June 21

I’ve often spoken to my friends about “airport thoughts.” You know, the deep, philosophical, probing thoughts we find ourselves having while sipping Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and reading the Wallstreet Journal that we found sitting on the table next to us at our gate.

These thoughts creep in to help pass the time. My tradition started several years ago. Oprah Magazine, dark chocolate M&M’s, my Ipod, and all the time in the world to think.

So here I am, crusiing several thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean. I just spotted a sand bar that looked like something out of Pirates of the Caribbean. Just a strip of bright blue water and white sand surrounded by the depths of a usual ocean. I would have liked to put my beach chair in that sand and get a tan, but unfortunately I left my parachute at home.

Speaking of home, that’s where I’m headed. Miami, as it turns out, was not meant to be. Okay, that’s not entirely true. The family I stayed with is wonderful, and my father was right when he said they would treat me like gold. They did. The job, although I only worked there a week, was satisfactory as well. But one thing led to another, and for reasons I will not disclose here on my blog, I am returning to New Jersey for the remainder of the summer.

This sudden change of plans put my writing on ice for my second week in Miami. Maybe I felt like a fraud – the glad wanderer…who wanders home. But maybe home is an adventure in and of itself. Maybe home is the greatest adventure. If you can conquer home, family, relationships, I guess you are free to roam wherever with the triumphant knowledge that you can, in fact, take root.

Truth be told, I doubt I’ll take root this summer. Summer isn’t the time for planting, though. So I’ll open my arms and welcome this season with a hug and a kiss. I’ll invite her in and offer her a beer, since it’s been such a long journey since she last rang the doorbell. I’ll comment on how pale she’s gotten and suggest we hit the beach tomorrow. And I’ll thank her, for the fact that she coincidentally brings surprise, joy, and romance with her every time.

For now, in this glorious afternoon with the clouds, I’ll enjoy my ‘lightly salted peanuts.’ I’m saving the beer for this week, when I’ll go camping for the first time. The hug and the kiss will surely come along with the beer. The tan is already started, thank goodness. And as for gratitude, I’m full. But this summer is young, and so am I.

It is only day one, after all.

Sink Your Teeth In

Tonight the Helfner's and I went to dinner in North Miami Beach at a restaurant called "The Water Club." This is not to be confused with the swank Water Club of the Borgata Hotel Casino and Spa. No, this restaurant just opened and features a cuisine boasting oysters from both the East and West coasts of North America, and, well, not much else.

The service started out at par, we were greeted kindly, but in a sort of overwhelming fashion that showed just how new the restaurant was. The staff seemed eager but generally uninformed about how to truly create a pleasurable dining experience.

Larry and Caron love Oysters, and Larry ordered a dozen as his entree. He asked the waiter to split the order between two different kinds of oysters. Simple, no? Instead, Larry was served six oysters. Three were gargantuan, three were pipsqueaks. For a 45 year old man with an appetite, it is safe to say that this was NOT an adequate dinner course. He requested that they take back the platter and bring him six of the gargantuan oysters instead. The waiter apparently had a brain aneurism, because not only did he NOT remove Larry's platter, it took them 20 minutes to bring out the three new oysters.

Call me old fashioned, but I am of the opinion that if you are preparing food that needs only to be rinsed, shucked, and plopped onto ice, it shouldn't take longer than 5 minutes to hit the floor. Seriously, they didn't have to marinate the damn things. Just chop the top off and get them to the table, people! We waited, and waited...and waited. Still no oysters. I began having visions of Alice in Wonderland...all those pearly little pals marching around in the sand, ready for shucking. The waiter actually had the gall to return to our table empty handed THREE separate times.

After generations had passed, the manager approached us and apologized for the "confusion." What he should have apologized for was hiring a staff that recently underwent frontal lobotomies. But it quickly became evident that he could not possibly apologize for such a thing as he had undergone a lobotomy himself. He CHARGED Larry for the 3 oysters he ate while he was waiting for the second platter to arrive. And, to add insult to injury, the long anticipated platter was not even the correct order.

This is just one of the charming incidents that occurred during our life-altering experience at The Water Club. The others include being over-charged for a meager plate of ribs (4), having to ask three separate times for a side of mayonnaise, and never actually obtaining cocktail sauce. Either the condiment boy was passed out under the side station, or something was seriously amiss at The Water Club.

Do yourself a favor: if you are ever in North Miami Beach, do not visit The Water Club. That is, unless you have taken a liking to sub-par cuisine, absent-minded staff, and curt management.

The only redeeming quality was that with proof of receipt from The Water Club, you receive a free popcorn from the movie theater nearby.

Ha.

-Ali

The Sort Of Laugh

Family can be a very dark. My sister advised me not to write about everything I learn of my dad's side of the family. And I can understand her caution. But (and don't crucify me for this) it is too good not to write about.

For as long as I can remember, my father has been telling me that I am just like Adele, his mother. But what I've found out about Adele since I started asking Caron questions is that she was treated like shit by everyone in her family except her sister Eleanor. I feel the total opposite. Of all the emotional wars waged in my household, I am the lucky one.

Caron keeps saying of Adele, "She was looking for the tenderness. She had the love of her life, but she was still looking for love."

My father never told me that he bathed Adele when she was getting close to the end of her life. He didn't tell me that he slept in the same bed with her for a short while after his father died because the fear of losing his mother was too much for him. He didn't tell me that the basement at Dover Avenue had rooms separated by bedsheets because they had no money. Or how handsome he was when he was 16. He never told me any of these things. And yet I feel I knew them all along.

For the length of my life with my father, he has done two things without interruption or complaint. He has loved, and he has taken care of those he loves. What I didn't know, is that he was the only one out of his brothers who loved his mother without reservation. One was similar to my dad, but less gentle. One was hateful toward her and embarrassed by her. One didn't seem to have the time to care. Three men I barely know.

Last night I stumbled upon some photographs taken of my father when he was in Florida in June 1972. Thirty eight years and three days later, I was looking at his photo. I had never even seen a picture of him as a kid without a beard. I didn't even recognize him. But then I looked closer, and found his eyes.

My God, he was so young. He had long shaggy hair, way longer than he ever let my brother grow his. And a funny body, half lanky, half athletic. He was posing with his three brothers, each of their personalities coming through in one way or another: a tongue stuck out, one pulling my dad's hair, another with a sly smile on his face. But my dad's expression is mild, it's kind. He was sweet from the start, my father.

I stared at another shot for about twenty minutes, alternating between silence and exclamation at how young and handsome he was. He is on the beach and has his arm slung around Eleanor's neck. She is smiling and he is staring straight into the camera as though he is about to say something, in that tiny moment before we open our mouths. It is what one might call a "moment" shot. Its composition is perfect, effortless. I looked at it and expected him to say something. That's the thing about photographs. They're unfinished. Time goes on, but you only get that moment.

Maybe that's why I take so many.

This summer could easily turn me into a chain smoker. There is just too much to think about.

So for this evening, I'll leave you with that. A glimpse of my father, the likes of which I had never seen until 24 hours ago.

You think you love someone, and then you love them more.

-Ali

The Not-So-Terrible Twos

My initiation into the Tauber School (my summer job) began today. I was promptly brought into a classroom with 20 two year old children, the air thick with you're-in-for-it-now. But oh, what a glorious day it was. After the time I spent with the Cassidy family (a very interesting group including 7 children, ages 13 to 10 months - 10 month old twins, at that) I now know that children really don't give a shit what you're wearing, how you smell, or what you do for a living. If you have arms to hold and a smile, they are on board.

Florida is beginning to feel more and more like home. Ashley, my cousin, is the one responsible for getting me my summer job. She pulled strings and advocated for me before we had even met, and I am in debt to her. Today we both breathed a serious sigh of relief after seeing how well the day unfolded. It is safe to say that I am here now, with no chance or desire to return home before my scheduled departure.

At the moment I am outside, watching the glow of a Citronella candle as I type. The pool is green and illuminated to my right, framed by a sky that fades from powder to ink. The palms are in silhouette, and my cigarette is lit. The bulldog is asleep. Larry is on the phone. Life is quiet. Life is normal. Life is good.

For those of you who enjoy art as well as love, check out the three part story of Griffin Moss and Sabine Strohem. I'm not sure who wrote the books, as I don't have them with me right now, but it was a fabulously strange and intriguing tale. The kind of impossibility that you don't mind because it is neither corny or predictable. Surreal art takes the stage throughout their letters to one another, and as a lover of the classic men (Da Vinci, Monet, Van Gogh, and the like) I can honestly say that it was beautiful in spite of its peculiarity.

In other news, the hot water heater at the Helfner's is virtually nonexistent. I am happy to report that my body is adjusting at record speed to the perpetual knowledge that my next shower will, without question, be cold.

I do pity those with testicles, however.

Much to my surprise, the pinkie toe of the Sunshine State was kind to me today.

"Expect nothing. Live frugally on surprise." - Alice Walker

A Gulp Upon Which to Drown

I took it upon myself to cook for the Helfner family last night. Perhaps it was the intensity of my homesickness, but the moment I began peeling eggplant, it almost felt as though I were high. Food is one of the loves of my life, but I do not have any delusions of life as a head chef. Yet, something in me becomes almost mechanical when I begin to cook.

Fried eggplant could easily change your life. I mean this sincerely. From the gentle crackling of the oil in the pan to the hearty crunch of sea salt being ground over the steaming rounds of golden goodness, the process of frying eggplant is something that breathes love into a home.

As for last night, it breathed love into me. One of my most selfish pleasures is seeing someone's reaction after tasting something I cooked. Each member of the family took their first bite at different times while I stood, fork in hand, over the frying pan (smug smile tucked neatly beneath my tongue). The eggplant was good. Damn good, actually. But I already knew this. There are some things I simply know how to cook. Yet being able to offer a little taste of something delicious to people I hardly know made the knowledge of just how good the eggplant was fade to black. We all stood in the kitchen in silence, me in front of the fryer, the rest of them scattered around the table, chewing.

I picked up a slice that had cooled enough, gave a gentle blow just in case, and took a bite, wondering if it would be as good as my mother's. The familiar taste of home, the scent of my mother's perfume, the sound of baseball on the television, and the click of the dog's nails on the kitchen tile came crashing into my ears and up my nose with such intensity that I closed my eyes. I chewed. And took another bite.

The next two months of my life could be spent well without me ever approaching my real reason for coming here. Do you ever realize how much of your family history you just don't know? I do. All the time.

My father's side of the family is a total mystery to me. His father died before my dad even met my mother. His mother, Adele, died three months after I was born. His brother Jordan died 3 days after his 50th birthday. He and his two older brothers who are still alive rarely talk, if ever. I have cousins I never see.

But more than anything, I have stories I've never heard. Or told.

Caron, the mother of the Helfner family and captain of this ship of crazies, is the daughter of Eleanor. Eleanor, is the sister of Adele, my grandmother. Do you follow? Of all the nieces in the Kessler family, Caron was closest with my grandmother. She is one of the few remaining relatives who knows the stories. But with the signature Kessler flare for drama and embellishment, who knows what is real and what is fake?

So many of us remember certain situations according to the lens of our own individual eye. This doesn't make us liars, it makes us human. And talking about things that happened 40 years ago can't possibly be crystal clear.

I have decided that no matter how dramatic, perverted, cruel, or crass these stories end up being, I will reveal them on this blog. Almost all these people are dead anyway, so what can it hurt?

Maybe I should change the title of my blog to "Identity Crisis."

I'm glad you're here. Whoever you are. Someone should know the story of my family.

They're a dying breed.

-Ali

The Little Conquistador

With little to no thought at all, I decided to move to Miami for two months. My father's cousin, Caron, her husband, Larry, and their three children, Ike, Ashley, and Eric, have welcomed me into their home. The only problem is: I had not met them until yesterday. Now I'm laying on the bed in Larry's office (my new boudoir for the summer) contemplating why the hell I would make the decision to abandon my life for someone else's.

It all goes back to the explorers. Those bastards had no idea what they were doing, but that didn't stop them from hoisting the sails and heading out to sea with no knowledge of where they would land. Or if they would land.In a way, my life has become very much like theirs. My view of the globe is far from perfect, my maps are hand drawn, and my notions about life in the New Land are made of nothing but my imagination. I too hope to find gold, or joy, or comfort, or self in this new place.

Thus far I've found that I am allergic to 2 of the family's 3 dogs, and that what I anticipated to be the heat of Miami is in fact dwarfed by the ACTUAL heat of Miami. I didn't know a person could actually start sweating within seconds of stepping outside. I bought a new stick of deoderant today for that very reason.

For those of you who would rather stay inside and read than enjoy the sweltering hug of summer, I recently finished "Sounds Like Crazy" by Shana Mahaffey. If you enjoy reading about incompetent women who take solace in their multiple personalities to the point where you begin to question your own sanity for ever picking up the book, then Sounds Like Crazy is YOUR new summer read. To be honest, the roles the personalities play in the novel become very irritating. The novel consists predominantly of circumstances where the main character succumbs to her cowardly nature and shows little to no individuality at all.

I was impressed that Mahaffey could squeeze as many pages out of her disappointing plot line as she did. Let's be serious for a minute: it must take SOME talent to write several hundred pages about a character who doesn't show any gumption or substance at all until the last 50.

My older sister enjoyed it - but she majored in psychology. So for all you psychology-intrigued lads and lasses who secretly question your own sanity, it's called Sounds Like Crazy.

Admittedly, I probably hated the book because the movie Sybil scared the shit out of me when I was a senior in high school. I'm serious - I slept in my parents' bed that night. So if you decide to read the book and enjoy it, there's a movie you'll also love. Sybil. If I'm not mistaken, Sally Field won the Oscar for her performance.

So there you have it: blog post numero uno from the little one in the Sunshine State. Today you should: read Sounds like Crazy, watch Sybil, and sleep in your mother's bed.

Okay, maybe not the last one. Suit yourself.

-Ali