Delia

“Delia! Put that down. It don’t belong to you.”

“Why?”

“It’s not yours, Delia. Go on back yonder by the window…I’m gonna call Baby Clyde. Now go on.”

Mumbling to herself, half English, half Spanish, Delia rolled her chair over to her side of the room, leaving behind the pink sweater that was halfway out of the drawer when Jewel called out.

Delia had been at the Rose of Sharon retirement home for almost a year, but by now unable to recall how long it had been. Time, despite the tick of clocks and calendar squares was a forgotten concept, just another undefined confusion among the names and unnamed objects that swirled in the fog of her days and brought nighttime dreams she swore were real. Delia was eighty-seven years old and the mother of four sons, none of them nearby. It was the eldest who arranged and paid for his mother’s care at Rose of Sharon. Too far away to visit more than two or three times a year, he left that part of it to the youngest, who lived at least within an hour’s drive of the nursing home. Of the other two sons, one lived in Miami and had a new address and telephone number every month. The other son had never left Cuba.

Delia was unwilling to leave the little house in Edgewater after her husband’s death, wouldn’t agree to move away, to leave behind the reminders of Jorge, the rooms still colored by the lingering shades and smells of her husband. She had shaken her head, lips compressed into a straight line, refusing to go and live with Enrique in New York.

But living alone became increasingly difficult and little by little Delia lost her way, lost the will or desire to take care of herself. It was finally the neighbor who called Enrique in New York.

She wasn’t sure when that happened, but one day Enrique arrived, and now she couldn’t find the house in Edgewater, though she looked for it every day. Her son Amado came from Orlando to visit and took her in his car to see the house, but people she didn’t know could be seen through the windows and this upset her. She sat in the car twisting a tissue into shreds, cried and wouldn’t let go of Amado when he held her.

So now, Delia roamed the hallways of the Rose of Sharon nursing home in her wheelchair, her still thick mane of white hair falling in tangles around her face and shoulders. On more than one occasion she entered someone’s room and startled them, ask that they comb her hair or rub her feet. It was usually Baby Clyde, the nurse’s aide who came and collected her. A mention of his name was usually enough to stop Delia, he being the only one in the nursing home who had found some small clear window into her confusion. She responded to none of the other aides.

Last week she returned to the room with a bottle of medicine she had found on a table in another room. Delia was unscrewing the top when Jewel called out.

“Don’t you drink that Delia! That’s somebody’s medicine, not for you.”

“I know it’s my husband’s medicine and he had to take it every day.”

Jewel got herself over to Delia and put a hand over the bottle. “Delia, come on now and give me that medicine so Baby Clyde can take it back. It’s got somebody’s name on it there.”

“It’s probably my husband’s name.”

“Stop now. You want some Graham Crackers and peanut butter?” Jewel knew that her roommate liked the crackers, because just last week she’d stolen a plate full of them off Jewel’s table.

“Well, I might try one. They sound good. Would you rub my feet?”

Jewel slipped the bottle of medicine out of Delia’s hand and said, “I’ll ask the nurse about that when she comes.”

“Why?”

“She’ll be coming to get this medicine after I push the button. Now you sit here while I go over there and get you one or two of my crackers and peanut butter.” She brought the crackers over to Delia on a paper towel. Putting it down in her lap, she said. “You ain’t seen my Bible, have you? I know I had it in that drawer by my bed last night.”

Delia looked at Jewel with eyes that made no connection to Bible or peanut butter crackers. She was quiet again, lost somewhere among the shifting bits of memory that held the house in Edgewater and her husband Jorge, the man who rubbed her feet and combed her hair for all those years. She was sure it was all still there in her house if she could just find it.

Montblanc 167

For all the passion I have for fountain pens and ink, the chances are very good that more of my time is spent with a pencil in my hand than with a pen. For letter and journal writing a pen is best, usually a different one, a different ink each day, but for other writing, for rough drafts, it’s always a pencil. Anyone who knows me, anyone familiar with the Scriblets blog can probably tell that I get a thrill out of fountain pens and ink. But because it is my constant companion, and very nearly an extension of my right hand, because it’s a weight that gives balance and rhythm to the movement of my hand across the page, for these reasons my big, heavy pencil deserves some space here.

Not my first mention of the Montblanc Meisterstuck Platinum Le Grand 0.9 mechanical pencil, as it got a brief mention in an earlier post I did last January on the Kuru Toga pencil from Mitsubishi. But for all its good points, comparing the Kuru Toga and the Montblanc is akin to lining up a Mercedes Benz beside a Chevrolet. The difference is better engineering and high quality materials. In the long run, in a hard pushed test drive, the Benz and the Montblanc will win every time.

The first thing that must be said about the Montblanc 167 mechanical pencil is that it is large and heavy. The length, at five and seven-eighths inches is not extreme, but the barrel is slightly larger than that of a Montblanc Meisterstuck fountain pen. In other words, it is a handful. I have no means of determining the weight, though I searched a dozen or more Montblanc websites, and with no real precision can only say it is a heavy pencil weighing about 30 grams.

The barrel and cap are jet-black precious resin, which highlights the platinum plated clip and three rings around the cap. The center ring is embossed with the name, and the clip is embossed with the pencil’s individual serial number. The familiar white star Montblanc emblem is set into the top of the cap. For most users, the outstanding feature is the 0.9mm lead, a thick and hard to ‘snap’ lead, which does away with the common problem of lead breaking in mid-sentence. In almost three years I have never had one occasion when the lead broke as I was writing.

The word meisterstuck is German for ‘masterpiece’ and in the European tradition becomes the most difficult challenge for a young craftsman aiming to attain the status of master craftsman. Montblanc likes to say that any of their products carrying the Meisterstuck label hold the emotions of its maker, and that the completed work has a soul.

I can concur with that thought when I put my Montblanc Meisterstuck to paper and see what it does. I will repeat what I said in the earlier Kuru Toga post…

The Montblanc 167 writes EXACTLY as I want it to, and simply doesn’t present problems. It is one hundred percent dependable, a quality that I suppose is to be expected in fine engineering.

••••••••••

Neither pens nor pencil, but congratulations to the Japanese Little League Baseball team from Tokyo who defeated Hawaii in the final yesterday and are now the 2010 Little League World Champions!

The Sum of Man

Though she has published three collections of her poems, Nora Pollard has yet to receive the notice she deserves. I look about some in the shelves of modern poetry at my library and bookstore and never come across her name. As a subscriber to The Writer’s Almanac, it was there I first read something by Nora Pollard. She has been chosen four times to lead off their daily newsletter with one of her poems. Unfortunately, clicking on Amazon won’t work if you want to buy a collection of her poetry. You’ll have better luck at Antrim House.

Nora Pollard is the daughter of Red Pollard, recently brought to our attention by Laura Hillenbrand, author of the bestselling book, Seabiscuit. The poet’s father was the jockey who rode Seabiscuit throughout his glory days on the horse racing circuit. The few available bios of Nora Pollard tell us that even now she earns her living working at a steel company in Connecticut, and has in the past been folksinger, waitress, nanny, teacher, solderer and calligrapher. Her three collections are: Leaning In (2003), Report from the Banana Hospital (2005) and Death & Rapture in the Animal Kingdom (2009). The poem here is from the last.

THE SUM OF MAN

by Norah Pollard

In autumn,
facing the end of his life,
he moved in with me.
We piled his belongings—
his army-issue boots, knife magazines,
Steely Dan tapes, his grinder, drill press,
sanders, belts and hacksaws—
in a heap all over the living room floor.
For two weeks he walked around the mess.

One night he stood looking down at it all
and said: “The sum total of my existence.”
Emptiness in his voice.

Soon after, as if the sum total
needed to be expanded, he began to place
things around in the closets and spaces I’d
cleared for him, and when he'd finished
setting up his workshop in the cellar, he said,
“I should make as many knives as I can,”
and he began to work.

The months plowed on through a cold winter.
In the evenings, we’d share supper, some tale
of family, some laughs, perhaps a walk in the snow.
Then he’d nip back down into the cellar’s keep
To saw and grind and polish,
creating his beautiful knives
until he grew too weak to work.
But still he’d slip down to stand at his workbench
and touch his woods
and run his hand over his lathe.

One night he came up from the cellar
and stood in the kitchen’s warmth
and, shifting his weight
from one foot to the other, said,
“I love my workshop.”
Then he went up to bed.

He’s gone now.
It’s spring. It’s been raining for weeks.
I go down to his shop and stand in the dust
of ground steel and shavings of wood.
I think on how he’d speak of his dying, so
easily, offhandedly, as if it were
a coming anniversary or
an appointment with the moon.
I touch his leather apron, folded for all time,
and his glasses set upon his work gloves.
I take up an unfinished knife and test its heft,
and feel as well the heft of my grief for
this man, this brother I loved,
the whole of him so much greater
than the sum of his existence.

Border Town Eats

A southwestern flavor in cooking has long been something I jump to the table for. Suppose it’s the legacy of my few trips to Texas, Arizona and New Mexico, where most restaurants apart from Taco Hell offered up great eats during my visits. I still remember with longing food I ate in Sedona, Arizona, Santa Fe and Houston. But as much as I like southwestern cooking, I’ve never had any special skill in preparing it myself. The other day a lady in the supermarket told me how to make a simple hamburger with the distinctive flavor of the southwest.

She called it a green chile burger, which I know doesn’t especially trigger fireworks and lip-licking, but you can call it something else. I kind of like…

BORDER TOWN BURGERS

Here’s what you need:

1 pound of ground beef

1 package of hamburger buns

3-4 slices of Monterey Jack (or other) cheese

4-5 teaspoons of Old El Paso chopped green chiles

1 package of Southwest ranch salad kit (Et Tu brand)

2 good handfuls of bite-sized mixed greens

Dash of Zatarain’s Creole seasoning

Salt & pepper

Here’s what you do:

Season the ground beef with salt & pepper and a dash of Zatarain’s.

Shape the meat into patties and place them on a medium high grill, or in a frying pan.

Cook them for 3-4 minutes, then add a couple of spoons of the green chile and a slice of cheese.

Combine the two packages from the salad mix with the greens. Add half the dressing and toss.

Place the hamburger patties on the bottom half of a toasted bun; top it with the salad mix.

Add the top bun and there you have it.

SIDE DISH • PORTABELLA FRIES

Ingredients:

1 package of sliced portabella mushrooms (about 12 ounces)

2 eggs

Italian-style breadcrumbs

Grated Parmesan cheese

Olive oil

Preparation:

Pre-heat the oven to 425° F

Spread olive oil on a baking sheet (cookie sheet).

Beat the eggs in a bowl.

Combine about a cup of Parmesan cheese and a cup of the breadcrumbs.

Dip the sliced mushrooms (one by one) into the egg, and then in the cheese-breadcrumb mix. As best you can, coat them evenly.

Place them on the baking sheet and drizzle some olive oil over them.

Bake for 10 minutes.

Turn the mushrooms and bake for another 5-7 minutes.

These are delicious and you might try them dipped in what’s left of the ranch dressing.

I don’t know a southwestern expression, so I’ll use the French and just say, bon appétit!

Taking It for Granted

Probably little question that in many ways I’ve been blessed with the opportunity to live in a wondrous environment here at the beach on the east coast of Florida. Some things we are apt to take for granted, and with what is almost indifference, shade or filter our view of the beauty around us. At times an ‘inland’ friend will ask, “How’s life at the beach?” More than once I’ve answered that everything is pretty much ‘same old, same old.’ And yes, it is possible that the routines I follow and the daily turn of screws and gears is pretty much the same. But then I chance to look out the window, step out on the patio, raise my eyes to the sky.

Only in the broadest sense can anyone say that a given day is the same as the one before it. Take another look. Slow down and let the scene, large and small soak in for a minute. Nine out of ten times you’ll catch something in the water, sky or spread of beach that is not quite like what you’ve seen before. The shifting of the light, the coloring of the sand and its interaction with tide, surf and algae, the awesome palette of blue and green that colors the water. Who knows? You might even come upon a pink flamingo behind a clump of sea oats.

The Lore of Wax

In some things I am not too swift. What I mean is, catching on to this or that way of doing something is on occasion slow. Even though I understand the steps or procedures, my hands or fingers won’t move as they should, and I wind up repeating the process more times than should be necessary. This time the repetition and frustration is with a new wax seal.

For a long time I’ve wanted to use a wax seal on my letters, and two weeks ago I bought the Celtic seal and sealing wax from a place in Utah, a disappointing purchase I wrote about here on August 14. Both seal and wax from that purchase have continued to be completely useless; the pewter seal bad, the Ecclesiastical Red sealing wax worse.

So, I contacted Brian at gouletpens.com and ordered a brass seal with my initial, and some J Herbin sealing wax. Two or threes days later the seal and wax arrived and with the excitement I always feel around pens, ink and other letter writing tools, I tore open the package and got to work. But something was wrong. Fifteen minutes and four wax seals later, my attempts all looked like kindergarten arts and crafts. Worse; it was all I could do to make out the initial pressed into the wax.

I sat down down at the iMac and watched several videos by Brian Goulet on how to make a good wax seal. Just to be sure, I watched the videos a second time, even took some notes. Back to my worktable and eager to knock out a few precise, well-done seals, I lined everything up exactly as Brian did and made another attempt… Failure! Total failure. Knowing how agreeable and helpful Brian is, I emailed him for help, attaching a photo of my latest mess. A short while later I got an answer that almost guaranteed improvement in my seal making efforts.

Here are some important points I learned from Brian:

1. Place your seal face down on a small ice pack during the few seconds you are melting the wax.

2. Use a butane lighter to melt the wax. I use one of those long-nosed grill lighters.

3. Once the melted wax is on the paper, waste no time applying the seal; no more than five seconds between melting the wax and impressing the seal.

4. Press down hard on the seal, no longer than three seconds.

My first attempt after reading Brian’s suggestions was an improvement, though not yet what I hoped for. That didn’t bother me because another of Brain’s comments was that it takes some practice to get the hang of. Well, I’ve practiced some (and wasted a lot of expensive wax) and things are definitely getting better. Might take a little more practice, but I’m confident it will come.

I’ve attached photos of the two best impressions (thought still feeble). The seal is in the shape of a scripted W, my first initial, and the two colors of sealing wax are forest green and silver. The third photo is of an earlier attempt where you can see the kind of mess I was making.

“The board thinks…”

The weeks are stacking up since May 1, the start of this condo living, and I'm learning bit by bit what it means to be a member of a residents’ association, and how ‘community’ issues come to color the atmosphere of my days. Not my intent to imply that every day is governed by a group of owner-board members wielding whips, passing out rules and decrees and telling residents what to do and what not to do. No such thing. If I chose to do so, I could push it all off to the side, out of sight, leaving my days undisturbed and with little awareness of board discussions and decisions.

But I've chosen to be involved, because as one of few owners living full-time in the condominium, my thoughts on problems and conditions have the advantage of daily on-site observation. In other words, I see what’s going on around here more than the majority of owners who live far away, and visit on holidays.

For the most part, the issues at hand are minor matters easily fixed with a little discussion at board meetings. No question, the discussion of ‘pool rules’ has more complications than rocket science, and is an endless cycle of ridiculous, repetitive talk. What escapes most of the debaters is the reality that there is no one waiting around the pool to enforce rules, whatever they are. If there’s no sheriff in town…

But lately a larger question has come up, and this one does strike me as interference and manipulation by the association board. Like homeowners anywhere, once in a while an owner decides to sell his condo and go elsewhere. Nothing new; happens frequently. At the last board meeting—open of course to all owners—a proposition was raised to involve the board in the sale of individual owner condos, to give the board right of veto, to step between owner and prospective buyer and influence the sale.

Objection to that idea came from all corners, including my own voice, but the board has yet to lay the plan aside. I'm confident it will never come to pass, but in the meantime imagine the following owner/board member exchange…

OWNER: I have put my condo up for sale and have an interested buyer. But then someone told me that I need your approval. I mean, hello! Duh! Have I heard right?

BOARD: Well, we’re sorry to see you go, but yes, a committee of three will have to investigate your prospective buyer before any sale can be approved. We don’t want to have any pedophiles buying into our community.

OWNER: Mmm…That’s distressing. I can vouch for the buyer myself because we are friends. But now I suppose I should worry that your decision will be swayed by the fact that my friend and hopeful buyer is a one-legged black Arab lesbian.

BOARD: (choking, clearing his throat) Uh…er…Oh, yeah? Well listen, we’re gonna have to get back to you on that. Meanwhile don’t sign any papers!