"The poor little Mexican
gal in Calexico, writing
on Oct 1 1952 to Manuel
Perez in Watsonville whose
clothing & belongings I found
intact on the Pajaro levee
dump, wants money to
buy a tablecloth—can
you picture an American
woman asking money for
such a humble, useful
purpose—“unos manteles
para la mesa." "Honey,"
she says, "dime porque no
me has escrito”—“tiene
tan...pensamientos para ti."
She loves him—I am
wearing all his clothes not
knowing whether he's alive or
dead-or in the Army?
I found several of her
sad letters on that dump,
in October,—in the dry
dust, just before the rainy
Season,—"
Monday, November 23, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Belfast Rememory
9 November 1968
Ciao, S—
(I fancy saying that. Relish it really…)
Anyway, you asked me once how I met my wife. I remember that night and the things to which we admitted. But I couldn’t then talk about her. But I owe you this one. So, in answer to your question, I met Katherine in Belfast…
That was right after I’d finished university in the States and decided to go back home to continue my studies. I was up North at Queen’s, and I found a nice place within walking distance. The elderly proprietress had never rented to a man before, and I think she finally did to me under false pretences. I gave my name as Dr. Brannan—in anticipation of the fact—and she must have thought that meant 'medic.' She probably hoped I would be able to treat the whole house if any Orangies tried to bomb us out.
The day I moved in, I hadn’t slept any the night before. I’d been at the library with my head between the pages of some Elizabethan author, and all I could think to do was collapse onto my bed once I’d gotten a few things moved into the flat out of storage. My flat was in the basement, dark and damp, but it was good enough. But that bed would not do. It must have belonged to the woman’s eldest son about the time he was in grammar school. It was short and narrow, and it had to go. Some boys from the college helped me carry a new double bed through the streets of Belfast all the way to my flat. (We put the old bed out in the coal shed.) When we showed up with that bed up on our shoulders, the old lady could not have looked more scandalised. ‘What use does a single man have for a double bed?’ It was mostly an accusation. She probably imagined loads of evil snogging was going to happen in her basement. She would have been right. That’s where I met Katherine afterall.
She lived in the upstairs flat and took care of the proprietress’s books. I didn’t know that for a while, though. I’d seen her coming and going from the house nearly every day at seven, wearing an orange beanie. I could count on seeing her walking back up to the house just before eight on those mornings, usually with an armful of chrysanthemums and a piece of fruit, and sometimes an old library book. Between seven and eight, I would imagine her walking the streets of Belfast, picking up an apple from the market, smelling every flower the peddlers had for sale before picking the brightest mums. I was envious of those mornings, of the streets and the sky. They had her.
I was late to my eight o’clock seminar nearly every day, but it was worth it just to catch a glimpse of that orange cap. One morning I didn’t see her at all. It was a wet day, but that had never stopped her from going out before. I was concerned, but there was little I could do, so I gathered my things and prepared for class. On my way out, I heard Katherine speaking to the old woman behind the door of the flat one flight up. I froze, for how long I don’t know, but I stayed just outside my own door until the door above opened. I pretended that I had just arrived back at my flat. Katherine saw me, and we made some sort of polite greeting. I commented on the dreary weather and somehow managed to convince her to take tea with me. You know as well as I know that I am not a charming man, and I think she only agreed because she had it in her nature to be a compassionate person. And I was just the poor, bookish bachelor sequestered to the dank basement.
There was something about the way she smiled. Katherine had an illegible smile, indelible. I remember she was wearing periwinkle trousers and a cream-coloured blouse. She smelled just like ripe tangerines. I don’t remember what we talked about—or if we even said anything at all—but I knew. She had misty, amber-coloured eyes to match her chamomile tea. I never made it to class that day.
I miss those days, especially at this time of the year when the air is wet and cold like it was the day I met my wife. I miss her. And you. And Ireland. I’m getting away from myself now. This was probably more than you were expecting when you asked how I met Katherine. But I just remembered that I had never answered your question. I hope that helps explain a bit.
Dia duit,
J
Ciao, S—
(I fancy saying that. Relish it really…)
Anyway, you asked me once how I met my wife. I remember that night and the things to which we admitted. But I couldn’t then talk about her. But I owe you this one. So, in answer to your question, I met Katherine in Belfast…
That was right after I’d finished university in the States and decided to go back home to continue my studies. I was up North at Queen’s, and I found a nice place within walking distance. The elderly proprietress had never rented to a man before, and I think she finally did to me under false pretences. I gave my name as Dr. Brannan—in anticipation of the fact—and she must have thought that meant 'medic.' She probably hoped I would be able to treat the whole house if any Orangies tried to bomb us out.
The day I moved in, I hadn’t slept any the night before. I’d been at the library with my head between the pages of some Elizabethan author, and all I could think to do was collapse onto my bed once I’d gotten a few things moved into the flat out of storage. My flat was in the basement, dark and damp, but it was good enough. But that bed would not do. It must have belonged to the woman’s eldest son about the time he was in grammar school. It was short and narrow, and it had to go. Some boys from the college helped me carry a new double bed through the streets of Belfast all the way to my flat. (We put the old bed out in the coal shed.) When we showed up with that bed up on our shoulders, the old lady could not have looked more scandalised. ‘What use does a single man have for a double bed?’ It was mostly an accusation. She probably imagined loads of evil snogging was going to happen in her basement. She would have been right. That’s where I met Katherine afterall.
She lived in the upstairs flat and took care of the proprietress’s books. I didn’t know that for a while, though. I’d seen her coming and going from the house nearly every day at seven, wearing an orange beanie. I could count on seeing her walking back up to the house just before eight on those mornings, usually with an armful of chrysanthemums and a piece of fruit, and sometimes an old library book. Between seven and eight, I would imagine her walking the streets of Belfast, picking up an apple from the market, smelling every flower the peddlers had for sale before picking the brightest mums. I was envious of those mornings, of the streets and the sky. They had her.
I was late to my eight o’clock seminar nearly every day, but it was worth it just to catch a glimpse of that orange cap. One morning I didn’t see her at all. It was a wet day, but that had never stopped her from going out before. I was concerned, but there was little I could do, so I gathered my things and prepared for class. On my way out, I heard Katherine speaking to the old woman behind the door of the flat one flight up. I froze, for how long I don’t know, but I stayed just outside my own door until the door above opened. I pretended that I had just arrived back at my flat. Katherine saw me, and we made some sort of polite greeting. I commented on the dreary weather and somehow managed to convince her to take tea with me. You know as well as I know that I am not a charming man, and I think she only agreed because she had it in her nature to be a compassionate person. And I was just the poor, bookish bachelor sequestered to the dank basement.
There was something about the way she smiled. Katherine had an illegible smile, indelible. I remember she was wearing periwinkle trousers and a cream-coloured blouse. She smelled just like ripe tangerines. I don’t remember what we talked about—or if we even said anything at all—but I knew. She had misty, amber-coloured eyes to match her chamomile tea. I never made it to class that day.
I miss those days, especially at this time of the year when the air is wet and cold like it was the day I met my wife. I miss her. And you. And Ireland. I’m getting away from myself now. This was probably more than you were expecting when you asked how I met Katherine. But I just remembered that I had never answered your question. I hope that helps explain a bit.
Dia duit,
J
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Sunday, November 1, 2009
26
Dear Andy,
Don't tell the other girls, but I have the best big brother ever. Happy birthday! I love you.
-Becca
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