The Fall

The concrete is damp and the rubber soles of my shoes are thick and dense, like the toe brake on roller skates, which is why the shoes stop moving and my feet continue on. The fall is terrifying and the one-inch gash on my left cheek is embarrassing. The bloody line on my face sends me racing to the first aid section of the drug store to get whatever that stuff is that helps lacerations heal without leaving scars.  

It’s called Mederma and it really works! After a single application the gash looks less red and angry. I wonder what would happen if I put this all over my whole body. Would every blemish and old scar fade away? I’m tempted. My advice to the vain among us: keep Mederma around because you never know when you’ll fall on your face. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work instantly. The gash’ll be the first thing people notice about me for the next week. 

“You tell everyone who asks about it that I’m left-handed,” David says as we’re on our way to church. He knows how this looks and he’s adamant that people know he helped, not harmed. 

“It’s funny that you think anyone is going to ask,” I tell him gloomily. “People will assume the worst.”

“No one assumes the worst at church.”

But, as usual, my understanding of human nature is accurate. As we enter the sanctuary our fellow congregants steal furtive glances then look away. Because they’re determined to be tactful (though there’ll be talk later) I have no opportunity to clear David’s name. Also, I’m compelled to explain that ordinarily under these circumstances I simply would’ve stayed away. But I have altar guild duty and so am bound by my annoying sense of responsibility to attend, a situation that serves to reinforce my father’s emphatic advice which resonates from my childhood: “Jennifer, do never volunteer!”

This same sort of surreptitious conclusion jumping happened years ago when we were living in Cairo. David and I were playing squash and he caught my eye with the side of his racket. I was a beginner and had taken a stance in the wrong place, so it was my mistake. By the time we walked into the Swissair that evening to meet friends for dinner I had quite a shiner. David and I thought it would be entertaining to see if the other couple brought it up. They didn’t; though in retrospect I guess we should have set the record straight. Steve and Molly probably still think of me as a victim and David as a violent man. 

Another result of the fall is a badly bruised knee. I’ve never been a proponent of icing sore joints or injuries, mainly because I’m cold enough already. Right now, in the middle of the summer, I have heavy fuzzy socks on my frozen feet. This particular ice pack, purchased when David had a shoulder issue, is meant for use at joints and it wraps handily over and around my knee. Lore has it that the cold is supposed to lessen swelling, which will ease the pain. I’m dubious. When has cold ever felt good?

To my amazement, when I remove the ice pack, the knee feels better. But only temporarily. Ten steps later it’s sore again. No warriors for me for a while.

As well as coming down hard on my knee, I tried to catch myself with my hand, which is now purple and swollen at the base of my thumb, into my palm, and down my inner wrist. Right handed, I’ve never given much thought to how much I use my left hand; but now I’m aware because it hurts every time I clench it. So, also no downward facing dogs. 

I don’t often feel fragile, but I do now; and this fragility leads to a lack of mindfulness. I pull out from the driveway and can’t remember if I closed the garage door. I go to the grocery store and forget to buy eggplant for the moussaka. I stand in my closet and can’t remember why I’m there. I guess the knowledge to hang on to here is that bodies heal. Also, it could have been so much worse. 

I've tripped over these dangerous toes several times, so it was inevitable that one day I wouldn't be quick enough to save myself. They're are now retired. 

Warm socks are vital any time of year if you're me.

A new addition to my medicine cabinet. 

Languishing

There’s a large package propped by the front door. 

“What’s in the package?” I ask David. 

“A surprise!” An obvious tease. 

With a hmmph! I walk on by.

The door is in the middle of the house. As my activities range from one side of the house to the other, it’s no exaggeration to say I pass by the door a hundred times a day.

The package is still there the next time I cross the central area. I’ll spend the day in a befuddled fog if that package remains there much longer. 

“Are you going to tell me what’s in the package?” I ask once more. 

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.” Funny because it’s childish.

“That box can’t live there forever,” I tell him next time I pass it. If it’s still there in five minutes I’ll stow it in the garage.  

He’s doing it to bug me. He knows how I am—obsessive, picky, unwavering in my need for organization. 

For instance, since I was stupid enough to buy socks with designated right and left feet, I’m now compelled to make sure I get each one on the appropriate foot. Every once in a while I’ll forget to check, and when I realize I’ve got them wrong I’ll take the socks off and switch them, though any sensible person knows there’s no such thing as a right or left sock. 

“You’re the last person who should have bought socks meant for specific feet,” David says. 

He’s right. What was I thinking—that I needed yet another thing to obsess over?

My yoga mat must always run parallel with the lines of the floor. And if the mat in front of me doesn’t also line up, it’s a distraction during the whole class. I’ve been known to ask strangers to straighten their mats. 

A picture hanging crookedly is troublesome on a subliminal level. 

And dirty glasses and dishes belong in the sink or dishwasher; never on the counter, which is to remain clean and clutter-free. 

Let it go, people say. It sounds easy, but it never is. 

These days I’m obsessed with whether or not Old Buildings in North Texas and its author will be invited to participate in the Texas Book Festival, which would be a huge honor, a monumental step in my career, a justification for the hours and effort. 

Notices go out until the end of August. I check my inbox first thing every morning. Sometimes, when I wake up in the night, I’m strongly tempted to kick back the covers, traverse the width of the house, and have a quick peek; but I’m not yet that far gone, though throughout the day I don’t go fifteen minutes without checking my computer or phone. 

I remind myself of what I know: I have no control over this. I’ll either be invited or not, and fixating will make no difference. 

The one thing I do have control over is the way I react to the situation, and this is exactly what I’d preach if a friend or family member were behaving as foolishly as I am. 

However, the question mark concerning the book fair has branded itself into the precise area of my brain that regulates my day-to-day thoughts, so that whatever I do and wherever I go, it’s always there, throbbing and demanding attention, until not only have I lost control of where my mind goes, but also every other aspect of my existence—I’m eating too much, drinking too much, unable to step away from my devices, and not even fully present when I drive.  

“I’m going to meet Tom at the Double Horn for a beer,” David says. “You want to come?”

The Double Horn, a local microbrewery, is always a good time. And Tom knows everybody in town, so there’re always interesting things to learn.

I say no. But I don’t tell David it’s because my hopes and expectations are consuming me to the point where I’m almost paralyzed; and that drinking a beer with friends would be impossible for me right now. I’m unable to relax, unable to track other people’s stories, unable to finish household projects. Unable to write.

I miss my dog.

The package by the front door. It turned out to be a bird feeder stand and it looks a lot better than the last one. 

Because it's just above the light switch, this little "Mercado" picture often gets knocked askew. If it's not a right angle it's a wrong angle!   

Woman All Over the Place

Woman, you have a lot to pack into a relatively few number of years. Between eighteen and thirty never hit pause. 

First, get through college. Going for an advanced degree? Don’t take time off, go straight through, even summers. 

Build your career fast because when the right guy comes along you want to be on an equal footing. Also, your parents told you that you could be anything, do anything. You were taught there are no limits. 

You meet him at work, or a friend plays matchmaker, or he’s a neighbor in the building. He’s attractive and clean and you laugh at the same things, so between your twenty-sixth and twenty-eighth year, marriage happens; or maybe it doesn’t. 

If you get married, you and your husband buy a house, work hard, switch jobs for more pay, spend your free time exercising and socializing. 

Married or not, your new job is going well. You spend the first two years gaining experience and proving yourself. Then you get promoted. And promoted again, until you are in charge of a few people; and then you’re the boss of several people. You assign tasks; you take meetings and address large groups. Your husband is proud. Your parents are proud. 

Or maybe you don’t work in the corporate world. Maybe you’re a sixth grade teacher, then a principal for a few years; and then, you’re so good at what you do, so innovative and dedicated, that you are voted in as the superintendent of the entire school district. 

And then it’s time for a decision. If you don’t start having babies now, when will you ever get to it? 

The first baby comes and you and your husband are joyful. You continue working and the baby fits right into your day. He’s easy. Put him in his carrier and take him everywhere. Or maybe your baby’s a girl. Either way, you raise your child the way you were raised—there are no limits. You can do anything. 

You love to read to your baby. He or she learns to talk—three questions discussed every minute. It’s your chance to pour all your ideas about teaching and nurturing into this one compact pitcher. 

Or maybe children simply weren’t meant to be, and you’re okay with that. If you got married, your couple life is great. Your husband is your best friend. You support each other and tell each other everything about your days. You go out to dinner a lot and you have season tickets to the symphony and the baseball games. You’ve heard that Italy’s a great place to go, but there isn’t time. You’ve got your place in the company, or in the school system. Or maybe, as superintendent of the schools, you got a taste for politics and you decide to run for mayor. 

The middle years are like a pleasant ride along the coast—except for that painful time when your husband fell into deep love with a much younger woman, a woman who was very much like you when you were in your twenties. 

Was he trying to recapture the early years? Maybe you work things out and stay together. Maybe you lose him and find another. Or you might decide to remain single. 

Either way, there comes a time when your child, or children, are grown and gone. Or maybe there were no children. And sadly, your parents are no longer among the living. You miss them every day and spend lengthy segments of time remembering things that happened long ago. 

You stayed with the first husband or turned him in for another one—either way, he’s dead. 

Or he never existed. 

You retired a year ago. The people you worked with loved you. They gave you a dinner and a substantial financial send-off. 

What’s your next step? 

In a small town in Texas there is an old hotel for sale. 

You pull into its driveway and continue through a portico that’s supported by four sturdy brick columns. A gate can be installed across this entry.

A block off the highway, the hotel has only recently closed; but it’s been poorly maintained. Weeds pop through cracks in the tarmac and paint peels along the trim. Green, red, and blue doors are faded. 

A single story, it’s one of those L-shaped structures where every room looks on to a hardly magnificent, but respectable, pool. 

You roll to a stop in one of the slanted spaces facing the rooms. Getting out of your car, you enter the front building, reception, where there’s a counter and, beyond, a dining room and kitchen. The fusty smell of dirty fixtures and fabrics makes you sneeze. That carpet will have to go. 

Pulling out your phone, you call Liz, a friend who’s in the same position as you—no husband, no family nearby. 

“I’ve found it,” you tell her. 

“I’ll let everyone know,” she replies. 

Four months later a dozen women occupy the premises. Walls have been knocked out to make the units larger. Old carpet has been replaced by tile. The trim has been painted and the parking lot resurfaced. The pool is cleaned weekly and there are daily water aerobics classes. In the water old women with flabby arms sway and march. Some giggle and splash and some take this workout seriously as they look doggedly forward, determined that the pain of arthritis and sciatica won’t defeat them. 

The kitchen has been renovated. And out in the dining room women play mahjong and bridge every afternoon. A book group meets every other week. There are movie nights; or someone might want to watch television in her own room. 

You take turns with the shopping and cooking. You all move slowly and you laugh a lot. Your hips are broad and your boobs sag. And you look out for one another, giving rides to doctors or chemo or church. 

This isn’t permanent; it’s just another stop along the way.

This isn't the best quality photo because it's taken by a modern Poloroid. This is me with Curtis, our oldest. He and his wife and her parents were up from Houston for the weekend. We boated and ate a great meal and laughed a lot. 

People Love This Book!

Since Old Buildings in North Texas was released in the states, finding reviewers has been difficult. Though copies have been sent out in return for promised reviews, few reviews have actually appeared. I prefer it when people do what they say they're going to do, but as I don't work for the book review enforcement agency I have no control, which makes me crazy. I was happy to see this one, posted on Lone Star Literary Life, a prestigious and popular site for Texas booklovers. Thanks, Michelle Newby, for your kind words about Old Buildings in North Texas. 

http://www.lonestarliterary.com