jane

The official NFL football season starts tonight! Yay!

It makes me think back to my first game, when I was 23. The Bills. My friend Rich invited me. He’d won tickets at work.

“Jane, the game’s at 1pm, but we have to go extra early for the tailgate party,” he advised me. “Be ready to leave the house at 9am.”

I had never been to an NFL game. I’d heard of tailgate parties and was excited to be part of one. Buffalo was only an hour away…but hey, if I needed to be there early I would DO IT! SO PSYCHED!

“So we’ll need to buy some beer,” Rich added. “We’ll need to get hotdogs and hamburgers, too. I have a small charcoal grill we can cook on.”

I nodded, and went along with it. Told him I’d get the beer. Which would be much easier than getting all that other stuff.

But what was he talking about? Isn’t a tailgate party where fans follow each other superclose around the massive Orchard Park parking lot? You know, “tailgating” each other.

And I was confident I could tailgate with the best of them. Put any vehicle in front of me, and I will get so close to it you can barely slip a piece of paper between us.

What was all this about beer and food?

And I’m just now finding out now that we have to tailgate while we’re drunk, and also figure out how to grill our food while we are driving? How is that even a thing?

Well, I thought to myself…if that is the true meaning of a tailgate party, I’m sure glad we’re taking HIS car and not mine!

At a get-together recently, I met an older woman, Lillian.

Lillian and I had an immediate connection. In that she was too old to walk around and circulate, and I was too introverted to walk around and circulate. It worked out perfectly.

Lillian and I ended up talking for hours, as I waited for the event to be over because our connection was so strong.

She told me that when her boys were little, her husband had left her for his secretary, and left her with nothing. Lillian struggled raising the kids. But, she said, “Jesus was always there for us, and we always got by, thanks to Him.”

She added, “As a matter of fact, just this past month, I had bills to pay, and I didn’t have the money. And the money came to me, thanks to Jesus.”

What a comfort that must be. But I couldn’t help wondering, ’cause I’m a tad agnostic…Did Lillian pray to Jesus—but also mention to one of her kids that she didn’t have the money? But I dismissed the thought. Rather, I so wished I could have faith, like Lillian does.

“Yes, every single time in my life that I have ever needed any kind of support, including financial support, I asked Jesus to take the wheel,” Lillian said. “And He has helped me. Every. Single. Time.”

I leaned towards her and whispered, “Lillian, I wish I had known about this Take the Wheel strategy a long time ago. My parents didn’t raise me in a faith. I’ve spent 33-plus years sitting behind a desk, just to pay the bills, and even then, living check-to-check. If I had known Jesus was there for me, I would have pursued my writing career and simply asked Him for help along the way.”

Lillian laughed and said, “Yes, you should have.”

I wasn’t kidding.

And I don’t think she was, either.

I had to go to a wedding the other day.

I reluctantly squeezed into a hippie-type pastel paisley dress which fit my personality. Or at least fit the personality I wanted to have. Grace Slick, 1969. Would the 20somethings at the wedding recognize the look I was going for? No. But their Grandmas might.

More importantly, the dress complemented my “figure” by hanging loose in the tummy area. Twenty-five years after having my first child, I still looked a little pregnant.

Once the dress and the SPANX® were in place, I plomped myself down on the bed—and cried. I thought, I just can’t go. Given the current circumstances. I just can’t.

After hours of consideration, making myself late for the wedding—I went. I figured if I couldn’t bring myself to attend the ceremony, at least I would have made the attempt to drag myself there. If need be, I could just go inside the reception venue door, put the card in the appropriate box, and get back on the road for the two-hour drive back home.

By the time I arrived at the ceremony site, I was determined to get out of the car. Mostly because I’d already had to wear the dress for two hours. I don’t wear dresses. Ever. I had already suffered enough from just wearing the dress—psychologically, as well as physically.

But the dress was the least of my concerns at the time, really. How was I going to get through this wedding without losing my shit? Subtly clutching a huge ball of Kleenex® in my fist, I awkwardly stumbled to my seat, in unfamiliar heels.

In order to be mentally and emotionally prepared, as I sat in the pew, I reminded myself of the platitudes and ceremony that I should expect.

I was encouraged that the couple was in their early 30s and had been together more than ten years. They had not rushed into this massive commitment. Studies show that couples stay together the first three years largely based on infatuation, then settle in as companions. (Forgive the absence of citations in this blog post. If this was published in the New Yorker, I would have to cite that reference. But this is also an anecdotal observation.)

After sitting down for a while, I started feeling a bit uneasy. In order to detach myself from the situation at hand, and not embarrass my friends with any hysterics, I decided to concentrate on taking photos. I became so intent upon this endeavor that I likely did embarrass my friends by nearly bowling over the professional photographer several times in my quest to get the best shot. We were in the same place so often, that I ended up having to apologize to her several times. That doesn’t mean I moved to accommodate her. It just meant, Hey, I got here first, better move faster, b—-. (No worries, I provided the family my photographs at no cost.)

My friend, the groom’s mother, offered a beautiful reading. Which, unfortunately for me, was not the traditional Corinthians 13, which I was indeed emotionally prepared for. Corinthians 13 had been read at my civic wedding.

Corinthians 13, as I recall from my own wedding in 1995: “Love is kind, love is something else…time for the party. I love this person. Don’t you? We are going to have kids and have a great life together. DUH! We are head over heels in love. Of course, that will last forever!”

So what does “marriage” mean, anyway? I contemplated the vows.

“For richer or for poorer…” I’d certainly always understood that part. Throughout our marriage, my husband and I had financially struggled. That said, one of the best times of my life was when we were first married, before kids. We had a hard time paying the bills—but who cared? We had each other. We’d both grown up fairly poor, so money didn’t matter to either of us. We got by. Marriage was more about love than money. That’s what I thought, anyway. There were legal obligations, but they didn’t even enter my mind.

“In sickness and in health…” When I got married, I was 27, and my husband was considerably older. In fact, when we first moved in together, I used to check during the night to see if he was still breathing. (At 55 years old, looking back, I find that quite hilarious.)

“For better or for worse…” Hmm. This one’s a doozy. Had I really understood the “for better or for worse” part? Should I have stuck it out when it got worse? I’ll never know. But I am sorry for it. I gave up when it got worse. Does that mean I am a bad person? Intolerant? Picky? Unappreciative? Impatient? Probably most or all of the above.

Anyway…that is likely why I had been touched by the reading at this particular wedding. I had never heard it before. Almost thirty years since my own wedding day, I found that the reading was much more meaningful to me—a 55-year-old woman with a heck of a lot of perspective.

The following is what my friend read to her son and his wife. It is what I wish for, for all couples, married or not—and certainly for our sons:

May your marriage bring you all the exquisite excitements a marriage should bring, and may life grant you also patience, tolerance, and understanding.

May you always need one another—not so much to fill your emptiness as to help you to know your fullness.

The valley does not make the mountain less, but more;

So let it be with you, and you.

And the valley is more a valley because it has a mountain towering over it.

A mountain needs a valley to be complete;

May you need one another, but not out of weakness.

May you want one another, but not out of lack.

May you entice one another, but not compel one another.

May you embrace one another, but not out encircle one another.

May you succeed in all important ways with one another, and not fail in the little graces.

May you look for things to praise, often say, “I love you!” and take no notice of small faults.

If you have quarrels that push you apart, may both of you hope to have good sense enough to take the first step back.

May you enter into the mystery, which is the awareness of one another’s presence—no more physical than spiritual, warm and near when you are side by side, and warm and near when you are in separate rooms or even distant cities.

May you have happiness, and may you find it making one another happy.

(James Dillett Freeman)

***

Note: this was certainly a significant day of reflection, as it was then that I fully realized that I was bad at marriage…and also bad at wearing a dress. Yes, the focus of the wedding was the bride, but generally every chick gets a “You look great!” out of courtesy, even if they look like crap. No one at the wedding said my dress was cute. Either because I was so old that no dress would be cute on me (likely); and/or the dress wasn’t flattering (also likely); and/or no matter what the dress, I was clearly so uncomfortable I looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame (perhaps most likely)—so I’m never wearing it again. Many of you on Facebook are asking for pictures of me in the dress. No, because 55-1/2.

Josh, you know that time we went to Karaoke and there were 20 people who’d signed up ahead of us? I joked, “We should play the ‘cancer card.’ I’ll go up there and tell the guy you have terminal cancer so we need to have you sing right now.”

You laughed and replied, “Well, funny you should say that. I literally have a ‘Cancer Card.'” You whipped out your Wilmot Cancer Center ID card for the karaoke dude, and proceeded to bring the house down with a Broadway-quality rendition of “Mack The Knife.”

At 30 years old, you turned into a tree. Do you want haunted forests? Because that’s how you get haunted forests, Josh.

Josh, you will never cease to exist–even if you hadn’t gone and turned yourself into a haunted tree. You know I love you, and I’ll see you on the other side. – Evil Stepmom

Death Is Nothing At All

Death is nothing at all.

It does not count.

I have only slipped away into the next room.

Nothing has happened.

Everything remains exactly as it was.

I am I, and you are you,

and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged.

Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.

Call me by the old familiar name.

Speak of me in the easy way which you always used.

Put no difference into your tone.

Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together.

Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.

Let my name be ever the household word that it always was.

Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it.

Life means all that it ever meant.

It is the same as it ever was.

There is absolute and unbroken continuity.

What is this death but a negligible accident?

Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?

I am but waiting for you, for an interval,

somewhere very near,

just round the corner.

All is well.

Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost.

One brief moment and all will be as it was before.

How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!

– Henry Scott Holland, 1910

[Photo: Josh and his little brother Kyle, 1999]

Whenever I think of Thanksgiving, I think of my Grandma Barber.

I never did like Grandma Barber.

We had to spend Thanksgivings with her in Buffalo. She was my mom’s mom. My siblings and I would have much preferred to spend the holiday with our other Grandma. She was cool. But Thanksgiving with Grandma Barber was an obligation, so every year, we were required to shuffle off to Buffalo.

The drive always seemed interminable. We’d pick Grandma up at her dreary apartment. It smelled dank and musty. The drapes were pulled so tightly, no light seeped in. It made me feel sad.

We’d rush her off to a restaurant with a Thanksgiving buffet, make awkward conversation, eat as quickly as possible, and dump her back off at home before heading back to Rochester, relieved we’d made it through another year.

Grandma Barber was not a particularly warm person. “Black Irish,” she had black hair and blue eyes. Grandma was small and thin, but big in personality. She was assertive, and cutting, and critical—nothing like a real Grandma was supposed to act like. My mother had acquired similar traits. They were both “tough broads.”

Mom reminded us that Grandma hadn’t had an easy life. Grandma’s husband—my grandfather—had left her in the midst of the Great Depression for a 16 year old schoolgirl he’d knocked up. My mother was only a toddler. In 1935, Grandma and Mom moved from Oklahoma to Rochester, NY to make a fresh start.

Divorced single mothers were rather unheard of at the time, and certainly not accepted in mainstream society. Grandma had to take a job as a waitress to make ends meet. She got a job at the then-illustrious Hotel Cadillac in downtown Rochester.

But Grandma couldn’t leave her little daughter alone, so was forced to give her up to foster care. A nice childless couple who owned a horse farm in the country took Mom in and raised her as their own. Grandma would visit her daughter every Sunday afternoon—undoubtedly feeling like the outsider—then go back downtown to work the dinner shift. It was surely a lonely life.

I pondered this backstory. Yes, that sounded awful. But who would give away their own kid? And only see her once a week? I didn’t understand, and I didn’t like Grandma much for not loving Mom enough to keep her.

Later, when Grandma’s health worsened, she moved from Buffalo to an apartment in Rochester to be closer to us. I was 12 years old. Mom told me that she and I would be visiting Grandma every Tuesday during the summer months. I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of spending any time with this old, bitter woman. On top of that, it turned out to be more of a series of home health aide appointments than “visits”—me being the home health aide. Mom would dump me off and escape for hours, while I took care of Grandma.

I’d start out by helping Grandma take a bath. I would help her undress, then lower her fragile, wizened body carefully into the bathtub. The first time, I was worried that I would have to soap her up and touch her breasts. Thankfully, she was able to do that herself.  She was only skin and bones. I felt embarrassed for her, but she didn’t seem to mind. That might’ve been because she just appreciated being touched and cared for. Grandma had been quite a looker, and had prided herself in her appearance, I could tell from photographs. It was alarming for me to see for the first time, up close, how age takes its toll.

After her bath, I would set Grandma’s wiry hair in rollers, and dust and vacuum the apartment. Then it was time for us to settle in for The Young & The Restless. I had always been very uncomfortable around Grandma. We really didn’t have much to talk about. But we really enjoyed our favorite soap opera, gossiping about Victor and Nikki and Peter and what trouble they’d get up to next. After a while, I almost started looking forward to our weekly visits.

Grandma Barber died a couple years later, of heart failure. It was a very small funeral—Grandma didn’t have any friends. After the funeral, Mom and I worked on cleaning the apartment out. We found a number of large manila envelopes underneath the rug in the bedroom. We looked at each other quizzically, then tore the envelopes open. Out fell, all told, more than $100,000 in cash. Grandma had never trusted banks since the Depression.

With this unexpected gift from Grandma, Mom now had the resources she needed to turn her life around. She had been miserable living with my father. She found a beautiful old farm in the country, and spirited me away with her to try to give me a new start. As she settled into her new life, Mom was able to conquer her own demons, and live out her days in peace.

When you’re little, you don’t understand the big picture. Here I had thought all along that Grandma gave Mom up because she didn’t love her enough. But it was because she loved her too much. Grandma was a tough woman only because she had to be. She overcame tremendous hardships in order to give her daughter a better life. I am so grateful for Grandma, the sacrifices she made, and the example she set.

My two biggest regrets: that I wasn’t able to tell her this when she was alive, and that my name wasn’t on some of those manila envelopes under the rug.

[Photo: Grandma and Mom, 1937]

Well, I was trying to wait out the pandemic before posting another blog entry. But I think it’s now safe to say it’s not ending anytime real soon, so here goes.

It’s my grandma’s birthday! Esther Knickerbocker would have been 121 today.

Born in 1899, Grandma was a short, squat German woman who shook the pictures on the wall as she bustled through her big house. She and Grandpa had a farm, which was quickly becoming surrounded by sprawling suburban tract homes. My family lived across the street in a tiny house, which had been the “hired hand’s house” until Mom and Dad bought it.

Growing up, my whole world centered around “Grandma’s House.” Catching frogs in the pond, building hay bale forts, jumping in the leaves, eating all the homemade cookies in her pantry…it made for an idyllic childhood. And it truly would have been an idyllic childhood, if my own house hadn’t been in utter chaos.

At our house—well, the term “shit show” hadn’t yet been invented, but that’s what we were dealing with in the late 1970s. My brother had developed full-blown paranoid schizophrenia, my sister had run away with a truck driver, Mom was a raging alcoholic, and Dad was trying to keep it all quiet so no one would find out.

At home, I was pretty isolated. Due to my brother Paul being so ill, we couldn’t have visitors—and he didn’t like it when I went to my friends’ houses. So I looked forward to my one permitted weekly social occasion: Grandma’s “Friday Night Club”.

Every Friday, Grandma would entertain my cousin Alex and me for hours on end. This woman was pushing 80 at the time, but you’d never know it. So much energy! We’d play countless board games like Parcheesi, Chinese Checkers and Flinch; she’d teach us card games like Kings on the Corner and Euchre; then we’d retire to the living room to watch the Muppet Show, Donny and Marie, and Chico and the Man. I looked forward to every Friday like it was Christmas.

When I was in sixth grade, Grandma told me I could have a Halloween sleepover at her house. I was thrilled! However, when the party began, I was horrified to discover that Grandma—always the quintessential hostess—had arranged a number of “entertaining” activities for my preteen friends. Activities that may have been appealing in the 1910s, that is. With every round of “Row Row Row Your Boat,” I could feel my already shaky popularity sinking fast.

But despite Grandma’s attempted hijacking of the party—or perhaps because of it—all the girls had a blast. And for the first time in a long time, I felt relaxed. No looking over my shoulder, no bracing to get hit again, no waiting for the next bad thing to happen. For a while, I was a normal kid, in a normal house, with normal people.

Looking back now, I realize that I never—ever—felt safe at home. But I always felt safe at Grandma’s.

Oddly, Grandma never asked me what was going on at my house. I figured she must have known something was wrong. My brother ended up hiding in his room for four years as his insidious illness took away the person he used to be.

One day I came across Grandma’s diary. Most entries were about the weather or the gardening club, but then I saw that interspersed with the news of the day, she had often lamented, “Why won’t they do something about Paul?”

Later, when asked how I survived my childhood, I would always answer, Well, I don’t really know.

But I just realized something today. I survived because of Grandma.

Thank you, Grandma. And—Happy Birthday.

P.S. Grandma, it’s time for me to finally confess. Remember how you baked cookies every day but they kept mysteriously disappearing from the pantry? And you asked me if I knew what happened to them and I told you Alex ate them? It was me. It was always me. But I think you already knew that!

One year I was getting the Christmas decorations out, and at the bottom of one box I found a gift bag. I could feel from the weight that there was something in it.

I looked inside, and realized it was the gift my Aunt Mary had given me the previous Christmas. A big red holiday candle. I then remembered that I’d left it in its gift bag with her card so I could use the candle the next holiday season.

Finding the gift stirred up a lot of emotion. Mary had passed away that Fall. Suddenly. It had hit me really hard.

So I decided to put the gift under the tree to remember her by, and pretend she just dropped by to give it to me. Throughout that Christmas season, every time I looked at the tree, I smiled when I saw the gift.

But there was a dark cloud hanging over Christmas that year. Since Mary’s death, mortality had been weighing on my mind. I hadn’t been raised in the family church (much to Mary’s dismay), so I grew up feeling that I was “spiritual,” but I was not religious. I didn’t believe in a higher power. But I wanted to, desperately. I considered, “Well, what would it hurt to just decide to believe, in spite of myself? It isn’t logical to believe, but it would be such a comfort.” But I couldn’t make it stick.

That Christmas morning, I got up early and sat for a while by the tree to have some quiet time. There were piles of gifts strewn around, but I’d carefully kept Mary’s gift center stage. Suddenly, my eyes were drawn to the design of her gift bag. I’d never noticed that woven into the pattern was one big word:

BELIEVE.

A few nights ago, I made one last trip to the house I’d just sold. The official “closing” was the following day.

I’d been working on downsizing and emptying out the house for months and months, however somehow it still turned out that on that very last night, I had a ton of work left to do.

I felt overwhelmed, certain that I’d be making multiple trips back and forth to my new home all night with boxes and boxes of “stuff.” Then I’d have to clean everything to leave it ship shape. Yes, I was in for a long night.

I started in the garage. When the door opened, my eyes immediately fell upon a big gray plastic tote. I had set it aside for my neighbor, Irene. A retired Phys Ed teacher who could sometimes be a bit of a sourpuss, Irene lived alone in a modest little house down the street. Her life revolved around being a foster mom to a revolving door of disabled elderly dogs.

In the box was a brand new dog bed and a bunch of dog toys. A few years ago, we had lost our dog Jack suddenly, and he never got to use them. I knew Irene would appreciate them. However, what seemed like a thoughtful idea initially, that night seemed like maybe not such a great idea. I’d have to make a special trip down to Irene’s. And she was quite the talker. The visit would set me considerably behind in the work I had to do that night.

I confess that I considered just throwing the box in the garbage so I could move on with the rest of my work. What had Irene really ever done for me, anyway? But I knew how much she needed the box. I sighed, picked it up and made my way down to Irene’s.

I knocked on her front door, and she peered out suspiciously. Then broke out into a smile and said cheerily, “Oh! Hello! It’s so good to see you!” She looked at the box rather quizzically.

“I brought you some of Jack’s stuff that we never used,” I said. Irene thanked me and told me how much she appreciated that I’d taken the time to give them to her.

She then went on to bend my ear for half an hour, with comprehensive updates about the elderly dogs she was fostering and their various states of disrepair. I was anxious to get going, but I knew she was lonely and didn’t have many people to talk to. I listened patiently until I finally had to tell her, “Irene, I’m sorry, but I really have to get going. I only have a couple hours tonight to clear the place out.”

Irene hugged me tight, thanked me again profusely, and we said our goodbyes.

“I probably won’t see you ever again,” she said, a bit choked up. I laughed and said, “Oh, don’t worry. The boys and I will stop by the old neighborhood to visit.” Saying this, I was pretty sure that I would probably never lay eyes on Irene again.

I then went back to the house and began frantically vacuuming and mopping upstairs.

A few minutes later, I heard the doorbell ring, the front door open and someone say, “Jane?”

I recognized the voice—sure enough, it was Irene. Oh, no! Another interruption. She probably forgot to tell me something “important.” Now I was kicking myself for having taken the time to go to her house in the first place.

I raced down the stairs to meet Irene in the doorway. She was smiling broadly, holding a small pumpkin out to me. “I meant to give this to you!” she said proudly. “I made it. I really want you to have this one. It means so much to me that you came to see me.”

I distractedly took the pumpkin from her hands without even looking at it, and thanked her. We hugged and said our goodbyes again, and I went back to my work.

Four hours (and four carloads) later, I was done—everything was out of the house, ready for the new owners.

I took one last pass through the house, wandering from room to room, pausing in each one. In the months readying for the move, in order to focus I’d had to suppress my emotions about leaving. Now, memories came flooding back. Family Christmases with loved ones. Kitchen Karaoke Nights. The daily comings and goings and noises of a bustling household.

This was it. We’d never be back again. Nothing would ever be the same again. For as much as that house made me sad because it reminded me of my family that had moved on, the house was all I had left of them, and I had to let it go.

I turned the lights out, and locked the door behind me for the last time.

I arrived at my new home late that night both a physical and emotional mess. I emptied the last load out of the car. As I closed the hatch, I saw a glimpse of orange in the back seat. It was the little pumpkin. I grabbed it, went in the house, plopped it on the living room floor and collapsed on the couch.

After I’d recuperated a bit, I glanced over at the pumpkin. And it was then that I saw it.

In my haste to get Irene out of the house that night, I hadn’t even noticed that the pumpkin had a message imprinted on it.

Be Kind.

I broke down and sobbed. I suddenly realized that out of all the “important” things I had to do that last night, the most meaningful one was to take that time for Irene. To be kind.

And, Irene, thank you for being kind to me when I needed it most.

Happy Halloween.

The bell rang. Mom pulled up. I ran over to the car and hopped in. She turned out of the parking lot and began her usual play-by-play recap of her day. Our ride home was her opportunity to talk to a captive audience, and she took advantage of it.

I was in first grade. Life at home was pretty unsettled, between my parents not getting along, and my surly teenage siblings.

“So. First off, your sister tells me she’s taking a break from college. She and her roommate are going to open a jewelry store. A jewelry store! And not just any jewelry. SCRIMSHAW! Whatever the hell that is!” She continued on, giving a rundown of her troubles with each family member.

She sighed. “Well, Jane, at least you’re an easy kid. You never give me any trouble.”

Every day was the same. Our home was always in chaos, and the focus was always on everyone else. I felt invisible.

Mom turned onto Mendon Center Road and finally glanced in the rearview mirror at me. She forced a smile. “So, anyway, honey…how was YOUR day? Aren’t you excited? Tomorrow is the last day of school!”

“I guess so,” I replied. I sort of liked school. It was a nice break from home.

Then I worked my courage up. I said as casually as possible, “So…on the playground at recess today, a guy pulled up in his car and asked if I wanted to see his kitten.”

She surprisingly didn’t say anything. So, to fill in the awkward silence, I babbled on. “I was way at the far corner of the playground, by that big rock near West Bloomfield Road, you know? Playing by myself. So a light blue car pulls up, and a guy gets out. He opens the car door and says, ‘Do you want to see my kitten?’ And I got a really bad feeling, and I just ran as fast as I could back to the school without looking back.”

Mom remained silent. By this time, we had pulled into our driveway. Finally she said, “Did you tell your teacher about it?”

“No,” I answered. “I didn’t want to upset her, so I kept it to myself. I didn’t even tell the other kids.”

“Well…” Mom said, slowly, “…you did the right thing to run away.” She got out of the car, slammed the door and walked briskly into the house without saying another word.

I was confused. Why wasn’t she upset? Her daughter was almost murdered!

Here I’d expected hugs and kisses, relief that I was alive and well, and admiration that I was so smart to have escaped a murderer. Maybe she would even make my favorite treat, a rainbow sherbet-ginger ale float. But nothing.

Oh, well. Maybe she didn’t believe me. Fine.

The next day was the last day of school. I was at my desk, pencil in hand. Suddenly, my teacher came up from behind me and whispered in my ear, “Jane, I need you to come out into the hall with me, please.”

I complied. The kids’ eyes followed me as I was escorted out. The teacher smiled comfortingly at me. But I was thinking, have I done something wrong? I don’t recall doing anything wrong. I never do anything wrong!

She closed the door behind us. We stood facing each other in the dimly lit hallway. Now the teacher was looking more serious than I had ever seen her. More serious than the time Patrick Kendall pooped his pants in the Housekeeping Corner.

Suddenly, I was feeling really unsettled.

“Jane. Your mother just called me. Do you have something to tell me?” She waited.

Oh no. I knew what this was about. Panic immediately set in.

“No,” I coolly replied. “What did she say?” I bit the inside of my lower lip to keep it from trembling.

“Your mother told me that a man tried to get you into his car at recess yesterday,” the teacher said, her eyes fixed on mine. “He told you that he had a kitten he wanted to show you. Is that true?”

“What?” My thoughts were racing.

I couldn’t tell the teacher the story I told Mom.

Because there had been no guy in a car. I’d made it all up.

I’d overheard the news on TV about the serial killer in Rochester, and how he tricked girls into getting into his light blue sedan. So I’d told Mom the story only to get her to focus on me for a change. It had never occurred to me that she would call my teacher about it.

I now realized the full ramifications of such a serious accusation. The cops would be called. Under interrogation, I would surely crack. At seven years old, I wouldn’t be able to stall by asking for coffee and a cigarette while they played Good Cop, Bad Cop. I would immediately fall apart and confess to my lie. Then it would be all over the news. FIRST GRADER LIES ABOUT SERIAL KILLER.

All I’d wanted was Mom’s attention. How did it come to this?

So, running through all the outcomes in my little blonde head, I did the only thing I could do.

I threw Mom under the bus.

I looked my teacher straight in the eye and said firmly, “I didn’t tell my mom any story about a guy in a car. I have absolutely no idea what she is talking about.”

The teacher’s mouth got tight and her eyes narrowed.  “Jane. Let me get this straight. You are telling me that your mother is a liar. That she made this all up. Your own mother?”

“Yes. That is what I’m saying,” I said firmly, with all the confidence I can muster. “My Mom lies all the time. Ask anyone.” I rolled my eyes.

The teacher frowned and put her hands on her hips. “All right. I’ll be discussing this further with your mother. You can go back to your desk.”

I was red in the face, sweating profusely. I sat down hard, smoothing out my plaid skirt, and stared blankly at my math book. I jammed my pencil into the palm of my hand and read the same problem over and over as I tried to figure out how I was going to get out of this one with Mom.

My Mom could be really scary for absolutely no reason. And I’d just given her a really big reason.

That day was the longest day of my life. Watching the clock. Tick tock, tick tock. The bell finally rang for the last time of the school year.

I walked as slowly as possible toward Mom’s car. She leaned over and glared at me menacingly. I was really in for it. I’d never been so scared.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the guy in the light blue car pull up. He smiled broadly. I ran over to his car, and hopped in.

Dear Dad,

Another Father’s Day has come and gone and it’s almost time for bed.

Remember how every night you would read me a story and tuck me in? And every night, just as you were closing my bedroom door behind you, I would ask, “Daddy, can I please have a glass of water?” And you laughed, and trudged off to get me a glass of water?

Remember how every night I would fall out of bed onto the hardwood floor? And not even wake up? And you laughed and put pillows all over the floor to cushion the falls?

Remember how you would take me places at night and I’d always fall asleep in the car on the way home? And then wake up in my own bed? And when I asked you how I got there, you laughed and said, “I don’t know”?

Remember later, at the very end, when I crawled into your hospital bed and held your hand? And read you stories to keep your mind off things? And you laughed and said, “Who would have thought it would end up like this?”