A Cashel/Brooklyn Memory

My 6-year-old nephew Cashel lives far away from me now, but for the first five years of his life he lived in Brooklyn. I knew, at the time, how lucky I was, to be so close to him … Many of my friends have nephews or nieces who live in France, or across the country … They get to see them once a year, if that much. I saw Cashel every week, babysat him all the time. It was truly a blessing in my life.

Came across this old entry of a November afternoon I spent with Cashel, and wanted to share it.

A Brooklyn Afternoon
It’s winter now, but the trees are still fighting with the season: “Dammit, we’re not ready yet. It’s still autumn! LOOK AT US. The yellows, the oranges….aren’t we spectacular?” Meanwhile, everyone is wearing winter coats, and the babies in the strollers literally cannot move their limbs at all, and sit frozen, like mummified papooses in their massive snow suits. Their wide eyeballs staring out.

I arrived, rang the doorbell, and nobody answered. Hmmm. I called, left a message. Then I went across the street into Prospect Park. There’s a playground right there and I thought that maybe Maria, Steve (her new boyfriend) and Cashel might be over there. They were not. Curiouser and curiouser. I left another message saying, “Okay, so clearly I have the time wrong … I will be sitting in the park across the street, if you just stepped out for a second and come home and get this message.” I sat at a picnic table and wrote in my journal for a while. About Crazy Erik. Which is a long story and absolutely none of your business.

There was a slope of hill behind me covered in flaming yellow leaves – not one spot of brown ground visible. The sun was low in the sky now, the rays long and mellow. Shining through the bare trees on the top of the slope, washing over the carpet of yellow. One of those images that pierce your heart.

It was cold enough that my fingers felt like little stiff carrot sticks. But I enjoyed my time with myself. Writing, listening to the screams of kids at the playground.

Finally Maria called. 45 minutes later. She had thought I was coming over in the evening. I was sure I had said, “So I’ll be there at 3.” She said, “Are you FREEZING?” “Yes. I am freezing.” “Come over right now. Do you want tea or hot chocolate?” “Tea would be great.” “Putting the kettle on right now.”

In 2 minutes, I was ensconced in her warm and cozy apartment. Her living room now looks like an old-fashioned Victorian living room. The piano, the oriental rug, the dark walls. It is so cozy that I never want to leave. Steve was slicing up a pomegranate, Maria was at the stove … and Cashel and Brendan were apparently on their way over, after seeing Attack of the Clones at the IMAX.

We sat around her table, eating, drinking tea, talking, laughing. Cashel eventually arrived. Or, perhaps, to be more accurate, I should say Obi Wan Kenobi arrived. Cashel was completely in the fantasy world. Leaping about with his invisible light saber, manically running by us, making light-saber sounds, checking himself out in the mirror.

Maria said to me at one point, “I guess I have been wondering lately: …. Is there such a thing as too much Star Wars?”

This brought up a memory for me.

When I was 9 and 10 years old, I became so obsessed with the movie Oliver that I was actually experiencing a semi-psychotic break with reality. I would sit in our den at the Paul Avenue house, listen to the whole thing through, pick up the needle, and place it back at the beginning again. Over and over and over and over. It bordered on being an unpleasant experience, to be quite honest. I ACHED. My heart ACHED. I would sit with my ear right next to the speaker, literally pressed up against the speaker, dreaming myself into the world of the musical. I couldn’t even really have a conversation about it. Nobody could touch my level of obsession. Well, nobody except my friend Betsy. We would dress up, and act it out. She was Nancy, I was the Artful Dodger.

This was the ushering in, for me, of my dream-world, my fantasy-world, which I still live with today. I am truly the greatest “fan” you will ever meet. I am as loyal as a battered wife. I don’t care if the object of my desire makes a bad film, puts out a crappy album, whatever. I will wait, loyal, faithful, for them to return to greatness. But Oliver was the first. And, again, it was almost a painful experience. No matter what I did, no matter how close I sat to the speakers, I couldn’t get inside. I couldn’t FULLY express how that musical made me feel.

And here is a vivid memory: I was in the den, sitting with my ear pressed up against the speakers, staring at the album cover, lost to the world, listening to the musical for probably the tenth time through, and suddenly the door opened, and my mother peeked her head inside. Her face was very kind, a bit tentative, and apologetic. And she said, with utmost gentleness: “I don’t think we’re gonna be able to listen to Oliver anymore, okay?” She said it as NICELY as she could.

Now, as an adult, I imagine her and my father sitting in the other room, and they hear the first strains of the overture start up for the tenth time in a row, and the two of them saying, “Oh my GOD, I can’t take it anymore!!!”

My whole head got red at her request. So red I felt like it would explode spontaneously off of my neck. Reality crashed into my perfect dream-world. Silently, embarrassed, I took the needle off the record. And sat there, blankly, wondering what the HELL I was going to do with myself NOW.

Cashel’s obsession with Star Wars has been raging on unabated for a couple of years now, and it shows no sign of stopping. Funny: I saw the damn movie in its original release, and I have to say that MY obsession with that film pretty much continues on to this day.

I hung out with Cashel in his room for a long time. He was playing feverishly with his Star Wars action figures, letting me know what was going on, informing me of things bluntly: “This is the assassin droid.” “Anakin has the dark side in him, but then he goes back to the light side.” I would ask him questions and he would answer me forthrightly, after giving the matter some thought.

“Cashel, which one of the Star Wars movies is your favorite?”

Brief moment of contemplation, then matter-of-fact statement: “Attack of the Clones–” (Of course, because he just saw it!!) “And then Phantom Menace.”

I nodded. “I think my favorite is Empire Strikes Back.”

He glanced at me briefly, took this in, kind of couldn’t deal with it, and then went back to playing.

He was singing the Star Wars theme, as he played. I joined in at one point. But I guess I got TOO into it, because he said to me, “Stop.” I said, “You don’t want me to sing?” He said, “Well … no … because … I am trying to concentrate.”

Then would come the random questions from Cashel, his head tilted at me, thoughtful. “Why did the Senator turn the cameras off in her room?”

I said, “Well, I think she was so used to being stared at, and watched, that she just got sick of it. She wanted some privacy so that she could sleep. I mean, how would you feel if your whole life, people were looking at you like this –” I shoved my face right up against his face, with big googly eyes. Cashel burst into laughter. I love how he laughs. It’s like that moment in “The Night Before Christmas” where Santa laughs like a bowlful of jelly. Cashel is definitely a bowlful of jelly.

I was then put through rigorous Jedi training. Obi Wan Kenobi was quite a stern taskmaster, I must say. I had a light saber, and I was practicing my moves. I was going in a very Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon direction. Obi Wan Kenobi then froze me like a statue. Told me sternly to not move, because he had to go have an important conference with another Jedi master. Cashel then walked away, leaving me there. Frozen. He was outside the room and I could hear him having a pretend conversation about important galaxy matters. Which was hysterical.

He also said to me, in a tone of huge generosity and open-mindedness, “Girls can be Jedi Knights.”

“Phew! Glad to hear it!”