Years ago, my husband had the great honor of working closely with Dr. George Gallup of the Gallup poll. They were involved in a world-wide survey together and in the process became friends. I was a beneficiary of that friendship as the Gallups graciously invited us, and our children, to join them in the Bahamas more than once.

They had a simple little cottage on a small island…..too small for us to stay with them. Their kitchen was the size of a large closet and Mrs. Gallup’s favorite, if not only, entertaining dish was hamburger soup. We had it often.

Dr. Gallup had a new gizmo….a radio that supposedly put him in contact with the world. The fact that he couldn’t make it work didn’t diminish his fun. If he even got close to making contact, he would puff up with joy and pleasure. Mrs. Gallup would always say “Oh, Ted, you think you’re so good” (that was her nickname for him) and everyone would giggle. Imagine, laughing at George Gallup, but he made it impossible not to. He’d join in, knowing that he really had no idea what he was doing.

For their stay on the island, they always brought all their old newspapers and magazines and made their way through them. Their lives were as simple and steady as the tides.

On the nights we were invited to join them, we would stay for a while after dinner. The children would sit on the floor, gathered around Dr. Gallup.

Now you might think he was telling them stories of his big, broad, and fascinating life…and there was certainly much to tell.

But that’s not what he was doing. He was asking THEM questions about themselves. What did they like, not like, who were their friends, where would they like to travel and on and on. Question after question. He was listening and learning…. not teaching or telling. It was so refreshing. The children loved it….and they loved him.

Neither Dr. nor Mrs. Gallup had an ounce of ego. It simply wasn’t in them.

They’re both gone of course, but they were, in their own ways, mentors to both of us.   I know we can’t hold a candle to them or their generosity but they’re in our hearts to stay.

It’s that time of year. I listen dreamily to the beautiful cruises our friends are taking. Fabulous ports of call, elegant staterooms, exquisite food, warm climates.

Now go back a few years in time and envision a giant grey freighter, named The Keystone State. On board were a large steel and metal working crew, three passengers and not a single lounge chair.

My college roommate and I watched as our parents took their appropriately concerned last looks of us as we descended into a dinghy from the New York harbor, puttered out to the freighter, climbed up a steep rope ladder and were off to the other side of the Atlantic.

I don’t remember our sleeping quarters but staterooms they weren’t. The crew, as it turned out, could not have been nicer. They introduced us to Cuba Libras which we drank on a somewhat regular basis, in spite of our tender age. We had, actually, a lovely crossing.

We had planned to return on the same freighter with the same crew at the end of the summer so upon disembarking we asked if we could buy something for them to give to their wives, girlfriends, whatever. Perhaps a lovely scarf, some French perfume. No thank you they said but as long as we were going to be in Paris for a few days, could we pick up some pornography for them. Oh my….not what we had in mind. It wasn’t difficult to find. We just felt a little awkward buying it.

And then we felt even more awkward when we read it. That stuff made Fifty Shades of Grey look like Blueberries for Sal.

We had a lovely summer, working in London. Then the time came to return. At that point we had no money, a satchel full of pornography, two cricket bats,(that’s worth a thought or two), a pint of rum, a firm date to be back in school and we missed the boat! And there was nothing on the horizon that appeared even remotely accessible to get us home.

But my roommate’s father came to the rescue and got us space on another freighter, The Steel Fabricator, out of Bremerhaven, Germany. By that time, I was covered in hives and we reluctantly used the rum to ease the itching. We were also dead-heading…..think bar of Ivory soap tossed into the rough Atlantic Ocean.

We made it to Greenland and picked up fire trucks. Ballast is good and relieves that bouncy sea-sick-making thing. We were unaware of the Air Force Base when we got off the ship for a couple of hours. We met men who had not seen a female in way-too-long. Sue got five marriage proposals; I only got two.

College seemed a bit parochial when we returned. But the memories are good and that’s what matters.

We are having trouble, right here on the river, getting our mail. It’s a long story and not worth going into but when you don’t get your mail, especially bills, you don’t pay them because you don’t know when they’re due or how much you owe and then things like phones, electricity, and water get cut off because you didn’t pay the bill you didn’t get and didn’t know you were supposed to.

That’s issue number one.

The second issue is that I am a born and bred West Virginian and we own a little land way back in them thar hills.

The issues are connected because we get tax bills from the state….or at least we are supposed to but because of our mail problems we aren’t getting them and so we aren’t paying the taxes and in West Virginia they get all huffy about that stuff and put those little tracts of land on the auction block and my father would turn over in his grave if I didn’t pay the taxes and lost that little piece of land in his beloved West Virginia.

So. My kind husband, who tends to these details, suddenly realized that the taxes on said piece of land are most likely seriously overdue.

Hence he made a phone call to get some help. The phone call went something like this:

Hi. I don’t think that we have our tax bill or the paperwork to figure out how much we owe you on that little tract of land that’s under my wife’s name.

Let me check, sir. It looks like we sent all that out several weeks ago and you should have gotten it by now.

Well, you see, we’re having mail problems. Could you re-send the materials?

I’d be happy to but the material we sent you that you didn’t get was the wrong material.

I see….well, could you send us the right material?

I can’t do that right now.

Why not?

The forms person is on her lunch break.

That’s okay. When she gets back, perhaps she could send the correct ones electronically.

No, I don’t think she can do that.

Why not?

Well, she’s still in training which is why you were sent the wrong forms which you didn’t get and I don’t think she knows how to do that electronic stuff quite yet.

I see. How long has she been in training?

It’s only been a couple of months. She’s making good progress but these things take time.

But our taxes are due and we need the paperwork to figure out how much we owe you.

Yessir, I can see that you have a problem but there’s not much we can do about it here and anyway if you didn’t get the wrong materials, how will you get the right ones if we send them to the same address?

You make a good point.

Is your wife Mr. Morris’s daughter?

Yes, she is.

He must have been such a nice man. I didn’t know him but everyone still speaks so kindly of him. Did you know he sent us candy on Valentine’s Day?

No, I didn’t know that but it sounds like something he would do.

Well, let me see what I can do for you.

Thank you. I would very much appreciate it.

End of conversation. We still don’t have the paperwork but hope springs eternal.

One thing I know for sure. We’re sending candy on Valentine’s Day. And maybe after that the forms person will know how to send things electronically. In West Virginia, candy can be a fine motivator. We’ll see.

 

 

The curtain opens on a sun room with comfortable sofas and chairs and a delicate little rose wood chair, the seat of which my mother had needlepointed. No one ever sat in the chair. It was old and fragile, purely a decorative item. She had made a pair of them.

After her death, the family chose those pieces from her house which they wanted and one of the little chairs came to me.

Not too long after her death, over the course of a week or so, the chair began turning away from the wall.….exactly 90 degrees to the right each time, toward the sun. We didn’t observe those events. We were just aware that the chair was in an odd position. There was no explanation…we tried and tried to come up with something earthly….and finally determined that my mother had to be involved. There was so much of her invested in that chair. Every stitch of the needlepointed seat had come from her hands, of course.   It happened four times. The fifth time we tracked it by going in and out of the room several times, as it turned, slowly but surely, by about 45 degrees. That was its last performance.

The companion chair was here on the island, in our son’s house. They had recently moved it next to a large coffee table with a heavy glass top. They were planning on putting it in the baby’s room, thinking it would be lovely to have something there from my son’s grandmother’s house.

Within a day or two of the chair being next to the table, the glass top shattered…not once but twice. No explanation was available. It had to be my mother again.

No one was thinking that these were positive things. And with a new baby on the way, to be named after me. We had to get rid of them. Too bad….they were pretty little chairs but up to no good.

Then the odors started at night, interrupting deep sleep. Pleasant, powerful, and dense fruity smells. A little difficult to define because they were fleeting….a few seconds and they were gone.   “Oh, it was just your imagination,” you say. You’d be wrong. The odors woke my husband, too. On separate nights, of course. Our research tells us ghosts rarely affect more than one person at a time. Must be in an instruction manual somewhere.

Early on, every time the aromas woke one of us, we searched our minds for earth-bound causes….a new soap, new detergent, perfume, shampoo….anything that might cause the “event”….but always to no avail. Obviously, we discussed the phenomenon between ourselves, trying to make sense of it. It became clear, after a fairly short time, that the “other-worldly” had entered our lives.

(At this point we were, slowly and perhaps a bit dully, putting things together with the chair events. Listen, there aren’t any guidelines to this ghost stuff. You’re on your own and sometimes it takes a while to get with the program!)

The chairs were a no-brainer with regard to my mother. But, how did we relate the fruit odors to her? Well, she was a fruit-a-holic. Peaches particularly. She couldn’t get enough of them.

This went on for over 15 years. Frankly the night visits became so commonplace, we frequently forgot to mention it to each other. We simply accepted her, hoped that she would find peace and in the meantime, welcomed her presence when she chose to be with us.

Before we close the curtain on Act One, there was one more thing that made it clear to us that she was our ghost.

Not only was she a fruit-a-holic, she loved chocolate even more. Back in our first house on the Island, I had a reading chair, just outside the kitchen. One afternoon, a very strong smell…delicious, of course….of brownies being baked emanated from the kitchen. I knew immediately what it was and just enjoyed the aroma. It happened several times. ( She even took her “cooking” skills to my son’s house one morning, much to their surprise and distress, despite my assurances that all would be well.)

One day, my husband walked in while the brownies were being “baked.” Apparently, she decided to share because he was delighted to think that I was actually baking brownies. Needless to say, he was disappointed to learn that they were spectral, not edible.

Next week, I’ll continue the story.   Another character shows up. She only has a cameo role but it was an important one. I’ll introduce you to her.

The camellia is a lovely flower, perhaps one of the most beautiful and appealing, coming in a number of varieties to satisfy the most distinguished of…..

 Ahem….Excuse us…

 Yes, who are you?

 We are the poets and the writers who have, through the years , written…most likely more eloquently than you….. about flowers and gardening and, in particular, the camellia.

Whoa…that’s a little egotistical. Besides this is my blog. Not yours. So it’s really all about me. Are you telling me there’s no more room in this world for words about the beautiful camellia?

 No, we’re just suggesting that you might want to find a topic that has not been saturated by the real bards and writers.

What happened to freedom of speech?

 Hey, you’re free to say anything you want ….we just don’t want you to embarrass yourself.

I’ll be the judge of that, I daresay, and anyway, I was just getting warmed up and you have no idea where I was headed with this.

We see and we understand. Do you know where you were headed?

Well, now that you ask, perhaps I’m not entirely sure.

Can we be of any help?

Well, as far as I can tell right now, you’re being anything but helpful. You could be encouraging and supportive for starters.   Most likely no one can compete with you so you needn’t worry.

 You have that right. Ok…we’ll try to help. What can we do?

 I suppose letting me use some of your poetry and prose and allowing me to claim it as my own is out of the question.

 That’s called plagiarism and if we’re going to help you, we need to keep you out of jail.

 Good point. Moving right along…. Do you have any words about the camellia that you didn’t use but might be willing to share?

 If you do that, you’re not using your own talent, (questionable here, anyway) so, no, we can’t help you that way.

 You could edit my stuff.

 We could but as far as we can tell, you haven’t written anything.

 Again, point well taken but I’m feeling a little discouraged.

 We’re sorry about that. Don’t be. Just write down what you feel and see where it goes. We’ll help.

 Ok. Well, in that case, I would just like to say that I feel blessed and so fortunate to have bushes and trees in our very own yard which are on fire with camellias during the blooming season.

I love to bring them in the house.

They add beauty, life and color to the simplest of vases.

They make me happy when I look at them.

And the cats don’t even seem inclined to eat them.

How’s that, huh? Pretty good, huh?

 (Silence)

 Are you there???? Was that so terrible that you can’t even speak to me?????

 We’re here but we’re fading fast. That was very nice and heartfelt…even the part about the cats which would not have occurred to us but as you said, it’s all about you.

Finally, we agree on something. Talk to you guys later…

 

 

 

The very words imply family, good friends, easy and trusted relationships, entry into the heart of the house. Why do we always lock the front door and leave the back door wide open? Do we really think that a serious burglar isn’t going to check out the back? That our neighbors will always be there to call 911? That the hiss of the scared-to-death cat will deter criminal activity?

Once was the time when every house had screened doors….all before air conditioning, of course. They were opened to get a breath of fresh air…usually after dusk. In would come the smells of flowers, the chatter of neighbors enjoying themselves outside, children playing and begging not to go to bed….just not quite yet.

I imagine that this old house has seen its fair share of lovely ladies and handsome men coming in those screened doors. It’s clear they’re on their way to a garden party on the lawn. The ladies are in their summer finery, floral dresses, white pumps, a sun hat to protect their delicate skin and even a few in white gloves,

The men are in their seersucker suits, bow ties and brightly polished white buck shoes. Perhaps one or two have cigars tucked in their pockets.

Awaiting them are ice cold gin and tonics and comfortable wicker chairs. Later there will be trays of chilled cucumber and watercress sandwiches, a crystal bowl of black olives and crisp celery sticks and straight-from the-oven flaky ham biscuits. It’s dusk and the men wander down to the river to have their own conversations.

The women have plenty to say among themselves.   We can only imagine the things that are said with a promise not to repeat. But we know they will be repeated.

Isn’t it all so very grown up? If you look closely, you can almost see Zelda and F. Scott, himself.

Well, of course, things change.   All things considered, I think it’s better today than the olden days of formality, don’t you? Life may be a bit more scrambled and demanding than it was then but if we take the time to listen to the sweet slap of the screen door or the gentle knock on the back door and know that a friend is coming in to visit, drop off a book, share a problem or just say hello….isn’t that better?

 

The year was 1961. I was working in Boston at the New England Conservatory of Music as a receptionist. It was, in all respects, a wonderful year. I was in love (still am) and was surrounded by talented, generous and joyful people.

But Christmas was always hard for me. What to give to my parents? My father never wore anything but a suit, had enough ties to last several life times, bought his own socks and had no hobbies. My mother was choosy about the things she wore and the things she had in the house. I always had great angst about what to give them. That year I found a little Japanese porcelain dish which I hoped they would like, but it cost more than my small salary could comfortably bear. Still, I bought it. There wasn’t any joy in the purchase, however. I was worried and poorer…not a good combination.

The Conservatory was, back then, in a less than desirable part of town. It was surrounded by poverty level housing and people. There was a drug store right across the street that I visited on my lunch hour to pick up necessary items.

One day, near Christmas, I was at the drug store, mindlessly purchasing some stuff, not giving it any thought as I stood in line to pay for my items. An older woman was in front of me. She wasn’t dressed warmly enough for the cold Boston December day. It did strike me that she most likely didn’t have a warmer coat, but the thought was fleeting.

And then something happened that I will never forget. As my arms were carelessly full of stuff, I realized she was buying a single box of tissues. And I heard her say to the clerk: “This is for my friend for Christmas. She’ll really like it.”

I find myself as speechless now as I did then. And still a little close to tears. It was a hard reality. She was delighted with her choice of a gift for her friend, confident that it would be given, received and used with love and affection.

And I was worried about an expensive porcelain dish for my parents who needed nothing and would most likely put the dish in a drawer anyway? Not a Christmas goes by that I don’t think about that moment.

Sometimes, I wish our family could just exchange boxes of tissues, carefully choosing one that might appeal…they come in such jazzy colors and designs these days. Wouldn’t that be fun? We could wrap them up fancifully with pretty paper and ribbons, confident they would be used and appreciated.

Now, I know we can’t….and would never want to…deny our families the joy of Christmas morning and presents under the tree. Santa Claus does exist.

But, for me, perhaps, a box of tissues has become a symbol of friendship and love, of a longed-for simple Christmas season, of joy, of an opportunity to share with others less fortunate, and, of course, in its own way, the true meaning of Christmas.