Hands

I sit in the sun coming in the window looking at my hands. They are really old. There are brown spots and dry, tiny waves of creases on the backs of my hands.  If the skin was any shade of green they could be part of a scaly lizard. 

I always thought my long fingers must be from my father’s side. He was tall, therefore it seemed a reasonable conclusion. But then one night I was sitting on the couch next to Nan, my grandmother (Mom's Mom). I held her hand in mine. It was warm, soft and made me feel happy. I looked at our hands together. I held hers up to mine, palm to palm. We matched exactly. 

She had some arthritis. Her index fingers were twisted like cork screws. This made the index nails twist toward the long finger (The FU finger) almost facing the palm. If her nails were sharper she could have opened a bottle of wine. 

My hands looked old (I thought) when I was only forty. Thin skinned. If the hands were arranged in a downward position all the veins filled up. The backs of my hands appeared to be wriggling with earthworms right beneath the surface. I’d raise my hands up in the air and the veins disappeared. Wave those hands in the air. Hallelujah. People think you're nuts if you walk around with your hands up in the air all the time, and your fingers go numb after a while. 

I worked at a advertising studio in the Renaissance Center in Detroit in the eighties. One night many of us were working late. One of the illustrators needed to illustrate a woman's hands. I was the only female in the place, so Mike came into my room and asked if I'd model my hands for him. I said, "Sure". Then he checked out my big hands, looked totally distressed and said, "I'll check Joe's hands".

Oh, well, I never had modeling ambitions anyway.

*****

But know this: I have magnificent hands. They do things. Most important, they feed me. I really like that. They can pick a white hair off a black sweater with no problem. They type. They squeeze the cheeks of my husband when I want to give him big smashing kisses. They can hold a paint brush and move it wherever I want it to go. They are wonderful tools. I should learn sign language, then they could talk.

Name Game

In 1975 when I was getting divorced, my lawyer asked if I wanted to go back to my maiden name. Ahh, well, no. I actually felt closer to my almost ex-husband than my father. But that's another story.

The divorce was final in the summer of 1976. Just weeks afterward, I was in the Ann Arbor Art Fair. The sign on my booth had my ex-husband's last name. People came in the booth, saw the name and asked if I was German. 

Now, there's nothing wrong with being German. I just don't have any. I was a fraud. I was mislabeled. My father's family was all Norwegian. My mother's ancestors were Mayflower English and coal-mining Scots. No German.

Then and there I decided I needed a new name. 

There is a great deal to be said about timing. Right around that time there was an article in the paper on "how to legally change your name". A month earlier or a month later, I would have missed it. There wasn't Google back then.

So what name did I want? My maiden name began with a C. My married name began with an S. By getting married I had moved myself to the back of the line. I needed an A name.

Also around that time I read artist Judy Chicago's autobiography, "Through the Flower". Judy Chicago had renamed herself after a city. A city! The feminist me liked that. No patriarch or even matriarch name for me. A City. 

Which city was easy. I was born in Ann Arbor. I had decided to change my name during the Ann Arbor Art Fair. I would be Lynn Arbor. I was also throwing out my first name, which I won't repeat here. If I liked the name I would have kept it. Besides I was always called Lynn.

The first people I wanted to discuss this with were my children. I told them they could change their names too, or hyphenate. They both wanted to keep their names as they were. My daughter (13 then) was fine with my name change. My son (12) said, "But if you change your name and get famous, then no one will believe you're my mother." 

So I kept my kids last name as my middle name. Now it looks like my maiden name is German. Wasn't that part of the point of changing it? But, hey, you do things for your kids.

Ferdinand Hampson, the owner of Habatat Gallery, wasn't thrilled. What do clients think of an artist with a new name? But I was just starting out, so I convinced him that no one knew who I was anyway.

The biggest hurdle was my grandmother. I sat in the den at my grandmother's house with her and my mother. My mother was always a bit of a rebel, so she thought it was a fine idea. My grandmother was upset. 

"Why not take a family name." she said.

My mother laughed.  My mother had a point. I didn't want to be Lynn Dick, even though I loved a lot of Dicks in my life. It just wasn't what I was looking for.

"How about Kerwin?" Mom said. She did this to torment my grandmother. Kerwin was my step-fathers name. He was Irish and Catholic. This was actually worse than being black, Jewish or Asian to my grandmother.

At that, my grandmother was fine with Arbor.

But then she said, "But who will you be related too?" Which set my mother and I into a fit of laughing. My grandmother, a good sport, laughed too.

So I went to count, paid $35, filled out papers, stood in front of a judge, raised my right hand, and swore that I wasn't changing my name for any fraudulent reasons.

The only problem with my name is that sometimes people think my first name is Ann. But I can live with that.

If you want to change your name in Michigan here's a link.
http://courts.michigan.gov/scao/selfhelp/family/nc_help.htm

Black Sheep

My Great Grandmother was heard to say that every family has black sheep. She was referring to her daughter, Great Aunt Minnie (Margot). In a big family with eleven kids there's plenty of room for at least one black sheep. 

Minnie told her husband she was the youngest, but she was actually number eight. Seven years older than my grandmother who was the youngest. She outlived her husband, Ben, by a few months and died at 91, a sweet young thing of 84 in his eyes.

Inherited
hat blocks

For many years they had an apartment in Highland Park that was nested behind a huge Sears and Roebuck store. It was an old dark brick building with a courtyard in it's middle. A statue of a young boy peeing was its center piece. I loved that statue. Serious art pees, right?

The apartment itself was on the second floor with deep set windows where she had a collection of scruffy plants in odd ceramic pots shaped like frogs, Easter baskets and cupids. 

The best part was the dining room. It was a gloomy room, but this was where she made hats. The table was filled with hat blocks shaped like faceless heads. I loved watching her steaming felt with a tea kettle and pinning it on the blocks forming the bases for her hats. She was probably the most creative person in the family, also the craziest. 

She'd put all their dirty clothes in the bathtub and they'd stay there until my Great Aunt Betty would come and take them home and wash them for her. 

At 52 (real years) she had bleached blond hair and loved wearing shocking pink. Back in the Roaring Twenties she roared. She danced on tables and was quite a party girl, or so the story goes.

She'd walk me to the grocery store and tell all the boys bagging groceries that when I was a little older they'd all be dying to date me. I was mortified.

She had a parakeet named Joey. Joey pecked my head and pooped on me. I hated that bird.

Once when I had spent the night with her, Saturday afternoon was quickly approaching. My father was coming to pick me up. Minnie didn't want me to leave. She said I should hide.

I was really ready to go back home. I was sick of the bird and she was done making hats. But she was insistent, she wanted to keep me. 

She told me to go down the apartment building's backstairs, the dark, scary backstairs, out the back door of the building, walk across the parking lot and get lost in Sears. I was afraid of the dark back stairs so she walked me down, opened the outer door and gave me a little push. 

What do you do? I couldn't get back in. So I walked to Sears and roamed the aisles. Was I going to have to live in Sears my whole life? What would happen when they closed? Would the police hunt for me? With big dogs? Was she planning to come find me?

And then I saw him. My very tall, furious father. He took me by the hand and lead me out of the store. He knew this wasn't my idea, probably by the look of relief on my face when I saw him. He took me home. 

Although I saw her at family gatherings, that was the last time I was in Minnie's apartment. I was seven.

Hairy Memory

After a series of mini strokes, my grandmother's memory began a descent into oblivion. She forgot everyone's name but remembered good manners. She never forgot to say, "Thank you, Honey." 

It was ok being "Honey". I never minded sharing the name with my mother, daughter and granddaughter, or with the young black man with cornrows that was one of her caretakers. I especially liked that he was "honey", too. 

My grandmother was as prejudiced as my uncle Bubs (her brother). It covered all ethnic groups and religions that didn't match her white Presbyterian self. Once she proudly told me that an Asian couple, driving down her block, had pulled over and asked about a house that was for rent nearby. She was proud of her quick thinking, and said, "that house has already been rented".

The last ten years of her life were spent in a nursing home, primarily being cared for by black nurses and aids. There's a certain grace in this. She was treated tenderly by her caretakers. 

I think that along with forgetting all our names, she also forgot about race…mostly. Although, once when Jamal left the room she whispered, "he's colored, you know." But it seemed more  an acknowledgement rather than a condemnation. 

It's a shame to have a stereotype image of a person, especially your own dear grandmother. There are always so many fragments that don't fit into the puzzle of the whole being. 

In high school I had two boyfriends. One played bagpipes, the other was half Jewish. I was sure my Scottish descended grandmother would prefer bagpipe boy. But, No, she said that the Scot didn't show me respect. He picked me up in a ratty t-shirt and hadn't shaved. If he cared about me, he'd shave and put on a nice shirt.

The other boy, sweet and shy and half Jewish was tall, dark and handsome. Hmmm, do you think that influenced her?

One day when I visited her in the nursing home, Jamal was brushing her hair, long, long white hair. Her hair was almost to her waist. Kind of cool, but it looked like a chore. So I said, "Maybe next time I should bring scissors and give her a hair cut." 

"Oh, no," he said with a horrified tone, "I love doing Jeanie's hair. It's beautiful." He gently held out strands of fine long hair, wispy as wind, showing me it's beauty. 

A few days later I was at the nursing home at lunch time. I wheeled my 96 year-old grandmother down to the lunch room, where she immediately started singing "Take Me Out To The Ball Game," She knew every word of the song. 

She was quite surprised when I told her I was her granddaughter. Actually she didn't believe me. She giggled and said, "Noooo, you can't be my granddaughter. I'm not even married yet." 

She was sweet and giddy. I loved her. And she looked adorable in cornrows.

Number 26

I woke up this morning and realized that once again I had forgotten a card. So today's blog will be a Story to replace a card. Here goes:

Once upon a time there was a woman who was lonely. She wanted someone special in her life. Since she worked in advertising she decided to put a personal ad in the Free Press. After a time she received from the paper two thick manilla envelopes filled with letters.Twenty-seven letters. 

She numbered them, because she was known for being organized. And then started reading and dividing the letters into two piles. The pile to the right was the "don't respond to" pile. There were a couple convicts, bad spelling, presumptions, poor penmanship, bad grammar, and some really weird thinking.

On the left were some interesting possibilities. 17 letters. So many men, so little time. 

The letters contained phone numbers, so she began calling. Some gentlemen that she spoke to moved into the pile on the right, for reasons often more subtle than penmanship. Gently, she told them it was nice talking to them but made no plans to meet. She had their numbers, they did not have hers. (this was before caller ID.)

So now there are 11. Eleven meetings in 10 days. Some she met for coffee at bustling coffee shops. Some she met for wine in busy restaurants. She had a nice time meeting these guys. They were all charming, nice people. A couple of them thought she was a little weird, too arty (she could tell by the look in their eyes). Oh well.

She was down to the final two, number 26 and number 11. 

She arrived at the restaurant wearing a red scarf, it was a cold March night. She was meeting number 26. This was the one who was baking a cake with his teenaged daughter when she had called him. He was the one with the great voice. A voice like heavy rocks rolled in a velvet lined tumbler. A nighttime dj voice without the slop.

There was no one in the lobby with the faux pre-Revolution decor. She stood there. She stood there in the red scarf. And then the door opened. A man came in, then his wife, then two kids, then a man with a red scarf. Number 26. "Oh, my goodness," she thought, "a hunk. I don't have a chance." Not having a chance meant, oh, well, just be yourself and have a nice time. 

And so she did, and he did too. He was a architect, a designer. Creative. She was a graphic artist. A designer. They understood each other without being competitive. When she said something she thought was funny, he laughed. He laughed. He got her. Click. 

After hours of talking he walked her to her car. He kissed her sweetly on the lips.

The next night she met number 11. A very good guy, in fact, a potential future date guy, but there was just one thing wrong. She had already met her Number One.

Five years later, they married on January 2, 1995. 

Today is January 2, 2011. 

Happy Sixteenth Anniversary, Number One.

First Footing

On New Years Eve my family always celebrated Hogmanay (First Footing).

The Wikipedia version: 

This is a Scottish ritual of going out on New Years Eve and partying with all your neighbors. For good luck bring whiskey (preferred, but beer will do), a lump of coal for their fireplace and maybe a black muffin (fruitcake). And of course, it should all be delivered by a tall, dark and handsome man. Scots have a thing about "tall, dark, handsome men," maybe because so many are average-height redheads.

Now here's my family's version of First Footing: 

Before midnight gather all the cash you can find. Check books and credit cards count. Add fresh fruit, candy, bread, cheese, real butter, a ham (if you have one handy). Then take the filled basket and go out a back door. Walk around the house to the front door. A few minutes after midnight ring the bell. Someone lets you in and good luck (translation: food and money) will be coming in the door all year.

My first experience with First Footing was at the flat in Detroit with my great aunts, great uncle and great grandmother. I remember being exhausted waiting until midnight. Someone went out the front door, and came back in the front door (it was too scary to walk around the outside of the flat at night). I stayed up late for this? I was expecting something fun.

My mother and grandmother lived together for many years. One year, when my grandmother's short term memory was failing, she heard the doorbell ringing frantically. When she finally went to answer the front door she was totally surprised to find my frozen cranky mother standing there with a basket.

If it's true that what comes in the front door after the stroke of midnight on New Years Eve, comes in for the rest of the year, then for the next year everyone who came in their front door was pissed off. 

I still First Foot when I'm awake enough to stay up past midnight. My daughter, Sue, always First Foots. My son, Jim, doesn't, in fact his wife Bonnie had no idea what I was talking about when I asked her.

*******

I lived with my grandparents for the 10th and 11th grades of high school. In art class we were doing contour drawing. It's a great way to develop good eye hand coordination. Keep your pencil on your paper. Try not to lift it. Now don't look at your paper, just follow the object you're drawing with your eyes and let your hand take the same direction. 

My grandmother posed for me. She held very still. She had her legs crossed and one foot was up. What can I say. That foot was the closest thing to me, closest things are biggest things. It was a great drawing. But when she saw it, she was furious. She tore up the drawing and stomped out of the room on her big feet. I can say this without guilt because my feet are bigger than hers ever dreamed of being.

However, she was very sensitive about her feet. When she was a young woman she bought shoes that were too tight, several pairs, in fact, because they were on sale. Basically she smashed her feet into those little shoes, and then suffered the rest of her life with crossed over toes and nasty bunions.

*******

My New Years wish for all of you: may the first foot that crosses your threshold bare the symbolic goodies that will sustain you throughout the year, and may your feet be pain free to carry you wherever you wish to go.

Seeing

When I was seven or eight I rode a bus downtown with my great aunt Mary. Another child on the bus loudly said, "Hey, look at that lady," while staring at my aunt. His mother shushed him. 

Look at that lady? Look at my great aunt? I looked at her for the first time. She was small, maybe under five feet tall. She had sharp features. She wore suits, perfectly tailored custom-made suits and silk blouses. She walked tall with extreme dignity. And she had an enormous hump on her back. It stuck out a good four inches from her thin frame.

When we got off the bus I walked behind her. She looked weird. I saw other people turn their heads to stare at her as she passed. I couldn't walk with her.

She knew I had seen her, knew why I was keeping ten feet behind her. We walked that way for a while, and then she stopped and had a little talk with me. I can't tell you exactly what she said, but I know it was about how she felt when people stared at her. It was about judging books by their covers.

I don't think I've ever been so ashamed.

This was the person who shared my bed and bedroom. She was the one who took me downtown to Hudson's to have lunch on the mezzanine and shop month-end sales. She taught me good manners. 

She was a talented milliner. She taught me to sew. When I cut the center out of a wedding veil she was making for a client, she didn't kill me, but I think it crossed her mind. 

We had tea at bedtime in china cups. When the tea was finished she'd turn the cup upside-down on the saucer, turn it around three times, and read my fortune. The tea leaves always said the I'd marry a tall, handsome, dark-haired man. I married two of them, probably because the tea leaves said it so many times. 

She told me stories when I couldn't sleep. When I dreamt that the house was burning down, she was the one who comforted me. She held me together while my parents were slip-sliding apart.

My great-grandmother (her mother) and her two single siblings lived in a flat near 13th Street in Detroit. She moved back in with them after my parents divorced. Over the years the neighborhood, mostly rentals, had changed. All white (before my time), then Hispanic, and when the neighborhood was basically shot to hell the black people got to live there... except for the enclave of whiteness in my family's flat. 

My great uncle Bubs (Rob to the grownups) whom I dearly loved, didn't love anyone who didn't look like him. When Sammy Davis Junior came on the tv, blam, the tv was turned off. He used the "n" word and said that "they" shouldn't be allowed on tv.

One day he and I walked to the corner store. He held my hand. It was very cold out. A rat ran behind a garbage can in the alley. The apartment building across the street had cardboard in the windows. I saw a kid, younger than me, no shoes, standing on the porch. We stared at each other and I felt pain in my chest.

My mother told me that the prejudice was about job competition. Immigrant Scots competing with blacks for jobs. I think it was about the "hump", the judging of  the external without knowing the internal.

In 1967 I was married to the first of the two handsome, dark-haired men and living in Massachusetts, when all hell broke loose in Detroit. Riots. 12th Street, the epicenter, was a block away from the flat my senior relatives had fled from more than a decade before. I thought of cardboard windows and bare feet in the cold, of people judged, seen but not seen.

My President is Black. People in my country judged the man, not the cover. Thank you.

Happy Holidays.

************************************************

Note: There are folks out there who didn't vote for President Obama for purely political reasons (race wasn't the issue). There are some who voted for him in reaction to G.W. Bush (race wasn't the issue). And I guess that's my point. Mostly,
race wasn't the issue. Oh, sure there are the birthers and "the people who want to take their country back". But again, in 2008 race wasn't the issue. And it's about time.