Our lucky day

 He was just the kind of man you might expect to see at a local coffee shop, enjoying retirement and discussing the evils of tourism on the old home turf. And we are just the type of tourists who wrongly think they blend in.

The man smiled, identified himself as Dave, and checked us in for an experience we weren't exactly ready for: Horse hunting.

Specifically, we would be hunting for a glimpse of the wild horses of Corolla, which are thought to be the descendants of Spanish mustangs that were either shipwrecked or left by explorers who landed on the northern end of North Carolina's outer banks in the 16th century. 

Dave handed us a few waiver forms with paragraphs of small-print legalese we would not read in its entirety before we signed in the two places required and initialed in the six more locations he'd have to point out a second time. 

"I need someone to ride shotgun," he said affably, looking directly at my son, who was conspicuously dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, and a straw hat that eclipsed the sun. 

"I'm thinking it's you, bud," he said, handing the boy a duck grey parka from a pile before asking the rest of us -- who did not realize an open truck out on the dunes would get mighty cold -- if we wanted an extra layer. 

Dave warned us from the jump that spotting the mustangs is never certain, and the group before ours had a tough time finding any on the two-hour tour. 

There was something surreal about piling into a truck and winding our way through housing developments that dot the dunes like sandcastles. There were no paved roads, just signposts in the sand. 

Our guide slowed. The truck inched along one stretch of marshland forest after another. No sightings. He gunned the engine and hauled us up over the dune, back to the beach. Over and over this commute continued. Dave drove us past houses owned by the famous and the infamous. He navigated the steep climbs and sharp drops with ease. 

The world was different here. The dune takes what it wants; extending 40 feet farther than it did last year. Its sand covers trees and trails. In a few years, Dave tells us, the dune will reach the sound. 

We move on. 

Dave tracked hoof prints through a scrub of Live Oak, I marveled at the grace of the tree branches. We reach the end of the pathfinding "sand apples" instead of horses.

Dave explains that the winds' shift took with it the water from the sound. "The horses like it there because the grasses are lush when that happens. But it makes it harder for us to see them."

As if on cue, a horse lumbered out of the tree line and onto the path ahead of us. Regarding us blithely before it continued feasting on a nearby lawn. 

It owns this place. 

Dave takes the opportunity to tell us that these horses are miraculous in their ability to exist with the ever-changing landscape and the encroaching humans. They are unique in the horse world, too, having a diet that is entirely restricted to the grasses that grow here. "An apple or a piece of carrot will kill these guys, and every year we find idiots feeding them."

Now that we've seen this "bachelor" specimen, Dave can relax and enjoy the ride. He points out the snake tracks that cross our path as he wheels back to the beach towards Tour HQ.

The wind isn't as harsh in this direction, though Dave doesn't seem to be in a rush. He pulls over askance in the middle of the beach and hops out, returning a few moments later with a hunk of rock he hands to the boy.

"Your lucky day! That's what happens with lightning hits sand." 

Ans then lighting stuck again as we waited to get back into the fray of beach traffic: a herd of five mustangs loped up from behind and galloped beside us along the shore. They slowed to a walk, and we slowed with them, yielding as they crossed in front and headed back to the dune and out of sight. 

It really was our lucky day.

Do no harm

As I was crawling around the internet ... looking for a recipe that could gather the ingredients left in the pantry for a dinner that would feel like a hug to the family ... (In other words a rainbow-colored unicorn that I wouldn't find) I discovered something that surprised me.

According to the Guttmacher Institute, Vermont doesn't limit abortions for any reason. 

Perhaps, my cynical brain surmised, the Green Mountain State didn't need to exert such pressure. Maybe it just doesn't have enough healthcare providers and they don't feel a need to flex that authoritarian muscle.

Or maybe they recognize that abortion is healthcare, plain and simple. Maybe they've decided legislators have no place in the exam room determining their interest in a procedure that is really not unlike an appendectomy - when you need one you should have one.  

But they seem alone in their humanity.

According to the Guttmacher Institute, a research group that supports abortion rights, thirty states have introduced legislation that seeks near-total abortion bans this year. Seven states -- Arizona, Florida, Idaho, Kentucky, Oklahoma, West Virginia, and Wyoming -- have passed bans in at least one legislative chamber.

Much of the bans target healthcare providers, intending to make abortion services inaccessible.

What will follow is predictable: Patients with the means will travel for services; patients without the means to do so will suffer; the rate of adverse outcomes will explode, including the criminalization of women who do not have successful pregnancies.

Like the Texas woman who was arrested and charged with murder after hospital workers were alleged to have turned her in for causing her own miscarriage. The case was eventually thrown out because the law that makes abortion illegal at six weeks doesn't attach criminal charges. 

As it is, abortion has long been a fraught subject. Our collective conscience has allowed us to see the procedure as a necessary evil: Something to be minimized overall ... unlike gun deaths ... or school shootings.

A woman's health ... her ability to make decisions ... or merely choose the safest evidence-based care for her situation ... shall always be infringed.

I suppose what shouldn't have surprised me -- especially in the case of Texas where an unconstitutional law on its face has virtually ended the protections of Rowe in that state -- was the realization that our healthcare providers are ready, willing, and able to allow the state's weaponized laws to do harm through them.

Perhaps it is understandable. Doctors have been murdered for doing their jobs. According to Guttmacher, less than 20 percent of private doctors perform abortion care as part of their women's health practices. They, understandably, don't want to be the targets of those allowed to harass under cover of "free speech." 

Meanwhile, women continue to endure poor treatment and worse outcomes because we won't defend them and their constitutionally protected care.  

But I don't understand. And I don't think I can forgive when it causes real harm.

All of the arguments made to limit choice do so under the bad-faith reasoning that abortion never saves lives. 

It most certainly does. 

You gonna eat that?

 “Do you want that last slice of pizza,” is as much an aspiration as it is a question.

For a moment, there was silence.

“Is that what that was? I thought it was a circle of cardboard encrusted in plastic and grass clippings.”

People for Less Unrest in Marriage — an entirely imaginary organization for which I am an occasional spokesperson — has united, at least temporarily, with Parental Yawn, a grassroots offshoot partner that is expected to remain almost entirely silent as they "wipe that smirk off their faces."

“More for me.”

"PLUMPY," as the conglomerate will be known for the duration of the upcoming Spring Break and subsequent travel itinerary, will be charged with enacting some semblance of peace between potentially warring parties as we navigate a maze of painfully ordinary decisions such as, but not limited to: "What would you like to do today? Shall we go for a hike? Which restaurant should we go to tonght?"

I don't even want to think about the referring that will be necessitated by a ten-hour drive. 

They may have outgrown the Are-We-There-Yets, but a heavy sigh with the roll of an eye can easily bring tempers to a boil. 

Communication breakdowns are like the fly in this SPF ointment.

One wrong look will set everyone's hair on fire. Poof.

But that's par for this course.

As you may have been able to glean from our acronym, PLUMPY, like all unendorsed think-tank-style rogue agencies that got their beginnings in March of 2020, has grown by leaps and bounds since its initial inception and .... almost entirely fueled by individually-wrapped devil's food snack cakes and vanilla ice cream swirled with caramel and chocolate chunks ... may have also gained a little heft.

Muscle weighs more than fat … or so I'm told. Ah-hem.

Not that anyone in these parts is body shaming anyone for their parts. The first rule of PLUMPY is to never identify any members. Ever.

Sometimes it's better not to say anything at all. A few well-placed “Sounds like a plan.” Or “I'll be fine doing … whatever,” can go a long way toward it actually being true.

I'm just trying to stop eating my feelings ... especially the ones inflamed by the central aisles of the grocery store; where the junk food lives. Why can't I eat just one chocolate-button-covered brownie with its thick layer of frosting as lush as the widest wale corduroy? What is it about these cut-rate confections that makes me eat half a box?

Honestly, how many fewer calories are in that "deluxe" pizza with its shell made out of riced cauliflower and a blanket of meats and cheeses? Is it even possible to find healthy choices at corner stores and gas stations?

Salad can be just as tasty, can it not? Ribbon-sliced vegetables blended into a trio of curly-edged lettuces.

E Ghad, I hope so. 

I won't survive this trip without some serious deep breathing exercises, a limit on sugar, and a moment of silence. 

Fail Safe

She entered the family room brimming with an almighty joy.

The news had finally arrived: The last three colleges she had been waiting on - the ones with acceptance rates in the single digits – let her know, in no uncertain terms, that they were, indeed, beyond her reach.

"Their loss," she sang as she twirled in front of the television, blocking my view.

This sounds like bad news. Should I be worried? Should I try to console her?

Why is she dancing? 

She twirled around until I found the remote control (and a really old cheese stick) in between the cushions of the couch. With Wayne Brady frozen on the screen, I could finally give her my full attention.

"What's going on. Are you alright?"

My mind raced. This is probably my fault. Me ...blank staring my way through the FAFSA and THE CSS and all the other initialed portals I could barely navigate. How many times did I upload the same files? How long did I wait on hold, trying to speak to a human who could tell me where I had gone wrong?

There is no doubt in my mind that I dotted a few “T”s and crossed many “I”s.

"I'm fine! The pieces of my life are finally falling into place. I am not just going to college, I am going into GLOBAL studies!"

The sadness of the college rejection news had been offset by the simultaneous and more exciting announcement that she'd been selected to study in a foreign country during her freshman year.

"I'd spend the fall in Boston and then in the spring I'd study in London ... or Greece!"

I still felt like a deer in headlights.

I didn't want to look disappointed. I didn't want to admit that the whole thing felt strange: She had professed her love for Boston, managed to get accepted to the college of her heart's desire there, and now she was planning to leave it all and study ... where? She didn't seem to know.

"This seems ... a little unusual."

Though I'm not sure why it struck me as such. My little private college had a program called "semester abroad," which the price of tuition and a little bit of airfare, I too might have rubbed elbows, or at least mixed paint brushes, with a few of my student counterparts in France.

But I didn't know anyone who was going and I didn't want to be alone.

My daughter has never allowed fear to hold her back.

During her kindergarten orientation, she had personally interviewed the teachers and had essentially filled out the registration forms herself. In triplicate. I just sat beside her and fidgeted with safety scissors.

It occurred to me then … as it does now … that it wasn't bravery that set her apart from me … it was confidence. It was also, perhaps, a necessity.

“Don't worry. … I'm not blaming you for those rejection letters … But I'm going to file my own taxes this year … just in case.”