TEA TIME

I’ve had an off-kilter, wonky kind of day. Oh, I managed to get my laundry done and folded, and put away. But little else.

That last bit is usually a tall order. By the end of the folding process, this old man is ready to cry with the back pain.

Somehow I did it. Throw me a parade! Name a holiday after me! Or better yet, give me some money.

Waking up after a nap that made the timing perfect for missing a walk to the store for coffee and milk made tea this night’s drink. It is for the best.

It’s fine. Gives me some alone time with Earl and that’s not a thing to take lightly. But please, come in, have a cuppa, and let us talk.

Americans, that is to say, here in the United States, we never fail to undervalue tea, its healing powers, its seductive flavor and the inner warmth it gives, ensuring that you must have one more cup.

Being a child of English, Welsh, Irish, Scottish, Swedish and Danish ancestry, I suspect it runs in my blood: coffee and cold soft drinks are fine, good Scotch or Irish whiskey being a nice treat on the blue moon or something like that, but tea is the one thing we all have in common. Perhaps we agree on little else, but every region has a tea of preference or one which it can grow.

I do not favor green tea, Darjeeling, or Ceylon tea, but any will do in a pinch. Herbal teas are another matter.

I have a pot with a nice infuser. After adding 4 teaspoons of leaf tea (because tea dust is what’s swept up from the floor and put into tea bags which won’t complement the flavor), I add water from the kettle, put the tea towel over it and let it steep for five minutes. And Earl Grey is ready to enjoy. When hurting, or feeling a bit pensive, it’s best enjoyed in solitude. But sharing it with a friend is very easy to do and the conversation should be interesting. That’s why you’re here. Welcome!

It’s a horror to add milk to tea, but of them all, this is the worst choice for milk and sugar. A drop of lemon, and a half teaspoon of sugar is as far as I’ll go. Most of the time, Earl Grey needs no additive, but it’s your cup of tea, do what you like best. Because life is too short not to.

It’s also fun to try new things, and trust me, Lipton tea isn’t one of them. I favor two brands of leaf tea: Taylors of Harrogate and Twinings. Tea is the one thing the English always got right, and Yanks screwed up. The British seem to feel that all we do with tea is throw it into harbors. But at least they think we uncrate it first, thus giving striped bass a caffeine high.

I briefly mentioned King Henry VIII in a recent post. What a turd he was, yes? To avoid scandalous relationships, he broke with the Catholic Church and created what became protestant churches of England. He had no idea what he was doing with and to religion, and he knew less of women, and cared even less. What a dick.

But the English are still a fine, proud people. That Royal thing though, is that really necessary? It seems that all they ever to is engage in drama and in-family subterfuge, and mentioning Diana’s name gets you scowled at depending how you use it. Call her out as a whore, or praise her; one will get you your ass whipped and the other might get you a drink at the pub. Hope you like warm ale, good luck and cheery-o.

I’m serious. It’s a very divisive subject and if I found any link at all to British royalty in my family tree, I’d keep my mouth shut about it. I’d rather find the Lestranges in there. Finding Bellatrix would be more reason to brag than any royal.

I’m not taking shots here. Any country you hail from is home, always will be, and it’s in your blood. Take pride from that.

But that doesn’t mean much to other people. If you tell someone a Duke of Avondale was a great great great….cousin, you’re going to get a blank stare in return. I’m sorry, but that’s life.

And as I’ve said, life is short. Let’s enjoy what little we can, shall we?

THE CHRISTMAS CURSE

At this time of year, like Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner, I’m doomed to tell anyone who will pay heed about how short life really is.

We always have a way of thinking, that could never happen to me, but this is folly. Because yes, it can. And if it does, you’ll be really fucked-up for the rest of your life.

On Christmas Eve, 1994, I was preparing to spend my first Christmas away from my family. My wife kicked me out that spring and I couldn’t find any work except for delivering pizza. It isn’t glamorous in the least. It’s humiliating. You get to see people you hope will never order a pizza pie again. Once I was invited in where adults were all wearing underwear. Long underwear.

I don’t know how, or why, but this was creepy to the point where even the guy on Elton Street who answered the door in his robe would seem normal afterward. They gave me the flying shits, and I stood in the doorway, on the stoop, and even if they’d aimed a cannon at me, I was not going in there. I don’t even know what I was seeing. It was like something out of the movie Deliverance where the guy looks through a door and sees an old woman knitting beside an obvious, horrid example of inbred offspring. There was something I could feel, something unnatural, evil and hungry. The hungry part scared me the most. Fuck you, I’m not coming one step inside your sleazy abode.

On Christmas Eve we closed early, about sunset or a little after. I waited around for a while. Killing time, because I had an eye infection in one eye. It kept crusting over with white like the Pillsbury dough boy had swept in and taken a shit on my eye. I needed it treated. Having no doctor, I’d go to the hospital and I figured around 23:00 was good, because what hospital is crowded at that time on the night before Christmas?

I figured wrong. The waiting room was full, standing room only. I checked in and was advised it might take some time. On this frigid night, the darkness seemed peculiar for the parking lot of a major hospital’s ER.

I went further into the darkness to smoke, wary of security seeing me. I lit a cigarette and jumped a mile when a voice, soft, friendly, timid, asked for a light.

Even in darkness, he was darker. His face seemed highlighted by age, the ravages of a hard life and battles. Lots of them.

He lit his smoke. What a tragic man he was. In Baltimore, the streets were cruel even then. That they’re more so now puts me in a bad place.

He was trying to get committed. Back then, as now, it’s not so easy. He told me how he’d had a good job, a wife and children.

Two cars, a house and a boat. Everything a guy could want.

Until one say when his wife and children were killed in a traffic accident. He went in the bottle,  and who can judge him? I never did. From there it must have gone quickly. He lost the boat. Then the job. Then the remaining car and finally the house. He had nowhere to go. He attacked when they tried to evict him. “Been in the bottle ever since,” he said. His voice held a sad quality until he said, “I just want my kids back.”

That line is always audible in my memory. It was so bleak, so full of despair that I wanted to hug him, but back then, it wasn’t done. Such a backward, hung up society, the United States.

What he said taught me a lesson. A big one, and since I had no money for gifts I had not planned on visiting my children for Christmas. Showing up empty-handed would hurt them and kill me inside. But my lesson had been delivered and I never forgot it. My daughter said on the phone next morning, “It’s okay, daddy, your gift can be that you love us.” And I went, and we had a nice visit. And I truly wish the story ended there. But happy endings are for fairy tales and massage parlors only. It turned out that my lesson was prophetic. My children are dead.

Yes, and my daughter left three children behind. She drowned on 4 July, 2012. My son and I grieved, but he was unable to shake his grief, or the burden put on him by his step-father that Elizabeth should have lived and he should have died. His step-father did a lot of damage and for years I wanted to kill him. He does not know to this day how many times he was close to death.

Christmas should be thought of as the time when people are kind, giving, sharing, and, if you are a Christian, of birth.

It is not like that for me. Nor will it ever be again. I think of heartbreak and death.

Christmas Day, 2017 was the last time I saw my son. He had taken something laced with fentanyl twice and both times ceased breathing, both times winding up in the CCU. The second time, I knew I was going to lose him. He felt a deep hunger for the drug. Since it basically killed him twice, I couldn’t understand what he’d gotten out of it. The doctor told him his liver and kidney functions were off. He either knew what that meant or didn’t. It does not matter. By Valentine’s Day 2018, he took his last dose of street Fenny and went off to meet his maker, taking whatever Elizabeth had left of my heart behind with him. My heart is an open wound. I’ve never fully allowed myself to grieve, because crying sucks. It fills my sinuses and gives me a headache. And always, always, there’s more and I’m not going to have more. I’m sick of it. I bear my burden the best I can. But I often tell others about it. I warn them that the pain of loss never ends.

But only once a year do I pass on the story of that poor, broken man who taught me a great lesson, giving me — giving us three — many years of love, adventure and memories together.

I cannot pass on this curse. It is mine to bear. To tell of a man whose battered soul got through my selfish and bitter, vain self and taught me to hold my family close.

What I am offering you is a simple warning. As your friend, because we’ve had tea together.

You must keep your loved ones safe. Give them the things they need. Show your love always, never being afraid of “wearing your heart on your sleeve”, because those who criticize you for it will never understand. Pity them. Pass on what you have learned here. Take nothing for granted. Because life isn’t fair, it harbors Death, a predator always on the prowl.

And know that no matter who you are or where you are, you are always welcome here for a nice cup of tea and a good chat. Remember: we are friends.