Every once in a while the universe surprises you, don’t it? Yip. I received a large manila envelope in the mail a couple of months ago, and – opening it – started laughing at what I saw inside, which was a letter informing me that I had inherited a chunk of money from someone named Mary Mueller. From Georgia? Nope. SCAM.
I almost tossed it; I didn’t have my reading glasses on me; the weather was not great, the roads ditto, can I get home now, please – but. But, I was curious so on my way to the recycle bin for all paper garbage at our local P.O., I flipped through it and – what the actual fuck – my Aunt’s name is in here as another legatee?!! Aunt Betty? Ancient Aunt Betty, along with her actual address and phone number?!?!
And then, turning more pages, I found my cousins’ names, my many cousins, and – my name, my siblings’ names and addresses. Huh? Is this thing actually legit?!! Oddly, the last name – Mueller – was from the other side of the family, not my dad’s, and the woman who died and left me a chunk of totally unexpected cash (me and all of my relatives), was my mother’s second cousin, my second cousin once removed. She died in 2020, more curiously, and all the attorney’s wanted was a signed notarized signature – mine – on a letter acknowledging and accepting my inheritance.
Hilarious. Delightful. I am giving it away, because why not? Let’s share the fun and the delight, continue spreading some joy and ease in what for too many are dark, anxious times (you know what I mean, and to whom – and whose actions – I refer). Money, after all, is like manure. It should be spread around if’n you want it to do more good. Thornton Wilder said that. Thanks, Thornton. And thank you, very much, dear stranger. Second cousin once removed. Mary Mueller. Your memory, and generosity, is a blessing; one that I will spread around.
Was it Wednesday that was ladies only day? May still be ladies day? Otherwise, it was mixed genders four days and ‘men only’ on two days. Or something like that. And I cannot tell you who introduced me to the baths, only that on a cold day in winter, or a mild day in spring or fall, the 10th Street Baths were the best thing going. Cheap (10 bucks? twenty?), fulfilling, revivifying, cleansing – and amusing. I remember being stunned and wanting to laugh out loud at the person (you paid extra for this service) lying face down inside the main steam room being beaten by a stout Russian woman with a hardy branch of oak leaves. It remains funny to this day. To me, at least.
Since 1892, the year my grandmother was born, they have been doing their thing on East 10th between 1st and 2nd avenues, and thank goodness for that. Finding a relatively inexpensive way to recharge, refresh and take a dip in the coldest water outside a Catskill’s Crick in winter – what a blessing.
Would I have known or heard about it if I hadn’t had friends who were native NYers? Doubtful. But perhaps. Actors and writers are always looking for a decent value in getting a sweat on and out. I loved this place, and while I mostly went there with friends on Ladies ONLY Day (and never on co-mingle days) I also took myself there solo, because spending an hour to two at the 10th St. baths is as good as a sweaty run around Central Park, no kidding, only a lot less effort.
Bonus: people watching. Other people, other women, their rituals and behavior. And the always pleasant and enlightening experience of seeing bodies as we and they are – the sheer, infinite variety of what we are, our living selves – all beautiful, all capable, all worth saving, respecting, and loving.
Very few other women would get into the ice cold bath, but for me, going from extreme heat to equally extreme cold was a big part of the attraction; this hot to cold and back again got my blood flowing, heart pumping, and skin glowing. The main hot room resembled nothing so much as a cave in the bedrock it appeared to be carved out of, the same bedrock as that which holds the skyscrapers up. Glorious, gorgeous New York City.
*stolen from the interweb, and worth posting because yes, true, all of it and basic stuff but we forget because we get caught up in bullshit and the moment, in our list of to-dos and to-don’ts, and musts and shoulds – instead of breathing and checking in with our very mammalian, animal bodies. And, if you haven’t read Miranda July’s On All Fours, it’s verygood, and very much in line with this truth: We are ALL Animals, and animals have needs…
From Tumblr user sacrificethemtothesquid, who is very clearly a cat mom:
I don’t know if I’ve spelled it out on tumblr yet, but I want to talk about The Mammal List.
The Mammal List is something I came up with when I was in a mental health intensive outpatient program four(!!) years ago. The premise is that we are at our core animals, and if I consider myself the way I’d consider a pet cat, I’m much more likely to practice good self-care:
1. Mammals need food. Eat something! If the Hellbeast doesn’t pass judgment on a piece of cheese, neither should you. (She also eats anything small enough to fit in her mouth, so be judicious in that respect. Food is good. Lint is not.)
2. Mammals need hydration. Drink something! It doesn’t have to be water. It could be delicious tuna juice. You’re a discerning creature. I trust you.
3. Mammals need sleep. Make a soft nest and let yourself enjoy it. Knead it until it’s comfortable. Let yourself rest as long as you need. Just existing is hard. You’ve earned a break.
4. Mammals need movement. Take your precious body and do something. Don’t hurt yourself. Be kind.
5. Mammals need stimulation. Treat yourself to a new jingle ball or mousie toy. Get a bird feeder and stare at it. Let yourself really enjoy it. Play is in your nature.
6. Mammals need socialization. I know this one is particularly difficult these days, but if you don’t keep reaching out, you’re going to forget yourself and start biting people.
7. Mammals need cleanliness. Nobody likes scooping the litterbox, but it has to be done. Don’t forget your own body. Make your fur shine. Treat yourself as the luminous creature you are.
And most important of all: don’t feel guilty. This isn’t about deserving (although you do deserve it). You’re an animal and you need these things to survive, and I very much want you to survive.
Small town, old school pharmacies often feature in classic films, even prominently ala It’s A Wonderful Life, but as with so many things Hollywood, the truth is not quite as the big screen might lead one to believe. My dad was a small-town druggist and a man of deep personal reserve. Those two plot points (if you will), along with his profound sense of responsibility toward his neighbors, customers, and profession, meant discretion was key, truly the better part of valor. It also made for an interesting frisson of tension in our lives, the lives of his family – weighting what would have seemed to be casual social encounters with those whose secrets and secret (or not) illnesses he knew.
This is an aspect of our childhoods I have only understood with the passage of time, remembering the discomfort, the familiar feeling of the confessional in so many spaces outside the store, because my dad often did function as a listener to adult confessions. We were also raised Catholic, knew that feeling, a repeated energetic hush that was palpable and real, a heightened sense of the unnamable, unmentionable, unknowable (for us) floating in the familial salt water.
My dad would laugh so hard at any idea he resembled – in any way or particular – a Catholic priest. Along with being irreligious, he was much too kind, and non-judgmental, to fit that particular mold. Too much of a horn dog, as well!
My parents had friends, a close group of peers with kids mostly our ages, but my dad especially didn’t have many close connections other than with those men he either knew from high school, and one or two others who were also local businessmen in our tiny town. But not the snobby ones. Those he was polite to, always, but his friends, the one or two men he enjoyed spending time with, were beer drinking working class types, whether they owned a business or not. And one of the local docs, a charming man who also knew too much, who grew up on a farm like my pop, and who loved women and gin martinis equally as well.
How could we – my father’s children – not notice who came into the store for drugs and more drugs? Who begged for early, illegal refills, or picked up a carton or cartons of cigarettes or condoms, or – shockingly!! – both? how could we not notice who purchased tons of porn magazines (Oby, I’m looking at you, dude), or talked in whispers with our dad behind the door to the old pharmacy counter? We only worked weekends, and occasional days in summer when my dad’s regular clerks took vacations, but that was enough time to see – enough.
In retrospect I remember how, meeting a customer outside the business, there was an awkwardness, a jolt of ‘oh shit’, even if thereafter the ‘oh shitter’ would shake my dad’s hand and laugh, secure in the knowledge that our own Mr. Gower would never tell, never say or share, the secret, the details, the unknowable, unspeakable knowns.
I believe this is one aspect – along with my dad working 7 days a week – that circumscribed our parents social lives, and ours. Even as much as my dad was trusted and respected, there existed a charge in almost every room and situation, undermining ease and connection. Small town druggists know a lot; they tend to know, perhaps, too much, like that charming small-town doc my dad could fully relax around, sharing a common knowledge of the vagaries of human lives, behaviors, and consequence. Sharing, too, a circumscribed life weighted and bound by those same vagaries and secrets.
*a poem from Alice Allen. In our conflict-ridden world, I think often – though not often enough, and with little action – about how many children are living in permanent hunger – including those in peaceful poverty-stricken places in my own community. We can feed everyone on this blue and green and brown orb, we just have to find the will to do it.
In those days … I’d go collecting
all seven years of me up a tree
the sweet stink of my fingers
prising for a nest.
I’d bring the eggs down in my mouth
blackbird sparrow tit
common birds nothing fancy.
Marbles on my tongue
One nest in particular
a wren’s
made from green leaf and feather
a freshness
spun into a dome
of dainty wicker work I had to break
to find the speckled eggs
five of them mine.
I’d be home before curfew
blowing them by the stove
a sleek sack of goo hitting the saucer shell intact.
