Living

Tulips Speak of “Fire and Ice”

“Some say the world will end in fire,

Some say in ice. 
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire. 
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.” ~ Robert Frost

In the Eye of the Beholder 

Collecting art is like buying shoes. One purchase and you become addicted. It often happens by accident. Picture this….You are strolling along on a leisurely afternoon not necessarily looking for another purchase and then suddenly it hits you.  A captivating distraction.  You find yourself overcome with desire knowing if you walk away, it may become a lost opportunity. 


I wandered into a small gallery one blustery day and was greeted by the purring of the cat in residence.  “She can tell you’re a cat-lover”, remarked the owner from behind the counter.  “Oh, yes indeed”, I responded, “and I appreciate the warm welcome.”  As I turned my attention about the room, I was drawn to a wall of vibrant tiles.  Each one embodied a unique story of life.  Upon closer scrutiny, words were inscribed around the edges of each piece further encapsulating the imagery.  “These are Spiritiles*”, a voice behind me explained, “created by Houston Llew.”  I was mesmerized and intrigued.  The proprietor handed me a brochure which explained the mysterious artistic technique.  “Every Spiritile* is handcrafted in Atlanta, USA from American made copper, glass and wood. Finely ground colored glass is hand painted on copper, then fired by kiln at 1500 degrees. It’s like drawing with sand then toasting it on a very hot fire.”  I began to see my life mirrored through the blocks before me.  A French perfume bottle embraced by a quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson.  A double heart repeating the words of e.e. cummings.  A three-layer cake deliciously inscribed with a Yiddish Blessing.  And that was just the beginning. I fell in love with Joyride, a French bicycle.  Coco Chanel’s Timeless expression of beauty was a “must have”.  Beach Walk reminded me of glorious vacations.  The list goes on and on.  I left the gallery that day with one treasured piece, already imagining where it was to be hung in my home.  Two years later, thanks to my impassioned husband, our collection has grown to a dozen pieces including a few priceless gems personally autographed by the artist.  I suspect the future holds more surprises in store.  And just like another pair of shoes, there’s always room for one more. 

A Legend in the Making 

The 1960s ranch-style house with the faded white paint and wrought iron bars on the windows is located on a corner lot in a nearby city. A notice, printed on faded computer paper, is taped to the glass on the door. It reads:

“YOU WALK ON THE GRASS,
WE CHARGE YOUR ASS!”
This is one of many signs posted throughout the building of this popular tattoo parlor. In order to enter the premises, it is necessary to ring the doorbell and wait to be admitted. Once inside, the heavy wooden door’s dead bolt is locked, although it is only early afternoon.  Semi-darkness envelopes the room where vibrant images of tattooed body parts become the focus against wood paneling walls. The following messages are scattered among the tattooed designs:
“RELAX!” screams out in dark bold letters. 
“NO WHINING” is illustrated in that familiar symbol of a circle drawn with a slash through it over the word ‘whining’.
“DO NOT TOUCH THE DESIGNS!”
“We accept MASTERCARD & VISA with a $5.00 service charge, or cash, but absolutely no checks!”

A shabby, thread-bare, gold plaid couch in the reception area directs your attention to a dusty Mediterranean-style coffee table with numerous scratches and chipped corners.  The table is cluttered with three-ring notebooks of design possibilities featuring everything from familiar cartoon characters to menacing skulls and fire-breathing dragons. A couple of straight-back vinyl chairs placed here and there fill the corners opposite a portable television set supported by two plastic orange crates. The low-pile gray carpeting underneath has been stained with gum, cigarette burns, and dirt. Contrary to presumption, the area lacks the sterile medicinal odor one might expect.  

Surprisingly, the room is full of eager customers anxiously awaiting a turn to be permanently inked with signature emblems. Every artistic choice has significance and importance to the master tattooist.  Each person has a story to tell.  A legend in the making. Heavy Metal music fills the air, and yet, the intermittent buzzing of the drill, which slightly resembles an electric shaver, is heard in the background.  It is not unusual to see a customer signal the doorman to be released from these surroundings before service is rendered. Perhaps the required patience of being in limbo, not knowing if one is ready for the finality of the action, is unsettling. 

The Art of French Kissing 

“Why do you think what you have to say is not important?” He leaned toward her and placed his palm over her tightly clasped hands.  Her desperate glance around the table made her palms sweat and her heart race.  No, this was not what she wanted. It was evident the conversation had stopped mid-sentence while all eyes rested on her.  “I-I’m just listening”, her voice quivered.  It was her boyfriend’s cast party and he was suppose to be the center of attention. Isn’t that why he left her alone among strangers to mingle with his peers in the gourmet kitchen?  Ultimately, the company of actors in the adjoining room gathered in obscurity around the butcher-block island sipping micro brews and California wine. Muffled laughter and relentless teasing could be heard between leading characters as murmurs of infatuations filled the air.  Apparently they were swapping inside stories that confirmed the longer-than-necessary kisses exchanged onstage.  “More than a peck!”, someone grumbled.  “And wet”, another snickered.  “Admittedly it was French!”, a female voice confessed. Suddenly a slap on the back was heard in good fellowship and the troupe dispersed. 


At the end of the night, his date recalled the previous cast party they attended together. In a crowded room one man stood and offered her his chair.  It was a mannerly gesture, innocent enough, but afterwards at home the accusations flew.  She had been shamelessly flirting, he ranted.  The bitter outburst was enough to make the entire relationship questionable.  This evening didn’t help.  Eventually, a month later, she found her voice, along with a dose of self-respect. They split up and parted ways.  To him and his peers she became nothing more than “that blonde he used to date.”  He went on to star in another theatrical production where he began an onstage romance and later married.  She, on the other hand, improved her French accent and took a long-overdue trip to Paris.  In the romantic “City of Lights” she discovered fine cuisine, unbridled passion, and perfected the art of French kissing. 

Location. Location. Location.

“Ohmygosh!  Look up in the pine tree!”, I caught myself screaming in a shrill voice to my husband.  His back was turned away since he was focused on the rumpled banners curled around the flagpole.  We had just returned from a springtime walk down Dorna Lane.  The country air was refreshingly crisp and still slightly cool.  It was the kind of evening where the darkened shadows of leafless trees balefully resembled Slender Man peering out from within the woods on the edge of the stream.  And now this.  Bobbing above a low branch over the split rail fence hung an enormous, gray, teardrop nest.  It’s intimidation was boldly apparent.  Logic and Common Sense became our allies.  Since the weather had been frigidly cold these past few months, its residents were probably evicted last Fall after the first hard freeze.  Still, there’s something ominous about recognizing a vestige of nature.  


Upon my husband’s skillful removal, carcasses of worker hornets and larvae lay crumbled among the empty hexagonal chambers.  The queen was nowhere to be found.  Without a doubt, she most likely fled to a place more warm and cozy to design her next humble abode.  Judging by the abundance of fence rails and tree bark nearby, she’ll waste little time in stripping wood to shred into new construction. This Sleeping Beauty is a wise sojourner who ascertains the benefits of “Location, Location, Location”.

Step Into the Twilight Zone

Have you ever noticed people don’t talk on hotel elevators or airport tram shuttles?  It was visibly apparent on a recent trip out East.  It seemed the minute I stepped from the terminal station platform through the sliding tram doors, all conversation ceased to exist.  It was almost like crossing into the Twilight Zone.  The dull monotonous drone of the cars rolling along through the concrete, glass, and steel tunnels seemed hypnotic.  Couples looked sideways, strangers glanced down, uniformed co-workers stared at IPads and cell phone screens as if too plugged-in to electronic devices to be bothered with anything else.  Even music was nonexistent.  Have we become so accustomed to communicating “a là text” that to use our voice becomes a weapon for cracking the silence code?  When did making eye-contact with the person sitting across from you become an invasion of privacy?  Call me old-fashioned, but I miss the art of casual conversation.  It’s food for the soul.  A short time later the tram doors opened wide and the automated voice announced we were at our destination.  As I stepped across the threshold, musical sounds filled the air and the buzz of conversation brought everything back to life again. 

Bartender, Pour Me Another 

It was a slow morning at the Club Level Grill in the airport terminal.  Alice, the bartender, had a lot to share. Once the drink orders were placed and the I.D.s were approved, she opened the conversation with an “Attaboy, Gerald, you just celebrated another birthday.  I’m a Baby-Boomer, too. Been bartending since I was 22 years old living in Florida.”  “I’m a DES daughter,” she continued, “My mom took drugs back then to reduce the risk of miscarriage.  Might be the reason I’m dyslexic today.”  A nervous laugh followed. Because the inclement weather had mercilessly snarled flight connections, everyone was forced to cope with adversity.  This meant Alice, who lived on a horse farm 42 miles away from work, had to figure out how to feed and water the hairy beasts before they starved.  The frigid snow-covered ground meant providing hay as an alternative food source.  An easy fix. Supplying water, on the other hand, was another challenge based on the gurgling sounds of slushy bubbles passing through frozen pipes from the outdoor mineral spring opening. 

“I can’t wait to go to Arizona,” she said as she turned the conversation to a more lighthearted topic.  She often travelled alone in pursuit of her favorite hobby, collecting Indian pottery artifacts and fossils. In a split second, with cell phone in hand, she flipped through her photos offering us a look-see at some of her most favorite treasures.  “I love pottery shards,” she confessed, “and if I don’t pick them up, someone else will.”  “For protection I carry a big stick, like Kalinda Sharma on ‘The Good Wife’.  Although I did buy some .22 shells in case I take my husband’s rifle this time.  Then again, wasp repellent is a preferable alternative to pepper spray for protection,” she debated.  About now we began to feel as though the roles had been reversed. Alice seemed to be spilling her guts as we recharged our batteries and sipped on a Bloody Mary cocktail.  In many ways she appeared to be the lonely gal at the other end of the bar.  As we collected our bill, I recall hearing her say, “Have you seen the platform shoes some of these girls are wearing?  Ugh!  My feet are killing me already.”