My Life in Cars

Although I've never done the meme going around which calls upon you to list eight "weird" things about yourself, I'd probably add this as a somewhat unusual thing for a woman of my age and situation - I love cars. Always have. When I was very small, my favorite toys were Matchbox cars and a Fisher Price Gas Station, and by the time I was three, I could name virtually every make and model car on the streets, a dubious talent my parents delighted in parading for their friends. As I grew up, my interest in automobiles grew proportionately, and I harbored secret (and very unrealistic!) dreams of being the Danica Fitzpatrick of my generation. And truthfully, although I met Jim when I was 13 years old, I really didn't have much interest in him until he started driving a 1971 black Mustang Limited Edition, with "mag" wheels and and a 350 V-8. Yes, my husband is quite definitely a "car guy," so you can imagine the kind of automotive crazy genes we passed along to our son.

I form attachments to the family cars, and everybody knows I'll be crying buckets when it's time to say goodbye to a well loved machine, no matter how much I'm looking forward to it's replacement. I've been fortunate enough to have some really nice cars in my day - my first car, a 72 Nova 350 gave way to a 75 Pontiac Trans Am, followed closely by a 78 Silver Anniversary Corvette. I got pregnant about the same time I got that car, though, and it's not really a family friendly machine. It was in the early 80's that my love for sports cars had to give way to the more practical sedans befitting a young suburban mom.

Growing up in Detroit, the motor capitol of the world, with parents and relatives all working for one or the other of the Big Three, I suppose it's natural to develop an interest in cars. For me, though, I think cars are all about freedom. When I get in my car, the open road before me, life suddenly presents itself as full of opportunity. With the windows down, the wind in my hair, and my foot pressed very firmly to the gas, I can let all the cares and worries of the workday world go streaming away behind me. Suddenly, I'm no longer a 50'ish menopausal matron - I'm 16 or 25, or, hell, even 40! with all kinds of fun ahead of me. That feeling is just enhanced all the more by a sleek, hard edged, preferably black sports car, with a throaty growly going on under the hood.

Of course, all this car talk is just a lead in to talking about the new car I got yesterday. I've been in a real quandry about what kind of car to get, knowing the lease on my 04 Grand Prix was going to run out. I've been driving Pontiac's for the last 8 years, and was just in the mood for something different. I nearly bought a Lincoln MKZ, the fashionable new sport sedan that seems to be all the rage among "women of my age." It was probably the comment from a friend of mine (a 73 year old gentleman who is a Porsche afficianado and world traveler) that put the kibosh on that car.

"Come on!" he said, with a note of derision in his voice when I told him I would probably get the Lincoln. "You don't want to drive that old lady car."

Damn right I don't! So, I opted for something a little different - not totally off the wall, but a definite departure from the cars I've been driving recently. It's a Saab 9-3 Turbo, a compact European style sedan with tight steering and a turbocharged engine that gives it a nice little kick on the highway.

I'll still be piling the dogs inside, and hauling my mom to the grocery store and mall, but once I'm on my own, I'm looking forward to opening up the sunroof, and letting my hair (and spirits!) fly.

So now, you'll have to excuse me, because it's Sunday, and I'm off to do some driving...

It's An Age Thing

I just have to say-getting old sucks. I'm not necessarily talking about myself, mind you, although I admit to a disturbing and noticeable slow down in my ability to do anything physical this summer. For instance, ever since I planted flowers a couple of weeks ago, I'm barely able to straighten my back out, and my knees have been hurting suspiciously, particularly at night.

But, I just returned from a visit to my aunt and uncle, which is what really prompted my opening remark. They're both in their early 80's, still living in the house they bought in 1956 for $3,000. But he's got Alzheimer's and is terribly hard of hearing. In the last three years, she had angioplasty, colon cancer, and now osteoporosis and severe arthritis in her knees, which has nearly crippled her.

They have no children of their own. But, I grew up in the house across the street from them, and it was to their house that I'd run when I was ticked off at my parents, or needed a favor, or just wanted to chill out in front of the TV and eat Frito's and drink Coke. My aunt was always good for a ride somewhere, which came in handy since my mom didn't drive. My uncle loved shopping, and was never so happy as when he was driving me to the bookstore or the mall, and buying whatever I happened to pick out. He carried on that tradition with my son, too.

When I was three years old, my uncle bought me a box of candy for Valentine's Day, and he never missed giving me candy on Valentine's day. He'd drive over to my house no matter what the weather, and leave it inside the door if I wasn't home from work. Two years ago, for the first time in 48 years, I didn't get that box of candy- he simply didn't remember it was Valentine's Day.

It breaks my heart to see them like this. He's driving her kind of crazy, to be honest, with his inability to hear or remember anything she says. Everything is a huge chore for them these days, and now the neighborhood grocery store where they've shopped for the past 20 years is closing. My aunt says she's ready to give up.

"I've lived long enough," she says wearily, when I kiss her good-bye. "It's time for me to go now."

I once read that elderly people sometimes begin to crave death much as you might crave the ability to sleep when you're weary. You know that feeling when you're so tired you feel nearly sick, and you just can't bear to keep you eyes open another minute?

I'm starting to see how that might be possible. As I said, getting old really sucks.

Poetry Thursday

Shifting the Sun

Diana Der-Hovanessian

When your father dies, say the Irish,

you lose your umbrella against bad weather.

May his sun be your light, say the Armenians.

~

When your father dies, say the Welsh,

you sink a foot deeper into the earth.

May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

~

When your father dies, say the Canadians,

you run out of excuses. May you inherit

his sun, say the Armenians.

~

When your father dies, say the French,

you become your own father.

May you stand up in his light, say the Armenians.

~

When your father dies, say the Indians,

he comes back as the thunder.

May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

~

When your father dies, say the Russians,

he takes your childhood with him.

May you inherit his light, say the Armenians.

~

When your father dies, say the English,

you join his club you vowed you wouldn't.

May you inherit his sun, say the Armenians.

~

When your father dies, say the Armenians,

your sun shifts forever.

And you walk in his light.

~

I am an Armenian - I offer this poem to my friends Sherry, Elaine, and Julie, who each lost their father this month. May your path be illuminated by the light of his memory.

Write on Wednesday-Avoidance

There are a couple of things I'm avoiding in my personal life right now- you know the kinds of things I mean. Phone calls that are difficult to make, because you're afraid of the answers you might get, matters that need to be discussed, but seem too fraught with emotional baggage to bring up. The things that keep getting passed on to tomorrow's "to do" list, and somehow end up never getting done at all. I suspect that most of us have a secret cache of things we avoid in our lives. Now that I've developed this regular writing practice, I'm discovering there are some things I avoid there as well.

Like re-writing. A couple of weeks ago, I mentioned that I was considering revising Dear Samantha, the novel I wrote for NaNoWriMo last fall. And though I talked about not knowing where to begin with that process, my feelings are really more about not wanting to begin that process at all- I'm avoiding it big-time. So I put those pages back in their bright yellow folder, and conveniently lose them in the pile of other things demanding attention on my desk- my morning pages notebook, my daily lists of things to do, a pile of correspondence from my day job. I see them there, right now, staring balefully at me, yet I persist in writing this post, continuing my pattern of avoidance.

Something else I avoid in my writing is research. The narrator of Dear Samantha is in treatment for ovarian cancer, and I know a good part of any serious revision on this novel is going to require research into treatment protocols for this disease. This same narrator is also a musician, but since she's in a chamber group, and I'm not terrible familiar with chamber music repertoire, again I know I'll need to do some research, find and study some examples so I can provide the kind of details that bring the musical scenes in the book to life.

No matter how much we love our creative endeavors, they all have aspects we tend to avoid. I'm very familiar with areas of avoidance in my musical life...fingering and tempo. I clearly remember my first lesson with my college piano teacher. I complained bitterly about the way she made me revise all my fingering on a Mozart Sonata. "I could play this perfectly if she'd let me use my old fingering!" I whined. At first, these new fingerings were clumsy and slow. Grudgingly, I came to accept they did indeed work better and make my playing more efficient. And it took me years before I came to accept the metronome as my friend. (I'm a speed demon at the keyboard as well as on the road!)

This morning, I finally made one of those difficult phone calls that I'd been avoiding so assiduously, and things worked out better than I might have hoped. In the spirit of that success, maybe I'll be inspired to tackle something I've been avoiding on my writing "to do" list as well.

So, how about you? What do you avoid in your writing life or in your other creative endeavors?

Solstice

As I sit in my "writing room" tonight, I hear the distant echo of fireworks, early Independence Day celebrations from a neighboring community. I love fireworks - the surprising explosions of color that fill the night sky, the anticipatory thunder announcing their appearance. In my mind's eye I see marvelous eruptions of color - reds, greens, purples, blues- in spectacular and surprising patterns, emerging like kaleidoscopes in front of my eyes. I'm still easing into this summer routine, these days that suddenly have so many more hours than I've been used to, hours when the sun keeps shining long after I expect it to have sunken to sleep in its bed on the western horizon. All this extra time reminds me of these fireworks that I love so much - hours that explode in front of me like brilliant gifts, evoking ooohs and aahs from the depths of my spirit. What should I do with this unexpected gift of time~should I write? play the piano? walk the dogs? ride my bike? read? weed my flower beds? call a friend?

"I'm restless," I said to my husband, "yet I don't feel like doing anything."

"Then don't," he replied, an easy answer from someone who never seems disturbed by that persistent itching of obligation and imagination, the combination of which drives me to incessant and often unnecessary activity.

So I took to my chair and sat, listening to children playing merrily in a yard whose location I couldn't quite identify, but reveling in their summer joy wherever it might be. Slouched in my plastic Adirondack chair, my feet propped on a square table, I sipped cold white wine and turned my face toward the blood red sun, still fixed proudly in the evening sky.

We have just passed the summer solstice, (from the Latin sol for sun and sistere for standing still) the time when the earth "stands still" in a moment that has come to mark the separation of seasons. Time seems to stand still for me in during the summer, unmarked by the many obligations that fill my fall-winter-spring days. During those seasons, I feel myself on a perpetual merry-go-round of frenetic activity, and life becomes a whirling dervish that makes me dizzy and seasick. When I turn my calendar to June, it's as if I've jumped off the ride and landed smack on my knees in the sand. Suddenly, the world stops spinning at its mad and hectic pace, and I sit for a while, dazed and confused, trying to get my bearings in this new and quieter place.

I have made no plans for this summer, no lists of things to do, no resolutions about what I hope to accomplish in this all too brief respite from the hustle -bustle of life during the academic year. My only plan is to focus on the solstice - on standing still and experiencing the marvelous and unexpected explosions of color, the fireworks of summer.