PIT: The Fields 1
Points In Time
Woodland Hills, California
May, 1986
Living close enough for our entire family to be physically in touch for holidays, special dinners and whenever desired, our children, Michael, Ellie, Sammy and Sharon all adults by this time and finding their own way — living their own ‘hopefully’ productive lives.
After a comparatively peaceful twelve year lull, now, at age fifty, my wife Marsha had regained much of her early on unbending stubbornness and — allowing for diabetes, and possibly an ‘empty nest’ syndrome, Marsha had become …
My wife had once again become, to say the least, more than a bit ‘testy’ by my way of thinking.
As for me.
At age fifty-two, adding about… Okay, adding a bit above ten pounds and going from a thirty-six to a… Okay, tight thirty-eight waist size, at six feet tall I am still able to carry the added pounds in a ‘somewhat’ not ‘too’ noticeable fashion. Fortunately for me though, inheriting my father’s genes I— so I have been told, appear to look more into my mid-thirties than my true age.
****
Well into the thirtieth year of our marriage — I do not remember how it started or actually when it started. But once again Marsha and I were into one of our, seemingly, never ending, ongoing arguments...
Well, actually, by this day the argument had generated into one of our ongoing ‘silent periods’.
Now, to be honest, I know I’m as much at fault as Marshabecause I have the universal husband’s... Or, actually, the universal male‘s ‘foot’n’mouth disease’ meaning — at least for this husband: a thought would come to mind. The thought, at least to this husband, might be clever or funny or just a retort to something she’d said. I would then ponder the thought a moment or two, thinking: Don’t say it! Thinking, Let it pass!Don’t say it!
However...
Alas, I would open my mouth and the words would come and usually — although in my mind this thought now brought to the light of day might be clever or funny.
However...
Alas, said aloud, the thought was usually not ‘quite’ as clever nor ‘quite’ as funny as it was in my mind and…
If not immediately, within moments of my wife’s first verbal sally, my thoughts would go back to my earlier thoughts and I would think: Why did I say that! I ‘knew’ I shouldn’t have said it!
Because I would usually feel extremely stupid for actually saying what I knew I shouldn’t have said in the first place, but ‘stupidly’ said it anyway, in self-defense I would respond to Marsha’s’ retort and she would respond to my retort and words would lead to more words and yet more words then the words, along with the upturning volume would very shortly turn hateful… then more hateful.
Then we would evolve into silence...
Thick silence.
A bit of a word pertaining to some of our characteristics.
As for me, once the harsh, hateful words are spewed forth, my mind ‘always’ shifts in the opposite direction and I want nothing more than to apologize for what I’d said – and maybe even for what I didn’t say – so as a means to end the argument, at this time I would become remorseful and do or say whatever possible to ease the forthcoming animosity.
Marsha, on the other hand, would ‘never’ just ‘let it go’.
Hateful words – at least my hateful words would be stored within the ‘Rolodex’ of her mind to be dredged up and spat forward whenever she felt the need.
With me, all arguments should end with the ‘good-nights’ of that day.
With Marsha, the conclusion of the ‘silent period’ would come ‘over time’. Sometimes the time stretching into weeks.
Possibly due to her diabetes, seemingly always on a short fuse— which isn’t great when the short fuse lady has a husband with at least one foot in his mouth…
My wife still a beautiful woman wanting to live the life of a Jewish American Princess, (J.A.P.) Marsha’s expectations of me somewhat exaggerated because…
Our chance of comparable wealth having been blown away by the ‘Your Write Hand’ ’swindle of twelve yeas ago.
Marsha’s expectations of me somewhat exaggerated because — to say the least, I’d always been a very moderate income earner.
In addition, as stated earlier, Marsha was stubborn; not, ‘change my mind later’ or ‘occasionally stubborn’. Marsha’s unrelenting, unbending stubbornness was an inbred characteristic.
Also, because she did not monitor herself properly, being an eternally thin woman that felt she could eat whatever food struck her fancy, due to her own lack of proper care, being diabetic Marsha did have constantly shifting blood sugar levels which continually left her tired and, at least from my point of view, minimally, ‘out of sorts’.
In essence: Take a fifty-two year old guy that has a hard time keeping his mouth shut and a, to say the least, easily angered, stubborn, fifty year old woman and, ‘voilà’ we have explosive conditions.
The above information is the rationalization for doing what I did on...
Saturday, May 10, 1986
At this time being a rather avid bicycle rider… Actually my bike riding was my only form of exercise and done in a vain effort to keep my waist from increasing from size thirty-eight to forty.
“Doing a bike ride at the beach today and don’t know when I’ll be back!” I spat out.
“Don’t give a damn if you ever come back!” Marsha spat back.
Going into the kitchen to make a brown bag lunch for myself.
“Fine! Maybe I won’t!”
“Don’t threaten, Mitchell, do it!”
The years spinning within a moment of thought within my own ‘Rolodex’ returning to that morning in February 1963 while still in my apprehensive ‘thinking’ period about having an affair with Elizabeth Herzon when…
2/17/63
Des Plains, Illinois
Turning. Rising onto her elbows, “Mitchell, I told you, I ‘don’t’ feel well!”
“Yeah,” said tiredly, “I ‘know’, Marsha.”
Catching my sarcastic tone. “Tell you what!” Spoken lowly, but angrily. “I give you ‘permission’!”
“You ‘give me permission’? What do you ‘give me permission for’?”
“You want to get fucked?” her voice rising. “Go! Go get fucked, I give you permission!”
So I did, for nine frightful, unbelievably loving months.
5/10/86
Woodland Hills, California
The lunch, along with a beach towel and my bathing suit snugly packed into a pannier – a canvas bicycle bag made to fit behind the seat – the bike hung onto the bike rack over the trunk of the car…
My harshly said, “Goodbye!” met with silence, I left.
Once again I must digress.
Working as a Real Estate Associate in the eighties, at that time my license hung in the Woodland Hills office of ‘Country Club Reactors’.
Woodland Hills is located in the far south-western end of the ‘San Fernando Valley’.
Though sounding quaint, located north of, and actually part of the City of Los Angeles, with distinct boundaries, ‘The Valley’ is three hundred, forty-five square miles in size and in the eighties was home to almost two million people.
Going back one day, to:
Friday, May 9, 1986
“Today, we’ve a home in ‘Malibu’ to caravan!” Said Glen Harris, the owner and ‘Broker’ of ‘Country Club Realtor's’.
“ ‘Malibu’!” One of the associates questioned, “ ‘Really’?”
Most of our ‘listed’ properties were located in the mid to western end of ‘The Valley’.
So, when on our weekly caravan day, Glen said...“Today we’ve home in Malibu to caravan!” ...the statement was met with more than a slight bit of surprise.
Having a total of eighteen people, including himself…
“We’ll head to the coast in three cars…” Glen said, adding, “...by way of ‘Topanga’.”
A bit of local geography here:
Located on the far southern side of the valley, ‘Ventura Boulevard’ is the main east/west street running from the far western end to the far eastern end of the valley, and Topanga Canyon Road is the far western road going from The Valley to ‘Pacific Coast Highway’ and the Ocean’.
Driving Topanga Canyon Road, as the crow flies, it is eight miles from Ventura Boulevard to Pacific Coast Highway. However, with numerous cutbacks, the actual miles are closer to twelve and having but one lane in each direction, though a beautiful drive through the ‘Santa Monica Mountains’, the time spent covering those twelve miles can become rather tedious.
Back to:
Friday, May 9, 1986:
About five miles in, approaching a not too large, but easily noticeable sign on the east side of the road reading:
‘ELYSIUM FIELDS’
814 Robinson Road
“That’s a nudist park!” One of the guys said.
Next… PIT: The Fields 2
