And so this week’s Moment of Happiness Despite The News.
I’ve been sick for two and a half weeks now. I’ve finally been given clearance to return to teaching on Tuesday, “as long as I behave myself”, whatever that means.
Yesterday, my dog Ursula and I had a long day. Ursula has an odd autoimmune condition that causes her toenails to grow in (when they grown in) sideways or corkscrew. They are often a shell, appearing normal from the top, but underneath, wide open, exposing the quick. She takes meds to try to harden the nails, and she’s done well for several years now. But apparently, one of the nails nearly broke off, but not entirely. When she walked, it would flap and drag, and she would high-step or limp or do this weird paddle motion.
I brought her in to the vet and she went through having the toenail removed, and her other toenails trimmed that needed to be. She was put in a pressure bandage to stop the bleeding. Because I was still sick, my daughter Olivia went into the vet with Ursula, and I stayed in the car. I was put on speaker phone so I could hear everything.
She and I both came home exhausted.
Partway through the evening, I figured I needed supper, and I had a craving for waffles. I had some in the freezer, but to my dismay, there wasn’t any syrup. I sat and stewed for a bit. And then thought of Dennys.
I love Dennys.
It was later at night, after 9:00, so the restaurant shouldn’t be crowded. I considered ordering DoorDash, but cripes, that’s expensive. The thought of sitting in a booth, by myself, with a book, while a hot meal and a hot cup of coffee were placed before me, was very appealing. I patted Ursula, told the cats to please behave themselves (they didn’t), and off I went.
The meal went as I pictured it. I was in a booth. I ordered my favorite, the French Slam, and made my usual request to please burn the bacon to the point that it crumbles when I bite it. They did. Everything was warm, everything was delicious, everything was quiet.
My server made some small talk with me while I ate. I found out he was nineteen years old. At one point, near the end of my meal, he said, “I’m sorry to keep checking on you, but you and that other table are the only tables I have right now! And it’s my last night…I’m going back to school tomorrow.”
“Where do you go?” I asked.
“Madison,” he said, and beamed.
“I went there too,” I said. He asked me what I majored in and I told him English, with a creative writing emphasis (there wasn’t a creative writing major yet). He told me he was in legal studies, but he was considering a second major in creative writing.
I could hear Michael laughing wherever he is. He always said that wherever I go, I attract writers. And I do.
I told him that Madison’s creative writing department was stellar, and he said he knew, that he’d read everything by all the professors. “Well now,” I said, “you’ll have to read me.”
“What???” He sat down and we talked writing. Eventually, he asked me, “Which is your favorite baby?”
This made me laugh. Not my favorite book; my favorite baby. He was destined to be a writer.
“I know you’re supposed to say all of them,” he said.
I shrugged. “I used to say the one I’m working on,” I said. “But now…”
He got his phone out and sat poised. “Tell me.”
“Hope Always Rises,” I said, and he tapped it down, along with my name. “That book…that book wrote me.”
“Really!”
After I collected the bill and went to pay, he was at the cash register. “What’s your favorite classic novel?” he asked.
I smiled. “What do you mean by classic?”
“Like…what would be taught to a high school senior.”
“J.D. Salinger,” I said, and he interrupted.
“The Catcher In The Rye? I love that book,” he said.
“No. Raise High The Roof Beam, Carpenters.”
“He wrote other books?” he exclaimed and I withheld an eye roll. His phone came back out and he typed in the title. “I love Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale,” he said.
“I liked that too,” I said, “but I liked Cat’s Eye better.”
Tap tap tap.
I wished him well, told him to have a great semester, to drive carefully, and went out, where it had begun to snow, enough that I had to clean off my car. But I felt warm and satisfied.
Earlier in the week, I’d spoken with someone else who bemoaned the inauguration to take place next week. I admitted that I’d been so caught up in my own issues, grief, illness, grief, illness, that I hadn’t really spent much time thinking about it. I’d seen some of the ridiculous headlines, about renaming the Gulf of Mexico and buying Greenland and so on, but I hadn’t paid attention. There have been, for me, other things to think of.
But as I drove home, I thought about this 19-year old boy. Majoring in legal studies, thinking about going into politics, double-majoring in creative writing. Taking the time to talk to me, someone who is 45 years older than he is, listening to me, writing down what I had to say, the suggestions I made. A reader. Intelligent. Enthusiastic. Open-minded. Young.
I didn’t feel doomed.
Hope Always Rises.
And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.
