Strange and Wonderful

I just got back from a reunion. Usually, these things are pretty much fun, but this one had me quaking in my boots beforehand. This was a reunion of my graduate school classmates: 45 years have passed since I had seen any of them. But, motivated by the infrequent "I wonder what ever happened to..." thought, I signed up. Another reason I decided to go was that somebody had had to do some digging to find me. While I got married just before I left school, I doubt that anyone remembered my married name. Also, I'd deserted my biochemical career shortly after I left, and had moved 12 times since my days in Charlottesville. If someone had found me after all that, there would surely be someone to talk to.

There were more than a few people I was looking for. A former lab mate, a couple guys I had dated, a guy who was brilliantly into computers and biophysics, a couple resident free spirits, people who had helped me through three years of grad school classes and research, and had become what I viewed as family. Somehow, we never kept up after leaving Charlottesville.

I can say now that the three years I spent with those folks were a pivotal point in my life. Literally. I arrived there in a straight line from my life in Baltimore: childhood, high school, college, home--and, in Charlottesville, took a sharp right (or maybe left) turn into independence: no rules, no responsibilities for (or to) anyone else unless I chose them, no one to depend on, except myself. I did a lot of stupid things, both personal and academic, but somehow survived, and grew up. I grew up. And these were the people who were the backdrop to all that. Adding to the general angst was the fact that I had left sans degree. I studied and worked for three years and then gave it up to marry and go to California, while everyone else (I presumed) stuck it out. Frightening to revisit a group that had witnessed that, who knew me when, and could judge me now. Not knowing what to expect in that regard, I packed and repacked (what will I wear? How will I look?), and worried and even considered backing out. I didn't.

So, this is what I found. Other people left, too (though usually for nobler reasons like med school or dental school). Some people hadn't changed a bit. We all still got along. It was interesting to hear what happened between then and now. Jobs, marriages, moves. Where faculty members were/ are. Who had died, who was still working, who had retired. Snippets of the past--old stories--interwoven with the present. How we all got from there to here, and some of the steps along the way.

No one told their complete stories--like how Howard moved from neurosciences to professional gambler, and how he came to marry a law professor along the way. Like what became of Dick's first wife (who we all knew and loved) and what she was doing now. And how Gil transitioned from eye proteins to being the liaison between business and research at Duke. How did Maureen end up in Texas practicing medicine--and where the hell was Michele, who had called several of us and urged us to come--then never appeared herself? And for me, how spooky it was to find that my former fiancé remembered a lot more than I expected, and had even come up with our California address, and knew much more about my life after Charlottesville than I did his.

Add to all of this that I was introducing JC to these people whom he may have met a time or two, mostly at our wedding (and who remembers who you've talked to when you're the bride or groom?) Bizarre, after 45 years of knowing pretty much everybody that either one of us knew, introducing a whole new cast of characters that even I was uncertain about, but had talked about over the years. And how many of my stories had morphed into at least partial fiction over the years, having been exaggerated, amplified, and modified along the way? I made JC promise not to relate any of those stories--just in case my version differed from other people's. Even I was not sure of the truth by now.

Everyone was older--some unrecognizably so--but there were many of the same smiles, the same postures, the same memories (well, nearly the same). There were lots of 'used to be's in our conversations, and a small and civilized debate about where we used to get 'grills with' (The White Spot, and if you have to ask what they are, you were at the wrong reunion.)  There was talk about reuniting in San Antonio for a look at the next major eclipse. Dick said his house was on the path and he had plenty of room. Don agreed to take care of notifications, so we can plan our own get-together in five years. Maybe we will, or maybe we won't. Who knows, when you are in your 70s or 80s, who will be able to make the trip? Whatever happens, we had this weekend, and we certainly had our own bit of history.

February, 2019: Chicken Band

Yesterday, I bought a chicken band made of scrap metal: a guitar-player, a sax-player, and a fiddler. Lest you think I am nuts, yes. I am afraid I am. I am a sucker for the quirkier things in life, and--when possible--will bring them home and find places in my house for them. When I die, my daughters will have a veritable Museum of Quirky Stuff. I only hope it doesn't all wind up in a dumpster. It would be such a waste, and the world would be the poorer. I think.

There is an element of discovery involved in my acquisition of some of this stuff. Years ago, I was chaperoning a high school drama rehearsal with a like-minded friend of mine. We were dispatched to purchase some gaffers' tape, and drove cross-county to (apparently) the single source for it. On the way there, we passed a yard sale and caught a glimpse of what looked like a statue in the driveway. We both puzzled over it a while, and decided to stop on our return.

It was still there: a 7-foot tall fiberglass figure of a Coors Beerwolf, one hand raised in salute (tho it looked like he was being sworn in to office) and the other, crooked at the elbow in order to hold a six-pack of beer. Ann jumped out and spoke to the person in charge, "Hi! We're crazy. How much do you want for the Beerwolf?" After some serious discussion (in which the guy said he didn't want to sell him, but his wife had issued an ultimatum: the Beerwolf had to go, or she did), we agreed on a price and loaded him into my Jeep.

It was a hilarious trip home. We had to put down the back seat and slide the big guy into the back. His head rested on the console between the front seats, his ears resting on the dashboard. We were JUST able to shut the back lift gate on his feet. Any driver casually glancing over to our lane saw two women laughing uncontrollably, with a huge wolf-head between them. We decided that his first appearance would be at Ann's husband's birthday party--stationed on her porch with party hat and a bunch of balloons.

After that, Bob would live in my garage between engagements. Which came fast and furious. The high school all-night graduation party? Sure, we could dress him as a pirate. The high school musical? With a pink tutu, he could be part of the carnival for "Carousel". My brother-in-law's college fraternity annual reunion? Of course. He could even bring his own six-pack. At Christmas time, he came into our family room and was draped with a necklace of greens and lights. I didn't realize how much a part of the landscape he had become till a friend of my daughter's came in the back door with her and stopped dead at the sight of the beer wolf in the corner. Another teacher and I decided in the dead zone of winter that our principal needed a laugh, so (after she left for the day) we hauled Bob in and decorated her office to a fare-thee-well. We found out later that she walked into her office at 7 A.M. the next day for a meeting with some irate parents...whoops. (She did admit later that it WAS pretty funny..)

Of course, Halloween was made for Bob, and he managed to insinuate himself into almost every other occasion. When we moved to Alexandria, he moved with us, and took up residence behind the furnace in the basement. Unwary visitors who were sent to the basement refrigerator for drinks, or workmen who had repairs to perform in the area were startled by a quick glimpse of gleaming teeth and lolling tongue hovering above their heads--and their fears were dismissed cavalierly with an, "Oh, that's just Bob..."

Sadly, our move toward downsizing forced us to contemplate giving Bob up. I took a picture, and composed a flyer for the local coffee shop. On my way to post it, I encountered our carpenter. When I told him what I was doing, he stepped in and said he'd take him. So Bob moved on, currently (as far as I know) living, half-concealed in the shrubbery of Dan's backyard--and frightening people at parties. Carry on, Bob!

Sad to say (or maybe not) Bob is not the only bastion of weirdness we have attained. I have a collection of monsters that have infiltrated our lives. There's Sly Upcreet, the Monster Under the Bed; there's the Closet Beastie (who speaks for himself, and who I named 'Beasley'); Freda B. Fierce, a pink velvet vision (who looks like she might have some alligator in her pedigree) with baby-bead teeth and a pink suede tongue; Sophie, whose throat will store your pajamas; Dot, properly known as Dot.com, the computer companion; Princess, the cat, who is life-size and as immobile as any sleeping cat I've known; Coyote Sir, who I carried on the shuttle from NY to Washington because he could not fit in a bag; Winnie and Charmaine, who are the cutest of the lot--rather squirrel-like...all products of a warped, stuffed-monster-creating mind: Charlene Kinser. These guys are...alarming-looking, yet somehow endearing, creations. The real prize, however, is T.R. Bear (re-christened 'Carson' for his resemblance to the butler on Downton Abbey. ) Carson is a five-foot tall bear, rescued from anonymity in a consignment shop in La Mesa, California-- who currently resides in our guest room in San Diego. Sadly, Ms. Kinser has retired from the monster-making business, so there are no others forthcoming. No one will love these monsters as much as I do, I know. And somewhere down the line, my oh-so-practical daughters will decide that they have to go, so maybe I should think about distributing them before we reach that point, so that they will continue to be loved and treasured.

But for now, I am still keeping my eyes out for the unusual, the quirky, the stuff that makes me smile. After all, as I was once told, bad decisions make the best stories...

What Frightens Me

What Frightens Me

The dark.
My imagination fills a
darkened room with
scary possibilities:
monsters under the bed, a fire,
snakes, accidents, falling,
something I forgot to do--an important lapse,
losing my way, my wallet, my phone,
my health, my mind...
innumerable horrors that
people the dark with dread.

Narrow spaces.
The tunnel, where I am hemmed in,
or construction sites where I am
challenged to stay in lane,
and not crash wildly into tiled walls,
or concrete abutments.
Bridges, where the rails seem so fragile
between me and oblivion.
Escalators, where unheeding
mechanical stairs gnash their teeth,
anticipating a tasty, misplaced foot.


The future.
Or lack thereof.
Politicians and other crackpots
whose ignorant ambitions pave the way
to perdition.
Who pursue their own ends
without regard for environment,
economy, allies, or the well-being
of the people they purport to lead.
Who spit on the motto
E pluribus unum,
turning away the many
at the behest of the few,
splintering our one-ness
into irredeemable selfish shards.

Organization, Oh God, Organization!

Organization, Oh God, Organization

Right at the outset, I can tell you that I'm a big fan of organization. I love the feeling of being able to put my fingers on whatever I --or anyone else--wants, be it information, a lost object, or even an ingredient for a recipe. It's my superpower. And, as a mom, a wife, a teacher, a room mother, or just about anything else in my panoply of jobs, it is invaluable.

What they don't tell you when you sign on for this skill is that, instead of getting easier with practice, it gets harder. The volume of information increases exponentially, while memory capacity declines with each passing year. I am, to put it succinctly, losing it, just when I need it most. And when I say "when I need it most", I am speaking of the process of downsizing.

One ought to be able to express these things mathematically: number of years, size of house, number of storage spaces, number of people involved, acquisitiveness factors--all should fit into an equation that will quantify your level of 'stuff' organization with a nice, scientific, reliable number. I regret to say we are operating in the negative values, and have been for some time. The term 'absolute zero' comes to mind, which is about as low as low can go. It is the the point at which the fundamental particles of nature have minimal vibrational motion, retaining only quantum mechanical, zero-point energy-induced particle motion. In other words, everything stops. 

So, poised on the brink of paralysis, I am taking drastic measures. Drawing on my experience of teaching Franklin/Covey's What Matters Most, I have dragged out my planner and made three lists of goals: immediate, short-term, and long-term. "Immediate" is one step better than my weekly shopping list genetically crossed with my daily 'to-do' list. "Short Term" is stuff I need to do this month, like plan for our vacation with the grandkids, switch out winter clothes for summer clothes, take clothes to storage at the dry cleaners, plant stuff in my patio pots.  "Long-Term" is that mountain of tasks on the horizon that gets closer every day: replacing the car, installing a new fence on the patio, buying a new refrigerator in San Diego, getting the fireplace fixed... If you are unfamiliar with Franklin/Covey, you might need to know that their mantra is "Someday is not a day on the calendar." They espouse planning, above all. Putting small steps on your daily calendar that will lead to accomplishment of your goals. There will be lists; there will be check-offs. There will be progress, and that is what matters most.

In reality, to our credit, we've paid a visit to the storage space and hauled out two Subaru-loads of stuff, half of which went to the dump, the other half to a stack of boxes in the basement. We HAVE hit the DMV and acquired our REAL-IDs. We have taken winter clothes to the cleaners for storage. The trick is not to rest on those meager laurels; not to stop the process as soon as the lists are made, which is what I usually do. (I've WRITTEN about it; now, do I really have to DO it?)

Franklin/Covey's 'one step at a time' should take us from this overflowing house of collections (large and small) to a more streamlined life where I will once again know where things are. Marie Kondo will be our patron saint, and joy will be sparking all over the place, as our trash bins and donation buckets overflow, and our closets and bookshelves and dresser drawers empty.

Yeah. Right.

Seventy

Today is my seventieth birthday. I don't think I ever thought about seventy--it always seemed so far away. However, as milestones go, it's fairly significant. JC suggested a party, but I said 'no'. Too much work, too much expense, right when Christmas is gearing up, right when there is so much to do, when no-one has time. I don't often admit this, but he was right and I was oh, so wrong. We did the party--and a lovely one it was.

I don't often think about friends. It is so easy to take them for granted. When JC told me to make a list, I demurred, saying I didn't have many friends anymore, and nothing is worse than a fancy party featuring a small group of acquaintances, desperately making small talk, while glancing surreptitiously at their watches. I made the list, reluctantly. None of them had anything in common, a fact that struck terror in my heart. Did I say nothing was worse than a small group? Think about a LARGE group with nothing to talk about.

But, there was a list, and by the time we added family, and an assortment of people I cared about, we were up to about forty. We put in the reservation, figuring we'd probably get 35 or so. Then we thought of a few more. We were up to 50. Then 52.  The number wavered a bit up and down, but most everyone accepted. How did this happen? Our event planner at the Metropolitan Club even said this doesn't happen. She planned for 50; we ended up with 56. Of which 55 actually showed up.

So, where does that leave me? Grateful. There, amidst a crowd of friends (none of whom had any difficulty conversing) I realized the most important fact of my life: it is friends and family who make you who you are. Every person in that room--and many who were too far away, or were unable to travel, or had to work--the list goes on...was important. I think of all the people who have touched my life and am amazed at how many there are, at how many people have made me who I am by caring and supporting and keeping me going through thick and thin.

Which makes my birthday an occasion for gratitude. Not for the inevitable aging process; I am not offering up prayers of gratitude for arthritis and memory loss and general decrepitude. Instead, I am grateful for the laughter and the tears and the support and the unwavering loyalty through the years, for the people who listened, and the people who talked to me, and all those events that made it all worthwhile. It has been--as a friend of mine once said--a good run. Even if I'm not running anymore, I can always enjoy a good walk.

Overload 3 and 4

Overload-3

I do not doubt there are some   

who deserve to be thrown to the wolves. 

I do not doubt there are some 

completely out of touch, 

scandalously overpaid 

in salary, and respect,

who masquerade as representatives.    

I do not doubt that many are 

cowed by the bully-in-chief,  

concerned about their futures,    

refusing to do the right thing because 

it would imperil the life they’ve chosen. 

Cowards all.

Let us choose this time

the truth-tellers, the courageous, the dedicated, 
the servants of our nation, rather than 
the profiteers.

Overload-4

The United States is not the country 

of “one nation, indivisible, 

with liberty and justice for all.” 

That place does not exist. 

It probably never did. 

That was the goal. 

That was the promise. 

That was our job: 

to build that country.   

That pledge gives no timeline,  

nor does it define a straight line 

from the Constitutional Convention 

to where we stand today. 

We have been led astray.

We have lost that focus. 

We have forgotten 

that we move together 

or not at all. 

My Vote

I will vote today:

for intelligence, not fear;

for understanding, not anger;

for reason, not rhetoric.

I will vote today

for history and its lessons,

for thoughtful assemblies,

not inflammatory mobs.

I vote for peace and justice,

not guns and violence,

for safety for my children and their children,

and for others who come here seeking that.

I vote for forgiveness and kindness, 

not punishment and rejection,

for caring over cash,

for prayer over profit.

I do not listen for the loudest voice,

or the most abhorrent accusations.

I vote for what’s good about my country,

though it may still be flawed.

I vote for the dreams there, 

for all that still could be, 

for the builders, not the breakers,

for the ones who still believe.