From my mother on the occasion of my birthday

Hello Mom,

This is about the time of the morning where I would get the call from you - the birthday call.

Every year on my birthday I would get my special birthday wish from you.

The main subject was how difficult your labor was and how my big head had to be slowly extracted from you using forceps (this was 1962, almost medieval conditions).

And how dad had to drive you in the '57 Chevy to the hospital (Lake County East, no Hillcrest until 1967) in the rain, snow, thunder and lightning.

And how the hospital was working on backup electrical generators during my deliver.

Always sounded exciting. I was there, but I don't remember any of it.

I always found it funny the obstetrician that deliver me was Dr. Thanos, whose name is uncomfortably closes to 'thanatos,' Greek for 'death.'

So I came into this world with a lot of sturm and drang but you would always tell me that despite all of it, you were the happiest person in the world when I was born and that you always loved me and always would.

It's been five years since I've gotten that call and frankly I miss it. You were still alive four years ago on my birthday but had lost the ability to communicate. But I knew what you were thinking.

I miss the call. I still in some weird way, wait for it.

I hope that wherever you are (and if anyone could walk in Heaven's front door, it would be you) I hope you're not too disappointed in me and how it all turned out.

And I know you would say "I could never be disappointed in you."

I know.

Sing Sto lat in Heaven for me today mom.

Buying Underwear by Mail

Thank God (or whoever you thank) for Amazon.

The best thing that ever happened to the socially anxious

In fact, I would say, people with mental conditions everywhere probably breathe a sigh of relieve when they realize that they don't have to leave the house to purchase sundries. No, they can get on their best friend the computer, and order them from Amazon.

Just please don't make me have to sign for them

Two short days later, after avoiding the UPS driver (who comes right to the door - ugh!) there they are - whatever you ordered, Just open the door a crack, look to the left and right and snatch them inside to your own cocoon for enjoyment or necessity.

I don't think Jeff Bezos ever thought (or thinks now) that legions of agoraphobic would sing his praises or rejoice in his birth. But it is because of Jeff and his wonderful Amazon that when we don't feel like braving mingling with the People of Wal-Mart . . . we don't have to.

I remember when Amazon pretty much sold only books. Progress can be a wonderful thing.

Imagine the horror of having to go to a store to choose a piece of hardware, say, just that screw and bolt of a certain size and then you feel it creeping closer - the presence of some sales associate who is going to ask you if they can help you find something (because obviously you're an idiot who knows nothing of tools).

So. . . you have no idea what you're looking for, right Mister Man?

Of course, they're only doing their job but at the store, as in so many places, I just want to be left to grope blindly in sweating, panicky peace until, like some blind squirrel, I stumble upon the right size, shape, brand of whatever it is I was looking for.

Now you can browse in the sanctuary of your own living room until you are absolutely sure that THAT particular widget/lamp/sack of briefs is what you want. No rush, no intrusive salespeople, no feeling that the whole aisle is wondering if you're equal parts daft or stupid.

Ordering UNDERPANTS (yes, I said it) by mail is a first for me. I got tired of wandering through the shambling piles of tossed around UNDERPANTS packages at Wal-Mart looking like some scavenger on a quest. Someone nearby must think I get off on fondling so many packages of UNDERPANTS looking for the right size - like squeezing Charmin only with a hint of perversion. I am equally tired of going to the UNDERPANTS display at Costco to find, like most other articles of clothing at Costco, they don't cater to fatties.

UNDERPANTS! Yes, these.

But on Amazon there is no shame. No sideways glances, no accusatory looks from cashiers. Amazon doesn't judge. And I, for my part, utter a silent and heartfelt shut up and take my money.

And, by chance, if the order is wrong, Amazon, in their compassion for us, makes it ridiculously easy to return the merchandise. Just stick the label on and leave it on the porch. It disappears and the money returns magically to my account. No need to stand in front of a harried, gum-snapping judgmental pimply faced kid who will hold your UNDERPANTS aloft asking the entire room 'and what is the reason for this return?'

The UNDERPANTS will arrive tomorrow. Probably in a box that's six times the size of the plastic package (the neighbors will think it's a new toaster oven - splendid bit of subterfuge Jeff!).

The neighbors will never suspect!

So today, UNDERPANTS, tomorrow slacks, the day after tomorrow, we'll see.

I do not begrudge Jeff Bezos his billions. For he hath liberated all the socially anxious people to fulfill their fondest desires without the messiness of human interaction. We can buy UNDERPANTS by mail without shame.

And I am grateful.

Thank you Amazon!

. . . and your mother dresses you funny

Kevin Arnold’s Wonder Years began in 1968. 

You might remember him

So did mine. 

Let me set the scene where I was so you understand why I spent years trying to convince my parents to move back to where we belonged.

This is civilization to me: there are little house, on the hillside, little houses made of aluminum siding and quality wood. They have paved driveways, neat landscaping, young trees and sidewalks. Sidewalks are important.

Yes, much like this

The ice cream man comes by every so often which, after pathetic pleading, my dad and I run out to the curb and he hands me a quarter. The ice cream man is dressed in an immaculate white uniform. He has a cap. I buy a cone and he clicks out 15 cents from the nifty change maker on his belt. 

The sun shines. Next door, the teenager is waxing his ’67 Mustang while his radio plays “Penny Lane.”

I have a pedal-powered red fire engine which I ride up and down the sidewalk. I have friends my age I play with. We come in when the streetlights come on. We continue playing with our springer spaniel in the backyard, which is surrounded by a white picket fence and has a sandbox and a club house my dad built.

Me in my suburban paradise. Note the clothes. More on that later

It was Pleasant Valley Sunday Paradise on Golden Gate Boulevard in Mayfield Heights, Ohio in the spring of 1968.

But not for my dad.

No, he had Oliver Wendell Douglas dreams of his own ‘Green Acres’ in some place east of Eden called Chardon.

For years, I could ruefully imagine him spreading his arms out wide:

Mom was far less glam

Land, spreadin’ out so far and wide,
Keep your sidewalks, just gimme that countryside. . . 

Fine, you want to mow an acre and a half with a push mower, that’s fine. Just leave me out of it.

You are my son
Goodbye suburban fun!
Green Acres we are there. . . 

Yep, we traded sidewalks for this

And so we loaded up the van and moved to Geauga County.

Hills, there was. . . Amish buggies . . .  Ditches . . .  Bugs (I hate bugs).

After a few days of hiding in my new bedroom, mom figured it was time for me to meet the neighbor kids.

She dressed me for the occasion. I looked like Buster Brown. I might as well have been wearing golf knickers.

“They’re outside,” Mon said as she dragged me out the door. “Go over and say hi.”

They were outside all right. 

Careful not to scuff my patent leather shoes, my sister and I cautiously walked down the hill that separated our house from the neighbors. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

These kids were sitting on the grass and they were barefoot and they were poking a real fire in a dugout part of the grass with a stick.

There was a pause that must have been the same kind of pause when the Pilgrims met the Wampanoag. We regarded each other as aliens. I looked sideways at my sister. We were strangers in a strange land. What to do? I had to say something. 

Proving that my gift to say the wrong thing at the wrong time was something I was born with, I launched an accusation.

“Does your mom know you’re doing this,” I asked in that incredulous way only kids can when they see something that is wrong – just wrong – like playing with matches. Except this time, there was a full blown smoldering fire – next to their garage.

I remember Steve (the oldest) looking at Leslie, Melanie and Audrey with a smirk that said ‘well, well, lookey what we have here . . . some city slickers.’

Actually, he would call us city slickers for years.

“My mom gave us the matches,” Steve said. “We do this all the time.”

“Oh,” was the best thing I could come up with.

I was aware they were staring at us. 

“Does your mom always dress you like that when you go out,” said Leslie.

Uh, yes.

“Uh, no. She just wanted us to dress up to meet you guys,” I said.

That got a round of guffaws.

It was little Audrey’s turn to poke the fire and she did so with vigor. Sparks shot out and I took a quick step back. More laughter.

“Well, we just wanted to say I and. . . I think my mom wants us back in the house, so we’ll see you later,” I said. For once my sister didn’t argue. 

We quick-time marched up the hill.

“Were they nice,” mom asked.

No, no, not like this. They had better teeth

“Um. . . they were kinda weird,” I said. “They’re parents let them play with fire.”

“They’re hillbillies,” my sister blurted out.

“Don’t say such things about the neighbors,” mom said. “They just live a little differently out here in the country.”

I would find out later that not only were they allowed to play with fire, they also took turns driving their 1966 Ford Galaxy wagon around their horseshoe shaped driveway without the benefit of having a bona fide license. Steve also drove his dad’s tractor, raised sheep and generally was in training to be a farmer, which he eventually became. 

And so began the inter-neighborhood struggle between the city slickers and the hillbillies, a feigned polite friendship that would go on for some years. It would be a learning experience for all of us.

Including my dad, who was cheesed off that it now took 90 minutes to cut the grass.