It’s been awhile since I grew the Holiday Beard. It used to be something that I would do annually. Start growing it out during the week of Thanksgiving, shave it down to a moustache for New Year’s Eve, then get rid of all facial hair after the Super Bowl. (This way, I would look normal again for Valentine’s Day, which makes the wife happy.) There was one year for New Year’s, I shaved down to a handlebar and sideburns; don’t care what anyone said, I looked great!
I decided that I wanted to grow the beard this year… and it’s not going well. Not sure what has changed about me, but this thing is itchy as hell. Like driving me up the wall, making me crazy. I find myself at night unable to sleep for how itchy my cheeks are. I can see how red and irritated my skin is when I look in a mirror. I mean, I know every time I grow a beard, there is a period of itchy face, but this time around, it is particularly annoying. I’ve tried lotions and conditioners, but nothing seems to help.
Now, I won’t give up on the beard, as I am stubborn in that way. It’s only been 23 days since I stated this process, and I still have about 60 days or so to go. And I really do want the handlebar moustache and sideburns back in my life, in a very desperate way. Sure, this is a grab at holding on to my youth, as I might have more hair on my face than my head. Or, you could say, it’s fun to just do something silly.
One of the things I miss doing in New York, is wandering around the City. Just walking the streets, seeing what I can find, and discovering things. When I first moved here, and I was temping in different parts of Manhattan, I would use my lunch breaks to walk up and down the streets, hoping that something unexpected would be around the corner, or I would find a shop that I never knew I needed.
This past Sunday, I was afforded an hour up around Riverside Park, and I knew where I wanted to go; to visit Mount Tom.
See, the legend is that Edgar Allan Poe used to come out and sit on the top of this giant rock, and look out on the Hudson River. This was back in 1844, when he and his wife were renting a room at a farm that was located around 84th and Broadway today. I had read about here, some time ago.
Rather moody and bleak out this past Sunday. Not the weather that Poe would have gone out in to sit on Mount Tom, but still fun to be in a place where Poe once sat, and thought, and possible even worked.
I did something that I haven’t done in a very long time, and that was write in a coffee shop this morning. Long time ago, I just to sit for hours in coffee shops, or diners, or IHOPS, smoke cigarettes, and write in yellow legal pads. Most of the time is was really late at night, and there were all kinds of strange people and creatures I would meet. I can’t say I got a whole lot of good writing accomplished, but I did make some cool friends. Today, I was the only guy in the place (I did get there right when they opened at 8am) and I wrote in my pretentious black Moleskine notebook. I sat in the corner, and jotted down some stuff. The people working couldn’t have given two shits if I was there, and it was a charming situation.
Man, do I love elementary school plays! From the kids who take it really seriously to the kids who can’t wait to get off the stage, to all the other kids in-between! And just so we can be honest here, most of the time, these plays are awful; the dropped lines, missed cues, bad blocking. I mean, if we are to compare theatre to theatre, then some of these shows don’t measure up. Oh sure, now and then you do get a ringer who can belt one out of the park, or acts circles around the rest of the kids. Yet, on the whole, your get a performance of amature but earnest performers. And I just want to add, that my child is the best out of all of them.
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Sometimes when I read a short story, in my mind I can hear the gears of the story’s mechanics grinding away, snapping into place, moving it all forward, and churning out the work of fiction. Other times, the author’s machinations are as silent as an evening breeze in summer, but still felt and causing an impact. Then Lauren Groff creates the story “Between the Shadow and the Soul” where I can feel the mechanics of the piece, but is written so well, with such character, flavor, and so wonderfully brutally honest in regard to couplehood, that it left me feeling better having gone on this journey with these characters.
What we have is a story about Willie and Eliza, but really about Eliza, a couple that has been together for over twenty-five plus years in upstate New York. They live in an old home they purchased right after they got married, and have spent those years fixing up. Now, with Eliza at fifty, she has reached retirement age from her job at the Post Office, and decided to act upon it. But retirement doesn’t suit her, and with Willie’s encouragement, and occasional participation, Eliza begins to explore life through local arts classes, pilates, and especially a gardening class. (Now, go read the story.)
When I said that I could feel the mechanics of this story, what I meant by that was how the craft and structure of this story was very close to the surface. When the joke about kids was made, I knew that was coming back into play. The couple Eliza discovered having sex at the boathouse; there’s another meaning there. The fact that Willie and Eliza’s relationship started clandestinely; oh, you that this was foreshadowing something to come. Yet, I can also say this story did take a winding path which never felt superfluous. At all times, the story felt purposeful and controlled by a steady hand.
That deft touch was never more on display than Eliza’s growth over the course of the story. She is such a complex and detailed character. There are many authentic pieces to her, but what I connected with most was how “retirement” wasn’t a reward but a prison for Eliza; she is the type of person who works at life, and losing that work from her job, in addition to the loss of working on their home, she found herself lost. Such a clear and easy situation to understand and grasp as to why it would bring about her motivation in the next part of the story. But I would also be remiss not to touch on the relationship between Eliza and Willie, and their level of intimacy. Not just sexual intimacy, but the intimacy of knowing your partner after so many years, and knowing when they are hurting, and when they are hiding. And I loved how they both grew and moved forward in this story, and one of the conflicts was how they had to learn and adjust to loving this new person.
Like all good stories, I am leaving out so much, and I know if I were to read it again, I would discover new depths and details to Eliza and her life with Willie. To have a story about growth and discovering passion, and also to be a story where neither member of the couple is the “bad guy,” left the whole piece feeling refreshing, alive, and honest.
As it is Christmas time, again, we are in the process of decorating the apartment for the season. Unfortunately, when I say “we” that doesn’t include me. Not that I am excluded, as the wife and kid give me plenty of opportunities to decorate. But since the kid’s birth, I have found my drive to put up a tree, and lights, wreaths and garland, declining year after year.
Now, to clarify, I am excited about Christmas time. I love shopping, and the baking of cookies and cakes, seeing friends, going out to look at the lights in the City, and all the holiday events that are around here. I enjoy taking part in the kid’s excitement for the season, and we have a great number of traditions we take part in leading up to the big day. I like Christmas!
I just don’t have a desire to decorate for it.
It feels like a bit of a chore.
In a weird way, because all my life’s a circle, I think I am coming around to a better understanding of why my father behaved the way he did during the holidays. He wasn’t a grinch or grumpy at all. No, he just got all the boxes down from the attic the weekend after Thanksgiving, and sat on the couch watching sports, sometimes drinking a beer. If he was asked to help out – put something up high as my mother was rather short, or give an opinion if a decoration was level – he would, of course, do it, but he would return back to the couch. When my mother announced that everything was hung, my dad would get up and put the empty boxes back up in the attic, without complaint.
And my father is a big kid during Christmas. He likes getting up early to see everyone’s reaction to the “surprise” present that appeared under the tree. He always played with me and my brothers Christmas morning, and same went with the grandkids. He was, and is, a joy to be around.
