Ruthi Postow Birch's Blog, page 8

The Good Samaritan’s Wife

Everyone knows the story of the Good Samaritan, the epitome of kindness and generosity. But did you ever think about what life must have been like for his wife? 

I’m married to a good Samaritan. Ron’s world is full of people who need him to care about them, help them, solve their problems. He knows they’re out there, and at the feeblest sign of a person in distress, he is overwhelmed with goodness and compelled to respond. He must because he is the only one who can — the cost or risk be hanged. 

The risk to us is monumental these days because the raging pandemic puts us both at risk. We are the people other people should wear masks to protect. We’ve been practicing safety. We haven’t seen another person up-close or been inside a store or restaurant in nine months. We take socially-distant outings — windows-up car drives to beautiful scenic places — Leesburg, Mount Vernon, picturesque towns — gaze at them through the car windows, then drive back. Sometimes we take a picnic. 

But even a plague can’t keep Ron’s good-doer compulsion from surging out of control, as it did on one beautiful, warm December afternoon. We were taking a drive around Old Town Alexandria, looking at the Christmas decorations, when we passed a woman sitting on the sidewalk in front of her house. She was tying her shoe. A bicycle leaned against the fence. A man was wheeling another bike from the house. They were going for a ride on this nice day. That’s the scene I saw. 

Ron saw a totally different scene. He saw a woman in distress, a woman needing his help. However improbable that was, the urge overtook him and he threw safety to the winds. 

I was driving past the scene when he yelled, “Stop!”  

“What?” I asked, driving on. 

“Go back!” 

“Why?”  

“She’s on the ground.” 

“Who?”  

“The woman back there.” 

“She was just tying her shoe.”  

We reached the stop sign at the end of the block. 

“Turn around!” he demanded, waving his arm frantically.  

“No!” I said and quickly drove on as I sensed him reaching for the door handle. 

“She may have fallen. We have to go back and see if we can help her.” 

“No, we don’t!” 

“She may need help. Go back!” 

“She’s fine.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“Her husband is with her.” 

“He’s carrying the bicycle. He may not see her. Turn around!” 

“No. We are in the middle of a pandemic! We’re quarantined. Remember?” 

“Yes, but if she needs our help…” 

“Ron, if we did go back, we couldn’t get out of the car. She isn’t wearing a mask. You couldn’t go near her.” 

“We could do something.” 

I’m doing something. I’m driving us home.” 

*To set the record straight, it’s a myth that he tried to drag a blind man across a street, the man didn’t want to cross. Ron barely nudged him.  

Ron knows some people may have a need that is not obvious. They may have feelings they crave to share with him, and he feels it’s only right to give them the opportunity. So, he begins every chance meeting or phone conversation, whether with friend or stranger, by asking, “How are you?” 

It makes me crazy. 

If he’s calling the city to complain about potholes or overhanging branches, he begins, “How are you?” 

If he’s calling Comcast because the cable is down, every person he must go through to reach the right person at the cable company is greeted, “How are you?” 

If he’s calling the plumber to have the pipes snaked, he asks the secretary who answers the phone, “How are you?”  

I could hear her answer, in a bored cigarette rasp, was, “Okay. Fine. Whatta ya need?” 

It’s the same for the cashier at Ace Hardware, for the receptionist at the dentist’s office, and for the man from the irrigation service who has come three times and still doesn’t have the pipes working. I guarantee he will also ask the conductor stamping tickets on Amtrak — if we ever get to go on a train again. (Sob!) 

I snap, “Ron, stop! Why do you care about the state of a total stranger?” 

“It’s just a nice way to start.” 

“But what if they tell you?”  (That would be my biggest fear and a good reason for not asking — I’m not a Samaritan.) 

“That’s okay. I’d listen. Maybe I could help.” 

“What if they don’t care to share intimate details with you?” 

“They don’t have to.” 

“I’d tell you it’s none of your business.” 

“That’s okay.” 

“I’d hang up on you!”  

“You couldn’t. You married me.” 

Yes, I did — and sometimes I can’t help but wonder if he only married me because he thought I was so distressed and such a desperate case that the only way to save me was by marrying me. 

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A Thanksgiving Story: Conversations with My 94-Year Old Aunt

October 7th – Call to Aunt Faye


Faye:  Hello.



 

Me:    Hello, Aunt Faye.  Happy birthday!

 



Faye:     Who is this?

 



Me, yelling:   Ruthi.

 



Faye:     Who?

 



Me, louder:   Ruthi, your niece.

 



Faye:    Who are you?  What do you want?

 



Me:  I called to say happy birthday.

 



Faye:  I don’t know you. I’m old. Why are you bothering me?

 

                                CLICK!

 






October  19th  – Visit with Aunt Faye and Shirley (Aunt Faye’s daughter)

Hugs all around.


Faye:   Come in the kitchen. I made coffee cake.



Me:   Aunt Faye, you look beautiful. Is that a new dress?



Faye:  What?



Me:  Your dress. Is it new?



Faye:  Shirley picked it out. I don’t like it. It’s drab. I don’t know why she picks out dull colors for me. I like bright colors. She made me give away all my six-inch heels last year. Now she dresses me in dull colors like she’s getting ready to bury me.



Shirley: Mama, you were right there in the store and said you liked the dress. And you’d fall in those heels.



Faye: It’s alright. I put a scarf with it so people don’t think I’m dead and bury me.







Me, laughing: Aunt Faye, nobody could mistake you for dead! you’re wonderful. I love you so much.



Faye: Why don’t you ever call me then?



Me: I do. I called you last Friday.



Faye: Shirley, why didn’t you tell me?



Me: Shirley wasn’t there. You answered the phone but you couldn’t hear me.



Faye: My hearing aids don’t work. I can’t hear a thing.



Me: You said you didn’t know me and hung up.



Faye: Well, call me anyway.



Shirley: I’m taking her to get new hearing aids next week.



Me: That’s good news, Aunt Faye. Then you can hear me.


October  31st – Call


Me: Hello, Aunt Faye, it’s Ruthi.



Faye: Who is this?



Me, shouting: Ruthi Birch.



Faye: Who?



Me: Your niece, Ruthi.



Faye: I don’t know you. What do you want?



Me: To talk to Shirley.



Faye: There’s no Jerry here.

 

                                CLICK!

November 8th – Call


Nurse: Hello.



Me: This is Faye’s niece, Ruthi. Is she awake?



Faye, yelling in the background:  Who is it?



Nurse: It’s Ruthi.



Faye, yelling: Hang up. I don’t know any Bruce. It’s probably one those people who call all the time to buy my house and put me on the street. Tell them to put it in the mail.



Nurse, yelling: No. It’s your niece.



Faye: Rita? Why’s she bothering me? I never liked her. She’s always got some new ailment. Tell her I’m dead.



Nurse to me: I think you should try again when Shirley’s home.




November 26th – Visit Thanksgiving morning

Hugs.


Faye: Why are you here so early? Dinner’s not till two.



Me: I wanted to see you for Thanksgiving. I can’t stay for dinner because I’m going to Florida.



Faye: That’s good. It’s warm there. We’ll have too many people here anyway.



Me: I brought you something. I found this Frank Sinatra record and remembered you have a record player, so I got it for you.



Faye: I have that one already, but it’s okay. Mine is scratched. Come in here. I’ll play it.



~Plays record at top volume~



Faye: Come on. Get up and dance with me.    



We dance. She leads.



Me: Aunt Faye, you’ve still got it!



Faye: You bet I do.







Me: I hate to leave you, but I have to go to the airport. I’ll call you – I wish you could hear me. When are you getting your new hearing aids?



Faye: I got them. But I never wear them. They’re too much trouble.



Me: Please wear them. I like to talk with you. The last time I called, the nurse answered. She told you I was on the phone, but you thought she said it was Rita.



Faye: Why would she call me?



Me: To talk? I saw her when I was in New York. She asked about you. Rita is one of the few people left from when you were a girl.



Faye: I never liked her. She was sour. She couldn’t get a date. I was popular. I had boyfriends and went out. She couldn’t even get a date to the prom. Her brother had to pay my brother to take her.



Me: Her heart’s bad. She’s been in the hospital.



Faye: That’s Rita! To hear her tell it she’s been living the last 20 years at deaths door. And, honestly, I never liked her. She never smiled. It’s no wonder she couldn’t get a date.



Me: I have to go. I’ll call you, so wear your hearing aids!



Faye: Tell me when you’re going to call, and I’ll put them in.



Me:                        Bye, Aunt Faye. I love you lots.



Faye, blowing kisses: I love you. Call me, and use hand sanitizer on the plane. Those things are full of germs.








November 29th –  Call


Faye: Hello. Who is this?



Me: It’s Ruthi, Aunt Faye.



Faye: Who? Talk louder. I can’t hear you.



Me, yelling: Ruthi.



Faye: Who?



Me, louder: Ruthi, your niece.



Faye: I can’t hear you. What do you want?



Me: Just to tell you I love you.



Faye:  I don’t know you. Why are you bothering me?

 


CLICK!

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“He Needed Shootin'” & Other Crazy Things I Heard Grownups Say

When the grownups got together, they mostly talked about boring stuff — kinfolks, marriages, funerals, babies, whisky drinkers, sinners, and saved sinners. But sometimes, when they didn’t think I was listening, they said crazy things — and laughed. Grownups thought the most peculiar things were funny.  

I heard Aunt Belle tell Mama —  
“Ben needed shooting, so Eula shot him.” 

It was when I was seven. We were visiting Mama’s cousin Belle. After supper, I was playing with my Pick-Up Sticks. Aunt Belle was telling Mama about Aunt Eula and her husband, Uncle Ben.  

“Since Ben got out of the hospital — he was only there overnight. She just winged him. Since he got out, he’s changed — stopped all his cattin’ around, cussing, and meanness.” 

 “Praise the Lord,” said Mama. “Ben made Eula’s life a misery. I told her to leave him the first time he hit her. What will happen to her?” 

“Not a thing. The police knew about Ben. Everybody knew. Ben needed shooting and Eula shot him.”  

She laughed. I didn’t know why that was funny, but I perked up, all ears, to find out if it was a joke, and why Uncle Ben needed shooting, and if Aunt Eula really shot him. 

Just then, Grandma noticed me listening. She looked at Bell, put a finger to her mouth, and said, “Little pitchers have big ears.” That meant they’d send me out to play in the yard. They didn’t think I knew their trick, but I’d figured out when I was five.  

And I heard Daddy tell Mama —  
“I tell you, if  Berthel ever wants to kill Harley, all she’ll have to do is wash him.” 

Uncle Harley was Daddy’s cousin. He and Aunt Berthel lived two counties over from us. One Sunday, we were on our way home from visiting them when I heard Daddy say that. I knew he was kidding because he laughed.  

Then he said, “I don’t know where Harley gets it. Our people aren’t dirty. I care a lot about him because he was always good to me when I was a boy, but it’s hard to spend time at his place.” 

He sounded sad for a minute, then laughed again. “Dirt and spit are all that’s holding the man together. Wash it off and he’ll go right down the drain with the water – dirt, grease, and all!”  

I pictured Aunt Berthel trying to wash Uncle Harley.  

Mama said, “Berthel told me they caught a pair of skunks and they’re keeping them as pets?”  

“Oh, yeah. Harley’s real proud of them. He showed me. He has them in cages by the back porch.” 

Mama made a face. “That’s right by the kitchen window. The smell!” 

Daddy said, “Yep. I don’t see how the poor little skunks can stand it.”  

When I got home I tried to draw Uncle Harley going down the drain. I couldn’t make it come out right, so I drew a picture of Aunt Berthel trying to make him get in the tub instead. I made drawings of the skunks too. 

And I heard Aunt Mattie tell Mama —   
“Oh, I have to tell you what Minkie’s done now — wrecked a man’s car.” 

Aunt Minkie and Aunt Mattie were Mama’s aunts.  

Aunt Minkie was always doing funny crazy, funny things — like the time she yelled at a policeman and ran over his foot.  

They lived in Quincy, Florida, near where Mama had grown up. Aunt Mattie had a farm. She came to visit us every autumn after her crops were in, and always brought good things to eat, funny stories about Aunt Minkie, and lots of pictures. 

Most of her pictures were of weird things — an old fence, a settee, a road, a cattle gap, and houses.  

Grownups were always taking pictures of things that didn’t matter and showing them to each other.  

She held up a picture, and said, “Look here — W.B.’s (Mama’s daddy) new cattle gap. Now old Popeye can’t wander off. And here’s Gert’s new settee. And here’s…” 

Suddenly, Aunt Mattie laughed, and said, “Oh, I have to tell you what Minkie’s done now!” 

“Louise’s two girls, Inez and Bea, married two brothers — isn’t that something? And they built real nice houses right across from each other on the road to Gretna. W.B. offered to take Minkie to see them. She humphed and said she was perfectly able to drive herself. She’s pushing ninety and ought to not be driving, but she’s stubborn. Anyway, she got in that big old Hudson of hers and drove to the houses. That road’s only two-lanes, and the girls have driveways, but Minkie didn’t bother with them. She stopped in the road in front of Bea’s house. Then, she pulled across the road to look at Inez’s — just parked herself in the oncoming lane. 

“Inez told me she had come out after saw Minkie’s car. She was walking towards her when she saw a car come up over the rise —straight at Minkie. The man in the other car must have seen her car in his lane because he pulled around. Just as he did, Minkie jerked her car over and crashed into him.” 

“Lucky they weren’t killed. Inez said the man climbed out, holding his head, and looked at his banged-up car. Minkie came charging at him, mad as a hornet. 

“‘You had no business getting in my lane. You can thank the Lord I’m alive! You came all-around killing me!’  

“The man told her she was in his lane. Then he said, ‘Ma’am, you shouldn’t be driving.’ 

“When Minkie heard that, she went right up in his face, shook her finger, and spoke to him like he was dim-witted. 

“I had to see my niece’s new house! You should have known I’d move back to my lane!’”  

Mama and Aunt Mattie laughed and went back to looking at pictures of boring stuff. I figured that was the end of the good stories, and went outside. 

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TOP 10 WEIRDEST THINGS TO SAY OR DO IN A JOB INTERVIEW

#10 

“I had to quit! That company plays hardball — always pressuring me to do more, but they didn’t fool me. I knew what they were up to. If I’d done more, they’d have just kept demanding more.” 

#9 

“They fired me just because I didn’t agree with their sales methods. But I just can’t arm-twist customers to buy more than they need. If someone bought a dress, they wanted me to push her to buy two more items – a scarf or a blouse maybe.  That’s just not right. Customers know what they need. I’m just not a pushy person. I’m nice. The customers liked me, but that didn’t matter. All my manager cared about was hitting sales quotas.” 

#8 

“I quit because I’m a very ethical person. My principles won’t let me work with people who don’t meet my moral standards. Twice, when I went into Mr. Jones’ office, he closed his computer screen so I couldn’t see what he’d been looking at. I knew it must be porn. And he wasn’t the only one I suspected.” 

#7   

“I had to quit. My boss humiliated me. He closed some big deal and came out of his office, cheering. But then, he grabbed the back of my chair and danced it around in a circle — in front of the whole office. I went to the HR manager in tears. I couldn’t go back and face those people after that.”     

#6 

“Tell you about myself? Hmmm … Okay. I’m a Christian and my father is gay.” 

#5   

“My favorite job? My last one definitely. My boss was so fun. We ate lunch together every day and we read Playboy Magazine. I’m really sorry his wife decided she was tired of staying at home and came back to run the office. If that hadn’t happened I’d have stayed there forever. I just hope my next boss is as much fun.” 

 

#4  

“My experience …. Well, men find me attractive.” 

#3 

Bring a kitchen timer into the interview. Put the timer on the interviewer’s desk. Set it for fifteen minutes. When it goes off, pick it up. Tell the interviewed, “I see our time is up. I’ll be available for a follow-up meeting next Tuesday afternoon.” And leave. 

#2 

“Before we get too far along, I have a question. Do you do drug testing?”  

AND THE #1 WEIRDEST THING TO DO OR SAY IN A JOB INTERVIEW 

“I had to quit because the building was too small and isolated to meet my needs. The truth is I shouldn’t have taken the job. I’d always worked in large buildings before, buildings with enough businessmen, so I was satisfied — if you know what I mean. Mr. Smith is nice, but he’s getting older, and there are only two other men in the building. You can see how that’s not enough.  

Before I came to my interview with you today, I looked at the roster downstairs — your building is perfect for me.” 

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Too-Close Encounters of a Weird Kind- Or Why Me?

Too-close encounter of a weird kind: an encounter with a stranger, or almost-stranger, who opens up and shares secrets — personal secrets, shocking secrets, secrets I never wanted to hear. 

I used to have this kind of encounter all the time although I tried to avoid them – but that was before COVID-19. Now, I’d welcome any encounter …. SOB! 

I was just out of college when I had one of my first too-close encounters. I was beginning my second week as a middle school history teacher in Georgia. That morning I’d come in early and was alone in the teachers’ lounge working on lesson plans.  

Suddenly, another teacher burst in, with a loud, “Coffee!! Where’s the coffee?”  

I assumed it was a rhetorical question. 

She poured and took a gulp, then crooned, “Perfect!” — to the coffee, I assumed. 

She took another gulp, gave a sigh, and chirped, “Hi. Just can’t function without my wake-up coffee!” 

I smiled and said, “I get it,” and went back to wrestling with how to make the founding of Georgia interesting to twelve and thirteen-year-olds.  

She settled on the couch with the newspaper, but a minute later she was talking again. “I’m absolutely dead this morning. My husband kept me up half the night.” I looked up to see if someone else had come in, maybe someone she knew, but no. So, I had to suppose she was talking to me — but why? 

“He decided he had to make love — at three a.m.!” She sighed and giggled, then added, “You’d think having sex twice last night would have been enough for him!” She looked at me with a little wonky smile. 

Why is she telling me about her sex life? I gave a little shrug and a half-smile that I hoped were response enough.  

She was looking at me. Did she expect me to say something? Had she meant this to be a conversation starter? What could I say? Poor thing? Lucky you? 

Instead, I said, “Wow,” and pointed at the clock. “It’s almost time for the bell.” Grabbing up my papers, I said, “I’d better get to my classroom. See ya.” That ended our encounter, for good, I hoped. 

But I was to have another too-close encounter the very next week. That same woman with the sex-crazed husband caught me alone in the teachers’ lounge again. 

Without greeting or preamble, she said, “You have to hear what my two-year-old did!”  

So, she had a child (well-earned it seemed). And she thought I’d be interested? I wasn’t. I kept working, pretending I hadn’t heard her. 

But she burbled on, “Listen! You’ll love this! It was the cutest thing — I wish I’d had my camera. Saturday morning I had the clean laundry piled up on my bed to fold. She climbed up in the middle of it, pulled down her diaper, and peed. It was so funny. I laughed and laughed,” she said, laughing again. 

I offered a weak smile in spite of the awful image that was thrust into my mind — this woman and her crazed husband having sex on a pee-stained bed. 

Our encounter was broken up when two other teachers came in, talking heatedly about a plan that threatened to thrust me into another encounter — this one of the most terrifying kind — a committee.  

“Some teachers are just rude,” said the math teacher. “Look, right here, a dirty coffee cup left someone to clean up.” 

The geometry teacher agreed and added her own condemnation. “Some of them never refill the paper tray on the copier. I’ll bet it’s empty right now. I going to ask Mr. Thompson to form a committee on teachers’ lounge etiquette.” 

Fearing I’d be drafted, I whisked up my papers and escaped to my classroom, a valuable lesson learned — the teachers’ lounge was a place where weird encounters could happen any time. In the future, I’d do my paperwork at my desk. 

Since those early too-close encounters, I’ve gone through life, shrinking away from one after another — until last March. Now, I’ve had no encounters at all for months and months and there’s little chance for one in the coming months. I used to be shocked and annoyed by them. Now I’m just lonely — SOB! 

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How to Find Love — Ask Directions & Have a Sense Of Humor

I married a litigator and I love him. He’s a great litigator because he never walks into court until he has asked and re-asked every question (he never trusts the first answer), checked, and rechecked every detail. It’s made him successful and it drives me crazy — especially when we are going anywhere in a car. 

Say we’re taking a drive to the beach.  

We’re on the way to – nowhere in particular.  

We’re coming to the traffic light where the highway dead-ends at the beach road.  

A choice has to be made. Choices without information are agonizing. 

“Which way?” he asks. 

“It doesn’t matter. Either way.” 

The light turns red and we stop. 

I muse, “I remember a good custard shop somewhere on this road – Pop’s, I think.” 

“Which way do I turn to get there?” he asks. 

“I don’t remember, but it doesn’t matter. There are lots of places. Let’s just drive along the water.” 

“Which way?” he asks again.   

A family in bathing suits and flip-flops is crossing the street.  

The father trudges across in front, lugging a beach bag and dragging a spirited little boy.  

The wife is similarly loaded down with a baby carriage and pouting girl.  

Ron sees them, and I think, “Uh oh!” 

Slowly, he turns. Inch by inch, he rolls down his window. 

He sticks his head out and calls to the man, “Hey, there’s a Pop’s Custard somewhere around here. Do you know which way?” 

The man stops in the middle of the road, and calls back, “What?” 

I imagine his wife rolling her eyes behind her dark glasses. 

Their green light changes to yellow. The man is still staring at Ron. 

Ron shouts, “POP’S CUSTARD STAND – which way is it?”  

The man yells back, “I’m not from here.” 

The light has changed. The wife is screaming and dragging the little girl. Horns are blowing.  

The man looks at the red light and the cars in horror and gallops on, almost losing the boy. 

Ron sees a new group lining up to wait for the light to change. 

I say. “No! Do NOT ask any more people! You’re in the left lane, so turn left!” 

Ron makes the turn but he’s uneasy. “Should I pull into a gas station and ask?” 

Another time, we were in Chicago and decided to go to the Art Institute.  

We were driving to the museum through the howl and swish of rush hour (it’s always rush hour in Chicago).  

“The doorman said to take Washington. Have we missed it?” Ron asks. “Catch a street sign.” 

“We’re on Washington and we’re headed toward Michigan Avenue.” 

“Which way do I turn when we get there?” 

“It’s five or six blocks ahead, and you don’t turn on Michigan. You turn right on South Columbus.” 

“The institute is on Michigan. Are you sure we don’t turn there?” 

“No. We pass Michigan and turn right on South Columbus.”  

“We need the route to the parking lot.” 

“Once we turn on South Columbus, there’ll be a sign.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“I’m sure. I have a map with the directions.” 

“Show me,” he says as he turns his head away from the traffic swooshing around us.  

The car swerves towards a bus. 

I scream. “I’m sure. Look at the road!” 

A man in a convertible is on Ron’s left. Ron sees him and … 

Slowly, he turns. He rolls down his window, inch by inch, and I think, ‘We’re going to die!’ 

Ron honks and waves to get the guy’s attention, and yells, “Hey, is this the way to the Art Institute’s parking lot?”  

The convertible speeds away. 

“South Columbus is the next block. Turn right.” 

“Which way?” 

“Right.” 

There are people standing on the corner. Ron sees them. 

Slowly, his hand is moving toward the button to roll down the window.   

I scream. “Don’t do it! Just turn right, damn it!” 

We arrive at the lot and I exhale. 

I wish I’d been there. But Ron’s friend John was there and told me about this one.  

The two men had just finished a meeting on Connecticut Avenue and were headed to another meeting at the new Palm restaurant, that had just opened on 19th Street.  

They reached N Street and John started to turn West. 

Ron stopped. “I think it’s the other way.”  

“No. I’ve been there. It’s between Jefferson Place and N.” 

“I know but I think it’s this way,” said Ron, turning. “I don’t want to be late. Let’s ask someone.”  

John smiled. It was always fun when Ron asked directions. 

A man in a business suit was standing on the corner.  

“He probably knows the Palm.” said Ron, as he walked up to the man who wore very dark glasses and carried a white cane. 

John bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud. 

“Can you give us directions to The Palm restaurant? It’s on 19th Street.” 

The man held up his hands in a bewildered gesture and started to back away. 

“The Palm on 19th Street, repeated Ron.”  

John quickly grabbed Ron’s arm, thanked the man, and dragged Ron to the Palm, laughing all the way. 

John was still telling that story fifty years later. 

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Who Eats Meatballs on an Airplane & Why Do They Sit By Me?

  Have you ever been caught up in a terrible predicament you were helpless to get out of? Then you ask yourself the question – How did I get myself into this mess? 

It was my own fault – I could have bought my own airplane tickets. But no! I had my assistant get them. I shouldn’t have assumed she’d know where I’d want to sit. But I did. I should have checked my seat number before I was getting on the plane. But I didn’t.  

So, I didn’t know till I boarded the plane that I had the middle seat in the very last row – a few feet from the toilet and across the aisle from a man who was already snoring. 

I put on my headphones and opened my book, telling myself I could endure anything for a couple of hours. Then, I looked up and saw a boisterous family come bumping and joggling down the aisle – and they were headed directly toward me. Maybe I’d misjudged my power of endurance. 

Suddenly, I was surrounded – jammed between two oversized, bickering teens, and with a joke-cracking mom, nitpicking dad, and sticky-looking toddler in front of me, and the toilet behind me. The family talked non-stop and punctuated their comments with wild gesticulations, and the toddler kept standing on the seat and holding a half-eaten, half-smeared on her face chocolate bar. 

I offered to take either window or aisle so the teens could sit together.  

“No. I hate getting squashed,” said the boy. “Me too,” said the girl with a loud pop of her gum. 

The flight attendant came by, looked at me sympathetically, but gave the international palms-up sign for, “There’s nothing I can do. You’re stuck.” 

I turned my headphones to silent mode and resigned myself to accept the things I could not change.  

Then, before the plane even left the gate, Mom jumped up and stood on her knees on the seat, leaned over, and asked, “Who’s hungry?” in a voice that made it seem she might be asking the whole plane.  

Of course, they were in need of food – it was a whole two-hour flight.  

Other passengers turned to look at me, some sympathetically, others just happy they weren’t me.  

Mom stood up, knocking the headphones off the man in front of her, and took a greasy-looking box from where it sat on some man’s suitcoat in the overhead. Even before the box was open, the smell of garlic, onions, and cheese poured out.   

Mom gave the box to Dad, and she was on her knees again, leaning over the seat. “Who wants a meatball sub?”  

She couldn’t mean it, I thought. Who eats meatballs on an airplane? 

“I want the sub,” bellowed the boy on one side of me. “It’s cheesesteak for me,” announced the girl on my other side. “Is there any mustard?”  

Who puts mustard on Philly cheesesteaks? 

“Here you go,” said Mom, tossing her the little yellow packet that was destined to squirt on my jacket. 

The seatbelt sign came on, but the woman stayed up. The attendant came back and told her to sit down and buckle up, and gave me a look so pained I thought she might cry.  

Finally, the plane took off. Good! Only two hours to go, and they’re almost through eating. But they weren’t. Dad turned now, and asked, “What some fries?” He passed the greasy container to the boy. The girl wanted some too, so he passed the container across me, and two slinky limp fries plopped onto my lap.  

When the captain turned off the seatbelt sign, up popped Mom again, saying, “Did I tell you Sally is going to be at Grandma’s this week?” Blank stares from the teens, so Mom spoke louder. “Sally! You remember her. She came to your fourth birthday party. I can’t believe you forgot her!” She punctuated her exclamation with a chopping hand gesture that just missed my nose.  

Then the woman seemed to notice I was there for the first time. She grinned good-naturedly and said, “You’ll have to excuse us. We’re all keyed up because on our way to a family reunion. You know how families are.” 

No – I didn’t know how some families are, but I was learning.  

I didn’t actually wish for turbulent weather, but maybe just a little bump to make the captain would turn the seatbelt sign back on. I closed my eyes, leaned my seat back the half-inch it would go, and tried to imagine I was someplace else, someplace better … like …. anywhere.  

Of course, this happened in those carefree, pre-virus days when we didn’t have to worry about a deadly virus running amok in the plane and threatening to infect us. Ah, for the days when getting stuck in a bad seat was our greatest fear when flying.  

 

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What If You Could Be 16 Again – But Knowing All You Know Today?

If I could go back and be sixteen again, but knowing all I know today, would I want to? I’m not crazy about the idea of doing high school all over again. My Aunt Pauline told me high school would be the best time in my life. She was wrong. I’ve had much better times since then.  

But what if I did go back and I was 16 again? 

I know the first thing I’d do. I’d drop plane geometry. I wasn’t meant to use protractors or calculate the degrees in an angle. To this day, I don’t understand how the compass can still work as the pencil gets shorter. Plane geometry is a mystery, but it’s one I’ve never once in my life needed to solve. 

From my first hour in the class I knew I shouldn’t be there. The teacher, Mr. Jones, spent the entire first class period explaining how to open the textbook.  

“These books are new and we have to open them correctly so the spines don’t break. Now, everybody, open the front cover of your book – all the way. That’s it. Now, smooth it flat.” He looked around the room. “No, don’t bend it back. Smoooooth it.” Once he was satisfied with the smoothing, he said, “Now, do the same with the back cover. Okay. Now, turn back to the front. Open the first page, and smooth it down. Now, turn to the back … Now the front again….”

Actually, that was my best day in the class.  

I’d change dating next – That is, I wouldn’t do it.  It really wasn’t much fun. Actually, spending the day doing my hair and makeup and picking out what I’d wear on the date was the best part.  

I’d get over myself. High school could be very entertaining – comedy, drama, and most of its fiction. This time, I’d sit back and enjoy the show … 

Lovers nesting in corners, leaning in, staring into each other’s eyes – I wonder why they always looked so oddly anguished.


Girls bouncing between friends like shiny silver balls in a pinball machine – BFFs one day and hair-tearing enemies the next. 
The drama Jim and Billy cause by getting into a semester-long, fist, and mud-slinging feud over a girl who will eventually dump them both. But in the meantime, it’s fun for the rest of us getting to choose up sides and rumble.  
The indelible image of the middle-aged speech teacher with hair dyed red, wearing a pencil skirt and perching on her desk with her legs crossed. 
The sour-faced teacher who’s always skulking around with her inordinately large nose in the air, looking for offenses and seeming pained at the sound of laughter. I’m curious about whatever trauma so soured her on kids and fun.

I’d dance! Because I’d know the Watusi, the jerk, the swim, and the Freddie wouldn’t last forever, I’d dance, and  I wouldn’t care who I danced with as long as I was dancing. 

I’d go back to the hangout at Gulf Shores again – but the way it was when I was sixteen – before Gulf Shores was all high-rises and hotels. Then the only buildings in all that white sand were a couple of shell shops, a bar or two, and the Hangout, a hamburger stand with a cement dance floor and non-stop dance records by the Platters, Beach Boys, and the Mamas and Papas. I’d sing along again to Louie Louie — even though nobody ever understood the words.

I’d hang out at the A & W Root Beer stand to meet up with friends. I’d go to the teen dance at the Elks Club or the American Legion Hall. And the dance couldn’t end till they played The House of the Rising Sun.

I’d save my money to buy record albums and 45s by the Animals, Kinks, Troggs, Doors, and Herman’s Hermits, and I’d spend all day Saturday in my room with my best friend, listening to records and trying different hairstyles and makeup. 

I’d forget about how I looked and jump in the water. I wouldn’t lay on the sand trying to burn myself into the right shade of pretty. No matter how pasty white my legs were, I’d put on a bathing suit, go to the beach & ditch the cover-up. I’d dive in and let my makeup run and my hair get soggy– even if cute boys were around. 

I wouldn’t be a wimp when challenged by a mean girl. I’d laugh at snarky comments. 

I remember when I was 16,  one of the way-too-superior girls made a scene in the lunchroom. She pointed her finger at me and said, in a voice like grinding metal, “You went out with WL. Didn’t you?” I had, and for no reason felt guilty about it. 

She demanded, “Why?!  Why did you go out with him?”  

I didn’t know how to answer that, so I didn’t.  

She came closer and snarled, “I’m dating him, so you stay away from him.”  

I was okay with that. I’d already heard all WL knew about how great he was. But I knew everybody was looking at me. My face was crimson and I stammered something wimpy. 

But that wouldn’t happen today. I’d walk away from her, but throw back over my shoulder, “Okay, he’s all yours, but trust me, the jokes on you.”  

Some people I’d remember to avoid – Maybe you remember some of the same ones.  

The cute boy you had a crush on who never gave you the time of day. I wonder if he’s really as cute as I remember him. 
The judgmental, finger-pointing girl everybody was afraid of — I imagine she grew up to be the finger-pointing shrew of the PTA. 
The arrogant know-it-all boy who constantly found ways to put people down? I like to think he grew up to marry her. 
The boy who stood you up for a date? I hope he became the shrew’s second husband. 

If I could go back and be sixteen again, but knowing all I know today, would I? Maybe for a weekend, or even a week, it might be fun.   

But I like what I have right now – a brilliant husband, children who are grown and self-supporting, Mr. Magoo, my dog, a home, and a business. I sure wouldn’t like to have to start all over and build my life again.  

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Who’s Eating So Many Pickles? Isolation & Fickle Food Deliveries

I hate housework! I always knew I would. When I was eight years old, I made my first career decision. I told my mother, “When I grow up I’m getting a job and I’m gonna earn enough money to hire a maid so I’ll never have to clean a toilet. I didn’t want to mop floors either. So, I went to work, and as soon as I had the most basic necessities covered, my next dollars went to hiring a cleaning service. And I lived happily, not cleaning bathrooms – almost ever after. Then, this virus happened and now I’m on my own.   

Once I had just one job. I worked in an office – with people. I had meetings. I closed deals. And I usually got off at five. Now I work from home, locked quarantined which is just another word for imprisoned. I might as well be a thousand miles away from stores, malls, and the society of other people. And I have not one, but four jobs – and I never get off work. I forage for food, cook it, and preserve it. I sanitize, sweep, mop, and scrub until it’s time to sit at my computer to work from home. 

Securing food and other basic necessities of life used to be simple and secure. You forgot the toilet paper? No problem. Just run to the store. Now, like a subsistence farmer, I’m dependent on unpredictable harvests of grocery store deliveries, and their crops are seriously subject to droughts. The night before my delivery is supposed to come, I pace the floor, worrying that it may not come. Like an inept farmer, I don’t know what will grow so I plant twice what I need. 

When at last it arrives. I cover myself in an apron, Uggs, and latex gloves, and rush to gather it from my front steps. I expect some crops to fail. Some fail every time. This time there are no eggs, cheese, or butter, and for the third time in a row, no pickles, and I wonder out loud, “Who’s eating so many pickles?”  

But I have a dozen tomatoes, seven apples, and five of the biggest onions I’ve ever seen, along with seven carrots and a ten-pound bag of potatoes. How will I use so many potatoes? Could I trade some for pickles? I have to figure it out because we can’t afford to waste food. There’s no telling when we will get more.  

I continue to assess my haul – there are none of the hamburgers I ordered, but they sent two steaks and one chicken breast. We also have four sacks of all-purpose flour, and for some reason, a forty-eight-ounce jar of apple sauce.  

The fear of famine drives me to work furiously to preserve every morsel lest it goes bad before we can eat it. Pots of spaghetti, tomato soup, and chicken cacciatore bubble on the stove, while I sauté onions and peel potatoes. I’m making stew so I can stretch the two steaks into four meals. How many potatoes can I use in the stew before they overpower the two steaks?   

I’m exhausted, but I still four have tomatoes to use. I’d make tomato pie if I’d had butter to go with the flour. Now for the apples. In the pantry, I find a dry brick of brown sugar, but I make it work for apple pie filling, which I’ll freeze until I can get butter to make a pie shell. 

When the food cools, I load it into freezer bags and stack them in the freezer – squeezing room around the seven loaves of bread I hadn’t ordered but had come as a surprise in the last delivery. 

It’s nearly seven. We have spaghetti for dinner and I flop on the couch to watch Jeopardy. I miss clues I should know and I’m sure my brain is dying.  

It’s morning. I’m awake. I think, “What do I have to look forward to today?” Cleaning the house. I turn over and go back to sleep for another half hour. Want to know the worst thing about cleaning the house? There is no closing the deal, no bottom line. In a week it will be as though it had never been done. I’ll have to do it all over again. 

Finally, I get up and dress. I sweep. I mop. I pass the bathroom and glance at the door, but I don’t go in. How long will this virus thing last, I wonder, and will it end before I have to scrub the toilet again?  

Finally, I’m done with cleaning and go to my computer and do the job I get paid to do, so I’ll have the money to pay a cleaning service someday – if such services will still exist. 

Dear Doctors and scientists,  
Please find a cure. 
Sincerely, Ruthi  

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Remember When You Were Certain There Was a Heaven?

When I was eleven, I decided I’d never grow up.  

Being a grownup is awful. I knew because I’d been watching the grownups, and I’d seen how all they got to do was work and pay bills, and take care of children and things. They never got to do fun things like tight-rope, walk along brick walls, roller skate, or watch cartoons on Saturday mornings. 

That’s why I decided I wouldn’t do it. And for some reason, I believed I could keep myself from growing up if I could just think back and memorize every single day of my life since I was little. I was pretty sure it was a stupid idea, but I tried anyway, remembering and memorizing with all my might. 

It didn’t work. I grew up. But I hung on to those memories. They prove I was right – there are so many things better about being a child, and I remember them. 

Maybe you do too. 

Remember – 

 when you knew your mother would live forever?  
 when you were certain there was a Heaven?  
 when you felt absolutely certain and secure about the things you believed? (I really miss that feeling.) 
 when nothing was impossible? 
 when answers were simple? 

Remember – 

 when you got over the worst things that ever, ever happened by the next day?

Remember –  

 when mean boys could ruin your whole day and make you go home crying? 

(Okay. That one may not have changed.) 

Remember – 

 when the things you were the very most afraid of don’t hold a candle to the things you’re afraid of today?

Remember –  

 when there was nobody on earth as bad as a tattle-tale?

Remember –  

 when you got sick and you knew Grandma could make you feel better? 

 And if it was too big for Grandma, Dr. Green could cure it –  even if it sometimes meant a penicillin shot.

 

Remember – 

 when you could eat everything you wanted and you’d never heard of cholesterol?

Remember –  

 when you knew your friends would be your friends for always and nothing would ever change?

Remember –  

 when you knew there was nothing your Daddy couldn’t fix?

Remember –  

when you were fashion-uninhibited and free to wear the funkiest fashions, confident that you looked terrific?





Remember (sob) –  

 when you could count on baseball?

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