The Ash Creek Papers

She smiled and said, “you know, we spend our entire lives either being a refugee or an immigrant… we are either cast out, or chose to leave…”

I found this strange idea coming from someone who lived on the same street in New Haven forever. But she continued her thought…

“We’re forced to leave the womb against our will… and that’s where it all starts. We spend the next 70 or 80 years or so moving from one place or another. And even if we are lucky and get to remain for the better part of our life in just one place, it’s simply a matter of time before we are asked to move to our place of final rest.”

I nodded. My Father would refer to that as our last address.

She sipped her tea from a glass, and not a cup… it’s a custom that she brought with her from Europe. She sat comfortably in her small living room in a high backed wing chair. The adjacent end table had a shaded lamp that put a low light on a collection of small framed pictures, a chipped candy dish and a dog eared copy of Michener’s The Source.

She liked to keep the shades drawn at all times of the day and preferred to keep as few lights on as possible. She would say that it was to conserve energy… but I think she just liked the coziness of the darkened room and used the “energy thing” as an excuse for unaccustomed guests. She did put on an extra light for my benefit. One time I admired a painting that she had of a landscape… from then on, she always put on another light when I visited so that I could better see the river scene with pencil like birch trees that reflected in the water.

The clock on the mantle announced the hour with a clear chime, and she returned the glass to its saucer… “With each move we have to decide what are we going to bring with us from our last home.”

I quickly scan the room… filled with a lifetime’s collection of stuff. Sure… it’s “stuff” to us; but I am sure each piece has its “belonging”… a story of some kind, a reason for its presence. I recognize the crocheted afghan on the couch as something that she told me she had made when she was a young mother… the rust, blue and mustard gold doesn’t seem to work with the colour scheme of anything else in the room; but maybe that’s precisely why it fits so well…

She smiles again… turns her head to the side to better hear the recording of Brandenburg #5 playing on WQXR. I love the piece, too. It’s one of a handful of classical compositions that I can pick-up… particularly in the cadenza. I say, “It sounds like the Academy of St. Martin-in-the Fields’ recording.” This is a bluff. I know the music but couldn’t tell one recording from the next, I just love saying, Academy of St. Martin-in-the-Fields. It makes me sound more music savvy than I am.

My comment goes un-returned. It’s not that she is being impolite. She just wanted to hear the music without conversation to interrupt her enjoyment. And her silence gave me a chance to reflect on her words. Words that I have enjoyed hearing over the years.

Now, with no particular introduction she asks, “So what do you take? What’s important? How can you choose between this or that?” She picks up a picture of a little girl. The girl is wearing a thick coat, a poofy hat and she has a small suitcase in one hand, and the hand of a man in the other. The photograph is brown with age. “That’s my Papa… and there is Mama.” There are two cases secured with cording and a couple of soft bundles that lay at their feet. Her mother has a pair of candlesticks tucked in her arm. The candlesticks had to be special, there is a sense that they could not be consigned to one of the cases or the bundles for fear of loss… that some how, if “all” had been lost… the candlesticks had to be saved.

There, next to the clock on the mantle, are those candlesticks. On one Friday she asked if I would stay for supper. I declined; but she ignored my response and went about her business. She brought the candlesticks down from their perch on the mantle and placed them on table in the dinning “L”. She placed a cloth napkin on her head, lit the candles and slowly circled the flames, gathering their spirit and then she closed her eyes and brought her cupped hands to cover her eyes. Her lips slowly murmured a prayer, barely audible; but firm in its emotion.

Prayers concluded, she folded her napkin and looked at me and said… “these candlesticks belonged to my Mother’s Mother, and as a little girl I watched my Grandmother bless the Sabbath candles.” I looked at the candlesticks, fairly ornate in brass; invaluable as a family treasure; but hardly worth much to anyone else.

Yes, I could well understand why Mama had protected those candlesticks not trusting them to the safe keeping in one of cases that contained the sum of their other possessions.

I look closer at the photograph… the stern expressions. I ask, “you know, I have seen countless pictures of immigrants and no one is ever smiling. You’ve just landed on the shores of the ‘land of milk and honey’… can’t anyone smile?”

“I think we were too scared to smile, I know I was…” she answered.

I point to an irregular shape that appeared behind her Father. “What’s that?”

“Oh… that’s my Papa’s balalaika. It was made in bright red lacquer. He couldn’t play; but his Father could. Every time my Grandpa came over he brought his balalaika with him and played for us. He could make that balalaika sing… happy songs, sad songs… he knew them all.”

Then she pointed to the corner of the room. On the floor, tucked behind the fireplace tools that were never used stood the red balalaika. It rested in the shadows in mute silence. All these years, I had never noticed it before.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she quietly said, “You never noticed it before. Well, it’s not like I play it. So it just sits there… and when I am alone… when WQXR plays Lara’s Theme, I like to look at it. And when I do, I can hear it… I can hear my Grandpa playing it, I can hear Grandpa play his happy songs and his sad songs.”

She put the photograph back to its specific spot on the side table and then picked herself up from the wing chair. She brought the tea glass and saucer to the kitchen, made a stop in her bedroom and returned with a small box. She opened the dark case to reveal a small medal and ribbon decoration. “This is my Papa’s. He was wounded during the Crimean War.” I look at her eyes… you would think that she served at Balacava.

I pick up the photograph. Yes, I could see a tiny glint of the medal pinned to his great coat. I could imagine that he hoped the medal would confirm his worthiness as a new arrival to this country… that somehow it would justify his, and his family’s entry.

Yes, we are all refugees or immigrants of one sort or another… required to leave things behind… required to make choices of those things we bring with us to our next destinations. I look about the room with a more detailed eye. What other items, might have been brought in the suitcases and bundles that made that scary trip across the Atlantic?

“So tell me… the candy dish… was it in one of the grips that you brought with you?”

“No. It was a gift from my husband. He bought it on a trip to Milan. I love the colours. Do you like it?”

“Yes, there is a delicacy about it that you don’t see too often these days.”

“Delicacy. Yes, that’s a good word.” She paused. The room fell silent… WQXR in between selections… just the steady tick of the clock on the mantle. And then…

“I think I’ll take it with me to my next place.”

If Martin said he would be over by 5:30, you could set your watch by it. Say what you will about my friend Martin; but one thing is for sure… he has a great sense of time.

My responsibilities for the evening were simple: two generous rib-eyes, gorgonzola salad, a couple of spuds and a patient ear (whenever Martin comes over for a visit, everything is a backdrop for the talk).

His responsibilities were also well defined: a bottle of good Claret from his cellar, a perfect baguette from Woodbury’s Ovens of France and the construction of our pre-dinner martinis. That, and, of course, the talk.

Martin and I go back a ways. We even talk about this. We reckon that it was sometime before the fourth grade. He would say, “I can remember canonballing you at Woodbridge Country Club’s pool, and that was before Hamden Hall.” This, for those of you who don’t know, is the school we attended… beginning in grade four. That was also the year that Francie came into our lives.

I put my work aside early to fetch our steaks. Another thing about Martin… he does not abide with meat from Stop & Shop, or a supermarket of that ilk… it has to come from a butcher. He would say, “My Grandfather was a butcher, for Godsakes… do you expect me to eat something that would defile his memory?” And this is something that we would talk about, too.

Perhaps I should share this with you… I am an artist. A rather poor one, at that. Oh, not for my talent; but rather for my remuneration. Thank those on high… my Grandfather made a killing in the scrap metal business, and he invested his wealth in real estate, which in turn has left me with modest holdings in a small apartment building, a few three family homes and an intersection with two gas stations, a convenience store and a Chinese take-out. Martin calls me the only slumlord that understands scale and perspective.

My choice of residence is the third floor flat in one of my homes in an older section of New Haven. And it is to here that Martin brought his martini making skills (and his baguette, and his Ch. Smith Haut Lafitte ’00).

I prepped for Martin as best I could.

The martinis were indeed splendid, as Martin said (for the umpteenth time in my listening), “The martini is the only American invention as perfect as the English sonnet.” He does not take credit for the phrase; but attributes it to H.L. Mencken.

Somewhere between martini one and two, Martin’s left eyelid drooped. Francie, now his “Ex”, would say that this was the sign that he was “passed the point of no return.” In truth, that lid could droop at the halfway pole in martini #1, hardly a point of no return, at least for him; but certainly a point where talk would begin.

Content that the Bordeaux was decanted and the food prep was accounted for, we quickly dispensed with the burning issues of the day — the War in Iraq, the incompetence of the present Administration, the horrible condition of I-95 and, of course, our kids. Martin sipped his well-chilled Tanqueray and offered, “I can’t remember the last time I had banana cake with Mary Oliver frosting.”

This was a revelation from left field. “Wasn’t that the cake that your Mother made for you?”

“Geeze, I loved that cake. Look, you remember my Mom. Virtually all of the cooking details were turned over to my Aunt Hilda or to Rachel… but Mom baked. It was her calling. Wednesdays were piecrust days and Fridays were given over to manufacturing cakes and pies. At least 5 would be produced. Two for Friday night dinner and three for Saturday night when the ‘Boopies’ came over for coffee and dessert.”

This latter detail needs some explanation. Martin’s folks had a “circle of friends.” The Jacobs, Grants, Lewis’ and Shures. They all went to school together, they all got married about the same time, and, importantly, they all remained in New Haven. When Estelle Grant was in her early 20s she would do a killer impression of the cartoon character Betty Boop, and it is because of this talent that she acquired the “handle” Boopie. It would be Francie who would apply the label to the circle as a whole.

Another sip of gin, “I don’t know where she got the recipe… probably from some magazine. She also made a monster chocolate mousse cake and then a blueberry or peach cake that was made in a glass dish. But one time she asked me what cake I wanted for my birthday and I said ‘banana cake with Mary Oliver chocolate frosting.’ And, you know it could just as easily have been one of the others.” From that point on, the banana cake with Mary Oliver became the birthday cake.

And that’s just the way it was with Martin’s Mom. And I should know… after all I have been over for visits since the 4th grade. One time I mentioned to her that she made the best lemon meringue pie. And from then on, whenever lemon meringue was on the Friday baking roster… a sixth dessert was fashioned… a second lemon meringue was added just for me. Even when I came home weekends from college, there would be a pie waiting for me.

I used to think my Mother was the source for when I would be coming home… an advisement call would be made to Lena (Martin’s Mother)… But even on my unplanned visits — times when no one knew I was coming back to town — Lena, obviously gifted with a sixth sense, would have a tasty lemon meringue for me… with the best meringue I have ever experienced… lofty peaks just kissed with a golden tan.

I also had first hand knowledge of the birthday cake selection. When Martin turned 21, I was dragooned into driving the cake (and Francie) up to Schenectady for Martin’s surprise birthday party. By that time, Lena trusted Rachel (their housekeeper) with the sacred recipe. The cake for the milestone birthday was in fact “subcontracted” out to Rachel since Lena was still in Barbados for her winter holiday.

Thirty-five birthdays have passed since then. I can’t recall Martin mentioning that cake once, or hearing whether Francie even attempted making that cake in Lena’s absence.

Our martinis done. The rib-eyes grilled to a turn and their accoutrements finished, we picked up our talk over the last of the Bordeaux. “Terrific wine, Martin.” Of small note, I am the only person who calls Martin, “Martin.” To everyone else on the planet he is “Marty.”

“Great Vintage, under-acclaimed producer from the Graves,” he returns. And then without missing a beat, “You know, I’m not such a big chocolate freak… but it was the frosting that made the cake.”

“Are we back to the cake again? You said no dessert…”

“Yes, I said ‘No dessert’… and you believed me?! What kind of friend are you?”

“Did you really want, or expect, me to bake that cake? It’s not even your birthday!”

He looked into his glass of wine. Turning it this way and that… as if the very colour and appearance was the ultimate experience. Then he looked over to me, no longer able to contain his famous shit-eating grin, “Nah… but it was a good thought.”

And that’s the way it is with my friend Martin. He had no interest in eating the cake. For Martin it was all about the memory of the cake.

And of our dinner that night, the delicious steak and Smith Haut Lafitte will fade into a collection of other enjoyable dinners and talks; but what I will always remember is the memory of the banana cake and Mary Oliver frosting. That, and I will think of Lena’s love.

Anyway, I think that’s what Martin really had in mind from the get-go.