It's been a quiet week in Solomonland, and I did not have anything to tell you. I thought I might have to skip a week of blogging. But then, without warning, a stranger walked into my life and brought the excitement I'd been missing!
I've got a skunk.
A big, fat, bold skunk. He trots out from under my backyard deck and scurries across my yard at dusk. He appears to know his way around.
This is not my first skunk rodeo.
I call ABC Humane Wildlife to come set up a trap, as recommended by the Village of Wilmette. ABC promises not to kill the trapped animals. Instead, they take them to the enchanted forest where Snow White lives, and together they will sing songs and frolic in the woods.
Actually, I do not expect to catch this skunk or any others in the trap. My hope is that the skunks will see the trap and move next door to live in my neighbor's yard.
The first day of trap watching is uneventful. I suspect the skunks are checking out the trap and laughing at me.
On the second day, my suspicion is confirmed. The bait is eaten, but no animal is in the trap. My husband and I watch the video on the ABC web site to learn how to re-bait the trap. Skunks like sweet food, so I smear some Sara Lee Honey Turkey with some raspberry jam. My husband looks at my offering and tells me this is one of my top three dinners. (Read here to find out more about smart aleck husband.)
The third day I wake up to a note from my husband telling me that there is an animal in the trap. I go outside and see that the trap has sprung, but because the trap is covered in in brown cardboard I cannot see who is in there. I move the trap with my foot, but it doesn't feel heavy, and I suspect that the skunks came, dined on the turkey and jam, and walked off. I pick up the trap and see something with gray matted fur that doesn't move and I drop it like a hot potato and scream. I call ABC and describe my trauma, and learn that I've probably caught a possum who was, alas, playing possum.
Chris from ABC comes to my house and takes the possum for counseling and rehabilitation. I ask him what he uses to bait the trap, and he says that he usually uses liverwurst and grape jelly, but today he's going to use a little something special to see if he can attract the skunk. I wonder why he didn't use it the first time, and am reminded that I pay $65 every time he comes to the house.
I don't know what Chris' "something special" could be, but tonight the skunks are in for a special High Holiday meal. It's Rosh Hashanah, and there are leftovers. I imagine that in the enchanted forest tomorrow, they'll all be talking about my brisket.
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Friend Me!
Like a lot of you, every morning I wake up and check Facebook to find out all the fabulous things other people are doing without me. I only have 239 friends and most of them don't post anything, but this morning there were some pictures of the first day of school, a few family vacations, and notification of a birthday. This is a big improvement over the usual political messages and cat pictures.
The main reason I check Facebook is to scroll for news of my children. I see my son's name under the heading Find Mutual Friends. It says, "Jesse Solomon recently added 83 friends. Do you know any of them?"
Why um, no, I don't, as a matter of fact. And 83? Seriously?
There are a couple issues here.
First, for the record, I used to know all of Jesse's friends. I knew their parents. I knew where they lived, if their mother worked outside the home, and if they had any food allergies. Hell, I knew if they had a gun in the house.
I realize that was a long time ago, and since Jesse went away to college, I know a lot less. Over the summer when he was in Europe, sometimes I did not know what country he was in, let alone who he was with. This is what happens when your kids grow up.
He just went back to school, and I felt a little bad about his send off. When he left for college his freshman year, both my husband and I flew down to move him into his dorm. We met his roommate, and unpacked his belongings, and made his bed. Sophomore year, I went without my husband to buy my son a bed and dresser, and stock the fridge in his new apartment. This year we kissed him goodbye at the Departure door at O'Hare.
But come on, the kid had 83 new friends waiting for him at the other end. I'm not feeling quite so bad.
I cannot imagine the circumstances under which I could make 83 new friends. Of course my son and I have a different definition of friendship, and a Facebook friend is not necessarily a real life friend. But still, I get the feeling that the other 54-year-olds in my neighborhood are not looking to make new pals. I don't even know how to meet 83 potential friends---maybe I could stand outside of Chico's and hand out bars of dark chocolate.
Most people my age can barely keep up with the friends they have. Unless (and this would be really depressing) you are all out there making friends with each other, but don't want to be friends with me. After all, I'm a fundraiser and a writer. Most of you either give money to my charities or cross to the other side of the street when you see me. Maybe you are worried I'm going to ask for money and then write about you. But I would never do that.
Well, maybe I would. But I would never use your real name. Call me.
The main reason I check Facebook is to scroll for news of my children. I see my son's name under the heading Find Mutual Friends. It says, "Jesse Solomon recently added 83 friends. Do you know any of them?"
Why um, no, I don't, as a matter of fact. And 83? Seriously?
There are a couple issues here.
First, for the record, I used to know all of Jesse's friends. I knew their parents. I knew where they lived, if their mother worked outside the home, and if they had any food allergies. Hell, I knew if they had a gun in the house.
I realize that was a long time ago, and since Jesse went away to college, I know a lot less. Over the summer when he was in Europe, sometimes I did not know what country he was in, let alone who he was with. This is what happens when your kids grow up.
He just went back to school, and I felt a little bad about his send off. When he left for college his freshman year, both my husband and I flew down to move him into his dorm. We met his roommate, and unpacked his belongings, and made his bed. Sophomore year, I went without my husband to buy my son a bed and dresser, and stock the fridge in his new apartment. This year we kissed him goodbye at the Departure door at O'Hare.
But come on, the kid had 83 new friends waiting for him at the other end. I'm not feeling quite so bad.
I cannot imagine the circumstances under which I could make 83 new friends. Of course my son and I have a different definition of friendship, and a Facebook friend is not necessarily a real life friend. But still, I get the feeling that the other 54-year-olds in my neighborhood are not looking to make new pals. I don't even know how to meet 83 potential friends---maybe I could stand outside of Chico's and hand out bars of dark chocolate.
Most people my age can barely keep up with the friends they have. Unless (and this would be really depressing) you are all out there making friends with each other, but don't want to be friends with me. After all, I'm a fundraiser and a writer. Most of you either give money to my charities or cross to the other side of the street when you see me. Maybe you are worried I'm going to ask for money and then write about you. But I would never do that.
Well, maybe I would. But I would never use your real name. Call me.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
This is Love
Every day I feel the big and small indignities of aging. Off the top of my head, there's my bad memory, my graying hair and my new wrinkles. And I haven't even gone below my neck--my neck! But on Saturday night, I forgot all about my decline to enjoy one thing that gets better as I get older: weddings.
My cousin's daughter is getting married to a young man we all adore. My aunt, uncle and cousins are the stars of the day---people I love deeply. The bride is named after my beloved grandfather, who died several years before she was born. To her wedding, I wear the diamond ring he gave to my grandmother. It is important to me that a piece of her sparkle is in attendance.
When I got married, I thought weddings were about young people falling in love, and their future. But now that I'm well into middle age, I've changed my point of view. Now I experience a wedding through the eyes of a parent.
I know what it is to raise a child. It is not for sissies.
There are the ear infections, and chicken pox, and orthodontist appointments, and dozens of flus and trips to the ER. There are bad teachers, and failed tests, and long division and tutors and ACTs and college visits. There are lessons, and overnight camps and sitting on the bench and being cut from the team. There are drivers license tests, and homecoming dances, and recitals, and travel tournaments, and phone calls after curfew.
And did I mention college tuition?
Doing the hard work of raising children can bring you to your knees. Seeing them walk down the aisle on their wedding day is a moment of grace.
There is an old Yiddish proverb, When the heart is full, the eyes overflow.
The groom smashes the glass, and our family has officially grown by one more.
Now it is my job to eat every passed hors d'oeuvre and make a mental note of each relative's outfit for conversations that will take place over the next days and weeks and months and years. Because when anyone asks, "Did you try the potato latkes with lox?" I definitely want to say, "YES!"
Soon the band is playing Motown which attracts all ages to the dance floor. The grandparents get out there and shake what God gave them, which has become easier since everything shakes. After a few songs the grandparents need water. It's time for us fiftysomethings to show off our moves, until our backs and knees and feet start to ache, and the music passes us by and our children take over the dance floor and are jumping up and down to songs we don't know.
When it is time for the father daughter dance, my cousin and his radiant girl begin in the traditional way. But after a minute, the music changes, and suddenly they are doing the choreographed moves to Michael Jackson's Thriller. I recall my cousin as being kind of a reserved dancer, but he has clearly practiced A LOT, and he is nailing it. There is only one person who could convince him to do this, and she is right by his side.
While everyone is laughing and clapping and cheering, my eyes overflow. This, I think to myself, this is love.
My cousin's daughter is getting married to a young man we all adore. My aunt, uncle and cousins are the stars of the day---people I love deeply. The bride is named after my beloved grandfather, who died several years before she was born. To her wedding, I wear the diamond ring he gave to my grandmother. It is important to me that a piece of her sparkle is in attendance.
When I got married, I thought weddings were about young people falling in love, and their future. But now that I'm well into middle age, I've changed my point of view. Now I experience a wedding through the eyes of a parent.
I know what it is to raise a child. It is not for sissies.
There are the ear infections, and chicken pox, and orthodontist appointments, and dozens of flus and trips to the ER. There are bad teachers, and failed tests, and long division and tutors and ACTs and college visits. There are lessons, and overnight camps and sitting on the bench and being cut from the team. There are drivers license tests, and homecoming dances, and recitals, and travel tournaments, and phone calls after curfew.
And did I mention college tuition?
Doing the hard work of raising children can bring you to your knees. Seeing them walk down the aisle on their wedding day is a moment of grace.
There is an old Yiddish proverb, When the heart is full, the eyes overflow.
The groom smashes the glass, and our family has officially grown by one more.
Now it is my job to eat every passed hors d'oeuvre and make a mental note of each relative's outfit for conversations that will take place over the next days and weeks and months and years. Because when anyone asks, "Did you try the potato latkes with lox?" I definitely want to say, "YES!"
Soon the band is playing Motown which attracts all ages to the dance floor. The grandparents get out there and shake what God gave them, which has become easier since everything shakes. After a few songs the grandparents need water. It's time for us fiftysomethings to show off our moves, until our backs and knees and feet start to ache, and the music passes us by and our children take over the dance floor and are jumping up and down to songs we don't know.
When it is time for the father daughter dance, my cousin and his radiant girl begin in the traditional way. But after a minute, the music changes, and suddenly they are doing the choreographed moves to Michael Jackson's Thriller. I recall my cousin as being kind of a reserved dancer, but he has clearly practiced A LOT, and he is nailing it. There is only one person who could convince him to do this, and she is right by his side.
While everyone is laughing and clapping and cheering, my eyes overflow. This, I think to myself, this is love.
Monday, August 12, 2013
The Not So Great Unwashed
Every once in awhile, my washing machine makes a very sad noise, and it is always trouble. It usually happens at midnight when I am washing a child's uniform for an 8:00 game the next morning, or packing for a long awaited vacation. This time, right on schedule, I hear my washer groan as I prepare to send my son back to college.
I know some families spend a lot of time shopping for new appliances (if you believe what you see on television, and why wouldn't you?) but that is not how we do it. Usually, when we need a new appliance, I get in my car and drive to Abt, and one of their excellent salesmen is sliding my American Express in ten minutes or less. I mean, what is so complicated? I need a washing machine. It needs to clean my clothes. I don't really care what it looks like.
But when I bought my current machine, I made a mistake. It's not a GE or Whirlpool, or something any old repairman can fix. It's a Fisher and Paycal. A wise salesman, noting the size of my children, told me it was excellent for heavy loads. When I hesitated, he lowered the price. And in retrospect, I'm sure he won a cash bonus and his photo was up in the break room for getting that misfit off the floor.
Of course during the sixty seconds I considered my purchase, it didn't occur to me to ask about repairs.
It turns out that when my washing machine breaks, I call Fisher and Paycal to repair it. They are located in New Zealand.
To my knowledge, the Kiwis are not known for their washing machines.
Every time I call, a very polite New Zealander schedules my service. They always pronounce my town "WilMATE." They never come quickly. I imagine they have one service person serving a six state area, and he's driving to my house from Nebraska. Unless of course he's flying over from New Zealand. He'll be here in five days.
We are running out of clean clothes over here. I don't care until I run out of clean sports bras. I know some of you would think, "WOOHOO! I have the perfect excuse not to exercise!" But on these cool summer mornings, I love to run. I'm quite religious about it. It's my only antidote to cake.
So I'm heading to the laundromat in downtown Wilmette. Of course I could take my laundry to any of my friends or neighbors--they would be happy to have me. But where's the blog in that? Stay tuned.
I know some families spend a lot of time shopping for new appliances (if you believe what you see on television, and why wouldn't you?) but that is not how we do it. Usually, when we need a new appliance, I get in my car and drive to Abt, and one of their excellent salesmen is sliding my American Express in ten minutes or less. I mean, what is so complicated? I need a washing machine. It needs to clean my clothes. I don't really care what it looks like.
But when I bought my current machine, I made a mistake. It's not a GE or Whirlpool, or something any old repairman can fix. It's a Fisher and Paycal. A wise salesman, noting the size of my children, told me it was excellent for heavy loads. When I hesitated, he lowered the price. And in retrospect, I'm sure he won a cash bonus and his photo was up in the break room for getting that misfit off the floor.
Of course during the sixty seconds I considered my purchase, it didn't occur to me to ask about repairs.
It turns out that when my washing machine breaks, I call Fisher and Paycal to repair it. They are located in New Zealand.
To my knowledge, the Kiwis are not known for their washing machines.
Every time I call, a very polite New Zealander schedules my service. They always pronounce my town "WilMATE." They never come quickly. I imagine they have one service person serving a six state area, and he's driving to my house from Nebraska. Unless of course he's flying over from New Zealand. He'll be here in five days.
We are running out of clean clothes over here. I don't care until I run out of clean sports bras. I know some of you would think, "WOOHOO! I have the perfect excuse not to exercise!" But on these cool summer mornings, I love to run. I'm quite religious about it. It's my only antidote to cake.
So I'm heading to the laundromat in downtown Wilmette. Of course I could take my laundry to any of my friends or neighbors--they would be happy to have me. But where's the blog in that? Stay tuned.
Monday, August 5, 2013
54, Here I Come!
It's cake season at the Solomon house, my favorite time of year! We'll be celebrating three family birthdays in a period of twenty days, beginning this Friday with mine. (I've sensibly scheduled my Jenny Craig weigh-in for Thursday.) If I play my cake correctly, I'll be eating some every day until Rosh Hashanah, which is sometimes called "the birthday of the world." That should extend my cake streak until almost Yom Kippur--the Day of Atonement.
I love cake. My favorite is chocolate, with white buttercream frosting. It does not have to be from an expensive bakery, and it does not even need to be particularly fresh. In fact, my favorite is the day old cake I eat for breakfast, when it has been in the refrigerator overnight and the frosting is coagulated the way I imagine it will soon be in my arteries.
A few days before my birthday, my husband usually starts asking me peculiar questions. "Have you ever wanted to bake your own bread?" or "Wouldn't it be cool to have a wet suit?" I know he is trying to figure out what to get me. In our early years together I thought that if he really loved me, he would know my heart's desires. That is simply false. They should tell you this at the wedding.
A few years ago, we celebrated my birthday at a great restaurant with both our sons. The boys each gave me a homemade card, which is, frankly, the only gift I ever want. My husband produced a big box with a bow from Nordstrom. I unwrapped the present and found a lovely print dress from a popular designer. The only problem was that he had given me the very same dress a few months earlier for Mother's Day. This made me laugh so hard and for so long that I consider it to be the very best gift he ever gave me.
I don't really care that I am getting older. I know some women who lie about their age, which I have done, but not on purpose-- I just can't always remember how old I am. 52? 53? What difference does it make? It's not like anyone ever asks me. I was born in 1959--if you want to know how old I am, get a calculator.
In celebration of my advanced age, I've decided to start adding the phrase, "God willing!" to the end of every sentence. For example, "I won't have to cook on Friday because we're going out to dinner for my birthday, God willing!" "My husband is getting me a big, expensive gift this year, God willing!" I've noticed that a lot of older people do this, recognizing that life is uncertain. I shouldn't assume I'll always be in control of my destiny, especially if I keep eating so many cakes.
I used to expect everyone to make a fuss over me for my birthday, but no one throws you a party when you turn 54. I am not that crazy about getting older, but what's the alternative? My 92-year-old mother-in-law is the expert at aging, and she always says, "Keep counting!" To which I say, "I will, God willing!"
I love cake. My favorite is chocolate, with white buttercream frosting. It does not have to be from an expensive bakery, and it does not even need to be particularly fresh. In fact, my favorite is the day old cake I eat for breakfast, when it has been in the refrigerator overnight and the frosting is coagulated the way I imagine it will soon be in my arteries.
A few days before my birthday, my husband usually starts asking me peculiar questions. "Have you ever wanted to bake your own bread?" or "Wouldn't it be cool to have a wet suit?" I know he is trying to figure out what to get me. In our early years together I thought that if he really loved me, he would know my heart's desires. That is simply false. They should tell you this at the wedding.
A few years ago, we celebrated my birthday at a great restaurant with both our sons. The boys each gave me a homemade card, which is, frankly, the only gift I ever want. My husband produced a big box with a bow from Nordstrom. I unwrapped the present and found a lovely print dress from a popular designer. The only problem was that he had given me the very same dress a few months earlier for Mother's Day. This made me laugh so hard and for so long that I consider it to be the very best gift he ever gave me.
I don't really care that I am getting older. I know some women who lie about their age, which I have done, but not on purpose-- I just can't always remember how old I am. 52? 53? What difference does it make? It's not like anyone ever asks me. I was born in 1959--if you want to know how old I am, get a calculator.
In celebration of my advanced age, I've decided to start adding the phrase, "God willing!" to the end of every sentence. For example, "I won't have to cook on Friday because we're going out to dinner for my birthday, God willing!" "My husband is getting me a big, expensive gift this year, God willing!" I've noticed that a lot of older people do this, recognizing that life is uncertain. I shouldn't assume I'll always be in control of my destiny, especially if I keep eating so many cakes.
I used to expect everyone to make a fuss over me for my birthday, but no one throws you a party when you turn 54. I am not that crazy about getting older, but what's the alternative? My 92-year-old mother-in-law is the expert at aging, and she always says, "Keep counting!" To which I say, "I will, God willing!"
Monday, July 29, 2013
No Forwarding Address
When I was nine years old, I came home from school and discovered that my family had moved.
It was December 6, 1968, and I was in the fourth grade at East Prairie School in Skokie. I had known in theory that we were planning to move and that I would be attending a different school, but I'm sure my parents were trying to keep everything "normal" so I wouldn't get too anxious. I kept going to Girl Scouts, taking piano lessons and doing my homework. Late in the afternoon of December 6, while everyone in my class was completing a math assignment on the times tables, Miss Pawlkowski told me to return my books to the library. It was the first time it occurred to me that I wasn't coming back.
I got on the bus as usual at the end of the day without much fanfare and rode to my stop at the corner of Brummel and Kenneth. I got off the bus and walked to my house, expecting to see my parents packed and waiting for me. But when I arrived at my house, the shades were all the way up and I could see straight through the house into the backyard. It was empty.
I tried the door but it was locked. I rang the doorbell over and over, not quite sure what else to do.
It was cold, getting dark, and I was hungry. All I had was a box of 64 crayons, some pencils without erasers, and a folder full of spelling tests.
I walked down to my friend Donna Jean Pelican's house and asked her if she wanted to play. I was hoping my mother had left a message with her mother, but Mrs. Pelican had seen the moving van drive away earlier in the day and was clearly a little freaked out to see me.
Their Christmas tree was up, and it looked beautiful. There were ornaments and gifts everywhere, and it was the opposite of my sad house down the block. We played with Donna Jean's Barbies under the tree until it got dark. I could smell her dinner in the oven, and I could see her mother pacing around the house, chain smoking cigarette after cigarette.
I was fairly certain that my family would eventually find me, but I was wearing out my welcome at Donna Jean's. I considered going to another neighbor's house, but I was pretty certain my parents would come looking for me at the Pelicans first. I didn't know what to do, and I started to cry.
That made Donna Jean start to cry, and I thought Mrs. Pelican might cry too.
Finally the doorbell rang and my father walked in. I ran to him as if we had been separated for years, rather than having kissed him goodbye just that morning. He was sure my mother had told me to wait for him at school, as they had not wanted me to see the empty house (oops!) But in the confusion of moving day, it had evidently slipped my mother's mind--I was not the sort of girl who would have forgotten. My father had searched the school, and then started going to my friends' homes.
We hightailed it out of the Pelicans, and started the drive to Northbrook in rush hour traffic. It took a long time to get to my new house which made it seem even further away than it was. I remember when we got there, my mother said, "Did you think we left without you?" as if it were a joke. But I was mad at her--I mean, they DID leave without me! And frankly, I think I turned out shockingly well-adjusted under the circumstances.
It was December 6, 1968, and I was in the fourth grade at East Prairie School in Skokie. I had known in theory that we were planning to move and that I would be attending a different school, but I'm sure my parents were trying to keep everything "normal" so I wouldn't get too anxious. I kept going to Girl Scouts, taking piano lessons and doing my homework. Late in the afternoon of December 6, while everyone in my class was completing a math assignment on the times tables, Miss Pawlkowski told me to return my books to the library. It was the first time it occurred to me that I wasn't coming back.
I got on the bus as usual at the end of the day without much fanfare and rode to my stop at the corner of Brummel and Kenneth. I got off the bus and walked to my house, expecting to see my parents packed and waiting for me. But when I arrived at my house, the shades were all the way up and I could see straight through the house into the backyard. It was empty.
I tried the door but it was locked. I rang the doorbell over and over, not quite sure what else to do.
It was cold, getting dark, and I was hungry. All I had was a box of 64 crayons, some pencils without erasers, and a folder full of spelling tests.
I walked down to my friend Donna Jean Pelican's house and asked her if she wanted to play. I was hoping my mother had left a message with her mother, but Mrs. Pelican had seen the moving van drive away earlier in the day and was clearly a little freaked out to see me.
Their Christmas tree was up, and it looked beautiful. There were ornaments and gifts everywhere, and it was the opposite of my sad house down the block. We played with Donna Jean's Barbies under the tree until it got dark. I could smell her dinner in the oven, and I could see her mother pacing around the house, chain smoking cigarette after cigarette.
I was fairly certain that my family would eventually find me, but I was wearing out my welcome at Donna Jean's. I considered going to another neighbor's house, but I was pretty certain my parents would come looking for me at the Pelicans first. I didn't know what to do, and I started to cry.
That made Donna Jean start to cry, and I thought Mrs. Pelican might cry too.
Finally the doorbell rang and my father walked in. I ran to him as if we had been separated for years, rather than having kissed him goodbye just that morning. He was sure my mother had told me to wait for him at school, as they had not wanted me to see the empty house (oops!) But in the confusion of moving day, it had evidently slipped my mother's mind--I was not the sort of girl who would have forgotten. My father had searched the school, and then started going to my friends' homes.
We hightailed it out of the Pelicans, and started the drive to Northbrook in rush hour traffic. It took a long time to get to my new house which made it seem even further away than it was. I remember when we got there, my mother said, "Did you think we left without you?" as if it were a joke. But I was mad at her--I mean, they DID leave without me! And frankly, I think I turned out shockingly well-adjusted under the circumstances.
Monday, July 22, 2013
And Then We Got Married and Lived Happily Ever After
It was the Fourth of July, 1986, and my fiancé Joel and I were driving in sizzling silence to The Christmas Inn in Aspen, Colorado. We had spent a week camping in the mountains, and it had not gone well. I'd never camped before, or by the way, since. But we were young and in love, and Joel had some idea that if I'd just brush my teeth in the rushing water of a sparkling stream, I'd morph from the city girl I was into a nature girl.
I was not actually a city girl--city girl implies some spunky toughness, some moxie, that in 1986 I absolutely did not have. I was the girl who fretted about surviving the week without a blow dryer. I was soft and spoiled, the most inexperienced sort of girl--I was a suburban girl.
The trip was cursed from the start. We'd flown to Denver with all our camping gear, which took a detour and did not arrive in Denver with us. We slept in an airport hotel overnight, and I was secretly pleased. If we'd been married already, I could have been outwardly pleased, but of course if we were married already I wouldn't have been on a camping trip. The camping equipment arrived the next day, and we headed out of the city in our rental car.
I'd never seen the mountains before, and I was temporarily stunned out of my peevishness by their beauty. That first night we set up our tent, our stove and all our equipment, got cozy in our sleeping bags under the stars, and enjoyed our one successful night in the wilderness.
The next morning Joel could not stand up. His back had gone out from sleeping on the hard ground. If we wanted to eat, it was up to me. I gritted my teeth, gathered the wood, started the fire, made the food, broke down the tent, and loaded the car. Joel was of course just well enough to provide detailed instructions as to exactly how each of these things should be done correctly.
Instead of heading straight home, Joel convinced me that he would surely improve the next day, and we should continue to our next campsite. He was wrong. He remained physically incapacitated all week long, and my main goal each day was to try not to murder him. I came close, but realized that with my very limited map reading skills I could not get back to civilization myself.
It got so cold that I had to wear all my clothes. I lost my hairbrush on Day Four. Without a proper shower, I had devolved from the intriguing nature girl into something far more primal. After a week of 24-hour togetherness and no other human contact, we had discovered everything there was to know about each other. If we'd come home and revealed each other's secrets, no one would have blamed us for canceling the wedding. In retrospect, however, I can think of no better preparation for a long marriage.
To end the trip we had splurged and made reservations at a hotel in Aspen for the July 4th weekend. The Christmas Inn marked our return to civilization, and we hoped, our return to civil relations. It was not a fancy hotel, but we were counting on the luxuries we'd find there to save our relationship: hot water, soap, and razor blades.
But when we arrived at The Christmas Inn, they could not find our reservation. A manager was summoned who said, "Mr. Solomon, we were expecting you last weekend!" Joel dug out his mangled confirmation from the glove box and saw that he had indeed reserved the room for the wrong days. I have never understood how he got the date wrong--it's called the Fourth of July. We had arrived in Aspen for the holiday weekend, and there was (I have to say it) No Room at the Inn.
I won't pretend that I didn't behave badly. After a week of digging a hole in which to defecate, I was not myself. Joel, to his credit, recognized the severity of the situation. He asked the manager at The Christmas Inn if he thought anyone in town had a room. The manager assured us that Aspen had been sold out for weeks, but perhaps there was something in Snowmass, the next town over. He helped us locate a granite countered condo. Joel was in no position to object to the price.
Joel and I enjoyed a fabulous weekend eating at trendy restaurants and attending the Aspen Music Festival. We watched the fireworks in the mountains, and we rubbed elbows with various A-list celebrities who summered in Aspen. It didn't take me more than a few years to forgive him.
I was not actually a city girl--city girl implies some spunky toughness, some moxie, that in 1986 I absolutely did not have. I was the girl who fretted about surviving the week without a blow dryer. I was soft and spoiled, the most inexperienced sort of girl--I was a suburban girl.
The trip was cursed from the start. We'd flown to Denver with all our camping gear, which took a detour and did not arrive in Denver with us. We slept in an airport hotel overnight, and I was secretly pleased. If we'd been married already, I could have been outwardly pleased, but of course if we were married already I wouldn't have been on a camping trip. The camping equipment arrived the next day, and we headed out of the city in our rental car.
I'd never seen the mountains before, and I was temporarily stunned out of my peevishness by their beauty. That first night we set up our tent, our stove and all our equipment, got cozy in our sleeping bags under the stars, and enjoyed our one successful night in the wilderness.
The next morning Joel could not stand up. His back had gone out from sleeping on the hard ground. If we wanted to eat, it was up to me. I gritted my teeth, gathered the wood, started the fire, made the food, broke down the tent, and loaded the car. Joel was of course just well enough to provide detailed instructions as to exactly how each of these things should be done correctly.
Instead of heading straight home, Joel convinced me that he would surely improve the next day, and we should continue to our next campsite. He was wrong. He remained physically incapacitated all week long, and my main goal each day was to try not to murder him. I came close, but realized that with my very limited map reading skills I could not get back to civilization myself.
It got so cold that I had to wear all my clothes. I lost my hairbrush on Day Four. Without a proper shower, I had devolved from the intriguing nature girl into something far more primal. After a week of 24-hour togetherness and no other human contact, we had discovered everything there was to know about each other. If we'd come home and revealed each other's secrets, no one would have blamed us for canceling the wedding. In retrospect, however, I can think of no better preparation for a long marriage.
To end the trip we had splurged and made reservations at a hotel in Aspen for the July 4th weekend. The Christmas Inn marked our return to civilization, and we hoped, our return to civil relations. It was not a fancy hotel, but we were counting on the luxuries we'd find there to save our relationship: hot water, soap, and razor blades.
But when we arrived at The Christmas Inn, they could not find our reservation. A manager was summoned who said, "Mr. Solomon, we were expecting you last weekend!" Joel dug out his mangled confirmation from the glove box and saw that he had indeed reserved the room for the wrong days. I have never understood how he got the date wrong--it's called the Fourth of July. We had arrived in Aspen for the holiday weekend, and there was (I have to say it) No Room at the Inn.
I won't pretend that I didn't behave badly. After a week of digging a hole in which to defecate, I was not myself. Joel, to his credit, recognized the severity of the situation. He asked the manager at The Christmas Inn if he thought anyone in town had a room. The manager assured us that Aspen had been sold out for weeks, but perhaps there was something in Snowmass, the next town over. He helped us locate a granite countered condo. Joel was in no position to object to the price.
Joel and I enjoyed a fabulous weekend eating at trendy restaurants and attending the Aspen Music Festival. We watched the fireworks in the mountains, and we rubbed elbows with various A-list celebrities who summered in Aspen. It didn't take me more than a few years to forgive him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)