INTO THE FRAY

I was at Target recently.  Of course.  I traversed the familiar aisles, loading my cart with Kleenex and laundry soap and the usual collection.  But when I pushed my purchases outside, I was momentarily lost.  I didn’t know where I was.

With all Targets laid out in a similar fashion, I had been lulled into a sense of the familiar.  And when I walked outside, the familiar was gone.  I suspect my psyche was still looking for a Missouri parking lot, the one on Kirkwood Road, no doubt.  But it wasn’t there.

I shook my head, got the neurons firing, and I was back in San Antonio, but for a moment, I missed the familiar.

After eight months in Texas, I didn’t expect to still be acclimating.  And yet, I am.

I have acclimated to some things quickly.  I do not miss ice and snow and sub-zero temperatures, the awkward nozzles on St. Louis gas pumps, St. Louis-style pizza (cheddar cheese atop a pizza, really?), robo-calls from the school district, trucks blocking Blase Avenue.

But I miss the familiar, the familiarity of getting behind the wheel of my Ford and driving as if by remote control because I know the way so well, placing my coffee order at Kaldi’s, sliding into the back row of choir, laughing at old jokes, meeting up at the Galleria, scouring my brain for trivia and flexing my competitive muscles, spying a familiar face at the grocery store, inhaling the incredible smells at DiGregorio’s, recognizing names in the local newspaper, and knowing there was always someone to call in a pinch.

There’s something comfortable in the familiar, like an easy chair on a rainy afternoon. 

The unfamiliar is a challenge.  The unfamiliar has become my way of life.  The unfamiliar is not necessarily unfriendly, but it’s always unexpected, always a surprise.

But as Paulo Coelho writes, “…there is no point in pretending that nothing has happened or in saying that we are not yet ready.  The challenge will not wait.  Life does not look back.”

So I Google map my every move and plunge forward.  Ready or not, here I come!  Eyes wide open.

To quote T.S. Eliot, “If you aren’t in over your head, how do you know how tall you are?”

I’m feeling pretty tall…

WAITING FOR SUMMER

I miss our pool.

When we built our house in San Antonio, we put in a pool.  It wasn’t part of the plan.  It wasn’t even a plan for “some day.”  But somehow, we ended up with one. 

I wanted a water feature.  I wanted the calming tinkle-tinkle-tinkle of a gentle fountain.  So we met with the guy doing the patio and the landscaping to discuss a water feature.  The conversation grew grander and suddenly, for just a few dollars more, we were envisioning a swimming pool in our new backyard.

I agonized over this decision, even after it was made.  I especially feared we wouldn’t use it enough to warrant the addition, especially since I can’t swim – never have.  I float all right.  I enjoy getting wet.  That’s about it.  It seemed an outrageous extravagance, but if there was ever a city to have a pool in, San Antonio seemed to be it.

Even the prospect of caring for the pool didn’t sway us.  Immediately, we signed up for Pool School.  Our pool company would send someone to our home to teach us how to care for our pool. 

When we did our final walk-through of the new house, we ambled from room to room, making notes for the builder of what needed to be done yet and mental notes of what piece of furniture would go where.  When we went through the back door and gazed at the backyard that had been all theory until then, I was stunned.  The pool was lovely - three graceful arcs, hitting the water with gentle plops; the flagstone surround; the lush plantings; the alluring turquoise surface.

The pool became salvation during the weeks while we waited for our belongings.  We had no television, no games, no books, not even clothes to hang in the closets; but, we were amused by the pool.  John built boats out of milk jugs.  We floated and smiled (when smiles were hard to come by.)

We arranged for Pool School.  My sister-in-law Carla teased me about the pool boy who would be our instructor.  She winked about Speedos and 6-pack abs.  I waited with breathy anticipation for the arrival of the pool master, my pencil and paper at the ready.  Tom was…unexpected.  Tom was probably 60 years old and looked 80.  His white hair stood out from his head in wild tufts.  His company-issued shirt was unbuttoned, exposing a generous gut hanging over the waist of his jeans.  He pulled the shirt open further to show me the scar from his quadruple bypass, because, as Tom contends, “those cigarettes and tortillas will kill ‘ya.”  (Personally, I think tortillas are getting a bad rap, but I didn’t debate it with Tom.)  He wiped his heavily-perspiring forehead with a red bandana, as he puttered around our pool, muttering that “any idiot could take care of a pool.”  As we didn’t consider ourselves idiots, it became our mission to learn the ropes; however, I couldn’t seem to put pen to paper.  No notes appeared on the pad.  Instead, I gawked at Tom. 

He complained about replacing his cell phone every couple of months, because the phones kept falling into pools.  This comment was made as he slipped his current phone into the breast pocket of his shirt and bent over the pool to pull the Polaris from its depths.  I held my breath; sure another phone was on its way into the brink.  When Tom finally made his departure, we watched him go with dropped jaws, berating one another in quiet tones for not having taken a photo of this character.  (I hope my description does him justice.)

Despite dubious care instruction, we've managed to maintain and enjoy the pool.  Now we miss it.

Like the rest of the country, San Antonio is having the coldest winter in recent history.  Too cool for a dip.  But gentle sprays continue to break the placid water and I am reminded that summer will eventually return.

94 YEARS IN THE MAKING

Today is my grandmother’s 94^th birthday.

Marian Schulz is a marvel.  She is my inspiration.  She still lives on her own, in her own house.  She still drives her little SUV and talks state troopers out of tickets.  She had her knee replaced so she could continue to dance.  Her calendar is full of parties and appointments.  Her clothes are contemporary and her jewelry statement pieces.  She is quick with a laugh and equally quick at making the lowly quake with fear.  She is a rock, the core of our family.

Marian Arp Schulz, age 18

This Christmas, I missed celebrating the holiday with my grandmother and extended family for the first time in years.  We always travelled from St. Louis, despite weather and timing, but now the distance is too much.

When I was growing up, Christmas Eve on the farm with Grandpa and Grandma was something I looked forward to all year.  But as the family grew and changed, so did Christmas.  The farm is gone.  So is Grandpa.  But Grandma still invites her brood to gather for the holidays…all 60 of us!  She still brings her Southern Comfort punch, even if she can’t drink it.  (That was a lesson learned the hard way, when a couple glasses of punch made her defibrillator “zap” her one Christmas.  I imagine her cardiologist told her she shouldn’t drink alcohol, but that was one instruction she conveniently forgot.)

Even though I didn’t make it to the party, I received my Christmas gift from Gram.  It was a book.  Of her stories.

The book was the brainchild of my mom and Aunt Julie.  They sat Grandma down, asked her to tell them her stories, while they added ones of their own.  Grandma talks of growing up on the farm and becoming a farmer’s wife, of raising her children and losing a son.  She talks of hard work and heartbreak, love and laughter.  They are the stories of a life.  I have received few gifts as precious.

Gram, Julie, Mom

In this book, she also found a way to impart words that might have gone unsaid, words that might have waited for a better time and never found one.  These are hers:  “You can love your children with all your heart, rejoice for them, grieve for them, and try to help, but in the end, with luck, you are alone with the man you’d chosen to live with.  In the end, there is something to be said for the undemanding life that is compensation for growing old.  You had your regrets and disappointments, even a kind of haunting depression knowing that any day it could all end.  But mostly you give thanks for what you had in the past and what you hoped for in the future – for health and serenity, for yourself and the ones you love.  Life was more kind than cruel.”

Life has always been more kind with you in it, Gram.  Happy Birthday.