Following Frank

By Kristin Ohlson

I first saw Frank when I was twelve, a jittery small-town California girl during my first week in a public school at the weedy edge of town after six years at tiny St. Thomas Elementary School. I would now eat lunch in a cafeteria instead of bringing a mortifyingly wholesome meal packed by my mother. I was in the cafeteria line, thinking less about the sulfurous vats ahead than about where I would sit with my tray. Then I beheld this boy on the other side of the counter helping the lunch ladies, wearing a hair net and smock just as they did. It did nothing to diminish his beauty. I experienced my first sexual swoon, my brain lighting up with the astounding and unprecedented words, “I want to kiss him.”

Not that I had never fallen in love before. Since the age of three, I had been in love with my cousin Judy’s husband Pete. I’m sure every girl or gay boy was in love with him. He was as handsome as a movie star (think George Maharis, but laughing instead of smoldering) and always kind, and he was the star of the summer lake scene. He once jumped from the top of a boathouse in a tuxedo to land on one ski and slalom merrily away from a wedding, a ten-foot watery rooster tail bursting in his wake.

But I never desired Pete; I just adored him. I hadn’t desired any boys in my short life. I hardly noticed them unless I wanted to beat them at some game. A few had crushes on me. A boy named Clifton sat near me in second grade and pointed to a picture of a pot of honey in a book and then gestured at me, suggesting that I was sweet. A boy named Jimmy—he looked just like The Little Prince, which was not an asset—gave me a necklace and took me to the movies (with his parents) in the third grade. But I was dedicated to horses and books and searching for arrowheads and buried temples. I wasn’t interested in boys or even flattered by their attention.

But that vision of Frank flipped a switch. I tried to spot him when we were outside for recess—there were eight classrooms each for seventh and eighth grade, and he was in the eighth grade wing—and observed him from behind the curtain of my friends. His dark hair was on the long side before long hair was a countercultural totem, and he was skinny—pretty much everyone was skinny in the early 1960s. He might not have been as shy as I was, but he seemed quiet and nice. He looked unvarnished by money and expectation, and this appealed to me and, maybe, set a pattern for life. My parents were among the more monied families in our little agricultural town, and it was a constant source of discomfort. Frank was different from the boys my parents would later urge me toward, boys who had been given everything and still hungered for more.

I couldn’t help talking about him to my friends, and they couldn’t help teasing me. When my friend Kimmie and I rode my horse, me in front and her behind, she’d nuzzle the back of my neck and croon, “It’s Frank!” When my friends and I danced into the sunshine of recess, they’d sing out his name, knowing that would make me bolt back into the shade. I’m sure he had some inkling that there was this seventh-grade girl who was crazy about him, but the more I pined for him, the more terrifying his presence was. My friends finally approached him and set up a rendezvous that was supposed to take place in one of the hallways during recess, but I panicked and hid in one of the bathroom stalls until long after the bell rang.

And that was that. However much (or little!) his interest had been piqued, it was clear that getting to know me was too much trouble. I think I stopped talking about him to my friends, and they stopped teasing me. He graduated from middle school and went on to high school. I went on to boarding school and off to a college across the country and wound up living in Cleveland for forty years. I never saw him again.

Until I found him on Facebook a few months ago during a bout of procrastination that included looking up girl friends from long ago—including a clever mean girl who made my life miserable off and on—a few old boyfriends, and Frank. And there he was, fifty-eight years later, still in the Sacramento Valley near our hometown, still pretty freaking cute despite the inevitable weathering. But now a Trump supporter, now with a wife who looks like a blonde, toned Fox News host, now an insurance agent.

Friends ask if I have spent hours looking at his profile because I daydream about, “What if we had gotten together?” But that’s not it. I’ve had a lovely man in my life for going on six years—I finally learned to say “I want YOU”—and don’t muse about other possible pairings.

Part of the fascination is that stalking Frank on Facebook allows me—a liberal now in Portland, Oregon—to ponder the nuances of someone who’s fulminating at the other end of the blue/red spectrum. Because he keeps surprising me, both with the extremity of his Trumpy ideas and with ideas that people like me assume people like him never have.

I roll my eyes when he calls California “Commiefornia” and when he calls the governor “Nuisance” instead of Newsom. Also when he posts right-wing articles from faux news websites like www.yourbrotherinlawsbasement.com—I made that one up, but they’re all about that credible. Most infuriating, most bewildering, he and most of his friends are among the nearly one-third of Americans who think Trump lost because of voter fraud. One of his Facebook friends claimed to have voted for Biden 400 times in Florida and another 700 times in Pennsylvania. Hilarious!

But he doesn’t completely insulate himself with Trump dogma. Among his Facebook friends are a few that cop to different thoughts. He posted a question several months ago asking who voted for Biden, and when a few brave souls admitted that they had, he was respectful. And when one of his Trumpy friends said that the real criminals were the people who voted for Obama, Frank outed himself as one of them—leaving me to agonize again at the cultural shredding that’s been going on since he and I were on the same side of the ballot.

Frank has surprised me in other ways, too. Despite succumbing to so much misinformation—maybe we should call it malinformation—he routinely pushes everyone he knows to get the Covid vaccine and puts up with no small amount of shit for it, all in a good-humored way. When the vaccines first started to become available, he announced over and over where people in his area might find them. Now he posts stats from local hospitals showing the huge discrepancy in illness and mortality between those who are vaccinated and those who are not—and he keeps at it, no matter how many wacky claims some of his friends make in response.

And I don’t know what inspired it, but one day last March he posted a big colorful box saying, “Stand Together Against Asian America Hate.” Fourteen of his friends liked that post, but no one commented. It seemed a risky thing to say if you’re running in a deep red crowd and you revere a former president who seems eager to stoke hatred of Asian Americans. I was proud of him. I almost gave a thumbs up to the post myself—just as I’ve almost argued with many of his other posts—but am determined to remain an anonymous stalker, one who will soon ditch this preoccupation altogether.

Still, I’ve come to realize that I would probably like Frank if I knew him in person. Not “like like,” as my grandchildren would say, but appreciate him even though I disagree with most of what he thinks and would probably loathe many of his friends. He seems kind and is always posting messages about various people in the community who need help. Most of his recent posts have been about the fires that ripped through the west coast. We could at least share our anguish about that.

I can’t help but wonder how much more we would share if I hadn’t left my hometown, along with everyone else in my family. We’ve all learned over the past five or so years how much individuals are shaped by the company we keep and the communities in which we live, how both taste and truth seem to have their own terroir. Would I look more like his female friends than the women I’ve surrounded myself with in Portland, all of us flaunting our gray hair instead of dying it? Would I still have two different containers of artisanal kimchi in my refrigerator? Would I be reading different books—maybe more Jody Picoult and less Elena Ferrante? And would I be simmering along with Frank—sometimes with humor, sometimes with fury—about Trump’s claim that the election was stolen? My old crush’s Facebook page brings that other possible self into focus, and it’s hard to look away from her.

•••

KRISTIN OHLSON is the author of The Soil Will Save Us: How Scientists, Farmers and Foodies are Healing the Soil to Save the Planet, which looks at the movement to create a new agriculture that respects nature, heals landscapes, and produces plenty of food. Based in Portland, Oregon, she is an independent journalist who has published articles in the New York Times, Discover, Gourmet, and many other publications. Her work has been anthologized in Best American Travel Writing and Best American Science Writing. Her new book, Sweet in Tooth and Claw: Stories of Generosity and Cooperation in the Natural World, will be published by Patagonia in September, 2022.

An Impulsive Move and a Pandemic

By Nina B. Lichtenstein

Suddenly, I found myself living in Brooklyn, in the same building as my twenty-five-year-old son Tobi. His presence there made my move feel grounded and comforting, like it made more sense.

“You framed me!” he joked when I told him I was moving in upstairs from him, and added, “No judging of me, promise?”

“Honey, no judging of me,” I retorted. I was newly single at fifty-four and had fantasies of living it up. Thankfully he laughed.

I was going to live by myself for the first time in my life, and the thought overwhelmed but also excited me. Mostly excited. My twenty-three years-long marriage to the father of my three sons had ended in divorce ten years earlier, and six years later, when the boys launched from the nest, I followed my new partner Tony to Maine, where he had retired. Now I had broken up with him and moved out.

Ours was a relationship that had felt bashert —meant to be—on so many levels, it used to make us giddy. Both Tony and I had emotional and exuberant personalities, and he was a convert to Judaism as was I; he was a professor of French and I had a Ph.D. in French, and we both yearned to live in a more northern climate (he is a native of Maine and I of Norway) than the hot and humid Connecticut where we had each raised our combined large brood of kids, nine in all. We also shared a challenge: neither of us was particularly good at letting go of a disagreement before it spiraled into an exhaustive fight and sour moods that could easily ruin the day or, worst-case scenario, turn our much longed-for Sabbath, a day of peaceful rest and loving, into a period of disconnect and silence. Though we usually managed to rally and turn things around, when the latest storm hit, I felt I had reached my limit, and I wanted out.

When I left Tony, I felt as if I was facing a huge, white canvas: the possibilities seemed endless and thrilling, but the vastness of this unexpected and open space was also scary. I was free, but now what? A text pinged on my phone from my son’s landlord, a family friend: there was another opening in his building. Did I know anyone who might be interested?

•••

Even though the apartment was rent-stabilized, nothing about this made any financial sense, but I wanted to listen to my guts, not shy away from change just because it would be a challenge, wasn’t the “safe” thing. I was in my third semester of a low-residency MFA program and bills ticked in from the university every month, and I was still paying for my two younger sons’ college educations. I knew deep inside that an impulsive move during an emotional upheaval was probably not the wisest path, but I quickly imagined a new beginning and fantasized wildly about how I would re-invent my mid-life from sleepy Maine to hipster Brooklyn. I was going to be a New Yorker, after all! It had been a fantasy of mine since I first left my childhood home in Oslo, Norway, at nineteen and came to America as an au-pair, nearly thirty-five years ago.

“Can we talk about this?” Tony tried, as I packed my personal belongings from our house in the quintessential New England college town where it sat steps from the quaint campus and lush town green. “Please don’t go,” he pleaded, “What we have is too precious, Nina!” But my heart was hardened, and I was exhausted from our latest debacle. I didn’t see all that preciousness now; all I could say was, “No.”

Our Maine house was built in 1865 and had an adjoining, raw barn with cracks in the walls and a two-seater, wooden outhouse; “the honey-pot” Tony called the ancient privy and thought it was the most romantic thing ever. When I moved up from Connecticut, we renovated the barn and turned it into a colorful and glorious AirBnB where we hosted happy tourists during the summer, and family and friends during the year. We’d put our hearts and souls into cultivating the garden where tomatoes, kale, and blueberries thrived, and the vibrant colors in our flower beds brightened our days; Cosmos, Zinnias, Coneflowers, and Bachelor’s Buttons, their heads turned toward the sun on summer mornings, we’d sip our coffee and read the paper in our blue and green Adirondack chairs facing each other, feeling blessed.

Now I was driving the twenty-five-foot U-Haul truck south, filled with odd pieces of furniture I had gathered from the house, a few flea market finds, and suitcases stuffed with my clothes. I made a strategic stop at IKEA in New Haven on the way south and picked up a simple, pine bed frame and a white, round, dining table with four aqua colored plastic chairs, their contemporary design totally out of character for me who normally prefers things showing the imperfect patina of age and use.

I navigated through narrow city streets and completed a gutsy parallel parking stunt under low hanging branches that creaked ominously across the roof of the truck. Tobi and his roommate greeted me from the apartment building stoop. “Hey mamma, welcome home!” he said with grin and gave me one of his delicious bear hugs. They helped me move in to the top floor, one-bedroom apartment with hardwood floors and high ceilings. Located across the street from Brooklyn Botanical Gardens in a once-elegant, pre-war brick building, its old-world charm had dwindled over the decades but was still palpable. I was in love.

I quickly got to know my new neighbors, some whose families had lived in the building for generations. I recognized the faces of the owners of the shabby bodegas on Franklin Street and was on first name basis with Rawl at the Laundromat and Maggie at the coffee shop owned by the Palestinian grocers next door. She called me “mami” and knew I liked oat milk in my coffee and capers on my bagel.

In the apartment, I pulled up multiple layers of grungy linoleum from the kitchen floor and covered the mismatched and crooked floor tiles in the bathroom with soft bathmats. I splurged on a teal green, velour sleeper couch, and I painted the kitchen wall orange. In a whirlwind I nested like a fervent mammal expecting pups and turned the rundown place into a cozy and colorful lair. Candles flickered everywhere, plants perched on windowsills, and jazz piped from the speakers. I relished living by myself, something I had never experienced before. My son even said he loved having me close by, especially when I cooked dinners for him upstairs and stayed away from his messy den of iniquity downstairs.

•••

After a brief period of separation, Tony came to Brooklyn for a visit. We had been in touch via email, and as days turned into weeks, something softened in me. We were both wordsmiths and romantically inclined, and early tentative exchanges turned warmer until eventually, we agreed to see each other. He said he wasn’t excited about coming to the apartment that symbolized our break-up, but he made the journey anyway. I looked forward to welcoming him and made sure I had his favorite gin in the freezer.

Having him next to me again felt really good, and after four days and a few difficult conversations, we decided to not give up on our couple after all. We agreed on a compromise: I’d keep the Brooklyn apartment and divide my time between Maine and the City.

“I’m happy in my own company,” I told him, as I tried to explain how much I had relished my alone-time. “I’ll need to be able to have some of this, moving forward.” We were going to work on our relationship, and soon I was back north for a visit. We made plans for an extended trip to Israel, where Tony has kids and grandkids.

But then Covid-19 happened, and the trickle of strange information rapidly turned into a deluge of scary statistics, followed by travel advisories, lockdowns, and cancelled flights.

Plans changed for everyone. The young academic couple that was subletting my Brooklyn apartment for the spring returned to Spain, as libraries, universities, and archives closed their doors. This meant I was stuck with the rent. Two of my three sons lost income due to the pandemic and needed extra support from their father and me. I kept knocking myself —see what happens when you act on impulse?—and deep inside, a harsh voice kept telling me the whole Brooklyn idea had been foolish.

Yet, something had shifted between my partner and me since I had taken the apartment, and we had both spent some time alone. The heat of the fights had cooled and our hearts had thawed from the frost that made believing in our couple seem impossible. We were able to recall the reasons we had fallen in love in the first place, everything we shared, and how much we loved all that and each other. So, I stayed in Maine for what we agreed would be “a relationship in process.” We were getting along surprisingly well during the many weeks long shelter-in-place spring.

During New York’s most dire pandemic days, a woman from Bangladesh visiting her son in the City reached out. She needed a place to stay until things quieted down—could she sublet? “Your apartment seems like such a happy, comfortable space,” her son said in our Zoom meeting, sitting next to his mom, translating back and forth from Bengali. I was thrilled to offer his mom the apartment, and he was grateful that she would have a warm and welcoming home in which to stay safe.

I scroll through the colorful photos of the Brooklyn apartment and wonder when I will be able to return. I love the urban dwelling I created as a true “room of my own,” yet back in Maine, waiting out the lockdown, I was a better partner. More patient and compassionate, I held Tony’s hand on our walks beneath the pines, and as spring turned to summer and summer to fall, I sensed renewed hope for a future. I realized that although I’m at home in more places than one, my heart has found its way back to my bashert.

•••

NINA B. LICHTENSTEIN is a native of Oslo, Norway, who divides her time between Maine and Tel Aviv. She has a PhD in French literature and an MFA from University of Southern Maine’s Stonecoast program. Her essays have appeared in the Washington Post, Tablet, Brevity, Hippocampus, Lilith, and AARP’s The Ethel, among other places.