One Year

One year ago tomorrow (the 15^th of December fell on a Monday), I made frantic phone calls to Argentina. The first phone call, from a pay phone outside the NY public library on 58^th between Park and Lexington, informed me that Chiquito was very ill. He had anemia and the vet was doing all he could for him. I rushed to the library and looked up anemia on the Internet. I called Argentina again and told the vet’s wife that maybe a blood transfusion would be a good idea. Silence on the other end. I raised my voice. Are you there? I asked. She hesitated for a minute and told me that Chiquito was dead. Dead? Yes, my husband did everything he could, but he couldn’t save him. I cried; I couldn’t stop crying.

I want you to know, she continued, that it was hard to give you this bad news over the phone. This is long distance. We petted him and gave your dog as much affection as we could in the brief days that he was here.

But every time I called my neighbor, the one taking care of him, she said he was fine.

Well, maybe he was fine then, the vet’s wife said. But he missed his owner. Before hanging up the phone, I asked her to pray for him.

Remembering A Dog

A year ago today I received an email informing me that Chiquito had been taken ill. I was far away and could not fly back to Argentina. Now, 4 days before the first anniversary of his death, I can’t help but feel that I failed my dog. I didn’t mean to, and when I talked to the people taking care of him in Buenos Aires, I pushed them to do everything they could for him. It was a long distance sort of push.  I still have a feeling of guilt. I don’t know if it’ll ever go away. I only hope that he, in Doggie Heaven, can forgive me.

Out!

Thursday, December 10, 2009: We had to leave. There was almost no time to get our things together and go. My cat didn’t want to go. She is used to the place, but the plumber is coming and we have to disappear. Fast.

Leaky Ceiling

Tuesday, December 8, 2009: The ceiling in my bedroom space has become worse. There are cracks in the ceiling and I’ve had to put large saucepans and containers for the water. Sometimes, especially after 7 or 8 P.M., it sounds like rain, the kind of rain that you see out on the street. There isn’t much that I can do, except wait for someone to fix it. I am no plumber.

My Father

I remember the rubies. I remember the 18 carat Gold jewelry that he used to give me in Argentina for my birthday. That and his kindness when I had a problem are some of my favorite parts of my memories of him. He was not a perfect man, but he was very strong, very tough. My father was a doer, someone who could get things done. When we came together to America, he had to unlearn many things. He was no longer the boss; now he was an employee, an older employee. I don’t think he minded it very much. Being in the United States had been his dream all along. He had time to listen. He cared.

Deanna Durbin

Friday, December 4, 2009: Today is the birthday of one of my favorite stars from Hollywood’s Golden Age. It is said that Deanna Durbin saved Universal from bankrupcty when she starred in her first movie Three Smart Girls in 1936. She was as big as Judy Garland and she brought joy aa beautiful voice to the movies. AAnother good film of hers was First Love in 1939, where she got her first screen kiss from Robert Stack. Yes, the Robert Stack who later starred in The Untouchables on TV.

An Important Birthday

Tomorrow, December 5^th, would have been my Tia’s birthday. Never mind how old she would have been. My Tia is still alive; I have never forgotten her. I can see her now wearing her black and white hounds tooth wool skirt and her lime green 100% acrylic cardigan, the one with the big white buttons. I see her waiting on the corner of our neighbor in Greater Buenos Aires. Her right hand is touching her chin and the tiny wrinkles around her eyes are more pronounced. A neighbor walks by and they talk. The neighbor is like family and she’s keeping my aunt company until I come back from my errand. It is probably a mild day in early October, spring in Argentina. My Tia looks down at her black leather moccasin shoes. I have to polish them after lunch, she tells the neighbor. She sees me before I see her. What kept you so long? she asks me. I kiss her on the cheek first, and then I greet the neighbor. Nothing, I shrug, blushing. I dare not mention that I have just run into the man I love; she wouldn’t approve. We walk the half block to our house. My Tia invites the neighbor up, but she declines. My Tia opens the white door and we go in. This is so clear to me after all these years that it might as well have happened yesterday or today.

The Pie

The Pie We, the women, were waiting in line at the soup kitchen, when a young woman came up to us. She was carrying a plastic bag with what looked like a cake or donuts inside. Would you like this pie? she asked. It’s already cut into slices. The two women ahead of me did not respond. I looked at them, then back at the smiling young woman. I’ll take it. Thank you very much. She handed me the bag. Share this among you. Then she was gone. The first woThe Pie We, the women, were waiting in line at the soup kitchen, when a young woman came up to us. She was carrying a plastic bag with what looked like a cake or donuts inside. Would you like this pie? she asked. It’s already cut into slices. The two women ahead of me did not respond. I looked at them, then back at the smiling young woman. I’ll take it. Thank you very much. She handed me the bag. Share this among you. Then she was gone. The first woman in line called someone, one of the volunteers she knew. Ernie, can you take this inside? I handed him the pie, asking: Could you save me a piece? He laughed. This sort of thing doesn’t happen often anymore, but kindness when it is seen is all the more appreciated. man in line called someone, one of the volunteers she knew. Ernie, can you take this inside? I handed him the pie, asking: Could you save me a piece? He laughed. This sort of thing doesn’t happen often anymore, but kindness when it is seen is all the more appreciated.

Remembering My Aristocrat

Monday, November 30, 2009: A year ago today he was still alive. I miss my little Pekingnese and his aristocratic soul. I miss being understood by him and I miss seeing him. For the rest of my life I will feel guilty because I didn’t bring him to the U.S. with me. I left him with whom I thought would take good care of him. Now I don’t know if this was so. I know that I didn’t have to pretend with Chiquito. He didn’t judge me and he didn’t laugh when I told him (by example) who I was.

Shaming Iffy Lenders and Realtors

I wish I could shame the real estate woman and the loan officer she recommended into giving me my money back—the $170,000 that I bought the condo in Atlanta for—as well as my lost excellent credit and all the other money I lost. I also wish I could shame them into giving me the condo in Buckhead back.I could give an interview and mention their names. That’s one idea. Other than that, I don’t know.They ought to be ashamed of themselves. Eugenia Renskoff