Meet Me at Emotional Baggage Claim (15 page)

I felt that way about my father’s passing, ten years ago. I knew and I didn’t know, both at once. I was completely prepared, and I wasn’t prepared at all.

I still feel that way.

Harry didn’t look well at his last birthday, when Francesca and I went over, bringing him a gift sweater we knew he’d never wear, because he loved his old cardigan. It was only a few months ago, but his sharp blue eyes had lost a little focus, as if his brain had loosened the reins. He was using a walker for the first time, this man who used to stride two miles around the block at a clip, tall and upright, waving a handkerchief at passing cars—as a warning, not a surrender.

Never a surrender.

Harry had no wife or children, but lived alone and liked it, signing his email Harry the Hermit. He had his ham-radio license and kept in touch with friends all over the world. Francesca wrote a column about him a few years ago, and the three of us celebrated Thanksgiving together, for as long as I can remember. She called him her honorary grandfather, which he loved, his thin skin flushing with pride.

Harry was a delight to have at a holiday dinner, a former engineer whose conversation was peppered with references to politics, nature, and an ancient tabby cat he adored, named Spunky. Francesca and I used to worry about how Harry would survive when Spunky died, but it turns out he didn’t have to, and that’s bitter and sweet, too.

Francesca cried when I told her the news, over the phone, and we both talked about how we can’t imagine being at the table, without him. We remembered the Thanksgiving we tried to fix him up with Mother Mary, and how my mother broke the conversational ice:

“So, Harry, how many times do you go to the bathroom at night?”

Harry answered, “Mary, more times than I can count.”

He never missed a beat, either.

We’ll miss him for that, and for so many more reasons, and we’re both feeling sad, and happy, and, well, bittersweet.

But we’ll give special thanks for having known Harry, and for having him as long as we did.

Life is all the more precious because it doesn’t last forever. We learn that over time, and not just in an academic way, but at soul level.

We live that lesson.

At the same time we’re with each other, we’re losing each other. Time isn’t a piece of string with a beginning and an end, not when it’s a lifetime. Then, it’s an overlay on the present, so that the past is with us always, as is the future.

We’re always taking the good with the bad.

We live the pain of the loss at the pleasure of the meeting.

The day I lost Harry, I remembered the day I first saw him, walking on the road. He took me up to his house and showed me the wiring he’d rigged through the trees for his ham radio and the pulley system he invented to feed his fish in a little pond. All of it, his own design.

He didn’t want a funeral, and I think I know why.

He designed his life, and his death, too.

He was loved by many, including Francesca and me.

And for him, we are thankful.

For each other, we are thankful.

Happy Thanksgiving.

You will taste the bitter, but may you savor the sweet.

Plan C

By Lisa

Our Thanksgiving was like no other, complete with a surprise ending.

To give you some background, Francesca and I had been on book tour, going to local stores to sign our previous book,
Best Friends, Occasional Enemies.
I think all of our books make a great gift for the holidays because they’re funny.

After all, who doesn’t need a laugh, especially around the holidays?

Me, especially.

Here’s why.

We recently lost our friend Harry, and we knew our holiday would be a little downcast without him. We were doing okay until Mother Mary called. Of course, we exchanged our Happy-Thanksgiving wishes, then she asked:

“How’s Harry?”

Uh-oh.

I hadn’t told Mother Mary about Harry yet. Okay, to be honest, I’m not sure I was rushing to give her the news. I knew it would break her heart, and I was waiting for the right moment.

By the way, when is the right moment to break your mother’s heart?

On the plus side, I know she’d never find out because she doesn’t read the column. There are reruns of
Everybody Loves Raymond
to watch.

And in her defense, and mine, she doesn’t read much of anything anymore, so she would have no way of knowing about Harry. But I had to answer her question, and I didn’t lie:

“He’s not here,” I told her.

And none of you are allowed to tell her, either.

Deal?

And in other unfinished business, many of you have written to Francesca and me asking what happened to Harry’s beloved cat, Spunky.

Well, we all got the answer to that on Thanksgiving, too.

Harry had arranged for Spunky to be adopted, but my neighbor called me on Thanksgiving to say that the plans had fallen through and that Spunky needed a new home. Apparently, the plan was that the vet would find Spunky a new home, but as it was turning out, there weren’t many takers. Spunky is fourteen or so and has a few health problems and you get the idea.

Spunky isn’t so spunky anymore.

He’s a vet bill on four legs.

So you know where this is going.

The neighbor wanted me to take Spunky.

And so did Francesca.

We discussed it over the holiday meal of buttery brussels sprouts, candied yams, and other saturated fats. I said, “I feel bad for Spunky, but we already have two cats, remember? Mimi and Vivi?”

“But we have room for another,” Francesca answered, though she wisely didn’t mention that at that very moment, Mimi was jumping up on the chair and making a swipe for a turkey leg.

You haven’t lived until you’ve fought your own cat for a meal. I cannot have a bowl of cereal without a cat staring me in the face. Same with cheddar cheese, vanilla ice cream, or anything else I’m not supposed to eat.

Cats are portion control with fur.

But to stick with the story, I lifted Mimi off the table. “Plus, what if Spunky didn’t get along with Mimi and Vivi? They already hate each other.”

Francesca had to admit that much was true. Mimi and Vivi are more than occasional enemies. They’ve raised cat fighting to an art form. Right now they’ve achieved a peace as stable as the Greek economy.

Francesca said, “They’ll get used to each other.”

I considered it. “But what about the dogs? Spunky never lived with a dog.”

Welcome, Spunky!

“He can stay upstairs, like the cats do.”

Which was also true. The cats stay on the second floor during the daytime, set off by a gate. At night, when the dogs and I go upstairs, the cats go downstairs. Actually now that I tell it, it’s a living arrangement that makes a lot of sense. If I’d had done that during my marriage, I wouldn’t be divorced.

I still wasn’t sure. “But do you really think we’re the best home for him?”

Mimi jumped up on the table again, but stayed at the other end, crouching, keeping her own counsel. I couldn’t tell if she was listening, and I didn’t ask. I tore off a piece of turkey and gave it to her.

Francesca grinned. “I take it that’s a yes.”

And of course, she was right. We can take care of Spunky.

Got you covered, Harry.

Snow Job

By Lisa

Today, we discuss regret. Which I have, in spades, of late.

I don’t regret something I bought, which is called buyer’s remorse. I regret something I didn’t buy, and I don’t know what that’s called.

Cheapskate’s remorse?

Or just plain dumb?

I didn’t buy the thing in question because it was expensive and I thought I could do without it, but after doing without it for ten years, I find myself full of regret. I made a mistake. I wish I’d bought one. I yearn for one. I even fantasize about one.

Odd.

I used to lust after men, or jewelry. Thoughts of either could keep me up all night. Men bearing jewelry would be ideal. Men wearing jewelry would not.

But neither of those things is the object of my fantasy, anymore. There’s only one thing I don’t have that would really turn me on.

Nowadays, my idea of a sex toy is a snowblower.

Oh baby.

I want it so bad, it’s good.

But at this point, I’m not sure I can bring myself to buy one. Why?

Regret.

It all started when I was watching the TV news, during the last storm. I love snow coverage, and as soon as there are flurries in the forecast, I switch on the TV. I wait for the anchorman to stand in the middle of the flakes, like a doll in a snowglobe. Or for him to plunge a yardstick into the drift, like a doctor with a thermometer. Or for the Doppler to creep across the map, inching ominously toward us.

Doppler doesn’t mess around.

It’s
radar.

But then the storm comes and goes, and the next day on TV, everybody groans and whines as they shovel out their sidewalks, cars, and driveways. There’s only one happy person.

The guy with the snowblower.

He’s not bent over at all. His hands aren’t cramped, and his nose doesn’t leak. All he has to do is walk around, with his snowblower doing all the work, parting the drifts like a motorboat in Margate Bay, making a frothy wake.

Oh, yes.

I want one bad.

And I regret that I don’t have one, at the same time that I’m not sure whether I should buy one.

I’ve done without a snowblower for a decade, and I worry that, if I get one now, I’ll get the worst of both worlds. If I’d bought it a long time ago, I could’ve been blowing snow all this time, and gotten one cheaper. Because I didn’t, I’ll have done without for a decade, and I’ll be buying one when it costs more.

It’s two for one, mistake-wise.

Regret, regret, regret.

But I kept thinking about getting one, so I went online and studied the websites to make a decision, which is easier said than done. First problem, there are two types of machines, one called a snowblower and one called a snowthrower.

Who knew?

I read the websites, but I couldn’t figure out the difference between a snowblower and a snowthrower. I have never blown or thrown snow. I have only shoveled it, scraped it, swept it, and cursed it. I’ve gotten excellent at cursing it, and done correctly, it won’t sprain your back.

Only your middle finger.

I bet you curse snow, too. It rarely responds. I suspect its feelings are hurt. It’s used to being wished for, around Christmastime, then oohed and aahed at, even photographed. It remembers when we loved it and called it our winter wonderland.

Then regret sets in, and we regret even the snow.

What happened to those beautiful snowflakes, each one unique?

Who cares?

Die, die, die. Get blown and thrown.

Go away.

The weatherman came on the TV and said there was another storm coming, so I chose the snowblower page and found a grid that let me Shop by Brand, Shop by Type, and Shop by Engine. Then I spotted a category that made it easy:

Shop by In Stock.

Ideal for girls like me.

Who put off buying a snowblower for ten years, and then couldn’t take it anymore and drove to the store, saying:

Gimme what you got.

Sell it to me and stick it in my car.

I don’t care if it blows, throws, or packs the snow into a cone and squirts it with cherry juice.

I want it gone.

And finally, no regrets.

Lisa Hits the Eggnog

By Lisa

I love the holidays, because it’s the time of the year when we all think about others.

We have no choice.

Even the crabbiest among us has to stop and think about somebody else, because with every gift, we have to ponder what that person really needs, wants, or loves.

It’s automatic unselfishness.

That’s why I never view gift-giving as commercial. Every harried shopper at the mall just wants to make somebody else happy.

And in so doing, they make themselves happy.

How great is that?

Giving really is getting, and if you want to prove it, watch somebody you love open a gift.

Avoid giving fruitcake.

Or if money is short, give your time. Do somebody a favor. Carry in the groceries. Take out the trash.

Love recycles.

I think that real, profound happiness comes only when you stop thinking about yourself. When you raise your sights, and let your thoughts drift skyward. When you stop focusing on mundane things like how you’ll get the cranberry sauce on time or whether you have enough gift cards. When you finally let yourself experience the gratitude, happiness, and peace that wreathe the very air.

This can be an opportunity for reflection, with the old year ending and a new one beginning, the past becoming the future before our very eyes, seamlessly, smooth as a sip of eggnog.

I can never have just one, can you?

Even in troubling times, we can take a few moments to peel back the layers of the everyday and come to understand and appreciate what really matters in life—family and friends.