GINNY BATES: IN LIEU OF GIFTS...

(Green door photo by Barbara Rossi at Los Zacatitos, Baja California)

It's shorter than usual, but here's another installment of my Great American Lesbian Novel (in progress), Ginny Bates. -- I don't want to keep you waiting too much. If you are new to reading GB, go to the section in the right-hand column labeled Ginny Bates to read background and find out how to catch up.

May 2018

Myra discovered she was hungry again, despite having had breakfast. She went to a diner, ordered hash browns with her patty melt, and asked for cranberry juice instead of a Coke. She read a newspaper slowly, sitting on a stool at the end of a counter, through the lunch rush. Her mind was working on another level, she could tell.

When she got home, Ginny was putting together a salad with endive and baby carrots. “You want some of this?” she offered.

“No, I ate. But it looks good” said Myra. She felt like it was an effort to make normal conversation.


“Margie just left. I had another long cry with her.” Myra noticed Ginny's face color was more normal that it had been in – well, however long it had been. Ginny continued “There's a message on the machine from Claire. She wants to know more about our anniversary party” said Ginny. She and Myra looked at each other, and to Ginny's relief, Myra laughed.

“Well, fuck if I know” said Myra.

“Same here. Maybe we can send out a general e-mail saying that due to personal demands, the party has to be cancelled this year” said Ginny, with a grin.

“Personal demands, huh. We could say in lieu of an anniversary gift, they could contribute to our couples' counseling fund” replied Myra. At least they could laugh about it.

She joined Ginny at the table while Ginny ate. “When the grandkids come tomorrow, what shall we do with them?” she asked.

“Well...what do we think others have not been doing with them?” said Ginny.

“Dance Class” said Myra instantly. “And – we could make bread with science experiments thrown in, like altering ingredients.”

“With those mini loaf pans you got them” said Ginny. “They can take home anything that tastes awful.”

“Which reminds me, I probably need to make a grocery run” said Myra.

“I filled the crisper. But yeah, we're out of milk, eggs, a lot of fresh stuff” said Ginny. “This is the last of that Jarlsberg.” She was wolfing her lunch. Myra got up to look through the fridge and pantry.

“I can vacuum and mop later, too” said Ginny. She carried her empty bowl to the sink and rinsed it. “I know you're not complaining, but first I'm going to wash myself, a long soak in the tub.”

Without thinking, Myra said “You want me to scrub your back for you?”

There was a long silence. She met Ginny's eyes, which went smudgy as Ginny said “I'd love it.”

While Ginny started her bath water, Myra called Claire back and left a message. She sent a brief e-mail update to her family, then rolled up her sleeves and went in the bathroom. Ginny was just stepping into the tub. Myra looked at her ass, a different shape now than the first time she saw Ginny naked but inexpressibly familiar and beautiful to her. She closed her eyes for a moment against the longing that roiled her stomach. When she opened them again, Ginny was seated and watching her.

"At least we both miss each other" she said. "That's better than not missing."

Myra closed the bathroom door against breezes and pulled over the footstool, sitting on it beside the tub. She picked up the plastic cup in the corner and said "How about if I wash your hair first?"

Ginny leaned forward and Myra filled the cup with hot water, then poured it slowly over Ginny's thick white cap, repeating until Ginny's head was soaked. With the hair flattened by wetness, Myra could see pink scalp underneath. She rubbed her thumbs along Ginny's hairline and temples, loosening the muscles as she went, then traveled her hands across the bowl of Ginny's head, pulling very gently on the short hair to increase blood flow. She finished with her thumbs inside the tip of each of Ginny's ears, and swirled the pad of her thumb down the ear curve and onto the stirrup before the canal.

She poured a handful of apricot shampoo into her palm, spread it into the other palm, and began tenderly rubbing shampoo into Ginny's hair. Ginny closed her eyes, her face flushed and intent. When Ginny's head was a tight cap of suds, Myra coaxed her backwards slowly and lowered Ginny into the water until just her face was exposed. Holding her with one hand, she used the other to rinse Ginny's hair until it floated in clean snowy spikettes in an arc around her head. Then Myra pulled her back up, wiping water away from Ginny's eyes and cheeks.

"You look a little like a baby fur seal" she said, kissing Ginny's forehead. She tugged Ginny toward her so Ginny could lean her arms on the side, her head on her arms, and began soaping Ginny's back, using her thumbs and the heels of her hands to explore every muscle and vertebrae. She took a long, slow time about it. When she finally said "You can lie back in the water now and rinse", the water had cooled off enough to need a recharge from the hot faucet.

"Thank you, Ginny" she said softly. Ginny's eyes were begging her not to go. Myra stood up, with an audible creak from her knees and a wince of pain, and dried her hands on a towel. Ginny said “Don't go to Pike without me, okay? I want to go with you.”

“All right” said Myra. “I'm going to start some laundry, if you won't be needing more hot water.”

For dinner, Myra ground hazelnuts into meal and coated two big fillets of sole with it before frying them. Ginny made anchovy butter, and put together a bulgar salad with various steamed veggies from the garden. As they were sitting down, Gillam appeared at the back door.

“Are you hungry?” asked Myra, noticing what a reflex that was for her.

“We're going to eat in ten minutes” he said. “David is crying because he doesn't want to eat chopped steak, he says it makes his teeth feel ooky.”

Myra and Ginny laughed. He stared at them, drinking in the sight.

“Listen...Margie called me on my cell as I was taking the bus home. She told me what happened.” His shoulders were stiff, Myra noticed.

“Are you here for confirmation?” asked Ginny. “Because I'm sure Margie got it right.”

“No, I – I just wanted to tell you how very sorry I am, what you've been through, and that I love you. Both of you.” He bent over Ginny and she pushed her face against his chest, her eyes leaking tears. Myra patted his arm. Of course Mama would have chosen him to be our first she thought suddenly.

“I also want you to know – after dinner, after I get the kids settled into a game at the table with Jane, Margie and I are going to talk with Carly. And Eric, of course. We want to be the ones to tell him.” Gillam's eyes were very somber.

“Oh, boychik, that would be ever so much the best” Myra said. “Only, let him know he's not to avoid us or feel like he can't ask for help from us -- “

Ginny was noticing that use of “us”. Gillam said “I'm sure he knows it, Mom.”

“We're planning on having the aunties to dinner tomorrow night, for a group talk. You're all invited, of course. The issue is what to do with the kids while we try to have a serious conversation” said Ginny.

“Well...We could plop them in front of a video. I mean, technically Charlie's not a year old yet, and we said no TV for any of them before that age, but he's almost there” mused Gillam.

“I have that set of old Reading Rainbow episodes, they're not much different from reading a book” ventured Myra.

“I'll talk it over with Jane. If we do come, should we invite Carly and Eric, too?”

“Absolutely” said Myra. “But let me know, so I can plan the meal accordingly.”

“Can I have a taste of that fish?” Gillam said to Myra. “It looks incredible.”

Myra held out her fork. “It's a winning recipe. I'll bring it to the next singing Sunday.”

There it was, a commitment to the future thought Ginny.

After dinner, awkwardness returned.

“What – you've not been painting, right?” asked Myra.

“God no” said Ginny.

“What did you do with that painting?” Myra's voice was hesitant.

“I put it away. The thing is – it was a portrait of you. So I'm reluctant to scrape it down, you understand.” Ginny managed a grin. “But...I don't know what I'll do with it.”

“Well, I know Allie would bitch at me, but all I want to do right now is go watch television” said Myra. “I'm worn out. I'll try to not choose crap, I'll do that much. It helps me go to sleep.”

Ginny couldn't fill the silence that ensued, all that was going unsaid. Finally she said “I'll vacuum and mop now, then. Shut your door so the dust doesn't bother you.”

Myra moved her arm, stopped herself, then came forward and hugged Ginny, slowly and closely. “I wish it was as easy as waiting for a test result to come in from the clinic” she whispered.

“Sweet dreams, Myra” Ginny whispered back.


© 2009 Maggie Jochild.

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APRICOTS AND OTHER FIRESTARTERS

(Apricot photo by Rosevita at Morguefile)

The cantaloupe was divine. As in, touched by the square-tipped, deft digits of g*d herself.

With it, I had a ham and avocado sandwich on nine-grain bread. A boughten loaf, not bread I'd made myself, but it was still as good as.


As I ate, I watched Sara Moulton make fried rice (nothing new there), Ming Tsai combine edamame with olive oil (with his buddy that wacky Spanish chef Jose Andres), Lidia revisit Napoli, and the nerds at ATK discover that apple pectin will thicken a blueberry pie. The real winner of the week was, as always, Jacques Pepin (you can watch the episode here: Brush your thick bacon slices with maple syrup before microwaving for a taste sensation; use french-fried onion rings ground into crumbs as a coating for sole, served with anchovy butter (otherwise known as Colbert, does Stephen know about this?; canned apricots with heavy syrup added to a crepe-like batter will make a fast clafouti; and a molded rice pilaf with mussels, made me want to eat mussels. I'm pretty sure all of Jacques' offerings will make their way in Ginny Bates, they usually do.

Sara Moulton implied that Julia Child was a little over-fond of vermouth, and not for cooking purposes. Ming Tsai had a serving bowl with one side much higher than the other, an asymmetrical design that looked like it would be very fun to eat from. And, as usual, I looked for the name of someone I once knew in the credits of Jacques' show. It's filmed at KQED in San Fran, and a woman I once taught counseling to works there as the person who ensures that food as it is photographed looks yummy -- it probably wouldn't take so great, because of the tricks they employ to make it look good on camera. She used to entertain me with stories of what they did to soups or roast chicken to increase its photogenic appeal.

Lordy, she must be in her 60s now. What happened to us all?

A couple of weeks ago I went into my sock drawer looking for a wool pair and left it open. Dinah discovered it right away and has declared it Her Cave (which she pronounces as Cabe), so I've left it open. Sometimes when I'm in bed, I get that creepy feeling that I'm being watched. I look around and spot the tips of her ears extending over the edge of the drawer, a flash of tapetum from her eyes. I pretend like I haven't spotted her -- she prefers it that way.

I did play Tradewinds Caravans, choosing the most difficult character, Jinpa with the cursed children (her baby has fangs and spits fire) looking for magic remedies along the Silk Road. I've gotten too good at it -- I had amassed a fortune and a full set of elite archers, Bactrian camels, and a secret storage saddle within half an hour.

A gay man named Clark who was also at the White Night Riot wrote a comment yesterday at my post about it, revealing himself to be the one who used newspaper from busted open machines to start fires, hurling them inside the broken windows of City Hall and, eventually, into police cars. I've never seen anyone else write about that. It was thrilling. I'd like to meet him.

(I love the heading on this photo: Burning Police Car Of The Day. "Hundreds of protestors set on fire a police vehicle during a protest against power outages at Sanir Akhra, Dhaka, Bangladesh, Thursday, Sept. 28, 2006.")






Okay, now to write For Real.

--------------------------------------------------
From The Ethicurean: The apricot is thought to have originated in China, with first cultivation by humans around 2000 BCE. The fruit spread west along the Silk Road as caravans carried gems, spices, ceramics and other fine goods between East and West. By the 1st century BCE, apricot trees had reached Iran, Greece, and Rome. The Greeks were unaware of the fruit’s Chinese origins and thought that the fruit originated in Armenia, a mistake that is preserved in the apricot’s botanical name Prunus armeniaca. The common English name derives from the Latin praecocium, meaning precocious, a reference to the fruit’s early ripening.

In the “great apricot belt” that spans from Turkey to Turkistan, you can find a dazzling variety of apricots: “white, black, grey, and pink apricots, from pea to peach sized, with flavors equally varied.” (The source of the quote and information above is The Oxford Companion to Food.)

P.S. My mother once said in front of my father and his Bible Baptist parents "If I were ever going to cheat on Harold, I'd find myself a quiet young man with an ass like a ripe apricot."

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GINNY BATES: TEMPO AL TEMPO

Here's another installment of my Great American Lesbian Novel (in progress), Ginny Bates. If you are new to reading GB, go to the section in the right-hand column labeled Ginny Bates to read background and find out how to catch up.

May 2018

Margie came over at 8 the next morning, rousting Ginny from the study daybed with “Frances made crema fritta last night, I have some leftovers.”

Ginny was still limping as she came downstairs. Margie said “Is your foot infected?”

“I don't know” said Ginny. She pulled off her sock and they looked at the wound left by the glass.

“There's no redness. I still think you should have had stitches. Maybe you cut some small muscle” said Margie.

“It's just sore. But I'm sore all over” said Ginny.

“Immobility” declared Margie. “Frances sent over prosciutto, too. Make tea, I'm getting Mom up.”


Two minutes later, Myra emerged from the front bedroom with Margie's arm linked through hers. Moon and Gidg rushed to greet Myra, stepping politely around Keller. Myra looked at Ginny without expression and said “Hi” in a flat voice.

“Well, better than nothing” said Margie cheerfully. “Sit down, I'm your server for today.” She set a bowl of mandarin orange slices on the table and joined her mothers.

Ginny was already eating a slice of crema fritta. Margie poured tea into Myra's cup and said “All right. Spill.”

“No” said Myra instantly. “I can't rehash it over a meal. Besides...we're not done.”

“But something shifted with Nancy, can you tell me that much?”

Myra looked at Ginny. “Information was exchanged. Ginny, one thing we need to figure out today is how to tell Carly.”

“I know” said Ginny. “Before it gets released into the whole family.”

“Carly?” said Margie. “Because of Pat? You're really not going to give me anything more than that? Damn. Well, what about today, you're going back today, Mom said? Will you talk with me after that?”

“Maybe” said Myra. “Margie, this is as good as it gets right now.”

“All right. I wish I liked the taste of prosciutto, it's such a lovely color” said Margie.

“Who has the grandchildren for date night tonight?” asked Ginny.

“Allie and Edwina” said Margie. “And I want to remind you, Mimi's birthday is Wednesday after next.”

“We know” said Ginny. She felt instantly nervous about that “we”, but Myra didn't react.

Ten minutes later, Frances joined them, sleep still in the corners of her eyes. She made an espresso and heated milk to pour into it. She acted like everything was perfectly normal, which Ginny found extremely reassuring.

After two sips of coffee, she said “Mimi asked me to give her a pony for her birthday.”

“A girl after my own heart” grinned Margie.

Myra looked at Ginny. Every time their eyes met, Ginny's heart flipped over. “Maybe it's time to make some stick horses for this lot?” Myra suggested.

“With extras for guests” said Ginny, and they both smiled. Myra told Frances about the time Margie tried to give away Gillam's horse to Truitt and the meltdown that occurred. Frances said to Margie “You had too many stinky boys around, huh, baby.”

Ginny snorted. “The only boys within a mile were toddlers. They weren't the problem, it was all the fawning aunties who thought Margie farted rainbows.”

“That is not in any way how I remember things” said Margie. Frances winked at her in commiseration.

When Myra finished eating, she excused herself, saying she needed to shower before she dressed. She went into the front bedroom and closed the door. Margie said to Ginny softly “So, are you definitely going to be working things out?”

“I don't know, Margie” said Ginny. “I now know what all those exes of hers felt. When she goes away, she's gone. Like frozen tundra.”

“But you were lying on the daybed together last night, I saw you” said Margie.

“We slept a few hours together. Don't get me wrong, it's a major change. But...things are still...up in the air.”

Frances made a hand gesture Ginny didn't recognize and said “Tempo al tempo.”

When Myra came back out, Frances and Margie were still there. “Uh...I still want us to drive separately” she said to Ginny uncomfortably.

“All right” said Ginny. “I should get dressed too. No, you two don't have to go.”

Myra began carrying dishes to the kitchen. Frances helped her and fed a tendril of prosciutto to Moon on the sly. Ginny went upstairs, returning to find Myra heading out the door and the kitchen empty.

“See you there” said Myra.

Ginny had to go back inside after starting her car because she'd forgotten her wallet and had not set the alarm. She felt anxious about being late, but also wondered how safe her driving was at the moment and forced herself to not speed.

Myra was sitting in the armchair. Ginny took a place beside Nancy on the couch. Nancy put her fingers on Ginny's pulse and said “So, how did it go?”

Ginny wanted to hear what Myra would say. After several moments, Myra said “Better. For a while. Then questions came crowding back in.”

“And you allowed them? Good” said Nancy.

“I...I have a question for Myra” said Ginny. Myra met her eyes. “Why did you change your mind? I mean, why did you finally agree to see Nancy, to talk to me again? Was it something Chris said?”

“You know about that?” said Myra, not pleased.

“Just that she talked to you. Not what she said.”

“No. It was not Chris, or Allie either.” Myra looked stubborn. “Or the visitation, at least, not directly.”

“What visitation?” asked Ginny.

“I thought since you were all sharing information” began Myra snidely. Nancy waved a hand in her direction and Myra stopped for a minute. She resumed talking in a normal tone. “A couple of days ago, my mother appeared to me. By the whaleshark, next to the pond.”

“Appeared? You mean, you saw her?” Ginny's eyes were wide.

“And heard her. So did Margie, in some sort of shared hallucination. And – it seemed like, Keller and the dogs.” The story had to be dragged out of Myra. When she was done, Nancy commented “You don't believe it was real.”

“I don't. Listen, is there a way you can muscle test to find out if it did happen, like, get past my delusion or whatever?” asked Myra. Nancy grinned to herself and said “All reality is delusion, at bottom.”

“But – if you don't believe it was real, then – you said that didn't influence you either?” Ginny persisted in getting her question answered.

“Not directly. It got to me, though, to think I was sliding over an edge like that. And somehow dragging Margie with me. I got...scared, I guess you'd say. That I'm so lost, I'm making shit up. And then, when I told Gillam about it – well, he more or less said he thought my mother had come back to intervene on his kids' behalf. That if I was going to be like her, he wasn't sure I was fit to be around his children.”

“He said that?” Ginny wasn't breathing deeply.

“More or less.”

“And that's what shifted you?”

“Well, if I lose the grandkids, I lose him too, really. And eventually Margie. I'd already lost you, and they were all having Sunday potluck without me. I had to do something” said Myra.

Nancy looked at Ginny, but Ginny had no reply to make. Nancy said “So, do you have any questions, Myra?”

“Questions are all I have” said Myra, rubbing her forehead. Nancy scooted over to sit on the arm of her chair, taking pulses. Myra leaned against her for a second, then looked up into Nancy's face and said “If I'm honest today, I may break her heart. I don't want to. I'm not mad any more.”

“She's strong enough for the truth, Myra” said Nancy. Ginny hoped that was true. She dug herself back into the couch cushions.

“I don't understand...how she could have let this happen to her. I know that sounds like blaming the victim. If it is, I'm a fucking hypocrite. I don't think it's her fault, what Pat did to her. But I don't understand how she could let it go on for even a second. It doesn't fit with the woman I thought I knew. And – Listen, Ginny, I absolutely know you didn't want Pat, never did. I believe you. But even so, you kissed her back. If you could do that...I'm scared about us. About what you may have done with me, that maybe you didn't want to. I've never had that worry about you.”

Myra looked queasy. Nancy was working on her steadily. Ginny met Myra's gaze without flinching.

“I don't understand it, either. That's...been the problem” Ginny said hoarsely.

“So maybe you've got some crud in there neither of us knew about?”

“What if she does?” Nancy asked. “What would that mean?”

“Well, for one thing, I want to re-examine her relationship with her parents. Both of them.” Myra's tone was briefly harsh.

“That's not your work to do, Myra. It's Ginny's, unless she asks for your company in that quest” reminded Nancy.

“But...I made a sexual agreement with her based on her not having...her not being like me and Allie and Chris” said Myra.

“You've counted on her being outside the kind of damage you carry, is that it? So now you see her as what, less valuable to you?” Nancy's voice was soft.

“NO. Not that. But it means I have to be careful in a way I never was. Careful to not – I don't know how to explain it.”

Nancy looked at Ginny. “Ginny, when you became lovers with Myra, in your sexual relationship with her, have you had be more careful than with other lovers because she's a survivor of abuse?”

“Uh...no. I mean, sometimes stuff hits and I need to change what I'm doing, or listen for a while...but that's true for any lover, isn't it? That kind of consideration and reciprocity?” Ginny felt confused, also.

“Myra, your identification of Ginny as somehow not being your full equal if she has sexual abuse in her past – which she most assuredly does, the incident with Pat counts as that – I think it's a judgment you are passing on yourself. Not Ginny.” Nancy flexed Myra's arm and said “Yes, that's right, that is what's going on. Okay, we'll begin there.”

Myra was fighting an urge to throw up. She closed her eyes and let Nancy do her magic. When her nausea began subsiding, she looked at Ginny again. She whispered “When did I become someone you couldn't come to and tell what had just happened to you? Was that barrier always there between us, or was it because that year, how terrible it had been?”

Ginny swallowed. “It was Margie's rape. When she came home, she told you. She asked to talk to you first. Not me. I thought – sometimes, I still think – it's because I'd let her down in a way you had not.”

“Not true” said Myra. “It was because you were so in at her core, and she had to step back from her own insides to know what happened. Once she broke the silence, it was you she wanted most of all.”

Ginny began sobbing. Nancy didn't cross over to her, however. She said to Myra “I'm sensing a block, still. What's going on with you?”

Myra's fists were closed. “All those years. Every second of every day, there was a secret between us that I had no idea existed. Ginny was living with it, living around it, trying to – what were you doing, Ginny? Were you trying to make up for what happened? Were you never going to tell me? What if I had died before this came out?”

“I wanted to tell you, once I realized we could work through it, once the kids got better, I ached to tell you. But by then, enough time had passed – you know how you are about being lied to. You would have left me. As you did. You did leave me, Myra. I'm not sure if you're back or just doing the work because you always do the work.” Ginny gasped her words around her weeping.

“I can't give you a promise right now” said Myra. Ginny interrupted with “I know that, dammit. I'm just telling you what I think, how I feel.”

Nancy smiled briefly. Myra unclenched her hands and said “It was easier when I was mad at you. Now I keep thinking of times, during the past 14 years, when you must have been slammed, been terrified, been all alone. No wonder you never got past that irrational jealousy – it wasn't that I was untrustworthy, it's that you were afraid you were. And having to deal with that scumsucker Pat around Carly and Gillam's relationship, and her – she really did a number on Patty, with the move and the shit that went down in that family. And you couldn't call her on it, couldn't tell Patty, couldn't do anything but walk a tightrope. I want to tell you that you deserved all the hell you must have gone through, but instead I can hardly bear that you did, without me, without your best friend and girl sitting here. I hate it that I have empathy for you, but I do.” Myra burst into tears as well.

“You wouldn't be Myra if you didn't” wailed Ginny. Now Nancy was openly grinning. She moved to sit beside Ginny and tend to her. After they had both cried themselves out, Nancy began mixing oils. She said to Myra “You did not deserve to be lied to, we're all clear on that. But somehow you played a role in the dynamic that got constructed. You need to think about what that might have been, without blaming yourself or Ginny. We can discuss what you've come up with next time.”

“And you, Ginny...You'll have to forgive Myra for not noticing you were keeping something from her. You'll have to do that before you forgive yourself, I think. I want the two of you to not have sex right away -- “

Myra snorted.

“And if one of you is uneasy with talking about these issues on your own, then don't. Bring it back here. There's no rush.” Nancy handed them each a small bottle of oil.

“That's it? We're done for this time?” said Myra, as if Nancy had not just said “No rush.” “We haven't figured out how to tell Carly – how to tell the whole family, for that matter.”

“It's up to Ginny how to tell your family” said Nancy. “And yes, I agree, Carly will be very hurt by the whole story, but it won't surprise him.”

“But what if he turns to us, to me, for comfort?” said Myra.

“If you feel you can't offer it to him, help him find someone who can listen” said Nancy sensibly. “Give him my home number, he can call me. My guess is that he won't turn to either of you, or his mothers. He'll use other parts of his support system. He's a level-headed man.”

“But -- “ began Myra.

“Go back to as much of your normal routine as you can” said Nancy firmly. “Cook and eat together, you can manage that. See your grandchildren. Garden, do chores. And if creativity is something you can manage, that would be ideal. No pressure, though. Same time tomorrow?”

“All right” said Myra resignedly. They hugged Nancy and left, walking down the stairs in a single line. At Myra's car, she turned awkwardly and said “About the grandkids – I can't handle it on my own, but I think she's right, all they want of us is to be around us. I'm ready for it. Are you?”

“I am. For a few hours” said Ginny.

“I want to go eat lunch out somewhere, think for a while. Will you call Jane and tell her we'll take the Golden Horde at our usual time tomorrow?”

Ginny nodded. “I may talk to Margie when I get home. But I'd rather not tell the story a dozen times, I'd rather wait until we can get everyone else together. Well, maybe not Carly and Eric, I don't know yet. Are you going to be able to be part of that gathering?”

Myra took a deep breath. “Yes. You'll need me to keep Allie from rushing out to murder Pat. Or, depending on how I'm feeling at that moment, maybe I'll drive the car for her.”

Ginny let herself laugh. “I'll take that as a compliment. But I don't want you to do that work for me, either.”

Myra stepped over and gave Ginny a hug. “God, you smell good. You've not been bathing much, have you?”

Ginny laughed again. “I'll be in the garden, if I'm not at the house. Thanks for – everything.”

“No problem” said Myra. They both cracked up, with a hysterical edge to their laughter. Myra was still chuckling as she drove off.


© 2009 Maggie Jochild.

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SATURDAY: STILL LIFE WITH CANTALOUPE ON THE SILK ROAD, AGAIN

(Cantaloupe, oil on canvas by Judith Soloman)

After I wrote the fundraising post last night, I was emotionally drained. Drank 16 ounces of water and went to lie down, watch Spain: On The Road Again which I had taped from earlier. Fell asleep before the paella was done, and slept until about 9 this morning. Which is fine, I can catch up today, it being Saturday and all.


In case you don't know about the series above, it's a great chef (Mario Batali), a great food writer (Mark Bittner), a great actress and lover of all things Europe (Gwyneth Paltrow), and a great Spanish historian (Claudia Bessole) taking an extended road trip across Spain, mostly eating everything they come across. Gwyneth is a vegetarian, Claudia is a local, Mark and Mario are unceasing omnivores and epicures (funny how Mark out-eats Mario every time, plus is given to indolence, but he's slender and Mario is an energetic rotundity). The art, regional appreciation, and conversations are wonderful. Plus it's two funny guys and two strong women, two of them happily married elsewhere with children, so while there's an occasional flirtation, mostly it's all about connecting as human beings, to each other and to Spain. I'll be sorry to see their adventure end.

When I woke up, I watched the re-run of This Old House our local PBS station plays on Saturday mornings, followed by Home Time (though I still miss butchy little Robin Hartl on that one), then Norm Abrams in Yankee Workshop. I fell asleep again during Rick Steve's monotone tour of Europe and some poseur who travels around fancy restaurants talking about novelle cuisine (can't remember his name), and woke up in time for a grocery delivery from Barbara, who does a spiffy job for reasonable rates. As I type this, I'm taping Sara Moulton, Ming Tsai, Lydia Bastianich, Jacques Pepin, and America's Test Kitchen. At 5:00 the current This Old House hour comes on, and at 8:00 it's Rosemary and Thyme, a gardening-based BBC mystery series starring two fabulous British character actresses.

Saturdays, it's all about PBS at my house. Until midnight, when I tape American Chopper just to see working class masculinity and massive male-conditioned dysfunctionality in a garage setting -- it's my Bill fix for the week. He was an auto mechanic, then race car mechanic, then truck auto parts dealer, as well as a blue musician. Hanging over my computer monitor here is a photo of him in a stock car he build and raced -- and eventually crashed.

My hands are still shaking from the work of bringing in and putting away my groceries. Imagine trying to haul groceries while using a walker. Yes, of course, I hang the bags from the top supports, but lifting that laden sucker is tricky. I have a chair halfway so I can stop and rest. I keep reminding myself of the treat at the end -- a full fridge/pantry and at least one thing I've been craving. This week, its cantaloupe: There's fresh cantaloupe in there. By the time I'm done, however, I'm too stretched to eat. So I drink another glass of water (electrolytes plus I'm a mouth breather) and come to the computer to check e-mail, chill out. Dinah is rampaging through a paper bag I put on the floor for her. It's a sunny day, supposed to get up into the 60s. All is well.

Now, I can either be responsible and write a GNB post, work on Ginny Bates, and/or a couple of other writing projects -- or I could play a little Chocolatier or Tradewinds. (I have all three Tradewinds, the original Fertile Crescent version, the Caribbean version, and the newish Silk Road one. They're all different challenges.) If anybody out there plays the Silk Road one, have you figured out how to manage to get the red ink from Damascus, the white powder from Constantipole, and the sheep guts/rabbit fur from Heratt in time to meet the deadline? It's not a quest that's essential to winning the game, and I always win now, I'm a trading savant and I buy up masses of heavenly fire plus two Summoners and a Tao Mystic, I cream opponents in battles. But I've never managed to solve that one puzzle, despite selling off elephants and racing with horses, carrying no merchandise, and having only warriors who can run like the wind (no chunky battle-axe wielder or siege elephants, for instance). The strategy guide at Gamezebo doesn't say how to do it, either.

Shit, I can tell I'm going to play instead of work. At least for the next hour. After that, cantaloupe and being industrious, I promise.

(Screenshot from Tradewinds Caravans)

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THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS

(Card created by Liza Cowan in 1983 for her company, White Mare)

My second semester at North Texas State University, I signed up for a speech class to get rid of my "hick" accent. NTSU suffered from an inferiority complex in general, not being part of the UT system, and aside from its music degree and the honors program of which I was a part, every department I encountered there went out of its way to put down anyone seeming too rural or provincial. I'm sorry now I took the speech classes. I think the way I talked was probably lovely, rich and full of colloquialisms which do still come to me. My vocabulary was stellar and my grammar impeccable, thanks to the women in my family. The accent was no indicator of my intelligence or education.


But I was still in the closet about my class background, so speech cleansing it was. As part of that course, we had to learn a "piece" and declaim it with two or three other students -- not really a performance, no sets or props, but still on stage and with all attention focused on pronunciation. Ironically, we were encouraged to select from an assortment of dramatic works, and my little group chose A Streetcar Named Desire, full of florid Williamsesque accents and linguistic contrivance. I was given the part of Blanche Dubois, mostly because the other girl in my group flat-out refused and I was too shy to actually insist I couldn't possibly do it.

It was agony for me, in every regard. I got by, I think, because I had of course memorized my lines and that was half the grade. Also, the boy Tim who had the Stanley Kowalski role was a 90 lb. weakling with long blond hippie hair and a faint voice. What we really should have done is traded roles, me and Tim. Instead, the rest of the class managed to not laugh at us and the bored TA gave me an A mostly because I did shed my accent by the end of the year.

I loathed Blanche. The one line of hers that I appreciated was "I have always relied on the kindness of strangers", with all its lie and misdirected meaning and gender subterfuge. It actually comes up in my head often.

The last few weeks, it's been a mantra. I am relying on the kindness of strangers for survival. No sarcasm and no manipulation here, just frank reality.

It's hard to describe. I'd call it a state of grace, except that's such a christian reference. It does have an awe-some element of fear, and a sense of responsibility whose parameters I cannot completely scribe without encountering shame, still. (I'm working on it.)

I think about the choices I've made along the way which brought me to this place, and try to see the power in it. But there's also circumstances beyond my control -- at least, some of them are, but sorting out which are genuinely random and which are the result of my class training to assume helplessness is another sift I'm having to do.

Some of the changes from last month to now are intense, and mostly expressed in my body. I'm sleeping solidly, and waking up without panic. I'm eating real food, usually two meals a day, with fresh fruit and vegetables and whole grains making the bulk of it, instead of bologna and -- well, I don't want to say. Eating two meals a day instead of one or none has altered my chemistry and energy. I can "afford" to think about certain issues now, afford to do more around the house, afford to let myself cry.

Even more pronounced has been the change in my dreams. For three months before hope came my way, I had been dreaming several times a week that I was living with my family of origin again, one or all of them. I was usually the age I am now, but they were younger, during the years when we were in crisis and crammed together without community or sanctuary. These nightmares revolved around me trying to get space (literally), like a corner of a room to call my own, freedom from hostility, find a door to the outside, get to a phone, land a job, always juggling my needs against those of my mother and little brother (if they were in that dream). I would wake up feeling wretched. I couldn't go right back to sleep, so my sleep cycles had become two and three hours long. A bad cycle to be in.

No more. I have always had strong dreams, full of symbolism and creativity, and these have returned without any appearance of my family. Hallelujah.

Often I've come in, rested and fed, to my computer and begun writing about what I'm feeling and thinking. I haven't been finishing these pieces, because the future still seems open-ended to some extent. Here's one such effort:

"It's been months since we had cat treats in this house. Dinah had given up looking for the canister on the shelf next to my computer monitor. But with the grocery money available last week, I felt it possible to spare $2 and buy some Whisker Lickins. When I pulled the package from the grocery bag in her presence, she didn't register any recognition. However, when I popped the seal, her sense of smell brought her memory back in full force.

Since then, she's been unctuous and abnormally attentive. In fact, night before last, she crawled under my comforter and slept with me -- not in actual physical contact, which would have been strange enough to make me call 911, but still within reach if I so chose. It was startling, and made me realize, once again, how much I miss having a pet who is affectionate. Dinah will Allow Me to stroke her back, and that's it. No cuddling, no adorable reaching out. When she wants my attention, she licks my arm but that's not an expression of love -- she knows full well I don't like it, and it gets me to notice her. Negative feedback is fine with her."

Here's another uncompleted start:

"I just ate a huge bowl of frijoles negritos and brown rice, garnished liberally with garlic, onions, and peppers. And a couple of taquitos on the side. Excellent breakfast -- the only thing I'd add is cantaloupe, but tis not the season, alas.

The rice came out perfect, may I say. I set the timer and did not lift that lid, no matter what. Most days I can't resist a look. Positive reinforcement like this wars continually with a cook's fear of scorched pans. I wondered, how did people make perfect rice before the days of timers or see-through lids? I bet someone out there knows the answer. My best guess was that they set something to bake or rise at the same time which took exactly 45 minutes to look right, and when that was done, they knew the rice was done, too.

I once worked in office of six other women who were all on the no-carb, high-protein diet. Breakfast for them would be a small sirloin and half a pound of bacon. Lunch was equally obscene -- they had permission to avoid apples and carrots, for instance, because of their "carb count". Then, around 2:00, they'd start jonesing and talking feverishly about french fries or pancakes. Eventually pretzels would be sneaked out from someone's desk and they'd all have a few, then whine the rest of the day about how they had failed themselves. Meanwhile, their breath peeled paint from the walls and the gas was ignitable.

I brought in my brown rice, my roasted blue potatoes or Red Bliss, my quinoa and amaranth and stone-ground corn meal with pintos and squash. I tried to explain to them how whole grains are often nearly whole foods, why it was that massive peasant populations worked sun-up to sun-down on nothing more than rice or potatoes or whole wheat bread. But I was fat and refused to feel shame about it, so I was the leper who lived in an unclean hut."

--------------------------------------------------

The plain truth of the matter, I don't know how to thank you all. I really don't. Except to maybe show you (keep showing you) who I am, to keep doing the work I think I was born to do, and to keep holding out hope in the particular way I am able to -- a skill nobody else in my family possessed.

We still have a little way to go before I'm out of serious peril. Jesse is doing miraculous work, over at Group News Blog, raising funds for me -- here's his most recent post. In order to get some of the state-supplied services I must have to be safe, I have to undergo another round of doctor visits (to get documentation) because it's been too long since I had a complete examination. This means funds to pay for it out of pocket, plus transportation, plus assistance. Next month, maybe. Social services in Texas were shredded by Bush and have not been restored since. But I'll find a path through this swamp, now that I can eat and sleep and not fear eviction.

My mind keeps going to all the ways I've done extra for others, all my life. I'm not sure if this is me trying to convince myself I deserve this help, or if it is a way to give me common ground with all you out there who are choosing to send me love in the form of dollars. I had a friend for a few years who had severe environmental illness, such that she could not work, could not do her own dishes or housecleaning (no products safe enough), could not fill her truck with gas, had to wear a mask out in the world. I would go by her house after work and wash her dishes for her, get her car gassed up, go with her on necessary errands out in the world to keep her company and remind her she was not a freak, no matter how people looked at her.

I've wiped adults who've crapped themselves, help change catheter bags, talked people out of suicide, made meals and washed clothes and hauled groceries and been the person you call when you have to put a pet to sleep. I've done none of it for money, all of it for love, and I've done way, way more than my share. When I was mobile and seemingly able-bodied, I never stopped doing a little more than my share, every single day. When I saw someone panhandling, I gave 'em a buck. If it was a woman or someone with a kid or a person of color, I gave 'em half of what I had in my pockets, even if they reeked of booze or huff: So what if they're an addict, half the people I've known have had some form of addiction. That's between them and g*d. I've had people I love become homeless, you don't choose it any more than you choose falling off a cliff. And when I handed them the money, I touched their hand, their arm, I looked them in the eye and said "I hope this helps."

Was I paying it forward, then? Did I know, or suspect, or fear I'd reach where I am now? I honestly can't answer that question, but it keeps coming up.

I have a few memories of being a baby and toddler in India, of walking the streets of Kolkata in the arms of Nilmoni and her friends, the nuns who worked with Mother Teresa. I don't remember meeting Mother Teresa, though Mom told me I did, many times. I do remember feeling happy and safe with these women, that what they/we did was talk to people, all day long. Listen to them and talk back to them as human beings. I was glad to be not just with the sisters but with all the other people, the beggars and lepers and starving -- we were all the same, all good and doing our best. There was never any tension in these street scenes that transmitted itself to me. Life was good, even when it wasn't.

So, perhaps that is the source of my choices, my strength, my commitments. Or maybe, as one energy worker told me, I'm simply unusually strong.

Whatever --I'm glad to be alive. Glad to have found another way to keep writing my letters to the world, even as I live separated from you against my will. Glad you are out there and decided to reach my way. I'll keep writing, letting you know how things are.

Bless you.

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GINNY BATES: WIENIE ROAST TELEPATHY

As a New Year treat, here's a little lagniappe portion of my Great American Lesbian Novel (in progress), Ginny Bates. This day occurred when Margie and Gillam were 11 and 8, and was just written, not part of the earlier chapters. If you are new to reading GB, go to the section in the right-hand column labeled Ginny Bates to read background and find out how to catch up.

July 1999

It was a warm summer weekend. When Margie found out Truitt and Carly were staying over Saturday night, she asked to invite Amy and Myra drove them to pick her up. However, boy-girl tensions ran high from the moment of Amy's arrival. Amy refused to go swimming, and Margie began making fun of the boys' legs, which mostly bewildered Carly and Gillam. Truitt was stung, however. Finally Ginny ordered Margie and Amy to find something constructive to do. They wandered into the house where Myra was wrapping potatoes to bake for dinner.

"Can we get on your computer?" asked Margie.

"What for?"

"Just to look at stuff."

"You can go in under your password" said Myra. But after a whispered consultation with Amy, they declined.


"Can we play music in the living room?" was the next question.

"Be my guest. Volume is under my control, however." Margie stomped upstairs and came back with her boombox. Amy had pulled magazines from her pack and already littered the living room with them.

Ginny joined Myra in the kitchen. "What else besides potatoes?" she asked.

"I thought I'd drag out the round grill and set it up like a firepit, let them roast wienies. Maybe veggie-ka-bobs with that?"

"I'll make those" said Ginny.

"Then I'm going to start some ice cream in the electric maker. Vanilla; they can add in fruit as toppings" said Myra.

"Truitt blew his nose in the pool and Gillam immediately followed suit" said Ginny.

"Barbarians" replied Myra. "They can clean out the damned filter tomorrow morning, then."

"What on earth is so fucking hilarious in, that is that, Mademoiselle?" asked Ginny sotto voce. "And when did Margie start laughing in that fakey way?"

"She's eleven" said Myra. "Insincerity should be the name of the nail polish they market for that age."

"We're rich" said Ginny. "Let's ship them all off to camp and take an extended Alaskan cruise. King crab for every meal, calving glaciers, and rocking ship motion at night."

Myra stopped scraping vanilla seeds from the interior of a pod for a moment to allow herself a belly laugh. She put pod and seeds into a saucepan of cream and said "Did you go to camp every summer?"

"Only if Mother wasn't punishing me" said Ginny. "She couldn't keep me from the Gulf Coast, but the threat of making me stay home with her the rest of the summer was a serious motivator for my behavior."

"I used to read about camp in Mad Magazine and daydream about how great it'd be" said Myra. "The most I ever had was three days of Vacation Bible School. I won a prize for being the first to memorize all the books of the Bible in order, though."

Ginny stared at her, trying to imagine that girl. "What did you win?"

"I don't remember. Probably a Bible." They laughed again.

At dusk, they were all on the deck jostling for space to put their hot dogs over the best coals. The boys had changed into shorts, and Truitt's were baggy, hanging down in the back to where the top of his crack showed when he leaned forward to twirl his coat-hanger wiener roaster. Amy nudged Margie and whispered something, and they broke out into machine-gun giggles.

"Knock it off" said Myra. "There's nothing hilarious about partially revealed segments of the human body."

Margie glared at her. "You don't know what we were saying."

"You were certainly rude enough to whisper about people present, you're right, but the fact is, I find it tragically easy to read your mind" replied Myra.

"Oh yeah -- " began Margie, but Myra cut her off.

"I'll prove it. Do this in your heads, all of you, and don't say anything to each other. Pick a number from one to ten. Okay, now multiply that number by nine. Gillam, if you're going to do it in your palm, turn it up so we can't see what you're tracing. Ready? Your number has two digits. Add them together -- like, if it's 10, add one and zero. Now, from that number take away five. Then, take that number and find its corresponding letter in the alphabet. Hang on, I'll explain. A equals one, B equal two, and so on." Myra paused to give them time, and saw that Ginny was playing as well.

"Are you all set? Okay, the letter you came up with, think of a country that begins with that letter. Now, think of an animal whose name begins with the last letter of the country you thought of. Last letter, Carly. Okay, now, take the last letter of that animal and think of a fruit whose name begins with that letter. Everybody on board?"

Myra turned to Margie and said "I don't think kangaroos eat oranges, do they? And there are no kangaroos in Denmark."

Margie's nostrils flared in shock. Gillam and Carly said in unison "Whoa!" She heard Ginny beginning to laugh. Amy muttered "Pathetic" under her breath and Myra ignored her, sliding another hot dog on her skewer in triumph.



© 2009 Maggie Jochild.

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HAPPY GNU EAR

(Created by little gator)

In 2009, we will have 345 days without Bush being President. Break out the sparkling Martinelli's.

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