Daisy

Ronald and I were taking our occasional afternoon stroll down 20th Ave. to the local bookstore pub. He was teasing me because my checkered shoes were old and torn, and he didn’t like that it made me look like I didn’t take care of myself.

“Do you think it’s possible for your shoes to have any more holes?” He’d chuckled in that pretentious way I’d always hated.

“Oh shush you! I love these shoes. They’re so comfortable, and I’m sorry they look ratty but I’m allowed to wear them at least once a week in the summers. Pleeease?” I pleaded with him, but he knew that regardless of his answer I’d continue wearing the holey shoes.

“It’s fine, it’s just…it looks like you’re an emo kid begging for attention.”

“Well, I’m not. They really are just comfortable!”
But Ronald didn’t understand. He came from a conservative family. He came from an Ivy League school, equipped with all the pretentious bullshit that came along with the diploma, thought people who graduated from Berkeley had a misguided education and a false sense of confidence. He didn’t think we were very smart. Even though he never meant to make me feel like shit, it still bothered me, because, when push came to shove, I was much smarter and funnier than he. Sometimes, I think he knew that, which is why it was so important for him to put me down every so often.

“Alright, babe. That’s fine, let’s not get too riled up about a pair of shoes now. There are much bigger things to think about.” He’d do this all the time, pacify me like I was a nine year old child on the precipice of a tantrum. Before I started an argument, I saw Daisy…

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She hobbled around the block in what she called her, “outdoor” robe. Pastel blue with tiny white roses sprinkled all over it. I wondered if she had a closet full of the same “outdoor” robes. Was her indoor robe less modest, perhaps, a solid color, because she didn’t have to impress anyone at home? Her socks were pale pink, inside brandless shoes, bleached white with extra cushion for heal support.

Her hair, cauliflower colored, looked like a million teased cotton balls sitting atop her scalp. There were no strays because they were all their very own strays. Standing at 5 ft 6 inches tall she had mentioned she’d been shrinking since she turned 60. She said that, in fact, we would all start shrinking on our 60th birthday; we’d feel our bones compressing against each other, and we would wake up feeling shrinking pains not growing pains. She said that no Advil or Aleve could take the pain away, because, “life is tough, and we gotta keep being reminded of that. And sometimes,” she said, “sometimes there’s not a remedy.

As I catalogued all my misfortunes, and growing pains in my head, I thought for a short moment, oh, I know all about pain. Having been broken hearted yet again by the first boy I ever considered sharing a modest king sized bed, and an electric toothbrush with for the rest of my life. As I looked over at Ron, I realized I was now “fixing” that pain by dating merely a proximity of someone with whom I’d want to share a similar intimacy. I could hardly imagine sharing a fork with the guy. But I did try, I really did, and when I’d look into his sad brown eyes that lined perfectly with mine, I’d try and convince myself that eventually things would be OK…and that I’d fall madly in love with this boy… but things were never just OK. Ron is the Aleve that just won’t make my growing pains disappear.

But I digress.

Daisy held a leash attached to a feisty dachshund named Maxine that looked like it was too, feeling shrinking pains. She hobbled like Daisy, and together, their misaligned hips swung back and forth sloppily. Their grace had disappeared along with a perfect complexion and a full set of teeth. At one point Maxine was gnawing on my pant leg and it felt more like a leg massage than a bite. I probably should have been bothered at Maxine’s distaste in me, but I figured it was her way of claiming protection over her owner; I found comfort in that even though the cuffs of my pants were soaking in slobber.

I’d seen Daisy around several different times of the day, and I wondered if this was just her way of passing time, so as not to feel so alone at home. When I asked her about her schedule she simply smiled and said, “oh honey, does it looks like I do much of anything else? Maxine and I walk about the blocks here for a good half hour, twice a day. Then we garden, and then Isabel gets home and we make dinner together.” And then she went on, “You know we used to make elaborate dinners using Julia Childs’s recipes, it was always an adventure. But now since my hip surgery last year, we stick to simpler things like salads and boiled vegetables with chicken. Sometimes Isabel is too tired from working at the library, so we order-in instead.”

During her food speech Ron was completely engulfed in Maxine’s lack of teeth, pulling Maxine’s lips up to check out her gums and for a reason I’ll never understand, she liked him. She panted as she wagged her little tail ferociously. This disturbed me, and only at that point was I offended.

Daisy talked more about things that I was only mostly interested in, and while I managed to look like I was processing everything she was saying, I imagined Daisy getting back home to her perfectly manicured front yard.

My mind wandered as I thought about how odd it is that when you’re old you become Mr. or Mrs. Green Thumb, knowing exactly what time is the best time to water, prune, pull weeds, and plant bougainvilleas. It really makes no sense, but maybe it’s a senior citizen right-of-passage. When you’re 18 you can buy cigarettes and porn, when you’re 21 you can buy your own alcohol, 25 you can rent cars without the extra insurance charge…and then at 60 you get the magical green thumb power as soon as your get your first AARP mail.

Anyway, I thought of Daisy getting home and pulling out her little buddy full of all the gardening tools collected from Ace Hardware from the beginning of time. She slips on her rubber gardening shoes, placing her bare, damp, feet inside each shoe carefully, and only when her big toe with the ingrown toenail find its indentation, does the shoe fit her just right. Putting on her gardening hat, a sun washed teal, would be the finishing touch to Daisy’s production. Maxine would follow her like a less than half sized shadow, right up until Daisy would start pulling the weeds, which would be the moment that Maxine would run over to the deck and lay down analyzing Daisy’s every movement, fighting with herself to stay awake for one more minute. The occasional breeze would make Daisy’s gown blow upward and she’d laugh at herself, feeling foolish under the unpredictable Seattle weather. Maxine would bark joining in on Daisy’s cackle. They are their own orchestra.

I tuned back in when Daisy mentioned that she’s been Isabel’s partner for 30 years and that they started off as two liberal lesbians friends who never thought their companionship would go beyond their twice a week mystery book club.

Daisy was my revolutionary hero.

Going to mystery book clubs, with her own personal mysteries, it all seemed so romantic. None of the other women knew Daisy was lesbian, or that she graduated top of her class in mechanical engineering.

“Honey, it was sheer coincidence or “fate,” how Isabel and I met. She saw me at these meetings and befriended me quite quickly as I seemed to be the only one to offer any sort of interesting input during our conversations about literature, and social issues. One day she says, ‘Daisy, my dear, why don’t you go home to a husband. It seems like you lead a lonely life.’ And I says, ‘Isabel, I’m just independent, and don’t need a man to make me happy. I’d rather figure my life out on my own.’ She knew exactly what that meant, she just knew!” She said within a few months they’d bought a dog together and had moved in to a boat house on Lake Union. She looked away and sighed, “that was when we were still able to get around easily. Anyhow, hun, I better get going. My Isabel is probably worried sick; I was supposed to be home fifteen minutes ago. Five more minutes and she’ll be sending out the troops!”

Ronald was already restless. His two-beer buzz was wearing down and he needed a refill.

Ronald couldn’t have been more disinterested in my revolutionary.

“Right so it was great meeting you Ms. Daisy walk safely.” He said it all in one quick breath.

“I’m sure I’ll see you and Maxine again soon. Thanks for letting us play with Maxine.” I smiled, fascinated by this wonderful woman, wishing I could hear more. But Ronald and I walked away as he let out a sigh of relief.

“What was that about? I’m sure she didn’t need to be patronized.”
“Really? Are you being serious? I was totally interested in her story. Don’t you understand how rare it is to meet someone who’s had the same partner for 30 years!? Let alone being a lesbian constantly chastised for believing in human rights.”

Ronald stopped, and looked at me, “you really don’t think it’s normal for two people to be together that long? That’s really sad you have no hope for the human race.”

“It’s not that I have no hope for the human race, it’s that marriages end every day, people don’t value the power of commitment and love. And besides, what’s wrong with being a realist? It beats being constantly disappointed by people.” He snickered again, and stayed silent, “By the way, I’m not fake, and I’m offended that you said that.”

Ronald never understood me the way I wanted him to. Maybe it’s because our relationship was superficial as that of a Hollywood couple trying to promote a movie they were both starring in. Except, we didn’t have a movie, people did watch us though, his two friends loved to put the magnifying glass on our already pathetic (but extremely enjoyable) relationship. But I don’t want to make this about me.

Really. I don’t.

Daisy and her dog Maxine frequented the block all throughout summer. Sometimes she’d limp a little more than usual; sometimes she’d use a walker and both she and Maxine looked like every step was one closer to their last. But, Daisy remembered me and every time we walked by each other she’d say, “Hi hun! Beautiful day isnt’ it? And then she’d ask about Ronald, referring to him as that ‘quiet young looking boy;’ I’d always have to explain to her that Ronald was just a temporary thing, that I tried so hard to make it more than that, but he was just not it for me; I was simply in love with the idea of getting over someone else, and that it was all just a disaster. I had the story down to a quick 3 minute conversation because I didn’t want to keep revisiting the break up.

She’d always shrug and say, “ehh…he looked a little too short for you anyway.” I’d pat Maxine who’d then gnaw on my hand a bit before her sense of smell kicked in and she’d recognize me.

Daisy stopped walking Maxine right when fall rolled around. Instead, she used her walker every day now and when I’d see her, she’d only glance. She stopped remembering me, and I forgave her for it because if I was 75 I wouldn’t want to stop and try to remember people all the time.

Months have passed and I don’t see Daisy anymore. I never bothered to figure out where she lived, and if I did know I probably wouldn’t have visited her. I tend to dislike the smell of defeat, that’s what ancient people smell like to me. Yes, I guess I’m cold hearted, but that’s how I heal.

I cared. I did. I cared about everything Daisy had to say.

Ronald was wrong. He was wrong and I wish I could just tell him that he was wrong about so many things.