The Little Things

I don’t know about you, but the most remarkable things I ever experience happen when I am alone. 

Take that rainbow—vivid as a Warhol, its base shearing across all six lanes of the freeway with the sharpness of a razor, embedding its edge into the glistening asphalt. Its back arched into Parley’s Canyon, ducking its head behind the misty hillside like a neon feline.

I would not have believed it, but this visage was validated by the other drivers and their sudden splash of brake lights. Part of me thought I should stop the car right there in the fast lane and just take it all in. The more capricious part of me wanted to speed headlong as fast as I could, to see if I could break through its surface and shatter it into a kaleidoscope of ethereal confetti. Better still, get sucked into its heavenly core if it had one at all. 

Not all of his exhibitions are so grandiose. There are funny things that the cat does, the actions of an unsuspecting passerby that warrant a chuckle or at least a raised eyebrow. There have also been sunsets galore, cloud formations and blossoming trees that have stolen my breath. Or the blasting wind from my car window, as I stick out my hand, allowing God himself to take it and hang on for the ride.  

Relating these experiences to someone after the fact, I am usually met with a condescending smile or an impatient look that asks where the story is headed. But I know the true magnitude of these moments even though no one shares them with me. Maybe they are better left witnessed alone.

For in the company of others, when I speak of this spirituality, talk usually turns to superficiality—work, television and home remodels. One man’s heaven is another one’s hell.

Morning  

I’m ten, and in the time it takes for the sun to show its face, my eyes open—slowly taking in the landscape of my room. Daydreams begin to take over where last night’s dreams left off and my gaze meanders from wall to ceiling and down the next wall. I study the patterns of woodgrain on the back of my door as though they are cloud formations, I am disappointed that I find the same image every morning. It’s a rabbit—sort of like Harvey, but visible. I focus on every aberration in the paint and plaster and come to rest blankly on the ceiling light fixture. It’s a square dish with a shiny silver nut that holds it in place; flowers and ribbons are etched around the edges of its frosted glass surface. “Doesn’t really fit a boy’s bedroom,” I mouth silently, “better in a funeral home.” Ironically, lying inside it in a blanket of dust are the remains of two bugs, who will remain there until a bulb needs replacing. 

Little by little, our house begins to fill with the sounds of morning. Mom’s slippers make a sandy scratch as she shuffles like a somnambulist to the fridge and gurgles a splash of milk into her glass. She coughs, clears her throat then pulls the rubber band from The Tribune, making it strum like a paper banjo. The chair legs rumble across the linoleum as she settles into her routine. The pop! hiss! of a match ignites her first cigarette of the day. 

From the far end of the house, my brother’s bedroom door joins in with a clack of its latch and the creak of its hinges. In the kitchen, the magnets of the cupboard door snap open and shut. The sticky seal of the refrigerator door peels apart —releasing a chill into the air. Lucky Charms tinkle as they tumble into David’s cereal bowl. Clink, clink. Cough, cough. 

It is morning on Pueblo Street. 

***

Forty years later, still there—but in a different bed, different walls, different home. The daydreams are the same, though. I still scan my room each morning; drawn to the spot on the ceiling where the paint roller missed. A picture on the wall that for some reason refuses to stay straight. Dusty crevasses in the clock radio. I take in the details of my room. But now, I don’t imagine them as other things; I don’t even see them for what they are. I  just stare through catatonic eyes and listen for the sounds of morning. 

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. 

The only sound is the clock on the kitchen wall. 

Wrapped in a tangle of sheets and blankets, my fetal position coils tighter. I adjust my pillow and wonder why I still wake up alone. Where is the sound of someone coughing? Why isn’t someone clattering in my kitchen? I want desperately to hear these sounds; but at this point in my life, I have to make them myself, which means getting out of bed where the sounds are most comforting. Most familiar.

My mind drifts further. It dawns on me that the morning sounds of my childhood contained no conversation. No “good morning,” no “what’s up for today?” There was always a deafening silence at our breakfast table; yet very little peace. 

I reluctantly roll out of bed and fumble to the CD rack where Billie Holliday is ready and waiting. The clatter of the coffee grinder jolts my consciousness into place. The air is filled with a duet—Mr. Coffee and Lady Day.  The duet  becomes a combo as I twang the rubber band from The Tribune. I flip it across the room; sending the wild-eyed cat on a frenzied chase—his claws skitter across the hardwood floor.

***

Three hundred miles and many mornings down the road, I find myself in the guest bedroom of my parents’ desert home. I awaken to the familiar sounds of Mom. The shuffle, the cough, and the splashing of milk are all the same. She slides open the screen door. It rattles and skids as though it’s aluminum joints are not yet ready for morning. Stepping onto the deck, she lights her morning cigarette. It will be an hour or so before the morning paper arrives. 

I don’t wallow in bed much anymore. You miss a lot in the confines of an empty bedroom. I throw off the covers, pull on some pants, and step outside with my cup of coffee. The night’s rain has left a puddle on each of the patio chairs, so I lean against a damp wooden railing. A lone grey cloud lingers over Red Mountain. I turn my face to the sunrise and take a swig of morning desert air and watch Mom as she walks out to the brush—flinging a can of birdseed into the clearing. She’s still in her bathrobe. Her slippers are rust-colored from her mornings in the sand. She’ll get dressed eventually. Mornings just last longer in the desert.

I slip a CD into the boom box. “Music Appreciation” has become one of our morning rituals. Barber’s Adagio for Strings leads off today’s playlist and makes us cry every time. Stillness is wonderful, but sensory overload is rapture. 

One by one—until they number in the dozens—Mom’s birds arrive to the swell of violins.  Doves, sparrows, finches, robins and the family of quail. Chirps, coos and the wafting of wings seem to say “Good morning” and “What’s up for today?” Mom laments about how the quail are disappearing lately—probably a neighbor’s cat. And she’s not going to plant a garden this year—no one ever eats the stuff. I tell her of my bad feet and panic attacks, and that my friends and I will all be down in a few weeks for our annual Easter Parade. 

As the music builds, the rabbits join in (they’re always there). They skitter in the dirt like Keystone Kops, then stop. 

Nose to nose. 

Frozen for a second. 

Then they spring so high they flail on the way down— barely sticking their landing. Balanchine bunnies. 

The CD ends. Mom takes a drag on her smoke and I sip my coffee as we take in the quiet—and the peace.

Teach Your Children

I don’t know what happened that summer between fifth and sixth grade. I went from being a sweet little kid and teacher’s pet into the ringleader of a terrible band of rapscallions. Maybe it was MAD magazine. Maybe it was the games of kissing tag or the brutal rounds of tether ball at recess. I blame it on my wardrobe. I went from cute striped t-shirts to a turtleneck, cuffed baggies and a pair of three inch platform shoes that year taking me to a total height of about three foot five. Perfect gang attire for us hoodlums who had been assembled in Room 7.

Mrs. Virginia Bradford was one of our sixth grade teachers at Edison Elementary. She replaced Mrs. Horne, whom all of our big brothers and sisters had for decades before. Mrs. Horne was “no-nonsense” and we were thankful for our reprieve. Mrs. Bradford was a kind old soul with a frail little body and a warbly voice. She had the requisite cat eye glasses, brillo hair and wrinkled turkey neck. She was probably about sixty years old but to a sixth grader that’s like 100.

I don’t know whose idea it was, maybe it’s just that she was an easier target than Mrs. Horne was, but someone decided we were going to send Mrs. Bradford into retirement with a bang. 

It started out as small stuff. I would ask her if a few of us could measure the hallways for math extra credit. She’d smile in approval and hand us a yardstick which we cast aside as we sat under the coatrack. We’d come back to class after an hour or so and tell her the halls measured 25,000 feet. She said okay and marked it in her book.

As the weeks went on, we’d pass around notes instructing the class to all get up and sharpen our pencils at 2:15 or go into coughing fits at 10:25. One morning, after a round of synchronized sneezing, she screamed “You are so INSOLENT!” and stormed out of the room slamming the door behind her. Once she had gathered her wits, she came back to the room to find the door locked. We laughed at her through the window. Her knotty index finger shaking wildly at us. She had to get the principal, Mr. Gilbert, to let her in.

The next day, I was called to the principal’s office. Mr. Gilbert had been told that “Scott tipped Mrs. Bradford over.” I shook like a leaf and teared up. I had never done anything wrong before. I was student body secretary for hell’s sake! “It must have been Scott Defa or Scott Harshman.” I was a whiz at psychological Gaslight torment but could never cause physical harm. I was let off the hook.

One day, I came into the room to find the bulletin board decorated with a new spring motif. That bulletin board had always been my territory and I was shocked to see it put into the hands of someone else. “I thought it would be nice to let Brooks have a turn at it,” she said in her wobbly old lady voice, “maybe you can do a cloud and some wind.” “Why don’t you let Brooks do it?!,” I shouted and hucked a jumbo blue Crayola across the room.

Each morning, Mrs. Bradford would ask various students to come to the front of the class to discuss Current Events. The only thing we ever discussed was KCPX’s Battle of the Records. Terry Jacks’ “Seasons in the Sun” was enjoying quite a string of victories. One day, Kip Taylor announced that it had beaten “Cherokee Nation” in a Battle Royale to become the new all-time champion. The class cheered wildly at this important victory. 

Mrs. Bradford took this as a way to get into our good graces. A week later, at the beginning of class there were pieces of sheet music on every desk. We were going to learn “Seasons in the Sun.” It was certainly more hip than “The Wells Fargo Wagon” or “Go Tell Aunt Rhody” —and it just so happened that it was also the week that we all became sick of Terry Jacks’ insipid dronefest. 

We booed and hissed as she led us in the opening strains. “Goodbye, Michelle, my trusted friend. We’ve known each other since we were nine or ten.” 

We were NOT going to sing that crap and proceeded to put powdered soap in the fish tank in an effort to kill her guppies.

Mrs. Bradford was never seen at Edison Elementary again.

We got a new teacher, Mr. Anderson who managed to eek it out for the rest of the year, shrugging off the spit balls and wads of gum on his chair.

***

Twenty years later, I was at KMart. I saw a shrunken old woman approaching me with one hand on a shopping cart and the other hanging onto what was probably her middle-aged daughter.

“Mrs. Bradford?” I asked. She looked at me with kind, yet nervous eyes and a bobbling head. “I’m Scott Perry. I was in your class at Edison in 1974.” 

“1974, 74, 74! ... Seventy Four!” The number sent her head spinning like Linda Blair’s. She clenched the arm of her companion and spun her cart in the other direction in a blaze of post-traumatic shock.

Gulp.

Now that I’m older and have friends of my own who are teachers, I feel like a pile of guppy dung and wish I could apologize to Mrs. Bradford. Seeing what today’s teachers have to put up with—testing, overcrowded classrooms and piss-poor funding (even spending their own money on countless copies of rejected sheet music)—a rogue bunch of pre-pubescent monsters can really drive even the strongest instructor over the edge.  

At Edison, I was the head chauffeur.

Reap What You Sew

In 1986, Allen and I wandered one night through the Salt Palace exhibition hall. The only sound was that of a person reading names—names of people we didn’t know.

We walked through a mosaic of three-by-five fabric panels, each bearing the name of someone who had died from AIDS. The names read from the podium seemed to keep time with the shuffle of feet as we shifted along. Hundreds of names, hundreds of lives. The panels told—as best as they could—the stories and personalities of those they depicted. Photos, flowers, teddy bears, musical notes and lots of rainbows were sewn and sequined to show the love, sorrow and respect of friends and family. Post mortem. The floor was covered from wall to wall. More panels were hung along the walls and stretched even further down the hall.

Allen and I wondered to each other if anyone would sew quilts for us when we died—and if so—what images they would contain. 

•••

Mom used to sit in her recliner in front of the television and sew for hours on end. With soap operas droning and Cokes being consumed by the 8-pack, she created piles of dish towels, pot holders—and quilts. They usually portrayed silly images like smiling carrots, frogs dressed as humans, or muddy pigs saying “Wednesday is Wash Day.”

Her curtains adorned the windows of our home and Winnebago. Her quilts were given to friends and relatives who had gotten married or given birth. 

One night, as she stitched a quilt for the friend of a neighbor of a cousin of a co-worker, I finally spoke up.

“You’re giving all these quilts away as wedding gifts, and I want one more than anybody. I’m never getting married. What do I have to do?”

Mom put down her embroidery hoop and looked at me from over the top of her glasses—a look I have since inherited. She gives me that look a lot. I was (and am) her high-maintenance child.

That Christmas, I went home to the house on Pueblo Street. I had spent most of my Christmases there. Mark and Loree had already come and gone. Dave was still in bed. Mom and Frank were holding court in their respective recliners. I sat on the floor by the tree and tried not to act excited. My thrill of Christmas still hadn’t worn off even though I awakened that year in an empty apartment with a spindly four-foot artificial tree (Note: Never spray aerosol snow on an already-decorated tree. It just looks dusty). 

I asked the folks if Santa had been good to them and reminded them about the time our dog, Yogi, puked up all the Christmas candy. As I fiddled with the wrapper of a chocolate gold coin I pretended not to notice a huge present with my name on the tag. Instead, I nonchalantly opened the smaller packages of crew socks given by my aunts.

“That big one’s yours.” Mom said, pointing at the package as massive as our orange vinyl ottoman.

I ripped the wrapping to shreds in the wink of an eye.

There it was. It was a patchwork quilt of stripes and plaids more colors than you could ever name and not a scheme to any of it. It was a huge quilt—maybe twice the size of those I remember others receiving. Every other square was stitched with a Scottie Dog or a little house with a shining sun and was backed with a cozy field of blue plaid flannel.

I was speechless—a rare occasion. Mom smiled and told me she had worked on it as she and Dad drove to and from St. George. The place they would soon call home. 

“Such a lot of fabric to be stuffed into the cab of a pickup with two grownups and two shedding dogs,” I thought, and imagined myself taking the road trip with them. I began to miss them already.

Later, as I drove home with my quilt on the seat next to me I thought back to the question Allen and I had posed to each other earlier that month: Who would make our quilts and what would they be?

No question that our mothers would do the stitching—that was a given. 

“Scottie Dog” is Mom’s nickname for me. The blue plaid, intended or not, looks strikingly similar to the tartan of our Garrick clan. But the sun shining over the house was a bit more symbolic, something I really didn’t get until I started telling you this. She sensed my desire for a happy home. Then and Now. She wished that happiness for me more than anything—and still does.

That night, I wafted it onto my bed. I crawled under it and looked out my window at the fresh blanket of snow. I felt the queen-sized hugs of Mom.

•••

The first time I washed the Quilt, I was a wreck. I never trusted the quality of homemade goods versus store bought and winced at the thought of it coming out of the washer in shreds or worse, ending up a plaid wad of dust in the lint trap. 

I placed it into the giant laundromat washing machine with a loving pat and said a silent prayer—perhaps like Mom had done with me on my first day of school. To my joy (and a smidge of amazement), the quilt survived the ordeal. It was new again and warm.

The Quilt is with me several years and many washings later. It has stood up to my cat’s projectiles, Ben and Jerry drippings, great lovers, bad flings, cold nights in the Uintas, and hot afternoons at Red Butte Gardens. It has been with me at every outdoor concert I have attended—Norah Jones, Joan Baez, kd lang, Ralph Stanley to name a few—where we’d sit for hours before the shows nibbling cheese, prosciutto, and cookies. And the wine! The Quilt has consumed nearly as much of it as my friends and I have. I was mortified after the first spill of merlot, but came to realize that Mom would love nothing more than to see me having so much fun, in that perfect setting, with such dear friends. Lots of wine has been spilled since then. It’s almost a ritual.

•••

So who would make my quilt and what would it say? My Mom did and it says more than this pinot-induced story could ever tell. But I can tell you this: Every thread that was stitched to pull two pieces of the whole together—did just that.

High Camp

The other day, I was asked why I’ve never gone to Burning Man. I tapped my chin in thought. And remembered. We had a Burning Man of our own a few years ago—seventeen to be exact.

Sit back and let me tell you a story.

My Rodeo rattled up the dusty pock-marked road to the South Willow campground in the Stansbury Mountains. We stopped and filled our water jugs at the ranger’s station. We already had three five-gallon tanks of liquid, but these were filled with Long Island Iced Tea, some Hop, Skip and Go Naked and box after box of cheap white zin. A lot of liquor you might say, but this had to sustain us (and 37 others) for the whole Labor Day weekend.

Upon reaching the campground (which we had reserved months ago) we found two families with their tents pitched and camp chairs poised. We approached them and told them politely that this spot was reserved and they might want to find another site. One family obliged. The other dug in their heels saying that they were there first. We drove back to the ranger’s station to see if he would intervene. Ranger Ron followed us back to camp and approached the family. He returned with a compromise—telling us that they offered to squish into a corner somewhere. As he eyed my friend Roger unloading the disco ball, we told him that they really, really wouldn’t want to do that. Kim put the electric piano in a safe spot and the squatter family split. The first annual RuPaul Bunyan Pageant was about to begin.

In a bit of small talk with the ranger, I discovered that he was good friends with my dad when they used to attend the mountain man rendezvous together. We chatted some more and I told him he’d have to stop by later for a drink. He watched Steve and Jerry attach an inflatable flamingo to the bridge, and said “we’ll have to see.”

Little by little our group arrived until the last of the 40 tried to find a parking spot. Robert Scott showed up not only with his sleeping tent, but a dressing tent as well. The RuPaul Bunyan Pageant was a formal outing after all. 

Once the tents were pitched and the saloon was open, the guys gathered for cocktail hour in “camp central.” Gloria Gaynor blasted from the boom box as the men chattered and cackled like hens. Robert Scott joined the group in a red sequined cocktail dress.

Once the table was set in matching plates and table cloth bearing a Barbie motif, Roger placed a bonbon in the center of each setting. I gathered some wildflowers for the centerpieces. We rang the dinner bell and watched the red carpet fashion parade from the tents to the dining room. Scott (not I) and John wore matching tuxes. Another John wore a full-fledged bridal gown. There were pioneer skirts, go-go dresses even a couple of bedazzled blaze orange hunting vests.

Dinner was fabulous. The pageant committee ruled that no food could be pre-made or from a package so we had lots of dutch oven dishes like pot roast, chili and—not surprisingly—quiche.

Afterward we assembled around the fire and smoked Swisher Sweets. Robert Scott joined us in a smart Julie Christie number complete with a fur hat and muff.

We laughed, gossiped and laughed some more until we ran out of things to say. Strange, for this group. We stargazed and breathed in the Tooele County air.

Then the show began.

A bottle of Jagermeister was sent clockwise around the circle. Counter-clockwise was a bottle of Hot Damn. They both ended up in Roger’s hands at the top of the circle so he had a swig of each. (Caveat: Roger doesn’t really drink that much and had already been a frequent visitor to the Long Island cooler). He passed the bottles to Kim on his right and me on his left. We took a swig and handed them back to Roger. He took another swig and passed the bottles on. We handed them back to Roger again. This went on for a while until he caught on. It was then that his eyes widened, he dug in his heels, reared back in his chair, grabbed tight to the armrests—and hurled a projectile arc of puke clear over the fire. Well, you can guess with that much alcohol, the arc flared up in a flaming display that would make Bellagio green with envy.

We escorted poor Rog to his tent and duct-taped his door closed so he wouldn’t get out and fall in the river during the night.

Then it was back to the fire pit where we stared into the embers some more. In the darkness, you could hear the faint sound of Roger clawing at his tent flap. Scratch, scratch, hurl. Scratch, scratch hurl. 

Burning Man had nothing on us. We had one of our very own.

Handle With Care

When I was Four

I sat with my brothers in the bathtub. I was the middle child, both genealogically and geographically. Mark, the oldest, on my right, David, the baby, at my left. Looking back, I realize that seating arrangement was just part of her constant attention to organization. 

The faint fizzle of bubbles tickled my ears as we wallowed in the warm, soapy water. Milk Bath was her secret ingredient. Its slender plastic bottle with swirly golden letters exuded warmth as it stood on the corner of the tub against a cool backdrop of pink and gray ceramic tile.  She knelt beside the tub on a pink chenille rug and poured a puddle of cold shampoo into her cupped left hand. With magical motion, her hands circled my scalp like a genie caressing a crystal ball, and transformed it into a tingling mound of rose-scented foam. Then, shielding my eyes from the cascading suds, she rinsed my hair clean with clear water from yet another milk bath bottle which had seen better days. 

Nothing went to waste in Grandma’s house. A few practical snips with the scissors had removed the bottle’s top, sparing it from the trash bin and giving it new life as a carafe. But countless bath nights had taken their toll on the swirly golden letters, its slender shape remained its only recognizable trait. 

Once we were clean, she told us “what good boys we were,” and began the drying portion of the evening—first Mark; then she reached her hands out to me, as if inviting me onto a dance floor. Steadying me as I stood on the slippery bottom of the tub, she dried me with brisk, efficient motion. The giant towel wafted a blur of pink rose petals throughout the tiny bathroom of her bungalow. With a loving pat on my freshly scrubbed butt, she sent me to the bed, where my pajamas and clean underwear awaited in a crisp folded stack—smack dab between Mark’s and David’s. 

That night, as she tucked me beneath the mounds of sheets, quilts and blankets, I never dreamed that I was not in my own home. I didn’t wonder where my mom and dad were. I didn’t listen to the hum of the refrigerator motor as I did in my own home, and still do. I just basked in Grandma’s squeaky clean affection, and drifted to sleep. 

The next morning my brothers and I sat at her kitchen table with voracious appetites as she scurried about in her blue and white polka dot dress, her lipstick perfect, not a hair out of place. The woodsy smell of homemade maple syrup bubbled from the stovetop as we eyed the steaming plate of French toast. She dusted each piece with cinnamon sugar—pre-mixed and shaken from what once was as a jelly jar. “How are you kids this morning,” she asked with sparkling eyes, then poured our orange juice into tiny glasses from the remains of an old milk bath bottle.

Grandma at Eighty

It was a surprise date. First of all because she didn’t know where I was taking her for her eightieth birthday. Secondly, because the man approaching her car door was a valet, not a carjacker. He opened her door and reached out his hand to take hers, she let out a nervous sigh of relief. This was going to be a great night. We treaded along icy the brick walkway to the front doors of La Caille. I found myself holding my breath as the valet walked with her arm in his. I felt I was entrusting a priceless antique to a moving crew.  A product of sturdy farmer stock, Grandma is very capable of taking care of herself. Maybe too capable. But despite her best efforts, the past couple of years had started to show. I announced our arrival to the maitre’d and gazed around the foyer at the glassy stares of taxidermied animal heads. Grandma’s eyes darted from the flower arrangements to the paintings of fruit and dead game. “Look over your head,” I told her, pointing to the stuffed walrus head above. “Oh my gosh,” she giggled as if that wasn’t the silliest thing she’d ever laid eyes on.

I offered her my arm as though leading her to a dance floor. We carefully walked up the dark, stone stairway. Cautiously feeling for every step, she whispered, “you are so nice.” 

We were seated at a linen-covered table for two. From our window we could see the gleaming lights of a gazebo shimmering in the orchard. The day’s newly fallen snow clinged to the evergreens as a mist rose from the freezing ponds. “I know you’ve always wanted to go back to Europe—but this is all I can afford.” A white peacock strutted his way past the gazebo. She smiled and said “Maybe next year.” 

Our waiter brought the appetizer menu, told us of his favorites and left us to ponder. “The French onion soup looks really good,” she said. “I think I’ll just have that.” I warned her that these were just the appetizers, and to save room for the entrée. She glanced back down at the menu. “Eleven dollars?” she mouthed in disbelief. I nodded. She shook her head and smiled. Her eyes sparkled. The gazebo paled in comparison. She ordered the soup.

We feasted for two hours. She had salmon, I had the prime rib—rare. She chided me about eating meat that was barely cooked. We talked of her trip to Sweden (how she hated the raw fish but didn’t dare spit it into her linen napkin), her cruise with Aunt LaVon (nice, but LaVon never wanted to do anything), her cousin Gladys’ stroke (she still hadn’t been up to visit her) and her own ambulance ride to the hospital (embarrassed that all of the neighbors were watching). She asked about my job and how my brothers were doing. Then she told me what good kids we all were. I’d heard all of it before, but this time it seemed new. 

After our dessert of swan-shaped pastries, the waiter brought our check and a box of chocolates tied up with a gold ribbon “for the lady.” “How did they know it was my birthday?” she kidded. From the way she was beaming, I think everyone in the restaurant knew. She saved the chocolates for our drive home. 

•••

The freeway was empty, except for Grandma and me as the lights of the city twinkled before us. Chewing on chocolates, we delved again into the topic of doctors and heart attacks, she confided to me that she had found a lump in her breast and was going to have it checked in the morning. “Oh, I shouldn’t be telling you this.” she said, as though covering herself from a surprise bathtub intrusion. I took her hand and tried to think of something to say. We’d gone over everything from bad fish to brands of aspirin, but this topic was new. Personal. Serious. For the first time that night we were quiet, the good kind of quiet—the kind that says more than any conversation. 

At her bungalow on Hollywood Avenue,  I walked her to the door. We hugged and she thanked me again. “Here. You have this,” she said, and with a tender squeeze placed the empty chocolate box with gold ribbon in my hand. I gave her a peck on the cheek—her eighty-year-old hand still in mine—and wished her a happy birthday.

She waved goodnight from her doorway as she always did. On any other night, I doubt she would have seen much more than the shadow of my car and two red tail lights in the darkness. But that night, all of Hollywood Avenue seemed to glisten from the sparkle in her eyes.

I drove home and drew a hot bath.

Brrrbon Slush

“On a day like this, all I wanna do is sit around in a dirty slip drinkin’ hot gin out of the bottle.” These words inspired a party one summer that never happened. We were all going to sit on the front porch of my tiny little cottage one sweltering summer afternoon wearing ladies underwear, drinking cocktails with box fans a-blowin’. It was a fun party in theory, but unfortunately some of the guys couldn’t make it, and some didn’t want to dress up. We cancelled the costume part but forgot to tell Wes and Gary. So down Wilshire Place they tromped in all their Victoria Secret Glory with Tanqueray in hand. 

I love summer drinks. Here’s a favorite from my old beau Christopher’s Grandma Burton...

Louise Burton’s Bourbon Slush

2 black tea bags

1 cup boiling water

1 cup sugar

3 1/2 cups cold water

6 oz can frozen orange juice

6 oz can frozen pineapple juice

6 oz can frozen lemonade

1 1/2 cups bourbon

Steep teabags in boiling water. Stir in sugar until dissolved. Stir in remaining ingredients. Freeze. Remove 10 minutes before serving. Shave scrapings into glasses with a metal spoon or ice cream scoop

Serves 12.

Mr. Show Biz

“Hey Scott, could you bring me my pants?”

It’s hard to imagine this request being croaked from the man who had just arrived for his photo shoot with a carload of brocade show jackets, and his driver Stevie in tow. But there he stood—in his wrinkled tank top and white boxers, looking much smaller than the giant he was.

Eugene Jelesnik, for as far back as I can remember, was Mr. Show Biz. On Saturday afternoons he would bring his “Talent Showcase” into our living room with acts such as dancing poodles and warbling housewives. He introduced each contestant like Ed Sullivan himself. The acts were always mediocre, and the applause was always canned, but I watched with envy as those people received their fifteen minutes of fame. One afternoon, “Scorpio Eye” was the local rock band trying to make it big. By all rights, they were a pretty bad act, and nothing I would normally sit through. But the Calacino brothers were my brother’s friends, and now they had hit the big time. When they were through, Eugene Jelesnik joined them on stage as the pre-recorded applause echoed through the Channel 5 studio. His eyes dancing with glee at his newest discovery. His shimmery lamé jacket making him look much larger than his barely five foot frame. He patted them on the back and whisked them offstage to make way for the next act. When everyone was through, he brought them all on stage to announce the winner which was picked by the applause meter. Show biz! Salt Lake City style!

One summer, my mom took me to Liberty Park for one of the Sunday Night Band concerts. It was an age old event that featured the Salt Lake Philharmonic under the baton of Maestro Eugene Jelesnik. They crashed through renditions of “God Bless America” and “Flight of the Bumblebee” as the audience tapped their feet wand swatted at mosquitoes with their programs. There he was... In person... Mr. Show Biz.

Years later, my editor, came into my office and told me that a writer was working on a story about a man named Eugene Jelesnik and asked if I thought it would be any good. I nearly peed my pants. I called Tom, the only photographer I knew who would appreciate the chance to shoot such an icon. He nearly peed, too.

The day of the shoot, I stood outside of Tom’s photo studio to flag down the Maestro. He rolled up in a little black Hyundai with a Jesus fish pasted on the bumper. and waved from the passenger side. “Hi, Eugene,” I fawned. “I’m Scott” He smiled as he crawled out of the car. “Hi Scott. This is my driver Stevie” he said motioning in his Sullivanesque way to a sixty-ish man with rumpled clothes and a too-large tooth in the center of his grin. “Come on in, “ I Sullivanned back, “We’re just about ready.”

We walked into the studio and hung up a half dozen Mr. Mac garment bags. “These are my show jackets” he said in his slightly fractured English, “I have eighty more at home.” I marveled at the colors and textures and drooled at the way they would reflect the colored lights Tom had set up. I picked my two favorites and sent him into the dressing room to change. “I think the light blue tuxedo shirt looks better than the white, don’t you?” “Sure,” I said, “you’re the pro.” He stepped into the changing room as Tom and I rubbed our hands in boyish anticipation.

“Hey Scott, could you hand me my pants?” he called. I glanced across the studio to see his wrinkled body buried inside a rumple of underclothes, and took his pants to him. Who would have guessed that not only was I in the same room with my idol, but he would be half naked to boot.

He came out shortly afterward dressed to the nines— a gold lamé jacket, black bow tie, blue and red jeweled cufflinks, rings on most of his fingers and that blue tuxedo shirt. TV could never do him justice. He took his place on the mark and Tom lowered the lights about a foot to accommodate his dwarfish stature. “It’s showtime!” I blurted as he let loose with that Hollywood smile. His eyes twinkled as his arms whisked back and forth, pointing to the camera. He looked like Liberace selling used cars on a late night TV commercial. Every shot was classic. 

We shot some color film then some black and white and called it a wrap.

After he had changed into his street clothes, he showed me his scrapbook. It was filled with USO pictures with Sinatra, and a dozen or so personal letters from Nixon, Bobby Kennedy and a handful from JFK. 

Eugene looked at his gigantic watch and said, “Thank you for your courtesies, Scott. Do you like Indian food? Let me take you to lunch.” I nearly fainted. Out of my many teenage idols—Leif Garrett, Scott Baio, Shaun Cassidy—who would have thought Eugene Jelesnik would end up treating me to tandoori chicken after letting me see him in his underwear.

258 Bishop Place

It’s hard to tell an actual story about a time I barely remember, but there are little glimpses and vignettes kicking around in my head of things that took place while I lived at 258 Bishop Place. 

Ours was a little grey clapboard house on a tiny dead end street in downtown Salt Lake City. There were ten small houses—each belonging to a different relative on my mom’s side of the family—the Bishop side. The house belonged to my Mom’s Grandma Aggie and was across the alley from her parents house—her childhood home. We moved in when I was three and moved out when I was six. At that age, the small things are just as important as the big ones.

I remember we all slept in the same bedroom. Mom, Dad, Mark, me and David. 

I remember when we got bunk beds. It seem to recall sleeping in a play pen until then. I slept in that same bed and mattress until I was 23.

II remember spending the night at Grandma Perry’s once while Mom and Dad went to Yellowstone. I didn’t know why we were there. It didn’t matter, it was just a nice time.

One night there was a huge thunderstorm and I crawled into bed with Mom and Dad.

I remember Dad sketching portraits of the three of us kids.

I remember the smell of Dad’s oil paint, and his paintings of dark turquoise pine trees and rivers.

I remember Mom taking us to “the smelter” early one morning. Dad had forgotten his lunch or wallet or something.

Once, Mom and Dad were arguing. They were in the bathroom. I was sitting at the piano. Our portraits were hung on the wall above.

The next memory is of dad moving out with no explanation. He had an armload of albums, and put them in the back of his yellow pickup truck. It had a portable spare gas tank in the back, with a big “X” painted on it with white house paint.

I remember Dad taking us to his new apartment. It was upstairs, dark and dirty. The bathroom had a rusty sink. I remember a can of shaving cream and a razor. We roasted marshmallows in his fireplace with a woman named Louise.

I remember playing Batman—sliding down the poles on the patio. We’d use the picnic bench to climb to the top of the poles. I dropped the picnic bench on my toe, tearing off the nail, and getting rushed to a dark, dingy hospital where it was scrubbed with a horrible brush.

I remember coming home with Mom one day, to find the neighbor kids jumping on her bed.

I remember Mom’s snowman with food coloring eyes.

I remember the sandbox with dump trucks in the back yard. The birdbath, the snowball bush.

I remember playing cops and robbers on our trikes in Mr. Droubay’s driveway

I remember my 5th birthday. I got a Jack-in-the-Box, a wading pool and a stuffed Smokey the Bear, which Mark threw onto the roof.

I also had a my pink hippo placemat and blue cowboy boot cup, along with a toy Winnie-the-Pooh who would dangle from my cereal bowl and watch me eat.

I remember watching Grandma Bishop standing in her window across the alley. She covered her ears with pillows to protect them from the thunder and lightning

I remember watching “Lost In Space” and seeing Dave hide behind the door—afraid of the robot.

I remember someone broke Grandma’s window with a ball. I remember that I knew who it was, but wouldn’t tattle. She asked if “a cat had my tongue.” A strange phrase to a little kid.

I remember the chest of drawers with our pajamas inside. I also had a little red swimsuit. It was heavy cotton with a little blue dinosaur embroidered on it. I had a brown corduroy coat with white fur trim on the hood.

I remember outings to the zoo and Liberty Park with Mom and her friend Betty Snyder. Betty had three girls to offset Mom’s three boys. Hogle Zoo had a drinking fountain shaped like a big yellow lion. They also had a talking garbage dumpster with a clown face that would suck garbage right out of your hand. 

I remember David slipping on the floor one day. Aunt Doris said “Whoops-a-daisy!” I thought that was a strange phrase, too.

There was a deaf couple on our street.

I remember Faye Lambert. She live next door to Grandma and Grandpa. Her dad worked at Sinclair oil and gave us an inflatable dinosaur. One day Faye, myself, and some other neighbors boys exposed ourselves to each other behind the car.

I remember O.P. Skaggs. The people who worked there. The candy, the butcher. There was a drug store across the street. I bought a Humpty Dumpty ladder toy there.

I remember sitting in front of the furnace. Mark was teaching me to read. It was a story about some ducks that walked through a dirty pipe and turned black. Mom was embroidering in the chair next to us.

I remember David writing our great big phone number (359-7073) in blue crayon on the outside wall.

I remember my first day of Kindergarten. Parents and kids filling out cards around little tables. We made construction paper stoplights. I finished mine early and made an extra one. When the class was excused for recess, I kissed Mrs. Hill on the cheek before going outside. It seems that I was hesitant to go out. I just wanted to stay inside with  her, rather than go out with the other kids. I remember the green vinyl sleeping mats and graham crackers.

I remember watching “Concentration” on our old black and white TV before afternoon school. I stopped in at Grandma’s to tell her and Mom goodbye before I left.

One day, on the way home from school, a dog barked at me from behind a fence, running the length of it. I was crying when I got home. Mom was there with some lady. They told me everything would be okay.

I remember one day our class walked to our house. Mom says it was to see our pet ducks. I remember Mrs. Hill shout “Somebody’s making chili sauce!” Mom gave her a jar of some.

Another day, we had our bodies traced on paper then we colored our “self-portraits.” 

We had a teacher’s aide named David Oreno. I remember sitting on his lap and reading a “Peanuts” book to the class before we all took off to the zoo. I remember whispers of disbelief that a kid my age could read.

I remember Mr. Oreno playing his guitar and singing “Puff the Magic Dragon” and “The Bloody Red Baron” on the steps outside.

In first grade, I remember taking a walk outside, gathering autumn leaves with Mrs. Coffee and the class. We also found horse chestnuts and a cocoon. She was the “advanced kids” teacher. I remember the coat rack, the walled-off reading area and her desk. I remember our class conducted a mock presidential poll between Nixon and Humphrey. It seems as though Humphrey won.

I remember the lunch room (vaguely). Big and dark with lots of stainless steel. This seems like it should be an important memory. I’m not sure why. I guess it’s vague, because I only spent a few months eating there. Maybe I went home for lunch. Actually, I remember brown bag tuna sandwiches. But something haunts me about this lunchroom. A telephone?

I remember Debbie Lucero, Rebecca Huff and Thomas Christensen. Rebecca lived in “Swede Town.” I went to Debbie’s house once. I don’t remember why. Thomas and I walked halfway home from school together. I didn’t play with any of the school kids. The Tweedy’s lived a couple of houses away. We’d play with them sometimes—Bobby and Loralee.

I remember the day of Mom and Frank’s wedding. Mrs. Coffee told me that Grandma Perry was coming to get me after lunch to spend the night with her because Mom was getting married and going to Nevada. This was news to me. But it really didn’t sink in until we moved into a nice new house on Pueblo Street with lots of rooms. I remember running down the long carpeted hallway like an airplane and plunging head first into my bed. Mom made bright bedroom curtains printed with colorful clowns. She also made matching pajamas. 

New house. New school. New family. 

New life.