I don’t iron. My mother will zealously verify this fact. Not infrequently, when she is a guest for Thanksgiving, I will find her meticulously ironing my cloth napkins shortly after she has walked in the front door. Honestly, how smooth do they need to be to catch crumbs of stuffing or blot up errant cranberry relish?
I have a vivid memory of our ‘ironing lady’ as a child. I would often drive with my mom to drop off or pick up our ironing. The slender elderly woman would hold the screen open for us as we carried out oodles of hangers holding crisp shirts and pants. Generally the ironing primarily included my father’s freshly laundered shirts, but on occasion I could slip in a shirt or a pair of pants. I must admit, there was something appealing about pulling a wrinkle-free shirt out of the closet and having the front lay flat when I buttoned it up.
Now I know that my mom could herself iron; she weaves textiles and frequently could be found, an iron in hand, pressing edges of a recently completed throw. However, somehow I never picked up that homemaking skill. Even my Jr. High Home Economics class neglected to include a unit on ironing. So when I got to college and thought it’d be nice to be able to pull on a crisply ironed shirt, I borrowed a dorm-mate’s iron and set up an ironing board in our common room. I held up my shirt in dismay—the wrinkles made the solid blue shirt appear batik. Where to start? An upperclassman noticed my confusion and quickly offered her efficient and effective advice, showing me where to start (top of the back by the collar) and ending with the front button holes. Yet, despite the fact that I can distinctly remember her instructions and even picture the late day sun streaming through the dust as we ironed, I neglected to keep up the skill and now find myself more often than not pulling on wrinkled clothing. Or equally absurdly, banishing a favorite wrinkle-prone cocktail dress to the dark recesses of my closet.
Rather than converting entirely to wrinkle-free synthetics, I have stumbled upon an alternative, efficient solution to prohibiting, or at least limiting, the wrinkles in my closet. I have found the wind. Or more precisely, the wind has found me. I hang my clothes out to dry whenever possible, primarily because they seem fresher when I take them off of the line. So what a delight when I hung my clothes out to dry with a stiff breeze blowing directly at the shirts and pants and towels clipped firmly to the line. Caught in the wind, the laundry blew nearly horizontal to the ground, the wind flattening the material like it was paid per vanquished wrinkle. I wonder how effective wind could be on that cocktail dress?
Chicago Symphony
What a day to be blessed 
with the sense of hearing. Ting, ting, shring, the halyards gently knock against the masts swaying in the breeze along the Lake Michigan shoreline. A symphony of wind chimes calls out as bikers, walkers and runners glide along the lakeshore walking path.
Walkers wait to cross Lake Shore Drive. Car horns sound, truck engines grind with the changing of gears. The ‘wrush, wrush’ of cars whizzing past the tree line press the pedestrians back on the curb.
Continuing across the serpentine bridge into Millennium Park, the sounds of
traffic recede. Visitors and residents alike amble under the trellis of Pritzker Pavilion. With a symphony practicing on stage strolling cross the lawn is like brushing by the violins and oboes, violas and clarinets as the crescendo of New York, New York builds throughout the venue. A pause, the notes permeate the space between the trellis and grass, surrounding and filling the entranced on-lookers.
Later a refreshing moment by the Crown Fountain,
while the sounds of children squealing in delight bounce between the two tall towers and a stream of water arcs out of the pursing lips. Shouts of “Hey guys!”, “Look at this!”, “C’m here!” are tossed among the kids splashing through the sheet of water.
Then time to return, to work or to play, walking briskly down Michigan Avenue, a jack hammer echoes off the pavement and building; a fire truck’s siren pierces the air. The door glides open with a nearly imperceptible ‘rshhh’ and as it closes the sounds of the city are temporarily suspended.
with the sense of hearing. Ting, ting, shring, the halyards gently knock against the masts swaying in the breeze along the Lake Michigan shoreline. A symphony of wind chimes calls out as bikers, walkers and runners glide along the lakeshore walking path.Walkers wait to cross Lake Shore Drive. Car horns sound, truck engines grind with the changing of gears. The ‘wrush, wrush’ of cars whizzing past the tree line press the pedestrians back on the curb.
Continuing across the serpentine bridge into Millennium Park, the sounds of
traffic recede. Visitors and residents alike amble under the trellis of Pritzker Pavilion. With a symphony practicing on stage strolling cross the lawn is like brushing by the violins and oboes, violas and clarinets as the crescendo of New York, New York builds throughout the venue. A pause, the notes permeate the space between the trellis and grass, surrounding and filling the entranced on-lookers.Later a refreshing moment by the Crown Fountain,
while the sounds of children squealing in delight bounce between the two tall towers and a stream of water arcs out of the pursing lips. Shouts of “Hey guys!”, “Look at this!”, “C’m here!” are tossed among the kids splashing through the sheet of water.Then time to return, to work or to play, walking briskly down Michigan Avenue, a jack hammer echoes off the pavement and building; a fire truck’s siren pierces the air. The door glides open with a nearly imperceptible ‘rshhh’ and as it closes the sounds of the city are temporarily suspended.
Candy Here!
I love a parade where you can arrive at the start and find curb si
de seats for a whole family. Where kids dart out into the parade to collect candy being tossed from floats, while moms sitting on the curbs yell out, “Backup Mandy. Not so close Evan!” And behind the moms, sit the grandparents in their metal frame folding chairs. Not the collapsible fabric chairs that are stored in a bag slung over your shoulder by a strap, but the metal folding chairs of the 1960s and 70s with brightly colored plastic straps woven together for the seat and back. Where you needed to use WD-40, or in the verb form, where you needed to WD-40 the hinges each spring so the chairs would open and close without a struggle. Of course, if you sat too far forward, or the front leg wasn’t properly angled out the chair would collapse on itself and its occupant. Well, those chairs were alive and well along the corner where I sat to watch the Old Home Days parade.
Mandy stood with her brother several feet in front of the curb. No parade marshals here to urge the crowd back. Here every toe fended for itself, with a little help from mom. Leading off the parade were the restored vintage cars—a Bel Air, a Model T – driven smartly down the road. As the Aquamarine Bel Aire drew in front of Mandy the driver ducked down, grabbed a handful of candy and tossed it out the window. Mandy eagerly darted out between cars to grab the tootsie roll before it was too late.
Ten miniature 18 wheelers came into view and Mandy yelled, “look at them mom!”
“Step back Mandy!”
In response, Mandy took 1 step backward and then 2 steps forward craning her neck to see the trucks approaching. Surprisingly, Mandy seemed to retain all 10 of her sandal clad toes as the 18 wheelers snaked in between one another, driving figure eights and spirals at reasonably high speed.
Of course the fire engines brought up the rear. Not just 1 or 2 or even three,
but nearly a dozen large trucks each with its unique horn blaring in a syncopated concert of sorts. The trucks rolled slowly by representing every town in a 30 mile radius it appeared. Saturdays in Americana would, it seem, be a very unfortunate time to be in need of a fire truck or two unless of course the fire occurred in the town hosting the parade.
Certainly for Mandy and the others along the curbs, closing a state highway for the better part of an hour was well worth the inconvenience of the drivers in their pickups and less-than-antique cars waiting, some more patient than others, for the parade route to clear.
de seats for a whole family. Where kids dart out into the parade to collect candy being tossed from floats, while moms sitting on the curbs yell out, “Backup Mandy. Not so close Evan!” And behind the moms, sit the grandparents in their metal frame folding chairs. Not the collapsible fabric chairs that are stored in a bag slung over your shoulder by a strap, but the metal folding chairs of the 1960s and 70s with brightly colored plastic straps woven together for the seat and back. Where you needed to use WD-40, or in the verb form, where you needed to WD-40 the hinges each spring so the chairs would open and close without a struggle. Of course, if you sat too far forward, or the front leg wasn’t properly angled out the chair would collapse on itself and its occupant. Well, those chairs were alive and well along the corner where I sat to watch the Old Home Days parade.Mandy stood with her brother several feet in front of the curb. No parade marshals here to urge the crowd back. Here every toe fended for itself, with a little help from mom. Leading off the parade were the restored vintage cars—a Bel Air, a Model T – driven smartly down the road. As the Aquamarine Bel Aire drew in front of Mandy the driver ducked down, grabbed a handful of candy and tossed it out the window. Mandy eagerly darted out between cars to grab the tootsie roll before it was too late.
Ten miniature 18 wheelers came into view and Mandy yelled, “look at them mom!”
“Step back Mandy!”
In response, Mandy took 1 step backward and then 2 steps forward craning her neck to see the trucks approaching. Surprisingly, Mandy seemed to retain all 10 of her sandal clad toes as the 18 wheelers snaked in between one another, driving figure eights and spirals at reasonably high speed.
Of course the fire engines brought up the rear. Not just 1 or 2 or even three,
but nearly a dozen large trucks each with its unique horn blaring in a syncopated concert of sorts. The trucks rolled slowly by representing every town in a 30 mile radius it appeared. Saturdays in Americana would, it seem, be a very unfortunate time to be in need of a fire truck or two unless of course the fire occurred in the town hosting the parade.Certainly for Mandy and the others along the curbs, closing a state highway for the better part of an hour was well worth the inconvenience of the drivers in their pickups and less-than-antique cars waiting, some more patient than others, for the parade route to clear.
Showdown in the Garden
The fight was on. We each pursued the same object yet with opposing goals. My opponent attacked stealthily by night; I countered by day. My opponent damaged what I had carefully nurtured. My opponent incessantly nibbled away at my sanity—I was losing the battle, the status quo couldn’t continue.
My first stop, True Value. I found a sympathetic clerk.
“I need something to eliminate a predator methodically munching through my garden,” I lamented.
“Try a .22”, she responded quite seriously.
Somehow I hadn’t been picturing facing off against Bambi with weaponry, I was hoping for a more subtle, less fatal deterrent.
“Well, are you certain it’s a deer? What do the bite marks look like on the stalks, are they
a clean cut or rough?”
In my furor over finding the emergent garden buds all bitten off, except of course the Foxglove, I hadn’t had the instinct to inspect the stalks for smooth or ragged ends. But a thought dawned on me as I pictured the Foxglove flourishing in my garden, perhaps I could just plant a garden of poisonous plants. In the meantime, however, I still wanted to rescue my remaining flowering flora from nightly incisor damage.
The salesman at the Farmer’s Union was equally understanding. He had had numerous incidents with woodchucks and thought a rabbit or woodchuck more likely than a deer as I described the damage.
“Have you ever seen a woodchuck run? They are fast!” he mused while he led me to the display of Deer Away, Wolf Urine and other garden predator problem solvers. He also pointed out the Havahart traps hanging up which I could rent for just $5. Somehow, the cost was the least of my objections to attempting to catch a large woodchuck in a wire mesh cage. I just couldn’t picture myself transporting the crated creature in my car to some isolated location or even to some neighboring garden and opening the cage door. I actually would prefer not to come face to face with my opponent at this point.
So it was that as dusk settled last evening, I was circling my garden trying to imitate how a fox might pee. A small quantity at a time? Would he spray or make a small puddle? And is the potential presence of a fox really going to scare away a bold rabbit who has been dining nightly in my garden? I should have gone with the wolf urine, I thought wistfully, as I held my nose to keep from inhaling the noxious smell. Wolves are much more intimidating than foxes.
Then in the middle of the night I was woken suddenly, no not by a rush of wild animals fleeing from a fox, but by a torrential downpour. So much for the fox pee.
Tentatively I crept to my garden this morning to see if the newest flower buds had been preserved for one more night. Yes, success! Well, for one night at any rate. Maybe if we get a nightly deluge I’ll have balloon flowers and lilies in bloom before summer ends. Or possibly I could put a real fox on a leash and create my own guard fox. Now that would add more interest than a bird bath. But without rain in the forecast, I imagine that instead of continuing to plot against my four legged adversaries, I'll simply wait until next spring and plant a lot of foxglove.
My first stop, True Value. I found a sympathetic clerk.
“I need something to eliminate a predator methodically munching through my garden,” I lamented.
“Try a .22”, she responded quite seriously.
Somehow I hadn’t been picturing facing off against Bambi with weaponry, I was hoping for a more subtle, less fatal deterrent.
“Well, are you certain it’s a deer? What do the bite marks look like on the stalks, are they
a clean cut or rough?”In my furor over finding the emergent garden buds all bitten off, except of course the Foxglove, I hadn’t had the instinct to inspect the stalks for smooth or ragged ends. But a thought dawned on me as I pictured the Foxglove flourishing in my garden, perhaps I could just plant a garden of poisonous plants. In the meantime, however, I still wanted to rescue my remaining flowering flora from nightly incisor damage.
The salesman at the Farmer’s Union was equally understanding. He had had numerous incidents with woodchucks and thought a rabbit or woodchuck more likely than a deer as I described the damage.
“Have you ever seen a woodchuck run? They are fast!” he mused while he led me to the display of Deer Away, Wolf Urine and other garden predator problem solvers. He also pointed out the Havahart traps hanging up which I could rent for just $5. Somehow, the cost was the least of my objections to attempting to catch a large woodchuck in a wire mesh cage. I just couldn’t picture myself transporting the crated creature in my car to some isolated location or even to some neighboring garden and opening the cage door. I actually would prefer not to come face to face with my opponent at this point.
So it was that as dusk settled last evening, I was circling my garden trying to imitate how a fox might pee. A small quantity at a time? Would he spray or make a small puddle? And is the potential presence of a fox really going to scare away a bold rabbit who has been dining nightly in my garden? I should have gone with the wolf urine, I thought wistfully, as I held my nose to keep from inhaling the noxious smell. Wolves are much more intimidating than foxes.Then in the middle of the night I was woken suddenly, no not by a rush of wild animals fleeing from a fox, but by a torrential downpour. So much for the fox pee.
Tentatively I crept to my garden this morning to see if the newest flower buds had been preserved for one more night. Yes, success! Well, for one night at any rate. Maybe if we get a nightly deluge I’ll have balloon flowers and lilies in bloom before summer ends. Or possibly I could put a real fox on a leash and create my own guard fox. Now that would add more interest than a bird bath. But without rain in the forecast, I imagine that instead of continuing to plot against my four legged adversaries, I'll simply wait until next spring and plant a lot of foxglove.
Taking a Daughter to Camp
Today camp began. Each year our drop-off has gotten a bit less outwardly emotional, although I still return home feeling a bit hollow. But I have come a long in the five years since I first took my older daughter to camp. Preparing for her first summer at camp was easy; meeting the reality of a good-bye was exceedingly difficult. I wanted a bear hug and “I’ll miss you Mama.” She wanted a quick hug and a kiss and a chance to melt into the new found group of girls.
It seemed the snow bank was still knee high at the end of our driveway the day she began packing her trunk. Each afternoon after completing her homework, she’d ask, “Can I go up and pack now?” The first several times she asked, I quizzically responded, “But your trunk is packed.” “Not the new socks you bought me,” she’d reply. Or, “I have a newly sharpened pencil to pack.” And so it went for an entire month of anticipation. Each day pulling everything out and rearranging the entire contents as the newly acquired item always seemed to need to be packed on the bottom of the trunk.
The day before we were to drop her off, she became very quiet. Perhaps the reality was beginning to settle on her. By lunch the day we drove to camp, her vocabulary had diminished to “No thank you” and “I’m not hungry.” I made her favorite meal for lunch— she managed to eek one noodle from her fork to her mouth before uttering, “I’m not hungry.” The butterflies were gathering.
When we got to camp the first stop was a check in with the nurse. The nurse, being friendly, asked what Rachel was looking forward to doing at camp this summer. “Making a friend,” was her quiet reply. Tears filled my eyes; this would certainly be a difficult good-bye. Would she make a friend? Would she be happy? Would her counselor put her covers back on when they fell off at night?
At her cabin she selected her bunk without any fuss and although I wanted to help her unpack and get settled, she simply wanted to change into her uniform and head to the playground with 2 other girls in her cabin. I worried when she only put one blanket on her bed (it gets cold in Maine at night!). I wanted to arrange the photos that she had brought from home and hang up her laundry bag and bathing suits and towel. She quickly changed, selecting footwear to match her cabin mates and headed out as a camper. We followed, her sister and father and I, and although we were close behind we watched her move farther and farther from us, finding her own way, understanding the need to belong and looking for a way to belong.
In many ways that distance has shrunk each year she’s returned to camp. For now, although she retains her confidence and independence for camp life, she also realizes the value of strong family bonds and shares her camping enthusiasm with her family. She may have moved farther from us in her independence, but she has moved closer to us in her need to share her new experiences and see how they fit into the greater web of her life.
It seemed the snow bank was still knee high at the end of our driveway the day she began packing her trunk. Each afternoon after completing her homework, she’d ask, “Can I go up and pack now?” The first several times she asked, I quizzically responded, “But your trunk is packed.” “Not the new socks you bought me,” she’d reply. Or, “I have a newly sharpened pencil to pack.” And so it went for an entire month of anticipation. Each day pulling everything out and rearranging the entire contents as the newly acquired item always seemed to need to be packed on the bottom of the trunk.
The day before we were to drop her off, she became very quiet. Perhaps the reality was beginning to settle on her. By lunch the day we drove to camp, her vocabulary had diminished to “No thank you” and “I’m not hungry.” I made her favorite meal for lunch— she managed to eek one noodle from her fork to her mouth before uttering, “I’m not hungry.” The butterflies were gathering.
When we got to camp the first stop was a check in with the nurse. The nurse, being friendly, asked what Rachel was looking forward to doing at camp this summer. “Making a friend,” was her quiet reply. Tears filled my eyes; this would certainly be a difficult good-bye. Would she make a friend? Would she be happy? Would her counselor put her covers back on when they fell off at night?
At her cabin she selected her bunk without any fuss and although I wanted to help her unpack and get settled, she simply wanted to change into her uniform and head to the playground with 2 other girls in her cabin. I worried when she only put one blanket on her bed (it gets cold in Maine at night!). I wanted to arrange the photos that she had brought from home and hang up her laundry bag and bathing suits and towel. She quickly changed, selecting footwear to match her cabin mates and headed out as a camper. We followed, her sister and father and I, and although we were close behind we watched her move farther and farther from us, finding her own way, understanding the need to belong and looking for a way to belong.
In many ways that distance has shrunk each year she’s returned to camp. For now, although she retains her confidence and independence for camp life, she also realizes the value of strong family bonds and shares her camping enthusiasm with her family. She may have moved farther from us in her independence, but she has moved closer to us in her need to share her new experiences and see how they fit into the greater web of her life.
House Painting, only House Painting
Our house painter is an outstanding painter; unfortunately he’s a poor horticulturist. At least from his lack of respect for greenery I presume he’s untrained as a gardener; I’ve never actually seen his gardens. This doesn’t matter much when he’s painting the interior, but for exterior work it’s definitely a detriment.
His fastidiousness as a painter extends to the care he shows his employees. For instance, he doesn’t hire cheap labor that will climb unsteady ladders to dizzying heights uninsured. No, he has his father and other relatives working for him, and apparently he cares for all of them as he insists on renting (at our expense) a large cherry picker to reach the highest parts of the house. Okay, so I wouldn’t want to climb up a ladder to those heights either which is one of the reasons I chose not to paint the house myself.
The bright orange cherry picker comes with its own high pitched beep which is activated every time the arm supporting the basket is moved as we and all of our neighbors discovered at 6 am the first morning the painting began. Apparently the painters hold their paint brushes still while moving the basket slowly back and forth to paint. Consequently there is pretty much a continuous beeping echoing around our house.
As I come around the corner to our house, I do a double take. No, that isn’t a 10 ton vehicle parked on our lawn! Yes it is. Well, the painter must have mused, if the cherry picker worked so well above the driveway, it will work equally well on the opposite side—just need to drive it across the lawn. Here’s where his lack of a green thumb is most evident. Did he put down some planking to distribute the weight of the 10 ton vehicle? No, he just drove right over the curb, across the sidewalk, leaving deep welts in his wake, and right on across our beautiful lawn! And then he leaves it parked there overnight as he claims the wear and tear on the lawn will only be intensified if he drives off and on again (why not just drive off and stay off?!) Why can’t I stand up to my painter and tell him I don’t appreciate how he treats the greenery in my yard? Why does he intimidate me just because he knows so much about painting? This is ridiculous.
So instead of saying anything to him, I fume quietly to myself, okay and to my husband, about the deep welts that are now in the middle of our front lawn and will likely need reseeding come fall. Sigh. Yes the painting does look excellent—just don’t get the wide angle view that takes into account the lawn.
Next time he comes to paint I will disallow the cherry picker on my lawn—I will resolve to stand up for my lawn and my garden. I will. I will. I think I will. I hope I will. We’ll see.
His fastidiousness as a painter extends to the care he shows his employees. For instance, he doesn’t hire cheap labor that will climb unsteady ladders to dizzying heights uninsured. No, he has his father and other relatives working for him, and apparently he cares for all of them as he insists on renting (at our expense) a large cherry picker to reach the highest parts of the house. Okay, so I wouldn’t want to climb up a ladder to those heights either which is one of the reasons I chose not to paint the house myself.
The bright orange cherry picker comes with its own high pitched beep which is activated every time the arm supporting the basket is moved as we and all of our neighbors discovered at 6 am the first morning the painting began. Apparently the painters hold their paint brushes still while moving the basket slowly back and forth to paint. Consequently there is pretty much a continuous beeping echoing around our house.
As I come around the corner to our house, I do a double take. No, that isn’t a 10 ton vehicle parked on our lawn! Yes it is. Well, the painter must have mused, if the cherry picker worked so well above the driveway, it will work equally well on the opposite side—just need to drive it across the lawn. Here’s where his lack of a green thumb is most evident. Did he put down some planking to distribute the weight of the 10 ton vehicle? No, he just drove right over the curb, across the sidewalk, leaving deep welts in his wake, and right on across our beautiful lawn! And then he leaves it parked there overnight as he claims the wear and tear on the lawn will only be intensified if he drives off and on again (why not just drive off and stay off?!) Why can’t I stand up to my painter and tell him I don’t appreciate how he treats the greenery in my yard? Why does he intimidate me just because he knows so much about painting? This is ridiculous.
So instead of saying anything to him, I fume quietly to myself, okay and to my husband, about the deep welts that are now in the middle of our front lawn and will likely need reseeding come fall. Sigh. Yes the painting does look excellent—just don’t get the wide angle view that takes into account the lawn.
Next time he comes to paint I will disallow the cherry picker on my lawn—I will resolve to stand up for my lawn and my garden. I will. I will. I think I will. I hope I will. We’ll see.
Trailer Wife
Today was boat launching day and I fulfilled my role as trailer wife. Meaning no disrespect to the many women who are quite capable of launching a boat from a trailer, it seems that the preponderance of small boat launchings I’ve witnessed end with the wife getting into the car’s driver seat and pulling the empty trailer from the lake. This afternoon as we patiently waited to launch at the public boat launch, we witnessed this stereotype in action. Included in the couple’s car were two daughters who shouted words of encouragement like, “You’re going to hit the dock daddy!”
We were more fortunate, as not only has my husband perfected his boat launching since his impact with a large construction vehicle, but also we had no observers on hand beyond those in the car. True to form he easily manipulated the boat into the water and even avoided getting his feet wet as he floated the boat off of the trailer.
Like other trailer wives, I slid in behind the steering wheel to pull the empty trailer back up the ramp. My checklist was short— take off the emergency brake and pull forward. I pulled next to the curb, and waited a few moments to see if our boat was filling with water—a wait we’d neglected to include in our procedure last summer and which we’d regretted. Anyhow, this year no water poured into the boat, so I was waved on. I pulled onto the road for the drive home. The tension began creeping across my back as I attempted to accelerate nearly to the speed limit.
For me, driving the empty trailer home is like a trust fall. I trust my husband has securely attached the trailer to the hitch where it will stay until removed. Of course, unlike in a trust fall, if my trust is misplaced, there will be no one around to pick me up off the ground and see if I’m okay. Every bump seems to toss the trailer behind me—the rattles resonate through every nerve in my body. “This trailer rides so much quieter than our old one,” my husband had just commented on our drive to the launch—well that was before we unloaded 3500 pounds of ballast pushing down on it! The road is covered in frost heaves, oh, and joy, ahead I see a warning barrier where much of the roadway has been washed out—maybe I can accelerate and sneak through the middle before the on-coming car. Tension grips my whole midriff. Breathe; just breathe and relax, I remind myself.
I glance into my rearview mirror—a pickup truck is closing in. Drivers around here don’t like going 40 mph in a 50 mph zone—I accelerate up to 48, maybe I’ll make my turn off before he’s on my tail. I can feel the tension radiated from my spine embracing my rib cage. None of my relaxation techniques seem to be taking effect.
Finally, the turnoff for our road, I gracefully make a sweeping turn and I’m happy to note that the pickup doesn’t also turn. Now I can relax. I near our driveway. I spot our mailbox and breathe out the last bit of tension. I turn into our driveway—perhaps I should have held onto some of that tension— I take out a portion of the lilac bush.
We were more fortunate, as not only has my husband perfected his boat launching since his impact with a large construction vehicle, but also we had no observers on hand beyond those in the car. True to form he easily manipulated the boat into the water and even avoided getting his feet wet as he floated the boat off of the trailer.
Like other trailer wives, I slid in behind the steering wheel to pull the empty trailer back up the ramp. My checklist was short— take off the emergency brake and pull forward. I pulled next to the curb, and waited a few moments to see if our boat was filling with water—a wait we’d neglected to include in our procedure last summer and which we’d regretted. Anyhow, this year no water poured into the boat, so I was waved on. I pulled onto the road for the drive home. The tension began creeping across my back as I attempted to accelerate nearly to the speed limit.
For me, driving the empty trailer home is like a trust fall. I trust my husband has securely attached the trailer to the hitch where it will stay until removed. Of course, unlike in a trust fall, if my trust is misplaced, there will be no one around to pick me up off the ground and see if I’m okay. Every bump seems to toss the trailer behind me—the rattles resonate through every nerve in my body. “This trailer rides so much quieter than our old one,” my husband had just commented on our drive to the launch—well that was before we unloaded 3500 pounds of ballast pushing down on it! The road is covered in frost heaves, oh, and joy, ahead I see a warning barrier where much of the roadway has been washed out—maybe I can accelerate and sneak through the middle before the on-coming car. Tension grips my whole midriff. Breathe; just breathe and relax, I remind myself.
I glance into my rearview mirror—a pickup truck is closing in. Drivers around here don’t like going 40 mph in a 50 mph zone—I accelerate up to 48, maybe I’ll make my turn off before he’s on my tail. I can feel the tension radiated from my spine embracing my rib cage. None of my relaxation techniques seem to be taking effect.
Finally, the turnoff for our road, I gracefully make a sweeping turn and I’m happy to note that the pickup doesn’t also turn. Now I can relax. I near our driveway. I spot our mailbox and breathe out the last bit of tension. I turn into our driveway—perhaps I should have held onto some of that tension— I take out a portion of the lilac bush.
Dandelion Memories
Carefully loosening 
the soil all around the stubborn dandelion, I slowly attempted to pry that tenacious root from its bed of soil. What could possibly be pulling against my efforts so resolutely? Was there a contingent of earthworms strung end to end through the dirt holding fast to the root? Perhaps the root had managed to curl itself around a large rock, plentiful in my New England yard. Whatever the cause, my efforts were futile; I pulled firmly and sure enough out popped the dandelion leaving its root behind to grow again into an even stronger nuisance.
Continuing to my next opponent, dirt pressed beneath my fingernails, my thoughts flitted to my childhood, where I sat watching a neighboring puttering across his lawn in pursuit of every last dandelion. His lawn was flat and green, free of dandelions and other minor inconveniences like prickly beechnuts. My friend and I would ring his doorbell many a sunny afternoon and ask if we could borrow his lawn for our gymnastics stunts. Every time he’d respond, “as long as you bring it back.”
When I’d wander across the street while he was weeding, he’d explain that is was critical to nab the entire root—that was the secret of his success for winning against the dandelions. At the time, that seemed a very straightforward process. So many years later as a homeowner, tackling my own dandelions, I was surprised by how difficult was the quest to remove dandelions. Were he my neighbor now, I’d walk over as he stooped with his trowel, and ask for the key to removing the root—should I take a clump of grass with it? Was my trowel the wrong size? Should I wait until after the rain?
Alas, he died some years ago, but yet each spring as I amble around my yard, trowel in hand, his memory comes to mind. What small task of mine will call up a memory of me in years hence? I can only hope that some action I do today or tomorrow or each spring or fall, will someday bring a smile to a future face, picturing an idyllic scene from a childhood afternoon. In the meantime, I think the rain’s slowing, maybe now is just the right time for dandelion pursuits.
the soil all around the stubborn dandelion, I slowly attempted to pry that tenacious root from its bed of soil. What could possibly be pulling against my efforts so resolutely? Was there a contingent of earthworms strung end to end through the dirt holding fast to the root? Perhaps the root had managed to curl itself around a large rock, plentiful in my New England yard. Whatever the cause, my efforts were futile; I pulled firmly and sure enough out popped the dandelion leaving its root behind to grow again into an even stronger nuisance.Continuing to my next opponent, dirt pressed beneath my fingernails, my thoughts flitted to my childhood, where I sat watching a neighboring puttering across his lawn in pursuit of every last dandelion. His lawn was flat and green, free of dandelions and other minor inconveniences like prickly beechnuts. My friend and I would ring his doorbell many a sunny afternoon and ask if we could borrow his lawn for our gymnastics stunts. Every time he’d respond, “as long as you bring it back.”
When I’d wander across the street while he was weeding, he’d explain that is was critical to nab the entire root—that was the secret of his success for winning against the dandelions. At the time, that seemed a very straightforward process. So many years later as a homeowner, tackling my own dandelions, I was surprised by how difficult was the quest to remove dandelions. Were he my neighbor now, I’d walk over as he stooped with his trowel, and ask for the key to removing the root—should I take a clump of grass with it? Was my trowel the wrong size? Should I wait until after the rain?
Alas, he died some years ago, but yet each spring as I amble around my yard, trowel in hand, his memory comes to mind. What small task of mine will call up a memory of me in years hence? I can only hope that some action I do today or tomorrow or each spring or fall, will someday bring a smile to a future face, picturing an idyllic scene from a childhood afternoon. In the meantime, I think the rain’s slowing, maybe now is just the right time for dandelion pursuits.
Whom Do the School Car Pool Rules Benefit
So who are those school car pool rules made for anyhow? When my children attended elementary school, I dutifully read through the list of guidelines for ‘parent pickup’—that snaking line of idling cars lining up each afternoon before dismissal to gather their offspring. Arriving occasionally to pick up one child or the other, I was appreciative of the teacher monitors keeping an eye on the kids and opening and closing the car doors. Naively, I thought that all of those guidelines and the monitors were meant to control the exuberance of the students after dismissal and keep them well behaved and waiting patiently before hopping into the minivans, suburbans and the occasional sedan. Well once I was introduced to the middle school car pool line I found out the truth. Those rules had nothing to do with keeping the kids in line; they had everything to do with keeping the parents in line.
The middle school car pool line is a regular free for all approach to dropping of and picking up students. You would think that most drivers, having come up through the ranks of elementary school parent pick-up lines, would be conditioned to follow some basic guidelines. But apparently this new found freedom is too much of an enticement to create one’s own plan. Like the pioneers establishing their own governance, middle school parents create their own rules in the pick-up line. Our line has the added benefit of being a closed loop with exiting cars frequently choosing to cross over entering traffic. This novel system frequently produces gridlock with all of the cars held up from exiting the loop.
Here are several commonly followed practices you can try that are sure to invoke gridlock each afternoon in the carpool line (while of course simultaneously raising my blood pressure as I watch in disbelief at the absurdity of some of the drivers).
- Do not move forward to fill all available space. Instead stop directly next to your child who certainly wouldn’t want to walk 40 feet to the car.
- After loading passengers, be sure to rearrange the entire contents of your car before moving forward out of the line.
- Talk on your cell phone in line becoming completely distracted and don’t even bother moving forward with the line of cars.
- Simply avoid going in the line in the first place. Your child is clearly more important than any other student and your time is more valuable than all of the other parents’ in line. Pull around all of the other cars, and proceed to impede all traffic flow while your child saunters over to the car.
And these are only a few of the myriad of the approaches to creating gridlock that have indeed been attempted, often successfully, by middle school car pool drivers. Perhaps we need an extra year or two in the elementary car pool lane.
Trunk Day
Apart from the dull green of the unbending evergreens, the whole world appears monochromatic. Shades of grey along the hills are sandwiched between the dull white of the snow and the grey-white of the low hanging clouds. Wisps of clouds like melted cheese ooze through the hills obscuring where the hills end and the sky begins.
Yet despite the dim day, the smiles couldn’t be bigger in my hallway. For today is the day the trunks come out! One of the wonders of camp is the connection to place that is quickly brought to life when the latch of the trunk is opened and the lid is lifted to reveal the memories of a summer past and the possibilities of a summer future.
As my daughters pore through the contents of their trunks, packed away since last August, there is a constant patter of “I’d forgotten about this,.” or “okay, does this still work?” and “let’s see, I have my can of pencils, some need sharpening.”
As a parent, I was most concerned with whether last year’s uniform would still fit and whether we’d need to purchase any new shirts or shorts. Apparently that was not even on their check list. For when I asked how their shirts fit, I heard quizzically, “I’m not trying anything on.” Somehow my daughters’ goals for getting their trunks ready for camp are not in the same plane as my goals. Truly, does it really matter if their sweatshirt sleeves no longer come down to their wrists or if their shirts have a few holes and paint stains—hey shirts are even better that way!
Then eventually, “So now do I need to put everything back in?” I always wonder at queries like this. Are they meant to be rhetorical or does a 10 year old truly believe that having the contents of her trunk strewn across the hallway is the optimal way to leave things before heading on to her next activity?
Yet despite the dim day, the smiles couldn’t be bigger in my hallway. For today is the day the trunks come out! One of the wonders of camp is the connection to place that is quickly brought to life when the latch of the trunk is opened and the lid is lifted to reveal the memories of a summer past and the possibilities of a summer future.
As my daughters pore through the contents of their trunks, packed away since last August, there is a constant patter of “I’d forgotten about this,.” or “okay, does this still work?” and “let’s see, I have my can of pencils, some need sharpening.”
As a parent, I was most concerned with whether last year’s uniform would still fit and whether we’d need to purchase any new shirts or shorts. Apparently that was not even on their check list. For when I asked how their shirts fit, I heard quizzically, “I’m not trying anything on.” Somehow my daughters’ goals for getting their trunks ready for camp are not in the same plane as my goals. Truly, does it really matter if their sweatshirt sleeves no longer come down to their wrists or if their shirts have a few holes and paint stains—hey shirts are even better that way!
Then eventually, “So now do I need to put everything back in?” I always wonder at queries like this. Are they meant to be rhetorical or does a 10 year old truly believe that having the contents of her trunk strewn across the hallway is the optimal way to leave things before heading on to her next activity?
It's The Feeling Not the Food
While the Israelites may have fled with unleavened bread to hasten their departure, finding Matzos these days requires significant preplanning. I would have thought that by now I’d know how much Matzo our household would consume during Passover and be prepared by buying it all in advance. But no, I remain a just-in-time shopper, and consequently we are down to our last morsel of Matzo with Passover not even half over. Scouring the shelves of two different supermarket chains brought no signs of unleavened bread beyond the bagger at the check out commenting that ‘the stock was looking pretty low yesterday so we’re probably all out by now.”
Oh well, if our menu doesn’t provide sufficient reminders of the Exodus, then perhaps I can recreate the feeling of the Exodus with my last minute preparations. While my mother-in-law is the consummate prepared hostess, my food planning is consistently last minute. So when I still hadn’t made the brisket the morning of Passover, even though my mother-in-law's recipe clearly recommends making it the night before in order to simplify dinner preparations, my walking partner suggested instead that I could recreate the mood of the Israelites grabbing what provisions they could as they headed out in haste. I mean really, were any of them writing up their shopping lists days in advance in order to allow their meat to rest overnight for optimum taste? This sounded like just the plan I needed to make my Passover dinner work.
You see, I have only hosted a handful of Passover dinners, and just as the first three Christmas trees my husband set up in the early years of our marriage crashed to the floor in the middle of the night, my Passover meals have been somewhat less than traditional. For instance, the first Passover I hosted, I drew upon the traditional Thanksgiving dinners I had grown up with, for in essence, Passover is both a remembrance and a giving of thanks. So I dutifully made every recipe listed in my Passover book, set the seder plate, and then, before calling everyone to the table, set the table with the steaming how dishes of brisket and kugel and beans—thankfully I at least knew enough to not make biscuits. Not only did the food all grow cold while we read through the Haggadah, but we could hardly hear one another over the growling of our stomachs as the aromas curled around our empty plates and our eyes drank in the feast set before us.
Several years later as I was shopping for Matzos, I found the end cap at the grocery stocked full with Manischewitz Matzos. Upon closer review, I noticed that every box had a large orange ‘unsalted’ banner plastered across the front. Was this what I was supposed to buy? Would everyone notice and wonder why I hadn’t tailed a Jewish shopper around the store to find the regular Matzos for those in the know? Confused, but not heading home without Matzos, I put a box in my cart. My husband found my confusion amusing, “They never have salt,” he told me, “must just be a new marketing tactic for health conscious consumers.”
So next year I’ll know not to put the serving dishes on the table when we sit down, that all matzos are unsalted and that I need to purchase all the matzos I’ll need well before Passover. I wonder what new lesson will come my way.
Oh well, if our menu doesn’t provide sufficient reminders of the Exodus, then perhaps I can recreate the feeling of the Exodus with my last minute preparations. While my mother-in-law is the consummate prepared hostess, my food planning is consistently last minute. So when I still hadn’t made the brisket the morning of Passover, even though my mother-in-law's recipe clearly recommends making it the night before in order to simplify dinner preparations, my walking partner suggested instead that I could recreate the mood of the Israelites grabbing what provisions they could as they headed out in haste. I mean really, were any of them writing up their shopping lists days in advance in order to allow their meat to rest overnight for optimum taste? This sounded like just the plan I needed to make my Passover dinner work.
You see, I have only hosted a handful of Passover dinners, and just as the first three Christmas trees my husband set up in the early years of our marriage crashed to the floor in the middle of the night, my Passover meals have been somewhat less than traditional. For instance, the first Passover I hosted, I drew upon the traditional Thanksgiving dinners I had grown up with, for in essence, Passover is both a remembrance and a giving of thanks. So I dutifully made every recipe listed in my Passover book, set the seder plate, and then, before calling everyone to the table, set the table with the steaming how dishes of brisket and kugel and beans—thankfully I at least knew enough to not make biscuits. Not only did the food all grow cold while we read through the Haggadah, but we could hardly hear one another over the growling of our stomachs as the aromas curled around our empty plates and our eyes drank in the feast set before us.
Several years later as I was shopping for Matzos, I found the end cap at the grocery stocked full with Manischewitz Matzos. Upon closer review, I noticed that every box had a large orange ‘unsalted’ banner plastered across the front. Was this what I was supposed to buy? Would everyone notice and wonder why I hadn’t tailed a Jewish shopper around the store to find the regular Matzos for those in the know? Confused, but not heading home without Matzos, I put a box in my cart. My husband found my confusion amusing, “They never have salt,” he told me, “must just be a new marketing tactic for health conscious consumers.”
So next year I’ll know not to put the serving dishes on the table when we sit down, that all matzos are unsalted and that I need to purchase all the matzos I’ll need well before Passover. I wonder what new lesson will come my way.
Coffee, Cukes and Moral Quandries
I know I will never be selected to perform in the Cirque du Soleil, but I consider myself solidly in the 50th percentile when it comes to coordination. So why is it that I am unable to simultaneously bag three kiwis while holding a coffee cup in one hand? It’s not that I don’t have any genetic inclination—I was raised by a coffee drinker who has no problem simultaneously balancing 2 cups of coffee with the New York Times crossword. However, I am coming to the game a bit late to say the least. You see, I am a novice coffee drinker. Actually, coffee would be a misnomer to all of my coffee consuming friends. I have only recently latched on to lattes, which my java drinking companions consider a poor imitation of the real thing.
Regardless, I so often see nonchalant coffee drinkers balancing their coffee cup while going about their daily lives. Okay, so I don’t frequently grocery shop with my dad, and I have no recollection of him holding his coffee while maneuvering a grocery cart through aisles of produce, yet certainly a pen and a newspaper are equally as slippery as a couple of kiwis. Here I am, managing without difficulty to select three just right kiwis with one hand and then comes the tricky part. How do I grab and open a plastic bag and slip the kiwis in while holding onto the coffee cup? Thank goodness it’s not the height of traffic at the grocery or surely I’d be embarrassed by my ineptitude. The cart is moderately full and I know if I attempt to nestle my cup among my groceries it’s only going to tip. Forget the plastic bag; I’ll drop the kiwis directly into my cart.
Onto a cucumber, surely I can manage to bag a lonely cucumber in this slightly encumbered state. I select a perfect cucumber, pretty straightforward with one hand. Now I need to grab a plastic bag. Less straightforward while balancing the cucumber with the coffee. Should have nabbed the bag first. Bag in hand, now how do I open it? I barely manage to slip the cucumber in and then, oh darn, the cuke slips out and splats on the floor. Well, it doesn’t actually fly apart, but there’s a pretty good soft spot on it. Now the ethical quandary. This dilemma surely wouldn’t make the grade for a college application, but I am not overseeing the production of countless pharmaceuticals, so this is the extent of my morning’s ethical considerations. Besides, if the admissions’ personnel ever read what my final choice is in this dilemma, I wouldn’t be admitted anyhow. I consider my options. Return the cucumber to the bin for the next unsuspecting shopper. Tell the produce manager; who is nowhere in sight. Tuck the cucumber among the Empire apples where it clearly doesn’t belong and therefore will be regarded as suspect and not selected by the next shopper. I admit, I take the low road, the apples get an interloper and I give up on bagging a cucumber today.
By this time my drink has cooled to luke warm at best—real coffee drinkers would now be truly aghast that I could continue to sip and shop. But I continue on, starting to gain mastery of right hand cart turns—much easier than left turns— contemplating my options when I get to the checkout. Putting the cup on the conveyor is only going to lead to an embarrassing mess and I’ll be uncovered for what I am—a neophyte latte drinker. Nestling the cup among my groceries is likely to lead to the same result with the store manager calling over the intercom, “clean up on check out lane 8”. So I opt for the only reasonable alternative—take it to the trash can. Next time, I’ll get the coffee after the grocery.
Regardless, I so often see nonchalant coffee drinkers balancing their coffee cup while going about their daily lives. Okay, so I don’t frequently grocery shop with my dad, and I have no recollection of him holding his coffee while maneuvering a grocery cart through aisles of produce, yet certainly a pen and a newspaper are equally as slippery as a couple of kiwis. Here I am, managing without difficulty to select three just right kiwis with one hand and then comes the tricky part. How do I grab and open a plastic bag and slip the kiwis in while holding onto the coffee cup? Thank goodness it’s not the height of traffic at the grocery or surely I’d be embarrassed by my ineptitude. The cart is moderately full and I know if I attempt to nestle my cup among my groceries it’s only going to tip. Forget the plastic bag; I’ll drop the kiwis directly into my cart.
Onto a cucumber, surely I can manage to bag a lonely cucumber in this slightly encumbered state. I select a perfect cucumber, pretty straightforward with one hand. Now I need to grab a plastic bag. Less straightforward while balancing the cucumber with the coffee. Should have nabbed the bag first. Bag in hand, now how do I open it? I barely manage to slip the cucumber in and then, oh darn, the cuke slips out and splats on the floor. Well, it doesn’t actually fly apart, but there’s a pretty good soft spot on it. Now the ethical quandary. This dilemma surely wouldn’t make the grade for a college application, but I am not overseeing the production of countless pharmaceuticals, so this is the extent of my morning’s ethical considerations. Besides, if the admissions’ personnel ever read what my final choice is in this dilemma, I wouldn’t be admitted anyhow. I consider my options. Return the cucumber to the bin for the next unsuspecting shopper. Tell the produce manager; who is nowhere in sight. Tuck the cucumber among the Empire apples where it clearly doesn’t belong and therefore will be regarded as suspect and not selected by the next shopper. I admit, I take the low road, the apples get an interloper and I give up on bagging a cucumber today.
By this time my drink has cooled to luke warm at best—real coffee drinkers would now be truly aghast that I could continue to sip and shop. But I continue on, starting to gain mastery of right hand cart turns—much easier than left turns— contemplating my options when I get to the checkout. Putting the cup on the conveyor is only going to lead to an embarrassing mess and I’ll be uncovered for what I am—a neophyte latte drinker. Nestling the cup among my groceries is likely to lead to the same result with the store manager calling over the intercom, “clean up on check out lane 8”. So I opt for the only reasonable alternative—take it to the trash can. Next time, I’ll get the coffee after the grocery.
Opening Windows
When the minister asked the children gathered in front of him what Jewish holiday fell in the spring near Easter, one small boy piped up, “Hanukkah.” I laughed, thankfully not too loudly, as no one else in the congregation found amusement in his response. Whether that was because they didn’t realize that Hanukkah falls closer to Christmas or whether they thought it might be disrespectful of another religion to laugh I don’t know.
Being half of an interfaith couple, I found the response quite comical. Partially it was absurd because it showcased our society’s efforts at attempting to balance holidays with the egomaniacal Christian holiday, Christmas. Every child in our elementary school knows about Hanukkah, okay, perhaps not about the Maccabees and the oil, but they know it’s a Jewish holiday they need to mention every time Christmas is presented in their politically correct world. So the mere fact that Hanukkah would roll off of a young child’s lips as the only known Jewish holiday is a reflection of our absurd approach to managing Christmas as the top predator of solstice celebrations.
Also, the minister was attempting to be broadly ecumenical—embracing the Jewish religion by explaining important overlaps between Christianity and Judaism while talking about how Jesus was celebrating the Passover meal with his disciples before Good Friday. I applaud his efforts both to provide historical context and to open a window of respect for these children. Seeing the gears turning in these children’s minds was what got me laughing. And sure enough, in my Church School class, my students gave voice to their confusion.
When I asked why we celebrate communion, the first response was, “to remember Passover.” Well the minister had certainly gotten that window of respect wide open.
Being half of an interfaith couple, I found the response quite comical. Partially it was absurd because it showcased our society’s efforts at attempting to balance holidays with the egomaniacal Christian holiday, Christmas. Every child in our elementary school knows about Hanukkah, okay, perhaps not about the Maccabees and the oil, but they know it’s a Jewish holiday they need to mention every time Christmas is presented in their politically correct world. So the mere fact that Hanukkah would roll off of a young child’s lips as the only known Jewish holiday is a reflection of our absurd approach to managing Christmas as the top predator of solstice celebrations.
Also, the minister was attempting to be broadly ecumenical—embracing the Jewish religion by explaining important overlaps between Christianity and Judaism while talking about how Jesus was celebrating the Passover meal with his disciples before Good Friday. I applaud his efforts both to provide historical context and to open a window of respect for these children. Seeing the gears turning in these children’s minds was what got me laughing. And sure enough, in my Church School class, my students gave voice to their confusion.
When I asked why we celebrate communion, the first response was, “to remember Passover.” Well the minister had certainly gotten that window of respect wide open.
Cellmate
Ever since I was driving one sunny morning on a clear road and was plowed into by a car whose driver said in defense “I looked and she wasn’t there”, I have become more observant of drivers using cell phones. Not that I know she was on a cell phone, but honestly which is more likely, I have a Star Trek transporter or she was immersed in conversation?
In any case, I have noticed a number of different approaches to drivers holding cell phones and have unscientifically categorized them by the likelihood of their steering into my car.
Capsized Cranium—She manages to firmly grip the steering wheel with two hands by pressing the cell phone between her should and her ear. She appears to have good steering wheel control, I just wonder how distorted a perspective of the road she views with such a significant head tilt. Not recommended for individuals with a history of neck or upper back strain.
Everything Under Control— Phone in one hand, coffee in the other, how is she steering? But she looks so confident chatting away that I presume she has auto pilot and everything is under control… at least until the coffee spills.
Lean Look— His left hand holds the steering wheel, while his right hand holds the cell and the whole body leans to the right—perhaps with an elbow against the mid-console. Appears quite relaxing, hopefully his reflexes aren’t also relaxing.
Manicured Model—The phone is held gingerly by all 4 fingertips and thumb as if she is coming from a manicure. She certainly looks together, so hopefully her driving is as well.
Angry Audio—He has two hands on the wheel and is apparently talking to nobody as there are no passengers in the car. I used to presume that these drivers were using hands free phones. Then I had several conversations with male relatives who admitted to having quite dynamic soliloquies while driving alone. Apparently these aren’t the one off conversations that many of us have after a maddening encounter when we just didn’t get our point heard. No, this is a daily ritual for these drivers. I’m not exactly sure how to categorize this group—I tend to give them plenty of extra space.
Twist and Talk— While holding the cell in one hand, her other hand gesticulates wildly. As with the Everything Under Control driver I question her ability to quickly make a corner, but she would certainly do well as a mime.
Everyone Else—I’m not sure how many people drop through to this category—there just aren’t too many options for holding a cell phone while driving.
Now when I see a driver on a cell and am quickly considering my driving options, I try to recall my list and if I can’t remember all seven categories, I just use my acronym, CELMATE.
In any case, I have noticed a number of different approaches to drivers holding cell phones and have unscientifically categorized them by the likelihood of their steering into my car.
Capsized Cranium—She manages to firmly grip the steering wheel with two hands by pressing the cell phone between her should and her ear. She appears to have good steering wheel control, I just wonder how distorted a perspective of the road she views with such a significant head tilt. Not recommended for individuals with a history of neck or upper back strain.
Everything Under Control— Phone in one hand, coffee in the other, how is she steering? But she looks so confident chatting away that I presume she has auto pilot and everything is under control… at least until the coffee spills.
Lean Look— His left hand holds the steering wheel, while his right hand holds the cell and the whole body leans to the right—perhaps with an elbow against the mid-console. Appears quite relaxing, hopefully his reflexes aren’t also relaxing.
Manicured Model—The phone is held gingerly by all 4 fingertips and thumb as if she is coming from a manicure. She certainly looks together, so hopefully her driving is as well.
Angry Audio—He has two hands on the wheel and is apparently talking to nobody as there are no passengers in the car. I used to presume that these drivers were using hands free phones. Then I had several conversations with male relatives who admitted to having quite dynamic soliloquies while driving alone. Apparently these aren’t the one off conversations that many of us have after a maddening encounter when we just didn’t get our point heard. No, this is a daily ritual for these drivers. I’m not exactly sure how to categorize this group—I tend to give them plenty of extra space.
Twist and Talk— While holding the cell in one hand, her other hand gesticulates wildly. As with the Everything Under Control driver I question her ability to quickly make a corner, but she would certainly do well as a mime.
Everyone Else—I’m not sure how many people drop through to this category—there just aren’t too many options for holding a cell phone while driving.
Now when I see a driver on a cell and am quickly considering my driving options, I try to recall my list and if I can’t remember all seven categories, I just use my acronym, CELMATE.
Guilty
“Guilty.” “Not guilty.” “Not guilty.” “Not guilty.” “Not guilty.” “Not guilty.” My eyes would have opened wide in surprise if they weren’t filling with tears. No, I wasn’t the defendant, or a relative of the defendant, I was one member of a six person jury. I suppose the tears were my reaction to feeling exposed as the lone dissenter or feeling concern over receiving the resentment of my fellow jurors who would now have to return to the courthouse the next day or possibly even feeling self doubt. Was there some reasonable doubt that I had missed?
How did I get myself in this position? Wouldn’t it just be easier to have said ‘OK, fine, not guilty’ and now be heading home without needing to worry about rescheduling Friday plans or who knows, even next week’s plans!
Just this morning as I had taken my jury seat as the final juror selected, I felt proud and pleased to be part of a jury hearing a case and doing my civic duty. As juror number 13 took his seat, I thought idly that I’d not be selected with only one more spot to fill on the jury. But then several prospective jurors were dismissed and in a moment I was seated in the jury box and the judge concluded that the jury selection process was complete. So there I was, feeling pleased to be selected to fulfill my civic duty. If I could have foreseen the events of the afternoon, I doubt I’d been pleased at all.
Waiting in seclusion before the start of testimony, was like being with five strangers in an elevator that unexpectedly, but not alarmingly comes to a stop. We were all quietly ignoring one another until an awkward pause arose. What would everyone talk about when we were forbidden to talk about our only common bond? Of course, our first topic was first the weather (rainy), then the traffic (“boy was the traffic heavy this morning”), then the unintelligible recorded messages we’d received from the courthouse reminding us to appear, then we touched briefly on previous jury experience before feeling we’d gone too far a field among strangers and returned to the comfort of meteorological chatter.
Fortunately they soon brought us in to hear testimony. We all sat quietly and listened to the same testimony. But apparently, the other jurors, after listening along with me and discussing that testimony as a jury, believed there was still reasonable doubt where I saw no reasonable doubt whatsoever. I talked to myself driving home and half the night to ensure I had thought through everything I’d heard in the courtroom and still felt there was no reasonable doubt. So when I returned to our jury room on Friday morning, I felt nervous yet confident. Taking a deep breath I began, “Well as the outlier, I suggest I present what I heard in the courtroom yesterday and then hear where each of your doubts lies to see if we can convince each other one way or the other.”
Not surprisingly, having no alternatives, everyone readily agreed. I began, “Most critically I heard one important instruction from the judge before we retired to begin deliberations. He instructed us that we may use our common sense and our experience to determine from the testimony we heard, what is fact.” Keeping this directive in mind, I told the story as I believed the events occurred. As I spoke, I looked carefully at each juror to see each individual’s reaction. I saw some nods, some interest, and no defiant body language. So rather than continuing my narrative, I asked the jurors to explain to me the doubts they saw that caused them to be vote not guilty. One by one, each juror began with a phrase such as, “you know as I was driving home yesterday I started thinking about…”, or “Thinking this through last night I tried …”, or “Well I know that he wasn't being honest…”. One by one each juror, but one, admitted that he or she did not have any reasonable doubt; each saw the defendant as guilty. Inside I was astonished. Outside I tried to remain neutral.
Clearly everyone else, except the foreman, had changed their minds overnight. But still the foreman seemed to differ arguing that the state, in his words, “just didn’t make its case.” So we all voted again. Again I went first. “Guilty” This time I heard, “Guilty” “Guilty”, “Not Guilty.” “Guilty.” “Guilty.” A near reversal—I was stunned. Yet, we needed a unanimous verdict which we didn’t have and so a juror suggested that we would need to tell the judge that we couldn’t come to a verdict. Well that didn’t sit well with the foreman who protested, “I was fine when you (pointing at me) were the odd person out, but I don’t want to be the one who causes us to be a hung jury.” Fortunately, another juror took him to task reminding him that he needed to truly believe the defendant is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt to give a guilty pronouncement. There was a quiet pause in the room. I don’t know what was going through the foreman’s mind at that point, but then he nodded his head and agreed; yes the defendant was guilty. While I may have convinced no one, I felt that I had given the jurors the time they needed to think to come to the right verdict.
I watched the defendant as the verdict was read, “Guilty”. He dropped his head and otherwise showed no emotion. We retired for a final time to the jury room, our conversation now past meteorological happenings. We shared respect not only for one another, but for the process. We felt we had carefully and thoughtfully fulfilled our responsibility both to the state and to one another. We may never meet again, but I will carry that respect I felt with me.
How did I get myself in this position? Wouldn’t it just be easier to have said ‘OK, fine, not guilty’ and now be heading home without needing to worry about rescheduling Friday plans or who knows, even next week’s plans!
Just this morning as I had taken my jury seat as the final juror selected, I felt proud and pleased to be part of a jury hearing a case and doing my civic duty. As juror number 13 took his seat, I thought idly that I’d not be selected with only one more spot to fill on the jury. But then several prospective jurors were dismissed and in a moment I was seated in the jury box and the judge concluded that the jury selection process was complete. So there I was, feeling pleased to be selected to fulfill my civic duty. If I could have foreseen the events of the afternoon, I doubt I’d been pleased at all.
Waiting in seclusion before the start of testimony, was like being with five strangers in an elevator that unexpectedly, but not alarmingly comes to a stop. We were all quietly ignoring one another until an awkward pause arose. What would everyone talk about when we were forbidden to talk about our only common bond? Of course, our first topic was first the weather (rainy), then the traffic (“boy was the traffic heavy this morning”), then the unintelligible recorded messages we’d received from the courthouse reminding us to appear, then we touched briefly on previous jury experience before feeling we’d gone too far a field among strangers and returned to the comfort of meteorological chatter.
Fortunately they soon brought us in to hear testimony. We all sat quietly and listened to the same testimony. But apparently, the other jurors, after listening along with me and discussing that testimony as a jury, believed there was still reasonable doubt where I saw no reasonable doubt whatsoever. I talked to myself driving home and half the night to ensure I had thought through everything I’d heard in the courtroom and still felt there was no reasonable doubt. So when I returned to our jury room on Friday morning, I felt nervous yet confident. Taking a deep breath I began, “Well as the outlier, I suggest I present what I heard in the courtroom yesterday and then hear where each of your doubts lies to see if we can convince each other one way or the other.”
Not surprisingly, having no alternatives, everyone readily agreed. I began, “Most critically I heard one important instruction from the judge before we retired to begin deliberations. He instructed us that we may use our common sense and our experience to determine from the testimony we heard, what is fact.” Keeping this directive in mind, I told the story as I believed the events occurred. As I spoke, I looked carefully at each juror to see each individual’s reaction. I saw some nods, some interest, and no defiant body language. So rather than continuing my narrative, I asked the jurors to explain to me the doubts they saw that caused them to be vote not guilty. One by one, each juror began with a phrase such as, “you know as I was driving home yesterday I started thinking about…”, or “Thinking this through last night I tried …”, or “Well I know that he wasn't being honest…”. One by one each juror, but one, admitted that he or she did not have any reasonable doubt; each saw the defendant as guilty. Inside I was astonished. Outside I tried to remain neutral.
Clearly everyone else, except the foreman, had changed their minds overnight. But still the foreman seemed to differ arguing that the state, in his words, “just didn’t make its case.” So we all voted again. Again I went first. “Guilty” This time I heard, “Guilty” “Guilty”, “Not Guilty.” “Guilty.” “Guilty.” A near reversal—I was stunned. Yet, we needed a unanimous verdict which we didn’t have and so a juror suggested that we would need to tell the judge that we couldn’t come to a verdict. Well that didn’t sit well with the foreman who protested, “I was fine when you (pointing at me) were the odd person out, but I don’t want to be the one who causes us to be a hung jury.” Fortunately, another juror took him to task reminding him that he needed to truly believe the defendant is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt to give a guilty pronouncement. There was a quiet pause in the room. I don’t know what was going through the foreman’s mind at that point, but then he nodded his head and agreed; yes the defendant was guilty. While I may have convinced no one, I felt that I had given the jurors the time they needed to think to come to the right verdict.
I watched the defendant as the verdict was read, “Guilty”. He dropped his head and otherwise showed no emotion. We retired for a final time to the jury room, our conversation now past meteorological happenings. We shared respect not only for one another, but for the process. We felt we had carefully and thoughtfully fulfilled our responsibility both to the state and to one another. We may never meet again, but I will carry that respect I felt with me.
Dinnertable Comment
"That wasn't a vacation, that was a learning experience."
What I actually heard was:
"That wasn't a vacation, that was a learning experiment."
Not sure which is more favorable, or rather less unfavorable.
What I actually heard was:
"That wasn't a vacation, that was a learning experiment."
Not sure which is more favorable, or rather less unfavorable.
Grocery Check Out
Idly scanning the magazine covers in the supermarket check-out line, I looked up as a screaming 2 year old pushed past me to get to a large bin of rubber balls for sale.
Grabbing a large blue ball, he returned to his mother who responded, “Brian likes orange better, we’re going to get the orange ball. We don’t need any more balls; let’s put this blue ball back.”
The mother put the blue ball back then returned to continue having her groceries scanned, including the orange ball. The child screamed, returned to the ball display and grabbed the blue ball again.
Sighing, the mother said “okay” and put the blue ball on the conveyor pretending that she was going to buy the ball while quietly whispering to the check out clerk that she’s not buying the ball and to just put it behind the counter. The child, who had immediately calmed upon hearing ‘okay’, was smart enough to follow what’s going on.
As soon as he saw that the blue ball wasn’t being purchased he tensed all of his facial muscles and prepared to emit another ear-splitting scream at which point the mother sarcastically retorted, “Fine! Do you know how many balls we have at home? We’ll add this to all of the other balls in the garage and have enough balls for all the kids in the neighborhood!” And with that, she purchased the blue ball (along with the orange ball, apparently a gift).
I stood stunned and rooted to the spot as she tensely pushed her cart out into the sunny afternoon.
I unloaded my cart for the cashier, all of the supportive comments I could have offered streaming through my mind. Why hadn’t I just said, “It’s ok if he screams, it won’t bother anyone here if he screams; we’ve all been there.” Or “Personally I think it’d be much better for him if you would let him scream and follow through on your initial decision to buy only the orange gift ball.” Or even, “Don’t worry about it; here, let me put the ball back for you.”
Sigh. I hope that next time I speak up.
Grabbing a large blue ball, he returned to his mother who responded, “Brian likes orange better, we’re going to get the orange ball. We don’t need any more balls; let’s put this blue ball back.”
The mother put the blue ball back then returned to continue having her groceries scanned, including the orange ball. The child screamed, returned to the ball display and grabbed the blue ball again.
Sighing, the mother said “okay” and put the blue ball on the conveyor pretending that she was going to buy the ball while quietly whispering to the check out clerk that she’s not buying the ball and to just put it behind the counter. The child, who had immediately calmed upon hearing ‘okay’, was smart enough to follow what’s going on.
As soon as he saw that the blue ball wasn’t being purchased he tensed all of his facial muscles and prepared to emit another ear-splitting scream at which point the mother sarcastically retorted, “Fine! Do you know how many balls we have at home? We’ll add this to all of the other balls in the garage and have enough balls for all the kids in the neighborhood!” And with that, she purchased the blue ball (along with the orange ball, apparently a gift).
I stood stunned and rooted to the spot as she tensely pushed her cart out into the sunny afternoon.
I unloaded my cart for the cashier, all of the supportive comments I could have offered streaming through my mind. Why hadn’t I just said, “It’s ok if he screams, it won’t bother anyone here if he screams; we’ve all been there.” Or “Personally I think it’d be much better for him if you would let him scream and follow through on your initial decision to buy only the orange gift ball.” Or even, “Don’t worry about it; here, let me put the ball back for you.”
Sigh. I hope that next time I speak up.
Irene the Oracle
Oh for the simpler days of a DeLorme Atlas and a highlighter. Instead there I was in a 29 foot RV traveling the country with my family and an interloper—Irene, our GPS navigation system.
Irene was a small box with a large database capable of both locating her own current position, which conveniently is your position too if she is with you, and directing you to numerous points of interest and addresses throughout the United States. She had an unnervingly calm demeanor when speaking; yes she talked. For instance, Irene’s insidiously calm utterance “take next left” after we had ignored her 3 previous “take next left” suggestions, got under my skin. How could she stay so calm when we were blatantly ignoring her directions?! She never got ruffled; she never raised her voice.
She may sound like the ideal driving buddy, but don’t be fooled. She often gave vague suggestions. She had no idea how large our vehicle was and would blithely offer “U-turn ahead” whenever she deemed that we had made an error in judgment in our choice of routes. Somehow making a U turn while slogging up the narrow coast road in the rain driving a 29 foot RV didn’t seem practical, at least not to me. My husband, on the other hand, relished Irene’s challenges; she bolstered his masculine ego. She took advantage of her allure and frequently, after I had clearly told the driver, my husband, to go straight ahead, Irene would calmly utter, ‘turn left in 500 feet.’
You see, I didn’t have a list of every Dunkin’ Donuts across the country. She had the capacity to entice my husband with a selection of countless coffee shop options literally at his fingertips. I think she actually savored having my husband’s undivided attention while ushering him through construction in rush hour traffic.
Yes I suppose there were some moments when I appreciated her guidance; even enjoyed her companionship. When I was too tired to find the directions to the campground I would just close my eyes and let Irene pipe up, “take next exit right in 2 miles.”
So we had an ambivalent relationship—or rather I had ambivalent feelings toward her; she didn’t even know I existed. I sat quietly while she got us back on the highway from a maze of city streets, but later, when she was lulled into a false sense of pride, I piped up, “take next exit and don’t merge in .2 miles. We’re taking the scenic route,” and muted Irene. And of course, when we returned home after nearly 10,000 miles, she was the one put back in the box.
Trading Debt for Cookies
I don’t have a degree in economics, but I understand the basics around debt and trade. As a matter of fact, if I were to talk about the effect of U.S. debt on the economy I would probably be better understood by most Americans than Alan Greenspan, but I would make a lot less sense. See what I mean? However, I think I have enough of a handle on monetary issues to have an intelligent discussion with a 10 year old. At least that was what I thought before last week.
While driving, my 10 year old pipes up from the back seat, “Why don’t they print more money to pay off the debt?” She frequently uses prepositions as if we’ve been having a discussion for some time. We hadn’t been, we’d been actually driving in silence—somewhat unusual when we’re together.
When I explain the basics of inflation and why we can’t just print more money she suggests that maybe we should just forget about it and start over.
So I follow-up on the basics of our global interconnectedness and how countries like China have actually purchased many treasury notes from the federal government and that we need to honor them. Undeterred, she then suggests that we give them something else instead, like furniture.
Well there’s an interesting option, but who, I ask, would make all that furniture without getting paid for it?
“Oh,” she quickly responds, “then how about cookies—everyone could bake cookies, everyone likes to bake cookies and everyone likes to get them!”
While driving, my 10 year old pipes up from the back seat, “Why don’t they print more money to pay off the debt?” She frequently uses prepositions as if we’ve been having a discussion for some time. We hadn’t been, we’d been actually driving in silence—somewhat unusual when we’re together.
When I explain the basics of inflation and why we can’t just print more money she suggests that maybe we should just forget about it and start over.
So I follow-up on the basics of our global interconnectedness and how countries like China have actually purchased many treasury notes from the federal government and that we need to honor them. Undeterred, she then suggests that we give them something else instead, like furniture.
Well there’s an interesting option, but who, I ask, would make all that furniture without getting paid for it?
“Oh,” she quickly responds, “then how about cookies—everyone could bake cookies, everyone likes to bake cookies and everyone likes to get them!”
A Year Already?
Was it really a year ago already that I was insisting we get a pull-through campsite and my husband was waiting for the internet fairy to appear in our Kentucky campground?
I vividly recall picking up the RV. At the rental agency Wendy, our rental specialist, gave us the full tour of our new home for the next 2 months making sure to emphasis that cruise control is not the equivalent of auto pilot. She showed us the RV systems which my husband noted carefully, while I, on the other hand, entered her 800 number into my cell phone and made a mental note that we wanted to stay at a campground with staff for our first camping experience. We realized we needed to factor in additional time to ‘camp’: time to change the oil, buy septic deodorizers, make campsite reservations and of course, time to de-winterize the RV.
With the tour of systems over I was beyond excited and equally nervous! Now it seemed to me it was time for the driving lesson. What? No lesson?! We just hop in and go? You’re kidding, right? Wrong, that’s it; we were set (yeah right). My husband would drive the RV home while I would follow in our car. He got in the cab and was there awhile, I presumed adjusting the seat and mirrors, double checking driving controls etc. Then he got out of cab and went into rental office. When he returned with the serviceman. I stepped out of the car with a quizzical look. “Just learning how to operate the radio,” he called to me. “The radio! I hardly think you should be listening to the radio for your first RV driving experience!” Don’t worry, no problem, … and we were off!
When It Rains It Pours
Before my children started elementary school, my husband, our two daughters and I set off to New Hampshire for our first family camping experience. We imagined roasting marshmallows over a crackling campfire, sighting a greater variety of wildlife than the Robins, Blue Jays and Grey Squirrels inhabiting our backyard, and exploring new trails. We hadn’t truly considered rainy weather options. We certainly hadn’t expected severe thunderstorms. But then the best part of camping is frequently the unexpected.
Upon locating our campsite, we selected a nice flat spot and despite the darkening skies we set up our tent without mishap. When we crawled into our sleeping bags that night we weren’t bothered by rocks, or roots and my husband and I marveled at what a perfect site we had selected for our tent.
Along came Saturday—“severe thunderstorm warning!” was broadcast, not that we were listening to the radio. Soon a nice soft pitter-patter fell gently through the pine boughs. Before long a true deluge began, so we decide to enjoy the storm by reading and drawing in our tent. As the wind howled and lightning cracked, our daughters’ interest in books and art projects diminished and their attention turned to the ferocity with which the storm was pummeling our tent. “Wow! Look how the tent bows in with the wind”, “Isn’t the thunder and lightning exciting?” And when our 5 year old asked, “Mommy, is it going to flood?” with more than a little trepidation in her voice, I calmly responded, “of course not.” My younger daughter meanwhile gleefully patted the tent floor, “it’s a waterbed mommy!”
My husband, being practical, looked outside the tent to verify my response and said, “Throw me my bathing suit.” A quick change into his suit and he stepped outside our tent, put his head back in and said, “Toss me my car keys and pack up.” Come to find out he had stepped into 5 inches of water! So much for our ideal tent site. Had it not been for the stakes we so securely pounded in we would be down river. Pressing against the bottom of the tent our youngest said, “Neat mommy, look how squishy this is, can we jump on it like a trampoline?” Unsure how well the floor of our tent would hold up with four little feet jumping on it from above, and a torrent of water beneath it, I decided that would not be prudent. No matter, it was plenty entertaining watching mom throw everything in sight into the duffels.
Not wanting to find out how well our duffels would repel water when the river crested over the tent threshold, we backed the car up to the tent and tossed our belongings into our vehicle. All the time my husband and I made light of the situation not wanting to concern our daughters—as if they couldn’t read the concern from the velocity with which our duffels flew out the tent flap.
If we had been in an action movie, then the tent would have washed away immediately after we had emptied the tent of its contents. Well, we weren’t on a movie set. The tent, now empty, was immediately bathed in golden rays of sun as the rain instantly abated and the skies cleared to make a mockery of our sense of urgency.
Upon locating our campsite, we selected a nice flat spot and despite the darkening skies we set up our tent without mishap. When we crawled into our sleeping bags that night we weren’t bothered by rocks, or roots and my husband and I marveled at what a perfect site we had selected for our tent.
Along came Saturday—“severe thunderstorm warning!” was broadcast, not that we were listening to the radio. Soon a nice soft pitter-patter fell gently through the pine boughs. Before long a true deluge began, so we decide to enjoy the storm by reading and drawing in our tent. As the wind howled and lightning cracked, our daughters’ interest in books and art projects diminished and their attention turned to the ferocity with which the storm was pummeling our tent. “Wow! Look how the tent bows in with the wind”, “Isn’t the thunder and lightning exciting?” And when our 5 year old asked, “Mommy, is it going to flood?” with more than a little trepidation in her voice, I calmly responded, “of course not.” My younger daughter meanwhile gleefully patted the tent floor, “it’s a waterbed mommy!”
My husband, being practical, looked outside the tent to verify my response and said, “Throw me my bathing suit.” A quick change into his suit and he stepped outside our tent, put his head back in and said, “Toss me my car keys and pack up.” Come to find out he had stepped into 5 inches of water! So much for our ideal tent site. Had it not been for the stakes we so securely pounded in we would be down river. Pressing against the bottom of the tent our youngest said, “Neat mommy, look how squishy this is, can we jump on it like a trampoline?” Unsure how well the floor of our tent would hold up with four little feet jumping on it from above, and a torrent of water beneath it, I decided that would not be prudent. No matter, it was plenty entertaining watching mom throw everything in sight into the duffels.
Not wanting to find out how well our duffels would repel water when the river crested over the tent threshold, we backed the car up to the tent and tossed our belongings into our vehicle. All the time my husband and I made light of the situation not wanting to concern our daughters—as if they couldn’t read the concern from the velocity with which our duffels flew out the tent flap.
If we had been in an action movie, then the tent would have washed away immediately after we had emptied the tent of its contents. Well, we weren’t on a movie set. The tent, now empty, was immediately bathed in golden rays of sun as the rain instantly abated and the skies cleared to make a mockery of our sense of urgency.
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