Between Her and the Muse

Labor Day’s over.  School’s back.  Dropped the younger one of at a new student orientation.  No one looked especially excited to be there.  But the morning had just begun and the sooner we left, the better.  We stopped at Barnes and Noble as they have a Starbucks and got my shots of espresso and her Americano.  I was borrowing my stepdads automobile and I since his favorite thing in the world beyond birds was books, I looked for something that might suite him in the history section and after browsing dozens of things he already had and many more he’d loathe, came upon “Barons of the Sea” by Steven Ujifusa.  He’s a ninety-year-old PhD, but he still regarded it with a child’s wonder when I presented it to him later during our visit.

I suggested and my wife liked the idea of visiting the town of Rosendale I’d biked to the previous day.  I think I sold her on the “home cooked Japanese” restaurant I’d seen there.  It was closed.  Only open for dinner.  So was the 1850 Inn & Tavern.  But the Café across the street was open.  It was only after seating that we realized it was a largely vedge place.  I managed a salad with a remarkable helping of tuna and considered the small, makeshift stage they had by the wall. 

Next door was an Art Gallery.  Sections of the wall were taken up by different local artists.  Two of the people holding down the fort inside where contributors.  My wife asked and the space starts around $145.00 per month.  My wife had quickly done the math and suggested this might well be a very profitable venture for the people with the mortgage on this place.  She asked a very reasonable, Chinese question: “Does one need an art degree to actually hang things here?”  The man and woman responded with and emphatic “No.  You don’t need a degree to be an artist.  I don’t have a degree, and I’m an artist.  If you make art, you’re an artist.”  I began to imagine they were eyeing me crossly, as though I were likely what stood between her and the muse. 

We went next door.  This place is the place that sells the kimchi.  It said so in the window.  Let’s get some for our younger one.  She’ll be gob smacked.  But next door seemed like a barber shop when we went in.  Guts and Glory, it was the tattoo parlor.  No.   We’re good.  The pickle place was one more door down.  Rows and shelves of pickled everything.  In the back they were pickling.  But no, they didn’t have any kimchi in today.  Did you want to come back tomorrow?  I got some regular pickles instead and thought of the Allen and Rivington of my younger days.

Thursday, 9/05/19