Lights On. Lights Off.

I'm old. Well, I'm not really that old, especially if my life expectancy turns out to be "almost 103" like my maternal grandmother. I'm old enough now that I feel like I’ve crossed over to the stage of my life where I can say to my kids, “Well, when I was your age, I did _insert_some_comparison_here,” but definitely don’t say “walked three miles to school in the snow while barefoot.”

Actually, come to think of it, a few times when I missed the bus, I did walk from my high school to home or from home to my high school. The high school was at least three or four miles from my house. While I wore shoes, I think that walking that far at that point in my life probably made me feel like I was walking barefoot through a swarm of locusts on a 98 degree day with 80% humidity. (Is that forecast possible, WeatherGirl Brenda?!)

I spent a good part of my youth in the 1970s. While dinosaurs didn’t roam the Earth then, we were a tad prehistoric not having the Internet, cell phones (with the much despised-by-me call waiting), or, thank God, Justin Bieber. With the exception of disco, which I liked but only because I liked to shake my groove thing, the 70s had some great music if you forget the likes of Disco Duck and the Pina Colada Song and remember most of these.

Everyone had a job never even thinking of asking their parents for money, everyone pitched in for gas never even thinking of asking their parents for gas money, and a fantastic Saturday night was wolfing down a few bags of M&Ms while watching Saturday Night Live with a few friends and without parents present. Okay, even back then, parents were personas non grata the minute you hit your teens.

I was 8 in 1970, and I was 17 in 1979. I cannot really tell you much about many of the current events that occurred during that time (well, I could if you gave me a few hours) other than the energy crisis, which seemed to affect me from January 1, 1970 to December 31, 1979. And, as far as fashion went, I can tell you that I wore sweater vests, maxi skirts, bell bottoms, and Fair Isle sweaters!

It’s easy for most to look back and see the wonderful qualities your parents gave you via DNA. Besides genetics, it’s probably also easy to pinpoint certain “life lessons” your parents taught you. My parents taught me to how easy it was to be cold yet stay warm, consume yet reuse, and see the light yet while keeping it mostly dark.

If there was a Heat Miser, then I am the Energy Miser when I’m not the Recycle Miser. My vigilance began in my youth; my Mom and my Dad made me this way, and I am glad that they did. My Mom was a recycler long before it was cool to be “green;” today, I cringe when I am at a friend’s house and a glass bottle goes into the trash.

My Dad kept the house at a toasty 65 degrees during the day and at an even toastier 62 degrees at night. I love to tell people that my electric blanket was my first boyfriend. He was a good boyfriend, who hugged me and kept me warm with no chance in hell of ever getting me pregnant!

When I was in high school, my Mom worked as a nurse; she worked 7 to 3pm, so her car was gone at 6am. If I wanted a car during the day, I was at my Dad’s mercy because he only worked a few minutes away, so I could drive him to work. But, if I wanted his car, there was a price to pay.

During a portion of the 1970s, you actually had to wait in line, long lines, to fill your car with gas. If I wanted to borrow my Dad’s car, I had to fill his puke green Gran Torino with gas, which was not a typically difficult task. The only thing was that I had to get up at 6am, drive two miles to the closest gas station, and then wait in line for an hour just so I could drive a few friends to Friendly’s after school.

Doing that then, I thought I was being asked to walk across burning coals. When I look back at it now, my Dad, who worked full-time like my Mom, was just asking me to contribute as a family member. He paid for the tank of gas, but I make the tank of gas a possibility; it was a family affair.

Sufficed to say, when I’m not a product of Richard and Ruth, I’m a product of the Energy Crunch of the 1970s. If a light was left on in the upstairs bathroom, we’d hear my father roar, “Who left the light on in the upstairs bathroom?” We’d all look at each other, wondering who was going to have to go all the way upstairs to turn off the light. When a confession was made, my Dad would say, “Go back upstairs and turn off that light!”

Though, there was that one time when my Dad roared, “Who left the light on in the upstairs bathroom?” I think my sister, Julie, and I were the only ones around. After looking at each other, we silently came to the same conclusion.

There was no confession coming from the two girls sitting on the couch watching TV in the family room. We both knew who had left the light on, but did either of us have the guts to say it? Julie moved her mouth to speak, and I yelled “Noooooo!" but unfortunately no sound came out of me.

Julie said quite matter of fact, “Dad, you did.” Of course, while Julie had the guts to confess for my father, she suffered his “Do as I say not as I do” wrath and was asked, err, very nicely to go upstairs and turn out the light in the bathroom anyway. Julie got a 10 for guts and a 1 for “Thou should never tell thy father he's at fault.”

Anyway, when I bought my first house on my own, I realized shortly after moving in during the middle of the Winter that I had become my parents. I didn’t start eating bridge mix like my Mom nor did I develop a sudden urge to become a philatelist. I did however become frugal where it came to energy.

Nathan’s “I’m cold” thrust was met with my “Put a sweatshirt on” parry. When I caught my boyfriend pressing the up arrow on the thermostat while dressed in shorts and a t-shirt in the middle of February, I said, “Dress properly and don’t be laying a finger on my thermostat!” Jeez, a good portion of people today, if jettisoned back to the 1790s, would never survive. I would and at night time, it would be a three-cat night, err, just like it is now.

Recently, I’ve begun to realize that while I preach conservation, my children aren’t getting the hang of practicing it. I came home the other day and went to throw something away. Nathan had thrown three plastic bottles in the trash. Of course, if this was one of the worst things he did, I know I should count myself lucky, and I did.

I grabbed the bottles out of the trash, headed upstairs, and I found Nathan. I held the bottles up and began to wave them to divert his attention from his X-box controller to the Polyethylene Terephthalate I had in my hands. I sighed and said, “Nathan, you can recycle these! It’s number four!”

He looked up and said, “Uh-huh.” I said, “Put these in the recycle bin, okay?” He said, “Uh-huh.” I was lucky; at least his response was a bit more of a respectful acknowledgement than Iz's “Okay, okay, okay!”

It snowed several inches here yesterday. Iz had a snow day, and since her Dad was finally home, I had a “Go to work and work in peace and quiet day.” After I got ready for work, I went to kiss her good-bye.

I saw that the door to her room was closed, which could only mean one thing. She had cat hostages. I opened the door, and I was right.

She was lying on her bed and had a choke hold on Plume. I exclaimed, “Iz!” I then exclaimed a second time when I saw that her bedroom window was wide open. If we had lived in Florida, I wouldn’t have had an issue; however, since it was 30 degrees outside, I said, “Close the window. The heat is on!”

She still didn’t release her death-grip on Plume. I slammed the window shut. I said, “Iz, that is a waste of energy!”

She looked at me like I had just told her that there was no Santa Claus; I needed to tell her that there was an environmental clause which said that someday all this great heat might be gone. Iz said, still holding on tight to Plume, “I’m hot.” I said, “Well, take a cold shower,” which is something I always expected to say to a man but not to my daughter!

When I arrived home from work yesterday, I noticed that the house was lit up like a Christmas tree. This surprised me given there were only two people home and not twenty. Who was having the party?

When I was inside, I noticed that Iz was in the family room. I brought my things upstairs, hoping to find the other 19 people that were in my house. I scanned the hallway, the bedrooms, and the bathroom; there were no signs of life except for the large dust kitty that blew by my foot when I pushed my bedroom door all the way open.

Iz was afraid of the dark, and at her age, I understood that. For Iz, this meant that when she was upstairs by herself that every light needed to be on, even in unoccupied rooms like Nathan’s and in the bathroom. To add insult to conservation injury, she wasn’t even upstairs.

I yelled “Iz!!!!!’ She yelled, “What??????” I said, “Come up here, please!”

She asked, “Am I in trouble?” I laughed and said, “Nooooo!” She sighed and I heard her stomp through the hallway, stomp up the stairs, and when she arrived at the top of the stairs, she said, “What????” in a peeved tone, indicating she was missing an “iCarly” episode she had seen only seven times.

I said, “When you’re not upstairs, turn off the lights. You’re wasting energy by keeping the lights on when they don’t need to be.” She looked totally uninterested and said, “Okay.” There probably would have been two more utterances of “Okay” if she had only seen the “iCarly” episode in question twice.

She asked, “Can I go now?” I had already turned off most of the lights, but I left the one on in Nathan’s room for illustrative purposes. I said, “No” and walked over to Nathan’s room.

I said, “Look,” as I flipped the switch off, “The lights don’t need to be on in a room when no one is in it.” Feeling dramatic probably due to an excess of hormones, I flipped the switch on and then off and then on and off again as I said, “On. Off. On. Off. Lights should be off when no one is around.” Being an 80s movie buff, I had an flashback to “The Karate Kid.” Not only was I turning into my parents but my “Lights on. Lights off” speech had turned me into Mr. Miyagi!

I looked at Iz. She looked at me like I was crazy. I realized in that moment that I, Energy Miser, had now been cached in her memory, as the one who had made her come all the way upstairs to learn how to, duh, turn a light switch on and off ruining that episode of "iCarly."

She then said, “Okay, okay, okay!” I, being slightly peeved and again dramatic said, “Tub, tub, tub!” Iz got a 10 for “Sassy 7-Year-Old Attitude” and she got a 1 for “Don’t forget who's the boss of you!”

Once I got her in the tub, I went downstairs to get a drink. I came up 5 minutes later. The light was on in Nathan’s room.

I went into the bathroom and sighed. I asked, “Iz, why’s the light on in Nathan's room?” She smiled and quickly and defensively said, “Liam was in there, and he couldn’t see!!!!!”

Okay, she got me. I realized that my lights-out rule had to be amended to be more specific about who “no one” was. I went to Nathan’s room and turned off the light doubting if Liam had ever even been in Nathan's room.

I knew schooling Iz on energy conservation was going to take a while. Though, all I had to do was glare at the toys all over the bathroom floor ten minutes later, and she went right in and picked them all up; it would always be about baby steps in different directions. But, that was all about her growing up and all about me growing into what my parent's DNA had made me and the lessons they taught me best. ♥

Sometimes It Takes a Village to Start a Car

Last Sunday was very typical as far as Sundays go. At 7am, I heard Thunderbolt, who had been sleeping on my feet, jump off the bed; his internal alarm went off, and it was now time for him to act as mine. As usual, he went out into the hallway and realized that I didn’t get up and follow him out of the bedroom. A minute after his realization that I was not part of his “Time to eat” tribe, he wandered back in the room, circled around the bed, and then sat on the floor and began to meow at me.

At 7:08am, I continued to play dead pulling the covers over my head. Thunderbolt knew this modus operandi all too well, and then jumped up on the bed. He situated himself right next to my head and began to meow at me; if I really wanted to be dead, I would reach out from underneath the covers, pick him up, and then place him on the floor.

At 7:10am, Plume jumped up on the bed landing on my feet and then she jumped onto my bureau. She, far smarter than Thunderbolt, knew there were cat treats in the drawer. She sat on the bureau staring at me intently, hoping that her evil cat eye would entice me to open the drawer and give her a few treats if I wasn’t ready to make my way downstairs.

At 7:13am, I sat up to survey the bedroom territory. By now, in addition to Thunderbolt and Plume, Liam had positioned himself in the doorway. Maybe he was the smartest of them all, because when I did get up, he’d be the first one out the door, down the stairs, and situated in front of his dish.

At 7:15am, I hid under the covers again, wondering how I’d entertain Iz today. At 7:16am, I heard Iz walk out of her room and go into the bathroom; as usual, I didn’t hear the toilet flush. So, when I heard her walk by the door of my room on her way downstairs, I said, “Iz, please go back and flush the toilet,” to which she responded, “Okay, okay, okay!”

At 7:20am, with Thunderbolt, Plume, Liam, and Iz up, I knew I had to join the “Time to eat” tribe. At 7:21am, when Iz jumped off the last step of the stairs into the downstairs hallway, I heard a loud thud. And, at 7:22am, Monty barked; it was then official. Sunday morning had begun, and I needed to go downstairs and tend to the tribe.

At 7:30am, Iz plodded out of the family room and asked me, “What are we going to do today that’s fun, Mommy?” I waved my hand in front of her; she acknowledged my wave and went back to the couch. She knew the wave meant “Do not talk to me until after I’ve had my first few sips of coffee, please.”

After the French Vanilla was flowing through my veins, I first acknowledged the three furry creatures that were staring at me and the one furry creature that was barking at me. I went to the “Time to eat” cabinet, and then I proceeded to feed everyone. Okay, four creatures down, and there was one to go.

I asked Iz, “Bagel or cereal?” She answered, “Bagel.” I popped a bagel into the toaster, and when it popped, I slathered it in cream cheese.

I put it on a plate, and I delivered it to Iz who was now on the couch watching “Despicable Me” for the third time. I handed her the plate, and she took it from me. I turned to make my escape back into the kitchen for a second cup of French Vanilla when she spoke. Damn!

She asked, “Mommy, so what are we going to do that’s fun today?” I stopped, and I thought; I felt guilty because I had been a single parent for a few days, and I felt a need to make up for the absence of the departed parent. I quickly said, “Um, we have a few gift cards; let’s go spend them.”

She said, “Yay!!!!” I loved my daughter. But, I loved my daughter even more because she liked to shop for things that we had gift cards for, namely Barnes & Noble and Bath and Body Works.

After we spent all our gift cards, we were ready to go home. I love gift cards, but they’re such a scam in that you can never spend just what’s on your gift card. That is, you’re always putting out more money to cover your purchase, and the gift card people so know that!

At 2:55pm, Iz and I climbed into the car. I turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened.

Not being a car person, I swore under my breath. My car had given me no indication whatsoever that it potentially might not think about starting during the course of the day. All of a sudden at 2:55pm, I turned the key and it said, “I can’t hear you, Jean! La-la-la!”

This was not right. Surely, if my car was sick, it would have given me some notification. It would have said at 1:58pm, my starter is a bit scratchy, or at 2:15pm, it would have said, “I think I’m going to toss spark plugs!”

So, Iz and I were stuck in the mall parking lot with a dead car. I tried to remain calm while flipping through my mental Rolodex to see who might be the most willing to come and jump start the car if that was even a possible solution. I stopped at the “Ns.” N was for Nathan, my 17-year-old son.

Thinking about it now, I probably should have flipped a few more pages. Nathan didn’t have a car readily available. Amazingly though, he had a better social life than I had at his age even without a car.

I called Nathan, explained our dilemma, and then he said he’d have to call me back. My son had put me on hold, which wouldn’t have been bad if I had been by myself. But, since realizing that we were going nowhere soon, Iz was already on her 145th question, the last one being, “Are we going to have to go sleep at a hotel?” I loved the way the 7-year-old mind worked, but sometimes it drove me crazy, especially when I had no way to escape it.

Nathan called me back saying that he could borrow his stepmother’s car; however, he was not granted the ability to jump me with it. She drove a Volvo not a Ferrari for heaven’s sake! I sighed and quickly flipped back through the cards in my mental Rolodex until I came across the “Es.”

E was for Ellen. Ellen was my husband; okay, unfortunately on paper, Ellen wasn’t my husband. She was just a very good neighbor who helped me out a lot, probably more so than any husband I ever had did.

With my husband, Ellen, came her husband, John, who had gotten me out of a few jams (plumbing and locking myself out of the house) more than once. I told Nathan to stay put, and he seemed glad to do so. I didn’t blame him, because I would have rather been in a warm bedroom playing X-box than freezing in a car in a mall parking lot with Iz who was on her 152nd question which was, “Do you have any food?”

I called Ellen and explained my dilemma. Ironically, her husband and her eldest son were 5 minutes away from us at the grocery store. She gave me his cell number, and I called.

When he answered, I again explained our dilemma while Iz asked her 154th question which was “Will we get to drive home in their car?” John said he would send his son over with the car to give us a jump, and I said that I’d save the empty parking spot next to my car for their car.

I told Iz, “Stay in the car and keep warm,” because it wasn’t over 25 degrees outside. I told her I was going to stand in the parking space and watch for the car. It’s a good thing it wasn’t Christmas time, or I might have gotten killed for attempting to save a parking space.

In two minutes, Iz opened her door, jumped out of the car, slammed the door, and then came around to where I was standing. I guess my statement about staying in the car and being warm fell on deaf ears. She said, “Mommy, I want to wait with you.”

Okay, I didn’t want her to get cold, but I had to love her for wanting to feel my pain, which was beginning to take the form of frostbite in my finger tips. A few cars drove by and the occupants looked at us curiously. What? Like you’ve never seen a woman and her child standing in the middle of a parking space when it’s 25 degrees outside looking like they were waiting for the circus to arrive?!

Fortunately, for Iz, this adventure was better than the circus. She was true to her hardy Polish-German roots. I knew in a crisis, she’d make the best of it; that was a good trait to have when you were only 7-years-old.

I saw Ellen’s son pull into the parking lot. I waved my arms. He saw me, and then he pulled into the parking spot.

He pulled out his jumper cables and popped his hood. He said, “Oh, my battery is on the other side” meaning that he needed to move his car to the other side of mine. I was beginning to think then that my car was destined to remain in the mall parking lot until the circus really did arrive.

Fortunately, the car parked on the other side of my car pulled out. He back out and pulled his car into that space. Hoods were popped, cables were connected, and then “Vroooom,” the lovely sound of my car starting.

Iz cheered. Ellen’s son smiled. I rested my head on the steering wheel and sighed while Ellen’s son disconnected the cables.

“MooooorV” went my car as it died. We tried a few more times with no more success. I said, “It looks like we’re coming home with you.”

Iz and I piled all our purchases in the back seat of Ellen’s car. We climbed in and after two minutes, the feeling started to return to my fingers. We went over to pick up John at the supermarket.

He looked surprised to see me and Iz sitting in the backseat. He realized the car starting effort was a total bust. At that point, I was ready to go home, be warm, and worry about it the next day.

I think this is where some men and women differ. For me, it was “I fought the machine, and the machine won!” For John, it was “I will fight the machine, and I will win!”

We headed back over to the car, John strung the cables together to reach my battery, and we again tried to start the car a few more times; all attempts were unsuccessful. While sitting in the car, I turned to the car parked to the right of me and noticed a woman getting into it. She mouthed “Do you need help?” to me.

I opened my door, and I thanked her. She reminded me a lot of my sister-in-law, Lisa. She looked like Lisa, and I’m sure this was the kind of thing Lisa would do – linger to help a stranger who refused help but who she sensed needed help anyway.

She began to talk to someone in the car. I then noticed a man in the passenger’s side next to her. He was tilting his seat forward; it looked like he was ready to nap on the ride home until she said “I think you should help them out” to him.

We were all mystified as to why the car wouldn’t start. I didn't even see her husband get out of the car; I was ready to give up when her husband, a stocky man wearing a long white beaded chain to which a white cross was attached, made his way around the hood of their car. He looked very serious as he surveyed my engine, the cables, and then the cables connected to Ellen’s car.

He went back to his car and pulled out his cables. He disconnected the cables we had been using; of course, we were all cold and perplexed, so he heard no “We’ve got it under control” from the lot of us. He then meticulously and quietyly executed his plan to start my car.

He said to his wife, “Baby, make sure the car isn’t started.” She said, “It isn’t,” and held up her key so he could see that it wasn't even near the ignition. I smiled at her and laughed; she smiled back at me as if to say, “He’s a serious guy, so I need to prove that I’m just as serious!”

Instead of connecting the cables in under a minute, he connected one and then double-checked it. He then connected another and then double-checked it. I wanted to laugh, but I was in awe of this man who had left his lazy-boy seat in the car to come out into the 25 degree temperatures to help me, a total stranger, start my car.

When everything was just right, he said to his wife, “Baby, start the car.” I loved the way he called her “Baby.” And, every time he said it, it sounded just like “I love you.”

He told me to start my car. I took a deep breath and turned the key. “Vroooom!” said my car.

Iz and I both squealed with delight. Just as carefully as he put the cables on, he took them off and then shut the hood of his car. I jumped out of my car, walked around to him, and I hugged him. He seemed rather shocked by the display of affection, but then his serious face gave way to a big smile as I said, “Thank you so much!”

I walked over to his wife. I touched her arm, and I said, “Thank you so much. That was so nice of you.” Still feeling like I was looking at Lisa, I was struck by how sometimes family members are not nearby but how near they can feel even when they are someone else.

Ellen’s husband and her son closed their hood and climbed into their car. The helpful strangers back out and drove off. I climbed into the car, and Iz asked, “That was really nice of them, wasn’t it, Mommy?”

I told her it was, and we headed home. When we pulled in the driveway, I turned off the car. I then realized that was probably a mistake, so I tried to start the car again; it wasn’t speaking to me at all, even after Ellen’s husband came up to try to start it once again.

We gave up, and I thanked John. Iz and I headed inside. I went through my mental Rolodex again, and I arrived at the “Bs.” (Did you notice that I was working through it backwards? Post-it note to self: Begin with the As next time!)

B was for Bill, my cycling buddy. When he had worked, he had been involved in managing fleets of cars and also in the automotive industry. I texted him and ask if he might help me out on Monday; he texted me right back and said he would be glad to.

The first challenge on Monday was to get Iz to school. I asked Bill if he could drive her. When Bill showed up with his pick-up truck, Iz was mesmerized.

She asked if she could sit in the front. I hesitated, and then Bill told me he could turn off the airbags. It was a 5-minute drive, so I told her to go ahead; she beamed as she perched herself in the front seat and closed the door quickly before I could rethink my decision.

When Bill returned 20 minutes later, he told me that Iz had commented, “I’ve never been in a car like this!” When they were in the drop-off queue, Bill had asked Iz if the line was always that long. She quickly said, “Yes, it is. But, don’t cut in line,” to which Bill responded, “Iz, what kind of guy do you think I am?”

The plan was to jump the car. I pulled out my jumper cables, and Bill said, “No wonder. Those aren’t good cables.” He walked around to the back of his truck and pulled out his jumper cables; the cable resembled a 30 foot boa constrictor and the clamps looked like Jack Lalanne compared to my Twiggy.

After I turned the key the first time, my car said, “Vrooom!” I drove my car to Bill’s house, and he hooked it up to some sort of battery tester. He said he’d drive me to work and try to diagnose the problem.

When I got into work, I worried that I might need a new battery or alternator. The car was over ten years old; I knew it was time for a new car, though I wasn’t ready for that step yet. An hour later Bill texted me to tell me that he had fixed the car.

I had a bad battery connector. My car was fixed, and it only cost $13.47. Bill picked me up at lunch, drove me to get my car, and I had my car back in working order by 1pm.

Lately, I was feeling a tad sorry for myself and all that was going on or not going on in my life; however, as I drove back to work, I realized how fortunate I was to have all these wonderful people, those I knew and those I didn't, in my life. Ultimately, it was nice to have someone special in your life, but it was a whole lot more important to have a lot of “ones” in your life, much more so than the wrong someone. ♥

Glass o' Wine, Tub, and Silence, Oh My!

I think I’m a pretty good Mom. Actually, I know I am. Though every now and then, I have my doubts when I find my voice elevated a tad while I say, “Isabelle, throw your candy wrapper that is on the floor of the family room in the trash can!”, “Isabelle, flush the toilet!”, “Isabelle, stop squeezing Liam like that; he’s not a stuffed animal!”

What about Nathan? Nathan is the perfect child; no, that’s not true. When Nathan was Iz’s age, he was just more of a rule follower, so much so that he used to frown at me with parental disapproval when I swore, spoke ill of someone, or told someone a white lie; he was “old” long before I was.

Iz, totally unlike Nathan, likes to challenge authority. “Why?” was her first word not “Mommy.” As far as Iz is concerned, everything is up for debate.

Even when she is proven guilty, it’s not her fault. Liam threw the candy wrapper on the floor, Monty didn’t flush the toiler, and she was not squeezing Liam hard; she was hugging him. The fact that Liam meowed loudly was him exclaiming his pleasure, and I was to pay no attention to his eyes as they popped out of his head due to the tremendous good loving applied to his rib cage.

Iz and I even had a script. When Nathan was that age, our script went something like “Nathan, please clean your room, “ and Nathan would reply, “Yes, Mom.” It was so easy.

My script with Iz went…

Me: “Iz, _insert_request_here, please.”
Iz: “Why?”
-queue heated 5-minute debate-

During the debate, she would blame a cat, dog, her father or Nathan for her actions. She was smart; always blame someone who can’t speak, and if you have to blame someone who can defend himself, make sure he is conveniently absent being several miles or hours away. When she finally gave in after I proved there was no way that Nathan threw her winter coat in the middle of the hallway, she executed the big triple which was “Okay, okay, okay!!!!”

After two snow days and a 2-hour school delay, I felt I had spent too much quality time with Iz. You know I love my daughter; however, the quality time spent with Iz was making it difficult for me to amass my mortgage payment for February 1st. Being a contract employee, I had no vacation time; a snow day was still a work day for me, and while Iz was a peach, it was hard to “work” when she was around.

I had taken her into work one day this week. After a few calls of nature and some food, she sat down to watch the Princess Diaries on my laptop. I sighed; I could finally work.

Before I turned to my monitor, I said to Iz, “Oh, I do love that movie.” Iz said, “Me, too.” She then asked, “Do you want to watch it with me, Mommy?”

I laughed. I thanked her. I didn’t even waste my breath saying, “Iz, Mommy has to work that’s why we are at work!”

Anyway, yesterday was the second snow day this week. I worked at home, because I couldn’t coax Iz to come into my office again. I got a lot of work done; nope, I was lucky if I put in three hours.

In an effort to pay my mortgage, I enlisted Nathan’s help. I asked, “Nathan, can you babysit your sister on Saturday, so we can still afford to live in the house?” Nathan replied, “Yes, Mom,” and he was still the same at 17 years old that he was when he was 7 years old.

While I was working yesterday afternoon, I received a text message from Nathan. He asked me if I was going out at night, because he had gotten himself into a “pickle.” (Yes, he really used the word “pickle.”) Nathan has always spent half his time with me and half with his Dad; however, for some reason, he liked being at my house better, which is why he sometimes used babysitting as an excuse to be with me.

The plan was that he would stay over Friday night and be ready to babysit at 8am. I would get into work nice and early, so I could leave early and salvage what was left of my Saturday. As it turned out, Nathan’s pickle was that his Dad assumed he was staying over last night, because I would be gone both Friday night and Saturday during the day.

Nathan’s Dad, Quinn, had invited both Nathan and Iz for dinner. Immediately, I went into good parent cop mode and said, “Well, yes, I am going to have dinner at a friend’s house.” Then I turned into a parent who was, as Jackson Browne says, “running on empty.”

I asked Nathan if he might take his sister to his Dad’s regardless so I could enjoy an hour or so of peace and quiet. Oh, who am I kidding? Monty was here, so it was peace with intermittent barking whenever I sighed, sneezed, or even thought about scratching Liam’s head.

Nathan agreed to make Plan Deception a reality, so his Mom would not malfunction. An hour later, he texted me and asked if Iz would like to go snow tubing. I asked her and she said, “Yeah!!!!’

My hour or so had now morphed into three hours. When Nathan arrived home, I took Iz , ran out to get supplies (salmon and wine), and then arrived home and gladly handed Nathan the car keys. Go forth, child, and leave me alone for the next three hours.

Was I a bad parent for thinking that? I don’t think so. Personally, I’d like to hear more parents say “I need some alone time” versus being proud of the fact that they hadn't ever left their children for more than eight hours.

Before Nathan and Iz left, Iz asked Nathan what they were having for dinner. Nathan said, “We’re having breakfast for dinner; it’s pancakes and bacon.” Iz looked at me and then asked, “Mom, is he serious?”

Funny, but in Iz’s world, like mine, there were endless crazy possibilities. So, it tickled me to think that she didn’t believe that it was possible to have breakfast for dinner. Nathan said to Iz, “Why? Is that a problem? You like pancakes, don’t you?”

Iz said, “Yes.” Nathan said, “Well, it’s breakfast for dinner.” She smiled at me, and I asked, “You like that?” She answered, “Yes,” as if she was eating at Disney World.

After they left, I stood there in the hallway not knowing what to do first. I had three hours to kill on me just me. I had a glass of wine, made dinner, and took a bath; I even posted all this to Facebook with a thank you to Nathan. Amazingly, Nathan “liked” it.

I love my son. He really didn’t want to go tubing or to his Dad's. He would have preferred to have stayed home and played X-box, but he took a hit for his Mom.

When they arrived home, Monty barked. Are we surprised?! Iz was exhausted, but I let her stay up and watch a little of “America’s Funniest Home Videos.”

At 10:15, she asked, “Mommy, can I go to bed now?” Did I feel like a bad parent then? I said, thinking I was being a cool parent, “Of course, you can.”

We went upstairs, she went to the bathroom (and flushed the toilet), brushed her teeth and climbed into bed. She was asleep in under 5 minutes. In about ten minutes, Nathan was downstairs, looking at me like he needed a favor for taking a hit for the Mom.

He asked, “Mom, if Sam picks me up, can I stay over there tonight?” I answered, “Yes.” I knew Nathan wouldn't be back early in the morning; however, he gave me a precious gift tonight, and I needed to pay him back.

Within 20 minutes, he was gone. I was sad. I knew he was going to go off to college soon, but when he left the house last night to go be 17, it hurt me to be 48 and left in the house.

I had wanted to be alone; I needed it. But when it happened for longer than I wanted, I hated it. I had been running on empty, and now I felt an empty nest looming.

Breathe in, as Iz said. Breathe out, as Iz said.
My life was changing so fast and in so many ways, oh my!
But, that was a good thing. ♥

Author! Author!

Yesterday was quite a day. Some of you already know this, so humor me by saying to yourselves, “Oh, I already know this, but I’ll read about it again, because Jean is always more amusing the second time around.” And, aren’t I?

You don’t have to answer that now; however, I would appreciate an answer in the next few months. Preferably, your answer will be a hand-written note in a birthday card (May 18th, stubborn bull that I am) where you will be accepting me instead of “almosting” me. I love getting cards; and call me "old-fashioned," but I love to get snail mail over e-mail.

Anyway, due to a snow storm here in New England and a school cancellation yesterday, I headed to work around 10am with child (Iz) in tow. As we drove down our unplowed street, Iz asked, “Mommy, are we going to get in an accident?” I replied, “No,” though I was thinking “Mebbe,” but rule number eight in parenting was never show them your fear!

We skidded a tad around every corner. Occasionally, I glanced back to see how Iz was faring; at first, she had a look of “Will I live to see my eighth birthday?” By the time we were 10 minutes away from my office, she looked like she was going to fall asleep out of boredom, because she somehow secretly hoped we would get in an accident to make the perilous drive worthy of being perilous.

I finally said, “It’s a slow drive today, but we’re almost there.” She then said, “Mommy, are you at the new building now?” My company had moved in December; I was surprised she remembered, but then again, she was an elephant when it came to memory, though I hoped she would be a donkey when she voted!

She said, “I’ve haven’t been to your new building yet,” as if she had somehow missed a key milestone in my professional career. I said, “No. You haven’t.” She said, “So, I get to see your new building today, right?” and then I swore she pulled out a pad and a pen from under her winter coat and checked that goal off of a list.

As we drove up the driveway, Iz said, “It looks smaller.” I said, “It is.” She said, “Oh,” somehow sensing the economic downsizing that had occurred and that she should not elaborate on that point.

When we walked in the door, she asked, “Are you on the first floor or the second floor?” I said, “I’m on the first floor now.” She said, “Well, where’s the cafeteria?” When Iz visited my office, she reveled in the coolers that contained the unlimited supply of free root beer and orange soda; she had her priorities, and I didn’t blame her.

I told her that the cafeteria was now on the second floor. She said, “Oh.” Then she asked, “Is there a bathroom on this floor or do I have to go to the second floor?” I had to laugh; I was being interrogated by a seven-year-old as if she might someday be employed by the company that was having a hard time deciding if it wanted to employ me.

There was a funny thing that happened while Iz was at work with me; she became more needy. For example, if I had stayed at home and worked, I probably would have heard from her only two or three times during the day. At work, she suddenly needed to eat every 20 minutes and go to the bathroom every 25 minutes.

After an hour, I realized that she was not really needy. I think, like her Mom, it wasn't about need; it was her desire to explore and be fascinated by new territory. This was affirmed when we went to the bathroom for the fifth time after only being at work for two hours.

She put her hand under automatic soap dispenser and squealed with delight when it squirted a quarter-sized dollop of soap onto her palm. Her urges weren’t biological. Her urge was to roam freely about the cabin sans seatbelt!

After I got a huge amount of work done, no, that didn’t happen, though when looking at my deadlines, I wish it did happen. At 2:30, it started to rain, and it was supposed to get very icy. It was time to roam freely through a slippery parking lot to the car and head home.

As we walked out to the car, Iz asked, “Mom, is that toy store near here?” When Iz and I were on own for a week and I had to put in some extra hours at work to meet a deadline, I had brought her home some small plastic figurines from a toy store near where I worked as a treat. Remembering this, I said, “Yes.”

She smiled at me. When she does, it’s like I’m looking directly at the sun. I know I need to put on my sunglasses, but I don’t want to put them on, because the beauty of the light that I'm seeing mesmerizes me.

I said, “You were a good sport coming into work with me. We can go there, and you can pick out a toy.” She beamed. Damn, where were my Ray Bans?!

After she picked out a paint-a-pony craft kit, we left the store. I could see from the parking lot that the sheets of ice that were predicted to take over the pavement had already done so. I started the car, and Iz climbed in to ponder how she would paint her pony while I scraped off all the ice from my pony, the Toyota RAV4.

When I got into the car, I saw my phone blinking; I had an e-mail message. I read the message which said that someone had commented on one of our youtube videos; the comment was simply “Brilliant!” I said to Iz, “Hey, someone thinks our video is brilliant,” and she smiled.

Due to a slow commute home and many red lights, I went to view the e-mail again wondering who had left the comment. Upon rereading, I saw that the musician whose song we used in the video was the one who commented. At a red light in front of McDonald’s, I shrieked, “Iz, the guy who sang that song thinks our video is brilliant!”

Iz seemed unimpressed as she pondered the pictures showing the different ways she could paint her pony of the back of her paint-a-pony craft kit. She looked up and smiled like she had not gotten the punchline of a joke. I said, “Wow! Wow! Jeez! Wow!”

By the time we hit our fourth red light and I said “Jeez!” for the tenth time, Iz finally tore herself away from her paint-a-pony craft kit. She said quite seriously, “Mom, breathe in.” I laughed, but I did breath in as instructed.

Before I could say anything, she then said, “Mom, now breathe out.” I breathed out. I then wondered, “Where does she get this stuff from?” while she wondered, "Why does my Mom think I would care about some comment on a video when I have a paint-a-pony craft kit sitting here in my lap!"

I calmed down. Obviously, the compliment didn’t mean to Iz what it meant to me. I felt like Sally Field accepting her Oscar for "Places in the Heart." “I can't deny the fact that you like me, right now, you like me!"

Once Iz and I arrived home, there was more snow to shovel out of the driveway. I said to Iz, “Stay in the car and keep warm.” I climbed out, grabbed the shovel, and had to find creative places to throw the snow, like –shhhhhh– in my neighbor’s yard; there was so much and I had no place to put it all!

Within five minutes, Iz climbed out of the car. She asked, “Can I help?” I said, “Sure. Grab your shovel and do the walkway, okay?”

After ten minutes of silent shoveling, Iz asked, “Mom, is this good?” I looked at the walkway not even noticing how much snow had been cleared, and I said, “That’s great!” It didn’t really matter what she did; she had already received an “A” for effort.

As we stood there assessing our snow output, Iz walked over to me. She asked, “Mom, that was really cool that the guy who sang the song on our video liked our video, wasn’t it?” I laughed. I answered, “Yeah, Iz, it was!”

Once inside the house, I received a text from Nathan. He had been accepted to a “a college in Florida.” Despite my blog post, which capture the attention of several people at that college in Florida, Nathan had been accepted. If truth be told, I confessed to Nathan the day before he was accepted that I had –cough-cough– “networked” with people at that college in Florida.

Amazingly, knowing me as he does, Nathan smiled after I asked, “So, how badly do you want to go to that college in Florida?” He asked, knowing me as he does, “What did you do?” I said, “Well, I wrote something, and now I think I have an “in” at the college.” Fortunately, Nathan and the college in Florida liked me despite it all.

Recently, a friend thanked me for sharing here. I had to think about it. Was I sharing here or was I just being me?

I do know that it’s good to be liked for me just like Sally Field said. And this “me” would like to do nothing but write and make movies. Unfortunately, because I have a mortgage, I have to write about things like database summarization most days, which is a pretty good gig, so I can't complain.

Someday, I’d like the title of my day job to be “author/producer.” My job description would be the one my Uncle once supplied as a comment on one of my videos: “All I see is love.” Because, ultimately, my life is a story in a music video in which all I see is love. ♥

Granny, Telie, and Me

I mentioned previously that I dabbled in children’s stories. I even went so far as to attend a weekend writing workshop in Vermont in the 90s. Is it just me or does it sometimes seem like the state of Vermont is the Workshop state not the Green Mountain state?

A: I'm going to a workshop for people who own incontinent pugs.
B: Oh, that sounds lovely. Where is it?
A: Vermont.
B: Oh, Vermont is the perfect state for a workshop! By the way, have you tried those doggie diapers?!

During the course of this workshop, I had to do a lot of writing exercises. On the first day, we were subjected to some rapid-firing writing exercises. The expert children’s book author who led the workshop would say a few words, and then we had to write a story about it in a minute; I failed miserably at all those exercises and was ready to head directly to the border of the Workshop state after a morning of that nonsense.

I was a s-l-o-w writer. Actually, upon reflection, I couldn’t even understand the point of the exercise. Did someone walk up to Roald Dahl, sputter “Eccentric man, dwarfs, and chocolate,” and did Roald then pump out the first five chapters of “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” in under a minute? I think not.

That afternoon, we had a group exercise. For this one, fortunately, we were given about an hour. We had to write a letter from a child to a famous person; I wrote a letter to Madonna, which is pretty surprising, huh? You probably pegged me for a letter to Mario Andretti, Warren Buffet, or Napoleon, didn’t you?

Dear Madonna,

You’ll never believe it, but my Mother won’t let me wear the bustier I bought to the dance. I’ve got a date with Eric, who’s really fine, and now I have nothing to wear! My Mom’s so uncool.

That’s why I’m writing to you to ask if you need someone to carry your Gucci luggage, organize your makeup, and keep track of your busy social calendar. I’m a good organizer, because I’m the secretary of the Students Against Fur club at school. If you need a personal assistant, I’m your Material Girl! I even know all the lyrics to your songs in case you ever need a backup singer. I have a halfway decent voice; I’m in a band, the Righteous Rockers. We’re even playing at the dance.

I really want to pierce my belly button like you, but I know my Mom would freak. I just wanted to get a few more holes pierced in my ear, and she said, “You have enough holes in your head already!” She’s a nurse, and she took care of my ear when it got infected before.

So you can see what I’m up against here. I heard that you have a lot of great stuff in California, although I’d probably miss the dance, Eric, my band, the club, and maybe my Mom, just a little bit anyway. Well, maybe I’ll stay here for a while, and see how things go. You can just mail me some of your old bustiers instead if you want!

Sincerely,

Susan

The final writing assignment was to produce a short story. I remember that I stayed at my Dad’s cousin’s house in Vermont for the weekend; while I wanted to visit and chat with her, I had to banish myself to the guest bedroom to think of an idea for a story, never mind write it.

There I was on the bed with a laptop that I had borrowed from a friend of Quinn’s. This was 1994, so the laptop must have weighed about 10 pounds. Okay, maybe not that much, but I remember sitting there feeling like a real writer with a spiffy computer until I realized my tabula was totally rasa making me want to flee the Workshop state once again.

I think that was a turning point in my writing career. Okay, up until then, I really had no writing career other than my professional one as a technical writer. I used to write a lot of silly e-mails to friends; actually, The Legend of the Easter Cat and The Legend of the Easter Dog began as
e-mails to friends at work, err, when I wasn’t really busy working, of course.

I knew I wanted to write something from the perspective of a young girl. I thought about when I was a young girl. I asked myself what were some of the nicest times I remembered; I knew that some of them were spent with my grandmother, Granny.

I remember spending a night or two at her house every now and then. My Mom would drop me off, and I’d look forward to “Granny time.” Staying with Granny always involved staying up late to watch the news while eating peppermint patties that were always stocked in her refrigerator, eating pizza from the Lynwood Café, hunting down her red tabby cat, Charlie, who she fed chicken livers, and always going out to a movie.

Ask me who I saw Star Wars with in 1977? Go ahead, and –hint– the answer is not George Clooney; some day the answer will be George Clooney, but today it’s not! I saw Star Wars with Granny on one of my many trips to visit her; I also saw the remake of Psycho with her. She liked scary movies, which always amazed me, because your grandmother’s picture is definitely not next to the definition of “scary” in the dictionary!

As grandmothers go, she was pretty cool. Her husband, my grandfather, had died very young and before I was born. Funny, but I think my grandmother was the first independent woman I spent time with.

She was fortunate in that she didn’t have to work, but for someone who was on her own, well, the grass didn’t seem to grow under her feet at all; she always seemed to be on the go. I loved it when her “go” mode brought her to our house; with her, she brought a varying assortment of treasures in a brown paper bag filled with magazines (our favorite was the “National Enquirer”), pickles, and always a box of Ring Dings.

She mowed her little lawn with an electric lawn mower. I was always fascinated by her yard. It wasn’t large at all; and most of her small yard was behind her house. I think it was maybe 40’ by 20', and her yard was split in half by a stone wall, making the second half of the yard elevated in the back.

There were a few steps to climb until you reached a rickety little house that had been made for children. It smelled musty and maybe a tad of cat urine, but I loved the little house. I remember that odor like I remember the way the old Wonder Bread factory in Framingham used to smell; it’s a smell you never forget, even if it didn’t smell so good, because the memory was that good.

As you walked along the raised portion, the yard was almost like a small jungle or a secret garden due to the varying and overgrown flora and fauna. I remember my grandmother’s house had a three-season porch on which she had a small table and two chairs. Sometimes we’d take our pizza out on the porch, eat, and then look out upon her lovely little secret jungle.

I also liked the way she saved paper most would have thrown away. If the paper was blank on the back, she ripped it up into 4”x4” squares and then piled them up on her shelf. She used them for notepaper; maybe that's where my Mom got the recycling bug from, and now I have it too.

When I was in college, I used to get a card from her every few weeks. There was nothing like looking in your mail box (#2690, and I can’t believe I still remember it!) back then and seeing that you had gotten (snail) mail. When I opened the card, there would be funny little jokes plastered all over the inside that she had cut out from Reader’s Digest.

She made sure later to ask if I, being a Latin scholar (cough, cough), enjoyed the rendition of “Two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun” written in Latin. She obviously loved finding that treasure for me. I told her that I even showed it to my Latin professor, and she was tickled pink.

Inspired by my time spent with my grandmother, I began to write my story for the workshop. When I had returned home, I sent my story to a few magazines. I received a rejection letter from Cricket Magazine with a handwritten note; though, remember that a rejection letter with a handwritten note is an “almost” letter!

The note said, “Although I didn’t find this quite right for Cricket, I would like to complement you on your writing. You’ve done a lovely job of drawing your characters. Good luck with your writing”. (By the way, given she was the first reader, I was surprised that she didn't spell compliment correctly. Although, as advertised, she was a reader not a speller. Hey, it's always comforting to find a flaw in someone who's "almosting" you!)

The funny thing was I didn’t really have to draw any characters. I was fortunate enough to have lived the essence of this story with my grandmother, Telie. And, this is our story. ♥

Granny, Telie, and Me

(Nota bene: It was the early 90s; Kevin Costner was fine! And, Ruth was my Mom's name.)

“Reason 25 to add to the list,” Ruthie said taking her pad and pen out of her backpack. Granny’s big, orange tabby circled around in her lap, curled up, then began to knead her sweatshirt.

Ruthie’s mother had just dropped her off at her grandmother’s that afternoon for a weekend visit. Ruthie had called it her two-day pass all week long. When Ruthie’s mother had dropped her off, Ruthie was sure that her mother was just as happy to see her go as Ruthie was to leave. She had looked forward to time away from the apartment, her younger sister, her older brother, and all the rest of the reasons.

“What’s Reason 25?” asked Granny, as she poured Ruthie another cup of tea.

“Reason 25 is not being able to have a cat because we live in that apartment,” Ruthie stated as she scribbled Reason 25 onto her list.

“What’s on this list exactly, Ruthie?” asked Granny.

Ruthie reluctantly handed Granny her pad.

“The Things That Bum Me Out,” Granny read. “Reason 1: I live in apartment. Reason 2: I’m going to a new school. Reason 3: I’m getting zits. Reason 4: My brother calls me “Ruthie, Ruthie the big, fat caboosie” constantly. Reason 5: I am called a Geek at school because I get good
grades and read a lot.”

Granny stopped reading and handed the pad to Ruthie. “Ruthie, I thought you were excited about the new school.”

“I was until everything got rotten all at once,” said Ruthie as she took the pad from Granny and returned it to her book bag.

“Ruthie, did I ever tell you about my friend, Telie?” asked Granny. Granny got up from her chair, went over to the bookcase, and pulled out a worn photo album.

“Well, maybe,” said Ruthie, hoping to avoid a repeat of Aunt Jenny’s photo extravaganza last Sunday. She had shown photos of the family trip to the Grand Canyon, which contained photo after photo of her cousins pretending to hold up rock formations. That was so boring thought Ruthie.

“I never told you about my friend, Telie, or as her brother used to call her Telie Two Tons.”

Granny sat down, opened the album, and began leafing through the pages. Ruthie sighed and sat down next to Granny.

“There’s Telie,” Granny said, as she pointed to a photo of a young girl who looked to be about Ruthie’s age.

“She doesn’t look like a Telie Two Tons to me,” said Ruthie as she studied the photo.

“She was never really that heavy,” said Granny. “Her older brother liked to make her think she was though.”

In the photo, Telie wore a white puffy blouse. Her long brown hair was pulled back in a braid and, at the neck of her blouse, she wore a beautiful diamond broach.

“Telie’s parents had moved to a new town because her father bought a larger store for their bakery,” said Granny. “She was so upset. She had to go to a new school. Her classmates weren’t kind either,” said Granny.

“Why?” asked Ruthie.

“Well, because she had some of the same problems or reasons as you call them. She liked to read a lot. She was a big girl. She occasionally had a blemish or two. To make matters worse, her parents had asked her to work at the bakery after school.”

“Gee, she does sound kind of like me,” sighed Ruthie. “Did the kids at school call her a Geek, too?”

“We didn’t have that name then,” said Granny. “But, she took her share of name calling.”

“Did she have a list, too?” asked Ruthie.

“No,” said Granny. “But, she let her parents know how unhappy she was. In fact, she almost picked up and ran away the day that her father had hired one of the local boys, George Daily, to help out after school also. He always teased her.”

“Wow, that is cruel and usual punishment,” said Ruthie.

“Well, one Saturday afternoon,” said Granny. “Her father had to make a delivery in the city. He had to ask Telie to work with George to make the doughnuts for Sunday.”

“What a bummer,” said Ruthie.

“Ruthie was waiting on a customer, so George went in the back to start the doughnuts. Suddenly, Telie heard George shouting. She ran into the kitchen and saw that George had started a huge grease fire. He was furiously throwing water on the fire. Telie shoved him aside, picked up a 20 pound bag of flour, and threw it on the fire. In a minute, the fire was out.”

“She was able to lift a big bag of flour?” asked Ruthie.

“Well,” said Granny. “She was a big girl, but she was a strong girl."

“She was smart, too,” said Ruthie.

“She was,” said Granny. “When her father got home and learned what had happened he was quite proud. In fact, George relayed the story to everyone at school. Telie was a hero of sorts. If she hadn’t been there, the whole block might have gone up in smoke.”

“So, did things get better for her?” asked Ruthie.

“Slowly,” said Granny. “She grew taller and got thinner. She made good friends who got to know her for what were really her strengths not her weaknesses. After the fire, her father gave her the diamond broach that she’s wearing in this photo. Well, they weren’t really diamonds; they were rhinestones. But, do you know what the card with it said?” asked Granny.

“What?” asked Ruthie.

“It said, 'To Telie, a diamond going through the rough.'”

“Wow, that was nice,” said Ruthie.

Granny gave her a pat on the head, got up, and said, “We’d better hoof it if we’re going to do something fun this afternoon. I’ll go get my sweater and purse.”

Ruthie pulled her list out from her backpack and looked at it again. Well, thought Ruthie, at least this Geek could put out a grease fire. Some of those kids at school would probably need help figuring out how to light a match!

Granny came back with her sweater, her handbag, and a box. She handed the box to Ruthie.

“What’s this?” asked Ruthie.

“Open it,” said Granny.

“A bunch of snakes aren’t going to come flying out at me like last time, are they, Granny?” questioned Ruthie suspiciously.

“No, I promise,” said Granny. “Open it, Ruthie.”

Ruthie opened the box. In it lay the pin that Telie wore in the photo. “Telie’s pin?” wondered Ruthie. “How did you get it?” Ruthie saw Granny grin. “Wait a minute,” said Ruthie. “Is Telie you, Granny?” asked Ruthie.

“Let’s just say,” said Granny. “I was once a diamond going through the rough, and I think you are, too. Now, let me see your pad and pen, Ruthie,” said Granny. “I think you need to start a new list.”

Ruthie handed her the pad. Granny flipped to a new sheet of paper, wrote something, and handed the pad back to Ruthie.

Granny’s list was called “Things That Make Me Special.” There was only one item on the list, which Granny had underlined several times, and it was “I am a wonderful granddaughter.”

“Thanks!” cried Ruthie as she hugged Granny.

“Let’s go and see that new Kevin Costner movie. He’s the cat’s pajamas, right?” asked Granny.

Ruthie giggled. “No, Granny. He’s fine!” said Ruthie as she crumpled up all the reasons and threw them into the trash can.

Lion's Pride

As a parent, you're always proud of your child’s accomplishments. Hell, you don’t have to even be a parent to be proud of someone for their accomplishments. When I opened the door the other night, I was totally amazed and pleased that Monty didn’t bark his head off when I came in the front door; I said, "I'm so proud of you, Monty."

Oddly, for some reason, Monty doesn’t give a damn about security when no one, except him and the felines, are home. That could be a bad attribute for a pseudo-security dog. He and I will discuss that when it’s time for his performance review!

As some of you know, my 17-year-old son was accepted to UMass-Dartmouth a few weeks ago. A week ago, he visited a college in Florida to which he had also applied. I’m not going to name that college now for reasons known to many of you. (Hello, Casey, just in case your web search captures phrases like “a college in Florida!”) He loved that college.

When I arrived home today, he said totally elated, “Mom, I got into UMaine!” I said, “That’s great!” He then told me that he was invited to participate in some special academic program there, too. UMaine was the first school he visited; it was love at first sight for him, well, until he saw how college life in Florida can be!

He said to me, “You know, Dad was wrong.” I asked, “Why?” He said, “Because he gives me such a hard time about grades.” I then said, “Hey, just because you’ve been accepted to two schools doesn’t mean you can goof off the rest of your Senior year!”

He said, “No. That’s not what I mean.” I asked, “What do you mean?” He said, “Dad made it out that if I didn’t get the best grades I’d never get in anywhere. He was so wrong!”

I said, “Well,” and then I stopped. I had to agree and disagree somewhere between Nathan and his Dad; grades were important, but they certainly weren’t everything when applying to a college or, at least, I didn't think they should be. Before I could say something parental indicating that both Nathan and his Dad had valid points, Nathan spoke again.

Nathan said, “I’m just so glad I know that I have two places to go.” I asked, “You didn’t think you would?” Nathan didn’t have to answer; I knew how it felt.

Applying to college seemed like a trial romance. You threw yourself out there heart and soul, waited to be checked out, and then hoped that someone you actually liked would say, "Hey, will you date me for the next four years?"

After a lot of excitement (from him), and congratulations (from me), I went to leave to do some errands. When I was backing the car out of the driveway, I saw Nathan leave the house without a coat on; I thought he might be going to take the trash barrels behind the house. I saw him continue down the road; he was going to Connor's house to tell him that he got into UMaine.

I remember being that excited the day I broke the discus record at my high school. I remember being that excited the day that Eric Beers, a hockey player I had a crush on, said "Hi" to me in the hallway. I remember being that excited the day I found out I got into Brandeis, a school I had a huge crush on but didn't think it would ever ask me to go steady from 1980 to 1984.

When I saw Nathan start to run down the road, I began to cry. It was not sadness. I was so proud of him, and I could feel all of his happiness flowing through me and right to my heart just like I did when Eric Beers said "Hi" to me that day.

The realization finally came that Nathan was all grown up now; he was not my "Bear" anymore. He was ecstatic about the next chapter in his adult life, and so was I. And, that made two of us looking forward to turning to the next page in Life magazine. ♥

Joie De Vivre

Joie De Vivre by Judith Anderson

Sticks and stones may break your bones, but a house can never hurt you. How could it? Four walls, plaster, nails, windows and a few doors. That’s really all there is to it, right? Wrong.

I tried to write children’s books once upon a time ago. After writing “The Legend of the Easter Cat,” which was a classic along with “The Legend of the Easter Dog,” I tried to pitch my stories to several publishing houses. I remember my first rejection letter, which really didn’t make me feel totally rejected.

It was “heard of” to get a form letter notifying you that your story was not something the publisher fancied; it was “unheard of” to get a handwritten note on your rejection letter. The handwritten note on my rejection letter said, “While I thoroughly enjoyed your story, it is anthropomorphic to a degree that Philomel cannot accept.”

Anthropmorphic! While upset that my story was an “almost” instead of a “yes,” I couldn’t help but keep mumbling “anthropomorphic” over and over again under my breath. I loved saying the word. It made me giggle; it made me happy!

Before my Dad died, I remember sitting with him in the living room of his condo watching TV. Somehow the subject of words that we liked to say came up. I said how I always loved saying “apropos” and “anthropomorphic.” He agreed that those were good words; I have now also added “stiletto” and “kiosk” to my “love to say” word repertoire!

Anyway, I don’t believe a house can hurt you, though I do believe a house can come to mean something more to you than just four walls, plaster, nails, windows, and a few doors. A house can be anthropomorphic. A house can mean the world and your father to you.

After my father died, he left his house on the island to my siblings and his girlfriend. It was a difficult situation. And, my sister and I ended up buying the house.

I had to think long and hard about buying the house. It had been a place of many happy memories. Could it be that way again?

As it turned, it wasn’t. It was nothing but struggle and a total disappointment; life lesson learned. When I left the house the last time (read the linked blog post), I made peace with the fact that the house was not going to be what I had hoped; however, when the house finally sold this week, I fell to pieces because my peace over it was not as I had hoped.

In the 15 years the house had been in the family, I had probably not spent more than 2 months time there. It was not my family home. Oddly, when I thought about it, I could leave my house and drive by every “family” home I had lived in my whole life in under an hour.

There was the house on Water Street in Framingham where I believe I was conceived. There was the house on Greenleaf Circle in Framingham where we moved from when I was four years old. And, then there was the house on Haynes Road in Sudbury from which I left to marry Quinn.

As far as family residences were concerned, the house on the island by the ocean should probably mean nothing to me; however, it meant a whole lot to me. I had never been particularly close to my father, but that house was a place in which I felt I got to know my father a lot better. When I was troubled, I went there and felt instantly warmed when I saw my father waiting for me at the dock and totally loved when I opened the car door and then we drove home.

When my mother died, she was gone. When my Dad died, he left all these things, one of which was this house. When we bought the house, I still felt I had my father in my life and maybe that was my emotional mistake; so be it.

I often called the house “Dad’s house.” My sister would say, “It’s our house.” As I said once before, “Somehow, even though the deed transferred the house on paper, the transfer never quite went through in my heart.”

The house was put up for sale a few months ago for various reasons. An offer came through yesterday morning. I signed on the dotted line, and then I cried all the way to work.

It might be hard for some to understand, but it was as if it was October of 2000 all over again. I was sitting in my Dad’s living room, holding his hand, and telling him how much I loved him. I was losing again and this time it really was forever.

While the house selling was a very good thing, it didn’t come without a price, an emotional price. After the house was gone, my life would improve; I would be able to do so much, but it would be knowing that this house that was my Dad in so many ways would not be with me any longer.

On this island where the house is, some people name their houses. “My Dad’s house” is on Joy Street. The people who own 4 Joy Street have a sign by their door that says “Jump 4 Joy.”

One time when I was visiting, my Dad said that he would like to name his house. I said, “How about Killjoy?” Anne, his girlfriend, howled, and my father gave me his, “You wise guy” look.

My father then said that he was thinking “Joie de vivre,” the joy of living. Anne and I pondered it, and I said, still in wise guy mode, “I still like killjoy!” Anne and I howled again, though the two glasses of wine we each had made it that much funnier that we were totally pissing off my Dad, who was unusually in super serious mode.

When I arrived home tonight and opened the door tonight, I was greeted by total silence. I almost wish I had been; however, immediately Monty came running down the hallway telling me about his day with a “Woof-woof, woof-woof-woof!!!!” Apparently, Liam clawed him in the behind, Plume sniffed his bottom one too many times, and Thunderbolt sneezed in his face; life stinks, then you’re a dog living with three cats!

In a minute, I heard, “Momma?” and Iz rounded the door of the family room and came to greet me. She said, “Where have you been?” as if I had been gone eighty hours instead of eight. I’d like to say that Nathan acted accordingly, but Nathan acted accordingly earlier and texted me that he’d be out with Sam and Joey and then going to the high school basketball game.

I put down my things and walked into the kitchen. Iz had turned on the lights around the windows. I loved my lights, I loved my dog, especially when he was fast asleep and snoring, I loved my tabby mackerel tribe, and I loved my kids. This was home.

I glanced over at the kitchen table and saw the Sears Silvertone radio that had belonged to my grandparent’s. I remember my Dad telling me that he listened to all the radio shows on it when he was a little boy. I knew then that I was always going to see my Dad somewhere in my house when I didn't already feel him in my heart.

I won’t lose any joie from my life when his house is finally sold next month. I will somehow lose my Dad again, and there’s no getting around that. But, sometimes it is necessary to lose joie and to let go in order to finally experience the joy of living. ♥

Driving Sideways

I went to work today. To some of you that may not seem like a note-worthy accomplishment; however, it is a note-worthy accomplishment when you have received over a foot of snow. I know what you’re thinking now, and, no, I’m not crazy; I’ve just been motivated lately to perform death-defying acts!

I had two choices this morning. I could work at home with a 17-year-old, a 7-year-old, three cats, and a dog that barked whenever a snow plow went by or I could drive 11.44 miles to work in what they now called a blizzard. To most the choice was obvious; it was go to work! I might have overly simplified my choices a tad.

I could attempt to accomplish something in my “office,” which was really just a very small desk at the end of the my upstairs hallway, while listening to the sound of Nathan’s X-box game go ka-pow, ka-pow, ka-pow, being asked for snacks every 20 minutes or why Plume didn’t like her by Iz, and hearing cats chase each other around the kitchen while Monty barked. I take that back; Monty would be barking at the sound of a pin dropping!

So, you can see my dilemma. I could spend the day at home accomplishing nothing while being warm and safe inside or I could risk life and limb and travel to work and wallow in the silence as I figured out how level1 and level2 differed for database summarization. I did what any red-blooded American Mom would do, given that she had just spent an entire week home for school vacation with a 7-year-old. I drove to work!

I was told the main roads were clear. Of course, the person who told me this also was the beneficiary of my $1million dollar life insurance policy, so he only had to gain if I ended up in a snowbank! Once I got to the main road, I realized that he was right; it wasn’t too bad, though it wasn’t too good.

I was confident that my trusty steed, an ’05 Saab with snow tires, would see me safely to 4 Technology Park Drive. When my steed wasn’t burdened with snow tires, she let me go from 0 mph to 60 mph in seconds during the snow-less months; I could merge onto Route 495 with a tractor trailer truck only five seconds behind me in the slow lane and be doing 80mph before the truck ever even knew that I had merged. God, I love my steed, though don’t tell her that I often wish she was a convertible!

Before I left, my gas tank read empty. I had just saw the news, where some bobble-headed newscaster announced that it was a good idea to have a full tank of gas if you had to venture out in the snow. I stopped at the Mobil station in town, though I needed to find a pump that was plowed.

Once I did, I jumped out of the car, slammed my hand against the regular unleaded button, and wished I had remembered to bring gloves. Oddly, I had been a New Englander all my life, and it really didn’t bother me that my fingers went numb in 45 seconds. I filled my tank, and then I drove off with my steed flashing her “I’m not liking the traction here” light.

Before I drove off, I put on my headphones and turned my iPod up loud to listen to “Find Your Way Back.” This song had become my anthem in the last week. I also hoped that it would guide me to work unscathed.

As I drove along, I noticed that the only cars I saw on the road were plows or pick-up trunks. I began to get scared, doubting myself, wondering if I should really be going it alone in this weather. As “Find Your Way Back” blared, I realized that I could go it alone, and I would.

This trip to work had became more than just about work. It was a perilous voyage, a voyage that I needed to make on my own. While my steed was stellar in the snow, there were a few places where we slipped and skidded.

In those moments, I held my breath. When I steered the wheel in the opposite direction, my steed kept me on track and in the right direction. Oddly, when I was scared at some points during the journey, I smiled; I was so living this journey scared or not.

At noon, I pulled into work and drove up the long driveway. I went to take a left into the parking lot; however, it wasn’t plowed. I thought, “Surely, I’m not the only one here today.”

When I arrived in work, I was one of ten people who had made the drive in. For most of them, their journey was mandatory and work-related. For me, my journey was all about free will and my new life, little did they know.

Today, I made my way from home and back again. Unlike the song I listened to on my trip, I wasn’t finding my way back. I was finding my way to the person I felt I had never been but always wanted to be. I was confident, strong, and driving sideways when I wasn’t driving forward, and I truly loved that about me today. ♥

End blog soundtrack:

Dear Mom

Letter to my mother, circa 1968. “Dear Mom remember yesterday you said I didn’t have to have any potato salad. I said at supper I didn’t want any potato salad and Dad gave me some.” Funny, but I love potato salad now. ♥

Dear Mom,

It has been over 18 years since I last spoke to you. The last time I spoke to you, I don’t know if you even heard me. I left to go home to get some rest; I kissed you good-bye and told you that I loved you. You died a few hours later.

I think the last time I knew that you heard me was when I was reading Steinbeck’s The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights to you. Earlier in the month, you had asked me to read to you when I visited you in the evenings. I remember you cut me off mid-sentence and said, “Jean, can you read something else? I can’t concentrate on that. I said, “Sure,” dropped the book into my bag, and I picked up an anthology of poetry; you liked that much better.

Anyway, I guess when I said I hadn’t spoken to you in a long time, I meant in person. Certainly, between then and now, I’ve thought of you often. Frequently, when I’ve decorated my Xmas tree or glanced at the picture I have of you in the living room on my bookcase, I’ve said out loud, “I love you, Mom.”

Recently, I miss you more than ever, so that’s why I decided to write you this letter. In case you didn’t know, Mom, I’ve turned into a pretty good writer. Believe it or not, some people actually really like it when I write. What? You know? Hey, you didn’t make them like me from up there, did you?!

When I get upset, writing calms me, Mom; wine calms me, too, though with the New Year here and my potentially new life arriving this year, I’ve been trying to write things instead of Riesling things. Anyway, this is why I decided to write to you; I just I hope I can afford the postage to send this to you.

Often, over the years, when I have been upset, whether it be at home or in my office at work, I always tend to look toward the nearest phone and wish that I could call you. Since you’re a nurse, you know that amputees have phantom limb pain. I often have phantom Mom pain.

Anyway, a lot has happened to the world since December 4th, 1992 when you left this world, Mom. Of course, maybe you already know what’s going on. In case you don’t, it costs 44 cents to mail a letter and cell phones, these little phones that are a necessary and needed organ, unlike our appendix, which is an unnecessary and useless organ, have made telephone booths almost obsolete. We really don’t have to “talk” to each other anymore; we can “text” and “e-mail,” ourselves into a total non-verbal frenzy.

Princess Diana, who I knew you loved, was killed in a car accident in 1997. Just like you always remembered where you were when President Kennedy was killed, I’ll always remember where I was when I found out that she had died. I was at a Dave Brubeck concert at Tanglewood; the concert was just about to start when the man sitting behind me tapped me on the shoulder.

I turned around and he asked, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Princess Diana?” Before I could answer, the guy I was with said quite pleased, “Yes, she gets that a lot.” The complimenting stranger then quickly said, “Oh, but I supposed that might be in bad taste now.” Stunned as to how such a lovely compliment turned into such a negative, I asked, “Why?” He said, “Didn’t you hear? She was killed in a car accident.”

Shocked and deeply saddened, I turned back to wait for the show to begin. Mom, that was the first time I ever mourned a person that I didn’t know; the second time was when John Kennedy Jr. died. Death is even harder to understand when people die long before their time like you did.

Terrorists took down the World Trade Center. A hurricane named Katrina devastated Louisiana. Kids started shooting each other in school. A sheep was cloned. We have our first African-American president. We can listen to thousands of songs on our iPods. We have hybrid cars. Pluto’s not a planet, and, suddenly, we care about the environment more than ever by recycling everything we can; thus, it’s not that we care about the environment anymore, no, we are “green,” Mom!

I’ll never forget when you recycled in the 70s. It seemed like you were one of the only ones. I thought you were way before your time washing out jars and tin cans and saving aluminum foil.

Oddly, a fond childhood memory is sorting out the recycle items for you at the dump. Sometimes, it seems that somewhere along the way, we all got totally selfish and stopped caring; I think that was called the 80s and the 90s; however, now most everyone is doing it, Mom.

Everyone’s also doing a lot of other things you never would have imagined either. Some are very good and some very bad. But, alas, this seems to be the way of the world, Mom.

Two months after you died, your grandson, Nathan was born. He was two weeks overdue and breech, so I had to have a c-section. I remember being peeved, because Quinn and I had paid $200 for our Lamaze class; in retrospect, after hearing other natural delivery stories from friends and having had two no-muss no-fuss c-sections, I no longer felt ripped off at paying $200 for that Lamaze class!

When I first saw Nathan, I said to Quinn, “Oh, my God. He looks just like your Dad.” I tried to breast feed him, but that didn’t work out too well. I remember feeling like a failure, but I did what I had to by giving him a bottle. It was very lonely without you then; sometimes I wished that someone had saw fit to let you live a few years longer so you could help me through that and see your lovely grandson for a while.

Mom, Nathan has turned into a wonderful man. He is a lot like Quinn’s Dad, his grandfather, a scientist and a proud atheist. Like me, he lacks confidence sometimes, but like Quinn, he’s not afraid to speak his mind. He’s 6’3” now, and sometimes I can’t believe he was ever small; you’d love him, no, I already know that you love him.

In 1995, Bitsy Sinkiewicz, my friend from college, died. Actually, I hope you know this, because when I said good-bye to her that morning in the hospital, I told her that “My Mom’s going to be there for you.” I hope that while you’re reading this that Bitsy is sitting there drinking tea with you and that you both have a cat on your lap; tell Bitsy that I miss her a lot, okay, Mom?

After you and Bitsy died, I became really depressed. Though, back then, I don’t think “depression” was as well treated as it is now. I made some questionable decisions, and I ended up divorcing Quinn; it was a dark time in my life if I ever had one, because I chose to ignore my gut, my friends, and let go of things in haste.

In 2000, Dad died. I was never nurse material; however, I tried to play one in real-life then. I took Dad to chemo once a week, and when he was close to the end, I was there by his side. When you died, I was devastated. When Dad was dying, I knew I had to be there for him more than I could be devastated.

I think I did a good job, Mom. Dad wanted me, not his girlfriend, which surprised me a great deal, to go to the doctor’s with him for what was his last visit. At that time, I didn’t know it was his last visit. When his doctor said, “Dick, I told I could get you through until this summer, but that was all I could do,” I wanted to cry, but I knew I couldn’t.

I looked at Dad in disbelief, and then he thanked his doctor for everything. Dad hadn’t told me everything. I also knew then what a strong and courageous person Dad was, knowing all the months he acted as if there was hope that there really was none.

Dad died at home on an October morning. I was with him. And, so was my cat, Thunderbolt, who became Dad’s cat for the last few months of his life, annoying the crap out of Anne, Dad’s cat-hating girlfriend, and loving Dad by sleeping next to him when he wasn’t annoying the crap out of Anne. Good Thunderbolt!

In 1999, I met a man on a plane and fell in love; Dad met him before he died and liked him very much. We married in 2002, and at the ripe old age of 40, I found myself pregnant. In 2003, I had a little girl; I named her Isabelle, and she loves to be called Izzy. She’s an absolutely wonderful girl, Mom.

She is funny, creative, insightful, compassionate, energetic, and loves animals. Your sister, Aunt Ethel, met Iz for the first time when she was four or so. After Iz went running off in the yard with Uncle Bill, your brother, Aunt Ethel said to me, “She is just like you when you were that age. Somewhere your Mom is laughing.” Payback! I laughed.

I think Aunt Ethel was spot on, Mom. Iz is my “mini-me.” I predict great things for her, because she is loved dearly by her father, which I think is important for a women, and she is also loved by all.

In 2007, Granny, your Mom, died. She was two weeks shy of her 103rd birthday. I remember at her 99th Uncle Bill whispering to me his justification of why he chose to have a 99th birthday party for her; he wondered, like all of us, if she would amazingly still be around for her 100th, and she was.

On my last visit to see Granny, she was told me that she was upset. Her husband, Jack (your Dad), who died in 1960 had not been to see her in a long time. And, she was currently waiting for her parents (your grandparents) to pick her up for dinner; poor Granny pondered endlessly about what could be keeping them from her. I knew then that it would be sad when she died, but maybe this was nature’s way of saying that she would not be kept from them for much longer.

Quite selfishly, I often wished that perhaps she could have given you, Bitsy, and Dad a few of her years. I feel really guilty writing that, because you know how much I loved Granny. But, it was so hard to lose you all so early like that.

Anyway, I have been blessed with two wonderful children, Mom, though marriage has been a challenge for me. I have wanted to change my life for a few years, but the economy has prevented that. I was laid off for over a year and a half, which was devastating, but it did allow me to spend a lot of wonderful time with Nathan and Iz for the first time in my life.

I have a plan now, Mom; of course, like any plan, it has parts that make it a whole like a permanent job, a house that needs to sell, and then a union that needs to be uncoupled. On Saturday, I made a small step toward independence by beginning the process of refinancing my house. Of course, knowing I was “under water,” I was nervous.

Every time the bank representative asked a question, I answered and then held my breath. I was slammed because the percentage of this-and-that didn’t meet their criteria, but, of course, I could get around that by paying a fee. I thought I was done for when I said I had been laid off for a year and a half.

The bank representative said, “Well, the bank likes to see two years of solid employment.” I then wanted to scream at her at that point, but, luckily, she said, “Let me see if we can wave that.” I had been solidly employed for 24 years and unemployed for a year and a half. How can anyone judge that? She got back on the line and said, “It’s okay.”

When I got off the phone, I got an e-mail that said they could not automatically approve me because of special circumstances regarding my loan; however, they assured me that they still wanted to do business with me. Mom, the first small step in my large plan had frustrated the crap out of me, and I wondered, “Is the whole year going to be this difficult and frustrating?”

Though, instead of plunking myself down in front of the TV, I grabbed my gym clothes and headed out. As I drove, I thought more and more about my plan. For no reason, I started to cry, Mom.

I couldn’t stop crying. Part of me felt good, because I knew that, unlike other times in my life, that my plan was well-thought out and had much merit; I was not making a bad decision. The other part of me was so scared, Mom, like after all this time, would I ever be happy again, and how difficult would it be to get there?

Being happy seemed liked such a simple request in my life. I was not asking to be America’s Next Top Model; I didn’t want to win $1 million dollars in the lottery. All I wanted was to be happy. Mom, you once said it was better to be with someone than to be alone; no, Mom, it’s better to be alone than to be with the wrong someone, this I know.

In that moment on Saturday, I really wanted to call you, but I knew I couldn’t. This is why I wrote this letter, because I wanted to tell you that I realized something today. And, perhaps, not being able to call you made me realize what I needed to know and how I need to be in this moment.

As I was listening to my iPod, the gizmo with thousands of songs on it, I knew that I had wonderful friends to talk to who supported me, though while running along the street, I knew that at times I would be alone. No matter how many friends or family members I had, I would have to experience things that a friend couldn’t experience with me. I would have to run alone sometimes, even if I didn’t want to.

That’s not a bad thing. Making it through something on your own empowers you and enables you to make it to the next level. You climb the ladder to make it to the top; your friends and family are the ladder.

After I came back from my run, I had to jot down an appointment. I rummaged through my purse and found the year planner I had bought in Target’s dollar aisle, my favorite aisle. Still reeling with thoughts about, well, everything, the cover twinkled.

I had used the planner for two weeks now and never noticed that inside the twinkle there was writing. It said, “Go for it! 2011” Thanks for being there always, Mom, wherever and whenever it is, even if you’re not a phone call away. ♥

So, This is College?!

As some of you know, I have a seventeen-year old son, Nathan, who is a senior in high school. He has applied to several colleges and is now in “wait to hear from several colleges” mode. He heard from his first college last week; he was accepted to one college and received a $4K scholarship award to boot.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that $4K is nothing when college tuition is running on average from $40-$50K a year. He was accepted to a local state school; at a state school, $4K is like $10K. Yes, there’s definitely an exchange rate!

Nathan was pleased. While it wasn’t the school he wanted to go to, he had the comfort of knowing that no matter what happened, he had at least one school to go to. It had his major, which was Marine Biology. So, what was wrong with the school? Quite simply, it seemed that the only thing wrong with it was that it “looked like a prison.”

I went online and looked at the tuition costs. It was 20K a year for everything. Tuition would only be 16K a year. I was excited, because it was just like I had found John Fluevogs at Payless prices!

I said to Nathan, “Given what your Dad and I have saved, you could go there, get your degree, and when you graduate, you would be debt free with a brand new car!” Nathan frowned. He then grumbled, “It looks like a prison!”

I thought that the prison was never going to be a contender even after I waved my “debt free” and “new car” flags in front of Nathan’s nose. I knew then I had to dig deeper. I needed to provide proof that the school was cool.

I had two girlfriends. They had a nephew and a son attending the school. I said to Nathan, “Both of them love it.” Nathan still grumbled, “It looks like a prison.”

Actually, when I told the friend, who had a son attending the school, about Nathan’s prison comments, she said, “Oh, well, it does. But, that’s just the freshman dorm!” I told Nathan that, but he still seemed unimpressed.

I decided to get gutsy. I asked, “Let’s go on a tour.” Amazingly, he said, “Shure,” before he left for a three-day vacation at Disney World.

Of course, Nathan is probably the only person who has ever dreaded a trip to Disney World. He was going with his Dad, stepmother, and his 10 and 8-year-old brothers. While Nathan had always been good with his much younger siblings, I think the age spread was finally one that would cause a black-out period for a few years.

In addition, to Disney World, Nathan informed me that he would also being going to Eckerd, a college he applied to. His stepmother, who was a professor at a college in Boston, could participate in a college exchange program on Nathan’s behalf. Her college took an Eckerd professor’s child, and Eckerd would take Nate, tuition free. It was not a given that he’d get tuition every year, but he could get a year or two, which was something, given that Eckerd was $40K a year.

When I accepted that the state college just might be Nathan’s prison, I visited Eckerd’s website again. Once there, I knew that the state college was definitely not a prison; however, it could not compare to palm trees and the beach! This was the first picture I saw, and knowing Nathan was into longboarding, I heard “Want some candy, little boy?”



I clicked on every link on the website. I looked at all the photos. And, then I thought, “So, this is college?!”

Flashback to 1980 (ouch, that hurt!): I applied to colleges that were in New England or New York. Little did I know then that there was life, warm life, outside of my comfort zone. It was all so different then.

Some of me, based on what Nathan was showing me, made me wish I could do it all over. I was dropped off at college with my typewriter, a copy of Webster’s Dictionary, and a stereo that played LPs and had an 8-track player. I might be dropping Nathan off with his longboard, SPF50, and swim trunks; it was all so different now.

Earlier this afternoon, I received a stream of text messages from Nathan:

N: Like Eckerd’s private beach?



Mom: No!!!! You don’t like the beach anyway!
N: This campus is f*cking beautiful.
Mom: What are the chances you’ll get in?
N: Good.

N: Cats are allowed and dogs. The local cat life.



Mom: Don't bring it home! Remember: Pets at school don’t get transfer credits to home.
N: I’m bringing my cat home with me. Bite me!
Mom: Bring a girlfriend home not a cat!
N: Can I bring both home?
Mom: Um, we’ll see how your grades are.

N: The rare domestic Floridian bobcat.



Mom: Enough about the felines. What about the academics?

Totally stealth and probably while putting away his longboard and taking off his flip-flops, Nathan asked, “Did you hear from work?” I was waiting to see if I would become a permanent employee at my new-old work. I texted him back saying that I hadn’t.

Actually, I knew his inquiry was genuine, and I wrote back, “Thanks for asking. ♥” Besides, a discussion of academics wasn't probably best suited to a text message, and he knew I had been worried about my job for a while. Given he had spent all his life in the frozen tundra of New England, I knew he was probably rejoicing in "So, this is what a Winterless Wonderland is like!"

I went back to Eckerd’s website. It was a beautiful place, and it had everything he wanted academically. I knew I would support Nathan wherever he wanted to go.

When I thought about it more, I wished, like me back in 1979, that he didn’t know that any states existed other than MA or NY. If he went that far away, I’d miss him terribly. But, if he went that far away, I knew he’d be happy and that would make me happy, too.

No matter where he goes, I’ll be there on moving-in day. I want him to go where he feels he’ll get the best education…and have a lot of fun. After all, isn’t that what life’s all about – learning as you go along and having fun doing it? ♥