Reading and Reconnecting: Part Four

And then there’s Scorsese. In a class all by himself.

This New York story, told in Martin Scorsese, by Mary Pat Kelly, is downtown, the old Little Italy. Before the tourists arrived. And he was asthmatic, so he didn’t play sports. He went to the movies.

Once more, the arts enthrall, and allow a child to escape their surroundings, creating their own universe. By the time Scorsese enters New York University -- his father’s dream for his son – he’s off and running.

One of the joys of Criterion Channel membership is the added benefits of, say, Scorsese Shorts, a collection of student films and interviews, such as the one he did on WNYC in 1970. I loved when host Mrs. Doris Freedman – yes, that’s how she was introduced – asks about what happens after production of a film is completed.

“By the time they finish – if their film is any good – their troubles are only beginning,” Scorsese answers, as he elaborates on the filmmaker’s path, from script to release.

Yet another amazing reminder that all artists struggle. Some simply have more zeros to work with.

Reading and Reconnecting: Part Three

In my continuing quest to read the experiences of artists, I listened to Al Pacino’s autobiography, Sonny Boy. Another great New York story.

Unlike Streep, who grew up in New Jersey, Pacino is a Bronx boy, a child of the streets, and yet somehow not. He was always looked after by his family.

Over and over, what these stories tell is the ability of art to transform children, to give them a different lens through which to view the world.

The challenge is how to, once a student graduates, learn the language of rejection, to constantly be told no, until the day when yes arrives.

In Pacino’s story, what struck me was his later career quest to make Searching for Richard, about the significance of Shakespeare, and no, once more, stopping by. He couldn’t get the support, no less the financing, even though he was Al.

Somehow, I found this comforting. My own quest to get my debut novel off the ground has been a slow process, and In Searching for Richard, I was reminded that everyone struggles. Even Al.

And then, one day, yes came a knockin’.

One Way to Whitefish arrived on ten branch shelves at the New York Public Library. My father, the late Daniel Gutoff, was a librarian in the Queensboro system for thirty years.

Somewhere he’s smiling.

One Way to Whitefish at New York Public Library

Reading and Reconnecting: Part Two

Then there’s reading the work of others. Especially other artists.

I recently read Her Again, the Meryl Streep story, by Michael Schulman. Here’s what a great biographer does: he taps into the cultural context of his subject – in this case, the New York of the 1970s, where Streep landed after Yale – giving the reader a framework for understanding the development of the artist.

Streep’s story is inextricably linked to second-wave feminism, especially in her portrayal of Johanna in the iconic Kramer vs. Kramer, the history of The Public Theater/Shakespeare in the Park, and the actor John Cazale, with whom Streep lived in a loft on Franklin Street before he died of lung cancer in 1978. I’d completely forgotten about that year’s snowstorm to end all storms, which, when over that spring, left mounds of garbage and sludge on the streets of New York. The following is my favorite section, where Schulman shows the multiple sides of Streep’s feminine persona at the end of second-wave feminism:

“The Deer Hunter took her dangerously close to Hollywood It-girl territory, but she would soon do her best to unplant those seeds. After Cazale’s death, Streep threw herself into three projects simultaneously. She played the tell-all–writing ex-wife in Woody Allen’s Manhattan. In Kramer vs. Kramer, she was Joanna, locked in a reckless custody battle for her son with her ex-husband, Dustin Hoffman’s Ted. And she played Katherine, the lead in a Shakespeare in the Park production of  The Taming of the Shrew. ‘Her life was like a one-woman repertory theater,’ Schulman writes. ‘Uptown, she was Joanna, the mother who leaves her son. Downtown, she was Jill, the wife who humiliates her husband. By night, in Central Park, she was Kate, the shrew to be tamed. Joanna, Jill, and Kate: three women who break the rules, leaving the men around them befuddled, cowed, and furious.’ ” – Vogue Magazine

As a native, such stories add richer layers – who knew there were more? – to the glory and madness of my own New York-in-the-1970s childhood.

Reading and Reconnecting

Sometimes life intervenes. Not a lot of writing gets done.

While I try to write every day, there are times when this isn’t possible. That’s where reading comes in.

I once decided that if I can’t write, I can always read: Review something I’ve worked on, see how it sounds, decide if it’s going in the right direction.

Reading is part of the writing process, and reconnecting with your work is as valuable as new writing.

Notebook

Last week I was in California.

In an effort to keep my luggage light, I no longer travel with a laptop.

I bring a notebook.

One of the reasons I love writing in one while travelling is the lack of interruption. Working on a laptop means there is always a chance to look something up, which in itself cancels the flow of writing. In addition, I’ve noticed certain sites are so ad-filled that’s it’s impossible to focus.

I love the feeling of simply sitting in silence and writing.

Just me, and my pen.

A Perfect Space II

Here’s the thing: no phones.

In order for The Morning Pages to be effective, you have to be fully present. Especially since one of the rules is not stopping. For full concentration, a cell phone has to be put away and there can’t be any interruption.

A recent article in The New York Times talked about what I’ve been feeling for some time: a sense of loss for the way we once lived. We simply walked down a street. We wrote letters. We spoke face to face. It’s a late 20th century custom that has turned into a vintage phenomenon.

“There are lots of ideas for how to break phone addiction, but not as many for how to regain the romance of what I’m coming to think of as the slow-comms era, the second half of the 20th century when the phone and the mail were our main means of long-distance communication. The ache at the sight of an empty mailbox was, in my memory, more than balanced out by the ecstasy at the letter that finally arrived.” – The New York Times

One way I got through this long and dreary winter was by leaving the house and working at the library. I visited multiple New York and Brooklyn branches and found my perfect, happy place: sitting in silence, reading and writing.

Phone off, filed away, far out of reach.

A Perfect Space

Julia was really onto something.

In the 1990s The Artist’s Way, by Julia Cameron, called upon anyone who wanted to create to get in touch with their inner artist.

One of her most valuable tools was The Morning Pages, designed to be done as soon as one wakes up in order to connect with our waking thoughts.

I’ve recently started doing them again and I’ve found that although they are not easy, they are incredibly freeing and help me make sense of whatever is behind all those swirling thoughts.

I can’t always do them first thing in the morning but I’ve noticed that when I can my day goes better. Somehow that first coffee, pen and paper ground me for whatever may lay ahead.

The rules: three pages, handwritten, no stopping. The reasons: three pages is sufficient; we process information better when we hand write; when we stop we edit.

Times are tough and there’s a lot of chaos out there. The Morning Pages are the perfect space to place all that mind chatter.

Want to know more? Read about it here.

The Calm of Creativity

Teaching at the New York Public Library. My happy place.

This week I taught the first of two cursive-and-crafts workshops with a focus on Valentine’s Day. Last summer, the classes focused more on cursive handwriting – its history, current status, and how to re-connect – and this winter the goal was to combine cursive with crafting.

I brought lots of art images from old appointment books, colored index cards, and letter writing paper. Students turned their valentines into collage, added notes, and most of all, practiced their cursive handwriting skills. There were worksheets, and we went over some of those pesky letters – for example a lower-case “r” -- which lots of folks struggle with.

Oh, of course, there were pens. Ball points, markers, and even some Pilot fountain pens. For some students, these were a first. But they loved them.

The best part? For next week’s session, the students wanted to focus more on cursive and less on crafts.

Made my heart sing.

Calm Amidst the Chaos

“I’ve learned first-hand,” says author Barbara Nickless, “that writing is a powerful tool for healing. My life has been pockmarked with tragedy—a wildfire that took everything. My brilliant mother’s slide into dementia. My father’s suicide.”

We’re living in a time of chaos, and we need a place to channel the churning thoughts that swirl in our heads all day. One safe space is a journal.

In my upcoming manuscript for struggling writers, I discuss the importance of journaling, as a place to simply start writing, as well as a haven for unedited thoughts. One of the multiple benefits of journaling is that it’s low logistics and cost. All you need is pen and paper and a little time.

Time is often the biggest challenge because life always gets in the way. In this case, however, writing is not a luxury but a form of therapy, a place where you can quietly sit, phone free, and simply be with yourself and your thoughts.

The Morning Pages, from The Artists Way, is a fantastic journaling tool: three pages handwritten without stopping. Why no stops? Because that’s when the “self editor” shows up.  Ideally, Morning Pages are done at the start of the day, but many of us cannot do this.

A great place to start is on the weekends, if you can.

“When I suddenly remember a beloved object lost in the wildfire,” Nickless writes, “I will sit and write about that object and why it has meaning for me. Often, the object’s value is tied to someone I love, and writing about that person—even when they’re gone—settles me.”

We could all use some settling right now.

A Walk Along the Street

Years ago, it snowed on my block in Brooklyn. Then it got icy. Most of my neighbors shoveled and salted. One did not.

My elderly father was coming to visit on the subway. I looked at that one untended patch and worried about my dad. Later that day, the homeowner was outside, and I mentioned it to him.

“Oh, I didn’t get around to it,” he said.

Because this happened long ago, I am giving him possibly undue credit. Sadly, if memory serves, what he actually said was,

“I didn’t feel like it.”

In the last pivotal scene of It’s a Wonderful Life, George’s crisis is solved by the community coming together, one by one, to take care of him. It’s their way of giving back to the man who’s helped his neighbors, as did his father before him, for decades.

As the sadness sinks in from the devastation in California, one thing is clear. Many people are taking care of each other.

“The city has stepped up where elected officials have not. From firefighters and E.M.T.s to everyone who has offered shelter, volunteered and pitched in on GoFundMe pages, I’ve never seen such unity,” Amy Chozick wrote in The New York Times.

And in a beautiful piece of journalism, Ken Bennsinger and Ryan Mac wrote about an Altadena Arco-station-turned-help hub.

“Yet somehow this filling station, perched across the street from one of the most destructive wildfires in California’s history, had suddenly become the vibrant hub of a traumatized neighborhood, a harbor for residents desperate for food, clothes and, especially, community.” – The New York Times

First Lady Rosalynn Carter once said, “There are only four kinds of people in the world: those who have been caregivers, those who are currently caregivers, those who will be caregivers, and those who will need caregivers.”

Caregiving is what human beings do, whether we feel like it or not.

Chaos and Comfort

It is always most evident that in times of great chaos a need arises for the utmost of comforts.

For some, it’s sports. For others, TV. For me, Austen suffices.

I have read most of her novels but am now listening to the most excellent Rosamund Pike on Audible. In order of publication, the glorious Sense and Sensibility, then the brilliant Pride and Prejudice.

I cannot describe how many hours my household spent watching the A&E P&P released in the 1990s, replete with the screeching Mrs. Bennett, and the ass-kissing Mr. Collins. But it is the extraordinary Anna Chancellor, who plays Caroline Bingley, that is most memorable, certainly for all the wonderful parts she has played over the years, but mostly for her “Duckface” moniker, aptly named by Hugh Grant in Four Weddings and a Funeral.

Why Duckface now? Because there is a marvelous scene where Caroline critiques Darcy’s handwriting, as he attempts to write a letter to his sister. She is all desperation, for of course she dreams of Darcy for herself.

Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.

Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady, either on his handwriting, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in union with her opinion of each.

"How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!"

He made no answer.

"You write uncommonly fast."

"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly."

"How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!"

"It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours."

"Pray tell your sister that I long to see her."

"I have already told her so once, by your desire."

"I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well."

"Thank you—but I always mend my own."

"How can you contrive to write so even?"

He was silent.

I’m reminded of the woman in my cursive handwriting seminar this summer, who spoke of her Mexican fathers and uncles and their extraordinary handwriting. “It was such a source of pride!” she said.

Indeed, in our time it is hard to picture how one would comment on the typing of another. What would one say?

“You type with such speed?”

These Letters

When he entered The White House, newly elected President Barak Obama asked for ten letters.

 At the time The White House received 65,000 paper and 100,000 email letters – to say nothing of phone calls and faxes – weekly. Obama asked his correspondence staff to sift through them and choose – daily – the ten most meaningful ones they felt the President should read, representing all different sides of the American experience.

“Lately I’ve been getting a lot of health care letters, and this one is a good example,” Obama said, reading one about a family whose retirement funds were being drained as they supported a son who could not afford the cost of his insurance premiums because of a preexisting condition.

Another letter contained a photograph of a vegetable garden that a woman had sent, showing the president how she had used her stimulus payment.

And then there was the letter written during World War II.

“My dearest daughter,” it began, as the father, newly deployed, described to his newborn daughter what he was doing and why it was so important to him. And to the country.

“These letters do more, I think, to keep me in touch with what’s happening around the country than just about anything else,” the president said.

The Power of a Postcard

In the Season Three finale of Madame Secretary, Elizabeth McCord travels to Brussels, asking NATO’s alliance for their support in preventing an incursion in Eastern Europe. In doing so she removes a postcard from her jacket pocket and reads it out loud, illustrating the power of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization.   

“This is a postcard my uncle sent to his father when he arrived in Italy, William Adams. He was in the Third Infantry Division, the Battle of Anzio. ‘We landed safely yesterday, passed the ruins of a school today. Kids in grey rags scrambling over the heap. We got out some K Rations but no, they only wanted to shake our hands. Greatest feeling of my life.’ ”

She goes on.

“He died the next day, at the counterattack. But the thing that strikes me is this validation of purpose. The invigoration of fighting for something greater than himself. For a future that he believed in. This certainty that he was on the right side of history.”

All on a postcard.

The Letters of Miss A. G. Bushell

Mine is no mystery. And not nearly as elegant. However, I have every, single one.

My letter collection is still intact. From recent months, and years ago. Yes, indeed, even from childhood. The adult end met up with its former self when I cleaned out my dad’s apartment several years ago. There it was, untouched, in a childhood desk drawer, simply waiting to be seen. Letters from camp, letters from family, and, yes, letters from long-lost friends.

One is from high school and, just like that, I’m back, transported to the hallway, seeing the writer and how she dressed, her smile, as I now read her letter, pouring her heart out about – imagine – a boy.

Another is from middle school, a neighbor who moved away. How different her life was in sunny California, away from the grey of a New York winter, where we once made Lemon Squares together. She wrote out the recipe and my memory of her neat, manuscript printing matches the letter I now hold in my hands.

Then there are the ones unrecognized. I don’t know the writer. Were they friends not for long? Yet they took the time to sit down and write. I only hope I did the same for them.

As much as I adore the visual and tactile nature of my letter collection, what strikes at the heart is the sense of time, of its passage, of first loves and lost friendships, family that remains only in spirit, and memories that challenge us to think, reflect, and give context to a time gone by.

"You Write Like My Grandma!"

They came. They wrote. They conquered cursive.

This was the first of two workshops I am teaching at the New York Public Library. It was just delightful, connecting with participants ranging from 20- to 60-something, representing at least six nationalities. Only one student had not studied cursive as a child, so that made things easier. We spoke about our cursive experiences and then got hands-on practice, using blank or lined paper with soft lead pencils or Bic ball point pens.

There was lots of talk of which letters are hard to form, such as a lower-case R or V. I would add that long words, especially ones like constitution, declaration, and independence can be challenging when you try to keep all the letters connected. Even those of us who regularly write in cursive often lift our pen in the middle of a word to make things easier.

I briefly spoke about current research, which shows the importance of teaching cursive as well as typing: Efficiency (for notetaking and exams), developing signatures, reading historical documents, and cognitive brain function that is specific to cursive handwriting. Anecdotally, I told the story about my fourth-grade tutoring student who printed so slowly I had no idea how she would take the state exam at the end of the year. 

The two takeaways that fascinated me were the following:

One student spoke about learning cursive first in a French lycée and it seems that, although I have not delved into the research on this, other Western European and Latin American cultures teach cursive first. The U.S. started teaching print first, during the Progressive education era of the early 20th century, so that students would learn to read better.

The other was the kind of handwriting, whether in print or cursive, that seems to come out of adolescence, where letters are round, dots are circles, or perhaps hearts. I would venture a guess on this: if you got the cursive training for several years and did everything the teacher asked, perhaps you wanted to, in classic teenager style, do things your own way, imbue a little personality, stamp it with individuality.

Tomorrow I’ll share my favorite middle school story: a student watched me write on the board and yelled out, “Miss Bushell, you write like my grandma!”

A higher compliment I have never gotten.  

Reuters Article

Psychology Today

Scientific American

Pioneer Institute Article

A Ford and a Coke

An ordinary Wednesday. Walking the dog. Within one minute, I spy them: the Ford and Coca-Cola logos.

Normally, these sightings would mean nothing. But these days, they do. In honor of Constitution Day on the 17th, I’m doing a cursive crash course in preparation for teaching my first handwriting class next week at the New York Public Library.

As with everything else, there is so much information. And I have four hours, over two weeks, to whittle down, among others, the who, what, when, where, and why of cursive.

Here’s what’s important to know: cursive is on the comeback. Thanks to a teacher who sat in an assembly meeting with California Governor Gavin Newsom, the state has mandated the re-introduction of cursive instruction, beginning this fall. Other states, namely Idaho, Kansas, Massachusetts, North Carolina, South Carolina, New Jersey, and Tennessee, have followed, as well.

Here's another fun fact: The Ford and Coca-Cola logos are, according to The New York Times, “rendered in Spencerian script…Spencerian was a form of handwriting devised by Platt Rogers Spencer around 1840 as a modern, quickly written, clear script for business. It was widely taught in schools until being edged out by the faster Palmer method.”

Stay tuned for cursive notes from the field.

Transportation Time

Here’s the thing: objects transport.

First things first: I hate the word thing. Yet here I am using it. My excuse is it’s in a phrase. While I could write a whole paragraph about how unattractive a word it is, that it lacks lyricism, and has that short stop sound of words like pick, quick or rick, I will say I use it, like everyone else, in phrases. Somehow it turns itself on its side and becomes humorous in, let’s say, it’s a thing. Meaning, it – whatever it is -- matters.

Just like objects. The thing about them is that they usually don’t transport. They simply sit. On a shelf, in a drawer, around the house. Until they do. There is that moment when, for example, I am at a piano lesson – as I was, just a few weeks ago -- and I happen to look down. There on a shelf is a book, a large paperback, with a charming cover, called Heritage Songster.

Suddenly, I am a child, in Miss Bachleitner’s music class. She is using a book like this. We are learning American folk songs. I am surrounded by my friends. The room is filled with voices. Miss Bachleitner smiles as she guides us in song.

Perhaps this is my father’s day off. He will pick me up after school. We will go to the Viand Coffee Shop for French fries and hot chocolate. Later my mother will come home, and we will have dinner together.

“Anita?” the piano teacher asks. “Can you try it once more?”

I return. “What were you looking at?” she asks.

“This book.” I hold it up. “I was transported in time.”

I Saw It On TV

Special thanks to Christian for making this one happen.

I have a framed black-and-white photograph of two-year-old me. I am sitting in front of the massive Zenith TV. In terms of composition, is the photograph about me or the TV?

My late aunt took this picture and, while she was a good photographer, what is interesting is that she didn’t angle the snapshot to frame me. All she had to do was stand by the TV. Perhaps that would miss the point.

Mine was the TV generation. Wasn’t it on Mad Men that Don came home the day JFK was killed to find Sally abandoned to the boob tube, alone, while Betty lay in bed upstairs?

My mother might have looked at me and saw that TV had taken over, as well. Consider the Shake-and-Bake moment.

We were standing in a grocery store on Elmhurst’s Roosevelt Avenue. I wanted a box of Shake-and-Bake.

“Why?” my mother asked.

“Because I saw it on TV,” I said.

“But I can make this myself,” my mother answered, incredulous, as she examined the box.

She was a good cook who made simple nutritious meals. Why her silly child wanted bread crumbs in a box was beyond her. Oh, and the added price for the plastic bag to do the shaking in. By the way, this moment took place less than a decade after Desk Set’s Spencer Tracy showed Katherine Hepburn his version of Shake-and-Bake: flour, salt, and pepper in a brown paper bag.

My mother missed the part where the product, to say nothing of the red chicken image on the box, captivated me. Because I saw it on TV.

Has TV, like the image in the photograph taken over? At one time, it did. There’s no question I would have been a better student had I not done my high school homework to The Odd Couple. On the other hand, years later I watched my middle school students beg for music as they wrote their in-class assignments. The teenage brain may need more stimulation. These days, I can’t write unless in total silence. There’s too much surrounding stimulation.

What I love about the Shake-and-Bake moment is that my mother tried to reason with me, as if I understood that there was a connection between her lovely meals and a bag in a box.

She totally missed the point: I saw it on TV.

Carrot Cake

Last week I was in Boston. At a friend’s birthday dinner, we had carrot cake for desert.

Carrot cake. It comes in so many forms. There’s the way too sweet one found in diners, and the ten layer version — insert exclamation point here —  we had at dinner. At a Russian cafe in Brooklyn’s Bay Ridge I recently tasted one made with beets and a burnt meringue frosting. Lovely.

Then there is the Moosewood. Ah, the Moosewood. So many memories.  This iconic cookbook was given to me by a dear friend and college roommate alongside the Enchanted Broccoli Forest. One of the first recipes I made was carrot cake, only partly because my dad loved it. Almost as much as he adored cheesecake. 

The Moosewood was written in the era of processed sugar as mortal enemy and macrobiotic diets the choice of those who these days would most likely be vegan. 

The writing was comforting, and the visuals were charming. Indeed, founding member and chef Molly Katzen says, “The Moosewood Cookbook grew, in part, out of a looseleaf binder filled with random notes intended to help keep track of what we were cooking in the tiny kitchen of our modest 1970s restaurant.”

As a self-published author — should I be saying “independently published”? — I was thrilled to read Katzen’s introduction to the 40th Anniversary Addition -- wherein she discussed the Moosewood’s modest publishing history: “Our customers…also wanted to be able to replicate what we were making in their own kitchens. Requests for copies became routine…eventually I put together a series of pages…eight hundred copies of the resulting booklet sold out in a week.”

And here were are. Time to make carrot cake.

We Weren’t That Old

Eventually I pick them up. Sometimes it just takes awhile.

Michael, the owner of the Chinese hand laundry was climbing on the counter to reach my shirts from a higher shelf.

I looked at my ticket. Apricot. The ones on the shelf below mine were pale pink.

“Are the pink ones newer?” I asked, needing to solve a nagging lifelong mystery.

“Yes,” Michael responded.

If the apricot-colored tickets are newer, I thought, what about all the other pastel- colored tickets? The ones attached to the ubiquitous brown paper packages tied up with string which line all the walls in the place.

“We weren’t that old,” I said to my husband as I walked out, feeling just slightly less guilty than I normally do.

I’ve been dropping off our shirts at San Toy Laundry since 1988, when I moved to Park Slope, Michael once told The New York Times, “This is an old-fashioned kind of laundry — you don’t have them anymore…there used to be five Chinese laundries in Park Slope. Not anymore.”

I grew up with these laundries, where Chinese immigrants pressed the shirts by hand. They were once all over the city. I remember my dad dropping off his shirts at Yike Lee, in Yorkville, where I grew up, on 85th and Second. He would carry the brown package home and let me untie the string. Eh voila – I was greeted by a crisp, neatly pressed stack of folded patterned shirts bound by a pastel green strip of paper.

San Toy has not changed one bit since the first day I entered. It might have looked new in 1962. As it turns out this space has been occupied by a Chinese laundry for over a century, changing hands throughout the years.

The thing about San Toy is that it is cash only. Which brings me to why it sometimes takes me awhile. It’s a bad habit, and I have no excuse. I just sometimes drop shirts off then forget about them. Sadly, judging by the packages along the wall, I’m not the only one.

“These are all old — years ago,” Michael’s wife told The Times, “waving at most of the shirts and reaching up to pull down a random package. Never claimed. Its tag was from 2006.”

“People move away, they forget to pick them up,” she said of the packages. “But if we threw them away, the shelves would look empty, and we would not look busy.”

Indeed, they are faded -- even the pastel blues, greens, and yellows are washed out — compared to the fresher ones on the opposite shelves. Yet, even though, you need the ticket to retrieve your shirts – Michael gives you one that matches the one he pins to your bundle – he was kind enough to find our shirts when I once lost mine. It took a little time but his patience, and ever-present smile, reminded me why the neighborhood business, whether it’s the deli, bookshop, or dry cleaner, is so vital.

Several years ago, I dropped off a jacket at a dry cleaner after I wore it to an event at a school which closed at the end of that year. Not needing professional clothing for several months, I completely forgot about the jacket, having yet again misplaced the ticket. Several years went by. Then I remembered. Humbly, I walked in and asked the owner if she could help me. I described the jacket.

“When did you bring it in?” she asked.

 “Two years ago,” I answered.

 “Two years?!” she asked.

 She searched, she parted plastic bags, then she emerged, holding my jacket, perfectly pressed on its wire metal hanger.

At my regular dry cleaner, the old school ticket is no longer necessary. The computer knows where my clothing is, so not matter how many tickets I lose, the lovely woman behind the counter can always help.

Yet those pretty pastel tickets – what is it about them? As long as they exist, they remind me of the almost anachronistic analog world I grew up in, one that was not necessarily better, but that was somehow simpler, a bit more tactile, that gave you a certain satisfaction in clutching a pale colored laundry check, one that required you to also clutch something else: cold hard cash.

One beautiful bonus of walking into San Toy: “The rotary phone on the wall still works, and San Toy’s phone number — NEvins-8-3477 — has not changed since the 1930s.” – The New York Times.

The History of the Chinese Laundry in America

He Irons. She Stitches.