Monthly Archives: May 2012

Becoming Emily Dickinson

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I’ve started skimming the front section of the newspaper of late, in the same manner that I watch suspense flicks. I quickly avert my eyes when they alight on images or words that I don’t want stuffed into a brain already overcrowded with unwelcome thoughts that I’m very good at forming without any outside assistance.

The whole “News You Need to Know” thing is highly overrated. Yes, as members of the human tribe, it is important to keep up on world events, but when God created Man, I don’t think She took WiFi into account.

I really don’t need to know every grave error in judgment public figures make. (We eradicated Small Pox, isn’t there somebody out there who can do the same for the Kardashians or John Edwards? I mean that figuratively, of course. And no, I don’t think incarceration will lighten the media onslaught, for any of them.)

I really don’t need to know about the tragedies and anguish of people who should be permitted to grieve in private. It is the kind and respectful thing to do.

I really don’t need to know about every conflict in every corner of every continent. It’s overwhelming. There is only so much data a body can absorb before its circuits overload and start misfiring. And in our 21st Century, we are far past our limit, heading to the danger zone.

This brings me to Emily Dickinson. Now there was a woman who knew how to keep the world at bay. She spent most of her adult years famously outfitted in white and wandering her garden or ensconced in her room. She had what you would call an active interior life – translation: she was definitely an overthinker, and the product of those thoughts was over1800 poems, only a handful of them published in her lifetime.

I think that she liked her little garden world – her poems indicate that she was certainly enamored of nature, even with her limited exposure. Yes, she was a tad obsessed with death but, hey, what poet is going to be taken seriously without dabbling in the morbid?

I would argue that hers was, for the most part, a contented life, and certainly a productive one. It turns out she was far ahead of her time in her writing style, her genius unrecognized until the 1950s. And she did it all without Internet access, or because of it.

Yes. At times Emily’s life sounds mighty appealing, but then it occurs to me that white is really not my color.

Old Broads

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I picked up a call from my answering machine the other day that was an obvious misdial. The voice was cigarette-smoke rough with a hint of Jersey. The message went something like this:

“Susan. Susan. This is Blanche Molina, you know from across the street. Listen, hon, I’ve been going through some of Herb’s stuff, trying to get rid of things, and I found this, I don’t know whatcha’ call it, some kinda Masonic sash thing. I thought maybe since you’re so involved in everything around here, you might have an idea about what I should do with it. Call me, okay, hon.”

I live in a very small community, where when we misdial we often know the person on the other end, which somehow makes it even more embarrassing, but on the bright side can also be good for catching up with a neighbor you haven’t talked to in awhile. I thought I’d better call Blanche to set her straight lest she think that the Susan she was actually looking for was ignoring her call. That conversation went something like this:

“Hi Blanche. This is Susan Snyder.”

“Oh good, Susan. Listen, hon, I’ve been going through the closets, horrible job, and the thing I’m talking about is one of those sashes, you know, with the gold threads and all…”

When she finally took a breath, I said, “Blanche, I think you’ve got the wrong Susan. This is Susan Snyder. I don’t live on your street.”

“Wait, what? Just a minute, hon. This f*!#*ing television! Let me shut it off. Now where is that damn remote?”

Over the sound of shuffling and loud television voices, I thought, Oh, my goodness, Blanche is not your average LOL – little old lady – for all you texters who absconded with what once was a delightful acronym – she’s an old broad.

Old broad. I love the connotation of that – politically correct or not. It represents strong women who march through life like General Patton crossing the Rhine, the kind who may drive you nuts, but who you want on your side in a fight.

I don’t run into many old broads anymore, and that’s a shame. In fact, the world population of colorful characters seems to be in serious decline. Those manufactured for media-sake don’t count. I’m talking about real people, like those of my grandparent’s generation, with names like Shorty Briscoe, Ham, Fast Eddie, Weird Hazel, and the Telephone Girls. How could you be anything but entertained by stories about folks with monikers like that?

Man, I miss those stories.

But then, there is Blanche.

When she got back on the line, it was obvious that she had decided that one Susan was as good as another. She continued, a little out of breath: “You got any ideas about what I could do with the sash thing?”

“Well, I, um,” I answered. “I guess I could ask around.”

“Naw. Never mind.” Blanche abruptly declared me unsuitable for the task.

Too much hesitation in my voice, I guess.

“Now where is that f*!#*ing phone number of hers?” her voiced trailed off.