A Walk Down Memory Lane

I have happy memories of what I've often called a Norman Rockwell childhood. A childhood filled with unconditional (and believe me, I had a lot of conditions) familial love fortified with uncomplicated and enduring friendships that set the stage for a lifetime of infinitely adventurous fun. 

Last weekend I met two of my sisters and my first friend, Margaret, at Enfield Elementary School in Oreland, Pennsylvania. The building, which I hadn't been inside for over 50 years, is scheduled to be razed and repurposed and was open for one last walk down Memory Lane.

“Did I even have Mrs. Hillsley for first grade?” I asked my sister, Susan, who remembers everything. 

She shrugged. 

 

“I did, for sure,” Emily said.

 

“I know you did,” I glared.

 

My mind sees Mrs. Hillsley as a woman of ample girth wearing a royal blue dress and a string of pearls; her dark brown hair falling with beauty-parlor waves to her shoulders, thick ankles bulged above two-inch pumps. She was mean. Very, very mean.

 

I picture my red-headed self sitting in the front row of an asbestos-tiled first-grade classroom on the right-hand side of the hall. It was across from the kindergarten room where Mrs. Dreifus, my favorite teacher ever, built my self-esteem by encouraging me to read books aloud to the rest of the class. 

 

In this first-grade classroom I recall my eyes bugging with horror as another Betsy chirped, "Present!" when attendance was taken, in what I perceived was a direct threat to my individuality. 

I'll never forget the juvenile snickers and pointed fingers when my classmate (whose name I will not divulge on the off chance that she has forgotten her childhood trauma) wet her pants, urine rapidly pooling beneath her chair. In my bulging box of memorabilia, I have a mimeographed copy of my first short story: Pokey the Turtle, by Betsy L. Hunsicker, Age 6, First Grade. 

 

But what is most vivid are Mrs. Hillsley’s words that still echo decades and decades and decades later.

 

“You should be ashamed of yourself! Your sister, Emily, would NEVER act like that!” Mrs. Hillsley bellowed in response to me running down the hall. But there are wafts of unspoken words whirling around my brain whispering something like, "But you don't even know me," that lead me to believe that she was not my teacher. Or perhaps it was just wishful thinking.

 

In the baby book that my mother kept updated with everything from my birth announcement to milestones such as when I switched from Similac to a formula of evaporated milk, sugar and water at five weeks old; first tooth at six months to the day; first steps at 10 months and the dates (spanning a dozen years) of my FIVE polio shots and one booster (take that, Covid!). There’s a record of all the gifts bestowed upon me at birth, including the Rosebud print overalls from my godmother, Aunt Elva, and who gave me the biggest check – Aunt Mary for the win at $18.75. And of course, there's a carefully preserved lock of my bright red hair. 

 

My height and weight is documented for 12 years after which time annual checkups were pawned off on the creepy school doctor. I remember lining up at the scale in our waist-high Carter’s underpants and sleeveless undershirts; the nurse offering fuel to the bullies as she screamed out our poundage, followed by the old-man doctor tapping his cold, steel stethoscope on our mostly flat chests. 

 

There is a page in my baby book with a heading of School Days, but my mother neglected to fill in the blanks beyond kindergarten. I apparently took over the task in my own adolescent scribble, and for some reason recorded Mrs. Dreifus's name next to first grade. 

 

Also missing is the name of my third grade teacher, but that was not a mistake because I didn’t have a third grade teacher. 

 

On the last day of second grade as the class stood in line by the coat closet that doubled as a fallout shelter, Johnny Schaeffer flashed me a pansophical look followed by a sing-songy, “Did you open your report card yet?” 

 

Something got me in the gut – perhaps it was fragments of an overheard conversation or just a looming sense of disrupted order. I clutched my report card tightly and refused to look at it until I got home. And when I did, I burst into tears seeing that Mrs. Baker had incorrectly promoted me to Grade Four, rather than Three. 

 

My mother assured me it was not a misprint, but that Johnny, Michael Lachs and I had all skipped third grade. Emily told me I could sit in the way-back of the wood-paneled station wagon with her friends that afternoon, an invitation that was rescinded as soon as Naomi Kaplan got in the car and flashed her a look. 

I was told by my mother who was told by the powers that be that I was weak in Math. To keep me from falling behind I was given the third-grade math book so that Steve Simpson could tutor me over the summer. This was a year after I had commanded our Dalmatian, Pongo, to “sic’em,” and he did, biting Steve Simpson in the seat of his pants. 

 

For the rest of my life I have been bad in math. 

 

Later, much later, my mother confessed that she had agreed to letting me skip a grade under one condition, and one condition only. Now that my best friend, Margaret, and I would be in the same grade, she did not want us in the same class. It was simply a recipe for disaster. 

 

In true 60s fashion, my mother kept her mouth shut when ecstatically, Margaret and I found ourselves together in Mrs. Petersen’s fourth-grade class. And again in Mrs. Lieber’s fifth-grade class. It was about this time in my educational development that report card comments began to decry that I had “come out of my shell.” And that I would be a much better student, and by implication - person - if I would only focus more on my academic endeavors and less on my social life. 

 

“Aren’t you glad you were finally separated?” Mrs. Lieber asked when she stopped Margaret and me in the hall as we walked to our respective sixth-grade classrooms. “You’re sure to become much better friends this way.”

 

On our tour of Enfield Elementary last week, we made our way down to the cafeteria where Susan pointed out the corner of the room where she, always a model student, was tasked with selling ice-cream sandwiches; a nickel for a half, a dime for a whole. We moseyed around the music room where I had learned to lip sync after being publicly shamed for singing off key. We recalled tooting Hot Cross Buns on our borrowed flutes and Margaret reminded us of her musical superiority which included much coveted violin lessons. 

 

“Remember the day Kennedy was shot?” Margaret exclaimed as we entered the All Purpose Room. “We were called down here for an assembly and then they sent us all home.”

 

“What I remember is doing those horrible gymnastics routines to Born Free,” Susan said. In unison we belted out, “Born free … As free as the wind blows … As free as the grass grows … Born free to follow your heart.”

 

“My year the song was Love is Blue,” I said cringing with the sixth-grade memory of Miss Vaché announcing to the entire class that my cardigan sweater was in fact not hiding my budding bosoms and that it was time to ask my mother for a bra. 

 

“How about Go, You Chicken Fat, Go!” Emily chimed in and we roared remembering the silly song to which we did calisthenics. “No wonder we’ve had lifelong body image issues.” 

 

“I don’t,” the still-slim Margaret quipped and the rest of us glared at her. 

 

We laughed about the duck-and-cover drills, the unflattering solid-blue, one-piece gym suits, the time when Mrs. Murray pulled Emily’s dress up and underpants down IN FRONT OF THE ENTIRE SECOND GRADE CLASS to check for chickenpox and how years later we retaliated by egging her house on Mischief Night. We talked about running across the huge playground and climbing on the dome-shaped jungle gym, holding our dresses down so the boys wouldn’t see our underwear. We remembered the wooden swings that gave us splinters and how we would jump off the see-saw so the person on the other end would go slamming into the ground, and pointed out where we would line up by classroom to re-enter the building after recess. 

 

Some of us recalled the pride of being chosen for Safety Patrol to serve as a student crossing guard or bus monitor or hallway police. Others of us were never granted such an honor and consequently became the reported rather than the reportee. We chuckled over Mrs. Lieber dragging Clifford White (God rest his soul) by the ear to the front of the classroom where she pronounced him, much to our delight, a Jackass. We peeked out of Mrs. Rosenthal’s window and discovered that though Mark Sharpe had indeed jumped out, it really wasn’t all that far down to the ground. 

 

We remembered sledding at North Hills Country Club on snow days, the thrill of occasionally walking the long mile home, rather than taking the big yellow school bus. We would take the secret pathway behind the church so we could walk past the Maher’s house and then cut across E. Heather Road to avoid Sammy Abrams mother who might write a story about us in the Oreland Sun. We remembered selling cookies and doing overnights at Camp Laughing Waters with Girl Scout Troop 413. We remembered walking to Perkel’s Pharmacy to buy candy bars and calling phony numbers and how once, in her most sultry pre-pubescent voice, Margaret said to a woman on the phone, “Tell your husband that Crystal called. It’s about the baby.”

 

As we walked out the front door of Enfield Elementary School for the last time, it struck our grown-up selves as how strange a thing memory is. How is it that one person can vividly remember every detail of an event while the person who was right there by their side has zero recollection of it ever happening? How can a traumatic memory for one became a whatever moment for another? How can one person's stumble be another person's stepladder? 

But, oh how easy it is to jump on the bandwagon of someone else's memory and rewrite the world as we wish it to be. One of us may not remember who we had as a first-grade teacher, and one day may not remember what was said two minutes ago. But if we continue to walk down Memory Lane hand-in-hand with those who love us best, in the end, that's really the only memory that matters. 

Ringing out the Old

To celebrate the life of my friend Lou’s mother, Margo, I downed two shots of tequila (yes, I really did) with the Pinto family after her funeral on Thursday. Because her last years on earth did not mirror the feisty, successful and hard-working woman she truly was, we got to talking about how, often times, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Especially when considering one's long-lived life. 

Which is exactly how I came to feel about ringing out 2021, alone in the living room, glued to the 19-inch TV, playing Words with Friends with one eye, watching Anderson Cooper with the other. Because I never drink alone and my offspring and spouse had long since retired for the night, I was able to fully focus on the fact that these newscasters actually drink real alcohol and get tipsy while live on air. Being in full control of my own faculties and feeling a bit reflective, I pulled out my Moleskin weekly planner in which I had recorded the highs, lows and inconsequential nonsense of the rapidly waning year. 

 

I noted that I finished Designated Survivor on January 2^nd but admittedly had to google and read the synopsis before I had any recollection of the series that I had binged and apparently loved – hence the !!! after the entry. I changed the Brita filter on January 4^th, recalibrated my psoriatic arthritis medicine on the 12^th, socialized with my mother for the first time indoors (with masks) on the 20th, attended multiple zoom meetings throughout the month and had the dishwasher repaired on the 29^th.

 

I shoveled snow in February, got my COVID vaccines, and visited with my mother indoors and unmasked. The middle kid moved back home after living in Los Angeles for several years and I had a not-yet-authorized, but certainly not illegal, vaccine appointment waiting for him upon his return. 

 

Early March was spent on the computer from midnight through 2 am, refreshing my browser over and over again to secure vaccine appointments for friends and family so we could all go to the Woolley wedding in April. I bought a new laptop, went to an indoor bridal shower and put the dog food on an automatic delivery plan.

 

In April, I vacuumed my car and got an oil change, met my niece’s boyfriend for the first time at a restaurant indoors in Pennsylvania. Heather revealed she was having a baby girl and we cheered with glee in her parent’s backyard on Easter Sunday. I played mahjong with Susan and Janice and had lunch with Ann and Gail. We went to Jan and John’s wedding where we ate and danced and drank and rejoiced. Vaccinated and unmasked. We attended Holly and Jim’s annual Oscar Awards party via Zoom. 

 

In May we went to our first Mets game in two years. We sat socially distanced in fifth row seats, breaking the rules and lowering masks as we joined the other reduced capacity fans in applauding the return of Matt Harvey, who blessedly didn’t pitch all that well as an Oriole either. I got on an airplane for the first time in 14 months and flew to Charleston where my sister and her new dog Birdie lived in an alternate reality. No masks in stores, no worry in restaurants, no cringing when strangers got too close. 

 

By June, masks were no longer required in the gym, the youngest child left without fear for a summer of work on a food truck in Traverse City and I went to an indoor, but masked funeral for my dear friend Angela’s mother. The daughter continued to come and go from Brooklyn, but much less frequently now that her social world was opening back up. The ever-loving spouse and I went to more Mets games and got closer and closer to other fans. I went to the Bonefish Grill and ate inside with Susan and Janice and drove to Higgins Beach, Maine the following day for the annual college girls’ trip. We shopped for mattresses in Portland and had cocktails and dinner. Indoors. Unmasked. I went to Pennsylvania for a luncheon where I met cousins from California who I barely knew I had, but with whom have since become fast Facebook friends. 

 

In July we had dinner at Outback, after too many years away from our old stomping grounds where we once went to celebrate every everything with the Hargraves family. At long last I met Niel, Kris’s girlfriend who has since and slyly become his bride. The next day I went to visit my high school bestie, Madge, at her new house near Harrisburg. Our great friend, Nancy, came from DC for a mid-month visit and we went masked to the Van Gogh exhibit in NYC, then unmasked to Emilio’s Ballato where the likes of the Obamas have been known to dine. We ended the month by resuming our annual Woolley weekend with fun in the sun at their Lancaster “estate” along with our fun friend Carrie and my sister Emily.

 

On the 1^st of August we met the daughter in Manhattan for a farewell supper for the middle kid who was returning to Los Angeles after a six-month stint working remotely from his childhood bedroom in New Jersey.  Three days later the ever-loving and I boarded a plane for a six-day trip to Denver where we celebrated Lauren and Rob’s wedding with our UNC friends, aka family. We went to the Rockies’ game, climbed around Red Rocks, had many drinks and many meals and had a great visit with my college friend, Jill, and her husband, David. Upon our return, the daughter and I went to Samantha’s baby shower on a rainy Sunday afternoon and renewed our friendship vows with friends from the good old cheerleading days. 

 

Late August is when things took a turn. A group of us who had all grown up together were going to Seattle for Mark and Emily’s wedding – Mark being the son of our lifelong friend Kit. But while making our final plans, grumblings of something called a Delta variant had begun and COVID talk that had been all but tabled made a comeback. Would the wedding, already postponed a year, even happen?  Should we get tested before going? But even if we tested negative, we could get “it” on the plane.  Would we be safe or sorry if we shared a rental car with an unvaccinated friend? Would fear cancel our fun? Of course we went and of course there was abundance of fun, but masks were mandated. Both indoors and out. 

 

In early September I see that I got a COVID test, probably because I had the phantom symptoms I tend to feel when certain friends gasp in horror after I’ve rolled the risk versus reward dice. But I wanted to meet Ian’s baby girl, Hana, and had to be sure I wasn’t bringing her any unwelcome gifts.  We went to more Mets games and witnessed their all-to-familiar demise. Zoom meetings and church services and book clubs went hybrid with half in person, half masked at home. 

 

October was when Madge, Rachel and I met at Debbie’s house in Telford, PA. We were high school buddies and hadn’t all been together, other than on Zoom, in way too many years. Our friend Patty had died in 2020 and we spent the afternoon sharing stories while marveling at much we’ve changed and how much we’ve stayed the same. The ever-loving and I drove to Baltimore to an outdoor retirement party for his childhood friend, Charlie, and then ventured onward, down to DC, for a colleague’s party where I befriended my MSNBC idol, Kimberly Atkins. We had brunch the next day at an Afghan restaurant in Adams Morgan with our friend Nancy. 

 

The college girls gathered in Greenville, SC in the middle of the month and we were all quite impressed by the beautiful, walkable, mask-free city that our friend Ann now called home. The following week my spouse, youngest son and I met my sister-in-law and her significant other in Baltimore for the internment of my father-in-law’s ashes, finally laying him to rest next to his bride of over 50 years. In October I had lunch indoors with Ann and Gail.

 

In early November I met baby Savannah and coordinated the visit so I’d also get to see Heather’s mother who, as one of my very best friends, I had ridiculously not seen since the gender reveal on Easter Sunday. I met Samantha’s baby girl, Demi, and as a bonus, got to see Demi’s grandmother Dawn again, a fun-filled friend who had defected to Florida. We celebrated our 32^nd anniversary in tandem with Diwali, setting off fireworks with our friends and neighbors on Grove Street. We went to Boston for a weekend with the ever-loving’s college cronies where I made new pals and cemented friendships with others. Masks were back in vogue in public places, though at the time we assumed it was only because Massachusetts trends socially progressive. We resumed our night-before party at the Schaeffer's and had a big family Thanksgiving at my sister’s house in Pennsylvania.

 

We kicked off the Christmas season with John and Janice at an indoor restaurant without a contrary thought in our heads. The following week Kathy had Ann, Holly and me over for a lovely holiday luncheon where some, but not all, of our conversation skewed toward this thing called Omicron. Talk turned to the approaching invasion of friends and family and at-home tests and whether gatherings were too risky despite our multiple jabs. Yet the spouse and I went to a dinner party over the weekend and the next day to the Christmas pageant at church. That afternoon I went to Gretchen's cookie exchange party in Pennsylvania and stole several bags of her homemade toffee to eat on the way home.  

 

The daughter came home from Brooklyn. The middle one came home from California. Both were  subsequently and separately informed that they had been directly exposed to COVID. They stood in four-hours long lines to get their negative test results. Our church went virtual again starting on Christmas Eve. I strongly discouraged the middle one from attending the Knicks game on Christmas Day, and he listened to me. Our sewer line backed up on Christmas night and we spent a good deal of time bailing water out of the basement. We took home tests before celebrating at my sister’s on the 26^th following ad nauseam debates over whether it was safe for us all to gather with my 96 year-old mother. 

 

We went back and forth about New Year’s Eve and whether we should go to a restaurant with Jean and Tom or not. Not is what won for the second New Year's Eve in a row. Which brings me back to the living room, alone in front of the 19-inch TV watching Anderson Cooper giggle and Miley Cyrus twerk, Moleskin planner in tow to help me relive 2021. I recorded that I walked 636.27 miles this year (as intentional exercise – not every day stepping out). I only bicycled half of what I usually do at 581 miles. (Meanwhile, the spouse clocked over 3,000 miles this year). I went to the gym 103 times. I lost ten pounds and gained five back -- this week alone. I read 57 books but uncharacteristically lost count of my Netflix binges.

 

Like everyone else, as the new year approached I was more than ready to ring out the old. Yet when I looked at 2021 as a whole rather than just the sum of its parts, I can say without reservation that it was a year worth living. And certainly one worth remembering. 

So, here's to 2022. May health be your constant companion. Happiness your eternal default. And friends and family your abiding umbrella. Just keep hope in your heart and joy in your soul and we'll all get through these darkest and strangest of days. 

Or years, as the case may be. 

The Ghosts of Christmas Past

While an enigma to many, I am no stranger to myself. I know exactly why I view, spew and do the things I do. Yet, there is one mystery I have yet to solve. One feel that I feel that I can’t figure out. 

I don’t know when I turned or why I recoil, but my pure and utter disdain for the recurring holiday called Christmas has me completely baffled. I am not destitute or lonely, distraught or unhappy. Rather, my life is what the sad and sorry covet as they scroll through social media. I have it all. An ever-loving spouse, three kind and (somewhat) well-adjusted adult children, a house on a diverse and friendly street, a flagstone front porch, a work-from-home job dating back decades before it was mainstream, a peace sign dangling from the dogwood tree in the front yard and until recently, a battered but beloved mini-van parked in the driveway. For heaven’s sake, I even have a big, old goofy Labrador who barks nonsensically at squirrels, passersby and delivery trucks. 

 

I grew up just as idyllically in a neighborhood filled with kids and dogs roaming free and far. Memories of holidays were always happy with Christmas just slightly edging out Mischief Night as the childhood favorite. For my family, the season started the second weekend in December when we piled into the wood-paneled station wagon to buy our Christmas tree from the Lions' Club parking lot. We chose the one with the lowest price tag (never, ever more than $10 which, according to my father, was already highway robbery). It was decorated with new and ancient Christmas balls and silver tinsel that we saved from year to year. It was dressed and ready for my parents’ annual cocktail party, the highlight of which was witnessing their annual imbibing of alcohol. 

 

Every Christmas Eve after dinner we would walk with our father through neighboring streets that were lined with candle-lit paper bags. Upon our return, we’d be shooed off to our rooms where we struggled to sleep, but somehow did. Christmas morning dawned with the four sisters perched on the carpeted staircase, waiting for the parent-approved hour of half-past seven. We barreled into the living room and opened our stockings to the stench of the inexplicable delicacy of boiled kidneys permeating the air. Following the tease of our new toothbrushes and chewing gum – pepsin-flavored chiclets for me, peppermint for the others – and more than a few furtive glances at the piles of presents covered with bedsheets, we wolfed down our waffles, grousing and groaning at the laborious pace that my father savored his kidneys. 

Finally, we were set loose and tore through our presents in minutes flat. Except of course for my sister, Emily, who took her good sweet time so it would seem like she got more than the rest of us. Though our gifts were thoughtful and abundant, I don't remember much beyond the remote control race track that I got and the Frye boots that I didn’t. 

 

Ten minutes later we were out the door to check out the neighborhood loot. First stop was Margaret’s where she greeted me with a wistful wink the year we had dispelled the Santa Claus myth once and for all. Accidentally-on-purpose while rummaging through the attic, she and I discovered the very gifts that were now under the tree. We then collected Kit from her house at the top of the hill and went en masse to see Carol who lived next door. Carol was never allowed to have more than one friend at her house at a time and so we spent our formative years being pit one against the other for her vacillating attention. But on Christmas morning even her mother, who had a nervous hum, couldn’t keep us at bay. Perhaps it was the holiday spirit, or maybe she got secret pleasure out of our wide eyes and jealous gasps as Carol causally opened then flung dozens and dozens of gifts aside. 

 

One year Carol got a horse for Christmas. 

 

Later in the day my father helped my mother put the leaf into the green-cloth-covered dining room table to make room for the turkey and all-the-trimmings. The hutch that loomed large against the wall was decorated to the nines with Royal Copenhagen Christmas plates, old-fashioned Santa Claus mugs, live greens and holiday-themed china figurines. Nanny arrived mid-afternoon with armfuls of artfully-wrapped, real-ribboned gifts, all items from our lists that we thought had been dismissed. Uncle Tony came a bit later donned in a suit that smelled like mothballs, carrying a box of Russell Stover chocolates containing too many nut nougats and too few butter creams. 

 

And just like that, Christmas was over. 

 

I don’t recall the interim years, except for the Christmas that I didn’t get engaged when my ever-loving date took me on a romantic date to see the Nutcracker. (A story in and of itself.) But boy do I remember the three-kid Christmases. 

 

I kept a color-coded excel spread sheet in my computer. Presents were purchased and recorded by person, price, wrap status and hiding place. Somewhere, somehow I came up with the number ten and that’s how many gifts they each got. Granted, a Matchbox toy car (99 cents) or a leopard-print headband (79 cents)  counted as gifts, but still had to be wrapped and recorded. In wrapping paper uniquely color-coded to each individual. In other words, the daughter’s gifts were all in the gold angel paper. The middle child’s all in stripes. The last of the litter in red and green puppy print. After they finally went to bed on Christmas Eve, I’d tip-toe to the hiding place and drag the presents up the stairs, heart pounding in fear of being found out. I’d toss and turn all night, worried that I had wrapped a gift in a sibling's paper, purchased the wrong Tonka truck or that the Little House on the Prarie books that I loved as a youth would be barely acknowledged, let alone appreciated. 

 

Come Christmas morning, the kids would tear into the living room where we’d open our stockings, filled with toothbrushes and chewing gum (all items wrapped in the same color-coded paper). Then after a pancake breakfast we’d tackle the fifty presents that were under the tree. 

 

Usually the Maryland grandparents came to town, mercifully staying in a nearby hotel. Grandpa would babysit Christmas Eve while Grandma joined us at church. They’d come back to the house on Christmas morning once the Santa Claus commotion had been contained, in hopes that the gifts they brought wouldn’t be lost in the shuffle. 

 

Dinner was served in our eat-in kitchen, decorated with Christmas cards pinned to red and green plaid ribbons that hung from the windows. In short-order form, dinner was often a lasagne made the night before, buttered noodles for the one who wouldn't eat hamburger, grilled cheese for the one who didn't eat noodles, bagged salad and ice cream. 

 

The grandparents, exhausted retreated to the hotel. My spouse and I tossed out the wrapping paper (and a Barbie shoe or two) and packed up the car for the trip to Pennsylvania the next day to see my side of the family. 

 

And just like that, Christmas was over. 

Until of course two days later when we celebrated the middle kid’s birthday. And two days after that when we celebrated the ever-loving’s birthday. And two days after that when somehow we felt compelled to celebrate New Year’s Eve, usually at Anne Hare’s house with all the dang kids in tow. 

 

And though I no longer color-code the gifts, I still keep a spread sheet. I still yearn to see my adult children jump for joy when they open the box of overpriced Nikes and Sephora gift cards, requested via direct link, lest I deviate. I want them to well up with gratitude when they see the sentimental sentiment I had framed for their apartment. I want my spouse to pretend to love the Javy Baez Mets jersey even though he’s no longer a Met (no wonder it was so cheap). I still want the perfect, effortless Christmas of my childhood, filled with nothing but joy. 

 

Recently, I was shocked to learn that my memories may not be completely intact. My mother swears that she didn't wrap a single gift, hence why they were draped in bedsheets. She admits now that she didn’t take that Christmas Eve walk with us because if she didn’t have that one hour to herself, she would implode. And that more than once, the turkey was dry, the mashed potatoes lumpy and the cranberries soupy. 

 

Yet to me, it was all perfectly perfect.

As I suffer in silence (and more often than not aloud), all I can hope is that my kids know that beneath the holiday haze there is nothing but love. That they accept that there's no such thing as perfection. That we all make mistakes. And that most of them can be reversed, either through a heartfelt apology an Amazon return. I want them to know that there will always be another meal even if the Brussels sprouts are burned or the chicken divan disgusting. 

As for me, maybe if I let go of Christmas past and try to be Christmas present, I may surprise myself and once again feel the joy. But in the meantime, if all else fails, there's always that bottle of bourbon beckoning from beyond.  

Merry Christmas to all!

The Strange Thing About Strangers

 

"So, tell me," I said to my newfound friend, with just the slightest shard of judgment. "Do you eat like this for a reason?" 

She silently assessed my question.

“I mean, don’t you ever just down a pound of m&ms?” I asked wide-eyed.

 

“Never.” 

 

Despite being a life-long direct questioner, it still baffles me when I’m called out on being intrusive rather than simply curious, interested, intrigued, or in this case astounded. My newfound friend has a plethora of healthy eating rules and regulations that I can covet all I want, but know for certain I could never consider. Because really, who wants to set themselves up for that kind of failure? 

 

Her answer, delivered without flinching, was not the political, social, environmental, ethical or religious response I was expecting.

 

 “I’m going to live to be 113.” 

 

With those words I knew the weekend would not be a wash.

 

I too have a proclamation on my lifespan. I fully intend to celebrate my 100^th birthday, after which I will concede when the ghost comes a-calling. Newfound’s plan, while a bit more ambitious is also infinitely more probable considering our opposing body-fueling habits. 

 

But in the end it may not make a bit of difference. The next time she is taken hostage at gunpoint, she may not be so lucky. And the next time I board a cruise ship, I may be stricken with a coronavirus equivalent and sink at sea. 

 

Which is precisely why I do the things I do.

 

Though admittedly, sometimes I resist.

 

“Check out this link,” my ever-loving spouse said back in August as we were primping for a wedding in a semi-sufficient hotel near Seattle. “Does this meet your high standards?”

 

Apparently there was a reunion brewing in Boston with a bunch of guys who had all gone to Haverford College long, long ago. Significant others were encouraged to attend and the link was to an Airbnb where the out-of-towners could cohabitate for the weekend.

 

“Absolutely not,” I answered without a moment’s hesitation. “There is no way I am sharing a place with strangers.”

 

“They’re not strangers,” the ever-loving pleaded resignedly.

 

I gave him the glare. And also my blessings to go off to Boston without me.

 

Of course I went. And of course we stayed in an over-priced hotel in downtown Beantown. If there’s one thing my spouse has learned over the past 30-odd years is that he just can’t put a price tag on his life partner’s comfort and joy.

 

The strangers were an attorney slash competitive bicyclist, an artist, a nose-for-news guy, a bevy of psychologist types (an in-the-office, an in-a-crisis, an in-a-school and an in-training), a birdman, a bridge builder, a robot maker, an electrifying engineer, a writer gone rogue, and a nanny turned grandma complete with illustrious careers and adventures past, present and future. 

 

The strangers hailed from Maryland, Massachusetts, Connecticut, New Jersey, Arizona, New York (or Florida, depending on the season) with roots ranging from Los Angeles to Brookelynn (misspelling intentional and not inherently wrong). 

 

The strangers were hardy imbibers, hardly imbibers and non-imbibers. We were Psycho Killers (qu’est-ce que c’est ), Swifties searching for scarves, Netflix junkies, pescatarians, parents, step-parents, grandparents and potential parents. We were widows, divorcees, marrieds, courting and living togethers. We were political and polar opposites, introverts, extroverts, social media lovers and social media disdainers. We were open books and privacy-preferrers (hence the uncharacteristic and completely intentional nameless characters). We had, over the course of our lives, earned PhDs, JDs, multiple master’s and a couple of bachelor’s degrees in nothing more than bourbon and beer. We had experienced myriad miracles and misfortunes, loved and lost, ailed and healed and made it, every one of us, to the back nine -- ball on the tee, drivers in hand. 

 

Our resident hosts were generous and gracious, giving us the grand tour of a beautifully vibrant city, steeped in history and culture. We dined in the theater district, pedaled our way down the Charles River Bike Path, flung frisbees in a field in Cambridge, picnicked in the Public Garden, sipped cocktails at sunset on a harbor cruise, walked in the rain, walked in the sun, walked on cobblestones, enjoyed a delectable dinner in a gorgeous house on Beacon Hill and broke bread Sunday morning in a horseshoe-shaped booth in the Back Bay. 

 

Appropriately, after brunch we made our way to Boylston Street and stood arm-in-arm across the finish line of the Boston Marathon. As we said our goodbyes, I had one of those cold and fuzzy moments. The cold being the realization that no matter what I eat or drink, say or do, there’s a distinct possibility that I'll reach the finish line before I turn 100. Just as my newfound friend may not make it to 113. 

The fuzzy being the awareness that it's within me, and only me, to keep living until I don't. Which, in my definition means new adventures in new places with new people. After all, as our old buddy William Butler Yeats was so fond of saying, There are no strangers here; only friends you haven't yet met. 

 

But don't think for a minute that I'm ever going to give up my over-priced hotel room. 

 

Tiny Tim

The Bo-Betsy Stories

Chapter Seven

 

Way back when your mother was just about the age you are now, she and her best friend, Bo-Betsy, used to play outside all the time. All. The. Time. They’d walk up and down Woods Road, hour after hour, looking for fun. Sometimes they found it, and sometimes they had to create it themselves.

 

One Saturday morning, your mother and Bo-Betsy were moseying about at the top of the hill right near the McKenna’s house. Now, the McKenna’s were a mystery. They weren’t a scary kind of mystery like the Trouts, but more like, “Hmmm, I wonder what they look like?” kind of mystery. Every now and then an RV camper would appear in their driveway, and the Neighborhood Gang would make up stories about where they had been and where they were headed – imagining trips to the Grand Canyon, Sea World and the Fountain of Youth.  No one knew anything concrete about this couple, but no one really cared. After all, they didn’t have any children.

 

The McKennas don’t have anything to do with this story except for the fact that Tiny Tim emerged from the pachysandra in front their house. You’ve heard about Tiny Tim, haven’t you? The Charles Dickens’ Tiny Tim? The Christmas Story Tiny Tim?  You know, the story about the poor little lame boy? Well, if you don’t know it, I would suggest you read it, or at least see the movie, because it’s a very famous tale indeed.

 

But let’s move on to the story of this Tiny Tim. Bo-Betsy and your mother were bored, as they often thought they were in those days. No one from the Neighborhood Gang was out and about. They didn’t feel like torturing Barbie Barber or spying on the Castle sisters or walking to Perkel’s Pharmacy for a candy bar. They couldn’t think of absolutely anything to do. So, imagine how happy they were when a teeny, tiny kitten stepped gingerly out onto the McKenna’s driveway. He was a little brown and black striped tabby cat with a wee bit of white on his face. He was so tiny he fit right into the palm of your mother’s hand – who of course, was the first to hold him.

 

“We’ve got to nurse him back to health!” your mother declared with no proof positive that he was indeed a he. “We must take him to your house right away!”  

 

Well, Bo-Betsy agreed with almost everything your mother said, but she just KNEW that her mother would never, ever go for it. Mrs. Hunsicker (remember, that’s Bo-Betsy’s last name) HATED cats.

 

“Oh, don’t worry,” your mother said. “She’ll fall in love with him. Especially when we tell her he’ll die if we don’t keep him.”

 

“I’ve got the perfect name for him,” Bo-Betsy exclaimed suddenly. “Tiny Tim. Because he’s so little and sick.”

Of course there was no real indication that Tiny Tim was sick, or lame or about to die, but every story is better when it’s a matter of life and death.

 

So off they went, Bo-Betsy and your mother, taking turns cradling Tiny Tim in their arms all the way down the street. 

“Mom!” Bo-Betsy screeched as they flung open the back door at 300 Woods Road. “Look what we found!”

 

When Bo-Betsy’s mother saw a real, live cat in her house, her hands went to her heart and she gasped for breath. When she was a little more composed, she pointed to the door.

 

“OUT! Get that, that, that thing out of the house!”

By this time Pongo, the Hunsicker’s Dalmatian, was sniffing around, trying to jump up on Bo-Betsy. There was a lot of squealing (from the humans) and meowing (from Tiny Tim) and barking (from Pongo) and somehow Bo-Betsy’s mother was able to get them all outside. All except for Pongo, who stayed inside whining and scratching at the screen door. 

 

“Pleeeeeassse! He’s going to die if we don’t keep him! Moooooommmmm, please!”

The girls gave the performance of their lives and finally wore Bo-Betsy’s mother down.

 

“OK. Here are the rules,” she began. “You can keep it….”

 

“He’s not an it. His name’s Tiny Tim,” your mother said.

 

“Fine. Tiny Tim. You can keep Tiny Tim. But Tiny Tim has to stay outdoors. Tiny Tim may never, ever come inside. Fix up a little bed for him in the garage, but remember, you have to keep the side door shut so Pongo doesn’t get in.”

 

Well, your mother and Bo-Betsy were beside themselves. Having a pet of their very own was one victory they never expected to celebrate. Bo-Betsy’s mother really, really, really hated cats. But a kitten, a teeny tiny kitten is very hard for even a hater to hate. Bo-Betsy’s mother handed the girls some old baby blankets that she had long ago put away with a sigh, and even offered Tiny Tim a bowl of milk. They settled him down into a corner of the garage and went off to look for toys to keep him entertained.

 

Poor Tiny Tim. He didn’t last long. After a day-and-a-half, the initial fun of having a pet wore off and your mother and Bo-Betsy got a little careless, forgetting to double check the garage door after filling Tiny Tim’s bowl with tuna fish. 

I don’t think I even have to tell you what happened next. 

Your mother and Bo-Betsy were very, very mad at Pongo. 

Bo-Betsy’s mother was very, very mad at the girls. 

 

Bo-Betsy’s father was very, very mad that after a long day at work he had to spend his evening  digging a grave in the backyard. 

“It’s not Pongo’s fault,” Bo-Betsy’s father said, always quick to defend the dog. 

Nor was it Pongo’s fault when he tinkled on Kit’s bicycle seat – when you gotta go, you gotta go. It wasn’t Pongo’s fault when he brought home newspapers from six neighboring driveways – after all, Bo-Betsy's father said, we're the ones who taught him to fetch the paper, he just thought he was going that extra mile. And it wasn’t even Pongo’s fault when he bit Walter Wilson on the rear end. That was your mother’s fault for yelling, “Sic ‘em!” 

“You girls have to learn to be more responsible,” Bo-Betsy’s mother said with a quiver.

 

“It’s nature's way,” Bo-Betsy’s father said pragmatically. After all, he had grown up on a farm. "But, let this be a lesson to you. It's a tough world out there, and only the strong survive.”

 

Your mother and Bo-Betsy, whose heads had been hanging low, looked up at each other and shared a silent vow. 

 

No matter what, forever and ever, together or apart, they would be strong. They would survive. 

 

And sure enough, they did.

 

My Right-Hand Girl

 

The Bo-Betsy Stories

Chapter Six

Your mother was hands-down the bravest girl on Woods Road. Some will even venture to say that she was the bravest kid, boy or girl, in the whole neighborhood. That meant she was braver than Mikey Matz, who wasn’t scared of anything. That meant she was braver than Richie Sutherland who would do anything. That meant she was braver than Cheryl Becker who did do everything. (But we’ll leave those kind of stories for when you get a little older.)

 

Anyway, one day Bo-Betsy had to go to the dentist. Now, neither your mother nor your Uncle Rob nor your Aunt Bonnie (who everyone called Bon-Bon), had ever had a single cavity. Their mother, your grandmother, felt very proud of herself because she knew for sure that proper parenting was the greatest indicator of a sparkling smile. And she felt just a little bit smug knowing that the massive amounts of candy and sweets served three doors down were directly responsible for the number of cavities those Hunsicker sisters suffered. And still suffer to this very day. 

 

Bo-Betsy didn’t have horrible teeth. Actually, she only had one cavity until she became a grown-up. But her sisters, Emily and Susan, had cavities every single time they went to the dentist. And Mr. Hunsicker, that’s Bo-Betsy’s father, didn’t believe in Novocain. I’m not sure if any of you have had a cavity yet. But if you have, I can guarantee you got the current day equivalent of Novocain. Mr. Hunsicker was in the Navy in World War II and boasted that he had NINE cavities drilled at one time with NO Novocain. Most fathers wouldn’t want to bestow the same agony on their children, but Mr. Hunsicker was certainly not like most fathers.

 

The Hunsicker girls went to Dr. Lang in Ambler. He was an old, bald-headed man, who was Mr. Hunsicker’s dentist when he was a little boy. The office was on the second floor, reached by climbing up a dark and creepy staircase. But the waiting room was filled with windows, chairs, books and magazines.

 

Bo-Betsy always went into see Dr. Lang first. As a matter of fact, she got to do whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted (unless, of course, she was with your mother) because otherwise, she’d throw a tantrum and humiliate the entire family. 

 

Bo-Betsy headed into the dentist’s chair and in a matter of minutes was sent back out to her mother and sisters with a big cavity-free smile. 

 

Next went her sister, Susan. Bo-Betsy did a little fist-in-the-air “Yes!” when she heard Dr. Lang say he’d have to do a little drilling. Bo-Betsy was not “yessing” about her sister’s potential pain, but rather that she now had time to settle in and read the big, blue Children’s Bible Highlights book that was on the table in the waiting room. 

 

The Children’s Bible Highlights was a book that told real-life stories, kind of like the Reader’s Digest (maybe you've seen one at your great-grandmother's house), but these always had a Godly-twist to them. Bo-Betsy loved to read and she’d read anything she could get her hands on. Dr. Lang’s office was the only place she ever had seen this book, so if Bo-Betsy was in the middle of a story by the time they had to leave, she’d have to wait a year (because no one went to the dentist twice a year back then, which might account for some of the cavities) until her next appointment to find out the ending.

 

On this particular day, Bo-Betsy was reading a story that went something like this:

 

When a young boy was crossing a busy street he forgot to look both ways and was plowed down by a speeding car. The boy suffered many internal injuries as well as a broken neck and spine. He was in very, very bad shape and in a lot of pain. The first night in the hospital, a voice came to him. It told him not to be afraid because God was with him, and soon he would be with God. All he had to do was raise his right hand when he went to sleep and God would take him to heaven. Sure enough, the boy closed his eyes, raised his right hand and died peacefully in his sleep.

 

When Bo-Betsy got home from the dentist, she ran right up to your mother’s house and told her the story of the boy who was taken by God. 

 

“What do you think?” she asked your mother. “Do you think if we went to sleep and raised our right hands, God would take us?”

 

“Absolutely,” your mother said.

 

“Wow,” said Bo-Betsy, pondering the power of the right hand. “Maybe we should try it.”

 

“We?” your mother chortled, knowing full-well that Bo-Betsy was a full-fledged, bawk-bawk, cluck-cluck chicken. 

 

“Well, you should try,” said Bo-Betsy. “But what if it works?”

 

“Then I die,” your mother said, matter-of-factly.

 

“You’re not scared?” Bo-Betsy asked, not wanting to sound too astonished because that would make her seem even more pathetic than she was.

 

“Of course I’m not scared. I’ll do it tonight.”

 

Well, Bo-Betsy went home that night and didn’t sleep real well. She knew her very best friend well enough to know she’d raise her right hand to the Lord without blinking an eye. And though Bo-Betsy greatly admired your mother’s courage, she really couldn’t imagine living without her if it worked.

 

The next morning Bo-Betsy woke up at 6 o’clock. Even though your grandmother never let your mother sleep too late, it was summertime and 6 am is early by anyone’s standards. Bo-Betsy tossed and turned in her bed until 7:30 which she thought was a reasonable hour to make a phone call.

 

She tiptoed to the phone in the kitchen and dialed 884-2027, which was your mother’s phone number, a number Bo-Betsy will remember for the rest of her life.

 

The phone rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. When it had rung eight times, Bo-Betsy hung up. In those days, there was no such thing as an answering machine and there was certainly no such thing as caller ID, so Bo-Betsy knew she could call right back and no one would know it had been her both times. So she dialed 884-2027 again. 

 

The phone rang. And rang. And rang. And rang. By this time, Bo-Betsy was certain that your mother had been taken to heaven. Or maybe, after the Barbie Barber worm incident, to the other place. She didn’t know what to do. Somehow, she felt it was all her fault.

 

Bo-Betsy got dressed quickly and ran out into the warm summer air, her PF Flyers barely hitting the ground as she bounded up the road to your mother’s house. Up the steep, steep driveway she went. The red station wagon was nowhere to be seen. Bo-Betsy’s throat started to hurt as she blinked back tears. She ducked under the bed sheets that were hanging on a contraption in the middle of the jaggedy-edged stone patio and jogged across to the back door upon which she banged. And banged. And banged. 

All of a sudden, a second-floor window that looked out over the jaggedy-edged stone patio was flung open.

 

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” your mother yelled out. 

 

Bo-Betsy jumped a foot in the air.

 

“Uh, nothing. Want to come out and play?” Bo-Betsy asked, trying desperately to mask her fear, and her relief.

 

“Sure. As soon as my mom gets back. She’s just driving Dad to the train station. Come on in and wait,” your mother said. “And by the way, it didn’t work.” 

 

“You tried it?” Bo-Betsy asked incredulously. “You really, really tried it?”

 

“Of COURSE I did,” your mother said, raising her right hand to the Lord as Betsy raised hers to her heart. 

 

Bo-Betsy thought about raising her right hand for years and years and years after that. Not because she wanted to be taken to the Lord. And not because she truly believed she would be taken just because she raised her right hand. But, Bo-Betsy wanted to prove to herself that she could be as brave as your mother, just once in her life.

 

It’s been a lifetime since then and Bo-Betsy has done a lot of really scary things. She went off to a college where she didn’t know a soul. She drove to Arizona and slept in a rest stop. She went to Moscow when it was still the Soviet Union and Americans were not all that welcome. She sang karaoke in the Philippines. She spoke to Geraldo Rivera. She went zip-lining in a jungle in Jamaica. She married a Presbyterian. She had not one, not two, but three children. She even moved to New Jersey, for goodness sake.

 

But, despite all the courageous things Bo-Betsy has done in her life, she still hasn’t mustered up the courage to raise her right hand to the Lord.

The Bo-Betsy Stories: Chapter Four

A long, long time ago, when your mother was just a little girl, not much older than you are now, she had a friend named Bo-Betsy. Bo-Betsy lived not right next door to your mother, not in the house next to the house next door, but in the house next to the house that was next to the house next door. They lived on Woods Road, a road with lots and lots of trees and lots and lots of kids to play with. Woods Road was a magical place because if you lived there, it meant you would always have friends to play with. For the rest of your life. 

 

Chapter Four: The Worms Go In … The Worms Go Out

Before Debbie Atlee moved in, there was a family called the Barbers who lived in the brown stone house across the street from your mother. It wasn’t a barber shop, nor did any of the Barbers grow up to be hairdressers, they just happened to have a name that was the same as a profession. 

The Barbers were a peculiar bunch. The father, Bernie, was fascinated with outer space. So fascinated that he built a spaceship in the backyard out of tin cans and aluminum foil. It wasn’t anything like the spaceship that took Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin to the moon in the summer of 1969. As a matter of fact, if you saw it, you might not have even known that it was a spaceship. But your mother and Bo-Betsy knew because they knew everything. They knew that Mr. Barber not only communicated with aliens but was a bonafide spy who searched for UFOs. This they knew because many nights when the Neighborhood Gang was out playing Capture the Flag, they would see Bernie Barber hunkered down in a fold-up chair looking through a telescope that was perched on the brick wall of the carport. If he didn’t communicate with aliens and if he weren’t a spy, there would be absolutely no reason for the family to have chosen the only house on Woods Road without a garage. 

But that’s all beside the point. The outer space allure may well have been the most normal thing about that household. There was a Mrs. Barber who stayed in the house most of the time along with Andi, the teenage daughter who was, shall we say, a little bit off. To add fuel to the fire, Andi was a girl with a boy’s name. And while today's children are taught never, ever to make fun of someone who is a little bit off, or who has a weird name, or is too pudgy or too skinny, or too anything, really – back when your mother was young, it wasn’t illegal to be mean. It was just mean to be mean. Andi had a younger sister, Bobbi, who was younger than your mother and younger even than your mother’s younger sister (who was the same age as Bo-Betsy’s younger sister) but not young, young, like Baby Belinda whom they called Whoopsie, for obvious reasons. Though no one but your mother ever saw them, it was common knowledge that Whoopsie had webbed feet. Like a duck. 

 

But this story is not about Andi or Whoopsie or Bernie Barber or Mrs. Barber whose first name isn’t worth mentioning. It’s not about aliens or UFOs or telescopes. It’s about your mother and Bo-Betsy and bratty Bobbi.

 

Everyone has a Bobbi in their life, no matter where in the world they grew up. If you think real hard, or maybe you don’t even have to think all that hard, I bet you’ll realize you know a Bobbi too. This Bobbi was a tattle-tale and a whiner and a pest and really, really unpleasant to be around. And we all know that when there’s someone you don’t like to be around, you just don’t play with them. The problem was that Bobbi Barber lived smack across the street from your mother, well maybe a little to the right, but you get the picture. So any time the girls would ride their bikes down your mother’s steep driveway, they’d end up right in front of the Barber’s house. And Bobbi was always there.

 

For some strange reason, Bobbi only wanted to play with your mother and Bo-Betsy. She didn’t bother with their younger sisters or with Anne Siefert or Mary Anne Bergman. She didn’t try to get in good with Bo-Betsy’s older sister or Cheryl Becker. She just wanted to hang out with the two people who got the most irritated by her constant whining. And crying. And begging. And it was so, so annoying. 

 

Finally your mother, who was very crafty, came up with the best plan ever. 

 

One day after school, your mother came out of the garage holding a little trowel – probably the very same one that she uses to this day when she plants her flower garden every year. She led Bo-Betsy back behind Lurch’s dog house and started digging. Bobbi hadn’t appeared outside yet, so they could take their time and wait for the perfect specimen. When they had gotten what they were after, your mother sneaked into the kitchen and grabbed two pieces of Wonder Bread – the kind of white bread that gets stuck to the roof of your mouth when you chew it. Your grandmother, who was only a mother then, was dusting the photographs on the bureau in her bedroom so she had no idea what Bo-Betsy and your mother were up to.  

Out the door the girls ran, over the gravel patio where the laundry was hanging out to dry, across to the driveway and down the steep hill to the road. They stood there at the bottom of the driveway for quite some time, wondering where Bobbi was and why the one time that they wanted her, she was nowhere in sight. But then at long last, they heard the Barber’s back door slam and then, emerging from the carport, the only carport on Woods Road, came the victim. 

 

“Oh, hi Bobbi!” your mother called cheerfully.

 

“We have a surprise for you!” said Bo-Betsy.

 

“What is it?” asked Bobbi, flipping her curly hair, that was not quite brown and not quite blond, over her shoulders.

 

“We made you a sandwich,” your mother announced. “Your favorite. Peanut butter and jelly.”

 

“Gimme!” Bobbi demanded. Your mother handed her the sandwich which was oozing with strawberry jelly. And a big, fat, juicy earthworm. But of course, Bobbi didn’t know about the secret ingredient. 

 

You see, your mother had dug up a worm from the dirt behind Lurch’s doghouse, picked it up, and plopped it right in the middle of the sandwich. Bo-Betsy and your mother stared at Bobbi. Bobbi looked at the sandwich. She turned it over. She shrugged her shoulders. And took a great big bite.

 

“Yum!” Bobbi exclaimed. “My mother only buys chunky peanut butter. This is nice and creamy.” 

 

“Ewwwww!” your mother screamed, buckling over in laughter. 

 

“You’re eating worms! You’re eating worms!” Bo-Betsy and your mother began chanting.

 

Bobbi threw the sandwich on the ground and started to cry.

 

“I’m telling my father!” she cried and she stomped down the driveway.

 

Bo-Betsy and your mother grabbed the discarded sandwich and raced as fast as they could down the street to Bo-Betsy’s, around the side of the house, through the gate to the backyard and up into the yellow playhouse that Bo-Betsy’s father had built.

 

“Let’s see how much of the worm she ate,” said your mother when she finally caught her breath. She carefully lifted off the top piece of bread. Bo-Betsy who was deathly afraid of worms, stepped back.

 

“It’s not here!” your mother declared with delight. “She ate the whole thing!”

Meanwhile, your mother’s brother – your Uncle Rob – was just getting home from school himself. Halfway up the driveway, he stopped short. There on the ground was the biggest, juiciest, ugliest earthworm he had ever seen. 

 

“Hmm,” he thought. “That’s odd. It’s not even raining. Worms don’t usually come out when it’s sunny.” 

 

So he picked it up and tossed it into the woods.