Static

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.”