The Tree Doesn't Fall Far from the Car

“If you find it hard to laugh at yourself, I would be happy to do it for you.”  - Groucho Marx

In my opinion, there are items necessary for survival, and then there are items necessary for sanity.  We pretty much share the survival items as a species: food, water, shelter and procreation.   The things we need for our individual sanity are more a reflection of our personalities, and while there’s overlap, we can each give or take a few.  My items of sanity (their order of importance waxes and wanes with the time of the month): music, books, chocolate, coffee, sarcasm, irony, banter, cynicism, satire, and sex.

Note: for those grown-up children of mine who might secretly be lurking on this blog – don’t worry – I’m not going to talk about the sex part.  Since there are five of you in all, one might argue that I took the procreation part a little too seriously, but then again, I truly didn’t count on getting two for the price of one at the tail end of it all.

No, today I’m thinking about sarcasm and its close relatives; irony, banter, cynicism and satire.

Actually, to be honest, I think about sarcasm most days.  I view the world through a lens of irony, banter facetiously, speak with a sarcastic overtone, act satirically, and listen with cynical ears.  Hell, I’ve even been known to play music with a sarcastic tone when the music is predictable, sappy or clichéd (i.e. John Williams).  Photoshop is my god of visual sarcasm: just the other night I spent way too many hours arranging my conductor’s face on an image of a Napoleon costume and posting it to my profile.  And my eyes – well, my mother used to warn me that my eyes would get stuck – rolling like that all the time.  Perhaps if they had, the next generation wouldn’t have refined the eye-roll to quite the art they have in retaliation.

My sarcastic nature is part of an overarching cynicism; a general suspicion about the world, and towards those of us who inhabit it.  I find biting humor and a blackly funny outlook necessary for sanity in a world that is often sad, and frequently ridiculous.  After all, if you anticipate the appearance of the dark side, you can’t be as disappointed when it arrives.  Which leaves you free to enjoy the humor of it all, by cutting it open with a sharply worded scalpel, and eviscerating the contents, piece after rotten piece.

Larry and I herald the frequent appearance of the dark side as “the tree falling on the car.”  This inside joke refers to an episode that took place thirteen or so years ago, when I was teaching preschool.  It was a windy, blustery spring day.  My car was parked in the parking lot behind the school – one of about twenty cars in the lot.  As we teachers stood shivering in the wind on the playground, watching the students run about and swing, a large gust of wind blew through, and we heard a giant cracking sound coming from the yard next to the school.  We watched incredulously as an enormous old maple – the kind with a trunk about three feet in diameter – proceeded to topple over the fence and into the parking lot.  Though our view of the parking lot was blocked by a number of trees, I was absolutely certain of the outcome.

“That tree just landed on my car.” I said, calmly. 

We walked through the playground and to the parking lot to see my Mercury Villager minivan completely crushed under the weight of the giant tree.  The cars parked on either side of me were, of course, completely unscathed. 

Now I do realize that there is nothing overtly ironic about a tree falling on a car.  It was a major, but straightforward annoyance.  And if I were one of those people who view the world optimistically, - a (gasp in horror) Positive Thinker - I could congratulate myself on the wonderful news that no one was in the car at the time the tree fell.  I could even, if I were a religious fundamentalist, be deluded into congratulating myself on saving my family from Death By Tree by embracing an almighty god, and tithing to his one and only church. 

But I truly believe that the potential irony of any given catastrophe is dependent upon one’s reaction to it.  I fully expect the tree to fall on my car, and plan my response accordingly, digging and sifting through the event for irony, sarcasm, and black humor when and wherever I can find it.

In this particular situation, the irony was in the details: of the twenty cars in the parking lot, nineteen were gleaming, foreign automobiles, mostly luxury models, dent and scratch free.  They belonged to the school’s upper class mothers, and a few teachers who began as upper class mothers and became teachers in order to maximize the amount of time they could spend hovering over their children.  I was the sole outlier: my secondhand minivan, with seventy-five thousand miles on it, bore the evidence of three small children.  The car was vibrantly decorated with chalk drawings and wobbly signatures, and the sides were covered with dents and scratches from madcap tricycle races in the driveway.   I was not in a position to afford the deductible on the car, much less new wheels.  That the enormous old tree picked my car to fall on was an example of situational irony that did not escape me at the time, and became the standard by which all other bleakly humorous episodes would be judged.

Sometimes, the falling tree is on the smaller side - small enough that the noise from its fall would be easy to miss, if you weren’t looking for it.  Just today, one of the passenger doors on my car (a Honda Pilot replaced the Villager) became mysteriously and permanently locked.  It will not open from the inside or the outside.  The Right-Side-Of-The-Car twin, Chloe, cannot be removed, or ejected from the vehicle, without crawling over the trash can, ten empty Peets coffee cups rolling around on the floor, and a giant book bin.

On the rear of my car, I have a bumper sticker that reads, “Honk if the twins fall out.”

And sometimes, the tree is so large that it could pass for a Giant Sequoia. 

Five years ago, I married a man who had no biological children of his own, and thought he might want one.  I, on the other hand, was long done with procreation, and perfectly happy with the three teenagers I had.  But I loved Larry dearly, and the desire to share something this important to him was strong. After seventeen years of child rearing and twenty years of teaching, I figured I had this parenting thing down.  “Hell, what’s one more?” I asked myself.   I reasoned to myself that the triple threat of a 42 year-old woman, a 51 year-old man, and no medical intervention wasn’t a particularly dangerous combination.  Why overanalyze the wisdom of an outcome not likely to transpire?

A whopping eight weeks after our wedding, I found myself lying on an examination table, my shirt tucked up under my arms, and my belly covered with goo.  Larry sat in a chair next to me, holding my hand.  An ultrasound technician, waving her magic wand over my abdomen, turned to my husband and said, “It’s a good thing you’re sitting down.” 

It’s been just over five years since that day, and four years and eight months since the twins were born.  Larry hasn’t sat down since.

The Quiet Before You Speak

The quiet before you speak


is distinct - how do I know it from silence?

I stand at the mirror, holding my brush, suspended;

you sit on the edge of the bed, putting on your shoes.

Is it your breath; held, then drawn in abruptly?

A caesura, a muted exhale,

repeat.

You are composing.

If I ask, you will say Nothing and the moment will be gone.

Knowing the quiet

and waiting

is what we give each other.

Tiptoe

The shoes arrived each year in late August. 

They were a stiff, rich red leather; lace-ups with a rigid brown sole.  Out of the box they shone a glossy red that distinguished them somewhat from the brown school shoes worn by boys, though they were a far cry from feminine, shiny black Mary Janes.

The shoe salesman would put them on and lace them up, pressing firmly against the stiff leather to locate my toes underneath, before pronouncing them “just right.” They were new and un-scuffed, and for a brief moment I took pleasure in them; the moment until I was asked to get up and take a walk through the store.

I am, and have been since I took my first wobbly steps at 19 months of age, a congenital toe walker.  Putting my heels to the ground is uncomfortable, and sometimes, particularly first thing in the morning, undoable.  I am happiest up on my toes, and though I make a concerted effort to walk “normally” out in the world, the minute I open the door and walk into my house each afternoon, I let down my guard, and grow an inch or two. 

I was born with Achilles tendons that were too short, and learned to ride a tricycle before I was able to comfortably navigate the world upright.   At the age of three I was taken to see a pediatric orthopedic surgeon, who watched me toe my way up and down a mirrored hallway, and recommended prescription footwear that would force my heels to remain on the ground.  The shoes, special-ordered from New York each year and sent to our local shoe store for fitting, were stiff and unforgiving.   The backs of my legs pulled and ached as if there were thick rubber bands stretched tightly down the back of the calves. At night I would wake up with terrible cramps in my calves, and howl for my parents to come “pull them out.”

Out and about in the neighborhood, where I was allowed the blissful comfort and flexibility of sneakers, I ran, jumped and played happily on my toes.  Like many a first child I was socially naïve, and without the brutal honesty of older siblings to set me straight, I was unaware of how I looked.   Somewhere around the age of five, (aided and abetted by Tiny Tim’s timely hit single, “Tiptoe Through The Tulips,”) I began to understand that I was being teased.  Neighborhood kids began taunting me with the song, sung in falsetto with air ukulele accompaniment.  I was bewildered and surprised, but eventually understood I had little choice but to laugh, and pretend I didn’t care.

For my tenth birthday, I was allowed to give up the red orthopedic shoes in exchange for a promise to do special stretching exercises every night.  The stretches hurt, and as happens with most childhood promises, I soon broke mine.  My parents tired of nagging me, and I was back on my toes again within a short time.

My heels were brought back down to the ground when I was twelve or so by the mid-seventies craze for Earth shoes.  A company called Roots was manufacturing a clunky suede shoe with a “negative heel,” and it had suddenly taken on (like many Seventies fashions) an inexplicable popularity.  One cold February weekend I was firmly escorted by my parents (who were somewhat more embarrassed about my gait than I was) through Harvard Square to the Roots Store to get my first pair.  The whole family left the store sporting Roots shoes, an unusually fashion-forward display of solidarity.

Ah, to be a teenager in Earth Shoes – a girl, at that!  In a brief period of time, the shoes were passé, and I looked nothing short of ridiculous.  I clomped awkwardly through junior high school dressed in boy’s jeans, flannel shirts, my hair cut very short (think Sandy Duncan in Peter Pan), and my Roots.  Occasionally, a group of girls would saunter by in the hallway and ask snidely (and somewhat curiously), “Are you supposed to be a girl, or a boy?”  Surprised by the question, I began to wonder just what I looked like to the rest of the world.  In the afternoons, while my mother taught piano lessons downstairs, I stole into my parents’ bedroom, and explored my mother’s mirrors, and the top drawer of her dresser, with its creams, compacts and lipsticks.  The Roots were eventually pushed to the back of the closet, and I grew out my hair. I became more conscious of my walk, and worked hard to keep my heels on the ground.

At some point in my adult life (I don’t remember exactly when), I discovered the magic of heels.  Once found, I bought and wore them with the surreptitious desire of an addict; pushing aside the knowledge that heels are, like too much alcohol or cigarettes, bad for me.  In heels, I (almost) walk like a normal person.  In heels, I walk in comfort.  The wonderful sensation of the ground under my toes!  With a satisfying click, click, I can be comfortable, and even a touch feminine.  Once the shoes come off I an unable to drop my heels to the floor, but it seems a worthwhile price to pay. 

In flats, by contrast, I feel ungainly, awkward, squat, and genderless.  In flat shoes, I am regularly accosted by colleagues, parents of students, and even slight acquaintances, who look concerned and ask, “Are you hurt?  Is something wrong?  You look like you’re limping.”  Used to variations of this question over the years, I reply breezily and self-deprecatingly,  “Nah, I’m fine – that’s just the way I walk.”  But as I trot unevenly out of view, I make that extra effort to put each heel down first.

Five years ago, as a result of carrying and giving birth to enormous twin girls at an advanced age, I developed a number of serious complications and spent six weeks in the hospital.  During this time my feet rested neglected, in ballet-perfect points, at the foot of the bed.  My resulting “foot drop” was so severe that when I was finally hoisted to my feet, and told to walk, I was completely unable to get either heel on the ground.  I limped around the floor of the hospital ward on my toes, gripping a geriatric walker on wheels while dragging an oxygen tank in my wake.

Time heals most wounds, and as the twins careen towards their fifth birthday, I am healthy and happy.  With the exception of a sensitive stomach and pronounced “muffin top,” I am pretty much recovered from the whole double childbirth experience.  I’m embarrassed to admit that my feet, however, are not.  Each morning I get out of bed and limp around for a good half-hour before I can get my left foot fully on the floor.  I put heels on with a sense of relief each day; relief tinged with the discomfort of one who knows she has developed a bad habit she needs to break, and just can’t bring herself to do it.

That is, until just recently. 

While leafing happily through magazines a few weeks ago, I discovered that Earth Shoes have come back into vogue.  That very same “negative heel” that made them so popular back in the Seventies is back, in a wider range of fashionably more acceptable styles.  Such richness compared to the tan suede, crepe-soled Roots of the Seventies!  There are the “Exer-Fit” sneakers (you’ll burn up to four times the calories while walking! claim the ads), there are clogs: fur lined and bare, and “Exer-Flip” flip-flops for summer wear.  I search eagerly through the choices online, wondering if this new batch of orthopedic footwear holds a pair just for me: one that will, almost 43 years after the first pair, get me back on my feet.

And then I find them.  Shiny, burgundy red leather shoes.