From The Neighborhood

Yesterday, for the first time in a couple of weeks, I felt decent and had a few free hours at the same time.  So I went, naturally, for a ride.

The sky was as blue as the air was crisp:  Fall had arrived, if not officially, and yet another summer, another season had passed.  On such a day, I can understand how someone can be agoraphobic:  An open space--whether of land or sea or sky--can seem like a huge, yawning emptiness when there are no markers, physical or emotional.

So all anyone can do--or, at least, all I could do-- was to move through it.  That I did by pedaling, by pedaling Tosca, my fixed-gear bike.  I had a feeling I wouldn't ride a lot of miles, and that I'd ride them slowly, so I wanted to get some kind of workout from them.

As it turned out, I rode about 50 or 60 km, or a bit more than 30 or 35 miles, along the steel and glass shorelines and brick byways that have lined so much of the path of my life. 

A meander from the East River and the bay took me into the heart of Brooklyn, specifically to this place:

On the sidewalks in front, and across the street, from this building careworn and harried, yet content, men and women prodded groups of pale but energetic children as their feet stuttered about the grid of concrete blocks.  Although those children looked different from the way my brothers, my peers and I looked, something was very, very familiar about the rhythm of their steps and their calls to each other.

Perhaps I should not have been surprised.  Although I had not been there in quite some time, I know that building, and that block, as well as any in this world.  In fact, I know it so well that I can tell you that nearly half a century ago, it didn't have the canopy you see in the photo.

Nor did it have the gate that now encloses the courtyard:

By now, you may have guessed that I lived in that building very early in my life.  Some of my oldest memories, for better and worse, are of those days.  

I think it's a co-operative now rather than the building of rental apartments it was in my childhood.  Also, as you probably have guessed, it's populated by families of Hasidic Jews.  In my day, nearly all of the families--of whom my family knew most--consisted of Italian- or Jewish (non-Hasidic)-Americans.  The men worked blue-collar jobs or had stores or other small businesses and the women stayed home and raised us.  In that sense, I guess we weren't so different from the people who live there now.

Then, as now, it was very unlikely that a woman--much less one like me--would have been riding a bicycle down that street--or, for that matter, any of the other streets I pedaled yesterday.  I turned, not quite at random, down a series of avenues and roads and other byways until I reached the southwestern part of Bensonhurst, not far from Coney Island.

I wasn't feeling hungry, but I stopped at a pizzeria--Il Grotto Azzuro--on 21st Avenue, near 85th Street.  From the street, it looks like one of many others of its kind.  But I went in anyway.

"Can I help you?"  The man's accent seemed even more familiar than anything else I'd experienced throughout my ride.

After ordering a classic Neapolitan slice and a white slice, he chimed, "You're gonna have the best pizza there is.   How did you know you were gonna find it here?"

"I followed my nose," I intoned, playing along.  "I always follow my nose when I'm riding my bike."

Somehow I sensed his claim wasn't hype.  Even if it wasn't the best pizza, the guy really believed that it was.  After finishing both slices, I ordered another Neapolitan, even though I was quite full.  "You're right!," I exclaimed.

Those Neapolitan slices were certainly the best I've had in a while.  Even though they were slices and it was five in the afternoon--near the end of the lull between lunch and dinner--it and the white slice tasted fresher than many I've had from just-cut whole pies.  

Sometimes, in the course of a bike ride, a slice of pizza or a bottle of beer can seem like the best you've ever had because you're tired or hungry. (I think now of the sugar and lemon crepe I gulped down after pedaling up Le Col du Galibier.  I've had dozens, perhaps hundreds, of other crepes in France.  But that one was the best.) However, I felt surprisingly good in spite of my recent illness and, as I mentioned, I wasn't hungry when I found Il Grotto Azzuro.

It's been there a while.  As I ate, another customer--a lifelong resident of the neighborhood--told me he'd been going there for more than 30 years.  I hope it's there for at least that much longer: The neighborhood is changing. 

So fueled, I continued down to Coney Island where, after thumping and clattering along the boardwalk (All of it is now open), a guard waved me into Sea Gate, which counts Isaac Bashevis Singer and Beverly Sills among its onetime residents.   I'd heard the area, not surprisingly, took an even greater hit than the surrounding neighborhood from Superstorm Sandy.  But, while the beaches were as eroded as those in Coney Island (though less so than those of the Rockaways or parts of New Jersey), most of the houses seemed to weather the wind and tides well.  Most seemed little different from what they were at this time last year; a few were still being repaired. 

At one of those houses, someone who didn't know my name called me:

  
Of course I stopped.

He capped his head with the palm of my hand and tiptoed along the rails, rubbing the side of his body through my fingers.  I think he knew I'm "from the neighborhood."

Curled Up With Candice

While being somewhat incapacitated by a relapse of a respiratory infection I had during the winter, I looked through some discs.  In one of them, I found this photo:

A few posts ago, I mentioned Candice, who died two and a half months before I adopted Max.  I don't recall exactly when I took the photo, but I think it was some time in the middle of her life, when I was living with Tammy.  I say that because she's curled on a futon we had.

That pose was so typical of her:  Curled atop the softest and highest available object.  It's more or less how I spent--or wanted to spend--my time during the last couple of days!

Charlie, One Year Later

Today was mild for this time of year.  Although it didn't rain, or even drizzle, the air felt damp, as it has since the rain we got the other afternoon and night.

It actually wasn't a bad day to ride, in my book.  It's nice to ride on overcast days sometimes: I have fair skin, so a lot of time in the sun tires me out as well as leaves me at risk for sunburn and other things.  Still, I was feeling sad.  

While riding, I saw one of those billboard signs that shows the time, temperature and date.  I then realized why my mood was darker than the sky:  Today is the 13th.  

Last year, this date fell on a Friday.  Now, I'm not normally superstitious, so Friday the 13th doesn't mean much to me. But I recall the one that came in January of last year for one reason:  Charlie died.

Although Marley is adorable and sweet, he can't replace Charlie.  I didn't expect that he would; he just happened to come into my life a little less than two months after I lost Charlie.  Max took to him very quickly; he was always a very affectionate cat.  But Max, like Charlie, was with me during a very special time in my life:  my transition and surgery.  One simply can't replace the kind of relationship one had with an animal during a time like that.  

At least Max is still here and will be for years to come.  And, I believe, Marley is special in his own way, and I am developing a relationship with him that's different from the one I have with Max, or the ones I had with Charlie or the other cats who came before him.  Needless to say, it's also different from the relationships I have, and have had, with people in my life.  I guess that was the point, at least for me, of taking Marley into my life.  That, and the fact that he's ridiculously cute.

What If She'd Been His Child?

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you know that I love cats about as much as anyone can.


Still, when I heard the story about a tortoiseshell named "Rosie", all I could think was, "What would have happened if she were human?"


You see, Rosie is a hermaphrodite.  Her owner assumed she was a female cat until he took her to the vet's office, where a veterinary nurse noticed a complete set of male genitals along side her female parts.  However, Rosie doesn't have internal female reproductive organs.


Rosie's owner had always seen her as female.  That's understandable, given her appearance and the fact that tortoiseshell cats are almost always female.  That probably led to the decision to castrate, rather than to spay, her.  


What if she'd been a human child?  How would she have been treated?

Say Hello To Marley

Did a little bit more riding than I did the other day, without pain.  I think I'll be ready to resume regular riding soon.


Yesterday, though, I didn't ride.  I was welcoming the newest "addition" to my family.

Stephanie, who rescued Marley, brought him to my place yesterday.  So, naturally, I spent the day home so I could welcome him and ease the "transition."  Actually, Max is taking it pretty well.

Right now, my new family member seems to have two speeds:  sleep and "charge!"  As soon as we released him from his carrier, Max tried to play with him.  And, all through the day, Max tried to make friends with him.  It's been a bit more than a month since Charlie died, and Max seems to have been starved for feline attention ever since.


As my new friend is a "rescue" kitten, I can understand the nervousness and skittishness he felt yesterday.  I can also understand his need for sleep.

When Stephanie kept him in her apartment, she called him "Charlie."  Not only is that the name of my recently departed; it is also the name of a cat--also gray and white!--I had before him. So, I think I'm going to rename him.  For now, I'm calling him Marley.  I've read and seen "Marley and Me," but more important, I have recordings of just about everything Bob ever did.  My new friend doesn't particularly remind me of him, but I figure neither of us can go wrong with that name. Plus, I like the sound of it.


Speaking of sound:  I thought I heard a mouse squeak.  Turns out, it was Marley crying.  I've raised only one other cat from kittenhood--my first Charlie--and remember him crying that way, too.  What do they say? Big boys cry because they are always, at heart, little boys.

I don't know whether I'll ever try to carry Marley in a basket.  I never tried that with Max or my second Charlie  because they were big when I adopted them.  However, I took my first Charlie on a couple of rides when he was still small.  When he got bigger, he wasn't too keen on riding in a basket.  But, his being home was one more thing for me to look forward to at the end of every ride!  That's how I see Max's presence now, and how I will most likely see Marley's.

What To Do After Charlie?

Max, the orange cat you see in the sidebar photo, doesn't seem to be pining for Charlie so much as he's becoming even more of a glutton for affection than he had been.  I don't mind; still, I wish Charlie were here.

On one hand, I could very easily adopt another cat on impulse--another one of Millie's rescues, or one I encounter on one of my bike rides.  On another, I want to have Max as my "only child," at least for now.

I wonder...How would Max react if I were to adopt another cat?  Would he and the new kittie become pals.  Or would Max try to run him/her out of the house?  Sometimes he was aggressive with Charlie.  Other times, he and Charlie curled around each other in a corner of my living room or on the sofa.  I'm not so sure Max was trying to push Charlie away as much as he wanted me to himself.  Yet he seemed to know that he and Charlie were "in this thing together," as we used to say in my old neighborhood.

While it's tempting to take home the next thing I hear mewling, I realize Max is about the same age as Charlie.  That means he might live one or ten more years, or something in between.  He might or might not take well to a new roommate.  Then again, he might get lonely, or simply tired of me.  Or his energy might start winding down and he won't be so playful.  Will he have a relatively quick decline, as Charlie did, or a slow and agonizing demise?  

Tomorrow or ten years from now?  Alone with me or with another kitty?  Whatever his remaining lifespan, I want to enjoy it--and I want him to enjoy it even more.  

If he spends his remaining time alone with me, I could adopt a pair of kittens and they could grow old together, like the two cats who preceded Charlie and Max in my life.  And--depending on when I adopted those kittens, I'd be old with them.  Real old.  

Oh well.  I'm going to be home in a while.  Max will charge the door when he hears me coming, and he'll curl around my ankles as I try to walk through the doorway.  I'll feed him, and maybe eat something myself.  And I'll probably cry for Charlie again.  Max  knows.

What Cats Know About Gender

Max is climbing all over me again. Earlier, Charlie was doing the same. They've always been very affectionate cats, but ever since I've returned from having my surgery, they can't seem to get enough of me. I thought they'd get used to having me again a few days or a couple of weeks after I came home. But they're just as greedy for me as they were the night I came back from Trinidad.

I'm thinking now about a few nights ago, when Sara and Dee stopped by my place. It was the first time Dee had been to my apartment, and almost as soon as she settled into my couch, Max climbed on her. He clung to her and purred loudly and deeply, as he does for me. Dee--who, as best as I can tell, is a woman only in the sense that she has XX chromosomes, and who has said that she'd make the transition to male if she were younger, had fewer health problems and better finances--worried that Max was attracted to her "as a woman."

I assured her that Max was simply an "aggressively friendly" cat and would climb on anyone who didn't resist him. Well, that statement was a bit of a stretch, as I've only had a few people to my place since I adopted Max. One, Millie, rescued him from the streets, so of course he loves her. And he tried to climb on Nina, but I had to pull him away because she's allergic. Ditto for my old landlady. He also climbed on Tami, who is most definitely female and has a few more cats than I have. Let's see...Who else did Max "conquer?" Well, he used to climb on Dominick whenever he came over. He's lived with cats--and dogs--all of his life and knows how to treat them.

Hey...Now it occurs to me that almost everyone I voluntarily spend time with is female. Anyway, Max tried to sit on all of them. Charlie, once he got to know them a bit, would curl up with them. But now I wonder: Do they really like women better than men? Or are they simply more used to women?

I've heard people say that cats like women because we're similar in sensibility to them. Someone else, I forget who, said that cats know we'll make a fuss over, and speak soothingly to, them. Either theory seems plausible enough. Still, I have to wonder whether cats actually know a human's gender--and if they do, whether it makes any difference to them.

Before I adopted Charlie, I had another cat with the same name and a very similar gray and white coat. He used to rub himself on my hand when I was holding the phone receiver--and talking to a woman. It didn't matter which woman; Charlie liked them all.

The day I met him, he was rolling and curling around the other kittens in his litter. They were born to a cat who lived with a friend of a friend; I had gone to her house with the intention of adopting one of those kittens. But, to my delight, Charlie adopted me: When he looked at me, he and I both knew that he was going home with me. Janette, who was the chaplain at Housing Works during the brief time I worked there, said that it was proof that I am indeed female, even though I was living otherwise. "He knew before you were ready to," she quipped.

What I find interesting is that Caterina and Candice, the two female cats I've lived with, were the same way with me and other women. So were both of Tammy's cats--a female and a male.

Hmm...Now I'm wondering whether cats are a gender unto themselves. One thing I know is that, on the whole, they--whether male or female--are drawn more to females than males of the human species. Does this mean that all cats are lesbians or straight males?

Whatever they are, they probably think we're silly. And that's exactly what they love and use in us. And many humans, like me, are only too happy to indulge them. Given my history with cats, how could I not?

Whatever their motivations, they know how to make us happy.

Curling Up

Charlie's been in my lap for almost an hour. He deserves every moment of it. Now his head is propped in the crook of my right arm, and he is dozing and purring. Ahh...Who needs a massage?

Is it my imagination, or does he like my lap better when I'm wearing a skirt? It seems that when I'm wearing pants, he'll climb on me, wriggle about for a few minutes, then leave. But he curls up and dozes off, as he has tonight, when I'm wearing a skirt. I don't mind it, really, especially now that I'm wearing a denim skirt. But it's another story when I'm in a dressy black wool skirt.

Sometimes, like tonight, he's resting and relaxing me. But at other times, he seems to be holding on: It's as if he doesn't want me to leave him. Perhaps he wants me to keep him warm, literally and in the way Miguel de Unamuno meant. He probably knows that he is doing the same for me.

Sometimes I'll mention that I have two cats and someone will reflexively grimace and growl, "Ewww...I hate cats." It reminds me of the times I've mentioned that I have lived and traveled in France and someone said, "They hate Americans, right?" or "I don't like the French; they're such snobs."

The thing about cats--including Charlie and Max, who are two of the sweetest and most loving--is that they don't walk up to you, wagging their tails, the way dogs do. First of all, cats have to get to know you more than dogs do. That's just how they are. And, if they like--or, more important, trust--you, they will move closer and closer to you, and express their affection in very tactile ways: by rubbing themselves on your side, arms and legs, and, if they get to know you better, by rubbing their noses on your hands and other parts of your body, and--if you're lucky--on your nose. Cats are both slower and more subtle about getting to know you and expressing their affection than dogs are. But I think they're every bit as affectionate.

Even when your place is warm, it's still nice to have a cozy kitty on a winter day. I had long wanted a feline, but I finally got my first opportunity to adopt one right around the time I was sober for ninety days. Before that, I spent many a winter weekend day like today feeling as cold and exposed throughout my being as if I had gone out naked into the frigid wind.

I recall, in particular, Saturdays like this one during the last year that I lived in New Jersey. It was during the time after my grandmother and Uncle Sonny had died--he, suddenly and she, inevitably. And my friend Cori had committed suicide. I don't think I ever felt so alone. On top of everything, I was living just a few blocks from the Rutgers campus, the place where I was the most unhappy I ever was.

Sometimes, on such days, I'd go for a ride, as long as it wasn't raining or snowing. But at other times I'd stay inside. Yes, I was lonely, but I was just self-aware enough to know that I was too angry to be a friend to anybody--at least, I was then. Having a cat, or some pet, probably would have been good for me. But I don't think I would have been much good to any animal, and I doublt that any would have trusted me the way Charlie and Max seem to.

And now I'm starting to doze off...contentedly. That was something I didn't do in those days.