I had a random day off with no obligations, a rarity. I made breakfast plans with my bestie since seventh grade, the first person who consistently told me, “Do you know how fucking stupid you sound?” with so much love and compassion that I instantly accepted the assessment and reevaluated my life. Every time. At breakfast, I mentioned my plans to drive 90 minutes to a little town I found online to test out my new camera. I also mentioned that she was welcome to join me and, to my delight, she agreed. Off we went, after I gassed up at Costco and she did a family member a solid and returned an enormous bible to Amazon via Whole Foods. That’s how we roll.

We had an absolute blast. Well, I did. I’m not sure what she got out of it but I’m awfully glad she went. In Caledonia, which is Latin for Scotland, we found the Old Village Mercantile, which is a feast for the senses. Not only is it chock-full of wonderful photo-worthy vignettes, it smells divine. They roast their own coffee beans in all sorts of yummy flavors. Eli was behind the huge coffee bar and pulled lids off of giant glass canisters so we could smell all the flavors. After tasting the Highlander Grog, I bought some. And some Caramel Pecan Roll. I’m obsessed and cannot wait to get back to buy more. M loves it, too. This will be a perfect Corvette drive when the weather warms up.

My new favorite thing is to find a small town I’ve never visited and go exploring. I’ve only done this once, in Missouri’s Scotland, but I’m looking forward to my next random day off with no obligations. Whenever that may be. In the meantime, here are some images captured from my visit to Caledonia.

First, they require at least two people to play. There’s no solo pickleballing. There’s no mono mah jongg. Ideally, four equally insane people gather to partake. Which brings me to the second note:

People who pickleball are batshit crazy for it. I’ve noticed (and by “noticed” I mean “been annoyed by”) the pickleball thing for a few years now. Pickleballers are obsessed. It’s all they can talk about. They proselytize pickleball to the point where you want to poke your jugular with the handle of a pickleball paddle just to end the misery of having to listen to it. AGAIN. I gave it the ol’ college try, after multiple people said, “Oh, you don’t have to be athletic to love pickleball! It’s a sport for everyone.” Those people are fucking liars. It is most definitely NOT for everyone, my dude. Maybe you don’t run as much as tennis but yeah, you’ve got to move your ass quite a bit if you want to be decently competitive. Also, many doctors have said that one of the top reasons for ER visits the past few years are due to, wait for it, pickleball injuries.* Maybe this is what happens when non-athletes try to play this game? Anyway, y’all do your thing: go out there in the blazing heat and contort your body in a million directions to hit a wiffle ball with a hard paddle, and if you concentrate on the game hard enough, the soul-crushing “pock pock pock” sound this sport produces won’t drive you to the looney bin. Just anyone within a mile of your court.

Mah jongg? Same energy, but with caftans and cocktails. Which, incidentally, is exactly how I was introduced to it. (Great party, Caitlin!) And exactly why I loved it instantly. People who mah jongg also won’t shut up about it. They gather in gaggles to discuss tile sets and mats. There’s also a lot of discussion about the $15 card you have to buy from the National Mah Jongg League each year because why create a game like gin rummy with a few easy rules that haven’t changed since cavemen carved hearts, diamonds, spades, and clubs into stones when you can just keep charging people $60 to play every single year. (Assuming you play with three friends, which, frankly, is the best way to play.) There are no physical risks when you play mah jongg but when you’re learning the game, your brain cramps up on the reg. It’s not for the weak of mind. It’s like someone said, “Let’s make a game with a million different rituals that don’t mean anything but must be done to call yourself a real player and also you need a secret decoder ring from a box of Froot Loops to read the runs you need to assemble to win. But don’t get too attached because they’re all gonna change in a year.” This game also comes with a sound, but it’s the satisfying and comforting clicks of small tiles and shouldn’t bother anyone standing even 10 feet away. Ironically, while mah jongg is played indoors and therefore not causing sweat due to solar heat, it’s often played by those of us in menopause, and we generate our own heat equivalent to a pickleball workout. 

So, yeah. With pickleball or mah jongg, we’re sweating.

Both pastimes can cause excessive expenditures in the form of accessories. You’d think that pickleball requires only paddles and balls, but nooooo no, friends. You’re not a real pickleballer unless you also have a hat/visor and a shirt and special shoes and sunglasses and a tote to carry all your pickleball shit around. Don’t forget the sunscreen. Mah jongg? It’s all about the tiles and the mats, but you also need the racks and shufflers and those infernal annual game cards and a tote to carry all your mah jongg shit around. Don’t forget the vodka. In both games, you can go absolutely bananas purchasing things you don’t need to actually play the game but, once you lay eyes on it, you simply must have. How else will people know you play pickleball/mah jongg? How else will they have a visual warning to run when they see you coming, lest they fall prey to your desire to convert everyone you meet to your beloved game?

By the way, you need to learn a whole new language to play these games. Pickleball vocabulary involves the kitchen (WTF), dink, side out (familiar to those of you who already know volleyball), and around the post, among other, more generally accepted terms blatantly stolen from tennis.** Mah jongg’s language is a musical cacophony of cracks, bams, dots, chow, kong, and pung. (Bless you.)

Either way, I’m thrilled that my generation has found not one but two ways to spend their money and fill their time while annoying everyone around them. Isn’t that the point of growing older?

*My preferred sport, competitive indoor reading, offers no such risk. Sure, you might incur a wicked paper cut as you turn a page, but it’s nothing to run to the ER about. Or if it is, you’re definitely doing it wrong.

**Tennis is the most stupid sport in the world when it comes to scoring. Ya’ll can’t just say “It’s 2 to 3!” No, you have to use love, 15, 30, and 40 none of which says the damn score. Who in the hell thought this was a good idea?

We took delivery of a Riptide Blue AWD RS late in the day on a Friday. Not used to one-pedal driving yet, I probably looked drunk navigating out of the parking lot and most of the way down Manchester. (Note: the one-pedal driving option gets real easy, real fast. I am a huge fan and don’t ever want to go back. Haven’t hit the brake pedal in weeks, yo.)

The next day, in the pouring rain, M and I sat in the Equinox in the driveway for close to two hours, exploring the menus, programming the garage door opener, and setting up all my preferences. It was a ton of fun. I named my car Copernicus. I love him.

A week or two after happily driving Copernicus to and fro, I discovered a group of Equinox EV owners on Facebook. It seemed like a handy resource so I joined. I posted exactly one question: “Can anyone recommend a decent sunshade for this hella gigantic windshield?” A kind woman answered with a link, I purchased her recommendation, the shade arrived a few days later, and it has functioned properly ever since. “Excellent,” I thought. This is how social media groups are supposed to work, in an ideal world. 

Reader, we do not live in an ideal world. The group is infested with people who clearly have nothing better to do with their lives than hang out in an online club consisting of owners of a small, electric SUV that isn’t that remarkable in any way. Seriously, this car is like the Honda Accord of EUVs, the Ford Taurus, the Toyota Corolla, the, well, the Chevy Equinox of EUVs. It’s not like some high-end hand built Maserati. Everyone just chill the fuck out.

Instead, I have met these people:

• Tesla Tom: a guy who owns a Tesla and an Equinox EV and makes it his life’s mission to tell every person on every post that the Tesla is better. “Trust me, bro. I have both.” I think Tesla Tom may actually be Elon Musk trying to secretly infiltrate and convert everyone into Tesla buyers. “Oh, you want a sunshade for your Equinox EV? You should have bought a Tesla. My Tesla doesn’t need a shade. It magically repels the sun. The sun is afraid of Teslas.” According to Tom, Teslas are the Chuck Norris of cars.
• Glare Gary: a gentleman who loves to talk about the glare through the giant windshield, post photos of the glare in different lighting situations, compare the glare to the glare of other cars, talk about solutions for the glare (both OEM and aftermarket), discuss which glare solution is best, and post NHTSA safety bulletins about windshield glare. Gary is obsessed with glare. It’s his jam.
• RayBans Roy: a man who gets utterly bent every time Gary posts, which is often, and responds to every glare post with some version of, “BUY SOME POLARIZED SUNGLASSES YOU WANKER.” Roy can’t handle anyone talking about glare. Ever. He also loves to tell everyone that their anti-glare dash covers look fucking stupid. (I mean, he’s not wrong on how those dash covers look, but just let people do what they want, man.) (Note: Gary usually responds with, “bUt I wEaR pResCriPtiOn gLasSes” which Roy does not give two shits about because if Gary didn’t spend so much time researching glare he could figure out via a quick Google search that you can get polarized prescription sunglasses.)
• Kilowatt Karl: This person has got to be an engineer. I’ve never seen someone get so far into the weeds about charging, chargers, rates of charging, battery health, battery conditioning, and more. He sounds like Dr. Emmett Brown in Back to the Future, going on about temporal displacement, flux dispersal, and gigawatts. Confession: I do not understand 98% of what this man posts. I drive my car home, I plug it into the wall, I unplug it the next morning, and I drive to work. But you do you, boo.
• Charging Charlie: Loves to poke Karl by asking, “If I use this gizmo that converts one outlet into three outlets and then use this extension cord plugged into a surge protector to run power from my clothes dryer out to the garage and then use this adapter to splice into my gasoline-powered generator, can I charge my car faster?” Karl has an online heart attack and screams about houses burning down and for the love of god call a licensed electrician before you kill someone while the rest of us throw back some popcorn and laugh and laugh.
• Mod Max: The dude who buys a car and then spends every waking hour trying to make it look nothing like itself. He’s tinted the windows, blacked out the reflectors, painted his brake calipers, and put carbon fiber tape over all the shiny bits in the cabin. He brags that he used black duct tape to cover the gold Chevy bowtie because anyone who bought the black bowtie package is stupid. Sir, this is a Chevy Equinox. You spent hours doing this and it still looks like a Chevy Equinox.
• Extended Warranty Earl: Let’s debate the extended warranty and whether it’s worth it. Then let’s debate it again. Then let’s argue with others who did buy it or who didn’t buy it. Then let’s dictate what everyone else should do because My Way is the Only Right Way, Suckers. You got one? You’re an idiot. You didn’t get one? You’re a moron. Either way, you lose.
• What Does This Symbol Mean Wally: His queries result in 4,739 people screaming, “Read the manual!” Then 8,427 people replying, “There is no manual!” Then 3,821 people retorting, “Yes, there is. It’s digital. It’s in the app.” Then 2,904 people ask, “Where is it in the app?” And then one person says, “It means you have one-pedal driving on.” Repeat ad nauseum. This also happens when Novice Ned posts, “Hi! I just bought this car without doing one second of research! What should I know?”
• Apple AirPlay Alan: bought his Equinox EV knowing full well it doesn’t support AirPlay, and then spends hours crabbing about it in the forum. Then other people crab about it. The rest shrug and say, “Meh. Bluetooth works fine, and so does voice command for Google.” Then someone inevitably asks, “Why did you buy this car if that was a dealbreaker?” “I’m waiting for GM to fix it.” Good luck, buddy. You’ll probably be driving a flying car before Apple makes nice with all these car manufacturers.

As much fun as I’ve had on the Chevy Equinox EV Group, I think my time there has come to an end. I love my car. I love the sunshade that the other sane woman recommended. I think I’m good. But thanks, guys. It’s been a treat. Copernicus out.

Last January, while at work, I got a notification on my phone that my college freshman daughter, newly back on campus 1,500 miles away from home and without a car, completed a 30-minute drive. Zoe never leaves campus—when campus has a Target, Trader Joe’s, Starbucks, and sushi, why would you ever leave? I was curious, if not a little alarmed. I checked the app we share to see where she was. (Note that I track my husband on this app more than my child. She tracks us, and will frequently text us bon mots like, “How’s Costco?” with a winky face emoji because she’s Creepy Stalker Child.) She was far from campus in what looked like a shopping center? My calendar said she was supposed to be in a physics lab. Since Zoe never skips class, my spidey senses were tingling. I shot her a text.

“You ok?”

“Yes! Will explain later. Hold.”

I held. Went back to work since there was clearly no reason to worry. Turns out, there was a massive reason to worry, but not over anything serious.

Zoe FaceTimed us later, giddy. She wanted to introduce us to her new pet: a Betta fish she named Pesto. (The fish is blue.) (I don’t know.) I smiled at her and said, “Yay! So fun! What the hell are you going to do with that fish over summer break?” Her grin didn’t falter. “Oh, Mom. He’ll die way before summer break! I don’t think he’ll even last until spring break.” My child, the realist.

She and her roommate, Nehir, had taken a Lyft to Petsmart and, well, bought pets. Her lab had gotten out way early so she seized the gift of bonus time and off they went. Nehir’s fish was female and named Tuna. They told us all about how they had to keep them separate because Pesto would probably eat Tuna or they’d fight each other to the death. They had ordered plastic fish bowls, rocks, and fake plants from Amazon. She had to have known that we would counsel her against getting a fish which is why she didn’t tell us before. The deed was done, and M and I found ourselves the proud grandparents of a beautiful blue grandfish.

The semester wore on and, nearly every time she called, Zoe put Pesto on the video so we could say hello. Tuna, never a very active fish, eventually succumbed and Nehir flushed her carcass unceremoniously down the toilet. I can see why they never bonded. Every time Zoe put Tuna on FaceTime, the fish just sat there, unmoving. “Is it alive?” I’d ask. “Yeah, she’s just lazy,” Zoe would reply.

Pesto persevered.

And then it was spring break. “Mom. I never dreamed he would last this long.” We did some research and, with careful planning, she made arrangements for Pesto to enjoy a week of solitude in the dorm. Off Zoe flew to Florida, while Pesto enjoyed his fresh bowl and some extra food. She returned a week later, slightly anxious. 

Pesto persevered.

She was thrilled, but also admitted that she had been prepared for the worst.

“Don’t worry, Mom. He’ll never make it to summer.” She continued her studies and I regularly got to chat with my grandfish. And then the semester was over and she was cramming for finals and finding a storage unit with her roommates for the fall and packing her stuff.

Pesto persevered.

The TSA website assured us that she could carry her fish on the plane, which once again went against our better judgment. 

“Why don’t you find someone there to take care of him?” 

“Trust, Mom. Trust. I got this.” 

Off she went to the airport in a Lyft with two suitcases to check, a backpack, a duffle bag, and a fish in the small plastic container from Petsmart. Well, it was actually Tuna’s container, as Zoe realized too late that she had packed Pesto’s. Thankfully she had just chucked the extra container in the trash and was able to fish it out. This is why Pesto had to travel in a container marked “Assorted Female.” The indignities he suffered! He chafes at being called “assorted.”

TSA notes that discretion on allowing fish through security is up to individual officers, so we waited with bated breath until she cleared security.

“Traveling with a fish is so fun, Mom! People keep doing double-takes and a whole college athletics team walked by and stared and one guy said, ‘Is that a fish?’ and I said yes and he smiled and said, ‘Dude, that is so sick.’” Then she was on board and sent us an ussie, just a girl and her fish.

They landed and I picked her up outside the airport and there he was, swimming happily in his travel container after flying across the country.

Pesto persevered.

All summer long, my grandfish enjoyed his bowl on my kitchen island. I moved my decorative painted bowl from Mexico to the top of the refrigerator to make space for him, as Zoe insisted that he stay in the great room with us. Pesto is quite social, after all. He’d be lonely in her bedroom. We were halfway through summer before I realized that with her flying to Berlin for a class and then directly on to LA for the semester, it would be on us to care for and then get this damn fish back to California.

“Don’t worry, Mom. There’s no way he’s making it through the summer.”

As the break wound down and she prepared to fly to Berlin, I got nervous. She taught me how to clean his bowl and how much food to give him and then off she went, without a care in the world. I eyed Pesto warily. “It’s me and you, bro. Don’t you dare die now.”

Pesto persevered.

And then we packed the car with two boxes full of her stuff to check, our two carry-on bags, A CPAP machine, our two computer bags, and a blue fish in a plastic travel container, and we all headed to the airport. Without ever having a conversation about it, we settled into an easy rhythm. I carried the fish and my backpack. M managed everything else. 

We got to security and loaded the belt with all our stuff (thank goodness for Pre-Check) and I walked gingerly toward the metal detector with Pesto. I held him up and grinned sheepishly at the agent on the other side, while simultaneously pulling up a pant leg to show my new knee brace. (Yes, I was conducting this escapade injured. I should get a fucking medal or something.) He smiled back and waved me through, and then gestured toward another agent standing at the end of the conveyor belt. “He’s gonna have to check that brace. The fish is fine.” Perfect.

Only the second agent didn’t hear any of that. He ignored the knee brace entirely and took Pesto from my hands. He held the container up and watched Pesto swim around a bit, handed him back, and said, “Have a nice flight.” The “crazy fish lady” at the end was heavily implied.

Pesto persevered.

Off we went to find some lunch. Pesto swam around in his container on the table between us, attracting much attention just as Zoe had told us he would.

Then it was time to board and I sauntered up to the gate (as much as one can saunter in a knee brace). We had gotten Pesto past security! Smooth sailing from here on out! And a bonus: M is A List so we had super early boarding passes. We’d get an exit row for sure.

M scanned his boarding pass and headed down the jetway. The gate agent was snippy and said, “You have too many carry-on bags!” I said, “Oh, one of them is mine, and one is a CPAP which doesn’t count toward the two carry-on limit as it’s a medical device. We know the rules!” I smiled beguilingly. She huffed and scanned my boarding pass and then, just as I started to move, snapped, “You can’t take that fish on the plane.” 

What?

I stopped and M, halfway down the jetway, stopped and turned around. I motioned him to keep going, he ignored me, and the gate agent said, “You can go down there but I’m telling you right now, that plane will not go with a fish.” Then she smiled smugly. “You will inconvenience alllll these other people.” She gestured to the full waiting area, with a whole plane’s worth of people now watching the drama unfold. Hundreds of eyes locked on me. And my fish.

“But TSA cleared the fish!”

“That doesn’t matter. TSA will clear anything.” [Editor’s note: this statement does nothing to inspire confidence among the flying public.]

“My daughter brought this fish home from LA at the start of summer, two and a half months ago. She flew on a plane. It was fine.”

“Did she fly Southwest?” <in an overly snippy voice that made me realize that this was about to get real ugly>

“Yes. On Southwest. I have a photo of her on the Southwest plane with this fish in this container, if you’d like to see it. Please do not make me kill my daughter’s pet.”

“Ma’am, I love animals.” [I doubt the veracity of this statement.] “But our rules say you cannot take fish or turtles or reptiles on the plane. It’s not my decision.”

I resisted the urge to explain to her that turtles are reptiles and instead took a deep breath to calm down. I gently asked, “May I please speak to someone who can make this decision?”

She sighed and picked up the phone, while starting to scan other passengers’ boarding passes. I gesticulated wildly to M to continue boarding. I was not going to miss exit row because this bitch was pissed about a fish. He realized the same thing and headed toward the plane, still toting all of our stuff.

A few minutes later, a gentleman in a Southwest vest approached the gate agent and asked what was going on. I couldn’t hear her over the other passengers and the beeping of the boarding pass scanner and the fact that she was speaking with an angry hiss. She motioned to me and that’s when he looked over and saw me for the first time. 

I looked in his face and saw my and Pesto’s savior.

I felt my eyes fill with tears. “Please, sir. This is my daughter’s fish. I’m just trying to get it back to her. She flew home with it at the beginning of summer and I’m taking it back to her today. Please don’t make me flush my daughter’s pet.” 

My savior looked confused. 

He told me to wait and went down the jetway, disappearing around the corner and into the plane. I’m convinced he asked the pilots if they minded if a live Betta fish was brought on board. He returned a few minutes later, smiled, and said, “Go ahead and board. It’s fine.” That’s when my eyes couldn’t contain the tears any more. I full on bawled at this man and then threw my arms around him, holding Pesto level in one hand. “Thank you SO MUCH!” 

The gate agent screwed up her weaselly little face, muttered, “It’s on your head,” at Pesto’s savior, and continued scanning boarding passes. She took her frustration out on the poor woman behind me, insisting she take off her tiny crossbody bag and stash it in her tote to board. I headed down the jetway, jubilant in my victory.

Pesto persevered.

As I boarded the plane, passenger after passenger met my eyes and commented. “The fish made it!” “Yay! It’s the fish!” “I’m so glad they are letting the fish fly!” There was cheering. These people got a great story. (Passengers of the August 16 Southwest flight 645, you’re welcome.)

I settled in next to M in the spacious exit row. Ok, now it’s smooth sailing. The woman behind me leaned forward. “Excuse me, is that a fish?!” She was very excited. “Oh, he’s beautiful!” I proudly showed him off and explained that he’s our grandfish. M said, “Put him away. Put him on the floor!” I was too afraid I’d accidentally kick him but I should have listened. The flight attendant came by. “Oh my goodness! What a cute little fish! What’s his name?” Pesto. “Hi Pesto! He’s so pretty!” 

She went to continue down the aisle, halted, and came back. “Wait, hold on a sec. Yeah, no pets are allowed in the exit row. Sorry!” I laughed. “Ma’am, if this plane goes down, I will sacrifice this fish to get the door open.” I also knew not to push my luck so I immediately clicked my seat belt open. “No problem. I’ll move back.” Pesto and I scored an aisle seat four rows back and we got ourselves situated once more.

The tiny woman next to me largely slept through the flight and I didn’t know if she was even aware that I was holding a fish, since at this point I was taking M’s advice and trying desperately to not draw more attention to either of us. Four hours later, at baggage claim in LAX, she and her husband passed me. “Goodbye, fish!” she said with a wave and a kind smile, before sailing out the door into the bright Los Angeles sunshine.

Pesto persevered.

Epilogue

Pesto was transferred to his fish bowl—with some fresh spring water purchased at a nearby 7/11—on the 21st floor of the Doubletree Hilton Downtown Los Angeles before enjoying a ride to the University of Southern California campus where he has been installed as the Official Apartment Pet of Room 5307. Upon arrival, Zoe texted Nehir, her roommate from last year, to let her know that Pesto had now completed two cross-country flights and was thriving. Nehir texted back: “No. Fucking. Way.” Exactly, Nehir.

Long live Pesto.

End Notes

1. The infamous fish flight to Los Angeles was conducted on my 52nd birthday. I can’t imagine a better present than to get a great story for the day. This will go down as one of my most memorable birthdays, for sure.
2. Zoe adopted Pesto on M’s birthday, so the fish’s full legal name is Pesto Mike Zlatic. I can’t make this shit up.

Off we went on a hot, bright Saturday. We drove downtown, M parked the car, and then had to repark it after struggling to get the meter to work. Even though it felt like a blast furnace outside, we ambled around the exterior of the museum while we waited for him. It was the polite thing to do, and only because of that instinct, I discovered a deeper understanding of my family and the history of our city.

I found a series of large marble tablets, a court of honor, engraved with the names of the St. Louis soldiers killed in World War II. I thought about my grandfather, who fought in the Pacific and whose scratchy wool Navy blanket I still throw over my bed on frigid winter nights. You can barely make out his last name, “Howle,” stenciled on one corner. I thought about my husband’s paternal grandfather, who lost his leg at the Battle of the Bulge, and his maternal grandfather, who joined the war with a head of dark hair and returned with an all-white buzz cut. All three men came home, broken in many ways, but at least they came home. As I stood gazing at the names, I realized that I could probably find the name of my great uncle Matt.

My grandmother often spoke of the older brother she lost in what her generation calls The War. Even as a small child, I understood that she loved Matt very much and missed him terribly, all those years later. My father bears Matthew as a middle name, a tribute and a sign of her enduring grief. She told me about the day they received the news, and even though it happened long before I was born, I could feel her anguish like she and her parents had just learned the news the day before.

I focused again on the names and realized they were in alphabetical order. I strode down a few panels of the memorial and found where Matthew Foley should have been listed but wasn’t. Then M appeared, having found a parking meter that worked, and we went inside, out of the stifling heat.

Three older men staffed the welcome desk in the cool, marble lobby, and, after getting information about the museum—alas, the Ghost Army exhibit was gone, but we were fortunate to see a phenomenal display about the Tuskegee Airmen—I asked one of them about my great uncle. He motioned to a touch screen panel by the desk and offered to help me look up Matthew Foley. He was a bit hard of hearing and I found myself shouting, “FOLEY. F as in FRANK.” My voice echoed off all the marble around us. It took a few tries but he finally got Uncle Matt’s name entered correctly. We discovered he wasn’t there, either. 

I said, “I don’t understand. I grew up hearing how he was killed in the war. Why isn’t he listed?” “Are you sure he was from St. Louis?” “Yes, I know he grew up in Ferguson with my grandmother and their parents, and another brother.” The docent shrugged apologetically and handed me the business card of a woman named Molly. “She works for the Missouri Historical Society. You can send her the information and see what she says.” I thanked him and rejoined my small group waiting for the next guided tour. While we waited, I texted my dad to confirm what I had told the docent. Yes, Uncle Matt was born in St. Louis and yes, he was killed in battle during World War II. He promised to get me more.

Several days later, he sent a treasure trove of information.

Matthew Thomas Foley was born February 8, 1914 in St. Louis, Missouri. He enlisted in the United States Army on June 6, 1941. He was a Staff Sergeant with the 6th Infantry Division, 20th Infantry Regiment, Company K. The Battle of Lone Tree Hill in Dutch New Guinea raged from May 17 until September 2, 1944. Matt was killed in action there on June 23, 1944. His body was repatriated to the United States four years later, in 1948. He is buried in Calvary Cemetery.

Dad even sent me the address of their house in Ferguson, built in 1922, which looks largely the same on the outside and has gone through some fantastic updates on the inside (thank you, realtor.com). I spent some time learning about the Battle of Lone Tree Hill, which helped me feel a little closer to the great uncle I never got to meet.

I emailed Molly at the Missouri Historical Society all of this information, and she kindly replied. She explained that the WWII memorial in the Court of Honor was created in the late 40s, and unfortunately, the creators left very little information behind on their selection process. The historians today have no idea how their predecessors picked who would go on the wall. They now know of several people, including Matt, who should have been included. They’ve even discovered that there are people on the wall with little connection to St. Louis.

Because the memorial is an historical artifact, they cannot alter it. Thankfully, they are looking at ways to add a new memorial to the existing one to honor those left off the first time, as has been done with the Vietnam, Gulf, and post-Gulf conflicts courts of honor. It would be a large and costly endeavor that might take several years, and she can’t guarantee that it’ll even happen.

I’m okay with waiting, in part because Molly promised to add Uncle Matt’s information and portrait to the three interactive kiosks in the building. His service and his sacrifice are being honored that way. She’s also noting the information so that Matthew Foley’s name makes it onto the list of any future engraved memorial. 

After reflecting, I’m not angry that Uncle Matt was left off the original memorial. His parents, John and Johanna Foley, were Irish immigrants who weren’t connected in St. Louis beyond John’s job as a streetcar driver. We have his union certificate, his union card, and even a tiny streetcar token. Johanna was a homemaker. It’s not hard to imagine they simply didn’t know to ensure he was included, nor could they be expected to in their grief.

My grandma has been gone for over two decades now, but I’m proud that I am helping to ensure her beloved brother is honored. I am helping his legacy live on, the legacy that Abraham Lincoln called “the last full measure of devotion.” And I am thankful that I know more about Uncle Matt now, and more about my own city.

I encourage you to make sure your family members who sacrificed their lives in the fight against fascism are recognized at Soldier’s Memorial, and if they aren’t, please reach out to the Missouri Historical Society and let the good people there know. Perhaps if there are enough of us asking, a new memorial can be created sooner.

He also says “less internet” is good advice. Well, duh. And practice. As in the practice of writing. Or rather, practicing writing is good advice.

I was at a St. Louis Writers Guild event recently and got to spend some time with our former president and current historian and publisher guru and tech guy and prolific writer and he mentioned, almost in passing, how important it is to simply show up every day to the paper. Show up and write. He is working on book three of a middle grade trilogy and has seven or eight (!) adult novels in a serial outlined and is anxious to start work on the first. “I might write in the morning on that one, since I’m so excited about it, and then turn my attention back to Book 3 in the afternoon, when I’m a little more tired and a little less creative.” That is some serious productivity.

We celebrated our president at our workshop last weekend, because she has self-published 40 books (in a variety of genres) before she turned 40. Damn.

All of this is hugely inspiring to me, and it’s high time I get off my ass and start working. Or preciser still: sit on my ass and start writing. Butt in chair!

In that vein, I’ll channel Ross Gay and share what I’m pointing at these days:

• A bald eagle live cam that shows the next of Jackie and Shadow, two eagles parenting their three eaglets who have just hatched. Several years ago I became obsessed with a different bald eagle webcam but when I checked about six months ago, the cam was offline, the nest abandoned. I was sad to not have this voyeuristic view into another creature’s life. My obsession is back, though! I’m astounded by the hundreds of thousands of other humans who are intrigued by this nature reality show. The Friends of Big Bear Valley webcam currently has nearly 500,000 subscribers, and I’m guessing there are far more who, like me, don’t have a YouTube account and just pop in now and then to see how it’s going.
• New cars. M’s car needs some expensive work and he’s simply done with this car that he was never quite 100% sold on anyway. It’s my fault, really. We had a child at home and I made him get a Big Boy Car, with four doors and a usable back seat. He’ll never be happy with anything more than two doors and a back seat in name only. Honestly, I think if he could cram himself into a Matchbox or Hot Wheels sports car, he’d do it. His grand idea is to trade in his car and buy me something new, since I have the oldest car. So we’ve been researching and test driving and talking and talking and talking and it looks like we’re going to add an electric bowtie to the stable. Now we just have to wait for the damn thing to come in, because of course I want the rare color that’s hard to get.

• Sam Moore of Sam & Dave, a blues duo I’ve adored for, well, a couple decades now. Sam just passed so they’ve been particularly top of mind. They’re probably best known for Soul Man, but Soothe Me is my favorite. It’s just so mellow and sweet. Hold On, I’m Comin’ is also phenomenal, and Sweet Home is delicious. Give ‘em a listen. Rest in power, Sam. Thanks for the great music.

• Liver transplants and the gratitude I have for doctors, nurses, orderlies, and everyone who makes this miracle possible.
• Packing for vacation that includes a long drive, which is very different than packing for vacation that includes a flight. There’s a spirit of gluttony, of “Why not? Throw it in!” that exists. It feels like an embarrassment of riches to cram your shit in a Mazda CX-5 rather than a suitcase.

• I’m keeping a tentative eye on what’s happening at the federal level, but I get so upset that I can’t watch for long. I’m relying heavily on Letters From an American by Heather Cox Richardson, Civil Discourse by Joyce Vance, and Robert Reich to keep me apprised, because I cannot stand to listen to or even see the current office holder for more than two seconds. For a laugh, I highly recommend The Borowitz Report by Andy Borowitz. Do not take a drink of anything before reading his stuff because you will end up with your drink all over your screen. I’m sending you to their individual sites because a.) I don’t want to throw a single crumb towards Zuckerberg and b.) well, that’s pretty much it. 
• Related to the bullet above, I’m growing increasingly wary of supporting the oligarchs and am debating heavily my contributions to Facebook and Instagram, small as they might be. When I do decide go dark on those channels, I’ll let you know, but just in case, please feel free to subscribe to my blog. You’ll get an email every time I post here, which isn’t terribly often (sigh). Scroll down to the bottom of this page, or any page on my site, and type your email addy in that little subscribe box. This will ensure you know exactly when I post something new and won’t be cut off when I finally decide to peace off of social media. A thousand thank yous to those of you who have already subscribed. I’m grateful you’ve invited me into your inbox.
• My child’s playlists. She has curated several and I love them all. She has great taste in music, which is not surprising as she is a musician herself. I’m listening to one called “vibey” right now that has a great mix of songs I know and songs that are new to me. Thanks, kid. 

So that’s what I’m primarily pointing at right now. There’s more, but most of it’s pretty boring so I decided to catalog the slightly less boring stuff here. You’re welcome. (That was sarcasm. I’m fully aware this is interesting to absolutely no one, but hey, I’m writing so I’m calling it a win.)

What are you pointing at these days? I’d love to know. Email me, text me, shoot me a DM. Connection is what’s keeping me whole, so please connect!

I discovered that this woman I had known for over thirty years had been active in student council, the Scholarship R’s (whatever that is), the Carol Club (not surprised…she was a great musician), the Photoplay Appreciation Club (again, no clue) and the International Correspondence Club (?). She looked exactly the same, only her hair was brown instead of white. From what I can tell thanks to the internets, the Photoplay Appreciation Club discussed the burgeoning film and movie industry. Another search leads me to suspect that the International Correspondence Club was a really fancy way of saying “pen pals.” I now have a million questions for Grandma—such as with whom did she correspond?—but since I discovered her yearbook after she passed, I can’t ask them.

As for my own grandmother, whose yearbook I found on today’s trip to the library after my cousin corrected my information about where she went to high school, I learned that in her sophomore year, she played both volleyball and softball. I faintly remember someone telling me about the softball, but I had no clue about volleyball, a sport beloved by both my husband and my child. How on earth did my tiny, five-foot-nothing grandmother play volleyball? “It was a different sport back then,” M said. Of course.

It’s such a foreign concept to think about the people in our lives having full-blown, fleshed-out interests and activities way before we came on the scene. My perception of both of these women are of sweet older ladies who were focused on their families. They revolved around the suns of children and grandchildren and, eventually, great grandchildren. How strange to realize that they were, of course, their own suns, bright and shining and separate and apart from all of us. 

If these people I adored can be such strangers to me, how can I trust that I really know anyone at all very well? I live with M, of course, so I probably know him best of all. There are still compartments of his interior life, though, into which I haven’t been invited, nor will I ever be. Zoe has been away at college for six months and is busy building a life quite separate and distinct from her parents (as she should). Our orbits will only continue to grow apart. Yes, we talk daily and we are plugged into her comings and goings more than the average parents and I consider us very lucky to have this sort of open relationship. But she cannot share every single thing that happens, every thought she has, every experience and every discovery and every tiny little occurrence that makes up her daily life now. Nor do I expect her to. 

So I suppose the only person we can ever really know truly and deeply and as close to one hundred percent as possible is ourselves. And yet, we’re awfully good at hiding parts of ourselves from ourselves, those deep down parts about which we are embarrassed or ashamed. It’s hard to admit that we’re not perfect, right? It’s hard to admit that there are unchangeable parts of us, unchangeable parts of our pasts, feelings and suspicions and beliefs etched in stone because of the experiences we’ve had, and that there is no one in the whole world who has shared all those experiences with us. There’s just each of us individually, which feels rather lonely.

Will it ever matter to anyone that I was a Pantherette for four years, a member of Students Against Drunk Driving, and inducted into the National Honor Society? That I tried running cross country one season and absolutely hated it? Does anyone care that I put together, almost single-handedly, a four-carousel slide presentation of photographs for my senior class? (Hell, I don’t think even my classmates realized I did that at the time!) No, none of this does matter or will matter. It all adds up to create the me I am today, though. The person known—and loved—by my husband, my child, my father, my friends. Perhaps the details aren’t really important after all…it’s the composite of all these experiences that make us who we are, and for which we are known and loved.

Maybe I don’t need to know the specifics of Grandma Zlatic exchanging letters with someone overseas…I do know that she was full of love and compassion for others, even those not like her, and perhaps that International Correspondence Club experience colored and shaped her world view for all the decades to come after high school. I don’t need to know whether Granny had a wicked serve or played back row or left field. I know that she remained incredibly active throughout her life and that physical health was important to her (and to those she loved: she learned an entirely new way to cook and assess food when my grandpa developed diabetes and needed a special diet).

I have decided not to mourn what I did not know about those I loved, and do not know about those I love, but instead to celebrate the people they were, the people they are, knowing that the specifics aren’t important, but the totality of their being is what counts. We are all the sum of our parts, and I choose to cherish the parts of you I see and the parts of you I cannot. I celebrate all of you, in your imperfect perfectness, your mysteriousness and your sacredness and your profanity. 

And suddenly, just like that, I realize we’re all not quite so alone after all.

Note: the header photo is of Southwest High School in 1942, the year my grandmother graduated. The building now houses the Central Visual and Performing Arts School and Cleveland NJROTC High School.

I was singing along to Misunderstanding, one of my favorite Genesis songs, happy as a lark. I don’t sing loud, mind you. I’m not Mariah Carey. Or Phil Collins, as the case may be. I rounded the corner heading into dairy and barely noticed the store employee heading my way. As she neared I glanced at her to see a huge smile on her face. 

“I’m singing it, too! It’s a great song! I could totally tell you’re singing it!”

Which is when it hit me.

I am old.

My mother used to sing along to the songs in the grocery store, mortifying me to no end. When did her music stop and mine start? I guess when GenX took over management, probably determining from a focus group that Metallica, AC/DC, and Alice Cooper probably weren’t ok but Phil Collins and even some minor Nirvana would do. Aerosmith? Bon Jovi? White Snake? Yep, they’re all softly crooning and encouraging us to go ahead and throw those Hostess Ding Dongs into the cart. Pick up the fancy cheese and the Cheetos. Get on wit’ your bad self and splurge on the artisanal bread.

I weakly smiled back at the woman and continued my shopping, debating whether I could even enjoy singing my beloved song any more. I slugged another gallon of distilled water for my CPAP into the cart, picked up a bottle of sleep aid and another of multivitamins, checked out the revolving stand of magnifying glasses since it appears I need to go up yet another level, and then headed for the checkout.

It occurs to that this is one of those times that could use some reframing. I’m not old…I’m seasoned. I’m a veteran of life with my wits about me, not a raw newbie still trying to figure it all out. I have arrived. Damn straight the supermarket is playing my music. They better…I’m paying the gashdamn bills. I’m doing the meal planning, the grocery shopping, and the cooking. I’m bringing home the bacon and frying it up in a pan. (Except not always because bacon is bad for our cholesterol and we have to watch that now.) The least they can do is drop some Genesis while I’m stocking up on low-fat ground turkey, oat milk, and avocados.

There must be some misunderstanding.
There must be some kind of mistake…

Yeah, I’m not even finished yet, but at 40% read, I think I know enough to pontificate about it. Because isn’t that the American way? “I’ve read the title of this one article, I’m now a goddamn expert!”

In short: Herman Melville was a brilliant writer who desperately needed an actual editor. (See: The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt.) He has incredible lines like these:

• For all his tattooings he was on the whole a clean, comely looking cannibal. 
• Better sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.
• The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast.
• But when a man suspects any wrong, it sometimes happens that if he be already involved in the matter, he insensibly strives to cover up his suspicions even from himself. 
• Queequeg gave me to understand that, in his land, owing to the absence of settees and sofas of all sorts, the king, chiefs, and great people generally, were in the custom of fattening some of the lower orders for ottomans; and to furnish a house comfortably in that respect, you had only to buy up eight or ten lazy fellows, and lay them round in the piers and alcoves.
• “I will have no man in my boat,” said Starbuck, “who is not afraid of a whale.” By this, he seemed to mean, not only that the most reliable and useful courage was that which arises from the fair estimation of the encountered peril, but that an utterly fearless man is a far more dangerous comrade than a coward.
• More than once did he put forth the faint blossom of a look, which, in any other man, would have soon flowered out in a smile.
• While thus employed, the heavy pewter lamp suspended in chains over his head, continually rocked with the motion of the ship, and for ever threw shifting gleams and shadows of lines upon his wrinkled brow, till it almost seemed that while he himself was marking out lines and courses on the wrinkled charts, some invisible pencil was also tracing lines and courses upon the deeply marked chart of his forehead.

Funny, pithy, and/or thought-provoking sentences that I would be proud to craft.

On the other hand, I’ve now also read two entire chapters about various species of whale, none of which was elucidating to the storyline. We don’t even meet Captain Ahab until 30% in. He’s kind of the point, Herman. Like, dedicate more time to Ahab and his mental state and less to whale descriptions of any whale that isn’t Moby Dick. Also, I’d like to know how Moby Dick got his name. That should be a whole chapter right there. (I googled it, because of course I did, and it seems that Moby Dick was inspired by a real White Whale named Mocha Dick, spotted off the island of Mocha, which, where is that because it sounds like a place I would like to visit/live.) (Also, that doesn’t answer the question of where “Dick” came from, but Melville notes that other whales were named Tom and Jack so perhaps Dick was just another dude’s name to use, but since he took Ahab’s leg then maybe, just maybe, it’s not simply a name but also a description. As in, “That whale ate my leg. What a dick!”)

I’m enjoying getting to know Starbuck, of course, but Melville should have known that eventually a beloved and often controversial coffee company would take its name from this character and therefore should have fleshed him out more. I mean, honestly he seems like one of the few characters who is of sound mind, besides Ishmael and Queequeg. Everyone else is batshit.

Note: any future pet may or may not be named Queequeg. Or Pequod.

So where I am right now is that they finally spotted some whales and went after them, but in small boats because apparently you send whalers in tiny boats and not the big boat to chase and try to kill an enormous whale as if that makes any sort of sense. But a squall came up and Ishmael and his small-boat mates almost didn’t make it but yay they did. So now I suppose they will keep sailing along and I’ll learn reams about crustaceans or something before we finally meet Moby Dick. I have a rough idea of the ending (it doesn’t go so well for Ahab) but I still have 60% of this tome to digest to get there. 

Thank goodness it’s in serial form or I’d have given up after the first non-Moby Dick whale description. 
Serial form, today anyway, is where an app or a site burps out sections of a text in regular intervals, like how magazines used to published chapters of books one at a time for their readers. It’s akin to “How do you eat an elephant?” One bite at a time. How does one read Moby Dick? One excruciating chapter at a time.

Today’s art is by Friedrich von Martens, after Louis Garneray, published by Goupil & Vibert, and is called Pêche de la Baleine, Whale-Fishery. Totally stoked about finding art that is now in the public domain, especially since I am in no position to make a whale picture myself today.

My friend and I toiled away all year and we each hit about half our goals, which I’m taking as a win since the podcast hosts typically hit about half their goals, too. I won’t disclose my friend’s goals (she has her own blog and can self disclose if she feels like it but she doesn’t have to because it’s her prerogative and that’s how these things go), but mine included a range of things from “consolidate retirement accounts” which I thought would be easy but turned out to be a month-long project where I got to be besties with our financial advisor after spending hours on the phone calling all the accounts of my former employers (including one employer who had never marked me as terminated, so I had to formally terminate myself before they’d let me close my account), to “get wills and trust set up” which was far less painful than anticipated thanks to a brilliant family friend/lawyer who carefully and thoughtfully walked us through everything step by step, to “plan a get-away with my sister” which I did and was so awesome and was made doubly so when she convinced me to visit a second-hand shop and I found jeans that actually fit, which was also on my list of things to accomplish. I visited a dermatologist for the first time, purchased new walking shoes, and read a graphic novel (Maus by Art Spiegelman, 10/10 highly recommend). I scheduled four date nights with M and they were great. I won’t get into what I didn’t accomplish because, well, no need to berate myself in public. Plus those nuggets may make a future list so why drop spoilers?

The year of our Lord twenty twenty-three was highly productive and I was very pleased with myself.

And then 2024 came in like a wrecking ball. It came in so violently that I didn’t even have time to stop and think about whether I wanted to create a 24 in ‘24 list, much less what would go on it. My therapist, wise woman that she is, encouraged me to let go of all expectations regarding goals and just live in the moment. Soak up Zoe’s senior year and enjoy the time with her, rather than worrying about getting stuff checked off a list. It was sage advice, and I’m pleased that I was smart enough to heed it. I set zero expectations this past year, which is good because I wouldn’t have accomplished a damn thing and then would have felt guilty about it. Senior year, it turns out, is all-consuming for both the senior and her parents. It was crazy and busy and glorious and we did, indeed, soak up every minute. No regrets. And then the “preparing to move to college” stage happened and that, too, was all-consuming. (Please note: this whole “cut yourself some slack” thing holds true for any major life transition.)

Then she was gone and it took us a hot second to figure out how to live in the new normal. We’re doing great, but it was definitely an adjustment. I had waved off writing, photography, gardening, and painting for that last bit of time she was with us, and instead of rushing right back to any of it, I granted myself the space to simply be still for a while. To voraciously consume books and magazines and television shows. To walk the dog leisurely. To try new recipes that take time to prepare. To stay a bit later at work to finish something when I’m in the flow, a luxury I hadn’t realized I missed. I have learned that creativity needs to go fallow, that it can’t be forced. (Well, I can’t force it, anyway.) Hell, my mental health needed my brain to go fallow. I trusted that the urge to create would return at some point, and it has. Or it is in the process of returning.

So I’m starting to think about a 25 in ‘25 list. It’s feeling rather big and amorphous at the moment. Thoughts about “live my values into the world” segue into “what are my values?” Consider “live in an atmosphere of growth.” What does that even mean? Growth where? In my writing? How does that happen? (I know how that happens: butt in chair, fingers on keyboard…but that’s harder than it seems.) Does growth mean learning new things? I haven’t even accomplished the whole watercolor painting thing yet, although I was going along like gangbusters there for a bit. Same with gardening, which after my first and only summer resulted in the hard-learned lesson that tomato plants need to be protected from the deer, and that squirrels won’t touch basil but will decimate cilantro in record time. Can an atmosphere of growth include returning to the dormant interests? I suppose so, so long as one is continuing to learn.

This is what I’m thinking about these days, in between the working and the holiday planning and the talking to my kid on FaceTime for the sixth time today (turns out parenting continues even when she’s 1,500 miles away) and the stuff of life. I have more room to think is the difference, and space for my thoughts to go deeper. I heard the term “values audit” a few years ago and it has stuck with me, so I may start there. I finally have the capacity to tackle it.

I’m putting this out here to share with you for a few reasons. One, it’ll help hold me accountable. Two, I’d love to hear what you’re working on. What interests have sparked your creativity? What are your goals for 2025? (Survival, my friends, is an admirable goal, and can serve as all 25 of the things on your list. Ask me how I know.) Three, I write to figure out what I think about things and I reckon this here foray into my brain space makes a tidy little blog post and if I’m gonna put something like “post regularly to my blog” on my list I might as well start throwing some stuff up here.

Here’s to closing out 2024, a good but strange year full of surprises and joy and heartache and change and all the crap that comes with change. Here’s to preparing for 2025, whatever that ends up looking like.