My Village Life

 I just love the English country life.

In fact, I want to live my life just like those Brits I see on PBS. You know, the ones who live in small picturesque villages shown to best advantage in Midsomer Murders or Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple Mysteries.

They all live in thatched roof cottages or in their manors to which they were born. They all do their shopping on the High Street. There is no trace of a supermarket to be seen. You see the high and the low meeting in shops or singing in the choir or going to bell ringing practice. They organize jumble sales and have fetes on the Village Green where they sell dilapidated castoffs to each other in the name of charity.

They hang out in incredibly charming pubs with very low ceilings where they drink dark beer served at room temperature. There is also a lot of sherry consumed, which I could do without, but the Vicar serves it in his book-lined study while listening to someone who prays for forgiveness for wanting to kill a neighbor.

Most of them show no visible signs of earning a living. They are artists or botanists or writers. They spend their time working in their gorgeous gardens and know the Latin names of every plant.

Or they are retired with plenty of time to spend snooping around and spying on each other.

Some even have telescopes hidden behind chintz curtains.

If anything goes wrong - for instance, a body is discovered in the library – they ask for a stiff drink and beautiful cut glass decanters emerge from mahogany chests full of whiskey or gin.

They do seem to kill each other at rather alarming frequency and ingenuity. It’s an integral part of their charm.

They always seem to be eating or drinking something - pints of bitter and a ploughman’s lunch at pubs, or fairy cakes and cream teas in quaint little teashops. An occasional drop of poison keeps them on their toes.

Little old ladies are quite important in theses villages.  They knit, garden like mad and know absolutely everything about everyone. There was one old lady, I can’t remember the show, who I have taken as a role model for my future when I get old. She rides about her village on a tricycle with a cute little basket on the handlebars. She keeps her shopping and a little dog in it.

She looks so happy and self-sufficient. Never mind that she gets murdered in the first 15 minutes. 

All I need is one of those three wheelers and old ladyhood will be a breeze. My corner of New York will be just like an English village. Haven’t I always heard that NYC neighborhoods are like small self-contained towns?  Of course I will have to ignore the 15 story buildings like mine, but I can pedal around the neighborhood on my tricycle, say hello to anyone who looks amenable as I do my errands and look for anything suspicious all in one fell swoop.

I couldn’t have a dog because the stores here wouldn’t let the poor thing in no matter how cute it would be. And I’d need a huge chain to lock the trike up in front of each store I enter, but I can just picture myself in a straw hat in the summer and ancient tweeds in the winter.  Maybe I’ll buy a pair of Wellingtons.

I’ll discuss the weather with Byron, our doorman, who should have a little gray hair himself by the time I get old. I’ll hop on my trike and take off for the post office or library. I'll stop off at the housewares shop and pick up a large vicious looking carving knife just to keep in the little old English lady spirit.

I’ll visit the florist for some advice about my African violets and a fresh bottle of weed killer. He probably doesn't sell arsenic, so the weed killer will have to do. It could go nicely in a kitchen cabinet beside the lye and the drain cleaner.

Since we don't have a teashop nearby and Starbucks isn’t known for seating space, I’ll pedal over to the pastry shop across from St John the Divine. Too bad its Hungarian but awfully good so I'll just have to  pretend I am eating a scone.

Good luck that the cathedral is Episcopal and the garden is quite English. I wonder if anything interesting is buried there? There are even two peacocks wondering around.

Since I’ll be an old lady, I won’t even notice the absence of pubs in the area.

Occasionally, I’ll rush home to prepare tea for a few friends. I’ll take out all the knickknacks I can find and cover all the end tables with them to give the apartment the proper cottagey air.

I’ll serve the pastries I bought, but I will have to run back out for the right kind of bread for cucumber sandwiches. I’m sure there is a recipe in one of my cookbooks.

A tablecloth and napkins will be needed and I’ll put out flowered cups and saucers and clean up that old teapot in the back of the closet. The tea will taste a little odd so everyone will be a bit nervous. That would be fun.

I recently purchased a book about poisons on Amazon.com. I’ll leave it lying about in a conspicuous place.

If anyone goes in the kitchen they will certainly notice the big knife I just bought lying on the counter. A little ketchup on the floor will make a nice touch.

We will exchange newsy tidbits and gossip about our neighbors.

Since I refuse to play bridge, I may suggest we play poker or a game of Clue.  

We could solve a murder.

Or plan one.

Ah yes. Life could be quite British.

That Woman at the General Store

At first I was sort of appalled: “Look at that woman getting out of her car over there,” I said to myself.  “She has to be at least my age and she is walking right into the store in her bathing suit!”

And the real kicker?  “She looks perfectly at ease.”

I almost dropped my ice cream cone.

“God, imagine having that kind of nerve!”….

And then it came to me, not a lightning bolt, maybe a pinch in the shoe: Who was the person with the problem in this little summer scene in the parking lot of a Georgetown Island general store in Maine?

It just might have been me.

Yeah, I have succumbed big time to age embarrassment. Tank tops have disappeared from my wardrobe. My preference for black clothing has gotten out of control.

And I haven’t worn a bathing suit since my first social security check arrived.

Why am I so out of sorts with my body? That's easy, my body is showing the signs of its years.

And I am pissed.

But aside from exercise, diet and prayer – is it even right to pray for a decent body?  – There isn’t much I can do about gravity.

I’m not an optimist. I do not subscribe to positive thinking. In fact positive thinking makes me cranky and irritable.

So don't tell me how great I should feel about being alive etc. I am grateful but still put out about developing an appearance that is looks more and more alarmingly like my mother in her later years.

And I am actually outraged that it is happening to me.

A few weeks ago, I noticed an article in the New Yorker about the philosopher, Martha Nussbaum. I had never heard of her, but in the picture she looked as though she was no more a spring chicken than I. Skimming the article a sentence caught my eye: it went something like “Remember how 40 years ago the book Our Bodies Ourselves inspired us to get past body hatred and accept all the ugly parts we were ashamed of? But now that we are in our sixties we are disgusted again.”  

I was late for something so I put the magazine down. I thought how wonderful. She is going to discuss the problems we women have with accepting our aging bodies.

For several days I couldn't find the magazine. It had disappeared into the ether of my apartment. As I searched, I tried to imagine what Ms. Nussbaum would say. Would she mention that in some societies it is possible to be beautiful at any age? And that the French have an appreciation for the jolie laide – the ugly beautiful?

Would she show me how to live in the moment? Maybe I would even learn how to look at the positive not the negative. I would learn to do the best with what I’ve got, as some character in a bygone Disney movie directed.

Or just learn not to give a damn.

I finally found the magazine and rushed to the article only to find that there was no discussion of aging at all. The sentence about Our Bodies Ourselves was the end of it. I reread the entire article to make sure.

I was upset. Where was the outline, the plan for me to follow? The answers I was seeking weren’t going to be given to me.

What about all those thoughts and feelings I had while looking for the article? Were they a waste?

Finally it came to me that maybe I don't need Ms. Nussbaum to think it out for me.

Obviously the lady at the General Store didn't.

Besides my mom was always beautiful.

Train Brain

“Why on earth do you ride busses instead of trains?”

I’ve heard this question more than a few times.

I know busses are slow and the subway system is a quick and efficient means of transportation. But I choose to travel by bus as long as I have the time.

And since I am a retired person I usually have the time.

I don't mention the real reason I choose busses over trains. You see, subways bring out the worst in me.

I become a real curmudgeon riding them.

On a bus my gaze turns outward to the sights of my city. I never get enough of looking out the window. There are so many fascinating things to observe. I am tranquil and at peace on a bus.

But put me on a train and  I become a people watcher. And not a particularly kind one.

With the exception of noticing what people are reading and finding real solace in the number I see reading print materials I become quite critical.

And if the train is stalled, downright mean.

I start wondering why.

Why is that young woman glaring at the schoolgirl slouching against a pole? I had applauded the sloucher for reading a paperback but now I see she is hogging the entire pole. The first woman, who is a bit short and struggling with the strap, is using the evil eye technique on the pole clinger until she actually vacates her spot and moves elsewhere.

I’ll bet you know what happens next. Yep the critic grabs the pole and hogs it all for herself. And she’s not even reading!

They were both wearing flip-flops. This is another thing I wonder about especially on trains. Flip flops seem rather risky footwear on crowded trains. Feet look so vulnerable in them.  I guess they survive just fine since all I see are flip-flops. I notice a rush to wear them any time of year, rain or snow. If the temperature rises above twenty I am sure to see feet clad in flip-flops.

I am surprisingly uncritical of man spread. The darn seats on the trains are so narrow I kind of sympathize. Unless a guy is spreading into my territory. Of course.

Backpacks. Now that's an area for extreme curmudgeonry. Do people really forget that they have the equivalent of an encyclopedia hanging off their backs as they maneuver through crowded trains? We duck and cower as they obliviously push their way. Back packers invariably glom onto their devices. No books - print or otherwise.

Little kids? Why do little kids get seats while the adult stands up?  I always sat down and held my child on my lap. Maybe people are stronger these days. I always needed the seat more than I thought my kids did.  Of course some of them do read books.

And then there are the bra straps for me to wonder about.

All these pretty summer sundresses with straps hanging out. Didn't we win the right to go braless 40 years ago? And now it seems all I see are layers of them! Gorgeous dresses with an entire open back revealing a grungy bra. Don't these women have mirrors? Is this some sort of anti feminist badge? Maybe some sort of modesty? Laziness?

My daughter says it’s a style.

We rejected girdles and garters too. Can I look forward to them becoming a style soon? Oh yes, I forgot, Spanx have replaced them. And no one wears stockings anymore it seems. I keep wincing at the sight of stiletto heels and bare legs. Don't those thing hurt your feet even more without stockings? And like flip flops I see open toed shoes in the depths of winter. Todays young woman has to have perfectly groomed legs to punish in the cold without stockings in high heeled toeless shoes. Is this an improvement?

I am beyond criticizing who does or does not get up to give away seats to older people. Sometime I get offered seats, sometimes I don't. I used to try and look at the bright side and tell myself I must not look old enough to need one.

Now I just hang onto my pole, try not to look pitiful in my stockings and shoes and hope for the best.

Or I read.

Sister Mary Agatha, the Enforcer

Sister Mary Agatha looked nice enough. Peering into the funnel of her habit we could see an old smiling face. It was hard to tell with nuns but this one was sort of grandmotherish. So she couldn't be too bad.

It was 1954 and I was part of the seventh grade class at St. Albert the Great elementary school.

“The first day of school went just fine,” I told my mom. “We got a nun for a teacher again, not like Miss Allen at all. We have a real nun in a real habit.”

We all ambled in the second day of class, laughing, talking and ignoring the person in black sitting at her desk in the front of the classroom.

She just sat there. She didn't say a thing. She didn't yell at us to be quiet like Miss Allen did every morning last year. She just stared at this class of 30 kids who had made Miss Allen’s life a living hell the previous year.

Well maybe hell is too strong a word but we didn't make it easy. I guess we were pretty mean to Miss Allen. I don't say poor Miss Allen, because I never liked her and worst of all, like the entire class, I didn't respect her.

Was it because she wasn't a nun that she lacked authority? Was it because she was human with real hair that wasn't hidden beneath a medieval wimple? Was it because she looked silly aiming the nun’s traditional clicker at us? We ignored her. Any nun could use one of those clickers to silence an entire class. But not Miss Allen.

We just didn't seem to listen to her. We laughed and passed notes, we didn't line up in perfect rows or stand up simultaneously when she demanded it. She either screamed or pleaded with us to behave. Yes she even whined. She chose Pauline Wagner to use as an  example of the perfect deportment she expected the rest of us to emulate. We hated poor Pauline. It took me years to realize she hated being a teacher’s pet as much we hated her.

So to the sound of whispering and giggling, spit balls were thrown and notes passed. We did imitations of her mannerisms. The boys put icky things in her desk drawers. They attached a string to her chair to make it fall over. We tried our best to make her miserable.

As I realize now, we were bound to pay. No properly run 1950s Catholic grade school called St. Albert the Great and administered by a principal named Sister Melathon was going to let that situation go on forever.

So here we were, it was the second day of school and that sweet grandma thing had disappeared. Yes indeed this was no Miss Allen.

This was Sister Mary Agatha. And there was no raised voice, no pleading, just silence as she sat there staring at us. And each time a kid would look at her face there was one less kid laughing and talking. This lady was going to be a whole different story. Only she wasn't a lady at all. Or a woman. She was what Miss Allen wasn't. She was a nun.

She rose from her seat and slowly walked up and down the rows of desks. We were allowed to feel the full impact of the long black robe, the perfectly white collar and bib and the blue, blue eyes that didn't seem to blink.  And the clicker not quite concealed in her pocket.

Sister Mary Agatha’s long heavy rosary swayed gently from her waist. Her faded hands were folded and it didn't take long for us to realize that she meant business and we were the business she was going to deal with.

As I think about it now she must have been the travelling Enforcer of the Sisters of Charity. A force so formidable that she was called in to clean up errant classes like ours. Classes that had gotten out of control.

There she was quietly looking us over. Taking our measure. Almost inaudibly she enumerated the Rules. No one needed to be told to write them down and remember them. No getting out of your seat without asking permission, no talking without permission, no laughing without permission, no anything without permission. There would be punctuality, quiet and attention. Or else.

It was the ‘Or Else’ that did it. No one wanted to test what ‘Or Else’ meant.

Was there corporal punishment? Caning? A rap on a knuckle? Nope, not once. Just that look, that stare and a voice that could have raised the dead and buried them again all in one long minute.

So I spent the first half of the year unable to eat breakfast because I felt too much like throwing up. I think it was the only year in my life when I handed my homework in on time. I kept a low, low profile in class, skipped my little comments and was the picture of a Good Girl.

We were drilled in grammar, arithmetic, history and catechism. Our penmanship was scrutinized. Essays had to be letter perfect and in ink. No erasures, no gravy spots, no misspelled words.

She knew whether or not you had actually read the book you were reporting on. Nothing seemed to get past her and if she raised her voice, terror, real fear gripped the room. A few tried to cross her: a few spit balls were tossed, a note or two were immediately confiscated and even a real worm was hidden in her desk drawer. She just laughed and tossed it in the wastebasket.

By December we were marching to her drum and she prepared to show us off. She taught us a Gregorian chant and arranged for us to sing at Sunday Mass. We were a real hit.

After Christmas she began sort of smiling from time to time. Then there were actual jokes. She said nice things to us. Praised a good job. Spoke words of encouragement. I could eat breakfast again.

She decided we should put on play for the rest of the school.

I don't remember much about the performance but I know all the lyrics to June is Bustin’ Out All Over to this day. We practiced and practiced and on the appointed day pranced and performed and sang and danced and had a great time. In fact I think I can speak for the entire seventh grade class of St. Albert the Great school: we began to love Sister Mary Agatha.

The school year ended and she said goodbye. We were sorry to see her leave.

The next fall we were given Sister Henrietta, a nun so mild and sweet only a perfectly behaved class like us could be assigned to her.

And Sister Mary Agatha? We never saw her again. I guess she went on to next bad class in the next school. After all she was the Enforcer.

Twinkies on the Nile

It’s before dawn and very dark. Jim and I follow a fast walking guide who isn’t groping his way down seemingly ancient stone steps or stumbling over rutted flagstones. Finally we join 10 other tourists aboard a tiny ferry draped in fringed cloths. We are crossing the Nile River. It’s a wow moment, one of those you won’t need pictures to remember.

We travel in an early morning fog and as the sun rises we hear the call to prayer echoing in the distance. It's a bit chilly and we are offered tea in tiny cups and a plate of pastries is passed around. I’ll be darned if they aren’t Twinkies. So this is where they disappeared to.

It is Egypt in April 2012 after all. The spell was broken for the moment but there was still enough of the ancient and awesome around us. This was the Valley of the Kings and we were on our way to a hot air balloon ride.

As I look back on this wonderful trip, I realize that the entire nation of Egyptians was on a hot air balloon ride of its own. It’s just that no one knew how soon the nation would be forced down to earth.

There was such an air of hope and confidence among the people we talked to. Just a year before, in 2011, The Arab Spring had felled a dictatorship. The people had gotten rid of Mubarak and were jubilant. They talked about the truly democratic elections coming up.

Our Cairo guide proudly pointed out Tahrir Square.  “ See, there are still tents, the whole square was covered with them. I was there. The people spoke and now we are free.”

“We have shown them,” our next guide, Aladdin, smiled. “They know we are watching and will rise again if they wrong us.”

I liked the Egyptians I met and observed.

I think of those happy, hopeful faces. I think of the years of subjugation these people had endured only to find themselves once again, under a new dictatorship.

We had signed up and paid for a tour of Egypt in 2011when the uprisings of the Arab Spring caused the State Department to cancel all travel to Egypt.

By 2012, and even though the situation had quieted down, we believed that we had lost our chance to visit there. Some friends of ours traveled to Cairo and assured us it was safe. They had lived in Egypt for years and felt it would be a great time to visit. They told us that, especially as tourists, we would be gratefully welcomed.

By this time the State Department lifted its travel ban. We found an agency offering guided tours to Egypt and signed up.

When we arrived at the Cairo airport, we found that our tour consisted of a party of two: us.

The tourist industry had definitely shriveled. We encountered very few Americans during our 10 days of travel but there were a number of groups of French and German tourists.

Vendors besieged us. We felt we needed to tip much more than we would normally give on a tour. It seemed we were supporting families single handedly.

If getting individual treatment is a sign of a good tour, we got that aplenty. We were given our own guide at each stopping point. We were treated to private vans and exceptional hotels.

Egypt seemed to me to be a rather benign place. Driving through Cairo and Alexandria’s snarled traffic, the thing that struck me was that there were almost no horns honking, no screams of frustration as we had seen in Delhi, Istanbul or for that matter New York City. These people just seemed to cope with the situation. Maybe everyone was in a good mood, or it was a good couple of days but it was noticable.

Besides feeling a bit lonely, I loved every minute of our tour. The pyramids were actually right across the street from our hotel in Giza. The brand new Library of Alexandria was a marvel. Sailing the Nile on a felucca manned by two very young teenagers was exhilarating. Seeing the Sahara and walking through the splendor of the massive Temple of Karnak at night were all unforgettable.

The country is now under a new more repressive dictatorship. The tourist industry must be all but totally closed down.

What a pity for the world to be denied these ancient splendors.

Not to mention Twinkies.