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Olive Kitteridge: The Verb
By Stephanie Kemp
Olive Kitteridge: The Verb
By Stephanie Kemp
One of my favorite books is “Olive Kitteridge,” by Elizabeth Strout (as is any other book by Elizabeth Strout). Much has been made about Olive (including an excellent HBO miniseries starring Frances McDormand and a Pulitzer Prize), but here is the verb part:
At the wedding of her son, Olive - a lifelong native of Maine, somewhat salty, the canonical opposite of a people pleaser, and deservedly worn from wear and tear (in case you want to read the book or see the movie after you read the book), is hiding from unwanted guests in a bedroom of her house, when some people stumble upon her and ruin her peace. A (sort of) polite, if forced, conversation ensues before Olive gratefully regains her space and solitude, proud of herself for steering the conversation without incident to its (or at least a) conclusion. She looks at herself in the mirror with a rare almost smile when she sees a very visible stain, just below her chin, on her handmade dress. A very visible stain that no-one told her about, infuriating her through hidden heartbreak (please note that I have not confirmed either of these emotions with Elizabeth Strout or Frances McDormand) that she has stopped being seen as a whole person.
A person worthy of respect and /or at least being told that she has a massive stain on her dress or food in her teeth.
An old person.
Who cares?
Don’t bother.
Too late.
Just let her be.
Let’s get out of here.
Which leads me to a related story:
“I Made a New Friend Today, but Now I’m not so Sure it’s Going to Work Out.”
I went to the (World’s Greatest) Antique Mall to get the goods for our Christmas Eve scavenger hunt at the Langham Hotel (and maybe pick up some stocking stuffers and presents for people who literally need nothing. Yes, I know how this sounds - Merry Christmas.)
Knowing I would never top last year (when I ran into Diane Keaton after buying an old California road map and a tiny flip book produced by the Nebraska Department of Tourism, and just before selling an emotionally complicated family heirloom hoping to turn Christmas into a surprise family trip to France), I was still excited. (I know how this sounds, too, but I’m sort of sick of apologizing.)
And to think that all of this was already happening in my head before I met Jillian....
Sometimes you will meet someone and know that they are supposed to be your friend forever. (This matters more as you get older because it is really rare, especially if you already miss most of your Forever Friends because they live faraway - or really close - and because you now require so much solitude to stay grounded. Or balanced. Or nice.)
Or any of these things.
Maybe.
In real life, outside of the antique mall, Jillian lives five minutes away from my house. Her kids went to the high school that my kids almost went to and that always reminds me of my own high school in Michigan...(the one that I miss every single day now that I am 38 years out of it and thousands of miles away).
Jillian grew up here and graduatued from her kids’ high school. (I wonder if they had yearbook Superlatives! at Jillian’s school....I would have totally voted for her for Best Smile and Style, and maybe even Personality. She also could have been a dark horse contender for Funniest, even though the pretty girls rarely got to take that one home. Don’t worry if you haven’t heard of Superlatives! They have been cancelled.)
Her kids also went to the same pre-school that my kids (almost) went to.
Jillian and I know a lot of the same people.
She is really close to her almost 100 year old mom who still lives around the corner. “She can hear the high school announcements from her house, and see the stadium lights during football games...............We are so lucky.”
Jillian has 26 sons. (This is a lie, but I had to change and make some up, to protect the innocent players in the story and confuse my readers, or reader.)
The oldest currently lives with his girlfriend in the back house, getting settled. (They were in Lahaina. They stayed for two weeks after the fires and helped bring in food and supplies and medicine, running relay from boats that couldn’t get all the way into shore. Her son is strong and athletic, his girlfriend didn’t want to leave Maui, her home.)
I think Jillian would be a super cool grandma, just in case this son and his girlfriend get married, or just in case you were wondering. (Jillian was - probably because she feels too young to be a grandma and/or because she also really likes her son’s girlfriend.)
Her middle son grew up telling her “I love you” with his hands shaping a heart and then pointing at her, but he is currently a little awol (to her) because "he’s really into tech and likes video games.” (He is also in his early twenties, so that might be something to consider regarding the no more mom directed silent hand hearts at this particular moment in time.)
That said (and trying to help my new friend in case she was sad), I shared my overshared thought that: “Boy moms are lucky because their sons never turn on them,” wondering in real time if I even meant this or had any idea what the fuck I was talking about...
To soften the blow (and after realizing I didn’t), I told her about my daughters’ childhood "Red Rum!” hand signal used to wordlessly say: “You are embarrassing me, Mom!” This talk to the hand gesture involved a panicked crooked pointer finger, repeatedly bending then straightening and was an exact steal from Jack Nicholson’s son in The Shining. (I only saw the movie....we all break our own rules sometimes.)
I got this silent hand signal from my daughters a lot.
”We all take turns moving through different phases of parenthood and childhood and adulthood (and every other hood), and have to help each other if we want to survive,” I continued smugly to Jillian (even though this I know I am right about).
Her youngest son played high school volleyball with one of my daughter’s best friends before he went to college in San Diego (or San Francisco or Santa Barbara or Santaland Diaries or Santa Cruz). I told Jillian I would say hi to my daughter’s friend for her if she promised to take me to a volleyball game at her alma mater. (I also shared that I was a second team all state high school volleyball player who quit playing before college because I didn’t like the shorts they were going to make me wear - a choice I still regret... Sometimes.)
And last but not least, I should mention (should I?) that Jillian met her husband almost 40 years ago when she was a bridesmaid and he was a groomsman at a wedding at the old Huntington Hotel (now the Langham - How about that for full circle?!).
She and her husband (she told me his name and his nickname) “still laugh, all the time.”
Jillian works (on Tuesdays) at the (World’s Greatest) Antique Mall, but is also a collector of some kind. I know this because she, of course, gave me her card.
After talking and laughing and largely staying in Antique Stall #22 (my favorite) for an hour, looking at someone named Mary Anne (or Joe or Sue or Lynn)’s amazing collection of old things, Jillian had to help another client and I wandered deeper, on my own, into the Land of Nostalgia...thinking things like:
“I remember when a hamburger cost a dime.”
or…
“We walked eight miles to school in four feet of snow every day, 375 days a year, never complaining, once.”
and...
“Don’t get your bowels in an uproar, kid.”
Thankfully, Jillian came back and we picked up where we left off, bonding over:
Vintage cream of tartar tins
Powdered mace (Powdered mace - still in the tins!)
Old postcards to and from people who loved each other (or wanted to)
Cialis jokes (not funny!) centered around a tiny cross country skiing male figurine paired on the shelf next to an ice skating ballerina with hair pinned up Lucy Ricardo style and held in compliance under porcelain ear muffs
Tiny holiday boxes
Juice glasses, jelly jars, bakelite combs…
Original Tinker Toys
Holiday cards from the early 20th Century
Broken (and working) compasses
A promotional Ford picture book For the Traveler in All of Us….(which I obviously bought, because my Grandpa was a Ford dealer!)
Madame Alexander Dolls who have seen a better day
Other Dolls who have never seen a day outside of the(ir) box...
It is never too late to make a new friend, people!!
But then...
After I left my phone at the check out table (and spent way too much money on old shit), Jillian raced it out to me and we had one last laugh through my car window, talking once again about our 28 children.
“I’ll email you!” I promised (another) 10 minutes later, mostly meaning it and trying to remember where I’d put her card.
She went back inside and I happily and gratefully put my phone squarely in my purse when I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror.
Oh my Fucking God.
My Face.
Left-over (practice) stage make up (my other daughter is currently a make-up artist working on her arts high school production of CABARET - with her focus being on the Kit Kat Girls) had melted all over (only) my left eye and was splattered down and across my cheek, like an early winter mud puddle mixed with diarrhetic shrimp shit smashed into a cracked windshield on a very used car.
(Earlier in the day, I had loved the way I looked as an honorary Kit Kat Girl, so I left the make up on, not knowing that several hours later - after crying a thousand tears upon finding out that Someone Important is losing her battle with congenital heart disease - I would pull up and park outside of an antique mall, forgetting that I was still wearing 40 pounds of mascara and sporting a very dramatic and glittering smoky eye.)
And my new (former?) friend Jillian never said a word!
This is what it means to be “Olive Kitteridge-d.”
An old person.
Who cares?
Don’t bother.
Too late.
Just let her be.
Let’s get out of here.
But now that I’ve written it down (and because she was really fun and funny, not to mention older than me by 2.5 years) maybe I can still be friends with Jillian.
Especially if I show this to her.
...And because she didn’t cut and run or “get out of here,” despite what she was facing - literally - for over sixty minutes. Instead, she shared important things from her life and then bravely made her way to my curb-parked car to return my telephone, knowing (possibly thanks to her middle son!), how important it is for me to be connected to the (or my) world at this complicated moment in time as a parent (or any kind of person) living or trying to be a Human Being on The Current Planet Earth.
This is why I can’t just ditch my new friend.
Plus, I need to go back and buy the ballerina ice skater to reunite the Cialis couple who love winter. (I only bought the skier because my husband is really good at snow shoeing and because he needs to have something to open from Santa. I didn’t think through the importance of the the love story or of keeping them together for the long haul, especially because my husband is 6 years younger than me.)
I will go back to the (World’s Greatest) Antique Mall next Tuesday.
Maybe Jillian will give me a deal because I already bought so much stuff or because she still feels bad about not telling me about my face.
(Don’t worry, I’m sure she would clear any discount with Mary Anne - or Joe or Sue or Lynn.)
And I can introduce her to my friend, Olive, if she doesn’t already know her.
__________________________________
At the wedding of her son, Olive - a lifelong native of Maine, somewhat salty, the canonical opposite of a people pleaser, and deservedly worn from wear and tear (in case you want to read the book or see the movie after you read the book), is hiding from unwanted guests in a bedroom of her house, when some people stumble upon her and ruin her peace. A (sort of) polite, if forced, conversation ensues before Olive gratefully regains her space and solitude, proud of herself for steering the conversation without incident to its (or at least a) conclusion. She looks at herself in the mirror with a rare almost smile when she sees a very visible stain, just below her chin, on her handmade dress. A very visible stain that no-one told her about, infuriating her through hidden heartbreak (please note that I have not confirmed either of these emotions with Elizabeth Strout or Frances McDormand) that she has stopped being seen as a whole person.
A person worthy of respect and /or at least being told that she has a massive stain on her dress or food in her teeth.
An old person.
Who cares?
Don’t bother.
Too late.
Just let her be.
Let’s get out of here.
Which leads me to a related story:
“I Made a New Friend Today, but Now I’m not so Sure it’s Going to Work Out.”
I went to the (World’s Greatest) Antique Mall to get the goods for our Christmas Eve scavenger hunt at the Langham Hotel (and maybe pick up some stocking stuffers and presents for people who literally need nothing. Yes, I know how this sounds - Merry Christmas.)
Knowing I would never top last year (when I ran into Diane Keaton after buying an old California road map and a tiny flip book produced by the Nebraska Department of Tourism, and just before selling an emotionally complicated family heirloom hoping to turn Christmas into a surprise family trip to France), I was still excited. (I know how this sounds, too, but I’m sort of sick of apologizing.)
And to think that all of this was already happening in my head before I met Jillian....
Sometimes you will meet someone and know that they are supposed to be your friend forever. (This matters more as you get older because it is really rare, especially if you already miss most of your Forever Friends because they live faraway - or really close - and because you now require so much solitude to stay grounded. Or balanced. Or nice.)
Or any of these things.
Maybe.
In real life, outside of the antique mall, Jillian lives five minutes away from my house. Her kids went to the high school that my kids almost went to and that always reminds me of my own high school in Michigan...(the one that I miss every single day now that I am 38 years out of it and thousands of miles away).
Jillian grew up here and graduatued from her kids’ high school. (I wonder if they had yearbook Superlatives! at Jillian’s school....I would have totally voted for her for Best Smile and Style, and maybe even Personality. She also could have been a dark horse contender for Funniest, even though the pretty girls rarely got to take that one home. Don’t worry if you haven’t heard of Superlatives! They have been cancelled.)
Her kids also went to the same pre-school that my kids (almost) went to.
Jillian and I know a lot of the same people.
She is really close to her almost 100 year old mom who still lives around the corner. “She can hear the high school announcements from her house, and see the stadium lights during football games...............We are so lucky.”
Jillian has 26 sons. (This is a lie, but I had to change and make some up, to protect the innocent players in the story and confuse my readers, or reader.)
The oldest currently lives with his girlfriend in the back house, getting settled. (They were in Lahaina. They stayed for two weeks after the fires and helped bring in food and supplies and medicine, running relay from boats that couldn’t get all the way into shore. Her son is strong and athletic, his girlfriend didn’t want to leave Maui, her home.)
I think Jillian would be a super cool grandma, just in case this son and his girlfriend get married, or just in case you were wondering. (Jillian was - probably because she feels too young to be a grandma and/or because she also really likes her son’s girlfriend.)
Her middle son grew up telling her “I love you” with his hands shaping a heart and then pointing at her, but he is currently a little awol (to her) because "he’s really into tech and likes video games.” (He is also in his early twenties, so that might be something to consider regarding the no more mom directed silent hand hearts at this particular moment in time.)
That said (and trying to help my new friend in case she was sad), I shared my overshared thought that: “Boy moms are lucky because their sons never turn on them,” wondering in real time if I even meant this or had any idea what the fuck I was talking about...
To soften the blow (and after realizing I didn’t), I told her about my daughters’ childhood "Red Rum!” hand signal used to wordlessly say: “You are embarrassing me, Mom!” This talk to the hand gesture involved a panicked crooked pointer finger, repeatedly bending then straightening and was an exact steal from Jack Nicholson’s son in The Shining. (I only saw the movie....we all break our own rules sometimes.)
I got this silent hand signal from my daughters a lot.
”We all take turns moving through different phases of parenthood and childhood and adulthood (and every other hood), and have to help each other if we want to survive,” I continued smugly to Jillian (even though this I know I am right about).
Her youngest son played high school volleyball with one of my daughter’s best friends before he went to college in San Diego (or San Francisco or Santa Barbara or Santaland Diaries or Santa Cruz). I told Jillian I would say hi to my daughter’s friend for her if she promised to take me to a volleyball game at her alma mater. (I also shared that I was a second team all state high school volleyball player who quit playing before college because I didn’t like the shorts they were going to make me wear - a choice I still regret... Sometimes.)
And last but not least, I should mention (should I?) that Jillian met her husband almost 40 years ago when she was a bridesmaid and he was a groomsman at a wedding at the old Huntington Hotel (now the Langham - How about that for full circle?!).
She and her husband (she told me his name and his nickname) “still laugh, all the time.”
Jillian works (on Tuesdays) at the (World’s Greatest) Antique Mall, but is also a collector of some kind. I know this because she, of course, gave me her card.
After talking and laughing and largely staying in Antique Stall #22 (my favorite) for an hour, looking at someone named Mary Anne (or Joe or Sue or Lynn)’s amazing collection of old things, Jillian had to help another client and I wandered deeper, on my own, into the Land of Nostalgia...thinking things like:
“I remember when a hamburger cost a dime.”
or…
“We walked eight miles to school in four feet of snow every day, 375 days a year, never complaining, once.”
and...
“Don’t get your bowels in an uproar, kid.”
Thankfully, Jillian came back and we picked up where we left off, bonding over:
Vintage cream of tartar tins
Powdered mace (Powdered mace - still in the tins!)
Old postcards to and from people who loved each other (or wanted to)
Cialis jokes (not funny!) centered around a tiny cross country skiing male figurine paired on the shelf next to an ice skating ballerina with hair pinned up Lucy Ricardo style and held in compliance under porcelain ear muffs
Tiny holiday boxes
Juice glasses, jelly jars, bakelite combs…
Original Tinker Toys
Holiday cards from the early 20th Century
Broken (and working) compasses
A promotional Ford picture book For the Traveler in All of Us….(which I obviously bought, because my Grandpa was a Ford dealer!)
Madame Alexander Dolls who have seen a better day
Other Dolls who have never seen a day outside of the(ir) box...
It is never too late to make a new friend, people!!
But then...
After I left my phone at the check out table (and spent way too much money on old shit), Jillian raced it out to me and we had one last laugh through my car window, talking once again about our 28 children.
“I’ll email you!” I promised (another) 10 minutes later, mostly meaning it and trying to remember where I’d put her card.
She went back inside and I happily and gratefully put my phone squarely in my purse when I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror.
Oh my Fucking God.
My Face.
Left-over (practice) stage make up (my other daughter is currently a make-up artist working on her arts high school production of CABARET - with her focus being on the Kit Kat Girls) had melted all over (only) my left eye and was splattered down and across my cheek, like an early winter mud puddle mixed with diarrhetic shrimp shit smashed into a cracked windshield on a very used car.
(Earlier in the day, I had loved the way I looked as an honorary Kit Kat Girl, so I left the make up on, not knowing that several hours later - after crying a thousand tears upon finding out that Someone Important is losing her battle with congenital heart disease - I would pull up and park outside of an antique mall, forgetting that I was still wearing 40 pounds of mascara and sporting a very dramatic and glittering smoky eye.)
And my new (former?) friend Jillian never said a word!
This is what it means to be “Olive Kitteridge-d.”
An old person.
Who cares?
Don’t bother.
Too late.
Just let her be.
Let’s get out of here.
But now that I’ve written it down (and because she was really fun and funny, not to mention older than me by 2.5 years) maybe I can still be friends with Jillian.
Especially if I show this to her.
...And because she didn’t cut and run or “get out of here,” despite what she was facing - literally - for over sixty minutes. Instead, she shared important things from her life and then bravely made her way to my curb-parked car to return my telephone, knowing (possibly thanks to her middle son!), how important it is for me to be connected to the (or my) world at this complicated moment in time as a parent (or any kind of person) living or trying to be a Human Being on The Current Planet Earth.
This is why I can’t just ditch my new friend.
Plus, I need to go back and buy the ballerina ice skater to reunite the Cialis couple who love winter. (I only bought the skier because my husband is really good at snow shoeing and because he needs to have something to open from Santa. I didn’t think through the importance of the the love story or of keeping them together for the long haul, especially because my husband is 6 years younger than me.)
I will go back to the (World’s Greatest) Antique Mall next Tuesday.
Maybe Jillian will give me a deal because I already bought so much stuff or because she still feels bad about not telling me about my face.
(Don’t worry, I’m sure she would clear any discount with Mary Anne - or Joe or Sue or Lynn.)
And I can introduce her to my friend, Olive, if she doesn’t already know her.
__________________________________
