What Does This Cartoon Have to Do With Our Current Vacation?

Years ago I went to an Al-Anon assembly with my sponsor Barbara. When we checked into our hotel, we discovered they’d given us a smoking room. That wouldn’t do, so she and I went back to the front desk. Our new room turned out to be miles away from our friends and musty-smelling besides.

I figured, “Okay, we’ll have to live with it.” But Barbara marched us right back and demanded a room near our friends.

There followed one of the most embarrassing twenty minutes of my life. The clerk kept saying, “Sorry, we have no other rooms,” and Barbara kept insisting he look harder.

BUT after much pestering on her part, they magically found us a non-smoking room that connected to our friends'room.
Barbara turned to me and said, “You’ve got to ask for what you want.”

I was horrified. I could never, never do that.

Fast forward to last Wednesday.
JR and I board our train for New Orleans and find that Amtrak has put us in a bedroom downstairs . This is terrible. We always get an upstairs room with beautiful views. Now we’re stuck with views of the railroad cut.

Something makes me seek out Julie the car attendant. I ask, “Is there any way we can get an upstairs room?”
“Only if somebody doesn’t show up.”

As soon as we leave, I find her and point out three empty upstairs rooms.

She says, “We have to make certain the missing passengers don’t show up at the next stop.” (This means waiting an hour.)

As soon as we depart the next stop, I’m back, gently pestering Julie.
She says, “I have to call and get approval for the room change.”
“Okay, we’ll wait.”

There was a time when the most important thing was to not bother anybody, to not make a fuss.
But nowadays I feel like Ginger in The Far Side cartoon, doggedly ignoring all those discouraging words.

The moral: As I write this, we’re happily enjoying the view from our upper level room. Thank you, Barbara. Thank you God. Thank you Ginger.


Of course the next day I think,
“Gee. I kinda like the downstairs view better.”

"Miss Poe is Missing"

Sorry-- I've been taking the tree down this week and getting ready to go on vacation.

As a substitute, here are three quotes(from Al-Anon meetings)that I liked well enough to write down:

"You can't sow corn and reap strawberries."

"When someone is bugging you, imagine them finding peace, God, and everything one could want. Then imagine yourself doing the same."

"If I don't act on my dreams, I'll just end up being an old woman who had a good idea."

Erasmo and Mia

I haven’t written anything lately about Erasmo, the kid I tutor. He’s finally reading on a first grade level. When I started working with him two years ago he didn’t even know the sounds of all the letters of the alphabet. This year he’s mastered silent e. He can even decipher compound words like “snowball.” And thanks to my bribing him with art and puzzles; he always comes in, sits right down, and reads for half an hour, sometimes more if it’s a Clifford book.

This year he pitched a small fit when he found out I’d also be tutoring a girl named Mia. “I don’t want you to read with her. She’s mean to me; picks on me all the time.” He told me to scream and yell at Mia and spank her.
I said, “I'm not that kind of person.”
Okay,” he said, “but don’t you do any art with her. And no puzzles either.”

When I met Mia I could see what he was talking about. Erasmo is the sweet, insecure kind of boy that other kids love to pick on—much like I was at his age. Mia is pretty and popular, just the type that made my life miserable in school. (Though in a way I almost can’t believe it. She’s so sweet with me, always giving hugs and small gifts.)

For two weeks Erasmo constantly reminds me how much Mia hates him, and that I should be mean to her. “What books are you giving her? I don’t want you giving her any Clifford books.”

The third week, I arrive at Mayfair School and guess who run up together, arm in arm? They both sport gold plastic rings in their noses. “Look,” Erasmo tells me, “Mia gave me a nose ring.”

They show me they’ve been trading books. “Ooh, Mia,”says Erasmo, “You’ve got Wall-E? I loved that movie.”
“Here you can have the book.” She passes it to him, then I stand waiting while they give each other big hugs.
"See you later, Erasmo," Mia says, eyes sparkling.

When she and I are alone, Mia confides, “Erasmo gave me a Clifford book.” She says it like it was diamonds he gave her. I can only laugh.

That Is Not News!

It probably was twenty-five years ago. Mom and Dad were eating dinner on TV trays while watching the local news. A story came on about a little lost dog. My dad, three sheets to the wind, suddenly growled, “THAT! IS! NOT! NEWS!” and hurled a jar of garlic powder at the TV.

KER-BOOOM! The whole tube blew up.

Mom just sat there, thinking, “Well! Now I’ve seen everything!”

To her credit, she let the TV sit there, the jar of garlic powder stuck in it, till finally my dad called the repair shop. (But Dad conveniently made sure he wasn’t home when they arrived.) The repair man told my mom, “You wouldn’t believe how often we get called to fix these kinds of things.” He did ask if he could keep the screen “to display in our shop window.”

That story has become famous, one of the great mythic tales of our family. We mostly tell it in the context of "how impossibly difficult Dad was."

But this year I find myself relating that story more and more. I was telling my daughter, “You know, lately I understand where Grandpa was coming from.”

I mean, did we really need non-stop coverage of Balloon Boy or Michael Jackson or Tiger Woods?

All I can say is, ”Somebody get me some garlic powder!”

Just a Follow Up On a Previous Post

Those of you who remember my posting of November 15 might like to Google "Ask Amy Nov 30"
Then scroll down to the 3rd letter.

Tis the Season to Be Frantic

(My favorite cartoon from New Yorker Magazine, Sept 28, 2009)

In my twenties, I learned that stress is very bad for you. My solution: avoid anything that might possibly stress me. With age and wisdom, I tell you: DO NOT DO THIS. EVER.

Because now I've reached the age where everything stresses me out anyway. Especially Happy Holiday Time.


What keeps me from totally turning into Mr. Munch?
Take note:

Focus on this one day at a time and if necessary, one minute at a time.

Breathe in “let go,” breathe out “let God.”

Write on a piece of paper “I will get everything done; I always do.”

When tempted to lie awake nights worrying, speak to myself in very bossy tones: “This is not worrying time; it’s sleeping time.“
(Note: All thoughts that occur between the hours of 11 PM and 6 AM are insane anyway.)

Drop everything that’s absolutely unnecessary. In my case this means no Christmas letter. Plus, Christmas cards may not arrive till after Valentines Day, but doesn’t that sound like fun?

In short, take care of Poe.

A Tale of Uncle Al and Two Dolls

Imagine you’re five, walking with your family around a city park. All of a sudden your Uncle Al climbs a tree. What in the world…?
When he climbs down, he’s holding a carved wooden doll. “Somebody stuck it on one of the branches. Would you like it?” he asks.

“Yes!” I squealed. I loved the doll and I loved Uncle Al, so strong and handsome, even though he had gray hair. He was ten years older than all the rest of our grownups, but we kids didn’t know that.

Uncle Al was great for playing airplane. He’d pick us up by one arm and one leg and swing us around and around. We begged “Do it again! Do it again!”
All too quickly he’d beg off. “I’m tired,” he gasp. How could anyone get tired when we were still having so much fun?

But he redeemed himself the time I found a big hole in a quilt and crawled inside. It was all quite exciting till I tried to crawl out and got lost in the maze of cotton batting. I began to scream. Immediately Uncle Al’s strong arms were there, carefully pulling me out. How I adored him after that.

As the years went by, he lost a lot of his eminence as he succumbed to age and infirmity.
But he died before I could realize "my rock" wouldn't live forever.

I still have the doll he gave me, which sits in a mug by my writing desk.

Not long ago one of our wooden spoons broke in half. Since I can never throw anything out, I made the spoon into a doll, gluing on yarn hair and tissue paper features and sewing her a green dress from fabric scraps. Remembering Uncle Al, the next time I went to the school where I tutor, I set the doll on a bench. When I came back a few hours later, my heart kvelled to see her gone.

Curious note that just now occurred to me:
That day in the park, I named my wooden doll after Al’s daughter Nona.
I left the new doll at Mayfair Elementary, where Nona went to school.