Myles Ave. Summers

I've begun dreaming in Spanish, not full sentences but words here and there, some my subconscious must have picked up. Sleeping is not one of the things I do well, from my earliest childhood I've been a terrible sleeper. Now dreaming in Spanglish has added another layer to my fitful wakefulness. During the sleep gaps I think, I also remember. Some of it not such easy stuff.

I was thinking about the menu for my class, which brought me back to summers on Myles Ave. My childhood home. When Anita passed away we sold the house furnished the only thing missing was the hutch, and tea table. Larry and Pam took those, we divided the china, crystal and good stuff. I was in the middle of selling my home in Spring Hill due to another change in financial circumstances, there was a question as to where I was going to live. Needless to say, I did not need to inherit any large pieces of furniture. At the time I just didn't realize I wasn't going to go home again. There was too much chaos in my life, there had been really since dad died.

My other family home, the one where my children grew up was sold during my divorce, a really lovely home with a very peaceful aspect to it. I know my children have a need for a family home, and I have moved so often now I can't supply that continuity for them, and it's a real shame. No gathering place with the familiar scents and ghosts of their childhood. Just let's go visit mom and now mom and Barry in their new home. I grieve for my lost old home and for my children's.

The last two years I find I dream more and more about the house on Myles Ave. Sometimes it looks just as it did, other times I just know I'm there. We had a difficult childhood, there was a lot of tensions, anger and more than a little insanity. Yet I find myself drifting back, pining for so many things lost. Summers were the best at home, my mother was more balanced. If it wasn't the warmth maybe it was the sunlight. There was no air conditioning for years, then my dad installed a unit in the wall of the master bed room and a door that closed off the hallway from the bedrooms. In winter my sister and I froze, our bedroom was over the uninsulated garage and our pipes would freeze, no amount of bleeding them could keep that room warm. We often woke up and saw our breath in the morning. The old windows leaked like a sieve, we placed rolled up towels as draft barriers everywhere. It was never comfortable, too cold too hot. And yet...

Summers we spent every waking moment out doors. As a little girl I would roam the neighborhoods with impunity, gone from morning until I heard my mothers whistle or later the bell. She had an old fashioned iron bell installed on the pillar of our front porch, so unlike the other mothers who screamed the names of their kids to fetch them home, my mom rang the clapper that could be heard for miles. I installed one for my kids , I also taught them the family whistle. We could play Marco Polo in the stores or find one another in a crowd. Still can. We knew where to look if someone left a note where they were going, and when mom pulled up after shopping we all ran out to help her with the groceries. She didn't have to beep we knew the sound of our cars. Most of them were old, a few clinkers even the Comet as it aged had a unique universal joint gone bad sound. We could hear it squeaking as she turned onto our street and stoped what ever misbehavior we were involved with in time to meet her at the door or the driveway. We were always in fear of breaking my mothers rules, there was hell to pay and her rules changed daily without notice. You had to be on your feet as it were, in my house, always ready to detect her moods. It's taught me to be a very shrewed judge of character,as well as a good negotiator. I am also very easy to get along with, although the last twelve years or so I have been learning about boundaries and self preservation.

Back to summer, when Anita worked, summers it was half a day while we were still young. We'd do our chores in the morning and then get the beach stuff together and when the car pulled up there we were towels et all ready to go. Sunken Meadow or Jones beach, parking lot number 9. One summer we belonged to Monaco beach club, where we shared a cabana with the only non Jewish family at the club. Our cabana consisted of a shower at the back a small changing area cum storage after, swinging doors to a covered patio where tables and chairs for eating and playing games were set up. On the strip of sand in front there was a communal chaise lounge gossip arena. Two chaises to a family umbrellas brought by the cabana boy. I could swear ours was named Stu. Now if you had real money you literally owned your cabana and had both sides, it was decorated and was very cozy. Then there were the half shares like ours, and then there were the families and singles who had lockers. We only did the beach club one season.

When they diagnosed my sister Pam with Scoliosis some how my parents scraped the money together and bought an 18x8 foot, eight shaped steel and aluminum above the ground pool. It was thought that being in the water and swimming would help her back. She could be out of her brace as long as she was swimming otherwise it was 23 hours in her iron maiden. That's when my dads BBQ history really took off. Dad loved to be out side, stripped to the waist in some sagging old shorts mowing, gardening, spraying our trees planting vegetables. He was a man of the land, and loved to putter and cook. Harold was a very maternal man which was very good for us as we had a non maternal mother. He even taught us how to sew a button and fix a hem. I need to say here he was also a man with a temper and a tough customer. Dad was however a good guy, with a lot of energy and was wonderful with his hands. He lived in Brooklyn his whole life before joining the Navy in WW11 with a falsified birth date. He was 16 and six foot tall 119 lbs and Uncle Sam looked the other way. It was always a marvel to me that a guy who had lived in apartments his whole life knew how to fix and build and garden. I inherited my dads fix it Gene, I am also very good with my hands and love to garden. His dad Herman was a sportsman fisherman who didn't have time for his son. He was always running off to their camps on Eastern Long Island where they kept boats and cabins or playing poker with his cronies. I think as a neglected son my father decided he was going to be there for us. That wasn't as easy as it sounds he often worked two jobs and his career was very spotty until his very later years. Then there was the Anita factor.

Way back, there were block parties, everyone got together, the streets were closed off and grills and back yard cedar picnic tables were carried on to the street. Lights were strung back and forth and everyone brought stuff. I most remember the one where I got to sleep over Kathy Harbus' house. I didn't get a lot of sleep overs and this was special she was my very best friend. We slept in her brothers room on the trundle bed. They had these cool round fans you could sit on, before they installed air conditioning. I slept over her house twice more later on and one time her mom Harriet made us rock lobster tails.

During the week on very hot days all the women got the kids together in someones back yard with a oscillating sprinkler and they'd drink iced coffee and smoke cigarettes while we ran around the sprinkler or kiddie pool keeping ourselves amused and cool. They'd drink their iced drink in these colored metal tall glasses, that always tasted just a bit funny to me. They kept it cold, and the sound of ice clinking around those metal glasses evokes something in me. Ice cubes from metal ice-cube trays with water from the tap. Our refrigerator had a tiny box with an insulated door where you placed those trays and your frozen foods. When we sold the house four years ago it was still up and running, over fifty years. It was a squat white GE affair with a large slot machine style handle a small interior and the tiny freezer compartment that needed defrosting constantly.

When I think of summer foods I have to acknowledge dairy. In those days before meat become inexpensive and a larger part of our diet, we ate a lot of cheaper "dairy" meals. I am aware that every kid in America was eating peanut butter jelly, or cream cheese and jelly sandwiches, we had three ways sometimes. Sandwiches of Cheese wiz or Velveeta and as a gourmet change, Pimento cheese. My dad was a fan of Spam from the war and you could not get cheaper than that. When we were flush kosher salami. Either the block roll sausage sized Hebrew National or the really good stuff the large fresh deli sliced Chicken salami. This was also beef where it got it's name Chicken I don't know. Dairy in the summer was it. It was just too hot to eat a heavy meal and as mom didn't cook at the best of times, hey. Let's start with Cottage cheese and Sour cream with garden vegetables, I think this is very Jewish, so let me know if you at this in a non-Jewish home. Large curd cottage cheese with dollops of real sour cream to smooth and moisten, add finely chopped or diced scallions, radishes, cucumber, celery and sometimes carrots, salt and pepper. We had Iceberg lettuce with tomatoes and cucumber and Green Goddess dressing my all time favorite. A lot of Tuna fish was eaten at our house also very cheap with onions, pickles diced and mayo. Egg salad was as unadorned as can be mashed with a potato masher mayo salt and pepper. Later on we started seeing salad olives and three been salads, chick peas with pepper and a dash of creamy dressing, very later marinated artichoke hearts in the salad. Gefilte fish was a dairy staple with a slice of buttered bread, and of course cheese. My mother and brother were partial to Munster, I loathed it. Mom would indulge me every so often and buy Swiss. Although not part of the dairy meals later on sliced boiled ham and Turkey showed up on our table. Now egg noodles and cottage cheese was a winter/ summer cross over. We just boiled up a pot of wide egg noodles put it in a bowl with a pound of large curd cottage cheese and a little butter, salt and pepper. When corn was in season boiled corn on the cob with butter showed up with dairy and with BBQ.

Dads BBq's were legendary. When he died there was a giant jar of his BBQ sauce that's base had to be a dozen years old, that he was keeping for the coming years q's. It was hard to toss out his secret babied sauce of wonder. Chicken, ribs,Skirt steak dogs and burgers. More meat than you could shake a stick at. Dad had a gas and a charcoal grill and used both graduating to an electric grill starter after years of dousing his coals with lethal amounts of fire starter jells and noxious liquids. Salad was also there but the meat was King, when we were older we made the side dishes, but my mom bought tubs of everything as more and more foods became prepacked. It was a boon to us kids who thought a side dish was canned peas or asparagus on rare occasions and white bread was a second vegetable. Harold lived for summer floating in the pool working on his small cottage garden, shlepping the hoses around with the sprinklers. He loved the house and tried to keep it up as best he could with the little funds available. We had a barn red house with white trim and a four foot hedge around the front yard for privacy, that hedge got higher as my mother hated more and more of our neighbors. No more block parties no more ladies visiting after chores were done. Mom didn't house keep, so keeping the neighbors at bay helped hide the riot that was going on inside. There were suburban jealousies and rivalries that tore our post war community into the haves and have not. It affected my sister and I deeply in so many ways. Larry was an athletic kid and that made a big difference for him socially.

Summer meant listening to every sound at night as the community settled down, garbage cans clanking as they were deposited on the curb, music wafting from indoors along with the scents from the kitchens, dogs barking faintly in someones home, infants crying and the noises of domesticity clanging through the hot night air. Mr. Solomon screaming at someone about something and our own knockout drag outs must have echoed around from time to time. We all kinda knew each others business who got up when, who went to bed late all kinds of stuff, that we didn't really pay any attention to. Going to bed at ten when the sun finally dropped, laying with just a sheet for cover and hearing the bugs and birds do there nightly chorus. Calamine lotion, pink patches on our skin, heat rash, insect bites, waking up soaking wet with a limp damp feather pillow, SUMMER.

Sometimes we would head over to the boardwalk at Jones Beach. Watch the lightning over the water as we strolled along. Live bands played and couples danced at the band shell, people ate fried clams, hot dogs, and fries. I loved those nights they were the most special for me. I hadn't a clue until much later what was going on under the boardwalk later at night. Those were the bad girl stories we heard to keep us virginal. It only piqued my imagination and made it seem very European, sexy, in a way.

Drive in theatres, what can I say RIP. It is a terrible misjustice that an American pastime that was affordable and a hug piece of the history for the boomer is gone. I am claustrophobic and I hated the movie theatre experience, drive-ins though...Ahh sigh.

Reading books, and the mobile library every other Thursday parked at the head of Myles Ave. Without that I would have been miserable maybe suicidal. Other memories crowed themselves and wait to be sorted during my waking moments at night. Pablo licks my face and kisses me as Callie moves to accommodate my nightly restlessness, Piper settles deeper on his pillow next to my head, and poor Barry subliminally aware of my wakefulness stirs. Summer now is insulated, I stay in the air conditioning mostly, even baking bread once or twice a week. No sounds of my neighbors, I have none just empty lots, no cricket sounds or chirrups no far off sounds of the trains and whistle , just lots of tropical bugs to kill in the house as the air conditioner pours forth spreading its chill and white noise. I am no longer close to the sounds and rhythms of summer. But my recollection of it sharpens every year I get older.

The gourmet meal I have to plan will be a poor thing compared to the memories of summer meals past, no matter that they were plain or meager, and not my fathers BBQ.

Bits and Pieces

"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but the moments that take our breath away." George Carlin

Barry said last night that we are going to see a lot of people choose to leave now. Before it gets worse or before it gets better? What did George and Tim know that we don't. I haven't done my Tarot lately, maybe it's just as well. Now George was the conscience of our generation. As a keen observer of our culture he always hauled us on the carpet for being too pompous, too over the top. He also gave it to us, when we didn't have passion or lacked spine. George hated mental and emotional laziness. His whit and court jester antics helped to get stinging messages across. Like Tim Russert in his way, they gave us the straight poop. Something else to note, the white supremest sites have quadrupled their hits since Obama became the Democratic nominee. This does not surprise me nor does it bode well.

"There has never been a statue erected to the memory of someone who let well enough alone." Jules Ellinger

I just reread Spencer's The Faerie Queen and Epithalamion. What a poet, what a guy, now that's what I call unfettered Romanticism. The whole divine marriage concept has fallen out of fashion and with it, the idea of bringing heaven and earth together to produce love ever lasting. Shame that, disposable marriage and all it stands for. I rather like the idea of blessings on ones union from above, and the whole romantic/passionate true love. The very dark down side to Spencerian poetry was his politics. Working with and abetting Lord Grey in the English reign of cruelty in Ireland, his English Protestant hubris ultimately helped foment the Irish rebellion of 1598. Thus loosing everything and fleeing with his family back to England. He passed away shortly after, and was buried near Chaucer his poetic ancestor in Westminster Abbey . There is however no monument to the man who was THE influence for the best English poets, yet to come. I would recommend his poems before tackling the like of Keats, Milton, C.S.Lewis or Dante, they all borrowed heavily from him .

There is a personal battle I wage with certain artists, that is, to love the works of men/women who's politics or actions I find abhorrent. It's been tough to love Wagner, Lena Wurtmuller, Evelyn Waugh, and hosts of others who are the epitome of prejudice and staunchly anti-semitic. Is there room for admiring genius, works, someone can produce without embracing them or their ideals. Is there a place in my philosophy where I can safely separate the two.

It looks like I will start a cooking class here on Lovers Lane. I have quite a few
willing participants. As it's summer, I want to work on a menu featuring only summer produce. Here in TX we have some really beautiful fruits and vegetables that come to us from over the border as well as local. We've been enjoying really good Texas honey and just a month ago the Texas Sweet onions. Tomatoes have been off my menu for awhile and I miss them. I love to save all my left over bread and make a bread and tomato salad (Panzanella) with lots of fresh basil, personally I like to add red onions, roasted garlic and lots of curls of Regiano Parmisano.

Cold soups with dashes of sweet wine or Champagne, topped with a good Yogurt. I have in the fridge Cucumber Yogurt soup resplendent with limes and very green rich olive oil. As I can't get my Greek yogurt here I do have a nice Bulgarian one. Sometimes I use sour cream. I am toying with starting my own culture again, but as the air conditioner may keep it from growing it'll have to wait until late fall. Shrimp can be gotten on the Island and they are huge, pink, and from the Gulf. The local cactus bloomed all spring and on our way to the Island yesterday I saw that the fruits look ready for picking cactus "pears" are deep red on the inside, really sweet and juicy. I just need Rossana to aid and abet harvesting.

I will post my class menu when I've worked it out. It's a funny blog today a little of this and a little of that. Well enjoy the summer evening, the sky here is robins egg blue and cloudless for a change. I see a nice evening walk in my future, so saith the sage of the valley...

Brownsville June 2008

I wanted to just take a moment to acknowledge the passing of Tim Russert journalist, writer extraordinaire. As a lover of the written word and an admirer of straight shooting, plain talking, no phony baloney people, I was in love with Tim. Through his interviews and forums he educated me and lifted me up with his stories. His lilting impish smile and warm crinkled eyes belied his intelligence, but couldn't hide the warmth and happiness he carried from within. These few that carry on the non partisan tradition of informing and cutting out the crap in the news are shrinking and the demise of real journalism I fear is immanent. Goodbye Tim and thanks .

Well now Brownsville is indeed very hot and still the wind off the dessert blows. We have made a few trips to S.Padre Island and the beach is everything a beach should be. Soft sand, unending horizon, and depending on the prevailing wind some very nice wave action. We even encountered a beached man of war.

I dropped Barry off at the airport in Harlingen the other day, we had been hosting his family for a few days and they'd left earlier. I was on my way back, when I saw the crazy golf ball water tower in Rancho Viejo. I felt a lift to my spirit and thought gee Brownsville is getting under my skin and it is now really home. I usually call Rossana and say I'm waving at you, as they live on the golf course, near the golf ball, on the street with the clock house, but they are in Steam Boat Springs on vacation.

We took the Goldsmith clan to Matamoros Mexico, spent some shopping time at Garcias and then took the free open window cooled jitney to the market. Our driver a sweet man warned us where to go and not to, passing out little flyer's for shops and restaurants. Since I'd made a few trips with Rossana I was our guide, although I hadn't been to the "market" before. It was very much like a Souk or Medina in Turkey or the Arab sections of Israel. Tiny shops crammed with all kinds of merchandise: leather goods, cotton Ropas, pottery, jewelry, nick knacks, liquor 40 kinds of tequila. Botas or boots are big here, leather, skin both fake and real. Western hats and belts and buckles of every size and description. Crosses of every material and value adorn every inch of wall space. I suspect they are holding up the walls of these buildings by their spiritual auras alone. Paintings of every skill level and price and yes even a few velvet ones along side of sombreros of every size and description, Mexican rugs and corn husk dolls. The riot of color and scents almost over whelm the sense's as all the store owners try to entice you inside with their deals and of course the golden words air conditioning. Muy caliente, muy. The couple who have the first stall are lucky everyone stops there and then the rest are lucky to catch you as you flee the heat and claustrophobic conditions. We went out into the open streets walking along looking very out of place and very much the tourists. Can't hide the Anglo. We had a good time although walking in the heat was very over powering. We made our way back to where the jitney was going to meet us and found the Paris cafe for comimos. A large space with booths and cafeteria style tables, chandeliers and a Greek frieze running along the border of ceiling and wall. The columns were mirrored, the walls covered in tin tile all painted a mud brown. I think the only thing missing was a disco ball. The food was very good, not memorable and we lucked out as there was no memorable "afters."

Our reentry to the states cost 40 cents and a swipe of the passaporta.

A few weeks ago we flew to Atlanta for a family party. Flying from here is expensive and time consuming, as we need to fly to Houston before we head out anywhere else. Our second leg was with Airtran, and they charged me 29.00 for an over sized bag that on the leg back was miraculously half an inch under the limit! I was scammed and make no mistake, very upset. We'd been to Atlanta three years ago for a quick trip also another family mitzvah. I enjoyed it there, although I must confess I just couldn't imagine the scenes from Margret Mitchell's Gone With The Wind. War torn, corpse strewn and burning. Nothing could be further from that, as modern Atlanta's skyline zooms upwards and outwards and the suburbs rub cheeks with the urban centers. The Metro is very nice and we took it to the Aquarium one afternoon. I really enjoyed it although, it's not very large. Another site was Stone MT. Save your money and just take the gondola up, the train ride was a huge nothing on it's own. We however were treated to a rare performance of "Who let the dogs out" by a group of 5&6 year olds on their duck kazoos. A wonderful spontaneous event I caught on my cell phone camera. The view of Atlanta was obscured by smog and a low ceiling that day. Before leaving though we did make a pilgramage to The Varsity, yes Barry and I, the organic health food nuts piged out on chili dogs with the works, onion rings and french fries! Worth every freeking free radical.

On Tuesday we went up to the Gangs mountain home up in the Smokey's. Thanks Barry and Stef it was just beautiful. A really impressive home site and log home. I'd loved to be snowed in for just a day or two with those views and fireplaces!

Pablo continues to amuse and amaze all. His love of life and exuberance are so endearing. He still has not lost his kitten big eyed tilted headed wonder, nor his ability to defy gravity. I'm not sure how big he"ll be but he is definitely still growing. Callie has lightened up a bit with him and only yips at him for show. He does torture her though, hiding and jumping out at her playing Pablo tag. It's amazing how really gentle he is. His reputation spreads among the workmen who come and go. They all know Pablo, and even if not a "cat" lover they love him. My housekeeper Hilda was a great source of amusement for him and he was her shadow at every step. When our sofas were returned from being recovered today, they went to look for him. I had shut the boys up in the den, it has a glass paneled door. And Luis was talking to Pablo and cooing at him through the door with a funny grin. "Ah, Pablo look at you!"

That's Brownsville in June, hard to believe Barry and I are married two years, July 4th it will be our ten year anniversary. No talking food today too hot and I baked bread so the scent over powers my brain cells. Maybe manana.