Goodbye Art

Letting the mind settle in allowing it to pour forth thoughts worth sharing is sometimes a bit tough.  There are plenty, perhaps too many, reminding me of opening the refrigerator door, staring in declaring your starved, but not seeing anything worth munching on.  Perhaps trying a few "bites of each" would suffice the moment.

The decision to sell Fred's News was not arrived at easily. Equally as hard, leaving eastern Connecticut, a place we had called home all of our lives. During the past three and a half years we have been visited by many of our friends, receive daily reports via an early morning phone call from one, "talk" back and forth through the usual social media channels and receive calls or emails from others inquiring about a former Fred's News family member.  Perhaps the most difficult phone call I have made was to my dear friend Edna. Although I thought I had prepared my mind for what I knew I was going to hear, the words still haunt my memory days after being spoken.  "Edna it's me, what happened to Art?" The silence said it all, the heart wrenching sound of my friend's voice, trying to find the right words, not wanting to say them, hoping to awaken from her nightmare.  With controlled emotion, Mrs. G. managed to say, "Art died this morning." 

I wanted to be there for her, letting her know we care, we share her pain, Art was our friend.  More importantly, he was a quiet private man, who was very much an observer. A man with a wickedly dry sense of humor, who always tried to make sense of it all. Proud of his accomplishments, his family and grand kids, Art always seemed preoccupied with his thoughts, reminding me much of what my Memere called a "ponderer". 

Art had views and opinions yet he was a great listener.  He would offer advice in the form of questions, yet my favorite "Grandpa" story will always be "Grandpa  are we there yet?" "When will we get there?" was the continual questioning from the backseat peanut gallery of grand kids. "When the car stops and the doors open we will be there!" That always put a stop to further whining and questioning.

Art is not the first friend we have had to say our final good byes to, yet it is perhaps the hardest.  Mr. Bill and I spent almost every Saturday and Sunday evening with Edna and Art.  We have watched there grand kids arrive and grow, we have shared their happiness as well as their pain, we have known this moment would one day arrive, we were not prepared but then is one every ready for that final moment.  Acceptance comes with time, we will remember the fun moments, they are numerous.  A Christmas party with Art donning red suspenders and a matching bow-tie announcing "the women love it!"  Perhaps it will be the re- emergence of THE picture:  Art and Mr. Bill's feet, perfectly outfitted with white socks and sandals, much to his granddaughters' anguish, or the memory of shopping in Manhattan on raw freezing rainy December day, Art running up behind me much like a super sleuth on a mission, "did she tell you anything she wanted, has she seen anything today, please be sure to tell me!" he blurted out, "I want to buy her something special, she loves jewelry" he said with that twinkle in his eye only Art could get when he was on a mission to buy something for HIS Edna. Memories like this last a lifetime, Art we will miss you but...."The car has stopped, the doors are open."  Look down my friend on your lifetime, the legacy you have left, help them all to cope, to understand their pain, they miss you, perhaps they feel there is so much they never said.  Ironically, they didn't need to, you knew but it was always nice to hear.  Look down my friend, you have given them many memories, that will last their lifetime as well. 

People and Places!

One would think that the last two days there would have been numerous opportunities to sit at the computer and write.  Just as the skies over central Florida have been gray, with ominous clouds that have released almost ten inches of rain in two days, my brain felt as though the fog had settled in, so thick it seemed endless.  Although it isn't abnormal, this brain fog was truly maddening. Having so much rolling around upstairs sometimes can be detrimental to my creative side. As the sun again made its way through the clouds only to have everyone saying "bring on the rain, it is too damn hot!", the brain fog hasn't really burned off.  Maybe it's all those '"you know your from Baltic" postings that has my mind swirling.  One in particular, the flatiron building, caught my attention.  Also known as the Jodoin Building, by the large letter on the top of the building!   Although only three stories high, it was impressive.  Postcards from earlier more prosperous times  showed a building that was at the hub of activity in the village. Many of the Victorian buildings have long since been renovated into apartments or worse yet, demolished.  Hard for new residents to understand just what a thriving town Sprague once was. Thankfully its history, painstakingly preserved by it's dedicated citizens and members of the Sprague Historical Society.  Their recent one hundred fiftieth anniversary celebration a great tribute to a diverse and colorful past of former citizens, architecture and businesses that once called this area home.

Ironic how certain moments or events will begin a series of "oh I remember that" to be jogged loose from the catacombs of the mind.  Sitting in Paris, soaking up all the new sights, the tremendous amount of flatiron buildings perched side by side with other forms of architecture, that have survived centuries of weather, wars, fire and many other humankind disasters, I think "now that's a flatiron building!" but in all actuality, its all relative. Paris an enormous city, with a tremendous history, Sprague, a little town......with a great history! Understand, it truly is all about its people. 

As these thought roamed through the vacationing brain, my journey brings me in front of a place in Disneyland Paris called a barbecue.  Its location is Frontier Land, but what has garnered my undivided attention are three performers, singing "She'll be coming 'round the mountain when she comes," with an ever so small hint of a french accent.  Laughing, I think...dear God it's a reincarnation of the Baltic Country Bumpkins, but then I remember, it is all about people, perception and relevance.  The country western shows courtesy of the dedicated citizens of Sprague were no different than the entertainment provided in Frontier Land on the outskirts of Paris.  Well maybe the voices are stronger and more professional, but the end result very much the same... they both make us smile.

Perhaps what people forget, yes whether you live in Florida, France or some other exotic place.....it is still home for the inhabitants of the area.  They may thrive off the tourist industry, but they have homes, families and roots.  A conversation between myself and someone visiting this tourist mecca made me truly understand what people's perception of an unknown area might be.  The question, innocent enough "why do you want to live at Disney?"  Caught slightly off guard, I answer, "I don't."  Again, with the edge of a seasoned interrogator, "you don't, what else is there?"  Admittedly I was surprised, but soon realized many people feel that way about the many places they visit.  For the record, I saw so much in Paris, all of which left me wanting more and cherishing the memories that I have. Yet it was truly the people that I watched and listened to; the little boy on the train, so animated, driving his older sister crazy, making his parents laugh and surely noticing my enjoyment as well; the young mother playing her songs, hoping for a handout to support her baby, wrapped closely to her tiny figure. I watched and listened, enjoying every moment, but the intriguing people that inhabitant these lands, that are the heart and soul of their cities, these are most fascinating to me.

   

Quality Time in the City

My first view of Paris, soaring at an altitude of five thousand feet, still left me awestruck at its massive sprawl and lack of skyscrapers.  As the plane came around lining up with the runway, my eyes gazed upon a magnificent sentry standing guard over it's loyal subjects, announcing my arrival into this city, so steeped in history, I cannot wait to walk its narrow streets with flowers adorning its every building, a city so entrenched in a culture that has existed much longer than one can imagine, yet the trend setters of fashion and haute cuisine worldwide. As my eyes gaze upon the Eiffel Tower, I feel that little smile of satisfaction beginning to emerge.  Thoughts swirling, will I see the Lourve, Notre Dame and the Arc d'Triomphe? Will I have the time to walk in the footsteps of the masters, sit in the small sidewalk cafes, enjoy and breathe in the wonders of this city and suddenly, "Madame, Monsieur, Ladies and Gentlemen, please bring your seats to their upright positions, prepare for landing." 

 Back in the real world, collecting my belongings, trying to stretch the legs, thoughts again swirl, "will I be able to walk once I try to stand up?, Will that little pain in the butt kid that kick my seat for the better part of this night flight understand just how lucky he is.  At one point, as I tried to get comfortable, his continual thumping of my seat back, brought thoughts of breaking the little shit's feet off at the ankles.  Amazing, what torture will do to the mind!   This kid could make a hardcore spy spill his guts!

Working most of my adult life in guest service orientated businesses, the robotic like attitudes of the passport checkpoint employees somewhat bothered me.  Not even a bonjour for God's sake, they would be a perfect fit to work at any Motor Vehicle Department back in the States, "You filled out your form in the wrong color ink, not acceptable."  My guess, these people in their adolescent years, thrived on pissing off people with their quirky irritating little habit, much like seat thumper from the previous evening's flight.  At one point during the flight, I think I was dreaming about some little kid, sitting at the counter in Fred's News, swing his feet into the wall under the counter at the same slow methodical rate as the irritating, old enough to know better, spoiled brat behind me.  I also realized why his mother was sitting behind him!  

Riding through the country side, traffic, speeding by at warp speed, the landscape in this part of France reminds me of southern New England.  It is a dreary day, a tad bit chilly (remember I have just arrived from ninety plus humid degrees), but the heart is warm and excited, "you're in Paris for God's sake!" 

One cool afternoon as we stroll along the narrow streets and tree-lined walkways running parallel to the Seine, hunger pains bring us to one of the numerous cafes lining the boulevards.  Quickly finding a seat, our waiter, "Bonjour?" His quick smile but questioning eyes makes me realize with the throngs of visitors from around the world, he's testing the language skills from the get go. "Bonjour, we speak English and French so either is okay!"  His broad smile suggests it is an opportunity for him to hone his English.  The rain shower starting to subside, but for us it doesn't matter, protection from the elements is afforded by a lovely awning, overshadowing the multitude of tiny tables lining the sidewalk. Two older women along side drinking coffee, continuous chatter and laughter suggest they too are enjoying the Paris scene.  Our waiter is for the most part jovial, albeit slow.  For us it doesn't matter, we're in Paris, enjoying a chance for mother and son to spend a great time together, something that doesn't happen nearly enough!  We notice our waiter scanning the table once occupied by the two older women.  His pleasant smile turning to an angry frown suggests something is amiss.  Turning to us,"did you see them leave?" "No monsieur, why?" we ask.  Seems the two women stiffed the guy!  Ah yes, street-wise old ladies, isn't Paris wonderful?

Who has Passed This Way?

Doors, much like that first impression, definitely make a statement.  As with all things there are exceptions and I do like exceptions.  They are the reminders of the infinite possibilities this life has to offer when you allow your mind to release itself from the confines of the "box" and explore.  Acceptable terminology would be the Buzz Light Year approach of "Infinity and Beyond!".  Throughout my life, much like trying to escape the earth's gravitational  grasp, I have jumped through open doors even when that little voice said "Don't do it!' These so-called "Leaps of Faith", all part of my relentless stubborn personality, have now manifested themselves in my children.  Their sheer determination, have allowed them to jump through many doors and as son Matthew reminded me recently he can be a "tenacious little bastard!

The menu covers of Fred's News changed often. Many had nothing to do with the small restaurant, but might perhaps evoke memories of the past, open the eyes of its' readers to the beauty of the surrounding community, pay respect to a former way of life (the Baltic Mills) and allow our Guests to occupy themselves during busy moments while waiting for their meals to arrive.  Poking fun at ourselves by super-imposing our stern faces on the bodies of Iowa born, American regionalist painter, Grant Wood's painting "American Gothic" was just one a numerous menu covers that are now "collectors' items" to many former customers.   A personal favorite, our "Doors" menu cover.  Friend Christine, scoured the community for interesting doors to photograph. She captured none of the surrounding architecture, just the doors, their stark beauty captured in an instance. Each door alone on their stage, basking in the limelight, hearing the voices of the masses that have passed over their thresholds, trying to guess where they had been seen.  Some who viewed these knew in an instance what structure these magnificent guards protected, while others, much like a wallflower, had long faded into obscurity. Interestingly, people shared some of their most poignant memories of these doors with the Fred's News family.  Crazy Bruce reminded me, that one particular door that had fallen into the depths of disrepair, had allowed him a makeshift shelter on a cold New England night.  Behind that door he crouched alone, the "demons swirling within," a place where only he would venture on such a night.  I had asked Bruce a simple question as he tried to purchase a soothing cup of hot coffee in the early morning hours, "what are you doing out in the cold, you're a mess, go home, where did you stay?" His fingers raw and chapped, dirty and weathered, he pointed to the menu on the counter, "I stayed there, no one would find me but no one cares to either!" With that he left.

As I strolled the streets of Paris, paying particular attention the entry ways of many of these buildings, wondering who has passed their entry and graced the halls of these buildings.  Many dating back to my friend Mr. DaVinci's era, who has whispered their inner most thoughts, what secrets do these walls hide.  Perhaps a meeting place, plotting the French Revolution or a meeting place for a secluded royal tryst!  What is most interesting is the history, many doors weathering the test of time, the ornate masterpieces still just as magnificent.  Looking at the entry into the Cathedral of Notre Dame I entertained the thought that French novelist Victor Hugo, based his character Quasimodo, the hunchbacked cathedral bell-ringer, after a real life person that perhaps quietly and cautiously entered through these massive doorways undetected.  Did he ask his Maker for forgiveness, did he weep beneath these ornate statues, did he simply ask "Pourquoi moi?" Why me?  Did he imagine the infinite possibilities a lifetime has to offer?