May, 2013
Follow That Car! I Can't Believe I Just Said That.
(Tom Conti as Alan McMann in American Dreamer)
Things were quite different when I was a kid. Oh, they weren't perfect—but I can remember not locking the back door half the time, leaving my bike dropped on the lawn overnight and walking to and from Laurie Peadie's house after dark and nobody even considering coming to get me. Nowadays I have friends who have enough deadbolts and locks so that you'd think you were in New York, you run the risk of having your car stolen while you're driving (forget the bikes), and I don't like walking alone at night—no way in hell will I let my kid out of sight at that hour.
We were young, we were invincible. Before they coined the phrase BFF we were best friends forever.
"If you think I'm going to let you say at a hotel, you think again, young lady!" Laurie is almost exactly ten days younger than I—nine days, twenty-two hours and nineteen minutes, if you're picky. We lived four blocks apart through grade school, went to the same schools, attended the same church, were in the same scout troops, our moms were in the PTA together, our older brothers even got along (thank god). "We have plenty of room, and years to catch up on!"
"I'm taking Alexandra and running away!" Ducky whispered dramatically. I hit him with the dishtowel as he passed by. Lexi had tried running away only a month before. Not a joking matter in my book. But the house had been quickly repaired, and we could happily host a houseguest.
Not just any houseguest. My very best friend, someone I'd known since I was in preschool. Laurie and I studied together, had crushes on Ricky Nelson together, skated and rode bikes together, shared measles and chicken pox together, graduated high school together. I went off to Old Dominion; Laurie went off to Iowa.
She had gone steady with Doug Taylor for their junior and senior years in high school. In a world suddenly populated with hippies, yippies, flower children and counter-culturists wearing crazy, mod clothing, Laurie and Doug were almost Ma and Pa Ingalls in Maryland. Laurie ran for—and won—junior class VP under the slogan, 'Laurie Peadie, She's a Sweetie.' Doug ran her campaign. The week after graduation, they got married and moved to Townville, Iowa (Townville? Isn't that like 'city city?') to help his grandparents with their dairy farm. They went from helping to taking over, stayed there for the next 40 years, had 6 kids and had a nice, quiet life.
Neither of us went to our 25-year class reunion. We probably will skip our 50-year class reunion. But this was different—it wasn't a class reunion, it was a retirement party for Miss Jama.
Stephanie Jama is the reason I even tried to be a teacher. She was the type of teacher who managed to be approachable and open while retaining control in her classroom. She badgered you into turning out your best work, and you griped about how hard she was but you loved her for it. She taught Hawthorne and Heinlein, Bronte and Bradbury, you could do book reports on darn near anything. I grew up in a family of readers; while we had a television and enjoyed watching television, my generation was at the edge of the video revolution. She saw where things were heading and she was determined to nip it in the bud.
She started—and ran—the drama department. She was the staff counselor for the poetry club. She taught creative writing and was staff editor of the yearly magazine. When I started getting into email and Facebook and crap like that, she was not only already online, she had the biggest list of names and links you could imagine. She had thousands of former students on her list.
At 70 she was close to Ducky's age, and just as unlikely a person to retire. To the public, she said she'd been in the classroom—either as a teacher or a student—for quite long enough, she was going to travel, write the cookbooks and holiday reference books she'd toyed with over the years, and enjoy sleeping in. To a few of us, in private, she said she had decided to retire when they installed a metal detector in the school that year.
Things had definitely changed.
Laurie and I had kept in touch over the years. She wasn't a technophobe, but she looked at technology as a tool for helping run the farm. When her grandkids tried to get her to join Facebook, saying she could get in touch with all her old friends, she just rolled her eyes and said, "That's why Hallmark makes Christmas cards." The most telling comment I got from her was a text message with a photo attachment Doug had taken. She had a rake in one hand, her cell phone in another, and her wader boots were calf deep in…uh, something. The caption read, "If you find yourself standing in a manure spreader and stopping to take a phone call…you just might be a farmer." (She loves Jeff Foxworthy.)
"Will you be able to drive from the airport?" I fussed. "You haven't been out here in ages. The roads have really built up, it's a rental—no, no, Ducky and I will pick you up—"
"Oh, for Pete's sake. I drive a flipping tractor. I have an old Ford that was built before World War II and drive on roads that have no speed limits. I will be fine."
She was late.
Very late.
Her flight was delayed. An hour. Two hours. The plane is busy dusting crops over the west valley, she texted after breakfast (her time). I wasn't sure if she was joking.
She finally got out of Clayton County and made her laborious way east. Instead of arriving in midday and missing traffic going to and coming from work, she touched down right as evening rush hour traffic started.
Last message! she sent from the luggage carousel area. I made it, my carry-on made it, but my checked bag is in Chicago—and it has my phone charger! They let me take the phone on the plane, but not the charger. Nuts. Everyone is nuts. I have one battery bar left! Seconds later, I got, Yikes! Low battery flashing light!
So I watched the clock tick, tick, tick and knew I had no way to reach her.
We ate dinner and I put something aside for Laurie. She would be starving by the time she got to our place.
Lexi went to bed.
Mother went to bed.
Ducky and I stayed up and worried.
6:00. 6:30. 7:00. 7:30. 8:00. 8:30 Even my niece, Sharon, who has the worse sense of direction on the planet, would have been on our doorstep by then. 8:45. I was ready to call the cops. I was ready to call Gibbs. 8:47 and my cell phone rang: BLOCKED NUMBER. "Uh… hello?"
"Cassie, I am so sorry!"
"Where are you? Are you okay? Where are you calling from? Who is this blocked number? What's going on?!"
"I got lost," she said with an exasperated sigh. "It took me forever to find a pay phone! Nobody has a pay phone out here!"
"They do in Iowa?" I asked, distracted.
"Of course! Well, I got out of the car, got over to the phone booth, and the silly thing is out of order! So I went back to the car, and I'd locked the doggone keys in the car! Can you imagne?"
"Yes," I said weakly. "But who—"
"Well, there I am, standing by this stupid car, mad as a nest full of hornets, and these young men drove up—"
"Laurie—where are you? We'll come and get you—"
There was a warbling noise of muffled conversation. "Good Hope Street? Off Anacostia Freeway?" she said. "There's a bar nearby, The Volstead Act?"
My jaw dropped. "Where?"
"I'm at the Amalco gas station. But—"
"We'll be right here," I said firmly. Better yet, I'll call Gibbs and ask him to send a platoon of agents.
"Nonsense!" she laughed. "I was saying, here I am, stuck outside the car, these nice young men drive up, they asked me what was going on, I told them what had happened—one of them had this strip of metal, he slid it in next to the window and pop! He had the door open in seconds!"
I'll just bet he did.
"So handy!"
Yeah, everyone runs around with a slimjim in their car.
"They're so sweet. They're in some sort of a club, they all have these jackets with their names on the back, they all have the same colored bandanas—and they gave me perfect directions to Reston, not like the agent at the rental car counter. I'll be there in two shakes. I told them how worried you probably were—"
Not like I am now.
"So this young man—" There was a pause, then I heard a faint, "Just call me Buddy," and some loud laughter. "Told me I could use his phone to call you. See you soon!"
I stared at the blank screen for a long moment. When do I tell her she just got saved by a carload of Crips or Bloods—before the reunion, or after?
That night, as I helped her settle in with a borrowed nightie and slippers, she gave me a rueful headshake. "We do watch Law and Order in Townville," she said drily. "I figured a dumb hick might get out of the situation okay. Besides—working on a farm for forty years gives you some muscles. I coulda stomped all four if I had to!"
Well, okey-dokey, then.
Been helping a friend move. I now know, quite personally, just how sharp the trochar Mary Hanlan used on Ducky really is... (I collect cookbooks. She collects vintage medical equipment. Different strokes, etc.)
A couple of months ago I participated in the annual Jibbs story Secret Santa. I suddenly realized I never posted the link on my bio page! So that will be added tonight. Like the others, it's not heavy Jibbs romance (it barely has any), and is definitely an odd sense of humor. Please. You know me well enough. -Aunt Kitty
