A House Like That

 

 

I never disclose my age without absolutely having to, and then it’s grudgingly mumbled.

I’ll tell you why: I think we automatically classify people, consciously or otherwise, by this number.

If I tell you my age, you’re immediately going to make some assumptions about me: my musical taste (you’d likely be wrong), my favorite movies and TV series (wrong again), all sorts of speculation about my personal life and what it entails (or doesn’t).

I don’t want to know your number, either. I don’t want to formulate ideas about you based on that information.

My grandmother probably started all this. When she was in her nineties, in a hospital bed, with a nurse clearly holding a chart containing all her medical information…she would dutifully recite her full name when asked but visibly halt before giving up her birth year.

I know people who are very old in their thirties. I know people who run circles around me in their eighties.

So why would any of us consent to presenting a stranger a number that’s going to cloister us with every other person born the same year?

I know my doctor needs to know, but even that is damned annoying. I’m convinced the Publix drive-through pharmacy lady asks me every time just to torment me (all the others recognize me and skip it, but she refuses).

I have a birthday coming up; it’s not a milestone or anything, just one more year.

And when I stare at that new number, it’s going to be with gratitude for every single one that preceded it, not angst over whatever changes it might deliver.

I once wrote a poem about aging:

I used to live in a house like that

All shiny and pretty and new

I gradually moved to this shabbier place

But I much prefer the view

You don’t have to tell anyone your number. Let your smile and your energy tell them all they need to make their calculations.

 

 

 

Love from Delta.

 

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

Meeting readers is, without reservation, the best part of my job.


They're usually members of a book club. They know everything, because they're extremely well-read. They are strongly opinionated. They've lived interesting lives; borne children, flown airplanes, researched neuroscience, grown flower gardens, and taught kindergartners how to tie their shoes.

They know if you're wrong about lipstick shades in the 1940s. They've read everything from Goodnight Moon to Tolstoy to The Handmaid's Tale.


They are in New York and Ohio and Alabama and Alaska and California and Hawaii and Quebec.

And they are invariably—invariably—nice people. Goodhearted, friendly, honorable. They give back to their communities. They watch out for the children of others. They hold doors open for the next person. They bake cookies for new neighbors.

I cling to this in times like these, floundering in the tidal wave of sadness and outrage over the actions of a despicable human in Uvalde, Texas. As we shriek at each other about gun control, condemning this country and its history of losing innocents to madmen with weapons, about what this world has come to...let us not view the past through some sparkly, nostalgic haze. People have been cruel and brutal to each other since time began. Evil is nothing new.

I don't claim to have the answers, but I know this: we, as a community, must watch and listen for signs of an impending disaster like Salvador Ramos. Time and time again, those intent on carrying out these hellish missions post about it on social media. They practically wave red flags to those around them.

And we have to say something. We have to do something. We have to be proactive. We have to protect our children in every possible way.

We have to stop teenagers from being able to buy assault rifles. This kid was eighteen and had legal access to firearms that virtually screamed public danger. How is that possible? At the very, very least, we should raise the age to twenty-five to purchase these kinds of weapons.

Or stop the legal sale of them altogether, which is my preference.

I'm not here to argue gun control legislation.

I'm here asking everyone to pay closer attention to those who show potential to harm others. See something, say something. (And Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter are duty-bound to do the same.)
 

Mostly, I'm here to remind you evil people live in the shadows, a tiny fraction surrounded by the overwhelming light of good people. I know, I meet them every single week.













Love from Delta

I'm Not Even Thor About This

 

It was a strange day.

We made a quick trip to pick up a new cell phone and ended up spending almost four hours with a self-professed Norse Pagan and a “Bad Gay” who frequents Chick-Fil-A with his husband.

The store doesn’t matter.

What does is, I came into contact and lengthy discussion with two people I might otherwise not have spent half a business day with, trying to force a cell tower into submission.

I’m changing their names to Tom and Bill for ease of use; their real names are much more colorful.

 

Tom, the Norse Pagan, has a lengthy ancestry traced to Charlemagne. He has an enormous knowledge of Norse mythology.

 

He does not approve of Chris Hemsworth and Tom Hiddleston in my beloved Marvel Cinematic Universe movies.

Not authentic. 

He is a Thor purist.

Bill is a laid-back nerd, who plays Pokémon like me (I am called ObiWanKenoBeth) and he coveted a recently-returned toy building set for World of Warcraft or Masters of the Universe or something like that. 

(My nerd-dom only extends so far, y’all.)

So, when Bill wasn’t looking, I bought it for him.

Because he was sweet and kind and spent four hours on the phone battling with invisible 5G overlords, so my husband’s phone might come to life.

I loved these guys.

I am grateful for life’s detours, which sit me next to Norse Pagans and Rebellious Gays for unexpected eons.

I’m reminded we are all different, we all have something to say, and most of all: we all help each other.

I hope Bill enjoys that Masters of the Pokémon Fortnite Warstuff building set, and always loves Chick-Fil-A as much as I do.

We all agreed they’re not homophobic and cook mighty fine sandwiches.

Most of all, Bill, Tom, Jay, and I found a forced half-day fun. We made it worthwhile and meaningful. We laughed together and understood one another better after our mutual confinement. 

And that, my friends, 

is worth more

than any cell phone

could ever be.

Love from Delta.