Becoming Nine

 Becoming Nine

 May 2017

Last weekend, my grandson, Malcolm, turned nine.  I’m still trying to figure out how he went from diapers to Dungeons & Dragons in what seemed like nine months instead of nine years. 

At dinner Monday night, he was explaining to me the physiological differences between seals and sea lions – facts from a book-writing project he is working on in third grade.

After finishing our Japanese dinner of mostly sushi (the birthdays boy’s choice) we went home for a festive lemon cake topped with a number “9”.  And all my memories of an earlier “nine” story came flooding back – the reason that being nine is part of our family’s folklore.

It takes me back 33 years this past winter. Tom and I worked at our business in Corry two Friday nights a month which left us with a child care challenge. Alix, at twelve, was old enough to begin babysitting for some neighbors but we thought maybe not for her little brother, Bart, who was turning nine.

Tom thought that the children would enjoy skiing at Peak and Peak, the small ski resort about 15 minutes from work, rather than staying at home with a sitter. We would have an early supper together and he would run them over to The Peak, leaving them with two things – strict instructions to stay together, and money enough for two evening lift tickets and hot chocolate.  I can hear him now saying to Alix as he handed her the money, “Be ready by the parking lot at 9:15 – no later, and no excuses.”

This little scene had played out successfully a few times. They didn’t seem to fight too much and a good time was had by all. 

We seldom worked on a Saturday, but that year we had to work the second weekend in January which was a few days after Bart’s birthday … his ninth.  We figured if the skiing plan worked so well for Friday nights, wouldn’t a whole Saturday be even better? The kids were excited at the prospect as they packed up their equipment, even talking about what they’d have for lunch to go with their usual hot chocolate. Somehow that conversation didn’t register with their Dad. 

Tom, ever a creature of habit, dropped them off as usual at the same spot, with the same admonition about behaving and staying together – and the exact same amount of money he left with them Friday evenings. It was 9:00 AM. Alix didn’t look at the money until she got to the lift ticket window. Uh-oh.

She read the price list for all-day passes and realized that not only did she not have enough for two all-day lift tickets, there wasn’t enough for lunch or even a snack. The ticket lady spotted her dilemma and tried to help. 

“What’s the problem, honey,” she said.

            “Well, my Dad dropped us off and he gave me the same amount of money he always does for night lift tickets and I don’t have anywhere near enough for us to ski.”  She managed  not to cry, not knowing what they’d do. She could picture them skiing one at a time, but they weren’t allowed to split up. If they just stayed and watched they could eat lunch, but seven hours is a long time to watch others ski.

            “How old are you, honey,” the lady asked.

            “I’m twelve.”

            “And him?” she asked, nodding toward Bart.

            Remembering his Wednesday birthday, Alix blurted out that he had just turned nine, the magic number. An eight-year-old is ticketed as a child, but nine becomes an adult on the ski slopes. Alix realized at that moment that if Bart was still eight. they could both ski and still have some kind of lunch. It might not be cheeseburgers with fries, but they wouldn’t starve before Dad picked them up.

            The nice lady looked at the price chart again, looked back at both kids, and made a decision. “Why don’t we just pretend that he’s still eight,” she said quietly, nodding at Bart.

            Hearing this, the birthday celebrant piped up, “I’m not eight, I’m nine,”

            “I know honey, but I’m trying to help you out,” she whispered. The line was building behind them. “If we pretend you’re still eight, just for today, you can both have lift tickets with a little money left over for lunch. Okay?”  she said brightly.

            Upset at being eclipsed out of his newly-earned year, he spoke up a little louder to make her understand, “I am not eight anymore – I AM NINE.”

            Trying to ignore him, the lady leaned toward Alix, saying in a hushed voice, “I’m giving you one adult ticket and one child tick … “ 

Bart heard this and loudly wailed, “BUT I’M NOT EIGHT, I’M NI-I-I-I-I-NE.”

She clenched her jaw, leaned forward and growled, “Shut up kid – you’re eight – and you better get outta here before I change my mind.” She shoved the tickets at Alix and yelled, “Next?”

Tom didn’t hear the end of that one for a long time. Since then, the age has always been celebrated with, “But I’m Ni-i-i-i-i-ine.” The endearing, long-winded ski story follows, the same way we explained this to Malcolm last weekend.

Malcolm also skis with his sister, but I have it on good authority that Dad is usually on the slopes nearby so the hot chocolate breaks are well assured. 

Plus, there’s this new-fangled gadget called a cell phone that is reputed to prevent miscommunication among families.  I often wish we’d had one during those years, but then again, our family would be missing one of its stories.

 

 

 

 

           

 

                                                                       

A passion for the hog

A passion for the hog

A Hell’s Angel wouldn’t be my first choice in a life partner, but I never met one I didn’t like. I think I have figured out why. They’re happy. They are doing what a lot of us wish we could – put our cares away, hop on our Harley Davidsons … and GO! Noisy wanderlust.

Every one of those bearded dudes I have talked to is kind, fun, and unfailingly polite. Must be that white-haired ladies tame their beast. Frankly, I’m just plain jealous of their rides.

Getting out of my car last week in the supermarket parking lot, I stopped in my tracks. A motorcycle was parked next to me, but not just any motorcycle. The shimmering black Harley Davidson was showroom shiny and tricked out with more chrome than my eyes could handle on a bright sunny day. The Hog sparkled like an 8-foot black diamond.  

While I stood checking out the Harley, two tweenage girls were walking toward me heading for the store. Wearing cut-off short shorts and small halter tops, they bopped along to their earpod music, sipping sodas. They glanced at me checking out the bike’s details, and I saw one roll her eyes. They jabbed elbows at each other and laughed their way into the store. I could read their thoughts as if they were clouds over their heads: “What’s that old lady doing checking out a motorcycle? Whadda joke! Yah, ‘magine her riding one of those things.”

Little did they know that I was reminiscing back to my handful of Harley experiences. I could almost feel the summer wind in my face thinking about one college summer on Cape Cod. That year, my bicycle sat on the porch. Between restaurant shifts, I straddled the back seat while hugging my Harley driver to and from the beach, work and home. I never got to drive it, but I didn’t have to in order to love the bike’s throaty voice and its daring angled turns. Well over 50 years ago, we didn’t wear helmets or leather jackets, but we were riding the Cape’s country roads, not interstates. At the end of that summer, the bike’s owner took his gorgeous Harley and his almost-gorgeous self, back to Oberlin College and I never saw either of them again. Ah, summer.

About twenty years ago, my BFF invited me to her family’s annual beach gathering at the Outer Banks. My son, a Marine lieutenant, was in the process of moving to a North Carolina beach town about 250 miles south of the Outer Banks. He also received an invitation to the house party and was waiting when we arrived. After big hugs, I said, “Where’s your car? I didn’t see it” He grinned.

“I left it home and rode up on my new toy,” he said. And then he proceeded to tell me how he’d always wanted a Harley Davidson. (I never knew that). He had received some extra money on his previous assignment and thought, “Hey, I’m 26, single, and I can manage it – if not now, when?” He reassured me that he had taken lessons and passed the state licensing requirements. We went down to the yard to check it out – a blue Harley Softail Heritage Classic. A beauty. Then came the kicker. “Mom, everybody knew – everyone but you.”

“W-H-A-T?” I said. I was offended.

“Well, I knew you’d be upset about it and I didn’t want you to worry.”

I remember smirking and glaring at him all at the same time. “Worry? WORRY? You fly cobra attack helicopters carrying missiles, rockets and canons while snipers shoot at you from rooftops. And you think I’m going to worry about a stupid motorcycle?” He shrugged, but he was still grinning.

“Oh, and who is everyone who knows except me?” His Dad, sister, all the O’Brien cousins, and all his friends were sworn to secrecy. Everyone knew but moi. I added, “I guess you never noticed the scar on my right calf from a manifold burn, huh?”  It was his turn to squirm.

I said, “I’ll tell you what. I’ll forgive you this time, but only if you give me a ride on it.”

“Mom, I only have one helmet.”

“Well,” I smiled, “you’ll have to solve that problem.” He did, the next morning.

The 40-minute ride was everything I remembered. He had good skills, I was comfortable, and that ocean breeze, from that same ocean that laps at Cape Cod – was divine.

I think I have one more ride in me, despite what those teeny-boppers think they know. My son sold his Harley years ago. Dear Richard would love one, but THAT’S not going to happen. I guess if I ever want to sit astride a putt-putting Hog again, I have to ask a Hell’s Angel. Next time they come through town, I might just do that.

 

 

 

 

Dear Abby – I Miss You

 

Ten years ago in this space, I mourned the loss of Dear Abby. Abigail Van Buren had died at age 94. I felt like a wise old member of the family had passed on – similar to the way I felt the day Erma Bombeck passed … the day the laughter died.

Like everyone else, I met both those ladies in my morning newspaper. Unlike most people, I was privileged to meet Abigail van Buren when I was at work.

I read Dear Abby daily, whether I lived in Boston, New York or San Diego. Sometimes, she was like a second mother, addressing some of the sticky subjects I didn’t dare talk about with my mother. Abby said no kisses on first dates and probably not the second. I wasn’t taking chances if Abby said no. Third dates were probably safe, but just one, “Don’t get carried away.” Who would talk to their mother about kissing, let alone getting carried away? I might have been dumb, but I wasn’t stupid.

Looking back on Abby’s advice, I realize her guidance actually did keep me from being stupid. She wrote the rules of boy/girl relationships and she had good advice about girls’ friendships, especially when teenage cattiness sometimes reared its ugly head. I learned from Abby that pettiness and jealousy were wasted emotions.

Abigail Van Buren, as most people know, was her pseudonym. Abby’s real name was Pauline Phillips. She chose the name Van Buren from the president because she thought it sounded distinguished and Abigail came from the bible – a woman who dispensed advice to kings. 

Pauline Phillips, for all her celebrity and influence, didn’t flaunt her position. The day I met Abby, I was working a flight from Chicago to San Francisco. Flight crews were briefed in operations if we had a celebrity onboard, receiving paperwork detailing name, seat number and any special requirements. We were not told to expect Abigail Van Buren. 

During boarding, a petite, elegant woman came through the door with a traveling companion. This young woman was dragging a large canvas duffle bag which we stored in the closet. The name tag pinned to seat 3A, by the window read “Mrs. Phillips.” We had no idea who Mrs. Phillips was, but she was impossible to ignore. Her elegant clothes and stunning jewelry spoke of her affluence, but her engaging smile and manner of speaking spoke of her self-confidence, despite a soft lisp. Short in stature, she was every inch a lady. 

Although we served cocktails and an elaborate dinner, Mrs. Phillips didn’t drink, ate sparingly and asked sweetly if she might be able to use the first-class lounge as she had some paperwork to do. Wow, did she ever.

The companion turned out to be her secretary. She retrieved the duffle bag, they spread out, and went to work. The bag was full of hundreds of letters. It wasn’t until I saw one of the envelopes that I realized who she was. Looking over her little half glasses, she admitted she was Abby and she indulged me a few questions. Yes, she actually received many thousands of letters daily. She proudly told me that every letter was read, although the volume required a staff that edited them for her … she only read hundreds each day. Both ladies were sorting them into piles by category – lovelorn, in-laws, money problems, sex, illness, aging, family infighting, child raising, etc., etc.

As they busily made notes on the margins, I overheard Abby tell her assistant to put a call notation on one letter. Through the rest of the flight, I watched that pile grow. She commented that one particular letter should go to the top of the pile because she feared for his depression, his life. Mrs. Phillips may have started her career as a common-sense housewife, but she grew into a paragon of caring, doing the right thing. She told me she called on experts around the country for professional advice. She was the real deal. 

Abby worked through descent and landing, packing up when we arrived at the gate. She warmly took my hand at the door, genuinely thanked me, and headed up the jet bridge, the secretary and duffle bag in her wake.

After that, any time she appeared on television, I watched – she was also quick-witted and funny. As she aged, she grew more open-minded, more tolerant, but still retained her moral rudder, her common sense. Sometimes her answer was simply, “Grow up.” She didn’t tolerate fools gladly.

She wrote for over 30 years, until Alzheimer’s invaded her good mind. I couldn’t help but think of the thousands of lives that mind had coached through the years.

Thank you, Abby, good friend, for your humor, your humanity. And just as you lightened up as you aged, I want you to know that in my widowed sixties, I kissed on the second date. I knew you’d approve.

 

 

 

.