A Case of Dumb Luck

I am not a loser of things. I’m not buying new sunglasses every week to replace a pair that has vanished; I know where my wallet is at all times; and in the fifteen years that I’ve owned a cell phone, I’ve only had one mishap. I lost it yes, but it wasn’t a careless situation. [It fell out of my bag onto the seat of a cab…in the dark…while I was moving from one sublet to another.] It was a one-time thing. For some people I know, it’s every week that they’re calling some lost and found, in a perpetual state of panic over their newest ‘something missing’. This is not me…

 

So last night was laundry night. After almost a month of my dirty things piling up, and a few sink-washes of socks and undies, it was a behemoth weeknight chore, let me tell you. Thankfully, the laundromat is just down the street. Still, getting out of my apartment, through the mudroom door, the front door, and the gate, with a giant, overstuffed bag on each shoulder and a bottle of laundry detergent in hand, required a careful shimmy. (Thankfully I’m garden level and I don’t have to deal with stairs.)

Once at the laundromat, everything was fine—bags down, washers secured, whites, lights, and darks each separated and on their way to Tide fresh. Within minutes of getting there, I was good to go– home, to eat a quick dinner before turning around again to transfer everything to the dryers. So I’m ready to leave except… I can’t find my keys. I pat myself down like an overzealous TSA agent, front, back, up and down, once, twice, and then a third time. And then I start to panic. Where are my keys? I start pacing, moving bags of other people’s clean clothing, retracing my steps over steps I hadn’t even taken. I ask the attendants: “Have you seen any keys?” They shake their heads, and a surge of heat comes over me– that sick feeling. And I think: I must have left them in the gate— the gate that leads to the mudroom door, that leads to the apartment door, both of which, on this occasion, I’ve left unlocked. My mind is racing like a hamster going mad on a toy wheel. If I have in fact done this– left them in the gate I mean– and the wrong kind of someone saw them there, they could have very easily gotten in…gotten in and by this time be robbing me. So I dash out of the laundromat, and jog (in the rain) down the block. And then I start to wonder: What if they’re not in the gate? Crazed at this point, I then begin to think: If they aren’t in the gate someone must have taken them. Of course! Someone must have been watching me, waiting for me to make this stupid mistake, and they have already robbed my apartment. (Or they’re going to come back in the middle of the night to break in and rob me then.)

I arrive at my building and turn my eyes to the gate. No keys. I do my best to peak in through the closed blinds, and seeing that there’s no movement, I figure I’m safe– no robber. (This doesn’t of course mean that there won’t be one later, and it doesn’t mean that I don’t still need to get in.) The stupid part of this scenario (as far as I know at this point) is that no one besides me has a set of my keys except for my super who lives 40 minutes away and who I will not bother at nine o’clock at night. The tricky part, is that the only way to get past the gate without a key (or a locksmith) is to climb over it, but, it is of course, a gate that is not meant to be climbed. The space between the top of it and the underside of the floor above, is hardly big enough for a small child to fit through, not to mention, there are pointed spokes at the top of it. There’s no way.

So I head back to the laundromat and do another sweep, in search of my keys. Nothing. And then I think: Maybe they keys are in the pocket of the duffle bag, inside the wash. The machines are still spinning, and of course, they can’t be opened mid-cycle. So I wait. And I wait. And I start thinking that maybe they aren’t in there after all and someone is breaking in. So I run back to my apartment. And this time, I try to climb the gate. Not happening.

So back to the laundromat, spin cycle now, I’m on my toes. The keys have got to be inside. They must be. I have even convinced myself that I hear them jingling through the machine door. I start to pace again. And finally the washers stop.

I pull the mess of clothes out from each machine. No keys. I pick each individual piece of laundry– each sock, each shirt, each pillowcase, each dish towel– and shake it out before tossing it into the dryer. And again, no keys. And I tell myself then and there, that I am going to have to climb the gate, even if I risk poking an eye out. So I ask the laundromat attendant if he has a ladder. If I position a ladder up to the gate, I might be able to climb over backwards and make it through. And I’ll do it, even if there is a risk of serious injury.

And then, as I have just about lost all hope, the attendant calls over to me: “Miss! Are these your keys?”

And they there were…in his hand…picked up from out of the detergent compartment on top of the machine– that just so happened to be missing a cover. Of course.

“Thank you!” I exclaim with relief. I give him the ladder back, take the keys, collect my clothes and go home, making a mental note all the way of the precautionary to-do’s I must take care of asap. And I ask myself once inside the comfort of my gate and two doors, as I laugh recapping each moment of mounting panic: “Why did that have to happen?”

Maybe, one, so that maybe some day when I live in a house with my very own washer and dryer, I won’t take them for granted. And two, I guess a regular night of laundry just wouldn’t have been any fun.

The Sisters

Last week, I re-tweeted a link originally posted by the author Sue Monk Kidd @suemonkkidd on Twitter for a New York Times Op-Ed column about the Pope’s “stinging reprimand” to American nuns. It was of course very cool to get a reply from SMK, but what I’m really stuck thinking about days later, are the memories the tweet, the retweet, and the article itself brought back to me. While this ‘reprimand’ the writer discusses had me heated, I also had felt a smile across my face as I thought about the nuns in my life. Looking back, I can only feel that I was fortunate to have had them.

I grew up in a half Catholic family. You could call it a mom who ran the show, or a dad who was supportive. I guess it was a little bit of both. Whatever it was, I mean that, my sisters and I grew up attending Catholic school, and though most of our teachers were members of the laity, for a lot of our time there, we were also taught by, nurtured by and certainly loved by nuns. I’m know it wasn’t the same for everyone, but my family was close with the school and its teachers, the nuns included. My mother was one of the Volunteers Superior and for many of our years at school, spent almost as much time there as we did. She was friends with the nuns; when I think back, she almost seemed like a kid sister to some of them.

I know that nuns, throughout history, haven’t always had the best reputation. We’ve all heard the stories of mean Sister So-and-So and the ruler she used to smack little hands with. Of course we all have different memories, but it sort of saddens me to think about such unpleasant recollections of these women, when mine are so far opposite. The nuns in my history might be the kindest women I will ever know. Sure, they were strict as teachers—as authority figures—but really, they were being adults, enforcing the rules, while we were being kids breaking them. They really were no different from any of the other people in charge. Maybe it was the habits that scared everyone.

My sister and I reminisce about the days our dad would pack lunch for us—leftovers from dinner the night before, maybe a pork tenderloin sandwich. Sure, on a baguette, this would be delightful (to us now as women in our thirties), but as 1st graders, this day-old meat on mushy white bread with mayonnaise was hardly appetizing. So whenever it was that Kristina found this in her lunchbox, she would give her lunch to Sister Teresa who always gladly accepted and ate like she was sitting at a queen’s feast, as my sister sustained herself on a baggie half-full of Goldfish crackers.

And then there were the after school visits. This may have been the one and only perk of living on the north end of town and thus, having to ride the “2^nd bus” home, which meant a 45-minute wait after school, while the kids on the south end were delivered to their doorsteps. Those long stretches of time could get really boring, but for some of us, there was always the chance of cookies at the convent. If you were a lucky one that had to run an errand for the school secretary and take a walk to the nuns’ house (and my sisters and I often were), you got Oreos and Coke as a little repayment for your journey. A visit to the convent was like a peak into a secret world. Just as children don’t really believe their teachers are regular people, we didn’t think that of the nuns. Here was this house full of women, all older then our moms but whose ages we couldn’t even guess. They were all rather plain, none of them ever wearing makeup and usually, only clothes in some shade of blue or white. They lived in humble bedrooms that were simply furnished, with a Crucifix somewhere on the wall, a rosary on their beside table, a book of prayers, and maybe a plant. Sitting with them in their sunny kitchen with a plate of sweets, made our eyes pop with surprised delight.

My sister’s last year at the school was also the last year of the nuns there. They were relocated to less fortunate communities where I suppose, the need for them was greater. Sister Anna, who taught me in the 8th grade, was moved to a mission parish in Biloxi, Mississippi. After years there, she returned to her native Ireland where she lives now, retired.

I only know this, because I recently heard from Sister Anna. It was last month, when I was home for Easter, in my parents’ house. I found a letter addressed to me sitting on the dresser in the room where I stay. I saw the foreign stamps and the words “Air Mail” and immediately, I recognized the handwriting, as if I’d seen it only days (and not decades) before. Inside the envelope was a note accompanied by an article Sister Anna had recently come across about the Saint Kateri Tekakwitha, whose name I took for my Confirmation and who, it was recently announced, is finally being canonized a Saint.

The letter, in part read: “Thought of you specially when I read the enclosed article. I get the Gulf Pine Catholic a month late but still enjoy it! You took the name Kateri for your confirmation and wrote a report on her. It was then that I learned about the Native American Indian girl for the first time.”

She wrote me this twenty-one years after having me in her class.

Looking back, it really was only a short time of our lives that the nuns were with us. Despite that, I am so appreciative of it today. Though as a child, I didn’t fully understand the dedication, selflessness and courage that it takes to be a nun, reading this article, I was reminded of that. I was reminded of these Sisters in my life, and thankful to have been witness to such beautiful examples of grace.

It Isn’t Really Writer’s Block

It’s May, and in the forefront of my mind sits my manuscript, which I promised myself, I will finish this year, once and for all, no excuses. I’ve been on a good course over the past few months– motivated and dedicated– but still, I remain challenged in dividing my time between writing and all the rest of it… the laundry, the cleaning, socializing, exercising. But I know, I’ve gotta just work with it.

So this past Sunday, instead of sitting in my apartment trying to write, where I would inevitably be distracted by my breakfast dishes or the week’s stack of unopened mail, I decided go to the coffee shop down the street, where I could really focus. It’s a coffee shop out of the movies– think: brick walls, dim lighting, vintage-style light fixtures, mismatched chairs, indie rock playing in the background and a hip, tattooed duo behind the counter. On any given day, it’s packed with creative types, each one of their heads buried in some artistic endeavor. The perfect place, to work, right?

Wrong. Unless that is, you’re truly gifted at focusing.

I am not.

So there I am, coffee in hand– a good cup of French press Stumptown… yum. I find a seat at an unoccupied table next to the front window, but upon sitting, I realize the chair is too low and dammit, I forgot my phone book. Fine. So I move to an empty stool at the high communal table, noticing a better seat-height-table-height relationship. This will work. Good. Ready to write. But… when I sit down, I’m wobbling. Awesome. The floorboards underneath me are uneven. Ok, whatever, I can deal. I reposition my seat and in another minute everything’s cool.

Except…to my left, two girls are having a very loud conversation. Ordinarily, I’d say this was a problem, but… this time, I was kinda fine with it because 1) they were Aussies, and I, wishing that I possessed an accent other than my boring old American one, am particularly fond of the Australian accent, regardless of whether it’s belonging to a man or woman, and could just sit and listen to it all day long; and 2) the topic: relationships, and being in such close proximity to them, I didn’t have to try very hard to listen in on what was some super juicy gossip. Never mind that they were talking about people I don’t know.

Finally, they leave. Great. I can get back to work.

I just wasn’t really thinking when I chose a seat right next to the backside of the espresso machine at the counter. Not a good idea, what with the grinding and piping and steaming of the machine and the barista banging the grounds out of the filter. Every time I so much as looked at the blank page in front of me, I was jolted by some bang bang, ssshhhh weeeesssssh. Oy!

And then, as if i needed anything else to get in the way of my concentration, I haaaaad to notice the cute guy who just sat down across the room from me who was 1) way easy on the eyes and 2) writing sheet music. Uh huh… melt my heart.

So after three hours… two coffees… and all the excitement…I managed a measly page-and-a-half. Not so good. Now I have to ask myself: Is the coffee shop really the way to go?

Probably not. But will I be able to stay away?

Uh, yeah, I don’t think so.