Eating My Words

I pick up the little alarm clock at my bedside and squint at the face. 2:47 a.m.

Hmm, I guess I’ll take a peak outside before I wake my husband, who slumbers gently beside me. It’s the week of the Perseid meteor showers. We’ve both promised to wake each other, so that we can view the “shooting stars” together. As I stumble my way in the dark to the backdoor I think, “If it’s cloudy again, there’s really no point in waking...” I spot what looks like a person leaning against the kitchen counter and I freeze.

I think I see the figure’s head bob. “Yo, ‘s up?”

I recognize the female voice.

“Geez, you scared the freaking daylights outta me!!” She doesn’t respond. She just leans there immobile against the counter. I move closer. Her right hand covers her mouth. Her right elbow rests on her left arm which is snug against her torso. While I don’t excel at much, I am good at voice recognition. “Well, where have you been?” I ask her. Again, no response.

Closer still, I see that she’s biting a fingernail on her right hand. Not a good sign. And, she’s staring directly at me, in that way she has of peering into my psyche. Her head is slightly downcast, but her eyes remain focussed on me. It reminds me of a person peering over their reading glasses. Her brow is furrowed, and except for the corner of her mouth nibbling on the edge of her fingernail, she’s not moving. She finally takes her hand away from her mouth and scratches the top of her head.

It’s then I notice that my writing journal is wedged under her left armpit. She must notice my eye-shift, because she grabs the journal and tosses it down on the floor, right at my feet.

“You repulse me!” she spews.

“Yeah well, um, uh...”

She says not a word, so I continue my whiny stutter, “Well, see, um, we haven’t had any measurable rain since late June...”

“Are you kidding me!? Seriously, are you kidding me? Measurable rain! What the hell does that have to do with the price of tea in China?”

“Um, well, you know, summer is so fleeting and so when it’s not raining, I, uh, we like to, um, take advantage... uh, I mean, we don’t want to miss an opportunity... there’re a lot of things...”

“If you say golf, I swear, I’m going to smack you.”

“Well, yeah golf is among the many different activities...”

Her open palm stops just short of my cheek. “Stop!” she says. Then softer, “Please, just stop.”

We just stand there for a while, me looking down at my journal which lays on the floor near my feet.

She continues softly, “All I asked was that you write a few hundred words a day. Did I say those words must be of publishable quality? No, I did not. I merely asked for words, some words, any words. Did I say it had to be any particular subject? No, I did not. You like to cook. Write about food. Heck, just a note or thought jotted on a napkin would suffice, but you couldn’t even manage that.”

“I know, I know... “ I try a counter-offensive. I look her in the eye, “Back to my question, ‘Where have you been?’ “

We stay there momentarily, in our stand-off. Then she throws her head back and laughs, “You are a piece. You do know you’re not my only client, right? I took a break from you, a vacation, if you will, well-merited I might add.”

I have had a bunch of inspirations in my head since I saw her last, but honestly no time to pen those words. There are places to discover, there are experiences to experience, there are people to meet, there is life to live...

I swear she can read my mind, because she says, “So, why didn’t you write about those discoveries, those experiences, some descriptions of those people and all that life-living?”

And I’m at a loss, because I know she’s right. But at least, I’ve been praying for rain, and not just because the farmlands around us need it, but because a rainy day is the perfect excuse to sit back and write. But, we’ve had guests coming, and I joined that golf league, and that means I need to practice. And then there’s yoga, meditation, running/walking, gardening, cooking, cleaning, socializing...

“At least tell me you’ve read the books I recommended.”

“Well, I started Hulme’s The Bone People. And yeah, you’re right she’s got a great poetic freestyle, but all that physical violence was too much...”

“How about Thomas Hardy’s Return of the Native?”

I shake my head, as I try to recall if she told me that one was to study imagery.

“Trollope’s Orley Farm?”

Another shake. Was that for character development? I’m not sure any more. 

“Gulliver’s Travels?”

Satire, I think. “No. No, but I did get the books. It’s just that...”

She sighs, so that I can see her chest heave. She smiles as she steps over my journal.

“Come on, you knucklehead. Let’s go watch the Perseids. Just the two of us. We don’t need to wake Ferdy,”

“You mean Freddy.”

“Yeah, whatever. Oh, and by the way, may I say that the leftover lobster risotto, was divine? I polished it off. Hope you don’t mind, but I was famished. And the sweet corn ice cream with the raspberry sauce? Simply inspired.”

We give ourselves a quick spritz of Dettol to keep the mosquitos at bay and go out on the deck. We lie back in the lounge chairs and watch and wait.

I wake up just before dawn. The sky over the horizon is lightening to a dusky dark steel color, just beyond the tall grass. My muse is gone, but I have a sneaking suspicion she’ll be back. If I can’t bait her with my writing talent, perhaps my cooking can lure her back.

I go back inside and crawl into bed.

Fred rolls over and sleepily murmurs, “Any meteors?”

“Not a one,” I lie. He smiles and immediately falls asleep.

As I begin to doze, I wonder if she’ll be back for Labor Day. Maybe, we can smoke a brisket, Kansas-style. As I recall, she loved that. And maybe some macarons? She goes nuts for those. But, I worry how she’s going to take the news that I signed up for the Fall bowling league.

Knee-High by the Fourth of July

"Knee-high by the Fourth of July," is a time worn adage indicating the hoped for sign that your crop was doing well for the year. I'm pretty sure that modern farming techniques have improved to the point that it's now outdated. Every year since we’ve been out here the corn has been at least four to six feet in height by early July, even this year where corn got a very late start in Northwest Illinois, due to a too cool, too wet spring season.

I buy our corn from a local family farm that specializes in sweet corn, The Drake Farm. In my humble opinion, they have, hands down, the best sweet corn in four counties, Ogle, Jo Daviess, Stephenson and Carroll. When it comes close to pickin’ time, Drake will post a sign letting customers know their hours. You just pull in their driveway, let them know how many dozen you want and they’ll bring it over to the car. My best guess is they’ll be ready in early to mid August this year.

***

I’m in the middle of a heated “Song Pop” match, when simultaneously, my phone chirps and a push notification drops down indicating that I have a message from someone on my “VIP” list. The message from Dorie reads:

“Hey... did you hear back from Maxwell about this Friday?”

“Yeah, he said ‘probably.’ I’ll ask him again, but will you come w/out him? Please come!”

“Ok... well keep me posted, qt!”

So I send Max two messages:

“Can you come to LC this Friday?” and “Bring ur gee-tar.”

And almost immediately, well immediately for Max anyway, I hear the special guitar riff ringtone, I’ve assigned to him, peal from my phone.

“I’m definitely coming. I just don’t know how long I can stay. I’m trying to switch my work schedule so I can stay an extra day.”

I let Dorie know the news. It’s all set. Company’s coming. And I’m in menu-planning heaven.

Hmmm... I’ll get some vegetables from the farmer’s market and pan caramelize them, seasoning each with extra-virgin olive oil, garlic, sea salt and freshly ground black pepper. Maybe eggplant, sweet red peppers, squash, red onions... we’ll see what’s in season... I’ll make sandwiches with the vegetables, and along with some good cheese and bread, toast them up panini-style. Oh, and maybe freshly homemade potato salad with the buttermilk dressing everyone raves about. And freshly brewed iced tea, fresh squeezed lemonade, and for sure Dorie will want a virgin bloody mary with all the fixin’s when she arrives. And an un-virgin drink for Max. It’s a long drive, after all. And I’ve got to bake some cookies, but which ones? That’ll about do it for their after-drive lunch/snack. But, what about dinner?...

Dinner, dinner... Let’s start with appetizers. Definitely freshly rolled Vietnamese spring rolls with a hoison-laden dipping sauce. And a basket of toasted garlic bread interspersed with ribbons of melting mozzarella. And for cocktail hour maybe a fruited mojito? For the main dish, I’m thinking either a tender, flaky red snapper or striped bass. I’ll rub it with some spices and lemon and grill it. Or if Valle’s doesn’t have any good fish, I’ll get some large shrimp, give them a quick marinade and grill them kebab-style with some padron peppers and pineapple, all brushed with a raspberry-chipotle glaze. That’ll be for the vegetarians. For the meat-eaters? How about hand-trimmed ribeye steaks grilled to perfection and finished with rolled bleu cheese butter patties, served on toasted buns with a topping of either grilled onions or wait!.. even better homemade fried onion rings. And asian coleslaw for a side.

And for dessert we’ll have some patriotic (star-shaped) red velvet cookie/ice cream sandwiches, with homemade ice cream, of course. After all it’s the fourth of July weekend.

Then it’s outside to set up the fire pit and chairs for the fireworks for which we have a ring-side seat.

And maybe we’ll pop some corn over the fire. Oh, and homemade marshmallows to toast.

For next day’s breakfast: Definitely eggs florentine, and some hashbrowns made with a mixture of white potatoes, purple Peruvian potatoes and sweet potatoes. And tons of fresh mixed berries, coffee and juice. And maybe fresh scones or muffins if it’s not too hot to bake. Otherwise cinnamon toast is good, right?

Next day’s lunch? All the fixin’s for ‘make your own’ sub sandwich. And chips and fresh veggies and dip, some brownies. All stuff we can take on the water, if we wish.

And when we are wind-blown, sun-kissed and tired, we can go home and have dinner... dinner?...

Let’s see.. perhaps a nice pitcher of Rose sangria, everyone loved that a couple of years ago. Then bruschetta, salsa, guacamole and chips. And cold beer. And for main? A rubbed, then grilled Santa Maria tri-tip roast, for some. And some seared scallops for others? And some home-baked beans. And a tart cucumber salad? I’d love some grilled sweet corn, but... And finally, a platter of cookies, brownies and ice cream.

For breakfast before they leave? Eggs ala huevos rancheros, a vegetable quiche and fresh fruit and coffee and juice.

Tomorrow I begin shopping and prepping. Stop by next week for photos of our food.

***

Happy Independence Day, fellow Americans! (Oh and happy birthday, David!)

My Thief of Time

I watch a colorful, yet ominous blob move over our home, figuratively that is. The blob is on NOAA’s weather radar map and it looms ablaze with yellows, oranges, reds and bits of dreaded purple. The color you don’t ever want to see is brown.

We know the storm drill by now and have earlier “battened down the hatches.” Our wooden adirondack chairs are stowed on their sides, close to a windward wall. The tiles on our outdoor table have been removed and stacked and the table is bungee-corded to the deck. Bungee-cords also secure other stacked chairs and our grill. We now know from first-hand experience that failing to do so can result in such objects becoming wind-borne and sent through the adjacent windows. Oh, and the patio umbrella was removed and brought indoors, because if that darn thing gets airborne who knows what it will impale or where it will land.

Marble-sized hail bang against the house. Lightning flashes and thunder shakes our foundation. Lights flicker on and off as ComEd’s system automatically switches feeders to compensate as one or more electric feeders go down nearby. Our trees bend sideways from the wind, and it’s a reminder that downed trees are often the culprit in rural outages as they stand tall, but are subjected to crown twist, stem, root or branch failure and direct lightning strikes.

But, I have found peace in the storm.

As we hit our third consecutive day of summer storms, with more on the way, I finally have time to post to my blog, a blog I began last autumn. I was averaging one blog per week until summer arrived and with it came my “thief of time:” the game of golf.

We live directly on a golf course. On weekdays we try to get out early, rising before 6 a.m. to get out before the leagues begin. Doing so, the two of us can finish 18 in just under 3 hours. At such times it seems as if we have the entire course to ourselves. Occasionally we’ll see Dan, who I’ve nicknamed “Daniac” for the manic speed with which he plays. Although golf rules dictate that we are not required to let him, as a single, pass us in his play, we always wave him through. Dan tees from the “blues.” He tells us that he sometimes will play 100 holes of golf per day.

The only others we encounter most mornings are the course maintenance crew. We know them by name and we’ve developed a symbiosis with them. If they are busy reworking a particular hole, we bypass it. They, in return, will feed us the lost balls they rake up along the way. We share our latest bug repellant recipes with them.  In return they busy themselves and look away when we duff the ball and give us a cheer or thumbs-up for our better shots.

My muse has been nagging me again with those ideas of hers.

( http://topeacenquiet.blogspot.com/2013_03_01_archive.html )

So check in now and then to see if I’ve heeded her prompts.

The first of todays' expected storms has ended, so in betwixt and between, we'll head out for our "storm damage assessment" walk. :-)

Moon Shadow

I hear that sound, that haunting sound, that sound that reminds me of a wounded animal. It’s just one syllable, but it carries the anguish of a lifetime. It’s sometime in the middle of the night and I rise and move as quickly as my arthritic joints will allow to his room. Like always, he’s pushed up the window shade and he's peering out the window. He’s aware that I’m in the room, but his eyes continue to search outside. I stand beside him and tousle his hair. He finally turns and looks up at me and I give him the best smile I can muster. Hopefully, one that doesn’t show just how exhausted I am. He’s again interfered with my precious sleep, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Hey, what’s up, my man?”

My hand is still on his head when I feel a shudder run through him. He turns and points to a long dark shadow on the ground outside his window and stammers, “W-w-what is that?” I look out the window and see that the moon is bathing the landscape in a pale glow. Letting out a bit of air in relief, I smile.  “Hey Buddy, that’s a moon shadow. Look. See how big and bright the moon is tonight? No clouds around? The moon is casting shadows, just like the sun does during the day. That shadow is from that tree right over there, “ I say, pointing out the tree as his eyes follow my hand. “If we were outside right now we’d even see our own shadows.”

He shudders again, as he begins to relax. We talk about the night sky, the harvest moon, and the milky way for a bit before I make him go to the bathroom, where he urinates. I guide him back into his bed and offer him some advice on how to relax, “Think nice thoughts, think of a favorite place,” I tell him, as I pray silently to the god of sleep, please, please, let this child get some rest, and while your at it, maybe me, too? Then I position myself as comfortably as possible at the foot of his bed with my back against the wall and I sit and wait there, not talking anymore, only breathing slowly, long regular breaths that I hope he will soon imitate. I wait. 

Tonight it’s less than an hour before I hear his breath relax and I’m sure he’s asleep. I close his window shade and return to my bed. I won’t look at the clock. It’s better if I don’t know what time it is. This routine of mine actually works, occasionally anyway, and this is one of those times, as I immediately fall into a deep sleep.

Again I’m awakened as he calls out, that single syllable, always the same, only this time he doesn’t sound quite so wounded. He just wants some attention, my attention. My eyes open and I sit up and groan at the daylight invading my room. I amble down the short hall to his room. He’s standing by the window and I see that the shade is, again, pushed up. I smile. “Hey, Partner, it’s morning time.” He smiles back at first, then his head hangs sadly. “I’m wet.” “That’s okay, Pal. Come on, I’ll help you get some dry bottoms and then we’ll have breakfast. We can change the sheets later. How about some chocolate chip pancakes and a glass of milk? Oh, and we both better eat some fruit, too. Right?”

We walk to the local grocery store every few days. That’s where he noticed a sign in the window.

“What does that sign say?”

“It says, ‘No Littering.’ And that funny looking bug in the circle with the red line through it is a litterbug.”

“That’s what I thought,” he replies nodding.

Later that week, we were on our way home from a visit to the preschool he will attend in the  fall. I pulled into the grocery store parking lot. We were walking to the store when he suddenly stops and freezes.

“Hey, Sport, what’s the matter?”

“It’s that bird. I saw it the other day. It’s still there.”

I look over to see that he’s pointing at a dead starling lying on the ground in the parking lot. “Yes, I see. Are you sure it’s the same bird? Um, was the bird alive when you saw it the other day?”

“No.”

I wait for more response, but he’s silent. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No, not now.”

“Alright then, you let me know when you’re ready. Okay?” He nods.

I hand him the items from the cart to place on the checkout counter when I impulsively grab a package of Skittles from the candy shelf conveniently placed at his eye level. I wink at him as I give him the candy to add to our purchases. Outside the store, I realize we’re going to have to pass the dead bird again, so I stop and pull the candy out of the grocery bag. A good enough  distraction, I hope. “Hey, let’s have some Skittles.” I tear open the package and spill some of the candy on the ground around us. He points to the “No Littering” sign and down at the spilt candy and bursts into laughter. I laugh, too, and hand him some Skittles. We walk to the car chuckling and eating candy.

That night we negotiate how many books I will read to him before I leave him alone to try to fall sleep by himself, when he says, “I guess that was a bad bird, Gramps.”

I was confused, but  he continued.

“You know that dead bird I showed you in the parking lot today? Well, it must have been a bad bird.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because if the bird was good, it would be in heaven by now. But it’s not. It’s still in that parking lot.”

And this is why a 65 year old agnostic ought’n to be teaching a kid about heaven and earth. I haven’t figured it out yet myself. I just want him to feel safe, to feel loved, to be filled with hope. My trade-off is that I have to make stuff up. Oh and he’s a sharp little guy, too. I sometimes wonder if he senses my doubts. Like the time he challenged me, “Well, if heaven is so good, what are we waiting for? Let’s go now.”

So, I remind him about “souls” and that eventually the bird’s body and the bird’s soul will rejoin in heaven. He nods and immediately selects three books he wants me to read. I know he’ll store the information I’ve just provided him for processing later. And when I should be sleeping later, I’ll ruminate on all the profound explanations I could have given instead of that inept one I just uttered.

I read the books as we both fight sleep. For me it’s a losing battle, as I find it necessary to shake my head and blink my eyes to stay awake. But not him, he’s the sleep-fighter champion. I kiss him on the forehead, tell him that I love him and that I think he’s awesome. I think I see a quick smile, but he mumbles, “You’re supposed to think that. You’re my Gramps.”  As I leave the room I make sure his nightlight is on, and both of our bedroom doors are open, just as we’ve agreed.

I go to my room and lie down, but damned if I’m not tired anymore. While a few minutes ago, I could barely read a couple of sentences without nodding off, my mind now busies itself worrying about any number of things, that I can do little about at this hour. Like, who in the world will take care of him if anything happens to me? Well, I tell myself, you’re all he’s got so you’re just going to have to stay strong. Heed some of that advice you hand out to him. Think good thoughts, eat your vegetables, let’s walk to the library today because it’s good exercise, relax and breathe deeply and slowly, let’s watch a cartoon because laughing is good.....

I must have finally fallen asleep because it’s dark when I hear his call, his anguished monosyllabic cry, “Mom!”

She won’t answer him. He must know that by now. I hurry as best as I can to his room and there he is, shade pushed up, staring out the window. I think I knew almost from the first day I took custody of him what it was he was looking for out that window. I knew it wasn’t his mother. He knows she can’t come back. What he’s searching for is that first glimmer of daylight, his only deliverance from the pain and anguish of night’s darkness.

She’s Picky About Her Cheese

My mother exposed my siblings and I to a wide variety of foods and cuisines, but as the world turns and thus our cultures mix in an ever shrinking world, she may have missed a few, like East Indian or Middle Eastern or African or Vietnamese foods. No problem, I eagerly tried the, albeit, Americanized versions of such dishes at restaurants that opened in recent years in urban areas. Somehow, despite my mother’s good efforts at exposing her clan to a wide variety of cuisines, I have a younger sister who is quite the “picky eater.” If given a choice between aged cheddar and Kraft Singles, she will take the “Singles” every time. I've witnessed her peel the toppings off of a perfectly crafted pizza and eat just the crust. If you were to serve her one of her favorites, a cucumber salad, made with unpeeled homegrown and thus unwaxed cucumbers, she would promptly pare the skin off and then eat the interior of the cucumbers. And wait! She also doesn’t imbibe, at least if you consider occasionally drinking watered-down “frou-frou” drinks as actually consuming alcohol. In fact, if I wasn’t so certain, from my mother’s detailed stories of the difficult birth she experienced with my younger sister, I’d almost swear that my sister was adopted. I mean, come on, there is no way that someone with our genes doesn’t embrace both a variety of goods foods and good alcohol. 

**

I’ve a good friend who told me that babies, from the part of India where she was reared, are given milk and formula laced with hot peppers for the purpose of acclimating them to the taste and sensation. To some this type of conditioning might seem tantamount to child abuse, but I’m able to file this in my “it’s not right, it’s not wrong, it’s just different” method of acceptance of our wacky human adaptations to life.

**

I consider myself to have a ‘cast iron’ stomach, impervious to common food intolerances.  Why, I could practically eat nails! Rarely do I experience indigestion. As a child, it was with relish that I ate my vegetables and asked, no, practically begged for more.

**

And so it was I found myself in Japan, a half world of culture away from the good ol’ USA. My younger sister, who has less than a dozen foodstuffs which she can tolerate, and I were visiting a “beloved” family member, who lived and worked in Japan for three years. Culture in Japan, so I was told, dictates that you embrace the “gifts” they put forth to you as a visitor, and they put much thought and effort into finding and presenting these gifts, including food. There is also a desire to honor the “head” of the family and an expectation that this “head” would exemplify the proper behavior for the family.

“Beloved” was, in addition to her job, taking special instruction in the art of the tea ceremony. Her instructor and a friend had arranged a banquet, or kaiseki, for the three of us, at a traditional renowned tea room. We’d removed our shoes upon entering, and were seated at a traditional low table in our own private screened room, with floor cushions for seating. We were served by women in traditional garb.

Now a kaiseki is as much an art form as it is a degustation. The menu is carefully chosen to include the freshest of seasonal ingredients and the food is prepared to emphasize flavor, as well as appearance and texture.  The courses of food are artfully arranged and garnished on beautiful porcelain vessels, each cup, bowl, saucer or plate to be marveled over as much as the food itself.

And the food itself... Well, it was overwhelming, I’m almost at a loss... But, well you know what a banquet is. Ours included (interspersed with saki, small glasses of other beverages, and palate cleansers, mind you): appetizers, a second course including sushi and sashimi, then vegetables steamed with fish, then a soup, then grilled meat, then a hotpot dish, then pickled vegetables and some tempura as well. And then, just before dessert, came the pièce de résistance, (forgive my french).

“Beloved” was a vegetarian, which excused her from any dishes containing meat or meat broth. And my sister wasn’t able to eat anything, save the rice and maybe a couple of pickled vegetables. The two of them could help out with marveling over the vessels and the beautiful presentation, but they wouldn’t be much help with the actual eating of the food. So, it was on me, my friends, as the official head of the family, it was all on me, to devour the food with appropriate gusto.

Our hosts had limited English and “Beloved” did the translations. While biting into a bit of strange looking vegetable I asked her what it was. “You know,” she sighed, “sometimes it’s best not to know. Just eat it.”

So, when the pièce de résistance was placed in front of me and only me, all eyes were upon me. First I gave just due to the beautiful bowl in which the food was placed. And actually, it didn’t look too bad, I thought. It looked like clear cellophane noodles in a watery broth with a dusting of coarse, freshly ground black pepper. And so I happily slurped all that was in the bowl, to the delight of our hosts, whose hands clasped to their chests and whose eyes shining in contentment, seemed pleased that they had laid out, what was probably a small fortune, just for the pleasure of entertaining their American guests.

But no, the dish hadn’t tasted like clear rice vermicelli, it had more of a oyster-y, briny element to it. I couldn’t help myself, I had to know. “What was it?” I asked. Translations went back and forth and “Beloved” smiled smugly, as if to say, “Now, I warned you...” 

“They were live baby eels.”

My sister, who as I remind you, does not imbibe, grabbed for the sake, feigning a cough to mask her gasp, as she took a swig and then actually did cough, as she realized it was the sake she’d grabbed.

Okay, just keep your eyebrows in check and smile, I told myself, as I nodded and grinned at my hosts, realizing that what I’d thought were flecks of black pepper, had been the poor eel's eyes.

I don’t remember much detail about the finish of the meal. The desserts included some tiny chocolate candies, some fresh strawberries and maybe red bean ice cream. Of course, the three of us had a good laugh in the cab ride back to “Beloved’s” apartment, where we rolled out our futons and bedded down on the floor for the night. We all fell asleep pretty quickly. I woke up suddenly at about 2 a.m. and tiptoed to the bathroom as my stomach expelled its contents.

Yet still, I do not blame my cast iron stomach. I’m pretty sure, it was my brain that just couldn’t get past those black pepper eyes looking up at me from that beautiful porcelain bowl.

Through Her Eyes

She stood about two feet away from me, just a little below my eye level. I was sitting down and she was standing. She looked straight at me, first looking directly at my eyes, then taking in my whole face. Her gaze was unwavering. After a minute or so, she said, emphatically, “You are not my grandmother.” Then she put her "blankie," that she’d named, “Woobie,” to her face for comfort.

I waited only the seconds it took for my brain to process the situation, laughing inside at the reality of what she was seeing, then I swooped her into my arms, Woobie and all, buried my face in her neck and said, “Of course I am. And here are your too-many kisses, mwaa,mwaa, mwaa, mwaa, mwaa,mwaa, mwaa, mwaa...”

She melted in my arms, laughed and said, “Do it again, Gagi!”

She was a bright kid and could talk a “blue streak,” and because there are not too many demands for visual acuity put on toddlers, no one in the family had suspected that she was farsighted. I don’t recall ever seeing her stumble into any furniture. The blurred detail of objects hadn’t prevented her from learning all of her colors. She could count to twenty and recite the alphabet. She could name all of the family members in the photo albums, but what we hadn’t realized was that she’d memorized the sequence of pictures. Oh, she was a bright little rascal, alright. She had us fooled.

They say that when one of your senses is afflicted the others will often compensate. She’d become expert at impersonations. She would watch the movements of others from afar and imitate. To see her tuck her doll into the doll stroller, murmuring comforts to the doll and occasionally shaking a finger at the doll in reprimand, kept me from suspecting that anything was amiss. Once, she and I had listened together to Southern folk songs. Later I’d sung the tune to her using the words, “Lord, Lord...” from the song. She said, “No, it’s like this: “Lawd, Lawd...” her sweet voice in perfect mimicry. 

Sometime between the age of two and three, a sharp instructor at the local park district noticed something and mentioned it to her parents. A trip to the pediatric eye specialist and an explanation of hyperopia and it all began to make sense. “Duh,” I said to myself when I heard the news, “You idiot! Why else would a toddler put on an adults’ reading spectacles and actually enjoy viewing through the glass? And you call yourself a grandmother?!” But, that’s the trouble with hindsight, in most cases it’s pretty much a useless tool.

I spent a couple of days with her on her first week with her new eyeglasses and I saw through her eyes, so to speak, some of her revelations. It was time for a snack and I’d baked muffins for us. She was hungry and anxious for them to cool. “Let’s cut one in half and it will cool faster,” I offered. She was standing next to me as I split the muffin. I saw her step back in surprise when she saw the steam rise from within the treat. She’d never seen steam before. As I explained the science of it to her, I thought of how she’d missed this subtle sign that would warn a child that food was too hot to bite into.

Raisins were a favorite of hers, but with eyes that could now clearly focus on the much-wrinkled fruit, she looked at them with distain, as if to say, “Is this what I’ve been eating?” I encouraged her to try them anyway and eventually she agreed that looks weren’t everything and she happily munched away.

Which is why I immediately saw the humor in her first-ever, clear look at me. Hyperopia had softened and blurred all the hard lines, creases and wrinkles time had sculpted onto my face. It must have been quite the shock to her eyes. But, a hug, some whispers of love and kisses were all it took to help her discern that “Yup, looks aren’t everything.” 

On a Beachfront Elevator

I walked onto the elevator and pushed the button for the 7th floor, the floor of the lovely gulfcoast condo we'd rented for the week. Just then a handsome young lad, with stylishly cut and neatly combed hair rushed in the elevator door, followed in quick succession by his two older brothers and their father. The youngster was probably about 10 years old and his brothers looked to be in the 16 to 20 year old range. I was standing closest to the elevator panel, so I asked which floor they'd like and the boy piped up, "The eighth floor, please."

I recognized them as the family I'd seen while walking on the beach that very morning. They were movie-star-good-looking and well-dressed, like the models you see posed in J Crew catalogs. You know that photogenic, but fashionably dressed-down look similar to Kennedy clan? I could easily picture them frolicking near a beach house on Nantucket Island. This morning the youngest had been running barefoot on the sand. In fact, I took a photo of his footprint, when I'd noticed that he was a forefoot strike runner, a style I'd been forced to adopt when my arthritic knees defiantly refused to tolerate my lifelong habit of landing on my heels.

The family, including the mother, trailed about 100 yards behind the barefoot boy, who ran full out, seemingly effortlessly. The mother had caught my eye because her hair was so perfectly coiffed, in one of one of those styles you get from top notch salons, but can't seem to duplicate at home.

I pushed the eighth floor button and the youngest called out," What about Mother!?" His brothers and father looked up in surprise. They hadn't noticed that she wasn't with them. Panic ensued, and the youngster leaned out and said with relief, "Here she comes." I reflexively reached over and depressed and held the button that keeps the elevator door open.  As he ducked back in the elevator, the boy noticed that by pushing the button I had stopped the elevator door from closing.

"What?!" With incredulity he looked to his brothers, "Did you see that? She stopped the elevator door with that button."  By now his mother had joined us in the elevator. So, I let go of the button I'd been holding and pressed the button that closes the elevator door. The family marveled over the two buttons. "Well, indeed!" said one of the older brothers, while the other stroked his chin, looked at his father in bemusement and said, "I had no idea..." The father shook his head, almost in disbelief, "Nor had I."

I moved against the back wall and the boy quickly stepped in front of the panel and ever so gently, almost reverently, ran his fingers over the elevator buttons. He looked over at me, as we neared the 7th floor, "I'll hold the door open for you," he said his hand moving toward the door open button.

I smiled politely at him and said, "Thanks." As I walked off the elevator I noticed that they all had crowded around the "magic" buttons.

This well-mannered family possessed no trace of foreign accent. They'd spoken with the near-perfect English of well-educated, native-born Americans. They were well-groomed and wearing the latest, high-end fashions. Their demeanor indicated obvious intelligence.

But, it's the little details that will give you away, and while these guys might dupe some people, they hadn't fooled me. No, sirree. What I can't figure out is from which galaxy had these alien beings come.