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.

Our inside voices need to get louder on gun control

Another school massacre.

Another letter from a superintendent trying to reassure us that they are doing everything humanly possible to keep our kids safe. 

Scroll through the news: Experts offer suggestions on how to talk to our kids.

Increasingly we feel unable to remain calm as the torturous details of this latest slaughter trickle out. We need our kids to function and remain in good spirits for their next active shooter drill. We need them to stay calm so that we may all carry on.

Cheerleading, perhaps, as we continue to accept such an unacceptable situation.

We heed yet another call from politicians to deliver our thoughts and prayers as they raise their hands and shoulders skyward against an idea that the right to bear arms is unassailable. 

Everything else is fair game, I guess.

We will question all motives. 

Even my husband, a supporter of weapons bans wondered aloud: "Do you think Beto was pandering?"

I tell him that I reject his question's premise ... unless we redefine pandering as begging for much-needed change.

"Beto said what we ourselves think. We should all be so impolite.

My husband apologized for asking. He just wants to be on the same page.

The one not sullied by motive and opportunity.

We will distract ourselves with calls for more security. Maybe we'll consider building metal detectors into every doorway. Maybe we'll require our teachers to be armed. More and more will die, but we will accept the press conference jargon ... that it could have been worse.

It has only gotten worse.  

The only change we'll see is the Gun Deaths line on a graph shoots ever upwards. It's been two years since that line shot past automobile accidents as the Number One killer of children under 18.

Still, the seventy percent of us who want effective Gun Control are unable to thwart the thirty percent who are managing to enact Gyn Control instead. 

None of this is ok. But what can we do? 

Why can't we enforce the "well-regulated militia" part of the second amendment?

Why can't we ban military-style weapons?

Why can't we require insurance and licensing for every single gun? 

We have been effective in creating a system that protects neither life nor liberty. Or ... as thethirty percentt are so fond of telling us ... we live in a Republic not a Democracy. 

It's easy to feel hopeless. 

The gun industry is banking on that despair for its livelihood. a never-ending circle of violence. 

There is so much more we can do to exert political pressure over this status quo. We should remind ourselves that Beto, using his inside voice to speak truth to power, and being shouted down with expletives, should strike a nerve within us all. 

Mamie Till showed the world what hatred did to her child. It is well past time we make our leaders take a long, hard look at what their greed keeps doing to ours.

Sisyphus, Running

Running is often a solitary sport.

Alone, we keep our bodies in rhythm as we try to outpace our thoughts. We may charge up a hill with an upbeat tempo feeding into our headphones and roll back down, listening to the sound of the songbirds gliding along on the breeze.


It can get lonely.


Running, as a practice, is supposed to be a kind of “de-stressor.”


So, of course, one of the first rules in running clubs is: Don't talk politics. It will only make the activity distressing.


Stepping on toes, both literally and figuratively, can lead to dangerous places: quite literally a blood-pumping, heart-pounding way to a leaner, meaner you.


It can also lead to long, sole-crunching silences.


Which is exactly where I found myself after accidentally wandering into the topic of Roe-reversal at mile-two of a six-mile run: feeling like the someone had pressed the mute button on the world.


My Republican friend couldn't understand why his Liberal friends, like myself, had to keep saying the word "abortion." Especially since many people like him – well-meaning citizens without the benefit of a medical degree -- hadn't understood how many other reproductive procedures the bans might restrict.


He was just starting to understand the consequences: That the same drugs and procedures prescribed for early abortion are also prescribed for the treatment of early miscarriages; and that pharmacies may not fill those prescriptions in fear of legal reprisals. He didn't know how many procedures used to treat medical complications, including fetal demise, have been hog tied by the abortion debate as it has been written into the letter of the law. But he still feels the weight of a moral quandry: That it seems as if there are too many women who aren't being responsible with their choices. And who wouldn't want to save babies?


He knew a few women who had bad experiences or had used abortion as birth control. It didn't seem right.


So these are the stakes?


“I see the handful of people you know personally who use abortion as "birth control," and raise you the handful I've known whose abortions allowed them to continue educations, leave unhealthy relationships or saved their lives.

"This isn't politics, it's personal."


I say the words. Loudly, and with feeling.


"We can not make it our business, as a nation, to make abortion inaccessable for those who need one. Abortion must be safe, and it must be legal throughout the duration of a pregnancy because things can always go wrong. We need to ensure that women have the best healthcare for them. We have to be able to direct the course of our lives. Women should have the right to determine whether they are ready to be pregnant from the very start and that we can have the most compassionate care at the end if something goes heartbreakingly wrong. Abortion is healthcare for women."


The sounds of our running shoes scratching through gravel suddenly got louder. All other sounds retreat.


The silence startles me for a moment.


I begin to apologize, but he won't accept. He says there is no need. We are friends.


“We all just need to keep talking, keep listening, and keep trying to find common ground.”

I can't take back my position, but I want to roll back my rage.

This may be the hill I'm willing to die on, but  I rather the death be from exhaustion than getting flattened over and over by the heavy burden I tried to push up here by myself.

On The Town (Fate, Accomplice)

… : )

Hey, mom? What are you doing later?

I could almost hear the honey in her voice as I read the text.

This, dear friends, is not an open-ended question meant to ascertain a person's availability for a fun and frivolous after-work past-time.

Intuition (and experience) told me this was a trick. And it begged for an open-ended response.

"Why, what's up?"

Three dots pulsated again and then disappeared.

When the words finally appeared they offered nary a hint of specificity. 

"I was hoping you'd do something for me."

I imagined her voice as sharp Boston vowels tumbling from Ben Affleck's mouth: "I need your help. I can't tell you what it is, you can never ask me about it later, and we're gonna hurt some people."

I thought for a moment about forwarding my to-do list complete with appointments and meetings, making a particular notation of a closeted desire ... that one of my teenage progeny might gather up the dunes of laundry spreading through the house on the shifting winds of the season and put their grains where they belong.

I don't want to be the one doing the “sniff test.”

That, I know will happen someday, when they get houses and washers and children of their own. Today is not that day. Today she wants me to take her shopping. She has her own car ... her own money ... her own ideas about what she wants. Why is she asking me to be a part of it?

Is this a trick?

What can I offer? The past should inform her that her mother can only lay a wet blanket over the fire within. I can bring the admonition for spending too extravagantly. I have reached the age (unhappily) that the let-me-speak-to-your-manager vibe isn't as mortifying as it should be. Surely, she's not anywhere near ready to allow me to be the conduit between her youthful sensibilities and the desire to get a sale price.

She can't want me to talk her out of whatever skimpy thing shaped like clothes that her heart desires ... Or to make her think about the cost basis ratios … can she?

Dresser drawers? Washer? Trash? Maybe it's Trash, washer, dresser drawers ... The order of operations has always been quite flexible. 

I've been here before. Only I wasn't the mother then. 

Youth fashion hasn't changed all that much since I used to try and fit in. 

Time is so weird how it moves in fits and starts. How it weaves in and out. 

Time with her as I have experienced it ... the daily hum of music, song, arguments, hugs, laughter, tears, papers rustling, clothes thrown here and there, finger-pointing, eye-rolling, slammed doors, the occasional plate of warm cookies, and an explosive mess in the kitchen ... will freeze.

But it won't stand still. 

She will be three hours away, living her best life. And I will be waiting for those three pulsating dots to complete our connection.

For once, I won't say what I'm thinking. 

Instead, I respond with my best Jeremy Renner imitation: "Whose car are we gonna take?"

Wish us well

 Don't wish me a happy Mother's Day.

 

I am a person.

 

A person with a uterus.

 

A person who has grown fetuses. Birthed babies

 

I am a person who has chosen a path.

 

A path that was sometimes made rockier because people can identify me as a woman.

 

Considered less. Valued less. Always expected to do more ... with less. 

 

Separate. Not equal. That's life. 

But as we face a new dystopian future, I am a very unhappy mother.

 

True, I have moved past the phase in my life where my body can grow an organ to sustain a fetus. But my body has done this twice. Both times it was daunting and not without unpleasant and frightening complications. 

 

I didn't fully understand the seemingly limitless risks involved in pregnancy and childbirth as I was about to undertake them. A lot of the choices came down to probabilities calculated by others with more knowledge about all the complications that could occur. The cynical part of me would tell you they didn't want me to worry my pretty little head about.

 

The truth is there are so many things that can go wrong, it would be near impossible to explain all of them in the course of a single office visit.

 

That's what I told myself In the aftermath of my pregnancies: Everyone did their best. Because how could an ordinary person willingly put themselves at such risk when the outcome could be as life ending as life affirming? 

 

People who want babies will.

 

But why should people who don't want children be forced to take any of those risks?  A decision made by five people in a marble courthouse who firmly and cynically  believe laws that made abortion understood as a constitutional right were, instead, “wrongly decided” and not “settled law” after all? Five originalist thinkers working us back into a place where our inhabitants are either enslavers or the enslaved.

Unacceptable.

 

Your husband can’t make you give him a kidney, but he can make you give him a kid? 

 

And the state will enforce this labor. And not only will it enforce it, it will ensure that the labor is as hard and hurtful as humanly possible.

 

Do we accept this as we have accepted restricted access to abortion and birth control? Like we have allowed over-burdensome regulations: Forced cooling periods; multiple and unnecessary medical procedures. Extreme scrutiny including the gauntlet of harassment that has accompanied us to even the most routine medical exams and procedures?  

 

Do we accept another hurdle to proper care like we accepted the impossibility of getting birth control from the dominant Catholic healthcare system?

 

As I contemplate these questions, I wonder what my life would have been like had this country fully embraced my humanity. I can’t imagine what my daughter’s experience will be when our country denies hers entirely. 

 

The dystopian future that Margret Atwood showed us just a few decades ago in literature seems closer than ever to becoming real life. Parts of it have always been here. 

 

It’s not ironic that the handful of extremists on the Supreme Court shaping this future have relied on the great injustices of our past to get us there. 

 

There is no going back. Not because we have come "too far," but because we haven't gone nearly far enough. 

Don't wish your mother a happy day today. Wish her a healthy one.