The Trip to L.L. Bean

Early in the first year of our marriage, we purchased what, to date, remains the only brand new car I have ever owned—a 1981 Honda Civic wagon. The narrow chassis and compact interior, along with front wheel drive and 5-speed manual transmission, made for easy maneuvering on the roads during snowy New England winters. Our 120-pound Newfoundland dog could hop into the hatch area to contentedly go for a ride. But it wasn’t the dog that hopped in there on Christmas Eve when we made the trip to L.L. Bean.

My husband, John, and I had moved to Andover, Massachusetts, when he took his first job out of college as an art teacher at Phillips Academy. John’s mother and brother lived in nearby Fitchburg making family get-togethers for holidays and birthdays very convenient. John’s sister, Robyn, and husband Max lived in the Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, area but made the trip to Andover in December 1980 so that the six of us could all celebrate Christmas together.

Around ten o’clock at night on Christmas Eve we sat in our tiny living area sipping hot chocolate and chatting when John’s mother, Dorothy, mused aloud wondering if any of us knew that L.L. Bean was open 24 hours a day, every day of the year. The non-sequitur didn’t phase any of us as the group happily switched topics and began talking about their various experiences at the iconic store.

“I’ve never been,” I said. My five new family members stopped sipping from their mugs and stared at me in wonder.

Max’s eyes brightened as he said, “We should go.” Robyn considered for a moment but reasoned that there just wouldn’t be time to fit such a trip in before they needed to head back home in just two days. Max set his mug of chocolate down, scooted forward on the couch, and said, “No, I mean we should go right now.” Sure that she had heard him wrong, Dorothy asked, “Now? As in right now? It's almost 10:30.” Max nodded.

Within a few minutes John agreed with Max, Robyn and Peter protested to a small degree, Dorothy threw up her hands in resignation, and I thought, “Why not?” With a light snow falling, the six of us piled into the Honda—John driving, Max, a man of burly physique, taking the passenger seat, we three women squeezing into the back seat, and sixteen-year-old Peter, also of burly physique and a fair number of pounds heavier than even the Newfoundland dog, crawling into the hatchback sans seatbelt—and off we ventured on the 100-mile trip to Freeport, Maine.

It was a crazy thing to do. As we made our way up I-95, the weather worsened and the snow fell. As we crossed the state line from New Hampshire to Maine, the roads gleamed white. John, an expert driver in all manner of conditions, steered us on to our destination. We arrived shortly after midnight at the retail mecca where the lights of the parking lot reflected off the clouds and the fallen snow created a sort of halo above the giant store. The building seemed to pulsate and glow as we trekked our way from the car to the welcoming doors of L.L. Bean.

It was toasty warm inside. Christmas music was playing, which added to the spirit of the holidays. We didn’t buy very much in deference to poor Peter who would have to share his hatch area with any purchases. But, wandering the aisles of mittens, hats, boots of all ilk, camping equipment, skiwear, and so much more brought the joy and knowledge that we had done something wonderfully impulsive.

Copyright DJ Anderson 2016

Cutting the Cord

Cable television. I hardly have to say more than those two words to unleash the shared feeling that we’re all being ripped off in one way or another. There are varying opinions as to how this universal scam will ultimately be brought to its demise. Google, it is prophesied, will be our digital savior soon. Very soon. I’m sure if one carefully rereads Revelation, the signs are nigh. But, last September I decided to take matters into my own hands—a sort of sacrilege, I suppose—and became a cord cutter. Rather, I became a partial cord cutter as I have retained my Wi-Fi.

With Wi-Fi, and an Amazon Stick, I am able to watch an untold number of movies and television programs through my Amazon Prime account. With the Netflix and PBS apps, content from another sector of my watching universe is delivered to my television screen. And when it’s time for the third season of Outlander to begin, I can pay an additional $9.00 for the Starz app for the two to three months during which the episodes will stream. The only drawback is that I have to wait a full 24 hours after first broadcast before I can watch—a small price to pay for saving $100 a month.

I first began contemplating the notion of opting out of cable television nearly three years ago while living in an apartment complex that mandated AT&T’s U-verse3 for all members of the community. Until then, I’d subscribed to the most basic of services, along with my Wi-Fi, reasoning that it was only a few more dollars a month with the bundle. I reasoned this even though I had given up watching standard commercial television almost 20 years ago. But I liked HGTV, Masterpiece, and the occasional movie that would crop up on the schedule, and the few extra bucks seemed worth it. With U-verse3, I then became a bit addicted to the DVR that came with the service, which further led me to believe that the now more than $100 extra I was paying was also somehow worth it. I was drinking the cable television Kool-Aid.

On a recent visit to my sister’s, she and I decided to watch the pilot for a new television series on ABC called Designated Survivor. The series had been running for several weeks already, but Susan was able to select OnDemand through her cable services so that we could watch the first episode commercial-free. It was good. Very good. We decided to watch the second episode. But as she clicked through the options, she could find the third episode, but not the second. We thought we had clicked something wrong so began the process again—searching, typing in what we wanted, selecting. But still, only the pilot and the third episode were listed. Determined to watch that second episode, she tried any number of other methods to locate the content. For the amount of money she is paying for her service, this should have been no problem. But there was no episode two to be found.

In the end, she downloaded a 30-day trial for Hulu that will auto-charge her credit card $9.00 a month once the trial is over so that we could watch episode two. It is this type of problem that led me to my decision to cut the cord. No matter what one pays for cable service, there is always something that alludes—there is yet another charge, another subscription, another content delivery system required to get exactly what one wants. The trick is to not want it. Or, in my case, to decide to pay only for what I want when I want it.

What will happen if Google finally takes over the entire industry is anyone’s guess. But, for now, I redistributed 100 extra dollars into my monthly budget, and I’m pretty happy about that.   

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2016

Learning to Whistle

“If you want me, just whistle. You know how to whistle, don't you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow," so said the incomparable Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not.

Mom taught me how to put my lips together and blow except that it was a bit more complicated than that. Learning to whistle included curling the tongue and placing the tip on the back of the bottom teeth. It was hard to learn, but, with practice, I soon was able to make the tiniest little whistling sound, and before too long, I could whistle a tune.

We all liked to whistle. Dad would whistle along while listening to Broadway hits like “I Whistle a Happy Tune” from the King and I, “My Favorite Things” from Sound of Music, or “What Do the Simple Folk Do?” from Camelot. It took years of practice before I could whistle complicated melodies like Dad could, but what fun it was when a particular riff was mastered.

While visiting business associates of Dad’s in St. Louis around the time I was 12 years old, we all went to see the St. Louis Cardinals in a game against the Cincinnati Reds. Johnny Bench was the catcher for the Reds at the time so everyone was pretty excited. Everyone, that is, except me. All I could think about was how boring and stupid a stinky old baseball game would be. I sat in my seat trying not to be too antsy, when something happened--the Cardinals got a hit or someone scored--and Dad’s business associate, who was sitting next to me, jumped up, put his fingers to his lips, and whistled long and loud to signal his approval of whatever play had just been made.

“How did you do that?” I blurted out to him, suddenly very interested in this new kind of whistle.

He sat back down and showed me how he had made a circle with his forefinger and thumb. I made a circle with my forefinger and thumb. “That’s right,” he encouraged. He then showed me how he placed these fingers up against the tip of his tongue. I placed my fingers against the tip of my tongue. He then explained that I needed to push my tongue back with my fingers and “bite” my fingers with my lips leaving about the same amount of space open like regular whistling. I studied his mouth, his finger placement, and tried to imitate what I saw.

He further encouraged, “You keep trying. You’ll get it.”

I kept trying. And trying. And trying. And whoa! I little sound came out. I adjusted my fingers and kept trying. A bigger sound came out. Dad’s friend looked down at me and said, “By George, I think she’s got it.” His quoting from My Fair Lady made me laugh. By the seventh inning stretch, I had it all figured out.

When we stood, the man said, “I can teach you an alternate way if you like.” I liked. He straightened out his index and middle fingers on both hands. I did the same thing. He then placed them on the tip of his tongue, forming a “V,” and pushed back on his tongue to make almost exactly the same shape with his mouth over his fingers as the first whistle. He then whistled like you would if calling for your dog to come. This time, it only took me a few tries before a mastered this whistling style as well.

I don’t do it very often, but whenever I whistle in the style I learned at that St. Louis Cardinals game, people look in amazement. I’m pretty sure they’re wishing they could learn how. So, just ask me sometime. I’d be happy to teach you.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2016

Ditched

“Ditch her,” they yelled.

As the only girl on my block, I heard that a lot from the passel of boys in my neighborhood. One moment we would all be playing war—me, the weaponless caregiver to the wounded—and the next moment I’d be watching them all hightail it to the upper dunes screaming triumphantly when I was unable to catch up to them. Dejected as the last remnants of their whoops and hollers reached my ears, I would return home and head to my basement playroom to play make-believe on my own. As an only child, I was used to being by myself, but being ditched by the boys was a blow nonetheless.

It is no wonder, then, that what happened one afternoon at Shopper’s World—a precursor to the Super Wal-Mart of today—forever scarred me with a sort of phobia of being left behind, forgotten, or not included. Ditched.

The Shopper’s World flyer with its brightly colored photos of sales items arrived with the Wednesday New Dispatch. Mom thumbed through it clipping the coupons as she went, and then filed them alphabetically in her metal index card box. The next day she picked me up from morning kindergarten, fed me some lunch, and then hustled me into the car to drive out to the highway where the large store stood. The building seemed enormous to me. There were rows and rows of parking spots, a large sign with the store’s name and logo globe, and what seemed like a mile of shopping carts. It was an overwhelming sight.

Mom said, “Keep up with me and don’t wander off.”

I grasped the bottom part of her slacks in my right hand to try and keep tethered to her. She placed her index card box in the cart’s seat where I usually sat, grabbed onto the cart handle, and off she strode with determined purpose into one of the wide aisles. Up one aisle, down the other she went. Every once in awhile she’d stop and pick up an item to scrutinize closely, read the label, check the price, look at her coupon, and then would either put it in the cart or place it back on the shelf. One time she stopped so suddenly I plowed right into the back of her leg. A scowl and scolding followed and I let go of her slacks so that it wouldn’t happen again.

I stood waiting for her to start moving again, and noticed that there was something very interesting on the shelf right next to the cart. It was a little package of teeny little umbrellas. Each one was a different color. Next to the multi-color package of umbrellas was a package of all pink ones, and next to it a package of all blue ones. One of the packages was torn and a yellow umbrella was poking out of the hole. I took a closer look and pincered the little yellow umbrella out of the hole. The umbrella opened up just like a real umbrella and there was a little piece of wood that would then hold it open. I was enchanted and looked around to see if there were any other colors. But as I turned my head I saw that the cart was gone and so was my mom.

I looked right. No Mom. I looked left. No Mom. I walked to the end of the aisle and looked into the vast universe of Shopper’s World. No Mom. I ran down to the other end of the aisle to look into another vaster universe of Shopper’s World. No Mom. I started to cry. I was sure I had been ditched.

I was in complete despair thinking I would now have to live at Shopper’s World forever when a woman wearing a bright red badge came up to me and asked, “Are you lost?”

I stopped crying for a moment and choked out an answer. “No, I’m at Shopper’s World,” I said.

The woman’s eyebrows scrunched together and she said, “I mean, have you lost your mother?” I thought about this for a moment and reckoned that perhaps that is what had happened. I had lost my mother. So I nodded. She then kindly took my hand and we walked up and down the aisles until we found my mom.

Mom gave me another scowl, thanked the woman, and we continued shopping.

Being ditched isn’t any fun and even today I get anxious about getting separated from someone I’m with. So when in big crowded areas or large space, I usually keep a very close eye on my companions so I don’t lose them.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2016

Nagawicka Lake

Nagawicka Lake, situated in the quaint town of Delafield, Wisconsin, is where my aunt and uncle purchased a house sometime in the 1980s. Since then, they have played host to a wide range of family members who all have fond memories and will always treasure the time spent there in such loving company.

In late August, 1995, we (my family of four: husband John, eight-year-old Ariel, and five-year-old Aaron) were visiting Auntie Beth and Uncle Dick and thoroughly enjoying all that Delafield, nearby Milwaukee, and Nagawicka Lake had to offer. The daily routine included a ride on the pontoon boat to the sandbar area to swim, skiing behind the outboard, and then another ride on the pontoon in the evening just before sunset. My mom and dad spent the better part of a month there each summer, and this summer was no exception. It was pure family fun for the week of our stay.

The week happened to also coincide with our fifteenth wedding anniversary. On that morning, Beth and Dick, and Mom and Dad, offered to look after the children so that John and I could go to the Nagawicka Yacht Club to enjoy a nice meal together to celebrate. We eagerly accepted the offer, made our reservations, and began looking forward to our “date night.”

The day was bright and sunny, but later in the afternoon, the wind really picked up. Though the sun still shone, the lake started to form small white caps, and skiing that day was called off as the lake was much too choppy.

To add to the romance of the evening, John planned to take the pontoon boat across the lake for our dinner date, but Uncle Dick suggested that we might want to consider driving the car instead. An expert boatsman, however, John studied the lake conditions for a moment and concluded that the one-mile trip across would not be a problem at all. And so off we went.

The ride across was bumpy and windy. My hair was blown around so much that I fretted about the tangles I’d have to deal with, and then gave up altogether on the idea that anything of my carefully styled “do” could be salvaged once we reached the restaurant.

As we neared the club, John slowed the boat and aimed for the right side of the dock where we’d be able to tie up. A little girl, about six years old, stood on the end of the dock watching us approach. Just as John turned the steering wheel to maneuver into the open dock area, a gust of wind thwarted his usually precise aim, and he was forced to veer right to make a wide 360 to give it another try. The little girl continued to watch us. Again, just as John made his move, another gust, even stronger this time, threw him off course. The little girl tilted her head to the left, still eyeing us. Sighing deeply, he swung out into the lake, and set the boat up for his third try. But Nagawicka Lake seemed determined to keep us from our dinner date because he failed to achieve his goal. The little girl’s eyebrows scrunched together to form a bit of a scowl. Finally, on the fourth try, the wind let up at just the right moment, and John quickly grabbed the dock and pulled the boat neatly up against it. He then tied the boat securely and helped me out onto the dock.

As we stepped away from the boat to head up the steps to the yacht club, the little girl looked up at John and expressionlessly said, “Looks like you shoulda drove.”

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2016

Queen Bee

She was at the top of our class, served in student government, was a yearbook editor, and spent most of our high school years heading up one committee or another. She was a queen bee—one of those brilliant young women who is constantly surrounded by a hive of drones eager to serve her. To be allowed into her circle of friends was to be granted the privilege of being in the know, and part of the popular crowd.

She scooped me up and placed me in her orbit soon after I’d gone out a couple times with the captain of the football team. New to the school, I had no notion of anyone’s status, but with just those two dates, I suddenly found I had one that brought me all kinds of recognition.

“Do you have tickets to Mam’Selles yet?” she asked at the end of trigonometry class.

“What is Mam’Selles?” I responded.

Eyebrows raised she placed a hand on her chest in feigned surprise. She then explained that it was an exclusive organization to which she belonged that put on a girls-ask-the-boys dance each year. “As a member, I can select five girls who I’d personally like to invite to the dance. I have ten tickets so each girl I choose is given two of them.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Do you have tickets to Mam’Selles yet?” she repeated more urgently.

“Uh, no,” I answered.

“Well, I’d like to give you two of them.”

“I wouldn’t know who to ask.”

“You don’t know who to ask?” A wry smile appeared on her face. “But of course you do.” She then explained that she knew all about my going out with the captain and that I should ask him.

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. We hardly know each other.”

She pursed her lips together and scrutinized me closer. “Look, the dance isn’t for another two months. I’ll give you the tickets, and then you figure out when a good time to ask him will be. If a month goes by and you still don’t think you can ask him, then just give me the tickets back and I’ll give them to someone else. Okay?”

At the Mam’Selles dance, we sat at her table—I on his right, she on his left. Throughout the next year, she kept me, or rather us, close at hand. She sat with me at the football games helping to cheer him on. She invited us to spend summer Saturday’s at her family’s beach house. When the captain was leaving town on a series of college visits, she volunteered to take care of me in his absence, which is when the first sting occurred.

I came to school the morning of the day before the captain was to leave to visit Dartmouth College. I sat on the concrete bench outside the library waiting for his bus, just as I did every morning. She joined me, as she always did. But, when he got off the bus, he gave us a sideways glance and headed off in the opposite direction. I was confused. I looked at her and wondered aloud, “Whatever could be the matter with him?”

She sniggered and said, “Oh, he’s so silly. He probably believed what I told him we were going to be doing this weekend.”

“What did you say we were going to be doing?” I asked as my heart began to race.

She put her hand over her mouth smothering a giggle and said, “I told him we were going to drive to Orlando to visit my cousin, and that he has a friend who really wants to meet you.”

I stared at her in horror.

By noon, the incident was all straightened out, but not before I had cried so hard and so long in the ladies room that my chemistry teacher had to come looking for me.

The following week, our triangle was fully restored. She sat with us on the bus to Grad Night, and joined the group of 12 that ate dinner at his parents’ home before prom. And when he went off to college, she and I attended the local community college and did things together on the weekends. She shared my excitement and anticipation for his return for Thanksgiving break. But, as many high school romances go, the captain’s and mine did not last.

When I started dating Scott, a guy from college, she was, again, there at every turn. And when I broke up with him because I didn’t like how much he drank, she was as furious as I’d ever seen her. She was more upset with me about my breaking up with him than he was.

There were other incidents that I easily dismissed when others questioned my continued loyalty to her. “That’s just her,” I’d say, giving her a pass no matter how much her stings hurt.

In my mid-twenties, married, and now living in New England, I returned home one summer to spend a week at my parents’ home. I was subsequently invited to a party a former classmate was giving, and I soon learned that she was planning to attend. I called her up and cheerfully made plans to meet at the party. The party was crowded and loud and I leaned in close and suggested we go downtown to Fitzgerald’s instead. She shook her head, pointed to another friend of ours and said, “We’ve been shopping all day, and are exhausted. We’re just going to head back to my house and call it a night.” I was disappointed but understood. I told her I’d give her a call before I left town. She gave me a thumbs up.

Two days later I did call her. We chatted about the party and then she said, “It was so loud there that we just couldn’t stand it another minute, so we left early and went downtown to Fitzgerald’s. We didn’t leave there until they closed at two.”

The sting of her words buzzed through my adult filters, and I finally understood everything. I wished her well, and that was the end of that.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2016

Ahoy!

My boating experience has primarily been as a passenger. Whether on the Kratsik’s yacht on Lake Michigan, the Silverberg’s in Long Island Sound, Uncle Dick’s many ski and float boats, or the Graham’s and many other high school friend’s ski boats—I can honestly say I enjoyed every one of those outings. But, when my parents decided to purchase a boat soon after our move to Florida, I found out very quickly that I was not cut out to be a boat owner. And neither were they.

Dad’s boat fantasies began around the time we started vacationing on Table Rock Lake in the Ozarks. He relished his time behind the wheel of the beautiful Chris Craft that came with the rented house, and soon started dropping in at boat shows “just to take a look,” he told Mom. The romance of owning a boat soon overtook the careful logic he usually employed in all decisions, and even Mom got drawn into the delusion. They started scouring the “boats for sale” ads.

When Dad said he had finally found the boat he was going to buy, I couldn’t help but be excited as I had my own fantasies. Having been invited by friends on so many boating dates, especially by my high school boyfriend, Angus, I was eager to pay everyone back and add our new boat to the mix. I envisioned driving with a pod of other boats out to Eggmont Key, or anchoring off the coast of Anna Maria Island to party.

Mom, Dad, my sister, Susan, and I piled in the car on the day set to make the purchase. We pulled into a gravel driveway, my eyes darting around looking for the sleek white, center console, outboard ski boat of my imagination. With a hand-lettered FOR SALE sign taped to the back, what I saw was a garish yellow and red inboard. The paint was dull and faded. The console was up front and was under cover. The smell of diesel fuel was strong. My dreams of boating with my friends vanished in an instant because I knew right then and there that I wouldn’t be caught dead driving that boat.

Boat owning turned into a nightmare for my dad. There was always something wrong with the boat, and Dad wasn’t a mechanic. I remember going on it just once. At one point Mom yelled at Dad because he had gotten confused and almost put the boat aground. There was no skiing, no partying, no anchoring, no fun. It was actually a fishing boat rather than a pleasure boat. After we motored into the docking area, there were decks to hose down, all manner of icky nasty stuff to wipe off and clean, and things to stow and lock down. I was a greasy, grimy, sweaty mess with no memory of having enjoyed even one moment. I think I actually muttered, “I hate boating.” Thus, when my parents announced just one year later that they were going to sell the boat, I thought, “good riddance.” An ad was placed, and the calls started coming in asking about the boat.

My summer job came with no vacation time, so when the boat had still not sold by the time Mom and Dad were ready to head to Wisconsin for their annual vacation, they asked me to take over selling the boat while they were away. I, in turn, asked Angus if he would help me as I didn’t know the first thing about selling a boat. He agreed.

Just a few days before my parents were to return, a guy called about the boat. I arranged with Angus to be with me while the guy came to the house to take a look at the documentation and photos. The man had dyed black hair in a comb-over that kept flopping down into his eyes. After each swipe of his hand to push his hair back into place, his mouth would involuntarily twitch to the left. Making the situation only slightly less creepy was his wife, who looked too old to have the brand new baby she was holding. Angus did most of the talking as I was a bit dumbstruck by this couple. The man was satisfied with what he saw and was keen to see the boat in person. He asked, “Would you be willing to take us out on the boat so we can really see how she works?” Angus looked at me, I shrugged, and he said, “Sure, we can do that.” We then made a plan to meet at the marina in an hour.

With the boat readied for the meeting, Angus and I sat waiting for the couple’s arrival. I worried aloud, “You don’t suppose they’re going to bring that baby, do you?” It was his turn to shrug. A few minutes later a station wagon pulled up and the guy and his wife, sans baby, got out. Then the back doors opened, and four more people got out. The guy walked around to the hatchback, opened it, and removed a large bag with the Kmart logo printed on it. He reached inside the bag, and handed each person a Gilligan-like sailor’s cap. He then donned a skipper’s cap, and tied what looked like a Thurston Howell, the third, cravat around his neck. Angus and I stared in stunned silence as this caricature of six made their way toward us. I can’t believe we didn’t both bust out laughing. We, instead, took the whole thing seriously, loaded everyone on the boat, and went out for a ride.

Our six passengers enjoyed themselves immensely. They had brought lemonade and sandwiches and chatted amongst themselves while Angus tooled them around Palma Sola Bay for about an hour. As they disembarked, each grinning broadly, they shook our hands, and thanked us for a wonderful afternoon. The guy pushed his comb-over back up on top of his head, his lip twitched, and he said, “Thank you, but I think I’m going to keep looking.” With caps still on their heads, the group got back in the station wagon and left.

Dad did finally sell the boat, but the whole experience convinced me that I will never own one myself. I still love being a passenger every chance I get. Clearly, I am not alone.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2016

No Shoes, No Service

“No bare feet!” Mom ordered.

School was out and summer had finally begun. Everyone in the neighborhood was outside. A few were playing a game of kickball in the street, a few others were riding bikes, and one kid’s mom had hooked up the sprinkler for her to run through. Closed-toed shoes had been exchanged for flip-flops or abandoned altogether. Kathy, Evy, Patty, and Maryann were zigzagging from hot pavement into grassy lawns and back again to toughen the soles of their feet. Within two weeks, they’d all be able to walk to the pool and back without the aid of any foot wear. Their feet would be black with dirt by the end of each day, and their sense of freedom would be palpable. But, I was forbidden to indulge in such traditions. Shoes were required at all times.

Ostensibly, the requirement of shoes was because Mom didn’t want anyone tracking in dirt on the bottoms of their filthy bare feet. This would have made some sense if we were then required to take shoes off when we entered the house, but we weren’t. Instead of questioning her reasoning, however, I simply obeyed and shrugged my shoulders if my friends asked me for an explanation. My friends were consequently not allowed in during the summer unless they first put shoes on their feet.

Later in life I came to know a number of people who required, regardless of the time of year or occasion, that visitors to their home remove their shoes upon entering. The first time someone asked me to remove my shoes at the door, I stared blankly, wondering if I had heard them correctly. It felt to me a bit obscene to ask someone to remove an essential element of one’s outfit. Take off your coat, hat, and gloves, yes, but not a piece of one’s ensemble. Nevertheless, I removed my shoes to then stride through the home in my stocking feet, acutely uncomfortable with such a show of brazen disdain for my upbringing.

Soon after I met Marie, she asked, “You wear an 8, right?” She was scrutinizing my shoes and I, too, looked down at my feet. “Yes, an 8,” I confirmed.

“I have a whole box of size 8 shoes that I can no longer wear since giving birth to my son. They’re all very good brands—Aigner, Esprit, Naturalizer. Would you like to come over and take a look?” Being a frugal sort, I jumped at the opportunity to take someone’s cast-offs and made a plan to visit.

I knocked on Marie’s door, and, baby on hip, she asked me to come in and take off my shoes and socks. “My socks?” I asked. “Yes, please,” she answered. “I’m wearing pantyhose,” I explained. She stared at me. I removed my pantyhose. I followed her through her cluttered and unkempt house wondering all the while how dirty my feet would be by the time I put my shoes back on. She led me down into the basement, squeezing by the multiple laundry baskets full of clothes and around to an area stacked high with boxes and bins. Marie pointed toward a large box that was atop two others and said, “The shoes are in that one.” I maneuvered into a narrow opening and stepped up on a plastic milk carton so that I could peer into the box of shoes. She was right, they were all of very good quality and came in a rainbow of colors and styles. I pawed through the box selecting a few that appealed to me. Marie bounced the baby on her hip and said, “Take as many as you want.” I found about a half dozen pair I liked, tried them on in the basement area, and settled on four that I thought would suit me. “These four look good,” I concluded as I stepped gingerly back through the narrow space. “Great,” Marie said. “I’m thinking around $20 a pair.” My stomach cinched up as I realized my mistake. Or had I been manipulated? In any case, I felt embarrassed. “Oh, I didn’t know you were selling them.” Marie looked at me a bit disgusted and said, “I can’t just give those shoes away, I paid almost $100 each for many of them.” I tried to save face as I followed her back up the stairs to my pantyhose and pumps. I apologized several times for my confusion, and left.

Several years later, Marie asked a friend of mine to help her hang some paintings in her newly purchased home on Long Island Sound. David drove the almost 45 minutes to the new house, only to be told by Marie when he arrived that she had forgotten the keys. David, wanting to save her the round trip, and save himself the almost two-hour wait that would be required, took a look around the house to see if by any chance there was a way in without the key. On the back side, up on the second story, he saw that a window was open about four inches. He asked Marie about how the windows worked, saw that he could, without too much trouble, climb the tree nearest the open window, and suggested to her that perhaps he could gain entry that way. Marie agreed that it was worth a try.

Though it wasn’t easy, David was able to get enough of a purchase on a few sawn-off knobs of the tree’s trunk to make it to a branch that stretched very close to the window. With Marie anxiously looking on, David shimmied along the branch and was able to place his feet on the window sill. He then had enough leverage to remove the screen and easily push the window open wide enough to climb through. He yelled down to Marie, “I’m going in, meet you at the front door.” Marie turned to dash toward the front of the house, but caught herself just in time to yell, “Oh David! Take off your shoes and socks.”

In the window of many restaurants, the sign reads: No Shoes, No Service. My mother would have enjoyed the joke of hanging such a sign in her home, and I think I would too.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2015

May Day

In the lexicon of sailors and pilots, mayday, which comes from the French term m'aidez, means "help me." But May Day, as in May 1, is the international equivalent of Labor Day—a celebration of workers. Too often, it is a day of sometimes violent protests as those who work long and hard hours at their jobs try to gain better working conditions and pay. In contrast, the origin of May Day is a pagan holiday celebrating the start of summer, which is what I did as a child each May 1.

In Lerner and Lowe’s Camelot, Guinevere delights the audience with a romp around May poles while gathering flowers and singing, “Tra la, it's May, the lusty Month of May/That lovely month when everyone goes blissfully astray/Tra la, it's here, that shocking time of year/When tons of wicked little thoughts merrily appear.” My mother taught me about May Day, though not a lusty one as I was only grade school age. She showed me how to roll a half sheet of plain bond paper into a  cone-shaped basket and fasten it together on the edge with cellophane tape. A long strip was then cut from the other half and stapled to the basket to form a handle. I made one for each house in our neighborhood—the Yeaters, the Strackes, the Beres’s, the Ayars’s and the Elenzes.

I walked over to a little park that we called Fairyland and picked any wild flowers that were already blooming. I recall a tiny purple flower, possibly wild violet, and another that was white and most likely clover. Mom then allowed me to pluck from her side garden as many of the Lilly of the Valley as I needed to fill my little baskets. If the forsythia was still in bloom, or if the lilacs were out, she would help clip a bit of each to add some more color to the arrangements. 

With my little paper baskets filled with flowers, I would then stealthily (because it had to be a secret) run over to each door, place the basket over the door handle, ring the bell, and run back home. After delivering all five baskets, I would then watch out the picture window to see what happened when my neighbors opened their doors to find their little May Day surprises. 

Wishing you and yours a beautiful May Day!

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2016

The Lost Puppy

My mother called them “lost puppies” because the first one I brought home was actually a lost puppy. But thereafter they were all girls, my age, lost, in Mom’s opinion, because their home lives and life experiences were so completely foreign to her. Over the years, and among them, were the girl being raised by an older sister because her parents were deceased, the pregnant girl who was about to be sent to a home for unwed mothers, and the girl whose mother had locked her out of the house because the mom’s boyfriend seemed too attracted to the daughter. And then there was Leslie, a girl I met at the beginning of my junior year at Stetson University.

Leslie was self-medicating what was probably a bipolar disorder. When she was manic, she was very entertaining. She’d blast her stereo to a decibel level capable of waking the dead. She’d cook liver and onions in the hall and yell out the windows into the quad to “come and get your liver and onions!” She’d laugh at her own silliness, and dance around the dorm. I admired her for her devil-may-care attitude and gloriously uninhibited personality.

One Tuesday night, she talked me into driving into Daytona Beach with her for ladies night at one of the bars on the strip. She drove her beat-up stick shift car with me in the passenger seat. Her hair was Stevie Nicks crazy but she otherwise looked a lot like Natalie Wood. The parking lot at the bar was packed and Leslie had to park around back tucked dangerously close between two pick-up trucks. Inside, the bar was packed to the rafters with college age kids and cigarette smoke. Pre-recorded music blared with a frenzied disco beat. I was immediately uncomfortable but, with Leslie, whose very presence spelled P.A.R.T.Y., it was hard to resist her promise of fun. I yelled my way through the evening talking with various guys and a few fellow students and ended up losing track of her. When they announced Last Call, I headed to the ladies room so I’d be ready to go when they closed at 2:00 AM. I had classes the next day but not until 10:00 so I quickly calculated that we’d be home by 2:30, I’d set my alarm for 9:30, crash until then, and then rush off to class after a quick bite to eat.

The parking lot emptied out pretty fast once the bar closed. I waited on the front stoop near the exit for Leslie but, time passed, cars disappeared, and it seemed as if everyone had exited. I got worried. I went around back to check for the car but, to my horror, it was gone. Here I was in the parking lot of a Daytona Beach dive with no ride back to school and, I hate to admit it, but I think I only had $1 in my wallet. This was 1978 so, no cell phone, no credit or debit card—a bad spot to be in.

I went back around to the front thinking it might be safer to at least be near the lights of the strip and tried to think up a plan. I was near tears as I wrestled with the idea of walking down the strip to the police station and explaining my plight. I thought about trying to find a taxi, hoping the driver would be sympathetic and allow me to run up to my dorm room to get the balance of the cab fare for him. I was pretty scared. Just then, a strange car drove into the parking lot. The driver, a guy I had never seen before, rolled down the passenger window and inquired, “Are you Debbie?” I nodded. He continued, “Hop in. Your friend Leslie is back at our house with my twin brother.” To this day, when I think about getting in that car, I cringe.

Leslie not only was drunk but she and the twin brother had taken some quaaludes. She was in no shape to drive home and I didn’t know how to drive a manual transmission. I figured we’d just sleep here for awhile and by 8:00 she’d be fine to drive back to the dorm, and I still could get to class on time. Around 8:30, I woke up and tried to rouse her but she was still pretty messed up and barely capable of walking. The other twin brother and I managed to get her in the passenger side of her car. Recalling the one other time I’d shifted gears (with my high school boyfriend in his 280-Z), the twin gave me a quick talk on how to shift this car and off we went. I’m pretty sure I never got that car out of second gear, making for a noisy ride back to campus, but I did make it to class.

As for Leslie, I got her up to her room where she slept for the rest of the day. She woke later in the early evening in a depression. She stayed in her bed the whole next day, her head covered up with her sheet. She moaned a bit when I checked on her, but she wouldn’t eat much. She got up the following day to go to classes but was basically just going through the motions. I’m pretty sure she flunked out because she transferred for our senior year.

I still think about Leslie, one of my lost puppies, from time-to-time, and hope she is well. I’m just grateful I didn’t become a lost puppy myself that night on the strip in Daytona Beach.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2016

A Time to Sew

A general call was emailed to the entire faculty from the adviser of the art club asking if anyone knew how to fix a sewing machine. Having some knowledge, I emailed her back saying I’d walk over to her classroom and take a look. Upon inspection it was immediately evident that the machine had not been threaded properly. If a sewing machine is not threaded exactly as it should be, the thread will become hopelessly entangled and the machine will jam and stop working. I rethreaded the machine according to the diagram printed on the bobbin cover, took a few practice runs on a scrap piece of material, and reported to the adviser that she was all set. I explained about the importance of threading the machine correctly and, as far as I know, she hasn’t had any further problems.

At home, I explained to my prime mate what I had done. He asked, “Do people still sew?” I was taken aback and thought, of course people still sew. But then paused to wonder... do they? As I pondered my internal question, I realized that my daughter doesn’t. I think I may have taken a stab at showing her how to sew using a toy machine, but the memory is hazy. Maybe she knows how to sew on a button. But she certainly doesn’t know how to put in a zipper.

The question of sewing as a possible lost craft got me to thinking about how I learned and how important handmade clothes had been in my raising. Both my Grandma Anderson and my mother had consummate abilities. They were both seamstresses—a title reserved for only the most accomplished. Whereas Grandma was self taught, Mom continued to hone her skills for decades by taking night classes. I still wear a beautifully crafted fully lined jacket she made, and get compliments every time I don it. But Mom wasn’t much on passing along knowledge. So it was Grandma who taught me everything I know.

Handmade clothing made up the better part of my wardrobe until I started college. Grandma made Christmas and Easter dresses for my sister Susan and me each year; Mom made everyday dresses, skirts, and slacks. It wasn’t until my sixth grade year when she made me two pairs of slacks out of the leftover material she’d used to make sofa pillows (enormous 70s-style flower printed corduroy) that I began to get a bit cranky about all this handmade business. I was teased mercilessly over those corduroys, but all I would say to Mom was that I didn’t want to wear handmade clothes anymore. She was not so easily deterred, however, and began taking me with her to pick out both the patterns and the material. As a ninth grader, my favorite was a dress she made in an A-line style out of seersucker, printed with tiny purple flowers. She made it really short, as was the style, and I wore purple stockings with it. I loved the flared cap sleeves that were trimmed in matching purple rickrack. It was at this point that I began to start making my own clothes.

Throughout high school, my handmade clothes gave me a unique style. After moving to Florida as a sixteen-year-old, my first job was at Cloth World where I could use my employee discount and get first dibs on expensive cloth that was going on sale. Sometimes my boss gave me the last remnant of a bolt. Quiana was the the most popular fabric of the time and was very easy to work with. I was even hired to make prom dresses for a couple of friends. But, I never achieved seamstress status—my seams were often sloppy, and many times I had to rip pieces apart and start over. But I got by and, for the most part, could follow the instructions of a pattern.

Grandma and Mom, on the other hand, could fit and tailor a pattern so that the final outcome was customized precisely to the body. All of the bridesmaids dresses for my sister’s wedding were made by Grandma. Grandma had just enough of the moire satin fabric left to make a matching dress for my one-year-old daughter, Ariel. Over the year’s of Ariel's childhood, there were other handmade dresses that included embellishments with Mom’s newly acquired smocking skills. And what both Ariel and Aaron remember best are the elaborate Halloween costumes Mom made for them.

I mostly don’t sew anymore. The last two projects I did were t-shirt quilts for my grown children. But to answer my prime mate’s question, “Do people still sew?” I looked up a few stats and found that they do. There are still a wide range of manufacturers making machines for all manner of talent and needs, and by all accounts they’re still selling thousands every year. So, yes, my darling, people still sew.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2016

Just a Few More Minutes

Elfin in stature, Johanna Manfreda Fishbein was nonetheless a giant in our Connecticut town. She and husband Uria, who we all called Fish, seemed to be omnipresent. Consummate volunteers, it was the rare person who had yet to meet one of them. It could have been through board work for the public library, or maybe the Wallingford Symphony Orchestra, or possibly in organizing one of the many local celebrations, or the town’s community race, but I had the pleasure of meeting them both.

Johanna wore her hair in the beehive style she’d adopted in the 1960s and was never seen without her signature high heels. But of all the things I learned about Johanna during the years I knew her, it was her continued role as the high school musical choreographer that impressed me most. She was 80 years old, but that woman could kick ball change with the best of them. 

By all accounts, apocryphal though they may have been, she and Fish had a well known morning routine. He would get up first and put the coffee on, and she would lie in bed for a few more minutes until he announced that the pot was ready and he’d be starting breakfast. She would then rise, put on her robe and slippers, arrange her hair into something satisfactory, and pad into the kitchen for a meal of eggs, toast, and coffee.

Just shy of her 82nd birthday, the morning routine had just begun. Except when Fish went to announce that the coffee was ready, Johanna uncharacteristically stated, “Just give me a few more minutes.”

Fish shrugged and began to go back to the kitchen but turned with concern to ask, “Johanna, are you all right?” 

“Yes, yes, I just need a few more minutes,” she answered with no rancor. 

“OK, you got it!” he said with his usual affability.

But when Fish went back after a few minutes he found his wife of 60 years had peacefully gone back to sleep never to awaken. 

It was a good death. We all said that. It was the kind of death we all hope for. A death when we ask for “just a few more minutes,” and get exactly that. 

Copyright DJ Anderson 2016