The Ash Creek Papers

“Pass”

“Pass”

“Pass”

A few seconds waiting for a bid in Bridge can turn into an eternity.  Sherman (that was my Dad) asked, “Well?”

No answer.  Sherman waits for another few seconds while Rachel re-arranges her hand for the third time since the bidding opened.  “Rachel?  Are you going to bid this evening?”

Rachel re-arranges the cards one more time.  This time putting spades on the far left of her hand.  “Can I have a review of the bidding?”

Sherman puts his cards down. “I passed.  Jake passed.  Estelle passed.  And now it’s to you.”

“Don’t rush me Sherman.  You’re rushing me.  You probably have bad cards and you’re rushing me.”  Rachel shifts her spades to the far right of hand.  “OK.  Let’s see.  I bid a small spade…”

Sherman folds his hand.  “Rachel, you can’t do that.  That’s cheating.  You can’t say a ‘small spade’.  You can say a spade… just a spade… or two spades if you want to, or you can pass.  But you can’t say a small spade… because you have just told Jake that you only have four spades, or that you have a weak point count.  That’s cheating.”

Rachel’s expression showed hurt.  The accusation stung.  Almost as much as if someone said that they didn’t like her soup.

Sherman recognized that his comment pinched.  “OK… look, this is going no where… let’s just finish the bidding.  I pass.”  He was reconciled to having bad cards for the fifth hand in a row.

And that’s pretty much how it went when my Aunt Rachel and Uncle Jake came over our house to play bridge.  Thursday night was bridge night.  They would set up in our small breakfast room that was adjacent to the kitchen and begin play at 8:00PM… you could set your clock to when the first cards were dealt.

They would stop at 9:15PM for coffee and… The “and” was usually a Russian coffee cake, or a bundt cake, or occasionally a pie.  Aunt Rachel always brought the “and” I would have been long to bed before the break in the card game. I would only have discovered the precise flavour of the “and” the next morning.  Whatever was left from the night before would be put in my school lunch, and if I was lucky there would be a slice or two remaining when I got home in the afternoon. 

Even if my Aunt Rachel was slow to bid, or did so in an underhanded way (I would learn more about her technique when I picked up Bridge during my undergraduate days)… even if half the time playing cards were spent in argument… or in discussion as my Father would say… discussing about the wrong card that Rachel would play or some such… all that not withstanding, Rachel was one helluva baker & one helluva cook.

My interest in their card play or their sometime heated discussions, was a sidebar to what really mattered.  It was Rachel’s “and” that she baked with care & love.  {And of additional note… Rachel’s chicken soup was considered a marvel in our extended family.}

Rachel and Jake would leave sometime after 10:00PM.  The actual time would depend on whether their spirited discussion put a damper on further play after “coffee and“ service.  Regardless, it would never be a real late night, Rachel would have to get up early the next day to drive to Bridgeport… so my Aunt and Uncle would return to their Woodbridge home well before the “witching hour.”

Uncle Jake was a Certified Public Accountant in New Haven.  And according to my Father, a good one.  Aunt Rachel taught 8th Grade Science in Bridgeport.

When I was a kid I didn’t particularly like teachers… my dislike wasn’t directed against teachers as people; but rather against what they did and where they worked.  You see, I just didn’t like school.  Other than gym, school was a horrid and wretched experience for me.

Having a teacher in your family was almost like having an undertaker in your family.  Both useful professions… but do you really want them around in your personal life? 

I loved my Aunt Rachel; but when I was in the 8th grade she made me nervous.  It wasn’t like she taught in my school or anything; but I lived in constant anxiety that she might ask me what photosynthesis was.

I can’t say when I grew out of my discomfort with Rachel being a teacher.  I would like to say that it was when I entered the 9th grade.  But I am sure that it was a few years later.  Let me assure you that at no time did my discomfort intrude on my appreciation of her Russian coffee cake, or her insanely divine chicken soup.

Years later… well after Uncle Jake passed on, I would truly begin to understand her considerable force.  On one visit to her condo in Boca, we got to talking about the “old days.”

“Rachel… you had any number of opportunities to take positions in other school districts… to teach kids that would be moving on to high school, college and beyond.  You could have taught in Woodbridge or Greenwich forGodsakes!  And been better paid for it to boot!!  Why the hell did you remain in that cesspool of a city, Bridgeport?  You could have done so much more for kids who cared!”

Rachel stirred her tea.  Something she still called a “glassela tea” even though it was served in Spode china.  She cut a slice of her famous Russian coffee cake for me.  She asked after my kids, and without skipping a beat, launched into a mini-dance around the kitchen to her rendition of “Suzie Q” at the mention of my daughter Suzy… she hopped and skipped, hummed and strutted… and swept crumbs from the table in smooth motions that defied choreography.

I shook my head in amazement, “Rachel… I don’t know how you do it!”

I could only imagine her “putting on the Ritz” in her class room, or down the school halls… a “Mick Jagger” who knew about photosynthesis.

“Rachel… your talents were wasted in Bridgeport.  You could have been teaching in a school where the kids mattered.”

That stopped Rachel mid-dance.

“Jimmy.  My kids mattered.  They counted.  They were important.  The system may have sucked.  The parents may have sucked and not cared.  But the kids?  The kids?  We have to try the best for the kids.  We owe it to the kids.  All the kids.  The fancy shmancy kids in New Canaan have tons of people to do the best by them.  But who is going to go to bat for the kids in the barrio?  No.  Knock me down in the street. It’s OK, I can take it.  I’ll stand up, dust myself off… I was going to try and make a difference.  And to succeed once?  Yes, it would have been enough.”

The phone rang.  Rachel went into the den to take the call.  I put my tea cup and plate in the sink and stopped by the fridge to look at the pictures that coated the door.  Grandkids galore… Max, Zoey, Lucas & Joshua… each photo noted with date and location.  And there tucked in a nook of the “gallery” was a piece of lined stationary with neatly and carefully lettered poem.  A poem for Rachel.

A Stare

A stare has a lot of significance

A stare is from feeling at that instant

A stare comes from love while you admire something

A stare comes from joy and happiness like a sting

 

A stare means a lot, at least for me it does

A stare is special, it’s that extra little shove

A stare is like praise in my eyes

A stare is like longing to let go of all the lies

 

A stare is wishing I had your beautiful eyes

A stare comes from wishing my eyes could reflect the skies

A stare comes from wishing I had your comical and loving smile

A stare comes from wishing I wasn’t afraid to lose myself

Even if it meant that I would not be in style

 

A stare comes from wishing I could make people laugh the way you do

A stare comes from wishing my smile had the beauty to help people through

A stare comes from bewilderment because I smile every time you do

A stare comes from embarrassment because I truly do love you

 

A stare comes from the fact that every time you’re happy so am I

A stare comes from the fact that I know that in you I could always confide

A stare comes from the fact that I know I always have a friend to come to at school

A stare comes from the fact that you don’t let me act a fool

 

You wanted to know why I stare at you so much

And, it’s because I admire you and such

You’re like a friend I have known for years

I guess staring at you is what takes away my fears

— Thank you, Francis

The paper had corners that were turned and wrinkled.  This poem, written years before, had been transferred from fridge to fridge… and to my Aunt Rachel I could see that it was worth more than a chest full of gold.

I don’t think I could have loved Rachel more.  When she returned to the kitchen, I had a catch in my throat.  Sure.  What could I say?

“So… Rachel.  That day… did you really bid a small spade?”

It surprised the rest of us that Beaky even got in to see The Queeg. The Queeg just happens to be the most important Pigeon in our District (and that covered all of Norwalk, most of Westport, some of New Canaan & a little bit of Darien — not that they liked us there)… and Beaky? Well, let’s be honest… Beaky didn’t have as high standing in our community he once did.

After his accident Beaky just became flat annoying. We’d be sitting on one of the lampposts projecting over the Connector on Route 7… really peaceful, like. Squnched down against the wind… six pigeons minding our own business, and then he’d plop down… him and his shnuffled breathing… well, then we’d all have to move down a couple of feet to give him wide berth. I mean, you listen to Beaky breathe for more than 30 seconds and it would drive you nuts.

It happened this way… Beaky was into fancy flying. He was trying to make a point that pigeons are great flyers, and that he, Beaky (although before the accident we just called him Ray) was an ace flyer. Anyway, he got to doing some loops and dives… darting this way and that (“Just showing off”… that’s what Manny said)… all the time Beaky was saying, “A crow can’t do this…” or “a crow can’t do that…” or “don’t give me any of that ‘as the crow flies’ bullshit… those dumb black birds know nothing about flying.”

So there he is cruising up and down the Route 7 corridor, “did they use crows to carry messages during the Great War? No. Why? Because they are stupid, they’re fucking stupid. That’s why! They are miserable flyers and they have one of the worst calls! That screeching sound they make! It makes me barf. I ask you… do you think the Allies were going to trust birds that would make you barf just to listen to them?”

We knew not to get Beaky started on the subject of crows. He just flew thru the airspace like he owned it, below the underpasses challenging oncoming trucks… made no matter to Beaky… then a tight turn to the construction site over at Merritt 7… the future home for Diaggeo… concrete, steel beam and plate glass… And there is Beaky, showing off flying in and out of the building when,BLAM… he slammed into an oversized window… one of the few that had been put up.

Beaky dropped to the earth as if he had just been hit by anti-aircraft fire. He staggered a bit… shook his head, refolded his wings, scratched his feet, did a couple of head bobs, blinked a couple of times… preened a few feathers as if to say, “I meant to do that.”

He said that he was fine. But on closer inspection we could see that his beak had swelled up to the size of a grape. He had taken the impact square on the snoot.

We didn’t see Beaky for the next few days. I guess he wanted to recover in private. I swung over to the Hospital one day to see if he had taken shelter in the garage. No.  No Beaky there.

Then one day I spotted him over on the basketball court by Jefferson Elementary School.  From the looks of things, it appeared that he had his sights set on a handsome pigeon of the female persuasion.  So I dropped down for a closer look.

Sure as hell Beaky was “working his stuff”.  Two or three head bobs, four steps to the left, pivot back to the right, a bow, a second bow, another head bob, expand the throat and then a shake of the tail… and usually by this time the pursued pigeon is helpless… she takes flight for a short distance.  Beaky would say, “that’s the ‘no’ for the record… no pretty pigeon wants to be taken for easy.”

And that’s when Beaky would move in to “close the deal.”  He would strut, not fly, to her new location.  On the way he would be sure to throw a few head bobs, a quick pivot & bow… and by the time he’d throw a second shake of the tail, our Miss Pigeon would have “thrown back the sheets.”

Ask anyone in the District.  No one had better stuff than Beaky.

So here’s Beaky… at the School Yard… doing his thing… and getting no where!  I approach him.  Then I hear that his “coo” is off, and so’s his “Brrrrr”.  I mean really off!  He sounded like an idiot!

“So… what’s the moosh, Ray?”  I asked.

Then I catch a gander at his beak.  It had a good bend in it (Manny would say later, “big and to the left.”).  “Cripes!  It looks like you took a shot from a crow!”

He glared.  Tried to say something… and then it hit me.  His crushed shnoz effected his call… he had a “lisp”… funny breathing, too.  It even threw off his throat fluffing.  No wonder Miss Pigeon wasn’t interested!  She probably thought, “this guy with the fat beak is a twerp”, and she used my presence to take wing without so much as a “look me up later, sailor.”

“Thanks Thid!” was all he said to me.  And he was off, too.

Well… the word got around that Ray (now known as Beaky) was a hurting camper and we don’t see much of him.  Manny would say, “We gotta help Beaky out… Geeze, he’s not even interested in beating up crows.”  That’s when someone offered that maybe The Queeg could set him straight.

But the trouble is that not everyone gets to see The Queeg, let alone talk to him.  Particularly this Queeg.  Hell, he had been The Queeg of Central Park, and then The Queeg of Battery Park and Liberty Island… he turned down the post at South Street Seaport (too many tourists) to take on our District.  Central Park and the Battery… that’s quite the resume.

As I say… word did get around about the tough go Beaky was having… and it was just a matter of time before The Queeg caught wind of the trouble… And for reasons unknown, he took an interest in the case.

So one day Beaky is sitting off by himself on the Route 7 lamp post near Diaggeo (Manny referred to it as the “scene of the crime”) when Sweet Grey drops down for a schmooze.  Sweet, as everyone knows, is The Queeg’s Second… has been with him since Battery Park.

“Beaky, is it?”

“Hello Thweet.”

“Bad run of luck, huh?”

“You might thay I caught a bad break.”

“Yeah, shame.  The Queeg hates to see a good pigeon, a quality pigeon, playing against a tough hand.  Particularly when the quality pigeon hates crows as much as he does.”

The birds took in the sight below.  Traffic moving at a good pace on the Connector, I-95 to the South looked backed-up (nothing new there), and the Sound lay beyond…

“Whatdaya say Beaky… fine morning like today… you and me can take a fly over to Sprite Island and have a poke around.”

Their path took them by Ash Creek’s Parking lot where they dropped a “dirt load” on a couple of shiny BMWs and then thru Sea Gull and Canadian Geese Territory at Calf Pasture Beach.  When they got to the protected south side of Sprite they landed near the strip of sand.  No gulls… that was a surprise.  And there was The Queeg taking in some sun.

Sweet Grey walked away to leave the two pigeons alone.  After a period of silence… The Queeg looked at Beaky bobbed his stately head twice and said, “Here, pay attention & learn…”

And with this, The Queeg launched into a display the likes of which few birds have ever seen…

A bow, a stutter step to the left, a quick tail shake, back up two steps, pivots to the right, a bob, a throat fluff, circle right, back step, bow, circle left, pick up right leg kick to the side, two steps back, bow, bob, pick up left leg kick to the side, back step, three head bobs, tail shake… throat flutter, circle right, circle left, deep bow, hold pose, a throat puff & step in place.

“Important.  Take your time.  Forget the coo and the brrr. Remember, the kick… keep low, keep your bearing & hold the deep bow…”

Beaky took his turn.  The Queeg kept close watch, fine tuning his moves and it wasn’t long before Beaky had his kick combination down cold… and he even put in a hop and kick.  And The Queeg shook his head and laughed.

“Good job Beaky.  You’ll be fine.  Keep your motion.  Take your time.  Remember… you don’t have to thpeak… give them a thmile and a wink and let your thtuff do the talking.  Now go an knock the shit out of a crow.”

And that’s pretty much the way it happened. 

Beaky cut back on the fancy flying.  Oh… he was still good for taking a good run at the crows; but he turned the page on the nonsense dare-devil stuff.  We would just watch in marvel as he worked a playground… and it was pointed out that he never left a playground alone.

And Manny would say, “hey… do you think I should fly into a closed window?”

Let me begin by saying that Big Mike always looked up to Lou, or “One Eyed Louie” as he was better known in our parts. And Mike looked up to him in more ways than one… first off, Big Mike wasn’t all that big. My Dad used to tell me you can’t measure someone’s size just by their size. You have to understand that my Dad would say alotta confusing things. It was his way. It would take me years to understand it. But I am here to tell you that in heart and spirit, none come bigger than Big Mike… even One Eyed Louie would tell you that.

You can call me “Fast Jimmie”. When I was a little guy I got kidded about how fast I could take a whiz. What can I say? The name just stuck. When I came “of age”, questions of speed can take on a different colour. I was always quick to point out that my speed didn’t apply to all things, particularly when it came to the ladies.

Me, Mike & Lou, we go back aways… to when we was mere “pups”… there was a group of us back then, Mean Mitzie, The Lump and the Honey Tramp… just a bunch of guys hanging out when we didn’t have to be some place else.

And my story is just from a day… a day when nothing much was going on. I guess I got to “the Farm” (that be Taylor’s Farm to you who don’t know), shortly after One Eyed.

I reckon Taylor’s is no more that fifteen acres… and that’s not counting the woods or the small pond. Fifteen good acres where a fellah can stretch his legs, enjoy the outdoors, chase a frisbee, maybe on a windy day citizens could fly a kite, and maybe, just maybe if a fellah got lucky, there would be an opportunity to “pitch a little woo.”

As I say… I knew that Lou was already there. No one takes a dump like Lou. One sniff, and it didn’t have to be a good sniff, and you knew it was him. Not that I would be one to kid One Eyed about the size or smell of his pile. But I have to smile. I loved watching others come upon that deuce and turn and walk the other way. Big Mike would say, “Kee-rist, Louie what d’yu eat?”

Lou would do a quick look around, “they must’ve let an elephant on the Farm”.

“An elephant? Pleeeeeeeze. We know it was you. And besides… an elephant’s heap would be smaller.” Lou didn’t appreciate that.

But we knew Lou for what he was: just a big lovable lug of a Newfoundland with a patch of white over one eye, which is precisely how he come on the moniker “one eyed.” But we all looked up to Lou, even that ugly Dane, Morty (who all us dogs despised) looked up to Lou.

I suppose you could look at Lou and think, “He’s big. He’s scary. He’s mean.” Or, “He’s big, slow and dumb!” Well… dumb he ain’t. There’s a day he got loose, tracked down his kids’ school bus, strolled down the hall of the school looking for their classrooms. The kids had to send him back home… on the bus no less. So much for dumb.

Most dogs who find that dump don’t think “dumb” either. They think, “big, scary and mean.”

And that just cuts up Big Mike. Mike is a Cairn. Or more correctly a “Cairn cross“. Mike would say, “So my Ma fooled around.” And then he would quickly add, “D’yu want to make something of it?”

Lou would just laugh. He had nothing to prove. Big Mike? Every day he had to stand up for himself… which bothered him none. He stood up for others, too. And that he loved. It was like his “calling.” It gave him swagger. His attitude. And it was why even Lou gave Mike his “props”.

So there we were on this day… even the Honey Tramp. Just enjoying an afternoon… taking in some air, lifting a leg here and there, looking for some ladies… Mike would say, “I hear that what’s-her-name the black Standard Poodle is coming into heat…”

Lou would laugh, “Yeah, too bad Mike… I left my step ladder at the house!” We all cracked up.

Mike? He winked, “Nah, when she sees me, she’ll just crouch low.”

“I believe it…” That was from the Honey Tramp. Folks, Honey Tramp is a good sort; but he is as dumb as a persimmon. But on this, I have to agree. Mike just has a way with the ladies. It’s his nature, the attitude.

On this day, Beauty (that was the name of the Black Standard) was not at the Farm… and no other ladies of interest either. Just us… us and our kids.

Our kids. Fun, but a pain in the tail. You know how it is. Always getting into trouble. And Lou’s kids have to be the worst. Trouble just finds them. Now Lou is very good about taking care of them (after all, he went looking for them at school)… but maybe he was dropping a second load… but he wasn’t there when that snot Richie pushed down Lou’s Jennifer.

Well, Mike saw this… and he was not going to take any of it.

He took one look at Richie’s ankle and made a bee line. No “excuse me, do you mind…” he launched himself at exposed skin.

Mike would always say, “make noise and look for skin.”

A good bite on the ankle and he caught some calf, too… and he sent Richie running and crying to his Mommy. It was over in an instant.

When the “dust settled” Lou returned from his business… he approached Jennifer, gave her a big reassuring wag, a smile and several licks on her scraped knee. And then One Eyed lumbered over to Mike… to give him a smile and a sniff… Big Mike. Mike who didn’t understand size; but Mike who had spirit, Mike who had heart. Mike who knew what to do and when to do it.

We all felt pretty good about things. We all went over to the tall reeds by the pond and lifted our legs. Even the Honey Tramp.

There would be times that Lou would chide Mike about over reacting… taking things too far.

But on that day, just one of many… that big Newfoundland looked up to Big Mike, just like the rest of us did.