Down on My Birthday

Today is my birthday. I usually love my birthday. I celebrate for the whole month. And I tell everybody I come across what day it is so they’ll have an opportunity to tell me that they’re glad I was born. I’ve been known to throw myself a party. But I haven’t felt like celebrating lately. For one thing, it turns out that someone I thought liked me doesn’t like me at all, which is always demoralizing. But this sort of revelation occurs, it happens to everyone, relationships are tricky, and blah, blah, blah—though knowing and believing these truisms doesn’t make it any less hurtful.

Also, the writing isn’t going well. In the last year-and-a-half I’ve completed two novels which I regard as my best work—family dramas with endearing characters and, of course, humor. And my agent’s trying to sell a quirky and charming mystery series which, if a publisher ever buys it, will most certainly take off. The problem is that what I’m currently working on isn’t any fun. Ordinarily, in my morning writing session, when I produce something that’s meaningful or evocative, or when I put words together in an imaginative or witty way, I get a surge of endorphins that puts me in a good mood that’ll last all day. But with this book I’m just not feeling it. I suppose I could drop it and start something that does inspire, but with no manuscripts selling, and nobody reading the stories that I write for the specific purpose of being enjoyed, what’s the point? This begs the most depressing question of all—have I fallen out of love with writing? 

So yeah, I’m feeling low and dwelling on morbid things like this: Both my parents had Alzheimer’s—my father began doing and saying inexplicable things when he was in his seventies; and my mother started showing signs of it in her late sixties which, frankly, isn’t that far off for me. Being closer to my mother than my father, I witnessed each step of her decline. At first she repeated herself—and the time between repeats grew steadily shorter until she said the same thing every fifteen seconds. One time she got it in her head to tell me, “This is the fattest you’ve ever been.” And she said it again and again and again. I couldn’t decide between screaming at her or crying. And she began to laugh when everyone else laughed, pretending that she knew what everyone was laughing about. She lost words every day—first the names of things, then the ability to voice her needs—until there simply were no more words left. Thinking that there might come a time when I can no longer play with words is scary as hell. And every so often I’ll forget the name of something. Or I’ll find myself in a room and wonder why I’m there. Also, I sometimes become disoriented. I worry about Alzheimer’s to the point of obsession. 

And why am I thinking about this crap today, when ordinarily I’d be dancing around the house singing Happy Birthday? I’m stopping it right now by putting something upbeat on my screen. 

I had a great conversation with my son, Sam, this morning. He and his wife, Julia, work and live in London. They just bought a flat in Greenwich, which we will get to see when we visit over the Christmas holidays. He told me a funny story about his job, which is that the people he works with are all named Sam—six or eight of them. And we discussed plans for David’s and my upcoming trip. I love Harrod’s and plan to spend a day there. Also, we’re going to the caroling at Royal Albert Hall, which I recall as being glorious. We’ll spend Christmas in Plymouth with Julia’s parents—so nice of them to invite us—and then do some sightseeing in Cornwall, home of two of my favorite literary writers, Daphne Du Maurier and Virginia Woolf. So there’s something to look forward to, and thinking about it has indeed made me feel better. 

Another uplifting thing is that, even when I’m feeling unappreciated and disheartened, people come through. I got a wonderful gift from a friend that I didn’t expect—and a surprise is always nice. And I’ve had many well-wishing texts, cards, emails, and phone calls to remind me that, in my life, I have people who do like me and who care enough to let me know it. So thanks, everyone, for giving me happy thoughts to hang on to when I’m feeling sad. 

The card I got from Curtis. Inside was a nice note and a gift card from a very nice spa, Milk and Honey—Yay! Will I have a facial or a massage?

Stuff Left Behind

A while back the beam at the apex of our ceiling slipped down several inches on one end. A chandelier was centrally mounted on the beam, and when the beam slipped the light fixture ripped from the dry wall of the ceiling, exposing the wires above. In fact, it looked like the wiring was all that was keeping the beam and the chandelier from crashing down. Furthermore, as the beam was lower on one side than the other, it seemed that if the thing slipped further and fell, considering the implied trajectory, it would take out the big window at the back of the house.  

All very precarious and a cause for alarm. 

David called a guy he knew through another guy he knew and explained the situation; and though the guy seemed indignant with David for calling it an emergency (“You’d be surprised how many people say they have an emergency when it simply isn’t an emergency!”) he said he’d be in the area that afternoon and he’d stop by and take a look. We were pleasantly surprised when he showed up. Bringing a tall enough ladder to reach the ceiling, he admitted that yes, this was an actual emergency. 

He climbed his ladder and screwed two-by-fours below both ends of the beam to stabilize the situation until his guys could get by later in the week and do a more permanent repair. Then he decided to leave the ladder for them to use when they came. 

The week went by, then the next week. No fix-it guys came. David left messages that weren’t returned. After about a month, David contacted the men he builds Habitat houses with and asked if, in exchange for a meal and copious amounts of beer (in other words, a party) they’d come take a stab at fixing the thing. They erected scaffolding in our back den and went right to work—and it’s mighty disconcerting seeing a bunch of seventy-year-olds balancing on a couple of narrow planks twenty feet in the air. They did an excellent job and we’re grateful. 

And we still have the first guy’s ladder. 

Along comes the next home repair. David and I attempted to redo our deck last year and we did an exceptionally shoddy job. So we hired someone to do it properly this year. The result is wonderful. All the mistakes we made last year have been smoothed away and the stain brings out the grain of the wood. 

On a personal note, I don’t like it when workmen are hanging around. David’s involved out in the community, and more often than not I’m the one who’s at home to deal with these people. Oh, they’re polite, respectful, friendly; but they’re also intrusive. For instance, a month or so ago David arranged for someone to come have a look at the in-ground watering system, which was skipping stations and flooding in some areas. The guy came, and though he’d agreed to call David and tell him what work would be needed and to give him an estimate, he insisted on taking me from sprinkler head to sprinkler head to listen to his analysis of each one; then he lectured about the workings of the control panel, the electronics, and the switches. As for me, in one ear and out the other. The plumbers, the lawn guys, the septic guy, the roofers, the propane guys, the air conditioner guys—someone’s always seeing to things around here and they all want me to pay attention to what they’re doing and how they’re doing it. 

Anyway, the deck. The crew was here for three days and they’re gone now. But they left a sander in our driveway. A sander! Not something we need or want, yet there it is, a blight that will have the neighbors knocking on our door with complaints if we don’t figure out what to do with it in the next few days. 

Service people leave things behind on a regular basis. The woman who measured for the blinds left her measuring tape sitting on the window sill—a nice one. Workers have left wrenches, hammers, nail guns, saws, work gloves, and screwdrivers. Don’t these people need these tools to do their jobs? Leaving my laptop somewhere and never retrieving it is something I’d never do. 

Also, we have enough stuff falling out of our garage without accumulating that of others.

We have a friend who often visited us in our various locations (good times) and after each visit she left something behind—her bathing suit, hiking shoes, a pair of earrings, the special spice she bought at the suq—and because these things were vital to her existence, I was inevitably requested to “send them on,” which isn’t a simple task in some countries. My thought about this was that she subconsciously wanted to make sure she was remembered when she was gone. I imagined her dropping possessions everywhere she went—a sweater here, a pair of sunglasses there—in the hope that, though she’d moved on, the memory of her would linger. 

I can’t imagine my “being remembered” theory would apply to all the service guys who’ve left their work accouterments at our house. On the other hand, we have all the tools we’ll ever need.

The sander, sandpaper next to it. Surely it’s of value to someone.

The ladder. It’s simply too big to fit in the garage so we’ve got it on the front porch.

From the Lake of the Ozarks

I was told that there were tons of things to do here and that it was beautiful. Beautiful, yes it is. 

The drive up from Marble Falls alternated between no traffic at all and harrowing. It’s going to take me a while to get over the harrowing segments. Eighteen wheelers wove in and out of lanes like they thought they were Ferraris. And once, when the speed limit was sixty-five, I looked at the dash and saw that I was going ninety, and cars were passing me! Seriously! (Seriously is a throw-away word. I tried taking it out, but I like the emphasis it brings. Seriously, try it without. You’ll see, seriously.)

Like the driving, the place where we’re staying is a study in contrasts. The lobby is elegant and the amenities sounded great on the website—four golf courses, several restaurants, the most highly rated spa in the state—also among the top twenty in the nation. But three of the golf courses aren’t open, the only food available is from the bar because the restaurants are closed, and the spa is fully booked for the whole week. The spa is my error. I didn’t think to book ahead. Oh, and no cleaning service. If we want fresh towels we must put in a request. The people at reception explain apologetically that they’re shorthanded, that they can’t find people who want to work. I’ve been hearing this everywhere, but I’m not sure I believe it. I think businesses suffered horrible financial damage during the shutdown and at this point nobody can afford to hire more than a bare-bones staff. 

The room itself is good-sized, comfortable. But this place is old and shows it—the door sticks and is splintery, and the carpet, light fixtures, and paneled walls and ceiling are from a previous era. And there’s one of those horrendous loud fans that roars at you when you pee. Also, ants. 

Right now David’s playing golf. I intend to go shopping while he smacks the small ball. When I travel somewhere the first thing I like to do is shop. Looking at what’s on the shelves is the way I come to know the local soul. I’ve always heard that there’re tons of antique shops and unique boutiques in the Ozarks. So I look up shopping on the E-cierge in the lobby. Kohls and Target, Mattress Firm and Harley-Davidson. No thanks. 

I hear the pool area has a twenty-person hot tub. On the way to check that out, I stop by the spa and ask the receptionist to put me on their waiting list. I see they’ve got swimming suits, and I didn’t bring mine, so if I want to do the hot tub thing I’ll need to buy one. I slide the suits along the rack, inspecting the tags. Three styles, four of each style. They’re all size four or six. 

“Are these all the sizes you have?” I ask the spastress. 

“I’m afraid so.”

“I haven’t been a size six since I was ten.”

“Yeah, the realistic sizes sell out first.”

So, no suit. Now there’s no point, really, in checking out the pool. But I’ll do that anyway. Sometimes there’s a steam room in the dressing room and if that’s the case I can get by with wrapping up in a towel. I love a good sweat. But my key card doesn’t unlock the door to the pool deck, so I must go get it reset at the front desk. 

“This wouldn’t work at the pool so I assume it won’t work on the door to my room,” I tell the guy behind the counter as I hand it over. 

“Reasonable to assume,” he tells me. He tests the key, looks puzzled, and says, “It’s working.”

“The green light came on but the door wouldn’t budge.”

“So it must be that no one ever opened the pool today.”

Well that’s just dumb. He seems unfazed and gives no indication that he’s going to take steps to open the pool. I turn away. 

There are a few things going on in my life that’ve got me depressed, so I figure I might as well go back to the room and drink. 

But it’s the most beautiful kind of day—clear skies, no wind, warm but not too hot. And the way the trees come right down to the water is intriguing—no beaches here, just thick woods right to the water line. So I change directions, circle the building, and descend the two-hundred-step staircase to the marina. 

A girl looks up from her phone when I enter the office on the dock—beautiful, blond, probably nineteen. A size four. 

“I’m thinking about renting a boat,” I tell her. 

“It’s half price right now because the season’s basically over.”

How wonderfully hunky-dory.

“How far in advance do I need to make a reservation?”

“Oh, no notice needed. We haven’t been busy since Labor Day.”

“Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I don’t know anything about boats. The one she shows me is blue with a shade over the top and a motor. It’s in good shape, looks pretty new. 

I tell her I’d like to take it out and that I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. I go back to the room and drop my big bottle of vodka, a few cans of tonic, and my plastic Wahlburgers glass into David’s A&M cooler. Grabbing a jacket on the way out, I return to the marina, pay for the boat and, with the cooler for company, reverse out of the slip.

From the boat. Going out on the lake to drink.

Vile Recurrence

Some hang on to grudges formed long ago. Parents were harsh or begrudging. Friends were duplicitous or disloyal. No one wants to be visited by the sour times from the past, but it seems that most often it’s the bad memories that come to call. Why is that? Is replaying the low moments filling a hunger? I’m not prone to this sort of pessimistic dwelling, but I know a few who are, and when they speak of ancient cruelties perpetrated upon them, my platitudes like “rise above” or “let it go” fall flat.

In an effort to understand the lingering resentments of others, I search for negative feelings that I might be holding on to. My mother was hypercritical and my father was moody. So what? They tried to be good parents and they had their own worries—their marriage was always troubled and they both had responsibilities outside our home. Overall, I figure they did the best they could. 

So, no protracted bitterness there. Then a familiar dark memory floats upward and bobs at the top. There is one umbrage that I have never been able to put from my mind, an act so audaciously vicious that it visits me while I sleep and while I drive. It crashes into my head during times of peace, making me wonder if my calmness offends, if my psyche craves discord. Seriously, my anger at this incident was so extreme at the time that years later just thinking about it makes my breath come faster and my heart pound harder in my chest.

Here it is:

When my oldest son, Curtis, was seven years old he went to a private boys’ school in Gerrard’s Cross, in the UK. One of his classmates, Thomas, had a twin, Teresa, and the two of them got out of school at the same time; and the school Teresa went to was in Beaconsfield, the village where we lived. As the girls’ school was near our home, Thomas’s mother, Lila, asked if I would mind picking Thomas up in Gerrard’s Cross and dropping him by her car at the girls’ school. As I understood her tricky situation and this didn’t sound like too huge an imposition, I agreed to help her out. 

But it did turn out to be an imposition. More often than not, Lila was late, leaving me in charge of her twins—in addition to my two boys, who were tired and wanting to get home. Also, as it was a peak time at the school, traffic was snarled and slow-moving throughout the neighborhood. It took ten minutes to get near the pickup point, and when we got there, Lila had still not arrived. So Teresa got in my car, I pulled to the side, and we waited. 

While this isn’t pertinent, but sort of is, Lila always looked noticeably, exaggeratedly great, as if she were on her way to a wedding—clothes stylish, accessories to match, jewelry draped, makeup flawless, hair perfect. On my part, petty resentment crept in. If she spent twenty minutes less on her face and hair, maybe she could be on time to meet her son and pick up her little girl. 

I was tactful when I pointed out that what should take one minute was taking half an hour, and that it would be better if she were on time. But careful wording is wasted on some, and she continued in her tardiness. This went on for a couple of months. I wanted to be liked and this kind of good deed was what I thought likeable people did, so I put up with it—until one afternoon, on the way from one school to the other, Curtis was uncharacteristically quiet. I didn’t find out what was wrong until we got home, at which point he cried miserably and told me that everybody in the class had been invited to Thomas’s birthday party except him. 

I was furious. I called Lila. 

“Is this true?” Voice trembling with rage.

“Well, Thomas doesn’t like Curtis,” she explained. “It seems that during playtime Curtis is always the bad guy.”

“That’s because he’s smart enough to know that in order to have a fun game of cowboys and Indians, someone has to be the Indian.”

“That may be true, but Thomas doesn’t understand that.”

“Then explain it to him.”

“I’m sorry. He simply doesn’t want your son at his party.”

“But I’ve been doing this helpful favor for you.”

“I don’t see what one thing has to do with the other.”

“I won’t be delivering Thomas to you anymore,” I said. And I hung up.

I’d been taken advantage of and my son had been hurt. It was the angriest I’ve ever been—and that intensity of emotion is something a person never gets over, which, I suppose, is why it’s stayed with me. If I have such an extreme physiological reaction to this single long-ago incident—the pounding heart, the rapid breathing—what must it be like for a person who holds on to a thousand of these injustices, bringing them out to be examined and endured again and again? It’s not healthy, I know that much. And in the face of this inability to transcend, I am helpless.

As a mini-epilogue, Thomas was asked to leave the school shortly after that. Lip-to-ear whispers had it that he simply couldn’t keep up with the work, which isn’t surprising as he was too stupid to understand that if you’re going to play good-guy/bad-guy someone needs to step up and be the bad guy.