How You Look at It

Dear friends, family, and frenemies,

    Kids often remind us that life is more fun and interesting than we think it is.  Recently, my six-year-old grandson Finn announced that the three happiest days of his life were these:

1.  The day he found Papa's wallet

2.  The day he was born

3.  The day he married his first-grade classmate Nadine

I hadn't been invited to the wedding, so I had no comment on number three.  I agree that number two was quite remarkable.  But I burst out laughing when I heard number one.  I remember that day very well.  Finn and I were in our swimsuits waiting for Papa Bob to come home from his workout at the recreation center so that the three of us could go back there and swim.  Bob drove in the driveway and announced that he couldn't find his wallet.  As we say in our family, here comes "ye olde wallet search."  He had already checked to see if it had been turned in at the recreation center, but it hadn't.  He wondered if he had left it elsewhere.  I did my part: I called Starbucks.  Meanwhile Bob and Finn searched the car.  You haven't searched for something until you've searched with my husband.  He would make a zealous posse of cops with a search warrant look like slackers.  He can turn over and disrupt more space in no time flat than a toddler let loose with a shelf of books.  Flashlights were engaged.  Car rugs were overturned, shaken, and thrown on to the driveway.   The console was emptied.  The seats were moved and inspected.  Debris was removed and tossed from underneath the seats.  The plastic bag of garbage was perused.  The trunk was scrutinized.

Next it was time to search Pap's briefcase.  The contents were dumped on the table and carefully inspected.  No wallet.  Things were getting serious.  The next step was to go back to campus and retrace Bob's steps from the parking garage to Starbuck's.  At this point, I suggested that Finn and I just go swim while Bob continued  his search.  But Finn wasn't having it.  He wanted to go with Papa.  They walked carefully through the parking garage and along the sidewalks, looking behind pillars and underneath bushes.  When they arrived at Starbucks, they questioned a potential witness -- the manager -- regarding the billfold's whereabouts.  He had no information.  They went to the booth where Bob had sat and thoroughly examined the seats and floor, before heading to the bathroom.  No luck.  They trekked slowly back to the parking garage with eagle eyes.

Bob decided they should go back to the recreation center and check again.  They went in and scoured the dressing room, gym, and everywhere in between.  Still no luck.  Finally, Bob decided to ask another person behind the desk at the recreation center if his billfold had been turned in.  Guess what?  It had.  It had been found in the parking lot.  It was minus $30, but is was otherwise intact.

Various theories were put forth about how the wallet had landed in the parking lot.   Had Bob dropped it it as it he had gotten out of the car?  Had he left it in the dressing room and the thief had taken the money and then dropped it in the parking lot?  Had someone at the desk taken the money?  All are intriguing questions that gave us plenty to discuss.  Finn? he didn't mind that he never got to go swimming.  He had been on a quest.  And the quest had ended successfully.  Who needs to play Zelda or read Lord of the Rings when you can go on a real live expedition with your grandfather?  And that, my friends, is why Finn considers the day they found Papa's wallet to be the happiest day of his life.

Tizhap

I went to the recreation center yesterday as I usually do.  When I was leaving I got to yakking with a friend.  I picked up my keys and left.  Usually, I go right home, but Bob had gone with me, so I needed to kill time until he was done.  I chatted with a few more people and walked three laps before we went to the parking lot.  It was then that I discovered that the keys I had were not my own.  I ran back in the the rec center to discover a very distraught fellow exerciser with a friend who was offering her a ride home.  They were very glad to see me. My actions had only kept her in a complete panic for about twenty-five minutes.  One of these days I will pay attention to what I'm doing  Really.  I promise.  Until then Tiz will just keep "hap" -ing I guess. .

Questing and jesting,

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Liz/Elizabeth/Mom/Tizmom/Grandma

Twice-Told Tales

Twice-Told Tales

Dear friends, family, and frenemies,

                    "Why do you tell people that story?  It makes you sound ridiculous," remarked my husband.  Why, indeed?  I guess I am just unable to resist telling a good story, even if it does make me look bad.  And if I must sacrifice my pride to get a good laugh, a shocked expression, or a look of incredulity, I'm happy to do that.

                    I'll start with the story that garnered my husband's comment.  If you've known me for long, you already know both of these tales but maybe I can add a few new details.  It was March of 1986.  I had a five-year-old and a nine-month-old.  I was working part-time for a publishing company.  I was scheduled to go from St. Louis, MO, to New Orleans for an educational conference to work at the booth.  I was excited to get away for a few days.  I had received Garrison Keillor's Prairie Home Companion for Christmas, but I hadn't managed to read a word of it in three months.  I was looking forward to a nice long plane ride to read and relax.  And I did get a nice long plane ride and plenty of time to read, just not in the way I expected.

                    I arrived at the gate in St. Louis early and settled in to read my book.  No one enjoys peace and quiet quite as much as a young mother suddenly set free from her duties.  I may have even laughed aloud a few times, but I'm not sure.  I waited for my flight to be announced.  When those around me got up to board, I joined them.  I found my seat, sat down, and continued reading.  A man appeared and claimed that I was in his seat.  I showed him my boarding pass, and he showed me his. These things happen.  He disappeared.  I kept reading.  In those long-ago days when flying was less routine, I generally introduced myself to my seat mates.  However, on that day, I wasn't in the mood; I just kept reading.  I leaned back as the plane taxied.  The captain greeted us and announced, " We will be arriving in Washington, D. C. in ..." I turned to my seat mate and asked, "Is he joking?" The person looked at me strangely and said no he wasn't joking.  I stood up, raised my ticket, and exclaimed, "But I'm flying to New Orleans."  People turned and stared.  Perhaps you remember the E.F. Hutton commercial with two passengers on a plane discussing their financial advisor.  When one man says, "My broker is E.F. Hutton," everyone  stand ups and stares at the speaker.  My situation was something like that.  I wasn't exactly a celebrity, but I did get a lot of attention.  The flight attendant rushed back.  I felt sure that once the error was realized that I would be taken back to the gate.  That was not to be the case.  Did I mention that there was a Door A and a Door B at the gate?  It turns out that I had gone through Door A when I should have gone through Door B.

                    Now I was in a pickle.  I was supposed to be in New Orleans to cover the booth that afternoon.  I wondered if I would have to pay for the extra flight.  Not only was I not going to earn a day's pay, I was also going to have to buy a ticket.  Well, what could I do?  I sat back and read my book.  When we arrived in Washington, I got off the plane, bought a postcard, and mailed it to my friend whose boyfriend lived in D.C.  "Guess where I am? " I scribbled. Lucky for me, the plane and crew went directly back to St. Louis.  Not only did I not have to pay for the flight, but I was entitled to free alcohol.  What a deal.  I ordered a Bloody Mary.  The flight attendant said that I was the best-natured person that this had ever happened to.  That made me feel good.  I leaned back, sipped my Bloody Mary, and kept reading.  I arrived at the same gate in St. Louis where I had begun six hours earlier.  Eventually, I got to New Orleans.  Our most famous author was at the booth.  He was a quiet and serious man.  When he heard my story, he laughed until he cried.  It was a good day.

                    You did notice how I was able to read through anything in the story above?  This next story shows my strong powers of concentration once again.  I just don't seem to be concentrating on the world around me.  This story took place in the summer of 1975 in Champaign, IL.  Some friends and I went to McDonald's.  Rantoul Air Force Base was nearby.  There was a display of replica airplanes in the glass case across from the order counter.  While my friends ordered, I turned my back to the order counter and looked in the display case. The case was mirrored. Instead of looking at the model planes, I was taken by my own hair.  I turned my head a few times admiring what a good hair day I was having. When I turned around, the place was empty and completely silent.  I was taken aback.  My friends eventually appeared.  They were quite worked up.  "Why didn't you take cover?" they asked.  "Cover from what?" I inquired. They told me that a masked and armed gunman had come in and robbed the place.  Had I been looking at something other than my own hair,  I might have seen him in the mirror... I used to have the newspaper clipping to prove that the robbery occurred.  I wasn't called to be an eyewitness.

Titivating and tizivating,

I remain

Tizzie/Tiz/Liz/Elizabeth/Tizmom/Mom/Grandma