She asked me to get to know the dirt, from my knees, under my fingernails, behind my ears. The late spring dirt where warming roots shot leaves upward. Because when you grew your own salad, you didn’t need a coupon for Alberton’s. The peas too. They were dry and mealy in the produce section. It was mostly green leaf and red leaf lettuce and though she probably knew, I was too young for her to tell me lettuce was part of the daisy family and was originally grown in Ancient Egypt. But she rarely cooked anything that wasn’t roast beef and potatoes, grilled fish and squash casseroles. There was an Egyptian restaurant close to her house, but it was right next to the ice cream shop, so we’d prioritize sweet cream over Koshari. Salad had to be part of every meal, for fiber, for vitamins. That’s how she lived to be 95. She suggested I imagine the future of her tomatoes mingling with cucumbers. How delicious. But she always begrudged bites that went into her mouth, every calorie counted, balanced with swimming or long walks. She flicked slugs off the lettuce while making goofy faces and whistled while moving though vegetable rows. Eventually there were carrots and cucumbers and peas sneaking over the fence to the empty lot next door where she would move and start a smaller garden, under the same splinter of sun.
Interview with my wife FF
It is a pleasant Monday afternoon in early spring. The sun shines through yellow curtained windows in FF's studio, and if you bend your ear to the left you can hear a helicopter flying above Portland. FF is sitting on wobbly office chair covered in Swedish fabric. She is finishing up a late lunch - leftovers from several nights ago - soba noodles with tofu and vegetables. She has a bit of grease on her chin and her hair is pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. She is wearing a baggy pair of skinny jeans, green t-shirt and an old man sweater. Her socks are off-white and stained with floor.
FF - It's spring.
FF - Yes. I know. The flowers are blooming, trees are budding, knees are unveiling. It's a wild time of year.
FF - But your knees are swathed in denim.
FF - They are. It's cold in here. I need to keep my knees warm otherwise they'll dry out. Like dried figs.
FF - Understood.
FF - What have you been doing today?
FF - Lots of "work work" mixed with occasional glances out of the window, and one or two high fives for you.
FF - Your high fives are mighty and powerful. Where did you pick that up?
FF - Somewhere in Prague. A long time ago. There was a man playing a shiny horn on the street and as I walked by, he held out his hand for a high five. I gave him a high five and then he insisted I give him another. Then another. "Not strong enough" he said. And so I spent 10 to 15 more minutes high fiving this strange guy with a horn until I finally got it down. I became a pro. He told me so.
FF - Did you leave the guy a dollar?
FF - I think I left him one hundred Korunas (about 5 dollars these days) despite the fact that I was living on carrots and mayonnaise.
Happy Spring
Although I've come down with the stomach flu and only have the energy to move between chair/bed to toilet and back, spring has sprung. And that means all the yuck that infiltrates my work place and Beckett's daycare might die off. It also means that days will get warmer, flowers will explode, and the slow unveiling of knees will make its way onto the streets of America.
This series by Charles Frager from his book Europe's Wild Men makes me want to don something in the fur, flower and stick variety while I sip lemon water from bed. I'm thinking this would definitely make me feel better.
