The Buick

The keys to my mother’s car, a ’61 Buick Le Sabre, were handed to me on my sixteenth birthday. And to replace it, my mother slid in behind the wheel of a Dodge Charger with a racing stripe. Every guy in the neighborhood coveted it. I was disappointed in and ungrateful for the old Buick, though it wasn’t long before I grew to love it. After all, who doesn’t love their first taste of freedom?

As to the LeSabre, it was a four-door sedan, platinum with front-pointing fenders that were typical at that time. It had a floating feel to it which caused me to name it The Land Yacht. When I went through a dip it would rock forward and back, forward and back. Most unusual was that the dash information was reflected in a mirror—a whimsical design.

Most of my friends didn’t have cars and I never knew why—could their parents not afford one? Did their parents think them too irresponsible? My parents’ reasoning on the matter was that I needed to learn to be responsible for getting myself to my own activities. I was in the band and orchestra, which meant concerts, competitions, and football games that always went late; and because of this full calendar, I suspected that the real reason they gave me the car was that they were fed up with waiting for me in dark parking lots.

Though, as bad timing would have it, between ’72 and ’73 the price of gas jumped from fifty-seven cents a gallon to a dollar fifty-seven a gallon. And that old Buick got eight miles to the gallon. My parents paid for gas for me to get to school and return home. I picked friends up on the way to school and took them home after. Also, I would drive friends by their crushes’ houses as they dreamily hoped for a sighting. The driver’s seat was roomy and I’d pull my foot up and prop up my left knee, wrap my arm around it, and palm the wheel with my right hand; windows down, top forty on the radio, living in the moment.

I constantly badgered my passengers for gas money, at which point, they pretended to be deaf. And this taught me another reason why parents should give their sixteen-year-old a car—to keep their children from becoming bums.

In 1973 the legal drinking age was lowered from twenty-one to eighteen. This was due to a conflation of war and logic—war because eighteen-year-olds were being drafted; and logic because, well, if eighteen-year-olds could be sent off to Vietnam and put in a situation where they were forced to kill or be killed, they should be considered old enough to drink.  

I turned eighteen during November of my senior year in high school and, as this was Amarillo and there was nothing better to do, my friends and I thought, well, we might as well drive around and drink. It was an expected progression that my car became the drinking car and I became the drinking driver.

Go ahead, shake your head in disapproval. Yet believe me when I tell you, I was not considered wild or rebellious or unruly in any way. In fact, I was quiet and obedient. I made many of my own clothes. I played my flute well and I completed my school assignments.

The times were different, that’s all. We drank. We cruised bars, bought six packs, and drove around. We attended drinking parties in the city’s parks and in Palo Duro Canyon.

Luckily for me, during the whole of my teenage years, my parents were fixated on my older sister who was all drama all the time. They seemed not to notice when I rolled in at two in the morning, staggered into the house, fell into bed, and then got up at six to get ready for orchestra practice at seven-thirty.

Only a single time did my father raise the issue.

“Jennifer,” he said. “Drinking is legal and so this is allowed, but putting alcohol into the hands of children was a reckless thing for our government to do.”

What was I to make of this? He’d given me permission, while, at the same time, criticizing the government, which he did daily.

One time, as my friends and I were making our way from one bar to another, I ran the red light in front of the police station. Another time I went the wrong way on a one-way street for the whole length of downtown. And one morning, as I was getting ready for school, my father asked where my car was. I didn’t know. I certainly didn’t remember driving home the night before. Panicked, I raced to the front window—and there was the Buick, right where it should be. “I got you,” he sang, gleeful at having proven a fool to be a fool.

This was when there were no broken-hearted mothers to point out the dangers of drinking while driving. It would be four years before MADD was formed. And when they came along the effect was intense and immediate. The drinking age was raised to nineteen, and then, five years later, back to twenty-one. And the penalties for DUI became prohibitively stiff. Drinking and driving was so politically incorrect that no one dare do it anymore, which was for the best. But still, it was senior year, a good year to be numb.

Remember this?

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.