The things that go wrong

An ode to a friend.

Mort was my dad's best friend at his law firm back when Dad was a working man in Toledo, Ohio. Morty was a loud man; his normal speaking voice could carry for miles without effort and bore a very strong Brooklyn accent. He was funny and boisterous and one of the kindest, most welcoming, most exuberant people you could ever hope to meet along the journey.

Mort and his two daughters were our ski vacation buddies. We took annual ski trips to Colorado together throughout my childhood and adolescence, rented pretty slopeside condos together, ate my mom's famous and appropriately dubbed "ski trip chicken" recipe at least once during our weeks in those cozy condos, sometimes twice.

Something went wrong on nearly all of those trips. It wasn't always fun in the moment but we now know the stuff that goes wrong is often the good stuff, the stuff we relish remembering all these years later, the stuff that makes us laugh, the stuff that made our time together rich and memorable. There were always botched rental car reservations, lost luggage, chaotic meandering drives trying to find elusive ski condos, serious sun poisoning resulting in unrecognizable puffy faces, tense people speaking to each other through clenched teeth as they debated who'd locked the keys in the car again. It was a rare trip indeed it all went according to plan.

I was the baby of the group by a wide margin so haven't always remembered the details of those ski trips thanks to my youth and spongy young memory brain -- plus my parents always stuck me in ski school as the rest of them cavorted around on the slopes together so I wasn't even present for most things. I'm not jealous of that at all, yes I am, very much.

But I've heard the family folkloric stories so many times, I've internalized them clearly as if I was sharp as a tack and taking notes for each and every one. For one example, "the flaming logs at Snowmass" incident. Our first night in the Snowmass slopeside condo, Mort closed the flue on the chimney when he thought he was opening it, then built a roaring fire as Mom cooked ski trip chicken in the kitchen. Mort continually and enthusiastically refilled her wine glass, proclaiming loudly, "Wine for the cook! More wine for the cook!

It didn't take long for thick black smoke to pour into the room. As the rest of us hustled our butts out of that condo, Mort lunged for the fireplace tongs. He grabbed the flaming logs one by one and dropped them off our balcony into the deep snow three floors below. It was about this time his wife called from Ohio to see how things were going. He was honest with her, and she grew alarmed.

We like to imagine the faces of the cozy skiers living below us as they soothed their aching ski muscles at the end of a long day with a glass of hot cider or mulled wine. What did they think when flaming logs began falling from the sky? They knew we were in town, that's for sure.

Sometimes our extended family joined our trips.

This is my dad, my second cousin, Mort, my aunt, Mom, one of Mort's daughters.

Where was I?

Likely face-planting in ski school. 

Dammit.

Dad likes to recount the time Mort convinced him to do "one last run" before the chairlift closed for the day. They made it back in line just in time and were the last people allowed on the chair. They high-fived. We did it! One more run!

The motor broke on the chairlift on that last trip so Dad and Mort were stuck swinging thirty feet above the ground for hours. It got cold up there. Dad began to resent Mort in that moment, the man who made him take one more run when he should have been back with us at the condo holding a steaming glass of hot cider or mulled wine by then. Ski trip chicken is an elusive far away friend when you're stuck on a chairlift.

After a few dangly hours, they saw the ski patrol run a new motor up on a snowmobile. Not too long after that, the chair lurched to life again and began slowly moving up the mountain. Dad and Mort made their way down the slope carefully with no light aside from the ambient light of a full moon. Dad says it was the most beautiful ski run of his life. Further proof that sometimes the things that go wrong are the best parts.

I'm not sure what this one was all about

but that's yours truly on the right in my '80s acid washed pegged jeans

and Mort is doing something to my head

and Dad is holding a stuffed hippo. 

Plus, so many hats. 

Mort, a Jewish man, was the biggest fan of Christmas carols you've ever met. My mom played the piano at every law firm Christmas party and Mort would stand directly over her, bellowing those tunes slightly off key with an unbridled joy never before seen at a law firm Christmas party, especially from a Jewish man. He was very hurt when a semi-professional singer joined the firm's staff and received the coveted  "FIIIIVE GOLDEN RINGS" solo on "The Twelve Days of Christmas." That had always been Mort's verse, you see.

Mort passed away from cancer a few years ago. It was a huge loss for my parents, one they grieved to their cores. Someone like Mort can't leave the Earth and his absence not be felt profoundly. There was only one of him, and that is a gross understatement.

Mort requested his ashes be spread in three locations, three places that held great significance in his life and ultimately became three of his happiest chapters. The first was Coney Island, where he spent an idyllic free range childhood. The second was at the top of Half Dome in Yosemite, where Mort defeated a lifelong fear of heights when he climbed it with my dad and one of his daughters about fifteen years ago. The third was right here in my backyard, in Olympic National Park, where Mort spent a few weeks with the Student Conservation Association at the age of 16, clearing trails and rebuilding Humes Ranch, a historical cabin off the beaten path.

Mort's two daughters carried out his wishes at Coney Island and on top of Half Dome in the past couple years. For the third and final stop at Olympic National Park, Mort's family invited my parents to join for the five mile hike out to Humes Ranch. My parents accepted with gratitude and I immediately decided the kids and I would join, too. We were eager to reunite with our old family friends, recount stories of Mort, celebrate his big heart and the way he lived his life.

Our two families gathered in neighboring rental houses for a long weekend at Lake Sutherland, just outside Olympic National Park. It doesn't get much more Pacific Northwest picture perfect than Lake Sutherland in the fall. It was gorgeous and crisp and calm and kind of smug with its autumn charms.

My parents brought Lucien a slingshot,

which we now know

is a perfect gift for an eleven-year-old boy.

Mom made ski trip chicken. We refilled her wine glass often, obviously, as Mort taught us to do --

The next day we hiked out to Humes Ranch. We stopped halfway through the hike to light a candle and remember Mort and tell stories of his larger than life personality.

Dad told a story I'd never heard before. On my dad's very first day at the law firm, there was a firm meeting in which most attendees, including my dad, showed up in polished dark suits. Soon after the meeting began, Mort walked in wearing jeans and a George McGovern t-shirt. George McGovern was a liberal 1972 Presidential candidate not at all embraced at the mostly-Republican law firm but Mort didn't much mind. Dad liked Mort immediately and then they were friends. History made!

Humes Ranch --

Mort's two daughters, a son-in-law, and two beloved grandkids.

Us, minus The Loosh, who was off somewhere

being moody and pre-pubescent.

(Help me)

My parents could not be any cuter.

Our long weekend celebrating my dad's best friend got me thinking about lives well lived. About how simple it is to do it right, or at least how simple it is in theory, how simple it should be. Mort lived life enthusiastically and warmly. I doubt Mort was perfect, none of us are, but he was a good man, a good father, husband and friend. I don't think anyone can aim much higher than to be those things, and to be remembered for such things when we're gone.

If Mort could see us from wherever he is now, I know he was giddy seeing his grandkids play with his dear friend's grandkids at Humes Ranch. The four kids ran through the fields, played hide-and-go-seek, laughed their bubbly little kid laughs. I could almost see Mort beaming and hear him bellowing with enthusiastic joy. He may have also been singing Christmas carols but that's cool, we'll give him a pass on the seasonal appropriateness.

(I'm also pretty sure I heard a faint, "LET'S DO TIN PANTS," an ode to times when we would be spread out along the chairlift but Mort would let his ski run wishes be known by yelling at all of us up and down the line...)

My dad wrote a long essay that was read at Mort's memorial service. I wish I could cut and paste the whole thing here because it is a beautiful homage to friendship and shared history but in lieu of the entire thing, this is the final paragraph. It made me verclempt as hell. I hope Dad is OK with me sharing it here, I didn't ask -- hi, Dad!

"A good day of skiing has three parts: early morning is the time of elation and anticipation of the coming adventure. The air is cool, the trails awash in morning light, the body eager. Mid-day is the time of accomplishment in the heat of the day, the time for fast skiing, maybe in moguls. Late afternoon is the time for relaxing and reflection, for slowing down and really seeing and feeling the beauty of the day and the warmth, golden light and long shadows of late afternoon in the mountains - skiing as a metaphor for life. Judy and I are in the late afternoon now. Mort has passed through it, but we still see him, content in the mountains, happy with friends and family who loved him."

One final thing about our long weekend, a tone change so I can, ahem, clear this dust out of my eyes. Lucien hurt his back over that weekend on the peninsula when he flipped around on his bed and landed on the back of his neck. His neck and back were still sore a few days later so I took him to a chiropractor. Lucien has never been to a chiropractor and doesn't quite understand their treatment methods as evidenced by his alarmed, "Why are you hugging me? WHY IS THE DOCTOR HUGGING ME?" as the chiro wrapped his arms around Lucien to adjust his spine. The chiropractor laughed so hard he had to stop and wipe his eyes with his shirt.

I love that kid.

The kids and I returned to Seattle from the Olympic Peninsula via the ferry. It was a beautiful day for a ferry ride. I have loved many places in the world but I am most absolutely content to be in this one. It's so fantastically pretty up in here.

I hosted my annual Halloween parents-gone-wild fest over the weekend. I'm going to post on that ASAP but after that, November will be all about the Paris book, a NaNoWriMo tweaked once again for my non-fiction needs. It's time to confront the reality of my editor's feedback, which hurt my feelings but is likely right on the money. I'll be around.

Until we meet again, 

here's to all the great friends we meet along the journey.

More wine for the cook! *clink*
MJ

Ode to a Hometown

(This is Part Two of Journey to the Center of the Country.  Part One is back there.)

Toledo, Ohio.  Place of my birth.  It's probably not the most glamorous of locations.  According to John Denver, "Saturday night in Toledo, Ohio is like being nowhere at all."  What a dick.

(RlP, John)

I thought Toledo was great growing up.  I had everything I needed to be happy: a big backyard, best friends as neighbors, and an Olympic-sized swimming pool at our nearby swim and tennis club.

My childhood best friend/neighbor (I'll call her "Muppet") and I regularly did what we called "a Toledo tour."  We walked to the end of our street and crawled through a hole in the fence to go hang out at the nearby mall.  Then we crossed the street to K-Mart to buy cheap make-up.  Then we walked to the hotel next door to ride the elevator up to the top floor and look out over the tops of our houses.  We ended our tour at Peaches Records where we bought-- gulp -- some of those fancy new cassette tapes.

We were 12 years old and would disappear for hours, no cell phones, no parents freaking out.  We came home when one of two things happened:  1) our mothers yelled our names out the back door or 2) the street lights came on. 

I remember driving in Toledo.  I thought it was overwhelming to drive in "the city."  Sometimes I had to sit for a full ten seconds before it was clear enough to make a left-hand turn, a period of time during which I would yell, "Oh my God, this is taking forever!"

In Seattle, of course, a person can sit for hours before accomplishing a left-hand turn, if they're ever allowed to make their turn at all.  Most of us give up and instead attempt a sequence of right-hand turns, with mixed results.

I haven't been back to my hometown since Christmas 2000, six months before Alex and I got married.  I'm a sentimental old fool so cried like one when I drove away from our house that last time.  It had been a happy place to grow up and I didn't think I'd ever see it again given my parents' impending move to Colorado.

Then came July 2013 --  HELLO, TOLEDO!   I AM IN YOU!

Ohio Mom and I drove to her parents' house first.  Their house looks the same.  The screen door makes the same sound when it slams.  The kitchen wallpaper is the same, the kitchen table nook is as cozy as it ever was.  I almost went into the den and pulled out the pull-out bed to sleep, as I'd done a countless number of times before.

Ohio Mom's parents were my second set of parents in high school.  My car could automatically drive to their house and I became an expert at avoiding the tree growing through the middle of their driveway.  I spent as much time sitting at their kitchen table talking to them as I did sitting at my own talking to my own.

It was wonderful to see them but Ohio Mom's parents soon laid some unwelcome truth bombs at my feet. Toledo was not the same.  And some of it would be hard to see.

I hugged them goodbye and got back into my car to begin my solo tour.  I started the tour at my high school, which was down the street from Ohio Mom's house.  The only problem was it was no longer there.

WHERE THE *#@! IS MY SCHOOL?

The football stadium is still there but it looks small and tired and sad.  Do you know how many hours I spent cheering and yelling in those bleachers?  I had to -- I had a bunch of boyfriends, real and imagined, out on that field.

I was anxious to go see my house.  Ohio Mom's parents had, just minutes before, told me a heartwarming story of a young woman who came to their door not long ago,  She told them she grew up in their house and would like to come in and see it again.  They, of course, let her in because they are wonderful people.  They gave her a tour and some lemonade and were rewarded with an effusive thank-you note several weeks later.

The same thing was going to happen to me.

I held my breath as I turned onto my street.  And then there she was --

That's our house.  That's our big backyard.  Do you know how many ten-year-old cartwheels it takes to get across that yard?  Billions!

Remember the Father's Day post from Paris where I mentioned the ex-boyfriend-inspired bonfire I set on the driveway?  It was right there.

I pulled around front and stared, tears in my eyes, every inch of the house bringing back an overwhelming number of memories and feelings.

Then a woman with mad eyes tore out the front door and yelled in a not-so-nice way,

"UMM, HELLO?  ARE YOU TAKING PICTURES OF MY HOUSE?"

Oh sh*t

I had to calm myself then, posse, and resist the strong urge to yell back, "THIS IS MY DAMN HOUSE, BITCH,  WE LIVED HERE OVER TWENTY YEARS NOW GET OUT OR DIE!"

I swallowed my true words and instead said sweetly, "Hi.  I grew up in this house.  I'm in town for my high school reunion and wanted to see it again.  I loved growing up in this house, would it be possible for me to come in for just a minute and see it again?

The response came curtly and through falsely smiling teeth:  "No, no, it's not a good time."  Then she went back inside and closed the door.

My heart.  Oh my heart.  Myyyyyy heeeeea.....

I immediately pulled into the driveway of Muppet's parents across the street and after a strong hug went on a vicious tirade about "the newbies."  They confirmed my suspicions -- the people who bought my family home are terrible human beings and will die friendless and alone.

Muppet's parents then delivered some more truth bombs to add to my rapidly growing truth bomb collection.  An important thing to know about Muppet's parents is they will give you the worst news of your life accompanied by raucous laughter so you're never really sure if you're hearing funny news or terrible news.


Muppet Mom:  Do you remember that cute tennis pro at the swim and tennis club? 
Me:  Yes! He was sooo dreamy and so nice.
Muppet Mom:  Well, he was arrested for making lewd phone calls HA HA HA HA.  He called women from a phone booth and pretended to be a Victoria's Secret representative HA HA HA HA.  He asked them progressively more personal questions about their lingerie needs while he masturbated in a phone booth HA HA HA HA.  He was caught in a phone booth with his pants down HA HA HA HA.
Me:  That's..... terrible?
Muppet Parents:  HA HA HA HA HA


Muppet Mom:  Remember that huge pool they had at the club, the one with a starring role in most of your precious childhood memories?
Me:  Yes, of course, it's one of my favorite places on earth!
Muppet Mom:  WELL IT'S GONE.  HA HA HA HA HA HA.


Muppet Mom:  There was a sinkhole in the middle of North Detroit Avenue last week.  It was huge.  A woman drove right into it.  HA HA HA HA.
Me:  Oh my God, is she OK?
Muppet Mom:  She was the principal of your old elementary school HA HA HA!
Me:  Oh.....wow....seriously, is she OK?
Muppet Mom:  HA HA. Would you like some lemonade?


I left her parents' house and drove to Muppet's house, where I was staying for the night.

This is why I call her Muppet.  She's got a collection problem.

We went to a typical Italian chain-type restaurant for dinner.  I considered ordering the butternut squash ravioli but then wondered aloud, "But it's not butternut squash season so.... where do you think they're sourcing their butternut squash?"  Muppet looked at me over her menu with furrowed brow and said flatly, "They're frozen, honey."

Whoops, I let my Seattle show.

Muppet also has a peculiar way of delivering news but her style is different from her mother's.  Muppet tends to summarize ridiculous situations into one long, flat, emotionless sentence.  Then it's over and she moves on. Here's just a sampling of Muppet bringing me up to speed on Toledo happenings.

Muppet:  Well, you know our friend Angela married our high school math teacher and a professional wrestler was the best man and they held the wedding in the basement of The Spaghetti Warehouse.
Me:  WHAT?  WHAT?
Muppet:  So how are the kids?

Muppet:  And our friend Ron -- well, he did five years in prison because he broke into some lady's house but then he walked straight home afterwards so the police just followed his footprints in the snow.  He saw our friend Angela, who married the math teacher, win the Showcase Showdown on The Price is Right while he was in prison.
Me:  ...... can we back up a minute?
Muppet:  So do you miss Paris?

Muppet:  Two years ago he burned down the back half of his house with a blowtorch.  We found him with his eyebrows singed off.  We bought him fire extinguishers for Christmas that year.
Me:  I surrender to your crazy-ass ways.
Muppet:  Cool.  Should we get dessert?

Muppet invited our other childhood friend/neighbor over to her house for drinks and jokes later that evening.  I'm going to call him Ant Boy because my most profound memory of him was when we climbed on top of a red anthill and got swarmed.  We started yelling and his mom bolted out of his house, stripped us naked there in the backyard and turned a hose on us.  We were old enough to be embarrassed by it.

Our parents would have been overjoyed to see the children they raised side-by-side all together again so we took a few terrible photos to share the occasion --

The next morning, I suggested to Muppet we do another "Toledo tour!"  She asked, "You sure about that, babe?"  and I said "YES!"  and she said "Brace yourself."

Muppet!  Look!  That's where we crawled through the fence to go to the.....

mall.

Then we went to...

 K-mart.

The tall hotel?  The one where we could see the whole world from the top floor?

Abandoned.  With broken windows to match broken dreams.

The Peaches Records is gone, too, and apparently no one listens to cassette tapes anymore.

Then there was the biggest hurt of all.  Muppet held my hand as she drove me up the hill to our old swim and tennis club, the place with the Olympic-sized pool so wonderful you can't imagine such a place, even in a drug-addled hallucinatory state.

ouch

The pool sprang a leak a couple years ago.  It will cost over a million dollars to fix the problem so the club has decided not to fix it, and instead pave over it and put in new tennis courts.

 This one may hurt even more than the house thing.

I walked around this pool like a bereaved person walks around a cemetery.  It was so quiet.  I remember the summer sounds of this place back in its heyday -- the lifeguards' whistles, the kids shrieking, the sound of wet feet slapping against pavement. There was soft-serve ice cream at the snack counter and ice-cold air conditioning in the club room, where we kids would go when the "adult swim" whistle sounded and we had nothing to do for 15 whole minutes.

If I had a million dollars I would fix it tomorrow.  Alex would agree without hesitation because I'd look at him with my serious scary eyes.

Alex and I texted each other often while we were away.  The kids had a great time in Quebec and he would regularly send me photos and updates.  As my time in Toledo progressed, my response time to Alex's messages slowed considerably.  He became concerned when his texts of, "Hello? You still there?" were answered with "Childhood is a lie" and "I'm staring into gaping holes where my happiness used to be."

The good news is downtown Toledo has experienced a rebirth. There are a lot of people down there walking around and looking happy about it.  There are new restaurants and bars and baseball stadiums, unheard of back in my youth when downtown was a scary and near-deserted place.

Muppet and I went to lunch at one of the nice new restaurants downtown and, in a wonderful stroke of misfortune, Muppet's angry ex-boyfriend was our waiter.  She spent lunch hiding under the table while I apologized for my shy and socially awkward friend and asked for the specials.

Muppet and I both ordered Cobb salads.  The salads came deconstructed and the waiter/ex-boyfriend asked if we would like him to mix the elements together before serving?  I said, panic-stricken, "No, just leave the salads in pieces and go now!" as Muppet kicked me hard under the table.  When she re-appeared in her seat, she said, "I sure as hell wasn't going to ask him to toss my salad."

That night was my high school reunion.  I went back to Ohio Mom's house and we got all dressed up.

After a quick meet-up and drink with our old besties, we headed to the roadhouse bar where the reunion was held.  Only in Toledo, Ohio does a 20-year high school reunion happen at a biker bar. 

Exactly as it should be

You know what's funny?  Everyone looked exactly the same and acted exactly the same. The same people who cracked me up twenty years ago still crack me up.  The ones I have no idea what to do with on a social level are still complete strangers to me.

There was a photo booth and I spent a lot of time in it

The cocky guy from high school walked around telling everyone the doctors needed to use "the biggest clamp they could find" to circumcise his son.  The girl we all knew would get drunk first got drunk first and was cut off at the bar within the first hour.

Is the fact nobody really changes sad? comforting?  disturbing?  I don't know, I'm just reporting the facts.

The best part about high school reunions is the gossip.  There was a lot of whispering about how so-and-so screwed so-and-so a couple years back and his wife retaliated by screwing so-and-so in the back of their minivan.  Toledo may be a small-ish city but believe me, there's some serious Washington D.C-type  sh*t happening there.

I loved it.  It was a paltry turnout given the size of our class --

 Exhibit A

 

Exhibit B

-- but the people who showed up were good ones.  It was worth it, absolutely worth it, to get back there and see them again.

The next day I said goodbye to Ohio and drove back to Chicago.  I ate a lot of Twizzlers --

And the next morning I flew home, heart full of love for the good people of the Midwest.

 

Always good to see you again, my dear Rainer.

At one point during our visit, as the truth hit me things were not the way I remembered them, I sighed and said to Muppet's parents, "I guess it's true -- you can't go home again."  Muppet Dad responded, "Well of course you can, just don't expect anything to be the same HA HA HA HA."

Fair enough.

Love you,  Toledo.
Love you, childhood in a sinkhole,
MJ

The call of the Midwest

I'm back.  Some glorious strange sh*t went down the past couple of weeks.  It was wonderful.

Al and the kids left Seattle the same day I did.  We departed Sea-tac airport within twenty minutes of each other and just two gates apart.  We sat together until I walked away to board my plane.  That was a sickening moment.  My fear of flying is no secret but that day was worse than usual -- I not only had to worry about my plane but their plane, too.

I didn't sleep much the night before.  I found myself in the uncomfortable position of praying that if one plane had to go down, let it be mine.  I knew I was getting a raw deal in my hypothetical scenario but it was the only way.  My husband and kids could go on without me but the opposite is definitely not true.

My destination was Chicago, theirs was Quebec.  And as planes tend to do, all the planes stayed in the air with no troubles and we all made it to our destinations safely.  Alex was praised on his flight by his fellow passengers for doing such a good job occupying his children.  In reality it was I, the missing mama, who planned for weeks beforehand and strategically packed carry-ons with new sticker books, fully charged movie players, assorted shiny objects and hundreds of baggies full of delicious snacks.

Alex doesn't understand how thoughtfully I set him up for success.  He told me it wasn't hard to keep the kids occupied on the plane.  If we ever do it again, I'm going to pack the kids' bags with a couple old encyclopedias, several crowns of broccoli and some plastic baggies full of air.  Alex will learn things on that flight.

I rode the El into Chicago.  A smelly woman sat next to me.  She got up and left a few minutes later but her smell stuck around.  Then a nicely dressed man sat down next to me but immediately jumped back up looking nauseated and moved off down the aisle.  He thought the smelly woman's smell was my smell.  It was a lonely time.

At the end of the El was my dear college friend, Chicago O.  He came to visit me in Paris, maybe you remember him.  Chicago O immediately asked me if my purse was zipped and if I was wearing my engagement ring as we boarded the city bus.  I said yes, my purse was zipped and no, I wasn't wearing my engagement ring. 

Then I asked what the concern was with the ring.  If I wore it, would people sidle up and rip it off my finger?  Would they cut my finger off with a pocketknife and jump out a window?  Chicago O said no, but someone might see it, follow me off the bus and attack me in an alley later.  Then I was pretty terrified of Chicago.

But in reality the only thing to be afraid of in Chicago was Chicago O.  He nearly killed me with his fast walking and darting into traffic.  I lost him at every crosswalk because he dove into the crowd and started shouldering people hard as if they'd hurt his mama.  He wasn't slowed by my calls behind him, "But I'm from Seattle!  We're a peaceful people!"  He just continued to mutter about all the damn people on his sidewalk.

Chicago O really knows me.  On my first day, he sent me directly to the Driehaus museum.

The Driehaus is an immaculately restored 1879 mansion in downtown Chicago.  It was absolutely my thing.  I hope I didn't damage the gleaming woodwork with my saliva puddles.

Nice house, guy

The sewing room.  You must be joking.

Chicago O left me alone for lunch because he and his dog have mutual separation anxiety issues.  One day he dropped me off at a well-known Chicago pizzeria and I overheard the couple seated next to me discussing how to minimize their caloric intake while eating Chicago style pizza.  They decided to avoid the crust.  I decided they were idiots.

Don't think about calories when you eat Chicago style pizza.
Don't kill your own joy.

After a few days in wonderful glorious Chicago, I rented a car and drove to Columbus, Ohio.  There were other good people waiting for me there.

It was nice the rental car people gave me a car the same color as my dress so I could camouflage myself when I got spooked by the Midwest.  

The drive to Columbus from Chicago was sweaty-palmed thanks to the epic thunderstorms I encountered throughout Indiana.  My windshield wipers were going as fast as they could but visibility was still about half an inch.  I would occasionally hydroplane in a large puddle spreading across the highway.  It wasn't looking good. 

I called upon my dusty Midwestern instincts and did the one thing I remember doing in such circumstances in the past -- I found a large semi truck and rode its taillights to freedom.  I was only going 20 mph but at least I was still moving, unlike all those who panicked and pulled over to the side of the road to wait for the end of days.

I made it.  Back in the home state after 12 years.

I rolled into Dublin, a suburb of Columbus, and into the arms of my best friend from high school, Ohio Mom.  She came to visit me in Seattle not too long ago, maybe you remember her.

The living is good in Dublin.

 Hell yes, Midwest

 

The reason for my visit to the Midwest was my 20th high school reunion in Toledo, Ohio.  It was the reason I was looking for to get back to my hometown.  My family's been gone from Toledo for 12 years so without the reunion, it's not likely I would have ever returned.

Ohio Mom and I researched who was coming to the reunion and grew concerned when we didn't recognize half the names.  The search then began for Ohio Mom's high school yearbooks.  We wanted to put faces to names before we arrived at the reunion in Toledo and blurted, "Who the hell are you?" 

Ohio Mom and her husband dove into the dark recesses of their storage spaces.  Many dusty boxes were lugged up and down ladders but none of them contained yearbooks.  Most of them contained New Kids on the Block paraphernalia.

Right before I took this picture of Ohio Mom in the back of a surprisingly deep closet, she said, "Ya want a wedding dress?" and threw a petticoat over her shoulder.  Apparently lots of stuff in there.

I left Ohio Mom climbing around in her closet and went to my college roommate's house in another Columbus suburb for dinner.  When I arrived, we shrieked loudly.  It had been 16 years since we last saw each other and she used to be blonde.

Roomie and I invented a game in our dorm room called Obnoball.  I would tell you about it but I don't think you can handle Obnoball.  Not yet.

We also killed a friend's fish once.  We think it was an accident but neither one of us really remembers the details.  We just remember she was pissed.

Roomie's still adorable, bubbly, wonderful, and she cracks me right up.  

 (And she can give an incredible summary of Tecumseh)

The day before the reunion, Ohio Mom and I drove up to Toledo, Ohio.  We never did find those yearbooks.

Next post: Toledo.    

Meanwhile, the news here at Banister Abbey is the aquatic snails we inherited from Lucien's first grade classroom have mated.  Now instead of two big snails we have two big snails and forty tiny snails.  Screw everything.

And Coco's turning into one goofy kid

And the exterior project has begun on the house.  It's really looking lovely, don't you think? --

We are getting used to living in a house wrapped in plastic.  It's as dark and scary as you'd expect.



OHIO!
MJ