Andy Hall

                                       

I have this recurring dream: I arrive at a party where dozens of tables are laden with gorgeous, delectable food.  Everything is free for the taking. But I have arrived late and the food is being put away. I grab at the goodies, stuffing my mouth, gulping as much as I can before it is all taken away from me.

I don't need Freud to interpret my dream. It is telling me pretty clearly I am getting old and all the goodies are disappearing fast.

That's why losing Andy was so devastating.

I am rather preoccupied with age. As I was telling my friend Debbie:  ”Every third word I hear lately is about age.”

“That’s just because you are so overly focused on it,” she reminds me.

“Well how could I not be?”  I counter. “Every sentence I hear seems to be include ‘for your age’.  My ophthalmologist says my eyes are doing fine – for your age. Or my hairdresser notices I don't have much gray hair - for your age.

“What nice elbows you have for someone your age.”

“Really? Your elbows?” Debbie scoffs.

“Well I made that one up but the rest are absolutely true. Half my emails are age jokes. Or age affirmations. Have you been in a card shop lately? All the birthday cards are about age!”

“Duh” Debbie shoots back, “I’m not even going to respond to that.”

Anyway, I met Andy in spite of my age. I kept re-meeting him before we actually got together.

The first time occurred on the corner of Broadway and 91st. He tried to out maneuver me for a cab. I was standing on the corner and he came along and walked up town to be in a better position to snag the next taxi coming downtown. So I went even further up town. He repeated the maneuver and so did I. I finally did beat him to the first cab but I'm convinced the fare was at least a dollar extra.

Then there was that little bicycle encounter. He was riding his bike and almost ran me over. He seemed to think it was my fault. I knew it was his.

The third time was at a neighborhood party. Not the one with all the goodies, a real party and I arrived early. Well, he walked in – all tanned and fit and looking like a sailor. Rather like he was walking onto a yacht. No ascot but a blue shirt and blue, blue eyes.

Toward the end of the evening he walked over to me and asked me not if I was OK after the bike incident. Instead he inquired how my husband was.

“Not good” I said,  “Since I don't have one.”

“But I see you pushing an old guy in a wheel chair in the park quite often.”

“Which old guy?” I countered. “I’ve got an awful lot of old boyfriends. Mobile or otherwise.”

“You are a smart alec.” He declared as he disappeared into the crowd.

The next time I ran into Andy was at the local Starbucks. He made the peace sign and suggested we find a table. Not so easy in a Starbucks but we managed. We talked about the perils of biking in New York, and how much the neighborhood had changed. I spilled my coffee not once but twice and he affably mopped it up. He asked me who the old guy in the wheel chair was and I admitted it was a friend from college who was ill. Did he have to say old? My friend was my exact age although MS had taken a toll on his looks I supposed.  I told him every non-age related joke I could think of. Even: “Do you know why the great Olympic skier Pekabo Street isn’t allowed to answer the phone at her new job? Because she works in an ICU.”

Get it? Peekaboo, ICU.

And he laughed. He actually laughed.

He told me all the important exciting things he had done in his life. I told him about my mother. And he laughed.

He laughed at my jokes.

Did I mention that Andy was at least five years younger than I?

I have a very nice little apartment in the west 90s I was able to buy during the last real estate downturn. After inviting Andy to dinner I took a good look at the place. It occurred to me that I was living in a Laura Ashley time warp – all pine and blue chintz. Nice comfy and lived in, I reassured myself.  But definitely dated.

I could tell he wasn't particularly comfortable there. He kept moving from adorable chair to adorable chair. Too small, I supposed or too lumpy. Did he cringe ever so slightly at the sight of my cluttered kitchen?

I cooked a great meal. Andy loved it. He passed on dessert, but spent the night in the room he did seem to like.  He said the bedroom was so girlie he felt like a 19^th century seducer. OK that was fine with me.

If my apartment was girlie, his was all male. Beige and brown. Glass and chrome. Not a speck of dust. It was so neat I was afraid to sit down. His kitchen looked like it had never been used. He ordered in. He did know his way around his kitchen enough to make marvelous coffee. The kitchen still looked pristine when we left.

I don't mind a messy kitchen. I love to cook. And to eat. In fact I love food. I have a number of very strong beliefs about food, beliefs that seem to preclude dieting. For instance, I believe in butter. I am a crusader for butter. Butter has been much maligned and unjustifiably so. Butter is a gift from the gods to our palates. Furthermore, butter is real. It is not a chemical compound. I always remind people that Julia Child believed in butter. They usually counterattack with a little sermon about Paula Deen. It's a tough battle.

Take the time I was standing in line at the Angelika movie theater waiting for Andy to arrive. I’m starving. I want popcorn. Buttered popcorn. Andy never orders popcorn. How can you see a movie without popcorn? It's an integral part of the experience.

Where is he? Does he always have to be late when I’m on time?

Just listen to those two women behind me. Thin women. I hate thin women.

“I never eat egg yolks. I just love egg white omelets,” Thin #1 says. “They taste just fine. You really don't notice the difference.”

“I feel the same way about low fat cheese. It really is quite palatable,” Thin #2 opines.

Good grief, who are they kidding? Low fat cheese is disgusting and an egg white omelet is just plain yucky. How long do l have to endure these two?

“Well occasionally I allow myself a little butter,” says #1.

“You do? Isn’t that a rather slippery slope?”

Like Thin #2 is reading my mind, she says “That's how I keep my figure and stay healthy. I would never touch butter. And I don't even have a cholesterol issue.”

And she’s still not allowing herself butter?

“What’s the point of eating that way? You miss out on so much of the good things in life. Great tasting food is important. Practice moderation, eat everything delicious but in small quantities.”

But I have said out loud! O my god I said that out loud!

“Pardon me,” says Thin #2 “but moderation just won’t do. You need eternal vigilance.”

“And who asked you anyhow?” says #1.

“But” I sputter, “The French eat everything and stay slim.”

“It’s just because they smoke.”

“No its not.”

“Yes it is.”

“No it is not.”

“Mon dieu!” says a suddenly materialized Mereille Guilano – you know, the one who wrote French Women Don't Get Fat.

“Mesdames, pardonnez moi, I cannot help but hear you arguing and I tell you she is correct, un petit gros, but correct. We French believe in enjoying the food. Eat everything, including butter, but in moderation. Elle a raison. You are completely wrong. She is right.”

“See!” I holler.

Possibly the best two minutes of my entire life.

Fortunately Andy arrived afterwards.

It was too late to get into the movie, but I knew that Payard had opened a new patisserie a few blocks west on Houston. And I was able to guilt Andy into going there.

It seemed to me that the evening was going beautifully, even though I ordered an éclair and Andy ordered a salad. I realized Andy would have agreed with those #$%%^ Thin women in the movie line. He had an incredibly healthy life style and it got on my nerves. He never ate between meals, adored vegetables and worst of all skipped anything buttery.

Andy was a bachelor. "How did you escape?" I asked him. “Well I travelled a lot.” he explained, “and I just never put down roots.” He had been a sales rep for air conditioning systems. His territory had been Central America. “I guess you did really well selling air conditioners in a tropical country.”  He didn't laugh at that for some reason. He was retired now and looking for something like a new path. Why not a former book storeowner who knew a bit about selling things.

Even though he wasn't a couch potato, he still laughed at my jokes. In fact we seemed to be laughing all the time.

We laughed at how much I hated sports and how much he loved them. We laughed about the political mess in Washington.  We laughed at just about everything.  

It was easier than trying to come to an understanding on all the things we could never agree on.

He loved to sail. I thought sailing had possibilities as a sport. Sitting on a boat suited me just fine; forget that I don't know how to swim. Isn’t the idea to be on the water not in the water? And certainly I could deal with my ebbing sense of balance.

So I happily accepted his invitation to try out his sailboat. It would be an afternoon outing on Long Island Sound.

As soon as we arrived at the dock where his boat was moored I could see I was in trouble. No simple stepping off the dock onto the boat as I had imagined. Oh no, you had to get into a very tiny rubber boat and row to the big boat and jump onto it. I managed. Barely. More like I flopped onto the boat. I held on tight to make sure the yawning gap of deep sea between the dinghy and the sailboat was reduced to absolutely nothing. I virtually crawled onto the deck. A very small deck without nearly enough things to hold onto.

Andy laughed at what he thought was my clowning. I didn't let on just how ill at ease I was.

But once sitting in the cockpit, I loved it.

Andy turned on the motor and fiddled with a couple of dozen gizmos and we motored out of the little harbor onto the open sea. It was lovely. I decided I could learn to appreciate sailing.   I managed to follow his instructions to undo the thingies on the big sail. I even cranked the whatchamacallit to raise the big sail by hanging onto the mast with one arm and cranking with the other without falling off the boat.

I ducked my head when he tacked. I even figured out what tack meant. I thought Andy was adorable calling out “Hard a lee!”

Everything was going swimmingly until he asked me to take the steering thing for a few minutes.

“Just steer into the wind – nothing to it,” he called, descending inside to the cabin.

Why didn't I ask what steering into the wind meant?

Because, I didn't steer anywhere except over a lobster pot and got us caught in its rope.

Andy didn't laugh but he didn't get angry or anything. He just tried all sorts of things to untangle the thing, repeating all the while this had never happened to him before but he had heard it was quite common in Maine. Of course, we weren’t in Maine.

After about half an hour, he decided to dive overboard and under the boat to cut us free. I think the water must have been at Maine temperatures, because he really appreciated the blanket I had brought along for the picnic we were going to have on that little island we never got to. 

He seemed rather blue, in more ways than one, after that. And untalkative.

We never went sailing again.

Something changed in our relationship after that. I couldn't help but notice that Andy seemed preoccupied with what I ate. “Are you sure you want a croissant? A whole grain muffin would be a much better choice,” he might say. Or suggest salads and soups as dinner options a bit more often than I cared for.

And then he started in with the exercise suggestions. First he mentioned that his health club had a special reduced membership offer. I hate health clubs. They are so sweaty and smelly. He seemed to be perpetually returning from or on his way to some dreadful exercise activity.

We walked everywhere, but he was always 10 paces ahead of me. He insisted he was unable to walk as slowly as I, who was almost running to keep up with him.

“Just go ahead, I’ll meet you there someday,” I would say.

Public transportation was something Andy only used if the destination was more than a mile away. He of course preferred subways to buses so he could run up and down the stair steps.

I think the only time he had ever hailed a cab was that day he had tried to do me out of one. Normally he avoided them strenuously. I think taking a taxi for him was one step short of calling an ambulance.

Maybe dancing was a physical activity we could enjoy together.

After seeing Tango Argentino, we agreed to take tango lessons together. It is such a sexy compelling dance.

It quickly became obvious we were not meant for it; tango brought out the worst in us. He needed to follow the exact steps. I couldn't remember the steps and just wanted to improvise.

To save face we put together a three-minute routine to perform for friends. We could last three minutes.

Then there was the subject of political differences. He and I were from opposite ends of the spectrum. I asked him how he had managed to buy an apartment on the Upper West Side. “Isn’t there a mandatory liberal clause in the purchase agreement?” I asked.

We solved the problem by avoiding anything hinting of politics.

Once I got on the subject of the treatment of the American Indians. “Doesn't everyone agree that they had been shoved brutally out of their land?” His response was “Hey, it was war and they lost.”

Even though we had our differences, we seemed to be able to handle them. I was enjoying the banquet. I think he was too. We began to talk about moving in together but neither one of us wanted to give up our apartments.

Andy was born and raised in Florida, a background I found hilarious. I didn’t know anyone could come from Florida, I thought you could only move there to die.

His family made their move there shortly after World War 2. They established a nursery in Cocoa Beach, just across the bay from what is now Cape Canaveral. The family joke was that if they had just invested in some sand dune real estate back then, they could have been millionaires.

We visited his parents there in February. They were delightful and their home was a beautiful old stucco Florida home covered with vines filled with flowers.

Unfortunately, I discovered Andy’s health thing was an inherited trait. Every item of food served was a vegetable with maybe a slice of tofu thrown in. Lots of talk about the advantages of a plant based diet. But these were not hipsters for gods sake, they were a nice old couple in their 80s. A very healthy old couple who woke me at 6:00 AM and asked if I wouldn't like to join them for a little 500-yard dash around the neighborhood.

When they returned, they were raring to take a little dip in the pool. I could only stare at them over my ill-gotten coffee, which I smuggled in after I saw that only herbal teas were in the cupboard. You can make a nice cup of coffee without a pot with those paper filters and a plastic cone. After this visit I learned to take them with me everywhere.

Afternoons were devoted to tennis. They even roller-skated! I was truly afraid water boarding was going to be next. I was asked to join every activity. I know I disappointed them but it was Andy who seemed to take offense.

“Well at least you could play bridge with us in the evenings,” he admonished. “They love bridge. Come on! Every one who comes to visit plays bridge. All my sisters in law play with them.”

I knew then that I had failed the test. The essential bridge test. I would no more play bridge than pull all my teeth out. I have had some really bad experiences playing bridge. It is a mean game, turning seemingly reasonable people into ruthless tyrants. One person is always chosen as the dummy and you know who that would be.

Well, we did do some nature walks and I really came to like his parents. They were just too healthy for me.

When we returned to New York, things started to go down hill between Andy and me. Instead of being together constantly, our dates dwindled to once a week and from there to once a month. We still laughed a lot but we had too many topics to avoid. 

He didn't say but I knew he saw me as a spoilsport. I saw him as just plain rigid.

I knew the banquet was over. I just didn't know what to do about it. I kept thinking I could change and live up to his standards. Or he could become more flexible.

It didn't happen.

I saw him a few weeks ago.  He had his apartment on the market and was preparing to move to Florida to take over the family nursery business. He didn't even mention my going with him.

I guess he knows all that fresh air and healthy living might kill me.

I still have the party dream. It's the same except now the doors are closed before I can enter.

But my foot is pretty firmly in the door. That's something.

Tomatoes on My Mind

                                      

        

         Lately, I’ve been thinking about tomatoes. Not just any tomatoes, the tomatoes I cannot get out of my mind were grown in the backyard gardens of Dayton Ohio during the post war Augusts of my childhood.

         Those were the summers before air conditioners when the house could get so hot candles might melt in their holders. The air was so heavy with humidity it weighed us down, making any kind of movement seem like an ordeal.  Ice cubes couldn’t be produced quickly enough to keep up with demand for iced tea and lemonade.

         Incredibly hot walks to a corner grocery store were endured for the promise of an ice-cold coke.  The price of a coke was a nickel which included leaning deep inside a giant cooler to retrieve one buried beneath mounds of precious ice.

         Those were Augusts so hot we slept outside on the porch. So hot crimes were committed over ownership of a fan. So hot all we could think of was those tomatoes ripening in the back yard. They were our reward. Huge, red, juicy and, if I may brag, utterly delicious. Those luscious specimens needed to be eaten fresh off the vine to be at their moment of magnificence.

          

         It was so hot I might be excused from chores. Grass blessedly was too burnt to cut, weeding was forgotten and garages went uncleaned.

         I might even have heard my mother say something as sweet as “Your room is an absolute mess but it’s too hot to clean right now. You will do it as soon as it cools down, right?”

         “Oh, yes, Mama, yes.”

         One job that wasn’t ignored was watering the garden. The sprinkler might be set up not only to save the lawn but also to allow every one a chance to play and cool off.

         Watering included the tomatoes of course. 

         Afternoons, I could sit under the biggest tree in our back yard, the one that provided enough real shade to keep the grass green and soft enough to lounge on. This is where I would while away hours reading the Black Stallion or Betsy Tacy stories.  It was the perfect place to count ants and peek at the tomatoes ripening. There were so many, it was okay to eat one whole with the saltcellar snatched off the kitchen table. Or a tomato and butter sandwich could easily be whipped up.

         A famous chef once said that if he could pick only one superb thing to eat it would be buttered bread. I would agree if you put some Ohio tomato slices on that with a little salt. .

         As suppertime neared, my mother would call me to pick a really ripe tomato or two for dinner. I would leap at that job. I knew tomatoes. As a toddler, I am told; I took a bite out of each tomato in my Grandpa’s Victory Garden as it reached the peak of ripening. Grandpa thought he had a raccoon attacking all his best tomatoes but it was just me, already a tomato connoisseur at age two.

        

         Those tomatoes were served at every meal in August. Daddy didn’t object to sandwich suppers as long as it was bacon lettuce and tomato. Mama might serve fried chicken, maybe not, maybe boiled ham or potato salad but whatever it was there always were red juicy tomato slices with just a little salt.

         Evenings were spent outside where a breeze might turn up. Sitting in the backyard swing, we would gaze at the stars and try to remember the names Grandpa had taught us. A television program had to be extremely good to entice us to re enter the overheated house. Instead we played shadow games and listened to stories and gossip. 

         During those evenings the acid sweet odor of the growing tomatoes was in the air, and, I swear, I could hear them ripening. 

Moving It

         I live in Manhattan and park my car on the street. It goes without saying that I am a big fan of Alternate Side of the Street Parking (ASP) regulations.

        

ASP is a traffic law that dictates on which side of the street vehicles may be parallel parked during designated hours to allow the streets to be cleaned.

Twice a week it becomes illegal to park on the North or West sides of the streets in my neighborhood for an hour and a half. On two other days it is exactly the opposite. Signs with the little red brooms spell this out clearly and comprehensibly.

        

Isn’t that brilliant? Our streets are always sparkling clean and perfectly passable.

What’s a little disruption to my life weighed against civic duty? If I haven’t been clever enough to find a legal parking spot, I just have to get out to move my car before the traffic cops get to it. I can double park, giving me undisturbed time just to sit in my car and enjoy it for the hour and a half.

Double parking is always illegal in New York City. But no ticket will be issued if the driver remains in the car.

ASP gets me on my feet and out of my stuffy apartment. Who wants to sleep in and miss the fascinating activities of life on the streets of New York City?

This is time I can devote to checking up on my car. I can look to see if the battery is working or just see if it is still there. I can test my lights or my windshield wipers. I can read or listen to music or bone up on current events on my car radio while I clean out my trunk. As I said, I have a whole hour and a half for this.   

I get my exercise running to my car to beat the traffic cops, ever alert to serve and protect and hand out humongous parking tickets for being even a minute late.

         The best thing is that ASP saves me a lot of money. The cost of a garage in my neighborhood is about the same as the mortgage payments on a house in Ohio would cost if I had listened to my mother and stayed there.

                          

But as I said, running is great exercise. I am also kept mentally alert by the effort it takes trying to remember just where I parked my car in time to get to it before you know what regulations go into effect.

        

ASP also provides me with opportunities to meet other car owners, my neighbors, who have also rushed out of their own buildings to beat me to the small number of double parking spaces available.

        

Those of us who succeed in cutting the others out get to sit cheerfully in our cold or hot cars awaiting the exact moment when it will be legal to exit our vehicles.

        

One half hour before the parking rules change, we slowly and respectfully re-park our cars on the freshly cleaned sides of the street, knowing that at least tomorrow we won’t have to come out and perform this heartwarming ritual.

One is permitted a gratuitous glare at anyone having the temerity to abandon his car early and risk a ticket. There is a certain well-deserved righteousness bred in to the hearts of those of us who stick it out.

        

With the arrival of the longed for moment, car doors seem to open almost simultaneously as though choreographed by some omniscient traffic god.  Refreshed, we can return to our homes or work.

        

I cannot forget to mention the lessons I’ve learned from the commercial vans heroically competing with me for those limited spaces. I have seen spectacular feats of parking involving driving backward at 50 miles an hour down a one way street to execute a perfect three point parallel parking maneuver into an available spot. What acrobats of the roads!

        

Did I tell you about the traffic cops who build community spirit with their efficient yet respectful manner of calling out "Move it" or "Outta here"?

        

The sanitation vehicles are marvels as well.  It is a lot of fun to watch the cleaners rearranging the debris on our street. They have high tech, high decibel horns, which politely convey the same messages as the traffic cops, namely "Move it" or "Outta here. Now".

        

But what I really love best are those movie and television crews who help our city’s economy by taking over blocks and blocks of parking spaces in order to create an authentic New York City scene for an up coming movie or TV program.  Brightly colored, indecipherable signs are posted on trees and lamp posts to announce just how many days huge trucks filled with lighting equipment, scenery, dressing rooms, and catering services will occupy five or ten blocks of prime parking spaces.

I do wish they would tell us what the titles of these movies might be, however, so I can look forward to seeing my neighborhood for 15 or 20 seconds on film.

        

I hear that there are movie stars right here in my neighborhood. I have never actually seen one; I am usually out cruising outer neighborhoods for a parking spot.

        

An acquaintance who lives a few blocks away told me how thrilled she was when she met the star of a movie being shot on her block. “It was Robert Redford,” she crooned. “I actually got to shake his hand.”

        

“My, my,” I responded, “how very nice. You don’t own a car, do you?”