Ok. We’re beginning to get the hang of this cruising thing. No epiphanies here, just some simple lessons:
1) We have learned how not to stub our toes (or, alternatively, whack our heads against the closet door) when entering and exiting the one-step up bathroom in the middle of the night.
2) We now understand that as black as it gets in our windowless room, it does not automatically mean that it is 3 a.m. It could just as easily be high noon. So, whenever I wake up I check my watch just to be sure we’re not missing lunch. Our room is not really a badly appointed box; but, it is still a box. And, the insides of boxes are very, very dark.
3) We are learning the food can be quite good here. Last night: melon and prosciutto, lobster and shrimp, and a chocolate ganache. For lunch: shrimp and calamari fritters. Plus, the sushi bar is perfect for those all-important pre-dinner snacks. Gaack! I’m becoming one of those cruise types who eat 24 hours a day. Thank goodness we walk a good bit whether it’s around in dizzying circles on the ship’s roof-top track or on land, as we did today on our hike to Paradise Island.
4) We are finally learning to navigate around the 11 or 12 decks of this boat. The first day was a living, life-sized maze. I mean, really, how do you get from the Fantasia Lounge to the Ecstasy Dining Room?
5) Start drinking at 2 p.m.
6) And, last night, on Valentine’s Day, Lily and I danced at our dinner table (as, I am quick to add, many others did as well) as our hosts broke out in an impossibly atonal version of “Amore.”
Would we do this again? Absolutely not. Even, if it was, in fact, free? Let me put it this way, if I asked you whether you’d enjoy wearing shoes for 4 days that were a size too small -- for free! -- I suspect our answers would be remarkably similar. All I know is that three mornings from now, we will open our eyes and know with absolute certainty that the sun has risen.
Amen.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Open Seas
Like so many people, I love the ocean. This late afternoon we are being treated to a sensation we don’t often feel even though we do live just steps from the beach. Seeking an escape from the shadows of the rear deck, we’ve taken up a perch on the ship’s port side -- where the sun shines warmly and the breeze we felt before has subsided. My feet are up on the railing, my chair tilted back, a tequila and oj inches away. Lily is reading, facing the sun. There is near silence here too, something that has eluded us in the past 4 days. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, beyond these railings. Just ocean and sky. To our right a bit, the lowering sun has turned the sea ablaze, blindingly so. To our left, the ocean is slate blue and so very, very flat. It is as peaceful a moment as one can reasonably expect to enjoy. Other than the muted voices of folks at near-by tables, the only sound is the ocean’s. More particularly, the sound the ocean makes as this large ship cuts through it on its way northwest. The sounds of foam and spray. There is a gorgeous randomness to the wave action out there. Some of it rolls away from us, some toward us. There are intricate patterns in the waves I have never noticed before, almost like a very fine latticework. Is it really possible these waves we are enjoying originated thousands of miles away? Brazil, maybe. West Africa? Who knows? But, I don’t want these moments to go unnoticed. They are just too serene and too beautiful.
Our ship rocks ever so slightly, just enough to remind us we are not on land. No birds, no planes, no other ships. Just us.
I am happy.
Our ship rocks ever so slightly, just enough to remind us we are not on land. No birds, no planes, no other ships. Just us.
I am happy.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Stamped Out
I ever so vaguely recall in my youth a tepid effort by my mother to collect these silly little stamps at the local grocery -- the renowned S&H Green Stamps -- all in the not fully articulated aspiration of getting something for nothing. I mean, in my small and unworldly head at the time, that’s the way it struck me. You buy food, you get stamps, you claim stuff you really don’t need and, most importantly, you feel you’ve bested the system. We had these little books designed to hold these stamps and, despite my own doubts, we would watch their numbers grow with elevated salivation imagining all manner of trophy acquisitions that one could just not live without.
We now flash forward more than a half century and find history biting me in the ass. Why? Because our local Piggly Wiggly announced a campaign to issue “stickers” to one and all in the hopes that one great day we could all enrich ourselves with a potpourri of Cuisinart appliances and cookware. I’m not sure where I went wrong, but I ever so quickly pushed aside my decades-long impression of these kinds of promotions and embraced this one with a vengeance. Here was the deal: for every $10 worth of grocery purchases, you would be issued a sticker that had a picture of the lovable pig himself on it although that was hard to tell since each sticker was no larger than a mosquito bite. When the promotion expired in January, you would check your accumulation and come reap your reward whether that might be a new frying pan, coffee maker, juicer, assorted pots, etc. You decide.
What ensued was madness. First, the stamps were so miniscule, you had to almost place them in a special padlocked container just to get them safely home. Put them in your shopping bag? Forget about it. Put them in your pocket? Gone. I am convinced the good folks at the Pig designed these things to be so small knowing that 40% of them would never make it out of their parking lot. (Speaking of which, when the checkout ladies started spreading the word that alot of customers were losing their stickers while returning to their cars, you could unerringly find an enterprising shopper or two kicking stuff around on the asphalt outside trying to dig up this lost gold.) Second, should you be lucky enough to get the stickers home, you faced the infuriating task of separating them and attempting to enter them in the microchip-sized slots in the flimsy “booklet” provided by the Pig. Stickers would stick to themselves, and it became de rigueur to mumble a fine litany of cuss words when attempting to roughly fit each stamp into its intended miniature slot. Third, irrational reasoning took hold at shopping outings when your shopping list would clearly become second banana -- if I may use that term here -- to sticker acquisition strategies. For example, maybe, just maybe, you feel a rising urge to buy another bottle of olive oil -- just so you don’t run out -- even when there might be some weeks left in the supply you already had. And, thoughts like, “you can never have enough hummus” creep into your head when passing that stuff. Ditto for the Wheat Thins. And, God forbid you should find yourself at check out and find you’re 49 cents short of getting another sticker. Panic sets in while you desperately reach across waiting shoppers in the checkout line behind you so you can stretch to reach the display of breath mints and chewing gum that would enable you to cross the magic line to that next, fabulous sticker. Fourth, whenever the shopper in front of you would decline the stickers he or she had just earned, you find yourself winking at the checkout girl asking if you could take the unclaimed stickers. And, lastly, you start working the neighbors asking them to give you their stickers if they were not otherwise collecting. These are the depths, I tell you.
After all this, the Day of Irony arrives and you have to figure out what you want to claim with your horde of hard earned stickers. Will it be the non-stick pan, the hand blender, the pour saucepan?? It is in that moment that it sinks in. The joy -- if one can call it that -- was all in the chase, not in the acquisition. Did we really need another frying pan? Would we ever use a hand blender? Didn’t I already bemoan the number of pots we owned? But, choices needed to be made, and so choices were made. In a vaguely joyless move, I opt for a 2 quart pour saucepan and the juicer. The game is over. I can breathe again.
Lemonade anyone?
We now flash forward more than a half century and find history biting me in the ass. Why? Because our local Piggly Wiggly announced a campaign to issue “stickers” to one and all in the hopes that one great day we could all enrich ourselves with a potpourri of Cuisinart appliances and cookware. I’m not sure where I went wrong, but I ever so quickly pushed aside my decades-long impression of these kinds of promotions and embraced this one with a vengeance. Here was the deal: for every $10 worth of grocery purchases, you would be issued a sticker that had a picture of the lovable pig himself on it although that was hard to tell since each sticker was no larger than a mosquito bite. When the promotion expired in January, you would check your accumulation and come reap your reward whether that might be a new frying pan, coffee maker, juicer, assorted pots, etc. You decide.
What ensued was madness. First, the stamps were so miniscule, you had to almost place them in a special padlocked container just to get them safely home. Put them in your shopping bag? Forget about it. Put them in your pocket? Gone. I am convinced the good folks at the Pig designed these things to be so small knowing that 40% of them would never make it out of their parking lot. (Speaking of which, when the checkout ladies started spreading the word that alot of customers were losing their stickers while returning to their cars, you could unerringly find an enterprising shopper or two kicking stuff around on the asphalt outside trying to dig up this lost gold.) Second, should you be lucky enough to get the stickers home, you faced the infuriating task of separating them and attempting to enter them in the microchip-sized slots in the flimsy “booklet” provided by the Pig. Stickers would stick to themselves, and it became de rigueur to mumble a fine litany of cuss words when attempting to roughly fit each stamp into its intended miniature slot. Third, irrational reasoning took hold at shopping outings when your shopping list would clearly become second banana -- if I may use that term here -- to sticker acquisition strategies. For example, maybe, just maybe, you feel a rising urge to buy another bottle of olive oil -- just so you don’t run out -- even when there might be some weeks left in the supply you already had. And, thoughts like, “you can never have enough hummus” creep into your head when passing that stuff. Ditto for the Wheat Thins. And, God forbid you should find yourself at check out and find you’re 49 cents short of getting another sticker. Panic sets in while you desperately reach across waiting shoppers in the checkout line behind you so you can stretch to reach the display of breath mints and chewing gum that would enable you to cross the magic line to that next, fabulous sticker. Fourth, whenever the shopper in front of you would decline the stickers he or she had just earned, you find yourself winking at the checkout girl asking if you could take the unclaimed stickers. And, lastly, you start working the neighbors asking them to give you their stickers if they were not otherwise collecting. These are the depths, I tell you.
After all this, the Day of Irony arrives and you have to figure out what you want to claim with your horde of hard earned stickers. Will it be the non-stick pan, the hand blender, the pour saucepan?? It is in that moment that it sinks in. The joy -- if one can call it that -- was all in the chase, not in the acquisition. Did we really need another frying pan? Would we ever use a hand blender? Didn’t I already bemoan the number of pots we owned? But, choices needed to be made, and so choices were made. In a vaguely joyless move, I opt for a 2 quart pour saucepan and the juicer. The game is over. I can breathe again.
Lemonade anyone?
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Fleeting Images
I saw someone yesterday I hadn’t seen in a long time. It was me. A few fleeting images from an old video confirming that it’s true I was once a teenager. I was at a wedding reception for my cousin, Bob, and, while I can’t be certain of the date, I surmised I was about 15 or 16. My hair was dark; I was clean shaven; and I was wearing what was for that time in my life my trademark goofy black eyeglasses that looked more suited to Mr. Magoo than a wannabe man about town. I was not alone there. My sister, Susan, was seated at the other side of the large round table looking suave and sophisticated for someone about to leave her teen years behind. And, my parents were there. They weren’t on screen for more than a minute, but even in just that short span it was electric to me. It sounds so silly and old school, but seeing them “live” and not just as a still image staring back at me from within a picture frame was transfixing. My folks have been gone for decades and so seeing their moving images, even the slightest of quirks or facial expressions or arm movements took on for me a far greater significance than they were owed. My father was the debonair guy I remembered, looking dapper in his dark suit, leaning over and sharing some secret with my mom. She played to the camera with a smile worthy of an old-time movie queen. They would not have been out of place in Monte Carlo.
To a lesser degree, I reacted the same way to seeing myself, simultaneously a total stranger and yet one and the same as the older and grayer guy glued to the TV screen taking it all in more than a generation later. Who was this guy? Could I have really been that shamelessly goofy? Was I really so awkward, so gawky? When I was 15 could I possibly have projected ahead and seen what I might be like some day? Could I do the reverse, and close my eyes in an effort to put myself back into the psyche of that strange looking teenager? I know that the young Jeff was incapable of such forward leaning thought, and I know as well that the far older Jeff has left his predecessor too far behind in too many ways to attempt a similar time-tilting somersault.
Those images, as fleeting as they were, stayed with me when I went to sleep last night. They played over and over in my head. I realized that my reaction is a reflection of the time I have been here on planet earth. In today’s world, video is so ubiquitous, so accessible, so taken for granted, that young kids will always have their younger selves as company as they grow old. That mystery and excitement I felt in those all too fleeting moments will be lost to them. I don’t know that I am jealous of them or that I feel some pity for their loss of amazement and joy that surely accompanies the finding of something lost and then found.
To a lesser degree, I reacted the same way to seeing myself, simultaneously a total stranger and yet one and the same as the older and grayer guy glued to the TV screen taking it all in more than a generation later. Who was this guy? Could I have really been that shamelessly goofy? Was I really so awkward, so gawky? When I was 15 could I possibly have projected ahead and seen what I might be like some day? Could I do the reverse, and close my eyes in an effort to put myself back into the psyche of that strange looking teenager? I know that the young Jeff was incapable of such forward leaning thought, and I know as well that the far older Jeff has left his predecessor too far behind in too many ways to attempt a similar time-tilting somersault.
Those images, as fleeting as they were, stayed with me when I went to sleep last night. They played over and over in my head. I realized that my reaction is a reflection of the time I have been here on planet earth. In today’s world, video is so ubiquitous, so accessible, so taken for granted, that young kids will always have their younger selves as company as they grow old. That mystery and excitement I felt in those all too fleeting moments will be lost to them. I don’t know that I am jealous of them or that I feel some pity for their loss of amazement and joy that surely accompanies the finding of something lost and then found.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
The Coach
He walked among his players before the game. Words of encouragement. Last minute reminders. Against a backdrop of gangly 15 year olds, he stood out in his nifty new black suit and yellow tie. But, the professional look this attire offered provided no disguise for the nervous energy Coach G was exuding. He was clearly anxious; distracted. After a rousing victory in its debut performance, the San Pasqual Eagles freshman team had lost three straight. Despite endless repetition to hone offensive and defensive schemes, Alex’s players still seemed to favor mayhem, chaos, and other forms of disorganization to the neater disciplines that might characterize older teams. But, over the winter break, Alex worked daily with the boys to create some muscle memory in his schemes in the hopes of creating a semblance of order out of the chaos.
From the opening tip, there was little chance this coach would sit for more than a few rare seconds at a time. Too much adrenaline, too much emotional commitment to the task at hand. Pacing, screaming, gesturing; arms folded, arms pumping, arms outstretched, arms on hips. Alternately begging, beseeching, cheeleading, threatening his players -- it had to be exhausting. As the game progressed, I saw something that surprised me. The kids looked poised, not frantic. You could see their purposeful efforts at running the plays as coached. It didn’t always succeed, of course, but the coherent pattern to their play was unmistakable. Picks were set; kids were cutting to the basket looking for easy shots; there was movement away from the ball. The press was executed in a way that would lead to the easy baskets the coach had predicted. There was no coincidence in this. The coach allowed himself the occasional smile. During time outs, the coach was encircled by his team, and he spoke encouragingly. He casually draped his arm around the kids whose normal fate is to sit glumly at the end of the bench with little hope of playing time. Inclusion, I thought. Nice touch.
As his team’s lead increased in the second half from 10 to 15 to 20 points, the coach relaxed. His urgings diminished. He got acquainted with his chair. He cleared the bench. Victory was at hand. The final? The Eagles 48, the San Diego High School Cavers 26. A rout.
When Alex joined us in the sparsely populated bleachers after the game, he was smiling beatifically. He was calm and in the mood for assessing where he and his team was. He spoke of what he sees as the triple demands of his job: managing egos, keeping kids motivated, and getting them to play together. He spoke at length and with feeling since these were things he had clearly given much thought to. And, how sweet to see all these challenges overcome all at one time and with his parents in the stands watching closely.
Where did this wisdom come from in this 24 year old? How did he get from “there” to “here”? Why is it that parents are so often taken by surprise by the progress of their kids? Maybe, I thought, when they don’t live next door anymore, the progressions are all the more dramatic and more pronounced because you don’t see the day to day growth they experience. It is incredibly uplifting to watch.
The evening for us was alternately thrilling, amusing and always endearing. We were not the only ones who were pleased. The Eagles’ varsity coach came over to Alex after the game, congratulating him. “This was all you,” he said.
High praise, indeed.
From the opening tip, there was little chance this coach would sit for more than a few rare seconds at a time. Too much adrenaline, too much emotional commitment to the task at hand. Pacing, screaming, gesturing; arms folded, arms pumping, arms outstretched, arms on hips. Alternately begging, beseeching, cheeleading, threatening his players -- it had to be exhausting. As the game progressed, I saw something that surprised me. The kids looked poised, not frantic. You could see their purposeful efforts at running the plays as coached. It didn’t always succeed, of course, but the coherent pattern to their play was unmistakable. Picks were set; kids were cutting to the basket looking for easy shots; there was movement away from the ball. The press was executed in a way that would lead to the easy baskets the coach had predicted. There was no coincidence in this. The coach allowed himself the occasional smile. During time outs, the coach was encircled by his team, and he spoke encouragingly. He casually draped his arm around the kids whose normal fate is to sit glumly at the end of the bench with little hope of playing time. Inclusion, I thought. Nice touch.
As his team’s lead increased in the second half from 10 to 15 to 20 points, the coach relaxed. His urgings diminished. He got acquainted with his chair. He cleared the bench. Victory was at hand. The final? The Eagles 48, the San Diego High School Cavers 26. A rout.
When Alex joined us in the sparsely populated bleachers after the game, he was smiling beatifically. He was calm and in the mood for assessing where he and his team was. He spoke of what he sees as the triple demands of his job: managing egos, keeping kids motivated, and getting them to play together. He spoke at length and with feeling since these were things he had clearly given much thought to. And, how sweet to see all these challenges overcome all at one time and with his parents in the stands watching closely.
Where did this wisdom come from in this 24 year old? How did he get from “there” to “here”? Why is it that parents are so often taken by surprise by the progress of their kids? Maybe, I thought, when they don’t live next door anymore, the progressions are all the more dramatic and more pronounced because you don’t see the day to day growth they experience. It is incredibly uplifting to watch.
The evening for us was alternately thrilling, amusing and always endearing. We were not the only ones who were pleased. The Eagles’ varsity coach came over to Alex after the game, congratulating him. “This was all you,” he said.
High praise, indeed.
Monday, December 20, 2010
A Winter's Morning
It was 26 this morning; no doubt colder with the wind chill. Another day in the “mild winter” world of Charleston. As usual, Mojo came over for a “visit” to my side of the bed about 7:45 -- you can count on it -- and it doesn’t take a psychic to know what was on his mind. With his head resting on the bed and those soft brown eyes forlornly looking up at me, he was wondering if this, at last, might be a beach day. Lately, it’s been so damn cold in the morning that going to the beach with him just wasn’t an option I was so terribly interested in. I mean, who wants to subject themselves to wind chills of 13 degrees on a windswept terrain that is disturbingly lunar in its personality, devoid of life but for the occasional passing pelican? But, this morning I reacted differently. Mojo is headed for knee surgery in two weeks, his second in 9 months. For three months following that, there will be no beach time for him at all. Just house arrest and rehab. How could I say no?
I bundled myself up in more layers than the best lasagna; a veritable Pillsbury dough boy was I. Or, maybe the Michelin Man. I thought it would take a crane to get my coat over the last of my fleeces, but I managed to waddle to the door like a sumo wrestler and took a wagging Mojo with me. He was naked, naturally. And, very excited.
Pulling me as if we were about to be overtaken by a maniac bear, Mojo and I reached the beach in near record time. As is our ritual, he sat patiently while I got his leash unhooked and then waited for me to give him two pats on his side whereupon he launches like a rocket. Eat my dust. As I walked on to the sand, I immediately noticed that the sand was frozen! As crunchy underfoot as a graham cracker crust. The sun was bright, if not warm, and the wind blew the few errant particles of sand like whirling dervishes across the desert. Seeing that I was the only game in town, Mojo returned halfway from the water’s edge to urge me to get on with the business at hand: the flinging of tennis balls far out into the ocean.
Some would consider this tantamount to animal cruelty notwithstanding the (somewhat) warmer temperatures of the ocean water than the ambient air. But, this was not about human activity; it’s all canine. As my brother-in-law-Jim would tell me later, think of Mojo’s coat as a built-in down-filled parka. Warmth is not so much an issue. Except to the canine’s shivering owner. And so our little dance proceeded. I would launch a ball as far out as I could into the icy waters and Mojo would leap over and through waves to track it down. He returns, drops the ball near my feet, shakes off the excess ocean, and expectantly waits the next throw. Throw after throw, throw after throw. Spring, summer, winter -- this exercise knows no season. I stand at the water’s edge my toes secure in the L.L. Bean waterproof boots that I simply never thought would see the light of day once we moved down here. But, here we are and Mojo’s ceaselessly wagging tail tells me I’ve done good here.
As is his fancy, Mojo will approach anything with a pulse, no matter how far he has to roam, if only to drop the ball at their feet in the hopes -- indeed, with the full expectation -- that his new playmate will pick up the nasty, slobbered-upon orb and toss it into the ocean, where it belongs. This morning was no exception. In the distance, a solitary figure approached so hooded and wrapped it was impossible to determine age, sex or anything else other than there were two arms and two legs belonging to this person. As advertised, Mojo ran to him/her looking much like the deranged epicenter of crazed play that he is, and dropped the ball at the person’s feet. Getting the idea, the person tossed the ball into the ocean and repeated and repeated as the two of them worked their way up the beach. As the figure approached, it became clear it was an older guy. I apologized and said what I often do which is that the lucky devil is now Mojo’s new best friend. He smiled and said, “That dog is just full of life, isn’t he?”
Tough to argue with that.
I bundled myself up in more layers than the best lasagna; a veritable Pillsbury dough boy was I. Or, maybe the Michelin Man. I thought it would take a crane to get my coat over the last of my fleeces, but I managed to waddle to the door like a sumo wrestler and took a wagging Mojo with me. He was naked, naturally. And, very excited.
Pulling me as if we were about to be overtaken by a maniac bear, Mojo and I reached the beach in near record time. As is our ritual, he sat patiently while I got his leash unhooked and then waited for me to give him two pats on his side whereupon he launches like a rocket. Eat my dust. As I walked on to the sand, I immediately noticed that the sand was frozen! As crunchy underfoot as a graham cracker crust. The sun was bright, if not warm, and the wind blew the few errant particles of sand like whirling dervishes across the desert. Seeing that I was the only game in town, Mojo returned halfway from the water’s edge to urge me to get on with the business at hand: the flinging of tennis balls far out into the ocean.
Some would consider this tantamount to animal cruelty notwithstanding the (somewhat) warmer temperatures of the ocean water than the ambient air. But, this was not about human activity; it’s all canine. As my brother-in-law-Jim would tell me later, think of Mojo’s coat as a built-in down-filled parka. Warmth is not so much an issue. Except to the canine’s shivering owner. And so our little dance proceeded. I would launch a ball as far out as I could into the icy waters and Mojo would leap over and through waves to track it down. He returns, drops the ball near my feet, shakes off the excess ocean, and expectantly waits the next throw. Throw after throw, throw after throw. Spring, summer, winter -- this exercise knows no season. I stand at the water’s edge my toes secure in the L.L. Bean waterproof boots that I simply never thought would see the light of day once we moved down here. But, here we are and Mojo’s ceaselessly wagging tail tells me I’ve done good here.
As is his fancy, Mojo will approach anything with a pulse, no matter how far he has to roam, if only to drop the ball at their feet in the hopes -- indeed, with the full expectation -- that his new playmate will pick up the nasty, slobbered-upon orb and toss it into the ocean, where it belongs. This morning was no exception. In the distance, a solitary figure approached so hooded and wrapped it was impossible to determine age, sex or anything else other than there were two arms and two legs belonging to this person. As advertised, Mojo ran to him/her looking much like the deranged epicenter of crazed play that he is, and dropped the ball at the person’s feet. Getting the idea, the person tossed the ball into the ocean and repeated and repeated as the two of them worked their way up the beach. As the figure approached, it became clear it was an older guy. I apologized and said what I often do which is that the lucky devil is now Mojo’s new best friend. He smiled and said, “That dog is just full of life, isn’t he?”
Tough to argue with that.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Reminiscing
Why is it we really get into reminiscing just when we don’t have the mental capacity to do that successfully? I know, I know -- when you’re young, and have wonderful mental acuity, you don’t look backward; there’s too much that lays ahead to ponder what was. And, when you’re young, the next step is always so cool and to be envied that you don’t want to waste a moment on some lame memory that happened when you were, let’s say, a toddler. If you’re 8, you want to be 10. Ahh, double digits! When you’re 10, you crave 13. To be a teenager at last! When you’re 14, you can’t sit still until you’re 16 so you can drive. Freedom! And, when you’re 19, you ache for 21 so the whole deal can be legal and you can be treated as a full-scale, honest-to-God adult, just like your parents and teachers. Everything is forward looking.
But, when you get into your 50s or 60s, I guess your head is so crammed with memories, you just have to have an outlet for them before our heads explode from over-capacity. And so we reminisce. Or, at least we attempt to. This past weekend, our good friends Randy and Cathy came for a visit. Our relationship goes back decades, and for Lily, back to college days. We were married within a year of each other, shared summer beach houses for years, raised each other’s kids, skied together, traveled together, partied together. You get the picture: we share a lot of history.
So, there we were, sitting around the dinner table the other night calling up days of yore, drinking way too much wine. We were trying to recall a charades game we all enjoyed, played some time in the last millennium. Ancient history to all but those steeped in Greek history. It was a contest between the girls and the guys, or, as we entitled them, the Powder Puffs and the Bulls. No stereotyping back in those days, oh no. What we couldn’t get straight -- in 2010 -- was exactly who was there. Was Syl there? Randy thought so. Was Maggie there? She had to be, right (even if her name back then was Marge)? Did the Powder Puffs prevail? None of these matters could be resolved. In a desperate effort at resolving the vagaries of history, Lily reached through the cobwebs of her distant past and went to what had to be an unassailable source: some old poetry she had written commemorating the famed pantomime event. I mean, what better documentation of history than old poetry. So what if it wasn’t Homer, Sappho, or Aeschylus. Sadly, all we got from that effort was that there was apparently some guy named Allen at that charades event, and none of us could even remotely think who that might be. I called Maggie, one of the most intelligent people we know on planet earth, and all she had to say was “what charades party?“ Not helpful, but why should she be any different? We thought she was a participant that long ago night, but our memories are -- how you say -- not to be trusted.
And, so the evening wore on. We tried to reconstruct which beach houses we rented in chronological order. Consensus was as ascertainable as an elusive ghost on some far away mountain. Our minds were mush, and while some of that could no doubt be attributed to the wine, equal parts of the blame rested with our over-used and way too cluttered heads. I guess this is why history is written and why extemporaneous accounts are so valued. As the event, whatever it is, vanishes in the rear view mirror, so does our ability to re-create what happened. Is it fun to try to reconstruct personal history? Absolutely. Is it productive? Not a chance in hell.
And, why should we expect it to be any other way? We can’t remember what we had for lunch just yesterday. Nor can we recall who that actor was in that movie (whose title is also a bit too elusive at this particular moment). You know the one. It's on the tip of my tongue! It took place in Vienna. Or was it Rome? And, the star went on to play a major role in that spy movie. You know, the really popular one that led to a TV series that starred the guy who used to be bit player in that old James Garner flick. And, on and on it goes.
It’s all there. In our minds. Somewhere. Probably not far from where we left the car keys or glasses, wherever that might be.
But, when you get into your 50s or 60s, I guess your head is so crammed with memories, you just have to have an outlet for them before our heads explode from over-capacity. And so we reminisce. Or, at least we attempt to. This past weekend, our good friends Randy and Cathy came for a visit. Our relationship goes back decades, and for Lily, back to college days. We were married within a year of each other, shared summer beach houses for years, raised each other’s kids, skied together, traveled together, partied together. You get the picture: we share a lot of history.
So, there we were, sitting around the dinner table the other night calling up days of yore, drinking way too much wine. We were trying to recall a charades game we all enjoyed, played some time in the last millennium. Ancient history to all but those steeped in Greek history. It was a contest between the girls and the guys, or, as we entitled them, the Powder Puffs and the Bulls. No stereotyping back in those days, oh no. What we couldn’t get straight -- in 2010 -- was exactly who was there. Was Syl there? Randy thought so. Was Maggie there? She had to be, right (even if her name back then was Marge)? Did the Powder Puffs prevail? None of these matters could be resolved. In a desperate effort at resolving the vagaries of history, Lily reached through the cobwebs of her distant past and went to what had to be an unassailable source: some old poetry she had written commemorating the famed pantomime event. I mean, what better documentation of history than old poetry. So what if it wasn’t Homer, Sappho, or Aeschylus. Sadly, all we got from that effort was that there was apparently some guy named Allen at that charades event, and none of us could even remotely think who that might be. I called Maggie, one of the most intelligent people we know on planet earth, and all she had to say was “what charades party?“ Not helpful, but why should she be any different? We thought she was a participant that long ago night, but our memories are -- how you say -- not to be trusted.
And, so the evening wore on. We tried to reconstruct which beach houses we rented in chronological order. Consensus was as ascertainable as an elusive ghost on some far away mountain. Our minds were mush, and while some of that could no doubt be attributed to the wine, equal parts of the blame rested with our over-used and way too cluttered heads. I guess this is why history is written and why extemporaneous accounts are so valued. As the event, whatever it is, vanishes in the rear view mirror, so does our ability to re-create what happened. Is it fun to try to reconstruct personal history? Absolutely. Is it productive? Not a chance in hell.
And, why should we expect it to be any other way? We can’t remember what we had for lunch just yesterday. Nor can we recall who that actor was in that movie (whose title is also a bit too elusive at this particular moment). You know the one. It's on the tip of my tongue! It took place in Vienna. Or was it Rome? And, the star went on to play a major role in that spy movie. You know, the really popular one that led to a TV series that starred the guy who used to be bit player in that old James Garner flick. And, on and on it goes.
It’s all there. In our minds. Somewhere. Probably not far from where we left the car keys or glasses, wherever that might be.
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