Goes Around, Comes Around

So, I was having a rough patch. My father just died, my family construct was insane, and there were a couple of other life crisis thrown in just to make sure that the ditch I was in would stay as deep as possible. 

I could barely get myself off the couch. One day I decided I need to buy myself something pretty. So, I went to a boutique that sells very femmie girly clothes. They were not cheap but there were often affordable items – such as the little cotton tank top with sequins. It looked good on and so it was purchased.

I didn’t bother with it for a week and then out of the bag it came. What I didn’t do at the time of sale was look at the price, I did that day to realize this little tank was $180. I don’t think there is any reason on earth for a cotton tank with sequins to be $180. 

So, I took it back to the store. I was told that there weren’t any returns only exchanges.  Fine.  I thought I can reason a pair of shoes, or a jacket for that amount of money. So, I looked around. I was being helped by a lovely sales clerk, Julie.  I tried on boots, sandals, coats. I couldn’t make a decision. The whole time Julie was kind and did not for one second lose her patience. I took a long, long time, and there was Julie, considerate and smiling. Around and around the store I went, trying on and trying on.  I finally decided on a pair of gold shoes (which I still wear and are fabulous) had to pay a little extra money, but could validate the cost. 

I went home and wrote an email to the owner of the store praising Julie.  How gracious and kind she was. I told the whole story.  I wrote that it was employees like Julie that make me want to come back to the store and what a valuable asset she is. I received a reply from the owner, who said she’s known Julie since she started working for her in the East Hampton store when she was just 16, and to thank me for the note. 

Weeks later I popped my head into the store and there was Julie. I told her I had written the note.  Julie told me how grateful she was. She had just gotten a degree in education and had a new teaching position teaching little ones.  She wanted to work one day a week at the store, but was getting a little pushback.  It was because of my note that the owner agreed, and now she gets to work one day a week in the store that she loves. 

What goes around comes around.  It may not be as clear cut as this story reflects but it’s always true and always works. 

Hello, Grandma?

So, my grandmother lived in South Beach.  My mother moved her from LA because my mother wanted to make sure that she took care of my Grandma as she grew older. In a sad twist of fate, it was my grandmother who take care of my mother as she grew ill and passed away. Grandma decided to stay, saying she liked living in South Beach, there were all sorts of services dedicated to helping the elderly.  Florida does elderly well.

I live in New York and would try to visit her as often as I could. My Grandma was very hard of hearing, she had a hearing-impaired phone but making myself understood could be tricky, especially if it involved travel plans. I recall the time I said I would be arriving in 3 weeks and she thought I’d be there on Thursday. She was thrilled and asked what I wanted to eat – chicken, steak, fish, all three?  I knew I had to correct her otherwise she’d run out immediately and cook for the next several days.

One time I called her and said, “Hello, Grandma?” “Hello, Darling,” the other end replied.  She started to rattle off questions, with an Eastern European accent which my Grandma didn’t have.  She paused for a moment after asking about Sarah that gave me an opportunity.  “I don’t think you’re my Grandma.” I apologized, she apologized and we hung up.  I had a chuckle – the chances are great that if you call someone with a 305-area code you will get a Grandma.  

My Time in a Vietnamese Prison

So, I traveled through Vietnam on my bike. This wasn’t a tourist bike group with van support, it was two girls with panniers and a map.  This was long after the war but pre-911. The U.S. embargo had just been lifted. Times were simpler, much more naïve and the country was just opening up.

 

My travel companion, Deborah had a friend Dynh who lived in New York though born and raised in Vietnam.  He was to be in Vietnam as the same time we were and graciously invited us to stay with his family down in the Mekong Delta along with his friend Jeff, a fellow New Yorker. I wish I could remember the name of the village, but I don’t. Dynh’s family were lovely and gracious hosts. They fed us well, and I’m sure it cost them a huge percentage of their wages.  I remember thinking if I offered them money it would be an insult.  Those who have little give everything.

Jeff, Dynh, Deborah and I decided to take a bike ride to the beach. The ride was about 12 miles, not too bad considering we had were used to riding 75 plus each day.  It was cloudy which provided coverage from the usual glaring sun and heat.  As we neared the beach I saw a sign that said in English “Do not enter.” It wasn’t small. I assumed they saw it as well (later they claimed they hadn’t seen it) and I didn’t say anything. In an instant, we were surrounded and stopped by police cars. They screamed at us in Vietnamese to follow them to the police station.  We did.

They demanded our passports and placed Dynh in a separate room.  Anyone who has ever traveled knows to never allow your passport out of your sight.  And by this time in our travels, I realized the commies were nutty about their borders, so I was very concerned.  I did my best to get them to return our passports and release us. After an hour or so of trying, and with no help from the others I gave up. Things took a bit of a turn when the police served us tea and little cookies. They stayed and shared it with us. I started to sing Madonna songs and one of the officers joined in and soon another and then we had quite a sing along. We had a jolly little time. Eventually we were released, our passports handed back to us and told never to commit our transgression again.

Dynh did not have a jolly time. They grilled him severely. Why did he leave the country? Why did he come back?  Over and over again, thinking they’d be able to catch him in a lie.  Were they just playing with him or did Dynh say just the right thing to satisfy the police, we don’t know.  Nonetheless we were released.  We raced back to the village. 

Days later we were invited to Dynh’s elementary school. There was a reward ceremony for children who had performed well. All four of us had honored positions. The ceremony was long but very sweet.  Bao, a 12-year old boy, won the math prize.  He kept smiling at me. me. We exchanged smiles and when the ceremony was over he came to introduce himself to me. He (of course) spoke English well. We chatted and he told me his mother was a single parent, his father had passed away several years ago. His mother was kind and so proud of Bao. 

When I returned to New York I sent Bao money for a bicycle. As thanks his sweet mother sent me a purse and a photo of Bao on the bike.  We kept in touch for a while. I wonder where he is now? I’m sure doing great things.

I had met a U.S. Vet in Saigon.  He married a Vietnamese woman and stayed in the country, though I’m not sure how that all unfolded.  He invited me to come visit him on his farm deep in the Mekong Delta. I don’t think he had a phone, but somehow, we made arrangements. Deborah and I made plans to meet up in Saigon, I left Dynh’s family and traveled alone to the small village. It must have been about 50 miles away.  I rode my bike on the dirt roads, taking a wooden ferry across a Mekong inlet, till somehow, I made it.  The Vet was kind and I think he was thirsty for news from the U.S.  The entire village greeted me, including one man who had worked with the U.S. government during the war.  This man had been tortured in a re-education camp.  His body was misshapen and his face was scarred.  He seemed so happy to see me and speak English.  I wish I had spent more time with him. His eyes sought mine for something, I’m not sure what. Occasionally, I am haunted by him.  He was kind and didn’t seem to harbor any bitterness towards the U.S.  I found this over and over again.  People would come up to me with tears in their eyes and say they hadn’t spoken English in 25 years.  Whatever you think about the war, we did a disservice to those who worked for us when we abandoned them to the Viet Cong.  This isn’t a lesson we seemed to have learned.

However, he and others I met taught me a lesson - one of forgiveness.   Every day I try and learn it.   

Cookie meet Meow

So, Cookie had just taught a kickass Zumba class.  It took place on a rooftop in NYC and all the attendees had a great time.  A woman came up to Cookie and asked to have a photo with such a cool person even though the evening was hot as can be.  I took the photo and we all chatted.  Cookie asked the woman's name and she said, "Meow".  Cookie said what a great name.  Meow said "Cookie's a great name."  Meow turned to me and said, "what's your name."  I said, "Ann."  Meow said, "we all have cool names."

I thought, I like my name, it's an ancient name, cool, I'm not so sure about that.  So I said just that.  Meow said, "a little bug running around, that's cool." She had thought I said "Ant."

So Cookie met Meow and Meow met Ant.   And Ann was there, somewhere in the mix.

He knows from Max Beckmann

So, one afternoon I ran into a friend, Jonathan, who had just come from the Max Beckmann exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. I had a bad boyfriend who was a bad artist who pretended he was Max Beckmann, so I know from Beckmann.  I asked, “How was it?”  “Great,” he said, "and a little emotional.”  Jonathan too knows from Beckmann.   

Jonathan’s Great Grandfather, Ludwig Schames had a Beckmann hanging in his living room.  Ludwig, part of the thriving art community in Frankfurt before WWII, had owned an art gallery.  Ludwig represented many prominent artists of the time particularly those in the German Expressionist movement  – Max Beckmann, Ernest Ludwig Kirchner and Ludwig’s brother, Fritz Schames.  Until of course, the Nazis came to power.  

Ludwig and Fritz Schames, both Jews, escaped Germany in 1938, just in the nick of time. Ludwig had brought with him only a small amount of art from his collection. If you’ve ever seen the movie Woman In Gold, you know a little bit about the confiscation and destruction of art that was owned by Jews. Jonathan thinks Ludwig might have had an agent help sell off his large collection of art before escaping Nazi Germany.

Ten years ago Jonathan was on a business trip in Frankfurt and very spontaneously decided to visit the Frankfurt Jewish museum. He walked in to see a big banner that proclaimed a special exhibit on the art of Fritz Schames. He thought, isn’t he my uncle?  A quick call to his Aunt Harriet the family genealogist, and she said, “of course, he’s your great uncle.”

Fritz Schames died in the 1960s but his wife, Edith lived until the 1990s.  When she passed away the family noticed that she had no art left, apparently she had been selling it off bit by bit to survive.

So it seems as if a circuitous route took Jonathan back to his family legacy when he chanced upon the exhibit honoring his Great-Uncle in Frankfurt and later when he decided to visit the Beckmann exhibition at the Met. Emotional and great.

Clever As A Fox

So, I grew up with a dachshund, Missy and a whippet, Heather.  They were very different creatures.  Missy was clever as a fox and if it suited her could figure out the code to a safe. Heather was the sweetest thing, but not the sharpest tool in the shed.  Heather has her own story but this one belongs to Missy.

We knew we wanted a dachshund.   Missy the only girl, out of a litter of 6, jumped all over her brothers.  She was clearly ours.  For a low riding dog she had a big personality, big bravado and within a short period of time, she had us all figured out.

She was young when we noticed she was putting on weight.  It seemed odd, we didn’t over feed her (at this point) and she was always on the run.  What could it be?  After a few months we discovered her little trickery.  We’d let her out to run around, and she would go to our next-door neighbor, bark at their door, and they let her in.  Oh, look, Missy’s here!   And they’d feed her.  When she was done, they let her out and she went on to following next-door neighbor, bark at their door, and they let her in.  What fun, Missy’s here!  And they’d feed her.  And then she’d come home for dinner!  And we’d feed her!  She was gaming the entire neighborhood.

One early wintery morning it was my turn to walk Missy.  It was freezing cold and I must have been about twelve and she two.  I was half-asleep, wanting to get the walk over with, when I sensed that Missy was prancing.  I looked down and she had a bird in her mouth.  I could not get her to drop the bird.  She was very proud of her accomplishment.  It was her bird and she was keeping it. She walked down the street with a swagger, and a cartoon bubble saying – “I’m bad, I’m bad, I gotta bird, I’m bad!” I knew she couldn’t bring the bird into the house and she wasn’t letting it go, so I rang the front bell and got my dad. 

It wasn’t until my dad was on his deathbed that I learned how he got her to drop the bird. He tried tickling her, no. He put the hose on her, no. Remember it was freezing.  Finally he grabbed her by her hindquarters and shook her.  That did it.  Down went the bird. 

Our next door neighbors decided to get a dog of their own and opted for two. German Shepherds.  They would come out, bark for Missy, she insisted that she join them, out she’d go and back forth they went barking and running with each other.  For hours. She would run as if her back legs were trying to catch up with her front legs. Although these dogs looked scary, we all knew who ruled that pack.

I remember how determined she was to get the left over chicken off the kitchen counter.  She wanted it and she was going for it.  She gave her best vertical leap repeatedly until she finally made it.  The chicken landed on her back, but her rewards were quickly rebuffed as we placed the chicken in the trash.  Chicken bones and dogs are not a good thing. 

Missy was quite the character.  She was the boss of us and knew it. Inches off the ground but mighty and fierce.  What a fabulous combination.