Amaranth Ehrenhalt

In love, excited, and curious, Glenn and I were on our honeymoon in Greece, waiting in the airport for our plane to the beautiful, medieval town of Rhodes,(Rodos) the largest of the Dodocanese islands on the Aagean sea. We had considered the ferry, but, anxious to get to Rodos, decided on flying rather than a 13 to 19 hour ferryboat ride. We were looking forward to visiting Lindos with it’s battalions of rainbow hued butterflies. A Greek lovey-dovey couple sat near by and told us that they were also on their honeymoon. A robust man was talking to a thinner, younger looking fellow in what sounded to me like Russian, on the other side of us . Curious and never having seen or heard any Russian tourists, in all my travels, I could not resist inquiring if they were speaking Russian- in English, of course. Why, yes, they were speaking Russian. I said please excuse my inquisitiveness, but I have not seen many Russian tourists. The heavy set man answered, "We are not tourists, I am the Russian Ambassador to Greece and this gentleman is my Secretary"..

Well, this was before "Glasnost" when Russians were not seen traveling around, and many had not yet reached the state of "nouveau riche" where young couples can now pay $20,000. in monthly rent for elegant, well situated New York Apartments.

They spoke perfect English with us, as well as perfect Greek to the other couple.

The Greek couple said to us, "After you get settled into your Hotel, Please come to ours and join us for a drink. We took their address and agreed to stop by later.

We boarded the plane and took off. Glenn and I, our arms intertwined, started to relax. I looked out of the window shortly after take off, and said, " Darling, I don’t think I should be able to count the leaves on the trees below us". Glenn leaned over me to get a better glance and said "It looks like we are in trouble". Just then, the pilot’s voice came on and delivered the message in English and Greek. "We are having some engine problems so we are returning to the airport".

We found ourselves once again sitting with the same people in the waiting area.. Some passengers decided to "drop out’ and not to take the plane and left. We said we would wait and take the plane again for the second time. It took a few hours before we boarded. By then, we had spent a good deal of time talking with our new acquaintances. Once again we mounted the stairs and settled ourselves for take off. It really felt like "deja vue" when I said to Glenn, for the second time, "Uh oh! I can still count the number of leaves on the trees! In fact, if I had my sketchbook handy, I could even draw the veins on the leaves." Then came the familiar Captain’s voice, repeating the same message, " Due to engine troubles, etc. etc. "So back to the landing strip we went and were ushered off the plane into our very familiar waiting area, where, by then, we felt like bosom buddies with the other honeymoon couple and the Russians.

There were a few more drop outs as people decided twice was enough and left the airport. My husband asked me if I would prefer not getting on the plane a third time. I said I thought it was all right to do so, because I thought that destiny will decide when and how we are to perish. By then, we could have been almost half way there on the boat! So we boarded the plane for the third time!

Her tall, thin, balding husband was very depressed. The engineering company he had worked for most of his life had merged with a foreign conglomerate, and she was politely, but firmly, laid off. Really not too bad; he had been so close to his retirement, less than two years. He had tried to use his engineering abilities as a consultant, but nothing turned up. For a few months he was optimistic, but soon he gave up.

Money was not really the problem. His amiable wife had owned a small mercery store, which had managed with charm and wit and well-endowed business acumen; it had sold with a substantial profit.

Their cozy gray stone house with lush vermillion geraniums and a painer d’argent in the front garden had recently been sold. They planned to move to the south of France where their comfortably married dark and freckled grandson lived.

Wearing a brightly colored flowered skirt that she had sewn out of the remnants left after she had made her bedroom curtains, she looked attractive, despite the dark purple circles under her bright blue eyes, as she nostalgically picked away a lifetime of tastefully chosen souvenirs. Her thimble collection, some antique silver, others enameled or contemporary ceramic. The quizzical-looking twin lamps that she had had transformed from a pair of finely crafted brown leather boots after her riding accident. They looked like they were about to walk as they stood on either side of a tall, heavy, white and blue veined Carrana marble chimney in the now disheveled living room. They were waiting to be packed away tomorrow, along with some large wicker baskets from Morocco and Spain. There were eggshells that she had also fondly painted; she had to be careful not to break the ones with the beautiful lapis lazuli blue, and the turquoise one that looked like it could have been hatched on an American Indian reservation.

She looked like one of those utterly uddered, middle aged, rounded, diminutive, Hispanic women, her graying hair pulled back straight to a tight chignon, who look like their expected mission in life is to nurse numerous babies. How she managed to open the deteriorating, black gate I don’t know. I walked by and was surprised to see that she was fishing, and that, on dry land, not in the usual way, like you and I might do, with a rod and bait on a hook, lancing it into water, but with an improvised thin metal cord sporting an invented, rusty hook on the end. Her lake was not one of blue rippling water, but an overloaded dump truck sitting on an alleyway below her so that the top of the junk it held was on a level with the parking lot on which she stood.

I was quietly observing her dexterous movements. Curiosity cancelled comfort as I sat down on a cool, gray cement ledge nearby. With ample inquisitiveness, I wondered what she expected to reel in. Her first fish, albeit without scales or bones, appeared to be a black, leather purse. She opened the metal clasp, peered inside, and deciding it was a worthy object, dumped it into her caddy. Next there was one of those ubiquitous, plastic, plaid Chinese tote bags that caught her attention. She had to bend over the dumpster very far while holding on to the metal gate with one hand in order to reach the cheap bag. Despite the risky operation, she managed precariously to haul it in without falling upon the mountain of discarded rubbish. She evidently thought it worth the trouble when she pulled out a pair of what looked like UGG boots. She was neat and tidy as she threw the empty, still serviceable bag back into the dumpster. Little by little she filled up her caddy, with clothes, toys, kitchen utensils and other bits of civilization’s sundry discards, and then, satisfied with her haul, and having reaped her harvest, she carefully closed the gate and moved on pushing her overloaded caddy before her.

In China they destroy
the landscape to make dams
In Chinatown, New York,
you see people eating clams
In Italy they eat figs
and melons with their hams
Often they use the fruit
to make delicious jams

In Greece they drink their retsina
and eat potatoes with their lambs
Hispanics eat guacamole
and cactus with their yams
My lovely young intern comes from Georgia
and sprinkles me with "mams."

Amaranth Ehrenhalt
March 9, 2013

When I was a young child, we lived on Warnock Street in Philadelphia. There were row houses with alley ways in a neighborhood composed of European Jews, Italian Catholics, Irish and a few other white Scandinavian nationalities. There were no blacks,Hispanics, Asians,or Indians. My mother always said,"There are good and bad in every kind". I was raised to not be prejudiced.

We were a boisterous bunch of kids, screaming with delight as we played « kick the can » and gathered bottles full of lightning bugs in jars with holes punched in the covers by our fathers.

One party we attended gave a list for a scavenger hunt to each of us. On my list was a fly. I went to my father and showed him the list. He took some black thread and glue and dexterously fashioned a convincing looking « fly » which hung on the end of a black string to my utter rapture. This « fly » won me a prize !

My Mother disappeared for about a week. We were told that she had gone to visit her sister and that an « Aunt » would take care of us. We knew as soon as we saw the portly woman that she was no Aunt of ours. She did not look like, cook like, talk like, act like, any aunt we ever knew. We did not like the food she prepared, nor the harsh way she ordered us around.

My older brother Ed and I were playing in the back yard when our father called us in saying that he had a « surprise » for us as well as some ice cream. I think we were more interested in the ice cream, but, in we went. The surprise was Barry, our baby brother. This was completely unexpect- ed since we had been in no way prepared for a new sibling. I took over and became possesive.

Sandra, petite and suntanned, with straight black hair pulled back in a ponytail, was trying to put some order into Aldo's very messy artist's print studio, where artists work with a professional printer to make editions of etchings. The way she was flitting around in her short-sleeved, textured, cotton, bright canary yellow blouse with an embroidered hem and matching yellow miniskirt made me ask Aldo, in Italian, "What do you call those bright yellow songbirds?"

"Oh, 'canarini,'" he replied in Italian. (We all know his nationality by now.)

I repeated "'Canarini.' Is one a canarino? Is there a canarina as well?"

"No," was the answer, "only for female. Canarino for male and canarini, plural."

Not to imitate Gertrude Stein, but to cement the word in my head I repeated, the pleasant sounding"Canarini" several times.

Aldo, aproned and cleaning an etching plate, his hands encased in transparent plastic gloves, said, "There used to be a fellow named Giovanni who came here. He was a painter and writer with a slight heart problem. He told me that his neighbors did not like the sound of chirping canaries." Aldo found that a bit odd; so did I.

One terribly cold winter day, Giovanni arrived on his motorcycle. Aldo saw that he was wearing a sweater and a light jacket, with his head bare and recently shaved.

Aldo asked him why he was choosing to run around bald in such cold weather. Most people preferred to keep their hair longer in the winter and cut it short in the summer. Giovanni answered that he just liked the look. Aldo suggested that he dress more appropriately for such cold weather.

My (then) husband and I had left Paris for New York and we were trying to get some work to replenish our coffers. Looking through the New York Times want ads under: artist, designer, art teacher and anything related, I spotted an ad for a Director of an Arts and Crafts program at an old people's home." Here I go again" I thought. I answered the ad and secured an interview. Being an artist all my life and having done just about every kind of arts and crafts I thought this would be a cinch!

I was offered the job. I had several people on the staff who were under my direct supervision: a lady who was hired to teach knitting and crocheting, a man to teach woodworking, and several others ranging from potters to weavers. Several little old ladies enjoyed themselves and felt very useful knitting vary colored wool squares that were to be sewn together to make blankets. There was a money raising gift store where the products could be sold and the money used to buy new materials, etc.

The problem was that some of the work was so dreadful that there was no way I was going to allow it to get as far as the gift store. After all, the main purpose of all this was to keep the people occupied and happy. What difference did it make if the objects were unacceptable for sale? So I had the worst squares unraveled and the next day gave a different lady the same wool to make more dreadful squares. Most of these people were senile and so out of it that they did not know the difference. It kept them busy and satisfied.

There was an elderly man, named Vladimer, who told me some childhood stories of growing up on a farm in Russia. I liked his stories and asked him to write them down. Then there was another man, Jerry, who liked to draw. I thought his sketches were marvelous! As Picasso had said, all his life he wanted to get back to the spontaneity of childhood. These colorful crayon drawings had a childlike charm. The French artist Debuffet would have flipped over them. So I had the idea to have him read the stories by Vladimer and illustrate them. I encouraged the two men to get together and work cooperatively. I was thrilled with the results. Now I had some lovely stories with attractive illustrations.

Another man had told me that he had been a printer. There were a few copy machines. So. I decided that we would print a little magazine. Now I had Vladimer, Jerry and Samuel working together as a team. They were all very excited about the project and other people started to get involved as well. There was a fellow who loved to paint, having discovered this medium in his late eighties! One day he called me over to look at his painting of a house. He asked me if it would be allright with me if he painted the roof purple. He had told me that he had been a mechanic. I asked him if the business was his own or