A man in Phoenix calls his son in New York the day before Thanksgiving and says,”I hate to ruin your day, but I have to tell you that your mother and I are divorcing; forty-five years of misery is enough.”
“Pop, what are you talking about?” the son screams.
“We can’t stand the sight of each other any longer,” the father says. “We’re sick of each other, and I’m sick of talking about this, so you call your sister in Chicago and tell her.”
Yesterday Jerry and I decided to go on an adventure. Getting stuck in traffic was not part of our plan. Yet, there we were. Riding in our Buick along I-10 at the speed of one-inch per hour. Our tires bumpity-bump-bumped in a slow crawl, then came to a full stop, then back to bumpity-bump-bump.
“What’s going on?” Jerry wondered. “It can’t be construction. Look at the machines. No one in them.”
Bulldozers and Genie Lifts sat idle on the side of the freeway. Our life had evolved into an endless stop and go cycle: Go-Brake-Stop-Go-Brake-Stop.
I have plenty of time before my flight, so I search for an empty table at the cozy, dimly-lit, seat-yourself restaurant inside the airport.
I plop down at the first vacant table I see. I’m not excited over the menu options of grease in various forms, to be washed down with expensive beer. It doesn’t matter. I have a spot to decompress after my search and seizure experience. My new metal hip had set off the TSA alarm as I traversed the security check. I was suddenly surrounded by TSA agents barking, “Stop. Take your shoes off. Kleenex? Out of your pocket.” So much for my pre-check status.
In the midst of other good things that happened this past week—two really good things stand out.
Good Thing #1.
I had plans, so I awoke just after dawn. Quite unusual for me as I usually go to bed at the crack of dawn (because at my age you can do what you want). I had some time at that early hour to make tea and sit in the atrium before getting dressed and leaving. I opened the atrium door to let in some fresh air from the outside. A soft 68-degrees drifted inside. Oh my! The weather had cooled. I leaned back in one of our patio sofas. Suddenly, I felt giddy. Could it be? Has fall arrived in the Arizona desert?
Rain barreled into my world in Garden Grove, California. Puddles soaked our front yard. Mini-rivers swept down the street. Our neighbors huddled inside their homes. But my mom wouldn’t let a rainstorm stop her. She wanted a taco at Taco Lita and do some shopping at the Broadway.
At 8-years-old, I loved the rain and my mom’s suggestion we go out for tacos and shop at the Broadway sounded good to me. I put on my red, slicker rain coat and my red, rubber rain boots. My sister, age 6, got into her rain gear and we hopped into our funny little car, a Nash Metropolitan which we called the Metro.