The Snow Line

They say that the first million is the hardest.  For us, buying a house was the threshold that was the most difficult to cross.

Early in our marriage, we moved to San Francisco for my husband’s residency.  Through a college friend, we made arrangements to take over another friend’s rental home as he was leaving to clerk for Justice Sandra Day O’Connor.  Happily, we were spared the trouble of house-hunting in the Bay Area entirely; moving cross country the day after graduation was enough for us to handle. 

During those years, before our careers began to take off, we were collateral damage to Ronald Reagan, a popular President whose famous tax cuts and subsequent reversals hit us coming and going.  I had been in the middle of my graduate degree when the Economic Recovery Tax Act of 1981 caused me to lose most of the Public Health Traineeship that was funding my tuition; my husband was similarly hit.  Together, we max’d out every available student loan product, each with increasingly higher interest rates and correspondingly shorter grace periods.  We exhausted all subsidized sources and resorted to punishing bank loans with floating retail rates to complete our degrees. In the end, we amassed a staggering amount of debt ranging from 3% with deferred interest and payback to as high as 23% with no deferral of interest, even while still in school.  Our “pay it backward” strategy was to get educated first and worry about the financial consequences later.  We were counting upon the tax deductibility of interest to offset our taxable income once we graduated and became employed.  That’s when Reagan began reeling back most of his tax cuts, closing so-called “loop-holes.” Chief among those “loop-holes” was the tax deduction for interest on student loans. 

We were caught.  The only substantial interest deduction that remained was for home mortgages.  We could not save enough money to buy a house because our cash flow was being depleted by non-deductible student loan repayment.  To make matters worse, we were living in one of the most expensive housing markets in the country, where property values were depreciating at double digit rates annually.  Every few months, the San Francisco Chronicle would run a story that said, in essence, if you are thirty and do not yet own a home it is likely you never will.

Then a miracle occurred:  we were involved in a devastating car crash.  One beautiful winter day we decided to get up early in order to ski for the day at Sugar Bowl.  Sitting just off I-80, Sugar Bowl is a three hour drive from San Francisco in the Sierra Foothills.  The highway makes a steady ascent into the mountains.  Depending upon temperature and humidity, the “snow line” rises and falls to different elevations.  As we approached the town of Colfax, we crossed that fateful line from clear highway to slick blanket of snow.  

The road began disappearing as accumulated snow encroached, reducing three lanes of highway to one narrow strip.  Cars pulled to the side of the road into the snow banks to install tire chains.  We stayed in the long, slow-moving line of cars, but when a car many spaces ahead stepped on its brakes it caused a chain reaction.  One by one, vehicles attempting to stop skidded and slammed into each other, some still on the road, others off to the side.  When we saw the brake lights on the car in front of us, my husband was able to control the skid of our car, coming to rest just inches away.  Without warning he yelled, “Hold on!”  He could see in the rear view window what I only felt on impact:  the car behind coming toward us at full speed.

What happened next is forever etched in my memory; it seemed to occur in slow motion.  Our car took the impact mostly on the left as the driver tried to steer away from our center.  With our brakes engaged, we skidded out to the right.  My husband somehow managed to direct the car between two parked vehicles, their owners on the ground struggling with chains.  But we could not stop; I watched the steel guardrail come closer and closer until we hit, hard.  The impact made a dull muffled sound as the body of our small Toyota crumpled in submission. It did not end there.  The impact caused us to bounce and skid again on the ice, spinning our car out of control until we slid backwards, again making impact with the guardrail but this time from behind, crumpling again as we took the hit.  By now we had given up steering and were holding on to each other, my knee breaking off the gear shift at some point in the many impacts.

It was reminiscent of Dorothy’s journey in the tornado; same for the quiet that remained after the whirling winds dissipated and the house landed in Munchkinland.  In our reality, the snow had piled ankle deep in a matter of minutes, creating that beautiful muffled silence that comes with fresh snow.  It took a few moments to account for ourselves:  no bleeding, no critical injuries.  Then we realized that we were snowed in, our failed wipers not revealing the scene beyond.  I opened my door and jumped out, suddenly aware of the pounding snow that obscured a junkyard of broken vehicles all around me.  Through the silence, we slowly became aware of an incessant horn approaching.  It was conveyed by a semi-truck.  The driver jackknifed the truck and it was heading down the highway broadside in our direction, out of control.  Do we stay in our car, or do we get out?

“I can’t move,” my husband said.  In a panic, I flashed to the memory of a made-for-TV movie where a passenger’s spinal cord was severed in a lesser accident.  I froze.  “I mean, I can’t open my door,” he clarified.  The impact had pushed the trunk forward into the car, causing the rear door to wrap around the driver’s door.  He was stuck in the well between the seat and the steering wheel—all six-foot-four of him.  As the truck continued to glide toward us, threatening to take out everything in its path, I did my best to help my husband pull himself from the car through the passenger’s side.  By this time, the snow was now knee deep.  We got over to the guard rail just as the truck screeched to a halt in front of us, missing our sad car by only a couple of feet.

It was hours until our car was towed to a State processing and patrol station that was fortuitously situated at the next exit on the highway.  There we got hot coffee and mounds of paperwork to complete.  We met the man who drove the car that hit us.  After we skidded away, he also hit the car in front of us.  He assured us that everything would be okay because he was an insurance broker and he was driving a company car.  When the adjuster came out, weeks later, to make good on my totaled car, he offered us a settlement check for pain and suffering.  With this money, and a little help from our landlord, we were able to buy our little rented house in San Francisco, thus establishing us homeowners in an impossible market.

Miraculously, no one was seriously injured in that pile-up on I-80 that day.  I discovered the next day that whiplash was a very real thing and not the invention of television lawyers.  It took months until the pain stopped; even today—almost 25 years later—my neck stiffens up with little provocation.  But I choose to see that pain as a reminder of some good fortune.  In a funny way, it helped us cross a line that we never would have reached on our own.  There’s no place like home.

Tomorrow's blog:  Paradigm Shift

Money Matters

The few days following our wedding were a little awkward.  We were in a state of honeymoon limbo.  The out of town guests had left but we still had three days until we were scheduled to depart on our honeymoon trip.  We were out of town “guests” ourselves, spending those few nights in the Fort Lauderdale hotel where the wedding had taken place.  Instead of enjoying this interval as bonus time at the beach, we were quickly pulled into the mire of errands that follow a big event.  Thus, we were tasked with returning tuxedos, transferring gifts from the hotel to my parents’ home, and cleaning my father’s convertible multiple times until (on pain of death) not one grain of celebratory rice remained.

One of the more pleasant tasks was recording the inventory of generous gifts from friends and family, allowing me to get a jump on thank you notes before our trip.  We sorted gifts by size for shipping back to Boston, and stacked the many checks for deposit. I endorsed each check—excited to practice signing my new name—and then carefully wrote out the deposit slips, stuffing everything into the envelopes I had brought from my Cambridge bank.  We had not yet set up a joint account, but decided that since I had done business with this small bank since freshman year of college and had a relationship with the manager, we would use my accounts going forward.

I was pleased with the efficiency with which this task was dispatched, and prepared to move on.  I had not noticed that my mother was growing more and more disturbed, pacing a small hole in the floor.  She pulled me aside and admonished me with her “scolding whisper”—a voice manifestation that is uniquely hers.  “You are just married,” she said.  “How do you expect to keep a husband if you don’t let him do the things that men do?”  I blinked in bafflement.  “He is supposed to do all the finances!” she clarified.

There are a lot of jobs that I count on my husband to perform, most notably taking out the garbage, lifting and carrying heavy things, and reaching objects on high shelves.  I do not encourage him to cook, as I enjoy eating flavorful, evenly cooked foods and I do not enjoy scraping burnt spills off the stove.  I’d like to be able to send him to the supermarket with a shopping list, but this requires a certain level of specificity and having the time to answer at least two phone calls for each item on the list.  On the other hand, my husband is capable of things that elevate him to superhero status.  Once, for example, I had a fever of 104 degrees and could not hold anything down; he brought home a box of medical supplies and started an IV on my listless carcass, saving me from admission to the hospital.  On a few other occasions, he was kind enough to remove stitches and administer flu vaccines, tasks better tolerated while gazing into his blue eyes.

But financial matters?  My husband not only has a general distaste for managing money, he is genuinely bad at it.  When we first moved to San Francisco, for example, he wrote a $750 deposit check to our landlord but failed to record it in the checkbook.   We then opened a local account and eventually transferred our money from New England to California.  Unfortunately, the check I wrote to close out our old account was off by the amount of the unrecorded deposit check.  Before this was discovered, I had mailed a whole stack of bills drawn from our new account, which began bouncing one by one along with the large check that funded the account.  It was a nightmare!  Fortunately, because I had a good relationship with my old bank manager, he allowed me to write a check back to his bank to cover the shortfall and instructed Bank of America to resubmit the large check (acts which, I am quite certain, must have been illegal).

If my husband had been only financially wary before, this check episode caused him to surrender his financial license permanently.  I am certain that this has more than a little bearing on his decision to enter an academic career rather than private practice.  The thought of managing his own business makes him visibly ill.  Of course, this means that I have had to assume the role of financial manager for our household.  On those occasions when I must call a creditor to resolve a bill that is in my husband’s name (because we all know by now that bills are the man’s job!), they invariably refuse to deal with me until he has weighed in.  “ABSOLUTELY!” he barks into the phone when they ask if it’s “OK to talk to your wife about this matter.”

I have gladly taken on the role of financial manager, but it has not always been easy.  I dreaded “that time of the month” when I was forced to spend five or six hours sitting with a stack of paperwork.  Fortunately, online banking has made the job much easier; it not only takes no time at all to pay bills, but the process itself produces a precise non-paper trail.  There is no longer any doubt about what checks have been cashed, which is fortunate, as my husband’s record-keeping has not improved in thirty years. 

Despite the convenience of the electronic age, there is still one yearly financial task that I abhor: taxes.  Although we long ago delegated the preparation of our taxes, there is much to do before our materials are ready for the professionals.  This process drains me of my life force.  I suppose it should be a valuable exercise to review one’s financial status, taking stock and adjusting strategies for the future.  For me, it is disheartening to view this financial extract of our lives: monetary detritus devoid of all that is qualitative.  While I am engaged in tax matters, my husband and I have an unspoken understanding that he at my disposal.  He brings me drinks, and treats, and uncharacteristically spontaneous expressions of love and devotion.

I daresay that my husband does not find his manhood threatened one iota by my management of this, the most odious of tasks.  Indeed, I imagine what it would be like to hand this off to someone I trust and I sigh audibly.  From where I sit, he is a lucky man.

(Our tax packet was posted at 9:37am today to the accountants.  Happy tax season everyone!)

Tomorrow's blog:  The Snow Line

The Pause That Refreshes

My very earliest memories took place on the corner of 6^th Avenue and 180^th Street, where my parents rented a house when we first moved from Melbourne to North Miami Beach.  My grandparents lived a few blocks away—just far enough that we had to drive there—in a house my father would eventually buy from my grandfather.  It was that latter house that I consider my real home growing up, though strangely, this little place where we lived for only two or three years was home to my very favorite childhood recollections.

I had a small bedroom in the front of the house.  I remember sleeping in a crib in this room, and I remember the very first time I climbed out of it to play with my toys when I was supposed to be sleeping.  For weeks I hid the fact that I could scramble in and out at will, not realizing that the big-kid bed on the other wall was intended for me.  I can still feel the sensation of happiness when I “graduated” from my crib, the bed’s irrelevance suddenly replaced by its just-in-time importance.

It must be no coincidence that my tender memories in this little house left me with a fondness for a midcentury aesthetic.  I can still see my blonde mother with her Marilyn Monroe pouf of hair standing in a sleeveless button-down and capri pants in front of the white-brick wall that anchored the living room.  I remember my father, forever trying to still the hands of time, shooting us in front of that wall with his unwieldy camera as we struck silly poses.  There was the wonderful day that our hot water heater broke and flooded the house, forcing me to play outside until dark, using our “carport” as a respite from the hot South Florida sun.  And there was my 4^th birthday when my dear grandfather was finally healthy enough to leave the hospital.  I shared that day with him, belatedly celebrating what would be his last birthday, in tandem with mine.  We had a special cake that was divided in half with two colors of frosting; in honor of him I proudly chose to eat from the “Happy Birthday Grampa” side.

The memories play like scenes from The Wonder Years; the colorful neighbors like extras wandering the back lot.  My mother drove a nondescript, light-colored sedan that might have been a Chevy or an Olds.  I remember its bench seat which, although unheard of today, allowed a mother to drive with two young children in the front beside her.  It was unbearable to sit on the vinyl upholstery; the sting of the Florida heat could raise blisters on the back of a child’s thighs. Once a week, my mother took me with her to her tennis lessons.  I had no idea what tennis was all about, however, once there my mother granted me a nickel to get a soda from the machine near the court.  This was my first possession of real money.  Once she lined up with the other women to return serves I was off her radar completely for the duration of the lesson.  I was permitted to walk the length of the court all by myself—like a grown woman—and then deposit the coin into the slot.  I loved the clickety-clack as the nickel fell through the inner workings of the machine.  With sober importance I considered, only briefly, my choice of drink before selecting a Fanta Orange.  It was always a Fanta.  I would grasp the bottle by its cap with my tiny hands and pull against the sharp edges as hard as I could, releasing the chilled bottle from its hugging mechanism, and then watching as another filled its place.  Slyly, I would tug again on the next one to see if it too would come free; I could not comprehend the magic that locked the next bottle so quickly.

With prize careful uncapped and secure in my hand, I would saunter back to the wooden bench adjacent to the court where my mother and the other ladies played in their short skirts.  If my mother was good at tennis, or showed improvement over the many weeks, I could not tell you.  I was captivated by my soda; its chilled glass bottle gave it an ice-cold sensation that was unlike anything else.  Although I sizzled in the hot son, baking my skin to a crisp brown until my Keds left tan lines, I could flush my insides with bubbly orange frost and feel chilled instantly.  I liked to practice sipping with a stiff upper lip the way grown-ups did, but I was afraid that this approach would net me an unpleasant orange mustache.  Placed carefully, however, the orange would color only my lip—making it look as though I wore real lipstick.

Nothing brings back the nostalgia of those simple and happy days like icy soda in a real glass bottle. As a Diet Coke addict, however, it is challenging to find an endless supply of product in New England.  For this reason, my husband seeks out sources as a special way to convey his affection.  Today’s blog is brought to you by the memories that his latest procurement evoked.  The glass-bottled Diet Coke remains as much a treat for me today as that bottle of Fanta Orange was in my youth. 

Tomorrow's blog:  Money Matters



Work On It With A Sonnet

Ideas soar free, aloft in cyberspace,

From Google, Wiki, Twitter they abound,

Recycled themes become more commonplace;

Originality is seldom found.

There’s nothing so cathartic as a rant--

Take sound bites out of context; target fools,

But some days I am spent, I simply can’t

Turn incohesive thoughts to treasured jewels.

I venture past the boundaries of my house,

My shriveled mind demands an antidote,

I scrutinize the follies of my spouse,

As humor keeps the irony afloat.

There’s nothing like a sonnet to take stock,

And cure a minor case of writer’s block.

Tomorrow's blog:  The Pause That Refreshes

Blonde Chili Has More Fun

In celebration of three thousand hits, it is time for another recipe.  I used to make this deliciousness from scratch, starting with dried beans and raw chicken.  I believe canned beans are just fine in something that is cooked for a long time.  For the chicken, I pick up a whole roasted chicken at Costco.  At $4.99, it is as inexpensive as a raw chicken at the regular market, takes a lot less time to cook, and it imparts a good flavor from the roasting process.  Once I have removed the meat from the bones, I use the carcass to make a rich chicken stock—which I store in quart containers in the freezer.

This recipe serves about 4 in my house.  It easily doubles to serve more.


Tip:  To char whole chile peppers, hold with heat resistant tongs in flame on gas stove until the outside is completely charred.  Drop burnt peppers into a large glass (Pyrex) bowl and cover with plastic wrap.  Allow peppers to "sweat" for about an hour.  Remove plastic.  Charred skin will peel or rub off easily.


Note to readers:  Recipe adjusted on June 8th --ESD

Blonde Chili

1 roasted whole chicken, skinned and boned, meat shredded (makes about 2 cups)
2- 15 oz cans of Great Northern white beans, drained (cannellini beans can be substituted but I prefer these smaller beans)
4 cups chicken stock (may substitute broth)
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
2-4 oz. can roasted green chilies,chopped and drained
1 jalapeno chile, charred over an open flame, then seeded and chopped
2 poblano peppers, charred over an open flame, then peeled, seeded and chopped
4 cloves garlic, minced
2 teaspoons ground cumin
1 ½ teaspoons dried oregano
¼ teaspoon (or less) cayenne pepper
1/4 teaspoon ground chipotle powder (optional, but adds a delicious smoke flavor)
1 can Mexican-style stewed tomatoes, or 1 can chopped tomatoes with green chiles
salt to taste
2 cups grated Monterey Jack cheese, or a 2 cup package of Mexican cheese blend
1/4 cup each:  chopped fresh cilantro leaves and finely sliced green onions

Optional for garnish:  cilantro (finely chopped), sour cream, grated cheese, Fritos scoops

Discard chicken skin and bones, or use to make stock.  Drain and rinse beans.

In a medium stockpot with a well-fitting lid, heat oil over medium heat.  Add onions and sweat until soft, about 5 minutes.  Add garlic, chopped chiles, cumin, oregano, cayenne, chipotle powder and cook about 2 minutes to infuse flavors.  Add beans and chicken stock.  Bring mixture to a boil.  Cover with a tight lid and simmer over low heat for one hour, stirring occasionally.  Add tomatoes and simmer another 30 minutes.  Adjust seasonings and add salt to taste.

Add cooked shredded chicken and heat to boiling.  Stir in cilantro and green onions.  The, while continuing to boil, add cheese a small amount at a time, whisking constantly until it melts into a smooth, thickened sauce.   Spoon into bowls and serve immediately.  Garnish with chopped cilantro, thinly sliced green onions, a dollop of sour cream.  Serve with corn bread or Fritos scoops.

Let's Not Give Birth to an Old Debate

Leaving religion out of this for the moment. . .

Is it my imagination, or is it 2012 and we are once again debating whether birth control is a matter of a woman’s privacy and basic health care?  Contraception has been a standard aspect of medical care since 1937, the year after Margaret Sanger emerged from prison victorious, successful in getting the Comstock Laws overturned in New York.  Strangely, it was not until 1965, when the U.S. Supreme Court handed down its decision in Griswold v. Connecticut, that birth control in this country was fully “legalized”.  In that landmark case, a woman's ability to acquire and use contraception was upheld as a matter of the due process protections of the 14^th Amendment.

Women today owe a monumental debt to Margaret Sanger, who spent her life trying to raise the standard of justice and decency on their behalf.  It was the early 20^th Century, a time in history where being “good little wives and making more Americans” was White House policy.  Sanger’s perspective was colored by the plight of her own mother, who endured 18 pregnancies that produced only 11 live births over a period of 22 years before dying, virtually broken, at the age of 50.  As a nurse, Sanger was later witness to multiple acts of desperation by women who were essentially enslaved by their husbands through repeated unwanted pregnancies. After watching a woman die of sepsis from a self-induced abortion, she vowed to make contraception widely accepted and easily available.  Hers was a fight for a “democratic” approach to birth control—contraception that was easy and inexpensive to use correctly regardless of a woman’s social class or level of education. 

Today, Sanger’s name is synonymous with contraception; she is considered the leader of the “birth control movement” in America.  This far understates her significance.  When you consider that she opened her first birth control clinic in 1916, just as the women’s suffrage movement was reaching full throttle (the suffrage bill was brought to Congress in 1915 and finally ratified as the Nineteenth Amendment in 1920), she deserves credit for far greater influence on the emergence of women in society.  Her argument that women’s control over their reproduction would help them to gain a stronger footing in American society was a necessary precursor to the greater Women’s Movement.  Sanger saw contraception as a means to neutralize a woman’s biological functions in order to participate more fully in education, careers, and other benefits of free society.  These societal gains came at a high price in a world dominated by men, who fought hard against elevating women’s status above that of property.

Many do not realize that Sanger also is directly responsible for the development of the birth control pill.  It was early in her crusade that she imagined a “magic pill” that could be taken as easily as an aspirin to prevent pregnancy.  In the 1950s, she personally raised the financing to fund its development, resulting in the first FDA-approved oral contraceptive.

Margaret Sanger is often associated with the passage of Rowe v. Wade, a decision handed down in 1973, seven years after her death.  Rowe v. Wade was built upon the provisions established in the Griswold v. Connecticut decision, which was the culmination of Sanger's life's work.  Ironically, Sanger herself did not fight for abortion; her motivation was to promote birth control as a safe means to avoid the pregnancies that made abortion necessary.

The philosopher George Santayana said, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”  And so here we are in 2012, where we not only see Rowe v. Wade challenged by an ever-smaller splitting of legal hairs, but now a new debate has emerged on whether an employer can deny women insurance coverage for birth control because of its institutional beliefs.  The work of women like Margaret Sanger should not be forgotten.  I am proud that our daughters are growing up in a world where we can tell them honestly that all things are possible.  Let’s all work together to ensure that this really is the case.

Tomorrow's blog:  Blonde Chili Has More Fun

Mind the Handi-Gap

A few years back I had surgery for a calcified Achilles tendon.  This was one of those surgeries that is elective, though slowly becomes imperative.  It is also barbaric, involving the severing of the tendon, the removal of degenerated material at the back of the heel, and then reattachment of the remaining healthy tendon into healthy bone with surgical screws.  When I first talked to the orthopedist about the procedure, he said, “You’ll know when you need it because you will come back begging me to for it.”  Sure enough, a year and a half later, after failing to get any relief from physical therapy and a strange treatment involved electrical current and cortisone, I was ready.

After the surgery, I was bedridden for a full ten weeks.  When I say bedridden, I mean that I was not permitted to let my foot touch the ground.   I could not even rest my foot on the floor to have dinner at the table with my family.  Eventually, I developed adaptive behaviors around my decidedly “unfootfriendly” house, where even my bedroom is sunken down a step from the en suite bathroom.  We rented a wheel chair, which helped relieve my hands from the growing burden of crutches—although that was only useful in the main living areas.  I brought all the essentials down from my upstairs office so I could communicate with the outside world.  After a few weeks I began to manage in the kitchen, even whipping up Nutella crepes one afternoon for my daughter and her friends.

The one bright side to this story is that it involved my left foot.  As soon as I was placed in a walking air boot I got in my car and sped away.  Of course, getting up and down the four steps in the garage was problematic, but let’s just say I got to the 'bottom' of it quickly!  At the advice of the doctor’s assistant, I applied for a temporary disability tag for my car.  It was valid for a six month period, after which they assured me I would be better than ever.  (I was!)

At first, it seemed like a cool thing to be able to find parking right in front of a restaurant or a mall entrance.  Mixed metaphorically speaking, I had the golden ticket and I was in the front row!  But the first time we went on a mall outing there was no available handicap parking at any of the mall entrances.  Over several weeks, the reserved parking spots remained elusive.  I began to feel a bit guilty that I accepted the permit at all; there were so many people who seemed in need of this extra help from society.  Certainly, with my boot and crutches I could amble up to the door from the far end of the parking lot, even if I had to rest at the bench just inside the entrance to regain my strength.  Leave those spots for the truly needy.

Then one day, as I was circling the mall lot looking for a place to land, an acquaintance from my town came dashing out of the mall toward her car.  She stopped at a minivan parked in a disabled-reserved spot and clicked her door open.  As she jumped inside, she removed the handicap tag from her rear-view mirror and pulled away.  Even though this provided a spot for me, I was livid.  Pulling a book from my purse, I decided to hunker down to wait for the next person to claim their car along “disabled row.”  Finally, a couple with a few years on me but nonetheless chipper and able, approached a car two spots over.  They piled the spoils of their shopping expedition into the trunk and sped away.  Right on their heels, a woman with two children in tow claimed the next car.  I was beginning to see a pattern emerge.

A few days later, I was fortunate to find a great spot right in front of the Cheesecake Factory where I was meeting a friend for lunch.  I hesitated to pull in because it was one of those paired van spots: two disabled parking spaces with a wide painted area in between to accomodate specially-accessible lifting equipment.  The adjoining space was vacant and I was properly tagged to use either one;  I grabbed my spot just as it began to pour.  I was glad for that extra margin of space as I lowered myself to the ground and engineered a way to carry an umbrella while on crutches.  After lunch, the storm had intensified as only nor’easters can.  I came out to find that someone had squeezed a non-permitted car in the painted area between the two disabled spots.  On their passenger side—my driver’s side—they left only about an inch and a half of space.  There I was, my umbrella no longer useful, on crutches and in an air boot, soaked to the skin with no apparent way to enter my car and drive home. 

As I stood there, trying to decide whether my insurance company would forgive me if I smashed this person’s headlights with my crutches and “keyed” their car with its wingnuts, one of those security people driving a golf cart approached to ask if I “required assistance.”  Duh!  I showed them what I was dealing with and suggested that she call to have the offending vehicle towed.  She said she could not do that.  I asked whether she could get some “real” police to ticket the person who had violated both the letter and the spirit of the law.  Again, no.    She drove away, leaving me, ankle deep without a proverbial paddle.   Defeated, I went to the passenger side of my car and squeezed in, hoping that if I waited long enough I would have a chance to confront the offender.  After half an hour I really needed to get home and get dry.  Desperate and shivering, I removed the boot from my left leg in order to bend it and then lifted myself in the car with my arms, hoping I could straddle the bulky console and slide to the left into the driver’s side without landing on my healing foot.

I share this experience with a higher purpose.  It is our nature to want the best for ourselves; so much of this world rewards those who are first, or best, or clever.  I learned in economics that "cheaters usually prosper," at least in the short term.  Many things we grasp from the hands of serendipity, however, come to us at the expense of someone else.  I know many people who have held on to handicap placards that rightfully belonged to an elderly parent or spouse.  Once departed, it is easy enough to appropriate the card for one’s own use.  Many look upon this as their own good fortune; but beware the karma, as this is not a victimless crime. 

Tomorrow's blog:  Let's Not Give Birth to an Old Debate