Sometimes I Go to London

The O2 is an event venue in London. It will be hosting Elton John’s final show at the end of May. It’s a massive structure—an oval white dome with yellow arms that are spaced around the rim and reach upward and outward at seventy-degree angles. I wonder at the intent of the design. Conceived in its creator’s mind, hours spent dreaming of it, visualizing it, sketching it, selling the concept. Big money poured into its making. Is it supposed to be attractive, innovative, quirky, functional? Eye-catching would be my guess, and if that’s the case it’s met the expectation.

I can see it from the window of my son and his wife’s flat, where I’ve come for no other reason than to spend time with my granddaughter, Clementine, who’s eight months old and adorable.

Sam suggests that we go see what’s happening at the O2. Not only is it a concert/sports arena, it also contains a mall, which unsurprisingly holds no surprises. What it does offer is an indoor walk on a rainy day, the energy that passes through a crowd, and lights and loud passing conversations to distract Clem, who’s happy in her stroller until suddenly she isn’t.

The next day, another outing. This time to the city center of Greenwich, home to the Old Royal Naval College and Greenwich Park, which is home to the Royal Observatory and crossed by the Greenwich Prime Meridian. Before going to the park we have lunch at a pub that seems to be a baby hub. At every table parents cater to their newborns and toddlers while, at the same time, managing to feed themselves and visit with the surrounding adults, who also have little ones. I find hanging with the thirty-somethings to be enlightening. For one thing, fathers are more involved with their offspring than they were when my generation was raising kids. But wait a minute, honing in on the dynamic, I see that the majority of the mothers have their eyes on their phones while the fathers manage the children. Based on my memories of being a young mother, I’m critical of the women—pay attention to your babies, your husband, your family. Be present!

On the other hand, perhaps this is daddy/baby bonding time and the wives have come along in case something comes up that the father can’t manage. What was I doing, judging? I have no way of knowing the truth of the matter unless I ask—and approaching one of these couples or groups and asking the mothers why they’re not participating, well, that’s not going to happen. Anyway, interesting.

After lunch, on the way to the park, we make our way through a wondrous outdoor market with booths offering artistic wares, like handmade cards, pashminas, jewelry, and muffins. On the periphery of the temporaries are more permanent retail businesses, and the window of one of these shops displays shoes with colorful finishes as opposed to shades of brown or black. I love shoes that offer variety. Going inside, I select an attractive pair of sandals that’re speckled with dots of red, green, blue, and yellow. I turn them upside down to get a gander at the price. A hundred and nine pounds! They’re awfully cute, and probably very comfortable. If we were talking dollars, I’d try them on and possibly buy them. In pounds, I walk away.

Greenwich Park is lovely. I’ve been here before, so this isn’t anything new, just a revisit to the vast green and hilly space along with a thousand other people on a bank holiday.

Before returning to the flat, we need to pick up some groceries, so we stop by Sainsbury’s, where I find the method of charging and paying to be tech-advanced—or maybe it isn’t; maybe it’s just that we’re not so cutting-edge in Marble Falls. As we enter, Sam picks up a scanning wand, and registers with an app on his phone. Then, after he selects an item, he scans it and puts it into his shopping bag. When he’s finished gathering, he goes to the self-checkout, enters the wand, and is given the total. So, scan as you go, bag as you go. No unnecessary transferring of items in and out of a cart. I do, however, see more opportunity for theft in this method. A person could simply not scan every item that goes in the bag. There seems to be a lot of trusting the customer.

The day after, a forest walk in Joyden’s Park in Bexley. Over time I’ve forgotten how much work it is slinging a baby in and out of a car, in and out of a stroller, how consuming a baby’s moods and needs can be. Taking this tiny being anywhere is a strenuous dance.

The trails of the park lead us over bumpy rocks and through slushy mud, but the pram is sturdy. For the first half of the walk the pram’s cover is down as Clem sleeps. Then, about twenty minutes in, we meet an elderly couple whose eyes light up when they see the pram. Depending on canes and leaning into one another for extra support, they slowly approach and come to a stop beside the pram. When they notice the cover, they turn impassive expressions upon Sam. After a few awkward seconds (Who are these people? Why are they stopping by our baby?) he grasps what’s expected of him and raises the cover. Surprised by the sunlight in her eyes, Clem blinks a few times, then peers up at the strangers who, of course, are stunned by her perfection.

On the streets of Greenwich.

You can see the pokey up things and the dome of the O2.

Darling Clementine!

Going to San Diego

I was in San Diego when I was twelve and my family drove out to visit my father’s sister, Dita, during our Christmas break. Aunt Dita and Uncle Phil had a chalet somewhere around Big Bear Lake, and we were going to meet them there and drive to San Diego in a week. The trees weighted with snow, the mountains, the chalet—all were enticingly alien compared to what we saw in the flat colorless Texas panhandle. Looking at all that glittering white, my sister, Resi, and I anticipated the great fun we would have in the days ahead.

The morning after our arrival, Dita had my mother, sister, and me accompany her on foot down to the grocery store, where she bought two full bags of groceries. Though we offered to help carry the bags back up the mountain, Dita insisted that she could carry them by herself—and because of her stubbornness when it came to accepting help, she lost her balance, which caused her to slip on the icy road and break her leg. And from then on, our vacation was all about my aunt and her leg. She had her bone set at the local hospital and then, in separate vehicles, we followed them to their home in San Diego; and, well, you know how it is when you’re a kid, you don’t remember everything, only certain things; and when it comes to being present in the city, of going to the zoo and Balboa Park and the beach, which I’ve always been told we did, my only clear recollection is of my aunt, ensconced in cushions with her leg elevated as, enunciating in a bizarre way because of the painkillers, she instructed her cousin, Gabby, in how to make cherries jubilee. So, a weird time evoking weird memories. But I’ve heard good things about San Diego and I’m looking forward to spending some time there.  

One of our favorite things to do is look out over a moving crowd while drinking Bloody Marys and watching people move across our field of vision. This is the way we kill time in airports, as, I’m sure, do many others. Do we judge? Yes we do. But we also appreciate the diversity—look at all these people with their different backgrounds that color their minds and influence their actions.  

Today, in the Austin Bergstrom Airport, David and I split a turkey sandwich, sit at an outward-facing bar, and gaze at the travelers making their way to their gates. We talk about the decisions people make concerning their appearance. For the thousandth time, discussing jeans, David says, “The more rips, the more expensive.” It’s a style neither of us has ever understood.

There’s no denying that people have grown heavier over the years. But today I’m viewing a new statistic in that, for every forty (estimated) obese people, one will stroll along who is dangerously, ghastly, skinny, which, when you think about it, indicates that among all the fleshy bodies floating by, an alarmingly large number of people are deliberately starving themselves to death. Breathing skeletons encased in gray dermis. What’s up with that?

Also, we’re seeing a disturbing amount of cleavage; not attractive cleavage, either, but deep boob cracks formed by ill-fitting clothes or bras. One woman wears her shirt inside-out, the seams and tags showing, and so carelessly donned that it’s not centered and hangs off-shoulder, and not in a sexy way, but more in the manner of a hag. This makes me want to take the women of Austin shopping. What happened to modesty? Shouldn’t there be rules? From whom are these women seeking advice?  

A man in his fifties leisurely progresses from right to left. With no one accompanying him, he wears a smile. The smile is unwavering, aimed at everyone and everything. And this makes me think of what my father used to say—"Show me a man who smiles all the time and I’ll show you the village idiot.” Cynical and mean-spirited, I know. But he was the man who raised me and it’s because of him that I’m disturbed by people who smile or laugh for no reason. I try to curb these negatives that I carry with me, but they sneak in.

It's time to board. David makes all the travel plans and I’m okay with that—I mean, really, who wants to mess with it when someone else is willing to do it? I tell myself that he enjoys scrolling through ticket prices, that he likes to fret over schedules, that he’s gifted at managing; but the truth is, he doesn’t trust anything that he doesn’t control. I guess we all have past experiences in our heads.

We make our way to the gate and David hands me my boarding pass. I glance at it.

“1A!” Unprecedented! “You know what this means?”

How sweet of him. He knew I’d be thrilled. First one on, first one off. At the end of the flight he will grab our carry-ons from the overhead bin, hand mine to me, and then take a step back, inviting me to go first. This is the way it always goes.

“What does it mean?” he asks, though he knows what I’m going to say.

“I have the power!” I tell him. “I can control the pace of the exit. I can dawdle. I can make everyone in the back wait on me, just as I’ve had to wait so many times.”

“Or maybe you’ll use your power for good instead of evil.”

“We’ll see,” I say slyly. . . “We’ll see.”

A pretty bird at the San Diego Zoo

Another pretty bird.

New Feet and Winter Weather

“Here’s something you might be interested in,” David said, pointing out an ad in a local magazine.

The advertisement was for reflexology. Reflexology is more than a simple foot massage. It’s about healing through applying pressure to the areas of the feet that correspond to the organs and systems of the body—a definition I’ve heard some refer to as hokum, though, while living in Singapore I indulged in it often. I’m not certain whether a deep tissue foot massage truly restores balance throughout your body, but I’m a poor sleeper and I always sleep better for several days after a reflexology treatment.

And there’ve been a couple of incidences that, to my mind at least, support the theory. For instance, once, while digging into the pads of my toes, the masseuse asked me if the arthritis in my neck was painful. Another time, after I’d taken a tumble and landed hard on my shoulder, the reflexologist abruptly abandoned my feet, raced to my shoulder, and began massaging it instead.  

So yeah, I think there’s some truth to it.

Up until four years ago there was a place that offered reflexology in Marble Falls. Run by a couple of shady Asians, it was reasonably priced and they did good work—though in Texas you must be licensed to call yourself a reflexologist, and I doubt they’d had the requisite training. Nevertheless, they hit all the sensitive areas and David and I enjoyed going to them on a regular basis. When they were arrested for giving “happy ending” massages we were disappointed; also disgusted by their stupidity. I mean, where did the goofballs think they were? We’re not some Thai island.

So. Reflexology. Was I interested? Definitely. I read the ad and called to make an appointment.      

“May I ask where you got my number?” Her tone was suspicious and somewhat accusatory.

“From the ad in the Fox Mailer,” I told her.

“Oh that silly ad. I had them put it in the center of the magazine, but then I got so many calls that I asked them to bury it in the back where nobody would see it. Yet people keep calling.”

She seemed to find customers annoying. Why would she place an ad inviting people to call, then act inconvenienced when they did what she invited them to do? This confounding and brief conversation caused me to feel less than warm toward her.

BREAK TO GO TO REFLEXOLOGY APPOINTMENT.   

Well, she was delightful, which teaches the value in actually meeting someone before drawing conclusions. There was nothing begrudging about her. She was welcoming, friendly, and informative. Her technique was excellent and the heated mattress beneath my back was heavenly. Digging deep without causing pain isn’t easy, but her every stroke soothed so pleasurably that I’m inclined to declare that she’s the best reflexologist I’ve ever had. I hadn’t realized how abused my poor feet were, but when I left her studio they were so blissfully free of pain that I couldn’t even feel them.

On a coinciding topic, when the anticipated cold front came to town, Marble Falls met it with insanity. Schools were closed and medical appointments were canceled; there were very few cars on the perfectly safe streets; at the grocery store there was available parking near the door, and within, the shelves had been so picked over that only a few packs of celery sticks were left. Townsfolk, what were you thinking? It was cold, that’s all. Wear a coat.

While others huddled in their homes, I floated through the lightly populated grocery store with new feet. When I ran into a friend from yoga, I rhapsodized about my joyful toes and arches. When she asked for the miracle worker’s name and number, I gave it to her, tickled to think that she, too, would be asked where she heard about the reflexologist. And this time the answer would be me.

Next, imagine my glee when I ended up in the check out line of an eccentric cashier. It’s my habit to carelessly toss the groceries into my bag; the only attention shown is when I place the eggs (expensive!) on top. But, displeased by my method, or lack thereof, the checker removed every item I’d stuffed into it, and repacked with care, giving the bag a proud pat before allowing me to be on my way.

After that, as I was exiting the store, I noticed the man who was entering. He had a bit of a belly; long snowy strands flowed from his head; a full soft white beard curled over his broad chest; and his blue eyes twinkled with joy at the icy wind. A chat with an old friend, an OCD checker, then Santa Claus. How cool is that? Plus, feet that feel like they’re encased in clouds. This has been a great afternoon.

The backyard on a cold and dreary morning.

Mother-in-Law

David’s mother, Helen, never liked me. When we were all together—and the Waldos gathered often—she either ignored my contributions to conversations or she emitted judgmental tongue clicks and grunts. She never looked at me and she never allowed even the shortest dialogue about anything meaningful. This wasn’t a subtle loathing; it was palpable and meant to injure. David’s sister said the disapproval was because I’d married the favorite child, and that Helen wouldn’t have liked anyone he married—although it didn’t seem like she treated her other daughter-in-law, Betty, any better. Betty, however, was gifted when it came to rising above, while I sometimes became so hurt and furious that my hands would tremble. Although, realistically speaking, we spent years living in other countries and any concern over my relationship with Helen fell away when we flew away.  

Also, her displeasure with me was puzzling. I’m aware that I’m sometimes intense when intensity isn’t called for. And when things don’t go my way, I tend to get snippy—well, who doesn’t? But I have redeeming qualities. I made her son happy. I was an exceptional mother to her grandsons. I’m intuitive, responsible, loyal, and I have a sense of humor. See? All good traits.  

As to her inclinations, Helen was difficult to decipher. She held to antiquated directives, such as boys and men should remove their hats when they enter a room, and it’s rude to chew gum in public. One rule that, when broken, got her riled was the “he and I” rule. She would noticeably cringe when someone said, “me and him,” or a variation thereof. While it is atrocious grammar, for some, pronouns can be tricky—however, she would let this small error form her everlasting opinion. All these standards seemed prim and rigid, which was confounding considering the pleasure she took in telling dirty jokes.

During the few years we lived in Sugar Land, Helen began to have problems coping. There were illnesses and traffic accidents until, at one point, on the phone, she told David that shopping and bringing the groceries in had so exhausted her that she was unable to go back outside and close the car door. So, after much familial discussion, it was decided that she should go into a three-step nursing home—moderate care, full care, and hospice.

Helen had smoked all her life, so it wasn’t unexpected that age came at her with unrelenting cruelty. A toe infection, caused by a pedicure, led to an amputation, which didn’t heal; and when the toe wound became gangrenous, her foot was taken, and that also didn’t heal; then off came all below her knee. And not long after, the whole leg was gone.

And throughout the operations and hospitalizations, her care fell to the daughters-in-law. Where were her sons? Nowhere to be found.

As I lived an hour away, Betty, was the one on the front lines. But I did my share, too. I drove the distance to take Helen to doctor appointments, physical therapy, and on her errands. Once, after Christmas, she had me drive her to every store in the area so she could exchange or get money back on every Christmas present Betty had given her. This woman who had treated me like a mangy stray throughout most of my adult life, showed no appreciation, and, in fact, seemed to view my services as her right.

On one horrendously long day I took her to a medical appointment and, because she was fading in and out of consciousness, the doctor instructed me to take her to the emergency room, which I did. When it looked like it was going to be a long wait in the ER, she had me roll her outside so she could smoke. I returned inside to listen for her name to be called, while outside she dropped her cigarette and, fragile and woozy as she was, bent over to pick it up, and in doing so, toppled from her wheelchair and on to the cold hard concrete, scratching her face and badly bruising her arm and shoulder. The fall got the ER’s attention and she was taken in immediately, where they ran tests, gave her five units of blood, and admitted her. I stayed with her throughout, but not with love in my heart. I did it begrudgingly, constantly checking the time, and wishing to be at home adhering to my usual schedule.

And again—where were her sons?  

I, too, have sons.

Helen’s groundless meanness. My lack of compassion. The sons staying away. Altogether, an ugly picture.

Having experienced such a thorny relationship with my husband’s mother, I have vowed to be the perfect mother-in-law. I won’t order my sons’ wives around or give them unwanted advice. I’ll never judge. I’ll be always gracious, never taking their kindnesses for granted. I won’t intrude into their marriages. I’ll support them in every way and make certain they know that I’m proud of them. I’ll never, ever be mean spirited toward them or make them think they aren’t good enough. All these intentions I’ve created so that if I fall victim to infirmity as Helen did, my sons’ wives will view me with sympathy and consideration rather than as an imposition and a duty. So, as I said, in the mother-in-law arena I aim for perfection, giving no offense and being nothing but docile and benign.

“How’s that working out for you, Jen?” you ask.

“How do you think?” is my response.

Brunch at True Food

Is this not the most beautiful baby you’ve ever seen?