A year and change

His room doesn’t have a thermostat, but it feels like a balmy 78 degrees each time I knock on his door, tentatively cracking it open a sliver to inquire about the state of his awakening.

Sometimes he’s still sleeping. A starfish splayed out over the mattress; tangled in bed linens.

Often, he is already wide awake.

His whole life is in there … somewhere. The first thing I see when I tip my head inside is a grammar school diorama balanced at an awkward angle on top of a myriad of other possessions …. collecting dust on the dresser. 

I can only step inside but not walk around. Everywhere I look his childhood looks back: A wall of Nerf, shelves of Lego; drawers stuffed to overflowing with clothes that he has long outgrown. He lives out of laundry baskets.

One of these days, (I tell myself daily), I will get in there and take control of the clutter.

The clock is ticking. 

The warm air is pungent with spent socks and the remnants of midnight snacks, but I can also make out the smells of various tinctures and tonics he uses to make his shaves more smooth and his hair more rugged.

I try to be careful. Speak softly, try not to startle him. The moods of teenagers are appropriately fickle whether we parents approve or not. But still … I am his second wake-up call if you count the sunrise clock that makes no sound.

It can be a delicate job that his father often drill-sergeants through to his own detriment. I endeavor to handle him with kid gloves.

Not that we don’t get the same response - I’m awake! - it’s just that he sounds much less annoyed as he relays his assurances that he will be ready to leave on time.

I find trusting his word builds equity. He knows I’ll be the one owing late fees as I wait for a second cup of coffee to brew as he’s warming the car. He doesn’t beep the horn, instead, he pings my phone with a string of “MOM”s in rapid fire. 

We are not going to be late. But time is dwindling. Soon enough - if he follows his sister’s lead - we will be packing a car with all his dorm room essentials. 

Recently, he attended his third college tour. The first that was meant solely for him. As a younger brother, he had trailed along silently but with his eyes fully focused on the work at hand. I could tell he was looking forward to taking his turn one day even if he wasn’t ready to map it all out by himself.

So I made an appointment and sent him off with his father to explore his first choice. A university with two campuses to choose from just outside of his ability to commute. 

“He really opened up,” his father told me on one of many calls to keep me apprised. The boy had navigated maps, asked questions, and chatted with other prospective students with an air of confidence that my husband admitted had come as a surprise.

“He really seems like he’s coming out of his shell.”

Funny how we still see our children as we get closer to ushering them into adulthood.

Ma bell

Her face comes up on the screen and everything around me stops. My breath catches and the room goes silent if only in my consciousness, which has muted what had previously been an entertaining noise.

A cold sweat comes over me; not unlike the sudden panic of a doorbell; perhaps welcome sounds back in the olden days of neighborly caretaking. Perhaps not.

Even back then, the doorbell would send me into a panic. Stranger danger isn’t a new development; mothers everywhere warned their children away from answering doors when they were home alone, or at least from telling the door ringer, or even the phone caller that we were, in fact, home alone. 

But when the house was full, we would trip over ourselves to get to a rigging phone. I’d stretched out the coiled cords, worrying them through closet doors, to get some privacy,  

I can’t say as I miss the days when we used to wall ourselves off in our rooms, listening to music and engaging in marathon-length phone conversations where nothing truly memorable was ever discussed despite how important it all seemed. 

My mother would rattle the door an hour before she needed me to hang up, and again, more fervently at the half-hour mark, so she could place her nightly welfare checks on the elderly aunties before they retired to sleep. 

Things haven’t changed as much as we think. Since we all have our own separate phones, I am at liberty to call (or text) the elderly aunties whenever I like, though still trying for reasonable hours. But I rattle to door to my son’s room every so often just to see his face.

This is what I tell my daughter when I look at the phone tracking app to locate her from afar. I’m not so much checking up as checking in, though I can’t pretend either definition isn’t a first cousin of stalking. 

Unlike her friends’ parents, who track down their kids and quiz them as to why they may be in a sketchy neighborhood after dark, or in a questionable establishment geared toward debauchery, inebriation, and the potential for sophomoric pranks, when I see her icon photo somewhere other than her dorm room, I sigh in gratitude that she’s not just holed up in her cubicle being all alone in her aloneness. 

I walk a fine line, I know. It’s easily crossed. So easy that I don't tell what I know from checking the maps. I don’t let on that I know she was at an arena, or in the shopping district, or at a frat house. What she does is her business. 

I don't expect the good news to travel as fast as the bad. 

Which is why every nerve in my body stands at attention when the phone rings with her face looking to spend time with mine. I do everything in my power not to answer the phone the way my mom used to answer: What do you want … or what’s wrong? 

Often I fail.

“Why can’t your daughter just call you to say hi?”

“Oh, she most certainly can! How’s everything going?”

“Well, everything was going fine but Trader Joe's just stopped stocking cornichons… how am I supposed to live without my gherkins?”

Out of pocket

I thought about the bills I had tucked in my pocket. It was money I had considered saving ... or spending on pizza. I hadn't yet decided. 

I knew I should have taken the time to slide the notes into the wallet. But I didn't want to find my purse. I could be careful I told myself as I walked the dog. They would stay put in my jacket with my phone, a car key, and my hand ... keeping everything sufficiently warm.

It was predictable. I had shuffled all these things several times during the stroll: taking care of Fido's business; pulling out my phone to take a picture of the sun setting; lathering, rinsing repeating. Eventually, I remembered the cash and decided to check. The smaller denomination was clinging to my phone but the larger bill was gone.

It wasn’t a lot but decided to trace our steps backward to see if it had somehow stayed on the road and not taken a ride on the wind.

I didn't find it. Not along the way or at any of the places we stopped. 

I think it is a premonition of hardship to come. I’d rather not say my mind works that way because I know it’s the way I unravel. 

The fear of knowing some loss more than money is always lying in wait.

I tamp down the feelings with something, anything, positive. 

“At least lost money would benefit a finder,” I think.

Which was not the comfort I took from the disappearance of a pocket knife my father had given me as a college graduation present. The one I wanted when I was seven, but he didn’t think I was mature enough to own as a second grader. 

Somehow, I lost it to the ocean the first summer holiday I’d taken as a newly minted adult. I comforted myself then that at least I’d always know about where it was if not exactly. 

Over the years I lost so many things I adored: 

Books I had lent, jewelry that had slipped off fingers, even a beaded cuff my daughter had just given were there and then gone, Like an “Irish Goodbye.”

I wish I could be anywhere else than on a gurney waiting for a needle to take its core samples. Squeezing my eyes shut hoping life after this is more about the finding than the losing. 

Still, I do what I always do. Which is letting my repetitive thoughts bargain with superstition. I will count the steps in each flight of stairs; each second between songs. I will play games of solitaire until my cards align.

I add a year to my age on purpose, wishing I’d never shredded the ARRP welcome letter (with its fantabulous offer of automobile trunk organizers) just for reaching the crest of old age.

Eventually, I know time and inevitability will tarnish its protective effects, which, I can be honest, had never ever been protective. Youth weights probabilities differently. 

But not now. I am not ready to put my affairs in order. But perhaps I am ready to sort through the junk in my trunk. Maybe I’ll find some of the treasures I’ve lost. 

Comfort me, Elmo

When Sesame Street’s Elmo took to social media last week to touch base with followers in his trademark third-person style – “Elmo is just checking in! How is everybody doing?” – the response, an outpouring of angst and unhappiness, was immediate and at times intense.

People told him of their struggles with loss; their marriages, loved ones, pets, jobs, possessions.

They told him of their anguish over the state of the world and their inability to change its seeming trajectory into war and destruction.

And they told him of their general malaise: “Elmo, I’m feeling pretty sad right now. I think I need a hug."

Even celebrities and political figures added to the conversation, including President Biden:

“I know how hard it is some days to sweep the clouds away and get to sunnier days.

Our friend Elmo is right: We have to be there for each other, offer our help to a neighbor in need, and above all else, ask for help when we need it.

Even though it's hard, you're never alone.”

And while it may seem silly – a moment of cathartic exchange set off by a fuzzy member of the Children’s Television Workshop – it is certainly a testament to the lasting impact children's programming has had on our lives.

It's understood from studies dating back to the 1970s, when Sesame Street was still in its toddler years, that children's educational television has had a significant impact on our kids’ school readiness. We all practiced our colors, letters, and shapes from comforting monsters, some of whom lived in trash cans and were benignly grumpy. It made our parents happy.

These colorful, matted muppets perfectly demonstrated the wondrous nature children embody. They may have seemed like children, adults, or imaginary creatures, but these puppets were always safe and accessible.

Elmo was my daughter’s favorite. And for a good long while during her pre-verbal days, I wished he wasn’t.

I didn’t grow up with him. He didn't make me comfortable. At all. I didn’t like the high-pitched voice that confused tenses and referred to himself by name alone. I thought he was whiny. I scoffed at the idea that he was getting grammar wrong on purpose. “He’s using fishes as a noun! How can that be ok?”

But I had grown up. I had lost some of that wonder of childhood.

Elmo didn't speak my language. But he did speak my daughter's -- literally – he spoke the onset of speech for a person new to its practice. He forgot articles and repeated words, but he laughed a laugh of sheer joy that told my daughter getting it wrong isn't scary. He was gentle and sweet and he was learning just like his biggest fans.

It was during a week-long hospital stay when my daughter was 18 months old that I learned to love the sound of his voice as he kept my daughter not only calm but in good spirits.

That experience stayed with me as an adult in much the same way a fondness for wooly mastodons that seem a little sad, and vampires who love counting, had imprinted on my experiences of childhood.

I never said another unkind word about that marvelous monster again.

It's reassuring to know that he's still a creature in whom we can all take just a little bit of comfort.

Democracy may require a ménage a triage

Great Barrington has drawn national attention after an incident in early December in which police, acting on an anonymous tip and with the permission of school officials, investigated whether a copy of “Gender Queer,” a graphic-comic style memoir by Maia Kobabe, was part of a teacher’s lending book collection at the W.E.B. Du Bois Regional Middle School. 

While the outcome of the search, according to news reports, yielded no book, the teacher who was targeted has taken a leave of absence after the incident, and the community is rightly outraged. 

The police department has allegedly  apologized for its part, and town officials have similarly promised to conduct a transparent investigation, but each has tempered some of that contrition with the age-old qualified defense of “just doing our job.”

Numerous spokespeople have cited an “inability” to pick and choose the “crimes” they investigate as a kind of magic eraser for police overreach as they look into the criminality of reading material.

School officials have repeatedly been quoted as saying they feel obligated to allow police access to school grounds when asked because they feel a cordial and necessary partnership with them in the event of an emergency. As if school authorities have no reason to question, let alone second-guess, outside authority. 

Even those who we might hope would be friendly toward the democratic ideals of freedom of speech and expression, have come out and asked what all the fuss was about.

“Personally, I don't think the police did anything wrong. I think they responded to a call, I think they're obligated to respond to a call, they didn't go in there with a SWAT team and armed officers. I think some people are trying to capitalize on this in a very negative way because of what's going on in Florida, in some other states. But I think the police did their job,” is what Massachusetts State Rep. Smitty Pignitali (D) told WAMC.

The American Civil Liberties Union has asked for records pertaining to the investigation and has requested the town to take corrective action that includes instructing school staff that law enforcement's response to concerns about educational material is not only inappropriate but also deeply concerning. Anything less would not only allow but condone the use of police forces to harass and discriminate against certain community members. 

Like the teacher who was targeted by an anonymous phone.

The book in question, a coming-of-age story about identifying as non-binary, was published by Oni Press in 2019 with an initial run of only 5,000 copies. Two years later it had become not only a useful guide for young people in their exploration of self-identity, but also one of the most challenged books in the United States.

 According to the American Library Association and free speech advocate organization PEN America, who track the escalation of censorship and book bans in classrooms and libraries nationwide, the book was targeted for attack by conservative groups, parents, school boards, religious leaders, and politicians across the nation. 

According to PEN, censorship has shown a marked increase during the 2022-2023 school year, much of it driven by new state bans (as well as a few prolific and sometimes anonymous tipsters) that seek to label books that deal with race, sexual orientation, and gender as “explicit, harmful or age-inappropriate.”

 

Police Investigations of school libraries are not just a waste of police resources, it is a misuse of them. It is quite literally using the power of the state to intimidate, and curtail the rights to speech and expression of citizens. 

And if police are not able to discern from a tip line what constitutes criminal activity in a school library maybe there should be some kind of home triage unit that could decide for them.

Because if you buy the explanation that police can't pick and choose what they investigate, I suppose you might also believe that schools shouldn’t be able to determine what constitutes education, or that medical staff aren't allowed to decide for themselves what constitutes a medical emergency. 

Oh wait … 

How do you like your coffee? Reel or Insta?

 “Did you see what I sent you?”

He’s usually sitting on the couch next to me as we divide our attention between three different screens and trying to stay alert to the beckoning of a kitchen timer.

I usually roll my eyes before I change course scrolling to check my messages. I have no idea how many times I'll have to watch this movie before I understand what's happening. 

Over the years, my husband has sent me countless videos gleaned from the internet of seemingly miraculous things:

A scratch-and-sniff “museum” in Japan that offers visitors the experience of smelling various animal butts; A bride and groom who dressed up their pet llama as a groomsman; a pygmy goat who can only relax if he’s dressed in a duck costume; an octopus unscrewing the lid of a jar from the inside; and a never-ending reel of foodie challenges that have got to be based on dares.

“Even if we had a marble counter there is no way I'd spread two jars of gravy and a cylinder of shake cheese as a way of mixing spaghetti and meatballs.”

Honestly, I had never before felt the urge to test any of these (usually) zany (sometimes crass) videos’ validity.

Until now.

All it amounted to was a tight shot of a ribbon of coffee pouring through an orange slice into a demitasse cup.

My husband had found my weakness. A coffee recipe so simple that it might even be foolproof.

Not that I was going to rush into recreating it.

I mean…  I had to watch the 30-second long video over and over despite it having only one step. Thoroughness could take days.

I mean … I had to have the perfect ingredients. This could mean at least four trips to the grocery store to take into account the number of times I leave the place with everything but what I had on my list.

I mean  … it was so simple that when I decided to try it I didn't even bother with a trial run. I was just going to record the simple process and send him my cinematic tribute via instant messenger forthwith.

Eventually, I would get it all together. 

Ready? Set? The camera was rolling now. 

I knew what to expect as I steadied my hand against it and waited for the magic to happen.

The coffee sprang forth from the espresso machine like a freight train in a winter storm. Steam and froth accompanied the brown liquid as it poured onto the slice of orange I had placed over my cup.

But instead of filtering through the sliver of citrus the espresso cascaded over the edge and created a river on the counter.

#@^&!! Internet! I laughed as I cut the video and promptly sent it off into the green chat bubble toward the mister.

Three dots later he had a helpful suggestion: 

“In the video, the orange has a hold in the center. Maybe you shouldn't get the seedless?”

In dogged pursuit

The unnamed roadways on the Island De Vieques pushed northward in steep elevation along the coastline, and I pushed myself up their pockmarked surfaces at as steady a pace as I could muster. 

It was the last day of our acquaintance, and I was saying farewell to the lovely and rugged place with a final jog around the neighborhood. 

It wasn't my first ride on this particular carousel. but I was still wary. 

During the six days I'd been here, I had gotten lost at least twice and encountered a host of curious animals -- everything from hermit crabs and iguanas to wild horses.

Most of them ignored my intrusion once they realized the things I carried – a phone, a beach towel, a pair of sunglasses – contained no nutritional value. 

But nothing frightened me more than the dogs that roamed loose. I had kept a lookout for them, making note of places I'd seen the scruffier ones linger in hopes of avoiding any unwanted surprises. I took pains to scuff my feet on the gravel as loudly as possible, doing so I hoped would herald my whereabouts.

I was having success: 

I startled a shaggy mixed breed that looked like a relative of Little Orphan Annie’s pooch (1982 Movie not the ‘76 Broadway Musical) but he deduced I was harmless and continued on his merry way, nosing through some litter. 

I came face to snout with Old Yeller’s clone and got the distinct message (from his raised hackles and continuous growl) that he did not want me to pass anywhere near his humble abode. So I turned on my zero-drop heels and went along MY merry way.

Then there was the adorable pair of teacup pooches of the fluffy variety all alone in front at the boutique hotel just a few doors down from where I'd ventured out, and where my relatives were still sleeping akimbo. The pups looked comfortable and fetching in their matching outfits and bejeweled collars. But as I approached the place where I imagined their relatives were still checking out, they snarled and bared their teeth. 

Circling back. 

I'll just cut over on the nearest side street and cross my fingers that it will connect with the broader loop. I've already run one and a half miles; one and a half more would scratch the itch. 

It's restful here. The air is warm but not heavy. The hills give and take. The traffic I encounter of the automotive variety never reaches top speed thanks to narrow roadways laden with speed bumps. 

I am at the bottom of a steep hill and jogging upward, having almost completed my second circle when I hear some commotion behind me. 

The jingle of collars, nails scraping the pavement, and barks that travel through deep chests. 

There are two of them. 

I am afraid to look back. Afraid to lock eyes. But I know. They have different gaits and their growls have different pitches.

I instinctively stop running, knowing I can't outrun them but hoping that slowing down will give all of us more time to think. 

But I don't dawdle. I set my sights on the top of the hill and push the pace.

“Stay calm,” said the voice in my head who was telling me what I already knew: a pack of dogs that would ambush me from behind was not interested in playing. 

I feel one of the dogs touch the back of my knee. It feels like the dry lips of a horse flapping at a palm hoping to slurp a handful of something tasty. And then came the pressure. Not a bite. Maybe the swipe of a heavy paw?

I wish I had a rock to throw at their broadsides. Even if I might miss. Chances are fair that at least one of them might trade the chase for an instinctive game of fetch. 

In my escalating panic, the voice of actor Matthew McConaughey comes rushing out of my mouth like it's air from a punctured tire. 

“ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT … I've got no intention of moving in on your action.” 

And like movie magic, once the three of us reached the top of the hill, the dogs turned back and disappeared into parts unknown.

I took off running. 

Plane air

 The temperature got warmer all of a sudden. 

Up until that moment during the three-and-a-half-hour flight, the plane had felt drafty and frigid. I imagined we had crossed some point in the world between the arctic North and tropical South, though I could only make an estimation based on elapsed time. 

I certainly hadn't ponied up for WiFi. 

I might have asked my husband where the dashes and dots appeared on the map as if such movie icons could materialize in real-time. But he had drawn the long straw assigned seating and managed a bulkhead seat that might as well have been a lounge chair for all the space it gave him. 

He tried to make my side of the sardine can more comfortable by offering to share one of his wireless earbuds so I could at least listen to a movie he had downloaded … but I demurred. I didn't want to listen to things explode. 

I'm already an anxious traveler. 

So I fidgeted in my aisle seat, vacillating between playing games of backgammon on my phone and pretending to doze off. 

The girl had the window and was tapping away at her screen. Earphones blot out the jet stream of sounds recirculating in the cabin, which range from mechanical to mucousy. 

The boy, a monkey in our middle, had fallen asleep on this flight and the one before it. His head wobbled from side to side as the plane shimmied from one pocket of turbulence to another. 

The two of us wagered the odds of him sleeping through the third and final leg of the journey. Magic 8 Ball says: “All Signs Point To Yes.”

A steady stream of fellow passengers mill past us to get to the lavatories. They navigate past without grazing any part of my person. They are careful and I have tucked my arms in between the armrests. 

I have learned from the man who doffed the head of a woman sitting on her suitcase near the moving sidewalk as he dangled his arm over the handrail. 

Jerks. Forever sprawling past their fair share of space.  

My husband, sensing my angry thoughts, pulls his elbows into his body. He doesn't notice I am telegraphing instructions to return his seat to its upright position for landing.

From my mind to the flight attendant’s mouth. He pretends he didn't notice though everyone knows great wars have been waged over that angled inch. 

Turns out we were six miles above sea level and headed into our descent.

The cabin lights switch off as the Fasten Seatbelt sign comes to life with a crystal-tinked ding.

It occurred to me then, that the whole ride had been a breeze. Not once had the baby in the seat ahead of us, who had smiled beatifically as he was bounced and juggled between his equally placid parents, seemed disgruntled. Not once did my own children argue. And not once did I  wish minor, irritating harm on my fellow man.

We all just seemed to float effortlessly, harmoniously together.

And before I knew it we had landed, smooth as silk. Passengers erupt into applause of appreciation. I hadn't even been worried. Now I was grateful.

 

Not worth the gamble

I know I wasn't hallucinating. 

I had been under the influence of sedation, but I had concrete proof. 

Five years ago, after my first big milestone screening test – the one that no one remembers but ends with a report complete with the most colorful but least scenic tourism photography imaginable – my lower digestive tract was declared completely unremarkable except for the appearance of a redundancy – an “extra loop” – which had put a gleam in the doctor’s eye, and which he assured me was not abnormal nor would preclude me from membership in the elusive 10-year club. 

“Congratulations.”

It felt like I had won the lottery.

But the form letter that arrived in the mail just a few weeks ago was an unexpected invitation to take the sightseeing journey early.

“Oh yes,” the lady who answered the phone said when I asked about why they were taking away half my lottery winnings and making me spin the wheel again. “I see that your recall was shortened. Probably happened during a review of your files when your doctor retired. You could postpone …”

“Or I could just get it over with, and not spend the next five years wondering what could be growing unchecked in the recesses of my ascending colon.”

“Probably not worth the gamble.”

So I made the appointment, which turned out to be two days after Christmas. 

And though I tried to keep it all very hush-hush, buying the preparations on the sly, and keeping my nervous energy in check, my secret was discovered when the boy found bottles of electrolytes hidden in a cabinet behind the lunch boxes.

“So when is the colonoscopy?”

Why would you think that?

“Because you never buy Gatorade, and Grandma never buys Gatorade, but I found it in her house last summer and she said she had just had a colonoscopy.”

“It’s two days after Christmas.”

“That's a pretty crappy gift … all puns intended.”

Yes … and no.

The prep is a time-consuming process that requires precision. And test anxiety is ever-present. 

But in my experience, and as strange as it seems, there are more uncomfortable procedures than colonoscopy. And since it's truly preventative, the test can also be a treatment, preventing cancer before it begins. 

The hardest part, for me, has always been having to coordinate a driver. 

If it were an option, I would prefer to wait out the drug-induced delirium and drive myself home.

As it is, I will have to suffer the slings and arrows of my husband telling jokes, ad nauseam, about the funny things I said or did while under the influence of sedation. 

But, thanks to pandemic protocols, he was waiting in the parking lot and not in attendance to witness me waking up drowsily in recovery. 

Even if I danced on top of the nurses’ station, he wasn't there to see it, so the question of it happening would be moot anyway. 

As it turned out, the big day was just another Wednesday in December. With a mid-morning nap, unremarkable results, and my new place in the Five-Year Club celebrated as solid.  

Season's Greetings

 Tomorrow we will sleep in.

That's the plan, anyway.

Tonight we are neither on guard nor on our best behavior. There will be at least four cheeky arguments over which holiday movie is the one WE ALWAYS (or WE NEVER) watch on Christmas Eve. (It's NOT Waking Ned Devine, no matter what my husband says.)

Santa's workshop - also known as the downstairs guest bedroom, where parental elves have toiled into the wee hours on the 24th day of December for the last two decades – has finally experienced the sluggishness of an aging demographic. 

There aren't mountains of gifts to sift through anymore. There is nothing to assemble. Any wrapping we might do is quite actually the work of but a moment. 

(There's plenty of time for wine).

I count myself fortunate that this shift to something smaller hasn't resulted in big or hard feelings. 

Not only have our children matured beyond the stage of development where they are salty that Santa’s magic has always been connected to their parents by cartoonishly visible nylon strings, but we Middle-Agers are salty that we awaken before dawn, whether we want to or not, without any impish joy.

They wake up slowly, wanting warm liquids and breakfast before commencing a round-robin style gift delivery they see as tradition.

“Did you know some people just go all in … they just find their names and start shredding?” my daughter says when I ask her to tell me her favorite part of Christmas morning. “I love that it takes us all day to get through the same amount of presents others tear through in minutes. It’s just nice.”

And she misses what we all miss: Grandpa setting up his toy trains under the tree, and Grandma nagging him to “let the kids play engineer, for goodness sake!”

For all the things we lose in this life, there are so many things still to find.

For instance, I find myself in a new camaraderie with strangers in snippets of overheard conversations. 

I want to high-five the man at the jewelry store shopping for a gift for his daughter who is finally home for the holidays. 

I want to hug the lady at the supermarket who was buying a sweet treat for a loved one in hospice. 

I can reread every letter my kids wrote to Santa from memory as I walk past the families waiting in line at the Shopping Mall’s North Pole.

I am grateful my girl is home. And that we will talk late into the night. I will rejoice that for the brief time between now and New Year, she will drive her brother anywhere he wants to go; and he won't drive her crazy. 

It seems like every Christmas we've ever shared is playing on a loop. 

I feel so lucky I want to knock on wood. 

By the time we are ready to sleep again, we will have laughed, cried, and chatted late into the night with the favorite members of our far-flung families. We will have heard old stories and told some with details that seem entirely new. 

We won't want the season to end.

Accepting a different kind of festive

The house looks like it always does. There are mountains of clean laundry piled on chairs throughout the downstairs rooms waiting to be folded. Dishes in the sink that have yet to be stacked in the dishwasher. And there are bits of debris from snacks of toast and crackers strewn about the carpet like confetti that need to be vacuumed. 

It's a different kind of festive this year. 

The only things here that are reminiscent of a traditional winter holiday season are a garland of some variety of ever-plastic greenery and a sign wishing all who enter a Merry Christmas. Both of which have managed to lurk in their respective haunts perennially. 

The cards, ordered late, have arrived but haven't been processed for mailing. A single round of holiday baking has occurred, but my resolve to plan more has ebbed. 

Ordinarily, we would have a Christmas tree by now. Procured by the time the sun had set on Black Friday. The six-foot balsam would be shedding its needles all over the carpet while the dog and cats would be drinking out of its Christmas-flavored water receptacle. In addition to vacuuming up pine scent on the daily, I would be playing a never-ending game of picking up decorations from the floor and returning them to the low-hanging branches, from whence the cat had scattered them.  

I know it's just timing. What with the daughter off at college, not scheduled to return until just about the time Santa is supposed to be finalizing his lists; And the boy being in absolute solidarity for waiting. 

 But this new compression has also seemed to wring some of the joy from my holiday heart, leaving me with a complicated math of emptying the storage compartment of all our ancient ornament just in time to put them all away within a fortnight. 

Honestly, I wondered about this day. 

The first Christmas that slopes with me into middle age. 

The first Christmas that'll light has dimmed from childhood joy. Where there are fewer gifts to buy and cards to send. Fewer place settings at the table. And yet despite this winnowing, somehow, even the littlest thing will feel like a gargantuan chore.

I mean … I don't even know if those lazy snowflake light cannons work anymore let alone where in the garage they might have landed. 

I certainly would have noticed if I'd had to 

mow around them. 

Or at least I think I would.

This all rattles around in my brain as I sit amid friends during the coffee talk portion of our mid-week run.

Talk of miles and ailments has ended and the banter of baseball starts to wane. Christmas takes its place. The cost of a live tree is only a momentary complaint before postcards from our pasts start to sail around the table. 

Who among us hedged their bets at the tree farm by leaving a glove on a contender only to have misplaced the tree and the glove? Who was the earliest riser on Christmas morning and whose mom let them open just one present? What was the strangest tradition?

By the end of the hour, I had absorbed so many sweet secrets, that it felt as if I had been visited by the ghosts of my own Christmas’ - past, present, and future. 

And I felt more relaxed. I don't have to be ready, I just have to remember.

A lock on time

Who is that woman? 

Her hair, frizzy and dry, was a tri-blend of color that needed … at the very least … a bit of attention. 

She looked vaguely familiar but I avoided making eye contact. It’s a small place. It would be awkward, if not painful, to stare directly into the mirror. 

If this had been a campground, I would have been the tent pole; with a full circle of fabric cascading around my neck, covering the place I inhabit almost entirely. I held my phone between my two hands, prayer style. I could still feel its warmth even if I couldn’t read the screen. Like the fire.

It might be nice to be small under the stars. Quiet-like. 

The young woman who had welcomed me motioned to a seat and then disappeared into a back room to collect materials. The place was abuzz with activity. Soft music played while scissor blades whisked against each other. Conversation floated above us in gentle waves. 

Before long, she selected strands of my hair, parted and stretched them, then painted and folded each piece between sheets of colorful foil. Layering upward, the woman peering back at me from the mirror looked like she was wearing the roof of a pagoda as a hat.

She is quick efficient and naturally personable. She takes her work so seriously that she uses her spare time to prepare.

“Oh, I didn't have much of an interest in the Barbie movie, myself, but I knew it would be something my clients might want to talk about, so I thought it would be good to see it.”

The women in chairs all around me talked about their families. Their pets. The best things to watch on Netflix. They upsold travels and downplayed travails. Keeping the conversation steady and effortless. 

With cordiality considered there seemed to be no unsafe subjects.

It occurred to me as I sat there in my tinfoil hat, waiting for science and artistry to transform the cantankerous keratinous filaments I had too long ignored, that the so-called journey had led me here kicking and screaming. 

Far far too long, this ritual of self had felt like just another chore. And a chore that could also be fraught with personal failure under the gaze of a professional. 

And although I stopped coloring (and trimming) my own hair long ago, I have not managed to keep these tresses any better managed. Nor have I ceased worrying that the state of its split ends and tangles shouldn't be justification for semi-public shaming, But I have accepted my age and the changes it has visited upon my hair and I have committed to increasing the number of visits I make to the professionals per annum. At least two times as we go around the sun. 

“How has it taken me so long to prioritize,” I wonder each time I leave the salon and sit in my car. My hair feels lighter. Younger. Full of possibilities. And if I squint I can almost recognize the girl in my rearview mirror.