An Afternoon at the Movies

 

       My wife Anne and I have been trying to make it to all of the holiday movies playing for free at our wonderful local theater, The Playhouse. Saturday afternoon, the movie was “White Christmas” with Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye. As we walked down to the theater, I expected our typical experience at the movies. Some nice, fresh popcorn, and sitting in community with at least a handful of others who still believe in seeing movies on the big screen. The cold air and the walk invigorated me on the way down. I was pleased to see that the seats were quite full. I have sat in the theater plenty of times with only a handful of others, so this was already a remarkable day. The smell of popcorn greeted us as we entered the theater. We found our seats, and I went to the concession window for our usual popcorn and a drink. Back in our seats, we chatted with people around us and everyone seemed to be in a good mood. 

The lights dimmed and the movie started to play, but there was no sound. There was a clatter at the back of the theater as Tom, the manager, went upstairs to try and troubleshoot the problem. The chatter in the audience resumed. An announcement was made that Tom was working on things, but it might take a few minutes. The movie started again several times with the same result.  The opening credits rolled silently by and then the actors appeared on screen, only mouthing their lines. One of the board members of the Playhouse got up and talked about upcoming movies, showing off a magnificent white hat that looked like a giant snowball on her head. She was stalling for time, of course, but she did it with style, a sense of humor, and grace.

Tom asked for patience as he rebooted the system to try to fix the problem. He is well aware of the first thing that IT always tells you to do - “turn it off and turn it back on again”. Conversations picked back up. Two young boys (ages 1 and 3) from a family we know in town cavorted at the front of the audience, providing real entertainment as the parents tried to corral them while understanding that these kinds of situations try the patience of kids this age. I was encouraged by the patience demonstrated by the parents, especially once the boys’ attention was drawn to the Christmas tree at the front of the theater. There were plenty of ways for two curious kids to get themselves into trouble. 

Tom started the movie again, still trying to determine how to correct the stubborn problem. This time, he let it roll a little further with subtitles turned on. After the opening scene, Bing Crosby was on stage singing, “White Christmas”. With the lyrics scrolling across the bottom of the screen, a couple of audience members started singing along. Others joined in, and soon the song could be heard clearly throughout the theater. Just at a point where we were starting in on a second chorus, the sound on the movie magically turned on. The crowd cheered and clapped at this development. Tom started the movie from the beginning; this time with sound, and we all settled back into our seats to enjoy the show. 

No one got mad. A few people left, but the majority of us waited things out. We watched the antics of the two young boys, talked to friends, neighbors, and even to strangers. We all sang together in this community building that has been showing movies since 1919. We laughed at the old movie, marvelled at the elaborate dance numbers, and all clapped at the end. Even though it was a small thing in a small town in Vermont, it felt a little like a Christmas miracle.

 

Simple Pleasures

I take great pleasure from simple things. Like a solid set of stairs. I’m not talking about elegant, spiral stairs or ornate steps lined by a banister of fancy turned posts. I’m talking about a basic, yet solid, extremely practical, set of stairs. In this case, they lead to our basement, a place which, by the way, I don’t take great pleasure from. The joists that support our floors are just a little too low. When I’m there, I have to walk slightly hunched over or risk getting a face full of cobwebs. The basement stairs are a very small piece of a breezeway makeover that has been underway at our house for the past month.

The project started when we decided to have our back stairs (to the mudroom) rebuilt to offer something a little more standard in terms of the tread and the amount of rise for each step so there would be less chance of one of us or a hapless guest doing a header as they leave our house. There was also an awkward corner where you navigated past a railing into the swing of the storm door which was always trying to close too fast on you, especially if you were carrying something. After the old stairs were removed, we started to get a more thorough handle on some existing problems. The wall on one side of the breezeway was resting on….well, nothing really. The old wooden sill had rotted out and you could see daylight from outside.

Then there was the basement stairwell constructed some unknown number of decades ago from stacked up cinder blocks. Over time, the sandy soil had been leaking out from between the blocks, and they were slowly caving in. The width of the old cellar stairs was just enough for me to fit through, so doing things like getting a new furnace or hot water heater were complicated at best.

After a little consulting with a concrete contractor, we decided to go all in. Create a new foundation for the one wall currently supported by faith, build a proper stairwell down to the basement, and pour a whole new slab because most of the old, cobbled together mess would be dug out to make room for the concrete forms. After a flurry of activity spanning a couple of weeks, all the excavating and concrete work was complete. The next step was for our carpenter to build new stairs to the basement and the back door and to rebuild the wall and doorway to our back yard.

Our carpenter, Mike, came the other day to build the basement stairs. We had agreed on a design that would be sturdy, but nothing elaborate. Just four steps with a wide enough tread and a rise that won’t be too much as we age in place in our big old house. Mike showed up mid-morning and set up his saw in the driveway. He had built the stringers (I’m learning stair lingo quite thoroughly) at home. Those are the zigzag shaped supporting members underneath the stairs. I heard him outside working on the assembly. Turning the raw lumber into a new form with a specific function. I don’t like to stand over him while he is working so I busied myself with my own chores until later in the day.

When I finally went out, he was attaching the treads. He squeezed out a bead of adhesive along the surface of the stringer under the tread. “I don’t like creaky steps,” Mike explained, and I gave him a thumbs up as he set the tread in place to screw it down. We were heading out on a bike ride, and he finished his work while we were gone.

I had to try out the stairs when we came back. I knew the dehumidifier would be full, so I went down the new stairs, enjoying the solid feel under each step. I noticed the little details, such as the tiny notches in the treads so that they fit perfectly against the face of the new concrete walls. I truly appreciated the way each step was evenly spaced and wide enough so I didn’t feel like I was taking my life in my hands just to go down a few steps.

This particular set of stairs has evolved since we bought the house 30 years ago. At that time, the stairs consisted of some old wooden planks sitting on top of uneven brick and loose sand. After one near disaster where the bottom step slipped out underfoot, sending me into a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairwell, I determined to make some new steps. I calculated them out and made them with my passable carpentry skills. They were a huge improvement, but still a bit narrow and steep. Now, the stairs have been taken to a whole new level. The stairwell has almost doubled in width. Everything is at right angles and faced with smooth concrete instead of crumbling cinder blocks covered in sand and moldy leaves.

You don’t appreciate the simple beauty of something like a set of steps until you have them and realize what you put up with for so long. I don’t need a fancy McMansion with elaborate woodwork and twisting ballroom stairs. Give me a nice, solid set of stairs that will last the rest of my lifetime. I think I need to go check on that dehumidifier again.

Artist Collaboration

Cherie Landie is an artist who lives in my neighborhood. I also count her as a friend. I am so grateful that Cherie and I agreed to a collaboration based on her latest work. I was honored when she agreed to have me write poems inspired by three new drawings. The creative stars lined up so that her show was on display at the People’s Gallery in Randolph, Vermont for the month of April, which also happens to be National Poetry Month. This type of poetry is called ekphrastic poetry, which is a written response to a piece of art.

Usually, poetry is meant to conjure images or feelings in the reader. In this case, I started with Cherie’s drawings and captured in words the images and feelings they evoked in me. I enjoyed the process; especially the quiet Monday when I sat on the wooden bench with the spring sunshine streaming through the window that looks out onto Merchant’s Row and sat with each of the beautiful black and white drawings. I hope you enjoy Cherie's art and the resulting poems.

I wrote one poem that was essentially an overview of the three drawings and how I felt after spending time with them. Each of the other three poems follows the drawing by which it was inspired.

The Doorway to the Universe

Simple lines on paper

And yet not so simple

The flat wall takes on depth

 

Curves and shades in motion

Taking viewers on a journey

Far from this cozy space off Main Street

 

Other worlds are calling

All you have to do is stop

Let yourself see them

Let yourself go there

 

Flow along the line and feel

The paper beneath you

Dive below the surface

Emerge in a new time and space

I. Growth Rings

I am a tree

My spine is the trunk

My lungs are the leaves

Taking in the air around me

Ribs are branches

Reaching out


I am a tree

Rooted to a place

Living in partnership with

My environment


I am a tree

Xylem and phloem are veins and arteries

Blood flowing like sap


I am a tree

Growing tall and bending as years slip past

My bark now old and weathered

More wise and patient


Knowing that

One day I will fall

II. The first haircut

Those little curls that wrapped around your heart

Drifted down to black and white checkerboard tiles

Joining other wisps of trimmed hair

 

Your child growing up with each snip of the scissors

You almost leap from the chair

To grab that little curl

 

So delicate and pure

To hold onto it

To make time stop

 

You want her to remain

In this youthful innocence

 

She turns to look at you

With the fresh cut bangs

The perfect edges

 

The broom sweeps the fallen curl

And you are all swept into the future

III. Perpetual

The ocean is never still

Always moving

With its tidal push and pull

 

Look out to the horizon

Over the flat blue black plain

Watch the waves wash towards shore

 

White tipped and wild

The sea curves up in a perfect arc

A moment of space exists

 

Before the crest and crashing foam

The rhythm as one wave follows another

 

Washing over my feet

As they slowly sink into the sand

 

The line of surf retreats to greet the next breaking wave

Beckoning me to join this game of hide and seek

Back on the bike

 

    Riding a bicycle is probably my favorite activity. My primary type of riding is on the back roads of central Vermont, where there is less traffic and more amazing vistas and peaceful stretches of classic scenery. Over the years, I’ve learned to enjoy time off the bike during winter. It’s always a little hard when the days grow short in the fall and the temperatures make it less and less pleasant to ride. Finally, usually near the end of October, after that one ride where my fingers and face grow equally numb, I lube up my chain one last time and hang my bike from its hook in the garage. I won’t say it’s a tearful goodbye (I’d never admit that), but it’s a hard one.

    Over the winter I get out and enjoy all that Vermont has to offer by taking winter walks and hikes and going cross-country skiing and snowshoeing. I revel in the cold air, taking in the browns, blacks and different shades of white that the frozen landscape offers. I tried a fat bike one winter and I will admit that it was fun. I was surprised at what the big, balloon-like tires could roll over. Despite the urging of one of my regular bike riding partners, I just couldn’t pull the trigger on buying a fat bike. Using it would mean either putting it in or on the car and driving it somewhere with the right trail conditions. I’m lucky enough to have access to walks and bike riding right from my house, so driving somewhere to ride a bike is always difficult to do. 

    I can’t say that I don’t think about biking over the winter. I’ll see an article or YouTube video of some great bike ride and start to get that itch. As the calendar flips over to March, the itch grows a little bit stronger. Then a day like today comes along. The temperature climbs up into the 50s or close to 60 and I find myself outside in a T-shirt as if it were the middle of summer. The sun has picked up some strength and I can actually feel warmth on my pale white skin. The birds are making a ruckus, and I can smell the muddy earth starting to soften up. Just over the last week or so, the glacier-like piles of snow along our driveway have receded and started to show the flattened grass underneath.

It’s way too soon to get out on the dirt roads. Venturing there would just be an exercise in frustration as the soft mud would suck at the bicycle wheels and mire me in a wet mess. Who knows, I might never make it back from one of those ventures. So I grab my old road bike. The one that I bought with the ambitious idea of riding across the U.S. I didn’t make that ride (not yet anyway) and this bike is a bit worse for wear. The steel frame has a few rust spots, and the back gears don’t quite work the way I’d like them to. But it’s a comfortable bike and very suitable for hitting the paved roads heading out of Randolph village. 

    I can’t find my bike shoes at first but eventually track them down in our guest room closet after a few minutes of frantic looking. I dig out my bike headlight and taillight, aware that drivers won’t be expecting to see someone out on a bike in the middle of March. I wear long pants that I sometimes use for cross-country skiing and pull on my brightest neon yellow bike jersey to make sure I’ll be visible.

    It’s exciting to be back on the bike, even in the first few minutes and after all these decades of riding regularly. I get that exhilaration like when I was a 10- or 11-year-old and taking the old Schwinn Stingray down a local hill. I roll through town, thrilled to be out again on two wheels and under my own power. I soon leave the village behind and hit the first little incline. I’m asking a lot from my legs and lungs, even though I haven’t been a couch potato all winter. I’ve experienced this every spring. No matter how active I have been during the winter, there’s always a little adjustment to getting back on the bike. Now I’m getting into a rhythm, my legs turning the cranks at a good clip. The snow is receding from the side of the road, revealing grass and also, unfortunately, revealing the refuse tossed from windows over the past few months. I make a mental note to see when Green Up day falls this year. It’s the usual collection of beer bottles, Twisted Tea and fast-food containers. I’m always hopeful that one year this annoying habit will cease, but it doesn’t. 

    The miles of pavement roll out under my wheels and I have a vague thought that connects the fact that today was “pi day” (March 14) with the two round wheels I’m balanced on. I pass by muddy driveways glistening in the sun as their vehicles imperceptibly sink down into the muck. I’m aware of the traffic coming up behind me (my rear-view mirror is one of the best investments I’ve ever made) and keep an eye on them as they approach. Everyone gives me plenty of space and I wave as they pass by. About half way through the ride I can tell that I’ll be feeling this in my legs later. Another random thought comes along wondering why no one has invented a more comfortable bicycle seat over the past few months. Each year I have to go through a “break in period” of getting used to being in the saddle again. 

    A few miles out, in the very Vermont-named little village of “Snowsville”, a tractor is chugging along in the opposite direction. We greet each other and keep rolling. Then it’s on to the Brookfield Gulf. The gulf is a winding road that ascends through a narrow passage between hillsides that flank each side. Adjacent to the road is a brook that is tumbling and rumbling its way down to join larger streams and rivers. As I gaze left or right, the hillside looks like the back of a giant cow. Patches of snow intermix with patches of bare ground. Runoff from the snow melt on higher ground forms pop-up streams that careen downhill, often with little waterfalls. It’s like the water can’t wait to join up with the larger roadside brook and its journey. All of this makes for a magical landscape that distracts me from my muscles working to power me uphill. I make it to the high point on the road and turn around to enjoy the downhill on my way back home.
 

    During the return trip, I’m blessed with the streams and tributaries that run near and under the road. The afternoon sun casts silver reflections off the rolling surface, and I find a smile on my face. A crow croaks out a greeting from a nearby tree, then takes off to join one of its fellows in flight.  I look out across the fields of white and see the remnants of last year’s corn crop poking up through the snow. It’s a reminder of the cycle of the seasons in this little corner of the universe.
 

    I’m on the home stretch now. I look down at the mud spatters on my shirt and legs and decide to stop at the bike shop on the way home and find out about fenders. I roll up to the shop and as I go to park my bike, I step into what I thought was gravel but turns out to be a big mud hole, which completely engulfs my foot. I smile as I give thanks for the joys of riding a bike and spring in Vermont.

Home for the Holidays

 

    I think it is pretty well established that holidays and tradition go hand in hand. This is especially true for Christmas. I am not a religious person, at least not in terms of any mainstream religion. Does that mean I’m not spiritual? I guess that depends on how you define it. I can see the wonder in the world. When I walk through a secluded patch of forest with the wind weaving through the trees and I sit down on a log to enjoy the natural rhythms, I feel a kinship with this environment. Is that spirituality? I guess I don’t need to put a label on it. Anyway, back to traditions. 

    Some traditions are tied to food. If you were to ask anyone about a traditional Christmas meal, you probably would hear about ham or turkey, although I have heard some rumblings about Christmas oysters but I don’t know what that’s all about (and honestly, maybe it was just made up by someone trying to pawn these slimy creatures off as food!). So it’s no surprise that, as the family cook, I received a lot of flack for the time that I decided to prepare a meal of baked haddock on Christmas Eve. It’s not like it was a meal that our family didn’t like. Normally it got rave reviews. But you would have thought I had served up a batch of Rocky Mountain oysters (not a shellfish, by the way - look it up if you don’t know) by the reaction I got. And to this day, probably 10 or 15 years after the offense, a Christmas doesn’t go by where one of our kids doesn’t pipe up about, “That year Dad made the Christmas fish,” said with a heaping serving of disdain and an expression of pure disgust. I learned my lesson. I just barely skated by this year with a sort of Tex-Mex chicken and rice dish. I think everyone was just hungry, feeling seasonally generous and willing to give me a pass.

    Another big family tradition for us is Christmas music. Over the years, we amassed quite a pile of CDs that ranged from Vince Guaraldi (Charlie Brown Christmas in case you’ve been living under a rock) to the Boston Pops to Brenda Lee, Bruce Cockburn and a very cheesy rock n’ roll Christmas compilation that usually elicited a few groans when I managed to sneak it into the rotation. All complaining and arguing aside, this diverse set of music has become the backdrop to our holiday season for years. Somehow, over time, we also created some rules around Christmas music (what’s a good family tradition without a few rules!) We determined that no Christmas music can be played until after Thanksgiving. Without this guidance in place, who knows what kind of chaos might ensue? 

    We recently did some downsizing of audio equipment and no longer have a CD player. I have fully embraced the digital music and bluetooth speaker revolution and was tired of the furniture size speakers taking up space in our house and mostly gathering dust and cobwebs. This resulted in some family discord as we no longer had the means to play those cherished Christmas CDs. Luckily, our daughter took on the task of compiling a Kaplan family Christmas playlist on Spotify. Many of the albums could be found in their entirety, but it was no small accomplishment to search out some of the more obscure songs that had been featured in one collection or another. One bonus (at least from the perspective of some family members) is that she could simply omit those songs that no one really cared for. 

There is one particular Kinks Christmas song - “Father Christmas” - that always drew frowns when I cued it up from the rock n’ roll collection. I don’t know what The Kinks' intent was with the lyrics. I always took them as being somewhat tongue in cheek or maybe a condemnation of Christmas greed. “Father Christmas, give us some money. Don’t mess around with those silly toys. We’ll beat you up if you don’t hand it over. We want your bread, so don’t make us annoyed.” Ok, now that I read those lines, it is a pretty cynical view. But it was always in the mix when those CDs were shuffling in the changer and playing whatever came next.

Probably our most cherished holiday tradition is decorating the tree. This is another topic on which there are strong opinions. One year we got a slightly small tree, although certainly not of the Charlie Brown variety. The jeers and distressed looks taught me to never go small on the tree again. Better to have it scraping the ceiling and have to do something creative to fit the star on top than to get one that is too small! We typically decorate the tree as a family, although with all three of the kids living away from home, that has become ever more challenging. I usually do the lights and garland on my own just to get us started and then we do the ornament hanging together. We have a running joke each year once we finish, standing back to gaze at the tree and to proclaim (for the nth year in a row) that this is the “best tree ever”. There is some truth in that statement, because every holiday where we are all together as a family is “the best ever” and a time for which I am truly grateful. 

I like to say that we own the most eclectic mix of Christmas ornaments. I love getting the box out each year. I hand wrote “Christmas Ornaments” on the top in black sharpie. This is supplemented by Olivia’s handwritten “crismas ordmins” applied so many years ago. We have some classic ornaments like little Santas, who for some reason this year all have their backs to us, gazing at the inner part of the tree. There are the regular different colored balls, although I think we need some more red, green and blue to balance out the many silver ones that have taken over. And that’s where things go a little bit off the rails. The box of miscellaneous ornaments includes some made by the kids in kindergarten or even in preschool. There are Star Wars ships, snowflakes, puffins (my childhood nickname and a common gift from my parents), musical instruments, an LL Bean boot (where did that come from?), a star of David (ironic), bicycles, a plastic-wrapped candy cane of unknown vintage (I’ll have to remember that for when I’m starving to death in the post-apocalypse), two (one would have been plenty!) leprechauns, and a host of others. Every year, as we pick items from this box, there is at least one that I swear I never saw before. I have an unproven theory that each year, perhaps through the magic of Christmas, a few new ornaments are spawned in this box while it sits in the closet for 11 and half months. No one has been able to prove me wrong about this!

I think you get the drift. Somehow it all works.Once everything is on the tree and the lights and silver garland form the backdrop, it all comes together. This year’s decorating occurred with a minimum of arguments. No snatching of any prized ornaments. We do have one that is a bit of an homage to theft, having been pocketed by a young Isaac when visiting a neighbor’s house many years ago. What’s Christmas without a little lawlessness? In a nod to my Dad, there are a couple of clear glass ornaments that I held onto after he passed away. One is a 6 inch long twisting icicle that comes to a vicious looking point (note to self: if you are ever desperate for a weapon, this has potential - not sure why the holiday is bringing up all these desperate scenarios!) The other is a sphere that has little tunnels of glass radiating in towards the center. For me, it symbolizes accomplishment of the impossible. I can’t fathom how the glass maker was able to create it. 

We should relish impossible things in our lives. Things that cause us to pause and wonder about the magic in which we go about our humble lives. The magic of a planet spinning perfectly on its axis at just the right distance from a star out here in a little corner of the universe. The miracle of a bird or any of the myriad other living creatures. The sublime art that comes from a brush held delicately between fingers. The notes of music that bring tears to our eyes. All this beauty created by the human brain, body and spirit. That is the real source of wonder and it doesn’t limit itself to the holidays.