Defining Rich

Our very modest home several blocks from the
mansions on Lake Shore Drive
 

I grew up in an enclave on the southern shores of Lake Michigan that catered to wealthy Chicagoans. The houses that were built along Lake Shore Drive ranged in style from cottage to mansion and everything in between. 

It was generally thought that people who maintained property on Lake Shore Drive were wealthy no matter what the style of their home might be. This belief  was fed by the fact that for many of the owners, these were second homes that were used only in the summer. But not all of the homes were summer residences.

For those families who lived along the lakeshore on a full time basis, the cost of living definitely required a higher income than was needed for those families who lived a few blocks inland, like mine. Thus, as a child, I had a notion that one had to be “rich” to live on Lake Shore Drive. 

Anne Miller, a classmate, lived in one of the more iconic lakeshore homes. She invited me over to play after school in the early fall of our fourth grade year. I was very excited to see her three-story Spanish-inspired villa with the lake accessible right out the sliding glass doors on the lowest level. There was a detached two-car garage built in the same style as the house. A portico, enveloped in ivy, connected the two buildings. All of the walkways were a brick herringbone pattern. 

We entered from a side door that went directly into the galley kitchen. A large window with banquet seating provided a picturesque view of the water. Anne’s mother greeted us with a plate of chocolate chip cookies and glasses of milk. We sat at the banquet and told her all about our day. We included that we had been partnered by our teacher to work on a sort of science project together and were both pretty excited about it. 

Once we finished our snack, Anne’s mom suggested that I get a tour of their home. Anne walked me into their living room, which cantilevered out over a patio area below. A grand piano sat positioned at an angle in the corner of the room, which was glassed in on three sides. The sunlight was soft and warm on the large Abyssinia hand-knotted area rug that defined the floor of the room. The room was further decorated  with ceramic vases, a reproduction of a Degas bronze sculpture, several ornately framed oil paintings, and a real palm tree in a copper planter. The overstuffed couch and matching chairs were beautifully upholstered in whites and creams with blue hue accents in the pillows. Stiffel table lamps lent a further air of sophistication to the cherry wood end tables. A large linen-tufted ottoman served as a centerpiece in the sitting area. It was all very elegant. The plain furnishings I was used to seemed rather shabby in comparison. 

Anne led me to the upper story of the home where there were four bedrooms. The master had its own bathroom with a large soaking tub and a walk-in shower. The counter had two sinks, and the toilet area had a fixture called a bidet. Anne, her brother, and sister each had their own room. Anne’s room had a canopy bed. Everything from its flounce to the bedspread to the fabric of the canopy itself were of a rose-patterned Chintz. She and her sister shared a bathroom that separated the two rooms. The furniture in both girls’ rooms was French Provincial in style. Her brother’s bedroom furniture was a much darker wood lending the room a masculine feel and he had a bathroom all to himself. None of the rooms looked like a kid’s room to me. Everything looked like something from a furniture store or a magazine photo shoot. It all smelled so clean and fresh, I made a comment about it. Anne told me the housekeeper had been there that morning.

The bottom floor of the house was located below the main floor. It was kind of like a finished basement except you could walk out onto the beach from the family room. Anne and I went downstairs and that’s where we spent the rest of my visit that day. We played with her dolls a little bit, and then we played a board game. We took our shoes off and went outside to splash around in the shallows of the lake. The water was already pretty cold, but with the sun shining so brightly, we hardly noticed. She explained to me how they had just put their boat into winter storage.

While we were wading in the water, Anne’s father came home. He drove a Mercedes Benz and offered to drive me home. As we were saying our goodbyes and see you tomorrows, Anne’s mother had a short discussion with her husband about a trip they were planning to Denver to go skiing over the Thanksgiving long weekend.

By the time I slid off the leather seats of Anne’s dad’s car to go into my own house, my head was reeling from imagining the extraordinary life my classmate led.

When my dad got home that night, and while we ate our meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas, I told my parents about my visit. After I was done describing everything, I sighed and said, “The Millers are soooo rich.” 

My dad cleared his throat as he exchanged a look with my mother. He tapped his lips with his napkin and said, “Well, Honey, funny thing about how things might look and how things really are.”

I stared in rapt attention wondering what he could possibly mean. Rich was rich wasn’t it? Their house was beautiful with beautiful things inside. It was right on the water, had three whole floors, and a grand piano. Her father drove a Mercedes Benz, they owned a boat, and the family went skiing for long weekends. What else could they be but rich?

I was only ten years old, but Dad saw this as an opportunity to explain something about the appearance of wealth. I suppose he must have known something about the Millers’ financial circumstances to prompt this talk and use my envy of them as a teaching moment because he all but then gave me a PowerPoint presentation.  

Dad explained how it was possible to live in the United States and give off the appearance of wealth without actually having any money. “As long as there’s enough income coming in to cover the monthly expenses of borrowed money, a person can live a very high life. But if for any reason that income is lost…well…it all disappears. And there is no savings for retirement because everything that is earned is spent.”

He told me about debt, about interest, about making the lowest payments possible, about appreciation on an asset, such as a house, and then using that appreciation to borrow even more to fund an even grander lifestyle. It was all a bit overwhelming, but I understood exactly what he was saying. He then admonished me about never asking anyone about where their money came from or to explain why they could live a life that looked soooo rich. “That would be rude,” he said.

The real lesson in finances I learned that day was about living within one’s means and keeping debt to a minimum. It was a good talk, one I’ve never forgotten, and one that has informed my own financial practices throughout my life. But there’s another lesson in defining “rich.” It’s a lesson about devaluing the importance of possessions and the appearance of wealth, and valuing, instead, friendships, family, and our time together. These are the things that make us truly rich.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2022

In a Nutshell

 

Almonds, pecans, walnuts, filberts (though I always thought they were hazelnuts), and Brazil nuts, all still in their shells, occupied a large bowl in my grandparents’ living room. Beside the bowl were two handheld nutcrackers and two picks. Grandpa would sit in his easy chair at night to watch a TV Western of some kind. Gunsmoke, Bonanza, The Wild Wild West, or High Chaparral–it didn’t matter. If the series had gunslingers and horses, my grandfather was all in. He was all in with his bowl of nuts, cracking away, picking out the sweet meat insides, and happily snacking away until bedtime. 

When I would visit my grandparents, the bowl of nuts was an enticing treat. “You have to work for them,” Grandpa would say. He taught me how to position the cracker in just the right spot, depending upon the nut. I never did master the Brazil nut, it’s a tough nut to crack. But almonds were easy, as were the filberts and pecans. Walnuts required a steady hand and precision placement of the cracker. 

I learned right away that trying to crack a walnut along its seam with my child hands resulted in the thing flying across the room. “Whoa there little doggie, you’ll put someone’s eye out,” Grandpa teased. He helped me reposition the cracker across the seam. I had to use both hands to do it. It worked, though the insides were smashed to small bits. 

Grandpa could crack nuts of all kinds no matter how he held them in his hand. When he cracked a walnut–along the seam mind you–it broke into two beautiful halves. He would dig out the meat and pop one half in his mouth. With a twinkle in his eye, he would pretend he was about to pop the other one in before handing it to me. I always laughed, which was undoubtedly why he continued to do it.

Nuts put a nice crunch into salad and all sorts of dishes. For Thanksgiving, I’m about to make a vegetable recipe that calls for pecans, which were my mother’s favorite nut. But, I prefer cashews. After learning how they are harvested, I finally understood why they are so expensive and why, unlike all the nuts in my grandfather’s bowl, you can’t buy them in the shell. 

Peanuts, though not a nut, are also a favorite and were my dad’s go-to snack in the evening while he was watching TV. He never bought them in the shell. He didn’t want to do the work. In a nutshell, most people don’t want to or need to do the work. 

Nuts of all varieties can easily be found all shelled and ready to mix into a recipe, sprinkle on a salad, or pop into your mouth one after the other as fast as you can chew them up. But, if you haven’t ever cracked your own nuts, give it a try. It’s a very satisfying, if not labor intensive, experience worth having. And if you master the Brazil nut…let me know how you did it. 

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2022

Your Kids Don't Want Your Stuff--A Memoir

Buy it TODAY on Amazon! <--Click Here

This book is about my experience in dealing with my parents' house full of stuff. Included is a strategy for doing this work for your children or the family members who will be left with the task if you don't do it. The strategy can also be used by those who, like me, had to do the work. It's a great stocking stuffer for those whose homes need this sort of attention. Thank you to all my fans! You're the best!!

The Stalker—A Horror Story

Trigger Warning–This story is about a stalking incident that, fortunately, did not end in anything criminal or prosecutorial. However, there are references to other incidents that did result in such things. And even a near miss has its psychological impact. 

He first noticed her in early September when she walked past his house. He checked his wristwatch. It was 3:25. She must go to the high school, he thought. She was slender, and pretty. He imagined she must be smart. The books she carried looked thick and heavy like the kind of textbooks honors students owned. He watched her walk on past and his eyes followed her to observe that she turned into a driveway just a few houses away.

After his first sighting of her, he made it a point to look out his living room window starting at 3:15 each school day in the hopes of catching another glimpse. He kept track until he knew that she walked by at 3:25 or so on Monday, Tuesday, and Friday. On Wednesdays and Thursdays, it was a full hour later. She must do something after school on those days, he surmised.

By the first of October, he knew her schedule by heart. Regardless of the day of the week, within ten minutes of getting home, he would see her again as she left her house to walk the family dog. The proximity of his location allowed him to watch her until she made the turn at the end of the block. She was then out of sight for the next five minutes before reappearing around another corner across the street from him. The dog always stopped at that corner to lift its leg giving him an extended moment to observe her even further. Her hair was blond and straight. She wore it parted in the middle like most teenage girls did. He smiled at how the wind would blow her hair and she’d have to use her hand to brush it away from her face.

On a Tuesday, he decided his yard needed to be raked. At 3:00, he positioned himself on his front lawn and began to work facing the direction from which he knew she would be coming. He wanted to see which side street she used. He was pleased to see that it was the one closest to his house. As she approached, he affixed a friendly smile on his face and simply gave her a little wave as she passed. She waved back, giving him quite the thrill. 

On Wednesday, he decided to purchase some Halloween decorations. He selected only the cutest ones–a witch that looked like she and her broom had flown directly into a tree, a blowup trio of ghosts, and some orange twinkle lights for his bushes. But his favorite was a light-emitting spider web that attached to one of the eaves of his house, and was then anchored to two spots on his lawn. The blackwidow spider that sat in the web had orange eyes with long black eyelashes. She was adorable.

On Thursday, he started putting up the decorations. When he saw her approaching, he hoped she would be the one to talk first. But he had already decided that if she got to the fourth section of sidewalk in front of his property without saying anything, he would speak to her. 

“Wow, those are really funny,” she said referring to the witch and ghosts that he’d already put up. 

Relief flooded through him as he looked up to meet her eyes for the very first time. They were blue. He knew they would be blue. “I couldn’t resist them,” he said.

She nodded and continued to walk. He decided to wait another day to finish the decorating.

On Friday, he installed the web and spider so that he was just completing the task as she stepped on the first sidewalk square in front of his lawn. When she smiled at him, he said, “I guess I just really love Halloween. I’m new here so have no idea whether we get many trick or treaters in this neighborhood or not.”

She stopped to look at what all he’d done. “There are tons of kids in this neighborhood, so yes, you can expect a lot. Plus with what you’ve done here, you’ll be really popular.”

“Do you still go out on Halloween?”

“No, but some friends of mine are having a party, so I’m still going to dress up and go to that.”

He nodded, not wanting to press. A conversation! They’d had an actual conversation. She had told him he was popular. “Okay, well, see you later!”

Over the next week, ostensibly while working in his yard, he started waving to her when she stopped ever so briefly while her dog sniffed around at the corner across the street. They started saying hello and he finally asked her what her name was and told her his. He asked her to call him by his first name, which would be more intimate.

Over the next few weeks, he became bolder in his questions. She was a sweet girl. He knew she would be sweet. He learned that she was a junior in high school. She was 16 years old and sang in the school choir and was in the drama club. He found out she did not have a boyfriend and she did not yet have her driver’s license. He imagined himself picking her up in his car and going out to dinner and a movie. By the end of one month, he thought of her as his girlfriend. He was sure that she was intentionally giving him every indication that she felt the same way about him.

“What are you wearing to the Halloween party?” he asked her the day before he knew she would be going to her friend’s home. 

“Little Red Riding Hood,” she answered. 

“Come over and show me your costume before you go,” he said and then wished he hadn’t because the look that appeared on her face was one he’d seen before on the faces of other girls. It was the look that told him he had pushed too quickly. “If you want to,” he added, hoping to salvage the moment.

“I don’t think I can,” she demurred.

“No, no, of course not, you’ll want to get to your friend’s house. Don’t worry about it, it was a thoughtless suggestion.” Self-deprecation was always a good strategy.

“That’s okay,” she said without looking at him. “Well, gotta go,” she rushed on as she tugged on her dog’s leash and headed home.

“Have a nice evening!” he called. As he watched her walk away, he appreciated the way her tight jeans hugged her backside, sure that she had changed into them after school for his benefit.

The day after Halloween, he asked whether she enjoyed the party. He talked with her amiably and easily. She really was a darling.

Bolstered by the attention she was paying him, he now knew he loved her. He bought her a gift.

“The gift of time,” he said as he placed the delicately made gold-colored watch into her hands. His hand grazed hers–their first touch. She looked up at him but he did not see gratitude or wonder. He saw suspicion and fear.

“I couldn’t,” she said.

“We’re friends, of course you can. Please.” He folded his hand over hers so that she now firmly held the watch in her palm. He did not give her a chance to give the gift back. He walked briskly back to his house focusing on the feel of her skin and the smell of her body. Just the thought of her holding his gift, taking it back to her house, to her bedroom, touching it, owning it, gave him the sense of connection to her he wanted and needed. But, suddenly, everything changed.

He occasionally would catch a glimpse of her getting into a car as she came and went from her house. But after the gift, she didn’t walk past his house nor did he see her walking the dog. Bitch, he thought. 

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2022

Author’s Note: Though we continue to try and get better about recognizing trauma, and not blaming survivors for their trauma, we are not quite there yet. Most recently, was the murder of a young mother in the Memphis area. Her abduction, which took place in the wee hours of the morning before it was light, and while she was getting her daily run in, at first was met with criticism that choosing this time of day to be alone on a run was her fatal mistake. And though these criticisms didn’t explicitly blame her, the implicit message was that what happened to her was her own fault. You would be hard-pressed to convince me that the same criticisms would have been hurled at a man, but that’s another story altogether. Anytime we ask a woman what she did, what she said, or accuse her of “giving off pheromones,” we fail. We further traumatize the person by blaming them for the predatory actions of their aggressor.

The Value of Experience

Author’s Note: To give this story context, I’ll need to say a few words about the socio-economic circumstances in which I grew up. We lived in a somewhat affluent neighborhood on the shores of Lake Michigan, where the community was also a resort destination for very wealthy Chicagoans. I basically didn’t know anyone who was struggling. Or, if they were, their struggle was not apparent to me. Everything, both inside and outside our home, was immaculately kept. My parents always owned two cars, one of which was never more than three years old, and we had all the latest technology available. We were the first family on our street to have a color television set, which was a very big deal at the time. My mother owned and wore a mink coat, a chinchilla stole, and beaded cocktail dresses. We benefited from a membership at a private 18-hole golf club that also boasted three pools and several tennis courts. My parents went to a very fancy resort somewhere in the U.S. each year for a week to attend a convention associated with my father’s line of work. A new wardrobe for the trip was always purchased. And we vacationed in Florida during our Christmas break from school. To me, it seemed like we were very well off.

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Right at the start of my ninth grade year–early September 1972–one of the history teachers came into our French class holding a handful of color brochures. He joined our French teacher at the front of the classroom and explained that the two of them had organized a fabulous opportunity. Every student taking French this year was being invited to participate in a trip to Europe. Our French teacher went on to explain that the program opportunity was scheduled to begin in June, after school was out for the year. She said that it would be for an entire month, and that the cost of participating was all-inclusive.

My eyes grew wide with the idea as the two teachers spun their tale of what an adventure this would be. They talked about what a unique and unprecedented experience was ahead of those of us who would be joining the program, and that it was a chance in a lifetime. I was 15 years old.

We would fly from Chicago to Zürich just a few days after the last day of school. We would each be assigned to a homestay family with whom we could practice the French we would be learning during the coming year. Monday through Friday during the first three weeks, we would attend the Academia International School to take classes in the French language and in French history. We would be immersing ourselves in French culture with cooking classes as well. On the weekends, we would take a coach bus to Zermatt, stay in one of the ski resorts, and spend the time snow skiing, or for us beginners, learning how to ski. During the last week, we would take the coach and do a little loop that would take us to Paris, where we would see all the sights over a two-day period, then to Luxembourg, Belgium, for a day and a night, then on to Frankfurt, Germany, for two days. We would return to Zürich for one more night before flying back to Chicago. By the time we got back to the states, the promise was that we would be speaking nearly fluent French, know how to downhill ski, understand European history and Europe’s relationship to the United States, and perhaps even be able to prepare a perfect souffle for our families. I was rapt with excitement.

At the end of their overview, the history teacher passed out the brochures. I poured over the text and photos, already seeing myself on the slopes conversing in French with my fellow students. I went home from school that day determined that going to Switzerland and doing this trip was my destiny. 

I didn’t even bother talking to my mother about it. I knew her immediate response, without even giving it a thought, would be, “Absolutely not!” I had been at junctures like this with her before. During the past summer, the only reason I had been able to go to a sleep away camp was because I had earned the money myself. That expense was only $120. This one was $1,000. So I bided my time and waited for Dad to get home.

After dinner was over and Dad was getting ready to head downstairs to turn on the television and read his newspaper, I said, “Dad, I need to talk to you about something.” 

My mother didn’t even wait for Dad to respond before she jumped in to ask, “What? What do you need to discuss with your father?” I could tell she was feeling usurped as if I was going over her head to a higher authority, which was exactly what I was doing. 

I said, “You won’t understand, so it’s something I need to talk to Dad about.” They exchanged looks. My mother’s back was up.

Dad calmly said, “Well, I think you can discuss it with both of us.”

I didn’t want to, but I agreed. I handed Dad the brochure. Mom tried to grab it but I said, “No, let Dad have it.” I then went on to give them both a similar overview to the one we had been presented in class. I highlighted the advantages, especially the educational aspects. 

Mom started, “There’s no way she’s going to Europe before I do,” but Dad held up his hand to indicate that she was not to continue.

He said, “Let’s go downstairs to discuss this.” Mom gave him a piercing glare but he ignored her.

We sat down at the bar in our finished basement and Dad took a close look at the brochure. I honestly had never been so excited or so keen to do anything else in my entire life. Clearly, Dad knew this and wanted to be careful about how he treated the situation. Mom would cut you off at the knees. She was simply not equipped to consider anything outside her scope of experience. Her coping mechanism was to block it out, give it no oxygen, say, “no discussion.” It was a very difficult response to receive as a child. And there was probably a bit of competitive jealousy thrown into the mix as well. As an adult, I understand completely that what she was covering up was her own emotional vulnerability. She didn’t want anyone to see this nor did she want to delve into the whys and wherefores that certainly were anchored in her own subconscious. 

Dad began, “Do you have any idea how long it takes me to save $1,000? Not just to earn it, but to save it.”

“No,” I admitted.

He paused before saying, “Six months.”

I blinked at him as I calculated that this was September and that the trip wasn’t until June. The deposit of $500 wasn’t due until February. My face brightened as I said, “There’s plenty of time then!” I think if slapping your forehead was a thing people did as an exasperated gesture in 1972, Dad would have done it. Instead, he shook his head because he knew there was no getting around the hard truth of what he was going to have to say to me. He and Mom were not going to fork out $1,000 for me to go on this trip. 

I was bitterly disappointed. I expect I whined and argued and maybe even cried. But, it was all to no avail. I didn’t go and then refused to listen to anyone talking about the trip when we returned to school for our sophomore year. 

When I told this story to my daughter, I said, “I’m trying to imagine what your dad and I would have done if one of you kids had come to us with a similar proposal. I’m thinking we would have done it.” I waited to see whether she agreed with me or not.

She thought about it and said, “But Mom, you and Dad have always valued experiences for your children. I don’t think your parents did.” And there it was, all neatly packaged up in just a few words…the value of experience. She was exactly right. My parents valued things that served as status symbols for themselves. They had a whole list of unchecked boxes of their own. Checking those boxes off for their children made no sense to them at all.

I’m not saying that there was any sort of negligence towards my sister and me. Not at all. Our parents were coming from a completely different history. And who’s to say that it wasn’t because of their history, and the lack of providing experiences such as the Switzerland trip, that I was imbued with a need to provide experiences for my own children, whether I had had those experiences yet myself or not. My history made valuing my kids' experiences a priority. And my children’s history of experiences will mean something different yet for their children.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2022

Pizza Night

 

Preparation for the coming year’s Saturday pizza nights began in August with the month’s tomato harvest. Mom made her own sauce. She canned it in quart jars, one jar being just the right amount to cover two 16" pizzas. 

Sausage, mushroom, and pepperoni were always the toppings. The pork sausage was bought in bulk and wrapped in one-pound packages to be frozen in the large meat freezer in our basement. On Friday evenings, Mom would go downstairs to take one of the packages out to thaw in the upstairs refrigerator over the next 24 hours. 

The process of putting the pizzas together would begin around 3:00 on Saturday afternoon. Mom would mix together yeast, flour, salt, sugar, and some warm water, and knead everything into two balls of dough. She then placed each ball in its own bowl. The bowls were set in a warm spot in the kitchen with a dampened flour sack cloth covering. In the winter, she would put the covered bowls in the oven with the temperature set to 100°. The dough would then be let to rise over the next two hours. 

While the dough was rising, she would take the thawed sausage and place it in a cast iron skillet to fry up. Using a wooden spoon, she would break up the sausage so that when it was done, she had a pan full of crumbles. While Mom fried the sausage, my sister, Susan, and I had jobs to do–this was a family affair. One of us would open up the cans of store-bought mushrooms–always pieces and stems–and drain off the liquid. The mushrooms would then be placed in a bowl and one of the cans handed to Mom for the oil she drained off the cooked sausage. One of us would also set up the grinder with the shredder attachment affixed for preparing the cheese. 

The mozzarella was bought in one-pound blocks. In order to grind it, the block needed to be cut into quarters to fit into the neck of the grinder. Susan and I would take turns as the grinders, twirling the handle round and round and watching as the grated cheese fell into a pile. 

With the dough risen and the air punched out, it was Dad’s turn to participate. He put flour on the pastry cloth and the rolling pin and rolled each ball of dough out as large as he could get it to go. There was always a bit of shrinkage when Dad lifted the rolled out dough onto the pan. His goal was to roll to a near-perfect circle–one that filled the entire pan right up to its edges. One time, Susan and I egged him on to throw the dough like they did at a nearby pizza place, but Dad’s fist ended up going right through the center. We all laughed at the mishap and Dad said he’d better stick to rolling. 

Once the oven temperature hit 450°, Mom spooned her homemade sauce onto the raw dough. Next she added a layer of sausage crumbles, followed by half of the drained mushrooms, pepperoni slices placed in an exacting pattern, and at last topped off with the shredded mozzarella. She slid the completed masterpiece into the oven and set the timer for 12 minutes.

While the first pizza was baking, Susan and I were allowed to select a single can of root beer to split. One of us would pop open the top and pour the soda as equally as possible into two glasses. The other was given the first choice of which glass would be theirs.

When the timer went off, Mom checked to make sure the cheese was browned to her satisfaction. If not, more time was added, but once deemed done, the pan was whisked out onto the stovetop. Dad held one side of the piping hot pan with an oven mitt. He used a pair of scissors to cut the pizza into strips. Never, ever, did he cut our pizzas into triangle slices. Mom prepared and put the second pizza in the oven. Most of the second pizza would be leftover for snacking on over the next few days.

With the first pizza ready to eat, we chose our pieces for our plates and settled in for the evening to watch Bewitched, followed by Movie of the Week. 

Making pizza together was a fun family tradition that I kept going when my own children were small. I still like to have pizza night. Homemade is the best kind.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2022

Loggerheads

 

Author's Note: While walking on the beach last week, I saw three baby Loggerheads trying their darndest to claw their way toward the Gulf of Mexico. They were each hardly larger than my big toe, making their task seem impossible. Curious, I did a little research to find that female Loggerheads are 30 to 35 years old before they find their way back to their origin beaches to lay their eggs, which they then continue to do in two- to three-year intervals for decades. I had seen Loggerheads laying their eggs once. It was 44 years ago this month.

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Like many graduating high school couples, Neil and I imagined that no geographical separation could be great enough to divide us emotionally from one another. And so, it seemed to me, that because we had now made it through our freshman year of college, when so many other long-distance couples had not, we might be well on our way to forever. Consequently, I reasoned that we would get through this summer of separation, too.

My job, at a bank, was in our hometown on the west coast. Neil had taken a job on a shrimp boat off the Miami coast of Florida. For these few months, prior to the beginning of our sophomore year, he would live with his aunt and uncle on Key Biscayne during the week and come home every other weekend to visit. We worked out a plan to talk on the phone a couple times a week, to spend as much time as possible together during his home weekends, and for me to fly over to the east coast at least twice. 

Over the Fourth of July weekend, we decided that I would make my first trip to Key Biscayne the following weekend. In those days, it was easy, and inexpensive, to hop on a small plane to get from Sarasota to Miami and back again. Thus, after I finished work on Friday, my dad drove me to the airport and waved as the twin-engine plane–eight passengers on board–taxied down the runway for a 45-minute flight.

It was still light out when Neil picked me up in his aunt and uncle’s station wagon. He hugged and kissed me as if it had been far longer than just five days since we last saw one another. His aunt and uncle greeted me upon arrival at their unassuming ranch house located on the shores of the South Basin. “Just make yourself at home. We’ll be around, but will try to leave you two on your own as much as possible,” his uncle said with a wink. 

Neil showed me to a room of my own with its own bathroom. He helped me settle in, frequently interrupting my unpacking with more long kisses to which I, smiling broadly, asked, “What’s going on with you?” He blushed and mumbled that it was nothing.

That first night, we made frozen pizza, and watched a spectacular sunset from the dock. We then snuggled up on the family room couch together to watch The Maltese Falcon. We were both big film noir fans and HBO was running a weekend-long marathon. At midnight, Neil and I reluctantly said goodnight and headed each to our own bedrooms. We had never slept together, both of us being from conservative households. It’s telling to think of it now, as we seemed to be quite content not to take things any further.

The next two days were filled with all kinds of activities. We went to the beach. We rode bicycles. We visited the aquarium. Neil had asked me to pack a nice dress, which I then wore when he took me out for dinner in Coconut Grove. After dinner, we walked out on the terrace of the restaurant, kicked off our shoes, and stood on the beach in the light of a nearly full moon. He twirled me around and we moved to the distant sounds of music from a nearby club.

One of the things I liked most about Neil was his imagination for making lasting memories. There was the time we rode horses on the causeway; the time we went to a range and he taught me how to shoot; the time we waded in to explore a wet cave wearing carbide lamp helmets; and the time we put on beekeeping suits and extracted honey from hives. He taught me how to stick shift in his 280-Z; we went four-wheeling through mangroves in his Land Rover; and, in his family’s boat, we anchored off the shores of Egmont Key to swim with dolphins. But, of all the romantic adventures we enjoyed together, the one I remember the most vividly happened on Sunday night in Key Biscayne.

After another day filled with, among other things, a visit to the Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden, we returned to the South Basin house near dinner time. Neil’s aunt and uncle were getting ready to grill chicken kabobs and corn on the cob. Although there had been no plans in advance, they were delighted that we were there to join them because, as his aunt said, “We bought too much food!” We ate out in the backyard with an offshore breeze from the canal to keep us cool. Another beautiful sunset lit up the sky just as the Buck Moon was rising in all its supermoon glory. “The loggerheads will be laying tonight,” his uncle mused while taking another sip of his Shiraz. “Take the rowboat,” he said while motioning to the little craft tied up beside the pontoon.  

We first watched Casablanca, a favorite of ours, before making our way back down to the dock around midnight. Neil rowed us south down the canal toward ​​Bill Baggs Cape Park, just a short distance away. When he pulled the boat up onto the shore, I couldn’t imagine where a turtle might find a hospitable area for a nest. The shoreline seemed too rugged. 

Neil had brought along an old quilt. We placed it on a small patch of flat ground and sat. The moon glowed down upon us. The stars above were drowned out by its brightness. 

“We won’t stay long,” he said, sensing my skepticism. He pulled me close and I rested my head on his shoulder marveling at that beautiful moon. And then it happened. 

Hardly ten minutes had passed. The gentle lapping of the water had lulled me into an almost dreamstate making me think that what I was seeing couldn’t possibly be real. “Look!” Neil whispered. 

And there, unbelievably, not one, not two, but three female Loggerheads emerged onto the shore. They were magnificent. I still couldn’t imagine where they could possibly find spots for their nests, but as we watched, they each agonizingly found their individual areas and began to dig. I think I stopped breathing for a minute wanting to hear every scritch and scratch upon the sand. When the last of the three turtles turned to drag herself back to the water, I asked, “What time is it?” Neil answered, “Almost 2:30.” We had been watching for over two hours.

With help from the ebbing tide, Neil rowed us back home. After securing the rowboat to the dock, it was my turn to kiss him like I’d never kissed him before. “We’ll always have Key Biscayne,” I said. He smiled at my reference to Casablanca, pulled me into his embrace and said, “Here’s looking at you, kid.” It felt final in some strange way, as if this was to be the last wonderful thing we did together. But then I’ve always had premonitory feelings that turned out to be true.

He took me to the airport in the morning. We embraced and said we’d see one another in a few days. But, he didn’t come home the next weekend. Or the one after that. “Work,” he said. 

Of course, I now know that he had already met his future wife, that those passionate welcome kisses, and all the ones that came after, were tinged with guilt and regret, and a little disbelief that he was about to do what he was going to do. He was a man caught between his past and future–a kid, really, who didn’t have any idea of how to break up with his hometown honey. He was at loggerheads.

According to the dictionary, to be at loggerheads is to be engaged in a disagreement or dispute. And so, Neil had been with himself. But, for me, Loggerheads are only one thing: a beautiful last night of a lovely romance.

Copyright, DJ Anderson, 2022

Yahrzeit

 

In the Jewish faith, the anniversary of a death is called a yahrzeit. It is observed each year on the Hebrew date of death by reciting kaddish* at synagogue and by lighting a memorial candle at home in memory of your loved one. The candle is lit at sundown the evening before the civil date.

***

One year. That’s all it’s been. In contrast to the 56 years of accumulated memories that came before, it’s no wonder that one year should seem to be such a short period of time.

***

I was only seven when the family of five–a mother, father, son, and two daughters–moved in next door. I was enamored of them from the very start, and they changed my life in too many ways to count.

The boy was an artist. I think it’s his hands I remember most. I was twelve years old when I first watched him draw with a number two pencil. His hands were beautiful. There was something magical about them. Over the next few years, I kept watching him, and then I started dreaming about him. I wrote a silly little song, imagining and wishing that he would be mine. 

Unrequited love is such a lonely venture. And, in any case, the reality was that we were not meant to be. He didn’t want marriage. He didn’t want children. I wanted both, and, thus, took another path. I am forever grateful that I did.

But to find out, after a divorce, that this boy, now a man, the one you have wondered about your whole life, has been wondering about you, too! To have a wish from 40 years earlier come true seems unlikely. To have that same wish be something you wish for again…impossible.

During those decades–the in-between–we had always known what was happening in one another’s lives. We had even seen each other from time to time throughout those years. But the moment he knew I was going to be single again, he didn’t hesitate to admit that he had long carried a torch for me and, “What a shame it would be to have that regret on my conscience,” he reasoned. There was just the hint of tragedy in his statement, but I agreed that to not explore this thing between us now would be a tragedy. We were both in our fifties and ready for our last go-rounds.

We had six beautiful years together–a long distance relationship. It was perfect for both of us. We’d talk every single day, but being together for chunks of time was limited by my work schedule to four or five times per year–extended long weekends, and two weeks during July. When those days arrived, the excitement of seeing each other was so explosive we could hardly bear it. And we had plans. Grand plans. In our retirement, he would spend the winters with me in Florida, and I would spend a month or so with him in Indiana each summer. We belonged to each other. We thought of ourselves as a couple, as partners with separate residences.

At first, the Parkinson’s diagnosis seemed manageable. I would occasionally get annoyed at him for not eating properly, thinking, ridiculously, that if he only followed a proper diet regime, he could stave off this terrible disease for at least a couple decades. But then the signs of Lewy Body Dementia  began to appear–fantastical nightmares, imagined deceits, accusations of trying to Gaslight him, all manner of delusion. It became clear to me that things were deteriorating quickly. I was seeing signs of his no longer being able to manage for himself. During a visit, I helped him with his medications, assisted him with putting on his coat, and tied his shoes.

His oldest sister moved in with him and took charge of his life. And then Covid hit, which relegated me to the role of...nothing, as I isolated myself at home, unable to travel to see him. 

In just a few short months, he could no longer manage anything for himself. His sister managed his meals and exercise, bathed him, dressed him, calmed him, kept him safe, cared and loved him, and did all those things that a full-time caregiver does.

He continued to know I was someone important to him, but he didn’t actually know why. It got to the point where he could no longer have an actual conversation so our phone calls stopped as well. 

Through texts and emails, his sister kept me up on how things were going, and how he was doing. And then, my phone started ringing with her ringtone. I was excited to hear from her. We rarely talked on the phone. I answered, “Well, hello! What a great surprise.”

Her voice was measured. “Yea, I know.” She then paused, significantly. “He’s in the hospital. In a sort of coma, we think. I’m on my way to see him now.”

I knew his death was in our future, but this seemed far too soon. It was too soon! Now that we were all vaccinated, wasn’t I going to soon go take care of him myself to give his sister a break? 

She continued, “He has a sort of grimace on his face and I thought that, perhaps, if you were to speak to him, he might recognize your voice and it might bring him…comfort?”

“Sure, sure, of course,” I said. I wanted so much to know I could still be something to him…and to her. 

“I’ll call back in about 20 minutes. It’ll take me that long to get parked…up to his room…ready,” she said.

I sat for a moment reflecting. It didn’t take long to realize that she was giving me a great gift–a chance to say good-bye. I wanted to do it right. He had been the first boy I fell in love with, afterall, and the man who I now called my life partner. And so much more.

When she called back, I was ready. She said, “I’ve put the phone on speaker and am holding it up to his ear.”

***

Hey Babe! I know you can hear me so I’m just going to talk to you so you know I’m thinking about you and wishing I was there to give you a big hug and kiss and tell you how much I love you.

Right now I’m up in St. Petersburg at my sister’s condo. It overlooks Tampa Bay and the Skyway Bridge. It’s way up on the 24th floor so the view is amazing. I’m dog sitting her little Yorkshire Terrier. His name is Winston. I had to tell you his name because I know how important it is for you to know dog names. Even if you can’t smile, I hope you are smiling inside because that was a joke, Babe. 

I’m still writing for my blog every month. And I’m working on a second novel. I haven’t decided on the title yet…but it takes place at a boarding school because I lived at one for 24 years so thought I’d take advantage of my knowledge for the story setting. It’s, of course, a romance novel. You know how much I love Romance, Rom-Coms. We watched a bunch together like Flipped. I think that was our favorite. And we also enjoyed The To-Do List. That was a crackup especially when the one character asked the other, “Hey big boy, what do you have under that poncho?” You and I laughed so hard at that scene we had to rewind it a couple times and rewatch it until we stopped laughing. 

I have lots of traveling plans soon. Next week I am going to Wisconsin with my sister to spend the Fourth of July with our aunt and uncle. Our cousins will be there, too. We’ll go boating and I know we’ll have a really good time. Then in August I’m going to visit my daughter, her husband, and my granddaughter. She is such a delight. Ten months old, so really still a baby. She’s crawling but not walking yet. My grandma name is Gigi. 

My son actually gave me that name when he first got his dog Bella. Another dog story!

The only other thing you might like to hear is that because I now live in Florida, I’m out in the sun a lot, so I’m really tan. 

You are my sweetest of sweethearts.

Goodnight, Goodnoink, and Goodnaked.

***

“His face has completely relaxed,” she said. 

I’m not sure I believed her, but it was a sweet thing to say to me in an effort to make me feel like I made a difference. Like I was still someone important. 

Six years was all we had, but it was better than nothing. Nothing would have been the real tragedy. He died the morning of June 26, 2021.

***

One year. That’s all it’s been. 

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2022

* Read or listen to the Mourner’s Kaddish.

Sundays Are For Sundaes

 

May 15 has now become a day of tradition for my sister, me, and any friends wishing to join us. It is the anniversary of our dad’s birth. This year, our father would have been 90. 

To remember and reminisce about our dad, we meet up at Shake Pit, one of Dad’s favorite ice cream destinations, and indulge. We order hot fudge sundaes, and toast to the man we still miss and mourn every single day.

Our family tradition of ice cream treats dates back to our days in Indiana before our move to Florida. On Sunday, each week, regardless of the season of year, Mom would put a pork roast, or chicken, along with a vegetable casserole of some sort, in the oven before we then went off to church in the morning. It would be all ready for us to eat by the time we returned. Such a substantial meal at noon time meant we were pretty full for the rest of the day. The winter season mostly meant huddling at home, but once winter was over, Sunday afternoons were spent finishing up any weekend outdoor chores that had not been accomplished on Saturday. When chores were light, and time allowed, we would go for a Sunday drive. 

Mom and Dad loved driving to construction sites in developing neighborhoods to take a look at new housing. We would get out of our car and wander around in homes, some of which did not even have drywall installed yet. I would often pick up the punch discs left behind after the electricians had installed the outlet boxes. I would use the coin-like discs as money in the make believe grocery store I played with down in our basement. During these home tours, Dad would point out to Susan and me where the pipes were located for what would eventually be a full or half bathroom, a kitchen, or, in one case, a wet bar in a den. When we once encountered a bathroom that was plumbed not only for an enormous tub, but for a standup shower as well, the oohs and ahs continued on for an hour. Dad and Mom dreamed of having such luxuries someday. 

Once we were done touring several new homes in various states of construction, it would be time to head home. Dad liked to take backroads, winding his way through the Indiana countryside, pretending he had no idea where he was going, or where we would end up. “Dad!” Susan and I would wail, “Where are we going now?” We all knew, of course, but imagining we didn’t was just too much fun. 

The Dairy Queen in Michigan City, Indiana, was open from April 1 through November 1 each year. The surprise at the end of our Sunday afternoon drives was to stop and get a treat. Ice cream sundaes, and an occasional banana split, were the tradition throughout our youth.

Once we’d moved to Florida, there were no more Sunday drives, but we still often had Sunday sundaes. Sometimes they were homemade, and sometimes we went to Shake Pit (cash only!), just a few blocks from our home. 

Even during the decades when Susan and I were raising our own children, visits home invariably included a trip to Shake Pit. 

After Dad’s executive functions were long gone due to his brain cancer, he still remembered that Sundays were for sundaes. He’d pile the ice cream high (I swear he scooped out a quarter of the half gallon containers he bought) top the mound with hot fudge warmed in the microwave, and then sprinkle peanuts on top for the pièce de résistance. I can still see Dad sitting in his Lazy Boy spooning the rich dessert bite by bite into his mouth, savoring every morsel. 

A few days after his death, Susan and I were going through the house, making decisions about the many things our parents had saved throughout the years. On a whim, we decided to walk the few blocks from our family home to Shake Pit and have hot fudge sundaes. While yumming our way through our treats, we talked about how much Dad would have loved seeing us do this. 

Dad’s been gone for over ten years now, but a few years ago, after both Susan and I had moved back to the area, we decided to honor him each year on his birthday with a trip to Shake Pit.

Copyright DJ Anderson, May 2022

Animal Instincts

 

In turns they approach one another, 

First domesticated,

Then feral.

She tosses him a morsel,

Which he eyes with suspicion 

Before snatching it up to scurry away 

And blink from the shadows.

He leaves her a tidbit; 

She shivers at the enticement. 

For the briefest of moments, 

She trusts.  

They do not scratch or bite. 

They nuzzle, 

Then run off to separate dens

To lick phantom wounds that still bleed.

She nibbles; he watches, 

Sizing up intentions,

Waiting for a sign. 

They edge close, 

One inch at a time, 

Then lunge at one another

In a desperate attempt to

Connect, 

Feel, 

Throb, 

Meld. 

He takes a step back so as not to scare; 

She startles at the motion,

Poised to bolt.

They forage around in the same meadow,

Aware of where on this vast expanse they each hunt. 

There is but one prize they both eye with desire. 

Darling creatures, be

Brave,

Seize,

Share,

Feast.

Copyright DJ Anderson, 2022