Appropriate Dressing and a Corpse

We’re having guests for dinner and David comes out dressed in olive camo shorts and a fluorescent salmon T-shirt. I step into the hallway, see what he’s wearing, and have a new-jerk reaction—No! No! Those colors were never meant to be worn together!

Apparently I’ve hurt his feelings because his response is a petulant—Well, look at what you’re wearing!—which makes no sense because I’m dressed in clothing which is, in fact, attractive, appropriate to the occasion, and won’t make anyone’s eyes bleed. He stomps off and comes back wearing the same shorts with a T-shirt he wears when working on Habitat houses—frayed at the seams, faded black, and covered with white paint splotches. I wisely don’t say a word.

He also goes his own way clothing-wise when we’re traveling. For the tour’s getting-acquainted luncheon in Reykjavik, he shows up in olive pants and a maroon T-shirt (Clash!) with TEXAS A&M printed across his belly, though he swore off wearing billboard T-shirts long ago. Though I know better than to chastise, I’m unable to restrain myself from lifting a derisive brow and muttering a snarky, “Really?”

“It’s a conversation starter,” he tells me with an unconcerned shrug.

And indeed it is. Men he doesn’t know cross the room to slap him on the back and tell him they know someone who went to A&M; or that they went to A&M; or that their son or daughter is going or is planning to go to A&M. Or contrarily, they announce that they went to UT but they won’t hold his having gone to A&M against him. All these conversations are hyperbolically convivial. And David’s right. He invited attention as soon as he entered the room.

The next morning we go for a walk. For all we’ve heard about Iceland being, well, icy, there’s no wind and the temperature is a mild seventy-two. Across from the hotel is a walking path that is noticeably pristine, bordered by healthy green grass, and well-planned—a divided bike lane on one side and a divided walking path on the other. The few people using the paths follow the rule about staying to the right. Gotta love a country where its people follow the rules even when there’s no one there to monitor.

We head to the right, and about two hundred yards along we come across a man sleeping in the grass. He’s wearing a cap, a pair of sunglasses, and colorful workout clothes.

As we continue on, we discuss the man who’s passed out and how Reykjavik used to have a reputation as a hard-drinking wild-partying town; and though, in recent years, they’ve worked to change their status, we nevertheless assume drinking too much is the reason he’s passed out in the grass.

When we’ve put in our half-hour, we turn back, and once again come upon the sleeping man, who’s in the same position he was in earlier.

“He’s not breathing,” I tell David.

“Let’s watch and see.”

So we stop and stare at his chest for several minutes. There’s not the slightest rise and fall. What’s the protocol here? Neither one of us brought a phone. David suggests we take the few steps up to the street and see if we can flag down a cop—and there’s no cop in sight; in fact, traffic is so light that there’s only a single set of brake lights in the distance. Ludicrously hopeful, I scan the buildings looking for a police station. No luck.

We decide to return to the hotel and notify the front desk. On the way, we come across a man heading in the opposite direction. David stops him, tells him about the dead body, and asks if he’ll call it in.

“I’ll take a look,” the man says in a skeptical tone, offering no confirmation that he’ll make a call.

When we get back to the hotel, David tells the concierge, who calls the police, who request that David stay and guide them to the body. We need to get cleaned up and packed, so David denies the request, gives a clear description of where the body is (across the street, to the right, adjacent to the socker fields, next to the bench), and returns to our room to get ready for the day.

Later, when our tour comes together and we’re all standing in huddles the way people do when they’re waiting for things to get going, we mention that we came across a dead man on our morning walk.

“I saw him, too,” a woman says. “What time were you walking?”

“Eight-thirty,” we tell her.

“Oh. When I walked by at eleven, he was still there.”

Well, that’s disturbing.

At this point we’re herded on to our buses and are driven around to view the highlights of Reykjavik for a couple of hours before we’re taken to our boat, which will take us to see fjords and puffins, and to hike in the artic circle, where our heads will be attacked by arctic terns. For these excursions we will dress appropriately and as advised—in layers, and in such a way that T-shirts broadcasting personal information will be concealed beneath sweaters, jackets, and windbreakers.

For a reason I’m unaware of, this sphere marks the Arctic Circle. They have to move it every year and it’s expected to be underwater in five years’ time.

This shows how dynamic Iceland is.

Shouting in a Viking-like manner on an ice throne in a frozen cave. Why? Who knows? Then, of course, there’s the T-shirt.

Bug of the Year

There’s a dominant bug every summer. Last year it was stick insects. They were everywhere. If you put your hand on an outdoor chair or railing without checking first, your palm would land on a stick bug.

This year we thought it was going to be gnats. They came at our eyes and buzzed into our ears, leaving us foolishly waving at our faces. They got caught in our sweat and swam around in our dents and wrinkles, which tickled or stung, depending on the desperation level of the gnat. But as June aged and a bit of rain passed through, the gnats quit aiming for our moist orifices and we weren’t unhappy about that; though their retreat left room for the more predominant miscreants: Flies. I’m looking at one resting on the wall in front of me right now. We open the door to go out and a fly buzzes in. We come inside and a fly hovers along behind. I pause at the kitchen sink to put a few glasses in the dishwasher and four flies rise up, indignant that I’ve disturbed them at their leisure.

Flies. They’re annoying and I don’t like ’em. Once, many years ago, one of them buzzed lugubriously around my head and shoulders. So heavy and sluggish was it that when it landed on the kitchen table it occurred to me that I might be able squash it with my bare hand. Why I thought that’d be an interesting achievement I do not know. But reach out I did, and squash it I did. The wet body beneath my palm felt gross and when I pulled my hand away, the black carcus was covered with writhing maggots.

Excuse me. I must step away for a minute to wash my hands. Okay, I’m back.

When I was about twelve my father finished the addition he’d been building on to the back of our house. Instead of a cramped and squatty Craftsman-style three-bedroom home, we now had an extended living room with a slate floor, a fireplace with a broad hearth, an upstairs, and a basement. A household comprised of introverts, we used the space to put as much distance between us as we could. My older sister claimed the upper floor of the addition and I claimed the basement, which was dark and dank and cool even in August when the heat caused every plant and beast to long for death. From the outside, the new portion of the house loomed behind the original construction like an ill-conceived geometry project, but on the inside it was lovely.

My living area was composed of two large squares—one where I slept, read, and practiced my flute, which I did for hours every day; and considering the low ceiling and brick walls, the acoustics caused any grouping of notes to echo magnificently, which made it easy to fool myself into believing that I was indeed a magnificent flute player. And the other room was an open area in which I arranged a green leather chair and ottoman to face an old black-and-white television. During my first summer downstairs I painted alternate colors on the descending steps—red, gray, and light blue; and I painted the walls pink and the furniture red. It looked better than it sounds.

From the time my sister moved above and I moved below we spent very little time as a family. We were all hunched in our own remote chambers, going about our business in our separate paradises and communicating very little. For me, this was great. None of us got along all that well and developing far away from the parents’ watchful eyes and constant judgement gave me a freedom that I deeply appreciated.

I got off track. Bugs. As you can imagine, when it was a hundred degrees outside I wasn’t the only creature who found the pleasant temperatures underground to be delightful. All manner of bugs made their way to my sunken abode. Primarily spiders and crickets.

While technically spiders aren’t insects, they fit my personal definition, which is any creature that’s small, scary, and void of intelligence. My relationship with the spiders was convivial. Their corner webs caught smaller bugs like sowbugs, silverfish, and pill bugs. They were respectful, polite, and industrious, so I let them be.

What I came to loathe were crickets. In my resonant underground lair, the chirp of a single cricket was deafening—and for crickets, chirping is an all-night thing. From mid-June through mid-October I was robbed of my sleep on a nightly basis. When a body’s tired, battling crickets is frustrating and enraging. At first chirp I’d leap out of bed, grab the nearby can of bug spray, and then, due to the reverberance, be unable to pinpoint where the sound was coming from. The cricket’s battle technique was to crouch beneath the bed or behind the dresser until it was ready to hop out and make me scream; and then, as I sprayed half a can of poison on it, jump at my frightened legs until it died. It could take me as long as a half-hour to put a cricket down, at which point I’d pull out my flute and, making hyperbolical use of the lower register, play “Poor Jud is Dead,” the ironically mournful dirge from Oklahoma, dedicated to a man whom no one loved. Then I returned to my slumbers.

A spider is not an insect, but it kind of is.

This is a dead fly. If you’re a fly and you come into my house, this is how you’ll end up.

This is a worm, which is most definitely not a bug, but it meets my criteria.

Things to Think About

It’s irksome when I find myself in a position of having to depend on someone to do what they said they’d do. If the AC is leaking and the guy says he’ll come fix it, then he should come. But he doesn’t. My disappointment becomes anger and puts me on a path of disbelief in the credibility of others.

So on this subject I give myself a talking-to. “You can decide to trust or not to trust,” is what I tell myself. “It’s better to believe in others and be let down than not to believe in others at all.” This philosophy has shown that approximately half the people I come across do what they say they’ll do.  

Another issue requiring trust and belief concerns labels. For instance, if I buy free-range eggs, I take this to mean that hens are laying their eggs wherever and whenever the urge demands—beneath porches or shrubs, in hidden corners, or behind the shed. Is a caretaker following the chickens around, collecting eggs as they’re laid, and marking each egg’s appearance on a calendar, or do the eggs go undiscovered in the tall weeds for months? Under these circumstances, how can I know if the sell-by date is accurate?

When it comes to religious trust or, as it’s known in the ecclesiastic arena, faith, I channel my mother. I remember an incident when she decided to cover a splintery old table with contact paper. Her plan was to make the surface smooth so she could use it for cutting fabric. I was in her vicinity, but too young to be helpful. The project didn’t go well. The sticky side of the paper stuck to her hands but wouldn’t stick to the rough surface, and it was so tightly rolled that it seemed to be ruled by an uncooperative spirit. She pulled the paper from the roll and tried to press it flat, but no matter how diligently she adjusted and straightened, fifteen minutes after she began, the contact paper was stuck to itself and centered on the table in a nightmarish wad, which she gathered up and stuffed into the nearby wastebasket. Then she remeasured and cut and once again attempted to cover the table—and the same thing happened.

“I’ve done all I can,” she said, red-faced and frustrated as she stuffed the newest mess in the trash. “It’s in God’s hands now.”

I was around seven, old enough to know that God wasn’t going to descend from his heavenly perch and put the contact paper on the table—although “in God’s hands” was a thing she said often, leaving everything from a lost sock to the sick cat in the hands of God. And her act of putting everything in God’s hands irritated my father, who felt that only the helpless and uneducated put trust in an invisible being.

When David and I lived in Cairo I pondered faith in the Islamic culture. The Egyptians draped themselves in it—Insha’allah. If Allah wills. Every Muslim I knew said it at least ten times a day. It was both a phrase of intent and an excuse—I plan to deliver your husband’s shirts on Wednesday, but it’s up to Allah, not me, whether or not that happens. It was a land of no promises, ever. How easy their faith made their lives. If Allah is in charge of everything, why worry? In fact, why do anything? What I did observe was that these people were remarkably happy. Well, why wouldn’t they be if they never had to take responsibility or meet a deadline?

A few years later, having returned to the states, I joined a Christian women’s group, and one of the members held to the Muslim belief of living by faith alone. Blithely she coasted through her days; no dwelling on accomplishments for her. She signed up for a committee position, then backed out the next day. She volunteered to take dinner to a bereaved widow, but didn’t get it done. She cadged rides to meetings and outings and sat back and watched other women chip in for lunch while she left her wallet in her purse. What I couldn’t understand was everyone’s acceptance of her behavior. Nobody ever said a disapproving or antagonistic word; they simply let it slide, including her in every activity, and treating her as if she were a contributing member of the group. Thinking that maybe they knew something I didn’t, I questioned one of the other women.

“I don’t know why she’s undependable and never pays her fair share,” was the woman’s response. “She’s far from poor and she has no mental issues. But whatever’s going on with her, it’s our duty as Christians to love her as she is.”

How pious. I took the issue to David.

“Shouldn’t Christians meet their responsibilities?” I asked. “Shouldn’t they be a help rather than an imposition? What’s Christian about mooching?”

“Christians like to do things for others and be generous. So maybe she’s doing her part by giving them someone to take care of and be generous to.”

“I get the part about the other women accepting her for who she is, but how could she not know that she’s taking advantage?”

“Maybe she sees what you other women do for her as God’s provision.”

“But it’s not God providing, it’s her friends and neighbors.”

“Think about what you just said.”

I did think about it, and I pictured a world where every human on the planet played with their toes as they waited for God to provide.

I’m obviously running low on pictures.

For your joy, here’s a picture of our granddaughter, Clementine. Isn’t she a cutie?

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?