I'm working on a possible story for a volume on mental illness, with a theme "echoes." Well I have echoes all over the place. I have a little too much familiarity with mental illness.
Turns out the year I stopped in on my schizophrenic aunt was the same year my friend's son killed himself and his girlfriend, and a dog, thus upsetting everyone, all the survivors, all of Iowa, but particularly her, because he was her only child, and years later she'd die with dementia, and no id, and no one to care for her.
Is dementia like schizophrenia? My mom had a kind of dementia - in the end she didn't even know who we were. Here she'd raised me for many years, spent hour upon hour watching me, then what? Her mind just doesn't recognize? And then there was my aunt. She didn't recognize me either, but she'd never really seen me - but I could also tell, upon talking to her, that she just didn't do well with all real connections. Like knowing that I was her brother's son, or that my daughter wasn't my wife. She was in a good mood but pretty out of it, and it was scary.
I always thought that a killer - like the son in the above story - is almost mentally ill by definition. Like if you thought actually killing someone would be good for anyone ever for any reason, there must be something wrong with your thinking. In that case he seemed to take the life of a woman who had rejected him, so, my guess is that it wasn't a double suicide, it was a murder suicide. But on the other hand maybe people are making that part up about her rejecting him, or, maybe everyone has it wrong in general. I try to make up or find reasons why maybe he wasn't mentally ill. But things are looking bad for him, in my book, if her family says she'd rejected him. And her son - he left that son out in the truck, locked out of the house - when he did it. Who could do something like that? He must have known the kid was out there.
That year I visited my aunt was a flood year in Iowa. So, while this kid killing his ex-girlfriend, and leaving her son out in the truck, and I was visiting my aunt (I swear, not far apart in time, mid-May), it was raining, day after day, all through Iowa. As I left my aunt's house, I'll never forget - I didn't quite know my way out of town (Des Moines), but I passed over a bridge, and the water was rising very badly under it. It was scary. It was like it would envelop us all.
And it almost did, in many parts of Iowa. One friend of mine had to go way around every time she came from home to work, and I think this was a Cedar-Rapids-Iowa-City commute. One of those major roads was shut down all summer because of those endless rains.
To me, there's your echoes. They've had what, three hundred-year floods in ten years in Iowa? The water's rising under the bridge, and everyone up here on dry land is beginning to feel it.
I don't know about that story - not sure I can tie all this together. It may be a little too slippery, or even a little to real, and believe me these people I've mentioned are all real. It is quite scary being on that edge of sanity, and by the way my kids are suffering right now and I have no idea what to do to keep them from going over the cliff.
Some action is going to be required here. The wter is rising.
Monday, December 16, 2024
Sunday, December 15, 2024
After a little more research I got some basic facts about the story in the below post, which is still somewhat wild, book-worthy, but now a little clearer.
One aspect of it is that my friend, the new-age woman whose only son committed murder-suicide, was already planning to move to New Mexico when it happened. She did not, as I'd surmised, go there to get away from mean Iowans. But if she was already planning to go, and he was steadily working in a place in town (Cedar Rapids) - then it would be possible for her to blame herself partly for his demise. After all, he was losing his mother, and then his girlfriend, who had apparently rejected him. She was coming to his house to pick up furniture, and had actually brought her son, thinking she'd be safe if that son was with her. Wrong.
What made him snap, kill her, kill the dog, and kill himself? I have a hard time blaming psilicybin mushrooms, though I think they've been mentioned as part of it. Mushrooms alone wouldn't make you violent. Or maybe they would. So there's a mystery there, where did that violence in him come from? Not her, I'm sure.
The other real reason has to do with the book. The author went on to be a professional writer in the big leagues, as if having the right degrees was pushing her in that direction from the start. This was one of her early works and was personal; she'd known the guy and considered him like a father, sympathetic as I am, wanting to show that something, maybe Iowa itself, drove him to it. Well I also saw him in his better days, as a sweet innocent kid, and I can still say that whenever someone goes over the edge there's always a dozen people who can't believe such a mild-mannered gentle spirit could do such a thing. We all could do such a thing, if pushed just the right way, and who knows what else was in his life that we didn't know about? I still haven't located his father, for example, don't know a thing about him.
Back to her book. She knew him as a kind of father figure, was sympathetic, went and talked to the boy (that he had locked out of the house when he did it), and the book was panned. Some very important people thought it was garbage and said so. Now I don't even ask people like that what they think of my books, because I already know what they'll say. But to her, it was a blow. She had to do better next time. She had to even eliminate all evidence of her previous failure. That's my explanation.
There's no one deliberately hiding information about what happened; it's findable though it's not easy to find it. I don't see a coverup or suppression of news articles, just news articles that are hard to find and getting harder to find every day. And I think my conclusions are right if only in a general way about her book and why I can't just read it. As a writer I consider taking on personal situations (like this one - I met the kid) - and that's a hazard of doing it. I could write a book about a writer, I think - that might be somewhat wild - but these things have to go somewhere. If it doesn't go to a grisly murder-suicide or to the mother's sad and pitiful demise, where does it go? Make the writer fictional and let it go where I take it, I suppose. Or let her just be successful, still alive, left alone, but haunted, as the rest of us are.
One aspect of it is that my friend, the new-age woman whose only son committed murder-suicide, was already planning to move to New Mexico when it happened. She did not, as I'd surmised, go there to get away from mean Iowans. But if she was already planning to go, and he was steadily working in a place in town (Cedar Rapids) - then it would be possible for her to blame herself partly for his demise. After all, he was losing his mother, and then his girlfriend, who had apparently rejected him. She was coming to his house to pick up furniture, and had actually brought her son, thinking she'd be safe if that son was with her. Wrong.
What made him snap, kill her, kill the dog, and kill himself? I have a hard time blaming psilicybin mushrooms, though I think they've been mentioned as part of it. Mushrooms alone wouldn't make you violent. Or maybe they would. So there's a mystery there, where did that violence in him come from? Not her, I'm sure.
The other real reason has to do with the book. The author went on to be a professional writer in the big leagues, as if having the right degrees was pushing her in that direction from the start. This was one of her early works and was personal; she'd known the guy and considered him like a father, sympathetic as I am, wanting to show that something, maybe Iowa itself, drove him to it. Well I also saw him in his better days, as a sweet innocent kid, and I can still say that whenever someone goes over the edge there's always a dozen people who can't believe such a mild-mannered gentle spirit could do such a thing. We all could do such a thing, if pushed just the right way, and who knows what else was in his life that we didn't know about? I still haven't located his father, for example, don't know a thing about him.
Back to her book. She knew him as a kind of father figure, was sympathetic, went and talked to the boy (that he had locked out of the house when he did it), and the book was panned. Some very important people thought it was garbage and said so. Now I don't even ask people like that what they think of my books, because I already know what they'll say. But to her, it was a blow. She had to do better next time. She had to even eliminate all evidence of her previous failure. That's my explanation.
There's no one deliberately hiding information about what happened; it's findable though it's not easy to find it. I don't see a coverup or suppression of news articles, just news articles that are hard to find and getting harder to find every day. And I think my conclusions are right if only in a general way about her book and why I can't just read it. As a writer I consider taking on personal situations (like this one - I met the kid) - and that's a hazard of doing it. I could write a book about a writer, I think - that might be somewhat wild - but these things have to go somewhere. If it doesn't go to a grisly murder-suicide or to the mother's sad and pitiful demise, where does it go? Make the writer fictional and let it go where I take it, I suppose. Or let her just be successful, still alive, left alone, but haunted, as the rest of us are.
Friday, December 13, 2024
This is an absolutely true story and I hope I don't make anyone mad. It's told entirely from my own perspective. There's a rich kind of book in here.
In 1976--1977 I became close friends with a woman commonly called "the purple lady" because almost everythig she wore was a shade of purple though there was some pink in there. She was New Age before New Age became a thing, and that pretty much defined her. She gave tarot readings and often talked about our fates and destinies and such things like there was a power she was in touch with that she could so easily share.
She was of the non-violent variety, in her very nature - I never really heard her say anything bad about anyone. She didn't seem to have any enemies and most people knew her and liked her.
Around that time I met her son, who was a kid maybe ten or older, a soft-spoken kid, nice. I got a brief explanation that he didn't live with her, but presumably with his father, but they seemed to get along fine, and they were happy to see each other when he arrived. It seems I was discouraged from asking too much about his father or whatever divorce precipitated their separation. I have since concluded that maybe his father was a dark and mysterious character because the kid would have been entirely sweet if she had more to do with it. But sometimes those small towns around Iowa create very controlling families and maybe that one was unable to let go of that kid when she became new-agey and needed to drift off and find her way. That's as good an explanation as any.
I left the village for many years and heard only traces of what had happened: there was a fire, the kid was involved in a tragedy; she moved off to Taos never to return. Though I too was living in New Mexico I never looked her up. She had renounced Iowa entirely.
It turns out the kid was involved in a murder-suicide in which he killed his girlfriend and a dog. This story gets stranger now with every step. It is not clear where this happened because I simply cannot find a trace of it in any newspaper. I've got names, date (May 1993), some details, but not some important ones like where.
Stranger yet, a very good writer wrote a book about it (called An Iowa Murder), but took it off the market and it appears to be the only account of it even though it's admittedly subjective. The author, as a girl, knew him and couldn't believe he would do such a thing. That's kind of how I feel, except I have even less to go on when it comes to finding the truth.
Perhaps I have the place wrong, or one of their names; I seem to get entire dead ends when I go looking. One newspaper article mentioned it at the end, almost an afterthought, as if it was in this tiny town (Vinton), but too obscure to notice.
He could have grown up there - family there, etc., and very easily had a double life, one with his dad in a small town, one with his mom in the village with the tarot readings. One can imagine that people were cruel to her after the murder and that's what caused her to move to Taos, ok, I'll buy that. Iowa can be cruel that way although I must say, if he had a dark side it didn't come from her. In Taos she was an icon, quite famous, but had no one, and when things got bad there was no one around to look out for her, until one of my old friends' daughters came around and took are of her until her death quite recently. That's when I started looking into this murder-suicide. And this book that was written about it, apparently.
In the time I knew her she didn't want to talk about her marriage (if she had one) or her son, or the hard parts of being split up. She wasn't even that tuned in to mothering although she got along just fine with the kid and he seemed to have what he needed. After I left the village, there was a fire, in which she saved some of her fellow residents but at the expense of all her possessions including lots of purple clothes. And after that, the son moved into the village to be near her and know her better. He didn't stay, though, the murder-suicide was not in the village. Not sure where it was, but it wasn't there.
The details of the killing are horrible, of course. How could a person do that? Drugs, is one answer. and it's possible.
She died in bad shape a couple of months ago. Dementia, and not taking care of herself, and having no place to go, and apparently it was sad, though there was a very nice service for her after she died. None of the above was really her fault, in my figuring, because it seems to me she was probably forced to leave for one reason or another and not allowed to take the kid with her. That's just how I read it. The kid was never able to restore the bond that was cut when she was forced to leave him. Of course that's speculation. Why would she never tell us more?
People have these stories. You never know it by looking at their lost, confused faces later in life. But things happen, and we never forget, we just sometimes fail to record them well. There is no record, no record, of this one. Why, I have no idea.
In 1976--1977 I became close friends with a woman commonly called "the purple lady" because almost everythig she wore was a shade of purple though there was some pink in there. She was New Age before New Age became a thing, and that pretty much defined her. She gave tarot readings and often talked about our fates and destinies and such things like there was a power she was in touch with that she could so easily share.
She was of the non-violent variety, in her very nature - I never really heard her say anything bad about anyone. She didn't seem to have any enemies and most people knew her and liked her.
Around that time I met her son, who was a kid maybe ten or older, a soft-spoken kid, nice. I got a brief explanation that he didn't live with her, but presumably with his father, but they seemed to get along fine, and they were happy to see each other when he arrived. It seems I was discouraged from asking too much about his father or whatever divorce precipitated their separation. I have since concluded that maybe his father was a dark and mysterious character because the kid would have been entirely sweet if she had more to do with it. But sometimes those small towns around Iowa create very controlling families and maybe that one was unable to let go of that kid when she became new-agey and needed to drift off and find her way. That's as good an explanation as any.
I left the village for many years and heard only traces of what had happened: there was a fire, the kid was involved in a tragedy; she moved off to Taos never to return. Though I too was living in New Mexico I never looked her up. She had renounced Iowa entirely.
It turns out the kid was involved in a murder-suicide in which he killed his girlfriend and a dog. This story gets stranger now with every step. It is not clear where this happened because I simply cannot find a trace of it in any newspaper. I've got names, date (May 1993), some details, but not some important ones like where.
Stranger yet, a very good writer wrote a book about it (called An Iowa Murder), but took it off the market and it appears to be the only account of it even though it's admittedly subjective. The author, as a girl, knew him and couldn't believe he would do such a thing. That's kind of how I feel, except I have even less to go on when it comes to finding the truth.
Perhaps I have the place wrong, or one of their names; I seem to get entire dead ends when I go looking. One newspaper article mentioned it at the end, almost an afterthought, as if it was in this tiny town (Vinton), but too obscure to notice.
He could have grown up there - family there, etc., and very easily had a double life, one with his dad in a small town, one with his mom in the village with the tarot readings. One can imagine that people were cruel to her after the murder and that's what caused her to move to Taos, ok, I'll buy that. Iowa can be cruel that way although I must say, if he had a dark side it didn't come from her. In Taos she was an icon, quite famous, but had no one, and when things got bad there was no one around to look out for her, until one of my old friends' daughters came around and took are of her until her death quite recently. That's when I started looking into this murder-suicide. And this book that was written about it, apparently.
In the time I knew her she didn't want to talk about her marriage (if she had one) or her son, or the hard parts of being split up. She wasn't even that tuned in to mothering although she got along just fine with the kid and he seemed to have what he needed. After I left the village, there was a fire, in which she saved some of her fellow residents but at the expense of all her possessions including lots of purple clothes. And after that, the son moved into the village to be near her and know her better. He didn't stay, though, the murder-suicide was not in the village. Not sure where it was, but it wasn't there.
The details of the killing are horrible, of course. How could a person do that? Drugs, is one answer. and it's possible.
She died in bad shape a couple of months ago. Dementia, and not taking care of herself, and having no place to go, and apparently it was sad, though there was a very nice service for her after she died. None of the above was really her fault, in my figuring, because it seems to me she was probably forced to leave for one reason or another and not allowed to take the kid with her. That's just how I read it. The kid was never able to restore the bond that was cut when she was forced to leave him. Of course that's speculation. Why would she never tell us more?
People have these stories. You never know it by looking at their lost, confused faces later in life. But things happen, and we never forget, we just sometimes fail to record them well. There is no record, no record, of this one. Why, I have no idea.
Monday, December 2, 2024
Wednesday, November 20, 2024
Furever Friends Anthology
Proud to be part of this anthology, a large book of many different stories, all romance, intended to help shelters deal with an influx of pets. Here's the information:
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This anthology is packed full of stories about animals who have been rescued and given a second chance at life! Each story is uniquely different as is each author.
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Tuesday, November 12, 2024
Bezaliel
A story from my recent book Harvardinates still resonates with me and is something I'd like to explore. It's partly because the main character (1664) grew up two years younger than his older brother John Leverett (1662) who attended Harvard and went on to become its president. That is a direct similarity to my own life, but the times were entirely different.
Bezaliel was named after his mother's father, and his name was a little more common back then. He was widely thought to have died young, but I found a court entry in which he, at age 10 (in 1674) was being reprimanded by the court for stealing some ribbon from a neighbor. It's this story that I'd like to focus on as it delves us directly into the world of 1674 Boston and the possibilities of how he actually died or in fact if he could have lived.
In 1674 his grandfather was ascendant; when John the Governor was elected, annually and throughout the war, he never lost an election. But his mother Sarah was sick, and his father Hudson was beginning to lose it. In 1673 father was arrested for "dangerous" yelling and screaming in public, and was thrown in jail but later released, apparently by Governor John, who of course didn't want to be embarrassed. His older brother John stuck rigorously to his studies so that he could graduate from Boston Latin School....
It is unclear when exactly the mother died, but it's suspected that she was sick for a while before it happened, and in fact during this time 1672-1675, he was probably getting very little parenting, and his sister died, although that's unclear too. I have no idea what Hudson's dangerous yelling was about but I suspect alcohol. Hudson also was being sued for non-payment of a shipment of tobacco, as if he had gone into tobacco dealing. It's possible that his father's tobacco dealing was being done in his name, and that goes for the alcohol too: the Madiera, the rum, all kinds of things were coming in on his father's ships and Hudson was no doubt consuming quite a bit of it. Meanwhile Bezaliel, and John and Sarah for that matter, were going unattended. John was doing well in school, but was less adept at controlling his younger siblings.
The war broke out suddenly in 1675. It didn't affect downtown Boston proper, i.e. the villages were attacked, the city was not, but effects were felt far and wide almost immediately. Money dried up. People went to fight. Everyone panicked. Things looked bad for the settlers for about a year.
It's very possible that it was then that Bezaliel disappeared, or died. He would have been eleven at the outbreak of the war. I can't imagine his being an actual soldier, being the grandson of the governor, but he could have been kidnapped, or simply run away; he also could have been sent back to England for his own safety, and died in passage or afterward. He was never heard from again. If he lived, it would have been with another name.
A book would explore the possibilities. I can't imagine the conclusion; it would have to write itself, and we'd have to see how it turned out.
Bezaliel was named after his mother's father, and his name was a little more common back then. He was widely thought to have died young, but I found a court entry in which he, at age 10 (in 1674) was being reprimanded by the court for stealing some ribbon from a neighbor. It's this story that I'd like to focus on as it delves us directly into the world of 1674 Boston and the possibilities of how he actually died or in fact if he could have lived.
In 1674 his grandfather was ascendant; when John the Governor was elected, annually and throughout the war, he never lost an election. But his mother Sarah was sick, and his father Hudson was beginning to lose it. In 1673 father was arrested for "dangerous" yelling and screaming in public, and was thrown in jail but later released, apparently by Governor John, who of course didn't want to be embarrassed. His older brother John stuck rigorously to his studies so that he could graduate from Boston Latin School....
It is unclear when exactly the mother died, but it's suspected that she was sick for a while before it happened, and in fact during this time 1672-1675, he was probably getting very little parenting, and his sister died, although that's unclear too. I have no idea what Hudson's dangerous yelling was about but I suspect alcohol. Hudson also was being sued for non-payment of a shipment of tobacco, as if he had gone into tobacco dealing. It's possible that his father's tobacco dealing was being done in his name, and that goes for the alcohol too: the Madiera, the rum, all kinds of things were coming in on his father's ships and Hudson was no doubt consuming quite a bit of it. Meanwhile Bezaliel, and John and Sarah for that matter, were going unattended. John was doing well in school, but was less adept at controlling his younger siblings.
The war broke out suddenly in 1675. It didn't affect downtown Boston proper, i.e. the villages were attacked, the city was not, but effects were felt far and wide almost immediately. Money dried up. People went to fight. Everyone panicked. Things looked bad for the settlers for about a year.
It's very possible that it was then that Bezaliel disappeared, or died. He would have been eleven at the outbreak of the war. I can't imagine his being an actual soldier, being the grandson of the governor, but he could have been kidnapped, or simply run away; he also could have been sent back to England for his own safety, and died in passage or afterward. He was never heard from again. If he lived, it would have been with another name.
A book would explore the possibilities. I can't imagine the conclusion; it would have to write itself, and we'd have to see how it turned out.
Tuesday, October 15, 2024
I recently read some poetry that was very disturbing, more for what it did to me than for what it was itself.
A poet's mother died. She wrote a whole book describing a kind of esoteric connection they had, with unspoken bonds of love, whispers of grief, a surreal kind of connection that made me suspect that it was all in her head, and she was in a way making up for what she didn't have on the more real planes. Maybe mom wasn't there for her in some ways, or was unable to help her in her journey toward physical and emotional womanhood, but she made up for it by doing what she did best: explore the mystical, romantic ethereal world of things we can't see.
What bothered me was its opposition to my own experience. My mother was there for me in almost every way, dressing me, feeding me, taking complete care of me well into adulthood. But toward the end she lost it, and didn't even know who I was. One night I went into her hospice and, night times being bad and disturbing in general, it really upset her and even though I showed her my driver's license, still it didn't make any sense to her that I was her son, not only her son but one who was very close to her for many years. It upset me to feel like I'd lost her, but it upset my dad even more; after all, they'd been married for over fifty years, and now she didn't know who he was either. She talked about a car being right outside, waiting for her, and she had to get dressed and go out and join them in that car; we knew that there was no car, and that she wasn't going anywhere.
In such a hospice space, we could look around and see others who were in close to the same condition. The workers liked her and thought she was sweet; they would come in and do necessary tasks like make sure she could pee and give her a bath, but they totally didn't expect her to have any clue where she was or who they were, and they knew she wasn't coming back; it was all about making her happy and peaceful in her remaining days. They'd simply agree with her about the car but say that she couldn't get dressed right now and would just have to wait and they'd still be there; that was as close to true as you could get and I took their cue to say pretty much the same thing. Perhaps there was a group of people out there waiting for her, ancestors from the other side, old friends, old pets who had crossed over, and she would be welcomed and would know exactly who they were when she got there. But in this world, she was terribly confused, and upset, and just wanted out of that bed.
It gets worse. Before it was over she'd accused me of putting her "in the worst position a woman can be in," and I thought, are you serious? All those years putting a car in front of me on the kitchen floor so I'd be occupied and happy, a young lad growing up at her knee, while she'd have her coffee with the neighbors and do other things to keep from going out of her mind from the drudgery of child-raising. Well, once the children are gone, I guess it catches up to you, but here she was, in front of me, very upset, and probably I was better off just walking off and saying this could all be marked onto an old account. I could surely take it. And, in many ways, I'd already lost her, weeks or months ago, when we suspected her mind was slipping, and she kept asking us the time. Things had gotten mixed up up there. Her fears were mixing in with her realities and just about the only thing that was still even remotely accurate was her distant memories of her own childhood, which were still quite clear and unblemished by the messiness of the world whe was living in.
A poet's mother died. She wrote a whole book describing a kind of esoteric connection they had, with unspoken bonds of love, whispers of grief, a surreal kind of connection that made me suspect that it was all in her head, and she was in a way making up for what she didn't have on the more real planes. Maybe mom wasn't there for her in some ways, or was unable to help her in her journey toward physical and emotional womanhood, but she made up for it by doing what she did best: explore the mystical, romantic ethereal world of things we can't see.
What bothered me was its opposition to my own experience. My mother was there for me in almost every way, dressing me, feeding me, taking complete care of me well into adulthood. But toward the end she lost it, and didn't even know who I was. One night I went into her hospice and, night times being bad and disturbing in general, it really upset her and even though I showed her my driver's license, still it didn't make any sense to her that I was her son, not only her son but one who was very close to her for many years. It upset me to feel like I'd lost her, but it upset my dad even more; after all, they'd been married for over fifty years, and now she didn't know who he was either. She talked about a car being right outside, waiting for her, and she had to get dressed and go out and join them in that car; we knew that there was no car, and that she wasn't going anywhere.
In such a hospice space, we could look around and see others who were in close to the same condition. The workers liked her and thought she was sweet; they would come in and do necessary tasks like make sure she could pee and give her a bath, but they totally didn't expect her to have any clue where she was or who they were, and they knew she wasn't coming back; it was all about making her happy and peaceful in her remaining days. They'd simply agree with her about the car but say that she couldn't get dressed right now and would just have to wait and they'd still be there; that was as close to true as you could get and I took their cue to say pretty much the same thing. Perhaps there was a group of people out there waiting for her, ancestors from the other side, old friends, old pets who had crossed over, and she would be welcomed and would know exactly who they were when she got there. But in this world, she was terribly confused, and upset, and just wanted out of that bed.
It gets worse. Before it was over she'd accused me of putting her "in the worst position a woman can be in," and I thought, are you serious? All those years putting a car in front of me on the kitchen floor so I'd be occupied and happy, a young lad growing up at her knee, while she'd have her coffee with the neighbors and do other things to keep from going out of her mind from the drudgery of child-raising. Well, once the children are gone, I guess it catches up to you, but here she was, in front of me, very upset, and probably I was better off just walking off and saying this could all be marked onto an old account. I could surely take it. And, in many ways, I'd already lost her, weeks or months ago, when we suspected her mind was slipping, and she kept asking us the time. Things had gotten mixed up up there. Her fears were mixing in with her realities and just about the only thing that was still even remotely accurate was her distant memories of her own childhood, which were still quite clear and unblemished by the messiness of the world whe was living in.
Monday, September 2, 2024
The essence of this story is true although the particulars may not be. We have in our family a famous geologist, Frank Leverett, who was about 80 in the 1940s. He had spent his life walking the midwest, over 100,000 miles, determining the effects of the receding of the glaciers and making conclusions about what happened in the Ice Age, 12,000 years ago. Toward the end of his life he became obsessed with genealogy: who were his relatives, what happened to them, and in particular how long they lived. He knew the end was near and he wanted some statistical framework to put his longevity in.
But in the interests of determining who our ancestors were (we were pretty sure of our relation to Frank, who would be my great-grandfather's cousin), he had gone back east, almost on behalf of the western Leveretts who, he soon found out, had incorrect ideas about their ancestry. There were some Leveretts in Boston and he was able to track them down. He spent some time at Harvard doing research on John Leverett, President of Harvard in the early 1700s. While there he made some academic contacts, one of whom gave him an edited copy of his chapter in a book called The Great Leverett. The question though was how we were related to this Leverett or his grandfather, Governor of the Colony in the 1600s.
At one point he visited Ellen Chase, a known relative in Boston who lived in the shadow of the Trinity Episcopal Church downtown; she was an author but was toward the end of her years. She told him everything she knew but ultimately it made the situation more confusing. Yes, on the Boston family's side, the legend had lived on that we were descended from the Governor, but not the President of Harvard, who would be a relative but not ancestor.
Frank put all his facts together at his house in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Another western Leverett, Fred, had moved to Ann Arbor with his large brood of children and they were known to have large reunions which we, Leverett cousins, were always invited to; I went to maybe one in 1994. But in the 1940s Frank was interested in gathering information and gathering everyone's stories. Ultimately two of Fred's descendants took Frank's "data" and compiled what we know today of the descendants of William and Joseph Leverett, two of the Leveretts from the 1700s and 1800s. Joseph was the one who, raised in Maine, brought his family out west and basically separated us from that Boston branch who remained and withered away though they had access to the old Leverett house, I think.
At one of these reunions he was approached by Carrie, who was my great grandfather Will's sister (Fred was his older brother; all were cousins to Frank). She proudly gave him her account of her life which he had most certainly encouraged her to write. She was kind of a world traveler; her husband was in mining engineering and went to places like Mexico and she had lots to tell.
But one of the things she had to tell was about when she went back to New England looking for the Leverett heritage and what was left of the old family. Frank had given her Ellen's name and she called on Ellen. She found a fine old apartment with lots of ancient, beautiful furniture but Ellen herself was difficult. She made a comment about putting the furniture in a museum and Ellen got mad at her. But you can't take it with you when you go, was her comment; her main impression was that this was mighty fine furniture to just let slip into the estate-auction universe. But what to do? She came back and told Frank and Will the story; I ended up with it, since her written account is among my genealogical material.
Frank himself died sometime in the forties, and Will and Carrie sometime after that, so what remains basically is the work that they did to pull together accounts. Frank had no children, but he wasn't in the business of collecting fine old furniture and wasn't especially attached to even his house in Ann Arbor, though maybe his wife was; I can't even remember if she outlived him. The mystery of how we are related to John the Governor remains unsolved; several good theories abound. Frank is still probably the most famous of the modern Leveretts, having been in the Who's Who for all of its first twenty years or so, but he's most famous in our family for pulling together the information we now use to know our relatives.
Ellen was an author who wrote several things, some of which can be found but some which are very difficult to find. One, Tenants of Old Deptford, deals with her experiences in London. There are only two copies of this to be found in libraries, both back east, and I've never seen it but would like to. Her name is very easily confused with that of Mary Ellen Chase, a more famous author, but she is drifting into obscurity, the way I see it. I can't vouch for the quality of her writing; it's probably just like mine, so-so, but what the heck, I feel like should do something for her. I think of her every so often, in that fine old house full of antiques. Frank found her, and for that, I'm grateful.
But in the interests of determining who our ancestors were (we were pretty sure of our relation to Frank, who would be my great-grandfather's cousin), he had gone back east, almost on behalf of the western Leveretts who, he soon found out, had incorrect ideas about their ancestry. There were some Leveretts in Boston and he was able to track them down. He spent some time at Harvard doing research on John Leverett, President of Harvard in the early 1700s. While there he made some academic contacts, one of whom gave him an edited copy of his chapter in a book called The Great Leverett. The question though was how we were related to this Leverett or his grandfather, Governor of the Colony in the 1600s.
At one point he visited Ellen Chase, a known relative in Boston who lived in the shadow of the Trinity Episcopal Church downtown; she was an author but was toward the end of her years. She told him everything she knew but ultimately it made the situation more confusing. Yes, on the Boston family's side, the legend had lived on that we were descended from the Governor, but not the President of Harvard, who would be a relative but not ancestor.
Frank put all his facts together at his house in Ann Arbor, Michigan. Another western Leverett, Fred, had moved to Ann Arbor with his large brood of children and they were known to have large reunions which we, Leverett cousins, were always invited to; I went to maybe one in 1994. But in the 1940s Frank was interested in gathering information and gathering everyone's stories. Ultimately two of Fred's descendants took Frank's "data" and compiled what we know today of the descendants of William and Joseph Leverett, two of the Leveretts from the 1700s and 1800s. Joseph was the one who, raised in Maine, brought his family out west and basically separated us from that Boston branch who remained and withered away though they had access to the old Leverett house, I think.
At one of these reunions he was approached by Carrie, who was my great grandfather Will's sister (Fred was his older brother; all were cousins to Frank). She proudly gave him her account of her life which he had most certainly encouraged her to write. She was kind of a world traveler; her husband was in mining engineering and went to places like Mexico and she had lots to tell.
But one of the things she had to tell was about when she went back to New England looking for the Leverett heritage and what was left of the old family. Frank had given her Ellen's name and she called on Ellen. She found a fine old apartment with lots of ancient, beautiful furniture but Ellen herself was difficult. She made a comment about putting the furniture in a museum and Ellen got mad at her. But you can't take it with you when you go, was her comment; her main impression was that this was mighty fine furniture to just let slip into the estate-auction universe. But what to do? She came back and told Frank and Will the story; I ended up with it, since her written account is among my genealogical material.
Frank himself died sometime in the forties, and Will and Carrie sometime after that, so what remains basically is the work that they did to pull together accounts. Frank had no children, but he wasn't in the business of collecting fine old furniture and wasn't especially attached to even his house in Ann Arbor, though maybe his wife was; I can't even remember if she outlived him. The mystery of how we are related to John the Governor remains unsolved; several good theories abound. Frank is still probably the most famous of the modern Leveretts, having been in the Who's Who for all of its first twenty years or so, but he's most famous in our family for pulling together the information we now use to know our relatives.
Ellen was an author who wrote several things, some of which can be found but some which are very difficult to find. One, Tenants of Old Deptford, deals with her experiences in London. There are only two copies of this to be found in libraries, both back east, and I've never seen it but would like to. Her name is very easily confused with that of Mary Ellen Chase, a more famous author, but she is drifting into obscurity, the way I see it. I can't vouch for the quality of her writing; it's probably just like mine, so-so, but what the heck, I feel like should do something for her. I think of her every so often, in that fine old house full of antiques. Frank found her, and for that, I'm grateful.
Sunday, June 16, 2024
One of the frustrating things about modern life is that modern technology puts you into these nowhere zones where you don’t know what to do or how to respond; young people are pretty good at shutting down and rebooting, or whatever is necessary, but I am often dazed and unable to respond.
One example happened at the Wal-Mart self checkout. Usually I don’t like self checkout because I am so slow at it and the real clerks are much better at it. But in this case I only had about eight things and thought I’d do it myself, do it as they wanted to save them some man-hours. But one of my items was a pair of three-banana bunches; they didn’t have any with six or more, so I’d gotten two with three each, and I weighed them together, since they were both bananas. Somehow the scanning machine got a picture of me putting two separate things in the bag together, and froze up on me. The clerk came over.
I, however, was simply dazed. I didn’t know why the machine would freeze up and couldn’t figure out what to do next. The clerk could see that I wasn’t trying to pull one over on them so after a minute or two he just restarted the machine. But while we were standing there I noticed that the machine had taken endless pictures of me scanning items and was trying to point out, to him, what it caught that seemed to be a problem. I had scanned both bunches together – did it look like I had slipped one in underneath the other?
These days I come home from the exasperation of dealing with the modern world and do research on ancestry.com and newspapers.com. I found a great grandfather who ran a crockery store in the 1920’s in a partnership; the store was called Swain & Mauer, and he was the Mauer. But around 1923 he had an idea: have a grocery store where people check themselves out; this will save the store money on clerks and the savings would be passed along to the customers who would pay less for their groceries. It was kind of a 1920’s ALDI’s, and it opened with great fanfare; this was in Council Bluffs, Iowa.
But by 1927, he died on the road working for Ney Manufacturing, in Watertown, South Dakota. This was important because my dad was born in 1927, and probably never got to meet or know his grandfather. I have yet to tie down the details exactly and may have lost track of some of the details. But dying on the road as a traveling salesman (I assume) makes me think of him as somewhat of a Death-of-a-Salesman type character. In fact maybe the play Death of a Salesman was written about him.
He could have told them, this self-checkout business is totally bogus. Walmart is not the only store that invested millions in self-checkout scanning machines that are apparently putting our every move on camera. But we the people don’t like them. I don’t entirely trust myself even when my intentions are good; I’ve made several mistakes that I know of. And I have this one problem when I am buying only something that doesn’t scan, and the machine won’t start up until you scan something. The item I have in mind is refills of water, which you have to type in, because there’s no other way to buy them. It’s a nowhere-land scenario where to me there is nowhere out.
One example happened at the Wal-Mart self checkout. Usually I don’t like self checkout because I am so slow at it and the real clerks are much better at it. But in this case I only had about eight things and thought I’d do it myself, do it as they wanted to save them some man-hours. But one of my items was a pair of three-banana bunches; they didn’t have any with six or more, so I’d gotten two with three each, and I weighed them together, since they were both bananas. Somehow the scanning machine got a picture of me putting two separate things in the bag together, and froze up on me. The clerk came over.
I, however, was simply dazed. I didn’t know why the machine would freeze up and couldn’t figure out what to do next. The clerk could see that I wasn’t trying to pull one over on them so after a minute or two he just restarted the machine. But while we were standing there I noticed that the machine had taken endless pictures of me scanning items and was trying to point out, to him, what it caught that seemed to be a problem. I had scanned both bunches together – did it look like I had slipped one in underneath the other?
These days I come home from the exasperation of dealing with the modern world and do research on ancestry.com and newspapers.com. I found a great grandfather who ran a crockery store in the 1920’s in a partnership; the store was called Swain & Mauer, and he was the Mauer. But around 1923 he had an idea: have a grocery store where people check themselves out; this will save the store money on clerks and the savings would be passed along to the customers who would pay less for their groceries. It was kind of a 1920’s ALDI’s, and it opened with great fanfare; this was in Council Bluffs, Iowa.
But by 1927, he died on the road working for Ney Manufacturing, in Watertown, South Dakota. This was important because my dad was born in 1927, and probably never got to meet or know his grandfather. I have yet to tie down the details exactly and may have lost track of some of the details. But dying on the road as a traveling salesman (I assume) makes me think of him as somewhat of a Death-of-a-Salesman type character. In fact maybe the play Death of a Salesman was written about him.
He could have told them, this self-checkout business is totally bogus. Walmart is not the only store that invested millions in self-checkout scanning machines that are apparently putting our every move on camera. But we the people don’t like them. I don’t entirely trust myself even when my intentions are good; I’ve made several mistakes that I know of. And I have this one problem when I am buying only something that doesn’t scan, and the machine won’t start up until you scan something. The item I have in mind is refills of water, which you have to type in, because there’s no other way to buy them. It’s a nowhere-land scenario where to me there is nowhere out.
Thursday, May 16, 2024
Frog on the Stoop
There at the door, in the rain, I see the frog. He or she is up against the glass door, and has jumped into it, only to be knocked back to the stoop, still facing the door, with a look of panic. I will not hurt the poor thing; I set my McDonald's bag against the door too, out of the rain. It's a large sack, with a rope-like handle, sealed by stickers in three places, so the frog will not get into it.
Just twenty minutes earlier, I'd been sitting in my car, waiting for a door-dash offer. The rain had started. I was wondering what had become of my life. I'd done lots of interesting things, gone to far corners of the world, had a professional career, yet here I was, waiting, hoping, to get the chance to take someone some fast food in the rain. The desperation is simple. I need the money. A single order may be only three or four bucks, but I need it. When I get the offer I take it immediately. I don't care about the rain, don't care that it's McDonald's, or that it's very late at night and anything can happen in those fast-food places. In the McDonald's I make sure it's the right order. I vaguely know the people there, and some of the small-town drama of their lives, but this is one of those nights that I'd rather not know anything; I'd like to just pick up the order and get out of there, and that's what I do. Doordash reminds me to check to make sure I've got the drinks, but at McDonald's they put the drinks into the large bag before I even see it, and I can't look inside because it's sealed shut with stickers.
Out on the highway, the rain is picking up and I have a very small car, so small that, during a torrential downpour, I worry about the puddles swallowing up the car, and me, floating away downstream, into raging floodwaters racing inevitably toward the Mississippi. That doesn't seem to be happening yet, but still, because the order is a couple of miles from town, I have the luxury of just driving in the rain, and not worrying too much about traffic, sudden stops, yellow lights, bicycles in the road. It's just me and the car and the wet highway, the smell of McDonald's, and the steady beat of the windshield wipers.
At the house, there's the frog. The frog kind of speaks to me with panic and desperation. But I'm not about to scoop it out of the way. Maybe it's my feeling about handling food, even though I'm only handling the bag, and even though I'm already done handling the bag; I've set it on the stoop already, and I'm getting my phone ready to take the picture.
Doordash wants me to take a picture of the bag, up against the door, so that it documents that I actually put it there before I left. That picture goes immediately to the customer who now knows it's there and it is on that one certain stoop, as opposed to maybe the side door or some neighbor's door. But the question is whether to include the frog in the picture. I really don't feel like I have much choice. The frog is right beside the bag, and I take the picture, frog and all. I'm just documenting the situation.
On the way home the rain really opens up and pours. Now I'm a little worried about the car, but I make it back into town ok, and the streets are pretty empty, so where high water has taken over the edges, I just drive toward the center and stay out of it. Back home, I'm relieved; it's late, everyone has gone to bed, but I've made it, and can start peeling off shoes and wet clothes. The phone is off; I've taken my last order.
Just twenty minutes earlier, I'd been sitting in my car, waiting for a door-dash offer. The rain had started. I was wondering what had become of my life. I'd done lots of interesting things, gone to far corners of the world, had a professional career, yet here I was, waiting, hoping, to get the chance to take someone some fast food in the rain. The desperation is simple. I need the money. A single order may be only three or four bucks, but I need it. When I get the offer I take it immediately. I don't care about the rain, don't care that it's McDonald's, or that it's very late at night and anything can happen in those fast-food places. In the McDonald's I make sure it's the right order. I vaguely know the people there, and some of the small-town drama of their lives, but this is one of those nights that I'd rather not know anything; I'd like to just pick up the order and get out of there, and that's what I do. Doordash reminds me to check to make sure I've got the drinks, but at McDonald's they put the drinks into the large bag before I even see it, and I can't look inside because it's sealed shut with stickers.
Out on the highway, the rain is picking up and I have a very small car, so small that, during a torrential downpour, I worry about the puddles swallowing up the car, and me, floating away downstream, into raging floodwaters racing inevitably toward the Mississippi. That doesn't seem to be happening yet, but still, because the order is a couple of miles from town, I have the luxury of just driving in the rain, and not worrying too much about traffic, sudden stops, yellow lights, bicycles in the road. It's just me and the car and the wet highway, the smell of McDonald's, and the steady beat of the windshield wipers.
At the house, there's the frog. The frog kind of speaks to me with panic and desperation. But I'm not about to scoop it out of the way. Maybe it's my feeling about handling food, even though I'm only handling the bag, and even though I'm already done handling the bag; I've set it on the stoop already, and I'm getting my phone ready to take the picture.
Doordash wants me to take a picture of the bag, up against the door, so that it documents that I actually put it there before I left. That picture goes immediately to the customer who now knows it's there and it is on that one certain stoop, as opposed to maybe the side door or some neighbor's door. But the question is whether to include the frog in the picture. I really don't feel like I have much choice. The frog is right beside the bag, and I take the picture, frog and all. I'm just documenting the situation.
On the way home the rain really opens up and pours. Now I'm a little worried about the car, but I make it back into town ok, and the streets are pretty empty, so where high water has taken over the edges, I just drive toward the center and stay out of it. Back home, I'm relieved; it's late, everyone has gone to bed, but I've made it, and can start peeling off shoes and wet clothes. The phone is off; I've taken my last order.
Monday, January 22, 2024
It is what it is
I walked into a Starbucks in Orlando, November of 2023. I travel a lot; when I go to Orlando I go to Disney World, and after I go to Disney World I go to Starbucks to unwind. The place was quite chaotic; a barista appeared to be saving an old woman's life. She had perhaps collapsed of a heart attack, and he, the barista, was taking charge of the situation. My guess was that he was African, based on his appearance and his British accent; the important thing was that he had the authority of a doctor who knew what he was doing; everyone else just gave him room and brought him whatever he asked for, like a wet cloth or soft towel.
The other barista, a young, pretty girl, was therefore left with a backlog of orders and trying to get everyone's order prepared; when I commented on how busy it was, she just said, "It is what it is" and kept working.
I'd always hated that phrase, I thought, though I was happy that she'd gotten me my large coffee relatively quickly and that I'd beaten the long line that was developing behind me. I thought of my long day at Disney World. I'd skipped most of the rides as usual; I go to watch the people. As an immigrant from Ireland, I find it an incredible display of everything America is or wants to be, and it's a complete indulgence in fantasy. But then, Starbucks itself is very American too, with its three-dollar coffees and whipped-cream drinks.
I took my plain coffee over into the corner behind a display case and settled in a table back there. A couple of people behind me were having a serious discussion of some kind, and right away it was clear they were from Disney. You can't escape Disney in this town, I thought as I sipped my coffee, but I was actually interested in eavesdropping on their conversation, so I did. In the corner, the one barista appeared to have the situation under control. The place was crowded and I'd got one of the last tables. But there was no way I could not hear this conversation behind me.
The older man, with some authority and self-assurance, was rattling off a list of recent Disney movie failures. Lightyear, Elemental, The Little Mermaid, Strange World: all had flopped, and this guy appeared to know how badly and how their poor performance had matched up to Disney's expectations, or at least the stockholders' expectations.
Now while I was listening to this guy go on about movie failures, a little boy of about four, apparently named Sam, was causing all kinds of trouble while his mother, or a woman who appeared to be his mother, called at him from across the room. At this moment he was pulling napkins out of the napkin-holder one at a time and letting them float gently toward the floor. "Sam! You stop that!" she'd say from across the room, but then she'd go back to talking to whoever she was busy talking to.
All these people were oblivious to the drama unfolding over in the other corner of the store, with the older lady, who had perhaps had a heart attack and who now appeared to be saved. The barista had known what he was doing, apparently; the 911 people, as I call them, had now arrived and were taking her by stretcher out the door on that side of the store. Good job, barista! He took a look at the long line snaking out the store to the main doorway, and apologized to the young girl who was still making some specialty drink. It was just them and this very crowded coffee shop.
The discussion of the two Disney employees turned to what had gone wrong and what could be done about it. Why had these movies flopped so spectacularly? One generally accepted theory was that the public was mad because Disney had bucked Governor DeSantis' efforts to control what children saw; that in taking a public stand against this kind of control they were saying that they would do what they wanted and not buckle under to conservative censorship. Another theory was that the increasing politicization of everything meant that even the appearance of a gay character in one of their movies now was taking a stand against the mainstream conservative desire to shield children from the message that gay was ok.
I was interested in how the younger person in the conversation, who could probably be an applicant for some job in the film-making part of the company, hedged and gave answers that didn't reveal too much of what he really thought. It was as if he was trying to get the job from the older man, but had to figure out how to align with the older man's philosophy first. But the older man seemed to be on both sides of the social questions, and at the same tiime more focused more on the bottom line.
I had only a large coffee, no whipped cream, no chocolate, no nothing, so I sipped it slowly and kept listening. At the same time I watched Sam make a little tent pile with the stirring sticks, I listened to the Disney people continue their interview. Actually it was news to me about these movies and, since Disney is King in this town I figured that anything I could learn would probably on some level be helpful. But the coffee shop now had a new disruption: two angry men charged in past the line and started shouting at the baristas. "How can you support Palestinians? They broke through Israel's border and killed 1400 people! What are you doing? This is an outrage!"
Apparently the Starbucks employee union had come out in favor of Palestinians in the Israel-Hamas War, and were one of the only, if not only, supporters of Palestinians at this point in the war; thus they were the most visible target for strongly pro-Israeli protesters. These two angry men did not appear to be Israeli, or even Jewish, though one never knows, and they felt strongly enough about it that they could shout even in a busy coffee shop, disrupting business and putting everyone on edge. Even Sam gave up his business with the sticks, and the two Disney guys behind me paused for a few minutes to listen to their angry yelling. We were all trying to figure out how they could be so angry at hapless baristas. What did they want? Were they going to commit violence?
The two poor baristas got very upset. The young woman was flustered and became almost unable to make a cappucino. I could tell she knew very little about the Israel-Hamas war, but was more upset about the jarring atmosphere these two angry men caused by their shouting. The one who had just saved the old woman's life, however, was much more active in trying to talk his way out of this confrontation. He explained to them that the union did not necessarily represent every barista's view and that baristas sometimes had to go along with the majority just like everyone else. I was grateful that it didn't appear to be heading toward violence. The two angry men, after making their feelings clearly known and turning the entire coffee shop into a confrontation over the war, finally left in a huff saying that Starbucks wouldn't be getting much of their business for a while.
I had an odd thought when they said that. Chances are, I thought, that they would never really come here for a coffee anyway. Three quarters of the world never goes to a Starbucks ever, and they were probably the same way. It was like my day at Disney World in a way; I always consider Disney World a marvel, quintessentially American, and it is, yet a wide swath of America would never go there, or would never be able to afford it. To say you're going to boycott a place that you never go to anyway isn't saying much, but I could tell the baristas weren't happy about that loud recrimination in their small coffee shop.
The African barista had now come over to deal with Sam, who was somewhat relentless in disrupting the little table of coffee extras: caps, stirrers, creamer, little packets of sugar. He'd ransacked the place, in his own four-year-old way. His mother was apologetic, but she was a little late; he'd already done his damage. And she'd gotten what, probably her only break all morning. But the African barista was more than patient. He had saved a life, diffused a political crisis, and now put a young hooligan back in the care of his mother, all in the course of ten minutes. I finally talked to him a little, and told him that I admired his skill in managing that older woman who'd had a heart attack, in getting 911 help and getting her out of here as quickly as possible, as minutes count in such situations. I made a little comment about the mother's neglect, although she'd at least tried, but he didn't want to say anything bad about the mother, saying only "it is what it is," a kind of wry commentary that he'd probably picked up from the other barista.
It turns out he actually was a doctor in his home country, which may have been Eritrea or something, and this was the best job he could get in Orlando or anywhere in the US. He didn't have much time to talk. But he had children at home, and he knew that there wasn't much use in exploding at them or getting overly angry at what to them was just a natural process of discovery.
The two guys behind me had widened their discussion to include all of Disney. The filmmaking part of it and Disney World were only part of a huge corporation that had a lot of pressure on it to succeed. Even Disney World had had trouble with the pandemic and all, and I probably could have jumped into the conversation at this point, because I'd seen Disney World's response to the pandemic and knew that things weren't easy over there. There's nothing worse than too many Mickeys and not enough kids, or kids who are afraid to pose for a picture with any of the dressed-up characters all around.
Much to my surprise, just before I left, the older guy announced that the younger guy had the job if he wanted it. What job, exactly, I had no idea, because I'd missed parts of their conversation, but it was now clear that this was an interview. The younger guy, nervous and clearly with second thoughts, took it but with a little hesitation. I wondered what I would do if I were offered a job at Disney - a once in a lifetime experience, I'm sure. I was doing well with what I had, but a day off, especially one surrounded by Mickeys and Goofys, always made me reflect a little.
I could just give it all up and go back to Ireland, I thought, as I drained my cup, threw it away, and prepared to leave. But I actually found the African guy somewhat inspirational. This place must be really different from what he was used to. He seemed to have the patience and strength to deal with whatever came his way. I could only hope I could learn from that, as I gathered my things and jumped back into the world.
Now, the last disaster happened: A woman spilled an entire large drink, whipped cream and all, on the floor by the door. She was nearly hysterical and left to find some way to clean it up. The baristas, at the edge of their patience now, assured her and said it would all work out. The mother was trying to get Sam to walk around it, as they were leaving too, but Sam was somewhat fascinated with how the whipped cream floated on the spilled coffee. Finally, though, he gave up looking at it, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "it is what it is!"
The other barista, a young, pretty girl, was therefore left with a backlog of orders and trying to get everyone's order prepared; when I commented on how busy it was, she just said, "It is what it is" and kept working.
I'd always hated that phrase, I thought, though I was happy that she'd gotten me my large coffee relatively quickly and that I'd beaten the long line that was developing behind me. I thought of my long day at Disney World. I'd skipped most of the rides as usual; I go to watch the people. As an immigrant from Ireland, I find it an incredible display of everything America is or wants to be, and it's a complete indulgence in fantasy. But then, Starbucks itself is very American too, with its three-dollar coffees and whipped-cream drinks.
I took my plain coffee over into the corner behind a display case and settled in a table back there. A couple of people behind me were having a serious discussion of some kind, and right away it was clear they were from Disney. You can't escape Disney in this town, I thought as I sipped my coffee, but I was actually interested in eavesdropping on their conversation, so I did. In the corner, the one barista appeared to have the situation under control. The place was crowded and I'd got one of the last tables. But there was no way I could not hear this conversation behind me.
The older man, with some authority and self-assurance, was rattling off a list of recent Disney movie failures. Lightyear, Elemental, The Little Mermaid, Strange World: all had flopped, and this guy appeared to know how badly and how their poor performance had matched up to Disney's expectations, or at least the stockholders' expectations.
Now while I was listening to this guy go on about movie failures, a little boy of about four, apparently named Sam, was causing all kinds of trouble while his mother, or a woman who appeared to be his mother, called at him from across the room. At this moment he was pulling napkins out of the napkin-holder one at a time and letting them float gently toward the floor. "Sam! You stop that!" she'd say from across the room, but then she'd go back to talking to whoever she was busy talking to.
All these people were oblivious to the drama unfolding over in the other corner of the store, with the older lady, who had perhaps had a heart attack and who now appeared to be saved. The barista had known what he was doing, apparently; the 911 people, as I call them, had now arrived and were taking her by stretcher out the door on that side of the store. Good job, barista! He took a look at the long line snaking out the store to the main doorway, and apologized to the young girl who was still making some specialty drink. It was just them and this very crowded coffee shop.
The discussion of the two Disney employees turned to what had gone wrong and what could be done about it. Why had these movies flopped so spectacularly? One generally accepted theory was that the public was mad because Disney had bucked Governor DeSantis' efforts to control what children saw; that in taking a public stand against this kind of control they were saying that they would do what they wanted and not buckle under to conservative censorship. Another theory was that the increasing politicization of everything meant that even the appearance of a gay character in one of their movies now was taking a stand against the mainstream conservative desire to shield children from the message that gay was ok.
I was interested in how the younger person in the conversation, who could probably be an applicant for some job in the film-making part of the company, hedged and gave answers that didn't reveal too much of what he really thought. It was as if he was trying to get the job from the older man, but had to figure out how to align with the older man's philosophy first. But the older man seemed to be on both sides of the social questions, and at the same tiime more focused more on the bottom line.
I had only a large coffee, no whipped cream, no chocolate, no nothing, so I sipped it slowly and kept listening. At the same time I watched Sam make a little tent pile with the stirring sticks, I listened to the Disney people continue their interview. Actually it was news to me about these movies and, since Disney is King in this town I figured that anything I could learn would probably on some level be helpful. But the coffee shop now had a new disruption: two angry men charged in past the line and started shouting at the baristas. "How can you support Palestinians? They broke through Israel's border and killed 1400 people! What are you doing? This is an outrage!"
Apparently the Starbucks employee union had come out in favor of Palestinians in the Israel-Hamas War, and were one of the only, if not only, supporters of Palestinians at this point in the war; thus they were the most visible target for strongly pro-Israeli protesters. These two angry men did not appear to be Israeli, or even Jewish, though one never knows, and they felt strongly enough about it that they could shout even in a busy coffee shop, disrupting business and putting everyone on edge. Even Sam gave up his business with the sticks, and the two Disney guys behind me paused for a few minutes to listen to their angry yelling. We were all trying to figure out how they could be so angry at hapless baristas. What did they want? Were they going to commit violence?
The two poor baristas got very upset. The young woman was flustered and became almost unable to make a cappucino. I could tell she knew very little about the Israel-Hamas war, but was more upset about the jarring atmosphere these two angry men caused by their shouting. The one who had just saved the old woman's life, however, was much more active in trying to talk his way out of this confrontation. He explained to them that the union did not necessarily represent every barista's view and that baristas sometimes had to go along with the majority just like everyone else. I was grateful that it didn't appear to be heading toward violence. The two angry men, after making their feelings clearly known and turning the entire coffee shop into a confrontation over the war, finally left in a huff saying that Starbucks wouldn't be getting much of their business for a while.
I had an odd thought when they said that. Chances are, I thought, that they would never really come here for a coffee anyway. Three quarters of the world never goes to a Starbucks ever, and they were probably the same way. It was like my day at Disney World in a way; I always consider Disney World a marvel, quintessentially American, and it is, yet a wide swath of America would never go there, or would never be able to afford it. To say you're going to boycott a place that you never go to anyway isn't saying much, but I could tell the baristas weren't happy about that loud recrimination in their small coffee shop.
The African barista had now come over to deal with Sam, who was somewhat relentless in disrupting the little table of coffee extras: caps, stirrers, creamer, little packets of sugar. He'd ransacked the place, in his own four-year-old way. His mother was apologetic, but she was a little late; he'd already done his damage. And she'd gotten what, probably her only break all morning. But the African barista was more than patient. He had saved a life, diffused a political crisis, and now put a young hooligan back in the care of his mother, all in the course of ten minutes. I finally talked to him a little, and told him that I admired his skill in managing that older woman who'd had a heart attack, in getting 911 help and getting her out of here as quickly as possible, as minutes count in such situations. I made a little comment about the mother's neglect, although she'd at least tried, but he didn't want to say anything bad about the mother, saying only "it is what it is," a kind of wry commentary that he'd probably picked up from the other barista.
It turns out he actually was a doctor in his home country, which may have been Eritrea or something, and this was the best job he could get in Orlando or anywhere in the US. He didn't have much time to talk. But he had children at home, and he knew that there wasn't much use in exploding at them or getting overly angry at what to them was just a natural process of discovery.
The two guys behind me had widened their discussion to include all of Disney. The filmmaking part of it and Disney World were only part of a huge corporation that had a lot of pressure on it to succeed. Even Disney World had had trouble with the pandemic and all, and I probably could have jumped into the conversation at this point, because I'd seen Disney World's response to the pandemic and knew that things weren't easy over there. There's nothing worse than too many Mickeys and not enough kids, or kids who are afraid to pose for a picture with any of the dressed-up characters all around.
Much to my surprise, just before I left, the older guy announced that the younger guy had the job if he wanted it. What job, exactly, I had no idea, because I'd missed parts of their conversation, but it was now clear that this was an interview. The younger guy, nervous and clearly with second thoughts, took it but with a little hesitation. I wondered what I would do if I were offered a job at Disney - a once in a lifetime experience, I'm sure. I was doing well with what I had, but a day off, especially one surrounded by Mickeys and Goofys, always made me reflect a little.
I could just give it all up and go back to Ireland, I thought, as I drained my cup, threw it away, and prepared to leave. But I actually found the African guy somewhat inspirational. This place must be really different from what he was used to. He seemed to have the patience and strength to deal with whatever came his way. I could only hope I could learn from that, as I gathered my things and jumped back into the world.
Now, the last disaster happened: A woman spilled an entire large drink, whipped cream and all, on the floor by the door. She was nearly hysterical and left to find some way to clean it up. The baristas, at the edge of their patience now, assured her and said it would all work out. The mother was trying to get Sam to walk around it, as they were leaving too, but Sam was somewhat fascinated with how the whipped cream floated on the spilled coffee. Finally, though, he gave up looking at it, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "it is what it is!"
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