A Conversation

Driving up a busy street in our neighborhood, my husband and I are accosted at each intersection by people asking for money. It’s an annual charity thing, not sure which one, but basically, it seems to involve groups of volunteers, everyone wearing white and holding money buckets and weaving between cars. It is causing my husband immense anxiety.

Someone is going to get run over, he says, as we roll through the first intersection, narrowly skimming past one of the white-wearing, money-bucket-holders. 

Who thought this was a good idea? he says, at the next intersection, a volunteer darting out in front of us to accept a gift from a nearby car. 

I try to change the subject. It’s a story I just heard on the Family Secrets podcast about a woman living in India in the early 2000s, and how every few months violence would flare up, but mostly, she could sort of forget about it and go on with her life until the next flare-up would remind her again how much danger she was in. 

If someone gets run over, my husband says, wouldn’t that bankrupt the charity? 

Yeah, I say. But I can see it, though, how you could forget about it. I mean, look at us during Covid, how fast we got used to working from home and not going out to restaurants and flinching every time you heard a person cough. 

I don’t want to think about it, my husband says, but I can’t help thinking about it. A car slamming into someone, the guy flying up in the air.  

And then there’s now, I say. Like, what’s going to happen in January when they start rounding up immigrant families and outlaw polio vaccines and get rid of the Affordable Care Act? 

There’s gotta be a better way to ask for money, my husband says. 

Maybe this is what people want? I say. 

We’re at a red light, and the white-suited bucket-swingers surround our car, but, realizing we are a dead end, quickly disperse. 

I don’t know why it bothers me so much, my husband says. 

Because you care, I tell him. And we continue our drive up the street, our dueling conversations, our disparate anxieties, each inside our own head, each with our eyes worriedly on the road ahead.  

Musings on HROBs

My husband is reading a book about retirement, and it's got me thinking a lot about retirement. Mostly, I'm thinking about how I'm not old enough to retire. But apparently, I am, because I'm married to someone who is the same age, and he's been working at the same company for thirty-five years, and lately, he's been pondering the eventual, inevitable future, peppering our conversation with things like

HROBs (Happiest Retirees on the Block) 

and 

What are your Core Pursuits? 

which are topics that come up in the book he's been reading, What the Happiest Retirees Know: 10 Habits for a Healthy, Secure, and Joyful Life by Wes Moss. In the book Wes Moss did a survey of 2000 retirees and distilled their answers down to a specific formula for what makes an HROB, such as You should be married and have 2.5 kids and live close to 50% of them. Also, make sure you have two to six Close Connections (friends) and 3.6 Core Pursuits (hobbies). 

Side note: Your average HROB is in good health and has a lot of money, but Wes sorta glosses over this part.

Meanwhile, my husband has gotten fixated on the hobbies, worrying that because he only has one, woodworking, he needs to up his game and find 2.6 more.  

Maybe one is enough, I tell him, pointing out that woodworking is a time-consuming hobby. I mean, he singlehandedly remodeled our kitchen and has a list of orders from friends who'd like him to build something for them (his specialties are bookcases, tables and Little Free Libraries) and anyway, without having read the book, I think Wes would agree that it's not the number of hobbies you have, but that they are enjoyable and interesting and meaningful. 

Like, gardening is for me. And reading. And working at the library. But is that a hobby if I'm getting paid? (Side note #2: I don't get paid a living wage, and I just recently learned that over 70% of my co-workers, some of whom work full-time and would NOT call their job at the library a hobby, also do not get paid a living wage.)

And where does writing fit in? It's not a job (very little pay; and regardless, I would never retire from it.) And yet, it's not a hobby, because it's just something I do, like brushing my teeth or breathing. It's how I make sense of the world, or rather, how I make my peace with the senselessness of it. How I work through what puzzles me, like why we don't value our public servants enough to pay them a living wage. Or how I grapple with the reality that my husband is reading books about retirement, when once upon a time

we were just starting out, consumed each moment by the stuff of the future, all of it tomorrow or some day or next year, until suddenly, everything we'd planned for and saved for, the future, 

is here. Or, almost here. We're not Rs yet. But we do live on a B, and most of the time, we're H. And for today, that is E. (enough)

Beautiful Things

After the election my friend and I said we would share a picture with each other each day of one beautiful thing. 

The first day, all I could find was a tree with yellow leaves, and my friend, who was on vacation in Utah, sent me a picture of her hotel breakfast. I was walking

the dog around the block, and the sky was gray, and everything was misty like the world had sunk into a dark cloud. A woman was out raking leaves, and I had the suspicious feeling that she was a stranger, and maybe she was one of the people who glossed over injustice for the sake of cheaper groceries. Hi, she said, and I said, Hi, how are you? and she said, Well, not great, and I said, Me neither,

and we both let out the kind of long, relieved sigh you feel when you recognize a friend. Maybe we are going to be okay, or okay-ish. Either that, or fall into despair. The next day I saw a bald eagle flying in front of my house, 

and my friend hiked a trail in Utah, and my daughter and her friend finished crocheting a blanket, and my son climbed a mountain and watched the sun coming up, and in the picture he shared, you could see his little house down below, a patchwork of fields, the lake, the distant mountains.  

A few miles away from my neighborhood a group of men waved nazi flags and marched down the street yelling slurs and I had to turn off the news because I couldn't bear to hear anymore about the incoming administration’s cabinet picks, the sexual abusers, the criminals, the crackpots. The sun didn’t come out most days, 

but my husband set out bird seed in front of the bird camera and it caught the most amazing-looking bird, mid-flight, and later, I found a frilly white iris growing randomly near the garage. 

I don't know why everything feels different, why, at the same time, it feels the same. And how is it that every day I wake up in surprise to the brokenness and the beauty?

Encounter

The cardinal has shown up again on the back porch. I find him early mornings in cold weather, and it always startles me. The black, unblinking eyes. How still he is. Is he dead? is what I always think. But no. He’s just perched there, half scary looking and half comical. He watches me let the dog out and watches me letting the dog back in. I wonder what he is thinking. Am I an enemy to him? 

This the kind of question I have at five o’clock in the morning. I want to say, no, because, why not? Isn’t it kinder to give each other the benefit of the doubt? Yes. 

Although sometimes suspicion and dark feelings win out. For example, mornings driving to work when the Starbucks drive thru line winds into the street and keeps me from making the green light. The other day this happened when I was chatting with my daughter, and I am embarrassed to say how long I slammed my hand down on the car horn. The string of bad words coming out of my mouth. You wouldn’t believe it. 

Mom! she said. Oh my God, calm down. 

And I laughed and vowed to forgive all the idiots in the world. Except, for this one guy in the gift shop at the art museum downtown. Listen to this:

A couple of months ago my husband and I went to the museum and at the end of our visit browsed the gift shop, pausing by a display of Charley Harper merch. Colorful prints and notecards, a set of drinking glasses, each featuring a cardinal, $15.95 a piece. Pricey for a glass, but these were so cool-looking and reminded us of the cardinal on the back porch. 

We bought two and the clerk charged us 18.95 for them. These are 15.95, my husband whispered (to me), and I relayed that info to the clerk. 

Nope, he said in a hoity-toity tone. They’re 18.95.  

Okay, I said. But as soon as we were out the door, my husband was pulling the glasses out of the bag and unwrapping them. They’re 15.95, he said. Look!

I looked. Sure enough. 15.95. Do you want to go back in and show the guy? I said. 

No, he said, resigned. I could feel his resignation and wanted to cheer him up. The glasses are fun and it’s only 6 dollars difference. Who cares. He agreed, but when we got home, he peeled the 15.95 price sticker off and stuck it to the wall in the kitchen. A reminder of righteous outrage, I guess, and the things we let go.

The story does not end there. 

A few weeks later my husband was out of town, and I had the bright idea to go back to the art museum and buy four more glasses. I went straight to the gift shop, found the glasses, turned each one over to look at the price sticker (15.95), brought them over to the counter and greeted the same clerk, who rang them up as 18.95. 

These are 15.95, I said, politely. 

No, they’re 18.95, he said, not politely.

Yes, they are, I said. I was starting to sweat. I held a glass toward him and pointed out the price tag. 

Hmph, the clerk said. Well, those are marked incorrectly. They’re 18.95. 

Except, they're not.

They are. 

I laughed. Are you really going to charge me 18.95? I said.

He didn’t answer. He rang them up and wrapped each one so slowly, I thought I might die. I had to take off my coat I was sweating so much. When he handed me the receipt, I saw the price. He’d gone with 15.95, but apparently didn't want to admit it. I had a wild thought that I could push him. Tell him he owed me 6 bucks from the last time, but I decided against it. Sometimes I can be the bigger person. 

I left the shop and immediately burst out laughing. I felt like I’d gotten away with something, but I don’t know what. A funny story. A set of silly glasses that never stop making me smile. 

This morning I sipped water out of one as the dog went out, came in. I peeked at the bird perched on the back porch and raised the glass. 

Cheers to you, friend.  

 

Why Are You Here?

the little girl asks me. She's a regular at the library where I work, but that branch is closed for renovations, and now I'm at the main branch and feeling out of place and a smidge useless at the moment. Why AM I here? 

Because the other library is closed, says the little girl's mother. 

Why? says the little girl. 

Because they need to fix it.

Why?

Because it's broken. 

Why?

I used to have my own three-year-olds, so I know this can go on all day. I give the little girl a sticker. It's a bear wearing sunglasses. Why? the little girl asks me, and I want to say, I don't know. I don't know about anything anymore. We are living in strange times, where one moment you're feeling hope-y and change-y, and the next, you're googling How to Live under an Authoritarian Regime (Don't submit in advance) or scrolling around on Zillow searching for houses for sale in Blue States (Vermont looks nice). 

Instead, I say, Because he's a silly bear. 

Which seems to satisfy her because she goes off to play at the train table, and I head over to the story time area to sign in patrons for Baby Tummy Time. We didn't have this program at my old branch, and I am curious. Picture a circle of baby-sized yoga mats. Picture me flopping onto one of them. 

Okay, I would never do that, but the thought pings in my head. The world leaking in again. The weather. What one of my co-workers calls Wuthering Heights weather. Think gray. Think cold. Think emotionally immature vengeful lovers bellowing for each other across the moors.

The babies and their caregivers gather, and I try to sign them in, but the sign-in software doesn't make sense to me, and I resort to scribbling numbers on a post-it note. 22. Why would anyone want to have a baby right now? These babies, though. I wish you could see them. 

Some are so teeny tiny that when their grown-ups set them on the yoga mats, they immediately curl up like little pillbugs. An older baby rolls off her mat and keeps rolling across the carpet. The babies nurse. The babies cry. The babies sleep. One of the little pillbugs wakes up and lifts his head to look around. What does he make of this place? 

And what's with the old library lady cooing and sing-songing "Hello! Aren't you a cutie!" into his little face? Tummy-time's over and I'm back at the desk, the three-year-old patron at the train table, taking notice, skipping over sporting her sticker. 

You're here! she says. 

I nod and smile. I'm here. 

This Is Not a Drill

I am a teacher, and we are learning, in the elementary school where I work, about lockdowns. Say, a gunman enters the school. What do we do? The teachers in the room around me are taking notes, nodding solemnly to this presentation. I am thinking about my own children at a school only a few miles away, my son in third grade, my little daughter, just starting kindergarten. Oh my God. What do we do?

Don’t panic, says the presenter. 

When the alarm sounds, go to your classroom doorways, quickly. Step into the hallway and sweep inside everyone who is close by. The little boy on his way back from the drinking fountain. The little girl heading toward the restroom. Pull them into your room and lock the doors until the danger passes.

But I am still stuck in the doorway. What will happen to the kid inside the restroom? The housekeeper, pushing her mop at the other end of the hallway? The child late to school and just now bounding up the stairs? How wide can our arms sweep? 

And the gunman. Who is he? A teenager crying out for help from his distracted parents, ignored? (They bought him the gun.) A man angry about something or other. What he believes he is owed or a personal grievance or revenge or some warped desire for chaos, a need to burn it all down. 

I don’t have the mental energy for these people right now. First, my own doorway, my own classroom. And please, please, please, in the place where my children might be this moment, skipping down the hall, let a kind somebody sweep them inside  

where the room is warm and filled with books. Colorful art on the walls, plants on the windowsills. Where we sit, cross-legged on the floor together and rest up, ready ourselves to fight if we have to,

singing softly in the dark, telling each other stories. 

Over the Edge

Last night I didn’t want to look at the election results. I put my phone away. I was thinking, this is the Schrödinger's cat point of the timeline, where good things can still happen and I want to live in that space for a little while longer. 

My husband woke me up in the middle of the night. He said, He won. I couldn’t go back to sleep. I had to do my four-count breathing. I woke from a dream that all of the Harris signs in the neighborhood were flipped upside down. I realized, This is reality. Why am I fighting against it? 

It's what many people want. The name calling and the wrestlemania-like spectacle. The fear of Other, whoever Other happens to be. They want RFK Jr with his brain worm in charge of Health and Human Services and Elon Musk to tank the economy how he tanked Twitter. How do you argue with that?  

After the 2016 election, I walked around in a daze, worrying about abortion access and the hatred stirred up about Muslim people and Black people and Mexican people and disabled people. The newly elected president had proudly bragged that he could grab women anytime he wanted and they would let him. I tunneled back to an old traumatized childhood self and thought I might be losing my mind. 

But then I rallied. I threw myself into every resistance group I could find. I called congresspeople and went to protests. At the Women's March in DC I saw John Kerry walking down the sidewalk in his long dark coat. He was so tall and somber looking. It made me think of Abraham Lincoln. Kerry had been the Secretary of State and I imagined him thinking, Great, now all my work’s going to shit.  

The most important difference between the two candidates: she will accept the loss; he would never. Are people really okay with this? 

At the library we put up a display of cozy books. What will our patrons want to see on Wednesday when they walk in, looking for some sign that the world we live in is the same world we lived in yesterday. Books about knitting and making soup. Light mysteries and sentimental stories. I won't be there. 

My husband had a medical procedure yesterday, and I'm here with him at home. He’s fine. But there was a moment in the hospital while I was waiting for the news, and it could have gone either way. It can always go either way. I was looking at the other people waiting around me, some on their phones, some flipping through magazines. Over the intercom an urgent voice said, Code Blue Code Blue. We all looked up at the ceiling and we knew.

Someone was being lost or someone was being saved. Saved, I pray. Saved.