Fun Family Vacation

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My mother hates when I tell this story, so do not tell her I told you.

My loving parents and their four daughters spent summers camping. We would go for as long as my father could get off work, and however far that time would allow us. This was the final excursion involving offspring. Older sisters had aged out of family vacations, so it was my younger sister and I, at 15 and 17 respectively, making our last cross-country trip.

As we pulled our trailer into Banff, Canada, having been on the road for an eternity in my teenage mind, something snapped. My parents, who never fought, had a fight. I remember it clearly. My father asked how many more miles before we got to our destination. My mother gave an answer. Then my father asked me to verify. I was particularly good with maps.  My mother blew a hemorrhage. She had been his co-pilot for 25 years and he was doubting her? But it was more than that. She went on to complain that she was tired of breaking camp every morning at the crack of dawn to head out to a new destination and for just once, just once, she would like to stay in one place and see what a vacation felt like. There was probably more, but I was studying the map looking for a way out.

We did just what my mother wanted. We stayed in Banff. Dad stayed on his side of camp and Mom stayed on her side. My sister and I ran messages for them over the abyss. They did not speak to each other. Not in Banff or any other town on the remainder of our trip.

Two weeks into this cold war, my sister and I were in the backseat, with noses in our novels and the demeanor of sullen teenagers. My father pulled over into a scenic overlook somewhere in Oregon. Another babbling brook. Another beautiful vista. We were jaded after a lifetime of babbling brooks and beautiful vistas.

My father asked, “Is anyone getting out?” and got no reply. So, he gets out and heads left to look at the majestic coast.  One minute later my mother gets out and heads right.  Teenage daughters remain in the back seat.  A car door opens, and Dad gets in. Dad buckles up. Dad starts the car. Dad pulls out and up the scenic overlook road.  My sister and I look at each other in shock and disbelief. Can this be happening? Is he really making a break for it? Leaving Mom? Taking us? I croak, “Umm, Dad?” As he turns, he notices his co-pilot for life is not in the car. He slams on the brakes. In those big camper side-view mirrors I see my mother speed walking up the hill, with her fist shaking in the air, mad as hell. She gets in the car and starts yelling that everyone saw him pull away and leave her there. Honestly, the only two people who were even slightly interested in what was happening were my sister and I, but I was not going to say a word. I learned my lesson in Banff.  She went on about how she was mortified. How she had to chase the car up the hill. I wanted to say she would have had to go a lot further if I had not spoken up. I learned my lesson in Banff. If there had been any hope of détente, it was left at that scenic overlook.

I wrote letters home to my older sisters, telling them about the fight and our parents would probably get divorced. Since they were not talking to each other, my parents had not actually said any of that. But I was 17 and that was my conclusion. Plus, my parents never fought so this was something totally foreign to me. Their cold silence was a heavy air to live in. Delivering messages to and from people who were only feet apart was so ridiculous it was scary. The rest of the trip was horrible, and my sister and I were on our best behavior. Silently, they agreed to cut our trip short.

My parents did not divorce and made up quickly after we got home. So quickly that I question why they couldn’t have done that earlier and we could have seen more babbling brooks and beautiful vistas. But I kept my mouth shut. I learned my lesson in Banff.

Write About This Life

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I let a squirt of Purell cover my palms. I punch in the code to open the locked ward door and let myself in. An aide is loudly calling bingo numbers, competing with the din of the Boston Philharmonic on the television. Of the eleven people in the room, only one is even looking at her bingo card.

I find my mother in her room, in her bed, as usual. I take a moment to watch her sleep, practicing my deep breathing to match hers, and prepare myself to be mindful. Being present in the moment, even if I have the power to do this only in small snippets, helps us both. When I wake her up, she is so excited to see me, clapping her hands in front of her face when she spies the jelly doughnut I brought for her.

I answer her questions about who I married, what I do for a living, where I live, how many children I have. I check all her drawers and her walker basket for contraband: dishes, napkins, utensils, other people’s greeting cards. I get her out of bed and we walk to the dining room, where I sneak the stolen items into the sink. We sit at a table and eat our donuts.

I am entering a writing contest, I tell her.

“Oh, are you?”

“What should I write about?”

“Whatever you want to write about. What do you like to write about?”

“I like to write humorous pieces, like Erma Bombeck.”

“I don’t think I know her.”

I brush the crumbs from her chest. “This is a contest sponsored by a group devoted to Ernest Hemingway.”

“I don’t think I know him.”

“You do. When I read him in high school, we talked about his books.”

“I knew him in high school? I don’t remember.”

I put the dirty napkins in the doughnut bag and crumple it up. We sit quietly.

“What do you do for a living?”

I tell her about my paying job, but add, “I’m trying to be a writer.”

“Have I read your work?”

“Yes.”

“You must be good.”

“You have to say that; you’re my mother.”

Pain and confusion cross her face. “I must have been a terrible mother.” Her chin trembles. “Why didn’t my mother tell me I had children? I would have taken care of you if I’d known about you.”

“Mom, shhh, it’s OK. You were a wonderful mother. I’m here to take care of you because you were a wonderful mother.”

She’s shaking her head, muttering, “I don’t understand this. Why didn’t my mother tell me? How did this happen?”

I redirect. “Look at your fingernails. What a pretty color!” We spend a few moments admiring each other’s manicure, leaving the issue of motherhood in the immediate forgotten past.

I get up and go into the kitchen to throw away our garbage and get a wet paper towel to wash my mother’s hands. When I sit down, she is so excited to see me. “When did you get here?”

“Just now. I couldn’t wait to see you.”

“What have you been up to?”

I tell her again about my work, about my family. I mention, again, that I’m entering a writing contest.

“What should I write about?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“What would you like to read about?” I think of her old reading habits, filled with mystery and suspense.

“Life. This life.”

I pat her soft cool hands, squeezing the bony fingers gently.

“That’s just what I’ll do.”

* This essay is a Sunday Short Reads original.

Dream Love

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It was Manhattan, I understood that, but more ethereal. The watercolor sky made the city’s brick and concrete beautiful and sharp. I was with my friend, Doreen. She didn’t want to be there and wasn’t taken in by the cityscape or our purpose for being there, which was unclear to me anyway. A series of brownstone apartments stood out, 3D against the Kodachrome sky. They beckoned me. These connected buildings were magnificent in their design and craftsmanship. The spirits of the architects and laborers gazed up from the sidewalk, awed that their vision and efforts created such masterpieces that stood the test of time. The stone was solid. The windows clear. The corbels distinct and irreplaceable.  I knew I’d arrived at my destination.

Lin-Manuel Miranda joined us. He had a friend with him as well. Brandon R. He pointed to his name on a sheet of parchment paper. I took note, judging him by his penmanship. The artistic B and R with a playful flourish at the tails of those letters. The symmetrical slant of the lower cases. His name unmistakable, proud.  Cursive from another time. I liked what I saw.

Three of us excitedly climbed the stone steps, Doreen hanging back to sit on the stoop. The front latch was chest high, and the thick windowed door opened lightly and quietly. We explored the marbled hallways; wandered rooms with high ceilings, admired the polished mahogany paneling, stained glass, and clever design elements. A kitchen with hidden appliances was both a workspace and a formal dining room. We discussed similarities to Frank Lloyd Wright and various architects. Until this conversation, in this dream, I never knew I was so conversant in architecture.

Behind these buildings was an oasis, lush and green. The four of us meandered down the damp hill, enjoying the dappled sunlight and peace. The company was familiar, and our laughter echoed up the hills and through the trees. We discovered a waterfall with three cascades within a grove of trees, the sun bright at the peak. The moss-covered rocks were slippery, and Brandon gently took my hand. Love shivered from my palm to my heart.

Then the cat threw up. A painful yawl as he extracted a hairball and deposited it on the carpet on my husband’s side of the bed.

The dream shattered as I cleaned up the real world.

I laid back down, hopeful I could conjure up this dream love. I visualized our hands touching. I willed myself to feel the mist from the waterfall. The cat climbed on me, purring in my ear. I will just have to accept this version of love and bid Brandon with the beautiful handwriting and strong love lines adieu.

Dear Graduate

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Dear Graduate:

You are going to hear (and choose to ignore) words of wisdom, advice andFB_IMG_1496082674248 platitudes from dignitaries and relatives alike. They’ll all say the same thing anyway: live a life beyond your imagination, and take seriously the future you hold in your hands.

But listen to me. I know what your future holds. It is guaranteed to fill you with dread.

Reunions.

Everything you do in life will come under the microscope ten, twenty, thirty, forty, (and hopefully) fifty, sixty years from now in one single night in a dark hotel ballroom close to your old stomping grounds.

The first reunion draws the best crowd. The women will be shocked at how bald the men got. The men will be shocked at how fat the women got. Everyone will be trying to impress each other with their great careers, pretending to be higher up the corporate ladder than they really are. Diamond rings will be appraised and lots of baby pictures will be passed around to fake adoration.

At the twenty-year reunion, there is always a decent crowd of curiosity-seekers.  There is the person who went straight into civil service who is now retired with a pension. He’ll be wearing the tuxedo t-shirt and be the most care-free person in the room. People will be bragging about their career changes or start-ups to cover the lay-offs and stalled careers. The focus is now on their genius or Olympic-ready children.

The thirty-year reunion is a combination of the years around each graduating class, since it is hard to get a quorum. This causes a lot of confusion because you aren’t sure you even knew the person at your table, and you both do a lot of pretending. Spouses don’t come, unless it is the trophy wife, and she has to come for obvious reasons. You have to fictionalize your genius offspring’s life, since sleeping-in on the bed in the basement is not a career. Half the women will stay away, since they don’t like the way they look. Declining the invitation will be the happiest moment of that year for them. Half the men will be there to see if they can get lucky like they did back in the good-old school days. At least, that’s how they remember it.

The forty-year reunion should be in the same hotel as a medical convention, since that is all you will talk about. My aches and pains that are worse than your aches and pains. My surgeries were more complicated than your surgery. And let’s take a moment to remember those who died, may they rest in peace. Who was he again? But did you hear so-and-so remarried. Isn’t that like breaking into jail?

The fifty-year reunion is golden, so everyone who hears about it and can make it will be there. You can risk sending a better version stand-in since no one is recognizable or remembers much anyway. The name tag print is too small to read, but those old grainy black and white photos are priceless. Now the grandchildren’s photos are being passed to fake adoration. True success will be measured by the number and location of retirement homes. Some of you will be living in your children’s basements under the guise of mother-daughter apartments.

The sixty-year reunion is worth attempting to travel to, since the local paper will do a human-interest story on the few remaining, mobile graduates. Now you can tell the whole world about your wonderful life, career, marriage and children. No one will verify it, nor argue with you.

So Graduate, at this important milestone remember this: you need to do your best in this life so every ten years in a hotel ballroom you can impress the person sitting on the chair next to you. Do well and prosper.

Or at least, come up with a good story.

Cat Lady

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OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAI was adopted.

By a cat.

Eight years ago, on a beautiful spring day, this black & white cat was sitting on a chair on my front patio. He didn’t move when I came out the door. The nerve, I thought. I waved my hands and shouted at him to skedaddle. He just stretched, did a pirouette and plopped back down to resume his nap. So I let him be. I was on my way out anyway, so he could have the chair for a while. Just don’t get too comfortable.

I asked around, and this cat was a neighborhood favorite. He’d only recently arrived, and he had more friends among my neighbors than I did. He had found the motherland. He was well fed and had aggressively declared this section of the block as his (his torn ear was just one battle scar). He would stretch out on the sunroof of a neighbor’s car while he tinkered, another neighbor’s garage workbench while he tinkered, and take a stroll with another when he walked his dog. After a day of catting around, he stretched out on my patio chair for his nighttime slumber.

Great Guy and the kids fell in love. Cat would curl up on their laps when they were outside. When I wasn’t home, Great Guy would open the door and let Cat in. Cat would walk around, very politely (no spraying or scratching) checking out the place to decide if it was worth the move.

I volunteered to take him to be neutered at the animal shelter. I went there to make the appointment, to buy a cat carrier and anything necessary for having a cat in my house – for one night mind you. The woman at the store tried talking me into a bunch of scratchers (should have done it!) and other supplies, and I told her, smugly, we’re just dating, not living together.

You need to know, I have never in my life picked up a cat. Cats scare me. They are all fangs and claws. Now I have to trap one, get him into a carrier and take an angry, scared cat to get his balls cut off. What if I can’t even find him the fateful morning that will change his life? I worry all night.  I come out first thing in the morning, put the carrier on the ground, make that sound that we all think attracts cats, and what do you know, he comes running out of nowhere, sniffs the carrier and walks in and sits down. If only my children had been that easy.

My children had started calling him Oreo, as if naming him after my favorite food would make me fall in love. At the shelter, they asked for his name. He became mine when I gave him my last name.

He spent the night of his surgery in our house, his first of every night since. He was home. At first we restricted him to the basement at night. But he cried, and we can’t have our cat crying. He chose his favorite seats, which I covered with sheets. Then I just accepted cat hair as a part of life. My life.

Oreo and Great Guy would leave the house together each morning, Great Guy to go to work, Oreo to police the neighborhood. Later on, I would go for my morning walk. Out of nowhere, Oreo would appear, running ahead and then laying on the lawn of each house until I passed, and then he’d hopscotch to the next lawn. I had to restrict my route so he wasn’t out of a find-his-way-home-zone. Worse, he tired out faster than me, and would lie on a lawn crying until I walked back to pick him up. Then I’d have to carry him home. This meant I had to pass a house that fed all the other street cats. Cats that were now relegated to the other end of our block since Oreo was king of our end of the street. I was afraid of a cat fight while carrying Oreo, but he’d just puff up real big and stare them down, all from the safety of my arms and scurrying feet.

I learned the joys of living with an outdoor cat. Many days we’d stare each other down: OK, drop that bird, we don’t have all day. Mice stay outside, Oreo. Wipe that mud off your belly. When I saw him jump into the sewer, I was horrified that he would be curling up on my bed in a few hours. Yes, he now slept in my bed.

Now I was attached. If he was slow to come home when called, I feared the worst. So we had two weeks of tough love, and he became an indoor cat. A big, fat indoor cat.

I read a stack of books about cats, just as I did when I was expecting my first child.  I bought toys. I insulted him with a fake mouse. He looked at the laser light, looked at me, and never moved a muscle. I spent more time hitting the bird on the spring than he did. Technically, I’m the only one who ever played with it. I read cat food labels to find the best food for him. I don’t read labels on any of the food I feed the rest of my family. Yes, he’s family, and he’s fed the most nutritious food.

Oreo is a mellow cat. He’s never bitten, scratched, swiped, sprayed or anything else I feared a cat would do. Oreo follows me around the house, and loves to be carried and massaged. (A leftover ritual when I would scrub him clean when he came inside from a day of hunting in the sewer.)  He’s a talker. He tells me when to put food in his bowl, what doors he wants opened, when his litter box isn’t up to health code. He even tolerates Great Guy who annoys the cat as much as he annoys the kids. Oreo owns us.

Great Guy is thrilled. After eight years, Oreo has started sleeping next to him. “Look, he loves me!” I’ve been beside this man for thirty eight years, and don’t get that reaction. I might just scratch him.

 

I Hope She Heard Me

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I think my Mom would have liked for us to wax on about how wonderful a mother, wife, daughter, sister, grandmother and great grandmother she was.

Which she was.

I think my Mom would like to remind everyone that she had the smallest waist in Brooklyn.

Which she did.

I think she’d like to say one more time that her wrinkles were caused by steroid medication and not age.

We know that, Mom.

While dementia may have stolen her memory, it didn’t diminish her sense of humor. When shown a picture and asked if she knew which one she was,  Mom said, “Yes, the pretty one.”

But here is what I’d like to say to my mother.

Dear Mom:

It brings us great joy to know that right now you are dancing with Dad in heaven.

It brings us great joy to know that you don’t have a single wrinkle on your face.

It brings us great joy to know you can now see your parents and hear Dad sing.

It brings us great joy to remember your delicious cooking.

It brings us great joy to remember the clothes you sewed with the label “Made with love by Mom.”

It brings us great joy to remember our lives on the road camping across this country.

It brings us great joy to know that you did your best for us at the beginning of our lives and we did our best for you at the end of yours.

It brings us great sorrow to know that this is the end of your time with us.

Take with you our unending love.

Write About This Life

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I let a squirt of Purell cover my palms, punch in the passcode to open the locked ward door, and let myself in.  An aide is loudly calling bingo numbers, competing with the din of the Boston Philharmonic on the television. My mother is not among the residents in the lounge. I find her in her room, in her bed, as usual. When I wake her up, she is so excited to see me and more excited that I’ve brought a jelly donut.

I answer her questions about who I married, what I do for a living, where I live, and how many children I have.  I check all her drawers and her walker basket for stolen contraband – dishes, napkins, utensils, other people’s greeting cards.  I get her out of bed and we walk to the dining room where I sneak the stolen items into the sink. We sit at a table and eat our donuts.

I am entering a writing contest, I tell her.

“Oh, are you?”

“What should I write about?”

“Whatever you want to write about. What do you like to write about?”

“I like to write humorous pieces, like Erma Bombeck.”

“I don’t think I know her.”

I brush the crumbs from her chest.  “This is a contest sponsored by a group devoted to Ernest Hemingway.”

“I don’t think I know him.”

“You do. When I read him in high school we talked about his books.”

“I knew him in high school?  I don’t remember.”

We sit quietly.

“What do you do for a living?”

“I’m trying to be a writer.”

“Have I read your work?”

“Yes.”

“You must be good.”

“You have to say that, you’re my mother.”

Pain and confusion cross her face. “I must have been a terrible mother.” Her chin trembles. “Why didn’t my mother tell me I had children?  I would have taken care of you if I’d known about you.”

“Mom, shhh, it’s OK. You were a wonderful mother. I’m here to take care of you because you were a wonderful mother.”

Mom’s shaking her head, muttering, “I don’t understand this. Why didn’t my mother tell me? How did this happen?”

I need to redirect. “Look at your fingernails. What a pretty color!” We spend a few moments admiring each other’s manicures, leaving the issue of motherhood in the immediate forgotten past.

I get up and go into the kitchen to throw away our garbage and get a wet paper towel to wash my mother’s hands.  When I sit down, she is so excited to see me.  “When did you get here?”

“Just now. I couldn’t wait to see you.”

“What have you been up to?”

I tell her about work, about my family, and I mention again that I’m entering a writing contest.

“What should I write about?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“What would you read about?”

“Life. This life.”

I pat her soft cool hands, squeezing the bony fingers gently.

“That’s just what I’ll do.”

Recipe for a Good Friendship

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Begin with two very different people.

Add:

1 tsp of unique perspectives

Ton of laughs (use your own secret recipe)

Equal amounts of Hearts of Gold and good intentions

Cup of patience

Skim off angst as it floats to the top

Hold the tongue

Let warm up slowly

Sprinkle on I’m Sorry if it starts to boil

Don’t poke with sharp instrument or it will deflate

Let it rest in pleasant surroundings

Check it often so it doesn’t cool too much

A Good Friendship will keep forever

Just Drive

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2

I’ve made the decision that I am only going to drive late model cars.

Operative word – drive.

Here’s why. Great Guy and I spent the first hour of our vacation in the rental car lot trying to figure out how to work the damn thing.

“How do you start this car?”

“Where’s the key?”

“Is this a key? Where do you put it?”

Looking around the steering column, “Isn’t there an ignition?”

When we figured out that keys don’t start cars anymore, we were now faced with an array of touchscreens and knobs. I felt like those babies with a fake car dashboard pushing knobs and levers up and down, making weird noises and nothing happening.

“How do you turn on the radio?”

“I don’t know, what about this?”

“What did you touch? I was trying to sync my phone. Now it’s not working. Don’t touch anything.”

I just want to get from point A to point B with a little music. But I am now compelled to sync my phone, hook up my own music into the car’s fancy-schmancy sound system, scan through five thousand Sirius radio stations and pull off onto the shoulder so I can plug in an address for directions I don’t trust anyway.

One night I picked up Great Guy at the train station and he can’t spot me among all the idling cars. He calls me. But his phone is the primary bluetooth connection in the car and he’s within range.  Now my cell won’t work, since it is all confused. Do I use the Bluetooth? my phone wonders. But I can’t connect to Bluetooth. Some other phone cut in front of me. I’ll just sit here with a black screen and wait for that call to end.  So with all this technology to connect us, I have to get out of the car and scream his name to get his attention.

I remember when I thought I was hot stuff because I finally got a Bluetooth earpiece. After I figured out how many beeps in my ear I needed to hear in order to get voice commands, I said:

“Call Nan.”

“Call Sam?”

“No. Call Nan.”

“Call Pam?”

I don’t even know a Pam. “No Call Nan”

Obviously the tone in my voice pissed off Ms. Bluetooth, because then she said, “Call Chris Home?”

“Where did you get that?”

“Call Pat?”

By now I forgot what I wanted to say to Nan anyway.

I want OnStar with a real person at the other end. I would call OnStar and make it do the things my family calls me to do. Make a reservation. Send me driving directions. Tell me if there is traffic up ahead.  And when I’m on a long trip alone, I imagine hitting that little button for company, like Delilah on the radio. I’d get a friendly voice saying “Onstar. How can I help you?”  How nice is that?

Wait! I have a better idea. We create an Onstar call-in show.  All us lonely drivers who aren’t talking on our cell phones because we can’t get them to sync, could get a group chat – a real chat – going. Today’s version of the CB radio.  Maybe they could offer OnStar meet-ups. Our OnStar operator could start announcing meet-ups based on our location, since they know where we are. Creepy and exciting at the same time.

Now cars are better drivers than us. They are looking over our shoulders when we forget to, braking when we are too slow on the pedal, slowing us down so we don’t crash into the semi-truck because we are too busy looking at the large monitor on our dashboard for the latest news and traffic and celebrity reports.

Driverless cars. Let me say that again. Driverless cars. Begs the question, why is my car leaving home without me? And am I the only one who remembers Hal in 2001: A Space Odyssey? Look, there have been plenty of times I wouldn’t have minded a little assistance for those tight parking spots or when I’m really tired, but a driverless car?  Poll the average person and ask if their smart phones are all that smart.  I envision telling my car, “take me to the office” and I scared-woman-driver-behind-wheel-car-pop-art-comics-retro-style-halftone-imitation-old-illustrations-delave-effect-old-53782860end up at Office Depot, unable to redirect my car at any point in this crazy excursion. I can see it now, a crazy, trapped woman, hands pressed up against the driver window pleading for help. OnStar! I’ve been kidnapped by my car!

Do You Believe in Love at First Sight: Great Guy

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e&B 1981 croppedI have this burning question I want to ask the universe, so I thought I’d start with the closest thing in my orbit – my husband, Great Guy.

I pick him up at the commuter train and as soon as he buckles-up I ask, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“Is this a trick question?”

“No, I’m just wondering – globally – if there is love at first sight.”

“Did I forget our anniversary?” I assure him, no. This is just one of my musings.

“Oh I get it. You’re reading one of those women’s magazines. Why don’t we concentrate on the articles about making your partner happy in bed? I can answer any of those musings you have.”

“Really, is it so hard to answer “do you believe in love at first sight?”

“We’ve been together for, what, 37 years? The answer is yes, it was love at first sight.”

“So you fell in love with me at first sight?”

“Yes, you and all the girls in your dorm.”

I slap him on the arm. “I just want to know if you believe in the concept of love at first sight.”

“No. It’s ridiculous. Any guy who tells a girl it is love at first sight just wants to get laid or impress the girl’s friends. It’s just a storyline. It’s not true. But I do believe in dislike at first sight.  When you met me, was it love at first sight?”

“I’m not even sure I liked you at first sight.”

“Proves my point.”

“And I’m not sure how I feel about you at this very moment.”

“Now we’re talking. What do the women’s magazines say about that?”

“Dump him and find your true happiness.”

He leans in to me. “You can’t. I’ve grown on you.”

My heart softens.

“Like mold. And you can’t get rid of me.”

Be still my heart.