The Christmas Newsletter of the Decade

     December 2009—It’s that time of year when the ubiquitous Christmas Newsletter makes its welcome, and sometimes not-so-welcome, appearance in mailboxes and inboxes. Face it, some of us just don’t have that much interesting to say from year to year, or at least nothing that’s interesting to anyone but ourselves and our mothers. But now I find myself at the end of a decade, and realize that maybe, if I comb ten years’ accumulated living, I can find something worth sharing.

     So much has happened since December 1999 that I hardly know where to begin. I distinctly remember where I was then—where I worked, what car I drove, where I lived; and I can easily recount those same details today, though almost every answer has changed in a way that would have been incomprehensible to me at that time. But the really big question is not where I am now, but rather: How did I make it from being an accountant whose baby was in kindergarten, with a new puppy, and driving carpool in a minivan to writing this letter as a graying grad student with one kid (sort of) out of the house, one really old dog, and still no red convertible? About the only thing that’s the same as in ’99 is Ted. Well, he’s mostly the same, just a little grayer like me, and thank goodness he’s still here. We were married in 1989, so I guess that means 2010 will start our third decade together. That alone is pretty amazing to think about.

     So what has happened during the last ten years? It’s tough, but all I can do is try to list ten of the most memorable happenings—events that have had a lasting impact on our family life. They’re listed chronologically, and because I’m getting old, the dates are mostly approximate. The list is purely subjective and purely my own—if you asked anyone else around my house, I’m sure they would tell a completely different story.

1. Summer 1999 - Patch. Though technically outside the time parameters of this list, not much has made a bigger difference in our family’s life than adopting this neurotic dog, so I must include him. Alternately lovable and maddening, he has made us laugh, cry, and argue with each other and our neighbors. At 10+, he’s finally mellowed a bit and is definitely passing through the twilight of his life. I know he won’t be around for the next decade’s newsletter, and though I hate to say it, I know I’m going to miss him when he’s gone.

2. Jan 2000 - My only (paying) job this century—AIA Dallas. Too many stories to include here, but AIA colored nearly everything we did for over nine years. Along the way, I took a turn at almost every task in the office, and Ted volunteered for just about every leadership position available. The kids even helped in the office and at events. For better and worse, AIA was always there.

3. Aug 2003 - Both Alex and Sophie changed campuses to participate in RISD’s Magnet Program. This was possibly the change that has had the biggest effect on us all. Both kids blossomed in their new schools and discovered friends and interests that I am sure will be beneficial to them for the rest of their lives. Sophie began to actively develop the artistic and creative skills that make her the unique and talented person she is today, and Alex found a meaningful outlet for his interest in all things scientific, mathematical, and mechanical.

4. Sept 2003 - Ted and his friend Paul left their old firm to become entrepreneurs. In business for only 10 (count ‘em, 10!) days, they sent the computers back to Dell and both went to work for Gensler Dallas. In hindsight, it was probably the best thing for all concerned, considering health insurance and all, but I sure didn’t see it that way at the time…. In the words of Forrest Gump, “That’s all I have to say about that.”

5. Spring 2004 - With the kids in new schools and Ted’s new job, we packed up and moved north of I-635. After nine years in Lake Highlands it was a big step, and we even changed churches. Many of our friends were not happy, and some have never forgiven us. The neighbors mentioned in Item 1 of this list were not, however, sorry to see us, and Patch, go.

6. Fall 2004 - Attended the dinner party that changed my life, where I chatted with a woman who suggested I might enjoy a non-credit literature class at SMU. She said there was no homework, and the cost was reasonable. That is SMU’s plan: draw you in with an easy, inexpensive class,  offer to let you audit a real class at a big discount, and then  reel you in like a fish. In 2006 I signed on for the Master of Liberal Arts degree, which, at one class per semester would take about six years to complete and then likely wouldn’t even qualify me for a new job. Insane, I know. But I told Ted that this counted as my official midlife crisis and was definitely cheaper than a Corvette. To his credit, he went along with my madness, and he and the kids have been my unfailing cheerleaders through countless classes, papers, and projects. Graduation is on the horizon in May 2010.

7. Spring 2007 - Sensing, we now know correctly, that the North Dallas housing market was just about to boil over, we listed and sold the Glenhurst Drive house in 12 days, and then had to find a place to move. Not surprisingly, chaos ensued. Family harmony cost, among other things, one new flat-screen TV for Ted and laptops for each of the kids, but the natives were at last temporarily calmed. Not quite three years later, Ted and I are already thinking about the next (empty-nester) house. What is wrong with us?

8. June 2008 - Oh my God, what a month. On June 3, my dad had emergency quintuple bypass surgery. Very serious, but he survived, and is thankfully doing well now. On June 11, my nephew Lonnie, aged 17 and born the same day as Alex, died unexpectedly. And on June 18, our dear friend Gerri lost her battle with cancer. May we, and all our family and friends, never have another month like that one.

9. Spring 2009 - Alex achieved the perfect “trifecta” and made his old Mom and Dad the proudest we’ve ever been, which is saying a great deal indeed! With Alex as co-captain and driver, his robotics team won a (repeat) national title at the Battlebots competition--it was like he was the star quarterback at the Super Bowl as far as we were concerned; he graduated in the Top 10 of his high school class and got a full scholarship to go with it; and…he stood on stage, alone, in front of hundreds of people and performed a beautiful solo during his final school choir concert. All fantastic accomplishments, but the solo was the one that made me cry the most. I’ll never forget it.

10. Summer 2009 - Freshly unemployed (by choice), I enrolled in a writing class as part of my SMU program. Going in, I wondered if I even had a story to tell, but the experience has been like stepping through a door and into a world I never even knew existed. Since then I’ve started a blog, gotten published in the Dallas Morning News, and even begun a novel. Now if I could just get someone to pay me to write…

 

So there you have it—ten big things that have shaped the lives of the Kollaja family over the past decade. There were obviously many more, but I had to choose from what I can still remember. Really, I know that not many people care how smart and talented and good-looking my kids are except me and Ted (and maybe their grandparents) or where we went on our family vacations. Those things are interesting, and fun (or maybe not so fun), and they have a time and a place to be shared. But looking back, those aren’t the really important things. It’s the decisions we make and the way we live day-in-and-day-out, that tell who we really are. I’m thinking about what I want the list I’ll make in December 2019 to look like, and I hope it’s as satisfying to me as this one. I am sure there will be new things to report that I can’t even imagine today. Who knows, I might be a famous author or have a Ph.D. by then, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll have that red convertible too.

Wishing you and yours a happy, healthy 2010 and beyond!

It's All About The Outfit

     Some day, hopefully in about ten years give or take, my only daughter will decide to marry a wonderful, kind (maybe even rich!) man. I will be thrilled and will cry at the thought of my little girl walking down the aisle. It’s too bad I won’t be there to see it, because I know she will be a beautiful bride. No, I don’t have some dread disease that will take me away before the blissful day; it’s just that I plan to offer her a substantial sum of money to run away and tie the knot in some exotic locale, far from my prying eyes. I’m sure that it will be worth every penny and will add years to our loving relationship.

     Every fall we repeat the same routine. As soon as Sophie’s birthday festivities are completed mid- September, she starts planning her costume for Halloween. When she was little, things were easy; we just went to Toys-R-Us and bought a glittery costume, which was worn in dress-up play around the house until the big day. No tears, no second-guessing. Lately, no such luck.

     For teenagers, Halloween costumes must be original and they must be unique; but never, never, should the costume require others to guess your creative intentions or for that matter, encourage them to even look at you. The costume must be instantly recognizable, yet completely different from anything that anyone else in the neighborhood might be wearing. If it’s a duplicate, that's bad; but if it makes anyone actually notice you, that is infinitely worse. The dichotomy of these two lines of reasoning (?) makes me want to scream.

     Two weeks ago, Sophie decided to attend a Halloween party as singer Amy Winehouse, with her friend and sidekick as Britney Spears. Think of it as North-South White Trash night. It sounded like a funny idea which wouldn’t cost much and could be accomplished with a few clothing items already on hand, plus a can of Red Bull for Amy and some big curlers for Brit’s hair. But that idea was abandoned for some mysterious reason, and others were bandied about. Finally, at T-minus-7 days, the decision was made to go as either Galinda (from the musical Wicked), or Barbie. Either one would require some class of sparkly, pink outfit. Little girls never really grow up, do they?

     In pursuit of the perfect, inexpensive, Galinda/Barbie dress, we drove to the Goodwill store. This is a sad, sad place, and proves that the slow economy has taken its toll on the poor in our land. Sophie reported that previous excursions to Goodwill for theater costumes had proved quite rewarding, with full racks of sequined gowns and ghastly bridesmaid castoffs. Today, nothing; only a few tired dresses hung on the racks. No ruby slippers or pink handbags were available at all.

     So on to similar situations at the Salvation Army and the Genesis Thrift stores. Our last hope, three hours and forty-seven miles later, was Buffalo Exchange. There we found the perfect pink satin bubble dress and sparkly pink stiletto heels to turn a leggy blond into a life-sized Barbie. All she needed to complete the illusion was a spray tan and a guy to dress up as plastic-haired Ken.

     I was ready and eager with my credit card. For $19.50 we could justify the afternoon of driving and searching and hang a “Mission Accomplished” banner across the back of the Honda. But no. At the last minute, Sophie decided that the Barbie concept was flawed and no one would understand. I stood helpless at the checkout; all I could do was offer money and support. The choice was hers.

     We left the store empty handed and silent. It was a long ride home, and I’m not sure who was more upset. All I wanted was for her to be happy, but in hindsight maybe it’s just not that easy. With choice comes responsibility, and that’s a tough thing to accept, whether you’re 15 or 45.

     Ted says I enabled her, and should have called off the chase at the second store. Maybe so, but I find it ironic that he has since agreed to help her find a cowboy hat and chaps for her most recent costume idea. We’ll see if he drags into the house later this afternoon looking frantically for the wine bottle. On second thought, maybe I won’t have to miss her wedding after all. I’ll just let Dad take her to pick out a dress.

Unlawful Restraint

     God is going to smite me. This afternoon I stopped by a local consignment store, where I browsed for an outfit to wear to an upcoming formal party. As most of my friends know, I’m slowly succeeding in my weight loss effort, which makes the resale store a great option for something I might only wear once. But my recent dieting victories sometime make me overly optimistic about what size clothing I can actually fit into; this, I believe, was the root of today’s problem.

     I found a lovely chiffon blouse which perfectly complemented a black skirt I already own. It still carried the original tags, so I could tell it had been quite expensive. But it must have been on the rack for some time, because even the second-hand price had been discounted. My bargain-loving genes perked up, and I decided to try it on. It was a size Medium.

     The blouse had a zipper running down the center two-thirds of one side seam—a common feature of ladies’ eveningwear. Any woman who has worn a garment of this type knows very well that the zipper placement makes it much easier to put on than to take off, and that extracting oneself may require significant bodily contortions. This is true even if the piece in question fits you. Even then, it is advisable to have a good friend or husband nearby, just in case.

     I stepped into the shop’s tiny dressing room and wiggled into the blouse. It was a little snug. I stepped out to look in the three-way mirror and, ever the optimist, determined that if I could lose another five pounds before the party, it might be a go.

     Back in the fitting room, I tried to lift the blouse over my head. No luck. The top was too tight, and the room was so small that I couldn’t maneuver my arms sufficiently upward to work myself free. I tried tugging and twisting, and can only imagine the noises I made in the process. Still nothing. I was trapped.

     The only other people in the shop were a teenage cashier and the male shop owner. I considered calling out for the girl to come help me, but ruled the idea out on the grounds that 1) she might possibly know one of my kids, and 2) she would be even more embarrassed than me if she had to help rescue me from the blouse. The man was totally out of the question. I was wearing a hot-pink bra.

     Now sometimes good people have to make tough choices, and at that moment I honestly felt I had few options. I could have walked up to the cashier wearing the blouse, paid for it, and cut it off when I got home, but I just couldn’t bear the shame. So I grabbed the fabric and ripped it open at both ends of the zipper. It tore pretty easily, but that was probably my adrenaline at work. I’ve heard of people performing all manner of amazing feats in traumatic situations such as this.

     Too mortified to admit my shameful secret, I replaced the blouse on the hanger with the torn seam carefully camouflaged and smuggled it back onto the rack between the other items I had brought into the dressing room. I quietly ducked out the door as another customer was coming in. The phrase “banned for life” flitted through my mind.

     When I sheepishly shared this tale with Ted after dinner, his only response was, “Do you make this stuff up?” Sadly, no. I only wish I had that much imagination.

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Epilogue: After an evening of soul-searching, I returned the next day and purchased the ruined blouse, paying in cash. I did not confess my crime.

Searching for Poe-Now That’s Scary

     Today is the 160th anniversary of the death of author Edgar Allan Poe. I’m sure you’re asking yourself why I know, or even care, about such obscure trivia, but hey, I’ve always had a thing for interesting but otherwise useless information. The real truth is that I learned about the milestone this past weekend while visiting the Baltimore/DC area. Poe lived, worked, and died in Baltimore, so the city’s tourist literature makes a big deal about him. Sophie complains that we drag her to every art museum in every city we visit, so as a compromise we decided to do a literary tour instead. But like a Poe tale, not everything we encountered on our journey that day was quite what we were expecting.

     One weekend too early for the re-enactment of Poe’s funeral and other “official” events, we set off on a self-guided tour, with info gleaned from the internet and guided by the schizophrenic GPS unit in our rental car. First stop was the Annabel Lee Tavern (named for the sorrowful, last poem Poe wrote before his death at age 40) where we planned to have lunch. When we arrived, we discovered it was more of a bar than a restaurant and didn’t open till evening. The proprietor was washing down the sidewalk with bleach-not an auspicious sign. Sophie was too miffed to even let us take her picture out front.

     We moved on to the Poe Museum, located in the actual house where Poe lived with his aunt and wife (he married his 13 year old cousin--more weirdness). As we approached the house, the neighborhood became increasingly ominous, and not in a gothic way. Madame GPS kept changing her mind mid-street, as if she weren’t sure we really needed to go there at all. To our chagrin, we found ourselves in The Projects--the Baltimore, Murder-Capital-of-the-US Projects—and locked the car’s doors. Sophie asked why Poe had lived in such a bad part of town.

     Across from Poe’s tiny, shuttered row house, a security guard sat barricaded in his truck. As we slowly passed, he motioned for us to roll down the window. He called out,“Looking for the Poe house?” I can’t imagine how he guessed. We didn’t want to leave the car, and all our luggage, unattended even long enough to go see if the place was open.

     Finally, we tried to find the Poe gravesite. The address was even deeper in the ‘hood than the Museum, so we (wisely, I believe) abandoned our plan for the macabre photo op next to Poe’s tombstone. We feared that even if we didn’t lose our lives in that cemetery, we might likely lose our wallets and cellphones, or worse, the car.

     Four hours after we began the Poe pilgrimage, we ended up at the place we didn’t even intend to go that day: The Baltimore Museum of Art. Among the Matisses and Picassos, we were relieved to find a temporary exhibit of Poe illustrations by famous artists. It wasn’t the tour we had expected, but at that point, it had to do. Sophie didn’t protest. One word sums up my intentions regarding future plans for a Poe tour, and Baltimore in general: Nevermore.

Revenge of the Yearbook

     From my earliest school days, I recall my teacher’s threat whenever any infraction of rules, large or small, was committed: “This will go in your PERMANENT RECORD!” As a young child, I was cowed by the ominous pronouncement, but as I got older and wiser, I began to dismiss the idea of an all-encompassing history as a mere dusty file hidden in the school’s basement, forgotten and harmless.

     But now I understand all too well that I should have paid more attention to the somber prophecy of Mrs. Geisen—who terrified me with her size 12 orthopedic shoes and Far Side hair bun. I am sure even she could not have realized the true portent of her threat and the culmination of the “Permanent Record” scenario. It’s Facebook.

     Early this morning, among the usual updates in my in-box, I found an unnerving post: a horrifying pseudo-professional portrait of myself at age 16, pre-orthodontics, with a then-boyfriend sporting Napoleon Dynamite hair. My own long-forgotten copy of this image was destroyed eons ago, and I don’t even recall the circumstance of its origin. I was mortified to find this reminder of my ugly-duckling, bad-judgment-in-romance self haunting me from the screen of my laptop.

     The first order of business was to get the ghastly likeness off my Facebook page before anyone else could see it. I spent precious minutes Googling the correct incantation to rid myself of the terrible thing, all the while panic-stricken that someone I know now (read: my own children) might stumble upon it and ridicule me mercilessly.

     The source of this embarrassing surprise was a former classmate, whom I had recently befriended on Facebook, after our mothers had visited together in our hometown. I was reluctant to re-establish contact with him, as I’ve spent nearly 30 years distancing myself from the crushing humiliation of high school. Like a victim in the witness protection program, I’ve been hiding behind my married name in a series of populous cities for most of my adult life. But nostalgia got the better of me, and I opened the door to my old life just a crack.

     I soon realized that resurfacing may not have been my best idea. Several other classmates saw my name on his list and sent me friend requests. Most I just ignored. But some had been close enough to require a positive response, though their status updates proved we now share few, if any, common views. So I just hid their posts. Out of sight, out of mind.

     Then these friends began to tag me in old yearbook pictures. Aside from the laughable 80’s hair and fashion, I wasn’t embarrassed enough to protest. At least I was thin in those days. But now that an unwelcome old boyfriend has started digitizing his ancient photo album and sharing it indiscriminately, I’ve had enough. It’s disconcerting to think that someone would even keep a memento like that for so many years, much less feel the need to display it publicly.

     So now I’m back on the lam from my past, and my “Permanent Record”, having “un-friended” the whole lot from the class of ’82. My daughter tells me that they won’t be notified that I’ve cut them off, so I’ve got a good head start. But if you’re reading this and happen to have incriminating photos of me in disco clothes and big hair, please contact me first before you post them for the world, and my teenagers, to see. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.

Mother of the Homecoming Date

     My girl has a date for the Homecoming dance. She is ecstatic. I am petrified. She may be old enough for this, but what about me? And what, exactly, is the proper role for the Mother-of-the-Homecoming-Date in today’s exaggerated high-school social scene? I’ve checked, and Emily Post provides no guidance whatsoever on this momentous rite of passage. Too bad, because I could really use some help. To do too little will make me seem as though I don’t care, and to do too much will make me seem like a helicopter mom living vicariously through her child’s social engagement. Like so many other parenting challenges, it’s a tricky balancing act.
     The first question on my mind is The Mum. Who buys it, and how extravagant should it be? Mums are a very important part of the Homecoming scene, and big business for our school’s PTA. Mum Moms have been toiling for months cutting ribbon and assembling the elaborate corsages that both girls (and boys!) wear to the big game. Friends who grew up in other areas of the country seem perplexed by the hugely beribboned mum; I take it from their attitudes that our custom is a peculiarly Texan affair. I wasn’t previously aware of the cultural disparity, and thought all high school girls everywhere spent Homecoming day wearing corsages that make them resemble a Kentucky Derby winner. But what I personally find unusual is the trend in large armband corsages, complete with ribbons and teddy bears, for the guys. When I was in high school, a young man would rather have been boiled in oil than alight from his pickup truck sporting such an accessory. Obviously, times have changed.

     Then, there’s The Homecoming Dress. Fortunately for me, this particular detail was settled before I even knew it was an issue; I was thus saved much wailing and gnashing of teeth during hours of fruitless shopping at Northpark. My daughter found the “perfect” dress and shoes during the summer and bought them with an optimistic eye toward the future. When she announced that the outfit was for Homecoming, I was skeptical. “Do Freshmen go to the Homecoming dance? “ I asked. She accused me of doubting her ability to land a date. But truly, I never doubted her success for a minute (her dating prospects are what keep me awake nights) and attributed my confusion to a distant memory, from the dark ages of my own high school years, that only Juniors and Seniors attend the dance. Many, many things seem to start earlier now, and I clearly still have some distance to travel in catching up with the times.

     Finally, there’s The Pre-Dance Photo Op. Previously, I’ve seen caravans of cars lined up at neighbors’ homes around this time of year and asked myself, “Who died?” Nobody, fortunately. The traffic jam was just the dance attendees, along with their parents, gathering at one photogenic house to snap dozens of pictures in finery they’ll never wear again, with dates they may not even be talking to next week. This year, by some mysterious lottery, we have been designated as photo hosts. While I’m flattered that my home has been deemed worthy of the honor, I’m also a bit nervous. Of course I’ll have to clean the house, and perhaps even paint the front hall. But should I serve snacks to the other parents? Cocktails? Maybe I’ll have one now.

     The only saving grace in this whole affair is that my daughter’s date can’t drive yet, so there’s no worry about her riding off alone with a boy who has borrowed his mom’s nice car for the big night. At this point, unsupervised car travel might actually put me over the edge. Instead, I assume we parents will be pressed into chauffer service for the game and dinner (another detail to work out), to the dance, and back home afterward. At least I hope that’s what everyone has in mind. I really, really don’t want to have to pitch in for a limo. Not yet. We all need to save something for the kids’ weddings, or at least for the Senior Prom.

Beware of The Lost Symbol

      Literature lovers of the world, unite! There’s a threat forming on the horizon, and it’s coming our way this Tuesday, September 15th. Together we can defeat this menace! Yes, I’m talking about the new Dan Brown novel, The Lost Symbol.
     Last week Amazon.com posted a banner ad on its home page promising to deliver my copy of the new book before breakfast on release day. The ad touted the manuscript as so secret that it was under lock and key at the publisher’s location and required “two separate people” to access the supply. Pray tell, what is the alternative to “two separate people?” Would it be two conjoined people or simply a staffer with a dual personality? Maybe Mr. Brown wrote the copy for the advertisement, too.

     I know, I’m just a neophyte writer who can barely give away 500 words to the local paper, and Dan Brown is a bestselling jillionaire with movie deals and everything. But come on, his books (and the movies too, with Tom Hanks and his bouffant hair) are laughable. Very profitably laughable for Mr. Brown, to be sure, but that doesn’t make them any better for the rest of us.

       Back in the dark ages of 2003 I began hearing buzz about a new book called The Da Vinci Code. A pretty cool title, I admit, it jiggles the imagination of art lovers and mystery lovers alike. Critics were raving and friends were reading it while waiting in the carpool line, so lemming-like, I got a copy. At first, I was willing to go along with the wild yarn about the Knights of Templar and their secret antics. But then Mr. Brown veered down the path of Jesus’ supposed dalliance with Mary Magdalene and the whole "royal bloodline" business. At that point I began to feel the same way about The Da Vinci Code as I had felt about The Celestine Prophecy back in the 90’s. Both books seem just real enough to get people all riled up, debating whether the claptrap could actually be true. But in the end it’s all just pure hooey. I finished the book but had completely lost interest by then--I saw that red-haired brother coming a mile away.

     As if I didn’t hate the book enough already, another nail was driven into the coffin when I visited Paris in 2006. According to our Parisian tour guide, Mr. Brown apparently didn’t even consult a map of the city while writing. In addition to offering educational tours of real French historical sites, Isabella also led tourist groups on The Da Vinci Code walks in which they tried, unsuccessfully, to retrace Robert Langdon’s path through Paris on the fateful night described in the story. The main problem with the attempted tour was that Brown’s geographical references are so disjointed that it is impossible to follow the alleged route. My own knowledge of Paris is limited, but from Isabella I understood the problem to be something like saying Langdon went from downtown Dallas to Oak Cliff via Plano. You just can’t get there from here.

     Then came Angels & Demons, written first but (rightly in my opinion) not deemed publishable until The Da Vinci Code became such a hot item. Where do I start? Ludicrous does not even begin to describe this ‘prequel’ to Langdon’s Paris adventure. The story is so outrageous that after I read it I yearned for a good Danielle Steel classic to rid myself of the bad taste. I don’t remember the exact point at which I began to gnash my teeth in response to the dopey tale, but it may have been when Mr. Brown reveals the bad priest to be the love child of The Pope and a nun, conceived via artificial insemination. The love child part is not so bad--even celibates can fall in love--but artificial insemination? Give me a break. It all came apart for me though, when Robert Langdon falls out of the helicopter and into the river, not too worse for the wear and ready to go jump Vittoria’s bones. At that point I just wanted to toss the book into the trash, but had to restrain myself because it was a borrowed copy. As my grandmother used to say, that book just got “worser and worser.”

     I’ll probably read Mr. Brown’s new offering, if only to give myself justification for complaint. I wouldn’t actually want a The Lost Symbol on my bookshelf where others might see it, so I’ll probably have to wait a while and sneak a library copy into the house. I’m sure that even then it will still be on the New York Times best-seller list. If this all sounds like sour grapes, maybe I’m guilty. But another part is just morbid fascination with bad pop-culture writing. Maybe if I read another amazingly awful tale, and get a big bottle of whisky to wash it down, I’ll start getting some ideas for my own outrageous pseudo-historical novel. Like the saying goes, “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” But if I do write something so crazy, I’ll definitely need a pen name. Suggestions, anyone?

Full Moon Over Spring Creek

     It began as a typical Saturday morning errand to the dry cleaners. Before it was over, a possible crime had been committed and more than one person, including me, would end up looking mighty foolish.
     A dry cleaning run is never complete without a visit to the adjacent donut shop, so my daughter waited in the car with her breakfast while I took the week’s laundry inside. It was morning rush hour and several people were in line ahead of me. While I waited my turn, a thirty-something guy came in and stood at the back of the line. He was tall, and was wearing gray gym shorts and a baseball cap. As I left the shop, I noticed his girlfriend waiting in a white sedan parked directly in front of the store’s windows.

     Because of the donut stop, I had parked several spaces away from the cleaner’s door, so the tall man probably didn’t notice me, or my daughter, sitting in the car. I hadn’t driven away yet because I was trying unsuccessfully to bum an apple fritter from her. And that’s when I saw the crime.

     The perpetrator was now alone in the shop, as the clerk had stepped to the back to retrieve his order. It all happened so fast, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The guy started to remove his shorts. My first thought was, “Why is he taking off his pants in the middle of the shop? He should have put them in the bag before he left home.” I’m pretty slow sometimes. But then I realized he wasn’t removing his pants to have them cleaned, but to share a little view of his, ahem, assets, with his watching girlfriend.

     From my vantage point all I could see was a hairy white butt, and not a great one at that. But from the degree to which he lowered those shorts and the hip-wiggling moves he aimed at the window, I’m pretty sure the girlfriend, with her more direct sight-line, saw more. A great deal more.

     I gasped aloud…and then, quite naturally I think, I pointed. My daughter, until this time interested only in the pastries, looked up. Her gaze followed my outstretched hand. Now we both had a view of the guy which I am certain he never intended.

     If I had been alone, I might have just shaken my head and driven away. But with a teenager along, I felt I had to express the appropriate indignation at this affront upon our collective female dignity. So I honked the horn. The guy’s head snapped around and he saw me. Immediately a look of panic covered his face. He jerked up the shorts.

     And then, God knows why, I got out of the car and stormed back into the shop. As I threw open the door, I practically screamed, “What do you think you’re doing? I’ve got a thirteen-year-old girl in the car!” By this time the clerk, and the store manager, had re-appeared with the clothes. They regarded me as if I were a lunatic, bursting into their store and shouting at another customer. At that point, I almost felt sorry for the guy. He turned red back to his ears and kept stammering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

     We all stared at each other for a long, uneasy second, until I beat a hasty retreat, as I’m sure the fellow did too. I still go to the same cleaners weekly, and neither the clerk nor the manager has ever mentioned the incident.

     But I’ve never seen Mr. Pants there again. He probably drives all the way to Plano to have his shirts done now. Afterward, I felt a bit silly reacting so strongly, but justified my behavior as a mother’s right to protect her child. All the wind went out of my sails, though, when I got back into the car and my daughter said, “Cool, Mom. I never would have looked if you hadn’t screamed and pointed.”

Going Green To Save Some Green

    


     It all started with a $753 electricity bill last January. Like many other people, I’m concerned a about global climate change and understand it to be a real scientific phenomenon rather than just a scare tactic dreamed up by Al Gore. Time will tell. But good intentions for the earth weren’t really what got me into energy-saving mode--basically, I’m a tightwad, and as such I hate to spend money I don’t have to. So I decided to put my household on an energy diet.

     The morning after receiving my paperless statement from Reliant Energy’s 100% Wind Plan, and still reeling from the shocking news it contained, I turned OFF both central air units when the family left for school and work instead of letting the programmable thermostat do its own timed routine. Yes, it was a little chilly when we got home that evening, but the house warmed up quickly enough. The kids got used to turning off the upstairs unit each morning, and at the end of the month I saw about 10% savings over our same-month-last-year cost. An easy $75, which emboldened me to expand my energy crusade.


     Now, turning off the heater each morning is a relatively simple and painless procedure, but the next phase threatened to affect others in my household more directly. I began looking with a critical eye at other energy-guzzling conveniences: the old dishwasher, the electric clothes dryer, and that 2nd refrigerator in the garage that only holds beer and soda. Right away, I emptied the outside fridge, put the drinks on the garage shelf, and turned the unit OFF. After all, it was like an icebox in the garage anyway so the cans still stayed pretty cold without benefit of Freon and electricity. Some re-education was required, but kids and husband adapted rapidly.


     On to the dryer. I cajoled my husband into stringing a clothesline across the narrowest end of our yard, between the house and fence, and out of view from the living area windows. We compromised on a single line, with a hook to allow its removal in the event of a party where our city friends might see it and laugh at the sight of such a countrified implement. In appreciation of my teenagers’ social sensibilities, I also agreed that there would be no drawers flapping in the breeze—only “safe” laundry. The clothesline has been a great success. I am not so compulsive to have calculated the exact cost of drying a load of sodden pool towels in the machine, but over time it’s got to make a difference. And sheets dried on the line are crisp and smooth without ironing. The biggest problem I’ve had is our dog’s tendency to “use” the area directly beneath the clothesline. I have to step carefully while putting out the wash and once had to redo a batch of towels when the overloaded line collapsed into the landmine zone.


     The dishwasher has been the trickiest of the three to abandon. I bought a nice stainless dish drainer, and a fancy dishsoap-fillable scrubber wand. I emptied the last load from the machine and advised my family that henceforth, unless we had a dinner party, we all would wash our own dishes by hand and put them in the drainer. No outright protests have been voiced, but I still have to be vigilant in the plan’s enforcement. The kids have perfected the stealthy plate- and- fork drop before running away upstairs under the guise of impending homework. Several times I’ve even found dishes secreted inside the dormant washer. No one will confess to this trickery--maybe the dog did it. As with the clothes dryer, I haven’t figured out exactly how many pennies this saves per day, but eliminating a two-hour wash cycle five times a week has to count for something.


     My earth-and-money saving zeal hasn’t stopped with the assault on the electricity bill. Since spring I’ve dreamed up other plans to annoy my beleaguered family: a hot-water recirculation pump, low-flow shower heads, and even a brick in the toilet tank. (I had to abandon that idea when the water began turning pink.) I gave the kids a timer for their showers, but quickly realized the folly of that strategy and took to banging on the bathroom door every five minutes instead. We dug a small garden which ultimately only fed the neighborhood’s wild rabbits, but did get a handful of tomatoes and cucumbers from potted plants stationed on the patio. Next year’s crop ought to be better though, because now I’ve installed a compost bin where I can make fertilizer out of the science experiments lurking in my remaining refrigerator. Too bad I can’t compost the dog poop--that would solve two problems at once.


     Almost nine months after this obsession started, I’m not sure how much money I’ve actually saved for all my efforts. I’ve spent money on products that I think will save money, and don’t know if I’m in the black or red on that score. But we’re trying, and my family is getting on board with the plan. There is certainly more, much more, we can do to reduce energy consumption, at home and otherwise. It’s a slow process to change a lifetime of wasteful habits. Our summer electricity bills have still been outrageous, but then it was 100 degrees for about 47 days in a row and with school out we couldn’t just turn the A/C completely OFF. Hmmm, maybe if I didn’t have to open and close the back door for the dog so often…

Happy Forty-Five!

To My Friend, on Your Forty-Fifth Birthday

      Forty-Five. That sounds like a pretty daunting number when combined with “Happy Birthday,” but here you are. And it’s not really as scary as it sounds. After all, you’re only halfway to ninety, and that’s a lot of livin’ left! Old-timer that I am, I thought I’d pass along a few words of advice from my six-month head start on this milestone to tell you about some things you might expect in the coming year…

     First, if they haven’t already, your arms will begin to shorten. For this malady, your optometrist may prescribe bifocal eyeglasses. Now the good doctor and his staff will likely point out the many stylish options available and will offer you the “lineless” bifocal so that no one will be able to tell just how old you really are. But beware. Bifocals are not for the uncoordinated. I have never gotten the hang of raising my head up to look down at what I’m reading, and looking down to see through the top of the lens while I’m driving. All I get is a headache from the damned things. I argue with the doctor that I can’t see out of them, but he says I can, so I’m stuck. My advice is to take the money you would spend on the lineless bifocals and get a massage and a facial instead. If you still need reading glasses, head over to Target and buy a cheap pair in some outrageous color or zebra print that will embarrass your kids and that you won’t mistakenly wear out of the house. Maybe in a few years you can get one of those chains that hangs around your neck to hold the reading glasses, but for now just make your kids go look for them whenever you need to read something.

     Second, sometime soon, aliens will visit you in the night and replace your body with, well, something else. Afterward, you will be mysteriously unable to purchase clothes in any department store in Dallas. None of the regular jeans or “Young Attitudes” tops will fit you anymore, and you will cry in the dressing room. Instead, you will be consigned to shop in places like Chicos and Coldwater Creek that offer clothes for the more mature woman and come in prints better suited to the cruise ship or shuffle board court than the office. “More is More” in these boutiques, and you have to stay on your toes to avoid looking like someone's mother-in-law. Fashion tip: stick with solids or simple print offerings, lest you blend in with the fake foliage at Luby’s or the glint from your rhinestone–studded jacket blind others in your path. Alternatively, you can take a teenager along who will roll her eyes and mumble “Grandma” under her breath anytime you pick up an offending item. If you’re short on teenagers, I’ve got one I can loan you.

     Third, you will become all too familiar with your gynecologist. Hormone testing, mammograms, and bone density tests are but a few of the exciting things he (or she) has in store for you. And with all that to worry about, he (or she) will lecture you like a teenager that you can still get pregnant! It’s just not fair—I mean one day you’re having a hot flash and the next you could be knocked up. Life is truly a bitch. And I’m not even going to talk about the leak-when-you-laugh syndrome, because if you don’t already know about that, you’ll find out soon enough.

     But seriously, being 45 isn’t all that bad. In fact, I’ve never been happier. When I was 25, I viewed 45 as so ancient as to be almost dead. Surely, I thought, if you drove a four-door sedan, or worse, a mini-van, your life must be just about over. Nothing left to hope for. But fortunately, the wisdom of my youth has been proved folly and I don’t feel “almost dead” at all. I feel very much alive, and hope you do too. And I’m still trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up…maybe the cool old lady professor who can match wits with her young students and do the Sunday New York Times crossword in ink. Or maybe I’ll go ride a camel in Egypt and write about it on my blog. But I’m sure that in another 20 years we’ll look at this essay and laugh at the naiveté of my current outlook on getting older. We’ll both think how young we were then and how much more we know now. So when you turn 65 I’ll write you another story and give you some more advice, but for now, Happy 45! And please, try not to get pregnant.

Tippid

     Tippid is a small red and white bear, with a heart shaped nose and a ribbon bow tie imprinted with the words “I Love You” in gold letters. He was a Valentine’s Day gift from Grandma when Alex was four years old, and for years was a constant playtime and bedtime companion. We don’t really understand the origin of his unusual name, and I’m not entirely sure of its correct spelling, as it was born of a child’s imagination and to my knowledge has never before been glorified in print. Tippid’s fur has been worn smooth from years of hugs, and like the Velveteen Rabbit in the children’s story, he has become “real” through the strength of a child’s love.
     Today, Alex moved to his college apartment. He’s not going far, less than two miles down the road, but for all that it might as well be across the ocean. It is the first time in over eighteen years that he doesn’t live here with us, and the first time in his life he has signed a lease and been legally responsible for his own “home.” It doesn’t really matter that we can call, or text, or email as many times a day as we might like to-- it’s the fact that he won’t wake up here, won’t stomp down the stairs to breakfast, and won’t argue with Sophie over the morning comics.

     The move itself was a fairly informal affair, with the mattress tied to the top of Alex’s truck and assorted furniture, kitchen, and bedroom accessories piled loosely in the back. We got to the apartment and discovered that he had left the key at home--not an auspicious beginning. A couple hours work assembling the bed and hanging the shower curtain had the place looking almost livable. We took a picture to document his room in its original “clean” state. Quick hugs, and plans for a Target run tomorrow to stock up on snacks.
     Back home, the house was eerily quiet. Usually I enjoy a little mid-day solitude, but today was different. Sophie is at camp, Ted went back to work, and Patch was snoozing on the patio. I took a box of apartment extras up to Alex’s room, and for the first time looked around at the emptiness and detritus—stuff that didn’t make the college cut. Mostly it was just old boy scout and school stuff, but then I opened the closet, filled with empty plastic hangers and old shoes. And there, sitting alone on the shelf, was Tippid.
     I had been handling things fairly well until that point, but Tippid undid me. As far as I know, Alex hasn’t done more than glance at that bear for years, but at that moment he mirrored my feeling of sadness and loss. Our boy is grown up and gone. The fact that Tippid is here and Alex isn’t, and never will be in the same way again, made me burst into tears.
     I feel like a fool sitting here sobbing over a stupid teddy bear. I’ve tried so hard to be grown up about the college transition and treat it as the wonderful, positive thing it is, for both Alex and us, but who am I fooling? I am crying inside, and so I guess it is natural that I should cry on the outside as well. I know I will get over this, and I know this is the way things are supposed to be. Life moves on. Babies grow up, and up, and up. But it is not easy, and I fear I will never really have my boy with me again.
     I will never forget the night, when Alex was three days old, that we took him to the emergency room because of severe jaundice. The nurses bundled him into a tiny incubator and the doctor told us to go home and get some sleep. Go home? Without him? I refused to leave until Ted convinced me that I had to get some rest so I could take care of Alex the next day. I knew my baby was in good hands with the nurses, but I still cried all the way home, barely slept, and was back at the hospital by 7am to make sure he was okay.
     Now I feel sort of the same way as I did that June evening so many years ago. I know Alex is in good hands--the school has taken care of many a freshman and successfully dealt with their hyperventilating parents. And he is an (almost) grown up young man, not a baby or even a child any more. But I’m still not sure how well I will sleep tonight, or for that matter how well Alex will sleep, alone in his apartment for the first time. I do know, however, that I probably shouldn’t show up at his door at 7am to check on him. He’s really old enough to take care of himself—I’m just not sure I can say the same thing about myself.

Driving Lessons

I’ve gone to church all my life with varying degrees of success, and sometimes have struggled with the issue of trusting God, whether He really hears me when I pray or if it’s just me talking to myself, and whether He really does watch over me and mine like the biblical sparrow. I still have not completely resolved all of these questions, but the events of the past three years have brought my faith into sharper focus and have definitely caused me to lean toward the “yes” answer on all counts. You see, I am the the parent, driving instructor, and insurance benefactor of a teenaged male driver in Dallas County.

I don’t think a person can truly know fear until he or she has sat in the passenger seat of a motor vehicle piloted by a fifteen-year-old, fresh from the written test at the DPS office, and had to explain to that child how to simultaneously hold his foot on the brake, put the car in gear, and pull onto a public roadway. In Dallas traffic. One can only grip the dashboard, stomp the imaginary brake on the passenger floorboard, and hope that somewhere in the vehicle is a supercharged medal of St. Christopher.

The primary reason I am scared, besides riding with someone who doesn’t know how to drive, and the maniacal nature of many other Dallas drivers who are not traveling with their mothers and therefore do not have a conscience for a passenger, is that I am not so old that I don’t remember what it was like the first year I drove a car and the outrageous feats of stupidity that I performed while in control (!!!!) of said vehicle. At fifteen, my parents agreed that I could apply for the most coveted possession of any high school student: a Hardship License.

I don’t recall the specific nature of the hardship which served as my early entrance to the freedom of the road, but I think it may have had something to do with my mother's weariness of ferrying me and my brother around town and the fact that my father was the local DPS officer in charge of giving driving tests and distributing driving permits. Having my father as the official license giver was truly a “hardship” if there ever was one and virtually assured me that I would need the entire extra year to pass the dreaded “road test,” complete with the requisite parallel parking maneuver. Side note: teenagers today who have completed a driver education course do not even have to take a “road test” in order to obtain a driver’s license. I rest my case. Even the DPS troopers aren’t brave enough to ride with them.

But back to my own driving adventures. After several months of road-warrior training with Sergeant Dad in the front seat and three attempts to pass the road test, I was finally given the “all clear” and awarded my temporary permit. I am convinced to this day that the only reason I achieved a passing score from my father that third time was because my mother shot him a look that said, “If you want dinner tonight, or any other night in the future, you had better give her that license.” I was off to the races.

My first trip alone was to my high school for sophomore schedule pickup before the fall term began. My parents didn’t buy me a car of my own for this momentous occasion, but instead let me use my father’s 1970 Chevy pickup truck, with its faded blue paint and huge, winglike side mirrors. Dad didn’t need to drive the truck, as the State of Texas thoughtfully provided him with a black-and-white patrol car capable of going up to 120 miles per hour in the event of a driving test emergency. By default, the truck became my “wheels.”

The old pickup had many quirks, one of which was its transmission. Sometimes it would engage right away, but often it was tired and took a while to slip into gear. This meant sitting and waiting for several, or many, minutes until the telltale clunk of the gears indicated that the truck was ready to proceed. While sitting in the school parking lot that day, waiting for the transmission to work its way into driving mode, I fiddled with the radio, fiddled with my hair in the mirror, and looked around to see who else might be in the vicinity and be jealous that I was driving myself to the schedule pickup instead of having my mother schlep me around. What I did not do, while waiting, was check that the driver side door was latched shut.

When I took off, slowly and carefully of course, out of the parking lot and onto the four-lane, 50-mile-per-hour-speed-limit road that bordered the high school, I made a wide arcing turn attributable to both my driving inexperience and the wide turning radius of the big truck, and hit the gas. At this moment the driver side door suddenly flew open and I panicked. Instead of slowing down, pulling over, and securing the door, which is what I would do now if I were so stupid as to leave the door unlatched, I kept my foot firmly pressed to the accelerator while reaching with one hand to grab the errant door. Now I took science in high school, and I learned that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. So what happened next was not really my fault, just simple physics. The opposite reaction to my door-reaching was that my other hand, the one on the steering wheel, went in the complete other direction from the hand reaching for the door, sending the truck careening sharply to the right across both lanes of traffic, jumping the curb and barreling out across the practice football field at full speed.

The unfortunate man mowing the practice field with his tractor, I’m sure, saw his life flash before his eyes before I miraculously found the brake and skidded to a halt at the fifty-yard line, dust flying. Since I hadn’t actually hit anything during the flight, I threw the truck into reverse. The gears, surely sensing the urgency of my situation, complied immediately, allowing me to back off the field and jump the curb again in the direction from whence I had come, and then speed off toward home, none the worse for the wear.

I was fully thirty years old before I told my parents this story. By that time I was a mother of two and judged myself immune to any repercussions for careless behavior on my first solo drive. But history has a funny way of repeating itself, and karma is not so easily escaped. On my son’s maiden voyage, as it were, just as I had waved him out of the driveway and gone back inside for what I considered a well-deserved drink, his truck had a massive tire blowout not half a mile from the house, on a busy road. But my son is a smart young man and handled his first vehicular emergency with much more aplomb than I had done with my own. He pulled off the road into a vacant driveway and called me from his cell phone. I wonder if, had cell phones even existed back in 1979, I would have been brave enough to call my own mother from the fifty-yard line of the high school practice field and tell her what had happened. Then again, maybe there’s something about that flat tire that my son isn't telling me. I guess I’ll have to wait a few years, until he is about thirty, to find out.

Adventures in Fredericksburg

Monday, Aug 10--Sitting in Lincoln St. Wine Market in Fredericksburg, Texas enjoying happy hour and recalling the events of a relaxing day with a bottle of Hill Country Wine, and my wingman Ted working on his laptop in the comfy chair next to me. We sent Sophie off to camp at Sky Ranch yesterday, and left Patch home to keep an eye on Alex. We’re not worried about Sophie, but hope the boy, house, and dog will survive, in that order.

We started the day in our B&B, which only includes the first B, and is a storybook stone cottage near Main Street decorated in a funky nautical them. We find this fascination la mer a bit perplexing here in the landlocked hill country, but it’s cute and well done. We can only wish the decorating enthusiasm had extended to a curtain for the bathroom window, possibly fashioned of sailing canvas or seaweed to complete the theme.

Breakfast (the second "B" in the acronym) was at Rather Sweet, a quaint bakery in another old stone building off Main. We had heard various rumors that the owner was, alternatively, the niece, sister, or cousin of TV journalist Dan Rather, but were unable to confirm any of these suspicions. The cheese omelet and fresh peach kolache we shared were excellent, so it doesn’t really matter to us who is related to whom.

After breakfast we were off to do touristy stuff like visit Wildseed Farms, a working wildflower farm right outside of town. The wildflower fields were worth the trip-beautiful fields of color under a blue sky. Optimism inspired us to buy some “Texas-Oklahoma Mix” seeds but I’m sure our backyard field of color will pale in comparison to the acres of richly blooming plants we viewed today.

Then, because it was 11:30 and it had been two long hours since breakfast, we went in search of Texas Monthly’s No. 3 Hamburger in the Great State of Texas, which was allegedly being grilled only ten miles from Fredericksburg down the Old San Antonio Road. That’s quite a drive for a burger, but we are intrepid foodies who won’t be deterred by winding roads, one-lane bridges, and the occasional flock of buzzards munching on a deer carcass by the side of the road.

Alamo Springs Café, home of said prize winning burger, reminds me of my grandmother’s house, only with table service. It’s a not-too-well maintained white frame building with a screen door off the front porch, and an old fashioned, Coke-themed refrigerator inside stocked with sodas. Cleaning does not appear to be high on the priority of management. Ted and I opted to share one award- winning cheeseburger on a jalapeño bun, with grilled onions and all the fixins. Plus a half-order of fries and onion rings. You have to admire our restraint. Texas Monthly did not lie--this was indeed one of the best burgers I have ever had, and was so tall that it was served with a steak knife as a skewer to hold the towering mass together. We were entertained during the meal by the waitress, who swatted aggressively at flies to the beat of Strange Brew on the jukebox. I think this is what may be referred to as “local color.”

For an after-lunch excursion we went by a couple of the local wineries to see which of the local vintages made the best cheeseburger chaser. Our favorite was Becker Vineyards, with its six-wine tasting for $5 and fields of fragrant lavender. We bought a couple of bottles to take home because it’s bad form to taste and run. The Torre di Pietra winery tasting featured a wine called Dirty Girl, which we thought tasted like dirty bathwater, speaking rhetorically of course.

Post-tasting, we set out for Luckenbach, because Ray Wylie told us we ought to go. We took our own picture in front of the general store and mailed a postcard home to ourselves before heading back into town. Along the way, we stopped to read Historical Markers and take photos of hundred- year- old stone houses. The country is rugged and gorgeous, in a scrub-brushy sort of way, and hot, but with a cooling breeze blowing. In someone’s farmyard we saw a stuffed cow with an ice pack tied to its head and a sign reading “Fred” around its neck. You just never know.

After dinner, which we really don’t need following our wine and burger fueled day, we will head back to the little stone cottage and tuck into the four-poster bed, full and happy. The home’s designer has thoughtfully provided a surprise for guests when the lights go out—hundreds of tiny glow-in-the-dark stars affixed to the bedroom ceiling. It’s almost like looking at the real sky, only with air conditioning.

Confessions Of A Library Junkie

From the day I learned to read, books have been my sanctuary, my inspiration, and my escape. The oft-quoted “So Many Books, So Little Time” is the story of my life. Through books I’ve explored times before I was born, places I both want to see and those that are lost to history, and have met people both real and imagined who have taught, enriched, and amazed me. And from the beginning, my portal to the world of books has been the public library.

Early on, my mother realized that my appetite for books would far surpass anything our family’s tight budget could satisfy, so we made the trek to our small town’s library. I can still see its upstairs kids’ area, with its rows upon rows of books, all free, waiting just for me. I am sure if I visited today it would seem small, but to my six-year-old eyes it was huge, and was the most wondrous place I could imagine. Mom led me to the children’s biography section, where I literally started at one end of the shelf and read my way to the other end. I took out the maximum number of volumes, which I recall to be ten, allowed each time I visited the library. The stack was quickly devoured, and my voracity kept Mom driving me back to the library weekly for another book fix.

I consumed bios of many famous Americans, but my favorite of all the historical figures was Abraham Lincoln. Something about his hardscrabble beginnings, his too-tall bookish self, and his bouts of melancholy resonated with me. Like me, he loved books and loved learning, but sadly there was no library for him in the frontier of his day.

My love affair with and addiction to books soon branched out from biographies to fiction. I loved the stories which came in series, because you could really get to know the characters and get inside their worlds. My absolute all time favorite was The Little House books. I didn’t just read Little House on the Prairie, I lived it and believed it. I wanted to be Laura and wanted to ride in the covered wagon with Ma and Pa and their good old bulldog Jack. I read those books so many times that my mother finally wouldn’t let me check them out anymore, insisting that I try something else.

Throughout junior high and high school I haunted the library and took out dusty tomes that no other self-respecting teenager had looked at in years. I read through the school’s entire collection of Steinbeck, Hemingway and Tolstoy. I even picked up a few books that I had to hide under my mattress, for fear my mother would find them and see what I was reading and learning (Forever, by Judy Blume, anyone?)

For several years after my children were born, I stopped reading for myself. The repetitive nature of The Very Hungry Caterpillar and The Cat in the Hat, both great books, to be sure, leaves but little energy for grownup literature. But in time the kids grew up and out of board books and we progressed to more advanced reading. When Alex was five, I took him to the then-new Southwestern Branch library to get his own library card and took Sophie on the same errand a few years later. Somewhere I still have those library cards with their crooked little kindergarten “signatures” on the back.

I loved introducing my kids to the world of reading, but the best part of taking them to the library was the joy I felt in reconnecting with my own neglected love of books. I started to read again, and discovered how much I had missed in my several years’ hiatus. Now, there’s almost never a week that I’m not picking up a new book, or three, at my local branch library, either for my grad-school work or just for some “fun” reading.

I truly don’t think I would be the person I am today if it hadn’t been for the wealth of resources the public library has made available to me. Several years ago we were shopping for a new home, and our decision to stay in Dallas rather than move to a nearby suburb was based largely on the strength of Dallas’ library system. Now I hear that that the city is going to cut the branches’ hours and reduce the materials budget to save money, and this panics me. I am blessed be able to afford my own books now, but even Amazon.com or Barnes and Noble don’t give me the same rush as walking into a library and being surrounded by books, floor to ceiling. The sheer possibility of all those stories, real and imaginary, that I can try on to my heart’s content, gives me a feeling of hope and wonder. I hope the city council will choose to continue funding our libraries, and keep them well-stocked for those people, especially the kids like me and Honest Abe, who might find their wings, and their passion in life, in the pages of a book.

Family Gems

Last night we had an elegant meal at our house—mini corn-dogs and macaroni-and-cheese. I’m watching my weight, and my husband was out of town, so this meal was strictly a teenage affair. Believe me when I say they were pretty pleased to have a break from mom’s low-fat, healthful offerings. The corn dogs were the standard frozen blobs from Sams, but the Mac-N-Cheese was homemade. No “blue box” here-- only the best will do for my kids—we use Velveeta and shell pasta.

My daughter skillfully assembled said Mac-N-Cheese, having watched me prepare it many times over the years. The recipe, if it can even be called a recipe, is simple: cube up some Velveeta (the amount is never quite defined), melt it in the microwave, and stir in some milk until the consistency is right. The terms “some” and “right” are deliberately vague and require no small amount of discretion by the chef. Mix the sauce with the boiled shells and serve hot—reheated Velveeta is not a pretty sight. While dining, my kids and a visiting friend discuss all the foods which best complement MNC, from fish sticks to little smokies. I turn my Julia Child cookbook face down on the counter so that she won’t be witness to our discussion of haute cuisine. The kids argue over seconds and devour the entire gooey batch.

What they don’t realize about this domestic scene is that they are repeating history and carrying on a family tradition of sorts. When I was growing up, there was an ongoing debate in my house on the “proper” way to prepare patês-au-fromage. My mother’s mother, “Grandma,” prepared her version of MNC using a recipe with multiple ingredients, including freshly grated cheddar cheese and eggs. All of this took a long time to assemble and had to bake in the oven for a solid hour. The resulting casserole, with its cheesy crust, was served by the square. Mmmm. I loved it, and so did almost everyone else.

But my dad’s mother, “Granny,” took the easy-cheesy Velveeta route. I’m not sure when Velveeta was introduced as an official food group, but Granny must have been an early adopter. For as long as I can remember, she served the Velveeta Mac-and-Cheese, straight from the pot on the stove, at her house whenever we had a family gathering. Fishing for a compliment, she would wait until everyone was seated and digging in to announce to the ceiling, “It ain’t fit to eat!” Mouths full, we would all look up and say, in chorus, “It’s great, Granny!” Satisfied, she would sit down and preside over the meal, cigarette in one hand and coffee cup in the other. I don’t recall that she ever actually ate anything.

I loved Granny’s MNC too, and even came to prefer it to the baked version (sorry, Grandma), as did my dad. After all, it was his mother’s recipe. But my own mother stuck to her preference for the cut-square-baked kind. She never makes either herself-she hates to cook- but at a potluck dinner her fork always votes for the casserole version. Over the years this debate has become somewhat of a tradition among us, one of the few “arguments” my parents ever have. It seems silly, but my dad even teases Grandma, now 92, about it just to get a rise out of her.

You might say we are an easily-entertained lot, with a penchant for artery clogging comfort food. But it’s really more than that. The world moves so fast sometimes that it is comforting to talk about the foods prepared in our family kitchens, as well as to eat them. It reminds us, and our own children, that we were once kids too, and helps us bridge that ever widening generation gap. There’s an ad campaign about dinner together once a week being a tonic for what ails the modern family, and I think there is something to this idea. Many memories of my grandmothers, who were the same age and, coincidentally, were both named Jewel (Grandma’s name spelled with two L’s) revolve in some way around the family table. Granny died more than ten years ago, so neither of my kids really remembers her, except through pictures and stories. But if, by passing on her recipe for a satisfying, easy dinner to my kids, I’ve helped to keep her memory alive, for them and me, well I’ll eat to that.

Walking In The Rain

Do kids play in the rain anymore? I recall when I was a kid and it would rain in the summer, all the neighborhood kids would come outside and run around in the downpour. Not in raincoats or boots—it was too damn hot for that in Texas—but in grubby shorts and T shirts and --Gasp!—barefoot. We lived outside town where the roads were covered in asphalt, not concrete, and when it was hot, the car tires—and your feet if you were walking gingerly to avoid being fried on the blacktop—made indentions in the sun-softened tar. These spots made for great water puddles when it rained. Great for splashing in and riding your bicycle through. If you rode through good and fast, you sprayed up a great arc of water and the other kids had to run, screaming, to get out of the way. Or not. Then, with your wheels wet, you could make crazy figure eights on the pavement for a long, long way. Kid art, which quickly disappeared into the steamy air.

I hadn’t thought about playing in the rain in years, until this morning when I took a walk with my dog in a light shower. The downfall really couldn’t be classified as rain, in the sense of Shirley Temple tapping along to “Singing in the Rain,” but it was wet, and it got me wet and the dog wet. When it began to sprinkle, I started to turn back toward home, but decided “Why not keep going? It’s just a little water.” I’m glad I did. The air was different in the rain, more full of grass smells and dirt smells and dog smells. The birds were livelier than when it is hot and dry, with a chorus of chirps and whistles that kept me company as I strolled along. It was a little steamy, but the unexpected water element gave a new perspective to the same old trail I trace every day.

There weren’t many other people out , and no kids. And why not? The adults should know it wouldn’t hurt them to take a damp stroll, but the kids don’t even know it’s a possibility. As parents we don’t send our kids outside in the rain any more, barefoot, to slog through puddles. We probably wouldn’t even allow it if they asked, fearing they might get hurt, kidnapped, or worse: dirty. It's too bad for them, and for us. Going out in a warm rain never hurt anybody--in fact, I think it’s good for the soul.

Miracles Happen!

“Miracles do happen! Lose two sizes in ten minutes!” That’s the promise on the brochure handed to me by a large, boisterous saleslady. “You have to try one of these,” she says, lifting up her own blouse to reveal a stretchy body stocking. “It will help you lose weight!”

I had taken my teenage daughter into a local boutique to be fitted for the dress she would wear in a charity fashion show. Every girl, young or old, secretly yearns to be a glamorous princess, and this store was such a dreamer’s Mecca. Beautiful gowns of every hue and style filled the racks. Silk, tulle, and sequins—Cinderella dresses and red-carpet dresses. The owner quickly chose a fabulous pink and white beaded chiffon strapless for my girl. I helped her zip it up. She was radiant, and we both reveled in the fantasy come true.

The “Miracle” lady accosted me while I was waiting for my daughter to change back into her real-girl clothes. I listened to her spiel—after all, who wouldn’t want to lose two sizes in ten minutes? This sounded like a pretty good deal. I had been working hard to lose weight for the past few months and just that morning had reached a significant milestone: fifteen pounds! Despite my accomplishment, it must have been apparent, to this saleslady at least, that I still have some distance to travel on my journey to a svelte body. She extolled the virtues of the amazing slimmer while I studied the “Before and After” pictures on the brochure. “Before” was a largish woman slouching in dowdy clothes, clearly pooching out her stomach. “After” showed the same woman, allegedly wearing the advertised product under a glamorous, form fitting top, standing tall while now advancing her chest instead of her midsection. The model did indeed look different, though not really thinner. Squeezed is a better description—sort of sausage-like. Now I admit that if I have to choose, I would rather look smoothly large than lumpily large, but let’s be honest here: that model hadn’t lost anything—it had just been rearranged.

Then the store owner chirped over to me. “Would you like to be in the fashion show?” Flattered, I thought: “Surely they must need some real women in this production--after all, everyone is not a size six.” So I answered, “Sure, it sounds like fun. What would you like me to wear?” My eyes lingered on the racks of splendor, wondering which of the glamorous dresses came in my size. I imagined my daughter and me walking down the runway together in coordinated finery. But no. “You could model the girdle,” the owner said, straightfaced.

The Girdle? All the wind went out of my fifteen-pound sails. She wants me to stand in front of a crowd of society women and model The Girdle? In my own clothes? No silk, no tulle, no sequins. Just me in my Mom clothes showing the whole world how I really look, “Before”, and how I can’t breathe, “After.” I picture myself slouching down the runway looking like a matronly frump. Uncomfortable silence from the crowd. Then, Viola! I emerge from the wings wearing the mysterious corset under my tee-shirt and am transformed into a bosom-thrusting Amazon. Gasps of amazement. No thanks.

Uncertain how to react to this affront upon my dignity, I mumbled something about checking my schedule, and got out of the shop as quickly as possible. Later, the humor of this ridiculous exchange began to dawn on me. I decided that I could remain offended, or I could look at this situation in a new way. After all, the ladies were just trying to sell a product, and probably thought they were offering me a real opportunity (to embarrass myself mightily, maybe, but an opportunity nonetheless.) My husband encouragingly said they had asked me because of my height. Nice try, honey. Still, I have absolutely no intention of modeling The Girdle. I’ll cheerfully let some other plus-sized princess have her moment in the spotlight while I hold tightly to my own self-esteem, thank-you-very-much. Sometimes life is so absurd, all you can do is point at it and laugh-- on your way to the gym, of course.