Ida Lupino in Chelsea

 

Also: Dottie in Washington Square Park…

 

Dynasty Handbag at Joe's Pub

Dynasty Handbag performing at last month's excellent "Our Hit Parade" show at Joe's Pub:

© Kristina Feliciano.

89 is the new 49

89 is the new 49 if you're my grandfather, Domingo Feliciano. Last week, he worked with the next-door neighbors to take down a massive tree in the front yard whose roots were threatening to destroy the pipes that make up the house's plumbing. He and the neighbors planned the job a few days in advance, and every day he talked about how they were going to go about it. He was excited to have this project. When the morning of the big day came, he put on his dungarees and his denim workshirt, grabbed a length of bright-yellow nylon rope, and informed me that he'd be outside if I needed him. He stayed out there till well past lunchtime, happily working. When I finally emerged from the house at around 2:30, everything had been neatly cut and stacked for pickup, and the hole where the tree had been had been filled with dirt and smoothed over. He was already talking about the grass seeds he was going to put down when I asked him to pose with the remnants of the tree. He went over and grabbed a branch, standing like a proud fisherman with his catch.

The bicycle

Yesterday, I went to look at a bike I saw on Craigslist here in Orlando. I'm not used to driving everywhere, I miss walking places, I miss moving around, and so I wanted to find a cheap 3-speed for when I visit, to tool around near my grandparents' house, where there are ample sidewalks. The bike was listed for 50 bucks. I drove to the guy's home, which was in an old part of Orlando. No subdivisions, lots of big trees, the houses all low-slung and ranch style. In this case, a mix of well kept and worn out. This guy's place was the latter. He greeted me in the front yard. He was friendly, tan and sinewy, about 50 years old, wearing a sweat-stained cotton baseball cap, his teeth were askew, and his English was approximate. He had just paid his weekend visit to the flea market out on Highway 50, and his old Ford pickup was loaded up with used mountain bikes, all of them hastily covered with a vinyl tarp. Behind the truck was a huge woolly German shepherd with amber-colored eyes and a thick cable, his tether, that led from a heavy collar around his neck to the chain-link fence behind the carport. Samson was his name. He weighs 110 pounds, the guy told me. We had to walk past Samson to get to the backyard. The dog was friendly, but his eyes were hard to read.

To get into the backyard, we had to duck under swaths of screen that the man had secured above the fence. The dog jumps, he explained. We followed an ad hoc path—old wooden boards thrown down over the dirt and crabgrass—path rusty tricycles and once-cheerful children's toys now lying in the overgrowth, and made our way to what in other Orlando homes would be the screened-in porch. His was a storage room, added on to in a jaunty fashion, spare wood and nails thrown up on an as-needed basis. He pulled out the bike. It looked like a $50 bike, and when I climbed on, it felt like a $10 one. It was stuck in high gear, the fenders chafed the tires, the chain guard rattled. It was a jalopy and not the ready-to-ride bike I had come in search of. I explained to the guy that the gear thing was a problem, and he understood. We'd been talking about some of his past finds and sales. Old Schwinns and vintage beach cruisers. Bikes that he'd spotted as worth much more than they were being sold for. He told me he watches American Pickers and Storage Wars. The people on those shows explain why they buy certain things and not others, how they identify what's authentic. And this guy watches and pays attention. I thought about him sitting in his house, probably in a very old, lumpy recliner that is molded to his shape. A TV that is not flat screen. A carpet that hasn't seen a vacuum in months. Maybe Samson is with him. The guy is watching these shows in his dimly lit living room and taking mental notes. He's getting ideas, and his mind is moving fast. He can't wait to get back out there the next day and see what he'll find. He's thinking about it even as turns off the lights and pulls back the covers. He's driven. He goes on instinct, he is unpolished, barely literate, and very bright. 

I was with this guy for maybe 15 minutes. But what a treat. I left without a bike, but I did not leave empty-handed.

Thinking about Claudina

My grandmother's decline continues, and my grandfather is visibly sad. It's wrenching to see because I know there's no alleviating his pain. Nor hers.

1940s New York in color

http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2012/02/12/nyregion/20120212CUSHMANss.html

Long live Kusama!