Mystery on Wheels

A little light reading

We have a new minivan. Great, huh? Not so fast!

Our two vehicles, for years, have been mine (a Hyundai Accent) and Steve’s (a Chevrolet van of some kind, bought used many moons ago). I love my compact car. It drives smoothly, parks easily, and has a surprisingly capacious trunk.

Stevo’s, which we all called The Beast, was built more like a small truck. You needed a running jump to climb into the thing, and in general it looked like the kind of shady “kidnappers within” auto you wouldn’t park next to in a mall lot. No tears were shed when, with more expensive repairs looming, we decided to cut our losses and pull the plug.

We are now leasing (for the first time), and it’ a very attractive number, a Subaru Forester (where do they come up with these names? Probably from the same folks who name new meds. I am half expecting to see a mixup at some point, as Ford introduces its deluxe seven passenger Aleve.) Steve has had it for just a couple of weeks now, and has endured probably two dozen reminders from me that he CANNOT drink coffee in it because IT IS A LEASE. He does use it for transporting props and costumes, and vows to be careful. We’ll see.

I have yet to drive the Forester. but at some point I hope to take it on the road. The problem is, (and Steve is facing this as well) I don’t have the time to read the multiple owner’s manuals (you read that right). Where is the control for the wipers? The A/C? How about adjusting the seats and mirrors? And here’s my next pet peeve: why is every single make and model completely different??? It is a nightmare of searching for the defrost and the volume on the radio while in traffic, because nothing is where it is in the other car. Nothing.

I also hate renting a car, because they basically flip you the key and wish you luck. 90% of drivers figure things out quickly. The rest of us sit in the lot at Hertz for an hour, trying to locate the ignition. I remember on our mission trip to West Virginia, my seven teenage passengers piled into the rental minivan. We were trying to keep the vehicles together as we traveled from airport to work site. Every other chaperone had started off, and I was frantically trying to keep up. My seat was set so far back (and I couldn’t figure out how to adjust it) that I was almost standing up to reach the brakes and gas pedal—a situation that continued for the next 50 miles. My legs ached for days, and the kids still tease me about it.

There’s a wonderful novel on my beside table, but tonight, I guess I’ll be reading a mystery instead, The Story of Our Subaru, Volume One and maybe, maybe, I will discover where the heck the gas cap is.

When life--and cars--were simpler!

Sing to God (But not THAT song!)

Catchy, no?

Pastor Hy, our indefatigable 93 year old semi-retired associate pastor, is a major hoot. She makes no bones about her personal preferences, which I think is adorable. For one thing, she hates bagpipes, just hates them. For another, her very least favorite hymn is “A Mighty Fortress is Our God.” It was penned by none other than Martin Luther himself, and as much as any tune, could be called THE Lutheran anthem. An ELCA clergyperson giving it thumbs down is akin to a politician admitting that he or she detests “The Star Spangled Banner.” I tease Hy that I plan to have “Fortress” played at her funeral. On bagpipes. My punchline “And you can’t do anything about it” is always topped by her rejoinder, “Just wait and see!” Knowing Pastor Hy as I do, if anyone could pull off a surprise appearance at their own funeral, she’d be the one. So I don’t dare sneak that ditty into her Celebration of Life service.

When it comes to church music selections, I have my faves for sure—and also the ones that really make me cringe. Sometimes it’s the tune that sets my teeth on edge, more often it’s the lyrics. For me, simpler is better—No #1 on my Heavenly Hit Parade is the gorgeous, plaintive spiritual “Give Me Jesus.” Our hymnal has some doozies, including “Earth and All Stars” with the painful lines “Classrooms and labs! Loud boiling test tubes! Sing to the Lord a new song!” I am definitely swimming against the tide of popular opinion, but “Borning Cry,” and “On Eagle’s Wings” (regularly trotted out for solemn occasions), have totally lost their appeal to me. Which means, of course, that when I die, someone (maybe Pastor Hy) will make sure that a soloist warbles both of these pieces at MY funeral.

We are a pretty traditional congregation when it comes to church music (our music director Ken claims we have “blended services” just because he sometimes chooses more modern pieces for the choir to sing, but I disagree). We have no Praise Band. We sing no Mercy Me or Casting Crowns, and I haven’t heard a drum set in worship here in a blue moon—it’s pretty much all organ, all the time. Now mind you, I don’t adore all (or even most) Contemporary Christian Music either. When the words of the endless chorus flash onto the obligatory big screens and everyone stands up, sways, raises both hands in the air and repeats the lame phrases over and over in some kind of Jesus-y trance, I’m outta there.

Given my druthers, I would probably prefer a blend of classical (Bach, etc.) and Gospel music at worship, which is what music director Sheridan tends to choose for Grace Wyndmoor. But I do love Christ’s Oreland, so I will remain in my pew on Sunday mornings, even when the “loud boiling test tubes” number comes up.

Sing on, my fellow Lutherans!! I’ll join you!! When the spirit moves me!!

Life By Tens (Decades, That Is)

Little me (and littler Mo and even littler C)

#1: Early childhood in Manhattan. I remember: pigeons, hero sandwiches, chain link fencing guarding the only stretches of grass I ever saw, newsstands with scary headlines in the tabloids, bomb shelter signs in our apartment lobby. Being lulled to sleep by taxi horns and sirens in the night.

The author as moody young teen

#2: At age nine the fam moved to the suburbs. It took me months to dare walk on our own lawn (after my NYC indoctrination), longer still to get used to the freedom to play in the neighborhood. Before age 19, we’d moved to Atlanta, Boston, Atlanta again. I’d attended six schools. Oh, and I’d gotten engaged. That too.

Oh Happy Day

#3: I ended my teens with a wedding ring, to my delight (and, I’m sure) Steve’s parents’ dismay. Throughout my twenties, hubs and I were on the road, touring with plays for young and old, landing at last in Philly. At 24 I lost my sister Mo, the saddest moment of my life. Pregnant at 26, I performed as Snow White until my third trimester (picture that. Better yet, don’t). Back on the boards when Sheridan was only two weeks old, and soon along came Evan. Busy years, featuring lots of love, and lots of spit up (not mine).

Our Gang

#4: The thirties were kind of a blur. I had Rose, Patrick and Julie during that span. We outgrew our "starter" home and moved to our current house in Oreland.  I joined the PTA, a playgroup, the Sunday School teaching staff, and a babysitting co-op. So much joining! At some point my hair began to go gray, and I decided that was completely unacceptable (though, in retrospect, totally understandable).

With Evan the Naval Academy plebe

#5: Fabulous Forties? Nope! The kids were growing up too fast, I was adrift career-wise, and menopause loomed. At 45, I began working full time at church and officially stopped acting. Mom, who wasn’t doing well, moved in with us, and the older three kids started college and left home. While it made sense to be a bit sad, my gloom was way over the top—as, it turned out, was my mania. Bipolar diagnosis at 48 rocked my world, but the incredible support of my crew got me through.

A Nana kiss for tiny Aiden

#6: Half-century mark was reached in 2006. I dutifully took my meds and my mental health improved. Church job went well, and I began to write books, and sell essays to magazines. Having never written that much before, I felt a bit like Grandma Moses with this late-in-life creative pursuit, but I truly loved (and love) it. Much joy with graduations, a wedding, the addition of Ya-Jhu and two fabulous grandbabies to my life.

Venice Italy 2018

#7: Three years in. Trips to Europe (a lifelong dream), and at long last starting to relax about money a bit. The knees are beginning to go, but the other body parts are still holding together. The rest of this paragraph has yet to be written. And you know what? I’m fine with that.

Bring on the surprises, life! But not too many!