Ida

One of the perks of working at Hachette is free books. "The Link" is on my list of books to read after finals.

Kids are my heroes, not just because they enthusiastically eat mud and find genuine amusement in their own minds (two things I gave up with puberty, alas.) Even better than their complete openness to the joy around them, children have this uncanny ability to take the present and run with it, assuming that everything will always be as good, as fun, as fulfilling as it is today.

When I started volunteering at 826 Boston, a nonprofit tutorial center for inner-city kids, I was incredibly childlike with in my enthusiasm and wonder with the vision of it all. Helping kids write about monsters? In a Big Foot Institute? Where do I sign?

Fast-forward five (mostly wonderful) months, and I'm still happy to give up my Saturdays to be a volunteer. The main reason, surprisingly, was perhaps also childlike. I love exploring my own imagination, insightful interaction, and even getting out of my pajamas. In short, I like the people-ness that working at a place like this easily offers. Especially, in times like finals when all my free time (outside of work) is spent typing away in an empty computer lab. 826 gives me an extra dose of personal fulfillment.

A Year Ago Today.

This was the nicest apartment I ever lived in. Plush carpets. Round
the clock cleaning service. All of my meals delivered. Of course, the
smell of cleaning products was a bit much. And the views were
spectacular as long as you didn't mind looking at tombstones.

At age 27, I had moved into a retirement community to be with my
grandmother. She had a stroke, as I was wrapping up a visit to Japan,
so at my family's urging I went to be with Grandma. I had saved up my money
and was taking a year off from my graduate studies to travel, but an
Ohio nursing home wasn't my first choice.

Grandma's apartment looked a lot like the house she had lived in for
50 years with my grandfather. The walls were covered in paintings she had
created of old clowns and pastoral scenes. Grandma looked the same,
and as always was glad to see me. We had a special bond that had been
maintained through years of weekly phone calls no matter where I was
living. But Grandma was also different. She drifted in and out of
consciousness, only recognizing me part of the time.

I quickly learned that for most nursing home residents everyday is the
same. Grandma would read day after day while sitting alone. She told
me of her mother who worked in a potato chip factory during the Great
Depression and had eaten only potato chips for an entire year. She was
happy to tell me her story. All I did was listen.

Early in the morning, I got a call from the nurses telling me that they
thought my Grandmother was having a stroke. I put on my shoes and still
wearing my pajamas drove to the hospital. When my Grandmother
saw me she was shaking with fear. It had been a false alarm and she
was fine. To lighten the mood I joked with her about how watching all
the doctors running around reminded me of ER, which was one of her
favorite shows. She told me she was glad I was here.

A month went by and my Grandmother seemed to be on a steady road to
recovery. Then one day the real stroke came and knocked my her out of
commission. Grandma was in a comatose state with severe brain damage.
I knew she would never talk to me again.

The nurses told me hearing was the last thing to go when someone has a
massive stroke. So I read to her from whatever book I was reading and
told her about my day. I stayed with her another two months and was
exhausted.

With mixed feelings I decided I would go to Europe as planned. I
knew my grandmother would have wanted me to continue on with my plans
to travel.

As soon as I returned to Boston I drove back down to Ohio to say goodbye. I
wasn’t sure if she could still hear me, but thought she could. My
grandmother’s condition had worsened. Her pallor was grey
with illness. She had shrunk from being immobile. I held her hand and
stayed with her for a week before returning to school in Boston. When I
arrived, I got word that she had passed away.

After my year of travels I reflected back to my trip to Japan where I
saw that elders are revered and enjoy the company of each other. While in
Eastern Europe I saw cultures where families are close and stay in their
family’s home

I’m glad I had the opportunity to stay with my Grandmother. Holding
the hand of someone who couldn’t speak to me was more life affirming
than all my travels in Asia and Europe. I ended the year older and
wiser with a greater sense of how I want to live my life.

There’s a wok full of simmering spring vegetables mingling happily with oil and garlic on top of the stove. On the other burner, potstickers filled with napa cabbage and firm tofu are browning on the bottom of their starchy wrappers. These humble dumplings are shaped like a plump old lady’s purse and filled with aromatic ginger and Asian spices. The toasted sesame oil sparkles like flecks of gold in soy sauce. I am cooking tonight. I’m making Chinese food along with fried bananas in rum sauce and a dollop of fresh cream. Not bad for a dinner that cost about ten dollars to make.

Break from Finals

At Mac Cosmetics, Boston, they don’t let you leave ugly. In fact, they want to make you happy even if you’re not going to buy any of their products.

I discovered this one night while drooling over the unaffordable new spring fashion on Newbury Street. I walked into the empty make-up store where gossipy girls sat around looking grey with boredom. Greeted by a woman dressed in all black with eye makeup that looked like neon green lasers were coming out of her eyes.

“Do you know what you want, hun?” she asked.
“I don’t know” I laugh. “Probably a change.”

The loud-mouthed lass guides me to sit on a movable bar stool. She tells me she is going to give me a special surprise. It’s showtime. An older rigid woman wheels a black cart that holds a rainbow pallet of eyeshadows, lipsticks, and more. My makeup artist reaches for my face smearing concealer all over it. She dramatically applies it on. She takes a small fluffy brush out of a pouch of brushes wrapped around her waist. Gently she applies a creamy eyeshadow that feels like liquid cashmere. She repeats this again and again until she has covered my entire face. My hands sweat as I wonder if I am going to lie to her if she makes me look garish or like a drag queen. When finished she stands me up, demanding the gaze of every eye in the place. I hear an explosion of applause while I open my eyes and look into the mirror. Is that me?

I thank my miracle worker makeup artist. She tells me to come back anytime especially if I need my makeup done for a special event or just for a Saturday night out. I turn on to Newbury Street, dodging glances while walking down the street. I can get used to this superficial treatment... Actually I couldn't, but do like pampering myself.

Free, Fun, and Somewhat Frightening

Feathery hair fuzz blows off my right shoulder. I am sitting in a stylist chair at Vidal Sassoon. I have signed up to be a hair model because I need a haircut and it’s free. All I have to do is hand over my head of brunette hair to the mercy of a stylist. Richie greets me and tells me he’s going to give me a fabulous new look. A woman with asymmetric hair asks if she can get me tea or coffee. I grind my teeth, hoping my hair remains one length. First thing that happens is I become blonde. Excitement yelps me out of my seat. Fear chases it with the vague statistic of how bad bleach is for hair. That one out of a hundred bleach jobs cause a fatal reaction where your hair completely falls out. The bleach ingredients are made. I entrust myself entirely.


Whenever you go out for free anything there's always a risk. With hair, they expect you to be open. You have become their blank canvas and they are creating a new you. The results most of the time are impressive. The first time I went to Vidal Sassoon they dyed my hair the color of chili peppers. I felt instantly refreshed and new.

I’ve seen disappointment form on the faces of girls with blue hair and bowl haircuts.

Luckily, I like my new hair. Richie adds a streak of pink. The results look striking like a semiprecious stone surrounded by starchy white rocks. It was an adventure.

The moment I saw my new bike I swear I smiled one of those mouth-wide-open-so-much grins. I stood transfixed for a while, gaping at my new bike to be. Not that it is anything impressive, quite the opposite - straight forward bicycle with curved handle bars and blue frame- but taking it out for a joy ride just sounded so damn fun.

Fitting the bike in my Camry would be difficult. I was convinced by the nice owner, Sal that this would be impossible. He offered to drop off the bike at my apartment the next morning. Sad that I wouldn't be able to take it out for a midnight joy ride I agreed. (Come on, the guy was going to drop it off for me?!)

Looking around at the cute, diminutive house, I was tempted to stick around and chat. Sal told me that the bike belonged to his wife and she had kept it in the garage for the last thirty years. You can imagine what could have happened to it during that time- heavy coat of rust from being too close to the furnace or it could have been stolen. But no, it remained in perfect condition. After a tune-up my bike will be my staple for every trip to and fro.