The More Things Change

There is a picture I cannot throw away: the last house I grew up in, my mother, my then-fiancé and I (the weekend he proposed), and my sister and her then-fiancé, as they stood beside a moving truck with her belongings tucked inside. I was 22, barefoot and standing on a piece of shade in the July heat. My left hand was raised to show the engagement ring I was wearing. My fiancé was standing behind me in his typical way, one hand in his pocket. He was waving at my father, who took the picture. The house behind me would drown in Hurricane Katrina 11 years later. The marriages would fail. The relationship between my sister and I would come to a great divide. Only my mother, who is still married to the picture-taker, and the concrete street itself remain as steadfastly as before. Even the yard, trees, and sidewalk would later be claimed by floodwater, then the backhoes would scrape away whatever was the last physical reminder of our home.

I hold this photo, as proof that I did once live in this place and I was once closely entangled with the people in it. I remember a life before more life—children, dogs, multiple moves, travels—and the end of things—flood, divorce, deaths, endings. History is the embodiment of bittersweetness. Would I wish to be the girl in the picture again? A girl near the same age as that of my step-daughters? The girl who was facing marriage but didn’t really know what she wanted to be when she grew up? No. But this is a good picture, and one that is also glorious. We were all young there, with so much ahead. I can hear the voices of each person present, feel the summer pressing down on our skin, and even retreat into the memory of that cool, blue-brick house for iced tea and a seat on the embroidered, floral couch after the moving truck pulled away. 

What I miss is what could have been simpler, easier, less harrowing—but I have learned that no hard change comes without its own reward anyway, and so I type this from the comfortable colonial home in a historic town 1000 miles away from the footprint of that picture. My pretty children snooze upstairs in rooms I decorated to their taste. My second husband irons his own clothes as he watches a documentary on baseball in the next room and casually offers reassurances about our holiday plans. Our dog rests behind me, her back pressed to the legs of my chair. She chases rabbits in her sleep as she dreams, too old to pursue such things in her waking hours anymore.

I still talk to everyone involved with that picture, some more than others, and all for different reasons. I can still close my eyes and see everything as it once used to be. You know, I once heard this expression—the more things change, the more they remain the same. I no longer believe that to be true.

Can't You Just Find a Nice Girl at Church?

I work with a guy who comes to my desk once or twice a week to update me with amusing tales of his love life. Let's just call him Buster after a puppy I used to have that was absolutely endearing but refused to ever learn from the same mistakes. Buster is a good egg: a health enthusiast, an optimist, a bit of an unintentional comic, and he is oriented toward his family. He is well-liked by everyone who knows him.  But he seems to have a knack for bumbling into relationships with overbearing, controlling, fetish-engaging, soul-sucking women-- the kind of women who give my entire gender a bad name. Our conversations almost always end with my saying, "Can't you just find a nice girl at church?"

Buster once told me about a woman I now refer to as Five-by-Five because she was about as wide as she was tall (bless her heart). On their first date, having met online, she asked to meet at a Walmart and grabbed him by the hand there, pulling him to the soap aisle. Yes, I already hear you asking why Walmart on a first date. And wouldn't that alone be a red flag?

"What scent you want?" Five-by-Five asked, and then she blatantly stated that they would be getting a hotel room together immediately post-purchase. In a panic, he created an excuse to leave, and began to hide in other aisles, ducking her calls to his cell phone. Five-by-Five wasn't giving up. Finally, he recruited a store employee to see if there was a certain girl sitting on a certain car outside the doors.

"Daannngggg," said the Walmart clerk, "She is sitting right on that car, and SHE IS A BIG GIRL!" Buster panicked and enlisted him to pose as an uncle stating there was an emergency at home and that Buster needed to go right now. Outside, arms crossed and scowling, Five-by-Five didn't entirely buy his story, but she let him get in his own car and leave.

At first, Buster thought he was in the clear, but he noticed her following, then chasing him in her car, until he lost her in a neighborhood nearby. Meanwhile, his phone never stopped ringing and she left a host of threatening messages on his voicemail.

Now mind you, surely he could have just told the girl that her motive wasn't a shared one, and walked away at the first sign of psychosis. Most grown-ups don't run and hide in Walmart and recruit strangers to pose as family. But then most well-adjusted grown ups don't drag a stranger down the soap aisle in the first fifteen minutes of a first date and ask what scent one finds most pleasant for a sudden sexual encounter.

When I stopped laughing (more like seizing) about this story, he told me about a previous relationship with a dominating woman who, when that relationship was over, was angry with him for not continuing to financially support her, not that he ever should have done so in the first place. I tried to grasp the reality of that, and finally said, "Buster? Why can't you just find a nice girl in church?"

Buster, at 35 years old, is still a little hung up on appearance, and he pays a price in considering super-cute and young as initial criteria. I can't blame him for not feeling a chemical connection or for feeling turned off, but when I gave him the opportunity to go out with a wonderful, mature, professional woman his age, he balked. "You might be missing something great," I said. Oh, well. It's not my problem. And as I listen to his stories, I find myself telling him that he is a grown up and will figure out how to deal with things, but I still have to often shake my head, laugh, and remind him: Why can't you...

Boys, Snot Rockets, and Date-Making at the DZ

Jujubee and I sat at the drop zone for a large sweltering chunk of Saturday afternoon. We watched planes load, take off, and land between shifts of skydivers swooping to earth only yards from our shelter. In the intolerable heat, 100 degrees plus a heat index that increased the aura of that sun-bake to a bloody 120, we parked ourselves fairly comfortably: under a tent, in deck chairs, with our feet plunged in a baby pool that we had filled with ice and water. Of all that amused us and inspired our conversation that day were men, certain ones at the DZ in particular. Let me elaborate:

At one point, one of the packers came over to ask my step-daughter on a date, except his manner of delivery was all convoluted. It took me a while to figure out what was going on. His statement to her was that the last time he had made plans, she had "flaked out on him" and he wanted to make sure that this time he wasn't wasting his money buying her a ticket to a concert that she might not attend. "Good Lord!" I announced. "That is not how you ask a girl out!" And then after he left our tent:

"Good Lord! Did you lead him to think you were going on a date?" But before I could chastise her, she explained their conversation from the previous week, I understood, and then set back and announced how glad I was not to be young and dating. It's all too hard to manage. Expectations, hearts broken, wishes led astray. Marriage, for all its problems, is so much better than dating. Watching young folk do the delicate dance is exhausting.

To Jujubee's credit, I see her point about young men. This same packer came over later and borrowed our pool to help recover from heat exhaustion. He plummeted his face into the ice water and we leaned forward to drizzle his arms and the back of his neck with cool relief. When he leaned up, he shook his head like a dog spraying us with the cold, blew his nose into his fingers, threw the snot-wad onto the ground, dipped a bottle into our baby pool, and washed his hands with water from the bottle. I was so shocked, I couldn't speak. My girl, though, didn't miss a beat.

"Dude," she cracked, "did you just blow a snot rocket?"
"Yeah," he answered.
"Tsk. I am so disappointed."

Sigh. Boys Can Be So Dumb...

How is it that young men can be so clueless? Earlier this year at a shop, the manager and I began to talk about girls and boys and the pains they undergo in their early dating relationships. The woman was just flustered. Her granddaughter is a particularly beautiful young girl--stunningly so. The girl had been hoping that the boy she carpooled with would ask her to the school dance. Long story short, he did call her--to get her advice on how he should ask out another girl. The grandmother, in her infinite wisdom, counseled the girl that these things happened when she herself was a girl, too. Boys can be a little short-sighted, she said. But the woman and I just shrugged. I'll never understand it myself. Boys can do many strange things.

This past year, one of my step-daughters was invited on a date by a man in his mid-twenties--old enough to be more mature, right? When she arrived at the theater to meet him, he told her to wait and that he was getting them free tickets from his pal in the projection booth. The whole thing felt very juvenile as he scampered off. Mae told me that even if he was so cash strapped he couldn't afford tickets, he could have at least procured them discreetly before her arrival without looking like a kid about to rip off a candy store. Mae gave him a chance at a second date and then ended things. The ticket incident had only been a red flag about his lack of maturity with other choices.

Mae's sister Juju was flustered over bizarre behavior herself at least a few times this year. "If everything is going well and we are having fun together, why does the guy suddenly drop off the planet?" She has asked this question more than once. I told her that often, the guys act according to what they think their friends will approve. And it's disgusting, really, as I see the sweetest (and prettiest) of young ladies get their hearts broken. I told her that sometimes the guys come to their senses, but more importantly we need to just move along and forget about them.

Easier said than done. In high school, before my date and I were old enough to drive to a dance, my date told me he wanted to rent a limo to take me to the prom. This was a new concept in my parents' world and they said no. My dad offered to drive us. The boy was too cool for this, so he dumped me instead. I'll never forget that feeling, and my parents, of course, were wise enough to tell me the boy was not worth my time if he were to treat me that way, but I didn't believe it. I had to learn it over and over. Apparently, I was 35 before I really learned it.

Over the years, I was dumped for not being a heavy drinker (at least twice). I was ignored because I wasn't in a sorority (countless young men in college years). I was treated badly for wanting to talk about the last book I read (Harry the Jock). I was cast aside or treated shabbily for many unknown reasons. I remember why I initiated my break ups as well: one young man had a terrible case of pathological lying, another was consistently 45 minutes late for each date and entirely rude about it each time (oh, that would also be Harry), and other dates just never "gelled" comfortably. I do remember one very nice boy that I said I couldn't see again because he stared at me the entire time and it was so off-putting--while he was driving, while I was watching a movie, while I was eating. I have never quite had anyone do that so blatantly. It's like he couldn't believe he was actually with a live, two-legged, teenaged female. There are the break ups for reasons you know, but the worst ones, like Juju says, are the ones that leave great questions.

Once, I was hopelessly in love with a potter that kinda-sorta wanted to be with me--but I wasn't allowed to receive any affection in public or meet his friends. I was lovesick, clingy, and even more hopeless and pathetic when he suddenly fell off the planet. I actually looked him up on Facebook one day to tell him, because I believe I had been a bit of a stalker, that I was sorry for not having just broken things off cleanly. The response was surprising. "I'm the one that should apologize," he wrote, "for having been less than mature." He said kind things, remembered me far more kindly than I thought possible, and wished me well. He and his wife have just had their second little boy this year.

Maybe, there is hope for some young men after all.

Pie and Perilous Relationships

My eldest step-daughter has been staying with us since early July. We had initially asked her to come to help her recover from sudden heartbreak. I had suggested to her as well that if she came, we would cook together. I believe I mentioned gumbo at the time, but what we have officially made together is pie.


The whole thing started with a rather spontaneous Thelma and Louise style visit to a local produce stand. What we found and purchased while giggling, ransacking produce, and carrying on were the following: two heavy, crimson Carolina tomatoes; a sack of hard, green maters for frying; a jar of honey-apple butter from Maryland, which came with the promise of outdoing any we’d had previously; sweet, white corn from a nearby field; an eggplant that appeared to be growing a nose; a dozen freshly laid eggs (rainbow eggs from rainbow chickens, says the proprietor); a two pound roll of salty Amish butter; and lastly, a large carton of tart, juicy blackberries. We leaned over the counter at the glistening berries and I turned the carton slowly in my hands. I tasted one.

“Pie,” I said.

“Yes,” heartily agreed my sidekick, “let’s make a pie!”

We rounded up our purchases, reluctantly pulled ourselves from a tall cart of breads, and loaded the car with our booty. At home, the first thing we did was to fry the green tomatoes. We toasted French bread with little pools of Amish butter, and sautéed slices of North Carolina livermush, something my husband adores and trucks out of there whenever we pass through. We talked about our food and admired how it lay upon the plates. Meanwhile, from a brown paper bag in the kitchen, the blackberries beckoned.

So later, inspired by Waitress, a film where the protagonist outlandishly names her pies as she flounders in her relationships, we made what my step-daughter calls I-Hope-My-Ex-Boyfriend-Gets-Hit-by-a-Truck Pie. It started out looking like a good relationship. We had buttered ourselves up with a pat-in-the-pan butter crust. The berries looked beautiful, too, but truthfully, needed sweetening (Honey, don’t they all need a little work?). We sugared, tasted, added more, and finally even more. We sprinkled corn starch into the berries  and squeezed lime in there (Doesn’t every relationship need a bit of zing?), lined the top with sliced apples (think Eve) and a heart-shaped crust remnant. We baked hopefully. Yes, the pie was delicious, but like every relationship that we hope to make grow beyond its foundation to do so, it fell apart in the end. I think our buttery crust even dissolved at the bottom of the pie. We stood over the pie post first-slice in a state of morning-after semi-bliss and confusion as the pie began to drown in its own berry juice. Hands on hips, we chattered and analyzed the situation. We discussed how we could have changed the pie, made it better, that what we noticed in the beginning that was a red flag for the final product. I considered the parallels and renamed it: I-Hate-My-Ex Pie.

Last night, we sat on the porch laughing about all the pies we could make  and how we could make this work as a business one day. I even have an idea for a plain cheesecake called I-Dreamt-I-Was-Naked-Again Cheesecake. I think we have a start.

Oh, by the way--that expression--easy as pie. Pie ain't easy and neither are we.

The No No List and the Dish on Love

Once upon a time, I listened to my husband encouraging one of his daughters. He was dispensing relationship advice to her. Her dilemma wasn’t should she break up with a certain young man, as she initially seemed to ask, but how. All I can say after picking up odds and ends of this conversation are that cute feet cannot sustain a relationship. (Don’t ask.) Her keenest recognition of her own circumstance was this: That love shit doesn’t last. It wears off.


I love teenagers. I am intrigued by their points of view, the urgency in which they feel they must romantically love someone, and the infinite trouble they suffer as a result. No matter how progressive we think we are in the 21st century, these liaisons are the training ground for marriage, and there is so much I wish I could tell both my husband’s daughters about this. Out of respect for them and their birth parents, I draw the line at interfering unless directly asked for advice.

Last year I was dining at the home of a good friend. Around the table were ladies ranging in age from teenage to maybe fifty-something. One of the young women asked what warning flags she should recognize in her current relationship. This question in itself suggested imminent disaster. We entertained ourselves immeasurably with this conversation and accrued a list that began with obvious deal-breakers, such as someone else’s lipstick in his truck. Between bouts of laughter and the pouring of wine, the most notable points made included considerations that are easy to overlook. As a young person I would have disregarded these completely. In fact, I know I did.

1. Have you met his friends? What kind of people are they? Does he ever hide his friends from you?

2. Take a good, long look at his father. You’ll end up marrying that. And there is hardly ever an exception to this rule.

3. In particular, how does he talk to his mother and father? Those are our first authority figures. How he speaks to them, he will speak to you (if not now, then someday). And there is never, never, never an exception to this.

I think women tend to make excuses. We want “the love shit” to last, and often enable misbehavior. I have made this mistake before. I won’t make it again. We tend to think that conduct is a temporal flux of sorts. We tell ourselves that what we are seeing will stop when he grows up, changes, settles down, finds a job, the ex goes away… whatever. We make a lot of excuses about how he treats others (or ourselves) saying that he was under stress or the treatment was deserved in some way. We might assume certain of their responsibilities to avoid conflict or embarrassment. Lo and behold, a cycle is born.

What you see is what you get. And if you see others suffer at the hands of your mate while you seem to skate fairly peacefully at a distance, be wary. This peace is short-lived. My step-daughter is right—the aura of your love does wear off, and you may find yourself, as I once did, trying to understand how you became the person who accepts being told you are “less”.

The human brain does not fully mature until the age of 25. I have often pondered this and thought marriage should be discouraged prior to this point, but who am I to say? My husband’s daughter recently described someone as being the cookies to her milk. The sweetness of this statement should not overwhelm the profoundness of the realization. This young lady already sees love, knows it, feels it, gets it. And I get it, too. After all, her father is indeed a heaping plate of warm cookies to my milk. He brings to my life sweetness, innocence, goodness, and comfort.

This kid’s going to be all right. She is tougher than I ever was and I cannot see her accepting sarcasm or disrespect from anyone. She has other demons, though, that she has yet to discover about herself. I look forward to a conversation with her years from now when she has a handful of wriggling toddler, a mortgage, and she has just coached her future spouse through a job loss or death of a parent. I want to know what she really finds underneath what wears away, and how she feels about the love of her life seeing her in her own moments of vulnerability. I hope the cookies and milk will still be there.