Category: Mama Benchly

The Infamous Benchly Waterslide Incident of 1984

At work, I was recently asked why I had a fear of pools/water and so I described in vivid detail, the events that transpired over 20 years ago that, to this day, still greatly affect me. During this global-warming-reminder of a summer, when water is our source of sweet relief, I think that maybe we could all benefit from this lesson-learned in water safety. And so, without further ado, I present my dramatic retelling of the Infamous Benchly Waterslide Incident of 1984:

Oh! the Infamous Benchly Waterslide Incident of 1984, a dark stain on our family’s history. It was a hot summer day not unlike today, and my family ventured to the water park in Lake George, NY. With trepidation, I climbed the stairs with Papa Benchly to the top of the highest* waterslide in the park. The waterslide waters were fast** that day, my friends! But with encouragement from my father, I placed my 7-year-old body on the slide and pushed off into the dark, abysmally unknown water world. Five seconds later, as I slid faster and faster down this wet labyrinth, unbeknownst to me, in an effort to expedite the wait in line, the park attendee was forcing Papa Benchly to push off into the same slide despite his loud, vocal protest in which he cited various kinetic formulas. As I quickly neared the end of this ride, I slowly gained confidence in my ability to master the slippery world of water, but this ride was not to have a happy ending; indeed, it nearly had a tragic one. For as I reached the bottom, and with Mama Benchly standing in the pool with her loving arms outstretched, ready to catch me, Papa Benchly proved his various kinetic theorems by crashing into me and pushing me to the bottom of the pool. Emotionally crushed by my father’s apparent attempt to murder me, I lost sight of any reason to live and decided to stay below the surface. If it wasn’t for Mama Benchly, who snatched me out of the waters and carried me to shore, I might not be here today.

*Exaggeration.
**Unconfirmed. The waterslide park in question refused to comment on said accusations.

The Stolen Child

Part I
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand

One piece of Benchly gossip I neglected to mention in my last entry is what my favorite Christmas present was this past year. As the wrapping-paper dust settled on another Benchly Christmas, Mama and Papa Benchly said, “Don’t forget. [Mr. Benchly] has one more present.” Considering there were no boxes left unopened, I was puzzled and my expression said as much. And it was at this point that everyone in the room turned in my direction and told me in unison that Sister #1 was pregnant. So yes, that’s right, faithful readers, if the fates have their way, Niece #4 will be gracing our presence in August.

It’s been a long time since my last entry. In fact, it’s been more than a month since my discussion of second cousins, and while I’ve been actively responding to other people’s entries, it can safely be said that I haven’t been keeping up with my fair share of the blogging. And for that, I apologize. I’d like to get back into the habit of posting at least two significant entries every week; I just need the will power to do so.

I think it’s fair to say that my relationship with Freckles has affected my writing. Before Freckles, I was lonely, miserable, and filled to the blonde-haired brim with inspiration for meaningful (read: misery-filled) entries. But after that fateful June day when Freckles charmed me by saying she was a “bad, I’m talking off-the-road bad driver,” my focus has been more on her and less on my writing. But I don’t blame her, and you shouldn’t either.

I think Sarah the L will concur with my assertion that writers are most productive in their bitter, heartache days than at any other time in their lives. Knowing this, my new goal in life is to cherish and focus on my happiness while simultaneously channeling the miserable emotions from my past for my writing. If I can find a balance between the two, I believe I’ll be able to be both happy and a good writer.

Fortunately or, more to the point, unfortunately, my life as of late has been filled with some negativity that has Inspiration written all over it. And so, consequently, in this first entry of the new year, I’ll be able to draw on emotions from the present negativity, rather than worry about experimenting with those from the past. But before the negative, first some positive because, as is often the case, there was a poetic quiet before the storm…

As some of my 5 or 6 readers may remember, my last entry described my excitement over the revelation that a member of my family was performing on Broadway. Well, thanks in whole to the unbridled generosity of Freckles’ family (both extended and immediate), 2005 ended with quite a harmonious bang. Following a limo ride from Pennsylvania into New York City, and a rewarding dinner at a fine Italian restaurant in the Broadway district, Freckles’ aunt handed us 6th row center seats to Spamalot (aka, my second cousin’s show). Both the show and my relative were amazing and although I’m slightly bitter that my cousin was a no-show at our last-minute-planned meet-and-greet after the show, I was excited when Freckles and I were able to score autographs from both Hank Azaria and David Hyde Pierce.

The remainder of our New Year’s trip to Pennsylvania was spent celebrating Freckles’ cousin’s engagement, eating a never-ending supply of delicious snacks and meals, fighting off the little cousins for time on the X-Box (and losing), shopping the outlets, and aiming my paintball gun at the freckled redhead wearing the bright red sweatshirt who was aiming her paintball gun at me. Not only did I discover that I can survive and prosper in a paintball game, I also discovered, thanks to a direct hit to my middle finger, that I won’t ever want to play paintball again. And then, as the sun began to rise on the new year, I stood on the beach and watched the ocean water of my life recede to the horizon at an alarmingly fast rate.

Part II
For the world’s more full of weeping
Than you can understand.

Some days, when I’m overwhelmed with the anguish that seems to have set up shop in my world, I can find ample solace in the promise of my sister’s unborn and uncorrupted child. Most days, though, this baby can be only what he/she should be: a sweet footnote to an otherwise tumultuous month.

After enjoying our four-day weekend, Freckles and I returned from our Pennsylvania trip unenthusiastically ready to take on the working world again. First thing Tuesday morning, we were greeted by our company’s president, who read a statement he had been assigned by his bosses to read. As it turned out, the statement was, in effect, our termination notice. The company that owned our company had decided to close shop, move most of the work to a sister company, and offer one-fourth of the workers jobs at a sister company. As luck would have it, Freckles and I found ourselves in the group of workers “traded” to another company. As The Doctor said, “I feel as though I just used my eighth of nine lives here.”

It’s an odd feeling, this feeling of survivor’s guilt at the site of 150 of your coworkers doing the Lay-Off March. These are people with families; some with very little education and/or limited skills who fear the world outside of this small Vermont town they’ve known their whole lives. And yet I still have a job. With that said, although my intentions are still to leave as soon as a better offer comes along, I won’t pretend that the predominant emotion I’ve felt the last month is anything other than relief at having this job on which to fall back. But even so, other events in the month have served as reminders that life is more important than the company from which your next paycheck is coming.

I mentioned earlier that anguish had seemed to lay its roots in my world. I think that that’s the gentlest way to describe the fact that, in the past month, the lives of three of my loved ones have been greatly affected by four instances of cancer. The best friend of one of my best friends lost her fight with cancer earlier this month. And in the past month or so, I learned that the fathers of three wonderful women in my life were diagnosed with various cancers. After looking on from a secondhand point of view, I’ve learned how incredibly helpless one can feel at the hands of this powerful and mysterious sickness.

Again, I think of my sister’s unborn child. When anxiously awaiting all the joyous moments of this soul’s life, it’s difficult to overlook all the heartache that awaits it, too. Why do we do this? Why is it our pleasure to bring children into a world of pain and suffering? It seems that for every child that fulfills her childhood dream of starring on Broadway, there’s one that begins to successfully enter her adult life only to discover a loved one at risk to exit it. But then. Then, there are unexpected moments in your life that bring with them such a clarity that helps you recognize how worthwhile your life is.

And so it was that I found myself in the passenger seat of a car driven by Freckles, shaken up after skidding off the road into a snow bank/ditch, checking to see if Freckles was OK, making sure I was OK, fighting off the inevitable shock to determine what needed to be done, and saying a silent prayer of gratitude for being allowed the opportunity to continue to share my life with someone so special. Yes, the world may be more full of weeping than a child can understand, but as you grow older, you begin to realize that it’s mostly filled with love.

Big News

I learned something today. That’s not the big news. The big news comes later. I know you can hardly wait but you’ll have to deal because I want to share with you what I learned. And this is what I learned: I learned the difference between first, second, third, etc. cousins, as well as when to apply the term “removed.” You’re jealous; you’re thinking, “I want to know the difference!” But don’t be jealous. I’m going to share my knowledge with you right now.

The first, second, third, etc title for your cousins is directly related to your grandparents. Cousins who share two grandparents are considered first cousins. Cousins who have different grandparents, but who share great-grandparents are second cousins. Therefore, your children are second cousins to the children of your first cousins because they all share the same great-grandparents.

When the word “removed” is applied, it indicates that the two people described are from different generations. You and your aforementioned first cousins are from the same generation so there’s no removal; but you are from a different generation than your first cousin’s children. Therefore, they are your first cousins, once removed. If the children of your first cousins, once removed have children, those children are your first cousins, twice removed. And so on, and so forth. Make sense? Good. Now, onto the big news…

As all of you know, New Year’s Eve is quickly approaching, carrying with it the brand new year 2006. To celebrate the event, I’ll be traveling south to Freckles’ aunt and uncle’s house in Pennsylvania. These are the same all-too-generous extended family members who shared their lake home with me this past summer. Freckles and I found out last night that their latest gift is to bring us and the rest of the family to New York City tomorrow evening for the 8 o’clock show of Spamalot on Broadway. So before we ring in the new year, we’ll have an opportunity to witness one of the best entertainment accomplishments of the current year. As Mama and Papa Benchly, as well as Sarah the L and Head will tell you, this is a truly awesome gift! But that’s not the big news either.

When I told my father about these tickets, the following conversation ensued (with some poetic license on my part, including an inside joke that, I’m guessing, only Ms. Parker will get):

Papa Benchly: You should have your mother email Lauren to see if she can get you backstage!
Mr. Benchly: Lauren?
Papa Benchly: Lauren Kennedy.
Mr. Benchly: (blank stare)
Papa Benchly: Your COUSIN, Lauren Kennedy.
Mr. Benchly: (blank stare)
Papa Benchly: You know, your mother’s mother’s brother’s son’s daughter.
Mr. Benchly: (blank stare)
Papa Benchly: Mr. Benchly, are you listening to me?
Mr. Benchly: Shove it.
Papa Benchly: Did you just say “shove it”?

Anyway, evidently, the daughter of Grandma Benchly’s nephew; aka, the daughter of Mama Benchly’s first cousin; aka, the granddaughter of Grandma Benchly’s brother; aka, Mama Benchly’s first cousin, once removed; aka, Mr. Benchly’s great-uncle’s granddaughter; aka, my second cousin; is currently starring as the Lady of the Lake in the Broadway hit show Spamalot!

And my mother emailed her, and she responded to say that if I let her know when I’ll be attending, she’d love to stick around after the show to meet me. Of course, Benchly family historians will remind us that we have, in fact, met once before: at an extended family reunion gathering in the Carolinas back in the early 80s, when I was ~7 and she was ~10. If it wasn’t so tacky, I’d bring a picture from that reunion to have her autograph. I’m so excited and oddly proud of a woman I’ve met only once in my life. Hopefully, tomorrow, she doesn’t sing like I do!

Now that I’ve revealed the big news (and yes, in fact, that was the big news), I hope that all of my loyal and, consequently, bored-out-their-mind readers have a wonderful and safe New Year’s Eve and I hope that, for all of you, the new year brings with it health, love, happiness, and an ultra-talented, famous second cousin (or third cousin, or fourth cousin, or 3rd cousin twice removed…)! I’ll see you in the new year…

Proud of My Pride

I’ve never been good at taking care of my car. As my troubles with Inga Beep the Jeep proved, I’m pretty awful at it, in fact. I don’t take the car in as often as I should and therefore, inevitably, whenever I do take it in, there’s something wrong with it. And so each time I bring my car in to be worked on, I sit there in the waiting room with all of the other less-than-proud owners, dreading bad news and the subsequent guilt.

The same can be said for pets. Yes, I had a dog when I was growing up and yes, he lived happily and healthily until he was 13, but he did so only because of Mama Benchly. I fed him periodically and I walked him occasionally, but my ownership responsibilities extended only to playing with him during the day and sharing a bed with him at night. Because all of the responsible responsibilities were left to my mother, it can be argued that she was his proud owner.

In college, my senior year, I had a few fish (as did my three roommates) but they never seemed to survive more than a month each. My roommates and I taped on the wall above the fish tank home-made construction-paper tombstones for each fish that passed on to the tank in the sky; “RIP Alexis – 9/2/98-9/7/98.” By the end of the year, there were at least 12 tombstones on our wall, each staring down at the still-alive fish, serving as a reminder to exercise and to eat only the recommended number of pellets per day.

At the end of the school year, the day before graduation, we donated the fish to the tank in the office of the Dean of Students. Considering that they were outnumbered and much smaller, if my life was a movie, I’d have been shown giving the commencement speech while a dramatic song (maybe with chanting, and long notes in major chords; maybe something by Moby) drowned out my words and the camera cut to a shot of our poor fish being attacked by their new predators.

When I adopted Othello from Montana Girl, I was fearful that I wouldn’t be able to take care of him. Even The Virgin Mary still thinks that I’m not up to the task; to her credit, I was definitely slacking in the food-purchasing/litter-scooping departments in the beginning; and to my credit, I’ve definitely improved since she complained. But then a peeing-outside-the-litter-box incident pushed me to set up a long-overdue yearly check-up for the little guy, and this morning, I found myself sitting with said kitty on my lap, impatiently waiting for the veterinarian to tell me all of the things wrong with him.

And so, as you can probably imagine, words cannot possibly describe the joyous feeling I had when the vet told me that my kitty was healthy and perfectly normal, and, evidently, “naturally gorgeous.” Although Othello’s ears perked up when she said that, you can be certain that his owner was the proudest of them all.

I could hide ‘neath the wings of the bluebird as she sings

“But we, with our dreaming and singing,
Ceaseless and sorrowless we!
The glory and us clinging
Of the glorious futures we see,
Our souls with high music ringing:
O men! It must ever be
That we dwell in our dreaming and singing
A little apart from ye.”

– Arthur O’Shaughnessy

On a Wednesday evening last fall, on my way home from Trivia Night in Mama Benchly’s car, I found myself stopped at a red light a few miles down the road from my home. While listening to the late-night radio and patiently but tiredly waiting for the light to change to green, I noticed a 20-something man in a wheelchair rolling his way across the crosswalk. As he neared the midway point to the other side of the road, he stopped rolling and looked my way. He let out a big grin, pressed a button on the armrest and instantly, the chair took off by itself at a seemingly unsafe speed, stopped on a dime, did a 360-degree turn, and sped the rest of the way to safety. Before I could question what had just occurred, the light turned green and I began the final leg of my trip home.

In the movie Office Space, the main character says that when determining what to do for the rest of your life, you need only to look at your answer to the question “what would you do if you had $1 million?” His answer: “Nothing. I’d do nothing all day.” What about you?

The recent $315 million (and counting) PowerBall lotto jackpot has caused quite a commotion in my office and while I’ll be the first to admit that I’m partially responsible for this unprofessional distraction, it’s fair to say that these visions of being-able-to-purchase-one-billion-sugar-plums dancing in our heads would have existed without my encouragement. As per the usual human behavior when wondering if you’ll win the all-too-elusive multi-million-dollar jackpot, the office and carpool topic of conversation has consistently centered around the trivial Office-Space-like “what would you do with the money?” question. I’ve discovered that a great many hours of entertainment can come from debating such a question with others or, if you’re as pathetic as I am, with yourself.

This past weekend’s drawing produced six numbers that proved to be unlucky for the millions upon millions of money-greedy Americans who seemingly played every combination of numbers except for the six correct ones, and consequently, the jackpot increased by $25 million. When the jackpot surpassed $180 million, I took interest, and I have since purchased a total of 14 1/2 tickets (Freckles and I split one) and of all the numbers I selected between 1 and 55 on all of the tickets I purchased (a total of approximately 30 unique numbers), I managed to match exactly two of them. As luck would have it, though, these winning numbers were on the same ticket and so, naturally, in spite of Freckles’s concerns, I did the Gambling Addict Dance into the local convenience store to exchange my $4 prize for four more $1 tickets to the next $205 million drawing. Needless to say, a few days later, I was not dancing as I made my way to the trash can to dispose of the losing tickets.

That day, on my drive back from the convenience store where I was hoping my life had taken the beginning (read: $4) steps to changing forever, I imagined what would happen if I won and, to simply and redundantly put it, my life was changed forever. Knowing that it would be impossible to spend all of that money in my lifetime except, of course, if I decided to buy 205 million lottery tickets, and because I like to imagine being able to provide for those I love, I imagined scenarios in which I was able to reveal to loved ones how all financial stresses in their lives had vanished in the time it took a machine to randomly select six ping pong balls. And because I’ve never been prescribed medication to prevent me from doing so, I imagined in my head, the hypothetical conversations that would happen if such an event took place.

After walking through the literal and metaphorical doorway back into the sane real world of my insanely mind-numbing job in the town known for producing granite, which, on my ultra-cynical days, I believe to be the only product the collective workforce of the town is qualified to produce, I attempted to silence these voices and return to work. As I sat at my desk, unable to concentrate except when focusing on how to spend millions of dollars, I decided that these imaginary conversations and “what if?” debates are not-too-distant cousins of the people-watching game I described in a previous entry. Simply stated, they’re the favored past-times of daydreamers. What followed this realization was an epiphany the likes of which I’ve never experienced save the day I realized that Pickles were Cucumbers, now they’re Pickles, not Cucumbers.

While moments as bizarre as the wheelchair incident do not occur on a daily basis, it’s safe to say that more often than not, I find myself in situations that beg me to question their reality. Whether I’m unexpectedly but delightfully thrown into the role of Loser Cruiser driver for a day, or playing chess against Niece #1, or contemplating staying at a Shaker bed and breakfast, or driving a bride to her wedding, or seeing a man driving to work while practicing his clarinet, or walking down the street side-by-side with a friend on a unicycle, or joining a nomad, a drunk, and a paraplegic to make up the audience for an impromptu street performance, I almost always feel as though only my imagination could have ever invented the life I’m living.

As time passed by, I began to wonder if that’s all this really is; is my life the product of my imagination? My creation? My daydream? And that’s when I had my epiphany, which, subsequently, gave me my answer to the Office Space question. If I win the lottery and I have millions of dollars, and even if I don’t, and if/when I have to decide what to do for the rest of my life, I now know what my answer is: I’ll daydream. So if you need me, I’ll just be over in this corner, imagining a winning lottery ticket.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

I’m sitting in my Church Street apartment in Burlington, contemplating the end of another summer while the afternoon sun paints my maroon living room walls with the golden colors of its slow, yet far-too-quick descent to the other side of the horizon, where it will rest while pondering tomorrow’s fate. As I try to recall all of the activities of this past summer (read: all the reasons why I’ve slacked off on my blog), I’m reminded of the “What I Did on My Summer Vacation” papers that Loser Cruiser passenger Fun Curly Haired Teacher Guy was busy grading on the ride home from work last fall. When I was growing up, I used to dread writing that paper as much as I loved it. I dreaded it because it was my first homework assignment of many; I loved it because I got to talk about me. In that sense, and serving as a perfect closure to the introduction of this long-overdue entry, all I can say is that some things never change.

It’s only fitting to mention that infamous elementary school assignment when you consider that summer is the season when most of us are finally able to reacquaint ourselves with our inner child (mine was hiding out in my Inhibitions and Social Anxiety Closet). With the fine exception of Mama Benchly who, for various reasons, prides herself on being unremittingly in touch with her inner child, most of the rest of us adults corrupted by society’s cynicism and realism are only truly able to interact with this exuberant, whimsical, passionate, and youthful spirit when summer is in season.

It seems that only when the summer sun has come out to play for a few months do we see grown and overgrown men shrug off their aching muscles to return to a baseball diamond, and mothers fiercely compete against their adult offspring at any of those barbecue/picnic-friendly games (croquet, badminton, bocce, etc.), and grandfathers challenge their grandsons in cut-throat amusement park video game rides, and 30-year-old women plead like Nieces #1–3 to set off “just one more” firecracker, and 20-something friends return to the playground to have a go at the swings after throwing frisbees around all day, and a young couple see just how fast they can travel together on a jet ski.

Needless to say, I’ve had a really rewarding summer this year, and the summer began, as many successful summers often do, with a great new romance. After describing the last few months as rewarding, it was no surprise for me to realize that my courtship with Freckles began to take shape about the same time the official first day of summer came to pass. And while I’m thankful for Freckles for a number of reasons that I won’t delve into in this entry, I must acknowledge how incredibly grateful I am for having her in my life because if it were not for her, I wouldn’t have experienced half of what I did this summer.

The summer began with not one, but two summer beer-drinking softball leagues on Bad News Bears teams that threatened to break the long-standing record 6% winning percentage set by the Giants, my Little League baseball team. We couldn’t hit, we couldn’t field, we didn’t know where to throw the ball, or when not to throw it, and at the end of each game, the official boxscore resembled the betting odds for a Kentucky Derby long shot. But like most men given the opportunity to play the game they love, we had fun. With beer.

Thanks to Freckles and her unbelievably generous family, I was fortunate to spend a few summer afternoons and evenings at a camp on Lake Champlain where the aforementioned croquet and jet skiing took place. And as a too-good-to-be-true encore, I was also given the opportunity to accompany Freckles to her cousin’s Florida wedding in August. The only question that remains is how to properly thank people who, without hesitation or second-thought, gave so freely and so much? Needless to say, I’m still working on that one.

The rest of the summer was filled to the brim with disc golf with Montana Girl, The Virgin Mary’s birthday party celebration campout on a lake, canoeing, hiking with friends, time spent with the nieces, and all the other activities that make you feel young again, even if your 28-year-old body has a different opinion.

And then, just as I started to believe that I had recaptured the innocence I lost far too long ago, I was reminded that I can never go back to the world I once knew because as the summer sun began to set on this great season once again, I was assaulted with the kind of news only the sheltered Nieces #1–3 could have possibly overlooked: my company laid off nearly one-fifth of its workforce so that it could “continue to stay competitive”; Hurricane Katrina destroyed the way of life for hundreds of thousands of people; and gas prices soared to levels only Europeans ever thought were possible. And while I found some solace in one of the most powerful images of my short life (a seemingly infinite line of my fellow citizens ready to donate food and supplies to the hurricane victims), I can’t shake the reality that my childhood has left me, and in its place now stands an unforgiving and stressful world of pain and sorrow.

A. Bartlett Giamatti once wrote that baseball was a game designed to break you heart; that “you count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive and then, just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops.” And now, as I prepare to face the chill rains of fall in this terrible, wonderful world, I think the same can be said for summer.

Forever’s Gone Away

I don’t recall much from my high school graduation. I imagine that one of my pretty classmates spoke of cherished memories, another book-smart classmate predictably mentioned hard work and determination, and the winner of the popularity contest (read: class president elections) probably paraphrased the Army’s “Be All You Can Be” campaign while Boys II Men’s “It’s So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday” played over the speakers like the hidden song on the soundtrack of our lives. One thing I do remember, though, is the sight of many of my classmates shedding tears as they mourned the closing of the latest chapter of their lives and, while most passed it off as a sadness for the inevitable loss of their trivial friendships, I suspect their tears had more to do with the fear of the unknown. For most of my classmates who were conditioned to follow the pack in a desperate attempt to maintain an appearance of normality, high school graduation brought with it a terrifying world where those who thought for themselves and embraced individuality advanced, and those who didn’t stayed behind to reminisce about the “Glory Days.”

As for myself, when my high school principal stood up in the unforgiving, sweltering school gymnasium heat that June day and announced to my class that we had finally graduated high school and were now officially free to do as we pleased, I followed his advice and left, looking back only once to get one last glimpse of the school I hated and the sheepish classmates I never knew. Maybe I was ahead of my time, maybe my older sisters had given me insight into my future, and maybe my experience in those four years was just that miserable; all I know is when I left high school, I knew that the best years of my life would be found ahead of me on a path I had yet to create, rather than on the paved road of high school I was leaving behind. What I never realized was how quickly those years would pass by me.

One of my high school classmates emailed me the other day to notify me of our impending rite of passage into a quarter-life crisis: the 10 year high school reunion; that stressful evening spent with the people you hardly knew, pretending that you want to know them now, and while silently hoping they care more about your life than you do about theirs. I haven’t officially decided whether or not I’m going to attend this once-in-a-lifetime event but I won’t lie, I probably won’t. Considering I’m in touch with all of the people from high school with whom I wish to have meaningful friendships, I just can’t find all that much to be gained from my attendance. Regardless, however, the invitation has left me amazed at how helpless the passage of time makes me feel.

This past weekend, I mourned the loss of another year of my life as I celebrated my 28th birthday. Freckles treated me to dinner Friday night and, though she’ll tell you otherwise, she cooked a delicious meal. She then joined me Saturday on a hike up Vermont’s second tallest mountain, Camel’s Hump, whose peak ranks in my top five all-time favorite spots in the state. Though our stay at the top of the mountain was cut short in order to make our dinner date on time, the feelings of accomplishment inspired by the magnificent views, made it well worth the climb. The hike down the mountain in the lightening storm made me second-guess our trip, however. On the other hand, Freckles, author of the constant barrage of reminders sent my way at how important it is to live in the present rather than dwell on the future and the “what ifs?”, was impressively calm as we descended in the rain, serenaded by thunder.

Saturday night, Freckles and I met up for dinner with The Benchlys, Sister #1, her husband, Niece #1, and Niece #2. The night, which appeared to be capping off a perfect birthday, nearly turned tragic when Mama Benchly began to struggle for air, her face flushed from fear and pain. While I was paralyzed by an anxious shock, my brother in law, a volunteer fireman, stepped in to take charge of the situation and quickly determined that her airway was blocked, not by food, but by the swelling from an allergic reaction caused by the mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat my mother had mistakenly consumed moments earlier. When a handful of hits from her inhaler provided little to no relief, my brother in law ran to the store next-door and returned soon after with Benadryl, an antihistamine often used to combat allergic reactions. Mama Benchly downed the Benadryl while an imaginary crowd of fraternity brothers cheered her on and shortly thereafter, her breathing began to improve.

While Mama Benchly’s breathing, though still somewhat pained, returned to normal, the evening’s lessons learned of the fragility of the mortal life put me in a thoughtful mood from which I have yet to emerge. Stated simply, my mother’s allergic reaction was the scariest sight I had ever witnessed in my short life, and, on a day spent celebrating the latest year of my life, it served to remind me of how quickly life can be taken from us and, as Freckles always says, that our lives are too short for us to spend much time worrying about the hundred different potential consequences of our actions.

And so here I sit 10 years after my high school graduation and four days into my 28th year, awaiting word from the representatives from another Vermont publishing company with whom I interviewed this morning. If everything goes according to plan, I’ll be offered this editing job, which will point my career in the right direction while allowing me more time to write. But if, for whatever reason, I failed to properly sell myself and my skills to the interviewers, I’ll be able to sleep at night because I’ll know that my life was too short for me not to have tried at all.

The (Commuting) Choices We Make

I slept in this morning, which is a luxury my new car now allows me to afford. But as I drove to work on the interstate, my thoughts were not of the sweet dreams I had had after my alarm clock sounded, or the joys one feels while driving a nice new car, but rather of the money I was soon going to be losing should I continue to drive solo to work every day.

I recently talked to The Doctor about carpooling again. He’s open to the idea but because of his current physical therapy schedule and his son’s daycare schedule, he can’t start for a few weeks. We’ve made plans to meet in the park ‘n’ ride lot in mid-June, so now I’m trying to determine my best commuting option until then. For as long as it is federally funded, however inconvenient it may be, the Loser Cruiser is always an option. But last night’s drive home brought with it an interesting plot twist to my life:

I left work last night shortly after the Toad hopped away (only Sarah will get this reference) and headed to the parking lot to find my still-unnamed vehicle (the latest suggestions: Silver-Door Dolly, Silver Otto, Jane Honda, Rhonda, Carmine, Gertrude, and Timothy) parked next to a blue car being opened by the new girl, Freckles. We both started our cars and Freckles took a right turn out of the parking lot with me close behind her. 45 minutes later, we both took the same South Burlington exit before finally heading in different directions into town.

Evidently, it seems that Freckles makes the same daily commute as I do and so she could very well be interested in carpooling with me, and then in mid-June, with me and The Doctor. This was news to me, because, as will not be news to you, in the two or three weeks that she has worked here, I’ve said less than 10 words to her. Although the silent treatment I’ve given Freckles has everything to do with the fact that she’s a new employee and that it generally takes me 2 to 3 months to be comfortable enough with someone to randomly talk to him/her (those irrational trust issues again), I’m now hesitant to address this commuting issue with her for a completely separate reason: she’s unfairly cute (and yes, Sarah, she’s wife cute).

You see, I have a history of carpooling with attractive women. In the 5 years that I’ve been carpooling, it has happened twice: Veronica Japanica (named as such in honor of her car’s nickname) and Widget (named as such because this is what Veronica Japanica called her). While both carpools ultimately ended, only one ended positively. Veronica and I were roommates, coworkers, and carpool buddies meaning that on any given day, we spent close to 16 hours in each other’s company. Strangely enough, it worked out just fine because we were friends who had separate lives.

When Veronica moved away, however, my next carpooling buddy taught me an invaluable life lesson: like beer and milk, coworkers that date and carpool do not mix. (The only thing more dangerous is dating a roommate, which is like mixing vodka with engine oil.) As I briefly mentioned in a past entry, Widget and I started dating a few months after we began carpooling and what seemed to be a wonderfully convenient situation quickly turned into a depressingly uncomfortable one post-break-up. The months at work that followed our break-up were nothing short of a hell where you’re forced to drink milk/beer/engine oil cocktails.

After Widget and I crashed and burned (though, not literally, thankfully), gas prices and my budget were such that I still needed to carpool, but for my sanity’s sake, I needed to carpool with someone for whom there would be no chance of falling. The Doctor was a healthy alternative because he is one of the nicest individuals I have ever met, he’s a good friend, his sense of humor is unrivaled, and well, he’s a he. The Doctor and I started carpooling and continued to do so successfully for close to a year until the infamous Inga Overheating Incident. Ever since then, it’s been the Loser Cruiser all the way with the occasional solo commutes in Mama or Papa Benchly’s vehicles and the always treasured moments spent in Inga and Sarah the L’s Daisy (after we both missed the LC).

Now that I’m a member of the car-owners’ club, I’m struggling to decide if I should ask Freckles to join The Doctor and me in our quest to save the planet while simultaneously saving money. On one hand, she will help to reduce the priceless wear-and-tear mileage on our vehicles while we all pocket loads of cash. On the other hand, she’s young, she’s intelligent (I even think she has an English degree!), she’s cute, and I wouldn’t stand a chance in her 2-hours-a-day presence. As I post this, I still don’t know what I’m going to do.

After sleeping in this morning, I left for work approximately 20 minutes after the Loser Cruiser typically leaves the bus station in the morning. When I caught up with the Loser Cruiser on the highway, I knew she was running a little late (Deane doesn’t drive slowly). As I passed the bus and returned to the right lane, bringing the Loser Cruiser into my rearview mirror, I realized that I am reluctantly closing one commuting chapter in my book, while anxiously looking ahead to the story that awaits me on the next page. Hopefully this story has a happy ending.

Measuring the marigolds

In a symbolic tribute to the recent events of my life, Deane returned to full-time duties on the Loser Cruiser this week and the substitute driver was banished to a lifetime of crappy routes. (Though my friends [and even I] will claim that the substitute’s banishment to a lifetime of more sensitive, considerate, compassionate, and respectful routes capable of sending emails without typos would be a more fitting tribute to my life.) Of course, Deane defines “full-time” as 6 hours a day, Monday through Thursday, leaving Friday to another driver I have unaffectionately nicknamed Fidgety Friday.

Fidgety Friday is so named for his inability to sit still for more than 5 seconds. If he’s not adjusting the height of his seat, he’s adjusting his position on the seat; if he’s not adjusting the in-bus mirrors, he’s looking in them; if he’s not switching lanes to let someone much slower pass us, he’s stopping completely to give someone else our right of way; if he’s not scratching his nose, he’s adjusting his glasses; if he’s not rolling up his sleeves, he’s taking a drink of water; etc. And as anyone who has ever ridden a bus of this size on an interstate before will tell you, its sensitive steering means that the last thing you want is a bus driver who can’t sit still. Consequently, my mornings on the last day of each week typically begin with motion sickness.

Unfortunately, I must admit that I am discussing this topic because I am not the most appropriate person to be leading this discussion. Like murderers who have held their secret crimes inside for too long, my ex-girlfriends will eagerly tell you that a perfectly comfortable cuddling position with me never lasts more than ten minutes because either my arm starts to twitch, I get a leg cramp, my nose itches, or the heat of the pillow convincingly suggests that it needs to be flipped. Those instances when she and I fall asleep cuddling and wake up more than an hour later in the same position are so few and far between, I consider them historic and consequently, I can actually recite the times and places in which they occurred.

When I was growing up, Mama Benchly actually dubbed me “Inch Worm” after the Anne Murray song of the same name. “Inch worm, inch worm, measuring the marigolds. Seems to me you’d stop and see how beautiful they are.” I craved the affection that came with being held and rocked to sleep, but my energy was such that I could not sit still. (When I was born, I had so much energy, the doctors even suggested putting sneakers on my feet and letting me run home.) Hearing my mother sing this song to me in her soft and familiarly comforting voice always calmed my nerves and put me to sleep. Despite this twist lacking in irony, I consistently tested the patience of both myself and my mother.

As Niece #2 has recently proved, this trait is definitely a genetic one. I constantly see her struggle when her desire for cuddling conflicts with her inability to keep still. Considering she is only 3 years old, I don’t yet have enough heart in me to confess to her that, evidently, we are both doomed to a cruel fate of an unending appetite for and incurable resistance to cuddling. Why are we so restless? When all we want is to feel that emotional connection and purpose and security and comfort one feels while physically so close to someone else, after we’ve reached this goal, why are we seemingly so eager to push it away? Is it a purely physical response or is it much more? Are we sabotaging our happy lives on purpose? And if so, why? Because, it seems to me that we should stop and see how beautiful they are.

Just call me Deane

Today began like any other: I awoke to the gradually louder and increasingly annoying beeps of my alarm clock, I turned the alarm off, and I went back to sleep. A few minutes later, when I determined that to stay in bed one more minute meant to miss the Loser Cruiser to work, I got out of bed, made my bed (because I’m anal), took a shower, dressed without much thought of the weather, ran out the door as Othello looked on with his puppy-dog-kitty eyes from his spot on the table near the window, and walked up Church Street to the bus station.

When I arrived at the Loser Cruiser hub, I was alarmed to find no Loser Cruiser waiting for me. In the winter, on those typical Vermont snow days, this was expected; but in the warmer months, the bus routine is as predictable as the menstrual cycles of college roommates. I sat down on one of the benches, took out my David Sedaris book, and waited for news of my morning commute’s fate. After another bus’s driver notified Make Out Woman that our bus was broken down and would be delayed at least 30 minutes, and as Make Out Woman and Biography Man walked away (to, I’m guessing, their respective vehicles), I sat next to Hunger Mountain Girl and considered my options. I called Mama Benchly who graciously let me borrow her car and I began walking in that direction, when I suddenly became overwhelmed with a feeling I can only describe as a distant cousin of survivor’s guilt. I turned around, approached Hunger Mountain Girl, and offered her a ride to work. When she accepted, we headed to Mama and Papa Benchly’s home to get the car.

(When we were met at the front door by Brother-in-Law #1, who had just dropped off Niece #2, I was treated to a stinging moment of awkwardness when it became clear to me that he had mistaken Hunger Mountain Girl for Hypothetical. That one’s going to leave a mark, especially for him when my sister finds out and punches him.)

Those who know me best, know that I don’t do well when dealing with strangers. And though Hunger Mountain Girl and I had ridden the bus together for almost a year, my invitation to her this morning were the first words I had ever spoken to her, and the thought of spending the next hour in a car together was an uneasy one. My fears were put to rest soon enough though as we settled into our car and a nice conversation about San Francisco and obnoxiously rich people. On our way out of town, we passed another one of the Loser Cruiser’s stops and when we noticed two fellow passengers waiting impatiently in the rain, we pulled over and offered them a ride. And so, the morning commute to work became the car-pool tale of Mr. Benchly, Hunger Mountain Girl, the Cruiser Snoozer, and Audi Girl.

Most of our conversations stayed far away from anything controversial with the exception of the uncomfortable silence that greeted Hunger Mountain Girl’s observation that most convenience store owners are “foreigners.” The Cruiser Snoozer talked about his children, Audi Girl talked about a town meeting she went to the night before, Hunger Mountain Girl talked about her upcoming two month trip to the West Coast, and I talked about my job and my need for a new one. Hunger Mountain Girl told me that Stonecutter Way Girl’s name was Claire and she was from France (do you hear that, Sarah? She’s FRENCH!!!!) and that while I was sitting in front of her one day, she drew a picture of me. The highlight of the trip, by far, was when we all came together in a union of nostalgia to swap stories about Al Bundy. Oh how we all miss Al Bundy!

As we exited the interstate at the Montpelier exit, Hunger Mountain Girl asked me where I was going to drop everyone off. I said, “might as well do the route.” I then shouted out in my best Deane voice, “anyone for National Life up on the hill?” When no one answered and while everyone silently thought of National Life Guy, I made my way to State Street. I pulled up to the Chittenden Bank and called out “David? David?,” thus mocking Deane’s daily attempt to wake up the Cruiser Snoozer. Finally, I drove down Stonecutter’s Way and pulled over to let out Audi Girl and Hunger Mountain Girl. As they left the car, giving wishes for a good day and gratitude for the ride, I responded the only way I know how: “I’ll see you on the bus.”