(I wrote this during the kids' swim practice. I'm trying to develop Jan a bit.....)
This coffee shop is their place, Jan's and her mother Penny's. They have been meeting here on Wednsdays ever since it opened three years ago, just after Timmy started first grade. Penny has no late classes on Wednesdays and it's Jan's day off. This is a college town coffee shop. Barristas, liberal arts majors clearly, covered in tattoos. Jan loves it. It's the kind of college experience she always wished she'd had.
Jan studied biology with the vague idea of medical school. She never went to coffee shops, barely left the lab, just long enough to get herself knocked up the fall of sophomore year. She had the baby over the summer and was back in school by fall, a mother at 20. Jan and Penny have been through a lot.
They order at the counter, black coffee for Penny, decaf chai latte for Jan, and take a seat by the window. The place is all old brick, wood and glass. It used to be a textile factory; now it sells coffee. With the sound of the espresso maker backlit by chatter and the drone of traffic you can almost imagine treadling of the looms, the women in shirtwaist dresses, the thump of sewing machines.
"I picked up a new house," Jan says. She loves to impose her chosen profession on her mother. Force her to face it head on.
"Jesus Christ," says Penny. "Have you been drawing?"
"It's an old colonial out past the Admissions Building. It's gorgeous. Four bedrooms. There's just a middle-aged couple living there, two dogs, no kids."
"Are you trying to kill me?"
Jan's housecleaning is the most lucrative job she's ever had by far. She cannot believe how much money she makes cleaning other people's houses, all under the table. She's not deliberately avoiding the taxman. She simply has no idea where to begin, which forms to procure and fill out. There's so much of the adult world she doesn't understand and chooses to ignore. Somehow she gets away with it.
"Mom, I'm cleaning an essentially clean house once a week. 150 bucks a shot."
"These are strange times. Are you drawing?"
"Yes, actually, since you ask. I'm working on a new series based on rooms in people's houses."
"You're drawing the rooms you clean?"
"More or less. I add stuff, take stuff out. It's all very whimsical. It's fun. I'm kind of excited about it."
"Good. I can't wait to see them."
"Not yet. I'll show then to you in a couple of months. I'm not ready for you yet.
They walk in together and order at the counter
Friday, March 9, 2012
Friday, March 2, 2012
Friday 3/2/12
Jim can't seem to settle on a project. Two weeks into summer and already he's started six or seven things: mending the deck, collecting beer bottles to brew, scavenging pipe for an outdoor shower, stuff like that. He waits all year for these precious 10 weeks of summer. His wife, Cherrie, doesn't like to travel, so they make a vacation of being together at home. It is enough.
This afternoon Jim's in the garden. The peas have come and gone, the tomatoes are in flower. Green beans and broccoli are ready to be picked and there are enough cukes to start a batch of pickles. Jim just scratches his head.
It has been a difficult year. His dad died in April. He almost made it to spring. Spring in northern New Hampshire doesn't really start until May. Maybe early June. His dad lived for his garden. He helped Jim put this one in when they bought this place twenty years ago. He'd love the look of this broccoli. He'd know what to do with all the beans.
Jim's kids run wild. He and Cherrie are comfortable in chaos. One comes out onto the porch, dreadlocks half way down his back, tattoos up and down his arms. Jim remembers this boy at three, naked with a toolbelt slung low on his hips. He spent a whole summer like that. Helping. Jim loves his kids.
Two of his teenage daughters sit at the kitchen table. He can see their heads bent toward each other, maybe playing cards, maybe talking. He wonders what they're saying. There's four teenagers in the house, though technically Crater's 21. The kid with the dreads. The "creative" one. He wonders if they'll all stay friends when they're grown and gone. Not far off now. Homeschooled through high school, he suspects they're closer than many siblings. But that's all Cherrie's doing. He's there to gather the pieces every evening. To laugh and shake his head.
Jim's dad so enjoyed these grandkids of his. His mom never met them. "Let 'em be kids," his dad always said. Jim and Cherrie have definitely done that.
The kids all spoke at their granddad's memorial. Jim was glad about that. His dad's friends were mostly dead, so it was a small group. Lively, but small. They scattered the old man in the duckpond out behind his place in New Hampshire. His dad would have loved that night. They all sat around a big fire and told stories.
Jim's grateful for his kids. They're his friends now. His only friends really. The most interesting people he knows.
This afternoon Jim's in the garden. The peas have come and gone, the tomatoes are in flower. Green beans and broccoli are ready to be picked and there are enough cukes to start a batch of pickles. Jim just scratches his head.
It has been a difficult year. His dad died in April. He almost made it to spring. Spring in northern New Hampshire doesn't really start until May. Maybe early June. His dad lived for his garden. He helped Jim put this one in when they bought this place twenty years ago. He'd love the look of this broccoli. He'd know what to do with all the beans.
Jim's kids run wild. He and Cherrie are comfortable in chaos. One comes out onto the porch, dreadlocks half way down his back, tattoos up and down his arms. Jim remembers this boy at three, naked with a toolbelt slung low on his hips. He spent a whole summer like that. Helping. Jim loves his kids.
Two of his teenage daughters sit at the kitchen table. He can see their heads bent toward each other, maybe playing cards, maybe talking. He wonders what they're saying. There's four teenagers in the house, though technically Crater's 21. The kid with the dreads. The "creative" one. He wonders if they'll all stay friends when they're grown and gone. Not far off now. Homeschooled through high school, he suspects they're closer than many siblings. But that's all Cherrie's doing. He's there to gather the pieces every evening. To laugh and shake his head.
Jim's dad so enjoyed these grandkids of his. His mom never met them. "Let 'em be kids," his dad always said. Jim and Cherrie have definitely done that.
The kids all spoke at their granddad's memorial. Jim was glad about that. His dad's friends were mostly dead, so it was a small group. Lively, but small. They scattered the old man in the duckpond out behind his place in New Hampshire. His dad would have loved that night. They all sat around a big fire and told stories.
Jim's grateful for his kids. They're his friends now. His only friends really. The most interesting people he knows.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Thursday, 3/1/12
Her own house is a mess, always has been. When her mother found out she was cleaning houses, she literally could not stop laughing. Jan couldn't tell if it was nervous laughter or insane. Who cares. When she told her mother how much money she made in a week, that stopped her cold.
"Really? That's serious money."
Jan is in high demand, so she can charge a bundle. And she does. She's a highly educated white woman, drives a 3-year-old Subaru, cannot abide being late. She would not dream of not showing up. Even she is surprised that she likes it.
Of course she's not a house cleaner. Not really. Her Facebook page says "freelance writer," but that dried up a while ago. She goes back and forth on adding "cleaner." It could add some blue collar cache, but is that what she wants? She does have two totally unrelated master's degrees.
It's so satisfying walking into a mess and leaving it all clean. And then there's the money. Why must it all come back to money? With the kids in school she thought she'd use the extra time to finally write a novel, but instead of writing she found herself organizing the basement, cleaning closets. The kitchen floor never looked so good. Might as well make a few bucks with this newfound obsession. Let her own house rot, it always had before. Hire someone else to clean it. Another good laugh for her mother.
Cleaning other people's messes is a whole different story. She isn't there to get indignant as her hard work goes all to hell.
It's shockingly good material. She only cleans for people she doesn't know, and only if they're out of the house. She doesn't trust herself to clean friends' houses. Besides potentially fucking up the relationship (class struggle and all of that), she'd get too much dirt. She doesn't trust herself not to spread it all around. Best not to know, because she dearly loves to tell a good story.
"Really? That's serious money."
Jan is in high demand, so she can charge a bundle. And she does. She's a highly educated white woman, drives a 3-year-old Subaru, cannot abide being late. She would not dream of not showing up. Even she is surprised that she likes it.
Of course she's not a house cleaner. Not really. Her Facebook page says "freelance writer," but that dried up a while ago. She goes back and forth on adding "cleaner." It could add some blue collar cache, but is that what she wants? She does have two totally unrelated master's degrees.
It's so satisfying walking into a mess and leaving it all clean. And then there's the money. Why must it all come back to money? With the kids in school she thought she'd use the extra time to finally write a novel, but instead of writing she found herself organizing the basement, cleaning closets. The kitchen floor never looked so good. Might as well make a few bucks with this newfound obsession. Let her own house rot, it always had before. Hire someone else to clean it. Another good laugh for her mother.
Cleaning other people's messes is a whole different story. She isn't there to get indignant as her hard work goes all to hell.
It's shockingly good material. She only cleans for people she doesn't know, and only if they're out of the house. She doesn't trust herself to clean friends' houses. Besides potentially fucking up the relationship (class struggle and all of that), she'd get too much dirt. She doesn't trust herself not to spread it all around. Best not to know, because she dearly loves to tell a good story.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Wednesday, 2/29/12
Leap Day comes once every four years and Kendra accepts it as extra. On this one day nothing is lost because everything is a gift. It's an outlier day on the calendar, a day in which she takes everything as freely given.
Kendra wishes she could view every day in this light: a gift of time. Pure. But it's difficult to maintain that high level of optimism on a daily basis. She'd have to drop a few IQ points. Once every four years will have to do.
Kendra sits at the kitchen table and stirs soy milk into her coffee. It's four in the morning and everyone in the neighborhood is asleep. This is her second Leap Day as a parent, the first in which her kids are old enough to get it.
Isn't this how kids see every day? A gift of time from the vast universe, no end in sight. She probably said something like this herself before having kids of her own. Now she understands that this is nothing but bumper sticker bullshit. No one gives kids any credit. They're not blind. They have bad days.
She used to cry when she was a kid at the thought of growing up. She thought she'd never have whole empty days again, never have a minute to herself. It turns out she was more or less correct, but it's not as bad being grown up as she thought it would be. That's what her mother told her at the time, and her mother was right. "It happens gradually," she said. "You get used to it."
"Never!" Kendra thought back then. But it's true. You do.
Kendra vows to really listen today. She's working a half day seeing patients, and then the rest of the day at home. The house is a mess, but so be it. She will not clean on Leap Day. Or maybe that's exactly what she should do. The kids will be in school, Joe's gone this week to a meeting in Denver. She'll pour all of her energy into cleaning the house. It'll be like a workout. She'll do it with ankle weights.
This is how a life passes, she thinks, staring at her reflection in the big, black kitchen window. Leap Day to Leap Day, forever cleaning the house, forever trying to get out of it.
Kendra wishes she could view every day in this light: a gift of time. Pure. But it's difficult to maintain that high level of optimism on a daily basis. She'd have to drop a few IQ points. Once every four years will have to do.
Kendra sits at the kitchen table and stirs soy milk into her coffee. It's four in the morning and everyone in the neighborhood is asleep. This is her second Leap Day as a parent, the first in which her kids are old enough to get it.
Isn't this how kids see every day? A gift of time from the vast universe, no end in sight. She probably said something like this herself before having kids of her own. Now she understands that this is nothing but bumper sticker bullshit. No one gives kids any credit. They're not blind. They have bad days.
She used to cry when she was a kid at the thought of growing up. She thought she'd never have whole empty days again, never have a minute to herself. It turns out she was more or less correct, but it's not as bad being grown up as she thought it would be. That's what her mother told her at the time, and her mother was right. "It happens gradually," she said. "You get used to it."
"Never!" Kendra thought back then. But it's true. You do.
Kendra vows to really listen today. She's working a half day seeing patients, and then the rest of the day at home. The house is a mess, but so be it. She will not clean on Leap Day. Or maybe that's exactly what she should do. The kids will be in school, Joe's gone this week to a meeting in Denver. She'll pour all of her energy into cleaning the house. It'll be like a workout. She'll do it with ankle weights.
This is how a life passes, she thinks, staring at her reflection in the big, black kitchen window. Leap Day to Leap Day, forever cleaning the house, forever trying to get out of it.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Monday, 2/27/12
It almost got to the point where she was afraid to run, every little twinge magnified and amplified forboding weeks of layoff or worse. You just never knew. Sometimes the little aches simply went away, sometimes they turned ugly. No telling. She was afraid to do the thing she loved for fear of losing the thing she loved. This was a psychologically dangerous game.
Other people's bodies recovered easily, or they didn't. No big deal. Others seemed more tolerant of bodily imperfection. She honestly doesn't understand this. She'd never have great abs or a high, tight ass. These things were out of the question and she accepted that. No one with six naturally born children could expect toned abdominals. Why was she so competitive? Six kids, high toned abs? What was she thinking? Why did she care?
As it was, she'd taken to swimming while all of her running overuse injuries healed. Her four older kids swam on various swimteams. The younger two were more into team sports. Soccer, baseball, lots of standing around. She'd let her guard down with those last two. Soft.
She'd picked up enough at all of those swim meets to put together a decent set of strokes. She could do them all: freestyle, backstroke, breaststroke, even butterfly. She senses that swimming may have been her real calling, not running. She has a swimmer's body, the kind of body that can go the way of the spider if you're not careful. Long and lean with a bit of a middle. Anything extra goes right to the middle.
She bought five or six books and figured out how to change her running stride. She switched from a heel striker to a forefoot striker, as is all the rage, and her injuries disappeared. It was difficult to change 45 years of bone and muscle structure, but she did it. She has hamstrings now. The hamstrings are new.
There's no beating time. It will all go soft in the end. At some level she realizes this, but she's vigilant. Her children's bodies are perfect, every one of them. They're all vegetarian, intense yet quiet people, not an extrovert in the bunch, though those last two may turn on her. They might go over to the other side. She's worried they could grow up to be Republicans. What with the Little League and the Pop Warner it's becoming increasingly likely.
This will ruin Thanksgiving for the rest of time, she thinks. Ten years from now if she wants everyone home for the holiday she'll have to cook a real turkey. Jesus. At least they all might go for a run together afterwards. At least they'll all be in decent shape. At least she'll have that.
Other people's bodies recovered easily, or they didn't. No big deal. Others seemed more tolerant of bodily imperfection. She honestly doesn't understand this. She'd never have great abs or a high, tight ass. These things were out of the question and she accepted that. No one with six naturally born children could expect toned abdominals. Why was she so competitive? Six kids, high toned abs? What was she thinking? Why did she care?
As it was, she'd taken to swimming while all of her running overuse injuries healed. Her four older kids swam on various swimteams. The younger two were more into team sports. Soccer, baseball, lots of standing around. She'd let her guard down with those last two. Soft.
She'd picked up enough at all of those swim meets to put together a decent set of strokes. She could do them all: freestyle, backstroke, breaststroke, even butterfly. She senses that swimming may have been her real calling, not running. She has a swimmer's body, the kind of body that can go the way of the spider if you're not careful. Long and lean with a bit of a middle. Anything extra goes right to the middle.
She bought five or six books and figured out how to change her running stride. She switched from a heel striker to a forefoot striker, as is all the rage, and her injuries disappeared. It was difficult to change 45 years of bone and muscle structure, but she did it. She has hamstrings now. The hamstrings are new.
There's no beating time. It will all go soft in the end. At some level she realizes this, but she's vigilant. Her children's bodies are perfect, every one of them. They're all vegetarian, intense yet quiet people, not an extrovert in the bunch, though those last two may turn on her. They might go over to the other side. She's worried they could grow up to be Republicans. What with the Little League and the Pop Warner it's becoming increasingly likely.
This will ruin Thanksgiving for the rest of time, she thinks. Ten years from now if she wants everyone home for the holiday she'll have to cook a real turkey. Jesus. At least they all might go for a run together afterwards. At least they'll all be in decent shape. At least she'll have that.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Friday, 2/24/12
Mollie has finally settled. She's older now, approaching 50 at alarming speed, 50 being something of a barrier. Her mother died at 50, no warning, nothing to be done. Her heart gave out, simple as that.
After several successful years on the racing circuit, where her height and those thighs finally payed off, and several more coaching, speaking and giving 2- and 4-day clinics all over the country, after almost 30 years of living out of a Winnebago, Mollie has bought a house. This is it, she thinks. This is the place I will die.
She bought a little house on the river six months ago. The old couple who had lived there for 65 years finally succumbed. They couldn't keep the place up, moved across town to a nursing home. Mollie visits from time to time, talks about the house. The man can sometimes follow what she's saying, give advice. The woman is too far gone. She thinks Mollie is her daughter's friend and always looks happy to see her. Mollie doesn't think they get many visitors. Which strikes her as odd. Isn't that why people stay in one place so long? So lots of people will visit them in the nursing homes, fill the church for their funerals? It doesn't pay to outlive your friends.
Mollie's mother's funeral was packed to the gills. The family alone filled a quarter of St. Anne's, then all of her friends, her five children's friends. Her husband's patients and workmates. The crowd had spilled out to the street.
Mollie has done a lot to the house. Besides riding her bike every day for long hours, force of habit she guesses, most of her time and energy go into the house. She's starting from scratch, but she's not afraid to learn. She learned that Winnebago engine inside and out. The guys at the hardware store know her name. They don't talk down to her mainly because she's so tall. Clearly she's capable.
The first thing she did was take down the high picket fence fronting the road. That alone brought in more light than she knew what to do with. She whitewashed walls and cleaned the windows, added a little porch out back to sit and look at the river. It's a tiny house, all she's going to need.
After several successful years on the racing circuit, where her height and those thighs finally payed off, and several more coaching, speaking and giving 2- and 4-day clinics all over the country, after almost 30 years of living out of a Winnebago, Mollie has bought a house. This is it, she thinks. This is the place I will die.
She bought a little house on the river six months ago. The old couple who had lived there for 65 years finally succumbed. They couldn't keep the place up, moved across town to a nursing home. Mollie visits from time to time, talks about the house. The man can sometimes follow what she's saying, give advice. The woman is too far gone. She thinks Mollie is her daughter's friend and always looks happy to see her. Mollie doesn't think they get many visitors. Which strikes her as odd. Isn't that why people stay in one place so long? So lots of people will visit them in the nursing homes, fill the church for their funerals? It doesn't pay to outlive your friends.
Mollie's mother's funeral was packed to the gills. The family alone filled a quarter of St. Anne's, then all of her friends, her five children's friends. Her husband's patients and workmates. The crowd had spilled out to the street.
Mollie has done a lot to the house. Besides riding her bike every day for long hours, force of habit she guesses, most of her time and energy go into the house. She's starting from scratch, but she's not afraid to learn. She learned that Winnebago engine inside and out. The guys at the hardware store know her name. They don't talk down to her mainly because she's so tall. Clearly she's capable.
The first thing she did was take down the high picket fence fronting the road. That alone brought in more light than she knew what to do with. She whitewashed walls and cleaned the windows, added a little porch out back to sit and look at the river. It's a tiny house, all she's going to need.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Monday 2/22/12
The road is slick with slushy, spotily salted snow. Despite the hype, even the Subaru is having trouble. Why didn't she just stay home? The world of chemistry would survive a day without her. Doesn't Ken tell her that all the time?
Except she doesn't believe him. Not for a second. Her students will fuck everything up. They'll trudge across campus through the snow, hungover from Thursday night, to check on the tubes in the centrifuge machine that runs all night, and then let them defrost on the lab bench. They'll mess with her laser settings. They have no respect, no notion of how hard she works to keep it all going.
She tightens her fists on the steering wheel and navigates the hill. The car is dead quiet on the road. How did this happen? Life was so much easier before she agreed to get married, move out to the suburbs. When she lived across the street from campus, she could stay in the lab all night if she wanted, no one else the wiser.
What if she were six months pregnant, as Ken so wishes her to be? She wouldn't be out driving in this, that's for sure. The thought of staying home, of turning back, of missing all that will happen in the lab today, is impossible. Unthinkable, really. She's not six months pregnant.
But what if she were? Sometimes she tries to imagine it: giving birth, raising a child. If Ken was so keen on having kids, why did he marry her? He's probably thinking the same thing.
Her phone buzzes and chirps in her pocket. She puts him on speakerphone, secretly loving that he's checking up on her.
"Sarah, hey, did you make it?"
"I'm on Chucky's hill. It's really slow going."
"Okay, I won't keep you on the phone. I love you. Call me when you get there."
"Will do. Love you, too."
And she does. Against all odds, she'll call him when she gets there. He takes care of her, and she let's him. It's a new behavior. This visiting writing professor who turned out to be Ken actually swept her off her feet. No one at the time could believe it. The whole chemistry department walks on eggshells around her, and this guy waltzes in and marries her? Unbelievable.
She can't believe it herself.
Except she doesn't believe him. Not for a second. Her students will fuck everything up. They'll trudge across campus through the snow, hungover from Thursday night, to check on the tubes in the centrifuge machine that runs all night, and then let them defrost on the lab bench. They'll mess with her laser settings. They have no respect, no notion of how hard she works to keep it all going.
She tightens her fists on the steering wheel and navigates the hill. The car is dead quiet on the road. How did this happen? Life was so much easier before she agreed to get married, move out to the suburbs. When she lived across the street from campus, she could stay in the lab all night if she wanted, no one else the wiser.
What if she were six months pregnant, as Ken so wishes her to be? She wouldn't be out driving in this, that's for sure. The thought of staying home, of turning back, of missing all that will happen in the lab today, is impossible. Unthinkable, really. She's not six months pregnant.
But what if she were? Sometimes she tries to imagine it: giving birth, raising a child. If Ken was so keen on having kids, why did he marry her? He's probably thinking the same thing.
Her phone buzzes and chirps in her pocket. She puts him on speakerphone, secretly loving that he's checking up on her.
"Sarah, hey, did you make it?"
"I'm on Chucky's hill. It's really slow going."
"Okay, I won't keep you on the phone. I love you. Call me when you get there."
"Will do. Love you, too."
And she does. Against all odds, she'll call him when she gets there. He takes care of her, and she let's him. It's a new behavior. This visiting writing professor who turned out to be Ken actually swept her off her feet. No one at the time could believe it. The whole chemistry department walks on eggshells around her, and this guy waltzes in and marries her? Unbelievable.
She can't believe it herself.
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