Postscript

They should love New York, know two foreign languages,
practice both regret and remorse, love their own cities,
forgive but not forget, live in at least three countries,
work in a gas station, lift boxes, eat pears, learn a trade,
respect pitch pines, believe in the soul.
— Gerald Stein Stealing History
From an excerpt in the Writer's ChronicleMarch/April 2013

I did love New York City—no, I actually loved the Bronx I remember, where the grocer saved Philadelphia cream cheese boxes for neighborhood kids, where on hot humid nights people sat outside on lawn chairs, where every spring the corner candy store sold Spaldeen rubber balls.

Once I knew enough German to read a Thomas Mann short story—with a dictionary. I tried a number of times to learn Biblical Hebrew and was successful learning letters and simple words. But "when the going got tough" I faltered. All those roots and possible meanings—

Do I love my present town—yes. It's funky, blue collar, diverse and surrounded by affluent towns that enjoy sophistication and trendy stores. I like our diversity—we're an old mill town that's changed from making blankets to a mill filled with small high tech companies. Like other places the economy has played havoc with our downtown area. A number of empty storefronts and half-empty restaurants attest to the effect of less discretional income.

Do I forgive, but not forget? Sometimes I think my memory is too short and I do forgive and forget. Other times I hold tenaciously to old stories even when I have forgiven. Old stories can be held and stroked and taken out and used as excuses. It's hard to release a story that functions as a place-marker.

Live in at least three countries. I've never lived west of Connecticut, although I have traveled as far west as SanFrancisco.

I've never worked in a gas station and if I did I hope no one will ask me anything about cars.

As for lifting boxes I expect that I've lifted some. When I moved from Maryland to Massachusetts I packed one box with rocks. At the time I didn't realize that New England is filled with rocks—ask any gardener.

Now for pears. I adore pears, but find it difficult to determine when a pear has reached a ripe stage. I buy hard hard pears—the ones that are sold —and take them home, place them in a ceramic bowl and squeeze them once a day. I wait patiently for the pear to offer some resistance. Nothing. Then one day, usually at breakfast time, I put my fingers around the pear and hope for a little give. Instead of that perfect feel my fingers almost pierce the overripe fruit. My pear has moved beyond ready to eat to spoiled.

As for learning a trade— When I turned ten I asked for a small kiln, copper backings, and the material needed to create enameled pins. I sold my completed pins to all my aunts , four or five to my mother and the same number to my grandmother. I even sold several to my mother's maj jong ladies. My sales pitch was less successful with the neighbors.


I respect the fact that pitch pines can grow on unfavorable sites.

As for the soul—I do believe that what we do, what we hear, what we say, all become part of our soul.

"What can you really know of other people's souls- of their temptations, their opportunities, their struggles? One soul in the whole creation you do know: and it is the only one whose fate is placed in your hands."
—C.S. Lewis

As for regret and remorse—which I've held for last. Who can not feel regret for some actions, some paths not pursued and who can not feel remorse for some actions, some paths pursued, some words said.