A Short Lifetime Spent Trying to be a Good Boy

My brother and I were adopted at birth from different mothers. I’m sure we both had opportunities being raised by our adoptive parents that we never would have had with our biological ones, although neither of us would ever know anything other than what we were told about our birth parents to be sure.

Our parents were decent, moral, upstanding people. But they were obsessed with appearances, which made my brother a bigger problem for them than he might have been for other parents. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t be what they expected. This would result in life-altering disappointment for both sides.

I distinctly remember my mother telling me I was adopted around age 6, but I don’t remember when Pat was told. I really didn’t see him enough to have conversations like that. Initially, he was always so busy. He was a hyperactive child, put on Ritalin before he ever made it to first grade. I’m sure it was intended to calm him down for public appearances, but it never worked. Eventually, we just grew up in different places.

My first and faintest memory of my brother is of him pedaling a little yellow and blue plastic scooter down the long hall of our first house in Memphis, Tennessee. Almost daily, he would wait for me to toddle innocently out of my room at one end, and as soon as he saw me, start pedaling from the other end, picking up considerable momentum (it was a long hall and I wasn’t that fast) before hitting me and knocking me down - HARD. As soon as I started to cry, he started to laugh. I also remember my mother reacting when she came to assess the damage:

“Why, Pat, why? Why can’t you be a good boy?”

I can’t count how many times I would hear this over the coming years. I don’t know if I ever learned to look first, but, more than likely, he quickly got bored and moved on to something else before I had time to figure out a workable solution. My mother, already tired at this point, decided to just wait and pick up the inevitable pieces rather than try to predict her son’s behavior.

Pat’s first grade teacher at Sea Isle Elementary School showed real concern for his ability to control himself. At first, she felt sorry for him because he was such a sweet, thoughtful boy. She thought he just needed special attention, but when that ended up with him craving even more and more attention from her, anything good about him soon faded in comparison to his unforgivable behavior. He refused to stay in his seat, wreaking havoc on the classroom and the other kids. He would throw crayons, pencils, books, erasers, anything he could get his hands on. He would use markers to draw on the windows. Lunch and recess were constant struggles. He’d be banished to the outskirts or the teacher’s table or the bench or the sidelines for this reason or that, and even under watchful eyes, he would still seem to slip just out of reach and misbehave.

She also often asked him, “Can’t you just be a good boy and behave like the other children?” But he never had an answer. Nobody knew yet that he didn’t understand the question.

Sort of Just Talking to Myself

When I look back over 2008 someday, I have a feeling I’m going to remember July as the best month of the year. All my star readings said that the month would be filled with significant changes and synchronicities and all things outrageous, and were they right. So what if that astrological woman on CNN got blindsided by the earthquake. I believe. I believe!! 

People agreed with me in public and I had a few meals with friends and I found out some new things about said friends and a self-appointed and inept Chair I know stepped down and I think I have a year-long plan and goal and I got a good haircut and an even better (looking) handyman and I read and I wrote and I said a prayer for the IRS and the Internets and email and I laughed and I was surprised and I helped Sabrina find her froggie (three times) and I remembered an old friend fondly and realized I miss her and I posted to a new blog and I talked with “my” coach and I got to watch while my son spent his own money and I felt thought of and loved and appreciated and lucky. 

Well, except for a run-in with some stinky shoes I bought at JCPenney for $5.34 after a $15 coupon. What’s the world coming to when you can’t buy a pair of non-smelly shoes for $19.99? What’s next? $4 gas, $9 printer paper (yes! at CVS just this morning!)?

Have you ever smelled your hands after putting down a new rug? Sometimes, there’s a chemical smell that requires a shower to get rid of. Same with these shoes. Real problem is that today is my third time wearing them. I figure if you’re close enough to me to smell my shoes, then you’re too close, period, and you deserve what you get. There’s IM and email after all, there’s no need for all that face-to-face stuff. 

What I mean to say is that I can even live with my stinky shoes. (If I’m honest, though, the ride home in my non-air-conditioned (broke a couple weeks back and every time I think about paying the $500 to fix it, I get the feeling that the whole car is going to die the next day and I decide to live with it) car gets a little funky if I don’t take them off and put them in the back seat where they can get enough air flow to flow out the back window.) 

And right when I thought the month couldn’t get any better, yesterday I found a contest announcement by the Hillary Clinton campaign.  It takes a lot to make this ol’ gal giddy, but this did it. 

“Ordinary” people can donate from $10 to $2,300 for a chance to win a dinner with her. Proceeds of the raffle, of course, go towards paying her $25 million debt. I’m confused by the amount – it was $25 million a few months ago – how could it still be $25 million? Is it that whole vicious cycle of making minimum payments on a credit card? 

The rules and restrictions say “Contest limited to legal residents of the U.S. who are at least 18 years of age and who support Hillary Clinton.” Her team felt it needed to put in a disclaimer that you can’t be a hater? I guess it really does take a village.

A Clinton begging for money always makes me happy, but this. This was truly a gift from the Universe, tied up in a bow especially for me. 

Ah -- at the risk of some Christian calling me a Christian -- God is good.

Scavengers

A funny (well, it’s really not so funny) link a dear friend sent me this week: http://aclu.org/pizza/images/screen.swf

I recently participated in an Untours scavenger hunt. The contest was pretty easy – just find things around their Website and submit via email for a chance at the prize of $200 off a future trip.

I, along with some others, won the prize. I’m grateful and all, but unfortunately, that $200 doesn’t put a dent in the inflated prices they charge single travelers (this practice is rampant and hasn’t caught up with the demographic shift of the entire world yet – why should it, after all, when it can make a fortune off of us).

They suggest we singles hook up in the Café and travel together, allowing us to take advantage of the “normal” prices.

Good lord. <shivering> I’d sooner travel with a spider monkey than a complete stranger.

So, hold on, the World's Greatest Railway. Save me a spot in decade number two. I’ll be there.

Age and Inventory

Every year on my birthday, I read my annual “Today’s Birthday” horoscope message. It predicts how the next year will be. I don’t know that it’s ever been that accurate, but I still do it every year. This year, I found some site that told me about who I am because of my July 17th birth date. Apparently, I should embrace individuality, social skills, and a happy disposition and avoid procrastination, judging others, and self-righteousness. I think I’m okay on the embracing part, but the things to avoid? Now I find this? A cruel, cruel joke. I think I’ll just put off thinking about all that. Oh, must go anyway, there’s someone to judge.

My last experience with a writing class was a bust. I hated the authors that the professor held up as the bar and in the second class, the prof told us that success in writing was “all bullshit”. He meant that writing is one thing, but being successful entirely another dependent upon someone else’s workload and mood. I get that. I didn’t need some guy who also used the F-word like I used to eat M&Ms to tell me that. I went back, but just once. (Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of the properly placed F-word, but its ability to make a person appear different or bohemian has long passed.)

But I still love the feeling I get when I read about writing classes. Ami McKay, who wrote The Birth House, a good book full of detail I recently read, passed along something called The Ellie Poem. Supposedly, writing teachers use it as an exercise in class a lot. It is an inventory of self. I thought it was a neat thing and did one for myself. I am posting it here because it’s my birthday. So there. Me, me, me. Hopefully, I’ll get to do another one in 2028 and see if my inventory has moved.

How does it feel to be my age? This week, I've found myself humming the tune in the Activia commercials. And I seem to be the only one who actually drives the worker-zone speed limit. In the far right lane. Like the old woman I am. 

Missing Atlanta. Not.

Why is it that I can always spot Atlanta folks on House Hunters? They don't even have to speak and I know. I'm never wrong either. It's a gift, I guess. Or better yet, confirmation that I did the right thing.

Last night, the Atlanta couple walked through the door of a Fayetteville (seriously?) home.

The wife, walking into the foyer, said, “Oh, this is nice and light.”

Then the husband said, “Yes, I like it. It’s very eloquent.”

Ah, Atlanta. I miss you so.

Lines form on my face and hands*

18. Eight. Teen. The birthday sheet cake from Kroger paled in comparison to the homemade German chocolate cake made by Katie’s father. And you can’t unwrap a forgiven debt.

Of course he had to go as soon as I got home. He took the sheet cake and went to a friend’s house for a birthday spend-the-night bonfire and weenie roast. The cake came back home the next day with only ‘Happ’ visible.

We did have a lovely dinner at St. Elmo’s Steakhouse, though. It was the most we’ve talked in the past month.

He went to IU orientation and registered for classes. I didn’t want to go play the advertised parent-camp games, and he said it didn’t matter if I went, so I didn’t. But when he ran into some people we know who asked where I was, he told them that I told him he needed to go by himself. As if.

The biggest stress of financial paperwork: “I certify that I am registered with the Selective Service.” Penalty is prosecution and up to a $250,000 fine. I never thought I’d have to worry about this, but, I do, certainly now with this country’s collective karma upon us.

On to July, when I too will age another year, but, of course, oh, so gracefully.

*Alice Cooper lyric. Son's first concert. Whaddaya gonna do?

Offer to Pay Your Wasatch Academy 'Out and Beyond' Colorado Trip Cancellation Fee

Holy Crap, he’s at it again.

Wasatch Academy leaders know that their employee’s actions killed two kids while employed at Darlington School in Rome, Georgia, yet they have allowed Steve Hall to start a program at their school called "Out and Beyond" and schedule a trip involving water for August 9th. ***UPDATE: The link was removed from the school Website on July 23, 2008, but a PDF of the trip announcement is here and a PDF of their front page with the audacious link is here. I'd like to believe the trip has been cancelled, but that would indicate signs of a conscience I'm not sure exists.*** Even Darlington, albeit after much pressure, made Hall cease and desist. It couldn’t be clearer deja-vu.

Hall’s an egomaniac – I understand how he dares to repeat himself – after all, he never took the slightest of breaks in planning or conducting trips for kids since 2005 (can you imagine?), was at a Darlington soccer game laughing it up four days after the boys’ bodies were found (can you imagine?), and has the thoughtfulness to announce his first official "Out and Beyond" outing the same month that Clay and Sean would have graduated high school. There are devils amongst us, I know. But the school.

What's their reasoning? I have to hope that they have numerous other, and more rational, leaders on this trip, and Hall won't be in charge of anything. He's listed as the main contact, but maybe he's just the organizer - the paperwork pusher - and not going on the trip at all. Unfortunately, the over-the-top trip description screams Hall.

Like it says: Call 435/462-1420 or e-mail steve.hall@wacad.org to ask questions. I’d be willing to bet that, if asked, he would have trouble remembering February 2005 or Clay and Sean at all. I'd suggest that you contact Joe Loftin, the Headmaster, at josephlo@wacad.org or a Board Member. I did, but it now looks like I got nowhere. I'm just one stranger in Indiana, after all, but I would imagine a parent's questions might be better received.

We learned too late from the Darlington experience that the only answers are communication among the parents and their questions and demands of school leaders. Unfortunately, this is the rub. Parents sending their children to private schools are understandably more likely to assume the school their child attends would only employ the cream of the crop.

So, I pray. And hope that a few diligent Wasatch parents research the trip leaders and make their own educated decisions.

And for these diligent ones who find this post, I also offer this: If you have already signed up for this trip and decide not to send your child, email me and I’ll pay your cancellation and non-refundable fees. Send me your proof of cancellation and notification to the school of the reason for your cancellation, and I’ll send you the money you paid.

Apparently, the balance is due today and you can be refunded up to 21 days prior to August 9th.

Until then, I pray that all 10 kids’ parents contact me. After August 9th, I can only watch and pray from a distance, which is what I will do, as long as Steve Hall is allowed to be in the wilderness with other people's children.

I Do Feel Guilty For Feeling This Way

I know I’m depressed when I start googling people who aren’t in my life anymore. Nobody in my past life spent as much time at a computer as I still do, so I rarely find much of anything. It’s not a hopeful exercise. Or not hopeful in a positive way anyway. I’ve also run across too many men on their best behavior, which has always unnerved me. My weekly predictions all agreed that I would hear from someone I haven’t heard from in a long time, but that didn’t happen. So I know I shouldn’t believe them when they say that I just entered my birthday month and crazy-good things are going to fall from the sky.

“You may be feeling the empty nest thing, but I’m not.”

I did make an attempt to enjoy a weekend errand by deciding to make my trip to the store early Sunday morning. I actually almost looked forward to it, thinking it would be peaceful and, it being so early, the workers would be friendlier. I wasn’t there five minutes when I heard her talking in her outside voice on her cell phone. Apparently, they were agreeing that a mutual friend was crazy and that neither wanted to attend said friend’s daughter’s birthday party at the end of the month (an obvious emergency conversation that must be had at 7am on a Sunday morning.) I was in produce. She had to have been in the cereal aisle at the very least, but I heard every word. So, of course, I spent the next thirty minutes trying to anticipate where she was going so I could be as far away as possible. That didn’t happen. And I was reminded once again that I will never fit well in this world, because, at my age, I should be able to not let things like this bother me. But, as usual, it stole my entire day and another minute or two to type this.

“You’re going to have to work on that.”

So, I’m in a depressing spot. I want friends and a more active post-single-mother life, but I’m not so good with people, especially those you find in public. Besides, I’m sure I don’t have the most inviting face while I’m expecting the worst.

But what worries me most is that the things I’ve wanted for at least ten years don’t excite me anymore. I don’t know yet what to do about that. I guess the use of the word “yet” is hopeful.

I’ll get there, I suppose. Wherever that may be. I do have faith. And I do have gratitude. I’m very grateful for all our blessings. But too much gratitude and depression don’t mix – they make you feel even less deserving and that the moment is as good as it should be - so I know what I already knew - that the answer is faith.

Eegads, I sound like a country song. How depressing.

This has never happened to me before

The temperature gauge on my car had been heading dangerously close to the red zone for a couple of weeks. I had some upcoming travel for work scheduled, so I bucked up and called the dealer for estimates. She immediately quoted $125 for a diagnostic fee, $150 for a radiator flush service, and, guessing it could be a thermostat issue, another $260 for that work.

I decided to go to Jiffy Lube Joe the next morning to have him do the flush service at the cheaper Jiffy Lube rate (plus, I had a coupon!). At least I'd spend less money if that was all it needed.

Joe popped the hood and investigated. He didn’t think that a radiator flush service would solve my problem but had liability issues offering up an opinion (since they don’t actually do full-fledged auto repair work).

But he put some antifreeze in the radiator anyway (it was empty – who knew!) and declared, “This is the worst water pump leak I think I’ve ever seen.”

He charged me $10 for the antifreeze and sent me to Car-X after calling his friend, who is the manager, for availability and pricing.

Mike, the Car-X Manager, took my keys and asked if I could leave it with him. I said I could go spend some time in the McDonald’s down the road but that I’d have to wait because it was my only transportation. “That’s okay. I’ll push you ahead of someone. It shouldn’t be more than 90 minutes.” An hour later, it was ready, and the bill was only $176 – a full $50 less than I was originally told.

When I say this has never happened to me, in all my driving years, I mean that my experiences have always been the complete opposite. I think there may be positive interference in my magnetic field. I can’t wait for something else to go wrong with the car to test it out. Well, not exactly. :o

And I like to think of this as my paying it forward, although I really can’t claim that, because it was so unintentional. The Car-X mechanic who actually replaced the water pump got in my car to pull it into its stall and, as I walked by headed towards my Egg McMuffin, asked if my car window was broken. I said, ‘Nahh, it’s just moody.” He must have laughed for five minutes. His laughing made me start laughing and we couldn’t stop. I know, right? Not really funny at all.

But I think I made his day, and all three of these nice men made for the nicest broken car day I’ve ever had. I don’t even care that I didn’t get to use a coupon.

For Good

I always knew this was temporary.

Huh?

I mean, it was only a matter of time before you’d meet someone. And that’s the way it should be. They’re exactly right. It’s the way I want it, too. We all want you to be happy.

I am happy.

Well, you could be happier.

I don’t know if I like the idea of too much happiness.

Yea, well, try to keep an open mind.

Things are fine the way they are. I like you. I like hanging out with you. Why can’t I just hang out with you?

Don’t you miss your friends? And dating? And having a special person in your life? All men like that.

I see my friends.

But you know they miss you. Didn’t Jack call just the other day asking if you wanted to do something?

I’ve known him since we were kids. We hang out quite enough. He’s fine.

You need to spend more time with all the people you know, the ones you’ve known all your life. You need to meet some new people. New female people. I’ll miss you, but I’ve known that since I met you. I have to admit that I’m not quite prepared yet, but I will be. I'm fine. Everything's fine. It's been so much fun, and you’re a great guy. Now go forth and socialize. And date, dammit.

I don’t wanna.

Oh, puh-leeze. Of course you do.

Seriously. I don’t wanna.

But, now, you have to. They hate me. They’ll think I never said anything to you, that I really don’t want you to be happy, that I’m forcing you to be here, that I’m glad you feel guilty and sorry for me and have succumbed to the idea of never escaping from me. Please don’t do that to me.

You like lasagne?

Lasagne?

Lasagne. Dinner. I'm thinking we should cook lasagne.

I want to live here. I want to stay here a long, long time. I want to retire here and live out my days. Happily. I can’t do that if the people don’t like me. I want friends or at least to feel like I’m not hated. Hell, I could be shunned.

Lasagne, it is. I’ll be back with the fixins at 5:30. And a movie. It’s my turn to pick, I think, isn’t it?

I’m thinking it’s Saturday night. The best night to start. Call a friend. Go to town. Have a beer and listen to the band at Barnacles. Look around. Make some eye contact. Ask somebody out.

Yea, definitely my pick ‘cause we watched some crap last weekend I can’t even remember the name of.

I’m not going to be here at 5:30, then.

You better. I’ll have all those groceries. You don’t want me left holding the bag, do you?

Oh, good lord.

Take a nap or something. Chill out. Everything will be fine. Trust me?

Yea, but you seriously have to…

Trust me?

Yes.

And with that, he left. Leaving me alone for the afternoon to think about how I could make him leave for good.

Escape to.....Plainfield

Nothing has made this gal want to leave Indianapolis more than a Marion County length commute on 82nd/86th Street. The meanness of it has driven me to stay inside all weekend escaping with movies like Baby Boom and Under the Tuscan Sun, and going on online journeys with The Frugal Traveler or Cynthia Morris.

I will always view our time here as a gift, because it’s been a wonderful place to raise Austin. He knows opportunity and diversity that he wouldn’t have known had we stayed where we were.

I also attribute my thoughts of escape to having never lived in one 6-mile radius this long. Same commutes, same stores, same people, same, same, same. Even Austin, who ribs me incessantly about moving him around too much because he knows it immediately conjures up maternal guilt and I’ll offer to either buy him something or cook him a real dinner, is ready to leave for Bloomington.

So I’m ready to work in Plainfield. I didn’t think I would be, but I am. I’m ready for highway drives again. I’m ready for new places to discover on my lunch hour. I’m ready for country (only meant as “non-city”) folks. I’m ready for a new view.

I also have thought and thought about moving in August when our lease ends. A smaller place, less expensive, possibly more convenient, makes sense. But I don’t think it’s time. The savings wouldn’t really make up for the cost to move, and I'm perfectly and quietly situated among a slew of retirees with disposable income for lots of travel.

And when I do move, I hope that it won’t be within the state. Another year. Or two. Greener pastures. Rolling hills. Sky to the ground. Water. Accents. Daydreams. Connections. Callings. And the womanly balls I haven't fully used since 2002.

Preliminaries

This afternoon, Austin voted for the first time. We went together, because I insisted on having the memory.

Then, we stopped at CVS so HE – with his own money for the first time - could buy Mother’s Day cards to mail to Georgia. “Damn. It’s nuts what they charge for cards.”

Then, we had a conversation about moving this summer or staying put. He made it clear that he does not want to be a factor in my decision. “You need to decide this for yourself and do what you want to do. I’m going to be in Bloomington.”

Then, he left to go to work. (I’m “between projects.”)

Shaky, shaky ground.

Family still eludes me

My father’s sister had recently moved back home to Little Rock, Arkansas. I received the customary tour on my only visit. In her guest bedroom was a lovely little antique table with a Living Bible-sized, very old, white leather bound photo album resting on a round doily that hung, as it should, off the front of the table forming the perfect semi-circle between the table’s two front legs. It was flanked by a few standing pictures of her parents and siblings I recognized and some candles.

“Ooooo, what is this?”

“It’s a family photo album.”

“Can I look through it?”

“Sure!”

“Who’s this?”

”I don’t know.”

“Who’s that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are they Mahanays?”

“Yes, of course they are.”

“But you don’t know who they are?”

“No.”

“Are their names on the backs of the photos?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve never looked?”

“No.”

“Can I look?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. They could tear.”

“And that matters?”

“Of course that matters.”

“Does anyone in the family know who these people are?”

“I doubt it.”

"Well, where'd you get it?"

"Grandma and Pop's things."

"Who?"

"KAREN. Don't be ugly."

"So, you never saw it while they were alive?"

"No, it was in a box in a closet. It probably had been there for years."

"Perfect."

"Can we just go now? I'm hungry."

“Who could we ask?”

“I don’t know. I don’t really want to open a huge can of worms.”

"Worms?"

"It'd be a lot of work. I don't want to bother anyone."

"So, you're okay with a shrine to people you don’t know?”

“They’re family.”

"I assume you’re going to pass this album of unknown relatives to your kids?”

“Well, certainly. It’ll be nice for them to have.”

"But it's meaningless."

"You just don't understand family, Karen. You never did."

April 25th is World Penguin Day

Come to find out, there’s a celebration (or two) every day of the year (April 30th is National Honesty Day, and I'm already planning to have an honest discussion with myself).  

But today is April 25th and it's World Penguin Day in celebration of the beginning of the annual northward migration of the Antarctic’s Adelie penguins.

I’m a big fan of the penguin. Not just for their obvious cuteness, but for their tenacity, their loyalty and their attention to detail.

Six things you can do to increase awareness of this marvelous penguin journey:

  1. Take a friend to the zoo -- or if you can’t muster the penguin perseverance to make it there, watch this video from the lazy comfort of your home: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HHJWtLhHoE0
  2. Attend a penguin parade -- or if that’s too much trouble, too, watch this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hocght2zfhA
  3. Read a book about a penguin to your child. Or better yet, play a penguin game: http://www.pbs.org/wnet/nature/antarcticpenguins/quiz.swf
  4. Wear black and white (tuxedos are optional).
  5. Walk around your block a bazillion times in solidarity.
  6. Honk.

So, today, April 25th, take a little time to wish them well.

Happy trails, Penguins!!! Take a sweater.

Growing Up and Away

Looking out over the crowd of enthralled kids….

I’m happy that my son is the Stage Manager of this wonderful production and that his bio made it in the program. I’m so proud.

But I’m so sad.

I’m happy for the many North Central opportunities that Austin has enjoyed. He found his niche and thoroughly enjoyed high school (something I never did). I’m so proud.

But I’m so sad.

I’m happy that I don’t have to come to school events anymore (school kids make me uncomfortable - they did then, they do now). His future is finally here. I’m so proud.

But I’m so sad.

This is a comedy, yet every time I laugh, I cry.

An Indiana man and his color-coded folders

There is something in Indiana I call “The Indiana Man Syndrome”. I don’t know if it’s the accent (or the lack thereof), the formal enunciation, the candid emotion, but there are an extraordinary amount of married men who, frankly, seem gay. My first encounter with it was more behavioral: Two men I worked with ate their lunches (packed in little lunchboxes by their wives) together in an enclave behind closed doors every day. Men where I come from wouldn't do this.

Now, I have nothing against anything any-sexual, be it hetero-, homo-, this-ho-, that-ho-, a-, etc. But I don't enjoy people who can't just pick one and own it. Be honest with yourself and the rest of us, I say. Be proud. Don’t pretend. It’s like lying. And don’t think I don’t know. It’s insulting. And creepy.

I am sitting across from a man who is a grandfather. He gets excited (think full-on-girly-giddiness with flailing hands and bouncy feet) about the most questionable things.

Yesterday, he created a ruckus because someone asked him about his color-coded folders.

“Oh, my, yes! I JUST LO-O-O-O-V-V-V-E my folders. I don’t want to think about having to be without them.

I have blue folders for jobs I must do today. I have red folders for jobs due in a week. I have green folders for jobs that I repeat each month.

I enjoy them so much!”

(See? Now, I ask ya: Is this normal man talk?)

“That’s a great setup. Do you mind if I steal your idea?”

“Oh, my, no!!! You’ll love it! You can buy color-coded folders at Staples. They’re right down the road. And I think you could get your system up and running for less than $20.”

“I’ll go today. Thanks, Dan!”

“Call me when you get it together and I’ll stop by your office. You can show off what you created. I know you'll be soooo happy.”

I want to saw off a toe with my color-coded Bic pen. It would have to be less painful.

Regrets? I've had a few.

Everybody has regrets. And they’re all the same. Things we wish we’d done, things we wish we’d said, opportunities we ran from, offspring we yelled at a little too long, too much alcohol making us think we should fly to NYC to see a boy....

But when I think regrets, the one that always floats to the top is this:

South Haven, Michigan. Downtown. Late spring weekday. Quiet sidewalk shopping. A little indie bookstore. Love those. Must go in. A man, about 80 - maybe a little older - at a tiny postage stamp of a card table set up on the sidewalk right by the door. Arranging his pens and his papers. And the stacks of his book.

He stopped fumbling. Looked up at me. Hope. Anticipation. I smiled. He smiled. I froze in unnecessary fear and walked right by him into the store. Then, we danced the same dance as I left.

Why didn’t I ask? One little question. Did you write a book? Followed by a much easier What’s it about? And thumbing through while he told me his story. And buying. And asking him to sign it.

Regrets? I’ve had a few. But I will always be especially sorry that I didn’t talk to this man.

Scavenger Hunt

Now, this is a neat fundraiser: Believe in Books, The Hunt for Literacy

In this annual Spring event, participants drive around the White Mountains Region of New Hampshire with family and friends chasing clues and earning points. Proceeds benefit the Literacy Foundation, which encourages appreciation of reading and literature among people of all ages.

I found this event in my Heart of New England newsletter this week.

Unrelated note: Never ever ever send a senior in high school to the state of Texas for Spring break. No details will be provided. Just heed my warning. Never ever ever.

Keyword for the next post: Escape.