Sleeping Under The Stars

When I was a kid, houses just didn't have cooling of any kind. Even "rich" families had no more than shutters and fans to combat summer heat.

Our house stayed cooler than many others. Its largest walls faced east/west, and there were large shade trees to the south, so it often felt cool even in the middle of summer. That was in the daytime, though; at night, it was often hot and stuffy.

I can't stand the sensation of wind on my body, or "white noise," so fans were never the solution. An open window just seemed to funnel every traffic noise straight into my head. I absolutely must have covers, at least from the knee down, and preferably from the waist down, even when I'm broiling. Summer nights, it goes without saying, could be miserable, especially when you shared a room and a double bed with a sibling.

I was probably about 11 or 12 when I first asked my mom if I could please, for the love of all that's holy, just sleep outside. It was misery inducing to be playing outdoors in the dark - and I was always outdoors as a kid - and then walk into our comparative oven of a house and be expected to sleep. My sister loved everything that I hated - an open window, a fan and no covers - so sharing a bed made us both, um, grouchy.

We lived on a fairly busy street, but since my parents had purchased the property when it was "way out in the sticks," on a dirt road, they had an acre and a third. We had a huge fenced back yard, and it was impossible to see even the next door neighbors.

I've always been a very solitary being, so the thought of being alone did not disturb me in the slightest. I would have been deeply disconcerted to be within view of the neighbors or passersby on either street (we lived on a corner lot). I felt perfectly safe in the yard. Plus, there were two dogs in the long, narrow kennel that separated the back yard from the horse pasture, and they'd sound the alarm if there were any intruders. I was a tiny bit nervous about the fact that the back door had to be left unlocked, so I could go in and use the bathroom, but the risk seemed small.

We took vacations every year, week long excursions to mountains, lakes, deserts and rivers. Until I was 16, I had only spent two nights in motel rooms; we camped everywhere we went. Even when we weren't camping, we'd be someplace like my cousin's cabin at Mount Shasta, so cots and sleeping bags were familiar. The chaise in the back yard was more comfortable and more padded than sleeping on the ground, which was the vacation norm. I have never been a prissy girl, afraid of bugs and bats or the dark.

The first night was a relief beyond description. It was cool, quiet, private and blissful. "Can I do that every night?" I wanted to know the next morning.

I loved those nights lying on the chaise, looking up at the sky. Staring up into the night sky has never made me feel small and insignificant; it makes me feel connected to everything and everyone. I loved the sound of the crickets, and the occasional songs of frogs. It was just blissful.

I would lie awake and think, and think, and ponder. It was beautiful.

I started spending every summer night in the back yard. It was always a little disappointing when it got too cold to sleep outside, some time around the beginning of the school year.

By the time I was about 14, I could accurately tell you the time any time between about 9:00 p.m. and midnight just by looking up. I had spent so many hours watching the stars crawl across the sky that I knew that if they were in this position, it was about 9:45; if they were here, it was about 11.

Once when I was in high school, a group of us had just left the movies, and someone wanted to know what time it was. I looked up and said, "It's about 10:30." I was instantly subject to all kinds of teasing. "What was that?" "What are you doing?" "How can you tell?" "Do you think you're Magellan or something?"

"No. I just know. See, those stars over there..."

"AH HA HA HA HA!" My peers were unimpressed and unconvinced.

Someone looked at their watch and said, "You're wrong! It's 10:40!"

"First of all, I said, 'about.' And we've been standing here arguing for almost five minutes."

"You just estimated based on what time the movie started."

Well, smartypants, then figure out what time it is on your own. See if I trot out my parlor tricks.

Sometimes, I really miss those nights of lying outside, looking at the stars. My home now is a two story house between other two story houses - I can't do anything in my yard without someone watching. Not that they'd be interested in watching me sleep; I just can't be comfortable in view of so many windows.

When it's dark and cool, and the crickets are chirping, everything in my body relaxes. I'd love a chaise, or a hammock, or better yet, a big comfy bed, out under the stars.

It's starting to get uncomfortably warm at night. Last night it was hot and stuffy, and I missed my days on the back yard chaise.

If I'm ever in a nursing home some day, and they complain that I wander off at night, just tell them to let me sleep on the patio. Trust me - we'll all be happier that way.

Procreation

I wrote this over a decade ago. I felt sure that I'd shared it on the blog already, but I can't find it. One of my friends (young, pretty, pregnant with Baby #5) shared an article about how many expectant and young mothers didn't feel that society supported them. "I'm with you, sister!" was my reaction, even though I'm so old now that my daughters are the age I was when I had children in grade school. "Young" is far behind me.

Takeaway lesson, folks: there really is such a thing as "none of your business." Please don't ever be the busybody in the canned goods aisle.

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Two times in my life I have been totally unprepared for everyone around me to have such strong feelings about my life, and to express those feelings so frequently and strongly. The first was when I was getting married. I could never have imagined that others would be so emotionally invested in the color of my bridesmaids' dresses or what flowers I carried. People I barely knew would be vehement about what I should and shouldn't do. People who had planned their wedding with more attention to detail than went into the moon landing were apparently not burnt out by it, because now they wanted to do the same to mine. This came as a complete shock.

The second time came close on its heels – the birth of my children; especially the older two, since they were born during the first two years we were married. I had been somewhat prepared for our families and close friends to have strong opinions, but even then I was unprepared for those opinions to be foisted upon us with such zeal. And I was completely unprepared for total strangers to feel so invested in my choices. If someone had tried to warn me, I would not have believed them.

The first time a total stranger walked up to me and my pregnant tummy in the grocery store and demanded to know, "How old are you?" I thought they were an anomaly. I also thought, silly me, that when they found out that I was an adult and married, they'd feel rather silly and maybe even apologize. Nope.

"How old are you?" was inevitably followed by, "You're too young to be having babies!" Even now, years later, I cannot fathom what these women – it was usually women – thought these pronouncements would do. I was quite obviously past the stage for abortion to be an option, even if I agreed with abortion and even if such a discussion should be brokered by total strangers in the canned goods aisle. Did they want me to suddenly realize that I didn't want the baby or babies and give them up? Were they hoping I would resent the child for taking my youth? What result, exactly, did they hope this conversation would produce?

My sister in law tried to make sense of it by explaining, "When I see someone doing something that I think is wrong, I feel it's my job to educate them." Aside from the fact that I find that stance to be extremely presumptuous, how was I supposed to feel "educated?" I was the age I was, and the baby was clearly coming. I couldn't make myself older or make the baby disappear. If the conversation would ever have been appropriate, it would have been before I got pregnant. I'm also still and forever convinced that it is simply not the job of total strangers to start those kinds of conversations, before, during or after a pregnancy.

              A girlfriend of mine said, "It's not as if you're on welfare." Even if I was, why would that involve people I'd never met before and would never see again in my personal decisions? They weren't social workers handing me information about classes, they were busybodies who should have left me alone to buy my food in peace. Would being on welfare mean that everyone else was entitled to walk up to me and make pronouncements?

It became harder and harder to greet supposed humor with any kind of civility. Every time someone said, "Have you figured out what causes that yet?" they acted as though it was both wildly witty and original. It was neither. I was delighted by the response my husband gave when a coworker said it to him after we'd had our second daughter – "Yeah, but is that any reason to stop doing it?" I swore that would be my standard answer from then on.

I did start saying, with a smile, "Apparently not," when I was told I was too young for childbearing. It often caught people off guard, which was a bonus.

I could not believe how many strangers asked me about birth control, or offered birth control advice. I got the distinct impression that they thought I was somehow unaware of contraceptives and their use. It's just unacceptable to expect a complete stranger to discuss such things with you, unless you're a health care professional and they are your patient. It's also unreasonable to imagine that because someone is pregnant they are ignorant.

It's just as unreasonable to assume that someone having a baby hasn't thought it through. Even if that were true, that's another conversation that should only take place with those you are close to, and before a woman is pregnant. Once the baby's on the way, it's "ready or not, here I come." Yet people wanted to engage me in those conversations – or rather, deliver those lectures - while I was picking up laundry detergent, assuming that they were somehow enlightening me. It was maddening. "Do you realize what it costs to raise a child?" people would ask. Of course I did. I also knew I didn't need the total sum in cash in order to take the baby home from the hospital.

The woman who took the cake was the one who marched up to me as I was putting my oldest in a shopping cart. I had a huge, protruding tummy; I was about seven months along, which would have made my older daughter ten months old. This woman planted herself right in front of my cart, so I had to stop to avoid hitting her. She looked pointedly from my baby to my tummy and back again, and finally up at my face. "Well, at least you're done now!" she said, none too kindly. I was flabbergasted. At that moment I found myself speechless. Later, when people would say such rude things to me, I would say, with my best sugary smile and voice, "Actually, we're planning on more." It was absolutely none of their business, but I enjoyed returning the favor and making them uncomfortable. And, it was true.

We had to wait seven years for the birth of our next child. It was not our choice to wait; it was just a biological hiccup. I hoped that, since I was approaching thirty and therefore too old for the "you're too young" speech, that people would leave me alone. I was wrong.

I've always been a peacemaker, and my husband has a deep dislike for confrontation, but the older I got, the less I was willing to put up with this sort of rudeness without making a reply. When I went to a family wedding with my body swollen with my third child, my cousin looked at me and said, "Oh, you're not, are you?" I brightened as though he'd just given me a compliment and said, "That's right! I am!" I kept smiling and looked expectantly at him, as though I thought he would congratulate me. I knew better; he's stubborn and a father of one. I just wanted him to squirm a bit.

When a niece and nephew came to live with us, the comments from strangers intensified. They look very much like our own children; we had little blond stair steps. The first time they lived with us, I was pregnant. The second time that baby, our third, was one year old. Most of the comments were simply snarky and rhetorical – "Well, you've got your hands full, don't you?" Sometimes they were out and out rude – "What were you thinking?"

We were in a mall in California during a vacation when a woman reeking of alcohol walked up to me. Looking at our four little blond children and my very pregnant self she demanded, "Wha' are you gonna do wi' anuzzer one?"

I looked her right in the eye and said, "Love it."

She looked puzzled, but couldn't think of anything else to say. She wandered away, and my husband came up to pat me on the back. "Good answer, honey, good answer," he said. I felt as if I was playing "Family Feud."

When I told this story at home, one response I got made me just as angry as the original comment. "Just explain to people that you're a foster parent," the listener said. "That way they'll admire you. They'll know you're part of the solution."

I know the speaker meant well, but that made me angry. "It is nobody's business whether or not I gave birth to those children!" I told her. She couldn't understand why I thought so. To her, explaining that two of them were with us temporarily was the perfect idea. It just made me angry.

When someone asked how many children I had, I said five. Whether or not I gave birth to them, adopted them, or simply babysat them for an afternoon, it was totally unacceptable for anyone outside of a very small circle to say anything at all to us about it. After all these years, I still cannot fathom why a complete stranger would feel the need to walk up to me and express disapproval. I don't walk up and douse their cigarettes, dump their alcoholic drinks or ask if their tax returns are accurate.

                I felt much better about another friend's response to the story. I was telling her why I rejected the idea of explaining that I was a foster parent. "Well, of course!" she said. "Isn't the whole point to make them feel like they belong? Why would anybody want you to single them out that way? Think of the damage that would do." Exactly.

               Another instance that made me see red happened when I was expecting our fourth child; believe it or not, it happened more than once. People would look at our family and not be able to understand why I was pregnant. "But, you already have your boy," they would say, as if having a male child was the only reason for procreation. I wanted to slap them.

When I had our second daughter, I was in the hospital for five and a half days afterward. One of the night nurses was never outright rude, but it was obvious that she was a bit dismayed by attending to a 21 year old mother of two. One night, she began to tell me that it was wrong to have more children. She recited a litany of ills plaguing the Earth. Then she explained why she and her husband were childless. "The world is such a terrible place. We feel that it would it be wrong to bring any more children into it."

I smiled sweetly at her and said, "Really? My husband and I think that our children may be the ones to fix some of those problems."

Taking on the Phone Cops

"I cannot understand," I said to the poor, hapless young woman on the phone, "why it takes an act of Congress to shut off my mother's phone."

My mother died five months ago. Her oldest two children live hundreds of miles away, and her third has health issues including heart problems and a pacemaker. Thus, she chose her youngest, me, to be the trustee of her estate, since it was most likely that I would be alive, well and available when she passed away. (As a bonus, I only live two blocks away from her home.)

My Grandmother Henriette, my mother's mother, had Alzheimer's. After having to deal with all the legalities and mess of having the court declare her mother unable to manage her own affairs, and then appoint someone to do so, my mom made her choices about how she would handle putting her own affairs in order. She put my name on her bank account after my dad died and long before she worried that she might be going senile. She sold herself everything she owned and held it all in trust, and appointed me the successor trustee. As these things go, it has been as smooth and painless as it could be, with everything already set up the way she wanted it. I've had to make very few decisions.

Most of her accounts closed with just a notification from me. Some, including her utilities, transferred easily to her granddaughter, the current caretaker of her home. The phone, though, has been an ongoing headache.

I mean, how tough should it be? I wrote a form letter: "Mrs. Smith has passed away. Please close all accounts in her name." I paid all her bills as they came in, and sent the letter out with each one. Pretty simple, right?

Some of the businesses wanted to know, "Would you like this account transferred to your name?" A polite offer, to be sure, and useful for things like her electric bill. But, I am old school and I can't quite wrap my head around having three phones for the four people who live in my house; I do not need another phone, especially if it's a landline at a residence that I do not occupy.

Besides, we heard nothing from the phone company; we just got another bill a month later. A record keeping screwup, I thought. We called the automated phone number and left a voicemail telling them to close the account. When did it become impossible to talk to a human operator, anyway?

The next month, we got a nasty notice with the bill. So, we called the number, AGAIN, and left a message AGAIN, plus we went online, as the bill urged us to do, even giving us the web address. Once you get into the site, though, it informs you that you cannot disconnect a phone online. Excuse me? YOU referred me here!

By the third month, we were repeating all the steps again, my husband, myself, and my daughter, in case the call had to come from the number in question. Calling the number printed ON THE BILL for Customer Service took you to an automated system that hung up on me after I'd been on hold for too long, and informed my husband in a prerecorded voice when he called from his cell phone that "it is not possible to disconnect a line over the phone." What?

By the fourth month, the notices in the bill were getting increasingly hostile, and so were we.

Were they not checking ANY of the systems that THEY put in place? Did no one actually work at the phone company? Were they noticing that the only calls made on that line, for literally months, were to their own system? I mean, they're supposed to know things, right? There's supposed to be some level of monitoring, right?

By now, we're all pretty ticked off. My husband kept saying, "We have to actually go into the office," but the thing is, there is no local office of AT&T. So, one day, I went to an AT&T store. At least there, there would be humans.

We walked in, my husband and I, and the employee chirped, "May I help you?" I surely hoped so, I told him, and explained the problem. "Oh. We can't do that. We don't have access."

*&^%($#!@+&!!!!!!

"We can call, though."

"Is it a different number? Because, believe me, we've already called."

Yes, he assured me, he could get a human on the phone. So, I went with him to the phone, waited while he went through elaborate steps that all but took a DNA sample, and he handed me a phone playing the melodious muzak of "hold." Soon, a human actually picked up.

"With whom am I speaking?" she trilled. I know they're trained - in fact, required - to ask this first, but it would be so nice, and timesaving, if they let me tell them what I need. Instead, I gave her my name.

"Thank you. And what is the telephone number?" Sigh. I gave it to her. Tiny pause, then an irritated voice: "I don't show you as the account holder."

"No. It's my mother's phone."

Irritated voice again. "I'm sorry, I can't - "

Enough. I need to stop you from being helpful so I can tell you why I've called. "She's been dead for months. I've been trying to turn her phone off since then. Her name is..." and I provided the name that should now be on her screen.

"I don't show your mother as the account holder, either."

Oh, for the love of Mike! "Well, my dad's been dead for 25 years," I told her, then provided his name.

"Oh. Yeah, that's it. I guess they never got around to changing it." No, I guess "they" didn't.

Then I explained what I wanted, and the steps I'd taken to get there. "I know that this isn't your fault, and that you don't make company policy, but I'm understandably irritated by now."

"I understand. Did you go online?"

I did not say, "Did you listen?" I said, "Yes. More than once." I then repeated that we'd also phoned and sent in a letter.

"What address did you send it to?" I told her. "Oh. That's the wrong address."

"Well, if someone had let me know that, I would happily have mailed one to the correct address. Do you have that address, so I can mail another one?" She did not. "Did anyone notify me that the address was incorrect? Did they forward it to the correct department? Has anyone made any attempt to communicate with me at all?"

"I don't have that information. I can't access that."

"Can you transfer me to someone who can?" She could not.

We went around and around, me trying not to bite the girl's head off, and her becoming more flustered. I did fairly bite her head off when she said, "I can take care of the bill. We'll have to prorate it..."

"NO. There is NO money actually owing. I notified you within DAYS of her death. I PAID the final bill in full. There is NO money owing at all."

"No, ma'am, I can reverse most of these charges, but you'll still owe from the day she died until the day you first notified us." Good gravy.

"OK. Fine. That'll be maybe a week." Far be it from me to keep the company from getting ten bucks or so.

At one point she said, "I don't think you're lying to me, ma'am. It's just that I have policies I have to follow." That's the problem. Do you ever feel that you're lost in the morass of a huge conglomerate that has lost touch with reality and humanity?

Poor kid, she couldn't do what I needed. I couldn't do what I wanted. How is that even possible? It's a friggin' PHONE, not the nuclear launch codes or somebody's life support.

"With every other account, I got, 'So sorry for your loss,' and then they cancelled the account."

"We really are sorry for your loss, ma'am!" She was sounding shrill and slightly distraught.

Sorry. That ship has sailed. You do not get to be sorry for my loss unless it's one of the first things you say to me.

She tried, repeatedly, to transfer me to her manager, who was "on another line," and finally told me that he'd call me at home. Poor kid, I told her several times, "I know this is not your fault." But I am starting to contemplate drastic action, like sending in another letter, but this time sprinkling talcum powder in the envelope, so it will get noticed and sent up the chain of command. I won't do it, but oh, my gosh!

Her manager never called. They finally turned off the phone, but the nasty note with the bill tells me that it was "suspended for non-payment."

AT&T, here's a Handy Business Tip: you may not want to threaten for months on end before you finally take action. Don't be hysterical and cut it off if payment is a day (or even a month) late, but we're headed into month six. You lose some credibility when people can mooch for months.

Assuming that they want to mooch. Assuming that they haven't tried to sever the relationship repeatedly over those months. You are the equivalent of a stalker ex, AT&T. Know when to let go!

Lennon Had It Wrong

I recently read an article in the local paper about underage prostitution. Local law enforcement said that, when they apprehend an underage girl engaging in prostitution, their first priority is to separate the girl and her pimp for as long as possible, in order to convince the girl that the pimp doesn't really love her. Only then, the thinking goes, will she be willing to leave "the life."

I have great respect for law enforcement, social services and others who work in these areas, but it seemed to me that they were missing the point here. I realize that they have years of experience, and often education and degrees that I do not, but I would approach things differently.

First, it will be extremely difficult to convince a girl that her boyfriend or father figure doesn't love her. Ironically, the worse she has been treated, the tougher it will be. She will hang on tighter and tighter if someone tries to "take him away." The idea of not being loved is so unthinkably painful that she will avoid that conclusion at all costs, especially if she's used to being let down, disappointed, exploited or feeling unloved.

The thing is, I don't think it matters if he loves her. Sometimes, as much as these damaged men are capable, they do care about the girls. Sometimes, they do treat them better than anyone else ever has. It still doesn't matter. Whether he loves her is irrelevant.

I would tell her that, with all due respect to the songwriting genius of John Lennon, philosophically he had it all wrong. Love is not all you need. It's a nice starting point, but it's not necessary in order for someone to treat you well.

If someone is asking you to do something illegal, potentially dangerous or potentially harmful, it doesn't matter if they love you. It is wrong of them to ask you. Especially if it goes against your wishes, it is extraordinarily wrong for them to either ask again or force the issue. It does not show love on your part if you say "yes" to such a request. It shows a lack of good judgement, and probably a tragic lack of self esteem.

I wouldn't waste my time trying to convince her that her pimp doesn't love her. I'd tell her, "It's irrelevant. It doesn't matter."

I feel the same way about people who are violent or controlling or otherwise abusive toward their partners. I cannot believe it when people excuse that behavior by saying, "But I know that he loves me. He doesn't really mean it (the bad behavior)." Everyone has bad days, loses their cool, hurts your feelings. That's part of being human. Broken bones, threats of death, hospital stays and more - these things are not OK. It truly, completely does not matter who loves whom.

People say, "But he loves me," or, "But I love her," as though it means that everyone will say, "Oh, well, OK then, that changes everything." No. It is irrelevant. It may be a fact, but it's a fact like, "Water freezes at 32 degrees Fahrenheit." It has zero bearing on the situation at hand.

Just because you love someone, or they love you, does not mean that the relationship is healthy. If the relationship is unhealthy, it's bad for both of you, and both of you will benefit if it is ended. Feeling in pain because it ended or missing them does not mean that you did the wrong thing ending it or that you should have stayed. It means that you're human. If it's unhealthy, get out.

Some people do not believe in monogamy, and those people should only be in relationships with partners who also do not believe in monogamy. If cheating or multiple partners are a problem for one partner, then the relationship is unhealthy if the other partner insists on going outside the marriage for intimacy (whether or not the other partner knows about it). It does not matter if you love each other.

This is another situation in which, "But I love you," or, "But he loves me," are deeply irrelevant. I cannot imagine what people are thinking when they attempt to explain straying by saying to a distraught partner, "But I love you," or, "But I don't love him/her." You might as well say, "I had my teeth cleaned on Tuesday." It's a fact, but an irrelevant one. "He loves me, he's a good father and provider, and he comes home every night," also falls into this category. Bully for him. That doesn't mean that he can do no wrong.

Never let someone tell you that if you love them and they love you, anything goes. They are wrong.

Practice saying it - "That is irrelevant." Practice meaning it. Sometimes, love is irrelevant.