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It's been difficult for me—more difficult than I've let on—to watch my granddaughter grow up in, shall we say, bohemian circumstances. Before she was born, I considered the prospect in all its distressing details, and resolved to do what I could to provide my granddaughter with some structures that would minimize the worst tendencies of her parents. And I must say that the results have been satisfactory. Despite having a mother who still styles herself a radical environmentalist and a father who lost most of his hearing playing in a punk rock band, Samantha, now in her twelfth year, commands several advantages in life: she seems to move with equal confidence through the corridors of her very good school and on the streets of her ethnically mixed neighborhood; she has two parents who speak to each other, civilly if not affectionately; two houses in said neighborhood, both in reasonably good repair and both mortgage-free; and two grandparents who are willing to step up for occasional child care duties.
My relations with Dorothy Shepanski, Samantha's other grandparent, have always been cordial, even pleasant, if hardly intimate. Twelve years ago, after Lisa had become pregnant and announced her intention to have a child out of wedlock, I sought out Dorothy. She responded to my request for a meeting with charm, grace, and a wholly appropriate reserve. I could tell that her loyalty to her difficult, talented, adult son was every bit as deeply rooted as my loyalty to my difficult, talented, adult daughter. In the years since, Dorothy and I have accepted our symmetrical positions in Samantha's family tree, knowing full well that ours is a contingent alliance: we both want the best for Samantha, and as long as Samantha's parents agree on what that means, Dorothy and I will agree as well. At Samantha's birthday parties, I've learned to avoid mentioning my corporate clients, lest I agitate Dorothy's liberal Catholic outrage at the profit motive; for her part, she has learned to keep her views on war to herself, lest she and I promptly re-enact the Oxford Union debate of 1933.
Which is why, earlier today, I found Dorothy's lack of cordiality so notable. My daughter Lisa has been in Boulder, Colorado for the past week, leading workshops at a retreat for community organizers. In her absence, the primary child care responsibilities have fallen upon Samantha's father, Gary. And it was he who called me yesterday, in need of a favor. Gary seemed to be in a state of mixed elation and overwork as he described his dilemma: an exhibition of his paintings was opening that night at Centro de Barrio Lange, and though it might seem a relatively minor affair, a few paintings hanging at a neighborhood community center, the curator had connections, the other artist was from L.A., people from New York were coming. Samantha would attend the first hour or so of the opening, then Dorothy would pick her up, but the schedule got tight on Saturday, when the people from New York wanted to take Gary and the other artist out to lunch and Dorothy had matinee tickets for the repertory theater. Gary is not a person who finds it easy to ask for help; beneath his bluster the awkwardness was almost painful to perceive; though I daresay that if his artistic career continues to advance, he will get much better at this sort of thing. In any case, I agreed to take Samantha; it would be, as always, my pleasure. I would be at the Tangled Bank; Dorothy could drop Samantha off on her way downtown to the matinee.
A brief meeting of the executive committee had come to an end not long before; I was sitting at a table in the main room of the Tangled Bank with Melissa, a fellow board member who has taken on a rather large job: temporary director of the center. Our discussion included a few budgetary matters, and the progress of the search to find a permanent director. Perhaps we had finished with the official business; perhaps the conversation had moved on to lighter matters; perhaps we were talking about her child, or her research, or the politics of the biology department. It is not unlikely that we were laughing when Dorothy appeared in the door.
"Samantha's on the nature path," she said.
"Dorothy," I said. "Come in."
"Louise is in the car," she said. "We're running late."
"Of course," I said. "Is it still the Chekov?"
"You might want to talk to that child," she said, and was gone.
Showing posts with label Raymond. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Raymond. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Melissa, December 17, 2007
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"This has nothing to do with Lisa," said Gary. "It's only because I pretty much fucking built the place."
I nodded. "That’s... what I understand," I said.
"Not the electrical, of course. Or the plumbing. Or the concrete pours. Though I could've done a better job than those assholes the contractor hired."
"It was very generous of you," I said. "I mean, it is, still—"
"Fuck that," said Gary. "There was nothing fucking generous about it. Okay. I'm going out."
He opened the door and walked out into the snow. I looked out at the roof, the snow, the night, the big guy in the jumpsuit.
"Are you all right?" I called after him.
"I'm fine," he called back. "Close the fucking door. You're letting the heat out. It's a fucking green building, remember?"
I closed the door and tried to keep an eye on his progress through the window. Framed by the vertical slit, the scene had become even more disorienting: snowflakes illuminated from below, the hulking figure trudging among the vents and boxes. I saw him tug at something, kick it, then lift the thing, a snowy mass, and toss it into the darkness.
A minute later he was back on the landing, stomping the snow off his jumpsuit.
"Fucking big-assed tree branch," he said. "From the oak tree. Totally blocking the intake. It must've fallen in the windstorm. That was two weeks ago, before the snow. You been having problems that long?"
"Maybe," I said. "I thought it was just winter. I... I just... turned up the thermostat."
"You shouldn't let shit that go that long. You gotta get a regular maintenance man for this place."
The snow was flying off his clothes and boots. I stood as far from him as possible on the little landing.
"I'm working on it," I said. "With the board. It takes time."
The shaking and stomping and brushing stopped. He looked at me.
"Hey," he said. "I'm not getting down on you personally. Sorry if I came on too strong."
"No problem," I said. "It was so great for you to come over and help. I really didn't know who else to call. Let me get you some coffee."
"You're pretty much a volunteer here yourself, aren't you?" he said.
"Sort of," I said. "One of the donors made a deal with the biology department. Next semester my teaching load will be reduced by one class."
"That's not much," he said. "This is a big job here."
"There's a search committee," I said. "Maybe by summer we'll have a new executive director. C'mon, let's get that coffee."
Downstairs, you could already feel the warmth returning. I fixed a cup of coffee for Gary and a hot chocolate for me. We talked about our kids for a while. I asked about Samantha. He said she was trying to find her mother a job. He asked about Jake—how was he handling the steroid scandal in baseball? I said he was trying to use it as an excuse not to take his asthma medicine. Smart kid, he said. Smart at being stupid, I said. Gary had stopped swearing—as if he no longer needed the sparks of profanity to keep him warm.
His eyes wandered around the center for a moment. Builder's eyes. The same attention to detail that a biologist brings to the field, but something else, too. More willful.
"You did all the carpentry?" I said.
"Yeah," he said. "The rough and the finish."
"You did a great job," I said. "It must be difficult for you, now that Lisa—"
"Nothing fucking to do with her," he said. "I mean, she was the fucking client, but that wasn't why I did it."
He seemed to want to tell me something, but he wanted me to ask.
"Why then?" I finally said, after a pause.
"Sam's grandpa," he said, after his own pause.
"Raymond?" I said.
"You know," he said. "At the time, I had no fucking clue. Only when I looked back, I could see how old Raymond had put it all together. Know what I mean?"
"I don't quite follow..." I said.
"Look," he said. "This was the early nineties, after the band had finally gone fucking south. There I was, living off the book, no reported income, no visible fucking means of support."
"You were in a band?" I said. "I guess I should have known... from the tatoos."
I smiled awkwardly.
"Yeah," he said. "I was in Arbeit Macht Frei."
"No way!" I said. "My older brother had all your albums. And this disgusting t-shirt.... I thought the band was from West Berlin or Amsterdam or..."
"Someplace cool?" he said. "Nope. Three jews and a polack from right fucking here. Fucking suburbs, actually."
"Wow," I said. "You guys really had a following in Columbus. You were like... grunge before there was grunge."
"Like grunge before there was money," he said. "We toured for ten years. Most of the time we were crashing on our fans' fucking floors. I was telling you a story about Raymond. You wanna hear it?"
"Uh, sure," I said.
The story started with the breakup of the band. He told me how, in its last two years, Arbeit Macht Frei had made a little money and they had all started to hate each other. How he walked away with just enough cash to buy an old crackhouse in Barrio Lange and fix it up. How he built himself a studio and started painting again. How he and Lisa had had a thing. How Lisa had been almost as much of a fringe character as he was back then, this fucking crazy environmentalist chick. How she got pregnant. How she wanted to keep the baby, which surprised the fuck out of Gary. But how he knew she was serious because she quit drinking right away.
Then he leaned forward and gave me a little sociology lesson. He told me how the fucking state comes in and fucks up everyone's lives if a dad can't pay his fucking child support. He leaned back and shook his head. Fucking Lisa had been about to go ahead and apply for fucking welfare anyway.
But that was when Raymond Deveridge, Lisa's dad, whom Gary had never even fucking met before, showed up with a package deal to solve everyone's problems.
Gary lifted his arms and looked around the room.
"You mean the center?" I said. "The Tangled Bank? This was Raymond's idea?"
"Oh, the idea was Lisa's. But you gotta understand, Lisa had lots of fucking ideas. Raymond picked the one he was going to make happen."
The deal took a year or two to play out. Lisa got a job running the center, Gary got a job building the center, nobody had to get married who didn't fucking want to (the two of them sure as hell didn't), their paychecks were nice and low, but not too low, which looked good for the fundraising, which Raymond took care of, at least in the early years, until Lisa got good at it.
And when Samantha was born, she got a trust fund, with monthly payments right from the start. So the small paychecks didn't matter, because Lisa and Gary didn't have to use those paychecks to support their kid.
Gary paused, to let me catch up. I sat in silence for a moment.
"It's... it's a lot to absorb," I said.
"The trust fund even sends me checks when I take Samantha for the weekends," he said. "Fucking sweet, hey?"
"So that's how this place started," I said. "Kind of a... family thing."
"Hey," he said. "This place is real. Fuck the family drama. That river is real, all the nature is real, you know the science is real, and I can guarantee this building is fucking real."
"I know," I said. "Thanks. For everything. Well, I gotta get home. I have to be back here at 7:30 to unlock the doors for a busload of seventh graders."
I stood and picked up the cups. Gary stood up too.
"Yeah," he said. "I should get back to the studio."
"I'm sorry I had to interrupt you," I said.
"Don't worry," he said. "I never get started before midnight."
"This has nothing to do with Lisa," said Gary. "It's only because I pretty much fucking built the place."
I nodded. "That’s... what I understand," I said.
"Not the electrical, of course. Or the plumbing. Or the concrete pours. Though I could've done a better job than those assholes the contractor hired."
"It was very generous of you," I said. "I mean, it is, still—"
"Fuck that," said Gary. "There was nothing fucking generous about it. Okay. I'm going out."
He opened the door and walked out into the snow. I looked out at the roof, the snow, the night, the big guy in the jumpsuit.
"Are you all right?" I called after him.
"I'm fine," he called back. "Close the fucking door. You're letting the heat out. It's a fucking green building, remember?"
I closed the door and tried to keep an eye on his progress through the window. Framed by the vertical slit, the scene had become even more disorienting: snowflakes illuminated from below, the hulking figure trudging among the vents and boxes. I saw him tug at something, kick it, then lift the thing, a snowy mass, and toss it into the darkness.
A minute later he was back on the landing, stomping the snow off his jumpsuit.
"Fucking big-assed tree branch," he said. "From the oak tree. Totally blocking the intake. It must've fallen in the windstorm. That was two weeks ago, before the snow. You been having problems that long?"
"Maybe," I said. "I thought it was just winter. I... I just... turned up the thermostat."
"You shouldn't let shit that go that long. You gotta get a regular maintenance man for this place."
The snow was flying off his clothes and boots. I stood as far from him as possible on the little landing.
"I'm working on it," I said. "With the board. It takes time."
The shaking and stomping and brushing stopped. He looked at me.
"Hey," he said. "I'm not getting down on you personally. Sorry if I came on too strong."
"No problem," I said. "It was so great for you to come over and help. I really didn't know who else to call. Let me get you some coffee."
"You're pretty much a volunteer here yourself, aren't you?" he said.
"Sort of," I said. "One of the donors made a deal with the biology department. Next semester my teaching load will be reduced by one class."
"That's not much," he said. "This is a big job here."
"There's a search committee," I said. "Maybe by summer we'll have a new executive director. C'mon, let's get that coffee."
Downstairs, you could already feel the warmth returning. I fixed a cup of coffee for Gary and a hot chocolate for me. We talked about our kids for a while. I asked about Samantha. He said she was trying to find her mother a job. He asked about Jake—how was he handling the steroid scandal in baseball? I said he was trying to use it as an excuse not to take his asthma medicine. Smart kid, he said. Smart at being stupid, I said. Gary had stopped swearing—as if he no longer needed the sparks of profanity to keep him warm.
His eyes wandered around the center for a moment. Builder's eyes. The same attention to detail that a biologist brings to the field, but something else, too. More willful.
"You did all the carpentry?" I said.
"Yeah," he said. "The rough and the finish."
"You did a great job," I said. "It must be difficult for you, now that Lisa—"
"Nothing fucking to do with her," he said. "I mean, she was the fucking client, but that wasn't why I did it."
He seemed to want to tell me something, but he wanted me to ask.
"Why then?" I finally said, after a pause.
"Sam's grandpa," he said, after his own pause.
"Raymond?" I said.
"You know," he said. "At the time, I had no fucking clue. Only when I looked back, I could see how old Raymond had put it all together. Know what I mean?"
"I don't quite follow..." I said.
"Look," he said. "This was the early nineties, after the band had finally gone fucking south. There I was, living off the book, no reported income, no visible fucking means of support."
"You were in a band?" I said. "I guess I should have known... from the tatoos."
I smiled awkwardly.
"Yeah," he said. "I was in Arbeit Macht Frei."
"No way!" I said. "My older brother had all your albums. And this disgusting t-shirt.... I thought the band was from West Berlin or Amsterdam or..."
"Someplace cool?" he said. "Nope. Three jews and a polack from right fucking here. Fucking suburbs, actually."
"Wow," I said. "You guys really had a following in Columbus. You were like... grunge before there was grunge."
"Like grunge before there was money," he said. "We toured for ten years. Most of the time we were crashing on our fans' fucking floors. I was telling you a story about Raymond. You wanna hear it?"
"Uh, sure," I said.
The story started with the breakup of the band. He told me how, in its last two years, Arbeit Macht Frei had made a little money and they had all started to hate each other. How he walked away with just enough cash to buy an old crackhouse in Barrio Lange and fix it up. How he built himself a studio and started painting again. How he and Lisa had had a thing. How Lisa had been almost as much of a fringe character as he was back then, this fucking crazy environmentalist chick. How she got pregnant. How she wanted to keep the baby, which surprised the fuck out of Gary. But how he knew she was serious because she quit drinking right away.
Then he leaned forward and gave me a little sociology lesson. He told me how the fucking state comes in and fucks up everyone's lives if a dad can't pay his fucking child support. He leaned back and shook his head. Fucking Lisa had been about to go ahead and apply for fucking welfare anyway.
But that was when Raymond Deveridge, Lisa's dad, whom Gary had never even fucking met before, showed up with a package deal to solve everyone's problems.
Gary lifted his arms and looked around the room.
"You mean the center?" I said. "The Tangled Bank? This was Raymond's idea?"
"Oh, the idea was Lisa's. But you gotta understand, Lisa had lots of fucking ideas. Raymond picked the one he was going to make happen."
The deal took a year or two to play out. Lisa got a job running the center, Gary got a job building the center, nobody had to get married who didn't fucking want to (the two of them sure as hell didn't), their paychecks were nice and low, but not too low, which looked good for the fundraising, which Raymond took care of, at least in the early years, until Lisa got good at it.
And when Samantha was born, she got a trust fund, with monthly payments right from the start. So the small paychecks didn't matter, because Lisa and Gary didn't have to use those paychecks to support their kid.
Gary paused, to let me catch up. I sat in silence for a moment.
"It's... it's a lot to absorb," I said.
"The trust fund even sends me checks when I take Samantha for the weekends," he said. "Fucking sweet, hey?"
"So that's how this place started," I said. "Kind of a... family thing."
"Hey," he said. "This place is real. Fuck the family drama. That river is real, all the nature is real, you know the science is real, and I can guarantee this building is fucking real."
"I know," I said. "Thanks. For everything. Well, I gotta get home. I have to be back here at 7:30 to unlock the doors for a busload of seventh graders."
I stood and picked up the cups. Gary stood up too.
"Yeah," he said. "I should get back to the studio."
"I'm sorry I had to interrupt you," I said.
"Don't worry," he said. "I never get started before midnight."
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Lisa, November 12, 2007
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After lunch, we took a walk in the old German graveyard, and for the first time all day, Sam dropped her sullen act.
"Look Mom, this one died when she was a baby."
She grabbed my hand and pointed to a gravestone.
Margaretha Schwab. Born June 3, 1842. Died August 12, 1842.
"1842," I said. "This was practically the frontier back then. A lot of infant mortality."
"That means babies dying, right?"
"That's right."
We walked toward another gravestone, her hand still in mine.
Hanna Schwab. That must be the mother. Born 1823, Leipzig. Died 1867. Here. That would be...
"Sam, what's sixty-seven minus twenty-three?"
"Forty-four."
My age. When Hanna died. How many more children did you have, Hanna, after losing Margaretha at...
"What's 42 minus 23?"
"Oh god, Mom. Nineteen." She looked at the stone. "You're figuring out how old she was..."
"Yeah."
"The gravestones are so gross," said Sam. "Somebody should clean them."
"Those are lichens," I said. "They grow on the old limestone. The calcium neutralizes the acid rain. It's a good place for them to grow."
"So they shouldn't clean them?"
"I would leave them just the way they are. Graveyards are good for nature."
We strolled quietly among the stones, still hand in hand. Keydel. Otterbein. Baum. Walsch. In England, they teach nature courses in graveyards. Rocks and weathering. Human populations. Biodiversity.
"Mom," said Sam, "are you a Wiccan?"
"I don't think so," I said. "I'm not very religious."
Who needs a nature center? You could hire the buses, set up day tours. Would that work here?
"Grandpa's an Episcopalian," said Sam. "And Dad says he's a half-assed Taoist—"
"Is that so?" I said.
"—and Grandma Shepanski is a Catholic, and that leaves you."
An old truck rumbled by on County E. There must still be a few working farms around here. The driver probably wouldn’t dream of stopping at the old church, now that it's been converted to a little café. What would he make of a busload of eco-tourists? Those old guys have a different relationship with the land—harsh. Hateful, sometimes. But intimate.
Sam tugged at my hand. "Mom! I'm asking you a question! What religion are you?"
"I'm not much of anything," I said. "Are you doing a report for school?"
"No," she said. "I'm just curious. I read a book on religions of the world."
I suppose this place could make you feel religious. Very quiet and peaceful. But then as soon as you think about it—as soon as you focus on the quiet—you can hear the highway. No buzz of transcendence. Just the distant angry roar. What is it? Ten miles away?
"You worship nature, don't you Mom?"
"I don't know about worship. I fight for it sometimes."
The wind shifted a little, and for a moment it filled my ears, masking the sound of the highway. The bleak November wind that Hanna Schwab would have heard, the season after baby Margaretha died, while her husband cleared the land, not primeval forest, but a forest a century or two old, grown unchecked since the European microbes had decimated the native population. You and your husband didn't need to fight the Indians, did you Hanna? Smallpox had done that already.
Sam let go of my hand, and ran off to study something—a few yards away. Under that bush—what is it?
I hope you had a daughter, Hanna. One that lived.
After lunch, we took a walk in the old German graveyard, and for the first time all day, Sam dropped her sullen act.
"Look Mom, this one died when she was a baby."
She grabbed my hand and pointed to a gravestone.
Margaretha Schwab. Born June 3, 1842. Died August 12, 1842.
"1842," I said. "This was practically the frontier back then. A lot of infant mortality."
"That means babies dying, right?"
"That's right."
We walked toward another gravestone, her hand still in mine.
Hanna Schwab. That must be the mother. Born 1823, Leipzig. Died 1867. Here. That would be...
"Sam, what's sixty-seven minus twenty-three?"
"Forty-four."
My age. When Hanna died. How many more children did you have, Hanna, after losing Margaretha at...
"What's 42 minus 23?"
"Oh god, Mom. Nineteen." She looked at the stone. "You're figuring out how old she was..."
"Yeah."
"The gravestones are so gross," said Sam. "Somebody should clean them."
"Those are lichens," I said. "They grow on the old limestone. The calcium neutralizes the acid rain. It's a good place for them to grow."
"So they shouldn't clean them?"
"I would leave them just the way they are. Graveyards are good for nature."
We strolled quietly among the stones, still hand in hand. Keydel. Otterbein. Baum. Walsch. In England, they teach nature courses in graveyards. Rocks and weathering. Human populations. Biodiversity.
"Mom," said Sam, "are you a Wiccan?"
"I don't think so," I said. "I'm not very religious."
Who needs a nature center? You could hire the buses, set up day tours. Would that work here?
"Grandpa's an Episcopalian," said Sam. "And Dad says he's a half-assed Taoist—"
"Is that so?" I said.
"—and Grandma Shepanski is a Catholic, and that leaves you."
An old truck rumbled by on County E. There must still be a few working farms around here. The driver probably wouldn’t dream of stopping at the old church, now that it's been converted to a little café. What would he make of a busload of eco-tourists? Those old guys have a different relationship with the land—harsh. Hateful, sometimes. But intimate.
Sam tugged at my hand. "Mom! I'm asking you a question! What religion are you?"
"I'm not much of anything," I said. "Are you doing a report for school?"
"No," she said. "I'm just curious. I read a book on religions of the world."
I suppose this place could make you feel religious. Very quiet and peaceful. But then as soon as you think about it—as soon as you focus on the quiet—you can hear the highway. No buzz of transcendence. Just the distant angry roar. What is it? Ten miles away?
"You worship nature, don't you Mom?"
"I don't know about worship. I fight for it sometimes."
The wind shifted a little, and for a moment it filled my ears, masking the sound of the highway. The bleak November wind that Hanna Schwab would have heard, the season after baby Margaretha died, while her husband cleared the land, not primeval forest, but a forest a century or two old, grown unchecked since the European microbes had decimated the native population. You and your husband didn't need to fight the Indians, did you Hanna? Smallpox had done that already.
Sam let go of my hand, and ran off to study something—a few yards away. Under that bush—what is it?
I hope you had a daughter, Hanna. One that lived.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Betty, October 21, 2007
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Seeing him at the grocery store—it's surprising, really, now that I look back, that there haven't been more awkward moments. We've been living here, in the same neighborhood, driving on the same streets, for twenty-five years now. Longer than that, of course, especially for him, but twenty-five years since.
"Betty," he said. "How nice to see you."
Our houses are less than a mile apart, but maybe, except for the brief period when we were actually pursuing each other, maybe we live in different worlds, move in different networks. Maybe the gradient in housing, from his sprawling brick tudor, every bedroom with its own bathroom and a few more just for the convenience of one's visitors, down the scale to my tidy bungalow with its vinyl siding—maybe that's the leading indicator of a different social ecosystem—different dry-cleaners, different auto mechanics, different florists. Different friends, that's for sure.
"Raymond," I said. "What a surprise."
And now, after twenty-five years, here in this aisle. My only indulgence—this expensive little store with its great produce section. Why did he show up now? He never did any of his own shopping, I'm know he didn't, even after his wife left him.
"Are you still working?" he said.
"I still have a couple of years to go," I said.
We each had a bottle of red wine in our carts—Australian
"Ah," he said. "About a week ago, I was having lunch with the new Superintendent..."
He paused, inviting me to interrupt. I thought for a moment, then accepted the invitation.
"You asked after me," I said. "That's nice. But the Super wouldn't know me."
He nodded, very thoughtfully, and then, like everyone else, I answered the question he hadn't even asked.
"That administrative job—" I said. "I gave it up a couple of years ago. I'm just a school nurse again. Prospect Elementary. I missed the kids."
"Good for you," he said.
"Yourself?" I said.
"Well, my name's still on the shingle," he said. "And my former partners let me use my old office. I sit on several boards, and there's an old client or two who insist on occasionally giving me a call."
"Are these any good?" he said.
When did he become interested in ingredients? I shrugged my shoulders.
"I was reading recently," I said, "about your daughter. You're on the board of that nature center, aren't you?"
"Yes," he said, "that was difficult. But it's a wonderful organization, still very much worthy of my support. And Lisa will certainly find a new project. I'm very grateful to her for getting me involved with the Tangled Bank in the first place."
How does he do it? He could walk out of prize fight and make it sound as if the knockout was the first step toward an amicable partnership.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Raymond, July 23, 2007
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It was on a Wednesday night, a couple of weeks ago. Melissa and I had had a brief meeting, a sidebar if you will, in preparation for the full board meeting the next day. I was escorting her out to her car, when suddenly her back stiffened in fright. A figure was stepping out of the shadows—a tattooed arm, a cordless drill—and speaking my name. Melissa cursed at the figure, who responded in language equally vulgar but far warmer in tone, and in a moment the situation dissolved, as such situations usually do, into hasty acknowledgements of recognition and breathless apologies.
The figure was Gary. It's not unusual to find Gary around the Tangled Bank at odd hours. He displays a certain—let's call it a proprietary tenderness for the physical structure of the place, and far be it from me to challenge his feelings of ownership, particularly when they manifest themselves in frequents acts of unbilled light maintenance.
On this evening, he had stopped by to fix a piece of molding, to which he referred as if I would undoubtedly know which piece of molding, and why it needed fixing. I did not disabuse him of this impression, which encouraged him to mention additional maintenance projects, projects which would require specific budget items, as he no longer had the spare time to devote to such matters, the demand for his art work having taken off.
Of course I understood. And I was happy, and I wanted him to know I was happy, that he chose to keep coming back to the center and keep things in fine shape, but however happy I was, there was no trace of complacency in my happiness, no expectation—
A car door swung shut. Headlights came on. The lights swung to and fro as Melissa backed out of her parking space. She called out to us her sorrow at having to leave so quickly, but her son was waiting. Gary called back his complete understanding. I simply waved.
Gary and I watched her drive off, insects sparkling in the torches of her headlights, a glimpse of the glistening river as her tires caught the dip in the gravel.
I turned back to Gary and reassured him that we on the board understood that we could not count on his continued in-kind donations of skilled labor, and that if we came in under budget in the building maintenance account, it was because of his continued generosity, and that we all understood how his gifts were as good as cash.
He did not respond immediately, and for a moment I had the unusual feeling that I was the one who had been talking too much. Sometimes it seems as if you are negotiating about one thing, when in fact an entirely different issue is in play. In such cases it's best to let the other party tell you what's going on. They always do.
Gary shuffled for a moment, the cordless drill swinging in his hand, a useless tool for the current task.
Eventually he set the drill down on a window sill. Then he turned to me and asked if I meant that the debt had been paid.
There was never a debt, I explained. Samantha was my granddaughter, and it had been my privilege to contribute to her support.
It was on a Wednesday night, a couple of weeks ago. Melissa and I had had a brief meeting, a sidebar if you will, in preparation for the full board meeting the next day. I was escorting her out to her car, when suddenly her back stiffened in fright. A figure was stepping out of the shadows—a tattooed arm, a cordless drill—and speaking my name. Melissa cursed at the figure, who responded in language equally vulgar but far warmer in tone, and in a moment the situation dissolved, as such situations usually do, into hasty acknowledgements of recognition and breathless apologies.
The figure was Gary. It's not unusual to find Gary around the Tangled Bank at odd hours. He displays a certain—let's call it a proprietary tenderness for the physical structure of the place, and far be it from me to challenge his feelings of ownership, particularly when they manifest themselves in frequents acts of unbilled light maintenance.
On this evening, he had stopped by to fix a piece of molding, to which he referred as if I would undoubtedly know which piece of molding, and why it needed fixing. I did not disabuse him of this impression, which encouraged him to mention additional maintenance projects, projects which would require specific budget items, as he no longer had the spare time to devote to such matters, the demand for his art work having taken off.
Of course I understood. And I was happy, and I wanted him to know I was happy, that he chose to keep coming back to the center and keep things in fine shape, but however happy I was, there was no trace of complacency in my happiness, no expectation—
A car door swung shut. Headlights came on. The lights swung to and fro as Melissa backed out of her parking space. She called out to us her sorrow at having to leave so quickly, but her son was waiting. Gary called back his complete understanding. I simply waved.
Gary and I watched her drive off, insects sparkling in the torches of her headlights, a glimpse of the glistening river as her tires caught the dip in the gravel.
I turned back to Gary and reassured him that we on the board understood that we could not count on his continued in-kind donations of skilled labor, and that if we came in under budget in the building maintenance account, it was because of his continued generosity, and that we all understood how his gifts were as good as cash.
He did not respond immediately, and for a moment I had the unusual feeling that I was the one who had been talking too much. Sometimes it seems as if you are negotiating about one thing, when in fact an entirely different issue is in play. In such cases it's best to let the other party tell you what's going on. They always do.
Gary shuffled for a moment, the cordless drill swinging in his hand, a useless tool for the current task.
Eventually he set the drill down on a window sill. Then he turned to me and asked if I meant that the debt had been paid.
There was never a debt, I explained. Samantha was my granddaughter, and it had been my privilege to contribute to her support.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Lisa, June 15, 2007
Listen in MP3
I knew the first thing he was going to say.
"Never threaten to resign, dear, unless you really want to leave."
I told him that it wasn't a threat; it was simply a contingency plan as to how I would respond if the board decided to act in certain ways, and that the future behavior of the board was far from a foregone conclusion.
Did he smile when I said that? Did he acknowledge, even for an instant, that his wacko tree-hugger daughter could hold her own in his world—"the world," as he called it, "of practical affairs"—or as I call it, of diplomatic double talk?
The pause on the phone was long enough to permit a smile—but also long enough for a scowl, or an exasperated shake of the head.
"Are you asking me to attempt to influence the future behavior of the board?" he said at last.
"You have one vote," I said.
"And you know I must recuse myself from all personnel matters, due to my close family relationship with the executive director."
That's when I exploded. I think I started off with something like "It isn't a personnel matter, it's a fucking policy matter—"
And then it was as if the calendar had shifted back twenty-five years, and I was standing in the rain at a truck stop at the edge of some swamp that I refused to call a swamp, screaming into a payphone at the Neanderthal who lived just beneath the surface of the suave corporate attorney who was trying to send me money, pedantically explaining to this imbecile how insane it was to stay in school and study environmental science when the battle was raging right now, right here, in this precarious habitat, these fragile wetlands, where the only thing protecting the delicate balance of the ecosystem from the developer's bulldozer was my tent, my sleeping bag, my body. I screamed at him as if I had never learned to work within the system, never written a grant proposal, never sweet-talked my conservative father, discreet counselor to the status quo, into serving on the board of an urban nature center set on the banks of a polluted tributary of an industrial sewer in a crime-ridden park surrounded by ghetto.
I lectured him; I berated him; I insulted him—I reverted completely back to the self-righteousness of the girl who really believed that it was her own courage that stopped those bulldozers, not her privileged status as the telegenic daughter of the white upper-middle-class.
He must have held the phone away from his ear—the way I remember him holding it when the Mayor called—bemused, patient, the tinny speaker just far enough away, so that the words remained intelligible but the anger was reduced to a comic effect—and he would catch my eye, watching him from the door of his study in my pajamas, and he would smile at me, and explain to me the next morning that our Mayor had a terrible temper, but that it was a great honor to receive a call like that, to be entrusted with the delivery of an important message.
I knew the first thing he was going to say.
"Never threaten to resign, dear, unless you really want to leave."
I told him that it wasn't a threat; it was simply a contingency plan as to how I would respond if the board decided to act in certain ways, and that the future behavior of the board was far from a foregone conclusion.
Did he smile when I said that? Did he acknowledge, even for an instant, that his wacko tree-hugger daughter could hold her own in his world—"the world," as he called it, "of practical affairs"—or as I call it, of diplomatic double talk?
The pause on the phone was long enough to permit a smile—but also long enough for a scowl, or an exasperated shake of the head.
"Are you asking me to attempt to influence the future behavior of the board?" he said at last.
"You have one vote," I said.
"And you know I must recuse myself from all personnel matters, due to my close family relationship with the executive director."
That's when I exploded. I think I started off with something like "It isn't a personnel matter, it's a fucking policy matter—"
And then it was as if the calendar had shifted back twenty-five years, and I was standing in the rain at a truck stop at the edge of some swamp that I refused to call a swamp, screaming into a payphone at the Neanderthal who lived just beneath the surface of the suave corporate attorney who was trying to send me money, pedantically explaining to this imbecile how insane it was to stay in school and study environmental science when the battle was raging right now, right here, in this precarious habitat, these fragile wetlands, where the only thing protecting the delicate balance of the ecosystem from the developer's bulldozer was my tent, my sleeping bag, my body. I screamed at him as if I had never learned to work within the system, never written a grant proposal, never sweet-talked my conservative father, discreet counselor to the status quo, into serving on the board of an urban nature center set on the banks of a polluted tributary of an industrial sewer in a crime-ridden park surrounded by ghetto.
I lectured him; I berated him; I insulted him—I reverted completely back to the self-righteousness of the girl who really believed that it was her own courage that stopped those bulldozers, not her privileged status as the telegenic daughter of the white upper-middle-class.
He must have held the phone away from his ear—the way I remember him holding it when the Mayor called—bemused, patient, the tinny speaker just far enough away, so that the words remained intelligible but the anger was reduced to a comic effect—and he would catch my eye, watching him from the door of his study in my pajamas, and he would smile at me, and explain to me the next morning that our Mayor had a terrible temper, but that it was a great honor to receive a call like that, to be entrusted with the delivery of an important message.
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