14~New and Old Worlds in New England

A trip to New England to visit Lydia's beau was next up in our hefty schedule of stuff to do. The loveliness of the area is something I vividly remember from my last visit here (although we had to be far more intrepid, in the adverse hurricane circumstances). Lyd has mastered this train journey and we head straight to the cafe section where there are tables. She notes me wrinkling my nose at the menu but she assures me that you don't have to even buy anything to sit there. This is good news as we are about to unpack the loveliest of lunches that we put together in order to avoid the inevitable microwaved pizzas, bagels and hot dogs on offer! A lunch of salad topped with rice, kidney beans, roasted veg, cauliflower and chickpeas dressed in a mustard vinaigrette should have been gorgeous but the supermarket food here is strange and quite frankly tasteless. The kind cafe and Amtrak workers raise their eyebrows at our lunch but smile. I question whether or not I jumped the gun with my snobby reaction to the menu and consider ordering a hot dog to chop up and chuck in for taste. It turns out it is the cafe worker's 61st birthday. I look at Lyd, "I love birthdays!" ( I have been known to celebrate for weeks and organise myself quite a party). Lyd nods enthusiastically, leans forward and conspires in a whisper, "Shall we give her one of the coconut and pecan cookies we have?" Without a doubt. The lady is very touched and had (even before the cookie) allowed us hot water and lemon, without charging us, so she is definitely deserving of Lydia's favourite all time cookies.

Holyoke, New England provides such a contrast to the NYC living that has engulfed us for the previous weeks. The neighbourhood has huge detached houses, mostly with 3 floors as opposed to huge buildings sandwiched together with 60 floors. Front and back gardens. And when we arrive, not a soul to be seen. Walking up the path to the white, wooden slat house and popping the bags down on the sun drenched porch, it has to be said, this is a different world. The quiet is almost loud.

I tiptoe round this lovely house and head outside to sit on the kerb. Lyd gets chance to catch up with work and sleep and her beau (PG) prepares for a poetry reading that we will attend that evening. The poetry world seems to be resonating for me at the moment and I wonder what the universe is trying to tell me?? I had tried to read some from the books the poet had given me but admittedly did not get very far. Somewhat confused and (guiltily) losing interest. 

Prior to the reading, we are invited to a gathering at the wonderful home of a colleague of PG. I am told she is an AMAZING host and makes AMAZING food. This is in honour of this reading- special because PG has just published a new book. He has been in LA doing readings, will be in NYC, Amsterdam and other places too. However, this one is particularly meaningful as this is his home town and his students, friends and colleagues will be there. Literary types of all ages are mingling and eating from a delicious spread. We head to the reading which I was sort of worried about. Especially after my failed attempt at reading and enjoying more high brow poetry! The only poetry I have in my head is that written by Roald Dahl or poems written for, well let's face it, children! That is my comfort zone, my old world- not sure if this new one is for me. As interesting as it is, and as grateful as I am to be temporarily part of it.

Settling in for the reading

Actually, the reading is beautiful and captivating. Lyd, the dutiful girlfriend, has been to many and thinks this is the loveliest one of them all. A talented student, currently doing her PhD in Chicago, reads an introduction that tells me a lot about PG, his background, his teaching, his poetry. These things I did not know. She has an awful lot of respect and admiration for him. When he reads I see why. Perhaps it is hearing a poet read his own words, as they are meant to be read. It is like a song and the words go in and wash over at the same time, some resonate, images are painted, feelings rise. I get to a part in the book I am currently reading, the character is actually watching a singer. His description of the experience of hearing her sing, struck me as very similar witnessing PG read his poetry:

"She began softly, as though singing to herself of emotions of utmost privacy, a sound not addressed to the gathering, but which they overheard almost against their will. Gradually she increased its volume, until at times the voice seemed to become a disembodied force that sought to enter her, rocking her rhythmically, as though it had become the source of her being, rather than the fluid web of her own creation." The Invisible Man- Ralph Ellison

We go onto a pub. Students, colleagues and PG himself are quite high from the reading. PG is tickled to find out that the reading/set list of poems was posted immediately on Facebook, with some comments about it 'rocking' and with many likes. We chat amongst the friends and I happen to meet another literary type who has also not only knows Hull, but visited it for an afternoon! He had a romanticised vision about seeing Philip Larkin's office, but not being allowed in he headed to the pub instead. After all this chatting, it has become late and we are hungry. We try to stop for a slice of pizza but this little town of Amherst looks pretty much like a night out back home: drunk people stopping for their late night take out. No chance, we can not wait for a slice amidst these drunken youngsters- we go home.

It was quite interesting being in this University town and I recall my year in Laramie, Wyoming (where I studied for a year). Students have changed their look or perhaps this is more indicative of a Literary type, I do not know. Lyd says she thinks so. All of the male students here are bearded and are much the same, very lovely as I do quite like this look. I notice this the next day as we stop for Lyd's fave tea rolls before a trip to a museum. The little stretch where a cafe is that Lyd works, the pub across the way and yes the pizza shop, book shop, obligatory Starbucks all looks a bit different in the cold light of day. This is really a student town. Lots of young people and undergrads. We catch a bus to the museum and I hear all sorts of conversations. A girl that loves to collect dead animals, a girl that likes her nose ring, what the class was like, achieving high in class and the semester, grades, being different... Eventually I read my book because the dead animals seem too weird and I don't really want to hear anymore about the squirrel skull.

Tea Rolls

So, the museum. Turns out it is the Eric Carle Museum. Turns out Lyd has a meeting with the curator and we are going to be personally shown around by him. Lydia created and edits "The Cambridge Literary Review"; the next edition is going to focus on children's literature, hence the arrangement. She may have told me all of this but turns out I must not have really been listening; if I had listened, surely I would be well excited- this is more my domain, my sort of culture. Turns out, that this is the BEST museum ever. I LOVE it. Everything about it. It is a museum that has set out with this purpose:

We both enjoy the displays and the set up. The curator is due at any moment and we wander around.

The curator joins us and he is incredibly knowledgeable and brilliant. We peruse, chat and find out so much. I find a poem that I can immediately get down with- all about ice cream!

Bleezer's Ice Cream

  by Jack Prelutsky

I am Ebenezer Bleezer,
I run BLEEZER'S ICE CREAM STORE,
there are flavors in my freezer
you have never seen before,
twenty-eight divine creations
too delicious to resist,
why not do yourself a favor,
try the flavors on my list:

COCOA MOCHA MACARONI
TAPIOCA SMOKED BALONEY
CHECKERBERRY CHEDDAR CHEW
CHICKEN CHERRY HONEYDEW
TUTTI-FRUTTI STEWED TOMATO
TUNA TACO BAKED POTATO
LOBSTER LITCHI LIMA BEAN
MOZZARELLA MANGOSTEEN
ALMOND HAM MERINGUE SALAMI
YAM ANCHOVY PRUNE PASTRAMI
SASSAFRAS SOUVLAKI HASH
SUKIYAKI SUCCOTASH
BUTTER BRICKLE PEPPER PICKLE
POMEGRANATE PUMPERNICKEL
PEACH PIMENTO PIZZA PLUM
PEANUT PUMPKIN BUBBLEGUM
BROCCOLI BANANA BLUSTER
CHOCOLATE CHOP SUEY CLUSTER
AVOCADO BRUSSELS SPROUT
PERIWINKLE SAUERKRAUT
COTTON CANDY CARROT CUSTARD
CAULIFLOWER COLA MUSTARD
ONION DUMPLING DOUBLE DIP
TURNIP TRUFFLE TRIPLE FLIP
GARLIC GUMBO GRAVY GUAVA
LENTIL LEMON LIVER LAVA
ORANGE OLIVE BAGEL BEET
WATERMELON WAFFLE WHEAT

I am Ebenezer Bleezer,
I run BLEEZER'S ICE CREAM STORE,
taste a flavor from my freezer,
you will surely ask for more.

The art work for this poem is very fun too. Our curator makes a comment regarding the art work that Lydia and I both love, when we discuss how amazing and different it is to see the illustrations not in a glossy, finalised book. He agrees and says that, yes, "There is authority in the original."

Can you believe that Philippe Petit had just done a workshop here, looking at "The Man Who Walked Between Two Towers"? We only read this to the children in Year 3 back in October as a way to explore memories in R.E., it was not part of the recommended reading but we are always on the lookout for awesome picture books that would enthuse the children. There is a whole section devoted to "Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus" by Mo Willems. This is very big over here and some things do not always transfer across the ocean, but I happened to see that book in a discount bookstore last summer and bought it because I thought it brilliant, for my class (I always spent money stocking up the class library, this was one area I did not think twice about forking out for). Jeff Kinney has just been and done a workshop with school children. Although I have not read any of the series "The Diary of a Wimpy Kid", I know many children back home were heavily into it.

I love working with children and being here and passionately talking about books and illustration is such a powerful reminder of that. I feel the same fire inside that I get from a dynamic or peaceful yoga session. Lyd has very much captured it here in the children's work room:

The curator is the nicest man we could hope to meet. The museum is actually closed but we could keep him talking forever. Lyd spots a book that is written by her friend that lives in York:

Our curator is so accommodating that he insists the shop stay open because I say how desperately I want some cards to send back to Bricknell School. He gives us his special discount and we are like excited children. This man has really touched me; the light that is in me I see so easily in him, it is reflected straight back (not because of the discount!): when we say good bye, he says thank you for all the work I have done with children- my love of books and literature for young people is the grass roots. I feel a lump in my throat. Lyd and I are buzzing from our museum experience and we head back, PG having to endure our excited babble. I sit on the kerb, in the sun once again and gather my thoughts post delving into my (not so distant) old world.

I head in and set out all the goodies I have bought on the kitchen table; I write with great enthusiasm to the children at school, family and friends:

The next morning I run in the peaceful neighbourhoods, admiring the huge homes and manicured lawns. I exchange pleasantries with the people I pass and eat my porridge in the back yard.

So, I leave New England and head alone to NYC. Lyd stays on to spend time with PG, attending more poetry affairs. I leave with a pocketful of experiences in the new world of (adult) poetry, schmoozing in UMass Literary circles and of course, a heart full of my old, gorgeously wonderful world of children's Literature. Maybe the universe is trying to tell me that working with children is in fact my path. But I have a year to explore and learn. I think of the film: 'The Shift' and a what Wayne Dyer talks about in the opening montage. Since Eve introduced me to this film, I have become very interested in learning more. He quotes an excerpt from Carl Jun's 'Stages of Life':

     “Thoroughly unprepared, we take the step into the afternoon of life. Worse still, we take this step with the false presupposition that our truths and ideas will serve us as hitherto. But we cannot live the afternoon of our life according to the program of life’s morning. For what was great in the morning, will be little at evening, and what in the morning was true, will at evening become a lie.”

Negotiating my way home from Port Authority, settling back onto the subway, walking Broadway and 105th. I drop my bags and do not hesitate for a second. The sun is shining and I take my book, buy a big fat chocolate chip cookie (in a brown paper bag) from "Silver Moon Bakery" and head to Central Park to soak up the sun, New York and the feeling of being at home.