In Traffic

When I was a kid, I read parts of the newspaper every day, but it wasn't the headlines. It was the comics, Dear Abby, and Dave Barry. (I'm still miffed that Dave Barry no longer writes regular columns.) As an adult, I also read the news, but I still love the comics. I sometimes read advice columns; I might agree with the advice, not agree, or have no basis for an opinion (like the advice columns in my husband's handyman magazines; I don't know how to wire your new whatever).

I have rarely thought that an advice columnist was farther off the mark than when they answered a query from someone who wrote in to say, "I hate it when cars drive right next to me. I feel compelled to either speed up or slow down. Is this normal?"

Let me just digress for a moment here to say, I am baffled by the sheer number of people who apparently worry about whether or not they are "normal." I only tend to worry about it in, say, terms of post-op recovery, so I know when I need to seek out the doctor - "Your body will do this or that, but don't worry, it's normal."

I'm more like my son. His sister frequently asks, "Is it weird that I like (x)?" He has no patience for this, and is likely to snap, "Who cares? So you like it. It doesn't matter if that's weird." While I think he should be less snappish about it, that's how I feel. Like it or don't. There is no reason to spend a single second wondering if you're "normal." I think this behavior is a result of people deciding that normal = desirable, which it does not.

But anyway - back to the advice.

I was positive that I knew what the columnist would say. I, too, hate having cars next to me, or too close in front or behind. I think the reasons for this are obvious, and rooted in safety. A car near you, especially at freeway speeds, has the potential to harm you. If the other driver so much as sneezes, or looks at their phone, or gets aggressive in passing, you can be seriously harmed or killed. Cars are deadly weapons. I know nothing about most drivers that I'll encounter, but I'm asked to trust them literally with my life, and the lives of my family. I am most comfortable when they are far from me, not so close that I could touch them. So yes, I hate it when they want to drive right next to me. I, too, will speed up or slow down in order to shake them off.

This is not what the columnist said. She blathered on for several paragraphs about perceived intimacy. People like to think that they are anonymous in their cars, she said, so having someone close enough to see you feels like forced intimacy, so it makes us emotionally uncomfortable.

What? On what planet? They have thousands of pounds of metal right next to me, and I don't know if they're careful! I don't care if they can make eye contact! I'm worried about automobile contact!

But no; the columnist wanted to carry on about intimacy issues. I found myself mentally addressing her - "Honey, I'm not dating them! I'm trying to stay alive at 75 MPH!"

Maybe you have intimacy issues. I don't care, as long as you stay in your lane.

I should probably never write an advice column (I'd end up saying, "Who cares if you're normal?" and people would sue); but I'm sure that I'm right about this.

Instructions

I've started giving my children instructions that they probably find odd. It's just that, after watching a grandmother with Alzheimer's, losing my parents, and watching my siblings weather a heart attack, bypass surgery and a pacemaker, I've become aware that there are things that your family may need to know, but you might not have thought to tell them.

For instance, I informed my children that "Circle of Life" and "The Rainbow Connection" need to be played at my funeral. "I don't care who might tell you that it's inappropriate," I told them. "I don't care if it's recorded, or if you sing it live, if it's the prelude music, or how you do it. " They just need to be played.

I started thinking, though, about what people would need to know if I was incapacitated. If I were to become senile, especially if I was nonverbal, the irony is that those most capable of coping with me would all have passed away. I'm guessing that I'd need roughly the same things I needed as a child, but no one who remembered my childhood would be available.

I mean, the legal stuff will be spelled out in legal papers, I'm sure. But what about all the other stuff, the nitty gritty of calming me down and getting me to bed and all that sort of thing?

So, I've started giving my kids pointers.

"I know, Mom. Get you a VW van." This is true. If I'm suffering from any kind of dementia, drive me around in a VW van. It doesn't matter where we go. As long as it sounds and smells like a Volkswagen, I'll be happy. Bonus points if the van is yellow and white. (And hey, if I'm still perfectly capable, it still won't hurt to get me a van.)

So, here's some more of my best advice. I'm being very serious here - no attempt to play it for laughs. This is seriously what will  help, if I'm incapacitated and you can't ask me.

If you ever get complaints from the nursing home staff that I'm wandering outside at night, it's because I want to sleep outside. They'll balk, but try to convince them to let me sleep outside, at least for a few hours, if the weather is good. Volunteer to stay with me, if you have to.

I've had long hair for my entire life, so this request might seem odd. If I need assistance with basic tasks - eating, getting dressed - I'm telling you, cut the hair. All of it. Cut it to about 2 inches long, all over my head. TRUST ME.

I have never liked having my hair brushed or styled. Never. I was a feral small child, resisting any attempt to brush or comb my hair. It seriously went a week or more without brushing. Even now, I brush it once a day, and that's it. Even as a teen, I hated letting others style my hair. I deeply dislike elaborate styles, or letting someone handle my hair. I just know that some sweet, well meaning nurse or granddaughter would sit and brush my hair, thinking I'd like it, and I'd do something hideously inappropriate, like bite her. It's not about whether or not they're gentle; I hate it anyway.

Plus, I cannot stand hair on my neck when I sleep. I sleep with my hair in a ridiculous whale spout ponytail, so it will be off my neck in my sleep. If I'm not capable of doing this myself, it will not go well for anyone.

If I'm ever bedridden, or needing help with ordinary tasks, CUT THE HAIR ALL OFF. I realize that this will be deeply unflattering. With my thinning hair and round face, I'll probably look like a victim of radiation poisoning. I do not care. If you are afraid that I will frighten my descendants, put a hat or a scarf on me before I have visitors or get photos taken.

TAKE ME OUTSIDE AT LEAST ONCE A DAY. I cannot overstate this. Even if I'm wheelchair bound, and the most exotic place available is a tiny courtyard with a single tree and some potted plants, take me there. I need to feel fresh air. I need to watch insects and birds. If there's somewhere with any kind of water, take me there. I may just sit and stare at it, but trust me, that will make me happy. If I've regressed to my childhood self, I may want to throw endless rocks in the water, just to hear the splash. Fountains are OK; streams, even tiny ones, are better, as are lakes and ponds and rivers. Anywhere that smells of sagebrush or pine is good, as well.

Manicures and pedicures are not my thing. I'll barely let you trim my nails. Don't waste your time trying to do anything else to them.

I need reading material. Electronic reading is OK, but I do better with paper. Make sure that I have actual, physical books and magazines. I will reread old ones for a long time, but I will get unruly without reading material. If it's gotten to the point that I can't read, magazines with big, glossy photos of animals and beautiful places - think National Geographic - will be invaluable.

I may want an animal to take care of; I may even forget that I'm allergic to fur, or insist that I don't care. Do us all a favor and get me stuffed animals, and talk to me about "taking care" of my animals. Trust me.

Art supplies are a must. Simple crafts will keep me happy for hours. Taking me out to gather pinecones, moss, branches and rocks to use in crafts will make me equally happy.

Even if I have lost the ability to write, give me paper and pens.

If I can handle it even a little, give me a camera.

Don't expect me to have long phone conversations. It doesn't mean that I don't love the callers, because I do.

Play Ed Ames music. Often.

Let me watch vintage Disney anything as often as feasible.

Both of my parents were healthy, happy and in their own home, unassisted, until the days they died unexpectedly. I hope that's some sort of family karma that I can cash in, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared for the alternative.

Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother

From my Facebook page:

Someone asked people to post good parental advice on their page. Here's stuff I learned from my Mom. What's your good advice?

You don't need validation from others to be sure that you're doing the right thing.

You can be the smartest person in the room without being a gloating arrogant a** about it, or even pointing it out.

Always give a kid a ride.

Love your kids' friends.

Trust your kids if they've earned it; watch them like a hawk if they haven't.

Be good at what you do because it's the right thing to do and will make you feel good, but don't expect others to notice or appreciate it.

Go outside as much as you can.

Read.

Eat it or wear it. (The family joke ;D)

(I'm the little bald one.)

For Mother's Day, I shared wisdom from my mom. For Father's Day, here's some of what I learned from my dad.

1. Line up the sights before you pull the trigger: This was very literal advice, as my dad was a shooting coach, and I was competent with a gun while my age was still in single digits. It's great metaphorical advice, too. I sometimes want to jump into things without lining things up, and I know that it won't work as well.

2. Fishing wisdom: I can look at a stream or lake and tell you where the fish will be. I can catch them in a tiny trickle of a stream or a deep mountain lake. I know how to rest the line on a sensitive fingertip in order to feel nibbles. I can set the hook. I have homemade bait recipes, I can clean and cook fish, I can cast, I can keep a reel from tangling. I can feed myself, as long as there's water nearby.

Fishing was what my dad and I did together, without the rest of the family. One of his favorite stories from my childhood was "the time Ainsley put you out of the boat." He'd tell it and roar with laughter, no matter how many times he'd already told it. Ainsley was one of Dad's - our - fishing buddies. One day on Frenchmen's, I announced that I had a bite before either man had one. "No, you don't. They're not biting today. You're feeling the bait bump the bottom," Ainsley said. Moments later, I pulled in a nice sized trout.

This continued - "I have a bite!" "No, you don't!" followed by reeling in a fish - until I had caught my limit. Neither man in the boat had gotten a single bite yet. Competitive Ainsley was so miffed that he found a tiny island to leave me on until HE'D caught his limit. I watched the boat go back and forth, back and forth - it was Ainsley's boat, and he wasn't letting me back in until we were even.

Dad loved that story.

3. You don't have to be a parent to parent a child: he helped raise his niece while he was a single man. She called him Unc instead of the more cumbersome Uncle Everett. "He needed a three letter nickname, just like Dad," she explained. He held the same place in her life as her own father - which also taught me that kids can have more than two "real" parents.

4. Do your job to the best of your ability, even if others stop short: The thing my dad did that made me proudest happened before I was born. He worked for the Sparks Fire Department. A fire broke out at the jail - an old style jail, with caged cells and a big iron loop of big, iron keys to open the locks. The fire was so fierce that most responders refused to enter the building, saying that the prisoners had to have already succumbed to smoke, and to risk any men would be foolhardy. Only two people, my dad and one police officer, were willing to venture into the burning jail to let the prisoners out. Those two saved every one of the prisoners.

There were articles in the paper, commendations, awards from service clubs. Dad shrugged them all off. "I was just doing my job. I wasn't going to let men burn to death in cages."

I now own his uniform cap and the awards that hung above the desk during my childhood. None of my kids remember my dad - two never met him, the others were infants when he died - but they know this story.