Riding The Bus

The Amish ride Greyhound. So do dogs. And so does the lady traveling to be reunited with her son. The Amish couple chose to ride close to the front of the bus. For breakfast, they ate bologna and cheese white bread sandwiches and cheetos that came in plastic bags marked Salvation Army. Amish man wiped a lot of bright orange cheese powder on his dark blue pants. I wondered how Amish wife, in her Amish dark blue and black dress, felt about cleaning up after him. Her life seemed much harder. Every time Amish man left the bus, he donned a straw hat. On the bus, Amish wife covered her hair with a white scarf topped with a black scarf. Every time she left the bus, she slapped on a stiff black bonnet with sides as prominent as horse blinders. I'm pretty sure she wasn't having as much fun as the dogs in the back of the bus. The dogs boarded last in St. Louis. They strolled down the aisle on leashes held by two young twenty-somethings tattooed and pierced. Each time the bus stopped, the dogs, their owners and a cloud of other back-of-the-bus-ers poured off for cigarette breaks. I parted ways with the dog set in Nashville and asked Tattoo Girl how she'd gotten the dogs on the bus. Greyhound has a no-pets policy and she, her honey and the dogs had been riding the bus for four days. Our dogs are service dogs, she said. The Amish also split off in Nashville. I wondered if Amish wife ever wished, just once, to wear a pair of high heels or even sandals. As they departed, Excited Lady got on the bus and sat across from me. "I'm riding to meet my son," she said. "I haven't seen him since he was two." "How old is he now?" I asked. She said, "He's thirty." She told me bits and pieces of how she lost contact and then reconnected on Facebook. Only parts of her story made sense. Other parts, I figured I didn't need to know. "How long do you plan to visit," I asked. Her reply, "I bought a one-way ticket." As we pulled into the station in Murfreesboro, TN, her son got out of his car. I could see a family resemblance. They hugged. He looked glad to see her. I wondered if he knew she plans for her visit to last forever. She'll need that much time, I thought, to explain how she ever let her toddler go and why it took so long to find him.

Waiting For Greyhound

Book smarts aren't required to ride Greyhound. Neither are teeth. At 3 a.m., the bus terminal in downtown St. Louis is hopping. To wait for the bus, I stood in line with my luggage--the wrong line, at first, but then the right one. A lot of other travelers park their luggage in line and wander off to socialize. With hours between buses, talking to strangers is how time passes. Not five minutes after I got in line, the right line, I was offered a Jolly Rancher candy. The person sharing was about 18, his pants were belted somewhere around his thighs. He wore a baggy shirt and his hair was dreadlocked. I laughed at the candy offer, having just broken my tooth. He laughed, a gold-toothed laugh, and said, that yeah, he'd broken a few teeth, too. My line buddy Lady in Red took a Jolly Rancher and then, we talked. Or mostly I listened as she held court. She was somewhere between 30 and 40 years old and had no front teeth. She wore a black and white blanket draped across her shoulders; her shirt, pants and sneakers were bright red. Lady in Red started riding Greyhound as a child. She knows the routes and the drivers by name. Turns out, even on 9/11 she was riding a bus. From Illinois. To Los Angeles. For a blind date. It was a rough ride, she said, what with the panic over where terrorists might be. The bus took weird detours and law enforcement kept stopping the bus to check identification looking for terrorists or illegals sneaking around the country. I asked about the blind date--how did it go? Fine, she said, except on the bus ride home, she figured out she couldn't  be faithful long enough to wait months until he got out of prison. So she turned him loose. We got on the bus. I grabbed a window seat. Lady in Red grabbed an aisle seat on the other side of the bus. I got a nice seat mate and thought I'd done o.k. for my maiden voyage on a crowded bus. Then I noticed Lady in Red. Sprawled across two seats. Comfortable. Sound asleep.

Running Away

Like a hobo, I packed up my clothes to leave. Then my favorite late afternoon t.v. show started. I spent commercials running my clothes back to where they belonged. Running away is hard work, which explains why I waited decades before trying it again. Tomorrow, at 3 a.m., I'll be in downtown St. Louis boarding the Greyhound bus bound for Cleveland, TN. I'm visiting my mother for a few days. She is turning 75. There's a party planned, followed by a road trip. While other people go on cruises or book flights on the space shuttle to celebrate milestones, we're driving to south Georgia. If we are lucky, we will see some big alligators. If we are really lucky, we won't. Just like before, technically I'm not sneaking away. Mom knew what I was doing many years ago, although I don't remember that she pitched in to pack or unpack my stuff. This time, Big Guy is my ride to the bus. But my exit is timely enough to be admired as skipping out. While I'm cruising the highways, Birdie will be taking final exams and Daisy will be cramming a semester's worth of biology into a three-week May-mester class. Also, it's starting to feel like spring/summer, which means the grass is growing. I'm not going to be here to mow it. Neither will I be here to clean up after the cats. They chew the grass outside then throw it back up inside. While it's Too Much Information for you, for me, missing that fun is the sweet icing on a freshly baked cake.

Bite Candy. Break A Tooth. Repeat.

Eight years ago, I blamed Birdie. I begged for a SweetTart candy. She gave me one, grudgingly, as they were hers. I bit down on it and a chunk of tooth cracked off. While others would learn from that mistake, I'm not "others." Today, I grabbed a mint Lifesaver, bit it, nothing happened. So I tried a second one. And a fresh chunk of tooth broke loose. I wish Birdie had been there to blame.

The Good Enough To Be A Movie Book Club

Daisy and I both wanted to read Water For Elephants and neither of us wanted to wait for the other to finish. So, we declared ourselves to be a book club and bought two copies. Daisy finished her copy about a week ago and I finished mine yesterday. In the spirit of being a book club, we asked each other if we liked the book, "yes," and if we were surprised by the ending, "yes" and if we wanted to run away with the circus "yes." Or at least I was a "yes," I'm not sure about Daisy. Then, we rewarded ourselves with tickets to the movie version also called Water For Elephants. We were the only people in the theatre, so we propped our feet on the seats in front of us and cheerfully sliced and diced the movie. The lead actor, whose name I don't remember, also played Edward the vampire in Twilight. I kept expecting him to sprout teeth and wings and then fly away with the elephant. That would have made the film a bit different from the movie. The lead actress Reese Whitherspoon seemed a bit old for her part, but maybe I'm jealous because she got to ride the elephant. If I ran away to the circus, I would want that job. Daisy liked the little circus dog. If she ran away to the circus, I'm pretty sure Daisy would take her cat Cracker with her and try to get him to do dog tricks. Fat chance, as he's a cat, but that Daisy, she's an optimist. With one book successfully clubbed, Daisy and I have set a few rules: Our book picks have to ones being made into movies (so we can go to the movies) and there will be no long discussions about the books. We don't want to explore how the author was defining modern society or existentialism or anything else through his/her work. We simply want to read books that someone, somewhere, thought wow, that story is good enough to be a movie. It's on to The Help f/b Snow Flower and the Secret Fan.

Little Shop Of Books

I have done what I should not do. I am working parttime at a bookstore. Bookstores fit the same category as fabric shops and pet stores. All three suck money out of my wallet. But it's all good because I'm part of the growing economy. The little shop of books is called Rebounds. It opened a few months ago and is briskly building its inventory of used books and teacher supplies. I worked four hours and already discovered things I didn't know about myself: I need the ABC Song, otherwise V would never get shelved before W; romance novels scare me as the covers hint at lots of unintended babies; and reading glasses are my best friend as even squinting won't tell me if a book's original fine print price is $19.99, $9.99 or $8.99. Also, Rebounds builds character. I watched Anne LaMott's Bird by Bird fly out the door and barely whimpered. That book is on the list of ones I'd like to read again. Other books yoo-hoo at me, most loudly one from Anne Shreve that I haven't read. Also Rebound has some kid books I'd like to revisit including some by Anne Martin and Gary Paulson. One kid book claims to explain why puppies eat slippers. Do puppies need a reason? Others offer homework help. Thank goodness Daisy and Birdie's homework is beyond any attempt on my part to help. The book I hope to find buried in Rebound's stacks is My Box and String. It was the first book I ever read by myself, in first grade, in New Jersey. My copy died a mysterious death. I think mom tired of hearing "With my box and string, I can do anything." I feel the same way about 101 Dalmatians. It is a great book, but please, don't get Daisy or Birdie started on it. I've heard it enough.

Partnership

Big Guy outsmarted me. I thought I might save unloading the minivan of all of Daisy's stuff until Big Guy came home. But last night's flight from Dallas was cancelled. It's the first time in many years of travel that I recall a flight cancelled well-enough to land Big Guy an extra night in a cushy hotel at company expense. Experts point to marriage partners as a coordinated team. Ha! We're also rivals and outwitters. I like chewing gum but not enough to buy it. So I sneak gum from Big Guy's pack, then carefully replace the wrapper. From a distance, it's hard to tell the wrapper is empty. And yes, I do girl things like sneaking sips of wine, tea or whatever from Big Guy's glass and I try to always not be the one to drive the car when it needs gas. Big Guy hogs the bed sheets, although he'll say that I do. And he snores with a gusto that totally overwhelms any snore sounds I might make, which I don't. I have never met an extension cord that I've wanted to put back neat and tidy. Big Guy has no idea how to hang toilet paper on the toilet paper roll holder. I spend a great deal of time claiming to be incompetent to avoid mowing the grass, chasing crickets in the basement and other stuff I don't want to do. But with all of my scheming ways, I've never landed myself a cushy night in a hotel while Big Guy is home doing all of the work. And should he say otherwise, I'll claim not to remember.

Impeccable Timing

In two hours
I go to Columbia
to parallel park the minivan,
then climb stairs (again and again)
to clear one-half of a dorm room of stuff
and corral dust-bunny-pony-monsters. 
Then, I pay $4-plus to refuel, drive home and unload.
Where's Big Guy? Traveling.
How's the weather? Hot and humid with rain predicted.
Daisy will do at least half of the work. Unless, she sprains an ankle, or a wrist, or figures out Birdie needs "help" with homework as I cart stuff, and more stuff, into the basement. We will finish just in time to pick up Big Guy from the airport. Did you have a nice flight, dear?

I Get To Be The Mom

A sickening sweet note has crept into a number of my recent blogs. I seem to be enthralled with the whole notion of being "the mom" to Birdie and Daisy. The cats Slim Jim and Cracker brawling on the bed remind me to enjoy the mom-glory while it's easy. Tomorrow, I pick up Daisy from college. And she and Birdie will once again Share The Bathroom. While two cats brawling is amusing, especially when they fall off the bed, onto the floor, and then roll the fight down the hall; two teenage daughters squabbling is less entertaining and at higher volume. But I want my Daisy back. For eight months, the house has been too quiet. While Birdie yells, especially at monstrosities like killer bees in the basement, it lacks the passion of a good sister-fight over nothing, anything and everything. Seeing the cats as they tussle, stalk each other, hiss and then settle down for side-by-side relaxation naps confirms that having two doubles the fun and the drama. Then I spy Tequila, the dog, watching anxiously, afraid that, for a moment, the cats might have my attention. I predict a long and noisy summer for Tequila. My attention will be divided. I intend to enjoy even the rocky moments of "I get to be the mom" as I soak up the glory of two squabbling girls, two squabbling cats, one jealous dog and the Big Guy.

It's An Honor

Last night, I did not want to be The Mom. It was Honors Evening at the high school and Birdie was invited. She didn't want to go. She had a math test to study for and had already been recognized by the school for ranking as one of Missouri's top high school sopranos. I talked her into attending anyway. The program featured a long list of awards. The presenters waded through them as Birdie alternated between worrying about math and wanting to strangle me for making her attend. Finally, the music honors were announced. And no one called Birdie's name. I really did not want to be The Mom. Getting forgotten is not good: A forgotten Birdie with a math test the next day borders on dangerous. I waited for Birdie's head to explode. The awards ceremony smoothly moved on to the science awards. And Birdie's name was called. In a moment, the evening turned. Birdie kept her head on. We enjoyed the wonder of the moment. We assumed music was why Birdie was invited to Honors Evening. But it wasn't. Turns out the girl with the voice has a brain wired for science, too. And I get be the mom.

Scrambled Brains

It's what's for dinner: 1 lb. calf brains, 1/4 cup butter, 5 beaten eggs, 1 t. salt, dash pepper, 1 T. Worcestershire sauce, 2 T. catsup, parsley. Cover brains with cold water, let soak 30 min., rinse thoroughly, remove as much membrane as possible. Drain and simmer 30 min. in vinegar water. Drain and cool in cold water. Handling carefully, remove any remaining membrane. Heat butter in heavy skillet, combine brains with next 5 ingredients. Cook like scrambled eggs. Serve on hot platter with chopped parsley as garnish. Five servings. Yum, yum...who's hungry?

Clueless About Grass

After days of rain, today, it didn't rain. So the wife half of my neighbors Clueless Couple Plus 2 hauled out the sprinkler and watered her muddy front lawn. In hopes of growing grass in the shade of two huge trees, the husband half of Clueless Couple Plus 2 threw out a bunch of grass seed earlier this spring. I think the clueless ones think, anyone can grow grass. Later this summer, they will discover that they aren't anyone, because they can't grow grass. If Clueless Couple Plus 2 were to ask, for starters, I'd tell them:  Grass seed goes out in the fall and a water-saturated yard doesn't need more water dumped on it. But then I realized, maybe the wife half of Clueless Couple Plus 2 is truly yard-smart. Grass seedlings that rot now won't need to be mowed later. And a dead yard is an easy one to care for. Blame it on the shade trees.

Ding, Dong Bin Laden Is Dead

T.V. images of crowds rejoicing outside the White House fence as they learned of Osama bin Laden's death remind me of another celebration--when the Wizard of Oz munchkins confirmed for themselves that the flying house crushed the wicked witch, who wore the ruby slippers. Her death put Dorothy on the path toward home and laid the framework for the tin man to find his heart; the scarecrow, a brain; and the lion, courage. I hope that with the death of bin Laden--a terrorist, mass murderer and middle eastern legend--that the U.S. begins walking the yellow brick road toward home. Economic turmoil, warfare and acrimonious disputes among political parties and ordinary people have marked the past 10 years. It's time to find our hearts, brains and courage; it's time to find our way home to what we were before Osama bin Laden changed us.