Back Where We Belong

Beside the simple pleasure of spending time with family at the holidays, the best thing I can say about being away from home for 11 days in December is that, when we finally got home, the cats seemed softer and the Christmas Tree smelled pinier, and it sure was nice to be here on this, the last night of the year.

Wouldn't You Like to Fly?

We sat on the plane for 90 minutes in Atlanta before finally taking off for Buffalo. The first delay was a computer unit that needed replacing. It should only be 10 minutes, the captain told us, and his estimate was accurate. As we pushed back from the gate, the flight attendants prepared for departure, cross-checking and demonstrating the safety equipment.

We had barely made it to the end of the terminal when the captain’s voice interrupted those proceedings. Folks, I’m afraid we’ll have to return to the gate, he reported. We have a warning light that needs to be checked out. Once back at B31, the crew was required by FAA regulation to open the cabin doors, but they promised our gate time would be brief.

Sure enough, the doors were secured 10 minutes later, but opened again 5 minutes after that, because our original flight plan had us cruising at 29,000 feet and the air was too rough up there now. Lower altitude means more fuel, and so we sat waiting for them to onboard an additional 1500 pounds.

We were offered short pours of water from plastic liter bottles to slake our impatience, but it didn’t seem to appease the four-year-old behind us. He was a verbal processor who gave high and loud, minute-by-minute reports of his observations, both internal and external, including: the poop is out of my guts, we’re not moving, this trip is taking a long time, it’s still raining, my scarf is itchy, it’s still raining, now we’re going on the highway, that airplane is really big, it’s still raining, are we already there? In between he wailed like a siren and sang songs of gobbledygook and gibberish in a piercing soprano. His continuous sound track was punctuated frequently by the guttural whoops of a non-verbal young man a couple of rows ahead of us.

Slipping in my earbuds, I was amazed at how little noise they filtered, but I cranked a podcast anyway and closed my eyes. A little while later I was roused from a very light doze by the jolt of the plane leaving the jetway for what we dearly hoped was the last time. Shortly after that we slipped the bonds of gravity and flew up, up, up, through the drizzle and fog and burst through the clouds into a golden late December afternoon.

Dress Code

Following Richard's Bar Mitzvah, we returned to our awesome loft above the hip Ponce City Market, a repurposed Sears distribution center built in 1926. Before heading up to the fourth floor, we threaded our way through the throngs of casually dressed folks enjoying dining, drinking, and shopping in the Food Hall to grab a coffee from Chef Hugh Acheson's Spiller Park.

I was sipping my handcrafted coffee soda (El Salvadoran coffee, burnt orange syrup, carbonated and kegged with a dash of cream) and my mom was waiting for her iced decaf Americano, when a well-dressed woman approached us. "I was at a funeral?" she said looking at my mother's tasteful black dress. "What's your excuse?"

"Bar Mitzvah," I answered.

"I feel better knowing," she laughed and joined the line to order her own exquisite coffee drink.

10 Things You Need your Left Hand For

Holding your phone while you text
Zipping your coat
Putting on your pajamas
Holding the toothbrush to put the toothpaste on it
Shampooing your hair
Blow drying your hair
Tying your shoes
Holding anything you want to open with your right hand
Unbuttoning your pants to go to the bathroom
Pulling your pants back up when you're done

Safe and Sorry

“No she isn’t!” Annabelle scoffed when her mother told her I was in the emergency room because I had fallen off a scooter. Just the day before, she and I had sailed through Piedmont Park, exploring every trail as we talked and talked and talked.

To be honest, even as I sat watching HGTV, surrounded by people in their pajamas with barf bags and surgical masks, I couldn’t believe it either. Renting the scooter had been an impulse: it seemed to be waiting for me as we passed it on our way home from lunch. But even as I scooted merrily around the parking lot, zipping circles around my mom, Heidi, Bill, and Emily, I was feeling guilty about being somewhat antisocial. To compensate, I whizzed quickly ahead of them, and turned into a little utility lot at the high school to loop back around. Slowing down to make my u-turn, I hit the brake a bit too enthusiastically, and the scooter bucked, tossing me to the side. I sprawled to the asphalt, banging my ribs and shoulder on the shaft, landing on my hands. Jumping to my feet, I did an automatic check-- any witnesses? and self-check: knees? not even skinned. palms and elbows? scrape-free! --and jumped back on the scooter, confident that I was fine and no one had seen my tumble.

But the moment I rejoined my party, my secret was out. “I fell down!” I reported breathlessly. There was a bit of joking at my expense, which was certainly well deserved, and also some talk of past mishaps and the risks of riding these crazy-dangerous vehicles. With a laugh, I piloted my scooter away from the group and up the hill, parking it at the foot of the driveway. And it was as I waited that the adrenaline began to wear off, and the pain in my left hand? left wrist? announced itself more insistently.

Half an hour later, I confessed that a trip to the ER was definitely in my future. My instinct is always to wait and see, but it really, really hurt, and I ain’t no spring chicken. So, I paid the deductible and waited for the X-ray, the consult, and finally the treatment (an ace bandage and the advice to take 800 mg of an over the counter pain reliever.) Each step of the way, the health care professional helping me shared a tale of scooter mayhem, but always ended our interaction with, “I hope you feel better!”

As canned as their words were, I believed them every time, and I felt well cared for. At last it was time to go home. “Don’t let this stop you,” the PA told me as I signed the discharge papers. “Keep living your life!”

“I will!” I promised.

She smiled. “I hope you feel better!”

You Can Count on Me

"Do you know where you're going?" Heidi's dad asked me from the passenger seat as I backed out of the driveway, bound for our 7PM Christmas Eve dinner reservation. Our party of six was too large for one car, so Heidi, Gary, and I were in our station wagon.

"I think so," I said confidently. "It's the first exit after you get on the Thruway, right?"

On the way we chatted about what we were going to order for dinner, how we were going to get to the airport in the morning, and football team standings going into the last week of the regular season. The conversation was moving to spring and summer travel plans as I rolled through the EZ-Pass lane and headed east.

"That's your exit!" Gary told me, but it was too late. It had come up way before I expected it, and I didn't get over in time.

"I guess I'll have to get off at the next one and turn around," I sighed. But then it occurred to me that it was the Thruway... "Is it a long way?"

"Yep," he said.

The car fell silent. Heidi pulled out her phone and punched in the address. It was 15 miles to the next exit. "You better call your mother," Gary said to Heidi, "and put on some Edyie Gorme!"

Sleigh Ride, Sleigh Ride! Recorded laughter and jingle bells blared through the speakers. I hit the gas, and our station wagon rocketed down the highway and into the night.

Stille Nacht

The night was silent and still when I took Lucy out to potty before the Uber picked us up for our 4:30 am ride to the airport. After just a few hours of sleep, the scene on the suburban street seemed more dreamlike than real to me. Tiny snowflakes fell noiselessly and my eye was drawn to the glow of Christmas lights shining through a few windows down the street. I breathed deeply of the cold night air, willing myself to wake, and just then, a trio of shadows detached from the neighbor's hedges and glided across the grass. Three full-grown whitetail deer paused under the street light and turned their eyes our way, alert to the oblivious dog by my side, but seemingly oblivious to the ornamental versions of themselves a few feet away. The deer blew soft, frozen clouds into the winter night, and then, glittering stars above, iron earth below, turned and bounded down the street and into the silent darkness.