Susan Shultz's Blog, page 3

Off the beaten path

There’s a little string of store fronts off the Post Road — the beaten path, one might say — in Darien.

Along with what you’d expect to see in town — coffee shop, eateries, shopping — Tokeneke Road houses some of the oldest-running businesses in town.

Johnny’s Records, founded in 1975, carries all your vinyl, musical collectible and vintage t-shirt needs. It celebrates Record Store Day and offers refreshments on the front sidewalk for both man and beast.

Also found on Tokeneke Road is “Chez Ernie’s,” formerly Ernie’s Bar. The century-old watering hole opened just after Prohibition, and miraculously survived the pandemic through creative means. For decades, many have created memories, or forgotten their memories (or wish they could forget them), after walking through what might as well be swinging saloon doors.

Not far away from Ernie’s is the Darien News Store.

My friend Bill and I on the day I picked up my last paper as editor on May 13.

Much like these other establishments, the Darien News Store offers resources for today while giving one a welcome blast back to yesterday. Like Ernie’s, the store also opened nearly a century ago.

These three store fronts are not what immediately come to mind when the general public thinks of “Darien.” For ease of stereotyping, most act like everyone in town is a replica of Ted Knight’s character in Caddyshack, ready to ask “Pooky” to christen the latest vessel the “Flying Wasp.”

After this many years in Darien, I can confirm that Ted and Pookys do exist. But the fact that these three businesses above remain stalwarts on Tokeneke Road mean there are many in town who choose the less beaten path.

This brings me to my friend, Bill.

Bill Frate owns Darien News Store, and his family has been notable in Darien for generations. There are several families that have generations of roots in town, but not many go as far and as wide as Bill’s does.

The Darien News Store is the old fashioned stationery, five and dime store, that includes remnants of Bill’s jazz photography days and a squawking bird somewhere in its deep-set recesses. He carries vintage toys and an eclectic holiday decor collection you’d be hard pressed to find elsewhere. And of course, newspapers, magazines and more.

When I surprised my daughters with a tiny paper-doll strung Santa garland on the mantel one year, placed there by the sly “Elf on the Shelf,” they were delighted. I was bummed when I lost them, so I tried to get a new one – for Bill to tell me the company went out of business in the 80’s. Nonetheless, he dug another duplicate out of his bag of tricks.

During the summer when school was getting ready to start, I noticed some Darien parents were having trouble finding school supplies due to pandemic challenges. I mentioned Bill’s store as a resource and realized some of them had never even heard of it or knew it was there. The sacrilege!

A pencil is still a pencil, even if isn’t purchased at Staples or Walmart. Bill managed to save a few people’s first day of school with supplies in hand.

More than that, as the last several years at the paper presented ever-evolving changes, Bill was always there. I went from having a large office on Corbin Drive with a lot of coworkers, to a smaller office with a lot of coworkers, to a smaller office with half the coworkers, to a smaller office with almost no coworkers, to no office and one coworker, to just me.

Throughout all those changes, my weekly visit to the Darien News Store on Thursdays kept me grounded and in a welcome routine. When we had a competitor, I could tangibly find out “how are we doing?” by comparing content and paper sales, with a resulting pat on the back from Bill. When paper deliveries had a problem, I’d find out before the rest of my colleagues when Bill would text me that they hadn’t arrived.

He’d give me friendly advice and additional color, for context purposes, to whatever the latest news was, background on local families and local properties, and feedback he’d hear from readers.

With no office, whenever people wanted to make sure they got a copy of their paper due to “My daughter is on the front page!” or whatever reason, I could always tell them Bill had copies and let him know. Sometimes he’d hold them behind the counter if it was important.

When a mother wanted the paper because her son, in the Marines, was featured on the front page placing a wreath for Wreaths Across America, Bill refused her payment and gave her extra copies — to thank them for their service and sacrifice.

In conclusion, what I’ll say is throughout my Darien tenure, I have found so many more people like Bill Frate than the stereotype. Bill had no personal gain to offer me a kind word or be a help to me over the last decade or more. He believed in community newspapers. And what’s more, he believed in me.

Telling him I was leaving the paper was hard. Luckily I got to stop by and visit last week.  And it certainly won’t be the last time. I need my red, white and blue vintage decor.

There’s a lot more to Darien than what it seems to project or evoke, for that matter. There’s a lot of history, quirky businesses, creativity, depth, and many passionate people with good hearts and giving spirits.

This is all easy to find.

You just have to venture off the beaten path

A year

A year ago, almost to the day, I got sick.

I got really sick.

People who know me know it takes a lot to knock me completely out. I got into bed on a Thursday, and I didn’t get out of it until Monday morning — only because I had a doctor’s appointment. This was before I fully understood anything to do with the coronavirus, but I of course suspected.

This was before anyone could really get tested freely for some reason. My daughter and I had returned a few weeks before from a road trip to Quebec. Something I wouldn’t even fathom weeks after.

I went to the doctor the following Monday. It was the first time I was offered a mask. I looked at it, confused how to wear it. I walked into the doctor’s office and immediately staff knocked on the window.

The gesture was “Over your nose.” Again, no clue. I moved it over my nose. When I went into the examination room, I told the doctor, one I didn’t know, I felt like I got hit by a truck. Hit by a truck would be a phrase I would remember, and hear again. The doctor kept a distance. This wasn’t like the doctor appointments I’d had in the past. It was cold. Far away. I asked if I could be tested for coronavirus. I was told no.

I asked if I could be tested for the flu to rule it out. I was told they weren’t allowed to test for anything.

Later when I went back for a follow up from my longtime doctor, he told me our country had made the process unfathomable. I will never truly know the answer.

But that was a year ago, and here we are now, hopefully approaching the light at the end of the tunnel.

I’m no longer able to write editorials, something I treasured for many years. I wrote editorials well before I was officially named editor at The Darien Times.

But I can’t let a year like this one go by without saying something — at least from my personal perspective.

As a community journalist, this year has been without question the most impactful year of work I’ve ever known. I could tell stories of interactions I had and things I have done. Things that are not on print or web pages but were unquestionably what I felt were part of not only my job, but my duty. But the story isn’t about me.

The story is about the people, the stories, I’ve had the privilege to write about.

The story of Kristina Gregory, my age, but in much better shape and health, who not only was devastated by this virus – who was one of the first to share she had it, when in some cases people were still stigmatized. She did it because she wanted people to take it seriously. She then made sure to donate plasma to help develop a vaccine. She’ll tell you, and me, she’s no hero. “Let’s not go that far,” she’ll say. But she is.

The story is about Daniel Coonan, who talked to me when he had trouble breathing, in quarantine from his young children. He kept a journal to help people understand what he went through. He allowed us into his journey and recovery. He did it because we still don’t understand what this virus does and means.

The story is about Emily Fawcett, former Post 53 EMT, who has worked night and day at Lenox Hill Hospital. Emily tested positive the very day she was to receive the vaccine after protecting, comforting and crying with patients’ families for nearly a year. And her mother, Sharon, who does the same at Norwalk Hospital.

The story is of the incredible effort of Corbin Cares, the senior center, the Darien Foundation, Palmer’s Market, the first responders, the teachers who persevered and the parents who endured, and the churches who went forth, and numerous others who fed, cared for seniors, those in need, and kept Darien businesses alive. And the kids, including my own, who have survived utter insanity.

The story is about the Darien Health Department and the Darien School District nursing staff who helped with this vaccine roll out. This story is about Darien police and the fire departments.

I wish I could still write editorials because if I could, I would tell you of the tremendous honor it has been to do this job for the past year. I would tell you of the stories, from large to small, that have created the patchwork that ties this community together in a quilt of strength.

I would tell you that I am grateful to be the editor of a community newspaper that hopefully reflects such a profound, meaningful journey, and a town that has exhibited proactive testing, support, philanthropy, and vaccination.

And lastly, that I am grateful to still be here, for a variety of reasons — to face, together, what I hope to soon be the other side of this storm.

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The Mason jar

If you don’t have a Mason jar,

Your life’s gone astray —  

A candle, a vase,

Or artsy Chardonnay.

Love, steamed and sealed

By hands, young, or the wrinkled —

Preserves your preserves

And brines the ass off your pickle.

An image of warmth 

And Gifts made for eating —

Ye old Mason jar

Makes food much less fleeting.

You boil, I’ll bake

You jam, I’ll ribbon

The Mason jar means

All old angst’s forgiven

The country fair’s hero,

The fire fly’s woe,

The scrambled egg shaker,

Decays foremost foe.

A bread or a cake,

A soup or a crop,  

A salad to shake,

Just don’t let it drop.

If you get a Mason jar

Keep it tight, undisrupted.  

Then you clean, pass it on

You’ll gift joy uncorrupted.

The summer tomato, warms a cold winter supper. 

It’s sugared strawberry uplifts plain toast and butter.

Its cocktail looks wholesome, humble, and sweet  —

Despite width and depth knocking you off your feet. 

Inside its confines, spells and secrets airtight

Then its treasures will yield , with the tip of your knife.

The first line of defense of love’s labor worth giving

The pop of the top  honors past , new beginnings

If you don’t have a Mason jar

Your life’s gone astray —

Because surely there’s kindness

It’s time to repay.

Imperfect trustee

A second hand kneeler

For Emily

My mouth twists in laughter

For Dorothy

The saint and the sinner

To both I could talk

One who worships the cardinal

And the other the hawk

My sisters in words

So different yet same

Both danced near their losses

Both fearless of flame

May I introduce you

Parker and Dickinson

I carry their burden

Their poisoned pen

I sit at their table

Dichotomy bound

But you know no one else

Will be buying this round

A second hand kneeler

But I have two knees

And give humble tribute

— Their unworthy trustee

The Chair

For Lucy and Annabelle

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“Oh, look, a barn sale!” Shirley said, pointing to the side of the road.

“NOOOO,” said her 13-year-old daughter Louise, who was becoming more of a teenager by the day.

She covered her face in the passenger seat.

“I love these, mama. Let’s go!” she said, her hazel eyes flashing with excitement.

Her old car wheezed a bit going up the hill toward the house that was having the barn sale and she held her breath. They didn’t really have money in the bank for car repairs right now. She barely had enough to put together some at home desks for remote learning. That was part of her reason for stopping at the sale, to see if they had any spare chairs.

Shirley turned the car down the street following the signs. It was a lovely fall day, and the New England colors were in their full glory. She was happy to be out driving with her girls. As a single mom, trying to get time with them in between school and a full time job, especially with a pandemic in place, fun times were few and far between.

The car pulled up to a large estate with an ornate entryway, stone pillars on either side, and a circular driveway. Would-be customers were milling about. There were vintage dishes and glasses, candlesticks, and records — lots of furniture as well.

“Let’s go, Alice!” Shirley said.

“Have fun!” Louise said, hood covering her blond hair, as she scoured the latest TikTok on her phone.

“Don’t buy me anything!”

“Come on, mama!” Alice said.

Immediately, Alice was drawn to the old Halloween decorations. A set of pumpkin lights caught her eye.

And elderly woman sitting at an umbrella table smiled.

“Definitely still work! I tested ‘em this morning,” she said.

“Can we get them?” Alice asked. “We could use them for this Halloween!”

Shirley smiled. Halloween was her favorite holiday.

“Of course,” she said.

Her attention turned to the chairs. There were formal dining chairs tufted in rich tapestry. There were some random un-matching thatched chairs. None of them really worked.

Then, leaning against a table, she saw an old wooden folding chair. That would be perfect, Shirley thought. The girls’ room was small, and the chair would be easy to move out of the way when they weren’t on their laptops during remote school hours. It was also lightweight and easy to carry — even for Alice.

“Alice, come here for a second!” she said.

Alice, who had been examining some old-fashioned porcelain dolls, ran over to her mother.

“Try this chair out,” Shirley said.

She opened the chair and Alice sat on it.

“Is that comfortable for you?”

Alice was unsure at first.

“Yes, it’s fine, mama. Can we get one of those with the soft seat though?” she said, pointing at the dining room chair.

“I’m sure we can find a cushion for it. Go look at the pillows and see if any of those work. The fancy chairs are probably antiques,” Shirley said, and didn’t add, “are probably out of my price range.”

Alice understood, though, and found a pillow she liked.

Shirley carried the chair to the elderly woman running the sale.

“Oh, no, sweetie. That chair isn’t for sale…” she said.

“Oh, but, we REALLY need it, and it just perfect. Would you consider it?” Shirley said.

The elderly woman paused, looked at Shirley, and looked at Alice.

“Oh, well, all right. In fact, you can just have it. Just take good care of it, all right?” she said, looking at Alice.

“That chair is SPECIAL,” she said, smiling.

“Oh, that is so nice of you! Thank you so much!” Shirley said.

She paid for her other items, and Alice chattered happily with Louise about decorating for Halloween on the way home.

+++++

After dinner, Shirley asked the girls to do whatever homework they had for Monday morning.

Louise settled in at her desk downstairs and Alice carried her new chair upstairs to her room she shared with Louise.

“Is it heavy, honey?” Shirley asked.

“I’ve got it!” she said.

Shirley washed the dishes and pondered her workday the next day, working at a newspaper. Times were busy as it was election season. She settled in for some television and the girls wrapped up their homework and got ready for bed.

“Can we watch a scary movie, mama?” Alice asked.

“Not tonight, honey, we had a long day and you need to get up early for school. Next weekend, ok? Go get your pajamas on,” she said.

Louise got some ice cream after getting her pajamas on.

“Don’t forget to brush your teeth, Miss,” Shirley said.

“Calm down, bro,” Louise responded.

Shirley sighed. Soon she would not be cool enough for Louise. Too soon.

Shirley went upstairs to kiss the girls good night.

“Mama,” Alice said, as she turned to leave.

“Yes?” she said.

“Can you take the chair out of my room when you leave?” Alice said.

“Sure! That’s why we got the folding chair,” she said.

The chair had been facing Alice’s bed, open.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Shirley carried the chair downstairs and got ready for bed herself.

The next day, the girls got ready for remote learning. Alice came down to get the chair.

“You know, honey, you could leave it up there,” Shirley said.

“No,” Alice said. “That’s ok.”

“Ok,” Shirley said, and went back to concentrating on writing a news story.

“Mommy,” Louise whispered from her desk.

“Yes?” she said.

“Come here,” Louise gestured.

“What is it?” Shirley said.

“Alice doesn’t like her new chair,” Louise said.

“Why not? It’s a chair,” Shirley said, confused.

“She doesn’t want to tell you because she doesn’t want you to be upset. But she’s….scared of it,” Louise said.

“Scared of it?” Shirley said.

Alice had always been a spiritual child. She sensed things that could be a strong sense of empathy, but sometimes that led to so wild imagination.

“She says she feels like when it’s in our room, someone is sitting on it watching her,” she said.

“Is that why she didn’t want to leave it in the room last night?” Shirley said.

“Yes, don’t tell her I told you though,” Louise said.

Ugh, thought Shirley.

“Well maybe if we just make sure to bring it down here at night,” Shirley said.

“Yes, that will help,” Louise said.

“Are you scared?” Shirley asked.

“it’s a chair, mom,” Louise said, rolling her eyes.

The day went on and was busy for everyone. Alice was chatting with some friends playing a video game after school. Louise took a walk to town with her friends to get some Starbucks’ coffee.

Shirley worked and then made dinner and before they knew it it was bedtime again. Alice was so tired she fell asleep early, and Louise was texting with her friend and headed up to bed after kissing Shirley good night.

“Love you,” Shirley said.

“Love you too,” Louise said.

“How much?” Shirley said, smiling.

“THIS much,” Louise said, arms wide — it was something they had said since she was a toddler.

She is still my baby, Shirley thought to herself, smiling.

++++++

“MAMA!”

Shirley woke up like a shot.

“Mama! Mama please come!” Alice said.

She was in Louise’s bed, curled up, pointing.

“It was watching me!” she said.

They had forgotten the chair.

“Alice, calm down, honey, I’ll take it out and then we’ll talk, ok?” she said soothingly.

She picked up the chair, again faced at Alice’s bed. She must have woken up to see it right there.

She carried the chair into her own room and leaned it against the wall, and headed back to the girls’ room.

“Alice, what is wrong with the chair?” she said.

Alice was shivering in her lap.

“There is someone in it, staring at me. I can feel it there when I turn around. They are staring into my back. Staring at me when I’m sleeping. I can feel it,” she said.

“It’s a ghost. I know it. The ghost is sad and mad. And just stares. Especially when I’m sleeping. I woke up because I FELT IT,” Alice said.

“Ok, ok, honey. It’s gone now. Ok?” Shirley said.

“Mama, I want it really gone. I know you got it for me but I’ll just sit on my bed. I don’t want it in the house anymore, ok?” Alice’s hazel eyes were filled with tears.

“Ok, honey. Ok, I will find a home for it or maybe return it to the lady who we bought it from,” she said.

Alice’s eyes filled with relief.

“Thank God,” said Louise, “Maybe I will be able to get some sleep around here.”

“That’s right, let’s get to sleep,” Shirley said, kissing both girls good night.

She walked back to her room, uncertain but willing to get rid of the stupid chair if it was causing Alice so much anxiety. Life had enough anxiety as it was with this lurking pandemic and the children constantly being faced with news of illness and death. She didn’t need to add to more of it.

Shirley got back in bed, gazed over at the folded up chair, smiled, and said, “Just a chair, huh? You must have quiet a story to tell, Mr. Chair.”

With that, Shirley rolled over to go to sleep.

++++++

In the morning, Shirley’s alarm went off and she rubbed her eyes. It was going to be a long day for everyone. It had taken her a while to fall asleep and she was sure it had been the same for Louise and Alice.

She turned to get out of bed and stopped short, with a gasp.

The chair was open, facing her bed.

“Didn’t I put that up against the wall,” she said.

Maybe it was one of the girls, Shirley thought.

“Louise, come here, honey,” she said.

Louise came in, yawning, rubbing her blue eyes tiredly.

“Yes?” she said.

Shirley lowered her voice.

“I don’t want to make your sister more upset, but did you open this chair last night for any reason?” Shirley said, pointing?

“No, mom. You must have opened it and forgotten,” Louise said.

“God, it’s JUST a CHAIR,” Louise whispered, walking out of the room.

Shirley looked back it. That’s right, she thought, she must have left it in her room open and forgotten.

Either way, it didn’t matter, because after a shower, she packed up the chair in the car and headed back to the neighborhood she had found it.

Down along the street again to the large estate. It was harder to find because it was a colder, rainy day and the landmarks looked different than the glorious day two days before.

Finally, she pulled through the grand entrance to the front door at the circular driveway.

She knocked with the large brass door knocker, chair in hand.

An elderly man in a suit and tie answered the door.

“May I help you,” he said.

“I am looking for the woman who ran the barn sale a few days ago,” Shirley said, timidly.

“I’m so sorry, but Mrs. Grantham passed away yesterday,” the man said.

“I am her caretaker, Mr. William Bailey,” he said.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Shirley said, now feeling uncomfortable with the intrusion.

“I just..just … she gave us this chair and I wanted to return it,” Shirley said, holding it out.

Bailey smiled sadly.

“She gave you one of our funeral chairs?” he said.

“How appropriate,” he said.

“A what?” Shirley said?

“Do you see how it folds? It’s called a funeral chair. It was originally invented by an undertaker, for ease of set up for wakes and funerals on the premises,” Bailey said.

“Mrs. Grantham’s father was also an undertaker,” Bailey said.

“That chair was used in dozens of wakes at her family’s funeral home. They are set out for those mourning their loved ones’ passing to sit and pray, remember and mourn, while at the viewing,” he said.

The viewing, Shirley thought, imagining her child in bed.

“See, here,” Bailey said, with the faintest of British accents.

He turned the chair over, and pointed toward the label.

“Property of Grantham Funeral Home, Redding, Conn. 1899,” Shirley whispered.

The End

If you like this story, please check out my horror anthology on Amazon, Tales from the Graveyard.

Hands

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I’m so hard on my body but ok with my hands
My eyes see they’re flawed but my head understands
I don’t worry they’re aged or if they show years
I know they’ve absorbed a thousand dried tears

They show my frailty in long-bitten nails
Share the scars from those times I chose heads but got tails
They have the signs of my work in the kitchen
They bear the lines of a life that’s been lived in
The finders of every lost precious stuffed teddy
Hair brushers, night soothers and butterers of spaghetti
My nails are more likely to brandish the soil
Of planting and weeding, the gardener’s toil
They’ve no manicure, and no cuticle trim
No filler, no tips, and no paraffin
Purveyors of words that my lips can’t expel
Stained with ink, keyboard-calloused, they backspace, misspell
The transmitters of heart and the agents of brain
The symbols of peace, the easers of pain
A gypsy would find my palms’ tales confusing
Won’t find fortune or fame, but the lifeline’s amusing

Drained

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My connections are weak –
my phone’s hook up toothless
my car has a squeak
my laptop is useless

I watch my TV
watch humans, not real
can’t touch through the screen
I forget how to feel

I long for a hand
Forget the embrace
Too tired to stand
From the sun, shield my face

I’m supposed to provide
Words that cut our lives open
At the end of the day
I’m the one who is broken

I squint in the dusk
see the usher of light
perhaps this moon’s star
is our hope in the night

It’s probably nothing
A bypassing plane
But I’ll ride its fake wings
Lest my hope swirls down drain

50

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I don’t mourn you

I live you

I stumble,

But carry you

I don’t speak you

I breathe you

And today

I celebrate you

My friend

Today we’d both be 50

Your day’s sunrise, it lifts me

You changed me

You gave me

An imperfect soul

With so many holes

a shoulder

With unlimited leaning

Your face doesn’t fade

I won’t let it

Your life, a precious kite

A beautiful yet fragile

Flight

I’ll hold the string

For my whole life

I remember our years as we were

so unsure

Today

I miss what you’d be

Raise a glass up there for me.

My gift –

I will fly your kite high

I’ll hold the string

So tight

Fight the wind

bleed with your height

Your fight

My friend

Tied to your string

I watch your kite’s tail

Fade into the clouds

My hotline to heaven

White knuckled

Won’t ever let go

My friend

For

My whole life

Petals

[image error]We hide our heart

Our caged target

It’s beat the base

From which we started

A flower grows

Each day so Bold

It never hides

It’s color’s soul

The bee that borrows

Ensures tomorrows

The nectar it lacks

Will always come back

A daisy undresses

Without human stresses

Reminds us that giving

Won’t impede our living

Let’s open our petals

So our life can be touched

If we don’t – we might dry up

To be next year’s mulch

Blackberry

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No love like a blackberry

Sweet but still sour

I reach for your treasures

Then pick thorns for an hour

Your berries, they stain

My mouth and my skin

Water you with the blood

You’ve drawn from within

I tamed you, blackberry

I wrestled fanged vines

Until your sharp tendrils

Find more fences to climb

They’re both brilliant red

Your juices and mine

But today I’m the victor

Because you’re in a pie.