Kittridge and Cooper: Magic for the Common Man

“Funny,” my cousin Gilda remarked once the sudden sun shower had exhausted itself, “I don’t remember seeing that before.”

Like all the shoppers in Portsmouth Village on that late Sunday afternoon, we’d run for cover when the storm hit and she and I had ended up under the eave of the elegant little stationery shop. The rain had been dense enough to be blinding albeit brief - nothing more than a sun shower, really but with an awesome fierceness to it - and the quaint cobblestoned streets had fairly run rivers for a few intense minutes. 

“Come on,”Gilda said with an impatient tug at my elbow, “Let’s go in.”

Kittridge and Cooper, the scarred wooden sign in the dark window read, Magic for The Common Man.

I held back, pretty certain that before the sudden sun shower, the sign had read Kittridge and Cooper, Where Modern Cinderellas Shop.  The small cottage, totally in keeping with the romantic 18th century ocean-side mall of which the City of Portsmouth was so proud, reminded me of a mushroom with its uneven, curving lines and low slung, sloping roof. It was like something out of a fairy tale, something you might find at the end of a very narrow path after a very long trek through very dark woods. I had a wildly improbable vision of witches and unicorns, of half-man, half-beast creatures, of things that go bump in the night and turn children into pug dogs. 

“Come on!” Gilda pinched me back to reality, “Good God, we’re in Portsmouth Village in the middle of the day! This is 1959! What can happen?” 


I thought a lot could happen in a place where a sun shower could turn an upscale clothing store into a magic shop but she was petulant, stamping one small foot on the cobblestones and giving me the patented Gilda-Glare. More resistance would just provoke an argument - I’d never won an argument with my curious cousin in my life and didn’t think it was likely to happen now - and she was already at the old wooden door. If I let her go in alone, I thought dismally, I’ll never hear the end of it and if something wonderful happens, I’ll have missed it. Wishing I hadn’t noticed that no one else was window shopping or strolling through this little corner of the Village, that it appeared to be, not to put too fine a point on it, deserted, I reluctantly crossed the cobblestone street. Gilda smiled, one hand on the old fashioned door latch, the other waving me on. The old oaken door swung open without so much as a respectable creak or a groan and we crossed the threshold. A single sliver of sunlight darted past us but once inside it retreated quickly, there one minute and gone the next, swallowed whole, I thought, it’d never had a chance.

From the outside, the cartoonish, little toadstool-like cottage had seemed remarkably cozy and small but from the inside the dark space appeared to have doubled, tripled even. Not only that, I saw with some apprehension, it seemed to have sunk - there were windows, grimy and mostly obscured - but the view was street level. If someone had been passing, you’d have seen feet and ankles, maybe the bottom hem of a raincoat but not much more. Had there been steps that I hadn’t noticed, I wondered, but couldn’t bring myself to look over my shoulder and check. In places where a summer squall can change a boutique to a magic shop, there are some things it’s better not knowing.

“Come see!” Gilda was calling to me, “They have magic wands!”
“You must be over eighteen to purchase a wand,” a voice that came from everywhere and nowhere and seemed to float on the musty air decreed, “But we do have rather a nice selection of sleight of hand tricks, if I do say so myself.”

“Welcome to Kittridge and Cooper,” a second voice, equally as shimmery and insubstantial added, “May we show you young ladies something?”

The first voice had startled me badly but it was the second - so close I was sure I could feel its breath on the back of my neck - that nearly made me jump out of my skin and skitter a little frantically towards Gilda. She gave me an impatient look and a sharp Grow up! punch to the arm when I ducked behind her but it didn’t help my shivering. Peering cautiously over her shoulder, I saw two figures slowly emerge - no, materialize, almost glide - out of the half-light. They looked like eggs in formal attire, I thought with relief and surprise. Both were short, stocky, bald as cue balls and tightly tucked into their clothes - white tie and tails just like Fred Astaire except they somehow looked painted on, like elegant Easter eggs - both were smiling, stubby little arms clasped behind their backs. Identical twins, I realized, mildly disproportionate, probably eccentric, certainly harmless. Dwarfs, another voice whispered inside my head, malformed, possibly mad as hatters, surely dangerous. All the same, there was something vaguely familiar about them, something almost comical.

The one on the right took a small step forward and made a formal but stiff bow. 

They don’t bend, I thought distractedly.

Of course not, Gilda thought back snappishly, They’re eggs!

I would’ve told her not to be rude but then I understood that she’d spoken only in my mind. I didn’t have time to reflect on this before one of the little men began to speak aloud.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the egg-shaped little man said somewhat grandly, “I am Kittridge Solomon and this is my brother, Cooper.”


“Cooper Solomon at your service,” the one on the left said and made the same stiff bow, “How do you do.”

Tweedledee and Tweedledum, I suddenly thought, from Alice in Wonderland, how had I not seen it before. Would a monstrous crow be next, I wondered, or was it already here, keeping the little shop so shadowy and dark. Except that it wasn’t, I suddenly saw, it had brightened considerably since we’d first come in. I could now see the cluttered shelves and the dusty display cases quite clearly. There were empty birdcages, mannequins in capes and wizard hats, stack upon stack of leather bound books, small wooden cabinets and oversized chiffarobes, baskets of small powder packets and an entire section of vials full of assorted colored liquids. The last seemed to have a life of their own, rocking and churning like waves on a miniature ocean. They shone with fluorescent backlighting, the colors blending and glowing like a tiny lightshow. Gilda took an uncertain step in their direction and one of the brothers stepped smoothly to intervene.

“Let me show you our herb collection,” he said softly, “I’m certain we have something to intrigue you.”

“But first, we must have tea. To your very good health,” the second brother added, “Nothing puts you right like a good herb tea.”

I wasn’t sure how I hadn’t seen the tea table before but there it was, small and rounded and set for four with a small, copper tea kettle cheerfully whistling among the plates of scones and individual iced cakes.

“Such a treat to have company,” the first brother said kindly while the second held Gilda’s chair then mine and smiled agreeably.

Gilda allowed herself to be seated but she was frowning at the seemingly sudden appearance of the tea table. Never one to take the long road when a short one would do, she came directly to the point. “So,” she asked casually, “Is this real magic?”

The brothers exchanged a glance, half amused , half carefully discreet.

“Spells, potions, herbs, enchantments,” one said serenely, “Not for everyone, oh, my, no.”

“Yes,” Gilda insisted, “But is it real?"

“It is,” the other brother said, “If you believe, naturally.” He poured more tea from a kettle that I was sure should’ve been empty by now. “And if you’re of age, of course.”

“Of age?” I ventured, surprising myself with my own boldness.

“Of age,” they said together, “Eighteen, to be precise. Oh, my, yes.”

By the time we’d finished our tea, the shop had turned dim and shadowy again. In the yellowish and hazy streetlamp light seeping in from the windows, the harmless, egg shaped brothers began to look less like Tweedledee and Tweedledum and more like characters from some dark, unkind fairytale. It was, Gilda and I thought together but separately, time to go. We politely bid the brothers goodbye and they each bowed, thanked us for coming and saw us to the door.Back on the cobblestone streets of Portsmouth Village where the sun was high in the sky, it was inexplicably bright and warm and crowded. There was not the slightest trace of a recent rain. 


“Let’s go in,” Gilda was saying, nodding toward the odd little magic shop where only a time warp moment before there had been a clothing boutique with a fairy tale-ish name. There was a sudden heat shimmer in the air, a fraction of a second when I closed my eyes and sensed the earth shiver, nearly vibrate. It sighed. Deeply. Almost audibly. When I looked again, I saw a simple painted cottage with window boxes of wildflowers and a garden gnome on each side of the door. An etched wooden sign hung above the door.

Kittridge and Cooper, it read, Where Modern Cinderellas Shop.


The display windows were full of cartoon figures in pinafores and Little Lord Fauntleroy suits. A colorful red haired Raggedy Ann doll sat astride a brightly painted rocking horse, Snow White and The Seven Dwarfs were having tea with a mermaid. A unicorn slept by a quiet pond near a willow and a green-faced witch on a broomstick was silhouetted against a yellow paper moon. Rainbows and stars hung together, suspended by almost invisible filaments of wire. Cinderella herself was stepping out of a royal coach on the arm of a handsome prince. And in the corner, two identical egg-shaped little men stood motionless under the shadow of a giant raven.

I pretended not to notice when one of them winked at me.

Buyer's Remorse

It's not deep, my friend Michael tells me, gingerly feeling the jagged, three inch gash on his forehead, probably won't even leave a scar.


I shrug and think better of telling him that it looks like a blood stained lightning bolt and most certainly will.


I've found him at noon, still in bed and in a tangle of sheets, wearing nothing but his designer black briefs and matching socks. He's sickly pale and bleary-eyed, having a bad case of buyer's remorse and a little memory loss. After only four drinks (experience tells me this really means seven or eight, he tends to be revisionist about this kind of thing), he fell either getting into or out of the old Suburban. It doesn't happen often these days (at least not anymore) but this time it's a humdinger, as my old grandmother might say. His skull is cracked, both hands are badly bruised and swollen, his hip aches. He's lost one of his rings, and not just any ring but a family heirloom and quite valuable. I don't just dig for sympathy - I have to dredge - and come up empty-handed.


In a moment of charity ( which, I remind myself, he doesn't deserve) I start the coffee and scratch around until I find the aspirin bottle, then coax the dogs downstairs and out to the side yard. They romp happily enough while I smoke a cigarette and when they tire themselves out, I lead them back upstairs, secure the gate behind them and slip out.


Later that day there will be admissions of stupidity and carelessness, a renewed vow of abstinence. This time, he'll assure me, he's learned his lesson. For a man who's spent his lifetime cultivating vanity - he spends more on a few months of makeup than most people make in a year - there's a karma-esque justice about it all.

Won't scar, my ass.

Christmas in Jail

Every little bout of sobriety teaches you something, they say in AA, you can't help but learn from every failure.

I think of this when I learn that my old friend, Kirk, has been back in jail since early November. He'd bragged proudly and happily about his new apartment across the river - didn't mention he'd been evicted from the old one. Lost his latest new job a month before but led us all to believe he'd been unfairly fired. Was thrown out of his newest band for being drunk and disorderly on stage. And finally beat up his current girlfriend. At her wits end, she'd finally called the police and let them talk her into pressing charges, leaving her brave, broke, and homeless. A musician friend one who'd seen it all before, came to her rescue and took her in, giving her a much needed chance to sort out her life and her next move. I listened to this with a heavy heart, saddened but not surprised. Of all the symptoms of addiction, relapse may be the hardest to overcome and the most heartbreaking. To see someone whole and on their way to healthy then watch as they self-destruct and crumble is at first excruciatingly painful but after you've seen it a half dozen or more times, it's just numbing. You're forced to detach for own survival. Alcoholism, I read years ago, isn't a spectator sport. Sooner or later, the whole family gets to play.


I've never seen the inside of a jail cell and next to a rehab center, I know it's the safest and best place for him, but I can't even begin to imagine spending Christmas in jail. It's too sorrowful and depressing to think about. I visualize small, windowless cells and orange jumpsuits, strip searches and cots chained to blank walls, bad food served on tin trays. And a hollow, self pitying emptiness.


Addiction is a disease and a demon. The longer is feeds, the more it demands. Eventually there's never enough and it kills its host and wounds as many innocent bystanders as it can.


To the precious few who seek or stumble into recovery, Merry Christmas.
To those who haven't, rest in peace.


To my friend Kirk, who I love and am letting go, I hope you find a better way.

Jingle All the Way

I get home early enough to catch the late afternoon light but I haven't counted on how little cooperation I'll get from the dogs. The annual Christmas pictures don't go as well as I'd hoped.


The small brown dog is frozen with terror at the jingle bell collar and no matter how I try to distract her, she just gives me her most pitiful look and cowers. The little dachshund immediately decides that the collars and last year's Santa's hat are toys - that somehow I'm keeping from him - and each time I turn away, he snatches one or the other and trots away. The kitten, the only one I'm able to lay hands on, gives me a look that suggests she might be calling her union rep. Christmas spirit is decidedly in short supply.


Still, I persist and after a couple of hours manage to nail all three. Not my best work, I admit, but it's like Tom Lehrer's "New Math". You might get a wrong answer but the idea is the important thing.


Myself, I'm not much of a fan of Christmas. I turn down the well meant invitations. I don't buy gifts anymore and I quietly hope that I won't get any. I don't decorate. I don't miss the frantic shopping sprees or the cards I religiously used to send. I avoid parties at all costs. I've grown out of Christmas except for the music but, oh, the music. The carols and the hymns - Mahalia Jackson, Bing Crosby, Bobby Helms, Odetta and Handel - they set my soul to fire and bring me peace.


I don't think the small brown dog or the little dachshund know the difference although I'm pretty sure the kitten is a closet fan and knows all the lyrics to Red Sovine's Teddy Bear.


Just as I do.

Two Scoops

It was a fine day to whitewash the side porch.

My daddy donned his one pair of overalls -they'd seen far better days but were perfect for the work to be done - a pair of ragged canvas shoes and hitched his way through the still damp grass to the side yard. He carried a paint brush in one hand, a can of Minwax whitewash in the other and a pack of Luckies in his shirt pocket. He stopped whistling long enough to ask me if I wanted to help and I happily trailed after him, overjoyed at the prospect of being part of such a grown up chore.

Nana had thoroughly swept the steps free of dirt and spider webs and bits of overgrown grass and they were what my daddy called "prepped". I held the can of Minwax white stain with both hands while he dipped the brush, scraped off the excess and began applying the paint in short, even strokes. The splintery old wood seemed to inhale the white wash and I imagined I could hear it whispering "Thank you!" with every coat. It wasn't long before the whole porch was freshly wet and shining. The factory whistle blew promptly at noon and although my daddy wasn't as well known as the rest of the family - we arrived in late May and stayed almost to Labor Day while he was only there for one brief week each summer - each and every factory worker and fisherman waved or called to him as they passed.

Who is that?  he would ask innocently as they trudged by and although I suspected he already knew, I would tell him their names and where they lived and he would nod and smile.

Nana brought us fish chowder and lobster salad for lunch - dinner, as it was called on the island, she reminded us - and we ate in the warm sunlight, washing it down with frosty bottles of pop. Daddy lit a Lucky Strike and leaned contentedly back against the flagpole with both dogs nuzzling comfortable at his side. Nana brought me a plastic pail and sent me to pick blackberries for supper, then pronounced the whitewash well done and gave me a shiny new quarter. My daddy laughed and not to be outdone, handed me a fifty cent piece and gave me a kiss on the forehead.

You can help me paint anytime, he said with a grin and a quick glance at his watch, Now let's clean up and go get ice cream.

We walked the quarter mile to Mr. Thibodeau's tiny little store, in truth, it was just a mud room he'd built on and never used so one summer, just to have something to do, he'd added a few shelves and a rough hewn counter and called it good. You couldn't buy much - cigarettes and snuff, little tins of aspirin, Jersey Milk chocolate bars, bobby pins and pop - but he did sell ginger ice cream and if he was having a good day, an island kid could get two scoops (and a wink) for the price of one. That day was a good day and my daddy and I both walked back home with double scoops.

When you're six and it's summer, some days are just like extra ice cream.

The Right Side

I was raised in a middle class, uncompromising republican home in New England when political code words were only slightly more discreet than they are now.

We did not approve of welfare or the people on it.

We did not approve of integrating the schools and actively opposed busing.

Inter-racial dating was strictly forbidden.

We favored charity when it meant dropping a few coins in the Salvation Army bucket at Christmas or donating a turkey to the New England Home for Little Wanderers at Thanksgiving but the rest of the year the less fortunate were pretty much on their own. Exactly as they deserved, my mother would take pains to point out.

We were encouraged to clean our plates because children were starving in Europe – a safe distance away -and certainly not our responsibility.

We were force fed religion, although only the Baptist brand, and were taught early the perils of having Catholic or Jewish friends. No foreign cars were going to be parked in driveway and no un-waspish company was going to find welcome at our door. When the house next door went up for sale and was purchased by a family with swarthy (my grandmother's word, I had to look it up) skin and a complicated last name, a chain link fence quickly followed because Heaven help the neighborhood, those people are everywhere. They were harmless and gentle-natured Lebanese folks – not aliens, not terrorists, not even democrats – but we weren't allowed to speak to them.

Little by slow, I came to disagree with the house rules and by the time I was a teenager, I was headed for a full on change of heart. My daddy, using the tolerant and overly patient tone of voice he reserved for my mother when she was on her way to an alcoholic meltdown, would tease me and we both pretended there was no serious undertone to it. He liked to assure me that I'd come around once I'd spent some time in the real world. His world sure as hell wasn't mine, I would fire right back. My mother simply doubled down, informed me although we might live in a democracy, it damn well didn't extend to inside her living room and I could just shut the hell up. Political views became one more thing we loathed about each other.

It took some time before I realized that no amount of reason or dissent was going to change their minds or mine and as so many families do, we reached an impasse. Spirited debates between me and my daddy grew just the tiniest bit ugly and angry and my mother threatened to put me out on the street if I ever thought about criticizing Goldwater again. Coming from a woman who considered Joseph McCarthy the second coming and believed the entire moon landing  had happened on a Hollywood sound stage, I couldn't say I was surprised.

There'll be no peace and love bullshit in this house! she screeched at me over one Sunday dinner when she learned I had plans to attend an anti-war demonstration. It was so absurd that I very nearly choked on a a brussel sprout and my poor daddy – having a finer appreciation of irony than I'd suspected – laughed until he cried and did his best to turn it into a bronchitis attack. She gave him her patented traitor's glare and slammed her fist impotently on the table but all it accomplished was a nasty, set-in stain on the crocheted table cloth.

Nana never got over that gravy stain.