The Unicorn is Attacked

In the midst of the gilded age, John D Rockefeller Jr. gifted a beautiful tapestry to the Met. He purchased it for approximately one million dollars and had it in his personal collection for over 15 years.  Now it hangs for all to see in the impressive New York City  museum. This specific tapestry is the third in a series of seven tapestries depicting the hunt and eventual capture, of a unicorn, an animal known for its invincibility and described to carry immense healing properties in its twisted horn.  This group of tapestries certainly tug at your heart strings and are a sad representation of man as the innate hunter vs the ultimate trophy of the mythical magical elusive animal.  Melancholy  seeps into your being the longer you stand in front of it.  The piece portrays simple paiges and noblemen alike, in their customary dress of the age, their hounds at the heel, spears drawn, cornering a beguiling looking unicorn, a creature of innocence and naivete. 

Being a patron of such  outstanding works of art with their history and richness is bound to keep you awake at night.  Perhaps Rockefeller found it too disturbing to hang on his walls any longer, waking him in a hot sweat after he sat gazing at it over his fireplace as he sipped his scotch each night.  Maybe it simply clashed with a remodeled interior, or most likely his benefactor nature simply prevailed.  Regardless, there it was, in a small side room of a remote wing in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

After being politely ushered out of the museum at closing time a foursome drifts along with the rest of the late day patrons to the magnificent marble front steps of the museum. Here the family pauses to absorb the beauty of what has been seen inside. The tapestry reproduced in a  postcard image gets pulled from the crisp white gift shop paper bag and handed around to each of the individual members of the family.  To the father leaning upon the iconic building’s massive column while manipulating his hand held to find a place for them to all troop towards soon for a meal.  He glances at it, giving it a moment of attention before he passes it across to the son.  Teasingly the son waves it away from his youngest, and only sister.  The kids  jabber on together in a banter of sibling code, a reverse Charlie Brown dialect to the ears of the parents. After making its rounds to all the postcard finally returns to the mother of the clan, who carefully places it back into its protection of the white bag. She absentmindedly slides it into her handbag as she picks back up her day dream she was having earlier on the subway on the way to the museum.  Glancing up at the soft blue sky, noting the cotton ball clouds, she softly closes her eyes and begins to plot through again how to would be to hijack the zamboni she saw earlier that day at the ice rink in Rockefeller Center.  She could finally fulfill her lifelong dream of driving a zamboni.   Her mind spinning and twisting with joy while laying out like a chessboard what her moves would be, concocting the entire scenario in her mind.  The daydream ends with the ultimate satisfaction that is a flight of fancy as she now finds herself on the walk to the restaurant with her family.

Zamboni

At the peak, the climax of the halfway point the lights come up, the crowd stands, some still jeering some still cheering, stretching, turning to their neighbors and commenting on the game.  Time to gather snacks, drinks and hit the head. Most of the 25k faces turn away from the ice below, but one tiny 6 year old girl standing between the legs and hips of the adults next to her, gets what she came for.  On the ice below she watches as the magic unfolds before her eyes.

She was just entering the age of learning true life lessons, the kind of stuff that can shape a life and influence decisions.  It was around this time of her life that her Great Aunt, a catholic nun, taught her how to work her way through a crowd of overzealous bargain shoppers by placing her small hands on her hips, exaggerating the sticking out of her elbows so as to make her small body take up triple its width.  The mantra of “elbows ups girls, elbows up” to her and her sister as they entered the Saturday morning shopping frenzy in Filene's Bargain Basement in downtown Boston. So did her Uncle, a catholic priest, teach her at a young age how to bang on the glass at a hockey game, at just the right moment when two players smash each other into the boards. Their faces squished against the glass, the players eyes seeking out the whereabouts of the puck frantically, within a second they release each other to the wake of the frenetic fans, a blonde braided young  girl and her white clergy collared Uncle banging fists upon the glass, pure glee across their unlikely faces.

However, now, at this transitional time of the game she sees the revered machine slowly ease out from its place of honor. It is typically dressed in the colors of the home team, tonight with the recognizable Boston Bruin “B” painted upon its side, she focuses in on the intent driver.  Watching him slowly maneuver his charge, carefully and attentively across the ice, comprehending the seriousness and the responsibility of the task. The driver has one hand on the small steering wheel, the other on the middle knobbed lever.  He eases out of his seat leaning over the side of the machine to watch sharply as the water spray lays just so across the ice.  Revealing in his wake the glistening smooth perfect frozen water, fresh ice.  The toe picks, stick jabs, and blood all erased with artistic mastery of grace and ease.  A fresh new surface prepared for it all to begin again.

Almost

The man who was almost my father was a Boston Bruin goalie.   Brent, a youthful, strong athlete in the prime of his life, handsome in his iconic black and gold uniform with imposing B set in sharp features.  His sculpted jaw and cleft chin were saved by the grace of the recently adopted facemask for NHL goalies.  But oh those pads, the pads oddly were an attraction, something about getting a black round hard plastic puck being shot at your body at upwards of 100  mph over and over in a game.  Brent was my mom’s fiance.

Even though engaged, my mother was easily convinced by her very convincing best friend Pat, to give up a boring night at home listening to records and polishing her nails to instead attend the Saturday night USO dance in the hall of their local church. Her goalie fiance at the time was playing an away game in Canada (Boston lost 6-1 to the Canadians that night). This loss was just  the beginning of many losses for Brent personally and professionally. Coincidentally Boston ended up in the basement of final standings that season.

My mother prepped for the dance. Teased and sprayed her hair, wearing stiff petticoats under her full skirt cinched at the waist to strategically showcase her slender figure.  Pat wore a sweater set with matching tapered pants - perfectly matching pumps and handbags.

My father, Mike,  was an enlisted Army private, carefree, tanned, with ocean streaked blonde hair, as only a Southern Californian boy can have.  Growing up his days were filled with surfing, fast cars, and beach parties. Mike was strikingly handsome in his dress uniform of crisp tan pants with army green overcoat pulled taut across his chest and  broad shoulders with a thick belt.   Brent was almost as handsome in his very different uniform, almost.

If there is a thing as love at first sight they saw it.  My mom, much to her surprise, found herself dancing, laughing and eventually walking outside with the handsome private. Perhaps it was the  punch, the heat of the hall, stuffiness of the room, the warmth of the night seeping onto the dance floor like a fog, the laughter of dear friends, cigarette smoke, or the music, Whatever the cause of the enchantment, so it was. As she succumbed to a tender kiss goodnight she knew Mike’s mischievous twinkling blue eyes would never leave her heart.

That fateful Saturday night USO dance, when my father lost his  game in Montreal, my future was sealed. This almost-ness is perhaps why I have a thing for hockey players. My first love was a high school hockey star and I’ve had several from afar crushes through the years on those broken nose, adorable missing teeth, brutal, endearing hockey players.  

Now nearly 60 years later I found a picture of Brent Gable.  It was an old image on a Boston Bruins players trading card without much value, yet it made my heart flutter to see him smiling back at me, he eerily resembles my Dad.  They could almost have been brothers.

Myriam

Desperate, I convince myself I am content to sleep outside for these few hours until the sun rises. The chaise lounge I stumble upon near the pool will suffice as my bed.  I am cloaked in the disarmed feeling of being dropped into the unknown in the middle of the night.  After begrudgingly leaving the comfort of my taxi, I bumped my carry-on up the few steps. Not really sure where I am heading, I am being pulled towards the flat open spot between the white of the walls around me.  I find my chaise, I see the reflection of the ocean, the dark space of the pool not yet awake in its blueness, the pink orange glow of sunrise beginning to unveil itself on the horizon.  My mind not slowing with the excitement of all the new but my eyelids begging for just a few moments of closure.

As I begin to give into the pull of non movement after so many hours of non stop movement, she comes bounding, literally, across the pool deck. Tan limbs dancing out from her body, blonde bob of curls bobbing along with her, wearing a robe and satin tap pants “no no, this is not proper rest, there is a room for you, ready, I arranged it” she says to me in her thick accent.  I follow her lead and find a bed in the room she directs me towards.  Not fully remembering my head hitting the pillow, I relax and give in to the last directives of my weary body since 24 hours prior, eyes finally close.

We are walking in our bikinis and tennis shoes along the top of a jagged seawall.  On my right is the clear emerald green ocean a few feet below us. We balance our way across the edge of a four inch wide rock and concrete ancient (decrepit) wall.  She is in front of me, still skimming or skipping, or sliding, her feet never really seem to stay or even hit the ground when she moves, chattering away quite comfortably to me in her Belgian cadence.  

We arrive at her beach, honestly just a small spit of black sand, not what we would call a proper beach back home.  She effortlessly glides into the water, her hair and skin coming to life as they are caressed by the salty waters.  Encouraging me, coaxing me to come along, but my landlocked self feels the old fear arise.  “More of a pool gal,” I call to her over the lapping waves. She continues to insist, I continue to resist.  Then something overcomes me, perhaps the jet lag, and I feel a sudden rise of courage.  I’m going in! 

Very ungracefully I enter, splashing a bit too much, awkwardly my arms and legs try to get their bearings unfamiliar in the sea. They are legs out of water.  She squeals with glee, “yes, see, it's good, no?  You’re doing wonderfully, yes yes, that’s it.  Try to relax if you can.”  After my initial gasp, I flutter my way through the water, looking for a rock or something unmoving to stand on, or at least to balance a toe on. “Do you want to be a sea star?” she impishly asks. Effortlessly she floats to me and with the utmost tenderness her hand rests on my lower back gently pushing my belly up to skim the surface of the ocean.  I ease my head back and feel the warm green water enter my ears, stretching my hair in its currents, my legs and feet float up to the horizon.  “Open your arms more, stretch your legs out, yes that's it, relax, I’ve got you. You are a sea star!”  Like this we float, her reassuring palm against my sacrum.  Barely there but for certain there.  I begin to allow my breath to deepen, my eyes to gaze into the limitless sky above.  Softening into the sea, a flash of truly what a sea star must feel like.  Drifting and floating, one with the tides, but also one with a tiny anchor, the lightest touch of stability.  My busy mind, as usual, interrupts my bliss.  I begin to wonder how she is treading water so well and for so long, I snap out of my perfect sea star formation. I  plop up to vertical just in time to see her golden curls glistening from the sea into the sun, and the slightest flip of her tail as she swims off.