I am looking forward to a few days in the greater Southern California area, specifically Santa Monica and Ventura. I went to Philadelphia for a weekend recently and it was just wonderful to visit a place where I got to see old friends, new friends, eat wonderfully, and just stroll around. I am looking forward to much of the same in an extended format--oceanview suite, Mustang convertible, seeing a young friend whom I have not seen she was 11 (and is now 28), seeing new friends and their adorable 3 year old daughter, and, seeing my beloved friends M and C for the first time in nine years.
In fact, it has been nine years since I visited Santa Monica a place that I tried to get to at least once a year. It was a tossup as to whether I would move from Boston to Santa Monica or Miami, but being close to the parental units tipped the scale to Miami. The last time I was there, I had a most interesting experience at the counter at the Broadway Deli.
I had not been apart from G for very long and had not thought about dating or meeting anyone. A nice enough man struck up a conversation with me, tearing me away from my Newsweek which featured Tony Soprano on the cover. We ended up chatting for about an hour and marveled at our similarities--love of NCAA basketball, movies, both only children, he was a pharmacist like my dad--and that he was contemplating ending a longterm relationship. When we started chatting, I said to him, "please don't waste my time if you are really married because that is just silly". And, he insisted that he was as he described. We agreed to stay in touch.
After I got back from Boston, I had a fairly innocuous email from him and responded in kind.I had another one, then one sent right after that--another innocuous one, then one from someone who said that she was his wife and asking me not to contact him again. She said that her husband had the habit of meeting people and becoming inappropriately close and she wanted to spare me that pain. All of the emails were sent from the same address which she said was their family email. She signed it "Sincerely, Mrs. D.W. Crosby".
I responded to her and told her that I had no reason to believe her, but since I had recently been in a situation where an aggressive woman let it be known that she would not be happy until she had destroyed my nine-year relationship, I understood and I would back off when I had confirmation from her "husband". I then forwarded the whole email chain to Don, the gentleman in question.
A couple of days later, I received an email from the "wife". This time, she said that she would not put up with my attempts to woo her husband. She wrote about how I should find my own man, etc. She wrote that he had three children and seven grandchildren that were the light of his life. And, she made a list of about 25 women who had tried to break up their marriage including the gifts that they had sent him. "You, my dear, have a long way to go to compete with them," she wrote. This time, she signed it "Sylvia".
I was caught between horror and amusement. But, without a second thought, I wrote to her, "My dear Sylvia, I feel so lucky to be on my own. I have no desire to even know people like Mr. Crosby and you. Your relationship sounds like one that could benefit from therapy and it is definitely one about which I do not want to hear another word. Please do not contact me again and I am removing your contact information from my address book. Sincerely, Mary Jo Southern".
Some people have wondered if Don and Sylvia Crosby were one and the same person. Some people were disappointed that I cut off the correspondence wondering what wild concoction I would have received if I had kept it going. But, out of all the things that made me know I would be OK in the dating world after I was ignominiously dumped back into it, this was the one that gave me the most confidence. If I could take on Mrs. D.W. Crosby, I would be fine and, one day, maybe there would be a man seated next to me at a counter or on a plane or at Eleven Madison Park who would turn out to be exactly who he said.
I'll be back in touch after my Santa Monica/Ventura adventure.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Monday, November 1, 2010
Family of One Goes to the Blue Ridge Parkway
On my last trip to High Point, I took Mother and Dad to the Blue Ridge Parkway for the day. This was a momentous occasion as both had determined that they would never again get to visit one of their favorite places in the world. They had made this decision based on the fact that they are 88 and 91, respectively, and that they probably shouldn’t travel too far from home base. Many a time in recent years, I have gotten them situated in my rental vehicle and we have made it as far as the outskirts of Winston-Salem which is maybe 20 miles from High Point and it is then determined that we need to turn back because “something could happen”.
I had made up my mind that, given only the smallest encouragement, I was going to get them to the Parkway. On this particular Friday, the sun was bright, the trees while not at the height of their fall foliage were still lush in their greenery, and the temperature was pleasant. I piled Mother and Dad in the motorized vehicle and off we went to the bank as a first stop. I pulled up to the bank, intending to assist Dad into the bank lobby, but leaving the car running to keep the radio and AC on for Mother. She was aghast. “You turn that car off now,” she said with alacrity. “A running car outside a bank is an open invitation for a robbery”. I pointed out that anyone robbing the bank would probably have his own motorized vehicle, but she was not convinced. “This is a perfect set up,” she retorted. “Here I am, the ideal hostage”. Shades of the O. Henry story, “Ransom of Red Chief” came to mind. But, I turned off the engine.
When Dad and I returned to the car, she was calmer, having not been approached by any would-be hostage takers. I decided to take the most direct route to Winston-Salem rather than the more scenic one that I usually took. In less than thirty minutes, we were zooming along on the “superhighway” as Mother and Dad referred to it. Mother announced that we would go as far as Mt. Airy (renowned as the “real” Mayberry as portrayed in TV’s Andy Griffith Show). Mother made for an excellent companion as she offered commentary on every restaurant, store, and other place of business that we passed as we drove past Mt.Airy and on to Hillsville, VA. “There’s no way we can make it to the Parkway,” she announced. But, suddenly, there was a sign indicating there were only 20 more miles to go. My father was all for it. Mother said, “Let’s not push our luck”. But, I was driving.
Within thirty minutes, we were driving along one of the prettiest roads in the country. The speed limit is something like 40 MPH, so one is forced to sit back and enjoy the ride, as it were. The sun dappled through the leafy trees; split rail fences and beautiful green pastures were omnipresent; and the views of the Blue Ridge Mountains were breath-taking. I quietly observed, “Isn’t it amazing how people go all over the world to find beautiful sights when one of the most splendid is right in our back yard?” Mother replied, “Well, some people have to be big shots—like the person driving this car—and can’t stop to appreciate what is right in front of them”. But, for the most part, our exchanges were kind and considerate.
Dad was determined that we make it as far as Doughton Park where there is a nice diner-like restaurant run by the National Park Service and The Bluffs lodge where Mother and he spent their honeymoon. In an amazing piece of luck, there were no cars at all on the Parkway, so we meandered along with it all to ourselves. Mother would become somewhat distraught when we passed through a grove of trees casting dark shadows. “Evening shadows fall,” she sang quietly. “Now the day is over,” I sang calmly. “Thanks a lot, “she said, “I was almost calm and now you have reminded me of the shadow of death”.
We made it to Doughton Park for an early supper. I helped my parents in and we all ordered some iteration of country ham—Mother, country ham and biscuits, my father and I, the country ham platter which came with salad and potato. I asked if there were housemade dressings. Mother told me she was ashamed of me and not to ask such things in a restaurant run by the National Park Service. I became obsessed if my father’s mashed potatoes could possibly be the real thing. All three of us drifted in our own little worlds. Mother was becoming snappish, my dad more removed. It occurred to me that they were thinking this would probably be the last time that we sat there together. And, how miraculous it was that we were there at all.
We quickly finished up our meal and I helped them back to the car. Once traveling along the Parkway, the good spirits returned and Mother and Dad reminisced about their wedding and their courtship and the trips that they had made to the Parkway. The sun was still bright, but twilight was definitely approaching. I asked my parents how they would like to get back to High Point. They had no particular way, so I followed the setting sun and took us through some delightful little towns like Elkin and North Wilkesboro. Mother and I conversed quietly while Dad just gazed out the window. Some of her musings—
***On Hillary Clinton---I can’t stand Old Lady Clinton, but, compared to Sarah Palin, she is like George Washington
***On Mike Huckabee—he has too many stringed instruments going on that TV show. Who is going to take him seriously as a presidential candidate when he’s either playing the fiddle or the banjo?
***On water towers—when I was a little girl, I thought that water towers were hospitals and I was deathly afraid of them. You know, isn’t it interesting how children get these ideas?
Just as it became dark, we arrived back at home. It had been a lovely and memorable day.
A couple of days later, I was preparing to leave to return to Miami and sat down on the sofa next to Mother while she read the High Point Enterprise. I said, “Mother, I know we laugh a lot about when you will be in Heaven, but the fact is that it will be very sad for me because no matter how good a spin we put on it, I will be alone, despite having so many wonderful friends. I will be a family of one”. She rattled the paper in irritation. “What are you saying? Don’t you realize that I have a reservation in a place called Heaven and that I cannot be late?” “Yes,” I told her, “I do realize that, but isn’t there some sort of code we could set up so that I will know when you are around?” (I had asked Aunt Louise something similar and had been told in no uncertain terms to never ask anything so foolish again; hence, I feel no connection to Aunt Louise, gone since March).
She continued rattling the paper, but with less ferocity. With a very uncommon catch in her voice, she replied from behind the paper, “I will be with you always. Always. And you will have so many wonderful surprises waiting for you, things you never imagined, that it will be OK”. We both sat silently, not wanting to break our connection.
In an interesting coda, I was seated next to a lovely lady on my flight from Greensboro to Charlotte. We talked about our weekends and she told me that she was headed to Rochester to see her parents who were the same age and state of mind as mine. Now on the verge of tears, I told Laurie about what had happened with Mother and she, too, became teary. And, we both agreed that we had been brought together to share a moment of happy reflection about our parents.
I had made up my mind that, given only the smallest encouragement, I was going to get them to the Parkway. On this particular Friday, the sun was bright, the trees while not at the height of their fall foliage were still lush in their greenery, and the temperature was pleasant. I piled Mother and Dad in the motorized vehicle and off we went to the bank as a first stop. I pulled up to the bank, intending to assist Dad into the bank lobby, but leaving the car running to keep the radio and AC on for Mother. She was aghast. “You turn that car off now,” she said with alacrity. “A running car outside a bank is an open invitation for a robbery”. I pointed out that anyone robbing the bank would probably have his own motorized vehicle, but she was not convinced. “This is a perfect set up,” she retorted. “Here I am, the ideal hostage”. Shades of the O. Henry story, “Ransom of Red Chief” came to mind. But, I turned off the engine.
When Dad and I returned to the car, she was calmer, having not been approached by any would-be hostage takers. I decided to take the most direct route to Winston-Salem rather than the more scenic one that I usually took. In less than thirty minutes, we were zooming along on the “superhighway” as Mother and Dad referred to it. Mother announced that we would go as far as Mt. Airy (renowned as the “real” Mayberry as portrayed in TV’s Andy Griffith Show). Mother made for an excellent companion as she offered commentary on every restaurant, store, and other place of business that we passed as we drove past Mt.Airy and on to Hillsville, VA. “There’s no way we can make it to the Parkway,” she announced. But, suddenly, there was a sign indicating there were only 20 more miles to go. My father was all for it. Mother said, “Let’s not push our luck”. But, I was driving.
Within thirty minutes, we were driving along one of the prettiest roads in the country. The speed limit is something like 40 MPH, so one is forced to sit back and enjoy the ride, as it were. The sun dappled through the leafy trees; split rail fences and beautiful green pastures were omnipresent; and the views of the Blue Ridge Mountains were breath-taking. I quietly observed, “Isn’t it amazing how people go all over the world to find beautiful sights when one of the most splendid is right in our back yard?” Mother replied, “Well, some people have to be big shots—like the person driving this car—and can’t stop to appreciate what is right in front of them”. But, for the most part, our exchanges were kind and considerate.
Dad was determined that we make it as far as Doughton Park where there is a nice diner-like restaurant run by the National Park Service and The Bluffs lodge where Mother and he spent their honeymoon. In an amazing piece of luck, there were no cars at all on the Parkway, so we meandered along with it all to ourselves. Mother would become somewhat distraught when we passed through a grove of trees casting dark shadows. “Evening shadows fall,” she sang quietly. “Now the day is over,” I sang calmly. “Thanks a lot, “she said, “I was almost calm and now you have reminded me of the shadow of death”.
We made it to Doughton Park for an early supper. I helped my parents in and we all ordered some iteration of country ham—Mother, country ham and biscuits, my father and I, the country ham platter which came with salad and potato. I asked if there were housemade dressings. Mother told me she was ashamed of me and not to ask such things in a restaurant run by the National Park Service. I became obsessed if my father’s mashed potatoes could possibly be the real thing. All three of us drifted in our own little worlds. Mother was becoming snappish, my dad more removed. It occurred to me that they were thinking this would probably be the last time that we sat there together. And, how miraculous it was that we were there at all.
We quickly finished up our meal and I helped them back to the car. Once traveling along the Parkway, the good spirits returned and Mother and Dad reminisced about their wedding and their courtship and the trips that they had made to the Parkway. The sun was still bright, but twilight was definitely approaching. I asked my parents how they would like to get back to High Point. They had no particular way, so I followed the setting sun and took us through some delightful little towns like Elkin and North Wilkesboro. Mother and I conversed quietly while Dad just gazed out the window. Some of her musings—
***On Hillary Clinton---I can’t stand Old Lady Clinton, but, compared to Sarah Palin, she is like George Washington
***On Mike Huckabee—he has too many stringed instruments going on that TV show. Who is going to take him seriously as a presidential candidate when he’s either playing the fiddle or the banjo?
***On water towers—when I was a little girl, I thought that water towers were hospitals and I was deathly afraid of them. You know, isn’t it interesting how children get these ideas?
Just as it became dark, we arrived back at home. It had been a lovely and memorable day.
A couple of days later, I was preparing to leave to return to Miami and sat down on the sofa next to Mother while she read the High Point Enterprise. I said, “Mother, I know we laugh a lot about when you will be in Heaven, but the fact is that it will be very sad for me because no matter how good a spin we put on it, I will be alone, despite having so many wonderful friends. I will be a family of one”. She rattled the paper in irritation. “What are you saying? Don’t you realize that I have a reservation in a place called Heaven and that I cannot be late?” “Yes,” I told her, “I do realize that, but isn’t there some sort of code we could set up so that I will know when you are around?” (I had asked Aunt Louise something similar and had been told in no uncertain terms to never ask anything so foolish again; hence, I feel no connection to Aunt Louise, gone since March).
She continued rattling the paper, but with less ferocity. With a very uncommon catch in her voice, she replied from behind the paper, “I will be with you always. Always. And you will have so many wonderful surprises waiting for you, things you never imagined, that it will be OK”. We both sat silently, not wanting to break our connection.
In an interesting coda, I was seated next to a lovely lady on my flight from Greensboro to Charlotte. We talked about our weekends and she told me that she was headed to Rochester to see her parents who were the same age and state of mind as mine. Now on the verge of tears, I told Laurie about what had happened with Mother and she, too, became teary. And, we both agreed that we had been brought together to share a moment of happy reflection about our parents.
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