I never met my namesake, my uncle. He was Frank Tomkeyes Scott. I am named Frances Tomkeyes Scott. On a downtown shopping trip, his mother, my grandmother turned to witness her two-year-old son running into the main street. The trolley car didn’t have time to stop when the driver saw him on the tracks. The newspaper article describes the incident in gruesome detail. He was the first of my grandmother’s four sons to die tragically. Two died fighting in World War II. My father her only son who lived until her death. My father and I never talked about what it was like for him to be the surviving son while grieving his brothers.
I was returning home very late, closer to dawn than dusk. In memory the streetlights have halos, a street lined with angels, lighting my walk home. The houses in Stockbridge are set far apart, wide and deep pockets that could contain anything in their darkness. If I were a believer in the supernatural, I could imagine monsters, ghosts, werewolves lurking, waiting to pounce, but I’m basically a practical woman. At the young age of 22, I was filled with possibilities, as well as alcohol, and a bit of cocaine, but practical, nonetheless. I loved the possibilities the world presented, the ideas to be explored, the mysteries yet unacknowledged, the things yet uncreated by my hands and mind.
Bought a one-way ticket to Bombay once. To see my boyfriend in the Peace Corps. Supposed to be studying in Italy but skipped the art, pocketed the cash, and ended up in India. On a bike at night, him peddling us, so many stars. No, by the time he got home we'd changed but I couldn't see it, what with my drinking and all. Married 10 years, a little girl. Yeah, talked to him last month. Not much to say, he's dying. Don't know if he even remembers the heat, the hope, the starlight. Don't know if he was even there.
The day the Library Cop showed up unannounced saying he had come to pick up our overdue books, my first thought was, what the fu*k, an expletive I would normally use when I spilled coffee on a cashmere sweater but not as a greeting to a stranger. Instead, I asked him if it was a joke or a scam. Neither, the young man assured me as he produced an ID badge from the Toronto Public Library. The badge showed his name—Robert something—and his title: Book Collector.
I first moved to New York City too many years ago to count. I had first moved here, along with about eight other women from UC Santa Cruz’s dance department. Our favorite dance teacher, Marcia Wardell, was moving back to New York City to resume dancing in Murray Louis’ company, and she had so inspired us that we were all moving east so that we could continue our studies with her, and to study at the Nikolais/Louis School. At the time, classes were taught there not only by the dancers in the companies of Murray Louis and Alwin Nikolais, but by Louis and Nikolais themselves, particularly Murray. Both these men were geniuses to listen to and watch. And once a week, we would be able to study with Hanya Holm, a world-famous dancer, choreographer and teacher, who was quite old at that point, but turned out to be just as energetic and feisty as all the stories about her claimed.
My mother took the kids every Wednesday, her way to have a relationship with the only two of her (so far) six grandchildren who lived close enough to be physically in her life. I liked that the kids got one day off from daycare -- a day with someone who loved them unconditionally. The kind of time they should have with their parents. One Wednesday night, my mom called as I was cleaning up the dishes from the dinner my husband had cooked, and I heard the story for the first time, before I’d retold it a dozen times, reshaping and adding details of my own imagination.
I never met my namesake, my uncle. He was Frank Tomkeyes Scott. I am named Frances Tomkeyes Scott. On a downtown shopping trip, his mother, my grandmother turned to witness her two-year-old son running into the main street. The trolley car didn’t have time to stop when the driver saw him on the tracks. The newspaper article describes the incident in gruesome detail. He was the first of my grandmother’s four sons to die tragically. Two died fighting in World War II. My father her only son who lived until her death. My father and I never talked about what it was like for him to be the surviving son while grieving his brothers.
The first paragraph of a ghost story anecdote:
I was returning home very late, closer to dawn than dusk. In memory the streetlights have halos, a street lined with angels, lighting my walk home. The houses in Stockbridge are set far apart, wide and deep pockets that could contain anything in their darkness. If I were a believer in the supernatural, I could imagine monsters, ghosts, werewolves lurking, waiting to pounce, but I’m basically a practical woman. At the young age of 22, I was filled with possibilities, as well as alcohol, and a bit of cocaine, but practical, nonetheless. I loved the possibilities the world presented, the ideas to be explored, the mysteries yet unacknowledged, the things yet uncreated by my hands and mind.
Bought a one-way ticket to Bombay once. To see my boyfriend in the Peace Corps. Supposed to be studying in Italy but skipped the art, pocketed the cash, and ended up in India. On a bike at night, him peddling us, so many stars. No, by the time he got home we'd changed but I couldn't see it, what with my drinking and all. Married 10 years, a little girl. Yeah, talked to him last month. Not much to say, he's dying. Don't know if he even remembers the heat, the hope, the starlight. Don't know if he was even there.
The day the Library Cop showed up unannounced saying he had come to pick up our overdue books, my first thought was, what the fu*k, an expletive I would normally use when I spilled coffee on a cashmere sweater but not as a greeting to a stranger. Instead, I asked him if it was a joke or a scam. Neither, the young man assured me as he produced an ID badge from the Toronto Public Library. The badge showed his name—Robert something—and his title: Book Collector.
[first paragraph of a very long story!]
I first moved to New York City too many years ago to count. I had first moved here, along with about eight other women from UC Santa Cruz’s dance department. Our favorite dance teacher, Marcia Wardell, was moving back to New York City to resume dancing in Murray Louis’ company, and she had so inspired us that we were all moving east so that we could continue our studies with her, and to study at the Nikolais/Louis School. At the time, classes were taught there not only by the dancers in the companies of Murray Louis and Alwin Nikolais, but by Louis and Nikolais themselves, particularly Murray. Both these men were geniuses to listen to and watch. And once a week, we would be able to study with Hanya Holm, a world-famous dancer, choreographer and teacher, who was quite old at that point, but turned out to be just as energetic and feisty as all the stories about her claimed.
My mother took the kids every Wednesday, her way to have a relationship with the only two of her (so far) six grandchildren who lived close enough to be physically in her life. I liked that the kids got one day off from daycare -- a day with someone who loved them unconditionally. The kind of time they should have with their parents. One Wednesday night, my mom called as I was cleaning up the dishes from the dinner my husband had cooked, and I heard the story for the first time, before I’d retold it a dozen times, reshaping and adding details of my own imagination.