Another Publishing Journal: April 8, 2013
I was unable to get the two illustrations referred to in this blog
into the blog. I'll do better in the future, but it didn't work graphically today!
Emil Antonucci drew this illustration for Teo Savory for the contribution, Little Bear, in her 1977 Unicorn Press volume, A Clutch of Fables.
Little Bear is a fable about being an artist, a writer actually, misunderstood by just about everybody important to her and to her success. Teo was portraying herself.
Whenever I think of Teo, to whom I was married 32 years, I picture her immediately at her typewriter. Teo’s stance at the typewriter was not slouching like Little Bear but much more upright, not a depressed expression on her face, but more vigorous. But she’s typing. Hans Rey portrayed her just right in a letter he wrote to her about the same time as the Antonucci drawing. I’ll put the Hans Rey drawing at the top of the next page.
Hans of course is the creator of Curious George, and he and Margaret Rey, who wrote most of the Curious George books, were good friends of ours. Hans wanted us to publish something of his, but Teo wrote back that we had just moved and, in fact, had no office . . . She had to do her work right there, in the P. O. Box we rented at the post office! And this quick-witted artist got it right.
Today is my first day of work without Mo. That’s Maureen “Mo” Kessler, with whom I’ve worked in harness for the past year and a half, here at Glenwood Coffee & Books.
When I think of Mo it’s not sitting straight-up in front of a typewriter or even standing tall before an easel, it’s running into the bookshop, needing a cup of coffee. But I like decaffeinated, and that’s what is usually brewing.
Mo grabs three or four empty gallon jugs and heads for the water supply in the back room. One of her bette noirs is there’s no water supply into the coffeeshop, no drain. We use gallon jugs and an empty bucket! For a year, Mo has desired to get me out of the little enclosed room in our shop, where I live. She wants to see that used as a kitchen, one with a door and a hatchway, that you can keep clean, that has a water supply and a drain.
Moreover, as she shared when she told me she’s “outta here,” she doesn’t see how she can attract customers into a place where an old, sick man lives!
This morning, Mo won’t be running in here (“running” is how she walks, which to a turtle like me is memorable). Won’t scrunch up her nose when I tell her it’s decaf in the carafe. Won’t grab three or four empty gallon plastic bottles and head for the bathroom to fill them. Won’t flash her wide, toothy smile at me, although she doesn’t feel like smiling before a big cup and huge gulp of coffee. What a ragmuffin. I feel this echoing silence, this emptiness in the space this morning, very depressing.
- 16 -
Monday, April 8, 2013
Saturday, April 6, 2013
April 6, 2013
As of yesterday, Mo and I ain't speaking to each other.
We closed up at 9:30 last night, because it was the first formal performance of "Vagina Monologues" (they've been rehearsing here for a couple of weeks now). Mo left without saying good-night. We hadn't talked all day, her first full day in the bookshop in four weeks.
How we got to this point is what I'd like to journalize. (I hope you know all the stupid slang in my journals is intentional, not that this makes it less vulgar, but at least it isn't as stupid as you might think.)
So, you're warned. This won't be pleasant to read.
And, I suppose, I owe you an explanation of why there were no entries in February and March, 2013, in this journal entitled Glenwood Coffee & Books. I've covered my disregard of the journals the past couple of months in my new journals (Criminal Journal, Cat's Journal, Another Publishing Journal). Basically, the excuse is a good one, I've been writing like mad, but small booklets (on Dorothy Day, Thomas Merton, Robert Smithson–memoirs about people I've known who have influenced me: Thich Nhat Hanh, Daniel Berrigan, s.j., Teo Savory).
This week, Mo and I had a couple of good talks. As you know, I think she (and Valerie Warren and a few other "Occupy" women) is the finest person I have ever known or met. I have to go all the way back to Zakira ("Patti Field"), 1970, or a superior person like Kammaleathahh Livingstone, to find her equal. I've been privileged to be friends with a large number of really saintly or extraordinary or talented or brilliant young men and women in my 77 years. None are finer, perhaps none are as fine, as Maureen "Mo" Kessler. She has more qualities, certainly, than anyone I've ever met, because not only is she intelligent, not only is she a committed peace-and-justice personage, but she is also an incredibly talented and creative artist. It goes without saying she is a feminist and a very handsome woman. She'll be 28 next week.
Mo's one failing, if she has any, is she doesn't communicate, at least not with me. I have no idea why she has gone from extreme affection to extreme antipathy as far as I am concerned. Why did she care about me so much to begin with? I have no idea. Why is she so hateful now? Don't ask me.
I can repeat some of the things she said. But, I think, it's like a marriage. Two people are so in love they get married. They live together, have children. But when they divorce the hatred between them can overwhelm everything. Surely, the two extremes are connected?
But, how?
I feel unhappy that Mo suddenly now hates me. But I never had extreme feelings for her, and, now, I don't have anything against her. For example, I'm not speaking to her, if I'm not, because I blanch at the way she now looks at me. I feel this intense disgust and dislike, and it unnerves me. But I don't share it. However, the little I know and understand about Mo's character, I think I'm in for it. I have a strong belief that once you lose Mo's affection, it's gone forever. I mean forever.
She don't like old white men to begin with! Mo has shared some pretty strong prejudices about old white men with me. I'm sure I'm now one of those worms.
Oh, boy! All this against a background of "Vagina Monologues" in our bookshop!
In my defense I offer only that Mo isn't thinking too good lately. She's burnt out.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
April 3, 2013
GLENWOOD'S CAT’S JOURNAL: April 3, 2013
Al has asked me to include our dinner party from last night in my Cat’s Journal. Normally, he’d put it in one of his other journals. Like Out Journal or the Glenwood Coffee & Books Journal.
So, okay, never rest for the weary, yes, we did have a little dinner party last night. Pizza. Daniel and Lauren Goans. Al likes them, but I don’t know–I’m not sure they’re “cat people.” Not that it matters. Humans have got it into their heads that we cats don’t give a damn about them, so it’s good to keep it that way. The truth is of course that we worry like hell about them, incompetent fools that they are. Don’t know shit. Sigh.
I lay over, “floppy do's,” I call it. They didn’t even notice. Lauren did see me up high on the Coke Refrigerator, where I like to perch. “Al,” she said in her pretty voice, kind of like a cat when you think about it, “I think Glenwood likes to be nearby you.” Well, duh, of course, I have to be nearby him, clumsy ass that he is, I have to keep an eye on him day and night, miserable sucker. You never know what trouble he’ll get into next!
It took him all day to make the Pizza, set the table, polish the silver. I could have done the whole thing in half an hour! Fortunately, I don’t like Pizza (Tofu – can you believe it?!) . . . Because none was forthcoming. Humans are so rude, hardly ever offer to share. Oh, well, what’s new? I certainly don’t share my food, such as it is, either. In fact, come near to it, and I’ll scratch your eyes out.
So I flopped over. And gave them a purr or two. Did they notice? Well, Lauren did, at least once or twice. Daniel too busy for a mere cat. Humpf! He’s kind of scruffy, in one of those “human” sorts of ways. Lauren had on a nice sweater-blouse. Very pretty. Nice fur, too, I mean hair. Of course Al’s bald. Of course, compared to cats, humans, you’ll have to forgive me, are ugly! Sorry about that, but cat’s aren’t sentimental, you know.
GLENWOOD'S CAT’S JOURNAL: April 3, 2013
Al has asked me to include our dinner party from last night in my Cat’s Journal. Normally, he’d put it in one of his other journals. Like Out Journal or the Glenwood Coffee & Books Journal.
So, okay, never rest for the weary, yes, we did have a little dinner party last night. Pizza. Daniel and Lauren Goans. Al likes them, but I don’t know–I’m not sure they’re “cat people.” Not that it matters. Humans have got it into their heads that we cats don’t give a damn about them, so it’s good to keep it that way. The truth is of course that we worry like hell about them, incompetent fools that they are. Don’t know shit. Sigh.
I lay over, “floppy do's,” I call it. They didn’t even notice. Lauren did see me up high on the Coke Refrigerator, where I like to perch. “Al,” she said in her pretty voice, kind of like a cat when you think about it, “I think Glenwood likes to be nearby you.” Well, duh, of course, I have to be nearby him, clumsy ass that he is, I have to keep an eye on him day and night, miserable sucker. You never know what trouble he’ll get into next!
It took him all day to make the Pizza, set the table, polish the silver. I could have done the whole thing in half an hour! Fortunately, I don’t like Pizza (Tofu – can you believe it?!) . . . Because none was forthcoming. Humans are so rude, hardly ever offer to share. Oh, well, what’s new? I certainly don’t share my food, such as it is, either. In fact, come near to it, and I’ll scratch your eyes out.
So I flopped over. And gave them a purr or two. Did they notice? Well, Lauren did, at least once or twice. Daniel too busy for a mere cat. Humpf! He’s kind of scruffy, in one of those “human” sorts of ways. Lauren had on a nice sweater-blouse. Very pretty. Nice fur, too, I mean hair. Of course Al’s bald. Of course, compared to cats, humans, you’ll have to forgive me, are ugly! Sorry about that, but cat’s aren’t sentimental, you know.
Friday, March 29, 2013
March 29, 2013
My cat, Glenwood, has begun his own journal today. He's already written the PREFACE.
But this is his first entry.
What got him started was someone came into the bookshop and insulted him, saying,
"Doesn't that cat do anything but sleep!?" Glenwood got his dire up.
CAT’S JOURNAL: March 29, 2013
It’s Good Friday. “Christ on the Cross” kind of thing. You’d never find a cat doing that. Anyway, it’s Friday. Friday’s begin with the usual human insanity, huge garbage trucks plowing up and down the Avenue (here it’s called Glenwood Avenue, the spinal tunnel for the neighborhood’s vehicles). Inhibiting to say the least. There’s only two things worse than a garbage truck: (1) the # 2 Bus that runs by the bookshop every half hour (ugh!); (2) fire engines (ugh, ugh).
There was a fire here the other night. You probably don’t know it. Because you were asleep. Ahem! But was I? No. Had to put up with all that racket.
Buildings they’re building on Lee Street burned down. Probably set on fire by a disgruntled neighbor. Wouldn’t find a cat doing that–this phrase will probably come up a lot in this journal, let’s create an acronym, WFACDT. You humans are far out.
“Issue is” (I’ve been hanging around The Occupy Movement too long, I’ve begun to talk like those nuts) –anyway, the issue is the (ugh) university here, Un-Goo I call it [U.N.C.–G.]. Un-Goo has barreled into my neighborhood, Glenwood, and is starting their tenancy by tearing down all the buildings and trees and putting up new buildings, a police station, what they call a Park [more about that later] and a recreation center for the intellectual students to rest their weary minds, some 50,000 sq. ft. and thousands of cars.
Of course they do this against the community’s wishes–TYWFACDT–so there’s a lot of anger. I mean a lot. Wouldn’t surprise me if some angry neighbor just burnt the place down!
Newspaper says the fire may be arson and is being investigated by just about every local, state, and federal bureaucracy there is. Un-Goo’s own police are said to be investigating. Wouldn’t surprise me if they’re the ones who set it.
You see, I have to go outdoors from time to time, to keep things neat and, well, cohesive. You wouldn’t understand. Which is why, of course, I have to write this journal for you all.
I have to go outside, but then come these mammoth garbage trucks, it being Friday, Good or Not. And buses. And firemen tootin’ their sirens. Makes my fur stand on end. Yes, I’m fearless–and smart, too–but I ain’t no match for trucks and engines and buses that big! Scary, let me tell you.
And right next door, a German Shepherd. Without a leash. Illegal that is. Until he gets run over, I have to keep a lookout for him. But there’s always a (ugh) Dog. You know that? You, too? Always a dog in the way?
But us cats are used to dogs by now. Humans and dogs. The enemies of cats. Oh, I know, you
S e n t i m e n t a l i s t s think we cats love you, and you love us, etc. etc. etc. Yeah, and ten cents will get you a glass of milk these days. It’s like gardens. Yes, gardens. Gardeners are the enemies of gardens. Librarians are the enemies of books. And humans are the enemies of cats. The gardener, in his effort to help the garden, carries germs and disease everywhere, sprays water which causes black spot and mildew. The librarian rubber stamps the books, marks them up, sometimes punches them with punches, glues things all over them, writes in them, you name it. They hate books. Same with humans and cats. They want to help us, so they mess everything up. Just keep the kibbles flowin’, buster. That’s the only help I need. Thank you very much. To my mind, helpfulness is the sunny side of control, with you humans. WFACDT. All together, now, YWFACDT.
Well, enough lecturing. I’m not being paid enough to set you all right. Couldn’t pay me enough. That would be a fulltime job and a half. I’ve got enough to do. Have to sleep all day, yeah, right!
Let me tell you. When morning comes, I’m worn out. And if I take a brief nap, it’s only my due. While you guys are snoring away, there’s work to be done, man. You just don’t know!
My cat, Glenwood, has begun his own journal today. He's already written the PREFACE.
But this is his first entry.
What got him started was someone came into the bookshop and insulted him, saying,
"Doesn't that cat do anything but sleep!?" Glenwood got his dire up.
CAT’S JOURNAL: March 29, 2013
It’s Good Friday. “Christ on the Cross” kind of thing. You’d never find a cat doing that. Anyway, it’s Friday. Friday’s begin with the usual human insanity, huge garbage trucks plowing up and down the Avenue (here it’s called Glenwood Avenue, the spinal tunnel for the neighborhood’s vehicles). Inhibiting to say the least. There’s only two things worse than a garbage truck: (1) the # 2 Bus that runs by the bookshop every half hour (ugh!); (2) fire engines (ugh, ugh).
There was a fire here the other night. You probably don’t know it. Because you were asleep. Ahem! But was I? No. Had to put up with all that racket.
Buildings they’re building on Lee Street burned down. Probably set on fire by a disgruntled neighbor. Wouldn’t find a cat doing that–this phrase will probably come up a lot in this journal, let’s create an acronym, WFACDT. You humans are far out.
“Issue is” (I’ve been hanging around The Occupy Movement too long, I’ve begun to talk like those nuts) –anyway, the issue is the (ugh) university here, Un-Goo I call it [U.N.C.–G.]. Un-Goo has barreled into my neighborhood, Glenwood, and is starting their tenancy by tearing down all the buildings and trees and putting up new buildings, a police station, what they call a Park [more about that later] and a recreation center for the intellectual students to rest their weary minds, some 50,000 sq. ft. and thousands of cars.
Of course they do this against the community’s wishes–TYWFACDT–so there’s a lot of anger. I mean a lot. Wouldn’t surprise me if some angry neighbor just burnt the place down!
Newspaper says the fire may be arson and is being investigated by just about every local, state, and federal bureaucracy there is. Un-Goo’s own police are said to be investigating. Wouldn’t surprise me if they’re the ones who set it.
You see, I have to go outdoors from time to time, to keep things neat and, well, cohesive. You wouldn’t understand. Which is why, of course, I have to write this journal for you all.
I have to go outside, but then come these mammoth garbage trucks, it being Friday, Good or Not. And buses. And firemen tootin’ their sirens. Makes my fur stand on end. Yes, I’m fearless–and smart, too–but I ain’t no match for trucks and engines and buses that big! Scary, let me tell you.
And right next door, a German Shepherd. Without a leash. Illegal that is. Until he gets run over, I have to keep a lookout for him. But there’s always a (ugh) Dog. You know that? You, too? Always a dog in the way?
But us cats are used to dogs by now. Humans and dogs. The enemies of cats. Oh, I know, you
S e n t i m e n t a l i s t s think we cats love you, and you love us, etc. etc. etc. Yeah, and ten cents will get you a glass of milk these days. It’s like gardens. Yes, gardens. Gardeners are the enemies of gardens. Librarians are the enemies of books. And humans are the enemies of cats. The gardener, in his effort to help the garden, carries germs and disease everywhere, sprays water which causes black spot and mildew. The librarian rubber stamps the books, marks them up, sometimes punches them with punches, glues things all over them, writes in them, you name it. They hate books. Same with humans and cats. They want to help us, so they mess everything up. Just keep the kibbles flowin’, buster. That’s the only help I need. Thank you very much. To my mind, helpfulness is the sunny side of control, with you humans. WFACDT. All together, now, YWFACDT.
Well, enough lecturing. I’m not being paid enough to set you all right. Couldn’t pay me enough. That would be a fulltime job and a half. I’ve got enough to do. Have to sleep all day, yeah, right!
Let me tell you. When morning comes, I’m worn out. And if I take a brief nap, it’s only my due. While you guys are snoring away, there’s work to be done, man. You just don’t know!
Saturday, March 23, 2013
March 23, 2013
Today's Entry from Criminal Journal:
. . . illumed with the fatal
character and intelligent
actions of their lives
Allen Ginsberg
Nothing criminal to report! Nothing today that is. (It’s only 7 a.m. Stick around.) Lots criminal from the past. M– and I went to Edward McKay’s used bookshop, and I bought $50 worth of good, practically brand-new titles. You might say that’s criminal, since I promised Mo I wouldn’t buy any more books for awhile. But that was five months ago, and I’ve been hesitant to break that promise. Since I’ve shelved and alphabetized at least 5,000 of our current stock that was piled around and squashed into cartons, I feel I am re-acquainted with the stock and know what to buy to fill in some gaps.
I treated M– to dinner at Ghassan’s. Ghassan’s is the cheapest restaurant in Greensboro. The whole thing, including tips cost me less than $15.00, and it only cost that because M– purchased a “Sprite.” She didn’t look happy, but I didn’t take that personally.
I intended to ask M– pointblank what was so criminal about wanting to hold her hand and put my arm around her, as we watched a movie. But at the beginning of our date, if you can call McKay’s+Ghassan’s a date, she looked so bitter, and by the end of our date, she looked so happy, I didn’t have the heart to bring up something sour.
My rule for several years now is I don’t watch a movie with a woman without holding her hand or putting my arm around her. Consequently it’s been several years since I’ve watched a movie with anyone but men. This makes me a criminal?
Lots of criminal activity from the past to report, but I intend this journal entry to be very brief. I’ll save some juicy stories for further down the road as we wordsmiths say.
Anya off to New York for ten days. She’s braving the audition circuit, very ambitious of her. Nothing criminal about that. But. But Anya hasn’t been to see me for over a month. Nice emails. Excusing herself. She’s busy walking dogs and substitute teaching once a week. No time to visit Al. For at least three, probably four years, Anya has visited me for dinner, for a walk, for a visit once a week. This is the first month that’s gone by without such like, with the sole exception of her seven weeks blissing out at Omega Institute last summer. (She’s off to Buddhaville Omega again this summer. Nothing criminal about that on the face of it. But I wonder. Only kidding. Only kidding.)
Today's Entry from Criminal Journal:
. . . illumed with the fatal
character and intelligent
actions of their lives
Allen Ginsberg
Nothing criminal to report! Nothing today that is. (It’s only 7 a.m. Stick around.) Lots criminal from the past. M– and I went to Edward McKay’s used bookshop, and I bought $50 worth of good, practically brand-new titles. You might say that’s criminal, since I promised Mo I wouldn’t buy any more books for awhile. But that was five months ago, and I’ve been hesitant to break that promise. Since I’ve shelved and alphabetized at least 5,000 of our current stock that was piled around and squashed into cartons, I feel I am re-acquainted with the stock and know what to buy to fill in some gaps.
I treated M– to dinner at Ghassan’s. Ghassan’s is the cheapest restaurant in Greensboro. The whole thing, including tips cost me less than $15.00, and it only cost that because M– purchased a “Sprite.” She didn’t look happy, but I didn’t take that personally.
I intended to ask M– pointblank what was so criminal about wanting to hold her hand and put my arm around her, as we watched a movie. But at the beginning of our date, if you can call McKay’s+Ghassan’s a date, she looked so bitter, and by the end of our date, she looked so happy, I didn’t have the heart to bring up something sour.
My rule for several years now is I don’t watch a movie with a woman without holding her hand or putting my arm around her. Consequently it’s been several years since I’ve watched a movie with anyone but men. This makes me a criminal?
Lots of criminal activity from the past to report, but I intend this journal entry to be very brief. I’ll save some juicy stories for further down the road as we wordsmiths say.
Anya off to New York for ten days. She’s braving the audition circuit, very ambitious of her. Nothing criminal about that. But. But Anya hasn’t been to see me for over a month. Nice emails. Excusing herself. She’s busy walking dogs and substitute teaching once a week. No time to visit Al. For at least three, probably four years, Anya has visited me for dinner, for a walk, for a visit once a week. This is the first month that’s gone by without such like, with the sole exception of her seven weeks blissing out at Omega Institute last summer. (She’s off to Buddhaville Omega again this summer. Nothing criminal about that on the face of it. But I wonder. Only kidding. Only kidding.)
Thursday, March 21, 2013
This is not Cesare Pavese but Antonio Gramsci (1891–1937). Here is how Wikipedia writes up Gramsci:
Antonio Gramsci was an Italian writer, philosopher, politician, political theorist, sociologist, and linguist. He was a founding member and onetime leader of the Communist Party of Italy and was imprisoned by Benito Mussolini's Fascist regime.
Not just “imprisoned” Mr. Wikipedia but confined in prison for twenty years and then executed. The journals and letters Gramsci wrote in this confinement are some of the greatest documents of the 20th Century. I regret that the bookshop’s priceless 3-volume boxed mint set of Gramsci’s writings were one of the victims of our recent “sale.”
This morning I can look over the first finished copies of my book
“obert Smithson.” I printed it yesterday, F & G (folded it and collated it, “fold & gather”) and sewed the signatures together. Further joining of the book’s five signatures is accomplished by gluing the sewn signatures together and pressing them overnight (in a bookpress I bought 45 years ago, from Gaylord Brothers.*
Meanwhile, I had printed the covers. Since they’re “jet print” and color, and printed on coated card stock (C1S in the papertrade vernacular = coated one side) they have to dry a couple of days.
I also designed a way to reproduce the lengthy fold-out cover of Pan Smithson did on my commission in 1956, and I printed that, too, and glued it into my new book as a “paste-in fold-out”). This morning I get to open and read my book, its first copy off the press, a special moment. I am sending this first copy to Nancy Holt, Smithson’s widow, to whom my book is dedicated. I think Nancy would agree she and I were Bob’s first supporters and probably his most influential friends and comrades.
In the same series as the Smithson Book, I have published a memoir I wrote and published on Dorothy Day. And I’m 50% done on the third volume in this series of memoirs of geniuses who influenced me lifelong: Thomas Merton. I intend three more books: Thich Nhat Hanh; Father Daniel Berrigan; Teo Savory.
________________________
*The Gaylord Brothers book press cost $12.50 then. It is exactly 10X that amount now, $125, an interesting example of the “value of the dollar” in my working lifetime.
- 14 -
Sunday, March 17, 2013
CRIMINAL JOURNAL: March 17, 2013
‘Fess up, it’s Sunday, and in an hour, my Unitarian Universalist Covenant Fellowship will be meeting here at Glenwood Coffee & Books. Good to have “Confession” before the Unitarian Mass. (My ordained minister wife, Liz, says Unitarian Communion is . . . Coffee.)*
Since this is a Criminal Journal, I might as well go ahead and confess my crimes.
I gave up . . . Romance! . . . Two years ago. I was crazy about A– at the time, and I told her so in some indiscreet letters from Martha’s Vineyard (where I had no business being, although I wasn’t acting criminal. That everyone on Martha’s Vineyard is a one per center criminal is another story, houses there being in the 2-3 million dollar range.)
A– wasn’t interested, of course, and I think I was only pursuing her out of habit. Same with E–. I wasn’t in love with those women. They were just young and pretty and available, so I went after them. I decided that since I was now a dignified 75 years of age, I had to stop doing that (fun as it was). And, surprisingly, I was successful.
I remember a visit Oscar Zurer, an old friend from New York, paid me way back in the early 1980s. I was 50 then, and Oscar was recently retired at 65. He told me that the most surprising thing about growing old was he was hornier than ever and [he used a very rude word for fornication] _____ing like never before. I was surprised and shocked. But it’s true that The Old Adam doesn’t seem to be much different than The Young Adam.
So I’m cruising along, happy in Neutral the past few years, thinking nothing of it. Not a single thing for a Criminal Journal to be concerned about. Enter M–.
What was it about M– that would break the celibate priestly vows of a happy fella’ like I’ve become in my old age? Why is it a hundred people enter your life, and you’re as good as gold. Then, wham! This one catches your eye and tugs at your heartstrings?
About three years ago, I was minding my business in the old premises of The Community Bookshop, before Andrew The Bad found my new 1310 Glenwood Avenue site. In comes this Guilford College underclasswoman and does some serious browsing. Happens irregularly. I think everyone likes a bookshop, but there are some people that really love bookshops. Obviously this young woman was one. There was something about her. I was really taken. Struck, you know? This was in my feisty days before my Vow of No Romance.
What’s so strange is even in those Rough & Ready Days, very few
______________________
*Well, she ain’t my wife anymore. Her first sign of the Dementia that’s placed her on the Fourth (locked) Floor of the Woodhall Assisted Living Facility on High Point & Holden was divorcing me.
women moved me in that way. There had been K– whom I was crazy about for three years, then no one really, only two mild flirtations in the next few years (half-hearted interest in A– and
E–, whom I admit were movie star beautiful). M– wasn’t movie star beautiful. She was a quiet, serious “co-ed,” obviously well-brought-up, dressed conservatively . . . I have no idea why she, rather than a hundred others, just gave me that frisson.
I chatted her up. Her nature is unnaturally quiet. Had an exquisite smile, somewhat shy and hesitant, but full-blooming once it got going. Yes, she was like a voluminous tropical flower. And she seemed to respond to my interest. She and I made a date for that weekend.
But she never showed up. We had exchanged phone numbers and email contact info, but when she just never showed up with no communication of any kind . . . Well, to hell with it, I thought.
I was moving into my “No Romance” post-75 years anyway.
Four years go by. I’m doing real well. Behaving myself. No Criminal Journal. Not a single miscue. Then M– walks into the bookshop again, the new one here on Glenwood Avenue. Yeah, about a month ago. And you know what? I felt the same way. I had behaved myself perfectly for a long time. I was through with Romance forever. That went out the window in one second.
M– came in with an older friend, turned out to be her landlady. She had graduated. Didn’t look any different to me. Exactly the same. And I felt exactly the same. When she came into the bookshop a week later, I made a “date” with her. Sure enough she broke it. But, this time with her contact information, I made another date. She broke it less than an hour before she was due.
Foolishly, I then made a real though casual “Saturday Night Date” for a movie and dinner at the bookshop. She changed it to a Monday Night, the one day of the week we’re closed. I warned her I had really poor taste in movies, didn’t like good movies at all, only liked “Romantic Comedies.” “Me, too,” she said. (She was just the same as ever, real quiet, spoke very little, very quietly.)
This time she actually came. And, after I put the film on–Amy Irving in “Crossing Delancey Street”– I put my arm around her and held her hand. But she moved as far away from me as she could on the narrow futon in my room. Removed her hand, and when I asked if I could hold her hand, she gave me a look of disgust and pulled even further away. I thought, “Surely, a Saturday Night Date, watching a movie, gives a fellow the right to put his arm around a girl and hold her hand?” Evidently not. So it comes down that I hit on her? Seems such an innocent thing to me. I wasn’t trying to seduce her. I was just hoping to hold her hand, like in the Beatles’ song. But here I am, outed into my own Criminal Journal!!
‘Fess up, it’s Sunday, and in an hour, my Unitarian Universalist Covenant Fellowship will be meeting here at Glenwood Coffee & Books. Good to have “Confession” before the Unitarian Mass. (My ordained minister wife, Liz, says Unitarian Communion is . . . Coffee.)*
Since this is a Criminal Journal, I might as well go ahead and confess my crimes.
I gave up . . . Romance! . . . Two years ago. I was crazy about A– at the time, and I told her so in some indiscreet letters from Martha’s Vineyard (where I had no business being, although I wasn’t acting criminal. That everyone on Martha’s Vineyard is a one per center criminal is another story, houses there being in the 2-3 million dollar range.)
A– wasn’t interested, of course, and I think I was only pursuing her out of habit. Same with E–. I wasn’t in love with those women. They were just young and pretty and available, so I went after them. I decided that since I was now a dignified 75 years of age, I had to stop doing that (fun as it was). And, surprisingly, I was successful.
I remember a visit Oscar Zurer, an old friend from New York, paid me way back in the early 1980s. I was 50 then, and Oscar was recently retired at 65. He told me that the most surprising thing about growing old was he was hornier than ever and [he used a very rude word for fornication] _____ing like never before. I was surprised and shocked. But it’s true that The Old Adam doesn’t seem to be much different than The Young Adam.
So I’m cruising along, happy in Neutral the past few years, thinking nothing of it. Not a single thing for a Criminal Journal to be concerned about. Enter M–.
What was it about M– that would break the celibate priestly vows of a happy fella’ like I’ve become in my old age? Why is it a hundred people enter your life, and you’re as good as gold. Then, wham! This one catches your eye and tugs at your heartstrings?
About three years ago, I was minding my business in the old premises of The Community Bookshop, before Andrew The Bad found my new 1310 Glenwood Avenue site. In comes this Guilford College underclasswoman and does some serious browsing. Happens irregularly. I think everyone likes a bookshop, but there are some people that really love bookshops. Obviously this young woman was one. There was something about her. I was really taken. Struck, you know? This was in my feisty days before my Vow of No Romance.
What’s so strange is even in those Rough & Ready Days, very few
______________________
*Well, she ain’t my wife anymore. Her first sign of the Dementia that’s placed her on the Fourth (locked) Floor of the Woodhall Assisted Living Facility on High Point & Holden was divorcing me.
women moved me in that way. There had been K– whom I was crazy about for three years, then no one really, only two mild flirtations in the next few years (half-hearted interest in A– and
E–, whom I admit were movie star beautiful). M– wasn’t movie star beautiful. She was a quiet, serious “co-ed,” obviously well-brought-up, dressed conservatively . . . I have no idea why she, rather than a hundred others, just gave me that frisson.
I chatted her up. Her nature is unnaturally quiet. Had an exquisite smile, somewhat shy and hesitant, but full-blooming once it got going. Yes, she was like a voluminous tropical flower. And she seemed to respond to my interest. She and I made a date for that weekend.
But she never showed up. We had exchanged phone numbers and email contact info, but when she just never showed up with no communication of any kind . . . Well, to hell with it, I thought.
I was moving into my “No Romance” post-75 years anyway.
Four years go by. I’m doing real well. Behaving myself. No Criminal Journal. Not a single miscue. Then M– walks into the bookshop again, the new one here on Glenwood Avenue. Yeah, about a month ago. And you know what? I felt the same way. I had behaved myself perfectly for a long time. I was through with Romance forever. That went out the window in one second.
M– came in with an older friend, turned out to be her landlady. She had graduated. Didn’t look any different to me. Exactly the same. And I felt exactly the same. When she came into the bookshop a week later, I made a “date” with her. Sure enough she broke it. But, this time with her contact information, I made another date. She broke it less than an hour before she was due.
Foolishly, I then made a real though casual “Saturday Night Date” for a movie and dinner at the bookshop. She changed it to a Monday Night, the one day of the week we’re closed. I warned her I had really poor taste in movies, didn’t like good movies at all, only liked “Romantic Comedies.” “Me, too,” she said. (She was just the same as ever, real quiet, spoke very little, very quietly.)
This time she actually came. And, after I put the film on–Amy Irving in “Crossing Delancey Street”– I put my arm around her and held her hand. But she moved as far away from me as she could on the narrow futon in my room. Removed her hand, and when I asked if I could hold her hand, she gave me a look of disgust and pulled even further away. I thought, “Surely, a Saturday Night Date, watching a movie, gives a fellow the right to put his arm around a girl and hold her hand?” Evidently not. So it comes down that I hit on her? Seems such an innocent thing to me. I wasn’t trying to seduce her. I was just hoping to hold her hand, like in the Beatles’ song. But here I am, outed into my own Criminal Journal!!
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