Cleaning Son's Closet A Most Revealing Job

Best Years of Your Life

             As more attention has been focused on mental health and the interweaving of our parents' lives and our own, I have become more aware of how my childhood affects my life now.

            We have been discussing My Mother--Myself and other such books at the dinner table lately and talking about what one generation does to the next.

            I didn't realize the extent to which we had gone with our conversations until one day our son said to me, "Mom, you know they say these are the best years of your life."

            "What years?" I asked.

            "Childhood," he said.

            "Childhood?" I never said that," I said. "I don't believe any time is better than any other time."

            "Well," he said, "some people do.  And I think they're right."

            "I'm glad you're happy anyway," I said.

            "But I'm not happy," he said.

            "You're not?" I asked.

            "No," he said. "You see, I've always wanted to build a tree house."

            "I know," I said. "Maybe someday we'll get some lumber and do that."

            "That's just it, Mom," he said. "That's what you always say -- maybe someday."

            "Well, lumber is expensive," I said.

            "But, Mom, building a tree house is my childhood dream and I've been thinking -- if I don't build a tree house now, I'll probably regret it all the rest of my life."

            I don't think Mike learned anything about his responsibility to the next generation during those discussions, but he sure learned something about psychology.

            Mike's tree house, built of used lumber that my husband got from friends, turned into a clubhouse because he couldn't get it into a tree.

            It had a secret message sender, old linoleum donated by neighbors on the floor, a flag on the top made by his grandmother, supplies of cookies and comic books in the corner and it said 'KEEP OUT' on the door.  It took six boxes of nails to build it.

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Living In A Plastic World  

            I took a cake to some bereaved friends the other day and since they weren't home, I left it on their front porch.  The cake was on a pedestal cake plate and it was covered with foil.  When our friends came home, the plate was on the porch, but the cake was gone and their yard was covered with little pieces of foil and cake crumbs, making them even sadder.

            When our kids found out, they said, "Mother, you always cover cakes with everything from plastic bowls to roasters.  Why don't you buy a cake carrier?"

            "I did once," I said.  "You kids used it as a drum and left it outside in the rain and it rusted."

            "You mean they had metal cake boxes when we were little?" asked our youngest.

            "Yes," I said.  "At one time the world was not made of plastic.  Picture frames were made out of wood, toys were made of iron and milk came in glass bottles which clanked when the milkman came."

            "She's getting nostalgic," said our oldest.  "Mother, please just get a cake box."

            "I can't afford it," I said.  "Have you seen how much one of those costs in that book of plastic kitchen stuff?"

            Our middle child said, "Mother, you have a whole cabinet shelf devoted to 'that stuff' -- individual hamburger stackers, Popsicle molds, celery crispers which won't fit in the refrigerator, lids which don't fit any of our bowls and lettuce keepers which have never seen a head of lettuce.  You could have bought three cake holders with the money you've spent on Purposeful Plastic."

            "When you get older, you will understand the economics of it better," I said.  "It is not what the item is used for that's important.  It's what you can afford to pay per plastic party."

            "Well, you must've been to a lot of parties."

            "That shelf," I said, pointing, "represents 17 years of plastic parties.  Actually, I think I've done rather well."  And then my eye caught sight of a bowl I hadn't seen since we moved.  "Gosh," I said, "I think that might fit perfectly over a fourth of a cake."

            The kids sighed, went into the living room and started laughing.  They made up some parody about leaving the cake carrier out in the rain and it took so long to make it and they'd never have the recipe again, and then they said," Well, she did take care of us when we were young."

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Troops Still Are Here  

            The kids walked through the living room as I was making a poster and they stopped to read it.

            "What are you DOING?" they asked.

            "Making a protest poster," I said.

            "A protest poster?"

            "You know -- the kind you walk around with when you're against something," I said.

            "Who's going to carry it?" they asked.

            "I am," I said.  "Who did you think?"

            "Mother, YOU can't carry a poster and march anywhere.  Somebody might see you," they said.

            "Of course somebody might see me.  That's the whole purpose of the protest.  That's the way to get action."

            "Mother, you will make a fool of yourself out there," said one of my daughters.  "Mothers aren't supposed to protest."

            "If mothers hadn't protested, you wouldn't be allowed to vote today," I said.

            "I'm not allowed to vote today anyway," she said.  "I'm only 14."

            "Well, get a magic marker and start walking," I said.

            "Oh, Mother," she said, "I just think you might feel funny in your high heels and wrap-around skirt among the faded jeans and bare feet."

            "Are you saying I'm too old to protest?" I asked.

            "Well, Mother, you have to admit that you might look out of place."

            "If older people were out protesting, maybe they wouldn't be living in poverty in nursing homes," I said.  "Besides, Jane Fonda is older than I am and no one says she's too old to protest."

            "She's a movie star, Mother.  You're a mother.  But if it's that important to you, WE'LL carry your poster."

            "Get your hands off that sign," I said.  "I cut my wisdom teeth carrying posters.  You wouldn't know a decent protest if you saw one.  Peter, Paul and Mary are protesting again and if they can do it, so can I!"

            When my husband came in I was marching around with my sign on a broom handle and The Unsinkable Molly Brown and I were singing, "I Ain't Down Yet." The kids were whispering to him, but I kept on singing...

            "I am important to me

            Ain't no bottom to no pile

            I mean much more to me than I mean to anybody I ever knew..

            Doesn't make a bit of difference for you to keep sayin' I'm             down

            'Til I say so, too...

            Oh, I hate that word down...Love that word up

            Up means hope and that's just what I got…Hope"            

            "What's she protesting?" my husband asked the kids.

            "She's got a whole list," they said.  "She's starting with trying to get laws passed that one half of all stamps must have women’s faces on them.”

            "Wow, she picked a tough one to start on, but don't worry, she'll burn out again in a few years -- especially if nothing ever changes."

            And I kept on singing..."I may give out, but I'll never give in.."

            And Mary, of Peter, Paul and Mary, in answer to your question last year of "Where are the troops?", we're here -- a little wrinkled, a little less suntanned, but we're here.

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The Poor, Poor Rich  

            As I was leafing through an architectural magazine designed for the very rich, it became apparent to me what a terrible burden it must be to have a lot of money.

            It must be an overwhelming undertaking just to have to think of different ways to design each of one's houses and yachts in the latest "good taste."

            For instance, in one of the advertisements in the magazine, there was, on the top of a piece of furniture in the shape of a metal tablecloth, a bowl of bones for decoration.

            Now I, in my wildest imagination, would never think of displaying for all to see, a bowl of bones -- unless, of course, I were an archaeologist and then I would probably do something like label them "Elephant tibia, 63 BC," in very poor taste, I'm sure.

            I wouldn't even know what kind of bones to display.  I'm certain some bones would be off-limits.  Perhaps the only bones worth showing off are those found on safari trips in other counties.  Maybe native bones would be considered too easy to get.  At any rate, the whole bowl of bones could get to be quite a bag of worms for me.

            Besides finding the right articles of virtu (if I were rich), I would have a problem with my luggage if I wanted to get away from it all.  The cars advertised in the magazine offered a set of luggage that matched the interior of the car.

            Heretofore, I would imagine, if you were rich, no one would care what your luggage looked like -- much less whether it matched your car.  But now I guess some rich persons tend to look down their noses at people with money who can obviously afford to match and don't.

            And then, if you do manage to have the right property, the right architect, the right designer, the right articles of virtu and the right luggage, there is the matter of keeping track of what you own.

            One of the ladies interviewed in the magazine was in the process of photographing everything she owned -- from shoes to antiques -- and having the photographs bound in volumes for all to see -- so no one would miss anything I suppose.  What a task!

            One can understand why many persons who suddenly receive a lot of money have problems coping.  Maybe if one is born with the silver spoon in his mouth, it's easier to distinguish the brand of sterling.

            But even then, often the family name must be protected.  And as Thomas Overbury said, "The man who has not anything to boast of but his illustrious ancestors is like a potato -- the only good belonging to him is underground."

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It's What's Underneath That Is So Important  

            While I was on vacation last week in North Carolina, I went to the grocery store to buy a few things.  Within the space of 30 minutes I had:

            --Almost hit another car pulling into the parking lot,

            --Said "I'm sorry."

            --Picked up an orange and the whole pyramid of oranges had come down.

            --Said "I'm sorry."

            --Gotten into the express lane by mistake and had to move around two baskets to get out.

            --Said "I'm sorry."

            I found myself, while waiting in the correct grocery line, staring into the magazine stand.  "Charlie's Angels" were, as usual, on about half the magazine covers.  The Angels, with their young, thin bodies and perfect teeth, would never commit such blunders in a grocery store, so I tried to find a magazine cover with which I could identify.

            If variety is the spice of life, much of the media must be concerned only with bread and butter.  I searched and searched for a magazine which didn't have us all coming out of a factory with every girl over 11 wearing lip gloss, every rock star smoking marijuana and people living dangerously and "free," hopping from one adventure to the next.

            I finally had to settle for a flower-arrangement cover, hoping that inside I wouldn't find out what Wonder Woman did to her hair every day.  I took it to the house and read it.  I found out more about how to look young and thin and be free and what TV stars eat for breakfast.

            Then I got mad.  I said to my brother, "This is the Fourth of July.  The very foundation of Democracy insists that all men are created equal and that means that neither money nor power nor having one's own TV series makes a person more important than any other person!"

            Then my brother told me about a man who lives in that little town who knows the scientific names of hundreds of plants native to that area.

            The old man can't see very well, and when asked why he doesn't wear glasses, he will tell you that his eyes are different and the glasses they sell at the dime store have both lenses the same.

            "If they'd let me chop a pair in two, I'd buy 'em," he said.

            When my brother asked the old man his age, he replied, "If I make it 'til August 21, I'll be 97."

            "Why wouldn't you make it?" asked my brother.

            "Well, you never know," said the old man. "You see, I use tobacco."

            That's the person I want on my magazine cover.  That old man has a tremendous interest in his immediate surroundings, he doesn't mind not seeing enough to pay more than the dime store price for his glasses, and he accepts responsibility for his destiny -- tobacco and all.

            I'll bet he's even knocked over oranges in a grocery store and gotten into the wrong line.

            The media has been the victim of its own advertising gimmicks.  They've sold so much make-up they've forgotten that what we all really care about is underneath.

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Trying to Defend the Defenseless  

            As I explained once before, one time when I was going to write a letter to the editor of a large newspaper defending my husband or teachers or someone I felt needed me (but didn't), my husband asked me to, please, not use my real name.

            As I lay in bed pondering, I finally shrieked, "I know! I'll be the Scarlet Pumpernickel!"

            When my husband caught his breath, he said he thought I meant the Scarlet Pimpernel, but that the Scarlet Pumpernickel WOULD be more appropriate for me.

            Since then I have defended just about everyone I could find, much to the chagrin of some of the defendants.  As most government leaders would testify, I'm sure, it has always seemed much easier to point out problems than to find solutions, just as it is much easier to humiliate people than to make them feel good about themselves. 

            So I have appointed myself defense counsel for the defenseless, champion of the humiliated.  But a couple of weeks ago a friend sent me a clipping that reminded me of my lowly heritage and caused me to ponder anew my mission.

            It said that Pumpernickel owes its name to Napoleon's horse.  Napoleon conferred the name when he was offered some bread and he cursed and pronounced it fit only for his nag, Nicole, or in French - "pain pour Nicole."

            Well, I still say that if the Scarlet Pimpernel, the gallant adventurer who rescued condemned French aristocrats from beneath the knife of the guillotine, had really lived, he and I would have had more in common than our French heritage.

            We could've made quite a team -- the Scarlet Pimpernel and the Scarlet Pumpernickel.

            He could've rescued the aristocrats and I could've told the victims they were worth saving whether he got around to them or not.  I might've even offered to feed their horses if he didn't get there in time.

            Wow! If we just had the Man of La Mancha we could probably have fought windmills all over the place.

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Mental Health Guideposts Set  

            In this period of national malaise, I believe there are little guideposts by which one can measure one's own state of mental health.  In my opinion, you are going to make it if:  

            --The interest on your monthly gasoline bill is equal to the interest on your house payment and you still drive 80 miles to hear a free concert.  

            --Your boss says that, because of inflation, he has to raise the price of your coffee but he hasn't raised your salary in two years and you tell him he will have to make the coffee from now on.  

            --Your teenager tells you that what you are wearing is OUT and you don't go back upstairs and change your clothes.  

            --You and your husband are at a disco with some other over-forty friends, they lean over and shout, "Did we miss the golden calf in here somewhere? We can't find it," and the four of you leave and go find a nice, quiet place to drink coffee and talk.  

            --It is 11:30 p.m., your son or daughter is out on a date and you are asleep in front of the TV set.  

            --There are unidentifiable moldy things in the refrigerator and the cat litter needs changing and the floor needs vacuuming and the dishes need washing, but you decide to read Mark Twain instead.  

            --Your husband's team needs cookies for its next practice and you say, "I don't know if he can make them or not.  You'll have to ask him."  

            --Everyone tells you what sorry shape the country is in and you decide to vote in every election anyway.  

            --You take your children to the zoo or the museum or the amusement park and you like it more than they do.  

Add your own suggestions to this list and see how much fun next week becomes.

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To Be Number One  

            I passed a school bus filled with high school athletes on the highway the other day and the rocking bus seemed to be shouting from its exhaust, "We're number ONE!  Hey! We're number ONE! Hey!" over and over again. Remembering my own high school days, I didn't think much about it.

            Later in the week, however, I had occasion to watch some kindergartners compete in children's games and was a little shaken to see tiny fists clenched skyward with the first finger extended and little voices shouting in unison, "We're number ONE!" while the losers slunk off the field as though number two were the equivalent of the lowest form of existence.

            I started thinking about my tenure as a cheerleader in college when our football team lost 23 straight games.  The opposing fans would yell things such as, "Make it 21!" etc., until one wanted to cry, but being in the position of building up the spirit of one's own fans and team, one could only yell louder, "All for the Cowboys stand up and say so!"

            Looking back, I think it was much better training for life than winning all those games would have been.

            The situation was so pathetic that sarcasm would have been cruel.  Even hardened coaches had to be sympathetic with their dejected players.  After the games about all we could do was laugh and go on and make up new cheers like, "You're okay anyway."

            Last week a friend of mine took me with her "behind the scenes" at the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History.  Looking at the hundreds of drawers filled with plants, animals and insects from all over the world, I wondered which of them was number one.  Was the elephant number one because of his size or the honeybee because of his industriousness? Was the bamboo best because it grows the fastest or the gardenia because it smells so good?

            Looking at the tourists, many of whom looked very much alike in branded tennis shoes, labeled shirts, and brand-name cameras, it seemed a shame that we were all trying to be number one by being so much alike.  We had somehow been programmed into believing that winning the game made one better, Caucasians had more fun, reaching one's career goal was fulfillment and being able to buy things with approved labels made us closer to number one than the rest of the 4 1/2 billion people in the world.

            The race to be number one is like riding a runaway horse.  It may be possible to get there first, but the risks of falling off before or upon reaching the destination are far greater.

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Disillusionment at the Dentist's

            When I was about 10 years old a handsome dentist had his office across the street from our house.  He laughed and kidded with me a lot and in his eminent position -- as someone in the medical profession to a little girl who wanted to be a nurse -- he seemed to have everything a Cherry Ames fan could desire in a man.

            I had never been to a dentist before and I finally convinced my parents that it was time I made a business trip across the street.

            As the appointed day drew nearer my imagination grew larger and the man of mercy in the white jacket became my hero -- better than Superman and Roy Rogers and Tony Curtis all together.

            On the day of the appointment, I took a bath, put on my prettiest dress and brushed my teeth three times.  My heart raced in anticipation of the dentist saying how pretty I was.  I walked across the street and was put into the dental chair.

            The dentist came in, looked at my teeth and found four small cavities.  He said they were so small he could fill them right then and I was delighted to get to stay longer.

            He said that since the cavities were so small he wouldn't deaden my mouth unless it started hurting.  A chance to prove my bravery was too good an offer to refuse.

            He started drilling and putting air into crevices I didn't know existed and, at the same time, changing before my very eyes into an ordinary man.  I was still being too brave to admit the pain, so I suffered in silence.  The more I suffered, the uglier that dentist got.  I never knew a man of medicine could change so fast.  I couldn't wait to get out of there.

            Since I had left home singing, "I'm going to the dentist, I'm going to the dentist," my mother was a little surprised when I walked in completely crestfallen.

            "Well, how was it?" she asked (as opposed to "How many cavities did you have?" since she suspected my real motivation).

            "He's the meanest, ugliest man I ever saw," I said.

            My mother turned her back to me for a minute and I know now that she must've been biting her tongue so she wouldn't laugh.  Then she asked me more about it.

            I learned something about silent suffering, men in uniform and reality that day, but I also developed a fear of dentists that was overcome only last week.

            I had to go to the dentist because my jaw wouldn't open wide enough to chew very much except soup.  The dentist caught on that I was afraid when I sat down in the chair and asked him to put me to sleep.

            "This won't hurt," he said.  And it didn't.

            The dentist thinks my jaw opens now because he fixed my teeth.  I know it opens because I'm not afraid to open my mouth anymore.  And to think my husband thought the dentist might have to wire it shut.

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Please Give Me A Paper Towel  

            In a National Park tourist center, there is a restroom with one of those electric hand dryers.  The directions read: "1. Shake excess water from hands. 2. Push button. 3. Rub hands gently under warm air. 4. (etched in by an experienced traveler) Wipe hands on shirt."

            The first time I saw one of those machines I thought how awful it was that we were now using up electricity to get our hands dry.  The machine, however, assured me that it was pollution-free, because no one had to pick up the paper towels off the floor.

            Further, the machine stated that it was saving trees from being cut down in order to make paper towels.  I wanted to see the statistics comparing tree waste to electric power waste when the machine runs for five minutes after everyone has left the restroom, but there were none.

            The machine said that it protected me from the hazards of disease transmitted by cloth towels or paper towel litter.  Now I could agree with the cloth towel disease scare tactic.  I have never been in a restroom that had a clean cloth towel.  A lady mechanic has always dried her hands on the towel just before me and the linen service man has been on vacation for two weeks.  I couldn't help but wonder, however, who cleans that electric button everyone has to push.

            The hand dryer machine went on to tell me that it dried hands more thoroughly and prevented chapping.  I tried it.  After playing with the dryer awhile, I dried my hands on some toilet paper.  The chapping theory didn't hold up.

            Last weekend after playing golf my husband and I were to meet some friends in a restaurant nearby.  I took a shower in the clubhouse and then realized I hadn't brought a towel.  Of course, there were no paper towels.  Arms outstretched, I stood naked in front of the blow dryer, hoping no one would come in.  Finally I took a dirty sock and dried with it.

            "This is it," I thought. "Here you are in a fancy golf club drying on a sock while the advertising genius who thought of all those ways to sell electric dryers is running around with his own monogrammed terry cloth handkerchief, laughing.  If he just wouldn't laugh..."

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Doing Nothing

            I was in a city restaurant last Sunday morning when a young man came in whom the waitress obviously knew.

            "Whatcha doing today?" she asked.

            "Nothing," said the young man.  "I ain't doing nothing today."

            "Me neither," said another man sitting nearby who knew both of them.  "I'm trying to think of something to do."

            "I already did that," said the first young man.  "I rejected it.  I'm afraid I'd make myself worse off if I did something, so I ain't gonna do nothing today -- not nothing."

            His philosophy intrigued me, partly because I so often do "nothing."  I lie in the sun when there are chores to be done, I watch ridiculous shows on television when I ought to be reading and I read when I ought to be writing.

            However, as I listened to their conversation, it became apparent that their version of doing "something" was all risk-oriented.  Doing "something" meant partying to the extent of getting drunk or high on drugs or sex, or doing something involving danger -- like racing cars or sky-diving.

            Not everything mentioned was illegal or immoral, but it all involved taking a chance.

            Doing "nothing" did not mean an active decision not to assume the work ethic or to relax with friends or alone.  It meant deciding not to, FOR A CHANGE, take a potentially life-threatening risk.

            The more I thought about it, the more afraid I became.

            Although the younger generation has always been enamored with the new, the independence of doing something their elders have told them was not good for them, etc., it seems more evident to me today that the young AND the middle-aged are more willing to play with fire than ever before.

            It has become evident in all aspects of society  -- the wide acceptance of having "affairs," the fact that Valium is the most prescribed drug in America, the blatant use of drugs and the popular idea of independence  -- in which no one needs ANYone else, especially for very long.

            We seem on a perilous course to self-destruction -- mentally, physically or both.

            The recklessness with which we seem willing to abandon what has worked in the past and ignore morality (which we should not ignore for morality's sake, because morality is life-sustaining), seems not only unjustifiable -- but terrifying.

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In Machine Age War, The Car Always Wins  

            Watching gasoline prices skyrocket and pushing my foot through the floorboard of the car while my daughter was learning to drive has convinced me over the past few months that if humans were meant to drive, we would have been given wheels instead of feet and a horn instead of a nose.

            However, if there had been any doubt in my mind about the insanity of private automobiles and their role in society, it was taken care of last weekend.

            On Friday morning we paid $118 to have a wheel bearing put in the "good" car, and so, of course, on Friday evening a light came on which warned us that our battery was not charging.

            Afraid we would be stuck somewhere with a dead battery, we took the car to the station, where we learned it needed a new alternator, to be ordered on Monday at a cost of $125.

            We went home in our old station wagon, marveling at how the invention of plastic charge cards could look so innocuous and yet get us into so much debt so quickly.

            Saturday night we were to attend a party.  Since I had to be there early, I left in the station wagon by myself and some friends were to bring my husband later.

            It was raining when I left so I started to turn on the windshield wiper, but the switch was too hot to touch and the wipers wouldn't work at all.

            I returned to the house and my husband and I decided I could make it to the service station in the rain, pick up the other car and hope the battery worked until we could make it home from the party.

            I drove to the station with my head out of the car to see (ruining my hair), got into the other car and gingerly made it all the way out of town to the party.

            On the way home late that night, my husband was driving when our car lights started to dim, finally went out and then the car stopped.

            We weren't too far from a service station (closed, of course), so my husband started pushing the car there while I steered.  It was hard to get the car going, but after awhile it started rolling fast.

            I stepped on what I thought was the brake (actually it was the clutch) and nothing happened.  I kept stomping on it and the car kept going, finally jumping a huge curb.  I pulled on the emergency brake before the hood hit a light pole and the car sat straddled over the curb, looking like a rocking horse.

            "What were you DOING?" asked my husband, perspiration dripping, in the black of the night.

            "I panicked," I said, "but aren't you glad I stopped it before it hit the pole?"

            He was too frustrated to answer.  We walked to a nearby Seven-Eleven store in silence and he called our neighbors to come get us.

            I was afraid the manager of the store was thinking we were going to rob him because we came in with no car and kept looking anxiously out the window.  I told my husband to look innocent.

            "Look INNOCENT? You're telling ME to look innocent?"  Then the manager did look worried.

            A few days later a friend called and asked me to come over.

            "I can't," I said. "It's raining and I can't drive when the drops are this big. My husband says I can't use the other car until I can say clutch when he points to my left foot and brake when he points to my right foot within thirty seconds."

            "Don't explain any more," she said. "I can tell it'll be easier to come over there."

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Still Laughing After 20 Years  

            My college roommate of 20 years ago came to see me this week and while I was waiting for her plane to land, I thought about our friendship.

            It began in high school, when both of us had moved in as new students from much smaller towns.  We had gone on to become college roommates and we thought we were capable of rising to greater heights than had theretofore been recognized by our peers.

            We sort of decided, though we never said it aloud, to make our mark on the college.  Both our names were Peggy and we became known as "the Peggys".  Peggy gave me the confidence I was lacking and taught me how to do enough cheers that we were elected cheerleaders.  We were involved in everything from fake hypnotic trances in the dormitory after "lights out" to being officers in the Student Senate.

            We shared secrets about boyfriends, cheered each other up when jilted or depressed and gave each other advice.  Mostly, we laughed a lot.

            As we got older and our decisions became more serious, we had more dignity about where we laughed, but there was always the exchange of glances when a guest speaker said something unintelligent or when a teacher's wig went askew.  Later, around a corner, we would giggle to our heart's content.

            During our senior year in college, we both married and took the bouquets from each other while rings were placed on our fingers symbolizing that there was someone closer to us than we had been to each other.  We were happy for each other and ourselves.  After college, we lived hundreds of miles apart in separate worlds for 15 years.

            However, when tragedy befell us we would always call each other to be befriended.  And, we always ended up laughing.

            When the plane landed, even though I hadn't seen Peggy in 12 years, it was as though time had been cheated out of all the negative aspects of itself.  Time and tragedy had only enhanced the Peggys.  We felt good about ourselves.

            We went to a nice restaurant overlooking the city.  We stayed late, talking about our lives and what had happened to us.  We looked at the menu out of wrinkled eyes and through glasses.  We didn't care.

            We saw The Voyage of Life paintings at the National Gallery of Art, allegorizing Everyman's passage through Life.  We appreciated the third picture, the Manhood stage, more than any of them and identified with the fact that though we could not always control our destiny, the Guardian Spirit was still in the picture.  It told us something about our age.

            We never said that we would make our mark on the world now that our families are nearly raised, but the same feeling is there that I had in college.  Two middle-aged women who can laugh and cry at the same time and giggle at having car wrecks certainly must make some impact on society, if not the automobile industry.

      &n