said.
Aunt Klaudia sprinkled the bread with salt, to remind us that life will be difficult at times and that we’d have to learn to deal with troubles.
Pa poured the wine so that we’d never be thirsty, so that we’d enjoy good health and good friends.
“Anka,” he said to Ma, “you want to do the blessing.”
We stood in a circle around the table and Ma blessed us with holy water. “I got it from Father Gordon after mass,” she said. “I hope it works okay.”
“I know it will, Ma,” I said. “Thank you.” And I knew then that we were going to be happy. And we were happy, right up to that last year.
Paul and I had our differences. He loved Homer, I loved Vergil; he turned to Plato for his metaphysics, I turned to Lucretius; he loved Faulkner, I loved Hemingway; he reread War and Peace every three or four years , I reread Anna Karenina; he was a lapsed Methodist, I was a lapsed Catholic; Paul played the blues. His heroes were Dr. John, whom he’d met once in Cincinnati, and Otis Spann. My musical heroes were Bach and Chopin. Paul could read music, but he could also play by ear and could play in any key. He’d just grab a handful of notes and off he’d go, left hand rock solid, right hand dancing. I needed to learn things one measure at a time. Paul liked his eggs poached; I liked mine soft-boiled. He was careless with money and had expensive taste in clothes and wine; I was careful. Paul couldn’t find things; I could find anything. “Just by thinking,” as Paul used to say. He liked his Shakespeare on the stage (“in the body”) and always served as dramaturge for college Shakespeare productions. I liked my Shakespeare in the study. He preferred Florence; I preferred Rome. Paul wasn’t afraid of anything, especially authority; I was more cautious. I obeyed the rules—most of the time—at least till late in life. He wanted to sail out into the deep water; I wanted to hug the shore (though in the end I let myself get blown out to sea). He wanted to buy an eight-inch Cassegrain telescope so we could see out to the edge of the universe, but I said they were too expensive and so we made do with the smaller telescope that we’d given to Stella one Christmas. Paul liked driving fast, which was bad for our insurance. He even had his license suspended for a year. I hadn’t gotten a ticket in more than forty years. Paul was a superb cook and did all the cooking. I didn’t start to cook seriously, with some imagination, that is, till after his death. I took it up partly to pass the time and partly to taste life twice, taste the past. He read the New York Times and had an opinion about everything; I read the Galesburg Register-Mail and worried about the school board elections and the price of hogs and the new aluminum castings plant on Kellogg Street. He loved cars but didn’t know anything about them; I had no interest in cars, but I knew how to change the oil in our old Oldsmobile and put in new plugs and points. Paul had wanted to buy a Mazda Miata when they first came out in 1994 and were all the craze, but I always stood in his way and we bought an Oldsmobile station wagon instead. Later, at the end of his life, he bought the old sports car that had been left, so to speak, in our garage when Dr. Potter’s widow moved into assisted living at the Kensington. Paul offered her the price of a Mazda Miata, and she took it. By this time he had to lug around an oxygen tank.
Paul wrote with ball point pens, which he lost as soon as he used them. We had to keep a huge supply. I wrote with a Pelikan Souverän 600. Not the most expensive pen in the line, but the most beautiful. Paul fancied spaghetti strap dresses. I had a closet full of them. I wore them around the house and even in bed, fooling around with Paul, but I wasn’t comfortable wearing them in public. I controlled the money—the checkbook—and gave Paul an allowance. He never had anything left.
Paul was sexually adventurous. I was not
Aunt Klaudia sprinkled the bread with salt, to remind us that life will be difficult at times and that we’d have to learn to deal with troubles.
Pa poured the wine so that we’d never be thirsty, so that we’d enjoy good health and good friends.
“Anka,” he said to Ma, “you want to do the blessing.”
We stood in a circle around the table and Ma blessed us with holy water. “I got it from Father Gordon after mass,” she said. “I hope it works okay.”
“I know it will, Ma,” I said. “Thank you.” And I knew then that we were going to be happy. And we were happy, right up to that last year.
Paul and I had our differences. He loved Homer, I loved Vergil; he turned to Plato for his metaphysics, I turned to Lucretius; he loved Faulkner, I loved Hemingway; he reread War and Peace every three or four years , I reread Anna Karenina; he was a lapsed Methodist, I was a lapsed Catholic; Paul played the blues. His heroes were Dr. John, whom he’d met once in Cincinnati, and Otis Spann. My musical heroes were Bach and Chopin. Paul could read music, but he could also play by ear and could play in any key. He’d just grab a handful of notes and off he’d go, left hand rock solid, right hand dancing. I needed to learn things one measure at a time. Paul liked his eggs poached; I liked mine soft-boiled. He was careless with money and had expensive taste in clothes and wine; I was careful. Paul couldn’t find things; I could find anything. “Just by thinking,” as Paul used to say. He liked his Shakespeare on the stage (“in the body”) and always served as dramaturge for college Shakespeare productions. I liked my Shakespeare in the study. He preferred Florence; I preferred Rome. Paul wasn’t afraid of anything, especially authority; I was more cautious. I obeyed the rules—most of the time—at least till late in life. He wanted to sail out into the deep water; I wanted to hug the shore (though in the end I let myself get blown out to sea). He wanted to buy an eight-inch Cassegrain telescope so we could see out to the edge of the universe, but I said they were too expensive and so we made do with the smaller telescope that we’d given to Stella one Christmas. Paul liked driving fast, which was bad for our insurance. He even had his license suspended for a year. I hadn’t gotten a ticket in more than forty years. Paul was a superb cook and did all the cooking. I didn’t start to cook seriously, with some imagination, that is, till after his death. I took it up partly to pass the time and partly to taste life twice, taste the past. He read the New York Times and had an opinion about everything; I read the Galesburg Register-Mail and worried about the school board elections and the price of hogs and the new aluminum castings plant on Kellogg Street. He loved cars but didn’t know anything about them; I had no interest in cars, but I knew how to change the oil in our old Oldsmobile and put in new plugs and points. Paul had wanted to buy a Mazda Miata when they first came out in 1994 and were all the craze, but I always stood in his way and we bought an Oldsmobile station wagon instead. Later, at the end of his life, he bought the old sports car that had been left, so to speak, in our garage when Dr. Potter’s widow moved into assisted living at the Kensington. Paul offered her the price of a Mazda Miata, and she took it. By this time he had to lug around an oxygen tank.
Paul wrote with ball point pens, which he lost as soon as he used them. We had to keep a huge supply. I wrote with a Pelikan Souverän 600. Not the most expensive pen in the line, but the most beautiful. Paul fancied spaghetti strap dresses. I had a closet full of them. I wore them around the house and even in bed, fooling around with Paul, but I wasn’t comfortable wearing them in public. I controlled the money—the checkbook—and gave Paul an allowance. He never had anything left.
Paul was sexually adventurous. I was not
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