Month: November 2007

Earlier in the week I popped round to the wine shop and the fellow at the desk asked about my trip to Paris: Work or pleasure?

I answered They’re one and the same!

He laughed and asked I thought you hated talking to strangers, and therefore hated your work?

I opened my eyes wide and replied Oh no – strangers scare me. But I only get recognized in the states so all is well!

He was baffled but had no follow-up. Of course, I regretted revealing even a hint of my secret life.

I am sure that it is hard for local observers to figure me out. Obviously not an academic, but employed. Rushing to and fro, throwing parties, attending others, buying lots of wine for various nefarious purposes, not to mention the astonishing amount of water I order and consume. Jetting away to glamorous destinations every few weeks. Running around with visitors ranging from circus performers to raggedy musicians to uptight scientists, from all over the world.

Disheveled, tattooed, either reticent or giggling with wild abandon, “very strange” would go the assessment. Plus, I prefer my white wine served at room temperature. What a puzzle!

Yesterday I was at the wine shop again and the other brother asked what I was up to this evening. Just watching some crap tv, eh? Or will you be working then?

I looked down and realized that I was holding a package from my publisher. Very much against every natural instinct of my upbringing, character, and habit, I opened the packet and said This is my work – my book, translated to Swedish!

Shocking! Impossible! Simply insane! I don’t do that!

He was very impressed and said it was too bad his brother was away celebrating his wedding anniversary, as he speaks the language and would be intrigued.

Turning the object over in his hands he asked tentatively What is it… about?

It is a memoir, I said. About danger!

He blinked in astonishment and we actually chatted about the whole thing for a few minutes. Then he asked if I might have an extra copy he could borrow.

Oh, you can have that one, I shrugged. I don’t know the language!

Excellent, excellent! I gave them a crap anniversary gift so this can be the real one!

The notion of my book as tribute to a marriage is quite interesting. Or alarming. Or something.

I pulled out a pen and signed Happy anniversary!

During the Paris trip I let my son make all the major decisions about our activities in tribute to his birthday, and he elected to go to Disneyland for a day.

Of course we started in Fantasyland, with Dumbo, followed by Peter Pan and onward through all the other attractions. As we flew through a simulated nightime London sky I reckoned my mother would be proud; in her lexicon, there is no greater treat than the Magic Kingdom.

Then I remembered the last time I’d been on the ride, or zipping through the Haunted Mansion, or leaning against the rail on the Mark Twain steamboat attraction, or marveling at the genius of Small World, my aunt was next to me.

Today is traditionally All Soul’s, the Day of the Dead, Commemoration of all the Faithful Departed, Defuncts Day, depending on what you believe and where you grew up. I was not raised with the tradition, but do agree that these few days of the year are a transition – the bridge between autumn and winter – and as such have an eerie appeal.

My family is not religious. Even when they thought I was dying, there was no recourse to prayer, no solace in dreams of an afterlife. We are stoic atheists brought up to understand, collectively, that life is what you make it. The past and the future are at best a story left untold, and nostalgia is the most dangerous feeling in the world.

Of course my grandmother also talked to ghosts and had an eerie prescient knowledge of our whereabouts, particularly when we were in peril. This was not a great comfort as she watched brothers and three of her children die young.

My aunt, like too many others in the maternal family line, did not live to see her fiftieth birthday. I think about her every day, and I am angry, and sad, though never confused. I could say that I miss her, but I’ve been missing her since the day in 1979 she walked away from her home.

It was her choice to die, nearly thirty years after she broke our hearts for the first but not last time.

Of all the many choices in her life, death was one of the most merciful, and definitely the most anticipated. I do not share my grandmothers relationship with the spirit world (even if many people refer to me as creepy), but my aunt is haunting me: literally.

On the day of her funeral my shaking hands were covered with ashes when I stabbed my ringing mobile silent, and the gray matter seeped into the mechanism. Now my numbers, alarm, and music are prone to erratic changes and failures. How like my aunt – and how perfect.

She possessed a ferocious intellect, scorching wit, fantastical imagination, and scathing sense of humor. When I refer to her as my Dead Junkie Auntie I do so with the suspicion that she would approve – the description is accurate, but also funny, and in my family that absolves almost any trespass.

If we’re not formed by our experiences, we are at least shaped by what we encounter. I grew up in a family that loved and protected miscreants of all descriptions, and I learned from them not tolerance (oh no) but rather sheer delight in the chaotic excesses offered by the world.

Murderers, liars, thieves? So long as they are amusing, they’re all invited to the party. My ability to wander so far from home with such huge enjoyment is contingent on a vast curiosity instilled by people who never moved more than ten miles from the homestead, people who did not even elect to stay alive.

They never submitted to false authority, never let anyone rule their lives, brains, hearts. They pushed hard against all boundaries, and they gave me those skills, along with direct orders to get out and fling myself at something new.

Beyond that my aunt gave me a very specific gift, and I should have thanked her when I had the chance. All those dinners with her nodding off in front of the Christmas tree; the times I picked her up from jail, or psych units, or emergency rooms; helping raise her semi-abandoned baby son through a fraught childhood; watching my esteemed grandmother suffer – I was paying attention.

My aunt is the sole reason I have never, under any circumstances, willingly used drugs. Not socially, or in the hospital, or after surgery, or after the accident, not even when I thought I would die.

This is the time of year it hits like a virus – domesticity is upon me once again! There is no doubt why the infection happens; when the cold snaps, I spend my entire waking life focussed on preventing my body from going into legitimate shock.

I wear six or seven layers of clothing, keep my pockets and mittens stuffed with heating devices, and clutch a hot water bottle nestled in faux fur to my person whenever feasible.

When I talk about the dangers of cold, I’m not exaggerating. My right arm in particular turns a peculiar shade of blue and loses all sensation except the darting, needle-sharp pain of a deep freeze. When one arm goes the rest rapidly falls, until there is no way to raise my core temperature aside from complete immersion in hot water. This, of course, is not convenient on the boat – so I try to avoid the contingency.

Mostly throughout the year I can be found standing in odd corners reading books, and when pressed for anything beyond boat maintenance point out mildly that I do not cook, or clean, or care. This is true – I have not only a job but also a social life, and you know what? I like it when other people cook for me. Even if I have to pay.

But for three short months of the year my hands are so horrifically cold there is no better place to stick them but a sink of scalding hot water. Clean dishes! Clear sink! Oh, what next? Do I cook normally? Why no! Though at certain times of the year I look for every possible excuse to keep the stove cranked up… leading to such wild flights of fancy as (old-fashioned rare breed) apple crumble baked in fruit shaped ramekins!