Sterling

Sterling parallel parked earlier this evening, solo, at the Stop & Shop Plaza. Twice. I wept.

Parallel parking has never been one of my talents. I’m more inclined to drive around the block as many times as it takes to find an easier parking solution. And here is Sterling, doing it like he was made to do it.

Sterling is my new Ford Escape. His window sticker tells me that his color is Ingot Silver. Hence “Sterling”.

Sterling has (among other wonderful features) parking assist. All I have to do is push a button, put him in “R”, and take my hands off the wheel.

The first time he did it I was so overwhelmed that I started to cry. What a country.

There are a lot of things I don’t understand. The concept of grounding electricity (don’t try, thanks). Setting a pick in basketball. How young children learn that weigh/way and bare/bear (among many other word combinations) sound the same.

How in hell did Sterling learn to park himself? I know it probably has to do with radar. How did someone way smarter than I am figure out how to make it all happen? It doesn’t matter.

I wasn’t built with a technologyish brain. It’s OK. I respect that you get it and appreciate that you respect me even though I don’t.

(Note: Sterling replaces Abe the Lincoln, who came to live with us a month ago. As promised I took Abe for bagels but not to the gym. I took him to a wedding but not to church. I took him to Maine but not to the Cape. I hope I made him happy while we were together. It’s a sedan versus an SUV thing. I missed the headlighting and the view more than I thought I would.)

 

 

 

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The PJs and the car

It’s been quite a week. It began in a bad storm when a (really) large oak tree succumbed to the wind and fell across the front yard, taking a swipe at the edge of the roof, flattening a beloved rhododendron and totaling my car.

My car. My sweet, sweet Ford Escape, a loveliest shade of pale minty green (formally called Frosted Glass). I loved that car. I was devastated when the insurance company called to say they were totaling it.

(Note: We/I were/am lucky through that storm and the one that followed. We only lost power for 25 hours and cable/phone for five days. Many people lost so much more. I am not complaining.)

Before we knew the car would be totaled, I took it to a collision center for an estimate. Knowing it would be a lengthy repair, I jumped on social media and asked for suggestions for a rental. Our friend Paul messaged me and offered the use of a car. It belonged to his late father, Peter, and was just sitting idle in the driveway.  And he mentioned that he planned to sell the car.

He gave me the specs, a 2012 Lincoln MKZ, in pristine condition.  Seriously low mileage (Paul said his Dad drove it to the local coffee shop, church, the gym and occasionally to Cape Cod). His asking price was more than fair. I told him if the insurance company totaled my car I’d give him Dave in a trade.

A few days later we got news my Escape was toasted. We called Paul and swapped a cyber-handshake to buy his Dad’s car.

This morning I cleaned out the Escape. I left a few pennies in a few places and the Penney sticker on the back window. Dave and I joined the throngs on Route 128 south for the afternoon  rush hour run to Canton to swap a check for Paul’s Dad’s car.

It’s a sweet ride. I love my new car.

Here is where the story of the new car takes a very personal twist.

Paul has a son, Paul Junior. They call him PJ. The car was driven by PJ’s Grandpa. Now the car is owned by PJSMOM.

It’s fate, tapping me on the shoulder. The PJs. The Grandpa. (The other) PJ’s Dad giving the keys to PJ’s Mom.

Before I drove out of Paul’s driveway he made me promise I’d drive his Dad’s car to Bruegger’s Bagels, to church (Catholic), a gym, and if I could manage it, to the Cape. He said that all of that would make his Dad happy.

Peter, I will make it all happen.

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To rescucitate or not

I came across an old photo yesterday, of someone I haven’t seen in nearly two decades, holding my infant daughter.

I used to think of this woman as one of my dearest friends. We had a significant history. I encouraged her to find the nerve to take some chances and she made great-for-her life changes. We laughed and smiled often. Then one day, suddenly, she turned away and we lost touch. I never knew why.

I think of her often, particularly at this time of year. She and her dad used to kick tires during Washington’s Birthday turned President’s Day car sales pushes, and her first season without him as a hard one. I silently wish her and Prince William “Happy Birthday” each June 21.

I decided to try and find her to share the photo of her and my Pretty Girl. I found her husband on social media and sent the photo with a note that said that, since I’d been thinking of her, finding the photo seemed to be a sign I should areach out.

He wrote back today and told me that the photo touched her deeply. He suggested she call and she told him that she is afraid to do that.

Afraid. That thundered as loudly as our 17-year separation. I don’t know what happened then or what prompted her to run silent through the years. There have been countless things I’ve wanted to share and I’m sure, things she’d have shared with me. It’s in my hands to decide how to respond to his message.

We are prompted in these moments to  step back, examine our hearts and cast one of three votes: put forth every effort and fight for something that is precious; take the position that monitoring and maintenance are the better options; step aside and hold onto the memories.

It’s deciding whether to sign the Friendship DNR.

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The Chrismas List. Not.

The Hammacher Schlemmer catalog came in the mail today. If you’re like me, you  thought, “The what…?” I’d never hear of it. Dave was impressed and sat down to cruise the pages.

The kicker headline on the cover indicates it is  “America’s Longest Running Catalog” and it boasts “Offering the Best, the Only and the Unexpected for 169 Years.” I love initial caps in headlines. Actually, I don’t.

Anyway, the Hammacher Schlemmer catalog is filled with lot of bests and onlys and mosts and superiors, all things my life is lacking. I don’t have:

  • The Worlds’ Largest Pac-Man
  • The Only Automatic Cordless Tire Inflator
  • The Best Nose Hair Trimmer (or Best Cordless Hand Vacuum)
  • The World’s Best Prelit Noble Fir (Or Best Fraser Fir or Best Dual Light Concolor Fir or Best Douglas Fir)
  • The Only Heated LED Travel Pillow
  • The Best Heated Throw (or Best Bluetooth Shower Speaker)
  • The Most Efficient Fireplace Grate
  • The Best Photo Converter (or Best Digital Camera Binoculars)
  • The Superior Comfort Bed Lounger
  • The Best Tree Stand (or Best Emergency Radio or Best Gentleman’s Foil Shaver or Best Pocket Radio)
  • The Forever Sharp French Chef’s Knife
  • The Better Generic Ancestry Profile
  • The Best Projection Clock (or Best Genuine Turkish Towels)
  • The Better Outdoor Furniture Covers
  • The Best Heated Vest (or Best Digital Tire Gauge)
  • The World’s Smallest Automatic Umbrella
  • The Best Heated Blanket (Or Best Heated Car Seat)
  • The Total Body Support Pillow
  • The Superior Grout Scrubber (or Superior Beard and Mustache Trimmer)
  • The Best Bug Killer (or Best Multi Handset Cordless Telephone or Best 1,000 AMP Jump Starter)

One thing is intriguing, The Warmest Steering Wheel Cover. It’s $119.95. I’ll wear gloves.

Wait. Free shipping on orders over $99.

Lemme know if you want to borrow my copy. Or you can shop online at hammacher.com.

Hammacher Schlemmer Lifetime Guarantee. Unconditional and Unwavering.

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A ramble for a 12-year old

When I walked into the house last night, there was chatter on the police scanner. The police dispatcher instructed an officer to respond to a local condominium complex and speak to a man who had called to help settle an issue with his 12-year old daughter.

What could possibly be the issue between the two that he had to call the police for assistance?

Wait. Don’t reply with your thoughts just yet.

I was born in 1953 and raised by two people who liked each other. The “like” is crucial to my story. Sometimes we love another because we are supposed to (like crusty uncles). Sometimes it’s more important to “like”.

My parents were each other’s best friends. They were thoughtful and considerate to one another. They didn’t fight. They disagreed but did so respectfully. They laughed with one another. If one went to the kitchen for a refill of beverage or snack, they asked the other. “Can I get you anything?” When my dad walked through the room he’d touch my mother on her shoulder. I saw these gestures and heard the language and thought every kid grew up in the same kind of home.

I grew up innocent. I was a sophomore in high school before I understood sex and conception. I drank once at a gathering and was so horrified I’d been peer-pressured into doing something I knew was wrong that I confessed the sin as soon as my parents were on their feet the next morning.

As much as I longed to be, I wasn’t one of the cool kids in high school. I wasn’t part of the clique, wasn’t invited to the cool parties. There is a photo in my yearbook of the popular girls draped across one another on the steps of the Wakefield Police Station. I hated them for being so pretty and popular, so tight with one another and such good friends. I wanted to be one of them and was devastated to feel that they probably didn’t know my name.

I don’t remember the Vietnam War protests. I didn’t hang with people who smoked pot. I was so naïve.

What I didn’t know was that I was blessed more than many.  I was encouraged and treasured. I was challenged in healthy ways to grow and find my voice, and once found, to use it. I was allowed to fail and regain my feet based on my abilities. My accomplishments were celebrated. My personal goal was the never hear my father say that my actions (or lack thereof) disappointed him.

I met a great guy and wanted nothing more than to marry him. I could not wait to live the life my mother and father lived—because that’s the way everyone lived, right?

The last 40-plus years have been an interesting journey. Our marriage has hit some bumps (whose hasn’t?) but we worked through them. We never gave up on each other or on ourselves.

I co-raised a strong, confident child. She was more savvy than I’d been, smarter to the ways of the world at every age. She was kind and she made me proud. I’d have done anything for her.

She hated high school gym classes and I wrote her “get out of class” passes so often that when she was a senior, graduation was threatened because she hadn’t taken the minimum required classes (she caught up). She hated riding the bus so I drove her to school every morning (and she was late nearly every day).

When she was in college she fussed about having to write a paper for a class. I wrote it for her. She needed to take an online management class and asked me whether I’d consider… I took it in her name. I’d have taken the fatal blow for her.

She knew she could come to Dave or me with anything and we’d have helped her find a way to deal with it. She had great people in her life that she could go to if she felt she couldn’t come to us. We talked about that a number of times so I could be sure she knew she had a safety net. She named parents of a few of her friends, her uncle Ted, our church assistance minister Allen. It gave me great comfort to know that she knew she was building her foundation on her own confidence, her own voice and her network of mentors.

I blame my mother (because she is my only living parent) for my sheltered upbringing. I didn’t understand unhappy marriages, parents who couldn’t communicate with one another or nurture their children, people who disrespected one another on the basis of skin color or economic status or the kinds of houses they lived in or the jobs they performed. It has taken me years to wake from my Ward and June blissful state of mind and acknowledge that the world can be a harsh and hateful place.

(Disclaimer: My mother and I have talked about all of this. She knows that, with love and thanks, I blame her and my Dad for my rose-colored glasses view.)

What is the point of my ramble? I’m not sure but I offer a challenge. Do something to improve a corner of your world. Speak a kind word. Ask to forgive. Accept an apology. Offer your hand. Encourage someone. Smile at a stranger and say “Good morning”. Hold a door. Let the other driver go first. Small things become big things. Realize it’s not all about you.

If your reaction is to chastise me or rant a lecture, so be it. I may disagree but I support your right to do so. If you rant, I may just slide on those rosy glasses and opt not to finish reading what you have to say.

I’m good with myself. Can you say that?

I hope you find you have something to offer to someone who deserves your attention. Can you do that?

I will be thinking about that dad and his 12-year old daughter and his shout out to the local police. They need to find the energy to find their way, with each other or without. Hopefully with.

 

 

 

 

Virus-free. www.avg.com

 

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Vacation A to Z

A: Air (sweet, clean, fresh)
B: Beech tree, Birds
C: Cousin, Cronin
D: Dark skies, Dragonflies
E: Early morning
F: Friendship Sloops, Fire pit
G: Glorious
H: Harmonic, Happy (birthday, Ted)
I: Ice cubes
J: July
K: Karma
L: Lobsters. Light house,
M: Maine, Morang; Mexicali Blues, Moody’s
N: Nobleboro
O:  Ocean
P: Porpoise, Port Clyde
Q: Quarry
R: Rockland
S: Sun, Seal (in the harbor)
T: Tenant’s Harbor
U: Unwind
V: Vodka
W: Weather (perfect)
X: Xenial
Y:  Yellow chair
Z: Zinnea

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Wednesday from the Yellow Chair

Thoughts from the yellow chair on the front porch.

The air smells so sweet, I think it’s the hay in the neighboring fields that’s been cut for the dairy cows.

People who drive by with their car stereos playing loud enough for me to hear the music should be shot.

The State of Maine does not require motorcycle riders to wear helmets. Helmets are confining, hot, and not particularly comfortable. Anyone who rides without one is a fool.

The breeze is rustling the leaves in a beach tree next to the shed. I would know that tranquilizing sound anywhere and it’s one of the triggers that makes this place so special for me.

There are multiple conversations going on among the birds in the trees that ring the house and the front and side fields. They chatter, sing, and scold one another in dialects I don’t understand but appreciate for the apparent simple ease at which they entertain me. 1It is as if I’m in the balcony of a grand music hall, listening to an avian opera. The leaves of the beech tree are the gentle applause.

I have not heard a human voice for almost two glorious hours. I wonder if I could spend a week here and never hear a human voice.

I task myself to expend some energy on learning how to be happier with less.

porch.jpg

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