A Round of Applause for Love

I have this funny cartoon that goes on in my head and pops up like Garfield's bubble, especially around Valentine's Day. It goes like this. First frame: Everyone is walking around wearing their hearts inside-out. Second frame: From each person's heart hangs a retractable extension cord, and it seems everyone is searching desperately to plug their extension cord into another person's heart. Third Frame: With trepidation, they approach others and try to plug in to that person's heart, only each time they plug in, the cord snaps right back. Last frame: after walking around and around and unsuccessfully plugging in to other people, they finally get the picture, and pull their plug out just a little bit and plug it right back into their own hearts. Moral of the cartoon: You are your own power source. Your love comes from within. I learned this lesson early on, when I was perhaps six or seven years old.

When I was a child, we lived in a small beach community where the houses were built fairly close to each other. The man who owned the house behind us, Mr. Woodman, lived alone. He was well over six feet tall. He had a lone curly sprig of hair that jutted straight out of the top-center of his shiny, bald and misshapen head, and on the sides were indentations where forceps had made their marks. His ears were disproportionately large and his nose was bulbous red, and off-center. To make matters worse, one eye looked directly at you while the other wandered off somewhere to the left. I never knew which eye to follow. People shunned Mr. Woodman because of his presence. His gait was lopsided and his smile was one-sided due to a long-lasting case of Bell's Palsy.  He was the only loan officer in our one-bank town, thus, people had to be nice to him. I was always nice to him. I was too young to understand his role in the community, but I knew I adored him.  Every morning, our paths would cross as he walked to the bank and I walked to school. He would always stoop down to my level and ask me how I was and what I thought I'd learn in school that day. If I'd see him later on, he'd ask "What did you like about school today?" or "What didn't you like about school today?" or "What would you change about school today?" To this day, I find myself asking those three questions and can tailor them to just about most things. 

Mr. Woodman had a secret that I'm guessing only a few knew. Since our homes were so close together, I could hear him get ready for work in the morning; the squeaky closet doors, the click-creak-click of the medicine cabinet, and the rush of  water in the bathroom sink. Every morning his routine would be the same. Squeak, click, water rush, then these words would belt out of his crooked mouth "Bob, I love you!" and applause. Yep, applause like clap-clap.  I felt bad for him knowing he had to tell himself that he loved himself because no one else loved him. Then, I got to wondering if all adults did this? Was this something I should be doing? One morning, I went into my own bathroom, climbed up on the toilet seat, open and closed the medicine cabinet, turned on the water and then said "Nancy, I love you!" and I stood there and applauded myself! My mother rushed in asking me what I was doing. She had heard Mr. Woodman's words every morning as well and thought I was being a clown. I had tears streaming down my face because I loved Mr. Woodman and would never make fun of him. She assured me that Bob had found a way to feel love for himself since he didn't have other people to tell him.  The "applause" my mother told me, - the clap-clap I heard, was him splashing after-shave on his face.  I'm certain it took years for me to process Mr. Woodman's message, but I secretly went into the bathroom every morning after that, ran the water and whispered "Nancy, I love you."  And, still do so to this day, applause and all. Guess I'm pretty well plugged in thanks to Mr. Woodman.

A Brooklyn Sunday Memory

The old Brooklyn Brownstone where I used to live, keeps a Sunday morning secret tucked deep in the corner of its massive master bedroom. I sometimes wonder if the person who lives there now does what I used to do every Sunday morning. This memory trickled through my brain like warm honey today, as I caught the chorus of a church choir drifting on the wind's tail.

It is February. My mother died three days ago and the cold is etched on my bedroom window like fine French Pineapple lace. I ease it open enough to hear the branches shiver. I see my Jewish reflection; I am the blood of my mother and now, I am orphaned and left to my father, a Roman Catholic. I am the blood of my father; I have his thick hair and olive skin. I have her wisdom and wit, and no one's caramel eyes. I have his unconditional love and memories of her.

This morning, I am going to church before I follow my mother’s body down the New Jersey Turnpike. No one knows, but I go to church  every Sunday. In my bedroom.

My friends go to real church on Sundays, but I don’t go with them. I am the Jewish friend left behind to cook brunch for when they return. Knishes, kugels, bagels, lox, onions and tomatoes; latke recipes from my mother’s side. Fresh eggs cracked over sweet onion-fried potatoes and shredded Parmesan cheese, toasted Italian bread, salted butter and rich percolated black coffee, from my father’s side.

Little do my friends know that I have been to church and back. In my bedroom.

The table is set, the kugel baked. Eggs sweating, are waiting for their one-handed crack. The New York Times waits to be divided and read by my peers. I get the obits. I always get the obits first, no questions asked, but from the corner of my eye, I see perplexed second-glances peering at my unusual interest in strangers' obituaries. It's their stories, I tell my friends; little memoirs. I want to read the how, and who is left to cope and remember.

Ten bells echo from the rear of the Brownstone, beckoning me to  retreat to my bedroom. The windows have tear drops now and I open them like wide mouths ready to inhale. The sounds of the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir fill my room; my backyard, their sanctuary.

I swing with the bosom of the soloist.

I tremble with the fear of the sopranos.

I clap with the Amen corner.

I belt it out with the altos.

For one glorious hour I am Black.

I am saved.

I am not Jewish.

I am gospel music.

I am mourning.

I rejoice.

By the time my friends arrive, I am revived. With mouthfuls of kugel, there is no talk with their Jewish friend about church. Dare I tell them I've been there and back? Instead, we celebrate my mother’s cooking, her quiet, disturbed life, the memoir her daughter may one day write.  The dishes are cleared, the paper neatly stacked with the puzzle on top for when I return. My friends send me across the Brooklyn Bridge to the New Jersey Turnpike alone. 

The only music I heard at my mother’s funeral was the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir playing in my head accompanied by my father’s wailing.

Amen.