Watching

I wandered into Straus Park today
To read
I found a bench
Near an old man in rolled pants and sandals.
I checked out the flowers
Took in the sounds of the fountain
Saw birds watching children
Seeking an opening to splash
They soared and zoomed overhead
A lot
There were two parents
Talking
And two kids three or four years old running faster than the birds could soar
Around and around the fountain.
They crouched low
To remove shoes and socks
I waited to hear what the parents would say
I wanted drama
I didn't get
A peep
Except for the birds.
Those kids treated that fountain like Orchard Beach
And it wasn't even warm
They got all soaked and wet
I wondered if I would have allowed my own two such leeway
Forty years ago in this same park
When it was run down and overrun
But
Weren’t we all the same?
The old man
The birds
The kids
The over sixty ladies with hats and magazines
Watching

Returning

So many returning veterans of Viet Nam, the Gulf War and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan suffered horribly from their experiences.

I remember my father returning home from his service in World War II. He and all my uncles had to cope with what they went through. Mostly they didn't seem to say much about it at all.

Uncle Larry was killed in the War. His death was a fact, a gaping hole in our family. Uncle Don chose to stay in England with his new English wife - which had something to do with an old American wife. But not a whole lot was said about either of these losses - at least not in front of us kids.

My other uncles, Joe, Philip and Raymond and especially my dad, just seemed awfully happy to be home.

My parents moved into a government housing project we called Happy Homes. It was offered to ex GIs and their families. Barracks on Wright Patterson Air Force base were converted into apartments. They were small, cheerful and cheap. The idea was to enable veterans to get restarted, go to school on the GI bill or save enough to buy a house

We watched our dads and uncles pack away their dog tags and their medals. We children got to play with the souvenirs they brought home. We wore their caps at jaunty angles. The boys staged battles, happily killing Japs and Krauts.

We especially loved the parachutes. We made tents or cut them up for costumes for Halloween. Uncle Raymond had souvenirs from the Germans. One was a Luger pistol. No one asked how he got it.

Each of my uncles had his own particular story to tell. We were warned not to ask Uncle Philip any questions because he had been among the first Americans to enter the camps. “He doesn't want to talk about it,” Daddy said.

Did they get together after we went to bed? Did they gather in bars or at the track to really talk over their experiences?

All I can remember of Daddy's stories was his often repeated account of jumping into the Pacific after his troop ship was hit by a kamikaze plane.

"You should have seen it,” he said. “That guy hit us square in the middle. He knew where he would do the most damage. I was eating lunch and before I knew it I was in the water.”

“Was it cold?”

“Oh no, not cold, it was summer in the Pacific, but the water was choppy and we had to keep swimming. We couldn't just float.”

He would stop at this point in his story to say to Mama, “I’m sorry. The watch you gave me when I left was ruined. It was a Bulova and really good.” He never missed this straight line.

And she always responded. “Why didn't you put it in your pocket?”

She would remind us that she actually did say this and we would all laugh before he got to the part about how he was glad he had played hooky from school to go swimming a lot. He and a lot of other guys were in the water a long time and the weak swimmers didn't make it.

“Sharks Daddy - did you see sharks?”

“No sweetie. We knew about them and we were scared they would show up, but as I said the water was choppy and I guess they were busy somewhere else. We were mostly scared because we were hit in the afternoon and we knew rescue operations stopped at sundown. We didn't have anything to hold onto. No rafts, no debris. We just doggie paddled and prayed.”

“I think the guys I was with were the last bunch to be picked up. A rescue boat finally appeared just as the sun was setting. We were dragged on board and we thought everything was ok. We were saved. But then it pulled in really near to another big troop ship. We could see it heaving up and down in the waves. A huge net was lowered down and we were told to jump for the net. There was only one chance. The sea was so full of swells.  A lot of guys missed. I watched them miss. And then it was my turn. You can see I made it.”

“Yeah, Daddy, I sure am glad you made it.”

And that was about it. We learned he was in the Philippines on Mindanao. He manned an ack-ack, an anti-aircraft gun. I looked up the Battle of Mindanao. It was a very long, dirty episode. That was in 1945 so he only spent about two years total in the war. And when it was over, somehow it became known he could cook so he got that job. For a while.

He came home through San Francisco. He loved San Francisco. Mama wanted to meet him there, but it didn't work out.

She would frequently ask him if the Philippino girls were pretty and he would always just laugh.

In his last years when he had Alzheimer’s, he would brighten up at any young woman who looked a bit South East Asian. He would approach and say, “Are you Philippino? You Philippino girls were awfully good to us GIs in the war.”

We would apologize for how it must have sounded. But most of the young women would laugh and pat his arm. People are kind.

Mama said, “I guess it was a long time ago.”

Waking up the first day after heart surgery, he thought he was on a troop ship again in the Philippines. The next day his ship passed by Hawaii. The third day the ship was nearing San Francisco.

Mama said, “At least he’s returning home again.” 

Giorgio, Paolo and Francesca or How I Learned About Pisans, Olive Oil and Sulfites

During a vacation in Italy a few years ago, I heard someone say the people of the present day Tuscany couldn't get used to being a part of the European Union. They felt uncomfortable being called Europeans. In fact they hadn’t accustomed themselves as yet to being Italians. After all, the unification of Italy happened only in the 1860s. Tuscans are reputedly still living in the city-states of the Middle Ages. Each city, such as Florence, Pisa, Siena and Lucca, fiercely retains its unique identity.

After visiting Florence and Siena, we booked a guided tour of Lucca with a superb guide named Paolo. The city, birthplace of Puccini, was surrounded by a fortressed and imposing wall wide enough for strolling and bicycling. 

Paolo explained the illustrious history of the Lucchesi who had fought trade wars with Florence and Siena as well as Pisa. He told us that the enmity between the city-states of the Middle Ages still exists.

He told us how the crafty citizens of Lucca had beaten back the more powerful armies by their superior intelligence and wit.

The hero of this period was one Castruccio Castracani, who was so cunning a ruler, he served as the model for The Prince, the book Machiavelli wrote to educate Lorenzo de Medici in the art of civic dominance.

The next day we travelled to Pisa and there was the same guide but this time his name was Giorgio. He explained that it was a matter of strict government tour guide licensing so we didn't take the matter any further.

It was a fine tour. For me, while Lucca was love at first sight, my feelings for Pisa took longer to warm. It was difficult getting past the clichés of the town’s most famous sight. I learned to appreciate the Cathedral and Baptistry, the Arno River and the little still Medieval squares.

Pisa had been the dominant Tuscan city-state through much of the Middle Ages but had declined when the course of the Arno changed and cut off access to the sea.

He didn't mention the war with Lucca, but we heard about the Florentines who stomped all over the entire region about the same time the Renaissance began. 

In the afternoon we went with a group to the Fattoria Il Poggio, a vineyard and olive farm. It was on a hill covered with grape vines. Under the shade of olive trees, tables were set out for dining.

Our hostess and guide Francesca, who exuded youthful Italian charm and style, met us. She led us through the vineyards, explaining the ancient ways of planting and harvesting still very much in use at the fattoria. 

Someone asked how they could tell which vines were to be harvested and which needed to be left to grow stronger.

"Do you think we’re stupid?" she bristled, "We keep records.  Do you think we are like the Pisans who are the garbage of this earth?  Who wouldn’t know a ripe grape from a fig?”

That’s when I figured out we were in Lucca again. (The town was called Monte Carlo but obviously it was a part of Lucca. Good thing I didn’t ask.)

Wow! Pisa really is still the eternal enemy of Lucca.

Francesca didn't stop there. “As my Nona always said, ‘Better a dead body in your bed than a Pisan at your doorstep.’”

She described the purity of the local vintage, which would never - I repeat, never - be exported to the USA because it would be contaminated and made indigestible by the addition of sulfites.

Some fool mentioned that he thought all wines had sulfites. 

“Ha! Those are natural sulfites. You Americans are so worried about things lasting a long time in the stores you add so many sulfites to preserve the wine you end up destroying it.  That kind of wine gives you headaches and makes you drunk. Our wine is pure. It is good for your health. It will never go to the United States.”

I wanted to raise my hand and mention that it wasn’t anyone here personally committing this atrocity. But I wasn’t that dumb.

This lady should have been a teacher because she had us in the palm of her hand, quivering in fear lest we ask the wrong questions or in any way annoy her.

And as far as olive oil goes, only cold pressed was meant for human consumption, excluding Pisans, I assume.

"You use olive oil in America, I hear, but you probably buy Berio, sold by that traitor to Italy. Don’t mention that name Berio to me" she almost shouted. "That man cares only for money. He sold out to Nestle, a Swiss company! A Swiss company!” she fumed. “They go so far as to substitute oil from Africa and Turkey and dare to label it Italian. You think it’s all Under the Tuscan Sun, don’t you? Total rubbish made for you Americans.”

Did I mention that she was slim, blond and quite lovely?

"You Americans," she continued, "You are nice people but you don’t know how to eat. You put everything in the refrigerator - even olive oil!  And if it’s got that Berio on the label I tell you right now: put it in the garbage. " (Next to the Pisans, I mused.)

Oh you are right about that, we all agreed silently, fidgeting guiltily for being Americans who put sulfites in wine and don’t value olive oil properly.

Now came the time for us to return to those lovely tables under the olive trees. The ones that were straight out of Under the Tuscan Sun.We all sat together a little nervous, awaiting our next lecture.

It didn't come. Instead, we were taught to eat. Italian style.

The long table held bottles of light white wines and a selection of more full-bodied reds, all produced at the fattoria.

Baskets of crusty bread  sat next to  bottles of the Fattoria Il Poggio’s olive oil - cold pressed and certainly extra virgin. We were told to dip the bread in the oil. It was absolutely delicious. Especially with the cold white wine.

A plate of olives and prosciutto was passed around. Then came bruscetta, followed by homemade pasta that looked like pieces of lasagna noodle covered with a lovely Bolognese sauce, (I reminded myself to check out that city’s relations with Lucca.) and lots of glorious cheese. We had advanced to light red wines by now.

After a while a Bibb lettuce salad arrived and then a platter of cannellini beans in olive oil next to roasted ribs, sausage and chicken. A full bodied red accompanied these courses.

The bottles kept arriving and we kept eating and drinking and getting happier as people are wont to do under such circumstances.

Dessert was Vin Santo with biscotti for dipping. Finally the grappa came out. The instructions for proper ingestion were to drink without breathing. By that point it was a snap.

After at least a bottle of wine apiece, we became quite convivial and best friends forever.  But no one was actually drunk. Nor did anyone have a headache. Could it be the lack of sulfites?

 

I left a total convert to extra virgin olive oil and wines without sulfites. Actually, I never have kept olive oil in the refrigerator.  And I shun the Berio label but it’s really tough finding a wine that doesn't contain added  sulfites.

I liked Pisa though, especially Giorgio, or whatever his real Lucchese name was.

I really do remember, I just don’t want to blow his cover.

Back to Football

An early indication came in July when I mentioned to my husband that we couldn't get together with our friends the McClungs because they didn't have any free weekends in August, but they were free in September.

 I knew what Jim would say, "Well, I hope you told them we cannot make plans on Saturdays until after January. Sundays are ok, though.”

 Football season had started.

 And then, on a Saturday in early August, the Ohio State University grad marched into the living room where I was struggling with a crossword puzzle. The fingers of his right hand were spread out as he exclaimed, “You know what this means don't you? I walked right into it with one stupid word.

 “What?” I asked.

 “Its five weeks until football season starts.” He exulted. He’s cagy that one. This was a new ploy. He hadn’t used the digital announcement before so I was taken unawares.

 He skipped the next weekend. I think we were visiting friends who I am sure would have thought it totally adorable.

 But Jim did appear very early a week later when I wasn't quite awake enough to ignore the three-finger salute. “You know what this means, don't you?” He demanded and dummy me actually responded.

 So there I was, playing the game again. I have to look on the bright side and reflect on the fact that he will never start this digital signal over 10 weeks ahead. I know he can’t march in with his toes in the air.

Now I am not going into why I am not also a fan. I am not. I am simply not interested.

 I try not to see the total disappearance of my husband into football mode: red* sweatshirt, marching band cds and even a little scarlet and gray pom pom thing he pulls out for the OSU Michigan game as symptoms of an obsession. After all he returns pretty much to normal in January.

 I have come to see all this as an opportunity to go my own way. I spend many football Saturdays with our daughter, Amy, puttering around Brooklyn, talking, shopping, and walking in Prospect Park. We rent a movie, order in something nice and by the time I return home I can fall asleep totally unaware of the crises evolving on ESPN.

 I try not to stay home on football Saturdays. If I do I will lurk in the bedroom far away from the TV, I will read but I will start to have suspicions. I will shudder about the shouting in the front room; I will get annoyed about watching the old 12-inch TV.

 Also Sat TV is really lousy. Sports programs dominate all day long. I am left with cooking shows, sermons and infomercials. PBS is sports free, but did you know just before its Sherlock Holmes reruns, Channel 21 actually plays the old Lawrence Welk Show?

 Sometimes there are some nice romantic comedies. Queen Latifa movies are my favorites. I love to see a big girl triumph. But the rushing into the kitchen to catch a snack without missing anything is amazing to me.

He whoops and hollers all day long. How can he be that consistently, so relentlessly avid? He will call me in to observe a replay, which is sometimes beautiful in its sheer energy, but I don't seem to want to wait for the next down.

 I know what your saying, “Why is she such a spoilsport?” You are ready to tell me about your Aunt Agnes who just like me hated football and was for many years a real pain in the you know what until she saw the light and joined in. You want to tell me how she learned to love beer and Doritos with very spicy salsa and cheered with her spouse into a blissful marriage.

 Now here’s my insight: I already have a blissful, well maybe not blissful, but a happy marriage. It seems to me that this is our own little thing, a shtick, so to speak.

I mean Jim can march around gleefully annoying me and I can rise to new heights of annoyance. Just to please him. I know he loves it and on some level so do I.

 Its what we do.

 *Scarlet. Even though it would mean using the same word twice in one paragraph, it is against the Rules to ever use the word red when referring to the old Scarlet and Grey.

Exercise

Well, it’s now 9:00 am. Obviously this is not going to be my daily - from this moment on until the end of my life so I can be a healthy old lady - hour of exercise.

It should be so easy. After all, I always get up early and lounge around for hours on end. Why not use one of those hours, just one of that endless span of hours that make up a day, to do some exercise? Think of how good I would feel! 

Wasn't it just yesterday I made a pledge, a vow to start the Fall exercising?

"So do it, Paula," I said. "Just do it. You must. Your knees, your weight, apparently your mental state demand it."

And I agreed with me, and with a zillion articles in every newspaper and magazine on the market.

I started out this morning so well. Got up at 6:00, remembered my vow, went to the kids' old bedroom, opened the windows, turned on the TV and there was Miranda Esmonde White, looking all perky on channel 25.  On channel 21 Priscilla did yoga and look! There’s Body Electric! It’s  still running since the last time I looked some 10 or 15 years ago.

Oops! Waited too long to choose and now all the exercise shows are half over. I need to plan ahead. 

6:00 AM is way too early to exercise anyway, I’ll wait until I’m  less stiff and the glucosamine has kicked in.

Maybe some caffeine too, I allowed myself.

By the time I made coffee, the Times had arrived.   Gotta love home delivery. What could be better than the sight of the newspaper in front of your door? Must check it out right away. 

By 7:00 I was no longer stiff but I still hadn't emptied the dishwasher or done the crossword puzzle. Hadn’t even located a pencil.

At 8:00 Jim got up and we had a nice chat about How We Hate Time Warner.

By 8:30, I wanted breakfast. That took half an hour.

So why am I writing this at 9:00 still not in front of my Pilates for Seniors, Classical Stretch or Yoga for the Rest of Us DVDs or even the easy knee video I just bought two days ago?

I decide against  going out for a walk because my back would act up.

I could drag out the bike, it’s warm enough, but biking would kill my knees. 

I don’t want to join a health club again.  I belonged to the YMCA and went there for a year and a half. Remember  how it took a half hour to get there, plus 15 minutes to find a locker, and get dressed, while avoiding the sight of all those pale white bodies. My years at a Catholic girls school taught me to change clothes without showing any skin. Kind of a gift to the universe at this time of my life.  

Then there is the mini trampoline staring at me from the utility closet it doesn't quite fit into. I always have to jam it in and shut the door fast.  But that thing turned out not to help my knees at all, so it just sits there next to the step gizmo from the 80's which started the downward slide my knees have taken. And right alongside it is the complete set of free weights and the Pilates Mini Reformer kit.  

Have I whined long enough? Won't someone call? Land line, cell phone? Morse code? I've looked at my my email, read the Times, put the trash out, done the crossword puzzle,  checked for mold around the kitchen sink. Isn't there a pressing household chore, like rearranging the towels, I must do?

Oh wow, here’s an idea, I can turn this whole debacle into an essay! I will write about it.

Then by 11:00 I'll be ready to start exercising.

Definitely.

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.