Static by Ellen Paritz Gittelsohn
Inspired by “What Makes Tea Sweet? An
Exercise in Logic.” from Yiddish Folktales ed. Weinrich and
The Darling Olenka by Anton Chekhov and
my life.
The reunion of the so so state college
was arranged on Facebook. This was not a college that had provided
many diplomas in the 1970s, instead it provided a stepping stone to
other colleges, marriages and wanderlust. You would think that my
eventual master's degree (after changing schools, dropping out,
changing schools, holding noncommittal office positions for six years
then going to graduate school) would set me on the right path as
though I had deliberately chosen to sharpen my skills and intellect
enough to become a master of my chosen field. You might not imagine
that I would quit enough jobs along my career path to find myself
preoccupied with the grocery list years later. I was devoted to my
family and friends. I went to the reunion to see someone with whom I
had stayed in touch since high school when we had formed an
attachment to each other. I was happy enough to see a few others who
were more her friends than mine.
The circle of about a dozen gray heads
in the country cabin was pleasant until a large group left for the
official reunion at the state college, leaving me with my long term
friend Pamela, who had moved and spent her adult life in New York
City, and her friend named Trudy. We feasted on cheese, crackers and
apples while engaging ourselves in conversation.
Trudy was one of the few people to
graduate from the state college with a degree in human services. She
proudly raised two boys with her husband. One boy was disabled with
cerebral palsy. The other was a locally famous blues guitarist with
waist long hair. While taking care of her family Trudy was able to
have a challenging yet satisfying career as a nursing home activities
director. She had lost a lot of weight since I last saw her and, at
age fifty-seven, everyone remarked that she looked terrific.
Pamela, a bit like me, did not graduate
from the state college and spent much of her adult life starting and
stopping careers while raising two special needs children. Although
she was devoted to her children, I suspected that her reasons for not
staying committed to any one career were different than mine. She
was an explorer who was perhaps too easily distracted while I was a
leaf blown this way and that by the winds of love. She dropped
parole officer to make a documentary film. I dropped college
administrator because a boyfriend thought I should be a massage
therapist / yoga instructor. She finished the documentary film and
became a coffee shop waitress, temporarily, while working on other compelling endeavors. I dropped massage therapist to work with
elementary school children who were suspiciously the same age as my
new boyfriend's children. Pamela dropped coffee shop waitress for
computer graphics. I gave up the elementary school to prevent my
baby from crying at a day care. Later, considering the path to
recreating a college career as my son grew more independent, my
husband uttered the halting words:
“Who's going to take care of our new
puppy.”
Pamela is training to become a drug and
alcohol abuse counselor. On the side, she has a website documenting
spirit phenomenon. My family puppy is now four and my son is in high
school.
“EVP,” said Pamela.
“What's that?” I inquired.
“In the kitchen. Do you hear that?”
“Did we leave the electric stove on?
Maybe it's the clock,” Trudy offered.
“Electronic voice phenomena (EVP),”
Pamela explained.
The stove was not turned on. The clock
seemed fine. Covered in goosebumps on a hot day in August, I pressed
my ear against the stove front from where the EVP seemed to be
coming.
Pamela turned on her smart phone
recorder and pleaded, “We want to understand what you're saying.”
I thought about her parents who had
bravely moved to San Miguel Allende, Mexico, with no retirement
savings. To everyone's surprise they were able to stretch their
social security to live like royalty while pursuing their life long
dreams of interior decoration and acting until the end of their
lives. My mother had died of cancer by age sixty. Trudy's mother
died from obesity complications.
After giving up on the stove
communication, we returned to the couch, food filled coffee table and
catch up conversation. The electrical sounds disappeared from the
kitchen re-emerging after a time in the living room.
“I think there is a problem with the
electrical wiring and we should call the owners,” Trudy sounded
worried about something practical like a fire.
Pamela held her smart phone up in the
air.
“We hear you but can't make out what
you are saying.”
“At least I have the recording,”
she turned to us. “I'll play it back on my computer later and let
you know if I'm able to decipher anything.”
