Known But to God

The VFW in their corporate offices:

Guys, sorting through gifts.

One guy: “Let’s send Mary something different, what do you think she’d like?

Another guy: “How about a big calculator?”

One guy: “Nah, we sent her that a few months ago.”

Third guy: “She might like these socks.”

One guy: “She doesn’t really wear socks.”

Another guy: “How about these knit gloves? She could use those on chilly fall days.”

Third guy: “Yeah. Let’s send her two pair, blue and red, so she has back-up gloves.”

One guy: “Yeah.”

What can I say? The VFW and I are in a serious committed relationship.

They send me gloves. I send them money. They send me labels. I send them money. They send me greeting cards, tote bags, socks, hats, pens, calculators, shirts, I send them money. Whatever they want, I give them, because they give me so much in return.

It’s the most mature and reciprocal relationship I’ve ever been in.

I have had a deep reverential crush on the military ever since I was a young girl. Both my maternal and paternal grandfathers and great-grandfathers were in the military, as was my father. All of my brothers were involved in the military in some form, and my late brother William attended West Point and is interred at the local military cemetery. He fought in skirmishes all over the world, most notably in Desert Storm.  

I plan to visit my college roommate for a week in Virginia after Easter, and I am also planning a side trip on the way home to pay my annual homage to one of my favorite places in the world.

Arlington National Cemetery and the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

What a humbling and awe-inspiring ceremony is the changing of the guards. I love when the relief commander conducts a detailed white-glove inspection of the M-14. I love when the commander and the Sentinels salute the Unknown Soldiers who have symbolically been given the Medal of Honor. I get goosebumps when the Sentinel executes a sharp “shoulder-arms” movement to place the weapon on the shoulder closest to the visitors, signifying that he or she stands between the Tomb and any possible threat.

 I know it by heart.

 We brought our boys to see the changing of the guard once, and the solemnity of the ceremony cowed even them. We never once had to tell them to be quiet and respectful, because the Tomb itself lends an air of reverence and awe that would normally only be found in the most venerated of places.

I remember standing behind the boys as they watched the ceremony. They were frozen, only their heads moving as they watched the guards. They didn’t budge. They didn’t speak. They looked like they were afraid to breathe, most likely because their father had threatened them with sure death if they did anything at all to embarrass him in this place that he loved. Even little boys know not to mess with Dad when he has that expression on his face.

He wasn’t fucking around.

The changing of the guard happens in an elaborate ceremony every hour on the hour from October 1 to March 31, and every half hour from April 1 to September 30. Twenty-four hours a day soldiers from the 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment known as “The Old Guard” stand watch over the Tomb as they have every day since 1948.

When not marching, Tomb Guards, also known as Sentinels, spend their duty time in quarters below the Memorial Display Room of the Memorial Amphitheater, where they study cemetery history, clean their weapons and help the rest of their relief prepare for the changing of the guard.

Sentinel Facts:

  • Being a Sentinel is a volunteer post
  • Sentinels are considered the “elite of the elite” of the 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment.
  • Sentinels must be in superb physical condition
  • Sentinels must possess an unblemished military record
  • Sentinels must be between 5’10” and 6’4” for men, or 5’8” to 6’2” for women.
  • Would-be Tomb Guards must undergo an interview and two-week trial.
  • They must memorize seven pages of Arlington National Cemetery history, which must be recited verbatim in order to earn a “walk.”
  • If a soldier passes, Sentinels learn the history of Arlington National Cemetery and the grave locations of nearly 300 veterans for their badge test.
  • Sentinels must pass their badge test with at least 95% accuracy.
  • As a badge holder, a Sentinel can serve honorably at the Tomb for nine months. At that time, the Sentinel can choose to have his or her award become permanent, which may be worn for the rest of a military career.
  • Each relief of the guard has one commander and about six Sentinels. The three reliefs are organized by height so that those in each guard look similar in appearance.
  • Sentinels wear the Army dress blue uniform, which is the style and color worn by soldiers during the late 1800’s.
  • The Sentinels take twenty-one steps, alluding to the twenty-one gun salute, the highest honor given any military or foreign dignitary.
  • On the 21st step, a Sentinel will turn and face the Tomb for 21 seconds. He will then turn to face back down the mat, change the weapon to the outside shoulder, mentally count off 21 seconds, then step off for another 21 step walk down the mat. Then he will face the Tomb at each end of the 21 step walk for 21 seconds. The Sentinel then repeats this over and over until the Guard Change ceremony begins.
  • When a relief commander appears to announce the change, a new Sentinel leaves the Tomb Guard quarters and unlocks the bolt of his or her M-14 rifle. This signals that the ceremony should begin.
  • Here is the dialogue of the Changing of the Guard:

Relief Commander orders the relieved Sentinel: “Pass on your orders.”

Current Sentinel commands, “Post and orders, remain as directed.”

Newly posted Sentinel replies, “Orders acknowledged.”

Hell, I don’t know what you’re doing for spring break. Probably Florida, or Hatteras, a fancy resort or some obscure island. We’ve all earned our down time this past year. But allow me to say this, and I don’t care how tired it sounds:

Never forget the men (boys!) who died to make it possible for you to enjoy such a life. And how lucky we are in the Northeast that visiting these heroes is only a short drive away. Maybe carve out some time to pay your respects. Grab the kids, pack some juices boxes and sammies, and make a day of it. Honor the heroes the way they deserve to be honored.

That’s the least they deserve.

https://www.arlingtoncemetery.mil/Explore/Tomb-of-the-Unknown-Soldier

Embrace Your Inner Morlock

I like 1D. 1D is at the front of the airplane, it’s on the aisle, and it has extra leg room. I don’t have to look at the back of anyone’s head, I can peek at the hot pilots, and when we’re talking air travel, it’s the perfect seat for an introvert. The only thing I don’t like about it is that you can’t stash anything, not even a small bag, at your feet. It has to go up into storage until the seatbelt sign goes off.

My 1D on the way back from Montana reclined and had a personal movie screen. We were lucky to be on it at all. Our previous flight had been delayed for ice, so we assumed that we would miss the Denver connection. We had already made plans to get food, hang out, and make the best of it.

But they held the plane for us. Not in my entire life has a plane ever been held for me. I can’t ever go back. They ruined me. I’m reading the text we received from American Airlines directly from my phone:

Take a deep breath, we’re holding your next flight for a few extra minutes. We (and your fellow travelers) would appreciate if you could make your way directly to Gate B28.

It was like a movie. We ran through the concourse, and when we arrived at B28, the two stewardesses applauded and waved us through the gate like we were the pilots. We sauntered onto the plane and into our cushy seats to the announcement: “Thank you for your patience, ladies and gentlemen. We had to wait for some VIP passengers whose last flight landed late. We are happy that they have arrived. Flight attendants, please prepare for departure.” Sadly, there was no applause from our fellow passengers. They just glared at us, unamused and unimpressed, and not seeming, at least to me, very happy for us.

Why was this? We had almost missed the flight. It would have ruined our day. Shouldn’t fellow humans be happy for each other in these situations? And why were they looking at us like that? Who were they expecting, Cameron Diaz and Benji Madden? Maybe we were celebrities. How did they know we weren’t famous? We could have been. Now I’m mad. How dare they presume?

But I digress.

So 1D is great. But having chosen 1D so many times, I also have experience with 1F, the seat right next to 1D. And I have figured out what 1F stands for:

One Freak. Because there’s always one freak on any airplane, and the One Freak always sits in 1F, and that’s always next to me. I will not divulge here the physical nature of the freaks- I mean, one person’s freak is another person’s dream date, right? But in the dozen or so times I have chosen 1D, the person in 1F usually closely resembles a Morlock (excluded from this generalization is any friend I have ever traveled with who has sat next to me in 1F. They know I don’t mean them).

So when choosing seats for my next trip, I decided to take one for the team. I chose seat 1F there and back, so I will actually be the One Freak on the plane. By temporarily denouncing my Eloi status, I will be able to completely embrace my inner-Morlock and see what’s so socially emancipating about it.

I won’t know what to do first. I think back to some of the Morlocks who have sat next to me, and on the strange things they have done. Here are some things I have witnessed firsthand that are obviously socially acceptable in 1F:

  • Propping dirty feet up on the wall
  • Taking off socks to display uncut and fungusy toenails
  • Eating an entire pepperoni pizza without using a napkin
  • *Reading a magazine upside down (I swear. Only in 1F)
  • Talking to oneself
  • Singing to oneself
  • Clipping a bonsai tree
  • Sorting coins and placing them into little wrappers (this was actually cute, and something my dad would do)
  • Getting smashingly drunk (ok, I applaud this one)
  • Using the lavatory fifteen times during a three-hour flight
  • Staring lifelessly ahead without movement for hours on end (think David Puddy)

I will not even divulge the myriad of serious hygiene issues I have witnessed up close. I do my best to give the Morlocks in 1F the room they need for their activities, because I know that Morlocks eat their Eloi cousins. I don’t want to end up as Morlock food. And I always keep in mind the literary premise behind the Morlocks and Elois:

Never ever get too comfortable. Not in life, not on an airplane, not anywhere. Because those so comfortable on the top now may one day find themselves suffering on the bottom later.

Morlock food for thought.

*So that you don’t think I am making these up, let me clarify that the Morlock who read his magazine upside down fell asleep that way. He must have fallen asleep before realizing it. The rest are honest-to-God true.

A La Casa

A la casa

I’m ready to board. I’m wearing a black cashmere sweater, black joggers, and ankle boots. I have no reason to think you care about what I’m wearing. And I have no post prepared due to all of the fun I had. See you Monday in Jersey, I have some good stuff for your next week. Enjoy the weekend.

Road My Own

I read a meme on January first that said, “I fucked up already. But 2022 gonna be my year for sure.” I thought it was funny, and my dark laughter echoed through the empty bowels of the airport.

Gallows humor. I too had fucked up on January 1.

Yeah, so, I had mistakenly screwed up my car rental agreement, and had neglected to align it with hotel check-out and my flight schedule. My rental car was due back by noon, but my flight wasn’t until 6:15. Sitting in the airport for six hours wouldn’t have been such a big deal if it wasn’t for the ironic fact that my initial decision to fly to upstate New York instead of drive was to save time. In the amount of time it took me to check out of my hotel, return the car and sit on my ass for six hours, I could have hopped in my car, stopped for lunch, arrived home, taken a shower, made dinner and gone to bed at a decent hour, thus saving myself the cost of a flight and a rental car, and my son the trouble of an airport pickup.

Lesson learned. I am not oblivious to the stupid decisions I make, but to my credit, I never make the same ones twice. I just make new ones. New day, new me, is what I always say.

But on January 1st, 2021, as I sat hour after hour at gate B9, I flew high for a little while on my victory. I had finally managed after over thirty years of attempts to return a rental car on “E.” I pre-pay so I can bring it back on “E,” but I usually chicken out the last day of vacation and put gas in “just in case.”

But not this time. I brought that baby back cruising on fumes, and when the Dollar agent hopped behind the wheel to drive it back to the lot, I saw him glance at the gas tank, then glance at me through the windshield. Our eyes locked like two gladiators in the Coliseum, and his message was clear:

Bitch.

Yeah, that’s right. That’s called Pre-Paid, Homie. Good luck getting that to the pumps. That’s what you get for 30 years of overcharging me, and for installing some kind of high-tech doohickey that makes the first half of the tank of gas last for five days, and the second half 22 minutes.

Ok, so it’s not the best story in the world. But every story you hear this week has to do with facing fears. This was truly scary for me. I mean, the tank was on “E.” I ran into a detour, then I took a wrong turn due to a misleading sign, and then I had to circle back around to rental car return. If there had been any other problem, I could have run out of gas. That would have left me with only, like, six hours and 30 minutes to make my flight. It was thrilling.

The parallel between fear and an empty rental car gas tank may be a stretch for you, but consider the complete tizzy I am in on any last day of any vacation. Even if I have a late flight, I don’t enjoy the day because on departure day my heart is always racing: Did I checkout, did I grab my chargers, do I have time to grab coffee, did I leave money for the chambermaids, did I pack what I need in my carry-on?

Getting to the airport on time is crucial. I want to check-in at the kiosk and have my boarding pass not as a barcode on my phone, but as a piece of paper in my hand. I want to get through security quickly and without delay. I want to be at my gate two hours early so I can purchase a bottle of water, Altoids, a magazine and a cup of coffee. I want to utilize an airport lounge, if possible. I don’t play games on departure day. No eating, no drinking, no playing, until I get to the airport on time so I can make my flight. Period.

Returning the rental car on departure day is a game of Russian Roulette. I may have to take a series of shuttles to get from the rental car place to the airport, and even though I pre-pay, I live in a state of terror that something aberrant will happen and I will run out of gas on the highway. I always overfill the tank.

I do that in life too, sometimes. Overfill. I mean, in the scheme of things, it’s not such a bad thing, overfilling in the name of safety. Having extra milk in the fridge. Having money set aside for a rainy day. Filling my sons with so much love and confidence and self-esteem that no negative force in the universe can punch a hole through it. Milk, money, love. All good things.

But when you overfill because you’re afraid you’ll run out? This can be counter-productive. Now you’re buying so much milk that it ends up spoiling. Now you’re saving so much money that you’re afraid to spend it and enjoy life. Now you’re spoiling your kid so much with love and attention that you’re suffocating him.

Overfilling can be overdone. There’s a fine line between just enough and too much.

I know returning a rental car with an empty tank may not seem like much to you, and it’s not really much to me, either. But brick-by-brick, my citizens. Brick-by-brick. As the week progresses, the bricks get heavier, and tomorrow’s will be a doozy.

Until then.

New Year’s Dissolutions

On this last day of the year 2020 I am smiling. I’m just so damned happy, for so many reasons. And as I begin my meandering preparations to return to my slightly disheveled home, a job I love and those pesky boys of mine, my mind boggles as it always does at the magic of travel. And I am left in wonderment once again at the fact that the Universe, even when we try our best to fuck things up, protects us.

I’ve always felt rather arrogantly that the Universe favors me, and today, on December 31st, 2020, I woke up convinced of it. Because this past week, while I haphazardly and deliberately stoked a strange and sketchy situation, the Universe sent me red flags. There were red flags to the left. Red flags to the right. Red flags in front, in back, on all sides of me.

My friends were worried about it, and tried to warn me.

“I don’t know, Mary,” my friend said to me at lunch yesterday, shaking her head. “I don’t like it. Something seems off.”

“Text me first thing in the morning,” another friend texted me, “so I know you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“And you’re going through with this?” a third friend said, when I showed her the texts. “Are you crazy? Don’t do this.”

The Universe told me point blank I was fucking up. “Mary!!” it said, waving its damn red flags furiously, “that’s the wrong way! What the fuck are you doing, are you crazy? Have you forgotten who you are?”

Yes, I did. I did forget who I was, briefly. But all good writers take risks to acquire content, whether they be emotional or physical risks. And I am happy to report to my readers and my friends that I have emerged from the dark shadows unscathed and with a great freaking story. A story so good that once written, it will be stored in a special file in my computer, only to be unveiled when the time is right.

Life is simply perfect in its absurdity.

I will observe this for now, like a piece of fine art. It is still too fresh, and laugher is brimming too easily to the surface. Writing while laughing or crying is never a good idea- it means it is still too close to your heart. You must hold it away from you for a time, and simply consider it, the way Van Gogh considered his chair.  

Ah, life. Its great and constant bounties never fail to delight.

And neither does travel. It has once again managed to do that thing it does for me. You know, the filling the empty throbbing place in my heart thing?

I’m going to miss it here. I’m going to miss this magical place where seventy years ago my mother the waitress and my father the bartender met, wooed and pledged their troths. I’ll miss the snow, the views, the stores and the wonderful people I have met. I never got my horse-drawn sleigh ride, but I took some great hikes in the snow, and today I’m sneaking in some ice-skating with a friend before I get on the road, and hopefully a couple of hours of skiing on the over-booked mountain. I promised a new friend that I will be returning soon, hopefully for a weekend in January, to do everything I wasn’t able to do during my short stay.

So I will return home not with New Year’s resolutions, but with New Years’ dissolutions. Stopping the squandering of money and energy and resources, and channeling my energy into my current lifeforce.

Just silly stuff, like not buying any more coffee mugs. Using all of my current makeup. Taking books out of the library instead of buying them. Relaxing more in the physical spaces in my house- I have all of these beautiful chairs, and I never sit in them. Getting better at my relationships, my job, and my golf game.

Never forgetting that while the world is filled with wonderful people, it also has its share of shady phantoms. Never forgetting, not for a second, that I am my father’s daughter. Never forgetting that I am a mother to sons. Never forgetting that those red flags are being waved in front of my face to keep me on course. Never forgetting that even when I wander off the trail, to remember that the path to enlightenment is a different path for everyone.

Smooth is Fast

So this is my last adventure post for 2020. And it sucks. But some weeks you have the magic, some weeks you don’t. I guess I lost my “mojo” in more than one way. Until I get it back, let’s just get through this, I have a day. A week, actually.

Climber Emily Harrington climbed her way into the history books on November 10th by becoming the first woman to free-climb the Golden Gate route of Yosemite National Park’s El Capitan in less than one day. She topped the 3,000-foot mountain last Wednesday in 21 hours, 13 minutes and 51 seconds.

That’s pretty badass. I envy her reckless streak. I want it. Harrington says she has this constant itch to be on the move, and has to constantly remind herself to be still, take her time and breathe. Her mantra is “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.”

I can relate to the itch part.

One morning in Scottsdale, my friend Laurie and I were lounging by her pool. I felt anxious. Unsettled. Twitchy. It was 9:00 a.m., a chilly desert morning, and we were settled in snugly on deck chairs with blankets and hot cups of coffee. I could see the mountains in the near distance, and I think I muttered something along the lines of “Urmmph.” Laurie looked up from her book.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

I slammed my book shut.

“I’m bored. I don’t feel like sitting here. I came here to hike.”

She closed her book.

“That’s fine,” she said, “then let’s get ready. It’s early, though, we have all day. I thought you wanted to read for a bit.”

“I did. But I’m bored. I can’t take sitting here anymore.”

She stood up and looked at me steadily.

“Mary, you’re like a toddler I have to tire out to get any peace in my day. Let’s go.”

(Wow. But she’s not wrong. Bad things happen when I have nowhere to channel my energy. I twirl my hair. I bite my cheeks. I eat doughnuts. I apply for crazy jobs. I threaten large conglomerates and the federal government. It’s best to get me out).

Two summers ago I visited my friend Tracey in Vermont, and we played around in the Adirondacks- hiking, zip-lining, you know, the ilk, and one day, after a full days’ play, we stopped at a bookstore.

The greatest bookstore.

Once you’ve been to a really great bookstore, you realize that Barnes & Noble sucks ass. Hey, I patronize B&N too, but the fact that they cater to only bestselling books published by the same three or four gigantic book publishing houses who happen to publish 90% of all books published in the world just irks me. My statistics may be off, but you get the idea. So many great books do not get the attention they deserve and ultimately, die small deaths, deteriorating in anonymity.

This expansive Adirondack bookstore featured only nature, travel and adventure books, which tells you something about the wonders of the Adirondacks. I stood in the women’s adventure section for an hour drooling all over my adventure heroines- Cheryl Strayed, Robyn Davidson, Dervla Murphy, Isabella Bird, Martha Gellhorn, Wanda Rutkiewicz, Anne LaBastille…

Anne LaBastille’s book Woodswoman chronicles her life in the Adirondack Mountains. After her divorce, Anne built a log cabin with her own hands, and her independence and self-reliance cause me to pause and reflect on my own. Well, lack of my own. Anne says on page 91:

Camping has become one of my most beloved pastimes. I take a fierce delight in swinging a pack on my back or into a canoe and heading for the hills or lakes. In my opinion, camping can be the greatest expression of free will, personal independence, innate ability, and resourcefulness possible today in our industrialized, urbanized existence. Regardless of how miserable or how splendid the circumstances, the sheer experience of camping seems a total justification for doing it.

You said it, Sistah.

I love slinging my backpack across my shoulders and taking off on a hiking trail alone, with only the most rudimentary of resources and my own common sense. But there is a problem with that theory.

It turns out I have no common sense.

(Pause for a laugh and a head nod from everyone who knows me….)

I almost got lost on a desert trail in Sedona five hundred yards from my chalet. I panicked when I lost the trail, and the roof of the resort office was barely out of sight. Just this past weekend I mistakenly left the groomed path and somehow ended up on the Appalachian Trail. On the AT, white blazes are the standard color while a blue blaze represents a spur/offshoot of the main trail. I must have been admiring the scenery, because I missed the insignia. I walked an hour in the wrong direction before it occurred to me that I hadn’t seen another living soul on a well-trafficked trail on a perfect weather Saturday morning. The backtrack was brutal.

I have dozens of these examples.

I am working on my self-reliance not only in nature but in life. And until any woman has tried going out alone into the wild as a vulnerable female, she can’t possibly grasp the badass insanity of what Cheryl Strayed did in the book Wild. I love this book so much, I love Cheryl Strayed so much, and I love her writing so much, that I throw it across the room when I am re-reading it for the umpteenth time, because her talent and bravery not just in the wild but with the written word just overwhelms me.

I don’t think, no, I know for sure, that I do not possess that kind of courage.

Yet. But as I said, I’m working on it. The push-pull thing. The east-west thing. The sunrise-sunset thing. The fear thing.

So that will be my goal for 2021. Letting go of the last set of fears I have. Most have fled, as you know, if you read my blog. But I know there are still a few, hunkered down in there, just waiting to cripple me when I least expect it.

The rest of this year will be filled, as it is every year, with family. Food. Celebration. Giving thanks. Looking forward to a new year. Many people rue 2020. But I don’t. I started it as one person, and I have ended it as another. Stronger. More grateful. More able to withstand life’s blows. Resilient. Strong. Sure. And in 2021, I will keep up my pace, and look for those markings.

Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.

Frankie

A wrong turn led me down Memory Lane recently. Lucky you, you get to come along, if you so choose.

(I know my posts this week have been shockingly self-absorbed, so if you’ve been reading, thank you for putting up with me).

This past weekend, I was trying to locate an obscure hiking trail a local had recommended to me. Right on Paradise, left on Bliss, he had said, trailhead begins after third tree on the left. But no trail met me, just another gated fence.

Story of my life.

I had turned around to head back to my car when I realized I was smack-gob in the middle of the resort where I had worked as a cocktail waitress in college. I had forgotten it was out here. I decided to treat myself to a walk through the grounds.

It was built-up, but not much had changed. There was employee parking lot B. I remember that short sweet walk into work under those summer lights like it was yesterday. There was the entrance into the concert hall, where I met The Smothers’ Brothers. They were sweet but pervey, with a reputation for groping waitresses. There was the night club. I remember George Michael’s “I Want Your Sex” pounding through speakers so loud I would hear echoes for days after a shift. If we were caught up with drink orders, we were allowed to dance with the clients.

There was the outside bar, where my much older boyfriend broke up with me. Even then I liked older men, and Tom was the 42-year old bar manager. We saw each other most of that summer, but by the end, his old girlfriend Ann the bartender asked him to end it. She thought I was too young for him. Well, duh. He didn’t want to end it, he said, but he was going back to Ann, and he was sorry. I distinctly remember laughing in his face. I was 21 and drop-dead gorgeous, with men lined up out the door to date me. I don’t think he appreciated how well I took it, and my friend Ann the bartender never spoke to me again. Humph.

There were the basketball courts next to the employee office. I remember one early summer night walking past those courts on my way to punch in and a large group of men playing basketball stopped to give me a round of applause. I was 21 years old with really big blonde 80’s hair and even bigger boobs, I was tanned golden from the sun and had a short skirt wrapped around my tiny waist and sky-high heels on my feet.

Good grief, do we ever appreciate the sexiness of our youth?

I had taken the job at this resort when spring semester had ended. My roommate and I had agreed to stay at school together, take classes and make some money. I had an easy schedule since all I had left to graduate was student teaching in the fall. So during the day I sailed, ice-skated, rode horses, and analyzed iambic pentameter in my Advanced Shakespeare class. At night, I strapped on my heels, threw on a black skirt and a white tank top, and carried a tray for up to eight hours a night. I made beaucoup bucks.  

That was one of the most carefree summers of my life. I loved everything about that job.

Memories of the people I loved came flooding back. Dennis, the young, overweight, jolly, bespectacled general manager, who was more like a friend to everyone than a boss, and who was universally loved by every employee in the resort. James, every waitress’s favorite salt-and-pepper haired bartender, who no matter how busy it was, stayed calm and kind when filling our orders. Sheila, the old salty abrasive hostess, who yelled at us for wearing such high heels. “You wait,” she would say. “One day all you girls will have bad backs, and you’ll say ‘Sheila was right!’”

Sheila was right.

Craig and Alex, dinner waiters and best friends, locals who lived on the grounds. They were inseparable, and often let me stay over in their apartment if a night ran late. One day we got word that Craig had gotten into a terrible motorcycle accident and was in a coma. I visited him in the hospital every day for a month, but Alex never visited Craig once. Not once. Craig recovered, and when he arrived home six weeks later, we had a Welcome Home! party ready for him. I can remember like it was yesterday, Craig wobbling back into that apartment on those crutches, his face and body a mass of scars. Alex wouldn’t come out of his room, and when I went in to talk some sense into him, I was shocked to see him climbing out of his window. Coward.

(I remember being confused and upset about that, realizing for the first (and not last) time in my life that people respond to life’s tragedies in different ways).

And as I gazed over the grounds that day, I remembered someone else from that summer. I stood in the middle of that parking lot, and I smiled.  

Frankie. Of course. I hadn’t thought of him in thirty years.

The local help, the workers who worked there all year round, had their own living accommodations on the resort property, much like in the movie “Dirty Dancing.” The waiters and bartenders called the cocktail waitresses their “College Girls,” and invited us to their fairly intense parties. I was just a young innocent sheltered brat, newly 21, and this one swarthy Italian dinner waiter, Frankie, a boy only a few years older than me, grew especially attached to me.

Frankie worshipped me. He would kiss my hand, tell me I was beautiful, help me on and off with my jacket, rub my feet after my shift. But surprisingly, he never made a real pass at me. Not once. He idolized me. He never let me drink to excess, he steered me away from people sniffing cocaine and smoking pot, and he wouldn’t let any guy near me. He never let me walk to my car alone, and sometimes followed me in his car to my apartment to make sure I got home safely. I still remember waving back at him as he waited in his idling car to make sure I got safely in the door.

To this day, someone waiting until I get into my house safely melts me into a puddle.

No man had ever treated me that way before, and never since. And let me tell you, once a woman gets a taste of being treated like that, it never quite leaves her. Over thirty years later, I still remember Frankie’s ballet-dancer grace when carrying a dinner tray, his gruff voice, his Fu Manchu, and his ringed fingers. He treated me like a fragile princess, a woman so precious that he didn’t even dare touch her without permission. And any other man who dared approach me was also brutally rebuffed.

“She’s too good for you, she’s too good for you, back off,” he would say, in his thick Italian accent. The other men seemed to be afraid of him. He would hold my hand at parties, just stroking my knuckles. He would stare at me from across the room, only looking away when I met his glance and nodded that I was fine. He would check on me during my shifts, to see if I needed anything. He once told me that he could never be with me, because his background was too embarrassing.

“I’m not good enough for you either, Princess,” he would say.

(Hold up, skeptics. Of course I know this is the thing of fairy tales and mafia movies. Being treated like an idol of worship can never really last, not in modern and sustainable relationships. It’s all about give-and-take).  

Right? Sigh.

I wonder whatever happened to Frankie, and if he will ever know that he instilled in me a deep and intense feeling of self-worth. Just the thought of him makes me smile, thirty years later. I hope every woman has had the joy of at least one Frankie in her life.

As I drove away from the resort, I wondered what it would be like to return and work there for another summer. To try and conjure those feelings again. I mean, can the past be repeated? Can Memory Lane ever be accessed again once it is gated off?

So this weekend, ladies, if you’ve never had a Frankie in your life, be a Frankie to yourself. Treat yourself like you are the sole object of your own desire. Check on yourself, make sure you’re safe and well-treated. I have a million suggestions on how you can treat yourself like the queen you are. I’ll share some next week.

Because if we can’t treat ourselves like royalty, how can we expect anyone else to?

Assnesia

Elaine: “I thought you were a leg man.”

Jerry Seinfeld: “Leg man, why would I be a leg man? I don’t need legs, I have legs.”

Several things greeted me upon my arrival home from my recent hiking retreat.

  • My dad’s request to help him get into his online banking for the 256th time.
  • A call from my financial guy. Is the market going wack-a-doodle from the election?
  • Ridiculous 80-degree weather that had me immediately shedding layers. WTF? It’s the middle of gosh-dang November, and I see people sitting on the beach. Is Jersey turning into another Florida?
  • My ass.

Your ass, you say? How did your ass greet you upon your arrival home? Wasn’t it with you on your trip?

Well, of course it was. It’s just that when I am away in nature, I forget about my ass.

I develop assnesia.

I don’t mean I forget I have an ass, of course. I just forget to worry about it. I am using it to scramble up mountains, to shimmy down rock faces, to propel forward with a strong, purposeful strides, to rappel, to bend down and inspect scat and lichens. I am usually wearing sturdy hiking tights, and for the most part, no one you meet on a rough hiking trail gives a shit about how your ass looks in hiking tights.

Except in Scottsdale. Everyone cares about how your ass looks in hiking tights in Scottsdale.

Ya gotta love Scottsdale.

I’ve never had That Ass. I’ve always had the legs. The boobs. The hair. I think in the late 90’s I even had washboard abs for about eight minutes. But I’ve never had The Ass. A tragedy. But if you will excuse the tired platitude, it is what it is.

You ladies who are reading this and smiling, who have (or at least had at one point in your lives) That Ass, you know exactly what I’m talking about. And you know perfectly well how lucky you are. You are part of an elite group, a Members-Only club, because you have had access to Assmen. Assmen don’t even care if a woman looks like a sea-donkey or a two-o’clock beauty queen from the neck up, as long as the woman has That Ass. Think I’m kidding? I’ve asked the questions and done the research).

The heart-shaped derriere is a genetic thing, one a woman is either born with or not. It has been argued that it can be achieved through exercise. I say sure, maybe, if you’re starving yourself and exercising eight hours a day, seven days a week. But it’s doubtful. Ever see the glutes on those gorgeous personal trainers and fitness girls on Instagram? Don’t be fooled. They don’t have those asses because they’re in the fitness industry. They joined the fitness industry because they have those asses. If you’re seven-feet tall, you go out for basketball. If you have a sensitive palate, you become a sommelier. Everyone works with what they’ve got.

Even some celebrity actresses have admitted to undergoing painful lengthy surgeries to attain The Ass. But going to such desperate lengths is not pragmatic for normal women, so we just learn to love the Asses we have, don’t we?

Don’t be angry, don’t be sad

And don’t sit crying over the ass you have

There’s your ass right next to you

And it’s just waiting for something to do

Love the ass you’re with. – Stephen Stills

Adding insult to injury, not only have I not been blessed with a genetically heart-shaped ass, I have also been an ass-sitting teacher and a professor and a writer since my early twenties. That’s over thirty years of sitting on my ass. Even making conscious attempts to stand at a podium, walk around the classroom and write while standing up at my counter (like I am doing now) has not managed to negate the nefarious effects of so many decades of ass-sitting. So unfortunately, no matter how much I exercise or diet, my ass will always look like a slightly-squashed croissant.

No matter. I have other redeeming qualities. But I digress.

I’m always worried about my ass. How it looks in a slinky pencil skirt, how it looks in red workout tights, how it looks in a bikini bottom. Should I cover it, should I flaunt it, should I disguise it? (My Little Voice: Mary, you’re 54. Yes to questions 1 and 3). I worry about the cellulite in it, the dimples in it, the sagging of it. But here’s the thing, the crazy thing:

I never said I hate my ass. I actually like it. It’s strong, and it has made me a great tennis player and golfer. It has gotten me through 54 years of adolescence to college to career to marriage to family to travel to now. And truth be told, if I was a guy looking at my ass, I would like it. It’s strong, shapely, and looks great in dresses.

But this isn’t a post about my ass, even though it seems to be leading there. Well, it led there. This post is simply another accolade for the wonders of nature. Because when I am on adventure travel, not only do I forget about the size of my ass, I forget about other pretentious things. Like doing my hair. Applying makeup. Teeth whitening, hair highlights, pedicures, and spray tans. I forget about scheduled meals, chocolate cravings, Diet Coke, brushing my teeth (ew, sorry), and washing my hair (yay hats!).

Nature simply doesn’t care.

Most people on the trail don’t care, either. I make do with a hat. Some breathspray. Water. A trail bar and an apple. My trusty Burt’s Bees lip balm. And when I look in the mirror at the end of a day well-spent scrambling around the planet, I look rough, but happy. Flushed and healthy. My eyes are clear, my smile is wide, and my ass is forgotten.

But of course when you get home, your ass is right there waiting for you, stubborn and still refusing to fit into your skinny jeans. Suddenly, your dirty hair and soiled nails don’t look as cute as they did on the trail, and electrolysis and dermabrasion seem to start making more sense. You get undressed to get in the shower, and you turn around for about the zillionth time in your life to look back in the mirror. You’re actually a little surprised that your ass is still there, and still not heart-shaped. Will it ever listen to reason, you wonder? How many rock faces do you need to crawl on before it perks up? You’re thinking it could show a little more gratitude for the fun you show it.  

But you smile in the shower, and as you think of your outside exploits, and feel the hot water soothe your tired limbs, you know you wouldn’t give up this feeling for anything.

Not for the all the heart-shaped asses in the world.

Orange is the New Ugly

I like adventure travel. I love adventure travel. But I don’t want to die while doing it. Here are some things I try to avoid while traveling:

Drowning in large bodies of water

Getting abducted

Being gored, mauled or eaten by fanged and clawed and taloned creatures

Getting lost on remote hiking trails

Getting crushed by trains and semis

Falling into crevasses

Eating poisoned berries

Getting shot in game reserves during hunting season

This last one is the prevalent point, because Sunday, as I searched for out-of-the-way hiking trails, I was brutally rebuffed at every turn.

Hiking trail: Closed.

Pedestrian Bridge to Trailhead: Closed.

Park Gate: Closed.

Foliage Tour: Closed

But eventually I found a great trail with this sign:

“Game Reserve Open to the Public. Visitors Be Aware: Hunters Wear Orange. So Should You.”

I turned around, obviously. Besides the fact that I didn’t want to get shot, stuffed and inevitably mounted over someone’s billiard table (I mean, unless we’re talking about getting mounted in the fun way), I also bridled at the suggestion of wearing orange. I look terrible in orange. My skin complexion just can’t pull it off. I won’t wear it. I’ve accepted that Looking Ugly on Occasion is part of adventure travel, but There is Only So Ugly I Will Allow Myself to Get. A hat and some tinted lip balm can cure much of Adventure-Travel Ugly, but nothing can cure Orange-Ugly. I won’t wear it. Just ask anyone who traveled with me in Iceland.

One day, as we were about to set off for our daily ride, the dashing young Icelandic trail guide handed me a pile of bulky foul-weather gear. Orange. I immediately handed it back to him.

“I’m not wearing this.”

The handsome young trail guide gave me that sexy smirk he had been giving me all week. My foibles and missteps seemed to be a constant source of amusement to him, and when he smiled like that, it usually came accompanied with an affectionate shake of his head and the endearment, “American ladies.”

But on this day, he simply smirked and regarded the gear.

“Why won’t you wear?”

“It’s ugly. It’s orange.”

“It’s raining. It will rain all day. We have an eight-hour ride today. You’ll be soaked to the bone.”

“I have a rain jacket,” I said.

“Where is it?” Still with the smile.

I pulled out my cute Athleta windbreaker, and he burst out laughing.

“That thing? That won’t keep you dry.”

I shrugged. “Then I guess I’m getting wet.”

And get wet I did. But I never complained, and I emerged triumphantly from that excursion with no documented photographic evidence of me in an orange jumpsuit.

(The guides kept trying to hand me the orange jumpsuit throughout the week, and I would refuse it each time- it became like our private joke, much like the unfortunate fact that I was incapable of getting up on my horse by myself. They would have to position my horse near a rock or near an incline, or offer me their shoulder, just to get me in the saddle. Short legs and all. It was humiliating. But I digress).  

On one of our last days, Cocky Guide smilingly handed me mosquito netting that was to be affixed over my riding helmet. It turned out that our ride that day was in an area notorious for the tiny attacking winged-hellions. I looked at it. Looked back at him. And again, handed it back.

“No way.”

“Mar-ee, you have to, this one isn’t optional.”

I took it, tired of being a diva.

“Fine. I’ll carry it. But I’m not wearing it. Look at this thing. It’s ridiculous.”

He came in close and fixed his blue eyes on mine.

“Why will you not listen? Remember I told you to always put your helmet face down when we stop for lunch? Yes? And yesterday you ignore me. Remember?”

Damn. He had to bring that up. Low blow.

I avoided his gaze. “Yes, I remember.”

He folded his arms across his barrel-chest.

“And what happened?”

I pretended to become very busy with the saddle that I had no idea how to put on my horse.

“Mar-ee? Do you remember what happened?

“Of course, I was there.”

“And what happened?”

I paused and looked at him. “My horse took a shit in my helmet.”

He smiled in satisfaction.

“Ah, yes. That’s right. Your horse took a shit in your helmet. And who had to clean it out?”

“You, but I offered to do it.” I was chagrined.

“No American lady needs to do that. But you see, who is always right?”

“Jon William. Jon William is always right.”

The smile.

“So you will wear the netting?”

“No.”

He sighed and walked away.

What the hell is wrong with you, you might be thinking. Just wear the required gear.

Here’s my rationale for that theory: Fuck you. When you are a mediocre equestrian (at best) riding an unfamiliar horse on unfamiliar terrain using an unfamiliar gait germane and native only to the country of Iceland (see: tolt), and doing it all in the pouring rain, the less distraction the better. Start adding layers and nylon and neoprene and netting to my act and watch disaster ensue.

And yes, I was attacked by mosquitoes, but only when we stopped riding. I was like a warm, prescient pile of meat, a veritable abattoir for mosquito cuisine. But it wasn’t too bad, and again, there are no pictures of me in that ridiculous thing.

Victory again.

I am returning to Iceland in 2021, and I am working at the gym on high step benches in order to develop the butt muscles necessary to redeem myself. I intend to be able to get up on my horse by myself. You’ll see, ladies, I’ll make you proud of me.

Just don’t hand me anything orange.

Cabin 23

I knew I was on the right track when signs disappeared.

I had been looking for somewhere remote to stay for the weekend. My dog gone less than a week, I was hearing his floofy-scratchy noises in every corner of the house. I wanted to escape to a place where it was just me, my books, some fall foliage, and maybe a coffee pot in a spare room. I didn’t want luxury. I had my fill of that in Scottsdale. All I needed now was nature, an electrical outlet, some hiking trails and quiet.

Simplicity.

I wanted a place that didn’t cater to children, so I eschewed any place that advertised heated pools, S’mores nights, game rooms, playgrounds, indoor water parks, gift shops and amusement parks. I wanted a place with an almost non-existent list of amenities. I finally found it here, where I write from cabin 23. Here was the list of amenities on the website:

Outdoor wood-burning stove

Outdoor games

Picnic table

Adirondack chairs

Charcoal grill

Woodpile and foliage views

Pinecones

Pinecones as an amenity? Hell yah.

As the GPS took me off the highway, my car began winding through foliage-strewn rural roads, almost as if the GPS lady had heard my silent plea: “Take me off the beaten path. I want to see stone walls, jaunty red barns, bubbling brooks, old stoic cemeteries, perky farms. Cows, horses and sheep. And please make sure the trees have the late autumn hues of bright yellow, orange and red.”

Done and done.

And now I am here. In cabin 23. I won’t lie and say it doesn’t have some modern trappings. My cabin has a television, although I haven’t used it, nor have I used the gas fireplace. Yet. And there are other people here, judging from the cars. But they’re not in cabin 23. And other than the friendly bartender who made me a martini last night at the inn’s little restaurant, I haven’t seen or heard or met up with anyone. And that’s just the way I like it.

(You: Yeah, Mary, martinis are really roughing it.

Me: Hey, I never said I was Thoreau.)

Precious solitude. I could talk about solitude forever. I could write a book about it right now. My collection of books on the subject of solitude number higher than on any other theme in my collection besides nature and adventure travel. I have read Party of One: The Loner’s Manifesto a hundred times. It sits beside me right now. It is my Bible.

Being alone. Enjoying silence. Having the ability to think and breathe and live. Most people are afraid to be alone, I know. When my late Hub needed to make a quick trip to Home Depot, he would make ten phone calls just to find company for the twenty-minute ride. That was just him. And that was fine. I actually found it charming.

But it’s not me, and here’s a confession: other than every waking breath I have ever spent with my sons, I have spent the happiest moments of my life alone. A moment on a quiet desert trail. A triumphant pause at the top of a mountain. A walk on a deserted cold wind-swept beach. A cup of coffee enjoyed alone on a balcony overlooking a severe mountain vista. A cold beer or glass of Pinot savored at a deserted outside trattoria. A boat ride alone, bobbing and weaving through the waves on my boat. Breakfast right now, at this remote country restaurant, as I sip coffee and write, knowing I am where I’m meant to be, knowing all is right with the world.

What a weirdo, you’re thinking.

That’s o.k. Everyone thinks we’re weird, us solitary folk. Us loners. And that’s fine. Just know that we find you weird, too. The energy you put into making sure you always have someone around, to always have noise and chatter and music and cacophony, confounds us. You can’t vacation alone. You can’t grab lunch alone. You can’t spend a quiet Saturday night alone. You say you often find us odd and pathetic?

We often find you sad and desperate.

But no matter. Different strokes for different folks, and anyway, society rewards the extroverted, or haven’t you heard? The more friends, the more parties, the more events, the more noise and laughter and chatter and explosions of energy, the more popular you are, right? The more your life is validated? Because how can your life possibly be seen as a failure when you have all of these people around you? Is it not that state of being busy and loud that defines a life worth living? When you are vacationing with twelve other couples? When you are booked solid with social engagements every weekend through 2022? When you are so uneasy with the sound of your own thoughts that you can’t even take a pleasant walk without talking (loudly, so everyone can hear you) on your phone?

You exhaust us.

Hey, I’m sorry, who am I to judge? All I’m saying is that those of us who don’t need that, who don’t want that, have to work very very hard to keep away from it. And from you. You must understand this: our lifestyle is a personal choice. We don’t care about your social calendars, we don’t care about your dinner parties, or your couples’ vacations, or the exercise classes you take with forty of your closest “friends.” We’re happy for you. Enjoy it. You want to live your life like a beer commercial? Good for you.

We’d rather live our lives like a Taster’s Choice commercial.

You extroverted people-pleasers are lucky. Your lifestyle is easily sustainable. You can pick up the phone and find dinner companions in an instant. Boom, company and noise. It’s tougher for us. We have to either sit in our houses, or get in our cars and drive to a remote mountain inns guaranteed to provide us with the solitude we so desperately crave.

I will be writing more on solitude in the coming months, but right now, I need more coffee and then a strenuous hike. And there is a woman walking the hiking trail next to where I sit quietly who is talking loudly into her Bluetooth at 6:51 a.m. about her plans for that day. She is shopping with Celia. Then going to lunch. Then she and Celia are meeting Don and Joe for a hike. And it should be fun. She also was kind enough to divulge in those ten seconds which trail she is using.

You can be sure I’ll be avoiding that one.