Boston, Black Leather, and Cobalt Blue



A few months ago I entered a contest, the theme of which was A Moment In Time. I didn't win (or even place), but my entry follows. I used only the initial "J" in keeping with the anonymity required for the contest, but his name was Joel. I choose today to share it with you because tomorrow marks the seventh year since he went on to be with God. This is my small tribute to him.

Boston, Black Leather, and Cobalt Blue

I'm so glad it's finally cold. Without hesitation I reach for the jacket that is almost ten years old. It's black and leather and lined with a subtle animal print, if cheetah can be subtle. I can't zip it comfortably any more. The belt is too long. The jacket falls below the hip, which is definitely not the right length for today's fashion. But it is the one that keeps me warm with memories.

A popular quote by Cesare Pavese says, "We do not remember days. We remember moments." And truly it is the moments I remember.

I remember when he bought it for me in the month of September. J. and I had known each other only a few months, and we were browsing in a local department store. He called to me and said, "Sweetheart, do you like this?"

"Of course. What woman wouldn't love a black leather jacket?" "Try it on," he said.

"It's too expensive," I said, as he held it for me to slip my arms into.

"But you'll need it for our trip." He winked at me and I stood taller. No wonder I was sure he was the one.

 In October we took the trip to Boston. We shared a suitcase packed with the usual jeans and shirts and sweaters. He had told me about the historic Parker House, so I had surprised him by booking a room there. Established in 1855, writers such as Longfellow, Emerson, Thoreau and Hawthorne met there regularly, and it was frequented by politicians such as Ulysses S. Grant, Franklin D. Roosevelt, and John F. Kennedy. Some of the famous people who worked in the restaurant were Ho Chi Minh as a baker, Malcom X as a busboy, and Emeril Lagasse as a chef. Every night when we returned from our jaunts in the city, we went to the Parker House lounge, sat by the fireplace, and ordered a glass of Harveys Bristol Cream. It is sherry that comes in a cobalt blue bottle, and warms the throat as you sip it slowly. Harveys Bristol Cream, a fireplace, and our black leather jackets . We felt like we could be a picture in a magazine.

He took me to Faneuil Hall and told me of its history. It was a market with stalls of food and shops and exhibits marking the city's past. The cobblestone streets were a challenge in my boots, so I changed in to my tennis shoes, and off we went to Boston Common. We watched a man in a business suit practicing Tai Chi. There were college students spread out over the lawn. Some were reading. Some played guitars. One couple was kissing while lying on a blue blanket. We took a walk by a pond where five white swans were gathered at the edge, wanting to be fed. A little girl came over and gave me bread to feed them. I tossed it piece by piece into the water, and I felt as young as she was. Her mother smiled at me, and they walked on.

J. told me about Filene's Basement, where every year there are lines of young women waiting for the annual wedding gown sale. Gowns originally priced for thousands of dollars begin at $249. When the doors open the women rush in (likened to The Running of the Bulls in Pamplona), grab as many dresses as they can, rush to a corner and start trying them on. In sixty seconds there are none left on the racks. Then it seems they trade among each other. He and I went inside and laughed as we tried to picture the mayhem the event would cause, and pitied the poor sales people on that day.

 We went to Durgin Park where the waitresses are famous for being rude and a bit outrageous, but Judy and Gina seemed to like us, and kept asking him when he was getting me a ring. It was the first time I had authentic Boston Baked Beans, and "real" clam chowder. We left there and went to a Christmas store, and he chose an ornament for our first Christmas tree. It was an open-mesh gold-colored heart, which still takes center stage on my Christmas tree each year. He might have paid for that heart, but he definitely had stolen mine.

Strolling through the city, we met a couple who were probably in their eighties, holding hands. They offered to take our picture. And we took theirs. They told us they hoped we would be as happy as they still were. And we knew that some day we, too, would be in our eighties, still holding hands, and saying those same words to others just like us.

He showed me the outdoor band shell where the Boston Pops sometimes played, and we laughed as the tourists rode by in a bright yellow Duck -- an amphibious mode of transportation known in Boston the way San Francisco is known for the cable car. We saw the pub where Cheers had been filmed, but the line to get in was long, and we passed it by. We took a walk along the Charles River and through prestigious Beacon Hill.

One day we decided to drive north to New Hampshire, and stopped on the side of the road in a particularly picturesque spot. We took a walk and discovered a stream of rushing water. He positioned me on a large rock to take my picture, and told me how beautiful I was. We came upon a covered bridge where he peeked around its edge, his eyes smiling while I told him it was his turn to have his picture taken. Leaves were amber and rust and burgundy, and crackled under foot. The sun was going down. But we were warm in our black leather jackets.

So this morning, though there are many items of newer styles and brighter colors hanging in my closet for the winter season, there is no doubt which one I'll choose. And tonight, when I get home, I'll open the cabinet and find the bottle of cobalt blue. I'll raise the glass to my dearest J., and slowly, quietly sip some of my warmest, precious memories. And I'll think of a fireplace, and bridges, and cobblestones, and swans.

This and That

It has been a busy week, so this post will be a little of this and that to bring you up to date.

A few days ago, I received a call at 5 AM telling me the hotel I manage was filling with water on the first floor. A 6 inch-water line had burst, and by the time I got there, there were waves in the lobby! The water shorted out several key systems.  Imagine the fun I had with a hotel full of guests who couldn't shower, flush a toilet, make coffee, watch TV, or access the internet. We are dry now, and systems are working, but things are not back to normal.

My daughter and four of my grandchildren spent the last week with me. They went to the beach a couple of times, the pool several times, and I accompanied them to the zoo. It was hot! They slept on the bed that makes into a couch, made tents and hiding places with blankets and quilts, blew bubbles in their chocolate milk, and watched Curious George and the Electric Company. We played Guess the Animal and ate ice cream cones. The youngest is crawling everywhere (and every minute) so there was very little still time. It's quiet now. I miss them.

I live next to a wooded area, and we saw a snake with red diamonds on its back in my yard. I went to Home Depot and bought snake repellent, but before I arrived home,  I could smell the unopened product in my car. It is awful. It has an upleasant odor of strong mothballs. According to the instructions,  I have to be careful when applying it to make sure the snakes stay out and that I don't barrier them in. I haven't even stepped outside yet. This will not be fun.

But this was! Friday afternoon, a friend asked if I had a poem about a garden for her to share in a Power Point presentation. So yesterday, I wrote the one that follows. As writers, sometimes we just need the assignment, and the inspiration will come.

I hope you can all spend some time in your own garden, real or imagined. Let the kids blow bubbles in their chocolate milk. And be sure to make some time for at least one ice cream cone!


No Wonder It All Started Here
   by Carol Drummond

No wonder
it all started here.
Or not here exactly,
but in a garden.

For what could be better
than greens of moss
or bay
or cypress
to foster contemplation?

Marvel how
lime and loden
and sage and beryl
pair with rose
and iris
and lavender.

Did He stroll
with hands in soft pockets
and look from side to side,
satisfied with a job well done?

Dew drops glisten
on black-eyed Susans.
Morning glory whispers
to Queen Anne's lace.

A breeze.
A canopy of trees.
The ideal spot
for sitting with le plume,
waiting
for just the right word,
for just the right poem.
And then
There goes a butterfly.

Waiting For The Rain

Waiting For The Rain
by Carol Drummond

Waiting for the rain to fall
Is not like waiting for a letter
Because you know
Eventually
The rain will happen.
Waiting for the rain to fall
Is not like waiting for the phone to ring
Because you know
Eventually
The rain will happen.
Waiting for the rain to fall
Is not like waiting
For him to go
Because you know
You already know
Eventually
Already
Happened.
And the umbrella won't open.
And your raincoat is full of holes.

To Call A Rose Another Name

While clearing out a drawer the other day, I found a copy of a publication our local writers group printed in 2002, which had some of my writing on its front page.  Seems I was thinking of mangoes and champagne, or champagne and mangoes, even back then.

To Call A Rose Another Name
by Carol Drummond


If I could make my garden yours, you would breeze through time as light passes through an hourglass. The gate would creak upon its rusting hinge, and you would wish you weren't wearing your whitest shoes. You could smell honeysuckle and think of Grandma's scented handkerchiefs, and remember the child's face when hankies embroidered by Nana weren't what she wished for on her birthday. But tucked inside was a peppermint. The old remember being young.


Take another step and sweep floppy elephant ears aside. Duck to miss a low branch -- a sticky net catches your hair. Look down and to the right to see dozens of webs draping the begonias, luring the unsuspecting with their diamonds in the sun. Stoop to find the architect. No red on black. Not this time.


Recall the morning when those dozens were hundreds or thousands kissed by dew at dawn. Your new husband took you riding in the jeep. Rocky ran ahead, leaping through wheat-hued grass higher than his shoulders, his long ears rising and falling like wings of a bird taking flight. You knew then that dogs could smile.  A blue heron stood by a pond.  A white ibis called out for its mate. You looked from side to side and breathed the crisp air. You smiled. He took your hand and you believed. Another kind of diamond in the sun.


"What think ye marigolds?" the poet said. Or might have said, if he were here.


Note the lone periwinkle bend like your neighbor in her well-worn dress, who must have read When I Am Old I Shall Wear Purple. The stem is yellow-gray, as is her hair. You pass her on pink mornings during your wake-up mile, her must-do mile, you in your sweats and her in her earrings and Avon. She grins "Good morning," and tries to stand tall. You keep meaning to ask her name.


Peek through the trellis antiqued by weather. Ponder the stone antiqued by God. Hesitate and shut your eyes before the white chrysanthemums, and the too-young girl who stands beside a too-long box lined with shiny satin. Remember one who went not gentle into that good night. You take another step. And you move on.


Sit awhile. We'll have tea. We'll listen for the mockingbird nesting in the oak. We'll talk of champagne and mangoes and love letters in the sand. Hopscotch and initials on palm trees and castles swept away. And a sailboat. We'll ignore a destination. And try to think of roses called by other names.

December

December
by Carol Drummond

We fold another year
Like the last page of a calendar
Its promises now history
Its tomorrows now yesterdays.
Time tucks it softly in a drawer
Beribboned
To join past years' moments
Some bidden 
Some not.
Each carries its own scent
And casts its own hue.
We recognize the fragrance
Of hope and gratitude
The blue skies of birth
And the gray which stains our losses.
December -- a month, a history.
December speaks our past.
December promises a new page.


Labels:  December, Poem

Little Red Bird

Little Red Bird
by Carol Drummond

Did you think you found your Love again
When you kissed that mirror
Just before you flew away
Little Pretty Red Bird?

Or did you fly
(The only thing you could do)
Because you knew it wasn't him
And never, ever could be?


Little Red Bird
Poem