Who are these people?

LR Grove StBefore I was born and before my parents had moved into the building where I grew up, they lived in a few other apartments in our neighborhood. They described these apartments and their idiosyncrasies with fondness, but also to shock a person with what people might put up with in order to “make it” in New York City: an oven door that when opened blocked the front door, a plywood partition that was all that separated them from their neighbors in the landlord’s eagerness to increase the number of units on the floor. The neighbors on the other side were a lesbian couple who argued and had affairs, providing more detail into the intimate lives of others than my mother had been party to in her North Carolina sorority house. I picture the apartments as being like the minimal set of The Fantasticks, which I was taken to one birthday, in a nearby lower-ground space, with air shaft windows which would have been covered over so you could not hear the sounds upstairs of dishes being washed in the sink, which was the way we did things back then.

My father liked to tell the story of how my mother had installed kitchen shelving and on the shelves placed jars of dried beans and lentils. He was impressed—how had she mounted the brackets?—and then alarmed by the answer: strong, double-faced tape.

They had a dog and cat with ESP, who would rush to the door when one of my parents reached the end of the block. In looking through the photos, I recognize the wicker lantern, but what happened to their fabulous white leather chair? A few photos and a lifetime of hearing the same handful of anecdotes do not provide much clarity into the murky past of your parents’ lives before you. The modern apartment in my father’s photos looks nothing like the one where I grew up, where the style of furniture was dark and Victorian and their possessions multiplied and grew to fill the space and a child took over their lives and turned them from young modern people into parents.

Am I the only mom who worries about burdening her children after death with journals and notebooks detailing my past? They do and don’t want to know these things and much of it will be of little interest because it will not succinctly answer the questions about the person I was who influenced who they became. It will not spell out that which they had only felt in their bones. At what point do I give these things a last look through and pitch them to protect myself from embarrassment and them from the banality and trivia of my own youth? What explanations of yourself do you owe your children? They may surprise you now and then, but at their core, you know who they are. Possibly none.

Our parents are always a mystery, their lives before you a kind of incomplete mythology. Even now, when my mother and I cover familiar ground in her past, there are missing details, entire storylines to be guessed at. On Mother’s (and Father’s) Day it is now a tradition to post a photo of the parent whose day it is on social media. An international day of paging through family scrapbooks and thinking back. The family resemblances of the two- and three- generation photos are striking. The day has been a stream of time travel, Kodachromes and black and whites, of mothers and babies, of our mothers as children or as young women before motherhood, in which, by our absence, we bestow upon them the gift of being themselves in their own right, yet still define and claim them in context: That woman, whoever she may be, is my mother. Even if they sat you down and said, I want to explain it all to you, you would still be looking for dissonance, your own truth. We were happy. There was always something. It’s my story.

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Life swap

IMG_4878First of all, know that these sounds are normal: birds very close to the house, the way our cat belts out torch songs of boredom in the middle of the night.

The car horns and sanitation workers you have in New York will be replaced by a throbbing chorus of cicadas. You may call a friend and hold the phone in the air. Just try to imagine, you will say, what I am going through.

When you tell your parents of your plan to take up residence in Alabama for three weeks, as our dogsitter, they fear for your safety in this place where anyone and everyone could be carrying a gun. Manhattan, the devil you know, has its dangers to be sure, but out there, in wild America, you can’t be sure of anything, only that you are an outsider.

Your mother reminds you that you are Jewish, that you might have car trouble, and that this is a place with storms and snakes. Or maybe they don’t know about the snakes. My daughter mentioned the other day that she sees them pop out of holes in the ground on her way to school. I don’t think I will tell you about the snakes.

My husband, who understands what people from New York City can be like, because he is married to one, emphasizes that people in the South are friendly. It is customary to nod or wave as you drive down our street or even speak to people in the supermarket. You ask me about this later and I confirm that it is true. You don’t need an exit strategy.

Even as I tell you that we live on a suburban street, I know that you are picturing a swamp, the only means of escape a rusted out truck with manual ignition. As you pull repeatedly on the clutch the cicadas drown out all other sounds.

As I write the instructions for how to look after the dog and where to find things, you ask questions I hadn’t anticipated. I am trying to tell you how to navigate my life while you are busy inventing your own.

In one email you ask if I own a mandolin and where to go to an open mic night to sing. I know where to find a cigar box banjo, but I am not even sure these are real questions. Since when are you a musician?

You clarify that the mandolin is for slicing cucumbers from the farmers market and that you have a fantasy where you will unleash your inner cabaret persona. You imagine a nearly empty nightclub—I am picturing a raucous table of missile defense engineers drinking Monkeynaut, a local brew, cheering you on. This is not a place where we celebrate loneliness.

You ask what to bring. How can I tell you? A bathing suit. A sweater for the supermarket. But maybe also a cape and a tricornered hat.

What time does the dog go to bed? You ask. Does he like to chase balls? The questions keep coming: ziplining, manicures, health food. I am researching a new life rather than instructing in my own. You are free from the burden of being me. All I ask in return is that you let me know how it goes.

This piece was written last spring in answer to a writing prompt of Operating Instructions. My friend did come here and became good enough friends with some of our friends that she returned. She could have been the only person in all of NYC to visit for New Year’s. She found the experience broadening in some ways and the experience of having to drive everywhere oppressive, which I think very few Americans get. People think cars are freedom, but if you have grown up being able to walk out the door and get anywhere on foot or public transportation a car is a big, needy beast with its own agenda. You have to negotiate with it to get anywhere. You have to pay attention to it and to “the road” first thing in the morning. She has drafted her own version of the experience, which I will share here as a companion piece.

Posted in Alabama, Anthropology, New York City, Regional variations, Traveling, WRTS | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

The Mandarin Counting Song or How to Be a Better Parent

2014-04-06 10.02.42Write it down

“You can go out with a guy without having to break into a zoo,” Loquatia tells Capricia at dinner the other night.

Was Capricia proposing some kind of monkey or large cat abduction to secure the heart of a classmate? Family mealtimes are full of these kinds of pronouncements, which at the time make perfect sense only you are laughing so hard you forget what they said, or you write it down and forget what they meant. Luckily Loquatia thought to scribble this one down the other night:

Me: “You can’t wear a turban to dinner.”
C: “But it’s to amp up my style for the Crusades.”

Don’t define them.

Capricia is being told off for something and her retort is “You never should have brought us here!”

“Where?” We are in the small family town that drew us to Alabama in the first place. We are lying on the lawn, still prickly and beige in early spring. We have arrived in the late afternoon to weather that is one planting zone warmer than home, the air almost tropical. We have laid ourselves out on the dead grass to enjoy the only sun we are likely to have over the entire weekend.

“America!” she responds, “Why did we come here?”

“You’re American,” my husband replies.

In a rare moment of simultaneity the girls both exclaim, “I’m not!”

“London is too expensive,” my husband counters.

“Well,” she says, “What about Glasgow?”

“Why,” we ask cautiously, “Glasgow?”

Be a good listener

“They have a good tube system.” And when she says stuff like this, unlike when she defines something as “a chimpanzee from outer space that you see only in your dreams,” she has credibility. If Capricia tells you that she has seen all of the videos of the London Underground, then you can bet she started a search for UK trains and found Glasgow and she knows about their transport.

After going over reasons why we won’t be moving anytime soon and reminding her of all the lovely people she has met and experiences she has had in America, it is Loquatia’s turn to talk.

She started writing down her grievances as letters to President Obama in the third grade, after writing once as part of a class project. He became a sympathetic listener when she did not like to go to Kumon math, and then when we made her move, and then, there were other things, but she can’t remember/won’t say/never mailed them.

Share an interest

Loquatia asks if I would like to write a post together on her style and beauty blog, but she rescinds the offer when she finds me outside photographing the magic soil mix I have bought. “It’s about beauty,” she says in italics.

“But you said it was about getting ready for spring.”

So I am on my own with my top soil and my blood meal. I scatter the ashes into the soil and feed our scraggly azaleas. What else is part of spring ? Gathering tax documents. Doing online medical forms for camp.

So I ask her to finish this post for me with what advice she would give to parents of teenagers to help us amp up our parenting style.

Be involved, but not too involved, at our athletic events.

Don’t be the mom with the whistle at the swim meet. Don’t smother us with offers of cover-ups and snacks, but also don’t be the parent who never comes to anything.

Don’t tell us what to wear.

Let us make bad choices in fashion so in a few years we can look back at photographs and see our mistakes for ourselves. Just don’t let us wear a full-length black velvet dress with brown stripes.

Don’t be afraid of us.

If we’re acting obnoxious, don’t let us get away with it because then we will act that way with our friends and none of us want to do your dirty work.

Don’t give us too much independence.

It’s nice being young and not having to worry about anything. We like to sit up front in the car and we look forward to getting our permits, but we miss the backseat and holding our parents’ hands when walking and not having to think.

Let us rant.

Sometimes we need to complain about our friends because if we say these things to our friends we will sound judgmental and mean. Sometimes we want advice, but sometimes we just need to sound off.

Be funny.

You’re funny. But don’t try to be funny around our friends unless they have similar parents because then it’s just sad.

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Day 28: I’m so not French

2014-03-02 11.35.39Ads like this are my weakness. I tell myself I could pull it off, this two-piece print ensemble, even though I know I wouldn’t be able to shake the feeling that everyone will think I am wearing pajamas, especially if I don’t wear it with heels, which I probably wouldn’t.

Someone in my family would ask, “Are those pajamas?” or, “Are you really going to wear that?” and so maybe I could get the top, just to prove that they can’t boss me around, but of course the idea with an outfit like this is the total effect, pajama-like as it may be.

This is why doing the capsule wardrobe project last month was, for me, arbiter of bad calls in my own closet, a relief. I moved most of the clothes to the other side of the closet and enjoyed the luxury of space.

Dressing was faster and easier. I rediscovered a 20-year-old jacket and a skirt with deep, not just decorative, pockets. I acknowledged my capacity for questionable judgement and I restrained my urge to buy printed things.

I had forgotten about this, but I spent my last two years of college in a capsule wardrobe of about seven items. Very unisex. Things wore out. Hems frayed, seams came undone, coins were lost in the jacket lining until the pockets wore out entirely. All the while, other clothes languished, unloved, worn a few times while the same favorite items were in steady rotation.

There are many ways in which the Americans are not like the French. First of all, they don’t dress with irony, as with the two-piece ensemble above. But I think a big part of it has something to do with how they view clothes in an entirely more three-dimensional way, that it is a form of two-way communication rather than self-expression, my/our perusal of print media and liking of a certain color or trend or idea. I will stand in front of a mirror and contemplate something, and have thoughts about it, as I did in the communal changing room of an Agnès B. in Paris last summer. I asked the woman I was with what she thought—she gave the ensemble a once-over and commanded, “Marchez un peu!” No, she shook her head. The skirt is stiff.

Maybe I’ve been hanging out in the wrong communal changing rooms, but an American would tell you to turn around, not to walk. We think about our self-presentation in a more static sense. It was a revelation. It explains the way French clothes can have annoying little drawstrings and ribbons hanging off of them. These are not for you, the wearer, but for others. You are not just dressing to suit yourself.

2014-02-02 08.04.58So, I didn’t buy the long black skirt or the jacket at Agnès B. I would love to have a grey or a black trouser suit that I could dress up or down, but it eludes me. It is in my fantasy capsule wardrobe. Yet I didn’t find the month of 33 items a hardship. Thirty-three items means you know your mind and you are in control of your circumstances. Four pairs of shoes out of maybe 30 or 40, if all footwear actually counts, can see a person through a month.

Sometimes I buy something like a red skirt because I wonder what it would be like to wear it. I imagine it will create possibilities. I love my red skirt but it is a troublemaker in a closet of more neutral things. You look at your clothes and it’s shouting, Me? Are you gonna wear me today?

Why would I wanna wear you? I should wear you with a neon pink blouse.

I’m thinking of getting together another capsule for April. I liked having the small selection of things that went together. But they don’t have to go together like pajamas.

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Wholier than thou

2014-03-19 17.40.45After opting out of the culture it has come to us anyway. We’re getting a Whole Foods. I am both overjoyed and rueful.

The younger daughter will be thrilled. She loves the health and beauty section. The older daughter enjoys the prepared foods and we might be able to find her flageolet beans at $20 an ounce.

This is a kid who in an interview for camp, where she is being assured there will be lots of food for picky eaters, asks, “Do you have vegetables?” (And this being America, the answer is yes, in the form of raw broccoli florets in the salad bar, like at school. Americans, as a people, see vegetables as something that are best liquified and disguised as fruit juice rather than something anyone would go out of their way to eat.) This is a kid who happily eats quinoa. We are very much part of the target market for Whole Foods.

2014-03-22 08.04.36What I am told is that when a big-time store like Whole Foods comes to a city like ours, they don’t ask what sites are available, they simply figure out where they want to be and the city makes the site available. They have chosen a location that means the end of a two-story office building I photographed about a year ago. A building with a name that is painted on the glass in gold, outlined in black. A building occupied by beauty parlors, but which suggests smokeDSCF5558-filled  accounting offices, with heavy, teal-colored adding machines.

It is exactly the kind of building I am always looking for, part of the city that time forgot dreamscape, in a city that is waking up and throwing the covers to the floor. Meanwhile, the Bad Wal-Mart will abandon its site for a building that is going up as we speak, the Enormous Wal-Mart.

Last weekend, I went out to Earth Fare, because we needed yellow lentils to make a Nigel Slater recipe. You can use red lentils, which are not quite as hard to find, but the yellow ones provide the nutty earthiness, which can accordingly be found at Earth Fare, which compared to the supermarkets near us might as well be Portland. It is much like Whole Foods, but too long of a drive to do often. The coming Whole Foods will be very centrally located. I can refrain from Earth Fare, but the Whole Foods will be hard to avoid.

I buy rainbow carrots, a piece of French cheese and the most right-on milk I can find.

My husband asks me to pick up charcoal and has a really negative reaction to what I end up getting, which is some kind of green briquette that is made out of coconut shells. It never occurred to me that these might impart a coconut flavor but I end up googling it (they don’t). But he is still affronted by them.

Fine, I say, I’ll take them back.

No, he says, that is a waste of time to drive all the way out there, for what, $14?

$7, I say.

Well $14 was about the most ridiculous amount I could think of, expletive deleted, revisits concept of charcoal made out of coconut shells.

It’s no trouble, I say. I’ll have to go back to for the deposit on the milk bottle.

***

I revisit the doomed building. There are a few hair places that still look operational. I stalk around it, peering into windows. To my surprise, the building door is ajar. I go in. There is a man cleaning out his office and a silent, angry woman with him, who won’t speak to me, saying she is just a client. His office is two small rooms and just heaps of papers. He seems unsurprised by my presence. He has only been there a couple of years. There are two imitation paintings on the wall, flowers, a harbor, and a half-full two-liter bottle of off-brand soda. It’s an accountancy office but no teal adding machine, just hideous grey fluorescence and paper.

2014-03-22 08.14.16In the corridor window of another… business?, are some hand-lettered signs. This is one of them. Have these been written in light of the eviction or do they just reflect the irony that catches up with all of us at some point?

Farewell, building, with your punning hair salons, your sadness, your philosophers.

Whole Foods, our people, have found us. Aren’t you relieved to be rescued? We have six times as many legumes as the supermarket and we bring you locally sourced biltong. Have we arrived just in time? Or is it too late?

Tread softly, Whole Foods. Just leave out a basket of rainbow carrots, a sourdough baguette, ethical shampoo, a selection of artisanal cheeses, some lavender-infused chocolate and wait for me to come creeping back in.

Posted in Being mortal, Commerce, Cuisine, Going to the farm | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Lost & found

Screen shot 2014-03-16 at 8.30.15 AMDrive south for 300 miles.

I was anti-GPS when they first started appearing on the dashboard of SUVs everywhere. I saw them as just another way to use technology to insulate us from the uncertainty of actual experience. Expat drivers who feared public transportation on suburban principle used them to navigate London. As someone who had had her share of frantically consulting an A-to-Z map at stoplights, you would think that I would have jumped at the chance to use one, but instead I saw them as a vote for ignorance. I don’t need to know where I am because the machine will tell me where to go. La la la.

There were stories in the news about drivers being commanded to traverse streams due to mapping errors. Using her new iPhone, my friend found herself down an alley in Baltimore while being told that she had arrived at the museum.

2014-03-08 17.00.03But that was a few years ago. Technology improves and now there is the talking Google maps app, which I prefer over the Siri/Safari one, where it shows you and your route only. If you miss your turn, there you are as a blue dot traveling away from the blue line while your husband snaps at you. With the talking map, your husband won’t even know you have missed the turn because it adjusts and reroutes. It anticipates your questions and says things like, in 500 feet, slight right to stay on whatever road it is.

It’s not perfect, but in general I like it. It is a good thing to use in Dothan, Alabama.

I am in Dothan for a tennis tournament. I don’t know my teammates very well and we don’t know our way around Dothan, a large town with a huge ring road. We have four key places we need to get to and go between and the talking map is a big help.2014-03-07 11.30.04

In 200 feet turn right.

2014-03-08 17.01.24I become the map girl. We get into the car and I punch in whichever court we’re going to. Because we don’t know each other that well, they don’t know about my love of photographing old signs. I am shooting out of the car window, toggling between camera and map.

On our last day, I ask D. if we can stop on the way out so I can get a shot of the oyster bar/nightclub. The other car is following us. They stop, too. Now there are two cars of tennis ladies outside of a nightclub. A guy comes out to see what’s going on. Get the mural over there, too, someone says. It becomes kind of a team effort.

2014-03-08 17.06.30

On our way home, it’s just D. and me. If there’s anything you want to stop for, just tell me, she says.

Leaving Dothan, I shoot the sign for the Hobo Pantry convenience store out of the window and am amazed to find out, further along the road to Montgomery, that it is some kind of chain because there is another one, another Hobo Pantry, what were they thinking??, between Ozark and Troy, when we stopped for gas. If you do a search for Hobo Pantry, you find surveillance camera stills and videos of robberies, mug shots, QR codes and Juggalos, but no corporate presence, no explanation of when, why and how this became the name for a business.

Furthermore, the guy working there, this enormous, heavyset black man, is in the midst of a transformation, his massive forearms hairless, his eyebrows redrawn and his voice low and melodious. What must it be like to be a transgender Hobo Pantry employee in Ozark, Alabama? One hopes he has a community that is larger and more diverse than what we would imagine he might find there. I ask D. if she noticed him and she did.

2014-03-06 16.59.45She tells me about a girl she knows who, at 10, who despairs of the conservative views of her family and their town, which has a population of about 15,000 and is in a dry county. A church sign there bears the message “Dusty bibles lead to dirty lives.” This is the town I wrote about, where we collected our side of grass-fed beef from the deer processing place the first summer we lived here and each packet of beef came with a sticker that said “Smile, Jesus Loves You.” It has a main street you could fall in love with, like a movie set version of what a small town should look like.

The girl finds the disapproving attitudes of her family and peers about same-sex marriage stifling. She wants them to see things differently. I don’t know what D.’s views are, but she tells the girl to hang in there and that when she goes to away to college she will find lots of people who think as she does. The girl, she says, is just thinking about things at a different level and the world is a bigger place.

2014-03-09 11.01.01We turn back for this amazing motel sign. As in Dothan, a man ambles out of the office, just to check. Do we look like troublemakers, still in our tennis clothes? I wave, get in car. Later, there is a big aluminum sign with holes riddled through it to read “Ye need to be born again.” A little ways on, we pass a large wooden water wheel, which I remark on. Oh, she says, somewhere along here there’s that sign about the devil. And as she says it, there’s a second water wheel, smaller, and a huge sign, which says “Go to church or the Devil will get you!” It makes dusty bibles sound euphemistic. This is the real deal: a devil with curling toes and his scythe out to harvest souls, never mind with the symbolism of housework. The water wheels suggest Blake’s satanic mills and also an unforgiving and relentless faith that fashions signs for motorists with the word Ye in them.

Drive north for 800 miles.

Do you want to go back? But I figure enough people will have stopped already (and they have) and we will never get home, driving in loops.

The world is a bigger place, but are the small towns only for the conservative? People ask us about the move from London to Alabama, as if one is stuffing an inflatable pool dolphin into a matchbox. Why must the girl leave? Can’t a place expand in its own way? Maybe the transforming clerk is happy where he is. Isn’t it a matter of perspective?

In a quarter mile, exit right.

Your destination is all around you

Screenshot of the devil sign from this blog.

Posted in Alabama, Anthropology, Automotive, Driving, Regional variations, Traveling | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

You’re a cab

ImageMake me a sandwich. You’re a sandwich.

Call me a cab. You’re a cab.

You’re the parent of an 8th, 9th or 10th grader? You’re a cab, too.

I have a project. I have practice. There’s a meet. I need supplies. We thought we might go to a movie.

How will you get there?

I don’t know how they do it, these kids, conducting so much of their social lives in our back seats, at our mercy to pick them up from the dance or take them to meet their friends. What if we parents made them reserve a ride in advance? Oh, you need to leave when? I’m so sorry, I’m already booked. You’ll have to try with a different parent. Our services are much in demand, as you know. People are always wanting to go somewhere these days, be somewhere.

And we’re good, too. We’re usually on time. We know the roads, we have their friends’ addresses programmed into our phones. They can just sit back and relax. No need to argue with the driver over the best route to take. There’s no traffic. It’s all good.

They have no choice but to reveal so much of their goofy teenage selves to us, as we ferry them to and fro. But they don’t seem to mind. It is as if there were a bulletproof, plexiglass window between the driver and her fares.

They come out of a building. A car is waiting, like your shadow.

There is no alternative method of transportation. Oh, there are city buses, infrequent, ghostly. I hope to ride one some day, for the experience, but this would not be something you can say to your child: take a bus, walk a mile, wait an hour. There is homework to be done. Their time is valuable, even if yours isn’t.

Did I write about the time I tried to walk to dog park? I love many things about where I live, but the one thing that makes me feel almost claustrophobic—like if you imagine being trapped in a confined space and think about how you would have to train your mind not to want to extend your legs or else you would suffer terribly—is the fact that there is nothing within walking distance, just houses and churches, some places not even a sidewalk, just endless lawns.

I will walk to dog park, I told them. Driving to a place where you can walk also seems crazy. I walked at a reasonably good clip but the family car picked me up 30 minutes later, only halfway there, as if I had wandered off in my nightgown trying to find my steamboat.

The younger daughter is meeting her friends for lunch, shopping and a movie. Some moms aren’t sure if walking from the restaurant at one end of the mall to the theater at the other is safe. My friend says she might let her daughter walk, but drive slowly behind her,  just in case. I tell her I think they will be fine as long as they pay attention to the cars. The suspicious slow-moving car that seems to be trailing them, you could say, is just someone’s mom.

The younger daughter calls just before the movie to say what time the movie finishes, or more to the point to remind me, “You’re a cab.”

I have a little “me time” or “mom time”—my husband can’t decide which is funnier. I leave him to it and go try on lipstick at the department store and find a color I like, but they are out of stock. Is it worth the shipping fees to buy it online so I can save myself the drive? I need gas. That’s me at the pump, having my mom time.

As I drive by the Waffle House, I like the way it looks. I go back and take a picture. I park in front of the theater. It is darkening. The parking lot is full. Other cabs are waiting for their teens. I play with my Waffle House picture, trying different filters to give it a vibrant yet desolate feel. It will be gone in five years, I’m guessing, maybe two.

The movie should be letting out, but she is not in the crowd of girls dancing their way to the Escalade that is parked in front of me. That mom didn’t turn off the engine. She is not feeling the chill creeping into her car. While I don’t worry that something terrible has happened, I do wonder in which of 28 films she is in and when she is coming out. Did they go to the sing-along version of Frozen or the 3D version or the other one? I call the mother of one of the other girls. She says the movie ends 20 minutes from now. So this is irritating. I am not happy with my client. I am cold. My phone battery is nearly dead. It is dark. I did not bring a book.

I call the other member of the taxi fleet and explain that my fare is still in her movie.

The other driver, her father, assigns chores and expresses displeasure. The final component of the punishment is that rather than setting up coffee after dinner, as she usually does to earn the cell phone she was practically the last person in the entire middle school to get, she is to set her alarm and grind the beans in the morning. Do you know how to froth the milk? he asks her. You mother waited for you for an hour, the least you can do is bring her coffee in bed.

She is very good-natured about the whole thing. We wonder if she would do this every day if we upgraded her to an iPhone. Ha ha.

In two years she will be driving herself, starting her own taxi self-service and gradually growing the business so that she can run errands for us. In two years, I will have more time to photograph any remaining Waffle Houses and try on lipsticks at the mall and be that car in the shadows, wondering where all the noise has gone.

Posted in Automotive, Driving, Going to a party, Helping at home | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments