Letters From Jo
Christmas 2011
This is the holiday update that I've been dreading, but as I considered what I wanted to say, and how I wanted to say it, I found myself agreeing with my sister that in the midst of sadness there is inevitably something worth smiling about. My mum fell and broke her hip in January and never was able to get mobile on her own after the surgery. Unable to return home, she went from the hospital to a nursing home. She died on March 18th. For those of you who have experienced this before me, I know you understand what a deep loss it is. A few days prior to her death I wrote a letter to her appreciating her life, thanking her for her gifts, and assuring her that the kids are all right. I was able read the letter to her hours before she passed away. I have to believe she heard me. My sister read the letter at the funeral service, and again I believe mum understood what I was trying to tell her. The kids, her kids, are all right.
Later, however, I had reason to question if that were strictly true. Because of the distance between the church and the cemetery, we elected not to follow the hearse and instead stayed behind to share a repast and visit with family and friends who came to celebrate Mum's life. Afterwards, one of my brothers, my sister, and I drove to the gravesite. As we traveled, dark clouds began moving across the horizon. Thunder rolled and rumbled. In the distance, we could see multiple lightning strikes in all their jagged glory. We were heading into the storm.
Here's the thing: this particular cemetery has no tombstones. Graves have flat brass markers that are set flush to the ground. If you drive by and don't know you're passing a cemetery, you might think you've gone past a golf course. It is into this gently rolling, pastoral landscape that we drove, the clouds increasingly dark, the thunder increasingly loud, and the lightning increasingly close. We parked and had no trouble finding the gravesite. We always look for the gnarly, massive, and ancient oak that marks the spot of our parents' and grandparents' graves.
Except now that oak tree looks more like a lightning rod.
Glancing warily at the sky and feeling the earth tremble under our feet, we hurry across the green to the grave. The wind whips hard around us. Lightning makes us protectively (and idiotically) duck our heads. "We're gonna die," says I. "That tree is either going to land on us or lightning is going to smite us." My sister calmly takes pictures of the flower spray, using the lightning as a substitute for flash. My brother stands at her side holding an umbrella over her as this will protect the photo shoot and focus the lightning strike. Because I'm the big sister, I feel it is my responsibility to repeat my prophecy of doom: "I'm telling you guys, it'll be a headline. I see it now: THREE CHILDREN OF RECENTLY DECEASED WOMAN ELECTROCUTED AT GRAVESIDE." Even that really doesn't get them to move. Maybe they realize no paper will print a headline that long, and besides, they are still paying their last respects.
I am paying mine as well, apologizing to Mum that while she has done her best by us, it is now painfully obvious that the kids are not all right. Not by a long shot.
We survived, so it's my opinion that she was already brokering a heavenly deal on our behalf. The evidence for this was in the headline in the next day's Pittsburgh Post-Gazette.
Someone's always looking out for us.
Best wishes for a terrific 2012.
Holidays 2010
It's the annual epistle, and I've hit a wall. Not a Facebook wall - that would require me to have a Facebook account - and I'm still not convinced of its redeeming qualities. I mean, I went to see The Social Network so I'm not completely out of touch, but really, do I want to spend one more minute at the computer than I already do? Thus far, the answer's been no…make that NO! I've owned a computer since 1984, that benchmark Orwellian year that Apple Computer somehow made more famous with its iconic Super Bowl for the Mac. It's not as if I'm new to the planet.
Facebook unnerves me, though. What would I post? What would be interesting enough? What is too private? Where are the boundaries? Oh, the pressure. I'm having trouble coming up with something to write about in my holiday letter - and that's supposed to be an entire year's worth of happenings - what sound bytes could I possibly add on a daily, or even weekly, basis?
Then there are the pictures. I don't own a camera. Or at least I often forget that I do. It wasn't so long ago that young boy I was seeing for counseling - whose IQ happens to be on the low side of borderline intellectual functioning - made an expressive art project for me in a session. His sculpture turned out so well I told him I wished I could take a picture of it. "Why can't you?" he asked. "I don't have a camera," I explained. "You gotta an iPhone." he said, pointing to it on the corner of my desk. (And I have to confess it took me a long moment to realize what he was telling me.) "Oh, right," I said, then added somewhat defensively, "I'm still a little loopy from the surgery I had last week." Not missing a beat, he replied, "Yeah, but they didn't do surgery on your head, did they?" More proof, I believe, that IQ is vastly overrated.
Let's suppose I remember I have a camera, what would I take pictures of? Sure, I'm in Walmart from time to time, but there's already a site dedicated to photos of shoppers with unfortunate fashion sense. Adding to it would just be mean. And haven't most of us had bad flannel moments? (Or, as I witnessed at a wedding this summer, really bad spandex moments. The conundrum for that female guest was whether to hike up or yank down. Let me say, one cannot be indecisive when spandex, like America, is on a roll toward the middle ground, in this case, just north of the navel base.)
Then there are the privacy concerns. I know, I know. You can make your page private. Uh-huh. As private, say, as your privates are to the hapless TSA screener. Now, there's a picture we'd all like to see.
I was without internet service in my home for more than two years because I just didn't have the patience for dialup any longer, and that's all that was available. I had access at work, and also through my phone, so it wasn't as if I was living in a cave, but I have to tell you it was kind of nice being a little less accessible. Is there an asocial network? A page for wannabe curmudgeons, perhaps? It raises the question: would Ebenezer Scrooge be on Facebook? Before his transformation, I think not. Too many humbugs.
Oh, maybe I'm making too much of it. I'm willing to be persuaded that a Facebook page could be fun, not one more thing I have to do. Persuade me. What's going on in your life that you want to share?
As for me, after a long association with Kensington Books and their Zebra imprint, I've signed on with Berkley. In some ways it's like going home because the editor who bought my first book will be my editor again. I also have a new agent representing me. It all feels like a good fit, and I was ready for a change. I didn't know that until change happened; it's truer I was open to change, and there was encouragement and some gentle nudging from people whose opinion mattered to me.
I just hosted a girls weekend for three fabtastic (fabulous and fantastic) friends. Shop. Wine. Laugh. Politics. Pets. Pictures. A movie that made our hearts stop. More wine. No drama. Dinners out. How great is it to get together with women who can drink pots of coffee and still relax?
Work remains interesting and satisfying but not without its special stressors. I'm fortunate that my responsibilities still include counseling. The administrative duties would not be nearly so tenable if it weren't for the direct contact I have with the girls at our group home and the children and adults at our outpatient clinic Family Connections I'm traveling to Charleston a couple of days each month for meetings. In between there are telephone conferences. I keep hoping someone will suggest Skype so I can stay put. The best thing about the drive when I'm alone is the chance to catch up on my reading via audio books. The best thing about the drive when I'm not alone is having company!
Perhaps I'm not such an asocial person after all. I have friends. I have a network. Heck, I have a website, two actually. Hmm. Could Facebook be in my future? I'm sure one of the Christmas ghosts will let me know.
Many blessings to all of you in 2011!
Christmas 2009
I'm not good about taking vacation. My idea of time off is time away. From everything, everyone. I don't want hassle. I don't want to be disturbed. I don't want to travel to unfamiliar places or do unfamiliar things. No bumps in the road, thank you very much. I work really hard to get as much off my plate at work as I can before I leave. This makes me a little nuts as I gear up for being gone, and unfortunately, there's leakage. My coworkers are clearly glad to see me go. Sometimes I use vacation to work on a book, and that's okay because it's part of the plan. But once a year, the plan is pretty much to turn off the switch in my head and breathe deeply and slowly.
Obviously I'm setting the bar way too high. (Or it could be that I need to invest in room with no sensory stimuli. Wait, isn't that a padded cell?)
My vacation plan is simple. I make arrangements with one of my brothers and his family in the DC area to visit them following a 3 day conference in Charleston. I have training responsibilities at the conference and some duties as a member of the committee that organizes the conference, but knowing that I will be going to visit the Gaithersburg gang and that they will just take care of me is the carrot that keeps me moving.
I don't know what makes me check my phone before I leave the conference center parking lot, but I do. Voicemail. Work has called. I think, hmmm. Vacation isn't quite here yet. It's not 5. So I return the call. It doesn't matter what the call is about. It's just taking the call that makes my head go to a place that is difficult to leave. It isn't an auspicious way to begin my vacation, and as I head north I am not certain if I will be able to go east when I reach Morgantown, or if I am going to have to head northwest and back to work. Two more calls (and 80 miles) and I have assurances that I can go east.
I don't know what makes me check my email soon after reaching my brother's, but I do. There is a note from my editor that he's reviewed a manuscript I sent him and is attaching his suggestions. The manuscript is something I wrote quite a while back, so I don't have any expectations that the suggestions will arrive now. There is no pressure from him to return it in a hurry. In fact, he tells me to take my time. The problem is that it's not in my nature, and the manuscript isn't in my plan, and now I'm away from my Mac and the manuscript, and I want it all behind me, not in front of me.
I don't know what makes me answer my cell three days later, but I do. It is work, and I know this is a call I'm getting because someone thinks it's really important. It is, but it's not easy to shift gears when I'm getting ready to play Wii bowling with my niece, and it's even harder to shift back.
I don't know what made me decide to leave for home that day, but I did. I don't have to return to work. I just needed to be home. I arrive at dusk and pull into the driveway, hit the button for the garage door, and wait for it to go up. And wait. I hit the button for the other garage door. And wait. I see the lamp on in the house so I know I have electricity. I take a moment to think what to do. I finally remember I have a key somewhere. I enter through a side door.
As I prepare to step from the garage into the house, I hear a high-pitched beep. I recognize it as the smoke detector's low battery warning. Jeeze, I think. Do I have to deal with that too? (Yes, the whine in my head is as annoyingly pitched as that beep.)
I open the door. The low battery warning fades to nothing as the sound of roaring water fills my ears. For a moment, I can't move. Dropping everything, I run to the kitchen where the sound is the loudest. I can't see any problem. I run downstairs for the main shut off, but the sound is less intense in the basement. I realize it has to be coming from the bathroom connected to the master bedroom. I run up two flights (and I don't do running well) and discover the problem is in the bathtub. The shampoo/conditioner caddy (suction cup variety) has fallen off the wall. On its way down it hit the cold water handle, turned it on full, and the faucet is the source of the cascade. I turn it off, stare disbelieving at the shower caddy lying on the tub floor, thank God the drain was open, and then wonder how long the water has been running. Because of the conference, I have been gone 7 days already. I pause to contemplate the possibilities.
Beep. Silence. Beep. That blasted smoke detector. I take a breath, calm myself, and go to check my house phone for messages - where I discover the receiver is dislodged from the base, completely draining the battery. Just shaking my head at this one-more-thing, I set it properly in the base and figure it will be good in a couple of hours.
I go next door to get my neighbor to help me with my garage doors. He finds a breaker that I don't know I have, flips it, and the doors rise. Really, it's like the parting of the Red Sea, only not.
Beep. Silence. Beeeep. Okay. I'm getting to it already. What I don't like about replacing that battery is this: the smoke detector is mounted on the ceiling at the top of the stairs, and I have to stand on a chair to reach it. It is many steps to the bottom. I am afraid of heights. Even more afraid of falling. Girding my loins, I soldier on. Blessed silence is my reward.
I unpack the car. Unpack the suitcase. I realize I am still in a fragile place. I breathe deeply, slowly. I sit in the recliner and pick up the remote. I turn on the television. There is a message for me on the screen, courtesy of DirecTV:
It is too much for me. I shout plaintively at the TV while poking myself in the chest: "What about me? What about my &*$% batteries?"
Dare I hope that 2010 finds you all well and with your batteries fully charged?!
PS - For those inquiring minds…I usually use between 1 and 2 thousand gallons of water/month. My November total was 10,000 gallons. The $$$ damage? $42.60. That's right. I have septic. ;-)
It occurred to me that I should keep a little journal of the odd moments throughout the year so I could consult it as I sit down to write my annual epistle. Imagine my mortification when I realized there were no odd moments. I didn't go anywhere out of the ordinary, didn't do anything of particular note, and didn't have anything done to me (not necessarily a bad thing).
Oh, I had my gall bladder out in June, but I slept through that.
It's not that important things didn't happen in 2008, but they're more in the way of general observation and self-awareness:
I relearned the lesson of relativity. How long I'm willing to stand in line depends on whether I'm waiting to vote or waiting for a price check at Wal*Mart.
I learned that calculating retirement age is a complicated mathematical process based on one's current age, adding the value of the dollar against the Euro, yen, and the price of tea in China, subtracting what social security is promising now versus the best guesstimate of what will really be there, factoring in deflation, dividing by inflation, and finally multiplying that total by general confidence in the global stock markets. Me? I'm working forever. My golden parachute doesn't have a ripcord. Thank goodness I love what I do.
When baking Christmas cookies with your sister, it's imperative not to mention that you don't particularly care for a certain cookie known as the Chocolate Crinkle because when that's the only cookie that spreads across the cookie sheet like a cow patty at high noon, your sister automatically suspects sabotage. (I think it was the classic baking soda/baking powder error, but identifying the problem didn't win me any points.)
I drive myself crazy, but I'm considering hiring a chauffeur.
I practiced environmental consciousness this year by buying a set of those Debbie Meyer Green Bags so I can store my fresh fruit and vegetables twice - or even three - times as long before I throw them all out.
Walking outside on a bitterly cold day is still better than walking indoors on a treadmill. Biking outside on a hot and humid day is still better than…well, better than being dead, I guess.
When I thought I was going to have to send my iPod back to Apple for servicing, I sent an email apology ahead of time for my egregious taste in music and asked them not to hold it against me.
If you scream curse words at the voice-recognition answering system DirecTV uses for its valued customers sometimes the machine will disconnect you. This also happens to valued customers of Verizon.
Saying hello to strangers gives them a moment's pause, but it makes you a person to them.
It used to be that people walking around talking to no one in particular were diagnosed schizophrenic. Blue-tooth technology for cell phones has changed that: now they're diagnosed self-important.
I hope you and your family enjoyed a year with as few bumps in the road as I did, and that if you have to have your gall bladder out, you're prescribed the really good drugs and have loved ones around to make sure you get them.
Jo
Christmas 2007
Road trip! After years of using vacation time to write or hibernate in uncomplicated bliss, I decided to go for a drive instead. I studiously ignored the fact that gas was $2.79 per gallon (oh, the good ol' days of August) and decided that Scottsboro, Alabama - where I have kin - would be a perfect destination. Because the gittin' there needed to be at least as much fun as the arrivin', I packed the car with staples like cashews, chocolate, and cold turkey roll ups from Costco. For comic relief I threw in my sister, and just to make things interesting we decided to rely on the GPS and use the AAA triptiks only when the GPS turned us in the direction of, say, Montana. Not that we wouldn't have liked to see Big Sky country, but I didn't have enough time off scheduled to travel to Scottsboro by way of Butte.
GPS navigation is a curious thing, and I sure hope the government has a more sophisticated set up than my Toyota, though maybe they don't and it explains why we have outposts where nobody really wants us. Anyway, the first miscue happened while we were searching for our overnight accommodations in Johnson City, TN. We were on the exit ramp when I spied a sign that showed the Comfort Inn logo and an arrow pointing left with .2 miles noted as the distance to our beds and a shower. Simultaneous to this, the calmly compelling voice of the GPS (and why is it female? shouldn't there be a choice?) was directing us to turn right. My sister, uncertain that she really wanted to trust me or the GPS at this juncture, chose that exact moment to examine the map in her lap, thus missing the sign and closing off her ears to the directive.
So what's a girl to do when the fingerpost points in one direction and the voice in her head says turn in the other? What would you do? It wasn't exactly a burning bush moment, but I have to tell you, what the voice lacks in inflection, it makes up for in insistence. I turned right.
Curious now, we allowed the voice to take us where it would. Two miles later we were in a residential neighborhood, surrounded by same ol', same ol', with more cul-de-sacs than through streets. That's when the GPS notified us that "Streets for this area are not marked and step-by-step guidance is no longer available." It was real polite about it, too. Heh. Heh. That's the thing about the voice, it never changes tone, volume, or cadence, but you just know it's laughing at you.
Relying on our own finely honed sense of direction, we made it to base camp. (Our father's father walked from Lake Bajkal north of Mongolia in Siberia back to his family in Krakow at the end of WWI - it took him 7 years - but the gene to get where you're going must come from somewhere.)
The next day we toured the Biltmore Estate. I confess that this part of the trip was a bit of a busman's holiday, since visiting the Biltmore is like doing research for a book. We finished the day with a wine tasting at the estate's winery where I had the opportunity to exercise my perfectly pedestrian tastes by swirling, sniffing, swishing, and swallowing. See, here's the thing. The kind of wine they serve at these things is wasted on me. I actually prefer Mogen David. What can I say? My taste buds were spoiled by communion wine. I finished cleansing my palate with grape juice.
Rather impulsively, we decided to do the next leg of the trip by taking the Blue Ridge Parkway out of Asheville to its end at the Great Smoky Mountain National Park. The parkway has a top speed of 45 mph. I don't think I ever went that fast. For one thing, it twists and turns and tunnels while climbing and falling past breathtaking vistas - when you aren't in the clouds. For another thing, it's lacking a lot in the way of guardrails. It seemed as if each mountain had its own weather system. The GPS, though, kept us on track through hairpin turns and curves that were marked with yellow caution signs that we had never seen before. (When the sign ahead looks like Captain Hook's artificial appendage, attention must be paid.) The slim blue line on the navigation system caught Yvonne's glance one too many times, and when she observed this:
her response was, "Oh, my God, we're going to drive off the edge of
the world!" The kind thing to do would have been to bitch slap her,
but I was trying to negotiate that hairpin and needed both hands on
the wheel. Besides, it did look as if we might drop off into a vast
gray nothingness. Or it could have just been the fog.
We arrived safely in Alabama, had a splendid time visiting, and the surreal tourist-thing we did was visit the Unclaimed Baggage Center. This is a repository for all the items lost in transit by airlines and passengers and shipping companies. A sample of what's been left behind: bridal gowns (no kidding); skis; iPods; digital cameras; jewelry; watches; toys; athletic wear; neck pillows; shoes; laptops; and evening gowns. That's just off the top of my head. There's a whole separate building for books. It was bizarre, perhaps bazaar. You decide.
In other news, the flamingo wars from last summer are over. I publicly surrendered to my neighbors by dedicating my September '07 release to them. I'm still riding my bike, although I had a heart-stopping moment when it was stolen off the rack on my car while I was at work. An observant neighbor saw it was missing and called me. The police returned with the bike and the culprit about 10 minutes after the theft was reported. Without GPS. The kid was about 11 years old and full of "I'm sorry." Yeah. Yeah. Sorry that he was caught. I think I said something to him along the lines of, "!*$&#)*%#@*!" The cop just let me be a crazy woman for a couple of minutes. It felt good. Then I felt bad, but not so bad that I didn't press charges. I've been working with kids too long to let it go.
Here's hoping in 2008 that all signs point favorably, that your journey is amazing, and that when you hear a voice in your head, you make sure it's your own.
XOXOXOXO,
Joanne
Christmas 2005
"It's like riding a bike," they say. "You don't forget." What a crock, I say. I mean even riding a bike is not like that...there are some things you do forget.
Back in April I decided to make exercise a priority. I was determined to put it at the top of my to-do list, higher than writing and work and washing the dishes. Okay, so washing dishes was not exactly ever on my to-do list, but you get the idea. I made a commitment to walk on the local rails-to-trails path no matter the weather : two miles in the morning - and if I could swing it - two miles in the evening. I was out there in the rain with my umbrella, and I trudged along when morning temperatures dipped into the teens. I knew, however, that climbing temperatures might very well be my undoing. As the heat and humidity began to settle over the Ohio Valley, I had a vision of myself simply melting on the trail into a thoroughly unattractive puddle of trans-fats. I began to think wistfully, then seriously, about the advantages of being on a bicycle and enjoying the illusion of a breeze. Sure, I'd have to expend more energy, and the breeze would be akin to turning a blow dryer on high and aiming it squarely at my face, but at least the air would be moving.
The last time I was on a bike it had one gear, I back-pedaled to brake, and there was a basket on the front for my dog Toto. (I'm only lying about the dog. I put my school books in the basket and occasionally, my feet.) That bike was a gift from Santa so I know for a fact it was free. My new bike, on the other hand, has 24 gears, requires manual ambidexterity to brake, and has no basket, although I did spring for a darling little bell so people can dive to either side of the trail as I bear down on them. This bike was not free. Not even close.
There were accoutrements as well: a water bottle, a rack for the car, oil for the chain, a cable lock, a tire pump, and the aforementioned bell. Interestingly enough, the proprietor of the bike shop did not try to sell me a helmet, knee or elbow pads, goggles, or bug repellent. In retrospect, I believe this is because the last thing I signed before I left the shop was probably not my credit card receipt but a cleverly disguised life insurance policy in which said proprietor would become the beneficiary of all my worldly goods in the event of an untimely (but wholly predictable) accident.
So as not to embarrass myself too much, I took my bike to the lesser traveled end of the trail, wrestled it off the rack, and climbed on when the coast was clear. I wobbled uncertainly on the gravel path and sometimes veered into the high grass, contributing, I like to think, to the crop circle myth. I tested the braking system; I adjusted the seat. I kept a death grip on the handle bars. The thing of it is, while I didn't exactly forget how to ride a bike, the bike I was remembering how to ride still had training wheels.
Riding, though, was a different story, and not only did I become more aware of the grade, I realized too late that I'd really chosen the wrong end of the trail to start out on. I was now heading uphill to get back to my car. I felt the strain in my legs, but I told myself it was a good kind of hurt, and I remained single-minded in my desire to go the distance. I got to where my car was parked and decided I could keep going to the other end of the trail -another mile beyond my car and still slightly uphill. I pushed ahead, feeling quite like I had accomplished something right up until the moment it was time for me to turn around.
Still can't imagine what I was thinking, trying to make a tight turn on the trail itself, but I was off the path in an instant. No high grass here, just rocks and more rocks, all of them about the size of pumice stones one normally uses in the shower to remove calluses from one's heels. I immediately lost control. There was nothing for it but to get off the bike - quickly.
I slid off the seat, set my feet down, and my knees folded faster than a bad poker player.
Naturally I did what anyone does in a situation like that: I looked around for witnesses to my humiliation. I was quite alone. I count this as fortunate, not so much for myself as for the potential witnesses. I would have cheerfully beat them with my tire pump - once I was able to push the bike off me and actually stand again. Those pumice-like rocks, by the way, removed elbow, knee, and chin calluses, although bleeding was an unhappy consequence of making this discovery.
In spite of the forces of gravity, I'm still riding. I suppose I'll have to give it up when that blow dryer breeze turns into wind chill and go back to walking full time, but I've surprised myself with how much I've enjoyed being outdoors, batting away the gnats, ringing my bell, and greeting fellow travelers on the trail.
I hope you're finding something that makes you smile every day.
Christmas 2004
Happy Holidays! If one examines the global picture, it's been an eventful year. Moi? It's been a couple of digital moments. I count that as a blessing. Essentially it means the family is a healthy as it can be, work continues to challenge and delight, friends stay close, and what occupies my thinking are the important questions like why do drivers brake at the entrance to a tunnel and will we ever get a good cheesesteak hoagie outside of Philadelphia.
In pondering matters of maturity, I came to the realization that I must be a grown up because I can now lick a Tootsie Roll pop all the way down to the Tootsie center without chomping. That is some serious delayed gratification. In pondering matters of age, I came to the realization that I'm getting old(er) because I'm quite content to test the wide variety of massage chairs at the mall while waiting for friends to finish shopping. But in pondering matters regarding what keeps me young-at-heart, I know I'm just fine, thank you very much, because my favorite movie of the year was Finding Neverland.
My happy homeowner's project this year was a new roof, downspouts, gutters, and soffit and fascia. My house isn't very old, so this was one of those I'm-resenting-the-heck-out-of-doing-it projects. I've had problems off and on with leaking skylights from the day I moved in (literally). The problems seemed to increase exponentially over time. The day after the contractor finished, cleaned up, moved all the hardware out, we had a tremendous storm. The fury of the storm woke me, but I stayed in bed just thinking how good it felt not to be worried about a leaky sunporch. Still, there was so much lightning and thunder that I couldn't sleep. I went downstairs to get a jump start on some work project. I hit the bottom step and that's when I heard plop. Drip. Plop. Drip-plop. It was with some trepidation that I went to the sunporch - which is where my home office is. I didn't have a single leak. I had fifteen, including a small waterfall through my new ceiling fan. Once again, the value of owning so much Tupperware was borne home to me. At 5:30 a.m. I called the contractor and explained the problem. He assured me he would be out as soon as the department of highways moved the fallen trees out of his lane. Yeah, yeah, we all have our problems. I could have cleared his lane without the assistance of heavy equipment on the strength of my adrenaline rush alone.
The leaks were taken care of, and in defense of the contractor, it was not a roof problem, but a siding problem. However, I no longer sleep so easily when I hear rain is in the forecast.
Here's hoping that good things come your way in the new year.
Christmas 2003
So here it is, time to write my annual holiday epistle, and I'm thinking, what do I have to tell my friends that I haven't said before? This year was not so different from last year in terms of the highlights. Okay, I celebrated the diamond anniversary of my birth in 2003. That was sort of a millstone, er, milestone. Since I know many of you on my list enjoyed the same celebration, my question is: "Have you ever seen so much black crepe paper and over-the-hill paraphernalia in your life?" That's just wrong.
With so much (yawn) activity, is it any wonder I thought of just resubmitting last year's letter for your reconsideration? Then I remembered a particular moment from 2003 that I thought I'd like to share. No big thing, just my view from…
I love going to the movies. I think my enjoyment is due in part to some wonderful memories of going to the movies downtown (dahntahn in Pittsburghese) with my grandmother. DVDs are terrific, but for me it's not the same as having the theatre experience, and now, with stadium seating, I don't have to worry that the kid with spiked hair the color of an eggplant will block my view. The downside of the DVD/video revolution is that there always those members of the audience who forget they're not sitting in their family rooms and supply running commentary as if they are. All that chatter and me without an automatic weapon. It's not to be borne.
So…I'm at the movies with my sister, and we're enjoying being alternately scared and provoked into thinking by 28 Days Later, sort of an epic doomsday zombie picture. The scene currently on the screen is the quiet-as-death English countryside. The camera pans to some giant windmills lining the side of the road. Don't think Don Quixote windmills with canvas sails. Think modern, very tall and stately metal windmills - kind of like silver bullets with 3 elegantly long and slender blades rotating at the top.
As the camera moves past these ghostly, silent sentinels, my sister leans toward me and whispers, "Those are like the ones you can see on the dirt bike."
The dirt bike? What the h*ll is she talking about? So I lean toward her and conscious of the 30 or so other patrons in the theatre, I whisper back, "What?" Our heads practically touching at this point, so careful are we to observe good movie etiquette, she whispers back, "You can see them on the dirt bike." Okay. Now, my sister's cool, but as far as I know she's never ridden a dirt bike, and why these windmills would be visible on one is completely outside my comprehension. Still in need of clarification, I very quietly inquire again, "What?"
"The dirt bike," she says. At my blank look, and a little out of patience with me now, the sister improves her enunciation, biting off each word as she tells me, "Those-are-like-the-ones-you-can-see-on-the-turn-pike."
Turnpike! Oh! Mental head slap!
What happens next (and I'm dating all of us by offering this comparison) is the movie theatre equivalent of that classic Chuckles the Clown episode from the Mary Tyler Moore show, the one in which Mary chides all her friends for laughing at one time or another after the untimely passing of Chuckles. Mary does not laugh, of course, not until the most wildly inappropriate moment - at Chuckles' funeral service.
So here I am, in the silent-as-the-grave theatre, watching a movie filled with ever mounting tension and barely acceptable levels of cannibalism, and this dirt bike/turnpike misunderstanding hammers my humorous so hard it was like I was mainlining nitrous oxide.
Laughter at this level doesn't just engage me, it overcomes me. That's why I'm stuffing gobs of my sweatshirt into my mouth to try to keep the sound contained. My shoulders are shaking. My head's bobbing. I'm sinking down in my seat, trying not to call attention to myself, but oh no, the seat's also a rocker, so it's shuddering along with the rest of me. My eyes are scrunched tight and tears are still being squeezed out of the corners. And, just to keep things really interesting, when these paroxysms of laughter reach a certain epileptic-like frenzy, there is always the possibility that I'm going to wet myself. Every time I try to tell my sister about what I thought she said, I start the shaking, bobbing, shuddering all over again. She's laughing now, going through a modified version of the contortions I'm making, as desperate as me not to disturb others.
We might have managed the thing if it weren't for the fact that I need to get some air. Trouble is, I'm still trying to expel a breath. The autonomic nervous system goes into overload, and this air in/air out confusion sets up the dreaded uvula oscillation in which that hangey-downey thing at the back of my throat vibrates like a plucked string, except that instead of twang! I get damp, strangled, sucking noises.
One simply surrenders at this point. Fortunately, laughter this hard spreads faster than a computer virus. The movie goers behind me were chuckling, the seats to the left of me were rocking, and I caught a glimpse of some shaking shoulders to my right.
Here's hoping that 2004 gives you a little uvula action. Life's a funny, funny thing even when you have front row seats to the end of the world.
