Here are some samples from my newspaper column. Relax and enjoy!
On the Ground, Safe and Sound?
The Clutter Queen Cleans
The Fire is So Delightful. ...
Christmas Toys 101
Piracy at the Pump
Sunday Morning with the Grandkids
College Countdown
Plymouth and Change
Lifetime Fitness Awareness
Practicing Spanish
Thank You, Baby
Married Is Better
Manger Madness
On the Ground, Safe and Sound?
The Clutter Queen Cleans
The Fire is So Delightful. ...
Christmas Toys 101
Piracy at the Pump
Sunday Morning with the Grandkids
College Countdown
Plymouth and Change
Lifetime Fitness Awareness
Practicing Spanish
Thank You, Baby
Married Is Better
Manger Madness
On the Ground, Safe and Sound?
I, however, grow animated and chatty. My entire in-flight conversation consisted of "Hi" or, as I swayed my way back from the restroom, "Excuse me, I didn't know this lap was taken." But upon landing, even seatmates who'd activated an impenetrable force field between us grow friendly. They know they're not stuck with me forever, amen.
The major exception: cell phone users. Panting from withdrawal, they slap their cells to their ears, text their friends across the aisle and take photos of the drink cart.
Despite their cellfishness, I long to connect with these fellow travelers I will never see again. I want to say something profound. Something they will remember forever: "
"You know" [peering out the window], "I thought that wing looked wobbly."
I'm a great post-flight conversationalist.
I'm also one of the first to stand. Otherwise, my frozen joints will condemn me to a lifetime in seat 14B. Plus, that big guy rifling overhead bins will drop another carry-on on my head.
Continuing my post-flight friendly mood, I say buh-bye to the flight crew. However, one niggling question remains: why didn't the pilots show themselves before we flew? Sure, an authoritative voice roused us from deep sleep to point out the flattest spot in Nebraska and a cloud that resembled John Madden. But did a flesh-and-blood human being fly this plane? Maybe that cut-rate fare wasn't such a great idea.
Solid ground feels doubly good. Even seeking my black suitcase among 400 million others in Baggage Claim doesn't faze me-although I wonder why we all buy black suitcases. Are we in mourning because we have to fly? I do harbor an abiding distrust of people who own matching paisley or polka dot luggage. They look altogether too together when they fly. They dye their shoes-and probably their dogs-to match. These stylish obsessive-compulsives have it way too easy in Baggage Claim.
I'd be glad to trade my beat-up bag for one with wheels that work. Yet I join the Paranoid Passenger Platoon, each of us guarding our little stretch of conveyor belt as if our luggage contains gold bars.
Maybe we're a little psycho because the ultimate post-flight question resonates deep in our tired souls: where is my suitcase? Did the baggage aliens beam it to planet Skorxx? As other passengers haul theirs off the belt, we wonder if the molecules of the only jeans that ever fit us have been scattered throughout the cosmos like ashes.
The conveyor belt grinds to a halt. Where is our black suitcase?
We confer with the alien in the information office. "Did you send my suitcase to Alpha Centauri?"
"No, ma'am." [tapping his computer keys] Only to Mars."
Turns out, our bag went to Mars, Pennsylvania. Boy, are we lucky.
And cranky. Some of us, who rose at 3 a.m., have eaten nothing but gourmet pretzels we pick pocketed from the flight attendant en route to first class. No one serves food near Baggage Claim. We face a cruel dilemma: would we rather die of hunger or subject ourselves to security again? Perhaps increased reports of cannibalism will bring about the installation of Snac-a-Pac machines.
Having survived the trauma of Baggage Claim, we now face the joy of retrieving our cars. Which parking lot did we choose in Chicago? Or was it Indianapolis? Thankfully, shuttle bus drivers show inordinate kindness to the parking-lot impaired: "Give us your tired, your jet-lagged, your luggaged masses." We don't know where we're going or what we're doing, but, like pastors, they try to point us in the right direction.
These blessed drivers know we return to piles of work, mountains of laundry, and-in my case-a forgotten can of thawed orange juice fermented under a back seat during my two weeks in Europe. They understand there's nothing like coming home, sweet home, after the flight.
After giving me a custom tour of several parking lots (some unconnected with the airport), this courteous driver helps me spot my car and pulls up with a smile.
Wait a minute. How did he find my black suitcase?
Copyright 2008 Rachael Phillips
The Clutter Queen Cleans
For 23 years - as long as we've owned our present home - I was faithful to this code of compulsive collecting. But now I have abandoned my ideals. Worse yet, I did so in the name of money: my husband and I must sell our house because he is changing jobs. And those house-makeover televisions shows, with their evil "Clean out the clutter!" dictates have all but ruined my chance to market our home in its normal pleasant, junky state.
They declare potential buyers won't find the 271 paper sacks stuck between the refrigerator and kitchen wall appealing. Nor will possible owners appreciate the boxes of twisties that adorn my kitchen counter, or the 733 Cool Whip bowls without lids that prevent my cabinets from closing. Obviously, they don't understand the solid logic behind my actions. When everyone runs out of these essential items during the eminent Depression, I'll enjoy the luxury of plenty. I'll also make millions 30 years hence when they qualify as antiques and people cover their living room walls with them.
Yet Ty the House Expert Guy says my interior décor, which abounds with my offspring's childhood pet rocks, mutant grade-school ceramics and old Bible school macaroni art, just won't cut it. And the whole new refrigerator wing I opened in order to display my grandchildren's 961 crayon drawings won't prove much of a draw, either.
These anti-clutter control freaks even claim potential buyers should expect to open closet doors without crash helmets and proper body armor. How can they truly appreciate the extent of the closet space without all the clearance Christmas outfits I've purchased for my grandkids to wear through 2029? Or the retirement home I run for old tennis shoes on closet floors? Or the visual/tactile aid of 97,233 board game pieces falling on their heads?
Surely, they don't anticipate a bare basement with no homey ambience. Don't they understand my children's childhood Pound Puppy population is sacred, as well as the toy boxes stuffed with dress-up clothes I gave them back in 1990 because I couldn't bring myself to toss them? How can they argue with 403 cheese popcorn tins too pretty to discard, my husband's ancient leg brace (you never know when he might break the other one) plus the contents of seven dormitory rooms?
My husband says I'm just too sentimental. It's true he never drags out the 52 boxes of our children's baby clothes in order to enjoy a good soul-cleansing cry. But his 40-year-old Boy Scout canteen and ratty sleeping bags still retain an honored place in our household. Steve's old slide rule resides in his computer desk, and the highly useful manual typewriter he received as a high school graduation present has survived a garage sale and two major trash pick-ups.
Two major trash pick-ups? Definitely abnormal for a Paranoid Pack-Rat member. Our neighbors spotted the anomaly right away, even before the news of our move went public. They'd never seen so much stuff in our driveway during spring trash pick-up. "Looks like a move to me!"
I continue to grieve for my Pack-Rat Paradise Lost. After two months of forced labor, I estimate I have disposed of more than 3 billion cherished items. My husband counters with his usual mathematical precision: we still retain ownership of 7,398,209,001.2387 items (the .2387 referring to the gallon of 1 per cent milk in the fridge). According to him, we still need to trim at least another 2,987,777,078.2387 items before we move.
So far, I've volunteered to drink the milk before we load the truck.
But that's about as far as I've got.
Copyright 2009 Rachael Phillips
The Fire is So Delightful. ...
I checked our thermostat this morning. It read 65 degrees. If the calendar had indicated July, I would have relished the cool, refreshing temperature and planned to stay inside to avoid the nasty heat and humidity lurking outdoors. But it’s winter. So I, like my ancient ancestors, growl at the weather and huddle close to a fire.When we moved into our first house with a fireplace, a primeval pyro urge pumped through our veins. A friend gave us firewood, appropriately enough, as a housewarming gift. We could hardly wait to rest our tired, chilly bones by a roaring fire, snuggling close with our children and toasting marshmallows together over glowing orange coals and dancing blue flames.
Our kids would say, “Tell us stories from long ago, Mom and Dad. Teach us your words of wisdom.” And when we needed more wood, they would fight for the chance to trudge out into the cold and bring it in.
We built a real fire. Once.
My pyromaniac father considers this almost immoral. He turns on electric heaters only in an emergency (if the U.S. is attacked by ice aliens). He has never built a small fire in his life. We know his raging infernos demonstrate his intense love for family—he wants to take good care of us! But we always wear shorts and tank tops when we visit, even in January, because Dad builds fires that make us sweat like August athletes.
He prepares all summer, anticipating winter with more eagerness than a kid with a new sled. For years, Dad panicked coyotes and bears in the desolate Oregon mountains as he chain-sawed hundreds of fallen pines. Now rattlesnakes (and a few neighbors) in Louisiana flee the woods in terror as my 81-year-old father swings his mighty ax.
He designs his woodpiles as objets d’art. The wood must be perfect in composition, age and texture. Dad, with the calculations of an engineer building a skyscraper, stacks it in symmetrical rows, and woe to the bumbling, fumbling fool who upsets his perfect balance. He raises monolithic mounds of wood near his house and those of widows or single moms living in his neighborhood.
He assumes all humanity shares his wood-cutting passion. But he mostly singles out visiting sons and grandsons for this privilege, dragging them out to his woodsman’s paradise when they would rather sleep in front of football. Occasionally he extends this glorious favor to granddaughters, who break their nails hauling in wood. But I, his fiftyish daughter, endure the ignominy of being left out with a martyr’s smile. Somebody has to sleep in front of football.
Occasionally, we adult children consider buying him loads of compressed sawdust logs for his birthday because we fear for his safety and wellbeing. But we don’t, because we fear for ours. Dad, seasoned by years of chopping wood, can also throw it.
My siblings and I confess, to our shame, that none of us have inherited his noble fire-building genes. We own wussy gas fireplaces with ceramic logs and fake coal beds that couldn’t emit the magic fragrance of wood smoke if they set our houses on fire. We, the children of hardy pioneer stock, use our decorative fire pokers and shovels to hit the ON button. From the sofa. Before we fall asleep in front of football.
Occasionally, Dad visits one of us and condescends to sit by the fireplace. Always the diplomat, he comments on the ingeniousness, the convenience, the sheer wonder of a fire that doesn’t have to be built. Just the same, we hide any old Boy Scout hatchets hanging in the garage before he comes and count our trees every morning.
We all stand in awe of our father—but we continue to keep his fire-building activities a deep, dark family secret. After all, we don’t want him to get in trouble with the government or Al Gore. Despite extensive research, they still don’t know Dad is the primary cause of global warming.
And if they try to take away his ax or his woodpiles, we know Dad will get a little fired up.
Copyright 2009 Rachael Phillips
Christmas Toys 101
My husband and I are brave people. So are any grandparents who sally forth nowadays to shop for toys. Given the challenge of making little ones' dreams come true, Santa himself may be contemplating retirement.Our grown children try to simplify this holiday task for us. Because our five-month-old grandson loves "crinklies," his mother advised us to wrap a box of old wrapping paper for him. Our other daughter insisted her children do not need toys. Her four-year-old will play dress-up with a dog collar, so long as it's labeled "princess." Two-year-old Joey would be thrilled with a stick. Her youngest, at four months, would probably celebrate a coupon good for three straight hours of protection from the two-year-old.
Any grandparents worth their salt know better than to pursue these gift ideas. We consider the source. Sleep-deprived, pukefied and poopified, these poor parents will not return to sanity for at least five Christmases. Advice to new grandparents: smile, nod and hand them twenty bucks. It won't speed their recovery, but it will supply temporary relief and give the impression you agree with them.
Which, of course, you don't. Those suggestions rate at the same level as "she goes to bed at 7:00 p.m."; "he likes soy, not Pepsi"; and "don't let her sit on that potty; it might contain plastic!"
Parents don't mean it when they tell you to give their kid a stick. Otherwise, Christmas morning might go something like this:
Grandma: Merry Christmas, Joey!
Joey: A stick from Santa! Two sticks! Yay!!! [pokes Sister with one, Baby Brother with other]
Sister and Baby Brother: Waaaaaaaaaaaaaah!
Grandma: You said to give him a stick.
Mommy: [glaring ominously] Tell Grandma "thank you," Joey.
Joey: [poking her] Thank you, Joey!
Instead, my husband-who normally ranks shopping right up there with liver and lima beans-will help me find gifts for all four grandkids. I'm glad he goes. Otherwise, he might refuse to sign for the second mortgage. And he'd never believe Christmas shopping for little ones now requires a Ph.D. in Early Childhood Complications.
For example, when did babies begin requiring "exercise"? When our children were small, I worried more about survival-mine. Yet toymakers successfully market baby gyms that cost between $75 and $100. What's next? A personal trainer in Baby's stocking?
Infant and preschool toys also employ more computers than the Pentagon. Sold under labels like Einstein, Brainy Baby and IQ Baby, they are designed with more buttons, blinking lights and dinging signals than the starship Enterprise. Books read aloud and turn their own pages. They also set off police alarms if tired grandparents try to skip a few. Blocks have on-off switches. Little kids can program balls like stealth missiles. The simplest stuffed animal recites nursery rhymes in English, Spanish, French and Martian. It also quizzes six-month-olds on the life cycle of the speckled Paraguayan eel.
Our younger daughter, always an individualist, decreed her son would not play with electronic gadgety things. Instead, he would enjoy classic toys, such as wooden alphabet blocks and bouncy balls. Her husband, however, possesses a degree in computer science. His idea of leisure activity consists of creating computer programs that flush their toilet and turn the neighbors' lights off. His son was named Linus not so much after the Charlie Brown comic strip character, but after Linus Torvalds, the founder of Linux operating systems. Baby Linus gamely fiddles with toys with no batteries. However, he fell madly in love with a belated shower gift that squawks at tornado siren levels, blinking like a flying saucer when he drools on it. (Their neighbor with the malfunctioning lights bought this for him.)
Are simple toys against the law? Even rag dolls require 100 percent Egyptian cotton content to make the grade. Toy manufacturers design even teething rings with psychedelic patterns of checks, paisley and zig-zags, all intended to increase a child's intellectual capacity. As a result, most baby toys now resemble an explosion in a hippie wallpaper store. Even bath toys are advertised as "stimulating and interactive."
During my baths, I don't anticipate much intellectual development. Perhaps I should reconsider. After all, I could increase my mental capacity by purchasing (and, as Dave Barry says, I am not making this up), a tattooed Rubber Ducky.
Should that fail, maybe somebody will give me a stick for Christmas.
Copyright 2008 Rachael Phillips
Piracy at the Pump
Today, many participate in two Great American Pastimes: comparing gas prices and despairing over gas prices. When I want to gripe, and sunny, perfect weather fails to cooperate with my bad mood, bashing gas prices works every time-whether they fluctuate up or down.Say what? Don't we want prices to drop? Not necessarily. If you and I have just filled our tanks, we want prices to leap higher than a jumping bean on steroids: Ha! We filled up just in time! Too often, however, we find the convenience store clerk upped the price 30 cents per gallon while we were using the onsite facilities.
Economic experts make such a big deal about demographics, political climates and the law of supply and demand. I do think they're right about that last one, though. Those who supply the gas can demand whatever they want.
Most of us continue to exchange hot tips as if stations were speakeasies. If it takes every drop of gas in our tanks, we will search until we find gas two cents cheaper.
One day as I prowled and growled around Plymouth looking for the best deal, childhood memories of gas stations overtook my thoughts. "Ding-ding!" In the 1960s, the gas station bell always greeted our big yellow station wagon as we pulled in-heavenly music to the ears of five bladder-desperate kids counting the miles since our father's last pit stop. While gas station restrooms didn't rate a 10, they surely beat a clandestine tree session along the roadside. Back then, stations seemed so friendly. Sometimes inflated green dinosaurs bobbed and smiled at us above the pumps. As a child, I liked the odd, heady fragrance of gasoline. I watched little numbers on the pump s-l-o-w-l-y turn as the big car sucked in fuel like cherry Coke through a straw. Likable uniformed men with strong, greasy hands not only pumped the gas, they washed squishy bugs from our windshield and checked our oil. When something broke, they pulled out manly clanky tools and fixed it. Attendants carried cool metal coin dispensers and wads of dollars in heavy leather wallets hanging from their belts. I thought they were rich, since Dad paid them 25.9 cents a gallon. Besides, they gave away free road maps and pretty drinking glasses at Christmas.
Alas, that was long ago. As I drove past several stations near my home, I winced. More than three dollars a gallon! And they probably didn't give away free toilet paper, let alone drinking glasses. I decided to check another station where I had posted earlier successes. Cheap gas at last! $2.90 per gallon! I pulled in, ducking NASCAR-style traffic, and grabbed a nozzle. The digital numbers on the pump moved so fast they looked like Sanskrit. Finished! I screwed on the gas cap and headed out quickly so the next customer could take out a second mortgage. No friendly "ding-ding" goodbye as I left the station. Too bad gas stations weren't the way they used to be.
On the way home I passed higher prices and savored the self-satisfaction that made my quest worth it. My smugness ended when I walked in the door.
"Did you pay for your gas?" My husband nailed me with the steely smile he reserves for ornery kids and Purdue fans. "Of course, I . . . uh. . . ." Of course, I hadn't.
"The police called." My beloved didn't look inclined to post my bail. "The lady behind you took your license number. You'd better go right back and pay."
I flew out the door before he finished his sentence. As I drove, I wondered if they put gas thieves in solitary confinement. I parked and peered around the lot. What if my pastor saw them take me away in shackles? Fortunately, nobody familiar looked my way. I slithered toward the door like a repentant snake.
"There you are!" The manager, who had waited on me before, burst into giggles. "When the cops called, I told them you just forgot."
I poured out my thanks and handed her my credit card. I signed my guilty name, then sneaked out to the car and left, still looking for helicopters overhead. Again, I heard no friendly dings goodbye as I would have 40 years ago. But I vowed to return soon. This kind station manager didn't need a ding-ding to take good care of this ding-dong.
Plus, her gasoline was a real steal.
Copyright 2006 Rachael Phillips
Sunday Morning with the Grandkids
“We’ll
help,” I assure our daughter and her husband. I know their early worship band
practice at church disrupts their children’s schedules. “What time should we
come to watch the
kids?”
“
My husband and I exchange
glances. Is God awake then?
But like good grandparents, we
set the alarm and show up yawning, ready to doze over the funnies while the
little angels sleep.
Only in heaven. Little do we know that by the
church service, we will have earned combat pay.
As
their car pulls out of the driveway, a little voice calls from her bedroom.
Drooling love slaves, we elbow each other as we retrieve two-year-old Annabelle.
She greets us with an ear-to-ear smile: “Gwandma! Gwandpa!”
Veterans of the Diaper to Dating scene, we will shame Dr. Spock. After
all, my husband has delivered and cared for hundreds of babies. And when our own
three children were small, I could run the Sunday morning dress-for-church drill
with eyes shut.
Sleep-deprived for a decade, I usually did.
Now a
wise matriarch and patriarch, we’ll wow our adult kids with our ability to
cope.
Annabelle makes a digging motion. “I think she wants to eat,” I say.
My
husband lifts her into her high chair. She smiles approval as I dump sliced
banana on her tray. Steve and I exhale. We guessed right—this time.
Annabelle has learned a popular innovative system of hand signals that
help her communicate until speech skills develop. No longer does she shriek like
a gargoyle when she wants something.
Instead, her grandparents shriek when they can’t understand the secret
code.
Annabelle draws a V on her cheek. Or maybe it’s an X.
“You’re above average.” I turn to my husband. “What’s that
mean?”
Steve
searches the official You and Your Little Genius Handbook. “According to this,
she wants to buy a timeshare.”
Four-month-old Joey trumpets reveille from his bassinet. When I pick him
up, he lunges for my chest with unbridled enthusiasm.
“Sorry, honey, Grandma can’t help you.” I hand him to my husband while I
fix his formula. Joey hopefully nuzzles the Palm Pilot in Steve’s pocket.
“Dance,” says Annabelle. She presses a few blinking buttons on her toy
radio. A Rolling Stones version of “Twinkle, Twinkle,
Little Star” shakes
the walls. Anna wriggles and jerks her blonde head like a true
headbanger.
“Dance, Gwandpa,” she commands.
Nothing in my husband’s medical education prepared him for doing Mick
Jagger with a two-year-old while holding a hungry baby, but he performs as best
he can.
Joey
is not impressed. For someone with no verbal or signing skills, he communicates
loud and clear.
“Maybe he doesn’t like the Stones.” my husband
pants.
When
I finally give Joey his bottle, the noise level drops to mere Joyce ACC
levels.
Having convinced Joey to eat, I now must persuade him to stop. Burping
takes the diplomatic timing of a
Annabelle regards his rage with well-bred distaste.
“How
do you sign ‘Joey’?” Her grandpa tries to keep things
positive.
She
sticks a finger up her nose.
To
our relief, both children like baths. Of course, Anna tosses her Sunday shoes
into the tub with Rubber Ducky. Joey shoots the kitchen ceiling fan with
unerring aim when I forget to cover him with a washcloth. So quickly a
grandparent forgets.
Dressing the two most beautiful grandchildren in the world isn’t
difficult, though—at least the first time. And the second. And the third. . .
. How can Joey smile with so little
in his belly? The demise of his entire wardrobe does not seem to bother
him.
“What’ll I put on him now?” My husband rummages through Joey’s
bureau.
“Anything!” I grab Annabelle’s hand and the diaper bags. “Hurry, or we’ll
be late!”
Joey
lets loose a nuclear blast of magnificent odiferous proportions. He truly
demonstrates what Brown can do for all of us.
Fifteen minutes later, we finally leave. Joey arrives at church wearing
Annabelle’s faded pink cords and a sweatshirt with “I won the Big One in Vegas”
emblazoned on it.
Steve
and I also look less than holy as we enter carrying kids and survival gear.
Covered with ominous unnamed stains, we exude eau de toilet and reek of Joey’s
recycled formula.
Annabelle runs to the nursery toy box. We kiss Joey and dash for the exit
before he can explode another Pamper.
In
the sanctuary the worship band warms up. Our gifted children and their friends
play their instruments and raise voices to celebrate Christ. We pause to offer
thanksgiving for our family.
Plus
the fact it only took us five hours to get
here.
Copyright 2006 Rachael Phillips
Every August, the college exodus begins. Many freshmen leave home for the first time, making that magical move towards adulthood and eventual independence. Gallons of tears are shed and dozens of phone calls made. Sometimes even professional counseling becomes necessary for successful adjustment.
For the parents.
Before the kid even leaves the driveway.
As the mother of two (almost three!) college graduates, I offer my insights to ease parental separation anxiety.
Number one, hit the school sales. Ah, you moms feel better already, don’t you? First things first: for your own sanity’s sake, buy a dozen boxes of Fannie Mae Mint Meltaways. Hide them in your laundry room, where no self-respecting college-bound freshman would ever think of going. Of course, the chocolates are on sale. School sales, which begin as Fourth of July sparklers cool, involve price reductions on everything from goldfish to combines.
What? Your student does not need a goldfish? Or a combine? Just in case, buy her one of each while they’re on sale. She also will require a multitude of other articles: forks, curling iron, microwave, dinette set. Purchase them on sale now, or after she leaves, you will find yourself with straight hair sitting on the floor eating cold Spaghettios out of a can using your fingers.
More thoughtful, mature college freshmen leave at least a portion of family property at home. For example, if your son takes the computer and monitor, he will leave you the keyboard. If he confiscates the phones, he will leave you the phone book. If he takes your credit card, he will leave you the bill.
Speaking of phones, offer your daughter a brand-new cell phone equipped with unlimited Mom-and-Dad minutes, as well as other special features designed for college freshmen. Not only can she take digital pictures, but the phone automatically takes hourly photos and e-mails them to you, the parent. Other innovative features include a weekend tracking device and force field Dad can activate from home by remote control.
The latest electronic gadgets help soothe a parent’s apprehension. However, nothing dispels fear like getting to know your student’s future roommate before the two of them move into the dormitory together. When your son’s housing contract arrives, encourage him to call his roommate, introduce himself and find out who has the most money. While he is putting his best foot forward, you, the parent, should be doing your homework on this unknown entity. Googling the roommate’s name, reading blogs and making Internet background checks are helpful, but a truly conscientious parent will invest a week in a neighborhood stakeout to insure her child will not share quarters with a leprous Klingon. In dealing with new college roommates, stalk beats talk every time.
Two schools of thought exist as to whether parents should help students pack and unpack. If you do not assist in the process, you will not know that your son bagged a frying pan, a half-eaten bag of Cheetos and a toilet brush together. Every mother will live a few years longer without such knowledge.
On the other hand, if you do not monitor the packing procedures, you may need to rent a semitrailer—and that’s just to transport your daughter’s shoes.
By the way, how are you doing on your weight lifting? Every freshman’s parent should have begun an intensive weight training program during her senior year of high school, a step which aids loading, moving and carrying bags of money to the college billing office for the first installment on tuition.
If you have worked out regularly, loading will be a cinch. In no time at all, your minivan/U-Haul/semi/convoy should be ready to hit the highway. Your daughter will no doubt have stuffed her car to the overhead light with Beanie Babies. Never fear. Your youngest, a junior higher, will hang out the window and do lookout duty to help her change lanes on the freeway.
When you arrive safe and sound only to discover the dormitory parking lot is full, helpful university attendants will direct you to another parking lot—in a different area code. But your family will rise to the occasion. After several hours of carrying computers on your back and sofas on your head up five flights of stairs, your son will finally, officially, change his residence. He will have become a college student.
And it will be time for you to leave.
Give him a hug and kiss and depart. Out in the parking lot, wave at his window until he disappears from view. Remove his car’s fuel pump and take it with you.
For one night, he will stay put.
And you will sleep a little better.
Copyright 2006 Rachael Phillips
Plymouth and Change
Has it been almost 25 years?
I really do not need a calendar to check. The three-way mirrors at J.C. Penney’s remind me all too well that this summer will mark 25 years in Plymouth for my husband and me.
By the way, why don’t stores install mirrors that lie? A reverse of carnival fun house mirrors that make people look good? Streams of grateful swimsuit customers would make it worth their while. Just a thought.
Speaking of J.C. Penney’s, when we first arrived in Plymouth, their store was located downtown, where I also visited Bosworth’s Department Store and Robart’s Shoes, with stops at Harvey Mart and Glaub’s Supermarket. We also shopped at the tiny Bible Bookstore. I wonder if the nice ladies who worked there still remember my two-year-old’s first visit. She discovered a tiny pink rhino among the Noah’s Ark Bible school erasers and sang out her joy at the top of her lungs. Unfortunately, she couldn’t say her r’s yet: “Wino, wino, wino, WINO!”
There’s nothing like making great first impressions—and Plymouth did. Fresh from short tenures in South Bend and Indianapolis, my husband and I marveled at small-town friendliness. A checkout lady named Shirley at Kroger’s accepted our out-of-town check because she recognized my husband as the new doctor in town. A church welcomed us as family from the moment we set foot in the parking lot. Believe it or not, they still claim us.
As a new resident, I braced myself for the usual all-day ordeal required to change our cars’ registrations. I compiled the suitcase of paperwork I needed to prove our existence and armed myself as if going into combat. Diaper bags—check. Picnic lunch—check. Toybox and storybook library—confirmed. Thank goodness I had memorized one hundred seventeen nursery rhymes to soothe the sweet small savage hanging onto my knees while we waited an eternity in the purgatory otherwise known as the Bureau of Motor Vehicles.
No line snaked outside the building. Did I drive to the wrong address? The “License Branch” sign assured me otherwise, and I hauled kid and gear into the large, airy office. No line there, either.
The smiling worker invited me to the counter. I glanced from side to side. Wrong universe, maybe?
She accepted our old registration. I counted out twenty-dollar bills.
“We do take checks.” She looked a little puzzled.
“Really?” I stared. South Bend only accepted cash—which apparently went into someone’s pockets, as that branch supervisor later went to jail. But at the time, I thought cash-only was the norm. “Will—will you even take an out-of-town check?”
She nodded, still smiling. “
Toto, we’re not in the city any more,” I mumbled under my breath.
I completed our transaction in record time—even before my daughter’s next potty break. The cheery alien at the counter wished us a good day.
Small-town friendliness continued to blow my mind, but I gradually learned to handle the strain. In fact, I now greet strangers on the street with a “Good morning!” and wave at whoever honks. Call it neighborly syndrome. I’m glad I caught it.
I treasure the Plymouth things that remain the same. Bride dresses in Treat’s window, where young girls still stop to dream. Basketball games, a form of town therapy where, as good Hoosiers, we take out our hostilities and keep our crime rate down. Blueberry Festival and graduation open house seasons, in which, on the average, we consume more than 2.357 times our normal body weight in fried elephant ears, blueberry sundaes and photo-top cake.
May these time-worn, honored traditions endure forever.
As a progressive Plymouthite and good citizen, however, I am willing to move forward. Despite the unspeakable distance, I make the ten minute-drive “clear across town” to Wal-Mart, K-Mart and J.C. Penney’s at their present locations. I am willing to change.
Especially if the stores install those mirrors that lie.
Copyright
2006 Rachael Phillips
Lifetime Fitness Awareness
Three little words.
We’ve all heard them: word trios that drop on our heads like clusters of miniature anvils. You are overdrawn. The IRS called. What’s our deductible? Congratulations! It’s quadruplets.
But the three words at the bottom of my adult college registration eclipsed them all. Dress for exercise.
Dress for exercise?
“Lifetime Physical Awareness is required for everybody,” my college advisor insisted.
“But I’m already aware,” I whined. “My knees crack, I injured my back reading the newspaper last night, and my fallen arches make my feet resemble skateboards with no wheels. Why should I throw away perfectly good money to find out what I already know—my abs of steel are flabs I conceal.”
She gave me a sympathetic look, but said nothing.
At first, I felt encouraged. Our instructor, a Nice Young Man (over-50 translation for Hunk), prayed at the beginning of our class for health and well-being. A Christian college has its advantages; I could use divine help, especially since one glance told me I was at least ten years older than any of my co-sufferers. He prayed, his voice full of understanding and compassion.
Then he proceeded to kill me.
“Okay, everybody, let’s hit the weight room!”
Weight rooms exist for football players. Olympic medalists. Japanese wrestlers in loincloths.
I don’t even like to swimsuit shop.
As we filed into the weight room, young men with biceps the size of Thanksgiving hams gave us polite smiles as each hoisted half a house above his head.
I stared at one of the machines.
It smirked back at me. Deep in its shiny metal innards, it knew the truth: to me, heaven presents no mystery, compared to the incomprehensible operation of any and all machines. But I refused to be defeated by a lower species. I grasped the machine’s cold, skeletal limbs and yanked them toward my chest. The machine fought back, but with grim determination, I conquered my opponent. I had nearly completed a whole set when the instructor interrupted me. Would I please stop wrestling with the equipment rack?
He stuck close to me after that, introducing me one by one to various torture devices: machines that bent my biceps, pulled my pectorals, decreased my height, reversed my elbow direction. I lay on the floor panting, my tongue hanging out. My instructor kneeled down beside me.
“Tongue looks out-of-shape,” he said, marking his clip board chart. “Come with me to this machine over here. . . .”
“Can you believe it?” I asked my advisor later, after describing my brush with death by machinery. “To top it all off, we spent the last class session talking about managing stress. I’ll tell you about stress. Taking ‘Slow Execution 101.’”
My advisor looked up from her schedule of classes. “You’re mistaken,” she said. “That course is required next semester.”
Copyright 2006 Rachael Phillips
Practicing Spanish
How did I get myself into this mess?I had just stumbled through the dingy customs area of the airport in Tegucigalpa, the capital of Honduras, Central America. The officer had taken one look at me, shrugged, and filled out the customs forms without my input.
But I can speak Spanish! I wanted to protest. At least, some. Uh, maybe a little. Foggy recollections of counting ducks in high school Spanish class, plus a few nouns from Taco Bell’s menu came to mind. By that time, my luggage and I had been deposited in a patio area where we faced a literal wall of people, all yelling (in Spanish, of course) and waving arms like tentacles.
The sun had just set, and I desperately needed to find a place for the night. While I am not a globetrotter, I have visited Mexico, Ecuador, western Europe and Canada. But I had never faced a foreign city alone.
Nothing like an airline ticket mix-up to create adventure.
“Okay, God,” I said, “I’m glad you’re bilingual. Somehow, you’ve got to get me to the right place at the right time.”
The right place, my Honduran, English-speaking seatmate had told me on the airplane, was not the modest-priced hotel I’d found on the Internet. “I’m not sure that is even open,” she said. “Tegucigalpa is a dangerous place. Last week they found dynamite in the school where I teach. You’re not wearing jewelry? Good. You’d better stay at this hotel; it emphasizes security and service, with people who can help you work out your ticket problems. Some will speak English.”
The right hotel was also the most expensive in town, but at that moment I would have mortgaged my pancreas to stay there.
“This hotel has a shuttle, too; you don’t want to trust Tegucigalpa taxi drivers to get you back to the airport,” my new friend warned.
Watching the random NASCAR race going on in front of the airport, I saw what she meant. I also saw the hotel shuttle with (thank heaven) both Spanish and English signs painted on the side. But he was leaving! Screaming at the top of my lungs, I hauled my heavy suitcase toward him, determined to grab his bumper, if nothing else. A cortege of food vendors and indignant taxi drivers trailed after me. He threw his door open and said, “You have reservation?”
“No,” I answered in quiet desperation. “No, I don’t.”
“’S okay! Don’t WOR-RY!” he answered, face split in a huge, toothy grin.
I climbed aboard with the gratitude the last chimpanzee must have felt when she entered Noah’s ark. But I found the shuttle driver had earned his pole position; he, like all the other Honduran drivers, whizzed through the narrow, unpredictable streets like a meteor, ignoring the existence of all other vehicles.
“Warp factor two, Mr. Scott,” I said, clinging to my suitcase.
“Qué?” said the lovely, exquisitely dressed young businesswoman next to me. To my surprise, she responded to my few halting words of Spanish, then waited patiently for my replies. We had a delightful conversation, which distracted me from performing my own last rites and made me feel I was not cut off from all human contact.
I made it alive to the excellent hotel, which sported three locks on the door and numerous satellite trash sit-coms like “Frazier” in English to make me feel secure. Between my Spanish and their English, the hotel business center folks straightened out my ticket and got me to the airport at 5 a.m. the next morning so I could finally rendezvous with my daughter on Roatan, an island paradise.
Other good Samaritans rescued me during my trip: shop owners, hotel personnel, airline security people, the family with whom my daughter lived, and their friends, who endured my conversations throughout a day-long picnic. One waitress in Trujillo, who resembled a prostitute from Man of La Mancha, probably saved our lives. She flagged down the only taxi available because we ignorant North American gringas stayed late to watch an indigenous Indian dance by the ocean in a less-than-safe neighborhood, with no way back to our hotel.
Kindness where I least expected it. Understanding despite the language barriers. After a week in Honduras, all things Spanish intrigued and excited me.
“I really want to learn more Spanish,” I told God enthusiastically. “I’ll look for opportunities to practice, and get really good at it.”
“Actually,” He said, “you’ve already had some opportunities to practice in Plymouth, long before you went to Honduras.”
“When, Lord?”
“Do you remember the Hispanic guy in the store the other day?”
I cudgeled my brain for a moment or two. Oh. The guy who wanted to make a phone call.
I had been shopping—behind schedule, as always. Several of us stood in line at the cash register, checking our lists and our watches. A thirtyish Hispanic man had stood without a word beside the clerk until, upset by his silence, she irritably asked him what he wanted. He pointed to the telephone.
“I’ll ask my manager,” she said.
The manager, a weary, stressed woman, clicked her tongue with impatience when she saw him. “Oh, no. No free phone calls! I get so tired of this—”
He held out a phone card.
“That’s right! Go use it at the pay phone. They speak Spanish. Go!” She more or less shoved him out the front door. He stood on the sidewalk. Stranded, probably. Lost. Alone.
I stood in line. Behind schedule. Embarrassed at my terrible Spanish. Afraid of accosting a stranger. Especially a male stranger.
I could have helped.
But I didn’t.
“The linguistic opportunities are there,” the Lord said. “Not to mention a few chances to be a Good Samaritan. Want to practice your Spanish?”
Rachael
Phillips Copyright 2005
Thank You, Baby
April/May 2005
[A speech delivered at Bethel College's traditional graduation banquet
on April 30, 2005, for an audience of more than eight hundred.]Good evening. I’m Rachael Phillips, and, yes, I am a graduating senior—finally. I’ve been asked to represent Bethel’s married students in thanking our spouses and our families. Perhaps I’m a little unique in this gathering in that I have experienced both sides of this “married student” coin. Thirty years ago, I was the student wife that waited—prayed—fasted and prayed—for Graduation Day.
Believe it or not, you married students and spouses will one day look at a jar of Aldi’s peanut butter without gagging. You may even drive a car that gets miles to the gallon rather than miles to the push.
But—back to my main point: we students appreciate the superspouses who have loved us “for better or for worse.” More often than not, they’ve loved us for worse during our college careers. We have excelled in biology, psychology and eschatology, yet we forget to pay the light bill, plunging our homes in outer darkness.
We know how to discern literary archetypes and construct syllogisms, yet we somehow never make it to the grocery, and the family eats five-day-old onion pizza for breakfast.
And when our spouses turn the lights down low and play “our song,” looking forward to a romantic evening, we say, “Sorry, honey, I can’t; I have to write a research paper on “Principles for a Successful Christian Marriage.”
We ask your forgiveness, and we thank you.
Our children, too, have made sacrifices and helped us out. You’ve fixed our computers, helped us with our homework and listened to us gripe about our teachers.
You’ve also said, “Go, Mom!” and “You can do it, Dad!” and your encouragement has meant far more than you’ll ever know.
Despite our deep love for our little ones, we have not always been able to give them the time and attention they deserve. We hold them close and read them a storybook at bedtime—but guess who falls asleep first? However, we graduates look forward to better days. As for my own little granddaughter, Annabelle Kate, Grandma is finally all done with her homework, and she can come out and play now.
We cherish you all; we are grateful for your love, your patience, your faith in Jesus, your faith in us. But I must close with a special tribute to our superspouses: this long, difficult, wonderful journey has proved all the richer, all the sweeter, holding your hand.
Rachael
Phillips Copyright 2005
Married Is Better
(February/March 2005)
It is my unfashionable but astute opinion that married is better. Better than what? you may ask. Better than jumping off the Marshall County Courthouse in pajamas with a big red golf umbrella from Bloomingdale’s? Better than being tied to a crocodile who prefers the bottom of the Nile to the top? Better than working alongside Osama bin Laden in a nuclear power plant?
Perhaps I should define my position a little more succinctly: I believe that being married is better than being single. Yes, I really do.
For starters, if I were single, I would have spent the past thirty years of my life in utter darkness. You see, I was born without the gene which aids in changing light bulbs.
Victims of this grievous handicap rarely survive. They have not changed their refrigerator light bulbs since Carter was president. They subsist on diets of hairy leftovers and solid milk because they cannot see.
Add to this the dangers involved when every last light is burned out on the afflicted person’s automobile, and you can understand the low rate of survival.
In contrast, my husband changes and re-changes every bulb in the house, even as they burn.
He would, however, die of starvation as a single person because no one would be there to hit the microwave button.
Marriage provides for the mutual society and sanity of both partners in many ways. For example, I awaken nightly for my official Worry Time about 3:00 a.m. I worry about our parents. I worry about our grown children. Will the future bring the demise of Social Security, the collapse of America and even pointier shoes? If I were single, no deep, sweet voice of reason would calm my fears: “Don't worry, babe. You’ll be dead by 2030 or so, anyway.”
As a bachelor, my husband would have computerized the garage door, the kitchen faucets, our ice cream scoop.
I would have bought band candy from every big-brown-eyed child in the western hemisphere.
He would have grown a bumper crop of spaghetti in his beard.
I would have sported a bale of spinach between my teeth.
If we have stayed single.
Not to mention that we would not have produced together the smartest, most gifted, most beautiful children in the universe. Just ask their grandparents.
Or us.
But, you protest, I am living in the 50s, right back there with Beaver Cleaver and the Ricky Ricardos. Get real, because this is the new millennium, and we can do all that without being married.
True. But for the religious, the answer to that is simple: we have ample reason to believe God likes marriage better, too. But even if you have decided He does not exist, living together without marriage poses other concerns.
Two people can say, “I love you, and I want to live with you,” without the overpriced ruffled white dress, a cousin's off-key version of "I Love You Truly," cake loaded with Crisco icing, or signatures on the dreaded piece of paper. However, living together without marriage inevitably means, “I love you, but….” Long, romantic explanations emanate from polite partners who balk at marriage: "We respect each other’s freedom"; "I don’t want to tie you (and definitely, not me!) down"; and "The planets, stars, satellites and space shuttles are not in cosmic harmony."
For the not-so-polite (and more honest), the “but” boils down to one clear credo: “I never know when somebody better might come along.”
I am truly sorry for people who seem to regard themselves and each other as bologna samples to be passed out on Bargain Day.
And I am truly glad that my husband, like myself, believes that married is better.
Based on a
column in the South Bend Tribune Hometown, February 13, 1998.
Copyright Rachael Phillips 2005
Copyright Rachael Phillips 2005
Manger Madness
(December/January 2005)
It was a silent, holy night.
Heavenly music encircled the darkened church sanctuary like a golden Christmas ribbon. Worshipers breathed the spicy green fragrance of pine wreaths and garland, warmed to the glow of haloed candles that dripped slowly as if on cue.
I saw the church children’s choir director slip into the front pew. She threw me a weary glance over her shoulder. I, a fellow musician, understood. After a month of Sunday afternoon Christmas practices, she would gladly have exchanged places with the New Testament martyrs, who faced only lions.
Later she told me about the dress rehearsal earlier in the day. The Shepherds clobbered the Three Kings with their crooks. Having missed their rest times, the cranky angels refused to sing. The buttons on the sanctuary keyboard stuck during their practice, and “Silent Night” on chimes setting erupted into a wall-shaking dirt guitar version. When the director and her helpers herded the entire nativity scene into the restrooms for a last potty break, five-year-old Joseph dropped his lapel microphone into the toilet and flushed it down.
But now, lovely and fragile as a Victorian Christmas card, “Silent Night’s” melody tinkled as the children entered. I held my breath. Maybe she shouldn’t have chosen anything that remotely resembles “tinkle.” But the potty break, while complicated and a bit expensive, had done the trick. The three-year-olds kneeled with hands—or paws—at their sides before the manger, adorable in furry puppy costumes. A multitude of lovable bunnies, teddies, kittens, and lambs, along with two cows (complete with udders) and a two-kid camel crowded around the manger. A curly-haired Mary and Joseph (minus microphone) hovered around the pastor’s baby girl in the manger, who followed the script, sleeping sweetly.
Lights went up on the big-eyed heavenly host, who actually stood still on boxes behind them, raising small, chubby arms in holy benediction. One king sucked his thumb, and one shepherd fingered his staff, longing to wield it. But he refrained, as his mother sat, poised for attack, in the third pew. After a few minutes of quiet, even the much-enduring mom relaxed. A supernatural tranquility pervaded the scene. The choir director bowed her head. I marveled at the miracle. If peace was possible here, maybe the Middle East wasn’t a lost cause, after all.
“You’re in my place.” The thin whisper from the stage pierced the gentle quiet like a broken bell.
The director froze.
“You’re in my place! Move!” One of the bunnies elbowed the large teddy bear near her. He glanced her way. Obviously, the only way to deal with an angry woman was to ignore her. He did so, to his peril.
“Move!” she yelled, and swung a right that would have put Evander Holyfield to shame. The teddy collapsed into a heap, knocking the camel flying. The entire animal group crashed down like dominoes, only to rise for a battle that resembled Gettysburg in a petting zoo. The shepherds and kings tackled each other, the angels wailed.
Baby Jesus, enraged at the disturbance, let the entire world know what she thought of the whole shebang. Obviously, she’d never learned the second verse of “Away in a Manger,” because everybody knows the Little Lord Jesus never cried, even when the cows in the stable bawled directly into his divine Ears. And Baby Jesus came on a Silent Night, when all was “calm and bright.” His teenaged mother never sweat during her labor. She did not scream that she didn’t want to birth the Son of God in a smelly, disgusting stable, and why hadn’t Joseph made reservations?
Baby Jesus came to clean-shaven Shepherds who used Right Guard. He arrived in picture-book Bethlehem and made His home in a world as perfect and peaceful as a Christmas nativity scene.
Didn’t He?
Maybe the little kids got it right, after all.
Rachael Phillips Copyright 2005