It must have been late 1974 or early 1975.  Luz was a senior, a year ahead of me. She had her own car, a little blue MG. I liked the car and thought she was hot. In those days, just about every girl was hot to me.

 

All along the trench, which was about four-foot wide and seven or eight feet deep, people were huddled in small groups.”

We were both on the yearbook staff and were sent out to sell ads. We headed up US 101 and were working the frontage roads where a bunch of businesses in an industrial area were situated. We tried the Frito Lay plant, some plastics company – one making Halloween masks, and finally the 7Up distributor. There we struck gold and sold a one-eighth page ad for $25 dollars.  We’d go back heroes! Back in the MG, Luz asked if I was in a hurry to get back.

“No way” I chimed, “I’ve got all day.”

She then proceeded to drive me out to the very southern tip of San Francisco Bay, to the salt flats – a tidewater and wasteland area known as Alviso. We drove between endless rows of massive wooden trays spread out over hundreds of acres with fruit spread out to dry in the late spring heat. I wasn’t sure where she was taking me and the mystery only kicked up my excitement several notches.

Luz parked near a massive water pipe jutting out of the ground at a forty-five-degree angle. Getting out of the car, Luz said she wanted to show me something special. That got my attention.

I wondered where but didn’t ask. Instead, I almost jumped out of the car and followed her. After all, Luz was a year ahead of me and seemed like she knew what she was doing.

I followed her like an eager puppy. She had a large brown bag with her which I was sure concealed some important ingredient to this mystery. As she led between the long wooden trays of drying fruit I noticed a young boy sitting on a block of cement playing with a stick. When he saw her approach, he disappeared. I mean, he just vanished.

In the wavering shimmer of afternoon heat I strained to see where he’d gotten to. Then a larger figure appeared from a gap between the trays. A man mysteriously grew, and came into view calling out to Luz in Spanish. I stopped, not knowing what to make of this latest development. After a moment Luz waved me over and introduced me to her ‘primo,’ Luis. Then she gestured to a hole leading underneath one of the trays. Too confused to protest, I followed her.

Unlike the heated fields of fruit above it was cool and almost damp in the trench I found myself below the many trays.  It was dug deep enough for a tall man to stand and there were a few dim light bulbs strung as far as I could see. All along the trench, which was about four-foot wide and seven or eight feet deep, people were huddled in small groups. The men sat together, smoking and talking in low tones. Beyond them, along one side, was a makeshift kitchen built with two-by-fours and plywood. There was even a rusty sink and a couple of propane gas cylinders for the stove. A clutch of women and small children worked over some large pots and pans. I had absolutely no idea what I was looking at or where I was.

Luz introduced me and each man stood and offered his hand with a greeting accompanied by a smile and a nod. All wore work clothes and heavy boots, one or two wore heavy coats on despite the outside heat. They were polite and friendly but spoke only Spanish. The men offered me a stool, which I took, and a cigarette which I declined. They talked in low friendly voices, and even cracked a couple of jokes amongst one another, treating me as if I were one of their group. Luz left me there and made her way further back towards some excited chatter and a bit of laughing. After a while she returned, we said our goodbyes and left.

Back in the car Luz seemed uplifted and even bubbly. She explained that several of her relatives had just arrived and it was good to see that they were doing well. On the drive home she talked about how good it was to see Luis and her other cousins, and how it was good that they had found work. I did a lot of nodding and tried to share her excitement.

But I hadn’t yet processed what I had experienced. My father was a Naval aviator and flew submarine patrol aircraft from nearby Moffett Field Naval Air Station. I had driven past those Alviso flats many times with my folks on our way out to the base. But never had it even remotely occurred to me that out there underneath those fruit drying trays were people living.

That night I found sleep fleeting as I pondered what I was privileged to have experienced, deeply impressed at how welcome these simple peasant farmers – campesiños  – made me feel.

They were men, conversing, smoking and relaxing after a day of hard work; women preparing meals with mischievous playful children underfoot – all literally underground.

I kept this experience to myself for a long time. Not because I thought there was something wrong with what I had seen, but because I felt privileged with my new knowledge, and that my friend Luz trusted me enough to take me with her to see her newly arrived extended family members. I felt like some precious secret had been entrusted with me. After that, every time my folks would up US Highway 101 out to the base I’d look to fields of drying fruit and relish what Luz had shared with me that day.

Looking back, I really did get lucky that warm afternoon. She had opened my eyes to an underground community that I previously had no idea existed. And I’ve never looked at a farm, factory or field the same way again.

Scott Hubbartt is a writer and 28-year combat veteran who lives in South Central Texas.

Photo by Nikola Tresci

Bruce Springsteen and I have a lot in common. My dad’s name is Bruce and Bruce Springsteen’s daughter is named Jessica which is what the J in JH stands for. Bruce Springsteen and I were both married on June 8 – he married Patti Scialfa on June 8, 1991 –  I married my husband, Michael, on June 8, 2001. Bruce Springsteen is from New Jersey and I have been to New Jersey.

 

When I admire someone, I look for things that we share in common.”

When I admire someone I look for things that we share in common. When I was 11 years old I discovered David Bowie and learned that his son, Zowie, was born two weeks to the day after I was. It’s a fact that has allowed me to imagine that the three of us, David, Zowie, and I, have a great deal in common, and that if we’d ever met we’d have hit it off instantly.

Bosnian born writer Aleksandar Hemon and I both moved to Chicago in January of 1992. I arrived on the seventh from Boston, a city which shares the first three letters in Bosnia. He landed the twenty-seventh. It wasn’t hard for me to create meaning out of these coincidences. I took a class with him a couple years ago and on the first day he asked his students to say something about themselves. I said, “Hi, I’m Jessica. I’m not originally from Chicago, but I moved here in January, 1992” which was his cue to pick up on the fact that we were destined to become best friends, or at the very least I was destined to become his favorite student. Neither of those things happened.

Humans are hardwired to find patterns and to assign meaning to those patterns. Psychics make a living off of this. They sit in front of anyone and start guessing shit about them and sooner or later they will hit on something that’s true. The same kind of thinking drives conspiracy theories, from the belief that Elvis Presley is alive because the letters that spell Elvis can be rearranged to spell Lives to the idea that the same people are showing up over and over at demonstrations all over the country because in photos of groups of people demonstrating there are sometimes people who resemble each other. It’s part of our lizard brain to find patterns, and there’s something to be admired in that. It’s an adaptation that at some point increased the likelihood of survival, and it’s still with us.

In his piece “A Night in Bruce Springsteen’s America,” Hanif Abdurraqib describes the experience of seeing Springsteen live as being “… in the church of Bruce Springsteen…” As a fan of Bruce Springsteen, it does feel like belonging to a religion, one that can be split into denominations based on the era of Springsteen in which you’re specifically a fanatic. I’m a believer in the Bruce Springsteen of the early years, bookended by his first album, Greetings from Asbury Park, N.J., and the album Nebraska; what could be referred to as Old Testament Springsteen. The music and lyrics of Old Testament Springsteen dig into the experience of trouble and despair with an urgency and immediacy that is defining, and over the years the album Born to Run has become a beloved text that I turn to in difficult times, like a favorite Bible chapter.

One afternoon, I saw a bumper sticker in the shape of a paw print and the words “rescue mom,” which I read not as a descriptor, the emphasis on rescue, like rescue mom, but as an imperative, the emphasis on mom, like rescue mom. My mom had been diagnosed with stage four lung cancer a few weeks earlier, and I kept seeing patterns and signs pointing to it; specifically pointing to the fact that I couldn’t rescue her, that I’d never been able to before, and I certainly couldn’t do it now. I hadn’t seen her in a couple years. We have a complicated relationship, her lifelong struggle with depression and alcohol rendered her absent for much of my life, and it has been my goal to break the patterns that led her down that road. The year Mom was dying of cancer, I listened to Born to Run in its entirety a minimum of three times a week. It was a way of both affirming the horrors of the situation, a catharsis in eight tracks, and of escaping it, and like any religious text, after repeated exposure to the word, I found deeper meaning in the lyrics. The song Thunder Road became my Lord’s Prayer, something to listen to when I sought comfort. I listened to it on my commute, I listened to it at home, and if I needed to hear it but was somewhere that I couldn’t actually listen to it, I’d replay it in my mind. The song contains the lines:

So you’re scared and you’re thinking that maybe we ain’t that young anymore
Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night
You ain’t a beauty but, hey, you’re alright

I have gone over the meaning of these lyrics like a Talmudic scholar, picking apart the intention behind it, at times taking issue with it. Is Bruce calling Mary unattractive? Is he settling for her because she may not be Ms. Right, but she is Ms. Right now? Sometimes when Thunder Road gets to that line I yell, “Speak for yourself, Bruce!” in righteous indignation. At other times, I think it’s a commentary on unrealistic beauty standards. None of us will ever look like celebrities who are known and admired for their looks, not even the celebrities themselves; it’s all makeup, airbrushing, and good lighting. In Thunder Road, Bruce loves Mary both because and in spite of the fact that she is not movie star beautiful.

Springsteen lived the truth of these lyrics in his own personal life. He married the model Julianne Phillips in ‘85, and in ‘87 released the album Tunnel of Love, which chronicled his unhappiness in the marriage with tracks like “Brilliant Disguise” that contains the lyrics: “Well I’ve tried so hard baby, but I just can’t see, what a woman like you, is doing with me.” Springsteen and Phillips divorced in ‘89, and when he started dating Patti Scialfa, who’s been a member of the E Street Band since ‘84, the subject of Patti’s looks became a topic of brutal tabloid commentary. Patti is the Mary to Bruce’s “Thunder Road” persona. She’s from Jersey, she’s not model gorgeous, but she’s the one. She’s the One, incidentally, track six on the album Born to Run, right after the title track. Together Bruce and Patti have had three children (one of them named Jessica) and they remain married and living in New Jersey, the state that embodies the genesis of Bruce Springsteen, for over 25 years.

I am my mother’s daughter, there’s no escaping that. After she died I was able to remember the good things she gave me, notably a love of words and language and a reverence for the magic of writing; the trick of creating something that didn’t exist before simply by writing it down. We both happen to have names that begin with J, we both love cats, and we share a habit of absent-minded fidgeting. But what connects us is stronger than these coincidences: my body came from hers, it is elemental and undeniable. I will always work to break the patterns of depression and alcoholism that defined her, but like it or not I am a living testament to her.

Watching and waiting for my mom to die was certainly an experience rife with dread and uncertainty, and perhaps it’s those qualities that drew me to Thunder Road for salvation during that time. Whatever it was, I’m grateful for it; it connected me to Bruce Springsteen generally, Thunder Road specifically, and it gave me a way to grieve. When I went back to my mom’s condo after her death to sort through her things, I brought Old Testament Springsteen with me. I remain a devout believer in the Church of Bruce Springsteen because so far, it works. So I’ll take it.

JH Palmer is a Chicago based writer and performer. From 2012-2017 she produced the live lit show That’s All She Wrote, and she has performed at numerous storytelling and live lit events, including The Moth, 2nd Story, Story Club, Write Club, and You’re Being Ridiculous. Her work has appeared in The Toast and Story Club Magazine. She earned an MFA in Creative Nonfiction from Columbia College Chicago. 

 

Photo by Chris Slupski

 

The worst part was coming home at night and shutting the door behind me. That’s when widowhood hit me the hardest. Two visits to the hospice bereavement group had done nothing for me. Those people, some of them years into grief, couldn’t seem to think beyond breakfast. My life, at least, had structure; grandchildren nearby, a monthly book group, a weekly dance community. I sang. I played the recorder with friends. I had a house to care for. But as I walked out of that second meeting, I realized structure would only take me so far. It would get me through the week, but no amount of structure would address the silence in every room.

 

He waits on the top stair, and when I’m ready, we look at each other. I’ll say, “Shall we go downstairs, Mr. President?”

What about my daughter’s crazy proposal? Should I reconsider?

It had been thirty years since the last cat. Back when my children were small, we’d had all kinds, all colors. But though they’d lolled in every corner of the house, they mostly served as portable fur foot warmers. I didn’t spend time thinking about them. I couldn’t have cared less what they might be thinking, or if they even thought.

Years later, when I married again, my new husband and I never replaced our past cats, conceding only that when old age allowed us nothing but life in rocking chairs, maybe then we’d see about a cat. We were already old. Twenty-eight years went by. We got older still. At 89, my husband died.

Eight months after Chuck’s death, my oldest daughter, her husband, and their two boys acquired a cat, a three-year-old portly black male whom the youngest boy immediately named Mr. President. But it was me they had in mind when too many of their friends couldn’t stop sneezing in their house.

“Mom, you need a cat,” my daughter urged.

“We want to keep him in the family,” the boys pleaded, bracing their appeal with promises to help clip his claws and feed him whenever I was away.

“Nothing doing,” I insisted. I was done with litter boxes, hairballs, scratched furniture. I protested until a week after that last visit to the bereavement group, and even then I agreed only to a three-week trial. Secretly I had adored Mr. President the instant I’d first picked him up, but was I ready to take on another male, one who couldn’t even fix a leaky faucet?

For eight months, I had focused on surviving. Tears that wouldn’t quit. Rage. Demands for my husband’s return, before the stroke. A twist in the gut every time I looked at his picture. A large glass of red wine paired with Camembert, crackers, and Bach before dinner did little to mitigate the emptiness of my house without the man who had filled it with his company, his love, his irritating quirks.

A moving bundle of fur is no substitute for a dearly loved man. I knew that. But now that Mr. President was in the house, if only temporarily, the damn cat needed looking after. Within days I was replacing the same front-door greeting I still used, “Hi Sweetheart, I’m home,” with “What’s up Mr. President?” and Mr. President would come running.

I lay down my grief and loss books and began to ask Google cat behavior questions. I grilled cat-owning colleagues in my choral group. Indoors or out? If outdoor, which were the best flea meds? What kind of toys did cats like? What about those hair balls? Cat carriers? Vets?

Twelve days later I knew I wasn’t going to let him go. Mr. President had become my grief therapy, and I was enjoying him.

Relating to a cat after your husband has died is, occasionally, like sensing a tiny shadow of something that once was. Just as I get no answering words when I talk to Chuck’s spirit, I get none when I address my cat. But when I say to Mr. President, around 11 at night, “Well, Mr. President, I’m going upstairs to bed,” I hear myself saying to someone who had only two legs, “Hey, Chuck, I’m going upstairs now.”

Back then, those words would be answered by “Just closing down the computer. Be up soon.” Mr. President doesn’t have to close down the computer, so he usually does come up soon, bell jingling, black tail flapping, and settles on what was once my side of the bed.

Don’t tell me cats are mere opportunists. This cat wants to sleep curled around my head. When it’s hot, he settles for a chair, after leaping up to my pillow for a good-night head bump.

For reasons known only to him, Mr. President occasionally bites my hand or ankle. For this he gets “Bad Cat” yelled at him. He runs, knowing well he’d best disappear. Two hours later he ambles back. So Chuck was when I got angry at him. He would remove himself from my presence, busy himself, and sometime later, judging my wrath had subsided, saunter back in as if nothing had happened. “How about a little glass of wine?” he might suggest with a grin. From Mr. President, I get a cheerful “Okay?” meow.

I notice things about this cat. He’s gentle and sociable, as was Chuck. Although he wakes me up far too early, he does it with humor and affection. He butts my head, sniffs my nose, nuzzles my ears (Chuck used to do this), purrs. He doesn’t push. He’ll give me half an hour before insistence replaces suggestion. He watches me as I put on my slippers. He looks inside the closet as I reach for my bathrobe. He waits on the top stair, and when I’m ready, we look at each other. I’ll say, “Shall we go downstairs, Mr. President?”

Some kind of communication is going on. He could, after all, race down to be let out, but he doesn’t.

Mr. President’s vocabulary is limited. His meows tell me the basics:  “I’m hungry.” “Let me out.” “Let me in.” “Pick me up.” “Put me down.”  “Play with me.”

But now that I have no one competing for my attention, I’ve learned “meow” can mean more. Here’s one meow it took me a while to figure out: “Pick me up and take me for a walk around the house so I can see things up high.”

I know this because after checking for other factors — not hungry, doesn’t want to go out, enough with the cuddles — I’ll lift him up and this time he climbs to my shoulder and lifts his head to sniff at pictures on the walls, hanging pots, books on top shelves as we perambulate the downstairs rooms.

There’s also a special-purpose meow, almost a mutter, often in early afternoon, for “I’m not admitting this, but I need a nap.” Plop him on his favorite soft chair near the bedroom window and he’s asleep in five seconds.

Nine p.m.-ish, a quiet meow emerges, accompanied by a slow walk to the living room, and a backward look every two steps. This means, “Follow me to the couch and let’s sit down.”

Immediately, my lap becomes Mr. President’s oval office. If I bring my laptop in, his head goes onto the warm keys.

My husband would have loved this cat. Except that if Chuck were still alive, we wouldn’t have a cat. There’d be no need and every reason not to have one. Now he’s gone and Mr. President has become my roommate. It’s no fair trade at all, but what I can tell you is that a live cat, an interesting, querulous, affectionate live cat, beats walking into an empty house.

Lee Haas Norris has published nonfiction in Passager, The Gettysburg Review, Persimmon Tree, The Literary Bohemian, The Boston Globe, Cargo Literary, and other publications.  A graduate of Barnard College, she served in the United States Peace Corps in Moldova in her sixties and later earned an M.A. in English from the University of Maine.

Photo by Jack Antal