Stories

Telling stories in my family is not a tradition or habit but rather, a way of life. You are considered good company for your ability to sit and listen, encourage at the right moment and appreciate a good tale. You are also considered good company if you can tell a good story. I will grant you that the people in my family have a habit of ending up in interesting situations that warrant being retold. However it may also have something to do with a mindset that allows one to see the good story in a situation. At any rate good story telling is such a familial establishment that at a very tender age my cousin Gregory (somewhere between 3-6) refused to come downstairs for a family gathering and when asked why, proceeded to burst into tears while claiming "He had no good stories to tell!" I feel strongly that more people should hide from public events due to this reason...but I digress.

My Uncle Ray (Gregory's father,) was an inveterate story teller. He had a repertoire of stories a mile long, that was constantly being added to. Classics, all of them. He led an interesting and adventurous life, even if he may not have seen it that way. He grew up in Philadelphia in a large family (14 brothers and sisters if memory serves, all of whom feature in his tales,) and held a multitude of jobs. He was primarily a school teacher but while he was in school and during the summers he would take these crazy jobs, i.e. roofer, camp counselor, butcher, milk factory worker, and he once told me he worked in a nail polish factory. I thought he was kidding, now I'm not so sure!

One of my favorite stories that I would beg him to tell was a story about the milk factory. I will attempt to do it justice, but I can make no promises.

They would come in these big trucks, you know the kind with the round tank on the back, and deliver the milk. Drive in, from all over, and deliver the milk. I worked in this factory in Philadelphia and it was summer and it was hot. I had to do this one thing. When they delivered the milk I had to hook up the truck to the pipes and the pipes to the big vats in the factory. So one morning a guy comes to deliver the milk. Well I've been there all night, I'm tired and it's hot. The windows are all open, these big windows way up on the wall. So I hook up the truck and get things going. I think everything's fine when I hear from down on the street "Ray! Ray! Ray...the milk!!" I look out the window, and I see milk shooting (Zingo!! the noise the shooting milk apparently made) out one of those high windows on to the street! I hooked up the truck but not the pipe to the vats, when the milk started pumping in it pushed the pipe towards the window! All the cats in Philadelphia lived on that block for a week.

My Uncle Ray was the best of company.

Laundry

I dislike doing laundry. It has very little to do with the process of making my clothes clean. A process that I not only enjoy, but relish it's end result as well. Rather, it is the process of dealing with the people at my laundromat. They are horrible. I can feel my blood pressure rise every time I have to go in there. They will not move when you need to get past them, despite repeated and increasingly louder "Excuse me"'s. They will take your things out of a dryer before they are done, so they can use the rest of the time paid for with the quarters and lint you scraped from the bottom of your purse. They will turn up the heat on a dryer you specifically put on delicate (so your underthings that cost more than should be legal don't come out looking like overcooked bacon) in order to steal more quarters and lint. I walk into this den of quarter thieves, underthings destroyers, and narrow walkway despots to find myself being impatient, snippy and suspicious of the small children running around and causing havoc. (It's true, I think they are spies and diversionary tacticians, you loose focus and your laundry is suddenly sopping wet and on the floor!) So I have decided it is not the people who are all awful, it is in fact the building. I think it may be a portal to hell, which is why it is always so hot (has nothing to do with the 40 dryers,) and everyone is instantly a worse version of themselves once they cross the threshold.

This is why I use the very convenient drop off service. They wash, and fold my laundry. It smells like heaven and all I have to do is pick it up and put it away and I get to avoid going to hell.

Missed Connections

I occasionally enjoy reading the missed connections sections in the classifieds. I don't do it for my usual "people watching," enjoyment, which involves general hilarity at the ridiculous behaviors of humanity. This, is for the sweet wistfulness of humanity.

"When we met a month ago in the West Village, we were at a dinner party. After dinner we went dancing and you were too shy to dance too close to me. During dinner you told me you would take me sailing before we both headed out of town for the holidays. You spoke of the stars above your boat against the deep black sky. You spoke of the shore as you approached the cliffs of Maine from the sea. " -Sailing - w4m - 21 (West Village)

Here is poetry and longing for a kindred heart.

"We managed to get on to the N going downtown from Union Square by fighting the doors open together. It was a mighty struggle. You sat down next to me and we exchanged pleasantries. I wished I would have talked you up and I would have, but I was so tired. (Not much better than a zombie.) You seemed like a charm. I hope you'll forgive me my unfortunate brain freeze. I was in a pea coat and had on blue slacks with dress shoes. You were so stylish and elegant. I hope you'll give me another chance. "-Struggle With the Downtown N Door... - m4w - 24 (Downtown N from Union Square)

I can picture these scenes, and it's like watching little movie clips. I hope for these folks, and wonder what happens to them. What always stuns me is that the writers so frequently seem sure, that their missed connection counter part will find this add and contact them. It is a lovely reminder of the connection that is not missed between the human heart and brain.