An epic minute

 The boy stood at the curb and looked blankly into my car before turning away and squinting into the sun at the long line of vehicles idling in the pickup line.

Did he not see me? Was I invisible?

I tapped the horn briefly and waved.

His head swiveled until his face softened into that look of recognition. He could relax now. 

"You didn't look like my mom," he laughed as he opened the back door and dumped his 400-pound backpack onto the seat. He dropped himself into the front seat and smirked.

Impulse overcame every rational thought in my head as I checked the rearview mirror and eased into traffic. Who do I look like? I asked, knowing full well I was opening myself up to self-destruction through the boy's unvarnished truth.

This could be just like that moment in kindergarten when his classmate tugged on my pants leg and asked ... "Are you his grandmother?" 

I didn't cry (thanks for asking) but I did go directly from school to the hair-color aisle at the local pharmacy for a box of Color So Natural Only Her Hairdresser Knows For Sure ... and that guy in Toothpaste who heard me cussing out a five-year-old as I tossed boxes of Clairol at boxes. "Nutmeg is the darkest you should go, you'll look like Severus Snape if you go with the Midnight Black.

I will tell you, in case you were wondering, there is NOTHING that compares to a helpful old man in the toothpaste aisle. Not even a teenager whose mom's crazy, unkempt tri-colored hair hasn't seen a hairdresser since before pandemic times.

The son has learned not to take the bait.

No slouch, the boy pretended he hadn't heard me as he rummaged through the cockpit for snacks.

"What's this?" he asks playfully, snatching the day's offering from the center console and wrinkling his nose at the aroma that emerged from the stay-fresh pouch. "It has to be based on a dare."

And there just isn't any kinda way that kid is going to let the raw organic compost product pass anywhere near his super-sensitive taste buds. 

It feels strange to acknowledge, but this afternoon drive time is the best part of my day. Even when I compete with his noise-canceling earbuds to the smallest tidbits from his day, there is something deeply satisfying about the easy silence.

He doesn't harbor unhappiness yet. Right now he is content inside his own skin, even if he dresses it up with layers of snark and surliness. A smile is as contagious as a yawn with this kid. Not for trying, but he just can't help it.

I look forward to seeing his face as he walks out of school at precisely 2:19 ... four minutes after the bell. When he arrives at 2:20, not recognizing his mother, I know there will be an epic story about the harrowing journey between the last block and the locker bays. It will fill the whole ride home.

It doesn't get better than this.

Care and Packaging

I smiled to myself as I pressed an address label onto the recycled cardboard box, smoothing it with both hands. The spot where an old label had been, left a furry texture that felt oddly comforting, like the  soft underbelly of a brand new puppy.

It felt like I was handling a unicorn: The first Care Package from home.

Just the box was a thing to behold:

The box was the perfect size, the perfect shape. It was sturdy. Without dents or tears. It had structural integrity. And it had just been sitting around the house, collecting dust as I imagined all the trinkets I might fill it with.

In that area, I had been just as meticulous. I had selected things that would surprise and delight. Things that would make her laugh and roll her eyes. Things she'd asked for mixed it with things that I knew would make her smile. Even the address label bore the unmistakable brand of our silly familiarity.

I couldn't wait for her to see it.

Three strips of tape, perfectly aligned and unwrinkled, closed the top flaps so well that when I brought it up to the counter the postal clerk wouldn't think to offer an extra swath of adhesive for security's sake.

Though they would still ask if I was sending anything that was liquid-fragile-perishable-corrosive-perfumy-chemical-or-otherwise-dangerous? Did this include batteries? Live snakes? Illegally taken fish or wildlife? You aren't mailing crickets, are you?

I would answer without any humor.

I had learned that, to the postmaster, joking around about the cholesterol hazards of the boxes of candy sent out one Christmas wasn't really a laughing matter.

Neither was the text that arrived two days later:

"Ummm. So, apparently a bomb went off ... 700 feet away

We're all good, but there's another package that's suspicious. Maybe even more than one. IDK".

I was expecting a silly selfie and kudos for remembering to include her favorite snacks.

As I sat there staring in disbelief at my phone, searching in vain for breaking news, her face popped onto the screen.

She didn't want me to worry, but, moreover, she didn't want me to inundate her with a cascade of questions that she wouldn't be able to answer. I could hear the temper flair in her voice.

"All we know right now is that there was a report of an explosion on campus, and one person - possibly a staff member -- suffered minor injuries."

I started to speak, but she cut me off ...

"Don't worry, mom," she said, ignoring the oxymoron weighing down her words like an 800-pound gorilla sitting squarely on my chest. "We are going to be fine. One of my friend's dad is a firefighter here in the city. He's giving us all the information we need to stay safe."

We said our goodbyes and our I Love Yous, at the same time.

And then her father and I sat glued to our phones for the rest of the evening. Searching. Scrolling. E-mailing links to what we found to one another. And then, finally, to her.

It was a rollercoaster, with new reports of suspicious packages popping up all over campus. Our over-stretched minds couldn't fathom the idea that with heightened vigilance would come no small amount of false alarm.

We signed off and went to sleep once officials declared the situation to be under control. In the coming days, once the facts began to settle, and the whole thing felt less harrowing, I asked the only question I had kept myself from asking:

"I don't suppose you got the package I sent?"

Carrying the load

 You know that moment ... when your eldest kid goes off to college and you're all sad, and melancholy ... You've spent weeks planning how the move-in would go? And it happens ... as planned, with nary a hiccup?

Not that moment.

Your little family of four drives off in a car filled with the contents of her dorm room - a metric ton of essentials hefted up four-floors by none other than your youngest child -- and returns, just the three of you, to a house that seems almost too empty.

Not that moment, either.

Fast forward a day or three when said youngest heads back to school with ...

One pencil.

Not even sharpened.

That's the moment.

The one in which you think all of your focus has just turned and landed with a thud.

The sibling that time forgot is suddenly front and center.

The boy is blase. He waited until the last possible moment -- when classes had already started, and he realized the pencil he carried behind his ear might not suffice -- to deal with the matter of school supplies. 

Of course you knew his school also required supplies. You might have intervened had the task of picking out bedding, laundry baskets and contraband twinkle lights with your daughter not been so alluring.

Oh how you enjoyed those errands.

"I guess I need a few things," he says.

You will enjoy this errand, too.

You grab the keys and your wallet. 

It will be late by the time we arrive. The store would be closing in a few minutes. We move through the aisles quickly, gathering things from a list and head to the front of the store. The weight of the handbasket lessened as I removed one thing after another and stacked them on the counter. An orange binder; a package of paper; some notebooks in different shades of blue; pens; another binder, this one white. 

The "counter" was just a square landing pad, really, and with nowhere to separate the scanned from the unscanned, the cashier struggled to process the pile of school supplies I had stacked there in a lopsided mound.

The clerk announces the total, to my absolute shock.

How could it be so low?

"I'm not sure you scanned this compass," I offered, listing off an inventory by category. The man squints as he examines his register's display.

"No. I have the compass, but I must have scanned one binder twice. Sorry, I'll remove it.."

The total was even lower now.

I turn to look at my son. His face reveals nothing. If he is concerned with the exchange, he doesn't let on. Things should add up. Fair is fair.

I extract a card from my wallet and push it into the slot, my mind spinning until it lands on the three bunches of cherries: I have one high-schooler instead of two.

Jackpot.

Will he see it that way? No more split attention at home?

All eyes on him?

The cashier's too?

"Do you need a bag?"

My son and I look at one another. He lifts his shoulders as the corners of his mouth theatrically turn downward.

"Naw, I can carry it all."

The remainders

There are so many calculations yet to make.

How many pairs of shoes should she bring? How many shirts? Pants? Jackets? Does she even have boots? How do three people share two closets?

How do three roommates, plus their respective entourages, go into one forced triple dorm room evenly? It seems there will always be a remainder. Hopefully, there's just a few cardboard boxes leftover. We will cut on their seams, fold flat and recycle them. We won't give them a second thought. Things, unlike actions, don't linger on a single thread of resentment, weaving its way into a winter-weight grudge.

The questions I am thinking should go without saying. But I won't be able to stay silent.

If you are the first one to arrive, should you take the best bed? Or should you wait until everyone is there and let two out of three games of Rock, Paper, Scissors decide?

Do you even know which sleeping area will be the most coveted?

Such is the complicated math of transitioning to an all-new living situation.

I try to simplify for sanity's sake.

Subtract three from our slotted arrival time to come up with the hour we should depart. This isn't an exact calculation, as we are allowed a window of time in which we can encounter stand-still traffic or stopping for rest rooms or snacks.

In this way, move-in day is more of an art than a science.

No matter, we keep running the numbers: Adding the square footage of the trunk space (with seats stowed) only to divide by the number of bags she has packed full to bursting.

"Should we attach the travel shell to the roof rack?"

I can't hide my annoyance. I don't even try.

"No. We should not attach the travel shell to the roof rack," I reply ... my voice threatening to cut the guy with its sharpened edges. "If it doesn't fit inside the car it's not likely going to fit inside the dorm room once we get it there."

How many times have we had this conversation?

Probably about the same number of times I've made an unsolicited suggestion and found myself backing away, both hands in the air, from the skirmish it escalated.

Does she need three pillows, two blankets AND a comforter? Probably not. Might it be embarrassing if the contents of her pack overfills the single yellow bulk hamper truck she will be allotted? It might sting for a minute. Will we have to schlep some of the extraneous items back home? Decidedly so.

The correct answer is ALWAYS yes!

Yes, she needs three pillows. Two blankets. And a comforter. Yes she will fit it all in.
Yes we will store any excess into her room, which will remain hers for all  eternity.

I have to remind myself I'm not the only one whose tensions are high.

I also have to stop myself from making some tired old joke about reclaiming her room; turning it into a space for craft-making or at-home physical fitness. It never gets a laugh. Even with my stunning lack of hobbies, the idea of such an erasure seems, on reflection, deeply unkind.

She hasn't really moved; she's just staying elsewhere for now.

There's even department stores where she's going ... you know ...  if she really can't live without a third blanket to match her pillow-count.

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.

Dog Days

The dog's ears lift as I cinch the garbage bag closed and lift it out of the kitchen bin. She raises her head off the carpet and unfolds her body, giving herself a big stretch. 

She is ready. 

I am not. I still have some work to do. The dog paces behind me as I open the fridge, inspecting it for leftovers abandoned by their owners, and now need to join the other cast-offs in the bag. 

As I sniff the container to see if what's inside has gone off, she can sense it's time for her chance to go off, too.

She follows me closely as I place the empties in the sink and tie the bag. Her head arrow straight below her shoulders. 

She darts past me as I open the door. Unleashed.

I am taking a calculated risk: a main truck route lies about 100 feet to the left, and the garbage collection site is about a thousand feet to the right.

She always goes right. 

"Hurry, hurry," says the tags on her collar as she bounces on her front legs. She looks back at me while i heft the bag over my shoulder and start walking.

I nonchalantly watch her as she runs the perimeters of our yard. She sniffs the ghost-scents of the various wildlife that crosses from one neighbor to the next. Occasionally, she disappears into the trees for a few moments. 

If it takes longer she usually comes back with a treasure ... often smelly and ground into a paste under her collar. Her secret life amounts to this, and the seasonal ability to enter the fenced-in yard whenever she likes now that we have a fly-weight screen tacked to the door, which opens and closes using the magic of magnets.

Any worry I have is fleeting and usually allayed by a two-fingered whistle; the one I'd practiced it for an entire summer when I was twelve.

The dog we had back then used to come when I whisted, too. 

But that dog lived her life on her own schedule. A Saint Bernard-mix, she was anxious in the house, preferring to live outside where the weather suited her fur. Now, we had assumed she'd wandered a bit; she'd walk us kids to the bus stop and then she'd wandered right back home afterward. She always seemed to be around, waiting for our return. 

It wasn't until after she passed away, having reached the ripe old of 91 in dog years, that we learned she had a schedule not unlike the friendly, neighborhood postal carrier: neither rain, nor sleet, nor dark of night could keep her from her appointed rounds.  

Of course her rounds mostly involved a three-mile loop on back roads and farmland to check in on all her favorite folks ... People we hadn't introduced her to because we only got to meet them when they sent condolences, telling us our loss was, in a way, their loss, too.

I miss that dog as much as I marvel at her life.

But I'm not sad that we've made progress. Our dog is happy and healthy and out of harms' way. She may lead a boring existence ... waiting for us to enliven it with our ball-throwing, and our property perimeter perambulations ... but all she really wants in life is us and a scruff full of deer poo on occasion. 

She thinks a bath is a small price to pay for the luxury of a few moments of abandon.  I do, too.

 

Isn't that what I said?

With the speakerphone engaged, a husky voice, neither identifiably male nor female, announces the department we dialed: "Financial Services.

My frazzled daughter hesitated before launching into her question. It had been a rough couple of days, starting with a problem, progressing to a remote meeting to gain clarity and a potential solution, only to have that meeting spin off into a part of the internet blocking all calls. 

After she had gotten through all the rigamarole -- the awkwardly spaced sentences that jumbled out all that she had done up until this point -- the person at the end of the line reassured us that the problem was, indeed, technical, as well as entirely on their end, and would be sorted out soon.

"Sit tight on that one. Was there anything related to Financial Aid?"

And like the deer in headlights, we just froze. ... letting the opportunity sail right by before the phone disconnected with two-toned digital sound. A deeply dissatisfying note, that lacks the finality and catharsis of a slam.

These gizmo and glass phones force us to be better behaved than their bakelite brethren.

Of course, from where I was sitting -- on the edge of the couch, between a wadded-up throw blanket and an aging cat that would like a smattering of whatever foodstuff I was snacking on -- I thought the whole transaction went surprisingly well.

She discovers a problem. She navigates the proper channels to address the issue and, in doing so, faces unexpected hurdles. She leaps over those to find another avenue, and takes this new path as far as she can to its logical end. Success.

My daughter didn't quite see it that way:

"But the problem isn't solved yet."

"No, but you know you're in the right universe, and the light from Solved is much closer it is to the proximity of the looming deadline."

Of course, the problem wasn't the real problem.

"I hate feeling like a fool," she tells me between anxious sobs. 

"I don't understand ..."

Didn't you hear that person tell me: "Oh, you didn't have a Financial Aid question?" 

More than she hates being wrong, she despises being perceived as wrong. She takes it personally. A vendetta against herself, a person who is new to all of this (gestures wildly with full wing span arms), but who went from misunderstanding to understanding in the span of an eight-minute phone call that "may have been monitored or recorded for quality assurances."

I know we are all sensitive to our forehead-slapping moments; all the things that become painfully obvious with experience and hindsight. 

I tried to soften the blow, highlighting my belief that a professional person's deftness of understanding what you meant doesn't mean they will keep their translations silent. That person knows their department like you know how to define ribosomes or the cosmetic product that will best accentuate cheekbones. 

"I mean ... if I described wanting something to catch more light but asked for a "bronzer" would you just hand me a highlighter and not clarify the product's actual category?"

"No. No, I would not," she said defensively. 

"If I described cytoplasm but called it a ribosome would you not correct me?"

"No ... probably not, but I might think you were not prepared for Biology 101."

Maybe I wasn't using the correct analogy. Aside from the possible pedantry of official departments being similarly named, I reminded my daughter that we did have a Financial Aid question that we lost track of as we were staring like deer in the headlights of the Financial Services response.

"I have an idea."

"Oh, God. Do I want to know?"

"Tomorrow, let's call back. We'll use my name this time."

Into the woods

We gathered at the car park. A gaggle of friends intent on running a few miles after-work and off the so-called beaten path.

There is little doubt, trails can be punishing.

We face perils at every turn. 

It's only the second of a four-week series, and we haven't exactly gotten the bumps smoothed over. 

It's not supposed to be easy. 

Although, it wouldn't hurt to plan for the bare essentials.

Like why do I keep forgetting to bring bug spray?

Bloodthirsty mosquitoes, vector ticks and poorly marked trails are the least of our worries. ... We will literally run across fields full of woodchuck holes and happen upon fenced-in dogs who are finally getting the opportunity to run free.

We haven't even discussed the possibility of what to do if we happen upon a bear, or a raccoon or an overly familiar squirrel. 

I push all that to the edge of my mind and lace up. There's nothing quite like running in the woods. 

The shaded quiet of trees overhead give us cover to watch the sky open up with dappled light. We delight to feel soft earth under our feet as we take extra care, avoiding the mounds of lush, green moss and bright orange newts we encounter along the path. 

There's no denying it's beautiful here. 

Our guide, who runs through this place on the regular, points out the local lore. We are happy, sweaty tourists.

He tells us about the Sheep Dip, a trickle of water falling over rocks that feed into a slow stream. That's where the flock would cool off back in the day, he explains. We will have to see Magical Rock another day, since we zigged. Next time, he promises, we'll zag. 

I tried to follow the leader closely as we circled the landscape. Acknowledging that my sense of direction lacked any sense at all. I knew, left to my own devices, I might be here forever.

Which, I told myself, wouldn't be so terrible. I could live in the shady shadows with the crickets and the hop-frogs while the rest of the world burned itself out. 

This is the thought I hold as I try to keep up in the hour allotted for this little jaunt.

The pandemic has changed me some. Where I had once chosen the pest-free tables inside, I now rejoice in the availability of a patio table. I recognize it more as I tackle the hill ahead of me in small steps. It is an easy climb if I keep conversation to a minimum.

The air smells different here. Earthy and sweet. The light looks different, too. It casts a warm shadow all around. As I run up the next hill, my watch reminds me that I am slower than usual, yet I feel like I'm flying. The soft ground absorbs all manner of shocks that would assail. my shins were my feet hitting the pavement.

The hill turns into a valley, and my pace accelerates naturally. 

I didn't see the root that tripped me up. 

Thanks to the forest's earthen floor and its carpet of verdant moss, I barely felt the impact of my fall. I wasn't even sure whether the "snap" I heard came from a twig or my ankle. But I knew exactly what kind of pain I was feeling: The kind that told me I had zigged when I should have zagged. And worst of all, I'll probably be missing this magical place (and its Magical Rock) for the next six to eight weeks.

Intentional community

The room had so much nervous energy. A hundred parents perched on rows and rows of stackable chairs waiting for the keys to this new universe ... university. 

"What are you feeling? Just shout it out." 

I have to admit, I was skeptical. A college orientation for parents? 

I expected the mustachioed man from the insurance commercials to emerge and gently tell us how we could avoid the mistakes of all parents who came before us.

Instead we met Candy, who introduced herself as the director of student engagement at the school of a-very-long-name within the university that also has an acronym I couldn't for the life of me remember, and had asked us this question earnestly. She smiled sweetly as she waited for an answer. 

"Come on, you won't surprise me."

A voice in the crowd ventured a guess. 

"Excitement."

I winced and lifted my eyes to the ceiling fixing my gaze on the row of inset lights overhead. 

I dialed back my sarcasm enough to admit that "excitement" was perhaps the most hopeful and measured of responses. But this person, I thought, was probably being as candid as a middle school photographer. Hoping that with some authoritative suggestion they might substitute the truth with some toothy grin.

The remainder of the gathering must have sensed this, too, because the room erupted in the naming of a range of emotions that seemed more accurate if painfully so: "Anxiety." "Fear." "Loneliness." "Joy!"  "Jealousy."

I felt it all. But mostly I felt terrified.

The dean didn't need to tell us what we all suspected: that we, the undersigned of the next crop of first-year students, were on the cusp of beginning our lives as the proud new parents of a bouncing adult; and this two-day, 17-part symposium, was cleverly designed to give us the basics tools to more effectively let go. 

But oh, no. Lest you think this was the pep talk of all pep talks; the magical string of words that would halt the helicopter parents' rotating blade. This speech and all the speeches that followed were intended to give us the framework by which we could helicopter from a safe, more secure distance. 

Knowledge, it turns out, is the key to that trust and the cornerstone of every big thing we endeavor to build. Well, knowledge and the ability to find resources online.

Candy, knew what we were thinking, even before we all thought it. 

"Your child got here. That means they are capable of great things. But that doesn't mean they will make this enormous transition alone, and we don't expect them to."

Then Candy ran down a list of first-year hardships that ranged from the conflicts that may arise when one is dropped into a room the size of a walk-in closet with two strangers; to the amount of deflation, the ego may suffer just before Christmas when the first grades of their college careers come calling. 

The honeymoon will be over. 

"The most important thing you can do to support them now is to understand how we are here for them find solutions. Because one day they will call you with a problem, and we know that you can absolutely help. But we don't want you to call us, we want you to encourage them to take the initiative. They will listen. We know this because we have evidence that parents still have an enormous influence on their student's decisions."

Somehow, those words gave me the key I had been searching for. That this method wasn't madness, it was intentional and important.

Knowledge really does feel empowering. 

Into the lion's den

Republican operative John Faso seemed revelatory as he joined WAMC's Roundtable panel on Monday. Alan Chartok, the more liberal host, showered the conservative former representative with praise for taking up airspace in the studio. He likened this bravery to sticking one's head in the proverbial "lion's den."

They were going to talk about the end of Roe, and Faso was the only person in the room who approved of the decision.

For women like me listening at home, the previous weekend had been spent in a strange state of disbelief. Yes, we knew it was coming. But just after 10 on the morning of June 24th, we learned the Supreme Court had overturned the landmark decision that had protected a woman's right to terminate a pregnancy for half a century.

Faso's side had won. And, depending on how one explains it, the court's conservative members had either saved the potential for human life, or they had ripped away a basic constitutional protection from millions of people who can become pregnant: The right to make essential healthcare choices for themselves.

I felt revulsion just listening to Faso spin truth into lies: Turning the fact that majority of Americans would put some restrictions on abortions into a a misguided mandate to prevent most abortions from being legal.

It doesn't surprise me.

He is not of the people. He has always set himself apart. Even in his early days as an assemblyman, he had a constituent arrested when the man called his listed home number and became impolite. As a member of Congress, he pushed many duplicitous falsehoods intended to divide and conquer: linking food stamps to crime; fighting worker protections; to the final blow of voting down healthcare after assuting a cancer patient he wouldn't take it away.

Faso, the polite and presentable Trump ally, even said the quiet parts aloud as he argued "States' Rights" to decide which women and which religions will get the permission to express themselves freely while our medical systems become incapable of doing less harm. 

The point was honed when a fellow panelist, Libby Post, asked him to explain why, in the matter of body autonomy, his faith could trump hers? Why, she had asked, should she be thwarted from following her Jewish faith, which holds that human life begins at first breath, not at conception and further requires abortion to viewed as a life-saving option.

Faso, on air, called Post's beliefs an "outlier," and then tried to backtrack when she rightly called him on the implicit bias of his comment - that the Jewish law was, by definition, a thing differing vastly from all other groups or sets.

He left the studio soon after that, citing an appointment he had elsewhere.

If he regretted his choice of words, I didn't hear him say it.

Not that it matters. As a Trump supporter who claimed he found the former president's crassness distasteful, Faso was happy to accept the spoils in the interests of Conservative goals.

Though Faso denies it, we should know what's next.

With precedent dead, the questions of who you can marry, who will be allowed to discriminate against you, what you can say and where you can travel in your own country will be revisited. And they're not done with women yet either: Not having the right to choose doesn't mean termination exclusively. The right to protect ourselves with birth control or from spousal rape, even the ability to try and become a parent using the miracle of science, will all find unsympathetic jurists on this court.

Faso is a harbinger not a hero.

We are all heading into the lion's den.

What are you wearing?

"What are you wearing?"

I hesitated for just a moment. I don't know what she means. Is she criticizing my clothes? I look down … My shirt didn't have anything silly emblazoned on it … my pants didn't have holes. My sandals didn't show socks… I couldn't even find a smidgeon of mustard anywhere.

What's wrong with what I'm wearing?

“Not what you're wearing now …(doofus). What do you plan to wear to the graduation ceremony.”

“I don't know. I suppose I'll have to wait to find out what the temperature will be.”

The 10-degree swing in the forecast had me questioning all of my options.

But my daughter didn't want to compare climate concerns with respect to our outfits. She didn't want to know if I was planning on wearing sensible shoes ... or a maxi skirt. She wanted to know whether I was planning on wearing something that might embarrass her.

She wouldn't put it past me to throw on some boxy sweatshirt and the shapeless cargo pants that I tend to live in throughout the summer.

She knows I'm unlikely to wear a dress ... even the one she gave me during the pandemic that I promised to wear to the Post Office. Of course, she knew I had already been seen in that flouncy floral delight ... at her brother's middle school graduation ... and out to dinner once. ... and yes, even at the Post Office one Tuesday during the thickest point of isolation. 

But does she think I'm going to wear something that will call attention to the unstylish rube that I am: Maybe a bright orange blouse more befitting a Halloween pirate.

I can't blame her for the concern. It's not like I've NEVER shown up at school dressed in a gorilla outfit topped by a mermaid costume and a magician's hat.

"Don't worry. You will recognize me. ..."

Truth is … I'd already picked it out: Jeans with a long jacket - dressed up on this day with bright colors and a pair of strappy sandals. A mixture of styles I've worn in some fashion or other since my own high school days.

I could see her shudder.

It doesn't matter to her that these items all came from second-hand shops, but it may be of some surprise that they have some of the upscale labels my mother would have worn. The fabrics harken to a similar vintage: nearly antique.

“Hey, I may even use the iron.”

I go into my closet and extract the proof. The hangers click satisfyingly as I stretch out the fabric for her approval.

She nods with astonishment.

“You have come a long way, baby.”

One might think experience and maturity might have sent me down this path of dressing my age ... but no. My daughter, with her keen grasp of mathematics and style, has taught me the important angles of at least "looking" put together.

Turns out I was pretty close to having this key to the style universe all along.

She calls it a Capsule Wardrobe and it means you wear the same fifteen pieces of clothing on a rotating basis ... only the separates cost a fortune otherwise you have to call it Mix and Match.

The trick, of course, is to avoid buying the other 4,328 pieces that never seem to blend in.

Out of the ordinary

I wish my father were here. 

I miss him. Not just on Father's Day, of course, but his absence today looms large.

He wasn't a Hero ... or The Best Dad Ever. He couldn't be categorized by a card. He was just a guy who loved his kids and his grandkids and did his best for the family.

A part of me loved him most for the things he didn't get exactly right.

The indelible moments.

The hour-long trip into the snowy woods to find the perfect Christmas tree, only to realize the trip back would mean another hour's trek dragging the quarry with a half-frozen toddler on top.

The eighth birthday party, held at the Snow Dock in Albany watching the garbage barge float past, when it turned out the bowling alley was closed.

He wasn't perfect but he was enthusiastic. Pride wasn't his motive.

He rarely took the easy path. A David fighting Goliaths. 

He hummed the music of Aaron Copland. He loved the poems of Robert Frost. He had strong feelings about politics and prose. He was anxious, but he didn't worry. He loved my mother. He hated eggs.

He would have grand tutorials around the operation of his electric train set, but I don't think he ever instructed us on the commodified evils of leaving the lights on in a room we'd vacated. He'd just shut them off.

He had an impish laugh, too. The kind of laugh that started silently and wracked his slender body until it took full control. He often found humor at his own expense, but he found amazement everywhere else.

"Did I ever tell you ...." is how he began most of his stories.

About how the old neighborhood looked. How he met my mother. What shenanigans his pals at work had gotten up to. What the grandkids had said last week that made him "laugh like a fool."

Of course, he had told them all before, but there was something about his voice that always made me want to hear them again. I could picture the tale as though it were flickering behind him on a movie screen.

Nothing out of the ordinary. 

It doesn't really surprise me that, according to history, this American day of honoring dads was ingrained by a daughter who simply admired her dad.

It also doesn't surprise me that the sentiment felt so embarrassing that it took a while for the nation to catch on.

Fatherhood, according to long understood lore, was more of a noun than a verb.

My father often remarked that he only found the true joy of fatherhood later, as retirement gave him time to spend with his grandchildren. Toting them around to swim classes or ballet performances. Letting them play with the model trains before they'd even learned the basics.

"Did I ever tell you how when you were little I used to go to work before you woke up and get home after you'd fallen asleep? You'd cry when you saw me on weekends because I was a stranger.

"I'm glad things are different now."

Looking forward

As graduation nears and all of its transitions loom on the horizon, I can't say a single one of us feels ready.

Though each day of this year has been leading us here, I still can't really believe it's happening. I close my eyes, and my daughter's first graduation comes into a clear focus.

The white construction paper hat, with its shimmering tassels of scissor-curled ribbon. A little girl with big plans ... So ready to move on ... to kindergarten.


Thirteen years have passed since that day. Four-thousand-seven-hundred and forty-five days.

Her unkempt hair and princess dresses have gone by the wayside, replaced by understated togs and sweeping locks Rapunzel might have envied were she a real girl like ours.

To her this moment has been slow in coming.

To me, it seems like no time has passed at all. We are all grateful to have made it through with more highs than lows.

This season of celebration, however, seems clouded in uncertainty. The stakes, of course, seeming infinitely more daunting.

In our lives. In our communities. In our understanding of how we fit into the world we live more, and more of us feel ill at ease.

It seems so dark right now. There are so many fears.

Stress stirs them up and makes tears boil over.

Every decision is fraught with anxiety.

Life itself is a risk.

Or is that just perception?

Is this life just on repeat?

The change from childhood to adulthood in one stage crossing. The pivot of a shimmery tassel from one side of her mortarboard to the other.

The accomplishment comes with a sigh of relief. We made it.

And in life's true irony, her achievement, not unlike the folder she'll receive for the photo op, will seem empty.

We have to believe it's worth all this angst, in part, because we bought the sales pitch.

It is what you make of it, or so they say. Where resilience seemed so empowering once, now it seems to be a side-effect forced by acceptance.

Maybe it's just in the moment we find ourselves. A time when so much is being taken away for no reasonable purpose. The worsening of our experiences in a nation that used to aspire toward being free.

It's hard to know what's real. It's hard to catch our breath when instincts take over.

When things don't work out the way you planned; When you have regrets;  When you feel like you are failing, and having to start over from scratch.

There are so many things we can't know for certain. So much of our experiences are strongly felt but not easily explained. Not even to ourselves.

I do not know the best way to chart a course. I know that hard work and dedication don't always mean you will realize your goals. What we want isn't always what we need. Just like I know that winning doesn't always mean we were right.

But we are still here. Looking forward to what happens next.

Greeting and salutations from that little old tree in the forest

The voice sounded so mature.

"Hello!"

I had just walked into the house and past the room where we welcome overnight guests, when a voice trailed after me.

"I'm sorry, I can't take your call right now. Please leave a message at the beep, and I will return your call as soon as possible."

Of course, I recognize this voice as it follows me on my quest for a lunch of last night's leftovers. 

My son. Sounding like a radio announcer, all smooth and silky, was replacing the outgoing message on his phone as he cuddled up with the dog on the guest bed sofa sleeper.

But something sounds off.

He notices, too.

"Hello! I'm sorry, I can't take your call right now, but please leave a message at the beep and I will get back to you soon."

Still wrong.

“Hello! I am sorry to miss your call. Leave a message at the beep. and I will get back to you.

I stood there without speaking, salvaged salad in hand, and just looked at the two of them for a while. Her graying muzzle rested on the crook of his knee as he scratched between her ears. She groaned softly has he repeated the takes.

 A lump swelled in my throat at the nostalgia before my heart sank.

"HELL-o … "

I wasn't prepared for the effrontery of this new baritone boy erasing his predecessor's froggy-throated message delivered via prank ....

"Hello? ...."

And in the the moment of hesitation after the question mark's lift, I would forge ahead with my assuage until ..

"Ahhhhhhhm not here! Leave a message and I'll call ya back!"

It got me every single time. 

Except now that little scoundrel was gone. Replaced by a new, more mature boy who was in possession of a piece of blue card stock, which permitted access to entry-level employment of limited scope during the summer. 

This new boy intuitively knew the old boy's sophmoric snark might limit his opportunities further. 

Of course, staring too long at your teenage son, is a known antidote his aspirational suave. He begins to squirm under the scrutiny.

His serious demeanor dissolves and he crosses his eyes and hopes I'll disappear.

Maturity isn't here full time just yet.

I look away … only to get another surprise:

A table lamp is lying on the floor, and next to it are the cordless phone and a small framed photo. The trio must have gathered each other up for companionship upon descent.

"Hello! What happened here?"

"Oh! There was a commotion between the dog and cat before. I didn't really pay much attention. Must have been one of them that knocked everything over."

So much for trees falling in forests, not getting heard.

As I suspected, it doesn't matter much if you heard it falling or not. The tree is still down, and the hikers are just going to walk around it until there's a new path to follow.