of betrayal.  A process of years in my life; minutes in Heath’s.

Once known as the Road of Dreams, Stillwell Avenue is now a bleak strip of auto repair shops and the occasional decrepit house whose demeanor hints at more prosperous times.  A waterside inn perhaps, built along Coney Island Creek when it flowed all the way from Gravesend Bay to Sheepshead, creating an actual island.  Now gray and salt-stained from the spray of traffic, it looks barely inhabited.  I pass by, looking for hints of life, and then continue on, crossing a bridge over the creek’s stilled waters.

How many times has Amy said “Please don’t go away from me”?

Over the next several hours I chip away at the grid, zigzagging through the streets and avenues, progressing at a glacial pace on my journey of discovery.  What do I discover?  Brooklyn’s big.  And Bensonhurst goes on forever.  You heard it here first.

It’s what we do.

Toward the end, hours late for breakfast, legs leaden and feet blistered, having slogged past the auto shops and porn parlors beneath the roar of the BQE, I know I should quit; find a train and head home.  But I don’t.

Not caring.

And then, finally, turning left at the first opportunity, the startling quiet of Red Hook.

Buoyed by familiar landmarks, I head in the right direction, but, strangely, the community fails to materialize.  I see the projects, the parks, the silos, and even the damn Ikea, but the battered little houses where Brooklyn’s more adventurous denizens raise chickens and children in what feels for all the world like some dusty little prairie town are nowhere to be found.  Until suddenly they are, disrupting my sense of geography by appearing at a completely unexpected angle. Having arrived at my destination, I have no idea where I am.  

* * *

He appears as I take off my coat, standing awkwardly to one side, shifting slowly from foot to foot, lost in his own living room.  

“Hey, Heath.”  I toss the words gently, as if they don’t matter, and I wait, not sure if he’s heard me.

And I’m standing at a screen door as my dad tries to coax me into a game of catch.  Embarrassed, because I’m not good at catch, but torn because I know I’m disappointing him,  I cannot bring myself to step through that door.

After a moment, Heath looks up, walks over, and puts his arms around me, awkwardly, as if he’s afraid to complete the hug.

“Happy Birthday, Dad.”

I pull him close.

“Thanks, Heath.”

Looking over his shoulder, I see Amy shake her head.  This was not prompted.

I continue to hold him as long as I can

We feel more than we can show.

And then, without a word, he’s gone.

 

Heath and I Buddy Walk 2012

Photo of Coney Island from http://www.city-data.com 

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