The Christmas Pillows

Although this is not one of the pillows mentioned in the story,

it gives a good idea of the type referenced.

Sales promotions, coupons, and holiday discounts grabbed my mother’s attention, and exercising her purchasing power was the greatest of pleasures. If there was a deal to be had, a gadget she had yet to try, or a decorative item that captured her imagination, she was ready with cash in hand. In the last two weeks of my mother’s life, there was just one more thing she thought she had to have—two Christmas pillows from Kohl’s.

I arrived the first weekend in December knowing that this four-day trip would be the last time I would see my mother. With Dad staying mostly out of the way, I fixed Mom small portions of anything she thought sounded good to eat. She took a few bites of a half cup serving of macaroni and cheese she’d requested. A few hours later, she thought chili sounded good. I made her recipe, and, again, she ate a few bites. She was constantly thirsty due to the chemo drugs she continued to take, even though her cancer was far beyond managing. Consequently, I brought her water, tea, and juice.

When the mail arrived on Friday, the weekly fliers from all the local grocery and department stores was what Mom wanted to look through first. This weekly ritual of hers, since as long as I could remember, was done in order to prep the grocery lists, to make plans for other possible purchases, and to imagine what else might make her home all that she ever dreamed it might be. As she paged through the Kohl's flier, her eyes fixated on the colorful photos of their Christmas pillows.

The Christmas pillows were appliquéd with various different delightful scenes. The three-dimensional elements were varied. On the Rudolf pillow, his red nose was made with a small pom-pom, and a real bell was attached to his collar. In the background, the other reindeer were hitched to the sleigh. At the helm was Santa who had a bit of fluff for his beard. On the Frosty pillow, his carrot nose was fashioned from orange felt and stuffed to make it protrude off the surface. The brim of his hat had received a similar treatment. His buttons were real, and the cloth used for his body was a soft white velvet. The Santa pillow had red velvet for the suit, fluff for hair and beard, and a piece of leather for his belt. All in all, there were six pillows to choose from. While making Mom a bit of cherry Jell-O, I heard her say, "I like the Rudolf and Frosty pillows best."

"You do?" I asked.

She flapped the flier at me. I walked over to the couch where she was resting and took a look. "Yes, those are definitely the cutest ones," I agreed.

"Can you go get them for me?"

I was only momentarily taken aback, but asked, "Where is Kohl's?"

She thought there was one in Tampa.

Tampa was a good hour from my parents' home, and as it was already the shopping season, I didn't really want to go. But, how could I deny her? It really wasn't that much to ask. So I said, "Okay, I just have a couple things to finish up, and then I'll see about driving up there."

I fired up Dad's computer to figure out how to get to the Tampa Kohl’s store as this was before we all had GPS so readily available. As I poked around their website, I saw that there was actually a store much closer. I already had plans to meet my sister-in-law for dinner at Carrabba’s and the Sarasota Kohl's happened to be just across the street. I made note of the address and studied its proximity to the restaurant, and then explained my plan to Mom. She had forgotten that they'd built the new shopping center and, always being one for frugality, gave me the go ahead.

Unfortunately, once I was at Kohl's, I could not find the pillows anywhere. I spoke to a sales clerk and showed her the flier, but she couldn't recall having seen them. She found the manager who looked at the flier and sighed. The manager explained that ‘corporate’ often printed these fliers without even consulting with store buyers. I asked, "What do you suggest I do to find them?" The manager said I should try to order them online.

Knowing that time was not my friend in terms of how much longer my mom would live, I worried about having to go back to the house with disappointing news. I sat in the car thinking about what do, and then decided to call the Tampa store. But, alas, they also did not have the pillows. The woman who answered offered to look online for me to see if they might be ordered. A few minutes later she came back with the happy news that both the Rudolf and Frosty pillows could be shipped to the house and would arrive in just a few days. I got out my credit card, and placed the order then and there. They would arrive the day after I was scheduled to fly back home, but at least I could tell Mom the good news.

The pillows arrived as expected. Mom called to tell me how wonderful they were. "Even better than in the flier." She said she had them with her on the couch and was very happy.

It was just ten days later that Mom passed away. I drove, along with my husband and children, to Florida to prepare for a memorial service with family and friends. When I walked into the house, the Rudolf and Frosty pillows were on Mom’s couch. “Oh, they are very cute,” I said to Dad.

Dad looked over at the pillows, tears puddling in his eyes and said, “Yes. She absolutely loved those pillows.”

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2018

The Charm Bracelet

Holding the charm bracelet upon receiving it, possibly for 13th birthday.

In the realm of first world problems, inadvertently throwing out something of intrinsic value hardly registers on any scale. What I am in a state of shock over isn’t the loss of the item (though I am a bit sad), it’s the notion that I could have done something so demented.

While traveling in Italy recently, I got the idea to start buying charms for the charm bracelet I’d had since I was a girl. I rarely wore the bracelet when I was young. Even at the time it was given to me, it was considered a bit old-fashioned. Nevertheless, charms were often given to me by family members until I was about 20 years old. I dutifully placed them on the bracelet, which then lay in my jewelry box mostly unloved and unworn. A few years ago, however, I started putting it on from time-to-time. I was reminded almost immediately why I hadn’t worn it much. It often got snagged on my clothing. But, it was a source of nostalgia in that each charm evoked a story, which is why I thought I should start adding to it again.

I placed the bracelet on the table I sit at each day. I read the newspaper, do my freelance work, take care of business such as balancing the checkbooks, and basically live my life at this table. The bracelet sat on the table reminding me each day to start looking for some charms that would remind me of my recent trips to the Middle East, to Italy, and to France. When I returned a few weeks ago from a trip to first Boston, then Chicago, the bracelet was still sitting on the table. I finally decided to work on finding a few charms for it.

On Amazon, I found a company called Les Poulettes that had the perfect Eiffel Tower to symbolize my trip to Paris. Then I found a camel, with two humps, to symbolize an adventure I had in Dubai. I started to look for something that might do the same for Singapore, Thailand, India, Oman, and Italy, but didn’t have any luck so decided that two charms would be a good start. I placed the orders.

The Eiffel Tower arrived a few days later. The box it came in was beautiful. It reminded me of something from Tiffany’s. Even the box was a similar turquoise color. I unwrapped the charm, which had what is called a lobster claw clasp, and easily added it to the bracelet. Sweet, I thought. And that’s the last thing I remember about that bracelet.

A few days after that, the camel arrived. I looked on the table for the bracelet so that I could add this new charm to it, but it wasn’t there. I racked my brain trying to recall what I had done with the bracelet after putting the Eiffel Tower on it. Maybe I put it back upstairs in my jewelry box? I checked. Nothing. Maybe it had fallen off the table somehow? I checked. Nothing. I started to panic. For one ridiculous moment I even wondered if someone had come into my house and took the bracelet. I shut that thought down immediately thinking, that’s what happens to people with dementia. But, what the heck? I’m not a careless person. The box, I thought. What did I do with the box? Could I have unthinkingly placed the bracelet in the box and then...horrors!...thrown that box out?

As one possessed, I started looking. In the recycling bin was the first most logical place to start. I recycle things like boxes. I knew the garbage people had been round on Monday, but I hadn’t placed the latest recycling bag in the bin until Saturday. As I rummaged through the bag, I could see that there were things in there that predated the arrival of the Eiffel Tower charm, but no box. Could I really have thrown the box in the garbage? Specifically in the garbage that was picked up on Monday? If I had placed the bracelet in the box, wouldn’t I have noticed that the little box was a bit heavy? Wouldn’t the bracelet have rattled around, even made a sort of clanking noise as it fell into the bag? Wouldn’t I have heard that? Wouldn’t there have been some sensation to alert me as to the stupidity of what I was doing? Did I do that?

Then I got really crazy. In an extreme state of denial, I started checking everywhere for the bracelet—in the cupboards, the refrigerator, the freezer, the dishwasher, in pants pockets, coat pockets, the floors, the furniture cushions. I felt around the table like I was blind and only the touch of my fingers would reveal the missing item. I tried to put myself in a sort of hypnotic state, willing myself to conjure up a memory—a sort of mental dowsing—but, to no avail. The bracelet was gone.

I close my eyes now and focus on the memory of the charm bracelet, but of the at least 15 charms that were on it, these are the only ones I can clearly remember:

• My Confirmation, date inscribed on the back
• Aries, my Zodiac sign
• Woman doing the Hula, from my trip to Hawaii
• Winter Carnival, a gift from the St. Paul/Minneapolis festival
• Mickey Mouse, from my first trip to Disney World
• Discovery, a gift upon completion of Sears Charm School
• Diploma, upon graduating from high school
• Eiffel Tower

Sitting on the table in front of me is the two-humped camel charm.

I should probably go volunteer at a local soup kitchen, or contribute to Doctors Without Borders, or do something for humanity that matters. Because, in all honesty, that charm bracelet was just a thing, and obsessing about it really is demented.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2018

Playing Bar

A bar in the basement where one could entertain seemed to be de rigueur in the homes of my Wisconsin relatives. Grandpa Anderson, Uncle Hunk, Uncle George, and on and on, each maintained the tradition that was then passed down to the next generation. Eventually, a bar became a part of the basement in my parents’ home as well.

The basement in our house was unfinished when we moved in. I was barely two years old, but by the time I was six, Dad had begun the transformation. His bar was finished off with bamboo as he aimed to make this hideaway evoke a South Pacific vibe. The countertop was made from bowling alley flooring and the edges were trimmed with oak half-dowels the size of banisters. Behind the bar Dad eventually set up all the components for his state-of-the-art stereo system. I remember being the envy of babysitters who marveled at the amp, turntable, and AM/FM radio that were all wired into the speakers that could blast my Help! album through the ceiling and rattle the floor above.

The bar was stocked with everything from Absinthe to Whiskey including Crème de menthe and my mother’s homemade Kahlua stored in emptied Galliano bottles. When Mom got a new refrigerator for upstairs, Dad hauled the old one downstairs to use for beer and soda.

As ten-year-olds, Evy and I would marvel at all the colored glass bottles, their various shapes and sizes, and the different shades of liquid held within. But what somehow captured our imaginations the most were the Johnnie Walker Red and Johnnie Walker Black labels. We would take turns playing bartender and patron, pretending to pour the contents into double Old-Fashioned glasses. Sometimes we’d get out a long plastic toothpick stir and stab a maraschino cherry or a couple of olives onto it to place in the glass. We’d lazily swirl our fictional drinks, sometimes sipping, sometimes belting them back. Sometimes the bartender player would have to cut the patron player off if it seemed like she was getting just a tad too silly. We always began our play the same way.

Patron: Hey Mac.
Bartender: Hey, how you doin’ today?
Patron: Had a rough day at work.
Bartender: Sorry to hear that, what can I get ya?
Patron: I’ll have a Johnnie Walker Red (or Black)

The inspiration for our dialogue came from the actual parties my parents hosted downstairs—Mom’s Bridge and Pinochle clubs where just about every woman had a cigarette pinched between her lipsticked lips, or Dad’s pool and cigar nights—and perhaps a few film noir movies as well. I think even the Bewitched character, Darren Stevens, who often consulted his local bartender, may have contributed to our notions.

It was great fun. Even now when Evy and I go to a real bar we’ll joke: “Let’s order up some Johnnie Walker Black.”

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2018

Knowing Right From Wrong

Over the years, I’ve read a great many articles and books on the behavior of children and teenagers, and how a parent can cope and deal fairly and appropriately with the actions of young people. The opinions are as varied as the children themselves. Recently there was a post on Facebook about a new advocacy for just hugging your child when he misbehaves, which I thought was among the more absurd approaches.

Equally absurd to me was my mother shouting at me to “Spank him! Spank him!” when my two-year-old son was being particularly difficult during a visit to my parents’ home in Florida. I pursed my lips (a genetic expression inherited from my dad), drew in a long breath to calm myself, and said to Mom: “I am not going to spank him. Spanking is meant to break the spirit, and this child will need every bit of that spirit to succeed as an adult.” I was spanked pretty often so know from what I speak. But, what is a parent to do when their child is misbehaving? And at what point can one expect him to know the difference between right and wrong so that a consequence is meaningful?

I struggled for some time questioning what was appropriate, when to do it, how far to go, because my son was tough. Though I was definitely joking, I remember telling friends that the child could be beaten half to death and still wouldn’t mind me. He wouldn’t stay in time out. He wouldn’t listen to reason. He tested, tested, tested. But he was only three years old, so I kept making the excuse that he was still too little and did my best with apologies to friends, family, and strangers.

Aaron was well on his way to being four and had finally started to talk in full sentences. I thought that his new communication skills would help with his behavior. They didn’t. Being able to express himself more completely just added to the turmoil because he was now able to say as well as do. “I don’t have to stay in time out. You can’t make me.” He was right. I had my husband install a bolt on the outside of his bedroom door so that at least I could make him stay in there while everyone calmed down. But things weren’t getting better, they were getting worse. I was feeling wholly inadequate and felt I was failing him more than anything else.

At my wits end, I finally decided that there must be something clinically wrong. Maybe he was on the autism spectrum. Maybe he had ADHD. I wanted a diagnosis. Perhaps he needed medication. In any case, I required help, and so I made an appointment with a child psychologist.

The doctor had Aaron take a series of tests. The tests looked mostly like playing. There were blocks and Legos, crayons and colored pencils, and puzzles and games. He had fun. While the doctor’s assistant read Aaron a book, I sat down with the doctor to listen to what he had to say. “Well, Mrs. Faulkner,” he began. I braced myself. “What you have here is an extremely intelligent little boy.” My eyes widened as I wasn’t expecting this. “He’s got your number,” he continued. “You have got to discipline him. He knows the difference between right and wrong.” I sat a bit stunned.

“But, I have tried to discipline him, and no matter what I do, it doesn’t work,” I protested. We then talked about what I’d been doing—time outs, removed privileges, exclusion from outings for ice cream and such. The doctor took in a deep breath as he listened.

“Okay,” he said. He then started to discuss with me a different approach. He warned me that it was going to be really hard and that the family was going to have to do it together, and that it might take a year. A year! Good grief, I wanted an immediate result. But I understood that changing behavior was not an overnight undertaking, so I told him to lay it on me.

Over the course of the next several months, we emphasized everything that Aaron was doing right. We praised him every time he made the right choice, every time he followed directions, and every time he was nice to someone or helped out around the house. He liked it. When he made a poor choice, we talked about it, briefly, and used words like “disappointed” and “sad” and “unfortunate.” When he began to escalate a situation, I started by saying, “I think you know the road we’re going down, and that won’t feel very good for any of us.” He would pause, and mostly decide that he preferred aiming for a positive response. During this time, the other thing that became apparent was that his pattern of poor behavior was often associated with hunger. I began making sure he had regular snacks. Gradually, over the course of the year, we got there. He wasn’t quite five, but he knew the difference between right and wrong and was actively making the right choice most of the time.

I won’t say harmony was complete, as a family of four has a lot of personality conflicts and struggles with wanting things “my way” to overcome. But, we were in a much better place than a year earlier and had all learned something about what it means to receive words of affirmation.

The point I really want to drive home in these troubled national times is that, for the most part, we know from a very early age the difference between right and wrong. A five-year-old knows, even a three-year-old knows. Consequently, a teenager knows and should be held appropriately accountable.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2018

The Vacuum Cleaner

The machine is an old upright with a bag that needs to be periodically replaced. Its motor boasts a decibel level that might rival the roar of a Harley Davidson with straight pipes. Twice each weekday morning—first round at 5:15; second round at 5:45—the drone of the vacuum cleaner can be heard through the wall that separates us from our neighbors. Each session lasts about five minutes. The ritual is relentlessly predictable.

On weekend mornings, the familiar sound starts a first round nearer 9:00, and lasts closer to ten minutes. It then occurs periodically throughout the entire morning—both Saturday and Sunday—with a final round sometime in the early afternoon between 1:00 and 2:00. The number of sessions on the weekend seems to be directly tied to whether his wife is out or in. If she is out, he might indulge in the activity as many as six or more times. If she is in, he restrains himself to two, sometimes three rounds.

It is a puzzlement: this obsession with vacuuming. What could possibly have caused this compulsion? It might be best to not dwell on it too long.

We have seriously discussed buying him a new vacuum cleaner—maybe one with a quieter motor?

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2018

A Mother's Mettle

She sat in her beach chair watching her two young boys, ages 11 and 4, playing together in the shallows along the shore. She caught my eye just as she stood to reposition herself more directly toward the sun. Her long lean body, clad in a stylish Catalina one-piece, stretched to its full length to reveal sculpted calves and what my mother would have described as “legs up to here” as Mom indicated a height somewhere near her shoulder. The woman removed her wide brimmed hat and let her blonde hair flow out from underneath. Like a geisel, she walked with a measured pace into the water. Her youngest son asked, “Mama, what are you doing?” Without giving him an answer, she executed a perfect surface dive, with the barest hint of a dolphin kick flap of her feet, and seamlessly began swimming freestyle just as I’m sure she had done in competition sometime in her past. Her four-year-old began to whimper with anxiety as she swam further away from him and his older brother. The child never broke into an actual cry, but his distress was evident as he watched her go. About a pool’s length away, she stopped to stand. She pushed her hair away from her face and then turned to look at her young son. He cried, “Mama!” She yelled back in a voice and volume I wasn’t expecting, “Shut up! Just shut up!” He stopped, a look of hurt on his face. His brother quickly set about distracting him with a water toy and she stroked back to shore. Emerging from the lake she quietly took a seat in her chair and placed her hat on her head.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2018

Great Great Aunt Helen

My grandmother’s maternal aunt, Helen Marie Merrill, was born in 1893. She lived to be 98. When she married Lee Roy Short, who was five years her junior, she was almost 30. Most of what I know of her is from firsthand experience, which I will get to in a moment, but I would dearly love to track down the one story about her that completely fascinates me.

All I can imagine of her two-year adventure to Hawaii with Roy is that it must have been a wild one indeed. They arrived by ship on September 11, 1923, and returned to the states on August 25, 1925. During their time there, so I was told, Roy worked for “the phone company.” None of my research has yielded any sort of confirmation; there were no documents offering further explanation or enlightenment among the many saved papers I’ve come across over the years; and, except for now toying with the idea of going to Hawaii to research in newspaper archives and libraries, I’m at a bit of a loss to add substance to this part of her story. But, I haven’t given up on it because looking at photos of Hawaii from over 30 years before it became a state, gives me all kinds of scope for the imagination.

Even without the Hawaiian backstory, Helen was a woman of substance, and formidable to boot. My memory of her begins when I was about six years old. She was a crotchety old thing—70 years old—an age that is rapidly becoming almost my own. Aunt Helen didn’t exactly scare me, but she sure wasn’t much interested in kids. Having never had children herself (I suspect by choice) I suppose she feared that at any moment I might make the house fall down around her. Nevertheless, she was civil enough most of the time and took the time to notice my delight with two porcelain figures she’d bought during a side trip to Japan. The Lefton China Company crafted the figurines after Thomas Gainsborough’s The Blue Boy, and Thomas Lawrence’s Pinkie. When Aunt Helen died, her will stated that the figurines are to be given to my great great grand niece, Debra Jo, who spent hours admiring them. They sit in my home in a place of reverence to this day, which is why I think of Aunt Helen so often.

Helen is a hard one to forget in any case. On one particular visit, she had just finished baking some sugar cookies, which she’d then stored between sheets of wax paper in a tin box. As I stared at the porcelain figures in her curio cabinet, she stomped into the kitchen, grabbed the box off the top of the refrigerator, and stomped back to where I was sitting. She stood towering over me, though she was hardly more than 5' 2", took the lid off the box, shoved the box under my nose, and gruffly asked, “Want a cookie?” I looked wide-eyed up at her and in a squeaky mouse of a singsong voice replied shyly, “I don’t care.” She pulled the box away from me and responded huffily, “Well, I don’t care either.” With that, she slapped the lid back on and put the box back on top of the refrigerator. I learned in that moment, sans lecture or interpretation, that there are only two acceptable answers to many questions. Ever since, I have definitively answered either “Yes,” or “No.”

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2018

Aunt Helen in 1945

The Helper

About a year ago, I was faced with making a career decision that, psychologically speaking, I was not quite prepared to make. Fortunately, I had the financial resources available that allowed me to make the decision fairly quickly and, except for that psychological part, painlessly. I started my own business as a software consultant.

Pretty much all of my clients are located on either the West Coast or East Coast with a couple local exceptions. But in all cases, I can work from anywhere with the aid of a wifi connection. There is the occasional conference call that must be scheduled during the standard work day, but my hours are flexible to the point that I can schedule my work around my life.

Consequently, my life has changed radically since that difficult decision at the beginning of last summer. My new job flexibility has allowed me to travel all over the place including to Singapore and Dubai. But of late, I’ve been spending most of my non-consulting time working in another way—as a helper to friends and family members in need of an extra pair of hands.

As I write this I am on a flight back to Nashville after a month’s absence. On the first leg of my journey, I flew to Philadelphia to attend my son-in-law’s graduation from UPenn Law. I spent several days helping him and my daughter pack up their apartment for their upcoming move back to Boston. Originally, I was to then fly to Florida for a girlfriend weekend and Chris and Ariel were to head up to Boston to close on the purchase of their first home. Next, I was to fly back to Philly to facilitate with the movers, and drive with them and the cats up to Boston where I would then assist with the movers on the other end before flying back to Nashville. I was to be away from home for two weeks. But, as often happens with house purchases, the close date moved by a week while some title search issues got resolved, so it looked like I’d be flying back to Nashville from Florida instead, and Ariel and Chris would be on their own to sort out the move.

While in Florida, however, my sister received word that she finally had a close date on the sale of her home in northern Illinois. The house had been on the market for over two years so the news was worthy of celebration. The only problem was that it was still full of stuff that needed to be packed up or given away. As my mind took a quick inventory of what I remembered would be required of her during the week she was giving herself to get everything done, I couldn’t imagine how she was going to pull it off. I offered to fly up with her and help her out. We spent the week working six- and eight-hour days in order to accomplish it all. But accomplish it we did. The sale was finalized this past week. 

Since I was in full packing and helping mode at this point, I told Ariel and Chris that I might as well fly back to Philly to see the original plan through, albeit a week later in the calendar. The biggest change was that the altered schedule had thrown several more obstacles into their path making it extremely difficult for them to get back to Philly, which would further postpone the arrival of their belongings. Not daunted by the task, I said I’d just handle everything on my own including packing a rental car with the essentials that would make living in their new house easier while awaiting the movers. Besides managing the movers, I would then also break down their bed, wrap the mattress, take down the shower curtain, and leave the keys behind in the apartment before making the drive up. My daughter is very organized so there was a spreadsheet outlining the many other jobs involved.

The movers took far longer than I think they should have but, again, it’s sort of the way this stuff goes, and I didn’t get started until 4:30 in the afternoon—a disastrous time of day to begin a trip from Philly to Boston. It took almost seven agonizing hours, two of which were in the dark. But, I made it.

I told Ariel and Chris that I could stay five days during which time I could probably get two projects done. They chose painting their kitchen (dark red to soft grey) and bedroom (caramel with a metallic gold stripe up near the ceiling to soft grey). Both required a Kilz coat first, and many trips to Home Depot and Lowe’s. I now am very familiar with Routes 27, 30, 90, and Speen Street, and their darling new town, Natick Center. I was supposed to manage the arrival of a piano—the Story & Clark spinet given to me on my sixteenth birthday—but it didn’t arrive as scheduled (another one of those things that happens), so they did have to work out the details of getting it nice and cozy in its new spot in their living room.

I have paint under my nails, and except for being in desperate need of a manicure and crazy to put on some clothes I haven’t seen in 30 days, I am only a little tired. 

Maybe I should think about opening a side business and actually get paid to do this stuff. Hmmmm.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2018

Figures in a Landscape

Experiencing the insignificance of one’s own existence is something I recommend be on everyone’s Bucket List. It’s a humbling moment that can expand perspective, erode any tendency toward hubris, and generally lend understanding to one’s place in the universe.

While riding camels a couple weeks ago in the Dubai Desert Conservation Reserve with a small group of other travelers (yes, camels!), I was reminded of an epiphanic moment some 25 years ago during a visit to White Sands National Monument in the northern Chihuahuan Desert of New Mexico. Known for its dramatic landscape of rare white gypsum sand dunes, the area, though declared by President Herbert Hoover as a national park in 1933, remained undeveloped as a full-blown tourist attraction until 2011. Consequently, when I visited in 1993, there were no boardwalks, no marked trails, and no signposts pointing the way to interesting landmarks.

It was on a whim while driving back from Alamogordo to Las Cruces, where I was visiting a friend, that I impulsively made the turn into the park. The visitor’s center was little more than a double wide trailer, and the brochure I was handed by the ranger was a simple line drawing showing three parking areas along the sandy road that stretched a mere two miles into the desert. The first parking area was full—two cars was all that could fit—so I drove on to the second one. I pulled into the very small designated area and switched off the engine.

With my handbag slung over my shoulder, I trod up a small dune to take a hike. As I crested the dune, desert grasses, such as alkali sacaton and Indian rice, as well as Soaptree Yucca, Skunkbush Sumac, and Honey Mesquite stretched out before me. I began to walk. About 100 yards into my trek, I could feel the sand beginning to fill my sneakers so stopped to empty them. Behind me I could see the footprints I’d made. I was briefly thankful that my prints would serve as a sort of breadcrumb trail for me to follow back to the parking lot. But as I stood emptying my shoes, the light breeze that was keeping me cool was also doing something else.

I glanced at the second hand on my watch and mentally recorded the seconds—100 of them—that it took before all record of my existence was erased. Ridges, the ones that look like waves upon the sand, formed before my very eyes and obliterated my prints. If I got lost, or worse as my imagination ran wild, my car would be found, but no other trace to even suggest where a hunt should begin would be visible. I felt a funny stirring in my gut.

As I contemplated my smallness, my insignificance, my nobodyness, a new perspective began to form. It was quite the moment. In the scheme of the vast universe, I was but a speck, a blip, a grain of sand. I was just one of the many figures in a landscape.

I slipped my sneakers on and headed back to my car. There were a handful of people in my life who would argue with my revelation, and I owed it to them to get back to civilization. I didn’t like the feeling I’d experienced, but I was glad to have had it.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2018

Bye Bye Momma

I chose to be a working mom both for financial and professional reasons. But I never was good at dropping my children at daycare. I would always cry. Consequently, I made my husband do it. I rationalized that because I had to be at work earlier than he did, it made sense for him to take on the task. The real reason was that I didn't want to feel the guilt of separation.

My son had a tough time during separation even while still at home, so I'd cheerily say ‘bye bye’ and head out one door while the kids went out the other. Even though my daughter was always pretty happy to start her day in the care of someone else, the pangs of leaving them was nevertheless heart wrenching, so I avoided doing it.

Separation got easier once both children were in school. School was different. Everyone sent their kids to school. I was just like all the other moms, even those who had stayed at home during their children's earliest years. My guilt was assuaged.

Then came the move from Connecticut to Tennessee for my husband's job. Our daughter was about to be a senior in high school. My family had moved me from Indiana to Florida when I was a junior, and it had been horrible. Consequently, I wasn't about to do the same thing to our daughter. The notion of separating from her for the year was hard to imagine, but a good friend helped me work through it. He explained, first of all, that it wasn't for a year. It was for nine months. He went on to suggest that I would come up for Parents Weekend, just six weeks after the start of school. He said, "Then she'll be home for Thanksgiving--only six more weeks. Winter break is just three weeks after that at which point you'll enjoy three weeks together. Then, how about you plan to fly back up in February? Say, five weeks after the start of the second semester? She'll then be home for two weeks in March. Come up again at the end of April, and then graduation is just another five or six weeks later." I could see it. It was going to be easy.

We made the move, got settled in our new home, spent a couple weeks with family up in Wisconsin, hosted some visitors, and pretty soon, it was Labor Day weekend and time for our daughter to go back to school in Connecticut. I had yet to find a job, so I, of course, would take her to the airport. She had flown by herself several times in the past making her a pro at navigating through security. But as we got within a few miles of the airport she asked, "Mom, would you mind coming in with me?" I happily agreed and entered the lane to pull into short term parking.

We walked into the terminal where she expertly checked her own luggage and got her boarding pass. I strolled with her over to the security line and said, "Okay, Sweetheart, give us a call after you get settled at Jenny's. Have a good flight." I gave her a kiss, told her I loved her, and stood while she entered the queue.

Just as I was about to head back to the parking garage, she suddenly turned around and said, "Bye bye Momma." Without warning, my stomach clenched, my heart tightened, and instead of my sixteen-year-old, I saw a three-year-old with blonde ringlets waving her tiny little baby hand at me. I burst into tears. Not just a tear from each eye, but tears of the sobbing variety. I heaved in air to try and stop myself, but I couldn't stop myself, I was having an emotional breakdown right there in the airport. She rolled her eyes and said, "Oh Mom," before handing her identification to security.

I felt like people were pointing at me and wondering: what the heck is wrong with that poor woman? I made my way back to the car where I sat for a good five minutes bawling and wiping my nose on my sleeve.

As my friend had so accurately predicted, the school year went by quickly. I followed his advice to the letter, and didn't suffer another breakdown. But I also never took our daughter to the airport again. I made my husband do it.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2018

Clickity Clickity

“What is that sound?” I asked my real estate agent, Margaret, as we did the final walk-through after closing on my newly purchased home.

With all the furniture and area rugs removed, the house was completely empty of the previous owner’s possessions. Everything was as expected—no new holes in the walls, no unexpected stains on the carpet—but as we walked across the wood floors, there was a definite clicking sound.

Margaret and I walked into the living room area, the clickity clickity sound seemed to get louder with each step. I had a horrible notion that I had just made a terrible mistake in not noticing this before.

But, I had noticed it. When all the furniture and rugs were there, the clicks were less noticeable, for sure, but they had definitely been audible.

Insecurity flooded my brain where the voices of authority figures of all ilk told me that I had been very stupid, had miscalculated, had failed. But Margaret assured me that it wasn’t that bad and reminded me that once my own furnishings and area rugs were in place, I would probably not notice it as much. In any case, the house was already purchased, and the deal was done.

Over the next few weeks, I did what I called the Mini move. After work each day, I loaded the back of my Mini Cooper with boxes and laundry baskets full of stuff from my apartment and drove it over to the house. Little by little, I placed items in the kitchen, in the bedroom, and in the bathrooms and closets. Each time I came into the house and walked across the wood floors, the clickity clickity sound echoed in my wake. By the end of the second week, my nerves were raw from the continued berating from voices past that constantly threatened my resolve and confidence. I had to do something about it.

I called Louise.

Louise owns a flooring business. She and I had worked together on a couple projects at my previous home, and I trusted her to give me good advice. She came over to my new house just one week before the furniture was scheduled to arrive. As we walked around, the clickity clickity sounds reverberated around us, and Louise just kept shaking her head. “This is the worst floor installation I’ve ever come across in my entire decades-long time in the business.” The voices in my head started yelling at me. Louise placed her hand on my arm and explained that whoever had installed the floors had failed to do one of two standard things. On a slab, which my house was built upon, she would have recommended gluing the boards down, but even if the installer had preferred to “float” the floors, a pad should have been laid down first to prevent the clicking. What we were hearing was the flexing of the tongue-in-groove at those points where the concrete foundation was not precisely level. This made perfect sense to me, but did nothing to quell the feeling that I had made a bad decision.

As I often told my children, there’s no mistake (except possibly death or dismemberment) that can’t be fixed with money. Painful though it was to spend it, I contracted with Louise to rip up the three-year-old floors, and properly install new ones. She was able to do the whole job before the furniture arrived. I was (and am) extremely happy that I did it. The old floors came up in whole pieces, which Louise helped me donate to Habitat for Humanity.

I was worried about adding so soon to the expense of the house, but with values increasing so rapidly in Nashville, I needn’t have. When I walk across the wood floors now, the voices in my head are saying, “Good decision.”

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2018

Earl and the Plastic Bag

I prefer a garbage disposal to a compost pile. I find the notion of a compost pile a bit disgusting in terms of what it might attract before the results are ready to use. Instead, I like buying the compost all neatly packaged and ready to tear open and dump into place. But, while living in a home without a garbage disposal, and being on a strict budget, the need to waste not want not in order to keep the flowers and bushes fed with good nutrients took precedence over my disgust. Thus, at the start of each day, I would place a grocery store plastic bag on the counter to collect the garbage for the compost bin.

On a Saturday devoted to entertaining out-of-town friends, I filled the bag with coffee grounds, eggshells, and bacon grease from breakfast; unused parts of a head of lettuce, a tomato, and a cucumber, leftover crusts of sandwiches, and apple cores and skins from lunch; and asparagus ends, trimmed fat from a pork roast, and potato peels for the dinner I was about to begin preparing.

In addition to my own two children, our guest’s two children added to an atmosphere of general chaos, a situation with which Earl, our Abyssinian cat, was much dismayed. He spent most of the day hiding under our bed.

We fed the children early and hustled them off to the TV room to place them happily in front of the newest Disney movie release. We grownups then poured ourselves some wine and settled into the living room while awaiting the timer for the roast to ding. Everything else was ready to be served and was being kept warm in the kitchen.

I heard a rustle of paper that pricked up my ears for a moment but then, hearing no more, took another sip of my wine. And then, there it was again—the distinct sound of a rustling coming from the kitchen. I excused myself to investigate and found Earl up on the counter with his head in the garbage bag. He knew immediately that I was about to scram him on his way. He abruptly turned from the bag and hopped off the counter. Except, one of the loops from the bag was now around his neck. Knowing full well he’d been doing something naughty, he was already in a state of agitation. But, the addition of this foreign object that was somehow now attached to him ramped his anxiety up to new heights.

He took off running, the bag in hot pursuit. He ran into the study spewing asparagus ends; he ran into the TV room spewing coffee grounds. The children started screaming in delight as he ran up the stairs to the bedrooms spewing eggshells, potato peels, and apple cores.

I chased him down and finally got hold of him just before he headed under the bed. He growled his disbelief at such a humiliation as I removed the bag from his head. He immediately ran away to some dark corner of the house presumably to sulk.

By the time I made it back downstairs, the clean up was already underway. But, what a mess.

My current home has a garbage disposal. And no cat.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2018