TED

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Hello ~ Goodbye

I called my Gram today. She just celebrated her 97th birthday.

I can't shake the feeling that she was saying goodbye in our brief phone call.

I hope I'm wrong. And yet I wouldn't fault her. Dying in her sleep would be the way to go.

Love you forever, Gram.

QT with the D

How many times in our adult life do we get to feel like a kid? Not enough.

Last year I went on vacation with my dad. It's been 20+ years since we last traveled together, just the two of us, and that was to the Disney/Epcot empire. This time I was excited but also apprehensive. Traveling with your dad as a kid, traipsing around beaches and theme parks, is one thing. Five days as adults, 24/7 - it's anyone's guess.

Our flight was in the early hours. Actually it was the morning after Obama won the election. I remember packing and watching the returns. And staying up for the history-in-the-making acceptance speech, even though I'd be airport-bound before 4am.

My dad packed all his things in a robin egg blue rolling duffel. It was free from a cruiseline, or something. The handle was fickle, and sturdy it was not. And yet it met my dad's requirements: fits in the overhead bin and free. My dad is a free junkie. Free is his meth. For years the highlight of Christmas was waiting for my dad to get new shoes or new clothes as a gift. Only because of his expressions. He'd squinch his face up, frown, poo poo the item and make a disapproving comment that his old pair - of pants, or shoes, or whatever - were perfectly fine. He didn't care how threadbare his jeans or superglued together his Tevas were. They worked for him.

So free things are one of the rare moments when he appears excited. Well, excited for him. I've given him numerous golf balls, hats, tees - that were all free to me. He loves them better than anything you can buy him. Seriously. He even wears this hideous mustard yellow shirt with a logo from a vendor that I personally despise. Both my stepmom and I tried to persuade him to change shirts last time he wore it - but for different reasons (she hates the color, I suppose, and I hated the company who's logo was across his chest).

But I digress. What did I learn on my five day adventure with my Dad after a two decade hiatus?

First, that my dad is anti-nap. Flat out denies that he ever naps, even in his recliner while watching sports in the weekend. He naps. They may not be in bed, they may be brief, but he naps. On our second afternoon, I decided to close my eyes and rest. Before I knew it, Mr. I-Don't-Take-Naps closed the curtains, turned off the Golf Channel and napped too. And thus began our regular afternoon nap. Just knowing that he naps, even if he'll never own up to it when queried, is kind of fun. Kind of like seeing Santa's workshop. Or something.

Secondly, I realized that while my dad is very athletic, he is not always so graceful. So it is probable that my clumsiness comes from him. When I shared this revelation with him (after he tripped and nearly fell face first on the pool deck between two lounge chairs), I realized he wasn't as estactic as I was about this commonality.

Third, the role reversal is beginning. Albeit it in small ways, since my dad is a young 66 year old and his mother is a fairly healthy 96 year old so he'll be around for a long time. At least I'm planning on it. So, in a moment of silence, he interrupted with a serious question. This was a pivotal point in our relationship - confirming that I am no longer the little girl who, on occasion, rubbed her runny nose on her sleeve because kleenex was far away - inside the house - and I was having too much fun outside to be bothered with propriety.

So his question started with a back story, about a friend gives him grief for his paltry tipping at restaurants. My dad has always felt he's given enough. By his definition, 15% is enough. His friend insisted that 20% was more appropriate. Dad wanted to know my opinion.

And this melted my heart a little. Not unlike when I learned that, in 2008, he handwrote his expense reports and snail mailed them into the office. Did I say 2008? Which lead me to coax him into allowing me to complete these reports. He's a contractor and has never used Excel, nor does he have it on his desktop. I could only think that the person at his company was rolling their eyes each time they reeived his reports and had to try to read his scribbles and then re-key them into their computer. So after several months of offering, he caved. So, he still handwrites them, but now I transfer them into the Excel template his company provides, scan and send back to him so that he can sign and forward with his receipts. It's a super small way that I can help him after so many years of the reverse. Plus, it's heartwarming how grateful he is for my help - always saying "no rush" and "if it's not too much trouble" when he sends it to me.

Last but not least, was another favorite moment from our trip, during our last dinner. This was partially a hosted work trip (for me) and I got to bring a guest. On the last night's group dinner, Dad and I both had rosy cheeks from some jovial libations. Probably a few too many prior to dinner in truth. Mid-dinner, as he was returning to the table, he ricocheted off the wall. A little buzzed. With a little laugh he persevered on in a straight line. It was fun to get a little tipsy - or just plain tipsy - with him.

When I printed the photo of us from dinner that night, he said "It looks like we've had a lot to drink." And perhaps it did, but we also looked happy. And that's what I'll always see, red faces and all.

Guns, Girls & Steamed Vegetables

I have a healthy respect for, and discomfort with, guns. Displayed in museums, especially when there is historic significance, is one thing. Behind glass - ok. Handheld, on the ready - not so much.

At London Heathrow airport, I saw two officers carrying guns. I'm not sure if they were stun guns or not ... I do know that in general England does not allow citizens to own handguns. I like that. So it was a bit of a shock to see these two uniformed men, holding large guns, with both hands, across the front of their body.

The few other times I've seen a gun, live, handheld, and larger than a revolver - were also in foreign countries. At the Kremlin and Amman Airport. Each time the visual is very impactful. I can't say it makes me feel safer, it simply reminds me of the possibility of danger. Of the possible peril and thus assumed need to carry these rifles.

And yet one of my best friends is getting her permit to carry a concealed weapon. She has two little kids. She calls her gun "cute". I asked if it was pink.

It's not, if you were curious.

In my early 20s a friend who was/is a nurse, mind you, got a gun. I thought it was ridiculous. And awful. And yet more recently my friend with the "cute" gun wasn't quite as awful.

Ten years ago I had absolutely no interest in firing a gun. Ever. Heck, I even drafted the first few paragraphs of this post three years ago. I feel a little less repulsed by guns but still have a healthy fear (respect) and personally don't want to own a gun. And yet three months ago, in Hawaii no less, I shot clay pigeons with a Beretta 28 gauge. Or maybe it was a 20. Either way it was big, heavy, and interesting to fire. At most posts I was able to hit at least one of the clay pigeons, which was oddly satisfying for the first few times. After awhile I'd satisfied my curiosity and was content to just tag along for the ride till we returned back at the main office and could snag a soda from the cooler.

So, what does this mean? What's my point? I guess that our attitudes, tastes, opinions can change over time. Just like how I hated spinach as a child and now I consume voluntarily. While guns are more like broccoli for me (a little goes a long way, and raw not cooked), I am intrigued by my shift, albeit smallish, in my perception of guns.

Harumpf

Long day ... layoffs ... followed by a lot of beer.

{Writing Prompt} The Phone Rang

. . . and rang and rang. The machine picked up, the outgoing message started playing. And then a hang up. No message left.

Ten minutes later, same thing.

If he had caller id, he wouldn't screen. But he didn't, so he did.

Sure, he was a little curious about the non-message leaver. It had been happening the last two nights, a few times each night. But he suspected it to be a tele-marketer, being back in the day before the No Call List.

If the phone rings once more in the next ten minutes, he thought to himself, I'll pick it up. No more screening.

And then it did.

When he answered, he recognized the voice, but couldn't place it. Hair on the back of his neck stood at attention.

{Writing Prompt} Sunday

I found it in a stall, mixed in with graffiti on the sign that read "Dirty Hands Spread Disease." It was written with a thick marker in a distinctive handwriting that could be a font in its own right. My fingers traced the curves of the letters, until two others entered the bathroom.

I almost left without washing my hands, so eager to write down the information at the table before it escaped me. But I knew I wouldn't forget. What I didn't know is how one little website, written on a bathroom wall, would change my life.

{Writing Prompt} A small man with thick ears and toy-like face

Edgar rode down the street on his recycled bicycle. He was a small, squat man with thick ears and a toy-like face that masked age; far better than his white comb-over, paunchy middle and bottle cap glasses.

With his flexible schedule, he had all the time in the world to do nothing. After several months of aimless retirement life, he resigned himself to playing bingo and bridge at the senior center. Every Sunday night he'd convince himself that this week would be the week that he'd get the group to start playing poker, or at least gin. And then another week passed with his nodding off, as the young woman shouted out B5 or O57, Old Joe nudging him to mark N25 or G39 with a dried kidney bean. Ho hum.

As he hiked up his pants a bit, showing another half-inch of his once-white socks and ratty pant cuffs, Elaine crowed at him in her raspy, thunderous voice, "Wait up, Ed. Can I call you Ed? It was my husband's name. It's been six years since he died. How long since your wife passed?"

Old Joe had warned him about Elaine. He didn't believe for one moment that she'd ever pay him any attention.

"Seven. Seven years, I think."

"Where's she buried?" her wrinkly face closing in on his.

"Down the street at Assumption," he mumbled, averting her eyes.

"That's where my Ed is buried. I go once a week. Every Wednesday. Want to go with me tomorrow?"

He declined. But next week when she asked he agreed, once again not making eye contact.

Before long Elaine and Edgar were coming and going together - grocery store, senior center, cemetery. He taught her how to play poker. She taught him about soap operas. She promised not to tell anyone at the senior center that he liked As the World Turns. It was their secret.

{Writing Prompt} One Green Shoe

The ride from Indiana was solemn. It was dusk and Tom and I both were tired after a full day of forced family fun. Tatum was in the back, saddled into her car seat for the drive, berry sauce splotched across her once white top.

I tried to inventory the laundry room at home, searching for the bleach. I couldn't remember if we had any left, so we'd have to stop on the way home.

We listened to a lullaby cd to coax Tatum into napping. She hadn't napped all day and her mood was shifting into over-tired monster child.

Tom turned on talk radio and chewed gum as I dozed off and on. I could tell something was on his mind when he chewed gum, slowly like cud, but I wanted just a little more peace before jumping into it. Whatever it was.

"Remember making this drive when we were newly married? How there were no silences? We'd talk, laugh, sing to blaring music all four hours?"

"Yep," was all he said.

"Sometimes I miss that."

"Yep," he said, again.

I reached over to touch his thinning hair, smoothing it and tickling his ear along the way. It used to make him flinch. Not any more.

"How come you're not ticklish anymore?"

He pulled off the interstate. I bought two fountain sodas and pork rinds while Tom pumped gas. The town of Crawford was halfway and always had the cheapest gas. I'm not sure how the pork rinds became part of the tradition, but they had. I never thought I'd like them ... I only ate them on the way home from Indiana. It was our thing.

"No thanks," Tom said as I held the opened bag up for him to partake.

"Suit yourself - more for me."

Later I gestured again, and he declined. As I folded the top of the bag over to keep the remaining pork rinds fresh (as if they need to be fresh), I dipped my toes in farther ... though I wasn't sure I really wanted to know.

Tom didn't answer. He changed radio stations and took a sip of his soda.

I tried to tickle him in the ribs. No response.

Tatum woke up. I gave her a pork rind. She mostly chewed one corner. It became more of a toy than a snack. Kind of like rawhide for dogs. Tom vocalized his opposition to this choice of snack. I gave her another, which she promptly smashed into bits that fell into cracks in the car seat and would eventually become fossilized.

She fell back asleep, drool running down her face. I nodded off again as well. I'd mastered the not-drooling in the car, but not the head bobbing.

Before I knew it, we were on the windy, hilly road that lead to our subdivision. I stretched my arms, my legs and looked over at Tom. He was still chewing gum. He held up the pack of gum to offer me a piece.

"No thanks," I said. He liked red hot cinnamon gum. Too strong for my tastes.

Once we were in the garage I opened the back door to retrieve Tatum and found that she was only wearing one shoe; one green shoe must be back in IN.

{Writing Prompt} In My Next Life ... Part Three

Sophie morphs from Goth, seemingly overnight. She starts borrowing my clothes. She's always been a twig but she seems to be filling out more. I ask her if she's pregnant and she slams her door on me. Later she confides that she is. Joe wants to marry her but she's not so sure. I help her break it to our parents and they're amazingly supportive, once they get past the shock.

Carl finally comes out of the closet, and Sophie is the first one to say "I told you so." He and Bobby are going to move to NY and pursue acting. Get out of the small town that we grew up in and be discovered.

In college I rush and pledge. I get my first choice, so my roommate Liz and I are in the same sorority. We live in the house and break most of the rules. When Sophie comes to visit for a weekend, we find ourselves back in the old rhythm of a more mellow time.

Stuff That Makes Me Smile

-Seeing Hooch driving with a full head of curlers
-Remembering the way my Gram's cheeks and lips flopped when her dentures were out
-Watching my dog, circle around and around - nesting - before laying down for one of her many naps
-Bridget Jones's Diary, especially this time of year
-Beating ML at Pathwords
-The few times I beat my dad at Backgammon
-My hotel bathrobe
-Sunshine and Full Moons
-Big, hand thrown mugs
-Starting and finishing a book in a weekend - a rare, indulgent treat
-Fresh pine wreaths
-Warm socks in winter
-Seeing a movie on Christmas
-Finding a new favorite song to wear out

{Writing Prompt} In My Next Life - Part Two

When Debbie breaks up with Chip, I'm more upset than he is. Debbie promises we'll still hang out, but we don't. I see her at the mall once in awhile, with her new boyfriend or a bunch of her cheerleader friends. I try not to stare.

Sophie begins wearing thick black eyeliner and looking ghostly. She buys black hair dye at Sally Beauty while I stock up on peroxide. She loves grunge music and bums cigarettes as a freshmen while I play varsity field hockey and cruise around with my best friend Judy, a junior. Judy has a brand new convertible. It's red. In the winter we go tanning after school. Looking back now, we both resemble the pumpkin hue of oompa loompas.

Chip gets a DUI during his first year at junior college. Our parents take away his 1985 Trans Am. I get to drive it for several months. It's loud - rumbling down the street. I have to drive Sophie to school. We fight over what station plays on the radio. She jumps out of the car as quickly as possible, disassociating herself from the car and me. It's still better than the bus, for both of us.

Chip's latest girlfriend, Maggie, drives him around. She's pretty, but empty headed. Ever since Debbie his choice of girlfriends has gone downhill. As does his grades.

During my senior year I try out for the musical. I'm only in the chorus, but it's fun. I start dating Carl, the leading man. He's dreamy. Everyone in school likes him. In the summer he performs at The Palace at Six Flags. I go at least once a week to see him and we ride roller coasters in between performances. Afterwards we sneak into a dive bar that doesn't card and drink pints of ale and smoke.

Carl and I break up in July. He spends too much time with his best friend Bobby. In fact he's all he talks about. It's kind of weird.

Chip drives me to college. I'm only two hours away from home, but every mile counts. By then he's fixed his muffler, so the Trans Am isn't as embarrassingly loud. We can't see out the rear windows because I've packed his car with everything possible. He reminds me that I'm only 100 miles away, but I don't care. I'm not planning on going back to my hometown much. I'm going to live in this big city. Reinvent myself.

{Writing Prompt} In My Next Life ...

... I want to be the middle child, with an older brother and a younger sister. We'll be close in age; only 36 months difference between the three of us.

Throughout the years we frequently go to the same school, ride the same bus, stick up for each other and tattle on each other in equal measure.

In middle school my brother Chip fends off the bullies on the bus that pick on me. In high school, after he's crowned Homecoming King, his girlfriend Debbie sneaks with me into my first R rated movie. Afterwards Debbie tells me about the mechanics of sex and doesn't laugh when I ask questions that show just how clueless I am.

Chip's best friend's brother Tom takes me to Prom. I wear a ruffled, lacy, teal concoction that I got on clearance at the local department store. I'm proud of it, even if it's a little too big in the chest. Fortunately the stays keep it up and I improvise with a little artificial cleavage. Chip doesn't like Tom. But I do. A lot. In my diary I practice writing Mr and Mrs Tom Wakefield. Over and over. I catch my little sister Sophie reading my journal.

Sophie idolizes me for the first fourteen years of her life - until she starts her period and starts liking boys. Liking boys that I do not like one bit. Then Chip and I reunite to commiserate on our little sister's poor judgement and worry that she may be branded a slut at school.

Timing the Trailers

At the movie theatre my dad checked his waist watch multiple times to calculate the length of the trailers. He kept flipping it up to try to read it in the dark when the screen was brightest.

Ten minutes, he whispered.

Would've been my guess. Now I know.