Morning at the Meeting House

Today I am sweeping…

needles and berries and fragments of twigs 

left behind from my work.

Others have hung the roping

of fragrant pine

and set the candles in place.

They have placed the wreaths and ribbons,

wrapped the church entrance

in garlands of green,

positioned the tartan bow

on the lamp post.

Inside I gathered upright juniper

with pliant pine and cedar

into festive bouquets that guard the altar.

And now, alone, I sweep

holiday dust, the molecules of celebration

lost between the floorboards,

extending back for centuries.  

I sweep and trim and smile

as I imagine women have done

since this church began:

we set things right, tweak a bow,

fractionally turn a wreath or vase,

then step back (as we always do)

to see the church and judge it ready--

fresh and clean and candle-bright:

dressed for Christmas.

Search and Rescue

Yesterday, we went to an estate sale. I haven't decided whether I like doing this or not. I used to think of these things--like yard sales--as golden opportunities to get neat stuff at bargain prices. And they are. However, those bargains have another cost attached to them.

I can't help thinking about the people who owned these things. Maybe it's the reminder that, inevitably, I'll grow old(er) and someday, it might be MY stuff that the hordes are pawing through, and dismissing as junk. Maybe it will be my treasures that are being sold for pennies on the dollar. Whatever the cause, I find myself walking through other people's houses feeling sad, paying attention to the boxes of glassware, the closets full of sad sweaters, the linen closets packed with yellowed tablecloths and napkins. The dust and dirt in the corners, the neglected flower beds, the threadbare carpet continue the story of decline. How does one come to this state? Where are the children who should have found a cleaning lady, a yard man, a handyman to fix the sagging cabinets and wobbly bookcases? Are they the orchestrators--and beneficiaries--of the sale?

I hope not. It would be unfair that neglectful heirs would gain from this harsh and cold disposition of belongings. But then, here we are, pecking away like vultures at this carcass of a life: the books, the records, the old unidentified photos of mystery relatives, the unused gifts squirreled away in their original boxes...even the ornaments and trappings of Christmases past.

I know it's not reasonable, but I always feel that I should rescue something from these sales: some thing that might have had personal meaning, and might again. I've saved chairs at one house, china at another, a crocheted tablecloth, a footstool...hoping to capture and reignite some spark of identity, some remnant of happy times that lingers within. If nothing else, when I look at these pieces, I remember a house, a location, a circumstance. They become stories to be told to friends and family, and, as such, they live again.

Yesterday I bought a set of Shakespeare plays: miniature leather-bound books, 24 tiny books with gold-stamped covers--each one the size of my palm--arrayed in a battered wooden box, furred with mold. Five dollars well-spent for someone's priceless memories.

Lunching at Nordstrom's

I went to Nordstrom's for lunch yesterday--all by myself, on the return trip from my Folger Docent Training class. It was odd. I hardly ever go there unaccompanied. It's some sort of self-imposed rule that seems inviolable, but has no basis. In any event, I wanted a salad, and--in case you didn't know this--Nordstrom's Cafe has a whole menu of great salads, including my favorite: their Chinese Chicken Salad. (I have to say that my previous statement about the 'whole menu' is based on other opinions. I never get anything BUT the Chinese Chicken Salad.) And I had parked at Pentagon City and caught the Metro downtown, so I had to pass Nordstrom's anyway...

While I waited for my meal, I lost myself thinking about how many people I've met at Nordstrom's Cafes. These restaurants are my rock. No matter where you go, if there is a Nordstrom's, there's a Cafe--usually tucked away near the children's department, or by the china section, but always there. The menu is always the same (my Chinese Chicken Salad!) and I know the drill: order, pay, find a table, and wait for your food to appear. Even the clientele is pretty predictable: ladies pausing in their shopping, groups of office workers meeting for lunch, moms with strollers and/or toddlers. It's surprisingly quiet, it's seldom crowded inside, though there is occasionally a line at the entrance. Service is prompt, and there's always a piece of chocolate on the tip tray afterwards.

Over the years, I've met friends there; I've taken a break during my Christmas shopping blitzkriegs there; I've discussed issues, problems, decisions with any number of friends and relations. It's been the scene of reunions, casual meetings, and farewell luncheons. I can barely remember all of them.

Some lunches stand out. The friend who initially put me on to the place has moved away, but I think of her whenever I walk in the door. "You've never eaten at NORDSTROM'S??!!!" she asked incredulously when I mentioned I didn't know they had a restaurant in the store... Whenever I order my salad, I think of another friend. She urged me to try it (me! who barely tolerates lettuce in any form!) and I was won over immediately. She died several years back, but she lives in the Nordstrom's menu for me. The co-worker who surprised me when I took her there for a 'ladies' lunch' when she told me she'd always wanted to go there because the GUYS in her department always did.

My favorite story was another 'lunching alone' occasion. I had flown to Providence to meet my daughter's movers. She and her husband and their daughter were driving cross-country and the movers beat them to the east coast. I arrived at 2 PM the day after the movers had pulled in, landed at the airport, rented a car, picked up a key at the real estate office, tracked down and paid the housecleaner who had cleaned the place the week before, located and paid for a storage unit, contacted the movers, met them and transferred a portion of the van's contents to the storage unit, arranged to meet them at 8 am the next day at the house, had myself located and gone to the house and bought some basic supplies after finding the nearest Wal-Mart and supermarket. All this in a city I had never before visited. A city where streets are erratically plotted and often unmarked. In short, I had spent the entire afternoon going the wrong way, making u-turns, missing turns entirely and being frustrated beyond endurance. In unprecedented 90-degree heat. And with no AC at the house.

Finally, I was ready to find my B&B and collapse. I tried. I really did. But downtown Providence defeated me. I found myself on the road to Boston, made my thousandth u-turn of the day, and headed back toward downtown. I missed the turn onto the road I needed, and saw ahead, like a beacon in the distance, the sign for Providence Place--and the Nordstrom's logo. I took the exit, parked in a dark and confusing garage, and walked into the mall. I found Nordstrom's. I found the cafe. I found a table overlooking the state capitol building, and relaxed for what seemed to be the first time in a week. (Did I mention that the day before I'd left home, we had closed on a new house ourselves and had been packing for a week or two already?) I had the move-in the next day, unpacking galore ahead of me, and I still hadn't found my bed for the night, but for one brief dinner-hour, I was back to normal. It seems anticlimactic to add that, when I pulled out of the garage, there was, miraculously, a sign that pointed me toward the street where my B&B was. I arrived within minutes.

My port in a storm--Nordstrom's and the friends I've lunched with there. They go together.

Anticipating Sandy

Anticipating Sandy 

Ready! Set!

Arriving tomorrow!

The 24/7 Cassandras

with all their techno-toys

predict a big one:

the biggest, strongest,

highest, lowest, most destructive,

longest, widest, tallest

monster wind and wave

extravaganza.

An epic storm, a perfect storm,

a storm of the barely-begun

century.

Just one day left, so

board up your windows,

batten the hatches,

raid the markets,

and lock up your daughters!

Stock up on water, find your flashlights,

and where are the batteries?

Gas up your car, and tie down the cat.

Charge and charge again

electronic devices that govern your lives.

Pack your bags; prepare to run.

Is this what we've become?

Masters of the universe,

but fearful of the wind? 

Players and Politicians

It's been a busy fall in Washington, which is unusual. The customary avenues of interest, come October, in the Nation's Capital generally fall along the lines of which cases the Supreme Court will hear, what kind of winter we can expect, and whether the Redskins will put on the usual dismal show this year. Back to school means back to work, back to the humdrum everyday.

But 2012 brought a few surprises. Washington has a baseball team that is actually playing in the post-season, and generating unprecedented excitement. The Redskins are up and down, but have a new quarterback whose performance is kindling hope where there was previously despair. We thrive on the competitions we are seeing now. Everybody loves a good game, and we love watching the professionals slugging it out in pursuit of the playoffs, the World Series, the Super Bowl, or even just a winning season.

But this year, also, let us not forget the political arena, where November's election is grinding out the usual mix of lies, accusations, denials, and statistics that are manipulated in any number of ways to make one or the other candidate look dishonest, out of touch, incompetent, or just plain stupid. On any given day, in any given political ad (and we in Virginia have been given far more than our fair share) one is led to believe that the various candidates hate women, care nothing about children or the elderly, are immune to the issues that affect the general public, care nothing about increasing our tax burden, have not been doing their jobs, and/or have generally operated in ways that undermine the American way of life. I think I speak for a lot of my fellow citizens in saying that I am no longer interested in these nay-saying ads. I mute my TV for paid  political announcements, hang up on survey takers, and actively avoid anyone who looks like they might hand me a flyer. Political mail travels a short path from my mail slot to my trash can, and, unlike the multitude of candidates, I most wholeheartedly DON'T approve this message. Hate mail used to be dismissed in campaigns; now it's turned into TV ads. 

I think it's time that politicians took a page out of the sports handbook. Any sports interview I've seen this year has players voicing respect for their opponents, and appreciation for their teammates, managers, and coaches. There are few accusations of foul play, and no vilification of coaches or umpires (maybe, an exception here for the NFL and their substitute referees) or other players. They talk about their strengths and weaknesses, what they did right, what they did wrong, tell us what they need to improve on--and express hope for the future. The interviewees are honest, thoughtful, clear, and understandable; not negative, not vituperative, not arrogant, petty or obnoxious. They are, in a word, sportsman-like.  

I know that the arenas are not the same. I know that the election has more at stake than a SuperBowl ring or a World Series trophy. I know that running a country is infinitely more complex than two teams on a field, playing a game that has hard-and-fast rules governing their behavior. Yet the contests that decide who will make policy, and who will represent us don't have to be hate-filled and ugly. You don't have to drag the other guy down to raise yourself up. That's not the way to earn trust and respect and loyalty--which is what these contests are ultimately about. It's about sportsmanship.

Peace like a River: Late September, 2001

At 6:30 in the morning, the sun isn’t quite ready to officially start the day.  I head north through the streets of Alexandria, past sleeping shuttered townhouses. At this hour, the town belongs to early-bird joggers, dog-walkers, and delivery trucks. King Street is virtually empty-- a straight line from the Masonic Memorial to the Potomac.

The Potomac is a fluid American history lesson, marking the unofficial dividing line between North and South, and acting as a natural window into the past for all who follow its path.

Travel upriver from George Washington’s home at Mt. Vernon  to Alexandria, the port town that has transitioned from tobacco and torpedos to cruise ships, tall ships, and tourists. Alexandria –where George Washington truly did sleep, eat, worship, and celebrate--lays claim also to the Lees, both Lighthorse Harry and Robert E., as well as a number of famous visitors, from revolutionary times to the present. Pass beneath the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, named for another of Virginia’s presidential sons, as controversial in his time as his namesake is today.

I join the parkway where the park begins. My route follows the river past Ronald Reagan National Airport, the Lyndon Johnson Memorial Grove, the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials, the Kennedy Center, and encompasses views of the Washington Monument and the Capitol.  With the river drawing attention on the right, it’s almost impossible to watch the opposite side of the road—but if I pay attention, I can see the Pentagon there, and Arlington Cemetery, guarded by the Custis-Lee Mansion on the hill above. Immediately below it is the Kennedy gravesite, with its eternal flame.

Georgetown University appears on the opposite shore, and the National Cathedral; the old USA Today building looms, and there are signs for the Iwo Jima Memorial. Crews from Georgetown row each morning, and Roosevelt Island  beckons joggers on the right.

****************

I have the best commute in Washington. I travel alongside the river and it changes every day. There are mornings that are pink with promise, as the sun hits the water through rosy sunrise clouds. There are mists and fogs that turn the river gunmetal gray and other-worldly.  There are days that the river is blue and bright and beckoning, and the river-mirrored arches of the bridges beg for paints and brush (and talent) to capture them forever. All these changes are anchored and held fast by the familiar architecture and daily fabric of my life, my work, my world. Comfortable and safe, I can daydream my way to work, indulging in historical fantasies, considering books I could write, or pictures I could paint. I often think that I should  carry a camera with me and take a picture each morning to record the moods and faces of the river. I never do it. In the world I inhabit, there are years of possibility just over the horizon, just around the bend of the river, and “someday” has always been enough of a deadline.

Things are different now. The airport is silent as I pass, and each landmark monument is replaced in the blink of an eye by a blazing funeral pyre—and just as quickly returns to its normal appearance. It’s no longer hard to see the Pentagon. It draws my eye like a magnet, a tragic lodestone inscribed with the names of friends and neighbors. The Capitol stands clear on the skyline, but every sight asks, “What if…?” What if I had to look every day at an empty place in this landscape?  What if the wisdom of the past, and the sacrifices of yesterday are not enough to ensure that life as we know it will go on? The world has irretrievably changed, and with it, my complacency. The face of evil is reflected in the mirror of our daily lives, in the image of our icons, in the waters of our rivers. We will never be quite the same.

Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, grant us peace.

Changes

Yesterday I rearranged furniture: not your usual vacation activity, but...you see, we have this place in San Diego, and, every now and then, when we visit, I get inspired. This time, it was just plain irritation that got me started.

The back bedroom has always been a trial: the result of too much furniture trucked from back east, and too little space for it all. When we moved our truckload of furniture out here, it arrived the afternoon before we had to leave. We were lucky to get it all inside, much less satisfactorily situated. Over the past five years or so, we've come and gone, but the back bedroom remained cramped and crowded--a double bed (a very tall double bed with an impressive walnut head and footboard), a Victorian dresser and a shorter, squatter dresser--and a rug (8x10, Oriental, too good to dispose of) all  in one secondary bedroom with two closets, a bathroom, and one window. That translates to ONE blank wall, one wall with a window, and two walls with two doors each.  A decorator's nightmare. The bed (have I mentioned that it's solid walnut and heavy as hell?) was placed lengthwise tight against the window wall, making it impossible to change sheets without literally lifting the bed (or else I'd screw up the rug..) Also impossible: opening the window or manipulating the shade that covered it, turning on or off the sconce on the wall, which provides much-needed light.

So this visit, while waiting for an HVAC technician for some five hours, I thought and I puzzled till my puzzler was sore; then I thought of something I hadn't before. The closet. A long, wide closet that we'd been storing junk in. I cleared it out.

Then, I measured and figured and measured some more, decided on a sequence of action: very important when you have a room that' s difficult to turn around in. I disassembled the big walnut bed, and took all the pieces into the hall. I rolled up the rug. I swept, I mopped, I Murphy-Oil-Soaped the floor. I wiped the baseboards. I herded the dust buffaloes (my daughter's designation for things MUCH larger than dust bunnies ) out of the room. I slid the squat dresser (O, the genius!) into the closet. I slid the tall Victorian dresser and mirror to another wall. I assembled a smaller, lighter cherry spindle bed ( previously stored in the closet) perpendicular to the window wall, next to the window. I swiped an Oriental-style area rug from the hall bathroom (I know, I know--but it fit so well in there!) In one morning, I solved all the room's problems. I can access the bed on three sides, no longer having to fling myself across it to make it up, no longer having to climb onto the bed to raise the shade or turn on the light. I re- hung JC's grandparents' high school diplomas--and even had room to add a chair, and a nightstand..and was able to bring a tall, skinny glass lamp out of hiding and place it near the bed. It made me happy. Pictured, top to bottom: the BEFORE pic, then the same wall AFTER with dresser and chair, then the same window AFTER moving stuff around.

And, you say, is there a point to this lengthy tale of furniture moving? Why, yes, there is. Every time I walk into that room now (and I make a point to do it frequently) I feel inexplicably happy. A morning of small labors did that. And the point is -- little things add up to big ones. The elimination of that pile of irritations has changed me, perhaps only in a small way, perhaps only for a short time. But, if I can change my attitude, my outlook, my state of mind by tackling irritations head-on, maybe I can improve on life in general. Think how happy we could all be if we could root out those burrs under our respective saddles, whether those burrs are political or personal or job-related; think of all we could accomplish, one small victory, one small, cramped room at a time.

Chautauqua continued...

I am a big fan of any one who is specific in their writing (in fact, as a teacher, I routinely scribbled "B.S." on student papers--reminding them to "Be Specific!"--or maybe there was another meaning I hoped to convey...) There is no substitute for down-to-earth, example-fed writing when one is trying to convey a point.

Alas, I have fallen victim to the trap. I wrote a laudatory, yet pretty much non-specific, account of my Chautauqua experience: highly unsatisfactory. Fortunately for me (I think), I have friends who do not balk at letting me know when I have fallen short. Thank you all. I shall mend my ways.

First, I have to say that I was not totally on board the Chautauqua Express when it left the station. The concept was sound enough, but when I looked at the theme for week 5, I was disconcerted. Pakistan. Uh-huh. Not a topic I would have selected. Unlike JC, I have a low tolerance for history and geography (perhaps because geography was my only sub-par grade in elementary school, but I digress..) and devoting a week to the study of Pakistan, while laudable, did not throw me into paroxysms of joy. Sure, it would be good for me to learn more about this area of the world, particularly in light of the Afghan war. But..spinach and brussels sprouts are good for me, too, and I have yet to dine out on them for a full week. I consoled myself with the thought of other areas of study--or even just the leisure to catch up on my reading.

I studied the Special Studies catalog and found lots of classes that I could get excited about. Unfortunately most of them were scheduled in the "Any week but week 5" timeslot. Billy Collins, for heaven's sake, was a writer-in-residence--Week One. Not my week. But I managed to find a class or two that sounded appealing: introduction to drawing, and one on tips and tricks for the iPad. I could deal. And so I did.

We arrived on Saturday morning and immediately scheduled ourselves for a bus tour to orient ourselves. We received some invaluable advice. If you're walking uphill, you're headed toward the gate; downhill, the lake--and if the ground is level, you're traveling east or west. Helpful. We also got the lowdown on how Chautauqua began, what it was like in the early days (arrive by steamer, tents on platforms, education for Sunday School teachers) and how it has progressed through the years.

Once on our own again, we got our copy of the Daily Chautauquan newspaper; then, the calendar of events for the week; and a holder for our gate pass so it would be at the ready for any and all comings and goings. We got lunch at one of the shops on the square, and walked around to locate the amphitheater and the Hall of Philosophy, as most of the lectures were divided between those two places. (Let me say at this point that absolutely everyone we encountered was uniformly thrilled to be there, and ready to proselytize. Talk about 'drinking the Kool-Aid'!!! They were dispensing it right, left, and center.) The first crack in my armor had been the quiet, and the beautiful houses, and the porches and gardens. The second was the bookstore. It is always easy to lose myself--and a pile of money--in a bookstore, and this one was full of tempting titles.

What did me in were the lectures. I did not attend all of them (my classes were unfortunately scheduled in such a way--unintentionally--that I missed most of the afternoon talks) The ones I did get to were intelligent, thoughtful, and even occasionally humorous...more like informal conversations than lectures. The speakers were, without exception, well-qualified and interesting. I learned more about Pakistan and its issues (and our own) than I ever knew I wanted to know. The key was the fact that speakers were scheduled to give a variety of perspectives: a CNN commentator, a former ambassador to the U.S., a member of the Pakistani parliament, and a former diplomat, now a professor at the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard. To listen to the varied presentations, to be able to ask questions and use the information to synthesize an opinion...this is the way citizens should become informed on the issues of the day..but we seldom get the opportunity to listen to primary sources, to obtain information that is unfiltered by the media.

My classes turned out to be the least exciting aspect of the week. The drawing class was disappointing. I'd had similar classes before, and while I'd hoped for a refresher, I was more bored than refreshed. I stopped attending the class in mid-week. The iPad class was more productive; I picked up any number of useful tidbits that I can put to good use.

Along the way, I joined the longest-running book club in the country, Chautauqua Literary Arts and Sciences. To be a member, you need to read four books a year off the Chautauqua list (extending back to the mid-19th century and added to each year.) If you fulfill this requirement for four years (not necessarily sequential) you have the option of joining a 'class' and 'graduating' in a ceremony at the Hall of Philosophy one summer.

Anyone who knows me knows that food would be a consideration. It really wasn't, however. Most of our meals were informally thrown together--a sandwich here, a bowl of soup there, fruit and cheese and of course, wine. We had dinner one night at a fine restaurant not too far away--La Fleur--a charming French place with outstanding food. On our last night, we visited an Italian seafood place on the lake. The food wasn't special, but scenery makes up for a lot of culinary faults. And the 'Italian Nachos' ( a mountain of deep-fried pasta layered with Alfredo sauce, cheese, tomatoes, olives, peppers and sausage) were worth the trip.

And that was the week. In closing, I'd mention a story told me by a woman who had been a regular for some years. She said that she always emerged refreshed at the end of the week, and that one year, on her way home, she was driving along, feeling good, feeling energized, when she looked down and realized that she was driving along at 15 mph down the highway. Now THAT is relaxation.

This is a copy of an advertisement for Chautauqua found in a travel guide to Washington, DC, in 1908. It still holds true today.

Chautauqua

I always liked the movie "Brigadoon"-- Gene Kelly was reason enough, but the idea of waking up in another time was an attractive concept. (And yes, I was a fan of the "Outlander" series, and books by Edward Ormondroyd for kids, and the Thursday Next series, and 'Time After Time"...) Maybe it's the pace of life today, but I've often thought that stepping back in time might be fun--at least for a few days.

Well, I did it.  Together with our friends, Mike and Debbie, JC and I embarked on an adventure. It's called Chautauqua, and it appears every summer on the shore of the eponymous lake in New York. Near Erie, south of Buffalo, west of Jamestown, home of Lucille Ball.

I'd heard of Chautauqua, but always thought it was sort of a long-lived Sunday School summer event--more like a revival than anything else. I've never been one for "Elmer Gantry"--too intense for me. And the idea of Amy Semple McPherson sermons and hymns left me cold. But, they told me that that was not the idea at all. True, Chautauqua was begun by a Methodist minister. True, it started out as a training ground for Sunday School teachers. True, it turned into a summer educational movement in Victorian times that spread across the country, and became quite popular. But, today's Chautauqua, while holding onto the same principles and mission that it began with, is quite a different animal. Nine weeks of daily lectures on a different theme each week. Workshops and courses on everything from art to music to the Middle East and beyond. Concerts and opera and plays. Sailing and kayaking and a beach. And, of course, a religious element in the form of a different chaplain each week who would address a number of issues in his preaching and meditations.

And so, we bought our gate passes, registered for some classes, packed our bags and set off for New York. On the way, we stopped and visited Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater, took the tour, had a bite of lunch, and took a few pictures. But the featured event was yet to come.

The first thing you notice is the quiet. Stepping through the gate, you are enveloped in small-town America. There are trees and gingerbread-bedecked houses and Victorian (read 'cluttered') gardens. No cars--but bicycles and shady porches with gladiolas. A town square with benches and shade trees and a fountain. People playing Frisbee (okay, it's not TOTALLY Victorian) and kids playing in the fountain. Little shops and a post office and lampposts lining the square.

It slows you down. You let go of the tension of fighting traffic, of the tyranny of the cellphone and Blackberry. The daily news isn't as important as your morning walk, and the to-do list you left at home recedes to the back of your mind. Instead you open up to the ideas and thoughts and understanding of the speakers, to the knowledge and skills and insights gained in classes that you never had time for at home. For one week, your focus changes from the mundane to the truly important. For one week, you can be the person you want to be, rather than the one dictated by your circumstances.

No wonder people come back, again and again.

Post-Vacation

I was all set to write about Chautauqua as soon as I got home, but ended up caught in the maelstrom of returning to life-after-vacation, and just didn't quite make it. In the four days since we've returned, we have enjoyed/endured/participated in/dealt with the following: a church service, a marathon brunch (delicious!), a search for a new car to replace the Jeep we drove to Providence a couple weekends ago, a few peeks at the Olympics, paper signing for a refinance of our mortgage, a dinner with a friend who is leaving the area, a visit to my mom, conversations with the pharmacy, the doctor, the insurance agent, a couple phone calls with family about my mom and her status, checking in with our cat-sitter, as well as a check with our contractor/friend who installed a light fixture in our absence, grocery-shopping....and of course the sine qua non for all vacations--a mountain of laundry. Add in the process of finding all the things we knew we had to take care of as soon as we got home--think bills and repairs and phone calls and decisions--and it's no wonder we haven't accomplished much along the lines of reflection since we returned.

I am putting together a photo book of the week--right now--so I don't forget the experience, And I promise to write about it. Soon.

Harvey

Sometimes I lose perspective. It is so easy to get embroiled in the present, and the storm und drang of the RIGHT NOW and HOW THINGS ARE, that I forget to stand back and see the big picture or look at everything from a different angle. (I need to write more often.)

What prompted this foray into my somewhat warped personality and ways of dealing with life was the fact that we drove our seven-year-old Jeep to Providence last weekend to give to our daughter and her family as a replacement for their even-older Honda. The Jeep is still in good shape, had better tires and about half the mileage of the Honda, and we were thinking about replacing it anyway, so it all seemed like a good idea.

That should have been the end of it: drive, deliver, do the paperwork. But, after we'd turned it over, in the process of installing the kids' carseats in the back, Kay and Paul and Audrey were climbing in and around the car, and pointing things out to each other...The height would make it easier to change a diaper in the back, and also make it easier to load and unload. Audrey could stand on the back seat and see what was going on while all that was happening. The extendable cover on the back storage space would be nice to hide purchases (and provide a hiding place for Audrey.) There was an outlet in back where Audrey's DVD player could be plugged in for trips. The V6 engine might allow Paul to pull a trailer for shows. A myriad of possibilities that we had never seen or considered. "And," Audrey asked,  "is the Jeep a boy or a girl and what is its name?" I'm not sure I've ever named a car or thought about its gender.

I boarded my flight home with a somewhat bemused smile. The Jeep was embarking on a new life, appreciated in different ways for entirely different reasons: it was like sending a child off to school on his/her own. Not mine anymore--at least not ONLY mine. But other people would see the value, the positive (and I guess, the negative) aspects, where before, they were reserved for me alone.

This isn't only about a used car, of course. There are multitudes of events and experiences that I miss because I am so enamored of my own blindered viewpoint. Maybe I should expand my sight range on other things as well. Who knows what hidden bonuses I might find?

I wish I had a photo of the Jeep to paste right here. He would remind me of that. Maybe his name is Elwood--like the Jimmy Stewart character who saw something no one else could see: a giant rabbit named Harvey.

Trip-Tik

Once upon a time, long, long ago, I joined AAA. We were on our honeymoon, and because JC did not have a great deal of leave time, we had gotten married just before the annual Navy JAG Conference here in DC, so that we could have an extra week or so. Of course, JC had to attend some of the meetings, so I ran errands while he was otherwise engaged--returning a few wedding gifts, writing 'thank you's--and joining AAA, preparatory to our long drive cross-country. (JC was at that time stationed in Oceanside, CA.) I got maps (GPS not having been invented yet, much less the cell phones and laptops and other devices we now rely upon..) And I got Trip-Tiks. Personalized maps and guidance across the entire country, pointing out the locations of hotels, restaurants, gas stations, and places of interest along the way. I wish I'd saved them.

We were very young, and though JC had made this trip before, it was my first cross-country adventure. I'd never traveled too far from home before, and certainly never beyond the Mississippi. The Trip-Tik reduced the magnitude of the trip to small bites, which made the concept far more digestible. And nibble by nibble, bite by bite, we ate up the distance between here and there--"there" being San Diego.

Today I found myself again at the AAA office, asking for another trip to be sliced and diced into manageable chunks. We are driving to Rhode Island to deliver a car to our daughter and her young family. There have been a lot of trips in between, lots of water under lots of bridges, some with little girls sprawled in the "wayback" of a station wagon, some replete with "Are we there yet?"s and "I'm hungry"s. I remember trips where each child got a roll of quarters at the beginning of the trip, and had to give them up, one by one, for various acts of mommy-prohibited behavior. What was left at our destination was souvenir money, to do with as they pleased. There have been happy trips and sad trips, funerals and graduations, weddings and vacations...How much time have we spent in the car over the years? More than we should have, I'll warrant. And yet, those rides are where we made decisions, discussed problems, figured out answers. It was where we listened to books on tape, told stories, sang songs, played games, and did a lot of talking. It was there that we discovered ourselves and each other.

There's no map for all the territory we've covered in the car, no Trip-Tik that delivers us safely to our destination. But there's comfort in the Trip-Tik lesson: no matter how long the trip, no matter how arduous, or how many construction delays or traffic jams we encounter, we get where we want to go, bit by bit, mile by mile, by taking each journey a page at a time, managing each piece and moving forward, ever forward.

Trial--and Error

I have a very soft spot for lawyers, being married to one and being the mother of another. As the saying goes, some of my best friends are lawyers.  Usually I am able to cut them a lot of slack. A lawyer's job is to help his client. Anyone accused of anything is entitled to a lawyer and a good defense. I have a more difficult time believing this in cases that are really cringe-worthy--anything that involves children as victims, for example. I've managed to avoid comments on the whole Penn State brouhaha, but yesterday, a defense lawyer, commenting on (not answering) a question as to whether Sandusky would testify on his own behalf, said (I paraphrase) that he couldn't answer that question as it would 'ruin the excitement'. That was the word he used. Excitement.

Excuse me if I fail to see what is exciting about a trial concerning child abuse. It might, I suppose, be exciting for a young lawyer to be involved in a high-profile, nationally-covered trial, but the testimony (or non-) of the defendant shouldn't make a difference there. What the lawyer said, as far as I can see, is  an indictment of the public. Are trials of this sort public entertainment? Is this theater? And of course, it is--witness the OJ Simpson trial, the trial of Michael Jackson's doctor, the multitudinous legal hi-jinks of  Lindsay Lohan, or Charlie Sheen, or Robert Downey..  All of these garner ratings that any network would die for.

If it were just celebrity worship, if it were just fans following the lives and doings of their favorites, it might be forgivable. We ordinary people are often fascinated by the foibles of the other half, the misfortunes that prove that wealth and fame don't really make them different from us. An occasional reminder of their feet of clay (complete with photos) isn't so bad. But here? Here we have a trusted (and, of course, famous) coach, accused of preying on the young men in his charge; who were in fact purportedly being helped by the coach's own charity foundation. And his lawyer is worrying about ruining the excitement of the trial??? I doubt the judge and jury are worrying about whether they will be kept on the edge of their seats. I doubt that the young men and their parents, or families and friends, or even the defendant himself, are too concerned about how exciting the big finish is going to be. This isn't "Dancing with the Stars". This isn't the movie of the week (though I have no doubt it will become that, sooner or later.)

This is real life, not reality TV. The workings of the justice system should not be measured by its excitement level or its entertainment potential. What is wrong with us?

Elections

Tomorrow is Alexandria's Democratic primary, and it's a doozy. Fourteen candidates in a fight for six City Council seats: this is a situation where voters need to be informed in order to walk into the voting booth and make any kind of decision at all.

I have opinions on most of the issues: education (as always), the development of the waterfront (hot button issue this year), affordable housing, where we should be spending our money, the arts and the city's support thereof... No one candidate is going to agree with me on all of these--much less six of them. And so, I am combing through their resumes, reading their answers to questions, looking at their records (if there are any), and thinking about my impressions when I've met them or heard them speak.

I have arrived at this very subjective checklist that I am willing to share with candidates.

• The articulate candidate gets my attention. If you are well-spoken and know how to put together a cogent sentence or two that conveys your thinking, I'm willing to listen, and perhaps be persuaded. 
• If I have seen you out and about, talking to citizens...good for you. You have an ear to the ground and might just have a clue as to what your constituency is saying. 
• Practical experience is a plus as well. Educators know education; transportation specialists know transportation; planners know the steps in getting things done. The Council doesn't need anyone on it who doesn't have some sort of expertise on at least one of the issues, or who is unwilling to be educated. 
• The ability to work with those with opposite views gets big points with me as well. Nobody gets their own way all the time. Compromise and negotiation are vital skills.
• I don't vote for a person's ethnicity or school ties or family or longevity or even specific party affiliation. I don't like voting for someone whose tactics to get elected are less than honorable. The way you treat an opponent tells how you treat people in general. Likewise, dishonesty in one area leads me to suspect dishonesty in others. Be upstanding. I don't want to be ashamed of someone I've voted for.
• I do cast a serious look at who has endorsed you. The recommendation of any person I respect and who has served their community well carries weight. 
• I look for dedication, for someone who is willing to put their time and effort where their constituency's interests lie. If I give you my vote to be my representative, I expect you to represent me.

All that being said, I am making my list and checking it twice. I may not know who is naughty (demerit given) or nice (a much-neglected quality that I like in a candidate), but I do know which candidates will have my vote in their stockings tomorrow. 

At the Met

We went to New York this week. JC had a map auction he wanted to attend on Thursday, and we decided to go up Wednesday, have dinner and see a play ("The Columnist" with John Lithgow) that night, then come home after the auction. Fate smiled. The weather was wonderful, the to-and-from train rides uneventful, and while the play was perhaps not as good as we'd expected, we had a great dinner and John Lithgow gave a Tony-award quality performance. I finally finished a book that I've been slogging through just to see the ending (the author cheated: EVERYONE did it, but not in a clever Agatha-Christie-Orient-Express style, but in a just-plain-stupid-why-doesn't-the heroine-SEE-this? way) and got halfway through another one I've had languishing on my Kindle for far too long. But I digress.

In the middle of Thursday, in the middle of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, I was wandering rather aimlessly from room to room--simply stopping whenever a piece spoke to me. I traveled through Greece and Rome and Egypt; I traversed the American Wing and saw everything from the Wild West to the modern East. I had lunch in the cafe in a  huge open space with a glass ceiling, with clouds billowing overhead. I stood by Tiffany windows, and peeked into a complete French dining room with finely carved paneling and ethereal painted panels, reconstructed with precision from its own place and time. I stopped by Ellsworth Kelly's plant drawings, just to see what that was all about--and specifically because Sallye Mahan-Coxe (an art teacher friend from Robinson) once said that, whenever you have an opportunity to see drawings, you should go, because they aren't often on exhibit. In any case, I came, I saw...and then I started to think.

Who is there to say that I am not one of the luckiest people on earth? I  have a world of opportunity that waits for me every day. I can take myself to museums--both in NY and at home in Washington-- that have the best the world has to offer. I have access to one of the two best libraries in the world, barely a 20-minute drive away. I live in a place that values history and the arts and quality of life. I have technology that will do my bidding (most of the time) and keep me in touch. I have friends. I have the freedom to be in New York, or Virginia, or California, or Europe, or any of the places in between. I have the best of food and shelter and transportation. My limits are pretty much of my own creation-- the normal aches and pains and memory lapses notwithstanding. I can travel, I can read, I can write, I can look. Not all of the throngs of people at the Met on Thursday--sitting on the steps, poring over maps, standing in lines, sitting (gratefully) on the benches--have those luxuries. Even fewer of the people that mob the streets can spare the time or energy--or even the cash--for them.

I can, in short, be inspired. I just have to remember that. I just have to follow the inspiration that taps me on the shoulder and says, each day, "Here. This way." I am so lucky.

Dear Diary

One of the first things anyone tells you about writing is that you have to do it regularly. Whether you are inspired or not, whether you feel like a million bucks or like something scraped off the bottom of your shoe, whether you are excited or depressed, happy or sad, pressed for time or lolling about eating bonbons--you've got to write. Often. Preferably every day.

And so...the diary. I've got to tell you that I love paper. I love notebooks. I love pens. I love my ancient Royal typewriter. And I love my laptop and iPad and iPhone. More than Imelda Marcos loved shoes; more than Scrooge McDuck loves money. But for all the soft leather notebooks and all the beautiful pens and all the lovely efficient machines, I cannot seem to muster up the discipline to write every day.  It's just not in me.

But the world has come to rescue me in the form of the social media. I (essentially) now keep a diary. It's called "Facebook". Every day (almost), I find something to say, or some tidbit of information comes my way that I find interesting enough to remark upon. Even if all I do is post a sarcastic remark, or a comment on my surroundings, or the tenor of my day...it is writing.  If I am blocked, I can distract myself with (God forgive me) Solitaire, or an email message. But more often than not, whatever I write in those status updates leads the way into something else, with any luck, of greater import.

I am one who saves everything--every scrap of writing, every inkling of an idea, every likable phrase that passes through my Swiss-cheese memory. I write them all down, usually as part of a post. Going back and reading what I've written gets me going again. Sometimes I cringe at what I've put out there. Sometimes I smile. And sometimes (don't tell anyone) I quietly delete posts in the hope that no one actually read them.

So say what you will about Facebook. It's a time-eating, narcissistic, pointless activity. Yup. For some. But for me, it's a writing tool. It's inspiration. It's my diary.

The Tortoise and the Hare

I took a calligraphy workshop yesterday, and I learned a little more than I bargained for. I thought it would be a good skill to have--I have pretty good handwriting to start with, but I thought this might be useful if I wanted to make a 'nice copy' of one of my poems for a birthday card or whatever. I have always loved the look of elegant writing. I have always loved pen and ink and paper--as the contents of my supply closet will attest. So I signed up for a three hour introduction to pointed-pen calligraphy.

I am NOT going to go into the mechanics or a list of materials or try to explain what we learned...sorry, you'll just have to pony up for the class, or come visit me for a 'show and tell'. Let me just say, though, that I was not as apt a pupil as I expected to be. And the reason was that I tried to do it too quickly. The beautiful alternation of thick and thin lines, the smooth flow of letters and words, the elaborate capital letters and uniform lower-case...are not to be attained without deliberation and practice. I am not the deliberate sort. And I'm pretty impatient as well.

I therefore found myself vainly trying to slow down and pay attention, to focus on what I was doing, to think and plan ahead for the strokes my pen would make. (Is this sounding familiar?) This is the advice I am constantly giving  myself (and anyone else who might listen) about writing. Focus. Focus. Focus. Pay attention. Think. Observe. Think some more. There will not be a 'gem every time' (Boris and Natasha, from Rocky and Bullwinkle-- a favorite quote: "What you expect? Gem every time?") Nothing of value is achieved without sustained effort and practice, practice, practice.

And so, what I learned from my class is this: what I need to learn before I can produce that wonderful script is what I have needed to learn--not just intellectually, but in actuality--all along: to stop and pay attention, to clear away the distractions and focus on what I'm trying to accomplish, to attain a less frenzied pace that allows for observation and thought and the careful formation of lines and connections and boundaries. And beauty. Always beauty.

One of those days

Some days, I wonder whether I'd have been better off just pulling the covers over my head, shooting the cat, and refusing to greet the day. I've had a few of them this week.

• Jake has inexplicably decided that the new 'rise and shine' time for his humans is somewhere around 5:45 am. Needless to say, we did not reach this decision by consensus. 
• Furthermore, someone has maliciously posted my cell phone and home phone numbers on the bulletin boards of all call centers: political, credit card, general survey, and even CVS Pharmacy. Why the world has suddenly decided that my opinion counts, I do not know.
• My brain and my hands have spontaneously decided to disconnect, wreaking havoc on any small task I decide to undertake. I'm dropping, spilling, breaking and misplacing things in record numbers.
• I used to be able to cook. Somehow this week, pie crusts are turning out tough and uncuttable and the fillings aren't gelling. The cake I made today whispered (as I put it in the oven) that I'd neglected to add the second installment of sugar that was supposed to combine with the egg whites. (Let's see: that was 9 eggs that were sacrificed unnecessarily, not to mention the cake flour and whole milk that I had to buy because I generally operate with all-purpose and reduced fat varieties. Not to mention the fact that I had used so many bowls and cups and spoons that I had to run the dishwasher.) I guess it's a good thing JC was traveling this week. Otherwise, he'd have been totally disabused of his enthusiasm for my meals. Did I mention that this morning's bacon was the consistency of my shoe?
• And workmen. Ah, workmen. Our AC was due for its annual checkup on Thursday, and the technician called me at 9 AM, well within the 8AM-12 noon window they demanded. He was here, he told me, but couldn't find my house. Was it the 'orange' one on the corner? (There is no orange house on my block.) He could not see any number. As I walked outside to look for his truck, I saw the problem. His truck was sitting in the middle of the street, in front of my house, his gaze riveted on the pink house across from mine. His head was turned to the right, which explained why he could not see the black, eminently readable numbers proclaiming "500" directly above my door. I asked him to turn his head to the left and he would see the house, the numbers--and me,  gesticulating wildly to attract his attention.
• Eric (for that was his name) did his inspection and proceeded to catalogue his recommendations. I thanked him and told him that, as he was talking in the neighborhood of thousands of dollars, and since we'd observed no problems with the unit, I would get a second opinion before deciding whether or not to proceed. Signed the paper saying I'd heard him out, and ushered him to the door.
• Several minutes after he left, the phone rang. It was his company, wanting to schedule someone to evaluate my AC system. Uh, didn't we just do that? No, ma'am. That was the MAINTENANCE inspection. This would be a supervisor to EVALUATE the system, and was this afternoon all right? In total bewilderment, I said no. That I had better things to do than wait out their 4-hour window twice in one day. I politely said that if they HAD to come evaluate, they could give me a hard-and-fast appointment or they could wave goodbye to this particular customer of some thirty-five years. We decided on 8 AM Friday.
• To my relief, the technician who appeared Friday was a familiar face--James. As baffled as I, he said they had told him to come out to check Eric's assessment of the system. All of a sudden, it became clear that Eric had interpreted my intention to get a second opinion as requesting a second opinion from another technician in his company. Oh. Obviously, second opinions are acquired differently in whatever Latin American nation Eric had worked in before.
• James spoke English. James answered the questions Eric had not been able to. And basically, our AC system gets put back in its place on our priority list.
• Then...my sister called to warn me that mom wasn't feeling well and might possibly require a trip to Baltimore on our part before the weekend was up. Maybe. Just another thing to look forward to.

So. Still needing a dessert for tomorrow's dinner-with-friends, I have to decide whether to attempt the sugar-deficient cake a second time, or move on to something else entirely-- or maybe just throttle the cat and go back to bed. It's sounding better all the time.

Teacher Appreciation...

It takes a lot to make me cry. My students did it last night. You have to realize that I haven't taught since the '97-'98 school year. In June of '98. I put down my chalk--though at the time, I figured I'd come back after a year of R&R. I didn't. Instead, I took some network engineering classes, got a couple certifications, and ran my resume through a few job fairs. It got picked up, and I never looked back, except for remembering some of the wonderful people: teachers and students, and even some parents and administrators. And of course, the stories--funny, sad, or just memorable--that only teachers can tell. Put two teachers of any stripe in a room, and I guarantee you'll hear a few.

But, about last night.

I'm on Facebook, and I've accumulated a variety of friends there. Some former students have found me through my own posts, or through my daughters' pages, and I enjoy seeing what they are doing, seeing them with children of their own, jobs of their own, and reading about what they are thinking now that they are 'all grown up.' One of the things I missed when I left teaching was that ability to eavesdrop on the younger generation. Maybe that's why I am so taken with Facebook and its ability to keep me in touch, now.

Anyway, last night, I logged on and found that I'd been tagged in a former student's post. Turns out, this week is Teacher Appreciation Week, and my student/friend (who is now a teacher) took the time to write and post on my wall a lovely 'thank-you'. That alone was a gift beyond measure. But then, another long-ago student posted a comment. And another name--almost forgotten--appeared with a story. And another. And the amazing thing about this was that they were telling about little things that they remembered, and that I had forgotten. A comment here or there. A quick note on a paper. Stuff that I know I did, but never considered to have any impact. Yet, they remembered.

I guess that's the problem with teaching: you get up every morning and you muscle your way through the day's classes and you come home and grade papers and prepare lessons and agonize over all the ones who just don't get it (and who you think might never do so) and you wonder what else you can do, and whether you're just not good enough, or smart enough, or patient enough, or persistent enough. And you are tired. And your family needs you, too--to be all the things to them that you are to other people's children every day, all day: attentive, concerned,  involved, motivating, nagging, praising, encouraging, and all those million and one other things that are so important to raising children and young people to be the best they can be. I often told my husband that I wasn't much of a teacher, that my biggest asset was that I liked the kids that came through my door, and that that covered a multitude of my teacher-ly sins. I never really thought of myself as making much of a difference. He always pooh-poohed those statements, but I never listened. He wasn't there in the classroom to see.

So, last night, I was sitting at my laptop on the verge of tears, learning a lesson of my own from my students.

The most important things teachers convey to their students may not come out of their textbooks, or their handouts, or from that chalkboard or whiteboard or overhead, or even out of their mouths. Maybe it's more about listening, about caring, about really seeing the faces in front of you, and trying to help them along the way. It's being a surrogate mom or dad to kids who might not have one; it's being a drill sergeant, a priest, a psychologist, a doctor, a counselor, a social worker and whatever else the day calls for. I remember playing all those roles at one time or another--and never thinking it was anything special until last night.

For that I owe all my students a debt of gratitude--and my husband the opportunity to say, "I told you so."

So, to all you teachers who might read this, keep going! You are among the blessed people who build for the ages. Like the cathedral-builders of medieval times, you may not see what you have created. You might see only the endless day-to-day labor and the roughest of images before you, but you are creating wonderful edifices and your names will be carved eternally in their foundation.

Progress...

Another April is drawing to a close, and another Poetry Month is waning. It's hard to believe that five years ago, I neither knew nor cared about Poetry Month....but then came the poet laureate years. As of 2007, it was my job to care, and to be the cheerleader for every poetry event in the area, as well as initiate a few things on my own. I did my best, but I fear that I fell far short of my own expectations. There was too much to do, and I knew so little.

This year, it is someone else's problem (thank you, Amy Young) and when I spoke to her this week, she was busily explaining why she hadn't done more. And, with the wisdom bestowed upon me by not being in charge, I was able to look at Poetry Month with a bit more perspective.

Instead of looking at what we haven't done (during my tenure and Amy's) maybe we should be looking at what we HAVE accomplished. Five years ago, nobody celebrated Poetry Month outside a classroom. This year, there were poetry readings, posts on Facebook, events advertised in the newspapers. Freed of my obligations, I (with the help of other enthusiasts) initiated a reading of the works of Alexandria's first poet laureate, Jean Elliot, at the Old Presbyterian Meeting House--and we pulled in a reasonable audience for not only her, but for Amy, me, and three other area poets. The Athenaeum played host last night to a poetry gathering that concluded Poem-in-Your-Pocket Day, and people actually showed up with poems in their pockets. There is at least a semi-regular poetry slam event in town at the Lyceum, and that is in itself quite an accomplishment. There is a three-year-old Poetry Expo at Mt. Vernon High School--largely due to the efforts of a magnificent English teacher there--and I've had the privilege of participating in it. There is a well-known 'poetry fence' in Del Ray, and this year, I copied that idea and I hung a 'poetry line' on a bench outside my garden wall, and provided cards and pencils and clothespins for people to post favorite poems. And they did! In the works, according to Amy, are plans to produce an interactive map of the city, with poems about streets and locations. And a repeat of Dog Days of August--with poems (and pictures) honoring the dogs of Alexandria. With postings at dog parks. Not too shabby for a city that had no official poetry presence not so long ago.

While (with some exceptions) these events are not directly attributable to poet laureate efforts, it is safe to say that most weren't around before those efforts began. What I think we've done as a city--and as poet laureates--is create an atmosphere of acceptance of poetry, a place where it can grow and not be subject to ridicule or mockery. While we are not a great poetry mecca, we have made it clear that Alexandria respects the literary arts, and that poetry is, indeed, spoken here. We owe a debt of gratitude to the City Council--and especially to retired councilman, Ludwig Gaines--for that.

And while we're talking about expectations--and living up to them--and since it is still poetry month... a little poem on the subject:

Piecrust
Round I go,
pinching carefully at the piecrust edge, 
attempting my mother's facile fluting.
It's not the same.
The dough crumbles under my inexpert fingers. 
I patch with scraps, but
cannot hide the seams.
It will taste fine,
but I stubbornly see the flaws.


It's been a long time since I measured myself 
against my mother's yardstick,
but there are other standards to fall short of, 
and it's taken more than sixty years
to know, to really know,
that my piecrust life,
patched and seamed and poorly fluted, 
cobbled together and imperfect,
is worthy of its filling
and is, in fact, 
absolutely fine. 

When I'm 64....

Well, I'm not 64 quite yet, but there aren't any appropriate songs that address my state right now--unless you paraphrase..."Achy Breaky Heart (knees, hips, etc.)" for one example...In any case, I'm not getting any younger, stronger, more flexible, athletic, or any of those other good things. BUT..I must say, I am getting better in some ways. I don't worry so much anymore.

Last weekend, JC (suffering soul that he is) and I attended a CYO reunion in Baltimore. (Those non-Catholics among you, simply insert "high school church youth group" instead of "CYO") The Catholic Youth Organization was a parish-wide organization for teenagers, that linked to an archdiocesan organization, that was, in turn, part of a national CYO. For all, I know, it may have extended internationally, but who cares? Anyway, some of our old group decided that it might be fun to track down the old crowd (i.e. those members from the 1962-1966 timeframe) and catch up. With the advent of email and Facebook, the task even looked manageable. After all, high school and college reunions happen. People keep in touch with people, and if you could start a chain of people looking for former friends and classmates, finding our old social group might be possible. Anyway, that was the beginning, and we were lucky enough to have some dogged members who were willing to call and email and do all the hard work of finding people. Not everyone, but a fairly representative group.

Saturday night, we all got together for drinks and dinner and dancing to the music of our youth. Some people might obsess about seeing people last encountered 45 years ago, about how they've changed, about how they look, about not having anything in common except 4 years worth of high school dances in the church hall (because that's pretty much what we did.)  I wasn't worried about any of that, because, if the truth were told, I'm much happier than I was back then. After 45 years, I'm not pretty. Or thin as I was. I still have two left feet. I still can't throw or catch a softball. Or ride a bike or roller-skate. I never mastered the art of flirting, but I AM happy with my life, largely thanks to a husband who supports me in so many ways--even to attending a gathering where he knows virtually no one.

After 45 years, I also know what's important and what's not. I can talk to anyone about anything. (Some people might say I can talk to a post--not true.) I'm a pretty good cook. I know a lot about getting along with people, and I'm not afraid to speak up or step up when something needs to be done. I can follow, but I can also lead when I have to. People who were there that night have talents too--perhaps ones that the rest of the world doesn't see at first glance, but they are there.

I don't judge as much as I used to. The more you live, the more you realize that people don't have as much control of their choices as we all wish we did. Sometimes, things just happen and you play with the cards you're dealt. Looking around that room Saturday night, I have no doubt that there were people who have experienced almost every sort of joy or tragedy. We've had children and lost them, coped with fractious teenagers and aging parents, dealt with jobs (or the loss thereof) that were more (or less) than we thought we could handle. We've bought houses and cars; we've traveled and stayed at home. We've moved away, and sometimes, come back to the same places. We've made new friends, but kept the old as well.

Reunions bring out a strange phenomenon, I've found. No matter what or who you were years ago, at a reunion, the old class structure slips away. You might have been part of the popular crowd, or you might have been a hopeless nerd, or a clueless jock. You might have been part of the fad and fashion scene, or been on top of the top 40. But somehow, when you get together, you're back on a level playing field. People who wouldn't have given you a glance-- much less a kind word--back then, seek you out and ask about what you're doing, and it is amazing how much they remember about you. It's a revelation to find that you weren't as invisible as you felt then. And even more importantly, nobody cares about the old pecking order, perhaps because it was so artificial to begin with.

We have all learned through the years that the things that count are not all those externals, but the stuff inside: the shared values, the shared experiences, the bedrock of who we were all those years ago. Reunions help us reclaim the ground that we thought was lost when we left that particular arena of our lives.

It's still there, along with the people we can again call friends.