Going Postal

You think you know what to expect when you go to the post office. You’ve already steeled your heart against every foreseeable disappointment. You’ve resigned yourself to the long lines. Slow lines. Sticky floor tiles. Toddlers with squeakers in their sneakers, running silly-nilly around the joint like it’s Chuck E Cheese instead of a federal institution. Standing among people who stand too close, who may wear too much perfume, or who may not bathe often enough. High cost to ship that package. Knuckleheads in the parking lot straddling two spots or stalking the one you’ve only just arrived in. (Haha, gotcha sucker!)

You think you’ve prepared for the worst. You think you’re ready for it.

Brace yourself. The post office has a new disappointment in store for you.

When I realized we were out of stamps, I thought about going to one of those Mailboxes, Etc. places. They’re everywhere, and they safeguard against many (but not ALL) of the frustrations of the proper post office.

But stamps can be very special. Beautiful, semi-personal little masterpieces that you affix to the envelopes that will reach your loved ones and creditors, stamps are the federal government’s way of allowing us to say, “Hey, I care about something. Maybe not you, but something.”

Maybe the something is wildlife (Save the Manatees!) Maybe the something is Elvis (Long Live the King!)

Stamps are also a commitment. It takes a long time to go through a book of 20 stamps. Sometimes even months. You have to choose something that will have an importance that can stand the test of time.

What if I went to the one of those strip-mall store-front postal places and they only had booklets of Christmas-themed stamps? I don’t care if they are marked ‘forever’ they are seasonally and spiritually expired.

Nosiree, those are not the stamps for me.

The only place I could absolutely count on to have the greatest variety and most up-to-date artwork was the official P.O., so I tossed an extra container of hand sanitizer in my purse and ventured out.

Upon arrival, I surveyed the scene. It was everything I’d predicted it would be, except for one thing. One very big thing, set off to left side of the foyer: a postage vending machine. It was sleek and digital and completely touch-screen, quite unlike the one it had replaced. The predecessor looked as though it had spent its previous life dispensing snacks in an airport terminal, but this modern marvel looked like it could fly a plane.

And there was nobody in line to use it.

I pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming and stepped up to its luminous LED display.

Shortly after I initiated the transaction, I was presented the choices I’d hoped for.  It appeared there were several categories. How thoughtful!

Nostalgia briefly clouded my mind. Back in fifth grade, when I’d participated religiously in Mr. Ferron’s after-school stamp club, I used to take such joy in organizing my stamps by category.

The magical machine offered categories of hearts, stars, clovers, and more. Pretty much all the Lucky Charms marshmallow shapes were present and available. There was also a smiley face, which surely represented the “people” category. I was a bit disappointed that none of the symbols indicated an architecture group, which could have been grand.

Someone had stepped up behind me; I could sense it. There would be no time to search through all the categories. I needed something lovely, and I needed it fast.

LOVE-ly.

Aha. Hearts.

I touched the icon, eager to see the options but hoping the choices wouldn’t be too vast, out of respect for the next patron in line.

Something was wrong. The machine was humming a ‘printing’ sort of tune. The words THANK YOU FOR YOUR PURCHASE popped up on the screen.

And THIS is what popped out:

Stunned, I returned to the car with my hearts in my hands and began moving through the five stages of grief amid honks from parking-spot stalkers. Could they not SEE that my soul had just been crushed?

Denial (No one is going to accept these—they look amateur. Bush league! Everything I send out will be returned.)
Anger (How dare they squander my time and money for clip art. CLIP ART!)

Bargaining (Could I stand in the line and return these? Maybe the clerks will pity me and exchange them for something reasonable.)
Depression (The federal government has failed me. Again. Let’s all just hop in the hand-basket and get there already. Pack your ice-water, guys, because the time has come and things are about to get hot.)
Acceptance (I am stuck with these. Stuck! I shall have to use them up before I can even think about getting new ones. I know! I will write to twenty people this month. I’m at least 20 thank you cards behind. Or… I could write five really fat letters and put four stamps on each. Or four really REALLY fat letters and put five stamps on each…)

In passive protest, I mailed nothing for months. When a package I’d procrastinated in shipping could wait no longer, I realized that the solution had been right in front of me all along.

One stupid clip-art heart stamp on a missive is cheesy, but a collection of clip-art hearts, now that’s special. Who wouldn’t love to receive a box covered in hearts?

I planned my return trip to the post office for a time that I hoped would minimize the customary misery. Surprisingly, the postal employee who now had to scan in each stamp individually did not seem disproportionately irked at my decision, and when she asked if I needed more stamps, I gleefully seized the opportunity.

She presented at least twenty options. I chose something that signified my liberation from the clip art stamp debacle.

I hope that if you are ever in a sticky stamp situation, you will think twice before electing to take the easy way out.

Fine Arts Day

“Mom, you should sign up to be a Fine Arts Day parent next year,” Mia said, as we walked home from kindergarten last week.
“Why?” Admittedly, I was curious about this oddly specific request.
“So that we can get an orange card.”
“What’s an orange card?”
“I don’t know, but I really want to find out. Only the kids with Fine Arts Day parents got them. So, what do you say—next year?”
“Mia, think back to Fine Arts Day. Those kids’ parents are talented singers, and musicians, and photographers, and henna tattoo artists. They participate on Fine Arts Day because they have a special skill to share. I’m sorry, but I don’t.”
“Mom, you are a writer. That is the very finest art of all.”

Too verklempt to reply, we walked in silence for a few paces. Then, she turned to me and said, “Besides, aren’t you even a little curious about the orange card?”

Every Tree in Town

On the way home yesterday, I noticed a tremendous and truly splendid trail of trees growing in the grassy median separating northbound and southbound travelers. Equally spaced, healthy, and thriving, each one was perfect in its own way. What type of tree were they? How long had they been there? Who had planted them? How did the city decide on these things, anyway?

All of this made me think about the friend who’d sent me that shoebox of autumn leaves during that first fall in Texas.

Last fall, after I’d written about that situation, I’d wondered what had become of him. A quick google search revealed that he’d become a photographer—apparently a very successful and well-respected one, at that.

Guess what his subject of choice was? Trees. I read in his bio that one of his first major projects was called 'Every Tree in Town'.

From his website:

Every Tree in Town is part of Postcards of Next Door. As I walked every street in Willimantic, Connecticut, I attempted to photograph every spruce tree. The tree is a living remnant of the town’s industrial past. The trees were planted and made popular by the many Northern European immigrants working in the textile mills. The series consists of 1,017 images of 2,183 trees.

I was not surprised—I’d known he was destined for greatness from the moment we’d met. However, I was especially impressed by his topic of choice. Can you imagine the dedication, passion, and commitment it would take to canvass the town—on foot—to locate and photograph 2,183 trees?

As I looked out the car window at the Texas Instruments satellite campus, I wondered how many trees I could photograph before losing patience or interest.

There were at least ten surrounding the parking lot, and that seemed like too many.

Every tree in town?

I am so very proud of my friend.

This photo of my friend was on the Lower Manhattan Cultural Council's website.
http://lmcc.betterbiz.org/ideas-home/?id=24

Dream, memory, or stab of conscience?

I’ve never been plagued by nightmares of nudity in public places.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been waiting for the day for nudity to be socially acceptable so that I can be done with clothing forever.

I haven’t been haunted by dreams about lack of preparation, either.

I was born ready.

One of the most disturbing reoccurring dreams I’ve ever had involved cussing out my students.

If you knew me in my teaching days, you know that I almost never raised my volume or spoke sharply to the students. I was more apt to weep publicly when reading aloud Where the Red Fern Grows than to ever display anger, frustration, or even mild irritation.

The dream was always the same, and it began so innocuously that at first it was tough to tell it was a dream—in fact, when I’d recall it later in the day, there was always a panicky moment while I struggled to classify: was this a dream or a suppressed memory?

It was a normal school day and normal class time, with everyone present and/or accounted for.

An assignment had not been completed—not by one or two students, but by everyone—yet nobody seemed to care.

I tried to express my disappointment and received 28 blank stares.

I tried to appeal to their honor, but I still could not detect a pulse.
Becoming more and more frustrated, more desperate for a response, I raised my voice.

Nothing.

Starting to lose my composure, I sought reaction through shock-value and said something ugly.

Their expressions remained passive.
And that is when I snapped.

I said the most spiteful things I could muster. When I ran out of traditional expletives, I invented my own, each one more venomous than the one before.

Things that would make your grandma blush.

Things that would make your teenage hoodlum brother blush.

The students still did not respond, for each one was securely fastened to their own blissful denial, and here is when I knew it was not reality, because I could read their thoughts:

‘My sweet, sensitive teacher would never lose her cool and say ugly things to us; I must be dreaming…’

Climate Control

On Wednesday, we’d slathered the children in sunscreen and they swam all afternoon and evening, even though the water had registered at 78 or 80 degrees—FAR too cold for me.  

On Thursday, we woke up to a 39-degree morning. “If something fell from the sky right now,” I told the kids as we buried yesterday’s tan-lines and mosquito bites beneath layers of clothing, “it would be snow.”

For once, no one complained as I selected the second-to-heaviest of coats from the six-options-per-kid collection in the front closet, although I’m pretty sure I saw skepticism cross their pink sunburned cheeks—at this point, the only visible proof we had of the glorious day before.

The calendar says May, and the view of the yard confirms it—it’s one of the few times of the year when the grass is independently green. The temperature says January, though, and the wind--February’s signature trait—is whipping through the streets of our neighborhood and making me worry that we may have celebrated the giant heavy-limbed pear tree’s survival prematurely this year.

What is going on here?

I wondered, not for the first time, about all the things our kids won’t ever know because they were raised in Texas.  

They’ll never experience the semi-sacred seasonal ritual of storing away clothes that will be too warm or too cool for upcoming months. Nor will they recognize the smell of moth balls or experience the mistake of playing hide-and-seek in grandmother’s cedar closet. Here, you must have everything at the ready, although you are much more likely to need a tank top on New Year’s Day than a parka on Cinco de Mayo.

You’ll always need jeans in July in Texas, and sweatshirt access, too—throughout the hottest month, we move from one air-conditioned location to the next, house-to-car-to-store. You’re liable to shiver to death in the freezer section if you don’t remember to bundle up.

My children have never worn bibbed-snowpants and mittens linked by a string, one little paw dangling from each coat sleeve. They’ve never worn hand-knit mittens like the ones we used to—the ones lovingly made by Gramma Shaw or those sweet nuns at the convent next to Uncle Kevin’s house, so they don’t understand my frustration toward commercial winterwear. Hand-knit mittens were more versatile. Any mitten could be a lefty or a righty—whatever you happened to need it to be, while you waited for the previous pair to finish drying on the radiator.

There are no hand-knit mittens here, and I can’t begin to trace how long that folkart has been absent from this culture. The concept is useless, almost comical. Knit mittens here? Does Mrs. Claus crochet bikinis in the North Pole?

Children here have been known to wear oven mitts to play in the snow. In the rare event of more than a dusting, they dress stunted and scrawny little snowmen in bikinis because it’s the only guaranteed clothing item to not be needed that day—or at least in that moment.

Galoshes are easier to find here than proper snow boots. A few years ago, I was thrilled to find top-quality Thinsulate snow boots at consignment. Three dollars, I think I paid, and they looked brand new. There hasn’t been a true occasion to use them, and I’m sure Mia will outgrow them by next year.

They’ll return to consignment, still unused.

From the window today, I thought about all these things, as I watched the frigid wind blowing the blooming roses right off the bush. The sight drives me crazy because I know someone’s bound to step on a thorn while they’re running around barefoot tomorrow.

Tomorrow, when it’s 90 degrees.

“You swim in the ocean when we go to visit Gramma and Opa in Maine, but you say this water is too cold?” the kids squawked. It was more accusation than question, as I remained at the steps of the pool on Wednesday, reluctantly dipping in my toes as they splashed and played.

 “It’s different from here,” I try to explain. But can I? Could I ever really get them to understand?

Boston's Baby

The sauce, so robust.
The pepperoni, so sensationally spicy.
The crust, so perfectly crisp.

Everything about it is substantial and deeply satisfying. Boston’s is an oasis in our North Texas pizza desert, and I am not exaggerating when I say this:

Boston’s changed my life.

I could sing the praises of Boston’s Pizza until the end of my days. The only problem with it is the location—way too far from where we were living at the time.

When, at nine months pregnant and noon on a fine September Thursday, something suddenly felt different, I knew what was happening-- I was having a heart attack.

What else could explain the waves of gripping chest pain that took hold of me every three to four minutes?

The doctor was appropriately concerned and asked us to come in. Someone decided—probably because of my girth—that it would be a better idea to check in, so we did. My heart attack was quickly ruled out and replaced with a new diagnosis: labor contractions. The steadiest and strongest among all the patients on the maternity floor, I heard the nurse murmur into the phone to my doctor.

Yet there was no dilation. No other signs that this baby intended to be born today or anytime soon. None.

They released us around 8 p.m., but I did not want to go straight home. Boston’s Pizza was nearby.

“Eight hours ago, you thought you were having a heart attack. Now you want to stop for pizza?” I would not be deterred his health-logic, so I launched my campaign.

“It’s on the way, sort of.”

And, “I bet you’re starving. I’m starving!”
And, “This might be our last opportunity for a date for a long time!”
For the grand finale, I brought out my best line, which was limited-time-only and sure to expire soon:
“The baby is craving it. She needs it.”

Naturally, we'd do anything for the baby.

Soon we were pulling into the parking lot and perusing the menu.

“I know this sounds wild, but could we get two pizzas? Please? You heard the doctor-- the baby’s not coming anytime soon, and we almost never have an opportunity for Boston’s pizza. We’ll take it home, and I’ll have it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the next few days. You know I will, I promise. Please?”

He sighed and rolled his eyes, but he agreed. Nearly $70 later, we left with two family-sized boxes.

At 3 a.m., my water broke. It was time to make the one-hour drive back to the hospital.

“I’ll get your hospital bag. You head toward the car.”

“I’ll get my hospital bag. You go get the pizza.”

He didn’t realize that I was not joking. So obtuse. Why would I joke at a time like that?

We spent the whole next day back in the maternity ward. He made phone calls to our loved ones while I contracted and thought about all that pizza at home. Sometimes I thought about it with hope. Other times, I thought about it with bitterness.

Eight p.m. and still no baby. The decision was made to operate. My chances of ever seeing that pizza again were fading, fading, fading.

When I regained consciousness, they placed sweet baby Mia in my arms, and I forgot about everything else. Temporarily.

The day we were to be released, Mia’s dad made a quick trip home to ready the house for our return. On his way back to the hospital, he called from the car and we traded updates.

“The baby is fine. Eating and sleeping like a champ. Now, about that pizza…”

The pizza hadn’t made it. It was too late. Nothing could be done, he told me.

Fully aware of my foolishness, I attempted to replace the grief in my heart with more mommy-like thoughts.

Lion King, Circle of Life.
Out with the old, in with the new.

Fortunately the baby kept us busy, and there was no more time to dwell on the loss.

The passage of time is such a benevolent friend to our perspective, isn’t it?

When the wives’ tales weave through town whispering wisdom for how to bring on the baby, add Boston’s Pizza to the list. Remember, the trick is to order several days’ and seventy dollars’ worth. When strategies like taking long walks, going for bumpy car rides, and eating pineapple fail to induce labor, Boston’s delivers.

At the Speed Queen

Many years ago, I received news that my friend Greg had passed away unexpectedly. We’d worked at the same restaurant and waited tables together for several months, so the foundation of the friendship was proximity, circumstance, and convenience. Despite the superficial nature of our social connection, Greg was warm and witty, and I’d enjoyed his company on the days we’d been scheduled to work together.                   

It was rumored that he had OD’d.

I didn’t need to know the details.

He’d been my friend, and now he was gone. 

Two days after he passed away and two days before the funeral, I had a dream.

Greg and I were having a conversation, but I was distracted by the environment that surrounded us, or rather the lack of environment. I couldn’t quite get my bearings, and I had the oddest feeling of suspended animation, like the canned fruit in Jell-o or the fight scene in The Matrix when everything just stops mid-air while the camera pans around the scene. Except here, there was no scene. There was nothingness, but I was warm and safe and somehow confident that I wouldn’t fall.

Listen to me. Tell Michelle and Erin it’s okay. Are you listening? Tell them I understand. Will you tell them?

I woke up, more puzzled than afraid, and wondered if it was a dream.

The day of the funeral was warm and the sun was too bright, which has always bothered me. Rainy days seem more compassionate—there’s an appropriate gloom when even the weather cries for the loss of a loved one.

Sunny days seem to flaunt their betrayal, and I always think How dare the world continue as if nothing is wrong and nothing has changed? Can’t you see we’re hurting here?

I looked for Michelle and Erin at the funeral, but I didn’t see them. I knew them—not very well—but enough to recognize them. Should I even tell them about the dream?

There were a lot of people there, and the sorrow was suffocating. My soul couldn’t breathe. Becoming more and more convinced that I, too, was about to die, I bolted for the exit precisely one half-second after the minister’s closing prayer.

If there was a chance to tell them, I’d missed it. I was not going to seek them out to tell them about the unusual dream now. Even I knew that would be weird.

About a month later, I saw Michelle at the Speed Queen. The run-down little laundromat was a neighborhood favorite, though I’m still not sure why.

“Did you hear about Greg?” she asked solemnly.

“Yes, I’m so sorry. I know how close you were,” I told her. Cautiously, I added, “I looked for you at the funeral.”

“We weren’t there." She paused, and her eyes filled. "We were on a cruise—Erin and I—for graduation. We found out when we came home, and he was gone, and we’d missed him. We missed everything. I can’t believe. I just. I still…”

Except for the fact that things like this were never supposed to happen in real life, everything was starting to make sense.

“About that,” I took a deep breath. “Greg says it’s okay and that he understands.”

There is no other way to say this: her normally almond-shaped Japanese eyes widened to acorn proportions.

Not bothering to apologize for sounding crazy, I explained the whole thing.

She sobbed.

She sighed.

She hugged me and thanked me, and then she excused herself to go find Erin and tell her the good news.

It was Greg who had first introduced me to Francis Ford Coppola’s Claret. Doesn’t it seem odd that I’d spend $15 on a bottle of wine when I was 22 when now, at age 34, $4 is just too much? Also, doesn’t it seem unfortunate that the funeral home is adjacent to the Speed Queen?