the lazy lazy river in the noon-day sun

when i was younger and before i was in high school, sometime when my nanny came to live with us because she had developed an ulcer and needed a well-stocked refrigerator and nothing more--except perhaps to move out of elizabeth, new jersey, a terrible place--on the weekends we would have a special dinner and it would go something like this:

my father would come home from work and make himself and my nanny a scotch on the rocks. he would put a little water in hers and she would take one sip and say, "now david," and hold her glass out. and he would laugh and uncap the bottle and pour away. then when we sat down to dinner i always made him put the scotch on the other side of his plate from me because i didn't like the smell. ha. can you imagine.

before dinner we would watch wheel of fortune, because my nanny loved it. i wish i could remember if she could guess the puzzles, but i really can't at all. my mother would cook dinner, somewhere along the lines of chicken and potatoes and gravy, and my nanny would mash the potatoes because she could make the best kind, and stir the gravy because ditto. and my mother eventually would say, "mom okay, that's enough" because she couldn't stand that scraping sound of the fork against the pan, you know, when you add a little flour and some water just to make the gravy even out a little. it's thin, the gravy, and tastes delicious. i hate jarred gravy more than anything, let me tell you.

and then by the time jeopardy came on it was time to eat, so we'd eat and i'd pull my chair a little closer to my nanny's, and i'll let that speak for itself, and there was this little bear--i'm a little embarassed about this part--but this little bear that came from somewhere, who's wearing a vest and holding a little heart that says "you're special" on it, and the little bear has a bit on the back of him so you can sort of hook him onto a plate, you know, and i would always put the little bear on my nanny's plate. because, well. of course.

but that's not the point, not yet, the point is that after dinner and after another scotch, with the nice stereo my father had with the turntable that still works, when it was all in the family room--i started calling it the "den" because my best friend at the time, mary, used to call it the "den" in her room--my nanny would say "david, put on something i like," and he would get up and we would all get up with him, and go into the family room before it was the den, and he would put on something she liked. usually it was the mills brothers, do you know them? they sing about the lazy river? and she would say, "let's dance!" and we would all dance, my nanny demanding to dance with each one of us. and that was the point, really, just to tell about the dancing and being very happy and not even knowing the definition of self-consciousness, or anxiety, or even self-doubt, because why would those words ever need to be in my vocabulary in the first place?

so tonight, and just now, after a whole day of worrying i don't have a family at all--not even the one i've made for myself somehow--and making myself sick after this week and the pay phone and not going to work, i'm thinking about the smell of the scotch and the little bear and the mills brothers, and i wish more than anything i could feel like that now and let it be, let it be let it be, rather than feeling it and worrying and cross-worrying and worrying that it will never come again or wasn't how i remember at all. is that what peace is? i hope and hope to see it.

or at least appreciate what i remember.