Turtles and Other Tragedies

I grew up on a cul-de-sac in a subdivision of San Diego.  One of the dads painted a tennis/volleyball court in the middle and drilled holes on either side so you could pop in metal poles and adjust the net for the sport you fancied.  One of the moms organized a summer BBQ where we sat out in front of our houses, played volleyball and acted neighborly.

Of course I was too young to be aware of the dark side of the neighborhood.  The family that didn’t chip in for the paint/holes/net, the man who drank too much, the lady who wore her curlers everywhere in public, the people whose dogs were always out running wild (us!).  I was too busy making eyes at David, the Jewish boy who lived next door.  He had two older sisters who wore the latest jeans and knew all the words to Casey Kasem’s Top 40 on Sundays.

My best friend lived two doors down.  Her father was a Professor of Economics at the University and her mom stayed at home.  She had a younger sister and a Barbie collection that was worth enduring the canned Spaghettios lunches her mother served us when I went over there to play.  I was sort of envious of her but also aware that her mother spent a lot of time doing things my mother waved off with an, “Oh, who has the time?”   I was fascinated she clipped coupons, chased down loss leaders at grocery stores, and went to three different stores to find the real Holly Hobbie for Christmas instead of giving her daughter the less popular brown-haired friend, the Heather doll.

I did love my Heather doll.  She fit nicely into my collection of misfit toys.  There are some good lessons in there.  Valuing your time, befriending the unwanted.  First Born Prince bought three turtles in Chinatown over Thanksgiving when we were in NYC last week.  One of them died the first night we had them.  He had tears in eyes and his voice cracked as he explained what happened.

“Mom, my turtle died.  I picked him because he looked sick and like he needed food and I thought I could help him.  But now he’s….dead….[more crying]…”

I looked at him and he reminded me of myself at age 11 with my room full of odd toys and sick pets.  I had to decide how much was true sadness and how much was staying up late and the excitement of cousins and friends and too much Cornell Apple Orchards Pear-Apple cider.

“Aw, Charlie, I think it’s great you tried.  You can’t save the world, sweetheart.  Your turtle had the best last day of his life possible (for a creature born into the Chinese pet trade) thanks to you.”

He perked up a little.

“Really?  Do you think? How should we bury him?”

Happy Holidays

During high school I worked at the happening new mall downtown.  It was my part-time job and I loved being there during the holidays.  All that piped-in cheer and those colorful twinkling lights filled me with energy and always put me in a magical mood.  One evening I was singing along to the Christmas Muzak, folding sweaters, when I heard what sounded like a giant pumpkin splattering outside and then people screaming.  Someone had jumped off the top floor of the three-story building.  What went through the head of that poor soul before he aimed it at a bunch of shoppers?

I now avoid all malls between Black Friday and New Year’s Day.  Not because of the crazy man who decided to end it all on my shift, but because I can no longer stand the tense people and what now seems like false cheer.  When we lived in San Francisco I had a young woman curse and scream at me in a parking garage a few days before Christmas.  I am pretty sure it was over the space she thought I stole from her, but I cannot be certain since I didn’t see her until she almost ran me over with her Volvo that had a “Peace Now” bumper sticker on it.

Not that I am immune to melt downs this time of year.  The Professor knows he has to intervene when I start yelling things at him like, “Fuck the Christmas cards!” or, “I’ve decided we are going to work at a soup kitchen this Thanksgiving instead of sitting around stuffing our faces like a bunch of mindless pigs!”  Never mind the Christmas Eves he has found me by the tree at three in the morning, wrapping gifts, eating cookies left for Santa and crying about something that happened the previous April.

After many years of trial and error, I can honestly say I look forward to our year-end festivities.  I have learned to scale back and pace myself as much for my husband's sanity as my own.  It's one thing for a Jewish man to tolerate a Christmas tree in his living room, it's quite another for me to turn our house into a Waspy Wonderland.  He had to make up a rule that I cannot play Christmas carols until after Thanksgiving.  I like how we do just a little of everything...from lighting candles for Hanukkah to hanging stockings by the fire.

Some years I am the one telling my friends about the lunatic I encountered at the school holiday program, but okay, I'll confess, other years I am the one who needs to put the hot glue gun down and step away from the elf parade.  I know I am in an okay place when I can hear the Professor whistling the tune, "Sleigh bells ring, are you listening..." in the shower well into December.

The People of the State of New York vs. Lisa Barnhouse

Without sounding overly defensive, I’d like to state my case.

I was pulled over for going 85mph in a 65 zone.  Twice.  Within the same hour.  On the same interstate.  I found out the hard way that a) the odds do not work in your favor on the 88; b) the sight of flashing lights in my rear view mirror induces inexplicable terror; and c) my children can repeat verbatim every conversation they witness their mother having.

I took the first one like a caught rabbit and didn’t even blink.  As if somehow being cooperative and quiet would get me out of my fate.  But the second time I remembered all the tips on defense when you’re being attacked.  Fight like hell and whatever you do, don’t drive away with the offender.  Yes, I know I am taking liberties and that I was, in fact, the alleged offender here.  I begged and pleaded and showed the Officer my first ticket.  As if somehow he would think, “Oh, that poor white woman, trying to make it all the way to Massachusetts in the rain with her children, late for a dinner with her in-laws at their summer home.  Really, who can blame her for pushing her luck?”

The Professor was sympathetic and very helpful.  As were his mom and dad.  They were offering to hire attorneys, make calls, contact friends, all on my behalf.  This is not how it would have gone down at my parents’ house.  I can hear it now, “What the hell is your problem?  Are you insane? Don’t you know if you get three tickets inside of 18 months you get your license suspended?  Have fun walking to the grocery store!”

I ended up hiring an attorney to get the two tickets reduced to non-moving violations.  The worst part was feeling like I was somehow cheating the system.  Especially when I explained my plea bargains to my mom.

“Must be nice.  Buying your way out of consequences for something you did.”

Actually, it ended up costing the same.  With a little research, anyone can find out that if you send a letter with a copy of your clean driving record to the D.A. of the county where you got the ticket, they will consider reducing the charges.  They just want the fine money.

While I am still disgusted with myself the most, I can't help being mad at the People of the State of New York for hiding state troopers in the bushes up and down their Interstate.  Serious entrapment issues are another story, but I am happy to report that the courts aren’t completely Machiavellian.

Lucky I'm sane after all I've been through
(Everybody sing) I'm cool...[She's] cool

I can't complain but sometimes I still do
Life's been good to me so far

Counter Assault Team

I think First Born Prince was 3-years-old the first time he figured out I would let him down as a guardian of his fine mind and perfect health.  He came home from a play date at his best friend, Alec’s house.  His tone was indignant.

“Mom!  Why did you let me eat junk?”

“What junk?”

“M&Ms!  Alec’s mom says they are junk!  Why would you let me eat them?”

Where to begin, little man.

It was a great reminder that he depends on me to take all the hits for him.  I hate being the master of “no” and giver of whole grain.  Sometimes I wish I did have a wire earpiece rigged to a team.  I could blame it all on the other end of the radio headset.  “Sorry, Charlie, I would let you watch that R-rated movie, but headquarters says, ‘Too violent.’  Sorry.”  “Me?  Of course I think it would be fun to stay up late!  But the director is all over me from now through Christmas.”

Signs of Life

When I was little, I loved going downstairs the day after my parents entertained.  There were signs of life everywhere.  In our normally pristine living room that no one was allowed to mess up, my brother and I would find half empty dishes of nuts, cocktail glasses with squeezed-out limes floating in clear liquid pools, baskets of stale potato chips, and crumpled napkins with lipstick smudges on them.  I could still hear the adults laughing and talking as I wandered around, sampling the leftovers and taking notes on what was popular (olives and onion dip) or not (carrot sticks and mystery cheese).

I am Type A, just like my mother, and usually cannot rest until the kitchen is cleaned up, the rooms are tidied and everything is in order for the next day.  But sometimes something festive and magical occurs, if you let it, when you have friends and family over, filling your house up with attention and energy.  I like to get caught up in the moment and consider myself on top of my game if I remember to blow out the candles before hitting the hay.

It’s the only time I can stomach coats left thrown over the backs of chairs, dirty dishes in the sink or crumbs on the floor.  The more wine glasses to wash, the better.  The mood is especially maudlin when I can still smell the aroma of whatever we cooked and served for dinner the night before.

I am trying to take this feeling and spread it out over the rest of my mornings with the boys in the house.  When I injure my foot on a Lego piece on my way to make coffee, or see backpacks and lacrosse sticks cluttering the hallways, rather than letting fumes of frustration that I am raising lazy slobs creep up, I smile and think about how truly fortunate I am to be living with them.

Lost and Found

 

I bought an old desk at a thrift store for First Born Prince last spring, dragged it home and couldn't wait to show him what I found.  I had visions of us laughing and flicking paint at each other, bonding, learning lessons about recycling and restoration.  He took one look at it and told me he didn’t like it.  He is turning out to be just like his father who once asked me after I spent an entire summer shopping at flea markets, decorating our first apartment, “What’s the difference between shabby chic and just plain shabby?”

“I’ll take it!”  Charming Baby was very excited by the idea.  He never passes up a discarded treasure or a project.  He is turning out to be just like me.

Months passed and Charming Baby kept asking me when he could have his desk.  We bought the paint, new hardware and fresh sandpaper.  Summer ended, school started and we got back into sports and music lessons and all sorts of weekend commitments and eventually he grew tired of waiting for me.

A few weeks ago I found him in the garage, sitting at his desk, using an upside down recycling bin as his chair, working furiously on a book he was making.  It was a rainy night, getting late, and he was out there humming to himself.  He had set up an entire workspace, complete with paper, stapler, markers and colored pencils.

“Sam, why don’t you come in and work at the kitchen table where it’s warm and there is better light?”

“Mom, I love my desk!  I don’t care if I have to sit out here to use it.  Please let me stay.”

The very next sunny day we had, I whipped up an early dinner, poured a hefty glass of wine and we spent the entire afternoon and evening in the garage.

I knew Charming Baby was patient and sweet and good with a paint brush, but this time around I found out he is also great with a screwdriver and is clearly capable of taking initiative when his boss is lagging.

Healthy Food for All

 

The farmers around here supply not only markets, restaurants and customers like me who buy into their farm-shares (called CSA--Community Supported Agriculture), but they support a "Healthy Food for All" program that makes the fresh, local produce available to limited-income families.  We went to one of their fundraisers, called "Harvest Dinners on the Farm."

There is a whole series of events, each hosted on a different farm by volunteers, including local chefs and winemakers from the top restaurants and wineries in the area. You can purchase tickets to one, or all of the dinners.  We started with an evening at Stick and Stone Farm.

We were greeted by the winemaker from Hosmer Winery.  First course was bubbly!

Next was a tour, where I learned a few things, like chickens are used to fertilize the fields.  They also eat the bugs and the farmer gets to eat the eggs!

There were 80 guests attending the evening we went.  I loved how the men wore collared shirts and the ladies were in skirts and boots.

The Professor isn't into small talk and is not the type to hand out business cards.  Most of his mingling is with me.

But sometimes he makes a new friend.

We enjoyed an amazing four-course meal created by the Simply Red Bistro chef.  Most of the produce came from the farm with some fruit, meat, cheeses and breads coming from other nearby Finger Lakes growers and purveyors.  It was magical how they transformed the barn into a dinner party with little white lights strung up all around.

The best part was that after all that delicious food and wine, we went home knowing our small contribution helped over 15 families eat fresh, locally grown produce for a year.