Suits Me Fine

One can say that my husband’s fashion style is frozen in time.  Perhaps it is more accurate to say that he lacks style completely.   For thirty years he has worn the same beef-role penny loafers from L.  L. Bean.  When I say “the same” I am not really exaggerating; his current ones have been re-soled seven or eight times.  He wears classic chinos, pleated and cuffed.  For work he wears a starched cotton button down; as soon as he comes home he changes to a Lacoste polo.  Once a year I am able to trick him into going shopping with me; I consider it a coup if I am able to slip a new suit and a new blazer into his closet.  What he does not know is that every time I buy him something new, a similar piece of clothing mysteriously disappears from his collection.

To make matters worse my husband has a dangerous color sense.  He is a graduate of the University of Oregon, where he spent several of his formative years being brainwashed into believing that bright yellow and deep green should be worn together.  During the 90s he had a deep green blazer with gold buttons—like he had won the Masters—that he proudly wore to work with a yellow shirt and Oregon insignia tie.  The shame!  It was even more frightening when he improvised with other vibrant colors, layered with impunity.   Olive pants with a pink shirt, blue tie and brown plaid jacket.  There have been many nights when I have waited until he fell asleep so that I could edit the clothes he had hung out for the following day.

There is one fashion train-wreck that stands out above them all.   It begins and ends with a funeral.  Almost a decade ago we left our home to mark the passing of a wonderful woman, my mother’s beloved cousin, who was certainly sent by the gods on a ray of sunshine.  We packed our family and all of our stuff in the car in order to drive to Long Island to celebrate her life and say goodbye.  The next morning, we rose early and my husband could not find his suit anywhere.  It turns out he left his suit bag on our bed at home.  As a result, he had no choice but to wear Levi jeans and a plaid flannel shirt to the funeral.

When my father passed away two years ago, the news set into motion a series of well-coordinated events.  My son, who was in college and still awake from the night before, boarded a plane in Oregon on two hours’ notice.  We left Boston and collected him in Atlanta, all four of us changing to the same Delta flight to Florida.  This time, I got ahead of the curve with my husband; I personally made sure that the suit bag he pulled out made the trip with us, admonishing him that I would not tolerate another lumberjack episode.  “Don’t worry,” he kept assuring me.  The next morning, as we were all dressing for the morning service, my husband let out an exasperated cry:  “Oh no!”  I came running out of the bathroom, where I had been fixing my hair. 

Sheepishly, my husband looked at me.  “I don’t want you to be upset,” he said.  “You have enough to worry about today.”  “Better tell me what it is,” I said, bracing for the worst.  While my husband managed to get his suit bag all the way to Florida, he had grabbed his tuxedo by mistake.  Here we were, still in shock over the suddenness of the situation, and my husband was ready to party.  “It’s OK,” he argued, “I can simply wear the tux jacket over my shirt and tie with some dark pants.”  I looked at him in disbelief, simply too stunned to reply.

There is something that happens to moms when their kids get sick or hurt or bullied.  We turn into creatures of infinite clarity, able to solve the most complex human equations with raw instinct and our bare hands.  At this moment, my husband was just another lost child in need of maternal salvation.  I went to the closet and assessed the situation, pulling out some dark pants to go with his white shirt and dark tie.  I threw them on the bed and pointed, unable to speak but commanding him nonetheless with daggers from my eyes.  I seized his computer and Googled Nordstrom, having noticed when we arrived late the night before that our hotel was next to the mall.  I called the men’s department, asking them what dark blazers they had in 46XL.  Giving my account number over the phone, I purchased a jacket identical to one my husband already owned, asking the salesperson to remove all labels and vent stitches and to meet us in fifteen minutes at the north entrance. 

If husbands cannot be relied upon to act in appropriate fashion, at least there is Nordstrom!

Tomorrow's blog:  Potties Field

E.T. Phone Home

I was cleaning my daughter’s room after her Spring Break visit and found that she had pulled A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court from the shelf in our library.  It caused my mind wander a lot in the ensuing weeks.  I keep thinking back to my simple retro home life growing up and my lean college years.  I flashed to the old “when I was young” jokes:  “When I was young we used to walk to school . . . ten miles . . . uphill. . . in the snow . . . without boots . . . fighting off the dinosaurs. . . with a sling-shot.”  I wish our children could go back in time to see what our lives were like.   Technology has spiraled so quickly, revolutionizing the way we live; it is sad that it is not better appreciated by this younger generation.  Many older consumers—those who are really in a position to understand how far we have come—are reluctant to embrace today’s newest offerings.  My own mother, for example, will not use email or learn to browse the Internet.  (Kudos to my mother-in-law, however, who emailed me while I was writing this to discuss another of my blogs that she had just read online!)  Younger consumers, on the other hand, were born with silicon spoons in their mouths.  The delight that should accompany their treasure trove of high tech riches is missed on them.   They want ever more apps, crisper graphics, better ring-tones, and more song tracks.  Do they think this stuff just grows on trees?

High tech in the 60’s was exemplified by Dick Tracy comics. Tracy’s watch was a 2-way radio—they did not even have the foresight to call it a phone.  “This is Dick Tracy calling Go-Go-Gomez.  Calling Go-Go-Gomez.” Secret agent Maxwell Smart had a phone in his shoe and we thought that was more preposterous than forward thinking.   In the real word, we anticipated the promise that someday we would have “television phones,” allowing us to talk to another person through a television screen, seeing a live view (dressed from the waist up, no doubt) of our counterpart while we conversed.  Although we could imagine the functionality, we did not believe that such a thing would happen in our lifetimes.  Nor did we imagine that such technology would be as miniaturized as Tracy’s watch, as the 60s paradigm for technology was actually bigger and not smaller.  Remember the huge television tubes, the room-sized IBM computers, huge stereo speakers?  It is mind-boggling to consider through a 1969 lens, like the one through which I watched a grainy image of man walking on the moon, at how much power we now carry in our pockets.  My iphone actually cost less than my first trig-function calculator in unadjusted dollars, and it talks to satellites!

The telephone is an interesting object against which to benchmark technological growth.  I am in my early fifties.  Until about forty years ago, in the 70s, there was no digital technology in telephones.  A largely mechanical unit with a rotary dial (which created a series of clicks) sent point-to-point messages across landlines, which are nothing more than common twisted-pair cables.  Technologically speaking, it is comparable to two cans and a string.  It was a big deal in my family when digital service became available, enabling an upgrade to push-button phones.  I remember being fascinated with the dissonant tones assigned to the various buttons.  I used to translate the tones into famous classical signatures.  If one of my friends had to be called to the phone by a parent, they were likely to pick up to the familiar duh-duh-duh-daah of Beethoven’s Fifth.   I remember a conversation with my father, who worked in the electronics industry, describing how the tones of the buttons potentially could be used to send signals.  It was way beyond my comprehension, however, to imagine why I would send signals on my phone while I was talking to my friend. 

During my college years there were a lot of enhancements to long distance service, something that used to be prohibitively expensive.  Networks began to emerge that integrated with local service in order to provide lost-cost communication across a greater distance.   There was a time when long distance across the country was cheaper per minute than in-state long distance because it was supported by different types of carriers.  I remember when the massive mega-monopoly AT&T was fragmented by the government in order to promote competition.  When consumers began to have choices of long-distance carrier, I remember thinking that this was not progress at all.  We were being forced to manage more relationships, dial additional access codes, and pay bills to more parties.  I took phone service for granted; I just wanted to pick up the phone and have my dial tone take me where I wanted to be.  Little did I understand how these infrastructure years were laying the groundwork for the future.  By my mid-to-late twenties, telephone access was virtually global and long distance became a fraction of the cost.

At the same time, the new digital telephones were not just for talking any more.  The idea of “communication” was quickly becoming less about our personal conversations and more about moving data.  In my first job out of graduate school, I was given a “portable” computer.  It was larger than and twice as heavy as the rolling suitcase that I carry on planes with me today.  What was remarkable, however, was that I could jam my home telephone receiver into its hind quarter and “upload” data sets into the company’s mainframe.  I began to realize the promise of those tones my father had told me about.  Within a few years, those computers got lighter and smaller; the handset paradigm of phone communication was replaced by simple RJ11 plugs.  It was a revelation to use digital communication to FAX contracts from coast to coast.  This was an incredible boon to the business world, allowing us to bypass the mail service by hitching a ride on the telephone highway, thus compressing more work into a business cycle.

In the nineties, the power of computers and phone lines merged.  Computers evolved to full-screen graphic interfaces, allowing us to type and edit our thoughts on the screen and then ship them off in electronic packets over a digital network.  Thus was the start of asynchronous communication—a concept that not only replaced phone conversations, but also reduced the need for frequent staff meetings.  We learned that we could polish an important idea in the privacy of our cubicles rather than confronting dissention or awkward meeting dynamics.  Others discovered the ease with which you could dress down a workmate when you did not have to look at their face.   Be careful, though, not to hit “Send to All” or to put on an email anything you wouldn’t want your boss or your mother to see.

At the same time, telephones continued to evolve.  One year for my birthday, my husband bought me a “carphone”—an awkward contraption that came in a bag and slid under the driver’s seat, tethered to the car lighter and a remarkably un-evolved handpiece.  The technology made me available to the office and the kids’ daycare while I was stuck in commuter traffic for two hours each day.

By the year 2000 my mobile phone and my computer were both small enough to fit in my shoulder bag.  Within a few years, each member of our household had his own phone and his own computer, although we no longer called them phones—they were now “cells”.  I honestly do not know when texting became a feature, as I used my phone purely as a phone for far too long, only upgrading from a relic flip-phone to an iphone about 6 months ago.   I must have been abducted by aliens, because all of a sudden phones were electronic appliances, packing smart chips that made them as functionally robust as computers.  Today, I use my iphone as frequently as my laptop to access the Internet.

Back in the old days, when the dinosaurs still roamed, we had a single phone hanging on the wall in the kitchen with an extension at my parents’ bedside.  Calls were not allowed during dinner time.  When the phone rang, my father screened the caller, usually embarrassing me in the process by insisting that the caller identify himself and then engaging in parent banter.  Once on the phone, I had a ten minute limit; every call tied up the single-purpose line from potential business calls or family emergencies.  Obnoxious though it seemed, we learned manners, respect, decorum, and common courtesy. 

My children, and certainly other people’s kids too, have a different sensibility about phones.  They cannot eat a meal or take out the trash or go to the bathroom without their phones.   There is a constant patter of communication taking place between them and their network of friends—updating their movements, broadcasting the lameness of their parents, and keeping track of who is hooking up with whom.  Strangely, the one thing they do not do on their phones is talk.  When I attempt to call my daughter at college, I usually receive a text message while her phone is ringing.  “Text me,” she says, “I am too busy to talk.”

Is this progress?

Tomorrow's blog:  Suits Me Fine

The Golf War

My husband and I love to do things together.  He is an amazing antiquing partner, for example, chauffeuring me to distant small towns to browse miles and miles of dusty aisles, perusing items that are more aptly described as “junk” than antiques.  To his credit, he has come to love the treasure hunt as much as I do.  He finds more old books, maps, fountain pens, ink wells, manual typewriters, medical antiques, and crystal decanters than I find lyre-back chairs and Bakelite bangles. 

We also love to travel together.  In another version of treasure-hunting, we like to turn business trips into long weekends, searching out the local food specialties or restaurants created by superstar Food Network chefs.

But one area where we have always been incompatible is sports.  My husband lives for college football season.  When that is over he becomes obsessed with March Madness.  Through all of it is hockey season.  And baseball season.  I do not mind following a local team, and Boston has plenty of teams that take turns in the spotlight.  Occasionally I will become caught up in the obsession if a local team is in a pennant race, or the Super Bowl.  I confess that my husband’s Stanley Cup ring, presented to him for service on the Bruins’ medical staff, left me a little weak in the knees—but that is more about jewelry than sports!

I do not understand sports for the sake of sports.  Sitting all day flipping channels from one game to another seems like a useless enterprise.  How do you enjoy a game when you do not even have a dog in the fight?  Football isn’t that interesting if you do not follow a particular team.  And baseball without a hometown slant is nothing more than watching the grass grow.  At least hockey has an occasional fight to punctuate the lull of watching grown men skate back and forth across the ice.  It appeals to the same primitive instincts that gave birth to gladiator games.

My husband—God bless him—took my attitude of sports indifference as a personal challenge.  That’s when he decided that what was missing from my life was golf.  For an entire year, he made it his life’s work to enlighten me on the mystery and—dare I say it—‘joy’ of playing golf.  This, he decided, was a playing field where we could meet as equals.  He gave me golf lessons for Christmas.  Through golf, he supposed, we would share his love of sports.

I am nothing if not open-minded.  When he bought me a pair of cute little shoes with powder blue tassels and metal spikes I confess I sighed just a little.   I also found out that I could buy coordinated outfits in Easter egg colors, a coordinating visor, and matching gloves!  Encouraged by the opportunity to explore a new avenue for shopping I pressed onward.  We picked out a starter set of left-handed clubs and headed to the driving range to “practice” before I scheduled my first lesson.

I have watched a lot of golf on television and it is nothing short of poetic.  Those guys walk up to a ball, pose reflectively, wind up with their club, and send the ball on a soaring arc into the atmosphere.  They are slingshots personified, harnessing all their physical strength and concentrating it to the sweet spot of the blade, causing it  to burst onto the unsuspecting ball with such force that it propels it thirty percent further once it hits the fairway.  Or, they sight the hole some thirty feet away and magically compel the tiny orb into its waiting grasp. 

Whatever it was we were doing on the driving range was not golf—it was punishment.  My husband had me grip the club in the most awkward way, layering my hands uncomfortably.  I had to bend my knees, but not too much.  I brought my feet together, then spread them further, then back a little more.  I had to bend, but not with my shoulders.  I wanted to hit the ball, but he said I was not ready.  First I had to learn how to swing.

My first thought was that I would be happy to show him just how well I could swing that club!  In the interest of togetherness, however, I batted my eyelashes and gave him his moment.  He had me move the club to my right, holding one arm straighter than the other as they folded to take up the slack of the moving club.  Moving in slow motion, I could not figure out if I was pushing or pulling.  He had me practice this backward wind-up over and over, but I never got it to his specifications.  This was an excuse for him to wrap his broad wingspan around me, coaxing me into the right movement.  Although the pretense for a hug was amusing, the assisted swing was identical, I believe, to what I was already doing.

After a half an hour of agony with a blistering sun overhead, I was dying to hit the ball.  Go ahead, he relented.  Glad to be granted some freedom, I did my best to line myself up in front of the ball.  I remembered to nest the little finger of one hand inside the index finger of the other and pulled/pushed back, then released the head of the club in the direction of the ball.  As the blade came down it hit well short of the ball, dislodging a huge chunk of turf while sending shock waves toward my perfectly overlapped hands.  Ouch!  I tried again and again, each time failing to make even the slightest bit of contact with the ball.

The following week, I was anxious to begin my golf lessons, certain that a professional teacher was what was missing from this scenario.  I spent my session with the pro while my husband hit his own bucket of balls several spaces down at the driving range.  Over six weeks of lessons, I hit less than a dozen golf balls successfully—those going an average of about thirty yards.  At the conclusion of my gift subscription there was no mention of extending the series for another six weeks.  My husband never again suggested that I play golf.  My adorable shoes and left-handed clubs were quietly sold at a garage sale.

Today, I encourage my husband to play golf whenever possible.  Our golf togetherness has been relegated to snacking on homemade nachos while watching the Masters or Pebble Beach.  I indulge his passion for team sports by accompanying him to the Bruins games and “allowing” him to subscribe to an obscure cable channel that carries his beloved Oregon Ducks.  In my own defense, we have attended about ten times as many professional sporting events as live musical events over the course of a thirty year marriage.  I asked him once if he regrets that I am a failure as an athlete.  He smiled as he said, “Not as long as you keep cooking for me.”

Now that's something where I know I can break par.

Tomorrow's blog:  E.T. Phone Home

Practical Magic

My kids read my blog daily; thus, I am risking the relinquishment all my powers as a maternal deity for the sake of a blog topic.  With 278 days left in the year, you will have to pardon me as I make use of everything I have at my disposal. 

I have been a mother for nearly 23 years.  If this does not make me an expert at mothering, I am at least experienced enough to assert the following opinion.  The key to motherhood is to keep your children guessing.  True, there is all that other stuff in the fine print about loving and caring and nurturing and protecting, but in the final analysis what they remember most is the ‘magic’ that only mothers wield.   After a few years, our kids test their independence; they try to prove that they do not need us.  But they always return, and it is always at their most vulnerable moments. That is when the magic occurs:  those golden kernels that become the stuff of legends, the shock and awe of ‘mommy magic’.

When my son was very young, he was diagnosed with a condition that required daily medication, which in turn required monthly blood tests to monitor the effects of the drugs on his liver.  He was not atypical among four-year-olds in the way he bounced off the walls like a flying squirrel at the sight of a needle.  The first time, the phlebotomist asked me to leave the room while she extracted his blood, saying it was better this way.  I hated that my son might believe I would turn my back while someone tortured him.  I approached a nurse friend who trains diabetics in search of a method that would allow him to accept his fate bravely and with dignity.  She said that the human brain cannot feel pain in two places at once.  I suggested to my son that he pinch his cheek with his other hand really, really hard, explaining that this would keep the needle from hurting.  At breakfast that morning he grabbed his cheek and would not let go.  We drove the half hour to the hospital, and still he did not let go.  We sat in the waiting room; he did not play with the toys because he was so occupied with squeezing his cheek.  When they called his name he was ready.  At the sight of the needle, he tightened up on his fleshy face with all his might.  The needle slipped in and out without incident.  He looked at me confident, reassuring me that it did not hurt at all.  He went to school that day with a huge hickey on his face, but he was immensely proud that he could endure a blood test “like a man.”  I can only imagine how much pain he inflicted upon himself in the process!

Occasionally, when my husband is out of town, I will take one of my kids to a symphony concert with me.  Both of my kids had music lessons growing up, but they are not well versed in the symphonic literature.  It is a favorite trick of mine that just before the conductor brings down the baton, I will hum the opening line of the symphony we are about to hear, audible only to them.  When the piece starts with the same phrase in the same key, this will normally jar them out of their seat, as if I had just predicted the future.  Well, I had, hadn’t I?

My kids always had a variety of snacks that they were capable of preparing for themselves, including microwave nachos (a plate of corn chips and grated cheese zapped for a few seconds) and quesadillas (toasted on a griddle pan).  We also keep a constant supply of special salsa that we import from Texas.  One day I was upstairs working in my office and I could hear my son agonizing over something.  “Mom,” he yelled, “I can’t open this jar!”  I instructed him to turn the jar upside down and bang it squarely on the counter exactly three times.  (This slowly breaks the airtight seal.  Two hits is not enough.)  He followed these instructions and the next time he tried, the lid turned easily.  “Mom!” he cried, really in disbelief.  “Are you some kind of a wizard?”  “Yes,” I replied, “The ‘mom’ kind.”

Another day my daughter was struggling to put away the food after dinner.  She could not get the plastic wrap to stay securely in the box, creating instead some sort of plastic mess.  I walked over and took the box out of her hands, pushing my fingers through the ends of the box (there are perforated areas on the ends of all plastic and foil wrap boxes).  I handed it back to her and suggested she try again.  It worked like a charm.  She looked at me and shook her head, humbled.

Of course, not to be outdone, my daughter turned the tables on me.  A particularly large stain appeared on a favorite comfy chair in our basement.  My daughter said it was wax, that one of her friends had spilled a candle all over the chair one night.  The stain was particularly unsightly, and could not be easily covered with a pillow or a throw.  Frustrated and somewhat doubtful that it was, in fact, wax, I began shopping for fabric to have it reupholstered.   One day, my daughter said, “Mom, wait here.”  She disappeared into the basement with an iron and a paper bag.  A few minutes later she returned saying, “Before you send that chair out, go look at it first.”   The chair appeared as if brand new.  “How did you do it?” I asked.  “Google,” she smiled, smugly.

I realized at that moment that Google could dispel the mystiques of mothers everywhere, that the moms of the next generation could be powerless to their own children.  Well, as they say in corporate life, “Next guy’s problem.”

In the meantime, I always have a few tricks up my sleeve.  At a recent holiday gathering, I detected some friction between my son and my daughter’s boyfriend of three years.  My children are very close, and my son is exceedingly protective of his sister; Prince Charming would not be good enough for her in his eyes.  There was a need to restore conviviality to the scene.  From the pantry I produced a can of individually wrapped amaretto cookies, a small bowl, and a Bic lighter (one of those long ones with a trigger).  Without saying a word, I set to work while they gazed in quiet speculation.  I unwrapped several of the cookies, placing them in the small bowl.  I took the wrappers and stretched them flat before me, trying to restore their untwisted square shape.  I then took one of the wrappers and rolled it loosely, forming a hollow tube about the size of a small spring roll.  Carefully, I set it upright, like a chimney, in the center of the table, directly atop my best holiday linen.  Slowly, I circled the table with my eyes, making sure I had captured everyone’s undivided attention.  “Does anyone want a cookie?” I asked, holding up the bowl of cookies.  Not a word was spoken as their attention was riveted to the unexplained paper structure.  Then, I picked up the lighter, cocked the trigger and set the upright wrapper on fire in the middle of the table.  Sounds of “wh” “huh” “m” were expelled, but no words formed.  The waxy paper burned quickly, but when the flame had consumed its way about halfway down, the fiery wrapper suddenly took flight, floating into the air and hovering about two feet above the table.  There it transformed into the barest hint of black ash and then suddenly disappeared into thin air.

Everyone was mesmerized, my status as the undisputed “mom of all things” restored.  Suddenly, everyone was working together to explain what had just occurred.  There were cries of “let me try” and “please pass the cookies.”  I got up to clear the table.  My work here was done.

Tomorrow's blog:  The Golf War

Fear Itself

The other day on NPR, I listened with interest as a reader described his list of personal fears.  It was a quirky and provocative list of everyday things, many of which were not particularly worrisome to me, until I chose to dwell upon them.  It made me take stock of my own fears which, in turn, caused me to realize how my fears had changed over the many stages of my life.

As a very young child, my fears were rooted in home life.  I was afraid my parents would not love me if I misbehaved.  I was afraid my brother would hurt my dolls.  I was afraid we would have peas with dinner.  As I journeyed through a child’s awakening, my fears reflected a growing sense of mortality.   I feared shots at the doctor’s office.  I feared the chicken pox, mumps and German measles that we were all destined to contract.   I feared death, until one day I declared to my mother that death was nothing to be afraid of.  After all, I reasoned, you do not know you are dead, and in that state you could feel no pain.  She ruined this simplistic mental model, however, by pointing out that if were to perish my grandparents would most certainly die of sadness.  Then I feared for their lives, so much closer were they to old age than I.

Education, and the knowledge that comes with exposure to all manner of things, wreaked havoc with my sense of well-being.  It made me increasingly aware of the world around me, which seemed rigged with of all sorts of traps just waiting to ensnare innocent little girls.   There were poisonous plants, which could be disguised as beautiful flora.  There were rockpits and canals that were swimming deathtraps.  There were household poisons, which could be mistaken for benign substances.  What if I accidentally washed my hair with roach spray or ammonia-laced window cleaner?   Cigarettes were bad and could kill you.  Why, then, did my grandmother, and my uncle, and so many others smoke all the time?

It was a rude awakening to realize that we may fear each other.  Increasingly, I was taught that not all people had my best interests at heart; some people lived to do me harm.  I feared that I would not be able to distinguish one from another.  Policemen in uniform were good.  Strangers beckoning you to their cars were bad.  But what if a bad man put on a police uniform?  I wondered whether people were inherently good or bad, or whether we are all born the same and only some became bad.  I was afraid that people I knew and loved could turn out to be bad people.   I became increasingly afraid of bad men who would want to break into my home.  Every night before going to bed I would look out my bedroom window to see if anyone was waiting there to come in.   I would practice hiding under my covers and holding my breath, creating the illusion (in my mind) that I could go undetected in the event of a break-in. 

Then came a broader global awareness.  We were Americans, the lucky ones.  We have liberty and democracy, not to mention the most beautiful lands, and the greatest country on Earth.  Other people in other lands are jealous or resentful.  This, I was taught, was why there were wars.  I saw scenes of war on television, being fought on the other side of the globe.  What if those people came to our country and wanted to have wars here?  I became afraid of guns and bombs falling out of the sky. 

Transitioning into young adulthood, my fears reflected my own growing independence.  I worried about becoming established in a good career and being able to support myself.  I became afraid of the monotonous rhythm of life; adults did not have as much fun as kids.  Would the fun of youthful enterprise necessarily give way to the daily grind I had witnessed in the adult lives of others?  I feared growing old alone.  I worried about whether I could find a lasting love and a great companion with whom to share the good and the bad.  

After marriage, my fears took on a different tone yet again.  I greatly feared for the wellbeing of my husband, frequently experiencing frightening dreams of his demise.  When we bought our first house, I feared the magnitude of it all: a thirty year mortgage, property taxes, repairs, liability.  I feared fires (I actually caused a small fire in our first home because I had stored a collection of acrylic paints in the heater closet), earthquakes, and floods.  More frightening, however, was the fear that our appliances would conspire against me, waiting until the worst possible moment to coordinate an attack on my ability to do laundry, wash the dishes, and cook a meal.

Nothing amped up my fear factor like having kids.  I learned that there is a special kind of helplessness that a mother feels for the wellbeing of her children.  I realize that they may experience pain and disappointment that I am powerless to cure, or solve, or take away.  I fear that they will be hit with too much before they are ready, or that I may not have given them enough strength and knowledge to cope on their own.  I had difficulty watching my son play hockey, more so as he and his teammates got older and bigger, hitting harder and harder.  There are too many reminders across New England of freak accidents that left kids paralyzed.  The single most frightening moment in my life, however, was the first time I handed my son the keys to the car.  Every time one of my kids gets behind the wheel of a car I tell them that I love them; I fear that it will be the last.  When it comes to my children, who are now young adults, I fear that I cannot let go.  I also fear that if one day I can, I will not find another center in my life.

Today, I fear the news.  I see Trayvon Martin, a young boy in Tampa who was shot walking down the street talking on the phone with his girlfriend.  His attacker, claiming self-defense (but with strong evidence to the contrary) remains free.  I fear for our future if people do not learn to embrace diversity and individualism.   I see politicians attacking each other instead of working to making our lives better.  I see wars that have poorly defined objectives, making it difficult to plan exit strategies.  I fear that much that I was taught to believe about America and Americans is largely untrue.

I see people of every conceivable color and persuasion trying to live their lives honestly and peacefully.  I see fear in their eyes that some force they do not see or understand is working to take it away.  I fear that we have lost the ability to find common ground.  I fear that we have forgotten how to compromise.  I fear that we are losing our humanity.  I fear that fear is becoming the law of the land.

Tomorrow's blog:  Practical Magic

Palms Spring Eternal

I am a native Floridian, born and bred in Florida during an era when most of its residents had migrated from elsewhere.  Today I flew to Tampa—not quite my Miami home, but it feels more like it than Miami does today.  You can feel the humidity almost instantly; the moisture creeps insidiously into the main passenger compartment of the plane as soon as the cargo doors burst open to expel the luggage.   I have spent a lifetime battling the scourge of humidity and its effects on my frizzy hair.  Before I’ve disembarked, my blonde mop has lost several inches of its length, the penetrating vapors having immediately excited the curls that I’ve painstakingly flattened against dry heat. 

There are lots of things that tell people they are home:  the smell of a special pie baking, a familiar whiff of cleaning spray, the creak of a stubborn screen door, the site of an old schoolyard.  For me, nothing says home like palm trees.  One look out the window and I am instantly transported, my heart tied in nostalgic knots.

Florida is defined by its palm trees.  Growing up here, I learned to identify the many varieties, whether it was in sixth grade science class or to earn a Girl Scout merit badge.  The ubiquitous Sable Palm, the state tree of Florida, is a variety distinguished by circular, fan-like fronds.  Those of us who attended Sabal Palm Elementary learned to recognize and spell (correctly) this variety at a young age.  I always imagined its branches’ being pulled off and used to cool a demanding Cleopatra as she reclined upon a gilded sedan chair.  Her oppressed slaves would not make a sound as they pulled the branches, their sharp edges cutting into their own “palms” and bleeding, unsoothed.   Then there is the aristocratic Royal Palm, with its tall, straight trunks and snow-white bark.  Its form seems to betray some type of elitist genetic cleansing; so perfect is its form, so exaggerated its height and alignment.  It is most likely to be found lining important streets and boulevards, signaling the visitor that they have arrived someplace worth visiting.  It is the most recognizable of all palms and perhaps, to most people, the most beautiful and archetypal. 

But without equivocation, my favorite palm tree is the coconut palm.  A coconut palm is not majestic or picturesque, its fronds wilt and yellow quickly, its trunk is easily bent and blemished.  This is the tree of my youth, my heart—my kindred spirit.

At a young age I moved into the house that had once been my grandparents’.  My uncles, who were much younger than my mother, grew up in that house—even attending the same junior high school that I later attended.  When they were teenagers, they sprouted a coconut in a bucket and later planted it on the “boulevard” between the sidewalk and the street, an area also bounded by our driveway and that of the neighbors.  By the time I was five and moved into the house, it was a beautiful young tree about ten feet high, capped by an umbrella of graceful fronds.  Coconut palms are generally a single diameter from bottom to top, so while the tree grew taller and taller with each year, it stayed the same trim trunk near the ground in the center of this small square “island” of land surrounded on all sides by pavement. 

This was the playground of my youthful imagination.  Here, I was Jeannie washed ashore in her bottle, waiting to be rescued by two Nasa astronauts.  I was a mermaid, flirting with handsome princes, always close enough to the ocean to disappear mysteriously.  I was a mighty Amazon, able to scale the tree and wage war with makeshift weapons against ruthless intruders.  Later, I would sit at the base of the tree reading the classics in its protective shade, imagining myself on my own deserted island with nothing but time and an entire library’s worth of literature.

Over the years, the tree got taller and taller, budding regularly and occasionally producing mature coconuts.  Late in my high school years, as I prepared to leave Florida in order to pursue the next chapter in my life, the coconut palms across South Florida got sick, contracting a deadly blight called “Lethal Yellowing.”  It spread very quickly, first discoloring the coconut-producing seed stalks and then turning the lacy green fronds a brownish color.  An infected tree drooped sadly when even the newest fronds turn brown, signaling that the phytoplasmic insult had come full circle.  Once infected, a tree lost its limbs prematurely one by one until only a towering trunk was left, headless and lifeless.  We watched the blight spread, noting how it seemed to infect randomly, sparing our beloved tree for almost a year.  Unfortunately, although scientists would develop an antibiotic treatment that was effective against the blight, it was too late to spare these indigenous warriors.  Our tree would succumb with the rest, until it, too, stood decapitated in the driveway.

One day, we found a painted marker on the trunk of our tree.  Like a laser sighting from a sniper’s gun, our coconut palm was targeted for removal by the County.  Just as inauspiciously, it was taken a few days later; we came home to find a low stump where our magnificent tree had once stood.

Coconut palms are known to farmers as three-generation trees, meaning that they will feed the farmer, his children, and eventually his grand-children.  Our coconut palm was a part of our family, having been brought to life by my young uncles, and then giving comfort and entertainment—as well as coconuts—to my family for many years.  Its loss was tragic and personal; I would never again live in Florida and my children would never know the beauty and companionship of my favorite palm.  Eventually my parents would plant the next generation of Malayan hybrids, developed to be resistant to lethal yellowing.  Soon after, they would sell the house and leave those trees for a new family.

Now in my fifties, I visit Florida only rarely.  Much of what conjures nostalgia in my home town is long gone:  the synagogue where I became Bat Mitzvah, Corkies—my favorite eatery, the factory that produced the best steaming-hot New York style bagels.  The Publix, where I worked on weekends, is no longer closed on Sunday.  The blistering Junior High is now air-conditioned.  And my family home, which had once been my grandparents’ house, has been architecturally altered beyond recognition. There is little to beckon me.

The coconut palm of my youth—cocus nucifera—is also not to be found.  It has been retired by blight and replaced by science.  Yet the site of just one coconut-bearing beauty on the opposite coast of Florida—probably genetically altered itself—is enough to bring back a wash of memories.  Once again I can hear the rustle of the fronds before the late afternoon showers.  Once again I can feel the comfort of my childhood friend.

Tomorrow's blog:  Fear Itself

The Woman Who Was Born of Fire

Today would have been my grandmother’s one hundred and first birthday.  She died just after turning 82, only a few months after we buried my grandfather, her husband of six decades.  At my grandfather’s funeral she held my three-month-old daughter for the first and only time, a moment that inexplicably brought her back to the present with a palpable spark.  That fleeting cognition lasted only a few hours, enough to treat the assembled family to a final show of her grace and sweetness.  We will never understand the role my daughter played in jolting Nanny back to us, out of the mental cave that her mind had come to inhabit.  There are times, however, when I suspect a generational hand-off took place in that meeting, a passing of the spiritual baton from her soul to that of my daughter.

My daughter is an enigma to us.  She has an uncanny ability to hold her tongue in a family that says too much.  She does not need to be the center of attention.  She does not need validation from anyone.  We used to make the mistake of thinking her lack of contribution meant she had nothing to say.  On the contrary, there is no detail or gesture that goes unnoticed by her.  She has everything and everyone sized up and tied with a bow, and when she deigns to speak, her observations convey an insight and honesty that betray an old soul.  If I happen to be sitting next to her at a large family gathering, she will occasionally squeeze my hand to indicate understanding or empathy, letting me know that she too resents a snarky remark, or simply offering me her tacit support. 

It is uncanny how these small acts by my daughter evoke Nanny’s essence for me.  I like to think that my daughter is the perpetuation of her spirit.  Nanny was the backbone of the family in every sense, working in her own way behind the scenes to promote domestic tranquility.  She mediated between warring spouses or siblings, often repeating her mantra, “Blood is thicker than water.” I always felt that she was my “fairy godmother,” sent to look out for me and to ensure my well-being.  Oddly, my daughter fills that role in my life today, the wise young woman who keeps her frantic mother in check.  We are remarkably in tune with one another, though I suspect that the sensitivity beyond her years can be a burden to one so young.

Nanny was born in New York on March 25, 1911, the night of the famous Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fires; until 9/11 occurred, it was one of the greatest disasters in New York history.  It was a common practice back then for the factory management to lock the doors and stairwells to promote worker productivity and prevent employee pilfering; when a fire started high up on the eighth floor the workers were locked inside.  As the fire spread quickly, many jumped from the eighth, ninth and tenth story windows to the street below.  Most of the 148 who died in the blaze were women and children—a frightening number, teenagers.  As a direct result of this tragedy, the International Ladies Garment Worker’s Union was formed.

Because of the commotion and the crowding in the streets, my great-grandmother was stranded at home on the lower east side as she went into labor.  The doctor was forced to find his way to their apartment by climbing over the rooftops; the streets were jammed with people making their way toward the fires.  In the midst of this turmoil, Nanny entered this world.

She was a tough girl who always did what had to be done.  She was centered and serious, maintaining self-discipline and a high standard in every aspect of her life.  As a young girl she worked in Woolworth’s to earn her own spending money.  At one point she saved for weeks to pay off a new coat on layaway.  When she finally brought it home, she allowed her sister to wear it on a first date even before she herself had had a chance to wear it out.  She already had a boyfriend, but her sister needed every advantage to impress her new young man.

Having been promised at a very young age to her “college boy,” my grandmother herself wanted to go to college.  She fought bitterly with her father, who thought it was unnecessary for a young girl to receive an education.  He was an immigrant; she convinced him at long last to apply for citizenship papers in order that she would be allowed to apply to college.   Nanny loved to tell stories of the “olden days;” some of my favorites were about their lives during World War II.  My grandfather became a dentist, which afforded him extra rations during the war, particularly for fuel.   My grandparents had a large extended family with many nieces and nephews—almost all living by then within a three block radius—and they always made sure that everyone was well cared for.   My grandmother made certain that each one had a coat, shoes, and when the time came, a proper suitor.

Visiting my grandparents’ house as a child was always a special time for me.  They lived humbly, but there was always a hug at the door and a piece of cake on the table.  I learned many stereotypically female skills at my grandmother’s side.  I remember a time when she was into knitting.  I would sit near her feet hypnotized by the fast-moving needles; watching a sweater take shape was much like watching a flower bloom in time-lapse photography.  I begged her to teach me.  She gave me a ball of pink yarn and a pair of needles and carefully cast on a row of pink stitches.  I loved to sit awkwardly by her side, the two of us working our needles rhythmically like a “Tale of Two Defarges.”  Her work would be stitch perfect, often embellished by slipping the occasional sequin or bead between stitches.  My twenty stitches would morph from row to row, sometimes growing to as many as 25, sometimes dropping one or two.  After a few dozen rows, my would-be rectangle would have a very haphazard shape to it.  In the morning, however, I would wake to find a perfectly honed patch about the size of a potholder; I, the unsuspecting beneficiary of her quick work after my bedtime.

My favorite thing was to work by her side in the kitchen, whether it was measuring ingredients or peeling potatoes.  Each of her recipes had an encyclopedia of stories attached, and I would love to listen to each new tale as we mixed and measured.  During one visit to her home in the Bronx she bought me the best gift ever:  an Easy-Bake Oven.  One morning, while everyone in the house was still asleep, she whispered to me, “Would you like to bake some cakes?”  Still in our robes, we arrayed the silly miniature mixes on the kitchen counter, one chocolate, one vanilla.  Perhaps anticipating the fight that might ensue over the chocolate cake, she asked, “Why don’t we make marble cake?”  She let me blend the ingredients for the two cake mixes in separate bowls, and then we took the tiny cake pan and poured half of the vanilla batter into it.  Next, we dripped half of the chocolate batter into the same pan and pulled a knife around in it to create a chocolate swirl.  We repeated the process to use up the rest of the batter.  Instead of one chocolate and one vanilla cake, we produced two identical marble cakes.   I was awestruck; if she had spun straw into gold I could not have been more impressed with her "thinking outside the box."

Though her house was a safe haven, Nanny was no pushover.  Family solidarity was her credo; yet she was not afraid to give any of us a well-deserved kick in the butt if she deemed it necessary.  But more than anything else, she was a blessing upon my life.  She always made me feel important and relevant, never failing to listen, whether it was about a silly boy at school, or a paper I was writing, or about how my parents did not understand me.  Even in a house full of people, she would always sit beside me and hold my hand.  There was electricity in her touch; it is the same sensation that passes from my daughter’s grip to mine.  This connection with the next generation keeps my grandmother alive for me.

I have a lifetime of memories from Nanny’s house:  playing under the round marble table with the lion’s head embellishments, pretending the crystal sconces were huge diamonds, trying to avoid staring at the odd painting of a bare-breasted woman that hung over her bed (referred to, affectionately, as ‘Nanny When She Was Young’).  There was nothing that was off base in Nanny’s house.  She would let me play with her nail-polish, her clothes, and even her jewelry.  Today, it is bittersweet to wear her diamond wedding band, which came to me on my fiftieth birthday.  As I look at it on my hand I remember modeling it as a young girl with my tiny fingers, wondering if I would grow into it someday.  It is the greatest treasure in my possession; but I would trade it gladly for just one more day with her.

Tomorrow's blog:  Palms Spring Eternal

God Bless the TSA

It’s not fun to travel by airplane anymore.  Any excitement I have about my impending destination is obliterated by the pain of the travel experience itself. 

I should have started years ago putting notches on my luggage.  That way I could amuse myself with the illusion that I am working towards some imaginary milestone.  Instead, I pack my collection of clothing and other essentials with a sense of abject futility.  Not only have I done this thousands of times before, but the act itself reminds me of the greater chore that awaits me on the other end of the trip—when I must do it all again in reverse, a load of laundry thrown in.  In the end, what have I accomplished?  Everything is back where it started.  It reminds me of one of my mother-in-laws neighbors who, every day, brings out a vast collection of gnomes to adorn his front lawn, only to return them all to the garage at dusk.

Then there is arrival at the airport itself.  Nothing makes my heart sink like the sudden appearance of the alphabet of airport signage.  As lanes merge and converge, I begin the transformation from free-thinking human to faceless object.  I am forced through a series of chutes and ramps, like the marbles that once sent pings and dings resonating around the Logan Airport arrival lobby, the irony of the huge Rube Goldberg contraption soaring comfortably over the heads of most of the travelers.  The journey from “Central Parking” (a euphemism for “one mile walk”) seems to blend with countless similar expeditions—creating a moment of clarity when I acknowledge that my life has been spent waiting to depart or arrive.  Although I now pull luggage on wheels, I spent years carrying bags and heavy equipment while wearing high heeled shoes.  I contemplate the very real pain in my knees as the bones rub together, no longer able to maintain the space in the joints.  Would I have chosen a different career path had I known the toll it would take on my body?  Ten years ago I was awarded Million Miler Status on Delta.  How many foot-miles through airports correlate with that much air travel?

But all of these experiences dull by comparison to the ritual that is now the airport security screening process.  On a recent trip, I had a bottle of hair product confiscated because my husband convinced me at the ticket counter to forego checking my luggage.  This was a discontinued product that did wonders for taming my naturally frizzy hair; I bought up the last bottles on the Internet and was savoring every last drop.  I hope everyone in America felt safer as the self-righteous TSA agent, shaking his head disapprovingly, seized the six ounce spray bottle with one inch of golden liquid remaining.

I understand the significance of Boston’s having been the origin of the American Airlines flights that terminated in New York on September 11^th.  This does not mitigate the humiliation of removing half of my clothes and then “assuming the position” for the hi-tech body cavity search.  Let’s not pretend that Homeland Security has a renewed interest in my scars, or the wires in my bra, or the screws that hold my connective tissue to my bones.  Violating our personal space always has been the modus operandi of airport security.  When I was a pregnant business traveler, back in the 80s and 90s, I was subjected to all manner of indignities, implying that my baby bump was something more nefarious than an innocent burgeoning life form.  I had so many “hand pats” and “wand exams” that I began asking the agents if they understood that they, too, had sprung from such a beast.

But as much as I mock the TSA, its agents, and the appropriateness of their efforts, I keep in mind that this is serious business. As a child, the most horrific airline tragedies I can remember were occasional hijackings.  We would sit by the television, breathless, waiting for word of the passengers’ fate.  Airline security has its origins in trying to bungle these plots, hoping to find concealed weapons before they could be deployed on board.  When I was fifteen, I had a first-hand scrape with the business end of airport security.  I headed to North Carolina to attend a summer music festival.  It was the first time in years that I was flying, and the first time ever traveling alone.  Arriving at Miami Airport’s security, I was asked to slide my violin case through the scanner.  Ignorant of the protocol, I thought the process ridiculous.  Certainly they could open it and see it was a violin!  I looked up at the agent and said, “What do you think?  That I’m carrying a machine gun or something?”  My father—who was permitted to accompany me all the way to the gate—was instantly horrified.  He was a seasoned business traveler and realized the gravity of my ignorant comment.  Immediately, I was surrounded by federal agents; their walkie-talkies blaring randomly from their hips.  I could not see my father and I imagine that he could not see me through the human holding cell they created with their broad shoulders.  I remember turning in circles and looking up at the cold faces, realizing slowly that I was surrounded by muscle and guns. 

“Do you want to fly the plane?” one of them asked.  “Huh?” I responded.  “Are you interested in taking over the plane?” he clarified.  “No,” I insisted, “I just want to go to music camp.” “Have you ever been to Cuba?” another voice asked.  “I don’t even speak Spanish,” I replied.  “Do you have a weapon?” was the next question.  “Ew, no!” I said, shaking my head in disgust.  Eventually the wall of flesh gave way to the light of day and I was freed.

I could hear my father, somewhere, reeling with disbelief and embarrassment that I had triggered a predictable defensive response.  He was attended by another agent, who was questioning him.  I could hear words like “piano,” “summer camp,” “fifteen years old.”   When I was released, he wasn’t relieved; he was angry at what I had done.  I did not understand how anyone could be so alarmed by such an innocent comment.  Then my father, and the now-laughing agents, pointed out the signs that clearly warned that jokes about weapons would be considered a crime.  In retrospect, I was lucky to make my flight on time.

There is no real protection from people who meticulously plan an event that levers the known loop-holes, appearing where no one has thought to look.  On the other hand, if a benign mom with hairspray, or a teenaged music student, is inconvenienced by the systematic screening of travelers to the point of going mad, perhaps we have created a dependable way to keep trouble away.  I just hope I can enjoy a few peaceful days out of town every now and then.

Tomorrow's blog:  The Woman Who Was Born of Fire

Paradigm Shift

Many years ago, while my husband and I were still dating, I needed to go to Florida for a family wedding.  Having just depleted every cent at my disposal to cover my graduate school tuition, I lacked the funds to procure an air ticket.  To make things worse, my husband—who was then only a serious boyfriend—wished to accompany me and “meet the parents.”  We both had about a week before school started, making this a great opportunity for an unexpected vacation. 

I’m not sure where the idea came from, but someone recommended that we consider a “DriveAway car.”  The concept is simple enough.  Someone needs a car moved from Point A to Point B.  Through a brokering system, they are matched up with drivers seeking transportation between the same locations.   The drivers pay a small deposit on the front end to the broker service, and then collect the same amount from the car owners upon delivery of the car.  The only out of pocket cost to the driver is the gas.  We registered a request for a car from Boston to Miami hoping that we would find something that fit our timeframe; we also hoped we would not be handed some giant gas-guzzling 70s sedan that got 6 miles to the gallon.

Happily, we were informed that we would be driving a tiny Honda Civic.  This was good news, until we arrived to pick up the car.  The owner had decided to use this service to turn their car into a cheap moving van, packing the vehicle from stem to stern.   The entire trunk was filled to capacity; after opening it, it was nearly impossible to close it again.  On the back seat, a large steamer trunk was surrounded by boxes and clothing packed tight to the ceiling.  There was no visibility—nay, not even a beam of light—from the rearview mirror.  Furthermore, the owner had pushed both the driver’s and passenger’s seats as far forward as possible in order to cram more of their junk into the car. 

Tom, who is six-foot-four, opened the driver’s door and attempted to squeeze himself into the seat.  He stepped in with his right foot, but could not bend his legs enough to clear the opening.  I am only five-foot-two; I piled into the passenger side and found my knees up against the glove compartment.  We brought the dispatcher out to have a look at our predicament.   Remarkably, he had very little concern for our situation.  The car’s owner was long gone.  They had no policy against an owner’s leaving personal items in the car.   Beyond leaving the front seat “vacant”, there was no explicit requirement that they provide room for the driver’s own belongings.  Or, as it seemed in this case, the driver.

After much debate, we insisted to the dispatcher that he produce a manager.  When he arrived on site, we suggested that he sit in the car and try to drive it.  He could not.  While he had no sympathy for our need to store our personal belongings, we made progress by arguing that the car, delivered as it was with no driver visibility, was unfit for the road. He was furious to be inconvenienced, and even more irritated that someone had accepted a car in this condition.  After a few phone calls, he gave us permission to remove the large trunk from the back and send it on a Greyhound Bus, COD, to the car’s owner.  The only hitch was that we needed to take it to the bus station ourselves.  Since Tom could not fit in the car at that point, he suggested that I drive.  That’s when I saw the clutch.

I had never driven a stick shift before.  In fact, in all the time we spent planning this excursion, the possibility of a standard transmission car never entered my mind.  I looked up at Tom apologetically, and with my most pathetic tone confessed I could not drive the car.  “You’re kidding,” he said.  He learned to drive in rural Oregon, where apparently every car had a manual transmission.  If you hadn’t learned to drive a stick, he contended, you hadn’t really learned to drive.

Not wanting to play this out in front of the DriveAway guys, I got in the passenger seat and Tom loaded my lap with the items that jammed the driver’s seat forward, giving him enough room to squeeze into the car.  We drove to the bus station and unloaded the trunk, rearranging things in the back seat in order to clear a narrow path of visibility and some much needed legroom in the front.  “Now,” he said, “you’re going to learn how to drive this thing.”

We drove to Tom’s house, which was situated on “Bartlett Crescent,” a semi-circular street that had very little traffic.  He stopped in the middle of the road at one end of the crescent and showed me the basics:  the gear pattern, the clutch, the RPMs.  Then he slipped the car into first gear and moved it forward, releasing the clutch as he brought it into second.  By the end of the street he had just reached third before it was time to stop.  There he demonstrated how the car stalled if you simply step on the brake.

“I can do this,” I thought.  Switching positions in the car, I took the wheel.  But I couldn’t do it.  Set in first gear, I tried to step on the gas while releasing the clutch, only to find that the car lurched and hacked like a chain smoker before stalling out with righteous indignation.  We turned the car off while Tom told me everything I did wrong (and many things I had simply not done right).  Then we tried again.  And again.  No sooner did it appear that the gear was finally ready to engage than I would reach the stop sign at the end of the street and step on the brake instinctively, thus killing the engine.  It was hopeless.

Inevitably the words came out of his mouth.  “Where did you go to school?” he asked, not without an intended dollop of irony.  I assured him that ‘driving’ had not been part of Harvard’s core curriculum.  Nonetheless, I felt justifiably humiliated by this unexpected turn of events.   The next day we set out for Florida, driving straight through with only a few stops for food and fuel.  The mocking, however, never ceased.  Once we cleared the large metropolitan areas—somewhere south of Washington, DC—I was able to take the wheel for a couple of hours, managing to get the car into high gear on a lonely straightaway.  I was glad to give Tom a rest.  As long as he slept, I could recover a bit of my dignity.

We arrived at my parents’ house around 4:30 in the morning.  Tom’s brain was crispy fried from a grueling drive, hardly in ideal shape to make a good first impression on prospective in-laws.  My mother ushered him through the living room to my brother’s old room at the far end of the house, an architectural addition situated where a garage once stood.  Tom dropped his bags in the room; I pulled him out to make proper introductions to my robed and yawning parents.  At the threshold, he caught his toe on the small step, a vestige of the former garage.  Down he went with a thud, landing prone at my father’s feet.   My mother is still laughing today.

I like to think I am competent at many things, a fact I hope compensates for my one gross shortcoming.  Fortunately, I have never again been called upon to drive a stick shift.  That day of humiliation is all but gone from my active memory.  But my poor husband Tom will never outlive the moment, over thirty years ago, when he fell hard for me.

Tomorrow's blog:  God Bless the TSA