Anne Fulper

 

 

OUPS! If this post looks bizarre, and does not include zee audio, click here: https://annefulper.com/

                                                                                                                                                                                                                     

UN CROISSANT ORDINAIRE

Read and/or listen 

The first time I ventured out alone from my borrowed, Parisian apartment in the 10th arrondissement, without being shepherded around by Ella, my Paris dwelling daughter, who’d invited me for Christmas, was to buy fresh croissants for my breakfast. There were two types at “Delices de Faubourg Boulangerie”; the “Croissant au Beurre”, shaped like a slightly domed, elongated diamond, and the “Croissant Ordinaire”, which, in my opinion, has the more pleasing circular, crab shape, so I bought three. I found out later though, that this “ordinary” pastry, with its culturally amusing name, was made not of butter, but of margarine! 

Instead of being disappointed though, I decided to romanticize it, as a kind of a wartime effort of sacrifice, like when sawdust was put into bread as filler, and acorns were ground up for coffee…acorns ground up for coffee. Margarine is still used today, though, for its cheaper price, longer shelf life and mass production efficiency, but, as I soon discovered, it can’t hold a candle to the more voluptuous Croissant au Beurre, which I now craved. So much so that I imagine meeting my black-market connection, Jean Luc, on the sly, outside the Gare de l’Est, under cover of darkness to make a deal for my so-thin-that-it-broke, gold wedding band from my failed marriage, in exchange for three big, warm, buttery croissants, which I drop surreptitiously into a burlap bag labeled, “Acorns”.  

But I shake this image from my head, as the three Croissants Ordinaire and I head back to the apartment, me mentally checking my papers, squirreled away on my person – passport, apartment keys, wallet, phone, my hard-won transit pass. I had become very panicky about losing these or being pickpocketed, feeling a bit like a refugee with all the overwhelming fears and indignities that go along with that now. Of course this couldn’t be further from the truth. I was a legal visitor with an American passport (which is always having to say you’re sorry), cared for by my half-French daughter, with her thoughtfulness and dual citizenship, bilingual super power. I had enough rudimentary French to get by. I’m elderly, but tall with good posture, and warm hands, apparently, and try to give purposefulness to my long strides, as I raise the access key fob to the wooden doors and enter the courtyard of 20 Rue du Terrage. 

Due to a head cold I’d contracted on the plane, my palette was less discerning – not exactly ideal when in a gastronomic mecca like Paris. So, after heating up a croissant, adding some actual butter, and a schmear of raspberry jam, then sipping the strong coffee I’d made in an Italian Espresso “Moka Pot”, and managed to brew properly on a convection stove, which I’d never used before. I savored my resourcefulness and my solitude. This feeling was slowly becoming less rare for me in Paris. Because, though Paris was pleasing to me, I was not always pleased with myself in Paris. I am not an easy traveler, what with the plane trip, the foreign language, the money, the changing technology, the political scene, the estranged husband, the odd toilets – and having to adapt/pivot/recalculate fast, like Siri – all at age 75, which, by the way, in my country, is when you can be excused from jury duty…forever!

Or, maybe, I’m just like one of those fantastic local wines that don’t necessarily travel well. I’m cool in my milieu, but buy me an international ticket outta here, and I fumble and panic and nobody’s happy…. but it does get better, so they say.

Wish you were here!

 

 

GAY BERETS NEAR ME

I was not exactly “a Free Man in Paris”, as the song goes, but J’ai arrivé at Charlie DeGaulle Airport! It did take 3 airport security guys to help me get my internet working, so I could phone Ella that I’d landed safely. She stops work at five, so the earliest we could meet would be 5:30. Two hours later, at 9 am, the taxi arrived at my hotel, Mama Shelter Paris East after a $100.00 cab ride from the airport in morning rush hour. At the front desk, I was reminded that check- in time was not until 3 pm. I had deduced that this small hotel chain was considered LGBTQ+ friendly, because when I told my daughter the name of the hotel which my friend, Christophe, the widower of my dead, beautiful/dancer/artist Soho loft neighbor Charles, had recommended, Ella said, “Oh we love that place…and the theatre across the street, La Fleche d’Or  is where we go for karaoke night! “Definitivement?”, je me demande.

So, after dropping off my luggage, I had a comforting breakfast of croissants and café au lait mixed with hot chocolate, in the dining room and Killed time in the lobby for a while to use the internet. Then I explored the neighborhood, cold and tired in the gray, raw day, but buoyed by curiosity and the fact that I was in Paris! Upon returning to my hotel, which would not be my hotel for over 4 hours!, I was rescued by the discovery of Médiathèque Marguerite Duras, right next door; a research library with free admission and WiFi, and plenty of tables and chairs to accommodate study and note taking, plugs for computers and recharging. It was warm and light filled and I sank so gratefully into an overstuffed armchair, and opened a “Bande Desinee” (graphic novel) that had caught my eye, devoted to Alfred Hitchcock, for whom I was a lifelong fan. I would occasionally walk next door to the hotel to see if they were able to have my room ready, “even just a little sooner?”, playing up my old lady fragility, but no luck. Mama Shelter? Not this mama apparently.

Anyway, back to Mediatèque Marguerite Duras – this time, in a different room, I open a thick book on Richard Avedon with a large section on the movie, Funny Face, (a favorite of mine) with Audrey Hepburn and Fred Astaire, where Avedon had been a visual consultant on the film and Astaire played Dick Avery, the character, based on Avedon.

At 3pm, I get to my hotel room – finally! I have not slept in I can’t remember how many hours, because I haven’t slept in however many hours it takes to do math. A pleasant, young man sees me to the room, then quickly leaves with a nod and an adequate smile. I enter into a short hallway, dimly lit on purpose I suspect, with a slightly odd designer bathroom to the right, consisting of a shallow, square sink next to a hose-yourself-off open shower area with no curtain or door – très moderne!  The bedroom is at the end with a window ahead, and it feels clean and safe. However, when I turn right to face the bed, each of the two small lamps on either side of the headboard, have a cartoon mask strapped onto the lampshade, both faces shining in a slightly garish, horror movie kind of way; Daffy Duck on the left and Spiderman on the right. Now, I have no particular attachment to Spiderman, but Daffy is another story. Not this frozen, glowing duck face, which conveys none of the despicably vengeful, preposterously scheming, ill-fated, bitter optimist/sucker, that I’d come to know, love and identify with. But…okay I can handle it. I turned the masks to face the wall so I can’t see them, nor they me. But really, one has to wonder, “Why, instead of flowers or chocolates on the pillow, cartoon masks, strapped to reading lamps each above a chocolate-free pillow, along a mirrored wall, next to the bed? “Hoo boy”, I whisper to myself, in case someone’s listening, “I guess those gay guys can be a bit odd sometimes”.

I check to see if the TV is working and notice one of the menu options is an “LGBTQ+ friendly” channel. I think okay, let’s maybe gain some insight here. The first image to come up is two women, just standing there playfully innocent, probably in plaid shirts, wearing those very same masks, which you can now purchase downstairs at the reception desk. So much for my gender pigeon-holing. Suddenly it is 5:30 and the daughter I haven’t seen in an entire year, is texting me that she is in the lobby. I am so excited to see Ella…as well as to get her take, on those masks.

Wish you were here.

 

 

 

Miracle on the Rue Jean Dolent 

My daughter put me on the metro at Gare De L’Est, repeating the name of the stop where I would need to get off, which I’ve since forgotten. I’d been invited to dinner by the youngest sister of my ex-husband. I hadn’t seen Gaëlle in over 15 years and was somewhat anxious about the meeting. Although her brother and I have been separated for over two years, we’re not actually divorced, so she is still technically my “sister-in-law”. Also in attendance would be her 30-something son, Lully, a musician, who is handsome and sweet, and the last of my husband’s family to visit us, a year or so before the break-up. I wonder if he witnessed any fraying of the marriage.

His uncle to his aunt: “You really need to grow up! “ 

His aunt to his uncle: “Fuck You.”

Plus, Gaëlle’s younger son, Aimé, a 20-something wrestler/dance-choreographer in Brussels, would be there as well. I had only known Aimé in the years before he’d transitioned. So, my curiosity to see all of them was ultimately stronger than my apprehension.

I got off at the correct stop and figured I would ask for directions in my okay French. I head right to the news agent on the corner. “Je cherche la Rue Jean Dolent?”. “Je n’ai PAS idée!” was the response. I asked a few others to no avail, until a young businessman type emerging from the metro, who, when I gave him the address, stopped, brought out his phone, entered the street name and gestured between the map and the streets ahead, saying in French, “follow this boulevard until you see the Renault dealership across the street, to the left, head there, then right after the prison, voila – La Rue Jean Delont”. “…right after the prison?” I murmur to myself.

In the meantime, I’d gotten a text from Gaëlle, saying when she tried to call me on WhatsApp, she could hear me speak, but I could not hear her. “Text me where you are.” Not sure I got out the correct answer, after all my huffing and puffing. Suddenly – there she was, gesturing wildly, from across the Place de La Renault, her short curly hair, mostly gray now, framing a welcoming face. It was an “Oh, thank god, there she is!” moment. Suddenly, it’s all fine. Now I’m just coming over for dinner, chez my belle-soeur and my French nephews in Paris, and I begin to relax, as the cocoon spins around me.

We leave the mean streets of La Santé Prison (current home of Nicolas Sarkozy), and head towards the house Gaëlle’s friend had lent her for the holidays. After a series of dark courtyards and rusty keys in locked gates, where I had to ask Siri to turn on the flashlight a couple of times so we wouldn’t fall and break a hip, we enter the house of a butterfly librarian, a true “Maison des Papillons”. Everywhere you look, there are hundreds, maybe thousands; dead, and on display, in bookcases and on shelves. You wouldn’t know you were in Paris, but rather somewhere – maybe in rural Burgundy. Collette should be bustling around with her cats and her manuscripts, or Nabokov indulging his creepy “lepidoptera” obsession, with his nets and killing jars and literary pedophilia…but in a good way.

The wingless among us, now gather in a cozy salon, to enjoy our cocktails and amuse bouches, in this case, a French version of Cheetos. As we catch up on each other’s lives and compare the political shenanigans of our respective countries (I win!), my attention wanders to the catalogued stacks of butterflies, literally walling us in. The sheer volume, the meticulous array of size, color and pattern; such stark contrast to the giant, gray, concrete block of a prison, lying in wait, just beyond this whimsical, little house. There must be a metaphor in here somewhere! “Butterflies Behind Bars”? I visualize each specimen, fully splayed out, like a perp against a wall, chloroformed, flipped over, then pinned down to cotton batting; convicts doing time. They’re not goin’ anywhere, the difference being of course, they’re dead on the outside, as well as the inside.

I recently learned, though of a prison in Washington State, which has a program for inmates to rescue and propagate endangered butterflies, in order to increase their numbers. It’s such an incongruously positive, but practical, hopeful thing. The butterfly is a symbol of transformation and metamorphosis. Yet, I, with my glass half empty, think of that metaphor for nerves; “having butterflies in your stomach”. I know the fluttering of these creatures is all about propulsion, not angst, but now the two are linked in my mind. Transformation is exhausting and nerve racking. The apprehension increases. My imaginary wings beat more frantically. My mouth is dry. The butterflies in my stomach don’t exactly lead the charge towards growth and renewal…or do they?                                                                                                                  But these butterflies are dead, they’re dead, man…or are they?

I pull out one of the frames to look more closely at the dozen or so insects arranged in rows, and wonder how they manage all those sluggish, constricting phases they have to go through. How do they feel, finally emerging as something profoundly opposite, flashy and ethereal? And when they die, what happens to that spirit, {if there is one,} that had guided the meticulous architecture of those cocoons?

While the others are busy in the kitchen, I stare down at one specimen – a female, Blue Morpho, the label reads; the wings, a soft iridescent blue, like slubbed silk, edged in black, the lining, a brown and cream paisley/camouflage pattern. Her head and face are at odds though, with the outfit; the ridiculously long, nectar-sucking proboscis and the bulging sci-fi eyeballs, a reminder of her lowly beginnings and dystopian future. She’s like one of those gnarled, old, grand dames in queenly robes before plastic surgery was invented. And then, from her place in the middle of the cotton batting, this shimmering papillon puffs up slightly and begins to speak:

“Hello. Who are you? Are we filming? I was told I was going to an audition for Lord of the Rings, then they ushered me inside a quote/unquote “relaxing chamber”; some foul-smelling glass jar to wait for them to call my number. Then nothing…for like an eternity. I fell asleep. And even died a little. And now you call me? Could you at least remove these damn pins? “Ouch!” I must look like death warmed over. I’m starving! You don’t have any rotting fruit on you, by chance?”

I am struck dumb, mesmerized, then so startled, that my now empty wine glass topples onto the rug. Luckily it doesn’t break, but by the time I retrieve it and turn back to my talking butterfly, she’s back, pinned to her spot; flat, silent and lifeless once again.

“À table!” is called from the kitchen and I join the others in the dining room for baked salmon and roasted squash. We eat and we chat and I look around the table at my salvaged French family. We’re all altered to varying degrees by age and experience, love and loss. As we finish the tarte tatin, I chew on the notion that each one of us is on our own journey of transformation, striving towards a kind of…a kind of…“ZZZ!”, my self-editing, jokey snores of boredom at my own words rescue me, before I can trivialize something miraculous.

“Pardon? Quest-ce que tu dis?”

“Oh nothing. I should go. Can you call me an Uber?”

“I’ll do it”, Lully offers. “Bolt is better, though – cheaper”.

Perfect. Parfait!

So, back to the 10^th arrondisement, through the big, heavy, wooden doors, a set of gates into an empty courtyard through another door to the foyer of another building, then in the elevator, up to the 4th floor, where a big iron key unlocks the clean, well-lighted apartment, and I am safe in my Parisian cocoon.

Wish you were here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For my sister, Agnes Fulper, 1937-2025

Listen to audio version, read by the author, or read full text below.

When someone says the phrase, “You see, everything happens for a reason”, a cavalcade of senseless atrocities flashes before my eyes, like clicking through the tiny celluloid squares of an old View Master; …lynchings, beheadings, starving children, the napalm girl …so many to choose from! And I think, “Explain that then, Pollyanna”.

This is not to say that things never happen for a reason, they totally double negative do. The aging process for instance, I think, staring into the mirror at the desiccated husk that is slowly encapsulating my body and face like a carapace. “Move over, old dog ‘cause the new dog is movin’ in. “To everything turn turn turn”, blah blah blah.

Moving your elderly sister (which means you can’t be far behind) out of her 2000 miles away apartment and into an “independent living facility” close to you and the rest of the family in 2021, is evidence of this evolutionary crap shoot

My husband and I had been recruited to be the boots on the ground for a mission we quickly dubbed Operation Desert Dust Storm, due to her dust-laden apartment being in the desert city of Albuquerque, New Mexico. Because of the strict time constraints (three days during Covid), we were bossy and ruthless. The word Gestapo comes to mind – but that’s another part of the “not everything happens for a reason” alarming image parade. We did force my sister, against her will (“No, I love that. I have to have that!”) to leave behind most of the contents of her apartment of over 20 years, including an infinity of clothing, hanging in a closet which ran the entire length of her bedroom and caused my heart to sink when I opened it. Unlike people fleeing their country, she was allowed to take the barest minimum of “No, I love that. I have to have that!”. The only real succor for this loss was that, though many items would go to Goodwill and a lot would end up in the full metal jacketed dumpsters of The Towers apartment complex, most of it would go to the real Afghan women of Albuquerque, who had caught her attention and sympathy. So, when her big blue eyes would narrow and her lips purse in resentment, as some forgotten treasure was tossed into a carton, I yelled at her…repeatedly, for not grasping the enormity of this tempus fugit task. Shocked at myself, the youngest, for stepping out of our family’s birth order behavior to attack the eldest, I took a remorseful breath and cheerfully said, “those Afghan women will be so appreciative of this!” Then her head tilted downward, nodding in sorrowful agreement and the glow of temporary virtue.

Turns out, the friends from her church, Paula and Bill, were extremely useful, removing a lot of the furniture, appliances and dishware to supply makeshift homes for refugees. Apparently, these were not the born again, dialing for dollars Jesus freaks I had feared my sister was mixed up with, but good, old-fashioned News from Lake Wobegon type Lutherans, who encouraged our cleanout. “These people have nothing…nothing, so your bed is beyond their wildest dreams and that couch, if we can only fit it into the elevator, will provide a much-needed bed as well.” So not only were we helping their cause, they were helping ours. Quid pro quo.

There were some antique Stangl plates that my sister was determined to bring with her on the plane or ship UPS, but we were on a tight budget of time and money, so I stuck them unobtrusively in the area by the kitchen, designated for church pick up. As Paula and Bill were hauling out another load, Bill paused with an armful of those dishes to ask a question of my sister, who was staring intently at some files we’d insisted she go through, a baffled expression on her face. I stepped in between them and looked meaningfully at him, my watch, the dishes and whispered, “Go. Go. Just Go.” He understood immediately, and was gone, the plates on their way to serve others.  

On our final night, when the apartment had at last been emptied, endless files shredded or tossed, old medications taken to the disposal kiosk at Walgreens, the large couch carried down four flights of stairs when it did not fit in the elevator, enough food to feed a family of twelve, pulverized down the “InSinkerator”, several unopened bottles of alcohol left over from hoped-for cocktail parties, poured down the drain, making me feel like the opposite of Ray Milland in The Lost Weekend, the celebratory gunshot sound of popped, then emptied champagne bottles adding to the pathos, cable and phone equipment returned to the over-crowded Xfinity store (“what number are we?”), and finally the three large cartons of stuff which managed to slip past the “No, I love that, I have to have that!” checkpoints and taken to UPS, my husband and I lay catatonic on the bed of our cheap, but deceptively swanky hotel room. A hotel room whose amenities were; no daily maid service due to Covid, a working wood fireplace with no logs…but bad breakfast included from 7-9am!

 We’d scrubbed ourselves clean using the soap, shampoo and conditioner dispensers, glued to the bathroom shelf to prevent theft. Luckily the bed was comfortable, but I could not sleep, due to the Murphy’s Law anxiety of a 6am flight the next morning with my mobility challenged sister in tow. So, I tried to distract myself by picturing her Afghan women hurrying down San Mateo Boulevard, dressed in the overflow of her closet, sporting their mid-price labels; Chico’s, Talbots, Ann Taylor…Loft.

How would these girth concealing tunics, three percent spandex slacks, silk scarves tied just so, to mask sagging necks and wrinkly cleavage, end up swaddling these strangers in a strange land, both young and old? Belts would become crucial, the excess leather trimmed off and new holes punched in for narrowing waistlines or leather added for fast food waist expansion. Either way, your pants fall down.     

It’s an incongruous pairing; comfortably stretchy fashion for the plus size older gal on the go, with the haunted and hunted gal on the run. I am filled with a desire for escape; both theirs and mine, as I finally drift off to sleep.

Before dawn the next morning we gather up my sister, her suitcases and rolling walker into our black SUV rental that looks like, and now is, a getaway car and head to the airport. Silvère drops us off at Delta Variant Departures and goes to return the car to Alamo. Remember the Alamo? Did that happen for a reason? Maybe.

I struggle to extricate a six-dollar luggage trolley from its nest, cursing like a sailor in the desert. An airport employee magically appears to help us secure a wheelchair for faster transport of my sister and by the time Silvère rejoins us, Sadiq has become our Man Friday, escorting us from check-in, through security and all the way to the gate, even advising us on which breakfast burrito to choose at the food court. We’re so exhausted and grateful, we each end up tipping him, unbeknownst to the other, so Sadiq made out quite well that morning.

At last, we were settled on the plane, thrilled to be in our cramped, economy class seats. As I’d just been through all of this mere days ago, I become the blasé, seasoned traveler, saying as the service cart lurches our way, “I’ll have the GoldFish…medium rare, please.” (No reaction) “and a Virgin Mary”.               

“And you, sir?”                                                                                                     

“I’ll also have the Bloody Mary Virgin …but with the cookies.”                      

(to my sister), “For you, Ma’am?”                                                     

“Do you have Pepsi?”                                                                           

“No, just Coke.”       

 “Sigh…Tsk, oh well, I’ll have 2 Cokes, the GoldFish and the cookies”, revealing the food insecure impulse to stock up. The attendant is happy to accommodate and fills up her tray table. I wonder if this solicitude to the old and infirm is the policy of the airline or a natural inclination based on the superhero feeling you get, when what is so very difficult for some, you can do in a breeze leaping forward in a single bound to help?

“Let me get your coat out of the overhead compartment.”                       

“Yes, I can pick up that hard-to-reach thing off the floor, and hand it to you”

“Oh, let me do that. I excel at pouring vodka over ice!.”

And…”Of course, I’ll accompany you to the body bag-sized toilet, and scissor-snip your Depends for easier removal.”      

This last one, of course, allows for the deep humility required for such a magnanimous action figure as myself. However, it’s a fine line between the helper coming to the rescue, and the put-upon -drudge-maid-servant, once the helpee begins to feel her power. Thank god, we were almost home.

When we reach Philadelphia, our final wheelchair destination, the attendant whisks my sister to the baggage carousel so fast we have to run to keep up. Once the suitcases are retrieved, I cleverly pile them onto the empty seat of the rolling walker. I’m so eager to reach my sister, Julie, who is waiting for us across the street in her illegally parked, pigeon gray-SUV, that the walker tilts over the curb, dumping the suitcases first onto my leg, then onto the ground, nearly causing me to fall in front of an airport bus. But I manage to right myself, and restore the luggage, cursing like a sailor in the Delaware Valley, “EOWH, FAWHHHK!”.

Finally, we are safe in the car, pulling away into the night. As a full moon rises gold over the river, I pull up my lycra enhanced pant leg to see a full moon of a bruise, waxing black and blue between ankle and calf. But, all things considered, I got off lightly with this minor wound from Operation Desert Dust Storm. As I lower the cuff over the developing goose egg and wait in ramp traffic to get onto Route 95 North, my thoughts drift back to the Afghan women, who had unwittingly helped my sister shed her possessions.

There’s not a lot I can do about trauma, incurred by those forced from their homes by tragic circumstance or loving families, and I still maintain things do not always happen for a reason. However, I admit that you can wrench a little positive from the negative. Surely, even the most downtrodden spirits can be lifted to sudden optimism, when wearing crushed velvet palazzo pants, a kicky oversized bolero, and a waterfall of bangle bracelets, donated by; YOUR NAME HERE.

TALL is my seventh story, published by the Journal of the American Art Pottery Association. There are fifteen essays in this collection so far, but TALL was among the first written with the premise of using different pieces of Fulper Pottery to tell stories about my family. It remains one of my favorites.

CLICK ON THE COVER OF THE JOURNAL to read the full article (reprinted here with permission) and/or scroll down to listen to: TALL, read by the author.

TALL, read by Anne Fulper:

About Her

Anne Fulper grew up on the Delaware Canal in Bucks County, PA, in a home dotted with ceramics from her grandfather’s Flemington, NJ pottery. Fulper is included in the permanent collection of major U.S. museums, with one of the largest collections at The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Having never known, their “Master Craftsman” grandfather, Anne and her sisters were thrilled to find six notebooks, hidden under the eaves in the attic of the family home, written in their grandfather’s large, fluid scrawl. Here were the secret formulas for the glazes that made Fulper Pottery unique. As a way of connecting to a vanished past and, because they knew the look of those glazes down to their bones, they turned those handwritten recipes into the Fulper Tile Company (1985-2000).

Anne’s collection of essays, Shards, is synthesized from a trifecta of personal experience:

• writing and performing scathing satire in NYC with The Sleazebuckets and Noh Radio
• working with the chemistry of the glazes at Fulper Tile.
• a childhood growing up surrounded by vases, ewers, jugs, planters, lamps, powder boxes, perfume burners, bookends, candlesticks, flower frogs, ashtrays and crocks.                     

Now these pieces of pottery launch 15 memoir vignettes about a mid-20th century American family whose forebears, owned a pottery in New Jersey. Anne takes the pot off the pedestal and tells the tale behind it.

In addition to Shards, are other autobiographical essays, all written with an ear to performing aloud and accompanied by an audio version.

“I hope the acoustics in here will be good for recording”, thought Alice doubtfully.

drawing by Tenniel

For me, artichokes signify spring. Even as we speak, they are forming underground, waiting for the soil to warm them up, so that new growth can happen. And like all things that depend on the elements for survival, they too are confused by the weather. But the artichoke is stalwart. The shoots come out first, fernlike, making a protective nest for the globe-like blossom, its intricately patterned leaves snugly overlapping – elegant, but too subtle to attract the bees apparently, so nature provides a bright purple thistle flower on top, like a punk fright wig and the bees respond.

A toned down more visceral version of that color is echoed in the artichoke heart, “the goal of the whole endeavor”.

Below is the origin story of The Fulper Tile Artichoke lamp, along with my usual detours into related topics. Click on the lamp or the Journal cover to read full text with photos (reprinted here with permission from the Journal of the American Art Pottery Assn.). 

Or listen to Artichoke, read by the author:

Listen to Burn On, Brief Candle read by the author:

Or read full text below:

BURN ON, BRIEF CANDLE!

Wee Willie Winkie, Hamlet’s dad, the Bronte sisters, all would have benefitted from a candlestick with a protective backing like a hood against the draft, when they were forced to travel around the house in the dark, which was probably much of the time. Even to this day, I use such a “chamberstick”, as it’s called, to light the way if necessary. But mostly it’s kept stationary, next to my bed. I leave my traveling light to more reliable, battery-operated devices when the power goes out.  But wax and wick, nestled against a portable fireproof shield do provide an effective and renewable (“gotta match?”) light source. And because it is shaped both like an early footlight and a holy shrine souvenir, it can shine quite efficiently into dark places.

When I was growing up, one of those places was the linen closet where, during a thunderstorm, you might stumble upon my mother, fingers in her ears, cowering against neatly folded terry cloth, the contents of a laundry basket clinging to her ankles. My candle exposed an ashen, Dante’s Inferno kind of face, trembling up at me. After I recovered from the heart stopping shock of finding a grown-up, hiding in the linen closet, I felt like I’d witnessed something I shouldn’t have; my mother so vulnerable and brittle – it was disconcerting. I’d just wanted a washcloth.

She was not known to be overly dramatic, unlike her daughters, so this must be something deep seeded. Why was she so unreasonably terrified?  I later discovered a possible explanation. During electrical storms, my grandmother (Agnes the first) would make her three children – my mother (Agnes Two), Aunt Gerarda, and Uncle Grat, put on their rubber boots, gather around the dining room table, with their rosary beads and well-worn bibles, then lead them in fervent prayer. One imagines the jagged strobes of lightning and flickering candles distorting their stricken faces, each second counted, each bead squeezed, until the next apocalyptic crack of thunder. as they beseech our merciful lord- “don’t let us be taken by this storm, dear Jesus!”

I wonder why my mother didn’t sense the hooey in it all. She was smart, destined to be high school valedictorian and graduate from Smith College. Perhaps she was skeptical. But then years later, married to a non-Catholic, she conjured up the ways of her people, connecting to the life before she allied herself to my more devil-may-care father. His nonchalance about religion may have been a relief – but could have felt, at times, like a denial of her roots.  Did she need to pay homage, just to keep up her end of the bargain?  Her religion was important to her and a deal had been struck that the children would be brought up “RC”.

Because my father never succumbed to the fear mongering that the church instilled, my mother was pretty much alone in her devotion. The four of us grew up with a more casual approach to Catholicism, giving us license to mock it all, including the nuns we were forced to deal with at Sunday School. Today, I’d have more generosity and empathy towards these women, creating little back stories for their paths to the convent. But in those days, we were more cruel…and so were they. I savored my sisters’ dead-on impressions of the head priest, whom they’d dubbed “Pops Gallagher”, his thick Philly twang extolling the virtues of “our beyooteeful nuns who are so much more be-yooteeful than youuu…in your fancy Easter bonnets, painting your faces with lipstick and rooouge!”

And there they were, the chorus line of black hoods seated in the front pew, peeping out through wire spectacles, their squared-off veils and white wimples framing rapt faces the color of suet pudding, now smug with their newly proclaimed allure.

And then…someone quietly farted. “Pweee…”, Aggie imitated the sound onomatopoetically under her breath. Few things are worse than trying not to laugh in church. No amount of secret self-harm does the trick – fingernails dug into palms, arms pinched, eyes gouged, lips bitten until you taste blood. One’s face gets red and sweaty with the effort, you can’t breathe. Someone pokes you sharply between your twitching shoulder blades, which has the opposite effect and now you have no choice but to side-step parapalegically out of the pew, hoping your contorted face will be perceived as a seizure or woman’s troubles.

But even public shaming could not curb our “healthy skepticism” and I eagerly took on the ritual of Confession as my personal fish-in-a-barrel target.  Once that little neon cross over the penitent’s door lights up green for “go”, you enter, kneel, and wait for the speakeasy hatch to slide open, which is your cue to begin. You start with the standard “Bless me father, for I have sinned”, jump right in with your first obfuscation – stating exactly how long it’s been since you last set foot in this creaking booth of atonement, the size of a port-a-potty, smelling of incense and stale breath, and something like beef stew. Anything over a couple months, you’re in trouble so, “Hey, long time no see!” doesn’t really work. Plus, you can’t exactly see the priest because he’s hidden behind a screen, revealing only a shadowy, outline, like a TV crime show witness, keeping it all very anonymous.

“Hello my name is Anne, and I’m a liar and a cheat.”                                                                  “Hi Anne!”

Well, maybe not that kind of anonymous. After this rote introduction you proceed to enumerate your sins along with the number of times you performed them. Apparently, the devil really is in the details…of data entry. It’s a lot to conjure all these lists and numbers; Sister Fighting – three, Lord’s Name in Vain – two, Disobeying Parents – seven. You’d never admit to anything really egregious – “Impure Thoughts…five, Murder?…zero!”

I always managed to get through it all with the minimum penance, even coaching Julie, 6 years my senior, and arguably the most pious, due to her two-year stint with the nuns at Villa Victoria Academy in Trenton, NJ, on how to “spin” her overly long gap between confessions, which was causing her unnecessary angst. “Listen”, I said, “you say it’s been 2 weeks since your last confession and then you tack another lie onto the lie column. You told four – you say five…boom…forgiven!”  I was skirting around the laws of the Catholic Church like Groucho Marx in a dress. Religion minus time equals comedy.

My mother’s family were all good Catholics so I’m pretty sure heaven would welcome them with open arms. My grandmother died before I was born, but according to my oldest sister (Agnes Three), she was wonderfully formidable, overbearing, but on your side – if you were her blood. She did lord it over her more complacent, non-blood, thank goodness, husband, Henry, whose name she shortened appropriately to “Hen”. Perhaps from the grave, Agnes One still held Agnes Two in her grip. The nurse who took care of our mother at the end, was a devout sort who assured us that “Mom” had truly accepted death – lock, stock and bible.” But I don’t buy it (although I did then, just to get through),. She was probably just as terrified as she’d been around that table, wearing galoshes and the weight of someone else’s fear.

But what exactly did my kind and law-abiding mother, who’d presided over many charities, think was awaiting her?  Eternal damnation in the fires of hell? Really? Or maybe she was hoping, as some believe, that you are reunited with your loved ones in heaven. This idea alone may have been enough to give her the willies. Meeting both parents AND her beloved, only sister whom she’d lost at age 25…the anticipation might have been paralyzing. Any interruption of routine, and the elderly get nervous. And what if her in-laws were also there, on a cloud – the potter and the vaudevillian, who dared question the suitability of this Irish Catholic girl marrying their son. They had both died while my mother was still young and beautiful, so how would they see her now, wrinkled and suffering? The enormity of it all is too much. At some point, don’t you just want to shut it down, turn it off, fade to black?  But, for the most part, we don’t get to say, “Cut! That’s a wrap!”, which is why we invented religion.

My dad, the heathen, died right before Christmas. I was living in New York City at the time and a few days earlier, before heading out to Pennsylvania to be with him and my family, I took the subway uptown to immerse myself in the lights and bustle of Fifth Avenue, before getting the train at Penn Station. Drinking in all the garishly cheerful, yet nonetheless dazzling store windows, I suddenly found myself standing in front of St Patrick’s cathedral. When we were kids, my mother used to drag us inside to light a candle during our end-of-summer spending spree on school clothes – perhaps as penance for all that rampant materialism (“Please God, make her buy me that purple suede coat with the gold buttons!”) The odors of wax and general holiness however, managed to obliterate the luscious new clothes smell and the lingering fug of grilled grease from our lunch at Hamburger Heaven. As my mother knelt in front of the candles, warming her hands in their light then burying her face in their warmth, we looked at her curiously like anthropologists, and waited for our turn with the long wooden match, mesmerized by its flame.

My father, who accompanied us to church only on holidays was, nonetheless, a fan of grandeur and impressive workmanship. So, I turned away from the dancing candy canes and nodding, animatronic Victorians, and walked through the huge copper fronted doors into a different kind of light show. Candles help, not so much to “rage against the dying of the light”, as to outsmart the dying of the light, illuminating the obscure, the shadowy, the private. They provide atmosphere and stoke the imagination. I thought of my chamberstick with its deep cobalt glaze, like a Maxfield Parrish evening sky. It had been so useful during my Nancy Drew phase, when I would draw the curtains in the living room and search for hidden clues in the secret compartments of my mother’s desk – Freudian, I know.

Now inside St. Patrick’s, my own  face now warm from the rows and rows of melting prayers, flickering in their little glass holders, I drop a quarter in the slot, light a candle for my father, weep deeply into the cavernous solemnity, and walk out.  It all took less than 10 minutes. And then there, across the street next to the Sabrett’s hot dog guy with the buck teeth, was a vendor selling black bow ties studded with tiny flashing red lights. Clearly it was a sign – my dad winking and grinning at me, as I walk down the aisle at my first communion, as if to say “This may be a lot of malarkey, but don’t you look cunnin’ in that dress!” I paid my six dollars for the twinkling tie and thus armed, began the journey back home, hoping to bring a little light into the darkness, battery included.

Listen to Bride and Cupie Dolls, read by the author (check out the bride and groom triptych at bottom of page), or read text below that:

=”https://annefulper.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/02/cupid-bride-and-groom.m4a”%5D%5B/audio%5D

When I got married for the 2nd time, a dozen years after a brief dress rehearsal marriage that ended in divorce, my sister Julie was in charge of the wedding cake. She had piled together several homemade layers, then had our childhood bakery, Cramer’s, unite them all with their signature, diabetese-ly delicious buttercream frosting, with lots of roses and our names piped out in various shades of whatever the replacement was for red dye number 2. And to top it all off, she gave me an adorable, but somewhat disturbing pair of porcelain bride and groom cupie dolls, made by our grandfather’s pottery in the late 1920s. I say disturbing because the body language of the figurines gives the illusion of motion and suggests a rather dramatic story unfolding in their tiny cake top universe.

He is leaning forward, eager in his little black tux, which fits him perfectly because…it is painted on. She, however, is naked except for sparkly, silver slippers on her overly wide feet of clay and strategically placed, diaphanous accessories in various stages of disintegration. These include a flapper style headband and a large bow fixed squarely to her childlike bare bottom.  He is clearly the pursuer, probably because he doesn’t have to worry about his pants falling down. She’s looking a little wary, dubious in fact. With face turned away, teeth clenched behind a Mona Lisa slash of lipstick and eyes looking elsewhere under impossibly fine lashes, her expression says, “Oh god, here we go.” 

Cupie dolls were created in the early 1900’s to be cherubic, but mischievous babies, so seeing them in this romantic, adult role is both comic and creepy. The fact that they had also sat atop my parents’ wedding cake in 1936, left me to contemplate the differences between that marriage and my own. 

Billy Fulper and Aggie Shields had known each other pretty much from birth. Children of two major industries of Flemington, NJ; Foran Iron Foundry and Fulper Pottery, they’d been in the same kindergarten class, courted through high school and college, wed in their mid-twenties, then immediately started a family. Their lives had unfolded against the backdrop of two world wars, the great depression, premature death, catastrophic fire, and suicide. So of course, romance was in the air.

I have in my possession two dented and rusted, metal cash boxes, overflowing with stacks of love letters from my mother to my father. Written in her elegant penmanship, they are full of flowery endearments and the jargon of the day. “Gosh I’m wet”, apparently meant that the sap from her words was dripping with too much sentimentality.  

Northampton, Massachusetts, 1934… “My Darling, No letter yet from you and I’ve missed it so! Honestly dear, I’m so blue and discouraged I could just weep! It seems that all day I’ve heard nothing but hard luck stories and the futility of trying to get a job. And I feel that after all my education, I need to get out and support myself. I shouldn’t write to you when I’m low, because it won’t be so good for you – excuse me dearest. I’ll try to do better.” 

Whah? Was this the same woman who would later answer my childhood permission requests with “I don’t give a good goddam what the hell you do” or wake me from my deep teenage sleep with the words “Feathers shit on the floor with loosie bowels and you can clean it up!” …loosie bowels??? My mother was not an actress – that was the other side of the family, so who was this hand-to-the-forehead ingenue?

I suppose when you fall in love, you play to a version of yourself that’s half what you think you should be and half what you think will dazzle your lover – the thrill of reinventing yourself in someone else’s admiring gaze. In fact, I maintain that part of what you fall in love with, is actually the reflection of that gaze – the new improved you – sexier, funnier, smarter, more politically earnest. With my first heartbreak, after I’d managed to throw out the bar of black soap I’d stolen from his bathroom because it smelled like him, I remember thinking – “you know, a lot of what I liked about that guy…was me”.  

In 1985, fifty years after my parents’ wedding, I married a foreigner, a painter from France, only two years and two love letters after meeting him. He likes to say it was a green card marriage and that we were both on the rebound. Maybe it’s true. He’d had his heart broken by some cowgirl in New Mexico, who dumped him at gunpoint only a few days after he moved his entire life in France to be with her. And me – I suppose I was on the rebound from death. My mother had just died – soon to be followed by my father and then his sister, my aunt. All within 15 months. 

I was 33 years old. Not that young, I know. Many have lost much more, much sooner. But I was not a mature 33, prancing around New York City in a unitard on various late-night stages, as half of an all-woman duo called The Sleazebuckets. A brief fixture of Howie Montague’s No Entiendes at Danceteria, we were photographed by Mademoiselle Magazine for an article on the new hip downtown performance scene. As part of our cultural and political lampooning, I was resplendent as Ronald Reagan. In a badly fitting wig, held on with an elastic chin strap, chimpanzee-style silver high tops and a white tailcoat, I good-naturedly tossed empty seltzer bottle bombs, Knute Rockne style, out of my oversized diaper. It was pretty good and if I’d had the balls, I could have had some success as a male impersonator. But back in my hometown, the family elders were dying off. 

And then there it was; the I-want-my-mommy siren call for security and convention that my therapist had labeled “a foot in two boats” – one in the leaky artist raft and the other in the smooth canoe of the dutiful daughter. I had to merge the two. I was gonna need a bigger boat. So, I said yes again to marriage, deciding to throw my lot in with someone I sensed would let me be me.  Weddings though, at least for my youth-obsessed generation, it seems we merely played at being grown-ups, like kids poking their heads through those cardboard brides and grooms with the faces cut out. Even my parents’ ardent correspondence had revealed stock characters, love letter paper dolls, soon to plump up into two embracing figures on top of a cake.  

Every October on our anniversary, we bring out the small photo album and the cake topper. I look at the pictures of us, laughing, swigging Veuve Cliquot on the steps of City Hall in lower Manhattan after the ceremony. Then I turn and see that wistful trepidation painted onto the face of my tiny, cupie bride and I sigh in solidarity. Because when the inevitable union-threatening discord occurs and you imagine yourself going it alone, the prospect can seem daunting, yet at the same time, rather appealing. Is it a sign that my wedding ring lies broken in a box, never to be repaired (“I’ll get a better one later”) or that he’d lost his during the first year, never to be replaced (“I use my hands for work – I can’t wear stuff on them”)? I look at the cake topper again and reevaluate. Is the bride fearing the loss of her independence? Or is she just a bit skeptical about how on earth another person can hold all that she is and all that she wants to be in his tiny embrace?

Speaking of big things in small spaces, the delivery room, where I’d been in the throes of labor, swims into memory and there is Silvère in his green scrubs, telling me to be calm and count my breathing and I want to rip his fucking face off. Who is this know-it-all, pretend male doula, telling me what to do? The daggers shooting out of my eyes at him are being forged in some inner harpy-shrew-harridan cave of my nether regions. And just as he is about to be annihilated by them, the nurse gently interrupts saying, “Work with your husband, Anne – it will help”. “Oh, go to hell!” I mutter under my breath and then, suitably chastened by both the enormity and the routineness of what is happening, I think, “I have to do what she says!” Looking down at his ringless hand, steady and warm like butter on my wrist, I breathe and I count.

The daughter is in her 30s now. It’s been a long road, often rocky. But when I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Agnes says to me, speaking words of wisdom – “Life is a veil of tears – don’t be so goddamn sensitive”, which I take to mean – why not reach across the aisle to the groom’s side and lean on some of the old bromides? “You and me, kid, against the world.”   “Two heads are better than one.” “You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”

So, we pour the champagne into my dead aunt’s monogrammed martini glasses, toast each other, our daughter, her girlfriend, my parents, his parents, and lastly the cupie doll bride and groom and marvel at the longevity of porcelain.

The art pottery journal which has published some of my essays over the past couple of years, asked me to write an article about how my sisters and I created a tile business based on our grandfather’s glaze recipe notebooks that we found in the attic. If you scroll down and click on the Journal cover, you can read the article. Or, if you have even further stamina and want to listen to the audio for HALF AN HOUR!, you will be rewarded (or possibly punished) about 24 minutes in, by hearing me, my sister Julie, my daughter Ella and Marcia Pelletiere sing a very brief parody of Makin’ Whoopee called Makin’ Seconds. Either way, you’re here now, so you might as well make yourself a sandwich, grab a cup of coffee and listen to me drone on…

Listen to Legacy in the Attic; the Story of Fulper Tile read by the author

Or click on cover below to read the article as it appears in the Summer 2021 issue of the Journal of the American Art Pottery Association, reprinted here with their permission. 

Listen to There’s Baby That Baby Again, read by the author, or read full text below:

Stone Harbor, New Jersey, July, 2021. We have piled our beach chairs and umbrellas, sand anchors, towels, straw hats, soon-to-be-recalled-for-carcinogens-sunscreen, and books into the navy canvas wagon that we lug Mother Courage style across the fine white sand to a carefully chosen, uncrowded spot, set back enough from the high-water mark so we won’t get flooded when the tide rolls in. As the sun climbs merrily to the thinnest part of the ozone layer, others wend their burdened way onto the beach and settle into politely distanced spots along the seafront. Comfortable at last on our homesteaded plot, I find myself distracted from my book to watch an encampment of what I gather is a large extended family several yards away. Among this group is a flock, a pack, a gaggle of small boys, all between the ages of 4 and 7. Surprisingly quiet, they are in constant motion on skinny legs, flittering like sandpipers, but without the tight choreography.

Each time I look up from my Rickie Lee Jones autobiography, they are equipped with a new beach toy. I first see them all lined up at the water’s edge with a sprinkling of dads among them, throwing what looks to be flanged surfboards with little upright, surfing people attached. No matter how these plastic Kens and Barbies are hurled into the sea, they right themselves and catch a wave back to shore. Will this be as close as these little boys will ever get to playing with dolls? I find the scene delightfully riveting and now I want this surfer doll-boat thing for myself. My sister tells me I can get one at Hoys, the five and dime in town. She has four grandchildren and knows these things. I look over at my currently single, beautiful 33-year-old gay daughter, sunning herself next to me, too engrossed in her book to hear the ticking of my biological grandmother clock. I sigh, check the time on my phone and go for a walk. When I return, the boys now have colorful plastic golf clubs with matching oversized balls, which they smack and then chase, unconscious of each other, so absorbed are they in their personal best. Are they a new breed of child, hatched to evolve into teenagers, self-contained and hermetically sealed by their phones and iPads, replacing the physical with the virtual? I hope not, because right now they are free range and fully engaged in sand and surf and childish things.

Later, I look up again from my book, tsking because Rickie Lee Jones is falling in love with heroin and Tom Waits at the same time. Tom does not approve and dumps her- oh Rickie. Maybe it’s for the best, because if they’d married, he’d be Tom Jones. Optimism rises as I see the boys, now on tiny boogie boards, the dads watchful but not hovering, in front of a brace of red sweatshirted girl guards, overly tan but nonetheless vigilant, atop a white wooden lifeguard stand, reassuring in its classical design, even older than I am. 

Then before I know it, there’s that baby again. It’s a young family of four that insists on setting up their tiny colony right behind us. A mom, a dad, a 3-year-old daughter and a toddler-to-be of indeterminate sex – probably “she/her/hers”, but who knows. The baby has a strawberry blonde crew cut and a sweet face. These are the kinds of parents who assume perfect strangers can’t help but be charmed by their child, a child who has yet to learn the dynamics of sand and wind and kicks her stubby feet towards us, mother and baby both smiling a little maniacally. The mom walks the baby between her legs, hands gripping the upraised arms as they plod Frankenstein-like ever closer, expecting reciprocal enthusiasm. I wipe the assault of sand from my nose, mouth and glasses, still managing to smile, because I am on vacation, thanks to the generosity of my sister. But after a year of Covid job loss, I am in no mood to chitty chat with strangers. And shouldn’t that baby be walking by itself by now?  They never learn if you keep holding on to them – let ’em get a mouthful of sand, I think to myself, picking the grit from my teeth. I hear my long dead father saying “you have to eat a peck of dirt before you die”, which always made me wonder “Isn’t it, in fact, eating the peck of dirt that causes you to die?” But I think he meant it as reassurance; that invariably a certain amount of dirt will find its way into your gastrointestinal system, so don’t worry about putting that fallen wad of gum right back into your mouth. Unthinkable now but those were simpler, less hygienic times…or maybe the dirt was cleaner.

The mother and baby veer off to a more receptive audience and I am left to question my grandchild longings. Why does that baby annoy me and what is the father doing, other than grinning vacuously and smearing himself all over with pina colada sun tan lotion? But then he goes and picks up the baby and cheerfully takes care of her for the rest of the afternoon, proving me judgmental and wrong.

The 3-year-old however…she seems to like being on her own at the edge of the family nest, both relieved and resentful at not being the focus. She is concentrating on her sand art and if someone tries to engage, she shakes her barretted blond curls, turns away and starts her museum in a new location. Seems perfectly reasonable to me. She stays put and doesn’t make a stink. Then I think is that healthy? A second child can inflict an unpleasant level of maturity upon the first born. I remind myself that this is not my problem. Wait, did she just slice open her father’s foot with the edge of a clam shell? I can’t worry about this kid. She’s fine.

I get back to my book, where I read that despite the roller coaster cyclone of fame, drugs, and crazy risk taking, Rickie Lee Jones has turned out more than all right, strong and uncompromising; not just streetwise, but rutted, fallen tree, gypsy wagon, dirt road wise. Her daughter is the exact same age as my daughter. I wonder if she also is deaf to the ticking of the grandmother clock, but I suspect Rickie Lee is more Zen and laissez faire than I am. If I were the grandmother of the 3-year-old behind me, I’d turn my chair around and advise her on her art gallery, that really looks more like a bakery, which, to my mind, would be a more lucrative option. She could call it All Washed Up, and sell ephemeral cakes, with or without drip castle icing. But hindsight has taught me to keep my clever marketing thoughts to myself and let her decide. I want my grandmothering skills to be better than my mothering skills – like a second chance…but not really. 

Suddenly, a Wiffle ball lands with a plop at my feet. It is scooped up with apologies, as the boy brigade returns for a quick game before the parents round everybody up to head back to the rental and fire up the grill. The little family behind us has joined the exodus, the mother still walking that damn baby. The lifeguards whistle everyone out of the water, drag the heavy, cumbersome stand back to the dunes and disappear. 

This is our cue. Wordlessly as one, we close our books, remove our watches, rings, glasses and hats, yank down comically ridden-up bathing suits (nothing to see here) and head towards the stark white, breaking waves, curling up and flattening out before us, their coy to and fro, belying their potential death grip. We are respectful of this and keep a sharp eye on each other. 

Like me and most of my family, my daughter rides the waves with her arms out front in a diving position. My mother, however, had always held her arms tight to her sides, so all you saw was her white, bathing-capped head, bobbing and smiling, as though the breaker had a face. I wonder which technique my imaginary grandchild will inherit and if I’ll be around to witness it?  These normally pang-inducing thoughts of mortality are cut short as a big wave slaps me across the face as if to say “shut up and be here now!” like an impatient, old swami. I look around, aware that the constant pounding of ocean on sand has reduced the ambient noise to a mesmerizing, background hum and I focus on the task at hand. My daughter and I scan the horizon, then position ourselves to catch the next cresting wave, like seasoned hobos hopping a freight train. And for now, the ticking of any and all clocks is silenced, as we are propelled forward.

 

Listen to Valentine au Naturel read by the author

Or read it yourself below! (either way – scroll to the bottom to see Silvère’s cartoon in full.)

My French husband of 35 years is not a romantic, at least not in any stereotypical Pepe Le Pew kind of way. He rebels against the expected, holiday, lemming-like behavior, refusing to bend to the corporate will of…Big Hallmark. This tends to make Valentine’s Day predictably fraught, with his last minute, sad bouquet from the local, downscale supermarket placed right next to my pillowy, red satin, heart-shaped box of boutique chocolates, containing, I admit, my favorites (salted caramels and almond toffee). Fortunately, we both bring a nice red wine to the table – the great leveler.

But on this February 14^th, this enshrined celebration of coupledom, I want to honor the forgotten single, by remembering the times in my life when I was alone and Valentine-less.  In this particular scenario, an actor friend had convinced me to come to Portland, Maine for a few weeks in February. I could occupy a recently vacated alcove in her “raw space” and try to further my mime career. Yes, that’s right – you heard me – my mime career. What can I say – it was the 70s.

Sadly, I had not been educated in the importance of money and practicality. Though I had heartily embraced feminism, I somehow missed the part where true independence means you need a good job with benefits and a 401K plan (whatever that is), and where a woman buying the candy and roses on Valentine’s Day is considered evolved. I instead latched on to the part where I am able to remain my outrageous self, not shaving my legs or wearing a bra, while my future imaginary husband does most of the housework and cooking, and supports my refusal to change my name because I am no man’s property!! And women do too have a sense of humor, you death loving tool of the patriarchy…oh, not you, darling…lalala.

Anyway, back to Portland – as it turned out, jobs for mimes were not exactly thick on the ground . But because the snow was (thick on the ground, that is), busking was definitely out. Unless I was willing to stand on a 10-foot pile of plowed snow on the side of an empty street in an oversized puffer coat and mukluks doing the walk against the wind, I had to find an alternative income, preferably indoors. My friend said that occasionally she got work doing nude modeling for a life drawing class. I thought – great! I can do that…my body being my instrument and all. So, I offered my services at $10 an hour which back then was good money. The sessions lasted two and a half hours, but I would be given a short break at 20-minute intervals.

The first time I went I was very nervous, as I am for the first time of anything, unless alcohol is involved, which in this case it was not, as my body is also my temple. (Although the occasional violation of said temple, is inevitable when you are in your 20s in the dead of winter, in a hard drinking, New England coastal town.)

The class ran from 7:30 to 10pm in an art studio in the basement of an elementary school. The room was well lit and calm, with easels and stools set up at several drawing stations. Facing these, under a couple of spotlights, was a platform on which were placed a rectangular block, a folding chair, and a space heater (“Nude Descending Platform with Space Heater”, I imagined someone’s smartass title). And so, I took my position, posing as I was directed, hand on hip, foot on block, head cocked looking off into the distance. When you are required to stand naked and inert for 20 minutes, time slows down to an excruciating pace, every sound is magnified, grating and startling; the busy scratch of pencils and charcoal on paper, throat clearing, sighing, a muffled belch. The back and forth of the normally silent eraser is broadcast across the room, along with squeaks of frustration, as if an exasperated mouse were seated on one of the stools…in a beret. 

As I struggle for statue-like stillness, trying to be Zen, I notice a string of perky, hot pink paper valentines hung up as though pegged to a clothesline in the back of the room. A large glass jar of red and silver foiled Hershey kisses sits below on what must be the teacher’s desk. I then remember today is February 13^th. In a few hours it will be Valentine’s day and here I am, alone with no clothes on, spot lit in front of strangers like the cliché of a bad dream. Somehow the valentine atmosphere lends an air of even more perversion to the situation and I begin to sweat. After what seems an eternity of clammy minutes, the instructor steps in and discretely turns off the space heater with raised eyebrows to my imperceptible nod and thank god, it’s time for a break. The spell is broken and everyone relaxes, either hulking over the too short water fountain or waiting for someone to wander by and comment on their efforts.

Trying not to bend over too much, I unfold the chair, and sit down. Then it dawns on me…Shit! I don’t have anything to cover myself with! Why the hell did no one tell me to bring a robe or at least an old sheet? My stiff neck turns to stare longingly at my clothes, hanging lifeless on a peg in the tiny changing room which now seems miles across a vast linoleum tundra. It would be ridiculous to saunter over, nonchalantly naked, close the door then get dressed really fast like a not so quick, quick-change artist, elbows banging into the walls, my hands all thumbs as I grapple with the buttons and zippers, and hooks and eyes, only to have to turn around and take it all off again, drawing even more attention to myself. Nor could I just go and hide for 10 minutes in this so-called changing room – not a room really – more of a tall skinny free-standing cabinet – like an upended coffin, a mummy’s tomb in a horror film. No, best to just remain seated, blasé on the platform – like I sit around naked in public all the time. I imagine taking out a cigarette (I don’t smoke) and asking for a light, then exhaling in sophisticated satisfaction as I cross my legs demurely. But instead, under the harsh, fluorescent light of reality, people are starting to approach me…(why?), wanting to make conversation – (oh god!). 

“Where are you from?”  “How do you like Portland?” “Do you model frequently?” It was like being hit on at a bar by polite night school students, undaunted by the emperor’s new clothes. A large bead of sweat starts to travel down what would have been my cleavage if the Mark Eden Bust Developer I had sent away for when I was 14 had been effective, but instead has a direct shot down my chest, unimpeded, plopping into my belly button like a golf putt. “Your body is a real pleasure to draw, you know?” a man’s voice says and my creepy stalker radar kicks in. But when I glance up at him, he just looks sincere and harmless, which of course makes me think “serial killer”, but then I start wondering what he meant by the comment. What makes an interesting subject to an art student – Deformity? Lack of symmetry? I was teetering on Sideshow Freak when the instructor announced the end of the break. 

What a relief it was to return to sanctioned nudity! As I posed, now coddled in the space heatered comfort of occupational health and safety, I felt free to let my mind wander, picturing the Goodwill store near the center of town, lit up and beckoning, a mecca of endless hangers draped with protective clothing, that I will visit tomorrow. Striding purposefully down the aisles, I will find the “Loungewear” section, and after sifting through the gamut of frumpy to hideous, my eyes will at long last, land on the classic Maine, red plaid flannel bathrobe which, after getting a thorough washing, will become the perfect Valentine’s gift to myself. 

Listen to Memories on Thin Ice, read by the author w/music by Dean Martin, and Darlene Love

Or read it yourself below :

                                                     Memories on Thin Ice                                                         I can’t be the only one longing to conjure the rose-tinted ghosts of holidays past, dredging up ecstatic memories of instantly harmonious families, jam packed together in the adrenaline rush and chaos of Christmas…can I?

In my youth, winter was mostly bitter cold and you could smell the snow coming. It paired well with that whiff of camphor from the Vicks VapoRub I’d gooped onto my chest to minimize the pesky cold and cough that would have kept me home on a school day, but now must be ignored because it is Christmas vacation and there is important work to be done outdoors. First, a token attempt to help with the shoveling, quickly abandoned as my father revs up the Wheel Horse tractor with the snow plow attachment and obliterates my fake work ethic in under 5 minutes, forcing me to move on to other tasks where my talents are better suited – snowmen that resemble the work of an enfeebled and possibly drunken Charles Schulz, icicles sucked to a deadly point then bitten off and chewed up, sending shock waves to my mercury laden fillings, and always the conveyor belt repetitiveness of sledding – up the hill, down the hill, up the hill, down the hill…Time is a blur and soon purple shadows overtake the glaring sun as it sinks.

So, it’s indoors to be met with the pricking of heat on ruddy, chapped skin and the smell of wet wool as frozen mittens and hats steam on radiators. The line of red rubber boots puddles by the front door, as I struggle with my ice embedded zipper which catches on the fabric, sending my impatient self into a rage as I realize I need to pee – now! My father, master of the bunched zipper, sets down his cocktail and comes to the rescue. Mere seconds later I am shuffling into the bathroom, the defeated snow pants shackled around my ankles, damp now only from the snow.

Leading this parade of winter memories, the grand marshal if you will, twirling its frozen baton, is the one pictured in the card above – ice skating on the canal behind our house. According to my dad, three nights of deep freeze was the requirement for a safe thickness and we soon learned to spot all the places that were weak because of too much sun or maybe an underground spring – you could tell by the color and texture of the ice, and where inevitably, some neighbor’s dog would fall through to be rescued by my cursing father, as we looked on with the tense, distraught faces of children auditioning for Lassie Come Home. 

We were all pretty proficient skaters. I didn’t progress much beyond the figure eight, but Aggie took her skating seriously and was quite good. Rada and Julie were also lovely and graceful with the added bonus of professional grade, ice skating boyfriends and access to Baker Rink at Princeton University. But a stuffy rink was no match for our frozen canal.

My father had set up a spotlight on the railing of the widow’s walk, which lit up a small portion of the ice below, and then…get this…he wired a speaker from the living room stereo out onto the canal bank, so we could skate to music, thereby satisfying our Ice Capades fantasies both day and night. I remember…was it Rada or Julie teaching me to ice dance by gripping both my wrists really hard and skating towards me really fast, forcing me backwards, blind and breathless, as the sleigh bells, whinnies and whip cracking of the Ray Conniff Singers choreographed the falling on my ass.

Looking at Kugie’s beautifully rendered cartoon makes me ache for all of it – the bruised knees, the throbbing ankles, the cornball music, gloves stiff with ice and frozen snot, the silly tremolo of intoning one note over bumpy ice. And that singular day after an ice storm, when I was about fourteen and went behind the canal to the swamp to skate alone through this otherworldly blaze of trees, sheathed in ice, feeling both exhilarated and melancholy. Squinting hard against refracted sunlight, I skated faster and faster, away from a growing awareness that here was a moment in time that would never be replicated – a hidden landscape inside a sugared egg that I was getting too old to believe was real. 

Half of the people in this Christmas card are gone – over half if you include the dog and the artist. And by all accounts, the score will only worsen as time goes by. So, I drag myself out of the sinkhole of nostalgia, grabbing onto the hands (and hand sanitizer) of those I cherish, whose warm hearts are still beating and think of the words of not Marx, but Lennon, – “All you need is love” – well, that and enough cash to pay the damn bills. May your year be filled with both!

HAPPY HOLIDAYS 2020

Now please, get up and dance…or skate!

Read more about the artist; Fulper designer J.O.W. Kugler in Still Life With Kugie, published in the Spring 2020 edition of the Journal of the American Art Pottery Association and reprinted here with their permission.

Read or listen to more SHARDS

“Oh yes, Mother posed for many of  the figurines at the pottery” my father said when he saw it.

Read I’ll Be Your Powder Box from the Fall 2020 edition of the Journal of the American Art Pottery Association, republished here with their permission:

Audio:  I’ll Be Your Powder Box (read by the author)

Pardon My French

For those of you who, for one reason or another, find yourselves able to read French or are learning French or maybe you are married to someone who is French or you yourself are French, or merely curious, read Humidor en français ici or click on the beret!

I recently sent my family in Brittany, (I married a Frenchman – 35 years ago) an email announcing the link to this blog. One of my SIX sisters-in-law (“belles soeurs”), wrote back, clearly annoyed that, though the email was in French (merci, Google Translate), the blog was not, so she could not read the stories. I then chained her brother/my husband to his computer for a day to translate at least one of my supposedly laugh-out-loud-funny stories into French. Humidor was the first memoir written for this collection, which made me realize that the mundane function behind the form was something interesting and comedic. The full story is presented here in French, for your reading plaisir. Or scroll down to the smaller humidor below to read an excerpt in English.

Read an excerpt in English

Read or listen to one or several excerpts from SHARDS

Read She Came in Through the Bathroom Window; from the Winter 2020 edition of the Journal of the American Art Pottery Association, republished with their permission. Or listen to the story, read by the author:

Fulper Pottery, Jardinere, ca. 1915 Glazed stoneware Gift of the Fulper family in appreciation of New Jersey’s tradition of excellence in the ceramic arts, 1988  88.94  Collection of the Newark Museum of Art

Anne Fulper’s memoir SHARDS, is a collection of personal essays about the vases, ewers, planters, lamps, powder boxes, bookends, candlesticks, and crocks which surrounded her family growing up, taking the pot off the pedestal to tell the tale behind it. 

Read An Introduction to SHARDS

Read or listen to excerpts from SHARDS