Alone

          Finally she could breathe, think. The last week had taken its toll, but now she was alone. No well-meaning relatives patting her hand and hugging her waist as if death brought the living closer. No sympathetic friends telling her to call if she needed anything as if they really meant it. No sad-eyed minister asking how she’s doing as if he could read sorrow buried in every laugh line around her eyes. Now, maybe, the shock would wear off. Maybe now she could just think. The icy vodka tasted smooth on her tongue as she sipped it lazily and watched the early morning light throwing its reddish-golden hue across the yard.

            The silence felt good in her ears. She had spent the whole night, hell the whole week, talking about Michael and the years they had together, all 25 of them. By 2 a.m. the last of her friends had departed with a final toast to memories, and the ordeal was over. There was nothing left to do but keep the vodka cold and drink in – gulp down - the silence. For the first hour, she watched the stars twinkle coolly and traced the lights of a few passing jets. She wondered where they headed and who they carried. People who were running away from their lives, running toward their futures, or just running through their time, she decided. At 4 a.m. she realized she hadn’t even taken off her black patent leather pumps yet and remedied that with an easy grace. By 5 a.m. the voices of birds had replaced those of crickets and the subtle lightening in the sky heralded the morning. At 6 a.m. she realized it was time to get ready for work, but she wasn’t going today. She wasn’t going until next week, if she ever went at all. No, this morning she was just going to think about her new freedom.

            What should she do? Should she move? Should she stay? Should she buy a different house? Should she sell the extra car? Should she take a vacation? Where should she go? Interestingly enough, the answers didn’t matter as much as the fact that she could decide. She loved Michael dearly. They had been very happy together, and for the last 25 years they had made their decisions together. They had raised a daughter together. They had moved and worked and saved and vacationed together. It had been grand. The cruises, the trips to Europe, the theater tickets, the dinners out had all been grand, and now she was alone, which sounded horrible and promising at the same time. She no longer had her friend, her companion, and she felt that loss keenly. However, she also no longer had to please anyone but herself, and she was just beginning to think what that might mean.

            By 7 a.m. she was tired of just contemplating the idea of making a decision, so she made one instead. She decided to do something fun, something that would please her and only her. A hot shower gave way to her favorite jeans, the ones with holes scattered across the knees and thighs; the ones Michael hated because they looked so ratty.

            “You aren’t wearing those out somewhere, are you? They look like someone put them on the fence and shot them with a 12-gauge,” she heard him comment wryly in her ear.

            “Why, yes I am,” she responded crisply to the mirror as she put on her favorite dark red lipstick after slipping on a form-fitting black silk t-shirt. A moment later she slipped on a pair of sexy, strappy black sandals and slung a chain belt around her slim frame. The color of the metal echoed the gleam of the white gold cross she wore at her throat, the platinum band that graced her left hand, and the silver glinting in her otherwise dark hair. Then she stopped and took stock of herself in the mirror. Forty-five-year-old eyes shone back at her. They were a clear dark blue, the eyes of a 16-year-old surrounded by a few crinkles that had formed in recent years, the eyes that turned a brooding jade green when she was angry and the light gray-blue of spring rain when she was sad. The red, puffiness of crying was no longer visible in those eyes. The tears had stopped a day or two ago after seeming to rise constantly for several days before that. “I’m just all cried out,” she had told her friends. “There aren’t any tears left inside my soul right now.”

            Her first stop of the day was at a new salon a couple of miles from home. She tipped the counter girl ten dollars to “find” her name in the morning appointment list; then settled into an overstuffed velvet chair that clashed with her lipstick and sipped the cup of coffee the girl had brought her. The steamy liquid tasted particularly good with double sweetener and hazelnut creamer – just the way she liked it. She thought she’d buy a new coffee maker later, one that made lattes or something fancy. Michael never drank coffee, though he didn’t care if she did. It was just too much hassle to have coffee and hot tea, so she just started drinking tea with him. It didn’t really matter after all, as long as it was hot, and she didn’t have to make it. Now, she guessed if she was going to make her own, it was worth making what she really liked.

            “I’d have made it if you asked,” Michael whispered in her ear. “I know,” she breathed to herself.

The counter girl pulled her out of her reverie with, “Ma’am, we’re ready for you now.”

            Funny, she thought as she surveyed the stylist’s work in the mirror 30 minutes later, I feel so much lighter now. She decided the new cut was sassy, a little edgy with its short back and sides and longer, tousled top that accentuated the bright strands in her hair and the light sparks in her eyes. As she moved away from the mirror to find a nail polish color that matched her favorite lipstick, she made a mental note to buy some new earrings that picked up that liquid silver quality of her hair.

            Her next stop was the mall. She decided to park near the theater so she could catch a movie later. There was a new romantic comedy that was supposed to be “wickedly funny” according to a local reviewer. “That sounds right up my alley,” she thought.

            “I thought you only liked action-adventure flicks on the big screen,” Michael commented with a twinge of surprise in his voice.

            “I guess that just shows you don’t know everything about me,” she smiled.

But before the movie, she wanted to have lunch at a little Mexican cantina near the end of the food court. She hadn’t eaten much over the course of the previous week even though friends and relatives had stock-piled her kitchen counters and refrigerator with food of every shape and description. She had tried to feed everyone who appeared at her house, but there was still too much left for her to eat. She briefly contemplated divvying it up into single portions and putting it in the freezer, but rejected the idea as too much trouble. Instead she decided she would take it all over to the school tomorrow morning and leave it in the faculty lunch room for everyone to enjoy. That would give her an opportunity to check on her substitute and students and talk to the principal about when she’d be back. “I like that plan,” she thought.

“Me, too,” echoed Michael.

In the meantime, some guacamole and black bean nachos would hit the spot. She decided to sit at one of the two-person pub tables in the bar area near the window that looked out over the central court of the mall. The waiter was quick to bring her a menu and take her drink order, but gave her a sadly patronizing smile when he learned that no one would be joining her for lunch. As she sipped her blue moon margarita and waited for her nachos, with chopped jalapenos, she thought about how often she and Michael had passed this place but never stopped for dinner.

            “I hate Mexican food,” he protested. “And they don’t have anything on the menu that doesn’t have some sort of pepper in it.”

            “I know,” she said aloud to know one in particular, “but I like this place. It’s festive.” She continued looking through the glass at the people passing by, but felt she could almost see Michael’s black leather sport coat reflecting back in the chair across from her.

            “The haircut is flattering,” he said. “Why didn’t you have it cut that way when I was alive to mess it up?”

            “Because you always liked my hair longer, and I tried to please you,” she responded. This time she saw the people at the next table turn to see who she was talking to, and she realized she’d have to learn to have these conversations in her head. “After all,” she thought, “that’s where Michael is now.” Then she wondered if hearing the voice of her dead husband talking to her made her a candidate for a straight jacket. Oh well, it didn’t matter because right now her nachos were being delivered along with a second margarita.

            “You shouldn’t have another one this early in the day,” Michael chided.

             “Hush,” she said to herself. “I can do anything I please.”

            After the movie, which had made her laugh just as the reviewer promised, she began wandering through the mall, strolling from store to store trying on every highly decorated, colorful, interesting outfit she could find. Occasionally the voice in her head commented on the wilder clothing, but it was quickly silenced by her own voice affirming her own opinion. In the end she rejected the gaudier pieces as uncomfortable and decided on several outfits that were formfitting, but not loud. However, she did buy some flashier accessories – dangle earrings, cuff bracelets, new shoes with matching purses – to complete the outfits. “This stuff is very cool, but still appropriate,” she thought. “After all, I am still in mourning.”

            “And you look great in black,” Michael commented. “It goes well with those killer red nails.”

            At this she laughed out loud drawing glances from people walking past her. “I’m glad you approve,” she whispered. “You know what they say: When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping.”

After placing her bags in the trunk of the sleek black convertible, she put on her favorite sunglasses – the ones with the sparkly stones and cat-eye shape – and popped the top, letting in the evening sun and air. When she hit the interstate, the wind tousled her gleaming hair as she heard Michael’s voice singing along with “Hotel California.” Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she could see his lean body slouching into the passenger seat, enjoying the dying day. She headed east, letting the road lead the way, until it was too dark to see.

Failure is an Option

I often fail at cooking, though people I’ve entertained probably wouldn’t believe so. Actually, one of the best things about cooking is having permission to fail and try again.

I experienced my first real failure in the kitchen during high school when I attempted Pears Caribbean. I had never really paid attention to how my mom cooked anything, maintaining that anyone who could read a recipe could cook. (I have since discovered this is basically true for simple dishes; however the art of cooking is something more than the science of mixing, measuring, and applying heat.) Thus, at 14, I ventured courageously into the realm of decadent dessert, but not without some help. Frequent help, actually, since I called Mom repeatedly.
“When it says to use fresh pears, will canned pears work instead?”
“What does it mean when it says to caramelize the sugar?”

My mother answered each question patiently and ended with, “What are you making?” Each time I responded, “a surprise.” And it was – because by the time my parents came home, the scents of cinnamon and warm sugar permeated the house, luring them to a sparkling clean kitchen with no sign of dessert anywhere. I had thrown the concoction away because I burned the sugar. One moment it looked fine – slightly golden, melting into sweet syrup – the next it was black and crunchy.

This story of repeated calls, mouth-watering aromas, and empty dessert dishes has followed me throughout the ensuing decades. Every boyfriend heard it; every family gathering was regaled with it. It has passed into the realm of mythology. And, like mythology, the story serves a wider purpose. It shows that failure, while disappointing at the moment, is not the end. After all, I didn’t stop cooking, and I’ve caramelized my fair share of sugar over the last 30+ years. It shows that people can learn, grow, progress. It shows that one bad dish, bad day, bad decision doesn’t have to rule our lives.

Over the years many other failures have occurred in my kitchen. Most recently I attempted a dish of honey bubbles for a holiday brunch. I envisioned a donut-like pastry with a boiled honey glaze hardening to hold the little pieces together in a shape of my choosing. I picked the dish – which I later threw away because it just didn’t taste good and it was ugly to boot – because it reminded me of a time I watched Martha Stewart and Julia Child make crockenbouche on television. Julia was in her 80’s and her dessert was sort of a mound of cream puffs rather than a well-shaped peak. Martha Stewart’s creation was, of course, perfect. It was a beautiful tower of glistening puff pastry with gossamer threads of syrup connecting the entire apparatus. It was breathtaking. However, Julia’s - (Ever notice how we all refer to the renowned chef by her first name? It’s a sense of comfortable knowingness that comes from watching her swig a glass of wine and relentlessly pound a chicken at the same time. Today’s T.V. chefs don’t seem to have her moxy. Well, maybe Nigella – and we talk about her on a first-name basis as well!)

Back to Julia’s crockenbouche - While it was more hill than tower, it looked eminently more touchable and edible than Stewart’s vision of confection. It was real. It was something I could produce. As I watched the show that night, I felt sorry for Julia being shown up, as it were. But now, many years later, as I look back on that Christmas special I realize it was a teachable moment. Julia – in her 80’s – was teaching us, yet again, to dive in and give it a try. She was teaching us it is alright if things don’t look perfect, because life isn’t perfect. She was showing us all that we need to step up and do without concern of what others will think of us, of our creations.

There’s the adventure in cooking and in life. It’s the excitement of trying something new without fear of failure. It is the idea that we can create a wonder – a feast – even if it isn’t perfect. And, of course, it won’t be perfect because it will be created by human hands – imperfect hands struggling to bring beauty and order out of a chaos of disparate ingredients. Ultimately cooking is life in a microcosm, and life includes failure. The lesson, of course, is all about what we do with that failure. In the kitchen, we toss it out and try again. We should do the same with any other failing aspect of our lives.

Mom Was Right After All

I never thought I’d teach. As a young girl my aspirations ran to the exotic – archaeologist, photographer, torch singer, artist, fashion designer, spy – but never teacher. That seemed too mundane, too provincial, too much my mother, who was the daughter of a teacher and who repeatedly said I should be one, too. Of course, that was the kiss of death for the career because my mother’s hopes always served as a compass pointing which way not to go. Looking back, I can see each time I turned my back on her advice and career encouragement until I managed to come around full circle.

Throughout high school I came to terms with my lack of artistic prowess, my inability to carry a tune, and my unwillingness to take sewing lessons from my mom – all of which served to show (once again) what I shouldn’t do for a living.  On the other hand, I found I had a knack for literary interpretation and a love of words. These interests steered me toward any publication outlet available – yearbook, newspaper, poetry contests – and began to shape how I defined myself. “I’m a writer,” I told my friends around the lunch table, even though they laughed heartily at the idea of my ever penning a best seller. “No, seriously,” I’d say amid more snickers. Interestingly, the only person who actually believed me was my mom.

In college I majored in English and writing believing I would knock out the great American novel before I was 25. It never happened. I continued to work on school publications, win some poetry contests, and field a few pats on the head from professors, but nothing profound, nothing truly valuable found its way from my soul to my journal. A few months before graduation, petrified by the idea of having to make a living and a life on my own, I accepted a scholarship to begin a master’s degree in business administration. This move made my dad, an entrepreneur himself, strut like a rock star. “Look,” he told my brother, “Jen’s going to make a million dollars telling people what to do.”

Of course, this didn’t happen either. After only a few weeks I knew I wasn’t cut out for the world of finance and big business. I gave up the money, quit grad school, and got a job in a jewelry store, which eventually gave way to a reporting gig at the local paper. The three and a half years I spent pounding a keyboard at The Mountain Press probably had more influence on my future career than anything or anyone else in my life. At first, I was ecstatic to have a job as a writer. Seeing my byline on the front page every morning stroked my ego and made the measly pay of $12,000 a year seem grand. But once the glamour wore off, I was forced to take stock of the realities – which included watching people suffer while I stood aloof snapping photographs and scribbling quotes.

Over the years I worked every beat at the paper, but none seemed a positive outlet. Sports stories were full of war metaphors, personal injuries, and disappointments. Court reporting overflowed with photographs of murder scenes that haunted my dreams and filled my journals with horror. Police blotters centered on domestic violence, fatal accidents, and missing hikers. Local government stories held an undercurrent of political corruption and back-room deals with power only going to those who had the correct last name in the county. Even the entertainment beat brimmed with egocentric performers giving syrupy interviews to the local yokels in an effort to sell more concert tickets and line their pockets.

Finally, I’d had enough. That day came when my editor’s voice echoed through my car on the work radio instructing me to check out an accident on a curving back road before coming in to the office. When I arrived – before most of the police officers and the ambulance crew – at the scene of a

head-on collision between a gravel truck and a motorcycle, I knew I’d never be able to write about it. Not only could I not print the reality of what I saw, but I would never subject a parent, a brother, a girlfriend to those details. After only moments on the scene, I walked back to my car without any information, without any photographs, and went to work, where I was immediately bombarded with questions about the accident since everyone in the office had been listening to the scanner chatter. As I fielded inquiries about the scene, about the victim, about my (non-existent) photos, I realized I had become a ghoul and knew I couldn’t live that way.

For days I wracked my brain. “What can I do that will actually make the world a better place?” I asked myself. “What talents do I have to share that will change someone’s life?” My mother’s words came creeping back into my head and seemingly possessed my fingers as I dialed the state department of education to get more information. Two years and a master’s degree later I began a teaching career that has spanned nearly two decades.

Even in today’s witch-hunt climate of teacher blame and the almighty test scores, I cherish my job. When I look in the mirror each morning, I know the world is a better place because I choose to help kids communicate their ideas and dreams – those same ideas that will reshape the planet and foster another group of thinkers, artists, and teachers.

Just Chill

I love my guys, but sometimes a few hours without them is heaven. Today Jeff and Jade are at the regional choir festival (Jeff because he runs the thing and Jade because he made it into the choir). This means that they left early (6:30 a.m.) and won't be home until around 7 p.m. This also means that I went to work alone this morning (read - cranked up the stereo and belted Garth Brooks tunes) and came home alone - which entails oh so many novel ideas.

First, I made a side trip to the used book store just to browse the trashy vampire/werewolf novels. I didn't buy any, because between my e-reader and the Kindle app on my phone I usually have a "stack" of books waiting, but it was fun to look. (As I walk along, I take pictures of the books I'd like to read so when I'm out of fresh material, I know what to download next! I have a whole slew of book photos in my gallery.)  On the drive home, I listened to NPR and didn't have to try to keep up with the reporters and a three-way conversation about the school day. Ah...

Arriving home alone has its own rewards. After all, it is permission to eat whatever I want without regard to its nutritional value, appeal to other people, or classification as a "meal." This means I fried the rest of the frozen onion rings for dinner (and they were delicious)! While the onion rings bubbled, I dumped the work clothes - especially the heels - and donned soft pajamas. (O.k. - I'll admit I do this when the guys are here, too.) As the last batch of crispy rings fried, it was martini time. (Yes, regardless of the time here, it is indeed five o'clock somewhere.) Thus, equipped with cold booze and hot snacks, I retired to my office for a rousing round of Zuma Blitz, where I was still unable to beat Jeff's high score for the week.

Of course, after all this R and R, I knew I had to get down to the (very) serious business of writing this blog. Thus, my day has ended, a long weekend has begun, and I still have at least an hour before the boys come home. I wonder what's on HGTV?

Teacher for a Day

Today I got to play teacher. Yes, I know I'm in charge, but since the semester began I haven't actually run class very many days because I have an excellent student teacher who has taken over the whole shebang. However, today she was ill. (A nasty cold / strep has been circulating and she succumbed!) I had to laugh last night when I received her email telling me what the kids were supposed to be doing. She ended with "Let me know if you have any questions." The irony was just too much for me.

Actually, I've grown a little bored this week watching class. Up until now she's still needed some guidance in planning and materials prep, but this week she just took the reins and made all the decisions. This is a great thing, because she's learning to deal with all aspects of teaching while I'm there to help if she needs it - but she hasn't needed it lately. So, I was pretty excited to run class today; after all, the juniors are in the midst of reading Of Mice and Men and the freshman are preparing to write a comparison/contrast essay on poetic elements. I realize these things may seem like drudgery to some people, but they are my idea of fun. (I'm such a geek!)

The best part of the day was working with the freshman in small groups to analyze their assigned poems. We picked them apart for theme, structure, and figurative language which provided plenty of opportunities for discussion, interpretation, and joviality. We had a great time talking about archaic language, 17th century dress, death, destruction, hatred, and revenge. On days like this one, I know why I show up to work even when the job (particularly dealing with administration and paperwork) is fraught with frustration. Second semester, the kids always seem to make a giant leap forward which makes them much more enjoyable to work with. While I hope Meg feels better, I have to admit that I'd like her to take another day off to rest.

All Stressed Out

It's funny that everyone agrees how terrible stress is, yet we all approach it differently. For example, when my son is stressed he doesn't eat. Generally he says his stomach hurts, so he's not hungry. But we can usually track it back to something upsetting him. It doesn't matter whether he is angry with us for taking his cell phone, worried about a chemistry test, or annoyed that someone called him a name; stress is stress and he quits eating. I often wish I had this response to life's pressures because then I'd be svelte and fashionable. Instead, I eat junk food (especially chips) and stay awake at least half the night. During the nocturnal silence I often play conversations over and over wishing I had said something different (especially to that annoying parent, co-worker, or administrator) or watch QVC hosts attempt to convince me I need a $300 Dooney and Burke handbag. Either way, the lack of sleep just adds to the weight I carry around my middle. I'm pretty sure that Jade's response as well as my own are normal reactions that many people share. Jeff, however, has a totally different way of dealing with stress. He shuts down - literally.

Third quarter is always difficult because he has multiple choir festivals on successive weekends. Compound those preparations with the fact that he is the regional choir chair (which means he has to organize a weekend full of auditions and then the festival itself), and his days off become few and far between from January to March. Jeff's response is usually to plow through until spring break. However, this year has been particularly hard. There was a computer glitch during the audition process which caused problems figuring out who made the choir and who didn't. Once that was straightened out, the guest conductor became a real pain in the backside. (She had been prior to auditions, but the problems became worse the more Jeff had to work with her.) She is demanding, rude, and haughty. As a result, Jeff has spent a good deal of time trying to accommodate and appease her, often to no avail. Today, as he worked to finish the final preparations for this weekend's festival, he received an email from the state choir chair saying that she and Jeff should take the director to dinner tomorrow night. I think that was the last straw, because the mere thought of having to entertain this person for a couple of hours sent Jeff into overload. His body just shut down. (This is hard to explain, but envision the opposite of a panic attack. Instead of a racing heart, skyrocketing blood pressure, and hyperventilation, Jeff's pulse drops radically, he falls over abruptly, and might even pass out.) Needless to say, this can be frightening, though over the last few years we've learned how to cope. So, when this happened at school today, Jade and I jumped in to walk Jeff around a little (to get the blood moving) and then we sent him home to sleep.

Interestingly, sleep seems to be the one magic cure all for stress around here. Once Jeff's had a nap, he's back to normal. Once Jade gets some sleep, he stops worrying and can eat once again. Once I manage a full night of rest, I can function without massive doses of coffee, aspirin, and potato chips. If the three of us could manage to get 8 hours of sleep every night - all at the same time - we might be able to change the world (or at least handle the problems it sends our way).

A Real Valentine

Today is really Valentine's Day for Jeff and me. We met 17 years ago last August when Jeff showed up for the first day of teacher inservice wearing a heavily starched, long sleeved dress shirt, tie, slacks, sport coat, and well-shined lace up shoes. If you've ever been to Kingman, Arizona, in August you might know that this attire is 1) terribly hot in the midst of 115 degree heat and the humidity of monsoon season 2) horribly over dressed for anything short of a (very) formal, high-class wedding 3) completely out of place amidst teachers dressed in cut offs, flip flops, and oversized cotton t-shirts because they will be sitting through meetings and decorating rooms in a school running on swamp coolers rather than air conditioners.

So, here's the scene: the entire faculty is lounging across hard chairs in the cafeteria trying not to sweat on the handouts the presenter is passing around, when in walks tall, thin, and formal - with a briefcase. All eyes in the room follow him as he finds one of the last empty chairs near the front. Whispers break out, creating a palpable undercurrent of curiosity. The people at my table - degenerates all - begin making wise cracks about the man's attire and how stuffy he must be to wear such things. On the other hand, I am intrigued by the guy's style. At the first break, when he is sitting all alone looking like a lost kitten, I invite him to move to our table. (Of course, the idea that I would do such a thing throws the entire group I'm with into deep consternation and they begin to question my sanity.) Alas, never being one to give in to peer pressure, I talk to him anyway (and forgive him when he mimics my Southern drawl).

Ultimately, Jeff moved to my table and we hit it off from the moment he sat down. His soft brown eyes invited confidence and his constant stream of jokes kept me giggling, even when I shouldn't have been (which is probably why I liked him so much). As the months progressed, we became best friends hanging out at the movies, picking up pizzas, or just talking on the phone while we watched the same t.v. shows. We learned we shared the same values, the same type of upbringing, the same sense of humor, but we were very different, too. He introduced me to opera and Broadway, while taught him Garth Brooks tunes. He took me out for basic meat and potatoes fare while I grilled shark and created Italian feasts in my apartment. By the time February 15, 1994, rolled around, we were inseparable, yet had only held hands on one occasion. So, when Jeff called me at 8 p.m. on a school night and asked to come over, I thought something terrible had happened. "Who died?" I wondered as I waited for him to make the seemingly eternal 10-minute trek from his place to mine. When I opened the door, he paced inside quickly, looking upset.
"What's wrong?" I asked.
"I think I love you," he said breathlessly.
"Thank God!" were the first words that sprang from my mouth. And the rest, as they say, is history. We hugged, kissed, laughed and cried all at the same time, and he asked me to marry him, to which I promptly replied, "Of course!"

Within a few days we began to plan a wedding, but after thinking about using the money as a down payment on a house, we opted to elope. So, about a month later - on spring break - we exchanged vows in front of a justice of the peace, a cute little bunny rabbit, and the Pacific Ocean while standing on a cliff overlooking Pebble Beach in Carmel, California. The next day we drove up the coast highway to San Francisco where we spent the first of many vacations together exploring the city and reveling in each other's company.

Ever after, we celebrate our own Valentine's Day on February 15 with our own little ritual. Each year, Jeff asks if I would marry him all over again, and each year I say, "Of course!"