The Commitment Revisited

Come Friday morning, my sweet daughter and I will load up my car and head north and slightly east for our eagerly anticipated yearly sojourn to Maine where we will enjoy a four-day weekend. It was during last year’s trip that we made a commitment to each other that we would cease and desist our compulsive clothing-shoes-bags-cosmetics buying for one year.  I had been thinking about it for several weeks before I unveiled my plan to her. It took her less than 24 hours to come willingly on board.

Neither of us can believe the year is over already.  I thought that I would spend more time writing about it as I grappled with urges and impulses. Strangely enough, there weren’t that many.  Yes, there were a few times when I came close to cheating.  As winter dragged on, seeming never to end in the northeast or anywhere else, I lusted after spring clothes in the few catalogs I hadn’t cancelled.  After months of moving them directly from mailbox to garbage can, I started browsing again. I began to get emails from my favorite stores with subject lines,  “We’ve missed you”,  along with “Just for you” coupons in the mail if I’d only return to the fold. But I didn’t succumb to the enticements and the urges went away once I was able to wash those sweaters one last time and unearth another season’s clothing from storage.

A trip into a Kohl’s in early May where I stopped to look for slim chinos for my skinny brother almost got me into trouble.  I was in a hurry, since I was en route home from seeing him and still had 4-1/2 hours to go. As an infrequent visitor to Kohl’s,  I didn’t know where to find the pants  so I just turned right as I burst into the store, figuring I’d run into them sooner or later.  At the end of the first aisle, displayed on a model was a turquoise and navy striped casual top, the colors heather-like. I stopped. Anyone who knows me well knows I like any color as long as it’s blue or purple. Anyone who knows me well would have stopped at this display and thought, “That top looks just like Jan.” My sister or my daughter or my best friend, had they been the ones stopping at this display might actually have bought it, thinking it would be a great gift.  I looked at it closely, found my size, thought, “No, keep going.” I kept going, found the pants, bought the pants, and went back to the top.  I argued with myself  -- “That’s so cute. You don’t have anything like it. It would go with so many things.” “Yes, it’s cute, but there will be other cute things. You don’t need it.” “But I WANT it.” “But you will feel terrible if you cheat. “ So I wrote down the brand and all the identifying information I could locate and got out of Kohl’s, integrity intact.

But it was not the end of it. I REALLY coveted that top. I looked it up on line, toyed with putting it in my shopping cart, and went through the same argument with myself all over again. “You don’t need it.” “But I WANT it.”  Two weeks’ later, pulled by a magnet into the same Kohl’s store, it was still there.  I picked it up, thought about trying it on, put it down.  My heart knew that I really would feel worse cheating than leaving it behind. I resolved to stop torturing myself.

Then I went to Paris in June with my best friend. Wherever we go, we shop. Before leaving, I formulated a plan. My daughter had been to Paris several years ago and came back with “stuff” for me – a small replica of the Eiffel Tower, a print of Degas’ sculpture of the 14-year-old Dancer, a trendy bag, a magnet.  I promised myself that I would be selective – perhaps if I found a small piece of inexpensive art in Montmarte, or another Degas print from Musee D’Orsay, I would buy them. But this would not be a trip of accumulation. Since I already had some things from Paris, I didn’t need to overdo it.  I did well and wasn’t tempted by too much. Things were frightfully expensive anyway, always a deterrent. I got vicarious pleasure from watching my friend shop.  I had fun buying some things for my daughter. And then I saw “The Dress.” It was in a corner store, displayed on a mannequin in the window -- a blue and white sun dress.  Just the type of dress one might wear to a polo match (not that I’ve ever been to one).  Feminine, pretty…… and blue.  We saw it one evening after dark – the store was closed. It was drizzling slightly outside. We were tired and eager to get back to our hotel. But afterwards, I could not get the dress out of my mind.  We spent time during the subsequent two evenings looking for the store again – we had failed to note its location the first time around, and only knew the general neighborhood.  The night before we left to come home, we finally found it --  open this time.  The dress on the mannequin was the only one left in that color. I checked the price tag – 150 Euros. Gasp. There were other dresses in the same style, different patterns on the racks, so rather than undress the mannequin, I tried on one of those.  I gazed at myself in the dressing room mirror, not really enamored with how the dress looked on me. Maybe I would have liked it better ten years ago. I was disappointed and also relieved.  150 Euros.  I’m not a math whiz but I knew that was about $215. I left the dressing room and put the dress back on the rack. “How’d you like it?” my friend asked. “Nah,” I said. “Not quite right.” Leaving the store, I peeked at the size tag on the mannequin model’s dress. It was not my size.  More relief.  As we walked down the street, I thanked my friend for her patience in helping me find the store again. She wanted to know what I would have done had I liked the dress on me AND had the blue one been the right size.  I told her that I hoped the fact that I wouldn’t spend over $200 on a dress in the United States would have deterred me ultimately from spending that amount on a dress in another country.

Two near misses.  One solid year without shopping for clothes I did not need.  This is notwithstanding the underwear and shirt my brother’s and my little side trip to Cody necessitated (see You Forgot My Suitcase, 7/17/11).   

My daughter and I have considered what the end of this commitment means. We’ve both been cleaning out our closets, getting rid of things we don’t/won’t wear, things we shouldn’t have bought in the past but did. She assesses she needs a new black bag for work. I need new sneakers. I actually noticed a hole in mine early this week. I know that I still, even a year later, do not need anything more. I can easily go another fall, winter, spring and summer on what I have. Am I bored with some of my things? Perhaps a little. Can I manage that boredom? Absolutely. Does this mean I’m signing on for another year of a no-shopping-commitment? You bet.

You Forgot My Suitcase

It had not been part of the plan to stay overnight in Cody.  After all, I had already paid for seven nights at our motel in Jackson.  We started out earlier than usual for the long drive because everything that involves going through Yellowstone Park takes longer than you think it should.  Getting to Cody requires a right angle drive into and out of the park – there is simply no hypotenuse way to get there, unless mountain climbing is your forte. And it’s not ours.   

By myself, I would not have been particularly drawn to Cody but because of my brother’s interest in Buffalo Bill, it was pretty high on the must-do list. We pull into town about 1 p.m. after navigating hairpin turns and curly-q roads for five hours. I have already made up my mind – no way will I be driving back on that road tonight. We have plans to see a musical variety show that will not begin until 8 p.m. If we get out at 10 p.m. and it took us over 5 hours to get here in daylight – well, you can do the math.  Like I said, no way, no how.

As we roll into town, the first mission is to find a motel for the night. I have no idea how much in demand rooms are in early July but I am not going to take a chance of being without one. We drive up and then down the Main Street, locating the theater where the show will be, perusing restaurants and shops. On the way, I fill my brother in on my thoughts. “I don’t think I want to drive all the way back to our motel in Jackson tonight, Dave. It took so long to get here, and it would be very, very late if we wait until after the show tonight.” I let this sink in. “Besides, “ I say. “I don’t want to take the chance of hitting a moose in the dark.” His face gets all serious, “Oh no,” he breathes.  He knows I hit a deer once and totaled my car. Then he brightens.  Staying here appeals to him. “Is ok, Dee,” he says agreeably. Choosing convenience (a place in town, in walking distance of our later destinations) over cost (Super 8 outside of town), we book our room and go to dump our stuff—oh, we don’t have any stuff.

For now it’s time to concentrate on what my brother wants to do – all of which involve the town’s tourist destinations. But late in the afternoon,  I suggest a trip to Walmart. I explain that we are going to need some things in order to stay overnight.  He considers the idea. “You forgot the suitcases,” he scowls slightly. “No,” I correct him. “I didn’t forget them, I just didn’t plan on staying here tonight. So we need to get some toothbrushes and stuff like that.”  “My pjs,” he says.

Inside Walmart, I grab a cart, tell him to stay with me, and head off toward the “health and beauty” section.  Toothbrushes. What color do you want, Dave? Blue. Guy after my own heart. Two blue, slightly varied, toothbrushes, check. Travel size toothpaste. Check. Travel size deodorant, Secret. Check. Travel size deodorant, Degree. Ch…. My brother objects, “Sport” he says.  “Oh Dave, they don’t have Sport kind in these small sizes. This will be ok for tonight. It all works the same.”  He doesn’t put up a fuss. Check.  I zip around the corner to hair care products. We need something to run through our hair in the morning. “Do you like long combs or short combs, Dave?” Give him a choice when he has a choice. Long comb, check.  It will work for both of us. Shower cap, check. I need this anyway, the  elastic is shot on mine at home. 

“We aren’t going to get a razor,” I tell my brother. I hope he isn’t going to argue about this.  He uses an electric one. “You’ll have to skip shaving in the morning and do it when we get back to Jackson tomorrow.” He laughs and rubs his chin, “I be Santa Claus,” he says. “Yes, you will,” I agree and keep moving.  I do a u-turn and head toward the clothing department. “Whoa,” my brother says – he’s not one to move too quickly. “Come on,” I say, “we’re in a hurry.” “Yes, Captain,” my smart-ass brother responds to my order – and adds a salute for emphasis.  I roll my eyes.

In the men’s department, I dart from display to display, very indecisive. I don’t want to spend much money here – my brother, like me, has way more clothes than he actually needs. New things are not on the agenda. I decide that we need a shirt for him to sleep in, a shirt for tomorrow, socks, and underwear. The shorts he is wearing, which are not yet dirty, will have to do.  I hold up a few t-shirts, different colors. “You like this? You like this? You like this?” He shakes his head at each one and says no. I sigh. “Back there,” he points. “Where?”  He retraces our steps and I follow. Stopping at a display, he picks up a black Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt. It has a huge eagle and an American flag in the middle, and Lynyrd Skynyrd emblazoned underneath. “Oh no,” I say. I imagine my mother rolling over in her grave if he were to venture out in that. “We are not buying Lynyrd Skynyrd.”  He sighs loudly, I’m such a pain in his neck. Now, my brother doesn’t even know who Lynyrd Skynyrd is, I know that. It is the eagle and the flag that have caught his eye. He has probably six at home with similar decoration, minus the band.

I pull him back over to the more conservative displays but I am still vacillating like crazy. Maybe I even look a little crazy, careening from display to display, picking the same things up over and over again, and rejecting them.  I pick up a polo shirt – cheap - $5. “What about this?” I beg my brother. “Look, they have it in light blue;  it will look nice with your shorts.” I hold my breath. “OK,” he says, “I pick that.”  We head toward the boys’ section to choose sneaker socks – my brother has really small feet so I grab a pair of plain white ones from the display before he has a chance to notice and tell me they are for “kids.”  Now we need something to sleep in. I look at the sea of colorful displays and do not want to wade back into the maze. I feel I am losing patience and I don’t want my brother to bear the brunt of that.   I glance at him. “OK,” I capitulate, “I will get you that eagle t-shirt if you promise to wear it only to sleep in.” “Oh, I do,” my brother says in all sincerity though  I’m sure he’s thinking what I don’t know won’t hurt me.  He fetches the t-shirt and carries it like a treasure.

I grab a pair of underwear, some sneaker socks, and a $5 t-shirt for myself. It’s blue, and I know I will wear it again. I feel badly about this as it violates my no-shopping policy. However, I decide that this doesn’t really count as “cheating” and congratulate myself that I have expended minimal funds on this unintended adventure.  Except for the motel, that is.  Before we head to the cash registers, we veer back to the pharmacy section to grab some nexium, which my brother will need in the morning.  The vitamins and calcium will wait until we return later in the day.  

Now we have something to put in the motel. My brother lays out the Lynyrd Skynyrd  t-shirt and smooths away imagined wrinkles. I remind him, “That’s to sleep in tonight, David.” He gives me a dramatic sigh.  “You forgot my suitcase,” he says again. I glare at him but laugh too.  I can’t win.

Shopping behind us, we head out for dinner and our show at 8, pausing along the way to look in stores and admire all the souvenirs and hand-made items. When we finally return to the motel later that night, my brother seems confused. “My medicine,” he says. “We bought you the nexium, which is really what you need,” I said. “You can take the rest of the stuff when we get back to the motel. You’ll be fine,”  I reassure him. “Oh, ok,” he says. Then he laughs. “My pjs,” he says. “No suitcase.” I remind him of the eagle t-shirt he can wear to sleep in tonight with his underwear. I tell him that I don’t have all my regular things either, including my nightgown. And I will sleep in the t-shirt I have on. “Ok,” he says again. He’s not really one to go with the flow – he likes his routine.  “Isn’t this an adventure?” I say to him as I climb under the sheets.  Mmmm hmmm, he says while flipping through the channels with the remote. He doesn’t sound convinced.

“Don’t stay up too late,” I tell him as I plump my pillow and settle down.  I can sleep through anything, including the SciFi channel he’s stopped on. “Yes, captain,” he teases.  “Smarty,” I answer back. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he says. I turn over. “You forgot my suitcase.”

On the Road Again Though I Missed Alien Creek

    

We sit side by side in a former movie theater in Cody, Wyoming, which is now used for what has been billed as a “Branson-style” variety show. As we wait for the show to begin, I broach the subject with my brother. “You know,” I say, “Tomorrow is our last day of vacation.” I hesitate an instant and he  actually growls at me. I tease him, “You’re the first bear I’ve seen on this trip.” He scowls. “You missed dat,” he says accusingly. “I missed what,” I say, bracing myself. My brother is really good at pointing out things that I forgot, although mostly it’s things that he wanted for his birthday or Christmas that I couldn’t find or drew the line at. “Alien Creek,” he sputters. I am truly puzzled. “Alien Creek?” “No!” he sounds indignant, “ALIEN Creek.” I take a deep breath. “Dave, I am sorry but I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me.” My brother puts his flat hand over the front of his mouth and makes a monotone noise as he pumps his hand in and out. Ah-wa-wa-wa-wa, comes out. I get it. “Indian Creek,” I exclaim. “Yes,” he says, again indignant, as if I am a moron. “Alien Creek.”

I can feel my blood pressure rising. “There’s no Indian Creek.” I am feeling mad myself. I have just spent six days and a lot of money doing everything on this vacation to please him that I can think of….. a float trip on the Snake River, a chuck wagon dinner with western show, a chair lift up a mountain and an alpine slide down the same mountain, miniature golf, finding a 4^th of July parade, sitting for 3 hours listening to bluegrass and patriotic music, fireworks, and at least six hours of driving for several of those days in Yellowstone National Park stopping at almost every overlook, waterfall, and geyser so he can take photographs. I don’t want to hear about Indian Creek.

I repeat, “There is no Indian Creek.” “Yes there is,” he accuses. “Is in the book.” Oh for heaven’s sake, I think. “The book” could be any one of a number of slick, glossy travel enticements and brochures that he’s been picking up along the way all week. He loves them and delights in showing me what he wants to do. So I am used to saying, “Yes, of course we can do that.” Or “No, that’s across the state, we can’t go there this time.”  But Alien Creek, I mean Indian Creek is news to me. And since my brother is very concrete, I also surmise what else he’s thinking as he accuses me of missing dat.

I take another deep breath. “There may very well be an Indian Creek, David,” I say slowly because I am trying to control my irritation. “But we don’t have time to find it, AND there-are-no-Indians-in-Indian-Creek.” I emphasize this last clause. My brother is a western movie fanatic. Cowboys, Indians, horses, guns, bows and arrows. He loves it all.

“Yes there are,” he shoots back at me. Now I feel like growling. Another deep breath leaks out of me. It’s hard to argue with someone who’s concrete. So I say what comes to mind, “There are no Indians in Indian Creek just like there were no snakes in the Snake River, and no yellow stones in the Yellowstone River.” We have been in a raft on the Snake River together so I feel safe drawing this analogy and I add the part about yellow stones for good measure.  

For once, he doesn’t argue. He puts his head on the back of the padded burgundy seat and stares up at the ceiling, ignoring me. I stifle a giggle. Let him be mad, I think. He’ll get over it. After a couple of interminable moments, he puts his head up and gives in, “OK, Dee,” he says (that’s what he’s always called me, go figure), “no aliens in Alien Creek.”  “Good,” I say, “I’m glad you see it my way, you old bear, you.” He giggles and then goes serious. “I love Yellowstone,” he says. “I do too,” I assure him. “And we’ve had a lot of fun, haven’t we?” “Yes, Dee,” he says. I tell him that we do still have tomorrow and we’ll drive slowly back through the park from Cody to where we are staying in Jackson and stop at every place we didn’t have time to stop earlier that day.

  

This is an annual event, this vacation we’re on, the sixth one since our mom passed away. It is his time to ride shot-gun in the front seat beside me, his time to be the partner in any conversation that takes place in the car, waiting in line, sitting in a restaurant, or relaxing in the motel. Our time is planned around things I know he’d like to do and experiences I want him to have. Yes, there are occasional frustrations – he can’t read a map so everything has to be planned out carefully ahead of time (though this year I carted my GPS on the plane with me); the conversation isn’t always particularly stimulating and sometimes feels like playing charades (see above), and I always have to be on my toes, thinking for two, but I relish this bonding time on the road with my brother. And maybe next year, we will find Indian Creek.      

Excuses, Excuses, Excuses or Why I Missed a Week

I’ve been writing this blog for almost ten months. Amidst numerous competing responsibilities and pressing “must-do’s” I have managed to crank something out on a more-or-less weekly basis. But last weekend was different. I got bogged down. Overwhelmed. I couldn’t focus. 

It wasn’t a particularly unusual weekend. 

I was on the road at 2:30 a.m. last Saturday driving across the state to my brother. This is my thinking time, my life-planning, blog-composing, blissfully alone time. I do not mind doing this. I have my routines. I stop in Binghamton, mid-way, at 5:30 a.m. at a Dunkin Donuts for a cup of coffee and yes, a donut. Boston crème. Then I stop at a 24-hour Wegman’s to wander about the aisles for a few minutes. I look at their flower section, the expansive magazine display, the children’s books, the gluten-free items. I don’t buy anything, I just look.

I pull into the driveway of my brother’s group home at precisely 8:50 a.m., chat with staff, then head to breakfast at Miss Batavia Diner. Fifty years ago, my dad often took my sister and me to dinner there when our mother was pregnant with our brother and suffering 24 hour morning sickness. After my mom died and most of my weekends were spent cleaning out her house, the diner became my kitchen away from home, its owner and the staff welcoming and friendly. We get to ignore the “please wait to be seated” sign and head for “our” booth at the front where Lisa, the owner, appears with the coffee pot, a hug, and the hazelnut creamer she knows I like.

In the car I have given my brother an article about Randy “Macho Man” Savage dying in a car crash. I had promised I would print it the evening before after he’d told me this terrible news over the phone. He studies the article seriously, picking out words he knows. Macho Man, car, crash, Florida, Miss Elizabeth, WWE.

Over breakfast, he asks me to read it and I do, scanning ahead for the gist, then summarizing convoluted sentences with briefer, more understandable ones. He listens intently. I read the part about his wife being injured. “She die too?” he asks. “No, she’s just hurt, not badly,” I add. “Whew, close one,” he says.

After we eat, we drop a time-sensitive package off at UPS. I’ve been trying to do that all week in New York without success. We pick up my brother’s suit jacket from the cleaners that I left there two weeks prior. Am I the only one who notices sleeves that are spotted with gravy?  Next stop is the Salvation Army store to drop off old books I have carted all the way from NYC. Then to the bank to cash a check. My aunt calls in the midst of this wondering if I would stop at the pharmacy to pick up a prescription for her.

A half hour later, we are heading to our favorite nursery/greenhouse outside of Rochester. My elderly aunt and uncle are along for the ride. This field trip, which could be accomplished in 30 minutes were it just me, stretches to 90 as they ponder their selections, move slowly, occasionally lose each other. My aunt hints, “Gosh, those hot dogs smell good.” This is a full-service nursery. It is 12:10 p.m. “How about a hot dog?” I say to my brother, knowing full well how he’s going to respond. He looks at his watch and frowns, “Not 12:30,” he says like I’m an idiot. “No, but it will be in 20 minutes,” I say. “I’m getting you one.” I direct the three of them to an unoccupied picnic table and stand in line for the hot dogs, sweating in the humid Rochester air. I hate hot dogs. After delivering them, with mustard, I head off in search of the vending machine for drinks. When I return, my brother hasn’t touched his food. He frowns again.  “Miss Batavia,” he says. “No,” I say, “We aren’t going back to the diner for lunch this time. Look, it’s 12:25, you’ll be hungry in five minutes,” I cajole.   “Oh all right,” he says, resigned. “Me eat.”  Thank you god(dess).

Back at home base, we unload my aunt and uncle and the trunk full of flowers. My brother and I head to the other end of town to Home Depot for dirt.  En route, he produces a booklet of coupons for McDonalds and points to a picture of a fruit smoothie. “Mmmm good,” he says and smacks his lips with gusto. I sigh at this second hint of the day. The coupons expire in a week. He’s not likely to get there unless I take him. “OK,” I agree, pulling into McDonald’s for his free smoothie.

Back at his house, we need to relocate his winter clothes to the basement and bring his summer things upstairs. But his room is an utter disaster. I remember hearing the strain in my mother’s voice telling me she was in a bad mood because she’d cleaned his room. Now, I totally get it. All over the place are little pieces of paper with the same sentences written obsessively on them. Videos and DVDs not in their cases lay strewn about in random places. He has several plastic bags hanging from drawer and door knobs, each with little collections of similarly themed DVDs in them. This one has an Elvis theme; that one has a Godzilla theme, still another with John Wayne movies. Bottle caps on the desk top, on the floor, behind furniture. Empty water bottles. Half-filled (and moldy) juice bottles. I open a desk drawer to find a pair of underwear sitting on top of papers. There are 3 layers of coats, sweaters, and shirts over the back of the desk chair. There are straw papers on the floor, old paper plates under his bed. A Christmas card with $20 in it, missing since January is unearthed under the desk. Behind the headboard of his bed, there is a pajama top on the floor, 3 or 4 mismatched socks, and a belt. There are gobs and gobs of dust everywhere. I unearth three toothbrushes from various hiding spots, and five or six old cleaning rags (unused). I am livid. The AC isn’t on yet in the house so I am also sweating profusely and I can feel my hair frizzing. After two hours of cleaning and tossing and telling him this is intolerable, we are ready to make the clothing swap. I carefully examine everything we are folding to take down to storage in the basement. “Is this clean?” I ask more than a dozen times. “When was the last time you washed this?” I explain for probably the hundredth time that just because he didn’t spill something visible on that white shirt doesn’t mean it doesn’t need to be washed before it is put away for the summer. He just doesn’t get the concept of body oil. Save your breath, girl.   

By 5 p.m., I’ve had quite enough of him and I’m sure he’s eager to get me out of his room, so we hug goodbye until morning. I leave with 15 summer polo shirts, horribly wrinkled after their long winter’s nap, to iron back at my aunt’s. I know they will never get ironed unless I do it.  

The day is far from over though. First, there are the 15 polos to iron. In addition, my aunt/uncle will soon be celebrating 70 years of marriage. I can not imagine being married to anyone for 70 years. This is a big deal, and I have made reservations to take them for dinner at one of their favorite places.

We are home by 8 and it’s still light enough for me to drag my potting soil out of the trunk and plant three kettles full of geraniums for the cemetery.  Then we sit out by the garage, watching the rest of the daylight fade, the hummingbirds draw the last drop of red sugar water from their feeder, the row of solar lamps in the garden burst to life one by one. This is the one peaceful moment of the day. I’m trying to be in it, not thinking about the final papers I should be reading for one class, the grades I should be calculating for the other, the laundry that won’t get washed, the food shopping for myself that won’t get done. I consider a week of eating oatmeal, hummus and carrots, and popcorn for dinner. It is nearly 10 p.m. and since I have been up since 2 a.m., my eyes are slowly crossing and my brain is closing up shop. Go to bed, girl.

Sunday morning, we go back to the diner for breakfast, then off to another town to deliver one crock of geraniums to my grandmother’s grave. We stop at the grocery store for snacks for my brother. Then Walmart for film for his camera. I remember that we need to shop for his gift for our brother-in-law, whose birthday will come before I will be back in town. Finally, with all missions accomplished, we head through town back to his home. I glance at him in the seat next to me. He has his glasses off and is rubbing his right eye. “What’s wrong with your eye?” I say. “Do you have something in it?”

“No,” he says. “I sad.”  

“What are you sad about?”

“Macho Man Randy Savage,” he says.

“Oh, yes,” I say, trying to summon up patience and empathy. “It’s too bad, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he whimpers.

“But,” I say, “think of it this way. “He’s probably up in heaven already hugging Miss Elizabeth.” I learned from the article that she had been his first wife, and she had died of an overdose many years ago. 

“Oh,” he says, looking brighter. He ponders that for a minute. “That’s good,” he agrees, finally. He puts his glasses back on and looks out the window up at the sky. “You be fine,” he says presumably to Macho Man. Deluge averted.

We drop off his snacks at his house, but everything has to be first marked with his name. We stop at another cemetery to deliver mom and dad’s geraniums. Then back to my aunt’s house. I start to pack up my car for the drive home. I give my brother the card we bought for our brother-in-law. “Here,” I say. “Sign this.”  He laboriously – and very neatly –  pens his name, then waits patiently for me to spell the address for him as I pass back and forth carrying my stuff to the car. 

Finally, after hugs all around, I pull out of the driveway. Next to me on the seat is a wicker basket containing a raspberry turnover my aunt has baked that morning, 2 sticky buns loaded with walnuts, and 2 pieces of cake that she has saved for me in the freezer. This is not good.

I drive. I stop for coffee. I eat the turnover. I stop for gas. I stop at Staples for some supplies I need. I stop at Kohl’s to look for slim chinos for my skinny brother. I eat a sticky bun. And drink more coffee. I stop again at Wegman’s, buy some cards, buy some gluten-free items for my daughter. I stop at a Best Buy to look at computers because mine is driving me nuts. While there I decide I could be convinced that I need a new camera, a flat-screen television, and a wireless router. This is not good. Get out of Best Buy, girl.

Back on the road, I approach the Tioga exit for the casino. I am thinking about stopping. I need soothing and I have the idea that sitting alone at a slot machine might help. The loss of $70 on my last trip to a casino, however, is still painfully fresh in my mind. I step firmly on the gas and drive resolutely by the exit. Stopping is not a good idea.

It is 9 p.m. by the time I pull into my driveway. In 11-1/2 hours I will be back at work, racing against time. The laundry is unwashed, the refrigerator barren, 25 papers remain unread, 26 grades are uncalculated, the blog is unwritten. I.just.can’t.

A Private Holiday Between Mother and Child

I expected to miss my mom the most during the winter holidays. After all, holidays were a BIG DEAL, not only when I was growing up but after I became an adult. In all my 53 years before she died, I never missed a single Thanksgiving or Christmas holiday with my mom. My daughter and I and my sister and her family always, always made the trek west and north to our hometown where delicious smells, fireplace warmth, and mother-spoiling awaited us.

What I didn’t expect was the emotional wallop I felt when my birthday came after she passed away. Certainly as a child, my birthday was treated as a special event. In western New York, where spring takes its sweet time arriving, my mid-May birthday often coincided with our first real taste of spring-like weather. The lilacs were opening, sweetly scenting the air, the big trees that dotted our yard were bright green with new leaves, and my favorite lilies of the valley were bursting in the space between the concrete steps leading to our front door. Each morning as I left the house to catch the school bus, I checked the progress of the lilies’ growth, crossing my fingers that by the time May 16 dawned, they would blossom.

Beyond the flowers, what I liked most about my childhood birthdays was the food because I got to pick exactly what I wanted to eat. For as long as I can remember, birthday breakfast was always Canadian bacon and Pillsbury frosted cinnamon rolls. As I’d watch mom pop them out of their cylinder and arrange the raw dough swirls on a cookie sheet, I would practically wriggle in delight at the prospect of their melt-in-my-mouth goodness a mere 18 minutes away. Twenty perhaps if you counted the time it would take to frost them.  My cake request at night was always angel food with mom’s homemade chocolate frosting. I don’t remember the main course – ever – but the day started and ended with sweet joy.

But once I moved away from home to the other side of the state, my birthday became just another work day. I celebrated with my daughter, usually still inviting the Pillsbury Dough Boy to breakfast. We’d go out for dinner, just we two, riding the bus and then the subway from our Queens’ apartment to the West Village and a little Italian basement restaurant called Carmella’s. We almost always chose the simmering and delectable manicotti while dessert was a fruit tart pastry, artfully topped with my favorite raspberries, blueberries, and strawberries. I could hardly wait for it to be placed in front of me. And if I had a weekend birthday, we’d plan to do something fun like shopping, riding roller coasters at Great Adventure Amusement Park, seeing a movie, or in later years, attending a Broadway show.

Sure, mom was always the first to call me in the morning to wish me a happy birthday, her voice full of love 350 miles away. She always sent a box of presents in the mail that arrived at least two days ahead of time, usually at work because she knew I’d be there to collect them. One year in the late 1990’s, she picked a bouquet of lilies of the valley from between her front steps, carefully placed them in water-filled plastic tubes florists use to keep roses fresh, and then carefully placed the plastic tubes upright in a wide-mouthed jar. Somehow she rigged her packaging so the lilies were protected on all sides from being crushed; everything was tripled padded so no apparent water leakage would occur and she expressed mailed them to me at work. I will never forget my complete surprise – no, shock – and gratitude as the heavenly smell of lilies of the valley wafted out of her highly creative packaging. I picked up the phone immediately – “You are amazing,” I laughed, delighted as I imagined her executing her plan.

There was one more birthday I would be in her company.  The spring mom had surgery for ovarian cancer, I spent my birthday with her in a chemotherapy suite. It was her second ever chemo session and it was an all-day affair. We packed our lunch at home in the morning and ate sandwiches together as she sat tethered to an IV, poison pulsing through her bloodstream. I joked with her urging that she visualize the poison munching on the errant cancer cells that remained in her body.  She kept saying that it was a terrible way for me to spend my birthday. I considered it an honor and said so.

I had three more birthdays before she passed away. Because I would have seen her for Mother’s Day the week before, travelled to her again at Memorial Day, and joined her for her June birthday, I stayed home for my own, resuming my usual celebratory activity with my daughter.  

So I was unprepared for the wave of melancholia that crashed over me my first birthday without mom. Except for the chemo year, I’d had probably thirty birthdays without her. Why did I feel like pulling the shades, crawling in my bed, and sobbing?  I had plans with my daughter for dinner and a show. It was a Tuesday. This was the norm. I wasn’t supposed to feel this way until Thanksgiving. But I was bereft. 

It was the same the following year and the next and the next. I’d wake up morose and it would linger all day. The days were pleasant enough – often lunch out with a beloved colleague, dinner out with my sweet daughter, a couple of great shopping blitzes, and Broadway plays every single year. The calendars I save as a record of my life document all that. Still forlorn lingered.

I was cleaning out a cupboard of books this year, part of my effort to de-stuff myself, when I came across my baby book. My mother documented my birth, noting that her labor began at 4:45 p.m. on May 16. She went to the hospital at 5:45 p.m., and I was delivered at 11:47 p.m. that same night. I laughed to myself thinking of her short labor – even then it seems I didn’t want to be too much of a bother. She wrote that she had a pudendal block as an anesthetic and that my birth was by axis-traction. Basically that means the doctor used forceps to drag me out into the world. We went home from the hospital six days later or so the baby book reports.

I pondered this in the days approaching my birthday. I listened to the tape I made of my mom talking to me the fall before she died. On the tape, she reiterated, as she had many times throughout my life, how much she wanted to have me. I was her fourth pregnancy over a ten-year period after marrying my father. She’d miscarried three times before a miracle drug of the times helped her to carry to term. I thought about how emotionally and physically intimate giving birth is. A birth is an event that is ultimately experienced only between a mother and her child. Others are there, maybe even in the room, cheering, supporting, and celebrating the big moment. But in the end, a birth day is a private holiday. I have one of those “a-ha” moments when the intellectual and visceral collide in understanding. I understand why I have felt so unfinished on the day of my birth. My sole (and soul) partner in our profound holiday dance is gone.    

Mother's Day Reflections from an Orphan

I wanted to write about my mom this Mother’s Day. I loved her dearly. She gave so much to me and I miss her incredibly. But as I have repeatedly stalled out over the words the past few days, I finally accepted that perhaps I was just not ready to do so. 

I have never put much emphasis on Mother’s Day, at least not as far as me being the mother is concerned. I’ve always considered it to be one of those Hallmark holidays that obligate people to spend money or feel guilty if they don’t. It’s filled with imperatives. I do not want to be feted out of duty. I’d rather be treated to lunch in the middle of March “just because” than to be paraded into a restaurant on Mother’s Day with the rest of the throngs because the calendar and big business dictates it. This position, however, has never stopped me from trying to meet other people’s needs on Mother’s Day.

Then

My first memory of trying to make my mother happy on Mother’s Day was when I was about 8. I decided that my sister and I should pool our allowances (saved faithfully week after week in our homemade Tupperware banks) and convince our father to take mom to Lake Placid for a weekend. Lake Placid, I knew, had been their honeymoon destination, so I figured it had to be a nice place. The reason for this particular gift was to give her a break from my sister and me because we fought constantly. Mom just hated that. “I can stand noise,” she always said, “but I can’t stand fighting.”  Dad was only too happy to agree to the plan especially since it involved a road trip, although I’m sure it cost him a bundle more than what we had to offer up as payment.  However, since affordability was never a barrier to his good time, he willingly complied and whisked her away.

My last memory of trying to bring my mother happiness on Mother’s Day was the spring before she passed away. It had become my practice to fly her and my brother to New York City for Mother’s Day, but that year she was much too weak to tolerate airports and hassles. So, my daughter and I trekked across the state to spend the day with her, my brother, and our aunt and uncle. Photos taken of her that day provide evidence that she was already beginning to fade away from us.

The following year, she was gone. My brother, having lost his mother and his home as a result, had been moved into a group home; my aunt, mom’s older sister, wept much of the time, in disbelief and grief.  So my attention turned to their needs. I felt driven to show up, to “be there” for them, and to try to make the day as easy as possible. Mother’s Day now included a visit to the cemetery, bouquets of roses, mom’s favorite, lovingly placed at her grave, and dinner out with the survivors. Mom had already abandoned them – I couldn’t do the same.  My daughter understood and urged me to do what I needed to do.  She understands internal conflict.

And now

This year was to be my sixth Mother’s Day as an orphan. I decided to stay home. Well, not so much stay home as come home because I was actually across the state with my brother as the weekend began. My sweet daughter had announced weeks before as we compared schedules her intention to block Mother’s Day off to spend with me. Although we connect most days by text or email, we don’t get to see each other as often as we’d like. It’s rare that we end up with the same day free. So this was an offer not to be refused and with her, obligation is not even a consideration. I drove home Saturday night to be with her.

Sunday unfolds into sunshine. I pick her up at her apartment in the city early – 7:30 a.m. which means I am up at 6.  She could have taken the train but fetching her means more time together so I am totally up for the trip no matter what the hour or how little sleep I’ve had. The conversation begins the minute she climbs in the car, and it doesn’t stop. At home, we make breakfast together, fresh blueberry pancakes, gluten-free, and we laugh over the chai lattes we bought on the way here. The day morphs into stunningly gorgeous. We leave the house and walk on a nearby winding parkway that closes to motorized traffic for eight glorious Sundays in the spring. I have always wanted to do this, but weather and my constant cross-state trips have conspired against it until today. We share the pavement with bikes, joggers, strollers, and other walkers.  The trees are in full bloom and often shade the road; the river for which the parkway is named, is swollen and rushes over the rocks creating music in the background. We talk non-stop about our jobs, what we want for the future, vacation plans, current events, men in her life, how our shopping ban is going, and our observations about how people we encounter with children are interacting with them. Five-and-a-half miles later, in only slight pain, we leave the parkway, stop at a yuppie deli in my village, order sandwiches and eat outside on sidewalk tables. We top it off with gelato and refuse to feel guilty.  We are comfortable in our jeans (me) and yoga pants (her) and we are together. No reservations necessary.

As we sit on the sidewalk, she suddenly asks, “So how are you doing today?”  This is not a random or rhetorical question. She means, “Are you ok since this is Mother’s Day and grammie is dead?” She’s probably been wondering when and how to fit this in during our conversation which has now spanned several hours. A part of her truly wants an open and authentic relationship with me and by definition, this must include both the good and the not-so-good. The other part of her hopes I’m still the mom who can handle everything, including my emotions with aplomb.    

Knowing my daughter, I should have expected it, but I admit the question catches me off-guard. I hesitate, not quite knowing what to say. I go for the truth. “Well,” I say carefully. “I know it is Mother’s Day, and I am aware that my own mom is not here. But did I wake up this morning and have my first thought be about what I don’t have? No, I did not.  I confess it wasn’t even my second thought. What I did think was I’m so happy I’m going to see my kid today. My mind was on what I do have.”  I hasten to add that I do miss Grammie, almost every day. But this year I am at peace. I am home with my own precious child.  And it is a perfect day.

Humankind. Be Both.

I saw this phrase almost a year ago on a sticker firmly adhered to the tall gray metal file cabinet in my dentist’s small office space. I don’t know who said it. Google doesn’t seem to know, either.

It stayed with me, one of those maxims that resonated. I want to be kind. I try to be kind. I probably don’t always succeed. Impatience, anger, and frustration sometimes get in my way.

My daughter told me a story of an event she witnessed one winter day when she was working at her first post-college job. It was frigid, snowing, and windy. On a street in midtown Manhattan, she watched a man, dressed smartly in a business suit covered by a warm winter coat, take off that coat and deposit it around the shoulders of an older homeless woman without one. After doing so, he just walked off down the street in the cold. No doubt he could well afford another coat but that isn’t the point.  

Humankind.

My father liked to gamble, primarily on horse races. During his lifetime, my dad did some dumb things with money but he seemed to have his head on straighter than usual when it came to gambling. He appeared not to spend more than he had in hand, and he knew enough to stop when/if he was ahead. One time, he gave his winning ticket, worth over $900, to a young couple with two small kids in a smoky OTB storefront. He perceived from their conversation and actions that they were desperate for money. He watched them for awhile, wishing that they didn’t have their children with them. When his winning race ended, he walked over to the couple and handed the ticket to the young woman. “Cash this in,” he said, “and please take your children home.” 

  

He told me this story long after it happened and just before he passed away. It was in the context of a discussion about gambling and moderation.  He commented that he hadn’t wanted to judge them. He didn’t know if they made OTB a habit, whether they had problems with gambling, or what the whole story was. He just perceived that for whatever reason they needed the money more than he did, and he had it to give. So he did. I admit to being surprised that my dad with his narcissistic tendencies had it in him.

Humankind.

I recently had the worst experience with a student in the almost eleven years I’ve been in my position. I didn’t know the student, as I don’t know most of them. I sent that student, a male, aged 60, instructions to contact a particular agency for an interview for his internship. A couple day’s later, I received a copy of an email he sent to the agency director requesting the interview. Five boundary-busting, gut-spilling paragraphs later, to say I was upset is a gigantic understatement. I immediately contacted the director who was grateful. “Inappropriate. Not suitable. No thank-you.” 

This is a student who should know better. With two other Master’s degrees in the helping professions, boundaries should not be news to him. I wrote to him and suggested that it would have been better, if he had personal issues that might interfere with his ability to function in the setting, for him to tell me about them. Given his circumstances, I would have moved immediately to find another placement. However, giving so much personal information in a first contact to an agency director was inappropriate.

The next morning, I came in to find a scathing message from him. This man told me that I should consider him a peer, not just another student, that I was dictatorial, unprofessional, lacking in humanism, and that while perhaps I couldn’t appreciate an honest and open approach, maybe the agency director was able to do so. [Wait, there’s more.] Further, he claimed, there are more self-actualized ways to administer a department than I do AND he does not intend to change his “professional” approach. He will continue to set the parameters for any interview he has.  

If my jaw could have dropped any farther, it would have disconnected from my cheeks. Did I respond? I did not. Yes, I was livid. But this man was out for blood and the response that I was sorely tempted to hurl in his direction would have resulted in more venom. After days of consultation with colleagues, we decided he would be called in and (hopefully) guided to see the error of his ways.

After the meeting, convened by two colleagues, I was eager to hear what had transpired. Although it took some time, they reported that he’d “come around” at least a little bit. I rather doubt that there’s been any major character transformation; I just don’t want him to mess up another prospective internship and I don’t want any more personal attacks. I admit I’m still angry.

During the meeting, my colleagues learned some things about this man. That he’s broke. That he can’t find a job. That he’s lost all his friends because of his financial situation. [Well, I’d argue the reasoning on that one given the length and sharpness of his claws.] That some days he has to choose between eating and buying a metro card for transportation to school. That he could just curl up and cry.

There went my heart.  

There have been times in my life when I’ve put cash in an envelope and sent it off to someone I knew who needed the money. No return address. Just cash wrapped for camouflage and placed in a security envelope, mailed from a post office that is not my own.  

Old (I’d better be careful about calling 60 “old”, since I’m not far from there myself) and hungry. It’s a combination I find intolerable.

My heart is telling me to do things. Send a metro card, it says. Send some cash for food. Nobody should have to choose between food and other necessities. My heart is remembering – humankind – be both.

My brain is wondering – neurotic reaction formation? Rescue fantasies? At best, a metro card and some cash for food are stop-gap measures. I’m not planning an adoption.

Still,

Old. Hungry.

Humankind.