Paragraphernalia, Vol 1

Welcome to Paragraphernalia. The intent of this series is to write and practice writing through recalling and sharing short vignettes from my life — some of which I’ve never written about.

01

Grandpa couldn’t even say the word.

In our last conversation ever, he trailed off, unable to find the strength. Which was fair. He was dying.

“I know you’re…”

“Dad told me… that you’re…”

I saved him: “It’s okay, Grandpa. I understand.”

Gay was the word he couldn’t say—or more likely, couldn’t bring himself to say. To pronounce it was to accept it.

It was 1995, and I had just moved to Boston with my first boyfriend, Michael. A year earlier, his wife passed. He had a lot to deal with already, so I quickly accepted the depth of understanding he was able to offer.

While I was on the phone. At work.

02

Med-O-Lark is a sleep-away summer camp in Maine, about 30 minutes inland from Camden. I went there for a few summers as a gangly awkward teenager, and though I never made it to being a counselor, I did get to be a CIT (counselor-in-training).

In the middle of the woods at the foot of a lake, there were lots of nerdy artsy kids and counselors from all over the world. It was a beautiful setting, a nurturing and expressive environment. And I realize, now, it was an environment of freedom and privilege—and luckily with that, one of my first tastes of international diversity. We learned how to pronounce å in sing-a-long songs from Swedish counselors. Bari, a counselor from New York City, taught us “rabble rousing.” Keifer taught copper enameling in the art barn. I made friends I’m still friends with.

Every so often, in the building that was used both as a stage for talent shows (including my very first lip sync, to Sledgehammer) and for visiting performers, there’d be a dance. I hung out like a fanboy near the lighting board and studied Neil, the camp’s co-founder and essentially its CEO, as he fiddled with the switches. Until one day, when he let me have a go.

Picture me: a mouthful of braces, doubtless wearing a polo shirt with the collar popped (because those were the actual days), geeking out operating the lights while everyone danced to Talking Heads, Duran Duran, Yaz—and everyone’s favorite: Rock Lobster.

This B-52’s cult classic was go-time for coordinating the lights to the song. I got a thrill lowering the lights down, down—watching everyone crouch and then pop back up when the beat dropped. Buttons, sliders, switches, and knobs, each with different results, all available to create an experience with the music.

One night as I was operating the board, Neil came over—sweating but still in a groove—saying it was too hot on the dance floor, asking me to take the lights down, down.

Epilogue: I have no recollection of a DJ, but there must’ve been one.

03

Growing up an hour north of New York City, as a kid I recall frequent visits, some in Mom’s gold & tan Cadillac Coupe deVille, some in Dad’s maroon Audi 5000, some via the Major Deegan — a highway proximate to the Stella d’Oro baking company. You could see the building from the road. It was a great place to be stuck in traffic. The smell of breadsticks wafting from the factory onto the highway and into the car was a momentary pleasure.

04

In one of the Rocky movies, he hails a cab from the streets of Manhattan. It’s a snowy winter moment.

“Where ya headed?” asks the cabbie.

“Vermont,” Rocky said.

He went to have an argument in person with his ex wife, I think. He caught the cab same back, I think. I always wondered: what did the cab cost?!

In one of the episodes of The Love Boat, a straight couple meet. She’s single, and on holiday. He’s single, and a pilot.

After 20 seconds of courtship, he asks her if she’d like to join him for lunch.

“Why, yes!” she says. “Where shall we go?”

“Cairo!” he answers.

They are nowhere near Cairo, yet they fly away together.

And they return in time for the episode to end.

05

It’s my first time at a racetrack with Dad and Grandpa. Just the three of us. Probably in Yonkers. Probably a Sunday. There’s a lot of space and a lot of people inside and outside. I’m maybe 14 or 15.

We watch a few races so I get the hang of it. Something inside me thinks it’s wrong, but I go along with it, because I’m there.

Dad hands me a slip of paper with a handful of names on it, and $10. “Here you go, this is for you — did you see something you’d want to bet on?”

The last one on the list has a funny name, different than the rest, which attracts me. “How about this one,” I ask, pointing to it on the sheet.

“That one, hunh?” he inquires. “What is it about that one that you like?”

I have no rational answer. I probably shrug my shoulders.

“Are you sure you want to bet these ten dollars on that one? Because, let me show you, here: it has very low odds of winning. Six to one.”

Statistically I understood it wasn’t a good bet. But I had an instinct.

A bell rings. An announcement. People scurry to windows to place bets—like Grand Central, but scummier.

“Now’s the time to place bets… so how about we go with…”—he looks up and down the sheet at others—“one of these, with better odds?”

I hesitate.

I yield.

I place my bet on a “better” horse.

But.

The horse I wanted wins.

By a crazy slim margin. By a nose.

Sixty dollars seemed like a huge amount of money as a child.

At an early age I learned to listen to my instinct.