How to Make Us Smile

While returning some things to Party City yesterday, I was entreated by the manager to take as many of the red mylar balloons as I could, for FREE! I am too Irish and too much my mother's daughter to refuse. I left the store laughing at my good fortune (Bram is going to love this!) and glanced back to see the clerks lined up at the window watching me while I poked 21 fat red hearts into the backseat of my little car. The biggest thrill was seeing the smile on Bram's face when I picked him up for school and said to him, "I hope there's room for you." I'm afraid he gets that silly idea from me that balloons are happy things.

Sad Gossip

Saturday: I spent too much time buying fake (yes, fake) flowers for the flower boxes on the garden shed. No one gets close enough to see they aren't real, and who cares any way? It's not like we ever have company here this time of year. The clerk walked by, nodded at my pink bouquet and said that she should get some of those for her daughter's grave. The woman was no older than I am. I did find it interesting--the kindness and pity in the eyes of the people who walked past me while I picked out the flowers. How seeing someone choosing flowers seemed to remind them of something. They didn't smile or speak, but it was obvious that they were empathetic. Maybe it was because I was gathering pink ones and they thought of mothers, daughters, wives.

Thursday: In the post office I met a stranger who cried as she told how badly she just wants her husband to go dancing with her, or just to take her to a place where she can go dancing, or to let her go out with her friends. He doesn't want to go any where or do anything but sit on the sofa and watch the shows he wants to watch. He won't even agree to watch a show of her choosing with her. It was sad to see how miserable this man makes this woman. She is very attractive; most of my male friends would be flattered, very flattered if such a woman wanted their company. I asked her if she thought she could tell him that she wasn't happy. If he loves you, he will want you to be happy, right? She smiled then, and said she would ask him. I have thought of her every day since then and wondered about their conversation.

Sunday: I spoke with a very dear friend whose childhood friend became a widow just a couple of weeks ago. In the course of telling me how much time she had been spending with her friend and about the things they had been doing (like requesting the death certificate, changing account names, shopping, etc) she told me about something this new widow said and did. In the middle of shopping, the widow threw up her hands, took a deep breath, and announced, "My God, I feel like I have just got out of prison, serving a life sentence! I have never felt so free. I'm glad he's gone."

I thought about my son and my sweet indulgent husband who has never needed Valentine's Day or my birthday or our anniversary to remind him to show me how much he loves me, and I wondered, "Would I get the same kind looks from strangers if I were shopping for blue flowers? Or would widows smile at my good fortune and wives cast jealous darts?" I hope I never have to look for blue flowers. I am in no prison.

Hanging on the Window

This is my old window on the world, and today I am really missing this window and that world. I miss the air, the houses, the chimneys and the sky they curled the smoke into on some days. I miss the church bell, the bells and screeching of the trams, and the quiet between these things. Most of all I am missing the every day sounds from inside the house: the opening and closing of doors and the footfalls in the stairwell in the mornings, and in the afternoons, in reverse. The scrape of chairs across the floor that signalled oběd, and again when it was over. And the near sudden silence of afternoon rest time. There wasn't a lot of activity to watch: the dog let out, the neighbor on his bike, people opening gates, women hanging laundry, an attractive woman talking to someone, standing one foot before the other, hands clasped behind her back. Once, while I was standing at a different window, I heard the sound of a duvet being shaken out and saw a single white sock float past me and to the ground. I would not have thought that I would care so much for being not alone, for taking comfort in the constant reminders that other people were around. But I do. I miss my window and everything around it.

The Man in the Yellow Cap

We went to the circus yesterday. I'm sorry I have no photos for you because it was just that kind of Sunday when I have a hard time getting to a 12:30 engagement dressed and with a camera. This was Bram's first trip to the circus and only my second. In my defense, I would like to point out that we have been offering, really begging Bram to go to the circus for the last seven years. His reason for finally agreeing to go? He learned that 'freaks' weren't part of a circus. He's more than a little upset by the sight of conjoined twins, bearded ladies, people too tiny or humans too huge and the like. My frustration at learning only now why I've missed every circus for the last 7 years aside, I had great time, a wonderful time.

But, and you know there is a but, I'm afraid I didn't enjoy it as much as I had hoped because I was so distracted by THE MAN IN THE YELLOW CAP. Men went by on horses, riding, standing, on two horses at once. Yellow Cap just sat there. Elephants, horses, ponies, tigers, goats, and a porcupine (all of the animals were in odd numbers, 9, 11, 7, 3, 1) danced by. And when I say danced, I mean really danced: kicking up their heals, tossing their heads, and generally looking as much like humans dancing as it was possible to do. Yellow Cap just sat there: not a smile, not a clap. "Maybe animals are not his thing," I thought, marvelling at the goats on horseback.
Then the acrobats came on, bending their bodies and throwing themselves around like so much yarn. Nothing. The clown encouraged us all to clap, slapped his giant floppy shoes in 4/4 time, pulled his hair off, put it back. Yellow Cap blinked. After a while, even his daughter began to look a little worried. Nine (odd!) sexy girls with handlebars attached to their waists gyrated to some heavy metal tune. Behind them seven (yes, 7, another odd number!) of motorcyclists rode their bikes inside a ball for 3 (odd!) minutes. Yellow cap didn't even appear to be breathing.
It was at this point that I noticed that with a few exceptions, the entire audience was behaving like this: they just sat and stared, not with awe, not with boredom, but complete and utter apathy, as if they were home watching television.
Okay, so maybe I am so ridiculously easily entertained, or so hard up for visual stimulation because we don't have TV at our house that I can't know quality entertainment when I see it. But you know, these performers weren't doing simple worthless tricks. The kids behind me were whooping it up, laughing, kicking my chair with excitement. What a circus performer does ain't nothing. When is the last time you wrapped your legs around your head and tucked your feet into your armpits? Or stood around tossing a whip at 7 tigers? I thought so. So, wouldn't you agree that the circus deserved at least some hearty clapping? Maybe Yellow Cap was waiting for the Super Bowl. How can that be more fun than a dancing elephant or motorcycle on a highwire?