The Wren’s Nest

A good woman is like a good wine - intoxicating and beautiful, growing better with age!

Is there anything quite as beautiful as the slow rise of a woman’s breast when you watch her sleeping? I think not. The mathematics behind the curves are simply delicious, as is she. It’s beautiful - as is she. There is a symmetry here - beauty and math.

I think it was Bertrand Russell who wrote:

Truth = Beauty.
Beauty = Truth.

In a few days I will turn 45. It hardly seems believable to me that this is so, but it is. I have been on God’s planet for this long.

I have a secret weapon working for me though - I have the love of a beautiful woman - Nina. When she calls me I feel like I’m 17.  I forget battle-hardened scars. I want to take her ballroom dancing, dip her, twirl her, show her off. She simple giggles a bit. So incredibly cute. If this is what getting ‘older’ is all about, then I can’t say I mind it.

NOTE: This is a companion piece to the piece I wrote on how I met Nina, and this one is done from her perspective and she has given me gracious permission to post it.

It was a lovely, breezy Sunday in September. I was in Boston on business and had to work throughout the weekend. That particular day I had gotten to the office around 9:00am; I left at approximately 4:30pm (don’t ask!) I had not eaten a morsel of food all day; I stayed hydrated by drinking umpteen cups of tea. Work does not usually inspire an appetite for me although I was completely ravenous by the time the job was completed.

The streets of the Boston Financial District on a Sunday afternoon are anything but bustling. In fact, the area was akin to an old western ghost town, eerily deserted, with tumbleweeds et al. Now being a visitor here, I was not privy to the local hot spots and had no idea where to go for a good meal. Since my hotel was located on Broad Street, I had occasion to pass by ‘Mr. Dooley’s Pub’ at various times. It gave the appearance of being a lively, festive sort of place so today I made the decision to go in instead of just go past.

Upon entering I found that my initial assessment of the establishment was indeed correct - it was an animated, effervescent sort of place. The restaurant portion was overcrowded with cheerful patrons whereas the bar only appeared to be completely full. I stood at the entrance for a moment feeling a little lost and overwhelmed, until I noticed to empty seats at the far end of the bar, right near the kitchen. I made my way to the farthest seat and settled in.

I must state in all fairness that the only thing I wanted to do that evening was to get something to eat and watch the Yankees game. That was my lone goal on that Sunday night. Here I was, a ‘New Yawka’ in Boston, with the  New York Yankees playing the last game of a three game series against the Boston Red Sox, our most hated rivals. The record was 1-1 so winning this game was key to bragging rights. So without exaggeration, baseball really was the only thought on my mind at this point other than food.

When I was seated, the bartender, a delightfully burly Irishman named Terry, immediately came over, simultaneously charming and welcoming me. I ordered a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, not necessarily a regular staple  in an Irish Pub but it could have been an Irish whiskey or a pint of ale as far as he was concerned. He served me happily, joking all the while, making me smile and keeping me comfortable. As I gazed around my new surroundings, I spied a very attractive man one seat over from me. This happens to be a feminine radar sort of thing - a woman’s eyes are usually drawn to the most attractive man in the room; that is, at least until she actually speaks to him! He was casually dressed in a sweatshirt and shorts, his boyishly cut salt and pepper hair framing a handsome face. I nicknamed him ‘Mr. Casually Dressed’ (’Mr. CD’ for short). “This man is exactly the type of man you should be dating” my inner voice murmured to me. However, Mr. CD was deeply ensconced in the reading of some sort of publication and did not even notice me which was quite disappointing, to say the least. Even though there was merely a singular seat between us, I didn’t dare move closer for two very specific reasons: apprehension of seeming too forward and two, fear of rejection. Besides all that, I truly was only there to get a good meal!

About this time in a nearby corner, there was a table filled with varied Irish musicians - violinists, flutists, a lone guitar player - all happily playing the most melodic music I have ever heard. It was concurrently hypnotic and soothing. Each note played seemed to nestle my ears like a babe in arms nuzzles your shoulder when you hold him. Also like said babe, you felt like fussing when the music ended. I continued to sit there relishing my wine, awaiting my steak dinner and listening as this impromptu band helped to assuage the unintentional disregard of Mr. CD.

Lost in this musical reverie, I was unaware that someone had slipped silently into the seat next to me. I turned and came face to face with Danny - Danny Boy as I like to call him. Danny Boy resembles the type of man that I resolutely try to avoid getting into a conversation with at all costs. He was probably in his late 20s/early 30s, with the echoing persona of one who annoys. He was a nervous, overly friendly type who remarkable needed to fit in but you could tell that he was probably almost always left out on the fringe of most conversations. I was of the opinion that if he attempted to speak to me, that I would be polite but terse in my responses. I certainly did not want to encourage this poor soul into thinking that we would be pals for the evening, let alone life! My assessment took all of a moment; then the expected happened. Danny Boy turned to me and asked if I was from around the area. I answered that I was in town on business and nothing more. Mildly disappointed, Danny Boy turned to his other bar neighbor, ‘Mr CD’, and tried to engage him in a chat. Danny achieved mild if not moderate success in that endeavor. Right about now I could not help being amused watching ‘Mr. CD’ trying to extricate himself from Danny Boy’s conversational death grip. I overheard the introductory name exchange between the two and learned that ‘Wren’ (aka ‘Mr. CD’) was from Tennessee. You just gotta love those Southern accents!

In my limited experience with Southern gentlemen, I noticed that their sterling manners never belied their true emotions. Even if they dislike you, a Southern male would always be courteous and polite. However, there are definite, subtle signs of his displeasure; these are generally masked by a smile or a polite nod. Mr. CD was certainly showing these tell tale signs to our clueless Danny Boy, who in turn was oblivious and gave no indication of ending his present rant of running shoe knowledge. Then suddenly, as quickly as the conversation with Mr. CD had begun, it ended, with me once again being the lucky recipient of Danny Boy’s attentions. Thankfully, a respite was provided by the arrival of our meals!

I considered Danny Boy to be quite remarkable in the following respect: he ambushed his meal with the same gusto he used in his conversations. He just dug in and attacked until there was nothing left. After actually viewing the plate in front of him, one would wonder if it had ever been used that evening. Nary could a speck of gravy or a lone potato bud be found. Even the parsley garnish had disappeared! I believe that Danny Boy was indeed robotic in nature; Hooverisque, if you will. In fact, if there ever was a vacuum model so named “The Danny-Boy”, I would buy it hands down, no questions asked!

With dinner eaten, the band’s music pausing and conversation not forthcoming from either neighbor, Danny Boy’s departure was as silent as his entrance. Although his presence was fleeting, his impression remains long-lasting…

Now however, with Danny Boy gone, the void between me and ‘Mr. CD’ had widened again. On top of that, I was once more left in the very precarious position of being available (with no imminent escape route) to endless captive dialogs with all manner of undesirable persons. I considered moving to the seat on my left (albeit closer to ‘Mr CD’) which would have at least given me a buffer on the one side. Yet could I realistically move without looking foolish? As fate would have it, my choice was made for me. A rather heavily built young woman sat in the coveted seat. Thankfully though, she preferred her cellular phone rather than an upfront and personal exchange.

The situation for me was bleak at best. I felt that the Good Lord was either punishing me for some unknown slight or that I just happened to be his object of folly for the moment. Then unexpectedly, the unimaginable occurred: two empty seats miraculously opened up right in front of the band! This time I did not take the opportunity to mull the move over. To heck with propriety - I had a seat nearer to the band!

Terry the barkeep had no issue with my choice of positioning; conversely, Mr. CD did glance up and look at me quizzically. I began to explain about wanting to see the musicians play and how location was everything. He nodded, engaging me with a smile that could easily warm the sun. He introduced himself as Wren; I told him that I already knew his name from his intro to Danny Boy. His hearty laughter at the mere mention of Danny’s name was infections and soon I was overcome by laughter as well. We settled down after a while, silly grins remaining sheepishly on our faces. The rest of the evening was a blur of smiles, knowing glances, subdued kisses…..I never did get to watch the Yankee game that evening. I may be a native New Yorker but on that particular night, the city of Boston won my heart.

In retrospect, Danny Boy was the catalyst for bringing Wren and I together. There would be no relationship between us today without the intervention of this bizarre little man who, by interfering with our silent selves and forcing us to be congenial, opened the door the magic of a love affair only known by a very blessed few. That night, I left the Pub walking hand in hand with my new found love. I owe Danny Boy a world of gratitude for that!

NJI   -  10/14/07

As a young lad/gal in the South, you’re generally required to take Ballroom Dance at school. Of course no kid wants to do it but nonetheless you do.

In the Deep South young women of a certain age and class go to Cotillion - the coming-of-age of a young woman. And of course she requires an escort. Extremely formal, white tie, white gloves. At West Point it’s done with full military dress including sword.

But there comes a time at which point you’re a young man and you realize you want to take your lady out dancing - formally. This necessitates knowing a few basic steps: the Rhumba. the Foxtrot.  The Salsa. The Waltz. A Vienese Waltz. The chance to wear a tuxedo and see her in an impossibly small (and sexy!) skirt. Never underestimate the power of the Ballroom for romance.

I was talking with a lady tonight who reminded me of Jan…

When I was a Junior in college I dated a wonderful girl named Jan. Jan was beautiful. She was smart. I was never quite sure why she agreed to go out with me - she had cheer and mirth and frolicked and danced! I carried around Calculus textbooks and had a slide rule in my pocket.

Jan taught special-ed. She taught mentally-retarded students. As I dated Jan I would accompany her out to the parks around the college and help her with her charges. It was I think the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. These beautiful little cherubic faces would come around to ‘Ms. Jan’ to have her help them tie their shoes - and I - as helper - would help them. I would tell them the little tale about the “rabbit going under and around the trees” and all the things I could remember that my parents told me about how to tie shoes - but to these poor kids it didn’t matter. Tomorrow would bear the same questions. Velcro had not been invented yet. I’ve seen battle-hardened Sergeants cry even in better circumstances.

It’s been so, so many years since I’ve thought of Jan completely. But that’s not entirely true either - whenever I see a Down’s kid I think of Jan. She was brave whereas I was not. Decided where I was undecided. Resolute where I was irresolute.

I saw a TV commercial earlier today that I truly do not understand. Seems a new lingerie store is opening at Copley and they’re offering free “bra fittings”.

Besides the fact that its a job that I wouldn’t mind having, I’m wondering how it is that a woman doesn’t know what bra size she needs? Can’t you just go into the fitting room? Why do you need someone to help?

Please elucidate me! (And if you ever need a volunteer to help with ‘personal fittings’ - I’m your man! )

Generations of men have been heard to exclaim that “The only thing I know about women, is that I don’t know a damn thing about women!”

All I know is what I’ve seen on “Sex and the City”. And one thing I’ve noticed is that women don’t seem to use nicknames.

Guys - guys use nicknames. When we get together we don’t call ourselves Paul, Michael, Charles. No. We call each other PencilHead, NeedleDick, and SpiderAss.

Why is this? I have no earthly idea. But it does make for fun bar conversations!

p.s. No - you cannot know what my nickname is.

One of the nicer aspects for me about dating (as opposed to the obverse: nervousness, self-consciousness, sweaty-palms, etc) is that I get to enjoy a much nicer class of food than what I normally eat.

My mom was what I can only call “a horrible cook”. She never met a food item that she could not burn. It was not until I went off to college that I learned that toast was not supposed to be “charcoal black” and that you didn’t have to scrape it before eating it.

So in the interests of protecting us kids, my Dad ensured that we had a liberal supply of things heated-up from a can. A cake? Dessert? As they say in those mafia movies “fuhgetaboutit!” So my food range is somewhat limited.

As a bachelor, I live off of mostly TV-dinners to the accompaniment of re-runs from Seinfeld.

Don’t get me wrong though - I can appreciate the finer points of gustatory delights - its just that I’m not used to them that often. I enjoy watching cooking shows on PBS. And in fact I enjoy the act of cooking itself - with another person. Its just a drag to prepare a complex dish just for one; not even a cat to share the scraps with.

Longtime friends of mine know that one of my heroes, my mentors, my role-models is Winston Churchill. I was introduced to him at an early age and still continue to profit and learn from his wisdom.

After the War, Churchill spent a lecture-tour in the United States as a way to pay his rather substantial bills after he was unceremoniously voted-out of office. One of the ways he increased his income was to invest in race horses. His most famous, was called “Colonist II“.

Churchill told the story that he was in grave need of a win by “Colonist” to ‘bring home the bacon’ so-to-speak. He went out to the stables, proferred apples and carrots to the beast, and proceeded to give him a little pep-talk.

He explained that should “Colonist” win, he would spend the rest of his life in “extremely agreeable female company”!

For the record “Colonist” came in 2nd - couldn’t keep his mind on the race!

Yesterday I somewhat felt like “Colonist” - I found myself in the company of an extremely nice and knowledgeable lady, an artist, as I relied on her to take me on a guided-tour of Boston’s MFA. Quite honestly I looked at paintings, at art, at sculpture that had I never been with her would never have given a 2nd glance. Thanks to her wisdom I learned quite a bit; things like looking at brush bristles embedded in a Georgia O’Keefe work.  Subtle texturing of light in Old Masters. As a result of an exploration of modern jewelry I am beginning to learn the definition of “found objects“.

Over lunch with splendid wine we talked of Hopper, Hockney, Renoir, Matisse and Monet. And zillions of more contemporary artists with whom I sheepishly had to admit that I had no idea who they were, but she energetically and illuminatedly described. Without a doubt my best experience in this year 2008 and I am in her debt.

I in no way pretend to understand it all. The battle to fighting prejudice, misunderstanding, religion and race inequalities comes from admitting that “I cannot criticize what I do not understand“.

There was much I didn’t understand - but thanks to E.’s help, I did make inroads.