A Mother's Day Pledge

     My mother thinks she's going to jail.
     She is not a violent woman, nor is she a dishonest one.  She has never committed a felony, doesn't even have a misdemeanor charge on her criminal background check. She doesn't shoplift, or lie, or steal, or cheat.  She pays her taxes on time and will return an item to Walmart if the checkout person forgets to scan it.  I don't even think she's ever gotten a traffic ticket. But she thinks she's going to jail.
     Her crime?  Failure to pay multiple times for a Good Housekeeping  subscription for a dead woman.
      My mother has not moved into the computer generation, so she still orders things the old-fashioned way: fills out a little subscription card, writes a check (yes, some people still write checks instead of using credit cards), then puts a stamp on an envelope and sends the order via snail-mail.  I am often amazed that this process still works.
     She loves to send magazine subscriptions as gifts, especially if it is a magazine she particularly enjoys.  Real Simple, Garden and Gun, Southern Living....those are favorites that she sends to her children, her grandchildren, her friends, her relatives, and magazines, I must say, which have never threatened to have her arrested. It makes a great gift, giving a prepaid subscription to a really interesting magazine.  Usually, it's quite an easy process to sign up a loved one for a year-long subscription, slip a check in the mail, and be done with it. But ordering the old-fashioned way can get complicated, and not having a computer-generated receipt in today's world throws a wrench into the process and creates havoc for customer service reps, who cannot problem-solve if there is no computer trail to follow.
     The problem with Good Housekeeping started over a year ago.  My mother had ordered as a Christmas gift a year-long subscription to Good Housekeeping for my 93 year old aunt (which I thought at the time was rather optimistic). Unfortunately, Aunt Virginia went to her heavenly reward in June, thereby leaving a six month paid-for subscription which could not be forwarded to heaven.  As you all know, magazines start sending renewal notices the day after your check for the original subscription clears the bank, so starting in January, my mother began receiving notices to renew her Christmas gift subscriptions.   She ignored these notices until after the funeral in June, when, after receiving multiple requests to renew Aunt Virginia's subscriptions,  she sent a very polite note to Good Housekeeping informing them of the untimely passage of Aunt Virginia and would they kindly cancel the remainder of her subscription. They immediately sent her a renewal notice.  She sent another personal note, informing them again of Aunt Virginia's death, to which they sent a renewal notice and a bill. She wrote a third note, perhaps not quite as polite as the first two, asking them to please stop sending a magazine subscription to a dead woman, to cancel the remainder of the subscription, and to stop sending her renewal notices. She got another bill.
     In the meantime, the magazine started sending my mother two copies of the same issue each month. She sent them a notice that she did not need TWO copies of the same magazine, she only wanted them to cancel Aunt Virginia's subscription, and would they kindly correct the problem. They sent her a bill.
     At this point, somewhat exasperated, she decided to just pay the bill, so she sent them a check to renew a subscription for a deceased woman and for two copies of the same subscription for herself.  Shortly thereafter, she got another bill.
     This time, she had my older sister, who is usually quite good at problem-solving,  call the magazine and explain the situation.  They pulled up her account, noted the numerous gift subscriptions she had ordered, and promised to cancel the subscription to Aunt Virginia and to cease sending her two copies. They assured my sister that the problem had been resolved and no more bills would be sent.
The next week, a bill arrived with a notice that declared, "Final warning. Please remit before collection begins."
     My mother was horrified.  She had my father call the magazine, and once again explain the situation. They assured him the problem would be resolved. As a precaution,  she sent another note, asking them to cancel a subscription she had paid for twice for a dead woman and to quit sending her two copies of the magazine.
     The next week, she got a bill that stated she was "Severely overdue. Please remit immediately."
At this point, she announced that she was just going to pay it AGAIN because she didn't want them to report her as delinquent on her account.
     I had to intervene.
     "DO NOT PAY THAT BILL!" I yelled. "Mom, this is not your problem.  They obviously have an accounting issue at the magazine. You have done everything possible to alert them, and they can't keep their records straight. Just throw the notices in the trash."
     "I can't do that," she replied.  "I can't throw away an unpaid bill. They might send me to a collection agency. What if I go to the door one day and there is a collection agent standing there? They might arrest me and take me to jail."
     I couldn't help but laugh at her. She was actually considering paying a bill that she had already remitted multiple times for subscriptions she didn't need.
     "You are NOT going to jail. The worst thing that can happen, Mom, is that they will cancel your subscriptions, and that's what you want them to do anyway."
     Sissey, who had been sitting on the couch listening to the entire conversation, cracked up laughing as she asked, "Gans, really, do you think you're going to jail over a magazine subscription?"
     My mother was a little miffed that we were not taking this seriously.
     "I have never been accused of not paying my bills," she said.
      I knew at that point that she was secretly planning to write another check to the magazine.
     "Give me those bills," I demanded.
     "I'll toss them in the trash, " she promised.
     I knew her better than that, so I waited until later in the day when she wasn't looking and put the bill  in the paper shredder. I fully realized because of my actions that if she went to jail, it would be my fault.
     But Mom, in honor of Mother's Day, and because I love you so very much, I make you this solemn pledge:
 I promise that if you do go to jail, I'll come visit you every Sunday. And I'll bring you some magazines to read!

Dorothy was NOT a hooker!

One of the wonderful things about having a daughter is that she is always available to go shopping with you. Marathon shopping-- the kind that lasts all day with no particular destination or item in mind, just browsing and hunting, gathering bargains and finding deals and searching for steals. It's a bonding ritual that mothers and daughters exclusively enjoy.  Sons---not so much.  Boys are destination shoppers, heading to one store, to buy one particular item, and BOOM! they're done.
My son will say, "Mom, I'm heading to Orvis to pick up a pair of pants."
"Great, " I reply. "I'll ride out with you."
What I really mean is "Great! Orvis is at Short Pump Mall,  right next to Pottery Barn and Crate and Barrel, which I can dash through on my way to pick up a latte at Starbucks before I pop into Nordstroms to check out the shoe sale on my way to Soma and then on to Macy's and maybe we can catch lunch at Tara Thai before we pick up the pants."
But by the time I've gotten the car parked and gone into the first store, he's bagged the pants and is ready to head home.
"O.K., I'm done," he announces, as I'm browsing through shirts (on the first floor, for heavens sake!).
"But I'm not done," I complain.
 "Mom, I told you I just needed pants. Let's get out of here," he'll say, and before I even have a chance to head up the stairs to the second floor-- the fully stocked and fabulously enticing second floor, home of women's wear and home goods-- he's grabbed my hand and pulled me to the door.
So sad, so sad.
But daughters? Now daughters, they can go all day! Oh yes, girls can shop and shop and shop, rambling from store to store, aimlessly searching for some unknown article of clothing, that elusive garment that you will want only when you see it, that dress that you have to have the minute some other woman starts to reach for it, that coat you don't really need but would be so foolish to pass on at such a good price. This ability to marathon shop is usually a good thing, until you get to about 7:00 after a loooong day of strolling through store after store, hours of walking across hard cement floors, eyes tired and burning from the stress of searching for bargains beneath the fluorescent lighting. Things can start to get a little silly, judgement can get a little blurry, and tempers can start to fray.
We had just endured such a day last Friday, a full-blown, 10K marathon of shopping. I was tired; Sissey was tired; but we had just enough get-up-and-go left to wander down one more shoe aisle.  I headed over to the size 9's, my poor old feet, having fallen victim to old-age spread and fallen arches, now relegated to sturdy shoes with lots of cushioning and good support. Sissey rolled over to the cute and petite size 6's, that coveted section of sky-high stilettos and strappy sandals, shoes that just screamed "Young and beautiful!"
After a few minutes of browsing, I heard her yell, "Come look at these cool shoes!"
I rounded the corner, expecting to see her holding up a pair of cute sandals or summer wedges, but was somewhat surprised  (to say the least) to see her sitting there with a big grin on her face holding up a pair of 10 inch high, gaudy, gold, and glitzy hooker shoes. Yes, you heard me. Hooker shoes.
"Please tell me you're joking," I said, as I stared at the most hideous pair of shoes I had ever seen.

"These are great!", she replied, "I'm trying'em on."

"Mary Lapsley," I said, in my "I'm-serious-so-I-am-using-your-given-name" voice. "Those shoes are obnoxious.  They are hooker shoes and you are NOT going to put those on."

"Mom, these are not "hooker" shoes," she said with a grin. "These are Dorothy slippers!"

"Sissey, I don't know what strange wind just blew through here and rattled your brain, but those are definitely NOT Dorothy slippers."

"Oh yes they are. They're sparkly and they're glittery and they're modern day Dorothy slippers."

"Hooker shoes. Period." I wasn't going to budge.

"No, Mom. These are Dorothy shoes." She wasn't budging either. "And I'm trying them on"
"Well," I said, "I just never knew Dorothy was a hooker."

"Dorothy was NOT a hooker, Mother. I can't believe you can't tell the difference between a hooker and someone who just wanted to follow the Yellow Brick Road."

"Maybe so," I said, "But those are hooker shoes."

I laughed as she slipped the golden slippers on, fully expecting her to tap her heels three times and end up in Kansas.

"Sissey, time to go home. Take off those shoes!" I told her. "I don't care how badly Dorothy wanted to go home, but if you plan on going home with me, you had better not walk through the door in those shoes!"

I have to admit, though, that I really, really, really wanted to try them on before I placed them back on the shelf.

Smashing into Angels

Let me begin by stating that Tuesday started off badly from the git-go.  I overslept by ten minutes, which put me an hour behind for the rest of the day. From the moment my feet touched the floor, it was a race to make up time as I  threw on jeans, gobbled down a dry breakfast bar with a java to-go, threw books and keys into the car, then pushed as much as I dared over the 55 MPH limit while keeping a close eye in the mirror for those dreaded blue lights.  

By the time we reached Lancaster, I was feeling the stress of the morning rush and had become a bit frazzled.  Before we could dash to class, however, Sissey had to make a customer delivery for her newest financial venture. She had recently joined the cottage-industry route to fortune and fame and was slowly making her way up the corporate ladder of success, one pocketbook sale at a time, as a serious and dedicated personal consultant and sales representative for a purse company. She was adamant that "the customer comes first," even if it meant pushing it close to getting to class on time. The purse delivery added fifteen minutes to an already-rushed schedule, but the package was safely delivered, and she had her commission in hand.  

For some insane reason, I figured I had just enough time to run to the bank to deposit the check the customer had given her and still make it back to campus in time for class.  I flew to the Wells Fargo across town, pulled up to the ATM, scrambled through the car for a pen, found one that was out of ink, accidently dropped the check between the car seat and the console, yelled "Dadgummit" as I dug around for a second  pen, retrieved the check from between the seats, inserted the debit card,  punched the PIN into the machine, and got an "Error Message" that stated "This machine is unable to accept deposits at this time."

"Darn it!"I hollered as I retreived the debit card. "Now I've got to go to the drive-through window. We're going to be late for class!" 

Thinking I could just back up, then pull through the adjacent line, I threw the car into reverse, mashed the gas pedal, and ..."BAM!"

The jolt jerked us both forward as we screamed.

"What happened?" Sissey cried.

I looked into the rearview mirror and saw nothing, so I opened the door and jumped out of the car.

A squat brown car hovered behind my oversized SUV like a small brown beetle hiding behind an elephant.  A woman about my age was standing in front of a little Chevy HHR, looking at her fender as I approached.

"I-I-I, I'm just, I'm just so, so sorry," I stammered, embarrassed and mad at myself for the stupidity of smashing into a car while exiting the drive-through in reverse. "I honestly didn't see you. I didn't see anything. Are you O.K.?"

"Oh honey, don't you worry about anything. It's nothing," she said with a smile, as I nervously leaned over to examine the damage to her car. 
"But I hit you! And it was completely my fault!" I said in a shaky voice, tears filling my eyes. "Let me go get my insurance information, and I'll write down my name and address," I continued, as I turned to head back to my car.
"There's no need for that," the woman said, "There's not any damage done."
 I looked at the obvious dent in her fender, a perfect impression of the trailer hitch protruding from the back of my car, then looked back at her. I pointed to the hole in her car and stated the obvious.
"There's a dent in your fender."
"Oh, that's nothing," she said. "I hardly see anything at all. You just go on now and don't worry about it."
I knelt down and ran my hands over the fender, feeling the circular indentation in the panel of the bumper.  I stared at the dent, not quite sure what to do.
"Well, let me give you my name and number in case you change your mind," I told her as I stood back up.
"No, I don't want it," she insisted.
"Then at least give me your name so I'll know who I hit."
She laughed and said, "Nope! I'm not even going to give you that.  You just go on now and don't worry about a thing."
I walked back to my car, shaking, confused, not fully understanding what had taken place. I sat in the driver's seat, grabbed onto the steering wheel, and looked over at Sissey.
"I'm not quite sure what just happened," I said, as I slowly put the car into drive and nervously inched forward, this time driving around the bank parking lot instead of backing up through the ATM line. As I entered the drive-through window from the proper direction,  I glanced over at the car that I had smashed just as it was exiting the teller line. 
The car had new tags on it!  New! It was a brand new car!
I had just put a dent into the front fender of a new car, and the driver didn't even want to know my name!
Yes, I was definitely confused.
What had just happened? Why hadn't she called the police, dialed 9-1-1, reported the accident, filed for insurance, called an ambulance, screamed "Whip lash!"? There were plenty of witnesses; in fact, the entire teller line at the bank as well as several customers had been in full view of the crash and it was obviously my fault.

What could have possessed her to let me put the first dent into a brand new car and get off scot-free?

Was it a new car and she didn't want her husband to know she had secretly driven it?

Was it a loaner car while her car was being serviced?
Was she driving without a license, with a suspended license, with a revoked license?
Was she returning from a three martini lunch and thought maybe she had smashed into me?
Was she an escaped convict in a stolen car, planning a bank heist until I smashed into her?
Or was she a kind, forgiving soul who knew ordinary people did stupid things and who didn't think a little dent was a very big deal?
I couldn't decide if my day had gotten worse, or if it had just gotten a whole lot better, but as I drove back to campus, I thought that possibly, just possibly, I had run into an angel.

Blockage

     For the past 6 weeks, I've had a serious blockage. A writer's block, that intangible web that wraps around your brain and squeezes your mind so tightly that you can't think outside of the moment.  A huge blank page stares at me each time I open my computer to write, and as I begin to type...nothing. I can't get started, can't focus enough to complete a sentence, much less a paragraph.  I look at the keys, stare at the luminescent screen, glance back down to the keys, type a few random letters, switch to Solitaire, play a few hands of Spider, check Facebook, read my email, check the weather, check the local forecast, the hourly forecast, the extended 10-day forecast,  click  back to Solitaire, read a few online newspapers, scan the photos on People magazine, surf through eBay, play Words with Friends, flip back to the blog and.... nothing. 
     "Have you written anything lately?" my mother asks, as she flips through the weekly paper.
     "No," I reply, "I've got a blockage."
     "Oh look!" she continues, "Miralax is on sale at CVS! Do you need some Miralax?"
     "I don't take Miralax, Mom."
     "But maybe you should, it's on sale."
     "It's not that kind of blockage," I mutter, all the while thinking I might give it a try anyway and see if it helps.
     I'm not sure why I have a blockage. It started the night of the accident, the night the french professor got hit by a hemi-truck while leaving the library. Somehow, by some centrifugal force, all the thoughts and words and ideas that had previously meandered through my wandering mind got smacked right out of my head at the same time as Dr. Davaut collided with that truck; and  while watching and waiting as she underwent six operations and thirty days in intensive care, I just didn't have anything else to say at the end of the day.  My meager words seemed worthless and uninteresting when in the midst of the reality of watching someone fight for life, fight through unbelievable pain, fight back to a life of normal.

     And so, I have had a blockage. 

     But this weekend, something extraordinary happened.  We drove to Charlotte with a vase of  white  virburnum, pink camellias, and blush hellebores, hoping to bring a breath of spring air into the fourth floor room of the rehab facility where Dr. Davaut had been transferred. With a gentle knock, we opened the door to her room, expecting to find her lying quietly in the bed. To our great surprise, she was sitting upright in a wheelchair, hair washed and brushed, playing Scrabble with her mother in French. She had real food on her lunch tray-- a pork chop, petite green peas, broccoli.  She was dressed in real people clothes- a coral colored T-shirt instead of a drab and shapeless hospital gown. She had a windowsill full of flowers and cards and balloons. 

       Her parents had wheeled her outside for her first glimpse of blue sky and fresh air in over a month. She had seen the brilliant  blooms of spring in the garden by the parking lot and had felt the warm March sun shining on her face.

       She displayed a stack of photos from her most recent doctor's visit: x-rays that showed all her new hardware-- plates and pins and screws and rods, enough titanium to build a rocket ship, an impressive collection of metal. She told us she was learning to transfer from bed to wheelchair almost by herself and had started to regain movement in her left leg.  It had been almost two months since the accident, but it all seemed to happen overnight--she was slowly, slowly, slowly starting to make progress on the long road to recovery.

     And best of all, she had a huge smile on her face!

      It was a healing moment to see her that way,  and I think my blockage is starting to move. 

  

Learning the hard way....

     Sometimes in life, we are the teacher, sometimes the student, and we don't get to pick and choose which role we get to play.  Some lessons are hard to understand; in fact, there are times when we never fully comprehend the lecture, but we put on a brave smile when the test arrives, act like we know what it's all about, and give it our best shot. Perhaps that is the only thing we are meant to learn: that life is dubious, complex, precarious, fluid, ethereal, and we have to keep going even when the going gets rough. This week's lesson has been painfully hard to apprehend, and it involves a reversal of rolls, where teacher becomes student, and student becomes teacher, and both have to quickly learn how to absorb new occupations.
     Almost two weeks ago, at 9:00 on a Thursday evening, the unthinkable happened.
     Mary Lapsley's French professor had once again worked late at the university, and after a long day and an even longer week, she finally pack her bags, left the library, and headed for her car parked across the street.  She crossed the main road on campus in a well-lit crosswalk and was half-way across the street when she heard the roar of an approaching engine. The impact occurred before she even had time to glance up, and her next memory is of lying on the gritty, cold pavement, staring up at a darkened sky.
      "Am I having a dream?" she wondered, as she gazed up into the black night. "Am I in my bedroom?" 
       And then, the dream became a nightmare as the pain hit.  The whirrr-whirrr of the ambulance could be heard in the distance, the blue flashing lights of the police cruiser lit the evening sky, and as the officer 's flashlight beamed into her eyes and he called out "Can you tell me what happened?",  the reality of her situation began to sink in. 
     When a human being comes into contact with a forward-moving, massively large, hemi-truck, the truck always wins.  Bones met metal and crumpled upon impact.  Pelvis, hip, femur, back, large bones, small bones. The only thing from her waist to her knees that didn't break was the rod in her spine which had been surgically implanted after breaking her back in a car wreck two years ago.
      On the ambulance ride to the hospital, her thoughts reeled with "Not again, not again" as the painful memory of that previous car crash flashed through her mind.
       But reality super-imposed itself over wishful thinking, and "Not Again" became "Yet Again" as she was transported from small regional hospital to major medical center.
        While her family in France made plans and arrangements to come to America,  we assumed the role of "Care Partner" until they could arrive in the states.  We received official "Care Partner" badges  with pictures that identified us to the ICU staff,   long-term parking passes for use in the complex maze of the parking deck,  and made the hour drive each day to Charlotte to anxiously sit by her side.
       On the third day in the Trauma ICU, as she began to regain consciousness, I gently tapped her on the shoulder and tried to waken her.
       "Nathalie, Nathalie," I asked. "Do you know where you are?"
         In a raspy whisper, with eyes still closed, she answered "Yes."
        "Do you know what happened?" I continued.
         She nodded.
         "Tell me, Nathalie, tell me what happened."
          I wanted to make sure she understood my questions and that she full comprehended where she was and why she was there.
          "I was hit by a truck," she softly answered.
          "How do you feel?" I asked her next.
           Her eyes shot wide open, she looked at me as if I were crazy, and in a much stronger voice she replied, "Like I Was Hit By A Truck!"
          I couldn't help but laugh. Her strong spirit was still there, her sense of humor was emmerging through the pain, and at that point,  I knew she was on the road to recovery.
          So now, as the professor lies in the hospital bed, facing months of recovery, rehabilitation, and therapy, her devoted student sits by her side and holds her hand. It is time for student to teach, and teacher to learn.
         It's funny sometimes how life falls into place.  When we question "why" things happen, like why a child is born with a life-long disability, or why someone is crushed for the second time in a wreck, it's hard to find an answer. But sometimes, it's not the "Why" that we need to understand. It's the "What" and the "How" that we need to learn.
       "What do we do now?" was a question we all needed to answer after the professor's accident.
        That one was easy.
        We went, we prayed, we waited, we stayed. She would not face this alone, she would have someone by her side until her family arrived and for as long as she needed.
        "How do we move forward?" was the next.
         Mary Lapsley already knew how to respond.
         "Dr. Davaut," Mary Lapsley told her, "I'm here for you, just like you were there for me.  Do you remember when I was struggling with french and you told me that you knew I could do it? You told me to be like the little engine that said 'I think I can, I think I can?' Well, that's what you're going to have to do now. I know you can do this, but  you're going to have to keep telling yourself  that you can do this. And I'm going to be right beside you all the way."
     "I'm going to show you how to get around in a wheelchair, how to use a walker, and how to keep trying. We can even have wheelchair races when you're ready! You can do this, I know you can, I know you can."
         Her words sounded so familiar. I could hear the voice of Dr. Davaut echoing through my daughter's speech as she encouraged her professor to keep on trying.
         And so, as the professor fights through the pain, the student becomes the teacher, and the teacher learns to heal.

Ticket to good karma

According to our studies in psychology, we face life and its daily challenges utilizing either an internal or external locus of control. Those individuals driven by an internal locus believe they have the ability to take control of their own destiny; they make things happen, they create their successes, and they take charge of their life.  In direct opposition are those controlled by an external locus. These are the ones who rely on karma, fate, good luck, bad luck, happenstance, chance, superstition and the roll of the dice.  Nothing they can do or say will change the “que sera, sera” of life…whatever will be, will be. 

I’m not sure exactly where I fall along the continuum; some days, I’m a Donald Trump, out there moving and shaking and making the world happen, grabbing onto my internal locus and having a heck of a ride. Other days, I’m  Eeyore….just a depressed little donkey with no hope, no motivation, no good karma, and literally drowning in my own external locus of just plain old bad luck. 

But for my husband, today definitely began as an Eeyore kind of day. That crazy ole karma was on a downward roll, and his external locus of control was in full-throttle overdrive. 

Chris called me early in the morning, I can’t remember quite why, but I do remember that he was emphatic about the fact that this was going to be a bad day.  He had to run from one end of Richmond to the other, crossing boundaries and city lines and county borders: Hanover in the morning, Chesterfield in the afternoon, downtown, uptown, east end, west end, just circling the loop as he rushed from appointment to appointment.   He had to find time in all of that looping to run home and let the dogs out for a potty break, otherwise he would have an unwelcome wagon greeting him at the door that evening. There were problems with this and problems with that, and nothing he could do would change the fact that all the new government regulations were making the simple business of doing business an impossible nightmare.  To finish off an already hectic day, when he got home that evening, he had to take Alf to doggie school…remedial doggie school at that. Alf was the only child we’ve ever had, furry or not, to flunk school, and it was humiliating to have to haul him back in for lessons on such simple tasks as “Sit”, “Stay”, and “Come.”  At home, he had mastered “Watch me eat this entire roast beef”, as well as “If you think I’m moving off this couch then you’re crazy,” but the basic commands were still a bit of a problem, and Alf was repeating the second grade.

So as he rushed from point A to point B, focused on phone numbers and addresses and loan amounts and mortgages, paying attention to every kind of number except the one on his speedometer, Chris got pulled for speeding.  Dashing through a 35 MPH zone, hurrying to his next appointment,  the blue lights of a motorcycle cop flashed in his rear-view mirror and the strident call of the siren echoed through the car.  He glanced at the speedometer, knew he’d been nailed,  so he slowly pulled over to the edge of the road, rolled down his window, and handed over his license. 

He started with the mandatory, “Was I speeding, officer? I thought it was a 45 MPH zone,” which translates into “Do you really have to do this or can you just give me a warning?” Speeding is one thing, but speeding through a school zone is another, and once again, there was nothing he could do to change his fate, his destiny, his externally controlled situation. The officer's face said this was definitely a non-negotiable transaction and no amount of pleading or bargaining was going to change the outcome.   To make matters worse, when the officer asked for the registration to the car, the only one Chris could find in the glove compartment was an expired version, the recently renewed version being safely tucked into the back of my wallet all the way down in South Carolina.  Yep, things were definitely out of his control at this point.

The good thing about living an externally controlled life is that sometimes, the dice rolls over, lady luck is smiling, you draw an ace and a king, and you find the four - leaf clover. Chris’s karma was about to change.

As the officer strolled back to his idling motorcycle to write up the ticket, Chris watched him in the rear view mirror.  He saw the officer straddle the bike and begin to write up the ticket, and as he waited for the dreaded verdict, Chris did some mental calculations about the effect another speeding ticket would have on his insurance premiums,  his chances of making his next appointment on time, how he could recoup the lost minutes in an already too-busy day.  But then, as Chris watched him through the mirror, the officer appeared to grow agitated and stopped writing on his clipboard.  He fiddled with some controls on the bike, turned some switches off and on, got off the bike, walked around it with a puzzled look on his face, rattled the frame a little, then finally picked up his hand-held radio and began an animated conversation with some unseen force on the other side.   After ending his conversation and putting his radio back onto his belt, he walked to the car, thrust the license and invalid registration back through the window, and said to Chris,
" Slow down when you're driving. You can leave."

 No ticket had been issued, not even a warning.

“This is odd,” my husband thought, as he glanced back at the officer. That was when he realized that the source of his good luck was not some unseen mystical spirit or a benevolent force at the end of a radio line,  but rather a broken down motorcycle.  The officer’s mode of transportation, his lifeline to the police station, his only means of verifying driver’s license and vehicle registration, his travelling office-- all was ka-put, ka-plooey, on the blink, out-of-order.  Talk about karma! Whew!

Chris rolled his window back down, leaned his head out, and in his most pleasant talking-to-an-officer voice, politely asked, “Do you need some help?”

“Can I give you a jump start? How about a lift?”

“Just get out of here,” the disgruntled officer replied, perhaps somewhat embarrassed at his equipment malfunction, maybe frustrated that his day had suddenly taken a trip down Broke Down Lane, could have been just a guy thing, but Chris didn’t ask twice. He hit the road at an appropriately safe and perfectly legal 35 MPH and got the heck out of there before his luck changed. 

Karma comes, and karma goes, and you better know which way to roll.

Old taters and young'uns

My son has a favorite dish (one of many!), and tonight, perhaps because I was subconsciously missing him in a post-holiday funk, I decided to make a batch of his much-beloved white chicken chili, a sumptuous, spicy concoction of poultry, legumes, peppers, onions, garlic and seasonings. I ran to the grocery store early in the morning and stocked up on ingredients, came home, and began to assemble the recipe and start the preparations.
The chicken was happily stewing in an enameled iron pot, bathing in a sensuous bath of parsley, sage, basil, and thyme, as celery and onions sizzled nearby in a pool of extra-virgin olive oil and freshly ground sea salt. An array of spices were lined up on the counter top, waiting for their moment to dive into the mix: cumin, garlic, crushed bay leaves, white pepper, paprika, rosemary.
It was time to put a batch of potatoes on to boil, so I headed to the basket in the laundry room where my mother stored her tubers, and started to rummage through the pile.  There were several firm, young potatoes on top, obviously from the latest purchase, perky little numbers that were smooth of flesh, fresh, adolescent. Underneath these youngsters were a few tubers starting to show a little age, yielding just a bit when I squeezed them, but still having enough life left in them that they could serve a future purpose.  On the very bottom of the basket,  resting on the cloth that covered and cushioned the weave of the split oak fibers, five old taters formed a pathetic, shriveled circle.  I pick the old boys up, looked them over, pinched their shriveled flesh, picked off a few odd growths, and decided it was the last act of courage they could perform by diving into the pot of boiling water and sacrificing themselves for the greater good of mankind, namely, dying for chili. I felt noble as I picked them up, rescuing them from the compost pile and a slow, rotting death, destining them for a greater cause.

As I stood at the sink scrubbing the old boys, it struck me how similar their life was to my own.  They had started out young, vigorous, full of life, firm of flesh, unlimited in possibilities.  In their youth, they would have been selected for exotic dishes, exciting dishes, cutting-edge dishes: roasted with saffron, creamed with cumin, scalloped with goat cheese, pan-fried with truffles. In their middle-age, an era I could sympathize with, these potatoes would have been selected for substantial but important duties: Saturday night steak fries, Sunday mashed casseroles, Wednesday creamed soups. But now, in the twilight of their lives, they lay forgotten on the bottom of the pile. It bothered me, looking at the basket, and I felt the need to rescue the old boys and let them fulfill their purpose, their cause, their mission. 

 So what if they had a few odd growths protruding from their flesh, a little wrinkled skin? I scrubbed each one with a stiff brush, doused them in cold water, and plunged them into a salt bath.  With surgical precision, I sliced off the hairy extensions, the lumps and bumps and protrusions, and shaved the wrinkled skin from each tuber. I peeled old flesh away from vibrant pulp, salvaged the usable body, and plunged the taters into a pot of salted, boiling water. These guys still had life left in them, and as they boiled away, as they waited for their next assignment, I felt noble in my cause, my rescuing them and helping them fulfill their destinies.

The old boys filled out the subtle layers of the chili, giving it a texture and a depth with their mature taste that it sorely needed. Had it been lacking, had these potatoes been omitted from the recipe, the dish would have been disappointing, flat, bland.  I could have opted for a pre-mixed package of generic, powdered chili-mix, could have used the younger, firmer potatoes, but the combination of mature vegetables, stewed chicken, and fresh spices created an aroma that caused the gastric juices in my stomach to rumble and churn in anticipation. The effort of blending old with new, fresh with seasoned,  the process of chopping and slicing, dicing and prepping, the melding of mature with adolescent,  produced a product I was proud of, eager to share, and which satisfied both my creative soul and my gastric longings.

Finally, after Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune had both finished, my creation was complete. I scooped steaming ladles of spicy chili into thick ceramic bowls, shaved jalapeno pepper jack cheese on top, and finished each dish with a dollop of sour cream.  I was proud of my little old men, the shriveled potatoes that had seemed lifeless, the fellows that gave the bulk and the stamina to the chili. 

And I learned something in the kitchen tonight.  Everything has a purpose, and a time, and a season.


Two old taters and a young'un


Ecclesiastes 3

A Time for Everything

1For everything there is a season,

a time for every activity under heaven.

2A time to be born and a time to die.

A time to plant and a time to harvest.

3A time to kill and a time to heal.

A time to tear down and a time to build up.

4A time to cry and a time to laugh.

A time to grieve and a time to dance.

5A time to scatter stones and a time to gather stones.

A time to embrace and a time to turn away.

6A time to search and a time to quit searching.

A time to keep and a time to throw away.

7A time to tear and a time to mend.

A time to be quiet and a time to speak.

8A time to love and a time to hate.

A time for war and a time for peace.

   Everything has a purpose, and a time, and a season.

Holiday Treats

Baby Alf

     Trying to survive the holidays while a puppy the size of a small horse gallops through your house renders a whole new meaning to the mantra "seasonal stress". I shouldn't complain, since this stress was of my own doing. I was the culprit who bought the puppy last May. I was the unthinking adult that insisted on surprising my unsuspecting husband with a new member of our poodle triumvirate. Unfortunately, I had neglected to do the math and forgot to realize that the precious little bundle of soft red fluff that I so adored in the spring would be a teething trojan termite by December.
     Ah yes, that delightful, docile  heap of burnished wool had morphed into a red headed hellion that romped through my holiday house, an impish elf that was quickly eating its way through our overly-decorated home,  a vixen destroying garland and tinsel and goodies and packages at an alarming rate. Our dear little Alf,  our previously precious pup, our sweet little baby, had evolved into the canine consumer of all things not nailed down; the red-headed, curly coated,  cookie thievin', ornament eatin', present unwrapping, decoration destroying poodle problem that kept the holidays hopping in a whole new style, that kept me running through rooms with a broom and a dustpan yelling "Put That Down!" more times than I ever had in my life, and that drove me to dive into the eggnog on more than one occasion .
      I had forgotten what life with a puppy was like, especially since Sissey and I have been in SC for most of the time that Alf has resided in the Daly household, but it didn't take long to relearn;  and  let me tell you one thing, puppies chew, and puppies gnaw, and puppies think anything that doesn't eat them first is fair game.  


Let the baking begin.....

      It all began when we first arrived home in Richmond for the holidays.  Holiday baking is a much anticipated tradition, and we quickly dived head first into a  production line of sugar cookies and fruitcake, gingerbread men and rum balls.  Sissey had enlisted a regiment of her friends to spend an afternoon on the sugar cookie squad.  They mixed, rolled,  and carefully cut the dough into candy canes, Christmas trees, gingerbread men,wreaths and bells.  The cookies were baked, cooled, iced and laughingly decorated in a mess of piping and sprinkles, glossy pearl  beads and crystallized sugar. The festive goodies were prudently packed into Tupperware, each full box stacked on the counter, ready to be piled onto plates that would soon be delivered to neighbors and friends.

     It must not have taken long for Alf's highly sensitive nose to sniff  out the tantalizing aroma of vanilla and sugar, for not long after we had washed the last pan and put away the last bowl, I heard a crash in the kitchen. Running towards the sound, I dashed into the room and gasped at the sight before me.  Alf was sprawled across the floor and innocently grinning up at me, his muzzle suspiciously covered in frosting, an empty Tupperware container resting in his paws.  All that remained of our afternoon baking was a few crumbs and a smear of icing. It was early in the game at this point, so I shooed him into the yard with a gentle scold and grabbed the broom, unaware that we were on a fast track to disaster. 

"Who, me?"

      From that point on, the destruction of my holiday house progressed at an alarming speed.  Ornaments on the tree? Fair game. "Yup, think I'll take a little nibble of a sheep," Alf thought, as he munched on the hand spun Irish woolen lamb that had symbolized the purity of the Christ child before it became a doggie snack. The toy soldiers didn't stand a fighting chance against his big snout and canine incisors, and the drummer boy disappeared without a single rat-a-tat-tat.  The paper maiche nutcracker was a particularly tasty treat, floury and salty with a hint of New York Times.  Nativity scene? "Bet that tastes good too," Alf realized, as he nibbled the ear of hand painted Italian donkey.  Baby Jesus was a snack on Tuesday, the wise men went down on Wednesday, and as for the host of angels, well let me just say that Alf loves a good angel, especially after scarfing down a camel. 

     I wrapped packages under the tree only for the amusement of Alf, who seemed to think that ribbons and bows were created purely for his enjoyment.  My coveted holiday needlepoint pillows were secretly devoured during a midnight raid, which left me wondering once again why poodles had such an affinity for my needlepoint. In a final act of holiday desecration, in fact, as I sat here tonight composing my thoughts on my faithful laptop, Alf  crept into the kitchen and consumed the remains of the New Year's roast lamb with mint jelly and rosemary infusion. I discovered his latest consumption upon strolling into the room to add a few ice cubes to my glass of tea. As I pressed the ice dispenser on the refrigerator, Alf casually walked past me suspiciously licking his chops. I glanced at the counter and immediately saw tell-tale slivers of meat scattered across it, a greasy stain spreading on the floor, and an empty roasting pan resting beside a curiously gnawed leg of lamb. I knew what had happened, I knew who was the culprit, and I was officially at the end of my rope.

   I wanted to ring his neck; I wanted to throttle him;  yet when he gazed up at me with those gentle brown eyes, when he thumped that fluffy banana-shaped tale against the floor, when he lifted that monstrous paw for a gentle handshake, when he slathered my angry face with sloppy, sweet kisses, the spirit of Christmas pervaded my soul and I loved him in spite of myself. "He couldn't help himself," I rationalized, remembering my own midnight raids of the fruitcake box, my own pawing at the cookies and sweets that tempted me from the counter. 

     So once again, with a somewhat firmer than previously mentioned scold, I shooed the varmint out the door and  grabbed the broom, dustpan, and mop. Yes, he was making a mess of my holiday plans, ruining my decorations, destroying my baking, and adding an extra layer of work to an overly-taxed schedule; but at the end of the day, when I sank to the couch in exhaustion, it was pure joy to be surrounded by the unfiltered love of a family dog and to share my space with a pile of sweet poodles.

    



Sugar Pie, Mr. Big, and Alf



The Christmas Mouse

        Finally, I understand the profound and intense underlying themes of  the children's book "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie,"  a simple saga written by Laura Numeroff which describes what happens when one little mouse takes control of an otherwise normal houseshold.  In the book, a complicated chain of events is set into motion when a little boy gives a mouse a cookie, which leads to his wanting a glass of milk, which leads to an on-going series of never-ending projects, which builds and builds until finally, the exhausted boy falls asleep while the mouse gets another cookie.
     But first, let me explain how I came to this complete comprehension of a deceptively simple children's tale, a complicated lesson learned not from my last five semesters of college experience, but rather, from an innocuous little Christmas mouse.
      Upon arriving back in Richmond for the holidays, one of my first undertakings was to dive into the marathon schedule of Christmas cooking, a massive on-going project that involved the production of fruit cakes, date balls, cheese straws, cookies, and of course, sausage balls.  Pounds of sausage balls. Mountains of sausage balls. In fact, I pitied the poor pigs who had to lay down their porky lives just so our family could consume obscene quantities of sausage balls, but the sacrifice had been made and it was our duty to make sure their ground up hindquarters and rumps and roasts were lovingly used during this holy season. So on this first morning home, I was on a mission to make sausage balls, that seasonal morsel, the harbinger of Christmas, the family favorite.
     I assembled the Bisquick, the extra-sharp cheddar cheese and the spicy hot sausage in a row on the countertop, then proceeded to shred, chop, and measure.  First, I mixed the cheese and sausage into an even blend of soft pink and gold, then added four cups of Bisquick, squished and squashed the powder evenly into the meat and cheese, and finally began the tedious process of rolling out trays and trays of  marble-sized balls.  As I rolled the first batch of mixture in my hands, I noticed an unusual spice appearing in the blend, a small, black pellet, approximately the size of a grain of rice,  a spice that was not familiar in my repetoire of Jimmy Dean or Bisquick ingredients.  I plucked several grains from the bowl and examined them closely, rolling them on my fingertips as I tried to identify their origins.            
     "Anise? " I wondered. "Too squishy," I decided. 
     "Too soft for peppercorns or celery seed,"  I muttered to myself as I continued to examine the pellets, wondering what this curious seasoning could be.
      I rummaged for the sausage wrapper in the trash and read the list of spices on the back, searching for a clue to the identity of this new seasoning. Not seeing anything unusual on that label, I grabbed the box of Bisquick, read the list  of ingredients on the side,  then lifted the clear cellophane wrapper from the box and peered at the contents. Scattered throughout the powdery white mix of flour and baking powder were the identical rice-sized grains of the mysterious spice.  As realization started to spread through my brain, I ran to the pantry, shifted cans and boxes, and to my horror, discovered the same pellets sprinkled all throughout the shelves, across the tops of cans, behind the canisters and the jars of jelly, under the boxes of cereal and the bags of pasta.  I had seen these pellets before. I knew these pellets. I understood these pellets. MOUSE!
       I glared at the three dogs sitting in the middle of the kitchen, tails happily thumping on the floor as they eyed the tray of sausage balls.
      "Some help you are," I grumbled. "I'm trading you all in for a decent cat."
      I immediately tossed the entire batch of sausage balls into the trash and scrubbed my hands until they were fiery red. I donned latex gloves and furiously fumigated the pots and pans, then began the process of removing every single item from the pantry. I dispatched Chris to the hardware store for traps and poisons and anything else that could conquer a mouse invasion. I sent him to the grocery for fresh boxes of Bisquick, sausage and cheese.  I scrubbed shelves and floor and walls with disinfectant. I washed and cleaned until every trace of mouse had been removed and the pantry smelled like the interior of an operating room, pungent with antibacterial and bleach. 
     Perusing the piles of cans and bags, I tossed anything that appeared to have been nibbled on or tasted or touched by a rodent. I washed the top of every single can and checked every box and bag. I decided that while I was cleaning, it was also a good time to check the expiration labels on all the items, so I did that and made a trash pile of expired goods.
    In the meantime, Chris returned from the store, laden with bags of rodent revenge and groceries, looked at the mess I had made, and commented that it would be a good idea to make a bag for the food pantry while we were at it. So, I added another pile of washed and unexpired staples to drop off for the homeless, then unloaded the bags from the store.
      As I stood there eyeing the piles of cans, I  decided that instead of returning everything to the freshly washed shelves, it would be a good time to use up a lot of the food by making a pot of soup. So, I  picked out cans of corn and tomatoes and beans and hauled them to the counter by the stove.
     "Chris, can you get me a package of ground beef from the freezer? I'm going to make soup with some of these canned vegetables."
      He opened the door to the freezer, handed me the meat, looked at the crowded shelves, and said,
       "I'm going to clean out the freezer."
       "Add this to the soup, and this, and this," he commented as he tossed out frozen goods and removed shelves.
       Well, you can't have soup without cornbread, so I grabbed a canister of cornmeal and whipped up a batch to serve with the simmering soup.  And if you have soup, you have to have fresh oranges with it, so I opened the fridge and cut up some navels.
     About this time, Bro walked into the kitchen and asked,
" Hey, what happened to the sausage balls?"
     So, while the soup simmered and the bread baked, I began the process of making a fresh batch of sausage balls.
        The simple decision to start my holiday cooking had been manipulated by a mere mouse into a marathon event of cleaning out the pantry, which lead to a trip to the hardware store, which lead to a trip to the grocery store, which lead to the reshelving of canned goods and food items, which lead to the making of soup, which lead to the cleaning out of the freezer, which lead to cooking cornbread and cutting oranges, and which finally resulted in the first batch of sausage balls coming out of the oven at seven o'clock that night.
      And that was when I finally understood the concept of "If You Give A Mouse A Cookie." It must be a mouse thing, that ability to set off a chain reaction that grows and grows and grows, an almost unstoppable train ride of events that gains momentum with each twist and turn and leaves you exhausted and wondering, "What happened to the day?" when all you had planned to do was make a batch of sausage balls.  All that, simply because of a mouse.
      The traps have remained empty, but thankfully, no trace of the mouse has returned to my pantry and no mysterious spice has appeared in my baking. My kitchen is sparkling clean, the food pantry has received a generous donation, and my family is growing fat on sausage balls.

      I never saw that mouse, but sometimes, I think I  hear him laughing at me through the walls as he dances among the rafters of my house.

    

   

The Pooman Problem

The great and mighty Gus

     Gus was not simply a dog, a standard poodle, he was one of those rare breeds of half-poodle, half-human, a “pooman”, a creature that could read your thoughts, intuit your emotions, sense your moods, predict your habits, and make an imprint on your heart that was eternal. With a fierce loyalty that belied his gentle nature, he would guard the house and protect the children, standing resolute and firm between us and the world, never letting a stranger come between him and his beloved family.  He was a steady presence by my side, a loyal friend, a wise old soul, a quiet warrior. Gus was my companion when I walked, the confident I would talk to when worries troubled my soul, my travelling buddy in the car, the one who was always thrilled to see me when I walked in the door. I would have mortgaged our house to save Gus when he was dying; in fact, I practically did, trying any measure to gain the four extra years we expected of our eleven year old canine child. In the end, despite the numerous medical procedures, the multiple days in the hospital, the hours of feeding him droplets of water by mouth, the forcing of teaspoons of baby food into the withering body, the cradling and the crying and the praying, it was all futile. Gus slipped away from us on a brilliant fall morning, bounding into the eternal, leaving a wound in our hearts that has yet to heal.  The good dog, the noble boy, the best friend- gone. He has since been the measure of all creatures on earth, the standard which no other living animal has yet to attain, the ultimate companion, the unsurpassed. 

    Sugar Pie, on the other hand, our scrawny female counterpoint to the mighty Gus, was 100% poodle. Not one speck of human blood coursed beneath her curly coat. We always laughed at her and said, “Well, we didn’t get out money’s worth out of that one.”  She weighed slightly less than 35 pounds, half the weight of our proud, prancing big white boy. “She’s real pretty,” we would explain, “but not the brightest bulb in the lamp.”  Whereas Gus would practically carry on a conversation with us, Sug was mute, a little aloof, standoffish.  The male dogs all loved her, sniffing and chasing and pawing after her, to which she just curled up into a bored ball, ignoring them until they gave up and went away.  Her favorite pastime was to lie in the spray of sunlight that streamed through the French doors in the dining room, a post from which she could survey all the comings and goings of River Road: the mail man, the UPS delivery truck, the bicyclists pumping down the corridor, the meter reader, the deer that ambled across the lawn each evening, the scurrying squirrels searching for nuts, the  robins pecking for worms and grubs. She would sit, and watch, occasionally sending up an agitated alarm, a soprano howl that let us know something unusual was in the yard.

     On an early November morning, the week before Thanksgiving, while Sissey and I were in the final, harried throes of a busy semester, my husband called in a panic and said,  “Something’s wrong with Sug.  She’s foaming at the mouth, her abdomen is rock hard, and she can barely walk. I’m taking her in to see Jimmy.” He rushed her to our vet and soon called back with the grim diagnosis-- a twisted stomach, an emergency situation.  A decision had to be made, quickly, every second critical to the outcome.  There were only two options: surgery, to try to repair the tangled and dying stomach, or euthanization.  I rapidly reviewed the situation, considered the twelve year age of Sug, the cost of the surgery, the upcoming financial demands of Thanksgiving and Christmas.

     “I don’t know, give me a minute to think,” I told him as he pressed me for an answer. “I’m thinking, I’m thinking.”



Alf-our big red alien life form!



Our sweet Auggie



    And I was thinking. Thinking about what we had gone through in a failed attempt to save our Gus. Thinking about how we had just paid a tremendous vet bill in March in a vain effort to save Auggie, our sweet, tennis ball loving, car-chasing curly coated boy, who ultimately died from a complicated autoimmune disease. Thinking about how I had impulsively purchased a big, rare, red male poodle for my husband’s fiftieth birthday in May. Thinking about the expensive laser treatment my husband had opted for when having him neutered, even though I was all for taking him to the free spay neuter clinic at the animal shelter. Thinking about the new computer Sissey wanted for Christmas and the long list of presents I needed to buy. Thinking about how I loved Sug, but she just wasn’t Gus, and bless her heart, I believed it was time to let our pretty little gal bound on to her eternal spot in the sun.

      “I can’t make this decision alone,” he replied. “Tell me what we should do. We have to decide now, Jimmy said every second is critical.”

     “I think the best thing is to put her down, “I finally said, after several moments of running through all the possible scenarios, the post-surgery complications, the pressure on Chris to manage it all by himself while we were still in South Carolina.

     “I just don’t think it’s worth the risk, to put her through surgery, at her age. She’s twelve, Chris, that’s old age for a dog, practically 84 in human years. I don’t think we should put either one of you through such an ordeal. Besides, you still have to deal with Alf’s surgery. Can you really handle two post-surgical dogs?”

        He sadly agreed with my decision and hung up to tell Jimmy the verdict.

        Several minutes passed until my cell phone started ringing. Knowing who it was, I quickly answered.



Sug recuperating



       “I told him to do it, “ Chris began.

      “Well, I know that was hard, but I think it’s for the best.” I said.



       “No, I mean, I told him to do it, to do the surgery,” he said. “I just couldn’t say it. When I talked to Jimmy, I couldn’t tell him to put her down. I just couldn’t say the words. ”





Mr. Big is ready for Christmas



      I should have known it. A natural softy by heart, I wasn’t surprised that he had not been able to say goodbye to Sug without trying to save her first. This was the man who couldn’t hurt a fly. The man who stood outside at two o’clock in the morning with the car running, trying to euthanize a dying gerbil by gently holding the rodent under the exhaust, trying to quietly put her to sleep to end her suffering; the man who buried our dead parakeet in the yard on a cold December midnight, placing her tenderly in a shoebox in a shallow grave in the garden. The man who allowed me to spend thousands of dollars when our five pound teacup poodle broke his neck, who wordlessly paid the bill so a surgeon could implant a steel rod, plates and screws into bones the size of matchsticks.  

  I should have instinctively known that he would not have been able to make the call to put Sug down.

     Sug survived the procedure, her tummy was untangled, tacked to her abdomen, and she suffered loss of only a portion of her stomach. So now,  she lies on one sofa, Alf on the other, both licking their wounds,  recovering, while Mr. Big, happy to be home for the holidays, spends his mornings running back and forth between the two, antagonizing Alf, pampering Sug.  We are back to normal, this peculiar household of rehabilitating canines and bankrupt humans, a family who has a problem separating poodles from people.  Christmas is coming, and the bills are getting fat, so please put a penny in this dog lover’s hat.