Memorial service for a stranger

A steady stream of people trickled through the basement of the Masonic Lodge in Derry, N.H. Friday afternoon and evening, the guests there to pay tribute to a man many of them had never met. He was Robert Young, 75, “the man by the side of the road,” who died the previous Saturday when he was struck by a car. Tables lined the walls, each bearing an exhibit that added a page to the chronicle of his life. Newspaper clippings outlined the years when he ran an art gallery in the barn across the street from his home on busy Route 102. Samples of his artwork, raw and gripping, stood nearby. Pictures of him and his longtime partner, who predeceased him, captured the love they had once shared, showing the two of them arm in arm, smiling as though love has no end, and maybe it doesn’t. Cut-out silhouettes of hands paid homage to the habit for which he was most well-known – sitting in front of his house on a chair, waving to every passing car. “Never underestimate the power of a smile and a wave,” read one hand-made poster, which had been left at his home after his death and brought to the Masonic Lodge for his service. The tributes left at his home and brought to the lodge were perhaps the most moving because they had a theme. “I am the blonde teenager in the SUV who always waved back so excitedly,” read one scrawled message. “I always meant to stop and talk to you but I never did.” Another note, written in childish handwriting by two siblings, explained how they always pressed their noses against the window of the schoolbus when they went by his house so they could see him wave and wave back. Another note, presumably written by a fellow waver, said only, “I never felt so bad about losing someone I never met.” Rick, too, had always planned to stop and talk to him, but had always been too busy. Now, the “busyness” seems so secondary. If only we could all go back in time and take those few moments to act on our impulses and stop and say thanks for the momentary but important joy he brought each day. If only we could remember to act on those same impulses when a future opportunity comes along. And recognize it when it is there.

The man by the side of the road

He was the man by the side of the road. He lived in a tidy brown house close by busy Route 102 in Derry, N.H., and every morning you would see him sitting on a chair in his yard, smiling and waving at every car that passed, stunning commuters so much with his foolish courage that many would wave back. I would always return the wave and beep my horn, which made him wave back all the harder. He was also a master gardener, known for the tall, exotic grasses that flanked the flower patch in his back yard and in late spring or early summer, you could count on him to put up a wooden, hand-painted sign that read “Peonia” with containers of fluffy peonies underneath it, for sale for $5. Rick often said he wanted to stop by and give him a copy of Sam Walter Foss’ poem, “The House by the Side of the Road,” because the words reminded Rick so much of him. The poem ends, “Let me live in my house by the side of the road,/ Where the race of men go by-/ They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,/ Wise, foolish – so am I./ Then why should I sit in the scorner’s seat/ Or hurl the cynic’s ban?/ Let me live in my house by the side of the road/ And be a friend to man.” Now Rick will never get the chance. Robert Young died last Saturday at the age of 75, as he was walking into a convenience store in Chester, N.H., and a woman apparently confused her accelerator and brake pedal and struck him with her car. A garden of tributes quickly sprouted outside the door of his house – balloons, baskets of mums, candles, scrawled notes, ceramic angels – many of them left, I have no doubt, by people who had never actually met him. He represented something – innocence, kindness, sweetness in the face of a hostile world, perhaps – the “friend to man” of the poem. A memorial service is planned for Friday, from 4 to 8 p.m. at the Masonic Hall in Derry and I expect it will be crowded with many of his unmet friends. I was standing outside his door Tuesday morning, reading the information about the memorial service pinned to his door when something brought tears to my eyes. A woman drove by in her SUV, looked over, honked and waved. His foolish courage lives on.

The first (annual?) CissyFest

We could never have enough tributes for Cissy Taylor, the southern belle, longtime Union Leader crime reporter, former Eagle-Tribune New Hampshire editor, past press aide to the New Hampshire Speaker of the House, veteran board member of the Manchester Police Athletic League and – perhaps her proudest accomplishment – friend to many incredibly lucky people. Soon after her body was discovered in April, following an apparent heart attack in the condo where she lived alone, hundreds came to the funeral home service arranged by her brother Richard, who has faithfully and valiantly continued to execute the wishes she left in her will. On Saturday, we had another kind of celebration – a “CissyFest” hosted by her good friend and Union Leader compatriot Paul Tracy – this time on the shores of Squam Lake, where many of us, including Richard, gathered to share stories and testimonials, eat good food (essential at any Cissy party) and drink wine she had left behind, which Richard brought along to share. We shared her favorite Malbec, laughed at stories of her irreverence (belching in the newsroom?), recounted camping adventures and looked at old photos as the sun went down over that lovely lake. It felt like the beginning of a tradition. And I, for one, hope it will be.

Celebrating a crazy and wonderful 10 years

We met 17 years ago, when both of our hearts were broken. He was grieving the woman he thought might finally be the one, who had abruptly broken up with him after a months-long but intense romance. I was grieving the year-old death of my husband, who had died after a months-long but intense battle with pancreatic cancer. I wasn’t looking for a hot romance, just someone to see a movie with now and then, or maybe give me a hug occasionally. He was looking for – well, I won’t put words in his mouth. I answered his personal ad in The Boston Globe – which said he was single and 48, loved Cajun music (whatever that was), had a place in Maine (I loved Maine) and was self-employed. He sounded kind of interesting. I called the recorded message associated with the ad and heard his voice, which elaborated on his written words and included a phone number. It also included the intriguing line that he liked “unconventional travel.” I thought he sounded kind of scattered. His phone number also had an area code suggesting he lived on Cape Cod, a good two-hour drive from my New Hampshire condo. I hung up. But unconventional travel? I love to travel, especially unconventionally. I called back and left my number. We spoke on the phone several times over the course of, maybe, a month, and finally met for dinner at a restaurant on Route 128 in Woburn, Mass. No bells went off. No whistles sounded. He was kind of scattered, but also an incredibly sweet, sincere man. I thought we might become good friends. So… let’s flash forward. We married seven years later, on the same island in Maine that had been dear to both of us even before we met and on Friday, the 21st, we celebrated 10 years of marriage at a restaurant on that very island. In the meantime, we had traveled to Mexico, St. Croix, remote portions of the American Southwest, the Maritimes, Quebec City, the Pacific Northwest, Tennessee and Georgia and several other places, most of the time in a tent. I cherish the times we have sat someplace (like on the lowered tailgate of a rented SUV, in the pouring rain, in an empty campground in the mountains of northern New Mexico), clinked our plastic wine glasses together, laughed and repeated the phrase, “unconventional travel!” The thing is, we did become good friends. And so much more. I really do love that man.

Looking up an old love

     He was probably the first guy who broke my heart.

     He came to mind the other day and I looked for him online – not to reconnect, but to see what had become of him, and to learn what might have become of me had we stayed together.

     We met when I was in college and drove a Good Humor ice cream truck during the summer to make money for the fall.

     One day, I stopped for lunch in my truck at a drive-in restaurant and next to me happened to be a good-lucking guy in his Corvette convertible.

     We started talking and I told him his car was beautiful and we ended up exchanging phone numbers.

     I was maybe 19.

     We started dating.

     He lived in Dearborn, in one of those modest, two-story homes you see everywhere in Michigan and his bedroom was on the top floor -- a little room with slanted ceilings -- and I always hoped his parents would never walk up to visit us and discover what we were doing.

     We fell in love. He even introduced his friends to some of my friends and some of them started dating. He took me to the cottage his parents owned on Lake Ontario and introduced me to French fries with vinegar.

     I thought the relationship was really going somewhere. He was a high school teacher and I could see myself becoming a teacher and getting married and living happily ever after.

     And then... he broke up with me.
     I bawled my eyes out. My parents tried to minimize my distress, which only made it worse. I can remember screaming at them, "How would you feel if your spouse left you?" and storming into my room.

     I won't lie to you. It hurt for a long time. Really hurt.

     But then I met someone else, and moved away and traveled the world and the world started to feel bigger and he started to feel smaller.

     When I finally found the person I think is him through an Internet search, I discovered he hadn’t moved very far away from that community in Michigan where he grew up.

     I remember he really loved his junk food and I expect he's probably a little on the chunky side these days.

     And my guess is that, if he and I had stayed together, I'd be living in a modest, two-story house not too far from where I grew up, spending my nights sitting in front of the TV and eating Cheetos and never knowing what else life had to offer.

     From this vantage point, years later, I'm glad things worked out the way they did.

The Potato Eaters... or not

No doubt you’ve all been waiting for the sequel to my spring blog about our virgin effort to grow potatoes vertically.

     Instead of digging trenches, putting in seed potatoes and mounding them as the plants grew – the traditional method – we decided to build a large crate-like structure in the middle of the vegetable garden with the seed potatoes buried inside, then add dirt as the plants grew.

     We (mostly Rick, really) have tended the structure (we call it our redneck hot tub) for all these months, gradually adding soil as the potato plants grew taller.

     Today, I decided it was time to see if our experiment had worked.

     I got out a potato fork and started digging through the dirt. I got through about half of it then quit in discouragement because…

     THERE WASN’T ONE SINGLE POTATO!

     So, there you have it. A little time in the sun and a little aerobic activity were all we got for our efforts.

     But you know, one of Van Gogh’s first great paintings, The Potato Eaters, is considered one of his most intriguing because he had not yet mastered the techniques that would later make him famous. The painting is considered imperfect. But it helped in the development of those techniques that would one day make him a master.

     Maybe next year we can say the same about our potato-growing efforts.

     In the meantime, there’s always the farmers market.

Wearing a burqa

Today I did something that might have gotten me arrested had I done it publicly in France.

     I wore a burqa, “an enveloping outer garment worn by women in some Islamic traditions to cover their bodies when in public,” as Wikipedia defines it.

     It was only for a while and entirely in the privacy of my home, but it stirred many thoughts about women and religion and liberties and plain old comfort.

     It wasn’t what I expected.

     It was tight-fitting at the top of the head – to secure it, I suppose – and so flowing and unusual that my dogs circled and barked when I first put it on.

     And it was dark. I had trouble seeing through the mesh in front of the eyes, even with the kitchen lights on, so much so that I had to lift it to read the mail.

     It was also hot inside, even on this coolish September night.

     But it is what many Muslim women around the world wear, in keeping with ancient religious tradition, and what many of them fight to continue wearing, even as some other European nations considering joining France in banning burqas in the name of national security.

     I’m not Muslim and I didn’t wear the burqa (borrowed from a friend) for religious reasons, but to try to understand another culture and religion (wouldn’t the world be a better place if we all did more of that?).

     A small part of me found it appealing – the anonymity it granted, the cocoon-like security – but not so much that I’d consider wearing one again.

     The better part of me found it unfamiliar and uncomfortable, which is why I won’t.

     But ban it?

     It occurred to me only after I tried on the burqa that I was doing so on 9-11, the anniversary of the worst terrorism attack in U.S. history, initiated by Muslim fanatics.

     They were attacking our freedoms – including freedom of religion, freedom of expression.

     Seems to me wearing a burqa is one of those freedoms.    

Partying in another language

Our little friend Nathan just turned 2, and his parents, our friends, were kind enough to include us on the guest list for his birthday party yesterday.
     It was a typical Brazilian party – one meant for adults as much as children, with a themed backdrop for the birthday cake table and artful little favors created by his talented mother, a trampoline and potato sack races for the kids, beer and wine for the adults and, of course, the usual spread of incredible Brazilian food. (Who barbecues better?)
     Most of those present speak at least some English, though one or two had arrived from Brazil within the week, and it was a chance for me to practice the Brazilian Portuguese I’ve been learning by listening to CDs on my way to work.
     I know only a few basic phrases – like “How are you,?” “pleased to meet you,” “I’d like red wine, please,” and “where is the bathroom?”
     But I haven’t had as much fun talking to people in a long time. We laughed at each other’s attempts to converse, provided the fill-in-the-blank word for the sentences the other couldn’t complete and shared our thoughts on the difficulties of learning a new language.
     They, of course, need to know English if they’re going to continue to work and live here for as long as their visas allow. I want to learn Portuguese because it’s fun to learn anything new, but mostly because I have grown to like and admire many of them and I want to meet them halfway in this effort to communicate.

     I’ve never partied in another language before but, based on my experience, it’s “muito divertido.”

     Now you, too, know at least two Portuguese words – “very fun.”

Rediscovering roots

When I was a little girl, my best friend was Polish and lived in the house behind mine. We wore the chain link fence between us down with our constant climbing over for visits, much to my father’s disapproval.
     Her mother would say things like “let’s go by Aunt Mary’s house to visit” instead of let’s go to Aunt Mary’s house to visit, and when I started unconsciously imitating that phraseology, my mother immediately corrected me and told me not to talk in that “Polish” way.
     Aunt Mary lived in a Polish enclave of Detroit called Hamtramck, and I often did visit there with my friend Judi and her family. There were two-and three-story tenement houses there, unlike the low-slung ranch houses in my suburban neighborhood, but there was food like kielbasa and pierogis and other unpronounceable things and I always had a good time.
     At Polish weddings, there was always a band with an accordion and they played things like “The Philadelphia Polka” (remember that from the movie “Groundhog Day”?), “Roll Out the Barrel” and other ethnic songs that non-Poles, probably including me, tended to dismiss as low-brow.
     In fact, the many Poles in my neighborhood and school faced a lot of subtle derision, like the Polack jokes that none of us thought anything about repeating. Even they laughed, probably in self-defense.
     I’m ashamed now, of my childhood insensitivity.
     Why does all this come to mind today?
     Because I spent Labor Day weekend at a fantastic music festival in Rhode Island, Rhythm and Roots, where many of the musicians work hard to preserve ancient musical heritages.
     And not all of them are on the stage.
     In the camping area, little mini-festivals go on day and night, and one of them, on Sunday morning, was hosted by a group called Polka Dan and the Beetbox Band – and they were every bit as good as the paid help.  They had maybe a hundred people dancing on the grass to polka tunes (sans accordion) like the ones I mentioned (and “You Can Have Her, I don’t Want Her, She’s Too Big For Me” and “Who Stole the Keeshka”) and Dan was very clear about his message – he wants to preserve his culture’s music and celebrate it in a way the mainstream culture never has. Besides, as he says, polka music is “fun music.”
     His was just one of the many groups I had never seen before. Did you know Hugh Laurie, of “House” fame, is a damn fine musician with a blues band of his own? Or that an incredibly talented, intelligent, group called The Carolina Chocolate Drops is researching and performing some of the lost, beautiful, early works of black American musicians?
     I’ve always known that what we experience as children helps form who we are, but I never that about how what we hear as children does, as well – from generation to generation.
     I wish Aunt Mary was still alive so I could go by and visit her.