It is summer. Summer is my favorite. Though it isn’t all perfect–the air is hot and thick and heavy and crawls down my throat every time I walk out the back door with the dog—it is perfect enough. It is all my children home without the pressures of exams and projects. It is turning off of the alarm clocks and letting the rising light along the river or the hungry snorts of the dog wake me up. It is trips to summer camps and grandparents’ houses and the beach. It is skating every Monday night with friends. It is the anti-May.
This summer has been everything I had dreamed it would be in
May when I was pushing around a popcorn machine and occasionally trapping
myself under its weight. It has been more than I had dreamed, actually. Because
on top of the things I already loved about most summers, in this summer, we
have all grown up a little bit.
Andrew got a job. He works at a place that takes much of his
money anyway, Smoothie King. It doesn’t pay a lot, but he loves it, and it does
pay more than watching Netflix while eating ramen in bed. Brady got his learner’s
permit. That experience deserves its own post. He changed shirts twice before heading
to the DMV, posed more than once for his picture, and re-did his signature 5
times before finally accepting that he has the worst autograph of any 15-year-old
ever. He has yet to drive a car. Lucy, who has been 13 for a decade, will actually
turn 13 in less than 2 weeks. She is almost 5’8” and her look of maturity bites
us at all the wrong times and never comes in handy when she hopes to work out
in a gym. Soon, all things will be right and she will be as 13 in reality as
she’s been in every other way. Jenna is still my little nugget, but she can
beat me at Wordscapes, and sometimes I ask her to help me when I’m stumped.
But then there’s me. I’m pretty old now. The only growth I
seem to experience lately is the kind that comes from too many trips to Kilwin’s
when I’m staying in a town that has one. But not this summer. This summer, I’m making
some changes myself. There are some significant ones that I don’t particularly
want to detail. If I change, people will know. If I don’t, I don’t have to skulk
away like the loser I have become. No one will know. What people will know, and
what some already do, is that I now carry a purse. Bam. Did that.
For 10 years, I’ve been carrying around my wallet, my keys,
my sunglasses, whatever book I’m reading, and my planner like a woman who
escaped from a Memory Care facility. For awhile there, I had a diaper bag and I
could shove my belongings into that or the nooks and crannies of a stroller.
But when the diaper bag went away, so did my organization. And it isn’t pretty.
After dropping my boys at a summer camp in North Carolina, I
parked myself at a rented Airbnb with the 2 friends to spend the week tubing, rock
sliding, visiting Kilwin’s, and trying to find a cable to link together my
wallet, keys, sunglasses, and holocaust literature that I picked up for some
light reading. I was thinking through this when I made my announcement.
“I think it’s time for me to buy a purse.”
“Ok,” the Informinator responded. “Whatever.” We had some
time to kill on Sunday night and there was only one place still open. TJ Maxx.
Once inside, there were plenty of purses, but that didn’t guarantee a
successful mission. The first one I gravitated to was a mustard yellow. I held
it up to Elaine and parted my lips to speak. She beat me to it.
“That’s a no,” she said firmly. “A hard no.”
I continued to comb the aisles, looking for the right fit.
The next selection came to me through my fingers, not my eyes. I was sifting
through the bags with one hand as I wandered and my hand rested on the softest
leather I’ve ever been in the same room with. It was like the butt of a living
horse. It was beautiful. I held this one up to Elaine.
“That’s not a purse, it’s a backpack,” she stated the
obvious. “And it’s a big backpack.” She was right. It was the kind of leather
backpack you’d put all your electronics in to travel to a business meeting in another
state. It was also not a cheap backpack. I turned the price tag over and saw
that it was $99. At TJ Maxx. Yikers. I put it back on its hook, but with a darkness
in my heart that comes from being told no by a parent or some person that wants
to give you raisins on Halloween. I kept coming back to that $99 oversized
airport backpack that wasn’t a purse at all. But eventually, I walked away and
bought 4 shirts for less than the price of the one backpack.
If I had a purse, I could have put the shirts in it. I
walked away without a purse.
Days went by, with the wallet and the keys and the sunglasses
and the reading glasses and the book about the son and his dying mother. I was
picking up receipts along the way. I had become quite a spectacle. But on
Tuesday afternoon, while wandering in the Mast General Store, which might be
the best store ever built with bricks and mortar, my gaze landed on a couple of
little llamas. One of them was buck-toothed and up to no good. The other one
looked like it wanted to run away. They weren’t real llamas. They were fabric.
On a purse. I loved it. And I bought it. For $32. I put my wallet in it. And my
keys. And my sunglasses. And I bought some reading glasses, just to put them in
the purse. Peepers brand, no less. And a self-help book. And some year-old
double bubble that was way overpriced.
I didn’t know that a llama purse would change my life, but it has. Not once in the last week have I gotten into my car without the car key. Because the key is in the purse. Not once have I wondered where the phone is. (It’s in the purse.) Today, all the way out in Austin, Texas, in the middle of Lake Travis, not far from the homes of Matthew McConaughey and Sandra Bullock, I had my purse. And by George, even in the middle of a lake, it came in handy. Need a waterproof phone pouch? It’s in the purse. Trash bag? Purse.
So it’s been a great summer so far and I’m calling it the
summer of the purse.
I’ve only been let down once and it was today. Today I
rifled around in that bag for some sunscreen. There was none.
That little oversight is going to hurt for about a week. But then I’ll peel off my little mistake, put some sunscreen into the llama bag and walk on.
Rain thrashes against a small, wooden bungalow where the floors slope at strange angles. At unpredictable intervals, the neighborhood hills light up with strobe-like flare and the thunder drops like artillery.
I am well accustomed to thunderstorms. Especially lately. But there is something about navigating one in a new place that intensifies the experience. The terrain that lights up is unfamiliar. The shadows are foreign. The echoes of thunder are bouncing off of trees and houses you’ve never seen before. As I listen to the sounds of the weather outside and the alerts about the weather on my phone, I half expect the storm to come inside. I don’t know this house. How do I know it won’t?
Maybe it is this storm or maybe it’s this morning’s walk in the Oakdale Cemetery, but I got to thinking. And it’s long past time to sleep, but I can’t stop myself from thinking. About storms. And storm prep.
I have been sitting here considering what makes one storm more frightening than the next and what makes a storm scary in the first place. I came up with a few things.
Where you are matters. When I was on a 35 foot sailboat with my friend and her dad, I was on the storm’s turf and in the most volatile spot on earth at that moment in time. I felt a little differently about that approaching storm versus the one I watched hit the rented bungalow tonight.
How you prepare matters. When you build a house in Tornado Alley, you can prepare by building a storm cellar. In hurricane season along any coastline, you can prepare by building a hurricane kit and by sandbagging. When there is no weathering the storm, sometimes all you can do is run. I once sandbagged my house for a hurricane that dropped less rain than I bathed my babies in. I was real mad when I had to dispose of 300 filled sandbags. What I wasn’t was scared. I was prepared for that storm.
The intensity of the storm matters. Some storms are worse than others. Some storms are bigger than I am, or bigger than my house or my hurricane kit.
Your focus matters. Where I’m trying to go as a storm approaches is my focus. If I have an outdoor concert, or a ballgame, or a flight to take, I don’t want to see an ominous forecast. A black cloud becomes the worst kind of news. But if I have nowhere to be, a solid roof over my head, a book, a dog, and a content kid around, I would gladly order a storm from a weather vending machine and turn it all the way up.
As I lie here, I can still hear the rain, though the thunder has faded to a rumble. My low rumble is another guy’s artillery. The storm has moved away.
I am not thinking about physical storms this moment. I’m making connections in my mind; thinking about the things that upend me in my life. Thinking about the things I could have done to change my location or my prep so that those things might have been a drizzle and not a devastating flash flood.
I can’t do anything about the fact that I sandbagged my house for Hurricane Georges, which did not even wink at us, and did nothing to prepare for Irma, which did. And I can’t change that I allowed a free PlayStation into my house when Andrew was 10., or that I was bad at chore assignments and enforcement when my kids were tiny. But I can do today. And the future is still out there. It’s summer and the school year will be sitting in my ill-prepared lap before I am ready to acknowledge it. I will have kids in grades 6,8,10, and 12 this year. There will be storms all along the way and life is going to change dramatically in the next year or two. It will take 5 friends, a husband, and a very, very good guidance counselor to lead me through the Senior Year Labyrinth and a therapist to get me over it when it is past. And then I’ll be on to the next thing. Don’t regret, Missy. Do. Put on your rubber shoes and start walking.
That’s a lot of hooey that came up because I am watching the lightning signal threateningly outside a North Carolina window. It’s like the devil doing morse code with a flashlight. Sinister. As the storm fades and a soft rain continues, I think about this specific storm and how I prepared for it. I have only one regret and it’s a big one:
I am staying in a rented house in North Carolina this week, waiting for my boys to finish having the times of their lives at a summer camp just up the mountain. I’m aware that it’s stupid to drive 10 hours for a summer camp when there are plenty of summer camps within an hour of my house. But this one is special. And Florida is more hot and flat and buggy than driving 10 hours was stupid, so we decided to do it.
Getting here wasn’t easy. It involved late night trips to CVS, googling quick fixes for severe constipation while also roadtripping (do not attempt to google this yourself. It only brings up ads for Dulcolax), fixing the constipation (not my own), driving on 3.5 hours of sleep with a car full of smelly boys who discuss their underwear far more than I expected, and then safely dropping them to some people who are willing to parent them in the woods for a week. It was something. Everything that went along with the constipation and its correction truly deserves a blog of its own, but the person in pain those days is a teen boy whom I love and would like to maintain a relationship with. So for now, just picture it and then let it go. I have.
After my friend and I got our respective kids settled at camp, we settled ourselves into the couch of our rented house and sighed with satisfaction. The world was our oyster. What would we do with ourselves for 5 more days? After sitting on our haunches for an hour, we decided to go to dinner. And we carefully selected who would take our money for this first meal without kids.
The first restaurant I came into contact with upon pulling into town Saturday night was Binion’s Roadhouse. I saw the sign, immediately leaped to bunions, pictured my grandmother’s 92 year old feet, and declared we would not be eating at that place.
That all changed after we walked into the posh, trendy, fairly-well-reviewed-on-Yelp Flat Rock Wood Room. Don’t ask me what a wood room is, because I don’t know. I didn’t get to find out. There were a lot of people standing around outside, making me think we might not get seated right away. But there were only two of us. So we did. Get seated. Right away. With menus. And that’s the last good thing that happened to me in the wood room.
Time passed. So much time. More than 15 minutes and not a single employee had made eye contact, told us they’d be right over, smiled. Nothing. So, finally–feeling existential and invisible–we walked out. No one saw us leave. We didn’t get to shake the gravel dust of that awful place off our feet in their direction because there was nobody to shake it on.
We didn’t have a plan B. Half the restaurants in Hendersonville are closed on Sundays. That’s a real thing. So our choices were limited. After driving around and searching our phones for a few minutes, you can guess where we ended up.
Binion’s was the place I’ve looked for all my life, but didn’t know existed. It was homemade squash casserole and buttery yeast rolls and crispy bacon on my Bacon Grilled Cheese sandwich. It was friendly service. It was perfection. It was SO perfect on the heels of the SO terrible Flat Rock, that I came home, picked up my computer, and reviewed Binion’s on Trip Advisor, which our server had said would give her a nice bonus. It is the first review I’ve ever written on a restaurant. I closed the lid of my laptop and the Informinator said, “You’re going to stop there? You’re not going to review Flat Rock?”
She had a point. So I opened my laptop back up and wrote the following.
We were really in the mood to try this place. We were even willing to be patient on a busy Sunday evening. But besides being spoken to and seated by the hostess, who pretty much couldn’t ignore us, not a single other employee looked our direction. We sat at a table with our menus for 15 minutes without a word or even a glance from any passing server. I began to wonder if I was actually there. Maybe no one could see me. We finally walked out because we couldn’t flag anyone down who wanted to feed us or take our money. We then drove across town to Binion’s Roadhouse, where we were served immediately and treated like royalty. Apparently we weren’t invisible after all. Flat Rock, you might be good to some people on some nights, but you stunk like old cheese to us tonight. But thanks for stinking, because we found Binion’s and that was a WIN.
So if you’re ever in Hendersonville, remember that I told you about Binion’s and schedule it into your week. You won’t be disappointed. You know what they say: never judge a restaurant by the bunions on your grandma’s feet.
On a sultry June day in 1984, I made a deal with God. Or at least I thought I did. I tried to. It wasn’t much of a deal, really. I got everything and offered very little in return. That day I asked Him to save my life in exchange for a 13-year-old’s version of devotion. He’d save me and my offering would be me. But I was a wreck, not a prize.
He did save me. I’m still alive. But it was not without some
effort. It was quite a day.
I had just finished 7th grade and managed to
coast into summer break with a couple of friends that I actually had phone
numbers for. One of those friends was Meredith. We had spent most of our 7th
grade year in the same classes and had cultivated a close friendship. We had
promised each other on the last day of school that we’d get together soon.
Soon was today.
Meredith had invited me to go sailing overnight with her and
her father. I hardly took a breath before shouting yes. I was always up for an
adventure. They kept their 35-foot sailboat in a boat slip at Alligator point,
named for the gangly pine trees that towered at the end of the strand in the
formation of an alligator’s open mouth. If you happened to be standing directly
at the pines and looking up, you would never know you were looking into the
mouth of an alligator. But standing on the beach in front of my cottage on St.
Teresa across the reef, it was an alligator, clear as day.
The back side of the point had the marina and a cute little store ideal for two girls who were not contributing to the sailing preparation one bit. We ran up and down the docks, shopped in the store, and then wound our way carefully onto her boat deck. Her dad was checking his lines and loading supplies. I don’t remember him asking us to do anything to help. He must have known that it was easier to do it himself than it was to herd two teen girls into working for him.
I leaned against the cabin and pulled the Eurythmics into my
ears by adjusting my headphones. I watched Meredith as she gazed across the
marina. Her blonde hair and green eyes looked like they were made for a day
like this one. The sky was the color of Easter and dotted with a just enough
wispy white clouds to keep it from looking like eternity. It was perfect.
“Whatcha listening to?” she asked me as her dad began to
back the boat out of the slip with the motor.
“Here Comes the Rain Again,” I answered without pausing the
song. I flashed the cassette cover. “Eurythmics!”
“You’re shouting,” she chuckled. “Turn it down!”
“Oh,” I whispered back. “Sorry!”
“Come on,” she beckoned. “Let’s go get settled up front.”
We climbed over the cabin and scooted our way up to the deck
that was plenty wide enough for both of us to stretch out. I gazed out over the
dignified point of the bow that sliced through dark green waters as we cleared
the last of the slips and left the marina in our wake. We each put a rolled-up
beach towel behind our head and laid down like royalty.
“Man, this is great,” I said, looking over.
“Isn’t it?” she said.
“Thanks for inviting me.”
“Oh, sure,” she smiled. “I’m glad the timing worked out.”
I thought about my parents back in town and wondered if they
were thinking of me with envy. I knew my dad was. He would rather be out on the
water than almost anywhere else. My mother was happy to wave at anyone from
shore. She loved the beach, but was happier to be on the actual beach. She wasn’t a strong swimmer and preferred to be
within an oar’s length of land.
“So,” I said, tugging my headphones off and resting them
around my neck while Annie Lennox continued to sing.
“Yes?” She looked over. I had her full attention.
“We’ve been out of school a couple of weeks now. I’m sure we’re both way more mature.” She turned and propped up on her right elbow. “Nick Rhodes? Where do you stand on him?”
“Oh, brother!” She pulled her towel out from under her head
to smack me with it. “He’s still hot. Maybe THE hottest.”
I shook my head in disbelief. Nothing had changed. During
the school year, several of us had this same conversation about every other day
in the cafeteria at lunch. Who was the best looking member of Duran Duran?
Simon LeBon, clearly and scientifically the cutest one, was always my choice.
He was the winner in the cafeteria poll. He’s since gotten fat and weird
looking. 35 years has a way of twisting those leather pants into the grotesque.
John Taylor was a sometimes choice for Meredith. He was the tall, lean bass
player of the group. He wasn’t my thing, but I readily admitted that he had a
lovely jaw structure. He was otherwise too skinny. But Nick Rhodes– Nick
Rhodes was a choice I never understood. She had a button with his picture on it.
He was the make-up wearing keyboard player.
“He wears lipstick the shade of my grandmother’s couch. It’s
a tiny bit creepy.”
“Oh, Missy, be a little progressive. We’ve had this same
conversation 400 times. When will you agree to disagree?” She stuffed her towel
back under her neck and flipped onto her back again. I couldn’t see her eyes
behind her mirrored sunglasses, as she struggled to get as cozy as she had been
“Probably never,” I answered truthfully. “But not today, for
sure. Simon, always Simon.”
The boat glided along through the emerald gulf waters as we
closed our eyes and let the sun drip down on us like melted butter. We saw a
couple of porpoises that were happy to race us until they got bored and moved
The day went on like that for an hour.
But in the time it took for the second hand of my watch to
tick from one number to the next, we both sat up.
Something had changed.
The wind had been filling the main sail till it was round
and full like the too-tight dress shirt on a chubby waiter. Now the sail seemed
empty and limp, flapping against the mast like the wedding dress of a runaway
The wind was gone.
The skies were flanked with white puffy clouds that seemed to
have thickened and matured as we sat there still in the water.
“This is weird,” I said. “Is this weird?” I looked around
us. We were swaying in the waves in one spot like we were anchored. Like a plastic
bobber on the end of a cane pole. “It’s totally beautiful out. But we aren’t
“Have you ever heard of ‘the calm before the storm?’” She
gave me a sideways glance. “Well, there’s a reason it’s a cliché,” Meredith
replied. “I think this is the calm before the storm.”
I had heard that expression.
I had never experienced it.
Meredith got up and grabbed her towel pillow and stooped
under the boom. The mainsail was fluttering and slapping loudly against the
mast. She shuffled back to the stern of the boat where her dad was 100%
focused. His eyes were the color of a bad omen and he was fixed on the sea
ahead. She was talking to him, but I stayed where I was. I was not a co-pilot.
They didn’t need me trying to hone in on the sailor talk. My stomach rolled
with the lapping waves as we seemed to halt between worlds.
I pushed stop on Annie Lennox, because the more still it
became, the more I felt I needed to see and hear what was around me. Even the
lapping waves had slowed to ripples that looked like small buckles in an endless
I looked over my shoulder again and Meredith was climbing
her way back to me. She didn’t lie down as before. She leaned against the cabin
and held her towel in her lap.
“Well?” I asked.
“A storm is coming,” she said. “Hopefully not too bad. But
we should probably put our stuff in the cabin and do a little prep work.” She
turned and crawled under the boom again and this time I followed her. In the
amount of time it took me to maneuver to the back of the boat like her clumsy
shadow, the buttery sunlight that had set such a cheerful tone succumbed to a
much darker affair. Vengeful clouds, flinty and thick, dropped down from the
wide open and boxed us in. “Come on,” Meredith urged, stepping down the three
steps into the cabin below deck.
When we got down there, Meredith opened an overhead cabinet
and pulled out two life jackets and shoved our towels into the space she had
“Here,” she said. “Buckle top and bottom and pull it snug.”
I took the life vest from her and tried to read in her eyes something more than
the basic instructions she had given me. She didn’t lock eyes with me. She was
concentrating on her own vest. Her dad gripped the helm at 10 and 2 and
whistled lightly as he navigated an entirely different sea.
“I think it’s okay,” I said, looking away from our captain
and back at my friend. “He’s whistling.” I had announced it like it was a
telegram of good news.
“That’s not a good sign,” she said, still fiddling with her
own life jacket. “That’s what he does when he’s nervous.”
Oh. I looked back at him with that new filter applied and
saw a different captain at the helm. He had squeezed the color from his
knuckles and the skin of his face was the color of ash. He was nervous. Suddenly the boat lurched and I jounced awkwardly into
the cabinets we had just pulled our life vests from. Meredith was still
upright, but agitated.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. She didn’t look up.
“I can’t get my lower buckle to work. It won’t stay
clasped.” She kept pushing one side of the plastic into the other, hoping to
hear the satisfying click of safety.
“I’m sure the top buckle is fine,” I reassured her. I tried
to assist but couldn’t get it to lock either. “You want to trade?”
“No, you’ll need it worse than me if it comes to that,” she
chuckled. If it comes to that. If it comes to what?
I didn’t have time to further process the heinous
possibilities because I was having to flex my quads like Arnold Schwartzenegger
just to stay upright. Meredith and I sat down on the padded bench seats on
either side of the boat, facing each other. We each had a small 10” window to
the outside world that was like a movie trailer for the apocalypse. I swayed
dramatically to the rhythm of the boat as she fought the swells. I kept my eyes
glued to that porthole. Because I never took my eyes off of it, I knew the
moment that it changed. Where I had been seeing a dark sky and a darker sea, I
was now seeing only water. It was the view of a person on a submarine. I sucked
in a breath and whispered, “The waves. Over.” I pointed and she nodded. The
swells were now higher than the top of the cabin and were crashing over, making
it appear that we were submerged.
“Girls, come up here for a minute, please,” Meredith’s dad
called to us between his perky little whistles. We both came to the doorway but
didn’t climb all the way out. The rain was pelting us sideways, finding devious
ways to infiltrate the corners that should have been cozy and dry. “I need you
to listen to me carefully.” My stomach became the churning barrel of a concrete
“This is a bad storm and anything could happen,” he said, prying
his gaze from the waves long enough to make intense eye contact with both of
us. I tried hard to hear his words, but I felt woozy and small and wondered if
I looked as strange as I felt.
“We’ll stay below,” I volunteered. Why are you talking, Missy? Goodness. You know literally nothing about
“No,” he countered, with a kind but firm tone. “If this boat
capsizes, being in the cabin is the worst place you can be. I need you by the
door, ready to come up if I tell you to. If we capsize, we will jump from the
high side. Do you understand? You have life vests on and everything will be
okay. Hopefully we won’t have to act on any of this. Do you understand?”
He was finished. Meredith was nodding vigorously but saying
nothing, her voice swallowed by a harsh swirl of salt air. I understood. I
understood I wasn’t safe. I understood we had just been instructed on how to
jump from a sinking ship into a lashing, hostile sea. I understood that I
wanted to be home, in my family room, watching Hee Haw with my grandmother or
scrubbing dirty pots with steel wool or cleaning rain gutters. Vacuuming.
Talking to telemarketers. Anything but dying on a boat with my best friend and
her dad. I understood that sometimes I was a jerk. I needed more time to not be
a jerk. At least to my parents. My brother had it coming.
Meredith continued to press the ends of her life vest’s
buckle together, finally giving up when neither of us could make it work. We
stood there together, at the foot of the tiny staircase, each holding a side
and watching her father fight the storm. We were all silent. Only the sea was
speaking and we didn’t like what it had to say. I tried not to watch the
porthole as the waves broke over the top of the cabin and washed more weakly
over the window on the opposite side. It gave me the nightmarish feeling that I
was trapped in an aquarium with a great white. I stood there, scared, wearing my fear like a
rash. In the meantime, I began to pray. This is when I decided I should try to
enter into an agreement with God. I prayed that God would spare us. That we wouldn’t
have to jump. That I would see my family again. I bargained with collateral I
“If you just get me out of this one, Lord,” I thought, “I
will do better. I will work harder. I’ll become a better version of myself. I’ll
read my Bible more. I’ll be yours for life.”
Time passed. The storm did not. Through the opening to the
stern, I saw a plane charge out from the gray wall of cloud and buzz overhead
“Wonder what that was all about,” I said. “Where was he
“He was buzzing us to tell us to get out of the storm,” she
replied. “That’s why he got so close.”
“Oh, that’s very helpful. If only we’d thought of that
first,” I said.
“Yeah,” she chuckled weakly. “Too little, too late.”
When we had been standing at attention for what seemed like a
generation, Meredith sat down on the edge of the bench seat and patted the seat
beside her. I sat down next to her. We were determined not to get too
My body was exhausted from remaining rigid for so long.
About the time I felt I couldn’t maintain it any more, Meredith’s dad leaned in
and said, “I think the worst is over.”
I closed my eyes and smiled.
Twenty minutes later it was if it had never happened. We
were back in the world of sunshine and lollipops; back on the front deck
thinking about reapplying sunscreen. I needed to sleep. We both nodded off a
couple of times. When I opened my eyes and looked over, she was looking my
“So, now we’ve been through a near-death experience,” I
“My answers will not change. Shut up about it.” She waved
her wand in the air with fake authority. “Do you play Connect 4?”
“I never have,” I answered.
“Good,” she said, closing her eyes again. “I’m going to kick
That evening, we putted into the cove of Dog Island where
Meredith’s dad tied us up to a dock and attempted to hook us up to electricity.
The storm had knocked it out. We settled into a dry and cozy cabin as the
shadows of dusk retreated into the corners and our lantern light spilled across
the table. Meredith pulled the Connect 4 game out of some secret compartment
and began to set it up and explain it. Thirty-four years have passed since that
night, and I still don’t know how to play Connect 4. All I know is that you are
supposed to get 4 of something and nothing is supposed to fall. I never got 4
and my chips fell out of the casing like an overflowing slot machine.
She said she was going to kick my butt and she did. I
usually hate to lose, but that night I didn’t mind so much. That night, losing
at Connect 4, I had more fun than I could remember ever having. The electricity
was restored around 10 p.m. Over the next 14 hours, Meredith continued to beat
me at games, did not change her stance on Duran Duran member hotness, and
almost got her head chomped off by a stingray with a 4 foot wingspan (I’m not
sure I ever told her how close that creature got to her). We strolled the white
sands of Dog Island most of the next day and when we sailed home Saturday
afternoon, we did so without incident.
But I never forgot that storm. Not then. Not 6 months from
then. Not 34 years later. When I walked into my house that Saturday night,
frothing to tell my parents what I’d been through, I found a note telling me
they were at my grandmother’s apartment having dinner. Well, that was an
anticlimactic kick in the lederhosen.
Every step I took was fluid as I crossed the green shag
carpet to the kitchen. My world was still rocking. I dialed 386-6262 and took
in my grandmother’s “hello” like warm mug of cocoa.
“Hey, Mama,” I said. “Can I speak to my mom for a minute?”
“Hello?” My mother’s voice brought the sting of rising mist to
my eyes that I blinked back.
“Mom,” I said.
“Hey, Missy,” she responded happily. “How was your trip?”
“We almost died, but pretty good overall,” I answered
truthfully. She never quite knew how to take me and surely thought I was
joking. “How long till you get home?”
“45 minutes,” she answered, without addressing my death reference.
“You settle in and we’ll see you soon!”
I hung the green handset against the hook gently and leaned
against the kitchen counter. Outside, my dog was roaming in the backyard. Dusk
was settling and fireflies flashed along the edge of the tree line. Across
town, my parents were sitting around a blond 1950s dining table with my Mama, scraping
banana pudding off their plates. The world looked exactly the same as it had on
Friday before I left. But nothing was the same, because I was not the same.
I wondered if what Meredith was doing right now. I wondered
if I’d ever be invited to sail with them again. And if they did invite me, would
I say yes? Would I want to go? I mean, deadly storms aside, it seemed a little
tenuous to put my trust in a vessel where life and limb depended on the strength
of a slip knot. A kid loses focus one Tuesday night in Cub Scouts and people
die. But then, that was my mother’s voice in my head. Of course I’d go again if
given the chance.
As I was wondering what to do to pass the time until they
returned, I suddenly remembered my bargain. If I prayed unwaveringly, read my
bible, and served food at a soup kitchen for the next 11 years, I might be able
to fulfill my end. Without any further thought, I dug my bible out of the
closet under the stairs and sunk into the couch to read.
I haven’t written much or on any kind of schedule for one reason only. May. People warn you about December. No one warns you about May. If you are under 35 and unaware of May and all its tomfoolery and chaos, consider yourself warned. It won’t help you, but at least you were warned. I got married in May, which was a great idea until I was a mother (Mother’s Day), had a son born May 20 (birthday parties), and kids in school (all stupid end-of-year activities and projects and exams everywhere multiplied exponentially by your number of children).
The kids get on me all the time about Buttercup. Why do you like her so much? Why do you give us such a hard time? Why is she your favorite? Sometimes I wave my hand at them dismissively. Oh, kids. She’s not my favorite. But you know what? It’s May. And maybe in May, they deserve to know the truth. You wanna know why Buttercup is my favorite?
Because Buttercup’s version of a crisis is finding just the right scent in a square foot of grass that will then become her toilet.
And because Buttercup can’t text.
Buttercup has never texted me in the middle of a busy morning and said, “I’m not allowed to wear my sweater. Can you pick me up early. I need a diff shirt.” That one came in at 9 a.m. May 16 and was regarding the concert attire for Lucy’s orchestra concert. The concert was that afternoon at 5—on the same afternoon that Jenna also had her play. Of course I wasn’t going to take her out of school early to go shopping. So I did what any other non-self-respecting parent would have done. I drove all over town and bought 11 white shirts of varying styles for my daughter to choose from when she got home that afternoon. I’m still navigating the returns. Ironically, she chose a shirt from my closet that I’ve owned for well over a year. But if I had not gone shopping and had instead suggested that pre-owned, middle-aged-mom shirt, she would have gone Exorcist baby on me. Or something like that.
5 hours passed that day, without 5 minutes of down time,
when I received another text, this time from Brady. It began with ‘also,’ even
though it didn’t seem to go with a previous statement.
“Also can you get a really long sheet of paper” No punctuation. Nobody cares.
“What is this and when is it due?” I responded with punctuation. “Like the next 5 minutes?”
“No tomorrow,” he responded again with no commas. He didn’t
get the tone I intended in my initial response. He thought maybe since I
assumed it was due in 5 minutes, I’d be relieved it wasn’t due until tomorrow.
The problem was, I still had a child to dress and deliver to a play performance I wouldn’t even get to see, due to May, and a child who was going to be topless at her orchestra performance if we couldn’t settle on a shirt. Both children had to be dropped to their schools within 30 minutes of each other. Now I had an errand to the local art supply store for 10 feet of black paper, with which he would fashion a road to be used in a Romeo and Juliet scene. It was part of his final exam.
I went and got the paper. Because I’m spineless. And then I loaned him $5, which is totally unrelated except for the bad parenting it represented.
The day marched on. It took mom, dad, grandparents, and a friend to coordinate the complications of dropping off and picking up at the same times at two schools. Eventually, we were settled at the event itself. I sat on wooden bleachers, twisted into a position that reminded me of sitting for my senior portraits. And we essentially survived both performances. I even caught the end of the play after the concert, which I would get to see in full the following night.
The next morning, Brady texted me early, before his day
“Apparently I forgot the road all together but it’s not a
big deal.” Not to you. You didn’t bust your hump
buying it yesterday.
My finger hovered over my keyboard. I wondered what my next
statement should be, when I saw the three little moving dots indicating that he
was texting me again.
“I’m sorry I made you buy it.”
Well, okay. All was forgiven. But I still had 12 days of May to get through. And there was still a popcorn machine to move. And two large functions to set up for and pretend to host. And a lot of school left to do.
In the middle of all the insanity, there were tears, lost homework assignments ignored homework assignments, exams studied for, exams not studied for, grades deserved, and grades undeserved.
But not with Buttercup. And not from Buttercup. Life with Buttercup went on as normal. Even in May. She followed me around pleasantly, gazed into my eyes lovingly, and settled warmly into my side whenever and wherever I parked myself.
So if questioned by indignant, offended parties, especially if questioned in the month of May, I will readily admit to loving Buttercup in overage. And I will present a solid and pertinent defense for myself. And my dog. And for our survivalist coping mechanisms.
But as much as love my dog and as much as I appreciate her appreciation, I think there’s one thing I love more than Buttercup.