My Boy and His Boots

A couple years back, Grandma Noreen bought Ben his first pair of cowboy boots. My side of the family is not much into “country,” but Will’s is, and there’s a really nice Western store near Noreen’s house. The boots there cost far more than I would pay for any footwear (except running shoes), but she’s their grandma, she likes to buy them things, and who am I to stand in her way?

Ben’s first boots were tan suede with sheepskin lining and lots of fringe. He wore those everywhere for at least a year—sometimes even to bed. His second pair, which he selected himself, were black and white snakeskin with gold threading and golden tips—fan-cee! Ben has worn this pair proudly as well (typically on the wrong feet), shyly accepting compliments from family, friends, and complete strangers alike. These boots get noticed!

Lately, though, the boots have become conspicuous for another, less adorable attribute: their stench. Ben has worn the boots sans socks a few times too many. He’s worn them to school, to church, to the store, and to his cousins’ house, where he invariably ends up playing in the shallow creek in their yard. Then, unwilling to allow his trusty snakeskins to dry before re-wearing them, he’s stuffed his sweaty little dogs back into the boots for further adventures. Last week, I told my friend Jean: “I think those boots could walk themselves!”

When I realized I could smell the boots from across the living room, I decided to take action: eBay! I let Ben sift through a selection of auction pix before deciding to bid on a brown pair with orange stitching. According to Ben, Anakin Skywalker wears brown boots in the fourth Star Wars movie. If Anakin imitation is motivation enough to replace Ben’s beloved boots, so be it! (I was beginning to wonder if I’d get calls home from school asking me to address the problem.)

The boots’ pungent aroma prompted my mother and sister to share stories about my own history of foot odor. Story 1: Mom recalled a Bible Club gathering in our living room, circa 1979. Mom suspected one of the children in attendance had stepped in dog doo, until her investigations led to my stinky sneaks! Ewww… Story 2: Back in the early ’80s when my sister and I used to share a bedroom, she remembered a time when she was unable to get to sleep because of the presence of a certain pair of rainbow Nike lace-ups. Despite the fact that she was already ‘nestled all snug in her bed,’ she threw off her covers, sniffed her way to the offending footwear, snatched them up, marched them down to the back door of our house, and flung them into the yard. They were that bad, apparently.

Fast forward 25 years, one eBay bid and five days later, Ben’s new brown boots arrived from Texas—just in time for the annual jazz band dinner dance at the A-Town high school. Ben had not wanted to attend, but when the boots showed up in the mail that very afternoon, he changed his mind. Nothing like a dance floor to break ’em in. Only, as it turned out, Ben was far more interested in running than dancing. He met up with another little boy at the dance, and the two of them raced back and forth at the far end of the gym for nearly four hours straight, only breaking during ballads, when I insisted they quiet down out of respect for the musicians.

The brown boots have passed their little-boy initiation—remarkably, with no blisters to report. Ben has made an appeal for keeping the old ones, though: He wants to keep the snakeskins for trips to the cousins’ creek, a concession I am willing to allow—provided the boots reside in the backyard between visits.

Horsehair Cheer

Yesterday morning, I was feeling melancholy. It’s spring, but it’s still cold outside. Also, I have a slight cold, which is always a nuisance. I’m juggling too many things between work and church, plus freelance obligations that keep slipping my mind. The house, as I think I’ve mentioned before, is perpetually messy—particularly when I am busier than I should be and I succumb to the lure of the computer (Facebook, email, blog—mine and others’), like right now!

Since western New York insists on staying in the 30s most of these March days, I begrudgingly donned a fuzzy sweater, a velvety skirt, and a pair of thick tights (winter weather grants me one small favor: the option of not shaving my legs). I was deciding between two pairs of clogs to complete my outfit when I decided I needed to seek out some shoe polish. I think I’ve mentioned before that my house is messy (!), and things often get misplaced around here. But I do try! And once in awhile, my housekeeping efforts reward me. This was such an occasion. I found the shoe polish—exactly where I’d left it last, in its labeled bin. Amazing! Almost miraculous, actually. But even more surprising to me was the morale boost that accompanied the find. A sentimental sense of security swept over me when I grasped the horsehair applicator brush I’d tucked away with the polish.

It reminded me of the small wooden kit my aforementioned ‘fastidious father’ kept for maintaining a respectable gleam to his footwear. Fairly frequently, Dad would sit down in “his chair” (doesn’t every living room have a designated “Dad chair”?), open the kit, pull out the polishes, brushes and rags, and methodically make over his shoes—from dingy to dapper. When he was finished, he’d set the shoes by the woodstove to dry and deliberately replace the contents of the kit, which sat in a nook of the room near his chair. It might sound silly, but the sight of my own horsehair shoe polish brush cheered me up yesterday. It brought back memories of a household ritual, an ordinary routine I’d observed as a girl.

Sometimes, it’s the simplest things that bring us back to center. Breathe in, breathe out. Wax on, wax off. “Everything’s gonna be alright.”

Here’s two versions of a song by that title from the University of Iowa Gospel Choir, “Voices of Soul"—a dear friend of mine sang with this group 2007-08:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Uyp5rTDXIw&feature=PlayList&p=53E2CF8AEB6E3D7F&index=0

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BQ9svuB8siI

Pretty or Puky? The Eye of the Beholder

My workplace hosted a dessert event last evening, and I was one of several people who agreed to provide goodies. I made carrot cake muffins—from a mix, plus a few mix-ins. Ben and Pearl “helped” by putting paper liners in the cupcake pan. When they had finished the job, Ben asked: “Who’s gonna put in that puky stuff?” He was referring to the burnt-orange batter, lumpy with bits of carrot, raisins and crushed pineapple. It was a classic case of something tasting better than it looks.

As a child, I remember hearing about a blind man who regained his sight and requested his favorite food right away. He was reportedly repulsed and deeply disappointed by the appearance of pizza. The prospect of seeing pizza as anything but yummy startled me. It was one of my earliest lessons in the power of perception. I had come to associate the colors, shapes and textures of bread, sauce, cheese and pepperoni with delight—a delicious, satisfying supper I enjoyed with my family. And actually, pizza was more than a mere meal.

In those days, pizza meant payday. Dad got paid every other Friday during the school year, which almost always triggered trips to the Pop Shoppe and Suzy’s Pizzeria. For our family, soft drinks and restaurant-prepared food were treats—treats that put everyone in a good mood. So, even though I eventually acknowledged the blind man’s initial appraisal of pizza as unpleasant to look at, I still see it as a thing of beauty—literally, figuratively and culinarily. (Is that a word? It is now!)

The carrot cake muffins were pretty tasty, too.

A Taxing Time

Every spring, Will and I are reminded what horrible record-keepers we are. It’s painful. We’ll survive (at least, I’m pretty sure we will—we’ve made it through 12 times already). But it reminds me of something I once heard about marital tensions: The ultimate test of a relationship, apparently, is attempting to wallpaper a room together. It brings out the best and worst in people…again, apparently—we have not yet attempted it. We’ve painted together, and frankly, that didn’t go well. Will’s standards for evenness of color clashed with my own. We've also encountered trouble canoeing in a coordinated way, as well as jogging. Will tends to trod two steps ahead of me at all times, which irks me—it interferes with my pace, as well as my pride.

But back to the reality of our rubble—I mean, paperwork. It’s a mess!

I try—I do! Shoeboxes, mailboxes, accordion-style folders, traditional filing cabinets…none of them seem to work for us. We’re just naturally “pile people.” Which doesn’t bode well come April 15th. If we were regular work-a-day folks, it might not be such a headache, but with Will’s wedding photography business, home office considerations, various charitable donations, plus a job change for Grace this past year, we’re kind of complicated.

“This is awful,” I sputter, exasperated.

“Speak for yourself. I’ve got everything nice and tidy,” Will says, straight-faced, his hands wrist-deep in pieces of paper.

Then he acquiesces: “If we could just narrow it to which level of the house they might be on, that would help.”

It would help if we kept up with this throughout the year—I know that. I would also help if we would stick to one system instead trying new things every few months.

Ah, well—if we’re pilers, at least we’re not procrastinators…not the red-lining variety, anyway. It’s March 21st—25 days ’til Christmas, er, Tax Day! Here’s hoping some elves show up to straighten out our stuff before then!

Some Musings on School Music Month

Vi’s show is 2 ½ weeks away! If you live nearby and you want details, email me (use my regular address, unless you don’t know it, in which case you can reach me at lifeinatowngmailcom). This artwork is a close-up of a much more detailed picture Vi drew. The larger version features tables, chairs, concessions and her full name, prominently placed (thus, the crop job).

Tonight was the all-district “Music in Our Schools Month” instrumental concert, which always feels a bit “wrong” to me. Call me a cynic, but it seems like the band and chorus teachers have to bend over backwards to prove to taxpayers that their salaries are worth paying. Why aren’t math or English teachers expected to pull off an event of this magnitude—coordinating and then conducting 400+ kids, all at once—on an annual basis? I suppose it could be argued that other educators’ version of “We Cut the Mustard” is state exams—if the students fail…or fail to excel…those teachers have some ’splainin’ to do.

In any case, I sympathize with teachers’ public relations challenges. As a teacher’s daughter, I grew up vaguely aware of the pressures my dad faced. As a journalist’s wife, I’ve become much more aware of taxpayers’ perceived powers. And as a public relations professional, I have developed a healthy sense of paranoia about outsiders’ worst suspicions. For as many parents who support Little Suzy’s saxophone playing, there are skinflint skeptics who resent the rental costs of the instruments and severely undervalue the benefits of music and arts in general.

But to put a positive spin on this topic: Let’s Go Band!

Five instrumental groups performed tonight—one song each, plus one all together (an impressive feat…particularly the elementary director, who conducted two bands, walking back and forth between them, during the plenary piece). While the fourth grade band made it through a basic version of Rossini’s “William Tell Overture” after only a handful of rehearsals, the high schoolers took on the Overture to Bernstein’s “Candide”—a raunchy show, but a kick-butt composition…one of my favorites—to play and to hear. My dad also attended the concert, and he promptly went home and Facebooked the H.S. conductor to say: “Congratulations on the ‘Candide,’ a difficult piece to perform and conduct. Hearing your group gave me hope in spite of society’s cultural wasteland.” Or something like that. He told me he messaged the director; I virtually bee-lined to the conductor’s FB Wall and didn’t see the remarks. This kind of compliment, although tinged with pessimism (hey—the man taught junior high kids for 30+ years), deserves to be publicized. Compliments to music teachers—any teachers—ought to be written on Facebook Walls, printed up on 25% cotton stationery, signed, sealed and CC’d to school principals and administrators. Music is good; good music is even better; and our children are made better by exposure to and experience with it!

One note of disappointment (pardon the pun): “Candide” features some of the most inspiring French horn lines known to humankind. Just thinking about them, hearing the soaring notes in my mind, makes my heart swell. While I enjoyed the overall performance of the H.S. band immensely, the first part of the song where the horns are really highlighted caused me to crane my neck—I had to check to see whether there were, in fact, any horns present in the group. When I saw them, I understood: They were playing like petite adolescent girls…because they are. Not that I have ever been petite, but I used to be a much wimpier horn player myself. It was Mr. “e” ’s coaching shortly before I graduated that pushed me through my playing plateau into larger, greener pastures. He suggested that I imagine blowing bright orange through the horn bell. You read that right: bright orange. Visualize that blazing color, and send it through the instrument, he told me. I did, and my musical life was transformed by that advice. You see? Yet another example of how a music teacher improved my life, my enjoyment of music, and thus my appreciation for truth and beauty. Bravo!

Namibian Nuptials – Part 2

I’ve had several requests to write more about the wedding itself, so I will attempt to describe the day (and the night before).

The wedding was held at a Christian campground in the foothills of the Adirondack Mountains, just a few miles from the bride’s childhood home. Jess grew up in a rustic house in the woods. The original structure was a windmill, which her artistic and innovative parents added onto and converted, over time, into an energy-efficient, picturesque villa.

Jess’s folks hosted the rehearsal dinner at their house on Friday evening. They served pizza—Elton’s favorite American dish—as well as an African entrée called pap, with chicken relish. Pap is a thick cornstarch paste similar to mashed potatoes. Namibians eat it with their hands: they grab a couple tablespoons’-worth, form it with their forefingers, and use the pap to scoop up the relish, which is like thin stew. We ate chicken relish at this occasion, but I found out that Elton prefers the fish variety, which is common to his part of Namibia. We also ate chocolate-dipped fruit at the rehearsal dinner and, from Jess’s mother’s tradition, a Polish pound cake I also heard referred to as “Polish crack cake” (addictively tasty).

Will and Vi and I spent the night at the campground, in a motel-type facility where several of us stayed. Each room contained a queen bed and two bunks. Vi expressed relief that she did not have to sleep on the floor. (Ben and Pearl had 2 sleeps with Aunt Kaye, Uncle Paul and the cousins. When we retrieved them, Ben told me he had wanted to have 3 sleeps there, so I guess he enjoyed himself.)

The camp staff served us breakfast bright and early Saturday: warm flapjacks, crisp bacon, assorted muffins and fruit. The coffee was surprisingly decent—I drank 3 cups. The orange juice was camp-like, causing those of us around the table to reminisce about other watered-down, bug-juice beverages from our youth.

While Will readied himself to serve as wedding photographer, Vi and I explored the camp. We found several icy trails. The most exciting path led to a high point of the property overlooking the countryside. Vi liked the white bark of some of the trees we saw, so she brought back a small fallen birch branch as a souvenir.

High noon was wedding time. We showered and changed into our brown dress clothes, to match the bridal party. The camp chapel where the ceremony took place was also brown, a simple clapboard building with a white wooden cross above the entrance. Inside, the stone fireplace crackled with cozy flames. Tealights and toile circled the room, creating a romantic, festive feeling. The jubilant strains of an African youth chorus rang through the sound system. Well over 100 people gathered in this remote spot to celebrate the unique union of 2 souls from 2 countries, 2 cultures—under one God.

The men entered through the side door: Elton, the groom, along with the minister and 3 groomsmen. None of Elton’s African family or friends were able to attend. The person who served as best man is an American who had volunteered at the Namibian orphanage where Elton and Jessica work. So Elton knew him from his life across the Atlantic. The other groomsmen were a friend and an uncle of Jess’s.

The women entered from the back of the chapel, to an upbeat African tune about as far from Pachelbel’s Canon as the ocean is wide. The bridal processional also bucked American sensibilities. (I’m still trying to track down a link to the lively song.) Jess was beautiful! I know people almost always say that about brides, and it’s almost always true. But Jess just radiated health and happiness. Elton, too, glowed with gladness, but he also seemed very serious and certain. He said his vows in his Namibian language of Lozi. Jess said her vows in English. Though both also speak the other’s language, it seemed right that they make the most solemn promises of their lives in their native tongue.

The women (Jess’s sister and 2 close friends) wore dresses the color of milk chocolate. They carried bouquets of white daisies bound together with swaths of the chartreuse-and-azure-patterned cloth under Jess and Elton’s hands in the picture below. The men’s ties were made from the same fabric, and so were parts of the décor at the reception hall, which was the camp cafeteria, decked out.

It was a sunny spring day in the mid- to upper 40s (Fahrenheit). The guests made their way to the party immediately after the ceremony. Pictures took longer than anyone would have liked (as is almost always true—I’m allowed to say so as the photographer’s wife), but the setting was relaxed and comfortable, and we felt free to begin with beverages and start our salads before the bridal party joined us.

The buffet-style meal was down-home American fare: fresh-baked wheat bread with butter, roasted potatoes, glazed carrots, green bean casserole, a main entrée called “Willy’s chicken,” and another of Elton’s newly acquired favorites: macaroni and cheese. All yummy. (Someone snapped a picture revealing Jess’s personal addition to the meal: a Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee, special-ordered by the bride.) The cake was spectacular and unusual: multi-tiered, fondant-covered, in colors and patterns echoing the African theme. Atop the cake were 2 intertwined giraffes. Once cut and served, the cake proved exceptionally moist and flavorful—one bridesmaid declared it “worthy.”

The most bittersweet part of the day, from my perspective, was the absence of Elton’s family. The costs and other logistical obstacles to traveling here simply surpassed their sincere desire to support Elton and his new bride. Since the newlyweds will be moving back to Namibia after their honeymoon in Florida, they will have a blessing ceremony there, followed by a full-blown barbecue in honor of the happy couple. There were several elements of the ceremony and reception in tribute to Elton’s father, his late mother, and his many other relatives back home. During a slide show portraying his parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins (many pictures I’d been privileged to see beforehand), I mainly watched Elton and Jessica. Both seemed stirred by the sight of these distant loved ones. Jess had shed many tears of joy and gratitude all day, but the love evident in her eyes for Elton’s people—who are now her people—showed me a glimpse of her devotion to her new husband, her new family, and Namibia, her new home.

“…Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God.”—Ruth 1:16b

Namibian Nuptials

My friend met her other half, half-way around the world. I witnessed their wedding this weekend—with wonder.

This was a gal as skittish about real-life romance as anyone I’ve ever known. Oh, she loved mushy movies—much more than most people, I’d say. But to talk about—even in her earshot—anything too personal and Jessica squirmed, blushed, sometimes even left the room!

Yet there she stood, dressed to un-do any doubters in a gorgeous, gauzy gown, gazing radiantly at her equally gorgeous groom, and the whole congregation basked in the glow of their mutual adoration.

Jess went to Namibia, in southwest Africa, 2 years ago, for a 2-week stint to help take care of AIDS orphans—infants and children whose parents who had died from the disease or whose health had deteriorated to the point that they could no longer care for their family. Jess fell head-over-heels for the kids right away, and she promptly made plans to move there for good. Little did she know that the Love of her Life—her now-husband Elton—also awaited her return.

They had been introduced on her initial trip, but she had not thought much of the meeting. He was one of a few dozen staffers at the orphanage. When she went back, she delved into life at the Village and became an integral part of the staff herself.

Jess liked Elton—in fact, felt especially attracted to him. But she denied the significance and mutuality of the pull until our other friend Tina took a 3-month sabbatical to join Jess as a volunteer at the orphanage. Tina was there for just 1 week before she felt compelled to say something about the chemistry between ‘this man and this woman.’ Like a beaker on the brink of boiling, Jess spilled over in nervous excitement as she began to express her true feelings about the tall, handsome, intelligent, kind-hearted, gentle-spirited Elton.

A Namibian romance bloomed rapidly, culminating in the American-African marriage celebration I took part in yesterday.

“Gracious, Loving and Generous God,” the minister invoked.

Generous indeed. My heart is full.

There are three things that are too amazing for me,
four that I do not understand:
the way of an eagle in the sky,
the way of a snake on a rock,
the way of a ship on the high seas,
and the way of a man with a maiden.
—Proverbs 30: 18-19

New Blue Shoes

I should be scrambling around like a madwoman preparing for our weekend wedding trip (so cool—my good friend from college is marrying the love of her life, who happens to be a Namibian!). But instead, I am heeding the call of the blog and sharing this amusement with you…

Yesterday, my dad the avid runner took my husband the recent marathoner and my niece the track team novice to Fleet Feet, a runners’ paradise (shoe store) about an hour away. To Dad, such trips are like pilgrimages to a mini-mecca of the sport that saved him from mid-life misery. To Will, the trip was an obligatory necessity: he’d logged about 100 miles too many in his running shoes, which experts suggest should be replaced every 300 miles or so.

At the end of the day, after Will had returned from the shoe store and I had returned from several hours at work, I asked him, “So, how’d it go? What did Dessa (our niece) get?”

Will: “She got shoes. And some socks, I think.”
Me: “Yes, but what kind?”
Will: “I dunno.”
Me: “Did you get the same kind as last time?”
Will: “No—I’m not really sure what kind they are.”
Me: “What?!”

This amazed me. My dad’s shoe-shopping trips have always been akin to other dads’ car-shopping expeditions. Dad would know the brand, model number, construction type (slip-lasted or board), materials, cushioning levels, reflectivity, and a gazillion other features of the chosen shoe.

Me: “Well, what color are they?”
Will: “Um, I dunno—blue, I think…purple-ish, maybe?”

That’s when the car-shoe analogy really hit me: I’ve never known much about car makes and models. For at least the first three years we owned it, I referred to the Tercel as “our little green
car.” For Will to describe his new running shoes as “blue…or purple-ish” smacked of the same simplistic view of the vehicles that they are. It also occurred to me that the changing of the shoes is like the changing of the oil. Will tends to stretch it out just a little longer than he probably should—the recommended 300 miles becomes 400 or 500 for the shoes, and the 3,000-mile oil-change turns into 4,000 or 5,000 turns of the odometer. At 230,000+ miles, our “Trusty Tercel” can clearly withstand Will’s procrastination. Let us hope his knees can do likewise.

(For the record, Will got Gel-Nimbus 10 Asics in White/Brilliant Blue/Black. They’re board-lasted. I checked.)

Diplomat or Chicken?

Tick, tick, tick… Feeling the blog-writing tick.

When I first started “Life in A-Town,” I hesitantly hoped I could keep up with it, enough to post once a week. Now I find I really want to write something every 2 or 3 days, whether or not I have anything to say. There’s never a lack of things I could write about, but I do wrestle with what’s appropriate, what’s “safe” to share in such a public forum. Even with our thinly veiled pseudonyms, I still feel nervous about compromising our privacy, worried that I’ll expose Will or myself or one of our affiliations (work, church, family, what-have-you) to criticism.

Part of me thinks I’m paranoid; another part remains resolutely withdrawn, cowering in the corner of this virtual common room, scared to share thoughts and opinions that might offend some segment of my miscellaneous circle of friends. Am I being diplomatic, or just chicken? Sometimes I think I’m afraid even to formulate firm opinions, for fear that I might be forced to articulate them, or that people might read my mind, or infer an “offensive” truth by some sentence I utter, or a bit of body language—a blush, or an eyeroll, or a grimace.

I know the author of Truth—why should I be lily-livered? I should not! I should feel free, because I am!

“Do what you think is right in your heart. You'll be criticized anyway.”—Eleanor Roosevelt

“The Lord is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?”—Psalm 27:1

Coffee Details

In keeping with his character, Will has demonstrated his non-persnickety-ness yet again this week. This time, it’s about the coffee.

Around mid-February, one of my friends challenged me to start tracking my calories. I’ve been on a weight-loss run since late October, but I’ve hit a proverbial plateau—dropped 22 pounds by New Year’s and hardly any since. I know I should be delighted by my progress so far—and I am glad…feel better, more energy, and all that. But, I’d really like to drop another 15-20, which would take me back to wedding weight. That’s not my all-time adult low—that happened when I was training for the Bayshore Marathon. Even if I do lose an extra 18 pounds, I’ll still be “overweight” by government standards, but I’m OK with that. Going much lower seems unrealistic and unreasonable, considering my personal and family history, including the fact that I’ve birthed three 9-pound babies!

But getting back to the coffee… My friend asked me to track calories along with her so we could encourage each other in the art of eating healthy (and getting sexy—tee-hee). For the first few days, I tried the Weight Watchers online tracking tools. Then I remembered that SparkPeople.com has a nutrition section, too—and, unlike WW, which charges $20+ per month, SparkPeople is free! In both trackers, something stood out: the half and half I added to my coffee, added up. If I were a more moderate coffee drinker—1 or 2 cups a day—it might not matter. But the truth is, especially in winter, I down 4 to 5…sometimes 6 or 7…java mugs daily. (It’s online confession time.)

Half and half creamer contains 20 calories per tablespoon. If I add 1 T. to each cup and drink 5, that’s an extra 100 calories every day. It might sound like a modest amount, but math-wiz Will points out that’s about 7 percent of my daily caloric goal (1,500). I asked myself: Do I really want to blow 7 percent of my dietary budget on a beverage additive? I decided I didn’t. So I started drinking my coffee black. (I’ve tried skim milk in coffee, and it tastes awful. Whole milk, I like, but it’s inconvenient to keep—it spoils sooner than half and half.)

I tried telling myself that black coffee is honest. It allows me to more fully enjoy the flavor of the actual coffee. To bolster my resolve, I even noted my new drinking habit as a Facebook status update (and couldn’t believe the uproar—a dozen remarks in protest or support of black coffee, of all things). But alas, after just two days of “honest” coffee-drinking, I wimped out. I won’t go back to half and half—too rich for my caloric allowance. But after this experiment, the bother of stocking whole milk in the fridge seems worthwhile. At 9 calories per tablespoon (45 per day), it’s a luxury I’ll accommodate.

The funny thing with Will is, about a day and a half into the trial, I asked him whether he minded the switch to black. He hadn’t complained about it—hadn’t even inquired about creamer. He shrugged and said it didn’t matter. Typical! But, easygoing as Will is about many things, including hot beverages (which he’ll drink lukewarm), even he has his limits—on this point, we agree: Church potluck coffee? Unpalatable.

Trusty Tercel

A dozen years ago, we traded Will’s little college car, a red Ford Escort, for an even littler car: our trusty Toyota Tercel. The Escort had died, we needed a vehicle right away, and the Tercel was a real deal. Just a year old, it had covered a mere 9,000 miles, but it’s a very basic model—no power steering, no power windows, no power anything. (Except for the engine—this little guy can Go!) Because it’s so bare-bones, the original owners decided to “trade up” for something more luxurious. Their gain was also ours.

“Luxurious,” our Tercel is not—especially not 12 years and 230,000+ miles later. To tell the truth, it’s become a bit of an eyesore, particularly the interior. On the outside, it’s still the same Easter-egg green (think deep sea-foam). It’s got a few dents, but nothing serious. And it’s really held up well, rust-wise, considering the winters we endure in these parts. Open the driver’s side door, however, and you can see the battleship gray vinyl-covered seats appear to have been, in fact, through a battle. The orange-yellow foam cushioning is exposed in several spots, even missing a few small chunks. I’ve actually seen my fastidious father recoil before entering our car.

I’ve tried three or four times to conceal the unsightly seats with those ready-made covers you can buy at the stores. Every time, though, Will has somehow managed to mangle them. They don’t stay in place easily. And the truth is, he doesn’t care. I’m the vain one in this case, trying to keep up the appearance of a “respectable” automobile. I think I lost my fighting chance when Will started working the farms.

As a journalist, Will has always driven the Tercel all over tarnation, covering meetings, interviews and events for the local newspaper. Last year, he got it into his head that in order to truly understand area agriculture, he needed to try the jobs for himself, literally “get his hands dirty”—and the car. After encountering dairies, mucklands, orchards and fields bearing various crops, the Tercel has definitely entered the class of “working cars.” And, to my surprise, I find I feel relieved.

(In addition to its objectionable appearance, there are several minor functional flaws to catalogue: the dome light no longer works, nor the radio; the trunk only opens from the inside, by yanking the back seat forward and fitting small items through the resulting gap. The passenger side door can be unlocked, but not with the key—someone has to pull up the lock button from the driver’s side. Also, the rubber door seals frequently slip off-track, yielding a drafty, wind-whistling ride in the wintertime.)

I don’t have to pretend anymore. The Tercel is not a showpiece symbol of our membership in the middle class. It’s a vehicle, a means, an admirably durable machine that moves us from Points A to B—and C, D, M, and Z. I’m grateful for it, especially when I consider the comparative unreliability of our Ford minivan, a topic for another entry, to be entitled: “Lousy Lose-star.”