Saturday December 14
Rained all night. Snow is gone.
It's Ginny’s birthday. Lee and I are the only ones to have known Ginny from the day she was born. When Mom went into the hospital, Dad had parked us overnight with our neighbors the Bermases. Anna and Morris were ex-New Yorkers, moved down from the Bronx, exotic and Jewish. They had two sons, both a little older than Lee, who were handsome, very funny, and provoked early sexually terrifying dreams. That night, by eight o'clock and with still no word from Dad, Donny, who was about six at the time, was sent upstairs to bed. Anna, with her fabulous strange liberalism, saw no reason not to let Lee and me wait up. The Ed Sullivan show was playing on Kinescope, a pre-video tape method for delivering TV shows to the boonies by pointing a camera at a cathode ray monitor and recording the show on film. Kinescopes were memorable because they were so awful, disappointing our viewing experience with wavy lines and broken images. While we watched Ed stiffly shifting in analog shards the call came in. Ginny had arrived. We woke Donny up all little-girlie excited. He stood at the top of the stairs and asked. “Is it a girl or a boy?” “Girl!” “Oh.” He turned and went back to bed.
Ginny was adorable but my initial enthusiasm cracked as her presence relegated me to second daughter and frequent baby sitter. When Patty arrived two years later and Lee became pregnant and left home, I more or less disappeared into the family cosmic glue. I wrote sad poetry, learned to cook, and cursed the simultaneous desire to protect my younger siblings (from what?) and to escape my home. I was an inadequate protector and eventually we lived our tricky lives without each other. Now that Ginny has fallen into the lap of Christ, although he remains a chilly myth to me. I'm inexplicably pleased. She's finally safe.
This morning I responded to a nagging text from Gene, and reconciled the finances from his campaign. Have procrastinated long enough anyway. He expressed textual sympathy for Willie after I told him about the breakup. He was also mourning, not only the loss of his wife but of Molina's, the local bar from which most of the Hudson alcoholics had graduated. Gene nostalgically recalled his first beer there when he turned 18. (Does everyone remember where they had first drink? Mine was crème de menthe, glugged at about age 13 from a beautiful green bottle, discovered in the sideboard of my friend Claire's home.)
Had lunch at Casa Latina, a cheery place in the middle of a gray day, the ceiling hung with paper flags the colors of Mexico, with Frida Kayla’s vivid portrait dominating one wall and photographs and slogans about the equivalency between food and love on the other. Latino music is lively and plays with the colors of the room. I had very decent enchiladas. It all made me happy.
In the afternoon we went to Harris and Neville’s, where she had staged a gathering to sell some of her beautiful ceramics. I bought four small bowls as Christmas presents for Liz, Ann, Stuart, and Richard. Several of their friends from Kingston were there, including Susan whom I had talked to for some time at Harris’ birthday party. In spite of liking her and having a long lively discussion, I didn't recognized her until she mentioned her job (owning a kiln and making ceramics) and recall kicked in. Could just be old age or shallow party talk that rattles into the ether after a few moments. Hope it's the latter. I talked to her briefly, then sat by myself in the living room and munched Neville's good snacks. Michael does better than I do at these gatherings and he spent his time talking to some people about the old days of early computers, when main frames ruled and desktops were a gleam in the eyes of primal geeks. David and Janet showed up briefly. After everyone had gone, Michael and I went to dinner with Harris and Neville at Armadillo, a Latino restaurant up the street. More enchiladas, four in a day! Neville became pretty bombed after hours of showing her stuff, making food, and wine drinking. She becomes intensively earnest, telling the same story several times, she's but never mean or judgy. Best human I know.
Sunday December 15
Finished my bathtub reading of Barbara Vines book House of Stairs. Very disappointing ending, no twist at the end of the mystery, or if there is one I didn’t get it.
We met Jim Dolan and his sister Lynn Polluck at the monthly all-you-can-eat breakfast at the Becraft Pumper, our volunteer firehouse and polling place down the road. The county's firehouses are where Republican white males nest, with most of them backed by generations of firefighting forebears. In general the company members are now old. It's getting increasingly difficult to find young volunteers. Occasionally, a Democrat newly moved up to the area will join, but they are rare, typically retired, and as old as the native firefighters. The Becraft used to have an active women's auxiliary but there aren't enough ladies left, so it's been disbanded.
The Becraft breakfast costs $8.00, runs from seven to noon, and is a terrific fundraiser. The trucks are pulled out and two large rooms are lined as closely as possible with long paper-covered tables, where the denim bottoms of hefty neighbors spill over metal fold up chairs, rotating in and out over the course of the morning. The firemen and their families serve and cook all the food--two pancakes (plain and blueberry), scrambled eggs (plain and my favorite, the Chef's special, made with peppers and onions), corned beef hash, sausage, bacon, fried potatoes, bagels, English muffins, toast, fruit cup, juice, and coffee. (A fireman in the back room will also make eggs any style on demand), Santa showed up today and the place was more crowded than ever. Sadly, they had run out of the Chefs special, but this left plenty of choices. The trick is restraint. Jimmy loaded up his plate twice with lots of fat— his “diet” based very casually on the Atkins. With his big belly, he's a heart attack waiting for a snow shovel. I like his sister Lynn and we talked kids, until Jim took over with a rehash of the commissioner election. He's considering charges against Virginia for wrongful firing. Guy Apicella is one of the Becraft volunteers and was serving. We spoke briefly about the election and his relief in winning again.
At home I shopped online for Christmas presents. I ordered a heating pad for Faye's shoulders, but I have a feeling that her daughter has already given her the same brand. I bought socks rolled, shaped, and packaged to look like sushi and burritos for Darcy and Ria. I subscribed to an olive oil service for Harris and Neville and Jillian and Al, and ordered books on plants for Geoff Leckie. All our kids and grands will get money or Amazon cards.
Jeremy called and I asked about the new company that has bought his supermarket chain. “Nothing will change, they told us.” Everything changes. Always worrisome.
Then Willie texted me a screen shot of a text conversation with Samantha—a flat brief exchange involving a pick up of her desk that Richard and Carol had been storing in Connecticut. Impersonal and heart breaking. I talked to him for a while. Something is wrong with her. Not because she doesn’t love my son (although I personally believe that this is a strong indication of wrongness) but because her charade of loving him was so convincing.
Was supposed to meet Ann and go caroling in Hudson this evening, but I was tired and texted her that I couldn’t make it. I knew Michael wouldn’t mind cancelling. I had left over enchiladas, which I heated up for dinner. I like mine better than those from the two restaurants yesterday. Watched Marriage Story after dinner. Acting and writing were good, although something was off about it. Not as moving as I'd hoped. Started new book that Alex Cohen has given me, Weight. Also started new Cadfael mystery on my Kindle.
Monday, December 16
Went to St. Peter’s to be “mapped” for the upcoming radiotherapy to my mediastina lymph node. I'm nervous about the proximity to my esophagus and potential side effects (difficulty swallowing, sore throat). Talked to Duncan Savage, the physician with the best name ever, who doesn’t think they will be very severe. “Not like last summer.” Which my brain has, in its stupidity, blocked out, so I'm willing to undertake radiation again in order to avoid the chemo partner in crime. (However, if the tumors in the liver and other areas have fattened up on the next scan, I'll have to go on chemo regardless of the radiation success.) I'm also confused about what's being zapped, since the last report showed cancer increasing in the precarinal lymph node—is that part of the mediastinum? My anatomical knowledge is dismal. When I was writing patient reports for Well-Connected I bought an anatomical coloring book, which was highly detailed and created for medical students, but I only got through a few sections in the body, and packed it in because I was never any good staying within the lines, which you have to do if you want to read the labels next to the blood vessels that you're coloring in.
At home made tuna melt sandwiches for lunch. In late afternoon, Ann came by and we all went to Red Hook to watch Knives Out, an engaging WASPy mystery ala neo-Agatha Christie, with great cast, especially Daniel Craig and Christopher Plummer. Lots of fun.
After the movie we ate at Savona, a near-by Italian restaurant that compensated for its lackluster eggplant parm and soggy pasta by being very expensive and crowded.
I’m getting increasingly agitated by Ann's agitation and her snipes at me. Michael thinks I’m exaggerating. On the way home, someone mentioned Marguerite, a dramatic and flamboyant friend of Geoff and Liz, who was born in Morocco (I think) and has maintained a pan European accent during the 50-odd years that she's lived in the US. She was married to some musician and survives on buying and selling dramatic homes up here (a church, a huge mansion in Albany). I was surprised when Ann commented that she had two kids, a boy and a girl.
“She never talks about them.”
“Well, you talk about your kids all the time. Not everybody does.”
Of course everyone talks about their kids. Ann, in fact, will talk about her son Eamon with the least nudging. Our mutual friends up either here don’t have kids (Dave and Janet, Liz and Geoff) or they rarely see or talk to them (Richard Wallace,) Michael and I have five of them, with five twigs that have branched off. They're a key part of our world and I hope their stories might be of occasional interest, as the stories in my friends' lives are for me. It’s not like I brag about their accomplishments all the time. Which I could do if I wanted. Really bothered me.
Tuesday, December 17
Went to the Army this morning. Weather was rotten—sleety with unplowed and unsalted roads. With my father’s advice in my head (“In snow and sleet drive 30 miles per hour, no more, no less") I drove our excellent BMW to the army with no problems, passing a car that was tipped sideways up a bank, a young woman standing next to it, angrily tapping her phone. (Don't young women get tired of being irate?)
Jay had called in sick, which might be code for drinking again. When Faye worked with him in the factories she said he was always drunk but highly functional and added. “You can still be an alcoholic and do your work. “
Faye and I did, I think, the best lunch ever. Someone had donated Kombucha squash, which we baked for 30 minutes, then peeled and cut into chunks. Faye added tons of butter, cinnamon, and a little brown sugar to it. She had seasoned some pork roasts when I came in. One of the stores had donated bags of mandarin oranges, which we peeled and I sautéed with red onions and some curry powder, then spooned them over the roasts and baked them, covered in foil, in the oven. Then Darcy appeared with fresh green beans. Yay. We chopped up and fried bacon that we added to the beans with a little rosemary and then steamed everything. It was a wonderful lunch, but unfortunately the weather was so bad only about ten guys showed up. Lucky for them, they were very complimentary and got to have two or three helpings.
And Glinda did not show up. Ria told me she had been in the day before and complained about the food. Yesterday’s cook, I think her name is Marlene, was dealing with lunch all by herself, which is really tough. Glinda had gotten the last serving from the first tray and her neighbor had gotten a steaming plate from the first serving of the second tray. “My lunch is cold,” Glinda brayed to Marline (I use the word "bray" because that's how she typically sounds, even if she isn’t complaining). Marlene then offered to heat it up.
Glinda said, “No.”
So Marlene offered to exchange the plate for one from the second tray.
Glinda, who thrives on martyrdom, refused.
Marlene went back into the kitchen and Ria came out and asked what the matter was.
Glinda responded. "Nothing", but when Ria returned to the office, she heard Glinda loudly denouncing our staff (I can see her angrily aiming her good eye toward the back office). "They pretend to be all righteous and good, but they get paid. They aren’t volunteers. They get money.” (Ria, Darcy, and Faye do indeed get paid--a low wage for incredibly hard work, with Ria and Darcy working well beyond the hours in their contract.) It's possible Glinda resented her own unpaid minimal labor as a volunteer on Tuesdays, coming in at ten after all the prep is done and then treating us to her loud zealotry, quoting vengeful Biblical passages directed at her ex-husband, interspersed with "Yes Jesus" and "Amen."
At the end of service, Darcy told Glinda that because I was going into treatment, they needed somebody who could come in earlier on Tuesday to help Faye out. So no Glinda today. And we made the best lunch ever!
Marlene called the dish that had offended Glinda American Chop Suey. Curious, since we rarely had Asian spices or sauces in the Army kitchen, I asked Faye what had been in it. Faye said that it was just ground beef, tomato sauce, and macaroni, in other words, Upstate Goulash. I can only conclude that this combination of ingredients had originally been so exotic to the housewives in northern and western New York, that the dish required a foreign affiliation, its national origin—whether China or Hungary--dependent on the favorite ignorant biases of our local home cooks. Weirdly, it was never attributed to Italy.
I walked out of the Army kitchen to find my car coated in ice, and skittering and sliding, I drove home against walls of sleet.
Geoff sent me a photo of his amazing painting, a literal copy of Titian’s Bacchus and Ariadne overlaid by a modern industrial landscape. Bacchus’ entourage is encased within a sixties-constructed project, while Bacchus is partly trapped and yearning out toward Ariadne, who is escaping into a distant primal landscape. Incredible.
Worried all afternoon that Dr. Savage is relying on the last inaccurate written report to identify the tumor that he plans to zap, which is unlikely, but cancer patients obsess.
Michael is a member of the Greenport Planning Board and went to the meeting tonight, the main discussion covering the final approval for a detox center. Hudson progressives had rallied each other to attend the meeting with dire predictions of massive opposition from the Greenport right wing peasants. Les Miserable. The roads were still relatively icy and only three Hudsonians appeared to make impassioned speeches in support of the detox center against zero opposition. Michael pointed out after that, given Greenport's lack of zoning, even if there was opposition, the center was a done deal. The detox center will be built in the middle of a dead industrial tract. No one cares.
The Hudson-Greenport schism rests on the classic cultural/political divide between two adjoining communities—one of urban upper middle class Democrats and the other blue collar Republicans. The antagonism is currently intensified by a plan from Greenport's major family business— Colarusso Gravel-- to run a haul road west from the company quarry down to the river, where it ends at its docks on Hudson's waterfront. Colarusso now trucks its gravel through the streets of Hudson, spewing dust and creating pothole craters. The haul road would give the trucks a direct route to the river and circumvent the city streets. You'd think the people in Hudson would like this, but instead, they are using the proposal to evict Colarusso altogether from their waterfront, arguing that by changing the terms of an old agreement the company's whole basis for dumping the gravel there is up for grabs. Our Greenport planning board supports our local business, of course, while the Hudson board is litigating to get rid of an industrial eyesore and accelerate the gentrification now well in process that is driving its poor citizens out over the border into Greenport. Welcome, I say.
I heated up the leftover enchiladas when he came home, and we watched The Art of Crime.
Wednesday December 18
At St. Peter for pre-infusion consultation, hoping to obtain certainty that the right tumor is being zapped. While I was waiting to be called I went to the bathroom, opened the door, and a very old woman—even older than I am—with severe scoliosis was wrestling with her Depends. We both apologized and I went back to the waiting room where a tall heavyset woman with long ratty blonde hair hobbled in wearing a stained khaki Carhart jacket, a Santa hat and jingle bell boots. I was called in for the routine phlebotomy and she was led jingling and dismal into the same room a few minutes later, unhappy with the small size of her chair and her sciatica She’s alone, has cancer and chronic pain, and is offsetting her misery with holiday clothing clichés. The crippled old lady, the fat woman with Christmas misery clothes, and I, anticipating the endgame, are here to stay alive. That shrieking baby intent on survival at all costs wrestles with the suffering adult who wonders if it's worth the loss of joy.
We talked to Dr. Gray, a small woman with an island lilt. She was standing in for Dr. Luyun, whose mother-in-law has died. She very carefully went through the scan records, including the radiation plan, and reassured me that the right tumor would be targeted
Stopped at Relish in Catskill for lunch and bought spices for Faye's Christmas present. We were pleased to hear that Dana is moving back to Hudson in a new lunch place up on eighth and Columbus. Her mother Janet, who works behind the counter with Dana and looks like an Italian Mama Avatar, offered to do “energy work” on me.
Jim Dolan called when we got home. He had heard that we were alone on Christmas and invited us to his sister Lynn’s house. Nice. We’re having Richard Wallace over so won’t be totally in Xmas solitude.
Spent most of the remaining day listening to House impeachment speeches. Made Neapolitan meatballs in the afternoon. Came out pretty well.
Watched the vote in the evening then another episode of Art of the Crime.
Sarah called. Impeachment has put her in good spirits. I find it dreary. Our president isn’t Hitler. He’s like a seal barking for fish from the crowds. That’s his ideology. And as long as his base keeps him in mackerel in response to his snorting and honking, the Republicans will keep him in office. But that’s how they’ve always played it. Letting dopes play the crowd (Reagan, little Bush) while the main evil players (Roger Stone, Cheney, McConnell) craft their greedy policies in the dark to keep their party entrenched. Democrats, on the other hand, play a noisy and discordant band of issues to their ever-hopeful base, stumbling into each other as they wobble toward an ever evasive equality.
Thursday December 19
Chiropractor at noon, home and then back in town for lunch at Cascade. Eavesdropping on conversation between three young men want to to start up a cannabis dispensary across the Massachusetts border in Great Barrington. After acknowledging my vice for eavesdropping, I got more information out of one of them, who is here with his brother and his brother's partner after recently moving from Utah via Portland. He rides a Harley and skis. I asked if he misses Utah, given the icy baby ski trails in the Northeast. “I miss the mountains, not so much the family.” Most likely raised as a Mormon (he's very clean looking), but given his Harley and gay brother he's undoubtedly lapsed. Anticipating marijuana legalization in New York, he's scouting Hudson as well as Great Barrington. It occurred to me that Greenport would be a great location for a dispensary. Right next to Hudson, but lots of parking. No one who goes there would care that it wasn’t quaint or cleanly historical. The store in Great Barrington is outside the posh area in a tiny strip mall where two young people direct traffic-- one running back and forth locating empty spots a cars exit and the other pointing the way to them for cars coming in. The flow is constant. The dreary location hasn't stopped the mobs from New York and Connecticut. Greenport would be perfect.
Went home and unpacked a pile of Amazon and UPS boxes, half for Christmas and half for me. My new snowshoes came in. I’ll try them tomorrow. Also trying to cut down on plastic and had ordered silicon freezer bags. Soaking them in salt as instructed online. Excited. Wrapped Jeanine’s present, a heating pad for shoulders and back, which I originally bought it for Faye but found out on Tuesday that she already has it. I thought of keeping it then remembered Jeanine's chronic aches and pains.
Dave came over briefly. Has been worried about a cough Janet has developed over the week but turned out it’s just a cough. Cancer paranoia.
Dinner was the last reheat of the enchiladas, followed by the Democrat debate. Down to seven candidates and it was far livelier than the previous mass meet ups. PBS and Politico hosted it so the questions were substantive and the pundits, mostly young non-blonde women, were super nerdy. I find myself leaning now toward Amy Klobuchar, who was focused, smart, and more appealing than I’ve seen her before. She has a crosspatch look when she's in repose that doesn't do her any good with the electorate.
For my bathtub real-book read I found a detective novel set in Minnesota and written by a Norwegian. Without any guilt I exchanged it for "Weight", the latest eccentric highly praised book from Alex Cohen. This one retells the Atlas-Hercules myth, with sweeping poetic descriptions of the cosmos and the earth that atlas is hoisting up, while Hercules depicted as a swaggering oaf. Maybe I’ll pick it up again. Meanwhile, yay, back to Nordic gore with the gloomy divorced cop (why are so many older women addicted to this genre?)
Friday December 20
Infusion day. Also annual Christmas sweater competition at St Peters. Last year most of the nurses were all twinkling with lights and wires spilling down their chests and dangling from their necks, wearing sweaters embossed across their backs and breasts with fuzzy reindeer and elves. They wore antlers and Santa caps. This year the chemo unit was a great disappointment. Very few lights and antlers and in fact few sweaters. Many of the nurses only wore t-shirts or light sweatshirts with dreary cynical holiday graphics. One explained, “Those sweaters were too hot. We nearly died last year." When I had my radiology appointment earlier this week, I had been encouraged to learn that the nurses there had strict instructions to be decorative. After the infusion I had a minor urge to go downstairs and check them out, but thought it might be a little weird. I have been in some kind of treatment now for two years. How time flies when you have a terminal disease.
Got home to more boxes. Jeanine had cleaned. Someone other than me has cleaned my homes for thirty years. I’ll never stop feeling intensely guilty and grateful for this service.
We went back into town for hamburgers at Grazin’, which I always look forward to even though I leave bloated and fat laden.
Spent the afternoon writing. Too cold to try my new snowshoes. Tomorrow.
Lee left me a message excited about their neighbor concert. They’ve recruited two girls who live down the road to play the drums and tambourines. She thanked me for my comments and said that they had added more vocals to the music. It sounds like it will be fun.
Refrigerated my fermented red cabbage and preserved lemons that had been percolating in the pantry for a month. The lemon had a gray mold on top that can be peeled off like a zombie skin. According to all the online advice, it won't hurt us. Tasted the cabbage, which did not have any mold. I used a lemon in tonight’s quick meal of farro, chicken sausage, broccoli, and shallots. Not bad. Hope we don't die.
Finished off the French series, Art of the Crime and started the new HBO fantasy series,
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