The Miraculous Pear Tree

We've been living here for ten years. A pear tree stands in the middle of the front part of the property, close to the house. This pear tree looked half dead and ready to give up; I can't remember when it bore fruit and when it didn't, but sometimes these sad-looking little pears would drop onto the ground and the deer would come and eat them, and sometimes there were no pears at all.

This year, and nobody around here knows why, our pear tree produced a good, big crop of luscious fruit. We don't know for sure what kind of pears they are, but they are in the family of "winter pears." Seckel pears are my favorite, especially when they are hard and almost ripe; this year's crop tastes like that but they are larger and sweeter.

I keep telling my husband that this is the happiest I've seen him in a while. He collected all the pears, using the large plastic buckets that cat litter comes in; then he went over to see Doris, our neighbor who I end up mentioning quite a bit. Doris has a huge assortment of preserved produce in her basement. Peter asked Doris to preserve the miraculous pears in glass jars, and of course Doris was full of joy; this is what she lives for.

This is what we live for also. This is why we came here in the first place. Before we moved here, in a suburb of Philadelphia, all we saw in our final years there were bulldozers and sculptured lawns and fake brick being glued onto the outside walls of conspicuous consumption houses; these house cost at least half a million dollars. Now, we have our pear tree which hopefully will bear fruit again.

My husband bought some calico fabric and colored yarn and made nice decorations for the pear jars; he printed out a label for each jar. Some people will get them as holiday gifts but we are saving a lot for ourselves. In the refrigerator yesterday I saw a pear jar holding pears mixed with strawberries; the juice from the pears made the strawberries taste so wonderful that I almost cried.

Friends

When I was young and watching what my mother did--how she lived her life as a woman--I saw that she had many women friends and they went out together in twos and threes, had lunch in a nice place, and then went shopping. So that's how women do things.

When my beloved cousin Maxine and I became teenagers we did the same thing; on Saturdays we frequently met in downtown Pittsburgh "under the Kaufmann's clock," had lunch, then went shopping. We rarely bought things, but we loved looking at the clothes in Kaufmann's and we chatted about what we were doing that night; a lot of times we would say goodbye and then we would see each other again that night, because the two of us "double-dated" with our boyfriends.

Now I live in the country where the population is small compared to Pittsburgh; many of the people here, male and female, are busy on their farms or working. Some people here have two jobs in order to survive. Not much lunching and shopping happens around here. So I figured that there was something wrong, usually with me, because I didn't construct a life the way my mother did.

Fortunately I was wrong and I'm grateful that I realized this before it was too late.

We have friends here, some of the best people I've ever known. I've written before about Doris Kile who operates a small farm nearby; Doris is a force of nature. She and the land are one entity. She sells eggs, beets, corn, lots of fruit, rabbits. She gets up at 3:00 AM in the summer to pick corn. Work and family make up her life and she's devoted to her Christian faith which is translated into action. But no matter how busy Doris is, she has time to talk. Even our dog Homer loves her and her husband, Alan. When Peter and I go away Doris and Alan always take care of Homer and our cats. They bring their grand daughters here to visit the animals and now the little girls have named their stuffed animals Homer, Callie, and Shana.

There are others too. Dan who manages Steve Shannon Tires where we bring our cars to get fixed (and none of the guys in there make me feel dumb), Rod who operates the small restaurant nearby and who decorated his place with model trains that run in a square, up above the tables near the ceiling (which enthralls the little kids), Bev at L & K Mills, a big hardware store where sometimes guys stand around and say funny things. There's this spark between Bev and me; every time we see each other, we laugh. The underpaid library staff at Bloomsburg Public Library works hard to supply our needs; when the trash collection men come around and empty our trash cans, they never toss the empty cans onto the ground but leave them standing with the lids on.

Will I ever go out on a Saturday afternoon and have lunch with any of these people? Doris is too busy to go out and have lunch, ditto for Bev, and Rod, Dan, and the trash men would think I was mad if I asked them to. So there are friends and there are also friends.

On Playing the Piano Again; A Return to the Self

In Honor of my husband, Peter and Mr. Aaron Gross

I wrote a story that begins with the narrator bemoaning the fact that she hasn’t had time to take good care of her piano and play it. She says that it sits neglected in the corner of a room wearing a coating of dust; and this brings on a special kind of heartache, not serious, but an uncomfortable feeling that things aren’t the way they should be. Why? Because musical instruments are more than the sum of their parts. They are alive; they are a life-form all their own. Imagine smashing up cardboard boxes and putting them on a fire when you burn trash; then imagine putting a violin in the fire as well. It’s the same as burning books; evil, life-threatening, hateful.

When I was eight years old my parents managed to scrape the money together to buy a second-hand upright piano. This was after I had been taking piano lessons for a year at school. The culture in which I grew up encouraged self-expression, a devotion to the arts, and development of the whole self, not only in academics. So my mother found a private piano teacher for me; Mrs. Sachs lived six blocks away and to get to her house I had to take a bus. We had no school buses in the Pittsburgh school system; I had never been on a bus without my mother, so I had to walk down our steep hill, cross congested Beechwood Boulevard, and wait for the bus to come. I had been warned repeatedly about talking to strangers. Clutching my piano books, I dropped the 15 cents into the coin box and nervously looked out of the window so no strangers would try to talk to me. Being the book-lover that I am, I fell in love with my new piano books and felt proud just looking at them. They had stiff yellow covers with green writing on the front, including a motto, in Latin, enclosed in a picture of a wreath.

Mrs. Sachs was stern and proud. She had a little boy named Nathan (who grew up to be a doctor.) I was a good student and practiced my three piano pieces every day as she instructed me. Mrs. Sachs made unpleasant comments about her neighbors and friends in between listening to me play; I was never completely comfortable with her. Every year she had a piano recital and all her students played a piece in front of parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. An ordeal, true, but you get self-confidence going through something like that. My grandfather was so proud of me that he gave me $5 which I used to buy a book about animal life on this planet.

After four years of studying with Mrs. Sachs I told my mother that I didn’t like this piano teacher; she really was too strict and abrasive. Another teacher was found for me, Mr. Aaron Gross. He had white hair, was a retired musician, and was sweet, full of love for his students. Mrs. Gross, a perpetual housewife, always wore a ruffled apron and stood in the kitchen doorway, wiping a newly-dried plate over and over with a dish towel while I played my pieces, a dreamy look on her face. She told me that I was one of her husband’s favorite piano students because I “was always reaching for the right notes.”

This is a piece of truth that hurts but it’s part of the story of returning to playing the piano. I was a much more serious person in my childhood than I am now. I was passionately devoted to classical music, art, and reading; I loved the children’s concerts that were offered in Pittsburgh once a month—all classical music, of course. I read biographies, books on the solar system, and the human body. Now, I pride myself on being an independent thinker and I don’t follow fads and trends; however, when I read about teenage girls “dumbing down,” putting serious interests and pursuits away in exchange for obsessions about boys, sex, clothes, and parties I realize that was my pattern. In other words, I don’t follow feminist thinking to the letter but to be honest with myself I have to agree that the culture exerts powerful pressure on young girls to conform—and irresistible pressures they indeed are. That’s one of several re-occurring themes in my writing; the loss of innocence that comes too soon, the loss of self, and the seduction that follows into the hotbed of adolescence. When I write about those things, the piano is always a symbol of emotional and spiritual purity. I quit studying the piano when I was 13. Mr. Gross was sad to lose me and told me that if I worked hard I would become an excellent pianist; I had passed beyond beginner playing and was working my way through what he called “the mid-point” level of skill. I had enough talent to break through to the highest level that he could teach. But other voices, impossible to ignore, were calling me. One of my mother’s friends took me aside and told me that I was making a big mistake, quitting piano lessons at this crucial time, but I barely listened.

I bought my second piano when I was about 40. This piano is a console, quite small but just right for this house. I went to the music store in Williamsport, Robert Sides, and bought some new piano music. To my deep joy, I could still read music and play somewhat awkwardly. I did buy an “easy arrangement” of The Eagles’ Greatest Hits because my husband likes the song, Desperado; but my heart will always be linked to classical music. I especially love J.S. Bach’s Prelude in C Major. When I sit down at my newly-polished piano and play it I can almost be 13 years old again.

Signs From the Other World

Great Horned Owl

Saw Whet Owls

5. Great Horned Owl and Saw Whet Owl

In 1988 I was working as a medical transcriptionist in a rehabilitation hospital. I enjoyed my job, mainly because the job I held before it was pure hell. I didn’t need any training to be a medical transcriptionist; they just showed me my desk and computer and I went to work. I stayed at the hospital for a year, getting along well with my co-workers. For once in my life I didn’t take anything very seriously. My hands did all the work, leaving my mind free. We, the transcriptionists, had private jokes and funny words. The funniest one—we thought—was the name we gave ourselves—“mole-rons.” This was because our offices had no windows and at 4:00 PM, when we left, the bright light from the sun made us blink—like moles coming out of their holes in the ground. And since we were treated like morons by our boss we created the new word of mole-ron. We thought this was hysterically funny. Also, the other transcriptionists sat in a separate room from me because I was also the receptionist for our office so I was in the front. My co-workers were allowed to have a radio and they listened to an oldies station all day; every time the Rolling Stones’ song “Brown Sugar” was played they went crazy, making funny faces and whispering to me. They knew how much I hated this horrible song.

One day, however, the funny stuff was over. My boss reprimanded me for talking too much and I was furious. That’s when my husband sat me down and told me that he needed help in his business and he would much prefer me to work side-by-side with him than a stranger. Peter is a mold-maker and sculptor, and he had just met Ernie Muehlmatt, a much-decorated, world class bird carver. Ernie sold his original wood carvings of birds for hundreds, sometimes thousands of dollars; and there were a lot of people all over the United States who wanted a Muehlmatt bird but couldn’t pay that kind of money. That’s where we stepped in. Peter began making molds of Ernie’s birds in rubber. Sadly I left my fellow mole-rons ; but a new phase was going to begin in my life.

I was assigned to working personally with Ernie and for the next six years my life was dominated by birds. I made castings of birds every day; I was free to leave work at 3:00 PM to be home by the time the school bus came around the corner and my son walked up the driveway. And—surprise, surprise; I found early on that I loved my work. I loved using my hands which left my mind free, just like it was with being a medical transcriptionist. I loved getting dirty, covered with dust, coming home and throwing my dirty work clothes down the cellar steps, then hopping into the shower. By the time Michael came home I was ready to meet him at the door. I felt like a steel worker. Powerful stuff.

Ernie carved a “saw whet” owl and gave it to Peter for mold-making. Ernie told me that these tiny owls are called “saw whet” because of the screechy noises they make. Out of all the birds I made during this time, my favorite was the owl. For one thing, the mold that Peter constructed was elegant in shape and a lot of fun to use. Also, we had these plastic yellow owls’ eyes that we could insert into the eye sockets of the castings. This is the kind of fun that children have, “making stuff.”

Ernie gave me one of the owl castings and signed the bottom. It stands on my piano; it’s a cherished gift that serves as a reminder of those productive times, when Peter and I worked together and raised Michael in the way we thought was best. I felt so strongly about being at home in the after-school hours; it was a blessing that I was able to do this while liking the work I did.

Now that we live in the country we see and hear owls. Sometimes at dusk if you stand outside our house the hooting of an owl can be heard. It’s soft but distinct and every time I hear it I get chills all over. It’s a primitive sound from long ago. Recently Peter was driving home at night and he saw a great horned owl, crossing the windshield of the car, going out to hunt for food. Another sign that I interpret as a benevolent message from the other world.

Signs From the Other World

4. Callie

Along with our starter kit--house, barn, creek, dog, etc., Callie was thrown in at the same time to make our new beginning complete. She was given to us as a welcoming gift from friends.

When we got Callie, our calico cat, she was literally a ball of fuzz and fur. She got her name from her breed; also, the first and second time she rode in the truck she yowled so much it sounded as if she was singing, so my husband and son called her Calliope.

After her initial fears she found a place for herself with us. She and Homer got along well; they tolerated each other, which was fine. There were, however, several unforgettable instances where the dog/cat relationship teetered on madness: Early on, our vet told us to wait until Callie was in heat before spaying. When she did enter that phase of her life, she was sending out major waves of pheromones that drove poor Homer crazy. Never had we seen anything like this! He couldn't keep away from her or leave her alone. He licked this poor kitten with his big tongue until she was drenched, breathed in her scent, and one time I found Homer practically sucking on her neck. Callie remained relaxed while this was going on and seemed to enjoy it. What could you do but laugh? Fortunately this only went on a few days and Callie was rescued from Homer's attentions. This happened during the time I was working as a mobile therapist and spending lots of time in my clients' houses; for many of them, "Catdog" was their favorite cartoon and I ended up watching it sometimes with them and enjoying it quite a bit. In it, a cat and dog share one body. While watching Homer and Callie "making out" I would say "They're going to make a catdog."

My husband's and son's birthdays are one day apart, so July 1 and 2 are a time of intense celebration. (When the birthday cake is brought out and all who are present sing "Happy Birthday to You" Michael and Peter sing "Happy Birthday to Us.") That July, our first in our new place, I brought home a bunch of those huge balloons you can buy in the supermarkets that have long ribbons and float to the ceiling. As these balloons drifted around, Callie became fascinated and finally grabbed the ribbons in her mouth and raced around the house, pulling these balloons behind her. Michael, my son, called Callie the "photon" -- a light particle.

Water Lilies and Not Getting Stomped on

In my years as a counselor I never worked in an office. I was a Mobile Therapist which meant I saw my kids in their own environments--home and school mostly. In one way it was good because I got to meet the people who made up their worlds. School secretaries who worked in the office, teachers, family members. Numerous times over the years people would ask me: "I have to check three times to see if all the burners on my stove are turned off before I can leave my house. Do I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (in the trade called OCD)?" I'm not a psychiatrist and lots of times I barely knew these people, but I did a bit of reading on the subject and I always answered: "Can you get to work on time even though you checked the burners three times? If it makes you late for work on a continual basis you probably have OCD." My apologies to any professionals out there who know more about this than I do. When I would tell the people this they always looked so happy and relaxed that I figured I wasn't doing any harm.

We all have obsessions. I know I do; I've had them all my life and I don't always know where they come from but I don't care. I get tired of all this picking and poking and analyzing of our minds and souls.

We had no ponds or lakes where I grew up in Squirrel Hill in Pittsburgh so I don't know how this happened (nor do I care); however, I always loved water lilies and I thought about them a lot. There were these wonderful lily pads, round and green and mysterious, just floating on the surface of water and the flower that grew from them, the lotus, is a symbol that comes from Hinduism having the meaning of the unfolding of the universe. Now that we've moved, there are some ponds nearby, one just up the road, and there are water lilies in it. I think artists have to be obsessed by things in order to paint; I'm including a painting by Monet of water lilies.

Also, and this is from watching Around the Children's Corner--Mr. Rogers' first television show in the 1950s, proudly broadcast by our own WQED--and Hoot the Owl lived in a knot hole in a tree. I was profoundly mesmerized by the idea of this so I was always checking trees to find knot holes. Sadly I never did find one.

I teach writing in my own particular way, something that grew out of my style as a mother and counselor. What does this have to do with water lilies and knot holes in trees? I encourage my students to write about what thrills them and what they fantasize about. I don't do much criticism; I always say at the beginning of a class or workshop that "there are enough forces in the outside world just waiting to tear your writing apart. That's not what I do." One young man I had in a workshop said "You don't get stomped on here." So I make a little sign and put it out for everybody to see and it says that. "No stomping on other peoples' writing." From so little you get so much; people love this and become obviously relaxed because they know that at least for an hour they won't get "stomped on."

Kol Nidre and the Dramatic Ending of the Days of Awe

At dusk, all over the world, many Jewish people will be congregating to--not celebrate--
this is the most holy night and day in the Jewish calendar--commemorate Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. Well, the writer in me isn't quite satisfied with commemorate but it will have to serve. Kol Nidre means "all vows."

A lot of us have been instructed as children to look within ourselves in the next 24 hours and search for character flaws, broken promises, goals we set for ourselves we didn't work hard enough to reach. It is also a day of fasting. There were minor days of fasting, according to Orthodox Judaism, between Rosh Hashanah and now but more Jews fast on Yom Kippur than on any other day.

Look at the picture on the side of my blog. It's a painting of Jewish men praying on Yom Kippur, full of sadness and self-reproach. The ladies are sitting in the gallery, behind the men. When I was young I often went to Poale Zedeck in Squirrel Hill--the Orthodox synagogue my grandparents attended-- along with Naomi Nudelman's family. Naomi was my best friend. Sometimes I went up to the women's gallery. Being separated from what the rabbi and the men were saying made it difficult to understand anything. So the girls and women would begin to chat among themselves, the sounds of their voices steadily growing in volume. Then the rabbi would give an angry look to the women's section and shout: "Women--quiet!" Now this made me angry when I was a young girl. If we were not going to be included in what was going on, the least they could do would be to let us gossip a little.

But I'm not angry at the rabbi, the men, or Orthodox Judaism anymore. I love all of my faith and I like to give it the respect it deserves.

I've written a lot about my grandfather who was fiery in nature and who loved our faith more deeply than anyone I've known. So I guess using the word "commemorate" isn't too wide of the mark; on Erev Yom Kippur (tonight, when Yom Kippur begins) I'm going to think about him, and what he loved, and whom.

The term "Days of Awe--" these days between the Jewish New Year and the Day of Atonement--always makes my heart quiet and thoughtful. What does it mean, "Days of Awe?" I think it means to open our souls and feel the overwhelming connection between the Jewish people and their God and their history of survival.

As is said often among Jewish people at this time: "May you be inscribed in the book of life."