Adventures in Elementary Sciences

Communicative technologies have made everyone a critic, appreciative, admonitory or simply off the wall. Educators at all levels have always been evaluators, trained to give useful feedback. My fifth of seven principals would always give his staff “two to glow and one to grow”. Dr. O administered our back-to-basics curriculum with a tight focus on procedures and schedules. Time on task was paramount, with little allowance made for distractions.

My library lessons went over well enough, but my sketchy grasp of everyday physics created a number of inadvertent diversions from the “feet flat and eyes forward” mindset of both the student body and staff. One time I carried a clipboard and freshly sharpened pencil through a swinging door and ended up with the pencil point embedded in my behind. Another time I rode a ladder in my workroom down from its top step to the floor below while stacking puppet boxes above the library workroom cabinetry. Even though the library was in the middle of the building, and isolated behind two sets of doors, the commotion was enough to bring the nearby kindergarten teachers and the entire office staff running. My assistant, Pat, however, remained at her desk. She greeted the would-be rescuers with, “She’s most likely ok. I don’t even go check anymore if it’s just a bunch of noise and a few squeals.”

Bumps and bruises were commonplace, but my pride suffered even more frequently. Shortly before Dr. O left, another teacher and I decided to spruce up the teachers’ lounge, unpainted in 1995 since the original coat laid down in 1983. Dr. O approved the project as long as it didn’t take in-school time or involve on-duty personnel. My co-worker and I would provide the labor after school and the district supplied the paint—standard contractor’s issue in five gallon plastic tubs. While my partner was taping the cabinet and counter edges late one afternoon, I decided to stir up the paint where it had been delivered to just inside of the cafeteria doorway. The floor in that room was linoleum; better to mix the paint there than risk the carpet in the lounge. That did mean, though, that I had to get the tub across the hallway, also carpeted. The bucket was too heavy to carry, so I looked around the cafeteria for options.

The custodian’s long, low floor cart stood next to the milk refrigerator. I pulled it to the doorway to the hall but forgot to set the brake (a little metal flange that flipped down to compress the tire’s tread enough to prevent its turning) on the second of the two front wheels. I swung the paint bucket by its handle up to the cart but not quite high enough. The lower end of the bucket collided hard with the flat base of the cart. The cart rolled away, the lid flew off the bucket and five gallons of Navajo white billowed onto the blue carpet. At that moment, Dr. O stepped out of the front office eight feet across the way to see me standing ankle deep in thick, creamy paint. With no word of censure, he swallowed hard, sighed and radioed to the custodian. “John, please come to the front office and bring the shop vac. We need to assist Mrs. Finkelstein—again.”

Accelerated Adaptation

I always think I have enough skill to carpenter, plumb or paint as needed around the house. We own few tools, though, and I’ve had little training so this unshakeable faith continues to mystify Marc, my family and the nearest emergency room staff.  After one adventure at our second house, though, the only thing injured was my pride. I wanted to build something—a bookshelf, probably. There was a four foot pinewood board in the back yard shed, a cross-cut saw and a sanding block.  So what if the final product wouldn’t make it into “Fine Woodworking Monthly”, I could still get ‘er done. I marked a 6 inch cutting line about 1 foot from the end of the board and upended it on the concrete driveway in the back yard.  I steadied the top end with one hand and sawed briskly for a moment, but the board kept skittering over the pavement. I braced the board with my right knee. That worked for an inch or two more until the saw bound in the cut. This time, I decided that going horizontal would be better, so I put the board across a metal picnic table we had tucked under the eaves of the back-room. Again I secured the board with my right hand. It slipped and slid all over the table top, so I swung my left knee on the near end of the board to weigh it down. I pushed down on the board’s far end with my right elbow and managed another inch or two before my strength failed. Our scrappy back yard was scattered with landscaping bits and pieces, one of which was a cinder block  pushed up against the fence. It had a center hole just wide enough to wedge the board into.  I shoved the board through it and hefted it on the table. I climbed onto the table, straddled the block with my shins tucked under me, and triumphantly completed the cut.  I looked up to see Marc leaning against the brick wall of the back-room, weak with laughter. “Watching you for the last ten minutes was like watching the evolution of man.” he said, “I was looking around for the monolith".

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There Just Might Be an Alternative to Euthanasia

         As the “mother” in our maiden, mother, matriarch trio, I will occasionally be writing about being a mom. Yes, this is a story about a five year old. Be forewarned it is also a story about cats. That’s right, I’m that lady…the one sitting next to you on a crowded plane talking, talking, and talking about kids and cats!! This story actually begins way back when my son was born, our cat Yeats (a.k.a. Buddha), fell madly in love with him. She had always been a loving cat, but more of a watcher than a participator where children were concerned. She was 17 when my son was born and the two were inseparable. His fourth word was “Buddha”, right after “moon”, “Momma” and “Poppa”. If that weren’t remarkable enough, she would actually come running to him whenever he said her name. A cat, an old cat, who learned to come when she was called. They had three and half lovely years together before we lost Yeats to old age and several months later her lifelong companion Keats also passed on. We had had them both since they were kittens. They spent nearly all of twenty one years together and their loss left a big hole in our family. We have two other cats, Tennyson and Poe (you’re seeing a pattern?) and a dog named Xana. We also have a yard full of chickens. None of them have the same relationship with my son that he had had with Yeats. However, my husband and I were not all too eager to get new pets. We had no intentions of “replacing” our beloved cats.

                So nearly two years passed, all the while with my son asking nicely for a new kitten…a cuddly kitten…one that would be his. It was really a fair request. Our other pets were older, set in their ways and not prone to playfulness. Occasionally Poe would chase a laser light for Thackery and often Tennyson would snuggle with him during a movie or a nap, but neither were kittens anymore. Every time he sought one of them out and carried them to a nice spot to cuddle, my heart would break a little bit watching him get one or two pets in before the cat lost interest and left him alone; he would look at me and say, “I miss Buddha.” You can only say, “Me too, baby”, so many times. Then my beautiful indigo child found the phrases that persuaded me over to his way of thinking. 

“Momma, do you know that at the pound some kitties die before they ever have a home?” 

“Yeah, I did know that. That’s sad, huh?”

“Do you think that in the spirit world Keats and Yeats are sad about those kitties that could be living here with me to love them?”

                Yeah, whatever, judge me all that you want, but you would have been off to the pound just as quickly as I was. And even though you are sitting there all judgey right now, I will give you some very helpful advice…NEVER (in case there is some confusion here…NOT EVER, AT NO TIME, UNDER NO CONDITIONS, NOT ON YOUR LIFE!!!) take a child to the pound with you. You may all on your own, not even be able to withstand the abject desolation. You may all on your own, leave with more companions than you intended, but if you take a child…multiple adoptions are guaranteed. You were warned.

                I had no one to give such sage advice. In fact my husband and I reasoned that, of course, Thackery should come. After all, we were getting him a kitten, it should be one with which he had a connection. That’s rational. Ration and reason are useless tools when facing a room full of desolate kitties in tiny cages all desperately in need of a home. We began by asking to see the actual kittens, ones that were obviously only a couple of months old. He selected kitten after kitten to “meet and greet”, only to be told that they were already adopted. So, we learned to decode the all important paperwork at the front of the tiny cages. (Or, so we thought.) We started to look at cats whose paper work said 6 months old, 1 year, 18 months, 2 years…reasoning that they would still have many kitten like qualities and let’s face it, once you go through those doors - no vaguely sentient human being is leaving without saving someone. When Thackery says, “These two look like Keats.” Yes…he said TWO, two 1 year old tortie calicoes sharing one of those tiny cages. One up at the front of the cage reaching her little paw out and one curled up at the back of the cage trying very hard to be ignored.

                I speak fluent cat-ese, so I will translate the next portion for you. Imagine a polite British accent and sunny voice for the soon to be named Wordsworth and a British, less sunny, rather stiff and grumpy voice for the soon to be named Coleridge. Wordsworth with her paw through the cage gives a little sorry-to-interrupt-you cough and says, “Oh, excuse me, very kind and busy people. You seem to be quite civilised individuals and I was wondering if I could perhaps persuade you to lend some assistance. You see, my cell mate and I are here utterly by some horrible, egregious error and we were truly hoping that you might be capable of remedying our unpleasant situation. Perhaps, speak to someone on our behalf and get us released from this obviously inappropriate environment. What say you kindly gentle folk?”  Meanwhile, at the back of the cell, Coleridge glances our direction with a slight humpf of derision and says to her companion, “Give it up old Sot!! They are fekking PEOPLE!! You have been at this for a fekking month, when will you learn old girl? People don’t give a rat’s brown arse about us and they obviously never will!! Uncultured, boorish, crass philistines wouldn’t recognise true aristocracy if we were free from this hellish prison and could bite them on their arse!!” Nearly at once, a volunteer ushered our two new family members into the meet and greet room where, if it is possible for something to occur faster than instantaneously, Thackery fell madly in love.

                Once out of the tiny prison, Coleridge warmed up slightly. “Perhaps you aren’t quite so horrible as other humans, let me just make a little comfy spot here on your lap (knead, knead, knead). Cough, cough,…don’t presume that my purring has anything to do with some sort of affinity for you, just an uncontrolled biological response. Yes, you may pet me if it is absolutely necessary.” Wordsworth became positively giddy. “Oh, isn’t this lovely? Are we going home with you then? That would be divine. Yes, I looove tummy rubs, Let’s play over here…and over here…and oooh look at this. Pet me more, pet me more!!” 

                “We’ll take them.” We said to the volunteer who was pleased and went to get their paperwork. Their non-existent paperwork. “Did you bring their papers in with you?” he asked. We had not. He went searching and came back quite dejected. “You can’t adopt these two,” he said. Oh no, we thought, had someone already adopted them, as well? It was explained to us that no, no one had adopted them or could adopt them; that little cough that they had developed was probably upper respiratory infections (URI) for which they don’t offer treatment at the pound. The two had been scheduled to be euthanized, in fact, immediately. That is where their paperwork was and if we would be so kind as to hand him the kitties, that’s where they were headed. 

                These two kitties that we are holding and petting and loving? Hand them to you to be killed? Right now? Take from the hands of my angelic child the kittie he is holding on his lap and dangling a little bell for and giggling with? Just rip the kittie away from his adoring gaze and give her to you to be murdered? 

                Coleridge said, “Silly, silly volunteer. I have only had the pleasure of this family’s company for a few short minutes. I, who generally abhors humans, know that since our plight has become known to these kind people, it is not bloody likely that we will be going anywhere with you ever again!!” Wordsworth said, ““Euthanized” sounds quite unpleasant indeed. Thank you, but no thank you!! We will quite happily be going home with this lovely family, hopefully by tea time, they look as though they make a lovely tea and crumpets!!”

                The following TWO HOURS was spent filling out paperwork (one stack for each cat – each stack thicker than my mortgage paperwork) to file for a “Special Needs” adoption. The special need being a long overdue visit to the Veterinarian. We scheduled an appointment for them both at Acacia Animal Hospital on Campbell while we filled out and signed document after document. “In the event that this animal is too ill to treat and must be euthanized, I will not bill the county for the cost.” Sign one, sign two. “In the event that this animal’s treatment costs exceeds my ability to pay, I will not bill the county” Sign one, sign two. “In the event that the necessary euthanization of this animal causes trauma to me or my family, I will not bill the county.” Sign one, sign two. “When this animal is deemed healthy, I will incur the cost of have them spayed or neutered.” Sign one, sign two. You get the idea. After my hand was numb from signing, I gave them $15.00 (they were a Monday, two for one special!!) and took my kitties to a kind a loving vet.

                The vet determined that they were only 8 months old, ran tests for any serious and potentially contagious diseases, started them on antibiotics for their URI, loaded them up with fluids and healthy vitamins and sent us home with organic shampoo and conditioner to get them clean. It took several visits to the vet to get them healthy and I will admit it was not cheap, (although many vets, Acacia included, will give you discounts for rescuing shelter animals), but we are over the moon happy to have our two new family members, home, healthy, happy and thriving.  They were thrilled to be able to come home with us at all, even when they were convalescing, not too mobile, coughing and sneezing and having to be bundled up in warm places all day. “Cough, cough…yes, yes right kind of you…sneeze, sneeze,…quite civil and all…yes, another blankie would be most appreciated, good chap...organic oatmeal and aloe shampoo and conditioner? Well, maybe just one little warm bath...cough, cough.. much obliged.”

                Now that they are well…all is right with the world. They are excessively loving and cuddly, “Oh, I say…you’d like to carry me about like a babe in arms? Well, isn’t that lovely? Quite kind, I’ll just use this opportunity to clean my paws, thanks so much.” “Hmmm, sleeping were we? Mind if I just join you…how about right here under the covers with you? Were you using these pajamas just for yourself? Plenty of room for us both, you’re quite obliging, much gratitude.” In addition to that they are obviously still kittens. We invested in several new kitten toys to keep them engaged and give the older cats a little break from their near constant capacity to play. Thackery is radiant in their love.

                Wordsworth and Coleridge wanted me to add “Perchance you have a smidgen of room in your home, a little bit of money you’ve been saving for a rainy day, a nice quilt folded up on the end of your bed waiting for someone to nap upon it? Get off your arses and head over to the animal prison and save a life or two today!!”    

Adventures in Babysitting

I was an early entrepreneur. I sold greeting cards door-to-door in the military housing neighborhood on Davis-Monthan Air Force Base when I was in elementary school and marketed awful perfumes that a friend and I had distilled with unlikely ingredients and by no recognizable method to my classmates. I did extra chores for a nickel or a dime, and began sewing for hire in junior high. I was known as the family banker, someone who could be persuaded to pull a dollar or two from the stash in my Bible. I couldn’t wait to start what I saw as the lucrative career of babysitting, the venerable economic mainstay of tweens and teens.

My avarice was tempered by some degree of kindness so I had a fair amount of business. My first bookings were overflow requests for my older sister. I scheduled as many evenings as I could at a rate of 60 cents an hour, a ten cent premium charged not on the basis of my junior high school Red Cross certification but because I could make minutes into pennies.

One of my mainstay clients was a sweet southern woman whose husband was the base psychiatrist. She was a compulsive talker who would review the same information each and every time I came over. One night, after her typically interminable directions and rambling, she drifted toward their front door. Her husband, who almost never spoke to me, took me by the elbow into the kitchen. There he said quietly, “I was counseling a young airman today who had a violent outburst. He has threatened to kill me and my family. The APs have him now, but if anyone comes to the door tonight, don’t open it.” Then they left. That was the longest evening of my life. Every scritch of a tree branch on a window, every pop or crack of the house settling had me clinging to the ceiling like Sylvester, the cartoon cat.

When my family moved off base, I lost my clientele of officer’s and higher-ranking NCO’s wives and had to rustle up new business. My clients now were single mothers who lived nearby our house in our working-class neighborhood of new tract-development houses. I walked to their houses; there was no father or husband they could send to pick me up and take me back home.

There was one confusing evening when a young widow for whom I was sitting was preceded home by her date, who leaned on the door jamb and told me to go home because the mother would be home shortly. I couldn’t keep him from entering the house—I didn’t try—but there were two toddlers and a baby asleep down the hall so I stumbled around, not actively refusing to leave but nonetheless remaining until I saw my client standing in her own house. She did indeed arrive about half an hour later, as drunk as he and with a couple of friends in tow. I left, unsettled about leaving the kids and about the ways grownups entertained themselves.

I was still saving some of my earnings with a hazy idea of college tuition in mind, but would occasionally splurge on record albums. High school studies should have taken more of my attention, but I maintained my babysitting contacts, and worked every day of the summers that I could. Later that year, I was baby-sitting for a working mother of two little boys.  I remember the tedium of daily lunches, Mr. Rogers and naptime. The boys had a few toys, but were often bored, so I made up a few games, and once went through the hall closet looking for creative play materials. I didn’t know quite what to make of the 8 mm projector and some film canisters, one of which was labeled, “The Twins and the Banana”.  One of the days was enlivened by a tornado touching down on the far east side of Tucson. I heard later that it took the roof off the science building of my high school. Meanwhile, three miles away, I took the little boys into the bathroom and had them play in the tub. When the water got cold, I wrapped them in towels while I drained the tub and ran fresh hot water into it. Adding bubble salts the second time kept the boys entertained long enough for the storm to pass.

I was losing the will to be self-employment by the summer of 1972. I was working then as a wildly underpaid housekeeper for a woman who asked if I would sit for a friend of hers who had three small children later that week, adding that her own ten year old daughter, Sara, could co-sit with me. This would be handy, partly so the daughter could see how it was done and partly so my employer could join her friend for a night out as I’d be taking care of her child as well. This was illustrative of the generally Dickensian nature of this woman. Not only was she paying me an exploitive 25 dollars a week for full housekeeping: laundry (including ironing school clothes for the little miscreants who took their cotton shirts from the closet for summer play), vacuuming, dusting, and toilet scrubbing, but she required me to prepare lunches and start their dinners before I left for the day. Nonetheless, an extra few hours on the end of this week would be a few more dollars, so now I had plans for my Friday night.

That evening I had four children to look after, but they were good natured and easy to amuse. I had put the littler two into their bunk beds, and was diapering the baby when the power failed, as it often did in Tucson during the summer monsoons. I managed to get the diaper pins fastened by feel, which is pretty much how one does it in any case. I held the baby up on my chest and carried him up the hallway. I called for Sara to come to the kitchen and stay there. We found two squat candles in a drawer. I handed the baby to Sara, lit the candles from the gas stove burners and set them on the table. The baby slept in my arms as we sat in the flickering light, me telling Sara any story I could remember from the Andrew Lang fairy books. After a bit, I went to check on the toddler boys. I wasn’t gone more than two minutes when Sara began screeching. I ran back to the kitchen to see the curtains above the sink on fire. Sara had carried the candle to the window to look at the trees flailing in the wind and rain. I hauled Sara out of the room, and almost threw the baby into her arms. I told her to go stand on the porch and I ran down the hall to roust out the boys. It took forever to awaken them; I largely  dragged them down the hall and out the front door. I growled at Sara to keep them on the porch and ran to call 911. The phone was in the kitchen, but so was the fire. I looked from one to the other and decided to address the blaze rather than pick up the phone. A wet dishtowel served to douse flames of a fire larger that it would have been had I simply thrown water from the sink on it in the first place rather than staging a wholesale evacuation, but still small enough to make the telling of this modest adventure longer than the experiencing of it. I retrieved the children from the porch just minutes before the return of the adults. I was grateful that they were matter-of-fact about the blackened curtains, agreeing that getting the kids out of the house had been the proper course of action and that I should still be paid.

Those summers impressed on me at long last that working for ready money with near-slave labor was not going to pay for college or much of anything. In fact, independent sales as a tween and kitchen duty as a teen-ager snuffed out any desire for the rewards of capitalism. I set my sights on academic rewards and steady government work.

Life in the Village

Long ago, my husband, Marc, and I lived as almost starving students in a Quonset hut that was part of Polo Village, the U of A’s married student housing facility. We’d married earlier than we’d planned to get access to one of the limited number of available units, but the absurdly low 47 bucks a month rent and food were about the only living expenses we could cover.  We were content without other not-quite necessities such as a phone or a car. We admired Stewart Brand and his Whole Earth Catalog and wanted to co-evolve as well as two previously well-sheltered suburban kids could.

 

Daily life in the Village resembled camping in many ways and was just about as secure. Few people even bothered to use the simple spring locks on their front and only doors. Most couples had dogs that wandered the neighborhood and cats that availed themselves of unscreened windows necessarily left open for ventilation. The dirt and dust drifted in constantly from the unpaved streets. The gaps in the cave-like arc above us meant we were wet when it rained, and sweaty when the summer sun burned down on the ribbed steel panels that were both wall and roof.

We had to adapt to being very, very close to nature while living in that 400 square foot hut. After about six months there, I reached up to a shelf I’d nailed to the kitchen wall and when I had my copy of The Joy of Cooking” in hand, threw it across the room with a shriek to raise the dead. It was a book in form only, just cover boards over a mass of moiling little black bodies. There were no pages left under or around the hundreds of cockroaches.  Another time I was taking a shower in the minuscule bathroom when the two foot square metal floor pan broke from the rusted screws that fastened it to the painted greenboard of the stall.  It dropped to the ground below, with me—so not like Aphrodite-on the-clam-shell—riding the pan down the seven or so inches to the gravel beneath the plywood floor.  A trickle of water falling from the still-intact showerhead dripped on me as I watched a variety of displaced insects and small reptiles hop, slither and scurry away from my wet feet.

Our miniscule rent would have kept us in Polo Village far longer had it not been for my mother-in-law’s aversion to vermin. Mother Harriet visited us frequently, but for over two years was unaware that we were not as animal-free as our allergies would demand. We set humane traps in hidden corners, but like rodents everywhere, our cohabitants seemed to be born knowing how to lift the peanut butter bait with impunity. I tried to capture a few field mice using rubber gloves and spaghetti tongs. That resulted in a net loss of territory in the pantry and of dignity later in the Student Health Office when I asked for a check on mouse rabies.

 We lived in a tacit truce with our house-pests. They had the advantage of numbers since our allergies negated any possibility of population control via a cat or terrier. As I long as I put every bit of our food in glass jars or the refrigerator, the mice (thankfully, they were just that, no rats were involved at any time) could have the seeds that blew in the windows or grew under the floorboards. They were pretty well fed in any case. Most nights, a scratching run, run, pause, run, pause, run followed by rustling plastic would remind me that yet again I had left the bread out on the counter.

Perhaps my continual carelessness made them bolder as well as fatter. One time I was sitting with Mother Harriet at my Formica dinette table wedged in the alcove defined by the curve of the wall when her expression froze.  She was staring at the upright piano only five feet across the room. A plump brown mouse was bobbing up and down on the middle volume pedal. It scrambled across the indoor/outdoor carpet and literally over Mother Harriet’s sandaled foot. She shuddered violently and started screaming as the mouse slid under and out of the door.

One week later, Papa-Bob and Mother-Harriet  picked us up for Sunday dinner back

at their house and on the way, turned up a side street off Speedway. As Papa-Bob drove north, Mother Harriet asked how did we like the small red brick house on the right?  I said that it was a cute little place. “Glad to hear that”, she said, “You’re moving in on Monday.”  My in-laws made it a point of honor not to interfere, but a Jewish mother is an irresistible protective force. We lived in that cozy little bungalow, roach and rodent free, through graduate school.

Shotgun Wedding Sans Pregnancy

Last week I was wrapping a wedding present (knives, no couple just starting out ever buys themselves a decent knife set) and reminiscing about my own early marriage that, against early odds, has endured 37 years.

We had several strikes against us to start. Not just extreme youth, but two cultures and one food service job between us added to the peculiar realities of my young husband’s chronic disability had friends and family placing bets on our timeline. Even we had no intention of marrying while still in our teens, but the unexpected availability of married student housing at the University of Arizona prompted a hurry-up wedding to beat a 'be married or miss out' deadline.

Couples and families often waited for years for one of the scarce married student housing units, especially after the restriction to veterans only was lifted in the sixties. Marc and I were finishing our freshman year in 1976. Each of us lived in on-campus dorms during the week and went home to our parents’ houses on the weekends so I could work and Marc could study—he is visually impaired, and managing that disability in a college setting sucked up huge amounts of time). We were not only planning on graduate school, we were both on ‘the five year plan’ since we had both changed our majors. With such long-term plans, we figured we’d eventually want to take advantage of the ridiculously cheap but limited number of WWII era apartments, so in March Marc added our names to the long wait-list.

On the last day of his finals in June, Marc wandered into the student housing office just to see where we were on the list. The clerk said, “Well, I have a unit available unexpectedly, and I can’t reach anyone on this list. As far as I’m concerned, if you’re married, you can have it next week.  Marc called me later that night when I got from the cafeteria in a mall on Tucson’s east side where I worked on the weekends to ask, did I want to get married a little earlier than we’d planned, say on Monday?

I took a bit of persuading, not for the eventuality, but for the timeline. My parents were mightily unhappy, certain that this meant I’d never finish my degree, but the two families put a few hurried plans in place: Marc’s mother, Harriet, had been told ‘Judge Fenton did a lovely ceremony’, so she arranged a 10:00 appointment in his chambers down at the Pima Courthouse. I gave notice at the  restaurant, planning a transfer to the Speedway location, but not really following through. All that was certain was my last night at work would be that Saturday. Marc’s father took him to get the license and the rings. I hemmed a never-worn pink prom dress. After my mother saw me reading the ingredient list on the Ovaltine jar and heard me wondering aloud how simple vitamins and minerals could possibly affect ovulation, took me to my first GYN visit for a hurry-up, double-dose regimen of birth-control pills.

On Saturday night, I was ‘striking the line’, i.e. carrying the serving pans from the steam tables to the pot-boy in the kitchen. On my third trip, I backed through the swinging door with the double-decker mashed potato pots (the lower one held about a gallon of hot water insulating the upper pot with the spuds). Someone had spilled oil, gravy, I never knew what, on the tiled floor and down I went, losing my grip on the pots on the way. The mashed potatoes were at this point room temperature so their heavy warmth after they plopped onto my hair and my face, and down inside my uniform was rather pleasant; the boiling water from the steam jacket splashing all down my left side was anything but. Someone ripped off my white nylon uniform before I could stand. I remember sitting up to hook my thumbs under the waistband of my nylon slip and drag it off, along with the stockings we were required to wear. Unfortunately, that action took the blistering skin on my thigh and calf along with the clothes, so I was a starchy, sticky, oozy, half-naked mess when bundled into an ambulance and taken to St. Jo’s hospital, a half-mile away.

While I was being cared for in the emergency room, my father, still gruff and disapproving of the whole endeavor, called Marc, saying bluntly, “There’s been an accident, Lynn’s in the hospital. We’ll call you when we know more”, and hung up.  Marc told me later that he walked outside  his parents’ house and sat on the curb with his head in his hands,  imagining everything from car accident to assault, and thinking back on a short life long on disappointment and concluding, “Good lord, I just can not catch a break.”

I left St Jo’s around midnight wrapped from ankle to hip in white gauze and high on Percocet. Sunday remains a mystery to me still, but early on Monday morning, I swallowed some more painkillers and the Orvo-whatever,  washed my hair, slathered on the blue eye-shadow we all wore in the ‘70s, and struggled into that pink dress. I managed to get it up, down and mostly around all the bandages on my left side. My parents, my little sister and I met Marc, his brother and parents at the fountain in the courthouse and we all crammed into the same elevator to the third floor office. Judge Fenton bustled in the room to perform the ceremony in a rushed recess between two murder trials.

I was only hazily aware of the whole event, woozily clinging to Marc’s arm while Judge Fenton, kept emphasizing ‘this is forever, it is not easily undone, it’s a commitment’, etc, all the time looking pointedly at my dress, which with all the bandages, was very full about the middle. I wanted to say “Hey, Bud, I am so not pregnant!”, but my obvious nausea from all the meds was additionally misleading. I managed to say a simple “I do”. At that moment, the summer heat in the stuffy chamber overwhelmed my mother  and we all rushed to the cluster of overturned chairs where she'd fainted.

We’d planned a family dinner with presents and cake at my parents’ house but first was a side trip to the GP for a check on my burns. When Dr. Grossman saw that the emergency treatment Saturday night had been….inexpert…, he said, ‘I’m so sorry, this is going to hurt’,  braced his left hand on my forehead (!!?), and with his right, ripped away the gauze stuck to the wounds in one rapid sweep.  More painkillers before leaving that office made the mini-reception a blur.  Neither of one had a driver’s license, so my new father-in-law took us to the El Dorado Hotel as planned for the three-day, no-refund honeymoon he and Mother-Harriet given us. Since I couldn’t even walk, Papa-Bob helped Marc get me to the honeymoon suite and then brought us pizza for dinner. By Thursday, I was mostly mobile and almost drug-free, so we asked our parents to take us, our books, bicycles and an upright piano to the as yet unseen ‘housing unit’ west of the U of A Medical Center we’d scooped.

In the quiet of our first summer night in our new home, I looked at the rusty steel walls and plywood floor of our new home and reflected that some women marry for money, whereas I had apparently moved heaven and earth for a 400 square foot, roach-infested Quonset hut.

Lessons in detachment... of various kinds

I’ve hesitated to post this, because… I am the other driver.  I am the vessel of the divine that offers Cas and the community opportunities to practice compassion while on the road, or more particularly, in  parking lots.  I take no pride in the role; it is my fate to be the humble instrument of instruction.

As my husband, Marc, said plaintively to his brother once while I was on the phone for yet another insurance ordeal (difficult for the rep perhaps, my repeated practice with the “recorded to serve you better” phone calls has put me quite at my ease), “She’s actually a good driver, she’s never hurt anyone.”  Trash cans, ash cans, light poles, guard posts, plants and planters, and poorly placed public artworks would all tell a different tale were they animate.

It is stationary vehicles that are the most distressed.  For years, I maintained there was a magnetic attraction between the metals used in older cars’ bumpers, perhaps caused by the energy field created by turning on the ignition, but the fact that I’ve … made contact… with as many of the newer rubber bumpers as the older steel ones suggests the ignition may be involved, but only peripherally. The newer rubber baby buggy bumpers are no help in improving my fellow drivers’ acceptance of the inevitable. Their ‘paintability’ is touted as a improvement, but the merest kiss causes deep scuffs and scars and pigment apparently costs three times as much as chrome, so fat furry false savings on that, Mr. Estimator.

The latest evidence of the insufficiency of rubber bumpers was after a recent play date with the terriers of a friend who lives in the foothills. I wasn’t there to help a puppy of my own learn doggy manners; I have no pets. I was visiting primarily to play with the dogs myself.  Drunk on puppy-loving, wishing my allergies would permit me to live with a dog rather than just occasionally dating them, I backed my Subaru out of their owner’s steep and winding driveway. I heard a scrape and felt a tug. When I got out to check the rear, I found I had backed over a low retaining wall that bordered the driveway. I saw nothing in the bright sunshine: no damage to the rubber, no black marks on my friend’s expensive brickwork, no need to go inside and say anything at all. All the way down the rolling hill to the four lane street that would take me home, I wondered what was that tugging feeling?  I pulled into a shopping center to find the wraparound bumper that had looked just fine at first had actually popped off the entire left side of the Outback, and must have been swaying back and forth as I drove. I drove home slowly, on side streets. The next day, a sympathetic male teacher at the elementary school where I worked managed to wedge the bumper back into place, with the panel hugging the body close enough so that its recent adventure wasn’t terribly obvious. He also pounded out a dent in the rubber that I still hadn’t seen. This kindness meant I was able to leave the whole incident unmentioned at home. I support honesty and truth in a relationship, but when stories like this are such oft-told tales, perhaps every telling isn’t essential.

It is my great hope that latest Subaru bumper story will be a book-end to earlier ones about my recently sold Honda Pilot, and there will be no more. I'd gotten to know the Pilot's power and size after introducing it repeatedly to our large green trash bin, and once to a friend’s front-mounted tow-hitch. Another friend Jen, had joined us for dinner and a DVD one night. While she was chatting with Marc in the living room, I was messing about in the kitchen. I realized I had forgotten the salsa for our tacos. I hollered from the kitchen door that opens into the garage, "Be back in sec!", jumped in the Pilot, backed it out of the garage and into Jen's new (of course) Toyota Corolla. I take the $600.00 for her new bumper out of savings, and am grateful that we carpool to the same school anyway. About 4 months later, Jen is again over for dinner, and this time, having forgotten butter for the brownies, I grab the keys, jump in the Pilot, back out of the garage and into Jen's car again. Another $600.00, even with DentBuster's good customer discount. This time I have to put the expense on our charge card, and there is a slight chill in the carpool over the next few days. A few months later, dinner is complete, we've had a lovely evening, and we're walking Jen out to her car.

"Jen, why is your car parked sideways in our driveway?"

"Oh, I got sideswiped at the grocery store by a hit'n'run, and figured since Lynn would be hitting me again anyway.. "

Well! But, the sad truth is, about nine months after that, I did indeed back into her car in our driveway a third time. Jen burst into tears, seeing that this time I had managed to crunch her front bumper, and somehow the hood was buckled as well… and the front left side panel looked a little droopy. At 1600.00, this one had to be handled by our insurance company which also provided a rental car for a stony-faced and silent Jen. Now when she visits, Jen leaves her car across the street in St Jude's church parking lot.  Most of our repeat guests do so, each being offered multiple opportunities to practice compassion.