Over the Weekend (3), or Our Time at the Art Gallery

Between our nights at Geoff and Alyson’s in Brooklyn, we had only a day.

They’d wondered what we wanted to see. Your life, we’d said, that’s all. Sometimes they come with their children to Harrisonburg, always stationing at Geoff’s parents’ house and from there, making rounds. Since they get to see with their eyes our woods, it seemed only right that we get to see theirs.

We were able to tour Alyson’s woodworking shop out back, headily stocked. But Geoff’s CUNY office in Manhattan would’ve meant more bone-clattering subway rides.

I can tell you however, skimmingly, about the art gallery and bookstore—their apartment walls loaded with literature (Alyson built the shelves) and hung pieces of history and invention (many many, including photos of the ancients and the sunshot little-kid years). The dog’s eyes in a small painting by Alyson, explained one of the children, were too far apart, in Alyson’s opinion, so she painted them over, thinking she’d try again. A friend said she liked the dog better without eyes, though. Alyson never got around to remedying.

We’d received one of the valentine cards Alyson had sent out, but here was her original. See the shell picture? Beside it: “Al takes a marquetry class.” What’s marquetry? I asked. Alyson tried to explain. She tried and tried to explain. I still don’t understand.

The Dorothy Day? That little paper angel head or whatever it is, stuck on the frame? Her comet on behind is something else, maybe a wood sliver.

I can also report that we ate up their CSA vegetables, roasted by Geoff. It was pretty much their take for the week, precious. Celery root, of all things, and parsnips, and a leek. People like us with garden produce coming out our ears every summer, enough to put up for the winter, have no concept.

As for the neighborhood sect—the believers we watched from the window, strolling by in their black coats and black hats? I noticed, past the glass, feet from the house, high overhead the sidewalk, a thin, orange rope, strung like a wash line.

What’s that for? I asked. It’s a loophole, said Geoff. The Orthodox’s Sabbath, no carrying anything of weight, but within the roped-off area up and down the block they’re permitted to ferry food and babies house to house.

I guess in the houses they can carry the babies.

Yes, Geoff and Alyson tramped us through some of massive Prospect Park all set about with trees. But when I said Geoff and Alyson’s woods, there at the beginning, I meant their everything urban, the cement congestion. We thudded up and down the streets and in and out of shops and an eatery, and later, back to the subway station in the dark before dawn. I’m not used to pounding the pavement like that. I thought I might hurt, next day (but then I didn’t). I thought I might want to get some shoes with thick bottoms. I’m so used to our soft loamy earth, not the thickets of tracks and concrete where others thrive.