In the Headlights

I’ve been out of pocket, as they say, for the past few weeks so haven’t posted in a while. I had a bunch of ideas for today, but then something caught my attention.

            I left my writer’s group meeting Thursday night just before nine o’clock. The ride home would be short. A couple minutes into it I came to a dark stretch. I was lost in thought about the piece I’d read at the meeting, mulling over comments my fellow writers had made.

            Suddenly, and I do mean all of a sudden, a deer stepped into my path. It was a big buck. He was just moseying out into the street, unaware that this could be a perilous situation for him. 

            We hear about this moment. “Don’t swerve,” my husband always says. “Just slam into it.” Yeah, like I’m gonna just slam into a living creature! It sounds like good advice…one doesn’t want to die trying to avoid a deer, but let’s be clear. When a deer steps in front of our car, the last thing most of us are going to do is just keep driving.

            So, I slammed on my brakes, violating every directive my husband has ever given me. When I say I slammed on my brakes, I mean my right foot was to the floor on the brake pedal and my left foot was copycatting there over on the left where there is no pedal. My butt was up off the seat (not sure why, actually, but it was). Everything that had been on any seat in the car was now on the floor. The screech of the tires sounded a´ la cartoonsville. I’m sure I left skid marks and rubber and anything else I could leave.

            The slide between me and the deer probably didn’t take more than a few seconds but it felt much longer. I watched him as the car got closer and closer. He was looking at me and I was fixed on his innocent eyes as I waited to splat him up onto my hood. To my credit, I did NOT swerve, but I wanted to…really bad. In those few seconds, I had a surprising number of thoughts.

            First, I realized what the saying “A Deer in the Headlights” means. I’ve always thought of it as depicting sort of an idiot’s stupor, like “Get off your ass, dumbo, and do something.” As I watched the deer look nonchalantly in my direction, I realized he had no idea what was coming at him behind the two circles of light. He stepped from the side of the road and these two beams caught his attention. He stopped and looked at them, having no reason to know a ton of metal moving at 50 miles an hour was barreling down on him. He just looked up out of curiosity.

            And here I came. Ready to take him out. Only I couldn’t do that. If I killed a deer, I would have nightmares for the rest of my life. So I stood on those brakes and fishtailed all over the street and came up to the inch of impact. Instead of slamming into him, I pushed him a little. Just before we made contact, I saw the realization in his eyes that there might be a threat in all this. He was processing that thought when I hit him. As we collided, he jolted and took off.

            But before he did, I had an instant with him. It was more for me than it was for the buck but, indulging myself, I’ve magnified it into a special interaction that will stay with me forever. I realize the deer is long gone and doesn’t even know I exist, but on another level we will be kindred spirits for a long time.

            So, what have I got to work with when I tell my story? A huge buck in all his grandeur, fresh out of the woods, highlighted in front of me. By now he's become a fifty-pointer...biggest darn antlers ever. He looked in my direction (I’ll tell it that our eyes met and we connected with one another in a very special way). My instinctive slamming on the brakes will convert nicely into some sort of heroic self-sacrifice. I could have killed both of us. This, of course, can be trumped up such that he was on his way out and I gave him mouth-to-mouth on the side of the road.

            More realistically, I am left with my thoughts about a lovely creature that crossed my path in a dangerous way. I was able to avoid harm to each of us but, when it was over, I felt vindicated. Not with regard to the deer, but because I like to be cautious. I consider life’s possible mishaps as something more than what always happens to the other guy. Parents of a murdered child never thought that horrible fate would find their baby. Victims of assault are usually surprised when the assailant jumps at them from the bushes. No one really ever expects a deer to walk in front of their car in the dark of night.

            Any of it can happen to any of us. So, I am reminded of my lifelong philosophy: hope it doesn’t happen, but be ready when it does.

            I am very happy I didn’t hurt the deer, but the experience has given me some things to ponder. Like, when I texted my children that “I hit a deer,” both of them wrote back “Is he OK?” Not the first concern for me. So now I realize I am less important than wildlife to my kids. Good to know. And now that I’ve had the near-death experience, I think about deer more. What do they do all day long? Do they get cold at night? Why are they out walking the streets when they should be tucked in?

            Sadly, I have now become the mother of all deer. It’s going to be a burden; I can tell.  

Subtitle Anyone?

My book is written. I've found an agent. The proposal is in his hands and ready to be shopped to publishers. Yesterday he told me I need a subtitle. In his words, the subtitle “does all the heavy lifting to tell people what the book is about.” It took me a year and a half to come up with the title, and I'm still not sold on it. Now I have until Monday to think of a phrase or sentence or something catchy that will sum up the story. 

I have a few ideas, but short, crisp summary is not my forte. I’m much better at going on forever.  If a subtitle could be a page long, I’d be good to go. Since that’s not what I need, I’m thinking I could use a little input from others who know the story and are less close than I am to the details.

So, I’m putting out an APB. Those of you who are familiar with my book…any ideas on what it sums up to be? The title is Came the Hunter. I need a subtitle to cut through the prose and tell it like it is.

To be clear on what I need, I’ll use John Grisham’s latest book as an example.

It’s titled The Innocent Man. Right beneath the title is a banner that goes across the cover. It says“Murder and Injustice in a Small Town.”  That’s the subtitle. It tells us in a few words what the book is about.

If any of you have an epiphany...something clever that nails the essence of my story, I’ll be checking this blog, my email and my Facebook page for comments and I’d love to hear from you. Thoughts from others might help me shape my own ideas. I promise I’m good for an acknowledgment when the book comes out!

Thanks in advance.

Venturing Out

Our son, Dru, just turned 21 and the family went to New York City to celebrate. Though I lived there for a while in my early twenties, years spent in Virginia have morphed me into someone who looks at Manhattan like it’s a different country, or maybe a different planet. The place is an amazing amalgam of razzle dazzle superimposed upon some very poignant moments in time.

We stayed in a hotel that wanted to charge more as a fee for our dog than most people would expect to pay in total for a night’s stay. And the world of hoity-toity has a few surprises to it. Like, only the front half of the tub shower has a door on it. Not sure why they do it this way, but your naked little tookus has to stand exposed and a lil’ chilly there at the back. And what’s with the sink that looks more like a dish than a place to wash up? It couldn’t be more than two or three inches deep without the first hint of counter or even a lip around it: total splashing, all over everything. You end up soaked from the shirt to the feet and then you almost slip and fall in the pool that’s all over the floor.

Our daughter, Kirstyn, drove in from Boston to meet us. When she called around eleven o’clock Friday evening to say she was pulling up in front of the hotel, I was of course already in my comfies. I’m talkin’ plaid flannel pants, with matching top, and gun boat sized slippers. I guess it was a lapse in judgment but I decided I could sneak down to greet Kirstyn and help her carry things up. The elevator opened onto a lobby filled with the City’s trendiest and most glamorous Out-and-Abouts. It looked like a modeling agency had unleashed its client list on some gala event. These people were decked and coiffed and made-up like it was to be their finest hour. I was ready for bed and they were lined up, willing to wait hours for a chance to go to the hotel’s rooftop deck and drink with others who were willing to do the same thing. Kirstyn took one look at me and all but shoved me into her car to hide me away. “Mom! You’re in your pajamas,” she gasped. I’m sure the walk back through the lobby was painful for her and threatened never to end.

Out exploring the next morning, we moved with the crowds, en masse, from street corner to street corner whenever the zipping cars yielded territory by allowing a two or three foot gap to come about between them. You move quickly in those circumstances. The gap doesn’t last long.

We took the subway downtown. At the entrance, a woman sang opera by herself on the steps. As soon as the doors to the subway car closed, a mariachi band popped out of nowhere and treated us to a lively south of the border set. When they moved on, two guys jumped up and switched on what looked like a BoomBox from yesteryear. They took turns clapping while the other swung from handles, did flips in the air and contorted his body in very impressive fashion. The rest of us could hardly keep our balance while seated and these guys were doing a full acrobatic routine while the train raced down the track at what seemed like the speed of light.

A woman and her three young children sat across from us. The kids were adorable. The mother was frightening. She punched them and snarled into their little faces and spoke through gritted teeth. It was all I could do to mind my own business. Others sat and looked straight ahead, as though it were commonplace to see a mother cower her children in public for unapparent infractions.

We made our way to Battery Park at the southernmost tip of Manhattan. From the subway we walked by Castle Clinton, one of four forts built in the early 1800’s to defend the New York Harbor from invasion by the British. The fort is made of brick. In its day, it was armed with 28 cannons, each one capable of shooting a 32 pound cannonball a distance of 1.5 miles. Imagine such a defense today. Openings for the cannons were placed every few feet. You could almost see the barrels protruding in anticipation of a harbor full of Tall Ships and British soldiers dressed in their white pants, tall black boots, and short jackets crossed with the white stripes from shoulder to shoulder. In those days, life looked much different. There were no paved streets filled with cars just itching to run you over. There was no subway and there were no skyscrapers. It’s hard to picture a New York City of 1812, when Americans were still fending off invasion from our Mother Country.  

We cruised the harbor out to Ellis Island and were humbled by the beauty and impact of the Statue of Liberty. Like many people, I tend to take my citizenship for granted. As we circled this amazing symbol of aspiration, I felt like a tourist. I must have taken fifty pictures, none of which was much different than the one before it. But the aura was so powerful I felt I had to keep memorializing it. Finally, I stopped and just watched in silence as she passed before us. I couldn’t help but think how daunting it must have been for the thousands of immigrants who arrived at our shores in the early days, sick and weak and often alone, a small bag in hand to stand for the entirety of their worldly possessions. They struck out against terrible odds in the hope of finding the freedom and opportunity of a new land that had managed to sparkle with the promise of those things and more. I am mindful of how lucky we are to live in this country, as we listen to so many criticisms and accusations swirl around as part of the Presidential election.

From Battery Park we walked to Ground Zero. Beautiful new towers are in the midst of their construction, but the footprint of that terrible day remains to remind us of what terror looks like up close. I remember the photographs of thick smoke billowing down the street, overtaking people as they ran for their lives. Wherever the ravages of war take up, whatever the particular mechanism of delivery, it is all so horrifying. Trials and tribulations of everyday life in Roanoke, Virginia, or anywhere else, seem so trifling when you stand before a monument to senseless devastation.

At the end of the day, we dined at a restaurant that, from the street, looked like a nice Italian eatery. Once inside, after it was too late to turn and run away, I felt like a peasant who’d wandered outside my element. Elegance oozed from every corner and the wait staff seemed like royalty compared to us. There must have been half a dozen courses, with little gifties from the chef brought out now and again all decorated and sauced up and garnished on the plate. We had so many attendants at the table I couldn’t keep them all straight. There was a Prix Fixe, which is Fench for Incredibly Expensive. When the bill came, I couldn’t bring myself to look at it. I just signed quickly at the bottom and let the kids figure the tip. When that particular credit card statement comes in, I’ll have to have a drink before I open it.

Our last stop of the night was at the Gotham Comedy Club. There was an MC, the most foul-mouthed individual I’ve ever heard. She made us laugh constantly. The warm-up act was also hysterical and, by the time the headliner came out, we were ready to laugh out loud at everything the man had to say. And we did. If John Heffron comes to town, I recommend him as a very funny comic.

On Sunday morning, we ate leftovers in our room and called it brunch, then sang Happy Birthday to Dru around the cake we had made ourselves and brought with us. We were all in our comfies this time. Our dog, Harley, sat among us begging for food as any dog worth his outrageous keep will do. 

We chatted about the weekend. There’d been some decadence, for which we will pay dearly over the next several years at about 18%. We rubbed elbows with a way of life that seems utterly un-doable to me, but which excites and enthralls millions of people. Remnants of history and remnants of tragedy made themselves available so we could travel to different times and unfathomable experiences that put other things in context. Then, full of a mixture of so many thoughts, we laughed our butts off and watched our baby boy do his part by drinking up his two drink minimum. I’d spent his whole life keeping him away from the stuff. That night, I helped him pick out good cocktails and watched him get a buzz on. I’m still a little conflicted about that.

Anyway, a trip to New York City. Very full, and we had a great time.

Voices From Before

Dinner is never as full an experience as it might be for me unless there is some kind of chopping involved. And not just a little chopping. A carrot here or an onion there is just enough to tease—not even worth getting out the cutlery. I need a full medley of veggies, maybe some garlic and herbs and meat to trim. Now that’s some good chopping. There’s always a glass of wine at my side and the ritual takes place at Great Aunt Bertha’s cutting board.

This is not your ordinary cutting board. It’s thick and heavy, almost like a mini butcher’s block. It has little feet and the wood is smooth and beautifully worn from use over the years. When Aunt Bertha died in her nineties many years ago, somehow my brother Rick, who hated vegetables and almost never cooked for himself, got the cutting board. I begged him for it. He wouldn’t budge. I chastised him when I would go to his home and see it sitting in the corner of his kitchen, piled high with junk and covered with dust. One time he actually cut up a tomato or something and called to tell me the board had not been entirely wasted.

Years passed and then our Uncle Bud died at age ninety. Come to find out he had a cutting board just like Aunt Bertha’s. Actually, Bud probably made both of them because they were identical and he was a master carpenter. There was a lottery among relatives and I got Bud’s cutting board. The fine china, the big furniture, the lovely jewelry…they were all great, but for me the cutting board was the prize.

As it turned out, one of our cousins also wanted the cutting board and asked Rick, who was Bud’s executor, if he would negotiate a trade with me. Rick knew the dark secret that lay beneath the grit and grime that had covered over Bertha’s twin to this new coveted heirloom, and he knew the futility of asking me to make the trade. It was a moment of soul searching for Rick, but he steeled himself to the challenge and found the strength to let go of Bertha’s cutting board. He gave it to me so I would give Bud’s to the cousin. After years of therapy and grief counseling, I was finally chopping my meals on Aunt Bertha’s cutting board. It was a long time coming.

The other night, as I sipped and chopped, I wondered why I love the old board so much and realized that, for me, it is a time capsule. The board sat in Bertha’s kitchen amidst everyday living nearly a hundred years ago. Now it sits in my kitchen and laces our lives together.

I wonder what Aunt Bertha and her husband, Uncle Bus, talked about as they made their evening meals. I know they weren’t Googling recipes or texting friends. Their phone wasn’t smart, if they had a phone at all. And, if they needed to pick up a few things for dinner, chances are they walked to the market instead of jumping into one of two or three cars parked in the driveway. We usually think of those times as simpler. As a child, I would hear stories and wish I could go back and live in “the old days.”

 Bertha was my grandmother Gladys’ sister. The two girls had eight other siblings, all of whom lived with their parents in a modest four bedroom house in Melrose, Massachusetts, which is a fifteen minute drive north of Boston. When Gladys eloped with a young Canadian named Lindsey Lantz, Lindsey gained U.S. citizenship and Gladys lost hers. She had to reapply and pass a test before she could belong to her homeland again. That’s how they did things then.

Gladys and Lindsey, or Nanna and Da as we call them, had three children, my mother being the last of them. Da was a carpenter; Nanna kept the home. They had no phone and walked to the drug store downtown if they needed to make a call. I remember hearing stories of how they stood and counted cars on the freight train as it passed before them. And how girls would stand on the side of the frozen pond in winter and wait for boys to skate up and offer their hockey stick as an invitation to go around the pond with them.

On Christmas morning, my mother would wake early, eager to dig into the sock that hung at the foot of her bed. Sitting quietly while her older sister slept next to her, Mom would pull out the candy and gum and homemade treats Santa had left for her, and flow over with excitement for all the lavish goodies. During her teen years, Mom would drive “all the way” into Boston to go to dances. Several couples would pile into a single vehicle because very few young people had access to wheels in those days. Some would ride in the rumble seat. Others sat in laps. They hadn’t yet heard of seat belts.

When Mom married my father, Nanna made the wedding gown and all the bridesmaids’ dresses, as well. The aunts cooked food for the reception, which was in the church hall out back. There was no bar, cash or otherwise. They just drank ginger ale.

As I look around my house today, I see several wingback chairs that came from Nanna’s house, and Bertha’s too. They are my favorite places to sit. When I am wrapped in their comfortable history, I travel back to the old living rooms where my ancestors sat sipping tea, knitting, and talking about politics of the day. I have Nanna’s silverware and some of her china. Paintings she did, or Bertha did, hang on my walls, alongside of photographs taken by Great Uncle Aubrey. Da’s tools are the tools we use, and tables Uncle Bud made give rest to our lamps.

I look ahead to the question of what tomorrow will bring, like anyone. But my life is also rich with tangible reminders of those who worked and laughed and loved and lost long before I was born. In their youth they felt the power of here and now. They, too, looked ahead to the mysteries of days yet to come. But now they are all gone. So quickly it is over.

Years from now my great grandchildren will sit at my kitchen table, chopping vegetables at Aunt Bertha’s cutting board, thinking back to the old days when Grandma Donna was still alive. They will wonder what it was like to live such a primitive life. They'll marvel at how I had to use a typewriter and paper and pencil in school instead of a computer, and how children actually had to learn this thing called cursive writing. It will fascinate them that a truck pulled up to people’s homes each day and delivered envelopes that we used to call mail. Landline telephones with cords attached will be museum relics. If I’m lucky, some artifact of mine will have made its way intact through the generations and will be considered precious. I wonder which thing it will be.

To my way of thinking, people as individuals don’t matter much over time. Collectively, we amount to more, though I’m not entirely sure yet what the greater purpose might be. It seems important that we carry forward old things that will thread the past into the future. And so I cherish Aunt Bertha’s cutting board for the rich memories that are layered into its wood, beneath those of my own that will be layered next for some distant relative of mine to ponder.