Ah, Epiphany

I made it through another Christmas season, it seems, by having a very successful Epiphany party last night. The whole neighborhood showed up, and a few other friends, the candles only burned one child (yikes!) and the left overs look manageable (sort of). And there is always a little Akvavit to keep me humming.

When I mover to Boston in September 1977, I celebrated Christmas at home with my family in Rhode Island. That was fine, But by December 1978, I felt I needed my own Christmas "do," and so I held a mid-week party (was it on a Wednesday? a Thursday??) where friends stopped by after work.

In those days, most of my friends were waiters and waitresses at the 57 Restaurant ("best beef in Boston" according to the truck drivers of the New York Times). Everyone loved to party and I'd jam thirty people at a time into my one-room studio (and overflow into the hallway and stairwell). My neighbors would join in, and amid much conviviality we'd get sloppy and smoochy and very touchy (unlike today!). I'd keep food and drink cold on the fire escape, a friend would play my piano and we'd sing . . . a pattern established for the future.

After a couple of tries at an early Christmas, it became clear to me that I needed another way, and so I think it was at Christmas 1979 that I decided to shift the party to after Christmas so that I could really give it some attention (and still get all my church- and music-related Christmas responsibilities addressed). So I initiated the Epiphany Party for which I am yet remembered. My family would show up from Rhode Island, friends would drop in and out, the food and drink would be largely Swedish, and the stories far too obscure and long. We'd sing Christmas carols one last time, a few friends would show off their singing, and many toasts would be offered.

Now I get misty. Last night as I sat with a next-to-the-last guest waiting for his (last guest) ride, I thought of three special people. Leonel, of course. We met at Carlos Latoni's "Tres Reyes" party (Puerto Rican food and ultra-swishy host!) on a Friday night, and I gave him a ride home to Roslindale. He showed up at my house for most of the day on Saturday to help me cook and clean, and then I brought hi home again. And on Sunday evening, he showed up to help, dressed handsomely, respectfully; he interacted with friends and enjoyed himself and at the end of the night, even as I was trying to get the last few guests to leave, he put his arms around me and told me that he loved my family and friends and lifestyle . . . and he spent the night!

Two other souls were present in my mind. My dad and Priscilla Grey used to spend hours in the kitchen together in my Boylston Street apartment overlooking Copley Square. They'd wash and dry dishes (I never used paper plates or plastic utensils in those days!) and share some close times. Priscilla loved to listen and Dad loved to talk. Priscilla just appreciated people, and Dad appreciated being busy. They died about a month apart two summers ago, Priscilla discovering that here chest cold was not a cold at all but a web of metastasized cancer throughout her torso; Dad having overcome his renal cell cancer, but his body just being exhausted. Dad a week short of his 75th birthday, Priscilla shy of her 60th.

Epiphany becomes a touchstone for me, a memory and loss place, certainly, but a hope-center, too. I treasure an evening with friends, I hope there'll be someone special to share the days with, I look forward to the new year and the possibilities that await.

But this morning, I'm going back to take a little nap! Ah, Mondays!

Good morning.

Recovering from an Open House

I've had a busy couple of weeks (well, maybe more than a couple of weeks), and felt tremendous anxiety as yesterday approached. In order to force the issue of making progress on my kitchen renovations, I scheduled an Open House and invited the church. This means that the work that didn't get finished over Thanksgiving weekend really needed to be finished, and the house organized and cleaned up. With help from Will and Sheila, members of the church, my assistant Cheryl and Sheila's sister Connie, the work got finished . . . with minutes to spare!

I was pleased that I got the piano tuned. I don't play more than a few minutes a day, but having it available means a lot to me. And I was so happy after Thursday's staff meeting--at the house--that Amy sat down and played from memory a few pieces (while her daughter Alexandra slept and smiled).

I am terrifically excited that Jim Deitering was able to get over and move the gas line into the kitchen. This let me switch the refrigerator and the stove, and makes the cabinets formerly around the refrigerator finally accessible. The layout is still not entirely "mine," but the space is far more workable, and without the cost of totally redoing the kitchen. (I'll save that for a couple of years from now!)

I also was pleased to have laid out at least the tiles that will soon cover the three countertops. My next aim is to get them glued and grouted before Epiphany . . .

The Open House was affected by the snowstorm we had Saturday night and Sunday morning, but there was a fun and respectable showing. most of the food was purchased, rather than prepared from scratch, but it was just fine. And I cut down the oddly growing top of the damaged tree outside my kitchen window, and got from it an large "piano top" Christmas tree, which, when wired together, found good form and graces the living room.

After everyone left, I turned the lights down and sighed a bit. (I recall the moments in "Fanny and Alexander" when Grandmother on Christmas Eve seeks to weep . . . and it takes a few tries.) What finally brought the heaving tears was listening to Holly Near's "Somebody's Jail." Here are the lyrics. They speak to me.

Somebody's Jail
Words and music by Holly Near
© Hereford Music (ASCAP)

Just walking along, shopping for food
Stepping out of the line of fire when people are rude
Cheap stuff made in China, someone calls it a sale
Somebody's mama, somebody's daughter, somebody's jail

Beat down in the market, stoned to death in the plaza
Raped on the hillside under the gun from LA to Gaza
A house made of cardboard, living close to the rail
Somebody's mama, somebody's daughter, somebody's jail

(chorus)
And I feel the witch in my veins, I feel the mother in my shoe
I feel the scream in my soul, The blood as I sing the ancient blue.
They burned in the millions, I still smell the fire in my grandma's hair
The war against women rages on, beware of the fairytale
Somebody's mama, somebody's daughter, somebody's jail

The noise of elections, the promise of change 

The grabbing of power at the top, a day at the rifle range
Somebody's in danger, somebody's for sale
Somebody's mama, somebody's daughter, somebody's jail

(chorus)
And I feel the witch in my veins, I feel the mother in my shoe
I feel the scream in my soul, The blood as I sing the ancient blue.
They burned in the millions, I still smell the fire in my grandma's hair
The war against women rages on, beware of the fairytale
Somebody's mama, somebody's daughter, somebody's jail

(spoken)
It isn't a country, it's not on a map
The weight of the world on somebody's back
It's the clothes that I wear, it's the food that I eat
It's the women and the children living out on the street

It's the war at the border, the refugee camp
It's the child bride doomed to walk the ramp
It's the boot in the stomach, the slap in the face
It's the death that is handed out simply by race

Rape by the soldiers, abduction of sons
It's nuclear threat, the fascination with guns
Looks at the office, the danger at night
The one you call darling coming home for a fight

It's the AIDS with no borders, it's the African teen
It's the women all over simply going unseen
It's the arrogant posture, the man on the moon
It's the dying of need before the promise of soon

It's the millions who go without food and water
It's somebody's mother, somebody's daughter

(chorus)
And I feel the witch in my veins, I feel the mother in my shoe
I feel the scream in my soul, The blood as I sing the ancient blue.
They burned in the millions, I still smell the fire in my grandma's hair
The war against women rages on, beware of the fairytale
Somebody's mama, somebody's daughter, somebody's jail

Recorded on "Show Up," sung by Holly Near, Keyboards – John Bucchino, Bass – Jan Martinelli, Guitar – Nina Gerber, Drums – Paul van Wageningen

Well, I'm crying again, already. What a weepy, sissy boy!

Crisp and clear outside. Good morning! (And now I'm back to bed!)