Get Some Gone: Tiptoeing In and Out of Nashville
I heard and loved the phrase, “Get some gone” when I listened to a podcast about the history of inequality in Nashville. I learned that the James Cayce Homes, in East Nashville, is the oldest public housing project in Nashville. According to the podcast, the residents came up with the phrase “get some gone” to describe the yearning to move out of the projects someday. Any day. I’m borrowing the phrase to describe how I have felt this past year-and-a-half. Some days, I just wanted to “get some gone”. Needless to say, this is a First World Problem, and not at all on the same scale as what the Cayce residents dream about. I’m going to borrow the phrase anyway.
The murals aren’t just decorative. They give me important advice just when I need it. And even when I don’t ask. Kind of like Jewish mothers.
Where have you been, a few of my faithful readers have asked recently. O.K., two of you asked. The problem is I don’t know how to answer that question. It’s not that I have been too busy to write. Obviously. It’s that I have both too much and nothing to say. But when has that ever stopped me before from weighing in on the world through this blog? So after a sabbatical from my regular sabbatical life, I’m back to fill you in on life in Nashville and beyond.
The last time I posted a blog, we had just finished up an election and survived an insurrection. We were waiting patiently for news about our vaccines. Then we got those vaccines, and looked forward to seeing each other. A window opened up, we crawled out, and now we’re back inside, waiting. I’ll admit to getting my hopes up about a return to life as we knew it. Silly me. I should never have hoped for a Rose Garden. These song lyrics seem a little laughable these days:
“I beg your pardon
I never promised you a rose garden
Along with the sunshine
There's gotta be a little rain some time.”
A little rain? Good lord, it’s been a lot more than a little rain, of both the metaphoric and figurative variety this year. Once again, we got “Are you guys O.K.?” texts after the news hit about horrendous flooding just a hour west of us. Luckily, we were spared this time around, unlike many of our friends in N.J. and New York.
You’ve got to love a song with the words, “I beg your pardon” in the lyrics. The words harken back to a time when we talked with a little more civility towards one another. Or maybe it’s just that Southern way of starting with a puff of politeness before you swoop in with your sass.
Have I complained too much about the crazy weather here? Too bad. Here is some more evidence of the craziness. Photo credit to our next door neighbor Anthony for capturing this fresh hell in our neighborhood one night in July.
And speaking of phrases like, “I beg your pardon”…. Now is probably a good time to confess that I am currently grappling with a new-found need to speak up, but politely. I know, I know. The whole world is speaking up on topics they don’t know anything about, like immunology and the First Amendment. I’m talking about what my mother calls “opening up a mouth”. According to my mom, when something big happens, sometimes you can’t remain quiet. You have to speak up. Or, as she phrases it, you have to Open Up a Mouth.
Like many of you, I’ve ventured out of my bubble a few times this spring and summer. In May, we went to Boston to visit Rachel and also met up with some friends. In July, we went to New Jersey to celebrate my mom’s 90th birthday. That meant I had to get on a plane. Twice. Plenty of opportunities to Open Up a Mouth. What I saw in the airports and on the planes was a lot of toxic masc- and mask-ulinity. And yes, fellas, I mean you. Men, you were in the majority of folks who couldn’t grasp the simple oft-repeated rules on signs and over loudspeakers about keeping the mask over your nose and mouth. Women may have an easier time because we are more accustomed to accessorizing. We lug along purses and scarves, so a little mask hardly seems like a thing to us. Or maybe we just have more sense. Am I generalizing? Of course. Am I right? That’s for you to decide.
I see a lot of what I call Suburban Cowboys in Tennessee. Guys driving big trucks instead of cars, wearing their baseball caps backwards, pretending they are still in their 20’s and not in their sagging 40’s, 50’s or 60’s. Just a simple observation. Back to the airport. Did I open up a mouth? Well, sort of. I did tell one woman at the airport whose Suburban Cowboy husband was pontificating into his phone, maskless, that I overheard someone say they are giving out $1,000 fines to people without masks. Did I really overhear that? What do you think? Peter wondered why a stranger - this grateful woman - was coming over to thank me later. You’re welcome, lady.
Felt like a badass Nancy Sinatra that day in the Nashville airport.
This forever young lady, my mom, celebrated her 90th birthday at the end of July. It was a monumental achievement: both her getting to 90 years young, and all of us getting in and out of N.J. unscathed (i.e. with our health intact). You couldn’t ask for a better gift this year.
“I've been playing out a lot of hypotheticals in my mind
I've been writing your name down next to mine
Been imagining all the things you and I could do
I've seen all the possibilities in my dreams
You're alone when you should be livin' next to me
Baby, let's not wait and see.”
They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. You can teach her new songs, however. Thanks, Rachel, for introducing me to the band Lake Street Dive.
In addition to tiptoeing out, we also welcomed some featured guests into Nashville. Our new city may not have as many highlights as Amsterdam, but I promise we will show you a good time here.
In the quiet times after visitors and visiting, I’m somehow managing to keep busy. I’m plugging along with my guitar lessons, which really help keep my mind and fingers occupied when news in the outside world gets especially grim. I’m continuing to study Dutch, a language that isn’t particularly useful here in Tennessee - or anywhere outside the Netherlands, for that matter - but which keeps my brain happy. I’ve added in a similarly “useful” language: Yiddish. It’s full of words that do a better job than English of saying how I feel. For example, the word “shpilkes”. Loosely translated it describes the kind of nervous energy/restlessness/anxiousness I’m often feeling. Without the ability to travel, learning foreign languages will have to do for now. I have so much admiration for people like my friend Vera, who can weave in and out of German, Dutch, English, and French like a Nashville driver changing lines on I-65. What is it with Americans who refuse to learn any language other than English? We’re so darn self-centered. There, I opened up a mouth, and I feel better already.
And with more time on my hands, I’m paying more attention to all the birds that live in our backyard and in those Tennessee hills I can see right outside our windows. We took a few hikes this summer and met a few Tennessee natives (birds, that is, since it’s a lot easier to meet them than to meet humans these days). At the Owl’s Hill Sanctuary, I got the chance to meet Shakespeare, who lives at the sanctuary full-time after he was injured. As I peeked at him behind these bars, I think I knew exactly how he was feeling. A little sad to not be able to travel, but grateful to be healthy.
We also visited the Radnor Lake Bird Sanctuary where birds of prey are nursed back to health and then housed in their own bird condos in a gorgeous park. The rangers who worked there, including this man, gave me back some faith in people. Such kind souls. You can tell by the way he is looking at this owl how he feels about her. Photo credit to Peter.
We don’t have to venture far afield to see birds. Peter put up two hummingbird feeders on our back patio, and then waited patiently and not so patiently for the hummingbirds to arrive. It took awhile, but now, we have friends visiting every morning and night. It’s almost like when we lived in Amsterdam and had so many houseguests. Photo credit to Peter.
The anthem for bird lovers. I’m squawking along to this song on my guitar.
When it’s not meltingly-hot and humid, I’m still out casing the neighborhoods. The house on the left is in our favorite neighborhood in Nashville, the Richland-West End neighborhood. One day I noticed the mannequin in the upstairs room on the left, and had to sneak in a photo. In every nosy person’s worst nightmare, the home owner was getting out of her car and asked - super-Southern-politely - what I was taking a photo of. I explained in a nervous stream of words that I was intrigued by the mannequin, and there was one in the window on our street in Amsterdam (that was true). And that I write a blog and like to take photos of interesting things to put in my blog. Blah, blah, blah. Turns out she used to be a writer for the Tennessean, a local newspaper, and she was thrilled I might be writing about the house. Or so she said. I still haven’t learned to interpret how Southern manners work.
Thankfully, no one was home at the house on the right to see me snapping away. The top of the house reminded me of the gables at the top of the Amsterdam canal houses. This house is considered old in Nashville, but in Amsterdam, it would be just a toddler.
Scenes frequently seen in Nashville: gigantic modern homes going up right next to tiny older homes. Along with the freedom to carry a gun, and not wear a mask, they hold dear the freedom to put up huge houses no matter where, down here. Luckily, there are also pretty scenes, like these birds looking like musical notes on a staff.
Currently working on my own version of this song. I call it Slow, Old Car.
And speaking of slow, I’ve been very slow to catch up on the T.V. shows that people for years and years have been telling me I need to watch. So yes, I just started watching The Sopranos. What could be so great about a show about the mafia in Northern N.J.?, I thought. I thought wrong. It’s really the perfect show for nowadays. The kind of dread Tony Soprano must have walked around with all the time, not knowing if someone would careen around the corner and shoot him is kind of like the dread we all feel these days. And yet, somehow, he puts it all to the side of his mind, mostly, while he goes about the business of running his business, eating, and seeing his shrink.
When I watch the many Sopranos scenes set in restaurants, I can’t help but think back to going out to dinner with my parents at Pete Lorenzo’s Cafe, where steaks and Italian food were served up to local politicians and other Trenton power brokers. In one of those childhood memory moments that doesn’t quite add up - and I have a lot of those - my dad whispered something one night at Lorenzo’s about how members of the Mafia were also eating there. I spent the rest of the night trying not to stare. You might think if members of organized crime really were eating there, my dad wouldn’t have taken us. Or certainly not told his kids that organized crime members were seated at the neighboring table. But that’s my memory, so that’s my story.
Here we are at Lorenzo’s Was this before or after I stared at the Mafia guys? My dad loved eating good food at restaurants with his family. I share that love with him.
Another pandemic cliche: a rabid focus on gardening. Peter has produced some championship tomatoes and basil this summer. Tony Soprano would enjoy them. I sure do.
Anyway, the way that Tony and his crew deal with the existential dread of not knowing what’s around the next corner is oddly comforting. And yes, there is a lot of blood spilling out of body parts in each episode - this is a show about an organized crime family, after all - but you can turn away when those moments come, like I do. We have all gotten very good at turning our heads when bad things happen, so that should be no problem for any of you.
One of the things I love about the show is the soundtrack. This song showed up in Season 3, and sent me googling to find out the name of the singer. She’s Kasey Chambers, an Australian “country music” singer. Didn’t know they did country music Down Under. There’s something so mesmerizing about her voice and the lyrics. I like that she looks like she has been around and has some stories to tell. How much time in my life has been given over to trying to figure out the meaning of song lyrics? Don’t ask.
And now, moving on from T.V. to some wisdom from some books I’ve liked:
A Fine Balance, by Robinson Mistry. This is one of those sweeping big books (600 pages, but please don’t let that scare you off, as it almost did me) that make you sad when you finish the last page and have to say goodbye. It’s set in India, and it pulls you into that world and the characters after a kind of slow build up. It’s beautifully written, and although there is happiness sprinkled in, there’s also crushing sadness, too. About halfway through the novel, one of the minor characters tells us, “Sometimes you have to use your failures as stepping-stones to success. You have to maintain a fine balance between hope and despair.” Very fine advice indeed for us, during these times.
American War, by Omar El Akkad. As many of you know, I don’t usually “do” time travel. I decided to push myself way out of my comfort zone to read this one. I can’t say I enjoyed it, and yet... It’s set in a time in the future, 2075, after the second Civil War. Climate change and a deadly virus are in the mix, too. The book was published in 2017, so it has an eerie feeling of veering out of the dystopian and into the reality lane. It was bone chillingly frightening. If you like your books to take you away from anxiety, this is not the book for you. If you want to read about the world we may be heading towards, grab it. “What was safety, anyway, but the sound of a bomb falling on someone else's home?”
Becoming Dutchess Goldblatt, by Anonymous. I guess I was late to this party, too. Dutchess Goldblatt is a fictional character who became a Twitter sensation by dispensing advice to her followers. Words of wisdom like, “Some of you have been coddled too long. I’m not cutting the crusts off these sentences for you anymore.” This memoir gives you a peek into the real person who created the Dutchess, and why. It’s about the power of writing to restart your life, among other things. I love the fact that she chose a real Dutch Master painting, Portrait of an Elderly Lady, by Frans Hals, to be the face of her persona. I’m currently searching for a persona to call my own. Let me know if you have any suggestions.
I think if I could wear this get-up on my next plane trip, I could breathe a little easier.
Amidst the ongoing simmer of anxiety caused by the pandemic, I sometimes long for the days when it was only regular illnesses that made us worry, and usual sorrows that made us grieve. We had a few of those this summer, too. A fall that led to surgery. The death of an elderly parent of a dear friend.
And a few months ago, I found out that a friend of mine died. She was the former kindergarten teacher for both my kids, and one of my most dedicated blog readers. Carol spent her career teaching children to love school and books. She was gentle, smart, kind, the kind of kindergarten teacher you dream your kids will have. She finally treated herself to a well-deserved retirement just when my teaching career began. I’m sure she was looking ahead, relishing that first day of school when she could sleep in. But instead, she agreed to serve as my mentor my first year. So instead of getting to roll over and go back to sleep that first September of retirement, she dragged herself into my classroom to watch as I stumbled through my first weeks. As every teacher knows, those first few weeks, months, that whole first year, is just about as difficult and embarrassing a performance as one could ever conjure up. She sat there patiently, and gently gave me suggestions during the weeks she was required to monitor my incompetence. We became friends after that. She sent me a message after each blog post. She told me she loved the mix of sadness and humor, the reminiscences about my childhood, the music and book recommendations, and the glimpses into my life in Nashville. I mixed it all in there for you, Carol. With hugs. This post is dedicated to her.
No one kept up with her large brood of former students and parents and teacher colleagues like Carol did. She was a master. at that, as she was at everything she touched.
Easier said than done, Stevie, but I’ll try. I’ll really try.
As August creeps into September, I’m thinking of all my teacher friends Up North out there. The Nashville schools were back in business on August 10, so at least you have had a few more weeks to sleep in. I’m wishing all of you a safe and smooth return to the classroom. I can’t help but think about my last class before I moved to Amsterdam. There they are, below: 5th graders full of energy and excitement about middle school. Many of them are heading off to college now. How is that possible? I hope they have that same energy and excitement about this next stage of life. They give me hope for the future.
When I was out for a walk one humid morning, a little girl, maybe kindergarten-ish age, called out something to me. Her mom translated the little-kid-speak, since I couldn’t quite make out what she had said. “My teacher is kind,” is what she wanted me to know. Did she somehow know I was a teacher? Do we walk a certain way? Or did she just yell this out to anyone who passed by? Whatever it was, I was grateful for the reminder. I’m wishing all of you more kindness in the days ahead, and a healthy and happy New Year, if you celebrate. And even if you don’t.
