AUGUST 1
Patronize budding entrepreneurs.
The sign read "C & L Café." Dining was alfresco. In point of fact, it was a lemonade stand.
I screeched to the side of the road.
I have long made it a custom, nay, a mission, to stop at every lemonade stand I come across. For someone who takes a lot of anti-ulcer medicine, this acid-fraught hobby might not be a great idea, but it's forever rewarding.
I love a lemonade stand. Of course, like many kids, I had several of my own, and additionally I ran a high-volume (for a nine-year-old) candy retail operation under a tree outside my house during the summer. The important thing was that it was the first money I ever made. I love that as time marches on kids still have lemonade stands, and every cup that's sold still means the same thing to someone. It's a kid's first attempt at business, with a money box and a little padlock key, a place to learn confidence and practice social skills. Not that they're aware of any of that, which is the swell part.
It's where kids find out-for good or bad-that money is power, perhaps learn how to form a partnership, come to understand what it's like to earn. Plus, they're so damn funny. I also bought four cookies and tipped fifty cents. Total cost was $2.50. "You," said Charlie, "are our best customer!"
There is no downside to stopping at lemonade stands. Ever. They are nothing but win, for everyone.
AUGUST 2
Do the right thing, even if it's a small thing.
Here's the good deed you always hope someone would do for you.
Today I was riding up an escalator, and this situation was smack in front of me: a hapless woman with toilet paper stuck to one of her sneakers. So when we both got to the top, I tapped the lady in question on the shoulder and notified her of the problem. I mean, it wasn't like her prom dress was stuck in her underpants or anything, but still.
She thanked me, did the toe-to-heel thing to remove the offending culprit, and then-ick!-picked it up off the floor. (Thoughtful, I know, but still….)
Speaking frankly, though? I have to admit the removal of the errant TP did little to improve her sartorial presentation.
AUGUST 3
Stand up for your friends.
Today I did a secret good deed.
Someone I know and have worked with-let's call her Miss Scarlet-is interviewing for a job next week with a man I know: we'll call him Colonel Mustard. Scarlet knows I know the Colonel, but the Colonel doesn't know I'm acquainted with Miss Scarlet.
With me so far?
So I tossed off an e-mail to Colonel Mustard, ostensibly about something else, closing with a complimentary nod to Miss Scarlet. Guess I'd better tell her.
And then we shall see what we shall see.
AUGUST 4
Share the wealth.
Great news today! I got an offer from my publisher for the One Good Deed book. Proof positive that good deeds do not go unpunished!
I gave a big "Woot!" in the bookstore where I work when I found out, and yelled "Cheeseburgers all around," since everybody is dying to try the burger joint next door. OK, maybe I didn't yell it that loud, but loud enough that I certainly got a couple of takers. I took some orders, then ran over before the lunch line got too long.
It was a pretty exciting day for me, no doubt, but my coworkers-who are all booksellers themselves-were incredibly generous in showing their excitement. Burger takers or not.
So I lugged the lunch back to the break room, and we toasted with cheeseburgers. Can't believe my good fortune: I sold the book, and I have such nice people surrounding me day after day, selling what we love. Eventually, they'll be selling this book, too. And round and round we go.
AUGUST 5
Find a way to add a bright spot.
I don't get to see my old friend as much as I'd like-or as much as I used to. Life changes, naturally, and her case is the case of many: parents getting elderly and needing more attention and care.
My pal is an extraordinary daughter and always has been. She lives with her mother in a beautiful home, takes her on vacations, makes sure she has a new car every few years, and, well, I could go on and on. They are great, great friends and very lucky to have each other.
On this night the pal and I belatedly celebrated my birthday and went out to dinner. It was a real treat for me, as these excursions have gotten more rare with her mom getting older and having recently suffered a bout of ill health. She does not bounce back the way she used to.
I was thrilled to be spending the evening with my buddy, and I know she's always got her mother's welfare somewhere in the back of her mind. So before I headed to the restaurant, I stepped out into my garden and cut a little zinnia bouquet and took it to dinner with me.
"Tell your mom these are from me," I said, "so her evening shouldn't be a total loss." The report the next day was that they were the first thing she saw in the morning.
AUGUST 6
Make it unique.
My birthday, as you all know, was just last week, and though I had lots of festivities surrounding the day, on July 29 I had to shut myself up at home and work. I felt extremely sorry for myself.
However, I did get loads of calls, cards, and e-mails and well over a hundred shout-outs on Facebook. I was prepared to shrug them off, but when I saw the long, long list of happy greetings and well wishes, I was oddly touched.
So today, when I saw an old childhood friend's birthday come up on Facebook, I jotted her a little more than just a Happy Birthday:
"Hey, Marie: I remember misbehaving so badly in the back of your station wagon on the way to the amusement park one birthday that your mother actually did turn the car around! And yes, of course she relented, but it was a scary few minutes!"
Who wouldn't want a message like that, I figured. Who doesn't like to be remembered in a special way?
AUGUST 7
Remember the living.
OK, let's get this out of the way: I'm gay.
Lesbians are a funny group in lots of ways, one of which is that we are oddly tribal. It is not at all unusual for ex-lovers to remain very friendly, in many cases almost familial.
Such is the case with my last, most serious ex. Her father has been ill, though only in the past few weeks, and she has been down south with him much of this time. This afternoon he passed away, with her and some friends at his side.
I knew her dad, though not well. He was a gentleman, and a delight, and oh, did he adore his daughter. She loved him right back. I am a little at a loss for how to help her through this, the odd territory that is someone you once shared a life with. I can't afford to fly down for the funeral, and she won't be back home for several days, so there is a helpless limbo to fill.
In the time following a death, it's extremely hard crossing back and forth from remembering the person who has died and the people left behind who are now the ones hurting. The notes and flowers and casseroles you receive all blend into one after a while, but two things stood out for me when my parents passed away: flowers, and also a mass card, both sent just for me, because now I was the one left at home, and sick, at least at heart.
So today, I'm going to start making a basket. Not flowers, not muffins, just things she likes that I can give her when she returns to a life not quite what it used to be, to let her know I've been thinking about her while she's been gone.
AUGUST 8
Hospitality doesn't always have a door and a roof, just a heart.
I rent out my house in Massachusetts often, but this week I've lent it, gratis, to an old friend. She recently gave me a gift that meant the world to me: a book idea, which turned into a contract, which turned into-well, we'll soon see, as it will be published this week.
I knew she had been looking for a place to rent for a week this summer, and a house she particularly loved had become too expensive over the years. I was thrilled to be able to offer mine. Every year it's a financial struggle for me to hold on to this house, and she knows it. So we fought about it for a while: she wanted to pay; I wanted to gift it to her in return for being so thoughtful. She's been my friend for almost thirty years-she understood it was important to just graciously accept the gift.
So, I called to see how the guests were doing. A friend had arrived for a couple of days, the kids were playing cards, there were drinks on the porch, a day was planned at the beach tomorrow.
I've been working two jobs, six days a week, and it's been ninety-plus degrees here in New York for two weeks. Why am I so happy? Because she and I have been friends forever, and we just gave each other two of the most precious things around: a great idea, and a place by the sea.
Now this part's really corny, but it's true. When she and I get together, we're so happy to realize that we're still buddies all these years later that almost the first thing we say every single time is, "Aren't we lucky?" Life moves along, and we all know it's hard to keep in touch, no matter how good our intentions.
So I smiled like an idiot when I got a text at work today that read:
"Your house is fantastic. Aren't we lucky?"
AUGUST 9
Buy your friends' art, even if you're not sure that's what it is.
So now my French amie has asked me to go hear some music with her. Her accent is quite strong, and sometimes I miss a word here or there. Or a phrase. Maybe an entire idea. But I was pretty sure she had said "mudairn museec een the Veelage" when she called me on the phone, so off we went.
I met her outside the bookstore, she in her Brigitte Bardot sunglasses, ready for the subway. Eighty-one she is, and I could hardly keep up. I had no idea where we were going exactly, so I was thrilled when I learned we were off to the old home of the Village Gate, one of New York's most famous jazz joints, hosting, in its heyday, such luminaries as John Coltrane, Billie Holiday, Dizzy Gillespie, and countless others.
The pianist friend we had come to hear played pieces by avant-garde composers like Philip Glass and John Cage, which may not have been our first choice-he is renowned for playing more traditional classical works-but it was fabulous and served to remind me that I live in New York City, a fact that's really easy to forget. Every minute of every single day, something fantastic is happening here, and you have to be on the lookout for it, constantly. New York is-well, there's no other place like it; but it can take a lot of work to appreciate it.
So my friend did two good deeds, turning me on to a friend's talent and reminding me to pay attention. And I paid it forward a little by buying one of the pianist's CDs, which he kindly signed for me after the show. It was a little like we say in the book industry: "Books are sold one copy at a time." Just like lives are made: minute by minute.
AUGUST 10
Support your library system.
I'm a bookseller. I've spent my entire adult life working somewhere in the publishing business. I do not like giving away books-I prefer to hoard them.
Oh, sure, I like sharing a book-if I know for sure I'm going to get it back. And I like telling people about good books, assuming they can go buy their own. But that's not always the case. The fact is that although not everyone can afford to buy books, everyone can afford to read. That is, if we can manage to keep our libraries open.
Lots of libraries have an annual book sale, but my particular little branch of the New York Public Library has gone one step further: it has its own used bookstore. It's as well organized as any good shop, with the addition of some old jazz music playing and a little candy dish at the cash register. Also, the prices are generally fifty cents to two dollars. Recently one of the ladies in charge told me they had given ten thousand dollars-ten thousand dollars amassed from books that cost mere pocket change!-to a needier library branch for some new computers.
So fairly often, today included, I pack up a gigantic bag or two of books I no longer need and drop them off at the library shop. I get my friends to do it. Hell, I tell customers at the store where I work to take their old books there.
And to tell you the truth, my apartment is a little bit of loaves and fishes when it comes to books. There always seem to be piles everywhere, no matter how often I give a bagful away. Plus, every time I tote a bunch of books to the shop, I become a little bit better of a sharer, and a little less a hoarder.
(But yes, it still hurts just a little.)
AUGUST 11
Make someone feel visible.
This is sort of embarrassing.
I work in a big store. A huge store, really, and there are a ton of people working there at any given time. Let's say there are about 150 employees, and on busy days, half of them are working. Here's what I'm getting at: I don't know everyone's name. This seems impolite and makes me feel like my mother would be disappointed in me.
People come and go in retail, of course, and after all, we work in different sections of the store and don't interact at all during the day except when we hang up our coats or dive into our lunches at opposite ends of a long table. But still, this doesn't seem right. Today I'm going to learn someone's name, and I'm going to keep learning names, and use them. Because I hate it when someone doesn't know my name.
It really isn't that hard-we wear name tags. Now, to put it into practice.
"Good morning, Andrea. How was your weekend?"
AUGUST 12
A friend is a friend is a friend.
Another death: my friend M.'s dad has just died. It wasn't unexpected, but there were many tough decisions about care along the way. As a friend of mine once said, "Unfortunately, there's no other way out of this life." Still, it never gets easier, something we all realize as our lives march along.
I decided to call M. immediately, though the news was very fresh and his feelings would be very raw. He and his partner live right around the corner, and I knew they'd be leaving soon for the funeral, which is far away. In this kind of situation, although a note is always the best etiquette, I wondered whether I could do something more immediate for them.
The truth is, M. is far more organized than I am, and the notion that I could do anything more than water a plant was ludicrous. Still, I wanted to give him a telephonic hug and make the offer. Naturally, their bags were packed and by the door already.
I gave him my condolences, sent my love along, got a little teary, and asked what I might do. Nothing, of course. They were all set.
But leave it to M., having all his ducks in a row.
Even though I could hear the misery and pain in his voice, his words to me were: "Would you like the tomatoes we just picked from the garden? I can drop them off before we go."
AUGUST 13
Share your knowledge.
I have two friends, a couple named Jack and Denise-I've known them a long time, and we've been in and out of each other's lives in both business and friendship during most of our adulthood. Recently they took a big and brave step: they have opened an independent bookstore at a time when the economy and publishing are incredibly besieged.
For a long time I was just about the only one to know about their plans. We referred to it only as TSP: Top Secret Project. I swear I was almost as excited as they were. So when the time finally came and books started to arrive, I hopped on the bus to their store and helped them set up (as if they could have stopped me). And today, as I've done on many weekend days this summer, I've popped out to ring up sales in this cute little beach town.
Sure, I work in a different bookstore, but during tough economic times, you cheer for success anywhere and individual competition takes a bit of a backseat. You just want what you love to survive. My respect for my small-business daredevil friends is enormous. If I can be their Guest Bookseller once in a while and give these brainiacs even a couple of tips about what life on the sales floor is like, I am thrilled to do so.
Besides, what's better than being with old friends on a new journey?
AUGUST 14
Support your neighbors.
One of the best parts of living in the country is farm stands and summer farmers' markets. Sure, cities have them, but there's something special about a transformed field or, in the case of my town, a rectory backyard filled with fresh meats, cheeses, herbs, and bunches of flowers. But in August, when you can get a great tomato in even the biggest supermarkets, I still try to buy local. Today the hunt was on for the best heirlooms, and the choices were dizzying.
I settled on a table of real beauties and was chatting about the bounty with the vendor when another customer sidled up.
ME: Aren't they somethin'?
EVIL CUSTOMER: Ugh. I just came back from a week in Iowa.
ME: Really? So you must be happy to be home.
EVIL CUSTOMER: Well, it's Iowa. All this was so much cheaper there.
Tomato Girl and I locked eyes. "Your heirlooms are magnificent," I said to her.
She replied, with feeling, "Thank you so much for stopping by."
I went out of my way to support local people who work hard; Evil Customer flew across the country to hurl an insult and was too thick even to realize how offensive her behavior was. Right in her own backyard.
AUGUST 15
Give it up.
I am a ninja about the window seat and it doesn't matter if it's a plane, train, or bus. (I mean, I think that's what I am; I've never actually used the word "ninja" before.) I often take a bus service to the Hamptons for a weekend-of course, since the Hamptons are so fancy, it's not called a bus but a jitney, even though the Hamptons are just on Long Island, not in Great Britain. I always board at the first stop so I can get the pick of the good seats.
Got a really good seat today; it's an art. Not too near the bathroom, not next to one of the windows that blows noisy air, not so close to the front that someone plops down right next to you. Because your next wish, after getting the perfect seat, is that no one sits down next to you. I've been known to place a bottle of Pepto-Bismol on the adjoining seat to silently ward off passengers, and I'm not even kidding.
So now we're at the final pickup stop, and I'm just settling in. I have all my important stuff around me: a book, a sandwich, my iPad, a drink, and a bunch of other items just to take up space. And now the bus is pretty darn full, and here comes an old couple down the aisle.
He asks me, as nice as pie, of course, as he's a sweet old man, "Would you mind moving so that my wife and I can sit together?"
What???
Don't they have any idea at all how much this seat means to me?
They should totally get on at the first stop if they want seats this good!
@#*&?%!
How could they?
"Of course. No problem at all."
AUGUST 16
Pass on something useful; don't throw it out.
It's hardly rained at all this summer, and I think because of that, people have gotten casual-lax, really-about not taking umbrellas along with them. Me, I hate umbrellas. In a city like New York, where a lot of your daily traveling to and fro is on busy sidewalks, they become a lethal weapon. If I didn't wear glasses already, I would get a windowpane pair for rainy days, just to protect my vision.
I know, I know: umbrellas don't hurt people-people hurt people! The majority of users don't raise them over their head: they use them like a knight on a charger, pointing them ahead to clear their path, and God protect those in their way. It's a fight to the finish. Personally, I find the best way to fend them off is to wear a hat to protect you from the rain instead of carrying an umbrella. You get a better view of what's coming right at you (because the best defense is a good offense). Or you fight them off with flailing arms, like the swarm of stinging insects that they are.
But on this day it had been raining on and off pretty hard, and since I was going out to a nice restaurant after work, for once I brought along one of those little black fold-up umbrellas you can buy on the street cheap, so I wouldn't show up a watery mess. (Yes, I have more than one in my closet. Who doesn't?) The sky still looked ominous on the bus as I neared my destination, but I figured I was OK for the rest of the evening since the report called for clear skies later in the night.
So as I stood to get off, I turned and said, "Would anybody like my umbrella? It's a spare," I added, to assuage the ordinarily suspicious New Yorkers. It was only a few seconds, really, but pretty funny to watch twenty or so people thinking, What is she up to? Is it already broken? Are there drugs hidden in the handle and she's spotted the FBI on the bus? But the fears were superseded by the realization that this was something for free, and a hand shot up at last. The umbrella taker still looked wary as I handed over the bounty, though I did receive a murmured thank-you.
AUGUST 17
Count your blessings. Count them again, because I'm pretty sure you forgot at least three.
"I like your summer hat," I said.
"Why, thank you." He beamed.
I'd never spoken to this man before, though I'd seen him a hundred times over the last few years, and he always had a big-brimmed leather hat on, à la 1960s Bob Dylan. Now he sported a straw fedora.
I wasn't sure if he was homeless; but today I thought I saw him with a cup, and I crept close enough when he turned away a moment to peek in and see that yes, there were a few coins inside. (I certainly didn't want to offend him if it was just a cup of coffee.) Frankly, I guess I had never considered that he is poor, because he always seems so happy. To myself, I've always called him Old Man River-Paul Robeson would be shaking in his boots if he and this man were both American Idol finalists, I can tell you that.
Because this man has a voice that would bring you to your knees. It's deep, it's rich, it's mellifluous. I know this because he sings all the time, in a booming baritone. He sings as he strolls down the street. He sings when he's sitting near the bus stop on a milk crate. When the bookstore I work in was in a smaller venue around the corner, he sang in there and made it seem like a cathedral.
"I miss you coming in to the old store," I admitted. "You know we're only just down the street now. I never see you in there."
More beaming. "I used to come in to use the bathroom," he replied, a little sadly. "But there are just too many stairs over there now."
"Well, it's always good to hear you singing, wherever it is." I slipped a little money into his cup.
Beaming to the fullest. "It's good to see you, too. And bless you."
The rest of the day, the same thought kept coming back to me: why does it always seem like it's someone who has the least among us who is blessing us the most?
AUGUST 18
Good advice is for passing on.
Once in a while, I just like to pass on a little advice; hope you don't mind. Today I was driving down the Cape, and I passed the sign for Brewster; many years ago I did a summer share there with some friends, and when I saw the sign I recalled an incident with my car-and some advice I was given-that had me smiling this morning in my dopey Ford Focus rental.
At the time of the Brewster summer, I owned a fabulous yellow 1977 MGB-wish I had it today. It did have a lot of problems, though, and I had taken to carrying a hammer in the glove compartment so I could crawl under the car to rap on the alternator when it wouldn't start. That worked for a while but was getting less reliable. Then it died again in Brewster-where a guy at the local gas station told me about a miracle man on a back road, a guy who had gone to Harvard but ended up in the woods fixing MGs. Seemed improbable, but when my friends towed me to this godforsaken little garage, sure enough, a hunky guy in a Harvard T-shirt appeared.
I no longer remember his name, but he fixed the MG in a snap. "Listen," he admonished, "this will hold up for a week, a month, who knows. But when you get back to New York…" And he proceeded to give me a long and expensive list of repairs that would make the MG the showpiece it should have been.
I listened politely, but he saw my eyes begin to glaze over. He knew I wasn't going to do any of it. He looked at me and gave me one of the greatest-and funniest-pieces of advice I've ever received, which I pass along now.
"Hey, Erin," MG guy said. "You want to drive like a sport, you got to spend like a sport."
AUGUST 19
Do it like you mean it.
A recent poll reported that 81 percent of Americans believe they will write a book in their lifetime. And as a publishing veteran, I have been asked by scores of people over the years if I know how to get an agent or how they can get a book deal. They rarely ask what it takes to get to that point. Most of them haven't started at all. "There is no other way," I say, "than to just sit down and do it." No one seems to like hearing this answer much or to be told that writing is really hard work.
Last night I was having a belated birthday dinner with two old friends, and one, who had been reading Eudora Welty, said, "I'd like to try writing short stories." Our companion rolled his eyes and was reprimanded. "You have to just start," said I, as usual. Our friend didn't look very happy. But he's a smart guy, and he has that southern gift of gab. If he wants to try, I'm with him all the way.
So I'm going to send my friend these tips:
Set yourself up in a nice spot. Maybe a pretty view, good light, a comfortable chair. Writing is torturous enough-you shouldn't be physically uncomfortable on top of it.
Before you start, get a cup of coffee, a snack, or whatever else you need to make you stay put. No making the phone call you forgot, no getting up to fetch the mail. Pee before you sit down. William Faulkner said the hardest part was sitting in the chair, and he was right.
Have a regimen. Start by writing just twenty to thirty minutes a day. Put aside the same time daily, if you can, when you're most relaxed and your brain isn't fuzzy.
Each day, begin by going back over what you wrote the day before. This will help with continuity and get you jump-started.
If you don't find writing rewarding, then stop. You were meant to do something else.
Sit and stare at the page. Eventually you'll write something. Maybe not today, but soon.
Oh, and remember, anything can happen. It did to me.
Many years ago, author Pat Conroy wrote in my copy of The Prince of Tides, "For the love of words we write." That should be your motto.
AUGUST 20
Always be thinking: what if that were me?
So I'm out in the country in my friend's car doing an errand-geez, it's a beautiful day-and at the side of the road I see a guy who seems to be having trouble with his bicycle. He's bent over, with what looks to be a punctured tire or a busted chain or who knows what. So I pull up next to him, and just like in the old-fashioned days when people didn't worry about ax murderers and serial killers, I ask him if he needs any help.
The cyclist smiles and responds, "Oh, no, but thanks very much."
But it makes me wonder: When did we stop being Good Samaritans? When did "doing a good turn" become "taking your life in your hands"?
Now it seems like we don't think twice about passing a car on the side of the road with its emergency blinkers on. And you never, ever see a hitchhiker. "No talking to strangers" used to be just for little kids: now it's everyone's motto. I'm wondering how we can wend our way back a little, without losing sight of the fact that, yes, the world is, sadly, a dangerous place.
Suppose the cyclist was in a not-so-nice neighborhood but still was obviously a guy in need. Would it be so hard to lock your car doors, pull abreast of him, roll down your window a little, and offer to call 911? Would that be so terrible?
We have to figure out a way to live like this again, without being so afraid all the time. It just seems we've left very little room in life for Do Unto Others.
AUGUST 21
Walk a dog, make a friend.
I'm visiting my friend Michele and am about to relax with a book while she goes off to yoga class. She usually brings her two little King Charles spaniels along, but it's hot out and she doesn't want to leave them in the car, even with the windows cracked. So she asks me if I'll take the dogs for a long walk while she's gone. (Yes, it's OK if the good deed comes to you-there are no rules about having to chase it down.)
But of course! So the pups and I head off to town, and I tie them up outside the muffin shop while I go in to fetch a cup of coffee. Within moments, kids are circling around like petting vultures. I guess it's because Velvet and Ruby are small and not exactly dangerous-looking creatures. The petters seem to be sort of a starter group, aged maybe two to five, with a couple of stroller-bound kids wiggling on the sidelines. I come back out with my coffee and try to relax and people-watch a bit, but there must be fourteen kids elbowing for dog time within the next ten minutes. Every last one of them touches the dogs extremely gingerly ("Gentle, gentle," parents tell kids), even though Velvet and Ruby stay nearly immobile.
There is even one miracle cure: Mitchell, about three, hovers nervously, clearly torn between his desire to touch the dogs and-from his mother's report-memories of a previous "bad incident." Soft fur wins out, and Mitchell is once again a dog lover. Ruby and Velvet never tire of the attention, but by now I am over the pop-up petting zoo.
Just as I am about to pack up, a woman hurries over to our bench. "Oh," she says with a note of disappointment, "from the angle I saw you, I thought your dogs were dachshunds."
"No, sorry," says me. "But let me ask you something. From the angle you were at, did I look any thinner?"
"You looked terrific." She grins.
Thank you, lady. Good deeds all around.
AUGUST 22
What means nothing to you could be someone else's memories.
I was just getting a little cone of sweet corn custard at a local eatery when I glanced down and saw a big fat wallet. I mean really big and fat. But not like Daddy Warbucks fat or Diddy fat. This was fat like full of clippings of a daughter's dance recitals, a couple of recipes, maybe some stubs from a baseball game, and a bunch of receipts. Someone was missing some treasures.
So I handed it over to the server behind the counter, and almost immediately the man she was waiting on said, "Hey! That's mine! Where did I leave it?" I pointed to the floor. He was clearly delighted and picked up his dinner order.
"I guess my cheeseburger reward is coming," I prompted.
And he laughed. He thought I was just hilarious. Then he walked off, stuffing that big fat wallet right back into his pants pocket.
Just a reminder that not all good deeds have their obvious reward.
But I'm sure there's a cheeseburger in heaven with my name on it.
AUGUST 23
"Go green!"
I'm in a little bit of a hurry, and I've stopped at the fast-food place near work for lunch.
"To stay or to go?" asks the server as she rings up my order.
"To go," I say absentmindedly. "But wait, um, just put it on a tray like it's to stay; then I can actually just pick up the hot dog and leave with it, but not use the to-go bags and napkins and stuff you'd give me. Does that make sense?"
I'm not sure I explained it right, and so there's a second where I'm uncertain and the two girls behind the counter are puzzled. Suddenly one breaks into a smile and shouts, "Go green!"
We all laugh, the hot dog arrives, and we part ways. The unwanted paper products stay behind.
AUGUST 24
Look outside yourself.
I'm trying to learn-almost to train myself, really-how to see outward. A bunch of things, I think, have served to make me someone who doesn't always observe what I should. I'm an only child and played by myself a lot growing up. Also, I'm a writer, and it makes me kind of dreamy sometimes. I consider myself insightful, peoplewise, but if I were a murder witness, I'm not sure that all my years of considerable Law & Order study would do me any good. What color eyes did the murderer have? Age and weight? Any distinguishing characteristics? I would have no idea.
And I'm finding that good deeds don't just drop at your feet, which is probably my first big lesson on this journey, so eyes front! What's going on out there? Tonight I found it was nine o'clock and I hadn't done anyone a lick of good yet.
So I was walking home from my dinner date, and I thought, Take a look around, knucklehead. Stop thinking about laundry and e-mail and your book sales. What's on the virtual and actual horizons? And I spied an opportunity on each.
I knew I was going to my hometown tomorrow for a few days and that my aunt would be lending me her car again. She and I will do some stuff together while I'm there, sure, but I thought maybe I could at least leave a little something behind when I stop by to take her wheels. I dipped into a fancy shop and bought her some nice chocolates-something I know she loves that she never buys for herself. Keep it up, I thought.
I strolled by a supermarket. A small, wiry guy was standing outside, a bored employee waiting to unload a truck. He hopped up and grabbed on to the building scaffolding above his head and hung there.
"You can't chin up on that, I betcha," I taunted.
"What? Just watch me!" he shot back. Then he pulled himself up effortlessly and, with a little flourish, dismounted at my feet.
I laughed, and he offered a fist bump.
And I realized that within just a couple of minutes, everything had changed. I'd asked someone to show off his prowess, and I'd prepared a surprise for tomorrow.
Good day.
AUGUST 25
Help a stranger on his way.
I love to give directions. I practically accost people on the city streets and ask them if they need help.
Today I was on the subway, heading downtown, when a family trudged on board at Times Square. There was no chance that they were not tourists: Mom and Dad and two teens, a boy and a girl, the latter pair complete with bags from the M&M's World store and sullen faces.
I was assured of my keen detecting skills when Dad took a map out of his fanny pack and everyone started to huddle. Ahhh, my moment at last….
"Hi, can I help you get where you want to go?" I inquired, perhaps too eagerly. Did I mention I look trustworthy?
"Well, we're heading to Ground Zero. After that, I don't know. But we loooove to walk," said Dad. The rest of the family remained silent. "We want to see the Statue of Liberty, too." So before they knew it, I had directed them to the Staten Island ferry (free!) for a great view of Lady Liberty, a couple of good places to eat, maybe a walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, and who knows what else. I was on fire.
By now the wife was sitting next to me, asking me all about what she considered to be my swell and glamorous life. I was happy to oblige. Turned out my hometown is only about a half hour away from theirs, and I could almost hear her mind working. She's there. I'm here.
The wife sighed. "I should have moved here. I had kids instead."
Sheesh. And just like that, I'd ruined the vacation.
Note to self: It's nice to help out people when they seem confused. However, it is not nice to confuse them about their life choices.
AUGUST 26
No good deed goes unpunished.
Oh, brother.
Did I do a good deed or a bad deed today?
This is an all-too-familiar story-the question of how to begin caring for an older relative.
My aunt worked as my father's secretary for four decades; she adored him. Toward the end of both my parents' lives, this aunt and her husband were there, helping to find home care, going to the pharmacy, checking in, making doctor's appointments. As an only child who lives quite far away, without their help I would have had to give up my career and return home. I owe her.
My aunt and uncle have no children but four nieces and nephews-two of us in town and the others hours away. There's lots of phoning and e-mailing about what's to be done about Auntie. She is on medication, and her doctor told her she shouldn't drive. Now, she's been a bad and nervous driver for a while, so we were thrilled, though it would mean a lot of calling on us-and it would be tougher on some than on others (like me, two hundred miles away). We realize she is beginning to need care, or at least companionship, but she will not hear of it.
She is determined to drive the old convertible she loves, insisting that she doesn't go far, only to the supermarket and such. Per the doctor's instructions, she has taken a break from driving, but today, after some pleading, I took her to a long, quiet beach road and let her get behind the wheel again. (Still, I'm constantly trying to scare her out of wanting to drive anymore, spinning tales of busy-roads terror. I know she hates me for it.)
This one comes under Awful Life Choices. I understand: we're talking about taking away her freedom. But if my aunt hits someone in the grocery store parking lot because we didn't put our foot down, I might as well have hit that person myself. How would I live with that?
AUGUST 27
Pay it backward.
"C'mon over. We're going to watch a scary movie."
I'm trying to lure Cousin Mimi into joining us at her brother Leo's for an event Leo and I occasionally get to sneak in. Everything has to align: kid in bed, no wife, Chinese takeout place still open. He owns one of those "order by midnight tonight" DVD box sets-fifty sci-fi and fifty horror films. All classics. Well, maybe not exactly classics. We're trying right now to decide between The Crawling Eye and Santa Claus Conquers the Martians.
Mimi is on the road, just coming back from a long trip-five hours each way, taking her son back to college. She is both sad and pooped, so of course we want to bring her into our fold. "I can't," she moans. "The first thing I have to do when I hit town is go find Eli's bike, which may or may not be down at the yacht club."
On the ride back to school, son Eli has suddenly remembered that his bike was left by a friend at the yacht club, unlocked and unattended. The friend's vague reply, when Eli called from the car, was, "Yeah. It was there the last time I looked." Typical. We have no idea if this means yesterday, or July Fourth.
But surely I pulled something like this myself on my parents. Many times. So did you. That's why I volunteer to go down to the yacht club and use my keen investigative powers. If I find it, we can also avoid getting Eli's dad angry.
I walk onto the club grounds-I don't belong, so I'm already feeling like I look suspicious as hell and not yachty at all-and steal over to where the hordes of kids leave their bikes all summer long. It's nearly Labor Day now, and where there would have been forty bikes a month ago, there in the pitch-dark I can make out only five, Eli's among them. I hop on and ride off, and I feel like I'm getting away with something myself. I have also gotten someone out of trouble, like someone has done for me once or twice in my life.
So: Eli's relieved, Mimi is so thrilled, she's forgotten she was mad at Eli, everyone's happy Eli's dad never has to find out, and I feel like I'm on a joyride, whirling around my little village in the dark.
AUGUST 28
Try to "save the day" once in a while.
I am an avid nature lover. And when I say "nature lover," I mean the beach, dinner alfresco, a road trip inside a car. I do not mean snakes or hiking. I believe that if God really wanted people to go camping, he would not have invented hotels. Everyone knows that's why He created the bear: to discourage camping. Tonight, I may have reached the pinnacle of my Nature Girl ways when I saved the Little White Owl.
I was driving home from dinner with the cousins at about ten o'clock, top down, just rolling along the quiet streets. Already it felt like the end of summer: no one was out walking; not one car passed me by. It was as if people were indoors, setting out their school clothes. Suddenly my headlights locked on an animal smack in the middle of the road. Now, it's not that unusual to see a deer or coyote, a possum or pheasant around here. Last year I even saw a reverse skunk: white with a black stripe. (I did too.) So I simply veered left and drove around it. And then I thought, Was that what I think it was? I backed up slowly, so as not to scare the creature, and got him in my beams again. It was a little white owl.
First off: it was just so pretty. Darkness all around, and here was this bird, only about ten inches tall, I'll bet, with his head swiveling around, just like in a Disney movie. How had I never seen one before? He looked at me but wouldn't budge.
I know nothing about owls, so I didn't want to get out of the car and try to shoo him away. Perhaps he would pick me up with his nasty claws and carry me to some owly coven, where my eyes would be scratched out and I'd be left for dead. So I inched the car closer, to try to scare him off. No dice. Closer still. I thought maybe he had a little treat he was gnawing on that he didn't want to leave, but it didn't seem so. I didn't want to toot and scare him. So I just kept at it, inch by inch, really slow, until, at last, he flew off-not injured, as I had feared-and swooped up into some nearby trees.
Did I really save him? I felt like I had, that someone else might have just turned the corner and plowed right into him. Was it a magical, dreamy experience? Oh, yes, it surely was.
AUGUST 29
Hashtag! #considerothers!
It's all about the hashtag.
For all of you non-Tweeters: What we used to know as the number sign, or the pound sign (#), is frequently used on Twitter as a means to help the user do a search. Or at least, that's what it was supposed to be for. Now it's become sort of a gag, and one of the more amusing parts of the tweeting experience. Let me explain.
Now, the hashtag was originally used so that you could see what folks worldwide were saying about something you, too, were interested in; this way, you could see what people were saying globally about a certain subject. So, if no one you e-consorted with cared about esoteric Olympic sports, you might comment:
WOW! Did you see that awesome run? #luge
Get it? Anyone in the entire world searching "#luge" could see your comment. And vice versa. Cool. But not as cool or funny as when folks started using it as a pretend search tool, that is, one that is likely used only once, and typed in jest. For example, as the writer and chicken raiser Susan Orlean wrote:
In a daring move, I just opened the divider between my old chickens and my new chickens and the baby turkeys. #peaceinourtimeihope
Another Tweeter I know posts:
The secret of life? The Hokey Pokey.
#thatiswhatitisallabout
See? So the hashtag thing has gotten so popular that some of the Twitter Greats make it funnier or more interesting than the tweet itself.
Where am I going with this? you wonder. Tonight on my long bus ride back to New York, I was seated toward the back with some… well, let's call them revelers. They were a gang of friends, probably in their midtwenties, who had been partying all weekend on the Cape and were evidently determined, judging from the amount of wine they brought on the bus, to continue the funfest. As the miles went by, they got drunker and louder; they were a good enough bunch, but now it was heading toward eleven on a Sunday night, and plenty of people wanted to snooze.
So here's where the hashtag thing comes in-and actually, it was, for a while, kind of a funny sort of parlor game. This gang would start every comment in their conversation by saying "Hashtag!" as in, "Hashtag! #youaresoskanky!" Or "Hashtag! #ihatemyjob!" and "Hashtag! #whosgotthewine?"
Then it got old. Really old. So I thought about my manners, but not for very long, and I turned around and yelled, "Hashtag! #shutthehellup!"
Oh, yes, the passengers did applaud, and the wee party broke up at last.
AUGUST 30
Take one for the team.
Today the impossible happened.
I received two servings of ice cream, and I gave one away.
I went to a restaurant known for its special revolving array of frozen custards-they change monthly, and there are seasonal flavors that are delightful and surprising. Tuesday is s'mores day. This I was not going to miss.
I ordered a small cone (chocolate with marshmallow and crushed-up graham cracker, if you were wondering), and when it was delivered to me, it was in a cup. "Not for nothing," said I-very nicely, let me add-"but I ordered a cone, and this is the third time this has happened to me."
The server told me to hold on, and in a minute I had my cone and, with a smile, the original cup of ice cream, too.
Well, it would have been impolite to say no.
So I took it, and I did the right thing: though it broke my heart, I offered it to other diners.
There was a swanky Italian couple. They politely declined, though I'm sure they noticed the offer came with a clean spoon.
Parents with a kid. They looked at me like they wanted to kill me when I presented my bounty: they hadn't gotten him to touch his lunch yet. The kid was drooling, and on the edge of tears, when I scurried off.
Then I approached a trio of teenage girls. What was I thinking? Ice cream? OMG! It's so, like, fattening!
I'm sorry. Did I say I gave one away? Well, I certainly tried.
But I'm proud to say I bit the bullet. I ate them both.
AUGUST 31
Help someone look forward to looking back.
I've been e-mailing Anne-all too occasionally-over the last couple of years. Our parents were great friends growing up, and so Anne was one of our gang when we were kids, but as often happens, our paths diverged by the time we were teens. We all went to college; Anne had kids, got married and divorced, and eventually moved away. She finally found someone who truly loved her and, when she got cancer, cared for her. But all those years, she kept in touch with my cousin Lee, who was her age. And as time went on, Lee reported that Anne was growing more and more nostalgic for our childhood. Then she became quite ill, and Lee said Anne would like to be in touch with more of the family-would I please e-mail her, and just say hello?
Really? Thirty years later?
But I did as Lee asked; I felt sort of foolish but sat down and wrote a newsy e-mail to Anne, reminded her of some funny times, recalled some antics from the past. She wrote right back and was so thrilled to hear from me that I felt bad for not doing it earlier. I wrote a few of those e-mails, and the time between responses grew longer and longer until I didn't hear back again. Today I learned that Anne passed away. Another sad chapter closed, but I am so glad if I helped bring some happy memories back.
