2. Thou shalt take twenty minutes to exit the car.
After the key is pulled out of the ignition just sit there and stare into space vacantly as if you have no idea the car has stopped. Sway a little bit as if you are still on the highway. Hum, and then burst into song. Sing “Who Stole the Cookie from the Cookie Jar?” Follow this up with Dazz Band’s “Let It Whip.” Open the door a crack. Wedge your foot out. Then yank your foot back in the car and shut the door completely because you have neglected to take off your seat belt. Take off your seat belt. Eat an old piece of popcorn you find on the floor. Chew it fifty-eight times. Remark to yourself that it tasted like pineapple smoothie. Exit the car. Wonder where everybody went.
3. Thou shalt be a winner ALL, ALL, ALL the time.
Because you live in an era and a part of the country where it has been decided that it is very bad to suffer any disappointments or failures of any kind, you shall receive nothing but good news, medals and trophies for everything you do, including contributing to your 401(k) and coughing up the $129 for that Sonic toothbrush. Your medals will be engraved with sayings like: “Chin up! You Came in 10th—That’s One Better Than 11th!” and “You’ll Always Be a Winner in My Book Even If You Are Really, Really Lazy.”
4. Thou shalt brush thy teeth intermittently (every two to three days). Your husband asks you, “Have you brushed your teeth recently?” You say indignantly, “Yes, of course I brushed my teeth.” Your husband says, “Did you do a nice job and did you remember to floss?” You say, “Stop asking me if I did a nice job and if I remembered to floss.” He says, “Let me see,” and you say, “Ahh.” He shakes his head, gravely disappointed, and says, “I suggest you go do it again.”
5. Thou shalt write reports filled with haiku, the word awesome and the phrase “You may be interested to know.”
EXAMPLE: It is summer and you are full of wonderment. Your heart and your legs is sore. You need a vacation Band-Aid. But where should you go? May I suggest the great state of Maine, where the state flower is the pinecone tassel and the motto is Eat Lobster Lots of It and Try Not to Think How Much Lobster Looks Like Bugs. You may be interested to know the awesome Stephen King, the famous awesome authoress lives in Maine. His really interesting book The Shining scared the crap out of many people and inspired wriders in the world. And now I will finish with a haiku.
Peace, Peace, Peace, Peace, Peace
Peace, Peace, Peace, Peace, Peace, Peace, PEACE
Peace, Peace, Peace, Peace, Peace!!
There are only five Ninemandments. They are called Ninemandments because I learned them from nine-year-olds, not because there are nine of them.
When we moved to Oakland our Realtor told us most houses in the hills didn’t have air-conditioning or screens or foundations or crown moldings because nobody was ever home because everybody was always out! Out living their rich, full, active California lives. Imagine! The three of us pale, doughy, light-deprived Maine transplants basking in the insect-free California sun, swimming in outdoor pools all year long.
What our Realtor neglected to tell us was about the rain. It’s not widely advertised that in the Bay Area it begins raining in November and doesn’t stop until April. February is a volatile mixed bag: trees are flowering and the grass is green, but it can rain for weeks at a time. It’s during one of those weeks of nonstop rain that I decide to give this Slow Living a try. What better time to pause than when the winds are at seventy miles per hour and your house is literally shaking on the stilts that tether it to the eroded hillside?
I’m on my elliptical machine when the electricity goes out. I freeze for a moment, waiting for it to flicker back on and when it doesn’t I take a long, hot shower. In the past I’ve found this tactic works well. Use up all the hot water and act like the lights haven’t gone out and the lights are fooled into going back on.
The lights don’t go back on, and I have to fend off my growing sense of panic. No offense to me, but I suck when the electricity goes off. For some people (my husband and son for instance) it’s a great adventure. I feel slightly hysterical, like I am the only one alive in the world and if I could even get to the grocery store (which I can’t because every tree in Oakland has fallen down and blocked the road) it would be fruitless, for all that would be left would be toilet brushes and air freshener. I press my face to the window, searching for a bit of blue sky. My husband and son wander past me wearing headlamps.
“I’ll have to do my homework by candlelight,” says Ben. “You did your homework by candlelight, right, Mom?”
“It’s Saturday. You don’t have any homework.”
“But the lights could be out all weekend. They could be out on Monday, too.”
“Well, if that happens you are welcome to do your homework by sconce.”
“What’s a sconce?”
“A candleholder that hangs on the wall. It’s much safer than a candle. Unattended candles are the leading cause of house fires.”
Now that we have a fire escape plan I know everything there is to know about fires.
Ben looks at me miserably. The poor kid has no idea what a sconce is. When I was a kid we did our homework by sconce—at least once in a while, as a treat. We used india ink and a quill pen, too. Well, Rebecca did. According to my mother, Dawn and I did not believe in homework. If the electricity went off in 1971 it was no big deal. My mother would just bake cornbread in our beehive oven for supper. She had a really long bread paddle that she sometimes used to spank us with when she wasn’t using it to bake corn bread.
“You’re lucky spanking went out of style,” I tell Ben.
“Can we not talk about that?” he says. “You always bring it up when the lights go out.”
It’s strange the things you talk about when the lights go out. Things you would never talk about when there is electricity. I’ve come to realize the electricity going out is the equivalent of drinking half a bottle of Maker’s Mark in one second.
“I think we should take it slow today,” I say.
“Let’s play Monopoly,” says Ben.
“Let’s light a fire,” says my husband.
“Let’s go to the mall,” I suggest. The mall always has electricity.
We have a fabulous time at the mall even though it’s unbelievably crowded. People are pleasant and smiling. There’s this we’re-all-in-this-together kind of feeling that casts everything in a champagne glow. We have dinner at PF Chang’s, and for once it doesn’t bother me that I have to wait forty-five minutes for a table because we pass that time playing word games and eavesdropping on other people’s conversations. If I close my eyes we could be in Umbria, not the Emery Bay Mall. I smile and nod at the people around me like we’re all related and have lived in a small medieval village for centuries.
After dinner I while away half an hour choosing between the Oscar Biondi and Bumble and Bumble hair powder at Sephora.
“It’s dry shampoo. Just in case the electricity is off for more than a day,” I explain to my husband. “Isn’t this great? Having no destination? How about we go try and find some gelato?”
“How about we go home,” he says.
When we get in the car my husband turns on the radio and I turn it off.
People who are living the Slow Life do not listen to the radio. A hand-cranked radio, maybe.
“Let’s sing,” I say. “‘Chicks and ducks and geese better scurry’”
“That sounds like a baby song,” says Ben.
“It’s not a baby song. Shirley Jones sang it in Oklahoma.”
I continue, “‘When I take you out in the surrey—’”
“He doesn’t know what a surrey is,” says my husband.
“It’s a kind of carriage,” I say.
I sing “The Surrey with the Fringe on Top” by myself until we get to our exit. My husband is busy trying to steer clear of fallen tree branches. The houses in the village are twinkling with lights. I feel lucky to be alive.
“I think we need to live in a differ
ent way,” I say. “We’ve forgotten the important things. Maybe we should start celebrating Shabbat. You know, no driving, no watching TV, no working on Saturdays.”
“We’re not Jewish,” says my husband.
“That doesn’t mean we couldn’t adopt some of their traditions,” I say “I don’t think they’d mind. I’ll ask Robin.”
As soon as we start driving up the hill to our house the wind kicks in and I get a very bad feeling. We live a thousand feet up in a completely different microclimate than five minutes down the hill. Five minutes down the hill all the happy people are watching CSI and recharging their toothbrushes. Our neighborhood is eerily dark. Deer and wild turkey trot arrogantly down the middle of the road. How quickly the animals take over.
“I can’t believe it,” I say. “Still no electricity.”
“I think you’re going to get your Shabbat,” says my husband.
We have rarely been without electricity for more than three hours and we have no idea what to do with ourselves. We would go to bed but it’s only seven. My husband lights a fire and we huddle around the laptop watching an inappropriate R movie because it’s the only movie we have. We instruct Ben to cover his eyes at the sexy and violent parts (just for good measure I put a pillow over his face) and recite the alphabet loudly so he can’t hear the actors making love or killing one another with machetes. Twenty minutes later we shut it off.
“Now what?” I say.
“I miss Bodhi,” says Ben.
“I miss him, too,” says my husband, putting his arm around Ben.
“I have an idea,” I say.
“We are not in the mood to sing,” says my husband.
“How about we go for a walk?”
“No, thank you,” says Ben, snuggling into his father’s armpit.
“There are fifty-mile-an-hour gusts,” says my husband.
“Well, I’m going for a walk. It’s better than sitting in this cold, dark house.”
“Take a rope,” says my husband. “Tie yourself to the mailbox and you can rappel down the street.”
“Ha-ha,” I say.
“At least wear a headlamp,” he says.
I can barely walk up the street, but I enjoy the challenge. The force of the wind makes me feel petite—a little slip of a thing that could just be blown away.
My pocket rings. I fish out my cell phone.
“We heard about the storm,” says Dawn.
California weather always makes it to the national news. Everyone is happy to know Californians are suffering and clinging to life (or hillsides) just like everybody else in the rest of the country.
“We’ve been without electricity for nine hours!” I say.
“Nine hours, wow.”
“What are you doing up?” I ask her.
“I missed my sleep window.”
“What’s your sleep window?”
“Eight to eight thirty.”
“You fall asleep at eight in the evening?”
“No, I don’t fall asleep at eight; I have three boys. What I’m saying is I’d like to fall asleep at eight. Ten years from now when they’re all gone I can fall asleep at eight.”
“Don’t,” I say. “Even when you can, don’t.”
She sighs. “I’m so tired.”
“I know you are,” I say. “You should go to bed.”
“Okay,” she yawns.
“Wait, what’s it doing there?” I ask her.
I always need weather reports from back home.
“It smells like pine trees and sap and snow and car exhaust. The sky is that deep purple that you only get in winter. I’d tell you the constellations, but I’ve forgotten the names of all of them except for the Big Dipper. Has that happened to you? Have you forgotten everything?”
“Sort of.”
“Are you worried you have Alzheimer’s?”
“Yes!” I whisper.
She sighs. “I read somewhere that thirty-five percent of people in their eighties have it, and if you make it to fifty, chances are you’ll make it into your eighties,” she says. “Either we die in the next seven years or odds are we’ll slowly go mad. Now do you blame me for wanting to go to bed at eight?”
I see her point.
“I’m very glad your house hasn’t fallen down the cliff and into the bay yet,” she says and hangs up.
I go home. I crawl into bed and snuggle up next to my husband. It’s freezing. Surely the electricity will be on in the morning.
Good thing you bought that powder hair shampoo,” says my husband the next morning.
It’s pouring outside. The house is still dark. He’s wearing his headlamp again. It appears to be soldered onto his head.
“I can’t believe this,” I say. “Where the hell is Pacific Gas & Electric?” I count on my fingers. “It’s been twenty-one hours without electricity!”
“Think I’ll call my mom,” he says cheerily.
My mother-in-law lives in rural mid-coast Maine in a little town called St. George.
“Hi, Mom. Yeah, we’re having a storm. We’ve been without electricity for a while.”
“Tell her twenty-one hours,” I whisper.
“Yeah. Yes. Really? You’ve been without electricity for five days? Your pipes burst? The toilets are overflowing? When you were outside on your deck you slipped on the ice and broke your collarbone?”
“Give me the phone,” I say.
He hands it over. I hear a dial tone.
“Sweetheart, the electricity is out. It’s not the end of the world,” he says gently.
It may not be the end of the world, but it’s the end of something.
When I told my parents we were moving to California they were thrilled for us. What a lark! What an adventure! They would miss us terribly but they would visit. But then, like the snubbed fairy in Sleeping Beauty, they set their terms. They didn’t tell us that when our son became a teenager he would prick himself on a spindle and die, but close. They said, Go west. Eat the best General Tso’s chicken of your life. Sleep without air-conditioning in the dog days of August and enjoy twelve different varieties of tangerines all year round, but you must come back to New England before your son is eight.
Eight—it seemed like such an arbitrary number, but my father quickly rattled off the reasons that would make his grandson particularly vulnerable in his eighth year. Who knew so many potential life-altering conditions had their genesis at eight—things like slouching and buckteeth? But the real reason that could not be spoken of because New Englanders do not speak of such things was that if we stayed any longer it would be too late: we would never return.
My father was right. It is too late for us—we are never going to move back home. Ben is nine and the truth is California has cast its spell on us. We’re been seduced by the climate and the rolling hills that look like God’s knuckles, the jasmine that blooms on every corner and the man on the street who reminds us to slow down. We may be silly people who live in a house built on stilts. We may be stupid people who live in a house built virtually on top of a fault line, but I ask you, whose house isn’t? And whose rooms haven’t gone dark for days? Which one of us hasn’t been shaken so hard by life’s temblors that all we can do is fall to our knees, sing songs from Oklahoma and count the seconds until it’s over? If it hasn’t happened to you yet, I’m glad, but I’m sorry to tell you, it will. The good news is the beginning is buried in the rubble of the end.
So you say good-bye best dog there will never be another one like you. Good-bye husband who used to be a mystery. Good-bye toddler who woke up singing every morning and sang himself to sleep every night.
You say hello clean house that is no longer covered in dog hair. Hello husband who will still surprise you if only you let yourself be open to surprises. Hello brokenhearted boy.
Welcome to this world.
March
PEE WEE LACROSSE IS AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT SPORT THAN SOCCER. YOU don’t just throw on a pair of knee socks and shin guards and you’re goo
d to go. Instead you must put on a cup (to protect your Wee Pee), chest and elbow pads, gloves, a mouth guard and a helmet and THEN you’re ready to throw down. Or get encephalitis from being thrown down. What I am trying to say is What in the hell was my husband thinking, insisting that I become the mother of a child who plays lacrosse? Doesn’t he know after eighteen years together how completely unfit I am for this job?
I think he has mistaken me for my friend Renee, or Coach Renee, as she is better known around here. It would be easy to see why. Renee and I have a lot in common. Our sons are best friends and are on the same lacrosse team. She is half-Lebanese, I am half-Armenian; we both grew up eating pita bread.
But that’s where the similarities end. Renee is a survivor. She became terribly ill right after her son, Parker, was born. She died twice and was brought back to life twice—but she doesn’t talk about this much. Most people don’t know that she lives with chronic pain because she endures it with a stoicism and grace that is bewildering to me. She has been coaching Parker’s soccer team for five years. Her players adore her. Parents seek her out for her levelheaded advice, which is usually along the lines of Your kids doing great and will continue to do great if you stop screwing with his head. I am glad she is my friend because I can count on her to set me straight.
“I don’t want to go to the boys’ lacrosse game on Saturday,” I tell her. “It’s too painful.”
The Slippery Year Page 8
