Hiking Out

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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