The Wormlips Scrapbook

*Source: TJ

Since I hit the road last week, every night I’ve been waking up confused in the dark: Where am I? Who am I? Whose bed is this? Why am I not in my own bed? Where’s the bathroom?

Over the past days I’ve been amazed at how nasty and grumpy people have been. I’ve been despairing at the toxicity of humanity. The airport was a sea of hisses and snarls and sneers and glares. Even the normally Jekyll-y Southwest attendants went Hyde on us. But, I met the smiliest TSA guy ever. And when my battery-depleted car stalled in the dark in the middle of busy Marin Avenue and there wasn’t even enough juice to flash its hazard lights, a man stopped and pushed my car and me to safety at the curb, just after some buttwad in a yellow convertible screeched past, caught my eye and yelled, “Fucker!”

A while later, while I was still waiting for AAA, another passerby stopped to give me a jump start. And then he said, “Here, take this battery charger home tonight and put it on trickle, so your battery gets a full charge.” “Why do you trust me?” I asked. “Well, if you don’t bring it back, I’ve got another.” I returned it, along with a box of Vermont Button Cookies, the following morning.

It was worth every minute of the three hours it took me (due to car trouble) to get out to Anna’s and Frank’s. On their big TV screen was a movie of a fireplace, with a soundtrack of crackling noises.

Yesterday Mitra fit me into her busy schedule. I believe I gave her joy as she yanked the fur from my face, causing excruciating pain. I’ve never seen a gal look so fulfilled. Her place of employment is a hair salon for elderly people. Partway through my denuding, her co-worker poked her head into the torture chamber and said, “Elizabeth would like to make an appointment with you.” “Don’t leave me in the middle of my appointment,” I asked. She replied, “Let me just make her an appointment before she passes away.”

Next stop was Grass Valley. These are itinerant residents of the Rancho:

Teej and I went to town to do errands, and got to see Syd & Hil for a while. A treat.

Last night I opened Teej’s amazing present: a box of twelve tissue-paper-wrapped goodies, to be opened in sequence. To appreciate it, you have to sing the contents: 12 hatless acorns, 11 cupcake holders, 10 wooden match sticks, 9 Halloween taffies, 8 cocktail umbrellas, 7 olive swords, 6 plastic spoons, 5 explosive devices, 4 rolls of coins, 3 hair ties, 2 bobby pins, and the egg of a very small swan.

I should add that I got wonderful x-mouse presents from everyone else, too: a pig-shaped travel pillow from Molly, clothes and money from Small, a beautiful glass marble from Eleni, slippers with illuminated toes from KT, candy from Jay, a t-shirt from Anna…

Tomorrow I leave here and go to Sac’to, where I hope to see my friend M briefly, and if possible to see some dance buddies, whom I haven’t even contacted yet.

You know how you wake up with a phrase running through your mind for no apparent reason? Stuck in my preconscious brain today was the following: “It’s no silver bullet!” It got me to wondering: what is a silver bullet? If you find one, what do you do with it? Hold it in your hand? Find a werewolf? Keep it in your pocket till you find a werewolf? Shoot yourself?

I forgot to put Christmas Eve photos in here.

On to December 26. Here is my mother. She is very pretty. We stumbled upon a new name for her. From now on I shall call her “Small.”

Small is 81. She has many wonderful traits. She is generous, smart, funny, and a very good cleaner. She even styles her hair. However, over the years she has had the consistent propensity to give me — how shall I say? — evaluations of my hair. Since I was twenty-three, the first or second thing she says to me, after a long absence, is something like, “Now, your hair…it would look so much cuter if you’d only ____ ” [fill in the blank; it usually involves bangs and curls]. “Like me, you have a gigantic forehead. Your face looks so lonnnnnng. You look so much prettier when your hair isn’t all drooooopy.”

She remembers my hair in snapshots. “You know when I really liked your hair? It was in that picture…” One was taken when I was twenty-three; then, I would have looked good bald. Another was when I was with Mister Rogers and my hair was sproinging out on either side of my head like wings. There’s also the one when I did have wings — gold ones — in our church’s Christmas pageant. I was eight and my bangs were an inch long.

Just for fun yesterday, shortly before we went to visit friends, I pulled my frizzy hair into a ponytail at the top of my head and tied a red ribbon around it. Then I went in and sat next to Mom. “Ginna!” You can’t wear your hair like that! The [so-and-so's] will think you look ridiculous!” Mom is such an easy mark.

I released my hair from its erect position and then we went to see my courtesy-uncle and -aunt. I always love seeing them because, as my parents’ best friends, they were a huge part of my early life. Both are in their late eighties: still sharp, quick and witty. Uncle B. and Dad were like brothers, so these visits also help bring Dad to life a little.

They live in a beautiful old house and their driveway is about a mile long, rolling over some of Delaware’s prettiest country, along the Brandywine Valley. There were geese up the wazoo. (Most of the snow had melted off in the previous night’s rain.)

We arrived. To my delight, Uncle B. told a story about the canoe trip he and Dad took down the Okefenokee Swamp in the ’sixties. Their vessel went over a waterfall not marked on their map: a nearly fatal error. As he tells it, Uncle B first swam to the bank and pulled up his pants which had entangled around his ankles due to turbulent waters. Only when he was no longer bare-butted did he have time to worry about Dad, who had vanished underwater. But soon Dad popped up across the river, bashed and bruised but with rescued cameras in hand.

One of Uncle B’s favorite things to do for visitors is play the giant organ in the basement of their house. The music is piped up through a sort of window well above which is painted a Maxfield Parrish. You’ve seen pictures of it here on this blog before. Here’s another view.

After that we had dinner at the Greenville Country Club again, this time with Ed. We examined Eleni’s tattoos and played the staring contest game again. Mom was the victor until she encountered the steely-eyed Ed.

Ed was wearing a blazer onto which he’d sewn buttons from his grandfather’s uniform worn at Gettysburg. The initials are GAR: Grand Army of the Republic (Union soldiers, I was pleased to learn).

Nothing to say. Ho ho ho. Heh heh. Here are pictures. Mom’s tree, for example:

Here’s Mom wearing two presents: a spider from me, and meerkats from Molly:

Eleni got very emotional with gratitude when she received a generous check from her grandmother, and was consoled by said grandmother and her sister:

Ma’s fella, Ed, dropped by for a brief visit:

After I received abundant bounty from my daughters and my mother, we did regular relaxing things for the rest of the day. I hemmed some pants and knitted. Eleni slept. Molly played on the computer and talked on the phone. I called my friend M in Sac’to. As we tried to figure out the date for a possible visit, he reminded me that “thirty days hath September.” That was well and good, but we forgot what happens in December.

For the rest of the day I worried about as much as I could think to worry about, which is a lot. Now I’m going to get back to that.

Mom thinks I should do something different with my hair.

Happy array of winter holidays.