Epistles

My latest farmers’ market haul—potatoes, peaches, peanut sauce, pasta, and lots of things that didn’t begin with ‘p”—brought the weight of my backpack to 17.2 pounds, which is a lot when you’re walking half a mile and the pack is funky. I don’t know what on Earth possessed me to buy, at considerable expense, a pound of freshly made stinging nettle raviolis. I’m scared to eat them, having been wounded and traumatized by these same weeds in a tiny and remote village in the Peloponnesus in Greece in 1978. I do, however, know what possessed me to buy two brownies and a chocolate chip cookie. Oh, and a slab of flourless chocolate cake (made from only three ingredients: dark chocolate, butter and eggs) which, by nightfall, was only a memory.

I just came upon a small folder of random papers I had no idea existed. I paged quickly through, paying little attention, until a few items caught my eye. It’s interesting how quickly one’s mood can plummet. I discovered the birth certificate of a once-dear friend whose life circumstances now prevent him from keeping in touch. I don’t know why he sent it to me years ago, but coming across it made me grieve for the death of that relationship. Then I was surprised to stumble upon several scrawled descriptions of long-ago nightmare, and some other upsetting material. Finally, I found an eloquent letter from my first husband, written shortly after the end of our marriage. He was in many ways a great guy and for years I adored him. We had a lot in common, had many extraordinary experiences together (he was with me when I was attacked by those stinging nettles), and I learned a great deal from him. So leaving him was difficult—nay, devastating—but I guess necessary. What he wrote was an elegy for what we were losing and for the future we wouldn’t have together, closing with good wishes for the road beyond. Reading it shattered my poor wee sensitive heart. (Apparently it was in response to an eight-page emotion-dump I’d sent to him.) It’s been 37 years since we split up and so it surprises me how much I continue to feel that huge sadness.

But look what sprung from my failed marriages!

To backtrack a little: I’m usually pretty good at not forgetting commitments but I blew it when I totally spaced on our bi-monthy “Allison Gals” Zoom chat with Eleni and Molly. I was off on an impromptu walk at the Albany Bulb with a friend. What a pretty day it was, and what a pretty area we live in.

The Albany Bulb is an intriguing place. Built on landfill—slabs of concrete, rock and rip-rap, along with garbage and other detritus—it’s a tiny peninsula that’s a haven for urban artists (as well as everyone from dog-walkers to the homeless) who have left all kinds of imaginative sculptures and other creations dotted around the place.

But I did manage to get home in time for the very end of my forgotten Zoom chat, where at one point we all attempted to make the most psychopathic faces we could muster.

I wouldn’t want to meet any of us in a dark alley.

For dinner tonight I warily sampled the stinging nettle ravioli. It was delicious and caused no pain. However, I’m just starting to get another fever blister, my third in as many months, after years and years of freedom from that curse. I’m furious about it. They do hurt, and they’re ugly and prominent and they last and last. I don’t understand why it’s happening and I hate going through it, and on top of my other facial woes.

Another thing that provoked my fury today was my stupidity. I’d been happily messing around for hours in Photoshop over the past couple days, crafting a Christmas present for Lulu. I plunked a .jpg of what I’d done so far into an email for Small to preview and merrily fired it off. Half an hour later, I received an email from Molly. It read, “Funny. GREAT! Thank you!” I was confused until I realized, of course, that I’d sent the image to her instead of Maw. I have a very hard time being kind to myself when I do idiotic things. Oh well. Nothing to be done for it. I am proceeding with my project, though it will no longer be a surprise.