Category — Uncategorized

We’ve been debating whether or not to get an Amazon account. We don’t do a lot of online shopping, so it doesn’t feel worth it to me. On the other hand, there are things difficult to get in stores but easy to get on Amazon (e.g., my hair products), so maybe it is.

The thing I’ve noticed as we dithered over whether to get an account is that we’re buying less. When it isn’t convenient because I need to order from three different sites to get what I need, and when shipping isn’t free, I drag my feet on ordering at all. Which probably tells me the thing I’m about to order is a want, not a need.

A case in point: The rubber around my phone case is breaking off. I could order a new rubber sleeve if we had an Amazon account. Ordering it from anywhere else costs more than it’s worth. I’ve decided to live with the phone case as is. It’s kind of punk rock. Or well-loved?

We already order coffee, pet supplies, and books from other sites. If I buy my hair products in bulk, I can get free shipping from other sites. Maybe it’s best if we don’t give ourselves an easy door to step through.

A few weeks ago, The Atlantic had an article about Judy Blume’s Forever, and how kids secretly passed certain books around. It was easy to get Forever at our library, and all of Judy Blume’s books, but the ones that we passed around were V.C. Andrews — The Flowers in the Attic series and then the Heaven books.

The passing of the books was almost more important than reading the books themselves. I loved that everyone entered the trading path. Most of the people who passed along the next book to me were not even my friends. They just knew how powerful it was to keep the story moving from kid to kid, all of us devouring complete trash.

The only thing I didn’t get to do was start one of the chains. I tried when a new book came out. We were in the grocery store, and the new book was right by the cash register. I casually told my mum that I thought I should get it, and she just replied, “Do you?” I had to report that I was not successful the next day on the playground, but luckily, enough other kids had gotten copies and started them through the underground book exchange.

Many years ago, the same thing happened with Vox by Nicholson Baker. Everyone was reading it on my college campus, and when people finished, they would hand off their copy to another person. Someone dropped their copy in my lap when I was sitting on Library Mall — no words, just gave me the book. I passed along that copy to someone else after finishing it in one night. I ended up buying myself a copy to keep with the black cover, which I liked more than the pink cover I got in the exchange.

This is kind of lost now with digital books. Passing along the story becomes more piracy than an underground book exchange, which makes me sad. Because there was really nothing better than reading a book you sensed you weren’t old enough to have yet.

I’ve told this story before, but now it has another chapter.

A long time ago, I decided to purchase the 35th anniversary copy of The Phantom Tollbooth, even though I owned many other copies of the book. But this copy stated that the author lived in my town. I grabbed the white pages (because back then, children, we had to look up addresses and telephone numbers in huge books… if you can believe that) and discovered that he lived 4 BLOCKS AWAY.

I called him at home around 9 pm, and he answered the phone. Rather than berating me for calling so late, he informed me that I wasn’t the first person to call him like this. I told him that it would mean the world to me if I could take him out for coffee.

And with all of the kindness of Tock, Mr. Juster invited me over to his house for tea. After work, I dressed up in a red checkered dress and tied my hair into two braids. I walked the four blocks between our houses and almost chickened out on the front lawn. I am so glad that I took a deep breath and knocked because it turned out to be one of the greatest afternoons of my life. There is nothing quite like getting to have tea with your idol on his porch.

Our lives crossed many times, and when he died, I posted the last picture that we took together. It was at a dinner party celebrating the 50th anniversary of the book. I feel very lucky that I got to see my idol so many times, and the kids got to meet him, too.

But I realized years ago that I had never been back to the house. I couldn’t even remember where it was located. Luckily, the town put up a plaque, and I was able to drive by when I was in the area and see the screened-in porch where we had tea. Everyone waited for me in the car while I walked around the outside of the house, remembering how I felt standing that first time on the front lawn. I was so young. I was so excited. I couldn’t help it; I started crying thinking of that version of me, who is still somewhere inside of me.

I got back in the car, drying my face. It’s a good reminder to go back to a place sometimes.

A few weeks ago, I tagged along with Josh when we went on a work trip and visited with Justine. We got falafel and walked around her workplace and hung out at her house. It was fantastic, but when I got home, I texted her that I realized we hadn’t taken a picture.

Photos or it didn’t happen?

We realized that we’d both be on the same road around the same time the next week. We shared our locations on Find My Friend and left it to chance. If it worked out, we’d both pull off the road and give each other a hug.

When we started driving, she was already 14 miles north, but we were farther east, so within the first hour, we ended up 2 miles ahead of her. I remembered a Trader Joe’s we once used when the kids were little for an impromptu picnic on the road, and told her to pull off at the exit.

We met up in the parking lot. Josh watched us jump up and down in excitement at our cleverness (come on, that was a lot of luck to make that happen) and we got coffee and got back on the road.

But we took a picture this time of our shit-eating grins.

There is a six-word line on page 281 in Ian McEwan’s book, What We Can Know, that I can’t stop thinking about:

“Nearly all of life is forgotten.”

You lived yesterday, and you can probably reconstruct a handful of moments here and there from memory. You know you were at work (maybe), and you know what sorts of things happen at work, but really remembering what you were doing minute to minute in your day is impossible. You’ve forgotten nearly all of your day.

If you jump back a few days, a few weeks, a few months, you’ve forgotten more and more and more. You take a trip, and you remember the highlights of the trip. You may even be able to answer specific questions about your time at a site if someone prompts you with questions, but overall, you’ve lived it and you’ve forgotten it.

I spend so much time worrying that I’m forgetting things, writing down lists so nothing falls through the cracks, bullet-journalling my existence. And along the way, I didn’t notice that I was forgetting anyway.