All Gone to Look for America

As we began our journey, back to the Old Dominion, back to our second home town, I heard the Simon & Garfunkel song, America, playing in my head. It's my traveling song of choice -- bittersweet, soft and yearning.

We knew the way. We had traveled back and forth, from Cleveland to Washington and back again. Now we were headed to the Washington Capitals Convention in D.C. We also planned to go to the Newseum to see a new JFK exhibit. And spend the day in Alexandria, in Old Town, where we both worked several years ago.

Why is it the trip always takes longer going there than coming back? The drive down was uneventful. We noshed on sandwiches from Burger King. Stopped for coffee and a pastry at Panera. Paid our tolls. Rode our road. Navigated various construction areas, many of them phantom, with no workers or equipment in sight. We tried to listen to an audio book, but nothing really fit. We were "restless and aching" but we did know why...we were headed back home. To our other home. The one we left behind for a fate that wouldn't let us be.

We arrived late afternoon to a note on the door from my brother-in-law. We were to make ourselves at home. We made a call to my niece-in-law, who came over, her three small children in tow. She was feeding our literary addiction by taking us to a library book sale. We supported the local economy rather generously before heading back to their home, where we saw my nephew, briefly, in his natural habitat of overgrown plants and wildflowers. Too brief a visit. Then back to our home for the next few days. A lovely dinner with new babies and small children and nephews and their wives. Family time. Nice. My mister was a hit, reading stories to two of the little ones, in his own quirky, endearing style. Then bed.

Friday morning, off to the Newseum. Very moving photographs that really showed JFK. You can't always hide from the camera. Which native American tribe was it that believed the camera stole your soul? I believe it's true. Photographs do capture your soul. We spent most of the rest of the day exploring the other exhibits. Then to the museum shop. Then to the shop at the National Gallery of Art. Then back on the Metro, whooshing our way back. Through tunnels, then daylight. Content. A little sad. My Mister went to the game my brother-in-law was helping to coach. I stayed and read my email. Played with my Kindle. Dozed awhile.

Saturday was Caps day. Rallies and speakers. Cowbells and Rock the Red towels and t-shirts and all manner of souvenirs. Silly photographs of each other. Nice to be among our own kind again. Then back on the Metro. The one day it rained, we were lucky to be indoors. We timed it perfectly so my brother-in-law didn't miss any of his football game picking us up at the station. A quiet evening in.

Sunday, my favorite day, spent in Old Town. Sitting by the Potomac, people-watching, drinking in everything. Reminiscing days from years ago, sitting here just like this, reflecting the sunshine. Walking along the riverfront, taking pictures that will never do justice to the original. We strolled up and down King Street, and parked ourselves in front of the building where I used to work. Then lunch at our favorite restaurant, Il Porto. Eating homemade raviolis in a cream sauce that I nearly wept over. Yes, it was that good. If I could have licked the plate and gotten away with it, I would have. I think I chewed every bite about 50 times. A white chocolate cake for dessert with raspberry sauce. We split it. Divine. We tipped liberally and tripped out to buy t-shirts and magnets and the usual stuff for ourselves and for our college-aged son. Exhausted, happy and immeasurably sad all at the same time, we headed out of town. Later, we were driving down the George Washington Parkway. We stopped at a small park to take pictures. Of the park, the Potomac, each other, our shadows. Then back to base camp for pizza and a quiet evening with family.

Monday was our day of departure. Time for farewells and promises to drive safely. Hoping we remembered everything. Did you pick up the two small containers that were on the dining room table? Yes. What about my jacket? I think it's in the trunk. I checked the room, I'm pretty sure we got everything. Then the trip home. Leisurely, recapping everything we did, what was said, what we should have done, what we were glad we did. Daydreaming about how cool it would be to live there again. Though we both know it's not in our cards.

The trip back is uneventful, and we arrive home safe and sound. The cat yells at us. We unload the car. Back to work tomorrow.

For the next several days, we will be saying, "Remember what we were doing this time last week?"

Yep, I remember...

We’re on a Need-to-Know Basis

My father-in-law had a favorite saying when his children asked him why the sky was blue or some other question to which he had no answer. He would reply, “We’re on a need-to-know basis, and you don’t need to know.

I love this answer. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate those who are intellectually curious. My husband is, very much so, in spite of – or perhaps because of – the nebulous response he got as a child. He loves the Great Courses series. He reads history voraciously. He loves learning new things in math. He has an amazing mind. I love going to museums with him, because he gives me my own personal tour, chock full of interesting facts that are far more fascinating than those inscribed on the little plaques on the wall.

Alas, I do not retain any of this kind of knowledge. He will read me interesting facts in some book he’s reading, and I will say, “Wow, that is so amazing.” Then the next day or the day after that, I will have forgotten. He, on the other hand, will file it away and retrieve it weeks or months or years later. And he’ll say, “Don’t you remember, I told you all about this.” And I will shrug and agree that he probably had, and that my mind is a sieve.

The things that my mind HAS retained are random and generally unhelpful. For instance, when was the last time someone asked you to sing the words to the Patty Duke Theme Song? Or to name the six wives of Henry VIII? Or ask you the meaning of life, the universe and everything? (It’s 42, by the way.)

I have come to accept my limitations. I am grateful that my brother understands and even embraces the world of electronics…that fiber optics are as familiar to him as the faces of his children. Stephen Hawking has my respect and admiration, but if I lived to be 193, his concepts would still elude me.

I don’t need to know why the sky is blue. Just that it’s there, above the clouds, predictable and lovely and just the color a sky should be.

Dad was right. I don’t need to know.

A Private Affair

My parents would have celebrated their 65th wedding anniversary last week. I hope that, wherever they are, they celebrated well. Although, come to think of it, they never did make a big deal out of it. They exchanged cards. But they didn't go out for a big, fancy dinner or share expensive gifts. Their wedding anniversary was not seen as an occasion that required a lot of hoo-ha.

Mom and Dad were never the hoo-ha types. They were quiet homebodies. They didn't socialize. They had each other and that was enough. Yes, they had us, too, but there was something very private and off-limits in their relationship. They didn't talk about the details of their disagreements. Presenting a united front to us was their mission, and they achieved it.

Looking back, my folks celebrated their love in small ways. She made his favorite dinners. He helped with the dishes. When I was little, my Dad worked down the street from the Whitman Candy Company. From time to time, he brought home a Whitman Sampler for my mom. Which she shared with us. A little. Alone in the kitchen, my mom would giggle and say things like, "Tony, stop that!" We'd yell from the living room, "What's going on in there?" and they'd reply in unison, "Nothing." Occasionally, my dad would add, "Mind your own business."

When my mom talked about my dad, she'd get a dreamy, far-away look in her eye. The one time she attempted to have "the talk" with me, all she would say is, "When you truly love the person you're with, it's wonderful." Then she sighed and changed the subject.

Like most men of his generation, my dad was not touchy-feely. He did not talk about his feelings for my mom. I didn't know until after he died that he sang "You Are My Sunshine" to my mom every night before they fell asleep.

My father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. For the last eight years of his life, my mom took care of him, even when he didn't recognize her anymore. And after he died, she was certain he visited her at night. I believed her. I don't think anything, even death, could keep those two apart. Now I feel both of them as I sit here and type. How I wish I could sit at their kitchen table one more time and talk and tease and laugh and watch my own son play on the floor with the toys I enjoyed as a child.

I sure do miss you guys. Happy Anniversary! Have a caramel cream for me!

Random Acts of Not Being a Douchebag

There are plenty of books and blogs and articles about doing little kindnesses for one another. Holding open a door, sharing a smile, or helping an elderly neighbor with their groceries. All of these efforts are good and deserving of a pat on the back. But I contend it is often what you DON'T do that can make a big difference, too.

Here are just a few examples of little things you can do to spare your fellow travelers irritation and/or wrath:

1. Allow sufficient room between the back bumper ahead of you and your front bumper. Tailgating someone does NOT make them go faster. And neither you or the person ahead of you wants you to end up in their trunk after a sudden stop. Suggestion: Put on some music, ease back, and realize that getting to your destination 30 seconds later will not ruin your life.

2. It is impossible not to overhear private phone conversations. It IS rude to comment on them -- unless your teenager is on one end of the phone and you hear something that sets off alarm bells (e.g. "I have the roach clips." or "How far along are you?" or "Do you think we'd get suspended for that?")

3. Unless you are Greg Lamond or there is not a bike path/lane in the park, please don't ride your bicycle in the street. I know, I know, they are really pushing for cars to share the roadway with bicycles, but I'm afraid it's just a matter of time until we start to see a rash of injuries. On a curvy road, you can't see what's up ahead, and unless the road is wide enough, it's tough to pass safely without veering into the oncoming lane. This makes for a dangerous situation, even at low speeds.

4. Don't line-jump. And if a new lane opens up, offer the person in front of you the opportunity to go first. Waiting your turn is a Kindergarten 101 skill that many people have forgotten.

5. The scratchy paper toilet seat cover that delicate folks use for their derrieres is, alas, not reusable. That's why they call it "disposable." Please don't leave it behind. (Pun intended.)

6. Recycle. I know I covered this in another blog, but it bears repeating. If there are two containers side-by-side and all you have to do is put your plastic bottle in the recycle container and you don't, I'm sorry, but you are a douchebag. No exceptions.

7. Don't let your child run through parking lots. Ever. Don't assume they are going to see the moving car or that the driver is going to see them. God invented hands for a reason. Use them to hold on tight.

8. In social situations, do not leave a half of something in the bakery box. It does not make you look like you are concerned about your weight. It makes you look like you didn't want to be the douchebag who took the last donut. It doesn't work.

9. Don't walk on the left side of a sidewalk/hallway, even if you're going around a corner and it's three steps shorter. You will run into someone, possibly with a hot coffee in their hand. And it will take you a lot longer to wash the coffee stain out of your shirt than it would have to walk the extra three steps. (No exceptions for the British. You can drive how you like in your country, but walk that way here at your own peril.)

10. Don't be cheap with a tip if the service was good. Our fellow travelers who serve us well deserve their reward. An extra buck or two isn't going to make nearly as much of a difference to you as it will to them. If you can afford to eat out, you can afford to tip well.

Only 10 things that can make a person a douchebag? No, not really. Just 10 examples. Now, I have to go wash out my cereal bowl. It understandably upsets my husband (who washes the dishes) when I leave Cream of Wheat encrusted in the bowl. And I don't want to end up on his douchebag list!

The Junkie

I love food. And food loves me. At least, I assume it must because it stays around so long...on my waist, on my hips...well, you get the idea.

At the root of my love affair is the deep seated association of food as a cure. Not just for hunger, but for depression and stress. Food is also a reward. A means of sharing a meal or celebrating a special occasion. It's something that keeps my hands busy while I watch TV.

As a child, food was rationed. There were six of us kids. We each got one pork chop, one scoop of mashed potatoes, one serving of vegetables and one brownie for dessert. On shopping day, we each got a candy bar.

Then there were the years my husband and I lived in Virginia. On occasion, we would designate a junk food dinner night. On a day when we were both stressed from work, we'd come home, head for the Safeway and pick up our favorite junk foods. Chips, dip, pop, a Sara Lee cake, and my personal vice, Malomars. Alas, we do not abuse ourselves this way anymore, but I imagine the damage has already been done.

These days, our bad foods are limited to chocolate pretzels and the occasional milk shake. My husband's health is an issue. He simply can't eat all that junk anymore. And I am trying to stay away from it myself. This is a lot easier at home, where I don't keep things like donuts and chips. But at work, the environment of stress begs to be soothed by chocolate bars and Fritos. They call to me in dulcet tones from the gleaming vending machines in the cafeteria. It's a daily battle. Me vs. Food. If I were you, I would not put odds on me.  It's not that I don't eat healthy foods. It's just that once I'm done eating the fruit, I sabotage my efforts with a handful of Raisinets.

Someday, I hope to be able to walk through the grocery store, oblivious to the fragrant baked goods, the tantalizing snacks and that wicked temptress also known as the candy aisle. In the meantime, I'll just continue my strategy of forsaking fatty foods one day at a time and visualizing myself as a non-foodie. Slim and healthy. The envy of all my cronies.

Sigh.

Pass me a carrot stick, will you? And don't forget the dip!

Do Overs

It is no surprise to anyone that I am a tree hugger. I say it loud and proud. I love trees, animals, big open skies, oceans, fields, mountains. Mother Nature and I are on a first name basis. So I really hate to see people defacing the things I love. Cigarette butts, fast food wrappers, styrofoam cups all leave ugly scars on our landscape.

Another thing I cannot abide is the fact that recycling is made so easy, yet people still throw things away. I see folks all the time tossing bottles and cans in the trash, while the recycling bin sits just a few feet away. Are they being lazy or stupid or both?

Anyhow, this blog is about me, not about them. And recycling is what I do.

Paper, cardboard, bottles and cans all make their way into the recycling bin at our house. We started a compost heap in the back yard for kitchen scraps and yard waste. And we've discovered that if we put broken items for garbage pick-up on the tree lawn the night before, many times they will be gone before the collection occurs. There are lots of people out there who have discovered recycling can be profitable. Including the charities who collect old clothing and household goods. They either sell the items or recycle them to make money for their organizations.

Some of my favorite haunts are rummage sales and garage sales. I've gotten a lot of cool stuff second hand. You find things there you won't find in the stores (or on TV). Then we have EBay and Half Price Books, which area very dangerous places for us. As book lovers, we also frequent book sales. Conversely, we donate a lot of books.

The object of the game is to send as little as possible to the city dump.

Then there is spiritual recycling. I believe in some form of reincarnation. I'm not sure of the actual mechanics, but I'm pretty sure I've been here a bunch of times before. I once went to be hypnotized and experience past life regression so I could explore this topic. Not all of what I experienced felt right, but enough of it did to shed light on my life and why I feel the way I do about certain things. I've also gone to a psychic who gave me a rundown on my past lives. Much of what she said resonated, too. Reincarnation makes a lot of sense to me. Who can possibly get it all right the first time? Or even the fiftheenth?

Will I come back as a cat? Maybe. I like cats. But I suspect I'll just come back as another flawed human being, embracing the earth that I love and, as always,  seeking peace, love and the perfect chocolate.

Time Enough at Last

There's an old Twilight Zone episode. It's about a man who loves to read. His shrew of a wife ruins his books out of spite and his boss reprimands him for reading during his work time as a teller in a bank. On his lunch hour, he sneaks downstairs to the vault to read. One day, there is a nuclear explosion. He emerges from the vault to discover he is the only living thing around. In his travels, he discovers the public library, where he gathers and sorts pile after pile of books. But as he reaches to pick up one that has fallen, his glasses slip off his nose and break. He is blind without his glasses. The final shot is of the man weeping in frustration because he had "time enough at last."

In our house, we both love and hate this episode. As avid readers, we can image the joy of endless time to read, and the desperation of not being able to do so.

Life is so fragile. You go along, thinking you'll wander the earth forever, the first person ever to be immortal. You don't want to think about dying. So you build this illusion in your mind of endless tomorrows. You pile up your books, and you tell yourself you'll read them tomorrow, when you have time. But will you have time, or will it run out on you?

So, here we are at carpe diem. Today is a day to be seized. Take a book from the stack, open it up, and dive in.Who knows what lies languishing, waiting to be discovered?