Soaking up the last days of childhood

 I might have been jealous. The neighbors had decided to ride out the final week of this New York August heatwave in Reykjavik. Iceland. 

Yes. There was no reason to be envious. We had just spent a fortnight hanging out in family hammocks and scritching our feet in the sand of a Maine coast beach. The luxury of successive weeks away from the same-old-same-old, even if it is the same-old same-old vacation, is no doubt a privilege.

But Iceland?

Just the sound of its name slipped off my tongue with a satisfying coolness.

ICE land.

But how could I be jealous of visiting volcanos on horseback … or soaking in a natural hot spring? They left their dog in our care.

A puppy.

(HOLDS HANDS OVER OUR GERIATRIC DOG'S EARS) 

The cutest, fluffiest, bounciest little bundle of bouncing fluff this side of the shared fence, which was constructed to contain her, would now be chewing up the edges of OUR carpets and eviscerating dog toys and spreading their fiber-fill guts all over the living room.

I couldn't wait.

Puppy shenanigans! The maddening, slightly painful behaviors that pet parents tend to forget about when their pooches are well past their blossoming adolescence.

But mostly, I couldn't wait to immerse myself in this next-door neighbor puppy's explosive energy, with its floppy bonelessness and unfettered joy. It feels a little like being a new parent again.

The things we all tend to forget as we settle into maturity. 

The neighbors did not want to impose.

We, similarly, didn't want to overstep.

All we needed was for the stars to align and undo one of the best-laid plans on international travel: the dog-sitter booking.

We can say with abject certainty that there is nothing in our home our dog could ruin. There is no floor unscarred by canine claws, no stick of furniture that hasn't had some animal or another curled up on its cushions. There is no rug we own that shouldn't already be recycled into packing material.

If we pull out the actuarial table of the age of our pets and the expectation that one day in the not-so-distant future when cleaning the house won't feel like shoveling before the snowstorm. 

The obvious downside not-withstanding: The house may be clean and tidy, but the children will be grown and gone. 

A temporary tidal wave of puppy antics is just what we need, I think, as the oldest packs her bags and gets ready to move states. It will also push the college freshman to consolidate her possessions to protect them from the pointy pricks of puppy teeth.

The boy thinks he remembers his own dog's antics and jokes about being proactive.

"I'm painting the chair legs with Tabasco."

But there is no need. The puppy is more interested in further defluffing our dog's previously dissected, and long-forgotten dog toys. Impressively gleaning enough fiber from the flattened floofs to fill a room with white polyester tumbleweeds.

I would delight in reporting that neither shoe nor couch cushion was harmed in the housing of their half-pint. And our own fledgeling couldn't have enjoyed the last days of childhood more.

Friend or Fraud? The Reconciling

The charge seemed strange. But so did the statement of my latest transactions. The dates were out of order, and some of the amounts looked odd.

I squint my eyes some more and do the mental calisthenics one must do in the age of online shopping when scanning your credit card statements in pursuit of potentially fraudulent purchases.

$32.39 from Apple DOT COM.

Hmmmm ....

I click to open the entry and peer at its particulars.

"Record Store."

I try to think about the last time I downloaded a song. It was $2.99 and it was prompted by the soundtrack selections of a popular Netflx Original series that I thought would be good motivation as I trained for fall 5Ks. But that was way back in the beginning of last month, before my ankle sprain, when I was still capable of Running up that Hill.

 

$32.39 seems a bit excessive ... even for the whole album. 

Now. ... like you fine folks, I trust my kids implicitly. And not just because the password to get into the technology storefront we all share on our gadgets has a password so long and obscure that I have to perform feats of fortitude just to find my hidden bible of magic words that will open that particular sesame.

And since the date listed on the stated transaction fell within our annual summer sojourn far from the place I usually look up said incantations. It was just highly unlikely anyone -- even me -- made a Record Store purchase for $32.39 while we were baking on the sand at the beach.

But ... it's not unheard of that my son might ask to download a game ... or the entire discography of Bill Withers ... and then quietly place the cash equivalent into my purse.

"Hey ... did you happen to buy a game or some music on iTunes last week?"

"No. I don't think so ... But I bought a Rolling Stones album ... but that was from a flea market not from the fruit fly place that sells computers."

It occurs to me now, that it would probably be more helpful if I had deceptive kids since mundane truthfulness meant only one thing: I would have to call some nice person at the 1-800 number on the bill and see if they could help me track down more information on the charge.

Which is what I decide to do, knowing full well this is likely a legitimate charge since the tell-tale frauds have all been clustered into groups of luxury items shipped to far-off locations: a spree of shopping. Not just some nebulous thing that amounted to $29.99 and tax sandwiched between verifiable purchases.

Without a human helping me, I could click every button on my computer and still not locate the combination that would illuminate my "recent iTunes purchases."

The woman who had taken my call laughed.

It's understandable. 

And after I had told her the car my first date drove, along with my ZIPCODE and replied to the security text she sent the phone she knew me to be calling from ...

WHICH IS TOTALLY NOT CREEPY AT ALL ...

She pressed a few buttons on her end and had my answer. ..

"The charge appears to be a subscription renewal for a fitness app. Would you like me to request a refund?"

Would !!

It was not a question. "I would like you to do that. But more than that I would like you to cancel that subscription."

She laughed again.

And then she told me how to check all my subscriptions, which was nowhere near as difficult as finding the passwords to buy the thing in the first place.

But I'm keeping her phone number ... just in case.

Dorm and Function

 She picked up the pearlescent orb, tapped its top twice, and raised the thing level to her ear. She cocked her head as if listening for ocean waves or some other magical sound that would prove revelatory. 

A shadow of disappointment hovered momentarily over her face. Nothing. Not even a burp.

She put it back.

“Pleased be advised, our store will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please bring your purchases to the register.”

Some take in the beaches or hike trails. Other adventurous souls find bliss on a paddle board or just taking in the sights only locals get to see when they visit a seaside town. 

We pace the aisles of the Vacationland Target and fill our cart with back-to-school supplies.

It seems odd, yes. But graduating high school has only increased the tension of this particular tourist attraction of ours: After all, how could she know which food-storage receptacle (for dining hall doggie bags) made sense for dorm life since not a single “WHAT YOU ABSOLUTELY POSITIVELY NEED FOR DORM LIFE!!” listicle has ever mentioned one?

The look my face was making had to have been in perfect Momglish, because I hadn't said a word before she translated and explained how I was so wrong to criticize.

“Mom … sometimes you just won't have time to eat in the dining hall, and you need something that goes from the mini fridge to the microwave seamlessly.”

Her list was already stacked with crossed-off items.

A MATTRESS TOPPER? 

“That is A MUST! Quality sleep is so important.”

A CUDDLY BLANKET?

“Please see the mattress topper entry above.”

TWO sets of BED SHEETS?

“Sometimes you just don't have time to do laundry”

A DESK LAMP? 

“People find them soothing and helpful since the rooms only have overhead lights.”

A piece of wood attached to a pillow? 

“That is a LAP DESK … and sometimes it is more comfortable to write while you're all warm and cuddly in bed with your fuzzy blanket and lap desk.”

A COLLAPSIBLE LAUNDRY HAMPER?

“What is so strange about that?”

“I don't know … your sheets sets came with four pillowcases ...you could totally use one of those.”

“Oh … I get it, I said, thumbing through the half-filled cart: This is the “I worked through two summers and have excess cash to burn on LED TWINKLE LIGHTS and PHOTO PRINTERS and cute, color-coordinated STACKABLE BASKETS portion of the exercise.”

And just at that moment …. I translated the “Tweedult” written all over her face and realized I was entirely out of my depths.

“Well, as frivolous as it sounds, these little excesses can entirely be extended to my roommates … perfect strangers, you might remember, who will have to share their personal space with little-old-me. And making sure that I store my stuff as efficiently (and pleasantly) as possible might just keep me from having to be in solitary confinement at twice the price of living sociably.

“And from your stunned silence can I infer that you think my shower shoes are nothing short of adorable and that you realize all the money I'll save you in podiatry visits.”

Of course … she was right. But how could I let her get the last word

“Just as long as they are non-slip. I see your foot fungus but make sure those shoes don't raise you a trip to the orthopedist.”

False flags

You know who he is. Everyone seems to know him. He's a tall guy with a big smile and a hearty "hello." A retiree, you assume, a man of leisure, and a fixture on the dog beach you've visited every morning of every summer day you've spent in this southern Maine town. You'd recognize his face, if not his name, because you've crossed paths here for at least two decades. 

You've always been cordial in that way strangers are. We imagine the connections we share though we have little evidence that's more than circumstantial:

We are both here at the same time each morning. Letting our dogs play in the surf. He brings home-brewed coffee just like you do; you can tell from the open ceramic mug he holds in his hand instead of a white-lidded cardboard cup.

His old rescue and your old rescue never met their canine predecessors, but you remember. They were fast, and seemingly kindred. 

We both feel an ownership of this place that, let's face it, neither of us have. 

There's no doubt, THIS is the life.

You might feel that imagined kinship turn into a slight envy once this morning routine ceases for you at the end of the month, knowing it continues for him year 'round.

Until he started wearing that hat. You know the one: a red brimmed cap with white letters: Fighting words since 2016.

He notices the people who shy away, and he seems to walk a little taller, smile a little wider and make his greetings more ebullient.

His vehicle has a sedimentary layer of stickers, dated by year, proclaiming an ever increasing love for The Former Guy. And now, it showcases a total disdain for the current occupant with an expletive-laden flag tattered around its edges from being paraded around town.

He's not actively looking for a fight, but he seems prepared for one nevertheless. He plants his chair near the central beach access and keeps watch over his truck-shaped middle finger as he holds court.

King jester gestures.

I used to feel the rage he was looking for; I used to return his caustic cheer with narrowed eyes before I started avoiding him altogether. I didn't need to wear conflicting colors or sentiments for him to recognize my disapproval. I wore it clearly on my face.

But I'm so tired of all this rage. His and mine. I am exhausted by bracing for the absolute worst. It's all too much: this fear and loathing a few people have manufactured and sold to the populous at-large. It benefits no one, not even themselves.

Of course I don't know him. I've never seen him anywhere else but along this half-mile long strip of sand for fourteen mornings once a year. The only facts I know is that on occasion, people will engage him in friendly conversation while asking him about his dog as he responds in kind, and that no one ever stays with him for long. I can only assume he has people who love him despite his contrarian stance. I'm sure he has found others who may also enjoy a good argument over holiday meals. 

I know he seems to relish the reaction he gets since he's planted his solitary flag. I'm glad I don't have to know him or his rage. It's enough work to tame my own.