Moments That Matter

Welcome to our blog, yours and mine. I am happy to meet you and so glad you have stopped by.  Perhaps you should pour yourself a cup of coffee or brew some tea, because I have a feeling that once we begin chatting, we may be here awhile.  That’s what happens when friends connect, when like-minded souls bump into each other and find solace in the simple act of sharing life’s joys and complexities.  

I will begin simply.  Years ago I was introduced to the power of the written word when used to share a slice of life that mattered.  My parents were moving out of our childhood home after thirty-two years.  As a tribute, I recorded it in an essay and sent it out as a Christmas greeting.  The emotional response to that essay was unexpected.  Tears were shed, second copies were requested. It seemed the readers found themselves with two feet firmly planted in a moment that mattered. And it felt good.

I walk through my days much like everyone else, but once in awhile I am treated to something that stirs… simple kindness, a helpless look, unbridled laughter, a simple exchange between strangers, road rage, a comedic fumbling of words, an elderly man with red eyes brimming with tears.  Moments that say to me…this is what it means to be a human being.  Moments which reveal the soul at a depth where words are often inadequate to capture its essence.

Those of you who have read Halfway to Each Other will recognize that the story of our year in Italy was written in this manner. A string of moments, like knots on a rope, that enabled me to climb above my own limits and end up perched at the top with a new view of life as it spread out gloriously below.

Opinions and circumstances come and go, life moves in streams around us, TV news and journalists blur together as I try to keep up with it all, but give me a moment of pure humanity, give me a glimpse of raw innocence or yearning or naked anger and I will stop and give you my full attention. That is why I read:  to give words to my aches, permission to my longings, and action to my reticence. That is also why I write.

This blog will be an experiment.  I will begin by posting the chapters of the book that were cut for one reason or another.  After that, I will pack a journal in my handbag and record the moments that tug deeply. Moments that matter.  We’ll try this thing together, you and I, soul to soul.

Traveling for the Book

Tonight I am starting a new category for this blog.  I am calling it Traveling for the Book. When one spends an inordinate number of hours alone, in a dark room, hacking away at a manuscript, it is only natural to daydream about what it will be like to actually sell your story and then go on a book tour to wonderful cities to meet like-minded readers.

Unfortunately, book tours, unless you are an established author or someone like, let’s say, Marcia Brady, are not a given.  It is expensive to fly authors around and put them up in hotels if only a few dozen people show up to listen and buy a book. So the book tour is not actually panning out. They are sort of a thing of the past.  However, I have been very lucky to find a supportive publisher (Guideposts Books) who has hired a great publicity firm (Phenix and Phenix) to help market Halfway to Each Other.

It is thrilling to have this sort of support, and I am doing my best to contribute to the process by writing articles for papers and magazines, calling in to be a guest on radio shows, and traveling when asked.

Brand new to the world of publishing and marketing, I am loving every minute of it and am learning more each day.  My favorite parts have been unexpected.  In these pages I hope to recapture some of the magic along the way.

So, this is my book tour.  Thanks for stopping by.

Mothers Stick Together Like That

I boarded the plane on a muggy July afternoon in Columbus and spied an empty aisle seat three rows down on the right. Two pre-teen aged girls sat, backpacks on their laps, in the middle and window seats. “Unaccompanied Minors” was like a neon sign floating above their heads.  I plopped myself down next to them in silent collusion with their mothers whom I was sure were somewhere biting their fingernails and figuring how to assuage the hollow pit in their stomachs.  I would protect them on the flight, keep all n’er do wells at bay.  Mothers stick together like that.

As passengers filed by and the plane filled, I couldn’t help but overhear the girls introducing themselves to each other.  They spoke with an openness that surprised me, like they had known each other since kindergarten.

“I’m going into seventh grade,” announced the Window Seat girl with her shoulder length auburn hair and riotous flash of freckles across her face. “I hope it’s better than last year.”

“Well, I’ll be going into Miss Connors’ class I guess. She’s the fourth grade teacher who loves worksheets,” answered the Middle Seater as she dug through a well worn, pink Hello Kitty backpack with marker stains bleeding though the front pocket. Old homework, broken pencils, and a variety of half eaten items spilled out as she spoke, her face hidden by cascades of chocolate brown hair.

“Here, let me help you with that,” I offered as I caught some of the items before they hit the floor.

“Thanks,” she mumbled as she dug out a twisted metal headband and slipped it on, pulling back her bangs to reveal chubby cheeks and hazel eyes that held something older than fourth grade.

“Where are you girls headed?”

“I’m going to grandmother’s. She lives in California.  I used to live there before my mother married my new father,” said the Window Seat, “I live in Indiana now.”

“How do you like Indiana?” I asked.

“It’s okay.  I guess new dad likes me.”

“ I’m sure he does,” I responded.

“We laugh and everything,” she smiled and her braces gleamed. “He calls me his new side-kick.”

“I don’t have a dad anymore,” announced the Middle Seat.

“Oh,” her blunt announcement caught me off guard.

“It’s no big deal,” she said unwrapping some Oreos, “my mom and I are a team.”

“I bet you have an amazing mom,” I agreed.  This conversation was making me a little nervous.  I did not want to tread on dangerous territory so I laid my head back and took out my novel.

“What do you do?  Who are you?” inquired the Middle Seat who did not pick on up my non-verbal cue.

“Sometimes I’m a teacher and sometimes I’m a writer,” I answered.

“Hmmm,” she said, “interesting.”

“I think I’ll read for awhile,” I added with a smile and nod toward my book.

“Okay.”

The girls continued to chat and giggle through take-off, sharing information about movie stars and reality TV shows.  As the plane settled into its cruising altitude, they settled into ipods and Sudoku.

About a hour into the flight, as we sipped on soft drinks and crunched on pretzels, the Window Seat leaned forward and stared me straight in the eye.

“I didn’t have any friends this year.  No one liked me at my new school.”

My hear fluttered at this announcement.  “I am so sorry.”

“They all called me California Girl. They said I thought I was cooler than anyone else because I grew up in California.  It wasn’t true.  They don’t even know me on the inside.”  My heart ached immediately for this emerging young woman.  A child so filled with pain that she couldn’t help but let it spill into the laps of strangers on a plane.

“Jerks and bullies,” offered Middle Seat matter-of-factly. “All schools have ‘em.”

“Some days they would wait for me after school and want me to fight them. I hated it.”  She leaned her head to the left and rested it against the window.

“Did you?”  asked Middle Seat tearing into a sleeve of Fig Newtons.

“No, my mom said I’m too good for that. But they would call me things like ho, and bitch, and the F word.”

“Oh my goodness!” I gasped. Continuing to be shocked by the revelations of my seat mates, I searched for the right thing to say. “I didn’t even know those words when I was your age.”

“Well, I’ve known the word prostitute since I was four,” Middle Seat stated.

“You have?”

“My mom used that word when she yelled at my dad all the time. When he left, she finally told me what it meant.”  She turned to Window Seat and stated plainly, “You are NOT a prostitute.  I’ll tell you that much.”

We all nodded our heads in agreement.

“I read a lot.  I love books,” the Window Seat said.

“Me, too,”  I said.

“I could take ‘em or leave ‘em,” Middle Seat started another puzzle.

“You know,”  I said, “Let me tell you a little something about words.”  Window Seat raised her defeated brown eyes and looked into mine.  “Words are like mirrors. They reflect what is on the inside of the person who chooses them. Not the person they are spoken to.”

Her eyes glistened. She inhaled sharply. “You’re the new girl,” I continued, “They don’t know what’s in your heart.  If they did, I bet they would say words like courage, and strength. It’s hard to start your life over in a new town.”

She slowly nodded as she listened.

“Any coward can hide behind ugly, powerful words and pretend that they are mighty. I think your mom is right. You’re too good for that.”

We all sat in silence for a long time. Window Seat looked out the window, Middle Seat opened a bag of M&M’s, and I picked up my book.

“Want a few?” she asked me as she shook the bright yellow bag in front of me.  “They have peanuts.”

“Sure.” She poured a few in my outstretched palm.

“You know what I think about those bullies?”

“What?”

“They can go to H-E-Double toothpicks.  Do you know what that means?”

“You bet I do.”

An Unexpected Space of Happiness

Last weekend I was visiting my friend Debbie at the beach in Oxnard, CA. We woke to a cloudy, cool Saturday and pondered about options for the morning as we sipped our coffee.

“I take a Zumba class most Saturdays. Are you game?” she asked as she worked the crossword puzzle in the paper.

“Sure.”  Zumba? Urrgh. I am not a Zumba person.  I have walked past that saucy gym class for months now.  I’ve seen the undulating hips, the sweaty brows, the salsa experts.  I have no illusions as to my dancing ability.  I move with the grace of a wooden soldier, like I was born with five less vertebrae than the average female.

“Great, starts at 8:30.”

This is the kind of trouble my new life of adventure gets me into. I have challenged myself to seize all opportunities that come my way, even if I am sure I will hate it.  My goal is to open myself to the possibility that there are hidden joys in everyday life of which I am presently unaware.  Sometimes I am more successful than others.

We hopped on bicycles and pedaled through the neighborhood and past a sleepy marina to the fitness club.

“Better hurry,” she called over her shoulder. “This class is popular.  We might not get in.”

That would be a shame, I grimaced as I pedaled faster. Ten minutes later we were lined up in the back row of a mirrored room filled to capacity with smiling faces.  I limbered up as I positioned myself in a way that no one casually walking by the door would be able to see me and wonder who I thought I was amid a sea of Latin beauties and dance majors making their big come back.

A ball of energy zipped to the front of the room and commanded our attention. With a flash of white teeth and washboard stomach she began the class.  Within seconds I was behind.  I could barely see her from my vantage point and knew my steps were all wrong.  Debbie bounced away with confidence to my right so I scrambled to figure it out. These were unknown rhythms to me. By the time I eked out one clumsy rendition the class was on to the next move. I glanced at the clock on the wall and grimaced, fifty-eight minutes to go.

I fought all urges to run screaming from the room.  To be perfectly blunt, I sucked at this. The nimble instructor threw her left arm in the air and shook her hips while she moved them in a figure eight. How was that even possible? I decided to do the best I could and be thankful that my heart muscle was getting a workout if nothing else. There’s joy in that, right?  Forty-eight minutes to go.

Debbie cued me in to a spicy gal in a tan leotard that was close enough for us to follow.  I stared at her shoes like they held the key to dance heaven and my feet began to find their way. Thirty-two minutes and counting.

Another song ended and the class clapped and cheered for more. Despite myself, I realized that somewhere between the belly dance and the tango I began to enjoy it.  I had put the mental image of an aging wooden soldieress out of my mind and was suddenly feeling light of foot and fresh of breath.  I unbuckled the shackles of self consciousness and joined these people who knew how to turn fitness into a fitness party on a cool grey Saturday morning in Oxnard.

As we moved left and right like waves in a swimming pool, I gained enough confidence that I was able to enjoy watching some of the other dancers.  My favorite was a man in his sixties in pressed denim shorts with a phone attached to his belt, black shoes, and a bright yellow t-shirt with a cartoon sketch of a Mr. Pancake emblazoned across the back. He was the crowd favorite and women of all ages keep approaching him to shimmy in unison like it was midnight in some hot new dance club in Manhattan.

A forty-something woman in a worn light blue t-shirt and sweatpants was working up a healthy sweat to my left.  She came late to class and caught my eye as she would cross the room from time to time with a sense of urgency and exclaim something in people’s faces.  The expressions of the recipients of her message told me that they did not know her. For some reason she conjured up visions of sandwiches bursting with sprouts and crystals twirling in the sun from braided rainbow thread.  I was dying to get wind of what she felt so compelled to share.

Up front was a woman in her late 70’s in black leggings and a sweatshirt off one shoulder, the reflection of her face in the mirror a visage of serenity. Over her head the clock ticked away. Oh no, only fourteen minutes to go.

The lady in blue passed by again and halted squarely before a slight, Hispanic woman diagonally to my right.  I leaned in to catch the declaration this time and heard her rejoice, with childlike excitement, “You are in an unexpected space of happiness!” And then she salsa-ed her way back to her spot. My heart skipped a beat.

That was exactly where I was, an unexpected space where happiness reigned and people forgot about the trials of their lives or their imperfections for an hour.  Where older man could shine like John Travolta and a grandmother could glide to the left like she did when she was sixteen.

All too soon, the music stopped, the dancers left the room, and I thanked Debbie for allowing me to join her for this lesson. The continuing lesson that is urging me to embrace everyday adventure by giving all those things that “are not for me” a try.

Dining Alone

As the taxi drove off I stood and studied the old-fashioned marquee that boasted the name of the Austin Motel.  It was suspiciously phallic shaped which seemed inappropriate for a family hotel.  I pulled open the glass door and stepped into 1974, a study in paneling and hanging plants. It had a homey, yet Kathy Bates sort of feel to it.  A twenty-something guy with short brown hair and a kind face jumped up from behind the chest high counter.

‘Hey,” he greeted me as he put down his magazine.

“Hey,” I casually responded with my business trip persona on full display. I wanted to ask him if he was aware that his marquee was an ill-advised shape.

“How many nights?”

“Just one.” He took my credit card and ran the transaction.

“Rm. 19”

“Thanks.”

“Up the driveway. Then up those stairs off to the right side.  Go left. Down to the middle of the parking lot.”

“Are there restaurants around here that I could get something quick and easy?”

“Plenty,” he said going into a detailed description of every eatery within a mile.

“Great.” I grabbed the handle of my suitcase and turned toward the door. “And is it safe for a woman to walk alone around here at night?”

“Oh sure,” he said.

“Perfect.”  I pushed on the door and felt a rush of cool air.

“But don’t hold me to it,” he mumbled.

“Excuse me?”  I looked back at him.

“I mean, no guarantees.”

“Thanks.”

I wheeled my suitcase across the paved driveway to the side steps and climbed my way up wondering how anyone with any sort of disability would maneuver this. The cool dark quiet of the Tuesday night started to feel too dark and too quiet.  My eyes shifted left then right searching for possible attackers in the foliage.  If there is one thing my mother taught me, it’s that danger lurks everywhere.

I finally found my room and let myself in.  Hmmm.  Interesting.  Though very clean and oddly comfortable, all of the pieces of furniture had absolutely no business sharing a room together. The rattan couch, the old bed, the grandmother’s dresser, the 30-inch TV and the sponge painting on the plaster walls in disturbing colors. The next time I see a website that boasts a quirky downtown hotel, I’ll understand the lingo.

I unpacked my business attire for the next day and then sat on the edge of the bed.  So… here I was, all alone on a Tuesday night in Austin. I glanced around, studied the cracks on the ceiling, and hummed a few bars of Deep in the Heart of Texas.

The night was young, and I was hungry. The problem was that I had never gone to dinner by myself before.  I hated the thought of it.  Sitting alone, ordering alone, chewing alone. Loserville.  But I didn’t want to end my day with a warm beer and a handful of M&M’s like the last trip.

I stood and stared in the mirror over the dresser to give myself a pep-talk, but I was immediately sidetracked into counting my brown spots.  One more and I would have an exact replica of the Big Dipper on my lower left jaw.

Oh, for goodness sakes.  If I am old enough to bear constellations I should be able to eat alone. I will be bold and conquer this fear.  If I am going to travel, I had better get used to it. Maybe I’d run into a lonely astronomer.  At the very least I could find take-out.

I spruced up, grabbed my handbag, stuck my keys between my knuckles like Edward Scissorhands and headed out into the night air, striding with my new purposeful walk.  If someone was going to mug me, I wouldn’t go down easy.

The receptionist had mentioned an Italian restaurant, Boticelli’s, down a few blocks and across the street.  I sized it up from my side of S. Congress. It looked inviting, not too large, with warm colors and good lighting.  As I crossed the busy street, I could see it was packed.  Great, all the more people to notice my loser status.  I gripped the handles of my black leather bag and walked through the front door.

It was exactly my kind of place.  Smallish, intimate without being stuffy, great energy and a lot of laughter.  People that were living our their ordinary Tuesday night with joy.  The white tablecloths announced that the food was serious business, and the waiters were busy.

I stood for an interminable forty-five seconds until a young Asian beauty walked over with a handful of menus.

“Table?” She asked with a smile that held more teeth than average.

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“One.”

“One?”

“Yes.”

“You mean one more?”

“No.  Just me.  Is that okay?  Can we use a table just for one person?”  Good one, Susan, like that’s something a bold, self confident woman would ask. Get a grip. And take your keys out of your knuckles this minute.

“ Sure. Here, let why don’t you just take this table right here.”

She sat me at a tiny two-top right next to the hostess stand.  It was perfect.  A fringe table. On the outskirts of popular.

I sat with my back to the wall so I could study the diners as well as my menu.  A handsome waiter with a shock of black hair falling across his forehead approached with a big smile and a basket of warm bread.

“Welcome to Boticelli’s.  How are we this evening?”

“We are fine,” I answered.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“A glass of red wine would be great.”

“Anything in particular?”

“Something bold, chewy.”

“I have just the one,” he said, his eyes narrowing in thought.

“Bring it on.”  Oh, and would you mind sitting with me and having a glass, or three?

He returned with a glass of red velvet and placed it before me with a flourish.  After a thorough recitation of the menu, I ordered the evening’s special and he was off to the kitchen.

I began to relax and enjoy myself.  Between sips of wine, I wrote the scene

in my head (all writers do since we can’t help ourselves), concocting all sorts of elaborate story lines to go along with the characters sitting at each table.  Soon enough it was a dining room filled with sitcom families complete with over zealous laughter, stoney silences and furtive glances between characters married to other people.

The minute hand on the big clock over the bar ticked away. Where the heck was my food?

I craned my neck to get a glimpse of my waiter somewhere in the room, but he wasn’t there.  I poked at the bread basket and picked some imaginary lint off of my napkin. At a table to the right of the bar, a blonde woman, with perfect posture and cold blue eyes stared in my direction. The Stoney Silence table.

I decided to strike a casual yet alluring pose like I was pondering one of the unexplained phenomena of the universe. Gazing off into space I noticed a back door opening and closing. People entering and exiting.

The waiter appeared, “Sorry for the wait, m’am.”

“Oh, no problem,” I said, “I’m in no hurry.”   Please bring my food right now so I can gulp it down and leave.

“We didn’t expect to be so busy on a Tuesday. We’re a bit understaffed.”

“Hey, it happens.” Who called in sick?

“Another glass of wine?”

“Well,  I guess that would be okay.”  Duh.

He refilled my glass as I pulled my trusty notebook from my oversized black travel purse.  If I was going to be here awhile I figured I may as well pretend I was working so Miss Frosty over there could stop staring and get back to ignoring her date.

A character at the table to my left, the Brothers and Sisters table, glanced at me as the others began to fight over the bill, and then the snotty social climber with the puffy lips at  the Housewives of Austin table in the back corner actually pointed at me and whispered to her recently jilted friend who was considering returning the dress she was wearing since shiny pink did nothing for her.

A blush rose up my neck and the heat settled in my cheeks.  I had been revealed.  Yes, Ladies and Gentleman  I am dining alone and unloved.  Please pay your bills and leave me to my pasta.

My food finally arrived as the restaurant began to empty. The ravioli was delicious and warm and the aroma made me close my eyes and drift back to an evening on the Passeggiata in Nervi, Italy when Tim and I had sat at a cafe table under the stars, listening to the pounding surf below as we dined on Ligurian fare. Good food does that, it connects beautiful moments with invisible lines.

A few other loners wandered in and sat at the bar so I decided to finish my wine with them.  I hopped on the end stool just as an older gentleman in a plaid shirt with carefully combed grey hair came through the back door and stood at my elbow.  He placed his glass on the bar and the bartender filled it with the house chardonnay. They nodded to each other as he turned to leave.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Is there something outside?”

“Live music and a lovely terrace,” he said, his chocolate brown eyes matched his warm smile. “You should come see.”

“Is it all couples?”

“No.  You can sit with us if you wish.  We are on the bench right up front.”

“Thanks.  Maybe I will.”

He walked down the narrow hall and disappeared.  I paid the bill, picked up my glass, and headed toward the door.  It opened onto a large patio, with tables, and benches and a full stage under the canopy of a towering, ancient oak tree.

An all female band in Bohemian dresses and long curls, sang in harmony, haunting and sweet, to the tables filled with couples. I leaned against a tree off to the side and enjoyed the creative energy of these talented women, girls really, whose eyes twinkled as brightly as the stars through the leaves overhead. The crowd was transfixed.  There was beauty in the air floating amongst the notes.  I love the unexpected appearance of magic.

I searched for my friend at the bar and there he was on the front bench just like he said he would be, a woman’s head on his shoulder.  I wondered what she would do if I sat and put my head on his other shoulder just for laughs.

In this setting I did not feel lonely.  I felt proud for taking an ordinary Tuesday and pushing myself past my comfort zone. A night were I could have convinced my middle-aged self that I was too old for this. I was happy that I didn’t spend the evening alone in a hotel room when magic and joy and, yes, some uncomfortable moments were there for the offering right across the street. I wondered how many times I had already done that. Had wasted precious nights on fear.

I am starting to get the hang of this traveling thing.  I am wondering what will come next.

The Taxi Driver

I sat in the back of the taxi cab, counting the fuzzy braids that flayed out beneath the cabbie’s knit cap, a huge black spider with crazy legs.  Slumped down in his seat with one lazy arm guiding the wheel, he looked like he was parked rather than barreling down the highway at breakneck speeds.  I tightened my seatbelt as I started singing War’s Low Rider in my head,

“All my friends, know the low rider…”

The Mapquest directions I handed him had landed on the floor of the passenger side of the front seat.  I craned my neck so he would notice that I noticed.  Since I did not know my way around Austin, I was hoping that he would take me to my hotel and not his favorite crack house.

“So, is the Austin Motel nice?” I asked with my polite, yet firm, voice.

“Yeah, s’ real nice.”

“The Austin Motel on South Congress?”

“Yeah, s’ real nice.”

“Because I didn’t want you to confuse it with another Austin Motel, because, you know, since we’re in Austin there might be a few.” I added with my still polite, yet firm, voice. “I think my directions fell on your floor.”

“Don’t you worry, Honey, I got ya.”  You got me? And I am hardly your Honey, Mr Taxi Driver.

“Low Rider knows every street, yeah…”

I studied the ID card that hung from the rearview mirror.  The mirror that he did not seem to need as he wove through traffic.  Okay, Jeremiah.  I’ve got your name and number. I’m writing it all down right here on my hotel reservation sheet.  I’m sure that will make the drug dealers at the crack house nervous.

There’s something unnerving about taking a cab when I am traveling alone; willingly stepping into a stranger’s vehicle and assuming he/she is of sound mind and body.  I hate the fact that I have to take the taxi at the front of the line at the airport.  I think one should be able to size up the drivers beforehand and choose the one with whom you want to risk your life.

“Car 2547 do you read? Car 2547?  What’s your location?” The shortwave radio crackled and spat. He reached for the hand mic and held it to his mouth.

“Hey Baby,” his voice suddenly deeper, Barry White-ish, “yeah, uhmmmm, who-ooo, oh yeah….Airport run then I’m done.” Giggles on the other end.  Very professional.

“Low Rider is the one to meet, yeah.”

He replaced the mic and smirked sideways at me.

“She digs me.”  Digs you?  As in Susan Dey digs Keith Partridge?

“I’m sure she does.”

“Just moved here from Houston. Gots ta keep the ladies happy.  Good for business.”

“Of course.” He leaned over and turned the volume knob to the left, muting the female voice and revealing long, yellowed fingernails.  Nice.

“This is just a side gig.”

“Really?”  I asked since I felt that humoring him would keep those fingernails on the wheel. “On the side of what?”

“Music.” His eyes lit up and his lips curled into a smile.

“Austin’s a great place for that.”

“My band’s in the line-up for the festival.”

“Well, congratulations.”

“Thank you,” he turned his head and looked me square in the eye. “I ‘precciate that. I do.  It’s a lot of work, you know?  Followin’ your passion. Puttin’ your heart on the line.”

“I do know.”  I sat back and relaxed as we chatted about taking risks and chance meetings.

He veered onto the off ramp and turned left.  As we wound through the city streets I took in the sights as he threw out a few historical facts. He even filled me in on the Austin Motel, how it has been a family run business for over 60 years weathering good times and bad.

“Take a little trip. Take a little trip with me.”

Before I knew it, my Low Rider taxi friend pulled up to the Austin Motel.  He jumped out of the car and opened my door with a deep theatrical bow and a wave of his arm.

“Thank you for the ride,” I said with sincerity as I pulled out a few bills and handed them to him. “And good luck with the concert.”

He gave me a sideways smirk and slid in to the driver’s seat. I watched for a long moment as he eased his way back into traffic and joined a sea of red tail lights snaking toward downtown.

Media Training

This whole business trip thing is new for me.  I am feeling very grown up all of a sudden,  and I am practicing striding through airports with purpose.  It is an entirely new walk.  I pretend that people secretly know who I am and are just averting their eyes to give me much needed privacy.  ‘Please, please, no autographs. Steps to the side folks.’ I am getting a kick out of the whole thing; cracking myself up.  I have always loved how the reality of a situation never quite matches the anticipation of it.  It is the wellspring of great humor, and it helps me practice my constant stream of inner sarcasm.

The day Halfway to Each Other officially launched I feverishly worked through the evening at the computer recording student grades. All alone in a darkened classroom was not the way I envisioned celebrating, but I had accepted a new job and it needed my full attention. I remember glancing at my watch and muttering ‘Yeah, congratulations, Bigshot, now get your work done so you can go home and go to bed’.

My first trip took me to Austin to meet my publicist.  The thought of a quiet night in a pleasant hotel with a good book sounded lovely until I checked into the low budget chain with its striking view of the business park in the pouring rain about 8 PM.   I assumed that the place would have a restaurant of some sort, or at least one nearby.  But the can of beer and the bag of M&M’s from the tiny snack area in the lobby worked out just fine.

Touring the publicity firm and meeting my publicist the next day was great.  The place was filled with trendy clothing and young, creative minds strategizing ways to infiltrate the marketplace.  Other than the fact that I got that I am the oldest one in the hair salon and all the stylists are young and hip feeling, I was more than impressed and delighted to have them marching into battle with me.

I met three other new authors, and we all hunkered down for media training, cheering each other on through mock radio shows and TV interviews. I left that day with renewed respect for politicians and talk show hosts who have mastered the art of Speaking into a mic and making sense. I spent years working on my manuscript and know every sentence by heart, but when they asked me to discuss it on camera, it all turned to jibberish.  How does one take an entire book and express its richness in two minutes?  I left with a page full of interview questions to practice at the outside chance I might actually have an interview one day.

The Ballerina

 I boarded my connecting flight late on purpose. It had already been a long travel day, and I dreaded another two hours on a crowded plane. As I made my way toward the one vacant seat in back of the aircraft, I could see a frazzled, older woman standing in the aisle. She clutched a maroon tweed carry-on bag that was not going to fit under the seat no matter how hard she wrestled with it.

 “Oh dear.  I thought this would work. What was I thinking?” Mumble, mumble. “No room in the overhead.”  More mumbling. “Gosh darn it.”

 Her words, squeaked though the air as passengers all around pretended not to notice. Flustered, she looked past me toward the flight attendant who was motioning for her to bring the bag to the front of the plane so it could be checked. There was something about her exaggerated movements that didn’t feel right. Something was left of center. I didn’t have to look up at the seat numbers to know that I would be her lucky seat mate.

 I stood to the side as she bustled past me, nervous and sweating, in her sea foam sweat suit worn thin by too many washings. I scanned the plane for another empty seat as I was in a not willing to converse with weirdos mood.  Unfortunately, the plane was full, so I pretended to check and recheck my things in the overhead until she returned and plopped into the window seat, exhaling loudly.

 “Sorry,” she said.

 “Nothing to worry about.” I wasn’t sure why she was apologizing.

 “I don’t fly often,” her doe-brown eyes were magnified by the lenses of her glasses. Light brown curls framed her face.

 “Hmmm,” I murmured as I pulled the flight card from the seat pocket and pretended to search for over wing exits. I was too tired to encourage her.  I wanted to take off, fall asleep, and wake up in Austin.

 She buckled her seat belt and sat upright, her beige leather purse perched on her knees. “Do you?”

 “Do I what?” I asked.

 “Do you fly often?”

 “I guess so.”

 “For your job?”

 “At times.”

 “I am going to see some relatives.”

 “That’s good.”  I could see that my short answers were not deterring her.

She continued to pepper me with questions while she took a small brush from her handbag and began to brush her hair. I hate it when people groom themselves on airplanes. I hoped she did not pull out some nail clippers next.

 “Don’t worry, I’m not the type that will talk your ear off on the flight,” she said as she brushed the back of her hair with sudden intensity.

 “I didn’t think so,” I said as I gave her my best fake, yet friendly smile. I put my head back and closed my eyes. I had a big day tomorrow.  Media training.

 A few minutes later the plane accelerated down the runway and lifted into the air. We both glanced out the window as the ground shrank below us. Her hands wrapped around the handles of her purse. A deep breath. She began to hum.

 “What do you do?”

 “I’m a teacher, eighth grade. And a writer. You?”

 “Oh, I don’t work.  Not anymore. I stopped before… How old are you?”

 How old am I? Like that’s a normal thing to ask a stranger.

“Older than I want to admit,” I fake laughed. I pulled a novel from my bag and began to read. I would nip this in the bud right here.

 She opened her purse and pulled out a Zip-Lock Bag of candy. She unwrapped a few Hershey Kisses and smacked her lips as she enjoyed them.  It was sort of making me queasy, all of these mouth noises and finger wiping. From the corner of my eye I saw her carefully, almost reverently, remove a photo from her purse. She slid it across my tray table.

 “She was thirty-seven.”

Was.

A lovely ballerina stared up at me from the photo.  I picked it up and my heart wobbled.

“She was a serious dancer.”

Was.

“She’s beautiful,” I said as I studied her poised on the tips of her satin toe shoes, auburn hair pulled taunt into a bun.

“You would have loved her,” the woman added as she touched my arm. “She taught extreme sports in the off season.  Anything to pay the bills. Spirit.  That’s what she was known for. People loved her spirit. Filled the room.”

I slid the photo back in her direction and looked into her wounded, magnified eyes, expecting tears.  There were none, just the far away cast that said she was remembering. My insides ached as I realized what was happening.

Of course I didn’t recognize right away what made her different.  How could I when my own daughter was safe and happy. Grief can rearrange a person. The weight of sorrow can pull anyone left of center.

Shame crept in. I had to stop judging people so quickly. “I have a feeling we would have been good friends,” I said.

“It’s been three years.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Breast cancer.”

“Awful.”

“Now, I told you.  I’m not one of those types to talk your ear off.” She proceeded to tell me all of the disturbing details.

We settled into our respective silences.  I could concentrate on my novel about as well as she could concentrate on the prayer cards she kept pulling from her purse. How does a mother let go of her baby girl?  I prayed with all of my might that I would never have to find out. After awhile she pulled out a carefully folded newspaper clipping and slid it across the tray table. “Since you’re a writer. You’ll appreciate this.”

I unfolded the paper and proceeded to read a lovely tribute to her daughter, indeed an established dancer in Los Angeles.  The same photo she had handed me earlier adorned the piece.

“This is wonderful.”

“We couldn’t afford a proper obituary by the end.  All of our money was gone. The church supported us through so much of it…but her friend, John, he knew the writer.”

She took the clipping and carefully replaced it.  A few more Hershey Kisses disappeared.

“You know.  The worst day…”

I braced myself.  I was not the strongest when it came to emotional pain.

“…was the day she lost her arabesque.”

Her arabesque? What about her breasts? What about the day she lost her life?

“That was the day we looked at each other and knew.”

“I am lost for words,” I said, my eyes watering.

“A dancer needs her arabesque.”

We nodded at each other. A nod between mothers paints far more than a thousand words. We settled again into a comfortable silence.  She watched the fiery sunset through the clouds, and I watched her watching it.

“I hope I can be the kind of mother you’ve been,” I said to her as we landed. “Your sharing this with me gave her one more performance.”

“What do you mean?” her eyes lit up like I was the director of the Joffrey Ballet Company.

“Your sweet ballerina danced right into my heart. And when a writer says this, it means that one day, she will dance across a page… and into readers’ hearts forever.”

We looked at each other a long moment, and she blinked back tears. Then she stood with her purse. “She had a spirit, you know? The kind of of spirit that would fill a room.”

The Garage Sale

This was the first and last time that I would be traveling three thousand miles for a garage sale.  My parents had finally sold our family home of thirty two years and wondered if, perhaps, we could come home and help them with the sale.  It could not have been coincidence that each of us decided, quite on our own, to leave our spouses and children for the weekend to travel back home. It would be the last time we could sit together the way it started: two parents and six children in a four bedroom house in a pretty N.J. suburb. 

I spent much of the day on the airplane wondering how I was going to feel when I walked into 26 Ardsley for the last time.  Being the sentimental type, I feared the worst shedding my first tears as the plane touched down in Newark. I quickly reminded myself that I had sworn not to make this a weekend of “lasts”—The last time I fry an egg in this kitchen, the last time I daydream on this front porch.  I wanted to approach this as the mature adult that I usually am, positive and strong to help my parents through this emotional transition as they prepared to retire in Phoenix.

When I drove into the driveway I was flooded with relief to realize that sadness was the furthest emotion from my mind. I greeted my parents and five brothers, shared a joyful meal around a wooden table worn smooth from years of dinners, homework and school projects, and then helped my parents price the various family treasures that were now being relegated to the sale.  We laughed about some of the items, reminisced about others, and each of us ended up with a pile off to the side of those things that happened to tug too strongly on the old heartstrings. I mean, you couldn’t exactly let some stranger walk off with the infamous ice cream spoon that worked better than the scoop ever did. Surely my parents would have made a lot more money had we not come home to help.

The sale day dawned bright and clear. We manned our stations and the people began to trickle through. It was clear from the start that David and Kevin were the best salesmen while the rest of us practically pushed things into people’s arms just to get them out of the yard.  At one point I needed more masking tape, and since I couldn’t boss my younger brothers around anymore, I ran into the house to get it myself.

That’s when I heard them.  The voices that is.

 The voices of children were coming in giggles and whispers from every room.  Knowing that I was alone in the house, I shook my head and started up the stairs only to stop again momentarily and listen. Yes, the voices were unmistakable and I recognized every one.  I heard them sitting around the dining room table dyeing Easter eggs, sorting Halloween candy on the living room floor, and gathered around a decorated fireplace guessing what treats might fill their stockings come morning.

 Swallowing hard to push the lump from my throat, I took a deep breath and continued up to the second floor landing.  Standing in the center of the hallway, I looked from door to door. As I half-feared, the voices overflowed from every bedroom.  Not surprisingly, my brothers’ rooms were the noisiest.  I was intrigued however, to find my room completely silent.  Being the only girl I lucked out with a room of my own, so I guess it stood to reason that I did a lot more listening than talking when I was in there.  As I took a step toward my room, I heard the backdoor slam and my older brother, Tim, wonder aloud about what had happened to me.  Knowing the silence of my room would speak volumes to an already breaking heart, I happily turned and trotted back down the stairs, not caring that I had forgotten the reason I had come inside in the first place.

 Laughter, old friends, and a little bit of work saw us through the rest of the day.  We all agreed that the sale was a success and found comfort knowing that our childhood memories had found new homes.

 Later that evening during a party that our neighbors were throwing for us, my brother, Todd, came over to me and announced that the camera needed a new battery. He suggested that I go home and get the spare.  Being the good sister that I am I told him that he could probably handle that job all by himself.  He quietly urged me, however, to go across the street and spend a few moments in the darkened house alone. He told me that he had just done that an hour before and the experience was unnerving.  One look in his eyes told me that he had heard the voices, too.

 Back I went to get the battery and to finish what I had started that morning.  I let myself in the back door, walked reverently across a kitchen floor that held a million footprints, headed up the staircase and stood outside the door to my room. I turned the glass door knob that I always swore to my friends was a real diamond and stepped in. It had been redecorated years before, but it was still mine.

 As I stood in the darkness, I had the strongest urge to lie down on the bed.  After years of experimentation I knew that if you lay on your back in a specific angle and hung your head over the edge just so, you could get the most expansive view of the night sky that this room had to offer.  This was an important piece of trivia to a seven-year-old on Christmas Eve.  So, what the heck, I lowered myself onto the white bedspread, lay down and assumed the magic position. Pushing aside the curtain, I scanned the stars once more for a glimpse of that tiny sleigh.  And for a moment my heart found peace. When I felt the blood rushing to my head I closed my eyes and thought to myself, ‘What is a thirty six year-old woman doing searching the sky for Santa Claus on a warm night in June?’ I sat up straight and let the tears run down my cheeks and onto the chenille that had collected them over the years.

Many thoughts passed through my mind in the following minutes, but only one has stayed with me and will continue to inspire me for years to come. I realized that after thirty some years what still came to life when I entered this house was the holiday magic. A sense of peace, joy, belonging, and shared excitement found expression through those annual traditions that our family held dear.  These moments were the treasures.  I would not miss the family knickknacks that I could hold in my hand.  I would miss the moments that I held in my heart. Somehow I knew that when I left this house for the last time, I would not hear those giggling voices again.

There were other giggling voices that I would hear, though, in less than twenty four hours. Those, of course, would be the voices of my own two children now sleeping soundly a continent away. So I said a silent prayer as I slowly walked back to the party across the street.  I thanked God for parents that understood what it took to build a home and fill the hearts of their children with priceless memories.  I thanked Him for parents that took the time to watch us dye the perfect Easter egg, trim the perfect Christmas tree, and put together the scariest costume in the neighborhood.  I told Him that I knew that it was my turn to pick up the wand and sprinkle the magic into the hearts of my own two precious babies.  And, finally, I asked Him for the wisdom and patience to do it well.

I left the next morning, and when I drove down that tree-lined street for the last time, I did not look back.  This chapter in my life was coming to an end, and, actually, it felt right.  Sure, I would suffer pangs of homesickness now and then, but I knew that a piece of me would be revisiting that old house with the passing of every season. I now understood the depth and worth of tradition in our lives and I was anxious to get home and share these realizations with my husband.  We have but a short window of time to shape and mold the traditions that will someday define our children’s childhood experience.  It is an immeasurable responsibility to be sure, and our success will also be measured in the giggles and whispers that echo throughout our home for decades to come.           

         Dedicated to the Powers Family

In honor of Ralph Powers (1926-2009)

Christmas Shopping

Katie and I got off the bus at Via XX Septembre. Though downtown Genoa was a little overwhelming at first, I had grown comfortable with it and loved walking up and down its grand thoroughfare.  Like too-big jeans that finally shrank after a few washings, I was starting to feel as if the fit was just right.

            “Did you make out your Christmas list?” I asked as we crossed the street.

            “Yes. Did you?”

            “Of course. Where should we go first?”

            “Look over there. That’s new.”

A grassy area near the train station had sprouted an outdoor market.  It pulled us across the street like a magnet. Though these markets were just ho-hum affairs for the Italians, I couldn’t get enough of them. 

“Let’s see who can find the most unusual gift under ten euro,” I said as I walked to a booth filled with incense holders and oil lamps.

“Why does it always have to be a contest?” Katie laughed as she picked up a small, pink ceramic hand that sported a long stick of incense from each fingertip. She tipped it just far enough to reveal a price sticker of 16 euro.

            We combed through booth after booth of candy, meats and cheeses, shoes, counterfeit perfumes and handbags, underwear, colorful scarves, gloves and hats. An occasional booth sold handmade arts and crafts. One large tent was filled with an extensive array of nativity scene makings where you could mix and match to create your own interpretation of Christ’s birth. 

The Christmas season here was not commercial. Since there was no Halloween or Thanksgiving, there was no race to be the first one stringing up tinsel stars in October.  The décor, minimal and tasteful, appeared in December when I was emotionally ready to see it.  It felt joyful, not rote.

Italy did not do Christmas cards. People generally lived near all of those that they knew and saw them frequently.  Greetings and good wishes were done in person and few felt the need to send pictures of their family to people they saw constantly. 

People scurried about buying gifts, but it didn’t seem to reach the “frenzy” mark.  The whole experience felt completely doable for the average Joe.  I was so relaxed about it that it worried me.

            “Bingo!” I heard as I was searching through a mound of mittens and matching scarves.  I turned to see Katie across the way holding up a pair of huge furry bear feet complete with toenails.

            “Slippers!”

            “How much?”

            “Five.”

            “You win. As a matter of fact, I will buy them for you as one of your presents.”

            “Thanks.”

            “Just act surprised on Christmas morning. And grab a second pair for Veronica.  It’ll cheer her up.” Veronica and Thomas had just moved into a furnished apartment in Sori, a small town down the coast.  The paperwork for their new villa was taking a long time and neither of them was happy about it. They had hoped to be settled by now. 

Leaving the market, we headed up the street through a sea of fur coats.  A few weeks ago, while it was still warm, the fur appeared as if an announcement was made on the news that it was time to take them out of summer hibernation. Anyone who was anyone, or thought they were anyone, was now wrapped in mink. 

It appeared that all of the women who had reached a certain age or social standing wore fur and carried a Louis Viutton handbag. A real one, knock-offs would cause a stir.  The look was very conservative, retro even…according to American fashion.  I remembered photographs of my Nana in the same style back in the early 60’s.

The next step down from the Upper Fur Class was the quilted jacket. The Upper Middle quilted people had their little quilt squares filled with down.  The Lower Middle quilted people made do with such filling as wool or the dreaded polyester.   And the handbags at this level were definitely knock-offs which was expected, and, therefore, did not cause a stir.  And everyone wore scarves.  It was all about the scarf. 

A cool wind whipped past us and Katie pulled her denim jacket up around her ears.

“You should have worn your new jacket.”

“I’m not even cold.”

Tim and I, thinking we were smart by looking ahead, invested in some winter coats just a few weeks ago.  But now I could see that the choice was all wrong.  Knowing that we would be doing a lot of traveling during the upcoming winter months, we opted to buy everyone big billowy down jackets.  I could picture it now, the four of us, in four different colors, like a rainbow of Michelin men bumping our way through the quilt and fur. 

Katie and I linked arms and walked the avenue with our eyes upward, pointing to the carvings, gargoyles and ornate columns on the ancient buildings.  Though darkened with age, they were majestic and imposing.

As we waited for a red light to change, we took out our short Christmas lists and compared them.  It was all for show though we didn’t admit it.  Because really, we would end up just shopping for ourselves. 

The light turned green and we crossed the street with a horde of other shoppers.  Then the window-shopping began in earnest.

“Look at those cute black pants!” 

 “That silk shawl. Beautiful.”

“The scarf in the corner?  It’s the same shade as your new down jacket.”

“I will never wear that jacket.”

“Let’s just go in for a second.”

And so it went until we canvassed the entire length of the avenue.  Soon our hands were filled with bags so we decided to stop for our traditional gelato.

We sat at a wrought iron café table in our favorite coffee shop/restaurant.  The one with the rich dark wood that contrasted with the brightly lit pastry cases and polished coffee machines behind the counter and the black and white checked floors. Frequent customers, we felt at home enough to pile our purchases all over the floor.

“Let’s check our lists,” I said as we waited for our order. We fished them out of our pockets and laid them side-by-side on the table.  Not one item was crossed off. We burst out laughing.

“There’s plenty of time to get this other stuff.”

“Christmas is five days away.”

The waiter set down two bowls of straciatella gelato, two spoons, and a cappuccino in a creamy white cup. We recounted every facet of every purchase as we ate, adding another layer of reasons to our already elaborate list of rationalizations for why we needed each of the items.  By the time our bowls were empty, any trace of guilt had been wiped away.

            “I’m just going to use the rest room real quick before we leave,” Katie said. She rose from the table and headed to the back of the shop.  Suddenly, I saw her in slow motion, her 15-year-old spirit oozing from every pore.  Her lanky body finding its grace a little more each day.  There wouldn’t be many more Christmases where we would shop alone together in this easy innocence.  She would fly from the nest soon enough.

This day was my gift from her.  Christmas the Italian way.   Being together without all of the trappings.  I wished that I could wrap up that afternoon and put it under every tree for the rest of my life.

We collected our bags and headed out the door. The sun was setting and we turned our thin denim collars up against the cold.  Decorative lights appeared here and there along the street as we walked. It felt like Christmas.  It really did. The #17 bus turned a corner and sped toward the bus stop.  Weighed down with our loot, we ran like crazy through fur and quilt in order to catch it, laughing all the way.