Fireworks at Oakland Beach

By Lisa A. Eramo

Rainbows waves of beach chairs dot the shore and grass. The air is warm and damp, and you can smell a mixture of sun tan lotion and the clam cakes from Iggy's nearby.

We're all waiting for the show to begin. Once the sun moves out of sight, the night sky will turn into a kaleidoscope.

I sip on a bottle of water that's sweating slowly on my leg and stretch out in my bright orange chair. A man selling glowsticks pushes a cart while donning a flashing Mohawk headband. A father chases after him, waving a $5 bill like a flag. Kids run and throw a bouncy ball. A woman lays down on a blanket under a tree. Strollers and beach buggies roll by like slow dancers on a stage. A baby screams and is comforted by a handful of sweet-smelling popcorn. Someone cracks open a can of soda.  

I gaze over at Melany. Goosebumps start to form on her arms and legs as a cool breeze tickles our skin. Honey, put your sweatshirt on, I say. She does, flashing me a playful smile. I continue to look around, nibbling on a granola bar while longing for fish and chips instead. Two children next to us spray bug spray on their arms and legs. It smells fruity, and I regret that we hadn't brought any with us.

The sky turns rose then charcoal then tarry. A few stars try their best to sparkle: the opening act.

Boom. Sparkle. Crackle. Fade. Nothing but a vague smoky trail is left behind.

The first one catches me by surprise. I'm both scared and excited simultaneously. It's beautiful -- the way it lights up the sky like a flower blooming. We scream and applaud its grand entrance. I want more.

Boom. Sparkle. Crackle. Fade. This one shoots up high and explodes in a circle. I want another. My heart is pounding.

Boom. Sparkle. Crackle. Fade. This one sizzles and spirals in every direction. I want another.

Boom. Sparkle. Crackle. Fade. This one is red, white, and blue. How? Would there be more?

The grand finale is a Jackson Pollock painting. Splatters of color and light. Even after it's over, the stars seem larger than life -- as if they could fall to the earth at any moment.

I start to think about how each work of fire makes its way into the sky just for us. For a second -- or maybe two -- these bursts beat in time with our hearts and come alive to entertain, shock, and inspire us. What a gift.

In a sense, aren't we all a bit like fireworks? In a flash, we are here. If we're lucky, we make an impression on someone or something. Then, in a flash, we are gone, fading into the clouds until someone blinks twice at a star to see whether they can get a fleeting glimpse of us.

Winter cardinal

For Melany

I see her perched
alone on bare birch,
a heart
fluttering life into a snowy tree.
Soft crystals dust over her wings,
and she watches as branches slow dance
to the slurred tune she sings.
I stand still to glance
at her coral-colored beak and red-tinted crest,
the beauty of her own unawareness.
She walks along an outstretched arm,
then sways as Christmas bells sound their charm.
Her feathers shield the chill of winter’s night,
and she waits for the perfect moment
when instinct gives her flight.

We're not in Kansas anymore!

By Lisa A. Eramo

"Don't worry, the landlord will fix that gaping hole in the front porch. He's going to be doing some work on the exterior of the house this summer," said the realtor, fumbling with her keys so she could quickly open the front door and reduce the amount of time we'd have to notice any other major flaws in the house's deteriorating porch.

The hole and rotted wood didn't surprise me. When we had initially pulled up to the house, we almost couldn't believe our eyes. The pictures on craigslist looked nothing like this house that appeared to be a spitting image of something the Adam's family would have owned.

The lawn was overgrown with weeds, a window on the second floor was busted out and covered with cardboard, and chipping paint and dirty siding certainly left something to be desired. But, we figured we'd go inside and take a look. Maybe this place was like a geode--ugly on the outside, but a hidden gem once you got in there.

Wishful thinking.

The previous tenant appeared to have left the place in a whirlwind. Literally. There were crayons on the floor, Q-tips and opened toiletries left in the bathroom, dust bunnies galore, and probably even food in the fridge (I was too afraid to look). The realtor could hardly answer any of our questions, including basic ones such as 'Do you know what the landlord's timeline is for fixing the porch?' and 'Where is the washer/dryer hookup?' and 'How much of the basement would be ours?' She had that deer in headlights look whenever we asked for more information.

Hmm. This was not the apartment for us...and certainly not at a price tag of $950/mo.

Unfortunately, horror stories such as this one have become increasingly more common the more apartments we view and landlords/realtors we meet.

For example, consider the realtor who made us drive in torrential downpours to see a third floor apartment only to realize she didn't have the right keys after we climbed three flights of stairs. We know it couldn't have been intentional because she herself had just had hip surgery and really wasn't in a position to be climbing up one step let alone three winding flights of them. Crazy, huh?

Oh, and we can't forget the realtor who looked at us as though we each had ten heads when asked the question 'Do you mind if we eventually meet the landlord before signing any lease?'

"Um, that's really odd, don't you think?" she said, squinting at us in the middle of the street as we walked back to our respective cars. "Most tenants don't want to meet the landlord."

"Actually, I don't think it's strange at all," I said. "I want to get a sense of his or her communication style."

Needless to say, it wasn't going to work out. If the landlord didn't want to meet us, we didn't want to pay his or her mortgage. End of story.

In some cases, I put the kibosh on the apartment after exchanging an email or speaking on the phone.

One landlord with whom I spoke told me there was a dishwasher in the kitchen but that it wasn't currently working. When asked whether she planned to fix it prior to a new tenant moving in, she said "Oh, no. We won't be fixing it."

Did we want to rent from a landlord who didn't fix appliances? Um, no thanks.

Another landlord told me in an email that he didn't know whether there was a washer/dryer hookup in the house. Not sure how you couldn't know the answer to this very basic question, but needless to say, I took that place off the list right away.

Ugh, it has been a treacherous journey thus far. Among our travels to view apartments, we've overlooked plenty of dirt. We've nearly broken our legs climbing into dark basements because "the electricity has been turned off." We've gotten lost trying to find places that were off the beaten path. We've argued. We've laughed. We're realized how difficult it is to find a nice apartment and that in some ways, any place you hang your hat is home.

PS: We've got several more apartments lined up throughout this week and next, so stay tuned for other hilarious stories!

A $75 view of the Long Island Sound

By Lisa A. Eramo

This past weekend, Mel and I had to travel to Long Island for a funeral on her side of the family. We decided to make it an overnight visit so I could see where she was born and raised and so we could spend some time exploring the area. I'd never been there, and she hadn't been back in almost 10 years. Things would surely look different. Let's take a stroll down memory lane and see how much things had changed, we said.

Aside from visiting her old school, the house in which she used to live, and several other area attractions, we decided to drive into a small and very affluent village in Port Jefferson called Belle Terre. Mel and her mom used to drive through the development and stare wide-eyed at the multi-million dollar homes. At the end of the tree-lined and windy street that dissects the village, there's a small dead-end rotary overlooking the Long Island Sound. It's a beautiful view if you're patient enough to peek through the overgrown trees and bushes that protect it.

Aside from the slightly obstructed view, there's not much else there. That is, except for what appeared to be a police officer relaxing in his cruiser as the warm seaside breeze tickled his skin. He looked at us, we looked at him, and we continued round the road.

As we pulled around the rotary, we both noticed a few signs that said "no stopping or standing." Hmm...were these signs actually legitimate? It didn't make any sense to say someone couldn't stop on a dead end street. And if someone wasn't supposed to stop there, why wasn't the road blocked off? Better yet, why wasn't the entire village gated? Perhaps the cop was only there to keep the peace and ensure there wasn't any horsing around happening in this oh-so-posh neighborhood. Rich people certainly like their safety, we said.

Thus, we reasoned ourselves into getting out of the car to take a photo.

Within seconds, the cop who seemed to have come to life and out of his mid-day nap pulled his cruiser around the bend and demanded Mel's license.

"How many signs do you see in this area that say no stopping??" he screamed, his fists clenched around the steering wheel. "Don't you know what that means? Didn't you see me sitting here?"

"Yes, we saw you as soon as we came in," I said.

"Well then that means you disrespected me! I'm issuing you a ticket," he screamed again, his eyes bulging out of his head.

The guy looked like a lunatic. It was almost as if someone had just let him out of an insane asylum and told him to go sit on a dead end street as penance. He acted as though he hadn't been in contact with other human beings in days and therefore didn't know how to speak rationally and respectfully. I was half expecting him to start communicating with the trees and birds--his only friends.

At this point, I noticed that the badge on his arm and the logo on his car, both of which said "Constable" (not cop). Was this guy even a legitimate police officer? If he wasn't holding Mel's license in his hand, I probably would have suggested to her that we get back in the car and drive out of this Stepford Wife-like place.

The guy seemed to revel in the fact that he had control over us. He took his sweet time writing down Mel's license plate number and all her personal information. Meanwhile, Mel started sobbing uncontrollably, trying to explain that we were in town for a funeral and that she just wanted to take a quick photo. Uh oh, this was going to turn ugly unless this guy showed us once ounce of respect.

Instead, he said nothing in return and was completely void of emotion and empathy.

Wait, this guy had to be a robot, I thought. Only robots would be this cruel. Somewhere inside his chest, there must be a computer chip that was permanently programed to say "Command: When in contact with other human beings, become the world's largest jerk! Take whatever measures you deem necessary (including disrespect and illegal detainment) to accomplish this task!"

Then, in the midst of my own increasing rage, it dawned on me. The whole reason we drove to Belle Terre was so we could admire the view and capture a memory. Why not do that while this goon finished writing the ticket? Up until that point, we'd been facing his patrol car. I turned around so my back was to him and suggested Mel do the same.

We stood there for a couple of minutes admiring the dark blue water and stunning view before the constable got out of his car, irritated that we had outsmarted him. He handed us a ticket for $75 and then waited for us to drive off.

After getting back to Rhode Island, I did a little research. Apparently, Belle Terre is notorious for issuing illegitimate traffic tickets. There was a class action lawsuit in which constables were cited for having gone beyond their duties in enforcing law. These constables aren't even trained as civil servants and they aren't supposed to carry weapons (even though they do). It's quite shocking actually. You can read more about the complaint here. You can read about the million dollar settlement here.

The experience surely left a bad taste in our mouths, but we tried to move on past it and enjoy our time in the area. Was the view from Belle Terre (ironic translation: beautiful earth) worth $75? Definitely not, in my opinion. And in the end, we probably won't be paying it anyway.

Leaves, branches, and roots

Mel shared this quote with me last night, and I really liked it. Read it for yourself and then ask yourself this question: Who represents your roots?

"Some people are meant to come into your life for a lifetime, some for only a season and you got to know which is which. And you're always messing up when you mix those seasonal people up with lifetime expectations.

I put everybody that comes into my life in the category of a tree. Some people are like leaves on a tree. When the wind blows, they're over there... wind blow that way they over here... they're unstable. When the seasons change they wither and die, they're gone. That's alright. Most people are like that, they're not there to do anything but take from the tree and give shade every now and then. That's all they can do. But don't get mad at people like that, that's who they are. That's all they were put on this earth to be. A leaf.

Some people are like a branch on that tree. You have to be careful with those branches too, cause they'll fool you. They'll make you think they're a good friend and they're real strong but the minute you step out there on them, they'll break and leave you high and dry.

But if you find 2 or 3 people in your life that's like the roots at the bottom of that tree you are blessed. Those are the kind of people that aren't going nowhere. They aren't worried about being seen, nobody has to know that they know you, they don't have to know what they're doing for you but if those roots weren't there, that tree couldn't live.

A tree could have a hundred million branches but it only takes a few roots down at the bottom to make sure that tree gets everything it needs. When you get some roots, hold on to them but the rest of it... just let it go. Let folks go."

**Quote taken from Madea Goes to Jail

Zebra stripes

**More fiction dug up among old computer files. This was written while I was an undergrad at Hamilton College.**

By Lisa A. Eramo

Sandra, my sister, had to cancel all of her patients today so we could get together, but I just made sure the VCR was set to tape reruns of MASH. It was mid-July, and we’d been waiting for a cool day to clean out the attic. After all, it’s been almost a month since Mom passed away. I was there when it happened. Sandra, of course, was saving another life. She never got to say good-bye, but I don’t think Mom knew the difference anyway. She was laying in one of those beds at the time. You know – the ones with the cold metal railings, her frail body barely making an imprint on the ghostly sheets. She kept raising her left hand slowly toward her mouth as if the cigarette were still there. It disgusted me. I ran right out of the room, wishing Dad were there with me so we could walk for miles and miles, and perhaps never return.

Mom lived fifteen years without him. She moved on after his death, but I don’t think I ever did. I swear I can still hear his voice lingering in the breeze. When I was a kid, he’d say, “Let’s go for a walk, Milly – along the canal. We can make pictures of the clouds.” On days like that, Sandra and mom would have been baking cookies or watering tulips in the garden. Dandelions were my favorite anyway. Never seemed to fit in – weeds that jutted up like lonely poles amongst thousands of blades of grass, waving like solitary hands.

Maybe it was because she was two years older than me, but Sandra and mom were like one. They’d buy the matching mother-daughter dresses, swap recipes for chicken cordon bleu, catch the attention of everyone in a room. Their soprano voices soared above the crowds, their jokes were always funny, and small talk just came naturally to them. Dad and I would fade into the background – sitting on the mall benches and people-watching while they shopped, or staring at one another from across the table while mom and Sandra lost themselves in conversation.

Yeah, having dad there would have made things a lot easier. Having his big arms wrapped around me would have drained all of the years of frustration away. The frustrating years of never meeting her expectations, of trying to be the daughter I never was. Dad never wanted me to be anything in particular. That was especially helpful on the day (during my junior year of college) when I told them I had a crush on one of my professors – a woman. A lesbian, in fact. And that no, it wasn’t a phase. I was attracted to women. And it was non-negotiable, so yes; they should deal with it. It wasn’t going to just go away. And neither was I.

“Milly, how could you?” My mother had sobbed, her arms submerged in a sink of dirty dishwater. “What will everyone say?”

My father had been sitting at the dinner table, and was chuckling at the time. I think he always knew. He was a strong man. He’d been in the Navy, and I used to call him Popeye. On rainy days, he’d plop me up on his shoulders, or we’d have wrestling matches in the living room. Dad would play board games with Sandra or attend her piano recitals. He was just different with her, as was mom with me.

“I don’t blame you Milly,” he said. “Women are beautiful.”

I don’t think Sandra was ever completely comfortable after I told her. We were so different to begin with, that this particular difference seemed to drive us even further apart. But Sandra also didn’t seem to mind the fact that in our devoutly Catholic family, her wedding would be the only wedding. Mom and Dad could invest lots in her special day. I would never really have such an occasion.

“Mom, can’t we have the reception at the Crystal Castle?” Sandra had begged. “I know it’s expensive, but it’s not like you’re ever going to have the chance to do this again.” She was right, but I hated her for saying it.

Sandra and I agreed to meet at the house at 1:00. As usual, I was running late. My apartment was such a mess I could barely make my way to the door. I ran outside in ripped jean shorts and a tank top, and slid into the car. It was a ten-minute drive. I sang with the radio to calm me down. I shouldn’t be nervous. I was going home, after all. Sandra was the one who had to make the four-hour drive. Someone had to stay with mom. She’d been sick, and it didn’t matter where I lived so long as there was an all night diner where I could pour coffee. So, I stayed. Sandra left.

Our old house was on the corner of Cemetery Hill and Anderson Ave. Yeah, we used to live right across the street from a cemetery. It was a pretty cemetery with lots of trees and rolling hills. I liked to wander around in there, putting dandelions on the graves that he been overgrown with weeds. I didn’t know anyone buried there, but some of the headstones were just beautiful – gray slabs of marble, some engraved with flowers and crosses, sketched with names like Angelica and Anne-Marie, long since forgotten and tucked aside, weathering away through the seasons. The cemetery was the one place that never changed. Its hills were always peaceful and dotted with marble slabs pushing up out of the earth - an unlikely beautiful garden of names. My bedroom window looked out onto those hills, and sometimes, I would stare out into the openness, finding comfort in the fact that some places never seemed to change.

I took the turn down our street. For some reason, I got the feeling like I was returning after some long voyage. That the neighborhood wasn’t mine. The welcome sign on our door was crooked, and I fixed it as I stepped inside. Sandra was already up in the attic, and didn’t hear me come in. I’m not sure why, but I took a look around. I had no idea what I was looking for. I felt the need to just walk through the rooms of the home that had once been my own. It was a trance-like walk in which I seemed to be numb, yet sensitive to everything at the same time.

The kitchen counters were cluttered with medicines and pills, and the refrigerator was covered with fruit magnets and drawings that Sandra’s kids had made. I continued through a small hallway to the living room. The smell of mom’s cigarette’s had seeped into the walls, and lingered in the air. Family pictures lined the walls – smiles upon smiles upon smiles - Sandra always in the front, and me, younger but tall and lanky, in the back. Dad’s old rocking chair faced the fireplace. How many times had I sat on Dad’s lap in his chair, falling asleep as we rocked back and forth? How many times had I since longed to hear that creak? And how many times had I returned here, only to feel very different? How odd it is to feel different in a room.

“Hey Mill? That you?”

My sister’s voice commanded. She had a voice that never faltered – one always sure of itself.
“Yeah, I’m comin’!” I shouted toward the steps that led to the attic.

The narrow little staircase was old, and cluttered with pots and pans. I had to step carefully on its rickety old steps, trying not to knock anything down. The wooden door at the top was slightly ajar, and as I opened it, a gush of hot air clung to my skin. I took a step in onto the creaking floorboards, and the overwhelming smell of mothballs and cedar filled my senses.

Sandra sat on the floor, surrounded by boxes.

“How’ve you been?” I said, not having seen or talked to her since the funeral last month.

“Oh, you know, I’ve been all right. Ron and I had the most lovely dinner last night for our anniversary.”

That wasn’t really the answer I was expecting, but I was glad she was doing ok. I looked around, trying to decide what to get into first. Mom had alphabetized everything in the attic, so when I wanted to look for her china dishes, I headed over toward the endless extra coffeepots.

I pulled out the box and took out a single glistening china. The china had been passed down from generation to generation in my family. It was an heirloom that practically had our last name invisibly engraved on it. The dishes had a pretty ivy and holly pattern around the edges. The Christmas table would always look so pretty when decorated with the china. Funny how the aching cracks in the wood never seemed to show on holidays when the dishes were out. They never showed, but I knew they were still there. Underneath the china and pine green table clothe they split the wood like a vein. “It’s amazing the things you can hide,” my mother had said, gleefully smoothing out a wrinkle in the cloth.

I remember the one Christmas I refused to wear a dress for our family pictures. I had wanted to wear my little blue jeans. I was eight or nine at the time. Mom had bought matching red velvet dresses for Sandra and I.

“Milly!” my mother had shouted at me. “You’re going to do this one thing for me whether you like it or not! Sandra likes her dress...why can’t you, Milly?” She had me cornered in my bedroom and was shoving one of my arms into the dress. My father stood outside my room, pounding on the door. “Ellen! Stop it! Just let her wear the pants!” I could hear my sister outside the door, too. “Just put it on Milly!” she pleaded.

As usual, my mother had prevailed. I ended up sitting at the dinner table sulking, trying to pretend I was happy and be pleasant to everyone else in the family. I wouldn’t talk to her, though, that entire day.

“Hey, mom left those dishes to me, Milly.”

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t know,” I said, gently setting the dish back into the box.

“It’s ok,” she said. “I just wanted you to be careful with ‘em.”

Sandra used to act the same with her toys when we were little. We had the same dolls, the same bed spreads, the same clothes, the same dressers. My parents even made us share a bedroom for twelve years until we built an addition to the house. It was a small room with little space to move around. After a while, my mother gave up, realizing that we were never going to be the same.

Sandra had begun packing up some of mom’s old dresses. She stood in front of the only window in the attic, the sunlight illuminating her strawberry hair and penetrating green eyes. She held one of the dresses up to her body, modeling it in a dusty mirror. It was made of long powder blue satin, with a lacey crème bodice. She twirled around in a circle, listening to the swish of the dress as it danced. I swear she looked just like mom.

“What do you think she was like when she was younger?” Sandra said, swaying gently back and forth like a little princess in a ball gown.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, piling up some empty cardboard boxes.

“I bet she was the most popular girl in the school,” Sandra said, giggling. “Poor dad. He was just the quiet, shy guy in love with the prettiest girl in town.”

“Maybe,” I said, watching her become lost in her little reverie.

“Hey, speaking of dad, why did she ever keep all that stuff?” She pointed to an oak dresser in the far corner. Even after dad passed away, mom still kept all of his shirts, pants, suit coats, and ties. “Maybe the Salvation Army’ll take it.”

“I’ll take care of that stuff Sandra, don’t worry.” There’s no way I’d just give his clothes away. Sandra could take whatever dresses she wanted, she could wear them, sell them, or cut them up into little pieces for all I cared, but she was not going to take dad’s clothes.

“Fine with me,” she said.

She tossed me a winter coat, motioning to the corner. We had piles of things to keep, piles of things to get rid of, and piles of things we had no idea what to do with. And each treasure we came across seemed to carry with it a set of unique associations. Of course, these memories were never remembered the same way, but like I said, Sandra and I never did agree on anything.

“Hey – you remember when mom and dad took us to the Bronx Zoo?” Sandra said. “It was the summer of ’63 or ‘64, I think.” She giggled, sifting through a small cigar box on the floor. “She saved the postcards. Can you believe that?”

“Yeah.” Of course I remembered. Sandra and mom had spent all day in the souvenir shops, while dad and I had walked around to look at the animals.

“Oh, we just want to take a quick look in this shop...you guys go on ahead.” Mom had taken Sandra’s hand, and they had disappeared into the store before my father could even respond. We spent practically that whole day together, just the two of us. He made up stories for each animal that we passed by. The zebras were my favorite and always have been.

“Zebras are the most like people,” he’d said.

“Why Dad?”

He’d taken my hand and put it up to the fence.

“Trace their stripes, honey. No two zebras have the same stripes.”

“Why Dad?” I’d said, mesmerized by the zigzagging lines.

“Just because. God made ‘em that way. Same way he made people. No two are the same.”

“So are we related to the zebra?” I’d said, confused, a swirl of blue cotton candy dangling at my side.

“No, but we’ve got stripes like the zebra. You just can’t see ‘em. But they’re there. Right inside you.”

I blew some dust off the postcard and held it to my chest, closing my eyes, imagining my father was there to make me strong again.

“You think she would have cleaned this place out a long time ago,” Sandra said. “Can you imagine how long it’s going to take to go through all this shit?”

I opened my eyes and watched her looking through some old magazines, gawking at the out of date hairstyles and clothes.

“Jesus Christ, Sandra!” I darted over to the china dishes, took one, and threw it down to the ground; its jagged pieces strewn all over floor. “It’s the least you could do. Who stayed with Mom while she was sick? You were supposed to be her goddam best friend. Not me.” I started to cry, and I turned my back to her, stepping out of the circle of broken glass around me.

Sandra was silent. Then a quiet voice arose.

“Milly, I’m not against your lifestyle, if that’s what you’re still bitter about,” she said.

“Sandra, I just want you stop looking at your goddam self for once.”

We continued to sift through things, but in silence. An uncomfortable silence. After what seemed like an eternity, she came over and stood about a foot away from me, watching me sort through a box of old stationary on the floor. I didn’t look up. She continued to stand there for a few minutes. Then she bent down, until I finally lifted my gaze. She had begun to cry and she quickly reached out for me.

“I miss Mom, Milly,” she said. “The same way you miss Dad. I should have been there with you.”

I looked at my sister, taking note of the dimple in both of our chins, our high cheekbones, our long eyelashes. All we had was one another, and we both knew it. We worked non-stop for the remainder of that afternoon, until almost everything had been cleaned out.

“Hey, you gotta come over here,” Sandra said, wiping the sweat off her brow.

She had found about thirty boxes of mom’s shoes. Some of the last items to go through. All kinds of shoes. Black chunky heels, Velcro sneakers, white flats, red heels with diamonds lacing the strap around the ankle. As kids, we used to parade around in these shoes, pretending to be movie stars, or even mom. Sandra was always better – she could walk in heels without wobbling around. She took out a pair of dressy black heels, stepped out of her own sandals, and slipped her feet in. A perfect match. She looked pretty funny, wearing black heels with a pair of orange shorts and a shirt that said ‘Bermuda,’ but boy did they look good.

“I think I’ll be taking these home with me today,” she said. “They feel great!”

“They look good Sandy.”

“Here, you try these on,” She handed me another pair of heels. “For old time’s sake.”

“All right.”

Reluctantly, I slipped my feet in. I could barely even stand, they pinched my feet so much. My toes were scrunched up against the leather, suffocating in pain, rubbing and burning as I took a step forward.

“Try these Milly,” she said, handing me another pair of heels.

Those hurt even more. I stood there motionless, gazing down at my clumsy feet in mom’s tight red heels. Nothing could have looked more absurd. I yanked them off so my feet could finally breathe again. It felt great to be back in my own sandals. I told Sandra she could take them all home.

And she did. From time to time, I notice the shoes on her. I notice her elegant walk, her delicate poise, the grace with which she moves. I hear the click of her heel on the floor. I see my mother and all she stood for. And from time to time, if I look hard enough, I can see my father staring back at me in the mirror, reminding me of our field of zebras and the beauty of my own stripes.

Somewhere, they’re embracing

**I wrote this piece several years ago in honor of my grandparents whose loving relationship continues to serve as the template for my own. It's part truth and part fiction but written entirely from the heart.**

By Lisa A. Eramo

As far back as my memory will allow, the cynara cardunculus is there, maturing in the cool mist of September’s morning, its stalky body jutting up alongside Oberle road, not far from the double wide my grandparents called home.

Most people don’t even know about the plant—it just grows and grows along the countryside, dividing the gradations of grassy greens. I never actually questioned how Nonny not only knew it existed, but also that if you cut, blanched, and cooked it properly, a cardoon, as it’s commonly known, becomes an edible treat.

“That which we often glance quickly past is most beautiful,” she’d say, carefully watching an ever-present spider weave a dew-dropped web on their front porch. “Keep your eyes and heart open. Nothing is insignificant, not even that ugly old weed.”

If it hadn’t been for this ugly old weed, Nonny and Poppy would have never met. Nonny had been picking cardoons a mile from her parents’ house on a Sunday afternoon when it started to rain. Poppy happened to be walking down the road and saw her in the distance—a rainbow of color, her hair curling in the humidity, her arms full of earthy plants. Their courting began that day as he held his jacket over her head the entire way home. Since hearing their creation story, I never doubted the existence of destiny.

I think about the cardoon as I drive down the narrow road that leads to their old house, now overgrown with weeds and scattered with stray Styrofoam cups. My sister Judy is getting married tomorrow, and I’ve left the art-infused Bostonian culture to return to the place where my grandparents loved, my parents love, and where my sister and her fiancé would settle and love—a small town in central New York where even the trees bear hearts and rent is cheap for newlyweds.

I park my Mustang in their driveway, and it looks out of place, like a Dahli painting—something surreal. I feel the neighbors staring at me as I get out of the car and walk around the perimeter of the house. One man across the street gets up out of his chair and walks to the edge of his porch to get a better look. Somewhere in the distance, wind chimes sing an unfamiliar tune.

Once Nonny discovered a patch of cardoon, she’d never forget it. She even managed to draw an elaborate map of telephone posts, foot paths, and distinguishing trees that helped guide her back to the same patches in the same fields every year. And on any given fall morning, you’d find them—Nonny and Poppy, map in hand—driving their shiny blue Cadillac in search of the elusive plant.

Within minutes of leaving the house, they’d start the rosary. “Hail Mary, full of grace,” they’d take turns saying. “Pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.” It was their tradition to sing this sacred duet during any road trip longer than twenty minutes.

I’ve often wondered what it’s like to know that kind of interconnectedness. What is it like to be able to finish someone’s prayer, someone’s sentence, someone’s breathe?

My sister (Judy) and Derek met in college at a drunken fraternity party. She likes to tell the story of how they both reached for the keg at the same time and then stood there for what seemed like hours staring into one another’s eyes. She said she instantaneously knew that they would be together. And ever since then, they’ve been inseparable—best friends, drinking partners, soul mates. They’re the type of couple that makes you smile and sigh.

As young girls, Judy and I were often in the backseat during the cardoon-searching adventures, listening to the prayer’s counterpoint and playing with our Barbie dolls and Tonka trucks. Sometimes we looked out the window at the squares of hay or dilapidated farmhouses that seemed to fold in on themselves. There was one old house pained with stripes every color of the rainbow, all faded by the sun’s light. We called it the lifesaver house in honor of our favorite candies.

Nonny would spend hours meticulously picking cardoons, insisting that Poppy make sudden stops along the road when she spotted a patch or two. “Bianco ameliore”, “Italian dwarf,” “Large Smooth,” and “White Improved” were just a few of the varieties of these leafy treasures they, or I should say she, sought after.

To me, the names of each type of cardoon were poetic and silky and had a way of rolling off my tongue like a song. “Bianco,” I’d say, stressing the second syllable. “Ameliore,” I’d say, imitating some Italian operatic singers. The names of cardoons made me think of far-away places, countries I’d never visited, endless white sandy beaches, heaven.

“Over there! Over there, Paul. Pull over right there,” she’d say, her arm dangling out the window to wave hello to a small green cluster that seemed to bow to her.

“Ok Sal,” he’d grunt, shaking his head and slightly smiling at her excitement. “I’ve got somebody right behind me and I can’t just stop in the middle of the road!” Sal was Poppy’s nickname for her—short for her maiden name Salamone. Her real name was Rosemarie.

It was inevitable that he’d adjust his mirror to find an angry farmer in a big tractor wanting nothing more than to honk his horn and pass them by. Poppy would put his blinker on and pull off the road into the ditch, and we’d soon be left in a cloud of smoke from the tractor’s barreling off in the distance.

“That guy couldn’t wait two minutes,” he’d say. But before he could even turn his head, Nonny was out the door, running toward the cardoons with scissors and plastic bags in hand. Poppy would always follow after her, insisting that he needed to help her, even if it was just to hold the bag open so she could drop them in.

“Nonny, who lives here?” I’d shout after her, slightly unnerved by the perplexed housewife in the distance hanging clothes on a droopy line.

“Well, I don’t actually know them, but they won’t mind,” she’d say, throwing her hands into the air and laughing, her big horse teeth glistening in the sun. “We’ll only be here for a few minutes.”

The sun always seemed to be hottest on those days. Sweat would drip down my arms and back, reminding me of the heat my body could create. The grass was usually tall and would tickle and tease our legs as we’d run through it. Somewhere in the distance, a barrel would burn, and the smell of smoke would mix with sweet manure and pervade the air.

“Oh! Right here! Over here!” she’d say, startling us all as we wandered through the maze of grass.

Sure enough, there would be a patch of massive green leafy plants huddled together—the Holy Grail of her journey.

“You have to grab it by the stem and cut,” she’d say, as we—a captivated audience—all stood watching.

“Be careful with those scissors, Sal. In fact, why don’t you just let me do that?” Poppy would say, trying to finagle the scissors away from her.

“I’m all right. I’m all right,” she’d say, the cardoon finally breaking free from the ground. Next, she’d to hold it up and get a good look at it. You’d think she was inspecting a turkey for Thanksgiving. “This is a good one,” she’d say. “Yep, this one will be good.”

Perhaps it was those hazy mornings, the sun rising as if on cue to begin the day’s symphony and bring in the sounds of all things living. Perhaps it was the feeling as though we were meant to find those cardoons just like Nonny and Poppy were meant to find one another. All of it was and still is intriguing to me. How and why do certain people come into your life at the right time and place—no searching necessary? Their love story had a magical element more powerful than any Grimes fairytale they’d ever read to me.

A whistle from a nearby train briefly snaps me out of my reverie. I realize that I’ve been standing here for almost ten minutes. Judy must be putting the last minute touches on her wedding plans, making sure the photographer had the right address and the DJ would play right song. The neighbor across the street has gone back to reading his newspaper. I decide to take a seat on the lawn.

I think back to Nonny and how when she started to get out of breath from all the walking and cardoon picking, we knew it was time to go home. Poppy would tenderly wipe the sweat from her brow, kiss her on the lips, and convince her that the rest of the cardoons would wait until next time. On a good day, we would have visited two or three fields and at least two or three cemeteries. Nonny used to say that cemeteries always had cardoons. Usually we’d load up three or four bags in the cemeteries alone.

The drive home was usually pretty quiet. Nonny would fall asleep, leaving Poppy to say an entire string of rosaries by himself.

At home, hunched over the stove, Nonny would wash, blanch, bread, and fry a whole plateful of cardoons at a time. Poppy delighted in the smell of salt wafting through the air and would sit curling his toes in his bright red recliner.

“You’re so good to me, Sal,” he’d say, his head tilted toward her as she turned the cardoons around in the breading and flour.

“And don’t you forget it!” she’d laugh, winking at my sister and me as we sat on high stools watching her, mesmerized as the green leafy weeds were transformed into a crispy brown treat.

If it was during the week, Golden Girls would blare on the TV turned up way too loud, while a small radio on the counter boasted Frank Sinatra. The music seemed to make waves of steam from the stove sway and dance through the air. If it was a Sunday, Notre Dame football would sing through the entire house. The screaming crowds, shrilly whistles and blasting marching bands made it seem like one big party and that Poppy was the guest of honor.

Judy, who was usually buried in old photo albums by this time, would occasionally pull out black and white photographs, holding them up to the light to try and figure out which side of the family each person was on.

“Who’s this guy?” she’d say, her forehead crinkling up like a slinky. “And why does he have such funny clothes on?”

Nonny would pause her cardoon dipping and frying to squint her eyes and look at the picture from across the room. “That’s your great-grandmother’s brother, Freddy,” she’d say. “He was a dentist. That was my uncle, you know.”

“Hey, this is you and Poppy,” my sister would say, grabbing another picture, this one of my grandparents on their wedding day. “Tell us the story! Tell us the story!”

“Well,” Poppy would say, clearing his voice as if to begin a sermon. “When I knew that I wanted to marry your grandmother, I had to get permission from her father.”
“That’s how it was then,” Nonny would interject, pulling a cardoon from the oily pan and setting it down on a paper towel-lined plate next to another one that was already cool. “You needed permission.”

“So anyway,” Poppy would say, anxious to be in the spotlight again. “Once I had permission, I showed up at her house on a Sunday morning. You should have seen the look on her face!” He shook his head and closed his eyes, reveling in the memory of that day. “Her hair was all up in curlers. I think she was getting ready for church.”

“I was getting ready for my cousin’s baby shower!” By now, Nonny had usually spilled some of the breading all over the counter because she was paying more attention to Poppy and making sure he got his story straight. “All I had on was a bathrobe! Don’t you remember that, Paul?”

“Oh yes. That’s right. That pink one with the roses on it. Yes, I remember,” he’d say, rolling his eyes and winking at my sister and me. “Anyway, I showed up at her door holding a silver tray of Italian cookies—crème puffs, biscotti, cuccidati, pizzelles—with a diamond ring on top, and you know what I said?” His eyes were wide and his mouth open, and for a moment, I picture him at the age of twenty-two, a boy, hopelessly in love.

Of course we both knew the answer, but we liked to hear it from him. “Tell us! Tell us!” Judy would say. I was silent, paying close attention to the look on Poppy’s face as he said the words.

“I said, ‘Sal, I give you my life on a silver platter. Will you marry me?’” Poppy always had a habit of tearing up at this point. He usually cried like a baby over the small things—a beautiful sunset, a family picture, a good home-cooked meal. When Poppy cried, it usually meant he was happy, not sad.

“Girls, how could I resist that, right?” Nonny would say, beaming from behind a plateful of almost finished cardoons.

After the tale we both loved so much, Judy and I would usually go back to our pictures. Sometimes if the games weren’t on, Poppy would go up behind Nonny and tickle and nuzzle her like he did to my sister and me. Sometimes he would fall asleep to the crackling of the oil on the stove. Sometimes he would simply stare off into space, an ever so slight grin settling on his face.

You’d think that after years of city life away from home, I wouldn’t cry at the sight of the beauty that is the countryside or of the simple memories of the two people who probably had the single most significant impact on my life. But the memories and the beauty still affect me, even as I sit in the dust of their old driveway, surrounded by white dancing birch trees, a mailbox tilted to one side like an old man, a fence pregnant with concord grapes. Suddenly, I’m drawn to the fact that somewhere a cardoon is living. I bend to pick a piece of grass and blow on it to make a sound. The clouds keep turning and I think I catch a glimpse of their embrace, reminding me of faith.

LGBT hospital visitation rights a step in the right direction

By Lisa A. Eramo

Last December, my partner spent 10 days in the hospital with multiple blood clots in her lungs--bilateral pulmonary emboli, to be exact. We're not exactly sure how or why they formed, but several specialists seem to think her birth control was a major factor. She has since given up the birth control (which she had been taking to prevent the formation of ovarian cysts) and is now on a blood thinner called Coumadin. We've been told she's lucky to be alive. The jury is still out in terms of whether or not the clots will come back.

While she was in the hospital, I spent the majority of my waking hours at her side. Becoming recently self-employed as a freelance writer allowed me the flexibility to make trips back and forth to the hospital, staying for hours at a time during the day.

She spent the first two days/nights in the ICU--an amazingly eerie place where machines seem to rule the environment with a disturbingly dictatorship-like dominance. Minutes and hours are punctuated by a symphony of oftentimes unwanted and ominous ringing, bleating, buzzing, and droning. It's a world in which there is no day and night. It's almost as though time stands still actually. People are fighting for their lives, and not much else seems to matter.

What struck me is that nurses and physicians working 12-hour (or more) shifts are oblivious to the sounds and oftentimes melancholy atmosphere in which they work. I can't tell you how many times a wide-eyed nurse came into my partner's room to check a vital sign, administer medication, or change an IV. They were often cheerful and kind, and for that, I am thankful.

I stayed overnight twice, propping myself up in a faded blue tattered chair borrowed from another floor. To say that I slept at all would have been a lie. Instead, I listened to the wheezing and moaning of the other patient in the room who was on a ventilator. I also watched my partner sleep and seemed to be completely mesmerized by the monitors that told the story of her heart and lungs. If I didn't watch her and keep an eye on the monitors, who would? Never mind the fact that the nurses could also monitor her progress from their station twenty feet down the hallway. I wanted to be alert and in control even though I was completely aware of the fact that I had absolutely no control at all.

When physicians made their rounds or came to talk to us about treatment options, my partner always introduced me as "Lisa, my partner." I shook every hand of every physician who entered the room. I asked questions and demanded answers. For the most part, physicians made eye contact with me and spoke to both of us. Nurses let me stay overnight in the ICU despite the fact that guests technically weren't allowed past a certain hour. The nurses and I got to know one another on a first-name basis. They'd give me updates regarding my partner's status when she was napping. They involved me in the decision-making process.

Although I am grateful for the treatment my partner received as a patient as well as the treatment we received as a same-sex couple, I know that not all same-sex couples have the same experience nationwide.

When I read that Obama requested that hospitals not deny visitation privileges to based on race, color, national origin, religion, sex, sexual orientation, gender identity, or disability, I was thrilled to say the least. I am relieved to know that hospitals in which same-sex partners are denied visitation rights will no longer be able to get away with this unfair practice. To read the complete memo issued April 15, visit http://www.whitehouse.gov/the-press-office/presidential-memorandum-hospital-visitation.

When I read the memo, I couldn't help but think of our most recent hospital experience. Not being able to be a part of my partner's experience and decision-making process would have been unjust and unfathomable. I'm thankful that Obama has taken this step. It's the first in what I hope will be many steps toward LGBT equality.

Sock merger

By Lisa A. Eramo

The other day, my partner noticed that I was wearing her socks. Was I really? Is it true? I pulled up my pant legs to check it out.

Sure enough, she was right.

The subtle pattern that distinguished her black socks from the plain non-patterned version of my own was apparent. I was officially a sock thief. Is there such a thing as one who steals socks? Clearly I had good intentions and simply mistook them for my own.

Throughout the course of our increasingly merged cohabitation over the last 18 months, our socks have gradually migrated from two separate drawers into one. It's as though the socks, having watched our two lives become intertwined, decided to do the same. Taking the time to sort through and separate our socks into their respective drawers after jointly washing our laundry just seemed like a waste of time after a while. The sisterhood of socks were determined to stick together. Who was I to disband their unity?

Don't get my wrong, of course we keep our shirts, pants, and bras separately stored in our individual closets, but even that could change down the road. Don't people always say that the more time you spend together, the more you start to look alike or even dress alike? At least our height differences (my partner is nearly 6 inches taller than me) will prevent further confusion even when our outfits, shoes, socks, and hairstyles match.

As for now, we look at our mismatched socks as a sort of game. We chide each other about our merged socks. When reaching into the abyss that is the sock drawer, we never know what we're going to get. Would the pair be hers? Would they be mine? Heck, would they even match (we all know how often our black socks actually match)? More importantly, did it matter?

Living together means merging with someone else and allowing yourself to incorporate that person into your life--socks and all. It means sharing your belongings as well as your hopes and fears. Every time I open the sock drawer, I'm reminded of this, and I can't help but smile.

I want this job...and there's something else you should know

By Lisa A. Eramo

You review your resume a thousand times, rehearse your responses religiously, and make sure that every hair on your head is in its proper place. Why? Because your livelihood depends on it, and this interview could make or break your plans for the next few years (or more) of your life.

Everyone gets nervous prior to sitting before his or her prospective boss because you want to make a good impression, say the right things, smile the right smile. You can anticipate how it will go--you talk about your professional background, where you went to school, the skills you've honed. Hopefully the interviewer is nodding in approval as you go through a laundry list of bullet points you've committed to memory. And by the time he or she asks why you're looking for a new job (the quintessential question), you begin to breathe a sigh of relief because you've already got this response ready to go. If you've done your homework, you can even comment on how your skills are a particularly good match for the employer. You can also ask pointed questions that keep the interviewer nodding and smiling until before you know it, he or she is reaching across the wide expansive table (that doesn't seem so wide anymore) and offering you a job with the company.

Okay, so it doesn't always go according to plan, but one can be hopeful. In reality, most interviews are long and drawn out, consisting of several visits, several encounters, several references, and several weeks of endless waiting. I've been through this scenario too many times to count, and I am all too familiar with the back-and-forth dynamic. I find that I am always slightly on edge because I want so badly to make a good impression--both during the interview and during all of the days that lead up to either the offer or the oh-so-gracious rejection letter/email/phone call.

I recall an interview during which I thought I would engage in what would be yet another typical interviewer/interviewee dialogue. I had picked out formal attire, chugged some Starbucks coffee, killed five small trees making copies of my resume, and permanently pasted a smile on my face for the day.

Conversation flowed pretty smoothly, and to my surprise, the interviewer was even laughing at my jokes. I had her in the palm of my hand, right? Wrong. When asked why living in that particular geographic area appealed to me, I suddenly felt a dryness in my mouth, and my heart started to race. Why? Because in telling the truth, which was that my partner (who already lived in the area) and I were hoping to move in together, I knew that I would out myself as a lesbian.

For a gay or lesbian person, this is the moment that you dread during an interview because you're not a mind reader, so you have no idea how the person behind the desk will react. Do you take a chance and come clean, hoping that the individual has an open mind and respects others? Or do you stay closeted, choosing to keep things "simple" and less "complicated." For me, there was a short delay, but I made the split second decision to go for it. When I originally came out of the closet in December 2000, I told myself that this would be the first of many closets that I would most likely have to come out of but that I would never deliberately stay in hiding if I didn't have to.

Coming out during an interview can be extremely discouraging or extremely empowering. I'm sure that some candidates have ruined their chances for employment by being true to who they are. But others have found coming out during an interview to be validating--particularly when the employer values that courage.

For me, coming out during this particular interview was one of the most empowering moments of my life. Not only did the interviewer lean in toward me and commend me for my leap of faith, but the individual also said it was my dissenting and confident voice that she wanted on her team. In that moment, I had goosebumps. I actually almost had tears in my eyes and felt slightly embarrassed for having been moved as much as I was. Truth be told, I deserved that recognition and praise. Coming out is not easy, and it never will be. And to be commended for being proud of whom I am is something that I will always be grateful for.

Sign me up! When do I start?

Confessions of a nonshopaholic

By Lisa A. Eramo

Unlike the majority of women in the world, shopping for clothes is not something I do for fun. It's not something I do on a rainy day. It's not an addiction. It's not a form of therapy. For me, shopping for clothes is something that you practically have to drag me to do. And yes, I will kick and scream in the process.

So for someone who hates to go clothes shopping, you might wonder how I have any clothes at all. Well, I don't. I mean, I have a few hand-me-downs--socks where my big toe sometimes sticks through, worn out pants (you know, the ones where the inner thighs are so worn that you can practically stick your hand through), some shirts that say "Class of 97." Thank god for washing machines, or else I'd be wearing my birthday suite just about every day.

But when reality hits (and it always does), I am reminded that unless I wanted to go live in the wild like a cave woman (or quit my job and become a full-time knitter), I need clothes. This realization usually hits me around the holidays when not only is it cold out (and thus my need for clothes is heightened), but it's also gift giving season--a time of cork screws, Santa socks, and yes, gift cards.

Ah, the beauty of gift cards. Though some may see the gift card as the perfect gift for the picky, it's not necessarily true. I mean, the person who buys the gift card makes a conscious decision as to where you're going to shop just by the sheer act of buying you a card to a particular store.

But after all, it's the thought that counts, right? I kept telling myself that one day when my partner and I decided to go shopping at a local clothing store. Although I didn't have a gift card, I did have some coupons that my partner was very excited to use. Coupons: another reason to go shopping. Spend money to save money.

So my partner and I walked into the store ready for a shopping adventure. She was immediately drawn to some shirts that apparently were "calling her name," although I swore I didn't hear them speaking out loud. Meanwhile, I went to look at some pants only to be discouraged that they didn't come in petite length. While I was fuming about why clothes designers tend to discriminate against short people, I could see that my partner was striking gold near a sale rack, her arms already covered with enough outfits to last for two weeks.

I turned my attention to some shirts in the back on a rack where there was no rhyme or reason to the sizes. It was as though the shirts were saying,"Don't mind us, we're hiding back here with the misfits trying to go unnoticed." I was trying to calculate how many of the misfit shirts I could buy with my coupon when I heard my partner laughing with one of the saleswoman, their high-pitched shrieks seeming to perfectly punctuate the elevator music that pervaded the store.

It didn't surprise me that my partner had hit it off with Ms. CanIHelpYou. My partner's extremely attractive cheerful attitude seems to draw strangers to her. It's as if she wears a sign on her forehead that says "Come, tell me your troubles...I will listen." It's this attitude that has engaged us in countless strange conversations with cashiers at the gas station, bag boys at the grocery store, waiters, or even strangers on the street. People open up to her (and therefore us), and before I know, I know how much money is in the person's savings account, what book he or she is reading, what his or her political views are, and sometimes even his or her medical history.

I decided to walk over and see what all the fun and laughter was about in the hopes that some of their cheerfulness would rub off on me and make my shopping experience more delightful. I stood there for several minutes listening to Ms. CanIHelpYou tell my partner how she could mix and match several items on her arm (and should therefore buy all of them), how the jacket she held matched the color of her eyes, how she should treat herself to one of everything in the store.

After Ms. CanIHelpYou finished her plethora of compliments, she set us up with a dressing room.

"Wouldn't you each like your own room?" she said.

I quickly chimed in with an emphatic "no!" to indicate that we could share. Ms. CanIHelpYou raised an eyebrow, but quickly walked down to the larger dressing room and opened the door with a smile. Having my own dressing room would be like setting a domesticated animal into the savage wild outdoors. I'm typically left not knowing where to turn or what to do. I end up standing there like a dog with its tail between its legs before finally realizing that this is the part where I actually need to put the dreaded new clothes onto my body and stare at myself in the mirror like all other women do.

Once in the dressing room together, my partner quickly unloaded her wardrobe of clothes, leaving me to hang my two shirts on the door knob. She breathed a sigh of relief and gawked at her purchases-to-be for a few moments, trying to take it all in before trying things on. Her excitement and giddiness made me feel as though we had just purchased a house together and that we were admiring the dimensions of the rooms. I'm sure that if we had stood there long enough, our address would have quickly become 401 Dressing Room Lane and someone would be knocking on our door to drop off a welcome-to-the-neighborhood package.

Okay, back to reality. I tried my shirts on only to realize that I had accidentally grabbed the wrong size. My partner, being the helpful person that she is, volunteered to go out into the store and grab a different size for me. While she is gone, I count the tiles on the ceiling and imagine that this is how inmates must feel, being confined to such a small space.

Just as my partner returns with a few more shirts, I hear someone in another cell calling her over. She hands me the shirts and says she'll be right back. I can barely hear their conversation:

"Would you mind just fixing this strap?" the other inmate said.

"Um, no, sure, I can do that for you," my partner said.

"How do you think this bra looks? Is it too big? Too small?"

"Um, I'm not sure."

"Can you stand there while I readjust myself?"

At this point, I'm getting suspicious. What the heck is going on out there? Where is Ms. CanIHelpYou when you need her??

"Can you help me take my bra off? Unhook the latches in the back?"

Finally my partner tells this woman that she does not work at the store.

On comes the light bulb.

"Oh my gosh, I am so embarrassed!" the woman said. "I just thought that you...well, I saw you getting shirts for someone...I apologize."

My partner and I shared a good laugh over that one. I could hear Ms. CanIHelpYou helping other customers shortly thereafter, and I'm sure our cackling made her wonder whether we were serious about buying all of the clothes we had dragged in there or whether we were having some sort of wacky show-and-tell fashion show.

Maybe shopping isn't so bad after all.

Let me tell you about the greatest show on earth!

By Lisa A. Eramo

"Were you trying to be a trapeze artist?"

These were the first eight words that came out of an orthopedic doctor's mouth when my partner and I recently went to an urgent care center after she took a spill on the ice.

At least he had a sense of humor, I thought. That's more than I could say for most doctors I'd recently encountered.

And although my partner may have perhaps had a childhood vision or two of running off and joining the circus, she was most certainly not trying to test her acrobatic abilities at the time when she fell in front of a captive sidewalk audience. She'd actually been trying to avoid a huge patch of ice. And by doing so, she stepped into a seemingly shallow puddle only to find an extremely deep pothole inside.

She walked into our apartment soaking wet, tears streaming down her face, a damp and dirty Vera Bradley bag dangling off of her arm. Her knees were badly swollen and bruised, and she looked more shocked and stunned than anything else.

We waited until morning to go to urgent care because we wanted to first see whether her PCP could squeeze her in. As predicted, the answer was no, and off to urgent care we went.

After the comedian/doctor took some x-rays, prescribed some pain medication, and told my partner that what she really needed was to 'stay off the ice' (translation: don't leave your house until the spring) and 'take a vacation to a tropical island,' we were on our merry way, hobbling back out onto the ice skating rink that was the parking lot.

Ah, the joys of living in New England in January. I like to joke that this is the season when orthopedic doctors all over the region get together and throw a secret party, knowing that with every fall on the ice, every sprain, every broken leg comes a dollar (or several hundred) in the door.

This is the time when orthopedic doctors' phones ring off the hook with patients on the other end crying of pains and bruises and all sorts of ailments from ice-induced falls. This is the time when these doctors extend their hours to accommodate the crippled...when they earn the money that funds their summer vacations to Italy when the weather is warmer.

The next time you walk down an icy New England sidewalk, be cognizant of the 'performers' you see...the swirling male clowns in their business attire, the mothers carefully juggling a grocery bag in each arm, the students like trained monkeys gliding off to class--each performer with his or her own unique walk, slip, and fall...and an orthopedic doctor somewhere in the distance to cheer them on.

A breakfast like no other

By Lisa A. Eramo

When the wind is howling, the icicles are growing, and the snow is swirling in an improvisational and maddening dance, the last thing you want to do is go outside. We had resigned ourselves to the fact that we were snowed in.

You could practically see the cold in the air. This was evidenced by the fact that even the trees were shivering, their bare branches seeming to beg for cover. A snowman in the distance had lost his eyes and nose, and the sidewalks had long since disappeared under the erasure-like whiteness that silenced the ground.

We were definitely not going anywhere, we said.

We couldn't even if we had wanted to. The snow, with its quiet command, had forced us both to simply sit and watch the spellbinding show. We hadn't bought tickets to the performance, yet we somehow found ourselves with a front row seat. And with that, we allowed ourselves to settle into a leisurely morning of scrambled eggs, hash browns, gazing out the window at the confetti-like crystals.

There was a man across the street who had particularly captured our attention. His car was stuck in the snow. We didn't know how long he had been there, but judging by his plethora of energy and optimism, it probably hadn't been long. Most others would have called AAA in a storm like this, not having the patience (or layers of clothing) to deal with the howling winds and bone chilling temperatures.

The man's car sat low to the ground, its wheels spinning in smoke as he tried to rock his way out of the driveway. At first, he welcomed the challenge. Shovel in hand, a grin on his face and barely so much as a sweatshirt on his back, he circled countless times around the perimeter of the car, swiping and digging at the snow with each step that he took. His muddy work boots plummeted in and out of the white stuff, punching holes where he walked.

My partner and I sat in awe. We felt horrible for him, yet neither one of us were willing to don our coat and hat and offer him our best neighborly handshake. We much preferred the warmness of our apartment and the coziness of our bath robes.

The man was working hard. He piled the snow onto the shovel's red edge, heaved it over his shoulder, and then went back for more...over and over again. Once satisfied with his efforts, he crawled inside his car to start the ignition, sure that his sweat and toil would do the trick. And with each attempt, his wheels only spun harder and with more force. This went on for nearly 15 minutes.

I wonder where he's going, I said. And why he needs to get out on a day like this.

He's probably going to work, my partner said, a forkful of scrambled eggs dangling in front of her open mouth.

What do you think he does, I said.

Construction worker, she said, without hesitation, her eyes focusing intently on him so as not to miss a beat.

Another five minutes had passed. And still the wheels were spinning.

Watching someone from within the comfort and safety of your own home is like watching TV...except that it's entertainment uninterrupted by commercials. Having moved here only seven months ago, we still didn't know very many of our neighbors, and so to us, they were each their own unique (and sometimes disturbing) sitcoms or game shows.

Today, we had no idea who the man was, where he had intended to go on this blistery and treacherous morning, or what he might have been thinking had he been aware of the fact that he had a captive audience starting at him through the dancing steam of two freshly brewed coffees. That made our show all the more imaginative.

The man continued to start the ignition, step on the gas, and watch as the smoke from his tires formed a cloud around his car. His car began to budge, but only just a bit...enough so that he was halfway into the street--an odd and dangerous predicament to be in, for sure.

Oh gosh, I wonder what he's thinking right now, I said. Do you want some more coffee?

Yeah, I don't know why he doesn't go ask the guy down the street for some help, my partner said. Sure, I'll take mine with some creamer.

I bet he's doing it for his girlfriend and has a lot of pride--too macho to go inside and ask for help, I said.

He must be freezing, my partner said.

Nearly 30 minutes had elapsed, and the man was visibly upset.

My partner and I were on the edges of our seats, our noses practically pressed up against the glass of the windows.

What if he looks up and sees us, she said.

Shhh...just calm down. Have another hash brown, I said. This is going to get good.

Popcorn would be perfect right now, she said.

The man was angry and probably cold, too. His shovel flew through the air as he threw it in a fit of rage. He kicked at the snow around his tires, shaking his head in disbelief as the snowflakes around him continued to fall, inspiring him with their madness. I'm sure he was swearing under his breath, but the howl of the wind must have drowned it out.

He got back inside his car, and his wheels began to spin. This time, however, he reversed it and then gunned forward, propelling himself out onto the street.

Oh my gosh! I think he made it, my partner said.

His car nearly spun into another snowbank with the force of a fist, but the man had gained control just in time for him to swerve across the intersection and speed off into the distance like fly that had just loosened itself from a widow's web.

My partner and I clanked our coffee mugs and toasted to the man and his car, celebrating our contestant's victory.

Old enough to know

By Lisa A. Eramo

Picture this: My partner and I are sitting on a bench in Hyannis enjoying a couple of tasty scoops of gelato. We had just spent three days and four nights in the gayest place on earth: Provincetown. We're feeling good. We're feeling proud. I've got one arm around her as we enjoy the sun and slight breeze. We're people watching. And little do we know, there's someone watching us as well.

"You're gay, right?" a 70-something year old man said as he shuffled closer to us and took the open seat next to my partner.

Having been out for nearly ten years, I'd never really been asked this question directly. Thus, I wasn't sure how to respond even though I obviously knew the answer.

"Yes," we both said simultaneously.

"Oh, it's ok. I knew you were gay," he continued. "I'd like to sit next to you two fine gay ladies," he added, leaning in to get a closer look at us as though we were two monkeys imported from a foreign country.

How could he know we were gay? Did my arm around my partner shout gay? Was it my plaid shorts? The way I licked my gelato?

My partner started to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. I could tell her laughter was part humor and part shock. She turned her head directly toward me so he wouldn't notice. I started laughing as well.

The guy was oblivious. "A lot of gay people come to the cape. I should know. I've lived here all my life," he continued, clearly unaware of the concept of personal boundaries.

My partner continued to laugh an uncomfortable laugh. I started to think about much I wished the guy would evaporate into the nice summer air.

I wanted to say, "Are you old?" Of course he would say yes. To that, I would respond "I thought you looked as though you had one foot in the grave!" But alas, I kept my mouth shut. I couldn't tell whether this guy was a completely loose canon. I half expected him to whip a bible out of his back pocket and then proceed to drag us to the nearest church and force us to repent our 'sins.'

"You two from around here?" he said, seeming to soak in the sun and revel in the fact that he had clearly provoked us.

My partner had gathered her composure. Being the interactive and jovial person she is, she responded "No, we live in Rhode Island," flashing a smile that seemed to invite more conversation.

I cringed.

"You staying here for long?" he asked, happy to finally be engaged in a dialogue.

"No, we're going back today," she said. By this time, she had begun laughing again.

I think the guy picked up on our drift. "Well, have a nice day," he said, standing to stretch his legs and look around as if to say, 'Has anyone else seen these two gay women here? I couldn't believe my eyes! They're sitting right here on this bench!'

My partner and I watched him walk back to his oversized pickup truck and drive away. Then we went back to enjoying our gelato.